Free At Last, Free At Last...

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

What a week.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And bring your own grease...


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The Goddess Speaks!

Go and worship!

Oh, and Happy Kwanzaa, muthafuckas.

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


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Freeze, Or The Pussy Gets It!















Peekaboo!






















Hard to believe they're both the same woman.


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If You Don't Know...

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


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Hang Em High!

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


Update:

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

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

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

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

And I take issue with this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fucking brilliant.


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I'm Just Putting This Here...

...so I can come back and savor it every so often.


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Warning!

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

Read their warning, too. Seriously.

Update:

More power...


.

Attention Photoshoppers...





















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


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A Day At The Library...

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

Sad.

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

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

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

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

They were just getting started...


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My Hero...











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


.

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

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

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

Allow me to set you straight.

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

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

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

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

Well, do ya, punk?


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This Would So Totally...

...be me.

More here...


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Unto Us A Blog Is Given...

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

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

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

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

Update:

LL outs Toni's new site at Blogspot.


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A Tale Of Horror...

...fit to chill the strongest heart. Think twice, intrepids, before you click on this link...


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Dawn Of War...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bye!


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Drunken Toddler...

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

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

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

Priceless.

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


.

They Look At Me...

...like I just geeked the Baby Jesus, when I suggest changing the menu for holiday meals.

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

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

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

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

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

It's not fair.

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

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

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

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

Oh well, there's always next year!


.

It Just So Happens...

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

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


.

Funny, Cuz It's True...

Catfish sent me this joke, blame him:

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

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

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

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

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

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


.

Closed Until Further Notice...

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

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

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

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

Some snapshots of the blessed event:

...the wife and I, on Christmas Eve, prepping the battlefield...we knew trouble was coming, so we cleared away all pointy objects, set up beds, locked away all alcohol and firearms, and watched 'Gangs of New York' to 'get into the mood', til 1am, when we heard the first bodies crashing into the wall...

...me, out front, yelling at my youngest Marine to "Quit puking on the neighbors car!"...

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

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

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

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

"...or your girlfiend..."

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

/snapshots

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have hopes.

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

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

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

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

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

God Bless You.


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Someone Was Thinking About Me, And...

...sent me this...





















Awwww....


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Ho Ho Ho!





















That's the Spirit!


.

Up Your Ass With Bugs And Gas...

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

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

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

Anybody?

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

Happy Holidays!


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A Drawing...

...from my son's sketchbook.

















Not bad...


.

The Wife Began To Scream...

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

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

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

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

Merry Christmas!


.

Christmas Breaks...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All your bitches are belong to me, shoe licker.


.

Welll, this...

...is disturbing.

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

Thanks.


.

The Chronicles Of Yawnia...

Spoilers! Read no further! I mean it!

Still here?

Well, alrighty then...

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

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

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

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

It's for the best.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


.

Cookie Monsters...

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

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

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

I fled.

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

Yeesh.

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

Heh.

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

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


.

Quote Of The Day...

From this article, which cracks my ass right up:

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


.

I May Hate Christmas, But...

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


.

Didn't We Already...

...kick these fucker's asses once?

Time for a rematch.


.

Skynet Is...

...here...


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

Sarah Connor: And Skynet fights back...


.

Fuck Steven Schpielburg...

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

Fucker.

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


.

Wherein I Am Chided, Most Gently...

...in my very own comments.

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

Or something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome!


.

I Always Suspected This...






















Via: Grouchy Old Cripple.


.

Pretty Cool...

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

In your face!


.

Helen Of Troy...





















The face that launched a thousand boners...


.

Birds Of A Feather...

...die together...


.

An Eye...

...for an eye...


.

The Goddess Speaks!

Go, and Worship!

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

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

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

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

Okay, could you have said it better yourself?



.

More Paypal Nonsense...

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

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

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

Pity me.

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

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

/irony


.

Important Nostril Update!

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

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

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

Pity me...


.

Not Safe For Anywhere...

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

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

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


.

How Come...

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

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

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


.

Babysitting...

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

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

Lord, I apologise. But it's true.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pity me...

Update:

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


Update:

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

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

Pity me...


Update:

2.5 more hours, but who's counting.

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

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


.

Walk Faster...

...or else.

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


.

Mail Call...

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

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

Thank you...

And all those of you who care.


.

Haikus For You...

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

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

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


.

If You Care...

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

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

Repeat after me:

There will never be another revolution here. Ever.

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

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

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

Deal.


.

Corn, Vegetable Of The Poor...

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

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

And sloppy joes.

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

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

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

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


.

Back When I Usta Could Blog...

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

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


.

Home, Safe!

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

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

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


.

Lord, I Apologise...

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

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

But it was just sick and wrong.

Lord, I apologise...


.

The Bodies Are Still Bobbing...

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

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


Update:

Ho Ho Ho...

Nothing to see here, move along.


.

The Face Of The Enemy...

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

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

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


.

The Nookiedoodle...

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

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

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

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

The Nookiedoodle!

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

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

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

But this cookie idea is killer! Admit it!

Fuck a damn candy kiss.

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

What?!

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

WHAT?!


.

Do You People...

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


.

The Bush Speech, Just Now...

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

Think about it...


.

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
















Don't be a pussy.


.

Hey! Texans!

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

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

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

What the fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

We have an understanding.

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

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

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


.

They Never Call, They Never Write...

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

pffft...

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

Sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Trails.


.

Some Much Needed Perspective...

From someone who is all about the perspective.

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

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

Just say no.


.

Bunny Talks, Bullshit Walks...

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

Whatevah...

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

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

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

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

Update:

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

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

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

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

It's like, traditional.


.

Tannenbaum With The Tards...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Awwwww...

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

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

I'm sure of it.


.

I Absolutely Love...

...this kind of stuff.


.

I Blame Christmas...

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

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

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

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


.

Some Assmazing Photography...





















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


.

Time For Vespers...

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

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

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

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

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

That's just disturbing.


.

Amen...

...brother!


.

The Goddess Speaks!

Go, and worship!

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

Sorry I'm late, Goddess.


.

What Does This Say...

...about truck drivers?


.

Welllll...

...in't this special.


.

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

Click for larger version. Duh.





















Artist Credit: Clay Boutilier

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


.

How evil are you?

Via Grouchy Old Cripple.

.

Like It Or Not...

...boys will be boys.

A fine article.


.

Yeah, What He Said...

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

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

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

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

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

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

You folks rock.


.

Wrap Your Tentacles...

...around my egg sac, Baby!

This is pretty cool.


.

She Has It All Going For Her...





















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


.

Ladyfish 6.0?

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

Ladyfish 5.0 is dead. Long live Ladyfish.

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

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

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

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

Alas, I fear her days are numbered.

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


.

Must See!

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

I would be wearing appropriate safety harnesses, of course.

Thanks, Catfish.


.

Filthy, Filthy Porn...

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

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

Oddly, my favorite feature is her teeth.

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


.

Gangsta Rack...

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

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

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

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

But I hear they kick ass with machetes.


.

Objects In Space...

Are closer than they appear...

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

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

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

So there.


.

Let The Record Show...

Gosh, I hate Keith Olbermann.

Oh, and God Bless Capitalism.


.

Blame Lil Toni, Not Me...

Cracker be all CRAZYnshit...

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

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

When down on Canal St. the looters dey came

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

STOP! Melvin, Shaneekwa, Chantel and Joe Brown

Leroy and Rickita, put dem shoes down.

Da baskets dey loaded as fast as dey could

While big screens was rollin on back to da hood

Shoes, electronics, fur coats and rings.

All de essential survival things.

From de east and de west da levees separated

An da peoples had wished dey evacuated.

Da water poured in like Dixie beer foam

And da hood emptied in to da Superdome.

Dey crapped an dey pillaged an da Dome went to hell

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

But it's not like cleaning da dome affects us

Since dem Saints is gone to San Antonio, Texas.

Soon after Arron Broussard clearly started to drink

An Kathleen Blanco needed her time to think,

Da forces finally came to help out da cops

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

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

An tossin dem into the river like chum.

