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        Saturday, April 30, 2005

    As If...

    ...I needed another reason to despise Bush and hate Mexicano-fascists.



        Friday, April 29, 2005

    Inner Child Molester...

    I have it on good authority that little kids just hate it when you fuck them.

    So, cut it out.

    I noticed in my server logs today, with thirteen page reads, for over an hour. I feel compelled to mention, since I am gambling on the possibility that a goodly percentage of you Unicef people are humorless turds, that I do not fuck children. I do not even think about it. All the time.

    I do, however, find it humorous to make sick and disgusting jokes about it. But not about my kids. That's not funny, and I do not tolerate such attempts. But, cartoon figures and kids in the popular media? Heck yeah! Have at it. If I have started it. Otherwise go get your own blog and joke about stuff like that.

    On that note, I have a rather public apology to make. I read this post by Lycan, and went into his comments section with the specific intent of freaking him out, and I may have succeeded. I took it to the edge, and then I kicked it over, and that was wrong (funny, but wrong) and I apologise to you, Lycan.

    Truth is, all things considered, he showed remarkable restraint in his story about the young girl in his post, that I would not have shown, were I him at his age in his situation. And that's just sad.

    I think part of my comments there were to illustrate that, while there are people who 'know better', there are a goodly number of those who do not know better and who take our writings as gospel, and a template to live their own lives by.

    I tell my tales primarily as cautionary tales, not for one of you young guys to go out and emulate because I am so cool. Well, I kinda am, but do not wanna be me, and have the regrets I have, and look back on the things I have done and cringe with shame one day.

    This blog is not a manual for how to live your life, it is a warning. It is my private place, that is not so private any more.

    Sure, I suggest, sometimes even command that this or that be done, but, as me auld mum used to say, "If everybody else goes and jumps off a cliff, would you jump after them?"

    I hated it that she had a point.

    So, we clear? Don't fuck little kids. If you joke about it, it better be funny, and I have heard every joke there is.

    Hey, creatures, leave my kids alone.



    I Am A Flappy Bird...

    And that's not just the drugs talking. Look, there, to your left. I actually liked being a Slithering Reptile better...sounded cooler. But, I guess Flappy Bird outranks Slithering Reptile, and I'm all about the promotions.

    What's next? Rabid Raptor, I hope. I would love to be a Rabid Raptor. Or maybe a Felonious Fowl of any sort, but Flappy Bird just sounds Richard Simmonish.

    Will there be a party? I do not like cake. There has to be a keg for it to be a true party. And like I always say, 'it's not a party until someone shits in the bed'.

    I have eschewed alcoholic beverages for nearly two days, now, as the codeine comes wrapped in a vile coating of acetominiphen, which has a tendency to bumfuck your liver when you are not paying attention, and I do not look good in yellow.

    Perhaps I shall quit drinking altogether, given this opportunity...

    'Oh, silly, that's just the drugs talking' sings out my five litre jug of wine from under my desk...'you'll come back to me, my sweet...'

    I think I'll flap off to bed, now.



    Drug Induced Stupor...

    Been in one. All morning. God Bless Codeine.

    Woke up early this morning with my jaw swollen and throbbing, and a big cap of flesh formed/ing over that back tooth. I put on my close-up glasses and grabbed my mini-Mag flashlight and checked it own puscano. I grabbed that sucker and gave it a good squeeze and watched various esoteric fluids, with a strong blood theme, with a side of meat chunks burst up and out, leaving the egg sac limp, and exposing an angry shard of broken tooth that had now been pushed up high enough by pusmagma that my upper molar's whacked it as they passed by.

    That whacking had been what woke me up. I thought someone had snuck in and exploded an M-80 in my mouth, from the bright burst of orange behind my eyes, and the spots I was seeing, and the pain in my mouth.

    Kids, take care of your teeth. You can not be too obsessive, trust me.

    So, I rushed to visit my Aunty Biotic, and my Sister Codeine, and then lay propped up in bed and dreamed dreams all morning like an opiated Chinaman.

    I met this sweet little Samoan chick...well, she was as big as I am, and somewhere between 16 and 25. You can't really tell with those people, and I wasn't checking ID. She came to the door in her Mu-Mu, wanting to borrow the lawn mower, and things went uphill from there.

    Ahhhh, her lips were soft as butter, she was as strong as an ox, and she worshipped me like an ancestral god. An ancestral god with a penis. Then I spent some time in Deadwood, which was somehow mixed up with the hacienda from Barbarosa (with Willie Nelson), and I was a gunfighter and I got to shoot people and fuck whores, and then my wonderful son called and the phone brought me out of my pleasant other-life, but that's okay, because he was calling to tell me to expect this in the mail Monday. Thanks, son! You're the best!

    So, I've gargled with salt water, drank some prune juice to offset a certain unfortunate side effect of the codeine, and it is back to bed. No dentist tomorrow. I set it off ahead to the 19th, so my wife could make a woman's retreat she had already signed up with for this weekend, and I felt good so I didn't want her to miss it. And then this damn thing flares up and I get an emergency appointment early Monday morning at the charity dentist's bus at some church, which should be interesting.

    Right now, I wouldn't care if they had some hobo with urine-soaked fingers yank it out with a pair of rusty vice grips. I nearly went the pliers route myself, last night.

    I have considered going to this local bar I know that the college football players frequent, finding a linebacker, and pointing at my jaw and saying "C'mere, nigger, I dare you to put one right here!" for a little impromptu dentistry.

    Trouble is, I might need all of those other organs he might stomp out of me, so I shall refrain.

    So, it's a weekend of Purple Haze, for me, coming out of my stupor just long enough to catch Andromeda and Star Trek and Desperate Housewives and drink a Slim Fast and banana shake or two, and then, back into the arms of Morpheus.

    Posting may or may not be light. I may come out of a wicked dream, all manic and full of this space. Or not.

    I'm a little upset that I do not get to see Hitchhiker's Guide today, or Kung Fu Hustle. Oh well. If I live through this weekend and Monday morning, who knows what next weekend will bring?

    Having lived in my life all of my life, I can assure you that it will be weird.


        Thursday, April 28, 2005

    The Best News...

    ...I have heard in years. Since my daughter was born, even. (requires download and install of Apple Quick Time if you don't have it, and damn well worth it)

    More on it here.

    As a huge fan, I watched the first link with literal tears in my eyes.

    I have GOT to get the DVD set! Hey, kids of mine? Hello? And Daddy still doesn't have the Punisher PC game...


    For your enjoyment.



    Check Out...

    ..this XM8 video!



    This Guy... funny.

    And dead.



    Be Fruitful...

    ...and multiply.

    God made us so we can fuck, and then told us to go do it, a lot.

    Some of us are better at it than others. If population density was the measure of success, the Chinese would be God's Chosen People, and the Jews would be down there somewhere with the Eskimos.

    Ragtards fuck a lot, but they need to have a pretty high replacement rate, I guess. They have something in common with those German toads, blowing up as they do. But they worship a false god, so who cares?

    Personally, if I had my way, all the rags would be in cattle cars heading towards a tall, smoking chimney, to be turned into carbon based life forms. Raguets, if you will.

    But, they don't let me make those kinds of decisions, so we are stuck with this 'one at a time' crap.

    Some Atlantean scientist, back in the days before the flood, must have successfully spliced Lemming and Rat genes into a human, giving us the lovely infestation of wide-eyed death-worshippers we are burdened with today. Oh, and bunny genes, too, because that is what they fuck like.

    I shan't worry too much, though, as the rags are just as likely to take care of themselves for me. At this very moment, in a secret lab in Cairo or Riyadh, Akbar could be saying:

    Allah-dammit, Mohamad, you have left the lid off of the jar of the terribly deadly bio-substance, you are going to kill us all!

    Mohamad: It is as Allah wills it (cough)

    Akbar: (cough)

    Both: (thud)...repeat as neccesary.

    Hey, a boy can dream, eh?




    I just noticed that someone reached my blog by Googling 'stephanie+lazytown+naked'.

    I am conflicted.



    Fruit Of The Poisonous Tree...

    A concept in law that holds that all evidence found as the result of an illegal or otherwise improper search is inadmissable.

    Could this concept be extended to George W. Bush, and his actions? If he himself is questionable, is it fair to call into question all of the activities and assertions of his administrations policies?

    I think so.

    Let's start with their favorite boogeyman, Al Queada. Sure, they kill a lot of people, but not here. Why not? And where they do kill, we manage to exceed that death toll on our own roads and highways every day, yet I do not hear calls for the funds of auto magnates to be frozen, or see them being shipped off to Guantanamo Bay.

    GW, when you get people like me to start questiong you, you must be really fucking up. I was not one of Vox's 'Three Monkey Republicans'. I was wide-eyed cheering you on, and I didn't care who or what you did to accomplish your goals.

