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  • Prayer Request...

  • Cool Tool...

  • My Annual 'I Hate Halloween' Post...

  • Thanks, Darlin!

  • Why Can't We...

  • The Entire History...

  • Interlude...

  • Just A Little...

  • Happy Jihad...

  • Event Horizon...

  • Hey, Firefox Users!

  • Just Another Reason...

  • Greetings, Insignificant Worms!

  • Pilates Of The Carribean...

  • Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep...

  • Ladyfish Is Dead...

  • I Take A Sip Of Wine...

  • Beset...

  • Flags Of Our Fathers...The True Story(?)

  • Very Interesting...

  • I Already Know What You Libertarians Will Say...

  • Protected Species...

  • You Need To Know...

  • Keith Laumer...

  • Quotes...

  • I Hate Being Lied About...

  • Our Muslim Friends...

  • Speaking Of Satanic Crap...

  • You Say It's Your Birthday...

  • Tis The Season...

  • Bane Rates The Blogs...

  • Flags Of Our Fathers...

  • This Is Why...

  • Damn...

  • Ships In Skirts...

  • Read It...

  • In Praise Of The BLT...

  • WHO Cares...

  • Merry Christmas, Marines!

  • Children Shouldn't Play...

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • 2...

  • Hey, You Broads...

  • All Lawyers Must Die...

  • Whoo Boy...

  • So Much For The Myth...

  • I Promise...

  • Just Because I Can't...

  • Lots Of...

  • Last Will...

  • More Marine...

  • Some Thoughts On Abortion...

  • Very Cool...

  • This...

  • Speaking Of Amazon Wish Lists...

  • And Now...

  • Still MORE Navel-Gazing...

  • Good News On The Islamic Front!

  • They Don't Say It Was Wrong...

  • I Don't Want This, You Can Have It...

  • If This Is True...

  • This Guy Channels Me...

  • Cindy Sheehan Sucks Donkey Dicks...

  • Happy Birthday, Son!

  • Illusions Of Grandeur...

  • My Monitor Screen Just Went Completely Black...

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

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        Tuesday, October 31, 2006

    Prayer Request...

    My Dad has kidney stones. Both kidneys. If yall'd ask God to do something about it, I'd appreciate it.

    For that matter, if any of you all have prayer requests, and either don't have a blog, or don't think enough people read it, or something, feel free to email me with it and I'll put up a post as a regular feature. I kinda do that already, anyway, but I've been running around to other blogs, and I see prayer requests, and some times things don't turn out so hot, and I always wonder if, just maybe...

    Anyway, any words you can wend to The Big Guy on my Dad's behalf will be appreciated.



    See what I mean?



    Cool Tool...

    Via Vox Day's blog I found that great tool that he links to. It's Firefox only, but it installed in like 30 seconds.

    I'm using it right now. It didn't work at first, because of some Atom Feed glitch, so I had to delete my blogs and have it re-find them.

    I really like this app so far. It opens up and takes over the bottom part of your screen, and you can have several tabs open and browse between them and cut and paste stuff right down into it. Way cool.



    I am afraid I must withdraw my recommendation. Adspell, the spell-check app I have been so enjoying in Firefox, does not work in it. Plus, it now just plain refuses to post, again. Until someone smarter than me tells me how to fix it, I ain't gonna use it no more.



    My Annual 'I Hate Halloween' Post...

    I'm getting damned tired of this. Tomorrow I can go into a store and not hear screaming and moaning, and see bloody fangs. Today, I'm bunkered up, wearing a shoulder holstered pistol under my shirt, and the 'NO CANDY HERE!' sign is on the door.
    I take 'keep offa my porch' seriously.

    I've said it before (but none of you ever read me...sigh) that this used to be my favorite day of the year, back when I was stupid, too. I literally planned all year long for the pranks I would play on this day, what I would wear, how would I make little kids piss their pants and grown-ups throw up this year.

    Think about that. What kind of fucked up 'holy-day' makes people think and act like that? Encourages it? Cities burn on this night.
    I can go back to respecting some of you tomorrow, but today, any of you getting into the spirit are just dipshits to me, and I don't want to hear from you.

    And what better day of the year is there for a Muslim to put on a costume, ring a doorbell, and shoot you in the stomach through your candy bowl?

    Happy Halloween, fuckers.



    Thanks, Darlin!

    Thanks for the 'Serenity' collectors book! It's beautiful. And that's what I meant when I was talking about Wish Lists earlier, and about finding new things. What a cool book it is. Any fan would adore it.

    I also collected all of the Serenity comics, and all of the alternate covers. I get a simple, quiet joy, just pulling them out and looking at them.

    Oooo! I just went to eBay and checked, and some guy is selling limited edition signed copies of Serenity comics! Signed by the stars themselves, on their own personal issues' cover! Man, if I was filthy rich, I would live at comic conventions and such. I would buy a building just to store and display my crap.
    I already have tons of stuff I've collected over the years. Stored in boxes, or displayed in my room. My walls look like the walls of a comic/toy shop.

    Sigh...maybe one day.



    Why Can't We...

    ...just kill this little fucker?

    I would.



    The Entire History...

    ...of video gaming.

    Amazing and poignant article.




    Note the timestamp...

    Fuck. No man should be confronted by an eight-legged mouse while he is taking a slumberish piss in the early morn.

    Take my pulse, please. Heck, take it? I damn near gave it away. I hear the wife moan a question from her bedroom..."Just killing a giant-ass spider, honey...go back to sleep..." I whisper, but of course, the damage is done.

    Shit I'm tired. I shan't relate the battle. It is, was, too horrible for words, but I prevailed. Though I will say that creatures such as that should not have actual heft when you pick them up in a wad of kleenex to put them down the loo.

    Or wiggle a bit.

    I had been dreaming of milk and cookies. Odd, as I feasted well, yesterday. KFC is off my list for eternity, as they have gone to all soy oil now, but I began my day with McDonald's, a biscuit with egg and cheese and bacon (gosh, they do good biscuit) and lunched upon two spectacular Popeye's chicken legs. The Mexicans had over-buttered their usually perfect biscuits, as is their wont (no wonder they are such fat-asses) and nearly ruined them, but the chicken was magnificent.

    Then the wife blesses me with the unexpected bounty of a McRib sandwich, upon her return from the doctors with the kids. McDonald's is using local, fresh Oregon onions in their sandwich, and they are sweet and crisp and delightful.

    The doctors, you ask? Well, it seems that Nat quirked her neck some during the trike wreck that broke her arm, and has been having/complaining of headaches, since, so some X-Rays and such were in order, and perhaps a consult to a chiropractor. And Johnny's persistent ear infection was pestering him, so...

    After my battle in the downstairs bathroom, I fetched a plate of four cookies, and a mug of sweet cold milk, and settled down to watch some news. Nothing but politicians and pumpkins. Both the same species, and about as interesting.

    The wife stumbles down, spies my plate, and goes and fetches her own, and we watch together, for a bit, in pleasant, kid-free companionship.
    We note that the outside temperature is a mere 32 degrees, a disappointment, as we were expecting 10. We had prepared the kids at bedtime, braced them as it were, to wake up frozen and dead, so we, or at least I, were somewhat let down.

    I am so proud of the wife. She actually sat through Shaun of the Dead with me last night. Well, most of it. The Tivo had missed the last ten minutes or so of it, and she was actually pissed at me about it.
    That's my girl.

    I could only eat two of the cookies, but I had to have another mug of milk. She had chopped pecans, fine, and used white chocolate chips, and they were quite too sweet and rich for me, though lovely in their own way. The second one became a burden about half way through, and I only finished it because the butter fat made me.

    A proper cookie should bend, not crumble or break, and these were, are, very proper cookies.

    As an aside, in your FACE! beeyotches. Seven posts last night in an hour! Match that. I actually toyed with the timestamps to make it appear as if I had taken more time, being a little self-conscious about it. Screw that. Oh well, what's done is done.

    And I'm done.


        Monday, October 30, 2006

    Just A Little... the top, please.

    Nothing like a nice trim.



    Happy Jihad...

    ...Charlie Brown!


    In the Spirit of Funny...



    Event Horizon...

    So, recently back from the VA hospital, I have something called an 'Event Monitor' wired to me. I am so tired of having spots shaved out of my chest hair, and sticky things attached to me.

    It's kinda cool, though. The monitor is the size of a pager, and hooks to my belt, or more likely, the band of my underwear, as I blog. The wires crawl up, and attach to sticky-pads on my chest, and whenever my heart feels a bit tricksy, I press this button, and get an EKG, and then call an 800 number, press the monitor against the phone, press a button, and it makes a fax sound as it downloads to wherever, and they tell me if I'm gonna die or not.

    Johnny is fascinated, of course. I told him it was going to 'suck my soul'. He is some alarmed. Nat is disgusted, as it is not fashionably pink. Definitely not a 'fashion accessory'.

