Thursday, August 31, 2006
Just Some Stuff...
Then, I would love to have this in my yard. She speaks to me...
And finally, I have always wanted to work in a vagina factory...
Your Comfort Zone...
I consider it both my job, and my very great pleasure, to find yours, and to take you out of it. Sometimes with just a gentle nudge, sometimes with a great big ole boot into your ass, punting you as far down the field as I can get you.
Here, hold this dead baby's head for me while I pour a glass of wine...
There, that's better. Now, give it back. I'm going to bury it in the middle of Nat's next birthday cake once it's gone all nice and rotten...
See? Completely gratuitous, yet so much fun
I like to imagine all of you out there, naked...brrrrr, okay, not naked...well, maybe you
, but the rest of you get your clothes back on, please. I haven't seen so much cottage cheese since I busted my last ass-boil.
No, I imagine you there, drooping in front of your computer. Maybe at home, the husband across the room. "Honey, what's that you're laughing/gagging/ groaning about over there? Here, move over and let me see...""Daddy! what's Mommy reading?"
Or better yet, at work...HERE! HAVE SOME TITS!! HAHAHAHAHA!!!
Tales of folks laughing out loud/going on crying jags/barfing into their waste baskets at work, just make me happy. I mean, 'my work here is through, I can die now' happy.
Let the record show that I do not plan to do this, and have in fact only fairly recently, through feedback from ya'll, come to realize that I do. Mess with your comfort zone, I mean. And I find, as I have been saying here, or trying to, anyway, that I really enjoy it.
I also find that it's really not the kind of thing you can (or at least that I can) force. Things pop into my head, roil around, and then I squirt the whole congealing burst of goo out onto the screen. As a person who writes, I think I see much the same activity in the works of writers like Stephen King, and Clive Barker. They just have this storehouse of horror in their heads, and they let things escape sometimes.
Brian Lumley, on the other hand, and still a fine, though pedantic writer, seems to me to be an organizer, a plotter, and not terribly creative, except in spurts. This is how most horror movies are, as well. Things made by committee, with all the creativity and spontaneity battered out of them by the time it hits the screen, and why low budget thrillers are so much fun, and tend to leave a lasting impression, because they tend to be creative and fresh, without too many cooks fiddling with the soup.
This is probably why I enjoyed the movie 'The Descent' (that I reviewed recently) so much. And that movie booted me so far out of my own comfort zone, that it took me days to find my way back, and when I did finally get back, everything looked...different. Changed. Damaged, a little.
Good job, 'The Descent'!
There are people I call The Sad People. People who not only can't be shocked out of their comfort zone, but it is likely they do not even have one. They have no center, so it is impossible to appeal to it. Liberals are like that, so as you can see, they walk among us, and we beside them, and they are also The Useless Ones. They will never create anything of worth, or make a lasting impression on their surroundings, they are just the bit players in a crowd scene in the movie of your life.
Learn to recognize them, and to avoid them whenever possible. Sensing your flame, they will be drawn to you, and like enough moths will eventually block out all of the light from a lamp, you, too, will go out.
If you let them.
I've seen it too many times: creative people consumed by the zombies around them, feasted upon until they have no more to give, mistaking mindless hunger for their own sense of self-worth, and finally, winking out. Or worse, rising to join the zombie horde, and going around consuming the talents of others. Writers Conventions, especially Sci-Fi Writers Conventions, are full of creatures like that. Avoid them, unless your own psyche is well-armed and sound.
Anyway, good luck, and have fun, and I shall endeavor to endeavor as well, and we shall all see what we shall see.
Nat is clamoring for me to come watch her dance, and John is at hospital with the wife, and it is a beautiful day.
Well, Ain't This...
I think I might just take me a drive up to Washington State and shoot me the shit out of some black SUV's full of assholes wearing red caps.
I guarantee you that if I lived there, or near there, I'd be driving around hunting right now.
I Had To Laugh And Laugh...
Puts me in mind of the old marching song, which contains the line: "...she couldn't swim and she couldn't float...so all that shit went down her throat..."
I'm pretty much guessing this was revenge for all of that 'Black Jesus' nonsense.
. And be sure to go here
This appears to be a real web site, and there are some of the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life in there. Golly.
If I was single, and had tons of money, I would make myself up a harem of some of these broads.
Hey, do I have any readers in women's prisons? Email me if yer a babe, and send pics. Maybe I'll come spring you. Well, I'll spring something, anyway.
Call To Prayer...
LL has a post up
requesting prayer for someone she knows, and I'd like to throw my praying readers into the breach as well.
I went and read about the guys issue and the trouble is I can
imagine what it would be like to be in his shoes.
It would be horrible.
Let us pray...
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
The Goddess Speaks!
Go, and worship
That we voted in Bush for anything more than dog-catcher (and he would doubtless fuck that up, as well) pains me to no end.
Okay, mea culpa, I admit it, I bought into the hype, the county fair hucksterism.
Like lambs to the slaughter, they are lining us up to have a good fuck at us, first. Now there is a disturbing, and mixed, and yet strangely apt metaphor.
And I absolutely hate
it that I am aligned with misguided, mental midget Liberaltardians, Liberals, and goofy conspiricist twats on this.
I want to go purge and vomit, like a leper just came down my throat.
I mean it.
I Just Thought I'd Share...
Heard on Stargate SG-1 tonight, as the team reconned through a fog-bound, decrepit village:"This place is deader'n a Texas salad bar..."
Wonderful line. Just wonderful.
I lost track of this seaon about three shows in, and never went back. Johnny was up at Portland for awhile, and I got so far behind that I gave up. I had the DVR set to tape them, and it screwed up somehow, and I just said fukkit.
Anyhow, which season is this? I was just looking on Amazon, and I see they have 1-4 out, so this must be 5, right?
I Think That I Should Like To Kiss...
...you right there on your pussy
just please don't fart from either hole
for I am quite the wussy.
I take my smooch
did you use lemon?
to go with that meringue?
must be yeast you used, from up inside
(now I wait for the harangue).
My face I pull
out of your soup
and wipe my yeasty chin,
then unlimber my great beaver bat
and quickly thrust it in.
I took a pill, you see, to make
it stiffer than a pole,
so hard a cat can't scratch it
barely fits inside your hole!
Oh a mighty fuck
we both shall have
I'll have you all awail and bawlin
until I spritz my spizzem
Yea, those ashes I've been haulin.
Here's a giant wad of kleenex
for your cooch
and for your snout
now pull the door shut darlin
on your wobbly way back out.
I've had my fun, you see
don't give me any crap.
It's time for you to hush the kids
cuz Daddy wants to nap.
Full Of Pancakes, I Seek Solace In Sleep...
Ugh. I haven't been able to, nor wanted to eat all day, but I went to make a sandwich for Nat, and the pancake batter the wife left out this morning looked kinda good. I made two, and that's likely it for the day. I feel like I swallowed a regulation soccer ball, and I hear my bed singing softly to me.
Of course, again with the sonafabitching hole, and mandatory deflation. I woke up this morning on a semi-inflated blister, feeling like I had fallen onto a giant, dead leper.
So, strip the bed, hyper-inflate the bed, search for the tiny hole, finally find the tiny hole, mark the tiny hole, deflate the bed, patch the tiny hole, and now I have to reverse the procedure as conciousness slips away from me. And threaten the kids with death, or worse, if they don't get their little butts in bed and at least rest quietly.
Just think, if I had a regular job, and it not being all that far away from 5pm right now, I would be sitting in a cubicle, staring at the clock, trying to resist the urge to rush into the next cube and snatch the little bitch's Cheryl Crow CD out of her player and snap it in half and cut her throat with the pieces because she has been playing it all fucking damn day and I hate the way her teeth squeak when she bites into her rice cakes and...
Well now, I don't feel quite so bad, now.Update:
Guess who's not getting any dessert tonight, and getting early beds?
Yep. Little bastards...
...you needed another reason
to persuade you that watching the news, any
news, is a waste of time.
Blatant, just blatant.
She fixed the code in my template so now you can link to individual posts of mine and they won't look like crap! Isn't that amazing and wonderful? So link me! Link me!
And thanks to my secret love yesterday for hitting my tip jar and buying me wine! I love you! Sorry I didn't email you back, I have been A) busy and B) feeling like crap. But thanks again, you are wonderful.
Funny, how when I started all this, I was adamantly against tip jars, and then I find Lileks, read Lileks, and he writes a post that is so beautiful it makes me cry, and I notice his tip jar and shoot him $10 and an email, out of pure gratitude.
I now think everybody who is proud of their blog and their writing should have tipjars and wish lists, now. Every one of them. It is nice to be able to show your appreciation in some substantial way, sometimes, with more than just a polite clap in the comments. Though those are nice, too,
but heck, Tony Pierce's readers bought him a dang car one time when he asked for one. Wow.
