Saturday, September 30, 2006
Sin City Tonight!
I taped (DVR'd) it tonight, and I have convinced the wife to (attempt to) watch it with me.
This should be interesting. And I'm sure
there will be an update to follow...
If I live.Update:
Steve Irwin died as he lived, with animals firmly in his heart.Update:
We all need a Village Sniper
. I volunteer!
And why can't we send a huge flock of these
into Iran right now?
And never let it be said that I didn't tell you so
Let's say I had $135,000,000
to spare for a house... (waits for derisive laughter to subside)...
What would I expect from it?
Well, right up front, I would want it to be able to withstand a direct hit from a thermonuclear missile. Oooo, and have an ice cream factory on premises!
Not only withstand an attack, but have a setup of satellites in space that would notify me, so that wherever I am in the house, I could just step into a tube and be whisked down to my luxury bunker where highly trained lobotomized super models trained in expert blowjob techniques await my every desire.
The wife and kids get their own
What a fuckin world. Hey, let's blow it up! Seriously. We do not deserve to live.
Still, it would be nice to have a skeet range where I could holler "PULL!"
and have hidden launchers sproing!
out a Somali Muslim midget (or two) and I could chop them up in mid air with my Saiga 12 gauge. Look, kids! Pinatas!
If I had $135,000,000, I'd have Donald Trump delivered to me, wrapped up in duct tape like a cocoon, and beat on him with a bat every so often over a period of days, until he stopped squeaking, and began to smell. Worse.
Then I would have my operatives stuff him in an AC vent in Trump Towers.
Hey, I got nuthin against rich people. But I think we all see the disconnect here, right?
King Of The Nerd Women...
Aside from a substantial flock of Mexicans in my neighborhood, we have quite the coterie of gap-toothed, flabby young hags around here, and they all kinda flock together for comfort, and safety, and to cluck, and to coo at me when I fetch my mail.
I am their King, you see. Handsome, and unattainable, nevertheless I am gentlemanly to them, and treat them with respect, and humor, and any one of them would fuck me in a New York heartbeat.
Just that thought right there shall require a jumpstart via Viagra should I care to ever share my penis with the wife again.
Ugh, they are creatures...welfare cheats, all, even the few with husbands, and the fewer with husbands whose jobs involve other than burglary and light drug dealing. And I smile, and wave, and pass out cheery greetings, and squint my eyes a bit so as to take them out of focus should their 'faces' swim into view.
They are useful to me. With a few casual questions, I can find out what is up in the neighborhood, because these harpified harridans see all, know all, like mythical crones from a Greek tale.
And their mouth-breathing fetal-alcohol spawn make Johnny look like Einstein next to them. So that's a plus.
I creep down the street in the car at ten miles an hour, fearful that one of their tards will lurch out into the street and end up screeching in one of my wheel wells, or worse, break one of my headlights with their empty head.
One of the urchins took it upon themselves to 'race' me down the street on their Big Wheel the other day, they up there on the sidewalk, pedalling for all they were worth, glancing back and forth at me, as I egged them on by shifting into neutral and revving my engine and pretending I was driving SO fast. It was a real Norman Rockwell moment, until they T-Boned a Mexican pulling out of an alley.
I got the attention of their mother and pointed frantically, and chuckled all the way home while her big ass churned her up the street towards her splayed out spawn, and an outraged Mexican with a new dent in their uninsured car.
If we could afford it, we would move. But while we are here, hey...
It's good to be the king, baby.
How To Piss Away...
...an otherwise perfectly good Saturday
The Saga Continues...
First off, let me just say for the record, that name calling in a religious discussion just weirds me out, and reduces all parties concerned to one degree or another, even as an observer. For what it's worth.
Secondly, thanks to whom it may concern for the money! I checked Amazon on a whim this morning and, Shazam! I love you, be ye man or woman! That money will come in handy, cuz today I declare war on my bed. I am going to buy a big tube of Shoe Goo (or something, but probably Shoe Goo) and bead every seal along the edge of my damn bed. I fixed a hole yesterday, it went flat on me last night (new hole!) so this is total war.
And I want to thank you folks for all your patronage. I mean, money is nice and all, but I really enjoy checking my stats on a Saturday morning and seeing all the folks who have wondered through here today, on a day which is traditionally slow for nearly everybody.
And have you ever
seen me posting so early on a Saturday? I'm still not exactly sure what it is, but to have me up by eight AM on a Saturday, drinking a cup of coffee, and interacting relatively civilly with other humans (including the squallish little ones) is nothing short of a miracle.
Lovin the CPAP. Still have bugs to work out. That chin-strap my Dad negroe-rigged for me yesterday lasted until about 3am before it stretched out and I started motor-boating. Also, I have learned to keep the straps on the mask a little looser, so the darn thing doesn't hurt my nose. I've learned to relax 'into' the headgear more, so I only woke up with a one-aspirin headache this morning.
But all and all,and all things considered, I feel like, if not exactly a new man, at least a different one, and believe me, like in 'Groundhog Day', different is good.
Ahhh, the scent of freshly cooked crepes is wafting up here, and I have the tough decision to make: fresh homemade peach jam/chutney, or fresh homemade strawberry? Do I put the fresh made whip cream on? Drizzle a little maple syrup, raspberry syrup, or both? Powdered sugar?
These are the hard decisions life has equipped me to face, and I am ready to make them. Last Saturday, I would have just been laying in bed, trying to not puke.
That CPAP may be (and is) a pain in the ass, but I have learnt to recognize a miracle when I see one, and it is sitting right there, over by my flat-ass bed.
Onward! To breakfast, and then the store!
Friday, September 29, 2006
It Occurs To Me...
...that I have not been singing for my supper lately. Not even earning the tiny bit of coinage that drops into my poor box of occasion. And earning no sympathy for my plight, either, merely snark and smart-assery.
Well, when the blood poisoning moves up from my poor, battered thumb and to my heart, and my brain explodes from this possibly faulty infernal machine, well, you just won't have old Bane to kick around any more now, will you.
Ha! You'll all regret treating me this way!
John dropped his guitar on Nat's little toe as they were rocking in their new 'band', and she is pondering the possibility of becoming multi-casted. I have seen kids with both arms in casts, and once, both arms and both legs. That
Ha! Great news! I found the latest leak in my mattress! Are you as excited as I am? I know, I know, just breathe into a sack. I gobbed it up, and eagerly await the return of the wife from 'work' so I can pump up my bed and my head and take both out for a nap.
I say 'work', because the wife is cleaning house and doing laundry and such for this 'client' who also happens to be a friend of hers, who also happens to be destitute and sickly, and the wife has convinced her that she (the wife) is being paid by an agency so her friend won't feel bad about her coming over and slaving away for free.
Hullo! Saint! Duh. Hey, everybody needs a hobby. I've got 'being an asshole' covered, and the wife is cornering the market on 'sainthood'. Together, we keep the universe balanced. Yin, and Yang, ding, and dong, peanut butter, and chocolate.
I just shooed the kids to their corners for 'rest, and I shall soon inflate 'Bane's Folly', glue-ball extraordinaire.
Oooo! New Doctor Who tonight on Sci-Fi! I am stoked!
Nat gets her cast off next week. My life is rich, and full. Plus, I got to electrocute a spider the size of a puppy in the tub this morning with my zapper.
Contain your envy of me. It is unseemly, and merely cheapens you.
Wherein I Am Wounded...
Attacked in my sleep! Perfidy! I was trying to adjust the straps on my nose mask last night, and learnt a painful lesson about velcro. Do not
get your thumbnail caught in the hook part and then have your hand slip off. Shit!
that hurts. The whole top of my thumb, under the thumbnail is one big blood blister where it tried to tear the frigging thing off.
And apparently, I'm a mouth breather. I have no idea why the geniuses up at the VA didn't figure that out when I was up there. They sent me home with a nose mask, yet when I slip into my deepest sleep (which I apparently wasn't able to do up at the sleep center) my mouth falls open, and the air pulses out and I make a fart sound which wakes me up every time.
Hey, that's not funny, shut up. And it hurts to fucking type, as I am a left-thumbed spacebar whacker. Ow.
So I end up with this brown tootsie-roll looking pillow jammed up under my chin last night, hugging it to my chest so it wouldn't roll away, to hold my mouth closed so it wouldn't hang open and break the seal. If I had had a roll of duct tape handy, I would have slapped a patch of it over my mouth and slept like a baby.
I gotta call my Dad and see if he has an extra mask I can borrow. He's on the full-face mask, and so is Johnny, but John's is obviously too small for me.
