Djork...

If Moby and Whoopi had a love child.

I can't bear to look at her, but I like the song.

Weird.


.

Gosh, I Love Her Mouth...





















Now that is perfection in the art of womanhood. And of course, there's more.


Update:

Oh.My.Gosh...go look at July's butt. Now that is perfection in the art of assery. What a package.


Update:

DAMN! but I love redheads. My wife's hair is the same shade, only glossier, with faint blonde highlights.


Update:

And some music to enjoy while you beat your donkey.


Update:

Guns AND titties?! I've died and gone to Heaven, right?



.

Check This Out...

This has me wriggling with joy. Can you believe a hand-cranked blender?

That would be so cool for out on the patio, by the barbecue. Frozen daiquiris, outside, with no damn extension cord, blended as rough or smooth as you want to make them. Margaritas!

Oh, I want one.


.

Maybe...

...we can get a four day weekend out of this.


.

Prepare Your Wombs, For Inspection, Ladies...

Alito's coming, with a cold speculum, and we expect you to be laying there, splayed out, so we can root around in your body and see that everything is ship-shape. If you bring your own rusty coat hanger, the inspection is free!

I watched the vote this morning. My personal bet was he'd get 59 votes, but he only got 58. Still, watching GW grind the Dims snotty little faces into the dirt with his jackbooted foot was worth it all, even if I do not actually give a shit which man in a dress gets in, to interpret existing laws badly, and make up a few of his own.

Fukkem all.

If given a wide variety of choices of which dick to suck, through a wall full of Glory Holes, I would prefer to just go sit in the car and suck on a beer while you choose for yourself, thank you.

I will continue to vote for who appears to be the least biggest asshole, for President, and to vote against every incumbent in every other race, forever.

Fuck this system. Time to burn it down.


.

Maybe They Smelled His Wife's Pussy...

...on him.


.

Tell Me Again...

...exactly why you support this piece of shit?


.

I Believe I May Have Found...

...the perfect body.

Nekkidity Warning!


.

Something For A Monday...

It may look like I am stealing a lot from American Drumslinger, but that fucker probably stole this from me. I know I have posted it several times already.

Hey, it's lunch-time for a lot of you...crank up your speakers at work, and rock on!

Your co-workers will love it...


.

The Last Word You'll Need...

...on the China/Google kerfluffle. Dennis The Peasant nails it.

Ignore the libtards holding forth over there. They're like a dog humping your leg.

I dumped Google when this all came up, because, well, they piss me off. Not because I give a shit about what China does to Chinese. Or what Iraqis or Iranians do to their people, for that matter. Do not try to appeal to me to sacrifice my sons on humanitarian grounds, because I will laugh in your face. When did I ever give a shit about any of those people, anyway?

Frankly, and you are not going to want to hear this, I feel the same way about the people in the twin towers that day. Sucks to be you.
But if you want to screech into my driveway, and holler out the window "Hey Bane, we're gonna go shoot the fuck out of some people, wanna come? We've got beer!" then I'm your man. Little countries and lower life forms need to be put in their places every so often, just because.

I had to use Google twice this morning, so far. Alta Vista wouldn't show me one entry for the Grendel P-30. Google gave me pages of information and photos. No contest.

So, I'm switching back to Google. And fuck all the other shitty little countries. If they don't like it, let them immigrate here and assimilate and make us strong. Frankly, I'd rather see California half Chinese, than half Mexican, any day. I actively like any chink who is not a commie. If you are a commie, the only color I see is red, and you just need to die as soon as possible.

For the record, Iran needs the livid shit kicked out of them. Yes, Finland has nuclear reactors, too, but Finland is not insane, and has not threatened it's neighbors and the world with destruction. And that argument that Persia was a civilization before the US was even though of was just dumb, right on the face of it. I can't believe someone wrote it with a straight face.

Some libtard in Dennis's comments stated that this was Chimpy McBushitler's 'war on Muslims'....

Finally, someone's getting it! It's about time.

Let's roll!


.

Wherein LL Inspires Me To Bile...

...with her crappy, emo music...

Women...

Gotta love em, but why do we go to them to see how men should look and act? What a great way to become a faggitoid poodle-dog of a man. Shut up, bitch, and get me a beer, and naked.

We already know how queers have fucked up fashion. Including Harley Wear. Damned Leather Boys. Women are to be treasured, and loved, and nurtured, and farmed like brood cows for progeny, and locked in a chute, and inseminated until they shriek our names, and lay at our feet, spent.

All else is foolishness, and the prattle of feminized men, and confused women who would feminize you, most certainly by accident, because a feminized male is absolutely what a woman does not want, or need.

They do not know what they need, until you give it to them, and then the bright light of realization dawns in their eyes, and it does not (neccesarily) have anything to do with your penis.

Just be a fucking man. The sun to their moon. You need them, to be complete, as well, and if you do not learn that, men, you will never be complete, and never be truly happy.

When you hear the voices of others coming out of your woman's mouth, you should recoil in horror, as if confronted by demons. She should cleave unto you, and you alone, and you to her, or you are both nothing.

Family, friends, even children, should become secondary, or your foundation is clay, worse...smoke. This is why commitment is so important, and why the efforts of deviants to subvert such commitment is so insidious. It strikes at the very foundation of humanity.

Go. Be excellent to each other.


.

Am I The Only One...

...who is utterly creeped out by the picture and story on Drudge of the face chick?

Brrrr! I mean, good for you, you have a dead persons face stapled to your skull, but do I have to look at it? Jeez.

Why do humans have such a freak show mentality? Jerry Springer would not exist in a sane world. Conjoined twins would get whatever help they get in privacy, not be plastered all over the news.

I am all about enjoying your suffering, but gads, why feed the monster? What does that make you?

But elephants trampling kids at the circus is just funny, ya know what I'm sayin? That's comedy gold, right there.

Oh, and I like S Korean police beating rioters with sticks. Can't get enough of that.

But cut that other shit out, okay? Thanks.


.

Stupid Fucker...

...Squared.


.

I Feel Like I Should Say Something...

...as a proper host. I see you all out there, at the edge of the fire, there in the darkness, your eyes glowing...

Not much to say. The news is full of the usual idiots, and the usual murderous idiots, and there are too many other clueless pundits staggering about with their brains set on stunned, and their flaccid dicks in their hands...yes, this includes you, Ms Dowd.

I have several Oasis Of Thought that I crawl through the Burning Sands of Ignorance to get to. Protein Wisdom is one such. I can only assume that he is being paid to give a shit, otherwise, the mind boggles at such a level of obsession.

If five different (so-called) News Portals that I frequent cover an issue, I figure it has legs, and I pay attention. Rule of Thumb.

The wife has abandoned me today, at the mercy of the children, while she pursues the Almighty Dollar. She is ministering to Alzheimer's patients for a shockingly substantial hourly wage. Do not misconscrew this as a reason to not hit my tip jar(s), though none of you cheap bastards has given me so much as a mite in nearly two months. I hate you.

Do you realize that if everybody who passed through here as regulars just shot me $3 once or twice a month, I could feel like somebody? That I might finish some stories currently in limbo? Hey, I've tried to be nice. If all you want is porn links, and low-rent Drudge, hey, keep holding out. All it takes is fifty cents a day to keep a child alive...wait, wrong telethon. Reset...

It is surreal that the wife's parents both died last winter from Alzheimer's, and now she is face to face with vacant zombies several times a week. Just a few hours here, a few there, but still.

Apparently, I have to fuck her tonight. I believe I shall shave, and brush my teeth. I am just a piece of meat. She is in season, and purring and frisking around between my feet as I walk.

Maybe some radiator fluid is in order...


.

This News Makes My Year...

One of my Marine readers sent me this. Happy news indeed. I hope they have the option to carry the 1911 if you can qualify with it.

I never met a .45 I didn't like, and I love the Walther (HATE the Glock, though) but when the shit hits the fan, I want my 1911. Takes a licken, and keeps on ticken.

I'd want it comped, with a beavertail grip safety, and a standard hammer. I hate those bobbed, gnurled ones. Trouble is, the 1911 is notoriously finicky about cycling when fitted with a silencer. I dunno, maybe they've fixed that now.

Anyway, happy happy joy joy, and drinks all around. Smoke em if you've got em.

This is just absolutely great news. If I were over there, I'd go to one of those open air weapons bazaars and buy one right now.


.

Early This Morning...

There was a flash, and a bang, like a semi full of C-4 exploded in the front yard.

I came to the surface, briefly, still blinded some from the flash through my eyelids, then slipped back under. No glass was tinkling down, no Arab voices and goat-smelling feet were thundering upstairs, so I just figured I had dreamt it (I told you I dream vividly) and slipped back into the arms of Morpheus.

The wife told me it rattled the dishes downstairs, and knocked over some knick-knacks.

60 mile per hour winds, and a lightning hit that may have put a hole in our roof, and I am too lazy to check. Direct fucking hit.

Makes you think. When you go back to sleep, your ears still ringing, and dream about mortar fire, with your ears still ringing...well,

I just don't know. Glad the PC still works.

Must be Global Warming. Next time you hear someone use that phrase without a smile on their face, please shove a good blade up through their chin and into their brain? Pretty please?

Thanks.

A Catchy Video For A Saturday Night...

Go here, and enjoy. Love the song at the end.

Hard for me to get worked up over any raghead dying for any reason, though.

Fukkem all.


.

From The 'Who Really Gives A Shit' File...

Fuck, I hope they kill these pussies.

Now, if only they can get their hands on Ramsey Clark. I'd sharpen their knives for them.


.

A Worthy Cause...

Please help save the Tree Octopus from extinction.

Thank you.


.

From The 'We're Fucked' Files...

He does all the heavy lifting, so I don't have to.

This is very most extremely alarming, folks, yet all we see on television new is pictures of snow, and the stupid worthless Alito hearings.

Which I find very telling.


.

I Think I've Featured...

...her before.

If you can't get a date tonight, spank your filthy monkey to this goddess.


.

Oh My Goddess...

She conquers everywhere she goes...


.

Wherein My Credibility Is Called Into Question...

...with a side order of breasts...

I haven't linked to the Bloggerblaster in a while. I followed a link from Vox's, out of curiousity, and found my name being taken in vain, albiet more gently than you might expect.

Nice titties everybody, by the way. As a male, and in the interests of bragging rights, just let me say that I am upgrading my computer to a 200 Gig hard drive from 40 Gigs, because of the host of naked pictures I have received over the years, here. My own private harem, and so shall it ever stay. I love each and every one of you ladies, and thanks again.

No, what disturbed me, a tad, is the implication that, by posting under a psuedonym, I somehow lose credibility. What was the phrase? Oh yeah, 'anyone who reads comics and military novels' can do what I do.

Pause. Let that soak in for a minute. Shake it off...

Ouch. Yes, that was a vein in your brain, threatening to explode like a frightened squid, and clouding your vision with retardation. I felt it, too.

Let's forget that my family, several of whom are current or retired military, read this humble blog. Belay the fact that many Milbloggers link to me, and read me, and that I get hits (and private emails) from all over the various sandboxes and mud-pits and snow-holes of the word where our troops are stationed. Forget the three-plus years of consistent posting, and the former co-workers and friends who still read, sometimes comment, and occasionally email...

I blogged on this some time ago. I used to broadcast in the clear, showing my name proudly to the world. And then the 3am phone calls started. The death threats. The promises to come rape my wife in front of me.

I had made it easy, you see. Just let your fingers do the walking, nut-bar, and you can contact your nemesis, and say what you want. You a Trust Fund Baby? Maybe you can finance your crusade, and come try your luck.

First Rule: If someone wants you bad enough, they're gonna get you, no matter how bad you are, or how bad you think you are. If I had the funds, and the drive and conviction, there is nothing in the world that could stop me from taking out anybody I cared to in the world, other than God's Will, and maybe a too-strong cross-wind.

Rob Smith of Acidman fame is just one of many I have seen that posted in the clear, and paid the price for it. Were he paying me for psychiatric advice, I would suggest to him that he has a very strong Death Wish. As strong as his Life Wish, and the two battle constantly in his mind for supremacy.

Can I be found? Of course. I already have been, a time or two. I suspect every knock at the door. But, why make it easy? The true lunatic is usually an unfocused, lazy bastard. Disorganized. I shall not do his homework for him.

If that undermines my 'credibility', well...sorry, trying to work up a 'give a shit' here, but I already gave at the office.

Stay or go. I only care if you give me money. Or nice tittie pics. And why is it so hard for you ladies to get a decent picture of your ass? I am an ass man from way back.

Please work on that.


.

I Would Step In The Ring...

...with this guy. If I could bring a gun. Okay, two guns.

What a monster. Fighting him would be like stepping in front of a bus.

Stupid.


.

Why I Don't Donate...

...to Katrina victims.


.

I Think I May Have Broke A Rib...

...laughing at this.

She may have broken a rib or two, as well.


.

You Just Can't Hate On Scott Ritter...

...enough.

Fucker.


.

Ahhhh, The Things You Think You Know...

Go read the 7 Myths of Challenger. Be amazed.

As an insight into my sociopathology, I not only didn't give a shit, I actively thought it was both cool, and funny. So sue me.

Disaster? For who?

Buck up.


.

Cleaning House...

I went through my 'blogs' folder in my favorites this morning and cleaned out all of the liberal blogs. I had kept some because once upon a time they could write well, but now it's all stupid all the time. I had kept others because of some idea I had that it is smart to see what the enemy is up to. Those were all stupid all the time from the beginning, and I'm glad to be shed of them.

