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        Monday, January 31, 2005

    In Honor Of...



    ...the Columbia 'disaster'...

    Hey, strap a rocket to your ass, and don't come crying to me when you go off like a piNASAta...

    Again, do not tell me who to give a shit about. I woulda gone up myself, happily. And I would be embarrassed if you all were whining and putting teddy bears in my yard.

    Thoughtless fucks...what if any of their crap woulda come down in some family's back yard, during a barbecue?

    For more sensitive readings on this subject, go back into my archives around this time. They call me MISTER Sensitive.





       

    What's In A (Food) Name?

    Okay, I've been commenting a lot about this guy, and reading a lot over there. He has been doing (and finally, has done) a Turducken, and it has gotten me all excited about doing one. Being that I shall ingest no product that has 'turd' as part of it's name, and considering that I'm not over fond of duck, I decided to alter it somewhat (well, quite a damn bit) and the wife and I are currently in the 'chewing on the end of your pencil' stage of engineering this baby.

    I want to put quail inside of pheasant inside of a goose. I want the stuffing to be a theme of various wild rice's, mild(ish) cheeses, Steve's lardass cornbread, and we are pondering some other things, as well. I am looking into some of the less fishy caviars, and prawns. Crawdads, for sure. I could live on crawdads.

    I found this reference up in Seattle where I will doubtless purchase most (if not all) of the fixins. Any sauces I will likely buy from here. He is a personal friend of my wife, and he wins chili and barbecue contests from here to Texas. He is rich enough he doesn't do anything but drive his cooker (go, look at it) around the country, whipping ass wherever he goes. He doesn't have to make the sauces for commercial sale, but they are a big family, and the kids all have to work making, selling and shipping perfect sauces before they get to play with the money. I honor that way of thinking. Plus, I've never had better food. Ever.

    So, the wife and I are planning this like the D-Day invasion. We also have to save up for it, because nobody is donating to the little tsunami victims there to your left. So, it'll be a few months before we make an order, and it may be the beginning of summer. I plan to do this in the outdoor propane barbecue. I'm gonna put the creature into a big paper grocery sack that I have buttered heavily on both the inside and outside (worked for Mom, good enough for me). Then slow cook it at whatever temp I decide on for hours, occasionally basting it with it's own juices.

    This week, I'm going to buy some Foie Gras and experiment with it to see what all the fuss is about. I do not even allow liver in the house, so this should be interesting. I will doubtless hate it, but it may go well with dark meat and soft cheeses.

    Well, every man should have an obsession, I just can't seem to name this one. Phooq? Queef? Quaiphug? I'm tempted to go for four, and stuff a quail into a squab into a pheasant into a goose.

    Maybe I'll just call it 'The Richard Gere'.

    Update!

    How could I forget! The liquor, the liqueurs, the wines, the beers. The sides. Hog uses macaroni as his side, but to me, that's just an impaction looking for a place to happen, namely, my ass. No, we have (tentatively) settled on a boiled mix of red and new potatoes, boiled in a water, sour white wine, butter and dill mix. We are actually considering using fresh mint and cilantro somewhere in the stuffing. I want the center, where the quail lives, to be a little dessert-ish, and the outer portion to be more, well, main course-ish. We are considering fresh white Albacore out there. Perhaps an endive themed (with spinach) salad on the side, also, with walnuts, and a cream dressing of some sort.

    I want to make a marinade for the quail that is heavy on this gourmet raspberry syrup we have that is so light and delicate, I catch angels sipping out of it. When Dinner is served, I want to have Raspberry and Peach Lambics, chilled, each with their own flute, as well as an open bottle of chilled Aste Spumante as a palate cleanser. I want to sample a bite with a sip of each type of lambic to follow, to see which is best.

    We're still trying to figure out in which part of this bird-bomb we will use the Triple-Sec and the Grand Marnier (and the Creme de Menthe?) and the sherries and the ports and the...fuck, I better have a few fire extinguishers standing by. I am considering some sort of marinade for the pheasant that incorporates Yukon Jack and tawny port and some sharp bourbon and pepper corns and garlic...lots of garlic.

    So, the outer rim: goose, prawns, albacore, some kind of dark wild rice and cheeses that don't burn too easily? The pheasant will (maybe) have a crawdad and cornbread theme, with the quail (and squab?) to be a medley of yellow raisens, raspberries, sweet onions (would cilantro spoil it?) mango/apricot chutney, green onions...

    My, I'm getting a chubby, here. "Honey!"





       

    Begging For Beaver...

    Don't do it. It's unseemly. No means no. Yes, I know no sometimes means 'not right this minute' or 'maybe after 10 more drinks', but c'mon.

    You wouldn't hop from foot to foot at the tire store, begging for an appontment after he told you no, would you?

    "Sorry, we're booked for the week..."

    "Oh please, I really need you to shove something round on my axle, baby, so bad...I've been thinking about it since I saw you. Please, service my Volvo..."

    No, you would not. You'd nod, perhaps somewhat regretfully, and go down the street to look for another store. There are other stores, and sooner or later, someone will be servicing your axle, and you won't look like an idiot.

    It is permissable to ask outright for sex, if you do it in a genteel way. I can get alcohol at home. I came here for beaver. I like to make that clear right up front. If you ask nice, and she says no, it is permissable to ask her "Well, will you hold still while I do?" I have gotten laid with that one. I have only ever been slapped once, and then we went off and had sex. I had pulled out the top of her sweater and peered in and said "Sorry, I just wanted to see if those looked as good on the inside." It was an honorable slap, and I took it as such.

    If you stand there and beg for it, I hope she Maces you good. I think bars should keep a rack of Mace so the bartender can just hand the lady a can when she holds out her hand. Like a skunk lifting it's tail, if the guy can't read the implicit warning, he deserves to go all booger city. Fukkim.





        Sunday, January 30, 2005

    I May Have...

    ...to do some reevaluating.





       

    If You Buy...

    ...or sell anything through Cafepress, you are a dick.

    Let the boycotting begin.

    That is all.

    Update:

    I found this guy via this guy which led to the above outrage. This isn't like stopping slavery, or curing some other type of cancer but, dammit, it's important, and I've been hearing bitching about the fucks at Cafepress for years. If I wuz pimpin shit, I'd find another way, methinks. And tell them why.





       

    I Repost This, Just Because...

    August 31st, 2004

    Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dust-bunny...

    Early this morning, I heard a disturbance coming from the kid's room...panicky, tiny, breathless shrieks, thumping feet, the sounds of fighting...I raced to the door...

    There was my three year old daughter, in mortal combat with a cloud of mutant, radioactive bees, twisting, turning, gasping, transfixed in the bars of morning light streaming through the spinning blades of her window fan...she was beset on all sides by glowing, supernatural, darting faeries, and she danced and fought like a warrior princess...well, at least until she fell on her ass and noticed me stifling hysterics in the doorway.

    Well, those were some big-ass dust motes, I'm here to tell you. She kept a wary eye on those spinning dust devils as she edged around the light, towards me, and then fled down the stairs to regale her mother with tales of battle.

    A Bronze Star, at the very least.





       

    Sunday Fare...

    This seems appropriate for the day we've decided is the Lord's. At least we let him have one.

    Turn up your speakers, and enjoy.





       

    Amen...

    This says it all. Go buy his book, too. I did, and the wife and I are having a blast with it.





        Saturday, January 29, 2005

    Why...

    ...you should put your kids in public school.

    Or, not.

    Update:

    Bye, Wal-Mart...





       

    Drinking Whiskey Before 6 O'Clock...

    Not a good sign. I am liable to get, well, out of hand. Or not. I am about to go take my first shower of the day, a nice hot one. My pits smell like onion rings. I may masturbate. The Little Woman is all a-spatter, it being her time and all. I'd tap it, but orgasms make her stomach cramps worse.

    I've got Melissa Auf Der Maur on repeat, ripping out two minutes of 'Faeries Wear Boots', over and over. Were I in a bar, things would degenerate fast. Bodies would fly. New scars would be traded around like baseball cards.

    I see over there my 'site meter' has clicked to over 11,000 visitors in less than two months. I don't know what this means. There are bloggers who get that in ten minutes. Yadda yadda. I was shouting out into a dark auditorium, with all of the seats empty, in the beginning, and if I fill the band pit now, I am content.

    Those of you who have been inspired for some reason or other to start your own blogs in the last few months, good on ya. We all put our condoms on one dick at a time. Read. Write. Don't be the asshole you're not. Be the asshole you are. In other words, be yourself. If you write for anybody but yourself, you better be getting paid handsomely for it.

    Go, hie thee to other blogs. Read. If it is appropriate you do so, comment. Leave your contact info; at the very least, your URL. If you don't want those people seeing your blog, shut up. Time will pass...time will tell.

    If you are doing a diary blog, don't cry when no one comes around. This, and this, are how that's done, correctly. Aspire. Fly too close to the sun. You'll get a great tan. I promise.

    Okay, it's Burrito and Blowjob night at Bane House. I gotta go.

    Thanks, all, for dropping by.

    You are the wind beneath my cheeks...





       

    This Is The Kind...

    ...of stuff some people would pay good money for.