    And then your perfidies offended even me. That's like shitting out something so rotten that even a turd eating dog turns its nose up at it.

    I've changed my mind on staying a Republican, too. Why marginalize myself and become some toothless Libertardian wretch, ignored by all? No, I'll stay on the calling and mailing lists, thank you, and everybody who contacts me, and they do, will get an earful of what I have gotten a belly full of.

    Am I under any illusions as to whether I can 'make a difference'? No. Quite simply, no. But I will be doing my darndest to screw shit up from the inside. I will tear at the entrails of the sluggish beast that devours us, from the inside, as best I can.

    If I can give it just one little gas pain, I can die a happy man.



    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!

    I was just wondering why libtards don't get tired of being kicked in the balls by the Goddess Ann, and then I realized...they don't have any.



        Wednesday, April 27, 2005

    Gone Fishin...

    Well, actually, more like 'to the beach'.

    We got word of John's next surgery last night. June 7th. And we are suddenly overcome with an urge to do things with him he's never done, for some reason.

    Nattie and John are zipping around like excited hummingbirds, deciding on which toys and clothes and whatnot to take, their only experience with beaches being "Barney at the Beach' and the kiddie pool at our local aquatic center.

    The energy level is high. I'm pondering which gun to wear. Maybe I'll take two. And a rifle, just in case. And a couple of knives. Can't be too careful.

    I fucking hate the beach. I shall just have to buck up and put on my Happy Face.



    Hmmm. Beach didn't suck, took just two pistols. Cold enough to wear a vest. Surly tide, heading for low. Grey day. The kids loved it.

    It is important to teach trust to your children, so I told Nattie to 'close her eyes and hold out her hand', which she did, and into which I dropped a small, live crab. Then, she opened her eyes, goggled, screamed, dropped it, and the ocean snuck up on her and soaked her shoes with ice water.

    Score! Twofer!

    Oh, don't be such a boner...the birds had already busted off the pinchy parts. Johnny yelled "Hee Ya!" and stomped it to goo. It had made his sister scream. Earlier in the day, while getting ready for the trip, she had knotted him a good one on the forehead with a pair of swimming goggles she was insisting on packing, and I had yelled at her good and proper and made her cry, and through his tears of pain he yelled at me, and told me I made him angry for making his sister cry. Amazing.

    All in all, a good, fun, exhausting day.

    I'm up to my ass in TV programming decisions tonight. I have to tape 'Life on a Stick' and 'Stacked', and fox has rocking-chaired the vile 'American Asshole' between them in a (hopefully) failed attempt to boost ratings.

    So, this fucks up my taping of 'Smallville', which I will have to do on another VCR because I have to watch 'Lost' and 'Alias' and because of those cunts at Fox, I have to have my sister tape 'Revelations' at 9pm and she is an anal retent who insists on taking out the ads for me and sometimes forgets to start the VCR again for awhile.


    To add to my frustrations, I walked the beach all damn day looking for the skeleton of a little tsunami victim to make a nice wind chime for the back patio area, and I had no luck at all.



        Tuesday, April 26, 2005

    Ass Not...

    ...what you can do for your country...

    But wait! There's more!



    I Need... figure out how to use these new fangled camera cell phones...

    Because if you point one at me, the next picture that gets broadcast out to your buddy list is going to be you, on the ground with my foot on your head, as I blow your brains out all over my fucking shoes.

    If you take a picture of one of my kids, there'll be a knife in the picture, instead.

    And lots of screaming, none of it mine.

    Just sayin.



    Fuck George Bush…

    My Tipping Moment...

    Oh, where to start, there have been so The defining quote:

    The court had been asked by the Bush administration to apply the law to people convicted in foreign countries.

    What about this? Why don't they just get a room and fuck?

    But it was this that finally put me over the top.

    Bill Clinton, when he was the Most Powerful Man In The World, allowed the genocide in Rwanda when he could have done any number of things to stop it. The Hutus started with the children, branched out into every Tutsi they could catch, and finished with the children. The blood of those people is on his hands, directly, and the Bush's pal around with him like they just bought a dog.

    Bill Clinton effectively destroyed the Serbian people, for no good reason but to distract from his own political troubles, including his disgraceful abuse of an intern his own daughter's age. Clinton destroyed every bridge on the River Danube, many of them centuries old. Clinton murdered his own pile of civilians. And the Bush's call him friend.

    Bill Clinton killed our men in Somalia, and allowed the Islamofascists to form up and attack, while blaming Americans for nearly all terrorism, and killing American children at Waco and elsewhere.

    Fuck Bill Clinton, and fuck George Bush(s).

    Despite all of the good GW has done, including Iraq and Afghanistan, all the above bullshit, coupled with his insane and calculated complicity in the assault on our borders (and thusly on you and I) I can no longer support him.

    Sadly, the good he has done, has usually been forced by coercion, and under duress and compromise.

    He is evil, his family is evil, and any woman or child who would stand for and with him is evil.

    Thus, the people he has surrounded himself with are evil, and not to be trusted. I dearly love and miss John Ashcroft, and he got out just in time.

    I will not support any other Republican who has GW's taint on them in any way. I will actively vote against them, or just not vote, should their alternative be equally repugnant to me.

    I am going to change my Republican registration to Independent, and tell them why they have lost the five votes I directly control.

    I will actively work, here and elsewhere, to undermine this Presidency in any way I can.

    I challenge and abjure all of you to do so as well. Infiltrate the blocs of Young Republicans, as you can, and turn them away from GW if you can. All of you, please, do this at all levels.

    I walked into all of this with my eyes wide open, and gritting my teeth. I mentioned way back when that I had a tipping point and GW, and his monstrous, evil stupidity has buried the needle into the red in less than a week.

    The slide started when he called those valiant Minutemen 'vigilantes', and ended with him cuddling up to Bill Clinton and that fat Saudi pedophile for a mutual suckfest.

    It's over.



    I Love...

    ...This blog!

    What exuberance!

    Another sweet oasis in the desert of ideas.



    I Know You're Out There!

    Gooks on the wire!

    I see all of your beady little eyes, just at the edge of the firelight. I throw scraps of meat out there, and I hear you slurping them up, but I never see you.

    I put those web counter thingys up, there to your left, a few months ago, just as decoration. I saw them on other blogs I frequented, and thought they made the blog look, well, more bloggy.

    Then it became a minor obsession of mine, not to count the hits, per se (that just makes me cry, because what if all of you just gave me one damn dollar! 50 cents even! Damn) but to see who was on...where they were from. A goofy hobby, but oh well.

    Lately, I see people doing massive amounts of page views, and staying on for an hour or two at a time. It kinda weirds me out.

    Am I being investigated for arrest, or a lawsuit? Do I have obsessive fans, who will show up and boil my rabbit?

    Oh, don't run away. You know I love you all, and wish you happiness and puppies and smooth bowel movements, but seriously...




    Pissing Down Our Backs...

    ...and telling us that it is rain.

    Note the Clear Channel logo at the top of the billboard.

    We are so fucked.


        Monday, April 25, 2005

    I Wish...

    ...that I could find a prognosticator to accept my money for a bet on the exact day next week that this guy will begin blogging again.

    BadNewsHughes threatened me one time that if I continued a line of argument (political) with one of his commenters he would "Nuke this site and never look back..." I told him "Yeah, and if you do, within a week you'll be up in a clock tower with a duffel bag full of rifles..."

    Same thing with Rob, I'd bet.

    Me, too...maybe.

    All of our blogs are about us. If the blog dies, well...


    I didn't know how truly ugly this was when I wrote the above. Sorry, guys.

    Hope things work out.



    Why I Drink...

    ...bottled water.



    Sad, But True...



    J.D. Hayworth...

    ...for President.


        Sunday, April 24, 2005

    Another Right Wing...


    I was gonna say 'twat', but that sounded rude. Funny, but rude.

    I do so enjoy hearing how you kid's brains rattle.

    Go, read. Too much pink, as usual, but what can you do with a whole generation of twats raised on Hello Kitty?





    I just recieved this in email, and I have no idea of it's veracity, and I do not doubt it's veracity a bit:

    Jihad comes to Small Town USA

    By Laura Mansfield, Associate Director, Senior Investigative Analyst

    It happened again this week. I came out of the office to find a flyer under my windshield wipers inviting me to a special informational presentation on God and family values, and how to bring them back to the forefront in America.

    I'm a parent so the flyer caught my interest. But as an analyst for the Northeast Intelligence Network, my eyes were riveted to the address on the flyer: the session was being held at a nearby mosque.

    Curiosity got the better of me, and I decided it would be a good time for some on site investigations of the mosque. In order to not attract undue attention, I dressed conservatively, wearing a navy jumper with a long sleeve white blouse, and low heels. I debated whether or not to put on a hijab (head scarf) then decided not to; after all, I was going to "learn", not to pretend I was a Muslim.

