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        Friday, September 30, 2005

    Why, Yes, As A Matter Of Fact...

    ...I am staring at your tits.

    Any man who tells you any different is either a fibber, or a fag.

    We are not looking at your fabulous handbag, or wondering what you are reading or thinking, we are staring at your tits, ogling your ass, and pondering how best to manuever our meat missile into you and get you to making the 'O' face. Or at least fantasizing about it.

    I was stopped at a light today, and staring at this hottie, and she caught my eye and made the bug-eyed 'why don't you take a picture!' face, and I made the V sign in front of my mouth and waggled my tongue at her, the universal sign for 'I'd gobble your box right there on the bus bench' and she cracked up. Then she flipped me off. I nodded eagerly at her offer, and she laughed so hard she may have squirted urine out of her tear ducts.

    You women do tend to have issues around fluidity, which is one more reason none of you will ever be President:

    "Um, Madame President (he points at the front of her skirt)..."

    She: "Oh dammit, Silverton, go get me a fresh pad and skirt, I'll change in the back of that Secret Service Suburban over there...quickly, I've got to meet with the President of Buttfuckistan in fifteen minutes!"

    And he will be staring at her tits.

    We men usually make a show of not staring at women attached to men, in public. We stare at them from the corners of our eyes, though, if they are hot enough to deserve us getting a beating if we get caught and her husband takes exception.

    I got caught, once. "Whatta you lookin at?" He didn't include 'punk', so I was not obligated to beat him down in front of his old lady, something I always feel bad doing. Well, almost always.

    "Sir..." show him your throat...let him be the Alpha Male... "...your woman is a very attractive lady...I couldn't help it, and I'm sorry if I've offended you both..."

    Am I a sneaky bastard, or what? Check, and Mate, in one move. I rock. He couldn't do a damn thing without paying for it sooner or later from his wife, who, by the way, looked at my crotch at least three times that I noticed.

    Every broad I have ever known, since the first one relieved me of my cherry at twelve, has been a pecker-checker. If you think women can't be as much or more bawdy than men...well, you're just a big poopy-head.

    In the future, men and women may be able to deal naturally with one another. Until then, we'll have this silly dance we do, and which some of us are experts at, and take advantage of the rest of you poor two-left-footed bastards. And bitches.

    You don't go into a restaurant and flirt with a steak, and seduce it onto your fork. No, you walk in with confidence that here, there be steak, and you order that motherfucker. And if the waitress says no, you never frequent that establishment again.

    Like Apu yells to you as you browse the porno at the Quick Mart, "If you just want to read, go to the Library!"

    It's a beautiful thing when she wants to sell you the steak (I resisted a fish simile, be proud of me) as much as you want to buy it.

    Just remember, that you will pay a price.

    And be sure to tip your waitress...



    I Wonder If She Can Play The Flute...

    Boy, that's once, twice, three times a hottie, right there.

    Stolen from Bullseye.



    I Like Her On Top...

    I have noted that wherever Baldilocks and I are linked to by the same blogger, that her name is always just above mine.

    I could make an inane crack about 'the black woman keepin me down' but the fact is, I rather enjoy having an attractive black woman on top of me.

    She has a great blog, too.



    Much Ado About Bennet...

    First off, I can't stand the man. When I hear him speak, I want to hit him in the face with a skillet to make him stop. I am quasi-aligned with much of his psuedo-conservative rhetoric, and it pains me to be allied with him in any way, much as it does to be aligned with hippies in our mutual hatred of Bush.

    Having gotten that out of the way, let me just say that I absolutely agree with his statements on abortion that have caused so much brouhaha lately.

    When you hear a liberal whining about something, whatever it was just had to be a good thing.

    From the September 28 broadcast of Salem Radio Network's Bill Bennett's Morning in America:

    CALLER: I noticed the national media, you know, they talk a lot about the loss of revenue, or the inability of the government to fund Social Security, and I was curious, and I've read articles in recent months here, that the abortions that have happened since Roe v. Wade, the lost revenue from the people who have been aborted in the last 30-something years, could fund Social Security as we know it today. And the media just doesn't -- never touches this at all.

    BENNETT: Assuming they're all productive citizens?

    CALLER: Assuming that they are. Even if only a portion of them were, it would be an enormous amount of revenue.

    BENNETT: Maybe, maybe, but we don't know what the costs would be, too. I think as -- abortion disproportionately occur among single women? No.

    CALLER: I don't know the exact statistics, but quite a bit are, yeah.

    BENNETT: All right, well, I mean, I just don't know. I would not argue for the pro-life position based on this, because you don't know. I mean, it cuts both -- you know, one of the arguments in this book Freakonomics that they make is that the declining crime rate, you know, they deal with this hypothesis, that one of the reasons crime is down is that abortion is up. Well --

    CALLER: Well, I don't think that statistic is accurate.

    BENNETT: Well, I don't think it is either, I don't think it is either, because first of all, there is just too much that you don't know. But I do know that it's true that if you wanted to reduce crime, you could -- if that were your sole purpose, you could abort every black baby in this country, and your crime rate would go down. That would be an impossible, ridiculous, and morally reprehensible thing to do, but your crime rate would go down. So these far-out, these far-reaching, extensive extrapolations are, I think, tricky.

    I dare you to find one false premise in there. Don't like what he said? Tough. Look into your own self. That is where the problem lies.

    I don't like the man, but I can't find fault with one thing he said.


    However, there are many other, much younger people who will hear the clip in its entirety, but will never hear Mr. Bennett say that such a proposition would be “ [a] ridiculous, and [a] morally reprehensible thing to do” even after the passage is played in its context over and over again. Why not? Because the ground has already been tilled, fertilized and watered and the seed of the idea has burst open: that Republicans are racists. After that, all pertinent ear canals will be blocked and no amount of logical explanation or explanatory logic will be able to penetrate that wall that people like Howard Dean, Nancy Pelosi and John Conyers and their ideological brethren have built.
    [empasis mine]

    That is one damn beautiful piece of writing right there, Juliette. And such a pretty name, as well. Were I not married, I'd consider stalking you.



    Further Food Fanfare...

    A commenter inspired me to wander downstairs to snarf one of my Wonder-Biscuits, and to what did my wondering eye appear, but a wife making crepes, oh what a dear.

    She is saucing up a mix of canned peaches and pears, boiling a nice glaze onto them. And making scratch crepes. There will be whipped cream. And drizzles of some kind of cream cheese icing.

    She may be having an affair.


        Thursday, September 29, 2005

    More Food Torture...

    The wife has been cooking spaghetti sauce all day. Her ex was a wop, and my wife got to hang out around some genuine old-school Italian mothers. She paid attention when they cooked, and it paid off.

    She used all real, fresh tomatoes (from Gleaners), fresh bell pepper (green), fresh mushrooms, carrots, butt-loads of seasoning, Italian Sausage, and it tastes and smells wonderful. Sweet, yet with a kick. She was going to throw out the carrots and the bell pepper, and I looked at her like she was crazy. So she used the hand blender, and buzzed it all in (they had been in big chunks).

    In the future, I think when we have spaghetti again, if tomatoes aren't in season, we'll use whole canned tomatoes. This sauce is so many miles ahead of anything canned or jarred, it is unbelievable.

    I like Vermicelli, the thinner the better. Thick, ropey spaghetti is like sucking a tapeworm out of a dead man's ass to me. There goes that appetite problem, eh? You're welcome.

    We have a fresh loaf of soft sweet French bread, and cheese bread-sticks.

    I hope I'm able to eat tonight.


    Oh man, that was good.

    Turns out she worked harder than I thought. She cut them open and scooped out all the seeds to avoid bitterness. That was a pile of tomatoes. Then she peeled them.

    She says if the tomatoes are tough, you can microwave them for thirty seconds and the peel comes right off. We're gonna chop the piss out of the carrot and bell pepper right away, next time.

    Probly put in Shitake's at the beginning. Oh, and we be po an shit, so the wife used beef broth, instead of steak. She says that if you can, when you start the sauce in the morning, you throw in a couple of steaks and pork chops, in addition to the cooked sausage. She doesn't know if it was Italian Sausage or not, but she bought hot on purpose. I was surprised the kids didn't complain, because it gave it a real kick.

    Mexican food is still my favorite, but you'd pay good money just to sniff one of my burps right now.



    Fall Has Fell...

    Puttering my car down the street a bit ago, marveling at the yellow of the trees, and the wind blows something up one of their noses, and it sneezes a torrent of leaves in a blast out into the road. Or maybe a Palestinian squirrel saw a Jewish squirrel, and blew itself up.

    The wind, and the passing cars, caught the torrent and turned it into a playful tornado, sending it spinning around and between cars, then back up on to the sidewalk where it molested this hobo sapien who was minding her own business of stalking along, talking to herself and twitching.

    She slapped frantically at the leaves, and they moved on, as if afraid to catch a tinge of her madness. Or maybe they caught a whiff of her funk.

    Remember when we could label one of these wretches a witch, and set them on fire? Sigh.

