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        Thursday, June 30, 2005

    Things I Hate To Do...

    Hit Johnny in the face with a wiffle ball. Smack! right in the newly remodeled cheek. I hope I haven't moved any of his skulltonic plates. The kid can handle pain, believe me, but he fell in a heap over that one, and now I feel like a dirty bastard.

    Well, in the interests of accuracy, he pitched the ball to me, I whacked it into the side of the house, and he turned into the ricochet. Ouch. I hate that.

    I hate shopping. Oh, to be sure, I can spend hours in a gun shop, trying on guns, sniffing various solvents and reagents, or lose a whole day in a big book store.

    No, I hate clothes shopping. I won't do it for myself, or go with the wife. I even hate Victoria's Secret. My wife measures me and goes and picks stuff out and brings it back and I try it on and wear it unless she decides to take it back. I will not shop with her, and that is all there is to it.

    I can buy shoes, because I only wear one type of hiking boot that I like. I just find the box in my size, check to make sure some Mexican didn't leave his shoes in there while he stole the new ones, and bug out to the checkstand. I can buy socks, too, because I know my size, and they come in a package. Still, I hyperventilate a little until I'm safely in the car.

    Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm a Mallie from way back. I can wander in wonder through a mall all day. I love toys, and housewares. I adore the electronics section. I secretly fondle the $800 dollar gas grills when no one is looking, and will follow a nice ass in shorts all around the store until she leaves.

    I just hate clothes, and the process of their acquisition. Ugh. I am palpitating at the thought. The wife benefits, because she gets to see me in what she wants. If I like a shirt, I will wear it until it rots off me.

    Oddly, I do not hate vomiting. I see it as a joyful release, your stomach having a good spooge. I don't mind the taste, either. I have only forced myself to vomit a couple of times in my life, though. I believe each time involved me having consumed a good portion of something that I found a bit later to contain live, wriggly tenants who obviously had already made their claim to the premises, and wriggled in white, pulpy indignation at the invasion of my teeth.

    Or perhaps, I barfed upon discovering that I had eaten something that was not actually meant to be a food item. Don't ask.

    I hate chewing-tobacco. I watched in horror, at a party one time, as one of the drunks, mistaking some Good Ole Boys spit can for an actual can of beer, upended that sucker and drained much of it in a mighty draught...did you just throw up a little? In your neck? Me, too. Fuck that shit is nasty.

    I hate Christmas music.

    I hate popsicle sticks and wooden kitchen utensils and tongue depressors. See: puke. I have the jeebies right now just from writing that.

    I hate old people, and how they stink of piss and rot and cheap drugstore stinkum. I hate their goggly eyes, their saggy skin. I hate them most when they are behind the weel of a car, I think, but regardless, they all need to be pushed down the stairs.

    I hate it that I have a really good head start into becoming one.

    Yep, I think I hate that worst of all.



    I Want... make fart sounds with my mouth on that belly.

    Maybe then she'll move her arms. And of course there's more.

    Ali is such a tease, flaunting, yet hiding her assets. I love her dearly, but I find this wench much more refreshingly honest, and, if it were possible, even more sexy.

    But this one is just plain old fashioned stunning, clothes or not.


        Wednesday, June 29, 2005

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship.

    Why aren't we killing these 'people' in droves?




    The American Dream...

    Ya'll need to be doing this, about once a week.

    I mean it.

    Okay, just them out somewhere private, and leave them dead, in a ditch.


    Link fixed (thanks, Drumslinger).



    War Of The Worlds...

    Okay, I feel like I'm not ready to write about this, and yet, I must. There were only about twenty people in the theatre today (not counting little kids) and I really really want everybody who can to go see this movie.

    Several times.

    First off, let me begin by saying that I would dearly love to nail-gun Dakota Fanning to the kitchen floor, and then drizzle lighter fluid over her socks, and then light her feet.

    Scream now, you little bitch. Make me believe it.

    Then I would drizzle a blazing trail in circular rivulets up her body, and thence into her hyper-thyroidal eyes, and finally, choke off that scream by squirting the rest of the can down into her perfectly circular little mouth, frying her uvula like a hog chitlin.

    Die, you little bitch.

    Speilberg (sp? I don't care) is a twisted fuck. He doesn't know whether to shit, or go blind, but he has a vision, for what it's worth, and he is not ever afraid to share it.

    I staggered out of ET with the two chicks who took me, and we joined the sobbing throng out in Boogerville (the parking lot) where entire bunches of complete strangers sobbed on each other, like drunks at an Irish wake.

    Stevie can work the crowd.

    I'm not exactly sure what he was doing, here, but I suspect he is trying to be true to all of the incarnations of Mister Wells original tale.

    He succeeds. Admirably.

    The first thirty minutes may be the best ever put on film...well, maybe except for Private Ryan. I was buttered up, rolled over and buttered on the other side, and then put on the rack and sent through the oven.

    You teeter between "Oh...bullshit!" and "Ahhhh, fuck me!" and you think you have found your Happy Place and then someone hits you on the back of the head with a big rubber penis and cuts off one of your nipples with a pair of garden shears and you realize this coaster ride is far from over.

    The ending took me to my 'Uncomfortable Place', and we all got a glimpse of Mister Cruise's wacky crazy manic side...there's sumthin wrong wit dat boy...

    I got to see someone kill a libtard I truly hate with a garden tool. Bonus.

    This film reached me on another level, too. As a father, I realized that at some point, maybe it is okay to kill your kids to make the world a better place.


    This film is rated PG-13, but would have gotten an R for any other director. The twenty or so audience members I mentioned earlier brought their spawn with them. Rather than detracting from my enjoyment, it enhanced it to hear the nubbins asking their mom or their dad what was going on and why did that man die? and are they gonna come and get me in my bed tonight?

    Dipshits. I learned early on to preview movies for my kids, after taking my under six year olds to see 'Critters'. That's a whole nother story, indeed.

    In short, a typical Shpeelburg film...brilliant, flawed, and one you will buy on DVD and watch over and over again. not deny yourself the pleasure of seeing this on the Big Screen. Or hearing it. Best Sound Effects, Ever.

    Music? I dunno. Couldn't tell you if there was any at all. Go, see tell me. I can't remember any at all.

    I think that's a good thing. I am so fucking tired of Danny Elfman.



    Nothing To Say...

    ...and no time to say it.

    'War of the Worlds' review coming. Watch this space. I'm going this afternoon. I'll try to not kill anybody. We'll see.

    I have managed, quite miraculously, I think, to not see one preview of this movie. I knew I was going to see it as soon as I heard about it, so I have been in a total marketing lockdown.

    I see Tom Cruise's face, I change the channel. I go in to theatres just as the movie starts, to miss all the bullshit ads and previews.

    If you pull Dakota Fanning's hair back tight, she only looks about three.

    I worked on a Compaq computer I got out of the trash all day yesterday. I replaced my wife's blown one with it. Compaq's are the worst pieces of shit on the planet. They are designed especially so you can't upgrade or do a fucking thing to them. Without a great deal of blood, sweat and tears, anyway.

    I plugged it in, hooked everything up, and it worked perfectly. Some college student dumped it, and a 19 inch monitor (also perfect) a working VCR, two perfect stereo speakers...several other perfectly good items...right in the dumpster.

    We have furnished much of our house and gotten many perfectly good things from the dumpsters of college students.

    Thanks, college students. Your parents bought you this stuff, and you chuck it when you get evicted because you spent the rent money on dope and credit card payments.

    Thanks again. Losers.

    So, the fucking PC had Win 98 on it, and I upgraded to 2000 Pro. Put in the wifes ex hard drive. Networked it. Sounds easy, but that bitch gave me shit all fucking day until I got it right.

    Wife is ecstatic. She has been without her own PC for a year, because I am an Olympian procrastinator.

    Anybody see part one of Empire last night? Fucking awesome. Best Caesar I've ever seen.

    Anybody see our Liar In Chief last night? Fuck him. I hate it when hippies and I agree on anything. They don't get it that we both hate him, but for manifestly different reasons.

    I am more like a jilted lover, than anything.

    Ponder that.

    Oh, and speaking of faggots, you dumbshit faggoty faggots, quit outing public figures, it only makes me hate you more. Seriously.
    I don't say "Oh, look at all the famous homosexuals! Perhaps I should be more tolerant of the lifestyle!"

    No, I say "You fucking stupid faggots, now you've ruined another icon I enjoyed...bastards."

    Seriously. I guess you fags can't help it, being morally retarded and all, but I wish you would just shut the fuck up and get back in the closet where you belong.