Of the blogs that used to write well, Tony Pierce's was probably the one I kept the longest, but he has gone so far to shit and so deep into Moonbat Land, that it is too painful to watch. A once great talent, down the tubes, and I'll never read him again. That takes out Moxie, as well, because though (very) nominally conservative, the fact that she can remain friends with a guy like Tony shines the light of suspicion on her. Plus her posting became so erratic, and was so bizarre and whiny when it did come, that it was just wasting space.

Along with Tony, I dumped Raymi The Minx, a so-called friend of his, who used to write like an angel as well, but has lately deteriorated into alcoholic whining and bizarrity, and drug-addled nattering. Plus, I'll admit that I went by because she is a stone fox, and posted the occasional naked pic of herself. But now, she's got a ring in her lip, and her hair looks crack-head stiff, and the drugs have her eyes rolling like a cow in a lightning storm. Sad.

It tickles me when I see someone's blog roll and I'm not on it, but people who never write are, or who write badly, or whose language makes me look like a choir boy.

I was going to delete Anna of Primal Purge, and Queenie of Inblognito, simply for lack of posting. I am finding enough new, good blogs, that I need the room. But even though those two are Deadbeat Bloggers, I still check in to see if they've written anything. It's masochistic, but there you go.

Are the blogs I deleted more 'popular' than mine? To be sure, in some cases wildly so. But do not make the mistake of confusing 'popular' for 'good'. There's always a line at the porta-potties, too, but all you get is shit when you get inside.

So, there it is. Life is too short for all the dumbshit.


.

Uncannily Accurate...



you are the "I hate you so bad" happy

bunny. You hate everyone and eveything and

your not ashamed of it.


which happy bunny are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

I think I stole Velociman's bunny.


.

A Very Naughty Wood Nymph...

Did I just say wood?





















More utter filth.


.

Oh, You Have Got To See...

...this.

Via Doc In The Box.


.

Catssassination...

Nat was looking out the window a bit ago, and she spotted a black, flappy thing, bobbing about in the wind, near the top of one of our winter-bare trees. It was a dead leaf, one last stalwart holdout, determined to not let go.

"What is that, Daddy?" she gasped, pointing.

What do you think it is, honey?

"It's a baby bat!"

Why yes, dear, I think you're right, it is a baby bat.

She squealed with delight, and then squealed again as a cat rushed across our patio on some errand or other. It was then that I knew I had to kill it. The cat, not the baby bat.

I am soliciting recipes for a good method of cat poisoning. Not something that will knock it stone dead on my patio, it's face buried in the bowl of milk or whatever, but something that will hit it all at once, later, after it has gone on it's way.

I don't want the damn thing flip-flopping around in my yard, screaming and shitting and puking and alarming the children and sending the neighbors dogs into a frenzy (oh, their day is coming, oh yessss) either. I just want it to go home, meow to get back in the house, and fall dead under the couch.

You see, people, once your cat enters my yard, it becomes vermin. I host several garden snakes, which I cherish for their consumption of spiders and mice and other nasty critters that abound around here. They are far more efficient killing machines than domesticated, belled cats, and the fucking cats kill reptiles for fun. I cannot abide this.

Shooting is not an option, either. Even a dead shot can still leave a cat spasming like an epileptic blood-sprinkler, and I do not need any more of a reputation than I already have, thank you.

Does radiator fluid work on cats, like it does dogs and hobos? Do they crave it? How long does it take? I have killed dumpster loads of cats over the years, for various reasons, all of them contained under the 'it annoyed me' umbrella. But never with poison. I need tips, people. And don't be silly. This is serious.

Oh, I like cats just fine, and have owned several. I actually cried over having to have one old boy put to sleep. A well behaved cat is a joy, but unless you are on a farm, you had better know that a cat box better be included. And with all the fantastic new innovations in cat-sand and boxes, there is no excuse to let your cat run wild in the city.

So, I am beating Deguello, calling to quarters, declaring martial law. No longer will I have to hear the old bag several doors down wandering around on a Saturday morning in her tattered house coat and slippers, whistling feebly through her dentures for her cat. She, at least, kept her cat clean. There is no telling what the new shitheads that have moved in and turned their cats loose have allowed their cats to become infested with.

Sure, the ground is cold and wet, now, and not hospitable to fleas and ass-worms, but Spring threatens, and I cannot abide flea bites. I would run amok. And I do not care to see one of my kids anii churning out worms like a pasta maker, because they sat down in the yard to play.

So, recipes, folks. In email, if you do not care to post a particularly nasty one, where one of your inheritors could see it and take you out. The military taught me to poison, but on a large scale, water supplies and such. We even performed simulated attacks, using real Government Issue containers, filled with inert substance, of course. Knowing how easy it is, is what keeps us drinking bottled filtered water around my house.

Anyway, any assistance in this matter will be appreciated.


.

This May Help...

How to get a human.


.

All The Cool Kids Are Doing It...

I'm a Chevrolet Corvette!

You're a classic - powerful, athletic, and competitive. You're all about winning the race and getting the job done. While you have a practical everyday side, you get wild when anyone pushes your pedal. You hate to lose, but you hardly ever do.

Take the Which Sports Car Are You? quiz.

.

Alien Loves Predator...

I hope you enjoy this as much as I have.


.

A Noble Sentiment...

My kind of guy!

They just put up a sitemeter, go ring their bell. There is much of worth, there. For once, an interesting group blog (besides SnoozeButtonDreams, I mean).


.

The Lady Inside...

I saw her, tonight. Just a flash, but I saw her. The lady that Nat is to become, if all works out.

She turned her head just right, and the light caught her just so, contemplative and serene, and there she was. The woman to be.

A gift, I think, as I will doubtless not be around to see it. Oh, she went back to being five again, soon enough, but I got to see the woman yet to be, and I feel blessed.

She will be wonderful.

Unto Us A Child Is Given!

Margi had her baby! He's in the preemie zone, so prayers, people. But he looks like a healthy little booger.

If I can give her one piece of advice from all of my hospital experience, it is to keep plenty of quarters on you for the food machines when the cafeteria's closed.

Oh, and keep someone with your baby every second. They have guest rooms there.


.

The Goddess Speaks!

Go, and worship!


.

You Might Find This Useful...

I already use a lot of these.


.

Oh, Why Not...

Frothmistress tagged me, and I'm bored. Boring, too:


Four jobs I've held:

Hospital Orderly
Cop
Infantry Soldier
Administrator (NOYB)

Four movies I can watch over and over (rough, because I like most movies at least twice):

The Punisher
Starship Troopers
Dogma
Predator

Four places I've lived:

California
Oklahoma
Oregon
Los Angeles

Four TV shows I love to watch:

My Name Is Earl
Battlestar Galactica (idiot show, but I’m hooked)
Boston Legal
Scrubs

Four websites I read daily:

I already posted on this.

Four places I have vacationed at or at which I've vacationed:

I’ve never taken a vacation. My recent hiatus is the closest thing I’ve ever had to one.

Four favorite foods:

Deep fried prawns
Hot links on punk bread with yellow mustard
Pistachios
Kraft Mac & Cheese

Four places I'd rather be:

On my own farm, with at least 25 acres on all sides
In a converted missle silo
In a cave, deep in my own woods
Inside Jaimie Pressley’s snatch

Four peeps to tag:

Nobody. You’re welcome. I don't have any 'peeps'.


.

Well...

...this seems reasonable to me.

I can hardly wait.


.

Carry My Yoke...

That's how I feel, about now. It is late, and I challenge you to walk a mile in my scrotum.

Or maybe that's just the Benadryl talking. Plus two Valerian capsules. I feel like I am climbing up a dusty hill, a yoke across my shoulders, sun blazing into my eyes, and Jill is just up ahead, in a short Catholic School Girl Skirt, and no panties, leading me on. The well mocks me, and if the little bitch slips, I shall surely toss away my yoke and go tumbling after her...

Rain patters the first tattoo, and shrouded ghouls, mostly fog, and clawing bones, swirl through the neighborhood, spiriting away pets left out, and clattering their fingers hungrily into rooms where babies sleep.

The moon is dying, again. She goes through this drama every month or so. Get over yourself, bitch.

I will wake, I know, at three or four in the morn, my tongue a dry, clattering thing in my mouth, and I will listen to the neighborhood stir. And hear the soft snicker of my family's breathing, purring and sussurating in the darkness.

As the rain patters, and the gutters ping and drip.

Somewhere, even now, Dark Men plan things for us we would not endure, had we a choice.

We do not. You do not.

Have a choice.

Deal.


.

I Can't Exactly Say...

...that I've been a funk, but I have been...elsewhere.

Adapting, adopting. Improving? Hard to say. The bug seems to have run its course, though snot lingers. I just ate three bowls of Fruit Loops with a glass of wine. That's progress, I think.

I've been torquing my sleep, tweaking it with chemicals and such. Valerian seems to make whatever sleep you get more efficient. I got to sleep by midnight after taking two, and woke up at 4:30am ready to go. Johnny woke up before the rest of them, and I took him down and made him hot chocolate and gave him a piece of blueberry pie.

When the wife finally came down, she was surprised to see Nat at the table sipping cocoa as well, and me, homo erectus. I better not let her get used to it.
I am going to lay down and hazard a nap. Habit, more than need. Perhaps just a siesta, and then up again, who knows.

I feel good, in the sense that I don't feel really bad. We've had two days of nice, shiny, rainless dense fog, with temps in the 30's, but rain is supposed to start again tomorrow, on into whenever. I can't remember the last time I left the house on purpose. This year.

Oh well.


.

I've Featured This Guy Before...

Simply amazing.


.

Still More Navel Gazing...

I have gotten several emails from new and newish bloggers recently, so I decided to answer all of them here. First, go read this, and you will get one piece of the elephant, blindo.

You back? Good. Steve has one piece of it. He tends to be embittered and snide, so take it with a grain of salt, but he is pretty right on, if the person he is describing is you.

First, let me address the traffic question I have been getting. Fuck traffic. If I blogged for traffic, I wouldn't blog. I only put up site meters a year ago, just because I thought they looked bloggy. I find I have fun with them, and I enjoy seeing where people are checking in from. Except for the Arabs.

I got traffic by accident. I left my calling card behind, and the curious followed. Some stayed. If you have something to say, and folks like how you say it, they will pay attention. I have never ever whored for hits, i.e., gone to a more popular blog, and raised hell or begged for traffic or whatever.

As a matter of fact, I avoid commenting on some of the more popular blogs I (used to) read because I didn't like the type of riff-raff I was attracting. Whether they loved me, or hated me, their opinions just pissed me off and aggravated me. Plus, most people are stupid. And I refuse to comment anonymously, as I think it cowardly and rude.

Steve wants very badly to be published, and appears to have practically staked his manhood on it. Good for him.
I know exactly how to become published, and have the skills and the contacts to do so. I honestly think I fear success, to the point of self-destructiveness. That being said, if I got an honest, straight-forward, lucrative offer, I know perfectly well I could produce. But not for a nickle a word, and not for Ladies Home Journal. Unless the money is killer.

So, your blog.

What do you want? Are you a private diary? So is Jonny, and he gets tons of hits, and is very popular. Why? Because he writes nearly every day, and he writes like an angel. He is supery doopery good, as my own Johnny would say, but usually about one of his turds, so belay that.

Are you a fictioneer? Better make it good. Walk into any bookstore, and look around. Yeah, it's like that. There are thousands of books, and none stands out above another, really, unless the author has a name. You've gotta make a name. You can't make people want to read you. In fact, I don't think you should even try.

I could write a tear jerker or a laugher, on command, twice a day. I could play your emotions like a harp, should I wish it. But I would lose something, I think. I would be nothing but an actor. A blank, silly person of no consequence, mouthing false words.

No, I'd rather be the writer, the one who puts the words in the actors mouth, the one who leaves the audience laughing, or in tears, or angry, because they feel the reality of my words...their beating heart.

In the end, it comes down, I think, to why do you blog, and who do you blog for? Once you can answer that question, all it takes is time, and a lot of writing. And, as I've said, the more you write, the better you get. I've seen it time and time again, raw blogs turning sophisticated and slick, with an ever-growing audience.

I am more than happy with the audience I've got. I hyperventilate a little if I come back here and there's two or three pages of comments, and I have to read them all. Not that I mind the comments, it's just that it is almost like getting letters. You feel compelled to answer them. Bags of fan mail would kill me.

I am getting what I want from my blog (except for money, you cheap bastards), and if you are not, you should be looking to yourself for what you want, I think.

Or, just be patient.


.

That Could Explain All The...

...Queers.

Hey, son of mine, I warned you about using all that lip balm:

The new Swiss research, however, shows two other suspected gender-bender substances used in sunscreen and lip balm - octocrylene and 4-methylbenzylidene camphor -

Hmmmm? Been feelin the urge for a tube, lately?

Just say no!


.

Hey!

Why does this woman have a zero comment blog? I've seen her around so much, on folks blogrolls, I figgered she was one of the Popular Kids! I literally thought she was more 'popular' than I am!

Sheesh. Get on over there and see if she's your cup of tea. Me, I am eagerly awaiting her tale of her dream about me.

Now git!


.

In Death,

...I spit at thee...

Fascinating.


.

Just One Of Many...

...things I did not know. No longer, though, and good information.

Fascinating, Jim...


.