    Now we let them sleep in our libraries, eyeing little girls with bad intent.

    The days are shortening, hunching their shoulders, flipping up their collars, wondering how soon to switch from sweaters to coats. Digging out the ear-muffs from the back of the closet. Checking the candle supply. Each day, diminishing a little more, guttering like a candle that senses a passing spirit.

    I never saw winter as a man, but rather as a woman; a madwoman, a white, bestraggled thing, floated up from the bottom of some deep, icy lake, to wrap her bony, wet fingers around your neck, as her glistening lips pull back from blackened gums to reveal jagged icicle teeth that she sinks into the side of your neck and tears out a big old loving chunk.

    Fuck that bitch, I hate her.

    But today...

    Today had beauty. A kind of sad beauty, as tiny yellow things danced for me, as if they didn't know they were already dead, the small, fluttering ghosts of Summer, the sunny child of Spring, which is my favorite time of year.

    The clouds parted a bit ago, and the sun sent a beam into the room. It said 'Remember me'.

    Remember me...



    Snakes Of A Feather...

    ...flock together.

    This does not bode well. Does anyone else see a future ticket forming, here? A 'Hag-emony', if you will?

    My blood runs cold.



    "I'm Not The Biscuit Genie..."

    Sadder words were never spoke. By my wife. Ever.

    If you've been playing along at home, you will recall that I have recently dieted down big-time, turned svelte, and lost the will to eat.

    I play for keeps.

    I've got no appetite, no cravings. But some fucker on some damn blog this morning mentioned, it was honey. Fuck you, Acidman. Yeah, that was it. He mentioned honey, and biscuits, and now I have a most powerful craving.

    I just went and begged pretty, and the wife says "I'm not the biscuit genie", like that means anything. Stupid home school.

    I guess it's time to head back down for the Bisquick box.



    If you want something done right, do it yourself.

    I just made the best biscuits I have ever had in my life. Huge, fluffy, tender, my wife is raving over them. Just what the doctor ordered.

    I used the Bisquick recipe, for the most part, BUT! I used 1/3 cup heavy cream, to BAM! up the liquid portion of the recipe. I also added a good tablespoon of lemon juice, to make it buttermilkish. I might add sour cream, next time.

    I followed the recipe from top to bottom, starting as if I was making drop biscuits, then continuing to sheet biscuits. I poured in the liquid, mixed it with a fork, then kneaded it by hand until I liked the look of it. It looked a little dry, so I free-poured milk over the top til moist, and kneaded it in.

    I didn't roll it, cuz I couldn't find the roller, I just flattened it out to about an inch and a half by hand. I couldn't find the biscuit cutter, either, so I pulled out my big iron skillet and formed the biscuits by hand. The recipe says it makes nine biscuits, I got six. Six big, fluffy biscuits, yet solid enough to slice with a bread knife and not have them crumble.

    Instead of 450, I used 425 for the oven temp, and they took around twenty minutes. Your mileage may vary. I checked them every five minutes.

    I could only eat one, but with butter and honey, it was heaven. You could make sandwiches out of these, too. Just about any filling would be good in them. They rose from an inch or so to about three inches. And I think the iron skillet is the secret ingredient. The way the pan distributes heat made the bottoms just brown and crispy. They were so big, I think they would have burned on a cookie sheet.

    The wife and I are playing around with the recipe. We are thinking about a dry, oily meat...chipped beef, pepperoni, salami, chopping it pretty fine. Then some crumbly, pungent dryish cheese. Fresh chives, chopped. A seasoning mix of paprika, white and black pepper, a teensy touch of garlic. I think too much would spoil it, and fight with the general sweetness of the Bisquick.

    Put all of the ingredients in at the same time, and knead them in until satisfied with the mix. I don't think you can over-knead this, I did more than the ten times the recipe called for.

    Near the end, it might be interesting to brush some garlic butter on the tops. Maybe add some mustard powder to the dry seasonings. You could do about anything to this recipe. Mint flavoring and chocolate chips. Peanut butter.

    Go crazy.






        Wednesday, September 28, 2005

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!

    Oh she is Dead On, and nails every reason why I hate Bush, cold.

    You watch, as the elections approach, see how few offers she gets to go on 'conservative' Fox news. The media will begin to marginalize her, and so-called Conservatives will give her the cold shoulder, per the evil Bush Machine.

    But she can still write books, and I smell one coming. You can always tell from her column when she has been researching a new book, and what the subject is going to likely be.

    I can hardly wait.



    Under The Influence...'s all about me, me, me!...

    My mother tells me I could read by the age of five. That sounds about right, because I have a distinct memory of reading the Bible to my Dad's Dad as he died from TB. The Bosch Mustard Gassed him during WW1, and he spent the rest of his life dying from it.

    It was right around the age of five that I was allowed to go into the Pickwick Book Store in Los Angeles, and pick out two books as part of my birthday. I chose Kipling's 'Jungle Book and other stories' because it had a picture of a tiger on the cover, and 'The Adventures of Tom Sawyer' and 'The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn' combined together in one fat book, because 'Adventure' sounded, well, adventury.

    I devoured them, and never looked back. Still own them. I used to read them over and over. I have noticed how they seemed to grow smaller over the years, shrunken down to things I could carry with one hand, rather than staggering around with one under each arm, frantic not to drop them.

    I tried out Jack London, but found him relentlessly creepy. Years later, I would get the same vibe from Hemingway's writing. More years later, I would discover what 'Queer' was, and I firmly believe both men to have been closeted gays. London hung out with Oscar Wilde, so I do not think that claim too bizarre.

    Another early influence was the Readers Digest, both the monthly bookette, and the volumes of condensed novels.

    My Mother's Mother thought they made her look learned, and they do look like serious novels, row upon row of sensible bindings, filling up the bookcase. She never read them, they were just for show. She saw I read them, and kept up the subscription for me even after the bookcase was full, and allowed me to recycle the new book back into the old bookcase as long as I kept it neat and alphabetical. And we got all her old copies of Readers Digest after she finished reading all of the jokes and quips in it.

    It was in these small magazine-ettes that I began my life long love of Bennet Cerf and Ogden Nash and Shel Silverstein. Their irreverent use and abuse of the english language, the way they could take your head in their hands and give it a twist just so and there, isn't that better now? Yes...this is how the world really looks.

    And the condensed novels gave me the skill to spot out a wordy asshole who is just trying to pad out a book and gets paid by the word. If you've got nothing to say, shut up. Conversely, if you can make me see a sunset and smell the tiger shit and hear the tea percolating in the pot over the small campfire, well, write on, I'll sit a spell for that.

    The condensed novels nearly ruined me. If you can cut that much fat, why was it in there in the first place? It was only 'The Hobbit' and the promise of a blowjob if I finished reading it that showed me that, after about 300 painful pages, hey, sometimes you don't have to have a destination, it's just fun to drive around if the scenery's pretty enough.

    John Sandford and Thomas Harris can blabber all they want, but I'd sooner chew bees than hazard a Robert Jordan tome-athon, or any number of hidden agenda driven sci-fi scriveners.

    And yes, I meant scrivener, not scribbler, because so many of these people only ever had one or two books in them, and now they are just copying themselves. I'm convinced that some of them just do a global search and replace, rather than write something new. I'm talking to you, C.J. Cherryh.

    That is why it is sometimes difficult to come up with a new post. How many times can you call Michael Moore an asshole, or say that ragheads are evil? Ooooo, Katrina Katrina Katrina!

    You know what? Drop everything you're doing (unless you are masturbating, and that's a whole new level of creep-factor) and rush to the library or used bookstore and pick up Richard Condon's 'Any God Will Do'. Or 'A Talent For Loving'.

    Now, that sonofabitch is what I call a writer. A 'writer's writer', if you will. That's how it's done. Reading either of those books is like a hit of good acid. Pick up 'The Magic Christian' by Terry Southern, while you're at it. He influenced Hunter Thompson to try to write. still here? Shoo!


    I meant to saddle Ogden Nash in there between Bennet Cerf and Shel Silverstein, but I spaced it. I'm an idiot. He probably influenced me more than Cerf.

    Sorry, all this crap if first draft stream of consciousness. What you see is all you get.


    I couldn't stand it, and put him in. I feel better.



    Fool Me Twice...

    Well, the same people that told us there was all kinds of killing and raping and pillaging going on in the New Orleans Superdome during Katrina are now telling us there is nothing to see here, move along.

    So, which time were you lying to us, MSM and New Orleans cops and politicians? Maybe both?

    I know rumors can abound. I've started a few myself. I sat through a 7.0 earthquake in Oroville, California, back in the mid 70's. Our power and phones went out, there were looters and fires, and rumor had it that the new coastline ran through Sacramento. Seriously. And we didn't even have the Internet back then.

    Speaking of looters, Oroville was nearly exclusively caucasian, back then, and the looters were exclusively black. Hmmmmmm...

