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  • Needs More Pussy...

  • Raise Your Hand...

  • The Second Most...

  • Sunday Skin...

  • Fuck Baptists, And DOUBLE-Fuck Jimmah Cahtuh...

  • Outright Theft...

  • Once Again...

  • American Newspapers Are Dead...

  • You Can't Have Your Pudding If You Don't Eat Your Meat!

  • I Think...

  • So, First, I Cut This Kitten's Head Off...

  • One For The Ladies...

  • To Each, According To Their Mood...

  • Those Are Lego's, Folks...

  • Just Because...

  • This Makes Bane Happy...

  • Prayer Call...

  • Of Monkey Toes And Blow Driers...

  • I Don't Jack Off In The Bathroom Sink Anymore...

  • Blast...

  • Double Sawbucks...

  • The Flag Draped Casket

  • To Mow, Or Not To Mow...

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • You Know What I Hate?

  • What's Your State Motto?

  • Nasty, FILTHY Porn...

  • Fucking Mechanics...

  • Let It Snow...

  • Go Waste...

  • Get Yourself A Plate Of Food...

  • Retard Says 'What'?

  • Because There Can Never Be Only One...

  • Comfortably Dumb...

  • So, I Finally Saw Jarhead Last Night...

  • How Moses got the 10 Commandments....

  • I Hardly Ever Know What I Am Going To Say...

  • Cooking A Frog...

  • Sorry About This...

  • Hi, Raghead...

  • Wherein I Tickle Myself...

  • DreamRape...

  • I Can't Sleep...

  • FUCK!

  • The Wife Endures...

  • Is That Your Final Answer?

  • Acidlanche...

  • Stinkin Thinkin Alert...

  • Living The 'Me' Centered Life...

  • That's Not Nude...

  • I Love...

  • I Love Amazon Women...

  • I LOVE...

  • Face Mecca...

  • The Internet, Under Assault...

  • I Smell Old People...

  • An Interesting Social Experiment...

  • One More Thing Before I Go...

  • I Got Nuthin...

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • Nope Nope Nope...

  • This Seemed Appropriate...

  • I Think Steve Needs A Hug...

  • Time Magazine...

  • Some Grooming Tips...

  • Cord On The Fourth Of July

  • Life Is So Fragile...

  • Pretty Much...

  • Oh My Goodness...

  • So, My Sister Got Her Throat Cut, Today...

  • Wherein I Survive Yet Another Birthday...

  • My...

  • If You Love Doctor Who...

  • Gratuitous Linkage...

  • Any Red Alert Fans?

  • If You've Got The Guts...

  • You Say It's Your Birthday...(Reprint)

  • Ready Or Not...

  • 'Nothing Beaner' Day...

  • Turds Of A Feather...

  • Read It...

  • TGIFN...

  • 'Big George': The Coming Attack on Iran

  • In Praise Of The Sandwich...

  • Send Us Your Tired, Your Poor...

  • My Husband Has A Scab On His Penus...

  • Biting The Hand...

  • The Beat Goes On...

  • Read It...

  • If This Is True...

  • A Noble Cause...

  • Those Wacky Japs...

  • I Put This Here...

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • Give Him Some Love!

  • Lay Off The Pig Fat...

  • Birthdays And Bullets...

  • Hey, Marines!

  • More From The Nat Files...

  • The Story Of Easter...

  • I'm In A Pissy Mood...

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        Sunday, April 30, 2006

    Needs More Pussy...

    Now there's something to say about a recipe.

    Pussy today, pussy yesterday. Gentlemen, I suggest you do not tell your woman, at any point during the festivities, that you are 'drilling for blood'. Even though you both know she is about to burst forth, like Moses struck the rock, and you can follow her woman stink throughout the house.

    Well, ixnay on the inkstay. I love that smell. That, and her wolfing chocolate, are like the signs of Spring, and I know I am going to get the hottest sex of the month.

    Send her out of the camp? What do I look like, some goat-fucking sub-human? Civilized men spread out a beach towel (doubled, of course) and splatter away.
    Dudes, stuff goes out the dick-hole, not back up it. Except for AIDS, and other forms of VD. Funny, isn't it, how the AIDS virus has become a protected species?

    Oh, sure, she'll cramp and whine for a day or so. Just put an apple in a sock, and hit her on the head to stun her, and then fuck her, hollering 'this is because of Eve!' all the while.

    It is important for women to learn their place, in the overall scheme of things, and to understand that, no matter what... is all their fault.



    Raise Your Hand...

    ...if you've ever jerked off to Veronica and/or Betty. Or Blondie. And/or her daughter.

    Speigal Catalogs, anyone? The bra section? Maidenform ring a bell? Porn was SO hard to get in the old days.

    I used to mow this one woman's yard for free, because her husband had a Playboy collection stashed in their bathroom. I'd mow for a bit, whack for a bit, mow for a bit...

    Nowadays, porn is just a click away, and the horny little fuckers are shooting up their schools, playmates, and teachers.

    Remember when 'playmates' wasn't a dirty word?

    It's all changed, and not for the better. Oh, you hear armchair philosophers saying crap like 'every generation thinks they are having it the worst'...bullshit. Try growing up 'under The Bomb'. Vaporization a button push away. Or living within a generation of people who are deliberately, unabashedly destroying society, pillar by pillar.

    Tearing it down, with reckless disregard as to whether it all falls on their heads, or not.

    Oh well...



    The Second Most...

    ...beautiful woman in the world.

    She gets a link because I saw no penises while there. Plus, she writes better than me, so she deserves it.

    This is me, bowing low. Domo arigato, Missus Vibrato.

    Damn, I would love to partay with that woman...



    Sunday Skin...

    Go here, and worship.

    Gosh, she reminds me of someone I know. Actually a lot of someone's I've known.

    I fall for certain types...




        Saturday, April 29, 2006

    Fuck Baptists, And DOUBLE-Fuck Jimmah Cahtuh...

    Carter urges centrist Baptists to organize

    In a quickly organized meeting, leaders of Baptist conventions and networks comprising more than 20 million adherents in North America explored "additional opportunities for fellowship and cooperation" on April 10 in Atlanta.

    Attending were top officials of three black Baptist denominations, the American Baptist Churches (U.S.A.), the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship and some others at odds with the conservative theological and social stances of the Southern Baptist Convention.

    Former president Jimmy Carter, a lifelong Baptist lay leader, sponsored the gathering at the Carter Center. Bill Underwood, president-elect of Mercer University in Macon, Georgia, helped recruit the participants.

    The meeting was pulled together "in less than two weeks," said Underwood, adding that there has long been a "yearning for this kind of gathering."

    After a wide-ranging discussion over four hours, the 18 participants approved a statement titled "A North American Baptist Covenant." They agreed to hold a convocation, probably in 2007, "to explore other opportunities to work together as Christian partners."

    All the meeting's participants have ties to the Baptist World Alliance, but they felt the need "to create an authentic and genuine prophetic Baptist voice in these complex times," according to the covenant statement.

    Aside from sharing the gospel "and its implications for public and private morality," the signers concurred on their "obligations as Christians to promote peace with justice, to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, shelter the homeless, care for the sick and marginalized, welcome the stranger among us, and promote religious liberty and respect for religious diversity."

    Noting the historic nature of the diverse group, Carter emphasized: "All the participants insisted there be an aggressive follow-up."
    -Associated Baptist Press

    I'm skeptical about the rapture, but one way or another, it will be no skin off my nose when the Anti-Christ's minion's kill these dumb motherfuckers.

    Bring it on...



    Outright Theft...

    I am totally going to rip off Elisson, because he killed Jesus.

    The wife is downstairs snickering over this one I just printed out, and here is the Mad Fucker's blog.

    I don't know why I bother to try to write...



    Once Again...

    I don't really understand his work, but I love it. Plus, I know how difficult it is to do hands well, and he does them very well.

    It's kinda hard to tell, but I think he has put up some new stuff. Regardless, I find something new in every pic when I go back, and that, to me, is great art.

    You go, Commie. Very nice work.



    American Newspapers Are Dead...

    Why do I have to read this story in a foreign newspaper?





    You Can't Have Your Pudding If You Don't Eat Your Meat!

    It is going to be difficult, as in we shall have to put out a little effort, but the wife and I have decided to boycott any meats or produce handled by illegal immigrants.

    This means going to local butcher shops, where they brag about their locally produced meats. And to the Farmer's Market, where I can look the American in the eye when I buy my lettuce from him or her.

    No more Tyson Foods. No more Argentinian beef, because I hate everybody south of the border.

    I will not eat in a place where I can see Mexican busboys and cooks and swampers.

    Fuck these beaners. It's time for us to put our money where our mouths are.



    I Think...

    ...this guy is full of shit.

    Do you?

    I blog full time. I parent full time. I husband full time. I have to rein myself in, or I'll slap up a hundred posts a day, and confuse all of your pretty little heads.

    Group blog all you want. Maybe two or three out there don't suck. Just remember, the only dual effort writings I can tolerate are when Stephen King and Peter Straub get together, and I still haven't finished 'Black House'.

    I make a little money from this, and I'm grateful for it. I'd do it anyway, and you damn well know it. I'd like to think I stand out, but I am genuinely afraid of fame.

    I am writing professionally, or rather for future professionality, and I have no idea if I will try to sell it, or not. I wish someone would set up a pay site where people like me could contribute their work, and get some renumeration and acclaim, and still stay relatively anonymous.


    Oh well...



    So, First, I Cut This Kitten's Head Off...

    ...and then I summoned one of my Demonic Minions to go kill a puppy....

    I feel much better now.



    One For The Ladies...

