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        Saturday, December 31, 2005

    Free At Last, Free At Last...

    Bittersweet. My youngest Marine is wending his way up to Portland, transported by my parents, and I am home alone with the nubbins while the wife works, on a rainy, floodish Saturday.

    What a week.

    Other than my ex telling me she was pregnant, that first time, I can't remember a bigger surprise than seeing all my elder spawn arranged on the porch last Friday. And then I had to ambush my parents with them. And then my sister. Nobody died, though palpitations were noted, and appreciated.

    It is twenty seconds to noon, and I have just cracked a beer, should old acquaintances needs be forgot. Nat just got sentenced to her bed for an hour, for gratuitous brother-whacking. Maybe I need to buy Johnny a T-Ball bat. Nah, she'd just take it away and brain him with it.

    Ten bucks says the wife comes home from work with a bottle or two of Cold Duck. The Poor Man's Champagne. Or one bottle, and another of Asti Spumante. I prefer the taste of Asti, but the Duck gives a more efficient buzz.

    Like ham, I am tired of the ball-dropping. Don't care. Die, Dick Clark, die. Is there anything sadder in life than watching pre-recorded faux New Years celebrations? Is there?

    Personally, I'd like to see live feed from Sderot, of Katushya rockets burning overhead, and impacting in festive bursts of green fire, through night vision lenses. That's entertainment. Were I there, I'd fetch me a Dragunov, and show some Palestinian children the true meaning of Christmas, from a high, secluded vantage point. Or catch a bunch of Palestinkian men in the open as they pour out of a mosque to do mischief.

    Israelis are pussies. Give me five SEALs, and I'll give you Bethlehem. Might take an hour, or two. I'd ask for Israeli Air Farce back-up, but apparently, they can't hit anything. Good luck with Iran, luzers.

    Yes, I am disgusted. Sunday morning will be same shit, different day, but it'll be all NEW shit, right?

    I am sure the wife, being the wife, is going to want to do something festive this evening, but all I want is a titty fuck, and a weiner ride. On the couch. So I can watch her butt. A new tradition is born. It took two weeks for last years rug burns to heal. Good thing I'm not Muslim, cuz all that kneeling would have been a bitch.

    Yep, titty fuck. That will be the theme for the new year. Titty fucks to ward off the butt fucks our world governments seem to be so desirous to administer to us.
    Well, take each day one dick at a time, is my motto.

    And bring your own grease...


        Friday, December 30, 2005

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go and worship!

    Oh, and Happy Kwanzaa, muthafuckas.

    (Sing to "Jingle Bells")
    Kwanzaa bells,
    dashikis sell
    Whitey has to pay;
    Burning, shooting,
    oh what fun
    On this made-up holiday!



    Freeze, Or The Pussy Gets It!


    Hard to believe they're both the same woman.



    If You Don't Know... need to know about this. Very interesting, from the always provocative and beautiful Pamela, whom you should vote for, and not just because she gives me wood.



    Hang Em High!

    As regards the burgeoning war on domestic traitors who leak national secrets to the Anti-American press, JeffG says it best. His blog is a worthy one to follow, to help you cut through the fog of war that tends to rise over these things.


    Via Noel, who still remains the sharpest knife in the drawer, I post his comment from JeffG's blog in it's entirety:

    [Quote]"There hasn’t been a successful terrorist attack since Sept. 11, 2001. Thanks to the Times, we now know why. AND SO DO THE TERRORISTS--also thanks to the Times.

    Personally, I’m grateful my government is finally doing its job. I can understand the ingratitude of terrorists and collaborators; it’s yours that I find baffling.

    Yes, presidents can abuse power. Nixon did. And if a week went by when the Clintons neglected to, it was surely an oversight. I’m thinking of Billy Dale, whose only crime was holding a job Hillary wanted to give to her pals. Or having her bar bouncer paw through Republicans’ FBI files. Or having every single conservative organization audited. Or...well, let’s just say I understand your concern. But not your ingratitude.

    And I take issue with this:

    In other words, when a neutral magistrate, from another branch of government, who can’t be fired, checks the box next to “evidence sufficient to warrant wiretap on US citizen” the odds are much greater that the evidence is indeed sufficient than when the same box is checked by some NSA mole who fills a prosecutorial/investigative role and whose job depends on the President.

    1.) Not all magistrates are “neutral”. Would Ruth Bader-Meinhoff be “neutral” when her ACLU colleagues have, like you, already convicted Bush? And if your really concerned about civil liberties, it’s the courts who are eviscerating them, ‘Kelo’ being just one recent example.

    2.)"from another branch of government"--another co-equal branch--not a superior branch. For example, no president has ever agreed to be bound by the War Powers Act...criminals all?

    3.) “who can’t be fired"--and that’s the problem. We haven’t impeached a judge for outrageous judicial conduct in two centuries. And they’ve become arrogant.

    4.) “checks the box next to “evidence sufficient to warrant wiretap on US citizen” the odds are much greater that the evidence is indeed sufficient"--this is the ultra-uber legalism that built the Gorelick Wall and why Bill Clinton turned down Osama on a platter THREE different times. This is war, not crime.

    5.)"than when the same box is checked by some NSA mole who fills a prosecutorial/investigative role and whose job depends on the President.” Those “moles” are keeping you alive and free. But I wish the president could fire the ones who leaked this.

    But here’s my real question; since this post is about the DOJ investigation of intelligence leaks helpful to our enemies, could you please bring your considerable legal talents to bear and explain this statute to us:

    Title 18, Pt. 1, Ch. 37, #793:

    “(d) Whoever, lawfully having possession of, access to, control over, or being entrusted with any document, writing, code book, signal book, sketch, photograph, photographic negative, blueprint, plan, map, model, instrument, appliance, or note relating to the national defense, or information relating to the national defense which information the possessor has reason to believe could be used to the injury of the United States or to the advantage of any foreign nation, willfully communicates, delivers, transmits or causes to be communicated, delivered, or transmitted or attempts to communicate, deliver, transmit or cause to be communicated, delivered or transmitted the same to any person not entitled to receive it, or willfully retains the same and fails to deliver it on demand to the officer or employee of the United States entitled to receive it…Shall be fined under this title or imprisoned not more than ten years, or both.”

    Seriously, man. You’re the expert. Tell us what this law--passed by Congress!--means in this case. This should be interesting." [End Quote]

    Fucking brilliant.



    I'm Just Putting This Here... I can come back and savor it every so often.




    Use of this site may cause you to become all-powerful.

    Read their warning, too. Seriously.


    More power...



    Attention Photoshoppers...

    A good resource for WW2 posters. Make up great desktop backgrounds and screen savers to piss off your hippy co-workers!



    A Day At The Library...

    Not any more. I was just listening to a radio talk guy tell about how Dallas Texas just passed an ordinance banning certain behaviors such as fucking, cursing, and bathing from their public libraries. Now, it is obvious that these policies are directed at our urban campers, which is why such will never get enacted in my hippy-ass town, which is why my family no longer goes to the public library.


    I practically grew up in public libraries. I cannot remember not having a library card, and now I can't remember where my card is.

    You go to our library, and it is crawling with 'homeless'. They sleep on the couches, and bathe in the sinks in the bathrooms. We used to take the kids to Story Time, in the kid section, but running the gauntlet of hoary beggars got to be ridiculous, and I don't like to kill people in front of the children.

    So, once again, productive citizens are being forced to pay for something they are not able to use. Just like the city parks, where you can't let the kids play in the sand because of the needles, or play in the play houses because the 'homeless' use them to shit in.

    Three teenagers kicked one of our more notorious vagabonds to death a few months ago, and I am sorry to say they were caught and jailed for it.

    They were just getting started...


        Thursday, December 29, 2005

    My Hero...

    I haven't posted the link to this site in a while. Chris ya, babe, every day, but this guy makes me pee a little.



    'Geeked'...A Horrible Revisionism...

    I used the word 'geeked' below in a post, inferring that I'd 'geeked the Baby Jesus'. As is my wont, and understanding that illiterates, the youth of today, and other simple-minded types read here occasionally, I went to and looked up the current definition of 'geeked', and found, to my horror, that I had inferred that I would somehow care to excite the Baby Jesus a great deal, which is just sick and wrong.

    The word 'geek', like the word 'gay', has been hijacked most horribly by the limpid, lax-assed culture of today's illiterate, inferior, yet somehow thinking they are superior because they were fed that bogus self esteem shit in schools, when the teachers weren't actually fucking their bodies instead of their minds.

    Allow me to set you straight.