    Cheap bastards. I'm considering turning this into a rat bondage/bukkake site. A niche market, to be sure, but the fuckers pay well.

    Man, listen to this. Best Paranoid cover, ever. I want to give this woman a throat exam.

    Update:

    Wow, check out the fucking guitar solo at the end of this...I have goose bumps. Hey, sons and daughters of mine? I know yer out there...Daddy wants.

    And Furthermore...





       

    The No Ones...

    These are an undefined people. They are who you are referring to when you are referring to someone's you do not know and may never meet. The No Ones.

    Or at least that's what my Thunderbunny believes. The wife is taking a bag of old baby toys to charity. The kids helped her choose which ones to take, and said goodbye to their old friends. As Mommy is heading out the door, baby daughter asks "Are you taking those to the No Ones?" and we knew immediately who she meant. Why yes, little girl, to the No Ones. Lovely noun. So this is why we rule the beasts.

    Just now, going down for her nap, I asked her if she wanted to sleep in her ballet skirt and she thought for a second and then said "No thanks, I don't think that would be appropriate..." and she shucked it off and slid herself under the covers. She knew what she wanted to say, Googled the concept, and up pops the word. I never cease to be amazed.

    Johnny is no slouch, either. The more weighty the subject, the more ponderous the word is that he seeks out. Thus, 'I don't want any of that terrible looking food item' gets uttered as "No! I definitely do not want any of those vegetables!" Or, "I absolutely want to go outside and ride my tricycle..." Well, absolutely.

    Nat, though, is the chatterer in the house. While John will recline on the floor, playing with his trains and singing softly to himself, Nat will talk at you til your ears bleed. It is the female's natural tendency to wax hyper-glossalaic, of course, and she really freaked out over the duct tape, so that option is off the table. So we nod and listen. You listen because she will physically turn your head with her tiny hands and say "Look at me!", so you must.

    I need to start writing down her words and phrases, her Nattyisms. It is like watch a new language aborning, budding off the old one and crawling off to spawn others of its kind. We do not correct her, for the most part. The world awaits for that, to quash the magic, and straighten her tongue.

    For now, we watch their brains twist and turn and grow how they will, providing grist for their little mind-mills, coal for their little engines that can, and reap the rewards of our lack of effort almost hourly.

    Hey, teachers, leave those kids alone. For just a little while.





       

    Saturday 'Fakes'...



    More oddly shaped, surgical monstrosities, doubtless not approved of by God.

    A new weekly feature? Well, ya'll be the judge. My name is Bane, and I'll be your waitress for this evening...

    The idea this photo sent a mooslum into colonic spasms and paroxysms of rage, well, that just makes me want to plough her furrows deeper, more desperately, and vigorously.

    Hey! It's for Homeland Security!





       

    Sad, But True...







        Friday, January 28, 2005

    Oddly Enough...

    ...I agree.





       

    I Treasure My Trolls...

    This little darling:

    Bad Spelling is "distracting"? So is bad grammar and puntucation, to those of us who know how to use it properly. Go back to school.
    You ignorant Asswipe Email Homepage 01.28.05 - 2:17 pm #

    ...spouted off on some old thread where there were 0 comments. Hmmmm, an English Major and sneaky. A deadly combination. Nice placement of fake name, too.

    I responded thusly:

    Hi, troll! Mommy's computer? Or the one in the detention room?
    Bane Email Homepage 01.28.05 - 4:04 pm #

    Note the time-tested, double-combo of both the Mommy thing, and implying he was still in High School thing. Yes, I rawk, dudes.

    The only thing that can soothe my pain is for you all, right now (except for Nate, who is saving up for teeth) to go there to my Tsunami victim donation site (TO THE LEFT!! THERE!!) and give til it hurts. Those little kids need proper hygiene equipment. I am sure they are tired of washing up on the beach.





       

    I Think I Like Scissor Sisters...

    Leastways, they gots some potential. I really like the song 'Laura', and maybe 'Return To Oz even a little more. Even.

    I feel that I might have some issues with their fans, though. Pierced, vapid goth snotwads, no doubt. I see myself outside the club, 'Laura' resonating through my bones, and I pull the rim of my coal-scuttle helmet down close over my eyes, reach into my left jack-boot and pull out the potato masher and yank that string and as the fuze sizzles, step over the bodies of the bouncers and kick in the club's door and flip that sucker underhand, end over end up through the flickering spastic glitter-light to the far side of the room and take a knee as I swing my MP40 up while I hold my helmeted head down and BOOM the shockwave comes back to daddy through the crowd and things clink and patter down on me and I open my eyes and stand up and the gun begins to buck and shout, stuttering and bucking in my fists, brass zipping up to my right in short spurts as I finger it's clit and...

    Well, maybe that's just me.

    Of course, running through their playlist, it is easy to see myself entering their studio...I dip into my tux with my right hand and pull out the Walther, the other hand brings up the silencer and begins to fit it to the threads on the barrel as I move through the outer offices...skwook-skwook-skwook as I screw it on, a good firm last turn and phut one shot into the face of the red-eyed 'bodyguard' at the door into the studio proper, punching the bridge of his Vuarnets through the bridge of his nose and the lenses clap together, applauding my performance with one good loud click as he slides on down the wall and I'm into the room looking at gawping faces and two hands twitch to their beltlines and phunk-phut two hearts explode and I yell "Who is the motherfuck that overproduced the shit out of that CD?" and another hand raises hesitantly and I empty the rest of the clip into his face and do a quick reload. I look at the band and say "let that be a lesson to you...I'll be watching. And listening." and I back out of the room, the smell of gunpowder and urine and shit and boiled blood, music to my nose and I just know...

    ...the next album will be much better. The talent is there.





        Thursday, January 27, 2005

    Dudes!

    O.C.'s got lesbos! Go get it!

    Update:

    Gypsy squeezed this out:

    on movies - Just saw AvP last night. WORST FUCKING SCI-FI FILM EVER. That movie made no sense in the context of either of the franchises it was based on. Say goodbye to those classic creatures, they'll never make another one. And I want my 2.50 rental fee back, dammit.

    I responded:

    Dude, AvP rocked. LOVED it. Do not go to one of these looking for one of your chick-flick dramas. I sentence you to watch it again. I'm waiting to find out if Vin Diesel is a homo. I will play no homo game. Or one with Hobbits.

    I was at my comic shop yesterday (Yeah? Wanna make sumthin of it?) and We Who Know discussed comic movies. The overall theme was that 'Fanboys Must Die'...what the fuck did they expect? Dipshits. It is a movie, made from a comic. I grew up with Spiderman. I own the expensive ones. None of you whippersnappers got any cred.

    At all.





       

    Go Ye Here...

    Kneel, and be pissed off. Have someone hide your guns from you first.

    Update:

    Where has this guy been all my life? Get your asses over there.





       

    Hey!

    Someone needs to donate to those poor little tsunami victim children there to your left so I can rush out and buy this.

    I'll be damned if she hasn't redeemed herself, even though she seems to have gone all blackspanic on me.

    My love is rekindled. You losers on dial-up, just turn back now. Don't embarrass yourselves.





       

    Ouch...



    Good humor, like good sex, should hurt a little. Go here, for more.





       

    Wow...

    This makes me almost wish I still smoked dope.





       

    Rat Spleen's Back...

    ...and he is being wrong at the top of his voice. And he comes out swingin at the Instapunkit right off the bat! Go on over and torment him, but not too hard.

    I'd hate to see him reinstitutionalized...

    I rarely disagree with JQuip, or agree with the Instapunk, but the tsunami seems to have shifted things, and birds are flying backwards, and dogs sleep with cats.





       

    You Wimmins...

    ...can be some sick, nasty bitches. I love it. Keep it up.

    You spit on me, folks, and I will kill you. And these guys just got a little red ink?

    Sheesh...





       

    I Honestly Don't Know...

    ...what to think about this.

    On one level, I don't care a bit, and think it's kinda cool. On another, I am reminded of the bit in the Bible where it talks about things being 'as they were in the days of Noah'. I am imagining God filling up the bag, lubing up the nozzle, and looking for a good spot to stick it in.

    I don't want to be a foolish virgin.





       

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship. Boy does she nail it, too.





       

    HA!



    I don't even like Condi, but that's funny...cuz it's true. 'Bitter, pouty windbags', indeed.

    Via Cox & Forkum.





       

    Another Worthy Blog...

    Negroes are really entertaining the shit out of me lately. This guy is really really good.

    Read his 'Disclaimer' on the sidebar. I rarely laugh out loud when I read, but that did it. I went there for his take on gay cartoon characters, and decided to stay for awhile.

    Now, git...





        Wednesday, January 26, 2005

    Welcome, Busblog Readers...

    I shall show you the same consideration I show everyone else.

    My 'readers', on the other hand, may practice 'trephination by penis' on your tender skulls. I am truly sorry about that. I cannot be held responsible for the cleanliness of the towels in this restroom.

    Here, there be knuckle-draggers...and some pretty damn smart people, who are the mostest polar opposite of you as could possibly be.

    Leave, or enjoy, as is your wont.





        Tuesday, January 25, 2005

    So, The Altar Boy Says...

    ...phew...Father, your dick tastes like shit!

