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        Monday, February 28, 2005

    I Needed Someone... voice exactly why I am so happy that Hunter 'S.hithead' Thompson is, gladly and gratefully, still dead.

    Thankfully, Fred Reed comes through.

    It is moments like these, looking up into the night sky, watching unimportant specks of dust illuminate a brief, brilliant arc as they fall, that make me glad I will never hear another original word from Ginsburg-Thompson-Lennon-Elvis- et al.

    These are the reasons I do not resent God giving us an inevitable expiration date.



    My Sentiments, Exactly...

    You guys do know to click on something I put up to make it bigger, don't you?




    My Condolences, Mr Balko...

    It seems that the Fox writer whose inner child I made a valiant attempt to molest somewhere down in the archives there (a couple of weeks ago?) actually does have a blog. And a fine read it is, if you don't get mired in the gooey libertarian bits.

    It also seems he has had a bit of nastiness recently involving a prowler of some sort, and he asked his readers for firearms purchasing advice. A little late to the Gun Show, eh pard? But, better late than never, I guess. It is sad how many rape victims I have seen, shopping fiercely at the local gun shop, their purloined groin still athrob and aburn from it's recent drubbing. 'Better late than never' gets trumped by 'An ounce of Prevention' every time, but 'Don't cry over spilled milk' trumps both of those, so just buy a gun and gird your loins.

    Ahhh, what a shitstorm I can cause on this wee blog with a gun post. All the gunslingers crawl out of the woodwork with all sorts of advice every time, and in the end, it boils down to you just go buy whatever feels good in your hand, can stop the attack of a slavering wolf within ten feet, and try to not shoot up the wife and kids and the neighborhood too badly.

    I like the Mossberg .410 pump shotgun in the dreaded assault configuration, if I was arming a newbie. With a tactical pressure operated flashlight mounted in (or on) the forestock. A pistol grip stock is handy when you are opening and closing doors in your home.

    For a first pistol, I would suggest any .45 (or .40) caliber automatic that feels comfortable to you, and holds at least ten rounds. A well calibrated (aimed) tactical lazer mounted somewhere on it is a good thing.

    Buy a barky little dog. Make sure of what you are shooting at, and if they yell "POLICE!", you freeze and wait for further instructions. For gosh sakes don't be lifting your hand up to shield your eyes from the light. They do that on purpose, to give themselves a tactical advantage. I'd shoot you myself.

    If you do buy a revolver as your house gun, make it the longest barrel you can handle. The muzzle flash from a short-barrelled small revolver can blind you. The blast from a large caliber will leave you blind for ten minutes, or eternity if your intruder wasn't effected and has evil intent.

    And plan ahead. Get the mindset in place, so you can slide it on as easily as your house slippers. "This person has broken the sanctity of my home, and I am fully prepared to kill them." (and yes, I said them...never assume your opponent is alone). With that attitude, even a man with a bat is dangerous.

    Without it, you may as well just leave the gun at the store.




    I may as well just shut down this blog and only leave behind a link to Hog On Ice.

    Once again, on the subject of a college education, he has said it all. Truer words were never spoken.

    I myself confess to taking more than one class just to get next to some fine pussy. Fucking off was easy, too, since most of my edumuhcation was grant and scholarship and VA money. Not my money, really, though I'd risked my life to get the VA money, which makes it even sadder, when you think about it.

    If I had it to do all over again today, I would do a mix of a good Vo-Tech school, and a good, respected internet university.

    Spilt milk.



    Quagmire Shmagmire...

    Once again The Bush doctrine shows fruit. First Quadaffy, and now this.

    Oh yes, if this is a quagmire, we need more of them.

    I suspect it is unnerving these pig Middle Eastern male leaders to have Condi striding around in her seven league boots, whispering special little messages from GW into each of their oily ears.

    It helps that the Arab Street is seeing that we are not going to cut and run, but will stay on task and kill their asses if they make us, and feed them and make their lives better in ways they had never dreamed about even if they don't know how to ask for it.

    I have seen grown people cry out in shock at the first taste of ice cream in their lives, thinking they had been burned, and recoiling in fear. But then, the look of joy and wonder after the next bite makes them forget their initial reaction.

    I am actually seeing a faint ray of hope for a pacified Middle East. Of course, I'm crying out for Peace and Safety, because God tells us that is when the End will come.

    And I'm all down with that.


        Sunday, February 27, 2005

    Constatine, Redux...

    It was so good I went and saw it again yesterday, this time looking for plot-holes and silliness, but I was drawn back in and just sat there and enjoyed the heck out of it. Or the hell in it. Whatever.

    I never read the comic series it was based upon (Hellblazer) and I feel the poorer for it. I haven't researched who directed and screenplayed it and such, but I will tell you that it appears to be a real labor of love by a group of people who were really having a great time. If any hackneyed touches were used, it was to pay homage, not because they didn't know what to do next. Brilliant, original, quirky, it could have gone down many different paths, but it stayed on the straight and narrow and made me frantic to see a sequel.

    I may have to make do with buying the DVD when it comes out and getting my fix from that. Those of you who have been around here a while know that this means a lot, for me to buy a movie. I do that about once every five years.

    Alone In The Dark...(sorry I'm late on this review...I was, uh, busy)

    I was, literally. Alone.
    Suppose they gave an afternoon matinee, and nobody came? That was me, my overpriced movie Coke, and a half-pint of Yukon Jack. Me, myself, and I, and then the movie started, and I forgot all of that.

    Uwe Boll grabbed me by the nape of the neck and shook me and didn't let go until he told me that I'd had enough.

    Let me make one thing perfectly clear, here. I do not care one whit about your opinion, or your opinion of my tastes, except as they agree with me and they are of one accord. You have a right to have them. Tastes differ. Heck, they make pink Mustang GT's. Somebody is buying that shit.
    And as long as Uwe keeps making his shit, he has a guaranteed lifetime ticket holder of at least one, right here, baby.

    The first movie he made that caught my attention was the wonderful 'House of the Dead', also based on a video game of the same name. As far as I know, ALL of his movies are based on video games. Before 'Alone...' began, I saw previews of 'BloodRayne', and I was so delighted I looked around to see if anyone else shared my joy. Alas, still empty.

    I see 'Hunter: The Reckoning' is in pre-preduction. Beauty. Ought to be a real gut-ripper. I see a movie version of 'Far Cry' is in the works (by Uwe) as well. Bring it on!

    If I had one complaint at all about 'Alone...' it is how he has he had his elite soldiers dressed in black short-sleeved(!) t-shirts. Yes, Uwe, they show off the muscles and the lady soldier's breasts quite nicely, but, having been in close-quarters combat myself, I imagine there were quite a few retakes because of the poor bastards screaming "WATCH it, motherfucker!" as some stuntman unzipped a load of hot brass empties out of his machine-gun and onto all of that exposed skin. Ouch. remember the through and through gunshot wounds Spielberg used in 'Private Ryan'? Uwe has mastered that technique and made it his own. There's a scene where a zombie is leaping down onto a soldier from a balcony and the cop sees him and opens up and you see the bullets going in the front and out the back of the zombie as he falls and the bullets go through and chew up the scenery (by the way, that was also awesome in Constatine).

    Uwe has a great geometric eye. He knows where things are going, like a good pool player, and even as he swirls the camera around, you, the viewer, do not become lost in the scene or disoriented. And I haven't seen such good wire work since 'Crouching Tiger'.

    It all comes at you with a pulsing rock beat that screams into metal as the bullets start to fly. The monsters look real, the violence is, happily, extemely gratuitous. There are several occasions where I would say to myself "Oh, Uwe, you are not going to go there..." and he did and I just wanted to burst into applause.

    It is a testosterone-soaked, happy, violent cartoon of a movie, that earns and wears it's R rating with pride, and if you wanted to go see 'Sideways' instead, just give your wife your balls and ask her nice for the car keys, and maybe she'll let you drive her to it.

    Or, you could come up here to the balcony with us guys and drink the booze we snuck in and fart and throw popcorn and see a movie made for guys, by a guy who loves movies.

    And if your chick digs it, you might want to consider keeping her.



    Someone Nagged... about my Calvin & Hobbes link being broken. It wasn't me. Someone put a redirect to Google on it and removed the page to which it originally linked.

    Anyway, I fixed it in the old post, and I'll put it here again for all you lazy ADD types.



    The Blogosphere...

    I look at it as if it is a sack of marbles. Marbles of different colors and sizes, loosely touching each other, shifting around in the bag, occasionally being traded away, or sometimes, just lost forever down a storm drain.

    Some of the marbles are very big. The power bloggers. The Shooters. What they do ripples down and effects every marble in the bag, even the tiniest ones.

    Some marbles never get picked. Maybe they have some flaw, or are of an unfortunate color, or maybe they're just too far down in the bag to ever see light.

    But at the end of the day, when that bag of marbles gets tossed onto the pile of other bags of marbles, well, those bottom-bag marbles just might be rubbing up against a shooter in another bag.

    And never know it.


        Friday, February 25, 2005

    I Have Been Asked... can you equate liberals, communists and libertarians? *boggled*

    Simple. Failed, 'populist' ideologies, with no real chance of ever succeeding, pretending to be for the 'common man', yet just as power hungry/seeking as any other political ideology. Oh, and no moral center.

    Might as well take up Satanism. Or become a Democrat. Same difference.