    To that end, I am starting an organization I like to call 'B.I.T.C,H!', for 'Back In The Closet, Homo!'

    Send me dues. I'll appoint you Sergeant At Arms, or Chief Fist-fucker, or something.

    Hey, I have an invention that one of you needs to make and then send me royalties. I don't know whether to call it the 'Fart Bomb' or what, but it would be essentially a little aerosol container, shaped like an old-style pineapple grenade, that you punch in a button on the top, open the bathroom door, toss it in, and after a couple of seconds, it begins to spin around and emit air freshener, so at some point you can enter after someone has taken a toxic dump and not die from farticle poisoning.

    Well, gotta go. Nothing to say, and liquor to drink, and movies to see.

    Fuck, it's hot today. Dang near 80.

    Global warming.


        Tuesday, June 28, 2005

    I Live To Serve...

    Via Haloscan:

    I'm sure some of you have noticed a couple problems have started popping up with Haloscan, especially around peak hours (some delayed/missing email notifications, slowdowns during peak hours, etc).

    Most of these problems are caused by the existing server hardware becoming overloaded.

    Three new servers were ordered about a week or two ago and they will finally be brought online tomorrow (Tuesday).

    After the servers are installed in the server rack tomorrow, I will be integrating it into the existing cluster one by one (hopefully without causing any downtime to the existing servers).

    This will basically double the server capacity and should eliminate many of the recent problems that have popped up. Thanks for your patience while these problems are sorted out.

    You're welcome.


        Monday, June 27, 2005

    Oh, I'm Sorry...

    Have you forgotten?


    There is a porn redirect embedded in there somewhere, but if you use a pop-up stopper it should protect you.

    Use link at your own risk.



    Best Songs, Ever...

    Norman Greenbaum's 'Spirit In The Sky' is right up there in the Top Five, but Iron Butterfly's 'Innagaddadavidda' has to be number one, though Mountain's 'Mississippi Queen' sometimes knocks it off and rules for a while.

    Then, there's The Troggs 'Wild Thing'. Oh baby, I love that song. Hmmmmm...

    Okay, Heart's 'Barracuda', and 'Taking Care of Business' by BTO round out the top five.

    Wait, that's six...alright, 'Radar Love', by Golden Earring. Just about anything by G&R, but specifically, 'Paradise City'.

    'Boom', by Bloodhound Gang:

    Stop as we drop this bomb
    Blow up this place like another Vietnam
    Heavy like a Tyson blow to the dome
    Back up son give me room give me room
    To set it off like this don't give it up
    I'm all up in you till you just can't get enough
    Real hard to the bone you want more
    I sneak up on you like a sniper at your back door
    Phat flavor for your brain you know the time
    So check the wrath it's for real I'm gonna get mine
    Roll up on you like Eastwood
    Blowing up fifteens as I'm riding through your neighborhood
    I spreads butter like Parkay
    Real smooth with flow and even when I parlay
    Do what you feel and check the skill
    I'm in your grill peep this I got the raw deal
    I'm in your Jeep Grand Cherokee or Land Cruiser
    When you're rolling through the hood you want to use a
    Track like this all up in your eardrum
    So check the E.Q. and let them speakers hum
    And gets crazy like Prozac
    Hype enough to start a party and illy as a heart attack
    Round one round two knockout
    Straight to your head my round never lights out
    Tah rah tah rah tah rah boom dee
    Tah rah tah rah tah rah boom dee ay

    Jimmy Jimmy y'all Jimmy damn Jimmy yea
    Gimme the mic Rob so I can take it away
    Got more lines than the welfare office
    Are you upset you'll never get to be as clever as this?
    Spreadin' quicker than your mom have a feel but don't cop it
    Yea I stole your beat but that's cause you dropped it
    Crude as oil unrefined but slick
    I'm gonna get you from behind like a gay convict
    Cause my name ain't Quasimodo but I still got a hunch
    That like the Jim Jones cult I'll take you out with one punch
    You're Spiro Agnew and I'm the Dick you answer to
    You're sweating like a watermelon at a Baptist bar-b-cue
    Sneaking up like celery yeah I'm stalking
    I squeak like Stephen Hawkings yeah but I'm walkin'
    Nose to ground so this Bloodhound will sniff and follow it
    I hope you choke on your pride when I make you swallow it
    Screaming like a Mimi when you see me coming near you
    Like a Kenny Loggins' record, no one's ever gonna to hear you
    Like a game of hide and seek, it's all over if I see ya
    Cause you're yellower than treacle and you run like diarrhea
    Tah rah tah rah tah rah boom dee
    Tah rah tah rah tah rah boom dee ay

    Now, that's pure poetry, right there.

    And last, but not least in the top ten, would be pre-fag Judas Priest's 'Soldier Blue'. I like to imagine I'm killing indians as I listen...probably not quite the effect he was hoping to achieve.

    It's funny how I like the old music from artists, before they came 'out', or I found out for myself they were queer.

    Surprisingly, I love nearly everything by Queen, and all the early Elton John. Weird. But I never knew...didn't ask, didn't tell.

    My list appears to be nearly bereft of female singers, except for Heart. I love The Go-Go's, Pat Benatar, and The Pretenders.

    But, the queen of the heap would have to be Sinead O'Connor, singing 'Nothing Compares To You'.

    Mock me at your peril...



    To My Anonymous Donor...

    Thanks! How'd you know I was broke? And out of wine? You rock.

    Go, buy a lottery ticket. God touched you, however briefly, and you can expect a blessing, somewhere, somehow, as you have blessed me.

    Milk for the kids, and I can see and review 'War of the Worlds' Wednesday. Too cool.

    You have really made my day, heck, my week.

    Thanks again.


        Sunday, June 26, 2005

    If This Bothers You... might just be on the wrong blog.

    If you are sent into a rage, or a rapeasistic frenzy by this photo, it may just be a signal to you that you need to self destruct, or go live on a deep desert mining claim in Arizona. Many such are for sale on ebay. Go...

    Repeat after me:

    Titties are good...titties are not scary...God designed the human female form...only psychotic 13th century retards want to cover such beauty up...if you are one such, I will put my bullet behind your ear just as quick as I would for some genital-mutilating Islamist fuckwad.

    Go fuck a goat.




    50,000 Hits...

    Yay. There's sites that get that in an hour.


    I've pissed off more people than I could have twenty years ago, and that's something, I guess.

    Thanks, folks. Go burn a sparkler.



    Welcome, IMDB Readers...

    I noted a huge pulse in traffic today, and it is because some feckless nimrod calling himself 'westside20' seems to be amusing themselves by posting my blog URL all over heck and gone.

    I mean, Herbie for gosh sakes? I wouldn't go to that movie if Lindsay Lohan kept her face in my lap the entire time...well, maybe then, but there'd have to be beer, too.

    I have reviewed Land of the Dead, below, and Batman Begins, and several others over the months and years, but not War of the Worlds (which I plan to see Wednesday) nor have I written anything I can recall about Tom Cruise. I think he's a reprehensible little lunatic turd in real life, and that he is a fine actor on the screen.

    So, to the hundreds of you whom I may have offended in some way today, I say good! Move along!

    The rest of you are welcome to stay.

    And give me money.



    For xtx...

    I am your Master, girl.



    I Got Tagged... American Drumslinger, so, because I have nothing better to do:

    1. Total number of books I own:

    Unknown. Shelves and cases and boxes full of them. I prefer hardback to paperback, but I have thousands of both.

    2. Last book I bought:

    ‘Vampires Are’ by Dr Stephen Kaplan. Got it off ebay for $5 including shipping, because the stupid book wholesaler had no idea the treasure he had. This is one of the rarest books in existence, because the vampires don’t want you to read it. If there is a copy in your library, steal it, before they do.

    3. Last book I read:
    'The Lunatic Café', by Laurell K. Hamilton.

    4. Five books that mean a lot to me:

    ‘Sixguns’, by Elmer Keith
    Started me down the road to becoming a Gunslinger.

    ‘Salem’s Lot’, by Stephen King
    Scared the shit out of me. Finest novel ever written.

    ‘Stranger In A Strange Land’, by Heinlein
    Sadly dated, now, but showed me a new paradigm, a new way to think.

    ‘Treason’, by Ann Coulter
    Put into words and gave flesh to what I already knew, that Liberals are traitors.

    ‘Dracula’, by Bram Stoker
    Showed that you can transcend your own time and write a story that will appear ‘contemporary’ in any age or time.

    I'm not tagging anybody else, cuz I think that's dumb. So there.


