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        Tuesday, November 30, 2004

    Ding, Dong, The Bitch Is Still Dead...

    Those of you who have hung out here for any length of time know of my absolute hatred of The Biggest Limey Slut Of All Time, and no, I'm not talking about Posh Spice. She I would shag after her having had a good vaginal autoclaving. No, I refer to appalling Princess "Look At Me, I'm Such A Spraddle-Legged Whore" Diana, that's who.

    I'm glad she's dead, and if I ever make it to England, I will burst the bonds of my captivity, rush to her grave, and piss myself dehydrated onto it.
    I have no fondness for that pot-eared fruit she cuckholded so many times, either. It's a wonder she could fuck him every two weeks, as the tabloids claim. No wonder her kids look different. There was so much British Semen swirling around in her cauldragina, it's just a wonder they're human. And then the raghead she died with...wasn't that the very bestest twofer, ever? I just wish I could have been there, slamming her head with that flapping car door, over and over and...
    I'm okay...shake it off, Bane. Cleansing breath, and!...

    FuckohFUCK!have I mentioned HOW muchohhowmuch I.hate.that.bitch? Good. She lived her life, like a Tampon in the wind, according to Sir Elton of Choad, Smoker of Poles, official cum-taster to the Court of the Queen.

    Oh, I'm sorry, have I been a bit harsh? Well, the one thing she could have done to salvage her sorry, used condom of a soul, she refused to do, and went off and slaughtered the infant in privacy, to her eternal shame. Yes, rendered preggers by one of the many cocks she harbored into her beslimed bog of a snatch, she chose to have it killed, rather than face the music with any regality. The good she could have done as an example to other young women in similar circumstances by standing tall, and having the child, and bearing it proudly...

    Well, it just wasn't in her, obviously, and her ignominious death, choking on her own blood in the car of an Arab gigolo, driven by a drunk, is all trash like that deserve.

    Fuck her, to the death.

    And Kat? Thanks for the beer...





       

    All Right, Dammit!

    I put up a site meter about 9 O'Clock last night, just for the halibut. I got the idea from Army of Mom. Surprisingly, I see that I've had over 200 visitors since then, with the average stay of nearly eight minutes. That means folks are readin, and writin, and if only 20 of you bastards(ettes) dug into your pocket for some spare change, I could get drunk, sodomize a Unitarian animal rights activist, and write about it for the general amusement of all!

    Dig deep, brethren and cistern, dig deep. I won't mind the pocket lint, or the sticky little candies that end up in the bottom of your purse because the waitress is trying to bribe you into a tip even though she only brought coffee twice, the bitch.

    I'm dyin, here!





       

    So, Ya Wanna Play Red Alert?

    Or Command & Conquer? On Windows XP Pro? Well, have I got a surprise for you.

    Here is the .ZIP file that got me up and running, after I followed the instructions on the first link above. Here is a conversation that may help you get your head screwed on straight if you are having troubles.

    And now, I am going to go kill Commies for a while. As I've mentioned, I lost 72 hours of my life the first time I played this game. Targeting cursors were burned into my eyeballs.

    I love this game.

    Oh, and did I mention, read the instructions closely?





        Monday, November 29, 2004

    Welcome To My Nightmare...

    Let me take you into a typical night (read: nearly every night) in the Bane Brain. Turn back if you don't want to take the walk...it can get sticky in there, there's some sharp edges, and things that don't like you even one little bit.

    Sometimes it's the 'Zombie Theme'. A bonus is the rare 'Cheerleaders With Big Tits And Sexual Aids Theme', but alas, last night, those perky vixens were nowhere to be seen. Last night it was the 'Vampire Theme'.

    Oh, I know where it all came from...I've been reading Stephen King's Gunslinger series, and the priest from 'Salem's Lot is featured, with various vamp action. And just before I turned off the TV for the night, I was watching one of these reality shows that was covering people who actually practice vampirism. Stir in the fact that I believe in vampires (and that, my friends, is a whole nother blog entry) and the table was set for an all night banquet of blood and terror.

    I am both a Lucid Dreamer, and an Out of Body Traveler, and again, that is a whole nother blog entry, and you can believe it or not. I don't care. I dream from the moment my eyes close, until the moment they open. This has been proven by actual sleep studies I've gone through, so don't try to hand me any nonsense about dreams happening in the few seconds before waking. My wife is always amazed at how quickly I fall asleep. She used to talk to me, thinking it was impossible that I was asleep, and I would bitch her out (gently) because I was already dreaming. I dream dreams with a plot, with a beginning, a middle, and an end. If I get up to whiz, the dream usually picks up wherever it left off when I go back to sleep. I have woken up and outlined stories and novels, and written poetry without correction, that I had written in my dream.

    So, last night found me in one of my familiar landscapes. I was in a hotel, a large, old-fashioned luxury hotel, somewhat gone to seed. Some areas were being maintained for high paying guests, some were being rented out by the month, and some were offices and small businesses. It was one of those places that takes up an entire city block, with entrances on all four sides, and its own basement garage. The ceilings are high, trimmed with dark wood. The doorways are high, and topped with transoms. I know that if I stand on a doorknob and peer through the glass, down into the room, sometimes I will see a Dark Thing doing a Bad Thing to someone. The hallway walls are papered in a light pastel green, sporting twining green vines with fading red flowers. The staircases are wide, sweeping affairs. On some levels they curve grandly down in a gradual spiral, on others they take a more utilitarian turn, zigging and zagging down in crisp left right left right angles. In all cases, they are wide enough so six or eight adults could stand abreast on each carpeted step. The elevators have dark, wooden doors. An arrow points at the numbered floors, and the buttons seem to be made of ivory, or maybe Mother of Pearl. Or maybe tooth enamel. When the doors gape open, you get the feeling that something is hungry, and really wants you to step inside where it can dim the lights and...just get to know you. I never use the elevators, in my dreams, unless it is in extreme emergency. I bound up and down the wide staircases, sure that I can lose whatever is chasing me.

    It started with a bang, it did, last night. I don't hold with Papist trinkets, but I had a cross on a business type card someone had left in a phone booth to direct the homeless to a shelter for a hot meal and a bed, and I was calling upon the Power of God to infuse this symbol I had cupped in my hand, and a bolt of blue white energy straightened my arm with a spastic jerk and then the paper cross spat blue flame into the snarling face of the Master Vampire that I had just discovered there outside the Penthouse doorway. He screamed and was blown back halfway down the hallway, but he was far from done with me. I bolted for the stairs. I knew I had a few minutes before sunrise, and the stairwell had windows. He gathered himself, and came streaking down the stairs after me...I turned, and my arm jolted another blast into him, tearing open his immaculate suit front and exposing his writhing guts, blackened with the stolen blood of innocents. As the flesh began to close, I ran again. I had to make it to a room I had taken, where I had weapons prepared. I had just been brought in to investigate, and had run ill-prepared into a full blown infestation. The Master had been taking the building from the top down for untold nights of horror, and now, my way to the outside was blocked by his snarling servants, in various stages of decay and rebirth. Rebirth into something resembling the snarling monster that was screaming down the stairwell behind me like a thousand damned souls that wanted to bathe in my blood and squeeze my organs dry for every last drop.

    I made it to my room and locked the door. Outside, I heard fell snufflings and gruntings, and enraged whispers and screeches, heard more in the mind than in the ear. I ran to a large refrigerator I had in my room, grabbed a gallon size freezer bag out of a box on top of it, then proceeded to fill it with ice cubes from several trays I had filled with Holy Water when I had first taken the room. I put this brimming, dripping bag in my large right hand coat pocket, and then loaded up my other pocket with speed loaders for my Smith and Wesson .45. The speed loaders were full of fat silver slugs, loaded low power so they would stay in a body they were fired into, and not spall on through and let the beast heal. I use a revolver in these situations because a jam with an automatic is too horrifying to imagine with teeth trying to close on your throat. I snapped the scabbard to a razor sharp Lee-Enfield bayonet that I had had plated with silver over the left side of my belt, and with the pistol in my left hand, pulled open the door to the hallway.

    It caught them flatfooted. They had expected me to cower inside, and were waiting for the Master. I reached into my pocket and grabbed an ice cube and flipped it into the crowd...PHOOMMPH! a silent implosion, like a grenade as it touched the first vampire and then exploded into what became for them a sizzling, spattering horror...one of them, was blown back into me and I shot a chunk of his spine into his heart along with the bullet and he fell hissing into the ruined puddle of another, and then I tossed a handful of cubes in each direction to their great consternation...the cubes in my pocket were melting and I scooped up some of the water and slung it in an arc into snarling, grey faces with too much teeth showing and their skin split and burned and they had better things to do than me and my gun boomed twice at a thing that was grabbing my legs and I was back in the stairwell and I could see the rosy hue of the sun just beginning to light up the windows in the stairwell and there below me was the Master, smiling and my left arm jolted as I pumped two hot silver rounds into the area where not too long ago I had seen his black heart beating and as his face was changing as he began to snap backwards I put the last round into the bridge of his nose between enraged red eyes.