I Think I Broke My Brain...

I took Melatonin for a few months a few years ago, because it was being touted as 'The Next Big Thing!' and I was impressed by the research. It really worked, too, and I got the best sleep I'd had in years.

But, already a very lucid dreamer, I began to have dreams that lasted all night, and left me exhausted the next day, as if I had lived another life in my sleep. It even became difficult to keep the two lives separate, because I sometimes wasn't sure if what I had done in a dream was what I had done in the 'real' world.

A little further research into Melatonin showed that this was a rare side effect, so I quit taking it. But its effects continued to resonate through my skull for some time. I was drinking, too, so who knows what kind of synergy I was creating.

Well, I quit drinking about the time Acidman did, for a few weeks, and then started back up on a schedule, keeping an eye on my intake. I still drink far less than before, and it has recently begun to effect my sleep cycle, and not in a good way.

Between having been sick, and not getting decent sleep, I was miserable, and desperate to try anything. I tried Benadryl, and NyQuil, but they just left me jittery and shaky the next day, and I'd still wake up at the Magic Hour of 3am, wide awake, and exhausted.

Well, last night I dug out the old Melatonin, and took a 3mg tab, and two capsules of Valerian. I slept like a baby. I woke up a couple of times, but I was able to slip right back under. I slept til 8:30, and got up, feeling refreshed for the first time in a while.

Trouble is, by brain feels muzzy today, and I suspect the Melatonin. Tonight, I am just going to go with the Valerian, and see what happens.

Getting old is a bitch.


.

Others May Differ...







Via Acidman, who must not have been able to sleep last night either.


.

I Speak, Of The Pompatus Of Vomitus...

...weep woo...

As I tool around the blogs this morning, I see much talk of this vile illness that stalks our land.

No, not Liberalism, the other one. Flu.

I woke up Thursday morning at 1am, and lay like a dead thing, having fevered thoughts, but not sleeping. As the house began to stir, I was able to gulp a shot of NyQuil, and slept like a dead baby til 11:30am, at which time I staggered up, because I knew the wife had to get to work.
Turns out she didn't have to, and she looked at me funny. I looked at her gratefully, and staggered back to bed and slept til this morning, with the usual fitfulness, beginning round 3am.

Now, I am watching the kids, and she works til five, and other than the aforementioned beans, I have ingested no food since Thursday evening. I had one glass of apple juice yesterday morning, and used the rest of it this morning, and had to top off the glass with Merlot.

My guts flagged me for improper mixture of juices, wagging their microvilli in a tsk tsk manner, and threatening a rebellion. "Let him eat cake! Out with his lunch!"
I shall endeavor to not waste a good Merlot.

Guess who's getting peanut butter and jelly for lunch, children? Fortunately, that is God's Own Perfect Food, so I do not feel guilty. If we found a child in our school, when I was a youth, who did not like peanut butter, we tormented them until they killed themselves.
Well, just kidding, but we should have.

These kids today. If one of my kids came up to me and declared themselves to be vegan, I would hand them the grass clippers and say "Well, go cut your own dinner, Clarabelle!" and then beat them about the head and neck until they desisted with their foolishness. I mean it.

I am not kidding, 'Veganism' is a sure sign you have raised your child improperly.

Though, in my book, there are certain kinds of pigs that do not lend themselves to murdering and eating.
Clean pigs, with personalities, shiny clean pigs, whom you could practically dress up and take out to dinner, and who laugh and actually smile when you tickle them.
I am sure that there are some serial-killing, cannibalistic former 4-H'rs today, who were forced to slaughter such a pig, after all the ribbons were put away. Scarred them, it did. May as well have whacked up their little brother...and did you see the look in that pigs eyes, of pain and betrayal?

There are plenty of other kinds of pigs that lend themselves to being killed on purpose, though. Pigs that you just want to start a 'Hammering Zoo', where pig's heads would be lodged through the bars of cages, and small children would pay for the privilege of being given a hammer to batter their skulls in.
Wild pigs. Pigs of a dour and surly appearance. Big, stupid pigs. Unitarians and Teddy Kennedy. I just made those last two up. Of course we wouldn't eat them after their battering.

Turtles are much the same way. I would shoot you in the face and bury your body in the swamp if you harmed a turtle in front of me for any reason. But a snapping turtle? I would kill and cook a snapping turtle in front of it's children, and then I'd go for their children. Those are some mean, nasty bastards, and have no place on this planet.

My stomach is handling this concoction of juice and Merlot I have made, rolling it around, with a jeweler's loupe screwed into it's eye, examining, muttering "hmmmmm, not bad..." and the duodenum is down in back yelling "Fuck him, let's make him puke!" and the stomach hollers up to me "Send down a little more!" so I do, and he resumes turning it round and round, and the duodenum hollers "Hey, when're we gonna get some!" and the stomach says "Patience, my son, we are just wondering if this is a worthwhile product to splash upon his incipient ulcer, there, or if we should flush it all out of his ass at once..." and the duodenum, ever the dumbest one in class says "Huh huh...cool!"

Hey! I just remembered! I have prune juice! I bet prune juice and merlot would be like, a health drink, or something. Certainly be cleansing. I could blend it up with an egg and some protein powder!

I rock!

Look out stomach...


.

Look Out Stomach, Cuz Here It Come...

...NyQuil and beer, shall render me dumb.

The wife just broke into my sepulchre to tell me she just saw some local Greenie ijjit on the news, showing him riding his bike down our flooded streets. That's the bitch of it making yer bike your only means of transport, ain't it, hippy? I hope you friggin drown, dumbass.

I can feel the arms of NyQuilus reaching out to me, entwining his cherry-red fingers into my brain. I better go shit, first. Made the mistake of having a bowl of the wife's homemade chili last night ("Honey, I made it mild, just for you...") and I have shat my own weight, throughout most of the night.
Which made it nice when I puked, this morning, as there was no beanus detritus to speak of, just a clear gob of giant, clear, gelled Calamari goo.

Yer welcome.

Well, time to go blow some more foam, and then back to bed, to listen to air hiss out of a hole in the mattress I am too weak to repair. And too lazy.

Mmmmmm...muh muh muh....hmmmm, lips feeling tingly...


.

Somebody Get This Woman A Burkha!

...so I can make it across the street without an explosive wood incident...

And to think, there are some fanatics out there that would want this woman covered up. They should pass a law that she have to go everywhere in public, naked.





















More very naked pics of her here, and here.


.

I'm Takin You With Me!

I like to think that reading me improves your writing, and reading you improves mine, and together, we help each other to improve the written word, together.

I try hard to not copy, but when musicians get together, you always see one off listening, tapping his or her fingers, and then they jump in to the mix, and make the best music they can.

I am very pleased with many of your progresses, and have tried to note it, here and there. Old Timers, New Timers, I am really happy with the resurrection of my native tongue to a polyglot art form.

Good on ya'll. Naturally speaking. My wife complimented me by accident, today, and I was absurdly pleased. She had just finished my flood/Nat/tit story below, had punched me in my arm (to be expected) and she said "That sounds exactly the way you talk...I would know that was you if I saw it somewhere else..."

I couldn't have been more pleased.

I find that I enjoy reading me. And I am enjoying reading you, more and more. The stories are deepening, the language coarsens, yet remains smooth, like one of those hand-made knitted throws, and I love pulling them up over my legs to keep warm.

Silly me, handing out lessons, but there you go.

Keep up the good work, folks. I am really enjoying the trip.


Update:

Now this is a gorgeous piece of writing. I can nearly forgive him for killing Jesus, and talking like the Anti-Christ on Tourrette's.


.

This Is My Philosophy!!

I did not write this, though I wish I had. Blame Catfish, who sent it to me:


HEALTH QUESTION & ANSWER SESSION

Q: I've heard that cardiovascular exercise can prolong life; is this true?

A: Your heart is only good for so many beats, and that's it... don't waste them on exercise. Everything wears out eventually. Speeding up your heart will not make you live longer; that's like saying you can extend the life of your car by driving it faster. Want to live longer? Take a nap.

Q: Should I cut down on meat and eat more fruits and vegetables?

A: You must grasp logistical efficiencies. What does a cow eat? Hay and corn. And what are these? Vegetables. So a steak is nothing more than an efficient mechanism of delivering vegetables to your system. Need grain? Eat chicken. Beef is also a good source of field grass (green leafy vegetable). And a pork chop can give you 100% of your recommended daily allowance of vegetable products.

Q: Should I reduce my alcohol intake?

A: No, not at all. Wine is made from fruit. Brandy is distilled wine, that means they take the water out of the fruity bit so you get even more of the goodness that way. Beer is also made out of grain. Bottoms up!

Q: How can I calculate my body/fat ratio?

A: Well, if you have a body and you have fat, your ratio is one to one. If you have two bodies, your ratio is two to one, etc.

Q: What are some of the advantages of participating in a regular exercise program?

A: Can't think of a single one, sorry. My philosophy is: No Pain...Good!

Q: Aren't fried foods bad for you?

A: YOU'RE NOT LISTENING!!!... Foods are fried these days in vegetable oil. In fact, they're permeated in it. How could getting more vegetables be bad for you?

Q: Will sit-ups help prevent me from getting a little soft around the middle?

A: Definitely not! When you exercise a muscle, it gets bigger. You should only be doing sit-ups if you want a bigger stomach.

Q: Is chocolate bad for me?

A: Are you crazy? HELLO . Cocoa beans! Another vegetable!!! It's the best feel-good food around!

Q: Is swimming good for your figure?

A: If swimming is good for your figure, explain whales to me.

Q: Is getting in-shape important for my lifestyle?

A: Hey! 'Round' is a shape!


Well, I hope this has cleared up any misconceptions you may have had about food and diets.

And remember:

"Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways - Chardonnay in one hand - chocolate in the other - body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming, "Whoo! What a ride!"


.

Hey, I Can See My House Floating From Here!

There are certainly mixed feelings about seeing one's neighborhood on FOX News. On the one hand, it's pretty cool to see where you live from the air, and know that a bazillion other folks can see you, there on the roof, waving a towel.

On the other hand, there's usually fire involved, or a crazed gunman, or in my case today, flooding.

Glub glub.

Oh, I'm not whining. This is not like the Midwest, or the Gulf Coast, where God sticks it in and breaks it off, with a mighty smiting. No, this is more like the slow, inexorable overflow of a toilet that you discovered, a bit to late perhaps, that one of your children has put a ginormous wad of paper down the pipes, or a stuffed animal that has fallen out of favor.

So you just watch as the water rises, then overflows, and then plip plip plitters onto the rug.

The power went off this morning, for thirty minutes or so. John was greatly offended, as he was in the middle of a Veggie Tales DVD. He waxed most wroth. So of course, I had to tell him it was his sister's fault.
I believe the wife considers me to be another of her charges. She was muttering something about "...fifteen years of this shit..." a bit ago. So I pinched her boob, and got a good hard slapping, and then the 'Dance of I'm Gonna Kick Yer Ass'. And the Face of Doom.

I retreated. I am far too weakened by the bird flu to be able to fend off El Pincho Boob-oh, and I informed her so, from the relative safety of the stairwell. Nat leapt from somewhere off stage, and assumed her Fierce Warrior Princess Or Perhaps A Superhero pose. She raised her palm at me, and I was barely able to elude her Rays of Chastisement, but I got her with the Spittle of Dad from the top of the stairs, to general feminine outrage downstairs. She was lucky I was not armed with a Beercan Of Thonking On The Head...well, I had one, but one does not waste beer knocking upstarts unconcious from great heights, and I needed the precious elixer to soothe my gurgling guts.

I am beset, people. Misfortune is upon me, the waters are rising, and I suffer so. Ah, I see I must emit the Whistle Of Beer-Fetching. Excuse me...

Hmmmm, Nat responded. How soon they forget.

I can't believe some of you don't have kids yet. Best hobby, ever, and about the time you get tired of them, they leave. Don't even have to put them to sleep.

Shhhh! Listen. I think I hear my nap calling...


.

The Goddess Speaks!

Go, and worship!

Read her words. Read them close. Tell me if you see one inkling of a lie, hyperbole, and/or exaggeration.

The next time you hear anyone, especially someone claiming to be a Conservative, put her down, or call her extreme, or whatever, just squint real close at them, and realize that they have just announced that they are fully prepared to lie to you. Oh, excuse me, I mean 'fully prepared to use clever conversational gambits to make you think what they want you to think and not appear extreme'.

Ya'll claim to like my honesty. My straightforward approach to an issue. Why you cannot worship and love the Goddess as I do is beyond me.


.

Martial Law...

Maybe because I feel like a gallon of dog-puke in a Dixie Cup, but I hereby refuse to comment on any blog which has comment verification, from henceforth, for now and forever.

Furthermore, if my handle and my email and my URL aren't there for my convenience, fuck you, I move on, and you miss out on the specialness that is me. Do ya'll know that many of the 'stat-counters' that you use require the commenter to accept a cookie, which is a 'data miner', and reports back to some central place your surfing habits and places where you go to whack off and such?

I routinely clean such garbage from my system, and if I go back, and it wants to stick another leech on me, I don't go back any more. At the very least, I don't comment.

Cut it out.


Update:

Allow me to clarify. I have no issue with those ones that just ask you to type in a short little word to prove you are human (like that doesn't mean yer a possible asshole). No the one I hate is the multi-colored swirly one that looks like someone is rinsing the contents of a leper's sinuses down the sink. It is always troubling, and moreso when one has the flu and has been drinking.