    We had no idea we were the epicenter, at first, so everybody just assumed that it was The Big One, and the little that was left of California was either ocean front property, or wasteland. And boy, did the rumors fly.

    What radio we could get spoke of volcanoes going off, and tidal waves coming in as far as Sacramento. When we'd ask cops about this, they would confirm it, and stack on another whopper. When all was said and done on that first day, we were convinced that giant mutant wasps were spilling from rents in the earth, and that the dead were rising to seek the flesh of the living.

    So we did the only intelligent thing one can do in such difficult times, and headed off downtown to our favorite liquor store.

    When we got downtown, we saw the standard post disaster scene...yes, blacks leaping into and out of broken store windows, and hauling off piles of clothes and TV's and such. We pulled up in front of our liquor store, and met the proprieter, a well known and much loved friend of ours, surveying his broken store morosely. He had a gun. There were some empty cartridges on the ground. He had discouraged some African-Americans out of his store. The back of his truck was full of plywood and tools.

    We offered to buy booze from him, but he said we could salvage whatever we wanted if we helped him board the place up, and we said "Fuck yeah!" and got after it.

    You stepped down a few steps to enter his store, and enough bottles had broken that there were several inches of malodorous mixed drink on the floor. You couldn't take your shoes off because of all the broken glass, so we just said fukkit and grabbed boxes and started filling them up and running them to the car.

    We made three trips back to the house to unload, and staggered around through a couple of 5 and 6 plus aftershocks, but we scored enough booze for my cronies and I to stay drunk for a month.

    By then, my friends and the owner had the place secured, so we grabbed one last armful of essentials, chips and jerky and the like, and went back to the house to get plastered and take the occasional potshot at a looter. After a while, they got the message, and quit turning down our street.

    As dusk approached, we and the neighbors got together and barbecued up all of our fresh meat, since the power was off and would not be back on for days, and we got drunker, had a bonfire, and went out once looking for a looter to throw on it, but fortunately for somebody, we were too drunk to be really effective at that.

    Good times...



    Gimme That Old Time Religion

    More here.


        Tuesday, September 27, 2005

    Movin On Up...

    Cool. And, thanks.



    A Housekeeping Note...

    I realize I don't have a choice in the matter, but if you (probably unwisely) choose to link to me, I would like to be known as BaneRants in your blogroll.

    Thank you.



    I Can't Pullet Off...

    ...the mighty have fallen...

    This is how sad and pathetic I have become.

    The wife volunteers at Gleaners. She has for years, even when we had money. She is a nice person. I mocked her, some, until we got broke. Now, we get a heckuvva lot of free food from them.

    You'd be amazed at the stuff businesses donate and throw away because they can't sell it for some beauracratic reason or other.
    My wife and some other broads gleaned this farmers field a while back of green beans because he couldn't sell them because some government turd had given them a low rating because he didn't get his bribe or something. We ended up with buckets of perfectly wonderful green beans, all the better because they were field fresh.

    We get free bread and pastry from specialty shops in town, whose prices would have made me flinch when I was rich (which I have been, several times. Rich.)

    Canned goods. Frozen goods from gourmet restaurants that inspectors tell them they can't serve because of a regulation. Fresh shrimp.

    My wife gets the pick of the litter, because the old ladies that run the place adore her. She puts it in her car, then adds bags and bags of groceries for other folks, and uses our car and gas to go all over town to deliver food to old people and shut-ins and crips and whatnot. And to other poor folk.

    It's one step up from dumpster diving, kinda, but it gets us through, and like I said, she scores some really good shit. And points with God, or something.

    Here is the part where me being pathetic comes in...

    She has been getting the Pullet eggs, lately. Dozens and dozens of them. For free. They are really delicious. Better than plain store-bought eggs, and as good as the free range organic we bought when we could afford them.

    They are small things, so you cook and eat them on a two to one ratio against a Large Grade AA. By the way, I have no idea what the fuck a Pullet is, but their eggs taste great.

    ANYway, she boils them, because I insist that we keep a ziplock of boiled eggs around at all times for snacks and salads and whatnot, and here's the rub:

    For some reason, those little bastards are a bitch to peel. You (me) have to pick at them and dink around with them and the shells are really hard and it is really too much like work and she is not here right now to peel them for me.

    So I rationalized that a beer was liquid bread, and had a beer instead, and that's just...




    Do What Thou Wilt...

    ...shall be the whole of the law.

    The central tenet of Satanism.

    I have heard Steve, the ambiguously gay dog lover from 'Blue's Clues', say it a thousand times, but it only hit me this morning...

    " can do...anything...that you wanna do..."



        Monday, September 26, 2005


    ...I don't see Jesse Jackson here...

    Or, maybe I do.



    Thanks to Pedro (the Ignorant), Photoshopper extraordinaire.



    Got Pussy?

    Why, yes...yes, I believe I do.



    The Next Democratic...




    DAMN! Motherfucker bit me!



    I Think I Just Sprained My Wrist...

    Porkal Tunnel Syndrome. I think she falls under the 'Might As Well Be Naked Even When Fully Clothed' category.

    Go: Worship...



    To Whom It May Concern...

    In reference to Paypal, and Amazon, and those of you who use either or both on your blogs:

    I intend to keep both services, but over time, I have found Paypal to be vastly superior to Amazon. Much to my surprise.

    I went into the enterprise with prejudices, and found out I was completely wrong.

    Amazon charges more, takes a far bigger cut than Paypal, and holds on to your money far longer. They made a mistake last month that cost me a hundred dollars, and I had to fix through my bank, because you cannot get a real person or response from Amazon... or Paypal, for that matter. I'm just lucky the chick at my bank likes me. I'da told me to fuck off.

    Paypal is far more efficient, with a much cleaner, more professional interface. I know others have had trouble with them, but my experience has been clear sailing all the way.

    As I've said, regarding having a tip jar, it is like having your guitar case open while you play on the street. Play well, and people drop money in. I did that not too long ago, to some kid about fourteen, sitting in a bus stop in the rain, playing the sweetest Flamenco I have ever heard.

    My kids and I listened, enraptured, for a bit, and I dropped every bill I had in before we left. I wish I knew of a way to get him discovered.

    You never know what you're gonna get, around here. Neither do I. The Spirit moves me, or maybe it's just the beans, but this place has no marketing plan.

    More like the newspaper in the bottom of a particularly well fed Minah Bird's cage, methinks. Colorful spatter, for your enjoyment, and, oh hey! Look! Seeds!

    You folks have honored me, and continue to honor me more than you know. I suspect there may be a liberal or two out there, as well, hoping to destroy my liver and kill me and shut me up. Well, I'm grateful to you, too, libtards, and so is my liver.

    Allow me to honor you with a nice hot freshet of piss, right in your squinty liberal eye. Fucker.

    The rest of you, carry on.

    Now, fucking Haloscan, whom I paid to save them, has gone and lost comments from my earlier posts, dating back to February of last year when I started comments. Bastards.

    What I was thinking while I resisted comments for all those years is beyond me. More proof that smart people can do stupid shit quicker, better, and faster than anybody else.

    I guess.



    Uh Oh...

    Looks like the FOX is in the henhouse.

    The grain of salt with which I always took their reportage with just turned into a salt brick.

    Oh, well.



    If You Smoke Dope... smoke dope with Bin Laden.



    Best Title, Ever!


    A stunning cunt, indeed.




    Raise Your Hand If You've...

    ...ever masturbated to a Barbie Doll, or any other vaguely female shaped childs toy.

    ...ever masturbated while driving a car.

    ...ever come in your pants while making out.

    ...ever done a drive-by with a ring cap cap-gun and made negroes fall over themselves as they jumped for cover.

    ...hit a dog with a car on purpose.

    ...screwed a relative. a hot tub.

    ...and she was a prominent gospel singer.

    ...and masturbated to her picture and the memory in the bathroom at your mom's house years later. that's just sick and wrong. I hope you did not do that.

    ...jerked off in your daughter's sock.

    ...well, she wasn't in it at the time.

    ...golfed on the roof of your barracks.


    ...aiming at officer's cars.

    ...listening to windows smash, car alarms go off, and watching MP's look like idiots, thinking they are under fire.

    ...well, they kinda were, I guess.

    ...swerved your car over to the curb so your friend can hang out the window and sucker-punch some guy in the head so hard he flies over a bus bench while you keep the car moving.

    ...laughed when your friend breaks both his fist (on the skull) and his arm (on the window post).

    ...shot a beer can out of your ex-wife's hand.

    ...used vomiting as a tactic to win a fight.

    ...people hate it when you puke on them. me.

    ...yes, I was surprised that 'vomiting' only has one T in it, too.

    ...drank beer before noon.

    ...on a Monday.

    What, does it show?




    That fox could serve in my hole any time.

    I'm seeing this chick around. I am almost sad that I served in an all male unit.


        Sunday, September 25, 2005

    Now This...

    ...looks like a fun game...


        Saturday, September 24, 2005

    Inspired To New Lows...

