I Get Emails...


Katrina: Interesting Facts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Boy, do I get emails. Whaddaya think?

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

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

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

Johnny just wanted to stomp it flat.

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

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

I hate that.


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I Don't Know What To Say...

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

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

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

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

Is that it?

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

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

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

Sick for them, sick for me.

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

This sucks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am very angry and confused and hurt, today.

There is an evil wind blowing...


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My Mom Just Sent Me This...

Lost Preacher

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

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

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

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

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

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


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It's For...

...the children...

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

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


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One Riot, One Ranger...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yes, Men of Honor.

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

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

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

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

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

What, indeed...


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Do You Believe...

...we are fighting evil people in Iraq?

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

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

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

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

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


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Michael Yon...

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

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

In your face, anti-war weenies.

Update:

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

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


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Shaved vs Unshaved...

Don't go here. Extreme nudity ensues.

But it presents the argument well.

I like them both.


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Critical Mess...

...let the bloviating begin!...

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

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

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

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

Ha! Not!

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

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

Doctor! Doctor! It hurts when I do this!

Well...don't do that.


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Wherein Nat Does Ballet...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was highly perturbed.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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Blast From The Past...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yep, Bane has a character flaw.

Imagine that.


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Retards On The Storm...

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

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

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

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

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

I had to crack up.

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

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

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

Okay, the Democrats can croak.


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

Let The Record Show...

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

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

Unless it just, like, pops up or something.

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

Fuck, it's just a damn bicycle.


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Siccem...

...Nate!

Let Not Your Heart Be Troubled...

Brand X asks, and I deliver.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thy will be done, as usual.

Thank you, God.

Amen.


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She's Gone...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All things.

That means all.

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

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

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

Happy Sunday!


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I Do Not Get It...

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don't get it.


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Housekeeping...

Dammit.

Fuck Amazon.

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

Fuckers.

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

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

Keep the change.

Update:

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

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

But, thanks.


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Lost In The Static...

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

Dust devils. On Mars.

Too cool.

Hmmmm, seems like we have atmosphere, Jim.


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She's Rock Candy, Baby...

...hot, sweet, and sticky...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You.Would.Fuck.Her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I really do.


.

Okay, Just One More...

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

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

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

Go ahead and spit...I did.

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

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

Ptui!


.

Friday Night Drunk Blogging...

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

Thanks, Blondage. I blame you.

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

Wanna party with me folks? Wear a cup.

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

Well, ya'll need help.

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

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

Did Firefly RAWK tonight, or what?

Johnny's home, snuggled with the woman.

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

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

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

Ahhhh...fuck me...


.

You Realize You Are Just A Turd...














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

Hoo-Raw, muthafuckas.

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


.

3pm...

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

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

He fought them anyway.

Sigh.

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

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

Yeesh. No thanks.

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

Fuck, I need a drink...

Update:

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know Daddy has a lot of guns, right?

"Yeah..."

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

Silence...

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

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

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

"No!"

Why not?

"Cuz that would hurt me!"

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

"And Johnny too, huh..."

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

"Okay Daddy..."

Don't even look at my guns...

"Okay Daddy..."

Good girl...

Pause...

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

Kids.

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

A lot.

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

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

Best present, ever.


.

Have Your Cake...

...and eat me, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bullshit.

I have felt a warm infant cool in my palms.

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

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

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

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

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

Cut it out.


.

Out Of Character...

God forgives, Bane doesn't.

Maybe I should rethink that policy.

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

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

Until now. Maybe.

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

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

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

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

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

I forgive you.

Clean slate.

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

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

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

Thanks, Gregg.

Now, go sleep it the fuck off.


.

Once More...

...into the breach.

Tired of reading that? Tired of writing it.

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

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

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

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

'Ooops! Ah, fukkit...next!'

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

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

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

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

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

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


.

Katrina Straps One On For Florida...

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

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

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

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

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

It's for the children!

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

Sorry.

Update:

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


.

Bloody Savages...

This shit is what nerve gas is for.

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

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

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

Let's not waste it.


.

Bullshit Deflector...

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

Double dog.


.

It's Okay...

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














.

I Got Nuthin...

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

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

Someone hit the tip jar. Thanks!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bye, hippies.

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


.

The Goddess Speaks!

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

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


.

A Touching Tribute...

...to the Goddess Britney...

Enjoy.


.

Just For You Know...

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

I promise.

Update:

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

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

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

Volunteers?

.

You Can't Beat My Meat...

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

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

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

Note: Set knife down before beating chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that meal was really nummy.

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


.

Nat Happens...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wonder...

Update:

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

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

The gift that keeps on giving.

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

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



.

We All Do It...

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

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

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

I promise.


.

Bow Down Before Him...

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

You think you're funny?

Give up.


.

Wanna See A Picture Of Me?

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

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

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

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

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

That was cool.

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

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

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

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

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

Believe me.

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

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

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

I miss the Infantry to this day...

Update:

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

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

Boy am I dumb.

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

Update:

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



.

On The Scent...

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

Put me down for 'hate it'.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wear Musk Oil.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I digress...

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

I'm greatful.


.

A Point Of Clarification...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, if you only knew...


.

Another Reason...

...to shoot the homeless.

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

Now cities advertise for them.

Reap the whirlwind...


.

Hey, Lileks!

Two Words! Home! School!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm gonna miss that kid, too.


.

So Now You Know...

This is pretty cheesy.


.

That's MY Old Lady!

Gosh, I love that woman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Gosh, I love that woman!


.

For Those Of You...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Assholes.

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

...the...world...grinds...to...a...halt...

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

No thanks.

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

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

Fraud sucks.


.

I Quit!

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

Politicians are cunts, and should all be flogged.

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

"Honey, I'm home!"

Who'd you vote for?

"Cynthia..."

BOOM!!

It should be that simple.

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

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

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

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

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

It's not the stealing part that bugs me, though...

...it's those guys with blades, sneaking in through the unguarded gate.

We are SO fucked.


.

How Do You Make Fun Of White People?

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

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

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

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

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


.

Why Hollywood Sucks...

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

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

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

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

Do you think Hollywod will listen?

Don't count on it.


.

Wherein Paul Outs Himself...

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

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

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


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'Cow Placenta Facial'...

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

Go away.


.

Gorrillas In The Mist...

How is this any different than Rwanda?

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

...but you gotta start somewhere.


.

Wherein I Do A Potty...

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

I step in, as if to the urinal to his right, and then shift, and produce steel and insert a precise two inches of the blade into his back, just above the right kidney...no need to kill here...

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

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



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

How do you like me now?

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

Dredges up memories.

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

Also, who was my primary target?


.

Gorram! This Is Fracking Awesome!

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


.

A Cautionary Update...

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

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

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

So, to the update:

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

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

See? See?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When will I ever learn?

NEVER trust a liberal.

Especially with your balls.


.

A Shameful Confession...

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

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

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

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

As an aside, $10 FUCKING DOLLARS FOR A FUCKING CUP OF BEER!!!

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

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

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

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

Fucking hooligans.

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

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

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


.

We Need A New Old Solution...

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

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

This sucks.

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

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






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

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






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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


.

Government Theft?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is useless to be right, and dead.


.

I'm Still An Idiot!

So, I hear Senator Harry Reid has had a 'mini-stroke'. Just like a Democrat to do things half way, the cunt.

If he'd just apply himself, I'm sure he could burst a nice big vein and gobble like a turkey as he dies.

I don't hate half way...

I think Republican Senators should all start carrying around lunch-sack size paper bags, and begin popping them behind Sen Reid whenever he walks by. When he steps up to the podium to speak, sneak up behind him with an air horn and set it off beside his head. Let us all enjoy Reid going 'Scanners' on national television.

Maybe get a long scull and set it up outside, filled with Senators, Frist at the helm with a megaphone. When Reid walks by, Frist can start chanting into the megaphone "Stroke!...Stroke!...Stroke!..." then have all the 'rowers' drop their oars with a clatter, grab their heads, and start moaning and drooling.

Let's make politics a contact sport again. I want duels. Or at least a good slap fight.

Oh, well...vomit-bags like Teddy Kennedy do give me some hope that I can treat my body like shit and still live a long time. Trouble is, I don't really want to.

Just long enough to see he and Reid dead.

Is that too much to hope for?

PS: I don't wanna hear any nonsense about how insensitive I am and you had a loved one that succumbed and I hurt your wittle feewings.

Me? Insensitive?

Perish forbid!


.

Just For Ya'll Know...

I appreciate polite dis-invitations to not post on your blog anymore.

A nice email is all it takes.

I crash parties, for sure, but I bring my own booze, and leave politely when asked by the host.

I am nothing, if not all about the decorum.

I can ban myself just fine...


.

Heck Yeah!

I just heard a caller to Rush nail the whole Iraq thing in one sentence:

"I have a four year old daughter, and I hate to sound selfish, but I don't want her to face this stuff when she turns 18..."

Rush says "So you want us to win so she doesn't have to go fight?"

The caller says "Yes, that's right..."

Beautiful, and elegant in its simplicity.

Update:

The Lovely and Talented Alli sends me this link to the transcript of what the caller and Rush said to each other.

Worth a read.


.

I'm An Idiot!

...It's official!...

Nuanced, I am not. You want nuance, go somewhere else. Nuance is best defined by the phrase "She couldn't say shit if she had a mouthful of it..."

I can say shit.

Steve, over at Hog On Ice, says:

Confederate Yankee emailed me, saying he was concerned that conservative bloggers would make snotty remarks about Sheehan's mother. I suppose a few will; there are idiots in every crowd.

Me! Me! Can I be one? Heck, I already r one, cuz it tickles the shit out of me to see that bitch get a little pain after all the pain she has caused.

Fuck, I'd shoot her dog.

I am so damn tired of reading news stories and trying to figure out what the writer means, what they are leaving out, how they are spinning...

That's why I love Ann Coulter so much. She jams the pie into your face, and then screws it in until your sinuses fill with banana cream and you still hock out coconut loogies for a week later.

Nuance this, motherfucker!

Oh, I can tiptoe around the tulips with the best of them, should the occasion demand it. But it better demand pretty friggen loudly.

I rarely do it here, and then mainly in the comments, where I hold back from ripping some guest a new asshole because I'm kind of old fashioned that way.

Those of you who've been around here for awhile can probably tell when my teeth are grinding and my neck muscles are bulging out. Believe it or not, I do see self-restraint as a virtue.

But nuance can blow me.


.

If Y'all Can't Laugh...

...at this...yer dead.


.

The Great Raid...

Go see it. Have your friends see it. Especially if you and all of your brain-washed friends think Japan is all about Nintendo and Pokemon and weird game shows.

I was surprised to see that it is rated R, because, considering the subject (Bataan) I felt they were pulling their punches. I figured it was PG-13.