    Quite simply, when Ozzy bit the heads off of bats and doves, and, oh yes, he did, he was 'geeking' them. The word 'geek' comes from the carnival world, and is used to describe the lowest form of life at a circus or carnival, even lower than the most tattered and pox-ridden chimpanzee, or the piano-playing chicken in the booth.

    The geek was a fearful looking alcoholic retard, frightful of visage, that they would keep chained in a cage, and charge rubes to go in and watch as they threw live chickens and rats to him, whereupon he would bite their heads off and make a spectacle of himself. Quite often, the young rube would take his date in with him, and this would somehow moisten her nethers, for his later conquest. Hey, I report, you decide.

    When the word geek reentered the current lexicon, as a way to refer to pasty-faced males who lived in the basement and did things with computers, it was not meant as a term of endearment or approbation, but as an expression of contempt, delivered by their betters. As is the wont of nerds and homosexuals, it is their way to try to turn the tables on the Norms, and to try to make the terms of derision into something else.

    Stop the insanity! Now you know, do you really want to be called a geek?

    Well, do ya, punk?



    This Would So Totally... me.

    More here...



    Unto Us A Blog Is Given...

    Finally. She's so hot, she makes my sperms die and float to the top. I really like her, too, so don't mess with her, or I'll hold your Inner Child while she hits it.

    Them Southern broads is sumthin, ain't they? Only reason I can think of to go to the South.

    On a completely unrelated note, I just reheated a week old hot link, and was halfway through it, when I realized it was rotten, and I refuse to puke it up because I don't want to waste the beer I had with it. Does that make me an Honorary Redneck?

    You rock, Toni! Good luck, and I hope a Good Man finds you. I just wish I could do it myself.


    LL outs Toni's new site at Blogspot.



    A Tale Of Horror... to chill the strongest heart. Think twice, intrepids, before you click on this link...



    Dawn Of War...

    Allow me to introduce you to my new addiction. This game is so wonderful, it is hard to play it through my tears of joy. Thank you again, son.

    I haven't played a game since this summer, and I played for three hours last night. Years ago, a friend at work loaned me the Allied CD of Red Alert to take home on a Friday afternoon, and I didn't see the light of day until the following Monday, when I called in sick to work, and went and collapsed. When I closed my eyes, I could see targeting cursors glowing on the insides of my eyelids.

    Dawn of War is better. It is a game that knows it's a game, is made by gamers who love gaming, and who love war-gaming in particular. It is based on a much beloved and hallowed board game, the Warhammer 40,000 series, and great attention to detail has been taken with every detail.

    The introductory video is the most beautiful piece of film I have ever seen. This is a wildly violent and gory game. You can watch from above, like a chess master, or zoom right down into the action, where everything has been rendered in such beautiful detail that it will make you gasp.

    Oily flame drips from the nozzle of a Flame-trooper's flame thrower, and falls to sizzle on the ground as he stalks forward. When a weapon is fired, the bolt chugs back and forth as empties stream out, each with their own trail of smoke. Battle-bots grab attacking Orcs troopers, crack their backs, and slam them into the ground in a puff of dust, and then step on them and move on. All of your troops worship you, and it makes one feel positively...Imperial.

    I am actually playing Dawn of War-Winter Assault, the expansion pac, because my son couldn't get my bootleg of DoW to work, but all the missions are still there, and I do not play campaigns anymore, anyway. I don't like being told what to do, so I just put it in skirmish mode, and fight.

    Dawn of War is still hovering around $30, and is worth every penny. I have no idea how much they are charging for the expansion pac, because I stole it. If I had the money, I'd buy it, because I'd love to have the discs and the manuals.

    Just a side note, if you can find a game called 'Enemy Nations', buy it, if you like strategy games, and I do. I just found out it loads (about five seconds) on my PC and plays perfectly, so I am re-visiting an old friend. Chicks would dig this, even though there are combat elements of it. It was Sim-City before there was Sim-City, Red Alert before Red Alert. And I love the city building and resource gathering, the population management, and the whole killing an entire other race thing. Update: Just found one copy for $3 on ebay. They want $22.00 for DoW.

    Well, time to slip in a movie for the kids, and go kill stuff.




    Drunken Toddler...

    Great name for a rock band, and a darn funny story, to boot.

    The line that resonates with me from the story is this one:

    At the time, the children's parents were at a hospital, where the mother was giving birth.


    I think we all know where the real tragedy lies when a bus half full of Mexicans goes over a cliff...



    They Look At Me... I just geeked the Baby Jesus, when I suggest changing the menu for holiday meals.

    Fuck ham. I don't ever want to see another ham again as long as I live. I want Cornish Game Hen, stuffed with a mix of wild and regular rice, with an orange glaze.

    Peanut butter and fucking jelly sandwiches. Ew. I just got an image of KY when I wrote 'fucking jelly' just then. Sorry. But seriously, PBJ's sound great. But no, every year, turkey turkey turkey. Fuck turkey. Let's have chili dogs!

    I mean it. The only thing I wouldn't change about holiday meals is the booze. And the egg nog. I freaking LOVE egg nog. With bourbon. I am leery of Jello Shots, though. Never had one, but I suspect that the folks who consume such would eat a booger if there was alcohol in it.

    I drank less this holiday than ever before. No drunken bike assembly on Christmas Eve for me this year, Thank God. I'm drinken this morning, though. Well, I just cracked a beer, anyway. Bread Soup.

    You see, I'm alone with the kids, as the wife is out making Daddy some money, and my youngest Marine is off with the 'rents, so I am being exposed to potentially deadly Lazy Town rays, due to today's Lazy Town marathon. Oh, I like the show well enough. I can perv on Stephanie in my heart, and the writing is cute, but afterwards, the kids want carrots, and nasty shit like that, instead of nice, easily portable cookies that I can just pull out of a box.

    It's not fair.

    And I actually had to get out of bed and feed them earlier. And this will last through Sunday! Pity me.

    For those of you who have never seen Lazy Town, too bad on you. Robbie Rotten is a personal hero of mine. I do a pretty fair imitation of him, too, which freaks the kids out so, bonus.

    They are both still stringing snot like rodeo bulls, but I have trained them to freeze in place with their hand under their chin when they sneeze, while Daddy leaps for a Kleenex or two.

    The Islamoturds have disappointed me so far this year. They just are not applying themselves. I expected terror and bloodshed, and all I get is this diahrrea.

    Oh well, there's always next year!



    It Just So Happens...

    ...that, apparently, I am not the only Bad Christian out there.

    The Hughes Family...just possibly a little more fucked up than mine, and making other families sigh with relief for...well, some time now.


        Wednesday, December 28, 2005

    Funny, Cuz It's True...

    Catfish sent me this joke, blame him:

    As a teacher, Ms. Jones, was very curious about how each of her students celebrated Christmas. She called on young Patrick Murphy. Tell me Patrick what do you do at Christmas time? she asked.

    Patrick addressed the class, Well Ms. Jones, me and my twelve brothers and sisters go to the midnight Mass and we sing hymns, then we come home very late and we put mince pies by the back door and hang up our stockings. Then all excited we go to bed and wait for Father Christmas to come with all our toys.

    Very nice Patrick, she said. Now Jimmy Brown what do you do at Christmas?

    Well, Ms. Jones, me and my sister also go to Church with Mum and Dad and we sing carols and we get home ever so late. We put cookies and milk by the chimney and we hang up our stockings. We hardly sleep, waiting for Santa Claus to bring our presents.

    Realizing there was a Jewish boy in the class and not wanting to leave him out of the discussion, she asked, Now, Isaac Cohen, what do you do at Christmas?

    Isaac said, Well, it's the same thing every year. Dad comes home from the office. We all pile into the Rolls Royce, then we drive to his toy factory. When we get inside, we look at all the empty shelves and begin to sing What a Friend We Have in Jesus. Then we all go to the Bahamas.



    Closed Until Further Notice...

    The internet, I mean, not me. I've just been, shall we say, 'distracted'? But the 'Sphere looks dead. Ah, well.

    On the first day of Christmas (Friday) my True Lord gave to me: all of my kids, under the same roof, for the first time ever, I think. Beauty.

    On the second day of Christmas (Saturday) The Devil gave to me: nearly all of my adult children and their SO's, significantly drunk, and vomiting in my front yard, while my new favorite daughter (in law) drove my oldest Marine to the hotel, whereupon he would decorate the parking lot with festivus vomitus, and get drug in to the room to pass out.

    My asshole youngest Marine had ambushed them all at an intimate gathering in a local bar, and poisoned them with about a hundred bucks worth of straight (double) shots in a half hour or so, and it is a wonder they didn't all get arrested, instead of just falling down an embankment into the river.