        Saturday, June 25, 2005

    What Say You, Economists...

    If I were wealthy, and real estate was a large part of my portfolio, I would be dumping that shit like a hot rock, about now. Especially in light of the recent Supreme Court perfidy.

    The market is as high as it ever will be again, I'd wager, and I would unload every piece of it I didn't personally want to live in, right now.

    Also, if I knew that a group of individuals was meeting to discuss the seizure of any property I owned, I would pay some nasty, efficient person good money to see that there was a terrible accident in the meeting hall. No survivors, closed caskets, identification via dental records.

    Just sayin...



    Land Of The Dead...

    Or, Let Sleeping Dogs Lie...

    And what a dog it was. So bad, my son and I laughed out loud several times.

    Really bad.

    Go see it anyway. When it's good, it's very very good. Dennis Hopper was just an annoying distraction. A clown. Romero's puppet, to showcase his hideous liberal bent. Just awful.

    At one point, I turned to my son and said "This is why I don't go to church...I don't wanna hear all that preaching..."

    Yes, it is that blatantly bad.

    It makes me sad. To be sure, I always knew Romero was a warped, liberal fuckhead. And sure, he's a pioneer, but Argento kicks his ass without even trying, and, correct me if I'm wrong, but I think Dario's stuff predates Romero's.

    Night of the Living Dead? Classic, to be sure. Then Tom Savini turns around and remakes it and creates a far superior film.

    Dawn of the Dead? Ditto. The remake kicks the originals ass so bad that it is not worth talking about.

    Day of the Dead? Utter crap. Horrible. Romero goes mad, and it shows. Oh boo hoo, I hate America and Republicans and the only way I can make a movie is to get people to volunteer to work for nothing and hire complete unknowns who look like they were working in low budget porn films last week.

    Fuck George Romero. He'd fuck up a wet dream.

    But go see the movie. Romero flops around like one of his zombies, and it is a pleasure to see that.

    There is one scene that is worth all the drivel of the rest of it, and I would pay ten dollars just to see it on the large screen. It involves the 'good guys' finally getting the drawbridge to drop, and what they see when they drive across.

    And every scene with John Leguizamo in it just sings. He is wonderful, here, and worth the price of admission just by himself. Romero makes one of many mistakes in not centering the entire film around Leguizamo's character.

    And for a zombie movie, there was precious little fucking zombie action.


    Go see it.



    And So It...




    A Neccesary Antidote... the picture below...

    Take two, and call me in the morning...


        Thursday, June 23, 2005

    Is It Me...

    ...or did someone let all the air out of her face?



    Who Do You Write For?

    If you're a blogger, I mean.

    I write for me. I guess that means that if you like me, you're like me.

    If you just found that a bit disturbing, well...


    Ever so often, I go off into one of these masturbatory navel gazes. We all do, I guess.

    At some point.

    Do you like me? I don't really care, unless you give me money. Then I care. That is commitment. We are in a committed relationship. Now I can have sex with your pets.

    Or not.

    I don't have to imagine my audience naked. Because I am.

    You think that because I blog anonymously, that I hide anything from you. Wrong-Along-O, Buckwheat. What you see is all you get.

    Anybody who cared to, could probably find me. You had better have a cold beer in each hand, and be wearing no or tight clothes if you approach me. To continue living, I will want real photo ID of you, showing your true address, so that I may return the visit, if I must.

    Then we can drink, and chat, and have a chuckle or two, and never mind this cocked .45 here. That's just for show. Masculinity issues, dontcha know. Pish posh, and drink up.

    Nat has been having nightmares about worms. The wife has mixed up a batch of 'Bad Dream' spray, in a bottle. She wrote 'Bad Dream Spray' on it, with red nail polish. It looks serious. It is to be spritzed about at bedtime, to discourage allamagoosulums and worms and whatnot from tormenting Thunderbunny as she sleeps.

    I just told her, very solemnly, to not wipe her food covered hands on her clothes while she eats, as that assists The Worms in targeting her little baby-fat laden ass when they attack.

    I am watching, as we speak, two Mexicans pay good money to a tow truck driver to jimmy their window because they locked their keys in the car. I thought they were all born with some innate ability to break into things and steal stuff? I am flummoxed.

    Still like me?

    Hmph. Well that's your problem, not mine.



    Save The Whales...

    ...for Dinner!

    I just laughed and laughed. I would shoot a whale just to watch it die. I hate those big sea-pigs.

    Anything that big needs to die, including elephants. I like stuff made from ivory, though, so I would consider elephant farms.

    Man, I would love to try a whale-burger, with a side order of batter fried dolphin sticks. And cottage fries.




    If You Are Looking For A Good Emetic...

    ...this should really make you wanna puke.

    Maybe to get today's Supreme Court rape of the 5th Amendment out of your system?

    Shit like this is why I eagerly await and actively pray for a good nuclear exchange, or whatever.

    The only thing wrong with America, is about half of its population.

    Incidentally, I would not want to be white, and living in Los Angeles in the event of a large scale terror attack, or a big natural disaster.

    It would be pot luck as to which brand of brown gangsta would be bussin a cap in yo ass, essay.



    You scored as Christianity. Your views are most similar to those of Christianity. Do more research on Christianity and possibly consider being baptized and accepting Jesus, if you aren't already Christian.

    Christianity is the second of the Abrahamic faiths; it follows Judaism and is followed by Islam. It differs in its belief of Jesus, as not a prophet nor historical figure, but as God in human form. The Holy Trinity is the concept that God takes three forms: the Father, the Son (Jesus), and the Holy Ghost (sometimes called Holy Spirit). Jesus taught the idea of instead of seeking revenge, one should love his or her neighbors and enemies. Christians believe that Jesus died on the cross to save humankind and forgive people's sins.



















    Which religion is the right one for you? (new version)
    created with


    The Goddess Speaks...

    Go, and Worship!

    It's nice to know that, even if you don't need an excuse to hate liberals, she can still give you one.

    On a related note, I'd pay good money to see Carl Rove fist-fuck Nancy Pelosi to death, with Barbara Boxer's right arm he just chain-sawed off.

    And I bet Chuckie Schumer can't go near the rat bait section of a supermarket, either.

    And is anybody else amused at hearing Teddy Kennedy lecture us on water torture? Glub glub, Ted, I'm just glad your brothers are dead.

    The only decent one in that whole family was a retard, and the monsters scrambled her brain, too. I guess retard wasn't good enough, they had to make a zombie.

    Fuckers. I hate them all so bad it makes my chest ache.


        Wednesday, June 22, 2005

    For Your...



        Tuesday, June 21, 2005

    Random Synapses...


    I have a bruise. On my right bicep. My daughter punched me. On Father's Day, no less. Not Nat, the big one. I forget why. She has no idea I hairline-fractured her mother's jaw for that, a decade or so before her birth.

    Ain't found a way to kill me yet
    Eyes burn with stinging sweat..

    My Youngest Marine is here, on leave. For twenty-five days. Ending next Saturday.

    He pissed away the last of his paycheck on a mighty feast of meat and alcohol for me on my Special Day. I barbecued much meat, for many people, to perfection.

    Seems every path leads me to nowhere
    Wife and kids...household pet...

    The meal served my Father, too, and I am grateful. We partied all afternoon, into the evening, and much beer was consumed. And I got punched in the arm, for some reason I can't remember, except that it is certain that my daughter has never been properly punched out, and I am wondering if a blood clot is working its way up my arm, heading like an insidious dust bunny of blood to my brain...

    ...higher, or lower functions? Would you rather lose your memories of Christmases, or the ability to not shit your pants?

    Here they come to snuff the rooster
    Yeah, here come the rooster, ah yeah!

    I rescued a big plastic wagon from the dumpster, and gave it to the kids. I'm a hero. Morbid little fuckers are using it as an ambulance, of course, to transport Nat's dying dollies to the hospital.

    Johnny has gotten several blood blisters on his misshapen mitts from hauling her sorry little ass around, but, even when the Marine offers to pull him around, he resists.

    John seems to derive some bizarre satisfaction from being the beast of burden.

    You know he ain't gonna die
    No, no, no, ya know he ain't gonna die..

    So, wanna buy a Marine a drink?

    He is getting this big fat leave because he signed up for Embassy Duty. You know, those buildings every asshole in the world is trying to blow up? Yeah, my boy wants to go stand around in front of them.

    I had no idea my parenting was that bad.

    Walkin' tall machine gun man
    They spit on me, in my home land...

    Son and I have gone to bars, and gotten shitfaced, and come home broke, and not completely sure how we managed the trip home.

