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        Wednesday, August 31, 2005

    I Get Emails...

    Katrina: Interesting Facts

    SOUTHERN DECADENCE 2005, an annual Labor Day weekend homosexual celebration of debauchery was scheduled to begin this week in New Orleans with at least 100,000 perverts gathering there to commit unspeakable acts in public. Previous events were photographed and sent to the mayor and police officials but they did not care. They had their own lust: The $100,000,000 the event brings in.

    GAZA AND KATRINA. At the exact same time last week that 8,500 Gaza residents were being expelled from God's covenant land under unrelenting U.S. pressure, hurricane Katrina began churning in the Atlantic, targeting the U.S.

    In Florida, 850,000 people were without power (8,500 X 100 = 850,000, a hundredfold).

    In Mississippi, more than 850,000 were also reported without power, and about 8,500 people were in shelters. More damage in Louisiana. Cause and effect, based on Genesis 12:3? You be the judge.

    Katrina is probably the greatest disaster ever to hit the United States. The human suffering and physical destruction are incomprehensible. This comes just eight months after the Asian tsunami, maybe the greatest disaster ever to hit the world since ancient asteroid strikes. If there were eight months between these two ‘birth-pang’ events, how many fewer months will there be before the next?

    Katrina was apocalyptic. While a nuclear bomb would have cost more lives, Katrina probably did more structural damage than several nuclear bombs.

    Nuclear bombs may be next on the agenda, according to some informed observers. There is evidence that they are already in the hands of the terrorists and hidden cells in the U.S. are just waiting for orders to use them.

    There may not be much time. The return of the Lord Jesus Christ is near. There has never been a time when it is more important to be ready, obedient, faithful, and watchful. "For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first: Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord. Wherefore comfort one another with these words" (1 Thessalonians 4:17-18)

    Boy, do I get emails. Whaddaya think?

    On a completely unrelated note, Nattie, on the pot, just told me that her rectum "Perfused to let the poops come out..."

    We then had a discussion as to why when the pee wouldn't come, the poo would, and vice versa. We both agreed that sometimes, they come out together.

    We saw a nice, fat garden snake in the back yard, today. I protected it from clumsy feet, and asked the family what we should name 'her'. The wife suggested 'Hissy'. I suggested 'Missa Hissy'. Nat wanted 'Miss Natalie'. I described a snakes general diet, and Nat made a face and let us name the snake 'Hissy'.

    Johnny just wanted to stomp it flat.

    I made dire threats, and drug him away while Hissy scarpered off. Man, that's a fat snake. Hopefully full of spiders. I have noted a marked decrease in those furry eight-legged fucks in my house this summer.

    I am glad that I saved Hissy from the lawn mower last year. My wife tends to chop them up, for some reason.

    I hate that.



    I Don't Know What To Say...

    Oh, I know what I want to say. And I don't want any of you saying it for me. Don't make me stifle you.

    I don't care if I gain or lose readers, so that can't be why I'm tongue-tied.

    Okay, maybe I'll just put the head in...

    ...why is it that I only see black looters on the news? Is there a vast conspiracy amongst every single yes each and every one of the news agencies covering Katrina that says that they will only show black people acting the fool?

    Is that it?

    I genuinely love and like black people, but these fucking niggers...oops, there I did it...shoved it all the way in, didn't I?

    Okay then, we might as well just fuck...

    These motherfucking feral niggers need to be gunned down in bloody pools of their own shit. They are taking whatever progress Dr Martin Luther King started in the 60's and throwing it right the fuck back into the middle fucking ages and it makes me sick.

    Sick for them, sick for me.

    I want to get along, I really do, and I don't want to tarbaby with the same brush all people who share the same color, like I have decided to do with Arabs for my own personal safety and that of my family's.

    This sucks.

    Oh, I know anarchist white punks riot, as do white college kids with losing teams. I am a fair man. Let's shoot them in their heads, too.

    What is it? Is it the whole Peasant Class thing? The peasants have always given the elitists their armies to overthrow the aristocracy. Is that what our 'Progressives' have done, for the last forty years? Raised up an army? An army of feral, hateful negroes that will rise up and storm any Bastille the 'Progressives' have trained them to hate? To attack reflexively, like dogs?

    This is bad, people, and does not bode well. Does not bode well indeed.

    I have warned you people here, time and again, that it is not smart to piss off people who can and will imprison and enslave and kill you. It is even worse to make them afraid.

    One 'Aw Shit!' can trump ten 'Attaboys!', and send you right back to square one.

    For the first time in my life, I am angry with and afraid of and confused by black people as a race.

    And I have always loved and enjoyed and embraced black Americans and their culture and their food and everything about them, and felt that places like Compton, and times like Watts were aberrations.

    Lately, I have been watching the BET, especially the comedy, with some alarm. Those people hate me. Because of my color. Yeah, I know, I know..."Welcome to the club, White Boy."

    Just remember, my gang has a lot more money and guns than yours does. You do not want to pull the trigger on this shit.

    You incipient racists out there, in the audience, do not use this post as an excuse to run amok in my comments with your racist poison. I will assuredly stifle you. This is not a democracy.

    I am very angry and confused and hurt, today.

    There is an evil wind blowing...



    My Mom Just Sent Me This...

    Lost Preacher

    As a young minister, I was asked by a funeral director to hold a grave-side service in a new cemetery for a derelict man (with no family or friends) who had died while traveling through the area. The funeral was to be held way back in the country at a new cemetery.

    This man would be the first to be laid to rest at this new cemetery. As I was not familiar with the backwoods area, I became lost. Being the typical man, I didn't stop for directions. And when I finally arrived an hour late, I saw a crew and a backhoe, but the hearse was nowhere in sight.

    The workmen were eating lunch. I apologized for my tardiness, but the workers just looked puzzled. I stepped to the side of the open grave, to find the vault lid already in place. I assured the workers I would not hold them long, but this was the proper thing to do.

    As the workers gathered around, still eating their lunch. I poured out my heart and soul. As I preached, the workers began to say "Amen," "Praise the Lord" and"Glory," (they must have been Baptist).
    I preached, and I preached, like I'd never preached before. I began from Genesis and worked all the way through to Revelation. I preached for 45 minutes. It was a long service.

    Finally, I closed in prayer and it was finished. As I was walking to my car, I felt that I had done my duty and I would leave with a renewed sense of purpose and dedication, in spite of my tardiness.

    As I was opening the door and taking off my coat, I overheard one of the workers saying to another. "I've been putting in septic tanks for 20 years, and I ain't never seen anything like that before.


        Tuesday, August 30, 2005

    It's For...

    ...the children...

    Forgive me, I've been trapped with evil midgets since Sunday.

    I have to do something, or I'll set them on fire...



    One Riot, One Ranger...

    I doubt you hear that said anymore, unless someone is reminiscing. With the politically correct, neutered, pussy cops the police academies seem to be churning out these days, I bet even the Texas Rangers get diversity training, now.

    There was a time though, that when a Ranger rode into town, he put his star on the outside of his coat, with all the dust buffed off, as a warning to you.

    It meant that you stopped all of whatever dumb shit you were doing, or he'd kill you to make it stop. And if you were Mexican, he'd likely kill you anyway for being Mexican In Public, so you'd best skedaddle as fast as you could back over the border. Better make a run for that damn border.

    Rangers travelled singly, and in packs, and they kept the peace in a very huge amount of territory, and there are ghost towns now where somebody was both stupid and lucky enough to kill one.

    There were never really more than a hundred and fifty of them, and there hasn't been what I would call an 'OG' (Original Gangsta) Ranger since 1936, when they all resigned or were fired when a corrupt woman was elected Governor of Texas and she put all her cronies in.

    I used to know one of the OG Rangers, and he was an impressive man.

    A little old banty rooster of a man, wizened from decades in the sun, top of his Stetson just barely to my chin, that old buzzard terrified the shit out of me, and I was a 20 year old bad-ass (or so I thought).

    My girlfriend at the time, the redhead of the 'beer mugs and blackout story' fame, did side work for old folks in town, cleaning and cooking for them, and this proud old man was one of her clients. She worked more and harder than anyone I have ever known, and she took to taking pharmaceutical speed to give her the pep she needed, and I sold her much of it. Eventually, she would go on to become a burned out, wasted fat hulk, ridden by lice, and not even remembering me.

    That old Ranger would have doubtless kilt me had he known. As it was, my long hair and beard made him crazy, and she had to protect me from him as it was, by threatening to quit him, and he adored her, so I was mostly safe.

    The first time I ever saw the old ranger, he was launching into this breakfast place I was in and slapping an example of our local consabulary in the back of his head and taking his gun.

    The deputy sheriff had been sitting with his back to the front door, his cowboy hat tipped back on his head, making time with the waitress there, at the seat by the cash register. When struck, his hat flew off, his coffee flew, and he lurched around to see a wild eyed old man in a Stetson and a black suit with a string tie, and his own gun pointed right between his eyes.

    I was some impressed, and surprised that the deputy hadn't pissed himself, though there was a stain. Probably coffee.

    The old Ranger was shaking with rage, and chewed this guys ass out up one side to the other about being fuck-all dumb enough to sit with his back to the door like that, and it was something to behold. I thought the deputy was gonna cry.

    Finally, out of gas, the old man handed the gun back, butt first, and stalked off to sit in the corner, his back against two walls, to have his repast. The cop collected himself and left.

    I learned more about the old Ranger in the ensuing weeks, as my girlfriend drug me along. The first words he ever said to me were "There was a time that I would have killed you, and everybody who looks like you!" as he shook a bony finger in my face. The look in those old, cold blue eyes showed me that, why yes, my death is just swimming inside...right..there...
    I considered knifing him on the spot, and maybe he saw that, too, and he cackled as if that cheered him up some.

