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        Wednesday, November 30, 2005

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!

    If nobody else is going to say it, I will:

    Democratic Rep. John Murtha, you are a dirty, stinking coward. I do not care what you did previously in your life, right now, you are a dirty stinking commie-loving coward, and you shame your fellow Marines with your dirty, stinking cowardice.

    Didn't even have the balls to vote for your own amendment. Coward.

    I spit on you.



    Tomorrow Is Johnny's Birthday...

    Eight years ago was a time of exquisite agony for our little family, who hadn't even imagined Nat yet. Tomorrow, we eat cake.

    The wife and I look at each other with quizzical looks. It has become ingrained in us to migrate North every year at this time, to Portland and the hospital. Instead, tomorrow we are having a party.

    Johnny is stoked. Nat is jealous, even though she just had hers. Johnny has requested that his birthday meal be homemade spaghetti and meatballs, and that his cake be a "pineapple upthide down cake!" His wish will be granted, and I hope I am well enough to eat, because the wife is a fantastic cook.

    When he knows I'm awake, he is on a 25 minute hug schedule. Thirty minutes, tops, and then there he is, at my shoulder, giving me my 'hug an a thmooch', and asking me what I'm doing, and then fluttering away fed, as a hummingbird from a feeder.

    I hear his tread upon the stair, he has the grace of a drunken emu, you see, and I set the keyboard down off my lap and turn to greet him. His eyes light up, I gets my hug, and God lets the world turn for another thirty minutes or so.

    Nat's schedule is more hourly, but sometimes she has episodes where she needs them every five minutes or so. Just now, she flew in to show me her 'new tattoo'. She knows I hate them, so she got her sticker that she had won in school today and put it on her face and came in to harass me. I feigned rage, and she was pleased. Now she is playing 'Giant Spider' and Johnny is her 'hapless insect prey'. I'm not sure I care to see what method she will employ to 'suck the juices from him'. That's between her, Mommy, and the Discovery Channel.

    I feel like a well-sucked hapless insect prey myself, after sleeping the sleep of the dead all day, but I feel a little better. I hope I'll be able to hazard some of that tucker the wife will be cooking up. Oh well, she'll be cooking it all day. Veal in the sauce, chopped sirloin for the meat balls.




    Just Kill Me Now...

    Still sick. Even worse. Can...barely...type...fingers...weak...


        Tuesday, November 29, 2005

    I Would Kiss Santa's Ass...

    ...for one of these.

    Oh, baby...



    Important Snot Update...

    Still flowing, unless I take Benadryl, which makes me woozy and retarded. More than usual. Ate two corndogs and some pistachios yesterday. Hydrated with beer. Thanks, donors. I slept a frigging lot.

    My ears are plugged. Livey, come lay with me and put your boobs on my back. I'm freezing.

    Colds reduce me to a whiny five year old. But I kind of like them, because I always associate them with not having to go to school. Fever? Boogers? Just snuggle back into those covers, son, and let Mom bring you juice and toast points. And then she would get a nasty, fuzzy sock, slather it with Vicks VapoRub, and diaper pin it around my neck. Sheer torture. I still can't stand the smell to this very day.

    Surviving childhood is one of my proudest accomplishments. All things considered, it was quite a feat.

    Sorry about all the downer shit I typed over the weekend. I considered deleting it, but it encapsulated my state of mind at the time, so it stays.

    As I sop my snots and surf the web today, I see many battles being fought between bloggers. And Commenters. And groups of bloggers. It's like sitting up on a mountain-top and watching skirmishes in the valley below. Towers of black smoke where a blog has been mortally stricken, and burns as it dies. The CRUMP! of artillery fire from the big guns, and the distant flash when it hits. Lines of tracer fire wafting back and forth like dripping dragon saliva. The occasional crack of a snipers rifle.

    Homey don't play that shit, and homey is getting tired of it. Blogging, by it's very nature, is introspective and personal. When you attack a blog, you attack a person, and by proxy, their readers. If you call a blogger an idiot, well, you are implying that everybody who reads and enjoys them is an idiot.

    I disagree with Vox Day on nearly everything he talks about, and yet many of my readers are his readers as well. Why is that? How can this be? I think it is because we remain relatively civil to one another, kinda, but mostly because neither of us brings whatever ego we have into the arena. I rarely make a comment of substance over there, and as far as I know, he has never once commented over here. If I disagree with him, I come here and lay out a post on it, rather than bloviate in his comments like some commenters I see there, who will use up five commenting screens and still say nothing worth reading.

    Bye the bye, I do not consider Drudge and Brietbart and Instapundit to be blogs, except in the broadest of definitions. Glenn Reynolds has a place where he expounds his opinions, but his site and Drudge's are news portals, in my opinion.

    I have the window cracked a bit, because I like the 'howling wind' sound it makes. Like it's blowing across the emptiness of an athiests soul.


        Monday, November 28, 2005

    Welcome Home, Acidman!

    I thought I'd get ya sumthin.



    Now this is more like it...



    Ban Christmas?


    Jeezly Crow. Ya'll act like they put statues of Jesus in the urinals for people to piss on. Fuck, I HATE religions. Keep them the fuck out of my stores. You can have your Christian bookstores, where people specifically target the gullible (oh yeah, the owner really LOVES Christians, I bet).

    I hate Santa Claus. And in my drug-induced haze today, I have been tormented by Johnny and his animatronic Frosty that sings 'Jingle Bells', off and on all damn day. I would blow-dry Frosty's sorry ass into a puddle and then piss in it, that's for sure. I would kill all of those damn flying reindeer, too, except for one breeding pair, whom I would train to buzz-bomb carollers with reindeer shit and kick them in their heads.

    But let's get real...this 'Holiday' bullshit? Just cut it out. It's insulting to put some kind of meaningless generic place-holder where once lived a psuedo-religious holiday of surpassing annoyance, just because you blood-sucking merchants still want people to shop.

    Give the rubes their Baby Jesus and mangers, and keep selling your cheap Chinese gimcrackery to them, and nobody gets hurt.

    Try to put some other face on it, and I'll know you think me stupid, yet still expect me to darken your doors.

    Surprise, retailertards! Not stupid! Insulted! Didn't like you all that much anyway! Not shopping here!

    Fuck Christmas, and fuck you.



    French? Canadian? Peanuts? Die!

    The only thing that bugs me about this article is this statement:

    Peanut allergies have been rising in recent decades. The reason remains unclear but one study found that baby creams or lotions with peanut oil may cause children to develop allergies later in life.

    Thanks, scientists. Assholes. How many other ticking time bombs has Science bequeathed us?

    I have a pet theory that, over the many thousands of years of human history, we have risen to the pinnacle of knowledge, and fallen repeatedly. And always because of amoral, fiddling scientists.

    Oh, well. Bring it on...



    The New Tonkin Gulf?

    Looks like we are spoiling for a fight. When somebody bigger than you is just begging for an excuse to pound your head down and out your ass, it is generally a bad idea to give them one. Oh well, Ay-rabs ain't famous for brains.

    I bet Assad is shitting himself about now. He played chicken, and we didn't swerve. Want our troops out of Iraq? Fine.

    Guess where they're goin next...



    Kids And Dogs...

    Pretty much the same thing, really. I watch my wife parent, and I see where she gets in trouble, and it is always over poor communication. If you make a child (or a woman, for that matter, but that is for another post) think that you are hanging on their every word, that they have your full attention, it will do wonders to ease your parenting job.

    Same with dogs. Make eye contact with your child. Do not loom over them, get down to their level. Look right into their eyes, and speak clearly.

    Put yourselves in their shoes. They are in the Land of the Giants. Giants who use words they don't understand half the time, but they know they are expected to do something, so something. All the good stuff is up in cupboards they can't reach, or locked away. Everything that is cool that they want to do is wrong.

    Their clothes are made poorly, by people who only want you to buy them, and you yell at them when they squirm because you have dressed them in substandard made in China clothing with buttons too tight for their tiny fingers, and inside stitches that saw like knife blades into soft little buns. And don't get me started on Church Clothes. Add a damn tie into the mix, or too-tight buckle shoes, and you've got an outfit illegal to use on captured enemy combatants.

    Without splitting her, I have taken to coming up on my wife after she has issued a string of orders to one of the children. Or warnings, or whatever. I quiz the child as to what Mommy meant. What this or that word means. More often than not, the child who was nodding enthusiatically at Mommy mere moments before, because that, they have leared, is the reaction Mommy likes, now shows that they have no clue to what they have just acceded to.

    And how can you then punish a child for your own poor communication, when you come back later and the thing has either not been done, or fouled up spectacularly by a little one who hadn't a clue what those words you spilled out on them meant?

    Well, you shouldn't. They get their working vocabulary from us. Explain the words. Help them with the task the first few times. To get a robot that willingly takes a sack and a trowel out and cleans up the dog crap and does it the way you wanted, takes a lot of initial programming and hard work.

    Lo, those many beer bombs I got delivered to me, until I trained them to not shake Daddy's beers when they brought them up the stairs.

    Kids will work for praise. Failing that, they will work for stuff. A Hershey's kiss will get the stairwell hand vacuumed with a Dust Buster at my house. Three cookies and milk gets the toy bins refilled in the living room, and the floors pokey-thing free.

    When Nat wants attention, she wants it now, and she will get it, one way or another. Negative attention is still attention. So, I have taught the wife to pat her head and bend down and smooch her and say "Just one minute, honey. Mommy will get to you." Or some variation.