    I plan on watching Sci-Fi channel soon, while idly fingering my vagina and swilling quantities of wine bought by a grateful reader...suck-ah!

    Just kidding. I don't actually have a vagina. Of my own. Well, attached to me. Hmmm, still unclear. I mean, as an integral part of my anatomy, as opposed to attached to my stalk like a hungry Triffid.

    Saw the 2003 'Peter Pan' today. Something for everybody. Wendy's glossy lips made me somewhat uncomfortable to have Nats fat fanny squirming over Gargantua's resting place, where his one dread eye is closed in slumber, with a mere slice or two of fabric between us. Really. See this movie, and tell me that you do not experience uncomfortable moments of rigidity and moisture.

    I had a brief fantasy, today, wherein I hosed a full belt of 7.62 from an MG-42 machine gun, a-la 'Private Ryan', into the noisy family across the way.

    Darn them, and their hecking family reunion anyway. TRYING TO NAP, HERE!!

    The buzz and buck of the gun, the rooster tails of blood and dirt...the screams...Satan's necklace of brilliant brass, ejecting in a bright golden stream of twinkling tubules...

    I'm pretty sure that I shouldn't listen to Viking Kittens as I type.

    The stench of bubble bath is filling me with nausea and horror. The wife is cleansing my offspring, removing various gobbets of filth and stainage, the errant dingleberry, suspicious Wendy stains...whatevah.
    Another neighbor is using some foul pad in their drier, and the vent is pooting out an essence that falls somewhere between embalming salts, and gramma's powdered snatch. A most redolently retchful funk, indeed.

    You ever idly finger your scalp, and catch a hidden zit with a fingernail, one that pops so hard you feel the shockwaves through-out your Arachnoidal Layer, and you go a bit numb on one side for a moment, and blood trickles out of one nostril, and the other one smells fresh bread baking? neither. But that would be weird, huh.

    And it might be a little worse, a bit, if you look at that fingernail, and tiny white tendrils wiggle, and work themselves back into the muck under the nail, as if they had someplace very important to be.

    A little...



    The Finest Writing...

    ...I have ever read in my life.

    Uh, sorry God, I mean besides the Bible.

    That's it, I quit.


    C'mon, you fuckers! I dare you to write a paragraph better than this:

    A Starbucks, it turns out, is a horrible place in which to wrestle with the police. The layout means you're constantly bumping into things, and before you know it you're being charged for destruction of property on top of assaulting an officer. Making lemons out of lemonade, I decide that I should at least win the fight -- but the enemy of pugilism, the taser, soon enters the fracas, and darkness encloses me like Tar-locks' cavernous vagina.

    I try to bring civilization to you savages, and this is the thanks I get? Five comments? What are you, Cargo Cultists?

    Oh, how I despair of ever punching in your soft spots with the Bright Silver Hammer of Reason.

    I am, as usual, bereft...



    Give Me What I Want...

    ...or I'll kill you.

    Does that statement entice you to reach into your pocket and drag out your wallet and give give give til it hurts?

    Would it make you feel any better if I had a gun pointed at you?

    Well, that is what the 'Palestinians' and their Arabian proxies say to Israel each and every day.

    What do you get when you negotiate with robbers?

    Answer: robbed.

    Leftist Tools and Euro-stains be damned, and to heck with the Vichy Israeli government, too, so seemingly eager to cooperate in it's own demise.

    I could not attend a public university or college today. I would run so far amok at the first 'Palestenian' demonstration I saw, or whatever other pea-brained hippy bullshit that occurred in front of me, that history professors would be comparing that day to the reign of Vlad the Impaler for decades.

    And I can't 'do' prison. Because I'm still a virgin. In 'that' way. Well...unless I got sent to a women's prison.

    Hey, Jews! Why can't you be more Irish! Or Palestinian! Well, that's redundant, but seriously, is this pussy facade of yours working for you? Seriously?

    You have a sizeable white Christian majority that will back whatever play you want to make, and fornicate up the non-kosher elimenatary orifice anybody else's opinion.

    Suggestion: Load a nuke or two on a passenger jet, arm it with all sorts of countermeasures, and fly it over Tehran during afternoon prayers. All those radar guys with their butts in the air, worshipping their false god. POOM!

    The suspense is killing me.

    Do something.



    Yer Gonna Hate Me For This...

    Now, go Shoot Some Sheep.



    A Disturbing Post...

    I present this, with some trepidation.

    I checked it out on, and it is 'undecided', NOT false.

    Rings true to me, from what I've seen. Note, in the comments, that, yet again, it is racist to point out misbehavior in our dusky brethren.

    Via Acidman...


        Friday, September 23, 2005

    Man, I Hope This Is True...

    We need to be doing more of this shit.

    The Islamassholes execute and rape our captured and wounded every chance they get. Both male and female US prisoners. Military, and civilian. I have heard true tales that would give most of you nightmares.

    And they film themselves, laughing, as they cut pieces off of screaming men and women. While we make naked pyramids of them. Once or twice.

    You fare no better as a prisoner of their regulars, than you do of their irregulars.

    Don't get me started as to why the fuck we bother to capture any of these animals in the first place. I suppose the gathering of intelligence has some import.

    I would go down a row of kneeling prisoners with an electric drill, loaded with a one inch chromium wood bit, about a foot long, shiny and silvery. The first two or three would just get randomly drilled...chest, face, groin. My translator would start asking questions, while the drilled screamed and moaned.

    No answers? Good. My grateful smile would make hot piss spray out of you, involuntarily. I drill deep into a couple of eye sockets, and white bone and gray brain matter cycles back up the bit and twirls around for a moment like a childs toy, thence to spatter off into the horrified faces of their compatriots to either side.

    One of my men, a trained Iraqi commando, brings me a squealing baby pig, squalling and kicking, and I drive the bit deep into its bowels, and then turn quickly and jam the dripping bit into the wide, horrified right eye of the nearest prisoner...he shudders and groans, and his bowels cut loose while I hold him up, shuddering on the still screaming drill bit, bone and brain smoke mingling with the varied and sweet flavors of shit and blood and fear and bone smoke. Blood...burning...
    I kick him off the bit, and turn and grab the piglet by it's hind feet and swing it into a spattering arc over his dying body, annointing him with pig shit and blood, and then I swing little piggy around and the other prisoners break and begin to thrash and scream and throw themselves around as the hot blood scalds them...

    I would get my answers.

    And I would let the survivors go.

    And so on.

    Until the sight of a set of flex cuffs in a GI's hands is enough to send ragboy screaming and babbling to his knees, draining his tiny, foetid brain of every shred of everything he has ever known, just to keep from having to come see me.

    My DVD filmographer, safely out of the spatter zone, so as to not foul the lense, would distribute filmed copies of my activities to the market squares, where it would be copied and sold all over the Middle East.

    Bring it on now, you Islamic bitches. You bring your shit to my house, and I will kill you, and eat your filthy heart, just so I can have the pleasure of shitting it out, after a companion dinner of some tender pork ribs.

    That's what you are to me, Mohammedan, just waste in my bowel, to be shit out. I hate you, and everybody who looks like you, and I want to taste your death.



    Wherein I...

    ...honor my heritage...

    An oldie, but a goodie, and worth repeating.



    And So... begins.



    Speaking Of Greeks...

    And of course, more for the whining bone-jockeys...



    Doin It Greek Style...

    If you're interested in things Greek, and historical, you might want to look at this.

    How many other wonders have been kept from us by idiot politicians and their ilk?


        Thursday, September 22, 2005


    Some Houston freeway cams for ya.



    American Jihad...

    Though there are a lot of people I would encourage to commit suicide, I believe it in general to be a terrible, tragic thing.

    But, I am nothing, if not realistic...

    Dear Suicidal-Americans:

    If you are really, really serious about ending your life, please allow me to make a suggestion. And I mean really really serious, 'fatal illness and in pain' serious. If you want to whack yourself over losing a girlfriend or because you didn't get that promotion, you are just stupid. Go get drunk, write a bad check to a hooker, and blow a weekend. Start over, fuck-head.

    No, I'm talking to you fatal illness people, you 'just lost all of your kids in a fire' people. I am down with you. I'd let you borrow a gun. Heck, I'd shoot you myself, and not just for fun. I care. I really do.

    Now, here's what I want you to do. In the remaining time you have left, figure out how to make a bomb vest, and then go give a Muslim a big hug. With the vest on. Preferrably in a mosque. At prayer time.
    Holler "God Bless America!" and then BOOM!

    Could you do that for me? Thanks.

    You see, the Islamassholes are too stupid to be afraid of us. We kill them by the assload, in great huge piles, and still, they don't get it that we are bad-ass. They know that we are, in general, not nearly as nuts as they are, and that we play by 'The Rules'. There is no surprise in their lives.

    Well, now we have you, strapped with your boomery, smiling happily while juiced to the eyeballs on goof-balls, and you are wandering around in one of their mosques with a detonator in your hand. Or maybe at a 'collect money for the jihad' street faire. Or at one of those lovely islamic schools, a maddrassah, where they are taught to hate little American children like your burned up little ones that never hurt or would have hurt anybody.