St. Gabriel was not dere eternal slumber.

An dey never made da body count number.

No longer to walk among civilization,

Dey now a part of coastal restoration.

So When ya open up oysters, instead of pearls

You'll find little gold teeth and Geri curls.

An da ones dat was bussed to other states

An places where da Red Cross facilitates

Are waitin around for dere FEMA checks

An demandin everything else dey expects.

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

But dey ain't comin back to your neighborhood.

To all you evacuees and your plight

Hope you like TEXAS...

An to all a good night.


.

What Sort of Intellectual Are You?

You're a scientific intellectual.
Take this quiz!








Quizilla
Join

Make A Quiz More Quizzes Grab Code

Via Grouchy Old Cripple.

.

If This...

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

Thanks, Acidman.


.

I Love Clam Chowder...






















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


.

How To Cook A Jew...

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

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

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

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

Damn, but this is hard to watch.


.

So, I Was Scratching My Balls...

...and I found a dingleberry.

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

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

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

Update:

Alas, poor Kari...

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

I love it when they practice self-marginalization.


.

Dead Liberals...

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

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

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

Fuckers.

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

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

You proud of yourselves, Liberals?

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


.

Some Damn Ayrab...

...is currently mining my archives, and viewing this oldie from a while back.

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

Oh, she makes me wet...

Allah wills it.


Update:

Oh...oh...spoot...Spoot...SPOOT!


.

Point Of Clarification...

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

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

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

Ha!


.

In For A Penny...

A dear friend sent me an email today, and it got me to thinking. You know, I have a couple of tip jars up, but I don't pimp them too hard. Frankly, it embarrasses me, and I am always humbled and astounded when money comes in at all. And I tend to get large dollar amounts when it comes in, or nothing at all. Like people would feel they were being chintzy if they just threw me a dollar.

BE CHINTZY!!!

While I obviously appreciate the big donations, I have said before that if every visitor over there on my Site Meter just dropped off one dang dollar as they were passing through...well, now there's a Living Wage I could live with.

While a hundred dollars shouts "I LOVE YOU!", a dollar says "I like you just fine..." and that is just fine with me.

As always, let me assure you that I am still going to do whatever I do here, with or without your financial accolade. I'm talking to ya'll who really want to give something, but don't want me to feel insulted.

INSULT ME!!!

I prefer Paypal to Amazon, but I don't really care. You can be as anonymous as you want, or not. Both take a percentage from me, so if you actually want me to get one hundred cents, you need to donate one hundred and twenty cents or so. Just for you know. But I'm happy with eighty.

When I was working, I frequently donated a dollar here or five dollars there, especially if the blogger made me laugh right out loud. Or made me look at something in a way I never had before. Whatever.

Ya'll seem to like me, and the feeling's mutual, and I've done gone and embarrassed myself enough already, so, carry on.

/Pledge Drive.


Update:

Thanks, $2 guy! That's the spirit!


.

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
















Via TUA, by way of Sondra K.


.

Yeoman's Work...

Go to Radley Balko's blog, and scroll all the way down, and read all the way back up, when you've got the time. This story is why I keep a magazine full of jacketed steel bullets in my AK in case my door gets kicked in at night. Hi, guys, prepared for the Apocalypse?

I don't want ya'll to think I posted this link just to give all my Libertarian government fearing readers the vapors. That's just a bonus. No, I post this because I concur 100% with Mr Balko that so called 'No Knock' warrants should become a thing of the past.

I worked with one of the most highly trained military units in history, and we sometimes made mistakes. What do you think these Keystone Kops are going to do? Being on an entry team while carrying a primed machine-gun is an awesome responsibility, even if you are in a situation where it is okay to kill anybody in the building who is not a friendly.

Now, have these yahoos kick down the door to your home in the dead of night...


.

Wherein I Note A Phenomenon...

I have been a presence on the internet, in one form or another, since about mid 1990. I started off with Prodigy, and bounced around until I hit this blogging thing, dug in, and settled down.

Funny thing is, I still feel like a newbie much of the time. I guess it is because the milieu is so liquid, always flowing and changing and reforming, that just when you get used to something, it morphs into another. For example, Netscape used to be the greatest thing since individually wrapped condoms.

But one constant remains sure, and that is the occasional influx of newbies into the mix during an inevitable growth spurt in the system. I was a newbie, once. The internet was so small, that we newbies were looked upon with indulgence by people who had been there longer, and, for the most part, we were welcomed in and shown the ropes. Things were much slower, then, and sedate. Everything was 9600 baud dial-up, and the limitations of the equipment itself caused you to measure your tone and consider your words. That, and only adults, for the most part, could afford said equipment.

Then things got cheaper and faster, and the internet became more and more ubiquitous, companies competed and bought each other and died, and a whole new generation came of age knowing nothing but the internet. The internet changed from what had essentially been closed, invitation only private clubs, to a vast, open playing field, where people frolicked in every way imaginable, as if in an open public park.

And this new group of newbies seems to have been raised by wolves, or something. Or maybe they just check their manners at the door. Quite a few of them, anyway. I'm a small enough blogger that I don't seem to attract the monkeys, much, monkeys that I see whooping in troops through other blogs, flinging shit everywhere and screeching so nobody can hear themselves think.

This might sound funny, coming from me, and whatever image of me you and I have formed, but I have manners. I was raised right. I absolutely cringe when I hear a male say the things they sometimes say to female bloggers who have not responded in kind. I also cringe when I run across a female blogger who is making a lame, feminized attempt to sound like a Marine Drill Instructor. Honey, I have heard Marine DI's, and you are not now, nor will you ever be, a Marine DI.

Sigh. I'm neither a prude, nor an angel, but when you take the civility out of civilization, you are left with this anarcho-blabberfest that so many comments sections seem to descend into. And with the relentless stream of nihilistic garbage that passes for entertainment streaming out of the television and through the mushy brains of our children, coupled with the Anti-Christic nonsense they are force-fed in the retard factories our schools have become, I don't see a whole lot of hope for our future as a country.

I think you can look at the internet as sort of being our country's subconscious. And when I look into it, I see a pretty dark, confused, and roiling cauldron, a veritable Sea of Psychosis. And me, swimming in circles with all the other fishies.

The idea of my death seems less repellant to me every day.

Happy Monday!


.

Hire A Beaner, Go To Jail...

Well, that's how it should be, but isn't, but this is a very nice start. What part of 'illegal' confuses people?

Of course, the evil and despicable George Bush is panting for an opportunity to wave his magic pen and turn every illegal into a legal. Just because he pardons a criminal, does that make the criminal any less guilty of their crime?

Hey, if Bush wants to get a law passed that makes every illegal and legal immigrant take serious citizenship courses, and learn to speak English, I'd be close to being for it. If he would also remove the clause that says anybody born here from a non citizen mother automatically becomes a citizen, I would get even closer to being for it.

And then, if he would deny any government benefits to non citizens, ever, and to new citizens for at least ten years, I'd kiss his ass in front of the White House and give him a week to draw a crowd. I'd vote for whoever he told me to, as well.

Yeah, I know I'm dreaming. But still, it's good to see some folks taking matters into their own hands with good old All-American ingenuity.


.

More To Come...

What surprises me is that our Overlords have allowed this to come out at all. What does not surprise me at all, is that it happened, and I think we are just seeing the beginning of a phenomenon that will wash across the face of the planet, wherever Muslim immigrants have infested a community.

This is what happens when the Powers That Be take on a condescending and paternal tone when dealing with their subjects (deny that's what you are, I dare you) and pander in a PC way to those who would use their race/religion as a defense for poor behavior.

Some Muslim hooligans beat up some lifeguards and nobody makes a peep. But when some white boys see that nothing is being done, and decide to go get themselves some payback, oh lordy, listen to the appeasers squeal.

Macho posturing is bred into the Muslim (Arabic) and Hispanic male, and they have, in general, nothing but contempt for the other races and religions. It does not surprise me in the least that Australian males, fed up with their gradual government enforced feminization, have gotten fed up and are striking back.