Leave it to Hollywood to censor and rate it R when a movie appeals to Patriotism, and tries to make Americans feel good about themselves.

Now that I mention it, I am surprised that this movie was even able to be made, today.

Which is why, if for no other reason, you need to stuff your 'wait for the DVD' bullshit up your ass, and grab all of your friends and rush out to see this movie.

The makers of movies like this need to be encouraged to make more. That, and it's a damn good movie, and shows the Japs for the evil motherfuckers they were (are?) and whom we nuked for a damn good reason.

I can hear the Libs of Hollywood holding their breath, fingers crossed, desperate that this movie slide under the bathwater and drown in the still waters of indifference.

Gosh, I hope it doesn't.

This movie has one great flaw, and it is a huge one. I am going to go against form, and warn you about it in advance, so that you can gird your loins in advance, and it doesn't spoil a significant part of the movie for you.

Remember the last movie version of Pearl Harbor? I loved that movie. I don't care what any of you say, I think it was the finest recreation of the attack ever made.

Two things spoiled it for me, though, and nearly made me walk out:

1. Everything with Cuba Gooding Junior in it. He is a terrible actor, and the part was obviously put in to appeal to a demographic...

2. The ridiculous romantic subplot, obviously put in to appeal to another demographic. It was awful, cloying, I didn't give a fuck, and whatsername looked like she had on red wax Halloween lips through the whole damn movie. I actually cheered when that one nurse got strafed to death. Fucking Japs shoulda been better shots...

Gotta Catch Em All!

But I digress, some. 'The Great Raid' has a big turd of a relationship subplot dropped right into the middle, and it nearly ruins the movie.

Nearly.

Use the time when the chick from Gladiator is on the screen to go take a shit, or freshen your soda, or play a video game in the lobby. Watch the very end, though, during the credits, and you'll be given a visual treat for those of you who like WW2 visual history. I'd never seen that film before.

It is a true story, this movie, and one that needed to be told. And there's a lot more stories that need to be told. I'd like to see the Korean War given this modern treatment, as well. Wake America the fuck up to what could be repeated so easily again.

Okay, I take it back...sit through those parts. You'd miss some good massacres and such if you didn't. But that may be the most extraneous love interest ever put on film since any that Tom Cruise or Prince has ever had. Bleecchhh!

There were a lot of old men there, today. They looked pretty shook up at the end.

I think that's a good sign.

Go see it.

PS: Thanks, anonymous donor! I couldn't have done it without you!


.

No Terrorism...

...mentioned in this story.

Nothing to see here, move along...


.

Let's Go Raid A Mosque...

...and listen to the howling of the press!

Replace 'synagogue' with 'mosque' in any of these news stories today, and listen to the screams of the islamoturds and their allies in the press.

Scum.


.

The Goddess Speaks!

Go, and worship!

I believe this paragraph speaks for itself:

We're sorry about Ms. Sheehan's son, but the entire nation was attacked on 9-11. This isn't about her personal loss. America has been under relentless attack from Islamic terrorists for 20 years, culminating in a devastating attack on U.S. soil on 9-11. It's not going to stop unless we fight back, annihilate Muslim fanatics, destroy their bases, eliminate their sponsors and end all their hope. A lot more mothers will be grieving if our military policy is: No one gets hurt!

If Cindy Shitheads son could be heard, I believe what he would say would be:

"Mom, I love ya, but Please? Shut the fuck up?"

Amen.


.

Haloscan...

...is acting the fool again today. I can see your comments, but I can't comment them. I'm gonna go mow the lawn and wait for them to sort out.

I'm not going to cry about something I paid $12 for and works perfectly 363 days out of the year.

And someone please sort Twentymajor out as to why I support Israel and da Joos? Please? Even the damn Zionists? Because God didn't differentiate?

Thanks.


.

I Am A Bad Christian...

Very bad. But that's between me and the Invisible Man, and not you, nor do I have any business getting in yours.

I'm not a preacher.

My kids are in my life, and if I talk about something funny or cute they did that day, ya'll go "ahhh, cute!" but if I talk about something funny or cool my Main Dad did for me (some) people get all negative.

There's a line in the Bible that speaks to me, and I like to use it. It goes "Only the wicked flee when no man persueth." Yep. That's your conscience, running up behind you whispering "Hey, fucker, we need to have a little talk!" It ain't me.

I have enough guilt of my own, I don't need to be spreading it around. And I mean real "You're Guilty!" kind of guilt, cuz it was dead wrong, and I did it; not some namby-pamby little church rule I broke by whacking off, or dancing or something silly like that.

No, you get some guy in a park, holding up a sign saying 'Banana', and nobody gives it a second thought. But he comes back with one that says 'Repent!' and suddenly everybody starts remembering playing stink-finger with the baby-sitter while they drove her home last night, or whatever, and they hate the guy with the sign with passion and contempt.

I don't do church, ya'll know that, or should. If I did, it would probably be Roman Catholic, for as far as all the 'Ooga-Booga' shit goes, they know how to do it right. I likes me some pomp and circumstance with my religion. You stand up and start hollering in tongues, though, well, you have just startled the piss out of me, and that is not wise.

No, churches reflect my guilt back at me, and I don't need that kind of nagging. Solomon said 'A nagging wife is like a dripping faucet' or some such, and he's right. Fix the faucet, or move.

Besides, churches have titties in them. Attached to other women. I am convinced that is why the dais is raised, so the preacher can look down you ladies' shirts. And the pulpit is to hide the boner.
I have issues around titties, and trouble resisting them, so it is best for all that I stay away. And I don't like perfume.

So, we clear? Sin away all you want. More room in Heaven for me. I have no idea how this is all going to turn out in the end. Well, I have a few, but they're weird, and I'm shy.

See you in Hell, my friend!

Or not...


.

Straining At The Leash...

...I don't have much to say...

I've been holding in posts all day. I've been just ready, urging, surging forward to click the thingy and start writing, but I pushed myself successfully away.

Til now.

Oh, I've nothing to say, really, I just want to blab. Hog On Ice got me going earlier on bicycles.

Gutrumbles is poking sticks at women through the cage bars pretty successfully. The Estrogen Crowd are cackling about in the hen yard like loonies, while Rob struts along the roof of the coop. Funny stuff.

But I've held back, even in their comments, where I found myself bloviating, and stopped.

I wrote so much stuff this weekend, that I wanted ya'll to get to see it before it got lost in the archives.

Speaking of archives, I am absurdly pleased that so many of you seem to be mining my archives. Multiple page views, and sometimes for an hour or two at a time. Great. I hope you enjoy.

Conversely, if I piss you off, I hope they find your skeleton after you are long dead from the heart attack or stroke I gave you, dimly lit by the glow of your monitor, a spider living in one of your empty eye sockets.

Johnny had therapy today, so I had all afternoon alone. I was laid low by some mystery illness that left me weak and shaky. I caught Mono as a teen, and sometimes it stops by for a reunion.

The wife finally got home, and she was out of sorts, some. As I've said before, those kinds of kids (fucked up ones) are generally a joy to be around. They laugh, and radiate love, and their parents seem to have a fine edge of steel, honed by adversity, the kind you see in war veterans and such. The parents are generally a joy to be around, too, except for one variety of cousin-fucking mouth-breathing white trash (and they're always white!) that I hate.

That kind always assume a sly familiarity with you, smile and glad-hand you, and you can look into their stupid cow eyes and see precisely what is wrong with their kid, and it is directly related to having those moon-faced hillbillies as parents. The kids always look like some kinda freakshow from 'Deliverance', and you pity them because you know momma washed all the smart outta them with alcohol and meth while they were supposedly safe in the womb.

But I didn't mean to go off on a rant, there...

So the wife gets home, and at some point tries to tell me about some messed up little anonymous kid there today that was having a real struggle and it was tearing the kids Mom up emotionally so anybody who cares to, please say a prayer for little anonymous messed up kid and his or her mom, too, because my wife doesn't cry that often but she couldn't tell me about it for the tears and probably because she knows I hate it when she messes me up that way so, just pray, and thanks.

God'll know where to find him or her.

Maybe I'm just sick about Israel. This crap is beyond evil. Now, at least I know how Iraq war protesters feel when they look at what is going on. Even if they are wrong. And stupid.

I have been mourning the plight of the Gazans all day. Imagine, having your Dad's grave dug up and moved because the little animals that are coming to take the home you've lived all of your life in would dig open your Dad's grave and use it as an offal pit.

I'm not used to feeling like this. Especially for people I don't know. I have like, two emotions. Maybe three. This one is new, and I don't like it.

Sharon, Sharon...you were such a lion. Someone show me why this Gaza pullout is in ours and Israel's best interest? Please? I can't even detach and put some kind of happy face on it. It looks like Lemming behavior.

If it is God's Will, His will is a hard, hard thing.

This looks like Punishment.


.

Uh Oh...

I've noticed it coming on for days. My monitor will dim down, and then brighten back up, slowly.

I just checked my settings (see how lazy I am?) and the brightness and contrast are at 100%. I think I'm about to go dark.

Crap.


.

The Da Vinci Code...

If it pisses off Catholics, it has to be doing something right.

I haven't read it, and likely won't. Might see the movie. Or not.

I already knew Jesus was married and had kids. The Bible says so, end of discussion.

What? Why, it said He was 'tempted in all things', doesn't it? You don't understand 'all things' until your wife's best girlfriend crooks her finger at you from her bedroom doorway in a negligee. Or your kid rearranges your tackle box for you and throws out all the scary pointy things so they won't hurt Daddy.

Jesus had to have been seriously tempted to suck a dick at least once, too.

All things. That means all of them.

Some of those all things require you to be married and a parent to face the temptation. Jesus led a long and wonderful life until the Romans inspired the most popular dash ornament on the planet with him. And the Bible don't chronicle it all, by half.

And you can bet that Satan dogged Him every step of the way, thumbing through his dog-eared Book of Tricks, looking for some way to trip up The Son of God.

I bet it was "Here Jesus, eat this!" or "Hey, Jesus, whyncha fuck that!" all friggin day long.

He hung out with fishermen, for pity's sake! You ever hang around a bunch of fishermen? It's telling that He turned those sruffy, cursing, hard-drinking bastards into Saints and Apostles. Telling indeed. Some of them were stone cold killers...murderers.

Holds out hope for me.

No, you can come talkin to me when you can turn water into wine, or level a city with a fart. All the power in the universe, and you're hungry, or thirsty, or horny...

He's coming back, and He's pissed, and there's some folks as should begin to get their shit together, I'm guessing. Get it all in the same sack. Take an inventory, pick a side.

Trouble's comin...

Update:

Fuck Dan Brown.


.

Watch The Skies...