    I checked the mosque schedule on the web, and discovered that there was going to be an Arabic language session an hour before. So I showed up an hour early. The imam met me at the door, and told me that the presentation didn't start for an hour, and suggested I come back in an hour. Fortunately I had anticipated this. I explained that since I had quite a bit of reading to do for a class I was taking. "Can I just sit here and read?"

    He hesitated a moment, then agreed. I sat in the back of the room, with my book open, and made a mental note to remember to turn the pages every so often, as I listened to the speakers in Arabic.

    The first speaker was the head of the Muslim Students' Association at the nearby university. Although I missed the beginning of the discussion, I caught up quickly. He was talking about the problems he had encountered on a recent trip, when TSA flagged him for extra screening. He joked about the fact that they had stopped him for extensive screening. He had anticipated that he would be screened and he had filled his carryon luggage with printouts of the Qu'ran from the internet, and had 15 or 16 CD's labeled in Arabic, and he had a notebook computer with him.

    As he expected he was delayed; he thought it was very amusing that while several TSA personnel were scrutinizing is personal belongings that is classmate from Jordan was able to walk through security, along with his American girlfriend, without any problems whatsoever.

    One of the men said, in Arabic "Blonde Americans are good for something!" Another man advised him to be cautious, since there was an American woman in the room. The Imam spoke up and told everyone that I didn't speak Arabic.

    At that point another student took the podium. His name was Khaled, and he began to recount his recent trip to New York City. Khaled and three of his companions had gone to New York for several days in January. He told of how uncomfortable his trip up to NYC had been. He felt like he was being watched, and thought he was the victim of racial profiling.

    Khaled and his friends were pretty unhappy about it, and while in New York, they came up with a plan to "teach a lesson" to the passengers and crew. You can imagine the story Khaled told. He described how he and his friends whispered to each other on the flight, made simultaneous visits to the restroom, and generally tried to "spook" the other passengers. He laughed when he described how several women were in tears, and one man sitting near him was praying.

    The others in the room thought the story was quite amusing, judging from the laughter. The Imam stood up and told the group that this was a kind of peaceful civil disobedience that should be encouraged, and commended Khaled and his friends for their efforts.

    He pointed out that it was through this kind of civil disobedience that ethnic profiling would fail.

    One of the other men, Ahmed from Kuwait, gave a brief account of his friend Eyad, who had finally gone to Iraq.
    Ahmed was in email contact with Eyad, and hoped by the following week to be able to bring them more information about the state of the "mujahideen" in Iraq.

    As the meeting drew to a close, the Imam gave a brief speech calling for the protection of Allah on the mujahideen fighting for Islam throughout the world, and reminded everyone that it was their duty as Muslims to continue in the path of jihad, whether it was simple efforts like those of Khaled and his friends, or the actual physical fighting of men like Eyad.

    As the meeting broke up, several women in hijab came in the room, and two of them sat with me. They were very warm and friendly and welcoming, and appeared to be clearly thrilled that I was there. They asked me questions about who I was, and why I was interested in the session.
    By the time the session began, there were half a dozen American women, four of them African American. Where the previous session had definite anti-American tones, this session was all American and Apple Pie. The earlier session had been in Arabic; this one was in English.

    The woman leading the session, Nafisa, told of the concerns she had regarding her daughters in the public school system.
    She complained about the influence of the MTV culture, and seemed concerned about the rampant sexuality that pervaded all facets of American life, from TV to movies and on into the school system.
    She explained her personal solution – the local Islamic school, beginning with kindergarten. Instead of worrying about her daughters dressing provocatively and behaving inappropriately with boys, she talked about the modest school uniforms that they wore, and the single-gender classes that her daughters attended.

    She then began to discuss Islam, focusing on the commonalities it has with Christianity. The sales pitch had clearly begun. While in the previous section, then men had quoted over and over again sura from the Qu'ran calling for violent jihad, the women's session focused on the "gentler" side of Islam.

    The same Imam who demanded that the men continue in the path of jihad did a complete 180 degree turn in this session, stressing instead the suras that promoted the "brotherhood" between Muslims, Christians, and Jews. "After all, we worship the same God, and follow the teachings in the books he gave each of us. We are all the same, we are all People of the Book," he stressed.

    The differences between the sessions were striking. Clearly the second session was a recruiting session.

    Were the women aware of what was being taught in the first session? Certainly those women who spoke Arabic should have been.

    The reason for concern is obvious: two different doctrines are being promoted. One peaceful, friendly, warm, and fuzzy doctrine is being used to draw people in, with a focus on the wellbeing of their children.

    But the Arabic speaking sessions clearly have an anti-American tone.

    It shows clearly that as much as we'd like to pretend it hasn't, Jihad has reached small-town USA. This mosque isn't in Washington, DC, or New York City. This is a small mosque in a small town in the deep south.

    And if it's in this tiny little quiet southern town, it's probably in your hometown too.
    Editors Note: Fucking Duh.


    Poetry Corner...

    I wrote this, fittingly, on a Sunday in March of 2003. The sentiments are as sweet today as they were then. Enjoy:

    All I ask is a tall ship
    and a star to steer her by
    and rows of cruise-type missles
    with a button to let them fly...

    I'll launch those missles,
    send them forth
    and stand there in their pall
    and pray they land on ragheads,
    and kill them
    one and all...




    Grecian Formula...

    Combine one rectum with one penis...stir vigorously until done.

    Ha! I kill me. Made that up all by myself. Well, the beer helped a little.

    I can't find any of my wastrel children to go see the movie with me.

    I guess the best part of them stayed in their momma's ass...

    Ha! Still with the Grecian theme! How do I do it?

    Uh oh...

    I'm bored.



    Cry Havoc...

    ...and let slip the Logs of War...

    I am befrazzled.

    Two assholes called me this morning, as I was aslumber in my bed, obeying The Lord's command to rest.

    I finally answered the second asshole, thinking he was both the first and second asshole, but a further check of the caller ID showed the first asshole was some thoughtless church-cunt friend of my wife's, assuming that because she was up, the rest of the world should rightly be.


    The second asshole was my youngest Marine, thinking I needed to be regaled with tales of his latest debaucheries. I reconsidered my stance on abortion, and decided it was too late to make any changes, so now it is just past noon, and I am well into my second beer.

    I worship the Lord Our God, but I hedge my bets with my Norse gods as well, and honor them with beer.

    Which loosened my bowel quite nicely, thank you for asking. I do not eat much, subsisting primarily on, shall we say, a 'liquid diet'? But yesterday, the wife crock-potted a pile of pork ribs, and last night I feasted on tender meat and my favorite brand of boxed mashed potatoes. Heaven.

    And a few minutes ago I, having forgot the feast, and thinking I had barely just farted, rose from the bowl to espy a log of such Brobdingnagian proportions that I nearly called Simba to fetch my elephant gun chop chop.

    I feared, momentarily, that I had just passed several yards of intestine, or that some foul beast had struggled through the pipes with the express intent of mauling my nethers as I sat.

    The latter is a fear that has plagued me since early childhood when, during my potty training, my mother went into great and horrific detail to describe what all of the germs looked like that would come out of the toilet to kill me if I did not excercise cleanliness and wash my hands properly after my toidy.

    I stood on the seat to shit until I started school, and noted my chums did not practice such safety precautions. Oh Mom, you wacky exaggerator.

    Crapping from such a lofty height is what no doubt contributed to my uncanny skills as a marksman and pool shark.

    If you have laughed at my pain, shame on you.

    This shit is serious.



    Unto Us...

    ...a blog is given.

    Of course, I can't read there yet, as the first post that came to eye is a review of 'The Kung Fu Hustle', which I have yet to see, so I had to squint quickly and run away. Be warned.

    It is ZZTops new blog, a commenter here and there. His first post sounds all circusey, which alarms me, somewhat.

    I hope there will not be clowns.

    I hate clowns.


        Saturday, April 23, 2005

    I Don't Get It...

    I finish watching The Incredibles (prediction: there will be more comments about The Incredibles than the 'meat' of this post) and go check out Acidman's blog...and then I take this test:

    Readability Results

    Summary Value

    Total sentences 460
    Total words 4,298
    Average words per Sentence 9.34
    Words with 1 Syllable 3,254
    Words with 2 Syllables 726
    Words with 3 Syllables 236
    Words with 4 or more Syllables 82
    Percentage of word with three or more syllables 7.40%
    Average Syllables per Word 1.34
    Gunning Fog Index 6.70
    Flesch Reading Ease 84.33
    Flesch-Kincaid Grade 3.82

    I don't get it. Don't really care, but still, I don't get it.

    Too late...too much wine...still chuckling over The Incredibles.

    So, do I suck? Or Not?



    This Kicks So Much Ass...

    And I bet you didn't hear one smidgen of this story from the MSM, including cable.


    Via the consistently wonderful Michelle Malkin.