    Walk in and say "Hi!"

    It is as Allah wills it...




    I ain'ta fraid uh no ghost...







    "I Just Don't Know"...

    That statement, right there, is at the center of whatever poor character I possess. It is the centerpiece of who I am, and who I want to be, the ability to say of something...

    I just don't know.

    If you know it, say it, but anything else is just a guess, or a lie. This is why I nearly always address the Big Issues here as a question...a 'what if?'.

    Because, for the most part, I just don't know.

    If I seem certain of something, here on this blog, it is likely because I am certain. I have had enough age and experience and education and have made a decision that this is how whatever it is, is.
    You will play heck trying to persuade me or dissuade me or change my thought processes in any way.

    But in matters unproven, or unprovable, whether of science, or of faith, all I can say is 'I just don't know'.

    We can conjecture, and postulate all day long, but in the end, all we are left with is our respective faiths. Faith in something we have consciously (or unconsciously) decided at some point to adhere to.

    Of course, some have it decided for them. They are raised from infancy in a devoutly athiestic home, where all decision is based of rational science and unbending logic.
    Or, they are raised in some other devout religion, until one day they are presented to the world, and then they must make the world fit into their view.

    It took me a long time, a long walk, before I could deny my omnipotence. Before I could look around and see things that didn't fit into the boxes I had prepared. Things I didn't understand. To be able to stand amidst the clutter of existence, shrug my shoulders, and say...

    I just don't know.



    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!

    It's hard for me to work up too much passion about this one, but whatevah.

    Being expected to give a crap about picking Supreme Court justices, is like expecting me to be excited about being allowed a say in the make-up of my firing squad.

    Yay. Thanks.



        Wednesday, September 21, 2005

    Three Sightless Rodents...

    Three sightless rodents, three sightless rodents
    Observe how they manuever, observe how they manuever
    They all pursued the agriculturalist's spouse,
    Who severed their posterior appendages with a culinary object,
    Have you ever observed such a phenomenon in your existence
    As three sightless rodents.



    Bad Day At L.A...

    First off, let me tell you that if I lived down there, I'd be in the airport bar, waiting for that plane to come in. This is something you don't get to see every day.

    Some questions for my engineering and scientist readers:

    Why are there not specialized airstrips all over the country, with tanks full of fire retardant nearby, and pumping systems that can flood a landing strip for a plane to come skidding in on? Perhaps with a specialized surface to slow the plane down and reduce sparking?

    Why don't planes have a specialized system to allow for near instantaneous dumping of all fuel, and the re-filling of the tanks with Halon or some other anti-fire chemical?

    Just wondering.



    I Got A Question...

    Is this blasphemy, or just funny as shit?

    I don't know if I'm glad I discovered this guy, or just scared all to heck.

    Either way, he cracks me up.



    Where Do They Go?

    If I was a Texican about now, I'd be on the road and headed away.

    But, where would I go? Even right here in Oregon, we would be hard pressed. My wife has church friends that live in the mountains, and we could go stay there for a bit, I suppose.

    We are broke, and have no credit cards. I suppose we could take our debit cards and hit our overdraft limit, which is pretty high. When everything blows over, maybe the judge will be lenient, and I can pay the banks back a bit at a time.

    It would be hard, and we'd have to make some tough decisions, but what about the have-nothings of society? The truly destitute? No car, no family, no friends?

    Man, 200 mile an hour winds and 50 foot waves comin right at you, and all you can do is sit there and die?

    Times like these, it is not hard to believe the end is nigh...

    Not hard at all.



    I've Said It Before...

    ...and I'll say it again...

    You bloggers who blog under your own names must either be incredibly brave, or say nothing controversial, or are independantly wealthy, or just really dumb.

    Even if you just play nice all the time, you link to people like me.


    When an Uber Blogger like a certain Uber Blogger (who shall remain nameless because they don't need any more crap than they already have, hint hint) shitcans their blog(s) and drops off the face of the earth under pressure from a job or a business or the government or their kids private school or whatever, it sends shock waves through the whole internet.

    I know I can be found, but I try to make it not too easy. Folks who put up their names and their pics and their kid's pics and pics of their houses and yards and don't even fog out their license plates....well, I just shudder when I see that.

    I see the big bloggers getting shut down, or shutting themselves down, or pulling content at the demand of the government (, for example) and I know it is just a matter of time before this happy little site has Sauron's Eye turn towards it.

    I see the arab sites and the government sites in my referral logs, rummaging around in my archives, sometimes for hours at a time. I'm at DEFCON 2 over the whole thing, too, and just a hammer click away from 1. We do family Stranger Drills all the time. Who goes where, who grabs which gun, and how.

    Likely, I'll just try to log in one day, and my account will be closed.

    I got your 'Land of the Free' hangin right here, buddy...



    Who Are You To Judge?

    There's an attitude I run into, here and there, that having gone through something makes you an expert on the subject.

    Conversely, there is an attitude from some that if you haven't gone through something, you have no right to opine on it.

    Both attitudes are rubbish, of course. A good example of why, is my Father, who taught hundreds of kids, including me, to swim, while not being able to swim a stroke himself. He can't even let the water from the shower hit him in the face without suffering a panic attack.

    There's an old joke going around to the effect that juries are made up of twelve people too stupid to get out of Jury Duty.

    While not entirely fair, that joke does have some truth to it; I must be really smart, because I have never spent one minute on a jury, though I've been called many times.

    The members of a jury, no matter what kind of knuckle-dragging booger-eaters they might be, are still every bit the judge the guy in the dress is. Don't kid yourself. If you are a defendant, you are being judged by thirteen people.
    If you are an expert witness, the tops in whatever field you are in, your testimony is being judged by people who collect Beanie Babies and buy lottery tickets and thought Alf was a real space alien.

    Hiring a babysitter? You better judge. You may have to make a snap judgement, right there at the door.

    Daughter's new boyfriend show up to take her out? Tell me you're not judging...I dare you.

    Doctor McFeely wiggling his fingers around in there a little too enthusiastically?

    Your new boyfriend you just met in the bar wants to come in after dropping you off at your apartment?

    Hey, you've never been raped, who are you to judge?

    Nope, when someone tells me not to judge, or suggests I have no right to judge, alarm bells go off in my head. I've seen this before.

    Quite often, I find that I am dealing with someone who is 'damaged goods', someone who has been so affected by the subject at hand that they themselves are not qualified to make a sober judgement on the subject. The kind of person that gets excused from juries during voir dire.

    But that's just my judgement...


        Tuesday, September 20, 2005

    I Wanted To Link To This One..., THIS, fukkit...

    Just go read them all. You'll learn something, and if you be an asshole in his comments, you shall have outed yourself to me...kind of a Double Blind Melon study, only where nobody dies from heroin.

    He has been busy, and I have been remiss. I bend a knee, and touch my forelock.

    I just wish he would repost his poop post. Or email it to me.

    I am intrigued...



    Where Are All The Flying Cars?

    I hear this question a lot, from folks who want to denigrate the future we live in.

    Answer: They're called helicopters, dummy. If you have the ducats, you can buy one and fly it wherever you want.

    What, you wanted a Swiss Army Car?

    G'wan! Double dummy.




    Things Heard Around The Home...

    "Watching you try to get out of the house is like watching a camel have a breach birth..."

    Said by me to my lovely wife as I watch her try to leave the home with the kids to go somewhere.

    "Your pussy stinks..."

    Said by me as an immediate response to her statement to me that "You look like hell..."

    She knows better, and just rolled her eyes.

    Said by me to my four soon to be five year old daughter in reference to her sneaking out of the house: "Daddy doesn't believe in spanking, but if you ever sneak out of the house, I will whip your butt so hard that it will fall off and crawl into the bushes and die!"

    I just found out we have two registered molesters within a three block area. I am working on their addresses.

    I believe communication is the most important part of any relationship.


    Said to the power guy, a bit ago, while hiding my pistol behind the door because I heard a funny noise outside:

    So, turning off their power again...once a month, whether they need it or not...

    (laughs) "Yep, they seem to have issues around bill paying..."

    Y'know, I hear she killed a guy, and made it look like an accident...

    (face, gone some pale and pruney) "That right..."

    Yep...I'm kinda scared of her, specially it bein a full moon and all...

    (he rushes next door, hangs the notice from the doorknob and rushes back to his...)

    (truck) "beep..beep..beep..beep.....vrooom!"



    The wife came to me laughing a bit ago to relate that as Nat ran by her, she had reached out and pinched Nattie on the butt as she flew by. She reports that Nat skidded to a halt, whipped around with her hands over her tiny boobs and yelled "Hey! You made my buttons get stiff!"

    Nat refers to her nipples as 'buttons', since she could first talk. The wife then reported Nat made the fierce chimp face and flew off to continue whatever mission she was on.



    Kick Me, I'm Pregnant...

    Out of all these ads, I think that one's my favorite.