    I am all about the terror, and there are several lines I have drawn where they literally gasp in horror when they realize that they just fucked up and crossed one. My no hitting rule, especially my No Hitting Johnny In The Head With The Barbie Rule. Watching me bag their toys and march them out to the garage for a day or a week...well, you shouldn't have to do it twice. But if you threaten something, you have just made a promise, and you better damn well keep it, so don't let your mouth write checks your ass can't cash.

    What does an adult derive from hitting a child? Even a petite woman is bigger and stronger than a large child. And if your teenager is fucked up, you messed up fundamentally somewhere in early childhood, so just shoot them, and start over. It would be nice to read a news story where the parent shot the piss out of a couple of their teenagers, rather than the dreary parade of the opposite that we seem to hear every day.

    People like to try to tell me that something 'snaps' in a teenager, some magical impulse that arrives when the Puberty Fairy waves her wand.

    I call bullshit. You either left out something vital along the way, early on, or put something in that you shouldn't have. Or both. Worse, you left them to progam themselves, or be programmed by others who do not have your best interests at heart.

    And that rarely goes well.

    Happy parenting!



    Cunningham Quits!

    ...blares the headlines. Blah blah blah, another crooked politician bites the dust, and all the rest, and I do mean ALL, breathe a sigh of relief that it wasn't them. This time.

    The dirty story here, it that this vile turd and his wife and his family will benefit from the American taxpayer for the rest of their lives, while Cunningham continues to sell whatever influence he has left to the highest bidder.

    Cunning Ham? Wiley Pork, is more like it.

    Do you think that we could get a little rider put in a law somewhere, that any politician to leave office due to a criminal conviction, has their bennies stripped from them on the way out? Is that too much to ask?

    No, if you manage to claw your way into the seats of power in this country, you can kill interns with impunity, and loot the treasury from morning to night, and the only person who can stop you is...well, you. And your fellow predators.

    It wasn't supposed to be this way, but it is. And I cannot see any damn way of fixing the system and protecting it from Cunning Porkers.

    No damn way at all.



    I Can't Remember...

    Is it 'Feed A Fever Starve A Cold'? Or 'Starve A Fever Feed A Cold'? I'm hungry.

    Oh, screw it. I'm going back to bed.



    Can Weapons Be 'Brutal'?

    Whatevah. I hope our boys get lots of these, and use them a lot.



    I'm Sick...

    I would like to blame it on my recent tribulations, my anguish, my pain, but in retrospect, it was probably a mistake to share my mashed potatoes and gravy with the Little Crippled Boy, he runny with Rhinovirii. And begging like a dog.

    I awoke early this morning, sore throat, aslosh with snot, and now I have taken a Benadryl, which is pretty much like mainlining heroin, to my finely tuned Ninja nervous system. Don't be surprised if this trails off into a random page of keystrokes, my nose down on the board, me snoring snot into the ghj section.

    It is cold, and snow threatens. I hate snow. Pictures of snow piss me off. I am sure my Viking forebears killed and pillaged because of snow. I shall bundle under my blankies, brain heavy with decongestant, and sleep the sleep of the justly besnotted, plied with orange juice from the servant I married, and drizzling snot into multiple kleenii.

    What did we do before Kleenex? I can't imagine putting a cloth full of boogers actually back into my pocket. I am very Japanese that way.

    I realized this morning, as I surfed the wondrous web, staunching the steady flow of nasal ejectus with thinnish gossamer tissues, that I was reading and commenting on sites that were clearly Pajamas Media blogs. Does this make me a dirty, dirty little whore? A sell-out of the first order?

    Fuck it. I don't care anymore. This is me, officially not caring. As far as I'm concerned, this issue is dead to me. Gone all Natalee Holloway Rotting Somewhere In Aruba. Hit the remote. Unless something New and Exciting pops up, I now scroll past what has become just another fender bender. I will note, though, that Roger Simon is one ugly bastard, his hat is stupid (Drudge wannabe, anyone?) and he has the shifty eyes of an infant-organ salesman.

    So there.


        Sunday, November 27, 2005

    I Suppose I Should Be Thankful...

    Tis the season, after all. The kids of Israel always did this, and it pissed God off considerable. Murmuring, I mean. Murmur murmur murmur, until God told them to shut the fuck up and broke all their shit and enslaved their asses.

    Moses, the biggest Jew-Wheel of all, besides maybe Jesus, missed out on the last episode of voted right off the island. Abraham, now he was down and dirty wit God, and would have knifed the piss out of Isaac, so an angel had to zip like Tink down here, and stay that stabbin sonofabitch's hand, ere perforation occurred, and Jesus didn't get borned. And Bathsheba didn't get porked. Man, I like David.

    So, my heart is out on the altar, flayed open, and the blood is dried like old sweet-n-sour sauce. Gelled, there. Goo. Nothing of import, easily done. Raise it up to the gods, your obsidian blade there, forgotten in your revelation.

    What a fucking murmuring baby. Sorry. When it takes a fifteen minute video of Americans dying to cheer me up, you can just imagine the depths to which my poor, tattered soul has sunk.

    Go out to your barbecue there, under the overhang, dripping with rain, and scoop up a handful of ashes into your mouth...yes, there, a taint of tinfoil, a piece of bone, and dead briquets. Now, spit. That phlegm, squirming there on the patio, is my soul. Dramatic? To be sure. Remember 'The Crow'? If I could empty just the last ten years of my life into you, like that, you and everything around you for a mile would sink into a black hole and be sucked out the Devil's ass into an alternate universe.

    Metaphysical corn.

    I'm going to stop now.



    A Point Of Clarification...

    I am an intensely private person, at the best of times, who rarely strays from that. Regardless, over time, I have brought you in, so I guess I 'owe' you some explanation.

    Someone I love is in crisis. Someone else I love, perhaps even more, is in crisis as well. Whereas I can only assume that most of you, being 'normal', for whatever that's worth, have a great big well of love and caring, mine is barely the size of a faeries thimble. So, when I open myself up, it hurts worse when it turns into that. That place where the loved is either hurting, or decides to hurt you.

    And I mewl like a stomped kitten, until another callous forms.

    Hey, you folks bought the ticket, don't bitch when the ride gets bumpy. I am always amazed when someone makes it to the bottom of the mountain without getting a ski stuck up their ass.

    Regardless, I have learned a lot from this. Mostly that keeping my shields up is a really good idea. Love?

    Love hurts.



    This Video...

    ...fits my mood. Nothing but US soldiers dropping from sniper fire, one after the other. It helps if you turn the sound off. Fifteen minutes of Americans dying, or being wounded severely.

    I found myself critiquing the snipers. They are awful. A lot of wounding, and see how many times a little kid crosses the line of fire, and they shoot anyway. Fucking animals.

    Thanks, Bullseye.



    I'm Tempted... kill this blog, and start over under another name, on a new blog. No rep, no baggage, no nothing. Just write. See if I can do it again. Whatever 'it' is.

    Sorry, folks. I'm just disgusted with myself. It has nothing to do with you. I've lost my Joy. I may or may not get it back, but it is affecting me, being human, and all.

    On second thought, why would I start over?


        Saturday, November 26, 2005

    I Don't Care...

    If I have a strength at all, it is those three words.

    My continued existence, yours...irrelavant. Meaningless.

    No, I'm not like one of those soulless ragbags that walk onto a bus and blow grandmothers out the window. I especially like the part where their heads (the bomber's) end up lodged someplace bizarre, like up in the lights, or out in the street, goggle-eyed, like some odd leaving from a party favor.

    I can take a punch. I've been hit by the best. Hammered into steel. I don't like it, regret it in fact, but there it is. Can I be hurt? Well, duh. Blades chip. And then I somehow hone smooth, and slip back into the scabbard. Waiting.

    My nose has been broken seven times, that I know of. I just snap it back into place, wipe the blood off on my pants, and move on. Knife cuts only hurt after, and they only sting for a bit. I had the extreme pleasure of being in an ER bay, being worked on, while the guy I had stabbed in the guts got worked on in the next bay over. The Doc slit his belly open, and pulled his guts out into a pan, to check for perforations. The sound of intestines pouring out into a pan sounds pretty much like you'd think it would. Like a big pan of fresh-baked lasagna being poured out onto a stainless steel table top.

    There are certain things we cannot discuss, for statutory reasons.

    Have you ever had a loved one reach into your chest and pull out your heart, pulsing and bleeding, and then, grinning, take a nice big bite out of it?

    Buck up. A scar forms. And after a while, it doesn't hurt so much. Just grab the bars, and grit your teeth, and think of clean green meadows, and dancing lambs.

    I don't care.



    Some Of You Like Motorcycles...

    I have no use for them, actually. Vibrators use less gas, to the same effect.


        Friday, November 25, 2005

    Merry Christmas...

    ...little Iraqi children!

    Ho Ho fucking Ho...




    Damn, I hope this is true.



    Paying For Free Association...

    This story bugs me. We're either a free country, or we're not. We either have the right to free association, or not.

    You want to wine me, and dine me, and get a pretty lady to fondle my schlong, to influence me in some way? Fine. You should be allowed to. In fact, I would encourage it. Of course, in the end, I am going to a) damn well do what I want, and b) try to make sure I do the right thing.

    But, thanks for the blowjob.

    Why is this so difficult? I think politiwhores like McCain and Feingold et al are like that favorite phrase of mine from the Bible: 'Only the wicked flee when no man pursueth'.