I predict we are going to see much more of this in the future, just not via MSM. And don't believe a damn thing you hear coming from Fox, now that we have a Saudi Prince running around bragging about how he paid off Rupert Murdoch to lay off the coverage of the Muslim rioters in France. I haven't heard a peep, since.

And let me reemphasize that my well documented animus towards Arabs is a recent development. Ten years ago I would have (and did) break bread with them.

Now, I just want them broken.

Update:

More Muslim bullshit.


.

Well, Crap...

Our one working car went to shit this morning, and is behind a tow truck as we speak, headed two towns away to where the only non-crook VW mechanic in Oregon will work on it when he gets darn good and ready.

Double crap.

This means that the wife and kids stayed home from church today, and have ruined my Sunday Sleep-in. Pity me. The wife just set up the little ceramic Nativity Scene on the stairwell landing a bit ago, and Nat has a small toy spaceship rattle, and is singing an alien spaceship Christmas song to the Baby Jesus, accompanied by enthusiastic rattling, and woooo-ooooo spaceship sound effects. Kinda hard to sleep through that.

And the kids have decided that if they can't get to church, church will have to come to them, because Sunday is Church Day, dammit, and we are darn well gonna have church. So the downstairs has been remodeled, chairs have been set into rows, dolls are staring vacant and glassy-eyed at Preacher Johnny, who is a pretty accomplished mimic if I do say so myself.

And he really notices things. Nomenclature is very important to him, and he pays attention. You think he doesn't, cuz he looks kinda vacant much of the time (when not being vacuumed) until he sings a compicated worship song back to you like a darn tape recorder. And he knows all of the names of the parts of the church, and has renamed the parts of the house accordingly. As I step around the Stepford Doll congregation to go into the kitchen to make a Kerry...uh, I mean waffle, John sweeps his arm dramatically, ushering me into 'the fellowship hall'. Little weirdo.

And the damn Raiders game appears to be blacked out here on the West Coast. No Raiders, No Justice! Dammit, I know that right now some poor little third worlder is trapped underneath some rubble because their shitty houses can't handle a 3.0 earthquake, or a strong breeze, for that matter, but I'm having a shitty day, too, so I can't be bothered by any of that crap. Pity me.

Well, at least the wife will be able to make it to work this afternoon. She's getting a ride from my Dad. I told her to at least offer him some gas money, because if she doesn't, he will never forget it, and six months from now he will play upon my sense of honor by invoking the time he took her to work on his own gas to try to guilt me into doing something I do not wish to do.

Aaarrrggghhhh.

Damn, is it really almost 1pm right now? I've been pecking at this thing for an hour, between regluing handcuffs and such. And the wife insists on talking to me. And stuff. I think I'll surf around the net and see if there is one damn thing that interests me today.

I doubt it.


.

Worse Katrina Story...

...ever.

I cried.

Thanks, Lil Toni.


.

Blog Flirting...

I have done some very public flirting, here. I have done some very private flirting, too, most of it just play, two of them where it got very serious, one of which has damaged my emotion to this very day.

I love the ladies. I like the ladies. And I love my wife.

And a few times I have come perilously close to the edge of commiting a crime against our marriage. Yeah, that's right, Famously Faithful me. Oh, who am I kidding, a couple of times I have gone right over the embankment.

If you've followed this blog for any length of time at all, you have probably noted that I have a pretty relaxed set of moral standards. I am a Christian, but I curl my lip a little, too, when I say 'Fundamentalist'. Can't help it.

I am famously anti-gay, and yet one of my oldest and dearest readers is a lesbian, and if we lived near each other, she'd be a regular visitor to my home, if she cared to be. I would likely take her side in any argument against any of you, if I thought she was right.

And I flirt. There are ladies who come here with whom I do not, for one reason or another, and you may note that I do not ever initiate it. But once you invite me in, I will be happy to play. Some people I play-flirt with, like Livey, but I really admire her and like her and would never lead her on. I merely want to reflect to her that she piques my sexuality, and honor her as a woman with it.

Sex and flirting is a language I know very well, and when someone speaks it to me, I respond quite naturally in kind.

Teasing is quite another thing. As a lightly used spice, it can be wonderful, but leading someone on when you do not intend to ever conclude a tryst with them borders on evil.

I love the civilized sensual repartee between men and women. My wife tells me she does not partake in such, and I believe her. I tell her I engage in word play and flirting here, and she only growls a little. She and I both trust each other, because we both know what we are each capable of. She wears her religion as her chastity belt, because that is what works for her. I use my own will-power to keep me chaste, and that works for me, too.

Most of the time.

I will continue to flirt, when an opportunity presents itself. In some of my comment threads, we have gotten the floor pretty damned sticky. And I love it. Adults at play, and harmless as it can be, in my personal opinion.

I treasure my naughty emails, too, but someone hurt my feeling the other day when they used this line in their email "...one of your online girlfriends..."

What? I think of you all as women, and as my friends, but 'girlfriends? Here is another place my sociopathology handicaps me. I have no skills to fathom that. I am not even trying to be insulting. I just don't understand.

I know already there are gonna be some comments saying I better watch myself or God is going to smite my weiner or something. Well, I have had about a brazilian sexual and love affairs, and Gargantua still lives, and my immortal soul is God's property, and He can do with it what He wants.

This subject just really, really interests me. I am very happy with the fact that I have not had to stifle any male horndogs here, the kind of idiot who barges in waving his dick around like a drunken cowboy on Saturday night.

Female horndogs are welcome, as usual, to wave around anything they would like. Every night is Ladies Night at BaneRants.


.

Experiencing Technical Difficulties...

My blog is acting up, so I tweaked the template a bit, which is never a good thing when you don't know what you are doing. I had someone offer to help me a while back (not you, beans, I know yer busy) but they appear to have bailed on me, so now I'm here at the side of the blogway, hood up, and showing a bit of leg, hoping someone will stop to help.

There are times that I get so pissed my cursor hovers over that 'Delete Blog?' button and I am very, very tempted. I mean it. Part of me really, really wants to do it. Probably the same part that whispers 'jump' to you when you are standing on a very high ledge.

Oh well, I can see my posts now. Let me know if you can't. I don't know about you Firefox users. I shitcanned it after a week. Hated it. I use Maxthon, an IE clone (with actual security) which is soon to be bought up by Microsoft, which means I'll probably shitcan it when they turn it into another Internet Explorer. Too bad. I really love this browser.

Oh well, let me know.


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Home Alone, Too...

Well, I've got the wife out makin me some money, so I'm home alone again. Well, the kids are here, but they don't count. Like housepets, they don't exist until they are in the way of where I want to sit, or I have to feed and water them. Or if I hear screaming.

Like my Dad always used to say, "If it ain't bleedin, it don't hurt...here, let me rub the pain out for ya..." Dear old Dad.

The 'Rents are fighting, again. I started it. I always start their big ones, it seems. This time it was when I told them to shut up about my private family issues to total strangers. I mean, they will trust literally anybody. Have I heard about this fabulous business opportunity from Nigeria, where all I have to do is give a nice African attorney-man my banking information and we'll make $27,000,000? Why yes, Dad, I have. And no. And no Shaklee or Amway or Bi-Tron or any of the other scams that hook you in on a drearily routine basis.

One of his latest 'partners' just reported to State Prison to begin serving his sentence for fraud. My Dad conned me into fixing the guys computer while the asshole was under FBI surveillance!!!

Thanks, Dad. My Mom carried a 4.0 all through nursing school, and my Dad has a degree and can build an entire house with a box of toothpicks, and a new car from a sackful of rusty nuts and bolts, but they are two of the dumbest motherfuckers I've ever known, and crazier than a box of shithouse rats, to boot.

It is a wonder I am sane.

Their idea of 'family' means 'someone who even though they are fifty years old you treat them like ten and expect them to drop everything and come to your every beck and call and whim and you can call them during their nap time'.

And I never got paid for fixing that computer.