    Does that clear it up for you?



    As Usual...

    Hog nails it again.

    I have nothing more to add.


        Thursday, February 24, 2005

    A Worthy...


    Please, help. Any way you can.

    Son? Get out there and meet those people, and send your Dad pictures. I may owe you my freedom, but you owe me your life.




    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go ye, and worship.

    Liberals? Libertarians? Commies of every sort?
    ...bend over and kiss your asses goodbye. You have been outed, the fridge has been moved, the kitchen light has been turned on, and the bug-bomb of doom has been triggered on all of your scuttling asses.

    I tried to warn you, but nooooo. You just had to tempt The Goddess's wrath, and now you must pay.


    Smell that?'s victory, and I love the smell of it in the morning. Bush is The Man...he is your Man, and you can learn it, love it, and live it, or you can rot in your own irrelevant hells.

    We own the Presidency. We own the House. We own the Senate. We will soon own the Supreme Court.

    We own your ass.

    Stick your empty heads, filled with irrelevant agendas, between your legs, and kiss your asses goodbye. Good thing for you, they won't let me line you all up, kneeling, above a long trench.

    Well, one can hope...


    In retrospect, it is difficult to have an empty head 'filled' with anything, but I was on a roll, so bite me. I've told you I don't edit this crap.



    What's Wrong...

    ...with Tyler Texas? I mean it. Not a week goes by without some story involving egregious mayhem coming out of that place. I'm pretty sure The Antichrist is going to end up being from Tyler, Texas.

    You Texans are a pretty fucked up bunch, in general. But, seriously, Tyler is way out of hand. I saw the place again on the travel channel the other night, and it is still the same pretty little town I remember from when I worked for several weeks on an oil rig there.

    My buddy Tim and I came out of a theatre there one night, drunk (duh) and having just seen 'The Warriors', and we were all fired up. Which was good, because the parking lot was full of people reenacting several brawl scenes from the movie with great gusto. This was fine with us, and we fought until we got tired, and went out for more beers. Got drunk(er) and ended up lost, and then jamming our two-ton under a railroad trestle and nearly killed ourselves. Tim smoked the dualies off getting us unstuck and out of there before the cops came.

    That's what I remember about it...a pretty little, profoundly fucked up town. Like everybody sprinkled lead paint chips on their food, and was crack babies when they were little.

    When we were working on the oil rig, the farmer that owned the land the rig was on would come out to us every day and bring us beer and donuts and such. We weren't supposed to have beer on the site, which was just off the road, so we hid it, cuz you just could not tell that crazy old drunken farmer anything. He was a really sweet old guy, drunk by breakfast and drunk all day, every day. I was sorry to see a semi hauling several tons of sheet glass plow into him and turn him into mush one afternoon as he was pulling out onto the road in his usual fashion, not looking either way, or even slowing down.

    BLAM! Damn if that wasn't a pretty wreck, though...a brilliant rooster tail of glass arching up into the rays of the setting sun, really does smell like pork barbecue, you know. And then the burning rubber ruins it.

    Oh well. I swear, if you had yourself some kind of freak meter, the needle would bury in and around Tyler, Texas. I believe it truly would.

    So, I've gone and made myself hungry. Gonna take Nat out for some quality Father/Daughter time, and some donuts. She is wacky thrilled to get herself a "pink donut with sprinkles..." and she wants me to buy her some kind of dolly that pees.

    We'll have none of that nonsense around Bane House, I'll tell you. Now, one that poops Hershey's Syrup...hmmmmm.


        Wednesday, February 23, 2005

    Bloggers, Attack!

    We need to bloglically castrate ijjits like this Balko fuck and his ilk. Or maybe just wait until their little skull pops out, and vacuum their doubtless tiny brains right out and down the sink.

    The pompous puke plays the talking points meme:

    Blogs differ from other media in that they provide links for easy referencing, they're more easily and quickly updated (and, consequently, many times less carefully edited)

    And this fucker works for Fox!


    Bloggers also can operate outside the "rules" and standards — in terms of attribution, verification of sources, objectivity and concerns for libel and lawsuits — that are supposed to govern traditional journalism.

    You mean like Dan Rather, and the ever-sycophantic New York Times? Oh.

    And then he pulls a Kerry:

    And that's why all of this collective talk about "blogs" is ridiculous. Blogs are simply too numerous and diverse to make broad generalizations about their effect, motives or "philosophy."

    Huh? But...but...

    The idea that there's a clear line of demarcation between "blogs" and "old media" was probably false from the start, but it becomes more difficult to defend by the day.

    Ow! He did it again! I nearly soiled my PJ's...

    And, although they have positioned themselves as media watchdogs, bloggers too are prone to the same biases, mistakes, feeding frenzies and self-important elitism that the current wisdom says distinguishes them from the traditional media.

    Nuh uh, dickhead. We just hold up a mirror to what you write. If you don't like what you see...

    I've been blogging for three years. I think the medium has enormous potential. If the fear of having their mistakes and biases exposed by blogs causes larger media outlets to give important stories extra scrutiny, that's a good thing.

    Ow! Quit it! Which is it? Are we bad, or good?

    I think, from the major gyrations going on in his article, that he must have kept catching sight of the Fair & Balanced! plaque Murdoch makes all of the Fox people keep on the walls of their cubicles.

    Or maybe the wind was just blowing, really hard.


    Doing the homework bloggers apparently never do, I find I may have been mistaken about Mr Balko being a Fox minion (not that there's anything wrong with that!). He apparently is just a 'stringer', which sounds suspiciously nasal to me. He has a full-time job driving The Green Hornet around, when not spending the rest of his time in a padded room at a facility named after him. He uses the word 'wonk' to refer to himself, and lives alone with his dog, which pretty much fills that little booklet of Gay Stamps right there, but who knows. Throw in being an ANALyst (get it?) and calling oneself a Liberaltardian, can pretty much pick whatever you want from the catalog, cuz that stamp book is full.

    Or not.

    (yet another) Update:

    Extra! Extra!

    Balko serial killing necrophiliac!

    In his own words:

    And I don't much care who y'all want to sleep with. I dig up women.

    See what happens when you paraphrase and take things out of context? Cut it out.



    Have You Ever Wished...

    ...that you had every Calvin & Hobbes strip ever drawn? Well, here you go.
    Don't clap, just throw money.



    Damn Fine Blog...

    I was just going to link to the Feb 23rd post, but then I kept going, and the whole damn place is wonderful.

    With The Diplomad sadly off the air, this is a worthy replacement.


    Mercy Fuck...

    Throw me a bone here, people. This is a shameless bleg for advice. A week or two ago I noticed that the 'posted by Bane' line now sucks right up to the last line of my post, and I find that annoying and distracting. How do I fix it?

    Also, I have noticed that whenever another blogger links to one of my posts, and I follow the link, it (my site, via the link) looks like shit. This appeared to start a couple of months ago after I put those sitemeters there to your left up.

    All of this frets me to no end, and as none of you have seen fit to buy a veteran a drink, I am having to face this sober. That is bad.

    Help a brutha out with some advice here, eh? (And any trite suggestions like "Get a job" will earn you a frowny-face, so don't be a bunghole)


    Save America,

    ...shoot a quaker.

    I could not be more serious.


    Top Ten Slogans For The New Gay Beer

    10. For guys who don't like Busch.

    9. Cold as a mountain stream, gay as a picnic basket!

    8. For all the gay stuff you do, this beer's for you.

    7. Made with the finest gay hops and barley.

    6. Toss one back, and while you're at it have a beer.

    5. The perfect drink for spending the afternoon watching "Trading Spaces" with the guys.

    4. Come out of the closet and head for the mountains.

    3. Wreck your liver and your marriage!

    2. Drink until you can see "straight".

    1. The Queen of beers.

    via Letterman.



    Just, damn. I wish I could have posted this on Valentine's Day.

    Be patient, long load time...needs Quicktime, too.

    Very romantic.


    The Gold Standard... which every ass shall be judged. My goodness if that is not the most erotic photo I have ever seen.

    Now, where's my paddle...


    This Broad's...

    ...okay. Funny places I find myself being talked about. Why does everybody warn everybody about coming here? What's with that? I don't get it.

        Tuesday, February 22, 2005

    A Touching Tribute... the Goddess Britney.

    I am in just that kind of a mood today. The dentist tells us that Nat has nine cavities. Nine fucking cavities! Fortunately all those teeth will fall out soon enough on their own, but shit...nine fucking cavities, and only four years old?


    I Really Like... this guy thinks.

        Monday, February 21, 2005

    Suicide Jumper...

    In honor of the thankfully dead communo-democraphead shill Hunter 'S is for Shithead' Thompson, I present you with a suicide photo.

    It has become a tradition of this blog to not post ambush nastiness, but rather to let you make the decision for yourself. Be warned, the victim has fallen from a good height, and his guts are showing.


    Too Bad...

    That's me. Just too bad. I read this post, and it kick-started my brain, and made me a little wistful, as well. What happened to him could never happen to me because I have spent most of my life tweaking my nervous system and now I have to conciously not kill my kids when they move too quickly. And that's just fucking sad.

    When my two oldest boys were little, and I was in the military, I was sitting on the living room floor doing something, when one of them jumped on my back. My Dad was there and he began to scream my name and clap his hands together and holler and I came from someplace far, far away and looked at him, puzzled, and he jumped up and grabbed the boys and took them back to the couch with him.

