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::Previous::
  • Is It Fucking New Years Eve Tonight?

  • I Hardly Know Where To Start...

  • For What It's...

  • Dr Phil...

  • Bane Thinks...

  • Round Heels For Jesus...

  • If You See This...

  • I Love Finding Tidbits...

  • It's Too Quiet Down There...

  • Dear 'Rest Of The World'...

  • Saddam Swings, Like A Pendulum Do...

  • A Blogging Note...

  • A Call To Prayer...

  • Wherein I Taunt Nat With Primatology...

  • Perception Is Reality...

  • If You Smoke...

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • Titan Quest Update...

  • When You Write...

  • On The Pleasures Of Child Torture...

  • On The Passing Of A President...

  • 300,000...

  • If Flipper Rapes Your Wife...

  • A 'Don't Read This' Update...

  • I Love It...

  • What's Wrong With This Picture?

  • Of Blues And Blahs...

  • Festive Christmas Nekkiditty...

  • I Wrote This Last September...

  • It Was A Good Christmas. Nobody Died...

  • The Sculptor...

  • And To What To My Wondering...

  • Don't Read This...(pt 4)

  • More Christmas...

  • If This Is True...

  • A Cool...

  • Merry Christmas, I Guess...

  • Bye Bye, 'Day By Day'...

  • "Just Shut Up And Fuck Me..."

  • Bad News, Good News...

  • If You're Depressed...

  • Don't Read...Well, You Know The Drill...(pt 3)

  • More 'Evolution' Twaddle...

  • You Need To Listen...

  • Merry Christmas...

  • Urgent Anus Update!

  • I Love Her Nose...

  • So, I Shit The Bed Last Night...

  • A Writing Exercise...

  • DO NOT READ THIS!!! (pt 2)

  • Going Out On A Limb...

  • A Very Interesting...

  • Via The Inimitable...

  • Do Not Read This...(Pt 1)

  • Wow!

  • Martial Arts, Redux...

  • Another Damn List...



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        Sunday, December 31, 2006

    Is It Fucking New Years Eve Tonight?

    Already? Sonofabitch! that fucker snuck up on my sorry ass. I had no idea why the wife told me yesterday to not open the bottle til today. I just thought she was being some sort of retent.

    Dammit.

    New Years, much like your birthday, merely signals that Death has torn another page out of your Book of Life and burnt it over the candle he will use to come find you when it is your time.

    Well, just fuck. Color me flabbergasted.

    So I guess between New Years, and that dipshit Ford being dead, the country will be closed for the next couple of days? They say Nasdaq and other financial institutions will be closed to 'honor Ford'. Bullshit. Ya think it might have something to do with the sliding dollar, and the covert economic war that is raging worldwide, while all the dumb-fucks wear their party hats and throw glitter?

    Do me a favor, go rent 'Night of the Comet' tonight, watch it, and think wishful, happy thoughts. Yeah yeah yeah, I know it's a fantasy, but it is the hope that keeps me as sane as I can be. My 'Happy Place'.

    Oh, and if your New Year is happy, don't blame me.


    .




       

    I Hardly Know Where To Start...

    I think the wife is trying to kill me. I woke up just a bit ago (yes, folks, that would be 10am on a Sunday...I take that 'day of rest' shit seriously) and already I am drinking the lovely whiskey she bought me yesterday, and chasing it with a fine pale ale.

    The tard's family paid her after work yesterday, and she felt compelled to gift me with a lovely bottle of 12 year old Canadian Club Classic. It's the only thing the Canadians do right. We export our acid rain to them, they import their lovely smooth whiskeys to us. I prefer a blend of Canadian whiskey to all others.

    By the way, I do not say 'tard' to be cruel to them. It is what they are. Deal.

    So, I woke up with two things on my mind: The Veggie Tales song, and no, I don't want to fucking talk to any fucking tomatoes; and a powerful urge to fuck a legless woman. Now, I think I have established myself as a leg and ass man, but really, don't you think legs just get in the way? I mean, how many times have I been kneed or otherwise thwapped in the nuts by some thrashing woman in the throes of her own pleasure...well, if I had a dollar...

    And no, I don't have some sort of fetish. I'm just being practical. Okay, I like to do a little light spanking, now and then, and now you know a little more about the wife than perhaps you wanted to. I blame the whiskey I'm having for breakfast. On an empty stomach.

    But seriously, I woke up thinking that if the wife died, or got transported to Heaven in a flaming chariot drawn by cherubim, that I would like to take in a young, legless super-model, some unfortunate beauty who had had an unfortunate encounter with a train, or who had learnt her lesson about trying to give some Italian a BJ whilst he attempted to negotiate tricky turns in his Ferrari.

    Huh? You with me, here? I thought so. I mean sheared off clean, like a mannequin, just below the snatch. None of that drawn up sausage-end scarring for me, no-sir. I would love her, and nurture her, and occasionally flip her out of the wheelchair and shag the snot out of her. Then she'd go fetch me a beer from the fridge, her hands flap flap flapping across the floor, leaving a trail like a slug...

    Sorry, that's just the whiskey talking. I'd get her a skateboard, or a mechanic's creeper, though those are a bitch to steer in a straight line. And then there's the problem of reaching the fridge handle, let alone getting up to the beer-shelf, not to mention finding the bottle opener...

    Okay, okay, I'll admit it, this plan needs some more thought, but try to tell me that you wouldn't let a legless Miss USA 'sit on it and spin', and I will call you a big fat hairy liar, that's for sure.

    Now, aren't you glad you dropped by? So, if you'll excuse me, I am going to go find some 'exploited black teen' porn, and prime the pump, so to speak. I think the wife is in heat, so I need to do my Kegels, and prepare, as it were.

    Happy Sunday!


    .




       

    For What It's...

    ...worth.


    .




        Saturday, December 30, 2006

    Dr Phil...

    ...in a can.


    .




       

    Bane Thinks...

    ...that this kind of stuff is just the coolest.


    Update:

    So's this...



    .




       

    Round Heels For Jesus...

    That's what gets the wimmens. That whole 'unconditional love' thing. Add some doe-brown eyes, long, flowing locks of hair and a soft-looking beard, throw in a lamb or a little child into the picture, and every feminine instinct in her is fine tuned to a fevers pitch. I think that was why it was so easy for me to get pussy in church, back in the day, before I reformed. Jesus had already got them warmed up for me, but I was available.

    Ladies, He's dead. Well, He died, and rose again, but still, He's unavailable. And as I've said, I think He's married, and I suspect He'd be the last being in all of the universes to cheat, so, sorry. Just keep buying batteries.

    I hear the 'unconditional love' bullshit and other such crap Christian women write, and I just want to yak. He's not talking about you, babe. It really isn't all about you. Trust me. Sorry.
    I believe He is referring to the species. Human Kind.

    The whole thing is all about sacrifice, and any amount of sacrifice involves some level of pain. It hurts me when I give the wife the last of my Creme Brulee, because she begged pretty, and I love her. I bet it hurt like fuck when He got the shit beat out of Him and got nailed to a stick for our sins, too.

    We're in the 'short digs', people, the last quivering fuck of the hips of history, slamming into quim of an uncertain future. No bunnies. Just mean, slavering hell-hounds ahead. Get tough, or get run over.

    Love is cool. I love love. But if you make it the basis for all or your faith and belief, you may run into a snag or two when confronted by folks who are not only willing, but are eager to peel the flesh off of your screaming infant in front of you if you don't recant your faith, and will, in fact, be a little disappointed if you do.

    The re-exposure of what a monster like Saddam and his willing henchmen did and would still do, should serve as a chilling reminder of what the Bible you claim to believe in says is coming up. It won't be Iraq-wide, it will be world-wide.

    Are you ready?