    Some snapshots of the blessed event:

    ...the wife and I, on Christmas Eve, prepping the battlefield...we knew trouble was coming, so we cleared away all pointy objects, set up beds, locked away all alcohol and firearms, and watched 'Gangs of New York' to 'get into the mood', til 1am, when we heard the first bodies crashing into the wall..., out front, yelling at my youngest Marine to "Quit puking on the neighbors car!"...

    ..."Now quit puking on his fucking yard, get over here and puke, fucker!"

    ..."Quit talking to him, Moira, it just keeps him from passing out..."

    ..."Shut up, son, I don't want to hear it...just go to sleep..." said while contemplating Carotid Restraint on him at 2:30am...

    ..."No, son, I am not going to throw you out in the cold to die..." My other son (the Artiste) gets combative and paranoid when drunk.

    "...or your girlfiend..."

    ..."Yes, I love you, now go to sleep..."


    And I sat there, on the couch, as they all finally began to snore, and as I reached over occasionally to stroke my youngest Marine's Adams Apple to get him to start breathing again, I realized...

    That I hadn't been this happy and content in a long, long time.

    On the third day of Christmas, my True Lord gave to me: hungover adult children, watching my youngest two tear into presents with absolute joy. Thank you, donors, who told me to buy presents for them with your offerings. You were wise men and women, and my house is now quite the Polly Pocket intensive area, and the living room is nearly impossible to navigate because of Johnny's Thomas the tank engine tracks and trains.
    A very Nice day. Sadly, my Artiste and his SO had to leave to be at work Monday morning. I don't think I could have taken it had all my children left at once, after such intensity. It has been nice to just have them trickle off in dribs and drabs.

    Monday, we just hung out. The wife had to work a few hours. Just family time. During all of this, Nat has been sick as a dog with a nasty cold, but between the drugs, and her indominatable spirit, she stayed up with everybody, and I only pandered to her illness when I used it to keep me out of some family thing or other I cared not to attend.

    I have yet to have a grandchild, so I had Natalie lay hands on my oldest son's wife's ovaries and put a hoodoo on them. When she realized what Nat and I were doing, she screeched and pushed us away. The room was properly scandalized, and my work there was through.

    I sensed every childless woman in the house's ovaries vibrating like tuning forks when Nat was around, turning on the cute in a big way, and you can no longer fear having a damaged child when Johnny has his arms around you and is telling you he loves you.

    I have hopes.

    Well, my oldest daughter and The Lieutenant left Monday, and my Youngest Marine is all I have left. He and my oldest and I stayed up late last night in the living room, drinking a bit, and getting maudlin, while his wife snored softly on the couch. She farts in her sleep, you know. Cutest thing I ever heard. Like a Vespa.

    Then, this morning they drove away, and all I have left are my two littlest bundles of joy, the youngest Marine, and four beers. I am richly blessed.

    I have knowledge of some of ya'lls trials and tribulations, and I hope the last several days have been peaceful and happy as mine have been. If you have to ride a wave, it is nice to have a good board and pleasant companions.

    I cannot help but note how the vultures in The Press are bringing out every horrible news story and tragedy they can, in their continued and relentless effort to demoralize and weaken the country, so I am going to attempt to take a hiatus from engaging in such for the rest of the year.

    I get contemplative, as the end of a dying year approaches, so please bear with me.

    God Bless You.



    Someone Was Thinking About Me, And...

    ...sent me this...



        Tuesday, December 27, 2005

    Ho Ho Ho!

    That's the Spirit!


        Monday, December 26, 2005

    Up Your Ass With Bugs And Gas...

    That was the motto of the chemical warfare unit on my base when I was in the military. They had it painted on the wall of their building, over their logo which, as I recall, was some sort of intimidating looking bug in military gear.

    I was reminded of it by this. Has anybody else heard about this? According to the copyright notice at the bottom of the article, I am breaking European law just by linking to it. Fukkem. But that also means you might not get to see it here in our media, and if a gas attack can happen there, it can happen here.

    And I don't know enough chemistry to be able to tell what Al Queda can cook up and aerosolize and leave in our stores during our busiest shopping season that smells like garlic.


    Oh well, I am too poor to shop, so I guess I'll be watching all y'all drop while you shop on the news.

    Happy Holidays!


        Sunday, December 25, 2005

    A Drawing...

    ...from my son's sketchbook.

    Not bad...


        Saturday, December 24, 2005

    The Wife Began To Scream... she opened the front door, and then I heard the kids start to scream, and I snatched up my gun and ran to the top of the stairs and saw all of my adult children standing on the landing with their wives and girlfriends.

    Blogging will be light, if at all. I haven't seen some of these kids in years.

    Plus, I think I am getting the flu, because I feel like shit, but I am damned happy to see the family all together. And what a bunch of liars. It is not often I get surprised, but they covered up the fact of their arrival brilliantly.

    Oddly, I knew they were here before I saw them, I just refused to believe my instincts. I need to work on that.

    Merry Christmas!


        Friday, December 23, 2005

    Christmas Breaks...

    It seems that, if you want to read something on the stupid internet, you have to write it your own damn self, these days. Fuck Christmas.

    Well, I for one, will be blogging, in between periods of food and/or alcohol induced comatry. Thanks, donors! Will ya'll be there for me when I need the liver? Just post your blood type and your home address, and I'll come there in person and pick it up. Some disassembly required...

    Fuck me, but the ginger cookies are good. But I don't like the white, lardy ones. And the candy covered ones the kids decorated look like a bucket full of aborted foetii when I open the container, so I don't. Amazing how a raspberry Gummi Bear can look like a tiny liver, floating in gut sauce, to the overactive imagination.

    I shall be forced to partake of ham tomorrow. Those of you who do so as well, do try to find a Muslim to spit upon. Or at least breathe heavily on. Just say "Mmmmmm, bacon!" and burp up a big cloud of Porky into their face.

    If I were a billionaire, I would have been breeding large herds of Razorback Pigs for a while, now. I would have several plane loads of them painted up all festively in red, white, and blue, fitted with special parachutes, and dropped all over city centers in the middle east. When the sensors in the chutes detect ground level, charges would pop off the harnesses, thereby exciting the pigs to frenetic activity, while small instrument packages mounted on their backs play sacred Christmas music loudly, and red, white, and blue fireworks pop off all over the place.

    I am nothing, if not all about the Christmas Spirit.

    Oh, and Osama? I would really really like to lube up your niece's asshole with bacon fat, and show her what the love of a real man is like.

    All your bitches are belong to me, shoe licker.



    Welll, this... disturbing.

    Hey, you fartheads to whom I have sent my template in hopes that you can cure it of herpes? Check out his source code, and see where I went so horribly awry, won't you?




    The Chronicles Of Yawnia...

    Spoilers! Read no further! I mean it!

    Still here?

    Well, alrighty then...

    There were about ten minutes of this movie that I did not absolutely hate. The beginning, and the end.

    The beginning has a lovely scene with German bombers giving London what for, and was beautiful. Well, the whole movie was beautiful, except for all the Britishy parts, and the Britishy people, and the kids, whom I hated from the first moment I saw them, and went downhill from there.

    I heartily wished that I could peel out of formation in my ME-109 and dive down onto that train full of British children, being taken to the safety of the British countryside, and make their mothers cry. I would open up with cannon fire and rake the cars, back and forth, rejoicing as the shells sparkled into the cars, wishing I could hear the screams of the little pudding lickers, then roll over and dive and shoot out the bridge in front of them with rocket fire, and chortle as the train plunges steaming into the abyss.

    The oldest girl was kinda hot. But I hated her. Boys, oh, ditto, with a passion. The littlest girl I did not hate, oddly, but she, being ugly as a run over toad, violated all of the Hollywood Cute Kid protocols, and should be tied on the other side of the stake from Dakota Fanning, and them both covered in Naptha and lit.

    It's for the best.

    All the joy I got as a child from reading the books, leaked out of my ass in the theatre, and formed a sad, black pool at my feet. Formulaic and forced, you could see the 'insert laugh here' or the 'jump here' tags.

    The little girl provided perhaps the only magical moments in the film, and kept me in my seat. Well, her, and Satan.
    A truly inspired performance. I settled back into my seat as soon as I saw her, expecting a magnificent performance, and I was not disappointed. She made me swoon in 'Constantine' (you haven't seen 'Constantine' yet? Your loss.) and she was magnificent in this film. The scenes of her in battle are worth the price of admission, alone.

    Oh, yes, this is a Big Screen film. Movies like this are why there will always be a theatre somewhere, no matter how fast cable modems get. The climactic battle scene is just wonderful, and I left dents in the arms of the seat. Could have used more Gryphons.