    The word 'politician' has become so synonymous with 'choad-smoking whore' that they appear to feel a need to run around declaring their pristininity, when all the average American voter cares about is 'just don't do anything too stupid' and 'we know you're gonna fuck us, just please use lube this time'.


    Tell me again why we the voters keep cooperating in our own sodomization, while these idiots in Washington exempt themselves from the laws they lord over us?


    ...maybe they're not such idiots after all...



    Turkey Loaf...

    I think we all know where this is going.

    Man, it stood up tall and proud, a veritable billy club of poo. I thought for a moment that I would have to fetch a stick to break it up with, but after a couple of dizzying turns around the bowl, it launched like a Photon Turdpedo, and is probably just now splashing water over someone's boots at the Turd Collection Center as it rises majestically up like some new species of alligator.

    Thanksgiving was great. Nobody died. My Mom had her psychotic episode in the morning, which cleared her schedule for near-normalcy in the afternoon. The wife went over in the morning to get the turkey from their fridge, and to drop off a can of Redi-Whip, and during a conversation about stuffing, Mom went ballistic and nearly had to be Tasered, and when the wife got back home, it took me nearly an hour to calm her down. There were tears, and she doesn't cry easily.

    I would have happily called the whole thing off, but the wife had already put too much work into it, so we resolved to drink wine and gird our loins. And the wife very rarely drinks.

    Turns out the girding wasn't necessary, though any touching of loins is appreciated. And wow, what a feast. I average one meal a day, and my stomach has really really shrunk, so a piece of toast satiates me, but I made a valiant effort, and got a nice plate-full down.

    I'm old enough now, I eat what I want. I don't care if they wheedle me to try the white meat, I like dark meat on a dinner plate. In a sandwich, sure, white meat ahoy, but with mashed taters and gravy and stuffing, it's gotta be dark meat. My wife always makes a perfect, moist turkey, and this was no exception.

    Oh, and here's a recipe for you:

    Orange Julius
    6 oz frozen Orange juice
    250 ml Milk
    250 ml Water
    65 ml Sugar
    5 ml Vanilla extract
    10 Ice cubes
    Mixing instructions:
    Blend all ingredients in a blender for 30 seconds. Serve immediately.

    You're welcome. Dang I love those. Genuinely love them. Probly be great with vodka, too. About four ounces of Citron. I remember as a teen going into my local Orange Julius and getting a hot dog as big as my forearm and a large Orange Julius for around a dollar. Then I'd go pay 50 cents and see a matinee double feature. And get a Coke and a big-ass hot dog for $1.25. In the theatre. Sigh.

    So last night the wife drank Chardonnay, and I drank my Dago Red, and all was right with the world. We got smart this time, and took the kid's little padded folding chairs and table and set them up out of the way but still with us, and they were wonderful.

    Mom was camera happy, of course, but held onto her sanity pretty well. We even let their insane Boston Terrier out of it's cage and let him mingle. Of course, the first thing he did was snatch Nat's stuffed kitty, because all stuffed animals belong to him, as a matter of course, so I had to whap him in the head and give him his own baby to maul. Nat was scandalized, and spent ten minutes carefully wiping any trace of dog spit off her kitty, and kept a baleful eye on Mack the rest of the evening. I don't like dogs, but he ended up on the couch beside me, and I gave him a neck rub, which seemed to really calm him down. I liked it, too, for some reason.

    Both kids are terrified of that dog, and for good reason. He was tortured by some little kids before my parents rescued him, and he does not really like kids. Add to that his generally spastic, excitable nature, and an asthmatic snuffly snarl and a tendency to bark excitedly, and you get two flinchy little kids, who have both been scratched and knocked down by him a time or two. He's a jumper. That's okay, because I am a kicker.

    There is no doubt in my mind that he would bite one of the kids under the right circumstances, so he usually spends visits locked away in a back room. I explained quite clearly to my parents that if he bit one of my kids, they would just have to watch as I stomped him to death in front of them, and they believe me. Good. But last night, all was sweetness and light, with a piquant alcohol haze.

    My sister made the stuffing. Now, this is a woman who thinks that adding ketchup to Kraft Macaroni & Cheese is gourmet, so the first time I ever tasted her stuffing, some years ago, it was with some trepidation. It was lovely, and each year she improves on it, and tries a little something different. I just ragged on the old lady for not bringing home a bowl of it, and sent her to fetch some.

    She just brought me a lovely white meat turkey sandwich, on white bread, the way God intended it, with mayo and a touch of Plochman's brown mustard. And a glass of Dago Red. At one in the afternoon. Heaven.

    She changed the recipe of her traditional dinner rolls this year, going pretty heavy on the molasses. They came out a yellowish tan, and sweetish, but not cloying, and they are just wonderful. We had sweet potatoes, baked like a custard, with glazed pecans on top. I was tired of russets, so the wife mixed white (new) potatoes and red potatoes for her mashed potatoes, and that's all I want ever again. Fantastic.

    She made a key lime pie using that Florida lime juice I raved about a while back, and it was to die for. I've never had anything like it. She made a pumpkin Bundt cake that was incredible.

    My daughter and son-in-law dropped by for dessert, having eaten with her new family. He is being sworn in as a Second Lieutenant (Army) in a couple of weeks, and then he's headed off to Georgia to go through officer's Ranger School. Boy are they gonna kick his ass. Heh.

    Well, I hope your Thanksgiving was a good one, and all of your logs were well-formed and corn-free.

    Now I can begin dreading Christmas.



    Got The Day Off?

    Let me help you waste it...


        Thursday, November 24, 2005

    Can You Say...


    I knew that you could.



    As If I Needed Another Reason... hate him. Beaner, Socialist, Clinton Crony, Liar...what's not to hate?

    The damage he allowed to be done on his watch as a Clinton Suck-Boy is, quite literally, incalculable.

    There is not one member of the Clinton Cabinet that is not a pile of pig excrement, and worthy of your utter and complete hatred.

    Clinton, a dry-run for the Anti-Christ.



    A Fleeting Moment Of Fame...

    I read this from Instapundit, and it reminded me of the piece I present below. Part of my job, working in tech support at a state govenrment organization, was to write procedures for the Procedures Manual. You know, so when they let me go, my replacement will be able to get up to speed doing my job? Yeah, like that.

    Anyway, I wrote the following, and my boss liked it so much, he forwarded it to Dell. Michael Dell read it, and liked it so much, that he turned it into a poster, which I saw several times in TV advertisements involving Dell techs. You can see it on the wall behind them. And no, I never saw a nickle from Dell.

    So, without further ado, I present you with:

    Dell RMA Procedure

    Make sure the item is broken. Break it if necessary.
    Run the applicable Dell Diagnostic CD
    1. You will have to allow the CD to install an applet on the machine to be tested
    2. You MUST do this testing to get the correct message to give Dell to prove you used their diagnostics, otherwise they won't believe you.

    3. They STILL won't believe you if you are RMA'ing a monitor. They will want you to have it hooked up to a PC set at 1024x768, 75 Mhz, and ask you dumb questions like "is there a large magnet near the monitor?" or "do you have fluorescent lights?" (name one office in America that doesn't have fluorescent lights).

    3. Whether computer or monitor, you will need to have the PC's Service Tag #, the Serial #, the PC's Express Service Code #, and the type of PC/Monitor it is.

    When you are satisfied that: a) the item is defective, b) you can convince Dell that the item is defective, and c) you have all of the documentation and the item in front of you, it is...

    TIME TO CALL DELL at 1-800-234-1490, where you will pass through the Seven Rings of Voice-Mail Hell, making careful selections, ere you have START OVER. You will finally come to the GateKeeper. It is this person's sworn duty to make you keep their broken junk, but if you persevere, you will finally be given the coveted "Reference Number", and a date of delivery. DO NOT forget to sprinkle The Magic Name of (My Boss) here and there throughout your conversation.....this name has power over the GateKeeper, but only after you have passed the worthiness test (Service Tag #, Express Service Code #, and Serial #)

    The replacement will come within days with paperwork and instructions for you on how to re-pack the device in the new box (you haven't destroyed the box or the styrofoam in your excitement to get to the new device, have you? Pity.) Place Dell's stickers and labels on the new box where instructed, pack it nice, with lots of tape to annoy the GateKeeper, or one of their minions, and call the carrier that Dell has chosen to spirit away their dreck. I have used both Airborne Express and UPS. Set it out front in the DSD receptionist's way, instruct everyone in the building who may ever be working the desk that day, or giving someone a break at some point, that this is "your package" and that a "nice man" will be coming to take it away to a better place, so let the "nice man" in to get access to the package, please?

    If there is an untoward delay, or you are just nervous, call 1-866-446-3355 to check on the Service Status. Have the Reference # in front of you, as well as all of the other may have to prove you exist yet's okay to throw around The Magic Name liberally now, and to suggest darkly that The Master is growing displeased.



    You Wanted A Turkey?

    Perhaps the most beautiful woman in the world.

    Well, I will be burdened with family obligations, today. Pray for me. Thanks to you guys, I have a jug of wine, but I haven't opened it yet. In case of emergency, break cap.

    Well, Happy Thanksgiving, everybody. I hope today finds you all well and happy and content.

    Feast well, and and God Bless you all.


        Wednesday, November 23, 2005

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Kneel, traitorous Democrat worms, and worship...

    Is your mother a Democrat? Kill her, now. It will save money on Christmas presents. And our country will benefit, too.