    For all those men who say, 'Why buy a cow when you can get milk for free', here's an update for you: Now days, 80% of women are against marriage,


    Because women realize it's not worth buying an entire pig just to get a little sausage.

    Men are like....

    1. Men are like ... Laxatives. They irritate the crap out of you.

    2. Men are like... Bananas. The older they get, the less firm they are.

    3. Men are like... Weather. Nothing can be done to change them.

    4. Men are like... Blenders. You need One, but you're not quite sure why.

    5. Men are like... Chocolate Bars. Sweet, smooth, & they usually head right for your hips.

    6. Men are like... Commercials. You can't believe a word they say.

    7. Men are like... Department Stores. Their clothes are always 1/2 off.

    8. Men are like... Government Bonds. They take soooooooo long to mature.

    9. Men are like... Mascara. They usually run at the first sign of emotion.

    10. Men are like... Popcorn. They satisfy you, but only for a little while.

    11. Men are like... Snowstorms. You never know when they're coming, how many inches you'll get, or how long it will last.

    12. Men are like... Lava Lamps. Fun to look at, but not very bright.

    13. Men are like... Parking Spots. All the good ones are taken, the rest are handicapped.

    Heh. Indeed.

    My Mom sent me this one.



    To Each, According To Their Mood...

    I just looked over my postings for the day (so far) and said 'Dayum, if you aren't one eclectic motherfucker'.

    I never know what I'm gonna write, or post. I have no idea if my blog has a theme, or not. Do I?

    Sometimes I write shit that makes me wince.

    Man, I just heard a blood-curdling scream a couple of minutes ago, from downstairs, that had Muslim Headhunter written all over it. I found myself downstairs with a cocked .45 in one hand, and two 25 round stick mags in the other. Interesting, the weapon of choice my reflexes chose, out of all the ones I have available.

    If I had of been thinking, I would have probably grabbed my AK and the mag bag, or my 10mm and a spare mag I keep beside it.


    Oh well, it was just Nat being an asshole to Johnny. I stashed the gun before they saw it, issued thwaps, and peace reigns.

    See? I never know what's coming next.



    Those Are Lego's, Folks...

    I think I've topped myself for the most amazing thing I have ever seen.

    Gosh, I love the internet...



    Just Because...



    This Makes Bane Happy...

    Courtesy of Misha.



    Prayer Call...

    LL has put out a prayer request, so as I always do, I call ya'lls and God's attention to it, and ask that His Will be done.




    Of Monkey Toes And Blow Driers...

    Nat's toes are positively prehensile. She could doubtless hang from a branch by them. My side of the family.
    My paternal grandfather had a nasty habit of slipping off his shoe and pinching the piss out of you, as if he'd used his thumb and forefinger.

    I just threw away the wife's blow drier, which was shooting sparks out the barrel like some cheap Chinese toy pistol.
    I was using a blow drier one time, back when I coiffed...the 70's, dontcha know, and the damn thing shot a chunk of something into my skull, and scorched a goodly portion of my hair.

    People think they can buy an appliance on sale at K-Mart for eight dollars, and then use the damn thing safely and reliably for twenty years.

    Well, you can't.

    Oh, to be sure, the wife and I have appliances in our house that work perfectly, that we inherited from our grandmothers. They have names on them like 'Westinghouse', and 'Sunbeam', from the day when those names meant something.

    Built by Americans, and built to last, and you saved up all year to buy the wife one for her birthday, or Christmas.
    And she treasured it, and her daughter stood at eye level with the kitchen counters, and watched her mother use it, and dreamed of one day being able to use it in her own home, for her own husband.

    That dream is dead, people.



        Friday, April 28, 2006

    I Don't Jack Off In The Bathroom Sink Anymore... that I have another batch of kids. Or in the shower, for that matter. Thinking of Nat getting Munchkinhausen By Dad Proxy gives me the creeps. I know my sperms wear capes, and can leap tall hymens with a single bound.

    I have oft said that I can impregnate an entire girls dorm full of lusty, fecund coeds, simply by masturbating upwind of them. Ladies, if you hot tub with me, wear a cup. Douche with Clorox, after. Or prepare to be inseminallated.

    On whacking in the sink: the little Nerf-Herders brush their teeth in there, and drop their toothbrushes all the time. Flagellate your Bishop into a silk sock, like God intended (to keep it off the ground, dontcha know...hey, if Jews can have little boxes of scripture taped to their heads, I can be right about the silk sock) but keep your spooge out of the public areas.

    I can't imagine taking a shower in a coed dorm these days. The Hazmat suit would interfere.

    I'm up for some new phrases for masturbation.

    How about 'Spanking the Imam'? Pulling The Prophet (spunk on his unholy name). Jerkin the Jihadi. For the ladies? Mutilating The Clitoris. What else? Play along!

    I would love to capture some terrorist fuck, tie him down, prop open his mouth with dental accessories, and have a menstruating woman squat over his face and drip down his throat. Give her plenty of beer, and let her piss in his face as neccesary.

    Hey, food and water, right there. Geneva convention for terrorists.

    I hope I made some Arab fuck puke, just now, and charge in rage at a column of Marines.

    Bye, buttfuck.




    ...from the past.

    Be sure to watch the movie. I saw someone was reading this post, from back when I was good. Sorry the page looks like shit. Trying to fix it has stumped everyone who's ever tried.




    Double Sawbucks...

    Thanks, donater! Cash? What a novel idea, and one I hadn't considered folks would want to do. A local store is selling 25 round Butler Creek .22 banana clips for $10 or so, and they clip together for 50 rounds. I could use a couple of those, you can never have too many.

    Your letter just got here a bit ago, by the way. Thanks again.

    I was out hanging a Yellow Jacket trap in the farthest tree in the yard, when the mail came. All sorts of wasps are thick this year. The damn mud daubers are swarming, too. The crazy old bitch across the way waters her lawn compulsively, so they have plenty of mud to daub. I hope a pack of them sting her ass to death one day, though they have doubtless formed a pact to protect her, as she singlehandedly keeps the species supplied with mud.

    Crazy bitch feeds the birds, too. Oh, not sweet little humming bird feeders, or seed bells for the Nuthatches. No, she chucks a big batch of stale bread crumbs out every morning, and the trash birds like the Grackles and their kin descend in clouds. Then something startles them, and their flight path leads them right over my car, where they shit on it in fear as they shed ballast in their panicked rush.

    I wish I could afford a silencer for my .22. My damn pellet guns are too loud. Hey, maybe a pop bottle over the end, with a hose clamp. Cut a little hole in the base of it. Hmmmm. Let the old bag come out and find a few birds flopping around in her yard.

    "I think they've got Mad Bird disease!" I would yell to her. "Better not touch them!"

    The wife went into the old bat's back yard to get some flower cuttings from her, and reported back that her back yard was full of ground wasp nests. Craze-ella de Ville is terrified of bug spray, convinced that she will die if she even sets eyes on a can of it. I'm gonna have to wait til she leaves, some day soon, and sneak back there and nuke it.

    Some day I'm gonna push her in the oven. One day, Johnny was being a clueless little dickhead, and grazed her foot with his trike tire. She went off on him like an utter loon, and even appeared to threaten him, to the point where I had to remind her how slowly old people heal from broken bones.

    I know I've written about her in these hallowed halls before. Every so often, she takes a gainer down her stairs from the second floor, and she never has the common decency to break her withered neck. FUCK I hate old people. She just wanders around outside, with big yellow and purple bruises, looking enough like a zombie to where I really think the only way to stop her is with a round in the head. Maybe a crowbar.

    As you can see, I've put some thought to this. In the summer, when my bedroom window is open, her cigarette stench wafts over like smoke from the dump. If they're gonna take our personal freedoms away anyway, I wish they'd hurry up and take that one already.

    I have an idea! I can pour an ampule of Yellow Jacket attractant on her! From behind, when she's not looking. That'll fix her wagon. By the way, that's an excellent and very dirty trick to do to someone's car. Or maybe spread some around at one of the rallies next Monday. "Lookit them beaners run!"

    Put it on a hippy. I hear they love nature.

    Well, that's about all the love and joy I can spread at one time, except to say all the non-Muzzy bloggers in the world need to come together as one, and DOS the fucking shit out of Saudi Arabia's governmental computers. They got Aaron again. I'm not going to link him, because I think he's getting quite enough hits right now, thank you so very much.

    Fuck, have I mentioned lately that I hate Arabs? And any Muslim?

    Well, I do.



    The Flag Draped Casket

    This is a poem the wife's mother wrote during the Viet Nam War, long before Alzheimer's took her mind, and thence her life. She had been watching them unload caskets from a plane at the airport, and was struck by pain of the families there:

    I saw the young wife's agony
    and felt her emptiness.
    The hero draped, the Stars and Stripes
    replace his loving kiss.

    Beside her stood his mother,
    with arms to comfort lend,
    but helpless is the feeling,
    when grief her heart would rend.

    The soldier's Dad stood unashamed
    oer come with deep emotion,
    convulsing there, in agony,
    for the son of his devotion.

    I saw his brothers, misty eyed,
    and asked "When will it end?"
    I thought of violent campus riots
    that he died to them defend.

    Rise up for Right, oh people,
    let Justice rule again.
    Take God again as leader,
    and march to victory, men!


        Thursday, April 27, 2006

    To Mow, Or Not To Mow...

    ...that is the question.

    Heck no! I won't mow! But I must. The lawn, it beckons, yet it mocks me so, with it's promise, nay threat, of exposure to sunshine, and my own sweat.

    And I'm out of beer. Alas, alack.