    A few minutes later, after my girlfriend had cooled his jets, he was proudly showing off to me a brand new in the box Universal .30 caliber M-1 Carbine. He saw that I knew how to handle guns, and showed me some more, and warmed to me...some.

    In time, I learned what he meant, and he meant it exactly, about killing me. He was a lonely old man, and I was truly interested in him, and I enjoyed watching my girlfriends lady-parts as she bustled around his spartan studio apartment. He did, too.

    He ended up showing me pictures he had, sepia, brownish things, the kind you know where they are standing there because the photographer told them to not move, and there was just a big flash of chemicals and a fwump!

    Pictures of young men, hanging dead from trees by a rope, their eyes agoggle, sometimes some tongue lolling, a recently startled horse off to one side, guileless in its participation with the death of its most recent rider...

    Piles of dead Mexicans, spattered with blood, festooned with cartridge belts, shot all to shit and gone...

    White men, laid out on boards, or in boxes, or in the backs of wagons...

    And always, surounded by grinning, or serious, or blank-faced hard men, them festooned with the finest firearms of their day. Their horses looking like they had just recently been bought from Arabian princes, or feudal knights. I don't much like horses, but these were the Hummers of horseflesh, thick, muscular beasts, War Horses, who would not flinch when your rifle sent a man to hell.

    And this old mans eyes, shining like the chrome hubcaps of Death's hearse out at me from so many of those photos, looking out at looking like the twin of so many of his strange fruit, arranged in trees and dangling above these men of violence.

    And yes, Men of Honor.

    For that's what they were...Knights of the Old Republic, principled killers, tasked with keeping a fledgling, growing society safe from the predators who were swarming.
    Predators who looked like me.

    Young men, run out of the cities in the north by hard-fisted Irish policemen, coming out to the wild frontier, to rape and kill and take without giving back...meeting proud Sons of Texas, who would kill them on the spot for wearing the wrong clothes, or facial hair configuration, because they had learned...knew now...what someone who looked like that meant.

    I cut my hair into the style of the day, and trimmed my beard down considerable, and he relaxed around me. I had learned the art of 'fitting in'. Do not make someone's trigger finger itch.

    This story just kind of unfolded, here. Wrote itself. It started when I asked myself the whimsical question:

    "What would my Old Ranger have done today had he been there in New Orleans and heard a cop shrug and say 'Nothing we can do...there's not enough of us, and I don't want to start a riot'..."

    What, indeed...



    Do You Believe...

    ...we are fighting evil people in Iraq?

    Dennis Prager asks that question today, and I think it's a fair one, and I've been using his standards in my personal life all along.

    I can't recall ever reading him before, an error I shall have to rectify. There has been a dearth of good columning, lately, and it is getting dearthier.

    And since I don't want to honor that insane Nazi goof Pat Buchanan with a post, just allow me to state here that I hate that crazy motherfucker, and if you don't, you just need to stay the fuck away from me.

    Oh he 'has some great ideas blah blah blahdy fucking blah' I don't give a shit. Hitler liked dogs.

    Fuck Buchanan, and God Bless America and our military, and let's get this shit done before any of my kids have to be sent off again to another shithole to wipe their asses for them.



    Michael Yon...

    You really need to take the time to listen to this.

    And if you're not reading Yon's blog, you are missing out.

    In your face, anti-war weenies.


    Tonight at 9 on the History channel, 'Shootout', be there.

    Covers the battle for Fallujah, and does it very well.



    Shaved vs Unshaved...

    Don't go here. Extreme nudity ensues.

    But it presents the argument well.

    I like them both.



    Critical Mess...

    ...let the bloviating begin!...

    The media reaches a certain point in any story where they begin to sound like a tape (remember tape?) set on fast Mickey Mouse on crank.

    I can only assume that Americans are somehow more waterproof than Calcuttans. Were this the annual 'Drowning Of The Little Brown People' that they throw in Bombay, we would be hearing reports of '30,000 People Drownded!'

    Here, photographers are hard pressed to find a human victim, so they must be content with showing us litter, and standing water.

    It's called a 'flood', stupid. We get it. Now let's get back to Cindy Sheehan.

    Ha! Not!

    I could kiss Katrina on her big, wet lips. Thanks, Mother Nature, for blowing Mother Sheehan out of my television! And Aruba. And all of the other sleights of hand 'They' use to keep our eyes off the pea.

    Those folks there down south have got to be some miserable-ass sonsabitches right now. Oh, well. Move, or shut up.

    Doctor! Doctor! It hurts when I do this!

    Well...don't do that.


        Monday, August 29, 2005

    Wherein Nat Does Ballet...

    ...hold me closer, Tiny Dancer...

    ...and I'm drying off my balls there in the shower, and it hits me; I have a pretty weird life.

    Doubtless, the wife is up in the woods, skyclad and dancing widdershins with the others in her coven...I mean 'Church Group'. Whatevah...

    I am getting a ballet recital in the bathroom by a little purple pixie in a tutu, while I, nude, idly dry my package, whilst ankle deep in scummy water cuz the tub chose today to clog...

    My son is downstairs snarfing the rest of Nats peanut butter and honey sandwich that she picked all the bread off of a pinch at a time, and ate the bread, but not the peanut butter and honey, because it was 'too sweet', so I fold the mess into a fresh slice of bread and hand it to Daddy's Little Garbage Disposal...

    She does that crap a lot. The pinching bit, I mean.

    I had a terrible situation with Costco. My bung requires Charmin Ultra to function properly, what with my hairy ass and all, and we kept getting these bad batches. I even took them back to the store and complained and got fresh merchandise but still, I would get these rolls where it looked like a cat had padded in it, from all of the tiny sticker holes, and I suspected Costco had a mouser loose in the building at night, that occasionally padded on my toilet paper.

    Cats, the spokes-creatures of the animal world for mental illness, are known to behave suchly.

    I was highly perturbed.

    And then I caught the little bitch red-pinchered! Padding her own damn self! Mindlessly pinching tiny perforations into the roll just for the pure tactile pleasure of it!

    Oh, I was wroth. Much woe ensued, and her genes are on probation. I cannot let this perfidy loose upon the world if it is more than just a passing aberration.
    I shall have to have her spayed.

    Well, my balls being dry, I commenced to the upper thigh area. Her recital, having reached a crescendo of frantic twirling and flapping, resulted in her final move, which we shall call 'Gravity's Cruel Embrace', wherein she falls into a heap, like a pile of animated gay laundry...

    Inspired to further display, she assumes a three point stance, and begins to knock out one-armed pushups! Four of them! Perfect form! Like fucking Sportacus!

    She bowed very sweetly to her ardent round of applause. Johnny, confused and bemused there, at the top of the stairs, and doubtless thinking I was admiring his form in despatching the sandwich, bowed as well.

    That I did not slip in the tub, and split my skull and die, while laughter rendered me helpless, is just another happy miracle.



    Blast From The Past...

    If you surf a lot of blogs, and boy do I, and you run down all sorts of dead ends, sooner or later you're likely to find something you just have to put your two cents in about.

    So you comment, and you forget about it, and then one day, quite by accident, you run across it again, and you say 'I wonder if this blogger is still an asshole' and you go and check and by golly, they sure are.

    If you're lucky, their last post was like in March, or something, so you can fantasize that you were so cutting and barbed that you made them go off themselves.

    But no, usually, still kickin, and stinkin the place up.

    I am going through my blogs folder in my favorites, culling blogs that I don't go to anymore. Or those run by dicks. Why did I link them in the first place? I dunno.

    There's a couple of blogs I will always leave up, just in case they decide to start posting again. They know who they are. I've even given up sending nagmail. Sigh.

    But when I open my blogs folder, it runs across the page in five columns, and that's a bit much, I think. So I have begun the culling.

    I pass a lot of wrecks on the road forward. Some, spectacular crashes, some, just stalled by the roadside, waiting for a tow. Or for the driver to get back toting a gas can, ready to try again.

    Folks, don't let anybody tell you how to blog. All they know is how they do it. Don't even listen to that advice from me, either. If I am some sort of inspiration for you, and you are feeling some measure of satisfaction from it, screw it. Copy me. Or not.

    I've been all over the 'sphere, in varied and diverse places, and then I come back here and do what I want.

    I didn't even figure out what a site-meter was until about 7 or 8 months ago. I put up donation buttons because I saw Lileks had them, and I gave him some money one day, and I said 'Hey! I could do this!' and then Johnny started down his trail of tears, and it turned out to be just the ticket, thank you all again very much.

    Some times I imagine that I can hear my 'voice' coming off of someone else's blog. Hey, that don't bother me, unless it looks like I am bringing them down to my level, as it were.

    Lord knows I'm sure the techniques of others has rubbed off on me some. I can't cruise the Brit blogs without 'pip-pipping' my ass off for a while, and I have to work hard to keep the Oxford out of my tone.

    Likewise, ya'll sure can tell when I've spent too much time hangin with the shitkickers Southerners, I corn pone it up so much.

    The only thing I will say deliberately about blogging is that you are crazy, if you have a blog, to not put the URL to that blog on your signature line. It's free advertising, and if people like what you say on one blog, they'll likely follow you back to yours. Or not.

    And I'm curious if you think that blogging and commenting are the same, or are two different art forms? I'm pretty sure I write the same whether I'm posting or commenting, but I have read comments from bloggers where the voice is completely different, to me. Same thing with emails.