    Just in case I haven't pissed off everybody to the east and the west of the Mason Dixon Line.

    Trust me, I can piss you off. Look what I can do by accident, then imagine what havok I can wreak if I get to load the bombs I want, and set the proximity fuses myself.

    If you don't like me, well, why don't you just go and suck off a seeing eye dog? If I can't bitch slap your ass, I can kill it, and if you get one-up on me, as Crom should will it, I will spit my dying blood in your face.

    I am listening to 'Animal Magnetism', by the Skorps, sent to me by my most Avid Fan. I made the mistake of watching the History Channel earlier...gunfighters, dontcha know, and now, excited, I am doing blade drills in my room, kinda like in that first scene in Apocalypse Now, though not nearly as drunk. And with knives. The steel whickers softly, and I exhale gently as I make my death-strokes.

    The wife enters: "Bad time?"

    "No baby, great time, whussup..." and I shluck the blades down into the top of this little table I have...they stick, quivering, an inch apart, at the same time, and I am pleased.

    Ahhhh, time to kiss the babbies. John is going to sleep in his old room (with Nat) for the first time in many months. He is hooked to devices, to be sure, which will rat him out if he decides to 'Go South', as they say in the doctor shows. He is content. So is Nat. She has been having nightmares, lately, and has been keeping herself up til after midnight, and her next day is pretty much 'toddler on PMS' hell. She is very content, tonight, to have her bolt-headed big brother in there with her.

    What a frikken day, eh? Bush is still your President, and if you don't like that, well, you have just contributed to a naughty little wet spot in the front of my sleeping shorts. Thanks!

    A multitude of Arabs have had the shit shot/bludgeoned/stabbed/high-explosived out of them today. Many of them were not actually living in Dearborn Michigan.

    European 'countries' are chucking Ayrabs out in droves. American Libtards still hate Jerry Falwell and James Dobson, more than they hate Mullah Omar...what am I saying...they love Mullah Omar. Sorry.

    Furthermore, I have pondered, and I have decided. Abortion should be legal. On one condition. I ask just the teensiest thing, here. I respect the 'mothers' right to choose, but I want the choice to have some meaning. She should be provided and forced to use, free of charge, a syringe full of heroin. Enough to kill both her, and her baby.

    After all, she's shooting up for two.





       

    No Doubt These Are Fake, Too...



    The new racism...all guys with awesome abs are gay, and all chicks with great racks are 'fake'.

    Obviously.





       

    A Little Nippy...






       

    I Hate...

    ...this guy. And this guy, too. Yet I read them every day. Do you hate me, too?

    How can you not love writing like this:

    i think i'll have good kids.

    i think i'll raise the type of kids who'll either understand all
    or grow up planning my death with such detail
    and creativity that even i'll be proud to have sired them.
    born on a whim.
    the lightbulb is dim.
    shes dancing and smiling and motioning and drinking gin
    all the red auras of yesterday are sinking in
    grateful dead matriarch smoking dope in peoples park

    in oakland its another thing
    in chinatown a man named Ding
    and you expect me to understand
    i do i dont i give a damni was aiming at your finger Sally but i picked off
    the babies hand the babies hand oh god a doctor
    i shot the babies hand
    well he was pointing my oldest said
    and stinking up and crying, dad
    whats fair is fair my girl agreed
    the baby nodded and looked at me.

    You can talk when you can write as good as they, until then, just don't embarrass yourself.

    I mean it, I would probably end up smacking either one of these guys in the face, or storming off in a huff, yet I am drawn to their stuff like a stud to a muff.

    I am lucky to live in these times.





       

    Lileks...

    Never mind. I'm just using this post to bookmark this article so I can go back and look at those amazing Estes paintings when I have time.

    Move along...




       

    I've Blogged On This Before...

    ...and it bears repeating.

    Paranoia strikes deep, into your heart it might creep...





       

    Fallout...

    It's over.

    I never banned anybody, though I've received three emails on the subject. Blame Haloscan, not me. From my comments section, I would imagine that y'all overloaded their servers somewhat this morning.

    I feel like an emptied egg sac. There's a saying that goes something like 'Well, I guess you know who your friends are'...yep. Weird.

    Talk about your Chaos Theory. I could no more have predicted yesterday than I have been able to win the lottery.

    You ever talk to a drunk? Let's say, someone you care about, and would never willingly punch out? You just know that, no matter what you say, you are not getting through, you are not changing anyone's mind, and they won't remember a damn thing you said in the morning.

    Yep. Kinda like that.

    I would like to thank all of my supporters, and all of my detractors, for a very eye-opening, bizzzzarrrre experience.

    I had a dream about trying to have sex with my ex-wife last night, but we couldn't find where she had left my dick.

    I blame you.





       

    Pubic Apology...

    Note the 'pubic'? See? I'm funny.

    I have been wronged, and anybody who can read and comprehend English, knows it.

    Good luck, Army Mom!...Sarcasm? To be sure. But heartfelt wishes, nevertheless.

    Update:
    I did not intend for this to be an indictment, per se, of Army of Mom. Hers was just the post that triggered this. It has been simmering for some time. I apologise, AoM, for any rudeness shown by any of my guests to you and yours. I like you, and I hope you have a great experience in all ways.

    Could that be any more clear? I think not.

    I can ill afford it, but email me, Kat and AoM, with the amount of money you have contributed to Johnny and my family, and I will make every attempt to repay you. I thanked you in public then, and I'm still grateful, even now.

    The thought of us having benefitted from your grace just sickens me tonight, though.

    Please. I mean it. If you care not to send me an address, name a charity. Your 'donations' choke in my throat.





        Monday, January 24, 2005

    Why I Will Never Go Wireless...

    ...right here. Hat tip to SondraK and her delicious ass.





       

    When I Think Of Kat...



    ...I sometimes get a little gas...





       

    Fuck Johnny Carson...

    It's crap like this makes me glad he's dead. More libshits need to drown in their own lung-butter.

    This cooling turd gave us the awful Jay Leno, and the awfuller David Letterman. I started getting to bed at a decent hour because of those dipshits. And fuck Conan O'Brian, too, the little Irish dog. Howdy Doody fucked Madeline Albright and we got Conan.

    I must confess to watching Johnny for many years. I was young. Sue me. I actually liked Dick Cavett, and adored Morton Downey Jr before cocaine raped his brain and turned him into a weird pussy. Now Downey...that was show business. Watching half-naked black homosexual nazi midgets attack transgendered KKK dominatrix's was the epitome of pure, unadulterated entertainment. And nobody could rant like Morton Downey Jr. Nobody.

    All these public displays of affection for Ed McMahon's life partner began to wear thin in the first hour. You'd think he got hit by a tsunami. Just kick the fucker into a hole already and move on, for pity's sake.

    Now Jimmy Kimmel. He can live.





       

    This May Just Be...

    ...the coolest thing I have ever seen.





       

    Decisions, Decisions...

    Well, Army of Mom abandoned her children into the hands of complete strangers and hobbled off to her Destiny, today. I'm sure she has good reasons to abandon her children into the hands of complete strangers. I have listened to the stories my adult children have told me of how they were treated by some of the complete strangers I abandoned them to when they were little. Horror stories. Good luck, Army Mom!

    Well, she has a communist as a best friend, so all I can do is shake my head in wonder. Women.

    My wife and I got our school in a box from the UPS man this morning. This company took $400 of our money and sent us reading, anatomy, history, phonics, math, and geography from kindergarten to the third grade. Oh, and testing materials. And record keeping, for when the stinking government weasels come slithering around to see why they are not getting any money for indoctrinating and dumbing down our kids. Oh, and they mention God all over the place. They are down with God. They think God is just fine. God God God. Doesn't that just make you little commie butt-zits cringe? Oh happy day.

    It's all about the Choice, isn't it. Well, unless you choose to do anything other than kill an infant or toe the party line, that is. My wife and I have chosen to homeschool my last two children. This means that the means within we live are not as comfortable as we might like. It also means that my newly four year old daughter is beginning to read for pleasure, and can make change at the store.

    One of their reading assignments combines vocational skills as well. We have them read the labels of the cans in the pantry, and then use a can opener to open them with. I don't like to think of the wife and I, dead from some calamity, and the kids sitting amidst a bounty of food, unable to decipher and access the contents thereof.

    We just made a decision, one day. These kids of ours will never enter a public school, unless it is to vote. If we ever get to a point where we can afford private school, I will use that money to hire an in-home tutor instead.

    Socialization? Why would I want my kids to socialize with other people's fucked up little monsters? Kids you wouldn't allow in your yard, let alone your house, and yet you choose to lock your own kids up with them all day? Puhleeze. They have a whole crew of church kids they see a couple of times a week, and they get to play with we adults all day.

    I'm not a big germophobe, but my gosh, these little foreign kids that are infesting our schools are nasty little bastards. They come here with TB, are ridden with lice, and I'm going to lock my kids in a room with them? Not. With my first batch of kids, I got very tired of the notes being sent home with them from the school telling we parents of the latest outbreak of this or that nastiness. Invariably, when I went to the school to see what was up, and who was responsible, the teachers would jerk their chins towards some little brown snot encrusted bug factory from Honduras or Buttfuckistan or wherever. We had a special cupboard in the bathroom for the Rid and the nit combs. Oh, to be sure, there's plenty of filthy, ignert white trash, too, but the best benefit of homeschooling for me personally is not suffering every winter through two or three bouts of the flu or whatever that my kids have brought home to Daddy from school like a class project in booger construction.