    The wife will mock me, cruelly, I fear. I said I would do it at noon. Had stalwart plans. Best lain, they were. Started drinking beer, even, to prepare. Alas, again, the elixer has fled, and I am bereft, and the lawn wiggles it's amusement in the soft, spring breeze.

    I might rush out and stomp on it some, and brandish the spray bottle of Round-Up in a threatening manner. Shudder, lawn. A lawn needs to know it's place, and keep in it.

    I can come out and behead you all, in a trice, and you had better know it, lawn.

    I had best get it done soon, before loonies give my lawn Human Rights. I hear some wasteland of a European country gave apes Human Rights, today, because they resemble human DNA at 95% or so. Well, Chlorophyll is only different from human blood in one tiny respect, when you compare the chemistry side by side.

    Soon, the lawn will get the vote. Murder all the infants you want, but keep off of the grass.

    Dammit, I had best go out and oppress it, while I still can.



    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!

    She writes:

    Al Gore defended the gas tax, vowing that it was "absolutely not coming out" of the energy bill regardless of "how much trouble it causes the entire package." The important thing was to force Americans to stop their infernal car-driving, no matter how much it cost.
    And mind you, this was before we knew Gore was clinically insane. Back then we thought he was just a double-talking stuffed shirt who seemed kind of gay.

    Is it any wonder that I love her so?



    You Know What I Hate?

    I hate it when I am leant over the low-flow toilet, riding the handle down so as to get the most bang from my aquatic buck, in order to flush the latest deposit of ass-phlegm, and the motherfucker gleeks a gop of shit water right straight up and into my mouth.

    Yes, I really hate that.


        Wednesday, April 26, 2006

    What's Your State Motto?

    I'm pretty sure that California's motto is "Hellooo, Thaylor!" It is the Bare Fag State, you know.

    I hail from the Great State of Oregon, and it my understanding that, until fairly recently, in the historical sense, our State Motto was "No Niggers Allowed!" Or was it "Nigger, Don't Let The Sun Set On Your Black Ass In This State!"

    One of those.

    You see, Oregon did not get the Union drubbing the other racist states deservedly received during Lincoln's War, so they were cocky. And then, like the Nazis that escaped Germany to take up residence in Ecuador and Paraguay, the racist Confederate rebels that could, escaped to places like Utah, Oregon, and Idaho.

    Now, it is totally okay to judge a people by their tendency to explode, and cut off heads, and to discriminate accordingly, but to demote a race from the human race, consider them chattel and cattle, and make up idiotic belief systems simply because of the Melanin content of their skin is ludicrous, retarded, and wrong.

    Are black people different from white people? Sure as fuck. All races carry some basic, essential 'difference' from the other races. Yet, never forget, we can all interbreed with one another.

    There's a reason Star Trek had all those alien races. The humanoid races in the show represented the different races on this planet. Gene Roddenberry was right there with L. Ron Hubbard, Margaret Sanger, and Adolf Hitler in the whacked out racial theory department.

    I have scads of my own pet theories on race and such. If you've been around here long, you've read them. But while I may conclude here and there that one race is, perhaps, predisposed to be better at some things than the other races, you will never see me claiming superiority or inferiority of one race over another. Except for Arabs, who suck.

    Which brings us back to the niggers.

    HA! I love doing that. I can hear the little kissy sounds of bungholes puckering across the land, yet I promise you, no niggers were harmed or killed during the creation of this post. Oops, I did it again...

    Would you prefer n*****? Or 'the n-word'? Yeah, I'm not really saying 'fuck' when I write f**k, either, am I. Grow up. Sticks and stones, and all that happy crappy...

    So, back to racist-ass Oregon. It has gone underground, and been diluted somewhat by the importation of the fruits and nuts from California, but it is here, it is clear, and it is in your face.
    If you are a black person.

    Oh, the big cities have been conquered by the race-baiters, and affirmative action people, but the rural areas still remember the squeak a good rope makes on a tree branch, as a piece of strange fruit sways back and forth from it. Heck, this state was damn near 100% lily white until not too long ago.

    I have considered joining the Klan. I have been asked. First off, I want to get access to some good, cheap guns, because I think 'Civilization As We Know It' doesn't have too much time left.

    Then, I want to become an FBI informant, and make sure those lame-ass Feebs get as much information as they can. I would bet my life that American racist fuck-knobs are in cahoots with mideast raghead terror operators, and I'm positive McVeigh was one such.

    If I didn't have a family, it'd be a done deal.

    Sadly, when the excrement hits the rotating oscillator, a black man is likely to kill me just because of the color of my skin, whereas that thought wouldn't enter my own head. Unless he was an Arab, who all suck.

    Well, just wanted to get it off my chest, and make people think, and I'm done.

    For now...



    Nasty, FILTHY Porn...

    Oh, I am so disGUSted!

    Whatever you do, don't go here for more. Just awful...



    Fucking Mechanics...

    Why is it so difficult to find a competent mechanic who is not a crook? People (rightly) talk shit about lawyers, but no lawyer has ever left anyone stranded by the roadside because he forgot to put their drain-plug back in when he changed their oil.


    I go out to fetch beers, to do the yard today, and there appears to be about $50 worth of oil under a car that just got an oil and filter change.
    The wife likes the place we take our car, because it has a Jesus-Fish symbol on the sign. I like them because they let us make payments when they work on our piece of shit car. They took one look at the pitiful thing, and knew they had a goldmine.

    Speaking of beers, the neighborhood 7-11 just got bought by a bunch of ragheads. The bad news is: a bunch of ragheads in the neighborhood. The good news is, no more white trash meth-heads working in the place, and leaving it so filthy you don't want to touch anything.

    I walked into the store with Nat and John in tow, and stopped and stared, amazed. It looked like a model home looks when you go in. The look that screams nobody really lives there. They are selling fresh fruit and vegetables! So perfect they look fake! The candy bars are arranged neatly, and one of the rags was going around with a feather duster.

    They get their donuts brought in from Crispy Creme! From Portland, two hours away! Nat and John each got to pick out a donut. Thanks donutters ('donutters', donaters, get it? Ha!). That P.O. Box thingy is pretty cool. And thanks again and again, LL. You really are the wind beneath my cheeks.

    Here's a bit of me and LL's email correspondence today after she tells me I got a sealed letter.
    I tell her:

    Whap on it a couple times. If it doesn't blow your hand off, or puff out white powder, go ahead and forward it to me.

    She responds:

    I'm so glad you are worried for my safety, Bane. And I'm not worried about expenses. It's really no biggie. Now if there is some 20 pound package that needs to be mailed, I'll reevaluate.

    I respond:

    20 lbs is a lotta bomb. You keep it.

    Bane is nothing, if not a compassionate conservative.

    Speaking of Omar The Bomb-Maker, those ragheads followed me all around the store. It was subtle, but they were keeping a weather eye on me. Maybe it was my official ratty 'work in the yard' white trash ensemble, or the hooptie I'd pulled up in, but they gave me the fish-eye the whole time.

    Sigh. Fukkem.

    Well, it's out to mow more grass, so I don't keep misplacing kids in there. And I'm in a quandry. My abutting neighbors enormous half acre of a back yard is flooded in one corner, and I fear a mosquito infestation, and death by West Nile.
    Yet, what if I report him to Mosquito Abatement, and the government declares his yard a protected wetland, and I can't keep sneaking over there and spraying Raid in it without risking a felony?

    Decisions, decisions. The beer helps.

    I smacked a skeeter on the front door the other evening the size of a damn bat. It had a damn fore-nozzle big enough to air refuel an F-14. I was going to leave her there as a warning to the others, but people kept mistaking her for a door-knocker.

    Well, I've procrastinated on the yard long enough, and the beer is percolating nicely in my massive forebrain, so shoot if you must, this old, grey head, but I am off to slave over a hot mower.

    Have I mentioned I now have a Post Office Box?



    Let It Snow...

    Or not. And a hearty ho-hum while we're at it.

    I can't stand Tony Snow, never could, even when Rush gave him his start by letting him fill in occasionally. He's boring, has a terrible voice, and always looks like he just took a deep bong hit.

    I miss Ari Fleisher. His whole face and attitude just said 'fuck you' to the press corps.

    Oh well, let's see how Tony does. I predict zero honeymoon period. Not with gasbags like David Gregory and Helen Thomas in the peanut gallery. And is there anybody at CNN I wouldn't want to take an ice axe to? Can't think of any, offhand. Okay, Lou Dobbs. One.

    Bush should hire me for the job. I'm fast on my feet with a zinger, and I hate nearly everybody in the room.
    That would be interesting, right up to the part where I ripped David Gregory's balls off and shoved them down Helen Thomas's wattled throat up to my elbow.

    That could cause some trouble...



    Go Waste...

    ...thirty minutes of your life.

    I just did.

    I LOVE this stuff, and it's made by Germans, so you know it's gonna have fire and explosions and stuff.

    I used to do stuff like this when I was a kid, but mine usually ended up with a small animal getting launched or 'sploded. Sometimes something flaming, on wheels, would blast down the street, to the consternation of the neighbors.



    Get Yourself A Plate Of Food...

    ...and go read this.

    I did.

    His best ever best ever.


        Tuesday, April 25, 2006

    Retard Says 'What'?

    I don't normally acknowledge trolls, here, there, or elsewhere. They are amorphous lumps, meant to be flushed, floating in the bowl, like something that fell out of a dying dogs ass.

    And I shall not do it now. Suffice to say, I have been watching kids from the short bus totter around, all day, and fall all over each other, and it has lost it's appeal.

    Idiots have a short shelf life.

    Doubtless, they shall come around here, and banishments shall ensue. Email me, if I take you out as well, and I shall endeavour to restore you.