    In this medium right here, I write the same way I talk, pretty much. If you heard me talking in a bar or restaurant, you would probably be able to guess it was me. With substantially less cussing. Probably.

    Well, I'm pretty much exactly where I wanna be, blogwise. It makes me nervous when I come back and there are three pages of Haloscan comments for me to catch up on. I couldn't stand being one of these 300 comment per post bloggers, let alone some of the bloviatious bullshit they have to endure. The long-winded commenters I do get, I don't mind, but if you're gonna write 15 inches of bullshit telling the world why you disagree with me, footnoted, annotated, with 25 links, well bubba, you need to go get your own blog.

    While we're still talking about me, I may need to explain something about myself: If you are making a funny, I might not get it. I may take you serious. It is my nature to consider the threat, first. Keep your hands where I can see em means something around me.

    You've heard about the person who can dish it out but can't take it? Yep, that's me. I love pulling pranks, and hate having them pulled on me. If someone comes here cursing and whatever, I just assume they are mad or uncouth and we go from there.

    This has soured, initially at least, a lot of my interpersonal relationships.

    Yep, Bane has a character flaw.

    Imagine that.



    Retards On The Storm...

    ...Into this house we're blown...

    I'm seeing the usual suspects, standing outside, hopefully drunk, proving that it is windy and rainy in a hurricane, by standing in it.

    I keep hoping for an on-air decapitation by debris, but no luck, so far. Fingers crossed!

    I like Steve Harrigan from Fox, though. I hope he survives. He has no need to prove his manhood to me or anyone else after Afghanistan and Iraq. His ball-cred is assured. Bullets just annoy him, because they are so rude as to interrupt while he's talking.

    So, he's standing there in the wind, well, gale, and getting the piss soaked out of him, being buffeted this way and that, and the look on his face is like all, fuck you, wind, I'm trying to talk, here.

    I had to crack up.

    And that homo-head back in the studio, you know, the morning clown, the one who would melt into a puddle of make-up and Armani if you sneezed on him, was just looking at Steve on the screen like, whoa, dude, better you than me.

    I would sooner chew bees than watch one minute of Fox & Friends. I would watch Oprah on purpose, first. Just writing that means I am going to have to drink some prune juice to un-pucker.

    I can't tell if if a bunch of Americans are in for a good hard wet fuck that ends with asphyxiation. Believe it or not, that would make me sad, even though, doubtless, many of them are Democrats.

    Okay, the Democrats can croak.


        Sunday, August 28, 2005

    G'night, Missus Calabash...Where Ever You Are...


    Let The Record Show...

    I do not now, nor have I ever, given a rat fuck about anything Lance Armstrong has ever done, or shall ever do.

    Let it further be known, nay, let it be written, so shall it be done, that if a video of he and his one dangly ball, whilst violently penetrating Ms Crow in one or more of her nether regions, she shrieking like a banshee, is ever released, that I will not watch such.

    Unless it just, like, pops up or something.

    In which case I shall clear my cache, and decon the livid shit out of my hard drive most riki tik.

    Fuck, it's just a damn bicycle.






    Let Not Your Heart Be Troubled...

    Brand X asks, and I deliver.

    His prayer was heard before he made it, but here goes...

    Dear God; This one looks like a big one. I don't believe, per se, that you make storms and shit, any more than you are twirling your mighty fingers to make dust devils on Mars. Unless you want to.

    Whatever. Thy Will be done in this, on earth as it is in Heaven.

    Your hand, as usual, is mighty. It would be a nice miracle, Oh Lord, if you just pulled the plug on Katrina, and let it come ashore like a wet balloon.

    For this I, we pray. Spare us this agony, Oh Lord. The nation watches.

    Spare Brand X, and his family, and his beer, God. Please.

    Thy will be done, as usual.

    Thank you, God.




    She's Gone...

    ...oh I'd better learn how to face it...

    I could use this for all kinds of my advantage, but I'm not wired that way, so I won't.

    She was/is so greatful, and I'm like "Get the fuck out of here already, you're buggin the kids..." so she left, and I'm Large and In Charge, and now we're gonna take a nap. Cuz Bane Dad says so.

    She's going up in the mountains, in the woods, to a Christian retreat. Cabins and shit. Trails. No phones. Peace.

    You guys, you husbands, get rid of your woman, ever so often. Pack her bags for her, and kick her ass out of the house. Send her to get mud on her face, or dance around a fire with other nutty broads with flags, or whatever.

    Do the dishes yourself for a couple of days. Feed the kids. Look directly into their needy eyes, and know you are the one and only thing between them and starvation.

    Sit on the couch, with a kid on either side of you, like bookends, and watch the Formula Races and ooo and aw at the crashes.

    The wife just called, as I am writing this. She wants me to tell you all that her and Johnny's day could have and should have been the worst day ever, but they both had such peace, that whatsoever came at them just passed over and melted away, even though it was the shittiest, shittiest day ever. Her telling of it winds ME up, and I wasn't even there. And yet, she and he came home, happy and healthy, as if they hadn't just gone through several circles of hell and a family sized bucket-full of idiocy.

    Thanks, folks. And God. And Jesus. Cuz somebody asked me why I never (rarely) mention Jesus. Well, He's God, ain't He? I'm lazy. One word fits all. Sorry, Holy Spirit, I just don't get You at all. None of it, in fact, I just have faith.

    And a wife. And two (well, six...) kids. And I am mightily Blessed.

    Just cuz it's Sunday, I just wanna say that yes, my kids could die tomorrow, and I could develop painful and inoperable cancer, and I would praise God for it, because He says to praise Him in all things.

    All things.

    That means all.

    I don't get it, but I don't have to. Same thing with liking it. Don't, much. Still...

    He doesn't need me, but I sure can't make it without Him. The worst thing that could happen to me right now, would be for me to somehow become rich.

    I would see that as a curse, I truly would.

    Happy Sunday!



    I Do Not Get It...

    There are bloggers who curse far more than I. They show pictures of vaginas. Some write entire posts without so much as one capital letter.

    Some write in great detail of their sexual exploits, or their bowel movements, and yet...

    I am considered extreme. People call me a 'guilty pleasure', to my very face!

    I don't get it. I peruse your links, and see far nastier folk than I, and folks as what haven't posted in months, but not me.

    Or, if me, quite often with a disclaimer of some sort, meant to warn the weak of heart (or soft of head, I'd wager) about me. A limp-wristed that says 'I recommend, but with serious reservations, so please don't hate me'.

    Oh well, any publicity and all that, but...

    I don't get it.





    Fuck Amazon.

    Well, it's my own damn fault, but fukkem anyway. Someone gave me $20, and then I thought someone did it again, so I clicked, and now my account is overdrawn, someone thinks I rejected their money, and Amazon might take five days getting the money to you, but they don't take even five minutes to debit your account.


    I used to think Paypal was the worst, but they charge less, and are more efficient by far than Amazon. And they're all bastards. Try to find any kind of customer support. I dare you.

    Anyway, thanks, whoever you are. Were. Whatever. It was me being a dummy, and I'm sorry if you got hit with extra credit card charges.

    Keep the change.


    Thanks, YouandIbothknowwhoyouare. The bank is still gonna try and screw me. Amazon will hold the funds for a couple (few) days, and then the bank will hold it for a while.

    If I did this shit for money, I'd fucking quit.

    But, thanks.


        Saturday, August 27, 2005

    Lost In The Static...

    Due to the vitally important matter of Cindy Sheehthead, I missed this.

    Dust devils. On Mars.

    Too cool.

    Hmmmm, seems like we have atmosphere, Jim.



    She's Rock Candy, Baby..., sweet, and sticky...

    You are my candy-girl, and you've got me wanting you...

    My testicles are still ringing. The wife and I took our over-developed ovums to the park today. They scatter to the four winds, simultaneously, like Quaker Oats...'Shot From Guns!' Do they still use that slogan? Whatevah...

    My penis spotted her immediately...Angelina Jolie's prettier sister, there in her tight tube top and hot pants and sandals...sproing! Ten-HUT! Aye aye, sir...all semen present and accounted for! Target, dead ahead, make tubes one through four ready, fire when we have a solution...Aye aye, sir!

    Ahem. This is why you do not listen to the reptile brain. The reptile brain would fuck a snake. A dead snake. And the horse it rode in on.

    This little beauty could not have been a day over thirteen, and yet she had my balls clicking like castanets, screeching like a fire alarm, whooping like the noon whistle...

    I nudged my wife and pointed, and we both let out a sigh of worship and admiration.

    I turned to the wife, and said "I hope I die before I have to see Nat looking like that..."

    She assured me that we would be having none (nun) of that.

    What's the point? You don't get it?

    I don't care who you are, or who you think you the right place, at the right time, and in the right circumstances, unless your name starts with Jesus and ends with Christ, you would fuck her. Don't bother protesting, cuz yer full of shit.


    I post beauties here, here and there, now and then. She put them all to shame.

    I could taste her innocence, as she swang beside Nat. I could see her sweetness, as she interacted with Johnny. I could see the wife eyeballing me. I would never do a thing about it in a million years unless...

    There's the rub. I'm not saying Burkha, here, but goodness, why did this little porn star get let out of the house looking like a porn star? I mentioned that other chick a few posts ago, how she could wear jeans and a T-shirt and make you lust, but seriously...13?

    I know of the sadness of busty chicks getting bad posture and wearing flour sacks to hide their 'gifts', but to let such a one dress like a...what? Tiny shorts and tiny top. And I could see the innocence and immaturity in her eyes.

    She worshipped me like a god. My power over her was complete. I knew I was looking fine, today. I've picked up enough pussy in parks (OVER 18, thank you!) to know when I'm being checked out. I had more than one mom today sidle by and check me out and make an opening gambit.