Seems planes are dropping everywhere. Then, after several seconds of intense investigation, we are informed that it is not terrorism.

I am reassured.


.

You are dependable, popular, and observant. Deep and thoughtful, you are prone to moodiness. In fact, your emotions tend to influence everything you do. You are unique, creative, and expressive. You don't mind waving your freak flag every once and a while. And lucky for you, most people find your weird ways charming!

The World's Shortest Personality Test

Via Pebblechaser.

.

Time Wasters...

Ever play this game? Oh, the quarters I've spent...I'm doomed.

And warning, ladies, looking at this chick will turn you instantly gay.

I'll be spending something entirely different than quarters on her.


Update:

Naaahhh...that's not hot...

Fagazoid.

Ooops! Sorry, newly gay chicks!

My mistake.

.

Sorry About The Heavy Posting...

...this weekend.

Funny thing is, I could have put up a dozen more. You might notice that some of them are pretty close together, time-wise.

I've got about twenty more I could spatter out right now, but some of you bitch when I do that, so I'll let up. Maybe go find some titties.

Speaking of porn, the one thing I have never run across is 'Puke-Porn'. If there is any, I don't want to hear about it. Really. And cut it out with the facials, would ya? That's just nasty, and it's hard to keep excited when some broad gets a wad blown up her nose.

Now that's just funny, right there. You gotta admit that's funny. But it ain't sexy.

Or any product that he or she might otherwise leave in a toilet.

And no snakes up the ying-yang, either. Gee-ross! I'm up for watching a dog hump a fat broad but, again, that's just comedy. Not sexy!

So, Johnny is up at the shop again. Nat is trying to disassemble her Barbie Swim House with a felt tip pen so she can "send a letter to Sportacus..." The house has a tower that resembles the mailing tube Stephanie uses, and she covets it with a fierceness. I have told her that if she persists, I will give all of her toys to the poor children.

The irony of that statement is wasted on her.

It's hotter'n the devils left nut, and I'm beginning to wonder if I went and fucked up and turned myself anorexic. I don't feel anorexic, but then again, I wouldn't know how that feels. Unless it feels like this. Which I hope not.

I forced myself to eat, a bit ago, like I was my own patient. I didn't want to, didn't want the bother, but the last thing I'd eaten was a half a bowl of macaroni salad yesterday afternoon, and my ears were beginning to ring.

Man, don't buy one of those fucking air beds as your main bed. I woke up on the floor again this morning. Did wonders for my arthritis.

Another hole. Teensy tiny, but enough to gently lower me to the floor sometime early this morning.

It's nice to be able to pull the plug and get several square feet of room you didn't have before. Plug it up, hit the switch, and in a minute or so, voila! Gueen size mattress. But the seams weaken after a while, and start to get little splits in them. I'm afraid to fuck on the thing any more, so we use her bed. "Here, honey, have a wet spot...g'night!"

Just got a call from her. She's got the shits from something she ate this morning, and wants me to have the door open so she can run straight to the toilet when she gets in.

Sigh...


.

Words Mean Things...

I'm so tired of the bullshit.

'Rape Room'. What the fuck does that mean? Well, one would assume that is where rapes are committed. In a room specifically dedicated to such an activity. You come in here, and dick happens. Oh, and your family gets to watch! Bonus!

Kinda tough on a marriage, that, one would think. Somewhat difficult to sit across the table at breakfast with her after watching her get feloniously pronged the night before by one of Saddam's henchmen. Or two. Or three.

"So, dear, how was your day?"

"Good morning, Mom...what's for breakfast?"

This is why libtards and anti-war scum need to be punched in the face. Especially when they use that line "Well, are we supposed to go stop all the injustice in the world? Huh? What about [fill in the blank] Huh?"

No, dumbass. Are you gonna refuse your kid medicine, because other children in the world don't have adequate medical care? Good, more for my kid.

Moron.

Saddam is gone, and that's a good thing. We need to hunt down and kill with extreme prejudice every member of his family, down to the fifth generation. And all of his friends. And his tribe. and anybody who was friendly to them.

We don't have the will, of course, which is why we will lose, in the end.

It should be, you hide a member of his clan in your city and let them use your banks to use their stolen Oil For Food money to finance terrorism? BOOM! No more city.

Next!

Instead, Bush banks his money from his friends in Riyadh, and our sons and daughters go over there to...

What?

Well, I hope, my troopies, to kill every fucking thing that is not in an American uniform that even so much as looks at you wrong.

And if your chain of command is rotten (and oh, you know it when they are!) there needs to be a terrible grenade accident and their replacements need a good talking to when they arrive.

Your mission is now two things, and two things only: Kill terrorists, and come home safe.

All the rest is bullshit. The little fucker you give a teddy bear to today, will be the little fucker dancing around your burnt body outside of the shattered hummer tomorrow and looting your body.

Fuck those fucks. Just survive.

Please.


.

And The Anti-Christ Is...

...from Cocoa Florida! Step into this smoky pit, and see what prizes we have for you today!

66,666...unbelievable.


.

Fuck South Korea...

Read this bullshit.

I say, pull out every US troop and ship and sub and plane, yesterday.

Then, after China and North Korea have run amok, nuke the fucking place flat. Here, China, put your money where your mouth is. Jump bad, you chink bitch. I dare you.

Give the smoking ruins to the Japs to develop.

Fuck those ungrateful bitches.


.

WARNING!

Toxic post below.

If you are a speed reader, don't scroll down for awhile...







.

I'm Going To Kill A Baby...

Seriously. If you can't handle it, leave now. Just turn away. I am going to go so far beyond NC-17, you'll dream about it.

Waiting...

You still here? You all for baby killing? That your 'choice'?

Okay, here goes...

Let's choose a nice fat one...this little guy here...

His little fat tummy still has the plastic clip that ties off the umbilicus. That'd drop off in a few days, maybe a week or so, but we've got other plans, don't we? Oh yes we do...and the places we'll go...

I've told you all about the little baby I let die in my gloved hands. The one I felt cool like a potato, just out of the microwave. The little dark-haired girl. In retrospect, I am probably glad that she didn't open her eyes and look at me. Though I have a sense they were blue...

I left out the part where the nurse's scissors went 'shlick' through the cord...the wet, nasty 'splork' the placenta made as it plooped out onto the stainless steel and crackled onto the blue paper drape...the agonized sigh of the would have been mother as she realised that her womb had been emptied, ransacked, like a crack addict had rifled her purse and spilled everything she needed for existence out on the ground, looking for...what...

Still here?

Good. Let's get to it.

That's the attitude in the bright rooms where they murder your infants. 'Let's get to it', Puritan work ethic and all, scrub up, glove up, and let's get this show on the road! I've golf to play, babies to kill, and never you mind that I probably got my medical degree in Bombay or Calcutta where life is worthless but cows are sacred and never you mind, I'm here for you now so let's get busy...

Well, no. Not exactly. You could still construe this as a 'procedure' (isn't that what all the cool kids are calling it these days? A 'procedure'? Like having Botox injections, or having your nails done?) but that is most assuredly what this is not...

No, let me reach right down and cut this little fellas penis off...there. Hear that scream? Yeah, me, too. Usually the uterus muffles it, but let's enjoy it for a minute. Taste it. Roll it around on our tongues like a fine wine...

Why yes, he'll die from that, but why do you care? We've got us a baby to kill! My scalpel is sharp, and I've got all the time in the world.

He doesn't, but I made a choice, so buck up little pilgrim, we've got us some baby slicin ta do!

Just let me slice around his little fat thigh where it joins the hip right there like...so...and with a good snap like...so...we can snap his right leg off like a chicken bone.

There. Now look, dammit, he's starting to turn all grey and ashey, and the screams have subsided considerable.

I want to go into the skull while he's still alive. I've heard so much about it...you still with me? Look a little shakey there, but good job, Little Trooper.

Okay, now I wanna get in close...oops! Caught a little spurt from that dick-cut there! Little fella's still got some life in him don't he? Look at that other leg kick!

I put my face up to his, and reach up and begin to push my Trochanter into his soft spot...his eyes open wide and his little fat hands slap up and press into my cheeks, he's holding my face... but I am a busy beaver, with no time to waste, so I press on. Doubtless just a reflex, anyway...probably just reaching out for a tit. For comfort, dontcha know.

Cold comfort, here. We've made a choice.

As the cold steel blade sinks in, his little eyes, which won't be able to focus for weeks anyway, jitter a bit, and the scream flutters off into a sigh, and a last gout of blood squirts up and onto my hand...

What? You thought I was going to wear gloves for this?

Fool.


.

Suck My Saliva...

The White House has a new Head Chef.

Hillary Clinton hired Scheib, a California native and graduate of the prestigious Culinary Institute of America, in April 1994 because she wanted to feature American cuisine after years of French cooking ushered in by Jacqueline Kennedy.

The thought of the First Family dining on this bitch's loogies just tickles me, for some reason.

Man, I'd have purged the whole of DC when I took over.

What does it tell you that GW didn't?


.

The New Shamen...

...It came to me in a dream...

I just figured it out.

Sure, there are a lot of young people blogging, and that's just fine. No harm, no foul. I read them myself.

But look at the stars. Look into the entrails. Look who's getting the big-time hits and continuous visitation and adulation and groupies and stuff...

Old guys.

Like it or not, we humans are a tribal people. It is our natural impetus. You whine about cliques, until you are invited into or form one yourself. It's what we do...how we're wired. With rare exceptions.

Voices. Crying in the wilderness. Content to be alone, but having something to say. And they build an audience of listeners.

The old men of the tribe. No longer viable. Can't hunt. Broken down, worn out, used up, but they have something that the youth of the tribe do not have...

Experience. And whatever 'wisdom' that often hard-learned experience has brought them.

Whether it is a forgotten path to a mountain pond teeming with fish, or advice on how to not get fucked up in a bar because you were stupid enough to think the bike gang leaders wife really dug you and wasn't trying to get him to forget the young thing he was hitting on, we geezers have stories to tell.

And as we wave our arms and shout, there in the firelight outside the cave, you sit there in the shivering shadows and listen. And learn.

Some of you.

Some see the penumbra of white hair, unkempt and full of stickers and bones and ribbons that he let his grandchild tie in there, as a sign of worthlessness, perhaps madness.

Some note the way he stands, back to the cave wall, feet spread apart, and the handle of his knife always seems to swing just under his hand.

The internet has brought us this.

We were a society that was exploded and rent apart and isolated, and how many of your neighbors names do you know?

But the internet gives us this. We choose our tribe. We build alliances. We light fires and send up smoke when danger approaches, we unify against a common enemy.

In a country of nearly half a billion people, I find this comforting, near The End of Days.

It might just be singing on the upper decks as the ship goes down, but it is sweet music, indeed.