I'm guessing Blogads judged my blog and found it to not be up to their standards, because I haven't been offered an ad in months. Fine with me, I never made one thin dime from them, and they really crap up the look of the place. Though I do so enjoy the bloggy look ads give.
Another thing about Amazon Wish Lists, is that you can really tell a lot about a blogger (I think. Maybe...) by their choice of what they put in there. Just like my daughter's Wedding Registry. It was pretty easy to tell right up front that she didn't plan on doing a whole lot of cooking. I guess when you're beautiful, you can get away with sandwiches and Mac & Cheese.
On my wish list is everything that I've ever enjoyed, and want to enjoy again. Things I've never seen, and want to. Items I really need, or just want, or just plain admire for some reason.
You will note there is no country music. Or rap. Or power tools (yet).
I love rummaging around in other people's wish lists. I feel like I am forming a picture of them, and I tend to enjoy their writing even more.
Anyway, Happy Hump Day. I still feel like crap, and off-centered, so it is not likely that I will be Mister Prolific today. Who knows.
I never know when I'm gonna get a bug up my ass about something. Or the kids will do something profoundly weird. And I've got Brat Duty all afternoon.
All these war deaths, human ones I mean, not Iraqis, are taking their toll on me. Every time I hear of one, I am sick at heart, until my son calls, and I can breathe again.
Son, if you read this, can you just call up every time you hear about a military death and say "Wasn't me!"
Thanks. I'd really appreciate that.
PS: Thanks Cpl M for giving LL such good advice on fixing the template.Update:
LL is whining at me to give Cpl M ALL the credit, now for fixing my permalinks in the template, so, alrighty then...
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
For whatever that means to you.
Only Boring People Get Bored...
That has always been one of my personal written in stone philosophies. A reader commented on the last post that I must be bored.
I am not. I am listless, and yes, there's a difference. I have a lack of list. I am list free, unburdened with any list whatsoever.
I have every toy a boy could want, and there is always my dick. I have piles of unread books and comics. Magazines. Guns to fiddle with (See: toys).
It is a gray, cool, drizzly day, the whole world sucks, I could care less about little dead girls and Katrina, and I will doubtless never see a hurricane in my life, though I am still holding out hope to see Shepherd Smith sucked up into the blades of a helicopter by storm winds on live TV.
That would give me some list, right there.
I boinked the wife so good last night that she woke up late this morning in a puddle of drool, her nightgown on inside out and backwards, and she has been fawning and fussing on me all damn day, purring and cooing and getting between my feet as I go up the stairs, rubbing against my legs.
Sigh. My life is an empty, pathetic shell, an echoing museum of unrealized potential, festooned with cobwebs, where weak light tries to spear through fly-specked windows, but in the end, the shadows always win.
I'd shoot myself, but that would require more list then I possess, and besides, it would drive me nuts, there in the Afterlife, that no one would likely ever, ever, ever, clean that gun. I know, horrible thought, isn't it.
I think I'll go watch television, now. The Food Network soothes my soul, though I rarely eat, any more. That whole list thing, you know.
I'd like to put up a link on the sideboard, near the Paypal button, where people could buy and have sent to me ammunition. Does anyone know of such a thing? I am having that whole 'before Winter store up ammunition' thing going on. I am particularly low on 7.62x54R ammo for the Mosin-Nagant, which is really my only real 'reach out and touch someone' weapon. I would love to be able to have it refurbished and fitted with a good scope, but poor people can only dream. As it is, I'd shoot against you for money at 800 yards, open sight vs open sight.
But I'd like to be able to go out to 1,000, reliably.
My list revved up there a little, but then I opened my hands, and it flew away. Reminds me of a nonsense poem I wrote some years ago, that began with "I caught a Plethora, the other day...I opened my hands, and it swam away..."
Sigh. Who but I could combine list and worth in the same lacking package.
I'd Like To apologize...
...to everybody that I have ever offended...
Hey, wait, no I wouldn't. Fuck each and every one of you.
Having said that, there are a few people I have doubtless pissed off that I would rather have not. Like Bruce Bethke, who is a Catholic and, well, we all know how I am about that.
Oh well. Sigh.
I am trying to think if there are any nouns that I haven't attacked, insulted, pissed off, or pissed upon. I'm drawing a blank here.
My readers have come and gone. I have posted on this before, and maybe when you start repeating yourself, you should just quit. Or not. Some things bear repeating. I have spoken about the newbie who finds me, loves me, tells me so here and on their blog and in email, and then reads the heck out of my archives for awhile, praising me here and there, and then...silence. He or she runs across something that they just cannot abide, and they disappear. Drop away.
I love it when they come sputtering back to tell me how awful I am, but that rarely happens, because by the time they have worked themselves into that state, they have also come to the realization that this only encourages me and cheers me up, and they don't want to give me the satisfaction.
I pretty much don't flirt any more. Some broads were getting too damn serious, and I was just (mostly) playing, and Hell hath no fury etcetera, etcetera. You puny humans and your emotions. Geez. Just add hormones, and stir. Instant Loon.
No, I'm comfortable up here on the porch in my rocker, the shotgun loaded with rock salt, surveying my orchard, watching over my lawn. Spinning my yarns, reminiscing. Bitching and pissing and moaning about how the old days were better and everything today sucks, to anybody who cares to drop by and sit a spell and listen.
Don't like it? Hey, I think I hear your momma callin, better run along. And best not touch none of them apples on your way out, or I will salt your ass but good, now, git!
If'n yuh come back, bring me some damn wine. Now don't make me tell you twicet...
Ha Ha, California...
You get what you pay for
. You shit your bed, now just roll around in it. You guys went for the glamour, and ignored the obvious warning sign that being married to Maria Shriver meant.
By the way, I think the same thing of Mary Matalin being married to James Carville, and being part of the White House team.
You lie down with dogs, you get fleas.
If this law just passed in California isn't a direct Sign of the End, I've never seen one.
And I'll bet you any amount of money their next governor is going to be a Democrat Mexican.
This Kind Of News...
...is what makes Bane's day
. You just can't kill too many clowns. I was a little disappointed at first that it wasn't also an Irish clown, but I'll happily take a dead commie clown whenever I can get one.
I would like to throw a party for a bunch of Mexican kids, and hire clowns. Then tie the clowns up, give the kids all baseball bats, and tell them the clowns are full of candy.
Monday, August 28, 2006
On My Left Shoulder...
I had an itch this morning. I felt of it, through my shirt, with a probing finger, and detected a burgeoning bulge, just to the left of my neck, there in the shoulder meat.
This excites me. My skin is generally so flawless, that any blemish is greeted as an Honored Guest, something to be nurtured, and cooed over, and harvested carefully, fawned over, and examined. Toyed with, until such a time as it gets respectfully wrapped in a shroud of Kleenex, and given a respectful burial at sea.
Well, I assume that that is where my toilet deposits things, eventually.
So I hurry into the bathroom, my eyes still agummed from sleep, like an expectant father. I skin off my night-shirt, and under the glare of several vanity bulbs, in a triumverate mirror, I espy a lump there, aborning, crowning, if you will. It looks like the nose cone of some missile, just beginning to rise from its silo, to wend forth and alarm somebody.
I touch it, and I hear the tiniest of squeaks, as if it is made from some sort of Space-Age neopreneish plastic. My forenail is longish, so I tap on it a few times, and I hear this pok pok pok
sound, as if I am clacking on a ping-pong ball.
I grasp the nodule betwixt thumb and forefinger, and press gently, and then more firmly, and suddenly an oblong grayish sphere pops out, squirts from between my clumsy, sleep-numbed fingers, and drops down onto the hand towel one of the kids has left resting on the counter.
I barely have time to note that the weeping hole in my shoulder closes with some alacrity, as if it never was, and my fingers, still lightly oiled with the feel of it, pick up the, what is to all appearances, a small, smooth round egg, about the size and shape of a Jordan Almond, and place it wonderingly into the palm of my left hand.
As I stare at it, the surface of the thing begins to ripple, and then to split, and a tiny, grey, winged being begins to uncurl there, on my palm. It comes to a seated position, its teensy head still down, and gasping, its wings looking for all the world like wettish Romaine lettuce, as tiny muscles heave at and flap them weakly, trying to dry them, it would appear.
Its wee face turns up to me, and I look into wee tiny eyes, that are as red as burning blood, and seem to go on down into darkness forever, and it wants nothing more than to sit on my left shoulder, and to whisper into my ear, and to ride me like I am nothing more than its favorite ruminant.
Without another thought, I slap my palms together, making a paste of the vile thing. Twist them, and then turn the water to hot, and rinse and rinse and then rinse them some more.
For good measure, I pour down some hydrogen peroxide. Then scoop in some powdered lye I keep to remove blockages of the wife's mane from the tub hole. 'Red Devil Lye'. Seems appropriate, somehow.