    Just talking to this little hottie empowered her, and made her present, unconciously.

    I pray for her, and our current crop of girl children, raised in this hormonal cauldron, where anything goes...

    I hate to think what somebody else, offered the same feast, would have done.

    I really do.


        Friday, August 26, 2005

    Okay, Just One More...

    Have you ever farted a fart so bad that, even drunkasshit, it reminded you to check your smoke alarm batteries?

    Made you a bit ferfeared that fucker was gonna go off?

    Tastes like licorice fried in Janet Reno's pussy juice?

    Go ahead and spit...I did.

    Need to spit again, and rinse with more wine...

    I have never stuck my tongue in an asshole, but my asshole sure stuck itself on my tongue...




    Friday Night Drunk Blogging...

    I want to slam some hippie through the 5/8th inch sheet rock between the studs, and gut him while he clucks like a chicken and his eyes stutter and goggle and, maybe, near the end, he shrieks 'Mommy!'

    Thanks, Blondage. I blame you.

    Because of you, I am listening to this...

    Wanna party with me folks? Wear a cup.

    If any of you choads can blog this coherently, without spelling errors, at this time of night, while as fuck-hammered as I am...

    Well, ya'll need help.

    This music makes me want to split crawl off and cry in the dew-wettened walk out in the street with a bag full of mags and wreak some serious havoc, singing brass, pinging and twirling through the air, bouncing off of cars and tinkling on the manhole covers as screaming hot lead clears the street of its flotsam and jetsum...

    FUCK! I just want to grab you all in a great big old headlock, and set Gregg on fire, and throw him out a window into the pool to keep the mosquitoes off us.

    Did Firefly RAWK tonight, or what?

    Johnny's home, snuggled with the woman.

    Fukkit. I am so tired of this shit, I could stomp a bag of kittens to death, just to get a perfect high C.

    Eat my dick, with a side of dick sauce. I hate all of you motherfuckers, except for the ones I love, and if I could buy a clue, I couldn't afford one.

    Get the fuck offa my lawn...nothin to see here...

    Ahhhh...fuck me...



    You Realize You Are Just A Turd...

    ...when you find yourself just floatin in the shitter...

    Hoo-Raw, muthafuckas.

    Don't spend it all in one place...




    ...and they just wheeled Johnny into the operating theatre.

    He has been NPO (nothing by mouth) since 9 o'clock last night. The wife said he'd played himself out in this little playland they have there, and was droopy and exhausted when they wheeled him away.

    He fought them anyway.


    I am having a shitty day. Natty is showing me her 'wedding ring', and the baby doll that 'just came out of her tummy'.

    I was going to ask how it got in there, but deferred. We're not ready for that conversation yet. God help us if she ever discovers she can put stuff up there. She'd play 'kangaroo with a pouch', no doubt. "Look, Daddy, watch my Joey come out!"

    Yeesh. No thanks.

    Well, it's off to the dollar store with us.

    Fuck, I need a drink...


    Thanks for buying me that drink, whoever you are! Appreciate it.

    So, obviously, we're back. The wife called a bit ago to say he's in recovery and starting to wake up. I will be like a cat walking across a wet floor til they walk through the door.

    Nat is now 'Lady Sheriff'. She is down for her nap with her new pistol by her head, her new badge propped up on it. Her new white Peacemaker with the hot-pink handles and the bright orange tip, so real cops can tell it's not a real gun. Horrid looking thing, but she loves it.

    Passed up stacks of dolls and doll clothes and princess jewelry and nurse kits and picked the pistol. Oh, to be sure, she wanted all that other stuff, but it was the gun that stole her heart.

    So much for that whole 'gun as penis' theory, I'd think.

    She shot bad guys all the way home. There were lots of them, apparently. We had the gun talk.

    You know Daddy has a lot of guns, right?


    Don't even look at Daddy's guns, and tell on Johnny if he does, okay?


    I'll buy you a dolly if you tell the truth...

    "Okay! I'll do it..."

    Can I poke a pencil into your arm really hard, or poke it into your belly button?


    Why not?

    "Cuz that would hurt me!"

    Well, real guns shoot out these sharp pokey things that hurt worse than a hundred pencils and make your blood come out and you die.

    "And Johnny too, huh..."

    And Johnny, too. And Mommy, and you. Don't touch my guns...

    "Okay Daddy..."

    Don't even look at my guns...

    "Okay Daddy..."

    Good girl...


    "There's a bad guy!"click-click-click...


    I think I'll have Johnny sing me some Veggie Tales songs tonight. I think we'd both like that.

    A lot.

    Thanks for your thoughts and prayers, people. It's really going to mess us up if he dies, huh.

    You hear that God? Oh, and thanks be to you, Big Guy. Thanks for letting me keep him a while longer.

    Best present, ever.



    Have Your Cake...

    ...and eat me, too.

    There is perhaps no term being tossed around today that I hate more than 'chickenhawk'.

    Let's leave aside the fact that, like the Seahawk, there is no such bird.

    Let's leave aside the fact that I could pick up my phone and call my Marine Recruiter son and ask him if he has ever heard of anybody who otherwise qualifies that has ever been turned away.

    No, 'chickenhawk' is a Liberal word, comfortable in a mouth that is comfortable with having, shall we say, 'unsavory items' put in it.

    Is the opinion of someone who served honorably in combat though they were drafted against their will of more value than that of a volunteer who never saw combat at all?

    Is the opinion of a cooks helper who rode a ship in the Gulf of Tonkin in 1966 of more value than a sniper who served in 1979 who shot nothing more than paper?

    Who gets to make these judgements? Where's the manual? The FM?

    We have a mother who's son died in Iraq, checkmated by a mother who has a husband and five sons in Iraq. Or do we? Does the other mother have to have a dead child as well, to trump any anti-war mother who comes along?

    This is as weak as the argument that I can't say anything about abortion, because I have no womb.


    I have felt a warm infant cool in my palms.

    If you are against something, convince me, but hold the hyperbole. Saying 'Right' or 'Wrong' doesn't make it either. Liking or not liking or being made comfortable or uncomfortable by something does not make it so or not so.

    And judging the end result of history while it is still far from unfolding is fatuous, at best.

    Hindsight is one thing, midsight is just second-guessing, armchair quarterbacking at its worst.

    There really is dangerous thought...toxic opinions. A mind can be poisoned.

    Too many people today, talking just to hear their brains rattle.

    Cut it out.


        Thursday, August 25, 2005

    Out Of Character...

    God forgives, Bane doesn't.

    Maybe I should rethink that policy.

    I have always lived by Deguello. You smite my cheek, I rip both of yours off, and fuck your dog to death in front of your dying eyes.

    Perhaps not the most Christian of policies for one who proclaims himself to be a Christian, but a habit and credo I have lived by. Survived by.

    Until now. Maybe.

    We have had much yucks here with my sociopathology, but it really is a handicap, and not something to be admired or celebrated.
    Like color-blindedness, or psyco-motor epilepsy. The first means you never have to worry about seeing the color pink, the second means people will fear you when you get 'that look' in your will make a PCP'd biker look like a toddler on Flintstone's Vitamins...

    But neither is something to be proud of. To proclaim on a T-Shirt.

    Nate: I perceived gross insult to me, and to my wife. Had we, perchance met, I would have sought your death or maiming. I am not kidding in the slightest.

    This is just a blog, so subsequent to that 'tipping over' on my part, I wrote you off and ignored you as best I could, and despised your every syllable and emission, and resented your every continued breath.

    Gregg, as twisted and broken as he is, and no doubt in the throes of some sort of drug and alcohol induced brain-cramp, persevered in your defense for some reason, and, while he may just be your Renfield, I consider your protestations of innocence, as well as his, and...this pains me on a level you cannot even imagine...

    I forgive you.

    Clean slate.

    All is forgotten. Forgiven. Whatever. Sorry if this sucks. It's my first time.

    If God can love me, I can at least tolerate you.

    Go with God, my brother, and let us sin no more towards each other.

    Thanks, Gregg.

    Now, go sleep it the fuck off.



    Once More...

    ...into the breach.

    Tired of reading that? Tired of writing it.

    In the morning, Johnny goes up to the Hobby Shop, to be knocked out, and have strangers shove tubing and tools around in his sinuses and lungs.

    Rummage rummage rummage. See Doc rummage. Good rummaging, Doc.

    Try to not poke anything important. Anything I might miss. Like Johnny.

    They haven't dug around in his lungs since he was a baby, and APERT's kids can grow off in funny ways and directions.
    Funny as in "Shit happens, and then you die' ways. Go find 'Teeter's Page'. For yourself. I can't bear it. The little candles where kids pictures used to be just bend me over.

    'Ooops! Ah,!'

    Might not be fair, but sometimes it seems that way to me. Oh, don't get me wrong, I want the most coldest blooded bastard of all handling the knives and probes and hoses and needles. I don't want some weepy bastard who 'feels their pain', I want the slicin dicin cowboy who is fearless and wants to find out what is just around that next corner there and who opened up kittens when he was five to see what made them tick and who has the bright, shiny, curious eyes of an android.

    And all the nurses hate him, but they brag about his work, and say things like "He may be an asshole, but..."

    That's my man, the man I want lifting the hood on my Little Engine Who Can.

    You prayers, you know who you are, please, get to work.

    I haven't taken either of them to the Dollar Store yet. I'll take Nat tomorrow. I need some joy.

    I hope I get to take Johnny, soon...



    Katrina Straps One On For Florida...

    I just wanted to write that. Don't really have nuthin.