    I Dare You... buy a box of these, and have your kid pass them out to their friends at school. Or, for you satanists who worship Halloween, pass them out at the door to trickertreaters.

    Let me know how that works out for ya.



    I'm Done With Him...

    Geraldo is not allowed to speak in my house again.

    Just when you think he has some worth, and you might want to take him back, he shows up with Clinton's spooge on his dress, or he is diagramming the position of our troops in the sand for our enemies.

    He needs to join Dan Rather in the discard pile of discredited news-turds.

    Flush the fucker, already.


        Monday, September 19, 2005

    Am I The Car Wreck?

    Am I the tangled mess you slow down at, to ogle for a body part, and annoy the firemen?

    Seems that way, lately, but perhaps I projecteth too much.

    WONDERful night of TV tonight! Awesome! Some new scary sea monster thingy, then Las Vegas, and the hideously wonderful Medium. NBC has become Must See again.

    Lost comes Wednesday, and I am underwhelmed. That show had better get it's shit together, or it goes on the ash-heap danger quick. Limited range actors (except for Terry Quinn, who plays Terry Quinn better than anybody) playing the same tired schtick over and over again. I want to beat that pussy doctor to death. He could be King of the Island by now, with maidens servicing him.

    Somebody better get ate by a monster, quick, or bunged by an alien, or something, because you can only buy so much mercy by having a bit actor sucked into a jet engine, and Firefly did it better. At least the pussy 'brother' got snuffed. His 'sister' should have got an Emmy for Most Annoying Cunt Not Named Anna Nicole Smith.

    Lost looks like some spastic fish-monger tripped and spilled out a bucket of live squid onto a wet cement floor. Interesting, somewhat hilarious, but on the whole, I came here for the Cod, thank you.

    Oh, the poor Cowboys I used to love them. Robbed, they were. Robbed.

    Son, I'm gonna try to get it into the mail tomorrow, but you know life looks like a nest full of kittens thrown into a radiator fan about now. Besides, you ain't sent me the address yet, so haha.

    It is getting harder and harder to not watch any previews of Serenity. I have to wear a damn holster with a remote control in it, so's I can quick draw and mute the fuckers as they comes on.

    My life is heck, I tells ya...a living heck. And quit focusing on my hairy ass, freaks. Yez needs somethin to wrap in your fists when the ride gets rough...

    On that note, I am taking my flatulant fart-hole to bed.

    Good night.

    PS: Try to imagine Jayne and Mal getting melded somehow, and then add a good sprinkling of Wash, and you have me. I suspect Josh Wheadon and I would get along well, just as much as I suspect that he let the different parts of himself out, and gave them voices.

    But there is no Buffy in me atall...nosir...



    Remember Where We Parked...

    Classic Star Trek line, and one I've used many a time. Not too long ago, I forgot, and wandered for a half hour around several levels of airport short term parking because I zigged when I should have zagged and became misorientated.
    It was frightening, I thought I had been struck dumb with Alzheimer's, or all that LSD was catching up with me. Brrrr...a mind is a terrible thing.

    I comment on blogs, and forget where I left it. I've surfed around to so many, and they are all so similar, and I just fire and forget.

    Sometimes, I swing by much later and find my comment. Sometimes it is just hanging there, alone...bereft. Sometimes there is a flaming string of dingleberries beneath it: "Come back here you asshole!" "Coward!" "Bane!!" 'Yeah, chickenshit motherfucker better keep his ass away...we got him..."

    Nope...sorry. Forgot ya. C-Ya...wouldn't wanna B-Ya (anyone recognize that slang right there?)

    I'd like to say this blogging is the weirdest hobby I have ever had...

    I'd like to.




    My new word for a particulate of shit, or shiticulate; as opposed to a Shitlet, which you chew for enjoyment as in gum, which is just nasty and I'm sorry I said it. I take it back, that was in bad taste.

    I filled two five gallon plastic buckets with shit this weekend, one handful at a time. I found that there are specialized muscles that you use in shit-picking, and all of mine are sore.

    Time, and the weather had washed much of the essence that makes a turd repellant to humans, and a tasy snack food for dogs, or something upon which to roll with unbridled joy.
    I was left with a foetid amoniac stench that hugged the ground, and leeched up into my brain, and which I am sure is what has had me laying around all achy and puny today.

    I am hating dogs a bit more than usual, today.

    I have owned many dogs, in my day. Most have died from stupidity...eaten the wrong thing, chased the wrong car, or pissed me off in some fashion. Though I benefitted some from my association with my dogs, security, having a slave, and whatnot, going around the yard after them, smelling and scooping up their shit, made me question the relationship.

    You enter into having a child with a contractual understanding that at some point they will begin to take care of their own shit, and eventually leave.

    A dog wants to stick around and shit forever. This can be tolerated from a working dog, who serves some function, I suppose. Some function you would otherwise have to hire a feral Ubangi with sharpened teeth and a blow-gun to perform. Or a Welshman with a crook. But taking that kind of shit from a slipper-chewing, leg-humping, hole-digging furred retard is something I will doubtless never engage in again.

    And all you dog lovers, well, you can just kiss my firm, white, hairy, dog-hating Christian ass.


        Sunday, September 18, 2005


    Unless your blog is a certified, up front group blog, from its beginning, I am going to shitcan your ass quicker than Monica can bag a blue dress when I find other folks posting as you while you fuck off somewhere.

    I make an exception for Straight White Guy, because he warned folks, though I won't read there until he comes back.

    I fucked off IMAO, deleted the link, because of this shit. I fucking hate it. Start another blog, and announce it as a group blog, but trust me, I probably hate all of your friends.

    Don't move my cheese...



    Acts Of Faith...

    So, how much Faith does it take to strap a rocket to your ass, and head out into the airless darkness of space, after watching the last ship full of your cohorts flutter to the ground in a potpourri of ash and debris?

    Science, you say? Okay, allow me to throw back into your face the 'repeatedly provable' theorem you always throw at me: So, what is it, you want to prove that you, too, can become so much snack food for the odd predator coming across the slop in your helmet that used to be you, in a pasture in Texas somewhere?

    My shaman against your shaman...throw away your cross, and face me, Faith to Faith.

    When you achieve my age (50) you get to see all sorts of 'scientific' notions proved false, over the years.
    There were educated folks, the geniuses of their time, warning against flight, or going over ten or twenty miles per hour. Why, you could burst into flame!

    Ladies! Chocolate is bad for you!

    You know, down deep in your feminine heart, nay, to the depths of your clitorii, that that is blasphemy of the first order...DON'T YOU!


    Yet the Bible withstands every assault. The story stands, and you all know it, in your filthy, guilty hearts. A pagan is just a Christian, gone astray. An athiest, is just a pompous, judgemental retard. What I call a 'poor thinker', and fit only for pity, and sometimes, mockery. Because I am weak.

    Oh, to be sure, you can find glitches in the various translations. I own several first editions of this and that, some recent, and some dating back to the beginning of the 1900's. You will find misprints and mistakes there, too, and none of those publishers were a mysogynist king, anxious to retain his power.

    If you can't tell me that the act of a man, made mostly of water, wherein he cycles an airlock, and steps out into the airless and unforgiving icy vacuum of space, is not an act of the utmost Faith...of Contrition...of Utter, Unconditional Belief...

    ...well, then, you can just kiss my firm, white, hairy Christian ass.



    You Know You're In Trouble When...

    ...your name becomes synonymous with the word 'asshole'.

    Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.

    Now, to topple that frog prince asshole in charge of France.


        Saturday, September 17, 2005

    If I Had The Money...

    ...I would pay some big-dicked pervert to butt-fuck this cocksucker every day in prison until he attempted suicide.

    Then, I would revive him, and do it all over again.





    I have put off facing the dogshit for three days. I am not as think as I wish I'm drunk am.

    The finest procrastinator in the known universe is going out to fondle dog turds with his hand.

    I understand rape victims, now.




    When you are using scissors to cut open the twelve pack to get your breakfast beer, do not poke the scissors into an actual beer.

    This wastes beer, and gets things wet in the fridge. And makes your wife look at you funny.

    Your kids, however, will find it hysterical.

    That is all.


        Friday, September 16, 2005

    She's Ashamed Of Her Teeth...

    Oh, I would so own her. I can spot insecurity a mile away, and I know how to exploit it.

    More, you ask? But of course!



    Shout Out...

    ...for my peep...

    So, my ignant youngest Gyrene re-ups for four more years next week. Shortly after that, he heads to Quantico, Virginia, for some specialized training.

    If you drink, or eat food, and know the area, I would appreciate you feeding and watering and squiring him around, should he have any free time.

    No freaks allowed, and you know who you are.

    Email me with your particulars, I will decide as to your worthiness to be associated with my spawn, and I will forward those I deem worthy to him to consider for his dance card.

    Wine him, dine him, be you the proper sex, screw his brains out. Be you poor, he can buy, and pay for gas, and he would just be grateful for a tour guide around those climes.

    Your move.