Then, half a bottle of rubbing alcohol. Some of the wife's shampoo. That shit hurts when it gets in your eyes, trust me.
Surprisingly, I am exhausted, and want nothing more than to go back to bed. I use the hand towel to mop sweat from my face and chest and shoulders.
I run over a bump on my right shoulder, newly formed, and itching like the dickens.
I take the fingernail of the first finger of my left hand, and tap at it...pok pok pok
Hey, Steve H. Graham...
I like the cover
, son. A lot. I mean it. It really bangs. I would stop and look at it automatically, even if I wasn't already familiar with your work. Then I'd open it, and I'd be hooked. I would stand there reading it and chuckling for about ten minutes, then head over to the cashier and buy it.
Your publisher may have hit gold by accident, but they hit it straight on.
It really works for me. Looks good, dude, and good luck with that storm...
If I were sitting somewhere in a US warship anywhere near the Middle East or North Korea, and read this
, I believe my pucker factor would increase by a significant increment.
When the barbarians drag us down to their level, where we have not been training at, we fall apart. I do not believe that our military is ready for a brawl, and it looks like Iran has found several effective ways to exploit that weakness.
The IDF folding like a cheap suit came as a surprise to me. I, too, was convinced of their legend. Now? Not so much. I should have known that an army full of conscripts and women would not be all that, and a bag of chips, as the hype would have had us believe.
Oh well, whatever emboldens Iran is fine with me.
Bring on Armageddon!
moderately incenses me. I say 'moderately' because we do not depend upon ebay for our home-schooling needs. If the schools are crap, whyever would I want to get any books that teachers use in them? No thank you, we have all of the teaching materials we'll need for the next few years, and there are several sites out there that we can trade or sell our most excellent collection of books and materials and upgrade to the next level.
We do not accept all of this 'grades' nonsense, and by 'grades', I mean first grade, second grade crap. Slapping a kid into some artificial construct that they may or may not fit into is just stupid, and gives worthless teachers a way to keep track of themselves. It doesn't help the kids at all.
No, our kids stay at one level until they master it, then move on when they are ready. I was a very smart kid, and the teachers were always wanting to advance me, but I wasn't always emotionally prepared to be with bigger, older kids. Actually, it fucked me up pretty good for awhile, and my parents took me out of school for a year and taught me at home, while I decompressed.
Half the time our home school doesn't even look like school. After we say the Pledge in the morning, all bets are off. Math is measuring and making breakfast. Reading is stories and books. It gives me great pleasure to see a five year old sitting off in the corner of the couch, sounding out words, while her brother sits on his bed and reads.
And yeah, I'm really sorry they are missing out on all of that great socialization the schools provide, in the halls and stairwells and bathrooms, and out on the playground, and under the bleachers, and in the broom closet with their favorite new teacher...not.
Oh, and don't forget the wonderful school bus! Yeah, I want more middle-aged alcoholics who can't get any other job, making minimum wage to drive my precious kids around for me.
And it never fails to amuse me that people who otherwise rail against the government and welfare and handouts, turn right around and send their kids to government schools. Huh? Little disconnect, here!
Oh well, you people do what you want. I understand that there is a lot of quality daytime television programming you need to get to, that having the little nippers around would just interfere with. And hey, that boat and that plasma TV ain't gonna pay for themselves, you know. Yep, ya gotta work.
Face it, every one of you who work and has their kids in school, could quit and start your own business if you really wanted to. Light bookkeeping. Heck, ebay shit. The internet really is a new frontier, still. There are things not yet thought of. If you already using the internet for your business, why wouldn't you use an internet bookkeeping service. A little software, a short learning curve, and bammo, you got a business. Start local, think global.
Whatevah. We have given up a lot, to be able to do this for our kids. Is it worth it?
The answer for us, is a resounding yes.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
"Honey, Some Limp-Wristed Dick-Slapper Just Called..."
Now, is that any way to talk to your wife on her cell phone as she's driving away down the street with your two darling children, to go play sacred hymns for the oldsters in the old folks home, I ask you?
Well he was, dammit. I'da slapped him so hard his testicles would have finally dropped, had I met him in person. I know a child molester when I hear one. Too bad, too, all you gotta do to lower the wife's shields is to praise the Lord a few times, and there you go, you're in the club.
What is it with Christians, anyway? What a bunch of pussies most of you are. Oh no? Well, then why are you wearing a tie on Sunday? God doesn't give a shit.
And doesn't this little babe:
...just make you want to spray nut-phlegm everywhere?
That's Valeria Golino. Go ahead, Google her. Then beat off. I'll wait...
Isn't she fantastic? I have Hot Shots, Part Deux paused downstairs just so's I could come up and find out who she is. Man
, I hope Charlie Sheen fucked her. That boy has gravely disappointed me, every since he allowed Denise Richards to get away. I would have staple-gunned that bitch to the wall in my basement before I let that
Anyhow, where was I? Oh yeah. Christians are such pussies. Well y'are! Dammit. Ya'll have great casserole and Jello mold recipes, and how many of you can load a magazine one-handed in the dark? There's a lot of fossilized lion shit over in former outdoor venues in Italy that will testify to my correctness on this.
Sell your cloak, and buy a gun. Pussies. Famous last words to live by, from the Prince of Peace, His Own Self.
I don't go to church to worship my God for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is so I never have to shake the limp hand of some inverted vagina calling himself 'deacon' again.
Who knows where it's been...
Please, Pray For Steve...
He's a Godly man
, I admire him, and he is walking through the Valley of the Shadow.
Several of you have suffered losses, lately, and I'm sorry. Unlike God, I cannot be everywhere.
Whatever. If I lived in Florida, I would choose a tough funeral as an excuse to get me and my birds out of harms way. If I owned birds.
, and tell me you do not gain an insight into the mind of a serial killer.
I just watched the last ten minutes of it on Sci-Fi, and I wanted to kill everybody in it. And the people in the ads, after. And everybody in the closest day-care center.
God help any Jehovah's Witnesses or Girl Scouts who ring my bell today.
Fuck, that movie is awfulness squared.
Do rent it, though. And tell me if you wouldn't take a dull machete to every one of those idiots if you had the chance.
No? Oh you big fat liar...
Reason Number 612.B Slash 238A...
...subparagraph G12, indent indent CTRL+F2, F6, to never ever ever
...go into the ocean
For Your Breakfast...
For the record, I am not terribly fond of chocolate, but Nutella makes me spoot a little, in my pants.Update:
Okay, I do not use the word 'whimsical' often, generally considering it to be an insult, like saying a chick 'has a nice personality', but...This
is fucking whimsical. In the purest sense of the word.
I love it, and I wish this guy all the luck in the world.
I'd be out there hunting these fuckers like rats.
On the whole, at this point in time, I think I would have enjoyed watching Steve Centanni get beheaded, rather than endure his fellating of his captors.
Perhaps things will change, once he gets back to the states. I would like that.
Who knows, but the Hamassholes have surely landed themselves a huge propaganda victory, thanks to the empty-headed news-fucks who buy into their bullshit daily.
Rather than relief, I am merely nauseous, after watching this dog and pony show
Saturday, August 26, 2006
...you were clipping a toenail, and you watched the fertile crescent flip up, and ploop directly into your glass of wine?
Pop quiz...what do
Just for the record, it tastes like shit, even though I know it's all in my head.
Now, if I'da been busting a zit, and seen the frangible round ploop into my wine, well...
...hmmmm, gimme a minute.
Okay, do I have a strainer handy? Maybe a Kleenex to sop it up with...
I Don't Know Why...
has the balls to post his photo on his blog, and I don't really 'get' him, but dammit, he's a blogger. And he links me.
Enjoy my ringing endorsement!
On a completely unrelated note, Nat thinks that 'central time' is something invented by and exclusive to the Disney Channel.
The little Cargo Cultist.
Okay, This Is Just Stupid...
What color were these dumb motherfuckers
?Romon described his attackers as two men wearing black shirts and jeans...
Yeah, that's really helpful, dumbasses.
Why bother watching the 'news' at all, anymore?
My favorite part about this, is all the dumbass dog-lovers who take their dogs for a shit at rest stops, where they pick up these fleas, and spread them throughout the country as they travel.
This gives Bane joy, his Happy Place, if you will.
How come this sort of crap never happens to me? Dang.
I am gravely disappointed.
You Gotta See...
I think Hitchens is one commie liberal pinko fuck we shall allow to survive the purge.
before. She is extremely reminiscent of my last girlfriend before my last marriage.
She swore to me she was eighteen, but I'm not so sure.
And frankly, I did not then, nor do I now, give a damn. If you wouldn't fuck that, you're queer, is all I'm gonna say about that.
Gumdrops And Wine...