.

One Ugly Bitch...

...but I'd let her wash my car. As long as I could yank that damn belly ring out, first, so she doesn't scratch the paint.

Great body, but what a mutt.


.

She Gets Me...

That's why, among other reasons, she's a keeper.

I printed out my latest little story (5 fucking pages! 12pt type!) and let her read it. She honors me.
You know, how your Mom loved all your shit, and put it up on the fridge? Exclaimed over your doots like you had just shit gold?

Not like that. If the wife hands me something back, like she's holding a Pamper's test diaper, I know to flush it. Or publish it proudly, maybe, but 70% of the populace is going to hate it.

If I don't get it back, and she slips it into 'her stack', I can make the pumped arm 'FUCKIN A!' salute, and get back to business.

Kiwi, my little pink nemesis, my Pusillanimous Placeholder, The Ayatollah Of Sayin No-ah, vexes me, most sore. She is the sand in my Vaseline, the stems in my herb, the skid in my shorts, and yet I love her so, like a sister. A sister who badly needs a wedgie, and her pad yanked out and stuck to the bus window as we pull into school.

Well, that would just be sick and wrong now, wouldn't it...scratch that. But she has been warned, oh yeah.

I fear some gook bird has neck-fucked me in my sleep. Or perhaps I have cancer. Or one of you witchy bitches has hexed me, no doubt widdershins, so...
pray for me, people. I vomited wine last night, and it is not in me to expel distilled essences, yet I did, and yet again, I am vexed.

I am expelling most fearful gobbets from my aft port, and I feel no urge to masturbate, yet alone to fornicate, and the wife is in season, and normally we would be at each other like minks. I chewed fitfully on her ass last night, through my favorite panties, and she commenced to panting, and I felt no urge to consumate.

Kill me now.

Perhaps I have drawn the attention of the Dark Man, with my screeds. Whatevah, I am too weak to fight.

You might, upon occasion, say "I just don't care..." but you really, really have no idea what that means, until you can be me.

I just do not fucking care.


.

Wherein Nat Bites John On The Ass...

She chased him down, most swiftly, like a Puma. Took him down, there on the stairs, and then bit him right at the top of his skinny ass crack, most severe, and I woke to the sounds of his pain and horror.

Though crippled, I can be fast, and I had heard enough of the fracas in my comatose state to know who was the culprit, and I did commit some abusive slappage to her offending orifice, and tossed her into the dungeon of her room, where she has remained all day, except for potty breaks, only because I do not possess a thunder mug.

We fed her of course. We are not animals. But it vexed her most sore, that she had to stay home, in her room, and not go with them to his therapy, where she knew for a fact that they had upgraded all of the already marvelous toys in the waiting area to new ones, and she was there, in the tower, with hair too short to let down to any potential rescuer.

Little ass-biting bitch.

Why do people think this parenting thing is so hard? A good smackin, and solitary confinement. With dire suggestions that repeat offense might get her a trip to the dentist to have the offending choppers removed, and a steady diet of soups for a few years until such a time as Jesus allows them to grow back.

WWJDD?: What Would Jesus's Dentist Do?

Instead of biting ass, she is kissing ass most shamelessly. I believe the treatment took.

We shall see. It does not help when you tell her she is being opprobrious (thanks, Steve!) and your wife giggles. Stern looks, all around.

Stiff upper lips are so difficult to maintain, at times.


.

A Nip In Time...

...looks like a 9mm round.


.

You Sit, In The Sun...

I know that you do, and your gloved palms press into your eyes...gloves that smell like brass and gunsmoke and chaw...

You are surrounded by a sea of spent brass, and you smell hot blood and scorched metal and dirt and human shit and hear chopper blades and radio squawks and scared men beginning to yell and your friend screaming as he dies...

The smoke and the sand swirls, and the snot runs unnoticed down your chin, onto your clamshell, and dries as quick as it hits, as if on a skillet...

And you look up, and all you see are men and boys in dresses, and black eyeballs, bugged out in hatred. Hatred for you...

You stand, rising up like an old man, though you just graduated high school not long ago, and your hands fall naturally to the grip and the charging handle of your M240G, and your left hand gives the box a slap, and you know you're full, and you can kill each and every motherfucking thing within a mile of you, and there is not a motherfucking thing that can stop you...in fact, your bro's will swing the .50's around and blow the world to hell and the Grunts will pump 203's into windows and rip up everything with staccato bursts of copper-steel death and...

Discipline takes hold. No matter what those faggots back home say, you are a man, and you have been beaten like steel, and you, yourself are a weapon, and weapons DO NOT go off until ordered to do so. Motherfucker.

The animals with their black eyes, making monkey noises, have no idea how close they have come to devastation.

Your best friends hand flops over the side of the stretcher as they slam him into the helo...

Tears dry as quickly as sweat...

Don't they?


.

Burn, Motherfucker, Burn...

It was only a matter of time until I found this, but I'll thank LL for directing me to it.

You poor bastards on dial-up, give up. It's a 16.5 meg file. Download it (I suggest you select 'run' instead, but...)

Listen, watch, then come back and read the rest, here, while you let the music play in the background...


I am the killer you want. I am the killer who will kick in the fucking door, and fuck those brown bastards if they need MRE's or medical attention, because I have only one purpose, and that is to snatch the baby from her arms, and throw it to the floor, and crush it's chest in with my boot, and as she lunges towards me, I blow her brains out all over her husbands face, and then I cut both his arms off with two quick bursts, and as he falls, I bring my Kabar up under his throat, and saw his greasy head off in front of the rest of them, and toss it into them while they scream.

If you did not want this demon, why did you invoke me?

Dumbass...


.

Totally Cracked My Shit Up...

...it did. The funny thing is, I actually saw this happen once, when I was a kid.

That picture made me laugh out loud.


.

Boy, Am I Stoned...

Well, there's another drug off my list. Chlor-Trimaton. The 'Chlor' should have warned me. It's frigging 1:30 pm, and I can barely type this, and I took ONE pill at three this morning. The wife said it was mellower than Benadryl, which sets my brain on stupid for the rest of the day.

THIS bullshit knocked me out until 12:30 this afternoon. And I had been struggling to wake since 11am. Just lying there, fighting to wake up, and slipping back under, and having retarded dreams about being in basic training during WW2.

I just had a waking nightmare a bit ago. Darling Nat turned and picked up a plate that had a boiling cup of soup on it. To bring to Daddy. She held it up at face level, of course, so she could keep an eye on it, of course. And I, across the room, watching it slide towards her open, smiling face...

I screamed, it was all I could do. She jolted to a halt, and the mug slipped the other way, and the wife jumped around the corner and grabbed it, and I held Nattie while she sobbed in terror, and anguish that I didn't want her to bring boiling soup to Daddy.

And then the adrenalin left the room, and the drug took back ahold of me, and I may as well just give up and go lay down. Sleep it off.

I think I have S.A.D. as well. I never used to buy into that sort of shit, but as I age, I feel things change. Maybe that's why old farts are drawn, like moths, to sunny climes. Sigh.

Well, the Right Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King has fucked up any chance of me getting my PCI SATA Controller Card in, today, bought for me by my youngest Marine, which precludes me fucking up my PC by trying to install it and my 'new in the box though I've had it for six months' hard drive while I am stoned, yet oddly impatient.

I really do think that I am going to go lay back down...


.

My Touching Tribute To MLK...

...on his Special Day.

Don't go unless you want to be...touched.

I laughed. I cried.

Thanks, TUA.


.

Help Stamp Out AIDS...

Spread this around, not your butt cheeks.



Faggot.


.

Time Waster...

...of all time.


.

The Coolest Thing...

...ever.


.

No Terrorism Suspected...

...here.

Naahhh...


.

If You Read Nothing Else Today...

...read this.

Hey, naysayers?

Fuck you.




via Acidman.



.

This Is Why We Old Guys Carry Guns...

I saw this, and remembered.

I trained to shoot the tape out of the center of a washer, and got to where I could do two with a handgun (sometimes in each hand) before they hit the ground. There's a trick to it, of course. An intimate understanding of the word 'apogee', coupled with odd eyesight, and finely tuned synapses, but you, too, can do it.
Maybe.

I see any of those monkeys flipping at me, I'm gonna cut the synapses loose, weapons hot. I used to do similar shit like those boys were doing, and I know the constant work it takes to maintain that level of...whatever.

This finally lets me get something off my chest I've wanted to for awhile, now. The whole issue of this 'Gangsta Hold' gun grip thingy...you know, where a bunch of fatass rednecks mock black guys for holding their weapons 'gangsta style' when they fire, all sideways an shit? Yeah, that. Pull your shirt down over your fat stupid gut, Jethro, and take a listen, cuz I'm takin you to school...

How many of you have ever been in street combat? I don't mean the simple 'spray and pray' physics of war, 'Nam or otherwise, I mean the cold dark streets of America, fighting like a pistoleer, mano a mano, yard to yard, house to house, and most especially, car to car? Or car to house?

When firing from the roof of someone else's car, that has a custom paint job that is worth your life to scratch with hot brass and stain with muzzle blast, you had better hold that ejection port up and away.

Ever fire from inside a car? And your 'friends' are in the back seat behind you? Stoned? Heavily armed? Do you really want to send a string of empties into the face of a guy who has tattoos commemerating every man he's raped to death in prison? I didn't think so.
All you have do do is actually think about the logistics present when firing from a sunroof, and you begin to see why The Street has come up with a new form of handgunner.

Do you think for one minute that these immensly wealthy young men, with more cash than they can spend, don't buy the best weaponry money can purchase, and practice with them as if their lives depended on them? Think again, Jethro. It always used to chill my blood, a little, when while serving a search warrant, I would find a huge pile of 'Guns And Ammo' and "Handgunner' magazines, and membership cards to local ranges.

When I fire my autos, up close and personal, I wedge my wrist up against my hip, chamber towards the ground. There is very little risk of my target deflecting the weapon, and the empties (AKA, 'evidence') are right there for me to police up after, rather than ten feet behind me in the dark somewhere. I learned that from being a gangsta.

I could sit here and tell you stories all night long about encounters I've had with Black Panthers and such, in the deep woods, where they were perfecting their craft.

Sadly, and relievedly, I have not ever encountered a white liberal puke out honing their gunsmanship.

Small favors.


.

Ever Been Fucked Up The Ass By A Clown?

I'm linking to this guy cuz A) he's whining for hits and B) that may be the single funniest thing I've seen in months, and I see a lot.

I hate clowns, but I would love to do that.


.

Blood On The Strings...

For your listening enjoyment, I found five minutes of bliss. Then a rarity...a black man that I am sad he is dead.

And another from him.

Great rainy day listening.


.

It Runs In The Family...

My sister sent me this:


U.S. REDNECK SPECIAL FORCES

The Pentagon announced today the formation of a new 500-man elite fighting unit named the U.S. REDNECK SPECIAL FORCES (USRSF).

These men, from the Carolinas, Tennessee, Kentucky,Virginia, Mississippi, Oklahoma, Kansas, Missouri, Arkansas, Alabama, Georgia and Texas, will be dropped into Iraq, and will be given only the following information about the Terrorists:

The season opened today.

There is no limit.

They taste like chicken.

They don't like beer, dogs, pickup trucks, country music or Jesus.

They are DIRECTLY RESPONSIBLE for the death of Dale Earnhardt.


It is estimated the war should be over in about a week.


.

C'mon You Fuckers...

I'm pissed, too. Put your money where your mouth is.





















C'mon, do it for her! If you bid, I promise you oral sex from this babe in the picture.

Trust me.


.

Birds Of A Feather...

...flock together.

The biggest surprise, was that it did not surprise me. One bit.


.

Remember New Orleans!

Damned straight!

I would like to think that I would have resisted forcibly. I'd like to think that...


.

A Steady Diet Of Madness And Sanity...

...served up with a mouth full of brass knuckles and piety.

If ye've been missin out, ye've been missin out.

Ya cunt.


.

Uh Oh...

Not good. Very bad.


.

One Warm, Spring Afternoon...

Can anyone remember the sheer joy of walking home from school on a long, sunny afternoon? Scaring the cows away from the fence, making eyes at the girls walking home on the other side of the two lane country road from you, throwing rocks at each other to signal your affection?

I do. I knew every dog that needed tormenting, every yard to hurry past, because the mean old man would twist your ear from between the shrubbery if you didn't scarper.

The apples are just getting ripe, here, and over here, there be berries, succulent black busters, the size of a small egg, in great clusters, where drunken bees buzz somnolently.

On one such fine day, I was reveling in my youth, having no idea it was transient, and what awaited me in my future, and I was as free as any bird that squawked and ducked my rocks.

Ahhhh, the birds, and the bees. And the bugs. The high pitched whine of living, singing insects, calling out to each other, announcing themselves as food. Looking up at a phone line, pre-cable of course, and seeing a fat bird, with a shimmering corona of bug-wings protruding from either side of it's beak, wings as which twitched a bit, as whatever it was suffocated and died. Then, the gulping began, while the bird still watches you with malevolent, shining eyes, lest you chuck a rock.

It's got your number, boyo. And it would just as happily pluck at one of your eyes as you cooled there, on your back, in a field, but those are Winter Thoughts, and today is warm, and succulent, and vibrates with life.