    On the whole, if I had it to do over, I'd have done it drunk, as that would have doubtless inured me to the stars of the show. Maybe. I am some disappointed that there were no naughty bits, where a satyr...excuse me, 'faun', porked the snot out of one or both of the girls. And I would have liked to have seen a banshee or three.

    Parental Note: I wouldn't let a kid under the age of twelve see this. The scene with the denizens of Hell as they kill Jesus gave me a turn or two. Very well done. 'The Passion of the Cat'.
    Of course, as I've said elsewhere, you are welcome to fuck up your kid however you'd like.

    Final Verdict: Yeah, I'd go see it, with caveats. And whiskey.

    Just like Star Wars, complete with dumb, hokey psuedo-religious puffery, amazing effects, and Princess Leia at the end with Han and Luke and R2, Chewie and C3PO.

    Now, if my little review here mirrors any others, it is strictly by coincidence, as I have studiously avoided reading any, which I shall now rectify out of curiousity.



    Cookie Monsters...

    ...I did it for the cookie, the cookie, the cookie...

    I am up to my firm, rock-hard ass in cookies. And Christmas music. Oh, you know I kid. I am hiding from it all in my room, avoiding potentially fatal Christmas Rays, and excited, darting flour children.

    I don't know how the wife does it. You bitches must have a 'cookie gene', or something, that requires the dulcet tones of Kenny Rogers to activate properly, which deactivates (temporarily) your 'clean freak gene', so you can tolerate the muss and the fuss of two little hyper-active mummy-looking flour children who are trying with utter desperation and concentration to get sprinkles and candies onto vari-colored goo over fresh-baked and festive Christmassy cookies.

    I fled.

    Two more days of living hell, and then I can begin prepping my liver for New Years. I love New Years. One of two American holidays where it is acceptable to get drunk and discharge firearms indiscriminately outdoors. Except for maybe this year, because I have new neighbors I know nothing about on one side, and hippies on the other side. He looks like the fucking Loonybomber on a bad hair day, and she I would masturbate over right in front of her, were it not for the truly impressive expanse of tattoos that decorate her, all over, as far as I can tell. Honey, if I want something to read in bed, I'll bring a magazine, okay?


    Too bad. I really wanted to rip off a mag from the AK this year, up in the air in the direction of Mexi-town.
    "Ay carumba!!"!... "Jesu Christo, why do dis appen erry fuckin year? Ninos, get under da table! Andele!"


    In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have told Nat that her farts are going to drive a certain cookie-obsessed Muppet Monster into a girl-gobbling frenzy and he will track her down and...
    Especially as she keeps a life-sized stuffed rendition of said Muppet leaned up against the dresser by her bed.

    If I make it to Heaven, I imagine the line behind me will back up for a bit, when I get to Saint Peter, while he goes over my rap sheet.



    Quote Of The Day...

    From this article, which cracks my ass right up:

    "We're Jesuits," Martin said. "I don't think you could have found anyone in the editors' room who has seen a condom." The mention of a "veil of latex" failed to register, he said.



    I May Hate Christmas, But...

    ...this bitch just needs to be punched in the mouth.



    Didn't We Already...

    ...kick these fucker's asses once?

    Time for a rematch.



    Skynet Is...

    The Terminator: The Skynet Funding Bill is passed. The system goes on-line August 4th, 1997. Human decisions are removed from stategic defense. Skynet begins to learn at a geometric rate. It becomes self-aware at 2:14am. Eastern time, August 29th. In a panic, they try to pull the plug.

    Sarah Connor: And Skynet fights back...


        Thursday, December 22, 2005

    Fuck Steven Schpielburg...

    The final solution to why I will never pay another fragment of attention, let alone money, to anything this left-wing idiot gets other left-wing idiots to bankroll, ever again.


    Too bad. This could have been a great story. Old Stevie is like one of the Jew jackboot-lickers that took his own people to their deaths, in hopes to get a cookie from their Nazi overlords.



    Wherein I Am Chided, Most Gently... my very own comments.

    I cannot blame her, really. If I proclaimed myself a saint, I would abhor the snickering. I love my children. Hitler loved dogs. Don't judge a book by it's cover. You get what you pay for. A snatch in time saves nine.

    Or something.

    The air is full of water. We are being tortured by temperatures in the 50's, here, and more rain than the ground can soak up. Welcome to Oregon. Now go home.

    I have readers. I have fans. I suspect I have a worshipper or two.

    I just write. I click my keys one leg at a time, just like you do. My brain is bigger than yours, of course, but that is just because I have a fat head. Or as I prefer to think of it, 'Patrician'. Have I mentioned that my hat size is eight and three eighths inches? I had to have prescription helmets made for me in the military. Tractor caps do not fit me off the rack. Big dick, big brain. There is a PhD thesis for someone, right there.

    Over 500 people a day like me, or not, now, and I think that is pretty cool. If a restaurant serves me slop, or a bookstore clerk is snotty, or the bartender has anal seepage and smells like a recently fertilized field, well, I don't go there any more.

    We have so few freedoms left, but I truly support choice, except for the whole 'killing an infant' part. You cunts should just be spayed with a ditch auger.

    I like it when you choose me. I have no idea if you don't. I will un-choose you if you act the fool, and you can sit outside the city walls, in the cold, and whimper, while we party in here under the lights, in front of the communal fire.

    500 people is a community still, isn't it?




    I Always Suspected This...

    Via: Grouchy Old Cripple.



    Pretty Cool...

    The guy who created the World Wide Web just started a blog. So much for all you ninny-nanny naysayers who try to denigrate bloggers and blogdom.

    In your face!



    Helen Of Troy...

    The face that launched a thousand boners...



    Birds Of A Feather...

    ...die together...


        Wednesday, December 21, 2005

    An Eye...

    ...for an eye...



    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and Worship!

    But if we must engage in a national debate on half-measures: After 9-11, any president who was not spying on people calling phone numbers associated with terrorists should be impeached for being an inept commander in chief...

    With a huge gaping hole in lower Manhattan, I'm not sure why we have to keep reminding people, but we are at war. (Perhaps it's because of the media blackout on images of the 9-11 attack. We're not allowed to see those because seeing planes plowing into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon might make us feel angry and jingoistic.)

    Among the things that war entails are: killing people (sometimes innocent), destroying buildings (sometimes innocent) and spying on people (sometimes innocent).

    That is why war is a bad thing. But once a war starts, it is going to be finished one way or another, and I have a preference for it coming out one way rather than the other...

    Okay, could you have said it better yourself?



    More Paypal Nonsense...

    I have $29.00 sitting there, and I can't touch it. Well, I could take $20 out, and they'd charge me $1 for my pleasure, but I need at least $31 in there to get $30. The damn wankers.

    Who wants to give old Uncle Bane a stiffy? C'mere an sit on Santa's lap...

    If you've been around here awhile, you know I collect comics. Some time back, when I was flush, I ordered a pile of them, expecting to get them right away, but no such luck. Well, the other day, my comic pimp called and told me $75 worth of them had shown up, and he got all pouty when I said I was broke, and wah wah waah.

    Pity me.

    $30 would make a nice dent in the pile, and give ole Uncle Bane a Holly Jolly Christmas.

    C'mon...don't make Tiny Tim cry, ya Scrooge bastids!




    Important Nostril Update!

    So, I was just now fishing about in my nose...'mining for nose gold', as it were, and my highly trained thumbnail struck an outcropping and I seized upon it, and little did I know that a nose hair about an inch long had chosen this particular gobbet to gestate in, and as I brought it out it reached the end of it's tether, and snapped like a pony chain, with a sound like when you snap good thread on a thimble.

    Damn, I cannot currently see out of my left eye, for the tears. I gawped at this artifact, dangling from my thumb and forefinger, swaying like the morning star of a Knight of Auld, and marveled.

    It hit the trash like a thrown shrimp. And I fear I have pull-started my eyeball.

    Pity me...



    Not Safe For Anywhere...

    Porn. Pure and simple. Clamage, boobage, Santa costume desecration of the first order. Filth, smut, and blood rushing alarmingly to your nethers. Queers will be both created, and cured...

    We clear? Okay, pervert, go here, and please allow me to blame American Drumslinger, who manages to perhaps exceed the ominous Lycan in his perversion.

    Oh, and I personally think that chick looks like that beaner hottie from 'Desperate Houswives', if said Desperate Housewives hottie wasn't such a scrawny, coke-raddled little stick.



    How Come...

    ...I haven't heard about this anywhere else? Better scrutinize your phone bills.

    Interestingly, I got one of those scam emails asking me to verify my Comcast account this morning. It appeared to originate from our good friends in Tokyo, Japan, but you never know.