...for breakfast. We are still eating the Dots, my beautiful darling, and they go quite well with Burgundy and cartoons, I must say.
Johnny was scandalized, of course, and ate his cereal and tried to ignore Nat and I, though he did come and forage a couple of yellow ones, his favorite color, and slunk off to nosh them. I bring everybody around me over to the Dark Side, eventually.
The wine helps the Pokemon go down. Nat is terribly excited that Robin is coming to the Batman cartoon soon. I didn't have the heart to tell her that he is the only comic character I know of whose fans voted to have him killed. And the writers did it! Amazing.
What is it with fat hippy cunts and their pitbulls? Nobody with any self esteem wants to fuck them, and then they surround themselves with a dog whose head is about crotch height to an average man, and who you just know would love to lock his jaws onto your balls and tear them off, and then they whine because they can't get laid.
So I have the blocky head of this beast, sitting there on the front passenger seat of her hippy car, just above the sights of my Winchester .44. I've got a full-house 240 grain magnum load just a few ounces away from launch, and I calculate the angle and the drop...I have to shoot through my own window, and then the windshield of her car, and then through that big, blocky head of his. I suspect these bitches put socks over their dogs feet, and let them, nay, encourage
them to mount them.
Guilt free sex, and no chance of pregnancy. Though, having seen Andy Dick, I'm not completely certain about that.
I realize that I do not have to worry. His fat head is barely twenty-five yards away, and this bullet is like a freight train, so I squeeze the trigger and BLAM!
the bullet powders a hole through the corner of my window and stars her windshield and the dog slams back into the seat and then bounces forward and disappears under the dash, as his ichor spatters the inside of the car like an exploded tomato.
She, on the way back to her car, freezes in shock and horror, and I lever in a fresh round and put one in the back of her neck, through her dreadlocks. She snaps forward like she is diving for a touchdown, her cup of Starbuck's goes flying to decorate the lawn along with a spray of blood and neck-bone, and...
Hey, a boy can dream, can't he?Update:
This is my baby.
...and this is the one I wish
More, From The 'Stick A Fork In Us...
...Cuz We're Done
Gee, thanks Skillet, for making my day.
Friday, August 25, 2006
I tried installing 'Rise of Nations' tonight, and the pitiful fucks want a CD Key.
I put the CD in a special case I like, many moons ago, and now I have no idea where the steenking case with the key is. I'm frantically flipping through the manual, and all of the documentation I have, AND I CANNOT FUCKING FIND IT!!!
So, a game I paid over $60 for way back when, is useless to me.
Do any of you have a CD key you no longer use so I can install this pecker-fuck?
PS: Fuck all Microsoft products, even though their games are the most solid I have ever played.
If a decent competitor ever comes along, I am SO there.
Protecting Women And Little Girls From Rape...
, and yet still you stupid Libtard twats support it?
Oh well, gives me a chance to 'get some', too. Maybe Sharia ain't so bad...
...that my 244,666th
visitor would be from Seattle Washington. I bet I know who it is, too, and it truly is
I'm glad I started keeping track of my hits. What, I started doing that when, anybody remember? About a year ago, maybe a year and a half? Somebody mentioned in comments this morning a certain blog not getting very many hits, and I said I wouldn't know, because I don't keep track of that stuff, except for the time SteveH was whining about his being a teensy blog, so I went and checked his hits, and immediately dismissed his opinion on that particular subject as delusional whining. He does tend to ride some of his horses into the ground, but then again, don't we all? Hello, Vox?
No, I look at my sitemeter because I like to see where people are checking in from. Like I'm getting a lot from someplace in Dearborn Michigan, lately. Oh, sometimes I'll note a traffic increase, and it makes me nervous. I don't mind ten, or twenty, or even thirty people being on at one time, but when I see bunches more, I know that I pissed off some athiest, or some faggot, or some faggot athiest somewhere, and look out! Here comes the trolls!
So, hello, Plano Texas! Bartlesville Oklahoma! Tyler Texas. Estanolee Georgia. Michigan. New Jersey. New York. Los Angeles. Sacramento. Redding, and Red Bluff California. Those towns are so close together, I suspect that that is the same person, checking in from both home, and from work.
Florida. Lots from Florida. Chicago. Missouri. Canada, for some reason. I don't know if I have an enclave of Wingnuts up there, huddled in the snow, reading me like I'm Radio Free Asshole, or just a bunch of Libtards who love to hate me, and use me to gin themselves up into a good Libtard frenzy, trying to cut through the fog of dope that clouds their brains.
Funny, I never do that. I've never even been to Kos, or the DU. I don't have to step in a pile of dogshit to know that it is going to stink up the house if I track it in.
Well, Blogger has been acting wonky all day. I've been posting like a faggot taking a running fuck at a moving Glory Hole. Sometimes it goes through, but mostly you just bend your dick.
My work here is through, and Nat is down there terrorizing Johnny in some fashion, so I'll throw this against the pixels and see if it sticks.
Oh my goodness, she is having a 'Fashion Show'. Alas, poor Johnny, I suspect I shall have to be removing forcible hair clips from his thatch. Hope I don't find him in a dress...
Whoops! Blogger just cut out again. Well, just give me a running start here and...
Can we start killing them here, yet? Pretty please?
The Excruciating Parenting Continues...
I just had to watch a puppet show. Nat got behind the couch, and had a paper towel tube she had put one of her pom pom handles in for hair, and had colored a 'face' on, and in her other hand, some sort of wooden horse thingy, an antique that you squeeze two handles together, and make the horse jump.
She made me introduce her (via her toy megaphone, of course) as Nat The Puppet Girl! so I did, and Johnny clapped enthusiastically. And the show began.
It was horrid, of course, but of course, John and I clapped at the end, and she took her bows, and of course, had to launch immediately into an encore performance.
The wife straggled in around midnight last night, and back out at 8:30 this morning. Holy Rolling must be hard work. Maintaining all of that Sainthood she has requires commitment. Not to worry, though, I have it on good authority that she slit her clit with a fingernail whilst performing routine beaver maintenance. Well, that's her claim, but I bet she did it while whacking off.
Whatever, it's nice to not have to worry about her having an affair. I can make her wince and shriek simply by feigning a grab at her crotchal area, so that's positive. Men, if your woman is going off somewhere for awhile, just slit her clit, and you can relax.
Oh, she would be so
fucking mad if she read this. So don't tell her, okay? Jeepers, she'd either cry, or kick my ass, or both. Whenever I make her cry, I have to grovel for days, I feel so bad. You might find this difficult to believe, but I can be a real asshole sometimes. Mostly when I'm awake, though I have whacked her in my sleep, which is one of the several good reasons we maintain separate sleeping spaces.
All of Nat's stories contain the illness and eventual death of one or more of her characters. In one of her stories, if a character gets in the way of the narrative, and/or she gets bored with him or her or it, she kills them off. The pantheon of literature would be a lot shorter were she in charge of it.
See Dick run. Run Dick, run. See Dick get hit by a car. Die Dick, die. See Jane cry. Cry Jane, cry. See Jane get Leukemia. Waste away Jane, waste away.
Which begs the question, 'can you hate on them too much?'
I think not.
I Feel Kinda Sorry For...
...the flat chick on the end.
Cheerfully stolen from Greg Beck
, one of my daily reads.
I have generally sworn off posting nudes, but this woman is so frigging beautiful, her face was the first thing I noticed, believe it or not. I chickened out in my chick post below, down there somewhere, and substituted a link to another beautiful woman, because I was afraid to post this picture. I always regret it when I am not true to myself, so I finally post this goddess.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
After Action Report...
I could easily puke, right now. My neck muscles are sore, a bit, from tension and stress. Adrenalin stumbles around in my body, wondering what the fuck?... and what for. I care not to taste it myself, but I bet my ejaculate tastes like licking a 9 Volt battery about now.
The fur on my arms waves lazily, like tide-tossed kelp beds.
I kept the kids up late, Johnny rapt up in computer games, Nat watching Remo Williams to it's conclusion with me, on Encore, and then, at about 10:05, I commence to R. Lee Ermey'ing them to bed, because I've done had enough of this, and I am a tired SOB myself.
Nat is pantsless, having kicked them off in front of the washer, per command, and John is upstairs brushing his teeth, per command, with his new utensils and unguents from his visit to the dentist today.
I order Nat into the downstairs bathroom, to piss, and she heads in, and her scream coincides with an amazingly hydraulic spray of girl-piss into the bowl, and as I rush in, she, stammering like an autistic child, points up and over my shoulder, and I turn to see one of the face-suckers from Alien hanging on the wall up in the corner.
You might be thinking I exaggerate. You might be wrong.
This was some sort of mutant assault spider, whose joints at the top of its nasty legs rose at least three inches off the wall, and a body the size of a good-sized cocktail olive, with racing stripes to boot.