    He told me that as my son's arm had gone around my neck, my eyes just went dead, my posture changed, and he became sure that I was going to kill my own son. I replayed those milliseconds and, why yes, as a matter of fact, I was.

    Scary. Reevaluation time.
    I had recently been training very hard and very seriously to rapidly end the life or lives of any fellow human who required such, and it had spilled over into the real world.

    The other day, I went to leap nimbly over a pile of laundry in my room (aha! I hear you say) and one of my arthritic hips betrayed me, and I was headed for a nasty fall. Instead, I poked my right hand through the glass front of my gun case and steadied myself on the far side of it on my fingertips, between two rifles. In less than a second, my reptile brain had decided that the shelf area on the front of the gun case was too cluttered to be safe, I was falling that way anyhow, so why not just poke your hand through the glass and steady yourself? Sure, okay. And I recieved nary a scratch. Bitched for a half hour while I cleaned up the shards.

    Now maybe you understand why I don't keep weapons loose around my bed while I sleep. If you do, good on ya, but I just know that if I find one of my bullets has smoked one of my kids, the next one is going in my heart so I'll look pretty for the surviving family members at our funeral.

    Is there a lesson, here? I dunno. They killed all of the War Dogs in Viet Nam because they were too dangerous to bring home. But the War Men came home. Oh yes, they did. I remember hustling one of them during a game of pool one night. Little did I know that he had murdered his wife a few hours previous, and that there was a massive manhunt for him because of that, and because of the six cops he had taken out by hand when they tried to apprehend him.

    I was informed of this while his big fists were bunched in the front of my shirt, and my feet were dangling in the air, and I was looking down into his upturned, raging face. I never let that happen to me again, and would always remember the signs he gave off that I should have picked up on before I let him get close enough to almost kill me.

    When I was a teenager, I saw guys like Bob Munden, and Bruce Lee, and I said to myself "You know, if I could figure out how to do all of that stuff, and more, I would be just too bad."

    So I did, and I am, and I wish I could tone it down a notch. Or two.


    Me, Not Giving A Shit...

    I just can't work up a good give a fuck about anything. I hate it when bloggers apologize for not blogging, so I won't.

    I know I'm having my monthly when I can't even work up a happy joy over hearing that Hunter S. Thompson shot himself. Just a sigh, and a brief pang that it wasn't my hand that put the bullet there. Chickenshit motherfucker. If I ever decide to off myself, it's going to be at the end of a long trail of bodies.

    My whole family has been sick for days. We had the flu, and then had our tickets upgraded to a cold, and I am tired of being sick. And I am pensive about this. Maybe I'll go to the park and sneeze on some ducks and see if that is what we've got.

    Anyone see 'Desperate Housewives' last night? Is it me, or are they slipping in a gay story arc into every fucking show on television? I'm waiting for them to out Boots on 'Dora the Explorer'. Little fag monkey sure looks queer.

    I nearly broke a rib laughing at 'Boston Legal', though. That show just gets better and better. As a rule, I do not watch shows about lawyers or doctors. Fukkem. But 'Boston Legal' is transcendant television, and perhaps the best show (next to 'Firefly') I've ever seen.

    Well, it's almost time for my pre nap nap. Is it too early for a glass of wine?


        Saturday, February 19, 2005

    Unto Us...

    ...a blog-child is given. Go, witness the larval stage...


    Hey, this guys pretty prolific. And pretty good, too. Me like.



    Nudity, fruit abuse, and redheads.

    Avert your gaze, or risk hell...



    Go see it. I am going to do something I haven't done in a long time: Go see a movie twice. Yes, it's that good.

    Any spoilers in the comments will be viciously quashed, stifled, and mutilated.


    Do NOT go read Ebert's review before you see the movie. He hates it (duh) and puts so many spoilers in you might as well read the fucking screenplay first, too. What a vile little tard he is.

        Friday, February 18, 2005

    Sorry, In Advance...

    As usual, Steve at Hog On Ice says what I would say, but better.

    What I am sorry about is sending you to a link that has that terrible ad with the partially clothed 8 bit gay person doing some sort of physical culture thing. Do what I do, and avert your gaze until he has cycled through his gyrations, and then click on the red X in your toolbar when it gets to just the text of the ad, and you won't feel like such a homo. That ad determines whether I read your blog or not. I shine you on, unless you write so well that I am willing to wait for gay guys photos to cycle through to text.

    Anyway, Hillary is a vile douche-viper, and whatever idea that pops into her head is wrong. Go, read.


    I Don't Know Why...

    ...but I love this woman. She's married, and likes pink...whatevah...

    Maybe it's just the title of her blog.

        Thursday, February 17, 2005

    The Case For John Negroponte...

    ...and made by what I assume to be a classical liberal, and quite unintentionally, I'm sure.

    Every word he writes makes me more comfortable with Bush's choice. Supported Honduran death squads? Can't be proven, but golly, I hope so. Threw nuns out of helicopters? Ditto. The Catholic Church around the world is the center of anti-government communist espionage. Were I king of the world, every Catholic church (read: Vatican Embassy) would go up in flames, along with all of their Jesuit rabble rousers and child molesters.

    Supported the Contras? Me, too. South America is a festering boil that we will have to lance, one day. I happen to know for a fact that we are already involved in several hot but very covert guerilla wars down there. SA could pop at practically any moment, and Hugo Chavez is the already lit and smoking fuse.

    No, Negroponte may be just the man we need to ride herd on disparate groups of prima donna psychotics.

    At least I hope so.


    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship.

    You just can't whip on Weird Churchill enough.

        Wednesday, February 16, 2005

    Chicks & Guns...

    They mostly handle a gun like a dick, shaking it around, and spraying shit everywhere.

    Has there been anything more pitiful than Alias tonight? Two female assassins, firing their guns, and flinching so hard I expect them to drop them. And they're shooting blanks! Pitiful.

    Of course, both my ex and my wife fired pistols (for their first time) like the illegitimate daughters of Doc Holliday. I tacked a paper plate (with a 2" black dot in the center) to trees each time, and they obliterated it from 25 feet with their first mags. My favorite wife fires my .44 mag Super Blackhawk like most men fire a .22 pistol.

    Most women are for shit when it comes to long guns. Maybe it's the boobs.


    Haunted Soldier...

    I put up my story I wrote this winter here, if you're interested. I tweaked it a bit, and turned it into chapter one of a novel.

    I'm having some trouble with part two. It's just too damned scary. I freak myself out. I try to tone it down, and I realize I'm not being true to myself or the story, and I get depressed.

    Oh well.

        Tuesday, February 15, 2005

    USS Jimmah Cahtuh...

    Respect mah authoratai!

    The US Navy is going to commission a new attack submarine.

    It will utilize a heretofore untried 'stealth' outer hull that will actually cause the entire ship to 'go flaccid' when threatened with danger. It will also be the first submarine in the fleet that will have more gears in reverse, than for forward propulsion.

    "We expect that this boat will be able to get out of trouble far faster than it got into it..." said Admiral Peter 'Old Iron-foreskin' Sullivan. He continued "...and the new pink uniforms should make our sailors far easier to spot from the air in the event of some catastrophe."

    Vice President Cheney's daughter has been chosen to christen the new submarine with a nice bottle of Cristal, while the Portland Gay Men's Choir sings a medley of patriotic music.


    Michael Jackson...

    ...had to be diverted to a hospital today while on his way to his trial on child molestation charges, due to stomach problems. Doubtless, he ate some little boy that didn't agree with him.


    Don't Go..., if seeing pictures of infant hash disturb you. If you are for abortion, please, go there and enjoy the fruits of your labor.



    A Succinct And Beautiful...

    ...description of how communism...uh, I mean Liberalism (I refuse to use the word 'Progressive' in this context) has nearly succeeded in wrapping it's tentacles around our throats.

    Via Vox Populi.


    I Spy, With My Little Eye...

    You might find this interesting. A long read, but eye-opening.

        Monday, February 14, 2005

    Good To See...

    ...him back. Every time some libtard mutton-head tries their nonsense, I am going to run and get my big brother to kick their ass for me.



    Red Meat...

    I have probably spent more time here than anywhere else. It's a wonder I'm sane.



    Sorry. I've only done this once before. I wrote the 'Ambush' post and then thought I'd lost it, so, since I really liked it, I rewrote it from memory and posted it, only to find that I had not lost the original post. I will leave them both up, since I like them both, and give you a slight glimpse into the Bane-brain while I'm at it. Sort of a 'The Loony in it's native habitat' deal.

    The latest one is on the top, obviously. The original is below it. I'd be curious as to which one you like the best (or hate the most).

    Happy Valentine's!


    Darn you women! Darn you to heck!

    She may have won, after all. During my nap, she snuck out of the house. When I awoke, she presented me with the three special watch batteries ($12) I needed to revive my (Series 1) Phaser pistol I use while I watch Star Trek. And a replacement for my sadly dead hand-held bug zapper ($12). And a pint of Yukon Jack ($6). And a drink made thereof (Priceless). She has offered to share her bottle of Aste Spumante with me (also priceless, I'm a bit fuzzy from the Yukon as we speak) and leave me sexually unmolested whilst I enjoy my Monday night TV (Las Vegas, Medium, and 24 that I taped during Las Vegas).