    You Look Like A Monkey...

    ...and you smell like one too...

    Standard alternate verse in the 'Happy Birthday' song I have been hearing and singing all of my life.

    Kids? Same thing...Yard Apes. Never made a color association, until now. Literally.

    Hey, black people...look in the mirror. Most of you resemble a chimp or an ape or a gorilla to some degree or another. So do some white people, and beaner people, and raghead people.

    Deal, monkey-face.

    I have called my kids 'yard apes' and 'house apes', and been called that myself, all of my life.

    The first time I heard the term 'porch monkey' (or, more accurately, 'poach monkey') was from a black (, in a black face) mouth. And every time thereafter. I am the only honkey cracker white-bread muhfukka I have ever heard use the phrase 'porch monkey'.

    That poor woman lost a job of 19 years, last time I checked one year away from retirement, because you niggers can't check your shit at the door.

    I'm not talking to you black people, whom I would give and accept blood from, and love and accept as my own, I am talking to you niggers out there.

    Trouble is, you all look alike, as I've said.

    Hey, make you a deal. I'll go start killin KKK fuckheads and skinheads and such, if ya'll will go out and kill all the niggers.




    Don't Give Me Any Shit...

    ...sell it to me...

    I can be bought, as I've said. The going rate to get me to clean up a yard full of German Shepherd shit is $15.00 an hour.

    I have also said that my ex-wife got all of my self-esteem in the settlement, so my nit-picking re shit-picking is just that.

    And I'm doing it in the rain.

    The wife is cleaning the rest of the apartment, I am just a sub-contractor. A zero. A cipher in shit covered tennis shoes. The mighty have fallen.

    Oh well, I have beer. I am sure that my Japanese visitors are rubbing their greedy yellow paws together..."Ah, so...jumahn shepahshit! Velly gud fo gahden! Velly exotic! I pay bahbellian top dollah fo shit, he Fedex rite away!"

    I would, too. Dang me.


    ...envy me...

    I just did a cost-benefit analysis, and stood outside myself and observed, and I realized that it was going to take me forever to pussyfoot around with that shovel so just be a fucking man and pick the shit up with your hand and have the sense to get in out of the rain, you big vagina.

    So I went home to get two rubber gloves for the hand I shall use, and may later burn. I shan't be picking my nose with any of those fingers, for awhile anyway, regardless.

    I can also inform you, with total accuracy, that these dogs were well fed, including corn, and occasionally eat grass.



    Herro, Honored Japanese Guests...

    I see you in my referral logs, and I am honored by your presence. I would love to communicate with you, in some fashion.

    As Fall comes on, I accept, like a Japanese tumbling act, a little nip in the air.

    Seriously, don't be afraid. Okay, if I had a nuke, I'd use it...we have some unfinished business, you and I. But it's chinks what has nukes nowadays, not me. Chinks...the other yellow meat...

    I kid, Japs...mostly. I really like you, and hope you stick around.

    Sushi mostly sucks ass, though. Sorry. Thanks for Tempura, though. Really.


        Thursday, September 15, 2005

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!

    She uses like, big words and stuff, and convoluted logic that hurts my head, some...

    ...but she makes me ask myself the age old question, yet again:

    Why am I not out shooting men and women in black robes in their heads?

    If someone announces to you, yes you, that they are going to definately come to your house and fuck you over, and fuck everybody you care about over, and steal your money, and leave your dog with both a bad case of herpes and piles...




    I'm In Love!

    Sorry ladies, I'm taken.



    Pink Tastes Better Than You Think!

    That is the new tag-line for the latest Pepto Bismol ad.

    I can only concur.



    Will I Enjoy Being A Girl?

    So, my daughter pees in the pot, and being a frugal sort, and short of funds, and being cruelly forced to pay for every flush, I desist in flushing her essence, and take my place on the throne in her stead, wherein I begin my morning craplution.

    As an aside, just let me state that girls who pee require a veritable pad of TP, ere one soak one's fingers while swabbing the clam...bearding it in it's den, as it were.
    Oh, to be sure, she wipes herself occasionally, but seeing her flounce off with a yard of tissue trailing up and over her panties is not worth the merriment that ensues.

    So, there I am, blasting my guts in a forceful and manly fashion into the bowl, and I get the dreaded 'equal and opposite reaction'...a reciprocal blast of cold water, no doubt filled with Freshtrogen, the very essence of femininity, scooching up my Man-Cooch!

    Immediately, I am faced with the specter of my imminent craving for man tube, and a potential need for a complete reversal of wardrobe, not to mention that my woman will have no truck with lesbianism, and will doubtless leave me.

    A second burst of shat overcomes me, and hopefully swabs my deck of any potentially mutative feminine tinctures, but now I begin to worry.

    The rectal cathedral is a very absorbent area. Many medicines are designed to be introduced through that gateway, and I have availed myself of them before. The effects can be near instantaneous. I remain, alarmed.

    Ladies, did you know that the penal effluvia of a man, the reproductive happy juices, I mean, contain a huge amount of Vitamin C, as well as many other beneficial essences? It's true!

    The next time you begin to feel a bit sniffy, grab your bottle of Astroglide (and why there hasn't been a Nobel Prize for that substance is beyond me) drop your trousers, present your haunches to your man and holler "Ridem cowboy!" and all will be cured.

    The oral route is a bit slower, but nearly equally effective. Do not spit, but it is considered quite gauche to chew.

    There, I've made myself feel better, now. If a good shtupping up the bum does not turn you into a man, it is doubtful that a spoosh of girl urine up my bottom will turn me into a woman.

    Still, if I start retaining, it is really going to piss me off.

    Though, having a clitoris would be nice...


        Wednesday, September 14, 2005

    Wherein I Am Potentially Well And Truly Fucked...

    Because, well, it is all about me, right?

    If this happens and takes out Portland, you will doubtless lose this intrepid blogger. If this happens, I will doubtless be dead.

    Doesn't bother me a bit.




    I don't link to him, because I think he is a stinky-poop, even though I read him every day. Drudge is a fag, and I read him every day, too.

    But this set of factoids needs to be heard, and trumpeted throughout the land.

    Get on it...



    More Addiction...

    Use your noodle, Mister Noodle.

    If you are at work, you may want to turn your speakers down a bit.



    Peking, Duck!

    Comcast gave me McAfee Firewall and Anti-Virus for free this week, because they like me.

    Now, I have never had a positive experience with McAfee. I have deleted it many times, and thrown the CD away, but I figured, what the hey, Comcast and McAfee have partnered, so it should be pretty flawless.

    So far, it is. I uninstalled my freeware of Zone Alarm and AVG Anti-Virus, and Norton System Works, as well. Norton pissed me off by forcing me to pay to download new virus defs, which I refused to do, being both cheap and broke.

    The most funnerest part of McAfee though, is that McAfee pops up an alert screen to tell me when some outside computer is pinging my ports. It tells me which port it's going after, and where the ping originates from.

    Those dirty commie chinks from Peking are pinging the livid shit out of me. Shanghai follows as a close second. Denver and Los Angeles as a distant third.

    I haven't got bored with this yet, enough to turn off the alert.

    I pity you people who stick your toe into the cesspool of the Net without protection. Your PC's are being ghosted as we speak.


    I am addicted! To being pinged! Ping me baby, ping me hard, with your mighty...pinger, or whatever.

    I could stop it with a simple mouse click, yet I can't. "Ooooo, who is it this time? Fuck...Peking again..." and yet still I trace. Addictively.

    I get Denver a lot. Sometimes a three way between SF an L.A. and Denver, and thence to Portland, always to Portland. Portland must be the Comcast node that feeds my city.

    But still, it is ten to one Peking. Sometimes Shanghai. Tehran. St Johns. Small burgs in New York State. Turkey.

    The ones from China almost always go through Los Angeles first.

    I am finding this fascinating. In the three minutes it has taken me to write this, I have been hit over ten times. Just now from Seattle via New York.

    Don't be envious of my exciting life...


        Tuesday, September 13, 2005

    Alright, Yeh Bastids...

    If I make an egregious spelling error, could you please correct me? Comments, email, I don't care.

    I suck at apostrophes, too. Kiss my ass with grammar complaints...I never liked that bitch.

    I may or may not delete your correction after I repair my mistake, if I do, don't take it personal, just know that I am/was greatful.

    When I reread a post weeks later for some reason and my wireless (cum-filled) keyboard has betrayed me, I cringe in shame and horror.

    And you people let it happen.

    Shame on you!



    Let Me Make One Thing Perfectly Clear...

    I bash Bush, here and there, for this and for that, but don't come over here and expect to do the same yourself, unless you have risen to the pinnacle of your own country by one means or the other, or have somehow managed to become President of the most magnificent country and people history has ever seen.

    I will flick you away like a booger.

    No, I have said it again and again, here and elsewhere, mine is the rage of a jilted lover. The fury. The hurt, that slinks off, ashamed, to powder its black eye and come back out wearing nice wide dark glasses, like Jackie Onassis used to do. Ponder that. That bitch got popped in the eye by every man she ever knew.