Got a damned good night's sleep, though, in spite of the near continuous battle with the equipment. Woke up with another run for the Exedrin Extra Strength Aspirin headache, though. Hope this passes, because it is very nearly not worth it. They tell me that one in four Americans needs one of these machines, whether they have one, or not. If you snore, your sleep is affected, to your detriment.
If in doubt, go get a sleep study. I mean it.
Crap, this thumb hurts.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep...
Who tucks you in, at night? Besides me, I mean, seeing as how you're here. Who is the last blog (or three) that you check on before you put the box to sleep, and crawl into your fartsack?
Me, I always check Steve. Just for the comments, mostly, to see who he put up before he went to bed three hours ahead of me.
I may or may not check any blog battles I have enjoined into the fray. I don't like to go to bed with too much bile percolating. Does anybody even know that word anymore, now that we no longer use those to make our coffee? Another dying word I shall miss.
Well, I go to hook up to my hosery, and sleep like someone from Alien. My face-sucker works, but it is indeed intrusive, and truly alien. I look forward to it becoming mundane.
I have been both busy, and in a place I would prefer to not take most of you with me to. Which has affected my productivity here, so...
Trust me, you're better off.
Good night, my friends, and sweet dreams.
I have a fucking headache, and I'm only writing this so I'll have something down for the day.
I've been driving to and from Portland all day, sucking in fumes, and taking a stupid class so I could pick up my CPAP machine.
Now I'm gonna lay down and take a nap and pump air up my nose and hope this headache goes away. I never
Maybe I'm having a stroke.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
If this blithering cunt ends up opposite of Hillary on my ballot, Hillary gets my vote.
Aside from the fact that her clit is bigger than his dick, Rudy is just plain the most stupidest, annoying fuck, ever.
If I have to watch someone destroy my cuntry, I at least don't want to hear some lisping psuedo-conservative retard talk during news conferences.
Of course, with either one in, it's all DVD, all the time, until the mushrooms bloom, and the lights go out.
Just For You Know...
I possess enough pain pills to off myself, should I care to. If I were a black man, with my disproportionately large penis, at what could become a pinnacle of my career, and with millions of dollars in the bank, and hot and cold running blowjobs in my phat mansion, I might consider getting pleasantly loaded, to cut the sting of a broken bone or two in my hand, but I would in no way ever consider that I myself could, or should die, for any reason that could possibly arise in God's beautiful, handcrafted universe.
Unto Us A Blog Is Given...
I have no idea who he is
, but he links to me, and wouldn't it be cool to send hits to the next Acidman? Or something?
All of blogging is a crapshoot. Never forget that, and ya'll will do okay.
Okay, the temptation to write 'ya'll'll' there was almost overwhelming, but I resisted.
Just buy me shit, and shut up.
Okay, I'm (kinda) kidding, but seriously, just because you're still having nightmares because your parents bought you a Scooby-Doo lunch box when you started kindergarten, well, don't project that crap onto me. I've seen and done stuff that would drive you mad, and I know the difference between reality and fantasy, besides whatever the personal bigotry you might hold towards Christians like me might tell you.
Though zombie books freak me out, so, thanks, Constant Reader!
On the Nat front, while the wife and I were upstairs, Nat scooped the rest of her dinner into the garbage, and then cheerily scampered upstairs to tell us she had finished. The wife found her spoon in the garbage, along with the last six bites of her pork chop (take that
, muslim fags!) and promptly marched her upstairs to an early bed. At 5:30pm.
Then, taking a cue from my playbook (I'm sure of it, though women are
mean) she loudly invited Johnny outside to race his radio controlled car around the parking lot. Nat owns its twin.
I was helpful. I'm a helping person. It's in my nature, I can't help it.
I narrated the action from the landing, describing in great detail how all of her best friends had just driven up, and were running around with new Barbie's, and hey, look! Ronald McDonald! And he brought ice cream! Wow! I left Johnny out, not wanting to see him murdered in his sleep. No, this is all about you, Little Missy, you lying little conniving food-wasting hoor
Well, I didn't say that...but it was implied!
The wife had thoughtfully shut down her door, so the setting sun would not get in her eyes, but I threw and propped it open. Watch the dying of the light, Little Missy! Enjoy the fruits of your perfidy!
Hey...maybe I should write a parenting manual!
Troll Infestation Expected...
I had a wide-eyed goober-head swing through here, and out of morbid curiosity, I went and checked where this carpet-stain could have possibly come from.
, I think. Or not. Enter At Your Own Risk. I mean it.
Who are these dorks, and how did they all get so fucked up in the head? Oh, Clinton voters. Well, that makes a twisted sort of sense, I guess. Are these the same hosers that bedevil Vox here and there? Have I 'arrived'? Gosh, I hope not.
I am limbering up my banning finger, though. Seeing as how we are not (currently) allowed to put them in ovens.
Why, I bet there's even some galdurned homahsexhuls in that bunch! Well, lemme take a good sip of wine to toast AIDS. Where there's AIDS, there's hope, I always say.
Wonder what they do with their time, when they're not out fellating Palestinians, or murdering fetuses? Wait...no I don't. Don't care, and I've already both amused and bored myself with this enough.
Gird your loins, people. I hear they like loins.
Would You Waterboard Osama?
So, all you wusses out there who are against torture because, what? You think it 'takes us down to their level', or something?
Wrong, dangerous, stinkin thinkin. Aid and comfort to the enemy, and all that. Go ask Nick Berg what he thinks about...oh wait, never mind. I guess his captors just let the Geneva Convention slip their minds...
So, you got Osama, somehow, and Mullah Omar is in the next room. And waterboarding works every time it's tried.
Would you use it? And if not, why not?
And why aren't you off somewhere killing yourself for being a complete waste of otherwise perfectly good chromosomes?Update:
I always like to pick Nick Berg because he is such a Liberal douche, and his Dad is such an extra-fucking Liberal douche, and I am happy that Little Nicky is dead, and that his Daddy is sad (because he's the enemy too, duh) but I am still pissed at the terrorists for doing it, because they had no idea and just wanted to kill an American, and Nick Berg was 50% American...maybe, so fuck waterboarding.
I like their idea of using a drill, but I'd wanna use a good old fashioned brace and bit on them, with a 1" wood bit in it.
Right in the fucking eye.
And turn it slow...
Personally, I'd like to slice off her tits, ram a lit road flare up her twat, and let her wallow around in a vat of salt until she dies, while I shoot her repeatedly with a pellet gun.
But maybe that's just me...
Good on ya
This is the kinda thing I like to see. Wanna be a mouthy fathead? Fine, we'll kick you right in the wallet.
I like the place, anyway, but I hope you all go out and buy a chili dog or something. Interestingly, our local 7-11 got bought by either ragheads, or dot-heads (I can't tell them apart) and turned over night from a filthy place where I was afraid to touch anything and only went there to use the ATM and buy beer, to a brilliantly clean, neat place, where you can actually buy perfect produce.
The employees are dreadfully polite, and they go along behind you and straighten all the stuff you touched, and fill in any holes in the shelves.
It is so nice to not have to look at the white trash crackheads that used to run the place. I mean it, it was douchebags hiring douchebags, and it made me really hate white people.
Anyway, get out there and reward these people for making a good, and I think possibly brave business decision.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Do You Dream?
I have had people tell me they never dream. I don't believe it, for without the ability to dream, I think we would all go mad. I have even seen retards have dreams. And nightmares.
I dream from the moment my eyes close, until they open. Vivid dreams, in color, where I can read, though sometimes the words move around, and shift slyly, and sometimes I fall through the pictures into another dream.
Do you ever dream dreams that you know came from elsewhere? From 'outside'? Like things whispered into your ear by shadowy lips, that hide hard, mean teeth...
Making you do things, imagine things, you otherwise would never do.
I'm not talking about the dreams I have where I hurt Johnny in them. I understand where those come from. I am angry at him for being crippled, and my subconcious allows me to rave safely. Now that I understand the problem, I have taken steps, both awake and asleep, to deal with it, and those dreams are slowing down, and one day, hopefully, they will stop.
No, I am talking about the thing alien to you, where you dream you are doing something you would never, ever do, even in dreams. Do you have those? Doing a thing, finding yourself right smack dab in the middle of doing something that you would kill yourself before you ever did it, and looking around, and wondering how you got there?
I do not care what you 'know', I know for a fact that there is a realm, just above us, that our spirit rises up into sometimes, during sleep. And there are...things, in there. Other dreamers, bustling around on their own business. Echoes of The Dead. And...spirits. Things. Things that run to and fro through the night sky, blood running down their fur, mad saliva dripping down their fangs and gobbering over snarling lips, things with a purpose, and things that do not have your best interests at heart, at all, nope nope nope.
I think that persons of a, shall we say, particular religious bent, can invoke and maintain some control over these things, focus them, send them, nightmare hags, to sit on your chest and drip poison from black, pulsing claws, into your brain.