    Your kids are little eco-warriors? Slaughter them. Pro Patria.

    Oh, Goddess, I worship at your labiatorium, I honor your fine fetlocks, you gorgeous whippet of love.

    I am your slave...



    The Enemy We Face...

    I don't normally do this, but I am going to post something my Uncle sent to me in its entirety, I think it is that important. I investigated, and this woman is real, and the video is real. Think hard before you click on the link that is down the page a ways. I am going to spoil the surprise, and tell you that it shows, very graphically, an impalement from start to finish. Note the fascinated and clapping children.

    This is the enemy we face, and why we will lose if we do not tighten our shit up considerable.

    So, without further ado, I present:

    Date: Tue, 22 Nov 2005 18:58:24 -0800

    Time Magazine is publishing a shocking interview with an Iraqi suicide bomber. It's mind-boggling to understand, but just like WWII when America came to understand and accept the barbarism of the Nazis and Japs, so must Americans come to grips with our current enemy, the Islamic militants and how they view America.

    To help explain this, consider Brigitte Gabriel, a native of the Arab world, and the former news anchor of World News for Middle East Television.

    Now a Contributing Editor for, Gabriel wants viewers and listeners to know the truth about what the Arab World thinks of Senator Durbin's remarks, the alleged so-called "abuses" at Gitmo (a joke she calls it), and the Arab ideology which views the mettle of a man as the brutal way they treat their enemy.

    As a child, Gabriel's own home was destroyed by radical Islamists because she was a Christian. She spent 2 1/2 months in the hospital and then lived under-ground for 7 years with no electricity and little food. THEN she rose to become a news anchor, and later moved to the US where she's a true American success story - own business, husband, two kids, etc.

    Here is the excellent OpEd by Brigitte.


    WHAT THE ARAB WORLD THINKS By Brigitte Gabriel

    Torture is accepted and even expected in the Arab world. Yes, I know what you're thinking-that's not politically correct in most mainstream media. And you know some nice Arabs who have immigrated to America. But it's the truth in the Arab world. Might makes right. Real men don't eat quiche. They prove their manhood by the way they treat their enemy. After all it's what Muhammad did to the unbelievers - Christians, Jews and Zoroastrians in the Quoran - the 'holy book' allegedly mishandled in Guantanamo prison.

    Arab Muslim men gain honor by shaming, belittling, abusing and torturing their enemy in the most horrific ways. Just look at how the Palestinians treat so-called collaborators by disemboweling them and hanging them upside down in Manger Square in Bethlehem. Look at the terrorist torture chambers that the coalition forces recently uncovered in Iraq.

    When people refer to the prisons of Saddam Hussein and his regime they think he is the extreme exception. Not so! The truth is his torture tactics are quite the norm in the Arab world. If you want to see torture that is beyond what any Westerner can ever imagine please go to

    Yes, you read it right, impalement. You'll get a glimpse of what the Arabs do to their own people.

    As someone who came from the Arab world and knows how they think, it frustrates me to see self-appointed righteous minded politicians and media pundits oblivious to Arabic culture and thinking, criticizing America's actions at Guantanamo. These are a bunch of al Qaeda jihadists who were captured while bent on killing us - the kaffirs or 'unbelievers. They laugh watching our government bend over backwards, forwards and sideways trying to appease the critics. The more we stumble over ourselves questioning our goals and tactics, the more they think we are weak and easy to defeat.

    They smirk because they believe that Americans have demonstrated how stupid and weak they are by caving in to stories about maltreatment of Guantanamo detainees. They are watching our critics in this country and counting on them to embolden the radical Islamic cause and weaken our resolve.

    Actually, Gitmo is a joke as far as the Arabs are concerned. Prison? You call that a prison? Let me tell you what some of the prisoners call Guantanamo, "Al muntazah al-dini lilmujaheden al Muslimin," The Religious Resort for Islamic Militants.

    (note: It strikes me as tragically ironic that when my friends and colleagues were imprisoned and tortured in North Vietnam's horrific confinement facilities (some for over 7 years), no one in America except their families complained. Where was the "Oh my God look what is happening to our prisoners" crowd then? Certainly not the press, who believed Jane Fonda when she said they were well treated; certainly not the Johnson administration, who directly told the families of our prisoners to 'be quiet' and not raise the awareness of their husbands, fathers, and sons, and certainly not the GD ACLU!). JCM

    They are given three halal meals a day in accordance to their religious dictates. How many kosher prisons are there in the Arabic world? None. Jews captured in the Arab world are butchered like those obscene pictures taken in Ramallah during the frenzied slaughter of two Israeli reservists who got lost. Remember the Palestinian man holding his red, Jewish blood dripping hands, high above his head in victory?

    Remember Nick Berg's head being held high also? Most of these detainees never had three meals a day in their entire life. They are gaining weight, and are living in what they refer to in Arabic as "Al-Jannah," paradise. They have radio, television, soccer games, air-conditioning, clean clothes, servants, meaning American GIs, who wait on them hand and foot. They have Islamic chaplains and handed Qu'rans, the social hate guide against Infidels, by people so concerned as not to offend that they wear latex gloves and carry the book with two hands.

    Many Muslims in the Middle East would gladly give up their poverty, dictatorial governments, corrupt leaders and social bondage to enjoy the relative luxuries Guantanamo offers. They have free medical care, better than millions of uninsured Americans and our military men and women serving on the jihadists' battlefield. Some of them who couldn't afford to see an optometrist now have glasses and can see and read their Qu'ran. Others who never had the opportunity to see a dentist now have a free dental plan. It has become such a joke; we even stop interrogations to let them take prayer breaks demanded by their religion.

    As an Arab, I can tell you that Illinois Democratic Senator Richard Durbin is aiding and abetting the goals and strategy of Islamic jihadists who have declared war on the United States. Where was Durbin's comparison to the Nazis when we found the torture chambers in Iraq? Where was Durbin's comparison to Soviet gulags when we found the hundreds of thousands of bodies in Saddam's mass graves?

    Where was Durbin's head when he compared prisoners captured on the field of battle to the internment of Japanese American civilians during WWII? OK, apologize to unarmed citizens, not fighters with weapons in their hands. Where was Durbin when he compared Gitmo and Abu Ghraib to the industry of death that murdered 6 million Jewish men, women and children during WWII? If anything his heart and mind were in the jihadists terrorists' camp. If you see what story is being downloaded and shared by viewers of the al Jazeera web site you will find the story on Durbin's comments the winner.

    If I were an Islamic terrorist I would be thanking Durbin and forwarding his views to all my fellow fanatics. His reckless comments fuel the fanatic frenzied jihadists, motivating them to blow themselves up in the midst of innocent civilians, savagely cut the heads of helpless hostages and devote themselves to killing the infidel who could be your neighbor stationed in Iraq. Just like the Quran says they should.

    Dick Durbin is an unwitting champion of Islamic radical fundamentalists. His comments should be known from this day forward as a "Durbinization" of the facts. To demonize something grossly out of proportion to what the enemy is doing is to Durbinize. Gitmo and Abu Ghraib have been Durbinized and the Arab world loves it. They laugh at Durbin because he's supporting their belief in the destruction of our country and civilization.

    The shame is Durbin doesn't have a clue as to what he's done. As far as he's concerned, he did the right thing for the Islamic radical detainees living high on the proverbial hog in Gitmo. What he really did was made them laugh; laugh at us for being fools and not real men. Now it's time to see if the voters in Illinois and his fellow members of Congress are men and women enough to tell the Moslem world Durbin isn't our real man.

    Brigitte Gabriel is the former news anchor of World News for Middle East television, and now a Contributing Editor of and the founder of



    Hey, Columbus Mississippi!

    I see from my IP logs that you appear to have been reading the absolute livid shit out of me for the last two days. What gives? Are you stalking me? Are you gonna come boil my rabbit?

    Email me, if you would. I appreciate fans, but this looks weird, like you are working on a deposition or something. I mean, I've had people read my entire blog that have spent less time and done less page views than you.

    Yer making me nervous. Cut it out.

    Or give me money.



    We All Make Concessions...

    If I had a nickle for every time I did something I swore I'd never do, well...I'd have a bunch of nickles.

    I swore I'd never have children. Surprise!

    A blogger truncated a comment of mine yesterday, and I've been back to their blog several times since. They wrote me a nice email saying why they did it, and I completely understood, and said so. My comment was, as I am sometimes wont to be, a bit over the top. They explained that the person in question (a Big Wheel of some notoriety) might see it and be offended, and this person was trying to court said Wheel for recognition and favor. As I was trying to court a favor from the blogger who truncated my comment, as well, I would not have reacted badly even if I had been angered by it.


    Funny, too, as the blogger has been recently railing and pontificating on their blog lately about how reprehensible just such behavior is. And yet they themselves engaged in it without a seconds thought.

    If you held a gun on me, there is probably not a whole lot you could not make me do, until such a time as I could get the advantage on you. I don't like pain, and I want to live. If I thought you were going to kill me or mine, I would attack you, but otherwise, I'm your bitch for the nonce.

    Never say never is the lesson for today, I guess. I have worked and paid taxes since I was thirteen; the child labor laws were a lot laxer in the 60's. I worked before that at odd jobs to make money since I was eight. Mowing lawns. Picking and selling wild fruit. Whatever. Babysitting.

    I never thought I would remain jobless for such an extended period of time. A year ago last August, up to today. I swore I would always work, and now I can't, for several reasons. So I have made this my job. It keeps me marginally sane, and ya'll seem to enjoy it.