.

Menstrual Show...

My wife has been peddling the shit out of her Menstrual Cycle for the last few days.

I send her outside the camp, but she keeps wandering back.

Question: Do you think I haven't fished a Maxi-Pad out of the bathroom trash, rolled my 10mm Hydrashoks in it, and reloaded the clip? Oh, not the casing, dummy...the gaping hollow point. Gosh, I want to shoot a jihadist with one...

Anyway...

Today is the Lords Day. He says 'I give you fuckers six, so this one is mine, but don't expect me to come watch you wear a suit while the game is on'...

I honor the Lord by staying home, and if I'm lucky, watching football. The wife, being a woman, primps up herself and the kids, and drags them off to the snake tent.

Or whatevah.

So, a few minutes ago, in a whirl of gettingoutofthehouseonSundayism, she emerges from the bathroom, bearing a small spray bottle of perfume, and a tampon, and a Maxi-Pad.

Somewhat befuddled, probably from lack of sleep due to the smelly neighbors fucking like epileptic emus at three am last night for an hour or so, I raise an inquiring eyebrow.

She explains:

"I'm wearing some damn perfume whether you like it or not..."

"On the Tampon?" I ask...

"No, dummy...I've never understood scented Tampons...why would you want to have perfumed blood?" and she lightly sprayed her forearms...

So, there you go.

Me, I'm to bed, perchance to not dream...


.

Who Made Who?

Acidman makes an assertion from an interesting perspective, but I think he goes somewhat awry, and I'll tell you why.

I wrote for myself from the beginning, here. I stood on my soapbox in an empty park, and shouted to the pigeons and squirrels.

I had no comments. Didn't know how, didn't care to learn.

I read one other blog. I commented on it more than I posted on my own. My blog was my Safe Room, where I locked myself in and tore at the padded walls.

It still is.

Oh, I might be crazy, but I'm not a fool (welllll). I know ya'll are out there, now. I know yer out there. Now.

The first email I got startled the shit out of me, though. It was like getting caught masturbating while standing on a crate while looking through the window into the Girls Shower at the gym.

Whuffuck!?!

But I didn't write for you then, and I don't write for you now. I 'like' you, but I don't know you. I like having you scratch my belly...my foot thumps on the floor with joy, but like I've told every woman in my life who gets froggy, hey bitch, I don't need you, I can always jack off.

I acknowledge the fact that entertainers exist. I'd be a fool not to. Piano players, clowns, mimes, comedians, magicians...I consume their products, but I don't have a 'connection'.

I don't understand the impetus.

Being a sociopath, I tend to live, to exist, only for myself. Any act of charity is done for my own benefit, my own aggrandizement. It makes ME feel good. I did it for ME.

I apologise to God for this flaw on a daily basis. He gave me Johnny, I think, to show me another way.

I'm trying to learn.

But if you think I wouldn't stand on your back while you bubble your last into the mud so I can keep my nose above water...well, you and I had best not go boating together.

I feel so much closer to you, now that we've had this little talk.

Let's be friends...


Update:

I found the secret in Rob's comments, what I was looking for, but couldn't put my finger on...

Trolls.

Some people suffer fools. Heck, they're 'hits', and 'comments'.

Fukkem. I hate them, and stifle them with extreme prejudice. If you have them on your blog, I scroll past like scampering past a pile of dogshit on the sidewalk.

Trolls are like watching your parents fuck...

Just nasty.

.

'Are Half of All Americans Mentally Ill?'...

Finally, a theory that explains Democrats.


.

66,666...

That's 33,333 times two, xtx.

Some time tonight, or tomorrow, one of you is going to turn over that magic number on my site meter.

Do you think you might feel a hand on your shoulder, smell a puff of sulphur, and hear a voice clotted with the blood of infants intone "Come with me..."?

That would be cool.

Just think, if every one of those 66,666 had dropped off a dollar, well, Paypal would have about one fifth of it.

The fuckers.

Thanks for dropping by.


.

Trail Of Tears...

I did something I rarely do, tonight. I watched the evening news. Not cable...regular ABC NBC shit.

Ugh.

The main thing that jumped out at me is how gleefully they are all grinning through gritted teeth about the pending, and totally insane Gaza eviction of Jews who have lived there for longer than most of you have been alive.

Leave aside the politics of it, for a moment, I don't really understand them anyway; but why are these Bush-hating butt-fuckers giving him even a moment of slack? They actually appear to be trying to put a happy face on it. There has to be an ulterior motive. And it's simple:

Leftists hate Jews. Even, and oddly, if they are one.

Never mind that Bush is the organ grinder, and Condi Rice is his monkey. And what a duo of whores they are. I choke with the hatred of betrayal when I look at them now, and I am not afraid to call a spade a spade.

No, what is about to happen is wrong wrong wrong, on a level of wrongness that ended up last time at train stations close to where chimneys belched the smoke of innocents into a weeping sky.

There is a solution. Actually, there are several, my favorite being the one where every Palestinian on the planet lies dead and stinking, and the birds pick their bones, and peace breaks out all over the Middle East.

But I am an honest, realistic man.

No, Sharon is in pain, and insane, and needs to die for his multitude of sins. A Strong Man needs to lead Israel, and throw, by force, every Palestinian man woman and squalling infant out on the road, out into Syria and Lebanon and Jordan and Egypt...make them refugees, make them pay for their psychosis with weeping and gnashing of teeth, and make the other Arab shitholes reel for a while as they attempt to absorb the influx.

By its insistence on enabling this insanity, our country, our government has doomed itself. It's just a question of where and when. The body, headless, neck spurting, is just looking for a time and a place to fall.

Agree or not, you can feel it in your bones. Putting make-up on a dead persons face might make the family feel better, but that body is never going to breathe again.

I hope those Gaza settlers turn into a revolutionary corps that rips the rotting black heart of current Israeli government out, and shows it to the appeasers as they die.

Prognosis is not good.

Sometimes, things are darkest just before they turn completely black.


.

Hot Monkey Love...

I just caught the tail end of Tim Burton's 'Planet of the Apes', and I finally realized what always bugged me about it.

Fuck me if he didn't have a chimp and a human hottie after him, both of whom would have been in for some hot inter-species menage a trois action, and the stupid fag flies outta there!

I hope those gorrilas in DC fuck him up.

Funny, how no one mentioned how much Tim Burton's Washington DC just looked like business as usual. 'Gorrilas In The Mist'. Oh shut up. You black people say that shit, too. And if yer white, what're you doin gettin pissed off?

Think about it.

Fuck, Wahlberg keeps letting himself be put into retard roles. Gonna get typecast...ooops! Too late!

When you get a chance to fuck Estella Warren AND a chimp who looks suspiciously like Helena Bonham Carter, and you jump back into your pod and fly away, you deserve to have some gorilla doing you up the butt with a plunger handle in lock-up.

Retard.


.

Over The River And Through The Woods...

...to grandmother's cunt we go...

It occurred to me the other day, that if I continue this annoying habit of living, at some point in my life, I shall have to fuck an elderly person.

I broached this issue with my hairdresser yesterday, and she guffawed, and then punched me in the shoulder.

Her next client was exiting her vehicle, and I inquired as to her availability, as she had the requisite blue hair and cane and whatnot.

I received yet another punch.

Seriously, at some point in my life, I may be kneeling there on the bed, fecundly rigid, and look down, only to see some deflated dirigible, and wonder where I am going to poke myself into it, or indeed, if I even can.

I figure it is best to pull a little recon, first, to determine if I want to opt out of any further life, or not.

I blame Straight White Guy for this train of thought, the fucker.

It is a well known fact of life that most men would fuck a snake just after a semi rolled over it, in front of their kids staring out bug-eyed from the mini-van. If neccesary.

But, Gramma? Perhaps in the dark, or from a Glory Hole, but...

I have put myself off of my feed.

The oldest I ever had was 63 (I was 17) and she hammered me into the ground like a tent peg. Fucked me like a dingoe eats a baby (Hullo, Australian readers!). She ran 11 miles a day, and introduced me to a group of lesbians who became my friends (and of who I fucked nearly all of them...go figure) and I learned to fear the soft tread of her naked feet as she padded to my place of repose.

You want kink? Her quadrapelegic husband, who was my charge, would be asleep. Later, I would be putting suppositories up his ass, and collecting his shit in a pan.

Sexy!

So: Single married guy seeks the hottest looking 75 year old woman he can find to look at naked, and perhaps pork.

Hey, it's not adultery when they're over 65. It's considered an act of charity.

You know, the 'widows and orphans' thing?

Mmmmmm...orphans...


.

Bullets Are Pretty...

















I stole this from the Cumslinger. I like it.

I love to just pour a whole box of bullets out sometimes, and play with them. It is dang near sexual.

Deadly little copper-clad penises, just waiting to go fuck someone.

I haven't touched a cartridge with my skin in years. I load them while wearing these thin cotton gloves I have, or use my shirt or something while I'm out of doors.

No sense in leaving an autograph.

I wipe every part of my gun down carefully as I reassemble it, too.

You can never be too skinny, or too not in jail.

Well, there's some Jews from Auschwitz who might disagree with that sentiment, but, you get my drift...


.

I Can't Believe I Haven't...

...linked this blog.

Do yourself a favor...go back into the archives and start at the beginning.


.

Will Blog For Food...

Why does some little cum-shitter like Andrew Sullivan make $100,000 a year from blogging, and I get a happy little wet end when someone drops $50 on me? (Thanks again, by the way.)

I read Sullivan about five times and said "Fuck this..." and ditched him, because I know a faux conservative one-trick pony when I see one. And thinking of his semen-stained fingers typing out that drivel was just...icky.

But he gets The Big Bucks.

Is this some kind of fag conspiracy? The (psuedo) Man keeping me down? Whatevah. Talk to the gland.

If you start thinking about all the talentless assholes out there who are making it or who have made it big while you languish in obscurity, you just might eat your gun like Hunter S did.

May he rot in peace.

I'm keeping a list of all of the writers/bloggers that rhapsodized about him and mourned his passing. C'mon guys (and not one of them was a woman) Cowboy Up, and follow your role model into oblivion. Eat some shrooms and snort a line of Ajax and eat your gun. They still idolize that hack Hemmingway, too.

You'll be like, immortal and stuff.

Go with class, like Hunter, in front of your wife and kid. Or not.

To have an entire body of work shit-stained by an insane act like that is one of the most tragic things I can imagine. Like putting a baby feet first into a blender...why? Well, so you can enjoy the expression on its face! Duh.

See? It's funny, but it makes no sense, and when you really think about it, it's really sickening. But funny.

Is that the kind of joke you want to be? That I want to be? Well, I seem to be making pretty good progress, except for the whole 'making money at it' part.

