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Pat Dollard

James Lileks
(My Idol)

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(My Other Hero)


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Haunted Soldier

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Random Bits of Pomposity


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Doc in the Box

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Atlas Shrugs

Twenty Major




  • She Wrote me A Love Note...


  • Fucking...

  • Fucking...

  • Fucking...

  • Hey, All You Fart-Sniffers...

  • Carte Blanche...

  • Well, This...

  • We Have To Wait Til Next Year...

  • Punk In Drublic...

  • Cry Havoc...

  • Ugh...


  • Fuck Your Pussy...

  • For What It's Worth...

  • Ruck Me Funnin...

  • Ps!

  • This Day Could Only Get Better...

  • Wherein I Give Nat A Wedgie...

  • Wanna Buy A Nice...

  • Oh Man!

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • And Now, For Something Completely Different...

  • The Israelis...

  • Hey You Turds! Cut It Out!

  • My Wife Is A Slut...

  • Famous Last Words...

  • Bomb Threat...

  • You're Hired!

  • Speaking Of Death...

  • Godless...

  • I'm Missing Something...

  • A Lot Of Visitors, Today...

  • Roasting, In A Corner Of Hell...

  • I Never Liked Rob Smith, Much...

  • Well, Isn't This...

  • This Is What Guns Are...

  • I'm Angry...

  • Otter-Pops and Burgundy...

  • Eat My Pee-Pee...

  • Lesbians Can't Fly!

  • All You Need...

  • Fun With Suicide...

  • She Appears To Mock Them...

  • Do You Need...

  • So, I Hear Screaming...

  • Thanks!

  • Dual Purpose Prayer...

  • So...

  • Pretty Cool...

  • You Cheap Bastards!

  • Not Much To Say...

  • Stop The Presses!

  • Is Dead?

  • How William Shatner Changed The World...

  • There Can Be Only Two Conclusions...

  • Read It And Weep...

  • Why We Will Lose...

  • Eye-Opening...

  • Rasta-Gopher...

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • I Hate Hippies, BUT...

  • Hmmmmm...

  • Who'd A Thunk It...

  • I Probably Shouldn't Tell You This...

  • A Moneymaking Idea...

  • Where Should I Start?

  • More, From The...

  • Dammit!

  • Read It...

  • Sometimes...

  • Is The Opposite Of...

  • Who Cares About North Korea...

  • And So It Goes...

  • Lunchgasm...

  • Privy...

  • Take The Gloves Off!

  • I LOVE Crap Like This...

  • Emergency Room Visit...

  • Exquisite...

  • For SondraK...

  • Desperately Sucking Susan...

  • After Action Report...

  • Just Because I Can...

  • What's So Damn Happy About It?

  • Interesting...

  • As I Sign Off...

  • Why We Fight...

  • Bring Us Your Huddled Masses?

  • Let's Save Up...

  • Bad Movie Night...

  • Dream Date...

  • The Fog Lifts...

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

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        Friday, June 30, 2006

    She Wrote me A Love Note... my favorite color of ink.

    I love this woman, though she has a certain weirdness I haven't put my finger in on yet.

    Now that's a blog.




    Still, tell me that this tank wouldn't drive you nuts, unless you were, maybe a Viet Cong Tiger Striped Sniper Fish!

    Let me apologise in advance for any of you vets who just spasmed into a PTSD frenzy over that last line. Except you Iraq vets. Fuck you, you ain't never seen no jungle. I'll throw some sand in your face and turn a hair drier on ya when I want to spaz one of you guys out.

    I bet all the other fish huddle in a clear corner near the front of the glass, hoping that some snaggle-toothed predator doesn't come torpedoeing out at them. Too many damn bushes, I say. And not enough divers and treasure chests and clams opening and closing, and stuff bobbing up and down.

    And it needs a castle.

    Nope, substandard tank all around. Less trouble to doctor-shop and score a jar of Valium.

    Valium does not shit up a fish tank.

    Now SEA HORSES! They would fucking ROCK! And maybe tiny mutant penguins.

    I like penguins.


    Black Light! Needs a black light! And one of those hot Barbie mermaids. But paint red nipples on her. Barbies need nipples. And if you've ever whacked off to a Barbie, well just shame on you. And to Skipper? Well, seek professional help.










    By the way, alla you faggots who got drawn here via a web-search that included the word 'fucking', welcome!

    Now, go cut your nasty dick off with a rusty straight razor.







    Hey, All You Fart-Sniffers...

    If you have my page open, you might want to refresh every so often. I sometimes slap up lots of shit in a row.

    I shouldn't get impatient, I suppose, but just be happy you're off reading what I linked to...



    Carte Blanche... kill whoever you want to.

    I know I won't hesitate.



    Well, This... just plain cool.

    I LOVE this kinda stuff!



    We Have To Wait Til Next Year...

    ...for this? No fair!



    Punk In Drublic...

    As soon as you get the idea, while in a bar, that lifting your leg and honking a big old fart is the height of humor, you have probably had enough to drink, and should leave. In a taxi.

    I don't care if it's in a biker bar. I have kicked more than one ass for farting around me.

    Some other signs? Falling down while dancing would be another good one, I think. Or any desire at all on your part to get up on a chair, table, or bar-top and yell any long series of vowels. Because consonants are likely beyond your reach, at this point.

    Go home.

    And stay out of your yard. Yes, even the back yard. The back yard is probly a worse idea than the front, because you are more likely to feel a sense of privacy, and thence to have your naked, pissing off of the back porch ass plastered all over the internet from the neighbor kid's cell-phone cameras.

    On a nearly completely unrelated note, I just walked past the computer Johnny is playing a learning game on, and his little car was talking to a tow truck named 'The Great Baldini', and I thought that would be a great name for any of you who haven't named your penis as yet.

    I quit getting drunk in public, as I have said somewhere in the archives, on the occasion of my 21st birthday. Where I violated pretty much every rule I could come up with in this post, and had the decency and presence of mind to be properly ashamed of my behavior, but not before falling into the Holly bushes outside the bar.

    Having beautiful girls look at you with concern in their eyes and trying to help you up and offer to take you home and you know damn well that you can't feel your dick and you'll sure as fuck puke on their cat as soon as that cat-box smell hits your nose can make you pause and reevaluate, shall we say, your public behavior.

    As well it should. Though, as I've also stated elsewhere, I've fucked more than one woman out of the car, across the yard, up the porch, and into the house, like two snakes, intertwined. I made it all the way into the kitchen one time, on top of my oldest kid's future mother, and my future ex-wife, and the cheap ass kitchen floor got to rocking, which set the fridge to rocking, which set the bowl of wax fruit on top of it to rocking, whereupon the wax apple rolled off the top of the arrangement, and fell down and smacked the poor girl right between the eyes.

    You'd be surprised at how difficult it is to retain an erection while you are laughing hysterically. Useless, anyway, as she, now miffed, and having been shaken like a pop can, is crawling off to vomit into the tub.

    Hey, kids! There's a Family Portrait, eh?

    Heh, indeed...

    Well, I'm tired of this post, and I'm betting you are, too, so that's it. And I sure am getting a lot of hits lately offa Rob's dead ass. Or undead ass. Whatever.

    It's weirding me out, a bit. And hopefully, by next week, we can all just move on without thinking about him every hour or so, when your usual Acid-Check clicks in.

    'Course, I can hardly wait for next April Fool's Day...



    Cry Havoc...

    ...and let slip the Logs of War...

    Now, with more Nacho Cheese!

    Fuck me...who puked in my stomach? Man, I just shit a rooster-tail of goo up and out the top of my crack. Sonofabitch to clean up, too. Ugh.

    Oh, I'm sorry, were you eating? Then I won't mention the bizarre coloration, or that I should chew my jalapenoes better. Like shitting razor blades. Kinda sexy...

    'Logs' indeed. I friggen wish. Man, I had the best out-of-the-bag tortilla chips in my life last night. And Tostino's makes a damn good spicy nacho cheese mix. The wife and I raced each other to the bottom of a large jar of it, nuked to perfection. Wonder if she sudsed the bowl, this morning, like I did. No I don't. Never mind. We're close, but I don't care to get that close.

    Have you noticed what nasty bitches women are in the bathroom? A man would never leave a Tampon tube with a bloody end staring up at you from the bathroom trash. Or his panties and socks drying on the shower-curtain rod. And why do they need all that fucking soap? I've got one bar of Jergen's soap and one small bottle of Head and Shoulders shampoo in the shower, and she's got the equivalent of the entire fucking toiletries aisle from Rite Aid hung from mesh bags, or in plastic boxes by the tub, and running all around the rim of the tub.


    I thought guys were nasty, until a bunch of us grabbed our assistant dean and decided to give him a cold shower in the girl's dorm at boarding school. My idea, I am proud to say. And it had to be in a shower on the top floor, because that's where the Senior Girls were, and they had the biggest tits.

    So we snatch him, tie him up, and dozens of us haul him cursing and screaming over and into the girl's dorm, and up the stairs, and down the halls, and into the far bathroom/shower area, and man, what a fucking pigsty. Almost wasn't worth seeing all the titties bouncing around from screaming, scandalized girls, whose towels seemed to fall off with pleasant regularity.

    The guys pantsed me one time, and by 'pantsed', I mean 'stripped me totally naked', and threw me out of our dorm and locked me out. They chose the time of day when it was time for all the guys to go out on their veranda, and for the girls to go out on theirs, and for us all to preen at each other and cut up, and such. So their veranda was full of chicks, and mine


    Well, you know what they say when it's inevitable. Yep. I waved, and sat down on the parapet, and waved. And then I waved with my hand. Never have you heard more shrieking that didn't involve being trapped in a fire. I will treasure the memory of that afternoon forever.