The cries and calls of the other kids fade as each finds a home, or heads up a lane, and eventually, I am alone, with my thoughts, and my daydreams, and I scuff at rocks, and leap across the shadows of wires, put there I am sure to give me the pleasure of feeling my youthful muscles and sinews expand and contract as I skip, and leap to the far side of the ditch and back, and then the long, tree-shadowed lane to my home hoves into view, and my heart beats with pure joy as I step into the shadowed lane, because home beckons, down that far end, beyond the sheltering woods.


(To Be Continued...maybe)

As is my wont, on these, I cry fair warning. I declare the above and the following to be true, to the best of my recollection. Continue at your own risk. I have written a few pieces here that were fiction, and I believe they were obvious as such. 'Haunted Soldier' was true. Just for you know.

This tale will be covered up, soon enough, by the nonsense I usually post. You must then seek it out apurpose.

Do so at your own risk.

Yes, I must continue. The tale writes itself...


Interlude…

I spent much of the night awake, yestereve, and what sleep I did get was troubled, and sweaty.
Her breath, warm on my neck again, after all these years, the memory of it still excites me, and turns my bones to wet ash.

Opening this box is almost more than I can bear, and yet is must be done.

You still here? I can do this thing alone, you know. These words are sinking lower and lower, and soon they will slide under the gently roiling surface of the shifting sandy muck of the internet…

Your presence here is not required.

____________________


It is getting harder and harder to come back here. To hear someone refer to this as 'snippets' is nearly unbearable.

I let the wife read this last night, and she quizzed me, curiously. Then she, somewhat sardonically, thanked me for her future nightmares.

I had finished telling her the story, and I had gone far away, as had my eyes, and when I came back into the here and now, her face was some consternated. She had travelled with me, you see, and had not enjoyed the trip. No, not one itty bitty bit.
Shadows take on new meaning. Clicks on the upstairs window glass at night resound with darker import. A lovers breath, on your neck, from behind, chills, rather than warms.

I would bury this. You should. Turn away, now. Otherwise, you must either think me insane, or accept the complete understanding that everything you know, everything you thought you knew, is wrong.

You think I am, but I really am not playing, here.

This story made me believe in God.

And His counterpart.

My Faith, which I curse to this day, was born here...

________________________


So, we're back. Together, but not, because you and I are seeing through the eyes of a child. A child you can never be, and I can never be, again.

The little boy who lived down the lane. I knew every leaf. I was the snoopiest of snoops, and would sneak through yards, day and night, and peer through windows, and watch. Creepy, to be sure, but not. I merely consumed, breathed in the lives of others. Observed. With no intent to interact, if discovery threatened, I would flee like a sprite.

The houses had nearly all been built in the post-war housing boom of the fifties, as places for worn warriors of both battle, and industry, to retire. Some homes pre-dated that by a decade or so, but all were perfectly wonderful abodes, some full of families with children, some with an old couple, or a widow, or a widower.

The forest, and the thick underbrush, kept things quiet, and each home was an oasis in the middle of a fairy-tale forest.
My house was the last house on the right, and beyond was the forest, untamed, and the Feather River Canyon, and the Feather River, where once some prospector pulled out a gold nugget the size of a console color television. I roamed those woods at will, always armed, and lived like a wild indian. Or pirate. Or space explorer, depending on my whim.

I knew every leaf.

As I turned into the lane, a single path of gravel and dirt, where all the men cooperated by filling any chuckhole in front of their own place, I passed by the second house on the right, just as asphalt turned to scutter, and I saw that something had disturbed my forest.

A large branch, in the driveway that led up to the adobe looking home that had been empty for some time, had been ripped away, torn from the upper trunk, about ten feet or so from the ground, and the pale meat of the tree shown out starkly, and the branch itself lay tossed aside, under some shrubbery.
I conjectured that someone's moving van had taken a bit of damage, whilst backing in, and fresh tire marks on the cement driveway made the picture clear.

I was already being pulled up towards the house, you see, hoisted by my own curiousity, and we all know how well that goes, if you are a cat.

I had snooped on this house a time or two, and found it boring. I am still put off by that Spanish style adobe architecture, and this one was especially pretentious, with large windows in every wall, and skylights, and they had the temerity, did the owners, to put heavy drapes over each window, so that it was a real bitch to peep in. But, peep I had, and all I had been rewarded with was a view of dark, oily looking hardwood floors, and indistinct furniture items, covered with sheets, like some poor, retarded child at Halloween.

Today was different, though, I noted with some surprise as I approached. The curtains had all been thrown wide open, and the afternoon sunlight, striking golden and strong through multiple glassed entrances, lit up the inside of the house like a magic lantern.

I walked up to the main, front window, just off of the driveway, and stood agog at what I saw there in the living room...

_____________________


I'd grown up in libraries, and had learned to read almost as soon as my eyes could focus.
In the olden times, libraries were places where they stored actual books, great old things, where the knowledge of Man was reposited, not sanctuaries for cheap novels and CD's and Gay Studies to hide in, before the inevitable library fund raising sale, to make room for more new pantheons of pap.

I had pored over tome after tome, since earliest childhood, to the approving gaze of true scholars, who were there to devour knowledge as well, so, as I gazed into the living room window, that blazing afternoon, I damn well knew a ziggurat when I saw one.

Well, that was my first impression, anyway. It wasn't tiered at all, in fact, it was a perfect cube, as near as I could tell, made of stone. Or ivory. Or bone. Or pressed wood. Or...

The bas relief carvings on it moved, there under the afternoon sun, ever so slightly, and told stories, and danced, and wove spells, and worked magics, and I heard singing, great choirs, as if coming from different parts of the compass, and blending...

My brain numbed, I listened, as I had no choice. I was riveted, there, as I gazed upon this pale cube, some six foot at every dimension, covered in ancient scripts and carvings of people, and animals, and monstrous things, and I heard an undercurrent of voices, as if a crowd, talking, murmuring, muttering, sometimes laughing, and the occasional scream.

And I heard singing. Great choirs, individual arias, dirges, praise, and then I became aware that I was being watched. From inside the cube. The ziggurat...

A man slept, yet was aware, but the bright, curious mind of a woman touched mine, and held me still, and moved through me, and knew me...

Have you ever been licked, by a lover, on your most private places? Someone you trusted enough that, yes, you can go ahead and put your fingers in there, if you wish it, because it must be right, if you wish it...

And then I woke, because my body could no longer stand, frozen as it was, and the sun I had gone somewhere else with, up high, was now nearly down, mere bright fingers thrusting through the lower foliage, and I, roused from my stupor in an agony of settled blood and pins and needles, turned and ran for my home as if on wings.

As if pursued by Hell...


.

A Test...

...where the rubber meets the road...

1. Who would you rather be in a car with on a cross-country road trip:

Ted Kennedy and Chuck Schumer

or

Ted Nugent and Brett Favre

2. Who would you rather be stuck in an elevator with:

Madeline Albright

or

Ann Coulter

3. Stuck in a cave, with one CD:

Barbara Streisand

or

Charlie Daniels

4. Ditto, but one book:

Treason: by Ann Coulter

or

Anything by Noam Chomsky


.

All Your Influenza Needs...

...under one roof.

You're welcome.


.

YAY!

Great news for Serenity fans!


.

A Rose For Emily...

When I went to University, one of my classes was some sort of writing class, and it was taught by a pretty little black girl, for whom this was her first job since getting her credential.

She had us read the above Faulkner short story, and then gave us the assignment of writing a 'point of view' story from it. I chose the point of view of Tobe, Emily's negroe manservant, as I found him to be the most interesting character in the piece. I wrote tongue in cheek, and made him the poisoner, but only because he was 'slow', and did it all by accident.

It turned out to be a very funny, well written little piece, so you can imagine my surprise when I got my little blue book back with a big fat angry F on it, and a screed, also in red, telling me how terrible it was.

I realized, after confronting her, that I was going to make no further headway in this class, and furthermore, that she was an idiot, and a racist to boot. It being too far along into the semester, I had to go to the department head to change to another class, and I showed him my story as my evidence.

He laughed himself into tears over it, and saw that my grade was changed to an A, and put me into another, more advanced writing course, and I never saw my pretty little black teacher again.


.

Lost Loves...

If I started doing this, God only knows where it would end up.

The wife and I were just newly married, and we went into this really nice bar to get a drink. Turns out one of my old girlfriends from high school managed the place. She was the head cheerleader in high school, and was even more beautiful and voluptuous now. And boy was she happy to see me.

She was very huggy and squeally, and the wife latched on to one arm, and you could almost hear the hissing. So I'm stuck between a beautiful redhead, and a beautiful blonde, and it wasn't quite as fun as you'd think it would be. Though I did get a lot of envious glances from the guys in there.

I thought about going back there by myself, later, but I never did. The wife never wanted to go back there for some reason, either.


.

Blogger Alert...

Blogger will be down for service at 3:30PM PST. They say for ten minutes. Yeah, right. If you try to post during that time, you'll likely lose it.

Be warned.

/PSA


.

The Goddess Speaks!

Go, and worship!

She lifts a well-turned leg, and takes a good hot piss on the Democrat Party. Kinda irrelavent, as they've been dribbling in their own pants for days now, anyway, but it's always fun to pile on.

Enjoy.


.

AMERICA! FUCK YEAH!

All of you naysayers can suck my motherfuckin dick.


.

AND FURTHERMORE!

I am so tired of all this anti War on Drugs bullshit, I could just decapitate the next dope-smoking moron I encounter.

It's not the War on Drugs that's the problem, it is all of the poorly trained Meter Maids With Machineguns that are prosecuting it. Trust me, I've carried a badge. You get issued it, and you are assured you are God.

I've told this story before: My first day on the force, and I wasn't sure where to park, as the Cop Shop was downtown, and parking was restricted everywhere. I asked my Field Training officer (FTO) where I should park, concerned about tickets and such, and he mocked me affectionately, and told me "You're the fucking Man, now, you can park any motherfuckingwhere you want to!"

All the Libertarians and other hippies whine about Posse Commitatus, and then I see civvie cops with tanks everywhere. Remember Waco? These are people who can't hit one bad guy at point blank range with 150 rounds, and judges are giving them No-Knock Warrants to serve in the middle of the night? Puh-leeze.

We train the Mexican Police, and they go rogue and go to work for the Drug Lords.

It used to be, that to be a cop, a premium was put on applicants with previous military experience. Now, it is whether you are a relative of a cop, because they are under such assault from Liberalism, that they need to feel they can trust you, and family is one of the last perceived bonds.

That is, unless the department has just given up and succumbed to PC, and has opened it's doors wide to all comers. We saw what good that did Miami-Dade.
And in San Francisco, the Chief of Police said 'fukkit' and went around to all the gay bars in Castro, handing out applications, about fifteen years ago or so, as I recall.

Martial Law is coming, folks, and New Laredo Texas may just be the nexus. Who knows. But I suspect. There has to be a border incident, because anybody with a brain knows the borders have to be tightened, and anybody with a brain knows that the ACLU and The Corporations and other Enemies of America will not allow it unless there is something Big and Nasty that occurs.

In the mean time, it might help if all you fucking dopers just kicked the habit and switched to beer?

Pretty please?


.

UnAmerican Activities...

In one of my comments threads the other day, we held a brief discussion of IQ and intelligence. I meant to comment this there, but I think it would work better as a prelude to this post. What I meant to say was: 'Intelligence just helps you fuck up quicker than anybody else'.

Since I pay the freight for this blog, that means your speech isn't free, here. I am loaning you a space to present your opinion, and to agree or to disagree with mine on something. I think I am a pretty generous and indulgent host. Across the spectrum of blogs I've seen, I've only seen a couple that allow such freewheeling discourse and, for the most part, my visitors seem to respect that, and generally behave themselves.

But I think it is time to declare Martial Law. Too many of you out there think that you actually have Rights, and Freedoms. You wave a tattered piece of paper that no one has paid more than lip service to in over a hundred years, and expect evil-doers to recoil like vampires from a cross.

Surprise! They don't! And the only one who takes you seriously is you, and other similarly deluded individuals.

So, let me make a few things perfectly clear:

A) The West is and always has been at war with Islam and Communism.

B) Barring a major sea change, no third party will ever gain any significant power, and in attempting to do so, will always fuck up one of the other two parties ambitions in some way by their efforts.

C) America is the best damn country this world has ever seen, and if I thought there was a better one, I'd damn well move there, but there isn't one.

D) America is profoundly fucked up, in many significant ways, but: See 'C' Above.

Lead, follow, or get the fuck out of the way. It has become Black, or White, and not in a racial way. You are either on the side of Mother Sheehan and her ilk, or you are on the side of Karl Rove and Donald Rumsfeld and his ilk. Your fantasy third party that makes you feel so good about yourself because you are 'making a stand' is just a wholly-owned subsidiary of George Soros and Company, my Little Wilson's. My Little Chamberlin's. My Little Dreamers.

Our military people support this Global War On Terror in overwhelming numbers. I know of situations where men have reenlisted and then paid their own money for transportation to get back into the fight because they couldn't wait for the government wheels to turn. Sure, there are denigrators, there always will be, but they are the minority, and they are wrong.

This is war, to the hilt, with Islam, pure and simple, and anyone with an ounce of strategical skill can look at our conquest of Iraq as a brilliant placement for future neccesary steps, steps that we are being forced to take by Islamic and Communist fascists.

Americans love to be fat, dumb and happy, but certain idiots won't leave us alone at it, and the corporations profit most from war, so it is inevitable that we will eventually be drug pissing and moaning into a fight. But fight we must. The constrictor of Islam was already tightening it's hold around our throats, as if we were a sleeping fat baby, but they made the same mistake Yamamoto did, and woke us up.