Nat has turned Johnny into an elf, and is ordering him all over the house to fetch her stuff. And she has him on a leash. Literally. A pink leash. HOT pink. I am pondering stopping the degradation. Nah, then he'll just want to talk to me.

Hey, allow me to mix a parenting tip with a product endorsement. Dad's has come out with new screw top plastic root beer and cream soda bottles. I don't know how they do it, since that stuff is some notoriously volatile shit. I'd love to shake the piss out of a bottle of it with my thumb over the mouth of it, and then flip it into a hippies car at a stop sign just as the light turns green.

But I digress. No, the good news as a parent is that now I can provide a quality sugar intensive product to my children, and recap it and parcel one or two bottles out for days. The parenting tip is, if you give the little bastards a small glass of it about two hours before you want to take a nap, they will fizz around the house like projectiles and wear themselves out. Then they won't be creeping around the house when they hear you snoring so they know it's safe.

Little fuckers.

I wish they made low power mouse traps for kids. I don't want to have to pay for an emergency room visit, but I sure would like to leave a trap in the cookie jar or the Dorito's bag and snap the piss out of their grubby mitts.

Hey, I figured it out last night! I'm the new Erma Bombeck! Huh? Huh? Do you see it? Can't you just see my words of wisdom on calendars and tea cozys? And what the fuck is a tea cozy?

This could be big, people. Someone needs to market me. Doesn't it trouble you to see all this talent and potential going to waste? Shame!

Okay, I'm back. Screaming. I'm gonna throw those damn plastic handuffs away while they're asleep. The kids I mean. Not throw the kids away, the handcuffs. John tried to slip the leash, and Nat innerested him. He had violated some elf statute or other. Failure To Obey, or Improper Fawning or something. I came this close to buying them a pair of metal ones last night at Rite-Aid.

Oh, and you can't use duct tape alone to hold them to the wall. You'll need to reenforce the tape with a staple gun or they'll wriggle right out. And super gluing a doll to the linoleum is always good for a laugh. Then tell them to clean up their toys, and watch the fun. I saw one of those 'cap-bombs' in the store last night, and I am pondering getting one. If I hear a disturbance downstairs, I can just load it up and drop it over the balcony to signal my displeasure.

I don't know why some people think this parenting stuff is so hard. Piece of cake.


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Remember...

...how I said I'd never have ads? Guess what! It's Never!

I've always told you I could be bought. And now I'm hosting an ad for two of the turds I hate most in the toilet of MSM, Keith 'Mad Dog' Olbermann, and Rita 'Chipmunk Cheeks' Cosby. I justified it because Scarbourough is on there, too, and I like him. And they're doing Porn Week!

I have no idea what I'll do if they offer me a porn ad. I hope it is tasteful.

I can't believe this. I am being given money for empty space on the side of my blog. Yippee!

Hey, I tried to warn you people, but did you listen? NO! Not only that, but it appears most of my regulars who used to hit the tip jar don't even read here anymore. I am tempted to sulk, but I have been doing quite enough of that, lately.

I hope I get some of those sexy T-Shirt ads. I enjoy looking at them, especially that dusky maiden in the 'Infidel' T-Shirt ad. I'd never ever buy one, but I appreciate a nice busty chick when I see one.

What will I do if some homo wants to take out an ad? Egads. The quandry. Blogads asked me to let them know if I thought the ad was 'too tasteless' for my blog. Too tasteless? How bad would it have to be for me to turn it down? The mind boggles.

And screw Chiquita. They turned me down, can you believe it? I'm not even going to try those pussies at Google.

So, anyway, go click the piss out of the ad for me, won't you? I'm actually gonna watch the Scarbourough thing. Hey, money and a heads up!

Cool.


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This Is A Great Article...

...and Pamela still makes me feel funny in the pants.


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Call & Response...

Gentlemen, may I suggest to you that when your wife comes in and asks you for sex, that you do not ask her why she 'can't just beat off'. Major point loss, and she'll make you do it anyway (or else) and about halfway into it you'll feel like a real dumbass for almost not getting a real hot nooner. Get your sex when and where you can get it, because one day you won't be able to.

Johnny got a new (to him) bed yesterday. A futon, from my oldest daughter, who is following her military husband back east, where I presume they do not use furniture, because she is giving all of theirs away.

Damn mattress was thick with cat hairs, so the wife was pussy-footing around with tape trying to remove an amount of fur that you could assemble two new cats from, and I said 'fuck this' and went and got the vacuum. Now, I must say that John and Nat were all atwitter about the new bed, and as hyper as a TV news sportscaster, and were pretty much spazzing out. So when I attacked the mattress with the vacuum, Johnny pretty much freaked.

He is both fascinated and terrified by vacuum cleaners. In retrospect, it was probably wrong of me to corner him and vacuum him just a little bit. Hey! He was already freaked out anyway! 'Why waste a good freakout' is my motto.

So the wife pulls his claws out of the ceiling and calms him down to a dull snot and explains that what I'm doing is a good thing, and I am sweating like a pig in church because what I am doing requires like, effort and stuff. There is a cloud of cat hair dancing crazily in the in the afternoon sunlight, and the wife begins to snot up and sneeze. Great. There goes that blowjob.

Well, Johnny thinks sneezing is the most hysterical thing in the world since dead clowns, so he is laughing wildly now. Nat, outraged, is busily trying to remove hairs from her own shirt with a scrap of used tape from the trash, and I look like I've just been pissed on by a giraffe, but we finally got him in a real bed, as opposed to a mattress on the floor. Cool.

So now we're all going to watch my son-in-law get turned into a real live commissioned officer. If I can get my hands on one, I predict a possible embarrassing sword incident, wherein once again, there comes another place I am not welcome at. Hope they have a mop handy.

It is colder'n Cobain's dick outside, and I am not happy to be leaving my warm pajamas and step out into the actual direct light of day. Sigh.

Pity me.

Update:

What a nice, moving ceremony. Three brand new active duty Army 2nd Lt's. Baby Butterbars. And of course I had to go and ruin the ceremony.

Well, they had it coming. He stole my daughter. And there was already too much emotion in the room. Everybody had tried to be tough, and everybody had ended up blubbering, some. And no swords, which made me cross.

So, it was my son-in-law's turn to speak to the crowd, and give his thank you's and whatnot. Don't tell him, but I actually think he's a pretty impressive guy, and I'm really proud of his accomplishment, and it scares the shit out of me that some Iraqi fuck may make my daughter a War Widow.

So anyway, he's up there thanking his Mom and his Dad, and various staff from the school, and then he saves the best for last...my daughter. He declared his love and blah blah blah and then as he said what I was sure his last thank you to her and went to take a breath, some asshole in the back said clearly "Yer welcome!" and the crowd went wild. The officers and the NCO's just busted out, and the family and friends guffawed. I was absurdly pleased. My son (I.L.) laughed and thanked me and went on and got his Silver Dollar Salute and we were done.

Pretty cool.

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That About Sums It Up...





















...my feelings about Christmas, that is.


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The Goddess Speaks!

Go, and worship!

I haven't read it yet. I've been busy.


.

Update...

I'm just putting this here so I can come back and finish reading it later. Essentially, it is just proof that I was wrong to give tony pierce any credibility at all (down there somewhere) over his contention that Pajamas Media is a secret arm of the US Government.

Please forgive me for giving any credibility to just another liberal sorehead at all.

I was wrong.

Too bad. He used to could write like an angel.


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Today is National Female Breast Appreciation Day...






















Now, doesn't that just beat the crap out of Martin Luther King Day?

Sorry about the nudity. Blame Catfish.


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Knee Jerk...

I wrote a comment on another blog, suggesting that the blog owner use his new long range sniper rifle to encourage Cuban immigrants to swim faster so they could get to the 'Sands of Citizenship' more quickly.

A commenter, obviously a fervent fan of Cuban immigrants, called me a 'fucking prick'.

Then, in another post on the same blog, I commented that my imported German oven had a 'Juden Mode' on the setting dial. The blog owner chided me (gently), but he was right there on it, trying to assure his readers that, while I am probably a crazed White Supremacist Anti-Semite, he most certainly is not.