    Nope. You do what you want with yours. I literally do not care. As for me and mine, though, the choice is clear.

    Update:

    I did not intend for this to be an indictment, per se, of Army of Mom. Hers was just the post that triggered this. It has been simmering for some time. I apologise, AoM, for any rudeness shown by any of my guests to you and yours. I like you, and I hope you have a great experience in all ways.





        Sunday, January 23, 2005

    This Is How It Might Look...

    ...when The End begins.

    A happy little story about bunnies...

    Fingers crossed!





       

    Rattling Their Little Wooden Swords...

    This article cements it in my mind that Iran has sealed their doom.

    And this quote:

    British Foreign Secretary Jack Straw has put together a 200-page dossier arguing against any attack, but promoting a "negotiated solution" to quell Iran's nuclear ambitions.
    According to the Times, the document says a peaceful solution led by Britain, France and Germany is 'in the best interests of Iran and the international community.'


    ...makes it a slam dunk.

    Shortly, the only Persians you'll be able to find will be in museums. They have been cruisen for a bruisen since Khomeini ran off the Shah. We even paid good money to Saddam to cap on them, and he took his best shot. He failed, so we clipped him. Now, we need Assad to turn over and play ball, so Iran is going to pay through the ass, and then then just watch how quickly Assad turns on the Baathists and gives up Saddams WMD's he's been storing since two months before we went into Iraq.

    Just like Qaddaffy did.





       

    Turdblogging...

    You know you've pinched off a good shit when the smoke alarm in the hall goes off. Well, what do you expect when you've packed your ass-cannon with poorly chewn bits of bottom feeder and good, red meat?

    I feel more compassion for whoever steps foot in that bathroom full of Zyklon-B, than I do for Johnny Carson. Fuck me if this country hasn't turned into a bunch of ululating, paid professional mourners. Crikey, you'd think he was hit by a tsunami or something.

    I mean, yeah, he's dead. Boo hoo. Now move on. He was fucking old, and passe since 1992. He was an acquired taste, and most of you were too young to acquire it.

    Get over it.

    Update:

    Aren't these things supposed to come in threes? I vote for Bush Sr., his bug-eyed wife, and the Pope.

    And why hasn't that fat fuck Kennedy died yet? Now there's a private plane crash I'd like to see. Him and his whole clan, and the Clintons...oooo, and Jesse Jackson! Augering into the ocean just off Martha's Vineyard. Yes, I think a watery grave would be appropriate.

    It would be cruel to the fish, giving them a lifetime drug habit that way, and the resulting oil slick as his fat renders would doubtless render several beaches unusable for a while, and kill a bunch of birds...small price to pay, says I.

    Double Secret Update:

    Yeah, I used 'render' twice in the same sentence. Sue me.





       

    Screw You, Nate...

    I don't care if this story is true, or not:

    At a fundraising dinner for a school that serves learning-disabled children, the father of one of the school's students delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all that attended.

    After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he offered a question. "Everything God does is done with perfection. Yet, my son Shay cannot learn things as other children do. He cannot understand things as other children do.Where is God's plan reflected in my son?"

    The audience was stilled by the query. The father continued. "I believe," the father answered, "that when God brings a child like Shay into the world, an opportunity to realize the Divine Plan presents itself and it comes in the way people treat that child."

    Then, he told the following story:

    Shay and his father had walked past a park where some boys Shay knew were playing baseball. Shay asked, "Do you think they will let me play?" Shay's father knew that the boys would not want him on their team. But the father understood that if his son were allowed to play it would give him much-needed sense of belonging.

    Shay's father approached one of the boys on the field and asked if Shay could play. The boy looked around for guidance from his teammates. Getting none, he took matters into his own hands and said, "We are losing by six runs, and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we'll try to put him up to bat in the ninth inning."

    In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shay's team scored a few runs but was still behind by three. At the top of the ninth inning, Shay put on a glove and played in the outfield. Although no hits came his way, he was obviously ecstatic just to be on the field, grinning from ear to ear as his father waved to him from the stands.

    In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shay's team scored again. Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the potential winning run was on base. Shay was scheduled to be the next at-bat. Would the team actually let Shay bat at this juncture and give away their chance to win the game?

    Surprisingly, Shay was given the bat. Everyone knew that a hit was all but impossible because Shay didn't even know how to hold the bat properly, much less connect with the ball. However, as Shay stepped up to the plate, the pitcher moved a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shay could at least be able to make contact.The first pitch came and Shay swung clumsily and missed. The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly toward Shay. As the pitch came in, Shay swung at the ball and hit a slow ground ball to the pitcher. The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could easily have thrown the ball to the first baseman. Shay would have been out and that would have ended the game. Instead, the pitcher took the ball and threw it on a high arc to right field, far beyond reach of the first baseman. Everyone started yelling, "Shay, run to first, run to first." Never in his life had Shay ever made it to first base. He scampered down the baseline, wide-eyed and startled. Everyone yelled, "run to second, run to second!" By the time Shay was rounding first base, the right fielder had the ball. He could have thrown the ball to the second baseman for a tag. But the right fielder understood what the pitcher's intentions had been, so he threw the ball high and far over the third baseman's head.

    Shay ran towards second base as the runners ahead of him deliriously circled the bases towards home. As Shay reached second base, the opposing shortstop ran to him, turned him in the direction of third base, and shouted, "run to third!" As Shay rounded third, the boys from both teams were screaming, "Shay Run home!" Shay ran home, stepped on home plate and was cheered as the hero for hitting a "grand slam" and winning the game for his team.

    "That day," said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, "the boys from both teams helped bring a piece of the Divine Plan into this world."

    If you're not crying like a little bitch right now, you need to be sterilized.





       

    It's Not How You Pick Your Nose...

    ...but where you put the booger.

    Vick fall down, go boom. How did the Eagles get Oprah to play defensive tackle for them? Damn, she has big fat tits. Hits hard as heck, though. You go, girl!

    What's this 'best hospital show since ER' bullshit? Yeah, I really want to see a show about sick people and enemas. Not. Never watched either, never will. I can only assume that the same fuckwits who keep Will & Grace, Ellen, and Springer alive watch that crap, too. Who else prays that muslum terrorists home-invade all the Neilsen familys, and slaughters them in their beds? And please, tape it and put it up on Al-Jizzum, for our viewing pleasure. Thank you, fanatical terrorist sheep-fucking puddles of fuck-phlegm.

    PS: That Dodge ad is cool, you know, with the white trash jumping their Duster? Love it.

    PPS: Oh, the Falcons are so fucked...





       

    Assault On Precinct 13...

    Well, this lightning has struck before, and, thankfully, it has struck again.

    It takes nothing away from the wonderfullness that was the original, but this movie stands on its own as a masterpiece. Go. See it. And then go read Ebert's review, and marvel that he and I could have co-authored it (the review, dummy).

    On a semi-related note (referring to Micheal Vick, as well as all negroes, especially negroe quarterbacks)...black folk do not be hannlin the cold too well.

    I'm jus sayin...





       

    Best Anthem, Ever...

    Okay, I just cried all the way through the singing of our National Anthem before the playoff game today.

    If you don't like that, fuck you, commie homo. If you didn't cry, yourself, you weren't watching, or you just need to be killed. Get off my planet.

    On a semi-related note, I do not know how I can bear watching all of these ads for bullshit FOX shows (American Asshole) that I hate beyond words.

    Oh, wait...that's what beer is for. Whew.

    Oh, and I am rooting for the Eagles, but I am pretty sure they're fucked.





       

    Is It Really Sunday?

    Already? Boy, how time flies when you're having fun. My testicles feel funny. Seriously. I draped my package over the balcony rail a bit ago, and my wife squealed in horror and delight, as she tried to usher the kids out the door to church and get the door locked and I'm roaring "Pussy! Need pussy!" Hey, it's her fault for wearing those tight pants. Golly, I need a poke.

    Someone else did, too. Need pussy, I mean. 16 years old. Knocked up his teacher. Boy, is she sexy. Has this been going on all along, and is only now getting publicized? I've nailed a teacher or two, when I was in school. I thought it was an aberration; though, to be sure, I was damn grateful. But knock one up? That's just creepy. An indictment on teachers, certainly. Dumb bitch never heard of birth control? I thought those public school cunts were all about the rubber...

    Johnny Carson just died. I have had sex so many times with him giggling over my shoulder (from the TV, pervert). Cigarettes claim another willing victim. Oh well.

    Man, I would so fuck Heather Nauert. Go to the Fox News website, look under 'Bios', beat off, and come on back. See? She is playing 'snow bunny' today, on the news. Since nobody actually gives a damp fuck whether New Yorkers freeze to death or not, she is obviously being pimped out for ratings. Thank you, Fox News, thank you. I just wish you'd time things better, like the porn producers do. I just begin to peak, and you switch to that troll Jeff Birnbaum, and render me flaccid, and I throw up a little in my neck. Stop it. If you must switch, go to Laurie Dhue, so I may finish, at least. Perhaps a countdown timer would be helpful, too. Lord knows you folks don't stint on graphics.