    Another Couple Of Reasons...

    ...why the internet is so cool.

    Long may it wave.





    Just testing the whole posting multiple pics on one post thing via buzznet. Don't be alarmed.

    I fucking rock!

    Buzznet fucking rocks!

    Fuck Haloscan!


    I meant "Fuck Hello!", not Haloscan. I like Haloscan just fine.


    Update: 4-16-06

    Buzznet sucks, as you can see. My photos can still be reached if you click on that stupid icon. I blame Tony Pierce, the stupid liberal who works for them now.



    Come For The Posts...

    ...stay for the comments.

    That's where the action really is. As trepidatious as I was about enabling comments here, I am pleasantly surprised with how much fun I have with them. There are some good, smart people saying interesting and funny things, there, and if you pass them by, you are missing out.

    Today is such a lazy day. The rain came and ruined my plans to go out and show the wife how to mow a lawn properly. Overlap, bitch! OVERlap! I could have given five dollars to a mongoloid and have gotten a better job.

    Note to those of you who are trying to lawn-train your wife or girlfriend: do not tell them that mongoloid bit. Or compare them to a monkey, either.

    I'm still drinking the beer I bought to get me through the ordeal. It's the principle of the thing. When one makes a commitment to beer, one should not break said commitment.

    I am nothing, if not a man of principle.

    She just took off to the store with the kids, so mayhap it is time to surf for porn and stroke The Pillar of the Community.

    Naaah, I've got last night's Star Trek on tape, and if you forget and put down a cold beer, and then touch yourself, well, it's a little startling, and not good at all for the ticker of a man of my advanced years. Or so I'm told.

    The kids are not here to fetch beer, so I had them each bring me two. I have them cooling on the windowsill. The beers.

    I hope the neighbors do not become jealous of me because I have beers. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbors beer. Or thy neighbor's ass. Though I do wish that she'd leave her curtains open more often. It is a tedious process, holding the binoculars still with one hand, I'll tell you. And in this weather, they tend to fog.

    But that is one fine ass. She looks like the beaner chick on Desperate Housewives.

    Well, enough of that. To the Bat-pole, Robin!



    I Love Getting Diarrhea...

    Me and e-coli are pals.

    I just finished with (wellll, a few minutes ago, actually, not right here at my desk) a nice, grizzly squirt, the kind where when you lift the lid to seat to check, after, it looks like a Bile Demon's dripping maw.


    I love the first bold squirt, followed by the playful sputter of my shell-shocked pooter. There's always a second burst, so wait for it.

    The 'Don't Fart!' flag will sure be flying around here today.

    I had to look up Diarrhea to check my spelling (I was wrong, of course) and I found this delightful description as well, a nice bonus:

    Excessive and frequent evacuation of watery feces, usually indicating gastrointestinal distress or disorder.

    Hey, quit trying to make it sound like a bad thing. I know you all pity all them pitiful foreigners on various Dark Continents who are 'afflicted' with the, I'm just jealous.

    And enemas...boy do I enjoy a good enema. As if there are any bad ones. I am considering starting another blog, dedicated to the subject, and call it 'In Enema Territory'. Have ads for butt-bags and other accessories.

    Of course, I've only had a couple of enemas in my whole life, but I recall them with fondness, and regretted it when the experience was deemed to be over by its provider. As I age, I am sure that I will find occasion to engage in my new hobby more often.

    Something to look forward to.





    But funny.

    If you guys run across another contest for 'best humor blog', nominate this guy. I've been cracking up for half an hour. Read the Breast Milk entry.


        Friday, April 22, 2005


    Oh, I'll probably go see it, but I'm not terribly amped over seeing some unknown fruit flit around in tights, his package all a-bobble.

    That's just sad.

    For an uplifting, edifying discussion of all things Super, go here for all of your Super Needs.



    I Think...

    ...I may have only done this once before...

    Get out of my bed, turn the computer back on, and post something.

    'Killswitch Engage'. A metal band, on Jimmy Kimmel's show.

    Blew my fucking socks off. Incredible big, black, lead singer. Reminiscent of 'Living Color', but way more metal. Viking metal. Massive guitar wall of sound assault. Performance looked live, probably was.

    Check it out.


        Thursday, April 21, 2005


    ...the insanity.

    Just...stop it.



    Long Live Warren Zevon...

    Thanks, ajw308 for made me maudlin.

    This was one of the songs I put on the jukebox (the other was 'Black Betty') when I was about to clean out a bar, back in the day. I would put in two dollars, and pick whichever song over and over, and then turn to the crowd with a smile.

    People in the know, with any sense, either picked up their cigs and purses and sunglasses and un-assed the bar at a high rate of speed, or they lined up behind me and set to for a good brawl.

    There are many men (and a few women) who lost teeth and blood and other various tissues to this tune.

    Thanks ajw308, and thank you, Warren.



    Go Forth, And Read...

    ...this post. I am one of his readers, and I am honored that he reads me.



    Internet Addiction…

    My modem has been in a Persistent Fuckatative State since mid morning, and it has been wearing on my soul, heavily.

    You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone.

    I haven’t bought a TV Guide or a newspaper for a very long time. I go to check what’s on, and…

    Dammit. I go to see what movies are coming out tomorrow and…

    Dammit. I go to see if you people are rampaging naked through my comments section, performing acts against nature and…

    Dammit. I may have to go read a book.

    This sucks. I wanted to go see if Queenie has gotten off her fine ass and posted and…





    Whaddaya think about this?

    I'm a poor-ass sonofabitch, and cheap as well, but I have sent Lilek's money before for making me laugh out loud, or for a turn of phrase so sweet it left me in despair of ever being able to write again.

    I've tipped here and there a time or two, if I feel the blogger has enriched me in some way, or they have a cool project or a need.

    Lord knows I have benefited from your generosity. Boy howdy. We couldn't have made it through December without you, and you know who you are.

    I have never gotten anywhere near the amounts named in the article. Dammit.

    I'd blog, tips or not, and you know it. I hate blogads, but I could be bought. But I hope not.

    Anyway, thanks again, folks, and I hope to be able to continue to provide y'all a lowbrow pigpen to wallow around in.


    via Instapunk...



    I Have Seen The Face Of Evil...

    ...and it is the Doodle-Bops.

    If you haven't seen them yet, picture brightly colored gay clown mimes that talk.

    Heavy on the gay. With a side of gay. And special gay sauce. And aimed at children.

    My kids love them, but I have to rush from the room before the urge to apply mascara and suck a dick overwhelms me.

    Yes, they are that bad. When I have to be in the vicinity, I try to focus on the pink-haired Doodle-Bop chick. Doesn't work. I could not possibly fuck a clown.

    Now, Stephanie, from Lazytown, shows promise, and has featured in more than one of my guilty fantasies. I have a thing for female gymnasts. But I digress.

    The Four Horsemen will be preceeded by dancing gay clown mimes that talk, and throw baby scalps instead of flowers, from baskets woven from the dessicated intestines of Liberace.

    I'm just sayin...




    JamieR has a blog.

    I pretty much care not a whit about what any Aussie whippersnapper has to say about anything, but you might.

    Aussies were made so that the Irish don't have to feel so bad about themselves. Everything there is poisonous, their government are mostly cunts who take away your guns when someone drops his pistol on his foot, and their shark feeding ponds are cleverly disguised as beautiful beaches.

    Oh well. At least women outnumber the men, there. That's something. And Nemo got found there, somewhat near that ugly-ass building that looks like Satan's mom's pessary. And beer. Don't forget the beer.

    Oh, what am I saying...90% of that damn country would make an excellent atomic test range. The Aussies are missing out on an excellent financial opportunity, right there.


        Wednesday, April 20, 2005

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship.



    My Weird Kids...

    The phone rings a few minutes ago. Caller ID tells me it's my youngest Marine, at Pendleton.

    Hello, son...

    Hi, Dad...what's blue and sits on my porch?

    Uh, I dunno...

    He's my nigger, and I'll paint him whatever damn color I want!

    ( in the background, the general sounds of black voices hooting and yelling and yelling "Fuck you cracker!" to him)

    He (giggling uncontrollably) says Bye Dad, gotta ya...

    Mother Green's Lean Green Killing Machine. Your tax dollars at work. Fruit of my loins.



    I Wish He Was President Right Now...

    Alli sent me this wonderful bit starring General Patton.

    Do you think that there are any men like that left in our military? In our country?

    Precious few, I fear...precious few.



    Thanks Again!

    Thanks to all of you who donated to what I am thinking of as the 'Johnathan & Cheap Beer Fund'. Those trips to Portland are expensive, and I needs my alcohol.

    The Lovely and talented Difster started another blog for donations to me on the 11th, and a lot of you have. There is a nice contest with some nice prizes he has associated with this, so, since a lot of you chose to donate anonymously, and I'm lazy, and Difster is doing all the work, could you pretty please email him at so you can compete for the prizes, and if you don't want them email him and tell him you donated directly to me anyway because I know it will make him feel good.