    Well, I made her cry first, dammit.


    Ambush At Valentine's Gulch...

    So, I came out of the bathroom this morning, looking like something coughed up by a very large dog, and there she was. My sweet wife, in her pearl-white silk nightgown, looking radiant. My own personal angel. She came to me and gave me the sweetest of hugs and whispered "Happy Valentine's, baby..."

    I said "Wait right here..." and slipped into my bedroom. I retrieved the card and the box of chocolates from their hiding place and brought them out to her. She took them and ran to her room and threw herself on her bed, sobbing.

    Score! I win! I win I win I win! Fuck you, Valentine's Day! Touchdown! Do the silly end zone dance! Compose self, and enter her room.

    She says "Honey, I know how much you hate Valentine's so I didn't get you anything..."

    I say "Just read the card..." and as she does, I fetch her the box of Kleenex, and become concerned she may swallow her tongue. She's nearly in convulsions, festooned with snot like a rodeo bull, and tears literally propel themselves from her ducts like in a cartoon.

    Score! Two point conversion! I win I win I win! Wait for it...wait for it...patience...she's composing herself..."Honey, is there anything I can do for you? Anything?" she says.
    Cha-ching! Blank check! Why yes, Darling, I am sure I can think of something.

    "Why no, Baby, I just want this day to be special for you..." and I wait for the flag and the whistle, blowing the play dead, ten yards for unnecesary manipulation, to be assessed after the kickoff, but it doesn't come. I am home free.

    So far, I have only gotten some lovely French Toast, and a surreptitious wiener-honk in the kitchen, but the day is young. There is a position I've been meaning to try that involves a bucket of water, a catcher's mitt, several feet of surgical tubing and various kitchen implements.

    We shall see.


    I have little to no knowledge of chocolate, but I pay attention, and know which make her go "Oooooo..." As to the card, never buy one smaller than your head, though the three footers are just tacky, something a teenager would buy. $7 to $10 on the card, and don't have it say anything you couldn't be imagined saying yourself. This one was brilliant, praising her house-cleaning abilities, her hard work with the kids, you're still my best friend after all these years, blah blah blah blah. You get the picture. I'd like to buy the card writer a drink, and pay for his hooker. No woman could have written that card.


    Ambush At Valentine's Gulch...

    So, this morning we arise in all our glory, and my wife looks like an angel in her white silk nightgown. I stagger out of the bathroom, looking pretty much like I've been coughed up by a very large dog, and she clings to me and hugs me and whispers "Happy Valentine's..."

    I say, "Wait right here" and step into my bedroom. I retrieve the card and box of candy from hiding, and present them to her. She bursts into tears and runs to her room and collapses on her bed.

    I Win! I win I win I win! Ha! Fuck you, Valentine's, I win! Score, High Five's all around, do the goofy touchdown dance, I win!

    "I didn't get you anything because I thought you hated Valentine's" she says, through tears.

    "Read the card" says I. She does. I bring her the Kleenex box, and become concerned she may swallow her tongue.

    Score! Two point conversion!

    I know next to nothing about candy, but I know this is her favorite. The Card Rule is to never buy one smaller than your head, but those big three footers are just tacky, so 8.5" x 11" is a good rule of thumb. No less than $7. And don't have it say anything you couldn't be imagined saying yourself. This card was a really good one, congratulating her on doing good housework and taking good care of the kids and still being my best friend and blah blah blah blah. I'd like to buy the writer a drink and pay for his hooker.

    All in all, a successful day, methinks. My points are full. It just remains to see how I choose to redeem them. I already got some kick-ass French toast, and a surreptitious weiner-honk in the kitchen.

    We shall see...

        Sunday, February 13, 2005

    One For The Ninny-Nannies...

    I got this in email the other day, thought you might find it interesting:


    Did you know that 47 countries have re-established their embassies in Iraq?

    Did you know that the Iraqi government employs 1.2 million Iraqi people?

    Did you know that 3100 schools have been renovated, 364 schools are under rehabilitation, 263 schools are now under construction and 38 new schools have been built in Iraq?

    Did you know that Iraq's higher educational structure consists of 20 Universities, 46 Institutes or colleges and 4 research centers?

    Did you know that 25 Iraq students departed for the United States in January 2004 for the re-established Fulbright program?

    Did you know that the Iraqi Navy is operational? They have 5- 100-foot patrol craft, 34 smaller vessels and a naval infantry regiment.

    Did you know that Iraqi's Air Force consists of three operation squadrons, 9 reconnaissance and 3 US C-130 transport aircraft which operate day and night, and will soon add 16 UH-1 helicopters and 4 bell jet rangers?

    Did you know that Iraq has a counter-terrorist unit and a Commando Battalion?

    Did you know that the Iraqi Police Service has over 55,000 fully trained and equipped police officers? [Thank you, Ron!!] Did you know that there are 5 Police Academies in Iraq that produce over 3500 new officers each 8 weeks?

    Did you know there are more than 1100 building projects going on in Iraq? They include 364 schools, 67 public clinics, 15 hospitals, 83 railroad stations, 22 oil facilities, 93 water facilities and 69 electrical facilities.

    Did you know that 96% of Iraqi children under the age of 5 have received the first 2 series of polio vaccinations?

    Did you know that 4.3 million Iraqi children were enrolled in primary school by mid October?

    Did you know that there are 1,192,000 cell phone subscribers in Iraq and phone use has gone up 158%?

    Did you know that Iraq has an independent media that consist of 75 radio stations, 180 newspapers and 10 television stations?

    Did you know that the Baghdad Stock Exchange opened in June of 2004?

    Did you know that 2 candidates in the Iraqi presidential election had a recent televised debate recently?


    Because a Bush- hating media and Democratic Party would rather see the world blow up than lose their power.

    Instead of shouting these accomplishments from every rooftop, they would rather show photos of what a few perverted malcontent soldiers have done in prisons in many cases never disclosing the circumstances surrounding the events.

    Instead of showing our love for our country, we get photos of flag burning incidents at Abu Ghraib and people throwing snowballs at presidential motorcades.

    The lack of accentuating the positive in Iraq serves only one purpose. It undermines the world's perception of the United States and our soldiers.


    ---- This is verifiable on the Department of Defense website. Pass it on!

    Beer is God's way of showing us that he loves us and wants us to be happy- Ben Franklin


    Salty Old Al...

    Has a new blog. He and I have a lot in common with what we have gone through and are going through with our sons. He's been at it longer, and I admire the heck out of him (and his wife) for it.

    That being said, Al, dammit, AOL sucks! I couldn't register to comment because some bastard is already calling himself Bane over there! There can be only one!

    If anybody from here gives you any shit, bro, lemme know and I'll fukkem up.


    Words To Live By...

    Someone sent this to me. I like it a lot:

    Washington Times
    February 7, 2005
    Pg. 19

    'Intimate Killing'

    Close combat and the art of war

    By Robert H. Scales

    On Wednesday, I had the pleasure of moderating a panel on the future of warfare. Marine Lt. Gen. Jim Mattis was one of the panelists. During his remarks he made a statement about the pleasure that young soldiers and marines feel when killing in close combat, a statement that seems to have gotten him in trouble with the fourth estate prompting an apology and some counseling by the Marine Corps Commandant.

    First, a confession: I know Gen. Mattis. He is a central figure in the book I coauthored with Williamson Murray, "The Iraq War: A Military History." For those of you who might have the image of a knuckle-dragging troglodyte, let me assure you that he is one of the most urbane and polished men I have known. He can quote Homer as well as Sun Tzu and has over 7,000 books in his personal library.

    Jim is the product of three decades of schooling and practice in the art of war. No one on active duty knows more about the subject. He is an infantryman, a close-combat Marine. He is one of those very few who willingly practices the art of what social scientists term "intimate killing." Those of us who have engaged in the act understand what he was trying to explain to an audience of defense technologists and contractors.

    Intimate killing is a primal aspect of warfare unchanged since the beginning of civilization. It involves a clash of two warriors, one on one, armed with virtually identical weapons. The decision goes to the soldier with the right stuff, the one with the greater cunning, strength, guile, ruthlessness and will to win.

    For a moment put yourself in the place of a young soldier or Marine fighting house to house in the mean streets of Fallujah. Burdened with over 60 pounds of gear, sweat dripping constantly into your face, you can't stop shaking from the fear of what the enemy has in store for you around the next corner. Just ahead is a darkened house with doors and windows closed and shuttered. The only sound is the crunching of your boots on the trash and broken glass as you move in slow motion to surround the dwelling. You watch as the sergeant signals you to cover a side entrance. Through the faint haze you can see your buddy kick in the door and immediately come face to face with an insurgent who greets him with a burst of AK-47 fire that tears a hole in his chest. Your buddy doesn't die. The terrorist wants him to live just long enough for his buddies to rush in for a rescue and become additional trophies to be laid at the altar of heaven.

    Now, it's your turn. You use your superior discipline and skill to approach the insurgent such that you're detected just at the last second. Both of you raise your weapons simultaneously and open fire in a crushing tear of bullets that scatter and ricochet wildly across the room. One bullet finds the bad guy and he falls in a bloody lump just inches from your boots.

    What exactly do you "feel" at this moment? Relief, to be sure, but also something else that cannot be explained to anyone who hasn't committed an act of intimate killing. It's not joy, exactly, more like exhilaration and an enormous sense of self-satisfaction that in one of the most primal challenges where all the satellites, planes, ships and smart weapons are of no use whatever you prevailed, one on one, over a diabolically evil enemy.