The wife and I have met too many times on the upstairs landing, sniffing the air for that telltale hint of...what? Brimstone? Decay? And hatred...
The hatred is palpable, and can steal your breath away, and the children, asleep in their beds, can sense it, too, and whimper softly in their own troubled slumber, and we push the door open and something very much like a nasty version of Peter Pan's shadow flits away, off to a corner to blend in with the other shadows, and wait.
We pray, and sometimes we hear a far off scream in our heads, and the night lights brighten, and the kids sigh and roll over and go into deeper slumber, and the battle is over for the night.
And it is 3am.
I don't have any problem with this
at all. I think any group of heterosexuals that want to marry should be allowed to, with some restrictions.
I think polygamists should have to pass a means test before extra licenses are issued, and that they should be denied most forms of public assistance, except in emergencies.
Assuming the wife wouldn't kill me, I could not afford an additional wife, right now anyway, unless she came with her own assets, and perhaps, a career. All things excepted, though, I would be very comfortable with several wives, and perhaps, even a couple of co-husbands. I would love for Nat and Johnny to have a pile of little co-brothers and sisters.
That sort of relationship would also allow for women with children, who have lost their husbands, to enter the family, something I otherwise would not tolerate with a single spouse.
There would be issues that would arise, regardless, that would have to be addressed, but every marriage has those.
Oh well, probably never happen, though I suspect that it is already far more widespread here in America than we know, and not just among religious people, either.
Well, my PC hasn't glitched once today. It couldn't be anything I did, because I didn't do anything.
The kids both have low grade colds,now, and are going batshit stir-crazy. And taking us with them. I'm in hiding. I tell them my canned air is kid poison, and hiss it at them when they darken my door.
Hmmmm, now that I think about it, maybe a little Mace would clear those sinuses right up...
I'll likely not watch Monday Night Football ever again, until it leaves ESPN. Last night was just horrible. Between the idiots in the booth, and the idiots on the ground, it was more than I could bear, and when Spike Lee's stupid face hove into view, I turned it off and watched Desperate Housewives on the DVR.
'They', whoever 'They' are, have fucked up football for me, anyway. They have successfully emasculated the manliest thing a bunch of men in tight pants can do together. I cannot imagine my football heroes of yore playing in this game today.
As an aside, do the Vikings have any white players at all? Besides the most important one, I mean? It struck me, as I was watching their defensive line at work, that all I was seeing was black.
Anyway, there's something wrong when the majority of scoring I see today is in the form of a long-ass field goal, or I am seeing ridiculously high scoring, high school or college level scores, on both sides.
This tells me that people are not hitting. Why, are they afraid to? And if so, what of? I dunno, but free agency fucked things up a long time ago, and I grow weary of hearing about how so and so was playing last week for the team he is now trying to score against. I don't know what that does to their heads, but it can't be too good.
And what's the deal with all these faggots with their fancy long hair? I don't care how good you play, cut that hair, and lose the jewelry. There is no 'homo' in 'team'. And I've seen guys who are clearly wearing make-up! Skin products! Egads!
I think Rugby is stupid, but at least their players seem masculine. Not like those little prancing soccer fruits.
I swear, I have taken to watching golf for my sports fix, and sometimes, billiards. I love watching Tiger work, and both are games of skill that reward grandstanding with failure.
And I'm not talking about football players celebrating. That is as natural a thing for a man to do as breathing, which is probably why they have banned it like any other thing that made the game fun to watch. Like clotheslining. I miss clotheslining. That was pure comedy gold, right there.
And I'd just like to take this opportunity to say that I couldn't give less of a fuck that the Superdome is back in business. Fuck all those people. If you take your plugged in toaster into the tub with you, don't come crying to me when it fries your nuts off. You built your stupid city below sea level in an area that gets hit by a fucking hurricane once a year. Dumbass.
And now you want to rebuild it. Thanks for the free entertainment, people. Watching you all bob around face down in the water will give me a lovely 'better you than me' moment.
I appreciate your efforts. Oh, and great job reelecting Ray Nagin, too.
And on that note...
, and very interesting.
...to think about
Whenever I have trouble imagining how or why an abused spouse stays with their abuser, rather than leaving, I just look to myself, and how I keep reading and watching the news.
They lie to me and obfuscate and flat out make things up, and still, I take them back.
More the fool, I.
Monday, September 25, 2006
I lost a perfectly good post on this subject, when the damnable machine restarted of its own volition for the first time this afternoon. Perhaps one of my readers is right, I may have a loose wire on my restart button. Sigh.
I am just gonna start hitting that 'Save as Draft' button, a lot. Except it makes me want to have a beer, for some reason.
Anyway, back to torture, and The Incredible Lost Post, I made some sort of statement about how Michael Dukocklis answered a question about his opinion on the death penalty assuming that his wife had been raped or murdered or something, and his resultant answer made most of America reach back and wipe, and then flush him into the Cesspool of History where all Demoncrats belong, can I get an amen.
And that Liberaltarians are the poorly chewn corn in their turds.
People, thousands of Americans were raped and murdered on 9/11. Right? It was all over the news, I'm sure of it.
I lost any sympathy I might ever have had (the entire thimble full of it) for our adversaries when I listened to Nick Berg scream as he got his head sawed off for him.
Fear? I do not know fear. And I fear everything. I am, perhaps, the most dangerous coward you will ever meet. I make no decision based on fear, because I know that for the kind of Loser Thinking it is, and I fear losing.
Some, apparently, do not.
They still think it was a bad idea for us to intern the Japanese on our soil, even though it is a historical (Note: Not 'hysterical') fact that there were Japanese agents and sympathizers among the interned.
And apparently, there is no such thing as terrorists, merely people who see them under their beds, and because government lies (and demonstrably so, and often) there really is nothing to see here, so let us just move along.
Whups! Never mind that pile of dead Americans mouldering over there! Just move along.
The Totalitarian Libertarian is a thing to fear, and as fanatical in their beliefs as any jihadist.
I am still formulating my thoughts for a post on why I hate Liberaltarians so, but it is like trying to eat syrup with a fork, or catch smoke with a net. You know it is there, but it slithers like mercury, and breaks apart, and reflects all of the other colors around it, and has no heart and soul of its own.
So far, all I have been able to identify is "We want our dope!"
and "We want to fuck whatever we want!"
and a inexplicable disregard for how words mean things, and behaviors eventually effect everybody and everything around each and every epicenter, like a cascading series of small strokes eventually overwhelms a formerly functioning brain.
I'll work on it, and get back to you.
I don't know when I've ever seen Johnny more excited by anything in his life than today, when the Man In Brown delivered his new Thomas The Tank Engine PC game to him. He actually got a case of the farts, and it was hysterical.
He's downstairs right now, and I hear whistles tooting, and engines chuffing, and he is as wide-eyed delighted as any little boy I have ever seen.
I thank you, and he thanks you, and you are wonderful. I told him he had to finish his brunch first, and an entire cup of yoghurt and graham crackers disappeared in one bite. Or so it seemed. He skidded up to me there, at his computer, and I said 'Go finish your food' and he said 'I did'. I mean we're talking like, what? Five seconds? Maybe he has a future in competitive eating.
It is a beautiful game, too, and I highly recommend it to anyone with kids who like the series. It goes from simple, to fairly complex, and appears to have plenty of replayability. He took to it right away, and the characters explain nicely what you need to do, and once you learn it, it is simple to bypass the instructions they give.
Anyway, thanks again, from all of us.Update:
Ooops! Forgot to thank you for the ant farm, I guess. Sorry. I thought I had, but I must have dreamed that part.
At first, he was excited just to get a package, but then he saw the ants on the box and wrinkled his face as best he could and shouted "Yuck! I hate them!"
I was completely nonplussed, until, after a few questions, I realized that he was unclear on the concept, and thought that someone had sent him loose, roaming insects, that would eat the eyeballs out of his head, because that is what I have told the kids will happen if they sneak candy into their beds: ants will smell it, and come eat your eyeballs in your sleep.
You've never seen more dedicated little teeth-brushers at bed-time, either.
I also have kept all of my kids from becoming gum chewers by explaining to them about Red Racers...what? You haven't heard of the Red Racer snake? The angry viper who hates
the smell of gum on a persons breath, and will even go so far as to chase you up a tree and bite you should you chew the vile cud? And yes, Red Racers hate sugar free gum, too.
So I explained to Johnny that no, this was a special cage for ants, where we will keep them and torture them and make them do tricks for our own personal amusement. And that these are special ants, as well, that we will be able to milk for ice cream.
We just sent off for the ants today, and he eagerly awaits their arrival, now. Little fuckers better
give ice cream, cuz they want $3.50 for 25 of them.