Before you can have fame, and more importantly, fortune, does Old Scratch have to show up in a puff of smoke, with a thick contract that you need to sign and I've marked all the places with stickers here, and here, oh, and over here, and just ignore that fine print there, it's just a formality dontcha know...

?

Maybe that's why Scratch doesn't show up here. Cuz he knows I'll call my friend Jesus over to beat the fuck out of him like he's a red-tailed step-child.

Why is this shit so hard for some people?

You get issued one soul. That's it. You get two eyes, but only one liver. I expect God knows He is going to drive you to drink at some point, so it's bigger than your lungs, of which you also get two. Planned redundancy abounds.

But only one soul.

So don't fuck it up.


.

Go To Bed!

Jeeze. Losers.

Oh...wait...

Fuck ya! I still have wine, and bullets!

Damn neighbors are drunk, too, and smoking those fag-ass clove cigarettes, or something. Fuckerheads.

Damn, my rubber doll is lookin hot. Is that in the Bible somewhere? Thou shalt not spank it to thy rubber doll?

Fukkit. I'm tired. If yer not Pamela Anderson, get away from my dick.

My wife decanted her tampon tonight, and caused a wet cleanup on aisle 13.

I returned her favor of not laughing at me last night.

Okay, I laughed.

Offered to chew the stains out of the bathroom carpet like a squaw chews the skidmarks out of her Braves loincloth.

Who the fuck puts a carpet down on a bathroom floor, anyway? I piss on that fucker on purpose.

Blame the kids.

Hey, they coulda done it.

I'm not as think as you drunk I am.

On second thought, Pamela can just fuck off. My eye hurts.

Well, she could suckle me like a baby goat, but no talking.

Must. Not. Kill. Smelly. Neighbors.

Perhaps, just a flesh wound.

Fuck a 'Stick-Up'...this'd be a great place for a grenade.

My placenta hurts.

Time for bed, I think.


.

I Know A Lotta Bloggers Read This Blog...

Well, several, anyway. I got a favah to ask of ya'll, especially the ones who link to me:

If you remove my link, I'll understand.

If I really like you, it will bug me some.

But I will not give an absolute necrophiliac dick up a dead baby's ass if you do it.

What does not kill me, just pisses me off.

Do not write a post about it, or I will hold your head in the Toilet Of Public Opinion, and flush repeatedly. I'll fuck your inner child so hard up the ass that you will invent a time machine and go back and kill your parents just so you do not have to feel the burn, all right?

The coin of the realm here in blogdom is credibility, and you lose all of that when you do stupid shit like publicly delinking like that. It's crap, and I hate it.

There are some things that can be said that will kill a relationship that instant. I found that out when I was kneeling on a womans chest with most of the eight and three eighths inches of my Smith & Wesson down her throat and the hammer back and both of our angels must have kept me from carressing that hair trigger and blowing a sack of brains into her pillow, all because she had just told me she had aborted our baby.

She lived, but that relationship was DOA. I understand.

On second thought, if you want to link and delink that fat chocolate-milk cow Oliver Willis, and post about it every day, go right ahead. Or Kos. Or any other vaginal curd you and I both correctly hate with our right-of-center conservative beings.

But if we have formed a community, a 'family' of sorts, and we start cannibalizing one another just because someone hurt someone else's feelings, or said something they disagreed with...well, that's just fucked up.

It happened here, last year, and I hated it. There's blogs whose doors I'll never darken again, but I'm not gonna cry about it.

If you don't want your friends/readers going to a link, delink it, but be a man or a woman about it, unless you want war. I hate it, but I can do war. And you don't want a war with me.

Delink, link, read, don't read, whatever. Just don't reach in and grab my beard and then cry when I rip your fucking arm off.

Once more, for clarity...if you run away from this blog and go back to yours and start a public pogrom against me, I will destroy you as best I can. I will slander and insult you in ways that could only be imagined by Clive Barker on LSD.

Or not. Cuz I find that shit so very very tedious and boring.

Best not to test me, I'd think.


.

Fuck, I'm Tired...

...I'm tired of hearing ya'll whine about your dead parents, you lucky bastards...

Tired. And irritated. A potentially lethal combination.

I have had the worst day ever that didn't involve Johnny getting whacked open or me going to jail.

Yesterday, my Dad calls me and tells me, does not ask me, that I am driving he and Mom down to Eugene to pick up a moving truck so their fat elderly asses can drive it down to Los Angeles and move my crazy lesbian aunt, who once tried to fuck me and we almost did it but my parents came home, up here. Damn good kisser, but we haven't spoken in seven years, since the night Johnny was born, and she called and got my 14 year old future Marine and asked, drunkenly "Well, is the little fucker dead yet?"

My future Marine cried some when he related that to me the next day, and I have avoided her, since. She would probably enjoy the kick in the cunt I give her if I ever see her again. Or not.

Is it wrong of me to wish my parents dead from a head-on with a Mexican trucker hauling a load of fuel? So I don't have any funeral expenses which I can not currently afford?

Lesbitch's shit strewn about in a flaming heap, no muss, no fuss?

Add to all this new hottie-neighbor's husband came home last night, thus ruining my menage a twat fantasy, and I am all agrump.

And to add injury to insult, I was almost killed last night while sipping wine and watching the Perseids outside with my wife. Those cheap-ass plastic fucking lawn chairs, you know, the green ones or the white ones that have grown so ubiquitous because they are $4.99 apiece at K-Mart?

They are cheap-ass for a good damn reason.

There I was, slumped back and relaxed, sipping my wine, watching the skies, having adult conversation with my beautiful wife, a mini-mag light in my left front pocket, a .380 auto in my right front pocket, and the back right leg of that chair just fucking exploded and I dropped to the driveway like a wet sock and the arm of the fucking thing flew up and hit my right elbow jolting my wine/gun hand back into my face splashing some wine into the fresh thumbnail gash I'd just sliced into my own eyeball and it burned like fucking shit but I saved most of the wine, which was pretty cool.

Fucking Mad Ninja Skillz my ass. The wife, wisely, shut the fuck up. After an initial startled snicker.

I came back out from rinsing my face and freshening my glass to find the shattered chair gone, and a fresh one in its place, and we watched meteors for a little while longer.

Folks, I can go to sleep in under a minute, sometimes as quickly as five to ten seconds, but last night I tossed and turned for most of the night, coming up with new and amusing ways to tell my parents to fuck off and die.

And then I showed up five minutes before the scheduled time we'd agreed on, only to find them getting in their van to come pick me up. They used to be geniuses. I just parked, got in the van, and pretended to sleep the whole trip.

The one happy note was that their Boston Terrier attacked a woman in the parking lot of the rental truck place. He's a good sized little sonofabitch, and he lunged out of the van at her as I was unloading their stuff, and I caught him with a good round-house slap that flipped him ass over tea-kettle all the way into the back of the van. He recovered, and sat there quivering, forlorn.

That cheered me up. Some.

Fuck, my eye hurts.


.

This Whore Needs Some Attention...

I mean it. Just go post ABC's or something, or Tink will die.

Clap! I do believe in faeries! I DO believe in faeries!

Oh, and go out tonight and watch the Perseids.

One of them could be Bill...flaming on. Or flaming out.

I still miss Paul...


.

What Was I saying?

.

Alert The Pope!

Now, that's how you write funny.

Those of you with fluidic issues might want to place a towel over your face before reading.

Spazzes...


.

Over There...

See that? That's how you do it. Now, whenever anyone Googles 'Over There', this will pop up, and I can grab them by the ears and scream into their face HOW MUCH THIS SHOW FRIGGIN ROCKS!!!!!

Or, you could just title each post 'Big Honking Dog Weiners' and get traffic, too. Whatever.

Man, I am smitten with this show. No, not the dog weiner one, dummy, 'OVER THERE'!

Bochco has outdone himself. I haven't done the research...I wanted to go into this thing cold. I saw the first commercial, and said "This is for me...I hope..." I was afraid they were going to fuck it up.

They not only have not fucked it up, they have spectacularly unfucked it, screwed its head back on straight, and kept it from being the grabasstic suppurating burst of ass phlegm that, quite frankly, I was expecting.

I think Bochco's son is writing or directing or something? Whatever. Just keep doing it right.

The nitpickers will do what they do, pick nits. Nits are tiny, insignificant things. DISCLAIMER: I have never been to Iraq! I don't give a fuck if the sand's not 'right'! Blow me!

It is a grand, great story, and it dances around the issues of the day for a bit, and then punches the fuck right through, and I bet some censors have heard "CLEAR!" a few times, and gotten pretty damn close to the light before the paddles made them buck.

If you don't have anything nice to say, I really don't want to hear it. If you have a technical issue with the show, contact them with it, cuz I could give a fuck. If the words 'fuck', 'motherfuck', 'nigger' and 'sand-nigger' bother you, do not watch this show.

This show is like hearing a virtuoso play a glass harmonica...the notes flow into and over one another and cascade until by the end you...

Well, just watch it. It's on reruns all the time.

Check your local listings...


.

Thanks!

Thanks, anonymous donor! Now I can afford heroin for the children!

You ROCK!

Hey, God, do somethin nice for them, okay?

Thanks.


.

Wow...

Just fucking wow.

Via Blondage.


.

Beating My Meat...

I have recently discovered the joy of beating my meat. I even bought a special hammer to beat my meat with. I just took it away from Nat, and chastised her severely..."This is for Daddy to beat his meat with! Do Not Ever Touch It Again!"

I wouldn't want her nasty little bogger-hooks touching my damn meat, anyway. Get sick or something.

I'll beat my own meat, thank you, or entrust the wife to do it, but I'll not have a child beat my meat for me, no sir.

Maybe it's because I have recently lost two mission-critical teeth, or I'm just getting old, but I find lately that I like my meat soft, so I beat the hell out of it, when I can.

The new (additional!) hottie neighbor caught me beating my meat on the back patio by the barbecue the other evening. I could tell by the way she was looking at it that she craved my meat, and would suck it down if I gave her half a chance.

I took a break from pounding it, and asked her if she wanted any of my meat, but she demurred, no doubt intimidated by the size of it. I resumed pounding it, until the juices burst from it.

Maybe she's a vegetarian. Whatever. I'll keep showing off my meat, and eventually she'll eat it, I bet. She's lonely because her husband is away. I don't want him to see my meat, let alone me beating it. I don't have enough for everybody, and he'd probably want to eat the whole thing.

Not that I would mind, per se. Hey, I'm a generous and giving guy, but I think a guy should beat his own meat, and not be scarfing down the meat of others. Unless they are like, good friends, or something.

So, do you beat your meat?


.

Ladyfish Is Dead...

...Long Live Ladyfish!

Some of you may recall that a while back I brought home a Beta fish to introduce the kids to the Circle Of Life.