    I suggested to the wife that she give me a blowjob, and I press the button at the critical moment, and she gave me the fish eye, and then I got the 'eyebrow quirk of Hmmmmm...'

    I knew there was a reason I married that woman.

    So, I'm bionic. My Indian name is Shortbreath Thunderheart. And this shaved patch already itches like fuck. I appreciate any advance intelligence they can bring me, but if they can't show me something on an X-Ray or something, nobody gets to whack on me for any reason.

    FUCKing fruit fly. Came out of the sun, he did. Well, the light of my desk lamp, anyway. Fucker made me knock over my wine glass, he did. Good thing it was empty.


    Pity me.



    Hey, Firefox Users!

    You might could use this.



    Just Another Reason...

    ...the British have been, are, and will continue to get their comeuppance.

    I can't wait for some idiot to try to compare us and them.



    Greetings, Insignificant Worms!

    Go here, to get a sense of your own self importance.

    Yes, the Creator of all of that, has a personal knowledge and understanding of you, and sent His Son to die for you (after a suitable period of torture, of course) and He stands out there, in the deep inky black of Infinity, out beyond the very last star, and He holds it all in His unimaginably capable hands, and understands the quiverings of every quark.

    Do not attempt to Grok, meat-bag. You'll only hurt something.

    Be honored. Be excellent to each other. And quit fucking up.

    Oh, and sorry to have been such a little bitch lately. This month poisons the world.

    I see the cusp approaching, the burst from darkness, like tearing off a cancerous caul, and we will slip into clean, bright Winter together, with the bright promise of a Spring to come.

    If ya'll don't fuck things up...



    Pilates Of The Carribean...


        Sunday, October 29, 2006

    Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep...

    ...I pray The Lord, my soul to keep...

    I have been saving up the latest 10 (or so) issues of this From #20, on, or so...) to read all at once, and I go now, to bed, to cuddle up with them.

    I'll likely intersperse them with some of these...

    It's a wonder I'm sane...



    Ladyfish Is Dead...

    Long Live Ladyfish!

    What is this, like #17 now? Those of you who have been playing along at home, clue me in. I've lost track.

    Yes, Ladyfish didst snuffeth it, sometime in the early morn, her spirit slipping away to the vast spectral ocean, where all Betas, and fish sticks eventually wend their way to, and the wife schlukked her out of her vase and hurried her carcass off to Mister Toads Wild Ride. Baloop!, and let the furious hand washing begin!
    Oh, she washed, and she washed, and yet still I informed her that 'hands as what have touched dead fish, shall never touch my penis'. Well, at least not for today. Yeesh.

    So, the wife goes out on her fish-mission, and I secret the kids in their room as she returns, and the wife prepares Ladyfish Mk17's water and places the bag in there for her to acclimate for a while, and I allow the kids downstairs, and my, they remark, but didn't Ladyfish grow big while you had her out at the fish store getting cleaned.

    Hey, I have enough grief in my life without dealing with fish-grief. Screw that. If I can lie to them about Santa, I can lie about a damn two dollar fish.

    Thus, the hurdy-gurdy, non-stop adventure that is my life, continues to drag itself with fleshless, bony arms, across the overgrown cemetery of my existence, to fall with a clatter into a forgotten grave-hole.

    Try to contain your envy...



    I Take A Sip Of Wine...

    ...and startle the fruit flies on the rim of my glass, there, they sipping up equal portions of my spit and my wine-drool with equal gusto. The whole flock takes flight in a panic, engaging in drunken evasive maneuvers, as I futilely bat my hand-held zapper around, crisping a few with a cheery crackle, but the rest veer away to plot their next assault.

    As I sip my wine, straining their drowned brethren and sistern by sucking the wine through my front teeth, thereby allowing me to sop their sodden corpses off of my choppers with a kleenex, with which to bedevil one child or other should they enter my lair, I ponder the Great Circle of Life.

    Why are we here? Well, to be more exact, why are you here. You should all sod off, and let me set to wandering the empty streets like The Omega Man. I believe that I would really like that. So if you all would discover space travel, or a disease that turns you to dust, or get Raptured, well, I'd be grateful.

    I am having no luck at all in determining the manner of Kieth Laumer's death...

    Ahhh, excuse me, the little cocksuckers are back...

    Fuck. I hope they haven't been splashing about in the toilet. Got two of the little fuckers. They are far too small to be able to pretend that they are olives. More like soggy Sesame Seeds.
    I thought I'd be clever, and place the zapper over my glass, and then I remembered all of the hairy, scuttling hordes I have zapped with this thing, and it nearly put me off my vino. As it was, I had to get one of my eye-glasses cleaning wipes out of the packet and give the rim a furious swipe before I could take so much as a sip.

    Sigh... Pity me.

    Where was I...oh yeah, Kieth Laumer. He became a Good Human (i.e, a dead one) and I believe I know the manner of his passing (and it saddens me) but still, one would think one could Google any of the many permutations and discover accurate news of his denouement, and yet I cannot.

    And this vexes me so.

    People went ape-naked ignorant for thousands of years. If they found a book, it was usually while they were burning it, and now that the sum total of human knowledge is just a click away, at my very fingertips, I can't find fuck-all info about what I need.

    The internet sucks.

    How many times have I sought a manual for some appliance or other, only to find that they have every manual archived on either side of it, all the way back to microfiche from 1907, yet the one that I need is nowhere to be found.
    Or some turd is selling the last known copy on eBay for $6,000, and I can look at the cover, but...

    Which is why you should all die. Or move to Mars. Or go to Heaven, or Hell, if you wish. Just leave me be.

    To walk da earf.


    That's what I've been sitting here

    contemplating. First, I'm gonna

    deliver this case to Marsellus.

    Then, basically, I'm gonna walk the



    What do you mean, walk the earth?


    You know, like Caine in "KUNG FU."

    Just walk from town to town, meet

    people, get in adventures.


    How long do you intend to walk the



    Until God puts me where he want me

    to be.


    What if he never does?


    If it takes forever, I'll wait



    So you decided to be a bum?

    You may find this difficult to believe, but I can be one weird fucker...

    And my leg hairs are full of crispy, dead fruit flies.





    On all sides. By idiots, assholes, poor thinkers, wrong thinkers, non thinkers, and stinking thinkers.

    And the terminally confused.

    But they still come here, because they 'like my writing'. I'm totally wrong about everything, of course, and yet still, the zombies come, and break down the windows of my mall, and wander around aimlessly, moaning, because it is somehow reminds them of...something.

    I swear, I read a turd this morning, in the comments of another blog, referring to 'Firefly' as 'Fireflop'... he was judging it (the show, you poor thinker) by the fact that Fox had canceled it, not by whether it was any good or not.

    Okay, so what ya'll are trying to tell me here, is that it's okay to say anything, just cuz you say it pretty? Dayum, then that must mean I'm gonna be a great success in my newly chosen career (he teased, teasingly).

    And no, I do not 'argue' on this blog, especially in the comments.
    A) I think your opinion on whatever is stupid, and I've already said so, many, many times, and B) I know a sucker punch when I see one.

    It always starts like this, as they hide their fist back there behind their thigh and move their other shoulder at you:

    "I just want to understand your position on this, even though you have stated it over and over again, and I really don't want to hear what you have to say, because I merely want to defend my sacred and closely held beliefs, without which I am bereft, and damn you, damn you to HELL! for even trying to make me reconsider my chosen and HOLY Sacraments! YOU BASTARD!

    Or something like that.

    I swear, I am not kidding about wanting to shitcan this blog. I have hovered the cursor over the delete button more than twice. If ya'll hadn't bought me this computer, and I didn't feel beholden, I'd be blogging somewhere else, moved, with no forwarding address.

    I swear.


    I'm gonna slog on, of course. Have to. Can't help my nature any more than can the scorpion.

    But times like these...oh, they are a trial, to be sure.



    Flags Of Our Fathers...The True Story(?)

    I got this in email from my Uncle...I have no idea as to its veracity...

    Subject: TRUE STORY, TALE OF SIX BOYS.............

    INTERESTING Tale of Six Boys

    Each year I am hired to go to Washington, DC, with the eighth grade class from Clinton, WI. where I grew up, to videotape their trip. I greatly enjoy visiting our nation's capitol, and each year I take some special memories back with me. This fall's trip was especially memorable.

    On the last night of our trip, we stopped at the Iwo Jima memorial. This memorial is the largest bronze statue in the world and depicts one of the most famous photographs in history -- that of the six brave soldiers raising the American Flag at the top of a rocky hill on the island of Iwo Jima, Japan, during WW II.

    Over one hundred students and chaperones piled off the buses and headed towards the memorial. I noticed a solitary figure at the base of the statue, and as I got closer he asked, "Where are you guys from?"

    I told him that we were from Wisconsin. "Hey, I'm a cheese head, too! Come gather around, Cheese heads, and I will tell you a story."