    I didn't get in trouble (that time) but I gained a clear understanding of why I would never ever allow myself to be imprisoned, because if a bunch of guys decide to buttfuck you, no matter how badass you are, you are gonna get buttfucked.

    Unless you have the hot nacho and whiskey shits, which is why I feel safe from any buttfucking today.

    Ain't nobody would want a piece of this ass today.

    Those of you currently headed to prison, and too chicken to kill yourself, make a note of that.




    Why do I feel like shit? And who was that asshole who spammed my blog with all those idiot posts yesterday?

    Just, ugh...


        Thursday, June 29, 2006




    Fuck Your Pussy... bullshit.

    Here's some real music.

    Suck on it and twirl...



    For What It's Worth...

    The wife says this pic looks like me, only my eyes are bigger (and blue, duh) and my jawline is more pronounced. Plus, my hair is shorter, and I only put my finger in my mouth when I am eating a booger.

    Commence masturbation...

    Me? I don't see it.



    I still don't see it...



    Ruck Me Funnin...

    My liver oughta be dragged off and shot. 6:30 pee-em? And relatively sober(ish)?

    Funk dat.

    Now, to the Nacho Bar. The wife, per request, and being a Saint, brought home nacho cheese product, and jewlapenos (less hot than the other, but still tasty) and two types of chips.

    I stagger forth to make a plate of them, perhaps to shit, which reminds me, I gotta tell you later about my diahrretic experience last night, due to Jack In The Box Poisoning (FUCK those tacos!).

    Shit, who stuffed my head with steel wool? Whups...just farted...

    FUCK! Who died?!?!




    Fucck you!!!!!!!

    All. Excep for you, an you, and maybe


    This Day Could Only Get Better...

    ...if some twat shot/stabbed/bludgeoned/beat to death some other twat, preferrably at the gravesite, while scrabbling around on the coffin.

    Oh wait, numb-nuts had hisself barbecued...let's try this again...

    ...if Steve and Val rammed a pipe up his scrawny ass, roasted him good and proper after filling his canoe with whatever rice/bread/stuffing/whatever, and fed him to the assembled, weeping throng.

    Sin Eaters, all.

    Lotta sin to eat, there.

    Now, I'm gonna go take a nap. No, NOT a 'Dirt Nap', just an alcohol-fueled cracker-zombie what the fuck regular old afternoon nap.

    Except for the 'probably shouldn't sleep on my back' part, like Jim Morrison/Jimi Hendrix/Mama Cass.

    Who else thinks 'Jimi' is a really gay-ass name? Show of hands?

    Ahhhh, fuck alla you cunts. No, I didn't say 'Allah', so don't get excited, you rag-fucks. Who'd wann fuck that dessicated faggots old ass, anyway?

    Talk about your 'pounding sand'.

    There now, I challenge any of you marsupials to write as well as this, at four of an afternoon. Buncha butt-chunks. Not that I get belligerent when I'm drunk.

    Fuck ya'll. I'll spell-check this later.

    Or not.

    One a ya turds remind me to tell ya'll about the swimming party we took the kids to, last night.

    Y'know what? Sprite, over ice really makes the Bended Canusuian Whiskey go down...I mean blended,I thingk.

    One should not do shots and attempt to remain coherent. Though I DO have a nice hardon.

    Okay, going to bed now



    Wherein I Give Nat A Wedgie...

    I celebrated the advent of new panties into our home by sending Nat's well and truly 'up the yellow brick road', as it were.

    I couldn't help myself. I am drinking boilermakers, the wife is out makin me some money, and Nat was just standing there, using the front door as a clipboard while she crayoned some piece of paper or other of special significance only to five year olds, and those pink panties, just shining there, on her little fat butt...

    It was inevitable.

    So, I lift her up on her toes by her panties, against the door, and scarper up the stairs, laughing like a madman, and she is doing the Dance of the Annoyed Fairy, from the Magic Flute, you know, the one where Aemon gets the wedgie from King Aeophus? Yeah, anyway, she is hopping in circles, trying to extricate her panties from her various crackages, and I am braying laughter, and she is shrieking the all purpose "Whatever!" over and over.

    "Whatever!" means "Fuck you, brutish asshole, and disappearer of panties into virgin territory!"

    I nuance, a bit, but I'm pretty sure that is an accurate translation. When coupled with the 'Angry Chimp' eyebrows, and the snarling lips, anyway.

    Which leads me to question why I am celebrating the death of an alcoholic by getting drunk, and even further on, to the shocking revelation that I do not actually like Jack Daniels all that much, and in fact, it tastes like all of the diabetic employees of the Jack Daniels company stood around the aging vats and whacked off into it.

    How do I come to suspect this, you ask? Well, quite simply because I have supped at the tender, moist flower at the center of several diabetic women over the years, and the nectar is sweet. As is their saliva, if you must know. While I do not enjoy breast milk in my coffee, and that's a fact right there, I will deliberaltely (note drunkish spelling, right there, and I shall not change it. Let it stand, as a testament to...whatever) seek out a pretty diabetic female, and suck her various effluvia from her like a starving hummingbird at a feeder, up to, but excluding, her turds.

    That's just nasty, right there. Ugh. About as nasty as this 'Jack Daniels+Keystone Light' burp I just horked up. Ptui.
    One of the hidden, and totally unexpected disadvantages of being poor. I'll give you that one.

    What was my point? Oh yeah, the point, besides the fact that my fingers ar numb...

    Besides Weller's, and Maker's Mark, I only really enjoy Canadian Whiskey, to my eternal shame. Maybe it's all of the acid rain in their water. Whatever. All that Southron bourbon tastes like elf-phlegm to me, and I cannot abide it.

    Except for this one last bottle, which I shall glurp, and then go down and do dishes to earn my damn keep around here. And Johnny claims he is 'starving'.




    Wanna Buy A Nice...

    ...used car?


        Wednesday, June 28, 2006

    Oh Man!

    I almost forgot! Blade the TV series starts tonight on Spike TV! 2 hours long, starts at 10pm!


    It looks really really good, too!

    Update and Review:

    I am a huge Blade fan. I own the movies and toys and comics, including the original First Appearances (paid homage to by that quick scene of the Tomb of Dracula comic on the wall of her brother's apartment).

    So, I believe that I speak with some authority when I say that I LOVED the show. Perfect. Seamless transition from film, to television, with no resulting loss of quality.

    LOVE the direction they're taking him. LOVE him as Blade. Perfect. They captured every aspect of the films, the mythos, and ran in whatever direction they wanted with it.

    You can tell that these people LOVE the material, and have respect for it, and are doing their best to present it, with no punches pulled.

    LOVE his co-stars. Perfect choices. In case you couldn't tell...




    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!

    The greatest threat to the war on terrorism isn't the Islamic insurgency — our military can handle the savages. It's traitorous liberals trying to lose the war at home. And the greatest threat at home isn't traitorous liberals — it's patriotic Americans, also known as "Republicans," tut-tutting the quaint idea that we should take treason seriously.



    And Now, For Something Completely Different...



    ...or Art?



    The Israelis...

    ...are apparently not in the mood to take any shit.

    So, can somebody explain to me why we tolerate our own citizens being raped and murdered by Illegal Invaders each and every day?

    Why we tolerate that fat old Nazi, who got himself elected Governor of California, refusing to contribute National Guard troops to the effort to stop the invasion?

    I bet if you run the numbers, more Americans have died at the hands of Illegal Invaders than people have died in all of the bombing and terror in Israel combined.

    Where's the outrage? Fucking beaners kidnap little American girls routinely, on their way back to Mexico, and fuck them all the way there, and then sell them into slavery.

    Where's the outrage?

    Now, who's gonna call me a racist first?



    Before you try to tell me that those little brown Illegal Invading cocksuckers come up here to fight our forest fires, just let me tell you that it is a known (as in several have been prosecuted for it) fact that they (and their families) start many of these fires, so their men can get work.


    And the companies that provide teams of forest-fire fighters should be prosecuted for scabbing illegals, right alongside the meat packers and fruit and vegetable packers.



    Oh, just shut the fuck up, you dumb bastards, and hold still while we kill you.

    Gosh, this is almost too easy.



    Hey You Turds! Cut It Out!

    If yer gonna put a damn Adobe Acrobat (.pdf) link in your post, warn a brother, okay?


    That damn trash wants to update, and loads about a bazillion fucking files, and then TSR's like a motherfucker unless you take the effort to give it the Three Fingered Salute and shut it down.

    And even if you warn me, I ain't gonna open it, unless it has tits in it; .pdf's are only useful for manuals and such, as far as I'm concerned.

    So cut it out. Dammit.



    My Wife Is A Slut...

    At least I hope so. You should hope yours is, to. In the right place and at the right time, anyway.

    Men want sluts. Men love sluts. Men seek out sluts. If they can't get one at home, they'll often stray out to find one.

    Women hate sluts, so a lot of perfectly good sluts hide it, or even go so far as to abandon their sluttiness, and that's just sad. Women, do not go to other women to learn how to please a man. Men, same thing. Don't talk to your guy friends to learn about women. Women rat each other out just fine.

    Come to think about it, I've gotten some pretty good tips on butt sex from gay guys, the acknowledged authority of the Hershey Highway...but we need not go there right now.

    Ahem. Where was I?

