Sunday, October 31, 2004
...touched my heart. I am honored to share it
Long Live The Demoticon!
Read the whole thing
...do I bother to still read Fred Reed
Can you name this country?
709,000 regular (active duty) personnel.
293,000 reserve troops.
Eight standing army divisions.
20 Air Force and Navy air wings with 2,000 combat aircraft.
232 strategic bombers.
19 strategic ballistic missile submarines with 3,114 nuclear warheads on 232missiles.
500 ICBM’s with 1,950 warheads.
Four aircraft carriers and 121 surface combat ships and submarines plus all the support bases, shipyards, and logistical assets needed to sustain such a naval force.
Is this country- Russia?
France? Wrong again (what a laugh!!!!!).
Must be the USA? still wrong (sort of).
These are the American military forces that were eliminated during the administration of Bill Bastard Clinton and Al Qaeda Gore. And [their elimination] was100% supported by John F. Kerry (these he did
I'm A Freak!
I'm 70% freak!!
Link from Army of Mom
, who I am a bigger Freak than.
Just In Case...
...you can't go another minute without seeing Elvira naked
Cassandra Peterson is one of the most naturally beautiful women I've ever seen.
Here's some nice thumbs
What a woman. And both ends are my favorite color, too.
Get Out And Vote!
Dammit. I got a thing in the mail yesterday from my party. It said "Did You Know: In 2000, President Bush lost Oregon by 4 votes per precinct. Your vote is critical!"
Saturday, October 30, 2004
Tales Of The Flu Vaccine...
How the vaccine works: Influenza vaccine is produced by growing the virus in eggs. The virus is killed and processed to create the vaccine, which is given by injection under the skin. The body then produces antibodies to the virus over the next two to four weeks. If the immunized person then comes into contact with the influenza virus, the antibodies attack and kill the virus before it has a chance to cause infection. The vaccine contains the 3 most likely strains to be active during the "flu season."
Why the shortage: Almost half of the nation's flu vaccine will not be delivered this year. Chiron, a major manufacturer of flu vaccine, will not be distributing any influenza vaccine this flu season. Chiron was to make 46-48 million doses vaccine for the United States. Chiron is a British company. Recently British health officials stopped Chiron from distributing and making the vaccine when inspectors found unsanitary conditions in the labs. Some lots of the vaccine were recalled and destroyed.
Why is our vaccine made in the UK and not the US? The major pharmaceutical companies in the US provided almost 90% of the nations flu vaccine at one time. They did this despite a very low profit margin for the product. Basically, they were doing us a favor.
In the late 80's a man from North Carolina who had received the vaccine got the flu. The strain he caught was one of the strains in that years vaccine made by a US company. What did he do? He sued and he won. He was awarded almost $5 million. After that case was appealed and lost, most US pharmaceutical companies stopped making the vaccine. The liability outweighed the profit margin.
Since UK and Canadian laws prohibit such frivolous law suits UK and Canadian companies began selling the vaccine in the US.
By the way...the lawyer that represented the man in the flu shot law suit was a young ambulance chaser by the name of John Edwards.
When your grandmother or small child gets sick, and maybe even dies, you can say "Thanks, John!"
This is one of those things everybody is emailing around to each other. I thought it was clever, so:
I can't understand it. Maybe you can.
I'm trying to get all this political stuff straightened out in my head so I'll know how to vote come November. Right now, we have one guy saying one thing. Then the other guy says something else. Whom to believe...
Lemme see, have I got this straight? Clinton awards Halliburton no-bid contract in Yugoslavia - good... Bush awards Halliburton no-bid contract in Iraq - bad... Clinton spends 77 billion on war in Serbia - good... Bush spends 87 billion in Iraq - bad... Clinton imposes regime change in Serbia - good... Bush imposes regime change in Iraq - bad... Clinton bombs Christian Serbs on behalf of Muslim Albanian terrorists-good... Bush liberates 25 million from a genocidal dictator - bad... Clinton bombs Chinese embassy - good... Bush bombs terrorist camps - bad... Clinton commits felonies while in office - good... Bush lands on aircraft carrier in jumpsuit - bad... No mass graves found in Serbia - good... No WMD found Iraq - bad... Stock market crashes in 2000 under Clinton - good... Economy on upswing under Bush - bad... Clinton refuses to take custody of Bin Laden - good... World Trade Centers fall under Bush - bad... Clinton says Saddam has WMD's - good... Bush says Saddam has WMD's - bad... Clinton calls for regime change in Iraq - good... Bush imposes regime change in Iraq - bad... Terrorist training in Afghanistan under Clinton - good... Bush destroys training camps in Afghanistan - bad... Milosevic not yet convicted - good... Saddam turned over for trial - bad...
Ahh, it's so confusing! Every year an independent tax watchdog group analyzes the average tax burden on Americans, and then calculates the "Tax Freedom Day". This is the day after which the money you earn goes to you, not the government. This year, tax freedom day was April 11th. That's the earliest it has been since 1991. It's latest day ever was May 2nd, which occurred in 2000. Notice anything special about those dates?
Recently, John Kerry gave a speech in which he claimed Americans are actually paying more taxes under Bush, despite the tax cuts. He gave no explanation and provided no data for this claim. Another interesting fact: Both George Bush and John Kerry are wealthy men. Bush owns only one home, his ranch in Texas. Kerry owns 4 mansions, all worth several million dollars. (His ski resort home in Idaho is an old barn brought over from Europe in pieces. Not your average A-frame). Bush paid $250,000 in taxes this year; Kerry paid $90,000. Does that sound right? The man who wants to raise your taxes obviously has figured out a way to avoid paying his own.
And So It Begins...
Republicans, the Standard Bearers for free speech
and fair play.
Thou Shalt Not, and yet we all do. All of us.
"Honey, does this make me look fat?" You'd better
lie. The Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, all happy lies we tell our kids, yet lies they are. We Shalt Not, and yet we do, day in, day out.
Does God ever lie? By ommission, if nothing else? I'm too scared to ask Him, right now. Maybe if I ever make it safely to Heaven. "Hey, Lord, you ever pull a fast one?" "Well, there WAS that bit where I told Noah he had to take skunks on the Ark, and to put them next to the leopard cage...Roarpsssst
the whole trip...I nearly busted a gut!" Ya think?
When asked the hard questions, by people who dearly want to see him fail, I want
our President to lie. When he dissembles...bumble-mouths them, I let out a hearty cheer. Good on ya, GW! That press motherfucker was just waiting to pounce.
When I give my wife the best two minutes of her life, I want
her to say it was the best she ever had, and boy is she sure glad of the chance to get to sleep early.
These Are A Few...
...of my Favorite Things
Friday, October 29, 2004
The Fuze Is Lit...
It's official, kiddies. I have just heard the word from a master Hollywood CGI expert, who has worked on any major movie worth seeing in the last several years, and who knows the science of it like the back of his hand:
The OBL tape is the real thing.
There has been no greater advocate that OBL has been dead since Tora Bora than this guy. Hearing him admit that OBL is alive and made this tape recently is roughly the equivalent to hearing me admit I'm gay and that I'm gonna vote for John Fuckface Kerry. Seriously.
Having said that, let me get to the meat of this post. Every appearance of OBL's since 9/11 has been a precursor to a terrorist attack, somewhere. Considering the content of this tape, and the timing of it, and just how difficult it must have been to make and get out, I would guess that the threatened hit on our mainland is imminent.
If I had to fly, I wouldn't. If I lived in a city, I'd leave. The window is between now, and next Friday night. Also, if I was a commander of US troops in Iraq and Afghanistan, I would put my boys on the highest state of alert, cease all non-attack patrols, and kill anything that looked at us funny, consequences be damned.
The fuze has been lit, and only God's boot can stop it before it gets to the keg of gunpowder.
And I thought I didn't like country music
doesn't blow your mind, you don't have one.
Hat tip to SondraK
, so she doesn't whine. Not that she's ever linked to me. Not that I'm whining.
This Is Great...
around to your friends.
Well, It's Friday...
When you're unemployed, every day is Friday. Or Tuesday. Or pretty much any day of the week you want, or not. It only depends on what's on TV that night.
I hear the buzz of the lawnmower outside, in the rain. The wife is getting her exercise. We trade yardwork to the owners other tenants for a healthy break on the rent. The wife likes the exercise, I like not doing it. Oh, I weed eat, since she's too short to do it proper.
An iron-grey day, weeping at the stain of humanity that is ruining the view. Just a light drizzle. Humanity is not worth the buckets, today. Do I drop a pebble in and watch the pond ripple softly, bringing gentle change? Or do I drop a strawberry into the Cheerios and splash a bunch all over the table, making a mess? Or do I have no effect at all? Ahhh, time will tell. "Honey, now you get your little ass up that sidewalk and pull that devil-dong door knocker and get your damn candy! Don't make me tell you again!" A little tense are we? But...but, it's a Happy Day! It's For The Children!