    And if anything I have said here hurt you in some way, well, I would submit to you that no...

    You are not.


    .




       

    If You See This...

    ...baby fucker, shoot him in the face for me, won't you?

    I'd do the same for you.


    .




       

    I Love Finding Tidbits...

    ...like this.

    Yep, that's how they do it, folks. The 'death of a thousand cuts'. Probing, probing, always probing. Collecting intelligence, planning, practicing, and then BOOM, one of our ships gets a big hole in it, or an embassy or three is shattered.

    If we actually do totally disengage from Iraq, how long will it take them to have full-scale mock-ups of airliners set up again to practice with? Hmmmm? Yeah, remember that, you ninnies who want us to leave?

    And right now, because of Iraq, we are able to sneak teams here and there, with impunity, to targets all over the Middle East, to perform their mischief, and have a safe base to come back to, and rest and recuperate, and torture anybody they've captured in privacy and relative security. Don't try to tell me that's not going on. And I'm all for it.

    And you weenies want us to give all that up, and go back to depending on our beloved Arab allies for logistical support?

    Shitheads...


    .




       

    It's Too Quiet Down There...

    I was thinking that a bit ago, so I crept down to ambush the little turds, and there they were, surrounded by Tinkertoys, making stuff, just a concentrating away. Being creative. Sharing. Weird.

    Last night we went over to my parent's house for the postponed Christmas dinner. My sister was there, too. We all exchanged gifts, after. I passed out the gifts, and Nat got one thing, and everybody else got more, and then we reached the end of the gifting, and Nat still only had one thing, and she was all like 'is that it?' and I said yep, sorry, you gonna cry? and why yes, yes she was, and we all had a good laugh over that one.

    Her volume intensified, and when we all agreed her suffering had amused us enough, we rolled out the big box and slid it in front of her. The siren wound down. Johnny is pretty copacetic even at the worst of times, and he hadn't gotten much, either, but he was being a happy boy. My Sis rolled a big round container to him and said this is for you both, and they both leaped on it like leopards on a wildebeest.

    Wrapping flew as if in an explosion, and Sis had gotten them the Big Tub O' Tinkertoys from Costco. I had wanted to get it for them, but it was dear, and we had shot our Christmas wad by then, so this was really cool.
    Then Nat pounced on the big box. Now, I haven't counted them yet, but I'm guessing there were like 15 or so Polly Pocket houses and sets in there, a couple for the larger (4"?) Polly's, but the rest were for those teensy ones. And you know me, I love Polly Pockets, so we were both digging in and going crazy, but her delighted squealing was louder than mine, and higher pitched, let me assure you.

    You gotta see these houses. Go to eBay and type in 'Polly Pocket house' and look. Two of them were castles. These just may be the cleverest things I have ever seen. The wife sat on the couch with the big castle and ooo'd and ahhh'd every time she found something new it did. Little hidden chambers and tricks everywhere.

    So, the kids are downstairs now, sitting in the middle of Polly Pocketon, surrounded by luxury midget housing, assembling vehicles of varied and bizarre configurations from Tinkertoys, and just generally in hog heaven.
    Oh, and Johnny got a tank. And not just any tank, but one of those full-sized (well...large) GI Joe tanks. It looks kinda like a British Crusader to me. My Dad really scored with this one. He was nervous about giving it to Johnny, because I have chewed his ass enough times for giving the kids age inappropriate toys.

    So, beforehand, he's acting all whispery and conspiratorial with me, trying to tell me what it is and 'get my permission' and I just wave him off and say whatever, it'll be fine, so Johnny gets a collectors edition tank that electrically fires bullets.

    It is a rare thing to find one of these that still has all of its ammunition. Most kids lose them ten minutes after opening the package. But on this tank, you unfold this plate on the back, behind the turret, and pull up this pistol grip, and as you turn it, the turret turns, and then you press a button, and POW, fire off a round into your sisters eye. A little knob on the top makes the Commander's cupola spin around, with him in it. WAY cool. And it comes with a driver and a gunner, too! I'm tempted to kick his ass, and take it.

    Well, the wife is at work, the world is burying two turds today (rendering all news channels more unwatchable than usual) there is peace in my house, and I got a great night's sleep. The wife anointed my room and prayed over me, and I slept like a baby. Meaning I pissed the bed.

    Ha! Just kidding! But I did skid up my shorts something fierce, at some point.


    .




        Friday, December 29, 2006

    Dear 'Rest Of The World'...

    I know, I know, we sometimes look like a big, weak doofus. Tottering, confused, unable to focus.

    Whatever.

    In the end, we will roll into your shitty country, flatten it, kill all the people we want, and hang your leadership by their necks.

    Go ahead, keep listening to your politicians and religious leaders, and talking shit. We like that. It lets us know who and where you are. Thanks for that. Oh, and better yet, please attack us some more. You're right, our people are fat and sassy. Complacent. That can happen when you are superior to everybody else, so please, attack us. It scares the plebes, and allows us to come fuck you up some more.

    Oh, and listen to our news, and our talk shows, our pundits, and our Hollywood movie stars. And our retired military officers. Read: couldn't hold a job, so now working for the snack table in the Green Rooms of various worthless news shows.

    Please, get cocky.

    Saddam's rope is still creaking as it stretches back into shape. Maybe it'll be around your neck next...

    Love,

    America


    .




       

    Saddam Swings, Like A Pendulum Do...

    ...surrounded by assholes, two by two...

    I just wanted to be the first person on the internet to write that.

    So, looks like he's gonna get his chicken-neck snapped at 7pm, West Coast time. And it's about time. I'm still a little disappointed that they didn't block off a street, fill it with families of his victims, push him in, and film it while they tear him to pieces. Now that would be the pure definition of catharsis, right there.

    Oh well, barring catastrophe, ding dong, the bitch is dead.


    .




       

    A Blogging Note...

    Having done this for some time, now, I have noted that this time of year comes with an associated drop in commenting and traffic.

    Don't take it personally, New-Bloggers. Your regulars will drop in, when they can, but things will not likely pick up until the middle or end of January, and won't normalize again until at least the middle of February.

    People are traveling, staying at other places, having a life, starting a new semester, all that crap that regular people do.

    I haven't had my site meters all that long, but you can tell by the ebb and flow when the 'dry' periods are. It is this lean season that can tell you whether you are blogging for yourself, or for 'the glory'. Personally, I enjoy the freedom. I mean, you guys are like family to me and all, but...

    That should worry you...you've met my family...


    .




       

    A Call To Prayer...

    Why should the muzzies have all the fun?

    Hey, we have a family friend and neighbor named Paula who is in a bad way. She went into a one hour 'procedure' yesterday that turned into a six hour 'surgery', and they ended up stopping it because she was too full of dye, plus they had other patients scheduled (God Bless the VA, yes, she's a veteran, too. Welcome to rationed government health care) so they sent her home to suffer...


    I asked the wife what she'd gone in to have done, and she proceeded to gross me out in great detail, so I held my hand up and said shut up, you could've just said 'female problems' and saved us both a lotta grief.

    So pray for this nice lady's snatch, wouldja please? Thanks. Oh, and you may as well throw in her other female parts, too. I guess they have those, though I tend to only care about the one. Sounds like she may be getting spayed soon, from the sounds of things. Yeesh.

    Off the subject, but still in the spiritual realm, I guess, my demon came back last night, and she brought a fiend. I mean, friend. I suspect that spirits on both sides of the aisle are gender neutral, and adopt forms as needed, including those of animals. In this case, I had two beautiful naked Eurasian looking women in bed with me, and one of them was pulling gently on my dick, which was kinda nice, at first.

    You see, I have been having troubled sleep, lately, for various reasons (one of them being pain) so I have been doing a little codeine here and there, and some Benadryl, because I have been unable to sleep with my mask on for some reason lately, and so I snore and get terribly congested.

