BaneRants  

You must be at least this tall to ride this ride

::Tip Jar::






::Menu::

View My Stats




eXTReMe Tracker


Crusader for Christ Crusader against Islam


This blog is protected from memes by Grundir the Implacable



Creative Commons License
This work
licensed under
a Creative
Commons License
.

RSS FEED

email me






::Links::


Pat Dollard

James Lileks
(My Idol)


Sharp Knife
(My Other Hero)


BaneRants
(Wordpress)

Now With Best ofs!

Haunted Soldier

Curses & Chrome

All Atwitter

Maiden Magnetic

Random Bits of Pomposity

Baldilocks

Vox Day

Velociman

Pondering...

Doc in the Box

Protein Wisdom

Atlas Shrugs

Twenty Major

Northwoods
Woman


Kolyada.com

Olbermmeinfuhrer

DaddyBlogger



::Previous::
  • Well, This Is Cool…



  • ::Past::
  • September 2002
  • October 2002
  • November 2002
  • December 2002
  • January 2003
  • February 2003
  • March 2003
  • April 2003
  • May 2003
  • June 2003
  • July 2003
  • August 2003
  • September 2003
  • October 2003
  • November 2003
  • December 2003
  • January 2004
  • February 2004
  • March 2004
  • April 2004
  • May 2004
  • June 2004
  • July 2004
  • August 2004
  • September 2004
  • October 2004
  • November 2004
  • December 2004
  • January 2005
  • February 2005
  • March 2005
  • April 2005
  • May 2005
  • June 2005
  • July 2005
  • August 2005
  • September 2005
  • October 2005
  • November 2005
  • December 2005
  • January 2006
  • February 2006
  • March 2006
  • April 2006
  • May 2006
  • June 2006
  • July 2006
  • August 2006
  • September 2006
  • October 2006
  • November 2006
  • December 2006
  • January 2007
  • February 2007
  • March 2007
  • April 2007
  • May 2007
  • June 2007
  • July 2007
  • August 2007
  • September 2007
  • October 2007
  • November 2007
  • December 2007
  • January 2008
  • February 2008
  • March 2008
  • April 2008
  • May 2008
  • June 2008
  • July 2008
  • August 2008
  • September 2008
  • March 2009
  • June 2009
  • July 2009
  • August 2009
  • October 2009
  • November 2009
  • May 2011
  • September 2012







  • This is my Blog...There are many like it, but this one is mine...

    This page is powered by Blogger.


        Monday, October 31, 2005

    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.


    .




       

    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!



    .




       

    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.


    .




       

    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.


    .




       

    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


















    .




       

    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.


    .




        Sunday, October 30, 2005

    RAIDERS!!!
















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


    .




       

    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?


    .




       

    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.


    .




        Saturday, October 29, 2005

    Do You Know This Woman?

















    I'm trying to find her...


    .




       

    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!


    .




       

    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.


    .




       

    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.


    .




        Friday, October 28, 2005

    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...


    .




        Thursday, October 27, 2005

    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.



    .




        Wednesday, October 26, 2005

    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.


    .




        Tuesday, October 25, 2005

    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.


    .




        Monday, October 24, 2005

    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.


    .




        Sunday, October 23, 2005

    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.


    .




        Saturday, October 22, 2005

    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.


    .




       

    Rebellious
    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




        Thursday, October 20, 2005

    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...


    .




       

    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.


    .




        Wednesday, October 19, 2005

    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.

    .




       

    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.


    .




       

    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.


    .




       

    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.


    .




       

    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.


    .