Everybody's a little extra bitchy, lately. Like the entire of humanity has PMS. Retaining, nipples sore and sensitive. 'Give me some fucking chocolate or there's gonna be trouble!'
Twenty-four hours after sacrificing to Satan on his special day, Americans will be making the most important decisions on Earth. Who will be running the World's Superpower for the next four years. I submit to you that we have been in WWIII since about six months after WWII was declared over. And now, people whose farts still smell of candy corn, candy apples, and the placentas of newborn infants will be staggering out to vote, like Romero's zombies. Well, at least those who can tear themselves away from Springer, or Jeapordy, or their kid's music recital, or whatever. Or those who somehow found the manual dexterity to tear open an envelope, decipher the Runes, mark their X, and managed to get it off of the coffee table and back out into the mailbox in time.
There are those who say 'don't vote' with a straight face. I used to be one. I am still trying to forgive myself, though I wonder at the well of idiocy that must still lurk unfilled somewhere in my psyche, just waiting for me to fall down it again. If you don't think a vote is important, stay home the next time the Board is voting on whether you should remain President of your company or not. Don't go lobby shareholders. Hey, I'm unemployed.
I could use the company.
Thursday, October 28, 2004
Simple, Yet Powerful...
Someone sent this to me. I think it is a nice little parable, and I like parables:
"The other day, my nine year old son wanted to know why we were at war. My husband looked at our son and then at me. My husband and I were in the Army during the Gulf and we would be honored to serve and defend our country again today. I knew that my husband would give him a good explanation!
My husband thought for a few minutes and then told my son to go stand in our front living room window. He then said, "Son, stand there and tell me what you see?"
"I see trees and cars and our neighbors houses." he replied.
"O.K., now I want you to pretend that our house and yard is the UNITED STATES of AMERICA, and that you are President Bush."
Our son gigled and said, "O.K."
"Now son I want you to look out of the window and pretend that every house on this block is a different country," my husband said.
"O.K., Dad, I'm pretending."
"Now I want you to stand there and look out the window and pretend you see Saddam with his wife, he has her by the hair of the head and is hitting her. You see her bleeding and crying. He hits her in the face, and he throws her on the ground, then he starts to kick her to death. Their children run out and are afarid to stop him; they are screaming and crying. They are watching but do nothing because they are kids and they are afraid of their father. You see all of this son......what do you do?"
"What do you do, son?"
"I'd call the police, Dad!"
"O.K. Pretend that the police are the UNITED NATIONS and they take your call, listen to what you know and saw but they refuse to help. What do you do then, son?"
"Dad.........but the police are suppose to help!" My son starts to whine.
"They don't want to son, because they say that it is not their place or your place to get involved and that you should stay out of it." my husband says.
"But Dad.....He killed her!!" my son exclaims.
"I know that he did....but the police tell you to stay out of it. Now I want you to look out that window and pretend that you see our neighbor, who you're pretending is Saddam turn around and do the same thing to his children."
"Daddy...he kills them?"
"Yes, son, he does. What do you do?"
"Well, if the police don't want to help, I will go and ask my next door neighbor to help me stop him." our son says.
"Son, our next door neighbor sees what is happening and refuses to get involved as well. He refuses to open the door and help you stop him," my husband says.
"But Dad, I NEED HELP!!!! I can't stop him myself!!!"
"WHAT DO YOU DO, SON?" Our son starts to cry.
"O.K., no one wants to help you, the man across the street saw you ask for help and no one would help you stop him. He stands taller and puffs out his chest. Guess what he does next, son?"
"He walks across the street to the eldery lady's house and breaks down her door and drags her out, steals all of her things, and sets her house on fire and then...he kills her. He turns around and sees you standing at the window and laughs at you. WHAT DO YOU DO?"
"WHAT DO YOU DO?"
Our son is crying and he looks down and he whispers, "I'd close the blinds, Daddy."
My husband looks at our son with tears in his eyes and ask him...."WHY?"
"Because, Daddy.....the police are suppose to help people who need them...and they won't help...You always say that neighbors are suppose to HELP neighbors, but they won't help either...they won't help me stop him....I'm afraid....I can't do it by myself, Daddy....I can't look out my window and just watch him do all of these terrible things and ...and...do nothing....so....I'm just going to close the blinds....so I can't see what he's doing.....and I'm going to pretend that it is not happening."
I start to cry!
My husband looks at our nine year old son standing in the window, looking pitiful and ashamed at his answers to my husbands questions and he says..."SON."
"Open the blinds because that man ....he's at your front door...."WHAT DO YOU DO?"
My son looks at his father, anger and defiance in his eyes. He balls up his tiny fists and looks his father square in the eyes, and without hesitation he says: "I DEFEND MY FAMILY, DAD!! I'M NOT GONNA LET HIM HURT MOMMY OR MY SISTER, DAD!!! I'M GONNA FIGHT HIM, DAD; I'M GONNA FIGHT HIM!!!!"
I see a tear roll down my husband's cheek and he grabs our son to his chest and hugs him tight, and says..."It's too late to fight him, he's too strong and he's already at YOUR front door son....you should have stopped him BEFORE he killed his wife and children, and the eldery lady across the street. You have to do what is right, even if you have to do it alone, before it is too late," my husband whispers.
That scenario I just gave you is WHY we are at war with Iraq. When good men stand by and let evil happen, THAT IS the GREASTEST EVIL of all.
Our President is doing what is right. We as a free nation, must understand that this war is a war of humanity. We must remove evil men from power so that we can continue to live in a free world where we are not afraid to look out of our window, so that my nine year old son won't grow up in a world where he feels that if he just "CLOSES THE BLINDS" the atrocities in the world won't affect him. "YOU MUST NEVER BE AFRAID TO DO WHAT IS RIGHT! EVEN IF YOU HAVE TO DO IT ALONE!" BE PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAN! BE PROUD OF OUR TROOPS! SUPPORT THEM! SUPORT AMERICA!
SO THAT IN THE FUTURE, OUR CHILDREN WILL NEVER HAVE TO FEEL THAT THEY MUST CLOSE THE BLINDS....."
From A Reader...
, and enjoy.
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 burns...at 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...
For The Last Time…
Doing this sort of shit is almost more than I can bear, and I doubt that it will do any good. I have seen Christians hang on to Halloween harder than the Libs held on to Bill Clinton. But, I have been impugned, and called a liar, so here goes. I leave in Nate’s grammar and spelling. There are some who say that indicates a person’s level of intellect, or lack thereof. I will insert my comments on this from Nate’s bog, and expand on them as I see fit. As usual, I’ll let you be the judge…
I expect women to have emotional reactions. I expect women to jump to inconsistant conclusions based on emotional flare-ups rather than reason. So of course I was not suprised to find that Bane was strongly opposed to Halloween.
Cute. And that’s about it. No substance, but cute.
He's not alone though. Lots of folks in the Church lament our modern holidays. Let's take a second to look at their position shall we? I believe it goes something like this...Christmas is bad because it's all about phony customs and materialism. This seperates people from the true meaning of Christmas, which is to celeate (sic) the birth of Christ.
“Since you have invoked me, I will comment. I have not read the other comments, and probably won't.” (I lied. I went back, saw nonsense, and commented again, to my regret).
Again, Nate inserts his opinion, which he has stated clearly can only be black or white. He speaks, apparently, for all Christians who take issue with these holidays. The level of pomposity to enable one to do that is beyond my mortal ken. I have never held that Christmas is to celebrate the birth of Christ, in fact, I strongly disagree, and think that Christians who believe so, err. I am as materialistic as the next person, and most customs are, by their very nature, made-up, and therefore, ‘phony’.
Halloween is bad because it's a pagan holiday that celeates (sic) evil. The modern customs may seem innocent but you cannot seperate (sic) it from the dark roots of the holiday. Sound about right? Now see how rediculous (sic) it sounds when you put it back to back? Either statement sounds fine by itself, but back to back... you have yourself what we in the South call.... a contradiction.
See either materialism masks the original intent of the holiday, or it does not. Why should mask it in the case of Christmas, but then fail to mask it in the case of Halloween? That's just silly.
“Nate, you ignorant slut. You posit that Christ was born on the solstice holiday that the papists turned into Christmas. You are wrong. Christ was born in the Spring, during lambing time.” This is the only point where my shit may get weak. I have read other scholarly tomeage supporting my statement. Bill came up with another perception, which I have also heard. Without going and finding all of the stuff I have read and studied on this over the years, which I would find too burdensome, I am going to stick with my facts, let Bill have his, and leave this case-file open. Regardless, to deny the history of the Christmas holiday, and it’s pagan solstice roots, is fatuous.
As to ‘contradiction’, I don’t get it. Perhaps a ‘Nate thing.’ And I think that Nate has built up enough credit with me on my blog by constantly cursing me and being rude, that I may be permitted my ‘ignorant slut’ reference without condemnation.