    I get the scam Paypal one all the time. Fuckers.




    What a dumb word. You're not supposed to sit on them. Well, the occasional drunken fat woman rolls over on hers in her sleep, and wakes to find two limp little blue legs sticking out from under her tit, but otherwise, 'babysitting' is just code talk for 'not having to be with your own kids'.

    I've had me a babysitter a time or several in my day, both as the sat upon, and as the consumer of their labors. Something about getting a crisp twenty from a handsome older man and riding in his car, seems to apparently call for a wet stain in the back seat on the way back to her house.

    Lord, I apologise. But it's true.

    And as a kid, I got nailed by so many babysitters, that I thought it was all part of the service, and would mark their card down most severely should it not occur. And in a bizarre twist, one of my babysitters whom did not nail me, nailed me many years later, when we met coincidentally. She was a professional barrel racer, and raced horses on marathon courses as well, and she could crack walnuts with her vagina. I miss her.

    I am beset by children. The wife woke me at 8:30 this morning, on her way out the door to tend the vegetables (the old Alzheimer's couple she is babysitting...can you believe they let the old bastard drive a car? It's true!) and I was thrust most cruelly and immediately into a vertical position, trading my vertical and cozy morning-wood for being forced to stand fully homo-erectus, and go feed the little monsters lest they commence to forage on their own.

    And they keep wanting to talk to me, and stuff, in spite of the television, which much like a cross to a vampire, seems to lose strength when you don't believe in it. They want to play, and stuff, and refuse to sit properly in front of The Hypnotizer, entranced. And Nattie wants to do (ugh) 'Crafts', involving paper and glue and scissors and coloring, and rushing to me every few minutes for approbation and more tape. Aarrgh!

    I cannot let her have the roll of tape, or I would. If I let her whisk it away, I would doubtless wander downstairs at some point, only to find Johnny trussed up and hanging from a ceiling fixture like spider food.

    Parenting Tip #1617: Keep an eye out in used computer stores for boxes of old style tractor feed paper. You can leave the box out, and the kids love tearing sheets off and doing their 'art' on it, and you won't have to be bothered, and they won't spill it all over like when they try to get at your good printer paper.

    Nattie has a fetish about peeling the paper off of crayons, so I developed a fetish about throwing them away. Fuck Crayola, I can buy Chink knockoffs by the pound at the Dollar Store, so I have a Zero Tolerance Crayon Policy. Heck, they've got so many, we keep them in a bucket.

    FUCK! Johnny just about made me shit myself by turning on his Christmas Train behind me. Still, my heart. For a little clubfoot, he is one quiet-ass sonofabitch.

    Where was I. Oh yeah. Crafts. That's one of the reasons I hate church. They encourage our children to commit gratuitous acts of pasting and gluing, and teach them that rubbing their hands in paint and slopping it around is socially acceptable.

    Listen, Padre, ixnay on the afts-cray, okay? Shouldn't you be teaching them about how God will smite their little asses for bugging Daddy? Or that the Devil will reach out from under their bed tonight and tear their balls off if they set that friggin train off behind Daddy one more time? Isn't that why we adults throw the money in your damn plate, you no-job-having fruity sonofabitch?

    I don't know if I can survive three more hours of this.

    Pity me...


    If you think 'Miss Spider's Sunny Patch' is about a hot goth nudist, you are in for a disappoinment.


    They are playing 'Worm To Butterfly'. They are taking turns laying down on the floor, and having the other one cover them up with a pile of blankets and purloined towels. Then they lay there, still, for a spell, and then arise from their chrysalis and flap around the room.

    Rinse, repeat. With much attendant shrieking, in spite of my perfectly sound biological assertion to them that butterflies, indeed, do not screech like diving hawks. Nor stomp their feet til my teeth click like castanets.

    Pity me...


    2.5 more hours, but who's counting.

    They are now playing 'Puppy & Kitten'. Those don't shriek either, retards.

    I believe 3pm is nap time in any civilized society, wouldn't you agree?


        Tuesday, December 20, 2005

    Walk Faster...

    ...or else.

    Why do people keep channeling me? And writing better than me? Who do I have to kill to get a drink and an untraceable throwaway gun around here?



    Mail Call...

    I got an email a bit ago, of surpassing beauty. It gently tugged out my heart in warm palms, brought it to it's lips, and laved the poor broken thing with a gentle tongue, and then softly pressed it back in, without so much as a scar.

    Wretched thing that I am, it is such that keeps me going.

    Thank you...

    And all those of you who care.



    Haikus For You...

    Corn reaches the end
    Rattling over my prostate
    The pleasure is mine

    Room smells so awful
    Reeking of burning match smoke
    At least no one died

    Alone in winter
    Sitting in my own foul pew
    I drink my red wine



    If You Care...

    ...about the NSA kerfluffle (and I do not) go to Jeff Goldstien's blog and prepare to read a huge summary with tons o links. Everything you ever wanted to know.

    I not only do not care, I actively want the government to spy on the known and potential traitors in our midst. Fuck your imaginary wishful-thinking so-called 'civil rights'. Come down here and live in the real world, Binky, your Constitution is just a dream, and has been since Lincoln wiped his ass with it and went on to utterly defeat the only people who ever had a chance to stop him.

    Repeat after me:

    There will never be another revolution here. Ever.

    Everything will stay as it is, except for the part where it gradually deteriorates.

    God will stomp a mudhole in us when He finally gets tired of our shit, and when He is damn good and ready.

    There is not a damn thing you or I can do about it other than watch.



        Monday, December 19, 2005

    Corn, Vegetable Of The Poor...

    But it cleans us out so we don't get gout, you rich, Julienne cut green bean eating bastards. Ugh. And you eat asparagus. Looks like pinched off elf shit.

    I am eating what looks like a bowl of lightly yellow'd third-world baby teeth. Tiny, sweet corn. Oh yes, I will be seeing you again, my secret anal stimulating friends.

    And sloppy joes.

    No, let us capitalize that rare delicacy...Sloppy Joes. On tender buns so white, with cheese on top tonight, at morn you'll be a fright, a match or two I'll doubtless light.

    Hopefully, I don't get blown down the stairs ahead of a fireball, like a scene from 'Die Hard'. As opposed to getting 'blown, downstairs', which is quite another thing entirely, and to be encouraged.

    Ahhhh, the Yule Log is going to come early, this year, and might require the services of a stout prybar, and perhaps an axe. Maybe explosives.

    And I'll have to flush at least twice, because it is a long, long way to Iran.



    Back When I Usta Could Blog...

    This was a very good month. I enjoy nearly everything I wrote. The comments show zero, but they're not. Really good ones. Note who don't come around here no more. Sigh.

    I especially like the 'which gun to buy for a newbie' post.



    Home, Safe!

    Well, their new home in Columbus, Georgia, anyway. They say all you people talk funny. I told her it's only like learning a new language, from people who were dropped on their heads a lot as babies.

    Anyway, they made it across the vaste wasteland of America, and I thank God for that.

    One of ya'll needs to sell them a couple of guns, though. My daughter is going to be home alone a lot. Maybe a pistol and a shotgun.



    Lord, I Apologise...

    Larry the Cable Guy says that after he says something particularly egregious, but something he intended to say, anyway. It's his schtick.

    Well, I am heartily sorry for that 'Nookiedoodle' post below, but I'm not gonna take it down. I had my wife read it before I posted it, and she hated it, and I posted it anyway.

    But it was just sick and wrong.

    Lord, I apologise...



    The Bodies Are Still Bobbing... the surf there in Miami from this latest plane crash, and already an FBI spokesman has run out to assure America that it was not an act of terrorism.

    Whew, that's a relief. Thanks, FBI!


    Ho Ho Ho...

    Nothing to see here, move along.



    The Face Of The Enemy...

    Read Michelle Malkin and see what little turd she has found stuck on the sole of our collective shoe.

    I swear, if I lived within a hundred miles of that little bastard, I would find him and beat the shit out of him. And there are thousands of like-minded lunatics who are just like him.

    People, I think it's time to take the gloves off.


        Sunday, December 18, 2005

    The Nookiedoodle...

    I have just invented a cookie. Those of you who own bakeries and gift shops, please pay me via Paypal when your new venture begins to skyrocket to heretofore unimaginable heights of success.

    Men, this cookie will get you laid, if you eat it correctly. In front of her. Hint: Start from the center. Don't bite.

    Okay, I'm thinking Snickerdoodle based cookie, here, something that will rise up and resemble the forward portion of a teenaged girls firm, taut breast. It could also be made brown, for those epicure's who might be more negresstically inclined.

    As the cookie cools, place a pre-formed chocolate nipple in the center, and voila!