    I tell you this, because I think that certain drugs, in certain combinations, in certain people, can open up a window into the soul, a 'chink in the armor', if you will. I have been having dreams where my beloved dead come to me, and I hold them and soothe them while they cry. I just don't know...

    I know, I know, you're sayin 'get back to the part where she's pulling your dick, fucker!' so okay, there I was, getting pleasantly wanked, my arms behind my head, which was resting on my hands, and two warm, naked bodies pressed against me, and I looked up into both their eyes, and noted the beautiful Jade color, and then I noted that they both look very similar to the description Bram Stoker wrote of Dracula's Brides in his novel and...

    Well, they noted my knowing, and their irises slitted reptilian, or cat-like, and their pupils turned into black slits, and their hard faces hardened even further,and as their lips began to pull back from their teeth I said "Get thee behind me, Satan, in the name of Jesus Christ..." and they both turned into something fat and putrid with blackened, burnt skin and eyes burning with a terrible hatred and then they...

    Were gone. I awoke, and my blankets were off of me, I was covered in sweat which began to chill almost immediately in my cold room, as I lay there, my head resting on my hands, looking up at the ceiling.
    I covered myself, and prayed for a while, then fell fast asleep until after 9am.

    And I fear we may have a Black Hole into our house, or a small Bermuda-type triangle, or some other sort of event horizon that sucks Nat into it nearly every day, in the same place. Seriously. I am thinking of having scientists come, bringing beepy things, and things with dials and needles, to check it out.

    Every day, she wipes out in the same spot, rounding the couch from the living room into the kitchen, and I hear the splat of some part of her hitting the floor, and then the wail, and then Johnny hollering "Daddy! Nattie fell down! I think thee needth thum hewp!"
    I am considering festooning her in all of the various safety gear we have around the house: helmets, elbow pads, braces, etc, and telling her that this will have to be her outfit for a while, until she ceases showing all of the aerodynamic qualities of a Bumblebee. For a girl who prefers to spend most of her time mostly naked (panties, Princess Crown, and Faery Wings notwithstanding) that might just get her to consider braking into the curve.

    Sigh...

    If anybody would like to have my weird life, I am considering putting it up for sale on eBay. I accept PayPal, and money orders, but we'll have to wait for your check to clear before you can take possession.


    Update:

    I stood in the stairwell a bit ago, telling the wife the tale of my lady visitors, the wife being in the downstairs bathroom. She showed jealousy, first, and then fell into the tale. And as I told it, a cold breeze began to run along my arm, jostling my arm hairs, and then the Christmas Cactus on the shelf next to my hand began to rustle and quiver, and then the leaves of the 'Serpent's Tongue' plant next to it began to shiver.

    I pointed this all out to the wife, and we pondered. Sure, I'm in a stairwell, but this breeze, for that is what it was, was coming across me, from where there is only a solid wall. All of our windows are closed, there is a fat towel across the front door sill to keep out the cold, and all of our heaters are passive, oil-filled radiators.

    Yet still, the cold wind blew across me, so I sneered at it and came upstairs to write this. And now I have a cold spot between my shoulder blades, as if something is resting its hand there, while it reads over my shoulder...




        Thursday, December 28, 2006

    Wherein I Taunt Nat With Primatology...

    Nat was bugging me a bit ago, so I said "Get away from me, you little monkey-chimp!"

    She puffed up and put her fists on her hips (The Wonder Woman Pose) and retorted "I can't be one of those, because chimps are part of the ape family!"

    I blame television.


    .




       

    Perception Is Reality...

    The wife left some beautiful candles (she got for Christmas) lit this morning, down on the kitchen counter, when she left for work. I left them lit, because they really are pretty, but I regretted it when I thoughtlessly reached across them and felt the heat on my arm and smelled my arm hairs burning and I pulled my arm away quick with a cuss word or two and...


    I bet you thought I burned my arm. Well, that was the perception I gave you. It was my perception at the time, too, I'll tell ya. And then I felt stupid. And a tad weirded out, and touched my unburnt arm in some wonderment.

    For you see, the wife's candle set is three flickering white LED candles, at different heights, and water pours from one to the other continuously and melodically, splashes over some smooth stones, recirculates, and continues.

    It's a damn fountain. Fake candles. Pretty as heck, but harmless. And yet I burned my arm on it and flinched as bad as if it had been real fire. 'Sheepish' about covers it.

    Guys, how many of you have seen a long-haired beauty with a fine ass clad in cutoffs sashaying down the sidewalk, and you wolf-whistled at her, and he turns around, snarling through his beard and flips you off and calls you a faggot? Uh, yeah...me neither.

    Ahem, moving right along...

    That perception, whatever it happens to be, of whatever you have it of, just might be false. The perception can last a few seconds, or a lifetime. How many guys thought their wives were faithful to them, and there I was, grinding away on top of her while they were at work.

    Sad.

    Self delusion is the greatest sin, I think. It can also be a great defense against madness and despair. People who live in terrible ghettoes paint their houses gaily, and put up beautiful, hopeful murals on building walls. Still a shithole, but a pretty shithole.

    Some perceptions, like a belief in God, for instance, transcend reality. I believe in Him. I perceive Him. If I am self-deluded, I am happily so, and would not change a thing. If it is a delusion, I am better off with it, than without it. And I have had experience with both.
    I am just as happy labeling your athiesm as a delusion as you are labeling my Christianity so.

    On a more practical note, 'down to earth', as it were, there was a sporting goods store in a town I used to live in, that was a favorite for training officers to take rookie cops into during their training periods (where they would ride along before finally becoming permanent cops).
    The alarm in this place was always going off, so the cops would show up, and wait for the owner to show up and let them in, and then the FTO (Field Training Officer) would have the rook go in first, to check things out.

    Now, on an alarm, you always go in guns drawn, and as the rook turned the second or third corner he was invariably confronted by an attacking, armed intruder, and he would open fire, and sometimes even hit the intruder, and the FTO and the owner would equally invariably collapse in gales of hysterical laughter, usually accompanied by a bunch of other cops who had heard the call on their radio and recognized where it was and who was on duty that night...

    Someone would flip the lights on and the terrified rook, often flat on the floor or in some other position of cover would blink like an owl in the light, and see that he had (or had not) hit a mannequin the store had gotten from some gun company, of a hunter pointing a shotgun up into the sky at some imaginary ducks.
    It happened so often, that the owner of the store actually put up a backstop behind the mannequin.

    The gimmick was, that there was enough light streaming into the store from the streetlight outside, and from the neon window lights, that the inside of the store was pretty well lit up, except for pockets of shadow here and there, and the lesson burned into the rooks head by this was that, even in daytime, you always, always, always go into a building with your flashlight.

    Perception...




       

    If You Smoke...

    ...you smoke with bin Laden.

    Gee, I wonder if I know anybody in Michigan who smokes? Or maybe Minnesota...


    .




       

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!

    It's a reprint, but still as dead on now as it was then.


    .




        Wednesday, December 27, 2006

    Titan Quest Update...

    This game is addictive. Simple, yet complex. As a long-time gamer, I know how you manipulate a player into wanting to keep playing, and move on further into the game, and I don't mind.

    Originally a $50+ game when it came out, it was $23.99 when we got it in a local store before Christmas. She made me wait til Christmas! Bitch...

    Anyway, it is essentially Diablo, like Diablo should have been, and Diablo was still a damn good game. I beat all of them, so you know the hours I put in. It's better than Dungeon Quest, and that was an unbelievably good game.