Millions of children celeate (sic)halloween every year. More money is spent on the holiday than any other save Christmas. Yet, devil worship is not widespread. Why not? Because it's perposterous, that's why not. Think for crying out loud. I can just see some Satanist now... "Well... I was raised Christian.. but mom and dad took me trick-or-treating... and to a haunted house... and like.. dude.. it was sooo cool. So like.. I got all into like... the occult... and... you know.. stuff... and like.. dude... Here I am today!"
No one in the right mind believes that writing letters to Santa is going to open up a child to Christianity. Neither should we think that trick-or-treating is going to open up a child to Satan.”
You state that the worship and practice of the occult among children and teens is minimal. Satan is worshipped in more ways, by more people than you can count, openly, occultly, and even unknowingly. You are blind, stupid, and wrong. You infer that spending large amounts of money, and that the majority does it, makes it right. Unbelievable.You, bizarrely equate Santa with Christianity. I give up. You are beyond logic, beyond belief, and even if I cared to, beyond my help.”
I think I pretty much said it all, to those who would hear. To those who won’t, God Bless you.
In retrospect, I hear my Mother’s voice, from my childhood…”If the other kids go jump off a cliff, are you going to jump off after them?” Arrgghh. And she was always right. And it hurt being wrong.
I have been meaning to blog on this for some time, the way the occult has been creepingly, deliberately introduced into what is inarguably a Judeo-Christian civilization over the last several decades.
My quick synopses is a parable: What if a religion got made up…oh, let’s call it S_ology, just for kicks. Now what if this made up religion has a set of tenets they wish to introduce into the host society it parasites on, but it knows the host has a strong immune system, and would resist violently. So, this religion subverts major Hollywood stars to make entertainment that contains subtle doses of their philosophy, gradually strengthening the dose year after year, making headway, becoming more and more respectable, getting the government to protect it to such an extent that questioning it now seems like heresy, and is in fact punishable by fines and property forfeiture and even criminal prosecution.
Now, that’s just silly, isn’t it?
Nate, love ya babe.
sounds too much like Michael Jackson's to be comfortable.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
The Goddess Speaks!
Go ye, and worship
Here's my favorite line:
Here's the deal on politics and race in America: Republicans don't need black voters, but they want them. Democrats don't want black voters, but they need them.
I Suspected As Much...
Kerry is the AntiChrist
Fuck You, John Kerry!
He marginalizes himself
The Money Quote:
If it were up to me, I'd shut down the Net tomorrow and make people get out of the house and mingle. By the time the liberal and conservative extremes, incensed by blog-driven blather, leave the house, it will be as two swarms of locusts hell-bent on revolution—or on battling each other: The Zeros versus the Ones.
And to think, I used to like and respect this guy.
Bonus points for TV reference.
The Witching Season...
I don't know what's worse, hearing the moans of the tortured being broadcast over the PA system in stores and businesses everywhere I go this week, or hearing the moans of FrankenJohn as he tries to pull together his three or four voters. Cardboard cutouts of demons, everywhere I go. A cardboard cutout of a Demoncrat on my TV every time I turn it on.
We can't watch the Food Network without supervising, because they are pushing Halloween themes all week, and every time the show pauses, my kids are treated to Emeril and his bloody fangs rushing at the camera. Since they otherwise like, admire, and nearly worship Emeril, this behavior of his disturbs them to no end. Me, too.
What crap. If I had the money, I'd take the family to a bed & breakfast in Amish country until this all blows over.
I see a bad moon rising. Oh, not the eclipse tonight at 7:30 Pacific Time. That's cool. No, I am getting a feeling like the Spring of Reality is getting wound a bit too tight. I can hear the metal groan. This wet, snowy winter would be a great time to make a bunch of American citizens into refugees. Say, oh, about Sunday night? If I was planning a surprise party for Uncle Sam, that's when I'd have the stripper pop out of the cake...festooned with bomb belts.
Well, I am preparing my 'Begone, Moochers!' sign to put out front for Halloween. On the door will go my 'No Candy!' sign. I will be watching over the house with my 10mm in my shoulder holster, and four spare mags on my belt. No porch lights. Get the fuck off my lawn.
Then, the dreary march to Christmas. Ugh.
Bilbo has been found
. This is fascinating. The opportunities for What-If's and speculation abound.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Some Of My Best Posts...
. I really love these. That was a fun month, and I was in a weird mood.
I hope you enjoy. I didn't have any comments, then, so you'll have to use this post to go back and see if there is any repartee.
I, of course, as Administrator, will see them all.
For Your Edification...
. This has bugged me since 9/11. If anybody has a good site that refutes this, I'd sure like to see it. One of my sons was supposed to be there that day, but his meeting was canceled.
I swiped this from here
, a worthy blog. Read his latest post about Guadalcanal. Maybe you kids will learn something.
When I was a kid, my Dad had a friend/real estate agent who had a Marine bayonet and a Samurai sword mounted on a wooden plaque in his den at home. The blades were rusted into their scabbards for eternity by the blood of their respective owners. The medics found him in a death clasp with a Jap officer. They had both run each other through, on a dark and bloody night on Guadalcanal, and only my Dad's friend lived. Sensing that these souveniers would mean something to their charge, one of the medics slipped the blades from the flesh and slid them into their scabbards, unwiped.
If the Patriot Act is so big and scary and secretive, why are we hearing about this
? Shouldn't the Men In Black have used their flashy thingies and made it all go away?
As to the story itself, it does disturb me a little weensy bit. But, we serve foreign warrants and subpoenas all the time, and foreign countries do the same for us. The FBI has, for good or ill, turned into an international organization.
If they are fucking over anarchists, more power to them. That's exactly how I want my tax dollars spent. Some people shouldn't have a right to free speech. Or freedom, for that matter. And yes, I reserve the right to determine who. They can fight me, just like I will fight them. More likely, they will just scuttle off to a coffee house and lick their wounds and whine.
Still, a chill wind is starting to stir the trash around in the street. Just a little bit.
I'll wait and see.
As The Fruit Flies...
Anyone got a good method of destroying a fruit fly infestation? We are under an assault of Biblical proportions. The old lady is allergic to poisons (go figure) or I'd have nuked this place already. We have cleaned, put away fruit in the fridge, everything. I have Googled my ass off, and all I get are assholes trying to sell me something.
I am getting tired of hocking up a dead fly after a sip of wine, or getting them stuck on an eyeball.
consistently makes me laugh out loud. Damn Brits. There's just a flavor
to their writing. Check out the Brit blogs he's linked to. These people do the English language so well.
No offense, but it is a rare day that I go back and read someone's archives. I do his.
I blame Army of Mom
. She has been going on about puke and shit over at her blog for several days, now, and the curse has transmitted itself to my house. Well, for one round only, I hope.
Yesterday evening was my wife’s night to go out on the town and whoop it up. She chose to go to a women’s Bible study, instead. Oh well. Regardless, it was my turn to watch the nippers, and feeding them seems to be part of the deal.
Now, I am a wonderful cook, but I was happily informed that there were leftovers in the fridge to ease the White Dad’s burden. Praise The Lord! So, I’ve got the hypnotizer on, set to the Food Network, which the kids adore. They watch cooking shows avidly, and then drag out pans and cook their plastic food, and then I have to taste it until I get tired of it and feign food poisoning and a horrible death. Sometimes this backfires, and they rush off to collect their toy medical implements and rush back to poke and prod me and look into most of my holes and make wise “Hmmmmm” noises. Lucky for me so few children’s doctor kits have enematic devices in them, I guess.
So, last night, dinner. Damn, did it again. I must have late onset ADD. I just flashed to an image of Nicollette Sheridan washing her car in skimpy shorts and mans shirt tied up and between her soapy breasts…on ‘Desperate Housewives’ Sunday night, and I lost all train of thought until the keyboard flipped out of my lap and startled me. Down, boy.
Dinner. Ahem. Yes. So, there I was, mighty hunter, rooting through the fridge, setting out mystery Ziploc and Glad (God Blessem!) boxes on the counter behind me in a mighty pile. I began to forage through them. First up, two corndogs. Those have to be eaten. They’ve been in the fridge a week, and I was raised by parents who grew up in the Great Depression (Great as in, what? Really cool?). Wasting food still makes my buttcheeks sting a bit with phantom pain. Into the microwave on Reheat, Ding! And onto the paper plates. Thunderbunny likes to dip in ketchup, The Boy likes his with French’s yellow mustard (me too). I set them up where they can eat and see the TV, and head back into the kitchen. Alton Brown is doing his sugar episode tonight, and the kids are mesmerized. Every couple of minutes, I holler “Bite!” or “Chew!” and they jerk into motion for a bit, like a fresh corpse twitches. I begin to pop open plastic boxes, and find boneless pork ribs, crock-potted to perfection, beautiful mashed potatoes made from both red and white baby potatoes, and two kinds of mixed vegetables thrown in together, presumably because they're, well, vegetables, and are thus expected to get along. Who makes these rules? Breasts….Quit it! Shake it off. Damn she was hot. Anyway, I am a culinary blur. I don’t want to hear any shit about vegetables, so I nuke em, then grab the hand blender (you know, the little whirly blade on a stick one? Makes great crushed ice, too?) and whack em up with a dose of Ranch Dressing. Then I serve up two plates of ribs and mashed potatoes and reheat them in the microwave. By now, the corndogs are down the old gulleterooti, so I chop up the meat, spoon out the veggies, butter the taters, and serve the second course.