    Thanks guys. This was completely unexpected, and pretty overwhelming. As you can see from my post of that time, it scared the crap out of me, at first, which amused Difster to no end.

    And my heartfelt thanks go out to Vox Day and Bruce Bethke as well, for even considering being involved with something remotely connected to me.

    I am touched, and more than just in the head.



    Unto Us A Blog Is Given...

    A new blog is born. Watch that space.

    It is frequent commenter (here, and at Vox's) ajw308. We'll see if he lasts a month, and if he can worm-herd his tendency to bloviate to hear his bloviator rattle (but then again, don't we all).

    I once said everybody should have a blog, and now they do.

    Except for TUA.



    How Much Is That Doggy In The Window?

    Some thoughts on natural selection...

    I do not have any idea how to pick a man. If you want one, that is your problem. I have no use for them.

    I have sought, found, cast away, and been cast away by many women. I have a great deal of experience with women, and, I believe, quite a bit of expertise as well.

    My wife is the Gold Standard. She replaced all previous Gold Standards. I shall focus primarily on her as I make my list and my points, but all of the other women I have known and loved and hated are in there somewhere, too.

    A woman should appeal to you sexually, first and foremost, I think. She should look as good out of her clothing and make-up as she does in them...maybe better. My standard is 'how does she look fresh out of the shower, hair matted and dripping, perhaps a little snot-bubble on her nose?'

    Do you want to wipe off the booger and give her a good tongue-drying? Then she's a keeper.

    All distractions of retards aside, your mate should, ideally, be almost as smart as you, if not smarter. A stupid woman is a millstone around your neck, no matter how good she looks.

    It has been difficult to find a woman smarter than me. I met this wife in a university level anatomy class, where we were lab partners. The possible overall score was 300. I got 308, and she got 318. We were the highest scorers in the class, and were roundly despised for ruining it for everybody else.

    Being a product of some of the best public schools in America (Scottsdale, Arizona) she was nearly illiterate when we met. But she worked hard, and devoured books that I recommended, and fed ravenously on history that her school 'learning' had given her no inkling existed.

    Try this experiment sometime: If you find yourself in a group of twenty-somethings, just say "December 7th, 1941?" and raise an eyebrow quizically. If one of them says the right answer, good for them, but note all of the faces that looked blank, and how long it took for someone to blurt the correct answer, if indeed they did at all.

    Do not cut a heifer from that herd. Move on.

    So, there anything else? Some people say their family is important. I do not.

    Love your family, if you can, but set them aside if they interfere with your mate. I told parents, my kids, everybody, that I loved my wife better than them, and that if they didn't like it they could kiss my ass, and that her enemies were now my enemies, and you do not want to be my enemy.

    It is far easier to set aside an annoying family member (or two) than to put up with the bullshit, and possibly lose the woman you love over it.

    So, looks? Smarts? is there anything else? If she's no good in bed, it's because you're no good in bed. There is no such thing as a lousy lay, just one you couldn't figure out how to get started. Heck, set the bitch on fire, but do something proactive.

    Giving a woman in her thirties her first orgasm is, while always thrilling, just fucking sad. I doubt that happens much anymore, what with all the magazines touting recipes for self-gratification and all, but I have always quietly mourned the waste of the best years of their sex lives for them. A bit.

    Can she cook? Who cares, you fat fuck. Cook for her, or eat out. That is one issue that is a damn waste of time and energy to fight over. My wife insisted on cooking for me when we first started getting romantic, when all I wanted to do was fuck. She had translated LaRousse's Gastrominique from the original French when she was a kid (now you can buy it on Amazon) and learned to cook by it. I was underwhelmed, but she has taught me a lot of stuff, and given me some pretty expensive tastes. I had never had Remy Martin VSOP with Benedictine before, for instance. And I'd been a damn bartender. Sad.

    Is that it? What about housekeeping? Oh, you lazy bastard, hire a maid. My wife is a clean freak, and I have to stop her or she'd wear herself out. I am training her to train the kids to do it. They have their whole lives ahead of them. I despise filth, but clutter never killed anybody, so lighten up.

    Age. Age is important, I think. I was 35 and she was 27 when we met. This has worked out for us. It might not have if I aged normally, though. You don't want to be an old wrinkle bag while noting that she's got the tits of a twenty year old, and knows it.

    Conversely, if you want some old broad, go fuck your mom. That's just creepy. Just because some matron turned your crank like you've never had it turned before doesn't make it love. That's doubtless lust, boy, and lust is not a solid foundation for a marriage. Unless she's rich. And has a bad heart. Then, okay, marry her, fuck like bunnies, and stock up on fire-crackers and joy-buzzers.

    A good rule of thumb is, I think, that if you don't want to get married at least as fiercely as she does, if not moreso, then don't get married. Don't just get married because you had that Sunday free, and she likes parties and to play dress-up.

    And if one of you wants kids and the other doesn't, you should probably part while you're still friends.

    I say 'probably', because I knew and my first wife knew damn well that I hated kids and never wanted kids, so she told me she was pregnant from behind a barricade, where she had plenty of running room, and I took to it immediately. I was a 100% Father in about half a second. She thought she had broken my mind. I tell you this as a cautionary tale. Attitudes can change in the twinkling of an eye, so never trust one right away.

    Conversely, if the woman does not ever want kids, and says so, you may have a problem, since that is probably the only valid reason to get married in the first place. Date her, live with her, but I counsel strongly against marrying her.

    I think that's it. Some of you will say that being a Christian is important. Well, it kinda is, but you can gain that or lose that just like any other attitude, and that's nothing to base a lifetime commitment on.

    And I think that's the key word, right there...commitment. If you cannot see yourself wiping this woman's ass when it looks like a dried apple and shits a fresh burst of pea soup over your fist, while her teeth float in a glass on the bedside table, you didn't have a fucking clue as to what 'til death do us part' meant, now, did you?

    And lastly, don't marry a bitch. A bitch is forever. If she is snotty to the waiter, raises hell in traffic, and mean to some of her 'friends', especially behind their backs, run. Or keep fucking her. But do not marry her.

    Beauty may be skin deep, but bitch goes all the way to the bone.


        Tuesday, April 19, 2005

    I Get Asked Questions...

    I make statements here and there, and people say "Why, you can't be serious!" Well, yes I can.

    I sometimes coat a thing with an acidic veneer of bitter sarcasm, but I never compromise my core principles. As far as I know, I only have one life, and I have to live with me.


    Yes, I would shoot my wife for serving me divorce papers. If I had it to do all over again, I would have killed my first wife that very day and made it look like an accident. When someone says to you they are going to destroy your life and the lives of your children and ruin the kids future interpersonal relationships, yes, that person deserves their death.

    Would I kill my wife for getting raped? Hmmmm. Tough one. Maybe. Why didn't she fight harder? Why does she have all of her teeth left? Why isn't she barely clinging to life in ICU? Why isn't she grabbing one of my guns and tearing back out the door to find the bastard and shoot him in the stomach several times? Case by case basis, I guess.

    Do I hate colored people (all non-whites) ?

    Black people: No, I love them. I hate niggers of all color, though. Like pornography, you know one when you see one. I hate Africa, and think AIDS and Ebola are a good idea.

    Mexicans? Yes. Unles they are American, then I go case by case basis. Fuck your heritage. Nuke Cuba now.

    Arabs? Yes. All of them, American or not. Hate em with a passion.

    I love the Asian people, and their culture. I break them down into several countries though, and don't lump them together. I have no use for Koreans. I think I like the Japanese people and their culture the best, but the Chinese people and their culture are a close second. I have no use for Indonesia, or Thailand, Burma or Cambodia, either. I'd turn Viet Nam into a sheet of glass.

    I despise American indians, and would have exterminated them all. Current anthropologists would be wondering what they were like. Ditto for South American Indians.

    I love the Spanish people and their culture and customs.

    Yes, I really despise Catholicism. All organized religion, but that one the most.

    Hmmm, what else.

    People ask me about Johnny, mostly (lately) about his hands. When he was born, his fingers were all webbed. His hands looked similar to those of a tree chameleon...mitts with thumbs. He could curl those little mitts, and hold your finger and a bottle and grab things. When the doctors separated his fingers and gave him five on each hand, the fingers lost the ability to bend, and are stiff, and misshapen, and look quite like small hot wing bones with a little meat on them, and are heavily scarred.

    It has been suggested that they will revisit his hands when he is much bigger, perhaps even an adult. Science marches on as well, and I have seen technologies that look promising. Until such a time, he can barely manipulate his eating utensils, and simple things are very difficult for him.

    Is he a tard? I don't know. I don't think so. He reads, writes, has a large vocabulary. I just don't know. So much of the judging we do is from the expression on a persons face, and his face is artificial.