    Who should be offended by the emotions of "joy" or whatever one feels at the moment of a successful kill? It's a fair fight, you win and the bad guy loses. It's that simple. One more terrorist will not threaten your unit or your buddies. Remember, this isn't a reality show. There are no retakes. Donald Trump doesn't fire you and the price for second place is death.

    My point simply is this: We must celebrate the fact that we have men like Jim Mattis willing to devote (and give) their lives when necessary to commit an act that most of those in our society would be horrified to even contemplate. If you are offended by these emotions, then seriously consider joining an Army or Marine infantry unit so that you can demonstrate how to kill an enemy in a more humane and politically correct manner.

    Until such an unlikely day occurs, we must all remember that leaders like Gen. Mattis and the men he commands are the rarest commodities that a protected society like ours can produce. All they want is the opportunity to serve a country that truly appreciates the difficulty and dangers inherent in the duties they perform, duties that very few are willing even to contemplate.

    Retired Maj. Robert H. Scales is a former commander of the Army War College.



    I just finished watching this just fine, but the large version I downloaded via BitTorrent won't play. Anybody know what I'm doing wrong?

    I really want to see this, and I can't seem to figure out how. Is there a special BitTorrent player?

    Via Armor Geddon.

        Saturday, February 12, 2005

    It Has Come To My Attention...

    I guess I am a slow learner. I thought that when I linked to a blog/article/whatever, that it meant that I had really enjoyed my experience there and wanted to share it with others, for better, or for worse. Now, I find it has some sort of hidden significance, like there are bars where you should not enter with your handkerchief in the wrong pants pocket.

    Apparently, my linking can be misconscrewed as something called 'link-whoring', wherein some sad fuck links to things in the hopes that some luminary will notice him or her and send them flowers or something.

    Fuck you. Just because I like what you said doesn't mean I like you, even a little bit. I am a sucker for good writing, but just because I buy a cannon, doesn't make me a Civil War Reenactor. I just wanted a fucking cannon.

    I started this as a lark, on Blogger, back in September of 2002. I had no idea people were going to read this shit. I felt like I was singing in the shower, in a big house, all by myself. Apparently, a window was open, because Lee, over at Right-Thinking From The Left Coast dropped me an email (I didn't have comments for years, so whore that, motherfuckers) suggesting I drop by and check out his new blog, so I did, and hilarity ensued, and I haven't been back for a long time because I hate most of the people he has commenting on his posts, and I disagree strongly with several of his thesis positions.

    Many readers here have come and gone, over the years. I have had comments for what, a year now? I have banned maybe five assholes who pissed me off. New bloggers, a hint: When you are fresh to the party, the folks already there will not think it cool if you cannonball into the middle of the pool and splash water everywhere. You are liable to end up over the fence in the neighbors Holly bushes with birthday cake crammed up your ass.
    No, walk in slow, mingle, look around, make overtures, and if rebuffed, leave. Anything else is pitiful.

    New bloggers? Go here, to Sanity's Edge, to see how you are viewed by most of the neurotic Bloggerati out there. Read all of his blogging tips. Then ignore them. It would only amuse him to break your spirit and see you spasming in your own blood. I link as a cautionary tale, so you can see what you are up against, and why you should just blog for yourself.

    I read Paul religiously. I love his writing. He makes me laugh. He works way too hard at it, though, and is the classic overthinker. I am writing this little screed free-form, and will doubtless leave it untouched after posting. Were he I, this poor thing would go through so many rewrites and edits that it may never reach the page. And I find that unacceptable, because I have something to say, and I intend to say it, and if a P or a Q goes unminded, well there's plenty more letters in the alphabet where they came from.

    So many of you who read here have fresh, soft-shelled baby blogs. I fear for you, and I want you to succeed. For yourself. Your shell will harden soon enough, and begin to collect scars. Persevere. I can look back into history just a tick of the clock ago to where we did not even have books, and now you can have your every thought and wet dream and pictures of your cat seen by the entire world with just a click. That, my little cyber-friends, is power.

    Nature will cull you if your blog is not meant to be. Or you will cull yourself. I have seen brilliant blogs die, or worse, be left to lie fallow...though I still return like a dog will always go sniff out the spot on the rug he once found the piece of steak, long ago.

    Figure out what you want from blogging, and stay true to it. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: the second you start doing this for anybody but you, the rot sets in. Others may not see it, but you will. And this is too personal and intimate a thing to have in your head, should it begin to fester. There, lies madness.

    My personal philosophy has always been to comment boldly, in other's blogs, leaving my bona fides , or to not comment at all. This, to me, is simple politeness, not an invitation to follow me back and please-oh-please read my stuff and just lurve me. Your mileage may vary.

    I am my greatest critic, and my greatest fan. That so many of you seem to appreciate me, is just icing on the cake. Thanks. One other thing, if you like a blog, and like what commenters say in the comments, and that person has left their URL, go check it out. It's called 'surfing', and has led me on some wonderful and strange trips. The best blogs I have ever seen, I've found by accident.


    Parenting Tips...

    Sometimes kids can be such little assholes that you just want to run a bath, and chase them down, one by one. Every parent has, at some point, thought about pushing one or more of their children down some stairs, or in front of a bus. This is wrong, and should not be done. I have to say this, because enough assholes are doing it, I figure they didn't get the memo.

    So, we clear? Okay to feel like doing it, not okay to follow through.
    Though I did just end up giving each of my kids a piece of candy that I promised them for touching my personal bug zapper. I wanted to see if it was broken, and, sadly, it is. I turned it on, the light went on, and the spider just mocked me instead of smoking and popping per usual. So, to the kitchen, and the battery drawer. Reload. "Hey, kids, wanna piece of candy?" Suckers. "Just touch the zapper..."


    "C'mon, don't be a pussy, it won't hurt, besides, look, candy!"


    Nary a spark. My favorite household device ist kaput. Hey, I'm not gonna touch that sucker. Last time my friggen arm went numb for a half hour. Quit looking at me like that. Maybe now you're beginning to get the whole sociopath thing, eh?

    So, anyway, Nat has been a complete bitch since waking up from her nap, and the boy has been taking advantage of it, calling her 'evil' and taunting her at every opportunity. At one point, mimicking Daddy from the other night, he holds out both arms at her and shouts "The power of Christ compels you!" She did not take it well. They had been acting up at my Dad's birthday party and I'd done that and startled them both into compliance. Got me some looks from the gathered celebrants, it did.

    So, the muse struck me, as it is wont to do. Maybe you have one of those cordless phone systems? The one with the big button that tells you you left the phone under that big pile of laundry, or behind the toilet or wherever? Yep, push that button, and when all your phones begin to go apeshit and make that 'WARNING, reactor core meltdown in 3 minutes!' warbling sound, answer the one closest to where the kids are standing (bug-eyed, because they know that is not how phones are supposed to ring), press talk (the ringing will stop) and say "Hello? Yes, Valentine's Police, how may I help...yes, I know Valentine's is Monday...yes, yes, the kids are being very very naughty...I understand...sorry...yes, I'll tell them..."

    "I'm sorry, kids, but that was the Valentine's Police, and they say we can't give you any candy for Valentine's..."

    If you have done it right, insert general weeping and gnashing of teeth, here. Cries of "Why, Daddy, why!" should be met with downcast, sorrowful demeanor. A talented negotiator will use this opportunity to wrest many concessions from the little heathens.

    As I blog, they are running to me with reports of how well they have cleaned up the Play-Doh mess in the kitchen, and I hear 'pleases' and 'thank you's' and 'excuse me's' echoing throughout the newly pacified territories.

    Like all truces negotiated from a false premise seem to, this one won't last long either, I expect.

    Next phone call is from the Easter Police.


    I Suspected As Much...

    Which Family Guy character are you?

    Well, he is one of my personal heroes...

    Stolen from

        Friday, February 11, 2005

    You've Got A Lot...

    ...of reading to catch up on. I've read the archives. All of them. Hilariously sad.


    But wait! There's more!


    Listening To...

    ...this, in the background as I surf. Lovely.

    Thanks, SondraK.


    Am I The Only One...

    ...disappointed that this sweet boy, and his little friends, will not get their Valentines wish this year?

    Oh well, there's always next year...


    Hey! tony!

    I got the perfect response right here.

    Funny, how the lefties squawking about this seem to be giving Eason Jordan a pass.


    Chicken Soup For The Vomiting Child...

    Bad idea. Don't do it. Do not give an already fluidic situation a hydraulic assist. Some parents think that a nice cup of soup will help soothe their sickly little one. We call these parents 'dipshits'. Soup's slogan should be "We chew it and liquefy it first, so you don't have to!" There is no real impediment to such material as it launches from your youngster in a veritable Rain-Bird of undigested splooge. 409 and Febreeze work well together in this situation.
    This is also a good opportunity to fit in a stern lecture on the importance of chewing their food properly. "There!" you say, pointing out large chunks of poorly chewn scrambled egg and toast and WTF, she's been in the damn M&M's! "..look at that, see? Baby, you have to chew your food better than that, sweetie, c'mon, you're getting to be a big girl now..." Call her brother over, and use this as a training opportunity for him as well. When life hands you eggs...