    I have tried, subtly, to start fights. No takers. Maybe if someone took us on, and busted him up good, I wouldn't be having this nightmare of my son, resplendent, a scarlet stain, up the side of some shithole building in some fuckhole of a country that I care more about my fingernail clippings than.

    My buddy's breathin' his dyin' breath
    Oh god please won't you help me make it through...

    Maybe not so random, eh?

    They come to snuff the rooster
    Yeah! Here come the rooster...oh yeah
    You know he ain't gonna die
    No, no, no ya know he ain't gonna die...

    I didn't know where this was going. Sorry.

    This was a private party...didn't mean to let you in.



    I Tear Up...

    ...every credit card offer I get in the mail for this reason, alone.

    This type of crime is going to be the major excuse for governments to switch us to a cashless society, and usher in The Mark.

    My wife and I each have our own debit card (from different banks) and we only keep enough cash in it to cover current transactions. We have one gasoline company credit card, for trips, that we pay off monthly.

    I want to Taser you shitheads who use a credit card to buy a cup of coffee in front of me.



    Yeah, What He Said...

    I am proud to be part of Steve's Amen Chorus. Read every word, and, know you, that I agree with each and every one.

    Disagree, and show yourself to be an ignorant, traitorous fuckhead.

    I dare you.


        Monday, June 20, 2005

    Living In The Past...

    If you could go back in time and meet yourself, what would you say?




    This looks promising. Fingers crossed!



    I Hate Pitbulls, But...

    I'm a little conflicted over this one.

    Just like I hate faggots, and I used to support this asshole because, at the very least he got under their skin so badly.

    If that cocksucker showed up at the funeral of one of my sons, I would kill his whole family in front of him, and then kneecap him so he could enjoy it for the rest of his life.

    It's not like me to be conflicted. This troubles me.


        Saturday, June 18, 2005

    Allright, Niggers...

    ...we're tired of your shit.

    We gave the lives of thousands of Americans in a Civil War to end slavery, we gave you Affirmative Action, Civil Rights, and what do you give us?

    Right. Cynthia McKinney, Louis Farrakhan, Chris Rock, and Gangsta Rap.

    Fuck you, we're taking it all back, and your puny 13% max of the US population are going back into slavery, where you belong.

    Oh, and thanks again for the peanut butter, but that ain't enough.

    Our inner cities are shitholes we whites can't enter on risk of death, thanks to you, and you have turned Public Schools, which were a pretty good idea on the face of it, into third world combat zones that we would be fools to send our kids to, and ya'll come out of them stupider than you went choice!

    Dumb niggers.

    Oh, we'll let some of ya'll keep your freedom, on a case by case, and very provisional basis. Walter Williams and Clarence Thomas come to mind. We don't wanna break up the sports franchises, either, but if any of you big black bucks fucks up and acts the fool, your steroid enhanced black ass is going to be out plowing a field or picken cotton or driving Miss Daisy before you can say "Whuffuck?"

    We've seen how you have fucked up literally every country in Africa we helped you get back with our misguided meddling, and we are not gonna put up with that shit, here. Congressional Black Caucus? Buhbye! Charlie Rangel? Get over here so I can beat the black off your dumb traitor ass.

    All those black political cocksuckers are gonna go for a premium on the block, dontcha know. Who wouldn't pay big money to beat the fuck out of Marion Barry or Jesse Jackson til they died?

    Or Michael Jackson.

    I know I would.

    No, you fuckers had your chance. We need to get rid of all the damn illegal Mexicans anyway, and ya'll'll do just fine. Of course, it'll take four or five of you lazy bastards to make up for one Beaner with a leaf blower, but we'll give you brooms, so we don't have to hear all that noise.

    Oh, quit yer how you niggers like to whine. We'll let you back in, maybe, if you can pass a test. Ya'll gotta start actin white, and cut that nigger shit out. It scares us, and when you scare a group that outnumbers the shit out of you most considerable, well, look what you get.

    Start practicing wearing Cardigans, and talking through your nose. Blend in. Quit reminding us we are coexisting with a hostile alien life form...


    Or else.

    Well, I have a dream...



    I Bring You...

    The new Commander of Gitmo!

    Ten Simple Ideas To Help Fulfill Your Torturing Potential

    1.Poisonous Fluids - small enough amounts to induce severe sickness and vomiting.

    2.Cilice Belt - Used by Jesuits to curb sexual appetite, small belt with barbed metal ringlets. Best applied when subject is bound. Adjust frequently, change position. Sort of a chinese water torture, only SOOO much more painful - make a makeshift with thumbtacks and duck tape.

    3. Beef Tenderizer - Your gonna be dinner, bitch. The gators 'r waitin.

    4.Whiskey - just add flame! Hooray whiskey!

    5. 91% Rubbing Alcohol - open new wound, apply liberally. Best effect on rectal opening, armpits and behind ears. (Armpits requires subject to be hung with outstretched arms) Or for more seasoned veterans, try habanero pepper extract.

    6. Racquetball - racquet + ball + ass = lots of painful bruises = humiliation, internal bleeding and info OR humiliation and internal bleeding. For best results use handball. Those things are hard as a rock.

    7. Smurfs.

    8. Plastic spoon - go for the eyes. Never EVER finish the job.

    9. Scalding hot oil. On the shoulders where they can't touch it. Or the back, in between toes, inner thighs, where they can possibly spread it, on top of the head where it gets into hair and stays...the possibilities are endless.

    10. Zamochit - do you have patience? Does he/she have bones? Then break every single one, one at a time!!

    Now, that's what I'm talkin about!



    What Was I Just Saying?

    I think I just forgot my own name.



    For all you damn whiney pervs, here's more.

    And I wouldn't have posted her in the first place if I had noted that nipple ring. I'm slipping.



    Damn Good Job, Steve...

    Steve H., over at Hog On Ice has nailed it completely, and by 'it', I mean the long time problem of black racism, especially insane black anti-semitism.

    Go, read, follow the links, tell your friends.

    The media won't do it.


        Friday, June 17, 2005

    This Is Cool...

    Can you imagine hearing my voice coming out of this, for one whole minute, saying what I believe about George Bush and Democrats and hippies and fags?

    If you heard it, would you know it was me? I write like I talk...


    Via Raymi, God Bless her.



    My Only Complaint... that she wasn't trying to sell a giant hot dog.

    That girl is hot, no matter what you say.

    Hot hot hot.



    What Can You Say...

    ...about this? Hmmmm?

    Just what is there to be said?

    The mind boggles.



    The Morning After...

    You might be surprised to find out that I am all for the so-called 'Morning After Pill'.

    I think they should dispense them in bars and dorms across the land. Every girl and woman should be required to keep two tablets on their person at all times.

    If you fuck a chick and she refuses to take one, you, as a man, should be allowed to wrap a pill in a ball of bread and stuff it into her mouth and hold her mouth closed until she swallows it.

    If you are against the barbarous practice of abortion, as I am, you should support this pill 100%.

    If you are against this pill, you are probably the kind of person who really believes their soul leaves their body when they sneeze.

    God Bless you.



    This Makes Me Wet...

    I'm not sure what's going on, but it looks like fun.

    Via the lovely and cruel SondraK.


        Thursday, June 16, 2005

    Best Star Wars Review...




    A Place For Everything...

    ...and everything in its place.

    My personal favorite is 'Unstoppable', but I love it all.

    Hopefully, this will help out you folks on dial-up and whatnot.



    It Has Come To My Attention...

    ...that no one but me appears to be commenting on this fine blog.

    Make a note of it.

    Whatsoever you sew, that shall ye also reap.

    I am perfectly happy with my level of traffic, even though most of them are cheap bastards(ettes). I love you all. Except for Nate. And SondraK, who is most cruel to me, and a witch to boot.

    Don't comment to get comments, that's lame, but if you have something to say, people WILL go to check you out.

    Just sayin.



    They're Coming To Get You, Barbara...

    I am so stoked.


    Unrated, bloody version.



    Fantastic News!

    Via Difster, I find that Firefly is being taken up by the Sci Fi channel!

    Go to his link for the story and linkage...he did all the work.

    I am a-twitter, like a schoolgirl. Of course, though, this news means the world as we know it will end before 'Serendipity' comes out. God will not allow me to be that happy.

    Sorry, folks, get your affairs in order.



    Batman Returns...Triumphantly...

    I mean it. This movie makes all of the other Batman movies go slit their wrists in a tub of warm water.