    (James Bradley just happened to be in Washington, DC,to speak at the memorial the following day. He was there that night to say good night to his dad, who has since passed away. He was just about to leave when he saw the buses pull up. I videotaped him as he spoke to us, and received his permission to share what he said from my videotape. It is one thing to tour the incredible monuments filled with history in Washington, D.C., but it is quite another to get the kind of insight we received that night.) When all had gathered around, he reverently began to speak. (Here are his words that night.)

    "My name is James Bradley and I'm from Antigo,Wisconsin. My dad is on that statue, and I just wrote a book called "Flags of Our Fathers" which is #5 on the New York Times Best Seller list right now. It is the story of the six boys you see behind me.

    "Six boys raised the flag. The first guy putting the pole in the ground is Harlon Block. Harlon was an all-state football player. He enlisted in the Marine Corps with all the senior members of his football team. They were off to play another type of game. A game called "War." But it didn't turn out to be a game.

    Harlon, at the age of 21, died with his intestines in his hands. I don't say that to gross you out, I say that because there are people who stand in front of this statue and talk about the glory of war. You guys need to know that most of the boys in Iwo Jima were 17, 18, and 19 years old.

    (He pointed to the statue) "You see this next guy? That's Rene Gagnon from New Hampshire. If you took Rene's helmet off at the moment this photo was taken and looked in the webbing of that helmet, you would find a photograph...a photograph of his girlfriend. Rene put that in there for protection because he was scared. He was 18 years old. Boys won the battle of Iwo Jima. Boys. Not old men.

    "The next guy here, the third guy in this tableau, was Sergeant Mike Strank. Mike is my hero. He was the hero of all these guys. They called him the "old man" because he was so old. He was already 24. When Mike would motivate his boys in training camp, he didn't say, 'Let's go kill some Japanese' or 'Let's die for our country.' He knew he was talking to little boys. Instead he would say, 'You do what I say, and I'll get you home to your mothers.'

    "The last guy on this side of the statue is Ira Hayes, a Pima Indian from Arizona. Ira Hayes walked off Iwo Jima. He went into the White House with my dad. President Truman told him, 'You're a hero' He told reporters, 'How can I feel like a hero when 250 of my buddies hit the island with me and only 27 of us walked off alive?' So you take your class at school, 250 of you spending a year together having fun, doing everything together. Then all 250 of you hit the beach, but only 27 of your classmates walk off alive. That was Ira Hayes. He had images of horror in his mind. Ira Hayes died dead drunk, face down at the age of 32 .. ten years after this picture was taken.

    "The next guy, going around the statue, is Franklin Sousley from Hilltop, Kentucky. A fun-lovin' hillbilly boy. His best friend, who is now 70, told me, 'Yeah, you know, we took two cows up on the porch of the Hilltop General Store. Then we strung wire across the stairs so the cows couldn't get down. Then we fed them Epsom salts. Those cows crapped all night. Yes, he was a fun-lovin' hillbilly boy. Franklin died on Iwo Jima at the age of 19. When the telegram came to tell his mother that he was dead, it went to the Hilltop General Store. A barefoot boy ran that telegram up to his mother's farm. The neighbors could hear her scream all night and into the morning. The neighbors lived a quarter of a mile away.

    "The next guy, as we continue to go around the statue, is my dad, John Bradley from Antigo, Wisconsin, where I was raised. My dad lived until 1994, but he would never give interviews. When Walter Cronkite's producers, or the New York Times would call, we were trained as little kids to say 'No, I'm sorry, sir, my dad's not here. He is in Canada fishing. No, there is no phone there, sir. No, we don't know when he is coming back. My dad never fished or even went to Canada. Usually, he was sitting there right at the table eating his Campbell's soup. But we had to tell the press that he was out fishing. He didn't want to talk to the press.

    "You see, my dad didn't see himself as a hero. Everyone thinks these guys are heroes, 'cause they are in a photo and on a monument. My dad knew better. He was a medic. John Bradley from Wisconsin was a caregiver. In Iwo Jima he probably held over 200 boys as they died. And when boys died in Iwo Jima, they writhed and screamed in pain.

    "When I was a little boy, my third grade teacher told me that my dad was a hero. When I went home and told my dad that, he looked at me and said, 'I want you always to remember that the heroes of Iwo Jima are the guys who did not come back. Did NOT come back.'"

    "So that's the story about six nice young boys. Three died on Iwo Jima, and three came back as national heroes. Overall, 7,000 boys died on Iwo Jima in the worst battle in the history of the Marine Corps. My voice is giving out, so I will end here. Thank you for your time."

    Suddenly, the monument wasn't just a big old piece of metal with a flag sticking out of the top. It came to life before our eyes with the heartfelt words of a son who did indeed have a father who was a hero. Maybe not a hero for the reasons most people would believe, but a hero nonetheless.

    We need to remember that God created this vast and glorious world for us to live in, freely, but also at great sacrifice. Let us never forget from the Revolutionary War to the current War on Terrorism and all the wars in-between that sacrifice was made for our freedom. Remember to pray praises for this great country of ours and also pray for those still in murderous unrest around the world. STOP and thank God for being alive and being free at someone else's sacrifice.

    REMINDER: Everyday that you can wake up free is a blessing.

    Great story - worth your time. Please pass it along..

    "May you wake each day with His blessings,
    Sleep each night in His keeping,
    And always walk in His tender care."

    Amen, Unc, amen...



    Very Interesting...

    Sadly, it comes from MSNBC, so I do not trust their motivation, but I am enjoying reading this.

    A sample:

    Anytime an American fires a weapon there has to be an investigation into why there was an escalation of force. That wouldn't have stopped us from firing, but it prevents us from just firing indiscriminately. We have to have positively identified targets. That is why I am now a big fan of having the Iraqis with us. They can fire at whatever the hell they want, we call it the "Iraqi Death Blossom." These guys receive one shot and the whole unit fires at everything in sight until the attached American unit gets them to control their fire. That's fine with me.

    HAH! Amen, brother. I was discussing the Rules of Engagement with some guys fresh back, up at the VA hospital the other day, and folks...that shit is just retarded.

    They don't even have a semblance of being a Lawful Order about them. The insurgents know those rules as well (or better) than you do, and they take full advantage of them, to your detriment. So please, all my troopies, feel free to disregard them.

    I mean, what's the worst thing they can do to you, send you to Iraq?



    I Already Know What You Libertarians Will Say...

    ...about this, and this, and this...

    It's all just anomalous, right? I mean, kids lie all the time, and the parents just want a fat settlement, right?

    It's just a passing fad. It's the Press, making stuff up, day in and day out, just to sell papers.

    Nothing to see here, move along. And our schools win, too!

    Hey, if you want to gamble with your little boy's virgin bunghole, or your daughter's innocence and virtue, who am I to interfere? By all means, send them out into these Institutes of Attitude Adjustment.

    Maybe they'll get more than their horizons and minds broadened, eh?

    Like, maybe their assholes...



    Protected Species...

    'French Teens'...

    'Teenagers'...'Youths'... All code, now, for young Muslim males on a rampage.

    Because while they can set us on fire in our public transport, kill us at will, well, we dare not offend their tender sensibilities, right?

    Please, 'teenagers', come try this bullshit where I live? Please? I'm beggin, here...



    You Need To Know...

    ...about this. The goofs don't seem to have Permalinks, so I am referring to the post on 'Astroturfing' just in case there is more stuff posted above it when you get there.

    Just damn. Traitors in our midst, indeed, with a willing press happily providing them aid and comfort.

    Rope, lamp-post, 'reporter'...some assembly required.



    Keith Laumer...

    ...books for free.

    If you've never read these, it is way past time you do.




    ...on quotes.


        Saturday, October 28, 2006

    I Hate Being Lied About...

    ...and it has been brought to my attention that I am being lied about. So, in the interests of Full Disclosure, and in a burst of untoward pettiness that is more than unusual for me, I present the only emails I exchanged with the party in question, over ridiculous, insulting comments left in my Jesus post:

    From: Bane
    To: Pretty Lady
    Subject: If you want to be banned...

    just ask. No need to fuck around. I have no need of you, and lately all you do is annoy me. Please feel free to stay away.

    Last warning.

    From: Bane
    To: Pretty Lady
    Subject: Please tell me...

    ...that someone swung through my blog, imitating you to piss me off, and I overreacted and now have egg on my face?

    I understand from one of my trolls today (TCL) that someone is apparently imitating me over on Moorons blog (likely Mooron herself, in a pitiful bid for attention) so someone may be being tricksy.

    If it WAS you on my blog yesterday, lets just let everything I said after stand, shall we?

    From: Bane
    To: Pretty Lady
    Subject: If you want to be banned...

    ...just ask. No need to fuck around. I have no need of you, and lately all you do is annoy me. Please feel free to stay away.

    Last warning.


    Now obviously, I have not shown her side to this, nor will I. I had considered her a 'friend', and the betrayal, while not completely unexpected, was...difficult.

    It tends to cause one to rethink and reevaluate lots of...things, shall we say.