It looks good, smells good, and tastes great, and the kids dive in without any cajoling. Their motors had already been warmed up by the corn dogs, and they piled into their plates of food like basic trainees, plates that were the same size as mine. That’s called ‘foreshadowing’. Do you see what’s coming? Do you really wanna? Okey dokey, but it’s gonna be gross!
The kids are contented little cows. They finish their meal, so each gets three cookies and a cup of milk. When I say “Bed!” I get no argument. All the tucks are tucked, I pour some wine and watch 2.5 Men, blog a little, the wife comes home, we chat, then retire to our separate rooms. Bliss. Sleep ensues.
Not quite 5am, I wake bolt upright. I hear some thumps, a little girls squeaky voice, then the unmistakable sound of a farmer slopping a large bucket of slop onto a cement floor…that ripply splash with lumps in it that you never forget and will recognize anywhere. My wife squawks my name in horror, a plea for help, and I hear more thumping and lights blaze on and I am fighting to extricate myself from my warm blankies and the airbed and I get out onto the upstairs landing and can see the wife and Thunderbunny standing over the toilet, both festooned with vomitus, and I can see into the wife’s room, and her bed looks like somebody whacked a puke piñata over it. Whacked it good and proper, too. I give Thunderbunny a disgusted look and holler “Mother Puker!” at her, and she starts to wail. “Oh, great!” says the Ball & Chain. Thoughtfully, I shut the door to where the boy is sleeping. My duties at times like these are to do cleanup. The wife’s glasses are beyond a barricade of barf, and she’s blind as a black pop singer without them. Besides, I don’t want to deal with the Puker. I had to strip the wife’s bed to the bone. She sleeps on this futon, with one of those space foam pads on it, and let me tell you, Febreeze is a wonder product. The first time the girl in the store demonstrated it to us, we startled her by grabbing two bottles of it. Best stuff when you have kids, ever.
Seems the baby girl felt a bit puckish, and came into her mothers room to tell mommy all about it. “Mommy, I feel si-BLUUUUURRRGGGHHHHH!
” Right over Mommy, like she was sautéing her or something. Nice loft, too. Good spread, as well. It was all well chewed, and appeared to be mostly digested, except for the hot dog chunks. The wife keeps a throw rug by the bed, Thank God, so I was able to put the offending bedgear on it and roll it up like a taquito (Barfuito?) and get it down to the washer. Oh, I discovered her rug was WMD’d when I stepped in some stealth-puke. How does a stomach-warmed substance get so cold, so quickly? Fuck me. I hopped into the bathroom to get a butt-wipe (another miracle product)…you might call them ‘baby-wipes’, or ‘moist towelettes' (is that what you call a little Arab girl?), we call them butt-wipes in our family. It has given us some amusing family moments in the store, when one of the kids spots them on the shelf and asks loudly “Are we gonna get butt-wipes?” And not those damn baby wipes, either. Those’ll clog your damn septic. These are made for adults, and keep your pooter minty fresh, and are useful in cleaning up other things as well, like diahhreatic spatter from the underside of the seat and the rim, or if you have a case of puke-foot. “Mother Puker!” I said to her again, and was rewarded with more wailing. “Daddy!” said Mommy. Well! I gotta have some fun, and it’s not fair to beat the piñata you stuffed.
This morning, we ran Barf Drills. What to do when your tummy feels yucky. Rule One: Do not enter a parents room. Rule Two: Go into the bathroom, turn on the light, stand over the toilet (“Open the g-darn lid!”). Rule Three: Then, call loudly for your mother. When you barf, keep the edges of the seat even with your little ears. Get that? Good, now, repeat!
…Mother Puker ("Daddy!
Female Hormones Found In Beer...
Healthcare scientists in the UK suggested that, considering the results of a recent analysis that revealed the presence of female hormones in beer, men should take a concerned look at their beer consumption.
The theory is that beer contains female hormones (as hops contain phytoeostrogens) and drinking it may turn men into women. To test the theory, 100 men were each given 6 pints of beer to drink within a one hour period.
It was then observed that 100% of the men gained weight, talked excessively without making sense, became overly emotional, couldn't drive, failed to think rationally, argued over nothing, refused to apologize when obviously wrong, and had to sit down while urinating.
No further testing was considered necessary.
Monday, October 25, 2004
She hasn't posted here, or at Vox's or Nate's in a while. She helped class up the place. All you broads do.
I hope she's okay.
to watch it, if you've got 45 minutes or so.
Please mail the link to as many people as you can to plaster the net with it this week.
And piss off the libtards...
Cut It Out!
I was just reading the top of the page article at Instapundit, and I saw Glenn Reynolds mention that he lives in Portland, Oregon. But I thought...oh well, cool, I shrug and read on. It is in Glen Reynold's font, it looks like Glenn Reynolds, but it doesn't sound
like Glenn Reynolds. And then, to my horror, I see it is written by Michael Totten, a fine, serviceable writer, but if I care to read his blog I will go to his damn blog! Dammit!
You people cut this out! This 'guest-blogging' bullshit needs to come to a screaming halt right now. If you can't write your own shit, don't write. Quit bringing in substitute hitters. I've seen otherwise good blogs ruined by this, and shitty blogs get shittier. Multiple writers on one blog is like the afterbirth of a mongolian gang-bang. It's just sloppy and confusing and nobody really has any fun.
Just say no.
This Makes Me Sad...
The writings of this man
figured largely in one period of my life, and probably more now than I know. Running across something like this on the internet is like finding a picture of a lost loved one in the back of a drawer, or tucked into a book you'd decided to reread after a long time.
It would not surprise me to have a similar fate to his, though I would generally rather not.
The Lois Lane one is my favorite.
Well Well Well...
Now here's a great idea
. I'm thinking of novelizing my little story, renaming it 'Haunted Soldier', and having the character meet back up with the exorcist, hook up, and go on supernatural adventures in the military.
commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.
A Passable Movie Review...
...can be found here
. I wonder if the same little arthouse theatre (the kind of venue I figure would host this film) here in my town that carried MM's trash will provide equal time for this new movie?
This is me, not holding my breath.
Sunday, October 24, 2004
Interesting, when I read his bio, I hear a lot of me in there.
God Bless him.
Traitors To Humanity...
...and traitors to America. I can't put it any other way to you Iraq War naysayers when I read something like this
You can sit in your little ivory tower, and throw stones, and play word games. And you are encouraging the deaths of men like this, volunteers who fight to go there and serve.
Shame on you.
Lord knows, I have called for the destruction of humanity more than once, and I don't take back a word. But these men and women take my breath away with their ability and desire to sacrifice for people they don't even know.
Read the rest of the site. There's more.
For what it's worth
Is it just me, or is Jolly Auld England bending over, reaching back, grasping herself by the nethers and spreading her cheeks for the Old Goats two-pronged dong?
Oh well, no big deal. We have had a high priest of the Church of Set teaching at the War College for years...Ethics, if I'm not mistaken.
Explains a lot.
Saturday, October 23, 2004
I am surprised at how badly I want to put this little story down. Back in its rusted box with the other ugly things, and flip the key down a convenient sewer grate. I thank you, dear reader, for helping me carry this baggage for a few blocks.
So, there in the NCO room, alone with my E7, the first promise of dawn graying the windows a bit, and I told him the tale you have read, here. In a slightly more military manner, of course, but the tale spoke for itself. His ruddy face grayed with the dawn a little bit at each new revelation, until finally, he bade me stop with a gesture of his hand, and he began to speak. His eyes focused off somewhere, in his own private nightmare, and from it, he spoke:
“Three cycles before you guys got here, I was an assistant DI, and I worked with a platoon in that building across the way…” his big Adams apple worked as he swallowed some bitter emotion. “There was a young private that just didn’t belong in the Army…I do not have a fucking clue how he got in. He was like Private _____” and he named a private we’d lost because he was such an unbelievable wimp that he couldn’t get a live grenade over the wall, and nearly killed several of us. “This private drew the most amazing picture of a tiger on the wall over there…” Said it almost dreamily, quizzically. He went on… “The Senior Drill, Sergeant First Class ________, really had it in for this kid…went after him hard. It was winter, just like this, and the kid was up on top of the Reaper, at the very top, and he froze…he just couldn’t get over, and everybody else had run on ahead to the next obstacles.”