    The Son and I saw it yesterday, and it blew the entire audience out of their socks. There was actual cheering and applause as the credits rolled, something I have only seen two or three times in my whole life.

    Just an amazing movie. Follows the DC comics very closely. I haven't checked, but I bet they're working on a sequel as we speak.

    Christian Bale is amazing, and really buffed up for the part. Liam Neeson redeems himself (from Kinsey) yet again, and is superb. Michael Caine as Alfred has never been better. Morgan Freeman adds richness and depth to what might otherwise have been just a bit part. Gary Oldman doesn't ham it up as usual, but does his job and does it well, and we'll be seeing him again. The only actor I was disappointed in was Katie Holmes. She seems like an afterthought, the Designated Damsel. She's got great nipples, though, so I forgive her.

    They took all of the money they wasted on the other films and put it into this movie, and it shows. There is a seamless richness that gives it all a believability to the extent that you never question what you are seeing, you just accept it and go with the flow.

    Gotham is a unique place, and I suspect we will see other comic characters come to life on this set in the future.

    I certainly hope so. Go see this movie on the big screen, in a place that has good sound.

    You'll thank me.

    I would take any kid over the age of eight to see this, especially boys.



    Save A Whale...

    ...harpoon a fat chick.

    I must confess to having chewed blubber a time or two. I likes me a pretty big-girl, probably more than a plain skinny girl.

    I'm talking a big girl. One who makes your car groan and settle to one side when she gets in. One that makes all the lobsters in the tank shrink to the back in a heap as she approaches to make her selection. A girl who has her own custom made two-piece fork in a velvet lined case in her purse.

    But I like em solid, no flaps or poorly applied stucco for me, thanks. No extra-large curd cottage cheese. And big titties. A flat chested fat chick is just sad.

    But my question, here, is one I think only the ladies have a chance of answering for me. Because I just do not understand.

    My neighbor has a store bought tan, wears expensive make-up and clothes, and works as hard as she can to be attractive. And she has an ass like a burlap sack full of walnuts. It bobbles around behind her like she has two pet warthogs stuffed down the back of her pants.

    My gorge rises when she gets out of her car and her shirt rides up. Did I say walnuts? Nay, more like the canvas bag the ball-boy totes around. Repulsive beyond words.

    My question is, why does she, like so many other fat chicks, take such extraordinary measures to appear attractive, when all they need to do is to step away from the fork, and do a little exercise?

    I joke a bit, but I really don't get it.



    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!

    I am getting so disgusted by all of this Gitmo bullshit I could just puke.

    And like I really needed another reason to hate George Bush even more.


        Wednesday, June 15, 2005

    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.



    The New Veal...

    It is warm and fuzzy stories like this that warm the cockles of my heart, and fan the flames of my love for humanity anew.

    Group hug!


        Tuesday, June 14, 2005

    I Just Farted On My Daughters Head...

    It's her fault for tailgating. I put on my brakes, she thumped face first into my butt, and I honked one so fierce that it blew her hair back and set her eyebrows on fire. Almost.

    She laughed out loud, and then commenced to choking.

    Ha. Laugh now, bitch. Smell the Power.

    We can't go upstairs, now. For a while. At least without special clothing. And breathing apparatii.

    I may or may not scar her childhood, but I certainly singed the cilia in her lungs, a bit.

    Ahhhh, treasured childhood memories.



    The Definition Of 'Perky'...

    But wait, there's more!




    I see my status has gone from Flappy Bird back down to Slithering Reptile. Hmph.

    I don't know what that means, if anything. Are my beloved readers abandoning me? It seems that my readership has increased monthly since I have started keeping track. Maybe it is the TTLB Rating System that is whacked.

    Or maybe I'm bleeding readers due to me and my opinions and stuff. I'll change for you! Come back! I can do better!

    Yeah, right.

    I have been busy having a life, the last few days. Yesterday my youngest Marine offered to watch The Mutant and his sister while the wife and I went to a matinee of 'Mr and Mrs Smith'. Great movie. When they would slap a new clip into their pistols and, instead of jacking the slide back and ejecting a round, they just slid it back a bit to make sure there was brass showing in the chamber, I burst into tears of joy. Finally someone other than Steven Seagall gets it right.

    We went for drinks before, and after. It has been so long that we have been together alone in a car or a bar, we felt like awkward teens on a first date. Having kids will really impact your life.

    Of course, some of you bring total strangers into your homes and pay them big money to diddle your kids while you go out. Different strokes, I guess.

    Speaking of, I really have nothing to say about the child molester that was set free yesterday. Happens all the time. Many are your neighbors. You get what you put up with.

    Well, me and the lad are going out for breakfast. Let's see how this new gap in my jaw handles biscuits and gravy and sausage and pancakes and hash browns.

    No grits, though. Pus is not a food group.


        Sunday, June 12, 2005


    Mr. Blonde
    Mr. Blonde, congratulations!

    Which 'Reservoir Dogs' character are you?
    brought to you by Quizilla

    Thanks, TUA!




    ...appears to be acting the fool today.




    What Pulp Fiction Character Are You?

    Tired of being underappreciated and manipulated by powerful "others," you fight back. Though possesssing a cold, violent outside, you have a soft, scentimental inside. You love your partner, you cherish family heirlooms, and you want nothing more than to be geniunely happy -- but you don't mind having to kill a couple of nimrods who happen to clutter your path.

    Take the What Pulp Fiction Character Are You? quiz.

    I was hoping for Vic Vega (Mister Blonde).



    Senior moment, or Vicodin? Or both? You be the judge. My first test result came up as 'The Wolf', as played by Harvey Keitel. I did not like that, and for some reason my brain tipped over into Reservoir Dogs as I retook the test.

    Thus, the 'Mister Blonde' confusion above.

    I'm goin back to bed...


        Saturday, June 11, 2005

    Memories Of The Beach...

    Once upon a time, when I was a child of nine or eight, my parents took me to a summer sabbatical at Albion Bay, at a marine science center attached to the university my father was attending.

    It was high adventure for me, though I suspect it was merely an excuse for my parents to party with friends.

    I, of course, was thrilled to be there. I witnessed a water cyclone enter the bay, sweep majestically around the shoreline, and send boats skyward in a shower of wood, like a hard sneeze from an Ents nose.

    I collected various sea creatures, anemones and such, crabs...mussels, things I had never seen and which were as unique to me as something to be found on an alien planet. I stored them in a pasteboard box I acquired from somewhere, and secreted it with my things, and contrived to take them home.

    We returned home, eventually, and I went back to school on Monday morning.

    I returned home that afternoon, and something had gone terribly awry in my room. I had yet to smell a dead person, rotting, but this odor was the standard to which I would judge all corpse stench ever after.

    My sea creatures had gone terribly,terribly wrong.

    A few minutes ago, my memory of this was jogged by a dump of such liquid foulness, that the moisture on my eyeballs sizzled, and insects died within the walls.

    Dogs howled for blocks.

    Man, I am glad I didn't cut that fart I wanted to, in bed.



    Another Day, Another Tooth...

    I go, in a couple of hours, to have another molar removed. It was abcessed as well, but I didn't know it because I had had a root canal done on the tooth years ago, so there was no pain. They put in a temporary at the time of the root canal, after a while it went to shit, and now it is pumping poison into my head.

    Maybe after today I shall get a new lease on life, and want to hug Muslims and pet bunnies. Perhaps this tooth has been holding me back, keeping me out on the porch while the Family of Man parties in the house.

    We shall see. A kinder, gentler Bane?

    Oh well, another empty lot in the cul de sac of my mouth. Another dark, wet place for my startled tongue to slip into.

    When you're poor, you don't get options. It is just 'yank it out' and move along. Beggars cannot be choosers.

    Oh, well.

    I have a genuine horror of all things Dentistric, and the wreck that is my mouth shows it. Like Paris Hilton...pretty up front, but you don't want to know what's inside it.

    Between fights and car crashes and all manner of whatnot, I believe every tooth in my head has been chipped or cracked or in some way has become compromised. I fight a running battle with plaque, too. I brush my teeth all of the time, and still, it rolls in like putrid fog, and settles like cement.

    On a lighter note, my artist son has agreed to read my little story (novel?) I have been playing with here lately, and perhaps do some illustrations. If he does, I'll insert them into their appropriate place in the narrative for us to enjoy. He is very, very good.

    We shall see.

    Oh! Good (meaning bad) zombie movie on Sci Fi Channel at 9 tonight. If I am not too loaded on codiene, I want to catch it.