    Titan Quest has no end of side quests, it seems, where you can earn loot, experience points, level up, and so on. From the map, it looks like there are 8 major quests, and it is Wednesday, and I have completed two of them.
    Apparently, the level of difficulty increases substantially as you move along. But I got a major unique weapon nearly right away, and have been able to enchant it, so I'm pretty buff. I just hit Level 8, and I enchanted a damn good mace with both fire and ice, and the results are impressive when I whack someone.

    My favorite part about the game, is a button on your HUD you can click, and it will take you to any other portal in the game you have already activated, and...wait for it...back! How cool is that?! Before you get into a big fight, you can throw down a portal, and then, if the monsters are kicking your ass and chasing you, you can run back and jump into it and warp away!

    And just before bed last night, I had to clear a cave of giant warrior spiders, and I almost regretted how beautiful the game looks. Earlier, I was surrounded by undead zombies, clutching at me and trying to bite, and I just freaked out and started swinging wildly, but fortunately, I've assigned experience points to my Rage Mode so the results turned out better than okay.

    Yes, I'm a geek. Or is that nerd? Whatever, check out the System Requirements before you buy this game. I have been experiencing some serious lag, and if it keeps up, I'm gonna set it aside until the next (if ever) upgrade. I keep my new $300 video card that would solve all of my problems but that I cannot use beside me, on the desk, to remind me that, no indeed...

    It is not a fair world.

    .




       

    When You Write...

    ...do you think about 'style' when you write? A commenter said I have a 'style', and it got me to wondering.

    Me, I just fill a bucket full of letters, kick it over, and then keep hitting them with the hose until they array themselves, shivering in the corner, and I decide they've had enough.

    I guess there are writers you'd recognize wherever they show up, even in disguise. A-Man and V-Man have a unique 'voice', but Ellison is able to imitate it uncannily, and has managed to fool me several times. Hmmmm, I'll have to ponder this.

    Stephen King and Peter Straub play at imitating each other's style, but I knew Bachmann was King before I knew Bachmann was King. On some level. When the story broke, I was not surprised, just grunted and said hmmm, thought as much.

    I think I'd recognize SteveH's cadences anywhere, unless he made a remarkable and conscious effort to disguise them. Same with John Sandford, or Elmore Leonard.
    Stephen R. Donaldson writes wildly different genres of books, and yet I hear his 'voice' throughout. He has a remarkable skill in adjusting it to fit the setting, but still, I know it's him.

    I guess it's not a handicap for the writer, if their readers like their 'voice'. I've heard and seen people actually wince in disgust when I mention some writer I really enjoy. Takes all kinds, I guess.
    Which leads us into the eternal question: is blogging writing? All bloggers write, some writers blog, does that mean anything?

    I don't think so, because, in my not so humble opinion, most writers suck. I'm happy for them that they're making money and all, but I'm equally happy to avoid the product they put out.

    Oh well, just mental masturbation, I guess, but masturbation, while generally fruitless, is almost always fun. So there.

    .




       

    On The Pleasures Of Child Torture...

    Sparrow sent me this link, which I enjoyed immensely. Read around in both of those spots if you want to see some fine writing.
    It got me to thinking how much I have enjoyed tormenting my own kids in the past, some of it chronicled here, on this hallowed blog.

    Of course, you can take it too far...

    I had an uncle, my Dad's Dad's brother, who terrified me. His wife would allow me to take refuge behind her big wood stove when I had to come over, to hide from him. Boy, those were the days, eh? Big old enameled iron stove, a few feet away from the wall to avoid a fire, the stove pipe going up into the ceiling of an immaculate kitchen, said pipe belching out sweet wood smoke and the smell of baking cobblers and such.

    Uncle Jack had a good sized orchard of varied fruit trees around his house, and between and around his barn and his shop, pretty typical of the urban farm in Oregon of that time period. The developers have bought them all up now, I suspect, as the oldsters died, and their kids sold out. Now they are stacked with apartments full of welfare cheats and Mexican gangsters and illegals and drug dealers, but back then, you could step out back and pick a basket of fresh peaches for your Aunt Alice and it seemed like, in just a jiffy, she was calling you to the table to let you eat a mini cobbler in a small pan that she kept just for you, when you came over.

    And that's where Uncle Jack would catch me, and make me go out into the shed and dig for the head, or wave a dogs severed arm in my face. Male bonding at its best.
    He told me he had 'found some little bastard' climbing up in his apple tree, stealing his apples, so he'd pulled out a pistol (and he produced a little silver revolver from a bib-all pocket and waved it around) and shot him right out of that there tree, and he took me over under the tree and showed me the blood.

    Then Uncle Jack drug me into this creepy old shed, all behung with sharpish looking tools, and animal skulls, and hides and suchlike, and he told me how he had cut the boy up into pieces to get rid of the body (waves bloody little arm I later learned was from a roadkilt dog, for emphasis) and then he tells me he put the boys head in this here bucket, and covered it with sand to keep the dogs off it, and lo and behold he's got three identical buckets filt with sand, and he has just plumb forgot whicha one has the head in it, so...

    It was to be my chore to dig through each one until I found the head, and then bring it to him. And he turned the light off in the shed, warned me on pain of death to not come out without a head (I believe there may have been some more pistol waving) and by the fell light barely making it in through smallish, flyspecked windows, I could see the three buckets of white sand staring at me, lined up, waiting.

    I believe I was around six, maybe seven years old. Maybe five.

    They tell me that which does not kill me, makes me stronger. Well, I'm not dead, as far as I know. So I blubbered for a bit, in fear, horror, but mostly a 'Why me Lord?' kinda self pity, and then I knelt down, and began to dig...

    I found out later that he had worked on this little prank for quite some time, and had already pulled it on my cousins and such. Likely a neighbor kid or two, as well.
    He was full of pranks, imaginative pranks, loved him his pranks, did old Uncle Jack, but this one was his crown jewel. You see, he had made, being a stone cutter and a stone mason, among other skills, molds of a boy-sized head, and poured in cement (or plaster of paris, I know not, regardless, the face was smooth, and cool to the touch, that I can tell you) and then took the further step of procuring costume wigs and gluing them on each skull. Three buckets, three heads, three chances to win. Chance of finding a head? 100%! You, too, can be a winner!

    I was okay until I hit the hair. I mean, I found the face almost right away, and my child's curiosity had me clearing the sand away and seeing a nose appear and then a mouth and then a forehead and oho, what's this? my fingers got tangled in the hair and I broke, and bolted screaming from the shed, pistol-fire be damned...I may have left one of those cartoon holes in the wall of the shed for all I know...

    I vaguely registered Uncle Jack writhing there on the ground, having some sort of spasm, and I'm sure I left a vapor trail behind me as I flew across the yard, slammed into the kitchen, dove behind the stove and had hysterics for a while and would not come out, could not be lured out, had some more hysterics, and didn't come out until my Dad showed up and made me and took me out to the car.

    I believe Dad was pissed. I just wanted out of Hell House.

    So, if any of my kids who are reading this think you had it bad, I just want you to know A) It coulda been worse, and B)...

    It runs in the family.

    .




       

    On The Passing Of A President...

    The Lord sets up his kings, which is why, no matter how bad one is, I would never consider harming a hair on one of their heads, no matter how bad they were, unless the Lord set a bush on fire or something and told me to.
    Which is why I feel a little guilty for my glee at the passing of Gerald Ford.

    Back in the 70's, I went out onto the lake with a bunch of friends in a houseboat, and we conquered an island, and made it our own utopia for about a week. We had enough supplies (read: alcohol) and if we needed more, grocery boats plied the waves, and we would just hail one and buy more. When we left, Nixon was President, and damned well still not a crook.

    When we got back, Ford was President, and damned if that wasn't surreal.

    Get over it, sure he was 93...who cares. An old boob is still a boob. I turned against Reagan for cutting and running from Lebanon, and not avenging our dead Marines. The buck stops at the President, and he dropped the ball and fled like a coward. I'll never forgive him for that.