Not wanting Nat thinking that the Circle Of Life ends with a Trip Down The Sewer, this morning I snuck the seriously dead Ladyfish in her bowl, past Nat, with a towel over the fishbowl, to the funerary urn we call our toilet, and flushed her away. Twice. Ladyfish, not Nat. Duh.

Ladyfish was murdered. Death by passive aggression. The wife and I were bickering as to whose turn it was to change her water (Ladyfish's, not my wifes. Duh) and we were both holding out and Ladyfish up and died in the interim.

It's too bad, actually. I'm gonna miss that fish. She came right up to the glass and wagged like a dog at you, and attacked her tiny little food balls with a fierceness. You could hear the water snap.

Well, always the thoughtful tactician, I picked her because she looks exactly like the other 25 Betas in the pet shop. I'll bring the new one in, and if the kids notice, I'll tell them we sent her out to have her cleaned, and looky here, doesn't she look all shiny now? Not all dull and yucky looking like she did yesterday, when she was practicing swimming on her back, huh.

So, the TV's downstairs watching Nat, I am up here with my beer, and the wife is up in Portland with John, trying to get an answer to the age-old question 'why does blood run out of Johnny's ear?'

He's going back in the shop for some more work, soon. I don't ask, I just nod and pretend to listen, and comfort him when he comes to me for it. Nothing I can do, otherwise, and it's how I cope, so screw it.

Nat knows God let him be broke. She gets a bargain, because it is easy for her to snatch toys she wants out of his misshapen little paws. I have told him it is okay to knock her on her ass if he has to, just not in the face, but he tolerates her, for the most part.

Oh, he'll rat her out in a heartbeat, and lie about it to boot. If the accusation is serious enough, I punish them both, because you just never know, but you know they're always guilty of something.

But he never hits her. Trips, yes. He enjoys a good pratfall as much as anybody. I am trying to get him to quit laughing at her when I unload my wrath on her.

Nat has discovered the Joy Of Scissors.

The possibilities for mayhem are endless.


.

Did I Miss A Holiday?

Must be Sarcasm Day. Lileks celebrates it, as well as the Goddess Ann.

I wish we could clone them both, about 10,000 times.


.

The Goddess Speaks!

Kneel, vermis, and worship!

She is particularly full of pith and vinegar, today. I guffawed.


.

Suspending Disbelief...

Oh, you people know I can suspend disbelief like a muhfukka. Heck, I loved Van Helsing.
Why, just last night, I believed Bill Murray wouldn't have fucked the panties off of Scarlett Johansson if given half a chance, which he was, and yes, ladies and gentlemen, I would violate all and everything I've I've ever said here if tempted by her, so Thank God He will never allow her to slink into my room...

"Wet clean-up on aisle 13!"

BUT!

'Four Brothers'? Is John Singleton retarded? Make all the characters black, or all white, and I'll buy it, but I chuckled sardonically during the previews. A libtards wet dream, to be sure, but...puhleeze.

'Dukes of Hazzard'? A shitty TV show turned into an improbable blockbuster. Nuke us now, Albert Q, you were right all along.

My cherry was broke when I took a Universal City tour back in the 60's, and the tour guide pointed out fifteen or so black GTO's, lined up in a wrecked pile against a soundstage wall.

She told us brightly how they had all been smashed up during the taping of ONE FUCKING SCENE of the show 'Mannix'.

Yeah, jump this, motherfucker. My only consolation is that the Rebel flag on the roof of the General Lee gives Eberts apoplexy, and hopefully another stroke. Read his review for a truly funny glimpse into the muddled cranium of a libtard.

I don't mind whats-her-fuck being stupid...remember, I have fucked a retard or two, but that vile acne infomercial on cable ruined it for me. You know, the one where she looks like a smallpox victim? Yeah, that's the one.

I do not want to imagine the sounds of bubble-wrap popping as she lolls her cheeks around on my thighs.

And her sister is more brain-dead than all of the Ozzy Osmond family. There's no way I could even imagine cutting loose my Mighty Swimmers in either of those two tardettes.

And have you seen the pics of Jessicunt in her bikini? My goodness, those ribs look like something from an ad where they just want me to donate fifty cents a month. Hyenas would turn up their noses, and buzzards would tell each other 'there's nothing to see here, just silicone...move along'

[At no time do I want any words of mine to be construed as an indictment of silicone, ever. I love silicone, except when you bite a tit too hard, and it spurts into your mouth. That is just wrong.]

I look at the rest of the summer fare, and despair. I cannot remember when there has been such slim pickens. Truly. Just awful. I may have to take up reading again.

The wife got back a bit ago from 'Sky High'...loved it, of course. Go, love it. Love the shit out of it.

I would like to think that that would give Whorellywood a hint, but they prove their cluelessness with nearly everything they grunt out onto our screens.

Sundance is no better, and perhaps worse. Cannes is a bad joke. The UN of film.

With worldwide distribution, now, and third-world subhumans who will gobble up any turd Hollywood shits out, I do not see an end to this Crapifada, this Shitwa they have declared on us.

When my favorite movie of the summer is 'The Devil's Rejects' , there is something seriously wrong.


.

Yahoo Sucks...

I tried to look up a word I didn't know how to spell in Yahoo yesterday, and it didn't recognize any permutation I typed in. I switched to Google in frustration, and bam! first time, there it was.

I just tried again with 'Scarlett Johansson' a bit ago, to see if there's any nipple-slips or tittie shots, and same thing. Yahoo sucked, and Google gave me the tit, right off (the wife and I saw 'Lost In Translation' last night...I've seen it three times, now).

Gosh, she is beautiful. I zoomed in on her jewelry, though, and it was Satanist to the bone. Maybe she doesn't know what those symbols mean. Funny thing, Avon sells that shit, too. Shocked the piss out of me when I was going through their catalog.

Whatevah. This is cutting into my nap time. I'm going to go sleep with my son. I love to softly pet his lumpy head until he drifts off...

I think we both like it. We are headed into The Breach again...

...can you tell?


.

Fuck...

...Starbucks.

I don't drink their coffee, and neither should you.


.

...And Now, Back To More 'Fat Chat With Bane'...

...I think I need to hit somebody...

Just to test something out.

I'm down to 213 from nearly 270, and I'm starting to feel pretty buoyant.

Was a time not too long ago where I felt like a Grizzly Bear, like I could slap your head off with one swipe. When I hit someone or something, they stayed hit. Simple physics, with a little Zen Ninja focus bullshit thrown in.

Of course, last time I was this weight, I was a bouncer who worked some pretty tough bars by himself. I like it that way, because you don't have to worry about who you hit. Just hit everybody.

I need to start pumping iron again. I have so much muscle memory, I rip up right away. Trouble is, my reflexes are so fast, that I get away with being out of shape and out of practice because I can make two mistakes and one good strike before most of you can see it coming. I'm across the kitchen and into the dining room and catching the milk glass before Nat knows she hit it with her elbow.

And then I get a cramp. That's bullshit, and I'm tired of it.

Problem: I've a limited warrantee on my hips and knees, what with the Gift of Arthritis from the military. Is riding my bike gonna fuck me up? I don't even want to think about getting back on the jumprope.

Maybe Tai Chi. I do that a lot already. Natty and John don't know how many times I've pulled deadly blows just at their head. They think we're playing. You amateurs, don't try this at home. If nothing else, it is very bad to practice not hitting, because that is likely what you'll do in a combat situation.

Get a whole pile of full contact under your belt before you practice not hitting things.

Then, it is like the point where you have brought back the hammer, and your finger is on the trigger, and you have that shoot/don't shoot moment.

Don't keep your body cocked for too long...that decision should be made in less than a heartbeat.

When you can do it, you've trained enough. Go have a beer.

Anyway, now that I'm newly svelte, I worry about dippy shit like am I too light to really make a difference in some fools chest with my fist...my favorite strike, by the way. BLAM! Right in the breastbone. Works really well on guys who've trained with karate-like disciplines. Except for Shotokan. Watch those fuckers. They'll likely kick your dick off if you try that one. Or your head.

Maybe I should buy a few bales of hay, and some hooks, and buck that shit around the yard. Best workout there is for your whole body, and you can flip them bales over in the morning and stomp mice.

Bonus.


.

I Can't Believe...

...this bullshit.

Tell me again why we are giving Egypt a fucking nickle?

Pray for Armegeddon, people, and I don't mean that shitty book.

Via Aaron's cc.

PS: I adore Lileks, but his continuing association with Hugh Hewitt is troubling me. There is strong evidence Hewitt is somewhat of a Muslim tool. I do not follow him, but those of you who do, might want to reconsider.


.

I'm Sorry...

But I just have to...this is one of the most stunning women I've ever seen, and she reminds me a lot of another beauty I was emailing with last night.

...and, of course, there's more...

.

Christian Music Sucks...

Quit buying it. It only encourages them to make more.

My wife claims to love that crap. She plays it downstairs, and I stay upstairs. Maybe that's her plan. She wisely mutes it, now, or pauses it when I come downstairs, because that crap tears at my brain, and eventually I begin to mock it, yodelling along with it in what I am pretty sure is an offensive manner.

Awful, atonal shit, where what passes for 'lyrics' is some emo homo repeating "My God!" over and over and over and over and over...

That's all you need to do, and bamn! Christian song, recording contract, and guilty blow-jobs on the tour bus from guilty Christian groupies that you'll pray for forgiveness with after, both of you on your knees for a change.

Just write "Praise The Lord Hallelujah!" and repeat it over and over and over and over again and, there you go. Best sung in some kind of reedy, alto-tenor voice, backed up by a synthesizer and a zither and what might be a Hawaiian Nose Flute, and you're a star.

Gack me.

The only Christian singer I ever really liked is dead, and I couldn't listen to him much because he made me cry like a sonofabitch. Green? Yeah, I think that was it. That dude could write some heart-wrenching shit.

There's another Christian broad that does me up like that, some song about 'Mary, did you know your son was God' or something like that. Gets me like that damn book 'Love You Forever'...I can't even look at the cover of that fucker without bawling. Sorry, kids, yer gonna have to learn how to read to get that one on yer own.

But this current crop of Christian shit...yuck. It's either emo crap, or Marilyn Manson Lite, and I'll have no truck with any of it.

Fukkem all.


.

A Kindred Spirit...

...this totally cracked my shit up.

Too bad he doesn't have comments.


.

Come Get Some...

...oh, my...

...another wet spot in the front of my pants...

Check this out (potential long load, but worth it!).

This is what people join the Marine corps to do...you might be in the Marine Corps for twenty years and never get this chance again to take out a full-fledged city full of insurgents...

...pretty much we said hey, were gonna be at this place at this time and if you want some, come get some...we fucked em up...