Sigh.

I suppose there are probably a few jokes out there that could hurt my feeling, but I can't think of one, offhand. Maybe some little crippled kid joke, where he dies in some hilarious way that I wouldn't find very funny. Oh well, you can't please everybody all the time.

I don't even make the effort.

Somehow, I do not think the producers of 'Grey's Anatomy', a medical drama, thought that the scene that they put in the show Sunday night of a tiny baby dieing inside an isolette would have my wife and I crying and holding each other on the couch. I didn't take it personally, but I imagine there could be some parents of dead children out there right now writing angry letters, using the word 'insensitive' a lot.

Fukkem.

Take that chip off your shoulder, cuz as sure as yer born, someone is going to step up and knock it off, even if it's only by accident.

I was in my VA office yesterday on personal business, and one of the Clerk's other clients, an Iraq vet with PTSD, brought her in a pile of photos she had asked him for to support his claim to the VA. The photos were photos he had been required to take in his role as Squad Leader. Part of his job was to document photographically every death his unit caused or encountered, as well as the deaths of his comrades. So part of his job description was to get up close and personal with someone who was his friend a few moments before, and take a focused and clear picture of their shattered head...their missing legs. Or of a car full of women and children that terrorists had forced to rush at a checkpoint, where they were all shot to pieces as a matter of protocol. I looked at a couple of the photos, and then said 'no thanks'.

The clerk, though, not only had to look at the photos as part of her job, she wanted to. The other vet had already twitched his way out of the office, and she sat there looking at photo after photo, grimacing and moaning, but hanging in there. She told me she wanted to toughen herself up, because she was going to have to be dealing with a lot of cases like his.

That is an attitude I admire.

I'd like to think if I had an elderly Jew with a tattooed forearm over for dinner, that I would not tell the joke about how many Jews can you fit in a Volkswagen Beetle. But I have told that joke, and I laughed out loud the first time I heard it. Does this make me a Nazi? An Anti-Semite? Just let me note in passing, that I have never heard or read the appellation 'Anti-Caucasian' until typing it this very moment.

Humor is not always funny, and I've said things that made me wince as the words floated out into the air, but folks who walk around with their chin perpetually thrust out, daring someone to hit them on it, bug the shit out of me.

Really. Lighten up.


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Read It...

...and weep.


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Dear Eskimos...

Fuck off.

And move, while yer at it, dumbasses. It's called 'migration'...look into it. It's how all you little alcoholic seal-shagging turds got there in the first place.

Fuck, I hope we intercept an incoming nuke from some commie shithole, right over yer fucking heads.

Man, why anyone would club a cute little baby seal, when they could club a baby Eskimo, is beyond me.


.

.

Testicle Chat...

oh, I've got big balls
I've got big balls
and they're such big balls
dirty big balls
and he's got big balls
and she's got big balls
but we've got the biggest, balls of them all!

Man, I've got big balls. They have to be, to serve the massive aqueduct that is Gargantua. I can impregnate a woman simply by masturbating in the apartment above her.

All this testicular fortitude has had a downside, though. Pity me. I wear out the banana hammock portion of both my underwear and my jeans with depressing regularity. There they are, perfectly good pants, but the crotch looks like a set of open bomb-bay doors over Dresden.

And of course, I have to wear tighty-whitey's. I dare not let my gonads swing unfettered. As the song says, "in stormy weather, they clap together, and sparks fly out my ass!"

I was on a nude hippy beach one time, with a bunch of hippies I had fallen in with, mostly because the chicks were really hot, and they had great dope. I looked like a hippy, too. Long hair, beard, beads, scuzzy clothes, and I fit right in, except for the part where I would occasionally harsh some hippy turd's mellow with my fist for performing some stupid hippy trick, like farting near me.

I hate that, and hippies are all about the natural, and farting is, apparently, natural. Except for the part where I will plug your leaky bung with a banana and roll your acid-tripping ass down this here embankment if you shit yourself near me again while I am trying to eat...

Dude!

Try me, fucker...

Dude!! (BRRRRRIITTT!) AHHHHHHHH!!

Well, there's another club I'm not welcome in.

So, back to the beach which, in retrospect, alarmed the hippy guys more than my occasional propensity to pound one of them into the ground for being a dipshit. Oh, don't get me wrong, they loved my occasional channeling of Billy Jack, as they were all pussies of the first order, and I would routinely save their asses by wearing out a pool cue on some redneck's because they misread one 'hippy' in the crowd of them that had just flounced into the roadhouse for some munchies and road beers, and decided it was hippy stompin time.

So, once at the beach (riverbank, whatevah...) everybody but me fell out of their clothes, and began to frolic and splash around. I was willing to remove my shirt and shoes and socks, but I had no swimsuit, and I had yet to evolve into the extroverted tower of non-giving-a-shittedness that is me, today. I was a tad shy. And there were beautiful naked chicks about. And I felt it best to keep Gargantua in his stall.

One of the lovely’s approached me in a chiding, slightly mocking manner, and unbuttoned my jeans, unzipped me, and pantsed me down to my ankles. And there she is, squatted down in front of me, and there was...well, me. Eyes widened. Up and down the beach. Nymphs came to frolic with me. Some touching was done. Gargantua awoke, but stayed mostly under control, as he was not used to sunshine, but he remained turgid enough to become a conversation piece.

Hippy males sulked.

Oh, yeah...I got me some sex. On the beach. By the way, if some twat in a club ever comes up to me with a tray of those, offering to sell me one and acting coquettish, I am just going to set the whole tray of them on fire. Be warned. That is some nasty-ass looking shit. Go peddle your cum-samples somewhere else, bitch.

So there, you now know everything you've ever wanted to know about my balls. Ladies? It is neither funny nor sexy for you to lay my package over your face and make fart sounds on them.

Make a note of it.


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This Is Our Garbage, World...

This is stuff we don't want any more. Stuff we've used up, and then made better stuff. Lots of stuff. Lots more better stuff. And I thank our True God, not your goat-buggerer Allah, that you are all too stupid to know it. Your foolish pride is our best weapon against you.

We could give or sell this stuff to any of your backwards-ass shitty little countries, and make you a Super Power in your region, and then squash you flat on a weekend, for practice.

Look upon us, and fear us, Oh Ye Mohammadon, Oh Ye Socialist. Judge us by the toothless grandmothers we show to you as our public face, and unimaginable hell waits for you.
We are restraining ourselves in Iraq, tippy-toeing around like we are afraid of damaging a delicate garden, and yet we have destroyed and uprooted an entire government with ease, and with less deaths in the whole conflict than we lost by murder last year in our state of California. One of 50 such states of ours. We murder our own with impunity, what do you think makes you safe from us?

Personally, I want you to mess with us. I want you to get froggy and jump bad. Get in our face. All up in our grill.

When Bush said 'Bring It On', did you notice that smirk? That was the smirk of a man who knows just how many deadly toys, filled with deadly puppeteers, he can bring to bear on any shitty little country in the world within a matter of hours.

Oh, all that talk you hear our professional whiners nattering on about, about us 'being stretched too thin'? Yeah, that is some quivery old Admiral, worried that he might not get his special five gallons of Pistachio ice cream delivered to his flag ship on time for the party. The party his officers are holding while their massed weaponry is raining down fury on your filthy rag-covered heads.

Look on these photos, Oh Arabia. Oh Magog. Oh Gog. And weep.

And click on them to make them larger, stupid. I want you good and depressed.




















Thanks, Catfish.


.

I'll Be 81 Years Old...

...when this hits...

I hope it lands right on top of me. Because I'll be standing right in the middle of a Pride Parade in San Francisco.


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Slacker Kid

High school was a place you showed up occasionally, but you didn't really leave a mark. You hated rules, authority, and structure. In fact, you still do.

Who Were You In High School?

Thanks, Middle Class Mom.

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Scawee Woids...

I've been following the brouhaha over at Vox's place over his perspective on rape. It seems we have found a word that absolutely makes Liberals projectile urinate in unison.