    'Course, Florida is America's strap-on, danglin down there like an uncircumcised wang.

    I just had to look up 'uncircumcised'. How embarassing.

    I'd best shut up, because I've got a lot of Floridated readers. Send me money! Quick! Before the banks blow over...or something.

    Let your last act, before being flushed down God's Toilet, be to give a little girl her Tuberculosis medicine.

    It's for the children!

    If anybody currently swirling around in a funnel cloud right now is offended, well...



    I misspelt embarrassing. That's...embarrassing.



    Bloody Savages...

    This shit is what nerve gas is for.

    Just spray down the whole damn country, and every country that looks and acts like it.

    Come on, Bird Flu! Get to Peru, quick.

    I'm serious. We've got miles of bunkers filled with that shit all over the country.

    Let's not waste it.



    Bullshit Deflector...

    I dare any of you students to wear a pair of these in class.

    Double dog.



    It's Okay...

    If they're not naked, isn't it? Good, then may I present you with the wonder of the world that is Xenia Seeberg.



    I Got Nuthin...

    I'm jammin to that Britney Metal it on repeat in the background. Amazing guitar work. Her voice gives me goose bumps on my balls. Even snippets of it.

    Nat is still transgendered. Maybe some electric shock is in order. I pretended to cry about 'not having a daughter anymore'...she brought me a doll.

    Someone hit the tip jar. Thanks!

    It's gonna hit 90+ degrees today. My air-bed got another flat. That is getting tiresome.

    'Over There' seriously rocked hard last night. I am really loving that show. Anyone recognize the embedded photographer? Nice to see him getting work, though I'd rather be seeing more of Elizabeth Berkley. Who cares that she can't act. Just like this gal:

    Heather Elizabeth Parkhurst. Who cares whether she can act or not? I don't.

    If you ever get the chance to see a TV show from 1997 called 'Perversions of Science' and an episode called 'Boxed In', you get to see her as the naked android sex slave. The most perfectest body I have ever seen. The episode is based on a short story Chris Miller wrote for National Lampoon in 1974, and he wrote the screenplay for the '97 show, and I did not know this at the time I was watching it, so I was really worried that I was having an acid flashback because of the strong sense of deja vu that I had heard all of this dialogue before but how could I be? and it really drove me nuts.

    Those titties kept me sane, and grounded. Thanks be to Tits. They're a bit bigger, now, than in that photo, but still beautiful. How many of you have rushed off to get the Astro-Glide and commence Googling?

    That '97 episode starred the ever-wonderful William Shatner AND his daughter Melanie, who seems to only get work when Daddy's directing. I IMDB'd Billy boy, and any movie that wasn't Star Trek was nearly universally garbage. Outta fire his agent.

    Well, I've been pickin at this post like cold peas. You can tell, huh? Bored bored bored.

    You know what'd be fun? I bet? Fill up an air-bed with propane, put it in the back of your pickup, and drive by some hippies protesting the war or whatever. Then flip a lit road flare back on it. Scare the shit right out of them, I bet. Wonder what it'd do to the truck?

    Seems pretty harmless, really, unless you spread glue all over one side, and poured a few buckets of marbles on it and let it dry. And then propped it up on edge as you drove by.

    Bye, hippies.

    It's not good when I get bored. My mind wanders...



    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and, well, read it. Or something.

    Today, she bores me to tears. The media sucks. I get it.



    A Touching Tribute... the Goddess Britney...



        Wednesday, August 24, 2005

    Just For You Know...

    If I was here visiting my wounded son, and these fuckers showed up, I would use every ability and power I possess to kill and kill and keep on killing and the MP's would have to shoot me down to stop me.

    I promise.


    It's Thursday evening, here, and I just went down to get a glass of wine, and the wife has Hannity & Colmes on (I despise them both) and I see they've got this lying dyke bitch from code pink or whatever who is talking about this and lying her fucking dyke ass off and I am so angry right now I fear a stroke.

    What we need is a group of big, mean, patriotic dyke veterans to motorcycle in there with pool cues across their handlebars and fuck those commie cunts up.

    I'd dearly love to see how the news media would handle that.




    You Can't Beat My Meat...

    I faced Mecca and knelt and prayed today. Well, Coral Gables, Florida, anyway.

    I prayed to Mullah Steve for guidance, and then set out on a culinary adventure.

    I bought an oddity called 'Pork Belly' a few days ago. I saw it, there in the meat section, and thought of Steve. I wanted to render it down into grease, to cook eggs and such with. Well, that shit don't render, and it is as tough as gramma's colon, so be careful when you try to cut it. We have Cutco knives, and it struggled to resist til the end when, exhausted, I prevailed, holding my little chunk of piggy over my head and roaring my challenge to the jungle.

    Note: Set knife down before beating chest.

    Now, I don't be knowin pork belly from looked like a gob of fat to me, but I couldn't get it to release a drop of grease. I cycled through various temps, and it just laughed and spit at me.

    So I pulled it out, butterflied the shit out of it, and tried again. A little grease, but the damn thing was cooking, not putting out oil, like bacon would. The whole big chunk cost a dollar, so I wasn't worried about that, but I wanted to fry a damn egg in some bacon fat, and Miss Piggy was resisting my advances like Rosie O'Donnel resists dick.

    So, ding, the dim light goes off in my brain-pan, and I pull some peanut oil out and drizzle about a tablespoon or so on it, and tip the pan up a bit and let the chunk sizzle in it. Pork flavored peanut oil...nummy. I got frustrated, and added about a quarter cup of Olive Oil into the mix, and now we're gettin somewhere. Nice smell, plenty of cracklin grease...

    I pull the chunk out finally, and set it on a plate to cool. The wife is going to crock some pintos, and I'll just throw the whole chunk in there.

    Okay, so while I've been piddling around getting a pan of bubbling grease (oh, I slung about a quarter stick of butter in the mix, and reduced heat to 2.5) I've been arranging the other ingredients out of the fridge and onto the counter.

    I've got, what, a 12" or 15" pan? Big sucker. The wife crocked a very nice beef roast the other day, and there's about four slices left of it, about 4"x7". She made red potato mashed potatoes, and left the skins on. We be lovin our tater skins. She made gravy, with some damn good sauteed in wine and butter mushrooms in it, and I got out two large eggs. Everything (but the eggs) was already cooked and seasoned to perfection, but the meat had gotten some dry, and everything needed to be heated, and I wanted me some grease.

    So, I laid the slab of meat right in the oil, and sizzled it on both sides, and then smothered it with gravy. I turned the heat up to 3. Then I gopped about a cup (or better) of taters in their own section. Then I added about a third cup of grated sharp chedder we had to the taters, and then smothered it with gravy.

    I kept flipping the meat, letting it sizzle, cooking the gravy into it...then working the taters until they all mixed up with their gravy and cheese, and then I cracked the two eggs into their own section, cooked the bottoms some, then popped the yolks, and flipped em once. Threw some cheese on those babies, too.

    I turned it up to four, and dropped an English Muffin into the toaster while the whole mess sizzled. While the muffin browned, I got me a standard glass pie plate outta the cupboard, and spatula'd the meat onto the plate. Then I put the taters on top, the eggs on top of that, and gravy'd the piss out of everything. Ground some black pepper on her, and we're ready to go.

    Folks, it was heavenly. The wife has been feeling urpish today, and had declined an invitation to share, but the smell drug her downstairs, and she ate the other half when my stomach stopped me. Including half a muffin.

    I'm either gonna buy me some cheap-ass bacon next time, or whatever ya'll suggest that will make pig grease. Steve is all about the beef fat, but I am some squeamish on that subject, fearing what may lurk in the fat deposits of said cow.

    Butter is fine enough fat for me, and if you don't make it smoke, it is devine. He is quite correct, being devine himself and all, that vegetable oil sucks. I do not consider olives to be vegetables, though, nor peanuts. Sesame oil rocks, as well.

    If you do not lube up your food like a faggot oiling up a bushel of dicks in a bath house, the expensive, exotic oils will last you for quite a while. When I must use a vegetable oil, I use corn oil. Canola oil is not fit for human consumption. If you care to live dangerously, and risk both death, and having a foodgasm in your pants, try coconut oil. I've sizzled up fresh cut slivers of coconut in rice wine and sesame oil in oriental (chicken and shrimp) dishes to fine effect before. To die for. Don't forget the water chestnut...

    Well, I'm starting to sound like a gay Southern fag here, so I'll stop.

    But that meal was really nummy.

    PS: Woulda been even better with a couple of hot links...



    Nat Happens...

    She appears at my elbow, thrumming like an idling dragster, vibrating like an out of balance washer on spin cycle. She does constant toe raises, and would burst into full pirouette if she wasn't afraid of me hollering at her.

    I note the presence of oversized latex surgical gloves on each of her hands, and become alarmed at the potential integrity of Johnny's anus, and contrive to give her fingers an interrogatory sniff.

    Whew, no pew. They tend to play doctor for keeps.

    No, she is focused on putting on a 'puffet show', and wants to make some 'puffets'. She has specific ideas as to the materials she requires, string, and tape, and such, and this all has to be done on Sunday, for some reason. Sunday is a Significant Day.

    She will have forgotten about this conversation the moment she heads down the stairs, but it is another chunk of carrot in the rich stew that is my life.

    Too bad the contract has been broken. The one that says "I wipe your ass and feed you at your beginning, and you return the favor at my ending."

    No, now we ship Gramma or Grandpa off to a home where subhuman 'care providers' will taunt them and abuse them and steal their jewelry.

    When I am overmedicated and drooling and tied in my wheelchair in a puddle of my own piss in a far, forgotten corner of the Day Room, I wonder if I will remember moments like the one Nat gifted me a bit ago?