Via Gateway Pundit, by way of Blackfive...


.

Peter Jennings...

Fuck that bitch. I'm glad he's dead. Wish I could have stomped his chest in myself.

It's just a good start. Now we need a Dead Pool going on Moyers and Cronkite and Rather and the rest of the lying traitors who take a dump on America.

Fukkem all, in the neck, with a rusty garden trowel.

Cocksuckers...


.

My First Porn Post...

I said I would never post porn, but I'm gonna post this link, because it made me crack up so bad.

But it's porn. NOT SAFE FOR WORK! OR PROBABLY HOME! TURN YOUR SPEAKERS UP!

See filthy stuff that made Bane spit beer out of his nose.


.

Those Of You Who Pray...

...please pray hard for Difster.

That is an amazing thing, a man running towards his wife, instead of away, and darn nice to see in this day and age.

This could just be a chance where God wants a lot of people to see Him work, and show off His stuff.

Or not.

Mysterious Ways, and all that.

God Bless you, Difster, as you and He have blessed me and mine.

Amen.


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My Wife Has Just Died In A Horrible Fire...

...Nat informs me just now. I, though, survived, as did Johnny, but the wife has been burnt up, and demoted to Grandma. Or perhaps that is a promotion. Whatever.

I bet Lileks doesn't have to deal with this shit.

Apparently, upset that Mommy is going out to do some shopping and Nat doesn't get to go, she has decided to kill her off in one of her bizarre games.

Nat is carrying around a picture frame that still has the issue photo in it, and that woman is her new Mommy, and she refers to my wife now as Grandma. Johnny is crying because he is sad that his mother is dead.

My so-called life...


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Not Surprisingly...

...Lileks feels exactly about this Intelligent Design versus Evolution business that I do.

Must read.


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Happy Anniversary...

...A change is in the air...

I am approaching the one year anniversary of being Gloriously Unencumbered By Employment.

Oh, I work at this blog, but a job is something you get paid for, and, sadly, this does not pay.

It appears that I shall have to drag my disabled ass out and begin to look for some serious work, and prospects are not good for a 50 year old, 50% disabled Veteran in a liberal town.

It has been one year, nearly to the day since I have paid taxes, gotten up in the morning, driven to work, hated it all day, then driven home, and dreaded Monday all weekend long.

In short, it has been very, very nice.

Very tight, too. But two smart people can budget well and do some tricks and survive. You people have helped, a lot, but I suspect yer hoarding your dollars for your own summer fun, because the well has run dry.

I'm not bitchin, that's fine with me, it's just a wake-up call for me.

I look for work nearly every day, but I can't afford most jobs I find, and the bar is set too high for the other ones. Used to be, having a Masters meant something, now you almost have to have one to pump ice cream at the Dairy Queen.

And I don't have a Masters, or even a completed degree, for that matter. I have nearly 200 university level credit hours, and no degree. Divorce saw to that, and I never got back on the horse.

There's jobs out there that I am not only qualified for, I have done them before, but they want a license and a Masters, now. Oh well.

Did you hear me say I can't afford most jobs? Yep. Think about it, between gas and lunch and whatever, I have to make a minimum of $10 an hour to make it worthwhile to show up, $12-$15 if I'm gonna stick around for awhile (and not be interviewing for other places on my lunch hour).

I keep seeing the same jobs come open in the same damn places, too. You know what that means? Yeah, they treat their people like shit and can't hold on to them, that's what.

Can't afford a damn job...what's this world coming to? The wife and I did the math a while back, and her and I both working (which we once did) would mean child care, and probably running two cars, and it was cheaper for her to stay home, plus there was the home-schooling aspect, so I worked, and she played Mommy and all was right with the world.

And then I got laid off. Then I got laid off again. Then I went through a bout of depression while my son was in Iraq that finally went away, but by then, we'd settled into a routine.

Again, I'm not bitching about anything, here, it's just that some of you seem to give a shit, this helps me think, and it's my damn ball and I'll bounce it however I want.

In my younger days, I'd happily take three or four shit jobs and string them together into one, but quite frankly, I'm too damn proud to wear a paper hat and serve fries or be a security guard or mow lawns with Mexicans.

And I've never known prejudice until now, when the eyes flick up to my grey hair, and the brows furrow when they get to the part on the application about the 50% disabled Vet bit. That's kind of a buzz-kill...or Job-Kill, if you will.

I've been to open calls in the last year where I am filling out an application, surrounded by a couple hundred beautiful young men and women. And there's three openings.

I don't even get a phone call or a letter.

I hate it when I'm standing there and some hottie walks up to me and says "Excuse me, sir..." and tries to turn in her application to me and I have to point her to the right place.

Oh well, waaa waaa, my diapers are wet, eh? God's gonna take care of us, He always does, but I still get butterflies as I step off the ledge.

Catch me, Lord, cuz I think I'm falling...


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I've Got A New Fatitude...

I think I've gone and broken myself.

You may recall some of my earlier posts on my diet plan and subsequent lifestyle change. I have observed several things about myself that are different.

I hang out over at SteveH.'s place a lot. I enjoy his writing, and his food talk, a lot. I print out his recipes and pics of food and go running with them to my wife to show her and I rhapsodize about how good it sounds and...

...well, she's trying to diet, too, and exercising a lot, and it's really working, but she finally snapped and ordered me to cut it out because it was making her crave and feel weak and backslide.

That's when I realized how much I've changed.

Gone is the man who saw the pizza ad on TV and went in and made a sandwich. I don't crave. Oh, to be sure, Steve's recipes make me drool, but gone is the impulse to satisfy my cravings.

I was accused earlier in the comments of having an 'iron will'. I guess I really do, come to think of it. But I don't need it now. The cravings are just...gone.

It's after noon, now, and Steve's recipes reminded me I hadn't eaten yet, so I went down and had an English Muffin slathered with butter and peanut butter, and a medium glass of milk, and now I feel full as a tick. Couldn't eat another bite. My body just stops me.

When it wants more, it makes me eat more, like when a dog eats grass. It knows it needs it for some reason, so it eats like a goat. The other night the wife made ribs and mashed potatoes and yellow squash, and I ate a whole pie plate full. [We use glass pie plates at our house for plates. Great for eating on the couch, and for not worrying about spills and having to chase your food around. And if a kid drops one, it just goes bonk and doesn't break.]

I may not eat again today, but at some point, before bedtime I'll ingest a quart or so of beer and/or wine.

This is pretty cool.


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Before you start reading, click this and get it playing...

Fuck!

Something large and hot punches through the wall and turns the Master of the Pink Squirrel into a bleeding canoe, a blood Canoli...

My feet punch me out and backwards over my chair, as hot things batter and smash their way through the wall and chuck chuck chunk their way in a linear pattern through the wall and after me...

...my box of supplies is hit...explodes in a fury...adds to the list of things that want to hurt me...

I skid into the kitchen, and roll up to the fridge...

I sweep my arm up and behind the back shelf and sweep every shelf and all of their contents out to the kitchen in a mess of fag food and the bullets are stitching their needlepoint around the room and I leap into the fridge and pull the door mostly closed and press ALL on the remote and the apartment explodes!

...and the fridge door slams shut on me and I hear a click and I'm in the dark.

Fuck.

Fucking fag retro bull-shit appliances...


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On Fans, Farts, And Found Treasures...

I have so many fans going in the house today that I'm surprised it is not hovering several feet above the ground. It is lovely inside, and I intend to keep it that way.

I must protect and defend my family from the onslaught of the evil Sun, which burning orbs I am convinced are what happens when God lights a fart. Look up there in the night sky...Big Fella sure gets around.

How long are fans supposed to last, anyway? I've got a couple that are older than my kids, just plugging away. I had a fucking blow dryer go off while doing my hair one time. POP! and a jet of flame shot out and stuck a little piece of metal in my scalp. Scorched some hair. Scared the livid shit out of me.

Hate to see a fan do that. Quietly catch fire and begin to smoke and drip, a runnel of burning plastic drools down into Johnny or Nat's sleeping face, their screams as the bedding goes up with a whoomp!

I have about forty-eleven fire extinguishers all throughout the house. My youngest Marine was a fire-bug when he was a yowen, and I lived in dread fear of a conflagration.

I came home to our apartment one day, unexpectedly. This was before Johnny was born, and that was seven years ago, and my Marine is 21 now.

Anyway, his older, high-school age brother was supposed to be keeping an eye on him. I open the door, and I hear giggling and shrieking, coming from the bathroom down the hall. Then I hear whoosh!...whoosh!...and see a glow shining out into the hallway each time, accompanied by screeching and giggling.

I creep up on them, and there's the older boy, a can of my wife's hair spray in one hand, a lighter in the other, and he is keeping his little brother trapped in the corner behind the toilet, and even as I watch, whoosh!...whoosh! again and...

...well, I yelled a bit. There may have been some smiting, as well.

Oh, yes...the Treasure.

Well, the other day, when wife and I were slaving over a hot garage, to what to my wondering eyes did appear, but a small box, shut tight with tape. I nearly swooned, so long had it been since I had seen my treasures.

Wife gave me the question face, and I knifed open the tape, and behold! The little rubber naked girl doll that had adorned the bachelor party cake just previous to my first marriage. I have a group photo somewhere taken of everybody there, a group which consisted of my soon-to-be wife, as well. Everyone in the photo but me is female, and of the 14 or 15 of them, there was only one that I had not screwed or gotten a blow-job from. I am proudly showing my little rubber naked girl to the camera, and at least three of the girls are looking at my affianced with, shall we say, looks of questionable intent.

Damn, but I was pretty.

But I digress. I treasure Naked Doll (and have, in fact, masturbated to her a time or two, to my shame and mortification, but what the heck, men are pigs) but she is not the treasure.

No, that would be my five signed first editions of 'Salems Lot, by Stephen King. He wrote very nice things in side each one, mostly because I was plying him with Coors Light, which was just new, then, and which he adored.

These editions are the very rare black paperback, the embossed edition, with the red drop of blood in the corner of the cherubs mouth. Signed. By Stephen King. To me. Personally. While we partied together like drunken bastards in the penthouse suite of the Quality Inn Parkway in Nashville Tennessee in 1980.

Just an aside, but dayum! that town was black...blacker'n Compton. Blue-black people, too, not brown. So black, they sucked in light, and small planetoids. I didn't know skin could be that black until I went there.

Anyway, I have some signed copies of The Shining, too. I don't know what I was thinking...oh, probably to sell the stuff, but I know better. I can't sell anything I collect.

But, perhaps, my greatest treasure from those three days, is a signed directly to me, (empty) pack of Pall Mall Red cigarettes. If you're a King fan like me, you already know the significance of that.