    What I see with love, I'm sure others see as monstrous. God help the human who insults my child within my vicinity. I hated and was repulsed by retards for most of my life, but I never let them nor their kin see it on my face. That there is worth a killin. I would bash your head in for you for troubling a retard in my presence, and would have never engaged in such behavior myself.

    Let's see, what else...

    Am I a badass? Not any more. That's what makes me so dangerous. Where once I might have just slapped you for your nonsense, now I know I'll have to kill you to avoid a beating.

    I used to could jump flat footed, backwards, and land crouched on a parking meter. Folks see you do that, and you might not have to fight at all. I could snap an apple into fourths with my bare hands, and hand the pieces to my kids.

    Oh, I'm wicked fast, still, but I bet I don't have the stamina needed to prevail in a good ass-whipping contest. If I can't kill you in the first five seconds, you've doubtless got me, and I couldn't abide that. Of course, I probably could kill you in five seconds, but I am not a gambling man so, sorry, I'm gonna have to stab you or shoot you.

    Anything else? Ask away in the comments. I'll either be honest, or tell you no comment.



    Just Kill Me Now...

    Your Inner European is Irish!

    Sprited and boisterous!

    You drink everyone under the table.

    Thanks, ajw.



    Jolly Auld England...

    This is where we're headed if things don't change.

    You can't make an omellette without breaking a few judges.


        Monday, April 18, 2005


    ...from the No Shit, Sherlock files.

    Slow news day?




    I thought I'd do better.

    Via Who's Paranoid?

    Armed and Dangerous
    Congratulations! You scored 93%!
    You made it out, alive and well supplied. You probably even kept most of your party alive too. You know what to look for, what to take, and when to just run. You even feel a strange inkling to go back. If you did, you'd probably do just fine.

    My test tracked 1 variable How you compared to other people your age and gender:

    free online datingfree online dating
    You scored higher than 99% on survivalpoints
    Link: The Zombie Scenario Survivor Test written by ci8db4uok on Ok Cupid


    Bored, Bored, Bored...

    One of those days. The wife is transporting John up to Portland, and I've got Nat. I eagerly await nap time.

    The wife is transporting John for the first time in a long while. We have always used transport before. The State provides it for John, and we'd be fools (we thought) not to take advantage of it. It used to be that the van would show up exactly when they said they would, and whisk them there and back in a nice, new mini-van. Then some feckless bureaucrat decided it was time for them to justify their existence by having their yearly idea, so they went and did the low bid thing, and beat up vans started showing up too early or too late with no seatbelts and wind whistling through rust holes, and instead of leaving his booster seat in the van, John has to carry it around the hospital while the wife carries their other stuff because the van turns right around and leaves, and she has to estimate when she'll need a ride home and then call from the hospital and an operator puts out the call into a computerized system for the various companies to bid on and eventually, maybe, someone shows up and brings them back home. Last time it was an Algerian immigrant. Hooray.

    So today she took the car.

    And I'm bored. I had a funny post about me having sex with a retard almost finished but I decided that was too tasteless even for me so I deleted it. It was great sex, though. Retard pussy's mighty fine, and you don't get burdened with a lot of talking. I have always said that if the wife dies, I'm gonna go out and find me another hot Jayne Mansfield-looking retard.

    Damn I'm bored. John skidmarked my bed during nap time yesterday, and I didn't find it til this morning. Little fucker. I kept sniffing low-grade fartitosis off and on, and checking my breath, my pits, my own underwear, and then this morning the glaring light of day reveals his perfidy.

    That's it. I'm putting him in a Hefty Bag up to his friggin neck. Nat's doing a little better, her and her potty training dollie, but she still takes the occasional lazy piss at night, so we use those toddler pull-ups. Problem is, those fuckers absorb so well that it is not uncomfortable to piss your pants. I need to find some chemical that reacts with urine and sets her little cooter on fire or something. Just BLAM! and a smoking hole in the front, while she stares goggle-eyed at her crotch. Or maybe Pop Rocks.

    The wife got me a nice bottle of Asti Spumante and some fresh, succulent pears for my birthday breakfast, Saturday. She had a rare glass with me, and I offered a shot glass full to both kids. Nattie was disgusted by it, so John got her share, too. Great idea...get the little crippled boy fucked up. Pretty hysterical. You're cut off, boy. Now pull your misshapen lump of a head from that hole in the wall and go upstairs and have your mother look at that. And don't bleed on the damn rug. No, you can't have another sip.

    I can hear the soft twist of panties as we speak.

    Bored, bored, bored.

    Nattie screeched at me the other day, and turned to scamper down the stairs. Offended, I calculated the flight speed of a running toddler and took my empty can of Pabst and set it on the nice, wide bannister, and let it slide. She and it became temporarily conjoined twins, at the head...Bonk! as she made the turn to the landing. I am very proud of that shot. My wife just gawped at me, lower jaw literally dropped open. Then she laughed. And then she yelled at me for making her laugh. Nat just looked at me and rubbed her head and hollered "Hey, knock it off!" so I said "Get me another beer!" and she said "NO!" and Johnny yelled "I'll get it!" and she screamed "NO! I'll get it!" and I got two beers, after a short struggle at the fridge, and again at the bottom of the stairs. If you do not have your children beer-trained, I pity you and yes, as a matter of fact, you are a bad parent.

    'Knock it off!' is fast becoming Nattie's favorite phrase, second only to 'Give me that, it's mine!'

    If you can use a shock collar on a dog, can you put one on a kid? I'll have to look into that. I had a boss once who put one on his German Shepherd. I hated that dog, but I fet sorry for it, as the boss was really trigger happy with the controller. If the poor thing would so much as leave his side, or make as if to leave his office, bzzzztttt! and the dog would go all spastic and goggle-eyed and pee a little. The dog began to actually look haggard.

    I trained a cat of ours once with this 8mm soft pellet pistol. I'd nail it from across the room when it pulled some stupid cat trick, like climbing a curtain, scratching the furniture, or getting on a kitchen counter. If you have a cat, and make a sandwich right on the counter, you are eating a cat's ass. Use a plate.

    Anyway, I'd pop the cat and he'd jump out of his skin and get this "What the fuck?" expression on his face. Never suspected me. Probably thought it was God or Evil Cat Spirits or something. He finally went crazy and attacked the wife and I crushed his furry little neck. That was one fur-sack that only had one life, I'm here to tell you. I hope animals don't go to Heaven, because I have sent a couple of truckloads there. I have heard blockheads tell me to my face that their dog or cat is going to heaven. Like God is only going to let the fuzzy cute ones in. Utter crap.




    Bring It On!

    This story takes me to my Happy Place.

    I need to look into this guy. He sounds like a possibly good choice for President.


        Sunday, April 17, 2005

    Another New Blog...

    I like her mind, and that she gives us a glimpse inside.

    Too pink, a standard 'chick blog' offense, but I have been known to enjoy pink, a time or two.

    You ladies should stick together...form a coalition or something.

    And knit me some damn slippers.

    My feet are cold.



    Deadwood Update...




    It Remains To Be Seen...

    ...if we are creating a monster, or not.

    Either way, the djinn is out of the bottle.



    We Had Their Balls... custody, so why didn't we hammer on them?

    Read this article for perhaps the most egregious example of wimp-ass obfuscative bullshit I may have ever seen.

    War on Terror, my ass.



    Look What I found...

    ...stuck to the bottom of my shoe.

    Okay, I'm pissed, but that blog is doing the Lord's work, so they get to live.


    Scroll down to 'Help?' to see what pissed me off.

    And don't start a blog war. I hate those.


        Saturday, April 16, 2005

    It's Not The Ones They Catch...

    ...that bother me.

    It's the ones who are still out there...




    ...hear about this?

    There are people who believe everything that comes along, and there are people who scoff at everything that comes along. I'm somewhere in the middle, more of a 'Believing Scoffer', if you will.

    Tell me somebody or something wants to kill me, and you have my attention.


        Friday, April 15, 2005

    You Say It's Your Birthday...

    ...well it's my birthday too, yeah...

    Tomorrow. The Big 5-0h. As in "Oh shit, lookit all those gray hairs!"

    It wasn't my idea. I've been trying to die for years. No one seems to be able to kill me, and I care too much for my few loved ones to do the logical thing, and voluntarily jump off a ride that always ends terminally, and, usually, painfully and humiliatingly.

    I've been in over 15 major car accidents, and came through with but a few scratches, and in some cases, not even a bump. I've been shot at, stabbed, cut, beaten, pushed out of aircraft, hit by cars (twice), and not one of those cocksuckers had the decency to end my miserable life.
    I have welcomed several serious illnesses, and have been cured of every one. I welcome the dentist this month to take his shot...such a procedure holds promise. Any number of things can go wrong.
    But no, I'll just end up alive, in pain, and chugging inexorably towards another damn birthday.