    Because There Can Never Be Only One...

    You Are a Seeker Soul

    You are on a quest for knowledge and life challenges.
    You love to be curious and ask a ton of questions.
    Since you know so much, you make for an interesting conversationalist.
    Mentally alert, you can outwit almost anyone (and have fun doing it!).

    Very introspective, you can be silently critical of others.
    And your quiet nature makes it difficult for people to get to know you.
    You see yourself as a philosopher, and you take everything philosophically.
    Your main talent is expressing and communicating ideas.

    Souls you are most compatible with: Hunter Soul and Visionary Soul

    These I find addictive...


    Comfortably Dumb...

    Your Theme Song is Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd
    "There is no pain, you are receding.A distant ship's smoke on the horizon.You are only coming through in waves."
    You haven't been feeling a lot lately, and you think that's a good thing.The comfortable part is nice... but you should really work on numb.

    Via LL.



    So, I Finally Saw Jarhead Last Night...

    I was fully prepared to hate it, but I loved it, instead.

    I have no basis to judge it by, but everything looked real enough, to me. Good acting, and very realistic. I'm sure my Iraq vets will set me straight if I'm full of it. It appeared to have been based on a real persons experience, and I would like to assume that the producers used him as an advisor on the film.

    At this point, I give it two enthusiastic thumbs up.


        Monday, April 24, 2006

    How Moses got the 10 Commandments....

    God went to the Arabs and said, 'I have Commandments for you that will make your lives better'.

    The Arabs asked, "What are Commandments?"

    And the Lord said, 'They are rules for living.'

    "Can you give us an example?"

    'Thou shall not kill'.

    "Not kill? We're not interested."

    God went to the Blacks and said, 'I have Commandments.'

    The Blacks wanted an example, and the Lord said, 'Honor thy Father and Mother'.

    "Father? We don't know who our fathers are. We're not interested."

    Then He went to the Mexicans and said, 'I have Commandments'.

    The Mexicans also wanted an example, and the Lord said 'Thou shall not steal'.

    "Not steal? We're not interested."

    Then He went to the French and said, 'I have Commandments'.

    The French too wanted an example and the Lord said, 'Thou shall not commit adultery'.

    "Not commit adultery? We're not interested."

    Finally, He went to the Jews and said, 'I have Commandments'.

    "Commandments?" They said, "How much are they?"

    'They're free'.

    "We'll take 10."

    Via the lovely and talented Manda.


    I see at Manda's blog, she is taking donations for a friend who just lost her baby in a terrible auto accident. If you were planning on giving something to me, please redirect it to her. Go follow the link, and find the Paypal button.

    Thank you.



    I Hardly Ever Know What I Am Going To Say...

    ...when I sit down to blog.

    Oh, I may have an inkling, or a pebble in my shoe, but the worms are unherded, and it is up to me to corral them.

    Between that last paragraph, and this one, I took a shower. Being an Aries, and therefore a fire sign, I find that hot water cools my head, and I think thoughts, and get ideas. Well, I thought some thoughts, and got some ideas, and then, as I was towelling off, Nat burst in (kicked in the friggen door!) and RARRRED! me, and made them all scatter away, so I'm left again, with nothing.

    Scared the piss out of me, to her total joy. So I yelled. I yelled a graphic tale, with the central tenet being that what would she have done if I had slipped and bashed my brains out and she was left alone with just her, and Johnny, and a dead father, his brains gurgling down the tub drain.

    I saw the light of Joy leave her pretty blue eyes, and be replaced by dullness, as the cinema of her mind rolled the film I had uncanned for her, and then her face began to quiver and fall apart, and a few hot tears squirted out, and she turned and left.

    Score! Hey, she really had scared the piss out of me. Two feet closer, and my reflexes may have kicked that door back into her head, potentially cracking it like a watermelon.

    I taught her to walk like me, because she was a clompish wench, and I'm afraid I've taught her too well. She ghosts through the house like a wraith, popping up, here and there, out of nowhere. I used to do that all the time to the wife, when we were first married. I would appear behind her and speak, and she'd nearly hit the ceiling, and come down in a heap, holding her stomach and crying, wondering why I had 'snuck up on her'. I hadn't, that's just how I walk, but I love her, so I began to walk like normal people around her, clumping and blumping along.

    Plus, her scream when I 'snuck up on her' made me jump, as well, and yell, so I modified things. I can switch into stealth mode when I need to, like in stores. It is fun to make a clerk scream. He always seems so embarrassed after.

    See? Herding worms. Cats. Unruly things, that want to slip off in directions of their own choosing.

    The wife just called, from the mechanic's. I have her there getting the struts worked on. Last week she had new tires put on, as steel was gleaming from the dark inside of the front tires, a silvery sick sickle-smile that promised horror, and a fiery death, or maybe a last good gurgle, upside down in a rain-engorged ditch somewhere.

    I instituted a policy of no more men's/women's work around Bane-House, a long time ago. Mostly because I've done it all before, many times, know how, and don't want to do it any more. But, even more mostly, I don't want to die and leave her helpless, a woman at the mercy of men, having to get a man into her life to help her deal with men.

    She saw right through my crap, and yet, being right, I insisted. I insisted that she do all the banking, and know how to deal with bankers. And have her own line of established credit. I insisted that she take the cars in to the various shops. I explained the tactics men use on women, and how to confront them and conquer, and now she does it with ease.

    She will never need a man to cut her lawn, or show her how to use the weed eater. She was a carpenteress and custom home designer when I met her, too, and she swings a mean hammer.

    One should not depend on another for the essentials of life, if one can help it. I can cook, and sew, and parent, and give the softness that is mostly associated with 'motherhood', if I must. Bushido works for women, as well as men. Look into it.

    Well, I have the little 'tards down for a nap, and they think I can't hear them through the baby monitor if they whisper. I have yelled. There may be beatings. There is nothing quite like the look on a child's face as you grind some piece of Easter candy into meaningless goo in front of them, for some infraction or other.

    "Don't move, or the Easter Bunny gets it!"

    I kill me.

    Maybe one day, one of them may, too. In my bed.



    Cooking A Frog...

    Game Over.



    Sorry About This...

    Found this final proof that we're done as a country.

    Via Lilek's.


        Sunday, April 23, 2006

    Hi, Raghead...



    Wherein I Tickle Myself...

    Some of you may encounter me, here and there, out and about the 'sphere. Others, not so much.
    I have been reading the Dilbert Blog, lately, and occasionally dropping comments, which get lost almost immediately in the surge of self-acclimation that ruins most of these blogs that are run by celebrities.

    So, I present for you, my latest comment there, lest it become lost in all the bushwa:

    At a guess, I'm pretty sure God thinks that most of you are a bunch of tards. Especially you Mormons.

    On a lighter note, and just for fun, do a search on how many upper echelon CIA heads and officers have been Mormons, since the early 60's. Not sure what it means, but it's pretty odd.

    Scott, your faith in Science is touching, considering how many times it's tenets have been turned on their heads over the centuries.

    Did I say touching? I meant that in a 'creepy uncle' way.

    And good luck with that Evolution thing. We'll just try to ignore the recent find of fresh, unfossilized dino meat.

    I'm sure The Amazing Randi (what is he, anyway, some sort of Carny?) or Penn and Teller (Ditto?) can come up with a perfectly good 'scientific' explanation.

    Heh, indeed.




    The unkindest cut, of all.

    I fear the theft of my own intellectual property, worst of all, I think, perhaps second only to the kidnap of my children.

    What an awful thing, to see some sleazebag profiting from the squeezings of your own mind. To see your own self, stolen like that.

    I would take apart a plagiarist, in a rented warehouse, over a liesurely weekend, with hand tools.

    It's only fair.



    I Can't Sleep...

    Little bastard keeps slipping his mask. It sounds like a turbo-jet backwash in the baby monitor when that happens. I wake, from REM sleep, and stumble in to adjust him. I wonder at how this will affect his future, he having a giant, in the dark, manipulating his head and face while he sleeps.

    The upside is, I got to see Tanya Roberts masturbating on a fake zebra. You have got to go rent Sheena: Queen Of The Jungle, just to watch the closing credit scene. I bet her crotch was black for weeks from all the dye she rubbed off on.

    Just a curiousity: why do athiests think you give a fuck what they think? Is it part of the disorder? Have any of you seen me go haunt an athiest's blog, craving attention? Gosh, they are needy. Seeking a Father Figure, no doubt.

    Ponder that.

    I'm going back to bed...


        Saturday, April 22, 2006


    ...if this guy isn't the greatest writer, ever.

    For example:

    The list of speakers include the usual smattering of professional perverts, Stalinist boot-lickers, racialist pigmentarians, America-haters, crotch-worshippers, Marx-o-maniacs, peace-creeps, man-haters, tree-huggers and terrorist-sympathizers...

    Go. Read. Bookmark.



    The Wife Endures...

    It has been suggested, here and there, that the wife either is a saint, or should be nominated for such.

    I agree, and believe me, you do not know the half of it.

    She was gone, last night, so I ended up being Johnny's nurse, a job that has always been hers. I hooked him up to his CPAP breathing machine. I moved his baby monitor into my room. I got the worst fucking night's sleep outside of being in the military I've ever had.

    The Saint is up in the mountains with forty or so other broodies, and I know she is having a great time. Men, especially you men with kids, or who are spectacular assholes, or both, follow my lead.

    Get rid of your woman at every opportunity. She will come back, refreshed, and there will be blowjobs, and cooking of treats, and the sun will somehow shine brighter.

    And you will appreciate all the shit she does, when you have to do it yourself. And if you have kids, they will appreciate you all the more, if you do it right.