Personally, I believe that this current conflict will end by God's hand, at Armageddon, but it could be a long, bloody haul to get to that point.

The point of all this, though, in the end, is that I speak and correspond with a lot of military people. I lurk at mil-blogs, and I feel their pain. When they hear civilians denigrating their work, undermining their mission, it angers and confuses them. And yes, it hurts them. If I wasn't crippled and could be in, I would be, and it would hurt me too; so in a very real way, I feel their pain.

Loose lips sink ships. Flappy ones weaken men and women who put themselves in harms way to keep harm from coming to you, people. Whether you believe it, or not.

I believe it. This is my blog. If you have some weak-sister nonsense to spout, go spout it somewhere else, or better yet, just shut the fuck up, cuz nobody here wants to hear your shit, Paul Revere. No, wait, he was a Patriot.

Nobody here wants to hear your shit, Chicken Little.


.

.

40 Days And 40 Nights...

Well, we're over half way there. Our 21st straight day of rain, here in the beautiful and green and soggy Willamette Valley of Oregon.

When we first moved here from California, the wife and I were picked out of the crowd, outed as foreigners, by our umbrellas. We would skitter from shelter to shelter, avoiding puddles as if they were pools of acid, and people would yell at us to "GO HOME!" We were interlopers, invaders.

Now we walk around in T-shirts, getting drizzled on, as if we were plants. We noted a phenomenon, early on, that we began to call 'Oregon Hair'. Specifically, many of the women here sport long, thick, luxurious hair, that would be a mass of spastic frizz, a veritable corona of floating split ends, in dry-ass California.

Here, the natives look like Breck Girls, even the guys. I hate having my hair touched, but the wife mauls it anyway, as does Nat. As I feel it myself, it does feel like kitten hair. Ooo, look, boner!
I keep my hair short, but the wife sports a mane.

They call California 'The Golden State', because all the grass is dead, most of the year, when it is not actively in flames. The only state I've seen that is greener than Oregon, is Washington state, and you may as well put on flippers and tanks when you go there. All 100% humidity, all the time.

It's funny, the Japanese trying to firebomb Oregon during WW2. Like trying to ignite a wet Tampon. Good luck with that, little yella fellas.

Our resident wacko environmentalists fight to keep lumberpersons from harvesting DEAD trees. Did I mention, they're DEAD TREES! I guess they think it just encourages them. So, the lumber lays, and rots, and becomes fuel, and looks even cooler on the news during the next owl-roasting conflagration.

Well, talking about the weather is boring, so I'll stop.


.

A Most Eloquent...

...Suicide Note.

Folks, as long as Mark Steyn is alive, none of us dare call ourselves writers.

Let's go kill him...


.

More On Hyperdrive...

Man, I wish I could read German.

This stuff fascinates me.


.

Sorry, Ladies...

They're really not your best friend...


.

Hey, Jude...

Calling all Beatles fans! Toni has a great thing set up to benefit the troops, and if I weren't broke, I would snatch it up myself.

Here you go...

If I had the bucks, I would collect cells like a muhfukka, and this one would be at the top of my collection, even over my Jessica Rabbit ones.

Please, go bid...


.

The Andromeda Strain?

Fingers crossed!


.

By Way Of An Apology...

Things got a tad out of hand in an earlier thread, involving beloved reader and co-blogger Pickleyes.

It was my fault, because I misread, and other readers of mine, under some duress, didst wax most emotional and wroth. Now, I can do wroth, but I have troubles with the 'emotional'.

Pickleyes has served our country far more honorably than I have, and I am in his debt, and I abase myself, and beg his forgiveness.

I was clumsy. I was wrong.

I am heartily sorry for having offended thee.

Seriously.


.

If This Wasn't Par For The Course...

...I wouldn't beat the drum so hard.

I fucking hate Mexicans, and I hate them for a reason. I wish I could share with you all of the police reports that don't make it into the news because of inept reporters and political correctness.

Yet all you hear are all of the limp-wristed, pansy excuses, the enablers saying crap like "Oh, they're all so hard working and they just want a better life and..." blah fucking blah blah blah.

When your kids disappear? When your teenage daughter 'runs away'? Yeah, fifteen migrant workers wanted to have a party, and they held it in your little girls mouth. And her pussy. And her ass. And then she died. Or worse, fetched a nice price from some Cartel Lord to work in his own private whorehouse, servicing his 'men'.

The pimps call it 'breaking them in'.

Wake up, people.


.

He Is Risen...

Back from the dead, I am, torn from the arms of Morpheus by some kid noise or other. I had slid into bed at noon, and slept until 3:15pm. Disorienting.

I feel alive, and pretty much snot-free. The wife had errands to run and, thinking me dead, had bundled up the cherubim and was preparing to leave. I, grateful, said my goodbyes, and let them go, even though I know that this will only perpetuate the Cycle of Snot, wherein partially healed children get exposed to the cold and rain, their disease quickens, and they come back and reinfect me.

Sigh. Pity me.

The internet seems dead, today. And my regular haunts seem like coiling, bitchy snake pits, where they are swallowing each other's tails, and wallowing in shared misery.
Today is a day to light a fire, pull up a chair, and stare into the flames over a cup of steaming tea, laced with brandy.
Watch the fire sprites dance, while the inner dragon of the wood spits it's fire out at you, in futile, dying snaps.

Wear fat socks with your feet up, and soft cloth pajamas, and a robe, and be glad you are not out in and of the world.
Wish I had a fireplace.

If I inherited a billion dollars tomorrow, would I continue to blog? Would you? Hmmmm...yeah, I would, I think. Even rich people have brains, and those brains can become clogged with the detritus of life, and this is as good a way as any I have found to 'blow out the carbon', as it were. The dust, the cobwebs, the old guilty bones. Take the trash out to the curb.

Trouble is, passers-by see your trash, and think it treasure, and root through it and take it home, and then one day you run across it again, somewhere, and they are trying to throw it out, or sell it at a yard sale, and maybe you end up with it again.

And my attic is full.


.

The Wild West...

...is getting tamed.

Day by day, the frontier is disappearing.



Update:

More, via Suburban Blight.

More alarming by the minute. Thank God George Bush is a Conservative.


Update:

An opposing view, though I remain skeptical. The powers that be have been looking for a flyswatter to splat this pesky blogging thing for some time.


.

Something I've Noticed...

Just when I begin to think no one could support the troops and the mission more than I do, I run across a female mil-blogger, or mil-supporter, and they make me look like a poodle standing next to a rabid Saint Bernard.

I see plenty of pussified males talking against the troops, making one pussified excuse after another, and then I run across women from all walks of life who are shrieking for blood, and supporting our troops with every fiber of their beings.

I think it is telling that Kipling wrote about Afghani women, in his famous poem. The Afghani men were one thing, but God help you if the women got to you. Better to just roll onto your rifle, and blow out your brains, and go to your God like a soldier.

Do the liberals have any female counterpart? Any strong females willing to kill and/or die for their beliefs? I dunno. Haven't seen anything corresponding. Oh, to be sure, a lib-cunt will be the first to rip off her shirt and display her flabby, tattooed paps to the world, thinking that her audience is recoiling from the power of her 'breasts', and not merely turning away to find a trash can to vomit into.

Conservatism draws female survivors, I think. Strong women who want their children and tribe to survive, and will support their strong men in any way that they can. I suspect that this is a large part of the draw of females into the military, as well, considering all of the barracks fuck-fests I have heard about.

I have the skill and the talent to go on and psychoanalyze this all night, but I won't. I just plant the seed, and then piss on your brain to see if it grows.

Whaddaya think?


.

Duck & Cover...

I am hearing rumblings that it may be time for me to move from Blogspot. Rupert Murdoch bought MySpace, and proceeded to censor it and fuck it up, so it can happen to anybody.

I have no idea where to move this flea circus, or even how. Such as it is, it's mine, and I'd hate to see some faceless cubicle dweller pull the plug on me, and I log in one fine morning to a 404.

Between Google, and Microsoft, both notorious liberal bastions of bungholery, I feel that it is just a matter of time before my little blue lagoon here gets discovered by libtard butt-pirates, and they fuck me over, but good.

Even now, I have an interloper from Rancocas, New Jersey (check my site meter) who has been mining my blog for days, now, spending hours and hours reading it, apparently over and over, if the 'page views' are to be believed.

I'm nervous.


.

Word Snobs...

I encounter, here and there, folks as what think, much like the French do about their language, that they are the Keepers Of The Key to our language. Our American Mother Tongue.

You know, Spell Nazis, and Punctuation Nazis? They descend like the Taliban and whip at your calves with sticks if one of your jots or tittles appears to them to have gone agley?
Well, I say that the American Language Dictionary is a living, breathing, molting document, and hey! Creatures! Leave those kids alone!

Our language is our bitch, to make our own...to twist our fingers in it's hair and force it to it's knees and open it's mouth and...speak for us, make it say what we want it to say. If it doesn't catch on, or falls out of favor, well, it mutates and moves on, daddy-oh, twenty-two-skidoo.

I only make a big deal about stuff like ebonics (I refuse to capitalize that word) when they try to make it mandatory to teach it. I could care less if schools wish to have a no-credit course in ebonics, any more than I care about pottery classes.

My kids are in Georgia, right now, and I hear ya'll speak a completely foreign language back there in God's Own Steamy Anus. I have been in stores (and bars and restaurants) in the south where I could not get served properly, because I could not understand a friggen word they said, and words I knew meant one thing, meant another thing entirely to them! And that was just the white Southerners. And I'd been in Oklahoma and Texas for years already.

I do believe that is what Primary Education is for, to provide a basic set of skills for a new citizen to go out into, and interact with the world. Sadly, those days are gone, and it appears that The Lord of the Flies rules much of our youth of today.

Oh well, I got my education, and I'll natter on as I wish, thank you.

Do try to keep up...


.

The Book Of Daniel...

Well, I taped it, and the wife and I had our Blasphemy Phasers set on kill, our loins girded, and were prepared to be offended last night.

We were not offended.

We laughed. We cried. We thouroughly enjoyed it. The show is still on Double Secret Probation with us, but we are avidly looking forward to the next episode.

Who knew Jesus could be so funny? Now, I must admit, that if I was Episcopalian, I'd be offended. Or Catholic. But they are not Christians, they are pagan idol worshippers, so fukkem.

What a WELL WRITTEN SHOW! Human. Real. My animus against faggotry is well documented, but it was portrayed perfectly here. It was shown to be the deviant, potentially family destroying behavior it is, and yet, families can still love the afflicted. They are given no shorter shrift than are the hetero's, and everyone is so refreshingly human and real...

Well, I just love this show. This is how you get the Christian message out to the spiritually constipated masses, folks. Put it up, with warts and all, and let people see how we worthless slugs can rise above our nature.

And it's just damn funny. I totally bought the bits with Jesus, and it made me pine for a chance to talk with Him face to face, myself. The character of Daniel is perfect in every way, and the family interactions are so real, you almost want to go through your own house, looking for hidden cameras, to see how they managed to capture your essence so well.

Flaws? Sure. Not worth mentioning. The show rises up from the lion's den and is strong...

So far.


.

Urgent Snot Update!

Snotblogging seems kinda lame, but it has been on my mind the last several days. And in my nose. And on my shirt. This morning is the first I haven't puked up vast quantities of lung-chowder, probably because I drugged the piss out of myself last night when I went to bed.

I feel almost human.

I see SteveH is bitching about his weight gain this morning. Perhaps I should repost my 'Quit Eating, You Fat Bastard!' diet plan from last January or so. Nah, too much work, and he never reads me anyway. He got me to thinking, though, and I rushed in to the bathroom to dig out the scale, since I hadn't weighed myself in a while.

210.

And I have eaten absolutely as much as I wanted to, drank more than usual, anytime I wanted to, this entire holiday season. But since I went through that whole body changing lifestyle changing thing some of you have observed me chronicling, my body handles food completely differently.

I actually lost 3 pounds, eating whatever I wanted. And no exercise. I just do not crave food. I can only eat so much at a sitting before my desire to eat just 'turns off'. It can happen in mid-chew. My body processes it more efficiently, and I feel fine. Except for the whole 'raddled with disease' part.

I do not know how much certain factors like my age figure in to it all. I'm no doctor. But I knew it was time for a change, and I'm smart, and I did it. I finally figured out that it wasn't normal to spend $7 at Taco Bell on value meal items, and still be able to eat four donuts at the office party.

In fact, I quit eating junk food altogether, for over a year. I will now treat myself to the occasional Big Mac (luvvem) or double cheeseburger, but that's not even once a month. I put whatever toppings I want, on whatever I want, and eat as much as I want, and that's not much.

I try to never go to sleep with a meal in my stomach. I have mentioned the Pistachio nuts. They satisfy me just fine in the evening, a big handful or so. Some of you might want to try a trail mix, but I'd avoid the sweet ones for awhile, cuz they can trigger cravings. Also, if I find myself feeling hungry, or just feeling hollow, around bedtime, I'll have a small bowl of Rice Chex with some 2% milk. I drank skim only for almost a year when I started this.