    I wonder...


    She is now 'Mister Johnson', and we are to address her thusly. She has outfitted herself in her brothers clothing, and is posturing in a way I assume she believes men posture...her arms are crossed over her puffed out chest, and she is swaggering. She has also misappropriated her brother's phone, and is talking to 'me' on it, downstairs in the kitchen. She is assuring her mother that 'I' want her to give Nat some cookies, and an Otter Pop..."What's that, Daddy? Okay, I'll tell her...Mom! Dad says a PINK Otter Pop!"

    I expect her pants to ignite momentarily, the little liar.

    The gift that keeps on giving.

    Oh...what's that Nattie? You want these nice people to give me money? Okay, I'll pass that on...what? You say you need your Tuberculosis medicine? And food? Okay, I'll tell them...

    Ahem...excuse me folks, this just in...



    We All Do It...

    All we bloggers. Get up, fire up the computer, stagger down to get a cup of coffee, or in my case, tea...sip our way back upstairs, check our comments, sip more warm liquid, surf around a bit, then get that gurgle in the guts (Hello, Moto!) and rush in and cop a squat and shat a shit of such surpassing relief and perfection that our bowels are saddened by its departure.

    And that, my friends, is the start of a perfect day.

    But don't worry, some idiot will come along and fuck it up for you.

    I promise.



    Bow Down Before Him...

    The funniest thing I may have ever read is right here.

    You think you're funny?

    Give up.


        Tuesday, August 23, 2005

    Wanna See A Picture Of Me?

    I'm the sixth guy from the left, second row down from the top.

    That was my first week of Basic Training photo. Imagine my surprise when my son called today to tell me he'd found a Fort Ord website, and when I went to the URL, I find the picture of my platoon, prominent.

    Hey, we weren't fat, we were wearing heavy coats. It was November in Kentucky. Which is weird, because why is a Fort Knox Basic Training photo appearing here? And mine, at that?

    Okay, a lot of them were fat, but that didn't last long.

    My son is all calling guys in his shop over going "Hey, look, here's my Dad!"

    That was cool.

    Even though I know the fucking Jarheads were muttering "Fat-ass Army pogue..." under their breath. Fuckers.

    If you go to the 'Photo Gallery' section, note the Foxhole Club, and the NCO Club. I had a lot of titties bounced off my head, there. I'm disappointed they didn't show the Green Dragon. I got into some memorable brawls, there, too.

    Check out the 'Stilwell Park' photo. I finally ended up in married housing, there.

    The 'Airborne Sir!' photo shows what my barracks looked like, but mine is out of the picture and down to the right.

    I think the person running this website must be some kind of ClerkNJerk (pogue) because he concentrates a lot of photos on CDEC hill, where we only ran PT through. Those hills built character. If you were stupid enough to get your car in our way, we would run over it like an obstacle, and flip you upside down if you honked. Road Guards protect you from us, not us from you.

    Believe me.

    The untitled photo to the right of 'Airborne Sir!' looks exactly like my barracks, only we didn't have a tree, as I recall. At least not one that big. Well, twenty years...

    Oh, look at me, getting all weepy. Those were some good fucking times. And I hate nearly every one of the motherfuckers I was in with, and we all hated each other.

    But boy, were we ready for war. But I doubt 20 of us reenlisted out of 160.

    I miss the Infantry to this day...


    Dammit! Egg on my face. Heidi insulted me most cruelly, and I went back to the website and cut and pasted that photo into Photo Editor, and it not only is not my platoon, they are in April!

    The worst part of all, is that I believe mine was the first unit to be issued Woodland Camo BDU's, and all those fuckers are wearing green!

    Boy am I dumb.

    Thanks, Heidi, for ruining my joy. But then again, isn't that women's duty?


    As to that photo, that guy, at first glance and considering the focal depth I saw it at, looks exactly like me at first glance. It even tricked my wife. So there.



    On The Scent...

    My wife is curious as to whether or not you men in the audience like or do not like perfume on a woman.

    Put me down for 'hate it'.

    So c'mon, you lurkers, de-cloak and vote. Love it, like it, don't like, hate it...those are the choices. With 'don't care' being a satisfactory 'other' vote, I suppose. Of course, you may bloviate at length, but I/she really wants to know your opinion. Let's get some numbers on this one, so my wife doesn't think all of my time in front of this computer is wasted *coff*coff*

    Stinkum, and my disdain for such, has put a burden on our relationship a time or two. It is all my fault, of course, what with my insanely sensitive nose. I can tell when she has passed through the cologne area of Rite-Aid an hour later. In a quiet room, I can tell if someone is in the closet by smelling their soft exhalations.

    This makes farts somewhat problematic. You might have well just gone and Maced me. My nose is one of my many curses.

    And lest you think I am burdened with a honking probiscus, no, that would be the one I keep in my pants. My snot-locker is as fine and patrician as you will ever see, even though it has been broken seven times. My nose knows when the weather is going to change. Noseritis.

    So, to get back on the scent, there are actually a couple of perfumes out there I can stand. I have worn and enjoyed Chanel For Men. I have scored muchas gato while wearing Black Suede, which a woman bought for me.

    You wanna kill me? Have me humping your leg like a slavering dog? Stop me in mid stride on the sidewalk and have me dog-stylin you over the hood of a parked car in front of the meter maid?

    Wear Musk Oil.

    I would fuck Helen Thomas under its influence. I literally have to leave or fuck when it hits my nose. Yes, men, be afraid. That stuff is my catnip, and I am not myself under its influence. Funny how the wife doesn't ever wear it.

    There is a scent floating around out there of surpassing lovlieness. It's smell is a light, chiffonic citrus delight, like key lime pie, made with a dash of pussy juice.

    The few times I have smelt it, I ask the woman what she is wearing with a look in my eyes that makes her nipples harden, while her hand paws blindly for her Mace.
    Not quite the intensity of Musk Oil, but delightful, conjuring images of despoiling a Queens handmaiden in the hedge maze, near the lemon trees in full bloom, under bright moonlight.

    Some may wonder how I manage to wend my way through the stinking throngs of humanity; well, the same way a dog does it. I'm not allergic, but like a dog, I will sneeze if it becomes too much. I can abide neither the candle aisle, nor the pesticide aisle in a supermarket.

    In a bar, surrounded by smokes and perfumes and colognes (and vomit and sweat and piss and did you know, ladies, that when I kiss you, I know just how happy I am making you?) I don't quite shut down, it is more like I quantify what I want to smell or not smell and certain switches just get turned way down in self defense. I am convinced that this is how tracking dogs isolate the scent of someone they are searching for.

    Can any of you guys name the perfume your best girl wore in High School? I can! It was 'Charlie'. Stuff still gives me a boner. Of course, so does Deep Woods Off. That stuff kept many a mosquito bite off my naked, humping ass...the cologne of choice for randy teens in the woods.

    But I digress...

    Please do my little poll here, for the wife, in the comments.

    I'm greatful.



    A Point Of Clarification...

    I have been getting asked, here and there, questions about my little stories.

    If it is fiction, I'll label it as so. Everything else happened.

    It might have happened yesterday, or last week, or forty years ago, but it happened.

    I have lived in many cities in several states, so no, most of this stuff hasn't happened in my current town. It would look like 'Eerie, Indiana' if it did.

    No, I have spread my joy across this land. I am a semi-retired asshole, now. I used to be a hellion. Things happen to me, and around me, and I have long ago learned that they are unavoidable.

    There have been periods in my life where I have felt like Redford's character in 'Jeremia Johnson'. I live just at the shivering edge of the curtain of The Twilight Zone. I have seen things that have made me worry that I was crazy, and done things that assured me of that status.

    I am a husband, and a father. Bad Christian, Bad Daddy. I taught my first batch of kids to say that so I'd get a clue when I'd gone over the edge. "Bad Daddy!" they could say, without fear of retribution, and I would examine my current behavior, and modify it. Kids are, mostly, honest.

    My hands are fast, and I used them too much on my first two boys, and regret it nearly every day. Never smacked first daughter once. Did better with third son. Watching myself closely with my last two. We'll see...

    So, I hope that clears things up a little. I'm not going to reflexively ban people, so quit bringing that up. Except for Ted. I've warned him enough already. Next Jew-bash does it. Cut it out.

    I'm still pondering whether to tell you about when I met two of my victims from the potty story below, several years later, in a bar. That is one of several milestones in my life that I am holding back. 'Holding back?' you ask, 'Pshaw, Bane does not hold back!'

    Oh, if you only knew...



    Another Reason... shoot the homeless.

    I may be the only one left here who remembers when vagrancy was a punishable crime.

    Now cities advertise for them.

    Reap the whirlwind...



    Hey, Lileks!

    Two Words! Home! School!

    Sorry about the shouting, but Lileks was whining just now about his life changing because he will be shipping his Gnat off to school for most of the day, next week, altering his life, and his status as a parent forever.

    While he will be moping, my Nat will be thundering in to my room, showing me her latest sheet of ABC's, and singing me the ABC Song. I gets my hug, and she will butterfly away back downstairs for more edumuhcation. From Mom.

    I really couldn't imagine having it any other way.

    I feel sorry for him, I really do, which is sad, because I devour his life with relish, and cherish his tales thereof.

    I will miss his Nat nearly as much as he does. I will mourn the quiet house, along with Jasper, both of our hips aching with the onset of the Dark Days.

    James...may I call you James? You seem to have plenty of the time neccesary for home-schooling your child on your hands. You can still send her to activities where she can frolic with her peers.