Well, This Is Bad...
If we have any 'friends' at all there in that neck of the woods, it is the Kurds. We should support them with everything we've got.
I think a combined US and Israeli strike on Iran is imminent. At least I hope so.
My beautiful new PC is restarting over and over. I suspect power supply, but who knows. I can't afford shop time, so things may get spotty around here. I'm not even sure this'll post.
Goodbye, cruel world...Update:
Okay then, it posted. Good. I did a system restore to last week, and the PC restarted of its own accord not five minutes after. I am surprised it hasn't done it again. It did it a few times yesterday, and like, ten, so far this morning. Fuck, I hate this shit.
Oh well, we shall see. Story of my life.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Just For You Know...
I did not mean to imply, earlier, that I think Clinton has ever had a real emotion that he first didn't rehearse over and over in the theatre of his mind before trotting it out on the stage.
I knows me my sociopaths, being one, and all. Well, I am geting better.
Oh, you puny humans. If you only knew how we see you. Glowing bags of flesh, your sexual organs and wallets highlighted...
I just may be the most honest sociopath you will ever meet, meat. It is my schtick. My raison d'etre. I can no more help myself than Bill can keep his zipper up in front of a willing intern.
The wife was my cure. She showed me the other side of the river. The cure. She was, is, my grail. Holy.
I spoke with another woman I have grown to love, today, in front of the wife, surrounded by my kids. We spoke in code, as adults are wont to do, and the wife's lips frequently quirked in little smiles...oh, she listened close, to be sure, my Little Shepherdess. She knows me, and understands, and gives me just as much leash as she and I both agree that I need.
Sometimes she jerks the chain up short. We have an agreement that she do so, I being emotionally impaired and all, and she being blessed with an overabundance of such.
It seems to work.
And, like me, a Work In Progress.
One slip of the chisel, and I crumble to so much worthless gravel.
It is with a very great effort, every day, that I wake and put myself back into the hands of the Carpenter, the Great Sculptor...
Otherwise, I just gather no moss, and roll on, and crush everything in my way, and...
That is no way to live.
Let Me Motivate You...
(I made these myself...)
I am. Feck free. A complete and total lack of feck. A Feck Hole, that is such a powerful Event Horizon, that it sucks any feck than wanders by into and shits it back out into some other dimension that is certainly different than the one I currently occupy.
No feck, at all.
My dick is limp, my hips they gimp, and I care not, not a whit, I'd give a shit, but gave already, and listlessly then flushed it.
Maybe I'll go downstairs and watch fat men bump into each other and drop things. I love it when their helmets fly off in battle. I eagerly await the rooster tail of brains to squot up from the center of the scrum, but so far, I remain disappointed.
Lemme see...nope, no feck. I shall just sit here and let my ass-hairs grow like corpse-moss into my chair, and thence crumple into decay and, eventually, into dust.
Wait, I have malt liquor in the fridge, and a remote control. I think I can stagger that far, and resume my tuberosity on the couch.
Ugh. I hear the family arriving, home from church. They move around so much, and make noises. Sometimes they actually seem to expect communication of some sort from me.
It is 73 degrees, and the weather channel is threatening me with 80. How can I carry on like this?
Anybody seen Clinton's bullshit today? Tell me that fucker is not half in the bag. Now, I understand that seeing Hillary naked even once would require more alcohol than the world actually produces to unsear that
image, but really, I'm going into enemy territory, with Chris Wallace,
and I'm gonna go in drunk?
I don't think so. Unless I am some sort of sociopathic overconfident megalomaniac serial rapist who knows I can get away with whatever I choose to get away with whenever I want...
Ain't Democracy just wunnerful? Yep yep yep, let's just spread it all over, and see what grows, and never mind the E Coli.
What this world needs is more dictators. Letting 'We The People' vote is like giving a chimp a primed machine pistol...no good can come from such a decision. Allow me to point out John McCain, Barney Frank, Ted Kennedy, and Hamas, to illustrate my point.
And American Idol.
You fuckers can't choose socks, and let OJ roam free, and you expect me to allow you to choose my rulers for the next whatever years?
No, there can be only one solution. I have always said that what this country needs is a good 5 cent nuclear war. Heck, the whole world needs one.
Oh Lord, I pray, on this, Your day, as decided by Papists, because otherwise it would be Saturday, but I digress...Oh Lord, please lift Your Hand away, and allow us to follow our natural, chimp-like inclinations, and allow us to unleash the temporary, low-rent, Wal-Mart fires of man-made nuclear hell on ourselves.
I'll be out in the yard, naked, jacking off, trying to get one last wank in before getting turned into a burnt in shadow on the garage wall.
Those other smaller shadows there, waving? That'd be the family. It's okay, because we like, believe in Heaven, and stuff.
Either way, it's time to blow this popstand...
is just weird.
That is why I do not play online games anymore. The bloody soulless Asians fucked everything up. I haven't played since Starcraft and Diablo.
Here you are, playing with honor and skill, and some cheater pops in and kills you from so far away on the map you can't even see them.
For awhile, I became a PK, and had Korean taunts loaded, and killed every one of them I found and took their ears, but that got boring, so I just quit.
If a game plays up its on-line play, I don't even bother. Give me a good single player game, or go away. There are too many good games with kick-ass replayability for me to bother with some $50 stinker.
Inside The Box...
I order my life
by the glowing box
I do not jog
nor e'en take walks
I prefer instead
to watch the box
because, because, because
of all of the wonderful things it does
because life blows
the box is steady
and because I have
lived and seen
all I care to see
so from now on
it's the box for me.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
made me smile.
Yes, Virginia, this is why we call them 'third world countries'.Update:
! Mighta shoulda got a second opinion?
Thump Thump Thump...
Is this thing on?
Shit, nobody has let out a peep for hours. I know, I know, I owe several someone's a review of 'Flyboys'... just fucking trust me, and go see it, and then go see it again, and tell all your friends. Hollywood needs to be encouraged to make piles more of these kinds of movies.
I've got enough money left to either buy a jug of wine, or go see it again myself, and I am leaning strongly towards going and seeing it again.
The wife is out starting a couple of businesses. Maybe. We've been there, and done that, and this time, I have assured her that while I may assist her, here and there, she is on her own.
piss money away down a rathole
invest? Let me know. I'll never get involved with another non-profit again. This business is imminently franchisable, and would be a nice way for folks (especially folks as what home schools) to opt out of the world, make a nice piece of change, and become independent.
Or a good tax dodge, should you need to show a loss.
But, don't count your boobies before they hatch...
DAMN! Little bitch! I told Nat to lay down for her nap a while ago, and I just went in to check, and she had stuffed her bed with a fake Nat, a faux daughter, and had snuck downstairs to commit whatever perfidy five year olds commit.
Momma's, don't let your babies grow up to be geniuses...
I think John was complicit in her crime. Well, he could have ratted her out, but didn't.
Anyway, Happy Saturday...it IS Saturday, right? Yeah. Whew. The cards of Time clitter past so fast on the spokes of my life, me clattering the stick down that picket fence, the one I know ends up there, somewhere, later or soon...
Suck a breath in, and I hope it is sweet, and fresh, and if not, move.
Life is short.
I Guess My Question Is...
...why would you take the animal to the vet
Got a broken sheep pussy? Hey, some mint jelly will clear that right up. Kinda like fuckin your hamburger, and eatin it, too.
Let the record show, that I have absolutely no problem with bestiality. I have seen these videos, where some Golden Retriever in socks is dogging the stuffing out of his mistress, and they both appear to be enjoying themselves tremendously.
And saying that it is evil to pound your peter up some creature's patootie, but it is okay to fire a spike between their eyes and then consume its flesh, well, I would hope that you see the disconnect, there.
I just don't care.
Hey, if a dude nails a male animal up the butt, is that gay? Had to be asked...
And there's a reason they're called 'lap' dogs. Hint: laplaplaplaplap...
No wonder gramma looks so relaxed all the time. Safer than Prozac, and doesn't need batteries. And you wondered why Snookums always nuzzles your crotch when you visit? Duh.
But keep them snakes out ya pussy. At least don't be posting pics of it. Yeesh. That is right up there with chewing with your mouth open for nastiness.
So, alla you animal lovers, just go right on ahead. Except for you ragheads. Any sex ya'll have is just a crime against Nature.
You be the judge
Fuck all Liberaltardians.
Except for Wendy.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Oh, My Goodness...
I need a nap, right now, but please, go see Flyboys.
I mean it. Update tomorrow...
Enjoy Your Weekend...
...or take a camera along.
Blaming The Jews...
Must see TV
. And look on the sidebar on that site for the rest of the parts to this.