The Reaper is essentially just a giant ladder made of logs, two or three stories high, the logs worn mostly smooth from the passage of many boots. When you are at the top, it feels like you can see the ocean from there, and breeze and movement make it sway.
“Now, Senior Drill was down there at the bottom yelling…no, mostly screaming, and there was Private ______ up there, hanging on like a fucking baby monkey, and crying his eyes out. He was crying out…” and he paused for a beat here… “He was crying out… ‘No sergeant…please don’t make me, sergeant!…’. but the Senior Drill just got madder’n madder, until he was actually pushing on the logs, kicking them even, to make them shake even more than they were…the kid kept hollering ‘No sergeant…please don’t make me, sergeant!…’ and then he actually put one leg up and over, and I thought…I thought he would…and he fell. He just fucking fell.”
My heart felt like a wooden block. Why in the world was he telling me this? Was he drunk? “He bounced off a log once on the way down, and then splatted like a fucking watermelon…died fucking instantly, the medics said.” He looked at me. “I was still just an E-6, then.” Like that was somehow supposed to mean something to me. “They busted the E-7 out on my testimony” he said, and then “You will not speak of this to the men…you will not speak of this to anyone, or I will bust you out like you cannot imagine…” I nodded my head. I couldn’t have spoken if ordered. He snapped his wrist out and looked at his watch. “In thirty minutes, form the men by squads for chow…other than chow, you are all confined to this barracks until further notice, and no one is to approach that other barracks without my explicit order, understood?”
“Yes Sergeant First Class!” Like you could have gotten me over there now at gunpoint.
And then the machinery of government clicked into high gear like I have never seen before, or since. The Assistant DIs showed up, mostly staying in the office with our E-7. During chow, they all three walked over to the other barracks and went in. They didn’t stay long. I saw them leave, because my squad was fresh back from chow. Everybody had crashed back into their racks to take advantage of the lull in training. Usually, on Saturday, we’d be doing PT, running, studying in groups, practicing rifle drill, polishing the floors and toilets and windows, and sleeping on the floor so as to not mess up our bunks for inspection after tiresome inspection. Today, as the squad leaders straggled back from breakfast with their charges, there was an air that we were being forcibly kept next to an unexploded bomb.
Of course, I told the other squad leaders everything he had told me, and watched their faces blanch in turn. I swore them to secrecy as well. This shit could cause a mutiny, especially among the black guys, who were already rolling their eyes like cattle in a thunderstorm. There were white guys doing it, too. But, providentially, everybody was curiously enervated…numb. And there was a pressure in the ears, like just before a thunderstorm.
There began much running to and fro of the higher ups. About two or three in the afternoon, our eyes goggled to the sight of a Major entering our barracks. Someone screamed the building to attention, and he stalked among us, and then went into the NCO office with the sergeants. The highest rank I had seen so far in my short career was a Captain, and then only a few times. The Major left, and came back with a Lt Colonel…then a Full Bird Colonel arrived. We were pretty much in shock by now, wanting nothing more than to sink into the floor. The spookery next door nearly faded in the face of all this brass.
Nearly faded. Night was coming. The shadows were extending their bony fingers, sliding stealthily towards our building, maybe to try to claw their way in. The other officers left, and a jeep pulled up with yet another Colonel. His driver was a Captain, and both of their collars had crosses opposite of their insignia of rank. This was the first and last time in my career that I saw any chaplain with a rank higher than Major.
The chaplain spent awhile talking with the sergeants, and then my E-7 came and got me himself, and took me into the office to retell everything you have read above. As the Colonel listened, he worked. The Captain put a black case on the desk, and the Colonel began to take off his outer uniform and replace it with another one. They were the vestments of a Catholic Priest. The Captain began to put on similar vestments as well, though not as gaudy and purple and tasseled as the ones the Colonel was draped in…purple stoles, weird bibs, all the trappings of…an exorcist.
I was particularly impressed with an assortment of silver tools, tools of the churchman. I had seen these items in Hammer films, but never in person. Devices that sprinkled water, things that were to emit smoke, and be swung from a chain. It was like watching a warrior snap on armor, and prepare weapons for battle. Their faces were grim, and resigned…and somehow, peaceful. They’d been in this place before. Oh, not this geographical point on a map, but they had battled before, come out alive, and were ready to go in again. They left through the fire door just past the NCO office, and made their way across, and entered through the downstairs fire door of the other barracks. I stood at the window and watched, with the other NCOs, and nobody said a word.
Again, with the jumbly bits. Time dilates. Perception dims and pulses. Awareness cannot be trusted. Madness pushes its snarling face through the curtain, the oh so thin curtain that separates the real from the scream…I saw…I saw an invisible hand push every locker and bunk across the way upstairs to the left in one motion…heard it, too, like slamming open a big silverware drawer, kerwhump! A second later, it all slammed back to where it had been, kerwhump! The guys would later tell me that the stuff in their lockers up there was as if the lockers had been picked up and shaken like a child will look for a prize in a box of Cracker Jacks.
Maybe it was just from the move.
For, you see, the next morning, early, we were put on buses and taken far out into the field, where we worked on our woodland skills for several days. We were all also assembled, out in those woods, and counseled that, under penalty of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, we would be prosecuted under the fullest extent of the law if we ever breathed a word of this to anyone, including ourselves, on a deserted desert island, talking in our sleep. When we were finally brought back, it was to new barracks, where our stuff had magically been moved to in our absence. Military life resumed, and we were given a rare ten days of leave to go home for Christmas in the middle of Basic Training. We came back, and finished becoming soldiers.
Sometime in January, on a midnight run about 12 o’clock on a Saturday morning, to get beer and cigarettes, I redirected my four man team of squad leaders. We were near what they called the ‘Triple Nickel’, the parade grounds where you saw Bill Murray and his ill-kempt crew in ‘Stripes’ doing their hippie rifle drill nonsense. I knew we were close to our old barracks, and I suggested we all go look at our old haunting grounds.
Do you think we did?
Via Cox & Forkum...
Here is the article
that came with the cartoon. Unfortunately, I agree with every word.
The Libs Implode...
You have just got to see this
. It is a bitch to load, but it is darn well worth it. I actually had a little respect for Lawrence O'Donnell before this. No more. I forgot the first lesson of Liberalism: They are always, always your enemy.
Save yourselves, kill them all.
Friday, October 22, 2004
Here begins the jumbled part…things got disorganized and bumply, like a film shot while running through the woods. I remember rushing in to the sleeping area, and the first person my flashlight found was a 6’7” black private that I would one day see firing an M-60 machine-gun one handed while running forward. Now, he was on his back in a jumble of blankets and his sleeping bag, whimpering, comatose, tears streaming down into his ears. We looked around, and in the fell light that seemed to come from the …fog? Something was pouring out of their noses and mouths, straight up for a couple of feet above their faces, and then darkening and coalescing up in the rafters.
I bolted for the light switch panel and flipped them all. There were several pops as bulbs blew, but enough wan light flickered into life that we were able to see well enough to run from cot to cot, rousing them as best we could. It seemed as if we were running in a dream…our buddies began to stir and choke and then cough and some were starting to sit up with dazed looks on their slack faces and…
I remember being back in my own barracks, winded as if I’d just ran five miles, and there was the Senior Drill, E7, angry god of my life, looking like someone had just rousted him out of bed, wondering who he was going to kill first, and yet…yet…he had something more to his anger. Whatever that was permeating the air, our minds, nibbling at the edges of our souls, he felt it too, and it didn’t sit well on that reddened Scots visage. His eyes and the brim of his campaign hat flipped up past me over my shoulder, and I turned to see every man from across the way, bestraggling one by one through our main door, clutching armloads of blankets and gear, and looking for all the world like the GIs you see in photos from WWII, as they retreated from Bastogne. Our Platoon Sergeant stalked up to my big black man and asked, in a quiet tone, loaded with potential doom and destruction, exactly what in the blue virgin mary motherfucking fuck did these privates think they were on about? “We sleepin in heah t’nigh, s’ant fuhst class” was the answer he got, and that is when I stepped in and pulled my teensy weensy rank and asked the Mad Scotsman if he would please go into his office and speak with me. His eyes cut across me like light sabers, and he saw something in my face that said “Hey, Sarge, we are men, here, and you have been straight with me, and you know me well enough to know I’m not some young, dumb, full of cum dipshit like you are used to dealing with…whattaya say you let me save your ass and ours as best I can on this one…”
He jerked his chin towards his office down at the far end, and we hustled down there while the overflow guys, with suspicious lack of comment from the guys in my building, settled down in exhausted slumber, on blankets and air mattresses on the floor next to the other guys bunks. I left the other squad leaders to finish squaring things away as best they could in the middle of a nightmare, and I went in to talk with god.
Shaun of the Dead...
Go see this movie, with one caveat: if you are not prepared for intense zombie horror, leave it alone. If you can hang, I would drive 2 hours one way to see this movie. I shit you not.
I haven't had a movie make me squirm so uncomfortably in a long time. Oh, not from the horror, but from the comedy. You see, it is a zombie horror love comedy. Yep. And it works.
Well, the horror is squirmy, too. I think they felt a need to make it more messy than 'Dawn of the Dead' to offset the comedy elements of it. I found myself wanting to yell at the screen like a negroe..."Don't go in there, you stupid fuck!"..."Can't you see she's been bitten, dumbshit?!?"
The characters are totally believable, which adds to the horror. Go see it...
You'll see what I mean.
Please, commenters, no spoilers. If you've seen this, don't spoil it for the others. There are several pivotal scenes, and you know what I mean.
Why should I do all the work when I can steal it from someone else?
I will say, and maybe it is because I am a semi-mature adult, that I had no real 'laugh out loud' moments during the film. Oh, I chuckled here and there, and smiled a lot, but I expected it to be funnier.
But! My first puppet sex. Puppet barf. Puppets smoking, and talking filthy. I came away satisfied that I had seen the best puppet movie this year.
Two thumbs up, must see. See the matinee.
I heard about this
on Rush yesterday, but not a peep anywhere else. Any of you seen this covered in the 'mainstream' media?
What The Fuck...
...is wrong with you people
Getting up to evil dumbshit like this in the morning is enough to give me a brain analism.
Thursday, October 21, 2004
When Kerry talks about things ‘burned into his memory’, I know he is full of shit. My story is from the early 80’s. I can remember some events from those weeks like I have a Polaroid in front of me, or as if I am watching a movie. But other bits are just a jumble, and I’m hardly sure where they fit into the whole dark montage.
By now, I was a squad leader, and could proudly wear my little gold chevron on my uniform shirt pocket. It meant very little in the way of power, but one thing it did buy me was an all access pass to our NCOs, and I had begun to feel like it was maybe time for some reinforcements.
After I ran like a little bitch from a clipboard with no signatures, I went and talked to the other squad leaders. As you might imagine from my description of the unit, they were some pretty squared away guys. They had been officers in ROTC, and were gung-ho to the max. Now, they stood in front of me like scared little boys. It was early the next morning, still dark, maybe 2 or 3 am, and I’m pretty sure it was a Saturday.
I had woken the other three squad leaders, and we went down to the laundry room to talk. I had not woken the next fire guard. I wanted to talk to these guys alone. I told them what I had been noticing…things I’d seen, things I’d felt, and their faces were a mix of grim, and scared spitless. Each then told a jumbled story of their own, and our stories all paralleled. They hadn’t noticed the drawing, thinking it was one of the other guys from over there who had been doodling it. They told tales of burned out light bulbs, driers that wouldn’t run, toilets that belched up black nastiness. Stuck doors. And the guys that lived in there were at sick call all the time for this or that ailment, and seemed, well, somehow drained.
I told them that I thought they should suit up, and that we needed to go over there. My best buddy Tim, the toughest man physically I have ever known, shook his head and said “No way, man, no fuckin way.” You didn’t tease a guy like him, even if you were friends, and I didn’t have a humorous bone in my body right then. The other two reluctantly shuffled off to get dressed, and I waited for them by our main door. Tim came out of the laundry room, too, and stood at the first window, peering out. “It’s really fucking dark up there, man…” he whispered to me. I looked, and it was as if someone had hung blackout curtains over the upstairs windows. If I hadn’t seen the glow of the streetlights on the other side of the building through the downstairs windows, I would’ve thought they had burned out. The other two came stumbling back down our stairs, and we reluctantly shuffled on over, the single flashlight poor comfort as we walked.
We got to the main entrance, and the screen door was stuck. With effort, we yanked it open. The main door didn’t want to open, either, but it too gave, after a struggle. We got inside, to the base of the stairwell. I heard someone crying upstairs. Crying out as if they were about to die.
“No sergeant…please don’t make me, sergeant!…” Louder, now. As if whoever wasn’t afraid of waking anybody up there at all. Then, from another part of the room came the same voice, again, crying out loudly “No sergeant…please don’t make me, sergeant!…”
We looked at each other and one of the squad leaders shook his head and backed up to the door, to stand in the pool of light from outside. Two of us left. I put my foot on the first step and started up, and I heard him follow. Even now, I do not know exactly how I made it up those stairs. We got to the upstairs landing, and on impulse I turned my flashlight to the picture of the tiger to show the other squad leader, and I had to stifle a scream. It fairly leapt from the wall, dark, bold strokes, eyes burning for our throats. A perfect three dimensional drawing, that followed you with it’s eyes.
It seemed like something’s work here was nearly finished.
I Predict That Some Asshole Will Poo Poo This...
Sent: Thursday, October 21, 2004 9:09 AM
Subject: Why vote?
>>written by Mathew Manweller... Central Washington University political science professor...
"Election determines fate of nation"
"In that this will be my last column before the presidential election,there will be no sarcasm, no attempts at witty repartee. The topic is too serious, and the stakes are too high.
This November we will vote in the only election during our lifetime that will truly matter. Because America is at a once-in-a-generation crossroads, more than an election hangs in the balance. Down one path lies retreat, abdication and a reign of ambivalence. Down the other lies a nation that is aware of its past and accepts the daunting obligation its future demands. If we choose poorly, the consequences will echo through the next 50 years of history. If we, in a spasm of frustration, turn out the current occupant of the White House, the message to the world and ourselves will be two-fold.
First, we will reject the notion that America can do big things. Once a nation that tamed a frontier, stood down the Nazis and stood upon the moon, we will announce to the world that bringing democracy to theMiddle East is too big of a task for us. But more significantly, we will signal to future presidents that as voters, we are unwilling to tackle difficult challenges, preferring caution to boldness, embracing the mediocrity that has characterized other civilizations. The defeat of President Bush will send a chilling message to future presidents who may need to make difficult, yet unpopular decisions. America has always been a nation that rises to the demands of history regardless of the costs or appeal. If we turn away from that legacy, we turn away from who we are.
Second, we inform every terrorist organization on the globe that the lesson of Somalia was well learned. In Somalia we showed terrorists that you don't need to defeat America on the battlefield when you can defeat them in the newsroom. They learned that a wounded America can become a defeated America.
Twenty-four-hour news stations and daily tracing polls will do the heavy lifting, turning a cut into a fatal blow. Except that Iraq is Somalia times 10. The election of John Kerry will serve notice to every terrorist in every cave that the soft underbelly of American power is the timidity of American voters. Terrorists will know that a steady stream of grizzly photos for CNN is all you need to break the will of the American people. Our own self-doubt will take it from there. BinLaden will recognize that he can topple any American administration without setting foot on the homeland.
It is said that America's W.W.II generation is its 'greatest generation'. But my greatest fear is that it will become known as America's 'last generation.' Born in the bleakness of the Great Depression and hardened in the fire of WW II, they may be the last American generation that understands the meaning of duty, honor and sacrifice. It is difficult to admit, but I know these terms are spoken with only hollow detachment by many (but not all) in my generation. Too many citizens today mistake 'living in America' as 'being an American.' But America has always been more of an idea than a place. When you sign on, you do more than buy real estate. You accept a set of values and responsibilities.
This November, my generation, which has been absent too long, must grasp the obligation that comes with being an American, or fade into the oblivion they may deserve.
I believe that 100 years from now historians will look back at the election of 2004 and see it as the decisive election of our century. Depending on the outcome, they will describe it as the moment America joined the ranks of ordinary nations; or they will describe it as the moment the prodigal sons and daughters of the greatest generation accepted their burden as caretakers of the City on the Hill."
Thought You Might...
interesting. A paragraph on this site
caught my interest, and got me to searching.
I'd like to see a flag as big as a football field. I wonder what kind of message the King of Jordan is trying to send?
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
In retrospect, I believe it had been feeding on us since we arrived. Gaining strength…power.
As an acutely observant person, I had been noticing seemingly unrelated oddnesses for a couple of weeks, but I had yet to form a picture of the whole. To say that I was a ‘bit distracted’ defines the concept of ‘understatement’.
A week or so earlier, as I was at the top of those stairs in the second barracks, wondering at the cold, the edge of my flashlight beam caught something odd on the facing wall in front of me, the large flat part, just before it turned into stairwell ceiling. I put the flashlight beam directly on it, and I noticed pencil markings. Not fresh ones, mind you, but old ones, bleeding through. I thought it odd, but I was ready to be out of there, and unassed the building in a hurry.
I had resolved to go back the next day and look at it in daylight, but it was a few days later, and another stint at fire guard before I got back up those stairs. Someone was muttering in their sleep. “No sergeant…please don’t make me, sergeant…” Spoken low, through a throat taut with tension. I figured Basic Training was a real bitch for him, and moved to check the fire escape down the long row of cots. As I was initialing the check-sheet hanging by the door to prove I’d been there, I heard another sleeper behind me, to the right, cry out softly “No sergeant…please don’t make me, sergeant…” Same voice. Different Private. I turned to leave, and I felt someone behind me, reaching for me and I whipped around and there was nothing. I shrugged under my field jacket, and decided I really didn’t want to be there anymore. I still had to go initial the sheet at the downstairs fire exit. At the top of the stairs, the quavering light of my flashlight shown on the wall in front of me, again. Now, I could clearly make out the outline of a leaping tiger. Enraged, his fangs bared, claws extended, he wanted nothing more than to tear my throat out. Though startled, I was intrigued. I steadied my light and looked closer.
The tiger was bleeding through the plaster, but was still unfinished. There were parts that were still clearly waiting to come through…one eye glared, the other was milky white. Some of the claws weren’t finished. This was a work of art, done by someone with real, raw, natural talent. And how was it bleeding through a quarter inch of Army paint? Behind me, I heard a sleeper say “No sergeant…please don’t make me, sergeant…” and I just knew, suddenly, in my heart of hearts, that someone was directly behind me, sizing me up for a nice push down the stairs. I bolted. I may have touched a step or two on the way down, but I could not swear to that in a court of law. What I could swear to, was that as my new military training told me I better get my ass over to that check-sheet on the downstairs back door, my instincts were screaming at me to run, and not look back.
I shook it off. I wasn’t a damn baby, I told myself. I was a badass, getting badder, and no bullshit heebie-jeebies were gonna keep me from my appointed duties. I walked the length of the building, down a wood floor that had been polished like a mirror by hard-working hands, lit to a gleaming silver by streetlights outside, and there was a darkness at the end of the room that my flashlight couldn’t seem to overcome. Something was piping in horror from outside, into me, into my own personal Public Address System. I’d met Darkness before, and I didn’t appreciate it fucking with me like this. I kept going.
The sheet for the week was blank. No one had initialed it for the last four days. And someone, something
, was right there beside me.
The Goddess Ann Speaks!
Go and worship
I have never wanted an election to come more quickly. Hopefully, in a few more weeks I won't ever have to hear anything about Kerry/Edwards ever again.
When The Man Comes Around...
I ripped this
off from SondraK. It takes a minute or so to load, but I think it's worth it. Turn your speakers on, ya danged ijjit.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Whenever I start to write on this, the hairs on my arms bristle from goosebumps. Just a flash, as all of my body hairs give a bit of a shiver, and then the keys take me nearly twenty-five years into the past. Into that cold November winter, where I heard the dead speak.
The first couple of weeks were frantic. All the more so because The Powers That Be had not gotten us our furniture in time, and when it arrived, we had to assemble it all, while maintaining military discipline, under the watchful eyes of tough men who hated us. We were still sick from our shots, and performing a killer schedule of PT (Physical Training…read: ‘torture’), and now we got to assemble our lockers, and our bunks, too. There were so many of us in my platoon that we filled one barracks, and the top floor of its neighbor. The overflows were put on the second floor because heat, if there is any of it, supposedly rises.
The Barracks. Those barracks. As I’ve said, if you’ve seen ‘Stripes’, you’ve seen those barracks. Here’s a link
that shows the barracks pretty well…some other guy’s reminiscing. Essentially, two story wooden longhouses, with a stairwell just to the right of an entrance at one end, and nothing but a fire escape on the other end. God help us if any of us ever broke the seal on that fire escape door. Facing you as you entered the main door were the bathrooms, with their disturbing lack of stalls. Welcome to Oz, gentlemen, you get to watch each other shit. Through the bathroom was the laundry room, where we washed the mud and blood from our duds. The long main area to the left of you as you came in was open, until we broke it up into sleeping areas with our bunks and wall lockers. A DI caught one of our guys smoking inside his wall locker upstairs one time. The DI snapped closed the poor bastards lock, pushed the locker to the top of the stairs, and then over the top. Ho ho, I bet that
fellow learned his lesson.
Those stairs…as you went down those stairs, you faced a large rectangular area where as time went on, units would paint their unit insignia, hang a flag or a banner, or paint a rousingly militant mural. Both of my platoon’s areas had been painted over white, with thick, military grade white paint.
The first few weeks went as swimmingly as things can go when your mind and your body are being bent and broken, and you are being hammered into a completely different human being than you had imagined in your most feverish imaginings. We had the best Mess Hall in the US Army, too. There was a plaque. It must be true. Thanksgiving dinner was the best I’ve ever had. And there was wine. And enough loneliness to make grown men cry, and we did. Oh, yes we did.
I stood Fire Guard routinely. We all did. Once, sometimes twice a night if you were unlucky (or your squad leader had it in for you) the sleepy bastard who had just had it would wake you up, hand you the flashlight, and you would slide out of the rack, into your boots (yes, you slept in your uniform, if you were smart) and patrol your barracks, inside and out, and then go repeat the process in the other barracks, until your time was up and you could pass on the flashlight and pass back out. This was also the time you could sneak in some letter writing, have a smoke outside, and do your laundry.
The nights were bitter cold, and leafless trees jittered dead-black fingers against the slate sky. The moon, poor weak thing, showed itself at random intervals as clouds fled from something in the dark. The walk across to the other barracks, once just boring tedium, began to take on a feel of something more. Dread? Yes, that was it. I began to feel as if I was approaching a place where I wasn’t invited.
We had all of us noticed a weirdness over the last several days, like a tattered black lace shawl, being pulled up over the bony knees of a watchful-eyed, mean old crone. We would leave our warm, toasty barracks, and walk inside the other place, into a wall of cold. We’d check the thermostats, listen at the pipes…hmmmm sounds the same as where we just left. In this other barracks, the downstairs had been left completely empty. We used it for close quarters PT whenever the weather went to shit outside. The streetlights shone in from the windows that wrapped the lengths of both floors. Tonight, there was something new. Tonight, there was something bad.
Tonight, I heard someone crying upstairs. Crying out as if they were about to die.
Gassing Your Kids For Fun & Profit...
If you have to have air fresheners around your house, you are a shitty housekeeper, and you smell bad. If you just want them because 'they smell nice', you are a freak. Pure and simple.
I can tell when I've entered such a home. I begin to taste and smell it immediately. Then I get an urge to cough, followed closely by the urge to leave. And change clothes. You see this a lot in houses where they keep pets. Pets stink. That's all there is to it. If you choose to live in a barn, don't think you can disguise the stench with stinkum. It's like scented douch. There's still a pussy under there, but now it tastes funny.
I just heard a news bit on the radio where they were talking about how these aerosol emitters are making children and old people sick. And killing them. I coulda told them that
without all of the trouble of a study. But wait, there's more!
I saw a fire marshall being interviewed on the local news a couple of weeks ago. What he said opened my eyes, and sent me to Google as well. And it made absolute sense. The punchline is that these little containers of boiling oil that people plug into their wall sockets to emit their slow poison, are quite efficient little Molotov Cocktails when they decide to malfunction, which is, apparently, more often than you'd think.
they go off, burn away to nothing, taking the house (or row of apartments) with them, leaving nothing but their prongs in the socket to show that they were there. Fire marshalls are starting to look for this evidence as a matter of course, now. And they are finding it all too often.
"The weather today will be poison mist, with a chance of deadly inferno." Yep, that's a product I won't be rushing off to purchase any time soon.
The dumb shit we do to ourselves never ceases to amaze me.
The Myth Of Unity...
The Leftist Swine continue to try to foist this cryptonite on the American Public.
Anything the Left doesn't agree with is accused of 'fostering disunity'. This assumes we are united. The closest We The People get to 'united' is in the name of our country. After that, it is every person for themselves.
Think of your familial unit. Any relatives you can't stand? Do you agree with your blood relatives positions on everything? Well, how are we expected to stand united with people we don't even know?
When you hear someone use the word Unity, your fist should clench, and your other hand should check your wallet. Someone is reaching into your pants and trying to fondle you.
I’d joined the military on a whim…practically press-ganged myself. I had just seen the movie ‘Stripes’, with a friend, and we both decided to join, that very night. Yes, we were drunk. He pussed out, I didn’t. I wanted to kill ragheads. Iran was holding our people hostage, and I was royally pissed off. I was tired of punching out every Arab looking person I ran into, and was ready to go raze some villages. Throw in the aforementioned divorce, add not being allowed by law to see my kids, and a few other goodies, and you had…well, me.
I hooked up at the Oklahoma City Airport with another baby private who had signed up for the same special unit as I had. We had each received a $5,000 signing bonus, four years of college, and other incentives. The airline folks knew well how to transform our government food chits into alcohol, and we both kept the Hangover of Doom at bay while we flew our circuitous route to the Anus of Ymir that is Kentucky in winter.
A bunch of us rowdy drunks, all now part of the same family, were herded onto buses at some craphole airport in Kentucky. We were now bonded together for four years. In the end, only about 20 of the 200 would reenlist. Only 150 made it through training. Every one of us had to have at least two years of college. Most of us were white. All of us were astounded when we pulled up to the reception area at Fort Knox. It was the same place that we had seen in the most popular movie in the country that month, ‘Stripes’. Literally. We were in a scene in the movie. The internet did not exist publicly as yet, so I had no idea that the entire movie had been filmed there. As the DI’s yelled us off the bus and into the building, I began to worry that I had fundamentally broken my brain in some deep, serious way. I was SO relieved when Sergeant Hulka did not make an appearance. The real thing was much scarier, and did not twitch a bit.
We were then told that we were ‘being given amnesty’, and that if we would just pass behind this curtain and dump any weapons, drugs, sharp implements, into the ‘Amnesty Box’…that all would be forgiven, and we could move on and have a chance to become real soldiers. The DIs cowed us like rain-soaked poodles, and we formed a line and passed, one by one, through the partitioned area, past the box. I shit-canned a $20 pair of damn good moustache scissors through the slot. Clink!
I began to notice that I was hearing big clunks and thuds from the box, after I passed through. I saw the eyes of the NCOs widen with every clatter and thunk. “What the fuck?” I could hear them thinking…”grenades? Pistols?” I would have dearly loved to have seen the contents of that box, after.
I won’t bore you with the details of our processing, our billeting, our first few frenetic weeks. Go see Full Metal Jacket and Stripes if you want to see that. Stuff ice cubes down your pants while you watch, have someone beat on you with a stick, and do pushups on a sheet of dry ice in your underwear, while the only other items of clothing you are allowed are boots and gloves, so you don’t stick to the ground like overcooked bacon sticks to a skillet, and you’ll get an idea.
I was in Heaven. I loved nearly every minute of my military service. But after those first few weeks in those wooden barracks, the ones just like you see in Stripes (for the scenes were filmed in those very barracks), it seems that...well, that we woke something up. And something that did not have our best interests at heart.
No, not our best interests, at all.
Wheref'art Thou, O'Reilly?
I notice a dearth of O'Reilly stories. Especially on Drudge. That little fag hates
O'Reilly. You'd think he'd be wallpapering his place with O'Reilly scandal. As of this morning, I see only one little puff piece, which actually favors
the Irish Dog.
Hmmmmm. Good lawyers? Inside info yet to break that Terry McAwful engineered the whole thing? We shall see. Still, if the Big Media is so Left, you'd think they would be trumpeting it with the entire horn section. Falsity didn't stop Dan Blather. Wellll, not right away, anyhow.
Nope. This is just plain weird.
Monday, October 18, 2004
I've lived in a few. I've come to believe that there may be something about me that brings out the weird in a place.
I may tell you more about some of the doozies later, but I was going through my old military photos yesterday, and a weird one came up from the depths of my memory...one I was more of an observer of, than a participant in.
I joined the Army a little over two decades ago. I was 27 years old, my life had just blown up in my face, and I joined the Infantry because I wanted to. The Recruiter had slammed a large book of computer printouts down on his desk. He'd told me that my ASVAB scores were the highest they'd ever seen in the Tri-State recruiting area of Oklahoma, Texas, and Kansas. That the big book was a list of all the jobs the Army had, and that I qualified to go into any one of them. Did I want to become a doctor? A pilot?
I pointed to the Special Forces guy in a poster on the wall, the guy with the camo and the guns, and said "I want that."
Oh, no no no I didn't, was the general text of the conversation. I didn't want to be a 'Grunt', I had too much potential. I finally told him that I could get all of that other fancy training in the real world, but I could only get this stuff in the Army. I told him that this was Friday morning, my divorce had just come final, she wanted money, and I wanted to get away, and if I wasn't on a bus or a plane somewhere by Monday morning, I was going to go get my old job back and forget the whole thing. That was also the last time that I can recall smarting off to an E-7 with a CIB and both shoulder patches.
Everything turned into a whirlwind, as he ran me ahead of everybody in every line, and got me physical'd, poked, prodded, coughed with turned head, clouds of paperwork, raise my right hand and repeat after me, orders printed, bus ticket in hand to airport, plane ticket, and be ready to leave early Monday morning, private.
It was just that simple. Nothing left but to party like a wild beast all weekend and fuck all the girls I'd been meaning to get around to fucking. Early Monday morning, my parents pried me away from some vixen in a leopard print body stocking, and drove my besotted ass to the bus station. I was off to Fort Knox, Kentucky.
It was the first part of November. The part where Winter is just beginning to curl up his lip, and show the fine, sharp points of teeth. Cold, white teeth...
A Governor and A Shooting in Fort Worth
By Dr. Paul Kengor
This week marks the fifth anniversary of one of the worst weeks in the history of Fort Worth, Texas. What happened that week was a demonstration of evil and good, of a mad killer at work and a kind community in mourning. The week also revealed something about the man who now sits in the White House.
On September 15, 1999, a deranged man in a black trench coat entered a church in Ft. Worth, Texas, armed with bullets and a pipe bomb. He approached a group of worshippers in the foyer awaiting choir practice. He asked about a prayer meeting, and then began shooting. He headed to the sanctuary, which he sprayed with gunfire as he shouted obscenities. Seven were dead and many more injured. A teenage boy stopped the slaughter when he yelled out defiantly, "You can kill me but you can't kill my faith!" Upon hearing those words, the assassin found a pew, sat down, and shot himself.
The first person murdered that day was Sydney Browning, a seminary graduate and local educator who was selected Teacher of the Year at her high school two years in a row. She was hit in the head and chest at point-blank range and died instantly. Her father, Don, has obviously never forgotten that day, nor the compassion from the community he saw in the days that followed. "I never saw anything grip the city like that," he says today.
The morning after the massacre an impromptu prayer session was held at the pastor's house. The church was now a crime scene, filled with police, coroners, chalked lines, bullet-ridden oak walls, and blood-soaked carpets. A surprise attendee at that prayer session was Texas Governor George W. Bush, who made the 186-mile trip from Austin. He arrived unannounced and left almost as quietly. A church of God had been converted into a Texas killing field, and the governor came to offer his personal prayers.
So overwhelming was the outpouring of grief that the shocked community was forced to hold the memorial service at the football stadium at Texas Christian University. Sydney Browning's father was asked to speak at the service. When he arrived backstage before the event, he unexpectedly encountered the Texas governor. The two men shook hands. "Are you coming into this a believer?" Bush asked. Browning nodded. "God bless you," said Bush. "I'm praying for you." The service organizers then asked their unanticipated guest if he would like to sit at the platform with the other VIPs. The governor replied, "No, this isn't about me," and sat in the stands among the thousands. Browning spoke last. The choir director had long ago connected with his little girl through music, and he thought it fitting to finish his remarks by extemporaneously singing the first song his daughter had sung in public. "This little light of mine, I'm gonna' let it shine," he began, asking the audience to join him. Browning paused to note that the last verse of the song reads: "Let it shine 'til Jesus comes." He told the crowd that his daughter no longer needs to sing that last line, but the rest of them do. The tribute closed with that.
When the service ended, the governor approached Browning once more. "That was great," said Bush, clasping Browning's hand. "I couldn't have done it." George W. Bush then exited as he came: low-key, with no cameras. He had said nothing profound or poetic. One can understand why his appearance went unreported. His response was memorable only for its lack of showiness. In both visits after the shooting, Bush avoided the press, told no one he was coming, stayed, prayed, paid his respects, talked briefly to the families, and then silently drove away.
My home sits 1,300 miles from Ft. Worth. I learned of this story while researching George W. Bush's faith. Someone recommended I look into this terrible incident. That someone suggested I telephone his friend, Don Browning. One day in April 2004 I did just that, and spent an hour on the telephone with Mr. Browning, who recounted to me (a stranger) the awful details of the Texas church shooting that took the life of his beloved daughter, Sydney. I'm sure my call ruined his day. Still, through that tragedy, Don Browning saw a side of the current president that the rest of us have not, and felt that side needed to be told.
It's easy to demonize our politicians, whether they are George W. Bush or John F. Kerry. It's also easy to dehumanize them, to forget they are human beings. And that was George W. Bush, now the world's most powerful man, five years ago this week-not a politician but just a person grieving with the rest of Texas.
Sunday, October 17, 2004
I Carry A Gun...
...in case I meet this guy
And then shoot the cameraman.
I lifted this cheerfully from Sondra K's
Note To Dummies: Where it says "click here to start your download", click there. Jeez, need me to wipe you, too?
Friday, October 15, 2004