    Today, it's to the Dollar Store, and thence to Dairy Queen, for Dilly Bars. Thanks, donaters.

    Tonight, I muffle John's bed rail with a towel or Ace bandage or something, so the corrugated hose doesn't ratchet back and forth all night. No wonder the wife has been looking bleary.

    Anyway, lavish the same care on your woman, as you would on your car, or your yard, and see what happens.

    She has a me, too, you know.



    Is That Your Final Answer?

    Why yes, I think it is. For Scott Adams, and all of the other athiest turds out there...

    Take it or leave it. I don't care.




    Thanks, Rob, I guess. I see Acidman's readers are batting against my lamp, and find he gave one of my bits a link.

    The other day he was carping about his traffic, but I don't think that anybody who can triple my Saturday traffic with one link has a thing to worry about.

    One blognomenon I have noted, is that on days when I feel frisky, and go to a lot of different blogs and leave pithy comments, my traffic appears to increase substantially, as folks follow the bread crumbs back.

    You new bloggers, make a note of it. Just don't be (too much of) an asshole, and don't feign interest, BE interested. Be yourself.

    If they like you, they will come. If they hate you, they will come, too.

    Those, we ban.



    Stinkin Thinkin Alert...

    This shall not stand.

    In the comments concerning my postulation of rape, I keep getting testicle-o-centric references as to how said she-wolf would 'tear off the man's gonads' and other such nonsense.

    Allow me to clarify, Butter-Buns:

    I am an old man, and I could take you and all of your feminista 'take back the night' psuedo karate and fuck you up the ass, if I cared to. With no harm to me, and only just some vestigal soreness for you. Give me thirty minutes with him, and I could teach a twelve year old boy to do it, too.

    Show me a man who has never been whacked so hard in the nads he has not wanted to die, and perhaps even vomited, and I will show you a man whose testicles have never descended.

    In other words, yeah, it hurts, but now he's really going to fuck you up. And no $1,000...either.

    When you strike someone, expect to be struck back, and you had better have brought the whole enchilada of responses, and have them down pat, and ready to serve cold, or...

    You had best just be prepared to lay back and enjoy it.

    I have taught private martial arts classes to women. I only accepted victims. I told them at the very beginning, that if they were not prepared to kill a man, they were in the wrong place, because that was all I was going to teach them to do.

    Do you know how sad it is, to watch a rape victim hang her head in shame, and turn away and leave?

    I do.


        Friday, April 21, 2006

    Living The 'Me' Centered Life...

    Note, I did not say 'self' centered. Self centered people are assholes. But people who have no sense of their 'me' are just pitiful.

    How is this going to affect 'me'? What's in this for 'me'? Why are these people pretending to care about 'me', to get 'me' to do what they want?

    Okay, no more apostrophes. They are annoying, unless they make 'me' happy. See how this works?

    I have decided to not participate in the drama of others. I don't have to work, so I won't. Co-workers suck. I can afford to survive, frills-free, on my pittance, so I will. The kids think they are rich, and the wife's own me coincides with mine, so this makes us, if not happy all of the time, at least content most of the time.

    It makes me happy to write. Very similar to jerking off, but with less mess. I came up with a novel story idea (yeah, ponder that line) that is so incredible and unique, I don't feel right sharing it until it is complete, and I begin shopping it. Do not beg. I fear thievery.

    I have so many novels in my head, I now completely understand why Mr. King employed the agencies of Mr. Bachman. I suspect that the wife will be making a fortune off my writing after I'm dead, whereas I, like Moses, will be kept outside the Promised Land.

    Oh well. That does not sadden or offend me. 'Me'.

    It makes me happy to give to some people, so I do. It makes me very happy to tell other people to fuck off, so I do, oh I do. I am perhaps the most untrusting human being who is not actively psychotic (I think) that you've ever met, yet I gave someone the keys and the power to delete my blog with a single keystroke. It made me happy.

    Once you get in touch with the me, it makes it easier to deal with the you. It reduces humanity to subsets of 'puny humans', and 'the enlightened'. There's no Secret Handshake, or any rituals or bylaws, merely the affirmation that, starting now, I am going to be me.

    Not the me you, or you over there want. Not the me I have been pretending to be. Not some me that I made up and am trying to be.

    Just, me.

    I've been doing it since I began this blog, and have been honing the skills it takes me to be me for some years, now. Funny, as I am still, for the most part, anonymous.

    I'm not stupid, ya know.


    V-Man said I should delete this part:

    I discovered myself sixteen years ago, when my last divorce rained down around me like the fireballs of Armageddon. The wife has helped me discover my me, and I'd like to think I have introduced her to hers.

    Miles to go before we sleep, but we are doing quite all right, thank you. She left today, for a women's retreat in the mountains, with her church, and I miss her so, and I'm glad she's gone. The kids and I will have a blast, and the home-coming will be sweet.

    I don't need her.

    I want her.



    That's Not Nude...

    ...that's art.



    I Love...

    ...this man.



    I Love Amazon Women...



    I LOVE...

    ...this kind of naughty cover art.



    Face Mecca...

    ...take a shit.

    I've got to figure out which way Mecca is. I am going to name my turds Allah, and Mohammaturd, fart on his unholy name. When I crap out kosher meats, I would like to think I am giving The Prophet all the respect he is due.

    Or should I say, 'doo-doo'.



    The Internet, Under Assault...

    I done TOLE you Mac's suck!

    Of course, so do Mexicans. I can't see how this is any different than having a Muslim in charge of Homeland Security.

    In more important news today:

    I can't get my Mom's sound card to work right. It plays (via Windows Media Player) when I put in a music CD, but there are no system sounds, and videos on the internet have no sound. The speaker icon has disappeared from the taskbar, but when I go into Accessories/Entertainment the volume control is there, and it shows nothing muted.
    I've uninstalled, and reinstalled, and updated drivers, and rolled back drivers, and nothing seems to work. I am stumped.

    Of course, my day coulda been worse. That is what happens when you don't have your shoot reflex on autoplay. If this, then that. Stupid cop. Put him on a desk.

    My favorite part of this story, is that it has happened five times, and they let the one guy they caught go.




    I Smell Old People...

    And that makes me sad. The stink of them lingers on my clothing, yet I only spent an hour or so at my parents house, working on Mom's computer again.

    While there, I suddenly examined the air I was taking in, and it smelt of age, of lives gone stale. Oh, they are scrupulously clean, and have a maid and all, it's just an emanation they put out.

    Age. It stinks.

    They were both once such a beautiful, vibrant couple, barely eighteen years older than me. Growing up, my Dad and I were often mistaken for brothers as I got older.
    Mom was a true beauty, from the Bettie Page mold. Vivien Leigh. Dad was a rake, and women begged him to impregnate them. He would come home with the latest tale of who had hit on him, and where, and how, and they would have a merry chuckle over it.

    My Mom has a recent love note Dad wrote to her, taped to the wall at the side of her computer. In it, he sounds like a love-sick teenager. And they've been married as long as I have been alive, through thick and thin, and believe me, we had plenty of thin to go around.

    And now the lights are dimming, one by one, deck by deck, as the ship of their life slides slowly under the waves of time.

    I miss them already.



    An Interesting Social Experiment...

    I'll let you read the comments on the post below, and draw your own conclusions. Suffice to say I got exactly the results I expected, and I am mightily tickled.

    Thank you.


        Thursday, April 20, 2006

    One More Thing Before I Go...

    A question for the ladies:

    If a really sexy, handsome guy, about twenty years old, gently took you down and had sex with you against your will, and didn't hurt you, and then got up, gave you $1,000, and left, would you feel bad about it?

    If yes, how much money, if any, would make you feel okay with it?



    I Got Nuthin...

    I'm just gonna go out and work in the yard. Seeing Bush meet with that Chink asshole just knocked the wind out of me for the day.

    He refuses to meet with murderous dictator Arafat, yet welcomes murderous dictator Hu with open arms. It boggles the mind. Just about like how watching Israel take body blows and do nothing does.

    So I'm just going to go outside and stand in the sun.


        Wednesday, April 19, 2006

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!

    What can I say about this one? Except that it may be her best, most pithy, ever.

    Gosh, how I love her.



    Nope Nope Nope... terrorism to see here, move along...



    This Seemed Appropriate...

    Click on it, brainiac...


    I Think Steve Needs A Hug...

    I can always tell, when he makes Proclamations like this, and goes and nails them to the church door, as it were.
    He was responding to (chiding?) The Acidman, who apparently needs a hug, too.

    Funny, because they both each get as much traffic in a day as I get in a week. But I get the good traffic. I keep my Sitemeter open (as do they) and as you can see if you look, the last 20 search engine hits are usually all someone searching for some permutation of, well, me. Sure, you get the odd 'fuck old pussy' and 'little girl titty-fuck' searches, but those are (thankfully) rare.

    I like to see the early morning and lunch hour hits. That tells me someone dropped by to see me, maybe even first thing. I'm not a hit-whore like Rob freely admits he is, but I like it that someone likes me (or hates me) enough so that they want to come back and see what I'm up to.

    I've been doing this for years, and the attention still startles me. My panties don't get all moist, like Rob's do, but I am proud of (most of) my work, and I appreciate being appreciated. I would never (appear to) scorn my readers by calling their visits insignificant.
    I haven't had comments for all that long, and I am surprised at how much I enjoy them.

    There are three things I used to say over and over again that I would never do: have comments, have a tip jar, or accept advertising. Surprise. If there's a lesson there, I guess it would be to never say never.

    Blogging, as a phenomenon, will never die, unless the internet does. Oh, it may morph into something different, as technologies change, but the phenomenon of individual citizen-communicators is here to stay. This is the final legacy that started with the printing press.