And I've become a tad worried for Spacebunny's safety, because when Vox climbs onto something, he doesn't get off until it's good and dead, and then he goes back a few times for necro-seconds. Run, woman! Flee his mighty sword!

I'm tempted to go to some of the Libtard Combat Arenas he's linked to and threaten all the commenters with rape, but they might follow me back here, and urine-stench is so difficult to get out of the carpet.

But you can try this yourself. The next time you are in a confrontation with one of those terminally autistic liberals, just threaten to rape them, be they male or female. Or tell them there's no such thing as date rape (I happen to believe that myself). Watch the front of their pants darken.

It is funny how these big hairy feminists, sacks of potatoes with legs and a fright wig, live in absolute horror that some man might try to force his dick on them, when that is the very last thing any self-respecting male would ever think about. When I see herds of flap-titted harridans assembled in force, I pet Gargantua's neck to calm him, and talk softly to him to keep him from leaping out of my pants to take refuge in the bushes or down a sewer grate, and then we back slowly away, avoiding eye contact, lest they stampede like enraged Cape Buffaloes and trample us.

And what is it with these effiminate menstrual-male pilot fishes that swim with these angry femisharks, anyway?

We've all seen them. Wild haired, wide-eyed behind Harry Potter glasses, mouthing feminist propaganda and doggerel alongside their larger, more threatening sistern, with their man-purse over their shoulder and ready to shake their skinny fist at you the moment their Alpha Bitch gives them permission. She usually makes them hold the sign, while she works the bullhorn.

Do they expect to get frequent flier miles on Horizontal Airlines while seated in the First Gash section? Do they dream to plumb that frigid twat-swamp (twamp?) if they behave? That's no clit, there, son, there at the edge of that swampy untrimmed bush, that's a crocodile, and it will bite your tiny peter off if you move or do or say the wrong thing. And apparently, she's already got yer nuts, so you don't be havin much left, boyo.

Okay, I've hated on feminists enough...oh, okay, just kidding, you can't hate on feminists enough. I was just testin ya.

Now, go on out and make one wet.


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You are a Social Conservative (25% permissive) and an... Economic Conservative (90% permissive) You are best described as a: Strong Republican The Politics Test

I Just Had To...

...do something to wash the image of Yoko out of my mind.





















These should do it...


.

These Are A Few...

...of my favorite things.

I can't wait, either.


.

The Glorious Twofer...

No, that's not (neccesarily) a sex term. It is when you get one or more additional things that you didn't intend from one action.

Like Lennon gets shot, and it makes hippies cry. Two good things coming out of one event. You should be killed just for fucking yoko Ono, let alone producing that shitty 'Imagine' album. Naked women should not make you want to puke. And Yoko looks like a spraddled Viet Cong hooker turned noodle vendor and back-alley blow job artist. But I digress.

Another example of a good twofer; let's say some of our soldiers shoot a couple of Arab terrorists (I know, redundant. Sorry...) at a roadblock, and it gets filmed and put on TV. Well, we have the obvious bonus of dead diaperheads, but their wives and kids will cry. Goody! And the hippies and other Democrat and Green Party lower 'life-forms' will see it and cry, too! Trifecta!

And then Achmed sees the event while watching CNN on the plane en route to Dearborn, Michigan to pick up explosives to blow up a day care center full of little infidels, and Achmed becomes so incensed that he changes his plans and flies to Baghdad to fight in solidarity with his Muslim Brothers and a few days later, the same group of GI's shoots the piss out of Achmed, too. Which is why we need to stay the course in Iraq, and get busy on the rest of the Middle East as well.

If I was really rich, I would have special cameras set up everywhere Liberals congregate, just so I could enjoy their pain. Wait, we already have that! I forgot. It's called the TV News. I have become quite adept at listening to Ann Coulter take apart some Libtard, and then muting the sound when it is the Liberals turn to talk. Look! I'm stifling your speech! Isn't this fun?

Liberal-Speak is nothing but enema drippings, any way. No need to get any in your ear. And looking at Nancy Pelosi directly for more than a few seconds can shrink you two ball sizes if you're a man, or make a caul grow on the face of your clit be you a woman. And Teddy Kennedy's Cirrhosis Rays can shoot through your television set and directly into your liver, so watch it. Just touching a magazine with a picture of Harry Reid can smite your hands with arthritis.

Don't say you haven't been warned.


.

Can't We Just Kill Them?

SteveH asks and I answer, in this pithy little post.

If we love America so much, why are we letting these idiots fuck it up?


.

A Notorious Lefty Blogger...

...grinds his axe. And like all Lefties, he grinds it right down to the handle, repeating his mantra and his talking points over and over and over...

And yet, there are sparks. And smoke. And you know what they say about smoke. I may not be out in the infield for this crash-up, but I have certainly been front row right by the flagger, so I think I have some idea as to a potential fire when I see it. The L.A. Times is a notorious Lefty rag, but dammit, you can't be wrong 100% of the time, and I think Tony may have, if not the whole picture, a good several large pieces that seem to fit together quite well, in spite of his hyperbole.

Besides, Moxie seems to like him, so maybe he is not all bad.

If he'd lay off his own propaganda (oooo, the government lies! Duh! Name one that hasn't! ) he'd get more traction, I think. I think he kisses Insty's ass unnecessarily. And he loses me where he hammers on this very neccesary war, and all of his reasoning has been thoroughly shattered and debunked, but like all Lefties, they just pull out their little Red Book and start humming the mantra...

BUT!

I think there is real fire, here. I have been dubious about this Pajamas crap since I first heard of it, and have said so. And there a lot of bloggers I really like that I fear could be tarred by a very wide and unpleasant brush, unless...

Unless they do what bloggers do. Come clean. Fess up. Tear this shit apart and pull it's guts out and let the blood spatter where it may.

It'll be fun. C'mon. And more...

It'll be good for you.


.

Popularity Contests...

There is some kind of blog contest going on. I won't link to it, cuz I think it's dumb. I went and read the nominees, and there were, like, maybe three that I read with any regularity. Most, I outright hate. Fukkem.

I believe it was Groucho who said "I wouldn't belong to any club that would have me as a member." Ay-men.

Is the internet broke today? Hardly anybody has dropped by. My blog loads like shit for me, too. Is Blogger on the rag again? Whatevah. Probly cuz I suck. I have been down with the suckage for weeks. Somebody slap me. Try it.

Maybe that's what I'm missing. Before I get too old to do it, I should just go find a hippie and beat him like a carpet. Really kick the piss out of him. Make his girlfriend blow me to get me to stop. Nah, I don't own a dental dam, and lips that have touched hippie wang shall never touch mine. Just beat her ass, too, I guess. With their mangy dog.

Now look, I'm starting to feel better already, just thinking about it.

I think having fans can make you stupid, if you're not very careful. And judging from the more popular kids' blogs, the more fans you have, the more stupider it can make you. At least three times today, I have read a variation of this statement made by one commenter or another on a supposedly 'Conservative' blog:

"It's getting to be time for the Second American Revolution, and some real killin is going to have to be done to these lefty traitors and violence prone immigrants..."

...and variations of that theme, with more or less enthusiasm. Followed almost immediately by the blog owner rushing in, clucking like a big fat chicken, and calling the commenter some kind of lunatic. Berating them. Tut tut.

The Conservative blogger has been beating the drum day in, day out, chronicling the ineffectuality of every response we try. Chronicling the loony left's destruction of property, their firebombing of policemen and newspaper offices and other businesses. Their physical attacks on Conservatives at demonstrations.

But far be it from us to offer a solution, right? Let's just bitch about it, and pray that the next time we head to the ballot boxes, we do not elect another serial sodomite who will fuck us worse than the last one, who, by the way, has just had a four year primer from his predecessor as to just how far and then some he or she can go. How much they themselves, whom we have just given the keys to our house, can get away with.

And we stand at the doorway as they enter, and hand them pillowcases to fill with whatever booty has been left behind by the previous administration. Hillary Clinton literally left a trail of dropped flatware and gimcracks that fell out of her bag from our house to hers when she left.