    I believed Bush to be one thing, and he has revealed himself to be another. Oh, well, you don't get to those rarified heights without having bigger wings, and a sharper beak than all of the other vultures. I get it.

    You also have to be willing to shove your head into more rotten, maggot-crawling guts than all of the others, too. I get that.

    Probably my biggest whine, here, is my own self delusionment. I bought the hype. I waved the signs. I nearly got evicted in a fight with my landlord over the display in my yard of Bush paraphenalia.

    There are/were few stauncher supporters of Mister Bush than was I. You will have no greater enemy, or stauncher friend than am I.

    Now, I see his many deliberate perfidies for what they are, and I stand helpless, because there is no one to give him the ignominious impeachment he so richly deserves.

    And no, you fucking hippy, not for all of the bullshit you are thinking about right now. Even if I cared to take the effort to educate you, your propagandised mind would be unable to move beyond your Move.on talking points and grasp it.

    You, hippy, are now, and always have been, and likely always will be an expendable fool, a tool of the Left Wing Reactionary propaganda machine. And an idiot, to boot. I wouldn't help you if I could. Your genes are phlegm, coughed into a urinal by an asthmatic drunk tuberculosis patient in a condemned building, to be pissed away down the drain.

    That I hold one thought that agrees in any way with any of yours, pains me to a degree you cannot imagine.



    I Have Been Remiss...

    You donaters, and you know who you are (I, mostly, don't) have blessed my family and me and this blog very greatly, this month. I am beyond greatful. If I post a movie review, it is because of you. If I have the slightest hangover and vomit, it is because of you.

    You folks rock, and I just wish that I could come to each and every one of your houses and blow your dogs.

    Alas, it is not to be so, but, nevertheless, I am humbled (?) by your attention, and your tippage, and Johnny got to eat at Popeye's on the way home from the hospital today because of you.

    Some piece of work in the front of our car went to shit this morning and the wheel nearly fell off and the wife was able to pay half of the bill to get it fixed so she could drive Johnny up to Portland today because of you.

    Your continued patronage staggers me anew each time it happens.

    I really, really can't thank you enough.

    You keep me keeping on.

    Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go trickle some cold water into Nat's ear to wake her up from her nap. This is going to be tricky, as she is in Mommy's bed (comfort zone while they're gone, dontcha know) and I don't need the verbal abuse should the wife find a big wet spot when she goes to bed.

    I'm thinking syringe, followed by a quick paper towel...



    Don't Go There...

    ...and read this. You might get offended.

    Oh, and if you do get offended?

    Don't come back here.



    Wherein I Chuck My Cheerios...

    Chew your food well, you never know when you might be seeing it again.

    I came home from the movie yesterday with a sore throat, and spent all of last night waiting to puke. Finally, this morning, it became a certainty, and I blasted a load of Healthy Heart Goodness out into the toilet I barely made it to. Sat for a spell, felt like hell. Still do.

    Hell was the focus of the movie I saw, yesterday, or rather, it's denizens.

    'The Exorcism of Emily Rose'...damned good movie. Superbly written and acted and crafted, a real gem. I went in prepared for 'The Exorcist', and what I got was a mix of 'The Practice' and 'The Passion'.

    Whether you are a devout Christian, or a Devout Athiest, you will get something from it. There was a certain Catholicentric viewpoint in the film which always disappoints me some, but considering the subject of the film, and the protagonists involved, I suppose it was unavoidable.
    Regardless, it did not ruin, or even damage the film for me, and I'll take a good strong Irish priest character any day over some new age Eucarastrated let's all just get along and be inclusive weenie in a leisure suit.

    I have avoided watching previews of this movie, and went in with no preconceived notions. Well, the extremely hot 18 year old girl who sold me my ticket brightened considerable when she heard what movie I wanted. "Oh, that movie is fantastic!" she gushed, "I'm going to see it again tonight!" and she kept me engaged in conversation for several minutes about this and that even as I went inside. She came up to the low rear counter and I tried to not stare down her cleavage or get lost in her liquid blue eyes.

    I finally excused myself and turned around to head in, and there's like five young guys, theatre employees, staring at me with a mix of sullen and admiration. I guessed that these guys couldn't get a word in edgewise with her, and here I had just conversationally pried her off me and shaken her off my leg. Heh.

    It was amazing to me that two young girls both really really liked this movie, even more so after I saw it...yes, the hottie's more plain co-ticketress had seen it too, and nodded vigorously at every statement Her Hotness made in support of this movie.
    I am intrigued that such a film would be popular amongst a large chunk of very young adults, from everything I'm hearing as I begin to read the reviews of it, and the reports of how well it is doing at the box office, and with whom.

    It is not anywhere near a typical horror film...might not even be a horror film at all. It documents a truly disturbing true story, and you lead yourself to your own conclusions.

    It is rated PG-13, and licks the edge of that particular envelope and gets a deep paper cut in it's tongue and drizzles blood down it's chin. I never really jumped, and didn't want to turn away once, but the photos the prosecution shows in the courtroom scenes chill the blood better that any morgue freezer.

    I highly recommend you see this movie. I don't think I would take a kid under 13 in, though, even if I was reasonably sure of their emotional maturity. Any kid over 13 though...

    ...I'd drag em in.


    DO NOT read Ebert's review of this movie before you see it. It is like a plot synopsis of the whole movie, like having somebody who has seen it already sitting behind you in the theatre and telling their friend what's gonna happen next (and, why yes I have hit people in the face for that, thank you.)

    No spoilers allowed here, people. Two weeks before we discuss a film. I'll move a post (review) up if there seems to be interest. I have seen and reviewed a lot of movies over the years. Comment in an old post and ask, and I'll move it forward so we can pick at it until it gets infected.


        Monday, September 12, 2005


    ...lemme finger it out...

    That joke is older the cum between your teeth, and twice as nasty.

    Memories, anyone?



    Just For You Know...

    If you scroll all the way down to the bottom of this page, you will find a list of blogs that refer to me. If you like my shit, you might like their shit, too. Or not. Whatever.

    The server purges it every so often, and it changes, and I personally use it to navigate to a lot of the blogs I read.

    If I have anything corresponding to a 'blogroll', that is it.

    Happy hunting!



    Got Me A Rhyme, Got Me A Reason...'s a cold day in hell, and my balls are freezin...

    My cup of hate is full, and it runneth over. I am tired of the bullshit...I hate far more Americans than I love.

    Did the Governor of Louisiana really say, yesterday, that Mayors are lucky to get their black employees to come to work on a sunny day, so how can they be expected to come to work on a rainy day? Did I just hear that?

    Why yes, I believe I did. What I didn't hear is the frantic screaming of Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton (if I ever call them 'Reverends', it will be out of the utmost sarcasm) as they marshall their loyal brainwashed drones to march on her mansion.

    America has Mad Cow Disease. Our country is staggering around, eyes rolling, tongue lolling, splay-legged and slipping around in our own shit.

    A sledgehammer between the eyes would be more mercy than we deserve.



    Just Don't Burn Down A Liquor Store...

    Now that would piss me off. But I don't care how many churches you burn down.

    Shoulda fought harder. If you cared, you'd still be there. What kind of behavior did you expect from animals? When a 'Palestinian' calls you a monkey or pig, they are just projecting.

    Hitler tried to eradicate the wrong race. If trains full of Palestinkians were headed to the ovens right now, I would contribute money for fuel.


        Sunday, September 11, 2005


    In your face, Libtard D-Bags!



    Wherein The NFL Goes Ghetto...

    Bye, NFL, I turned you off this morning, and walked away.

    Oh, I'll watch any game with a Raider in it, and grit my teeth, but you have turned away from me, so I am walking away from you.

    To be sure, I do not like country music, but I could tolerate it when you were going through your phase, but this Rap bullshit is too much. Coupled with your entire Ghetto facade, it is no longer a game I can or care to identify with.

    Am I the only one who muted Jessica Simpson and her fruity husband as they attempted to sing our National Anthem and just stared at her tits and tried not to look into that huge terrible mouth of hers that looks like it needs a guard-rail around it to keep tourists from falling in?

    She and he are precisely why I am against gay marriage. It is a terrible thing to see.

    Well, NFL, it's been fun, but you no longer have anything to offer me. You flip the camera away from fights that I want to watch...what's next, we don't get to see the crashes on NASCAR any more? You show the fights in hockey and basketball and baseball...I sense a double standard here, and I don't like it.

    You can't even wait for the play to end before you rush off to some bullshit commercial for something I don't want or can't afford or have already or would never ever buy or need, and I am getting the impression that you are engineering the games to end on time and fit into a certain time-frame so they do not interfere with your precious Prime-Time programming, and that is too close to being WWF, and I'm not gonna watch faked, staged bullshit.

    You can take your Bread and Circuses and shove them up your ass, NFL, and that's just too bad, because I have been a lifelong True Fan.

    I wonder who else is dumping you?