    Resident Evil is on before it, but you should go out and rent that, if for no other reason than to see Millas neeples. Gosh, I love Milla. Go, rent both RE movies, and watch them back to back.

    You'll thank me.


    Vicodin good.


    Another Saturday night Sci Fi horror flick, where I just want everybody to die and get it over with, including the director and the guy who runs the projection booth and the janitor who cleans out the Sci Fi Channels offices.


    Vicodin still good.


    Can't feel nipples.



    I Laughed, I Cried, I Shit My Pants...

    Folks, this is the most up lifting thing I've seen in a while. All of you with blogs should link the piss out of it, just to piss off the Rags.

    Allah must be spinning in his grave.


    More fun with Ragheads. Slightly graphic.

    Via Sondra K, who I am still mad at.


        Friday, June 10, 2005



    I'll see your Kenya, and raise you one England...

    Take that, beeyotch!


    The Granddaddy of them all.



    Tits Up...

    To stay on the theme...

    My PC died this morning. By all rights, I was going to be posting this post from my Moms computer, telling you all that the blog was dead and I was disabling comments and to not email me any more or send me money. I was so depressed that I had to lay down.

    My wife is an angel. She quizzed me as to what I thought was up, and got ahold of my specs, and ran off to the computer shop down the street.

    She came back and had me unhook my baby and put it in the car, and then ran off again.

    She called me several times, and I ended up talking to the guy once. I haven't been in there for years, since I started building my own computers and ordering parts off the net, but he remembered me (and the money I spent there) and he likes me.

    Long story short, my 480w power supply went tits up, and a fan was bad. $74 and I am back to life. With a spankin new 550w power supply and a new fan (I have 9, in total).

    You truly do not know what you've got til it's gone.

    I'm broke, but dammit, I feel good.


    No, I do not live with my Mother, dipshit.


        Thursday, June 09, 2005

    It Occurs To Me...

    ...that I have been remiss...

    I feel like eating Asian.

    If my wife died, I would seek out a sweet asian girl/woman to spend the rest of my days with.

    But wait, there's more!


    A sweet, Asian, retarded girl.



    Suck My Tits!

    Vox Day, over at Vox Popoli, is cappin on da wimmins, again. I usually don't mind, because I fundamentally agree, in most cases, with his psuedo-serious faux misogynistic tendencies that he believes in utterly and completely no matter how hard he tries to hide them.

    As is my wont, I shall not beard him in his own den, out of courtesy, but I shall take him to task, here, in my tiny, insignificant corner of the web...

    Vox...don't be a puling twat.

    Don't try to tell me that you'd rather see some cow shovel blended peas and carrots into her spawnlings toothless pie-hole, than plop a nice tit in there and suckle it.

    Any other choice is gay, with a side of gay sauce, and I just need to appear where you are doing your next leg presses, and slip a couple of hundred pound plates on so you shit whatever is left of your spine across the room to where it sproings through the air into the far wall like a segmented spear.

    Do straws drive you nuts? Does some child going for the last 1/6th ounce of shake at the bottom send you out, sweating into the parking lot? Don't make me go all Atrios on your ass.

    Half the time, I can't stand to see normal college students feed. I have to avert my gaze, like when midget lepers masturbate. Now, if some woman came in and plopped a tit into the equation, it may numb some of the pain, I'll tell you straight out.

    It is obvious that you could not handle an evening in one of my Viking long-houses, what with all of the open breastfeeding and fucking and whatnot. This is to be expected of someone of your, dare I say, refined breeding.

    Note, I avoided the obvious use of the word 'inbreeding'...points for me.

    As to your horror of the birthing process, and its discussion over a refined dinner...

    Lord, if I had a thousand dollars for every ounce of warm cord blood that has shot up my arm while I sawed at that purple belly rope with supposedly surgically sharp scissors...well, I'd have already pissed away thousands of dollars.

    Tell me, does Space Bunny remove all of your splinters, while you cringe, and sweep in and out of consciousness?

    Hmmmm...thought as much.



    Filthy Animals...

    Damn dirty apes. VERY GRAPHIC BLOODY LINK!

    I don't see how anybody could do this...oh, bullshit, I could do that to the Islamoscum without batting an eyelash. Who am I kidding.

    We are far past the time where we need to be doing this to them, starting with the Islamic pig fuckers here in America.

    If anybody wants to finance me to the extent that the Saudis are financing the terrorists they send and create and sponsor here, I'd be happy to pay visits to and get close with my Muslim brothers.

    I would need enough money to take care of my family for life, and to go underground, and to purchase the proper equipment.

    I am not kidding.



    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship.

    This one is just devastating to libtards everywhere. How anyone can take the Leftstream Media seriously for even one second is beyond my understanding.

    Oh, and thanks, ajw308, for taking up my slack. I always thought you lived in Minnesota for some reason. Oh well.


        Wednesday, June 08, 2005

    RIP, Johnathan...


    Well, he is going to bed, to rest, but he is quite alive, thank you.

    We are all beat, and headed for dreamland, but you folks have been so wonderful in so many ways, I figgered I'd fire something out. Plus, it is good to not be touching a Mac. Vile things.

    Johnny looks like a hamster that found the quart size bag of Sunflower Seeds, and went a-stuffin. Went to frigging town.

    Dudes...Dude-ettes, we went into the breach Monday afternoon, and could have come home last night. But we were wiped.

    John was eating mashed potatos that evening, after a morning surgery. He is jonesing to try a hot dog, a food that has always defeated him. We have to cut them up fine for him. Well, had to. Now, he seems to have a proper bite, and is anxious to use it.

    The primary goal of these facial surgeries is to cure his sleep apnea, so he doesn't die in his sleep. A nice couple of side effects are that he can eat a potato chip for the first time in his life, and he looks human.

    I love him unconditionally, but when others turned away, it tore something inside me. Maybe not so much, now.

    Let me take this opportunity to give God all the glory, and thank Him in public for not taking my son and for letting us keep him a while longer.

    I appreciate all of you prayers' and donaters' more than you can know. Thanks, and may it return to you in more ways than you can count.

    You naysayers?

    My God can kick your gods ass any day of the week, and twice on Sunday, so step back.


        Sunday, June 05, 2005

    A Few New Paragraphs...

    Below. As a going away present.

    I'm not feelin the love, people.

    Oh well, I'm having fun with this, and that's what counts, right?


        Saturday, June 04, 2005

    The Story Thus Far...

    I figured I'd compile it here, and add to the bottom of it as the mood strikes me. Actually, I plan to transfer it to my other blog and quit polluting this blog with it.

    Is it worth going on? My wife hates it, and awaits the next portion eagerly. It makes her feel guilty, but she can't stay away. I like that.

    Feel free, here, and on the other blog when I get my lazy ass around to transferring it, to critique me as viciously as you want. I'll try to not cry.

    Any guesses as to where Our Hero is going next?

    Guess again...

    Oh, and you'll need this.

    I Need...... talk to somebody.

    Just talk. But they make it so hard.

    Some asshole puts his hand on me to stop me, so I reach up under his ribcage for a good grip and bring him to me, and then take my other forearm, hard across his throat, and bend him like a wet paper cup down, and the chrome pole holding up the velvet rope crunches into the base of his skull, and beyond.

    He slides over, laying back on his own calves, dying.


    A whole line full of hopefuls gives me cow eyes...most of them have phones with cameras. Wrong place, wrong time, motherfuckers...

    I let rip down the line with the mini-Uzi, and they scatter like quail, and shriek like Japanese schoolgirls at a Godzilla sighting. The rest of the clip goes into the other doorman, goggling like a tourist. He drops like a wet sack of shit and I toss the gun aside, and bring up the shotgun from under my coat. Crowd control, dontcha know...I jerk it, and the shoulder strap comes loose, and I hold it high, letting the crowd take in it's shiny chrome, the disco lights splattering off it, making it look like Thor's hammer, and the crowd parts like the Red Sea, scattering like a herd of sheep.

    Some stand. They die. They protect who I want to see, and I blow them open like meat piñatas.

    I thumb fresh rounds into the tube as the barrel begins to steam and smoke, the heat shield working overtime, the gun smelling like a new barbecue...
    mixed with the burnt meat and fresh shit from torn guts, my own stomach begins to rumble a bit. I haven't eaten since yesterday. Forgot.

    He's upstairs. Of course he's upstairs. Assholes like him always take the high ground.

    Grunts like me, always have to assault upwards.

    Oh, well.