    There is a very nice, silenced Ruger .22 pistol a company in Bend puts out, but no, I will doubtless get a book, or a couple of humorous cards, maybe with a few small bills in them. Doubtful, as my kin is poor, as well.


    I am drinking Pabst beer, a seviceable brew, and cheap. I do not care to disrespect my loyal donors with extravagance. Later, I shall switch to a dago red. Git'r done. I'll watch my Friday night fare, and pray for an embolism just before bed.

    I'll wake up to 'Happy Birthday!'
    My wife ratted me out to the kids, and they are beside themselves. Natty has been telling me not to watch as she makes my present...some wretched, colored and papered and scissored thing which I will, of course, treasure.

    John merely watches. He is mostly watching, and trying to smile with his new face, which pains him as the new mouth-bolts drag on the inside of his lips, a situation which we hope to rectify Monday. John is not terribly crafty, seeing as how God chose to, at least temporarily, deny him serviceable fingers. I...we, make him fend for himself as best he can, and it tortures me to watch him work so hard at a button, or a zipper, or hold a crayon.

    He sometimes holds his little hands out and just looks at them. Quizically. I take his hands and kiss them and never let him hide them. I love it when he holds my face in those scarred, broken hands, or claps them enthusiastically to one of his favorite Jesus songs. He's a good, nay, a great clapper. He can give a clap offering like nobody's business.

    It is hard, though, when someone has the courage to ask him how old he is, and he gamely tries to show them seven fingers, and the last three won't bend out of the way.

    Oh, look. Now I've gone and made you maudlin...brought you down to my level, as it were. Sorry. Kinda.

    Now you know how I feel about turning 50.



    For Those Of You...

    ...unfortunate enough to have Muslim co-workers, especially those of you in the military, a little warning.

    You simply cannot know what are behind those smiling brown eyes, so take steps to cover your back, accordingly.

    When I was in, such men as these would have met with tragic, and very permanent accidents.

    Any other course is foolishness and, ultimately...




    New (to me) Blog Alert...

    Via the Lovely and Talented Amigo, I was happily directed to this wonderful blog.

    I like how this guys mind works, and admire his walk with God.

    I hope you enjoy, too.



    Kill Fucking Chickens...

    This is good news. We need more of it. The only reason I don't eat at KFC is that it has gotten cheaper to eat steak. KFC has become the most expensive fast food out there. The last time I pulled through there I was craving a chicken leg. They wanted nearly three dollars for it, so I told them to fuck off and drove away.

    What we really need are roving bands of organized young anarcho-conservatives, who can figure out where these various leftist pinko activist groups are going to be, and show up with Mace and spray paint (pink and red, of course) and hit & run the shit out of them.

    Got a local hippy restaraunt that supports Green causes and ELF? Burn that motherfucker down.

    Got some libtard local politician who likes to pass goofy-ass hippy local ordinances? Whipped cream and dogshit pie, right in the face.

    Fuck these wimps. They have run roughshod over us for far too long.

    Any Young Republicans reading this? There's your marching orders.

    They wanna call us brownshirts? Let's give em brownshirts.



    A Great Resource...

    ...for military videos.

    Follow the instructions (you must have BitTorrent) and be careful of your hard drive space...these files are huge. I have to remember to delete them once I've watched them, or burn them to DVD.

    Have fun.


    I got that link from this site, which also has a lot of good stuff.


        Thursday, April 14, 2005

    My Money Where My Mouth Is...

    I just changed my homepage from Google to Yahoo.

    I like Google better...a trimmer interface, and I think their searches might be better. Tough. I am tired of those liberal assholes, and I have a choice, so I made it.

    The Yahoo interface is messy, and makes the page load slower, but fukkit. Liberals suck dog balls, and I hate them. I still avoid a theatre in town for showing Michael Moore's tripe, and I have missed movies I really want to see as a result. Tough.

    Vote with your money, folks, and let them know every chance you get. I was such a regular presence at that theatre, they noticed when I stopped coming. The manager asked me, when he saw me in the store, where I'd been, and I told him why he'd never see me again. He actually winced. Fifteen new screens have opened in town, and he feels the pressure.




    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship...


        Wednesday, April 13, 2005


    I was hooked at the opening credits. Good music with no vocals, and a big-titty babe climbing into the tub! Bliss. I am wont to pause that scene and just enjoy her splendid curves. God Bless the DVD, and the non-jittery pause.

    From the praise of Deadwood by my readers, especially the lovely and delectable Calamity TUA, I expected I would enjoy the show, and I have not been disappointed. There is, however, one slight problem...

    I am two seasons behind, and each season sells for about $80. Renting them a DVD at a time (each DVD is two episodes) amounts to about the same cost, and you don't get to keep them and there are those late fees if you fuck up. Fucking cocksuckers.

    I watched the third episode last night, and was very saddened (and quite surprised, though I knew the history quite well) that they killed my favorite gunslinger (well, my favorite, next to Doc Holliday, of course). That sucked.

    The casual evil in this show is chilling. I like the (mostly) sepia tones, the grit, and the filth. I do wish they would show more of the general day to day involved in Western living. Maybe that increases later.

    Some have suggested that I resemble the Swearengen character. This stings me so. I identify far more with Bullock, though now that Powers Booth has arrived, I contain a bit of him, too.

    I highly recommend this show to anybody over the age of 14. It is definately R material, and then some, but I grew up around places like that, and the stamp of those days can still be seen in the long time inhabitants who have grown up through generations from the original stock.

    I remember digging in my back yard as a child, and finding Chinese opium bottles, old beer and whiskey bottles, and other treasures from a bygone era. A house I lived in was built on the other side of a rock wall that had been laid by heathen Chinee in the 1800's.

    Go on. Rent the first one. Get hooked.




    O Happy Day!

    There is hope that the shitstain of humanity will be washed out of the underwear of life once and for all.

    Fingers crossed!


        Tuesday, April 12, 2005

    The Best Split Pea Soup...'ll ever have. Seriously.

    Step One:

    Crock pot a corned beef, add one cut up onion, garlic powder (we use lots), chives, fennel, a few pinches of kosher salt, and some fresh, grated nutmeg.
    Cook all afternoon, leave in broth, should be fall-apart tender.

    Step Two:

    In a large, deep-walled non-stick skillet, place:

    4 cups water
    2 cups split peas (dried)
    1/2 Large SWEET onion (chopped)
    4 large cloves of garlic (crushed)
    1 medium stalk celery, minced (we use a little one-speed $8 mini-processor)
    2 large carrots in small pieces
    approx 2 tbsp peanut oil
    approx 2 tbsp olive oil (Extra Virgin)
    approx 2 tbsp bacon grease
    a few more pinches of kosher salt
    fresh ground pepper to taste (I generally cover the top with pepper)

    Step Three:

    Simmer above on low until all of the liquids have absorbed into the peas and the peas are mush.

    Pour in some broth from the corn beef.

    food process 1/2 of the corned beef and throw it in, or the whole damn thing if it was a small one. Ours was the size of your head.

    Near the end, add 1/2 to 1 cup of Riesling wine, and 1/4 cup of half&half.


    And that's it, for the best damn split pea soup I have ever had in my entire 50 years on this planet. It wasn't just good, it was moaningly, food-gasmically good. Write a damn blog post about it good.

    I grew up going to an Anderson's Split Pea Soup Factory restaurant near my home. Ate there all the time, and it was the standard by which I have judged every soup until now. I gots me some soup cred. I knows soup. And this is some badass soup.

    It is thick, and rich, and meaty. She beat the meat so as to take it easy on my poor tooth, and it turned out to be the stroke of genius that really broke open the flavor. That, and the wine and the peanut oil and the bacon grease. They really work well together.

    For variations, the wife and I have discussed trying oyster sauce in it, and playing with mild peppers. You could also chunk your meat into larger cubes, but I think shredding it fine is the secret to this dish.

    Try it my way first, and then you can fart around with it. I might even use a sweet beer next time, with or without the Reisling.

    In the interests of full disclosure, the wife's recipe she wrote down for me here said '1-2 tbsp' on the oils, but I went with the higher number, just because. Plus, I know she goes back and taste tests, and adds shit later and forgets about it. She's not here right now to ask, but I bet she put Paprika into it, too. We love Paprika.

    Oh well, have at it, and have fun. We had it with toasted garlic and cheese bread (buttered), and a hearty red wine.




    What A Great Nose!

    I think I'm in love. I'm down for some hot Eskimo smoochin with that glorius schnozz, oh yeah.




    But wait! There's more!


    Any man who tells me that if this chick fell into his arms and died of a brain aneurysm, and there was no one around and he had absolute privacy, and tries to tell me he wouldn't do her while her radiator cooled, as it were, is a lying SOB.