One of my great pleasures in life is deleting and banning Jew-hating fucknobs who pipe up in my comments with their nonsense. I can pretend that I've killed them, even though, and unfortunately, they go on to contaminate the earth with their existence.
Test Your Bandwidth...
This is a cool app
. I can't seem to get above 1700 kbps, and I have a damn cable modem.Update:
Another killer App
. Way cool.Update:
...how this crap
starts ramping up close to Halloween, isn't it.Update:
Hey, Freedom of Religion
Unten Mit Der Krankheit
Nat is the Princess of Pus. The Queen of Congestion. The Marquessa of Mucus.
And, lucky me, I have been playing the strumpet's trumpet. Yes, of all of the crap in the dollar store, she had to go and pick this stupid trumpet. It spoke to her, called to her. It has 'working' buttons. Of course, one must put the effort one would have to put into a real trumpet to get even the most flattest, plasticky blats from it...it is a worthless thing. A thing of no worth. It is crap.
But she loves it, and goes around the house singing into it, and doot-de-dooting into it, and whistling into it, according to her mood.
Yes! Nat has learnt to whistle! Can you believe it? Her mother sings like an angel, but can only muster an atonal hoot, like a tone-deaf owl, or perhaps a prairie dog. Watching her pucker and concentrate and emit her pitiful toot, is like watching a baby eat, there in its high chair. Your own mouth forms in sympathy, and attempts to 'bring it through' for her, but alas, it is not to be.
And no, she does not spit her peas.
But Nat can whistle Jingle Bells! And other stuff. It is a good thing to be able to make music occur from ones body. Entertaining. Alas, Johnny could not whistle if you dropped him out of an airplane.
Aaaarrrggghhhh! I cannot pick up my new, free CPAP until next week! Oh, I did moan so over the phone, and was mocked by the government wage slave in my turn. I would have cursed her, but I did not care to have her spitting (or worse) into my new machine... "Honey? Does my breath smell like ass?"
My sweet wife just brought me coffee, and that was sweet. Too damn sweet, by half. I shall have to chide her, excuse me for a moment...
There, that went well. I'll likely find a sodden booger in the bottom of the next cup, but I stood my ground. On the way back, I note the huge pink drift of crumpled tissues on the floor around Nattie's bed. Her olfactory factory must have put on an extra shift during the night. I could probably dry her up, simply by providing her only with blue kleenex. She would perforce turn arid in the membranes before she would honk into anything other than pink.
So, I eagerly await the onset of my inevitable disease, courtesy of Little Miss Snotface. Let's get it over with, so I can be free and clear to enjoy my new machine next week.
Hey, anybody in the theatre today who hollers out 'Bane!' wins a free bullet. Just in case any of you feels tricksy. I'll be drunk (thanks again!) so there is a slight chance I won't perforate anything too vital.
With the first shot, anyway.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Sometimes, There Is...
What a fucking nightmare. Psychos are bad enough...when they band together in clans...
Well, best to be armed and dangerous yourself, eh?
Trust no one...
Wanna Gimme Some Money?
If so, I'd love
to go see this movie tomorrow.
And a couple of drinks would be nice. Ahem.
The previews to this really tickle my balls. I quit watching them after the first one riveted me to the couch. My jaw was literally down on my chest. If there is a gay sideplot, I may run amok in the theatre with firearms so, hey libtards! Give til it hurts! I may end up out of your lives!
that period of history. As I've said before, my Grandfather (on Dad's side) was a motorcycle courier during the Great War, and got Mustard Gassed by the Bosch, which eventually killed him, long and long later.
He was a character. He left his first family just ahead of a thrown tomahawk (literally...his first wife was a redskin, his kids halfbreeds, and Oklahoma is full of their utterly beautiful descendants) and he fled to the Pacific Northwest to start a new family.
This time, he picked a blue-eyed Scandinavian-Texan, who was a real bitch, and died one, too, but fuck, could she ever cook. I never had any trouble with her, as she doted on me most fierce, but my goodness, could she make the brains of others bleed until blood squirted out of their noses and eyes and ears, with her squalling Texas twang.
She and my Mom hated each other til the day Granny died, and rightly so.
I remember Gramps always slept on an Army cot in the basement. Had hisself a nook down there, with an oil lamp, and a Bible. He became enamored of Seventh Day Adventism...well, fanatically so, and all things vegetarian, but Granny, and to her credit, told him to fuck off, she was damn well gonna have her sausage and steaks and use lard in her pie crust, so dinner became an occasion for sullen looks and wacky dietary harangues, and I grew up on that and loved it.
Gramps died in the VA hospital I currently use the services of, which gives my own Dad some pause when he transports me up there for this or that. Gramps went out fighting demons, screaming for the Holy Spirit to come save him, as lights dimmed and popped up and down the halls, and his family cowered in fear and prayed like folks in a foxhole tend to pray, and winds and forces and swirlish black stuff whipped around in a maelstrom of psychic nastiness and finally...
The sun rose, and Gramps let go, and sighed to a stop, like some old, tired machine, and he died with a smile on his face...
Now, gimme some money. Dammit.Update:
Ticket paid for, booze bought, hot dogs ready for the Sacrificial Grill...
Thanks, folks. Review to follow.
And, hey, we pissed off some of my detractors! Bonus!
My readers ROCK!
How Many More...
...Katrina Time Bombs
are in our midst? Be sure to watch the news video that goes with this.
This is what happens when you clasp a snake to your bosom. The best thing we could have done for the rest of the country would have been to blockade these people in, and let them drown like rats.
Too late, now. The rats are out of the bag.
And living in your
...the way it should be
And thanks, Sammy.
Stephen King Is My Hero...
If he's yours, too, you might enjoy this
I have always said that he is America's Writer, our true Poet laureate. His critics are uniformly talentless hacks who wouldn't recognize a good book if it was dropped on their heads.
To me, a great writer is like a psychic surgeon, reaching into your brain and your body, and rooting around until they find what they were looking for, and bringing out a blob of twitching tissue in their hand, bloody up to the elbow.
If I Put This Pic In My Sidebar...
....do you think I'll become one of the Popular Kids?
happens to me all the time. Stuff like in the article.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Let's Clear Things Up...
I just wanna get things straight...
So, V-blogging during your vacation ON THE BEACH! in your bikini= BAD!
Hanging your big ass in a thong out on the sidebar of your blog for like, forever= GOOD!
Check. Got it. Thanks. Not hypocritical at all. No, really, thanks for clearing that up.
Whoring a 'parody video' of your (admittedly gorgeous) wife masturbating her tits, out for geeks everywhere to jerk off over, to show your contempt for another beautiful, healthy woman vlogging in her own bikini, mostly submerged, and/or (and let me repeat) ON THE FUCKING BEACH!...
Okay, I meant 'just creepy', but to each their own, right? But thanks. All of you involved gave Bane wood over time, and I am always grateful for that.
Hmmmm, lessee...having a pair of thigh-high hooker-boots as the symbol of your blog= Good!
Right? Let's make fun of Pamela, for having assets, while our own assets are the only thing getting us the rare appearance on Fox news as a blogger (which a certain blogger derides others for doing it as a Bad Thing!) because it surely cannot be our wit and wisdom, which has yet to show itself in any on-camera experience I have yet to see, though I freely admit that I may have missed that particular Emmy-Worthy appearance.
Nobody is clamoring for Helen Thomas, but a delightfully hot blond with just the slightest and cutest overbite gets to snack in the Green Room because...well, what, she posted like twelve posts last year?
And let the record show, I enjoyed all twelve of them, and I very much enjoy looking at her, and I like and admire her a lot, even though I question her choice of friends (I'm looking at you
, Tony Pierce, you Libtard!).
Of course, I have no right to an opinion, here, because I do not have umpteen book deals...THAT I PUBLICIZE ON A BLOG! WHICH I PUBLICLY CLAIM IS WORTHLESS! AND DETRIMENTAL TO MY CAREER!!
Ahem...sorry. It's just that the stink of hypocrisy and self delusion got stuck in my throat, there, and I finally had to cough it out.
Where was I?
Oh yeah, at no point is this meant to indicate my personal dislike of all but two of the guys I mention here (I LOVE STEVE! THERE! I SAID IT!). I like everybody else just fine, but, like all women...
Eventually you just get tired of their shit.
Where Have You Been, My Darling Young One...
Well, frankly, I was terribly concerned about 'losing my edge', since I started this morning in the giddiest of moods, and prepared to mourn the loss of BaneRants because, well, how can one rant when one feels like walking on air? Dancing with faeries? Letting their dust settle over him, becoming one with...
And then one of you darlings bought and had delivered Rammstein's 'Mutter' CD, and now I just want to kill, and kill, and kill...