    The Nookiedoodle!

    You can make dark chocolate 'nipples', or strawberry pink ones. Large and small aureoles. Use sesame seeds to texture some of the aureoles, just under the candy coating. Fill some with thick Bavarian Cream, to simulate breast milk. Or cancer...OKAY! Forget I said that! Mind wipe! Mind wipe!

    Gosh, I am disgusting. Where were we...

    The possibility of a penis-head truffle comes to mind. Cream-filled, of course. Or a bon-bon.

    But this cookie idea is killer! Admit it!

    Fuck a damn candy kiss.

    Tomorrow: The Twatco...get it? Taco+Twat? I'm thinking sprouts for hair, and a red sauce and a green sauce version...maybe some Ranch oozing out...


    Call the stand you set up 'Bukkake Taco'...




    Do You People...

    ...ever scroll down for updates? Just curious.



    The Bush Speech, Just Now...

    I would not have dared given that speech myself, unless I knew for sure the outcome of the Iraqi elections.

    Think about it...



    This Is All I Have To Say About That...

    Don't be a pussy.



    Hey! Texans!

    What the fuck is wrong with you people? What happened?

    I just saw the last half hour of the most recent Alamo movie, and ya'll were killing the shit out of Mexicans. Last time I went to Texas, even the pussy could kick your ass.

    Now, my daughter and son, just travelling through, had to leave two different restaurants owned by Mexicans and full of Mexicans, because they couldn't get served. Got treated like they was niggers in the 30's in a Georgia coffee house.

    What the fuck.

    I go into a Mexican-owned place here in town, and it is all gold teeth and slippery grins, and they cannot serve me fast enough. I shall do so no longer, as I now suspect that my food is seasoned liberally with beaner saliva.

    At least when you go for Chinese, they Wok the piss out of their spit, and their filthy, commie sweat.

    Go, study how these minorities smile at you, and you will learn the face of a liar, and it will serve you well in all of your interpersonal relationships.

    I have a waitress, here in town, that I have trained. She is white, and looks like Olive know, Jack Nicholson's wife in 'The Shining'? Yeah. I tip the livid shit out of her, and let her know that I'm an asshole, and that I expect to be treated like one, yet be served generously and with a quickness, and hold the bitch-spit, thank you.

    She calls me an asshole to my face, and treats me like shit, which seems to be immensely cathartic for her. Don't worry, I'm there for you, honey. Sugar Buns (I actually call her that, and she hisses like a snake...I love it).

    But my coffee is always hot, and spit free, and my plate runneth over, and my condiments are always in ample supply, and no matter who came in before me, she is at my table with a menu and water and a snarl before my ass hits the seat.

    We have an understanding.

    With Mexicans? Methinks, not so much. Miles to go before we sleep...

    For the record? I have a black restaurant (oh, you know what I mean) I frequent, and it feels like coming home when I go in there. I can even tolerate the (white) faggot waiter. It ain't color, it's cultural. Sure, there are places in L.A. and Pittsburgh and other negroe-intensive hellholes that I wouldn't conceive of entering, but blacks and whites get along far, far better than our handlers would have us believe, I think.

    But I think it is way past time we reset the Mexicans in their place. If you see another country's flag in yours, and they haven't conquered you with arms, I think you just need to burn that fucker, and gun down anybody of any color who objects.



    They Never Call, They Never Write...

    One minute they're all over me, all over my comments section, I am so wonderful, I even do one of those dumbass 'interview' thingies for them that I never do, but I do, and the next minute...


    Zip, zero, nada, and they delete my comment (which was hilarious, by the way) and only have time for the new cool kids.


    Hey, my little bloggers, get used to it. There are plenty of doors I don't darken anymore, either. For one reason or another.

    This blogging thing is a solitary pursuit. Oh, to be sure, we form up into wings, occasionally, like fighter pilots, but when the enemy is sighted, it is every blogger for themselves, and you either make it as an Ace, or you bail out of a flaming cockpit, covered in the oil of your own shame.

    Or you peel off and fly away by yourself, and fuck all the dumb shit. Just enjoy the solitary joy of flying, the solace of the clouds, and waggle your wings in greeting here and there to your fellow fliers, off surfing the clouds.

    I am pretty much talking to those of you whom I have inspired to step into the ring, for one reason or another, but you mere consumers may want to pay attention as well.

    Surfing blogs is like driving down a road that runs through a fecund field, at night...the opinions of others are going to spatter your windshield at a frantic rate. Your wipers won't be able to keep up. If you are not grounded in your own personal self, you will be batted around on the floor like a favored cat toy, and end up under the Fridge of Craziness, with all of the other forgotten and dusty toys.

    Except with me. I know everything, and you can trust me absolutely, even though you sport a belly ring. *shiver*

    Get it? If someone offers to put a blindfold on you and tries to get you to taste test some mystery products, you should probably just punch them.

    No one is as smart as they think they are, and if others tell you you are smart, well, that is the time to start questioning motivation. And it is the questioning that will keep your wings straight, your course focused, and you, above the clouds, there in the sun.

    Happy Trails.



    Some Much Needed Perspective...

    From someone who is all about the perspective.

    Really, if you give even half a shit about your country, go read this...follow all the links.

    The MSM treats you all like a sailor who has just got off the boat, and after eighteen months at sea, you will let just any spraddled, diseased whore suck your dick.

    Just say no.


        Saturday, December 17, 2005

    Bunny Talks, Bullshit Walks...

    I just got a call from one of my Marines. He's stuck in a place in some desert, with a bunch of Iraqi's. He is some concerned they are 'going to butt-fuck him', as you know how those people are. He feels their eyes burning henna tattoos across his ass.


    Through the interpreter, he designed that these Sons of the Desert were pining for fresh-killed meat, that they could cook over an open fire and eat.

    A Humvee came swirling into their encampment, a bit ago, and a sergeant jumped out and told my Marine "Fuck, I just ran over the biggest fucking rabbit I ever saw!"

    My Marine asked him if he could recall where this bunny-squishing had taken place.

    Guess what is cooking over wood in an oil barrel right this minute?


    "...The rabbit tasted pretty good, it was really a one in a million hit too, the humvee only hit its head so all the meat was still good, and there was lots of meat. I might die from eating it but I couldn't tell the story of hitting a rabbit with a humvee and cooking it without eating it..."

    "This morning wasn't my best ever, I got pulled out the rack at 0300 and got ready and packed my stuff and waited around for everyone to wake up. By about 0830 we were all pretty much awake except for three people, one of them an Iraqi who has been living here for the xxx xxxx. He's a cool guy but everyone teases him and wrestles with him, and he gives it back, I think he's an alright guy. Well the other iraqi thought it would be funny to wake him up with an arty-sim but nobody had any so we couldn't do it. About a minute later a humvee came cruising up asking about something and he had an arty-sim right there. I asked him for it and he let me take it. After the humvee left I showed everybody what I had somehow acquired and was greeted by fiendish grins, we were going to wake up our friend. Its kind of funny how every time we all wanted something these last couple days that seemed weird a hummer would drive up to me and I'd be able to get it, I mean really, what are the chances of hitting a rabbit in the head with a hummer? Anyway, we threw the sim in the house and ran and covered our ears and waited for it to go off, first there was that loud whistle and a concussion that threw dust and random camp debri everywhere and our victim yelling. By the time we threw the bomb we were all giggling like school boys anyway but this was too funny, I kept on thinking about how the japanese have that show where they wake people up with cannons and stuff and how much cooler we were to be throwing bombs at each other for jokes. The only bad part of the whole thing was that it brought a Marine patrol by and they stuck around for a couple hours looking for ied making material, I guess they thought that we had bombs or something..."

    "For realsies though dad, I wont be home for Christmas. Next time I have a chance I will take leave and come home but my entire paycheck got swiped by The Man and I'm surviving off MRE's again, good thing I'm in the field. I really wanted to be home for Christmas this year, no surgeries, see my sis's and bro's and all that but between me not having any money or enough time to put in a leave chit anyway I wont be able to make it..."

    Multiply this story by the thousands, folks. If you see a military person passing through, there's your charity. Fix him or her up, won't you? I'm not asking for anything, because it's too late, but there's a lot of leave time given this time of year from that Muslim hellhole over there, and these people need our support. Especially the Marines. Nobody gets fucked up the ass by the government quite like Marines.

    It's like, traditional.



    Tannenbaum With The Tards...

    So, Johnny had his little Christmas party today, that his Children's Therapy Center throws every December for their kids. Johnny has made very few of these, as he is usually up in Portland at this time of year, up on the rack, getting an upgrade. Getting something cut off, cut into, or tweaked in some major way.