    I have a five shot bandolier filled with 12 gauge sabot attached to my belt, and I've been counting. I thumb them danger quick into an empty tube, and slam them up through his floor into his office. I see shit fly everywhere through the window, and the lights in the office blow out and somebody is screaming up there like a slaughtered lamb and I turn hard to my right and slam the red hot sawed off into some heroes guts and he screams and screams as his shirt and jacket burst into flames......

    and I reach into the small of my back and grab the pistol grip of my compact AK and yank it out and take the stairs by threes. Two bullets hit me in the back, slamming into the kick plate of my vest, and propelling me to the last step...thanks, asshole...I spin, and open up some Guido like a can of beans, and

    explode! through the door and skid flat into the room killing anyone I don't recognize and I see him, there, in a ball, in the corner, behind a bookcase. Unscathed. Good.

    I rise, and his head snaps around, and I look into his blood red eyes, fangs rampant.

    I cut his legs off at the thighs with a long burst, and I only have to change mags once.

    I step towards him, where he writhes and spurts, and hisses, and rips great gouts of wood from the floor with his impotent claws.

    I smile, straight into his face, with genuine joy. I cannot remember when I have enjoyed myself so much, without a woman's sweetness surrounding my member.

    "Hi, fuckface...let's talk..."

    So, We Have Our Little Chat…

    I raise my eyebrow, and he grins and rubs his stomach. Yum yum.

    The client is going to be pissed…too bad, his daughter is bat shit. Literally. Shouldn’t have gone goth, numb little cunt.

    So I pulp his brain with a quick burst, kick him over, and take off his head with my Bowie. Gotta leave the knife. No time to clean the blade, company’s coming, and I don’t want any of his goo on any part of me. Contagious-ass shit.

    I punch the blade down through the top of his skull, and the blade squeaks on bone, his teeth still snap at me. I lift Snappy up by the knife handle and put his head on his chest. He glares at me. Fuck but they start to heal quick.

    “What you lookin at, leech?” I grab a full bottle of good scotch from the desk, and smash it into his ugly puss. I stomp it and the glass bursts all the way. Step back, flick a wooden match with my thumbnail, and drop it into the shithead cocktail I just made…FOOOMP! His teeth gnash for a few seconds, and then his brain starts to boil.

    I pull a Hot Stick out of my vest, snap the cap, and toss it on the body to help out the burning scotch. I close my eyes against the expected phosphor flash, and I can still see it through my eyelids. So can everybody who looked up here by accident, and I yank a grenade off its pin clipped to my vest, let the spoon fly, count to five, and toss it underhanded through the window, where a heartbeat later another flash and boom sends shrapnel into upturned faces. I hear the music of screams

    and I jump out of the window through the black smoke of exploded TNT, into them; I hit hard into a crouch and empty a magazine in a blazing arc and snap in another one and fire one handed as I flip another grenade towards the rear entrance, because I can hear sirens through my earplugs, now, approaching the front

    and I see a pretty little girl, maybe eighteen, in an electric blue mini dress, laying on the floor in front of me, her titties popped out the top, half her skull gone, brains lead a trail away…there’s a very clear shoe print in the puddle, beginning to fill in with blood.

    Too fucking bad…children shouldn’t play with dead things.

    As I head for the rear exit, my bullets precede me, and anything that is not trying its damndest to seep into the floor gets cut to pieces. At the door, I turn and flip another grenade behind the bar…fire is good. Cleansing.

    Besides, I am pissed. Likely the little bitch I came here to gets Daddy will try to stiff me on my fee.

    He’d better not.

    The alley stinks of piss and vomit and reefer and fear. I step over bodies in the doorway, and on one that lets out a groan. Time to shag it the fuck out of here. A few of the lucky ones are nearly to the street, where they will wave down the first cop they see. I've killed a few cops, but they always make more.

    I hear a helicopter. Fuck.

    I sling the AK under the coat on the shoulder strap where I'd had the shotgun, and palm a compact .45 auto from one of my pouches. As I run down the alley, I see white light begin to crawl up the street in front of about five seconds, this alley is going to be lit up like Oscar o' the world, ma!


    I slam my shoulder into a steel door to my left, and the bolt gives and rings down the hallway dingle dingle dingle, me after it, keeping my boots as quiet as I can. I know there are stairs, going down, and passages, and tunnels, all under this part of the city. I do my homework.

    The stairs are pretty much right where the old plans showed them to be, and within five minutes, I am four blocks away, climbing the stairs of an apartment building that I had paid $500 for a key to the front door of three months ago.

    For $6,000, the denizen of apartment 6A was keeping a package safe for me. I'd chosen him because he wasn't a doper, and wouldn't be tempted to look inside to see what he could shoot up or sell.

    No, our hero was a baby-fucker, a regular registered sex offender, and was more than happy to make a little coin from a 'fellow pervert' he had met in a chat room, and then emailed with privately. I had told him that what was in the box was a pile of primo kid vids and photos, that I would cut him in for a share of when I sold them to the right buyer. Plus, I would let him keep copies of anything that he liked.

    He opened the door immediately after my knock, and my recitation of the code word we'd settled on. He looked up at me and sighed, and his eyes swam with lust. "Oh my, you're a big one, and sooo butch!" he said, and I slapped him hard on the side of his head as he melted into me.

    He slumped, unconscious, and I held him out in front of me so he wouldn't thud to the floor and make noise, or touch me with his loathsome homo fat-body. I chucked him onto the couch, and went back and shut the door quietly. His curtains were already shut, so I just zip-tied his hands and feet, taped his mouth, and then went through his closets until I found my foot locker.

    I carried it back into the living room, where he lay, still, his eyes open, watching me. I set the box down, took one knee, and twisted the lock and hasp out of the wood with my hand. Who knew where the fucking key was by now. I threw back the lid, and the sight of all of the guns and ammo in there made his eyes bug.

    I shrug out of my leather trench, and grimace at the two holes in the back. I had patches for them. The coat was patched in other spots, but it had been a gift, and I regretted that I would have to get rid of it soon. I set it aside. I shed the rig that only had one grenade left. Man, I hate to get that low. The vest pockets hang, most unsnapped and empty. Shudder. I slide the AK off, and his eyes bug even more. I pull off the T-shirt, and then reach for the clasps of my vest. I turn to him.

    "If I see a boner, I'm going to cut it off, and cauterize it with a hot knife, and leave you alive, comprende?" He nodded frantically. I slipped the heavy clamshell up and off and was left in the black silk teddy I wear underneath so it doesn't chafe. I was sweaty like a fucking pig, and the air against me made me feel good and clear for the first time tonight. I looked down, and my nipples had hardened. I pinched each one between thumb and forefinger, and rolled them around, and moaned a little. I looked over at him, and his eyes were squinched tightly shut, like two little oysters. He was shaking like a dog shitting peach pits. I quietly slid one of my knives out, and poked him lightly in the dong.

    Behind his tape, he screamed like a damned thing. Good. He was.

    I laughed, slid a .45 into the back of my pants, and headed off to the kitchen to get a beer. I knew he would have a case of my brand in there. I had told him to.

    It would be about three days, to be safe, before they cleared the crime scene and it would be safe for me to venture out again. My pervert had some information I wanted, and I had three leisurely days to get it, if he didn't die, first.

    I open the fridge. Ahhh, Miller.

    When it's time to relax...

    Chapter Two…

    With two bottles between the fingers of one hand, and one of his kitchen chairs in the other, I return to the living room and sit beside my box, just in front of him. I uncap one bottle, and drain it in one long gulp, and drop it on the floor as I uncap the other. His eyes look at the bottle on the floor with disapproval. I kick the heel of my boot into his forehead, leaving a nice print, which begins to well with blood. He closes his eyes and whimpers.

    From the top tray of the box, I fish out a jar of Skippy, and a box of crackers, and begin to feast. I am starved, and I bless George Washington Carver with every bite. I'm not gonna eat anything in this place I didn't bring, or that doesn't pop when I open it.

    As I drink beer and gobble, I fish around in a small white box with a red cross on it. I don’t seem to need any of the bandages, but I fish out a syrette of morphine, and pop it into his neck. His face relaxes, and he turns into a flaccid puddle of fag meat on the couch. I yank off the tape and replace it with a ball gag I’d brought, one with a breathing hole in it. I’m going to be pissed if this fucker dies on his own.

    I pull out the top tray, and underneath are rows of packages of what looks like green sticks of butter, several green canisters, and oval plastic things that look like smoke detectors. I begin to peel the tape on the adhesive from my mines, and to stick them around the apartment. One goes on the front door, and one on the floor in front of the only window. I flip their switches as I set them, and they grow tiny red eyes, that blink. I set these to the same frequency, and clip the radio detonator to my belt.