But we dasn't suggest violence to they purty heads, oh no we don't, massah. Jus keep the grumbling to a low roar, and get back there into that field, nigger. Allayuh...hush now, and move along, fore I has to fetch the whip.

Well now, I smell fish. Either the wife is excited, or dinner is near done. Fish an taters an such. I think I'll shuffle dis ole gray head downstairs and tuck in to it. Gets me some vittles.

T'aint nothin much more as can be done, I guess.

Or so they say...


.

Fuck Showtime...

...and fuck Joe Dante. After hearing about this, I'll never watch anything he ever has or ever will make. And 'The Howling' was one of the best damn movies ever made.

I ditched Showtime a long time ago, because I got tired of the 'all fag all the time' programming format. Ugh. HBO was disgusting, too, and I have several channels of Encore for free with my basic package, so why do I need their vile shit? If there is a standout show (Band of Brothers, Deadwood) I can go rent it or buy it and not have any of their guff.

I'd like to strip Joe Dante down to his underwear, paint him red white and blue, and drop him off in Sadr City. Have fun, Joe...let me know how this works out for you, you traitorus fuck.

I just pray that the family members of our honored dead are not exposed to this crap.


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"For bees, faces are just a really strange looking flower"...

This is really cool.


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What Are The Odds...

Yesterday, I let Nat watch Spiderman (the cartoon) on TV. This bores John, and he lugs his train set upstairs to play in his room and listen to music. I probly shouldn't let Nat watch super hero stuff, because I am plagued with Super Natalie for hours after, if not days. Coming upstairs, I will be treated to her launching herself at me, towel or blanket cape around her neck, yelling "HA!", resplendent in all of her plastic 'rings of power' as she blasts me with her 'Rays of Perfusion'. I resist with my 'fingers of pinching crab'...no one can resist the fingers of pinching crab. No one with a butt, that is.

So Spiderman featured the esoteric Doctor Stange, occultist extraordinaire, and I had to explain things to the daughter, who was mostly concerned that Spidey rescue Mary Jane, who had been subsumed by evil forces.

So, there I am, explaining necromancy and such to a five year old, and the phone rings. It's my Dad. He is standing in an antique store, and knowing my love of comics (and with Christmas approaching, but he was being SO casual) he wanted to know if I collected Doctor Strange comics, as he had two bagged, near mint issues in his hands as we spoke.

Insert Twilight Zone theme music here.

And that, my friends, is the story of my life. One of my Lady Readers and I have it. She can confirm, or not. What the wife and I call 'The Spook Factor'. My Lady Reader and I have sent each other emails, virtually simultaneously. I knew she was thinking about me, because I was thinking about her. That bond is weakening, because she has found a man (a good thing) but it is still there.

My maternal Grandmother and Grandfather held conversations with each other while separated by many, many miles. They were both devout Christians, and this was long before occultic mentalism became the popular obsession it is today, and I recall them doing it, and speaking of it as if it was just a perk of their marriage.

They were the two most opposite individuals you could imagine. She a High Society woman, who had sat on President Roosevelt's (Teddy) lap as a child in the Rose Garden, and he a Norse immigrant, and dock worker. And yet they were drawn to each other, like magnets, and stayed together until death.

The Spook Factor.

I see things hidden. I know things I shouldn't. I feel things. I cannot buy a winning lottery ticket to save my ass. Oh well. Kind of like my notorious sense of smell. Interesting, but not ultimately terribly useful. If it worked with any consistency, people I love would still be alive, and I would have quit or taken jobs that might have put me in a far different place than I am now.

But you do not want to play poker with me. I know before you do that you are going for a weapon, or are about to throw a sucker punch. Most of the time. That's pretty useful.

I can sense and smell the demonic, like sulphur, hanging in the air. Perhaps it was that silly bargain I made a long time ago with my soul. I'd like to think that I was too young to have entered into such a contractual relationship. Should make such null and void, wouldn't you think?

Perhaps, like the free toaster you still use, long after you have closed that bank's account, I still retain some residual gifting. Or, maybe, there is a gland somewhere we all have to some degree or another, that civilization has rendered mostly dormant. But in some of us, it is...less dormant.

I saw a boy, one evening, a boy of not more than fourteen or fifteen, sitting in a kitchen of a house during a party. He opened a pack of Gillete double-edged razor blades and held it in his palm. Now, most of you don't know what I'm talking about. These blades were about one inch by one and a half inches, and fit in the (now) old-fashioned double edge razor holder.

I watched as the blades whickered out of his palm and stuck into a cupboard door, into the shape of a heart. There was a young lady there in the kitchen as well, and in spite of the boys flat ('cool') demeanor, I assumed he was trying to impress her. I know I was. Impressed.

He retrieved the blades, sat back down, and then did his and her initials.

I could go on and on with examples I have witnessed, or done myself. I still might, but I'm done, for now.

Skeptics? You are like athiests, or people who don't bother to vote. You don't get an opinion. You have to stay outside the rope, while the smart people get let in. You can sit there with your other skeptic friends, in the basement, your fingers orange with CheetO dust, and feel all smug and superior.

As usual, I'll be up here with the cool kids, not giving a shit whether you live or die...

Okay, I lied a little. Die.


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Movies I Hated...

Dave Munger got me to thinking about this in the comments. I write about movies I love so much, it might look like I love everything. No, I just do not want to give the turkeys mention, until now...

I walked out of 'Paycheck', that Ben Affleck Sci-Fi piece of shit. it was so stunningly bad, well, just trust me. Bad.

I have hated every movie Oliver 'Kidney' Stone has ever made. Even though I have seen some of them more than once. Amazing directorial talent utterly wasted by a bad mind.

I took my wife to see Woody Allen's 'Bullets Over Broadway' for her birthday, and we were both excited to be there. We would have got up and walked out it was so bad, but we were packed in the center of the theatre like sardines, so we just sat there and got drunk off my flask and mocked the film, surely to the detriment of the enjoyment of those who surrounded us.

I hated the Jeff Bridges remake of King Kong. I hated 'Event Horizon'. What an awful, sick movie. I hated 'The Ring'.

Any movie with Madonna in it. Or Jackie Chan. Except for those two westerns, which I loved.

Oh how I HATED 'Bat 21'. And nearly anything with Danny Glover in it (excepting the first two Lethal Weapon movies). Or Oprah.

It can't be a chick-flick allergy, because I loved Pretty Woman, and have enjoyed it several Times. Ditto Steel Magnolias.

But has Cher ever made a movie that didn't make me want to puke? I doubt it, and I loved her before she went all Michael Jackson with the plastic surgery. I bought Cher's records.

Hated American Graffiti. Grease. Most modern 'musicals'. Loved 'Carousel' and 'Oklahoma'.

Hated 'Death Becomes her'. Most Adam Sandler, but loved, absolutely loved '50 First Dates'.

Most so-called 'comedy' simply isn't funny, unless you're smoking pot. Which is why I liked 'Blazing Saddles' stoned, and hated it sober.

I didn't hate 'I, Robot' so much as I just didn't enjoy it.

Hmmmm...I'm sure there's more, but these really stand out. Oh, and any war movie where they paint American equipment with 'enemy' colors and try to pass it off as foreign. 'Kelly's Heroes', good. 'Battle of the Bulge' and 'Patton', awful.

'Kelly's Heroes' is an example of the Perfect Movie. It was made in 1970, and yet it is as good today as the first time I watched it. It may have well been made last month, if you didn't know any better. Very few movies from any time can say that.


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Polar Express...

I realize I haven't done a movie review in a while. Too broke to go see any. Yep, missed Doom...Jarhead...etc. Sigh.

BUT!

My oldest daughter and her husband bought Johnny the 'Polar Express' DVD for his birthday, because there's a train on the cover of the box, and John is a train nut. Big time. He got two train sets for his birthday, too. Anyway, they came over last night and we all sat down and watched it together, and all I can say is...wow.