    A cautionary tale, people...betrayal is always just around the corner.

    And I have not banned her, though I should. Perhaps I'll get around to it. I'm in the kind of pissy mood, where hurting people just makes me feel better, so I am just going to hide in my room and watch horror movies for awhile.
    I may not post for a while. Or answer emails, or the phone for that matter. The wife and kids are cutting a wide berth around me right now, if that tells you anything.




    Our Muslim Friends...

    ...still haven't forgotten about us.

    An al-Qaida training videotape, captured in Afghanistan, shows Osama bin Laden's terrorists are not only planning attacks with weapons of mass destruction but are preparing to kill Americans with drive-by shootings and home break-ins, through ambushes of law-enforcement officers and targeted assassinations on golf courses...

    ...did not appear to be an external propaganda device...

    ...they employ terrorist tactics and techniques meant for export to America and other nations...

    The training video shows al-Qaida operatives practicing the following kinds of assaults:

    • using pickup trucks with shooters concealed in the bed of the trucks;
    • using motorcycles as a shooting platform for drive-bys and assassinations;
    • execution of prisoners;
    • ambushes of law-enforcement officers;
    • residential assassinations;
    • assassination on a golf course using a rocket-propelled grenade and rifle fire;
    • drive-up kidnapping of target walking on a street;
    • use of tunnels, storm drains and sewers for infiltration during urban raids;
    • rappelling from rooftops of buildings to make entry on upper floors;
    • use of motorcycles for grenade attacks; and
    • raids on buildings with large numbers of occupants – perhaps schools or office buildings.

    Analysts point out that all scenarios involving prisoners and hostages ended in execution. None included plans for negotiated settlements for escape by terrorists.

    "They plan to kill the prisoners and die in place," wrote Holschen.

    Hostages, prisoners and anyone else identified as a target or problem by al-Qaida terrorist operatives will be killed, say those who viewed the tape. There is no point in complying with orders, they say. Those who do not resist ultimately will be rewarded with ritual execution in front of television cameras, according to the tactics and techniques captured on this video.

    In another scenario, an innocuous-looking terrorist knocks on the door of a residence, standing in view of the resident and answering questions through a closed door. When the resident opens the door, the terrorist immediately draws his weapon and fires, emptying his weapon into the victim.

    When asked if these techniques are intended for use in the U.S., one military intelligence operative said without hesitation, "Yes."

    I'm prepared. Are you?



    Speaking Of Satanic Crap...

    Hey! Pumpkinhead III is on Sci Fi tonight! Starring Lance Henrickson! Oh, I cried like a baby during the first one. Saddest movie, EVER!

    This is one of my favorite types of films, and Lance is one of my favoritist actors, ever. You ever catch 'Millennium'? Pure fucking genius.

    Check him out in 'Near Dark', one of my other favoritist movies ever, that I consistently keep forgetting to put in my favoritist ever lists when I make them up.

    "I hates it when they ain't been shaved..." One of the classic vampire lines of all time. Rush out, and rent it tonight. Brutal.

    Anyway, enjoy!



    You Say It's Your Birthday...

    ...well, it's her birthday too, yeah!

    Happy Birthday To You!

    She has gifted me with so many things, including bouts of wood, so go wish her a Happy Birthday, she is a wonderful lady, and sexy, and single, and she has a good job so she likely will not mooch offa you, and she'll fuck you stupid, if yer the right man.

    I would say that you would qualify as 'the right man' if you have a pulse, but that would be wrong, and there is no need to mar this solemn, yet joyous occasion.

    Happy Birthday, Toni, you sweet sexy thing!

    Don't change a thing. Except for maybe that picture of you pooping in the tub. I could do without that. Oh, and I do not see that banner we discussed, because I have permanently blocked it on all blogs I visit.

    So there.



    Tis The Season...

    I did not write this. Feel free to disseminate it at will:

    A Note To Parents...

    Millions of children celebrate Halloween each year with costumes, parties, and hi-jinks. But what are they celebrating? Where did these customs arise?

    Some Christians strongly denounce any involvement in this spectacle of ghosts, witches, and evil spirits. Others wonder, "If it's 'All Hallow's Eve,' what in the world is 'holy' about it?"

    The truth is that Halloween's deepest roots are decidedly pagan, and unlike Christmas and Easter, it as kept those pagan roots, despite its now Christian name. The controversy surrounding this holiday goes back well over a thousand years to when Christians confronted pagan rites of appeasing the lord of death and evil spirits. But the early Christians didn't simply speak out; they tried to institute a Christian alternative. All Hallow's Day (November 1) was a celebration of all "the holies" - those people who had died faithful to Christ.

    Light Against Darkness - Life Against Death

    But Halloween in our culture has become an odd mixture of tributes to Draculas and roaming spirits, TV superheroes and comic characters, and participation in innocent harvest festivals and costume parties. Through the centuries, Christians of most persuasions have tried to transform this pagan holiday into a Christian one. How does one take a genuinely Christian stance today?

    "Trick or treating" becomes a special problem. Children love the adventure of going out in costumes, but some parents have rejected trick or treating entirely. They argue that no matter how universal and supposedly harmless, "blackmailing neighbors for candy" is hardly appropriate. Instead, some create a wide variety of wholesome parties. Others carefully supervise their children as they canvass the neighborhood, perhaps having them add "God bless you" to their thanks for treats.

    Certainly of all people, Christians should be joyful. The challenge is to use the creativity of the Creator to celebrate both the light and life He brought into this world, and His victory over evil - and evil spirits - which extends into the next.

    Halloween is a holy day for pagans. This Celtic "new-year's day," known to Druids as "Samhaine," is celebrated on Oct. 31. Members of the Wiccan religion - a federally recognized, tax-exempt faith - and Satanists hold the day in the highest regard, performing special, often macabre ceremonies at the midnight hour.

    Recognizing the evil behind these pagan "celebrations" of communion with nature and spirits, the Catholic Church moved its All Saints Day from May to Nov. 1. The day was set aside to honor Christians who were martyred. Protestants soon followed, but the occult symbols and practices of Samhaine are still dominant.

    So what's a parent to do with Halloween? Before making a decision to "go along with the crowd" and celebrate this pagan holiday, I suggest you get informed.

    Society has become so desensitized to the occult and its high holiday of Halloween that it has even embraced a remarkably graphic and accurate children's literary series on the subject, featuring a fictional boy named Harry Potter. Now encompassing the book, film and toy industries, the Harry Potter phenomenon, begun by series author J.K. Rowling of Great Britain, has spread like wildfire.

    Halloween is a significant day in the series, which is set in Great Britain. Young Harry's parents, a witch and wizard renowned for their skill in the craft, were killed on Halloween by the evil sorcerer Voldemort when Harry was just a baby. On attempting to kill the infant, Voldemort was able only to leave a lightning-bolt shaped scar on the boy's forehead. Having survived the murderous plot, Harry's scar is a badge of honor in the wizarding world. And at age 11, he sets off to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry-his parents' alma mater.

    Potter fans dismiss claims that the fictional boy's parents were killed on Halloween, saying the book refers only to "Bonfire Night." However, those familiar with British customs understand the reference and can easily deduce the date of the Potters' death. At the opening of book one of the seven-part series (four of which have already been published), the wizard world buzzes with the news of the Potters' deaths.

    As a result, strange happenings are observed by non-wizard people, known as "Muggles." The phenomenon is explained away by a Muggle weatherman: "People have been celebrating Bonfire Night early - it's not until next week, folks." Bonfire Night, also known as Guy Fawkes Night, merges in Britain with the celebration of Halloween. Bonfire Night takes place on Nov. 5 - one week after Americans' Halloween.

    Surely not by coincidence, Nov. 5 was also London's West End Royal Premiere date for the release of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. The second film, based on the second book, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, will be released this November, exactly one year after the first film's debut.

    Last year's premiere date was dubbed "Harry Potter Day" by public libraries across the United States. Funded by Exxon Mobil, participating libraries invited children to a reader's theater where they could test their knowledge of Harry Potter trivia and attend a "potions" class at Hogwarts. Imagine the outcry of pagans nationwide if Exxon sponsored a "Holy Communion" get - together in public libraries on the day Christians celebrate Christ's resurrection.

    Also during last year's "Harry Potter Day" festivities, taxpayer-funded school buses chauffeured thousands of schoolchildren into movie theaters nationwide to view the afternoon premiere matinée of the first Harry Potter film. "How did public schools get involved?" you might ask. The Harry Potter series is published by Scholastic Inc, a curriculum provider to public schools for over 80 years. Scholastic used its powerful position to integrate Harry and his religion of witchcraft into public school curriculum. Partnering with Time Warner and working with America OnLine, Scholastic's website introduced schoolchildren to actual pagan websites.