Oh, and my beautiful new new 'Essential Beethoven' CD arrived as well...Triple Thanks to you both! Different music, for different moods, sometimes entertwining, and becoming the same, or synthesizing into something new, and going off...well, who knows where.
Do Not Tease The Helpless ADD Victim...
FUCK! but 'Sonne' ROCKS!
So, where was I...FOCUS! Herculean effort, but...okay...
I spent the night up at the Sleep Study Center, getting 'titrated' for my new CPAP machine. Utter and compleat torture, and the best night of sleep I have had in memory, all rolled into one.
She looked at me this morning, with some kind of funny look on her face...couldn't actually meet my eyes..."You spent almost the entire night in REM sleep...and when you did wake up, here and there, you were fully...I mean, fully awake..."
I quirked an eyebrow, and she stammered "Well, I've just ever seen that before..."
I dreamed last night, more lucidly than I ever have, the twin muzzles of the machine up my nostrils, firing oxygen into my brain, keeping my pussy-licker out of the way of things...
I dreamt of a jet liner, on fire, coming in on a bank, hearing the pilots scream, up front, watching through the cabin windows as flame consumed the passenger compartment and blew out windows as it burned in...
The plane's painted colors were deep blue and red. I do not fly, so I have no idea if such a color scheme exists.
As I arrived on the floor, she met me, and directed me to my room, and as we walked, I queried her "I was told that I would be titillated tonight..."
and she turned her completely lesbian face to me with a mixture of masque and horror playing Hobb with her cheek muscles, and I said "Maybe she said 'titrated'..."
and she began to grin and I said "Well, now that would seem to be an altogether different thing, indeed..."
and she laughed out loud. Nice save. I decided to forego any requests for a 'Happy Ending'.
Turns out that every city I have lived in, in every state, she and her family lived there at the same time, and we had no knowledge of each other. I bought two lottery tickets as a result, today. That sort of coincidence aligns planets, and forces beyond our ken, and is worth gambling two dollars on, I think.
She walked in on me in the shower this morning, crestfallen, I toweling off. She turned away, and informed me, sorrowfully, from around the corner, that the gal that was supposed to check me out on my new machine had called in sick, so I couldn't take it home this morning. I asked her, holding my towel chastely about my considerable loins, what kind of organization would leave such an important position to only one person (there were six of us at the mercy of this decision this morning) and all she could do was shrug.
We both knew.
But gosh, I felt good. Great
, in fact. I used to be able to tear phone books in half, and I felt like I could do so again. Well, maybe a Reader's Digest.
I left with a bounce in my step that hasn't been there for a while, and I am eyeing John's machine for tonight...
But that would be wrong.Update:
Someone's gonna get spanked here
, and pretty damn soon.
My every instinct screams 'Dog and Pony Show!', but still...
JFK took us to the brink for less brinksmanship than this.
I have been looking for the next Gulf of Tonkin incident.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
The Power Went Down Today...
...for awhile. It does that a lot, here. I mean, sometimes the whole friggen town goes dark. I don't think I ever heard a transformer blow in my life til I moved here. I hear it all the time, now. BOOM! and darkness. We keep candles in bowls strategically placed all over the house. And flashlights.
I got to thinking about what would happen if it happened state wide, and didn't come back on.
No X-Rays. No dialysis machines. Surgery by candle-light, and nothing that involves power tools, and hand pumping the rebreather. Do our medical students train for such an eventuality?
What do you do when the last cell phone battery dies?
How do we get resupplied if our ports are smoking radioactive holes, and our critical passes through the mountains into and out of the state are choked with radioactive rubble?
Nearly everything transported in this country goes by truck, and there is not a long distance trip I take where I don't play the game of identifying various choke points where I could isolate entire cities. Park five semis loaded with conventional explosives on a cloverleaf, pick up the drivers in a van, and detonate the trucks from a safe distance before anyone knew there was a problem.
The people trapped in the city would 'take care' of themselves. Those who survive, would spread out into the suburbs, and woe be unto suburbia then.
And then they'd head for the rural areas...
If you defend yourself with a gun, it will alert everyone for miles around that here, there be guns to have, after a brief struggle, and stuff,because someone is protecting their stuff, we don't have any of our own stuff, so let's go get some stuff.
It is likely that the people you encounter will be big, and strong, and probably even wearing police or military uniforms. They will be hungry, and have been honing their survival skills for days, and are numb to horror, and willing to hand out some of their own for a meal and some more ammunition.
They will likely be in small bands, that have formed for mutual defense, and they will be practiced in fighting as a team.
It is unlikely that you will prevail against such men, and even if you do, your supplies will be depleted from the effort, and you will likely be wounded to some degree or another. And all of the other gangs in the area heard the ruckus, too.
What to do? I dunno. Suicide comes to mind, and I think there will be a lot of that. My house is about as defensible as a paper sack. A determined five year old with a claw hammer could be inside in about two minutes.
And I believe the 'Mexican Community' I am surrounded by would turn on us in a second. I believe that I would look out to see a crowd of armed Mexicans, 'collecting' door to door.
The only organized Caucasian groups I can really think of are the churches, and somehow (except for perhaps the Mormons) I do not see them as making up an effective fighting force.
No, for all of our vaunted American gun possession, we would die one by one, family by family, group by group, either in our houses, or while running away in the streets.
Have a nice day!Update:See
My Thoughts Exactly...
...on all this Geneva Convention silliness
I have actually heard idiots assert that the reason enemies surrender to our forces is because 'they know they will get fair treatment from us'.
Bullshit. They surrender because they are poor fighters, with no will to stand up against our war machine, and no faith in their own cause, and they do not want to die for it.
That is all.
Monday, September 18, 2006
The Wife Asks For A Query...
I am in a pissy mood, because I told her how to do it, but fukkit...
She has some 'sugar pumpkins' (about ten) and wants to know the best way to render the meat from out of them.
Since she will not listen to me, maybe she'll listen to you. Fuck her, I can go buy a fucking pie if I want one.
The Candyman Can...
I recently developed a craving for banana flavored candies, and asked the wife to keep her eye out for such. She came home with these
, from the Canned Food Outlet. Now, I am thoroughly addicted, and, knowing that the Canned Food Outlet is transient with its wares, at best, I knew I had best find a way to assure my future supply.
Oh, and the kids relish these, as well, and would cheerfully battle each other to the death with sporks to get a few, so...
Anyway, a teensy bit of research (it says NECCO right on the bag) led me to this
, which led me to this
, which led me to this
. Note the Clark Bars, which are a bitch to find. And of course, my beloved Banana Split candies.
Now, it is pretty darned easy to get a wholesale license, or to piggyback on someone else's. I have done both plenty of times. Handy damn thing to be able to go to a wholesale place and buy your food and booze at cost.
Or, you can just ask the buyer at your store to have their candy person(s) order the stuff you want. Tell them you'll take a case, and pay them up front.
Oooo! Check out their Hard To Find
Would you lick this
Ever Wanna See What Lady Angels Look Like Nekkid?
Well, here ya go
Now behave yourself, they're watching.
To Whom It May Concern...
Thank you very much! Nat and Johnny are reading the 'Daisy Head Maisy' Doctor Seuss book you bought the during home school as we speak, and loving it.
And thank you (again) Wendy for all of your work on this. You are wonderful.Update:
Since I am doing the public thank-you's, I just want to thank my man who I have already thanked in email so he knows who he is, for waking up to that $50 this morning. It was soooo weird, the wife and I were discussing our pretty much non-existent budget, and where to slash and burn, and shazam, you saved our bacon. I thank you, and I thank God for you.
I pray God's Blessings on any and all of you who are not disgusting filthy pigs that I hate.
Okay, God, I hear you: I pray blessings on all of you, even disgusting filthy pigs that I hate, except for Muslims....
Dammit! Okay, God...
So There I Was, Surrounded By Virgins...
Everywhere I looked, beautiful virgins of all ages. Even their mothers seemed somehow virginal. Pure.
It was kinda spooky.
And I was in a church. Double Spooky with a side of Holy Ghost sauce.
Nat is a Daisy. Johnny is a Royal Ranger. They are both very proud, and work hard on their badges, she for her sash, and he for his vest. But last night was Nattie's (and all the other virgins) night to be honored, and I wanted to go, and said so, which stunned the wife and garnered me major Husband Points.
You see, I do not normally 'do' these sorts of things. Maybe it's that annoying tendency to burst into flames when I pass through the doors of a church, maybe it is all of the slithering sluts one normally encounters at such venues, with the accompanying stench of brimstone and hypocrisy, whatever, I do not do church stuff.
Well, weddings, maybe, if there is an open bar, after.