    Ford's secret sin was in using the Warren Commission to cover up the facts of the Kennedy assassination, and lying to the American People, for which I personally believe he was awarded the Presidency. I blame Ford for Carter, too. And I could care less that Ford pardoned Nixon. It was the right thing to do, and probably the only smart thing he ever did.

    And boy, he sure fell down a lot, didn't he? Couldn't take two steps, it seems, without either falling down, or somebody taking a shot at him. I would have loved to gone around to his various personal appearances, just to pop a paper bag and watch him flinch and fall down and his Secret Service detail dogpile on him. His proclivities for that alone made the network news worth watching, back then.

    Well, whatever, he's gone, now, so I can quit wishing for it. Now, God? Could you just snuff Jimmy Carter for us?

    Thanks. Throw in GW1, and it will truly be a Happy New Year.


    .




        Tuesday, December 26, 2006

    300,000...

    Who will it be, who will it be...

    That's how you whore for traffic, people. Set up some meaningless something or other where people click the lever like a Rhesus Monkey trying to get another cocaine pellet.

    I know there are people who get 300K hits in an hour, but I never imagined I would ever get this many when I put up the site meter(s). And yes, it tickles me. And no, it does not make my panties wet. Unless all 300,000 of you want to drop a dollar off to celebrate. Heh...

    Why couldn't all of you A-Holes have done this yesterday? Might have been significant.

    The wife is downstairs with Nattie, doing something women don't usually do: reading a technical manual. She and Nat are trying to figure out how to attack Johnny's cars and trains with the robot I mentioned he got yesterday. I've been able to get it to bend down and pick up a couple of things, but the grip ain't so great. I'm thinking of cutting up some of that special rubbery tape we use for Johnny's CPAP mask, and using the pieces to give the robot a better grip.

    I was having trouble with them, especially Nattie, being a little too rough with the thing, so I told them it was their new little brother, and oh, you should have seen Nattie bond. Like hearing a can of Pringles open, Thwoop!

    If I'm not careful, that little bitch is going to get herself knocked up as soon as her ovaries drop, just to have a baby to play with. I shudder.

    Sometimes it's fun being a Dad, sometimes, not so much.


    .




       

    If Flipper Rapes Your Wife...

    ...in the warm waters off of the Florida Coast, or somewhere in the Caribbean, could you then, forever after refer to her as having lived...

    'The Porpoise Driven Life'?

    Fuck you, Rick Warren, you feckless Luciferian hump. I hate you.


    .




       

    A 'Don't Read This' Update...

    For the what, two or three of you that seem to be reading this anyway, despite my admonition, I had a revelation on this yesterday morning. Interesting that it happened to be on Christmas.

    Anyway, I wrote something a long time ago, that was pretty damned good, and it 'got lost' during the divorce, and it was really damn good, but it was a mix of both hand written and hand typed, and was thus, irreplaceable, and regardless, I lost any heart I might have had to get back on that horse. So, it died.

    It appears that it has come back. I told you that this nasty little thing just comes to me, and yesterday it all just clicked, and came together, with the smoothness of a molar sliding out of a dead man's tooth socket:

    This is the lost piece of that old, lost tale I wrote so long ago. The lost beginning I never wrote.
    I was never happy with the beginning, and it vexed me. Now, I realize that I am writing the beginning I was unable (or unwilling) to write all those decades ago. And it clicks in to the empty socket flawlessly, and motors inside of old projectors, in dusty long-forgotten rooms began to whir, and the webbing fell away from old film reels, pulleys began to turn, and flickering light began to shine onto the walls of my mind the pictures of what I had filmed so long ago, and...
    ...the current DVD I have been making, all shiny and new, is totally, amazingly, backwards compatible with the old stuff.

    And I have mourned that other story, its death, for a long time. Too long. It gives me a pinch of fear, in a way, to see it pulling itself up and out of its grave, but there is a wild thrill there, too, which far outweighs the fear.

    I believe I am going to do this. Can't say how much I'll put up. Maybe all of it. You can't steal it, it's not for sale (yet) and you can't write it yourself. I'm confident of that.

    One of my dreams has been to make a book full of characters that the reader genuinely cares about, and cries, or screams, or both when they're threatened with death. Nobody should be safe in a book. Everybody dies. Sometimes they don't, but that is not for either the author or the reader to decide. You have no idea how much I admire J.K. Rowlings decision to kill off her beloved main character.

    So, I shall endeavor to endeavor, and if you come along for the ride, I promise to steep your brain like a teabag in horror and pain and suffering just as hot as I can make it, and I do not like weak tea.
    There may be some redemption in there, too. Some hope. Oh, just about as much as the Real World gives us...
    So, look out. When I say duck, you better duck motherfucker, and don't come crying to me when you get any of it on your face.

    You have been warned...



    Update:

    Okay, here it is. I may do separate posts, or just add to the end of it, according to my whim and my whimsy. Or I may just get sick of it and let it die. I wish I knew how to do one of those 'Read More' thingies in Wordpress. Oh, you can just click on the link over there near the top of my blogroll, too. I think I have comments moderated over there, so...

    This is raw, unedited writing. I (kinda) spellcheck as I write, but this is pure, unadulterated first draft. I may or may not tinker with it. I may or may not let you see it. I will print it out in its current form, every so often, and send it to myself as a certified letter, and leave it unopened until such a time I get rich in court from some potential future thieving dumb-ass.

    Have fun, and:

    Do Not Read This…


    .
    Update:

    ...and furthermore, while we're on the subject of Wordpress, what's with all the fucking comment spam there? I mean, they do a good job of stopping it and not bothering me with it, but once a month or so I have to go in and delete about a hundred rape and horse-cock and tranny surprise spams...family incest seems to be popular, though it does have me wondering what other kinds of incests there are there out there...hmmmmm.

    I tried using a blog I thought I had set up on Blogger for just this sort of thing, called 'Bad Story', which would have been perfect, but I set up the post, no problem in the editor, and then it couldn't post it because my template was empty and I went and checked and, well no shit. Nothing there at all.

    Crap. Oh well.


    .




       

    I Love It...

    ...when someone says something so well, that I don't have to.

    Don't read it if you're trying to hang on to a good mood. I, on the other hand, am not burdened with that problem.


    .




       

    What's Wrong With This Picture?

    I was gonna make a crack about him 'pulling a rabbi out of his hat', but I just don't have it in me. Sometimes insanity just comes right up and stares you in the face.


















    .




       

    Of Blues And Blahs...

    I've got them both, I think. The wife is at work, it is raining to beat all, and as dark and gray as the inside of Barbara Bush's Maxi Pad.

    Barbie is wailing some horrible pop tune up the stairs at me, John is dumping his 'garbage' into his garbage truck over and over and over...and then the truck honks its horn.

    Hey, good news is, I got Titan Quest to working. The wife was a Video Game Widow last night. I played for at least three hours. Nat loves watching me kill stuff. I whacked up these three giant boars and she clapped and shouted "Woo Hoo! We're havin' pig tonight!"
    Bad news is, I had to turn down all my video card settings to get it to play. The wife didn't understand why I was bummed, because all she saw was a perfectly beautiful game. So I cranked all the settings up to high again, and she says 'oh, I get it now'. Yeah, the game chopped and would barely move, but you can see each separate feather on a bird, each blade of grass move in the wind, the detail of stone, the bright glint off a sword blade as it swings. I cranked the settings back down, and the world sped up again, but it was dull...

    Like today. That's it, I just feel dull. No vim. Vimless. Even coffee won't touch this. Maybe cocaine, hence, the allure. One would be sorely tempted to dance with the devil to make it through days like these.

