White Immigrants...

In any discussion of the dangers of illegal immigration, one party will always say this "Well, never forget that we are a nation of immigrants..." and then fold their arms and look at you with that smug "Well?" look. Like they just said something. Gosh I hate that.

The elephant in the room, and one that everybody seems afraid to mention is that YES! we are a nation of immigrants...WHITE IMMIGRANTS!!

Africans didn't found this nation. They came here tied up in the trunk, and were kept down throughout most of their tenure here.

Asians didn't found this country. They were imported as slave labor, and filtrated out into the cities to form private enclaves, that mirror the cities of their home country.

Indians didn't found this country. They lived on it like savage children, until it was wrested away from them by a superior culture.

Vikings didn't found this country, though they likely tried, and the indians doubtless ate them for their troubles.

Women didn't found this country. They came here as chattel, for the most part, the veritable property of their white husbands.

Their white husbands, who founded this country, and fought off invasions and fought wars and battles and threats from within and without so we could one day...

What? Just what are we doing with our birthright? What have we done?

The Djinn is out of the bottle, and only the most desperate totalitarian horror could ever get it back in. Killing everybody that didn't agree with you and applying draconian policies of cosmetic loyalty and patriotism, and ruthlessly weeding out your foes by the city-full with gas and bombs.

There is only one person in history that is capable of doing that, and his or her history has not been written yet

It is coming though, oh my people, it is coming. And there are a certain kind of people who will meet the call with savage joy, and perform what their Master commands with a song beating red in their hearts.

I am not one of them, and I fear that day, but...

It is coming.


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100,000!

If you look over there at my sitemeter, you will see that sometime tonight, or tomorrow morning, I am gonna turn over 100K hits.

Thanks, folks!

Hope not all of them were searching for hot dog-on-girl action.

Not too shabby, considering I only started keeping track the last part of last November. Some of you have come, and some of them have gone away. I've been linked, and de-linked, more times than a train car in a Chicago rail-yard. I don't even really keep track, anymore. I only notice when a link in my referrer logs, one I was using to get to their blog to read it, disappears.

Bye. Miss you. Sometimes.

I have nearly closed this pop stand down, a time or two, but you folks apparently do believe in faeries, because you keep bringing me back from the brink.

I do this for me, sure, but I do it for you, too, now. And not just my stalwart commenters. Sure, I treasure...well, most of you. But the crowd out there, beyond where the stage lights end, the vast rustling bunch of you that ebb and flow, I write for you, too.

I never know what you are here for, you vast unknown, and you keep me on my toes, working to provide my mad potpourri of pugilistic punditry, pustulent poetry, and perverted prose. I like divergence (I cannot use the word 'diversity' in a sentence) and, apparently, you like it, too.

I do not possess a need for Acidman's 'unceasing quest for adoration from people I don't know', or whatever, but I confess to enjoying it when you enjoy me.

Sometimes (daily?) the spirit moves me, and I blat something out that I reread and go 'fuck me, I just heard a bunch of chairs scrape back on that one!' as part of the crowd leaves in disgust. But others always shuffle back in, and the show continues.

For awhile...

Update:

And the 100,000th visitor is: Margi Lowry! Yay!



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Just A Thought...

...let me ass you a question...

Hows come athiests and the ACLU and other assorted anti-religion soreheads don't give anybody crap for Halloween, another clearly religious holiday? Where's Michael Newdow when you need him?

Jus wonderin...

Have fun tonight, you Good Christians. Let me know how the Devil's dick tastes.


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Over Medium...

They are replaying several episodes of 'Medium tonight on NBC. I cannot recommend this show enough. I've watched every episode, and I find it entrancing. I might even go so far to say it is my favorite show.

I watch 'Charmed' avidly, too. Look out, here come the Christians!

Hey, I said I was a bad Christian. I'm a hypocrite, too. I hate Halloween, as well, and I'll have nothing to do with it, nor will my children. The thought of a little trickertreater in a blacked out city in Florida tonight, braving the darkness to go out and mooch candy in a demon suit, stepping on a downed power line and exploding into a shower of hot guts and Hershey Miniatures, just tickles the shit out of me. I hope he is holding his little brother's hand.

Fuckers.

I've already got my 'BEGONE, MOOCHERS!! NO CANDY!!' signs up. Several of them. I have already prayed for hurricane force rain and wind to descend upon my neighborhood tonight.

You can go to past October's in this blog's archives to see my full take on this beastly day. Check out the comments, too. Just cuz they show zero does not mean I wasn't in there smiting the heathens and the devil-worshippers.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some apple-razoring to do...

Update:

In retrospect, I should have printed up a couple of signs in Spanish.

Wait'll they get a load of the old witch across the way. That gap-toothed ghoul doesn't even need a mask, I shit you not. There's gonna be some nightmares and bed-wetting issues around the old neighborhood tonight.

So...

Unhook doorbell-check.
Shoulder holster on, with 10mm inserted-check.
Extra mags in pouches on belt-check.
10 inch Tanto in scabbard on belt-check.
Front of house dark and uninviting, festooned with anti-socal posters-check.

Bring it on, you little bastards. I'll have you bobbing for your own pudenda if you set one foot on my lawn.


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Well, This Is Cool…

Well, This Is Cool…

My first post directly from Word. I just let Blogger install a little applet that lets me work in and post directly from Word.

Let’s see how badly it can piss me off…
















Look, it makes her happy, too.

And now, we hit ‘publish, and…


Update:

Fukkit. It blows. I had to do all the repair work up there by hand, because Blogger 'doesn't support pictures and tables from Word, yet'.

Hey, fuckers, if you'd have told me that on the download page I wouldn't have installed your pestiferous product in the first place!

Assholes!

Kiss My

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RSS Feed...

Whatever that is, several people have asked me to do it, so I went into my settings and tinkered, and I think I did it.

I'd appreciate it if those of you who, unlike me, know what you are doing, would check to see if I did it correctly and it it works. Thank you.

In other breaking news, life sucks, and then you die.

That will be all.

Update:

LOOK!! THERE TO YOUR LEFT!!

Thanks to several wonderful readers, I have an RSS thingie, whatever that is.

I am so proud.


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RAIDERS!!!
















Now that's a cheerleader. Of course, I'd eat them all.


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Don't Try This At Home...

...trust me, I'm a professional...

I got a weird idea. Surprise.

I had a suspicion, so to disprove or verify it, I went to Google Images and typed in the word 'gay'. As I suspected it would, up popped pages and pages of hot mano a mano fag sex. Naked men and boys gettin all jiggy wit it.

Then I typed in the word 'heterosexual', and again, as I suspected, nothing but pages and pages of nice, normal, fully clothed people being...heterosexual.

Except the odd fag photo here and there which, when investigated, was always an attack of some sort on heterosexuals.

I am still pondering the implications of all this, but I think the conclusion is already foregone, in spite of and not because of my already well known biases.

I think a gay person would have to look at the evidence presented, and conclude that their orientation, whether perverted or not, is indeed all about sex.

By the way, this will doubtless be the last time I consider my sexuality today.

Can you fags say the same?


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Ronery...I'm So Ronery...

Man, I just woke up from the weirdest dream, and was stunned to note the time.

I'm home alone, and the RIC's (Retards In Charge) of television programming have not seen fit to have my Glorious Raiders on my television line-up. The Raiders always take it in the neck. Therefore, I am boycotting all other NFL games but theirs.

Sigh...okay, I'll tell you the truth, all those other teams bore me to tears. I kinda like the Cowboys, but I wouldn't roll over in bed to watch any of the others. And with the silly rule changes, and horrible officiating, I wouldn't watch the Raiders if they weren't, well, the Raiders.

Man, I have always loved football, but there's something missing, now. Maybe it's all the pampered college pretty boys that bring their twinkish ways with them when they graduate to the NFL.

And it used to be that a team would play hard until the end, sitting on the bench when they weren't out on the field, bleeding into the mud, glaring their hatred out at the other team across the way. God help a member of the other team who stumbled into their bench area after a play.

Now, if they're behind in the last part of the first quarter, they just seem to give up. Well, the Raiders don't, but I've seen other teams hanging their heads and looking dejected before the first half is even over!

Wimps.

My dream? Oh. Well, I killed a guy. No surprise, there, but this guy was naked. I was living in some kind of dorm, or flop-house. It was almost barracks-like. I had this super model chick girlfriend, coulda been a Penthouse Pet. But she had a completely flat affect. I mean, she'd let me touch her, and do anything I wanted, but she just wasn't into it. She'd just stand there, or lay there, and we were like, just roommates.

We came back from walking around somewhere, and this new guy was there, and he was young, and handsome, and a perfect specimen. When she saw him, she brightened up, and they put their heads together and whispered, and went off to his room. I heard shrieking and moaning begin, and he was making her make sounds I had never heard come from her before, and she was laughing, and they were really going at it, and she and I had no real commitment, so I started doing my laundry.

After a while, as other residents walked by their room and heard the noises and then looked at me with pity, I began to go into a rage. Finally, their door opened and he came out, naked, and began to pad down the hall to the kitchen. He didn't even bother to look at me, and when I stepped in front of him, he shouldered me aside and walked past. I quickly twisted up a t-shirt I had in my hand and stepped up behind him and snapped it around his neck and caught the end with my other hand and turned my back to him and pulled him up on my back with his feet off the floor and held him there while he struggled and strangled.

She stepped out of the room and just watched me, expressionless. Finally, his arms fell away to the side, limp, and I jumped a little and pulled in hard on the garrotte, and I heard his larynx crush.

She turned away and went back into her room, and shut the door.


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Do You Know This Woman?

















I'm trying to find her...


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PSA...

Tonight is Daylight Savings Time. Set your clocks back an hour, and sleep in.

For those of you already in bed, who haven't had a chance to read this, and haven't heard about it...

HA!


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Cover Your Ears...

...cuz I'm about to blaspheme...

I could lose every southern reader by saying this, I know, but:

I not only do not give a wet shit about college football, but, in fact, I actively despise it, along with all of the silly-ass froopery that goes on around it.

If you invited me to go see one with you, I would react as if you'd just invited me to go with you and dance in a night-club where they sprayed bubble machines all over you.

I'd punch you in the fuckin neck.

These cocksuckers here in my town fire off a cannon every time they score, so, with college players being the prancing, small-penised steroidal pansies that they are, I am forced to listen to cannon fire all Saturday afternoon, as each team announces it's terrible defense with blank cannon fire.

Maybe if they actually shelled the city after each score, I could get into it, but I care not a whit about anything these Pampered Princes of the Faux Gridiron do or say at any time or any where, unless it involves, hopefully, dying horribly in a fiery car crash.

And just try to get across town before or after a game. And the drunk-police are thick as ticks on a razorback's nuts, so one of my hobbies, to wit, drunk driving, is seriously impacted right there.

I do not need an excuse to drink. Nor do I eat chicken wings, and I am appalled at the burgeoning popularity for what has always been the food of the poor, the leavings from a rich man's table. Plus, they look like fried cunt-flaps, and I shall not, perforce, consume them. It is necrophiliac, in the extreme.

Even should I develop a sudden craving for fried hard-ons and cunt-flaps, the venue I would choose to consume such would not include the back of a truck, surrounded by the tailgates of a thousand other drunken yahoos, resplendent in their plastic faux dairy product hat, and/or animal heads, with their prodigious bellies painted in garish colors, and their cackling wives drunk and staggering beyond any sense of propriety.

Ugh.

And don't get me started on male cheerleaders. I would shoot one, just to watch it die. Run home and play with your Barbie's, little fellow, your anal seepage is getting all over the underdeveloped androgynous 'girls' you are tossing about. Time to change your pad.

Next Week: Why Peewee football is from the Pit of Hell, and what tortures should be leveled upon the parents of said wobbling Weebles.


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Don't Judge A Book...

...by it's cover...

Run your mouse over them as they pass by, and you'll see why.

Thanks, Catfish.


.

Another...

Conspiracy Theory.

And one I really like. Funny, I thought the same thing when I used to read that strip, but I haven't taken the paper in like, forever, so I forgot.

Interesting.


.

Going Soft...

Me. And it worries me. I not only do not hate absolutely everybody in the entire world today, I actually love several of them. And I'm in a fabulously good mood.

Oh well, won't last.

But!

A fantastic human being took care of my Marine. Heck, they took care of his entire Detatchment. He called me from the store a bit ago where they were all buying food and beer (because his benefactor insisted on beer...they weren't gonna do it, if you can believe that) and a lot of guys who were really suffering because of a bureaucratic stupidity are now able to eat.

I'd like to see and hear about more stuff like that, those of you who can, adopting a platoon, or even just a military person, and making a hard life a little less so for them. How many know personally of a military person in your family? Or in the family of a friend?

The least I can do is put titties up for these guys (sorry, military ladies...well, I bet some of you swing that way...heh).

Talking to my son was like talking to a whole new person. I love my blog, for what it has allowed me to do for him, and for others. Crikey, I sound gay. Oh well.

I was talking to a dear, dear friend last night, and they told me that anybody who said they were only writing for themselves is full of shit, and I bristled, at first. Then it came to me.

I've stated here before that when I started this, I had no idea anybody read this. I thought it was a silly little vanity application, I didn't have comments, and I only had my email up because there was a spot for it in the template and I don't like blank spaces.

And then the emails started coming in. The first one literally startled me. Who the fuck was this? Spam? Wait, they like my blog?

Wow. Audience-In-A-Can. There began my evolution from a personal diary, and storage place for blind, raging rants, into whatever it has become today. What I have become.

I confess that I am very conscious of the eyes on me, now. I fight the urge to civilize, and try hard to retain the me, but I am aware of the you, as well. I'm still not sure how I feel about that.

I used to get emails telling me I'd be more successful if I quit cussing, or if I did this, or I did that. The only thing I've done on purpose in response to input, is to quit putting up buck-ass naked pics, though I usually try to place a link to more for the horn-dogs, if there is more.

When the money started coming in, I became more aware that this blog was, in addition to everything else it might be, a product. That I had patrons, and to keep them reading, and to honor their donation, and, quite frankly, to get more donations, I would need to tune my writing a little tighter, and try to put out a better product, and make more of it.

I don't know if this is a false assumption, but it's mine, and I'm keeping it.

I wanna thank you all again for your prayers. It works, and has really made a difference in my family's life. My sister was back on her paralyzed feet in record time. From death's door to back to work in just days. Johnny is thriving. I haven't had a booguns try to torment me in days.

Thanks for taking care of my Marine, and his buddys.

Thanks for dropping by my cell, here, and peering through the window in the door every so often.

I'm gonna stop, now, before I call out for a group hug. Don't worry, I'm out of booze, and something is bound to come along and piss me off at any minute.

I'll get well soon.


.

Crank It Up Again...

This good woman is having some troubles, and could use your prayers. I have come to consider her a friend, and would love it if you sent some prayer cover to her and the folks she mentions.


.

It's Not All That Hard To Figure Out...

These people keep some of the most beautiful women in the world covered up from head to toe in cloth sacks, and then have beauty contests for their goats.

These people would rather fuck goats and little boys, than fuck the most beautiful women in the world.

You knew right away who I was talking about.

Ragheads.

Why are we even talking? If an alien species attacked us that obviously sought our utter destruction, I would like to think that we would fight back with every method at our disposal, tooth and claw, until the menace was utterly destroyed, except for maybe a few being tested on in fell laboratories.

And yet we piss around, and listen to supposedly intelligent people say we have no business even waging a war at all. As if we can reason with these subhuman wastes of skin. As if they won't reform into some other vile creature, the moment we withdraw from their lands after molding them into a tottering simulcrum of us.

I have been wrong in saying that this is a war on Islam. Islam is just the natural expression of genetic Arabic insanity. So, this is a war against Arabs. It has been proven time and again that you can take an Arab into your precious West, and he will be as evil and rotten there as he would be anywhere else. I happen to believe this to be true of the Cyrillic peoples, too. Civilized Man made a grave error when he did not utterly destroy every last trace of Scythian DNA.

People are fond of dissing the Bible for its violence, but God knew full well that ethnic cleansing was a valid and neccesary tool for keeping the gene pool pristine, and the Bible shows how stupid men made stupid decisions, and let people live whom God had ordered exterminated.

We are paying for those stupid decisions now, we are continuing to make stupid decisions, and we will pay the price for our foolishness.

The full price.


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If The Crips And The Bloods Fight...

...is that gorilla warfare?

Don't answer that.

My one-time bestest buddy looked startlingly like a big male Silver Back, and he knew it. He could do a remarkable imitation of one, too, and it scared the shit out of the white boys. He would come shuffling at you, as if across a clearing, to challenge a rival, and I've see white boys turn tail and run. He did it to me one time, and I nearly pissed myself. Truly startling, especially when you are drunk, and a Great Ape charges out of the bushes at you and gets all National Geographical on your ass.

I miss that boy (oh, shut up). He and I both got hurt around the same time, and we spent our last few weeks getting put on shit details to give us something to do to earn our pay.