This church does it right. There was a welcoming crowd, there for both association, and to honor friends and offspring. I was regarded with the right mixture of welcoming and suspicion, as it should be. You cannot be too careful these days, and mine was a new face, but Johnny became my swipe card, and I clung tightly to him, and he opened all of the right doors for me.
And it seemed that one of the qualifications for membership to this congregation was a sometimes near extreme personal beauty, if not just plain pretty. Wow. And the girls and the women met my eyes clearly, and frankly, and acknowledged me and moved on. Good, healthy looks, with no hint of the coquette, no flirting...oh, I got checked out a few times, and did some checking of my own, but that spirit of Lust was absent from the air, as if they had installed special filters in the vents to keep it out.
None of this frantic posturing between the young men and young women that you see in other places, mating rituals and dances being held under the oblivious eyes of their parents. No, the girls kept to their own group, the boys to theirs, and when they met, it was a respectful, near-formal thing, and adults watched nearby, and there was no tension.
But last night was Ladies Night...and as I write that, it strikes me that that is what I was seeing. Healthy young ladies, being brought up as ladies, free to be themselves, making choices over the years of their membership to become Good Christian Ladies, and it was a beautiful thing.
And so odd to see young men, well, all the men, behaving as gentlemen.
To see couples in love. Children behaving. Love being given and accepted.
Nat was a vision, of course, and brought down the house waving her bright orange cast at us when she spotted us out in the crowd. A vision in frilly pink, and ruffled socks, and great black sensible clodhoppers that she adores. Her hair arranged in clips, and the same age as the other Daisys, she nevertheless towered above her diminutive compatriots. When one of the little girls got too excitable up there on the stage, and broke the line, Nat picked her up and squished her and told her to settle and then put her back down. The crowd thought that was a riot, too.
She was in the second group, the first group being truly tiny tots, and still mixed up boy and girl. When girls and boys hit Daisy and Royal Ranger age, they segregate them by sex from then on, and I think that is just the way it should be. Oh, to be sure, they get together for tours and campouts and such, but they are very heavily chaperoned, by people who have no fears of chiding them should it become necessary.
And I saw the beautiful end result of this last night. The older girls and young women, 15 and above, all sported tiaras, and were dressed to the nines. They served as ushers, and moved gracefully throughout the place, with poise and dignity, and it has been many, many years since I have seen such a thing, and had in fact thought that such was dead until last night.
Even the lumbering, homely fat ones had elegance and poise, and bearing. They valued themselves, and were valued in turn. A young man could do far worse in this day and age than to court one of them for his future bride. None of the girls seemed to have any fear of children, and handled the little firecrackers with aplomb and obvious love, and the little ones would settle down, and I have never seen kids that small sit relatively still, en masse, through a fairly long and often somber celebration.
There was one girl they selected for the greatest honor, and to get her tiara, and to move on up into the ranks of whatever they call their young ladies. After she got her tiara and sash, and her Dad gave a speech that made everyone laugh and cry, she was seated on a 'throne' at the top of the dais, and an inner light seemed to shine from her that needed no spotlight to enhance it. She had read and memorized the Bible, among other things, and had performed a literal page-full of other requirements to earn her place, and she was one of the most beautiful human females I have ever gazed upon, and...
She had only just recently turned twelve years old.
When she finally left the stage, at the end of it all, the other tiaras swarmed her and brought her into their fold, and between them and God, I do believe that she will be well and truly watched over in her future.
We took the kids, ours, out to Dairy Queen after, figuring a significant snack would be a nice tribute to Nattie's hard work, and a nice end to the evening.
As I took the kids to the upper landing so they could nosh, and look out at the passing cars, I ran into a group of high school girls at the first table. Nat could not resist regaling them with the tale of why she was so dressed up, and twirling around for them, and chattering away, and...
What a difference. They, all dressed up in the Bratz uniform of the day, showing frankly lovely young cleavage, checking me out up and down.
It was jarring, compared to what I had witnessed earlier. Just jarring. One of them came over to the trash receptacle across from me, even though she had one much closer, and posed her ass seductively while she languidly swept the trash off of her tray. The wife was still downstairs picking up the food, and the girl came over and said something to Nattie, while leaning down on the table with her hands, as her cleavage struggled out. Then she claimed to have seen someone she knew drive by outside, and she jiggled up and down for a bit as she waved.
Then she gave me the wiggly finger wave, and headed back to her girlfriends, twitching her tail like a satisfied cat.
Of course, it was just a game some girls like to play with older men, but...
At least I have the magic of the time in that church to keep the candle of my hope for this generation burning. Hopefully, there are other pockets of goodness out there, to counter the gathering gloom.
And no, I will not be attending that church. I carry too many demons around with me. I'd just end up spoiling things somehow.
If You Don't Know About...
...this bit of history
, you should.
If you felt at all guilty before about our nuking of Japan, this should clear that up.
Jihad Bride Magazine...
Cheerfully lifted from Denny
Sunday, September 17, 2006
I Have Read Enough About This Spinach Thing...
...to have decided that it is terrorism. Mostly because nobody is even mentioning the possibility (that I've heard of) and Fox just announced that the CDC is getting involved, but...
As I understand it, the outbreak is many states wide. The bug is targeting people it normally passes over, i.e., young women, whose kidneys it destroys, leaving them struggling on dialysis.
I have no problem with any criticism of me that says I see terrorists under my bed, for even if I do not see them, I still suspect that they are there.
But this is just weird.
Terrorist Attack, or Test Run? Anybody's guess, but it looks terrible hinkish to me.
I do loves me some spinach in a salad, or on a pizza, so I say we just nuke Mecca, and get this show on the road, eh?
Do you wanna live forever?
Oh, My People...
My mind does not work like this
, nor as well, though I wish it did.
Go, read, admire, despair, aspire.
Would that there were more great thinkers combining great thinking with great writing like this.
May all of you squealing Lilliputians learn to fear the great, stomping boot of Enlightenment.
So I pray.
Missing Out On Important Niche Market...
Okay, that's just sad...I went to Google it, using that spelling, and Google asked me 'did you mean 'Koran Bukkake'
? Who knew?
I only thought of it, because I was trying to think of the most disgusting thing you could do to a Koran to make all Muslims run screaming into the sea and drown, and I only recently learnt of Bukkake (can you believe how sheltered I am?) and I find it incredibly disgusting, so there you go.
If we ever needed a justification to nuke Japan then, now, or ever in the future, well, there you go.
But it sure would beat the shit out of the Prophet Mohammud (piss on his unholy name) cartoon kerfluffle.
So, I hereby declare a spunkwa on the Koran. And I want to see a line of maxi-pads with Koran verses printed on the outside of them. Have Purina come out with a brand of Prophet Mohammud Pig-Chow and Monkey-Chow. Have Rabbis certify it kosher. And then have priests bless it.
"allahu akbar" this
My work here is through...
...pretty much captures my mood right now
, especially video#1. I'm gonna post this, and go watch the rest of those videos, and so should you. I would ask also that those of you with blogs post a link to that page, too, and email it around to your friends as well.
Among other things, the Raiders beat themselves again today, so I am in the depths of despair.
Just bring it on already, ragheads. Don't talk, shoot.
Just do your thing and get it over with, so we can kill you all and be done with all of this nonsense.
I wish we could get the nutless wonders who run things over here to talk this way.
Some action would be nice, to go along with all of the talk, too.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Just One More Reason...
...why Africa will always suck
I see one a them, I'm just firebombing the sonofabitch.
For Geeks Only...
I just saw Uranus.
Man, this program is cool!
One More, In A Continuing Series Of Reasons...
...to never, ever, ever, go in the motherfucking ocean
Just kill me now...
The Lord Works...
...in Mysterious Ways
That right there may be the most beautiful naked woman (next to the wife, of course) that I have ever seen in my life.
A close second
! MAKE IT STOP!
Just a note: I can always count on 'good Christians' like Crystal to talk shit about a perfectly beautiful woman.
Okay, seriously...I'm dyin here
The Face Of Islam...
Here, a little something to cleanse your palate with, after that nasty dish...
She's the star of the Sci-Fi movie tonight. Yo Baybee!
No Islamoloons allowed.
WHAT THE FUCK?!?!
Man, I hate people
My wife answers every knock at the door with a pistol in her hand, and this kind of bullshit is why.
You can whine about paranoia all you want, but in the end, don't come crying to me when some loon fucks you up out there because you are a kumbaya dumb-ass.
If you go to the gym, especially you ladies, why not make it one that has a strong self defense component to it? Boxing, Tae-Bo, whatever, just do some
You can walk into any pawn shop in this country and plop down $50 and walk out with a pistol that shoots. Don't try to tell me you can't, because I've done it lots of times. Whoever pawned that gun probably only got $40 bucks for it, pawn shops are up to their asses in inventory, and if you stand firm and dicker, you will walk away with it. Have them show you how to load it, and how the safety(s) work, and then go buy bullets.