    Hey, go read this, when you've got an hour or so. I agree with and treasure every word. If you don't, you just may be reading the wrong blog. I'm just sayin...

    Fuck me if I didn't have the best damn Chinese food I've ever had in my life last night. 'China Buffet'. Two words that should never be put together if you are trying to avoid forming an epic turd, and spending the evening before it's birth lying around, fondling your poochy tummy, and saying "my precioussss..."
    Is this place a chain? Is it national? I am not exaggerating when I tell you that it was the best Chink food I have ever had. It gives me pause on my whole 'Nuke China Now!' stance. We at least need to save the cooks and the waiters. I have never, and I have eaten my way through the Napa Valley, a lot (Tra Vigne's, anyone?) had better food.
    My epicurean pedigree assured, I continue:

    Dinner...$10.99 per adult, $5.00 per child. Yes, this is the most important detail of any restarauntical transaction. I have spent more at Tra Vigne's on the wife and I just having a snifter of Remy Martin VSOP and a creme brule each, than I spent on my entire family last night, including tipping the splay-toothed waitress who didn't know what Coor's Light was and could no more pronounce the word 'fork' than I can understand trigonometry.

    Presentation clashed with menu, and both got 20 out of the 10 available points. To my right, as we entered the buffet area, was a Bento table, with the most perfect display of sushi and like items that I have ever seen. Then, there were FIVE separate buffet lines, each featuring the most perfectly prepared food I have ever gazed upon, let alone eaten. Crab legs. Stuffed prawns. Mussels. Prime Rib. Five kinds of deep fried shrimp (including coconut!), plus several other shrimp presentations. All sorts of fish. Rice. Pork. Chinese. An entire dessert bar which had the freshest, sweetest bananas I have ever eaten, drizzled in some sort of strawberry sauce. The best tapioca pudding I have ever had, with pure vanilla in it. Yes, I can tell.

    Did I mention ALL YOU CAN EAT? I regretted my recently shrunken stomach. Still, I destroyed three plates. The most delicate Spring Rolls I have ever had. Perfect Dim Sum. I would go there for lunch just to fill my plate with Pot Stickers and Won Ton. Literally the best Won Ton I have ever had. Some sort of crab/cream cheese filling and fried (like every other fried thing there) in the lightest, sweetest, cleanest oil I have ever known.

    All chefs and waiters in the United States should be rounded up and forcibly brought to this wondrous China Buffet and, with a firm hold on their ear, be shown how food is done, correctly. I mean it. I have only had one other similar experience in my long life, and that was in an all you can eat Mexican Buffet in Salinas California, where the food was all Mexican perfect, and you could have as much of it as you wanted. You judge a Mexican place by their Chili Rellenos, and theirs were the standard by which I will forever judge all others.

    So, last night, finish up the three hours of VCRment from Friday night. Star Trek, Johnny Zero, and Battlefuck Gallactistar.

    Star Trek? Hmmmm...interesting. I really thought they were going to kill Hoshi, and they knew it, and played on that. Cool.

    Johnny Zero? Fast becoming a favorite. Good, quirky writing/acting...great action. FOX. Need I say more?

    BG...loving it. Bring it on.

    Football today? Bo-Ring. Will watch, but if the Pats make it to the Superbowel, I'm taping it just for the ads.

    That is all...





        Thursday, January 20, 2005

    The Book Of Screams...

    I see it, in my dreams. Hold it. Page through it. Heck, I created it...well, some part of my mind did, in self defense. I guess.

    Ever see Army of Darkness? The Necronomicon? Yep. That is my book, except without the jaggedy, biting face.

    No, for some reason, my book has a small clown nose, prominent, just above the center line of the wrinkled, grey rectangle that it is. It's about the size of a little red marble. Incongruous.
    But, my book is still covered with grizzled, human flesh...flayed off, tanned with infant urine, and stretched over the photo album where I store my horrors, where my mind wanders at night. Or whenever I happen to sleep.

    Come into the Bane-Brain. I dare you. Think you’re tough? Unless you have your own book, you won’t get out of here alive…or at least whole…intact. Regardless, my hard-ass friend, you will never look at another sunset the same way again.

    The first pages are all crinkly and old…the photos faded…dated. Giants tear at me and make me want to hide, and sometimes, they give me presents and cakes with candles on them. Sometimes they stab me in the stomach with pencils…sometimes the giants fight amongst themselves, and we little ones try to hide ourselves away, or crawl out and placate them, but things just get worse, and…

    The pages stick together, as the plastic decays, and the paper ages. In the latest submissions, I see the flagrant nastiness, and squinch my mind, clenching it like a fist, and the image is scanned into the book and kept safe, compartmentalized.

    Blood drips down the walls, where chains hang, clinking together, except where dripping hunks of meat make wet, smacking sounds as they meet, stick for a bit, and then fall away…

    …grey-white bitches, like fat, pulsing maggots hungering for blood, schluck here and there, like vampire caterpillars, while sweaty pig-men in executioners masks, laboring over splintered chopping blocks, hack the limbs from living infants and throw them to snarling red-eyed rat-things…

    All the while, silky-skinned, nearly nude dancing girls offer themselves desperately, swaying censers of fragrant herbs and parfums, trying to pull your attention away from what is going on around you…ignore the screams of the disemboweled infant and fuck me, just fuck me…

    Sorry. I just can’t.





       

    A Little Head...

    So, Johnny got his bolts out, today, the two dangly ones in the back. Well, not the actual bolts, these are just the cranks for them, which is okay, cuz they really jeebed me out looking at them. I have them in a little container. I think I'll have them made into commemorative earrings for the wife.

    They left the one in his forehead, though. That is the one that really gacks me. She mostly keeps it covered with gauze and tape, so he looks like a little unicorn, but man. El Yucko when it is uncovered. The bones have been cranked to all the tension they can handle, and his face is slowly forming, like an air mattress being inflated by an asthmatic. His eyes are aligned straight, now, so he doesn't look at the world like a tree chameleon. He is getting more and more able to make the 'R' sound, and I am on his ass constantly now about it.

    "Errr, err, errr, not 'woo woo woo', lazy-ass...now say ARRRR!"

    "ARRRR!"

    "That's a good little pirate, now say your R's and quit being a lazy ass."

    I miss not being able to give him a cuff on the head, but that just jeebs me out. Boys need their brains kick-started every so often, but there is no real place on him I can safely whack without unraveling him or something. Sigh. Well, there is the little crab-pinch to the armpit...what kid doesn't just hate that?

    Two months, they are going in again. Remove the bolts, and do some kind of Maxillary reconstruction, and then it's up to nature, I guess. I have been assured that this is less of a deal than the most recent surgical intrusion of December.

    Yeah, right...





       

    Still LMAO...

    Okay, I've run into this commercial all over the blogosphere today. I must have seen it in twenty different places, and laughed my ass off each time. Most bloggers have the same reaction, but Lee over at Right-Thinking From The Left Coast got his panties in a wad, and tried to do some Euro bashing.

    Now, I'm all for Euro bashing, but puhleeze. Get a fucking life already. That was genuinely funny, and, as one commenter of his said, would probably sell the shit out of VW's in Israel. And if it's true that the ad never aired, but was done on spec for VW to showcase the ad-makers talents, well, double puhleeze.

    I'd love to see more ads like this flood the airwaves. I might start watching them again, instead of just fast forwarding through them.





        Wednesday, January 19, 2005

    Oh, Iran...

    ...you are so fucked. We will use you as an example to keep North Korea in line (oh yeah, little yella fellas, your time is coming...) and Syria will be a nice little side trip. Near simultaneous.

    Shock & Awe for Iran, with a side-order of Special Forces, and Israeli warplanes (and gunboats) for good measure.

    Syria? You might want to familiarize yourself with how we cluster-fucked Fallujah up the ass recently. Consult your soothsayer. I think she just turned up the 'Queen of Dildoes'.

    Have I been wrong, yet?

    I feel your pain. I smell your pain. I taste your pain. I swirl it around on my tongue like the virginal juices of your clitless daughters.

    ...and all I can say is, YUMMY!

    ...and, thanks. Look to the skies, fools...





       

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!

    Looks like she's got her Mojo back.





       

    The Secret To Invulnerability...







       

    Nothing To Say...

    ...just want to see if I can say it. If you can read this, Eeevill Republicans are not stifling Labkat's freedom of speech, she just needs a man to show her how to use the equipment properly.

    Women...

    Update:

    Completely unrelated, I did a Google of 'Bane' and I popped up 15th down on the page. Found myself right off for the first time. Bored, bored, bored.

    Update!:

    Kats on the Pad! I knew it...





        Monday, January 17, 2005

    On Race...

    I can be a racist if I want. This is America, after all, isn't it? Has it moved, and left no forwarding address?

    The Bible says 'Thou Shalt Not Kill'...plain and simple. Yeah, yeah, we all know (or should) that the translation of 'kill' means 'murder', but still...do not murder anybody, okay?