    Someone in the comments mentioned Pamela Anderson. The perfect slut! Seen her sex videos? Now that's how you want your woman, in bed. Anna Nicole Smith didn't quite make the cut, because of her annoying voice. I'd have to keep her mouth full all the time, and I fear I would develop a stutter.

    So ladies, tart it up all you want. Slut away. Just don't pop your gum. Or chew it at all, for that matter.

    I have broken up with more than one broad over chewing gum. I don't care how great the sex is, nothing is worth that.



    Famous Last Words...

    Bane... you remind me a lot of Cat.

    Posted by Acidman at June 24, 2006 06:48 PM

    As far as I know, those were Rob's last written words on earth.

    Not exactly sure how I feel about that.



    Bomb Threat...

    So, I receive this package in the mail, yesterday. It's kind of an odd shape, long, like you'd get flowers in or something. I sniff it and smell gunpowder, and set it down and run upstairs. I email LL, and she mocks me and says it's okay, and that it's from Li'l Toni, and Toni freaks out and acts embarrassed and emails me back to "throw it away and I'll make another one!" and I haven't even opened the damn box, yet.

    So I scamper back downstairs and rip open the box. Coolness ensues.

    Toni has made a doll-couch for Nat, frilly, pink, and Barbie sized. A pack of washable Princess pens. There's four new Hot Wheels for Johnny, tons of candy, and booze and a very nice cigar for me. I doubt that Toni suspected I'd be toasting Rob's departure tomorrow with good whiskey when she packed the box.

    The wife and kids were gone, so I called her and told her to tell the kids they had a surprise waiting when they got home, and I made a display on the bottom two steps of the stairwell.

    I watched from the upstairs landing as they came in the house, saw their goodies, and stopped dead in their tracks, and just goggled. They looked up at me in wonder, and then leapt for their goodies. They had no question as to whose was what. Watching John juggle four packs of Hot Wheels was painfully comical.

    He was so excited, and he kept counting them, and they'd slip out of his misshapen mitts, and finally he just sat right down and started tearing them open. Nat snatched up the toy couch and fluttered off to find a baby that needed to take a load off. All her dollies got to have a turn, and four of them ended up getting to sit on the couch, in front of a dollhouse TV.

    There's a lesson in there, somewhere.

    John finally freed the last of his Hot Wheels, and rushed to introduce them to his 'wace twack'. He slept with them under his pillow last night.

    The Jack Daniels sits on my desk, with the good cigar balanced on it.

    Tomorrow, at about 1pm or so, I'll pour it into a tumbler of ice, and step out on the back patio and fire up that cigar.

    Thanks, Toni. Wendy. You guys make life worth living.


        Tuesday, June 27, 2006

    You're Hired!

    I believe she just passed the audition.



    Speaking Of Death...

    When I go, I want a big kegger to be held, gravesite, and when ya'll piss, piss on my grave. But no shitting. That's just nasty.

    A privacy tent will be provided, along with urine-stench removing chemicals, cuz I don't want no pukin, neither.

    Just send me to Heaven, reeking of piss, and have Saint Peter have to hose me off in the driveway before he lets me in.


    Fuck you, Rob, you've got me half kakked of an afternoon, all maudlin, and worried about all the worms that would die from uric acid poisoning. Or worse, what if no one really gave a piss?

    Damn. That's just flat depressin, right there.

    Fuck. Hey, Kids O' Mine? At least pay some winos to do it, y'know, send me away with a decent piss-off.

    Okay? Thanks.




    The wife and I had a conversation a bit ago about whether or not she should take Ann Coulter's latest book (or any Coulter book, for that matter) to Johnny's therapy sessions and read it in the lobby while she waits, and Nat plays in the toys with the other tardlets.

    We decided, with very little effort, 'no'.

    Reverse the roles...have me in charge, and have some woman come in and begin reading a Michael Moore or Al Franken book...

    Would I be open-minded? Accepting?

    Would I do anything to harm her or her child?

    No. I would have no respect for her, but I'd treat her professionally, and not blame her on her kid.

    But you can't expect that sort of treatment from Liberals. As a matter of fact, you can expect exactly the opposite. Rude behavior, even deliberate sabotage.

    My car has been keyed for having a Marine sticker on the window. I couldn't imagine myself doing that to even the most foul hippy homo with the back of his Volvo plastered with stickery rants, voicing opinions that I hate.

    I pity you people with children, who willingly turn them over to the cesspits our schools have become. Especially you so-called Conservative parents.

    I'm just gonna wind myself up here, if I keep going, and I'm not in the mood. I'm distracted, too, for some reason. Still can't quite put my finger on it.

    There's been a disturbance in the force. I heard a hatchet thwack into a stump, and I suspect that the barnyard is less one rooster, and I could be...what, next?

    Oh well...



    I'm Missing Something...

    I can't quite put my finger on it. It's like when I put my tongue into the gap in my molars where a tooth used to be, yet not quite.

    Something's missing.

    Oh, don't worry, it'll come to me...



    A Lot Of Visitors, Today...

    I guess I should write something.


    There you go. Thanks for dropping by.


    To whom it may concern:

    Thanks for the Highlights subscription for the kids!

    It should help salve the wounds of childhood. Between that, and keeping me preoccupied playing Warhammer, perhaps they'll survive.

    Thanks again!


        Monday, June 26, 2006

    Roasting, In A Corner Of Hell...

    While certainly not as hot as whatever corner Acidman occupies, if he did not change his ways, 104 still impresses me enough to not move, so as to not break a broiling sweat.

    People in Arizona and Iraq call this a 'cold front'.

    You have to chug your beer (not like that's a bad thing) before it gets warm. The thermometer I have mounted here by my PC says 95, and the internal monitor in the PC says 111.

    Ya think Rob is enjoying being the center of attention? LL made me cloud up a while ago with this. I've wrote my piece, and squirted my tear, and tomorrow, I move on, leaving the past right where it is.

    But fuck it is hot.

    It bugs me, a little, that people think they understand me. Like they think they understood Rob. Those people are gonna be the ones who eulogise me when I'm gone, and they don't know shit.

    Sorry. I read the 'tributes' to Rob, and half the time I choke with near-horrified laughter. 'Scuse me? Are we talking about the same guy, here?

    Oh well, don't make me no nevermind. It's all been said and done, and the sun has set on many lives, today, and tomorrow brings many busloads and truckloads and stadiums full of more. Dead. Wounded. Maimed. Crippled.

    Left behind.

    Fatherless. Motherless. Parentless. Childless. Sisterless. Brotherless.

    All I wanna know, is will there be cake? I'm craving cake. The wife came home with Snickerdoodles, and they'll do just fine, I think.

    Hey, all you Rob-lovers? Why'nt ya go raid his garden. Collect some 'maters. Some peppers. Taters and such. Take em back home. Plant em in your own garden, and raise em, and when you eat them in whichever fashion you choose, think about Rob. Send a prayer out, or just maybe a good country fart.

    Enjoy those fresh green baby shoots that come up, that he couldn't even pick during his last days.

    And then go shoot a cat.

    He would have wanted it that way.


    Yeah, what he said...


    I think those gals of you who loved him should start a tribute blog, and put up 'Best Of' posts of his. Let his fans email you with suggestions and stuff. Just leave his original blog up, and close off comments on it. Oh, leave up the old comments, just no new ones.

    If I croaked, I think I'd be tickled if someone did that for me.



    I Never Liked Rob Smith, Much... the beginning, anyway. And I know all the saccharine most of you are pouring out on him would make him puke in his grave (if he is, indeed, truly dead, and I have my suspicions...)

    I first heard of him a few years ago, during the infamous Oliver Willis and massive Gutrumbles de-linking that was going on because he had called a bunch of niggers niggers, for acting like niggers in some basketball game fight or other.

    Loving Free Speech the way I do, and seeing the exercise thereof, and admiring it, I defended him, publicly, on my blog, and elsewhere. I read his shit, and he ain't no Shakestick, though he thinks (thought?) he was, and said so at every opportunity, and I had his 'friends' coming to me in email, telling me he wasn't all that, and that I was better, and...

    Who gives a fuck?

    Poor bastard couldn't pick women for shit. Rich in material wealth, with a soul as poor and tattered as a Bangladeshi beggar's underwear, whose own son wouldn't or couldn't see him, and a pile of tear-sodden Christmas presents that his son will likely never see...

    SteveH and Rob hail from the same place, near as I can tell, and though both of them play(ed?) host to a passle of bitterness, look what Steve has made for himself. Steve is a decent man, with family, and friends who he sees, and...

    Oh, he's alive. There is that.

    Rob? Perhaps not so much. He is extinct. An ex-blogger. Quit blogging for the final time. From womb temperature, to room temperature. No longer circling the drain, but down into the septic tank.

    I'd like to think God got him. He really was a good man. Underneath it all. Honest? Nope. He was a lying, deluding, self-deluding sonofabitch.

    I knew he was drinking weeks before the latest Livey snafu. Watched him act like a chimp all the time. Watching his 'friends' and enablers and fans and worshippers be clueless. I have years worth of private emails between he and I, where we spoke as men. For what it's worth, I am the same man in person you meet on my blog. He is/was not.

    Does this mean he was a bad man? No, far from it. For a human being, he was/is? one of the best specimens of the species I have ever encountered.

    I like(d) Rob Smith. I only knew him through his blog, his comments on mine, and the dozen or so emails we exchanged. He was/is a good man, and my little black heart feels a calcified twitch at his passing, mostly for selfish reasons.

    I enjoyed his blog, and it is always nice to have someone so fucked up they make you feel better about your own fucked up existence.