We froze there, Nat and I, and contemplated our doom. Who would be the first to die, and who would watch the hideous dismemberment?
I whispered to her to run upstairs and get my zapper. I refused to leave any child of mine alone in the room with such a beast, and I knew that if I went up there myself, A) I would come back down to a gray-haired daughter with no more control over her bladder functions, ever, and B) the motherfucker would get away, out into the house, and I would never sleep again.
Nat refused, of course. Her ass cheeks bonded to the toilet seat like Super Glue. You could hear
the sounds as her ass grew suckers, and locked on to the seat.
I gave her one more chance, and she was having none of it, so I grabbed her by the back of the neck hairs, and steered her out of the bathroom, all the while watching our nemesis for any signs of attack.
Once free of the Room of Death, she flew like the wind, upstairs to where the Sacred Implement of Bug Death is displayed, and thundered back down with it, and passed it to me, as so many Olympic Torch bearers have done so over the centuries.
And then she Jumped Back, Jack. Still, she couldn't help herself, and had to peer around and up at it. Which reminded me of peer pressure, so I told her to quick march upstairs and fetch Johnny, to come see while Daddy fried this motherfucker.
So they both thunder back down, and Johnny looks, and is suitably impressed...okay, freaked the fuck out, and I ask them if they're ready, and they are screaming encouragement, and I Ninja up and fry the livid shit out of that cocksucker, while the kids scream in horror, because it is poking its fucking legs through the grid and trying to get at me, but finally, Franklin's electricity overcomes it, and it just lays there against the wall, struggling weakly.
From Hell's Heart, it stabs at me...
So, I pump some more juice through it, and damn, if cooked spider doesn't stink.
I ask them if they want to see it, and horrified, of course they both say yes. Gently, as a caring parent, I flip the zapper over and let them see the conquered beast, and then, of course, I chase them around with its carcass for a bit.
It's late, though, and I am tired, so this pales, so I let them fight over who gets to flush it, and Johnny wins, by virtue of the fact that Nat would really really prefer to never see another spider again. Ever. Please.
Hey, me too.
Currently, they are socked in, under their covers, and not muscing a moovle.
Oh hey, don't judge me! What makes you think I told them its mate was angry, and on the hunt for the killer of her husband?
That would just be wrong.
...a Brit, is more American than most Americans. I love the guy.
Here is his review
of 'Godless', and it is apparent that he, too, worships the Goddess Ann.
Increase Your Penis Size!
Or at least your IQ.
, read everything. All the time.
Cures both Herpes, and stupidity. Try it.
Except for Liberals. Our greatest conceit is in thinking that there is any hope for them, at all.
Am I The Only One...
...who would love to stuff these little buggers
into his shorts?
Ben Wah monkeys...
I Don't Need A Reason...
...to hate Hillary Clinton, but bless her little black three-chambered heart, she comes through and provides me with another one
I Must Confess...
...that I hadn't given much thought to this
Shame on me. This is pretty serious.
...to the boy in me
If I were filthy rich, I'd buy six. It makes me happy just to look at it.
Oh, and it's only $1200.
Wherein I Am Beset With Fatherhood...
What a little nag she is. 'Me me me', it's all about her. Feed 'me', play with 'me', make 'me' a paper aeroplane, well let me tell you, Little Missy, it's not all about you. What about my needs? Such as my need to not be bothered every five minutes?
Apparently, her imaginary friends are being mean to her, whoever she is at this moment. Her personality has shifted several times already, this morning, since the wife hauled Johnny off to the dentist and left me with the Natterbox. Alone. Pity me.
I told her to go make some new, nicer imaginary friends, so she scampered off, but those friends turned on her, too, and one little boy even put pepper on a piece of imaginary candy and foisted it on her, and she is very angry about it. And hurt. She is swooping around, singing very emo songs about her woe, and flinging her pointy paper airplane around recklessly.
John is getting evaluated for oral surgery. It's always something. How we are gonna deal with a kid whose jaw is wired shut and who doesn't have much in the way of sinuses, and who sleeps with a CPAP machine's mask on his face could be...interesting. And when they do his feet next month or the month after, well...
Sucks to be him.
And one of the reasons I'm glad the wife is taking the next three days off to do her own thing. It's important to take breaks as you can. I, of course, never get breaks, but then again, you might say that my whole life is a break, so there's that. It was nice going to the movie the other day. Though I scurry about in the daylight like a cave dweller, a hermit of some sort, flushed from his dwelling and out into the open. I flee from structure to car to structure, and avoid people as much as possible.
I'm turning inward, like an ingrown toenail.
A reader donated us the money yesterday to take Johnny and Nat to Chuck E Cheese's for a fling, with the caveat that the money, indeed shall only be spent for that. I'm stoked. I love the place, especially on a Saturday when it's crowded with screaming kids. Music to my ears.
I told the wife that, and she looked at me like I was crazy, but it's true, I love the unrestrained exuberance of children having fun. I love to take the kids to a park, and watch all of the rugrats zipping around like hyperanimated Bumble Bees. McDonald's Playlands, where the parents all sit as far away from the ball pit, except for me, who is over there making Nattie scream by grabbing her feet as she clambers around, and cheering Johnny as he manages to get down the slide without any major injuries.
He's all boy, and throws himself into every endeavor with abandon, but his bravery writes checks that his body can't cash. So I watch him like a hawk, but I don't hover, cuz I don't want him turning into one of those fruity Poindexters you see that are usually created by overprotective mothers.
The wife watches over Nat, and I take Johnny, cuz he's a climber, and if he falls because his little mitts don't have much grip, I can catch him, like in the cartoons. Happens every so often, too.
The wife crocked up a huge mess of corned beef yesterday, on the theory that since she is going to be gone for a few days, we might need to have some food. Now, I truly love corned beef, but three days from now, maybe not so much, eh?
I joke with her, but it's not funny, about her cooking. About how she can't make a meal without making enough for an army. I'm convinced it is either some sort of mental illness, or that an ancestor of hers was serving up the loaves and fishes for Jesus way back when, while He preached, because whatever food she touches somehow multiplies to feed the multitudes.
I bet even back then, Jesus looked at what she'd whipped up, and said "Me, that's a lot of food!"
Well, Mark Steyn is sitting in for Rush this morning, so I'm gonna turn him back up and enjoy his wit and wisdom, while I surf the net and parent.
As little as possible...
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
...who caps on my darling Pamela
, from Atlas Shrugs
, is a hag...at least compared to her.
They know it, and it kills
And you guys who do? Look to your sexuality. I'm just sayin.
Even my blog is nothing, compared to hers. I entertain (I hope) and inform (sometimes) but the work Pamela does is vital, not some clusterfuck group blog, or panderer who seeks out their approval for...well, I can't exactly figure out why.
Damn, but she looks good in that video. Okay, I'll admit it, I hate hearing any Yankee talk, unless it is in that slow, Maine-ish drawl. New York Jewesses? Fuggidaboutit, but...
I challenge you to refute one point she made in that Vlog. It seems she has come over to the side that sees Bush as I do...as a useful tool of the Anti-Christ.
And what a hottie. I just wanted to jump in there with her.
Pamela, you sit at Ann Coulter's right hand, and it is my very great pleasure to honor you, to enjoy your work and, yes, to lust after you.
I ain't afraid of no Pajamas Media
I just bookmarked that site into my daily reads. Good stuff. Shitty self-advertising, though. I didn't even know the site existed, because I don't follow most big fat ads from blogs, unless there are big fat tits on them, or kewl geek-gear, and I mean with PICS!
Anyway, I found it, and just spent thirty minutes or so reading some pretty eye opening writing. Only place on the web I have run across the Steve Centani video.
So piss off, wannabe's.
A Nice Series Of...
I will use these to put me in certain moods for certain types of writing, along with certain types of music.
The Things You Can Do...
...when you've got too much time on your hands
I want one...
...sometimes you just need some tits.
And well, hey! Here they are
Believe it or not, the first thing I noticed was the face
What a beauty.Update:Spankalicious
? If you can get off to this, well, you're a better man than me. Or at the very least, a hornier one. I do so love the Techno, though.
I just know I'm gonna get cussed over this one...go ahead, I deserve it.
I knew Richard Armitage
was a complete and utter dick the first time I laid eyes on him, and I find his newly revealed McCain connection to be as troubling as it is revealing.
Birds of a feather, and all that...
I don't even think that monster would even fit on my motherboard, and it costs nearly as much as I (well, ya'll) paid for my whole computer. Just wow.
Speaking of 'wow', I bought Homeworld: Cataclysm back in 2000, and my then top of the line computer could barely play it, unless I turned most of the graphics and sound setting way down. Game makers do that a lot, I've noticed, build a game for some system in the future. A lot of good games have died that way, because the kids who buy games like that can't afford the system requirements to play them.