        Monday, April 11, 2005

    In Glorious Spank-O-Rama!

    Cumming up, in mere minutes! The Miss USA Swimsuit Competition! Worst case scenario, I'm in a full body cast tomorrow. Best case, some Ben-Gay on the wrist, and an Ace Bandage.

    At least a good soak in a bowl of ice, so I can use my good right hand again.

    Whups, s'cuse me!


    Whew! What a passel O' goddesses. I liked the 'same swimsuit' thing. Less distracting. What was with the stupid scarf, though? Miss California tossed hers aside, thank goodness.
    And I don't care what their fucking name is! Assholes! Why flash it on a banner over their tits when they do their first "Hi, here's my breasts!" close-up!


    Both Miss New York and Miss North Carolina made me pop a knuckle, for what it's worth. Then the two black chicks (and one of em jiggling like Jello Puddin, baybee) and then all the rest.

    The only reason I can imagine going to all the bother of becoming a billionaire, is to have all ten of those bitches delivered to my Mazola Oil Gymnastic Centre and Fuckpad, all hyped up on Ecstasy, and ready for me to despoil for hours.

    And then I'd do me some Viagra, and despoil some more.

    Yee haw!!

    ps...of course, the old lady, claiming 'tiredness', would not even lay next to me so I could dry hump her leg, let alone lend a hand. She went to bed, thinking only of herself, as usual. OOOOO, Little Miss 'I took Johnny up to the hospital all day and I'm too tired for your bullshit so g'night'...yeah, next time you want something, I just may think twice about it if I were you, Miss Uncongeniality.

    Yeah, that's right, run off to bed, beeyotch! Can't touch this!



    Okay, This Is Weird...

    I just noticed this blog in my referral list. I have never heard of this person. They have not contacted me. If you send any money in, though, I bet you will make them very happy.

    I would be very surprised if I saw any of it. Looks kinda Nigerian, to me.

    Nice gesture, though.

    Caveat Emptor.


    The more I ponder it, the suspisciouser I get. I have donation buttons on my own blog, should folks feel so inclined. This looks like fraud, pure and simple.

    Again, I have had no contact with this person, and do not support their effort.

    Unless I get money out of it.

    Money is the root of all.


    Well, egg on my face. This is why nobody who knows me gives me surprise parties. The bodies hitting the floor kinda ruin the spirit of the whole thing.

    Turns out the Lovely and Talented Difster is somehow complicit in this, and is somehow in cahoots with the equally Lovely and Talented Vox Day in a valiant, if somewhat bizzarre (and totally unexpected) way.

    Vox gets the award for 'Best Shot At A Little Crippled Boy By A Non-Troll':

    Bane has been inflicted by various plagues and poxes of the financial variety, mostly due to his fateful decision to pass on his inferior genetics to future generations.

    That's the way you do it, folks.

    Well, this was a weird situation to come home to today, and I'm glad it's all sorted out. I still feel a little like I had to tongue-kiss Grandma to get my allowance but, hey, it all spends...



        Saturday, April 09, 2005

    Death To The 70's!

    Those who market the past, are condemned to repeat it...

    If you let people who are on drugs tell you what is cool, what you get are the 70's.

    Conversely, if you have people who are desperately trying to get laid, and have access to lots of Cocaine, you get the 80's.

    But let's focus here on the 70's. Or not. They sucked. I was there. Nothing was cool, you just were convinced by some salesperson, or some model who would look great festooned with rotting animal guts, that you looked cool in your burgundy ultra-flares, your yellow silk cowboy shirt, and your platform heels.

    You did not. You looked like an imitation pimp, or a low rent Burbank porn actor.

    Cool left the building in the 70's, and has made very few guest appearances since being put into a permanent vegetative state by that vibrant display of homosexuality and general confusion I like to call 'The Brady Bunch'. Ditto 'The Partridge Family'. I would think up more, but I am wincing too hard. 'The Captain & Tenille'...

    Ow. There went a vein. Hope it wasn't being used.

    And now, everywhere I turn, I see the 70's again. Target and Old Navy are perhaps the most egregious offenders.

    It's like you had grandma safely buried in the back yard, under the Dahlias, and you begin to notice bony fingers picking at the turf, wiggling up into the sun like happy tapeworms. You look away, look back, and what's that? Dragmarks? And then she plops herself down at the dinner table with you, and asks for a plate, and a busy earthworm pops out of an eye socket and crawls happily toward your endive salad.

    No, we must put a torch to the 70's, hang all faggot 'designers' from lamp-posts, their intestines pulled out as a warning to anyone else who would ever do it again, and purge our fashion history, with fire and steel, of that time of communal horror...
    of that time that we accepted the madness of thinking that colors could be allowed to clash, that plastic belts were cool, when we allowed the evil-infested, cannibis besotted brains of a generation to perpetrate crap, perchance to be reperpetrated...

    No more, I beg of you.

    No more.



    To See A Man About A Horse...

    Well, Charles and Camilla got hitched. Considering her equine appearance, no apter term was ever coined to describe the travesty of that pot-eared butler-fucker attaching himself to his adulterous filly in a ceremony as dry and dusty as a big old mouthful of biscuit flour.

    Bet his boys loved that. Chuck likes to rub their noses in it because he knows damn well he didn't fuck Diana, so who's damn kids are they, anyway? And I wonder how many times Chuckie pronged the both of them when they were still little and cute?

    Mind you, it cheers me every day to wake up and realize Diana, Princess of Whales, is still, quite thankfully dead, but still, I would have had a go at her cooling corpse before I could even accept so much as a handjob from Camel-illa. Yeesh. Can you imagine her, underneath you, her head thrashing about, warbling out "Darling, fill me with your seed, I am spending!"

    Me neither. Double-yeesh.

    And those hats...bugger me, but if that doesn't just scream inbreeding! and a desperate need for a bullet, just about two inches below the brim.

    Inbreeding. One mutation away from insanity, or so I heard from a geneticist yesterday on the telly. One mutation my ass. They slipped over that line a few mutations ago, and are down there into eat their young and fuck the housepets.

    Well, all I can say is that there must be some really serious shit going on in the world today, somewhere, to warrant this non-stop series of freakshows that They've been tossing up against our retinas like so much thrown garbage.

    As has been the underlying theme of this blog all along, it is too late, it has gone too far, and we're fucked.

    But just once, I'd like to see the man behind the curtain.

    Just once.



    Just One More...

    ...reason this country is going to shit.

    In a sane country, this woman would be dead, or locked away for the rest of her life.

    Say hello to your new neighbor.


        Friday, April 08, 2005

    We Have...

    ...a problem.

    I have a solution.






    A Stopped Clock...

    My record shows I despise Bill O'Reilly for a myriad of reasons. Nevertheless, this is brilliant:

    By Bill O'Reilly

    More danger from the ACLU: that is the subject of this evening's "Talking Points Memo."

    As you may know, the American Civil Liberties Union wants Terri Schiavo to die saying it believes she did not want to live with a feeding tube and if you don't believe that, you are violating Terri's privacy rights. Once again, the ACLU comes down on the progressive side of an issue as it does 100 percent of the time these days.

    On Monday, the ACLU won a big victory when the Supreme Court allowed the liberal Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals to throw out an Idaho law requiring parental consent for under age abortion. That of course undermines American parents which is exactly what the ACLU wants.

    Want more? OK...

    * The ACLU believes any and all abortions should be legal.

    * It believes American borders should be open. And it may sue a citizen's group called the Minutemen which will begin patrolling the southern border on Friday.

    * The ACLU believes child pornography should be available on the Net. And it is also representing NAMBLA in a civil lawsuit in Massachusetts saying the North American Man-Boy Love Association has a right to print instructions on how to rape children.

    * The ACLU believes pornographic outlets should be located wherever they want - in your neighborhood, next to a church, next to a school, no restrictions.

    * It believes the military can't stop open displays of homosexuality within its ranks.

    * It believes gay marriage and polygamy should be legalized.

    * It is suing Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld over torture allegations.

    * And just today the ACLU criticized General Ricardo Sanchez for the rough interrogation of some captured terrorists.

    Are you getting all of this? Getting the picture?

    It's quite apparent the American Civil Liberties Union wants a brand new America, where the gratification of the individual is paramount. In order to achieve that, the ACLU opposes all displays of religion on public property. It champions the secular and attacks judgment-based faith.

    Finally, it is worth repeating a famous quote by the man who founded the ACLU, Roger Baldwin . This quote can be found in Baldwin's biography written by Peggy Lampson. Quote, "I am for socialism, disarmament and ultimately for abolishing the state itself as an instrument of violence and compulsion. I seek social ownership of property and the abolition of the propertied class."

    I hope everybody understands just how dangerous this well-funded ACLU is to your freedom. These people say they're looking out for Terri Schiavo. They say they are looking out for you. Don't believe it.

    And that's "The Memo."