    Try to feed them things that will coagulate. Mix strawberry powder with cement powder if you can get them to tolerate it. Or curds. Lots of curds. Try to make it so that the item/substance to be expelled makes them 'work for it', makes them hitch a few times and cause them to bend naturally at the waist while they vomit. At the very least, this will localize the resultant amoebic puddle of steaming gut-chum, rather than creating a festive display of intestinal fortitude of Exorcistian dimensions.

    The Trail Of Tears: Train them early to not head for the bathroom while vomiting. Just as you learned to not yell at the dog while he is in mid-puke/shit, since they will just continue the activity, and only widen the 'impact area', my child, let's keep this a localized phenomenon. No need to make the entire carpet look as if we've been mud-wrestling a leper now, is there?

    I guess the moral of the story here is: enjoy your might be seeing it again. Try to eat something that goes with the drapes, or matches the carpet. It's flu season, dontcha know.


    No Problem At All...

    via Kim du Toit, I see this (I never read CNN unless someone else does and posts it).

    Let me say right up front that I am okay with this. I wish they would have had this when my last batch was in public school. I would have strapped them on the kids myself.

    Sure, the government is out to get you, but not this way. And don't give me any of that slippery slope shit. You sound like some Baptist who is sure dancing equals fucking. If done properly, and with any luck, why yes, it does.

    But, only if you let it. It's anguishing over stuff like this that makes we Right-Wingers look like nuts.

        Thursday, February 10, 2005

    As Ratty As It Is...

    ...I still have my soul. I have been taken up to the mountaintop, and offered the world. Literally. He angered me with an insult to my father, plus, he was an asshole, so I turned it down.

    The entire host turned their faces from me, and I was cast out. Knowing that I was on my own, I persevered. I have been battered, chewed up, swallowed, and shit back out by life. Temptation is always there. Just sign here.

    There may be only two people alive who know what I just wrote to be true, and only one of them reads this, and may have forgot. A soul is a terrible thing to waste. You only get issued one. When you're hungry, it seems a simple, useless thing to proffer, to barter for a hot meal, or perhaps a hotter future.

    There is only One who can purchase it from you, though it is permissible for him to utilize agents. In the end, it goes into his fat ledger, tucked away with countless others.

    In the end? I suspect you find it was a lie all along, and no matter what you have done, the poor thing was always with you. No one can give away or sell or barter what God has given them. In the end, I suspect He lets you keep it, and brings you home to His bosom to be held and nurtured and brought into a new life...

    ...or...He lets you keep it, and denies you His face, and you go off into some stygian darkness that, no matter how well lit by fire, overwrought with screams and pain, and crowded with all of your 'friends', is the loneliest place outside of time and space and existence there is.

    And you have no more significance there than a torn off butterfly's wing, being washed down a gutter into a storm drain, and out into an endless, uncaring sea...


    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship.

    She pisses out the last embers of the campfire that is this Ward Churchill nonsense quite nicely. Then scuffs dirt over it.

    When the kids of today's Homeschooling Revolution attain college age, it is going to be my very great pleasure to watch the public universities wither and die for lack of tuition. They will become known as nothing more than trade schools for foreigners, and even those American parents so inclined will quit sending their spawn into the wastelands. The public high school drones who do dwindle in, will not be able to compete with competent foreign students, and the whole wagon will go over the cliff quite spectacularly.

    Already, as I note in my own kid's circle of (many) college age friends, there is not one who is attending a government school, unless it is strictly a vo-tech program.

    With the alumni from these liberal hellholes already beginning to pull their donations in droves, the collapse of the Public Indoctrination System may occur even sooner than I'd dreamed.

    Now, if we can just keep that fuckhead Bush from artificially propping them up with tax money...


    I don't often edit, but that last (above) was nearly incomprehensible. Sorry. I wrote it while Nat was whoopsing stew into the porcelain ghod's eager mouth, while parenting Bolt-Head, blogging, and watching television. And drinking. I am the Alpha Parent. The wife is at some church thing, and I rest my case. Your witness...


    This Kinda Crap...

    ...just amazes me. I saw the bird show at Marine World/Africa USA in Redwood City, California once, and I have rarely been more astounded.

        Wednesday, February 09, 2005

    I Knew It!

    The walrus was Paul...



    That Immodium AD really, really works. Could somebody please come shove a stick of dynamite up my ass? Thanks.

    I'm going downstairs and chug a couple of shots of mineral oil. Then, I must remember...'do not not fart...'

    Might could break a window, or put someone's eye out. It's gonna look like a torpedo launch from Das Butt. I haven't pooped in two days.

    This could hurt.


    On A Winter's Day...

    I repost this every few months or so. It was one of the first things I wrote in this blog:

    A female friend of mine asked for my help in getting an abortion back in the 70's. I forget how far along she was, but she was at least a few months along. It wasn't my baby, so I didn't care and said sure. She paid my gas and bought beer, and we went to the clinic and she asked me to come in with her. The staff assumed I was the father, so there was no problem with me going in.

    They gloved me up and gave her a big old shot of Pitocin, and left me alone with her. Some time passed, and she began looking for all the world like she was having a baby. The nurse came in once and told me to encourage her to push, and went back out to help other girls kill their babies.

    After one particularly huge pushing event, I heard a squishy, popping sound, and I looked under her drape and there was a, wait, it was a little dark haired baby...for some reason I picked it up in my hands. It filled my cupped hands, its tennis ball sized head covered with dark brown hair, its little legs going back along my wrists. Through the gloves, I could feel it's warmth...its moved a little as it died, probably because no one came to clear its lungs.

    The girl just stared up at the ceiling, breathing hard...tears running down her cheeks into her ears. Touched for some reason, I held it until the nurse came and took it from me and put it in a pan and took it away. She came back in a couple of minutes and helped me dress the girl. She looked at us with a strange light in her eyes and said "it was a girl"...I think she was upset.

    The girl sobbed softly and we didn't talk on the trip back.


    What Am I?

    This is not a political blog, but I talk politics. This is not a diary blog (I think) but you people sure know a lot about me. This is not a porn blog, but I show titties.

    Is there a category for generic? As usual, I don't fit in anywhere, I'm afraid. You folks who pay attention to this stuff, please clue me in, if you would. If someone out there has invented a label that fits me, let me know.

    And 'asshole' has already been taken.

        Tuesday, February 08, 2005

    Dow With The Sickness...

    Looks like money can buy you a little more than happiness.

    Via Drudge.


    The Whole World... His hands...


    I Won... Award!

    I'd like to thank the Academy, and your mother, and...


    I Cannot Vouch For This...

    ...but it looks real to me. It is a video of someone committing suicide in police custody. It is very graphic. Having seen such before, I say it is real. Get it while it's hot, because I don't see how it can stay up.

    If it is fake, I see a new Oscar category. One I'd actually watch the Oscars for.

    Blood. Brains. Makes me happy, cuz the asshole reminds me of Yassar Arafart, I present to you:


    NO SHIT!!!

    ...a classic example of self-trephination.

    Suicide...the sincerest form of self-criticism.


    "I got it. I got it. I know your damn words..."

    All right? Now you get this straight: I put up your link, you send me back. That's the deal. After that I'm history.

    Anybody? Anybody get the gratuitous movie link I am mangling so I can put up (yet another) link to Amigo's blog? Third finest movie in history? One of a trilogy? Anybody?

    Amigo's blog...I warn people, especially people as nice and thoughtful as he appears to be, not to link to me. I do not seek out linkage, and am always pleasantly surprised when I get one. Good luck with that, Amigo.

    Good writing, good articles, thoughtful pondering, interesting conclusions, and good links. That's what I look for in a blog. And titties. Needs titties.


    Welcome The Fireball...

    Learn it, Love it, Live it. It's coming, folks, and there is nothing our wimp-ass leadership is going to do about it.

    Frankly, I think they look at the coming holocaust as 'terraforming'. MAD was a myth. I did a research paper in college decades ago, and with it an associated graphic of a global map of the world. I used colored dots and such to simulate a full scale nuclear conflict between the US, the Soviet Union, and China. I was stunned to see, after hearing all that propaganda bullshit for years about "being able to destroy the world 50 times over" just how much untouched land there would be in each country involved after such an exchange, and how quickly the natural filters of the planet would cleanse it (extrapolating from the Japanese WW2 model). Canada was fucked though, of course. And much of our East Coast. Awwwwww....

    I say 'Bring it on!' We can shuffle timidly to the brink, or we can jump boldly over it. It's just a matter of time.


    Weird Shit...

    I awoke around midnight last night with a feeling that someone was staring into my face from a few inches away. My daughter has a habit of sneaking in and watching us while we sleep, so I have dialed my phaser way down from disintegrate, to tickle, at night. I also keep my bed and the pathway to it cluttered with paper, so I was surprised she had been able to sneak up so quietly. So, when I unstuck my eyes and opened them, her face is what I expected to see.

    What I saw was a glowing red dot, that lifted quickly up to the ceiling and disappeared into a little black hole that opened about an inch across, a few inches down from the ceiling, and closed right after the thing went through. The thing actually only appeared to be a dot in the first millisecond, and my reflexes screamed 'Laser Sight!' and I came instantly and fully alert, only to see the 'dot' was an orange-red 'snake', looking like a rope of freshly blown, red-hot glass, there in the dark. As I said, it appeared to recoil away from me and then undulate in two quick moves, a cross between a snake and a squid, squirt through the hole in the middle of the air, and disappear.