Amazon is still selling Homeworld: Cataclysm for over thirty bucks. Pretty impressive, when newer games are already hitting the bargain bin. Anyway, I put the game in and installed it, and was able to jack up all of the settings to high, and my goodness, you should see it. It is a 3D space game, and I get vertigo a little looking into the screen. It is so beautiful, it brings a tear, and the frigging manual is, lemme look, damn! a 135 page book
. The Quick Reference guide alone is an 8x10 four page card.
If you're a gamer, and you don't have this game, your library is not complete.
Just a housekeeping note: I've done some banning here, and that always tends to take people out I didn't mean to, so email me with your IP, if your name isn't Morgan, and I'll try to fix it.Update:
Does anybody know of a good (free) utility that interfaces with Mozilla Thunderbird and gives it a calendar function like outlook has, and maybe a better contacts manager, too? I miss my Outlook terribly. I set reminders for everything. But this new system hates all my old stuff, so I've gone completely Mozilla, now, and so far, no glitches at all.
Also, does anyone know if you can install Spamfighter into Thunderbird?
Boy, Does This Make Me...
The bitch is dead
Well (and sadly) not really, but this is great news for those of us who have followed this Troll-Queens antics at Protein Wisdom
I suppose it is too much to hope for that the vile bitch get jail time, but let this be a lesson to trolls everywhere. You can be found. You can be prosecuted.
I Normally Don't Do This, But...
...the wife's name has been taken in vain, and I see, here and there, what could be subtle insults directed at me for 'staying at home blogging while the wife works', so here goes...
First off, this bugs me to do this, because I don't care what anybody thinks about anything. If you disagree with me, you're wrong, it's that simple. Like an attorney, I very rarely ask a question that I don't already know the answer to. And I already know that if I write something about rabid bats being bad, someone will come along and comment how they had a rabid bat and they got along just fine and they never had any problems blah blah blah.
Fine, that kind of crap goes with the territory. It's about five to one. Five commenters will come on and tell you how right you are, and that you write brilliantly, and one will call you a worthless, stupid schmuck. They are the one that has to be in every crowd, or the universe will blow up, or something.
Let's clear the air, though: even if we were independently wealthy, the wife would still take these little jobs she does. She is helping out friends of hers who have needs, and have turned to her to fill them. Almost all of them involve taking care of helpless old sick people in some way or another, who have the wherewithal to pay her pretty darn well for her troubles.
Or she cleans apartments and houses for a friend of ours who owns properties, and pays her obscenely well for doing a Type A bang up cleaning job, because that is the only way she knows how to do things. He doesn't even check her work anymore, just cuts her loose.
She uses the money to go to retreats and such, and will be gone to one this week for three days, using the money she made to relax and eat what she wants and to pay for lodging and gas.
Otherwise, we live on me and John's disability money, and the occasional largesse of my generous readers.
So if you have some image in your head of us living in a tarpaper shack with filthy barefoot children, you might want to rethink. Or not. Again, I don't care, but the wife does all of this on her own. We keep copies of each others schedules, so no conflicts arise, and she does her thing at her will, with the understanding that I have become a semi-retired stay at home Dad.
It works for us. Well.
When the devil goes water-skiing, and the waves rise, there is always, always some sort of miracle that comes along. Always. We have faith, we practice our faith, we live by our faith, and if that bugs some people, well, tough tittie.
God has chosen to keep me right where I am, and whenever I try to take the reins, the wagon goes off the road in such a significant way as to show us that He doesn't want me fiddling around.
So I wait. Something's coming, or not. I'd be interested to know if those who have blessed me and my family have been blessed in any significant way, too. I am hoping and praying for N5, that God would smile on him and show him something cool.
God shows me something cool nearly every single day. Today, I am hoping for hummingbirds.
In closing, to those of you whining about 'how I've changed', isn't that the point of life? I merely chronicle it, here, I do not resist it.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
I Don't Know Why, Really...
just makes me kinda sad.
RIP, Mighty Tomcat.
The Bird Whisperer...
...something has come up...FOX NEWS ALERT!
Taking your kid to a shrink makes about as much sense as taking your parakeet to one.
Hey, trust me, I have hired these people, had them working for me. Psychiatrists, psychologists, LCSW's....ugh, those are the worst. Fucking pod people.
One semester, and I challenge a few exams, and I R one, educationally. An LCSW, I mean. Gimme a year, and I R a psychologist. Three more, and I'm a psychiatrist.
Of the bunch, I generally found the psychologists to be the most amenable and well-adjusted. And that's not saying much.
Folks, these are the people who put child rapists next door to you. On purpose. I've seen it time and time again. You cannot, as a man, graduate from any program that I know of without at some point, physically holding another man's penis in your hand. And no, not to check him for tumors. That is a fact, and do not make me say liar liar pants on fire at you, because I know better, even if you do not.
So why would you subject your own child to one? You bitch about the schools drugging our boys, and then you say 'hey, little Johnny is having night terrors and wetting the bed, here, fix him'.
Yeah, right. Talk about your neverending story. Excuse me, but you pay me serious money each and every time you come into this office, and you want me to tell you you're just fine, and oh please stop giving me money?
But of course, you are the one person in the world who means well, and for whom everything will work out just fine...
Hello! Life is stressful! Divorce is fucked up, and leaves lifelong scars! The death of a loved one is bad! A shrink can no more help you with that than a Spiritualist can!
Want self esteem? Go buy some nice tits, or some liposuction! Wanna quit pissin the bed? Quit drinking liquids after 6pm!
I would no more go to a shrink, than I would go to a priest. Both are shaman of another color, and about as effective as spraying room deodorant into an attacking wolf's furry face.
Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so, little ones to him belong, they are weak, but He is strong. And He gave them family, and families do what families do, and God willing, they do it right, even though it's scary sometimes.
And no fair subcontracting.
You do not get what you pay for.
PS: It's worse when it's free...
Far Too Kind?
I don't see it. A reader comments:...Since your dear readers have paid for your puter/soul you've become far too kind...
Really? Was my 'Hot Zombie Sex' post 'too kind'?
I am always
gentlemanly in my comments to new people, dissenters, and assholes...well, for awhile. Most of the time.
Sure, sometimes something triggers me, and I get nasty.
But 'too kind'? Moi? I confess to having been pretty damn mellow over the successful conclusion to what had otherwise looked like my certain doom, but, 'too kind'? What's a blogger got to do to get his cred back, geek a bat and put it on YouTube?
I must confess to some mellowment, on my part, like fine urine left in the bowl for a while. I'm less acidic, I think, but I still hate the things I've always hated. I just realize that there are also things, and sometimes even people, to like. A lot.
People like Nesselrode 5, who contributed even though he's currently jobless. Man, that is dedication, and faith, all wrapped up in one pretty damned warm-hearted package, right there. I hope he posts a comment again, and somebody in his area (and I have no idea where that is) emails him with a job offer, or of some opening for work where he is. He's cast his bread out onto the water, now let some other good soul pay it forward for him.
Yeah, I've been a sap, lately. I sometimes find myself sitting around with a big, dumb grin on my face, wondering at my good fortune. Then Johnny stumps in on his crippled feet, wraps his mangled hands around my neck on spindly arms, and I know damn well I am the most blessed man in the universe.
Poor Luck With Pets...
Over the years, my family and I have owned many pets. They all seem to come to no good end, eventually.
When I was small, 8 or 9, and my sister was smaller, four years younger, we came home from church one Saturday and were sentenced to naps. We'd been at church all morning, and too much of the afternoon, and thence to the inevitable potluck, and we were doubtless showing wear.
My sister tottered over to her little bed, leaned on her crutches, and tossed the covers back, and began to scream that high, shrill little girl scream. I came running, and there on the bed, was a huge black scorpion, that would have hung over the sides of a paper plate. It had evidently crawled under there while we were gone, and was still laying out flat, doubtless hoping no one had noticed him yet.
Well, my sister's fuzzy little terrier wash-mitt of a dog came flying in to see what all the commotion was about, and spying the scorpion, it lunged at it and that scorpion sprang into action and stung that dog right on the end of its nose and the dog dropped over, deader'n a nit.
My Dad whomped on the scorpion with a broom until it broke into bits, and then we went and had us a funeral out behind the tree. I figure we lived in an area with toxic red volcanic dirt, and our arachnidae grew large, and terrible poisonous. Better the dog, than my sister, as it would have likely laid her out, too, she being small.
That is the tale of one of many ex pets. I had a little dog when we lived in Glendale, and it darted out into the street and got flattened. We'd had it for only a couple of days, as I recall. Oh, how I cried. Dad pressed its eyeballs back in as best he could, for the viewing, but it still looked like a dead carp.
We had a Doberman bitch for a long time, but one day, she ran off, and animal control executed her on that same day, rather than wait the requisite week. They did not care for dogs that scared them, even though she was well-trained, and would not have hurt a fly, unless it was breaking into our house.