We liked it best when they sent us off to a range to guard it. We were grunts, and fucking well knew how to camp, and we didn't give a shit about anything cuz we were short-timers. We would pack big bottles of vodka in our gear, along with powdered cool aid to mix drinks with. Sometimes we'd score ice, or buy a small block of dry ice we'd keep wrapped in wet canvas, and put our canteens against it to make near ice cold drinks.

There is no more resourceful or thieving animal on the face of the earth than a grunt. Well, maybe penitentiary prisoners, but that's it. Especially when we want to get high, which is pretty much all the time. Anyway, I remember this one time, we got sent out to babysit this national guard unit at this range somewhere, over the weekend. They loved to harrass us with bullshit like that. So, we packed up our gear, checked out rifles, and got trucked off to the boonies, since they couldn't make us walk anymore. They didn't give us bullets, but that was okay, since we'd already stolen our full load's worth, and then some. I still have all those mags, somewhere.

I wasn't going to let some pogue pull his own hidden weapon on me and steal my rifle, and neither was my buddy. I also carried a Berretta Model 71 .22 in a shoulder holster under my tunic. Shot a fucking raccoon with it, in my tent one night, who'd snuck in to drink my kool-aid. We startled each other, and he rared up and hissed, and I blasted his ass. Scared the shit out of the other guys, I'll tell you. I had to find my shells in the fucking dark, and then go out and bury his dumb ass before any brass came around.
I would dearly love to have a video of that, me, in t-shirt and shorts, and combat boots, with my e-tool, and a fat, dead raccoon, wrapped in my spare poncho so I wouldn't leave a blood trail, staggering off half drunk, further into the woods to bury the sonofabitch.

So, me and my buddy get to this range, and set up our tent as far away as we can get from the Nasty Guard, and still not have to walk too far to their chow hall to steal foods, or to the shitters to offload said food later. We had brought extra shelter-halves, and tent poles and such, so we made quite a mansion, and as tight as a drum it was. We knew the value of good shelter, and a storm was coming.

We were actually there for nearly a week, now, as I recall, maybe a little more, and those poor slobs suffered, as most of the time we were being blasted by a bad storm off the ocean, and these guys had no real woodcraft to speak of. Tim and I peeped out of our tents at them, as the storm hit, and the wind and rain began sweeping away their tents, and their gear. We would, between bouts of helpless laughter, and stopping to mix another drink, yell out helpful tips and encouragement to them.

"Fix that shitty fucking tent!" he would holler. Inspired, I yelled "You guys in the motherfuckin Navy? Cuz that sure looks like a fuckin sail, baby!" Then he would yell "Sure looks cold out there!"

And so on.

And we, warm and toasty, in our underwear, because it was nearly too hot inside, actually. We each had a candle light; that was something like a telescoping aluminum tube with a big white candle in it, and when you pulled it open, it exposed a glass window that had magnifying properties, and really lit up the tent so we could read one of several books we'd brought. And those candle thingies put out some heat, too. We hung them from little chains, over our respective areas.

Then, at times, we would each pull out our respective cookware, our Sterno folding stoves and fuel, our spices and condiments, and prepare a feast. We each had a dozen eggs in plastic egg carriers, as well as several cases of C-Rats they'd dropped off with us, and a couple boxes of MRE's, and we feasted like kings. The smell of our cooking would waft down to those boys, and you would hear groaning. Their cook tent had become some fucked up, and getting hot meals in a hurricane, on flappy paper plates, is problematic. The smell of cooking...fresh eggs, bacon, and pan-biscuits, or pancakes, must have driven them to the edge of madness.

They didn't mess with us because, well, we were grunts, and they knew it. Unless you've been around an active duty grunt, at the peak of his training, you might not understand. I never really got it myself, because I were one, and we all looked fairly normal to me, but others were scared shitless of us. Well, we'd have hurt or killed them for looking at us wrong, but really, we put our knife in one hole at a time just like everybody else, so I don't see the big deal.

We'd made a separate tent up for our rations, extra gear, and our store of booze, and had set up booby traps and such all around our AO. We'd dug decent trenches around both of our tents to divert water away, and brought extra guys to tie them down with, and we remained dry the whole time. Drank, and read, and slept, and relaxed...they didn't know what to do with us, so they set up their own guard rotation, and we were out of sight, and out of our minds.

I miss my buddy. We had some good times, too numerous to mention here, and never a harsh word between us. At the mall, or the store, or wherever, I'd pretend to beat him like a slave, and he'd call me massuh, and I'd call him nigger, and that little bit of street theatre would freak people right out. "No Massuh, no, doan beats dis nigga no mo!" And I would reply sternly "Nigger, I saw you looking at that there white woman!" and so on. There would be so many gasps, we'd go giddy from all the air leaving the room.

The funny thing was, he was like, twice my size. A really huge man. Fists like country hams. Black forest country hams. Sometimes we would hold hands and skip down the mall a ways. That, too, freaked folks out some, in a 'women hide your children's eyes' sort of way. I could go into black bars with him, and he could go into hick bars with me, and nobody ever made an effort to take us on, though I could see obvious uncomfortability on people's faces.

Oh well, fukkem.

Update:

I am really sorry about the clumsy writing in this. It can't be the booze, cuz I'm out. I edited the piss out of this a bit ago, and reposted it, but I'm still not happy with it. Shit, I rarely if ever edit. Oh well. I never delete posts, either. Like I always say, 'what ya see is all ya get!'


.

Well, This Is...

... alarming, if true. The implications are staggering. Might also explain why we are acting like such pussies on the world stage.

Maybe we are already beaten, and our Overlords just aren't telling us.

Putin has been acting pretty froggy lately...



Via Cowboy Blob...
.

Why, Sulu, Why?!

Well, apparently Mister Sulu's asshole is not a place where no man has boldly gone before.

Damn. Just damn.

Oh well, I'm only surprised when I find out an actor is not queer.

Warped speed, Mister Sulu...


.

It Occurs To Me...

...that we have not had any War Porn here in a while. Thanks to this post by the lovely and talented Veloci-bomber, and the even more lovely and hopefully double-jointed and flexible like a teen gymnast Anna, we are blessed.

Get thee a bucket o'lube, and settle in...

And kleenex. Lots of kleenex.

Update:

I keep watching this, and I think my favorite part is when Mother Helium stretches out her swollen breast to the Earth, and he reaches up his lips to suckle her swollen nipple, rising in a geyser of white, taken, responding in spite of himself, as her fire consumes him...


.

Dammit...

This is not a call for money. I couldn't get it to him in time, anyway, the way that Paypal and Amazon and my bank play fuckaround.

I'm just bitchin. My youngest Marine called me last night, exhausted from a day of very specialized and difficult training at a very special school and he is starving and broke.

His orders told him right up front to bring $500 with him for uniforms. WHY IN FUCK'S NAME DOES A MEMBER OF THE US MILITARY HAVE TO PAY TO BUY UNIFORMS AND HAVE THEM TAILORED!!!!!

Assholes.

The Marines do that shit to my Marines all of the time, and that bullshit sure doesn't get put on the brochure. "Hey, we don't pay you hardly shit, and you have to pay for nearly all of your clothing and equipment out of your own pocket! The few, the proud! Semper Fi!"

More like Semper Fuckyouuptheass. Assholes.

He is out of money because the ONE mess hall they have where he could eat for free is closed down for renovation, and he is having to eat in restaurants. Or more likely, have pizza delivered late at night because school is making him keep killer hours. So now he's broke, and he can't eat.

So, two guys find a snack machine, pool their final bits of change, and share a bag of potato chips. Or starve. Yes, there are several other Marines in the same boat as my son, and I pity the poor bastards who have credit cards and are maxing them out to survive.

They need to pass a law right fucking yesterday that a Marine ID card is a free meal at any restaurant when the ID holder is carrying travel orders or assignment orders (not permanent party). Uncle Sam reimburses the cost of the meal to the restaurant.

Dammit. This shit the way it is, is just sick and wrong.

Update:

Thanks to one of you ANGELS! my boy is saved. Uh, man. Whatevah.

I have a new favorite person, even more favoritist than they were before.

Thanks again!


.

Safety First...

Someone just sent me this, and it might just save your life. I certainly did not know the following facts, and would have done as I was taught, and as I have taught my children to do. Time for some retraining...

Read on:

EXTRACT FROM DOUG COPP'S ARTICLE ON THE "TRIANGLE OF LIFE"
Edited by Larry Linn for MAA Safety Committee brief on 4/13/04.

My name is Doug Copp. I am the Rescue Chief and Disaster Manager of the American Rescue Team International (ARTI), the world's most experienced rescue team.

The information in this article will save lives in an earthquake. I have crawled inside 875 collapsed buildings, worked with rescue teams from 60 countries, founded rescue teams in several countries, and I am a member of many rescue teams from many countries. I was the United Nations expert in Disaster Mitigation for two years. I have worked at every major disaster in the world since 1985, except for simultaneous disasters.

In 1996 we made a film which proved my survival methodology to be correct. The Turkish Federal Government, City of Istanbul, University of Istanbul Case Productions and ARTI cooperated to film this practical, scientific test.

We collapsed a school and a home with 20 mannequins inside. Ten mannequins did "duck and cover," and ten mannequins I used in my "triangle of life" survival method. After the simulated earthquake collapse we crawled through the rubble and entered the building to film and document the results. The film, in which I practiced my survival techniques under directly observable, scientific conditions, relevant to building collapse, showed there would have been zero percent survival for those doing duck and cover. There would likely have been 100 percent survivability for people using my method of the "triangle of life."

This film has been seen by millions of viewers on television in Turkey and the rest of Europe, and it was seen in the USA, Canada and Latin America on the TV program Real TV.

The first building I ever crawled inside of was a school in Mexico City during the 1985 earthquake. Every child was under their desk. Every child was crushed to the thickness of their bones. They could have survived by lying down next to their desks in the aisles. It was obscene, unnecessary and I wondered why the children were not in the aisles. I didn't at the time know that the children were told to hide under something.

Simply stated, when buildings collapse, the weight of the ceilings falling upon the objects or furniture inside crushes these objects, leaving a space or void next to them. This space is what I call the "triangle of life". The larger the object, the stronger, and the less it will compact. The less the object compacts, the larger the void, the greater the probability that the person who is using this void for safety will not be injured. The next time you watch collapsed buildings, on television, count the "triangles" you see formed. They are everywhere. It is the most common shape, you will see, in a collapsed building.

TEN TIPS FOR EARTHQUAKE SAFETY
1) Most everyone who simply "ducks and covers" when buildings collapse are crushed to death. People who get under objects, like desks or cars, are crushed.

2) Cats, dogs and babies often naturally curl up in the fetal position. You should too in an earthquake. It is a natural safety/survival instinct. You can survive in a smaller void. Get next to an object, next to a sofa, next to a large bulky object that will compress slightly but leave a void next to it.

3) Wooden buildings are the safest type of construction to be in during an earthquake. Wood is flexible and moves with the force of the earthquake. If the wooden building does collapse, large survival voids are created. Also, the wooden building has less concentrated, crushing weight. Brick buildings will break into individual bricks. Bricks will cause many injuries but less squashed bodies than concrete slabs.

4) If you are in bed during the night and an earthquake occurs, simply roll off the bed. A safe void will exist around the bed. Hotels can achieve a much greater survival rate in earthquakes, simply by posting a sign on the back of the door of every room telling occupants to lie down on the floor, next to the bottom of the bed during an earthquake.

5) If an earthquake happens and you cannot easily escape by getting out the door or window, then lie down and curl up in the fetal position next to a sofa, or large chair.

6) Most everyone who gets under a doorway when buildings collapse is killed. How? If you stand under a doorway and the doorjamb falls forward or backward you will be crushed by the ceiling above. If the door jam falls sideways you will be cut in half by the doorway. In either case, you will be killed!

7) Never go to the stairs. The stairs have a different "moment of frequency" (they swing separately from the main part of the building).The stairs and remainder of the building continuously bump into each other until structural failure of the stairs takes place. The people who get on stairs before they fail are chopped up by the stair treads -horribly mutilated. Even if the building doesn't collapse, stay away from the stairs. The stairs are a likely part of the building to be damaged. Even if the stairs are not collapsed by the earthquake, they may collapse later when overloaded by fleeing people. They should always be checked for safety, even when the rest of the building is not damaged.

8) Get Near the Outer Walls Of Buildings Or Outside Of Them If Possible-It is much better to be near the outside of the building rather than the interior. The farther inside you are from the outside perimeter of the building the greater the probability that your escape route will be blocked.

9) People inside of their vehicles are crushed when the road above falls in an earthquake and crushes their vehicles; which is exactly what happened with the slabs between the decks of the Nimitz Freeway. The victims of the San Francisco earthquake all stayed inside of their vehicles. They were all killed. They could have easily survived by getting out and sitting or lying next to their vehicles. Everyone killed would have survived if they had been able to get out of their cars and sit or lie next to them. All the crushed cars had voids 3 feet high next to them, except for the cars that had columns fall directly across them.

10) I discovered, while crawling inside of collapsed newspaper offices and other offices with a lot of paper, that paper does not compact. Large voids are found surrounding stacks of paper.

Spread the word and save someone's life!

(Amen!)


.

The Goddess Speaks!

Go, and worship!

Do you think GW reads her column? That he read it yesterday, and had a moment of clarity?

Regardless, Harriet is gone, and my Goddess and I are both greatful.

Update:

Reader Bill turned me on to this, which is just her Wednesday column, with two paragraphs of her beating her chest on either end. One would assume she is getting paid by the word.

Regardless, she has the absolute right to crow, and if Karl Rove was really a genius, she'd be the next Supreme Court nominee.



.

Grouch...

I did this (all but one of the posts below...look at the post times) as an experiment to see how many disparate articles and styles I could churn out in an hour or so.

Most of my best thinking is done in the bathroom. Toss-up as to toilet or shower. I got out of the shower this morning with a few ideas, and I popped open Word and put down a couple of words on each. Things like 'nipple head', and 'the gallery of unfortunate toys', an obvious homage to Lileks, though perhaps a tad...darker.

Tell me again, why am I not working for one of you out there? I'm a fucking Writing MACHINE! I could do this all day...uh, wait, I guess I pretty much do.

I think an office would kill me, though. Even a nice one, a corner one, with a view. Especially the view. I'd never get a thing done, and all your women would be in a constant state of heat, and that is disruptive to the Corporate Whore.

No, keep me here in my little cubicle at home...oh, I haven't told you? Yes, I have created an actual cubicle, wherein I squat like a troll, fingering my axe, and pondering what next perfidy to commit.

One of you needs to lay claim to me before I disappear off your radar...


.

Nat Is On The Rag...

The cleaning rag, that is. Her mother has given her a wet wipe, and now she is bustling around the house, wiping down every surface that strikes her fancy, popping up like a gopher here and there, with vital, breathless cleaning reports, and lectures on the deadly importance of cleanliness.

She wants to wipe off my keyboardujhftdrftyghuijn k'nubgb

Dammit, Nat! Get away, Daddy's writing.

Jeez. I live in the zoo.


.

If People Were Jumping Over Your Back Fence...

...into your yard, what would you do? They are tromping up your flower beds, pissing on your lawn, using your daughters playhouse to shit in and to shoot up drugs in, they steal tools from your shed, and key your car as they walk by it down the driveway.

Let’s not sensationalize it by calling them filthy spics or ragheads. Let’s just assume they are ten year old boys. Coming over in hordes. If they trip and fall and get an owie, they go to Immediate Care and get better medical care than you can afford for your own ten year old boy, and they send the bill to your house, and you are jailed if you refuse to pay it.

If you try to stop them in any way, even to just report them, you are called a child molestor by many of your neighbors, and even your boss.

If they decide they want to commandeer a room of your house, because their family lived in the house a hundred years before they were born, you have to give up the room and move your own son in with his sister.

It's either your house, or it isn't. It's your yard, or it isn't. You know what you are supposed to do if someone takes away something of yours, and you are sane?

Take it back.


.

The Gallery Of Unfortunate Toys...

'Baby's First Buttfuck', by Mattelle. This toy is a combination childs doll, and adult sex toy. Little girls will love the lifelike latex baby doll, and men with 'special needs' will love the super tight, realistic sexual organs this doll has. Comes with several packets of pretend blood, to make the experience as realistic as possible. Doll makes several types of preset screaming and crying sounds. Batteries not included.

'My Little Pony Cock'. Your daughters first dildo, and she'll love it! Made 'just her size', adults can use it to! Comes with 'Certificate of Broken Hymen', so she can go to school and be the envy of all the other girls.

What? I go too far?

When I hear today that several cities are going to restrict sex offenders from handing out candy to trick-or-treaters, and (gasp!) maybe even be given a curfew...now that, my friends is going too far.

Someone, somewhere, is fucking a screaming infant up the ass right now because someone let them back out of their cage, or didn't kill them dead dead fucking dead like any sane society would.