    Having had this insight about concessions, and having made statements about things I would never do that I have not done yet, makes me a little worried about those things.

    I've sworn this would be my final wife. Hmmmm. I think I can handle that. What else? Well, I want to stay in the general area I live in. I want to homeschool my kids, and have sworn never to put them in public school.

    I swore I'd never have ads, and now I'm actively looking for a sponsor to get me signed up for Blogads. Anyone?

    Well, that's about all I can think of, except if you ever see me eating a brussel sprout on purpose, just kill me.

    Oh, I swore I would never lose contact with my kids, and yet there are some I have not seen in years, and it is likely that the next time they see me, I'll be in a box, if they bother to come at all.

    And that stings, some.



    Wanna See Someone Shoot Themselves?

    Me, too!

    Guy sure looks like a raghead to me. Why didn't he shoot the cops? Weird.



    Chris, Matthews...What A Cunt...

    Read this, and try to tell me any different. I've known he was a yammering idiot since I first saw him, and he being a Democrat, I suspected that there was a good chance he was a traitor, as well.

    Here, he removes all doubt as to the veracity of all counts of my indictment.

    He is beyond Moonbat, and into a whole new category. Be suspicious of anybody who would give him a venue of any sort.



    On Torture...

    There is a torturous debate on torture going on here. A fine display of moonbat-ery, offset with reasoned thought, including a pithy comment of mine near the bottom somewhere.

    By the way...torture? I'm all for it. Hammer and Tong, baby.



    Invest In Iraq...

    Now this is a great friggen idea, in a situation sadly bereft of great friggen ideas. I would take it a step further, though.

    I would offer 'ownership' to the world. Any denizen of earth should be allowed to purchase a certain amount of Iraq's oil stocks, and accrue interest on that value that they can spend, but never touch the original investment.

    Limit the amount any individual can purchase, and make it non-transferable to any second or third party outside of family, to prevent oil companies from buying Iraq.

    All of this would do more to bring calm to the Middle East than any meddling of ours could ever do.

    Invest a people in their country. What a concept.


        Tuesday, November 22, 2005

    I Am Creaky, I Am Old, And I Am Pregnant With The Possibility Of Death...

    I totally sympathize with old ABC, there. Put out to pasture, ancient, I creak and snap, and squeak when I move, and I can lay waste to all around me by accident.

    Nat slapped me in the mouth in frustration, because I made a strange gobble-gobble sound over her paper cut-out finger turkey, and I had my hand on her face and her neck snapped while she hung limp and dead in my hand and well, no I didn't, because I stopped. She looked into my eyes, and they must have glowed, some, because she quietly left the room.

    How many death-machines have we put out into the slag heaps? How many bought and paid for killing machines lost their usefullness, or were retired for a newer model?

    How many slaughter-bots slumber, awaiting the right trigger to unleash hell?

    All I know is, that if I could find out where my batteries go, I would pull them out.



    Now That We've Got Ourselves All Steamed Up...

    A common complaint I hear from women is that their men don't take care of their physical needs. This tends to work both ways, methinks, and is usually the result of piss-poor communication on both our parts, but there it is.

    I sense that some of your precious lily's have fresh dew on them. There may be some steam on your inner thighs, a flush to your bosoms.

    Good. Use that. Work with it. Men hate aggression in women, for the most part, but we can't resist a pretty beg. If he won't tear himself away from the X-Box, pull up a soft blanket beside him on the floor, strip down (contrary to popular myth, men hate their presents wrapped...instant gratification, baby) and lay there on the floor beside him and let your fingers do the walking. He'll remember the damn game has a pause button. If not, when you've climaxed, wobble off and dig out one of those divorce attorney business cards your sister and your friends keep pressing on you.

    He's hopeless.

    When my wife wants attention, she gets between me and the TV, straddles one of my thighs as she gently pries the remote from my hand, and turns (presenting the profile of her breasts) and pauses the DVR. Then she turns back, and pops open her top, exposing her breasts, and purrs as she brings my mouth forward onto an erect nipple, sliding her sweetness back and forth on my thigh and moaning.

    Yes! That's what I'm talkin about!

    You should probably have the kids in bed.

    Let me know how this worked out for you tomorrow, so we can all get steamed up again.

    Men? Don't be a buncha dorks.




    Why does bobbing for apples come to mind?



    Come For The Fun, Stay For The Funny...

    I know you come here for my pearls of wisdom. Or is that dingleberries of derision? Whatevah. You're here, you read, but it doesn't stop there, oh no.

    I quite often enjoy my comments more than I do the post that spawned them. I do some of my best work in there, and my commenters help.

    I don't have any of these top-heavy 300 comment threads (thank God!) and most of the comments are short and pithy. I have great commenters.

    If you haven't found that out for yourself, already, you have been missing something.



    Bloggers With Boobies...

    In honor of my new(ish) female bloggers, I present this post. Mostly because I don't have links, and I want them all in one place for myself.

    I say newish, because LL has been around since August. An Old Timer.

    So, without any further ado, may I present, in no particular order of who stiffens my sails more than the others:


    Curses & Chrome (LL)

    Frothing at the Mouse (Kim)

    Kiwi the Geek

    If any of you other lady bloggers care to be added to this list, or if I missed any female newbies, holler at me in the contents, and I shall comply. The only requirement is that you all have a clitoris.

    That boobies thing? Heh, that's only because I thought a post titled 'Bloggers With Clitorii' would sound tacky, and Bane is nothing, if not tasteful.


    The Dragonlady begs pretty, and besides myself, I like that best in a woman.

    Anybooby else?

    beans refuses to beg. I will tame her though, oh yes, I will...



    Why We Link...

    Since I have received several emails on this, I will attempt to expand on my blogging entry below. The question I receive most regards links, so...

    Ideally, you link to something because it interested you, and you want to share. Or you copied it and posted it, and you want to give credit for it. If you have run across something generic, say, a news story, or a quiz, several times in one day, it is not neccesary to attribute it, because it has become public domain.

    I do not mind you not linking to specific posts of mine because, quite frankly, they look like shit when you do, and the person who said they wanted to help me with this is out of the country or something. I haven't heard from them in weeks. Regardless, if you quote me, you'd better attribute, or I will hunt you down.

    Sometimes you link because you are too lazy or too busy to post, but you don't want to have a blank day, so if you run across something you found interesting you put it up. Having other people do your work for you is not a bad thing. Every newspaper does it. It's called AP and Reuters.

    You'll note a rhythm to my posting, if you pay attention. I get up in the morning and surf the blogs. Then I surf my group of favorites. Then I blog. I sometimes blog right away about something that has been bugging me since the day before. Hence, the Vonnegut post first thing this morning. It pissed me off all night.

    I may burst out with small posts here and there as I read the blogs, and I'll generally link, or at least attribute. Then, more small posts on news items. Then, a kid story, maybe, because they provide me with constant fodder. Then, a long post or two about something that's been bugging me, or a story that's been rolling around in my mind.

    Back before this became my only job, when I was actually working, I posted less. One a day, if I was lucky. Sometimes more, if it was a slow work day. I posted like a mother on the weekends, and I suspect that is how my readership grew, because most people DON'T post on the weekends, so readers came to me for their fix.

    I've never thought too much about this until lately. I just did what I wanted, how I wanted, when I wanted. Since I put up my sitemeter, I have noted that different geographical areas tune in at different times. The Irish and English will be asleep in their beds by 3pm my time, but active during my morning, which will be their evening, and they will likely be drunk.

    Who knows about the Aussies. Except they will be drunk.

    My Eastern readers are active during my early evening, and my Pacific Time Zoners pretty much match me. You can chart the lunch time of the various time zones like clockwork, because that is when your traffic spikes. Try to have your post posted by then.

    Again, be yourself, but you must eventually decide what kind of blog you want to be. I decided early on to be as free-form as I could. I hate repeating myself (on most subjects) so the political stuff and the gay-bashing and the raghead bashing has slowed down quite a bit, what I'd like to call 'Dead Horse Syndrome'. Unless something pretty egregious comes up, or I think of a unique and funny way to do it, they are pretty much old history. This does not mean that I hate rags and fags and politicians any less, it's just that I can only rail on them so much before I bore myself. I'm content with throwing up a link to the odd perfidy, here and there, with a brief, acidic comment. I doubt if I have another essay in me on any of those three subjects, at least until the next election cycle comes up.

    You may think me a tad pompous for holding forth on this when I am a mere 500 hit a day blogger. Think about that. 500 hits, and if I read the sitemeter(s) correctly, those are uniques. This does not count my regular readers, of whom I have no idea how many there are. A ready-made audience both for my opinions, and for your opinions of them.

    Sure, I get the searchers arriving here looking for 'granny horse cock porn', but the majority are looking for bane or banedad or bane+rants and such. That tells me something, and that something is positive. And what gives me the incentive to keep doing this. Well, that, and the money. Oh, and to keep from shooting myself and/or others.

    Because there is the rub. The question every blogger must answer for themselves, in the quiet garden we all keep in the center of our minds. Why am I doing this?

    Fame? Fortune? Recognition? Adulation? All a waste of your time, and ours.

    I have stated before, that when I started this, I thought I had wandered into an empty auditorium, and I was just up on the dais, shouting to hear the pigeons roosting in the rafters scatter. If you go back and read my early stuff, this is obvious.