No one is going to defend you but you. Get used to it. Learn it, love it, live it. That cellphone of yours is no magic wand, and will likely not work when you need it. When the Terminator comes for you, you can't talk with it, you can't reason with it, and it will absolutely not stop until you are dead.
And I can imagine no greater horror than being unable to save someone I love from a monster because I was too busy/lazy/whatever to prepare.
If you'll keep a jack and a spare and flares and tire-chains in your trunk, why won't you keep a pistol under a towel on your front seat?
Some Good News...
...on the DDT front
Though I won't be impressed until I can buy a can of it in Walgreen's garden department.
Fuck Africa, I don't care if they rot. Everything happening there is self-inflicted, but Insty has a good point, and that is if the people of Africa aren't laying around sick all of the time, maybe they would be more likely to rise up and...
. Like she says, go read the rest, too.
And I agree with every word.
Friday, September 15, 2006
"Anyone who describes Islam as a religion as intolerant encourages violence"
Uhhhh, hullo? Disconnect
It's Nat's Lucky Day...
She is flitting about, wearing only pink panties, and her bright orange cast, singing the 'It's My Lucky Day' song she just made up, and doing the Dance of the Fat Flapping Fairy.
Well, she is
getting a gut on her.
The doorbell had rung earlier, and a nice man in brown handed me a box addressed to her. I told her so, and had she been a puppy, she would have squiddled urine in happy little spurts all over the carpet.
I helped her open it, and it seems that one of my mostest darlingest readers has bought her the butterfly collector
from Nat & Johnny's Amazon Wish List.
Oh, she is thrilled. A big fan of nature shows, she was already set to have Johnny go out to collect leaves to feed the caterpillars, which as I understand it, you have to order, though I left the opening of the actual package to Mommy, when she gets home from work.
I got to open the box and get that reaction, the wife will get to open the actual package and get a reaction of her own. Division of Pleasure.
Johnny is wroth. The Green Monster writhes behind his eyes, and it is much easier to understand the story of Cain and Abel when you see this sort of thing. This is not a plea for you people to purchase an additional item for him (though, hey, knock yourself out...ya gotta do what you gotta do...) I just think it's funny.
I told him to quit being a little bitch, and he grumped off.
Just now, it got dark, and the house began to rumble. I threw open the sash to see what was the matter, and the rain's pouring down, with a rush and a spatter. Johnny was standing there beside me, us both looking out of the upstairs window as the street outside filled with water, and I said "Hey, you could go swimming in that..."
and his brain clicked a couple of times, and he kinda looked at me funny, and said "Nope...but I could shplathsh in it..."
and then he thought for a few more minutes and said, pensively, "Momma will have to uthe her wiperth..."
Welcome To Lazytown...
And I'm the Mayor.
My grandfather used to call it 'The Life Of Riley'. How many of you have any idea what that references to? No fair Googling first.
Nattie was talking to her butt a bit ago, imploring her poops to come out. "C'mon, poops, come out of there, I need to make room for the rest of my Rice Krispies!"
I was in the shower,and when she asked if she could come in and potty, and I said yes, she came in and said "Oh! This is so warm and cozy, like when I snuggle under three blankets."
Why yes, I guess it kinda is like that, my dear. Thank you.
Johnny is in his Dancing Shoes, dancing away to kid's Christian music, in his room. The new braces really help, though, as they are somehow actually adjusting his feet, he can only take so much before he goes off to rest for a while. I know he's in pain, but he doesn't complain.
Well, I call it dancing, but it is more like running in place, with the occasional arm flapping, but the absolute joy that radiates from his broken face is like standing in front of a sun lamp. I have to hide to watch him, because if he sees me watching him, he redoubles his efforts and works himself into a frenzy.
Kids have no idea how much their parents spy on them over the years.
I have always admired the parents of broken children, but it wasn't until I got one of my own that I realized how gifted we are to have them. I used to watch the parents of mongo's and crips and tards, and see them beaming and laughing, and I figured they were just putting on a brave face for us, to hide the suffering they must be feeling inside.
Oh, to be sure, there's plenty of suffering, but it's you suffering for them, for the most part. Yes, there are moments when such deep anguish washes over you, self-pity, for the most part, I think. I just let the wave wash through, and move on. Sneaker Waves.
And then I go and gets me some joy.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
First off I would like to thank my emailer of this morning for his wonderful idea of placing adjustable barn door latches on my freezer, so I do not need to keep the bar clamp on there (which is working, by the way...yay, bar clamp!). I am surprised, and a bit perturbed that my big brain didn't think of that. Oh well.
Anyway, I just came up with a fun shop project for all of you evolved tool users out there.
Get one of those tall, standing tiki torch type lamps they sell, that is set up for propane. Then mount a single stove-type burner on top, where the lamp part was, and make sure it is set to wide open. I mean, 'ball of flame' wide open. Then just simply cut a simple bird house out of tin, and spot weld it together, paint it brown (woodish) and mount it over the burner.
Then just run a long cord into the house with some sort of pizo-electric ignition system, crack a beer, wait for a bird to spot it and go in, and let the fun begin!
Better than a bug-zapper for good ole white-trash entertainment! Although my bug-zapper is still dear to my heart. And can you just imagine the expression on the little flying shit-machine's little feathered face? Priceless. I wonder if you could somehow fireproof a webcam and put it in there, so every
body could enjoy it. Hmmmm....
It occurs to me that you could do the same thing with a squirrel 'shelter'. Wait til it has babies, and mommy and daddy squirrel are both in there with them. Whump!
and you've got a nice snack for the dog.
A friend of mine took this crank-type field phone generator we used for fishing, and wired up the old dogs next doors sleeping rug that it had out on the porch. He snuck on over there, and put a spiral of bare copper wire in the bristles of the rug, , ran it back to his own porch, and hooked it up. We set up lawn chairs and beers, and waited. He had a grudge against that dog for always coming over into his yard to crap, so it's okay, don't worry.
So, the old dog lumbers on over, and shits, and then waddles back and thumps down onto its rug with a grateful sigh, and my buddy gives that crank a good whirl. Well, Krypto the Super Dog over there took flight, and hovered for longer than you would think is actually scientifically possible, then thudded back down.
Every so often, one of us would give the crank another whirl, and then laugh until we peed ourselves a little bit. Oh, the fun you can have with pets. Especially other peoples, right?
Have I ever told you about the catapult I made, using real cats? Baited it with tuna, and used the springs from an old fold-up bed, a piece of plywood, and several eyebolts. Used the last two eyebolts as the trigger, and ran the string to the bolt I put through them (to hold it down) under the front door into the house, where I could peep through the curtains and enjoy my efforts.
It was an erratic design, though, and didn't always work to my specifications, which I'm not really sure what they were, other than fucking up a cat, which regardless, it did nicely, even if sometimes it was more like just emotional damage.
Which is still good.
The furry fucks were bullying my cat, and stealing its food, and his self esteem was being damaged, so they had to pay. Sometimes the trap, when sprung, would splat them up into the porch ceiling SHUWINNGG!!!ROWR!!!
thud thud thud, and sometimes it would fire them out into the top of this big pine tree outside the porch about 20 feet away (we lived on the second floor) where they'd thud into it and then hit every branch on the way down, fluffed out like an electrified tampon and with the most terrified looks...
Well, let me tell you, it was pure comedy gold, and I never tired of it, though the springs eventually did, so I had to retire the thing, plus the wife wanted to put plants out there and didn't want me fucking them up with my contraption.
I never got into animal torture as a kid, unless they really had it coming. Oh, I killed all kinds, but generally not pets (outside my own yard), though I knew of a couple of my friends that were Bad Seed.
It didn't turn me on to blow up frogs and kittens and stuff with firecrackers...well, seagulls, of course. That
never gets old.
Though I do recall idly tossing small lead shot at this frog on a lily pad, one time. For some reason, he would snap them out of the air. I had quite a few in my tackle box, but I didn't need them all, because he suddenly got this concerned look on his face, and he and his lily pad sank like a stone, bloop!
Funny thing, I nursed many a small forest creature back to health and set them free when they got healthy. Killed a whole lot more, though. One of my great concerns is that when I get to Heaven (Hey now! Cut that sniggering out!) I will be greeted by great sullen hordes of birds and beasts that I have 'sent into the light', that will fall silent as I pass through Heaven's forests, and scowl at me, and cross their little arms at me and harrumph and then turn their backs as I pass.
Hey, I worry about these things.
Like if any of you patent my idea for the Fiery Bird-House of Doom, you'll cut me in for some profit, right?