    So, why do you get extra credit for niggers? Or fags? Beaners-chinks-kikes, boogies...wogs of all sorts?

    Do Not Murder. The First Law of Robotics: Do not kill, or allow to be killed by your inaction, a human being. And, why yes, I would assume this means the unborn. How is the child in your wife's tummy, which your entire family is waiting to celebrate the birth of, worth any less than the drug-addled hellspawn in some crack-whore's sewer-hole of a uterus? Oh, you get to make the call? The 'choice'?

    Hmmmm. I guess that means I get to make the call, too. Fair is fair. I have a lot of people I want to see dead. I have the means, the ability, and the dark beating heart to see it through.

    What does this have to do with 'Doctor' King's special day, you may ask. Fuck him. I would have laid waste to every commie cocksucker on that balcony had I been serving the trigger that day. Well, I wouldn't now...probably. I've gotten better. I wouldn't cry about it, though, even today.

    Quit telling me who to give a shit about while you condone and participate in the slaughter of innocents. Real, genuine, utterly helpless innocent human beings. Tabula Rasa.

    Until I hear your voices raised in unison, my American brothers and sisters, fuck you all. You...we...are all cursed.





        Sunday, January 16, 2005

    Dammit!

    Via ScottishTankerHooligans I bring you Armor Geddon. Dammit. I've got my reading cut out for me for the day.

    On a completely unrelated note, I just really really want to beat that fucker Jarod from Subway to absolute death. Little fat pansy, get off my TV.





       

    Muslim...

    ...repellant.





       

    This Is So Wrong...

    That he was even charged pisses me off on so many levels, but 10 years?





       

    Sorry...

    ...but from the information I have here, I would not call the police if I saw them, and might even help them get away if I could.

    This kind of bullshit is going to devalue the noble effort that is the Amber Alert system. Someone needs to remind these assholes of the story of The Little Boy Who Cried Wolf.

    Tell me you wouldn't go to a foster home with a gun to get your kids back, and I'll tell you you should never have become a parent.





       

    And So...

    ...it begins.

    Update:

    More...




       

    My Sunday Skin...

    Worship as you will. How much you wanna bet this little goddess thinks she's fat? I went out with her twin about thirty years ago, and she had so many self-esteem issues, I almost felt guilty.

    Almost.





        Saturday, January 15, 2005

    Elektra...

    ...rocked. That is all. Go see it. If you don't like it, please regale me with your retarded opinion. Of course I'll still respect you.

    Darkness, on the other hand, did not rock. I don't think it sucked, but you know you are in trouble right away when all of the names in the opening credits are Italian. Unless one of them is Mario Bava, or Sophia Loren. It did have Anna Paquin, who is probably not Italian, but is very, very hot. I think they taped her nipples down. Her breasts were all about the perk, but no nipples, except for one scene where maybe they forgot to tape them down, or she was thinking about me, because they looked like .30 caliber bullets. But the rest of the time, just smooth.
    Darkness had a few genuine 'jump in your seat' moves, and reminded me of Exorcist 3 in spots. Haven't jumped like that in a while. It is telling that this movie was completed three years ago. Lena Olin gets second billing. I need say no more than that. There is a very good, very scary movie in there somewhere, and occasionally, it is allowed to show its rotten, black teeth. The rest of the time, it's just...European.

    Battlestar Gallactica rocked. The only problem I have with it is that the blond Cylon chick is so frigging hot it is distracting. That, and why, on a warship, are not the shelves and cupboards and whatnot secured to the bulkheads? Every time there's a fight, crap is falling down on people and flying everywhere. Bolt that shit down, idiots. What if gravity fails? And I like that Starbuck chick just fine. I hated that little fairy Dirk Benedict, and have nothing invested in him. He ruined the A Team, too. A poor white trash imitation of George Hamilton, who is genuinely elegant.
    I see from the previews that Richard Hatch's little fit got him a guest shot next week. What a hack. Hey, fucker, there's a reason you haven't worked in anything substantial before or since, you hack. It's funny how I forget how much I hate that pretentious beaner Edward James Olmos. Boomer is hot, too. I like the schizophrenia they seem to be afflicting on her. Nice angle.
    I would really like to be given the power to go over the script, and find out which of the writers write what, and which second unit directors film what. Then I would fire some serious ass, and bring in a couple of decent writers. Like Glenn Morgan, and James Wong, who penned what I consider to be the finest Sci-Fi show, ever, Space: Above and Beyond. There was one episode that rivals the Nightcrawlers episode of The Twilight Zone (directed by William Friedkin, written by Robert R. McCammon!). The Space: episode to which I refer lasted one hour, without so much as one word of dialogue. It was absolutely riveting.
    From IMDB:
    Full-scale models of the "Hammerhead" fighters used in the series were created and shipped from Japan. While they were being stored on board the freighter before shipping, crewmen from a Russian freighter were caught taking pictures of them after mistakenly thinking they were a new kind of advanced U.S. tactical fighter.
    Yes, the show was that good.

    The 90's were what I consider the Golden Age of television. PC hadn't completely ruined things, yet, and the shows were just awesome. Remember Millenium? It fell to shit near the end, but wow. When it was hot, just, wow.

    Update:

    Assault On Precinct 13 is out this week. If you plan on seeing it, I beg you to rent John Carpenter's original, first. It is in my Top Five fave list. I'm not a purist, and have no problem with a good remake, but it is a damn shame when they fuck up a classic. We'll see.

    There are a lot of good old movies that would benefit from the new CGI and such. There was some Drive-In schlock that would remake as some damn fine sci-fi horror, if it was done right.




        Friday, January 14, 2005

    Oh What A Night...

    I'm gonna be like a dog with three dicks tonight. Let's see, at 6:30, is Andromeda. Then at 8, is Joan of Arcadia and Star Trek at the same time. Tonight may be my last episode of Joan, as the previews show God as being a homo, and, if so, I cannot abide that.

    At 9 is the two hour premiere of Battlestar Gallactica. Also at 9 is the pilot of Johnny Zero, which looks interesting, and I want to give it a shot. Gonna be some hot VCR's in the Bane household tonight.

    Well, I'm off to Elektra. A pint of whiskey, some Astroglide, a pocketfull of tissues, and thou, sweet Jennifer.

    Oh, yes, Bane do be lovin his electronic mediums's. All this, and the wife's in heat, too. Lucky I'm unemployed, eh? Busy busy busy...





       

    This Is Interesting...

    If I ever start shagging some guy, I'll feel better knowing this is probably responsible. A little.

    Personally, I've always thought the most effective battlefield (or crowd control) weapon would be some sort of emitter that would stimulate the vagus nerve and cause everybody in the area of effect to shit their pants. Game over right there, baby. "Uh, s'cuse me...gotta go!"





        Thursday, January 13, 2005

    Product Placement...

    Fuck I wish I got paid for this. Instead, I paid $15 of my own miniscule funds on a Gillette M3Power Razor today. It only came with 2 blade cartridges. I had finally run out of my regular M3 blades. Being poorashit, I have been using the last one for weeks. Best damn shaving system in my life. Until today.

    Being somewhat skeptical, and somewhat drunk, I broke the damn thing out of its package a bit ago, and, facing my newly naked visage, declared "Bring it on!" I pressed the fire button in the middle of the handle...it sprang to life like a ladies miniature anal tickler and...bzzzzz...
    okay, face, here it comes...

    Now, I do not have some Ragnarokly huge beard, but my silky chin skin is only most recently follicle free, as previously advertised. My facial hairs are as thick as tree trunks. I can pull a beard hair out (when I had a beard) and poke your eye out with it. Or at least give your teeth a good flossing.

    I hadn't shaved since early this morning, so there was a goodly crop of serious stumpage everywhere. So, I took the buzzing blades, and just dove them the fuck in to my face, relishing the buzz.

    Wow. Everywhere the razor passed over my face, became smooth. I looked at the blade(s), and they were full of hair. Did I mention that I did not put so much as one drop of water on my face? Let alone soap? Yep. Dry Face.

    That is the sort of drama I am willing to endure for you, my dear readers. Actually, I am thinking of all of you dear ladies out there, and your snatches, and how nice and smooth this razor can transform it into whatever ornamental shrubbery you should decide on, and without those horrible bumps which of course, we being men, will still dive our faces into. Regardless.

    Ahem. Dudes? Buy this. Use this. It is not hype. I went downstairs after and asked my wife to look at my face. She said "there's a little spot of blood there, on your chin" and I took her hands and cupped them to my face and she purred "Oooo, smooth!" and I told her that I had just shaved, dry, and she and I both marveled. And she was thinking, still, because you know how you bitches are, how whisker-burn free her nethers would be after a face ride.

    Worth $15?. You be the judge.





       

    My New Favorite Book...

    I wandered in to a brick and mortar bookstore today by accident (more on this, later) and they were selling this on their bargain table. I own lots of big gun books, but I genuinely love this book more than all the rest. Well, except the Elmer Keith ones.

    I can't recommend this one enough.





       

    The Goddess Speaks...

    Go, and worship.

    I must admit to getting fatigued by all of this Clinton/CBS/Democrat nonsense. I wish they would all just go away, but they haunt this country like a rude and unruly ghost. Irrelavant, but all that moaning and clanking around makes it hard to get any rest.