These monsters tell you that they are going to do it again, and you let them out. You vote for people who will let them out. Some of you may even be the people who let them out.

I have to cower in fear with my kids, because your society lets humanoids like these molesters run my streets. Well-meaning social workers place them in apartments right next fucking door to you! and I know this for a fact. It is common. And you tolerate it.

I'm not suggesting that you take the law into your own hands, and risk your own life and freedom.

I am saying we take the law into all of our hands, and make it so that when one of these evil baby-fuckers is caught, that they are taken to a special room and injected with lethal chemicals until they are dead.

No harm, no foul, next case.

You won't do it, will you. We 'might kill an innocent person'. Or some such other mealy-mouthed nonsense. I've heard it all before, and it all makes me sick.

The next baby gets fucked, it's as if you did it yourself. We are all guilty, guilty, guilty, and I hope it all burns down, because none of us deserves to draw another breath.


.

Come, Suck My Nipple...

I had a dream last night. I woke up from it with a start, last thing this morning, as the thundering of little feet down the stairs started my day.

I had been sitting in some sort of medical chair, restrained, and an IV bag full of strange, illuminated pink liquid was dripping the liquid into my arm through a needle.

Across from me, about ten feet away, sat a pretty nurse, black-haired, and vaguely Serbian, or White Persian. She was in flawless, old-fashioned nurse whites, with a cap, and sensible shoes. She leaned one arm on a table, and was reading a magazine, and she would look up at me occasionally, and check her watch, and then go back to idly turning the pages, bored.

Someone stood behind me, and I felt warm lips on the top of my head, sucking and tugging at me, and I could feel a liquid being drawn up and through me and out, and I could hear them swallowing.

I wasn't alarmed, the sensation was somewhat pleasurable, though there was an odd, slightly bothersome tingle if they pulled to hard.

I somehow knew that there was a nipple on the top of my head, and that there was a group of people waiting their turn to come and suck at me. Sometimes it was a nipple on my head, sometimes it was the head of a penis, depending upon the person's sex, or what they wanted. Their lips on me, tugging, pulling, suckling, taking from me, and the nurse replacing the bag of fluid every so often, and returning to her magazine, and looking at her watch.

Sometimes, she would look at her watch, and tap on it with one long, perfect nail, and turn her gaze meaningfully to a point just above my head, and the sucking would stop, and my nipple would chill only for a moment before another pair of warm lips settled over it and began to pulse.

And then my lovely children decided it was time for Daddy to wake...

...so I did.


.

Worried About My Floridians...

I almost always have several IP's from Florida reading my blog, but today, it is like a black hole. Nothing. Steve hasn't updated his blog in over 24 hours, and Val at Babalu is generator blogging. American Drumslinger hasn't put up hump day titties.

Any South Floridians want to check in and let me know they're still alive?

I miss you crazy fuckers.


.

Whatevah...

I'm just glad she's dead.

Still.

Raghead fucking Pom twat.


.

Gaza...

...revealed.

And you thought it was just a turd covered in Palestinians.


.

Angel...















Click...


.

Well, This Is...

...odd.

Some are pretty good.

.

If I'm Ever On A Boat That Sinks...

I wanna be with her.

















.

Wow! Cool!

Vintage cookbooks, from back when they could cook.

The way your gramma used to...


.

Surpasshole...

Someone who always one-ups you...does you one better.

Here I sit,
my cheeks a flappin...
run, my children!
Daddy's crappin!

Do you have a Battle Cry when you crap? A routine sound you utter as you unscrew a loaf, that lets everyone in the house know it's best they hold their breath if they must hurry past the bathroom door?

Do you keen? Or grunt like a Mountain Gorilla?

If I have to work at it, I find myself going URGGER BURGER URGGER BURGER!!! That seems to tune my flute proper. The planets align, I straighten my spine, and my food processor pulsates and unglues my stew.

My wife moos like a cow. John and Nat are silent. All you get are the plops. I'm not clear on this. Is it my role as a Father to give them their Battle Cry, or Battle Moo? Or is it best to let them take their Spirit Journey and meet their own totem?

Parenting is hard.


.

Do You Have To Be Taught To Hate?

Ellison seems to think so. I'm not so sure.

I mean, it's a clever song, and all, but it sounds enough like smirky liberal nonsense that my sack shrivelled into me in fear...here thyre be lybyralf!

I only recently began my formidable and undying hatred of Arabs, and they taught me that, themselves. Before my abrupt and fairly recent reeducation, I actively loved and enjoyed Arab peoples and cultures. I ate their foods, went to school with their children, ate in their homes, socialized, and sexualized.

No more. Never.

My parents didn't teach me that. All I was ever 'taught' was that 'Jesus loves the little children, ALL the children of the world'. Other than, as I have mentioned elsewhere, one of my grandfather's referring to one black man on television as a 'nigger', I was not exposed to one bit of racism or racist behavior, in the family, or at school, or with peers. When I finally began to encounter it, it appalled me, and I reacted badly towards it.

To this very day, if you elevate one race over another, I use it as a secret sign, that you are to be mocked, and your opinions likely have no value.

I discuss race, here on this blog, to be sure, and our differences, because we are different, and that fascinates me. Put a white two year old next to a black two year old, and start beating a drum, and see whose little butt starts wiggling first. And who wiggles it better.

I performed just such an experiment one Saturday at my black best friend's house. Beer was involved, of course, and we laughed until we cramped as my little white breads tried to keep up with his little jigaboos, as his kids shimmied around and mine, well, frankly, looked like palsied zombies. And fell down. A lot. I think black people may have an extra joint in their asses.

I think we races have differences, strengths, and weaknesses, and most of the time, that is just fine by me.

Everything I have learned about other races, I have been taught by other races. Do you know what a 'Blue-Gum Nigger' is? I do, and I was taught that by black people. I doubt that any of you whites have ever heard that phrase before.

Now, to be fair to the Esteemed Mr Ellison, are there people of all races, creeds, and religions who teach their children to hate? Oh yes. Far too many, and that will never change, no matter how illegal you make it to hate.

That Chink is teaching that kid of his to hate niggers, just as determinedly as that nigger is teaching her kid to hate spics, and that spic hates everybody, because his Raza is the Master Raza, and one day the whole world will learn to fear and respect the tread of the Mighty Mexican Army.

And everybody hates the Dirty Jews, whom are apparently the default race for every other race to hate, near as I can tell. Or is that the French? I forget. Are the French white, or yellow?

But I digress.

White people get over, I think. We are not so much hated, as resented. You wanna see hatred, put a Tutsi in the same cage as a Hutu. Africans may kill us, but they'll eat us, after, not waste good meat by throwing it in the river.

Wanna know sumthin, now that's funny right there...

I don't care who y'are.


.

Vagina...

Wouldn't that be a cool name for a chick rock band?

I Googled 'Vagina' because I get hits from so many people searching for 'twat', I wondered if anybody still used her Proper Name.

Oh, and if you have a vagina, or like vagina, or plan on using a vagina any time soon, perhaps even balance one on the end of your nose, I'd suggest that you NOT 'Google Image' for vagina. Pretty grim, gynecological, and ghastly.

Though this was funny.

Man, I can't believe they let kids have computers. It is telling that Bill Clinton wanted them in schools so badly.


.

Well...

...it's a start.

Am I the only one that shrugged and said "Meh..." when they heard about the attack on journalists in Baghdad today?

Blow all the fuckers up, please. Except for Heather Neuart. And Kiran Chetry. Them we keep.

And why exactly is it that Geraldo couldn't have been interviewing Aaron Brown out front, while Rita Cosby and Kieth Olbermann stood by? Hmmm?

Instead of just not caring, I would be actively rejoicing.


.

A Tale Of A Tail...

Fine work, indeed.

Not Safe For Lunch.


.

I Hope You Use This...

It is Spamfighter, and it is free. I want you to use it, because every time you block Spam, Spamfighter blocks that Spam for everybody else who uses it, so next time that Spam hits your inbox, it is redirected straight to the trash. Cool, huh?

I just emptied my trash of twelve Spams I didn't even have to see. If one gets through, you just select it and hit 'block' and Shazam, it's gone.

I use Outlook for my mail, just for you know.


.

Where's The Love?

I don't have one comment since 9:30 last night. Turns out Haloscan is fucked today. Oh well.

I see to the left there that my Sitemeter is slouching towards 100K since I turned it on several months ago.
All I can say is, and I've said it before, is that if all you turkeys had dropped off just one dang dollar on the way by...or ten.

Imagine...

Update:

Okay, fixed it. If you use Haloscan, go into your 'Settings', go into 'Beta Features', and turn Spam Redirect from Yes to No. Voila.

Now, give me money.


.

Without Further Ado...

...I hate these memeses to pieces...

My Darling Blondage, Gueen of the Boners, Fanny Swatter Extraordinaire, has not tagged me with this meme, but, being dominant, I hereby take it, and make it my own, and hold it by it's hair while I jam my...

...well, you know the rest. Feel free to play along with the home game...


Two Names You Go By
1. Daddy
2. Honey

Two Things That Scare You
1. Nothing
2. Everything

Two of Your Everyday Essentials
1. Booze
2. Alcohol
3. Hugs (fuck you, I do what I want)

Two Things You Are Wearing Right Now
1. My balls

Two Things You Want in a Relationship (other than Real Love)
1. Your absolute loyalty
2. All of your money

Two Truths
1. Liberals will always suck
2. Ragheads will always suck harder
3. Believe it or not

Two things you hate
1. Ragheads
2. Raghead kids

Two Physical Things that Appeal to You
1. Women’s noses
2. Women

Two of Your Favorite Hobbies
1. Blogging
2. Napping

Two Things You Want Really Badly
1. To be rich again
2. A nap

Two Places You Want to go on Vacation
1. Afghanistan
2. Baghdad

Two Things You Want to Do Before You Die
1. To not die
2. To escape death

Two Ways that you are stereotypically a guy
1. Huh?
2. Pull my finger

Two Things You Normally Wouldn't Admit
1. I would fuck a pretty tranny in a heartbeat, as long as ‘she’ didn’t have a dick
2. She’d be black


.

Just...

...because...


.

Breaking News!

This is fucking amazing!

Is God great, or what?

She's gone back Catholic, but, oh well...baby steps.

Oh, bullshit, this is as great a leap as I have ever seen.

Amazing.


.

Hey, Fatties!

...another weight-loss tip from Svelte Man...

I've noticed something. I don't really plan this diety weight-loss thing, so it comes in fits and starts, like your daughter learning to drive.

Pistachio Nuts seem to be on sale, lately. I love Pistachio Nuts. My wife loves me. My wife buys me Pistachio Nuts.

I don't like to eat at night, even though I could probably get away with it, now. Last night, the wife floated into my room, on a cloud of eggs and sausage, and offered me a lovely dinner of chopped brats cooked into eggs and cheese and sour cream and it smelled wonderful and I said "No, thank you...not hungry..." and I wasn't, even though it smelled wonderful.

BUT!

I knew I'd probably get a might peckish, later, and require sustenance of some sort, beyond the wine, of course.

Now, I have fallen into the habit of having a small bowl of pistachios, in the shell, while we watch TV, lately. I further note that I pass a loaf of surpassing wonderfulness the following morn, and I have a general all around feeling of satisfaction and comfort all through the night.
Well, except for the demon stuff. Pistachios are not recommended by the Catholic Church as a demon repellant.

I cannot recommend any other nut, at this time, as I would suspect that most are high in fat, and possibly monodisaturatedfukyerhearticides. Or something. Please forgive the technical jargon. Jargon. Wouldn't that be a cool name for a Sci-Fi villian? "I, Jar-gon, demand you turn over all of your virgins...to me..." /Vader.

Please forgive the ADD.

Seriously. Maybe they are so cheap (the nuts, dammit! Quit thinking about virgins!) because they are not splayed out like the little nut-whores that they usually are. I had to use a nutcracker on most of them, so in a way, I was Hunter-Gathering, foraging, if you will, there in front of the television.

Wolfing handfuls of nuts into your fat face is one thing, cracking them one by one, in near dark, is something else entirely.

Speaking of fat faces, my wife purred at me as she stroked my cock though my pants this morning how lovely and thin mine looked. My face, asshole.

She said "You were the prettiest fat guy I ever knew, but I am really enjoying this..." and then she left for church. My face, asshole.

I finished off my repast with about a tablespoon of peanut butter and honey mix I had whipped up for the kids to dip apple slices into for lunch. I slorked it out with my finger.

That was it.

Dinner.


.

More Racial Disconnect...

There was so much of it in this story that it took my breath away.

Look for all the trigger words and phrases, and then try to imagine this same story being written about any of the non-white spreaders of hate out there.

Using these crazy Nazi fucks as an excuse to tar me because I homeschool, and my wife is a 'stay-at-home- mom'?

Oh, I'm full of hate, all right. Hate for the type of person that could write an obvious propaganda piece like this, and for organizations that happily crop-dust this poison all over America.

Fuck a Nazi. I have less regard for a Nazi than I have for a raghead, because they call themselves Christian, and my grandfathers apparently didn't kill enough of them, and the stupid fucks should fucking just know better.

And 'being raised that way' is no fucking excuse. Kids reject their parents beliefs all the time.

No, I see this poison of race supremacy, no matter what color is playing the card, as a demonic sickness, a rot, a cancerous spot on the human psyche.

The good news is that these toxic whites seem to be an insignificant minority amongst the caucasian community of America, and not likely to grow much, because most white folk, when approached by such loons, realize that they are facing a...well, a fucking nut.

The bad news is, that the black and brown communities seem to eat this racist shit up with a spoon, and will tribalize and segregate at the drop of a hat, and hatred and contempt for people of another color seems rational and natural to them.

And that's just sad.


.

Good...

I hope you die...

Libtard.

What?! Fuck that cocksucker. And the gay donkey his mom rode in on it's cock.

Too.

No quarter.


.

A Bane Meme...

Okay, I've been seeing this go around, this meme thing. Since I swing in this jungle, I may as well stake out a clearing, and beat my chest. Stay the fuck away from my bananas, but feel free to abscond with this, and spread it around.

Or, ignore it...

So:

If you could have one person on the planet killed, right now, with no consequence to yourself, who would you choose, and why?

If you could have wild, wanton sex with the person of your choice, them your willing slave, for an entire weekend, at the place of your choosing, who would it be, why, and where?

In the entire known history of mankind, if you could go back and put a bullet into their head, with no consequence to yourself, or your lineage, who would it be? Why? If no one, why?

If there was one mammalian species you had to choose, right now, to become extinct, which would it be?

Assuming God exists, and he handed you a button that, if pushed, would destroy Him, Jesus, the Kingdom of Heaven, and the entire Heavenly Host, would you push it, and why? Or why not?

Assuming the universe still exists after that last question, if God handed you a button that, if pushed, would erase humanity from existence, would you push it, and why? Or why not?

Assuming humanity still exists, after that last question, if God handed you a button that would erase one race from existence, would you push it, who would you choose, and why?

Aside from all the other questions, and apart (and I wish you would consider each one of them seperately) if you could go back in your own timeline, anywhere, and change any one event, knowing that your present would utterly disappear, altered forever...

...would you? And, if yes, which one.

You may answer these in my comments, or at your own blog, as you will. If you use your own blog, please leave a comment here saying so, so I may go there and read.

Thanks.


.

Housekeeping Note...

Apparently someone or someone's have (has?) linked to one or more of my posts, and I'm getting emails along the lines of "Hey, man, your blog looks like shit and none of the links on the page work!"

I know, I'm sorry, and I've given up trying to fix it. Just do what I do when I go to a weird link. Up there in the address bar, delete everything but the primary URL, take out all the linky stuff, and press enter. Voila, main page.

Of course, anybody who is following links to individual posts here will doubtless not see this...

Sigh.


.

Which Is Worse...

Country Singer names? Or Rapper names?

Personally, I hate them both. Toby Kieth makes me want to burst into gunfire just as badly as Li'l Kim or Fitty Cent.

Shania is as bad as Shaniqua.

And what's with all these nouveau-butch country cunts they are coming up with? Square jawed, broad shouldered Marlboro Women, with a can of chew in her back pocket and a pudendum as big as mine? Is there a country dyke demographic I haven't heard about?

Woman, you dip in front of me, and I am going to punch you in the throat and kick you in your balls.

Smoking isn't nasty enough? Hey, I know, let's add spitting and dribbling to our resume! Nasty bastards.

You want some a this meat puppet here, girlie, you'd best quit smokin and air out for a week or so. If I'm havin a Box Lunch, I don't want the thought that I'm eating a dead drownded cat who died from a fire hose in a house fire flashing through my mind.

But most of all people, please reconsider your naming conventions. I read where that black loon as what chucked her nubbins off a pier to drown, and I read those poor little children's names, and I said Thank Goodness! We certainly do not need any more Taronta's and Treyshun's and Joshoa's cluttering up the place. It was for the best.

Carefully examine the names of your offspring. If you see a Takesha, or a Chrystaal, or perish forbid, an Ariel, well you'd best roll up your sleeves and fill the tub, cuz there's some drownin to be done.