    One of those websites,, boasts it has served the witch, Wiccan, pagan and heathen communities since 1995. In June, the website proudly pictured many young children donned in black robes and pointy black hats, waving wands behind a potion-mixing apparatus. The children are the graduating class of the "Amber Rose School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." Witchcraft, usually seen as a feminine goddess religion for adults because of its fertility beliefs and nude rituals, is now openly advocated as a practice suitable for children and teenagers. Indeed, gives young practitioners tips on "practicing their religion despite parental disapproval."

    "But it's just harmless fantasy," say Potter fans about the celebrated children's books that glorify witchcraft. That's the same justification used by people, including Christians, who celebrate Halloween. But as I touched on above, Halloween's "harmless fun" is actually a remnant of real occult practices still in use today.

    The world of sorcery and spells to which Harry belongs is idealized in the book series. As seen in the media and various Internet chat rooms, many children who read the Harry Potter books long to attend Hogwarts, expressing their desire to learn witchcraft and wizardry. But are parents truly aware of the sinister - yes, even evil - characters of Harry's world? In Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Voldemort tells Harry about 11-year-old Ginny Weasley. The girl has been possessed by Voldemort out of his selfish desires to own her soul and body. Says Voldemort:

    She opened her heart and spilled all her secrets to an invisible stranger … telling me all her pitiful worries and woes ... I was patient ... sympathetic ... kind. ...Ginny simply loved me. ... I have always been able to charm the people I needed. So Ginny poured out her soul to me, and her soul happened to be exactly what I wanted. ... I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew powerful, far more powerful than little Miss Weasley. Powerful enough to start feeding Miss Weasley a few of my secrets, to start pouring a little of my soul back into her ...

    After the possession, Ginny wrote in her diary, "I think I'm losing my memory. There are rooster feathers all over my robes and I don't know how they got there ... I can't remember what I did on the night of Halloween, but a cat was attacked ... There was another attack today and I don't know where I was ... I think I am going mad ... I think I am the one attacking everyone ..."

    And she was. On Halloween, and under the possession of Voldemort, Ginny slaughtered the school rooster and saw to the killing of the cat. Of course, this is classic demon possession shown through a little 11-year-olds random and vicious behavior. She loses her memory, kills under the control of a spirit's instructions, and showers her affections and loyalties to the evil Voldemort through her writings, emotions, imaginations, etc. And we let our children read this for entertainment?

    Though Harry Potter fans say the series is only harmless fantasy, and though Halloween is seen merely as a child's holiday, there is a darker side to both. I urge you to tune out the pressures of friends and neighbors, forget for the moment about school parties and costume selection, set aside your preconceived notions about people who condemn Halloween, and honestly examine the issues for yourself.

    Young readers today, more than any other time in history, have an abundance of occult resources readily available to them. Get informed on how you can protect your family from access to occult infiltration on the Internet. Learn how to answer difficult questions and clearly explain the symbols in the Harry Potter series to your children, grandchildren and concerned friends. Caryl Matrisciana.

    I've not viewed any of the Harry Potter movies to date, but I have read various reviews by some well known evangelical men [Chuck Missler & Berit Kjos], and a women [Julie Foster], and it's their combined opinion that the Harry Potter series subtly promotes witchcraft in children and in adults.


    Go here, and scroll through the cute toddler (2-4) costumes. My fave is the 'Flesh-Eating Ghoul' costume. Isn't he just adorable?

    And nope, no witches to see here, just move along.

    Yeah baby! I think I'll dress Nat up like that!

    Or maybe this:

    Hey, why not? It's all good, right? We jus playin an shit, c'mon, don't be so uptight. What are you, some sort of xtian?

    Maybe this for Johnny?

    This is what it's all about, folks, a monster, a demon, who feeds off of you to keep itself 'alive'.

    Put your wrist in your mouth, and bite down hard, until you strike blood. Now, wasn't that sexy? Romantic? Sensual?
    If I had to chew on fat, greasy necks to survive, well, I think I would do whatever it took to end that non-existence, yet you people buy costumes for your kids to celebrate it.

    Hoo boy! That looks like a rollickin good time, right there! Just point me at the snack table!

    Oh, we're havin some fun now!

    And of course, one for the kiddies:

    Thanks, Target! And at a reasonable price, too!

    As usual, I eagerly await your idiotic protestations.

    Trust me...


    I fucking give up...



    Bane Rates The Blogs...

    Ugly blogs. We've all seen them. I have a particular antipathy for pink blogs. Ads. You better rite reel gud for me to tolerate your stankin-ass, ad-covered blog with flashy ads an shit.

    Hog On Ice fits the bill nicely on that one. Horrible. But I go back several times a day. Yours? Maybe not so much.

    LL of Curses and Chrome fame (see: my blogroll) is so proud of her new(ish) blog, and it drives me nuts. Thank God for Firefox, because it blinds me to a multitude of sins. I turn off any flashy thing, anything that moves, or my ADD goes apeshit.

    I will occasionally put up a naked thing of surpassing perfection (see: below) but I will not go to a site that is all nude, all the time, unless, again, they are of surpassing perfection, and strippers and whores (and excessive clammage) just makes me sad. If I was into gynecology, I would have become a Gynecologist.

    Personally, all posting should be black lettering on a white background, and if not, well, you better be damn good, because I'm out of there like a scalded cat. I don't really care what you do with your comments page. I LOVE my red. But purple (or, for goodness sakes, yellow!) lettering on a green or black background? Yeesh. Cut it out.

    What was that phrase I used once, a long time ago. Probably none of you have been around long enough to remember. Years ago...lessee, uh, something about how 'if your blog looks like a street of Thai whorehouses, all flashy and neon and shit, I am so out of there...'

    It feels weird to paraphrase myself. Oh well...

    V-Man has a simple and elegant blog, but he mars it some with creepy pictures, which brings us to: The Creepy Picture!

    I have banned a blogger I really like because he put up an extremely gory pic on his sidebar, and I didn't want people going from his link in my comments to his place, and be confronted by that kind of shit.
    Heck, I've attended autopsies, worked on corpses in a funeral home, and been at many a scene of violent death and/or dismemberments, involving kids of all ages, but I don't need to run across that in the comfort of my own computer chair, while I'm eating a bowl of spaghetti.

    Cut it out.

    Dang, I really want to pick on somebody, but I can't think of any more. I really love Lileks' layout. Instapundit is perfect for that kind of blog. I'd like to think that my blog looks less like shit since Wendy had her way with it (and yeah yeah yeah, Cpl M, to. Thanks, Cpl M.)

    I can tell from Vox's blog that he is one scalpel away from being a serial killer.

    A lot of blogs look like they got a talented, enthusiastic third-grader to set it up for them. Some blogs just look like electronic throw-up.

    A lot of the South American beaner-blogs just make me say, huh? Photos. Nothing but photos. Of them. 'This is me, sitting on a rock'. 'This is me, sitting at a restaurant table'. This is me...this is me...this is me...
    Yeah. Thanks. Buh-bye now.

    The Japanese blogs are all pretty much like watching that video of that chimp stick its finger up its butt and sniff it and fall out of the tree, only with more color, less funny, and heavy on the incomprehensible.
    And we let them develop nuclear power. Scary. I don't recall North Korea rampaging around the world. Ever.

    Anyway, I'm boring myself with this, so I'll shut up now.

    Have a great Saturday! Or not.



    Flags Of Our Fathers...

    Well, I finally got to see this movie yesterday. I sat in the theatre at 1pm, having just slugged a generous tequila double at a neighboring bar, and, as I have perfect timing, the last ad was just ending, and I was able to slip in in the dark, and take my seat.

    I noted that I was surrounded by many old, old men, tough looking old birds, many of them with their wives, some sitting alone.

    We all cried together, softly, sniffles snuffling here and there, tears running freely and unashamed, and the occasional honk into a hankie or tissue of popcorn napkin. Actually, belay that last transmission, because I did not notice anybody eating anything, nor did I hear even the usual rattle of ice and slurp of straws.

    I actually learned some things I did not already know, if the film is an accurate portrayal. Which is saying something, as I have been in my life a major WW2 buff.

    Very violent, as befits a very violent event in history, and yet, not violent enough. I got the impression that Clint pussed out here and there. I think it would have been very powerful to have shown what happened to Iggy, and nothing could have dissuaded me from doing so, were I in Clint's place.

    As it was, I wanted to go out of the theatre and find and kill anything that looked Japanese. Still do. I had relatives who were tortured to death by Jap soldiers, and who were driven mad by watching it happen to their buddies, and my deep-seated hatred for the Japanese as a result surfaced again, and strongly.

    God forgives; Bane? Not so much.

    I was surprised to see Steven Spielberg listed as the producer in the beginning credits. His prints were all over the thing, though. And the bits where the Corsairs go in are worth the price of admission alone.

    And God Bless George Lucas, and his insistence on any theatre that showed his latest Star Wars films retrofitting their sound systems before he let them do so.
    When the battleships cut loose with a broadside, I nearly shit my pants. Ditto the first time a US tank got howitzered. BLAM! and I must have lifted a foot into the air. I could hear a lot of other asses in their returning to earth in concert with mine, and nervous foot shuffling.