    So, lead, follow, or get the fuck out of the way, but there's no sense in bitching about it. Blogging is just a fact of life. And don't get bent because other people don't know about blogging, or what it means to be a blogger. People do not know a lot of stuff. Fukkem. I do not seek approbation from the clueless masses.

    And I like that just fine.


        Tuesday, April 18, 2006

    Time Magazine...

    ...doesn't even make decent toilet paper.



    Some Grooming Tips...

    Don't start shaving any part of your body that you don't want hair growing on. Like your ears, for instance. I saw one fucking hair, and shaved it off, and now it's a full-time fucking job. I hate ear hair. I hate seeing it, and I hate having it. Ditto nose hair. Trimming that shit just gets it excited.

    The other day I pulled a two inch fucking hair out of my right ear! I am outraged! It sounded like someone had snapped a three inch hawser by my head. I saw stars.

    And all you bitches that shave your muffin and have tats, oh sure, you might look fine, now, but what are you gonna do when you're eighty, and your crotch looks like some old mullah left his beard in there, and your tats look like a finger-painting left in a puddle of water? And have slid down to your elbows, or dripped down your ass and ripple with cellulose...

    See, ya gotta look ahead. That's why my old age plan is to die first. I already can't stand the changes. It's like puberty, in reverse or something.

    Hey, that trimming tip goes for eyebrows, too. They will go apeshit. On men, anyway. I'm not sure about broads. Maybe one day, all the motherpluckers will be sitting around in the nursing home, tied into their wheel-chairs, peering out from under a hedge of eybrow like a sheepdog. And petting a large cat in their lap, until some little girl screams to her Mom on visiting day "Mommy! That's not a cat! Make Gramma stop doing that!"


    I've worked in a nursing home. The Nastiest Place On Earth, outside of Bangladesh. I just shuddered in a warm room, from some of the memories that flooded out before I could jam the lid closed again. And don't even lie to me (and you) that 'your gramps is an exception, because you got him one of the good homes'.

    The place I worked at was where rich people paid cash to stay there. Not a Medicaire client in the bunch. Place was a palace, and it was a hellhole. I fired five aides at the same time once for patient abuse. As a warning to all the other assholes. Aides would also not bring a lunch, and eat the meals of the bed-ridden patients they were supposed to feed. I could go on.

    But I won't. My work here is through.

    Besides, I think I hear a hair growing...



    Cord On The Fourth Of July

    Oh, that Tom Cruise, what a wacky little Munchkin he is. Hmmm, I wonder where I've heard about eating the placenta before?

    I feel so sorry for poor Katie. Every time I see her she has the fixed grin of someone smiling at the SS cattle-car guard as they are led up the ramp.

    A mix of 'What have I gotten myself into?' and 'Please don't hurt me!'

    When you start making Michael Jackson appear normal, Tommy, you might just have a problem.

    Or two.



    Life Is So Fragile...

    I've seen people die from just the slightest tap on the head. I've seen people fall, and not get up. People die in their sleep all the time.

    So why couldn't John McCain, with all of the abuse he (allegedly) suffered in that North Vietnamese prison camp, have just gone ahead and died there? Huh?

    Those Commie zipperheads...what a bunch of fuck-ups. No work ethic. None at all.



    Pretty Much...

    ...says it all. Nice job. That's all you need to know about Mexico, and this immigration issue.

    And Mark Steyn wrapped up the whole Iran issue yesterday. His basic analogy was to have that Ragidiot from Iran, standing up on a plane, and yelling that he had a bomb. That not only did he have a bomb, but he was going to use it, soon, to kill all the Jews in first class.

    And then Steyn mimicked all of the UNidiots today, by having the Air Marshals and the crew not do anything but hem and haw around about his rights, and all of the other bullshit our 'leaders' talk today.

    I am so tired of all this ignorant bullshit. I am just about to the point where I want to unplug my internet, and block all the TV news channels.


        Monday, April 17, 2006

    Oh My Goodness...

    I so totally have to have this.



    So, My Sister Got Her Throat Cut, Today...

    ...and had Cream of Wheat, tonight. Her neck-hole was considerably constricted, so the Saw-Necks considerably widened it. I am told they fed something akin to a garden hose down her blow-hole today.

    I was working on Mom's 'puter during all this. Just did a repair with the bootleg CD, and then excised any evidence of Uncle Bill's offending nonsense. Jacked up her virtual memory, streamlined her with MSCONFIG, and she is cooking with gas.

    Sis is what they call 'pre-cancerous'. She wanted to show me pictures of her uvula. I gacked and told her to not be a pervert. Your uvula is between you and your vibrator, and a sanctum I shall perforce never observe. Shave it, if you must, but I don't want to see pictures of it. Freak.

    I am somnolent, my belly quickened with the last of the Magic Mac & Cheese. Farting may, nay, will ensue. I have need of a squaw to chew the skidmarks from my loincloth. The wife refuses. Twat.

    I am going over the inventory of my sisters possessions in my head, to see if there's anything I wish to purloin, should she, well, you know...

    Nope. She has a kick-ass Raggedy Ann collection, but I am not interested. You ever notice how nobody mentions Raggedy Andy? Probably because he doesn't have a serviceable penis. You can at least bust open Ann's stitches, and give her a good stuffing in the stuffing, but poor Andy is just a floppity gay rube, of even less caliber than the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz.

    I'd sooner do Pooh.



    Wherein I Survive Yet Another Birthday...

    I can't remember the last time my birthday fell on an Easter. Weekends, yeah. A lot. But not generally Easter.

    That damn rabbit sure stole a lot of my thunder. Kid's stuffed themselves with candy, and could barely keep their eyes open, but they soldiered on. At bedtime, they were asleep within five heartbeats, though. But I see now why people with birthday's on Christmas bitch about it. It's MY day, dammit! Fuck Santa! I can relate.

    The wife made the single best pan of homemade Mac & Cheese I have ever had. I ate three huge servings of it, and nearly went for four. The wife looked askance at me, and urged caution. As I didn't want to puke any of that glory up, I listened. Probably smart.

    She followed the recipe in 'The New Betty Crocker Cookbook' exactly, with the exception of adding 'a dash' of paprika and of garlic. Oh, and where the recipe called for pepper, she did half black and half white pepper. We really like white pepper. Next time, she is going to add dehydrated onions, and fresh chives to it, and top the casserole with cheese during the last 5 or 10 minutes and broil it into a glaze, just short of browning. Well, maybe a little browning. I like that.

    Folks, this stuff is so good, that I couldn't finish that last paragraph without having the wench fetch me a big steaming bowl of it. Trust me, you could follow the basic recipe, and find Nirvana. And the hardest part was grating the cheese. It seemed like it only took a few minutes to put it together. And having hot dogs on the side just made me feel...American.

    Well, I'm off to attempt repair to my crazy Mom's computer. Seems ole Bill sent her a virus, I mean 'New Feature', that would tell if you had one of those nasty old bootleg copies of Windows XP Pro, versus Microsofts wonderful, certified Windows operating system.

    Well, of course, I had installed a copy of my bootleg CD on her system, and of course, she fell for Bill's bait and said 'Sure, go ahead and install it!' and of course, the app went in and fucked her over six ways from Sunday. Stopped her PC dead in it's tracks, it did.

    I yelled. A lot.

    Oh, well...



    My... hero.

    Hey, man, nice shot.



    If You Love Doctor Who...

    ...then you'll really love this.



    Gratuitous Linkage...

    It was nice to start off the week with a huge belly laugh. That is the funniest joke I've heard this year.

    Then there's this guy, who seems to like me, so I guess there really is no accounting for taste.

    I may run across others. We shall see.

    Happy Monday!


        Sunday, April 16, 2006

    Any Red Alert Fans?

    Okay, I've been trying to play Red Alert today, and there are some problems. First, the screen resets to 640x480, and I lose about a half inch of screen all around, Then, the CPU cheats like a bastard, when I play in skirmish mode. It's like playing multiplayer with a fucking Korean, if you know what I mean. The cheatin bastards.

    The damn CD player accesses all the time, and the game hangs some when a building is complete, but the fucking CPU just keeps on marauding away.

    I've found a few semi-fixes for XP, but nothing that looks too dramatic. Plus, I want to cheat. I just want to stomp the piss out of the little Red bastards.

    Any decent links?




    If You've Got The Guts...

    ...go here, and read.

    I belly-laughed out loud, but then again, I'm not quite right.

    Neither is Bullseye.



    You Say It's Your Birthday...(Reprint)

    [I wrote this last year]

    ...well it's my birthday too, yeah...

    Tomorrow. The Big 5-0h. As in "Oh shit, lookit all those gray hairs!"

    It wasn't my idea. I've been trying to die for years. No one seems to be able to kill me, and I care too much for my few loved ones to do the logical thing, and voluntarily jump off a ride that always ends terminally, and, usually, painfully and humiliatingly.

    I've been in over 15 major car accidents, and came through with but a few scratches, and in some cases, not even a bump. I've been shot at, stabbed, cut, beaten, pushed out of aircraft, hit by cars (twice), and not one of those cocksuckers had the decency to end my miserable life.

    I have welcomed several serious illnesses, and have been cured of every one. I welcome the dentist this month to take his shot...such a procedure holds promise. Any number of things can go wrong.
    But no, I'll just end up alive, in pain, and chugging inexorably towards another damn birthday.


    There is a very nice, silenced Ruger .22 pistol a company in Bend puts out, but no, I will doubtless get a book, or a couple of humorous cards, maybe with a few small bills in them. Doubtful, as my kin is poor, as well.