    But if you send her away to strangers, you will most assuredly, in an agony of tedium and with the slow vampiric pull of time, lose her.

    Crap, hire a home tutor, you've the ducats. Just don't feed her feet first into the champing soft gums of the child-chipper that our skools have become.

    I'm gonna miss that kid, too.



    So Now You Know...

    This is pretty cheesy.


        Monday, August 22, 2005

    That's MY Old Lady!

    Gosh, I love that woman.

    Mrs Bane skipped out of the house this evening around 6 or so, to go hang with her church-lady friends at a woman's worship service she attends. She was wearing all of her foofurraw and frippery, all spiffed up in her best, sporting jewelry and perfume. She doesn't do that when we go out, because I don't like to dress up, and I hate perfume and she'd make me look like a turd. So when she hangs wit da ladies, she sports all of her finery. Good, she needs to get it out of her system

    Oh, I know what you're thinkin. The first time she left like this I stood in the front doorway and warbled "Oh Ruuuu-beeee, don't take your love to town!" and I didn't get conversation or pussy or a hot meal for a week.

    She whirled and shook her piece of cloth on a stick at me and hissed "Now dammit, you shut that shit up when I am carryin my prayer flag!" and then burst into tears. She was inconsolable, and I groveled as best I could for days.

    Don't mess with a woman when she's carryin her Worship Flag, I guess. And don't ask me, I don't get that evangelical bullshit, I just lock myself in the room if the holy-rollin gets too loud. Mayhap some of the Good Vibes will sprinkle down on me.

    So, anyways, she rolls out tonight, dressed like the Queen of Sheba, carrying at least two knives (that I know of) and my .380, a serviceable firearm that I shall not miss should the need arise to take it down and chuck it in the river for some reason.

    The kids and I set about our business, and not five minutes later, she whips the front door open and rushes back in to give me a SITREP...

    "There's two dirtbags on bicycles down by the railroad tracks that we've seen before and they looked at my car like they know where it's from and they're headed this way...there's five or six other freaky looking people wandering around the neighborhood acting weird and those perverts are back in those apartments...gotta run, love ya..." and with a hearty Hi-Ho Silver! she was away.

    Gosh, I love that woman!



    For Those Of You...

    ...with donation buttons on your blogs, or who are thinking about such:

    First off, I have been mightily blessed by you folks here. Especially with gas as high as it is, the trip to therapy a town away for Johnny is an expensive one. Thanks again.

    I don't know if you donate for Johnny, or because you are applauding my screeds, but I assume it's for Johnny and disburse funds accordingly. Tomorrow, a trip for both John and Nat to the Dollar Store, and they are stoked, and we are able to extort much good behavior just by saying "Dollar Store!" They cow, and slink away from their calumny and depradation.

    Thanks again, but enough for the nicey's bitchin time!

    Paypal and Amazon take their cut. I have learned to accept that. I get it. They're a business. A business that uses high speed computers to move the ones and the zeroes. High speed, except for the part where they get it to me.

    Then, it takes them a week to transfer the funds to my bank. Then, the bank takes another week to post it to my account.

    Do you think it's possible that the usurious bastards are holding my money (along with that of thousands of others) to make a little interest? Hmmmm?


    These are the same bastards who have made it so that a check you write posts near-instantly so they'll have immediate access to your funds and you better have money in the account or they'll fry your ass and you can't write a check for the weekend on Friday night anymore and rush to the bank on Monday afternoon but when it comes to your money...

    I suspect I am not the only one to note this phenomena. I suspect a class action suit is in the works from which I will recieve three dollars if I care to send a letter and notarized copies of all of my reciepts to PO Box 100009945888 in Bunfuck Texas or something.

    No thanks.

    I'm just damn glad to get the money! Thanks again!

    To anyone who connects a bank account to the internet for any reason, I highly recommend that you open an account just for that purpose and no other, and monitor it closely via online banking. I use only a debit card, and write no checks, so, with Bank of America, anyway, my use of their bank is free. Frustrating, but free. We don't even keep the household account in the same bank.

    Fraud sucks.



    I Quit!

    Well, at least I would say that if I ran one of those political blogs today.

    Politicians are cunts, and should all be flogged.

    That a vile, ungulate piece of slippery shit like Cynthia McKinney could get elected, let alone REelected to anything is proof that we deserve to suffer under the boot of Islam or Communism for our sins.

    "Honey, I'm home!"

    Who'd you vote for?



    It should be that simple.

    If my wife voted for Kerry, I would leave her in a hot snap. I have heard bitches brag to their friends about how they cancel their husbands vote out, RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM!
    That bitch should get kicked so hard she coughs up a wad of pussy hair.

    Between the Crab Feed In Aruba, and retards like Chuck Hagel, I can't stand to have the TV or radio on today.

    I like Dick Cheney. A lot. I think Tom Tancredo has a pair. That's it. Put them in charge, and then refresh the House and the Senate and, for gosh sakes, they got Ron Brown, why can't they get Condi? Ugh. Woman looks like someone put out a fire on her face with an icepick.

    Oh yeah, she's so fucking smart, Ms Colin Powell in drag. Fuck her, the toady lick-spittle.

    And it's all just a fuckin show for the rubes, anyway, while the pickpockets work the crowd.

    It's not the stealing part that bugs me, though...'s those guys with blades, sneaking in through the unguarded gate.

    We are SO fucked.



    How Do You Make Fun Of White People?

    I really want to know. I'm dread curious. There is not one thing you can say about me or my color or my race that will hurt my feelings or piss me off.

    Maybe I just haven't heard it yet. And I think I have heard them all, but if you've been to or lived in Africa, or lived amongst our negroes here (and I have), perhaps you have heard a racial or racist epithet that really stung you, and you'll share it with us.

    Conversely, be you black, perhaps there is some Super Secret word or phrase that you know of that will turn me into an indignant tornado of White Rage that you would care to share? Hit me, I can take it.

    As an aside, after MLK Day and Black History Month, does Whitey get the other 11?

    That just doesn't seem fair, somehow. Makes me feel greedy.



    Why Hollywood Sucks...

    The Ugly American sent me this link that says it all.

    I've heard it all before, but not nearly enough. Too bad Heston's brain is cheese, I'd love to see an icon like him start up a counter to Sundance, and promote conservative and family (and America) friendly movies and TV shows.

    Go, read that article, and remember it next time you turn on your television, or reach for your wallet to purchase a movie ticket.

    I think there is a little hope, though, as I listen to Hollywood cry about the shitty movie and television season they are enduring.
    Hope that We The People are getting it, and the Silent Majority are voting with their remotes and their wallets. Boy, I hope so.

    Do you think Hollywod will listen?

    Don't count on it.



    Wherein Paul Outs Himself...

    Paul, formerly of Sanity's Edge, a blog I cherished, which he shut down, has taken up residence at a new blog.

    I shall keep him on Double Secret Probation, lest he hurt me again, but he weilds a clever quill, and his words are worthy.

    Check it out. Blogroll him. You can always delete him later.



    'Cow Placenta Facial'...

    Someone Googled that phrase and found their way to my site.

    Go away.



    Gorrillas In The Mist...

    How is this any different than Rwanda?

    Well, I know it's only one person...

    ...but you gotta start somewhere.


        Sunday, August 21, 2005

    Wherein I Do A Potty...

    The restroom door schusses open as I move in and Fuckhead is in front of me, there, in an ecstasy of piss, hosing the urinal like a fireman...

    I step in, as if to the urinal to his right, and then shift, and produce steel and insert a precise two inches of the blade into his back, just above the right need to kill here...

    I snap the elbow of the arm of my knife hand up into the base of his skull and his face makes a pretty blood flower on the white tiled wall and he begins his faceward slide down into the urinal but we've no time to enjoy that and I spin and Bunghole is just turning from the mirror where he was working a zit or something and his right hand streaks into the opening of his coat and I snap my foot out and smash his arm into his belly and I hear ulna and radius snap like breadsticks as they break and he flies back into the mirror and his skull makes a glass angel and I step in and grab his ankles and yank forward and the back of his head meets up with the edge of the sink with a definative thud...

    ...two steps and I turn and kick in the door to the only locked stall in the row and it slams in and I grab the top of the jamb and swing both boots into Dick-Weasel's startled face and make another blood angel and he slips forward onto his knees and lays there in his own blood and stench, his head lolling back into the open shitter...

    I can talk about this, now. Statute of limitations and all that, and nobody died.

    How do you like me now?

    Spending all afternoon with my parents, and now jamming to Ted Nugent...

    Dredges up memories.

    The question you should be asking, is 'What did he do with the knife while he was handling the other two?'
    Well? Any ideas?

    Also, who was my primary target?



    Gorram! This Is Fracking Awesome!

    Click on over to American Drumslinger and Bow To The Nuge!


        Saturday, August 20, 2005

    A Cautionary Update...

    Those of you who have been around here any length of time, know of my hate/hate relationship with Roger Ebert. While the man can quite often be spot on, or nearly spot on, as regards horror movies (and that's just weird, in and of itself) he paints every other portrait of a movie through his own liberal and penis-pink coloured glasses.

    His bias directs his vision, without fail, and he is helpless in its clutches.

    For example, he hated 'Dukes of Hazzard', because the General Lee has a Confederate Battle Flag on the roof, and that might offend a negroe or something.

    So, to the update:

    I was going to attach this to the end of my 'Great Raid' review, but this is so egregious, and you bastards are so too lazy to scroll, that I shall place this big steaming example of a liberal turd right here for all of you to enjoy, and for the flies to find more easily. I shall use his own words against him, 'hoist him on his own retard', as it were...