    And I made the mistake of turning on the news this morning. I can now tell you with great authority that it is raining somewhere, it is snowing somewhere else, yesterday was most likely Christmas, though it could have been some other sort of holiday, I'm not sure, and that Joe Biden is still a pompous, grandstanding jackass.

    And Castro is likely dying, which is the one sweet note in a day that otherwise sounds more like someone just kicked the organist in the nuts.

    And now I hear that turd Roger Hedgecock is subbing for Rush Limbaugh, so I am going to turn off the radio and go downstairs and listen to Barbie yodel until my ears bleed.
    Johnny can scoop up my brains into his new garbage truck.


    .




        Monday, December 25, 2006

    Festive Christmas Nekkiditty...


















    More here.

    Merry Christmas! Now that is perfection. More proof of God.


    .




       

    I Wrote This Last September...

    I like it. I hope you do:


    Fall Has Fell...

    Puttering my car down the street a bit ago, marveling at the yellow of the trees, and the wind blows something up one of their noses, and it sneezes a torrent of leaves in a blast out into the road. Or maybe a Palestinian squirrel saw a Jewish squirrel, and blew itself up.

    The wind, and the passing cars, caught the torrent and turned it into a playful tornado, sending it spinning around and between cars, then back up on to the sidewalk where it molested this hobo sapien who was minding her own business of stalking along, talking to herself and twitching.

    She slapped frantically at the leaves, and they moved on, as if afraid to catch a tinge of her madness. Or maybe they caught a whiff of her funk.

    Remember when we could label one of these wretches a witch, and set them on fire? Sigh.

    Now we let them sleep in our libraries, eyeing little girls with bad intent.

    The days are shortening, hunching their shoulders, flipping up their collars, wondering how soon to switch from sweaters to coats. Digging out the ear-muffs from the back of the closet. Checking the candle supply. Each day, diminishing a little more, guttering like a candle that senses a passing spirit.

    I never saw winter as a man, but rather as a woman; a madwoman, a white, bestraggled thing, floated up from the bottom of some deep, icy lake, to wrap her bony, wet fingers around your neck, as her glistening lips pull back from blackened gums to reveal jagged icicle teeth that she sinks into the side of your neck and tears out a big old loving chunk.

    Fuck that bitch, I hate her.

    But today...

    Today had beauty. A kind of sad beauty, as tiny yellow things danced for me, as if they didn't know they were already dead, the small, fluttering ghosts of Summer, the sunny child of Spring, which is my favorite time of year.

    The clouds parted a bit ago, and the sun sent a beam into the room. It said 'Remember me'.

    Remember me...


    .




       

    It Was A Good Christmas. Nobody Died...

    Well, anybody I cared about, anyway. So far. The night is young, and there are lots of electronical 'music' emitting devices, newly unwrapped, loose in the house.

    Nattie just paid 'the wages of being a spaz', by hitting her 'funny bone', so I laughed, and she screamed at me, and I said well, then why'd you call it a funny bone? I mean, let's be logical, here.

    Actually, this may have been the bestest Christmas, ever. Just usn's here, except for a nice visit from my daughter and son-in-law. I'd like to just call him my son, but I have so many, I am afraid it would confuse people.

    It is nice, just laying around in your underthings, and when the wife wanders into the vicinity of your powerful Bone Rays, you can drag her off and jingle your bells, and 'take her to grandmother's house'. In a manner of speaking.

    Thanks again, to all of you who contributed to the magic of Christmas at Bane House. They both got literally everything they asked Santa for, except for the pony, and for 'Daddy to please stop doing that to my pee-pee'.

    ...ha! Just kidding. Or is he...

    There was no bullshit stress of preparing a meal this year. The wife does it, and loves doing it, but it does take its toll, both on her, and on her day. Yesterday, with my kids visiting, we just broke out the Harry & David's gift box stuff (sadly, the pears are long gone) and she whipped up a meat and cheese plate, set out some cookies and fudge we'd been gifted as well, sliced up a fresh baguette (thin, per my request) and we just snacked and munched, and it was wonderful.

    Oh, and she made some deviled eggs, because she was in the mood for them (hers are the best. Literally) and we all shared a chilled bottle of mead with the repast (verdict: I'm not terribly fond...kind of 'cloying') and we went to bed.

    Then up at the crack of light, and the kids went batshit, and I drank wine while we grimly snipped wires and inserted batteries, and collected up the peeled flesh of murdered trees, colorfully repainted by the savages that inhabit this planet, and sold in rolls, and we just took it outside and threw it in the dumpster. No recycling at all! Ha Ha!

    Johnny got one of these. The find of the Season. Heck, the find of the year. Maybe the decade. And just try to find one. The wife paid $25.00 for his, new, at K-Mart. One of the last two left. She felt guilty paying and additional $5 for an extended service contract on it. I told her she done did good.

    I love this toy. We fight over who gets to use it. I sneak it up behind him and clonk him over the head with its robot arm. Because I haven't figured out how to make it pinch the crap out of him, yet. But I will, oh, I will.
    When the robot clonks him, the robot says "Ow!" which I find hysterical. Johnny? Not so much.
    The thing eats batteries like Oprah's vibrator, two D-Cells in each foot, and three AAA's in the remote control, but I have been chasing people around with it all day, and it shows no sign of letting up. Another fave is to maraud it through Nattie's Princess Ariel Castle setup, and then have it do a victory dance in the middle of the wreckage.

    The kids know full well that if the robot 'has an accident', they will have an accident...

    I got 'Titan Quest' the PC game (which I highly recommend) and I can install it, but it won't play, even when I patch it. Fuck. I hate Christmas. Oh, I'll keep working on it, and finally get it, I'm sure, but just...fuck.

    Well, the kids flat scored. We all stopped and gave thanks, and prayed for all the little poor heathen Chinese and other Turd World children that could not have as nice a day as we were having, and thanked God for keeping their smelly little bug-infested asses over there in foreign lands, amen.

    In your face little foreign children! And furthermore, in retrospect, it must really suck to have only gotten a Dredel, and to see my daughter playing with her Barbie Karaoke Piano and her Barbie Karaoke Guitar! Ha ha! Shoulda evolved better.

    Well, I've viciously assaulted both poor people, and Jews, I think my work here is through.
    Time to sneak up on John and give him another good clunkin' in the Spirit Of Christmas, and all that happy crappy.

    Merry Christmas, everybody! Especially ya'll Muslim fucks! Ooooo, Trifecta!


    .




       

    The Sculptor...





        Sunday, December 24, 2006

    And To What To My Wondering...

    ...shirt pocket appear, but a pair of wire nippers, and some pliers, that's clear.

    And also a driver, of screws, yes, those Phillips, made cunningly small, as to...

    Fit into toy holes, yes, them one and them all!

    So he screwed and unscrewed, and he nipped and he cut,
    because God had made him, yes, a tool using nut!

    With scissors, and clippers, and some tools for the yard,

    The presents, he opened, now look, twasn't hard!

    But to ya'll with vaginas, and dicks that are limp,

    ...well you open your presents like a tard circus gimp.

    So, to all of you tards, and you Christmassy bitches

    who have so much trouble gettin to Christmas riches

    I say to you all, and that is you, fool,

    Just shut the fuck up, and use the right tool!


    .




       

    Don't Read This...(pt 4)

    Pastor Sam looked down at the pitcher in his hand. Look Ma, more hair. Blood.

    He looked up to Heaven, and saw nothing there. How much can one man take...

    His gaze swirled back into the yard, and beyond, and whatever instinct that had kept him...them, alive up to now, targeted his vision on a man, just over there, standing in the shadows of a line of Cypress trees that his grandfather had planted along the drive long before he was born, into this terrible day.

    He saw the man light a cigarette, the flash of the match, and then a hot finger dug into his chest and pulled him, staggering forward, then the color washed out of his world, and all became black and white, and...