We were drunk, up on the roof, shooting at cars on the cloverleaf with a pellet pistol I had taken away from some fan-boi who had pointed it at me.
pump-pump-pump-pump...POP! he'd take his shot, and then hand it to me, and I would repeat the process, while he took a slug off the bottle of whiskey we had.

I had come to the writers convention because King was the guest of honor, and I was in love with his writing. You could not get Coors back East in those days, because Coors was really picky about where they shipped their beer because of refrigeration issues. So me and this now-famous sci-fi book cover illustrator (whose name I won't mention because we were best friends once and I made him literally what he is today and now he's a prick so fuck him) stopped at the last shit-N-git in Arkansas that sold Coors (that was the Demarcation Line, then) and filled up his car with cases of Coors Light, which was a premium beer at the time. I could get $25 a case for it, easy, and I bootlegged it all the time, to pay for trips to writers get-togethers and such.

Well, when we arrived at the convention motel, I had to take a shit so bad I could taste it. We had to get the beer out of the sun, so I got a luggage cart and filled it up all the way to the hanger rail, and we pushed it inside. My ex-friend watched the beer, while I rushed into the shitter to unload.

By the time I got inside, I was doing the Squinch Walk, you know the one, where you mince like a fag, and the turd tries to elbow its way out of your ass like a mad drunk trying to break out of the bar to go join a fight in the parking lot? Yeah, like that.

So, I battered my way into the stall, barely got the stall locked, my pants shucked, and seated, when I cabled about ten miles of the ocean floor, I bet.

I heard the person in the stall next to me take the Lord's Name in vain, and I flushed accordingly and apologized. Then, I noticed that some illiterate fuck-monkey had, quite obviously, pissed all over the roll of toilet paper in my stall. You can imagine the stream of invective that flew from my lips. Colorful, profane, obscene, long, and loud.

I heard a Yankee voice from the adjacent stall inquire as to my problem, somewhat trepidatiously. I informed my neighbor of my plight, and he said "Here" and a big hairy hand appeared under the divider, full of blessed, dry toilet paper.

He helped me out with a few more, until my decks were fully swabbed, and we both emerged at about the same time, me first, and washing my hands. I looked up at his face, and was thunderstruck...

"Well, hello, Mister King...sorry about all that cussing..."

"Oh no!" he said "that was wonderful...you'd make a great lobsterman..."

We finished our ablutions, and he held the door open for me as we left. Then, he sighted our Silver Tower of Coors, and his face brightened, and you could hear the angels sing.

As I began to push it to the elevator (my 'friend' gawping at King like a tourist) Stephen King could only point and stammer, at first. Finally, long story short, he bought the whole pile, as I recall. He had just gotten a fat check for selling The Shining to (that thankfully dead asshole) Kubrick and was rolling in dough. He was also tickled because he had just paid cash for a brand new Mercedes.

I guess you could say we bonded. I kept the fan-boi in line and out of his face, made him laugh, and was his faithful indian companion for a few days...

Wait, wrong movie. Suffice it to say, we had a blast, did things I won't print, he read the twenty-five chapters of the book I was writing and gave it a favorable review and some helpful criticism, my ex-wife destroyed them during our divorce (they were hand-typed, on paper) and I never saw Stephen King again.

At one point, I believe it was Saturday, he and I were being interviewed by a local TV reporter, and Steve had had enough bullshit, so, on camera, he grabbed this guy and began to chew on the side of his neck. I believe the reporter pissed himself, a bit. I have never seen such terror on a mans face before.

Memories...

Treasure.


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Bread...

This cracked me up.


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KC Masterpiece...

That's it, I just need to quit bloggin. After reading this, I realize that there is no hope for me to ever call myself a writer.


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So One Cannibal Says To The Other Cannibal...

"...do you think this clown tastes funny?"

That right there is, in my humble opinion, the perfect joke. Short, sweet, and I still get a chuckle every time I hear it.

Acidman wrote this post over at his place, and a commenter opined that she thought humor writing was difficult.

I don't get it. I crack myself up all the time, and sometimes I take you with me. But the hardest part of me writing anything I write here is not the writing, but the stopping. When I'm on a roll, words rattle down out of my fingertips like dice, and the keyboard sounds like a stock ticker.

I don't consider myself a humor writer, I'll leave that appellation to real ones, like Dave Barry and Steve H. Graham.

When I write something funny, something has already struck me as funny, or it strikes right in the middle of writing something. I guarantee you, if you laugh or cry over it, I already have. I'm not sure I could fake it.

Oh, of course I could, but it wouldn't be any fun. If this was as difficult as BJK thinks, I wouldn't be doing it, because I am a lazy bastard. I'll even quit having sex if it ever starts being too much work.

I do not think that a person who is a parsimonious purse-lipped lemon-sucker could set themselves to write humor, nor would such a person have an impulse to. But you have to have some talent, some sort of a gift. And I'm not talking book learnin, neccesarily, though some of that is obviously important.

No, I'm talking a spectrum of experience. Jacking off once does not make you a good writer of erotic stories.
No, to be funny, I think you need to have had deep grief, to have seen the other end of the spectrum, so you recognize funny when it arrives.

Thusly, odds are pretty good, that the most hysterical person you've ever seen, is quite possibly the most profoundly fucked up person you have ever seen, as well. Your class clown in grade school might well have left a living hell to catch the bus to come to school and entertain you.

Anyway, clowns are scary, and I do not want to talk about them any more.

I don't trust any guy in make-up and a disguise who wants to be around kids that much.


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Who's Your Boy?

Why, Hoosierboy! He links, I link, the circle of life, Hakuna-fucking-matata.

Go read.


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Whack Em Again...Or Not...

I just don't give a shit.

I like the New Japanese well enough, but I'm not a bit sorry we fried so many of their civilians one long ago August 6th.

Fukkem. If anybody deserved a good roasting, it was those fucking Japs, but I think we got some pretty good payback. And if we'd left them alone, instead of creating a new government and economy for them, I believe that they would not be what they are today, and we may have had to fight them again.

No, I like their culture, their food, and their women, a lot. Their video games, their electronic junk. But they are some truly bone-deep odd fuckers, and I think the source of their oddness is beyond cultural, extra-cultural, if you will.

I think it's racial. Something inside. A race-based instinct as powerful as that of a dog to turn around a few times before laying down, or birds to fly south, or butterflies to fly north.

I have long had a pet theory that God created not man, but mankinds, and put us on this Spaceship Earth to go where no mankind has gone before.

I see the Star Trek model, here, where the Yellows are the mathematicians and engineers (sorry, Scotty) the Blacks are the labor and the Red Shirts, and the Whites are the Officer Caste.
I don't know where to put the Ayrabs. Tribbles, maybe.

Oh, I see knees jerking all over the place, but think about it. The white man has invented more things and discovered more about the planet than all other races combined.

Yellows are great at math. Blacks, uh, do stuff too, I guess.

But too many people play that old saw that we are all created equal, when we are not. One only has to observe the NFL and spelling bees to bring that assertion into serious question.

And look, some old negroe in Africa killed a leopard the other day BY REACHING DOWN IT'S FUCKING THROAT AND TEARING OUT IT'S FUCKING TONGUE!

You or I (assuming your honkeyness) would doubtless become so much catshit, in the same situation.

[As an aside, do I even have any black readers?]

Now, I don't really care what race you are. I'll fuck you or have you into my house for dinner and I'll even let you feel up my daughter for a dollar...

HA! I kid!

I wouldn't fuck you...

HA! Gotcha again! Yes I would. But keep your filthy multicultural hands off my daughter, because I want white grandbabies. Wellll, I'll consider you if yer yellow, because those blends make truly beautiful offspring. But I don't want any of them fuzzy yellow Q-Tips running around, so no blacks allowed. Or whatever it is that Indians are. No, not the mongolagook mutts we have here, I mean the ones from India. Unless they're white Indians.

Great, now you've gone and got me all confused.

So, where was I? Oh, yeah, Japs...so we're gonna give the Japs missile technology for their defense shield, and protect them against the Norks and the Chinks. Go figure.

And you Commie Chinks stay away from my daughter, too, you and your deformed commie sperms, ya Mao lovin chink buttfuckers.

If yer from Taiwan, I'll consider you, though, if you're not butt-ass ugly and the dowry's right.

Great, now I'm all confused again.

But at least I made it all the way through this post without saying 'nigger' once.

Proud of me?

Update:

Forgot the Jews. Sorry. Hey, every ship needs paymasters and accountants, don't it?


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Who's Counting?

The Media are, that's who.

Every day we get a running tick of how many dead we have suffered in Iraq and Afghanistan. It has become de riguer, like the horoscope and the weather. Every front page, whether of newspaper, or news site, must have the latest military deaths posted on there.

Wouldn't it be nice if they did that for abortions? Boy, that little number would be spinning like the National Debt ticker.

How about car accident victims? People who choke to death? Narrow it down, how about children between the ages of three and ten who choke to death on bites of hot dogs?

I bet that number would be bigger every day than the military casualty figures, but it's not as sexy, is it. Or worse, and the Media's dirty little secret, not as damaging to America.

Tony Blair's starting to get it right, talk shit about England, and yer outta here. So, when are we gonna start?

Let's see, Michael Moore (and most of Hollywood), George Soros, Helen Thomas (and most journalists), Democrats Liberals and hippies...

...damn, we're gonna need a lotta boats.

Of course, I have no problem with just shooting them where they stand, and what self-respecting country would want them, anyway?


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Living In The Past...

The garage...where old memories crawl off to die. And mummify.

The wife and I worked together on ours all morning, today, until the heat made us close the blast doors and slink back in.

We have a nice-sized single car garage, and it is packed from front to back with shit, to the ceiling. Crib mattresses, broken down boxes full of God only knows what. Old computer boxes, toys I 'intend to fix one day'. My old uniforms. Boxes and boxes of comics, and books, and old National Lampoons, and Playboys, and...

Gosh, what a heap of shit.

It is 97 degrees outside, and our two air-conditioners squat there, in the cool dark, like union workers, or city employees, threatening our shins with their surly, sharp edges. The wife and I discuss, briefly, the work involved to get them set up in windows.
Maybe next year? We agree, and stack them atop each other and set about the brutal task of taking perfectly good things, cherished possessions, to the dumpster.

I go get the wheelbarrow. We fill it, what, ten times? That's not to mention the individual items we each humped out to the dumpster. Which is now nearly filled. And trash day isn't until next Tuesday.

The crazy old witch who lives across the way saw all of the perfectly good baby stuff we left on the ground beside the dumpster for some poor family to use for their own baby, and began to screech at us to have a yard sale.

Fuck no! I love going to them, but I hate hosting them. Crazy Old Bitch shrieks some more, so to placate her and shut up her cackling which was no doubt souring milk for blocks around, I said "We