    And Quinton? You little bastard? Your mom is a cunt, and it is quite likely that Rob isn't even your real father, you little bastard. Enjoy the fact that the last thoughts going through his mind as he died on that couch were likely of you, you malformed log.

    Sam? I don't know what to say to you. Wish you could have driven him around there, near the end, like he wanted. Sorry you lost your Dad.

    Ruth? Kill yourself. Be the dog at Rob's Viking funeral. I'm sure he'd want it that way, your ass-fat crackling in the flames as the Long-boat smokes out to sea.

    See Rob? I can write better than you, and be more honest, too.

    I'm gonna miss your drama, bub, which is why I hope this is some sort of cosmic payback for me killing myself last April Fool's.

    If the Bubba of Bombast is truly no more, well...

    Just damn.



    Well, Isn't This...


    This gives me an idea. Surely there has to be a listing of Iraqi phone numbers somewhere, right? Phone books and such?

    The opportunities for prank calling just overwhelm me.

    Call an Iraqi police station: "Hello? Ragpersons? I can see you through my rifle scope! Duck!"

    Have pizzas delivered to them. Instruct the delivery person to yell "US Marines! Open Up!" and tell him they will get such a chuckle, he will likely get a big tip.

    Oh, I am guffawing here...

    "Dear sir or madam, we have found several new pieces of your son, the suicide bomber, on a nearby roof, and would like you to come collect them at your earliest convenience."

    I nearly just peed a bit. What a card I am!



    This Is What Guns Are...


    I would SO be shootin me some homos.

    When Lewis co-owned Trashy Diva, they attacked one of her partners in the French Quarter location, throwing her to the ground and tossing a heavy mannequin on top of her.
    “They’re kind of confused because they think they’re women so they don’t mind hitting women, but they’re dudes. If you get hit by one it’s like getting hit by a dude.




    I'm Angry...

    Not because of this. No, that is very cool. One of my readers emailed me asking about it, so I figured I'd post it again. There are several different configurations, here and there, but you should not pay more than $15, or you've been had. $20 max, if it included shipping.

    Sure, I can fly into a rage with the best of them, but it takes a lot to make me angry. Not the little pisstivity so many of you confuse with true anger, but the Biblical Vengeance, kill the babies salt the earth kind of anger.

    And I'm just about there.

    Another of my readers emailed me shortly after I posted of my recent violation at the hands of medical professionals. He had had a very similar experience. I also mentioned in my post about Johnny, and how I was concerned he had suffered as well, as they routinely use Verced on him when they do their 'procedures'.

    Now, when Verced works, I understand that it is a thing of beauty, a miracle drug. It is when it doesn't work that it becomes an abomination.

    And I'm not sure what to do about it. I have chickened out on the whole interrogating Johnny about his surgery memories and such. Maybe he had the same experience as me, maybe not. Mine was horrible. The guy in the aforementioned email had an experience that mirrors mine.

    I am not the kind of person to sue people, but I am seriously considering contacting an attorney in this case. Oh, I don't want a penny, but if this sort of thing is going on all the time, it needs to be stopped.

    And God help me, it is going on all the time.

    When I talked to my nurse last week (the infamous 'Suicide Call') I told her about my experience. And she quite blithely confirmed everything I feared. She told me bluntly that she transported patients all the time (daily) by the Short Stay area where they do the testing (all day) and she hears screaming and gagging and fighting each and every time.

    Each and every time.

    I'll just let that sink in.

    And then repeat it.

    Each and every time.

    I am going to ponder this, and talk to Johnny. I'm still not sure what I'm going to do, all I know is that somebody needs to do something.

    Any intelligent suggestions will be appreciated.


        Sunday, June 25, 2006

    Otter-Pops and Burgundy...

    I am a gourmand.

    7:30 pee-em, and it is 101 degrees. I am here to tell you that the purple Otter-Pop is the best, I think, in a lager glass full of already chilled burgundy.

    Of course, I have yet to try the red one, or the blue (my personal fave). I am pretty sure the green and orange ones would be disgusting.

    FUCK it's hot. I have Nat checking her cheeks for 'melted eyeball'. I have convinced her and John that their sweat means their eyeballs are melting. Nat is currently outside my room praying to God that her Grandparents, her Mother, and her toys do not melt during this current period of heckalacious heat.

    Parenting, people. Like I always tell you, it's all about the parenting.

    Johnny wanted to dance. I feigned horror. "Do you want to melt into a little puddle of boy juice?" I asked.

    Yes, I said boy juice. Sue me.

    Nat is now swooping around, singing a song 'to protect the animals from melting'. All the douchebags on the news that are touting GLOBAL WARMING! are really helping me out, here.

    "SEE?!" And I turn the sound up on the TV.

    It is helpful that Libtards have the minds of precocious five year olds. Makes it easier to get one over on them.

    Thanks, Libtards!



    Eat My Pee-Pee...

    Sorry, I just finished watchin 'House of a 1,000 Corpses'. While the wife and kids are at church. DON"T YOU DARE JUDGE ME!!!

    I enjoyed it, a lot. Liked the sequel a lot better, but this was pretty cool.

    The wife is bringing Arby's. I shall sooth my gut with Beef & Cheddar, wine, and sleep like a somnolent pig on my newly repaired mattress, a fan laving me with fluffed air, and thankful that the 101 degree temp is lurking just outside, rather than in. A pack of flaming hellhounds, pacing around the exterior of my domicile.

    Hey Rob, you dead yet? Hope not. I wanna hear your groupies justify your behavior. All mine have my number, I think, and know what kind of asshole I am. I hope.

    You know what pisses me off? Blogger's Spell Check refuses to learn cuss words. Fucking Google-esbians. Yeah, check that, motherfuckers.

    Okay, I'm gonna go take a shower, and soap my sweaty nipples, and then eat Food de Junque. With Horsey Sauce.

    And then rest, as Our Lord commands it, this being the seventh...ooops! The eighth day? First Day?

    What the fuck?



    Lesbians Can't Fly!

    I just wanted to say that, and share this with you.



    All You Need... read, for the day.

    Go on, scoot!


        Saturday, June 24, 2006

    Fun With Suicide...

    Suicide...the sincerest form of self-criticism.

    "Well, I guess he/she was serious..." as they bag up the remains of what was once a human being, and haul it away, like so much garbage.

    The suicide that stands out in my mind, and perhaps the only one that makes me sad, was that of a ten year old boy who hung himself with an extension cord from the rod in his closet, wearing his favorite He-Man pajamas. He left a note, and the Base paper published it, along with his latest, smiling yearbook photo.

    It said "Dear Mom and Dad, I am sorry to hear you fighting so much about money. I am going away, so you will have more money for food and stuff, and so my baby brother can get new clothes. I am sorry that I made you fight so much. Goodbye. Pablo."

    Sleep with Jesus, little guy.

    I was joking with the VA nurse yesterday on the phone, about my likely suicide. I had filled out a psychological questionnaire, and she called in a panic, to see if I was opening my veins in the tub or not. I got the feeling she had the sheriff on the other line.

    I laughed and laughed, and she seemed relieved. We talked, and she left with her eyes open. People get weird when you don't seem to give a shit one way or the other if you live or die.

    Now, that attitude, in a young person, is psychotic, and should engender some sort of intervention, preferably involving restraints and heavy medication.

    But in a sick, old man? Facing the setting sun of his life? If you are not questioning your continued existence, and whether it is all worth it or not, well, I submit to you that you do not have any sort of communication channels open into yourself, and you are a stunted, self-deluded person.

    Just don't get all morbid about it. That's just boring, and likely indicative of some sickness in you that needs to be addressed in some way.

    Many creatures have the ability to contemplate, and make plans for their own demise. And I have seen birds and mammals mourn themselves to death over the death of a mate, or a youngling.

    To say humans are any different, is just knee-jerk denial, and inaccurate, to boot.

    When the sack of meat that you are begins to fail, and spring leaks, and reward consciousness with near constant pain, it is completely normal to consider your options to make it stop.


    I'm looking forward to Morphine...

    Update: (6-28-06)

    In retrospect, the post above seems rather...prescient, eh?




    She Appears To Mock Them...

    ...but I happen to think these are pretty damn good.

    A few are awe inspiring.



    Do You Need...

    ...any more reason to hate John Murtha? Well, here ya go! (from email):

    Forwarded to me by a friend:

    I've been listening to Congressmen Jack Murtha's negative comments about the war in Iraq for some months now. I've heard him repeatedly described as a'war hero'.

    Thirty-seven years in the Marine Corps.


    I visualize a burly ex-Marine, his chest bedazzled with medals, the survivor of countless combats in Korea, Vietnam, and the Gulf War. A man who knows war and combat from the inside out. A man with the experience that allows him to see that the war in Iraq is hopeless, and we should all quit and go home.

    Although I've been turned off by Murtha's remarks, I never questioned his war hero status. Nor has our liberal press, which is why Murtha has been getting away with his charade. Then the other day, bingo! I suddenly knew something was rotten in Denmark about Jack Murtha's war hero status. I've been bothered by his comments in the past, but his latest remarks about Marines killing civilians in cold blood caught my attention.

    Whether this turns out to be true or not, something just didn't compute. No real Marine who's 'been there' would prejudge combat troops prior to the release of a military inquiry. That was the moment when I woke up and said, "Hey, I'm going to check this guy out."

    And what did I find? Did I find a man of vast operational experience with an extensive combat record? No. I found a man whom fellow congressman Don Bailey of Pennsylvania, Silver Star and three Bronze Stars, calls 'a liar and a phony'. A man who came to Bailey crying and sobbing, thanking him for saving Murtha from the ethics committee (on ABSCAM-related charges) at which time he admitted to Bailey that his Purple Hearts weren't earned.