    His wife's eyes were still open, though clouded. Nobody's home...

    Her hand was relaxed, now, the ring, signifying their love, and commitment, glinted in the afternoon sun, and he pushed his hand across, through the marinara that had spilt, and tried to take her hand in his, and...
    ...his head jumped up off of the gravel as the high-powered round, point blank and from just a few feet away shattered his brain and turned off all the lights in a spray of white powdered gravel and blood pudding...

    A trail of smoke that was not cigarette smoke curled up from the fat cylinder screwed on to the front of the man's big automatic, a man who did not, in fact, smoke cigarettes. And he was taking it all in. A girl whom he did not know at all, her legs spattered up to mid calf with a dead woman's (her mother's?) ocher, her eyes rolling like a calf, as well, he...

    ...took quick aim and phutted a round between her eyes and she arced back and crunched into the gravel, and vibrated for a bit, but she wouldn't 'come back'. And they tended to, when touched by the fluids of 'the contaminated', as he had come to think of them. He put the muzzle of the weapon to his own temple, and heard the fine hairs there sizzle and curl. After he was dead, no burn would form, he was confident of that, and...

    ...a choked cry from the mini-van made his hand target the open cargo door, and...

    He strode forward, Death Incarnate, and did a proper search, and...

    Two children. Covered in stains. Some from earlier. Some fresh. The eyes of the boy begging him. For. Something. The girl's he couldn't see, because her face was buried in the boys neck, and chewing like she just hadn't been raised with any manners at all.

    He took two steps back, and his gun spoke for him, twice. Gas sloshed in the tank for a bit, and then stilled, and the man absently dropped out the magazine into his hand, slid in a full one, dropped the slide forward with the press of a lever, and...


    Merry Christmas!!

    And to all, a good night...


    .




       

    More Christmas...

    ...fun.

    I love this shit, and he's absolutely dead on. I think I told you the story of my 33+ Degree Mason uncle? Well, I think I did. At one point, when I was eighteen, he took me up onto a high place, and offered me the world. Literally. Harvard, Princeton, Yale...I would have been greater than a Trump, if only I would serve him.

    My spirit, repelled, and rebelled, and refused. And I was heavily into the occult at the time! For my own safety, I will not name who were his personal 'friends', people who came to court at his table, but, they are names from history. Hollywood. On and on and on...

    My parents went to visit her parents gravesites, and found the entire cemetery locked off, chained up, condemned, and in the first stages of being moved...elsewhere. My Mom went into hysterics, and had Dad drive her up the road, thirty minutes or so away, to find a payphone (this was pre cell-phone...I know, hard to imagine) and she called my uncle, and he said okay, I'll handle it, just go back and pay your respects, and...

    They drove back the thirty minute (or so) drive, and when they got there, all signs of chains and signs and digging were gone, the sprinklers were on and brown grass was turning green again, and a nice man met them and directed them to the grave site of her parents, and...

    That's playing with power, folks.

    Choose whom you will serve...


    Update:

    Another good one.


    .




       

    If This Is True...

    ...this is alarming as heck.

    Oddly, it makes me far less sad to see Donald Rumsfeld go. In fact, if this is true, he should have been gone years and years ago.

    When I add to this his purported mournfulness over Abu Gharaib, which I consider a complete non-incident, and even funny, I feel even dirtier than usual for supporting even one of Georgie's henchpersons.

    It's true: turds of a feather flock together. And the bowl that is Washington DC is clogged with them.

    .




       

    A Cool...

    ...tool.

    I downloaded and installed this yesterday, and it works seamlessly (for me) and tells you if a website is safe or not, and why or why not. Run it on your own page. You might get a surprise or two.


    .




       

    Merry Christmas, I Guess...

    My Dad just called. Mom's got the trots, so they're begging out of having us come over for dinner and presents tonight. Should I feel guilty about feeling relieved?

    I get true joy from watching the kids celebrate. Even the wife, who is still a kid about all of this, but I am more like the scary ghost in the Scrooge story. I could never actually be Scrooge, because I could never be a miser. When I've got it, everybody's got it.
    That's one thing that touches me so much whenever any of you gives me anything, because I know the joy it would give me if things were reversed, and I envy you that feeling you just had.

    Someone special to me was on the phone with Nattie yesterday, and they asked her about the presents under her tree, and Nattie looked confused, like, are you stupid? Then she informed the caller that of course not, Santa hasn't brought them yet.
    Even though they've both seen boxes arrive via UPS, we spirit them away, so, out of sight= out of mind, and Santa will bring them all tonight, while they squirm in their beds, asleep, and anticipating...

    They fully accept that people (including us) send gifts to Santa to bring to them on Christmas Eve, but they know that Santa is Quality Control, and looks the presents over to make sure they're not crap, then sprinkles elf dandruff on them and wraps them up nice and delivers them, except for the ones he has to throw away because she lied or hit her brother, or because he didn't do his chores.

    Santa has had to throw away a lot of presents this year. Too bad about that pony, Little Missy.

    Heh.

    Well, ya'll just go on out and have the very Merriest Christmas ya'll can have. Livey? Good on ya for going to church, even though it's the wrong kind. I used to sneak into the Catholic church myself, upon occasion, because if you're looking for ooga booga, nobody does it better. Sometimes there's comfort in centuries old ritual. I think much of the noise and hoopla the new churches engage in today is unseemly. And a full drum kit? Gimme a break...

    So, enjoy your rum or your brandy in your egg nog, folks, stay off those snowy roads if you gottem, and snuggle with whomever you have handy. Turn the TV and the lights off, sit by candlelight, and listen to soft music. Or just the quiet of the night. Even if He wasn't born on this particular night, I give thanks that He was born, and this is just as good a night as any, I suppose.

    A Christmas cookie, and some Christmas nookie, and I'll be set. Wake up sore in the morning, and watch the kids rampantly consumerize. Love it.

    Merry Christmas to all!, and to all something good and tight!


    .




        Saturday, December 23, 2006

    Bye Bye, 'Day By Day'...

    I love Chris Muir's work, but either he allowed it, or someone hijacked his site.

    Whatever, until he fixes it, I'll not have it here.

    Too bad...so sad...


    .




       

    "Just Shut Up And Fuck Me..."

    The first time I heard that was from some woman I was trying to impress. To woo. Society, and other guys (yeah, I know: young...stupid) had led me to believe that was what women wanted. To be wooed, cuddled, cooed at...

    She grabbed my head, turned my face to her desperate eyes, and said "Just shut up and fuck me!" and I was never the same, again. She arched her hips against me, grabbed my prong, and proceeded to fuck us both stupid.

    Recently, it has come to my attention that I have been making a similar mistake, for all of the best reasons:

    She/I am too tired...

    The kids are awake...

    I'm typing...

    I'm cooking...

    I'm reading...

    My pussy/dick is sore...

    I'm having my period...

    Well, fuck all of that bullshit, I bought a license to drive you, it works both ways, so shut up and fuck me, or give me head, or jack me off, I don't care.

    And I'll do the same for you.

    The door swings both ways, guys. If you are in front of the computer, about to level up your Level 80 Mage in World of Warcraft, and she shows up at your shoulder with her robe open, and no panties at all, you better pause that motherfucker, and pull her snatch onto your tongue, and give her a proper tongue-lashing.

    Ladies? Lay down and spreadem. Or limber up your jaws. Or get out the hand lotion. We men don't care. Heck, she can lay there and read, and I'll pump one off in her ass-cleavage, wipe off her back, and we both go back to whatever we were doing.

    I've held my finger back, behind the couch, and she's rubbed off on it while the kids watched Sponge Bob.