    Fatigue. That's a good word for my perspective on this whole new year. I'm tired of hearing about tsunamis, Palestine, Democrats, Iraq, and all of the other silly shit that the 'news' organizations see fit to while away the hours with in order to sell us soap.

    And I can't bear to watch Fox 'News' any more, because of those insane, distracting logos and backgrounds they use. Between the crawl at the bottom, all of their flashy logos, and the ridiculous amount of makeup they slather on their anchors, it just looks like a bad clown movie, and I fear I may pitch a fit.

    It is a sad day when I have to go to CNN Headline News to get my fix of hillsides rushing down to engulf dipshits who rebuilt there after the last landslide.

    Maybe it is just humanity that fatigues me. Fingers crossed for that asteroid.





        Tuesday, January 11, 2005

    The Little Things...

    My wife ran across a picture of her recently dead mother last night, in the crap-pile of papers that seem to assemble magically on top of the microwave no matter how often you straighten. She had been crying by herself for ten minutes or so. I found her, hiding it from us, all besnotted and having a private, female moment. Mommy's little breakdown. Blow nose, move on. Nothing to see here. I hugged her, handed out kleenex, got my beer, and moved on. Chicken Tsunami Aid for the Soul.

    The little things. I tend to large emotions, as I've mentioned. Mostly rage and laughter, but sometimes, like just now, when I found out (yet again) that Douglas Adams was, indeed, still dead, my needle dipped left, into maudlin.

    All the people whose deaths make me happy, some even giddy, and then I am confronted, quite on accident, with the demise of someone whose passing left a hole in the jaw of humanity, where once a favored tooth did chew.

    He was exactly my age when his ticker came to tock no more. Well, exactish enough to give me pause. He looked much older than I in his bio photo, though, which may explain the heart attack. And gone. Survived by quirky, innovative, thoughtful work that still makes me laugh, and takes me away to whatever dream he wove. The L. Frank Baum for adults.

    Sigh. For all the fish, thanks indeed.





       

    Party On!

    I hear the ninny-nannies out, baying in full throat against the alleged extravagance of Bush's inauguration. They are right. All of that money should be given to me. Anything short of that, fukkem.

    Last I checked, we are the meanest, most biggestest motherfucker in the valley, and can sit where we want. It's all just play money, anyway, and it is great for the economies involved in the inauguration, right down to the last mooslum cabdriver with the suitcase nuke in the back of his trunk.

    Party? Bring it on! I just wish I could go. Is that their problem? They don't get to go? Or are they stupid enough to think that Clinton and her whore wouldn't be throwing an even bigger and more decadent shitkicker shindig? A lot of both, methinks.

    The world is just lucky I'm not President. I would have the skum from Guantanamo shipped up and formed into festive table arrangements by that little ugly bitch. Their wives would be up on the dais with me, naked as well, peeling and feeding me grapes. At midnight, I'd shoot them, and have the CD's of it mailed to the Middle East and droped out of planes over their filthy cities. I'd get shitfaced, and order helicopter one to dust-off the crowd of foreign dignitaries, and then I'd jerk off onto their upturned and horrified faces from the doorway.

    It would be legal, just for the night, to beat to death any member of the press (or any demonstrator) you could catch yourself. I would crowd surf the mosh pit at the Metallica concert, and personally shoot any male country singer who opened his mouth. I would crowd surf Dolly Parton's ta-ta's. Naked.

    I would decree that my personal bodyguard consist only of beautiful, heavily armed lipstick (but bi-curious) lesbians. They would wear thigh boots and short skirts and carry chrome Desert Eagle .50 cals. When handshaking my way through a crowd, any baby handed to me, I get to keep.
    I would abolish income and all personal taxes. If you make under $25,000 a year, you send me $1000 a year. All at once, or in chunks. You decide. Over $25,000? $1000 per $20,000 increment. I'll stack it in the White House and decide who gets it. Fuck Congress, they have lost any semblance of credibility.

    Now, let's party! I would make one kick-ass Dictator For Life.





       

    Fuck Blogger...

    The last day or so, they have been having some sort of hiccup that causes my posts to appear out of sync, putting new stuff below old stuff. It may be some cache-related thing on my part, too, I dunno. Just an FYI that because you see the same old when you come here, don't mean they ain't nuthin new hangin down below.

    Now, lets see where it puts this fucker...





       

    The New 'Assault Rifle'...

    The ninny-nannies have their new phrase to wave around like a hard dick, something else which they have limited experience and understanding of: 'Death Squad'. No, let's make it really scary: DEATH SQUAD! Ooooooo. Thcary. Didn't you just pee a little bit?

    Fucking pussies. I will paraphrase another person and say that "Whiney little pussificated faggot worms can sleep better in their beds at night so they can start their new day of pissing and shitting on the flag and America, refreshed, because rough men stand watch over them and keep the beheaders away."

    Like an 'Assault Rifle' is just a rifle, a 'Death Squad' is just a small unit of men who do what these men do every other fucking day...be soldiers. Soldiers kill people and break things. It really is in the job description. They have manuals for it.
    We have had specialized teams of highly trained and motivated military men since the Revolution, whose job is was to sneak around and kill and harrass and yes, even torture the enemy. "Shoot the guy with the biggest hat, the sword, on the horse" has morphed into "Go out and find those head-chopping little cowards and shoot the fuck out of them...here, take these ragheads with you so we can blame them..."

    So? You don't like war? Vote in a pacifist. Or go take up arms for the other side and fight against us. I have more respect for Johnny Taliban, who at least put his money where his mouth is, than these mealy-mouthed whiners who are doing their utmost to handcuff and hobble our fighting men.

    Cicero said this over 2000 years ago:

    "A nation can survive its fools, and even the ambitious. But it cannot survive treason from within. An enemy at the gates is less formidable, for he is known and carries his banner openly. But the traitor moves amongst those within the gate freely, his sly whispers rustling through all the alleys, heard in the very halls of government itself. For the traitor appears not a traitor; he speaks in accents familiar to his victims, and he wears their face and their arguments, he appeals to the baseness that lies deep in the hearts of all men. He rots the soul of a nation, he works secretly and unknown in the night to undermine the pillars of the city, he infects the body politic so that it can no longer resist. A murderer is less to fear."

    Tru dat, wop, tru dat.

    Update:

    Let me clarify my position on weapons. Weapons can be anything from a scout knife to an atomic bomb. I do not think that you should be allowed to have your own, personal atomic bomb. You should probably not have any other chemical weapon than your own God-given ass, either. We can discuss tear gas and such if you want.

    Short of those exceptions, I believe with all of my heart and soul that you should be allowed to possess any other sort of weapon or weapon system on earth you can afford to buy, if you can pay the proper fees, and assure the townspeople you are safe to possess it in some way. Testing and licensing come to mind.

    Yes. Any weapon. If John Travolta wants to hop into his F14 and go on over to Ted Turners place and strafe to death with missile and cannon fire a herd of bison he has entered into a contractual agreement with Ted to do so to, why not?
    We have live machine gun shoots at the range I go to once a week. It is fun to watch the fascist pig cops pucker when they see a civilian toting an MP5. The FPC's are there, paying us so they can train there. We're the only range in the area, the only game in town. You can tell by the look in their little piggy eyes that they want to take our guns away from us so bad they can just taste it.

    Quit whining. I used to be one, and I am absolutely sure in my heart that there are several police persons who are not pigs, so there. Maybe.





       

    Well, This Is Interesting...

    I recieved this email this morning:

    I am loathe to inform you that you are the victim of a fraud by a plaguerist[sic]. "Barb Servello" has stolen my poem - "The Sands of Christmas" and has posted it on several sites under the name "A Different Kind of Christmas." I am the actual author, with ample proof of authorship. My poems have been posted on numerous sites such as the International War Veteran's Poetry Archive (see http://www.iwvpa.net/marksm/index.htm ) and the owner of that site, Mr. Anthony Pahl, can verify my work over the years. It has appeared in print from Stars & Stripes to newsletters across America and one hangs in the 390th Strategic Missile Wing Museum. I must ask most earnestly that you delete any reference to Ms. Servello as the author as this is copyrighted material. You are free to run the poem but as I wrote it, I insist on proper credit. Should you need any further validation feel free to email me at (email address deleted).
    Thank you for your swift assistance in this matter,
    Capt. Michael Marks
    For your review, I submit here several of my poems in their original format:

    ...and then several great looking writings follow, which I may post later, and attribute to him.

    All I can say is..."OOOOPS!"

    Sorry.





        Monday, January 10, 2005

    Well, It's About Damned Time!

    I've been saying they should do this since the beginning.

    I hope the Marines get some, too. Any info on that would be appreciated.





       

    Thanks TUA!

    From the comments:

    Q: How are the Thai people managing to stay clean after the horrific Tsumani disaster?


    A: By washing up on the beach.

    HA!!

    I needed a chuckle. And yes, I am glad I didn't have any liquids in my mouth when I read that.





        Sunday, January 09, 2005

    My Daughter's Titties...

    It struck me tonight. She's got them. She's becoming 'one of them', now, and she's barely four. Two tiny, knobular protrusions, nestled in my hands, which tell me that she will never, ever become President of the United States.