    Here is a war movie that understands how wars are actually fought. After "Stealth" and its high-tech look-alikes, which make warfare look like a video game, "The Great Raid" shows the hard work and courage of troops whose reality is danger and death. The difference between "Stealth" and "The Great Raid" is the difference between the fantasies of the Pentagon architects of "shock and awe" and the reality of the Marines who were killed in Iraq last week.

    See? See?

    The movie is based on the true story of a famous raid by U.S. Army Rangers and Philippine guerillas, who attacked the Japanese POW camp at Cabanatuan and rescued more than 500 Americans, with the loss of only two American and 21 Filipino lives. Nearly 800 Japanese died in the surprise attack. These numbers are so dramatic that the movie uses end credits to inform us they are factual.

    This is great. In spite of the newspaper whap to the nose I took at the end of the first paragraph, my eyes weeping a bit, my nose smarting, I proceed with hope...

    "The Great Raid" has the look and feel of a good war movie you might see on cable late one night, perhaps starring Robert Mitchum, Robert Ryan or Lee Marvin. It has been made with the confidence that the story itself is the point, not the flashy graphics. The raid is outlined for the troops (and for the audience), so that, knowing what the rescuers want to do, we understand how they're trying to do it. Like soldiers on a march, it puts one step in front of another, instead of flying apart into a blizzard of quick cuts and special effects. Like the jazzier but equally realistic "Black Hawk Down," it shows a situation that has moved beyond policy and strategy and amounts to soldiers in the field, hoping to hell they get home alive.

    Ahhh, here he hold my balls gently in his practiced hand, and rolls them about a bit. My tail thumps happily on the floor...

    The next four paragraphs are pure delight, the craftsman at work, my pink dinky is wiggling out of its sheath and my tail thumps even harder, and then he writes this...

    A brilliant strategic idea is to have a single American plane make several passes over the camp, lifting the eyes of the Japanese to the skies as rescuers were creeping toward them. The raid itself, when it comes, is at night, and would be hard for us to follow except that it follows so precisely the plans that were earlier outlined. One effective moment comes when an officer delays action to be absolutely sure that all is ready; with radio silence, he has to send a scout, and we grow almost as impatient as the waiting men.

    Go see the movie, and then come back and reread that highlighted part. Suffice it to say my happy penis begins to retreat a bit, and...

    The movie was directed by John Dahl, based on a screenplay by Carlo Bernard and Doug Miro, and the books The Great Raid on Cabanatuan by William B. Breuer and Ghost Soldiers by Hampton Sides. Dahl is best known for two of the trickiest modern films noir, "Red Rock West" and "The Last Seduction." Those films would seem to have nothing in common with a war movie, but in a way they do, because they avoid special effects and stay close to their characters while negotiating a risky and complicated plot.

    Okaaay, nice movie geek stuff...I like it, but my balls are still in his hands and...

    The history of the movie is interesting. It was green-lighted by Harvey Weinstein of Miramax just a few days after 9/11; perhaps a story of a famous American victory seemed needed. It was completed by 2002, but like a lot of Miramax inventory sat on the shelf (Miramax won a "shelf award" at the Indie Spirits one year for the quality of its unreleased pictures). Now that Disney and Miramax are going separate ways, Miramax is releasing a lot of those films in the final months of its original management. "The Great Raid" is perhaps more timely now than it would have been a few years ago, when "smart bombs" and a couple of weeks of warfare were supposed to solve the Iraq situation. Now that we are involved in a lengthy and bloody ground war there, it is good to have a film that is not about entertainment for action fans, but about how wars are won with great difficulty, risk, and cost.

    OwOwOwOwOw! He waited right til the end, and then he twisted my fucking balls! The commie cocksucker twisted and crushed my balls, and I let him!

    When will I ever learn?

    NEVER trust a liberal.

    Especially with your balls.



    A Shameful Confession...

    A Fruit of My Loins just booed Iron Maiden off the stage at OZZFEST!

    I just got off the phone with my youngest Marine because Ozzy was coming on stage and that was the main event, but...

    THEY BOOED THE MAIDEN! OFF THE STAGE! Him and his hoodlum Marine buddies.

    I burn with shame. Perhaps a disownment is in order.


    My Marines are sober, on a Saturday night, because they paid $50 a head to go see Sharon Osbourne trundle her Meal Ticket out onto the stage to (probably) lip sync like Ashlee Simpson and sweat all over his tattooed man-boobs. And they are broke because Sharon charged them $4 a bottle for water which they had to drink to survive the 150 degree mosh area.

    "Dad, it was hotter today than in full combat gear on in Iraq on the worst day!" They are convinced that the sunblock they bought was actually some sort of accelerant.

    Earlier, Sharon came out and apologised for Iron Maiden, who carelessly mixed Too Drunk with Too Old, and came up with some shit sandwich that my Devil Dogs refused to eat.

    But DAMMIT! I said, you do not boo the Maiden! You clap politely when they are done, and pay them respect.

    Fucking hooligans.

    My son was ten feet away from Rob Zombie, and nearly got crowd squished. "I didn't pay $50 to get my ass kicked like this!" he told me.

    "Oh yes, you did..." I replied.

    But Maiden...booed. Surely the Apocalypse is upon us.



    We Need A New Old Solution...

    I have been pondering the dreadful combination of accidents and chicanery that led to the adoption of the M-16 (and its variants) as our military's Main Battle Rifle (MBR).

    It is underpowered, fickle and difficult to maintain, and people whose fondest wish is to die in battle absorb way to many damn bullets from it before dying, endangering our troops.

    This sucks.

    I have seen too many instances of our men taking up abandoned commie AK's to use to get something done properly with. The ones who can, get ahold of the second rifle I've pictured below (the M-14) and get some work done.

    I have been seeing a lot of this beautiful old rifle on the History Channel (and 'The Great Raid') lately:

    It fires a deer rifle round just as fast as you can pull the trigger. I would rather carry this rifle than an M-16, and I'd be deadly out to a thousand yards. 'Blow your head off deadly and you fall down dead deadly', not 'did I get him?' un-deadly, as with the M-16 at three-hundred yards.

    But I want more bullets than what the beautiful M-1 can carry, which brings us to this thick-hipped beauty:

    The M-14. Don't you just want to fuck it? Gorgeous.

    Our Overlords saw fit to take it away during Viet-Nam because...well, they're evil morons. It's in the job description for Overlord. Check Brain At Door.

    Unlike the M-1, the M-14 fires full auto, and can lay down fire like the Hand of God. It will shoot through concrete walls and steel doors and engine blocks and will cut a man in half with a bullet or two. Body armor just makes it mad.

    I have fired it full auto, and brother, it is like wrestling a PCP'd wolverine. I am not a little man, and I was like "Whoa, Nelly!"

    To that end, I would like to see a re-designed muzzle brake, a re-designed stock that has a vertical rear pistol grip, and a front one as well, and whatever badass sighting system our guys and gals are using today. I want a collapsible rear stock like the A4, and several barrel configurations. A short one for drivers and assault teams. A sniper configuration. A longer bi-podded machine gun barrel and dual drum magazine for the squad machine gun.

    Retool this beautiful rifle with modern technology and materials, and chicks should have no problem using it. If they do, well, here's your M-16...
    die, bitch.

    In closing, and interestingly (to me, anyway) I have fired both weapons above, but never in combat. When I watch the old videos of these guns in action, I notice that the rifleman holds his bearing hand just forward of the trigger mechanism when firing this weapon (the M-1).

    The rifle is balanced so perfectly, that he just lets it rest on his palm as he pulls the trigger and pivots his upper body to aim. They hold it this way, for the most part, even when kneeling or prone. Amazing.



    Government Theft?

    I read this post over at Acidman's, and it got me to thinkin.

    I have always agreed with his assertion that the government does not make money, that it only steals it, but now I'm not so sure.

    One of my Marines works in Supply, and he orders literally millions of dollars of stuff daily from vendors. Government vendors? No! Private vendors. Civilians. Civilians who are so damn glad to be getting these orders they could just shit.

    This is how they feed their families, and are able to hire people so they can feed theirs own families.

    The vendors go out and buy things from other vendors so they can make the stuff for the Marines, and the circle of life continues.

    That money Uncle Sam 'stole', is pumped back into every community in this country in one way or another. Stop that flow for one week, and try to imagine the state this country would be in.

    I always used to hear the word 'pork', as applied to government spending, and think bad thoughts, but now I'm not so sure.

    I love pork, and muslims hate it. How can pork be a bad thing? Might as well call it 'Ice Cream Spending'. Or 'Chocolate Spending'.

    Money, sent to the central fountain of Washington DC, and then sprayed up in the air to come back down and water the whole country.

    We are a Super Power for several reasons, and I am beginning to believe that this system is one of them. And it supports at least two of the other Reasons: Our Military, and our highway and transportation infrastructure.

    Wanna see a town die? Pull all of the government contracts and funding and subsidies from it and let it try to fend for itself. Some make it. Most won't.

    I never thought I'd change my mind about this. I am now beginning to see the anti-government types as idealistic agrarian hippie dreamers, like Anarchists, with their dreams of a beneficient chaos.

    Sure, government can and will kill you. So will a combine, or that merry-go-round at the fair, if you handle them wrong.

    We have a system. It works. It is far from perfect, but people climb over fences and risk life and limb and freedom to get here to live in it.

    We need checks, and balances, and angry soreheads testing and resisting from all sides, to keep the lumbering beast from becoming too complacent, or worse, over confident and arrogant.

    But you are stupid to make someone bigger and meaner than you afraid of you. Best to remember that.

    It is useless to be right, and dead.