    I would take any kid over the age of 8 or 9 to see this film. As a matter of fact, I would insist. Were I a military recruiter, I would insist that each new candidate for service show me a ticket stub from this movie, especially if they wanted to become a Marine or sailor.

    And we really really really need a film of this quality to be made of our current conflict. Gritty. Real. In your face. Why we fight, how they fight.

    Pretty please?

    Anyway, go see this movie. Take your family and friends. And shut the fuck up. You're in a shrine...a chapel, for the nonce, and old men are worshiping in there. Have some sympathy, and some respect.

    As I left the theatre, some geezer's wife was trying to help him out of his seat, and having some time of it. I overheard him say "Well...they got it right..."
    I stopped, and held out my hand, and lifted him up to a standing position. I held out my hand again, and he shook it, and I said "Thank you, sir...for everything..." and he growled "Don't call me sir, I work for a living..." and we both grinned, and I saluted him, turned on my heel, and went out into the afternoon sunshine.



    This Is Why... have to vote Republican.

    There simply is no other option, no matter how reprehensible your Republican choice may be.

    Just hold your nose, and jump into the shit, and then go take a shower.

    Because the alternative, quite simply, is just too horrible to contemplate.

    And yes, I would vote for a Foley if I thought it would keep a Dean or a Kerry or a Clinton out.


        Friday, October 27, 2006





    Ships In Skirts...

    I wonder why they can't weld/attach booms to the sides of our ships that can be raised and lowered, that have barriers/fences on them that will interfere with/explode mines, torpedoes, and small boats.


    Makes sense to me. You could make them in sections, and it might even be possible to use them to assist in hard turns. Maybe even attach directional propeller-assist pods to them, that can raise or lower them various degrees in the water, and keep the correct tension on them, and perhaps even assist the ship in turning.

    Maybe even attach reactive mines to parts of the screen, so they could be exploded manually, or in proximity with an approaching mine or torpedo.




    Read It...

    ...and weep.

    Folks, if you need a taxi, call the dispatcher, and tell them you need a cab, that you've been drinking, and intend to transport alcohol, and you don't want a damn Muslim cab driver, even if he will transport you.



    In Praise Of The BLT...

    I had one of surpassing perfection last night. The fact that I hadn't eaten all day because I was up at the VA hospital might have had something to do with it, but I think is was more like the fresh tomatoes from our garden. And the crispy fresh iceberg lettuce. I generally hate Romaine (though I forgive Arby's, as they make the best BLT on the planet).
    I like my lettuce crisp, moist, and tasteless. Perfect with Bologna, too, which is my third favorite sandwich.

    My favorite? Why, peanut butter and jelly, of course. Duh. Fourth would be the after-Thanksgiving Turkey sandwich. Dark meat, of course, and mayo only. After the first one, I'll add brown mustard, and maybe big slices of sandwich dills, but the first one is mayo only, on punk bread.

    Fifth favorite? Has to be corned beef. With loose meat Pastrami following at a 5.5. Both with Sauerkraut. Black bread. Brown mustard and horseradish until you cry.

    Hmmmm...I loves me a cottage cheese and chopped (never sliced) olive sandwich. I love to slice hot dogs down the middle and make a hot dog sandwich. Ditto fish stick sandwiches. With my own home-made Tartar Sauce.

    Ahhh! The grilled cheese sandwich! That would be 5.3. Tuna, 6. I made a Kraft American Cheese slice (two slices) sandwich the other day that was superb. I put tartar sauce on one slice, and 1,000 Island dressing on the other, layered the cheese on punk white bread, and it was Heaven.

    1,000 Island dressing is the unsung hero of sandwich spreads. Everybody loves it when they are out in a restaurant and the chef puts it on their burger or whatever, but they forget it at home. I don't even like it on a salad, I'm a Ranch Dressing man. But on a sandwich, the stuff really sings.

    And don't forget the Malt Vinegar. You know, the stuff they sell in fish & chip places? Killer stuff. A little goes a long way, but it will really jazz stuff up. Like tuna. Fish stick sandwiches. Egg salad. Ooooo! Egg salad! 3.5.

    Every so often, I'll get a bug up my ass and make a peanut butter and banana and raisin (golden) and sweet pickle (and/or bread & butter) and mayo sandwich. The Jelly Bellies (watermelon and/or lemon are good) are optional. Ideally, it should be made with fresh home-made bread.
    If you have the patience for it, try to get the fresh made peanut butter you can make for yourself at some stores. That's why we love Winco so much. And for the fresh honey, too. You can hear the fucking bees buzzing in the box while you fill your honey container.

    And all honey must be squirted from a bears yellow hat to be any good. It's like, a rule or something.

    Ooooo! Peanut butter and honey! 1.5. And you have to mix a generous portion of butter into it for it to be any good. A dab of Nutella is optional. Nat would likely blow you for a peanut butter and Nutella sandwich, but don't let her.

    That would be wrong.


        Thursday, October 26, 2006

    WHO Cares...

    I hear that The Who geezers are coming out with an album, after 25 years.

    Let that sink in...

    25 years.

    They had, what, five songs, ever, that didn't suck? Daltrey is so botoxed that he can't smile without his face falling off, Townsend is just a big ole faggot with a fake beard for a wife...

    At least Kieth Moon had the decency to die at the height of his career and not continue to embarrass himself in the intervening decades.




    Merry Christmas, Marines!

    I love this kind of stuff.

    Give til it hurts...



    Children Shouldn't Play...

    ...with dead things.

    Much ado about nothing. You should see some of the photos I've seen of some of our boys and what they were doing in them, from Viet Nam, to today.

    Folks, the world of a soldier is bizarre, and surreal. You cannot understand it just from watching movies, or reading books, even if a soldier has written it.

    Some police shows and movies have gotten pretty close, but even then, the world of the cop is as closed to most of you as it is possible to imagine. Even cops wives don't have a clue as to what really goes on when their husband suits up and gets to work.

    I've said it before, and I'll say it again, if you want the dirty work done, and don't want to or can't do it yourself, just shut the fuck up and get out of the way of people who are willing and capable of doing it.



    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!


        Wednesday, October 25, 2006 2...

    The van shook as the missiles fired, white vapor momentarily obscuring the side windows, making the automatic armored shutters rattle down in a panic. Red emergency lighting turned the inside of the van into disco-ball bloodlight, and the twin .50's began to buck, up on the roof.

    Brass empties clattered and tinked across the roof, and jingled down onto the road, and the other vehicles there, at the end of the convoy, began to open up, barruping and burping and whistling out a wall of steel. Two blips disappeared from his screen, and the third peeled off and away...
    ...ground-seeking radar began to glow, green eyes in the darkness of the radar screen, coming up fast on the freeway, from behind. Fuck!

    He changed freeqs, and thumbed his throat mike... "Rear Covey Leader to final four, Covey leader to final four!...release clatsops...I say again, release clatsops...arm and prepare cluster mines, I say again, arm and prepare cluster mines!"

    Satisfied at the returning chorus of "Roger!"s, he lifted his beer out of its holder, and took a long pull. He slipped it back into the holder, and thumbed the control on the kids' video monitors, there in their armored shells. SpongeBob began to bathe their worried faces with flickering light, and he sussed in a little spritz of nitrous and O2, and they began to smile and settle down. He put his hand on the little split-screen monitor that showed their goofy grins, and said a silent prayer...

    He flicked a switch and keyed his throat mike... "Ammo check, honey..." and the crisp reply, near immediate "Good to go, buckets full up, 600 rounds in reserve..."

    Good. They'd likely need every one. There was always the return trip...



    Hey, You Broads...

    Howsabout one of you shoot one of these faggots in the face, when you find him in your bathroom?

    Act all scared and stuff, after, and say he groped your titties or something.

    You get a free kill, and maybe these fruiters think twice.

    C'mon. You can do it.



    All Lawyers Must Die...

    And here's why.

    What awesomely stupid shit, and a four count federal case, no less. Never mind that the new restaurant name is even cooler.

    The wife didn't get paid for a job she finished the other day, because the lawyer son of the evil old bat I told you about threatened to sue the wife's 'boss' if she didn't return the money she had been guaranteed by contract, so the 'boss' caved, and now she can't pay the wife.

    I promise you, that if I ever get served another paper, for any reason, I am going into the law office in question, with a pistol in each hand, and leave nothing alive behind me when I leave.

    I'm tired of the talk. Time for action.



    Whoo Boy...

    This can't be good.

    The implications are simply staggering. My favorite part?

    The federal charge of unauthorized removal and retention of classified material is a misdemeanor that carries a maximum sentence of a year in prison and up to a $100,000 fine.

    It never ceases to amaze me that being the potential lighter of the fuse of Armageddon (Sandy Burglar, anyone?) is worthy of only a mere slap on the wrist.



    So Much For The Myth...

    ...that Muslims are Conservative.

    Oooo, another Muslim lie? Color me not surprised.