My Dad's last Boston got run over by, well, by him. It went to get out of the rain under Dad's rented Ryder truck, and Ryder took yet another victim. Mom and Dad were some tore up over that, it being a replacement for a previous and much beloved squashed Boston. They replaced it with their current Boston, an animal afflicted with mental illness, of whom my kids are rightly terrified, as he scratches and nips them at every opportunity.
They cage him should we ever come over for an occasion, and he growls and whimpers for child-meat the entire time we are there, from far off in the back bedroom. My Dad, being the youngest of five children, keeps insisting on trying to make everybody get along. It's a syndrome, you know.
I inform him cheerily that fine, he can bring the dog out, but I know two facts: One, it will bite one of my kids and two, I will stomp it to a messy death in front of he and Mom. So the dog stays back in the bedroom. Mostly, we meet over here, because his (the dogs) racket vexes and annoys me to the point where I go off and stomp him a little until he shuts up, and I do not hold with cruelty to most animals, even if they are mentally wack in the head.
My Easter chick got burned to death when I was five or so, from the light bulb in its box. Hey, I thought it looked cold, there, so I moved it closer to it. We woke later to the smell of chicken cooking. Yum!
Someone else's Doberman leapt the fence of my yard one time and set to work happily killing all of my Guinea Pigs that I had let out to exercise. Slaughtered them right in front of me.
I go into a pet store now, and the creatures all whisper to each other, and shuffle to the backs of their cages. Cover themselves with wood chips. Play dead. Scream frantically should I pick one, and fight the pet shop person tooth and nail to stay in the cage.
I had finches once. I love finches. They make me happy to look at them. The male pecked the females to death one night. I reached in and grabbed him and squished him.
I loved my Siamese. Pretty much to death. Ash in his food, apparently, painful death from bladder blockage.
Loved my Russian Blue. Car.
Hmmmm, Anole lizards...death by dominant male, again. Again with the squishing.
Came home to find the rat had eaten the hamster. Colonel Mustard, on the stump, in the cage, with a shotgun.
Oh, there's more, but I tire. And the list of starvings and crushings and droppings and drownings and such is too tedious to continue to relate, here.
Ladyfish still survives, though. I think because I let the wife, and the wife alone feed and clean the Beta. I talk to her (the fish) and make goo-goo noises, and she wags happily, like a dog, but no further intercourse is allowed, or her death would cause her to join the pantheon of dead Betas that stretch out behind her...just in this house alone.
She does not know how lucky she is...
Reason number infinity
to never go into the ocean again.
As if I needed another one...
Why I Hate Beaners...
."Many illegal aliens have a rape and pillage mentality toward America," he said. "The government has shown them they can break our laws on many levels without much fear of enforcement. Why should they think of rape or gang rape any differently?"
Gheen said, "Illegal aliens are more likely to engage in these crimes because rapes and gang rapes are much more common in the gang-rule Third World areas they come from."
Gheen said, "These gangs are forcing new female gang members to undergo gang rape to enter the gang and they are asking their male initiates to gang rape American women to become an official member of the gang."
MS-13 relies on metropolitan areas with highly concentrated populations of illegal aliens to boost its spreading membership. Chapters require that initiates perform random acts of violence, such as participating in gang rapes, to gain acceptance, confirm law-enforcement officials.
Three MS-13 gang members were charged in the brutal rapes of two deaf girls, one 14, the other 17, in a Massachusetts park in 2002. One victim, who also suffered from cerebral palsy, was pushed out of her wheelchair before being raped repeatedly.
Illegal alien rapists often maintain several aliases, making escaping justice easier.
Jorge Villa-Gutierrez, 25, is in prison for the gang rape of an 18-year-old Douglas County, Colorado woman. He claimed to have paid only $100 for a fake ID and Social Security number.
Mark my words, there will come a time when Americans will be gunning these animals down like the dogs they are.
When Writing Is Not Writing...
Apparently, when you do it on a blog.
Never mind that more people read a good sized blogger (and I am not claiming this one is) than will likely read any new author's book on anything, unless said new writer brings celebrity from some other field with them to their new book.
I don't dwell too much on this, but my pompous troll seems to have an obsession, so the subject is here on the table, so we may as well discuss it. For more, you are welcome to dive into my comments sections from yesterday, where she is swinging her big windy butt around in some sort of reverse negative effort to insult me while appearing to be 'looking out for me'.
It's one of the many semantic tricks they use. You know, 'Them'...
Anyway, I personally read more writing from the pages of blogs than from any books, lately. I just posted a lovely piece by Mark Steyn below. He's a writer, by the way, one of the best, and one of the very few political writers I can stomach.
Fred Reed is a writer, too. He has a book or two, or so I hear. I've never seen them, and wouldn't buy them if I did. I'll just enjoy Fred on my screen, thank you. He has a tip jar, too. As does Lileks, who publishes several columns a week. There's more, but people will still have their prejudices, and clasp them to their bosoms most fierce, lest you try to take them away.
Coulter's books, I buy. They are works of art and genius, and they have her picture on the cover. Her books are of substance, perfectly written, and worth owning, so one can underline, and dog-ear, and put post-it notes in relevant sections.
Letting people tell you what you are, or are not, simply means you yourself do not know who and what you are. Any misunderstanding of you on their part is their problem, not yours, unless you choose to let them make you make it your problem. And why ever one would do that, I cannot imagine.
So, read, or not. Come, or go, stay, or leave, just don't clap, throw money. Those dollars I apparently don't make add up, folks, and make us both happy.
The other day, at the Farmer's Market a fourteen or fifteen year old boy was seated on a bus bench, under the awning, playing the most beautiful classical guitar I have ever heard. He played effortlessly, his eyes closed, as he emitted music in winding silver sprays, up to Heaven. His guitar case was open, in front of him and, enraptured, I tossed some bills inside his case. He nodded his thanks, and played on.
Did I cheapen him? Did I cheapen myself? Why wasn't he doing that playing for American Idol or whomever? Why wasn't he off courting an agent and trying to get gigs?
I don't intend to capture and cage any hummingbirds I draw into my yard, either.
I will just watch them, and enjoy them, and marvel at them, and feed them to keep them coming back for more.
I expect Morgan would net them, suspend them in Lucite, and sell them to gift shops to feed her family.
To each their own, I guess.
More ranty goodness
, and darn funny, too.Update:
Via one of my readers and fellow bloggers, a disturbing Iranian children's video
Beset By Trolls...
Between Morgan, and my other troll who passed through here last night, I'm gonna have to put up an air freshener in here.
I leave Morgan's words up because A) they don't offend me and B) you
really need to see how a Liberal will attempt to suck the marrow from your bones, with a smile on their face, and your best interests at heart.
My other troll showed promise, and was a refreshing change from all of the adulation, but then she/he/it couldn't help itself and began to engage in sock-puppetry, and I cannot abide that behavior.
Oh well. Their IP comes from Mexico, but who knows, in this day and age. Even if it bypasses my ban, I shall just delete it every time it pokes its head out of the dirt.
The sky is a flowing slate gray, this morning, and the already beautiful day will likely not rise above seventy three degrees. I eagerly await the arrival of hummingbirds.
A lovely day, and sure as you're born, some nimrod out there is planning the best way to mess it up for me.
The cup is half full...
Monday, August 21, 2006
Why No Woman...
...should be a judge
Ya'll just don't think right, sometimes.
Oh, and no Democrats, either. Ever.
Oh, okay, a woman can become a judge if she first becomes a lawyer, and then works two years as a guard in a prison, Federal, if she's gonna become a Federal judge. One year in a female prison, and one in a male prison. As a tier guard.
Then, we'll think about it.
Calling All Hummingbird Experts!
I, well, ya'll
bought the kids a hummingbird feeder the other day. I figgered it would be a cool thing to hang in the tree out back, for the kids to watch. Heck, I like the little bastards, too.
Anyway, I bought a box of feed mix, cuz it was under two bucks, and they wanted like nine bucks for a jug of that pre-made red sauce. The wife mixed it up, and she swears she did it right, but we haven't seen a friggin hummer, yet, and the kids are doubting that they even exist.
Now, the mix is clear(ish), have hummingbirds been programmed to only see red feeders, like welfare recipients have been programmed? I suppose I could add some red food coloring.
This peeves me.
Is Tomorrow Doomsday?
Fuck, I hope so
We could use a little Doomsday around here. Spruce the place up.
George Bush's hand holding, cheek smooching buddies.
Okay, I Just Did...
, and it is fucking weird, I must admit.
How We Write...
I just read this
, and found it to be interesting.
Way back in the day, when I first decided that I was a writer, I listened to a lot of bad, and/or misguided advice from professional writers on how to write, how they wrote, and it fucked me up for a while, until I figured out that fukkit, just do your own thing. Whatever works for you.