    My back was to the window of my room, and there were no car sounds outside. Things couldn't have been more still. My thick drapes were fully closed, anyway. I'm a fanatic about that. No, this thing had an organic 'feel', no, check that, a sense that it was an 'intelligence'. And additionally, that it did not have my best interests at heart.

    I leapt up and checked the kids, and then the wife. They were whimpering in their sleep. I didn't bother taking a gun with me, because I just knew that whatever had entered my house would not be impressed.

    I prayed like a motherfucker as I soothed kids and tucked them back in. I woke the wife and she told me she had felt a disturbance in the force as well, and we prayed, I went and got a glass of water, and slept like shit the rest of the night.

    Believe it, or not.

        Monday, February 07, 2005

    How Can This Guy... such a total pain in the asshole, and yet manage to pen such a sweet poem as this?

    It is beyond my mortal ken.



    This is what God really does when you masturbate.


    Okay, Wanker...

    Here's your link, Fly. Happy now, guilt-tripper? I say 'wanker', because he says that a lot. I actually stuck around to read, even with titties or foul language not to be found.

    He's got a goodly store of interesting links on his sidebar, including one to someone I hate possibly more than my ex-wife. But, then again, so does the lovely and talented Manda, so I can't hold that against our intrepid adventurer. Too much.

    Go. Read. Enjoy.



    ...This... I could see mounting a ..22 pistol (with a Hellfire Actuator) to that.

    Oh, baby.

    As you can see I've been here, which led me to this. Check out my favorite one, 'crop-dusting'.


    Fire In The Hole!

    Well, for what it was worth, yesterday was a great day. Not the best day ever, but a perfectly serviceable day, as days go. I had the best guacamole I may have ever had in my life. The wife went all out, and got traditional, and it was absolutely wonderful.

    I passed out on the couch at some point during the fourth quarter, and didn't miss a thing. Did that ad rock, or what? Who was that chick? Yowzers. We'd be in the bedroom, and she'd get to the part where she is sliding her panties off, and I'd be all "Thanks, I'm done...thank you very much..." and roll over and go to sleep.
    On the whole, though, I was amazed at how lackluster most of the ads seemed. Oh, there were some real winners, but overall, I've seen better years.

    No couch sex. The kids would not go down (to sleep, pervs) so Gargantua had to sulk til later. Watched Sir Paul go through the motions. I liked the songs just fine, but I was somewhat alarmed by the big video displays. I bet epileptics all over America were crawfishing all around their living room floors over that crap. And what's with all those fake lighters? Stupid.
    Oh well, at least it wasn't KC & The Sunshine Band doing a duet with Kid Rock or some such dumb shit like they usually dream up. First half time show I've watched in years.

    Then, Simpsons and American Dad. First time I've watched The Simpsons in some time, and the last. Utter, unfunny crap. Like watching a parody of a parody being parodied. Written by Japs. As with Anime, you know there's something there, you just can't quite figure out what it's supposed to be.
    And Family Guy...uh, I mean American Dad, was such a blatant rip off of itself it took my breath away. "Hey, let's take the characters from our other show and draw them a little different!" "Good idea!" Well, sadly, no. Oh, I enjoyed it. I haven't checked, but I'd bet they're the same team of writers, and they are just naturally good. I laughed, I cringed, I marveled at their brazen self-forgery.

    So, get the kids to bed blah blah blah have world-shaking sex blah blah blah send the old lady back to her room blah blah go to sleep...

    I'm figuring some little illegal-immigrant baccillus hitch-hiked up here from South America in one or more components which made up the guacamole, and began drilling straight away down towards my asshole to escape and go be with his family, because at about midnight, my ass-alarm went off and I tippy-toed and minced my way to the bathroom, trying to hold back but letting out little poots (doubtless, a loose ring) and sat down on the throne and my ass coughed up a prodigious load of butt-phelgm so hard that it sucked my ears into my head. I had to pinch my nose and cover my mouth and blow to pop them back out. Spasm over, swab the decks, feel fine, return to bed, reset ass-alarm, repeat procedure every 50 minutes. All fucking night long. I look and feel like John Hurt on the Nostromo, after the first face-sucker drops off him, but just before they get to guess who's coming to dinner.

    So, there's pretty much my agenda for Monday. I suggest you rush out and buy stock in Immodium. As for me, I'm going to go lay down.

    For about 50 minutes...


    Here's a link to Bob Parson's blog, where you can read about the vile censorship perpetrated by the NFL and Fox. He also has a link to both the TV and the web version of the ad. Bring Astroglide. Nikki Cappelli is the standard whereby all other women shall be judged, from this day forth, replacing the bone scale, with it's one through five fingers. I have spoken.

    Go. Enjoy. Enable cookies.

    Another Update:

    That minx's real name is Candice Michelle if you are inclined to Google for boobage. Pervert.


    Ha! Told You...

        Sunday, February 06, 2005

    Hey, That's My Dream!

    No fair. This guy stole it.

    Just kidding. But it is my dream.



    I Am A Love Machine...

    I am wearing my 'granny pannies', as my wife likes to call them. So thin and worn that the ass bags, and the band is separating, but I love my what were once tighty-whities. I can't wear boxers. My balls are so big that they slap together, and that hurts, plus I tire quickly of Gargantua bitching for them to 'get off my fucking face'.

    My shirt is a baggy thing as well, a favorite, with many a hole in it, that I shall wear until it falls off me, or such time as my wife arranges a suspicious laundry 'accident'.

    But the piece of resistance are my sleeping shorts. The wife got us each a pair at the Dollar Store while she was high on crack, or paint fumes, I forget which. They are Valentines shorts, black, spattered with candy hearts of blue, green, pink, red...pretty much all the colors of the rainbow coalition. I love them. They have a flap in the front where I can let Gargantua out for some air, and point to him and waggle my eyebrows up and down suggestively at the little woman. I'll pause here while you ladies rush off to masturbate.

    Yes, I am a manly man, and as such, I will be watching football and drinking beer and whiskey and wine and eating nachos and potato skins covered with cheese and trying desperately to not fart while the wife rides Gargantua on the couch during half time. Anal Seepage kinda ruins the mood. I'll pause here again while you scamper off to masturbate. Bane is nothing, if not a patient and considerate Love Machine.

    Of course the kids will be down for their naps, ninny. And of course the curtains will be open so when the hot chick next door steps out for a smoke, and to piss her little fucking new dog that looks like a rat and sounds like a mongoloid hitting a chew toy with a hammer when it barks, can gaze in rapture upon the sexual Tyrannosaurus Rex that is me.


    So, I was choosing the beer last night in Safeway, when I saw and benefited from, the education that public school provides. Let's see, I can get 18 cans of Coors Light (STFU!) for $13.78, or 24 cans of Coors Light for $13.49...hmmmm. I actually stood there and pondered and read and reread the ads and got a little pre-stroke brain pain just above my right eye for about 5 minutes. Okay, so you're going to pay me, and give me six beers for free? I held the case out in front of me and praised Jesus aloud. To the consternation of several 'college students' who were wondering if the six-pak of imported piss they were contemplating would run their Visa over and make the bookstore come sieze their books and kick them out of the dorm.

    "God Bless America!" I said to them, and they began to low and fidget a bit, preparatory to a stampede, no doubt. Their underfed reptile brains bade them freeze (that, and heck, they wanted beer) and I said "Look at this! I don't need this much beer, but I can have this much beer! Only in America!" My work there was through, and I hustled to the checkstand before some ninny-nanny 'manager' changed things for the worse.

    As they say, I do not have a dog in today's hunt. My Glorious Raiders are somewhere, planning how they will humiliate you all next year. I would like to see some terrorist with a mini-gun reenact the landing craft scene from 'Saving Private Ryan' on the Patriot offensive line at some point during the game. Just blow those cocksuckers to chunks. At least gib that asshole Brady.

    Fuck, I hate white people.

        Saturday, February 05, 2005

    Miss Manners...

    I've been doing this blogging thing for a while, now, but I haven't been paying attention. And I'm a slow learner, due to the whole 'not giving a shit' thing. But, as I have come to understand it, when someone puts your link on their blog, you should make at least some sort of mention of it on yours, and then throw rice, and drive off with cans rattling behind your limo. Or something.

    So, here he is, my new wife. Just kidding. He's some sort of Army person, and it is too difficult to determine what kind while typing with one hand over one eye to keep the room from spinning. So, check him out. Cool pics. No titties though, that I can see. Needs work.



    I take it back. I wouldn't fuck her.

        Friday, February 04, 2005

    R, Matey...

    So, I have a choice of 'Alone In The Dark', with it's manly R rating, or 'Boogeyman', with it's infantile PG-13 rating. Hmmmm, I wonder which film I, as a whiskey-carrying adult, will choose to see this afternoon?

    Nolo Contesto, baby, the R's win hands down, every time. Yeah yeah, I know all that 'today's PG-13 is yesterdays R' bullshit. I lived in yesterday. PG-13 = cartoon and, while I enjoy cartoons just fine, thank you very much, sometimes a man just needs his gratuitous sex and violence.