    I am drinking Pabst beer, a seviceable brew, and cheap. I do not care to disrespect my loyal donors with extravagance. Later, I shall switch to a dago red. Git'r done. I'll watch my Friday night fare, and pray for an embolism just before bed.

    I'll wake up to 'Happy Birthday!'
    My wife ratted me out to the kids, and they are beside themselves. Natty has been telling me not to watch as she makes my present...some wretched, colored and papered and scissored thing which I will, of course, treasure.

    John merely watches. He is mostly watching, and trying to smile with his new face, which pains him as the new mouth-bolts drag on the inside of his lips, a situation which we hope to rectify Monday. John is not terribly crafty, seeing as how God chose to, at least temporarily, deny him serviceable fingers. I...we, make him fend for himself as best he can, and it tortures me to watch him work so hard at a button, or a zipper, or hold a crayon.

    He sometimes holds his little hands out and just looks at them. Quizically. I take his hands and kiss them and never let him hide them. I love it when he holds my face in those scarred, broken hands, or claps them enthusiastically to one of his favorite Jesus songs. He's a good, nay, a great clapper. He can give a clap offering like nobody's business.

    It is hard, though, when someone has the courage to ask him how old he is, and he gamely tries to show them seven fingers, and the last three won't bend out of the way.

    Oh, look. Now I've gone and made you maudlin...brought you down to my level, as it were. Sorry. Kinda.

    Now you know how I feel about turning 50.


        Saturday, April 15, 2006

    Ready Or Not... it comes.

    The rain is sluicing down outside with a vengeance. Did I just say outside? Well, duh. That's where they keep it, if you are civilized.

    It's comin for ya, Midwest. Big old storm, getting sucked into the Jet Stream, and the bear went over the mountain...

    We have rain, and snow, and sleet, and probably frogs. And tomorrow is my 'big day', and all I want to do is suck on a liquor bottle in a corner of the room, and keep an eye out for Mister Scythe Guy.

    So, I was putting this away after my trip yesterday:

    Man that is a mean looking motherfucker. Mine has a Millet adjustable rear sight on it, though. Must be rare, cuz I couldn't find a picture of it on Google. Shoots like a dream, and will flat out punch big, ragged holes in just about anything. I blew a reactive steel target off it's chains with it one time, at 50 yards. I had just been bouncing the target around, firing when it swang back down, and all of a sudden, that 10 inch circle of steel boilerplate, on 2" link chain, just flew off the bar and tiddly-winked off into the grass somewhere. Oops. Glad I was alone. And yes, I snuck off.

    I'd like to...wait, have I told you this story? Oh well, worth another tell, methinks. The wife and I, pre Nat and Johnny, were toodling down to California's northern mountain country to see her parents. I had rented a Neon, as our car was a piece of shit (story of my life), and it was just turned dark-thirty, and this big semi passed us, on I5, about thirty miles past Weed, we headed south from Oregon.

    I had the car set on cruise control, and I was obeying all laws, except for the ones concerning drinking and driving, and carrying forbidden and unlicensed weaponry.

    After the semi passed, actually maybe a few minutes later, the car started getting sluggish, and began to settle like an air mattress with a hole in it. I had a flat tire. Left front. The 'killer tire', the one that can send you into cartwheels of flaming death if it blows, or careening into oncoming traffic.
    But I rode it down, and made it to the breakdown lane safely.

    I yanked out my five cell Mag Lite from under the seat, and went to check, and sure as shit, flat as Mother Theresa, and twice as dead. I had the wife hold the light on me, while I got the little pretend tire out of the trunk and replaced the dead one.

    We only had to go about a half a mile to an off-ramp, and then a shake up the hill to a freeway-side Texaco, where the attendant pulled the tire off the wheel for me. Even before he started, I noted the odd hole in the sidewall. Odd, because I hadn't hit anything that I knew of, and it looked for all the world like, well, for all the world like a small caliber bullet hole.

    His machine groaned and popped off the tire. I had pointed out the hole, and what it resembled, to him, and he was more than usually careful. I pulled out my pocket AAA Mini Mag Lite, and shown it into the well of the tire. Sure enough, there was a small stack of broken up lead chunks, about the equivalent to a 40 grain bullet.

    I believe we both breathed out a heartfelt "Sonofabitch!" at the same time.

    There's a lot more to the story, but God just now turned on the sun, and it is flooding the house, and the puddles of rain outside (duh) gleam like pools of mercury, and everything drips with the promise of Spring.

    Like He is reminding me, "See? I got your back, my son."

    Pretty awesome.



    'Nothing Beaner' Day...

    Hey, if they can call me Gringo, I can call the damn spics anything I want.

    Inspired by this extremely poorly written article I have decided that we Gringo's need to hold our own 'Nothing Beaner' Day on May 1st. There's not much you can boycott, I guess. Don't eat Mexican food? Mow your own lawn? What is it the beaners give us, anyway? Besides a lot of grief, disease, and crime I mean.

    Hey, I know, let's not feed any of the beaners in our jails all day, May 1st! Cool. And I guess we could boycott American products that say they were assembled in Mexico. Tough luck, Dell, your stuff has gone to shit since you outsourced to Mexico, anyway.

    Let's block all of the trucks for one day bringing beaner produce and stuff in. Close all the border crossings. Jam all the signals from Spanish language radio stations. Don't sell to any beaner who comes into your place of business. Sorry beaner, guess yer gonna have to wipe with your hand til tomorrow.

    Fuck all those little brown bastards. Who needs em.



    Turds Of A Feather...

    ...flock together. Read it, and then watch this video.

    Compare, and contrast, and remember that every one of those Chinese computers mentioned in the article are manufactured by a company owned by the Chinese military.

    I wouldn't take one if you gave it to me.

    So, we've seen Bill Gates supports Liberal causes, Palestinian causes, and now possibly our worst enemy in the world, China.




    Read It...

    ...and weep.

    Bill Clinton, The Gift That Keeps On Giving...

    To us. Up the ass.

    Thanks to James Hooker, for the chest pains.


    Can we just exterminate these cocksuckers already?


    If you have any travel plans to Iran, I'd strongly suggest you cancel them. There's a good chance it won't be there when you arrive.


        Friday, April 14, 2006


    So, back up to the VA hospital today. Some alarming news. Remains to be verified. I could give a hearty shit.

    I listened to Rush on the way up, and the susurrations of my own brain on the way back. Sometimes it is good to just commune with your own id, introduce it to your subconcious, and listen to the music of the tires and the windshield wipers.
    And drink two 24 ounce Old English 800's in a big-ass 52 ounce travel mug you bought at Target today, for just such an occasion, to keep the super ego happy.

    It is possible my pretty lady doctor will have her finger up my ass, soon, so I want to buy her a double espresso, beforehand, that said finger might vibrate, as it probes my prostate.

    Oh, do not confuse her with a real doctor. She is a medical student. Should I need a real doctor, I would like to assume that they keep one behind glass, which to break, in case of emergency.

    Ah well, as I've said, you get what you pay for, and what I get is gloriously free. They even pay me mileage for showing up. Thanks for the beer money, America!

    So, there you are. A peek up my skirt. Sorry about the skidmarks.

    Wanna see my tits?


        Thursday, April 13, 2006

    'Big George': The Coming Attack on Iran

    Oh, this news makes me wag my tail and do the Dance of the Happy Puppy.

    Poke those buttons, GW. Pokem!

    Of course, this is probably the part where we lose most of our Navy in nuclear flashes, and the other nations collapse our currency.

    But hey, just buy plenty of duct tape, and Duct and Cover!

    It's time for a change.



    In Praise Of The Sandwich...

    Steve H. has been pontificating and such over on his (not really a blog, honest!) blog about The Noble Sandwich.
    Now, Steve is the Jedi Master of all things food, and I am a mere plebe, but I know what I like. And what I don't like.

    That's right, folks, Bane has a foible. Oh, I have several other weird, unique, and perhaps bizarre foibles, but that is grist for another post, methinks...


    Bane hates to get his hands messy. The thought of sauce dripping down Bane's fingers drives Bane nuts. Bane eats fried chicken with a knife and a fork.

    There, I've said it. My wife remarked, when we first met, that I was the neatest eater she'd ever seen. She would watch me eat with such fascinating admiration, that it made me uncomfortable. I guess you could, if you threw caution (and your teeth) to the wind, call me 'delicate'. Oh, I can throw caution to the winds when I eat ribs and know what they say about when rape is inevitable, just lay back and enjoy it, but I am at the nearest water source for a furious cleansing as soon as I am done, and I am still the neatest rib eater you have ever seen.

    So this...foible, keeps me from enjoying those sandwiches which drip juice down your hands (and chin...shudder) unless I can have it on a plate/platter and have at it with knife and fork. Those dastardly plastic baskets, lined with faux waxed paper? I'll order something else then, thank you. Or leave.
    Oh, I can eat with my fingers just fine, fries and such, but I only use the tips of two or three, and wipe them clean regularly.

    [NOTE: this 'foible' does not extend to how Bane eats pussy. I am like a five year old doing a cannon-ball into the pool, with pussy. Drip away, splatter it around, I don't care. Doesn't bother me a bit.]

    My taste in sandwiches runs to comfort food, peanut butter and jelly (or honey) ranking right there at the top, with bologna...oh, fuck it, baloney ranking there a close second. A simple fried egg sandwich on white bread with Gulden's Spicy Brown Mustard comes in a very close third. Tuna is fourth, and a nice, non-drippy hamburger comes in at fifth.