As an example of 'whatever works', let me share this example from my own life.
I was fresh out of the military, in my early thirties, and attending a junior college to finish my freshman requirements before attending university on the GI Bill.
One of the classes I took to pad my credits was a film class, and I figured I'd ace it easy, because I had already seen every film on the syllabus, so how hard can it be, right? They were films as diverse as Terminator and Nosferatu, so I did what I usually do in such situations, I procrastinated til the last minute, because I am the Greatest Procrastinator in the World.
Literally, the last minute. Well, the last day I could still turn in my reviews and still get full credit, anyway.
Now, they had just started putting word processors in the library in those days (mid 80's) and I had been fiddling around with them, had in fact finagled my parents into buying me one of the first Brother's (sound familiar?) so I scurried to the library first thing and logged in and commenced to write.
I forget the word requirement per paper, but it worked out to about two and a half pages, double spaced, and I churned out an average of three to four pages per film that day.
For about twenty films.
The library ebbed and flowed with patrons, and was bustling and busy all day. I was there until about five in the pee em, but it was about mid-morning when the staff figured out what I was up to. I had written and printed out and stapled a few reviews by then, and rushed them over to my professor's inbox and dropped them in, and the staff began to notice this. There was no reason for them to not read them, and I noticed them reading them and passing them around. And snickering. Sometimes laughing out loud. Nodding. Shivering. Calling someone else's attention to this or that.
I knew I was writing good stuff, so I didn't get paranoid, but I must admit that I was surprised when I got the papers back, and no grade was lower than an A, and many of those A's had more than one plus sign after it.
To say I was absurdly pleased would be an understatement. He had also filled the margins with comments, and praise, and had circled many paragraphs and such; this impressed me, because he was somewhat of a local celebrity, who wrote reviews for newspapers, and had a show on the local TV news where he also did Ebert style reviews.
I didn't know it, but he was also a member of the gym I went to, and I ran into him in the steam room a few weeks later. He seemed distant. Uncomfortable. Hostile.
He never offered, and I never asked for any assistance. I write this, because if you hope to make it, other than in the blogosphere, your peers will not only not help you, they might actively seek to sabotage you. An agent who can make money off of your talent might consider you, but if your talent threatens his other income streams (his or hers other writers in their stable) they not only will be of no use to you, they might actually have a negative effect on your budding career.
And I have no idea how to surmount this obstacle. Where to start, who to go to.
I have a body of work, here, that I think speaks for itself, so take your 'writing samples' request and shove it up your ass. If someone has the balls to pay me on spec, and wants to tell me what they want, I can provide.
Now, back to the mechanics of writing, the where, and the how; I must say that I have uncanny powers of concentration which you may or may not possess. For instance, I have stopped twice, while writing this, quite literally in mid-word, to go off and parent, or piss.
I come back, and press play, and my fingers fly, again. I can have any kind of music on, or none. I do find that certain kinds of music affect my writing in certain ways, and I plan my play list according to what I wish to work on. The Punisher movie soundtrack sits on top of my new Bach CD. Sadly, I lost all of my Rammstein during the crash, and I have no idea where to go to download more.
And no, I'm not gonna buy music.
I could set up a laptop in the play area at a McDonalds during lunch time, and write my best work. It is not dependent upon time of day, or night. You must understand, that the words are always there, hanging like berries for you to pick, and mash in gaudy splashes onto the paper. Or the screen.
I am equally facile with pen, pencil, or PC. I tend to resort to the pad and the pencil to work out difficult scores, because that is what we do, you know. We write music. Every word has a tone, every paragraph a minuet, every page a symphony.
And you are the conductor.
Take up the baton, and make them do what you want, and if a dog barks, instead of being distracted, write them into the tale. Bippityboppityboo, make them a horse, or a footman, and make sure that it all doesn't revert at midnight.
Put it down, record it, and don't pick at it too much later.
It'll get infected...
Not Safe For Work!
A Math Puzzle For LL...
The names of 100 prisoners are placed in 100 wooden boxes, one name to a box, and the boxes are lined up on a table in a room. One by one, the prisoners are led into the room. They may look into up to 50 of the boxes to try to find their own name, but must leave the room exactly as it was.
The prisoners are permitted no further communication after leaving the room. They do have a chance to plot a strategy in advance. Good thing. Unless they all find their own names, they will all be executed.
Nat Is A Ninja Mushroom Today...
She has the hat. She is wearing the wife's wide-brimmed straw gardening hat, and it is her mushroom cap. Her name is 'Mushy'. Mushroom Ninjas apparently stalk around the house and pounce on fuzzy things and eat them. Everywhere I go, the mushroom stalks me.
Yes, the wife is at work. I think she looks at it as a break. She plays her music CD's, and cleans, and comes home tired, yet curiously rested. And no, she's not getting laid there. I'm pretty sure, anyway.
No, she has no boundaries with the kids, and lets them devour her emotionally. Me, I keep them at arms length, and run them off when I get tired of them. Here's your choice, play quietly by yourself, or go to bed. They wouldn't dream of coming into my room without permission, let alone get into bed with me because they 'had a bad dream'. I got your bad dream right here, baby.
So, I send the wife away alone, a lot, so she can have some her time, and recharge. It can be as simple as going to the store alone, or out to a tea shop with a girlfriend, or she can go off into the woods or to a religious retreat for a few days.
I 'neglect' the kids a lot. By which I mean, I stay out of their faces, and let them be kids. I don't understand parents who smother their kids with attention, and turn them into little companion animals, and never give them the time to be alone with themselves, and figure out who they are.
I present them with options: toys, books, movies, controlled TV, computer games, and I let them fend for themselves. They will occasionally drop by, knock on the door, and give me a hug. Update me on what they are doing. Ask me for food. I don't feed them, in general, unless they ask for it. I'm against wasting food, and sometimes, if they are in a growth spurt, they'll eat all day, and sometimes they just aren't interested at all.
I keep cottage cheese, and mozzarella sticks, and trail mix, and graham crackers and such in the house, and I'll put a plate out on the table, and they can forage. Lots of dried fruit.
If you think parenting is hard, you're doing it wrong. By the time they become a teenager, they should already know all of your boundaries, have complete respect for you, and believe you when you say something because you always follow through, and that sometimes, you get a little bit...crazy.
Repeated hitting with a certain toy should result in said toy being consumed in a merry fire, while you dance around it whooping like a wild indian. Kids tend to remember stuff like that.
Short of mental illness on the part of the child, I hear parents tell me that their kids 'changed' when they became teenagers, just tells me that the kid finally noticed how fucked up their parents are.
This evening, Johnny and I will watch football together. We will cuddle on the couch, and Nat may join us. This'll give the wife her time to go to her room and play her piano, or read, or whatever.
Or, she may join us for a while. She may clean, but the point is, it's her time to do with what she will.
I am going to watch football anyway, and it is a perfect opportunity for me to give time to the kids without putting myself out. And I kinda enjoy it.
We have deliberately set up the kids to fail, in order to teach them not to. I noted a while ago that the wife was coming home frazzled from trips to the store with the kids. And I'd hear the kids acting like little assholes over the phone when she'd call home. So I sat her down one day, and laid out the new regime:
You tell the kids that if they act out in the car, you will turn around and bring them straight home.
And you do it.
You put two inexpensive treats that they get to pick themselves, in the basket when you first enter the store, and tell them that if they piss you off in any way, the item goes back on the shelf.
And you do it.
You tell them that if they pitch a fit over you putting the item back, you are leaving the cart right there and taking them straight home, where Daddy will rain painful vengeance down upon their heads.
And you do it.
The store has people they pay money to to reshelf those items, and you shouldn't have to do it more than a couple of times.
Have a designated sitter for restaurant trips. This is someone, the other parent or a friend, that you have worked out in advance who will be the one to take the child out to the car and sit with them while they watch the rest of the family eat through the window. I deliberately choose a booth in front of where I parked the car for just such an event.
This should not have to be used more than once. It is horrible for everybody, but remain stoic, be tough, and the other kids'll get the message, too.
Each one of my kids has pitched a fit exactly once in a store, sitting down and screaming and refusing to come to me.
So I leave. Bye. Have a nice day, enjoy your new family.
I run and hide, and watch as they slowly come to the realization that they're not in Kansas any more. As sympathetic giants who think I'm a nasty beast loom over them and make sympathetic noises at them. I catch the eye of store staff, and they grin, and play along. They hate screaming kids.
If your child pockets something, set things up with the manager, and then take them into the office and scare the shit out of them.
If you find it at home, call ahead, then take them back and make them give it back, pay for it anyway with their birthday money, and apologize to every employee in the place for stealing from them.
I make mine write an apology note, too.
So, there you go. Sally forth and parent.
Civilization will thank you for it one day.