I went from an all-time high of 273 or so, down to 210 today, and I don't have a bunch of stretch marks or flappy skin to show for it. It was gradual, I never felt sick, and I can't gain weight if I try, which is just fine with me. If a pastry I adore, such as a chocolate eclair, calls to me from a case in the bakery, I release it from it's prison, take a couple of bites, maybe even eat half, and then chuck it in a bin. I'm done, no harm, no foul.

Waffles? I used to eat a stack of them, up to five, now, never more than one. Ditto, pancakes, though the one I eat nearly fills the pan. Two chicken legs, and a pile of mashed taters, and I'm done. Any more makes me nauseous. My stomach knows I'm gonna get around to feeding it, and rarely bothers me, and when it does, I listen, because I don't want to get the shakes. I went through a couple of periods where I'd forget to eat for a couple of days, and that's just stupid.

I look out across the land today, via the Weather Channel, and I see some of you folks appear to be having shorts and thongs weather, ya lucky bastards. Here, everything is monochrome and wet, and promising to continue to be so. I don't mind, Spring is just around the corner, and one perk of my age, is that months click by like days used to when I was younger. In a few minutes, I'll be stepping through the green doorway of spring, into the swelter of summer, and be praying for winter again.

How many turns on the wheel do we have left, I wonder? I dunno, I dunno.

I'm just along for the ride...



.

Amazing, Pt 2...

I didn't even know we had color film in WW1.


.

Amazing...

I admire people who do stuff like this so much.


.

Ugh...

I feel like a wet sack of hammered shit. This bug has it's hooks in me, and is face-fucking me til the cum pours out my nose, the bridge of which is too sore to comfortably support my PC glasses (1.0 strength, thank you very much...)

I got to sleep around midnight, and woke up at 2am. The hoofbeats of Nightmare Coursers had been thundering up and down the dark, overhung paths of my troubled mind and I started awake, all asweat, and crying out the name of Jesus.

In my dream, I was in a moonlit paddock, at night, and a black horse snorted and came up to me, and laid it's head against mine, across my shoulder. Then it began to whisper to me, as I put my arms around it's warm neck, and I sensed a wrongness, and I began to pray, and eight jagged spider legs burst from it's sides and it pulled away from me and began to spin in the air in front of me and I prayed harder and it got smaller and smaller until it disappeared and I woke with a start.

I felt peckish and sickly, and the rain beat down fit to drown the earth, and I lay there for three hours, pondering whether or not I should slam a shot of NyQuil and get back to sleep. Tonight I'm doin it, at 11pm, and keeping a few Benadryl handy, and a bottle of water. Screw this.

I went back to sleep, in fits and starts, like a teenager learning how to drive a clutch, and woke here and there to Johnny singing, or to the new neighbors apparently building a battleship in their garage. Then the bliss of darkness, only to be ripped out of sleep by a thud and a scream, as Nattie ran her face into her Mother's knee on the stairwell, and I was there in a flash, expecting home invasion, or something, from the sounds of it.

Eventually, I was able to get my heart back down out of my throat.

A bit ago, Nat looked at me solemnly, and informed me that "It is okay if people go lay back down and take an early nap, you know. It might make them feel better..."

Ah, to sleep, perchance to dream...


.

More Navel Gazing...

A blogger I admire is denigrating blogging again. Blogging can denigrate itself quite fine on it's own, thank you. Quit your blog, or not, people, and it is unlikely that you could fill one waitress's section in Denny's with people who care. Sad, but true.

I have gotten one serious offer to write something for publication, due to this blog, and I failed miserably. Imagine being asked to read Al Franken's latest book, and write a review on it. I said, imagine, it wasn't quite that bad, but I could not approach the material without a hazmat suit, so I respectfully declined.

I had a very well known and respected and many times published author autograph his latest book to me once upon a time, writing on the flyleaf "Best of luck to my future competition... Sucker!!"

He had read my novel, and he was impressed. And he wished I was dead, because he knows what the competition is like out there. I know for a fact that professional writers have and do read here, and I am equally certain none of them will ever mention me to their employer or agent. For whatever reason.

I would, because it is not in me to hold someone back (who is not a liberal...I'd stand on their neck with their face in a puddle). And I promote other bloggers all the time. Bloggers who are writers. Doesn't bother me a bit.

I'd bet good money that right now, there is someone reading my stuff, here, chewing nervously on the edge of their thumb, wondering if they should invest in me...

And I'd doubtless lose good money. I am positively constipated with good books and story ideas, and they will never see the light of day.
I am nowhere near as good as Stephen King, but imagine if you could have gotten him into a ten book contract at the beginning of his career...oh baby, can you say 'lottery'? No, not for him, for you.

I have done pretty well preserving my anonymity on this blog, but someone would find out, sooner or later. If Bachman can get outed, anybody can, and I refuse to take down one word from this site, no matter how inflammatory.

So, it's just gonna be you and me, kiddies. Thanks for hangin around...


.

I Do Not Like It When I Agree...

...with people for all the wrong reasons. Is that clear? I hate George Bush, hippies hate George Bush, I hate hippies. It makes me disgusted to be in any accord with any hippie, like when someone else uses my toothbrush.

I have always hated Pat Robertson, and now a bunch of nitwits are hatin on him again, and though I despise Pat, I believe that he rightly interprets Joel (3:2) and said what he said out of belief as a Christian. For you as a Christian to fluff your feathers and scamper around clucking, just means to me you don't believe in the Bible, or God's curses, and all of the other mystical trappings that come along with calling yourselves Christians.

Damned Unitarian.

Did God smite Sharon? Fuck if I know, but I have no problem believing in the possibility. God has used unpopular mouthpieces to deliver warnings before, and I'd be a little leery of mocking Pat Robertson, or that other fat fuck, or Oral Roberts, lest a bear or two come along and tear yo ass up.

Seriously.

Robertson gives me the willies, but it costs me nothing to (generally) leave him unmolested, and I stay away from him and his day to day nonsense just fine.
And it just kills me how all these high-minded blowhards that want to be the first to get in front of a camera to condemn Robertson, don't have a peep against the insanity that gets spewed out by the Mullahs and the Imams and the sheiks on a daily basis.

Pretty fucking pathetic.


.

To Infinity, And Beyond!

This is interesting. I wonder how many advanced civilizations have just winked out instantly when a device as discussed was turned on?

We rely on people who can't make a toaster that doesn't burn toast, to make weapons and machine's of potential mass destruction. This planet is all about the magnetic fields, and they wanna turn this thing on inside several complex interlocking ones? Hello?

They can't make a shuttle that doesn't turn into an astronaut confetti-maker, but by golly, they can warp space!

Well, not in my back yard. Pretty please...


.

If My Beautiful Ladies...

...have thrown your brain into a spin, you can go here to reorder your synapses.



.

Beauties For My Boys...

(and any lesbos out there in the sandbox...)






















I love her little chunky butt, which you can see more of, here.























Now, this is Erica Campbell, who is perhaps the most beautiful, sexy woman on the web today (who is not one of my readers, ahem. I love you all more, honest).

She is porn, fully clothed, in a business suit, with horn-rimmed glasses, and her hair in a bun. Even a burkha could not hide her charms, thus, I am declaring a Dickwa on her. I shall not rest until I have spanked her saucy buttocks with my love log.

And her titties, well...

...what do we do with titties?


.

It Has Come To My Attention...

...that there are some of you who do not agree with me on everything I say. Since I am always right, this can only mean that you are, sometimes at least, wrong.

Legitimizing deviancy for a tax break is always wrong. I do not care how many years you have lived in a loving, committed relationship with your significant pervert, you cannot get married. Sorry, them's the breaks. Look what happened in Israel the other day. Some loon marries a dolphin, and God smites Sharon in the bean and drops him like a wet rubber.

Playing with fire, people, playing with fire.

Smokers? You suck. We are still trying to get the stench of my smoking offspring out of the house, and they smoked outside! They've been gone for over a week, and the Ghost of Cancer-Sticks Past still rattles his fucking leprous lungs around here.

Cut it out. You don't look cool. You don't look sexy. You women get this funny looking puckery lip thingy going that just looks creepy, and you all stink, and everybody hates you, and hopes the government arrests you and puts you in re-education camps.

The same smoker that is whining about welfare cheats today, will be whining for free medical assistance tomorrow, after all the money they saved is gone, and they need a new lung. And they'll likely still fill that new lung with smoke if they get it, the retards.

Drink and kill your liver? Fuck you, die, and this includes me. No way you should get on the donor list. Ditto hearts; and smokers should be in the same boat. If you got the bucks to go to China to get an organ fresh from some mouthy college student, good on ya, but our donor banks should be limited to non-drinkers and smokers (and non huge fat bastards/bitches).

I want a cigarette every time I smell one, for a second or two. And it tickles me to see these self rightous Alcoholic Anonymous types sitting around smoking like fuck-damn chimney's, and drinking coffee by the gallon.

Let's see, have I missed anybody? I am nothing, if not an equal opportunity offender.

Oh yeah, handicapped people, and women. Cut it out with the damned sports. You just give us the creeps. Play em all you want, but quit expecting us to give a shit. Even women don't watch that shit.

And Madison Avenue? Quit trying to sell me shit using the faces and voices of people I hate. Ellen Degenerate and Ed Assner just do not cut it. Danny Glover? Motherfucker puh-leeze.

Hmmmm, who else. Can you think of any?

Pot smokers! How could I forget! They combine the worst of several worlds into one smelly, disgusting hippy-ass package. And they protect their beloved weed even more fiercely than the smokers, if that's possible. Smokers, at least, aren't trying to shove their drug of choice into everyone's face like the faggots do with their dicks. Smokers put it in your face second hand, but dopers want to legalize marriage to the fucking shit.

Assholes. The first person to whimper that they smoke dope and are a 'productive member of society' is going to get one in the nape of the neck and get kicked into a trench. I've been a drug dealer, and known lots of drug dealers, and drug dealers are scum. You add the current element of organized Mexican crime, and terrorists using drugs to finance their operations, you suck on a joint, you are sucking on Osama's dick.

This is my BOOMSTICK! It's a twelve gauge, double barreled Remington. Next one of you primitive screwheads so much as touches me...

Sorry...channeling someone else there, for a sec...

Damn. There has to be somebody I haven't pissed off yet.


.

The Asshole Express...

How come crap like this never happens when I'm around?

The last time I took a train, I had a half gallon of good whiskey, a .45, seven full magazines and a hundred rounds boxed, and a ski mask, just in case. I would have started gunning those fuckers down, and kept going until every Arab on that train was dead. Then I would have pulled the emergency brake, told the conductor who opened the door for me "You're welcome..." and jumped off and hitch-hiked the rest of the way home.

I'd like to think that what happened there in France could not happen here, but then I am minded of Colin Ferguson's rampage in a Long Island train, with not one gun to stop him.

People, no one is going to take care of you. The wife is on the way to Portland with Johnny, today, and she is well armed, and has the mind set to use her various weapons, be they gun, or knife. She has three days worth of her own food and water, and hiking shoes and clothing and blankets for them both.

You just never know when the shit is going to hit the fan, and it's not paranoid if it's second nature. People who stock up on extra jars of mustard and cat food in their pantries so they never run out, try to make you feel foolish for stocking up on ammo and water and survival food.

Fukkem.

A woman mocked the wife in the store the other day for filling our water jugs from the filtration machine. The wife told her about the alarming levels of drugs that are being found in public water sources everywhere, from people pissing them out, and the woman walked away, troubled.

The Lord may whisk me away from danger on a cloud, but I am still going to be unloading my pistol back over my shoulder at the assholes that attacked me, unless God Hisself orders me to cut it out.

Fukkem. In the neck.


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Know Your Friends...

...the Egyptians...


.

Know Your Enemy...

...the Daily Kos.

And the Kos rebuttal.

Here's hoping Kos keeps up the great work he's been doing for the Dims.

Atta boy, Kos!


.

The Goddess Speaks!

Go, and worship!

Democrats=traitors...blah blah blah. As if we didn't know...

What, you didn't know?

TRAITOR!


.

Pretty Much...

Your Heart Is Red

You're a passionate lover - you always have a huge fire in your heart.Too bad it's hard for you to be passionate about just one person! Your flirting style: Outgoing and sexy Your lucky first date: Drinks and dancing Your dream lover: Is both stable and intense What you bring to relationships: Honesty

What Color Heart Do You Have?

Your Seduction Style: Prized Object

The seduction game you play is tried, true, and still effective: hard to get.You know that the best seducers turn the tables - and get their crush to seduce them.The one running has the power, and you're a challenge that is worth the chase. You are a master of enticing and pulling back. Giving a little and taking some away.You are controlled enough to know rewards come after a long seduction dance.Even though you want to call, email, or say "I love you" first - you don't! You're style is the perfect mix of hot and cold - so much so that you have many suitors.Think Holly Golightly from Breakfast at Tiffany's ... or any of those creepy guys from the Bachelor.You're skilled at inspiring a chase. The real test is picking the person to slow down for.

What Kind of Seducer Are You?

You Are An Invisible Ex

You're so over your ex, you hardly even remember you have an exYou prefer leave all of the baggage behind you - far, far behindAs they say, indifference is the opposite of love!

What Type of Ex Are You?

The Keys to Your Heart

You are attracted to those who are unbridled, untrammeled, and free. In love, you feel the most alive when everything is uncertain, one moment heaven... the next moment hell. You'd like to your lover to think you are optimistic and happy. You would be forced to break up with someone who was ruthless, cold-blooded, and sarcastic. Your ideal relationship is lasting. You want a relationship that looks to the future... one you can grow with. Your risk of cheating is low. Even if you're tempted, you'd try hard not to do it. You think of marriage pessimistically. You don't think happy marriages exist anymore. In this moment, you think of love as commitment. Love only works when both people are totally devoted.

What Are The Keys To Your Heart?

Your Birthdate: April 16

You're incredibly introverted and introspective. You live inside your head.You spend a lot of alone time meditating and thinking.People see you as withdrawn, and at times they are right.You are caring and deep, but it may be difficult for you to show this side of yourself. Your strength: Your original approach to thinking Your weakness: You tend to shy away from others Your power color: Pale blue Your power symbol: Wavy line Your power month: July

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

.

Fuck! I Am In A Bad Mood...

Don't call my fucking house after 5pm, motherfucker, unless you are giving me money, and/or I love you.

I am gonna have to have an intervention with my wife's boss. She is one of these bitches who just calls to chat, because, well, there's the phone, and she's bored. Dammit.

The wife natters on with her because...well, duh, she's A) a woman and B) she loves mammon, as do they all.

Fuck. I get hungry about once a month, and it happened tonight, and the wife is hogging the kitchen and slowly, oh so slowly, puttering up a dinner for the kids and her, and I specifically am craving a Taco Sandwich, and the bitches are blabbering on and on and on...

Taco Sandwich, you ask? Yeah, torment me some more, fucker. Okay, one soft cooked corn tortilla, slathered in cheese, topped with another tortilla, topped with beans and sour cream, another tortilla, topped with more cheese and jalepenos and red sauce, another tortilla, cover with more cheese, sour cream, and chopped olives and green onions. Cilantro to taste.

I'm mixing up some left over scrambled eggs in the beans, and some cream cheese and Paprika, just because. I prefer eggs to hamburger, in this concoction. Smear sour cream all over the lid, and have a chunk of cream cheese in the side of the pie plate, to add little fresh nips (mmmm...fresh nips) to whichever bite you wish to.

Okay. I confess. I'm stuffed. I got called down in the middle of this to cook, and I am not nearly so cranky. And then there's the wine.

Oh, how I love everybody...c'mere, let me suck your dick...

thud


.

I'm Pretty Sure...

...that this is art.


.

Down In A Hole...

...feelin so low...

I don't really give much of a shit about the miners, except for the part where I barked laughter over the disconnect between "They're alive!" and then "Whoops!"

Maybe it's just me. NO BLOOD FOR COAL!

Google 'mine disaster', and see how much warning these guys have had for centuries. Hey, you join the military to die. It's implicit, part of the contract. If you live, it's just luck. Deal. Same thing with commercial fishermen.

Do they make a janitor a hero because he got locked in the basement over the weekend? So why does the media insist on heroizing hole-dwellers? I guess I just don't get it.

Oh well, like most of the news, it's not my problem.


.

I Am A Sucker...

...for a beautiful woman begging me for my hot, hot, link.

If she didn't write superbly, I wouldn't even kiss her on the lips, but she is something special, thus the SECOND LINK!

Nag...


.

Let Me Know...

...if this fucks up your computer, or not, my little guinea pigs.

If it works, I'll patch mine.

No fibbing!


.

I Don't Know This Guy From Adam...

...but the Spirit moved me to shout out for prayer for he and his beautiful wife, for some reason.

Lord knows, he has enough of a burden walking around behind that face of his, he doesn't need any more drama in his life. God likes him for some reason, to grace him with a woman like that, so let's pray that if it be His Will, that he raise her up like He has done so many before.

I ask this in His Holy Name, believing...


.

Nattiematics...

What with all the home-schooling, Nat has become fascinated with numbers. She just reported breathlessly to me that "I just kissed Mom on the butt eleven times!"

When shown the rather large lake our back yard has become, she stared at it solemnly from the upstairs window, and declared that it "was made from one hundred...no, one hundred and eighty-two raindrops..." seeming awestruck that such a large number could exist.

So, who's counting? Well, she is. Everything must be counted, and noted, and placed in rows for her to inspect. My beers. Her doll clothes. Etcetera, etcetera. And not in a creepy OCD way, but in a way to order her own little universe, where she is the smallest, most ignorant and insignificant thing in it, unless you consider her Barbies.

While my dark soul enjoys and thrives on Chaos, she is one who craves order in her universe, as does Johnny, and their Mom. My room is my refuge from their infernal neatness, and a more heinous pigpen cannot be found, outside of perhaps a teenagers bedroom. I clean it once a year, and exclaim with joy over the long unseen goodies I find.

I don't have dust bunnies, I have full size dirt rabbits. Teetering stacks of books. Gun stuff. Guns. Knives. Toys. The wife just stands in the doorway and shudders, and the kids have tired of risking life and limb to Indiana Jones their way in to me for a mere hug, and that is how I like it.

Actually, I (mostly) kid about the filth. I despise getting dirty, which is why I do not work on my own car. But clutter? It soothes me. And I kid about finding stuff, too. I mostly know where everything is. It makes me crazy when somebody doesn't put something back exactly where I put it. I can go through the house in pitch dark and find everything I need, unless some inconsiderate turd moved it.

I just put the kids down for a nap, and I plan to seek out Nyx myself, and give her a sleep offering. Put my hand up her skirt.

Ta...


.

Enemy Nations...

I mentioned this game somewhere below, and now I found a place where you can download the whole thing for free.

This game will kick your ass. I love it, still. The new world generates randomly, and I found that if I didn't like the resources where my mother ship landed, that it was best to just restart. I also save, often.

You can play this game several ways, but I just go in and crush, kill, destroy. I doubt you will win, your first several times, but when you finally do, you will exult in your triumph.

Roads are critical, so pave the shit out of everything. Trucks are your key to success.

Good luck!


.

This Cannot Be True...

We all know that guns are illegal in Washington DC.

Darn the Main Stream Media, and their lies.


.

2005...

I look at the previous year, like I look at my latest dump. Something to perhaps admire, perhaps to shudder at, but not something you really want to mash between your fingers, unless you are some kind of freak.

I flushed, New Years Eve, and fucked the Baby New Year in like a violent molester. The wife is content, and the world turns.

I see folks making lists, and such, and that is just fine, but it is not for me. Last years assholes will be this years assholes, unless we, becoming sensible, kill them.

Why start now? Nobody has shown any sense since the French Revolution. It fucked up the country, but y'know? There were a whole bunch of effete assholes no one ever had to hear from again, weren't there?

So, unless you plan on making tomorrow 'Take Your Gun To Work Day', just shut the fuck up, and move along, mutton-person.

It is what you have been bred for. Baaaahhh.


.

Why You Wish You Were Me...

...and not just because of all the blowjobs I get.

Man, you should smell my house right now. It woke me from my nap. The wife is cooking Cornish Game Hens (pigeon) stuffed with wild rice and cherries and apricots and such, and has an additional pan of wild rice cooking, and because I asked, she is making a white gravy, redolent with white pepper and red wine.

And biscuits. And baby carrots and broccoli florets.

If there is an extra bird left, I just might fuck it.

Oh my, I live in a gourmette restaurant.


.

Why Does This Woman...

...have zero comments on her blog? Huh? Are you all Anti-Semites? A bunch of damn dirty Jew haters? Wait, did I just say 'damn dirty Jew'? Dammit! Sorry, God.

Get thee hence, people!

And have I mentioned that this other Jew broad gets better looking every day? It's true! I sinned, just this minute, while fetching her fetching URL. Look...see? A spot.

And will I ever get so much as a Blintz from either one of them? I think not.

You know how those people are...


.

She Looks So Innocent...





















But she's not...



.

Funny...

...cuz it's true.


.

One Shot...

...one kill.

Note, how the writer of the article can barely conceal their contempt. Oh well, the story still gets out. Tell me again how England is our ally?

Via Acidman.


.

NIGGER!

niggerniggerniggerniggernigger!

I'm sorry if I just offended any decent black Americans, but I've got some alleged negroes trolling in my Ann Coulter post below, and I just had to get this out of my system.

And my hood and sheet are at the cleaners, and I am really jonesing to go dance around a burning cross...
...do they really do that? Dance? Somehow, rednecks dancing just doesn't come to mind, when I think of the KKK.

Unless I was a NIGGER!

Well, there goes any chance of me ever getting another Blogad...


[Note To Racist Dickheads: The use of the N-Word is reserved exclusively to me, here, so do not attempt to hijack this post to work through your blackophobia. I will smite you.]


.

Father, Forgive Me...

...it has been fifty years since my last confession...

...for I have trolled.

I could not help myself. On another blog I greatly enjoy and admire, I found stereo geeks waxing nerdical, and I, well, I just could not help myself.

My confession:

I know almost nothing of the Sony CD 'virus' kerfluffle, and I do not buy CD's, nor listen to music...yet I opined as if I cared.

I own several stereos and radios, and I never listen to them, unless it is to lave my brain with the dulcet tones of the Great and Powerful Rush Limbaugh. That's AM, folks! FM is for queers, and boys whose testicles have yet to descend.

So, there you have it, I went to someone else's barnyard, and poked sticks through the cages of people who could no more help their reaction, than a Trekkie could let a comment slide about what a fat bastard Captain Kirk was, the fucking fat bastard.

See? I just heard assholes puckering from here! You can't troll your own blog, can you?

Can you?!



(PS: Can you count the trolls in this post?)


.

What's So Damn Happy About It...

Every man should start the new year with his clappers slapping against a good woman's buttocks.
And then the gunfire broke out, and ruined my concentration, so we sat in bed for a bit, and watched the Shock and Awe from her bedroom window.

I had the most amazing, mind-goggling alcohol experience in my life, last night. Ever. The wife was drinking elf cum...okay, Carolan's, which is apparently identical to Bailey's Irish Cream, and an abomination, but I tasted hers, and I had some bourbon, so I BAM'd it up, and then, because I didn't want full strength cum flowing down my throat, I grabbed a bottle of Minute Maid Lemonade (awesome stuff, btw) and poured a knock in, and the whole thing transformed into a phlegmish, clotted mess, right before my wondering eyes.

I stood, and stared, agog. Just fucking amazed. One second, a serviceable drink, the next, my bourbon has been assimilated by a crawling, alien blobgasm of unparalleled nastiness. So naturally, I rushed it into the living room to show the wife, to her satisfying (to me, anyway) horror. And then I spent the next five minutes with strainer and measuring cup, draining the tumorous gobbet of my precious bourbon (I only had a pint) and when I finally got to drink it, it wasn't half bad at all. Yummy, in fact.

I shall now share with you my old (as of this week) family recipe for chili dogs. This is why you pay me the big bucks:

Ingredients...

Beer- to drink while you cook

Hebrew National hot dogs, the big fat ones, not the skinny poodle-dick ones

Soft, cheap-ass hot dog buns

Diced sweet onion, Walla Walla or Texas, LOTS!

Grated Cheese...LOTS! We like that white/yellow cheese mix, and buy it by the big-ass block

Mayonnaise, Best Foods/Hellmans...don't question me on this

French's yellow mustard...that new bottle sucks ass, I want the old one back

Canned Chili, Nalley's, Walla Walla Onion Style, with beans. Why fight it? Fuck your homemade chili, Nalley's will kick it's ass, and it is ready to serve, and didn't take you two days, so don't be a big vagina

Optional (but yummy) Mrs Renfro's sliced Jalepenos, and/or her green chili sauce/salsa/whatever that shit is. It will clear your sinuses, and you will not shit blood, and perhaps it is wrong to use the word 'shit' in a recipe, but this dish, prepared properly, resembles shit, before you eat it, and looks pretty much the same upon orifical egress, which I think is pretty darn cool. [Note To Writers: If you use the word 'shit' twice in one paragraph, you must say 'darn' or 'heck' as your next 'curse' word, else you be thought too fucking gratuitously cursive.]

Preheat oven to 450, after first checking to be sure that bottle of bourbon you hid from son is not in there still.

In largest skillet you got, fill with 1 inch water, and set to boil. Add a fat teaspoon of butter to it, and when butter has dispersed, fill pan with dogs and reduce heat to medium. Open chili, heat in another pan.

Get big-ass glass casserole pan, and dump contents of hot dog bun bag out into it. Mayonnaise furiously. Arrange.

Roll dogs around, as the water boils away, They should sizzle like little napalmed viet cong children, and develop a corresponding dark, welty skin. Grate that fucking cheese, ya lazy bastard. It's not going to grate itself.

If onion makes you cry, is too hot, save for some other dish, and keep going until you find nice, sweet onion.

Some assembly required:

When dogs done, lift out (with tongs! tongs, dummy!) and place in pre-lubed bread tubes. Slather with yellow French's mustard. Add Jalepeno products here, if it is your desire. Slather with chili. Gob with cheese. There is no such thing as too much cheese, so do not be a homo.

Place masterpiece in oven, watch like hawk. Smoke=Bad.

When cheese melty and bubbly, fetch forth, and serve in 9" glass pie plates. Garnish the piss out of it with the chopped onion. Aficionados may want to add more fresh French's mustard at this point, to taste. I know I do.

Must be eaten with fork and butter knife. Any other method of consumption is legal proof you're drunk in 49 states.

You'll thank me.

Is your woman thanking you for dick, today? Are you getting surreptitious weiner-honks when the kids aren't looking? Does she poot a little when you startle her, and you get hungry for chili dogs for some reason?

Well, I'm guessing you are headed into a pretty happy new year.

The rest of you?

Well, you're fucked...


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