    I like 'punk' bread. The Home Pride Butter Top white and brown come in at the top of my list. The mayo must be Best Foods (Hellman's), and the yellow mustard must be French's. I have tried all of the others, and nothing comes close.
    I love Kraft products, especially their horseradish spread. I go both ways with relish, though I usually tend to prefer the sweet over the dill.

    If I want a fancy restaurant sandwich, I'll go to a restaurant. We have a place here in town that I'm told serves a genuine Philly Cheese-steak sandwich, but it looks too much like something the dog horked up on the kitchen floor after grubbing through the garbage, for my tastes. I do so enjoy a good meatball sub, though my animus towards Jarrod, and all things Subway has been noted on these pages before.

    It is hard to find an authentic Reuben, but when I do, I enjoy one. I love a good roast beef on rye with lots of lettuce and brown mustard. I am weak in the knees for almost any kind of hot dog. As a matter of fact, go back to my list, and put hot dogs above hamburgers. I am having Hebrew Nationals (along with homemade mac and cheese) for my birthday meal.

    I will not eat any weird deli meats, such as tongue, or brains. They are of the devil, and you who eat it should be tortured in the fiery pits. Head cheese? Whose fucking monstrous idea was that? Yeesh! Limburger? Why don't you just meander on over to the cat box and fish out a nice Almond Roca there, shit-breath? Limburger was made as a joke, and apparently, enough people don't get it, so they eat it.
    Go sit in the pits with the tongue-eaters.

    Oddly, I love my wife's homemade bread, but I rarely if ever make a sandwich out of it. If I do, it's usually a PBJ.

    The biscuit and muffin and bagel sandwiches deserve honorable mention. When we are flush, the wife and I spoil ourselves with cream cheese and salmon on a toasted, buttered bagel. Sometimes a hair-thin slice of a sweet onion between the cream cheese and the fish. Heaven. And don't shirk on the cream cheese. Quit buying that 'light' shit, you nasty fat bastard. Get the good stuff. Lose weight so you can enjoy it.
    Oh, and Kraft makes a killer salmon cream cheese that is to die for. That strawberry shit tastes like elf cum, though. Not recommended.

    So, any of you sandwich eaters? I probably eat them (sandwiches, not elves) more than I eat anything else.

    Dammit, I almost forgot grilled cheese. Put that up there above fried egg.



    Send Us Your Tired, Your Poor...

    ...your huddled spazzes...

    Man, is England one sorry cesspit of PC wimpery and homosexual limp-wristedness, or what?

    Boy, I'm glad our ancestors un-assed that hellhole. Oh well, when the Muslims take it over, we won't have to hear nonsense like this from them any more.

    All of Europe is going to go dark and silent, very soon.

    Buncha spazzes.



    My Husband Has A Scab On His Penus...

    Notify Blogger about objectionable content.

    Those are just two of the search phrases I found in my 'Last 20 Search Engine Queries' when I checked my Sitemeter just now.
    So, someone isn't getting any, and someone else is a noble champion of Free Speech. Maybe they're the same person. Sigh.

    By the way, sorry for the light posting today.



    Biting The Hand...

    ...that feeds you.

    More proof that the Paleostinians are just animals. As if any more was needed.



    The Beat Goes On...

    I posted on this crap somewhere below, and now this is the follow-up story from the L.A. Times.

    This is just terrible, and I'm not sure how I feel about the Times leaking out so much information.

    This just makes me sick.



    Read It...

    ...and weep.

    That little fucker will be back in the US and up on murder charges within five years.


    More. They come here for a better life: Yours.



    If This Is True...

    ...and it very well could be, and Bush (and Israel) know it's true, how long you think it will be before the bombs begin to fall?

    I got to thinking last night, that the Iranians probably keep their nuclear experts sequestered, and doubtless not too far apart. Why not bomb them? At night. With their families. While they all sleep comfy in their beds.

    Works for me.


    I'd forgotten about this.



    A Noble Cause...

    I hope you will read this and pass it around. Time is running out on this, and I have no real idea what can be done.

    But I know wrong when I see it.



    Those Wacky Japs...

    I absolutely love stuff like this.


        Wednesday, April 12, 2006

    I Put This Here... show my wife an amazing article, and so I can go back to it at leisure.



    The Goddess Speaks!

    ...go, and worship!

    I now officially hate Mexicans. HATE! WITH A FIERY PASSION!

    Oh wait, can I still say that?

    Hey, America? Kneel at your tire-sandalled oppressor's feet, and smooch those gnarly brown toes.

    Now, get up, and get to work. They've got mouths to feed.



    Give Him Some Love!

    My man Doc In The Box is back in-country, so whyncha'll drop by and thank him and stuff.

    No tittie pics, he's married.

    Wouldn't that be something if he ended up fixing one of my kid's boo-boos? Hey, if you say it out loud, it can't happen, right?

    Anyhoo, keep him in your prayers and stuff, and keep up with his progress. I feel guilty for not dropping by in a while.

    Hey, Doc? God Bless you, and your beautiful wife.



    Lay Off The Pig Fat...

    This fellow seems to think, as many do, that Muslims live in horror of being touched by any part of the pig.

    I was raised a Seventh Day Adventist (SDA), and no stricter advocate group for vegetarianism exists on the planet. They have huge industries devoted to providing vegetarian meat substitutes to both the church members, and the world at large. Their crazed 'prophet' Ellen G. White, prophesied and pontificated DIRECTLY FROM GOD! on the dangers of defiling your body with animal/poultry/fish products. But you could eat cheese and drink milk, which I always found odd.

    Anyway, to make a long story less so, when church let out on Saturday, oh Lord, you should have seen the lines of Adventists queued up to buy hamburgers at the Foster Freeze or the Dairy Queen or whatever.

    Everybody pretending to not see each other...

    The point is, aside from the fatwah's I've already heard issued that allow fighters and martyrs absolution, is that do not assume these people are nearly as devout as they try to appear to be.

    Oh, to be sure, you might discourage a few with a pork policy of some sort, but I believe that the stories of General 'Black Jack' Pershing, and others, are the stuff of legend, rather than of fact, and I would not bet my life on them.
    These Islamic enemies we face are, if not exactly men, 'manlike', and as such, they are subject to every weakness we true men are subject to.

    This knowledge is a powerful weapon against them.

    So please, do not go around spouting superstitious nonsense that they themselves only pay lip service to, and claim it as gospel.

    That is misleading, and dangerous. If you meet one of these fuckers in combat, here or abroad, odds are he is in better shape than you, better armed than you, and he is far more dedicated to killing you than you are in killing him.

    Your only edge, is that they appear to be pretty shitty at it, so just shoot first, and...

    ...well, just shoot first. Or you're going down.

    And I ain't gonna watch the video they make. I'm tired of that shit.

    Nevertheless, wipe all the pork fat on your bullets you want. It's still funny.



    Birthdays And Bullets...

    Just in case you were pining to get old Bane a goody (or two) for his birthday, right here is the best price I've found (so far) on the web for 30 round Saiga 7.62x39 magazines. Note the cool clip thingy that hooks two mags together.

    Hint hint...

    Just send em to that PO Box there to your left, and I'll gettem.

    C'mon everybody! No pushing! There's time for all of you, so don't everybody rush up to the front at once.

    I'd hate to see one of you get a shopping injury...



    Hey, Marines!

    Don't be dumbshits, spread this story around, it makes sense.

    Just because someone is willing to sell you something, does not mean it is safe or smart to use.



    More From The Nat Files...

    Look at my thumb!

    (she looks)

    Gee, yer dumb!

    "Look at my butt!"

    I hide my eyes...

    "Gee yer a nut!" over and over again, chasing me around the house, yelling it into a toy microphone, while doing the 'Bootie Dance', a vulgar display of burlesqueish ass-wiggling that I find disturbing.

    And she knows it.



    The Story Of Easter...

    Complete with words and descriptive hand gestures:

    "So, the woman chicken lays eggs, and then we boil them and paint them..."

    Paint them?

    "Dye them, I mean..."

    I don't want the eggs to die!

    (giggles) "No, silly, 'Dye', with paint..."

    I can't eat dead eggs! John, Nat wants to kill the easter eggs!

    "No, Nat, doan kiw da thickens!"

    "Oh, you silly's, we boil the eggs, we don't kill the chickens..."

    Fithy chicken snuffer...

    "Oh, Daaad..."

    "Yeah, theeth a thicken thnuffer."

    You're right, Johnny.

    "I am not a CHICKEN SNUFFER!"



    I'm In A Pissy Mood...


    Thank God the wife's job ended yesterday. I dunno if I could have handled another day of being Mister Mom. She is still getting paid through Friday, but the old lady's family came back early, so she's released.

    The whole family slept in this morning, and boy did we need it. But I have another appointment at a VA hospital, and a stupid birthday coming up, so watch it.

    I've gotta turn Rush off, because he is making me want to kill something.

    As to the post below, don't worry about it. Like I say, don't take it upon yourself to post links to something you wouldn't want your Mother to see. I get lots of really good links posted here, and I enjoy them, and hope that you all do, too.

    But continually reposting a picture of a guy with his head blown off and saying it's a muslim when that has been discredited all over the web is not brave and resourceful, it is stupid and annoying. For the last time, it is a pic from Yugoslavia, taken by a KFOR soldier, of some poor schlub that got killed by another poor schlub. It is NOT a Muslim sniper killed by one of our snipers in Iraq. Dummy.

    And I wouldn't want to see it, or have it posted here, if it was. You take the responsibility when posting here, that someone from here will follow the link back to your site. And if you post pics of ultra-violence, or toilets full of shit, or any number of other horrors this rotten internet provides, I will ban you from this site, just to protect the people who come here who may not appreciate it.

    It's that simple.

    Have a nice fucking day.