    'Alone' is based on a video game I've never played (though I've heard good things) and stars Christian Slater, who I like, a lot. Hopes are high, and so am I. When I first saw the previews coming on (at my last movie) I closed my eyes and put my fingers in my ears and went "la la la la" and the few patrons in there (I only go to matinees, for just that reason) probably thought I was a puss, but the sad facts are, the marketing fuckheads throw up so much onto the screen with their trailer trash that I could write the script my own fucking self. Assholes. So I don't watchem.

    Well, here's to cheap whiskey, over-priced movie Coca-Cola, and me not stabbing some nimrod in the head for talking in the good parts.

    Watch this space.


    Better Dead Than Red...

    Steve over at Hog On Ice has written perhaps the best rant I have ever read on a subject that is dear to my heart. Go. Enjoy. Marvel.

    I blogged on the same subject, too, back in September of 2002. Since any link to a past thing I've written turns to shit in the translation, I shall repost it here. And if anybody can tell me why anything that's perma-linked to from my blog goes to shit, I'd appreciate it. I imagine it is some template-ish issue, having to do with me adding those counters on my sidebar. Oh well.

    So, without further ado, from 2002, and only the formatting changed a bit from my original 'cram it all together' style, I present you my little tribute to Native Americana, as a footnote and tribute to the mighty Hog's wonderfulness:

    I've decided to become an American Indian, now that some tribes will let anybody join.

    I don't know which Indian name to choose, though...maybe you can help me out? I'm thinking of 'Stands With a Boner', or 'Fucks With a Fist', or maybe 'Farts With a Lisp'. We'll see.

    I want to start my own Casino, and make treaties with foreign governments, and launder money through dummy corporations funded by the White Man's Guilt Money. I want to be able to sell time shares on my new Reservation for foreign terrorists to come and train....yeah, try to tell me that shit ain't going on right now.

    I think I would make a great Indian. I had lots of practice playing one when I was little...well I was mostly the cowboy, sure, but I can be every bit an Indian as those fat assholes that dress up in 'authentic' outfits and yodel to made-up indian songs they heard in a John Ford movie somewhere...Indian music is so you can sing when you're too drunk to remember the words...and bonking a drum with one stick don't take too much talent either, baby.

    I've worked security at more than one powwow, lemme tell you. Insurance companies insist on 'diversity' in employment before they'll cover the event, so I was always the only White Boy ('Head Up His Ass') crazy enough to volunteer. The Real Security, big injuns who were pissed cuz they had to stay sober, warned me to stay close to them...everybody else there just wanted to kill me...they looked at me like I was the last bonbon on the plate in a fat womans lap...fucking savages.

    We would catch the indians ('Falls With a Thud') as the alcohol shorted out their synapses, and they dropped like a wet sock. You could watch them start to shudder and sway, like a redwood with a chainsaw up it's ass...then we'd cart em off to the 'drunk tent', two of us carrying them, one at the head (I always took the stinky feet, cuz feet don't puke) to keep em from dieing from sunburn...we'd prop 'em on their side with a roll of towels wedged under their back so they wouldn't roll back, puke, and die...then we'd go out to get another one.

    Yep, I think I wanna be an Indian.



    Think something's in the wind?

        Thursday, February 03, 2005

    Quagmire, Shmagmire...

    Via the Glorious SondraK, who shines like the moon, I mine this tidbit.




    Chick blog approaching.

    What gorgeous writing. Not for the faint of heart, or the heartless.

    This is how you do it, folks, and if you hate on her, you've hated upon me.

    There will be consequences.


    Yet Even More...


    I took a dump on this guy and walked away, a while ago. His commenters could do nothing but suck up to him and hate America, and most of them were Americans. He himself just sounded like a whiney, pompous Arab ass who needed to be smacked. I went there looking for honest answers, and all I found were moist, puckered assholes, playing the 'Asshole Chorus'.

    Then he writes stuff like his last two posts. I just call them like I see them, folks, and I will change for no one unless they pay the living shit out of me.

    Speaking of which!

    The little tsunami victims and I thank you lovely and treasured few that have hit the donation buttons in the last couple of days. Enough to buy me booze, and inspire a rant or two. I am grateful. Ahem, I prefer Amazon, but hey...


    BoltHead Update...

    Well, in almost exactly two months, we'll be taking Johnny up to Portland to have the bolts and screws removed from his head. Thank God. They really jeeb me out. I can't eat and look at them. Gotta cover them up with gauze, or go eat in my room. I'd post a picture, but who needs that?

    We haven't been adjusting them for some time, now. Thank God. All that screaming put me off my feed. They are just in there, at their full recommended tension, slowly squeaking his face forward. He looks a little different every week. I like to imagine I can hear the bones grinding, the sound like a big stone block makes when being pushed across a pyramid doorway.

    tonypierce at busblog hurt me yesterday. I'm sure he didn't mean to, and doubt he even knows I exist. When I came upon the photo of that little girl I had to flinch and look away. Way too close to home. Oh well, it has been pushed down by his prodigity, so I can go back and read there, again.

    I've mentioned I used to make fun of crips and retards... [and no, dammit, I am not taking shots. I was actually amused by the post, it was just the picture that jeebed me. dammit]... but I don't anymore, since God gave me one. Well, he's not a tard, but he is a bit...otherworldly.

    Mongoloids still freak me out, and I wish you people wouldn't have them working in your food establishments, but I no longer swerve my car at them and honk the horn to enjoy them diving face first into the glass at the rear of the bus stop. Now I just say "God Bless you, little mongoloid" and leave them unmolested.

    Yes, if there is a purgatory, I am surely headed for it. Or maybe I'm in it now.



    And Now, For Something Completely Filthy…

    I have been engaged in thinkery. Well, actually I was taking my late morning nap, to gather strength for my early afternoon nap, when I got this boner, and it got me to thinking about porn, and how so much of it is just fucking awful.

    Don’t try to tell me a story, or parody an existing film. Yes I know you are trying to keep from getting fined or imprisoned by hypocritical men in dresses, and I do not care. Just shut up and fuck.

    I don’t want to see the guys face, or hear him talk. I don’t care how great a time he is having. I’ll probably be able to figure out he’s cum when he busts it on her tits.

    She, on the other hand can talk all she wants, as long as it’s filthy. The first time some chick in my bed burst out with sex talk I was alarmed, like when you’re in church and someone starts speaking in tongues. That shit freaks me out, and is one good reason for me to stay home on Sunday. No, ladies, and you porno ladies, too, glossalize all you want.

    No jewelry or stupid clothing in bed. Sailor suits are not cute. They are disturbing. Any combination of schoolgirl outfit is okay, nay, to be encouraged. But no fucking necklaces or high heels, unless they are shucked on the way into bed. No one who has ever had a sheave of pubes yanked out by a carelessly swung necklace thinks that shit is sexy. And I got a friggen cross in the eye, once. Spooked me, a little. "Is that you, God? What’re you doing in here?"

    I nearly lost a finger once while holding hands with a chick. She pulled her hand away to gesticulate, and one of her rings took a goodly portion of one of my fingers with it. Now, I ask you, what if she had done that while giving me a handjob? Eh? Eh? No, I’ll wand the bitch, if I have to, but she gets in bed wearing nothing but a come-on smile. And no damn perfume. They make that shit out of whale cum, and it tastes like battery acid. Ptui. Hit the showers, young lady.

    And no fucking rubbers! I do not need to be reminded that if you are on my screen you are likely a filthy, disease ridden whore. I see a rubber, and I'm outta there. I never wear them, myself, anyway. The wife has been spayed, and I only ever broke them, anyway. There is very little that is funnier than the face of a woman when she realizes you're out there and the rubber is still in there. I look down at Gargantua and say "You asshole, get back in there and go get it!" and he just shrugs and says "Quit thinking with me, dumb shit, I don't have any arms..." so I have to go diving into the yuck pond cuz bitches will not let you use a coat hanger to fish it out with for some reason. Then I pop out with my swimmers and say "Well, whattaya think, boy or girl?" and she bolts for the douchebag in the bathroom and I hear crying and water splashing. Ahhhh, good times. Good times...

    Sex is a contractual arrangement. When you and your partner engage in it, you have agreed to not give her the clap, or cum on her back where she can’t reach it, and she in turn reciprocates by not giving you the clap either, or bringing you some bundle of joy nine months hence as a surprise. If she don't show me the pill package, or a reciept from the vet proving she's been spayed, Gargantua and I go home. That's why there's porn. It's just too damn bad it's all just so awful.

    And one last thing, what's with all the bad porn movie music? If you wouldn't listen to it in your own bedroom, why would you try to get off with it? I don't go to strip clubs any more, but gosh if that wasn't some awful stuff, too. And don't touch me, bitch. I came here for the booze, and to look at titties. Gosh knows where you've been, but I bet the flush handle in the bathroom has less germs on it than you. Yeah yeah yeah, they're all working their way through school and are really vestal virgins when they are not trying to entice you to pay large money for them to hover two feet over your lap. I'll let the cute waitress keep the whole twenty if she kept my coffee hot and flirted pretty with me, but I won't give those gyrating whores a dime. I love em dearly, and respect their right to do whatever, just don't bullshit me. Girl, you don't love me, you don't even like me, and odds are pretty good that behind that smile, you are actively hating my guts, so, go stand over there where I can't see up your coke-raddled nostrils and wiggle for Daddy while he drinks his beer. There's a good girl.

    Damn, where'd all this come from? Oh, the places you'll go...