    Blogger was a new toy. When I updated, I could actually see my blog listed in the updated blogs list, rather than the ticker tape it has become.

    I grew and matured (heh) over time as a blogger, simply from attrition and experience. Now, you newbies have the examples of many different types of blogs to emulate, expand on, and improve on.

    Like floats in a parade, they all have the same basic truck frame underneath to propel them along, but they are all unique in their own way. My final suggestion to you is to find a few blogs you really like, that speak to you, and copy copy copy, try to become a fusion of them and then write your ass off and post as often as you can and pull out all of the stops and don't ever tell your mother about your blog.

    Unless that is your freak her out and piss her off.

    Heck, I'd happily read that.



    I Couldn't Have Said It Any Better Myself...

    I hate this man so much. What an overrated hack. I pity the people for whom this man was an icon for them when they read his stuff as kids, and they never grew out of it.

    Just another boll weevil who has been allowed to weaken the fabric of America for far too long.


    Some truly pitiable back-pedaling.


        Monday, November 21, 2005

    Thanks, Donaters!

    I'd given up hope, so I haven't even been checking Amazon or Paypal. And ya'll came through! I like you best! Better'n all those other pikers, anyways.

    The bank will play it's reindeer games and I won't get it for days, but just knowing it's there strokes the cockles of my hard.

    Just for reference, to new bloggers and otherwise, if you have a Paypal tip jar, get the Paypal credit card, because you can withdraw it right here, right now. Amazon makes you wait. So does Paypal, without the card.

    Anyways, thanks again!



    Unto Us A Blog Is Given...

    As is my tradition, I present you with Imperial Outpost. If you blame me in some way for your new blog, or have a new blog and talk about me a lot, I give one free link. Yer on yer own from there.

    Advice to new bloggers:

    1. Don't try too hard, be yourself.

    2. Comment routinely on blogs you like, if you've actually got something to say. Say it well, make it interesting, and folks will funnel back. Be yourself.

    3. Don't suck up. Don't try to lure people back to read your stuff, and it is just rude newbie bullshit to suggest directly that they do so. If you agree (or disagree, especially) with a post, go back to your blog, say why, make a case, be interesting, and LINK BACK to the original post you are talking about. Be yourself.

    4. When you have a zero comment blog, it is just silly to have word verification turned on, and/or comment moderation. Just silly, but, be yourself. I always suggest paying the $12 to get Haloscan Pro.

    5. Post every day. About the news. About your dump. About when Uncle Joe buggered you in the back of the De Soto while taking you out for ice cream. About who sucks worse, Jay Leno, or Letterman. About how you pissed in the milk machine in the school cafeteria one time, and then watched everybody drink it (true story). You've had a life, right? Share it, otherwise, why are you blogging? To have a blog? Get a chia pet. They're easier to take care of. Just be yourself.

    6. I came up with #5 off the top of my head, so don't ever say you got nuthin. I'll smack you. But, be yourself.

    7. Be Yourself.



    Monday Blah's...

    I have been too busy laving myself with the bile of others today to create much of my own.

    First off, I had been told of OSM's ubiquity, but I could not find it on my own, easily, and when I did, it looked more like one of those rented store fronts, a 'false front' if you will, that grifters set up to loot gullible investors of their lucre.

    Color me unimpressed. When you make Huffington's Post look professional and polished, you've got more of a problem than me or my tiny opinion to worry about.

    Like I tell all new bloggers, here and elsewhere, Good Luck! I never mention that they'll doubtless be smoking and burnt out in a ditch in under six months. Why be cruel? And spoil the surprise? It is always best to strike from ambush.

    I am fast tiring of Cinderella. I'll bippity-boppity-boo their butts off if I have to see the dance of the spastic faeries in my living room one more time, I think.

    Thanksgiving looms. Fodder for the bile-factory, I think. I have never faced this Time of Darkness sober...well, not for over thirty years, anyway. I may just lock myself away in my room. Probably. Almost definately.

    There is one cool thing about it though. Allow me to share it, in full knowledge that one or more assholes are likely to burst into my comments and natter on about poor people and welfare and their taxes. Sigh.

    We are, my wife and I, for several reasons, officially poor. We are also officially smart, and know how to take advantage of the system that has been set up for such as us. You know all those cans and coins and whatnot that ya'll donate to charity? To make yourselves feel good, or to help out, or whatever? Yeah, that stuff...

    That stuff works. My wife signed us up for a food share thingy, and today she went to the fairgrounds, and went into a building, one of those big ones like they hold gun shows in, and it was full from end to end with boxes and boxes of food. They had it broken down to family size, and everybody who could showed up and picked it up. The rest got delivered. We got a large turkey, and a big box of food to do all of the traditional fixins, and then some. This included a dozen eggs, a bag of flour, a jar of peanut butter (A Pilgrim staple, no doubt) and many other things. This will feed my family, my handicapped sister, and my parents who are on a fixed income. For most of the week and the weekend.

    Praise the dang Lord.

    My wife delivers food and works in these places and uses our gas and wears out our car, for no pay but gleaned food. She held her head high as the ladies in charge handed her the food with smiles of gratitude for her. For all of the times I have mocked the poor and called them names, I was shamed. Kinda takes 'there but for the Grace of God' to a whole new level, eh?

    Anyway, Spring is just around the corner, right? The only good thing about these dark, bleak days, is that it makes it easier to get lost in and work in a fantasy world, to create a dusty desert street, rivuleting in the sun through sweat-crusted eyelashes, or a faerytopia of tall green forest, where sunlight pours down in golden streams through sparkling motes, where one of my characters has just nailed a cursing, biting faery to a tree with a knife, as a cloud of it's cohorts tear at his clothes and flay his skin.

    Sobriety stings me so...



    I've Got Some News For You People...

    You people with your Public School educations. You people with your sense of entitlement. You people who take the frantic chirping of the press about 'the People's Right to know!' seriously, because you, yourselves, take you and what you think about anything seriously...



    Sometimes, when you shout, people hear you.

    The next time you hear some turd carping about the 'People's Right To Know', punch him or her straight in the face without warning. They want you dead, and they are too stupid to live, both pretty good reasons, right there.

    Much as they are holding up this so-called 'war hero' Murtha (does anybody know how easy it was for an officer to buy commendations and medals in that war?) from a war that they all hated and fought our own government to make us lose, these same people let out not so much as a peep over all of the secretive shit their man Roosevelt did during World War Two, including interring American citizens and giving away much of the world to the Communists.

    I have no more right to know the inner workings and battle plans of the President and his Pentagon, than I have the right to sit in on a secret business meeting somewhere where The Board is discussing a secret hostile take-over strategy of another company.

    And don't try to play the 'tax' card with me. That stopped being your money the moment you let them take it from you. It went into the pot. Wave goodbye.

    If you want to donate a pile to a University, you can have a say in what they spend it on, otherwise shut up and sit down and let the big people do their job.

    [Note: this is in no way an indictment of the wonderful Chris Muir, whom I read every day. His art just triggered me, is all.]


        Sunday, November 20, 2005

    Calm Down...

    ...don't get excited...

    I have been writing fiction bits, here and elsewhere, with a fairly common theme, and I've known that they are related, I just couldn't quite figure out how, or how to do a book that was coherent, with them. I needed a bridge. A way to tie them together.

    I came up with it today. The solution. And it is both brilliant, and elegant, if I do say so myself. And more importantly, it seems original, which was important to me, because I didn't want to recycle.

    I am happy.

    I am working on another segment today, a Western segment (there will be sci-fi and fantasy and horror, too. And comedy).

    It is titled 'Death Rides A Doughnut'. It is very fun. Silly, violent fun. I have become leery of posting any more of it, here, lest some enterprising soul reverse engineer my book out from under me.

    Of course, they'd have to write just like me...


    In retrospect, 'donut' just sounds funnier than 'doughnut', don't you think? And far more accurate a description of something my gunslinger has to sit on because he has piles and can't ride a horse because of them. Besides, there's less characters to type.



    I Just Have To Share...

    The kids just got home a bit ago from church with the wife. I begin watching the DVR'd Raiders game with Johnny...something we do together. My youngest Marine had called a bit before they got home and told how he was going to have to go through a special gas training next week, gas that makes CS and CN look like Strawberry Shortcake body spray. He's dreading it, and I don't blame him.

    So, I tell the kids their big brother called, and told them about the 'poison gas', and I may have gotten a little dramatic...

    Anyway, Johnny says with some concern "I hope he doethn't get huht..." and I assured him he'd live. Nat is pondering, and then asks me...

    "Will he be naked?"



    The Last Word... far as I'm concerned, about the OSM/Pajama Media kerfluffle.

    The man has outed his own self, and exposed himself to several sorts of lawsuits if he is lying. I look seriously askance at the bloggers with whom he is in conflict, especially Roger Simon, who comes off looking rather the skunk, it would appear.

    Why is any of this important to you, my friends? Well, because these so-called 'bloggers' are popping up all over MSM news shows, touting themselves as uber-bloggers, and as representatives of bloggers in general, and I sure hope to heck they do not represent me, because I kinda like me. Them? Not so much.

    Funny thing, before this started, I had no idea who Roger Simon was. Funnier thing still? I still don't.

    Don't care much, either. I post this as a cautionary tale. Writers are not businesspersons. And if you get into bed with a lawyer, don't come crying to me when you wake up half way down his gullet.

    PS: Read the rest of Dennis the Peasant's blog, if for no other reason than it is a worthy blog.