    I found a man with a couple of years of active duty, and the rest of his 37-year career spent in the Marine Corps Reserve.

    I found a man who served in the Marines during Korean War, yes, but somehow never actually made it to Korea.

    I found a man with one year in Vietnam, not 'up front', but in the rear area, as a staff intelligence officer.

    I found a man who's no more been in combat, or is a war hero, than I am.

    Even John Kerry has more combat experience than Jack Murtha.

    I know flight attendants who have spent more time in Danang than him.

    So, what is a War Hero?

    Well at the bare minimum, a war hero would have to be somebody who's actually been in combat, somebody who's been in direct contact with the enemy over some extended period of time, somebody who's been shot at and/or had their life repeatedly threatened like the Infantry or the Army, Navy, Marine Corps, and Air Force pilots who flew over Vietnam; somebody who has performed his or her duties in a heroic manner.

    So, what is Jack Murtha?

    Just one more scheming politician, a Democrat, sensing a change in the direction of the political winds. A man who volunteered for a year's duty in Viet Nam as a staff intelligence officer, so he could come home and run for Congress in 1968 as a war hero.


    Sound familiar? A man who's thinking about the next election, and hoping he's on the right side when it comes.

    As a citizen, and as a Congressman, Murtha has every right to express his opinion on the Iraq War - but not cloaked in the mantle of a Marine Corps war hero with vast experience in such matters. His comments are very destructive to the morale of our troops, and have only one objective...

    To get re-elected.

    See..... Murtha's War Hero Status Called Into Question By Marc Morano and Randy Hall, Staff, January 13, 2006



    So, I Hear Screaming...

    Terrified screaming. I'm pretty sure it's not Albert Queada, so I run downstairs unarmed, and Nat is having a conniption because some carnivorous plant has seized the little girl with a tentacle and is trying to eat her, and Robin Williams is whacking it with a sword.

    Yes, folks, today is Jumanji Day at Bane House.

    I cannot watch it, as the tape is old, and jitters, and I fear I may end up on my back on the floor, doing the Funky Chicken with a stick between my teeth, and foaming while the children scream even louder.

    But the screams waft up like something good is cooking downstairs. Good. Toughen em up, I say.

    Again, I ask you, what's so hard about parenting? Now, I just have to figure out how to sneak a garden hose into the house, combine it with a plant looking thing made from construction paper, and creeping up on Nat with it.

    Parenting is fun.




    A shout out to whoever picked up the Pilgrim's Progress and the Warhammer PC game for me. You da person!

    I can't believe no one has snagged the Princess Scepter for Nat, yet. As soon as I saw it, I just knew that there were several places on Johnny's head designed perfectly to be whapped with it. And thence to be written about, by me, in hilarious and droll fashion.

    Oh well.

    You people rock, whomever you are.

    BTW, I fixed a leak again in my bed, yesterday, and by midnight or so, I was sleeping flat on the floor again, too tired (read, uh, drunky-poo?) to do anything about it.

    This morning, I reflate and inspect, and what to my little eye shall appear but a .22 size hole in the fucking bottom! of my bed. Pouring out air so fast as to blow the hair back on my head. But last night, it was doing it quietly into the carpet, so I didn't hear it.

    I looked on Amazon and found this, and this. Have any of you ever used either one? They both look great, but I think I'm gonna get the first one, when we've save up enough shekels. Until such time, I shall get enjoy the smell (and positive mental effects) of Toluene.
    I will never purchase another Aero Bed or product again. This is the third one Costco has given me because of leaks, and they quit carrying the line, too. At least in this store. I have probably patched at least twenty leaks on this fucker, alone. Like I said, with the sheet and pad off, it looks like the bottom of a cafeteria dining table, it's got so many gobs on it.

    Well, have a Happy Saturday, those of you who have ordered your weeks around the weekend. It's pretty much just another day for me. For us. The wife is practicing old-timey hymns on her piano, and the songs bring back memories, oh yes they do. Probably will, as well, for the old people in the rest home she is going to go play them for tonight, as she does quite often. Yes, Charlene, et al, she is indeed a saint.

    A keeper, for sure.


        Friday, June 23, 2006

    Dual Purpose Prayer...

    I am posting this prayer request for several reasons.

    First, because she asked for prayer, and even though I'm a tad hurt she didn't ask me, I am still happy to comply.

    Second, because even mentioning Livey is likely to piss several people off, and that tickles me pink.

    Hey! I don't like pink! Don't go inferring anything, bitches.

    Now pray, maggots!




    I had 'Sympathy For The Devil' playing on continuous loop, because of the post below, and the wife came popping out of my room, and grinned at me as I trode up the stairs toward her:

    "You must be writing something pretty horrific, with that song going on..."

    I looked at her quizzically, and told her, that, no, I just had it on because I found it on someone else's blog, and she, snickered, and her mouth formed a small, sarcastic moue, and since this bespoke disrespect, and peeved me somewhat, I took my machete and carved it into her soft belly, and lifted her up against the bathroom mirror, she naked, preparatory for her shower...

    Glass cracked, and the blood ran warm, back down my wrist, tickling my arm hairs, before matting them into syrupy congealment...

    She coughed, and her eyes grayed as she tried to focus on mine, asking the eternal question...


    This small writing sample brought to you by...

    The devil.


    Almost immediately after posting this, the wife came out of the shower and heard me chuckling. She asked me what was so funny. She read this. She whapped me on the back of the head.

    No sympathy, no respect. I suffer for my art...



    Pretty Cool...

    Nice covers, from competent musicians.

    Via someone with a vagina.

    Am I too crass?

    I'll change for you...




    You Cheap Bastards!

    I just went and checked my ad, and only eleven of you have even bothered to click on it!

    Do you want your kids to grow up to be Democrats! Fools!




    What, THREE of you?! All day?! Blogging really is a waste of time. I'm sorry I ever doubted you, SteveH.



    28. That's a little better, but not by much. Have I mentioned that it's FOR THE CHILDREN?!?!!!



    Not Much To Say...

    I haven't decided when to scare the shit out of the kids, yet. Can I even wait til tomorrow?

    I somehow came into possession of a copy of Jumanji, which I was reminded of owning by virtue of said movie being on television today. I let Nat watch ten minutes of it on TV, ten minutes of which she spent screaming and peeking out from between her fingers, so just imagine how much fun the entire movie will be, without ads.

    I only wish I had seen it before myself, so I knew all the good parts, and could grab her and scream just as they occurred.

    I may end up with the first gray-haired five year old in history.

    And I may have gone too far with my spider phobia. As I have said before, spiders freak me out, yet I can smash one with my hand if I have to. And the resulting loose stool is merely a bonus.

    BUT! I have made a big show about freaking out over our arachnid co-habitants, and I think Little Missy has taken it more to heart than I had hoped. We are talking histrionics, here. MAJOR histrionics, which would be fine, but they are accompanied with volume, screeching that makes fine crystal collapse into piles of glittering dust.

    She screeches, Johnny cries, and I have to go change my pad. And the spider scarpers off like a motherfucker, deafened, no doubt, and then we have to go on a spider hunt, I now armed with my trusty zapper.

    Nat is good for something, though, I'll tell you. She can spot a fucking spider from a mile away. And this morning, she spotted one by the front door, no bigger than a black ant. She freaked out, of course. She had been playing Detective, with John's new magnifying glass, and I challenged her to correctly identify the corpus as a spider, since it was quite clearly an ant; she loomed in with her lens, identified the beastie (correctly, as it turned out) as a blood-sucking spider, and achieved near-earth orbit when I blew on the spider and it 'jumped' at her eye.

    And screamed. We must work on that. I tire of sweeping up glass.

    John watches, bemused. I tell him to step on it, and stomp, it's done. I'm reminded of the peasants in the old Warcraft games (not that new abomination, played by girls and homosexuals...dancing, for gosh sakes!) ..."Job's done..."

    Now there was a damn good game. That needs to be the next optimized for XP DVD to come out. All of the old Warcraft games and expansions.

    I couldn't help but notice how much Johnny looks like a real boy, today. Oh, he's not, but sometimes the resemblance is just heartbreaking. And like programming a robot, he manages to use phrases and resemble his human counterparts to a very close degree, sometimes.

    He has the wife fooled, or rather, she has herself fooled, because she wants to believe so bad, her heart tugs her in false directions. Men should never shop for tools without a woman at their side, clucking and holding on to the checkbook, and women should not be allowed to make substantive decisions about their children without the father present. The violation of that basic law results in abominations like Sailor Suits, and Family Pictures.

    The wife has involved our kids in a group swimming event in the near future, and begged me to participate, because whatever male hormones present in her mushy girl mind screamed out above the buzz of her silly female hormones that taking a five year old who cannot swim, into the pool along with a crippled kid possessing the buoyancy properties of, oh, a spear! might result in one or more funerals.

    So now I must go, and there is no fucking way I am A) Getting into swimwear or B) Getting into the water.

    Blug Blug, little buddy, gonna miss ya! But I will squawk and direct some young, svelte father to the last known position of said spear, and hope John hasn't inhaled too much water.

    Oh well, though the wife has been spayed, I remain fertile, and like Doritos, I can make more.

    Not that I'll likely have the heart for it...



    Stop The Presses!

    I read this with horror and disgust.

    Freedom of the Press, my ass. Lock these cocksuckers up, and smash their presses with sledgehammers.



    Is Dead?

    Dammit. I went there today, like I do nearly every day, to get a password so I could read an article on (and no, I will never register with those cunts) and I found the site was dead.

    A little research led me to this. Crap.

    If they start up somewhere else, somebody clue me in, won't you?



        Thursday, June 22, 2006

    How William Shatner Changed The World...

    Keep an eye out for this awesome, two hour show. Truly eye opening, and just lots of fun.

    It's nice when you can have a hoot, and learn something at the same time.



    There Can Be Only Two Conclusions...

    ...about this.

    Your government will kill you, and cover it up.


    They don't give a shit when you are killed by terrorists.

    And will still cover it up.



    Read It And Weep...

    ...part whatever.

    Speaks for itself.

    Found via Acidman.



    Why We Will Lose...

    ...if we don't change our ways.

    Right here.

    We set this cocksucker up, and he spits on the grave of every brave American who gave their life for his shitty country.

    Our 'leaders' have no will to fight, to win. We took Iraq in what, a week? And we are still being bled dry, physically and financially, how many YEARS! later?

    Shit, or get off the pot.

    We have no real allies in the world. Tony Blair? He just traded Clinton's dick in his mouth for GW's. His country is a weak, pitiful, mewling thing, dying by degrees, and it won't be long before a crescent flag hangs over Downing Street.

    So, too, with the rest of Europe. Except for maybe France, who is showing a surprising amount of testicular fortitude, I must say.

    The only thing that can shake us out of our current paradigm, where PC Nazis rule the day, and madness rules all of our governmental decisions, is some sort of major upheaval. War. Pestilence. Something from beyond earth. Something. Anything.

    Of course, any such will also let the god of this earth cement his plans, and take us closer to Paul's vision.

    And I'm just fine with that, too.

    Apocalypse? Bring it on...




    The Paleo-loons, in their native habitat.

    Sent to me by a reader, who routinely sends me cool stuff. Thanks, guy. If you have a blog and want me to hype it, let me know.


        Wednesday, June 21, 2006


    That's the first thought to pop into my head tonight, while watching Hannity & Colmes.

    They showed a teaser for Sean's interview, later, with...fuck. I literally just forgot her name. Oh, Whoopie Goldberg. Named after the cushion, no doubt.

    I was only watching this shit, tonight, because the Goddess Ann was on. I enjoyed her evisceration of libtardia, as usual, leaving their component parts spread about in steaming chunks.

    Sean is a bumble-head, a 'useful idiot' of the Right, but he comported himself well, tonight.

    Colmes maintains the whole 'Ugly cat spritzed in the face with a spray bottle' look he seems to have trademarked.

    And who is that blonde rodent-toothed pole-dancer they dug up to attempt to rebut the Goddess Ann? When I need a dam built from a copse of aspens, baby, I'll call you. Until then, you and your 'power shoulder' suit can go somewhere...perhaps to give a Pee-Wee football team a practice dummy. Just don't bite them.

    Goddess? Cut down on the bluish eye make-up? Just a suggestion. Makes you look like something that belongs in a tropical fish tank.

    I do so love the sinister Goth-Light black thing you do, though.

    Love your book, btw. You rock, of course.

    Dang, I am such a mooncalf...



    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!

    I feel a certain kinship with her; just knowing that the words I write are going to piss someone off who desperately needs pissing off, as well as, perhaps, being pissed upon, makes me wiggle like a happy puppy.

    Or like a buzzard that is the first one to find a basket of dead babies...

    See how this works?



    Read it! Read it! You luzer naysayers!

    Hah! In your faces!



    I Hate Hippies, BUT...

    ...I wish these hippies all the luck in the world against the oppressive, fascist, unneccesary US Fucking Forest Service.

    Fuck those Forestry assholes. They ruin the fun for everybody, and are the main reason (next to lightning) that our forests burn.

    The US Government has no damn business taking public land, unless they need to put a military base on it.

    Go hippies, go! Break some pig heads for me!




    The Movie Of Your Life Is Film Noir

    So what if you're a little nihilistic at times?
    Life with meaning is highly over-rated.

    Your best movie matches: Sin City, L. A. Confidential, Blade Runner



    Who'd A Thunk It...

    You Are 28 Years Old

    You Are 28 Years Old

    Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe.

    13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world.

    20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences.

    30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more!

    40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

    I figgered I'd get 18.



    I Probably Shouldn't Tell You This...

    Every time I share some great bargain in the booze world, some nimrod goes out and ruins it for everybody.

    The parts of my life where I have not been well off, I have been pretty darn poor, so I have learned how to mine the bottom shelf for booze bargains.

    A long time ago, I found this dago red wine on the bottom shelf called 'Tavola Red'. Green screw top cap, red and white checkerboard label, green glass bottle, the works. But as I held the bottle in my hand, I noted a sparkle to it, more of a glitter, actually. It was extremely cheap, and my SO and I were throwing a spaghetti feed for our friends from nursing school and the hospital I worked at, so I grabbed every bottle they had, and took them home.

    To this very day, it has remained the most exquisite red wine I have ever had. A cheap (extremely) import from Italy, and people were taking the empties home from the party so they could go find it for themselves.

    We all enjoyed this wine on the cheap for weeks, maybe months, and then someone spilled the beans, and the greedy liquor store owner jacked up the price, moved the wine up to top (well, middle) shelf, and put it out of my reach, except upon occasion.

    The wife and I shop at low rent canned food emporiums a lot. They are kind of like The Island of Misfit Food and Beverage Products. Stuff that didn't get picked up by the big chain stores, gets sold to them at great discount, and it is possible, if you shop very carefully, to find genuinely good, gourmet products at very low cost.

    We are currently enjoying these hot bread and butter pickles that the wife picked up on impulse, and they are wonderful. So good, her next order of business is to go grab the rest of the case, because it is just a fluke that they have it at all. They just buy remainders.

    Which is a great way to get really good micro-brew beer, as well, that rivals any ale or dark beer you would pay stupid money for in a big store. For just a couple of bucks a six pack, I am drinking this amazing amber ale, only because I already finished off an even better pale ale first, which was magical.

    They do the same thing with wineries, too. No-name vineyards, trying to break in, having to sell their product somewhere. And we have enough of an eye for good wine, that we are seldom wrong with our choices.

    I have become so much a wine snob, now, that I scoff at any wine that wants more than $3 a bottle for theirs. Okay, I'll put out $15 for a bottle of 2001 BV Napa Valley Merlot for my birthday, but that's it.

    Now, don't go messing this up for me, okay?

    Mum's the word.



    A Moneymaking Idea...

    ...just for you. Take it, and run with it.

    Have you ever heard a song in an ad jingle, or elsewhere on TV, or in a movie, and just couldn't quite put your finger on who it was? Maybe it was some sort of cover song, or just the melody...whatever.

    Wouldn't it be great to be able to go to a website, and whistle/hum/whatever the tune into your PC's microphone, and have the website look up the tune and give it to you? The title, and everybody who has ever coverd the song? The album it came off of? Sell it to you for a nominal fee if you want it?

    Damn, that would be cool.

    Get on it.



    Where Should I Start?

    I'm having one of those 'Everybody is a wiener so I'm gonna quit blogging forever' kind of days.

    Well, two of you, maybe three, are NOT wieners, the rest of you...well, let's just say 'I've got my eye on you'.

    I really hate to lose readers who used to give me money. What can I say? I've got core principles, and I tend to stick to them. Don't like it? There's the door. You know the one, swings both ways? Try not to let it hit you in the ass? That one?

    Yep. Buhbye.

    No, of course I'm not gonna quit blogging. Don't be silly. Yea, though I be surrounded by chuckleheads upon occasion, I shall fear no weevil, for thou fart with me. I shall comfort my rod in the anus of mine enemies, and verily, shalt Leviathan spread forth his seed upon the barren, thoughtless minds of the wicked.

    So there.

    First day of summer, eh? Brings out all the witches and bitches, I guess. We are enjoying an otherwise pleasant high of 73 degrees, puffy white clouds overhead, reverse ack-ack. Like Santa Clot's sled tipped over and spilt out all of the feminine hygiene products he was delivering to all the good little girls with cramps.

    I don't know why I bother to read the news, anymore. I came into the world pre-pissed off, I don't need any help. I see that a market in Florida is going all biometric. Great. Just great. Slippery slope, here we come.

    The god of this earth is moving all the pieces into place. One day, sooner than later, methinks, the noose will be comfortably settled under all of our chins, the knot rubbing against our left ear, and we will be teetering on a rickety chair, waiting to have it kicked out from under us.

    Oh well, I hear that you cum when your neck snaps, which is cool.

    I just hope I'll be able to feel it...



    More, From The...

    ...'They Just Don't Fucking Get It' files.

    You get an opponent on the ropes, you don't let up!

    Why is this so hard to understand?




    Via Acidman, I am treated with this perfidy first thing this morning.

    So 'we' (conservatives, I presume) 'get' the Supreme Court, and this is the kind of shit they hand us? Thanks, Conservative Justices, but no thanks.

    And their reasoning? That affected plaintiff's could seek redress against offending police agencies in civil court at a later date? Have they not heard the phrase 'You can't fight City Hall'?


    Oh well, the end of it all is moving briskly towards us, in ways I couldn't have imagined in my most fevered dreams.




        Tuesday, June 20, 2006

    Read It...

    ...and weep.


    ...and weep some more.




    ...someone says something so stupid, that it takes me awhile to figure out just why it was so stupid.

    You know how it is? Like their Stupid Rays stunned you for a bit. You recognize stupid when you see it, you're just too stunned by the Stupid Rays to be able to comprehend why, just then.