    She still hollers for assistance after she's shed her waste. I am expected to be there as she shats, and to jump in amazed startlement as they plop. This still amuses her to no end. I know that, after urinating, she will pop up on her little foot-stool, grab her ankles, and doodle-bug her little pink butt up into the air, fresh urine spilling across the surface of her nethers like a breaching sub sheds ocean water. I have a pile of TP at hand to staunch that flow, ere her pannies become besotted. She wraps her little arms around my left leg and holds on while I swab her decks, and then I drop the soggy paper in the potty and reach down and lift her up and set her to the floor and she does the pannie dance, hitching up one side and then the other as she flitters to the door, but tonight, when I pick her up...titties. Unmistakable. Cupped in my palms, where baby fat rippled just yesterday.

    A comforting father daughter ritual, coming to an end. Sigh.

    They always change. They swell and stretch and get a little or a lot crazy and they hate you for awhile and they leave you. Always, they leave you.

    Sometimes, if you are very lucky, one flies back and sits on your fence for a bit, and sings you a pretty song, but in the end, they fly away again, and the seasons change and the earth turns many times and if you are lucky, sometimes you get to see them again.

    I suppose that is God's Plan, but there are times when it becomes easy to curse Him for this painful thing, beating in my chest.

    Yes, there are times...





       

    blunken drogging...

    I thought I was so cool when I made that up today, but a cautionary Google stripped me of the title to be first.

    Drunk. Blogging. Drogging. Natural progression, going backwards from Homo Erectus to gibbering chimp. If I could put time in a bottle, I think that is what I would do....I'd fill up my cup, and then drink it right up, then I'd piss it out all over you...





       

    Welll...

    This is just cool. Nice resource.





       

    Wouldst Thou Tame The Dragon?

    I have seen the dragon, bearded and tamed, chained to the floor, as limp-wristed dandies cry their wares, and hock discount tickets for rubes to come into the tent and...
    and it breaks my heart. Robert Plant, tonight...by accident, on PBS. With a bunch of neuter'd males, playing their little empty paisley hearts out, like they are trying out for Frosh Band.

    Plant, himself...
    eyes like two piss-holes in a snow bank; thankfully not fat...yet, the shirt is kind of...baggy. Cocaine and heroin must be good for something. His face...someone snuck in and let all the air out, but stomped hard on the foot pump to inflate his boiled-egg eyes...some satanic faggot has finger-fucked into bizarre curlicues what is left of the well-used mop of his hair.

    The crowd...
    ...oh, how I pray for nuclear war, and I pine to see these fools disintegrated into clouds of meaningless, atomic idiot-flakes.

    The ravaged carcass of 'Stairway To Heaven' jerks and spasms behind me, like the wet tongue of a dead woman, sucking greedily for the earwax of my lost youth...the TV muted, though not enough...idiots hoot, drool, and slap their paws together. Fuckers.

    The 'band'...they molest my anthem, the anthem of the best/worst part of my generation, ripping their dull claws into it's womb, pulling up great bloody fistfulls of my past, to be flushed away down the sink of anonymity.

    And he, Mr Plant, is just happy to be on an outing from The Home, and to have someone to talk to...just shut the fuck up, moron.

    The worst part? Whatever gifting this satan-worshipping asshole was given when he pimped his tattered soul, is still in effect. For all the smarmy, crappy production value PBS has shown themselves willing to provide since, well, forever, he still 'has it'. The voice still sounds as sharp and clear and raspy and unique as it did the day I first heard it back in the '60's.

    Fuck.

    Update:

    Friends don't let friends blog drunk. I'll leave this one up as a warning to myself. Ouch.





        Saturday, January 08, 2005

    Cabal Of Doom...

    Nice blog title, nice blog. Follow the link in the top post to 'The Torture Test' (it links to The Mudville Gazzette, another worthy blog) and see how you score. I was very surprised. Take the test, and then link the piss out of it. Getting stuff out like this is what blogdom is all about, in my opinion.





       

    What's So Funny?

    On another blog, someone mentioned that I'm not funny. It hurt my wittle feewings for about half a second, until I remembered two emails from readers of the self-same thread telling me the usual 'I made them spit fluid all over their moniters' thing. Apparently causing someone to lose basic motor control and handle liquids like a two year old is some sort of tribute. I get that, a lot.

    Yet, there are people who hate me, despise this humble blog, and apologise to God when they do read here. The hundreds of hits my site meter shows me cannot all be the same person, can they? I have a coterie of 'regulars', folks who comment on this or that. And yet, some folks feel compelled to rub my face in my unfunnyness.

    Well, some people actually bought Yugos, and think that Old Navy is the height of fashion. And laugh at Jerry Lewis. Ever.

    Some people 'get me', some don't, and some do and wish they hadn't. I wish the best of luck and regular bowels to all of you. I never rarely set out to be funny, force it, if you will. It is just that sometimes something strikes me, well, just right, and it tumbles from my fingers like clowns out of a tiny car.

    Sometimes I make you cry. Hey, I was crying when I wrote it. There's a few that if I go back and reread, they'll get me again. When I'm mad, I write mad. Sometimes, I get bi-polar and mix it all up.

    Folks, this is just a blog. I come here when I have a nit or a zit to pick, or something cracked me up, or I feel blue. I don't chew my pencil, here. I never rewrite and rarely edit. Now, the book, yes. I start in pencil, then type it up, and pick at it like a four year old trying to hide his peas. But here, this is Bane Central. On the blogs where I comment, same thing, though generally less cussing, easy on the vitriol.

    Bane, like salsa or semen, is an acquired taste, near as I can tell. And the day I quit writing for me, is the day I quit writing. Until then...





        Friday, January 07, 2005

    I'm worth $1,452,865.61! How much are you worth?




       

    The Goddess *yawn* Speaks...

    Go forth, and listen, if you want. She's throwing around a lot of numbers and crap I don't care about, and talking about a certain natural disaster I'm tired of hearing about.

    This line, however:
    The Washington Post criticizes Bush for not rushing back to Washington in response to the tsunami – amid unfavorable comparisons to German Chancellor Gerhard Schroeder, who immediately cut short his vacation and returned to Berlin. (Nothing snaps a German to attention like news of mass death!)

    ...was worth the price of admission. You go, girl.





        Thursday, January 06, 2005

    Unlike Chickenshit Newspapers...

    ...who hide their corrections somewhere in the homosexual personal ads, I would direct you to my update on the Staples perfidy below. Somewhere.





       

    Every mother's worst nightmare...

    Via Army of Mom:


    "The following came in my email this morning from my UNT prayer group. This is so frightening and has to be every parent's worst nightmare come true. Please add this boy and his family to your prayers. I don't know them, but I can't imagine the absolute torture this has to be for the family.Jonathan Cooper is a lively 8-year-old young Christian boy. His entire family is a testimony of faith, hope, and love that touches all who know them. Jonathan loves to dance and sing music. Last month, Jonathanplayed the role of Tiny Tim at Lakeland Baptist Church in Lewisville, Texas. "Ebenezer" is a Christian adaptation of the Charles Dickens classic "A Christmas Carol", in which God uses Tiny Tim to bring Ebenezer Scrooge to repentance and ultimately a relationship with Jesus Christ. Jonathan played the role with such joy and enthusiasm. Last Thursday, December 30th, 2004, Jonathan was admitted to Children's Medical Center in Dallas via the emergency room with the assumption that he had a bad case of the flu or a stomach virus. He had no known health problems, but he could not keep anything down and he was getting dehydrated. Jonathan was admitted to ICU and was diagnosed with Diabetes Type 1 on Thursday evening while in a coma. Early Friday morning, Jonathan had a massive stroke at the base of his skull in the brain stem. Based upon his MRI and CAT scan, the doctors have not been encouraging about his prognosis. He was placed on life support systems and has remained in a coma. The doctors said that Jonathan would be a vegetable for the rest of his life if he survives. Jonathan's parents have made the decision to allow God to make the next move in thisordeal. Their prayer is simply that God will heal Jonathan or take him home. Please pray for the entire family as our Father in Heaven works out His will."

    Well? Get on it! Even you athiest turds. Take a shot. Test God. Dare ya.





        Wednesday, January 05, 2005

    Alias...

    ...first impressions...

    I choose to buy into it. Yeah, she's skinny, but so is an Anaconda. Looks like Santa brought new titties. I just wish she wouldn't flinch so bad when firing a silenced weapon.

    90 more minutes...bliss...

    Update:

    Okay, what was with that bullshit Cat 'I'm A Fucking Muslim Terrorist Now' Stevens song at the end? Who is in charge of this dipshittery? Fuck!

    Man, she has had a whole different work-out routine since last season, no doubt for her upcumming movie 'Elektra'. Yes, I will be there, with the obligatory hole cut in the bottom of my popcorn tub, and my immense tuber protruding upwards...want some popcorn, little girl?

    I like the writing, but then, I always have. It is from the school of "Hey, It Don't Make Much Sense, But We'll Rivet Your Ass To Your Seat Until Next Week Or Until We're Cancelled" school of film-makery. Finest Kind, Hawkeye.

    Finest kind...