Though I have always regretted not naming any of my daughters 'Saliva Jayne', I am, in retrospect, relieved that I did not name my first-born son 'Jade' like we had planned. Instead, he has three middle names in addition to his first and last one, because we didn't think we were going to have any more, and we wanted all of our fathers and grandfathers represented.

When I called out all five names, he knew an ass-whippin was comin...


.

You scored as Capt. Mal Reynolds. The Captain. You are the captain of the ship, so the crew are your responsibility. You just want to do the job, get paid and keep flying. Why is that always so hard? Zoe Alleyne Washburne 100% Simon Tam 100% River Tam 100% Capt. Mal Reynolds 100% Inara Serra 88% The Operative 75% Jayne Cobb 75% Hoban 'Wash' Washburne 50% Shepherd Derrial Book 44% Kaylee Frye 38% Which Serenity character are you? created with QuizFarm.com

Thanks, Morrigan...


.

Exterminate...

...white people.

Fine with me. Bring it on.


.

You're a natural born trouble-maker. You hate
authority and do everything you can to get
around the law, or in some cases, break it.
Naturally stubborn, you hardly ever sway once a
decision is made. Your nature is fiery and
courageous, and always out-going. You love
attention and usually have kinky fetishes
you're not afraid to explore. People either
love you or hate you.


What Type of Soul Do You Have ?
brought to you by Quizilla

I Woke To The Stench Of Death...

I staggered up from my nap, a bit ago, to the stench of the killing fields. I actually feared I was having a stroke, for a second. Then my nose sorted through the miasma, and detected cooking, and I headed downstairs. Half way down, I met the wife coming towards me.

"What the fuck is that smell, honey?" I asked her. Her little face fell. Oh, I'm such a bastard...

"Brats and sauerkraut, just like you like it..." she said. Bastard bastard bastard.

"Oh Baby, thanks...it just came upstairs and was all fucked up...sorry, I can't wait."

Downstairs, it evened out, and smells great. With spicy fries.

I am a lucky, lucky man.


.

Man Who Catch Flies With Chopsticks...

...can accomplish anything...


.

Baby's First Ghost Story

A Dark Theme Arises...

Queenie and I seem to be trading muses, lately. Only she does it better.
Not for the faint of heart...

And it got me to remembering...

I have a memory, of me, lying in my crib, and whistling. It is just a short memory. Me lying there, in perfect comfort, looking at the pale green walls, and rubbing my fingers on my silky black and green blanket, and whistling. What my Dad always called 'idiot whistling' when he heard someone doing it, because that is what his Dad had called it.

Just lying there, whistling in and out, two tones, over and over, and it fascinated me, and my world was pale green and perfect. Then the two huge, blurry heads of my parents appear to my right, looming over the edge of my crib, arms reach down, and the memory ends.

I told that memory to my Mother a few years ago, and she paled, a bit, and looked a bit stunned. "I remember that, and you weren't even six months old...we found you there, just whistling in and out, and it was amazing because I don't think you even had any teeth yet...that blanket was your baby blanket Grandma made for you, she re-covered it not long after that..."

I remember everything. Well, nearly everything. There is a period when the abuse got most intense that is mercifully blank, and I can't recall the beheading of my fiance, thank God, but everything else is there, in one context or another, and I occasionally thumb through the pages to see who I was, and where I have been.

The first black person I ever met knocked me out, one of the very few times I have been knocked unconcious in my life, and the first.

I probably deserved it, having called him a nigger and all. Actually, I believe I had put it in the form of a question. "Are you a nigger?" I had asked him in innocent wonder, unaware of etymology, as yet.
I reached out my hand to touch his perfectly fascinating brown face, and I woke up some time later in a ditch, one eye gummed shut by my own blood.

I was five. I was at a SDA Church camp-meeting, wandering through what seems like miles of tents, as I recall, when I ran into this group of black kids, and I just stopped and goggled, never having seen one in person before. Oh, I'd seen Amos and Andy on television, and my Grandparents watched Lawrence Welk, and Mr Welk had a token black that he brought out to tap-dance the same dance every show. My Grandfather loved him, I knew, because he would laugh til he cried, and say, in his thick Nordic accent "Look et det foony nigger go!".

Thanks for the smack in the face, Gramps.

You just did not see black people, back in the day. I know that seems odd, now, because they are ubiquitous (whuh he call me?) but during the time I refer to above, I lived in LA and Glendale and Long Beach, all over Southern California, and you just did not see black people. The westward migration of blacks had yet to occur, and the ones that were there stayed segregated. You didn't see them in parks, at the zoo, at the beach, on television ads...the one that knocked me out was the first black person I ever saw, and that still amazes me.

Later, we moved up north, to the Napa Valley, to get away from the LA smog that kept me in constant eye infections. I must have been seven, or eight.

After church one Saturday, and the usual potluck, the adults settled down to chat, and turned us kids loose to get us out of their hair, with stern instructions that we'd best not get our church clothes messed up.

Unable to take a proper romp through the woods, we played explorer, instead, and set out up the street to peep and peer into houses and yards, and spy, but it wasn't long before the houses petered out and we were left staring up the hill at what appeared to be nothing but a narrow, barely two lane country road, with scrub oak forest bustling up to either edge of it.

One of us spotted something white, off through the trees, and as we got closer, it turned out to be a large, clapboardish barn-like structure. A building, not a house, and one that had obviously stood empty for a long, long time.

Up to this time in my life, I was about as innocent as a child can be. Our religion forbade television and movies, unless they were nature films or documentaries. There was no such thing as a VCR, or any other technology that was designed to give children access to violent imagery.

My playmates were as innocent as I, so, as we wandered in through an open door on the side, we really had no perspective with which to judge all of the strange fruit that hung before us.

The building was a big, open barn-like affair. At one end, planks had been stacked on wooden crates to make tables, and there was stuff on those tables, but what drew our eyes upward and kept us all staring, round-eyed and silent, were the bodies of all of the black people hanging from ropes and hooks from the rafters that went across the room, from one end to the other.

How many? I don't know. Lots. More than a dozen. Bleeding, cut, some with eyes open, some not. Tongues lolled. Nothing moved, and there were no flies. I did not find that fact odd, then, as I knew nothing of death, or it's proclivities.

We just stood there. And stared. And then someone whimpered, and the spell was broken. We ran screaming out of there and tore down the hill to tell our Dad's.

With no real vocabulary to describe what we saw, and in hysterics, it was somewhat difficult to communicate, but before long, the adults got the idea that something very bad had happened just up the hill, and I was one of the boys charged with leading them back there to show them.

Unafraid, now, because my Dad could do anything, and protect me from everything, I held his hand and pulled him along as a gaggle of us went back to the building.

Something was wrong. It appeared there were more trees, for one thing, but I recognized the building and pointed it out, just there, up the bank a ways, at the top of a drive I hadn't noticed before. Same building, though, had to be. I hadn't noticed this sign, either, or that window, there. The adults went up to look through it, and we kids reluctantly went up and stood by our Dad's, and looked in at rows of groceries, a counter with a cash register, and a low ceiling, none of which had been there just minutes before. It was a country store, closed, of course, this being Saturday, and the owners being Adventists.

Of course they found nothing. Nothing was there. We didn't get punished, because our terror had been palpable, but it was writ off and forgotten, and we kids never spoke of it again, to my knowledge.

Many years later, I would research, after hearing a tale told, and find that a group of freed slaves, travelling in a wagon train, had stopped for the night in what appeared to them to have been an abandoned barn. They were set upon and murdered by a gang of evil white men, who stole their supples, and left their bodies to rot.

One day, even more years later, and a man now, I stood in front of that self same barn, long ago converted into a store, and now, again, long abandoned.

My kids, in the car behind me, were oblivious, and acting up. My one day to become ex-wife snapped at them, and this normalcy gave me the whatever to walk up and peer through the window.

Dust and cobwebs reigned supreme, and most of the store trappings were gone. I saw stairs that led up into darkness, near the back, by where the door that we kids entered through long ago would have been, but now covered over by wall.

I wondered what I would find, if I turned the knob and found it open. If I pushed the door in, and walked across the undisturbed dust, and went up those stairs. I wondered if the shopkeeper, and maybe his family, had slept in rooms there, above their store. I wondered at the quality of their sleep...their dreams.

I wonder if the building ever again worked it's Dark Magic for anybody, taking them to a different time. A different place.

I wonder...


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In Retrospect...

I am pleased with the responses to my drinking post below. Thanks, Acidman, for getting this ball rolling. I owe you.

I think this was my favorite comment:

I don't believe I've ever seen such divergent opinions all submitted under the guise of encouragement. Let's encourate him to stop, let's encourage him to continue, let's encourage him to rationalize and justify, let's encourage him to feel guilty. Sheesh. You know the answer to your question better then any of us Bane. Do what YOU know is best for you and your family. If it's not a problem... enjoy. If it is... you know what to do.
Big Cat Homepage 10.20.05 - 7:39 am

My philosophy is 'whatever works for you'. I think AA is a crock, but if it worked for you...

I do not want to quit, but I do not want to feel as bad as I did. I have decided to cut way back, and I showed you my schedule. If that doesn't work, I'll quit. And I'll miss the taste of alcohol, and I'll miss the buzz. Oh well.

It always bugs me when someone I know to be a lifetime teetotaller, non-smoker, and health nut, dies of cancer. Or a heart attack. Just drops dead. Think of all the fun stuff they missed.
A snifter of good brandy and a cigar, after a perfect dinner of bloody red Prime Rib, is something worth risking death for, in my opinion.

As to my post on my intersection with spookdome...

I still haven't touched the soap dish, from where my wife set it on the edge of the tub.

We all slept like babies last night, my babies and I. Thank God. Thanks for your prayers.

I mean to expand more on this later, but for now, I think it is important to tell you that I have been a lucid dreamer all of my life. I have proof that I dream from the moment my eyes close, to the moment I wake. Sleep studies have proven this. I know the difference between awake and asleep.

I could, and probably will end up telling you some pretty wild stuff about me and my experiences. Until then, just know that if I tell you I saw a figure so large that he had to hunch over so as to not touch my eight foot ceiling, I saw it.

My wife and I woke early one morning to a female demon, naked, and writhing on a cross outside our window. Our window was three stories up, at the edge of a cliff, on a ridge above St Helena, California.

The demon was tied, bleeding, to the cross with what appeared to be rusty barbed wire, and a tongue flicked out of her mouth that looked like a serpent, as she writhed and lolled her head around.

Again with the Blood of Jesus. Must be some pretty toxic stuff, because the demon flashed away east (is there a pattern, here?) to become a baleful, glowing dot above another ridge about a mile away from us across a canyon. We continued to pray, there, basking in her cold hatred of us, and it winked out after a second or two.

Later that day, our cat went insane and attempted to kill my wife, and I had to kill it with my bare hands.

As I was writing that last sentence there, Johnny stepped on a toy and slashed his foot open, and the wife and I had to rush and administer first aid. Then, as I headed back up here, the wife told Nat what was for lunch, and Nat went uncharacteristically (she loves Mac & Cheese) ballistic and began to shriek and sass most terrible, and the wife (uncharacteristically) slapped her and began to yell and, sensing a familiar presence, I grabbed them both and prayed the Blood of Jesus over them and we all ended up in a group hug, them crying and apologizing to each other.

Peace reigns.

For now.


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Do I Have A Drinking Problem?

There are 23 minutes until I can have my first 5.5 ounce glass of red wine of the evening. I have told myself that during the week, I can have two of those per hour, no more than one per half hour.

I am telling myself that, since I missed my 6-6:30 glass last night, I owe myself one, and should just pour it right now.
Or maybe have two at six. I'm fighting it.

Drinking problem?

All eight beers are still in the fridge, looking surly. Neglected. I have told myself that I can have two of them, during the day, if I am mowing the yards. It has been raining too hard for me to mow. Dammit.

I am going to allow myself Sunday as a binge day, and drink during football, even if it is the 10am game. Saturday, I can start at 5pm, and go til whenever I go to bed. Sunday the bar closes at 11pm, regardless.

I am doing this. Started at the time of the last post on this. Haven't broken once. Actually missed at least two drinks last night, maybe three.

It is now 14 minutes to six.

Do I have a drinking problem?

13 minutes...


Update:

In retrospect, this all looks pretty sloppy, at least the first paragraph. I do not drink two drinks an hour, all day. I do not drink until 6pm, and I stop by 11pm. Thus, the clock-watching.

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The Goddess Speaks!

Go, and worship!

I won't quite say vapid, today, but definately a "Why do I bother when none of you idiots listen?" sort of piece.

I'm pretty bummed, too.

This line captures the essence of how we both feel about this:

We've gone from a representative democracy to a monarchy, and the most appalling thing is – even conservatives just hope like the dickens the next king is a good one.

Yep.


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How To Season An Iron Skillet (Or Pan)...

I wrote the below in a comment on Hog on Ice, where there is a lot of discussion going on right now about cooking with iron, and its care. You could learn a lot:

Soap is of the devil, but iron skillets 'open up' when you boil the piss out of them.
I cook my whatever, then scrape it out, steel wool the piss out of the pan under running hot water (if it needs it, usually doesn't), then I fill the pan about half full of hot water and bust that sucker up to high. (I mean it, the burner full on, all the way)

The gobs and granules of crap that float out of the pores in the iron are amazing.

I swirl the boiling water around until it has cleaned the pan to the top...if crustage was bad, I may have to repeat the whole process a few times.

When I am satisfied that I have done this right (the pan looks clean, dry, and grey) I turn the burner off, put the pan back on, and pour corn oil into it, about two tablespoons or so, and swirl it around and let it re-season the metal.

Then I wipe the pan with paper towels until they come clean. (Steve says don't use paper towels, because they will leave fuzz in the pan. I say, if you've done this right, the pan is still hot enough to carmelize the oil into the paper, and you leave no fuzz. Use enough paper between you and the iron, cuz that sucker is hot. Wipe til the paper comes clean.)

My pans are older than me, and they shine like new, and I can cook fish, clean it, then cook cornbread, or gravy, and never taste fish.

My Grammas taught me this, and they were borned in the 1800's, an one was a Yankee, and one was from Texas.

Addendum: Depending what I've cooked (it's pungency, i.e., garlic and fish) I may pour out the boiling water (after swirling it around to the rim) several times. You are done when no more particles rise to the surface of the water, and when you pour it out, the pan will dry very rapidly, and you should sniff as close as you can safely hold your nose to the metal, and only smell hot metal.

Safety Note: Between the part up there where I tell you to turn the burner off, and the time you begin to add oil, should not be too long of an interval. You don't want a flame out, but you want the pores still open enough to soak up the oil. Use your head. I use plenty of paper towels in this process, and wipe til they come up clean, and maybe only slightly brown from the heat.

I have never used lard or any other animal oil in this process, but I am going to try it out next time. I have never and never will use the oven method, and I have never had issues with smoke or odor. Do NOT use a cloth rag for any part of this. You will have a fire. Use pot holders when the handles get hot, and I've never had the paper towels light up on me.

Your mileage may vary.


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I Turned Rush Off Today...

He brings on libtards, moves them to the front of the line in fact, and I simply do not care to hear their shit.

Vox Day does it, too. Most bloggers would kill to have a three hundred comment thread; me, I'd kill this blog before I allowed it to become a free-for-all fuckfest of the opinions of people I do not like or respect or care a whit about their opinion on anything.

I note that some of his commenters bring the manners prevalent in Vox's sandbox to mine, and it scrapes my last nerve raw, some. For the most part, ya'll settle down, and I appreciate that. This is not a debating arena, parliamentary and shouting.
I prefer a library setting, with small groups off discussing a mutual project in low tones.

I suspect Vox not only tolerates it, but encourages, believing somehow that he is whetting his sharp mind against their dull stone. But let me tell you, fine steel is ruined by a cheap whetstone.

I scroll down his various discussions lately, and sometimes dip my toe in, and I am faced with such a babbling crowd of frantic-eyed, semi-literate, unmedicated ADD children, that I have to go off somewhere quiet and rub my temples and calm my twitching trigger finger.

What do I read for pleasure? Blogwise? Well, first thing I check in with Steve at Hog on Ice. He is my sane center. As 'normal' a man as you can find, in these times. Then I swing over to Inblognito and Primal Purge, to see if Queenie and Anna have blessed the 'verse with any of their perfect prose. Then it's a coin toss to see what order I visit Ellison, Velociman, Gutrumbles, or Denny in.

Then, probably, Vox.

Then I'll sometimes drop in on Shorty, and go see what Shank and Paul are up to. I think Paul and I wonder which one of us is the bigger asshole. I'm pretty sure he wins, with extra points for neuroses.

The rest of you, I mostly click on your links as you comment your way through here. American Drumslinger has some spectacular naked women on his blog today. I just wish summa them bitches didn't pierce their belly-buttons. That puts me right off...wilts my willy.