One of the best movies I've ever seen in my life. Hands down. Edge of your seat excitement. Poignant. Full of joy and mystery. And it's about Christmas. Go figure.

Best animation I've ever seen, bar none. Ever. None better. Forgot I was watching animation, it's that good. Note the reflections in people's eyes when you watch it.

A lot of movies claim to be a 'roller-coaster ride' blah blah blah, but my muscles are sore from this one, from clenching in the curves, and tensing up, and from laughing.

I'd recommend this movie for any age. If you're alive, you'll love Polar Express.

Must see.


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Just In Case...

...she has fallen off your radar, Hurricane Kiwi is gaining strength, and showing promise of becoming quite the little storm.

Worth a second glance, if you haven't.

Hey, you new bloggers, who claim to have been influenced by me, you may all want to network, and if not Pajamas Media, form your own Edible Panties Media, or something. Some kind of support group that keeps ya'll motivated and alive.

And buy my Blogads, fuckers.


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Another One Bites The Dust...

Fuck me but Beta fish are wimps. Just fucking die at the drop of a hat. What am I, on Ladyfish 3.0 now? Soon to be 4.0? Or 5.0? I've lost track. Fighting Fish my ass. More like Chinese Dying fish.

At least this one had the decency to lie gracefully on the bottom of the tank, looking peaceful, on it's belly, so I can tell the kids she's taking a nap. Not that they've even noticed. John is too busy playing with (and Nat is busy breaking) his new toys.

Special thanks to the reader who bought John the remote control Caterpillar Bull Dozer. He plays with that the most. Sets up his train set, and then wrecks it with the bulldozer.

Fuck. I think I smell that damn fish all the way up here. Or I have to wash my ass. Or both. Phew.

The Grands got him a cheap-ass western set, with gun and handcuffs and mask and, confusingly, a sheriff's badge. Nat has comandeered it, and has been busily 'inneresting' Johnny all morning, to his bemusement. Sometimes she cuffs them both together, wrist to wrist, and they run up and down the stairs together.

The wife is at work. Her new part time job. Thanks, cheapskates, you've made me have to put the wife to work. Bastards. Taking care of Alzheimer's patients. Both her parents died recently from Alzheimer's. That has to be...weird. Or not. She's excited, because she'll be able to buy hair dye. And a fucking fish.

Child care has been a snap. Hungry? Hey! Birthday cake! I napped on the couch while they played and watched toons. At the sound of discord, I just flail my foot out from under the blanket wildly until they shut up or somebody lets out a grunt. Hey, I'm still not 100% from my recent bout of the plague. I think I'm entitled to some sympathy here.

I'm wondering what one pump from my pellet gun would do to a little pink ass that is getting out of hand. I have a Crossman .177 that I inherited from my son. Maybe a dart...

Oh, those G-Darn meatballs were exquisite, as was the spaghetti sauce. I told the wife that if she ever tires of wrangling retards, that she could probably take a sample of that to any local caterer and get hired on the spot, doing what she loves to do, which is cooking.

Those were literally the best meatballs I have ever had in my life. The size of a regulation hardball (maybe a tad smaller) and a weird mixture of both firm, and tender. She made the mix the night before and let it settle, and then formed it into balls and let them simmer in the sauce for the last hour or so. Everybody moaned when they ate them, and the kids each ate all of their alloted two.

What a rainy, grey day it is here. It travels over me, hits the mountains and gets mad, and then comes roiling for you. Ha Ha.My farts rise up into the clouds, and come down on all you people east of me.

Savor my essence.


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I Suspected As Much...

I knew Kim du Toit couldn't stay away, even if he was slightly satiating the urge with his somewhat stealth blog. Guess what Kim's first post is about...

By the way, do me a favor and go artificially spike the shit out of SteveH's traffic for me and freak him out. I am tired of him always reminding me I'm just a pimple on a gnats ass. I'm not saying comment, I'm just saying go there, several times, each.

I AM somebody. Dammit.

Update:

In this post SteveH gives me a reason other than pure silliness to hit his sitemeter. Go and read, please, and link, and spread the word.

I have been pondering how best to say what he just bested me with, and, as usual, nothing more need be said on this subject.

Marine sons and readers of mine? Copy that and send it out all over the theatre and stateside to everyone you know, and put the link in your email, please. This needs to get out.

What a morale booster.

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What A Beautiful Girl...

















And of course, there's more.


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We're Doomed!

Doom has a new blog.

They're popping up like Gremlins.


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What I Want To Know...

...is how a non-governmental agency can 'serve a warrant'?

This story is wrong on so many levels I don't even want to think about it. So much for any idea I had in my head to ever order any bird-meat via mail order.

Do you know where the restaraunt you eat at gets it's fowl?


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Celebrate World Aids Day!

Go shoot a homo in the dick with a shotgun.

That is all I have to say about that nonsense.


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Hey, Texas!

Ya'll heard about this? Let's see if this internet thingy really works. Sound off if ya got a pair...or not.


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The Implications...

...of this are staggering. Coupled with other technologies, we could see holographic television and games in ten years, for that is the market (along with military applications) that will push the technology. That, and data storage.

There are only a couple of pieces of the puzzle left before we can begin to see truly viable Star Trek type Transporter technology.


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Please, America...

...listen to the man.


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The Kerfluffle That Would Not Die...

Hog On Ice and Moxie are doing yeoman's work on this topic. I mean the Pajama's Media topic. And I mean 'obsessive-compulsive' work. But it needs to be done, and they've, thankfully, got the froth for it. I am far too lazy, and prone to turning around and kicking dirt back on something and walking away.

Why is this important to you? Well, quite simply, because the whole Pajama's Media operation seems to hinge around Glenn Reynolds, a self-acknowleded pro-abortionist, stem cells for everybody, anti-Christian psuedo-Republican, who will shape and mold any operation to fit his world views, and cut and trim anybody from his herd of prize cows that does not give milk that is to his taste, that's why.

And as to allegations of shenanigans, let me repoint you to Dennis The Peasant for a recap of all that. Let him get sued.

Here's something I said at Steve's site:

I prefer to remain a free-range blogger, thank you. Not that anybody's knocking down my door. I help new bloggers start up all the time. I give them advice, throw them links, and send traffic their way. Then they're on their own. Sometimes they hit my tip jar, mostly not.

If PJM becomes MSM, I'll do the same thing I did to the MSM...switch them off. I read Glenn Reynolds every day, for interesting links only. His politics positively alarm me, he is such a RINO, and to think that he is in charge (or part of a group of like-minded individuals) of skewing editorial opinion his way, is repulsive to me. I'll look with a wary eye at every blog that hitches to his team from now on. The fact that they invite Libtards, up front, to join in gives the idol feet of clay, right there.

The bottom line for PJM is money, and I can respect that, but my opinion can't be bought. Unless there's a heckuvva lot of zeroes on the check.

I can be a dirty little whore, conflicts of interests or not. Which is the subject of another good post I noticed Steve just put up.

That's what I love about bloggers, and by extension, the Internet. They are a Force Multiplier. It can turn an army of me into an Army Of Ya'll with just a few clicks. Instant access to a free bullshit detector, if you know where to go.

And I am quickly beginning to suspect that PJM is not going to be that place to go.

For me, anyway.


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Due To Circumcisions Beyond My Control...

Don't be alarmed. I just liked the title. I was bitching to myself about how all around shitty I feel, so I decided to share.

You're welcome.

I had Mono when I was a teen, and it really flattened me. This was way back in the day, and they thought I might have meningitis I was so sick, so I ended up in isolation in the hospital while they did tests. I got a handjob from a nursing student and a candy striper, before they finally made me go home.

One of the things the doc told me was that I would always have mono in my system, and that sometimes it would kick in and spice up a little cold or flu into a big one. He was right. Every so often, when conditions are just right, I'll get exposed to a little bug, and mono kick-starts that mother into a week or two's worth of misery.

It's 11am on my kids birthday, and I just want to go lay down and sleep.

So I think I will. The house smells of pineapple upside down cake, and onions. And I don't think I can touch a bite.

Pity me.


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