    I popped open the cylinder and punched out the empties and clawed out a speed loader and reloaded and then leapt over the Masters twitching body and...I ran, down floor after floor, trying to stay in what little sunlight the high windows afforded, trying to get to a floor where I could rest and take stock in my situation. Periodically, I would go out onto a floor and assess, and the newly dead, and the hungry dead would send me fleeing back into the stairwell. Once, I found my way blocked by the not quite dead, and they were being controlled by someone, perhaps the Master. I couldn't guarantee he was dead. Though still mostly human, they came up at me, and I took the zip-lock bag out of my pocket and showered their upturned faces with the last of the Holy Water, emptied my pistol, jumped square onto the back of the one closest to the door (his spine and ribs made a satisfactory crunch! as they shattered) and ran out into the hallway and...

    There was my wife. She was skeptical. She had my four year old daughter by the hand. Here is where the nightmare begins. All the rest, hey, I would pay good money for a ride like that. This, though, is not funny. There is immortal danger here, and though I have told her, she does not believe me. If we are to get out of here whole, and with our souls intact, I have to prove to her, because right now she wants nothing more than to get away from a wild-haired lunatic with a smoking pistol, covered in the goo of the living dead. And proper Christian ladies don't believe in those sorts of things, so just come on honey, let's leave Daddy to his craziness.

    I finish snapping six more rounds into the pistol, snap the cylinder shut, and grab my daughter by her free hand and pull her away. If her mother won't learn, I at least need to open my daughter’s eyes. In an atrium just to the right of the stairwell, I have spotted a small bundle on the floor. It appears to be two small bodies, covered with a throw rug, at the side of a settee furthest from the window, and between a potted plant and the cavernous hallway we stand in. I drag my daughter over to the bundle on the floor, and my wife trails along, reluctantly. Humoring the guy with the gun, but waiting for the opportunity to bolt, taking my daughter with her, unarmed and ill-prepared for what lurks in the dark recesses of this conquered hotel. This is for your own good, sweethearts, I tell myself, as I bend down and with my daughters hand in my left, and with the barrel of the revolver in my right, I flip back the edge of the throw rug nearest the wall, and reveal from the chest up two little girls, about eight years and ten years old, respectively, but dressed in the same dresses, probably sisters. Sisters in death.

    Their long brown hair is curly, and crusted with blood. Their skin is pale, slightly greenish. As what weak sun there is coming through shines on them, they arch their backs weakly and mewl like kittens, their lips pull back from nearly translucent fangs, long and sharp...'milk teeth', I think as pale lips pull back to expose them in a sleepy, animal snarl. One of them opens dead eyes to look into mine. Once a bright blue, they are now opaque and cataracted, and just beginning to show a tinge of red. Behind me, my wife gasps at the snap those teeth make as the dead girl champs at my gun hand.

    Startled, I flip back the throw rug over their faces, and they begin to still. I look at my wide-eyed daughter, and I see she has gone over a threshold no little girl that age should ever have to cross. I see her mother is pale now, too. I raise my gun to fire into the lumps that represent their heads. I don't like leaving the enemy 'alive' behind me. The thought of my daughter seeing the rooster tail of those little girls brains spattering up the wall is more than I can bear, so I lower my gun and we turn to flee, together.

    Well, that's it, sports fans. Oh, there was a lot more to it, to be sure. Six, seven hours worth. Twists, turns, and some really scary stuff. I think this is quite enough for one day, don't you?





       

    The Iraq Election...

    This is a simple test to know if you are listening to a commie, a commie-symp, or a retard. When you hear anyone say "We should postpone the Iraqi elections so every vote will be counted..."

    It's that simple. If you want to boycott a vote, fine. How many people in this country don't vote? Is Bush any less of The President because some grandma somewhere in the hinterlands couldn't make it to a voting booth? Is he any less The President because a bunch of pouters crossed their arms and pouted and said "Screw this..."?

    No. If the Sunnis (or Kurds) don't want to play, they are going to pay. Pay by being irrelevant, or get paid in bullets for acting the fool, their choice. One message we have sent the ragheads quite clearly is that we are in this for the long haul, and we are willing to kill you and your little dog too if you want to play fuckaround.

    So, when you hear some variation of the theme that "Maybe we should postpone the vote so we can make it fair" dribbling from the corner of some liberal stroke victims mouth, just take it for the nothing that it is worth.

    For everything else that I despise Bush for, I am proud of him for drawing this line in the sand with the tip of his sword, and standing firm. God help us if he caves. More than even Iran is at stake here, and our future national security teeters on this Iraqi vote.

    This vote is the payoff for our investment in freedom, paid for with the blood and agony of young Americans.





        Sunday, November 28, 2004

    The God Box...

    Before I begin my television rant, I need to reiterate that I think television, next to perhaps comics, video games, and the battery operated dildo, is the current pinnacle of human achievement. I love it, I adore it, and if you threaten my television, you have threatened me.

    That being said, and considering the sacred nature of this pinnacle of human achievement, why do we tolerate retarded apes making decisions about which shows live, which shows die, and, most importantly, WHY IN THE MOTHER FUCKING FUCK DO WE HAVE ALL OF THESE FUCKING ADS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SCREEN DURING THE ACTUAL FUCKING SHOW?!?!?!? It's as if you are trying to drive, and some vagrant clambers onto your hood to wash your windshield! "Get the fuck off!" you would yell, and then shoot them in the groin. So, who in TV Land do we have to shoot in the groin to stop this ignorant shit?

    I remember it started around the time MTV came on the air, and the Sci-Fi channel. Both came on cable about the same time, and some moronutive (that's moron+executive, for those of you playing along at home) decided that the viewing public was too stupid to figure out that they were, indeed, watching MTV or the Sci-Fi channel, so they slapped this semi-opaque sperm stain right in the corner of every viewers right eyeball.

    Apparently, I am the only one on the planet that this bothered, because they escalated their perfidy. During the actual showing of films, mini-series, and shows, the moronutives, correctly assessing the attention span of the average fellow-moron TV viewer, began to show previews RIGHT AFTER THE FUCKING ADS!!! for what was coming up on the show next! I promise you, that if I am ever in a room, and someone points out the actual person or persons responsible for this perfidy, I will kill them with extreme prejudice in as messy a way as possible as a warning to anyone else who might be tempted to play out their retarded, coke-induced 'creative' fantasies. Fuck.

    And now, the latest horror...little mini ads, where retards from other shows I'll never watch dance and simper and prance along the bottom of the screen to entice you to watch their trash DURING THE SHOW YOU ARE CURRENTLY WATCHING!!! So, there I am, watching a touching death scene, or a turgid moment of hot sex, and some clown or clownette is gawping along the bottom of my TV screen, mugging like a chimp, and they expect me to be enticed enough to go watch their dumb shit? I can only blame the rest of you, who must have answered that question with a resounding "Yes!" during the survey, and I pray most fervently for all of your deaths.

    In a fire. While being ass-raped by a Viagra'd up Mountain Gorilla.





        Thursday, November 25, 2004

    Fuck Thanksgiving...

    Like all those once a year holidays, where you should be doing what you should be doing every day...the card, gift, and turkey industry concentrates it all into one long, miserable day.

    Love your Mom! Love your Dad! Love Jesus! But only today, because we're having a Sale Sale Sale!

    This Thanksgiving is especially miserable, as I will be dragged into a family intensive environment, too poor to have been able to get properly drunk, and stay that way. Ugh. The football games today suck. I've seen all the parades I ever want to see again. My Dad's dog is psychotic, and, though locked in the spare bedroom, will cause me no end of nervousness that one of my dipshit kids, who has never been properly mauled by a deranged Boston Terrier before, will let him out.

    I don't have much to be thankful for, but being thankful for it sustains me through each and every day. I can (and routinely do) have a turkey any time I want it. But today, I'll be expected to eat off of a plate the size of a garbage can lid, and various family members will pout if I do not fill every corner of it with whatever culinary nightmare they have concocted to stand out from the usual gastronomic insults they purvey.

    Hey, I just cheered myself up! I remember that my Dad keeps a big jug of Dago Red out in the storage shed! Hidey-Ho, something to be thankful for, after all. And maybe I'll get to kick his crazy-ass dog to death for biting one of my kids...wow! Two things! I'm on a roll. Hey, rolls. My wife baked up homemade rolls last night along with the pies...3 things! Bitch wouldn't let me have one last night, so -1 on the thanks, leaves 2 things.

    See? This Thanksgiving shit is hard.

    Update:

    Well, tweren't s'bad after all. Oh, I got the mandatory Tryptophan poisoning, but the big ole glass of wine kept me sane, and watching my family tear at themselves like starving weasels was truly joyful. I didn't do much but gently egg them on from the sidelines. They did all the pullin for them own selfs. Bliss.

    My wife, normal, and from a normal loving family, stood back and watched with horror. I finally got the little non-drinker a small glass of wine, so's she could enjoy it, too.

    The highlight? Me, countdowning out loud when my sister was going to blow: "Okay, she's twiddling her thumbs...now, she's rollin her eyes...ten seconds til she fishes out her car keys, thirty til she hits the door!" She glared at me, and stayed to spite me. My Dad was in quiet hysterics, in his easy chair in the corner.

    I frequently ask him how he has stayed married to my mother for over fifty years, and volunteer to give him an alibi if he ever decides to kill her. He just laughs.

    She is an only child. The worst kind. Beautiful since babyhood. I mean it. She made Elizabeth Taylor in her prime look plain. Smart. Carried a 4.0 for four years while she got her BSRN. And she was in her 40's. Add to that, raised and doted upon by a genuinely fucked up crazy woman, and you get...well, you get my mom. And you're welcome to her. Her mind fuck games don't work on me, never did, really, but that has never stopped her from repeating them over and over and over...well, at least she doesn't drink any more. My Dad and I get together away from her every so often, but we all have to get together on the holidays. Except for that time I threw them out of my house and they had to spend Christmas in a crappy hotel, eating beans out of a can. Oh, Dad's nuts, too, but I think it's more of a contact high from close association with my mom.

    Well, I ate so much I've unscrewed my asshole twice, now. Fortunately, I have taken Lamaze classes, and was able to breathe through the contractions. I nearly had to perform an emergency episiotomy once, though. And I chewed good, too...just too darn much. When the anal shock and awe wears off, I have turkey sandwiches to look forward to, Praise God. And those damn homemade rolls my wife made are just awesome. Hey! Turkey rolls!

    Maybe later I'll go shoot an indian and give thanks.





        Wednesday, November 24, 2004

    Prophet vs Prophet...

    This should be fun. I wonder what kind of propaganda war Al Queda will mount against this new weapon, helped by the traitors in our press?





       

    You Could Waste...

    ...the rest of your life in here.

    My favorite is the 'Black Humor' section.





       

    Bug Out Bags...

    I have read essays on such at the august Kim du Toit's blog, and at the hyper-opiniated Nate's blog. I always smile and shake my head.

    What is a Bug Out Bag (or 'BOB', for short)? I dunno. It sounds like some kind of packaged future, usually kept in a large plastic bin or duffel bag of some sort. The containers are filled with the basic necessities one would supposedly need to survive for a short while until you can go back home, things like food, ammo, medical supplies, blankets, and whatnot. The idea is, apparently, to be prepared to 'Bug Out' should danger approach, some dread cataclysm or other.

    Which is why I laugh. Where are you going to go, and how are you going to get there? And why? I determined a long time ago to never let myself or my family become refugees. I'd rather be dead and have my wife working as a camp whore for some invading army, than end up starved and dead at the end of some fantastical trek, my children mewling for food beside my dead body, thinking that maybe Dad would want them to have a nice chomp at the scant meat left on his bones.

    Nope, all my stuff is right here, and I've been in plenty of traffic jams, thank you. I know my turf, my fields of fire, and where all my goodies are stashed. And most importantly, I don't fear death. If the approaching enemy or plague is bad and deadly and scary enough, I believe I have the steel to put bullets quickly into my loved ones, which ought to depress me sufficiently enough to be able to put one into my own head. I refuse to be overwhelmed in my car by stampeding sheeple, or end up in some far place where there is nothing for me or the other of thousands of people who coincidentally had the same idea as me to head for the hills. Hills are high. And people live there already. People who might not have been raised to share nice.

    That nice cabin you have set up? With all the supplies? I guaran-damn-tee you that all the locals know about it, and that it will be ransacked by the time you get there, assuming that you make it there. Or you're going to be facing squatters who are eating your food, and shooting your own bullets at you to kill you or make you go away.

    Nope, about an hour after my neighbors scoot off to wherever, it’s gonna be me and my crowbar and my .44, going door to door. BoomBoomBoom, “Anybody home?” Nope. PopCrack, and I’m inside seeing if there is anything of use. Food, candles, ammo, booze. Heck, I have a garage. You can never have too many supplies, right? Complainers will be shot. Once you take off, you should oughtta stay took off.

    It's only polite.






       

    The Fagxorcist...

    Wouldn't it be cool if this works?

    Sign me up for a gallon. Too cool if they burst into flames when touched with it. Add new meaning to the word poofter...POOF!





       

    More Fun With Pussy...







       

    I Knew It Was Trouble...

    I mean, just the name...Alberto Gonzales...makes you check all of your hubcaps and watch his hands for a knife, don't it?

    Well, it seems my hackles were right. This can come to no good end. What's next, Louis Fuckkakhan for Secretary of Homeland Security?

    Geez Louise...





        Tuesday, November 23, 2004

    Tornado Time!

    The Weather Channel shows that Texas is getting it's ass kicked about now by tornadoes. Good.

    What's wrong with you people? Kids aren't shrubbery, to be pruned! Cut it out! I swear, every nasty story I've heard involving children, or nuts running amok, seems to come from Texas.

    I may quit watching the news. Why can't suicidal assholes just off themselves, instead of fucking up innocent people? And Texas...what is it? The flat? No mountains? I remember it made me feel a little whacky driving through.





       

    More...

    Pussy...

    Definately not safe for work.

    I think I'm in love.





       

    I Like...

    ...a little pussy as much as the next person, but this is just a whole lotta pussy.

    At least it's not a big fat one, like Kat's.





       

    Sadly, Dead...

    I just found out Manly Wade Wellman died. This makes me melancholy.

    Of course, he died in 1986, but I mourn the passing of his talent. This book was one of the most seminal books I ever read, as far as building a foundation in how I looked at life. I already knew there were hidden things, roiling just under the surface of the seen, and the whole series of 'John the Balladeer' helped me form a strong cornerstone of my philosophy on life.

    Here is his entire bibliography. Scroll down to the 'Collections' section to see a list of John tales. Actually, those are all I've read of Wellman, and those were enough. Here is a list from Amazon, and is a good place to start. Scroll down and order 'Who Fears The Devil', today. You'll thank me. Then read the others, in the order they were written.

    Just knowing you might do this gives me a shiver of enjoyment for you. These are truly classics of Gothic Americana.

    If you enjoy the lyrics of John's songs, here is a dedicated fellow who has set them to music. His page alone is an interesting read.





        Monday, November 22, 2004

    Putting The Fun In Nun...

    This kills me. I love the whole blog. An altogether good read.

    On a semi-related note, I wonder if nun pussy is any good. Do you think they freak out and go all ballisteleptic? I sure hope Jesus ain't catholic, what with me messing with His brides. If he is. I did bone an ex-nun once, and she did go at it like she was making up for lost time. She started hollering Jesus's name, and that did make me a little nervous, like she was ratting me out.





       

    For Your Edification...

    One of my readers sent this to me:

    Bane,

    I don't know whether you believe in the para-normal, but this video will make you think about it. I thought your readers might have an interest, also.

    The video is a clip taken from a German automobile commercial. You'll need to watch carefully to see the ectoplasm as it begins to form as the car comes out of the 3rd curve. Make sure you have the volume on your speakers turned up- you can hear whispering and the film crew talking among themselves about what they are seeing. Have you ever seen anything like this?

    ghost clip





        Sunday, November 21, 2004

    This Is How You Do It...

    This is how you write if you are a war correspondent. Beautiful. I am so proud of our boys I could just bust.

    And fuck you, Charlie Rangel. Every man in the pictures, every casualty named, was either white or Hispanic. Where's all of your black boys, huh Chuck? Fuck you, and fuck your draft.





        Saturday, November 20, 2004

    Emergency Bleg!

    In about 90 minutes, Wizard of Oz comes on TV. My son is a sensitive seven, and my daughter is a very precocious four. Should I let them watch it?

    I don't let them watch anything scarier than Veggie Tales and Dora. That witch gave me nightmares for years.

    Whaddaya think?

    If you tune into this confab late, do you think I let them watch it?





       

    All Roads Lead To China...

    China sits in the center of a web like a big, fat, bloodsucking spider. Or better yet, a slanty-eyed, inscrutable tick. Behind nearly every bit of nastiness today, including the current islamo-chaos, you can see the manipulations and machinations of China's bloody hands, if you squint and hold your head just right.

    They are the horseshoe in the devil's glove, and he is getting ready to sucker punch us with it, when, not if. Just like war with Japan was inevitable since the 1930's, or maybe even before, war with China is inevitable. In fact, I suspect that it may have already happened, and we lost.

    That is the only explanation I can think of for our governments suicidal behavior: selling, giving away, and allowing to be stolen the finest secrets and technology's the world has ever known, all to China. It is easy to imagine that China showed us our doom, and we realized that we had to kowtow or be destroyed. They let us maintain the illusion of freedom, to keep us producing for them. Are there particle beam weapons focused on the US, even now? Was the shuttle 'disaster' a Chinese warning shot?

    I really do not think that you can get too fantastical in your imaginings in these last days before paradigm shift.

    Open your eyes.

    Update:

    As I was writing that last paragraph, I heard a commotion from downstairs, and rushed to find my daughter choking on a Goldfish cracker. Of course, there was much drama, and barf to clean up. I blame all the clothes made in China she was wearing, right down to her socks. Anyway, a half hour later I come up to find an email from a source I trust, that says this:

    Rev. Ron Patterson of Kentucky is back home from a periodic visit to California where he is still invited to speak to the late Dr. Richard Eby's old group. They pay his expenses.

    He called me today to report something interesting. He said there is a very godly lady in that California group. The lady is a chaplain who ministers to hospice patients. Last year she had a vision identical to one that Ron had experienced, so she has credibility with Ron. Ron said that she is a solid Christian lady and not known for weird experiences or claims.

    The lady called Ron today (or yesterday) to report something unusual that had happened to her just this week. She said that she was in a store this week and was looking at some 2005 calendars for sale. The one she was looking at had some pictures on it and she was laughing at the funny and clever pictures. She said that then all of a sudden, while she was looking at the 2005 calendars, she heard the voice of the Lord say to her, "You will not need that calendar."

    She also says that while standing there, she heard the same thing three separate times.

    Again, Ron said that this lady is not given to strange experiences or exaggerations and, knowing her reputation personally, he takes this information seriously. It was an unusual experience, but judge it for yourself.

    Jim

    Hmmmmm. Interesting times, indeed.





       

    Do You See?

    They caught the fox in the henhouse, and then they put him right back in! So much for 'Homeland Security'.

    If anyone wants to start an effort to impeach President Bush, I'll happily sign on. I'm tired of this happy horseshit about how 'he must have a plan', and how we should just give him a pass so he can do great things. It is Bush's ignorant, foolish, and dangerous statements about how wonderful mooselums are that causes trepidatious career government employees to make dumb-ass decisions like this to keep their jobs secure. And someone just needs to kill Grover Norquist. What a Quisling.

    The buck stops with Bush, and since he is obviously inclined to send us down a rathole with his stupid, weak-sister political correctness, the buck needs to end with him.

    Impeach Bush. That is all.





        Friday, November 19, 2004

    Playing With Yourself...

    Well, the weekend is upon us, and for those of you so inclined to play computer games, I have a list of games I really enjoy. One of my greatest pleasures is to find a budget title that really performs. Sucks for the Game Developers who made it, but it is a sweet treasure to me.

    Let me reiterate that I am not a really big fan of first person shooters. That being said, the Delta Force games are probably the most fun I've ever had on multi-player. That, and Command & Conquer: Tiberian Sun. I like the bizarre and bloody first personers, and, of course, Duke Nukem. Half Life left me cold. Deus Ex never drew me in. I'm not sure you'd call that a first personer. RPG? Yeah, First person RPG. I loved Baldur's Gate, but I never bothered beating it. Love Dungeon Siege, ditto.

    Here is a list of games I keep in a rack in front of me, and rotate according to my mood. They could all be found on Amazon or whatever for $5 or so, and no matter how old they are, I love them:

    Disney's Treasure Planet: Battle At Procyon...yeah, screw you. This game is a deep and absorbing spaceship fighting game that plays like a 3D pirate ship fighting game. It comes with a manual, and you damn well better read it. Campaign mode, or skirmish, you can command huge fleets in absolute mortal combat with tons of strategy and the possibility of losing your ass off around every corner. And what can I say...Disney. The game is gorgeous, and plays like Microsoft game: flawlessly.

    Dungeon Keeper 2: Hours of fun, building your dungeon, creating hellspawn, and capturing the Good Knights from above ground to torture them for hours of good, screaming fun. Multiplayer is frantic and awesome, as you tunnel towards each others dungeons with your imps, to steal each others gold and wreak havok. I love games where you build things and manage resources, and making an inviting dungeon, and watching dark beasts slither and shuffle through your portal to serve you is immensely satisfying. And battles can be epic on the scale of Mordor. It is great fun to pick up one of your snotty wizards or vampires and drop them into one of your torture machines. I cannot recommend this absolutely beautiful and entertaining game enough.

    Total Annhiliation: Kingdoms: Play as either Arthurian humans, or devils, or one of several races, for domination of your Kingdom! All sides are uniquely different, yet balanced. Similar play to the original Total Annhiliation, which is still one of my other fave games of all time, and incredibly fun in multiplayer [Note: I point this out because, in general, I hate multi-player, and would prefer the Developers make good single player experiences].
    Also note, that, though these games haven't been made in years, and their company is gone and there is no support, there is still a huge fan base you can go to to get new units, levels, and patches that other geeks make up. That says love, to me.

    Star Trek: This covers pretty much all of the titles, but I play mostly the ship to ship fighting games, like Star Trek Armada 2, and the Starfleet Command series. Awesome. You can feel the love put into them. You can buy them all for less than $20 in a bonus box.

    You could buy every game I've mentioned here and then some, for less that you'd pay for Halo 2, and, sorry, but you couldn't give me an X Box and Halo 2...well, you could, but I'd just sell it to some kid and buy whiskey.

    Gosh, I could use some whiskey...

    Update:

    I play the Demos so you don't have to: Armies of Exigo...beeyootiful. Demo is difficult as shit. But looking at it is just a joy. Think AOE meets Baldur's Gate. Maybe. Lots of quests, many races and skills, you play above ground and under ground, and the developers appear to really love their work. It has a D&D feel, but I don't think it is. Did I mention beautiful? You'll find yourself walking around in the forest just admiring the scenery. Ooooo, pretty flowers! And then something big and nasty will come up and stomp your ass to death, but hey, it's just a game...right?

    FarCry: Fuck them. I could not set up my system to play this demo. Hung and fucked up every time. And I know it's not my PC. It is a first person shooter that looks good on paper (screenshots are gorrrgeous) but looks like it would bore the piss out of me if it worked. If your demo craps out, I am not going to invest in the full version. Piss on it.





       

    Nunya!

    Congress, this is none of your fucking business! And I mean that quite literally. How do these elected dipshits think that this is any place where they have purview? They will waste millions, maybe even billions of dollars on this, the Supreme Court will declare their works moot, and folks will just keep on keeping on, beating their meat to exploited teens, Slavic immigrants, and urinating Japanese Sumo midgets.

    If you ever want to work up a good hate for humanity, surf for porn for about a half hour. If you get a boner, kill yourself before you breed. If you want to 'Gag Her With Your Cock' or see 'Plump Grannies Getting It On!', I just want to line you and your kind up in a ditch and put bullets into the backs of your necks. Freaks.

    All it takes is one decent class action suit, with a huge award, to put a screaming stop to this nasty-ass porn bullshit. NOT a fucking Act of Congress. Dammit. Wanna make some money? Sue a bunch of Internet Service Providers on the grounds that they made you grind your little perverted nubbin to a pulp while watching their nasty shit, let a jury see the crap you were watching, and you'll be able to afford a real woman or two to urinate on you in the privacy of your own ornately appointed bathroom.

    The monkeyspanks amongst you disgust me...nearly as much as does Congress.

    Update:

    So it's the Senate, and not Congress...same shit, different assholes, same point, fuck off.





        Thursday, November 18, 2004

    Praise The Lord!

    She's back, and posting, and maybe now I can get it up again. Watch Nate go there and talk shit...ptui as she spits out the bones. Now, this is how you write, people.

    She brought back a fluffy bunny from her travels. I'm no blog whore, so I have no idea who she really is, but she'll write your socks off, too, like a vibrating butt-plug set on high while you take a 7-Up sitz bath.

    Did I mention these are chick blogs? Did I mention that you should start at the beginning and read to the end? Did I mention that you are advised to shut the fuck up because odds are they are smarter and meaner than you? Good. It's for your own good. Trust me.

    Carry on...and enjoy.





       

    When Tankers Die…

    A tanker dies
    in blood and heat,
    the driver screams,
    pinned in his seat…
    the tank, a burning can of meat.

    The blood, it steams
    the eyeballs stew
    the grunt outside
    says “Fuck! Pee-yew!”

    And holds his nose
    against the stench,
    then rounds cook off
    and assholes clench…

    The doors blow open
    the flames spear high...
    Yes, this is how
    that tankers die.


    .




       

    This Is War!

    As of this moment, I declare Total War on the George W. Bush Administration. As I turn the television off in disgust, having watched him pimp himself out at the dedication of the Clinton Liebrary and Whorehouse, and hearing GW praise Cliton for bombing Serbian civilians and destroying every centuries old bridge along the Danube, I reached my Moment of Truth.

    I still don't regret my vote. It had to be done. But a new party has to come together to destroy the flaccid and corrupt Demo-Republican Hegemony. The Libertarian and Constitutional parties are a sad, pathetic joke, but they are a start.

    I suggest that they completely self destruct, and come together again as The American Party. I suggest that patriotic and like-minded Republicans and Democrats be actively wooed, and encouraged to change their registration to either the new American Party, or re-register as Independents. This needs to be done ASAP, and advertising needs to be continuous and pervasive for the next four years. No Republican or Democrat should ever hold office in this country again. The American Party needs to find a viable candidate, and begin running him by this summer. I suggest JD Hayworth of Arizona, with Tom Tancredo as his Veep.

    If something along these lines isn't done, we are fucked as a nation. With the Congress happily putting us eight bazillion dollars more in debt yesterday, and the Clown in Chief fellating Bill Clinton in public today, for the first time in my half century of life, I am ashamed to be an American.

    These hemorroids on the anus of the Body Politic need to be excised as soon as possible, before the rest of the world senses our weakness and pushes them in for us.





       

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go and worship. I never tire of her vitriol. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. If you call yourself a conservative, and do not worship The Goddess, that is my litmus test for whether or not you are an idiot. One of them, anyway.

    Here's some more:

    -Support gay marriage and/or 'civil unions'.
    -Support abortion (especially that 'to save the life of the mother' canard).
    -Any kind of rights, other than the basic civil rights as stated in the Constitution (fuck gay rights, women's rights, children's rights, animal rights, and men's rights...I want one size fits all and no special treatment except for pregnant women).

    That's a start. Truth in advertising.





       

    Fucking...

    ...Duh. No-brainer of the year.





       

    Fool Me Twice...

    ...shame on me. This article is the kind of bullshit that makes my gorge rise, and makes me want to discourage any of our fine American Youth from joining the military.

    A quote:

    "The view from the tactical level has been generally more pessimistic," said one senior Marine officer in Washington, referring to the view from the ground. "They may well be right, but I would also say that tactical intel is almost always more dour than that done at the strategic level."

    In other words, the guys with the more realistic view...the guys who are in the shit, just have to be wrong, while the fat-asses in lounge chairs in Florida or Quatar just have to be right. This is how ground pounders get killed. Poor decisions by high-minded ignoramus's from afar have killed far more Americans than any decision by an enemy commander.

    In succeeding weeks, I expect my writings on the Bush Administration and their 'war-fighting' tactics, as well as their decisions in general, to wax more and more pessimistic. These people are proving themselves to be real shitheads.

    I really, really hope I am proven wrong.





        Wednesday, November 17, 2004

    I Rock!

    I have been too depressed to mention that my video card on my bad-ass gaming machine went tits up, and I'm glad I didn't, cuz it didn't. I was unable to play simple games like Dungeonmaster 2 (one of my faves) or Disney's Treasure Planet (another) but, most especially, the Warhammer: Dawn of War Demo, which I was frantic to try out.

    What was bugging me, is that I was playing Doom 3 flawlessly, and that's a resource hog if there ever was one, so what was the deal? Well, I'm ashamed to say it, but it was simple troubleshooting. I went into the Nvidia application, and tweaked a few settings (anti-aliasing and such) and whammo, everything started working. Awesome! That Warhammer intro video is the coolest I've seen since Warcraft 3's. And the game just rocks. I hope Santa brings me the full version (and Painkiller) for Christmas. Warhammer is like Red Alert, but with full 3D, better stuff, and attitude for days. Very bloody, and I love it. A solid sense of humor, too. If you loved Red Alert, Starcraft, and Warcraft 3, you will love this game.

    My problems with Painkiller are that I installed with copied disks, and it has good protection. No problem, I thought. I go get the upgrade patch, and the NoCD patched executable from GameCopyWorld, and I'm in business, right? Wrong. Can't load saved games, quicksaves, or otherwise. You die, you gotta start over. Any help on this will be greatly appreciated, as I really love this game. I don't even use the shotgun, just the Painkiller. It is the most awesome weapon I've seen in a game yet.

    That's saying something, because I usually don't like first person shooters. Halo left me cold (and Tribes and Halflife and Quake on and on). I like Doom 3 because it is unique, and I like Soldier of Fortune and Wolfenstein 3D a lot. Clive Barker's Undying scared the shit out of me and I can't play it.

    Anyway, if posting is slow for awhile, it's because I've got about four games I'm switching between. You can lure me out of my cave by throwing money, but naught else, I'm afraid.

    I am in heaven.





       

    Our Secret

    When your head turns,
    and your hair falls,
    concealing your face...

    I remember
    I hid you
    in our own private place.

    In the rumble
    where my blood beats
    to get out through the walls...

    where I keep
    our love memories,
    when loneliness calls.




        Tuesday, November 16, 2004

    Worth A Look...

    This blog entertained me for several minutes. Try it out.

    I like the idea of the French naming streets after Hitler.





       

    WARNING: I did not intend for this to become a referendum on the worth of women. We can have fun, here, but there is no way I will tolerate the straight out bashing of the Fair Sex. Bill is doing it right, and JQuip is keeping it razor's edge playful. Do not insult a woman here on my dime or I shall wax medieval upon you. I love women, and I love and admire every lady who posts here, so watch your asses. Play nice.




        Monday, November 15, 2004

    On Women...

    I wrote this on Saturday, September 7th, 2002. Considering the raging controversy between the sexes here on Banerants, I thought it might be useful to repost it, as sort of a thesis statement of my feelings on the whole thing:

    Men and women are two alien species that just happen to be able to interbreed, and achieve a little enjoyment whilst doing so. Each species is dependent on the other or it would die off, so they’ve formed a sort of give and take truce over the ages in a mutual contract for survival. Men are thoughtless, unfeeling idiots; Women are thoughtful, all-feeling idiots, and it’s a wonder either one can make it across a room without falling and sticking a fork in their brain and swallowing their tongue and dying.

    All of their offspring are self-centered little ‘tards until they begin to gestate and become dangerous to themselves and everyone around them by causing the most car accidents, shootings, surprise pregnancies and bad movies and music. Then they get old enough to where most movement hurts in some way so they do less of it, tend to cause less trouble (except for the ones who circumnavigate the country in steroidal, goiter-like ‘motor-homes’, blocking traffic for hundreds of miles) and wait for whatever dreary death that was inevitable from the moment they jumped through the love-ring and into their first experience with latex.

    So, there, get used to it, deal or not. No woman can be trusted in a jewelry/Costco/clothing store, and a man in a hardware or electronics store will come out feeling like every fleeced rube leaving a carnival has ever felt...guilty and a little flushed, like he just tongue-kissed Gramma for his allowance. The jewelry will sit in a box, the reciprocating saw will sit in a box, and your kids will bitch about having to try to unload all your crap at the garage sale they will throw after you’re dead.

    Hope this helps! Your mileage may vary...

    Update:

    I love, cherish, adore, and like women. I am contented in vast crowds of them, and even the feral ones do not frighten me a bit.

    That being said, I do not think any woman should ever be in a higher than Cabinet Level position in Federal Government. Like teaching a fish to whistle, soon they'll all learn, and then no one will ever get any sleep. That would be the problem with the first woman President...the precedent. She would have to be a fantastic, dynamic person just to be considered for the Presidency. And she would thus have a good chance to win. She may serve her four or eight years with great distinction, and lead us into a utopian future.

    And then, precedent would be established, the field would be open, and the games would be on. I daresay, if the team owners and players and Powers That Be could have been shown a vision of the NBA, the NFL, and Pro Baseball of today, they would have told Jackie Robinson "No thanks!" and sent him packing.

    Women are savage competitors, and will lie, cheat, and connive to get their way, even murder rival cheerleaders. I have had a girl use her sex appeal to finagle the last cupcake from me. Man or woman, you know this is true. Who is the man going to vote for, the woman with all the good plans and the varicose veins, or Miss January? You know the answer to that one. Female porn stars and strippers run, they get votes, and they win. Now make the prize to become the most powerful woman on earth. Was that a shudder I detected? I thought so.

    No, people, if a woman comes up for President, we must do the right thing, and that is whatever it takes to keep her from winning, or the system as we know it will be fucked out of recognition. What could be more Anti Christ than a woman, a mans polar opposite? But I digress off into the cow pasture, and ruin my undercarriage.

    You know my words ring true. I am just very glad that the woman most bandied about as being a viable candidate is a thick-legged lesbian heifer with no actual soul to speak of. And Condi is black, so she's sunk in advance.

    Thank God.

    Update 2:

    I meant to insert this above. If a woman wants power, the most traditional and acceptable (to me) method (regardless of 'Queens', who tend to be the puppets of men) is to be the power behind the throne, her husband's most trusted advisor. Or like Condi and Bush. That may be a lame example, because I have no idea how much actual influence anyone has over George Bush.
    But, if yer a broad, and want to run things, lift up some man and puppetize him...or just be a good, wise friend, with everyone's best interests at heart.





        Sunday, November 14, 2004

    My Touching Tribute To Matthew Shepard...

    I wrote this on September 6, 2002. As he has been in the news lately, I think it is time to dig him back up and display his rotting corpse on the fence again, for some perspective. Plus, I doubt any of you slackers have gone back to read my archives. Fuckers...

    I'm glad Matthew Shepherd is dead.

    There is hardly a week that goes by where I don't hear someone mention that little fruits name, and I just smile inside, happy in the thought that now only worms can crawl up his ass.

    Of course, you can't say that sort of thing, unless it's in private with a group of people who have all been properly vetted for confidentiality. The infestation of PC and faggotry into our society has gone too far...they've won. They have taken over the mass media, and raised enough hell that people who are dependant on votes to keep their jobs cower when they speak.

    I'm not talking about dykes...for the most part (except for those who make their living doing 'activism') they are harmless, and they hate faggots, too...in private. More than once in college I went to this gay bar with my dyke friends and watched them retch when two guys would kiss...and it finally got to where even the free booze and drunken bi-curious sex those ladies plied me with was not worth me seeing that, either. Anybody remember the mass retching that went on in the theatre during a certain scene in The Crying Game? Blecccchhh!!!!

    Nope, the only thing I hate worse than a raghead, is a faggot raghead. Now, I expect some bunch of faggots to email me using their favorite word...'spewing'...with faggots, everything is always 'spewing'...how ejaculatory. I'm 'spewing' hatred...I'm 'spewing' bigotry...blah blah blah blah, and all I have to say is, "well, DUH!!" Ignernt faggots, of COURSE I hate you...you hate yourselves or you wouldn't be so nasty, with your nasty 'sub-kultcha' and your nasty practices and your nasty diseases...and don't try to play that shit that AIDS is a heterosexual disease, cuz it's not, it is always the result of someone somewhere doing some sort of deviant fucking, end of story.

    I just wish you faggots would all have a Big Giant Deviant Fuckfest, get infected, and die, so I can have my TV back. Get going!!!

    A robbery, you say? Oh, well. Gitter done!





       

    Gungasm...

    Go here. Bring lube and a towel.





       

    Sad, But Oh So True...

    10 WAYS TO KNOW IF YOU HAVE "ESTROGEN ISSUES"

    1. Everyone around you has an attitude problem.

    2. You're adding chocolate chips to your cheese omelet

    3. The dryer has shrunk every last pair of your jeans.

    4. Your husband is suddenly agreeing to everything you say.

    5. You're using your cellular phone to dial up every bumper stickerthat says: "How's my driving-call 1- 800-"!

    6. Everyone's head looks like an invitation to batting practice.

    7. Everyone seems to have just landed here from "outer space."

    8. You can't believe they don't make a tampon bigger than SuperPlus.

    9. You're sure that everyone is scheming to drive you crazy.

    10. The ibuprofen bottle is empty and you bought it yesterday.

    I have known more than one woman who really needs to be locked in the basement under sedation for a few days a month. Funny thing is, they never believe you when you tell them the things they said and did while temporarily insane.





        Saturday, November 13, 2004

    All I Can Say Is...

    ...Amen.





       

    Regrets


    I waited, that day
    on a bench, in the park
    from noon, until after
    I left before dark.

    I supposed you were busy
    somehow kept away
    but I knew I would try
    on some other day.

    Now I stand in the grass
    not too far from your stone
    though I know
    that you sit, in His Light
    by His Throne.

    As I set down the flowers
    it still hurts a bit
    that we never did meet there
    that we never did sit.
    .




       

    Listen Up, Ragheads...

    This is an illuminating tale, and cheers me immensely. The money quote:

    "We didn't want the occupation and we didn't want the terrorists, and now we have both," said a Fallujah construction worker who gave his name as only Abu Ehab, 30. "I didn't think the Arabs would be so vicious, and I never thought the Americans would be so unmerciful."

    I like that...unmerciful. I have said this assault on Fallujah is punishment, and it does my heart good to see it. Every time I hear about some raghead 'civilian', or better yet, child, getting hollowed out by one of our high speed military depleted uranium rounds, my heart soars. Put them all to the sword, I say. Before one of my kids has to go back there and face death for no good reason but that these fourth world assholes can't get along with anybody and, though they are up to their necks in their own shit, they somehow don't notice the stink.

    I like it that our boys are getting good house to house, urban MOUT training. It will prepare them for Syria, which I'll wager is next. Iran will need some sort of Tonkin Gulf incident to justify what we (and Israel) will do to them. No, considering the amounts of Syrians being killed and captured, and that Syria is a boil on our ass that badly requires lancing, I would guess they are next on the Shock & Awe Hit Parade. Bombfest '04, coming to a shithole near you.

    Of course, I predicted that terror would strike our soil by the Friday after the Bush Ascension, and I was wrong on that one. Interesting how being wrong on that leaves me a little sad. Hmmmmmm.

    Regardless, I suspect that Allawi's raghead butt-buddies fucked up royally when they took his kin hostage and threatened to behead them. Even the lowest Iraqi can now look at that and say "There, but for the Grace of Allah...".

    From the tone of the article I link to above, it seems that we may be finally winning Arab hearts and minds in a way they understand...by blowing out those brains, and by holding their dripping hearts in our mailed, Crusader fist, up in front of their dying eyes.





        Friday, November 12, 2004

    Speechless...

    My son sent me this. Listen to the MP3s.

    Ouch.





       

    Guilty!

    I knew that cocksucker Scott Peterson was guilty from day one. What is the anti Iraq War media going to do now, now that their stalking horse is gone, to keep us from seeing GW's Good Works?

    Too bad we don't have any more fun ways to kill the guilty like they used to. When I was a kid, they had the cyanide pill 'How Long Can You Hold Your Breath!' Contest, or Old Sparky would combust the occasional prisoner in a dramatic and grease-spattering fashion. I understand you could hear bones crack and ligaments rip loose as the warden poured the Jump-Juice of God through some miscreants twitching, parbroiling corpus. Beauty.

    But now, should Justice actually find its logical end, instead of having her dress pulled up and getting boned by well-paid lawiars, the worst he can get is a sterile needle after a gourmet meal.

    Oh, well. I can live with that. Nevertheless, I hope he has to blow some big Nazi every day just to stay alive, and gets traded around for a fuck toy. I'd like to see him get shanked several times, too. I hope his stupid parent's car crashes on the way to visit him, and that his mom's oxygen bottle feeds the flames burning her clothes and hair just before the car explodes and their rendered fat leaks out and runs down the street.

    And their little dog, too.





       

    Thanks!

    For all of you who have donated a dollar, I just want you to know that Amazon passes on .67 cents to me. So, why not throw in two bucks? It won't help keep my internet on, but it will buy a 40 of Steel Reserve, elixer of gourmand white trash everywhere; and I may even come up with a spiffy rant under its influence!

    For those of you who think I'm 'ranted out', as it were, think again. I'm just constipated, and spinning around confused in a hugely target rich environment. I'm still trying to figure out who to be pissed at now that the Good Guys have reasserted their supremacy, and have four years to try to do things they couldn't accomplish during the first four (snort!).

    I can't do movie reviews, cuz I can't afford movies...everything I see coming out sucks ass, anyways. And yes, that's a word if I say so. I just read Maddox's review of 'I, Robot', and I couldn't have said it better myself. I actually walked out in the middle of Affleck's 'Collateral', it was so fucking gosh awful.

    You know what I'd like to see? A remake of 'Willy Wonka', directed by Robert Zemeckis, and done as the horror film it was meant to be. Roald Dahl is one of the scariest writers out there. Thank goodness he's dead, the sick fuck. Kids are drawn to his writing, and then he draws and quarters their brains, and they haven't a clue that they've been mind-fucked by a man who truly, in his black little heart, did not like children even a little bit.

    Ah, well, I wrote something on that order yesterday, and then deleted it, it was so scary. And the idea came to me as I was on a walk with my children.

    Hmmmmmm...





        Thursday, November 11, 2004

    The Man...



    There can be only one.

    I've been meaning to post a picture of myself in this pose, but I'm kinda camera shy. This'll have to do.





       

    Turn Your Speakers Up At Work...

    Then go here and 'click'...

    Then leap out of your cubicle and do various fenzied and celebratory dances, and see who joins you in your joy!





       

    If The Press Were Honest:

    Terrorist Swine Arafat Declared Dead Again.

    Over one week since his actual death was declared by a French hospital official (who has no doubt become very rich for then retracting his statements under Palestinian pressure) Suha Arafat, the Prime Minister's 'Trophy Wife' (and cover for his pedophilic homosexuality) finally extorted the financial settlement from the PLO she was after, so Mr. Arafat's rotting corpse can finally be sent back to be buried in his hellhole.

    The terrorist appeasing French, who have received billions in Arab bribe money, and are held hostage by the knife of Arab extremism they hold to their own heart, gave full State Honors to the extinct terrorist as they saw him from their country in an elaborate ceremony.

    For more on the ignominious, and thankfully dead Arab terrorist, you can go here to counteract all of the current propaganda being spilt upon your television screens today by sycophantic press agencies across the world. Perhaps the most egregious of these was Rita Cosby, the Toxic Shock victim who looked prepared to fellate the terrorist child rapist and killer as she proudly interviewed the monster.

    The Jewish citizens of Israel will doubtless get a short and deceptive respite from terror while the insane Palestinians regroup their hatred under a new leader. Doubtless Gaza will be a bad, bad place to be a Jew in the coming days.

    Update:

    Must read.





       

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go and worship.

    I marked Olberdork as a worthless, bloviating twat (yes, I know, one size fits almost all) a long time ago. Now that he has formed a misinformation tag-team with Wuss Matthews of Softball infamy, it's time to take these guys out. Oddly, though, I really do watch and appreciate a lot of MSNBC's hard news coverage. When FOX has their Star Talking Heads on, flapping their gums and wasting air-time, I quite often switch over to MSNBC and get some good reporting, and their news-babes are far hotter than FOXs.

    There's no mystery, no scandal. These are what's known as "Southern Democrats," who have been voting Republican for a very, very, very long time. Most of them probably don't even realize they're registered as Democrats. These people are Democrats like Kevin Phillips is a Republican, like Ashlee Simpson is a singer.

    Go, read.





        Wednesday, November 10, 2004

    Happy Holidays!



    Pretty much covers my attitude about the season...





       

    Happy Birthday, USMC!

    I think this might be appropriate...





        Tuesday, November 09, 2004

    Anybody...

    ...ever see this before?

    Pretty intriguing.





       

    Game Bleg...

    Any of you gamers use this, this, or this yet? The flashlight glitch is probably the worst glitch I can ever think of to ship with a big-time game like Doom 3, and I want to hook myself up with one.

    I use (cheat) Gamedrive Pro to play Doom 3 with, so I don't have to buy the CD's. Hope I don't fuck up my install loading one of these, cuz I ain't got the CD's. I think I'm gonna try #3, first.

    And, hey, when do you think games will start coming out on DVDs?





       

    Stirring My Loins...

    Since the televised press insists on showing only the same canned vid clips all day long, I took to surfing for my news of Fallujah today. Courtesy of Alice in Texas, I found this, which gave me many more opportunities for surfdom.

    We are spreading out terrorists in bloody chunks, and it is good.






       

    Sorry...



    This was the first thought that popped into my head when I woke up this morning.





        Monday, November 08, 2004

    I Voted For Rummy...

    ...and I got GW in the bargain. Voting for Bush for me was like buying the cereal to get the prize in the box. If you didn't catch Rummy's speech this morning, look for its repeat on C-Span or something.

    He just leaves the press in a disorganized grabasstic heap. I would like to see him ask, at the beginning of his next press conference, for a show of hands among the reporters of who voted for Bush, and then make a point of only answering their questions. The Demopuke 'journalists' are so obviously trying to craft policy and set traps with their loaded, assuming, and oh so biased questions that it just makes one squirm.

    I can't, offhand, think of any prizes we got along with Rummy. I simply cannot think of one other star in the administration that gives me even half a chubbie. And don't hand me that Condi nonsense. I've made it clear here and elsewhere that I believe Condi and Powell are GW's pet minstrels, that he trots out to blunt criticism of him and his decisions. He knows the liberal's PC weaknesses, and those two are his Black Kryptonite, to weaken any Superdork who would try to thwart him.

    But Thank God for Rummy. God Bless him, and steady his hand as he smites the dervish.





       

    Thanks To SondraK...

    ...and not having anything to do, I ran across this, and this.

    Turn your speakers up, and enjoy.

    Darn you, SondraK...darn you to heck.





        Sunday, November 07, 2004

    Getting Beer...

    I drove out a bit ago, to fetch some beer. Financially impaired as I am, it was a quest for the 40, perhaps something in a nice Steel Reserve. It is the 14th anniversary of my final marriage, and I deserve to celebrate. It is suggested that for the 14th, ivory or gold is the gift of choice. I elect to pour some golden brew over my ivorys.

    It is dark, and the night is befogged. It swirls around like icy dragon's breath, coiling around the light poles as if seeking warmth. As the car slices through it, I note a somewhat Londonish motif in the neighborhood, globes spaced regularly down the block. 'A good night to disembowel a streetwalker' pops into my mind, unbidden. It would be no big surprise to see a slattern, in tattered petticoats, slouching under a parasol beneath one of the fog-muted lamps.

    I could do it, too. I feel the weight of my knife in my right front pocket. It cuts through radiator hose like butter, and would make short work of soft flesh. I dressed without thought, and I notice that I would just be a shadow among shadows. Do my dark business, and fade like smoke. Others have, what separates me from them?

    Because I am a Knight of the Old Realm. Oh, not that chivalraic nonsense. No, I am from the time when a man, upright and sure, could travel the land, living his life, and fighting evil where it shows itself, and keeping lesser men in line by threat of his existence. Many have the skill, but so few lack the will. That is what makes me different, I think. I am hardwired to just do it. While he is thinking about what he is going to do, I am cutting his throat. Not because I care to, but because it is the right thing to do, at that moment. And Knights do not harm the innocent. If they do, they cry pardon, make amends, and move on.

    My car makes the three minute trip, and pulls into the parking lot. A tableau unfolds in front of me, as old as time. At the pinball machine on the other side of the Circle K's window is a girl, perhaps 16, 17. Voluptuous, and hiding it under baggy clothes. Her bike is out front, leaned against the glass where she can keep an eye on it. A pretty girl is in the register pit, waiting for me. She is heavier than she'd like to be, and it is her weakness. A compliment, a seductive word, will make her more malleable than it is wise for her to be. I could go buy a chili dog, and sit near the pinball player. Pay a little attention to her, buy her some beer, let her fall into my eyes...

    The cashier is pretty, as I've said, and lonely, too. Unconsciously, she engages in presenting behavior as I approach, thrusting her breasts up and towards me, and giving me a hopeful smile. I smile, avuncular, and accepting, all in the same quirk of the lips. Accepted, she nearly curtsies, and awaits breathlessly for more, as we engage in our more mundane transaction.

    This is where Knighthood intrudes, as it should. I accept her offering, honor it, and give it back to her to save for a more worthy recipient. I say a small prayer of Blessing for the pinball girl. Lord, protect this little girl from herself and others, Amen.

    I move back out into the fog, and wend my way home with my grog. Enchiladas beckon.

    You can't save everyone, but sometimes, you just might make a difference. A little difference.





        Saturday, November 06, 2004

    I Am Somebody!

    Dear Senator Frist

    I directly control, as head of household and a parent who raised his kids Right, at least a dozen Republican votes. We cast them all for George Bush, this time. If you don't defang Arlen Spector, we will either vote against the Republican ticket in four years, or abstain from voting at all. I promise you. We gave GW his mandate, now quit messing around and use it. Please. And putting Arlen Spector somewhere safe, like maybe duct taped in a broom closet, is a good start.

    Thank You

    The Bane Family
    -------------------------------------
    Dear Mr. Bane:

    Thank you for your e-mail, and I look forward to reviewing and responding as soon as I can. Unfortunately, due to the high volume of mail I receive daily and the press of Senate business, your response may be regrettably delayed. In the meanwhile, you may find my website at http://frist.senate.gov/ to be helpful, as I endeavor to post my positions on most major policy issues there regularly along with other information of interest.

    Again, thank you for contacting me and know that I always appreciate hearing from you!

    Sincerely,William H. Frist, M.D.
    Majority Leader
    United States Senate
    -----------------------------------------------------
    Update:

    Dear Friend:

    Thank you for contacting me regarding judicial nominations in the newly-elected session of Congress. It is an honor to serve in the United States Senate.

    The Constitution's "advice and consent" clause clearly gives the Senate the prerogative to accept or reject any of the President's judicial nominations. Unfortunately, a minority of Senators have been using Senate rules to stop the confirmation of many of these nominees and thwart the will of the majority. Their unwise and dangerous efforts are unprecedented and must not be allowed to succeed. That is why I have taken several steps to address this attack on our Constitution and judicial system. On June 5, 2003, I proposed a narrow change to Senate rules that would prohibit long term filibustering of judicial nominees. On November 12 - 14, 2003, I held the Senate in session for almost forty straight hours — the longest continuous debate in over 10 years — to force the minority to defend their actions.

    I believe that the American voters sent a very clear and stunning message in the November 2, 2004, elections. That is why, as I begin work as Majority Leader in the 109th Congress, I will continue to work to ensure that President Bush's judicial nominees receive fair treatment. I am sure the President will continue to nominate judges who believe in protecting the rule of law, and I am confident that the Senate will be able to confirm these judges in the 109th Congress. Activist judges who make law instead of interpreting law undermine the rule of law. It is imperative that the Judiciary Committee approve the President’s judicial nominees and send them to the Senate floor for an up-or-down vote.

    Rest assured, I will continue to fight for fair treatment of the President's judicial nominations. Anything less is unfair to the nominees, the President, the integrity of the judicial system and the American people.

    Sincerely,
    William H. Frist, M.D.
    Majority Leader
    United States Senate

    P.S. Please visit http://frist.senate.gov to register for my e-mail newsletter.

    Please do not reply to this message, this email is coming from an unmonitored account!
    --------------------------------------------------

    My new friend!





       

    Another...

    ...Good Democrat. Glad to see him exercising his 2nd Amendment Rights.

    This kills me. Well, not as bad as it did him, and by 'kills me' I mean 'tickles me to no end'. You people can prattle on about your 'Democrat friends' and such nonsense, but I'd sooner brag about my 'leper friends', or maybe my 'homicidal axe murderer friends'. Sheesh.

    Now, I suggest perhaps a 'Free Gun And One Bullet Rental Day' for liberals, because I care. They all sound so depressed, it's just the right thing to do. And if they need help, we should volunteer to be their seconds, and to assit them in their suicide. Specifically, to catch the gun before it hits the ground.

    Be a shame to damage a decent firearm.





       

    Rack Em Up!



    Boy, she sure stiffens my cue...





       

    I Just Think This Is So Cool...

    ...for those of you into this sort of thing.

    Check out Codex Gigas.





       

    More Catholic Perfidy...

    Well, this explains a lot. Of course, the Episscopaliens are merely Roman Catholic Lite, but it is no wonder that they so easily fall into pagan ritualism, seeing as how their entire religion is so full of it. Much like this story, where no one is complaining about witchcraft, just saying that theirs is better than the other.

    I've been to maybe two churches in my life where they didn't use their religious mojo like magic, praying as if they were casting a spell, fingering their talismans, and looking to their shaman for guidance and messages from the spirit world.

    Sad.





        Friday, November 05, 2004

    If You've A Scientist In The Family...

    ...you may not wish to fly with them for awhile. Or drive. Or stay in the same house.

    But wait, there's more! This ought to help you while away a few hours...





       

    Thanks!

    To those of you who have hit the tip jar in the last couple of days, a hearty thank you. Unlike Paypal, Amazon is totally anonymous, so I can't send you an email like I usually do, but thanks. It means a lot to me.




       

    Pretty Cool...

    Are those turds?





       

    Little Bastards...

    SWAT ought to charge in there and hogtie each and every one of them, and then pull them outside and administer a bare-assed paddling to each and every one of them on the lawn in front of the school.

    And then tar and feather this asshole:
    Boulder High teacher James Vacca expressed pride in the students for staging the protest.
    "In an age where narcissistic college students riot in an inarticulate drunken stupor, you have students here at Boulder High School, principled, thoughtful and yet scared of four more years of pre-emptive war, the Patriot Act (
    search) and an increase in militarism at school through the No Child Left Behind Act," he said.

    I can't believe these little shitheads are going to be paying into my Social Security. If one of my kids was involved in this, I'd beat em until they squished. Kids like this deserve a late-term abortion. Oh, about 15 or so years worth.




        Thursday, November 04, 2004

    Blogger Status...

    I've had several emails wondering if I've banned them or if I've shut down the blog. Close, but not yet.

    No, Blogger says that they are doing a major upgrade, and a merge with Google technology (I guess Google bought them) so that their part of the blogosphere will be a little spastic for an unknown while. I have had trouble myself getting on (and posting on) other blogs that use blogger. I have no doubt that it will soon hum like a new machine. I also have no doubt that at some point, they will begin to charge for it. Death knell time, if so. I can't pay my internet bill, I sure can't add a new bill to the stack.

    Oh, well.

    Update:

    Friday, November 05, 2004
    We had another significant problem with a database server last night that would have resulted in a large number of errors and problems with accessing posts. We are working to migrate data off of this troubled server and replace it with better hardware.


    It has been working just fine for me today, knock wood.





       

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go and worship. And today, she is most cruel. Most cruel indeed. And she is dead on with her assessment of Karl Rove. What a schmuck he is.





        Wednesday, November 03, 2004

    animal jpeg
    You are Animal.
    You are completely nuts, but fun to be around.

    SPECIAL TALENTS:
    Drums, Women, Food.
    HOBBIES:
    Drums, Women, Food.

    FAVORITE EXPRESSIONS:
    "Louder!", "Food now!" and
    "Want Woman!"

    LAST BOOK EATEN:
    "The Musicians' Guide to Drums, Women &
    Food"

    NEVER LEAVES HOME WITHOUT:
    An appetite.


    What Muppet are you?
    brought to you by Quizilla

    I blame John Quincy Public...





       

    Flyboys...

    Ya gotta love em.





       

    Slightly Amusing...

    ...but mostly irrelavant. Especially in light of todays events.

    Nevertheless, we should never forget the threat to humanity these people represent.





       

    Obligatory Gloat...

    At this moment Kerry is conceding. Hopefully, this will be the last time I see his misshapen melon. Fade away, fuckface. Enjoy the ash heap of history.

    This fight is only beginning, though, and I think bloggers may lead the way. We need to put Bush's feet to the fire, and keep them there. He has done some evil, silly shit, and he needs to be called on it. Whoever is destined to become his successor should come into the post with fear and trepidation, knowing that he is being watched, and being held accountable.

    I feel spent. And not in a good way. I feel like a warrior must feel, tired, cut, and bleeding, leaning heavily on his spear, looking out over a battlefield strewn with bodies that are indistinguishable as friend or foe, steam rising from the open wounds of the still living...

    Today, all I hear is what a divided people we are. It's the new mantra, the new meme. Bullshit. That cub reporter, Shephard Smith, is the worst purveyor of all. I can't stomach that pompous dipshit. I also cannot believe that, as I write this, Kerry is still bloviating. Get off the stage, loser. No one is ever going to vote for you again.

    Thank God.

    Update:

    I think the Swift Boat Vets, and those so inclined, should continue to pursue JF Kerry, and get him impeached from the Senate. They were right to do what they did, and they're still right.





        Tuesday, November 02, 2004

    Is It Wrong To Play Cowboys And Jesus?

    I'm just wondering. Because that's what the kids are playing, right now. My 3.9 year old daughter is Jesus, by virtue of the plastic Vacation Bible School cross she has around her neck. Being Jesus apparently means you have to cross your arms and look stern, and slap your Dad in the nuts if he strays too near a kewpie doll hanging in a bonnet from the back of a kitchen chair. The boy senses that slapping the Dad in the nuts is, ipso facto, not a good idea, and hangs back. But the daughter is infused with the power of Our Lord, and smiteth me most cruelly. It's like having a madwoman tending a hive of Africanized bees in the living room. Baby Daughter also announces loudly that she has died for my sins, which somehow excuses the whacking.

    I blame Sunday School. No child of this age, who thinks Barney is a real dinosaur, should be exposed to the Mysteries of the Church, in my opinion. I can still remember how I focused most unhealthily on David's slaughter and subsequent beheading of Goliath.

    Note to self: Move machetes to the top of the closet, frisk daughter for rocks.





       

    Out On A Limb...

    I'm going to go out on a limb, here, at 5:20 pm Pacific Time, and predict a Bush landslide. Right now, Kerry is ahead 77 to 66 in Electoral College votes.

    You here on the West Coast, get your ass out and vote if you haven't. I'd love to see Bush take California. I'm pretty sure that's just a dream, but I would love to see it.





       

    "I don't drink water; fish fuck in it."

    This, and other notable quotes from a man who may be my greatest hero after the Punisher, W.C. Fields.

    Enjoy.





       

    <--------------------------------------
    <--------------------------------------
    <--------------------------------------
    <--------------------------------------
    <--------------------------------------

    Hint Hint.

    C'mon, people, this crap's not gonna write itself.




       

    'Vote For Bush And I'll Suck Your Dick!'

    Shouldn't the Log Cabin Republicans put their money where their mouths are, so to speak, and be running around in pink T-Shirts with that logo today in a last minute 'get out the vote' bid?

    One would think, wouldn't one.

    I just came back from committing voter fraud, a Class C Felony, or so I'm told. My lazy wastrel hippy son, who would no doubt be voting for Kerry, neglected to change his registration in typical lazy fashion (I think it's the pot as makes him, well, slow in some ways). I am a consumate forger, and thus, another vote for GW. My other son, whom I voted for as well, called me last night..."How'd I vote, Dad?" "Correctly...", I responded. "Good."

    Ain't Democracy grand?





       

    She Wants You To Vote For George Bush...






       

    Talking Heads...

    Well, the press are short-stroking themselves all over the place. I had to turn the TV off, things were getting so gooey. They'd finish with theirs, and then reach over and grab the other guys dick and start pumping. I don't need to see that.

    They are doing the same thing they do every four years that they say every four years they will never do again...projecting. And, apparently, there are just loads of dipshits who watch the 'news' as if it was actually relevant and say "welp, looks like my guys gonna win, so I might as well stay home an hump the dog" and that is how the Asshole Party gets in.

    Golly, I hate people. There should be only one voter. The Primal Voter. Ubervotenchen. Me. The candidates should have to come to me. Convince me why they belong in the job. Blow me. I should be able to ask them questions, and kick them in the balls if I don't like the answer. Oh, to be sure, I would accept emailed suggestions for questions, but in the end, I'm the one who decides, and thence to the Electoral College. Hey, this is America.

    No, in a country as evenly divided as we are supposed to be, at least fifty percent of you assholes should never be allowed near another chad again. We still have to sit on a donut because of the ass-reaming we got during the Clinton Descendancy, and they have the nuts to put up a petri dish of his coagulated sperm that is John Kerry and seriously expect the proto-human voter to go for him? Well, as a dog returneth to his vomit, they are lapping it up off the lawn in droves.

    Think about it, folks. I'm running to be your voter. Give me your proxy, and I promise to listen to every candidate seriously. Even the damn Libertarians. No Socialists, though, or Arabs like Nader. What the fuck are they thinking, letting sworn enemies of America campaign to lead her? Dipshits.

    So, a vote for me, is a vote for a brighter, more secure future. A future full of beer, where Kentucky Fried Chicken has to sell buckets of ribs again, and buckets of chicken, for that matter, and not those flappy-ass boxes. An America where Jenna Jameson can be Secretary of State, and fuck other heads of state so stupid they forget what they were doing with their silly weapons programs and worry more about if they pulled a groin muscle. Where Richard Ramirez, the Night Stalker, is made an Assitant Secretary of Defense, in charge of the Arab Problem, and he gets to stay free as long as we don't hear any nonsense from the Middle East.

    Yes, People, I have a vision for America, and if you elect me as your voter, together, we can go to Our Happy Place, where the Bad Men can't hurt us any more.

    God Bless America!





        Monday, November 01, 2004

    What The Fuck Is Wrong With You People?

    Everywhere I go in the blogosphere the last few days, including here, I see people ripping fistfuls of their own assholes out in great, bloody chunks. Is it the election? Is it seeing that pompous murderer Osama's smug face being shown everywhere, like the Second Coming of Christ?

    I dunno, but if this was Survivor, some of you motherfuckers would be off the fucking island, I'll tell you. Nate, about as sensitive as a dead possum, said he was feeling it too, making a list and checking it twice...and checking the guns.

    People are on edge. Snapping like dogs, biting, really biting, for no rhyme or reason. I get the feeling none of us would have acted this way six months ago. Is it the election? Is the old devil clouding men's and wimmin's minds? I'm an asshole each and every day. Why does anybody notice it more today? My wife and I have been circling like gunfighters all day. The kids are vicious, self-centered little snots. And sick, to boot.

    There's something in the air, and I don't like it. I want to return to my regularly scheduled programming.