I've recently discovered Straight White Guy, and Strange Women Lying In Ponds, and added them to my 'pretty much daily' rotation.

There are probably some I've missed. Sorry. I read a lot, comment some, and there's doubtless some who wish I'd stop. Oh well.

This is the most funnerest hobby I can pretend it's a job I've ever had.

Thanks for dropping by.


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I Report...

...you decide.

Actually, I don't really care what you think. I'm the trained observer, here, who has testified in court, so I guess that makes me an expert witness, so there.

I was attacked by a demon last night. Or a demonic spirit. Whatever. That's pretty typical, but it is not often I see them manifested. Physically.

I had been dreaming disturbing, troubling dreams for hours. At one point, I had a zombie clutching my leg and pulling it's way up some stairs towards me and I was out of ammo so I yanked my leg free and kicked it violently in the face, and I kicked out physically in my sleep which startled me awake and there he was, standing over me, there at the side of the bed, a big looming thing, looking for all the world like a fucking Nazgul. Startled, our eyes met...

The pores of my arm hairs are bunching like fists as I write this, and my hairs are flowing like seaweed...

I claimed the Blood of Jesus and began to pray to Jesus and God and the Holy Spirit and anybody else who would listen that they would send this thing into the outer darkness and make it count stars for eternity or something as I struggled to get out of my covers and the thing flashed back away from me in a kind of reverse Star Trek warp speed looking thing and as it whooshed towards the East through layers of partition and walls and it would have had to pass through the shower and I heard the soap dish fall with a clatter off the shower wall into the tub and startled fully alert and I was finally able to rise and snatch my pistol and rush out to check the kids and the wife.

They were fine. Nat stirred, whimpering some. Later she would tell me that she had a nightmare where a 'mean boy' took her away from us and locked her in a box and she was scared.

I searched the house, but my spirit felt that it was free, that a great weight had lifted. My senses told me all was secure.

I finally went back to the upstairs bathroom, to give it more than a cursory look. The shower curtain was closed, as it had been at bedtime. I flicked on the light, and decided that anything that came at me out of the shower was going to get the shit shot out of it.

I pulled the curtain back, and looked inside.

We use these stainless steel wire soap holders to hold our various bars of soap. The one that had been in line with the path of my retreating visitor had been torn out of it's suction cups and thrown into the curtain. I could still see the mark. One suction cup was still on the shower wall, the other had torn free and lay at the other end of the tub. The bar of soap had a couple of corners dented in as if it had hockey-pucked around the tub for a bit.

I put up the gun, and went back to sleep and slept like a baby.

As God is my witness.


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Product Endorsement...




















Please allow me to recommend this wonderful product to you.

I had it on fish about a half hour ago, and my mouth is still ringing. It's like Eve plucked a fresh Key Lime in the Garden of Eden, squeezed it out on her nipple, and bade me suckle.

Tomorrow, Key Lime Pie.

Gosh this stuff is awsome. Best I ever had.


.

Please Allow Me To Introduce Myself...

I'm a man who's poor as shit
been around for many a long year
and I'm gettin tired of it...

I was around
when Jesus Christ
watched me fall
upon my face,
He made sure I got back up
by my side, He took His place...

Pleased to meet you,
hope you guess my name!
You can call me Bane
if I piss you off, that's
the nature of my game!
and if you come here mad
I will try my best
to dish out more the same!

I watch with glee
while you Liberals
have your moments
of doubt and pain...
can't wait until the
next election
so we can steal it, yet again...

So if you meet me
fuck your courtesy,
fuck your sympathy,
I've no taste
use all your well-learned politics
and I’ll lay your soul to waste

Just as every raghead is a criminal
and all my fans are saints
as heads is tails
just call me Bane
’cause I’m in need of some restraints...



(Pretty cool Midi)


.

I Hope Somebody In This Messed Up Administration...

...has a good plan ready for kicking some Russian ass.

The Soviet Union is playing possum. I told you so. This is too bold a move for a 'toothless ex Super Power'.

I see the world's media pumping this bird flu crap up as a Straw Man, but one that will justify martial law all over the world, and let these governments form a final New World Order.

I read GW's dad's lips, when he promised one, and now I expect it is just over the horizon.

The only thing in the way are a few pesky freedoms.


.

Check This Out...

Perhaps you have seen this at Vox's blog already. If not, please go there and read.

Perhaps someone with the skill could set up something for donations to this shattered family. This is all I can do.

Just awful...


.

Wherein I Violate...

...all but one of this guys blogging rules.

Fukkim.


.

Obscure Television?

Heck, these shows were what I watched!

I particularly liked hearing the 'It's About Time' theme song again. We changed the lyrics somewhat at school the next day.

You would walk up to some unsuspecting sucker and sing "It's about time, it's about space..." and then "...it's about time to slap your face!" and then, SMACKO!

Good fun.

Update:

Now this is just plain cool.


.

My blog is worth $49,679.52.
How much is your blog worth?

On A Winter's Day...

I repost this every few months or so. It was one of the first things I wrote in this blog:

A female friend of mine asked for my help in getting an abortion back in the 70's. I forget how far along she was, but she was at least a few months along. It wasn't my baby, so I didn't care and said sure. She paid my gas and bought beer, and we went to the clinic and she asked me to come in with her. The staff assumed I was the father, so there was no problem with me going in.

They gloved me up and gave her a big old shot of Pitocin, and left me alone with her. Some time passed, and she began looking for all the world like she was having a baby. The nurse came in once and told me to encourage her to push, and went back out to help other girls kill their babies.

After one particularly huge pushing event, I heard a squishy, popping sound, and I looked under her drape and there was a puppy...no, wait, it was a little dark haired baby...for some reason I picked it up in my hands. It filled my cupped hands, its tennis ball sized head covered with dark brown hair, its little legs going back along my wrists. Through the gloves, I could feel it's warmth...its heartbeat...it moved a little as it died, probably because no one came to clear its lungs.

The girl just stared up at the ceiling, breathing hard...tears running down her cheeks into her ears. Touched for some reason, I held it until the nurse came and took it from me and put it in a pan and took it away. She came back in a couple of minutes and helped me dress the girl. She looked at us with a strange light in her eyes and said "it was a girl"...I think she was upset.

The girl sobbed softly, and we didn't talk on the trip back.


.

The End Of Honor...

This makes me sad. It used to be that a man's word was his bond. That if you entered into a contract, you were bound by it, or else.

I cannot imagine the pain that the retirees of GM must be going through right now, now that their retirement benefits have been cut during negotiations. Benefits that they worked an entire working lifetime to recieve.

This isn't a discussion of Unions and such, and I'd hate to see it turn into that. I hate Unions.

No, a deal is a deal.

But with the ease of divorce, bankruptcy, and other ways contracts and obligations are broken and weaseled out of, it just saddens me to see the demise of honor right before my very eyes.

Oh well.


.

I May Regret This...

...but that's never stopped me from doing something before.

Is there any blogger out there that you cringe to see the name of their blog on the same blogroll as yours?

Besides mine, I mean?

You don't have to dish, I'm just curious, yellow.

There's a couple of bloggers I just fucking hate. My eyes film with rage at their tags, and I wonder how someone who could be so enlightened to read me could possibly read them.

I mean, there's poor taste, and then there's wearing gold lamee checkered with pink golf pants and a lime green tube top.

I have worked with people who just the sight of their car in the parking lot ruined my whole day. I mean knotted me up, and made the whole day hell before it started.

I kinda like that, when I'm that someone for someone else.

Shame on me.


.

A Might Peckish...

By now, I suppose everybody in the 'verse knows about Acidman's tribulations, so I'm not gonna bother with links and whatnot, just wish him well and move on.

But one thing's for sure, I bet it has caused a lot of navel gazing to occur out there.

I, for one, have looked into mine, and found a sea of alcohol, and alcohol related issues in there.

For one thing, I'm pretty sure that it is not normal to have a beer at 9 in the morning. And at 9:30. And 9:45. Oh, I had a perfect excuse...the Raiders were coming on. At 1:15.

Sometimes my hands shake. A drink will stop that.

It may be time to stop. Or at least cut down.

I quit smoking cold turkey. It was so hard to light that damn turkey when it's cold. Hah! No, seriously, I smoked addictively, up to five packs a day, chain-smoking, and waking up at night to smoke, and I just up and quit.

Recently, I dramatically altered my eating habits.

Now, I think it's time to look at my drinking. My sons are breaking my heart with their binge-drinking. Of course, the synonym for 'Marine' is 'binge-drinker', but it really worries me.

And I feel like hammered shit today, so maybe it's time to do some serious evaluation of my imbibibidity. Or something. I quit drinking for a year after I got out of the military because I knew damn well I had been drinking alchoholically. We drank all fucking day. Everybody.

If you got called into the First Sergeants office during the afternoon, you could smell a haze of liquour in the air.

What's gonna bother me is if I try to stop, and can't.

That will be scary. Right now, I can hear beers, trapped in the fridge, crying out to me. Their plight tears at my heart, and I wish to free them so badly that...well,

I can taste it.

Update:

The beers are screaming, Clarice...

I am watching the clock. There are two minutes and forty-five seconds until 6pm, and I can whistle up one of my little enablers with a beer.

Courage...


.

Reassuring?

Well, maybe.

I'm a little disappointed, but the good news is that many illegal aliens harbor the TB virus in their system.

Bye, assholes! Thanks for dropping by!


.

60 Minutes...

It occurs to me that if you want to see what a 100 year old woman's cunt looks like, you only need to look at Mike Wallace's face.

Ah, I hear that 'American troops are fighting and dying still' in, quite literally, the first sentence of the first segment.

And they keep calling the basic unrefined product of the poppy 'heroin'.

Lie, much?


.

Me And God...

















.

Deguello...

This is more of a housekeeping note, than not.

Plus, I don't like to threaten. I just do.

But...

I have had several comments deleted, or not posted, on a couple of blogs lately, and I think that's just chickenshit. Email me and tell me to re-jack my shit, or to stop posting on your blog, but don't tolerate me, and pick and choose what you let get by. I need neither you, nor your pity, or whatever it is that constitutes your problem with me.

I delete comments here, when they violate my rules, or attack my family. I may have deleted five comments in my entire tenure here. And odds are, I get more comments than you.

Okay, that's it. It just hit me. I am now officially pissed, now that I think about it. You don't like my words, I shall not bother you with them on your blog again.

It really is that simple.

And fuck a damn Instalanche. Who cares what that pussy thinks about anything? Even though I read him every day? "Ooooh! Flood my comments with idiots that I don't know, or care about what they think!"

Puh-leeze.

Ya'll look like baby birds with your beaks open wide, begging for a fat pink worm.


.

Horror...

...it's a Rammstein kind of day...

Uh oh. Guess what I'm feeling guilty about listening to...

In which I visualize a liberal, either sex, doesn't matter, chained to a steel bench. Images of steel hooks, rending flesh...

gag ball. I don't want to hear you. What you say is meaningless, and your flesh will do all the screaming for you.

Beg with your eyes, and I'll cut them out. Say, with this melon baller, right here...

...the excitement of bright white bone, revealed, a mystery of blood and viscera, the knife cutting along your shuddering back, away from me, of course...safety first, dontcha know...


Okay, Bane...deep, cleansing breath. Shake it off. You can do this. Come back. Think. Your children are in Sunday school at this very moment. Your wife is singing and swaying, enraptured and directly connected to God...

I can do this. I think. I'm fighting it. Without Him, I am nothing, and you are my meat.

It is hard, so hard. I am in the world, of the world, and darkness is my favored sustenance, and screams are my music.

Resistance is not futile, but it is hard, so hard.

Quick, I am having a brief moment of clarity, here. Instapundit is dry toast, Drudge...whatever. But you come here for me, and the tenor you see here resonates through your head for the rest of your day, and how many times have I sent you away with anger, lust, or any number of other wrong things, prominent in your hearts, darkened by your brush with the evil that is me?

/end clarity...

I don't know what to say. Sorry? Seems so cheap, tawdry even. But...

Sorry.


.

Baby's Got Back...





















.

Seek Help...

...okay, just one more, but then you kids need to get to sleep...

Folks, I am who you go to for help.

I am your lawyer. Your doctor. Your psychiatrist.

I have educated myself in each specialty, and looked into the monster. And they have looked back into me.

I have hired these people, worked for these people, and had them work for me.

What, you thought I was always 'just a blogger'?

Mulder said 'Trust No One'. Reagan said 'Trust, but verify'...I think.

Some guy has a white coat, and you let him delve his fingers into your twat? Prescribe you psychotropics? Leave him alone in a room with your naked daughter?
Decide the fate of your inheritance? Because he has a nice suit? A handsome tie? His secretary remembered what kind of tea you like?

"I am your lawyer. Your doctor. Your psychiatrist."

That line should alarm you, some.

Hint: Clinton, and her husband, are both lawyers.

Jocelyn Elders is a doctor.

Every child molester let back out on the street was put there with the help and blessing of a psychiatrist.

Or ten.

You tell me you come here because I make you think, so...

Think.

Update:

Yes, I know it's 'abyss'.

In the words of a famous philosopher. let me just say...

"Fuck You! We do what we want!"

Thank you.


.

Just Because...

...this is where I am at, right about now.

Where I am at, taken there against my will, tied up in the trunk, bouncing down a rutted country road at night, to die in a fresh hole with dirt blocking my mouth, turning my screams to mud...


.

Iron Chef, Critiqued...

Iron Chef America is on right now. The kids are riveted. We adults love it, too.

But there is something wrong.

If these guys cook in restaurants, they should be doing it in a restaurant. With a real crowd, and not a bunch of simpering sycophants that are going to preen, and mug like chimps for the camera.

And fuck one hour. One whole normal shift they would work normally, minimum, is what they should be doing. You can't do certain foods in one hour. Maybe a whole week, with different battles.

Battle Dessert. Battle Breakfast.

I can pretty much guarantee you that if you give me all day to make spaghetti sauce, and you only get an hour, my sauce is gonna kick your sauce's ass.

Battle Roast. Battle Crock-Pot. Battle Roulade.

One battle would give you weeks worth of shows, which seems pretty damn cost effective.

And mix up the audience/tasters/judges. Bring in a crowd of truckers for Battle French, and a bunch of highbrows for Battle Southern Cooking.

Rate the chefs, and have the waiters and staff rate the chefs, too. Is this guy such a flaming asshole they all hate him? Does he get others to do all his work? Do 'Survivor' type interviews, and let them dish on camera. In the middle of the week, or better yet, just before a major battle, switch all of his or her staff, and put a million dollars on the outcome.

Sell tickets on line to become audience members/tasters/judges. Scour the country for cooks and chefs who can cook and chef to beat the band...their restaurant parking lot is always full, and reservations are needed and a bitch to get. Then throw them up against one of these Iron Chef Superstars.

Okay, Iron Chef Whoever, you've made it, now let's see how you stand up against a hungry unknown.

I would so watch the shit out of a show like that.


.

I Wonder...

At the center of all good defenses, and offenses, lies a Warlord.

Brett Favre is one. I look into his eyes, and I see a happy killer. A potential murderer without peer. He uses football as his battlefield, but he'd be equally at home lopping off heads on a muddy, rutted, blood-soaked field of war, where arrows rain down, and horses scream as they die.

Mao was one such. Patton. Sherman.

A small society, a commune, or a township, under peril, needs such a one in times of dire neccesity, someone to rally them, and someone to stand in front of them, between them and peril, and kill and kill and kill and bring terror and destruction to the strangers. The outsiders.

The enemy.

I wonder, should I volunteer? Times are coming. Hard times. Foretold by some, and felt by all. Would it behoove you to set up a place where we could meet, a place rich with supplies, defensible and remote, where I would be obligated to kill for you to keep my position, and not have to do dishes?

There would have to be an understanding, that I would kill you and yours where you stand if you turn traitor, or appear to be near to harming any one of me or mine. You can make all the rules you want, and post them on your bulletin boards and fridges, but in the end, I will ruthlessly cull the herd by gunfire to see mine survive, and you survive, if you become one with me.

I wonder.

Such a proposition would take funds I do not have, and organizational skills I care not to wield.

What would benefit me, is the extra bodies to do the work I do not want to, or am not qualified to do. The daily fetch and carry of 'civilization'. Your benefit is to have someone who cares about almost nothing, and senses fear as an aphrodisiac, standing between you and the marauders.

And who can, and will, destroy any threat to me and mine in any way I can devise...and I know many.

Naahhhh, probably not. Times a wastin, and folks don't take threats seriously, until they suck in the first lungful of smoke, because they got tired of the smoke alarm beeping when they cooked bacon and removed the battery.

Sentries, asleep on the wall.

Oh well, it was a thought...


.

Domestic Animal...

I have been searching for a simile to describe this day, and it eludes me.

The wind is buffeting around the outside of the house the way a cat twines between your feet when you head into the kitchen. But that's not quite it.

Perhaps a monochrome Chinese paper dragon, being swept, rustling, around wildly by mimes, soundless except for a few mad oboe players, in different parts of the street, blowing single, mournful monotonic notes.

I have the windows, some of them, cracked a quarter inch, or a half an inch, and the wind moans in various tremulous tones as it swirls it's cold tongue around my house outside. Occasional wind-blown patters of rain rattle on the windows like tossed gravel, or maybe the small, bony fingers of grey-skinned, red-eyed children..."let me in...let us in...look into my eyes...let me in..."
Clickety clack.

Sigh. Well, I tried.

A cool little hand on my cheek woke me with a start. I looked up into cold blue eyes, yanked from sleep, not sure where I was. She looked at me hungrily...

"Daddy...can I have a samwich?"

Sure, Natty-Cat, what kind you want?

I am the Domestic Diva, today. Home alone. Well, except for my two malignant growths, who need to be fed and looked after, and, sometimes, separated in a clinch. I am thanking God for Dora The Explorer, today.
Even for that gay-ass monkey.

The wife is off getting the front end aligned, to complete the repair process that ya'll and God and Jesus allowed us to be able to do, and I thank ya'll again for it.
We are now officially and cheerfully broke, and our needs are met, and even some of our wants, and I should be Praising the Lord and dancing up the temple steps naked, but my eyes hurt like shit.

I hope I'm not going blind.

I have no known allergies, but something is fucking with my orbs in a significant way, rendering them near sightless from weepage and pain. The wife is going to have me try one of her allergy meds today, as she, on the other hand, sneezes and pees her pants when a flower farts, and thus stays well armed against such threats.

Ahhh, she's home. I can go lie down and pretend the warm liquid drooling out of my eye sockets is blood, and dream of she-demons riding my chest as I struggle to shriek while they dig their long black talons through my eyes, reaching for my brain..

And then I'll be startled awake again, no doubt, because one of the wife's church friends was so inconsiderate as to die, and to have their memorial scheduled to occur during my precious nap time.

Sigh...


.

Night Watch...

I neither know nor care if the following is true. Someone sent it to me, and I like it.

So:


A nurse took the tired, anxious serviceman to the bedside. "Your son is here," she said to the old man. She had to repeat the words several times before the patient's eyes opened. Heavily sedated because of the pain of his heart attack, he dimly saw the young uniformed Marine standing outside the oxygen tent. He reached out his hand.

The Marine wrapped his toughened fingers around the old man's limp ones, squeezing a message of love and encouragement. The nurse brought a chair so that the Marine could sit beside the bed.

All through the night the young Marine sat there in the poorly lighted ward, holding the old man's hand and offering him words of love and strength.

Occasionally, the nurse suggested that the Marine move away and rest awhile. He refused. Whenever the nurse came into the ward, the Marine was oblivious of her and of the night noises of the hospital - the clanking of the oxygen tank, the laughter of the night staff members exchanging greetings, the cries and moans of the other patients. Now and then she heard him say a few gentle words. The dying man said nothing, only held tightly to his son all through the night.

Along towards dawn, the old man died. The Marine released the now lifeless hand he had been holding and went to tell the nurse. While she did what she had to do, he waited. Finally, she returned. She started to offer words of sympathy, but the Marine interrupted her. "Who was that man?" he asked.

The nurse was startled, "He was your father" she answered.

"No, he wasn't," the Marine replied. "I never saw him before in my life."

"Then why didn't you say something when I took you to him?"

"I knew right away there had been a mistake, but I also knew he needed his son, and his son just wasn't here. When I realized that he was too sick to tell whether or not I was his son, knowing how much he needed me. I stayed."

The next time someone needs you...be there. Stay. You'll be glad you did.

For I, the LORD your God, will hold your right hand, Saying to you, "Fear not, I will help you." - Isaiah 41:13


Oh, quit crying, you fairy.


.

Nothing To See Here...

...move along.

Are we sensing a theme, here? Those darn them to heck sensationalistic bloggers!

None Dare Call It Conspiracy...

BTW, I've never contemplated this before...do I talk over any of your heads? I speak to you as if you know what I know, and make the connections. I assume competence, unless yer just here for the tits.

If I do that, sorry. Email me and I'll explain something, whatever it is. Or try. In the mean time, if you don't know who and what David Boren is, well, get to Googlin.

By the way, if you add suicide to bomb, you get suicide bomber. If he was so bummed about life, why did he go outside? Depressives don't tend to seek out the light of day, and public places, wherein to end their pain. Murderers, though, do.

And Islamists.


.

Which Did You See First?





















If you said 'the beer', you are either a woman, and/or an alcoholic in serious need of treatment.

Cheerfully purloined from American Drumslinger, a monkeyspank of the first order.


.

I'm Game...

SteveH asks how long you can go. He posits that six hours of fuckin is improbable and odd.

Good Lord.

If I had a dollar for every time I watched the sun come up while some doxy rode me like a pony and shrieked out the name of her favorite diety, well, I would have squandered it all on alcohol and comics by now. But that's not the point.

I think six hours is my max. Last night, we went two. I am old, now, and age has held it's palm out for it's toll.

I happen to think that it is a matter of genetics. Just like some women can leg press what some men couldn't even wrestle into the bed of their pickup at Home Depot, with the help of two of their friends.

I have seen enough dicks to know that they come (huh huh...he said 'come') in all shapes, and sizes, and the life support system that supports said dick is no doubt different in this or that or the other aspect.

When I was eighteen, I could slip out of her doggy-stylin ass, and shoot several streams from the foot of the bed where I was standing, all over the teddy bears at the head of her bed. Silly string.

Now, I groan for what seems like minutes, while my delightfully enlarged prostate pours out my effluvia in a sensible stream, one such as you might pour at a ladies tea.
Fear age, men, but do not fear this. It is Nature's Reward for you letting her kill you. Okay, yer gonna die soon, but that five second squirt is now five minutes.

And it takes like, forever, to get there. Sometimes you give her a rain check and she, besweatted and near comatose, accepts it gratefully, and blows you for breakfast, out of guilt.

Oh, Baby.

Maybe I should change the title of this blog to 'FuckRants'. Naahhh.

I have always looked at sex as a martial art...the Sweet Sport, and something to train for. I noticed early on that women liked it, that when they were liking it, you lasted longer, so I endevoured and succeeded in making my equipment behave so.

Oh, to be sure, mix it up. Pick at anything too long, and it's gonna get infected (the ladies are wincing, now...heh).

Change positions...change protrubrances, laugh, cuddle, lick...

It's like a good football game. You mix up tactics, play your offense and defense, but in the end, you usually win by going straight up the middle.

And, like a good game of football, you need to huddle between plays. Does this hurt? How's that tactic doing? A pregame warmup, and discussion of tactics assures a sure win, as well. Visualize the field, the obstacles, your strengths, both of your weaknesses. Is she playing hurt? That untrimmed fingernail of yours cause an injury during the last play? Might have to punt. Work that tongue for a while.

Save your best reciever for when she is all beaten down and wet and you're at the one yard line and the crowd is just begging for you to take it in! Take it in!

Hope your Friday evening goes well. I anticipate the Clouds and Rain. There will be showers.

A nice, slow, warm rain...


.

More...

...hope for humanity.

Every day we inch closer to my Happy Place, where the stain that is humanity is erased from this planet.

Oh, except for you. And you. And you, over there, with the big tits.

The rest of you are fucked.

Update:

...but officials insist that there is no reason to panic...


.

Just A Hint...

If you want the full taste of the wonderfullness that is me, I have arranged my archives there, to your left, by the month. What you see on the main page here is just the tip of the iceberg.

If you are searching for whatever brought you here, got your panties in a bunch, or made you soak them to the point that they stick to the wall when tossed, it may be 'below the fold', as the lying maggots who infest newspapers put it.

Enjoy!

PS: I have a big dick, in case I've forgotten to mention it this week.

PPS...does wonderfullness have one, or two L's? Fukkit. I'm keeping it.


.

More On Chickenhawkery...

I think I have thwacked those who cry 'Chickenhawk' satisfactorily on the pages, but I always like a little validation.

Nice job.

Update:

Never one to miss out on an opportunity to give Ted Rall a Death-Wedgie, I shall direct you here.

Actually, I'm just curious as to how many hits a Bane-alanche will bring him. Plus, I'm tickled at finding a new, and very good blog to read.

Oh, and have I mentioned that I hate Ted Rall? And wish he was dead?

There's still hope that a gerbil will struggle free from it's duct tape in Ted's rectum and bite a major vein and he'll bleed out in a drug-induced, masturbatory stupor.

I bet his mom is still angry that she couldn't find a rusty coat-hanger in that back alley that day.

See? You just can't say enough rude, cruel things about Ted Rall. Try it!

It's cathartic.


.

The True Face...

...of Doctor Claw!

I seem to be on a face theme, today.


.

I Found Another Picture Of...

...Kelley.





















Oh, wait...never mind. That's Rita Hayworth. An easy mistake to make.


.

Gobble Gobble...

...stick your head up, turkey.

Why do we fight? Because killing dipshits is fun!

Duh

Via American Drumslinger.


.

Ya'll Need To Read...

...this.

Dry as Melba Toast, but you need it.

Trust me.

And stab the next Democrat you see right in the neck.


.

Eat Out More Often...

Men, the way to our heart is well known. Chili dogs and beer, or blowjob? I think the choice is clear.
I'll be tryin to hold that chili fart in later, while yer down there, darlin.

But the secret that women withhold, is that the way to their heart is through their clit. If you are not munching on Musk-Muffin routinely, you are doing it wrong.

If she doesn't enjoy it or want it, you are doing it wrong.

Or she's a post-op transvestite, in which case you have other, shall we say, 'issues' to worry about.
And you are still doing it wrong.

I have Pussy Lips.

You get those, after an hour or so. And I'm not kidding about the stutter. Hers. It's only temporary.
While you are applying chapstick to your proud Battle-Lips, she should be over there, on the bed, spasming just from watching your lips move as you apply the balm. If you approach her, and appear to wish to touch her in any way, she should shriek and back up against the wall away from you, if you've done it right.

Think of it as a refillable taco. The gift that keeps on giving.

Good head covers a multitude of sins.

Great Head gets you complete redemption.

Trust me.


.

The Goddess Speaks!

Go, and worship.

This is just sickening. This is like watching your daughter try to justify going out with the guy with all the tattoos and piercings, with the padlock dangling from his scrotum, because he has this really good job sweeping up the garbage can area of the Burger King on the night shift.

Like as if your mom put a big steaming bowl of dogshit in front of you, and sprinkled M&M's over it and told you it was your birthday.

It only makes sense if you are insane.


.

Sorry...

...to disappoint you...


.

When I Die...

...I want to go to Bimboland.

I can't sleep, internet. Perhaps I am some agitated.


.

Fun With Suicide...

Now, this may be inappropriate to discuss, here, considering some recent goings on in the 'sphere, but if you think I can help myself, you've got another think coming.

I commented this on Ellison's blog yesterday, and it set me to bemembering:

I worked for a year in a county mental ward, a 5150 lock-up. Mostly night shift, while going to college. We would take turns renting the most horrible horror movies, ever. 'I Spit On Your Grave' and such. At midnight, when all the patients were drugged, tied up, and down and out, we'd order a pizza and make popcorn and watch movies on the TV in the patients lounge til dawn.

One night, we were sitting there, transfixed by some scene of unimaginable horror, and I felt a presence. I looked slowly to my left, and there was one of our gowned madwomen, staring bug-eyed at the TV, her hands softly clawing at her face, a restraint cuff still hanging off of one wrist.

I hit pause.

One Sunday morning, I wrestled Jesus. Naked. Him, not me. He had been using the emergency 'I've fallen and I can't get up!' button in his room to commune with The Father...His Father, and he informed me, quite frankly, that he would kill me if I turned it off again.

So, naturally, I turned my back on him and reached out and turned it off.

And then, as his naked feet sussurated across the linoleum at me in a rush, I dropped down into a crouch and did a half pivot and snapped a heel into his absolutely awesomely developed abs...I mean it, ladies, this guy had such a fantastic body, you and I might have both stood there, masturbating over it...and his hair was long, and golden, and his brilliant blue eyes were lit up, as if from within...

and he whooped! out all his air and fell at me, clutching at me with his perfect biceps, and perfect hands, and I did a little Judo flip on him that landed him with a satisfying whump! onto the hall carpet, outside his room...

Mindful to not leave any marks for lawyers to photograph, I did a palm-heel strike into the base of his skull to scramble his brain, but his brain, coming from the factory pre-scrambled, as it were, did not compute, and he went for my throat, so I went for the tried and true Full Nelson, as I heard the fat Psyche-Aide In Charge jingling the bag of restraints off the hook, and waddling her thunder thighs out of the nurse's station and down the long hall toward me.

So, there I am, on top of Jesus, him face down into the carpet, and his perfectly sculpted, rock-hard butt-cheeks pressed against my cock. And he humps up against me a time or three and asks, through gritted teeth "Is this turning you on, you fucking pervert?"

I respond "I think we can tell, if I come all over your crazy ass, Lord..."

He began to laugh so hard that I, and the fat bitch, and my other cohort of the day, were able to tie him up, tie him down, and dope the livid shit out of him.

Would you like to hear the tale of my stint on the suicide hot line? Would you? And how I used it as a dating service? And got a titty-fuck? And caught up with an old girlfriend?

Operators are standing by...

cuz I'm too drunk to...


.

Serenity...

Go see it now. Please. Grab all your friends and take them, too.

Horror, comedy, violence, pathos, excuse me a minute...

...okay, I'm back. Went and looked up pathos, and it works just fine.

I took my daughter and new son, and did not find out til after they had not watched an episode afore. Ever. Nor read the comics. Went in cold, they did, and they loved the gorram thing.

Gasped in the right places. Laughed out loud a lot. Hadn't a clue, hadn't played along at home, and flat out loved it.

Thanks to you folk, I was able to take them, and they are gonna watch my tots tomorrow, so the wife and I can go to the matinee.

If this does not become a series again, I will be surprised.

I have avoided SteveH's review of this, until tonight. It is very good, that review, though I disagree with most of his salient points, and I cannot cover them here until ya'll report back that you've seen it. If you haven't seen it, do not read his review, please. He tread cautious, some, but there be spoilers, regardless.

Take kleenex, have you a heart, and not been broken down by this noisome society of ours. Set for a spell, and enjoy.

I beg you...


.

How Many Times...

...have you read the phrase 'his hand dropped to the butt of his gun...'

Last night, mine did. My hand dropped to the sandalwood grips and my wrist leveled it with a practiced twitch and then the whisk of leaving the holster merged with the slam of gunfire and my arm jolted with the shock of it and I squinted with the pain of the blast to my ears as the barrel jumped up and the pistol rocked up in my hand and...

I woke up, in shock, my hands out in front of me, heart pounding, the sweet smell of gunfire still in my nose, near-blind from gunflash, there in the dark.

One reason why I sleep alone.

I took stock. My .44 was still in it's holster, locked safely away from little hands. And from mine. If you see me swing that gunbelt, fat with cartridges, holding Bertha, but just barely, around my waist, and tie the tie-downs to my leg, you can be sure that something is going to get big, ragged holes torn through it. There might be blood. There can be no negotiating. No mercy. You can only be faster, and you're not. But you'll find that out, won't you?

Always the hard way.

I am misplaced. Displaced. Wrong time, wrong place.

If you ever see an old man, nodding on a bench in the sun, in the park, and you are tempted to annoy him, you may want to rethink.

What are the chances that he perfected a technique whereby, using just two fingers of either hand, he could snuff out the existence of a German sentry. What if he took to it, learned to relish it. Went out night after night, first as a duty, then as a pleasure. Then, as an...addiction.
His tent mates sense his 'specialness'. They leave him alone. Conversation lags when he comes around, or the laughter becomes artifical and forced. And then he goes out...

He quit counting at forty, and the Germans have withdrawn from this sector, because it has become impossible to get enough men together who are willing to patrol at night, or stand watch.
The terror in their camps is palpable, and commanders get replaced routinely by rear echelon officers who just do not understand.

Death walks among them. Death has a face. He wants to...needs to touch you.

And you want to come up behind him and snap his ear? Tip his hat off and run away, laughing?

Don't let him see your face.


.

I Think, In Several Countries...

...we're already married.

Who'da thought chicks could write?

After my wife's permission, I think I need to ask him for her hand in marriage.


.

If I Could...

...get these two broads in the sack together, at the same time, I fear a singularity would form that would suck all of your assholes out through the tops of your skulls.

And I'd risk it, too.


.

I Found...

...this babe in my referral logs.

Now, let me warn you, my wife is an ex buff-chick, though never as near the buffness of this babe. I will tolerate zero nonsense from men or women who are intimidated by this.

If you can't say anything nice, shut the fuck up.

Personally, if I had the opportunity, and was free, I'd love to fuck-wrestle with her.

Sounds like a win-win situation to me. Look at those eyes...those lips.

What a beauty.


.

So...

...does anybody see the disconnect, here?

This is an IQ test. Enter at your own risk.

I hate October...


.

I'm Holding It In...

Do I write too much?

I hear some of you, with your so-called 'lives', bitching...yes you, you short-bus children, tottering about in your helmets, crying that you 'don't have the time' to 'catch up with my posts'.

Too much ice-cream?

Folks, I can't stop it, yet I do. I censor, believe it or not. I come up with ideas, and because paying customers complain that I put out too much, I listen, like the little whore that I am.

Should I?

I mean, right now, the sun is glancing into my room, and torching a brilliant square of light onto my wall. My son is going off into booga-booga land, perhaps never to be seen again. Alive.
Certain marsupials are mocking me for the pile of drying, tear-stained kleenex, here to my left.

I am driven to chronicle...to dig, deep, to tap my fingers on these lettered Chiclets, and make sentences appear.

Is it all too much? Guide me. This isn't a vanity thing, and as much as I despise humanity, I want to make you, my adopted family, happy, as best I can.

So, what? Three posts a day? Five? Seven? Ten?

I give you the power, this once.


.

HA HA, Witch Bitch!

Every pagan I have ever known is so self-obsessed and self-absorbed, and concerned with nothing more than their pot and other dope and their sexual organs, and ninety-eight percent of them are ugly, fat, stupid motherfuckers, to boot.

Except for you...and you know who you are, so don't start shit. I have high hopes for you. Me and God.

As I've said, I miss the old days, where we could ignite these satan-sucking idiots at will.

I feel like going out in the back yard right now, digging a hole, and fucking The Goddess right up her ass.

Probly alarm the neighbors, some.

Best to not.

PS: I still have my senses from back in the day, when I worshipped the Dark Side. You send something wicked my way, and maybe the angel that laid waste to Egypt's first born, back in the day, comes by your house, eh?

Fuck with me, and embrace death...

My faith, against yours, shaman...


.

Well, Really...

Who doesn't hate Sir Paul?

Or Yoko, for that matter. There are two days I can specifically recall going out and getting drunk to celebrate a death. Okay, three. I forgot Arafat.

Elvis, in 1977. Several times. Had to pull a pistol, twice, to keep idiots from making the mistake of smiting me, and thus, dying horribly. Plus, it is disgusting cleaning blowback shit out of a gun barrel you have shoved up someone's ass and fired.

And then the sweet, sweet death of Lennon. I say, let Hinkley loose, so he can whack that dyke Jamie Foster. And then sushifi that awful cunt Yoko.

This is yet another reason God keeps me poor. He knows how quickly I would cut her to pieces at short range with a .22 machine-gun. Ankles up. I want it to last. I'd stuff the wounds with coke. Switch to a knife around the waist-line.

Oh, die screaming Whore of Hirohito! Yellow peril! Destroyer of Beatles. Just Plain Ugly-Ass Bitch From Day One, That I Actually Saw Naked, In A Picture Once, And It Not Only Put Me Off Gook Chicks For A While, But Damn Near Put Me Off Pussy.

You big-ass nasty wolverine-looking crotch bitch.

Die, you yodeling, ululating Jap whore.

I'm sorry. I've got to stop now, before I get out of hand...


.

Hmmmm...

When Socialists start to notice oddity...

Just, hmmmmmm.


.

This Is Your Happy Place...

Your safe room.

I have been pondering the phenomenon of me. Why do people come here. Why do they give me money.
And, trust me, I am the furthest thing from a narcissist a handsome guy with a big dick can be. My mother saw to that.

"You'll never amount to anything..." Remember that curse? From the woman who carried you in her body, and fed you the life from her breasts? Pulling off your skin, and rolling you in salt, from the time you first interrupted her life?

I hope not.

I'm kinda thinking I provide a Romper Room, a padded area where you can, with certain immutable limitations, throw yourselves around, and emerge, sweaty, and exhausted, but nothing important broken. And a nice crayon drawing to put on the Fridge Of Your Mind, stacked over all the others.

Me, too.

Father, forgive me, for the words to my sons, the blows, the wrongs. Sons, forgive me.
Daughter, shut up, I never laid a glove on you, and when you ran to me from your mother, you were a ticking bomb like I've never seen. You were my Ph.D in parenting. My thesis. And I am so proud of you. All of you, my adult children. Even you, hippie. I'm sorry I have to miss your play. My big, teutonic-nazi looking ass would just make your friends uncomfortable, anway.

Funny...I'm crying, for some reason.

What a pussy, eh?


.

How Democrats...

...reproduce.

Not Safe For Anywhere. Remove fluids from vicinity.

Watch it all.

Update:

Okay, now this is just sick and wrong.

And yet, so right...

Update:

You're welcome. Man I love this guy. One of the few humans I am sorry they're dead.


.

More...

...from the 'Damn, I Wish I'd Written That!' files.

Enjoy.


.

You Can't Take The Sky From Me...

There's no place I can be, since I found Serenity...

I'm tired of running from references and previews of this movie. Squinting while I read blogs. Muting the TV or changing the channel.

And, thanks to your amazing generosity, I get to go see it tomorrow with my oldest daughter. I was waiting until I got to see the 'lost' episodes on Friday nights for the next couple of weeks, but now that I'm noovoe reesh, I went wild and rented the DVD with those episodes on them and we watched all three of them one after the other. Couldn't stop.

I love this show. And the DVD's just absolutely rock. Hard. Thanks.

And today, while the family is off to Johnny's therapy, I will read the three Serenity comics that supposedly provide the bridge between the show and the movie. Needless to say, I'm not even going to read the comments on this until I get back tomorrow.

Thanks again and again, folks. The wife and I pondered how best to honor your generosity, and we finally settled on getting the struts in our car repaired, and getting a realignment done. It has become a serious safety issue, and was eating tires, and with so many trips to Portland for Johnny, and winter coming on, the very real prospect of burning upside down in a ditch seemed to be worth thwarting.

We had put this off, with trepidation, and now a major worry is gone. It is getting harder to be pissed off about stuff, but somehow...

...I think I'll manage.


.

Amen...

...Brother.

Couldn't have said it better myself.

I love my wife. I love your wives, too, but I made a commitment, and I work harder than you know to stick with it.

Am I tempted? Oh, if you only knew. Will I fail? Well...am I human? Okay, well the correct answer to that is 'yes'...fucker.

As I've said, the wife and I were friends long before we even thought to become lovers. I went through several girlfriends before we commited to each other. I was married. So was she.

I had four kids already, whom I loved desperately. Doctors had told her that she was unable to have children. Medically. Then she had an ectopic, out of the blue, we lost a baby, she lost a tube, and we mourned. Her other tube was scarred into uselessness.

No babies. We accepted that.

I have kick-ass sperm. My sperms will raze your village and kill your men and knock your knees apart and spray paint your womb like a drunken contractor. You will lay there shuddering, wondering why the fuck you didn't spread a drop-cloth.

Then, Johnny popped up. Poppin Fresh Mutant! We never used birth control, unless it was to Enhance Her Pleasure.

Then, Surprise! Nat!

Do I do the math? Often. I'm 50, Nat's four, nearly five. Know what? Deal. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Want kids? Havem. Just do it. If you wait until you can afford em, you can't. If you don't want them, don't do it, but be sure. Go, borrow somebody's baby, first. Hold it. Look into it's eyes. Rub it's fuzzy head...put your nose in it and breathe deep...smell that? Like it?

You a woman? Anyone watching? Good. Pop out a breast (make sure it's clean, you filthy thing) and put your nipple into it's little mouth.

Does your womb leap, and cramp a bit? Do your hormones ring like a Baccarat crystal bell?

Do, don't, your business.

Just don't be stuck on stupid.


.

You Really Need...

...to read this.


.

Another...

...nice blog you may want to check out.

Thank me in your hearts. Comments will be carefully scrutinized for quashability.

Don't be stupid. I already know you are the brightest kid in class, quit wavin yer arm around.


.

Hey! What're You Thinkin!

It's got squirrels!

You've been missen out. Go, seek redemption...


.

What Wine Goes Well With Pussy?

These issues trouble me.

On the other hand, gentlemen, if you have been eating salty snack foods, wash your hands before you poke your fingers in. Trust me.

I am uncomfortable with slug analogies, but...I'm just sayin. Wash your hands.

As I've said, I've gotten so much pussy, if you're not getting any, I probably got all yours. Sorry.

Ladies, if you think of pouring Creme De Menthe over a mans schlong, that you may lap it off, don't. And chocolate sauce running down a butt-crack is far less romantic than it sounds. As is any red syrup, sauce, filling, spread, or unguent.

Take your rings off before giving a hand-job. Please. Thank you.

Short fingernails are just fine. If you have long ones, please keep your hands away from my balls. And out of my butt. And if the nails are fake, especially. It is scary to find one in your underwear, later. Or try to explain it on an x-ray.

Necklaces can rip out a remarkable amount of ball-hair in one pass. Male shrieking is not, normally, a turn on.

High heels in bed? Bad idea. I don't care what Playboy and porno teaches you. Bad idea.

Earrings? Should probably take them out first. And no dangly ones in bed. (See: Necklace)

If you put food up inside for some reason, make sure to get it all out. And yer just nasty. Face it.

On a related note, remove the Tampon, first. Not in front of me. Wrap that sumbitch up, too. And shove it down in the trash. Dammit.

Have I missed anything? Ladies? Oh, if you must use a rubber, don't toss it out the window into the parking lot.

I hate rubbers. I will physically inspect your birth control pill box before we do it. You may show me your scar from when you were spayed, as well.

If you get pregnant, tell your husband it's his. Sue his doctor for a bad vasectomy.

Hmmmm...drop your kids off at your mom's for the night. It makes me nervous when they watch. And no, I don't want to have sex on the toilet. While looking at your over-filled catbox.

Yuck.

And if your kitchen and bathroom are that nasty, my tongue has just limited it's options as to where I shall put it.

Well, maybe after a couple more drinks.

Ptui!

Excuse me...Tampon...


.

Nothing To See...

...here. Move along.


.

Stop Pissing Your Pants...

...or the bunny gets it!

We have been attempting to train Nat's bladder. It is apparently the size of a communion cup. Or a thimble, for you people who are going to hell.

I am hitting this issue with a multi-pronged attack...

First, let's stretch that bladder out, Little Missy. We have given her her own cup, and encourage the drinking of much liquid. Juice. Water. Milk. Drink drink drink. Occasionally, she flies past me, rushing to the bathroom, whereupon I hear this incredible swoosh of urine. Quite often, she gets most of it in the toilet.

Some of you may be rethinking this whole 'having kids' thing. I understand.

Then, the wife and I committed to taking advantage of our own varied bedtimes and bladder urges, and we assault Nat in her sleep on a regular basis, dragging her little butt out and to the bathroom, to take a surly pee.

See, our main obstacle is science, and perhaps the fact that we are poor. Were I wealthy, I would let her sleep in pannies, and she would piss herself, and wake up at some point stinking and uncomfortable, and train herself. Cloth diapers and plastic pants and diaper pins potty trained more kids than any parenting ever did, I'd wager.

But no, we cannot afford to launder her bedding and her pillow and some of the carpeted area around her bed each and every day, once in the morning, and once after her nap, when she wakes besotted and stinking and rowling like a cat in a leg trap.

So science provides us with this wonderful product called a 'toddler pull-up', which are just padded pants that you can piss in to your hearts content, and they will not smell or chafe or make you uncomfortable in any way. So another way needs to be found to make you uncomfortable.

This is where the bunny comes in.

First, just let me say that I am seriously considering buying adult diapers for myself. They would be very handy for Sundays, during football. Or at a movie. Or at night, when that haul to the bathroom seems so long. I'm serious.

Anyway, on to the bunny...

Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose, and some old lady gave Nat this stuffed bunny a few weeks ago that is, quite frankly, adorable. Nat named it 'Miffy' after her favorite cartoon bunny, and actually added Miffy to her rarefied pantheon of 'Bed Babies', which for all of her life has only been this one sad, bestraggled plastic doll with one broken eye, and ink-pen scribblings all over one cheek. This doll is her totem, her factotum, and has so far been the only creature allowed on her bed at bedtime. All the rest, no matter what kind of day they have had, or how good they have been, get swept off without further ado, except for the Bed Baby. If the Bed Baby is misplaced, sleep does not occur until she is found. Nobody's sleep. There will be shrieking.

Even I would not violate the sanctity of the Bed Baby, but I had plans for Miffy, oh yes indeed.

Nat made the mistake of negotiating with me as to whether she could have Miffy in her bed. It seems even she was unsure as to violating the sacred institution of Bed Baby, and desired a second opinion.

I sighed, and dropped my shoulders. "Only if you don't pee your pull-up...if you pee your pull-up, Miffy has to go live out in the garage with the spiders..."

I know, I know...isn't being evil fun?

She went for it! Sucka! You have to invite me in...

So now, I'm looking at Miffy, stuffed there in the back of my closet (I am too lazy to go all the way down to the garage...besides, there are spiders) Nat is bereft and sobbing, and I'm feeling a tad guilty, filthy beast that I am.

BUT!

This psyop has gotten us a lot of dry pull-up mornings and afternoons, lately. Bonus. And I'd like to think that the whole experience has taught her that yes, you must follow through with your commitments, or yes, the hostage gets it.

I am pondering making a video of me, in a ski mask, with a long knife, and Miffy, as an instructional, nay, motivational tool. Add a Palestinian flag on the wall behind me, and get her started hating muslums early.

Perhaps that would be a bunny too far...


.

Oh No! Tom Hanks Has Been Arrested!





















Bastards!


.

It Just Came To Me...

I think you need to like your own writing, for others to enjoy it. Hmmmm?

I'm not sure the same holds true for art or music. Different entry points into the body. You can't taste a bite of peach by shoving it up your ass.

You use your eyes to read, sure, but it is the brain who takes the sterile squiggles from the page or screen, and savors it.

And if you are not satisfied with the flavor of yours, how do you expect others to savor it?

I have never thought of it like this before.

I am as far from being a narcissist as you can imagine, believe it or not. But I find myself really enjoying what I write. Apparently others do, as well. My sociopathology has prevented me from making this connection, so far, but it just hit me with the force of revelation.

If you don't like your shit, it probably stinks.

Wow.

Tell me what you think.


.

Up Your Ass With A Sharp Stick!

That used to be my battle cry, heard shortly before I beat the sense out of you.

I've mellowed. I think. Or maybe I've just increased my overall alcohol content and sharpness.

Have you ever hit someone so hard their head snapped around and their blood patterned a wall? I've got an open-handed slap I like to use. Starts with my hands safely on my waist, thumbs in the front pocket of my jeans...harmless.

Then, whap! Depending on how bad I'm pissed off, I pick the point where the lower mandible inserts into the upper, or the ear, with palm cupped, which is not a proper hiraken, because you probably have not pissed me off enough to kill you, or at the very least, put you in silence, forever.

Know you, that the uppercut, whether of hand or blade, is very difficult to defend against. Especially if you are of height. Short people? A fist-hammer down to the top of the head, and if they block it, snap that self-same elbow right into whatever part of their face presents itself, then clasp the palm of that hand on the side of their head, thumb down (you do the math) fingers clasped as best you can around the back of their head...on at least one occipital condyle is good, both if you can get them, but don't overthink it...then yank their head forward and down and bring your knee up into their face...

This should all take less than three seconds. It's not television. If at any point, you slip, or in any other way lose the advantage, disengage. You've gotten too close. You are now a target for a counter-strike, and you have pumped your opponent full of terror. They are running on nitrous.

Boy, how about those Cowboys, eh? Kicken Eagle butt, they are. And these scalloped potatoes I'm noshing on are delicious!

We now return you to your regular programming...


.

Nudity...

...ensues...

This is why you pay me the big bucks, folks. This is a rare and special link. Ten minutes of what just may be the most beautiful woman in the world.

Nekkid.

Enjoy.

Update:

OOPS! Egg on my face! This is the link I meant to put up, though the girl in the other one is sweet, like clit-honey.

Sorry...mea culpa, mea maximo crappa head.

PS: I love the music on this clip, dearly. I'd buy the CD. And that's a rare thing.

Update:

'She's Got The Look' would be a great song to fuck to. 'Rocky Mountain Way' by Joe Walsh is still the best, though. Set that sucker on repeat, welcome aboard sailor, and fuck to the rythym.

Still, I've got 'She's Got The Look' on repeat now, and I'm wishing the old lady was home, and we had some lude's for the kids, and some toot I could lick off her titties.

Gotta love the 80's...

Update:

1-2-3-4
Walking like a man
hitting like a hammer
she's a juvenile scam
Never was a quitter
tasty like a raindrop
she's got the look...
Heavenly bound
cause heaven's got a number
when she's spinning me around,
kissing is a colour,
her loving is a wild dog,
she's got the look.

She's got the look...
She's got the look...
What in the world can make a brown-eyed girl turn blue...
When everything I'll ever do I'll do for you

and I go: la la la la la
she's got the look...

Fire in the ice,
naked to the T-bone
is a lover's disguise.
Banging on the head drum,
shaking like a mad bull,
...she's got the look...

Swaying to the band,
moving like a hammer,
she's a miracle, man

Loving is the ocean,
Kissing is the wet sand...
she's got the look.

And she goes:na na na na na na na na...

(I am obsessed with this song...)


.

This Is How...

...you write, people.

I bow the knee to her, and touch my forelock.

And she does this nearly every day.

Yes, she has gagged me a time or two. Just more tribute to her magic fingers.

Her blog is a worthy primer on style. I'm not saying copy her, as I think she's unique. Just observe the latexian limits to which the language can be stretched, and molded, and pushed down over that coed in your trunk's face while she screams and beats her heels and the gas tank makes sloshing sounds...

Yeah, kinda like that.

Just remember, if you pull out all the stops, where they were, in case you have to put them back in.


.

You are a maniac killer.
It doesn't matter who they are and what they
have or haven't done. You still want to kill
them. And for a simple reason only; it's fun.
Seeing people in pain is like ecstasy. Maybe
you have some sort of mental problems or you
are this way because of previous deep scars,
only you know. But now you are sadistic and
maybe you only like to see a special group of
people be in pain (e.g. perps). However you are
not the most social person in the bunch and
people think you are weird. That bothers you
somewhat but atleast you can entertain yourself
with daydreaming about killing them. After all,
they have no idea what's coming.

Main weapon: Explosives and torture
equpiment
Quote: "Insanity: a perfect
rational adjustment to an insane world" -
R.D. Lang
Facial expression: Wicked smile


What Type of Killer Are You? [cool pictures]
brought to you by Quizilla

Hall Of Infamy...

If I were a woman, already in (on?) The National Women's Hall Of Fame, and I had an ounce of decency and self-respect, I would be demanding that they remove and revoke me about now.

If that nasty bitch so much as petted my dog, I'd shoot it.


.

Helloooo, Bratislavaaaaa!

I know you probably came here surfing for donkey porn, but I'm glad to see you in my referral logs anyway. Welcome, you little commie cunt. Sit, and stay a spell.

Yes folks, as you can see there to your left, I put up one of the old site meters again. I missed it. It always amazes me that 98% of my search engine hits are people who are looking directly for me. Me Me Me!

I Googled 'bane' last night, and came up fifth, out of over two million hits! I nearly masturbated.

Hey, it's not me...it's you...all of you little people out there who make this all...

...ah, fukkit. Okay, it's me. I built it, and you came. All over me. And I am frolicking and basking in your sticky warmth and rubbing it into my hair and...

Okay. I'll stop now. Hey, Son, how's that 151 hangover treatin ya? Or are you in the brig at the wrong end of a plunger handle about now? Call your old daddy and clue him in. But not during my noon nap.

.

Hey, Man...Nice Shot!

I have been seeing a lot of Mister and Ms WhineyPants all over the net today, blithering on about the Asian earthquake deaths and such.

Huh? I don't get it.

We are spending and have spent billions of dollars blowing many of these people to fuck and gone, and now you want us to go give them band-aids and teddy bears?

Fuck those people. Sooner or later, we're gonna have to kill the one's as didn't get squished anyway, so grow up, buck up, change your pad and shut the fuck up.

Don't look a gift earthquake in the mouth.


.

I Think Every Member Of Your Family...

...should have one of these.

I love the whole 'entirely battery free' concept. Add to these backpacks a large first aid trauma kit, with plenty of antibiotic pills and powders, and you're in business.

Just add guns.


Update:

I wonder why they don't have a battery free vibrator along the lines of that shake-it flashlight. I mean, it would seem a natural thing, wouldn't it?

Even ladies in crisis be having their needs.


.

210...

Actually, closer to 209, but I round up. I think I want to stop losing weight, now. I actually wanted to stop at 215. 210 came as a surprise, as I am making no effort at all. Yesterday, I had a big piece of zucchini bread with, I swear, about a quarter inch of butter on top. The wife said it would've gagged her. I said Honey, shut up, you swallow sperm...I win.

But that bread and butter was all I had, all yesterday. I'm scarfing a huge bowl of Special K right now. Not for any dietary reasons. I like the stuff, and it's supposed to be full of vitamins. Whatever.

Not bad from 270. I don't think I was really fat, but I was a big motherfucker, for sure. Now, I have well defined, almost bony hips. My wife purrs and grabs my ass. I have ribs! Yay!

I have no patience with people who are fat and do not want to be. Don't eat. It's that simple. Fuck exercise. I would make a great quadrapelegic. I am as somnolent as a well fed Desert Tortoise. Movement offends me.

Don't eat, and don't bring shit that will fatten your ass into the house. Stay the fuck away from McDonalds, and all of his evil fast-food kin. Just a hint, but pretty much any pre-packaged frozen food item that you have to microwave to cook is gonna fatten your ass.

I did use Slim Fast, at first, but all of that Aspartame alarms me, some.

The wife wanted to trim down, as well. Her Kryptonite is ice cream, so I told her to quit bringing it into the house. Her ass practically fell off. We both noticed the difference in literally days. There is no reason the kids should suffer for our sins, so we got them little individual portion thingies of ice cream for treats. And popsicles. Those helped the wife over her cravings.

Gentlemen, if your wife is dieting, and is showing signs of weakness, fuck her. Literally. Take her into the bedroom and shag her socks off...give her something to eat...eat her. This will take her mind off food, and burn calories. It's kinda fun, too.

Except for all that moving.


.

The Finest...

...blog post in the history of blogging.

And I agree with every word. And despair of ever being a real writer.

Damn, he's good.

Update:

I wasn't there, but I'm pretty sure my 19 year old daughter was a virgin on her wedding night. It can be done, with will-power and determination. And she is, quite literally, one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen in person or in print or on film. Head to toe beautiful. Super Model beautiful. Lord knows I tried to get the little bitch to get out and make Daddy some money. She resisted. Probably for the best.

I say this, because, per Dave Muuuunger in the comments, I believe that some may be missing the overall point of Steve's post which is, as I understand it, voracious sexuality for sexuality's sake is a bane to our existence.

I agree.

And I may be the worst non-celebrity offender of all time. I say non-celebrity, because women throw themselves at celebrity, but I had to get my pussy the old fashioned way...rape.

HA! Just kidding. Rohypnol...oh, cut it out, Evil Bane, you big kidder.

Seriously, though, I did have one advantage over most of you guys. I was one damn beautiful son of a bitch (why, yes she is, thank you). I'm told I still am, and that's the secret. I can only say I'm attractive, because I've been told it so often by women. I don't see it. I don't even look at myself in the mirror when I shave.

Women sense it when you care about your looks, whether you are proud of them, or are sensitive about some feature. I have to be careful, here, because I didn't intend this as a 'How To Get Laid' guide. Women see me, see I am not full of myself, and it drives them crazy.

Then they sense something else. While I may have some lust in my heart, I genuinely like women. I am not afraid of them. I do not see them as a life support system for a cunt. If she is nice to me, and is a good, interesting person, I can chat her up as good as any of her girlfriends, and I'm happy to do so.

You'd be amazed, guys, at how much fun you can have with a woman without fucking her. I am no prude, by far, and if fucking is on the agenda, I am amenable, maybe. But I have turned down blowjobs so I could watch the movie. Imagine that.

The one thing you need to understand about women, is that they don't always know what they want, even if they say they do. Even if they firmly believe what they say. While this can be true of men, especially the feminized ones, it is nearly universal for woman-kind.

Sometimes, when she asks for a fuck, all she really wants is a cuddle. And vice versa. It is your duty to figure this out, and to not take advantage of what is possibly a woman who has been pre-damaged by life for your convenience.

On that note, I am sure that much of the copius quantities of sex I had before my final marriage was rape...of a sort. If damaged goods lets you handle it for just the semblance of love, you, sir, are a rapist.

Of course, I have been used and abused myself, a time or two. It's a jungle out there.

I learned responsible cocksmanship from my first roommate, after I left home. He would go out for beer, and come back with pussy. One for him, and one for me. I was still being artificial in those days, and he mocked me for it. I watched the Master, and learned.

All he did was show interest, unfeigned, and ask for sex. If he was making out in the car or on the couch with some chick, he would just unzip his pants, pull out his prong, and put her hand on it. He told me that right about then, homegirl is pretty much left with only two choices, scream and run, or start stroking it.

I never saw one scream and run.

But seriously, look up the history of seduction as a crime. Did you know that it was? Back in more morally upright times? You could get prison for taking a girls virtue under false pretense and promise. I wish it were that way now, quite frankly.

Both sexes have power over the other. Let's just quit using those powers for evil.

Get laid. Be happy. Don't be an asshole. Sex isn't love, even if you love sex.
Those of you with close guy friends, love them after a fashion, I'm sure of it. I've had a male friend a time or two. But I never once thought about fucking him.

Try treating women like that, and see what happens. Only if things work out, it's okay to fuck them. It's far easier to commit to a friend.

Heck, it's even encouraged. Good luck.


.

Going Through The Change...

A commenter exhorted ya'll to buy me a beer. I get emails telling me the person loves my writing, but is too broke to hit my tip jar.

Folks, this stuff embarrasses me to the bone. Not enough to take down the tip jars, of course, but puhleeze. If yer gonna do it, just do it, don't talk about it, to paraphrase Tuco. I know of at least one reader I lost that I really liked, because he said the donation buttons made him feel guilty when he saw them. I guess he must not read very many blogs, then.

Some of you folks have helped my family and I through some very tough times. You have honored me with your fundage, and I am proud to have you as my patrons. I actually think it has caused me to tighten up my writing, knowing that, after a fashion, it is getting paid for.

Well, has been, anyway. It seems to have trickled to a halt, and I think it's wake-up time for me.

You see, I have been kinda treating this like a job, and for awhile, the money was coming in almost as if it was, so I could pretend.
As you old-timers know, I am unemployed, on VA Disability, with a crippled son for whom we get a stipend as well. For the last seven years of his life, I have had to be careful as to what and how much employment I take, as it threatens his government (spit) medical benefits, and also opens me up for repayment if my income hits a certain level.

And that repayment, my friends, has so many zeroes on it you don't even want to know. And he needs ongoing treatment and care that to continue with, I would have to step right into a high-paying executive position somewhere, which only happens in the movies. I am in a sort of damned of you do, damned if you don't scenario.

Well, we are very good at running on fumes, my wife and I, but we did the bills a couple of days ago, and all of our income went into them, and now I realize that I am going to have to go out and get some sort of real job, in an area of the country where even healthy young men have trouble becoming employed.

Why am I telling you all this? Well, because you seem to enjoy my little blog, here, and it is going to become even more little, as I seek employment, and, hopefully, find it. Even if I start writing serious articles and stories and whatnot and try to sell them, it is going to affect this blog something seriously. Posting, as they say, will be light, to non-existent, depending on how and which direction these things go.

I am genuinely sorry to burden you with my crap, but I have been doing some self-reflection lately, and I'm not too happy with what I see. A fifty year old crippled curmudgeon, with no savings, lots of responsibilities, and it nearly lays me out to mow the lawn. I've never been in a position before in my life where there is an entry level job I simply cannot do. And now I am.

It is sobering.

In the past, here, the income from this blog has fleshed out the other income, and bought the movies and the ice cream cones and the booze and the toys and whatnot, the little extras you take for granted until you have to turn your kid down when they ask for a quarter to get the ring from the machine.

I know, boo hoo, poor pitiful me.

It has been a fun ride, and I hope you've gotten half the enjoyment from reading it as I have writing it.

This is not good-bye. More of a 'see ya later', or something.

Forgive me, I'm in a weird place.

Update:

Well. It seems that this is a job after all. I didn't intend for my swan song to become a fundraiser, but it seems there are some who seem determined to keep my nose to the blogstone.

Thanks! I am even more overwhelmed than usual.

I still intend to write, and send things out for publication, but know you that what I found in my inbox from you this morning, is as clear a signal that my direction is writing than I could have imagined. I know that there is no guarantee that such fundage will continue, but it is weird how the wife and I discussed an amount last night that I would need to continue, and I wake up this morning to find it met.

The MINimum...hint hint.

HA! I kill me! No, seriously, thanks again. Proof that a happy hobby can turn into something that, while not exactly lucrative, can put beer on the table. And then some.

Have I said thank you, yet? THANK YOU!!!

Funny, my Dad has always carved and whittled and sculpted and whatnot. He takes shovel handles, and carves them intricately with vine and leaf patterns, adds a deer horn curved handle to the top and, voila, fantastic walking stick. I don't think he has made a dime doing it, though I have nagged him mercilessly to do so. Then, a bit ago, a guy who saw his woodworking skills paid him $200 to restore an old military rifle stock to pristine.

It's cool to get paid for doing something you love to do.

Really.

Update:

Okay, I posted the above update this morning, in what you could consider a euphoric state, with a side of gas. And then I began thinking...

Pondering...

Okay, my peculiar case of Blogshido has been invoked. Though Ronin, my sword has been paid for. Bought. I will slay with it who I will, according to my own code, but I will slay.

When my own idea of how long I have contracted for runs out, and it comes time to tip the sand-glass over, I shall not mention it in any way. I will leave that to you. Throw me bags of gold, or not, as is your wont. I care not to mention it again.

I leave it to you to decide if I move on to serve another Daimyo.

And, again, arigato. domo arigato gozaimashita.


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You, The People...

...are really a bunch of dumb shits. I am gravely disappointed in you.

Oh, not you, my esteemed readers and commenters (well...) and/or fellow bloggers. You are (generally) exempt from my ire.

But most of the rest of you out there are some really stupid motherfuckers.

I was reading an email just now, which chided liberals and black leaders and Hillary Clinton to go to Louisiana and really see what is going on, and despairing because the writer knows that all they will ever do is whine and blame, but never get their hands dirty, unless it is with other people's money.

I got to thinking of stories I have heard of kings and leaders of yester-year, who would dress as peasants and go out among the masses, ostensibly to get a feel for what the masses were thinking, but probably just to make little royal bastards.
I started having a daydream about what someone like Hillary Clinton would hear if she dressed down and wore a wig and went out to a working-class bar and...

That fantasy screeched to a halt right there, in a haze of burnt rubber smoke. I knew damn well what she'd hear, because those are the kind of places I frequent, on the rare occasions I go out to a bar.

Dumb shits holding forth on every topic imaginable, without a clue as to what they are talking about, yet with such a strong opinion on it that they are willing to fight you if you suggest they may be wrong.

And I see the same thing with the woman who cuts my hair, as she and other educated females, many of them high level University employees and professors, talk some of the dumbest kook twaddle you'll ever be pained to have to listen to.

You fine-minded Conservative students out there in Reader Land know whereof (whatof?) I speak. As you listen to the nonsense in class and in the halls and in the cafeteria and in the bars, I'm sure you fear contact-retardation, as if your very brain is being stuffed with steel wool.

And they let these people vote. On purpose. Other idiots actively seek them out to vote for them. Idiocy begatting idiocy, even unto the third and fourth generation, until the giant snowball of stupidity finally smashes apart at the base of the mountain of inevitability.

Stop the planet...I want to get off.


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My Hypocritic Oath...

A while back I posted that I was switching my home page and search engine usage from Google to Yahoo, because Google are a bunch of little commie twats.

This pains me to no end, but I am switching back. Yahoo sucks.

It pains me even more upon the revelation that the two little commie twat founders of Google accompanied then-President Bill Clinton to Saudi Arabia to fellate then-Prince Abdullah for money for the Clinton Library and Whorehouse, where Clinton's mom now works as a dog-fluffer in bestiality porn film-making.

I have been unhappy with Yahoo almost since the start, and have, in fact, backslid and defaulted to Google a time or two when Yahoo couldn't find something I damn well knew existed. The final straw came yesterday.

Let's say a, uh, blogger, wanted to search to find any nude photos of, say Nicole Sawyer, who, uh, the blogger had put up a photo of the day before and wondered if, indeed, there were any strictly artistic and with no prurient interest at all butt-naked photos of said model.

Well, Yahoo acted like a retard you sent to the candy store but they got distracted by the shiny doorknob and came back and said the store was out of candy so you beat him and throw him down the stairs to "Have fun with the spiders!" to dissuade such behavior in future.

Stupid Yahoo.

They said "Nope...no titties...not a one, nope nope nope..." so now they are down in the basement moaning and swinging a rope of terrified snot around and bumbling back up the stairs to the crack of light under the door to wiggle their fingers under it to get your attention but you will just pour hot water on them because darnit, they need to learn.

Ever the stalwart Pioneer, and wont to persevere when the goal is noble I...uh, the blogger, then went to Google, maybe, and maybe typed in 'Nicole Sawyer', and Google told him "Titties? Oh, we gots titties!" and happily displayed four pages of them, like the bright child you will let pour the hot water on the fingers wiggling there under the basement door if they ask nice.

Bad Yahoo, no more cookies for you...begone!


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How To Speak...

...proper English.


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