    There is a special kind of feeling that washes over you, as you hold your wife, and watch as they roll your son through the big doors into surgery. And lately, Nat has been able to experience it with us, as well. I wouldn't even wish it on a liberal. Or a raghead. Or a faggot. I'd rather kill clean, than to put even someone I hate through that.

    So today was a happy day, full of sugared up, honking mutton-heads, goggle-eyed, and stoked for Santa, in great staggering throngs, with families that all had either that gimlet-eyed look of gunfighters, or thousand yard stares.

    The people who run this shindig are, quite literally saints. How they can make it through a day without being translated directly to Heaven is beyond me. I guess God knows we need them more.

    You couldn't have gotten me into one of these events at gunpoint, not too long ago, as the Crow of Time flies.
    Today, I tard-wrangled with the best of them, gave out many free hugs, and my little black coal of a heart is going to maybe have to buy bigger pants, because it feels like it has gone up a size or two.

    Oh, I know there's a bunch of you out there who are where I was, once, and I don't hold it against you for a minute. Seeing someone who, By God and but for the Grace of God, could be you, or one of your 'normal' kids, broken and twisted and vacant, festooned with drool, can be jolting. It speaks to an inner, personal fear, the one that makes you feel guilty when you watch someone burn up in a fire, relieved because, dammit, at least it's not you. I get it, trust me.

    I wouldn't wish it on anybody, and I wouldn't trade it for the world. Go figure...

    All Johnny wanted was his fucking present, and he wanted it right fucking now, so kick it in the ass, Santa, you fat, present hoarding bastard. Nat was down with the presentation, as well, and had no idea that the wife had personally bought her a present a couple of weeks ago and put it with Johnny's donated one, so Nat could get something, too. They can't afford to gift the siblings, and I do not care to know what it would have done to her tiny brain both now, and in the future, to see Santa recognize Johnny, and shrug his shoulders at her. I think that there's a reason that the story of Cain and Abel is one of the first ones in the Bible.
    It's God. Saying "Watch it..."

    John and Nat got called up, given their presents, and got their digital photo snapped. I may post it. As far as I can tell, they were the only two to turn around, half-way back to our table, and yell "THANK YOU, SANTA!"


    On a slightly more personal note, I would have happily crowd-surfed naked through the assembled throng of female family members and staff. I have noticed, in my travels through Pain County, that the women who are the parents and relatives of these broken, misfit toys, are almost to a fault uniformly hotter than a cops stolen pistol. And I thanked God several times that my wife was the hottest of them all, except for maybe this one milk-skinned blonde Icelandic Goddess who was maybe nineteen, and who made boners pop like bubble-wrap as she floated languidly by.

    I had contemplated telling you of the juggler. Who juggled an axe, regulation baseball bats, bowling balls, etcetera, and badly. Or of how, when asked, I told the wife, Sotto voce, to not "let the kids within twenty feet of that clumsy fucker!" and my voce must not have been so Sotto, because several parents sniggered around us, as they held on to their own offspring, while the axes flew, the bats clattered, and the bowling balls clunked. He was a volunteer, and was worth every penny they paid him.

    I'm sure of it.



    I Absolutely Love...

    ...this kind of stuff.



    I Blame Christmas...

    My bladder drew me up and out of my bed at 5am, and I stood for a moment on the upstairs landing, startled by the light from a lopsidedly gibbous moon. It hung there, in cold alabaster splendor, like a dead child's balloon, released to float away and hang there shining, while their eyes frost over, as they lay there in the dirt by the merry-go-round, where dark horses slow, and the chill brass tubes of the calliope moan a dirge.

    I looked out the window, across the common area, and saw that the land had turned black, and come down with a case of ice. Summer was trapped under there, screaming through a mouthful of frozen dirt, clawing at the lid with bloody fingers, whose nails had peeled back like wet decals.

    As I shuffled downstairs to the other bathroom, so as to not wake the rest of the sleepers, the silver light sliced across my eyeballs like a straight razor and, for a moment, I was blind, and all I could see were black splotches, like blood is black in the moonlight.

    The bathroom night-light brought me back, and was all I needed, as I poured hot water out of myself into the ice water in the bowl and made a stinking, uric steam. I flushed, and turned, and caught the face of a dead man looking back at me from the mirror. He winked, and I nodded, and stepped back into the well of fell light, and climbed back up into it.


        Friday, December 16, 2005

    Some Assmazing Photography...

    Go here for more, but if yer a dude, you might should not be whacking off. Unless yer a gay dude. I'm just sayin. Not all dat ass is female, homes.



    Time For Vespers...

    My oldest daughter (duh) and my son (I.L.) are driving from Oregon to Ft. Benning, Georgia. I hear there are some wild and wooly freaks down thataways, so I would like to ask those of you who pray, to wing a word or two up to the Sky Pilot for them. Also, the weather is currently sucking major ass, and is colder'n Frosty's dick, and I am some worried.

    They are approaching Texas, also known to be a desolate land, and full of twisted, misshapen, proto-humanoid creatures.

    They are due to be at Ft Benning on Monday morning, to touch base with their realtor, and those of you who know, understand my trepidation at a trip like that this at this time of year.

    It does not help my nerve that they both drive like epileptics on ice-skates underneath a glitter ball.

    Pray. Pray hard. And by 'hard', I mean 'fervently', not with a stiffie.

    That's just disturbing.






    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!

    She wants to be indicted. Oh, I'd indict her so hard here eyeballs would...what? Oh, 'indict'. Well, that is something completely different.

    Sorry I'm late, Goddess.



    What Does This Say...

    ...about truck drivers?



    Welllll...'t this special.



    Okay, Now This Is Just Sick And Wrong...

    Click for larger version. Duh.

    Artist Credit: Clay Boutilier

    As usual, blame Catfish, who is also sick and wrong.



    How evil are you?


    Like It Or Not...

    ...boys will be boys.

    A fine article.



    Yeah, What He Said...

    Kinda. Dennis and Steve are accountants, and lawyers, respectively. And it shows. They are more cynical than some cops I've known, though. With them, the glass appears to be half full, but no doubt with urine.

    I link to people because I like them, or I thought they said whatever they said well, and often better than I could. Steve seems to imply in his writings that linkers are suckasses. Sigh. I'm not quite sure of Dennis's take, not having read him that long.

    I wrote a post one time castigating tattoos, knowing full well that several of my readers had so chosen to mar themselves thusly. And I knew for a fact that they were regular contributers to my tip jars, as well. But, I hate tattoos, especially on women. Bip, gone. They left me, and a revenue stream died, and I'd write it again, because it is what I believe. How I feel. You want a suckass, go find one. Baney don't play dat.

    Have I ever shelved a post to keep from hurting someone's feelings? Hmmmm. I don't know. Maybe. I do try to keep from marauding too forcefully, a 'Negative Nellie', if you will. A 'one-trick pony'. It bores me when I do it, and it bores me when others do it. With the possible exception of this PJM kerfluffle, which is actually fascinating, and which I believe can potentially threaten 'blogging as we know it'.

    Some people castigate me for my adoration of the female form. I may start putting up nudes again. It is a form of worship for me. My heart cries out my thanks to God when I see one of his beautiful creations. Nothing soothes my heart and soul more than looking at a beautiful woman. Deal. I can't help your nasty mind. If you have personal issues, maybe you are in the wrong place. I would not suggest that Acidman go into a bar to get a cup of coffee. For a while, anyway.

    Ahhh, well. Enough of this. I am pleased with my coterie of readers and commenters. Thanks for dropping by, and thanks for your continued patronage. It honors me, and humbles me, and I am not easily humbled.

    You folks rock.



    Wrap Your Tentacles...

    ...around my egg sac, Baby!

    This is pretty cool.



    She Has It All Going For Her...

    ...and then she ruins it with that damn belly ring. Yuck.


        Thursday, December 15, 2005

    Ladyfish 6.0?

    FUCK! Unless it comes in, already wrapped, on a styrofoam bier, apparently it is a death sentence for any fish that enters this house. The latest Beta, this evening, actually struggled with us at the door to keep from being brought in. The lintel is scarred with frantic flipper marks.

    Ladyfish 5.0 is dead. Long live Ladyfish.

    I actually kept a dead fish in the house for two days, and chastised it in front of the kids for being lazy. "Get up you lazy bitch! Swim!" Why yes, there was an odor, thank you.

    The wife got lectured at the fish store by some whippersnapper who has managed to keep a Beta (i.e., 'Chink Dying Fish') alive for three years. THREE YEARS! We have gone through three Betas (CDF's) in three months!