    Well, recently I have had a few commenters insult the Goddess Ann, and as part of their mindless jibber-jabber, they accused her of being 'too harsh...shrill...hateful...whatever'.

    I was just having a contemplative moment between me, my moustache, and a pair of scissors, a bit ago, and it hit me with the force of revelation:

    Then what in the FUCK! are you doing reading here?!




    Is The Opposite Of...

    ...'independantly wealthy' 'independantly poor'? Or would that be 'dependantly poor'?

    I would like to be independantly wealthy, but I'll not put any effort into it, unless you count 'waiting for someone to die' as effort. And I don't have any rich relatives left, anyway. Leastways, none who would write me into a will. So that's a wash.

    Speaking of writing, there is that, but it's not going so well, as in, I am not doing any of it. Lately, anyway. Well, except for this crap.

    I hear about some rich old douchebag dying and leaving millions to her cats, and I just wanna go dig her up, bring her back to life, and kill her all over again. Stupid bitch.

    There is so much damn money floating around out there...I mean, look at those Katrina victims. Go live on a flood plain, get douched, and the government buys you strippers and plasma TV's. Go figure.

    I have been well off, and even rich, several times, and the perfidy and stupidity (often combined) of others has always laid me low. That, and fate. God's Will. Whatever.

    Ninety-Nine times out of a hundred, I can look at it and laugh, wryly, maybe, but laugh. But sometimes, ya just gotta whine. So here's mine:


    There, I've got 99 more chances to laugh, now, and I think I prefer that.

    So there.



    Who Cares About North Korea...

    ...with serious shit like this going on?

    I mean it. Seriously, if the Norks fire their one little missle and hurt anybody, The Malignant Midget Of The North will be vapor, along with his flying monkeys, and the North and the South can reunite, and who gives a fuck after that? And I hope they do nuke Chicago. Or L.A.. Or, pretty please, Seattle?

    Africa already came pre-fucked up for your shopping convenience, and I would not otherwise give a shit what those idiots do to each other. But they will threaten all sorts of shipping lanes...heck, piracy is already a huge issue around there, so I think it's time we stand off some battleships a few miles offshore, and use Somalia for a firing range.

    Just flatten anyplace that looks like there might be a muslim loon in it.

    It's for the best.



    And So It Goes...

    I had more hits on my sitemeter at 11am this morning than I usually get all of a busy day, and I can't figure out where they're coming from. I am getting a lot of referrals from SondraK, but I looked, and can't find any link to me from her. Weird.

    Atlas Shrugs (who agrees with me about taking the gloves off...or is it me agreeing with her...whatever) hit me a couple of weeks ago, and now, whoever. Makes my monthly stats look snaggletoothed.

    And not one friggen thin dime from the lot of you.





    I don't get hungry often, anymore, so when I do, I take advantage of it, guilt free. It's likely to be my only meal of the day, whenever it is, and I don't eat after 5 or 6pm anymore, anyway.

    So, my tummy growled, and I prowled the kitchen, and to what did my wondering eyes appear, but six or eight ounces of leftover Ribeye, steak fries, and some well-clotted sharp cheddar mac & cheese.

    The days having been cool, and the nights downright cold, the two skillets the wife used Sunday were still on the back burner and the counter, because I have issued standing orders that any beef tallow that is created is to be saved and nurtured.

    So, I preheated the front left burner to 5, and then placed the smallest skillet on it when it was hot. The fat began to render immediately. 30 seconds later, and I shake the steak out of the baggie into the skillet, and it begins to sizzle.

    A minute later, I dump the wedge fries into a pool of grease, and turn the meat. Then I slice three one inch slices of mac & cheese into the last third of the pan, and they begin to sizzle and crisp.

    Folks, it was heavenly. And I am drinking red wine and watching tivo'd 'Desperate Housewives', the wife and kids are gone, and all is right with the world.

    All Hail the Lord of Lard!




    I am cognizant of things that would blow your minds. People, you would not believe who contacts me privately, and tells me things. Shows me things. You would be blown away by who I have naked pictures of, for instance.

    People trust me, as well they should, and I believe I have earned that trust, and I shall never violate it.

    I am always amazed when I find out someone has been lurking here for a while, and then they email me and compliment me and/or tell me something.

    I am amazed when I hear about various things our government is planning, doing, and/or involved in. Do I know it all? Nope, but I know a lot, and much of it, I can't or shall not write about.

    But you'd be amazed. I know I am.

    This humble blog is honored that some of you people come around. I shall endeavor to entertain, and to retain your trust.




    Take The Gloves Off!

    If I were in charge, I would have my men go into that town and behead every male over the age of, say, ten, and line the roads with their heads on poles, and burn their bodies in a pile.

    These motherfuckers must pay, and most especially this one.

    Disobey orders if you have to. Suspect these fuckers are in a village? Flatten it. Fuck hearts and minds. Shoot them in the heart, and blow their fucking brains out.

    Or just fucking leave, but quit being pussies.

    Killem all.


    Like I said, killem all.


        Monday, June 19, 2006

    I LOVE Crap Like This...

    "Stewardesses" is the longest word typed with only the left hand and "lollipop" with our right.

    Maine is the only state whose name is just one syllable.

    No word in the English language rhymes with month, orange, silver, or purple.

    "Dreamt" is the only English word that ends in the letters "Mt".

    Our eyes are always the same size from birth, but our nose and ears never stop growing.

    The sentence: "The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog" uses every letter of the alphabet.

    The words 'racecar,' 'kayak' and 'level' are the same whether they are read left to right or right to left (palindromes).

    There are only four words in the English language which end in "dous": tremendous, horrendous, stupendous, and hazardous.

    There are two words in the English language that have all five vowels in order: "abstemious" and "facetious."

    TYPEWRITER is the longest word that can be made using the letters only on one row of the keyboard.

    All 50 states are listed across the top of the Lincoln Memorial on the back of the $5 bill.

    A dime has 118 ridges around the edge.

    A cat has 32 muscles in each ear.

    A goldfish has a memory span of three seconds.

    A "jiffy" is an actual unit of time for 1/100th of a second.

    A shark is the only fish that can blink with both eyes.

    A snail can sleep for three years.

    Al Capone's business card said he was a used furniture dealer.

    Almonds are a member of the peach family.

    An ostrich's eye is bigger than its brain.

    Babies are born without kneecaps. They don't appear until the child reaches 2 to 6 years of age.

    February 1865 is the only month in recorded history not to have a full moon.

    In the last 4,000 years, no new animals have been domesticated.

    If the population of China walked past you, 8 abreast, the line would never end because of the rate of reproduction.

    If you are an average American, in your whole life, you will spend an average of 6 months waiting at red lights.

    Leonardo Da Vinci invented the scissors.

    On a Canadian two dollar bill, the flag flying over the Parliament building is an American flag.

    Peanuts are one of the ingredients of dynamite.

    Rubber bands last longer when refrigerated.

    The average person's left hand does 56% of the typing.

    The cruise liner, QE2, moves only six inches for each gallon of diesel that it burns.

    The microwave was invented after a researcher walked by a radar tube and a chocolate bar melted in his pocket.

    The winter of 1932 was so cold that Niagara Falls froze completely solid.

    There are more chickens than people in the world.

    Winston Churchill was born in a ladies' room during a dance.

    Women blink nearly twice as much as men.



    Emergency Room Visit...

    The other day, I had to go to the emergency room.

    Not wanting to sit there for 4 hours, I went to the Army-Navy store, and bought some OD pants and a shirt. Then I sewed a couple of patches on which I grabbed from the internet.

    It was amazing how many people left as I walked in. I guess they suddenly decided they weren't that sick after all.

    Here is the patch that you can sew on your clothing
    if you are in need of quicker emergency service.


    No, I did not actually do this. Duh-duh-duhmbshits...






    A good song, from some blog I never heard of, to whack off to while looking at those pics...uh, if you are so inclined.

    Don't set your dick on fire...



    For SondraK...



    Desperately Sucking Susan...

    So, I've been happily following the implosion of the Episcopalian 'Church'.

    'Episcopalian' is the answer to the question "What could possibly be more Leftist and perverted than Catholicism." Heh, indeed.

    Singing "We've gotta get you a woman!" they elect a broad to run the place, and there goes the spiritual neighborhood. Vox covers the issue nicely here; I am not here to quote facts, or to clarify the issue, but merely to gloat, mock, and vilify.

    One reason, perhaps the main reason I do not attend church, is that I do not believe that women should hold pastoral, leadership roles in church, and good luck trying to find a church today where women do not hold some sort of leadership role.

    Hey, ya'll do whatever you want, but I choose not to get into the handbasket with you, thank you so very much.



    After Action Report...

    Well, I've crapped twice, now. Once at 3am or so, and just now. Well, a few minutes ago, not right here in the chair.

    Folks, those ranked right up there with the best steaks I have ever had, and that means in the top five, including gourmet restaurants and steaks I have made myself.

    The wife asked me a while back what I wanted for Father's Day (to eat, we too po for gifts) and I told her, and we figured Dad would like the same stuff, and besides, beggars can't be choosers, eh?

    Anyway, the basic menu was Ribeyes, of which my sister picked up fifty bucks worth, but only had to pay twenty-five, because she had a coupon. Cool.

    And I wanted the wife's scratch made mac & cheese, which is, quite simply, to die for; And we had garlic/French bread, and they had some sort of salad if they wanted any. And the wife made a kick-ass fruit salad for dessert (with fresh pineapple!) and drizzled marshmallow sauce over it and served heart shape cakes on the side, pink of course, because Nat (mostly) made them. Oh, and the wife used a can of cherry pie filling in the fruit salad, too, kinda as a base. Whatever, it was delicious, and kept my stool soft.