    PPS: My thanks to Uncle Fester for leading me to this in the comments, and he should get his ass blogging again.

    PPPS: Note all of the names of the bloggers involved in this that Dennis mentions, and keep an eye on them (Instapundit, anyone?). This would be a Soap Opera, except that people are getting hurt in the real world by it.


        Saturday, November 19, 2005

    On A Completely Unrelated Note...

    Have any of you ever bought pills over the internet? I don't mean vitamins. That's a rip for the rubes. No, I mean real pills, like Viagra and Valium and, oh, shall we say Oxycontin?

    Could any of you recommend a reputable and cheap source, one where they don't alter Smarties or M&M's with a marking pen and try to tell you they are Quaaludes?

    Email me, darlings. Bane is getting his monkey on...

    I was bartending one night, and I saw this asshole dealing pills from an ashtray right in front of me, at a table across the room. He was already very loaded, and moving like Tommy Chong. He put this big old Quaalude on his tongue and slowly brought his beer up to take a sip and when he did, he choked out the pill right onto that nasty-ass bar rug. In slow motion, like a bubble falling on a breezeless day, he lowered himself to the floor to retrieve it. One of my little bar-sluts had been watching this and walked by the table briskly, grabbed the ashtray and slipped it into her purse as she stepped over him and left. And he was just getting to the pill...picking it up...putting the fuzz-covered thing on his tongue...turning around...

    Well, you get the picture. I was laughing my ass off as he finally got up and settled and took a glub of beer and then looked kinda cross-eyed at the table and then felt around on top of it and then started slowwwly going through his pockets one by one and...

    Well, you get the picture. It was fun throwing him out, later. They move like a sack full of rubber baseball bats.

    Oh, and kids? Drugs are bad.



    I've Got 19" Of Throbbing Goodness...

    ...flopped out right here on my desk...

    Yay! My big monitor wasn't dead after all! Oh, how I mourned it's loss, and came this close to making the long march out to the dumpster, followed by brass-weilding negroes at a sad cadence, to dump my baby in a foetid box.

    I guess what I am trying to say here is, boy, can I be dumb.

    For those of you not playing along at home, I was smitten with a bizarre electrical discharge/power failure, three times in a row a while ago, and my PC went tits up. In reality, what had happened is that I had hosed the PC myself by attempting to extricate notorious resource hog 'Tablet PC' (do not let Windows install that!) and the failure from my meddling coincided with the power failure, and I made an ass out of you and me...well, me, by going into the downie-dumps, and unhooking my monitor, which had been behaving bizarrely anyway, and heading for the dumpster with it.

    Fortunately, my laziness is only rivaled by my procrastination, and there it sat in the doorway of my bedroom until today, when I hooked it up to a known good computer, and it worked perfectly. Whew!

    Now, I'm back in the saddle again, PC restored and humming along perfectly, and my big-ass monitor in front of me looking like a damn drive-in movie screen. I wouldn't turn down a 21" if you offered it to me, but just maneuvering the cursor across this huge open space nearly exhausts me. I have to move my arm, sometimes several times!

    Pity me.

    Boy, can I be dumb.

    Have any of you, those who are reputed to be smart, anyway (the rest of you just put your hands down and lay your heads down on your is the bright kids turn) done or nearly done something so frighteningly stupid, besides marrying your current spouse, of course, that it made you fearful that you had suffered a stroke or something?

    I sure have, in addition to this one, I mean. My file in the basement of the City Hall of Retardville must be thick as my arm.

    I was putting firecrackers in green apples and throwing them on peoples back porches to applesauce their abodes, one Saturday afternoon, and having a grand old time. Every so often some grizzled old veteran would step out of his house and wave a captured Luger around, sometimes let off a shot, and that just added to the adventure. We were 11 or twelve. One of my throws, doubtless due to a variation in the gravitational pull of the earth, and not that I had thrown like a girl, went somewhat awry.

    Which is to say, it hit the top of the fence and bounced back at me. Disappointed, I picked it up. Hey! Look! Down there in the depths of the hole! A red ember doth glow! There is hope for more merriment yet!

    So, I blew on it.

    Anybody else do anything so blindingly, or in my case near-blindingly stupid? Share with us! I want blood, I want eyeballs hanging by a nerve from sockets. I want compund fractures and mothers fainting at the door when your friends bring your limp, applesauce-covered body to the door, ring the doorbell and run.

    Dish! Join the Near-Death Experience Retard Brigade! Wear your patch proudly.

    To those of you who feel left out, because you have no such experiences to relate, go out and buy 1.75 liters of Cuervo Gold, and get to work. If you can't type up the experience later because of casts and traction, try to dictate it to one of the Candy Stripers to type for you. And then ask her to sponge-bath your balls.

    They love that.



    Much Ado About...Not Very Much...

    I have been hearing rumbles and rumors about some sort of blogger cabal being formed out there somewhere that is supposed to be 'The Next Big Thing'. OSM or something. If I honestly thought there was the slightest chance of getting in on the ground floor of the next Google, I would be all atwitter.

    Sadly, what I see are people who have become Masters at a solitary pursuit, trying to turn inherently anti-social people into social, cooperating butterflies. Bloggers as a group are a mob, not a herd.

    I predict failure based on that, alone.

    These so-called blogmeets are an anathema to me for the same reason. I have observed a few, where already fast friends stayed that way, but I have seen more where the resultant feuds rage to this very day.

    I do not like this, because it affects me, as a consumer of blogs. If people I like and enjoy are bitching and scrapping about things I could care less about, then my personal, solitary enjoyment of their product is directly affected.

    Remember when you were kids, and you invented some sort of cool game outdoors, and a few of you were just having a blast? Running around and raising heck? And then the older girl from up the street saw how much fun you all were having and she came in and started getting all bossy and assigning everybody a role and putting them in teams and making up rules? that.

    I heard somebody say today, in defense of Charles Johnson of Little Green Footballs infamy, that 'he couldn't moderate his comments because he gets over 100,000 visitors a day'. So that's an excuse to let racists and assholes run amok on your site? You're too busy? Bullshit. I've seen plenty of sites where they make people who want to comment register, and they appoint long time commenters as 'moderators' and give them the power to edit or delete or ban offensive commenters.

    I would hang this shit up if it came to that, I believe I truly would. Or I would make some major changes.

    I read Jeff Goldstein fairly religiously, but if he disappeared off into some new site, I doubt that I would go searching through piles of other people's bullshit to seek him out. I wouldn't even do that for the Goddess Ann. I would just search the new, stand-alone blogs for someone who could give me the same buzz.

    And the thing that will kill this bloglomerate dead in it's crib, is the very idea of letting lefty bloggers play, too. I can stomach Hitchins and Paglia, in small doses, but the same impulse that has me lunging for the remote when that vile pustulabia Pelosi comes on the tube, is going to keep me and people like me crossing the street to avoid the stench of your new little enterprise, and all you'll end up with is all your sycophants and yapdogs, baying their amen chorus to you, and laving your ears with their toadying lickspittle.

    If someone called me and asked me to join in such an enterprise (hey, don't laugh!) my first question would be 'How much?' and that number better sound a lot like a salary, and promise consistency.

    Otherwise, I can buy a lottery ticket for just a dollar, avoid the aggravation, and keep whatever self-respect left to me the ex didn't get in the divorce settlement.


        Friday, November 18, 2005

    A Dog Is Far Greater Than The Sum Of It's Farts...

    Or maybe not.


    Black and yellow red and white, I just hope that pussy's tight,
    I just love the little children of the world...

    Still glad you sent your Mom over to read the cute little birthday story? Heh.

    Actually, I just wanted to see if I could write something vile while completely and tragically stone cold sober.

    Apparently, I can.

    I had two beers yesterday while I mowed the lawn, but other than that, nuthin. No money, or I would. I am neither a Puritan, nor a Baptist, and I would run a truck through a Temperance Society parade.

    Especially tonight. I stretched my last jug of Paisano a week or so, but it is long in the trash, and life does not handle me well sober.

    Tonight, I intend to acquaint myself of my new friend Oxycontin's embrace. I have slept badly for three nights, and am all acrank. You can pray away the devil and his minions, but those personal ones rattle and claw at their side of the doors of a long, dank hallway full of them, and I think I shall summon Nurse Ratchet to medicate them.

    Good enough for my buddy Rush, good enough for me. I'll only use a little, I promise. Maybe Santa will bring me a monkey for Christmas, with it's own cute little back-pack.

    Well, I go down to watch Firefly, with a glass of apple juice in my hand, which shall doubtless cause me to shit.

    Just, hopefully, not in the bed. Fortunately, to my knowledge, no one has ever died from aspirating diarrhea.



    I Normally Don't Do Cute...


    Have I mentioned that Nat and Johnny are carven from two blocks of Pure Joy? They have no idea their life sucks, and the wife and I hide that fact from them as best we can.

    Last night, was Nat's 5th birthday party, a family intensive event that turned out to be somewhat present-intensive for Nat, as well. I sensed that the wife went a bit overboard from some sense of her own restrictive childhood, and took the opportunity to spoil Nat beyond our means. When I thought to broach the subject, I saw some some dark beast roil behind the wife's eyes, some kind of largish mother cat, and I desisted. Wisely, I think.

    Not the time to be whining about being out of wine but Lordy, there sure is a lot of Barbie shit laying around the living room.