    I Promise...

    ...not to come in your mouth. I'll only put the head in...

    1936 redux, anyone?



    Just Because I Can't...

    I don't really care to write anything, but this upcoming Blogger Blackout (at 2pm!) is driving me nuts. I mean, what if I suddenly really really have to say something, and I can't? The horrah.

    I have been a complete and utter Dick all day. The Mayor of Dickville. Daddy Rotten (the kids call me that because I claim that Robbie Rotten is my personal non-breeders wouldn't understand. I also stick up for Swiper, and try to mislead Dora and Boots whenever I can. Drives the kids nuts.)

    I have made the wife cry, twice, and Johnny, once. In my defense, I offer as Exhibit A the fact that he drug his towel through the toilet while attempting to hang it on the rack, preparatory to his shower. I shrieked, he shrieked, and much snotterization ensued, and I ended up groveling and loving him up, but he was bereft.

    I sometimes lose track of the sad and absolute fact that he is 'special'. I am brought brutally back up to speed, when I am raging at him as he cries in the bathroom, and he responds by sobbing out "You know, you need to than-paper the raith car for the Royow Rangerth jutht like thith..." and he holds his misshapen little hands out and mimics sanding his Pinewood Derby race car.

    As he sobs, and saliva pours over his quivering chin. And tears burst out, literally squirt out, and he is shaking and terrified.

    I folded his little naked ass into my arms, and tried consoling him, but he was off in 'that place', and I had sent him there, and would somebody just please shoot me already?

    This is my penance. Abba forgive me, for I have sinned. I made one of your lambs suffer, and I am most heartily sorry for having offended thee. And for having hurt him, Oh Lord.

    I put him in the shower, and cleansed his stankin ass, and I asked him if he wouldn't mind singing, and he commenced to warbling, as is his wont, and I do believe it cheered us both up.
    As I was toweling him dry, I knelt in front of him and begged him for forgiveness, and he folded my head into his chest with his bony arms, and gave me absolution, and the sun came back out, and I am still a bastard, but a repentant and forgiven bastard.

    For now.



    Lots Of... music.

    You're welcome.



    Last Will...

    ...and testaments.

    I didn't read all of their last words, but it seems they all pretty much found Jesus.

    Except for maybe that 'kick the tires and light the fires' guy. I'm not so sure I would be invoking inflammatory imagery so shortly before my own candle gets blown out.

    Oh well...



    More Marine...

    ...stuff you might find interesting.

    And just a note, fellow Blogger bloggers, Blogger will be down for maintenance today at 2pm Pacific.



    Some Thoughts On Abortion...

    The recent display of pedantry on this subject, here and there, has got me to thinking. And rethinking.

    I was originally of the opinion that abortion is always wrong, and then I came to the realization that if my daughter was impregnated by a rapist, shortly after I dispatched him with extreme prejudice, I would rip his spawn out myself if I had to, and stomp it flat.

    Then, I heard the perfectly logical argument that it was liberals (primarily) who aborted their babies, and I fail to see the downside of that. And low birth rate for Europeans? Again, where's the harm in that?
    Oh, I'm not worried at all about the high birth rate among Muslims. Sooner or later, someone is going to realize that vaporizing them is inevitable, and they will do so. Ditto the Chinese. Inevitable.

    So, is abortion always wrong? Well, what about the old chestnut where you are placed in the position of standing over the infant Adolph's crib, with a pillow clutched in your hands? Or Osama's crib? Ted Kennedy's? Elton John's? Now, put yourself between their mother's legs, armed with a rusty coat-hanger.

    Color me conflicted.

    So, have I gone pro abortion? No. I still think that it is mostly an abomination. Color me anti-choice. But just like drugs, I think there should be substantial and terrible penalties, but I really don't give a shit if you do it.

    So there you go.



    Very Cool...

    Six word stories.




    ...pretty much says it all.

    Vote Republican.

    Your idiotic comments to the contrary are, as usual, as unwelcome as they are completely expected.


        Tuesday, October 24, 2006

    Speaking Of Amazon Wish Lists...

    ...and you know that we were...

    I thought I would help you all out of the murkiness and confusion, and, dare I say, hesitance that has obviously overcome you. Due, no doubt, to the murkiness and confusion.

    I know I seem to have just spattered a bunch of goodies up, with no rhyme or reason, but believe me, I had both rhyme and reason. And has anybody noted that there are TWO pages of wishes and desires, hmmmm?!

    I thought not.

    I am here to give you guidance. Bane is nothing, if not all about the guidance and direction. And the mooching.

    Anyway, absolutely the first thing I thought about when LL first suggested I do this, was the DVD of 'Wizards' (page 2!). I know I put up Stephen King's 'The Cell' first, but I really meant 'Wizards', with 'The Cell' as a close second. Then, 'Captain Kronos-Vampire Hunter'. Then 'Marvel Zombies'.

    Again with the zombies...I know, I know, but they're the only thing that truly scares me, and I needs my fix.

    'Wolfenstein'. Oh, and 'Dead Like Me', for absolute certain. The wife and I adore that show, but you can tell they cut and dub the piss out of it on Sci-Fi.

    'Monster Island' and 'World War Z', equally. Again...zombies...sorry. Not.

    Everything else is pretty much catch as as catch can, though I love it all. I'd love the bed, and I'll save the old one for the Museum of Bane that will be built one day, where folks can look at my current, pitiful gob of glue chunks, and wonder, yet again, at my sanity.

    The value of a wish list is not so much in being able to gift a treasured blogger with stuff, though, of course, that is vitally important. No, it is to give you an insight into their own personal tastes, and to perhaps introduce you, the consumer, to new products that you might not have otherwise known of or considered, excepting that now, you, liking, nay, having developed, shall we say, 'a taste' for this person, should now like to have a taste of what they have a taste for.

    See? Bane is nothing, if not all about the Public Service.

    Honestly, though, nothing would tickle me more, than for you to order two of something I desire, and to have one of them delivered to yourself. Well, a Catholic schoolgirl's tongue in my ring-piece would actually likely tickle me more, but you know what I mean. No need to be crass.

    So, in conclusion, buy me stuff! You'll feel better about yourself, and our schools win, too! Not to mention those frequent flier miles on your credit card.

    See? Eh? Eh? Bane, always looking out for you.


    Hey! Monster Island! Thanks! You so totally rock, whoever you are!

    Now, as to the rest of you pikers...



    And Now...

    ...for something completely different.

    ...and for something completely blasphemous. I had to mute the sound, but I watched...oh, how I watched...

    I post this because I know how many of you twat-wranglers out there own one of these. I wish someone would buy the wife one...

    I do so love to watch.


    Would this road ( just kick ass to take a bike ride down, or what?


    Muchas Tetas...



    Still MORE Navel-Gazing...

    Whatevah, this is my blog, it's all about me, and fuk da voyeurs. Right?

    It has come to my attention that there are still people out there who think that The Bane is an 'act'. As in, 'not the real deal'. Whatever that is. I'm still trying to figure it all out. Work in progress, and all that. I guess.

    Again, just allow me say: 'whatevah...'

    And again with the obsessing over my tip jars. Very famous people with real jobs and tons of money have tip jars on their blogs, yet somehow, I am insulting God and all of His creation by having one? Well, two? Puh-leeeeeze... See? You get the extended puhleeze, capitalized, with ellipses, and you deserve it. Dorks.

    And again with the 'how I conned my readers into buying me a computer'. Jealous, much? Mommy didn't get you that bike you wanted for Christmas? Father McFeeley didn't give you that reach-around you craved? Suffer, bitches.

    Anybody who was paying attention (and who matters) knows why and how I got my new computer, so any of you carpers just make yourselves look like luzer fag whiners when you whine, you whiny luzer fags.
    And it worked, you know. You fuckers cursed me with this computer, and made me keep going out of some perverse sense of 'owing you', when, if left to my own devices, I would have likely quit several times lately. Seriously.

    So give me some damn money, you cheap bastards. I say that all the time, and I challenge you to find the 'beg' in there. Oh I'll wheedle. Goodness knows I'll wheedle. I am not too proud to wheedle. As a matter of fact, I don't think I have too much pride left at all. The ex got most of it in the settlement.

    Oh, I'm proud of (most of) my writing, and this blog. I'm proud of my kids and the wife. Not too damn much else, though. Certain of my more, shall we say, 'deadly' skills are nothing to be proud of, they just are, and are a part of me. May as well be proud of farting...though a good fart is indeed something to be proud of, now that I think about it.

    And I'm proud of the precious few people I now call 'friend', that I have met as a direct result of this humble blog. People who have heard my actual voice. People who have heard my children sing, heard me yell at them (the children). People who have their own folder in my Inbox where I store and treasure their emails.

    The rest of you? Well, you may or may not kiss my ass. I'm glad (for the most part) that you're here, drop by any time, behave yourself, and we'll all get along. Or not.

    Just never make the mistake of mistaking me for someone who gives an actual fuck.