    So, the impetus behind me wanting the Ribeye, is because I keep seeing Alton Brown (and hearing Steve) talk about pan-fried steak, so I printed out Alton's recipe, and had her do it by the numbers, timer and all.

    Folks, it really works. And it is not the huge pain in the ass we feared, but just really quick and simple, and I've had steak as good a few times, but I've never had better. She used two big cast iron skillets at the same time, and everybody pretty much got served at the same time.

    I wouldn't hesitate to try this on just about any cut of beef, and maybe on pork chops, too.

    A great time was had by all, we didn't fight once, and I staggered upstairs after a bit and slept like a fattening hog for nearly two hours in the afternoon.

    It was, indeed, a Happy Father's Day.


        Sunday, June 18, 2006

    Just Because I Can...

    ...and because I'm in this kinda mood, I give you this, again.

    And on a completely unrelated note, I am naked blogging, and I looked down, and saw something similar to this.



    What's So Damn Happy About It?

    So, what's the big deal about having a few orgasms?

    Here's a heart-warming story about some whacko from Florida who celebrated Father's Day with a machete. Must not like cake.

    Ahhh, never mind me, I'm just grouchy.

    Nat cut out plain white paper hearts, and laboriously scrawled 'DAD DAY' on all of them, and taped them up all over the house. She has a future as the Decorations Committee Chairperson of her sorority.

    There are two giant, and by giant, I mean GIANT Rib-eye steaks in the fridge. Two inches thick, fifteen inches or better across, and I printed out the Alton Brown skillet recipe for the wife. And there will be baked potatoes, and stuff. Dad and I will feast.

    I shall endeavor to be nice, today.

    You know what makes me feel bad? A lot? And I'm not going to do anything about it?

    Not going to church with the family, even on 'significant' holidays. Guilt, who'da thunk it.

    Well, one of my adult spawn has called this morning, but then had to hang up and promised to call me later.

    See? Nothing sacred about being a Dad. Though I know I will be a basket case when mine kicks it. For a while, anyway. And then you forget, or at least don't remember so hard. So clearly.

    He made me open and close a door a thousand times, one time, when I was eight or nine. I had slammed the door, entering or leaving, I forget now, but he stood there counting as I quietly opened and closed the door, 1,000 times.

    My sister puked up a bowl of tomato soup, back into the bowl one time. Since we didn't waste food around our house, he made her recycle it. Yep, she ate every drop. Held it down, too.

    She paid for much of the food for today, that he will eat as well. Go figure.

    I remember when he was a giant in my life, striding across the land in Seven-League Boots, teaching me, cajoling me, beating me with a leather phone-lineman's belt. Now and then. Well, not every day.

    Now, his head comes up to my chin, and I tell him no all the time. But he was there for me during my tribulations of last week. Drove me there and back. Waited hours for me. Caught me when I almost fell a few times on the way to the car.

    Is there something special about a father? Or is he just someone you've known for a long, long time? Then why do people who have never known their fathers make such a big deal about it?

    Stupid Hallmark day. Just can't leave well enough alone, can you. Once a year, you force us to consider family dynamics.

    Mother's Day doesn't have the same stress. Mothers are soft, nurturing creatures, even if they did do unspeakable things to you. They're still kind of...frilly.

    Father's Day is uncomfortable. Like throwing a birthday party for your drill instructor. Hey, thanks for all the pain and suffering, now let's have cake.

    Or maybe that's just me.

    My second son begged me to be his friend, and I refused. I've lost him. Seen him twice in five years.

    Johnny tells me I am his best friend, and I smile on the outside and say thank you, and inside, the wind blows cold around the hollow, frozen pipes of my heart, and the moaning sound chokes off in my throat.

    I suspect my eyes darken with memory and loss, and he doesn't notice, and runs off to play, satisfied.

    I make some light of it, but I see parenting as a sacred duty, and why you would hand that duty off to strangers, is beyond me. Whether teacher, or day-care provider, they are a poor substitute for you.

    I have found my way to be their parent, and that way is hard, and not one I would choose if I sought comfort.

    But it is my way. I just wish I'd have learnt that lesson about twenty years ago.


    Nat has pulled down all of the 'DAD DAY' hearts, and is coloring them in colors I like, and reposting them.

    Apparently, my favorite colors are pink, and yellow.

    Who knew.







        Saturday, June 17, 2006

    As I Sign Off...

    I just want to say how highly amusing I find it when I hear life-long union members whining about welfare recipients, and crowing about how 'they did it all on their own'.

    Dumb assholes...



    Why We Fight...

    It's been a while since I posted this.

    Your tax dollars at work...



    Bring Us Your Huddled Masses?

    I got this in email. It speaks to me:

    Written in response to a series of letters to the editor in the Orange County Register:

    Dear Editor:

    So many letter writers have based their arguments on how this land is made up of immigrants. Ernie Lujan for one, suggests we should tear down the Statute of Liberty because the people now in question aren't being treated the same as those who passed through Ellis Island and other ports of entry.

    Maybe we should turn to our history books and point out to people like Mr. Lujan why today's American is not willing to accept this new kind of immigrant any longer.

    Back in 1900 when there was a rush from all areas of Europe to come to the United States, people had to get off a ship and stand in a long line in New York and be documented. Some would even get down on their hands and knees and kiss the ground. They made a pledge to uphold the laws and support their new country in good and bad times. They made learning English a primary rule in their new American households and some even changed their names to blend in with their new home.

    They had waved good bye to their birth place to give their children a new life and did everything in their power to help their children assimilate into one culture. Nothing was handed to them. No free lunches, no welfare, no labor laws to protect them. All they had were the skills and craftsmanship they had brought with them to trade for a future of prosperity.

    Most of their children came of age when World War II broke out. My father fought along side men whose parents had come straight over from Germany, Italy, France and Japan. None of these 1st generation Americans ever gave any thought about what country their parents had come from. They were Americans fighting Hilter, Mussolini and the Emperor of Japan.

    They were defending the United States of America as one people. When we liberated France, no one in those villages were looking for the French-American or the German American or the Irish American. The people of France saw only Americans. And we carried one flag that represented one country. Not one of those immigrant sons would have thought about picking up another country's flag and waving it to represent who they were. It would have been a disgrace to their parents who had sacrificed so much to be here.

    These immigrants truly knew what it meant to be an American. They stirred the melting pot into one red, white and blue bowl.

    And here we are in 2006 with a new kind of immigrant who wants the same rights and privileges. Only they want to achieve it by playing with a different set of rules, one that includes the entitlement card and a guarantee of being faithful to their mother country. I'm sorry, that's not what being an American is all about. I believe that the immigrants who landed on Ellis Island in the early 1900s deserve better than that for all the toil, hard work and sacrifice in raising future generations to create a land that has become a beacon for those legally searching for a better life. I think they would be appalled that they are being used as an example by those waving foreign country flags.

    And for that suggestion about taking down the Statute of Liberty, it happens to mean a lot to the citizens who are voting on the immigration bill. I wouldn't start talking about dismantling the United States just yet.

    Rosemary LaBonte



    Let's Save Up...

    ...and buy her a shirt...

    ...or not.



    Bad Movie Night...

    If you have some good pot, and some munchies, settle in and watch this awful piece of shit, and mock me for having spent money to see it in the theatre.

    Better yet, rent the DVD, so at least you'll get all the gore. And I think there was titties, too.

    This is what Bad Movie Night is all about, folks. And remember, as you watch the movie, that Lou Diamond Phillips had his WIFE stolen from him by a WOMAN!

    That's gotta hurt...



    Dream Date...

    Via American Drumslinger...



    The Fog Lifts...


    I don't usually (ever?) do this, but I want to apologize for the blog being shit, lately. I have been in a fog of drugs and pain, and I can't promise it's gonna get any better.

    Last night I went nuts on Nat. She pushed one too many buttons, and I went ape shit, out of control, and said things I am still fixing up today. I didn't lay a glove on her, but I eviscerated her with words, and that is not like me.

    I went to talk to her this morning, and she said "Oh, let's just forget about it..." and I told her no, we need to remember this, so that we know when the bad times are coming, and we can help each other to not do that again. She pondered, and when the time is right, we'll talk some more.

    I already apologized to her last night, because I am a firm believer in not going to sleep on your anger. I tried to explain that, while I was still angry, and she was wrong, Daddy was wrong for saying those things, and Daddy was sorry, and would really try to never talk that way again.

    We hugged and stuff, and she seemed satisfied, but sometimes it is hard to corral those fanged black horses back into the stable, their red eyes still streaming hot white vapor...

    Oh well, we move on, the days click past like a boys stick drug down a picket fence, and next year comes, and things have changed so much as to be unrecognizable. These carefree days will be in the past, the kids' interests will be elsewhere, as old, favored toys languish, and are given away to younger children.

    They will begin to ask the hard questions, and it is best if you have answers for them. Or worse, they won't ask the questions of you, just watch you with big eyes, and ask the questions of themselves, and make up their own answers.

    People have prattled on so much about 'communication', that they have trivialized it. You use the word, and they roll their eyes. And yet communication is the single most important part of a healthy family dynamic, I think.

    Anyway, ya'll have a nice weekend, and I shall endeavor to not suck. There is a bubbling pool of unfocused rage in me, just under the surface, and I am working very hard to keep it under control.

    I have a lot of sympathy for volcanoes.