    We have a tradition that the other child gets something, too, even if only one thing, so they do not feel left out. Johnny got two things. The wife had bought him a tin of actual marbles, which will be wondrous for his fingers and for his eye-hand coordination. He loves them, too. But, wonder of wonders, Nat presented him with a tiny present she had wrapped and concealed til tonight, all on her own.

    Before she even touched one of her presents, she excused herself, and flew upstairs and came back down with this tiny package she had quite obviously wrapped herself, all tape and scrap-wrap, but smooth, and done with care, and intent concentration, no doubt with her little tongue against her upper lip as she struggled to get things just so.

    She says "Here, John..." and holds it out to him, in both her tiny hands, and his eyes light up, and he rips through all of her handi-work, and pulls out a pretty shitty little car she had picked especially for him from the crap-toy bin at the dentist's office, where she had gone to get drilled a few days before. She had picked a toy for him, instead of her, sacrificed whatever else might have struck her fancy, and thought of him and this night, and planned accordingly.

    Love, anyone?

    And you'd have thought she'd just handed him the keys to a brand new Lamborghini. I felt immediately guilty for my first burst of contempt for her offering. I saw shit...he saw gold.

    Her business transacted, it was now 'me time' for Nattie, and she pounced like a Ninja into her presents. I had to catch her in mid-air, and redirect her to a place on the floor where Grandma, ever the camera fiend (who always needs an extra roll and Dad has to rush home and get it before we can continue, but this time Dad foxed her and brought an extra one with him and only had to go out to the car to get it, which was a great relief to all) could get her shots and if she misses it, you have to hold it up again and act surprised while she blinds you again. I'm wearing sunglasses on John's birthday in two weeks.

    Now, Nat's present-opening technique is a study in contrast between our lower and higher natures. First, she accepts the package, holding it delicately, and ooing and awing, and then daintily removes the ribbon and admires it a moment, and carefully sets it aside. Then, she holds the package to her bosom, in a tender embrace, and then suddenly and in one move rips it savagely open, like an Alien or a Predator trying to get straight at your heart, and no monkey-business. She makes the Xena sound when she does this, if you were wondering.

    Then she casts the worthless, dead skin aside, and holds whatever it is in her hands and shakes and shudders and squeals with such pure delight and innocent passion, that everyone in the room is grinning stupidly and ooing and awing along with her like new proselytes.

    And then she wants to bust it open and play with it, but here is where I announce "No, honey, everybody is going to have to leave pretty soon so Daddy can watch Survivor..." and I chuck it on the pile and hand her the next one, and the process repeats.

    And she shows the same level of absolute rapture whether it is a box of Crayons, or socks, or a Barbie. Each thing is the first thing, and is the best she has ever seen, and her joy refills the depleted joy-batteries of all those around her, if only for a little while.

    I think that is why I thought to share this with you all. There is a great well of Joy out there, I've seen it. I've watched her tap into it, reach out and plug in her cord, and jitter in ecstasy as it washes over her. It doesn't come from the inside. She can be mean as a snake, cruel as a desert scorpion. But she has this skill, this natural ability, to plug into something that, if not God, is most assuredly provided by Him. The place 'Saints' go to when bad men shoot arrows into them, and yet, still they smile, and the glow of that supernatural Joy affects everybody who stands in it's warmth.

    I guess you kinda had to be there, but, atavistic bastard that I am, I'd like to find that reservoir of Joy that Nat taps into, to be able to take a taste every so often myself. I shall endevour to watch her more closely, to see how she does it. Johnny can do it, too.

    And Jesus said: "Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child, he is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven."




    Unto Us A Blog Is Given...

    I just love watching the little ones come into the world.

    Good luck, Morrigan! You write well.


        Thursday, November 17, 2005

    I Laughed... hard...



    Has Anybody Heard Anything...

    ...about this? Anywhere? Me neither.

    Via Atlas Shrugs.



    I AM A Vicious Cretin...

    I guess.

    A blogger whom I very much like and respect made this comment about what commenters say on another blog:

    I remember seeing something there suggesting all Palestinians should be slaughtered. That's not a valuable political opinion or edgy humor. That's bigotry and hatred, and it's worthless.

    Heck, I've said that they should be slaughtered many, many times, here. Usually after a group of the subhumans have blown some more Israeli children to Gehenna. And I mean every word, every time.

    I attempt humor, here and there, but if you find me 'edgy', that is a problem for you, not me. I am just being me, and staying true to what I understand to be my self.

    Political opinion? Worthless. Politics is just another way to try to get a dick up your ass. Politics is what cowards who can't handle a sword use to subjugate real men.

    There is nothing 'political' about Palestinians. They are a Public Health issue, and a menace to all societies. They use politics like our tanks use smoke, to cover their violent and lethal intent.

    Fuck a politician.

    My feeling is hurt, but I'll get over it. I am just procrastinating to get away from the lawn (see: post below).

    I still love ya, man, but Jeez, Louise...



    Hey, Shut Up...

    She's dressed...



    Pity Me...

    I have to mow the lawn, and it's freezing outside. Clear and cold. I cut myself a loan from the gas money the landlord gives us for doing the yards.

    And it is Nat's 5th birthday, and she made me puke. The birthday breakfast she chose was, shall we say, somewhat sugar intensive. Oh, what am I saying, it was all fucking sugar, even the fruit salad part. You mix marshmallows and Cool Whip and fruit and you get sugar.

    And little baked thingies, fork flattened Pillsbury biscuit dough, stuffed with...yes, more pink marshmallows, folded into a dough blob, rolled in melted buter, then in cinnamon and...sugar, bake until dough is done, serve, and have Bane puking his guts out as quietly as he can in the upstairs bathroom.

    And then I went into town and got a haircut, and bought two beers with the loan I embez...cut for myself. And now, to the lawn.


    And relatives, coming to the party tonight. And me, painfully sober, and bereft of alcohol.

    Pity me.

    Or not, because I'm pretty sure I have enough of my own...





    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship.

    She keeps sliding the lids off of these crypts of libtard miasma, and the stench from their rotting corpses gags me.

    To get my vote, a Presidential candidate would have to champion a 'McCarthy Day', a new federal holiday in honor of our greatest hero since GW.

    Yes, George Washington.


        Wednesday, November 16, 2005

    I Hate Being A Christian...

    I just don't have the kind of faith it takes to be an atheist. I am weak.

    I also don't have the kind of faith it takes to walk into a restaurant with a bomb strapped to myself. That faith is a close, nay, a kissing cousin of atheism. I mean, granted, the Irish are crazy, but I don't recall them ever doing that.

    I wish I could be an atheist. I aspire, I really do. You think I kid, but I do not. I do not admire atheism's practitioners, but I do envy them.

    I do not understand why any of them even attempt to pay homage to any sort of moral code. I would be a free-wheeling Satanist type, though without all the Satan, because, after all, he aspires to be God, too, doesn't he?

    I would make Lex Luthor look like a piker. I would shame Attila. Make Hitler green with envy. I would fuck and kill and rape and rob who I wanted, when I wanted, where I wanted, unrestricted by the artificial restraints of Judeo-Christian based 'morals' that our atheist friends seem to quaintly, and confusingly hold onto, and brag about 'being good persons', though they believe in no arbiter that wishes you to be so. It is all artificial construct, isn't it?

    Free Will isn't free. It is a curse, and I would gladly give it up. The irony, is that to exercise your Free Will, is to move further from God, and closer to damnation. Sin, you see. We are all full of it, and only the sacrifice of God's Son, of whom there is no credible physical evidence at all to prove He ever existed...
    So you must crawl to Him, and offer Him your Free Will back.

    Free Will is a gift, with a price, and to keep it gives your soul a shelf life, and I cannot abide that. Winking out like a pissed on ember, to be ground under Time's cruel boot.

    But to stand tall, and free, and look out into the entirety of the universe, all the universes, and all of the times, and all of the possibilities, and say, with confidence "There is no God!" and to believe it...

    Now there...there is a strength of will I envy, a denial so powerful, who can stand in front of it?

    If I had a faith like that, I truly could move mountains.



    Dora's Mom Is A Slut...

    What, she's popped out two kids recently? Guess her Dad won't be able to afford that new leaf blower he wanted.

    I was just watching some Fisher Price ad with Johnny, for baby toys, and the little tykes were giggling and rolling balls and playing, and Johnny was watching it, and I realized that he couldn't relate. Suddenly, seven years of stuffed regret and pain and loss hit me all at once, and I just held him close and tried not to cry in his hair.

    When he was that age, he was lucky to be laying on a blanket on the floor, wrapped in bandages from some surgery or other. His arms wrapped in bandages from his shoulders to the tips of his misshapen little hands.

    The mobile above his crib apparently tormented him with it's innaccessibility, because one day, finally sans bandages, and barely able to totter in his crib, he pulled himself up and stretched and stretched and worked and worked and finally snapped Eeyore off and fell back on his butt, startled, and then began to teethe on it with absolute joy and pride. He didn't even see the wife and I, there in the doorway, clinging to each other in our own mixure of pride and sorrow.

    For it is sorrow, you know, and when you face that sorrow, the pain can make you want to die.

    He will never wear a baseball glove. Ride a 15 speed mountain bike down a trail. Shuffle a deck of cards. He'll likely never dance with a pretty girl at his prom. Or marry.

    I want to live, so I can protect him from life, and nurture him through it. I want to die, so I don't have to see it. So I don't have to feel guilty when I curve my fingers around his stiff ones, or I thoughtlessly give him the thumbs up gesture, which he can't return.

    Sorry about all this.