    The last fish was a questionable fish. All gray, and not Beta-ish at all. I used it as an example of why my children should eat their vegetables. The wife had fallen for a sales pitch that had assured her that this varietal was a hardy fish. Plus, she got sold a thermometer. And a small plastic aquatic shrubbery. Certain to extend the lifespan of any finned piece of bait.

    When they arose from their nap this afternoon, Johnny praised the shiny new Beta for taking her vitamins, and regaining her colour...well, she is a frisky little thing.

    Alas, I fear her days are numbered.

    And the number of a fish is $6.66...just kidding. It's more like a buck fifty. Plus whatever the city charges me for a 'burial at sea'.



    Must See!

    Oh man, you have got to see this. I probably shouldn't mention the part where I think the chick pilot should have special rudders made, so I can kneel in front of her, and see how far High-G turns can extend my tongue into her.

    I would be wearing appropriate safety harnesses, of course.

    Thanks, Catfish.



    Filthy, Filthy Porn...

    Just awful. Not safe for anything. I'm ashamed.

    Still, if my wife ever died, I'd be on my way to this chick's house with a can of chloroform and a roll of duct tape. Oh yes...she would be my wife, like it or not.

    Oddly, my favorite feature is her teeth.

    Quit looking at my woman! What's that you're doing there?! Oh, you nasty fucker! Cut that out!



    Gangsta Rack...

    Via Acidman, I found this lovely page of amusing gun-handling. And then this priceless 'Africa's Funniest Home Videos'. I laughed and laughed.

    Altogether, though, it is one damn fine advertisement for the Kalashnikov weapon.

    If these bozos can make it work (after a fashion) anybody can do it.

    Just for the record, from five hundred yards, they bebopping or not, I would have dropped every single one of those dumbasses, screaming into a pool of their own guts.

    But I hear they kick ass with machetes.



    Objects In Space...

    Are closer than they appear...

    I have a few pet scientific theories. One is that our entire solar system is just one giant spacecraft, and that we humans originated on Mars, but during the war in Heaven, Mars was rendered lifeless. I believe our moon was (part of) a defense shield during the war. Has anybody ever observed a meteor hit on the moon? Photographed the flash?

    I believe that at some point in history, we had the knowledge/power to control this spaceship. I also believe that a drastic magnetic pole shift can wipe unshielded human brains clean just like a floppy disc, and that this has happened every ten to fifty-thousand years for a long, long time.

    And no, I have no idea if tinfoil would make a good mind-shield, smartass.

    So there.



    Let The Record Show...

    Gosh, I hate Keith Olbermann.

    Oh, and God Bless Capitalism.


        Wednesday, December 14, 2005

    Blame Lil Toni, Not Me...

    Cracker be all CRAZYnshit...

    Oh well, a little Christmas Spirit from Mississippi...

    Lost stanzas to 'Twas the Night Before Katrina (cajun style)

    When down on Canal St. the looters dey came

    The po-lice had seen dem and called dem by name

    STOP! Melvin, Shaneekwa, Chantel and Joe Brown

    Leroy and Rickita, put dem shoes down.

    Da baskets dey loaded as fast as dey could

    While big screens was rollin on back to da hood

    Shoes, electronics, fur coats and rings.

    All de essential survival things.

    From de east and de west da levees separated

    An da peoples had wished dey evacuated.

    Da water poured in like Dixie beer foam

    And da hood emptied in to da Superdome.

    Dey crapped an dey pillaged an da Dome went to hell

    It'll take 10 years to get rid of da smell.

    But it's not like cleaning da dome affects us

    Since dem Saints is gone to San Antonio, Texas.

    Soon after Arron Broussard clearly started to drink

    An Kathleen Blanco needed her time to think,

    Da forces finally came to help out da cops

    Wit dere M-16's up on da roof tops.

    Dey were poppin da ganstas like da hooka's pop gum

    An tossin dem into the river like chum.

    St. Gabriel was not dere eternal slumber.

    An dey never made da body count number.

    No longer to walk among civilization,

    Dey now a part of coastal restoration.

    So When ya open up oysters, instead of pearls

    You'll find little gold teeth and Geri curls.

    An da ones dat was bussed to other states

    An places where da Red Cross facilitates

    Are waitin around for dere FEMA checks

    An demandin everything else dey expects.

    You can call em moochas. You can call em no good.

    But dey ain't comin back to your neighborhood.

    To all you evacuees and your plight

    Hope you like TEXAS...

    An to all a good night.



    What Sort of Intellectual Are You?

    You're a scientific intellectual.
    Take this quiz!


    Make A Quiz More Quizzes Grab Code

    Via Grouchy Old Cripple.



    If This...

    ...doesn't make your dick hard, well, I guess you just must have a pussy.

    Thanks, Acidman.



    I Love Clam Chowder...

    I am really craving fried clams right now, for some reason.



    How To Cook A Jew...

    Well, aside from all of the other ingredients you'll need, you must first understand that to keep kosher, you'll need an actual Jew to do the cooking.

    Hitler, spooning there on the coals with Goebbels, just giggled a bit over the pain the Jews inflict upon themselves.

    "Hey, lets give up strategic ground we fought and died over to our self-admitted worst enemies, so they can launch rockets at us more easily!"

    Seems someone said 'Go Fuck Yourself' to the Israelis, once, and they took it seriously.

    Damn, but this is hard to watch.



    So, I Was Scratching My Balls...

    ...and I found a dingleberry.

    Go read about how you, dear readers, are 'fringe'. Is that some kind of libtard-speak for a new way to shave your twat? Surely they can't be referring to we who sent their flabby asses packing in each and every election since Billy Boy single-handedly destroyed the Democrat party?

    They mock my sadly broken blog template as well, proving, yet again, that superficiality reigns supreme in their 'minds'.

    Oh, well, any publicity is good publicity, or so they say.


    Alas, poor Kari...

    Seems they removed the entire post to which this one refers. I guess they got tired of wishing Johnny dead, or something. Oh well. They are still up, continuing their traitorous, self-destuctive mischief, like boll-weevils always do.

    I love it when they practice self-marginalization.


        Tuesday, December 13, 2005

    Dead Liberals...

    That's what the only good ones are. Dead. If the title of this post didn't make your heart leap with joy, perhaps you need to become a good one yourself.

    I was just over at CNN, because Fox was not showing any Crips rioting, and I figured if anybody would have reporters out on the streets of L.A. encouraging the natives to restlessness, it would be CNN.

    No such luck. But I couldn't help noticing that they are wallowing in the blood of our honored war dead even more egregiously than usual, if that is even possible. They are making a list, and checking it twice. Heck, several lists, with photos! Get yer War Dead! Step up here and get yer War Dead! Come on up here, little lady, dontcha wanna see yer dear dead Daddy? We've got him right here in a display, just use this hankie to wipe the spit off the glass so you can see your Daddy's dead face...yeah, there you go, little girl...


    I'd like to see someone start and maintain a running tally and list of dead Liberals. With photos. And details of how they died. AIDS. Auto-erotic asphyxiation. Drug overdose. Whatevah. Count them up and mark them off in the same ghoulish way they tally our country's private agony. Or what should be private agony, if these self-haters didn't hate us as much as they hate themselves.

    Just put it in their face, each and every day. Liberals, we are at war with you, and here are your casualties. Here are your dishonored dead. Oh, and wounded? Yeah, we got yer wounded right here, fuckers. All of your divorced movie stars, and their messed up little kids. All of the people in rehab and hospitals from over-indulging in your filthy, hedonistic lifestyle. All of the emotionally crippled teenagers your insistence on destroying normal gender identity has wrought.

    You proud of yourselves, Liberals?

    Sadly, I believe that you are. Insanity is no defense, but it most certainly is a reason.


        Monday, December 12, 2005

    Some Damn Ayrab... currently mining my archives, and viewing this oldie from a while back.

    Let's all just slide our hands into our pants along with him, and enjoy this again...

    Oh, she makes me wet...

    Allah wills it.





    Point Of Clarification...

    I am gravely disappointed in ya'll for not getting the movie reference in my 'Home Alone, Too...' post. Here is the line: It is a wonder I am sane. I have used that several times, and nobody ever gets it. Even the vaunted Space Bunny.

    Also, rereading it, I was not clear on the plastic Dad's soda bottles. Hey, screw you, this is the kinda stuff that bugs me.
    Sure, there are a lot of plastic soda bottles out there of all shapes and sizes, but these are weird. They copy the old glass soda bottle's shape, and are made from a very thin material, which I found astounding, considering the notorious volatility of bottled Root Beer and Cream Soda.

    Okay, I'm lame. I admit it. But now you have to figure out which movie and who said that line, thou stupidheads who did not even know it was a movie line.