    Too many people see marriage as a death sentence. I see it as 'orgasm on demand'. Rich fuckers build game rooms in their houses, and put all sorts of arcade games in them and such. Okay, I admit that's pretty cool, but my knees are still shaking from the savage fuck I just got a bit ago, and you just cannot buy that for a quarter. I hope.

    The wife and I went through a dry spell, and it frustrated and pissed us both off. She was stuck in the stinkin thinkin of well, there's nothing we can do about it, we're parents/busy/etcetera, and it took me, realizing that we were both still sexual Tyrannosauruses, to break us out of our stagnicity.

    I gave her a choice: free me to go get pussy elsewhere...free me from my vows, or: put out on demand, within reason. And I gave her the absolute same rights over me.
    Neither of us could stomach going outside the marriage (well... I coul...never mind) and we both agreed that, hey, unless the house was on fire, let's fuck.

    Kids die? Hey, we can adopt. They shoulda been more careful with that chainsaw.

    All that crap about 'putting spice in your relationship' is just so much propagandic bullshit.

    All you really need is some Astroglide, and a few minutes.


    .




       

    Bad News, Good News...

    I report, you deride.

    Actually, the only good news is that we may be able to go in and kill some muslims. When my youngest Marine was graduating from boot camp, I flew down to San Diego, and my taxi driver was a Skinny. I had already fished my Spyderco Police Model out of my kit, in the bathroom, in the airport, and I was ready to shove it into the base of his skull in a trice.

    From the linked story: Ethiopia? What the fuck? How an army could be lamer than the Italian Army is beyond me. Two words: Haley Sallasie. Haley? Hullo! Gay!

    Oh well...adds a whole new meaning to 'Kill A Commie For Christmas', I think.


    .




       

    If You're Depressed...

    ...it's because you suck.

    Ha! I kill me! While you kill yourself!

    Just kidding, you don't suck, you just need more persimmon cookies. Nothing like developing a sucking butt-wound to take your mind off of your other petty troubles, most of them which are, where? Right! In the past!

    And what is the first rule of Italian Driving, children? Right! What's behind you does not matter! So, tear off that rear-view mirror, toss it out the car window, and drive on...

    So much for Dr Phil. I hope he can find gainful employment now that I've replaced him.

    You see what a steady, early morning diet of Sponge Bob and Jimmy Neutron and that glass of wine I left out on the counter last night and would just hate to see go to waste gets you?

    Yes, the wife's at work. Yes, I'm 'parenting'.

    Prognosis is not good.

    Now, where's my aluminum pitcher...


    .




        Friday, December 22, 2006

    Don't Read...Well, You Know The Drill...(pt 3)

    ...and glass sprayed outwards from the upstairs bedroom. The 'Baby's Room', as they had all come to call it.

    Pastor Sam's wife came flying out and down, like a special effects shot gone terribly awry, but the snap of her forearms breaking, and the crunch of her kneecaps and forehead as they met the gravel was all too real.

    As Mommy's face raised up, her forehead embedded with chunks of white gravel, her lower face festooned with what looked like blackberry jam, and maybe small bits of pulled pork, Millicent hitched out a small cry, and dropped down to the drive, to sit for a while.
    Behind Sam, he heard thumping as the other two sought refuge deeper in the van.

    Pastor Sam brought the pitcher up, almost languidly and looked at his reflection in it. He noted that he had 'missed a spot'. Had they been doing the dishes together, he could just hear his beloved wife chiding him. Gently. Sweetness was her hallmark.
    He saw that in the spot he had missed, was a bit of dark matter, and some hairs. He nearly succumbed to hysteria when he asked himself the obvious question: "Which one of these is from the skull of my Dad?"

    He noted that there were a couple of blond hairs there, amongst the silver, and a few short brown ones, and his reverie nearly killed him...

    A stony scuttery sound brought him out of his fugue, and he saw his beautiful, loving wife crab-crawling across the white gravel towards him, mere feet away, her wrists flopping, like a rag doll's, her legs akimbo and dragging, her eyes blazing, and her jaws snapping at his daughter, seated there, with a terrible purpose, and...

    He brought the pitcher, up and over, and down, and smashed the base of it hard, onto the point where the nine bones of the skull of the woman who's virginity he had taken...been given, on the night of their marriage when they were both nineteen years of age...

    She cracked like a three-minute egg, and dropped as if all her strings had been cut, and her most secret sauce leaked out all over Millicent's buckle shoes, and began to spread up her pale blue socks, threatening to go all the way to the frilly lace anklets.

    His wife's fingers clawed in the white gravel, weakly, and mercifully, briefly, then stopped, and he dropped to his knees, and as he began to vomit helplessly on the one true love of his life's body, he could only hear his daughter choking back screams, and no sound at all from the van.

    They all well knew, by now, that they were not alone...


    Previews:

    ...as they stand around the sad, tiny hole under the tree in the backyard, next to the other mounds where a cat, and two hamsters are buried in their own shoeboxes...

    ...he has gathered up the scraps of his son, in yet another shoebox, and he wants to pray, to comfort his children with this ritual...

    ...the horror of that room, collecting the bits...

    ...the wife, rolled up in a tarp, drug out onto the burn-pile, just beyond the hedge, there, soaked in gasoline, the match in his hand, and he realizes that he is about to send a signal up into the sky that...others...can see. Smell.

    ...memories of the potluck that went...awry...

    ...who is that solitary figure, over there under the trees? Just standing there...




       

    More 'Evolution' Twaddle...

    So, a bone find the size of a human humerus leads to the 'discovery' of a 48 tonne animal?

    Extraordinary!

    I think I'll go bury some of Nat's baby teeth in a dig somewhere. Maybe those 'scientists' can extrapolate Godzilla. Somehow.

    Godzilla is cool.


    .




       

    You Need To Listen...

    ...to this.

    It's over an hour, and the first part is not terribly relevant (though interesting) but if you support the war (like me) you need to hear this.

    "...in my heart, I'm still a grunt...war is about killing..."

    Learn it, love it, live it.


    .




       

    Merry Christmas...

    Fifty years of Playboy Centerfolds.





























































    .




       

    Urgent Anus Update!

    As I know many of you are hanging on, anxiously awaiting news from my colon, I'd like to report that I nearly just farted a bit ago, but my asshole quickly shifted alert status from Defcorn 5 to Defcorn 1, claxons sounded, and I scampered (hey, scampering at such a time is plenty manly) to the bathroom and...

    I am relieved to report that my waste is solid, and substantive, and resembles the Democrat Party platform, and Rosie O'Dumbell's face, once again.
    A solid pile of shit.

    Whew. One thing I have not mentioned, is the peculiar effect that ingesting persimmon products has on the general breathable atmosphere for, oh, say several hundred cubic feet? Whenever you 'emit'? Whatever?

    In space, nobody can hear you fart, but you sure better have 'shields up' whenever one of these babies lets loose. Imagine a Romulan Plasma Torpedo...

    I blame the pectin.

    Crikey, my teeth stink...

    Just a thought, but this would be a lovely treat (the cookies, not my shit, although...) to take to the office Christmas party. You'd be a hero (they're awesome!) and in thirty minutes or so, perhaps with egg-nog and cocktail weenies acting as force multipliers, well...

    Nobody better light a match!


    .




       

    I Love Her Nose...




















    ...other parts are nice, too...






       

    So, I Shit The Bed Last Night...

    For the first time in living memory. Thought it was a fart. Boy, was I surprised. I Kegeled off the stream and managed to only squinch a squirt through my underwear, through my 'house shorts', and a shmear onto the sheets, and I may have said a curse word or two.

    I say this as a cautionary tale. A 'product warning', if you will, as I am about to post the wife's Persimmon Cookie recipe, so, abandon all hopes of continence, ye who enter here...

    She did this most reluctantly, handing over her recipe to me. