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::Previous::
  • Clay Aikens Is Gay?!

  • I Can't Think Of One Good Reason...

  • This Could Be Fun...

  • Some...

  • Just Because...

  • Ha!

  • Poland's Mad...

  • Well, This Is Disturbing...

  • A Day Of...

  • Jurrasic Beaver?

  • This Commie Prick...

  • So, I Was Soaping My Balls In The Shower, And…

  • Inside The Ziggurat...

  • Acidman Tells A...

  • This Is Just...

  • People Die...

  • Gallery Of Ugly, Scrawny Bitches...

  • I Find This Very Disturbing...

  • A Recent Theme...

  • Fukkit, It's Saturday...

  • On Strike!

  • To My Generous Patrons...

  • Can I Get Another Round Of Applause...

  • NO MORE WAR! NO MORE WAR!

  • 82nd Airbone...

  • I Generally Suspect...

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  • Wherein I Give Thanks...

  • I Hate Rules...

  • Okay, Kiddies...

  • Ali, Part 2...

  • Hey, My Troopies!

  • Pancakes For Dinner...

  • Whaddaya Think...

  • Oh Dear Lord...



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

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        Tuesday, February 28, 2006

    Clay Aikens Is Gay?!

    Imagine my shock!

    Dumb bitches...




       

    I Can't Think Of One Good Reason...

    ...that I wouldn't vote for Trump.

    Especially over all of the other lame crap-snackers that are shambling out onto the field.

    And think of all the hot First-Nookie's he'd bring to the party. I haven't been able to masturbate over a woman in the White House since Rosalyn Carter. Well, there was Chelsea, and her perky nipples...




       

    This Could Be Fun...

    I don't know when I have seen a more out-right case of blatant traitorism in my live.

    I hope the Secret Service stacks their bodies up like cordwood, and Bush declares Martial Law.

    It's about fucking time.




       

    Some...

    ...good feminists can be men, inshallah.




       

    Just Because...

    A catch-all phrase, indeed, just because. It generally indicates a vague unease with something, just because.

    For instance, I am almost completely convinced that this UAE ports deal is a good idea, but it still bothers me, just because.

    Elton John could show up in a limo and give me a million dollars and drive away, but it would still bother me, just because.

    Lord knows it is not for a lack of words. I am chock full of them. I could pour them out by the bucket-load, but sometimes things have an indefinable corona of botheration that you just can't quite put your finger on...

    ...just because.




       

    Ha!

    In your face, Steve, and all you other naysayers.

    I get more and more visitors every day, even during my recent technical snafu. If I somehow started to get super popular and getting tons of comments and whatnot, I would seriously consider making commenting members only, and being very picky about who I let through the front door.

    As I've said, the few times a 'big' blogger has linked me, and I get 50 or 60 people reading and commenting at the same time, gives me a touch of the vapors. Or was that gas...whatevah.

    I only care about high traffic if they drop off cash. I am otherwise quite content with what I've got going, here.

    I'm writing a book, two, actually, but I put far more time and effort into the blog, because this is what I like, and I have loyal patrons and consumers that I am aware of. I smile when people bring 'ego' into it, as I do not have one, as such. And I think readers can sense when someone is an egomaniac, and that puts them off.

    I confess to a craftsman's pride, when I feel as if I have tilled a garden of words just right, and I can step back and say "Cool! That works."
    But no ego. I get a warm feeling when someone praises me, but I never take it too seriously. Just like I joke about being attractive because women tell me I am. I don't see it, and would never think to preen. How embarrassing. I'm not humble, either, I just am.

    Oh well, enough about me. Nat is making trophies out of big Lego blocks, and presenting me with them for being 'The Best Dad In The Word' and such. Now I can work up some pride for that. She can't stand to let me keep them, though, and snatches them back to remake them as something else.

    My winning streak might end. A bit ago, I sat on her head and farted, and told her I wanted an award for 'Best Farter', and she is mightily peeved. Lucky I didn't get bit in the balls.




       

    Poland's Mad...

    ...and they're not going to take it any more.

    Wish our President would grow a spine and make a stand, but he is too busy fellating the Saudis, I guess. And Condi is an outright appeaser.

    Sigh...




       

    Well, This Is Disturbing...

    Read this and tell me what you think, especially my Alaskan readers.

    I have been hearing rumors of this sort of stuff for years. I, personally believe that earthquake dealing weapons are not only possible, but that they have been tested several times recently.

    Hmmmmm...




        Monday, February 27, 2006

    A Day Of...

    ...worship.























    I am falling in love, and it is too much effort to scroll down....




       

    Jurrasic Beaver?

    Isn't that just another name for old pussy?

    In the interests of full disclosure, the wife has forbidden me to use the phrase in our house, especially while pointing at her crotchal area and bellowing laughter.

    Also, for the record, she is so tight that I wish they made a shoe horn to assist me in my assault upon her pearly gates. I was hoping that the birth of two children would loosen up the port of entry, but alas, with two C-Sections, it was not meant to be.

    Bummer.




       

    This Commie Prick...

    ...does some of the most fantastic nude art I have ever seen.

    Wow.




       

    So, I Was Soaping My Balls In The Shower, And…

    I think that I shall never see
    a thing so ugly as a scrotum,
    yet wimmin likkem
    suckem
    strokem
    sometimes e’n deep throatem

    I look down at
    your pretty face
    your mouth all full of balls
    quick come
    and suck upon the head
    ere I decorate the walls

    Tis a far far better thing
    that you
    have a taste for such strange fruit
    cuz if I grew a taste for such
    my self, I'd have to shoot.




        Sunday, February 26, 2006

    Inside The Ziggurat...

    I keep getting nagged about
    this. I sense there are those of you out there who wait. I was prepared to forget it and move on, as that seems to be much of what I do, here, surprisingly enough to me.
    I pour it out, and diminish my...whatever. But you, my willing victims, want more.

    Let me squeeze this boil, again...
    You unbelievers, you non-believers, amuse me. It must be like being color blind, or retarded, or unable to taste sweet, or sour. Life must not be worth living, yet still you insist upon it. Good for you. I admire the plucky. Though I refuse to attend the Special Olympics. Tards and mongoloids flapping around just unnerve me.

    So, let's get right down to it. Of course, they were ___pires. I write it thusly, so search engines might not bring them or their agents to my door. Or bring fools, either.

    Don't believe? Doesn't matter, Food, because that is what you are. Oh, the movies and books have it all wrong, but that is to be expected, and if you seek knowledge whereby to live your life, from fiction, you get what you deserve.
    [expect athiest snark, here...]

    From them, I got the ability to run through total darkness, and see a path...the outline of warm flesh. Heightened senses. She changed my life, and nearly destroyed it. She toyed with me, protected me, tormented me, and made me old before my time. I have a family heritage of, shall we say, 'sensitivity', and they sensed that, and during their stay in my remote mountain town, fed off of it, grew from it, and fed me as well.

    Insane? But of course, in the truest sense of the word. I saw them. I saw them fly. When they were in the neighborhood, other spirituality was released, and thrived. Darkness swirled, like coal smoke, released.

    But they were not evil. Never that. Something...other. Different. Dark, and old. And oh, so cold.

    I could not and would not write a novel of them. I would dare not, out of fear, and there would be no point.

    The wife wanted to read the end of this, so I wrote it. Has it ended? They are a truly endangered species. Perhaps five hundred left in all the world. I wish them well, just because. Some are 'evil', some are 'good'. Most just 'are'.
    Sadly, some parts of humanity have learnt of them, and hunt them actively, like a resource.

    Killing one, if you even could, would be like kiling a unicorn. Horrible, and tragic.

    And what the fuck do you think a unicorn needed that horn for, anyway...




       

    Acidman Tells A...

    ...tale.

    I do not know why you people keep birds. The smallest, most harmless one will watch your baby's eye roll around, and then reach in with it's beak and pluck it out.

    My bird stories:

    I had some sweet doxie riding my rod, on a beautiful, full-moonlit summers eve, one time, out in a field behind my house, on my Dad's ranch. It was one of the moments of true bliss that I will always recall fondly. Us, a bit high, her, pumping my peter, pert breasts bobbling, whimpering to Jesus, and then...

    A plane flew overhead. Wait, that's not a plane, even though it blots out a full, summer's moon, and briefly covers us in shadow. If my eyes do not decieve me, that is a motherfuckin owl! She, atop me, forgot what she was doing and gawped at it, as was I, as it glided across the field and disappeared into the forest. As it passed over us, I heard a whoosh, and the snapping of feathers. I have since heard the same sounds when a hang-glider goes overhead, but they had not been invented then.

    I'd guestimate that it's body was nine feet long (legs extended in flight) with a corresponding and unimaginable wing span. I recognized it as being a Great Horned Owl.

    Because I'd seen one like it before, dead. Stuffed. Some local farmer had tired of losing sheep and calves, and had staked out his own field, near where my Dad attended university. He was armed with a rifle, expecting cougar. Which is probably why he was able to kill the Great Horned Owl that swooped down that night to take another sheep, like a regular owl would seize a mouse.

    A shotgun would have just pissed it off.

    It ended up mounted in a display in the natural history museum at my Dad's university, and I remember standing in front of it, as a ten year old boy, my neck craned up to look into it's vicious face in awe.

    For effect, they had mounted it in a sunken glass case, sunk into the floor, it's feet on a log, set so they were level with your feet.

    I was tall for a ten year old, and I had to look up into it's face. Broader than a large man's face. A beak that could have nipped off my arm easier than a bolt-cutter. The claws? Talons? Whatever? They made Velociraptor claws look like a child's fingernail trimmings. They could have sunk through my lovers spine in two seperate places, crushing it, while she, uncorked and screaming, was pulled off me and into the woods and dismembered alive.

    And eaten.

    Fuck nature.

    Which is why I had no trouble at all believing the locals, up in Government Camp, Oregon, when they warned us about the giant ravens. You get a sense, after a while, a few years of living, when you are getting your leg pulled. These people were coldly serious. I give you the name of the town, so you can go there yourself, and verify, should you doubt me.

    The wife and I had a cat named Rex, who was the most efficient and profligate killer I have ever seen. We'd let him out in the morning, and he would start with the spiders, who had woven their night-time webs. He would eat them, and then get all twitchy from the venom. It was his crack. Then he'd go for the mice, and the lizards, and the birds. He would have killed us, had he been big enough, because that was what he did. Rex killed.

    We set him loose up in Government Camp, and he thought he'd died and gone to Heaven. He killed and killed and killed, and lined their bodies up on the deck of the cabin for us. Voles. Mice. Chipmunks. Birds. Lizards. Whatever. The only thing he ate was spiders, because that was his jones.

    And then came the morning I found him gasping on the deck, bleeding heavily from what I thought was a razor wound. I wrapped him tightly in a towel, and we rushed him to the vet.

    I had found a Satanic altar during my walks through the woods, and that was the first thing I suspected, and my heart plotted murder. The vet disabused me of that notion, and this was the first time I heard of the ravens.

    Rex's wound had been made by a talon, note the miniscule tearing? Do not let your pets or your children be outside without supervision, and watch your back.

    What the fuck?

    I began to hear this story more and more, in conversations with the locals. The wife and I had no children, as yet, and were fond of long walks in those glorious woods. The snow had finally gone away, and next to the California Redwoods, I have never been in a finer forest. Spring sprung, with a vengeance, and color and beauty prevailed.

    And something stalked us while we walked.

    Something stealthy. Crafty. Big. I heard the long ago heard sounds of huge pin-feathers shushling under huge wings. I carried a pistol, and kept it close to hand.

    Rex no longer ventured far and wide as he had, after he healed. He watched the skies. I began to, as well. He would rush out, looking up, do his business, rush back, and cry to be let back in. He was a broken cat. Or maybe, just a smart one.

    I found it odd, that I only heard and felt the presence of our stalker when I was on the logging road, but not when we strayed from the path and wandered off into the woods proper, as we often did. Then it struck me.
    This thing's wings were too wide to allow it to maneuver through the trees. It required a road or a clearing in which to hunt.

    I only (barely) saw it once. A huge black shadow, disappearing up into a huge pine tree.

    We moved thence into the town we live in now, and Rex came back to life. The town is alive with crows. Normal two-footers, and they hated Rex, and he hated them back. I think they hated him not only because he was a cat, but because he was a crow-black cat, and they took it as an insult. Regardless, if there was a murder of crows around, and Rex was outside, you would have to turn the television or stereo up, and talk louder, because those fucking birds went batshit crazy when Rex was outside.

    He would limp around and act like an old crippled cat, and eventually lay over on his side, playing dead. The crows would attack, swooping closer and closer, trying to get up the nerve to zap him. He would lay there, playing possum, until he judged that he had a shot, and then he'd leap up and clutch at one, which made them go even more Alfred Hitchcock on the place.

    There would be a Death-Match, but he never kept one, until he caught the baby crow that fell from a nest. I heard even more bird screaming than usual, I mean they were beyond berserk. Hatred, anguish, pain, and violence, has a sound, and this was it. I looked out the window.

    There he was, triumphant, a foot long bird stuffed in his mouth, he barely able to transport it, it looking both startled and frightened. The crows were beating the shit out of Rex, too. Going at him like Japanese fighter pilots. He would drop the thing, take a few swings at them, and then pick it back up and run around with it. Rex hated crows.

    So, I had this limp-wristed hippy-ass probably gay neighbor who decides an intervention is necessary. I am downstairs on the landing, with a racquetball racket in my hand, in case I need to defend myself, cheering Rex on and laughing my ass off, and this turd comes scampering over and relieves Rex of his burden.

    The dumb fuck looks to me, there, me still chortling away, and says "I'm gonna take it to the wildlife refuge!" and heads to his apartment. Well, those crows just beat the fuck out of him. I mean, the next time this homo looks at a picture of Tippi Hedren, he is gonna flat piss his pants.

    They dogged him all the way to his door, and I could have probably successfully sued him for rib-damage, I was laughing so hard.

    Rex strutted back to me, tail proud and erect, and got a can of tuna for his troubles.

    Know how I knew the guy was leaving to go to the wildlife refuge? Yep, those crows ambushed his dumb hippy ass as soon as he stepped out of his apartment, with that baby crow in a cat carrier, and beat the shit out of him all the way to his car. I saw blood. He drove off in a cloud of crows, and they followed them until he disappeared from view.

    Rex? Oh, not too long after that, he was sitting on our second story ledge, looking out at birds and twitching, and wagging his tail, so I got a good look at his asshole, and it was churning out worms like a fucking pasta maker.

    I slid open the window, and chucked his ass out, and that was that.

    Some do-gooder tried to 'rescue' him, and he tore her ass up for her troubles. Thank goodness he was an unregistered cat. Someone else with a farm snagged him, somehow, so, if he's still alive, I assume he is killing the fuck out of something as we speak.

    Man, the wife is crock-potting something downsairs that smells like a fresh dump. Yeesh.




       

    This Is Just...

    ...disgusting.

    At the risk of sounding repetitious, all Muslims must DIE!




       

    People Die...

    Get over it.

    I'm gonna die. You're gonna die. That sweet baby in your arms is gonna die.

    Jesus died. Of course, He got better, but He had certain, shall we say, 'genetic advantages'?

    Everybody dies, okay? We get it.

    I wish you people would all quit letting the news media manipulate your fear of death. I've nearly died a bunch of times, and it just doesn't impress me any more.

    While I appreciate a good car wreck, or house fire that toasts an entire family on Christmas Eve as much as the next person, it is getting boring. It is a sad sad sad thing that the best thing about Natalie Holloway's death (and HOW do I remember the name of somebody I don't give a fuck about? Hmmmm?) is that at least she's dead, so we don't have to hear her drone on and on and on, like that vile Scientologist twat Van Cistern.

    You know what? I quit watching CSI (Thursday's...the others are just stupid) this season. I tire of it. I no longer wish to be a member of the Death Of The Week Club. Bo-fucking-ring.

    I have attended autopsies. I have zipped up bodies in bags. If you have watched these shows, so have you. Except they can show you a beautiful young woman's guts, but they blur out her pussy. Why is that, do you suppose?

    Did you know that they handcuffed Marilyn Monroe's ankles together to keep monied necrophiles from bribing the morgue attendants so they could fuck her dead pussy?

    Okay, I'm done here. Just cut it out. Please, no more autopsy shows with sexy young female doctors? Please? The wife and I love that show 'Bones', because it is funny, and quirky, and well written. And it hasn't become tiresome.

    Yet.

    PS...Funniest Home Videos? Guys getting their nuts smashed stopped being funny a long time ago, okay? But keep it up with the pinatas. That never gets old.




       

    Gallery Of Ugly, Scrawny Bitches...

    If this is what Sports Illustrated is trying to foist on the masturbating public, they can count me out.

    Yuck.

    I love Molly Sims on that Vegas show, and I kinda like that one Arabic looking babe, but the rest leave me limp. It's hard to keep a chubby when you're thinking about Auschwitz, and worrying that if you put your dick in her mouth, she just might actually eat it.

    And they all look like poster girls for vapidity. Where is my Vendela?!














        Saturday, February 25, 2006

    I Find This Very Disturbing...

    Watch this (it's friggen 90 minutes!) and tell me you can't say the same. I still haven't finished it yet, but golly. Even though these people use the vile and thankfully dead Hunter S. Thompson in some voice-overs, so far, I cannot fault their logic.

    They are hippies, to be sure, but insert stopped clock analogy here.

    Thanks, Toni, for disturbing my chi.




       

    A Recent Theme...

    Your Candy Heart Says "Get Real"

    You're a bit of a cynic when it comes to love.
    You don't lose your head, and hardly anyone penetrates your heart.

    Your ideal Valentine's Day date: is all about the person you're seeing (with no mentions of v-day!)

    Your flirting style: honest and even slightly sarcastic

    What turns you off: romantic expectations and "greeting card" holidays

    Why you're hot: you don't just play hard to get - you are hard to get



    Via the lovely and succulent and sweet Manda, may she find peace and love.





       

    Fukkit, It's Saturday...

    You Are 94% Evil

    You're the most evil person you know.
    The devil is even a little scared of you!



    Via...





       

    On Strike!

    I have decided to boycott my personal commenting on any blog that requires comment verification that gets less than 50,000 hits a day. It is pretentious, annoying, and difficult to do when drunk.

    I can (slightly) tolerate comment moderation, though I have noticed that it negatively impacts the creative back and forth flow that makes having comments fun in the first place.

    Let the record show, that I do not (currently) have anybody commenting here that bothers me. When someone does, I ban them without mercy and delete their trash. If this is not happening to you, shut the fuck up, and say what you want.

    Seriously. If you are pining for commenters, odds are they just said fukkit when they saw your verification. I know I do. Just pay $12 for the premium Haloscan membership, follow the easy instructions (if I can do it, ANYbody can do it) and get a system you can control.

    I used Blogger commenting on my other Blogger blog for the last couple of weeks, and I hated it.

    Blogging tip: There is a way to keep BOTH commenting systems. And I suggest you do not use the automatic Haloscan install, because you will lose all of your old blogger comments. I did.
    Do a little research, and figure out how.




       

    To My Generous Patrons...

    Since I can only assume you all read, here, here is where I shall thank you for your generosity.

    The rest of you, please don't worry about me thinking of you as shoplifters. Heh.

    Seriously, though, you are all the wind beneath my cheeks, and I really do appreciate the accolades. And the cash. Hey, whaddaya say we prove all those naysayers wrong who say there's no money to be made from blogging! All right?

    Okay! Now get out there and win one for my zipper...




       

    Can I Get Another Round Of Applause...

    ...for LL, of Curses and Chrome fame, who makes my heart leap with joy every time I log on to my new and improved blog.

    What a bitch she is. And she better fix her damn link, which is fucked. Jeez, I give one out, and get disrespected like this.

    While I gotcha here, darlin, could you add in Vox Populi, Hog On Ice, and Gut Rumbles, in that order? That would be lovely, bitch. You mean, crazy bitch you, heartless and cold, you are.

    Oh, and make sure to put those links beneath you, where they belong...

    ...and thanks again.




        Friday, February 24, 2006

    NO MORE WAR! NO MORE WAR!

    Perhaps I should seek the auspices of Mother Sheehan.

    One of my spawn, a Marine, is due to be inserted into Shaitans asshole, like a camouflaged suppository, in a few months. It is his second tour.

    C'mon hippies! Keep my boy from doing his duty! Please!

    Or not. I would gladly go in his stead. He is bowling tonight. If I am very lucky, I and my family will get to see him before he leaves, and take what may be the last unmarred pictures of him, before some arab mud-fucker blows him all to shit with a lucky shot.

    You think I'm not invested into this shit?

    Fuck off and die.

    Painfully. Along with your family...




       

    82nd Airbone...

    Hey, somebody had to say it...




       

    I Generally Suspect...

    ...that Hugh Hewitt is a turd, but I fervently thank him for this video.





       

    By Way Of Reputation...

    V-Man was discussing fire, over at his blog, and it got me to thinking. I have had several reputations, here and there, over the years, and most of them were bad, over things that I had done that many people witnessed, and they then went off and wove my reputation for me.
    I never sought to develop or obtain a reputation, or 'Rep'. Yet I always seemed to acquire one.

    I did find that having a reputation as a bad-ass tended to keep you out of a lot of trouble. I also found out that the trouble you did get offered, tended to be out of proportion, and badder than the ass that you are...or at least the one that people think you are.

    You get in a lot of fights? People start thinking you like to fight, and as you win, your opponents start being brought to you by idiots who want to see a fight. And opponents start getting bigger, and more psychotic, because the smart fighters aren't going to fight the guy who tears parts off of people. Or bites them off...

    There was this one big guy that used to scare the crap out of me, when I was a bouncer at this one place. You just knew he was death on two legs, to look at him. He was a Viet Nam vet, going to the same university I was, on the GI Bill, and one heck of a pool shot. And he played for money. He looked like the actor Richard Boone, when he was in his prime, only meaner.

    We finally became friendly, and one night he took me off to the side and thanked me for keeping guys off his back, and told me that he hung around me so 'nobody'd fuck with him'. Then he said "Bane, I know I look tough, but I'm so fucked up, any of these guys could wipe the floor with me, and I couldn't do anything but cry."

    It seems that in Viet Nam, he had had the privilege of being shot down in three different helicopters, in one day. Wounded in a firefight, he was medivac'd, and every chopper they put him in got shot down on the way back to the fire base. After the last one, he was close enough to the base that they sent a jeep out to pick him up. He told me that he'd broken his back, and he had more pins in him that he could count, and that it was a chore merely to wipe his ass or carry his books to class.

    But he had the rep.

    [Intermission: Life happens, even while you blog! You have gotta love a woman with whom you can have a serious, thoughtful discussion on how many matches it takes to cover up the stench of a proper poo. Nattie is busily decorating paper, and cutting out the shapes, and taping stuff to stuff to have her own Big Music Show, thanks to Blue's Clues today; Johnny is busily driving his 'twucks' all around the living room. If he hits the wall again, I mayhap abuse him. In the meantime, I...]

    ...used to shoot things out of people's hands, every so often. Hey, I was in High School. And perhaps a bit crazy. Most certainly under the influence of one drug or another, quite often. This is one way I know that argument about dopers being 'peaceful' is so bogus. And it really explains Gangstas, too, huh?

    I've told you I finally had to leave my 'home', or at least the place I'd lived the longest and gone to all four years of high school except for that unfortunate boarding school incident. I left my California town because of a realization that my future likely consisted of death or imprisonment, and I got an opportunity for a fresh start in Oklahoma.

    My rep began in high school, and I guess I mostly earned it. I had an unfortunate habit of slashing or stabbing people who really needed it. Call it 'poor impulse control', if you will.
    I could shoot coins out of the air, and I worshipped the old and the new gunfighters, and devoured every book I could find on gunfighters and gunfighting. I shot almost daily, for a long, long time, sometimes (quite often) shooting up to 500 rounds of center-fire pistol ammo a week. Uncountable .22 ammo.

    This concept is difficult for me to express, plus I am working to an understanding of the phenomenon of 'rep', here, for myself, so just let me share a few vignettes, to see how parts can build up to make a whole. Or in my case, an asshole. Allow me to retrospect:

    I was sitting on the lawn in a public park, one time, surrounded by girls, we smoking dope. We were all pretty loaded. This was a normal state of affairs for me. I'd rather be with my pussy posse, than with a bunch of fart-ass guys, any day. I like women, and they like me, and I like that just fine.

    Well, about 75 feet away, at the far side of the parking lot, lounged a group of motorcycle enthusiasts. Bikers. Real ones. My little mountain town, with only two deputies patrolling the entire county, one at night, was a magnet for outlaw bike gangs of every description. I knew and loved many many biker mamas.

    Anyway, this one raggedy turd kept hollering at my girls to come over and join them. The girls finally tired of it, and one of them flipped the bird. 'Oh great' I thought 'now I'm gonna get the shit beat out of me'.

    One scruffy dude, who I had pegged as the youngest in a group of about ten guys who looked to be up into their 30's, up-ended the last of a quart bottle of Olympia beer down his throat, then took the bottle by the neck and hukked it at us with a mighty overhand throw.
    I watched it whicker lazily through the air, straight at my head. As it approached, I held up my hand, palm out, and it slapped into my palm and my fingers closed around it and just like that, I'd caught it.

    The girls looked at me like I was a god, gawping openly. I turned to look at the bikers. They were all just standing there, staring. All eyes were on me.

    What they saw was a teenage boy, with long dark hair, and a goatee I kept neatly trimmed. Loose clothing, about as tall as I am now, but whip thin, with very broad shoulders. I had a 32" waist, and wore a 42 regular coat. I stood up, and walked towards them.

    As I approached, the other guys pulled nearly imperceptibly away from the bottle-thrower. He looked very uncomfortable. I sensed no threat, but I could smell adrenaline. Maybe theirs, maybe mine, maybe both. I walked up to him and held out the bottle and said "You dropped something..." and he reached out and took it!

    I waited for the swing, but it never came, and something broke in the air, and the other guys busted out laughing. His face turned red, and he went off and smashed it down into a trash can. I bought some dope from them, and rode with them off and on for a few weeks, until I started to get involved with some real (and by 'real', I mean you would recognize their club name wherever you live in the world) bikers that scared these guys off.

    Then one time I was in this bar, and this dope dealing shithead who is now thankfully dead came in and got a drink, and started shooting pool at a table behind me where I was sitting at the bar. Now, I hated this fucker, just because. He sensed it, and probably thought it was because he was with one of my ex girlfriends, though I could have cared less. He was also one of these weenies that comes in to a bar with a two piece custom made pool cue in a case, and makes a big show of opening it and putting it together. If you're making money in tournaments, I'll forgive you the indulgence, but I took this weenie's money all the time.

    I asked my friend the bartender for another drink, and as he set it in front of me, I saw his eyes change and flick up over my shoulder. I spun on the stool and caught that custom cue by the butt, just like I'd caught the bottle. I slid off the stool, and he let go of the skinny end, as I held on to the thick end he'd been swinging at the back of my skull a couple of seconds before.

    As with the beer bottle incident, I was calm, but alert. I began to unscrew the cue, and talked to him while I did. I told him that I knew we frequented the same bars, but that would need to stop, because the next time I saw him, and he didn't drop what he was doing and leave immediately, because the next time I saw him for longer than thirty seconds, it would give me a great deal of pleasure to beat him to death with a fierceness.

    I never saw him again, and learned later that he had just picked up and left town. He came back after I left the state, and then died of something. OD'd, I think. I love happy endings.

    Wanna hear another one? Crap, I've been at this off and on all day. Okay, there was this stocky little punk, who worked some sort of logging job, and was a hell-raising punk. He ran with a group of three or four friends, and they made Friday and Saturday nights a living hell in some bars. They were bullies, and mean drunks, and our paths rarely crossed. They had never messed with me, but then again, folks very rarely did, any more. Bartenders gave me free drinks, just to keep me in their place. Between women, and bartenders, the first time someone asked me to pay for a drink when I moved to Oklahoma came as somewhat of a shock to me.

    Now, around this time (early 70's) the Buck Knife made it's way onto our scene. I have no idea when it was invented, but in my mountain town, it became popular as a fashion accessory in a big and sudden way. They were scarce, and they were expensive as heck, and the most popular, of course, was the Buck Folder, worn as a badge of honor, in a snap-covered Buck Pouch, on the left or right side of your belt.

    Now, these yahoo's I described above decided that they each wanted a Buck Folder of their own, but that they weren't going to pay for them. They contrived a rather clever way of going about that. The main punk I described above would find some drunk guy wearing one in a bar, get him drunker, challenge him to fight, beat the shit out of him, and strip him of his knife and pouch... then rush with his posse to the sheriff's substation to report that the guy had pulled a knife on him, and that he had subdued him and then thrown the knife off into the woods in his righteous anger.

    Yes, it takes a pretty stupid cop to fall for that shit over and over, but that is how it happened that a friend of mine got victimized by the scam one night, and beaten pretty badly. He told me that when he went to report it, the assholes had already been there to make their report. The cop told him that he'd be best to just let it drop so he doesn't risk going to jail for felony assault.

    So I decided to go hunting.

    I had a Wildcat Skinner that I wore constantly, but I didn't have a Buck, and that was the bait I'd need. My Dad had sprung for one, being rich and all, but none of my rich relatives ever gave me a thing. I've paid off a few loans, but if I wanted a Buck knife, I'd have to get it the old fashioned way, so I stole my Dad's.

    I picked the most 'bucket of blood' bar in town, which by no coincidence, happened to be where my friend got his ass whipped and his knife jacked. I never went to this place, because it was truly dangerous, populated by rough women, and rougher men. I had fucked the owner's wife, too, and it pained me to see her with him, and it terrified her to see me when she was around him, for fear he'd sense something, and kill her. He broke a pool cue over somebody's head every Saturday night, whether he needed to or not, and had kicked her in the cunt for her birthday, and put her into the hospital, where we met because I worked there.

    She was beautiful, a regular Penthouse model, a dark-skinned beauty Penthouse usually paired up with a Scandinavian type for contrast. I was gentle with her during her recuperation, and snuck her off to wash her long, luxurious hair for her and such, and she fell for me, of course. Hey, he didn't break her jaw...

    Anyway, I walked into his club, and he sized me up. He knew who I was, of course. That would be a vital part of his business, such knowledge. The fact of me being there spoke volumes. I walked up to him, and looked into his wolf eyes. "A friend of mine got his dumb ass beat in here last week and his knife stole..." I said.

    "Didn't hap'n in here, hapn'd out in the parking lot...I don't give a shit what hap'ns in the parking lot..." he said, and his eyes were the blank eyes of a man freshly dead. He had the wrinkles of a man who snarled a lot, or maybe grinned while he kicked in people's ribs like a kid would bust in a picket fence.

    I rested my hand casually on the Buck on my right hip. His eyes flicked down, and then back to mine, and might have narrowed a bit. He knew I carried the Skinner, and had seen me use it.
    I had seen his eyes glittering out of a dark corner, a time or two, where he sat, unmoving, there with his trophy wife, surveying some other club...his competition. Taking mental notes.
    He had watched me work.

    And he knew damn well what I was on about. I was either five seconds away from a messy death, or...

    "Don't bust my place up, or make any new stains..." and the eye contact broke and he went and moved behind the bar, and began intently watching the bartender mix drinks. He whispered something to him, and disappeared through a door. A few minutes later, he came out with his leather fedora and coat on, his bride in tow, and they drove away.

    I ordered a bottle of Bud, a beer I despise, but in those days, they were the toughest beer bottle made, and did not break easily. I proffered payment, but the bartender just waved it away and went to serve other customers.
    I nursed my beer, and waited, and knocked back a couple shots of good Tequila, and waited. I placed a couple of quarters in line at the pool table, and waited.

    I didn't know anybody in the place, and that was just fine with me. A pool player at my table shouted "FUCK!" and the eight ball clunked and the other player waved his hand at me and said "Hey buddy, your turn."

    I let him con me into playing for five bucks, and then proceeded to give him terrible leaves, while somehow managing to miss most of my shots. Shhhhh...I'm hunting wabbits!
    My patience was soon rewarded, as the noisy bunch of bug-fuckers came into the place like they were walking onto a yacht.

    To continue reading, please insert fifty cents into the slot in front of you...


    Ha! Wouldn't that be cool!

    He spotted the Buck immediately. I mean this fucker had a fixation. By now his merry band had gotten at least eight knives, over the weeks, that I knew of.

    He came over to my table, digging for quarters in his pocket, and I pointed at the next quarter in line and said "That one's yours..." and, by golly, it was. His brow furrowed a bit, then he brightened, and met my bright innocent smile with his. "Thanks man!" he said, and I told him that it was my pleasure, and it really, truly was.

    I quickly dispatched my current opponent, and then began to use the green felt as my veldt, stalking this ignorant-ass country cunt, as one would a wart hog. Make no mistake, these men worked hard jobs, and could break you with their fists, but they were just cattle to me. Mean cows, headed to the slaughter.

    I frequently paid my rent via the pool table, and I tormented this poor bastard. I would let him get close, and then take his money, and between me, his alcohol, and his lust for my knife, he was working himself up into a fine froth. Good, that's how I like them.

    I would make the Frowny Face when he'd muff a shot, and tut-tut. Perhaps a tsk. His friends began to rag on him. They weren't on my side, but they were pissing him off, too. I bought them drinks. Well, not really 'bought', more like 'summoned' them, and they appeared. Kinda like a tab, without all that gauche 'paying' part.

    I suspected someone was going to be happy to be rid of these lice.

    I began to play the drunk. He began to bump me. To fuck with my cue during my shot. My heart leapt with joy. "Hey!" I said. Kinda whiny.

    "Wanna go outside and make somethin of it?" he asked.

    Did I? DID I?! Can somebody give me a DING!!

    I lured him around the corner outside into the shadowy part of the parking lot, where my friend's dried blood still likely entered the tire treads of arriving and departing vehicles. As his friends erupted out the door behind us, I dropped the punk like a used rubber, and broke a few things. Then I stepped over to the car and my friend sat up and handed me my long barreled .38, and I relieved all of the nice gentlemen of their Buck Knives.

    I tossed the knives into the car to my friend, and then I turned back to my new friends, aimed the pistol again, and ratcheted back the hammer. The smell of urine struck me almost at once. Not all of them piddled, but at least one did. We had what you might call a 'Come To Jesus' moment. One of them actually farted. Nobody laughed.

    "I'm sorry..." I told them "but I can't go back to prison, and you've all seen my face..."

    [Note: I have never been incarcerated. Well, as an adult.]

    I received assurances. I mentioned that whole 'probably not best to be seen by me in any bar in this town' thing. More assurances.
    I am basically a coward, and I fear being caught by surprise, like poor Bill Hickok.

    Not laughing out loud when I ratcheted the hammer back down under my thumb was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I was thankful I had maneuvered them to where the security light obscured me.

    Well, I was going to tell you about the time I set the dog on fire at the party, but I think this has gone on long enough. Hey, that was the story V-Man's post triggered in my memory and got all this started today, too.

    Dang.




       

    It Has Come To My Attention...

    ...that there are people out there who do not like your humble host. I am shocked.

    Some are women, who protest me, even as I doubtless make them squishy in the pants, to their horror and secret delight. But one must protest a filthy beast such as I, mustn't one? We have appearances to keep, and airs to put on, and remaining superior to others is a full-time job!

    Some are doubtless 'men', who have tasted my glove as I spatted them with it. Using two gloves shows that you are really cross, and will doubtless soon involve the presence of Seconds, and a morning appointment in the park, under the tree.

    I am such a jolly, happy fellow, tumbling and bumbling about in a carefree fashion, like a big floppy puppy, that it comes as a shock to me to encounter some villain that would steal my joy, slapping me on the nose, figuratively of course, with a rolled up newspaper.

    It makes Bane make the Frowny Face, with perhaps the Moue of Annoyance, with a small Side of Sad.

    I am nothing, if not a caring, sensitive sociopath.

    Still, and I know this must astound you as much as it does me, there are people out there who despise your humble narrator.

    Go figure...




        Thursday, February 23, 2006

    This Blog Is Open!

    Damn, she fixed shit that never worked before, and everything that was busted. I'm talkin 'bout LL (Loopy Libertarian) of Chromed Curses, who, by virtue of repairing my fucked up OG blog, has earned herself the first ever link from BaneRants.

    I'm not closing the other blogs, but the only way I'll likely post there, is as mirror sites, because the importance of back-ups has (yet again) been shoved into my face like a maggot-filled shit and whipped cream pie.

    Now, if only I can get somebody to show me how to do a batch-file that will replace all of the hard returns that got ripped from my archived posts when I attempted to transfer them over to my WordPress blog.

    I am so tickled to be back here...




       

    Product Placement...

    I have been testing this product since receiving it as a gift on Valentine's Day. The Gillette Fusion Power 5-blade razor.

    First impressions, for a man, is YEE-HA! when you see it. Looks like a space battle-cruiser. Impressive. Gnarly. Substantial. Slap in the battery, turn it on, and your wife's ears will prick up from across the room.

    The let-down comes during the actual shave. Long story short, with caveates, is that the three-blade power razor gives a better shave. BUT! The single blade 'trimmer' feature on the back is to die for. I wish I could buy a powered single blade razor. It is perfect for around moustache and sideburns, and for clean-up of those areas on your face that are always left with stubble unless you just grind and grind into it, i.e., the sides of my throat under my chin.

    With the three blade razor, I can shave dry if I want, though it decreases blade life. With the five blades, I am really glad that the wife bought the shaving cream that is supposedly designed for the Gillette Fusion. You place those buzzing blades onto your stubble, and you KNOW you are getting a shave. It growls like a lawnmower in tall grass. You must rinse more often, because it fills with whiskers quickly.

    It pulls at them, too. I never yet have felt pain with the 3-blader, yet the 5-blader hurts me occasionally. Makes me bleed sometimes, and the 3-blader never has.

    All that having been said, in fifteen years of marriage, the wife has never remarked on my shave, until now. She says she notices the difference, and likes it. A lot. The razor stays.

    I used to be a shower shaver, and I have a mirror in there. Now, I shave and trim (gosh, I love that single blade trimmer!) at the sink, and keep the 3-blader in the shower to bat clean-up on any spots I missed.

    All in all, I think it was worth the money, so far. That will depend on how long the blades last. They are expensive for both powered razors, but I use a 3-blader for up to two months, and I shave every day except Sunday.

    Honestly, though, if I knew then what I know now, I would buy a powered single blade razor (if they made such a thing, which I doubt) and stick with the 3-blader.

    I will stick with powered razors until they quit making batteries. They just don't make you bleed. All my shaving life, before power, the sink looked like I'd sacrificed a chicken in it when I was done. Now, the worst I get is maybe one oozing pore, where a hair got pulled out.

    In summation: The Gillette Fusion has the single edge 'trimmer. It works perfectly, especially up under the nose. You can sculpt facial hair, and I would own this even if I had a beard. It gives a lovely razor cut.

    It has a LOW BATTERY INDICATOR LIGHT! Is that the coolest, or what?! It also has an automatic shut-off feature (after six minutes) in case is gets turned on by accident. MORE COOLNESS!

    It looks like a friggin Ferrari, and will flat cut the piss out of your whiskers.

    Two thumbs and a wagging weiner up!





        Wednesday, February 22, 2006

    Vote With Your Feet...

    Well, right now, I've got hardly any voters at all. My traffic has died, but I know who my friends are!

    So, here's your chance. I have three blogs, as of this week, all parallel universe versions of BaneRants. Out of courtesy, I have been posting the brain-cramps that fall into my head on all three sites, for the most part.

    I like WordPress, I really do. It has nice aspects. I am still not satisfied with it, and it bewilders me as yet, but I like it.

    I am terribly fond of my old blogger blog. Though it vexes me, as it is a poor, broken thing. My archives went to shit, and I blame WordPress, for shitty transfer code. Yet, it is broken, and has been for some time. Still, it has my ads, and my tip jars, and the bloggy things that make me smile. WordPress's sitemeter app is Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition, and even if I could figure out some way to display it (guess what: I can't) I wouldn't, because it is illogical and stupid, and doesn't synch with any time in any known universe.

    My new Blogger blog is shiny. And new. And everything works. I would have done it before I went to WordPress if I had been thinking clearly, which, obviously, I was not. It looks more Baneish than the WordPress blog, though it is austere, and looks kinda high school.
    One of my dear, dear friends and patrons made me a .jpg of my old blog flames that appears to be perfect in every way, yet I lack the skill to insert it.

    So...I think I have answered my own question.

    Fuck you, I do what I want. I will continue to take the extra minute and a half to post at all three, and count up the comments on all three in a few weeks, and make my decision then.

    Back to square one...




       

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!

    She presents an opposing view to mine, and yet my needle begins to waver, due to her words. She makes several convincing points, and may just be the sobering slap to the face I needed.

    We shall see...




       

    With The Force Of A Million Tons Of TNT...

    ...it fell, and sounded like a bomb had gone off downstairs. I actually armed myself, because I thought Jihad had come to my house.

    We were all upstairs, thank God, when the ceiling light globe, no doubt loosened by all of Johnny's dancing upstairs over the years, crashed down to the laundry room floor with the force of a million tons of TNT!.

    The wife is currently doing what all wives should do: clean it up.

    What? Well how do you, or anybody else know what a million tons of TNT! sound like going off? You cannot safely extrapolate from one pound, and then multiply. There are factors we don't even know about yet in a conventional explosion of that size, and yet men in white coats will go on TV and intone their high-toned rubbish as if it were gospel.

    Probably with the same face on the village barber had when he told you that the only way he could cure your child's asthma was to bleed them.

    That's why I get a chuckle when some wide-eyed acolyte of Science As Religion assures me that his facts are correct because, well, they're infallible, and unchangeable. At least until the next directive with the new facts is put out.

    And have you ever heard two high level mathematicians aguing over their own arcane magicks? Two learned men, each convinced the other is an idiot for believing in the solution they came up with? And a fatwah from an Evolutionist is something to be feared. They will come to your house with torches.

    Oh well, Christians can get goofy, too. I am so sick of Donald Wildmon ruining good television for me I could just puke. Put him and Fred Phelps and all of their followers into a large vacuum container, suck out all of their air, and the world would be a better, saner place. 'The Book of Daniel' was one darn good, cute, funny show, and I always got a laugh, and it made me think.

    And speaking of sucking, now I have to buy a light cover. And that sucks. See?


    I know I make this look easy, but don't try this at home, folks. You could pull something.





       

    The Poo Containers, They Plot...

    I hear them there, there in their big brown bag, whispering and giggling. They know they intimidate me, and they can smell fear.

    Yes, I have been even more procrastinary than usual, and have put off collecting my Secret Sauce, and yes, I could die from such behavior, but quite frankly I do not care. In fact I believe I'd rather.

    Oh, to be sure, I'll have a good look at my poo, before sending it on it's way to the Poo Men. Okay, I might poke at it a bit, to uncover some interesting looking treasure, but actually handle it on purpose? Egads.

    Aha! My Mom is a nurse! And she's both seen my bum and handled my poo before. Of course, it has been awhile.

    I am vexed. We have finally found something the wife won't do for me. Well, that, and let me push in her little hemorrhoid I gave her by virtue of too much, shall we say, enthusiasm on my part. It's not that she holds it against me, it is more that she refuses to, no matter how I beg. When Gargantua attempts to slip near there, she tenses up, and her hand begins to slide towards the 5 cell Mag-Lite she keeps by her bed.

    He and I slink off, bereft, yet she will make no butts about it.

    Pity me.

    Once again, I did not win the lottery, so I am unable to hire someone to handle my poo for me. Instead a bunch of meat-slinging yahoos and Viet Cong get it.

    There goes my investment portifolio...




       

    Poetry Corner...

    FEMALE POEM

    I want a man who's handsome, smart and strong
    One who loves to listen long.
    One who thinks before he speaks
    One who'll call, not wait for weeks.
    I want him to be gainfully employed,
    When I spend his cash, be not annoyed.
    Pulls out my chair and opens my door,
    massages my back and begs to do more.
    Oh! For a man who makes love to my mind
    And knows what to answer to "how big is my behind?"
    I want this man to love me to no end,
    And always be my very best friend.

    MALE POEM

    I want a deaf-mute nymphomaniac
    with huge boobs who owns a liquor store and a bass boat.
    I know this doesn't rhyme and I don't give a shit.


    Via reader 'The Bastard'.




       

    I Can Be Wrong...

    I have made a complete 180 on this UAE ports deal.

    This and this convinced me. Read them and tell me what you think.

    Update:

    But wait, there's more. Good stuff.




        Tuesday, February 21, 2006

    150,000...

    Somehow, amongst all this bullshit, I managed to break 150k hits. I just went and checked who is hitting me, and they are all mostly porn sites.

    The night shift...




       

    More Testing...

    I just wanna see if posting this will hose all of the work I've done so far on repairing this fiasco.

    And if this post will have hosed formatting as well.

    People, my fingers bleed for you...

    Update:

    CRAP! Well, no formatting, but at least it didn't delete everything I did today.

    Baby steps...




       

    Let's See What This Does...

    I know I'm boring you guys. My hits are in the shitter. I've been tinkering with this fucker all day, and going slowly insane.

    I started a new blog at http://banerants2.blogspot.com to see if it would work okay, and it does. I may switch the URL's and start using that one, if I can transfer the archives over there. I could do it by hand and insert them as a batch into Word, saving it as a file, and then move them over one by one, format them, and move on. Helooo Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.

    Have I mentioned WordPress is fucked today, too? I wonder if there is some big giant web war going on we are not being told about. The internet has been acting hinky and twitchy everywhere I go, today.

    Update:

    Oops! Link fixed.




       

    I Must Be Cursed...

    Now WordPress is down with the clap. And blogger is not putting in line breaks, as well as taking them all out of my old posts. I have to manually type them in, which is more work than I can bear.

    Do you know how many posts I would have to go back in and manually repair because of this? Neither do I. And I'm not gonna find out.




       

    Blogger Says They Love Me...

    ...but I've been hurt before.

    I prefer the interface, here, to Wordpress's. I like having all of my bloggy thingies that I have over here, too. What to do. I really hate it that either blogger or Wordpress fucked my old posts formatting over here. They look fine in the transferred archives over at Wordpress, they just got compacted over here. But Wordpress did not appear to transfer a couple of years worth of archives, I suspect because of the Haloscan commenting system, and their script not knowing how to handle it.

    What to do, what to do.

    Why can't anything ever be easy?




       

    test 7

    well, I won't trust this fucker again until I can post tomorrow, and it doesn't shitcan these test posts. until then:okay, I give up, blogger, you're dead to me. At least for tonight.

    I'm over here:

    http://banedad.wordpress.com/




        Saturday, February 18, 2006

    test 6

    well, I won't trust this fucker again until I can post tomorrow, and it doesn't shitcan these test posts.

    until then:okay, I give up, blogger, you're dead to me. At least for tonight.

    I'm over here:

    http://banedad.wordpress.com/




        Thursday, February 16, 2006

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!

    I am boycotting WND's site for my posting of her, as they are too noisy, with all of their ads and flashy things.

    I defy anyone to find one factual error in her article. Pissing you off doesn't count, you gay homosexual.

    Where is she wrong?

    Oh, and fuck China. They are a paper tiger, just like the vaunted (and FORMER!) Soviet Union was.

    Threat? Oh, to be sure, but far from the greatest.

    Someone needs to rent 'The Outlaw Josey Wales' again.




       

    I Can't Watch This...

    Never could stand to watch any of these prissy little faggots, but oh, the music.

    I'll be sad if it is not allowed in Heaven.




        Wednesday, February 15, 2006

    Okay! No More Mister Nice Bane!

    I'm going to listen to my own press, how all of you tell me how wonderful I am, and I'm just gonna go for it, okay? Huh? You primitive screwheads?

    I mean, I can cough up something like 'I can write a pithy post quicker that Mother Theresa can fart her image onto a cheese sandwich...' TIME! There, look, what five seconds?

    And I managed to piss off every Catholic in the world at the same time!

    My powers are worthy of your worship.

    Or not. Ann Coulter keeps writing funny, kick-ass, meticulously footnoted books, and pundholes still call her...what? A fourth rate intellect? Does someone need a Columbian Necktie?

    Look at that, right there, 'pundholes'. Try to write that, just try. And then slip in an implicit yet obscure threat DING! What? Ten seconds?

    Why any of you even ATTEMPT to match wits with me is, well, quite frankly, Ann (SEE?!) beyond me.

    I'll suck your soul (SEE?! the circular movie reference? Gosh, I am brilliant!).

    Why that fat stroke-puppet Eberts (SEE?!) gets the big gigs, and I languish here, even more forgotten than Joe-Bob, is beyond me.

    Of course, there may be that whole 'lack of effort' thing, but that's

    ALL YOUR FAULT!!




       

    On A Lighter Note...





       

    Do I Go Too Far?

    Yes.

    Can I help myself?

    Sometimes.

    Do I think about consequences?

    Every time.

    Do I care?

    Every time.

    Has it ever stopped me?

    Sometimes.

    Would I do it again?

    Mostly...sometimes.

    Do I have anything to lose?

    Not much, and Heck Yes!

    Could I stand to lose it?

    Not over something trivial, but if you are not willing to push your whole pile of chips up to the line and go for it, you are not a man.

    Conversely, if you hurt someone you like for a few dollars, or because you are tickling yourself (and for WHOM do we do this blogging thing? Aye, there's the rub) you are even less of a man.

    We are all defining this medium...this 'art form' And it is defining us. Never ever ever ever has something like this existed.

    Oh sure, you might say, the town square and suchlike, but disputes there could be settled with pistols and swords and fists. Here, a woman can beat on a man, a child can beat on a woman, and may the sharper wit win, and the stands are full of silent watchers, of which only a very few venture into the limelight to comment on the show.

    We are minstrels, but not mimes. Actors, playwrights, ink-stained wretches, without the ink, ballerinas, matadors, Crusaders, and poets. Diarists, ploddists. Picture hangers and librarians. We have made a playground of unprecedented size, in all of history. The Colliseum of Rome fades into insignificance at the sight of all of you people, networked and communicating.

    Some of you have been at 'blogmeets'. Just multiply everyone in the room by 6,000, and you will get an idea of the tiny crowd I draw each week, multiplied by however many there are of you in the room. Just imagine the reach of the thousands of others who get even more visitors.

    And yet, you can break one heart. Hurt one person, and it all becomes as ash, to you.

    I think some people forget this, myself, included.

    Ware.




       

    No Terrorism Here!

    Move along! Nothing to see here!

    Just doubtless some white hooligans, in the largest concentration of Muslims in the United States, trying to make Our Peaceful Muslim Brothers look bad.

    Filthy infidels.

    How come nobody ever says 'Muslim Sisters'?

    Hmmmm...




       

    I Blatted This Out...

    ..in the 'Boss Day Poetry Something Something' over on the Dilbert Blog the other day. I did not want it to get lost in the anus of history, so I rearchive it here.


    I think that I shall never see
    a boss that I can stand,
    and not want to whack them with
    my foot, or maybe hand.

    They got the job by being
    somewhat longer there than me
    despite the fact they're stupid
    and much dumber than a tree.

    If I should ever run amok
    and come back with a gun,
    Hey Mom look! I'm on TV!
    Now isn't this such fun?


    Try not to envy me. It only makes you look petty, and small. Suck it up




       

    It Is Not Often That I...

    ...am left speechless.

    That is just so sad and awful and nasty and funny and horrible and unnatural, that only SondraK's lovely and renowned bottom there to the left saved me from being struck impotent.

    My penis actually threatened to uproot itself and migrate to less awful climes, hitchhiking like a giant thumb.

    Brrr. My soul was chilled properly, and ready to serve.




       

    I Generally Hate...

    ...those 'light blogging announcements bloggers make, I mean, who the fuck cares? But a little firefly told me that they missed me, so I thought I'd mention to any others of you who hang on my every word, and whose loins strain for my maleness, that I will be away on personal business tomorrow, as I was much of today.

    See? Yer gonna miss me when I'm gone...




       

    Some Asshole Went...

    ...and got hisself a new blog.

    The noive of some fuckers!

    Why I outta...




        Tuesday, February 14, 2006

    Oh, I Chortled So...

    ...over this. Arab twat gave me a boner, too. Thanks for the wood, Pamela!

    It wouldn't be the first time...




       

    Happy Valentits!

    I just want to make fart sounds on her belly so bad, I can taste it.

    I would make her pee the rug.

    Update:

    Oh my. Look at those toes. Those fingers. Elegant beyond my poor powers of description.

    And her teeth. Perfect.

    Thank you God, for women.

    Amen.




       

    Ali #4...



    I gotta have this book!




    .





       

    Ladies And Gentlemen...



    This is your future.



    You bought the ticket. Don't complain when the ride gets rough.



    Welcome to Zardoz.




    .





       

    I Fucking...



    ...knew it.



    We need to clean house in the government, from the top, down.




    .





       

    Athiest vs Christian...

    ...your faith against mine, shaman...

    Prove God does not exist. Make me lose my faith. I dare you. Bring your A-Game. Bring your friends. Keep it confined to this cage, please. There are no rules, except you cannot take my God's name in vain, as previously noted.

    Extra credit for proving He exists. If you claim to be Christian, act like one. I am an acknowledged Bad One, and it is my blog. Mind your manners.

    DING!




       

    Come For The Fun...



    ...stay for the funny...



    I can't remember if I've ever done this before, but I am linking to the comments thread of another blogger (Vox Day, who is one of my everyday reads) that had the wife and I laughing so hard last night that we literally hurt a little, after.



    It must be pig season, somewhere...




    .





       

    Because I Can...



    ...I am posting this again. I have it set on repeat, and I am just boogying down to it. Whenever I start to get grumpish, I go back and watch it again.



    This makes Bane smile. And giggle.




    .





       

    In Defense Of The Goddess...

    Via reader rws I get this link. What a wonderful article. I have been seeing nothing but whining from notable weenies such as Glenn Reynolds on this, and Mr Quick's take was a refreshing and much needed change. The comments are even more fun. You know, you can reach in with your eyes closed, and pull out an idiot every time.

    It does not serve well to use popularity as an indicator of goodness and rightness, but I can't help but point out that far more folk know who Ann Coulter is and what she stands for than they do Glenn Reynolds. Heck, I've been on the internet since 1990, and I've only recently heard of him.

    Reynolds is the kind of sheep in wolves clothing that Conservatism does not need, and is ill-served by, I think. Like Chuck Hagel or Arlen Schumer...I mean Specter. With friends like Glenn, we need enemas.

    I believe I should give Mr Quick an occasional read, methinks. I like the way he hoses the libturds off his porch.

    Update:

    A bit ago, I was talking to the wife about this, and I used the name 'Glenn Reynolds' in a sentence. She turned to me with a quizzical look, and said "Glenn who?"

    I rest my case.

    And I'm a blogger, and she surfs the net.




       

    Snow Day...

    ...and thoughts of Google, sucking...

    We are socked in by one of those arctic thingies, and warned that it is going to sit on our faces for awhile. Fuck I hate snow. Pictures of snow piss me off. I want to run around outside with a lighter and personally kill every snowflake as it falls. And then piss on their bodies.

    And I am hearing more and more troubling stories about Google killing blogs whose content they don't like. I don't know if they are true, but they make me nervous. I have no idea how to migrate, and I couldn't afford to pay for a blog if I did.

    I feel like a dinosaur, watching the asteroid come in, and saying "Well, just fuck..."

    It appears that if your readership climbs over a certain number, you get attention, and not in a good way.

    Between snow, and Google, I am ungruntled.




        Monday, February 13, 2006

    Ali 3...



    Joe Frazier rocks!




    .





       

    Okay, It's Official...

    I now Officially Hate Dennis The Peasant.

    He strives for, and gets the GOLD of wanker status with this post.

    Man, I tried...you all know me, I tried to cut him some slack.

    Oh, well.




       

    Credit...



    ...where credit's due.



    Damn good writing. And I concur with every word.




    .





       

    The Death Of Childhood...

    ...second star to the right, and straight on til mourning...

    My Darling Nat came up to me minutes ago, excited from a rousing bout of Peter Pan and Captain Hook (check your local listings). She asked me, eyes aglow, "Is Peter Pan real?"

    I could have killed it then. No, you stupid little bitch, he is a fucking cartoon, and Santa is...and blah blah blah blah.

    Is rape any worse, I ask you? I dunno, honestly. But maybe not.

    America's soul is dying. No matter how loud you clap, or say "I do believe in America!" we are fading. The color is washing out. Grey is washing in, the first cousin of black.

    My wife made me cry, a bit ago. She called from the hospital parking lot, up there in Portland, where she and John have been all day. She was headed home, and she had a tale...

    Seems that down in the main lobby, they have a Bogendorfer (or however that's spelt) grand piano, and today, they had brought in a pianist to tickle the keys. He was playing all kinds of music, mostly the old familiar favorites, and then he hit one that Johnny knew.

    Johnny chimed in with his clear, high, strong voice, and began to sing like a cherubim. The wife, a trained classical pianist and opera singer, joined him, and the pianist became enraptured. Beauty draws, and feeds on beauty, and he kept playing familiar, sacred songs, and the wife and Johnny sang along, in their clear, sweet voices, and everyone in the area was drawn to them. A crowd formed, and joy filled the air, and people whose babies were sick and dying upstairs smiled, and swayed, happy for perhaps the first time in days...weeks...months.

    You know what is coming, don't you. I could stop right here, and you, athiest, Jew, Christian, anarchist, you could end this tale for me, couldn't you.

    My son, singing like an angel (and oh, how I wish you could hear him sing)...
    My son, who has nearly died so many times in that self-same building.
    My son, praising The One True God, while other parents hold each other upstairs and cry, and cry out to God for mercy on their child...

    ...was told to stop singing, by an officious little man, who said, and I quote, "This is a public hospital, and I could get in so much trouble for allowing you to do this..."

    That is all.




       

    Counter Insurgency...

    Well, this is interesting.

    When my son was in Iraq, he reported to me at one point that he was guarding an ammo dump of immense proportions. By his account, it went on for miles and miles. And it was just one of countless such sites he had personally seen. By his description, ammo and weapons and functioning vehicles just littered Iraq, quite literally, everywhere.

    Tough row to hoe...




       

    Deep Bane Thoughts...



    You know, if all of the Olympics participants just fell down and broke their heads and died, the world would be a better place. And NBC wouldn't suck nearly as much.

    Well...




    .





       

    Two Brave, Though Reckless Men...

    Tell me these guys don't have balls of admantium.


    Via somebody I never heard of.




       

    This Is Weird...

    I just looked in my Sitemeter and found this cocksucker. Someone has hijacked my site, and is selling ads from it.

    Could this be because of the code I added into my template this weekend?

    Hmmmmm...




       

    PSA

    I do not give a fuck who shoots who, as long as somebody is getting shot.

    This is all I have to say about that.

    Thank you.


    Update:

    On the other hand, I would dearly LOVE to get shot by the Vice-President. Everything that ails me would be cured, during my hospital stay, and I'd have medical care for life, and a nice fat secret bank account. Heck, I'd let him fuck me with that monster dick of his for all that.

    But not in a gay way.




       

    Oh, I Just Laughed...



    ...out a skidmark. This is hysterical.




    Via the Cow Herder.




    .





       

    Call Your Boss Over...



    ...and click on this link. Bet you'll get a raise.



    Gosh, what a beauty. I could do without the sand, though.




    .





        Sunday, February 12, 2006

    These Are A Few...

    ...of my favorite things...

    I love the 'tweedy' dialogue from the homosexual British press.




       

    There's Nothing I Like Better...



    ...than a good sneak attack.



    Oh, wait...




    .





       

    Well, Isn't This...



    ...special.




    .





       

    Fuck Me...

    I thought I was the only one who did this.

    I've seen this before, and now we get to see it again, thanks to a certan Floridian Loon.




       

    Worthy Of Note...

    One Insane Fucker made my day. Hey, Muslims, Look!

    Look again! My very favorite! And probably the only look any of you will get of the inside of a mosque during 'services'. Do you see why I hate them? Do you?
    Quit trying to compare these fuckers with harmless dickheads like Pat Robertson.

    Oh, how I laughed and laughed, and mocked the prophet, piss on his unholy name.

    BTW, that is how blogging is done, if any of you needed a primer. John's a nut, and makes me cringe frequently, but I can give him nothing but props, and major style points.

    He keeps it real...




        Saturday, February 11, 2006

    Things I Don't Get...

    And mind you, I have tried them or been offered to try them all. Except for the cartoons. And Katy Couric.

    Bondage.
    Why? You'll shut up and lay there, bitch, and like it. Ew. Sorry. Oh, I'll happily paddle you, because I know that the way to a woman's heart is through her ass cheeks, but seriously. Fuck, I don't even like putting on safety equipment for sports, why would I want to tie up my fuck? And that whole ball gag thing...goodness. If you want to shut them up, it is because you are a lousy lover, and don't want to hear about it. My fuck sessions sound like a Harlem prayer meeting.

    Oysters.
    I love fish. My Dad eats Sea Anemone testicles, and enjoys them. Yeah, it's like that. Turn them (oysters) into soup and sauce, fine. But if you eat an oyster off the shell, you would suck a leper's festering eyeball from his rotting skull. Ditto Mussels. And they stink. Clams? They are the Gentlepersons of shelled fish, and are wonderful however they are prepared.

    Queers.
    With all that pussy out there, why would you fuck a guy? Just because a guy would fuck anything, doesn't mean he should. I am sure that there are guys other than me who were disturbingly turned on by the heaving bosoms of the Sea Witch Ursula in The Little Mermaid, or wondered just exactly how one would bang Princess Ariel, she being a fish, and all [See: Oysters]
    And why do fags feel a need to act all girly? HELLO! We have plenty of girls! And you macho, buffed up fags are just scary and weird. Stop it.

    Katy Couric.
    Even when birds shit on her, people insist she's cute. I'd punch in her soft spot with a claw hammer, just to make her stop...whatever it is she does. Ditto Al Roker, by the way. They should have stapled his head shut. He looks like a garbage-bag full of Oprah's liposuction, and sounds like a cornpone, southern-fried Don Knotts. Yeesh.

    Oh yes, there's more, but I am off to my zombies.
    Little known Bane-Fact: it is always difficult for me to accept a blowjob during or after a zombie movie. If I feel teeth, someone's gettin a bullet in the head.

    Happy Saturday!




       

    What Do You Know About This?

    I just got this in email, and I have no idea of it's veracity:

    Subject: Brave Florida Student goes to Iraq.

    Brave Florida Student? Brave Florida Student? Really a Terrorist in Sheep's Clothing!

    Remember that kid, Farris Hassan, who, as a 16 year old, went to Iraq to allegedly find out for himself what conditions were like for Iraqis and to satisfy a requirement for this journalism class he was taking? Remember also how his parents were all distraught not knowing where he was? Remember how the media lionized him for being so brave?

    Would it surprise you to learn that NO NETWORK JOURNALIST took the initiative to do a little research? Further, would it surprise you to learn that his parents KNEW where he was because they helped him get his ticket? Would it surprise you to learn that his school has no such journalism class? Would it surprise you to learn that his parents sent a note to school saying he'd be gone during that period? Would it surprise you to learn his father was arrested for forging 2000 Iraqi passports and was probably attempting to forge 2000 more? Read all about it below, because you won't hear it on the network news.

    18 January 2006: Farris HASSAN, the 16-year-old Pine Crest student from Fort Lauderdale who left the comforts of his $4 million family home on December 11 for Iraq, claimed that he made the trip to put his lessons of his immersion journalism class into practice, and selected Iraq out of humanitarian concerns for the Iraqi people.

    His story quickly caught the attention of the media, who portrayed this young man as adventurous but naive, and his worried parents clueless to his intentions until they received an e-mail from him when he was in Kuwait.

    Upon his return home, he would certainly face the consequences from his concerned parents, despite his ostensibly altruistic intentions. With all of the reporters covering the story, however, it appears that no one did any research into the background of the Hassan family, or made any attempts to verify the young mans story. If they had, they might have been compelled to ask some very basic but extremely important questions.

    Even the most basic research found that Farris Hassan was NOT enrolled in any journalism class at Pine Crest, which should automatically cast doubt on the true nature of his journey. Lourdes Cowgill, president of the Pine Crest School, said that Hassan was never given an "immersion journalism" assignment and added that there is, in fact, no journalism class at the school.

    Also, the school confirmed that the boys father, Dr. Redha Hassan not only knew of his sons intended travels, but authorized his absence, which is inconsistent with his initial public statements. Further, investigation found a number of other inconsistencies in the public statements made by Dr. Redha Hassan.

    Although it was initially reported that neither parent knew of the young boys intended travels, it was ultimately revealed that Dr. Hassan actually assisted his son. He admitted that he arranged for his son's flight into Baghdad through his political connections, even though he knew the grave risks to foreigners wandering the streets of Baghdad.

    [According to a January 2, 2005 CNN news story, Hassan's father said that he had helped his son get a visa into Iraq from Beirut. The elder Hassan said he was leaving Iraq himself when the teen called, unable to get into the country from Kuwait. He told him to go to Lebanon and said he spoke with him almost daily].

    Perhaps most importantly, research and investigation into Dr. Redha Hassan found that he was arrested by the FBI in 1985 for forging 2000 Iraqi passports and military I.D. cards and seeking to forge 2,000 more. Dr. Hassan asked his next-door-neighbor and print store owner Joel Feinstein to make the passports and IDs.

    According to Feinstein, Dr. Hassan claimed the documents were for his family in Iraq. Feinstein reported the request to the FBI, and became an operational asset for the federal government, leading to Hassans arrest. Also arrested were two of Farris's uncles and a "pro-Khomeini" activist identified as Salah Jawad Shubber. Interestingly, Dr. Hassan, who also went by the name Redha K. Alsawaf, was also the President of the now defunct Florida non-profit organization World Orphanage & Refugee Relief Foundation at the time of his arrest.

    Authorities dropped the charges against Hassan, and Shubber ultimately pled guilty to conspiracy charges.Farris Hassan’s initial stop was Amsterdam, Netherlands, where he claims that he bought a ticket on KLM Airlines. From Amsterdam, Hassan headed to Kuwait City, where he alleges that he tried to cross the Kuwait-Iraq border twice by taxi, but was turned away due to Iraqi elections. At that point, it appears that Hassan sought assistance from his father, who told Farris to travel to Beirut and stay with family friends.

    Obligingly, Farris spent ten days in Beirut, and while there, met with a media relations officer of the terrorist group Hezbollah at their Central Press Office. This meeting was arranged through the assistance of his hosts the family's friends.

    Hezbollah is a Shiite Muslim organization based in Lebanon and tied to Iran. They have a significant presence in Iraq, and an army that is resolved to drive the Americans out of Iraq.

    Given the family history, the inconsistencies and the public contradictions, could it be that Hassan was going to Iraq to join Hezbollah to fight against the "American occupation?"

    Perhaps those are the questions that need to be asked.




       

    I Told You So...



    Iraq is just a beachhead.




    .





       

    More 'Conservatives'...



    ...eating their young.



    Fuck those pussies.




    .





       

    Hey, Black People!

    Cut it out!

    Do we need to come up there and take your guns away? Huh?

    Just cool your shit. You're scaring all the white pussies who will take all of our guns away if they get half a chance.

    Quit encouraging them.




       

    Oh! Oh! OH!



    Oh my goodness, a double feature on Sci-Fi tonight! Resident Evil at seven, followed by House of the Dead 2! Starring Emmanuelle Vaugier!



















    Need I say more?! Oh, I don't think so, but I will.

    Rush out right now...leave your baby there in the tub, they'll be fine, and rent House of the Dead, directed by maybe the greatest director since Sam Peckinpah, Ewe Boll, and watch it! Now!

    Then get likkered up and pop popcorn and get ready for tonights utterly wonderful double feature.

    Oddly, I hated 'From Dusk To Dawn', but I loved the sequel. Rent it, too. Note the 'bite cam'. Movies need more 'bite cams'. DTD2 was scary as shit. Well, it got silly near the end, but don't they all?

    I declare today National Horror Day. Try to do something to offset all this saccharine Valentine's bullshit that's going on.




    .





       

    Could You?












































    I not only could, I'd whack off to all the hot chicks passing by.




    .





       

    Wherein I Give Thanks...

    Some of you (glares meaningfully at the rest of you) have been very generous to me this month, and for that, I want to say a special thank you. You know who you all are.

    You have bought my wife and children Valentines presents, and sent me to see two movies next week, which I am dying to review, here.

    Things have been dry, tip jar-wise for a month or so. The holidays. I understand, but I was worried, a little, that I had lost it, and you were punishing me. Well, maybe I have, I dunno. But I gotta tell ya, getting an email from Paypal is the equivalent of hearing the furnace in the basement kick in, for me. Whump, and I get warm, and my fingers loosen up.

    Some liquor would be nice, pre-movie...hint hint!

    Anyway, ya'll know I'd write no matter what, but it is really nice to get sincere applause. It is one thing to hear clapping from out there in the dark, but quite another to have roses and panties thrown onto the stage.

    And to go back to the dressing room and find champagne?

    Priceless.

    Thanks again, people.




       

    I Hate Rules...

    ...but sometimes, you gotta have em.

    Let me restate the few simple rules I have on this blog, that the violation thereof can get you banned:

    Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord my God in vain. Ever.

    Only I get to use racist language, cuz you might be a real racist, and I hate racists. Of course, any capping on ragheads is fair game, as they are not human, merely humanoid.

    Do not pose as another commenter, or post under multiple names. I don't care what you call yourself (as long as it doesn't violate rule 1 or 2) and I look very askance at anonymous commenters. There is no reason but disrespect for that, as far as I am concerned.

    Any capping on my family will be treated with the utmost and immediate prejudice. I, of course, am fair game.

    Leave the Jews alone. They've taken enough shit, and I'm superstitious. Do not fuck with me on this.

    I think that's it. If any of the old timers care to jog my memory, feel free.

    I paid Haloscan to get a larger word allotment in my comments, so feel free to contribute, if it contributes. Please don't blather on, though. Go start your own blog, don't haunt mine. But if it's germaine, I want to hear it, and I have made the space for you to express yourself. Plus, I got tired of all the dildo ads.

    Now, back to your regularly scheduled programming...




        Friday, February 10, 2006

    Okay, Kiddies...

    Signing off, for now. Sci-Fi Channel beckons.

    You kids behave. Don't make me come up there!




       

    Hey, Rob!



    This link's for you!




    .





       

    Oh, If You Hate Satanic Islam...



    ...and all it's works, as much as I do, you have got to see this.



    If not, just go suck off Apu the Slurpee Guy at 7-11.




    .





       

    Ali, Part 2...

    I was ten years old when this went down, and I can still remember my grandfather's (a huge fan of boxing) rage.

    There was nothing racial about it, and none of us, including him, knew or gave a shit about the ridiculous 'Nation of Islam'. Crazy as Scientologists, but more violent (great way to get two fatwah's, Bane).

    I think I'm going to buy this book, and research it. I hope he has lots of footnotes.




       

    Hey, My Troopies!

    Read this, and tell me that America is not behind their service people.

    And it does me good to just know in my heart that this kind of thing is going on everywhere. If I see a man or woman in uniform (or obviously military) and I ain't broke, everything they eat or drink is free to them. I'll pay for their gas at the Qwik Mart. I'll take care of a military wife's grocery tab.

    You should, too, if you can. They're doing it all for you.


    Via Acidman.




       

    Pancakes For Dinner...

    ...because life is too short for all the dumb shit...

    I am a strict disciplinarian. I have rules, and I enforce them, violently, if necessary. Smite your sibling, and taste my wrath. Steal, and I'll break some of your shit. Ask me for a piece of cake for breakfast and...hey, why the heck not?

    We could all die, pan-fried in a nuclear flash, tomorrow, so why sweat the dumb shit today? You want waffles for dinner? Why not? I like steak for lunch, because I don't like to go to bed feeling like a Boa Constrictor full of pygmy.

    And screw all of that artificial 'breakfast lunch dinner' crap. The Hobbits, though they were pigs, had it right. Eat what you want, when you want. I don't feed the kids until they beg me for food. Why waste food, and when they ask for it, you know they're ready for it.
    That was so hard to train into the wife, because she was as tainted by the OCD Ritualism most other Americans are. Like Rain Man. "Toothpicks go with the syrup!" Gotta go to church on Sunday! (or Saturday, if yer some sort of freakish cultist). All of the little rules we are brainwashed into from birth, by noon whistles, and hallway bells, and the lines they make us stand in.

    Fuck that.

    It used to make them nuts at work when I took my lunch at 2pm. I don't get hungry at noon, and I don't want to mill around with all of the other sheep in 'lunch hour traffic', and sit with dozens of harried assholes in stinking drive-thrus. And it makes the day feel so much shorter, when they make me leave at 5pm with all of the other cattle, lowing and punching their time cards.

    My kids have put themselves on their own meal and snack schedule. We serve mostly a la carte, with one mandatory meal that contains a spectrum of meat(s) and vegetables. I use good chocolate and jelly beans for reward, and incentive, and because a fucking kid needs their damn candy, dammit. Just because.

    My kids nap themselves. I have taught them the value of the Siesta, and they embrace it. Around 3pm, they shut down kid operations, and either nap, or rest quietly, for an hour or so. I sometimes have to wake them up because I feel they've been out long enough.

    I'll keep them up til 10pm if I want, say, watching Survivor on DVR. Every other Thursday, the wife and I trade kids, and we watch it as a family, us cuddling our special kid for that evening. They make nests for us beforehand, on our separate couches.

    After pancakes, of course.




       

    Whaddaya Think...

    ...about this? Read it and let me know. Please don't go there and be an asshole. This is your Safe Room for that.

    He touts his experience with a certain (non-Arab) section of Muslimry, I tout mine. My experience has been more with Arabs, and I quite clearly and obviously hate them. One does not have to study division arthrogastra to understand that, while they might be capable and nurturing parents, sooner or later they are going to fucking sting your ass.

    So it has been with my many, many experiences with Arabs and Persians and Philipino Muslims and etcetera. I am not impressed by the psuedo-argument that 'they all just want a decent life for their children'. They blow up so soon, don't they?

    Except for a few feeble, staged, and token apological squeaks, Muslims have not stood up in any numbers and condemned 9/11, and militant Islam in general. On the contrary, they dance in the streets, throw candy, and threaten cartoonists with beheadings.

    I understand and sympathize with Dennis's hatred of the Pajamas Media honchos, but going this far into what appears to me to be self delusion and denial confounds me.

    Read it, and let me know what you think. And play nice, because (so far) I like him.



    PS: I have had to do all of my Blogspot reading and posting from Internet Explorer today, because my fancy browser won't let me connect with it. If you are having the same trouble, and you use Fuckfox or whatever, well, there you go.




       

    Oh Dear Lord...

    More proof of God.




















    And of course, there's more. This may be the most exquisite morsel I have ever presented.


    Update:

    Catch me, Lord Montremorte, I spend!