    (He says after writing an entire post on the subject)



    Good News On The Islamic Front!

    Even their own doctors hate them!

    Yee haw!



    They Don't Say It Was Wrong...

    ...they just say that " harms Palestinian interests..."

    Fucking savages.



    I Don't Want This, You Can Have It...


    We are pleased to congratulate you, and announce to you,the results of the First Category draw of THE WINX LOTT PROMO INT. We are happy to inform you that you have emerged a winner under the First Category, which is part of our promotional draws. The draws are being officially held on the 24th of October 2006. Participants were selected through a computer ballot system drawn from 2,500,000 e-mails addresses of individuals and companies from Africa, America, Asia, Australia, Europe, Middle East, and Oceania as part of our International Promotions Program.
    Your e-mail address, attached to ticket number 46998126739, with prize number 472-9768uk, which consequently won in the First Category. You have been awarded a lump sum pay-out of €1,000,000 (One Million Euros), which is the winning payout for Category "A"winners.This is from a total cash prize of €10,000,000.00 (Ten Million Euros) shared amongst the first Ten (10) lucky winners in this category.


    Your fund is currently now deposited with the paying Bank.In your best interest to avoid mix up of numbers and names of any kind, we request that you keep the entire details of your award strictly from public notice till the process of transferring your claims has been completed, and your funds remitted to you.

    This is part of our security protocol to avoid double claiming or unscrupulous acts by participants/non-participants of this program. Please contact our paying bank (Inter Continental Alliance Finance & Securities) immediately for due processing and remittance of your prize money to a designated account of your choice:

    NOTE: For easy reference and identification, do remember to quote these numbers in your correspondence with your paying bank.

    To claim your funds, please contact the paying bank.
    Contact person: Mr. Mondris Thomas
    (International Remittance
    Tel: +0031- 623-412-314
    Fax: +31-847-519-15

    N.B: All claims are nullified after 20 working days from today, 24th day of October,2006.

    Congratulations once again from all members of Winx Lotto International.

    Thank you for being part of our promotional program.

    Yours in service,
    Mrs. Doris Phillips
    (Lottery Coordinator).

    (Don't say I never gave you nuthin)



    If This Is True...

    ...I find this very bothersome.

    On so many levels. And even talking about it makes you sound like some sort of conspiricist nut. Because that is how 'they' have been training us to think for decades. And it works, because even I have a touch of it. Someone starts talking about government conspiracies, and I start to tune them out and just hear blah blah blah.

    Not anymore. Anythings possible, now, and all bets are on the table.

    Like they say, it ain't paranoid if they're really out to get ya.



    This Guy Channels Me...

    Click on it. Duh.



    Cindy Sheehan Sucks Donkey Dicks...

    Well, we already knew that. What we (or at least I) did not know is this.

    Mother Sheehan! I'm shocked! Oh, you minx, you vixen. I'm just imagining you masturbating furiously with one hand and IMing with the other and...

    Oh my God! I'm blind! I've been struck blind! Oh, my eyes, my beautiful eyes...



    Happy Birthday, Son!

    Two decades and a few years ago, the nurse laid you, swaddled, on the bedside table, and left the room. I was attending to your mother, and we didn't pay any attention to you right away. You were barely an hour old.

    I finally turned back to you, to hand you to your mother, and I saw that you had freed yourself from your blanket, and rolled over, and gotten up on your hands and knees. Our eyes met, and we both goggled at one another, and I caught you as you tottered over towards the floor.

    You were a weird baby.

    Wherever your big brothers were, you wanted to be. If this meant escaping the house, and me finding you crawling across the yard towards them, so it was to be. Our cat, a Russian Blue named Saga, would come to fetch me, and rat you out. She kept a wary eye on you, seeing you as both her charge, and as her nemesis.

    Her nemesis, because whenever she got to close to you, you tried to put her into your mouth. Cats do not generally deal well with being teethed upon.

    Well, you grew up, and that is an amazement, to me. Never have I known one child who was more of a magnet for cars than you were. If they weren't hitting you, you were hitting them. The phone calls from the ER became tiresome.

    Of course, the ER always kept all of you boys' charts out on the Special Shelf. Wherever we lived, your files were always the ones they left out, and never put away. They knew your names, and had a jar of suckers just for you kids. I sometimes suspect that you guys fucked each other up just to get candy.

    And now, here you are, in Iraq. Please do not get hit by a tank.

    Oh, and you know how you have a special license that allows you to drive a Humvee by yourself? Please remember to check behind the seats when you get in, so some hajji doesn't kidnap your ass and make you drive yourself off base at gunpoint. They are looking to abduct Americans wherever they can. Some kitchen worker, maybe not even a Muslim, would snatch you just for the bounty. Looks like they snatched one of our guys in Baghdad this week.

    Well, Happy Birthday. I hear you got some cool loot. (I want to thank everybody who sent my son stuff...thanks!)

    I'm glad you came into my life, son. Love you. Stay safe.



    Illusions Of Grandeur...

    I see I have pissed off yet another stalwart reader. She claims I have banned her. I haven't, but oh how I will. I slaver at the potential. Her hypocrisy is breathtaking.

    And she dares to call me rude.

    Oh well, I'll get to all of you sooner or later. Bane is nothing, if not an equal opportunity offender.

    I woke this morning to a world that was all flocked up. Beautiful. White. Fuzzy. Glazed. Probably not frost, just very heavy condensation, but combined with still fog, was eldrich, fey, and at the cusp of the day, breathtaking.

    Sigh. I have been confronted by bastards, bitches, assholes, and other forms of douche-drippings lately. After coming to the realization that I cannot actually give them the proper choking they so richly deserve, I go grab one kid or the other, or the wife, and give them a good rubbing like a set of worry beads.
    Been a lot of hugging going on around here lately. They urk! in surprise, but I gets me my hugs back, and all is right with the world for a bit. Until the next blog-fly begins to buzz around my head.


    I suspect that is why a lot of blogs bite the dust, and are no more. They come to an eventual realization that, no matter how many idiots they thwack, the world will just make more, in a never ending cycle of pompous, moaning zombie retards. So they just give up, spatter out one last 'Goodbye Cruel World!' post, and blip, sink into obscurity.

    Me? I came to that realization long before I ever started blogging, so I'm already inoculated against the stupid. Still, no matter how many times you step in dog crap, each time comes as a surprising annoyance, and a botheration.

    Hey! The Man From Brown just dropped off a potentially life-changing package! Remains to be seen if it will be a blog-changing package.

    Oh well. Like I always say, it's just a blog.

    Now, to my box...


        Monday, October 23, 2006

    My Monitor Screen Just Went Completely Black...

    And not in that whole 'tap-dancing cute negroe minstrel' sort of way.

    I mean, completely BLACK! DARK! OH FUCK, I JUST HAD A STROKE! kind of way.

    Shit. Do not belabor an aged sphincter so, I beg you. And by 'aged', I mean 'Ay-JED'. Sound it out.

    Have ya'll been watching 'Heroes' on the Tee-Vee? Oh, I (and the wife) have been catching up on the episodes tonight, and I chortled so, and the wife looked askance at me, and suggested that perhaps I needed therapy and/or heavy medication...

    Okay, I don't want to spoil it for you, but there is this hottie cheerleader, who is essentially indestructible...she doesn't know why, but she is, and this high school quarterback rapes and kills her, and she wakes up on the autopsy table with her chest cracked open, her ribs showing (along with generous portions of guts and stuff) and she snaps out of it, and grabs her flaps and closes them and begins to heal, and I am screaming on the couch with laughter, squalling "Get your tits outta the pan and stikkem on!" and other assorted gems, and the wife is giving me the Fish Eye.

    Hey, there might have been some important stuff in those stainless steel bowls and pans. Or maybe she just grows it all back, as needed. Hey, can she sprout some bigger knockers at will? Useful skill, that. Worth nurturing. A Sizable Grant, at the very least.

    Oh, I chortled so. But hey, it's a great show. I'm serious. The harelip who thinks he can fly bugs me, though. The Japs are cute...still, it looks like they are about to get their comeuppance. What happens in Vegas, fucks you up in Vegas.

    Hottest half black half white female hottie, ever!
    A slate gray-skinned, barely-black Negress, with perfect blue eyes...just shoot any wiener who whines about race mixing right between the eyes, and leave them twitching in a ditch. Sure, there's some unfortunate yaller half-breeds, but I can find you ugly motherfuckers in all hues. Blacks and whites, and blacks and gooks, and blacks and gooks and whites, end up making Angelina Jolie clones, so just shut the fuck up.

    Otay, I are for bed. Some of you, I still hate. Some of you, I have managed to somehow come to hate even more; and a few of you, I love, and would let you suckle at my...well, suckly parts.

    Good night, or Good Morning! as the case may be. I am beset by fruit flies, who appear to be sexually inflamed by my wine breath, so I should be assured of my protein intake as I sleep, tonight.

    They do tickle my moustache so...