    I place a few more on walls that will blow out into the hall, or into adjacent rooms, and give them their own group of frequencies.

    I pull a long coil of yellow cord out, and make three circles at various places on the floor of the apartment, big enough for me to drop through when I blow the Det Cord, and then staple two more onto the ceiling, and position chairs underneath them. If I have to go up, for some reason, I ain’t fucking Superman, and I’ll be burdened with gear. If I’m lucky.

    Mans Voice: all I hear is him walking around…

    Mans Voice: I heard some kind of clacking sound…

    [sound of van door sliding open]

    Mans Voice: hurry up and get off the street motherfucker…

    Mans Voice: blow me, cocksucker…

    Mans Voice: if you ghost me, I’ll bleed you…slow…

    [General Laughter]

    Mans Voice: MOTHERFUCK! I said sugar, no cream!

    Mans Voice: that’s not cream, I jerked off in it…

    Mans Voice: you faggot…

    Mans Voice: no, that would be him up there…

    Mans Voice: cocksucker’s asleep, I think…

    [Sound of chair springs squeaking]

    Mans Voice: let me turn up the gain…there…no, I hear footsteps…fuck, he just opened a beer bottle…

    Mans Voice: since when did that little pansy start drinking beer?

    Mans Voice: …yeah, I thought he was Master of the Pink Squirrel…maybe it’s a Zima…

    Mans Voice: think he’s got company?

    Mans Voice: nah, we’d a heard it…

    Mans Voice: this shit is good, but it ain’t fool proof, and you ARE a fool…

    Mans Voice: suck my fuckin dick…

    Mans Voice: I don’t hear any fucking or sucking, but we can’t be sure…protocol says we put a laser on the window to augment the bugs…

    Mans Voice: FUCK protocol…

    Mans Voice: you are SUCH a lazy prick…okay, I’ll do it…you sit there and drink my cum…

    Mans Voice: oh, FUCK you!



    Go Google Yourself...

    I typed in 'bane' in the search box, and came up 12th in Google, and 4th in Yahoo.

    I think there is no question now as to which is the superior search engine, in spite of its cluttered interface.

    PS: I am trying to work on my apostrophes, always a weak point for me...a chink, if you will. Did I say 'its' right in that last sentence? Alli? Arielle? Anybody?


        Friday, June 03, 2005

    part 3...

    The alley stinks of piss and vomit and reefer and fear...

    ...and, see the rest, above (The Story Thus Far...)



    So, We Have Our Little Chat…

    (Part Two of...something)

    I raise my eyebrow, and he grins and rubs his stomach. Yum yum...

    See above (The Story Thus Far...) for the rest.



    I'd Love To Do This!

    I think this is a terrific idea. These pussies disagree.

    I'd like to see a setup where you can hunt birds this way, too.

    Or ragheads.


    I dearly love Ted Nugent, and would cheerfully vote for him for President, and was a fan of his before most of you were born, but fuck all of this 'call of the wild' bullshit.

    In the end, all you did was kill a fluffy bunny. Good for you.

    Quit trying to yank my balls about the animals spirit and communing with nature and getting back to the primitive. Especially when you're using a $4,000 compound bow that can shoot through a pickup truck at half a mile.

    Carve out your own bow and arrows and fletch them yourself and string it with sinew from an animal you killed yourself with a rock and I'll start to be impressed.

    Hunt a wild boar with a knife, and you da man. I bow to you.

    But if I want to sit in my underwear and drink a beer and kill this little piggy with the pinnacle of technology and civilization, I'm gonna do it.

    And I won't feel a bit like a pussy. In fact, if you've seen that targeting demo on the website, I'd like to shoot Miss or Mister Piggy's legs off, first, and make em squeal, before I plant one in their ear. Overnight that roastin pig to me, baby, I'm firin up the smoker.



    What Some People Will Do For Fun…

    That chick is either really scared, or she is thinking about me.


        Thursday, June 02, 2005


    ...and enjoy.

    WARNING: Not Safe For Terrorists.


    Guess what kind of mood I'm in tonight.

    My hands want to feel bones crush, my ears crave screams, and I can already smell blood in my nose.




    ...can a black man be racist?

    I don't believe it.



    Once More...

    ...into the breach...

    Next week, we take Johnny back to the shop for a tune-up. This's what I tell people who ask me about John:

    "We couldn't afford a real kid, so we got a rebuilt..."

    Squirming ensues. It's funny, but most people are afraid to laugh. PC has won.

    So, if I post at all Sunday, it'll be my last for awhile, and if anything goes bad, maybe my last forever. Oh well. I've had a good run.

    Johnny is old enough now to know what's coming. What he's in for. He is telling me every day now that he is nervous. Not scared. Nervous.

    I tell him I am nervous, too. But inside, I am scared. How many times can you open a kid up before your run of good luck ends?

    Oh, I know it hasn't been luck, that it has been God, but I'd like to think I can be forgiven a little quaver.

    Note to burglars: I have an armed house sitter, so don't even think about it.

    Thank God my youngest Marine can make it again. He's got the whole month off, and then I won't see him for three years, unless he buys a webcam. Embassy duty. It will be a blessing having him here to help me keep an eye on Nat at the hospital, though.

    So here it is, Thursday, another gray day in a long line of gray days, with a promise of unending gray days to come. The air is still, but pregnant with possibilities. Misty rain seems to swirl out of nowhere, little self-contained stormlets that scratch their fingers along the side of the house, then dance away to spatter someone else.

    This Punisher game is kicking my ass. It is hard, and there are save points, but no in-game saves, which I think is a crime. The Bastard sent me this link a while ago that is well worth a read, and I agree with every word.

    Not having an ability to save anywhere in a PC game (or any game with a damn hard drive) is a crime. So is making it too hard, and disallowing cheats. There are times where I may just have only ten or twenty minutes, and I just want to zone with some good game play and not have to think about it.

    The Punisher has a woefully inadequate manual, and no tutorial, so it's pretty much OJT. There is an in-game 'tip' system, but it doesn't stay on the screen long enough to read, and it is hard to concentrate on while guys are shooting the shit out of you. I still haven't figured out how to throw grenades on purpose, though I can blow myself up real good by accident.

    And the designers put those annoying obstacles in my way, like the fucking Punisher can't kick a couch out of the way, or jump over a filing cabinet on the floor. I hate shit that reminds me I'm playing a game.

    Other than that, it is worth every penny my son spent on it. I have figured out how to grab guys and use them as human shields. They take all my damage until they die. Just before their life bar goes all the way down, I throw them at the other guys, who can take an annoying amount of rounds before dying.

    I'm hoping they come out with a patch that contains a choice of targeting cursors. The game only has an option for one, and I can hardly see it at the best of times. And during explosions, or when facing multiple attackers, it has the annoying habit of disappearing altogether.

    I know it sounds like I'm ragging on this game, but I'd give it a solid 3 out of 5. Very violent, very profane. I have held guys heads in a tank full of piranha and hot acid to make them talk, I have ran over their heads and skewered them with a forklift, dangled them from windows, drowned them in toilets full of shit (there is no hand-washing option, which I found repulsive).

    I am uncomfortable with any male under thirty playing and enjoying this game. Thomas Jayne does the Punisher voice, and it has a story line straight from the comics. You earn money after each mission to buy various upgrades, whether you get better armor, or can shoot straighter, or carry more ammo. It is hard as fuck to earn significant money, so I think a trip into the code of this game is in order. Time to check what the fanboys are up to.

    Nat just called me from the car, on the way home from the dentist. They had to give her Laughing Gas to calm her down, and her face is numb from the shots. I told her to be careful when she steps out of the car, so her head doesn't float off and up and away.

    I am nothing, if not a caring and loving father.

    And scared...



    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship.

    Man, I hate Democrats. And Republicans.

    There are no other parties, unfortunately. Oh, to be sure, some have claimed to have seen other parties, deep in the northern woods, or flitting around in their garden, under the moonlight.

    I don't believe it.


        Wednesday, June 01, 2005

    Thanks, Bonehead...

    A commenter calling themself Bonehead mentioned this link in the comments, and I think it is important enough to warrant front page placement.

    And I wonder why the MSM does not see fit to trumpet this across the land?

    Oh, because they are too busy trying to portray an odious traitor as a hero for destroying a Presidency that wasn't half bad, or giving us non-stop coverage of a faux-negroe pedophile.

    I just realized last night that I have not turned on any news channel for weeks.

    And it doesn't hurt a bit.



    Pervert In Chief...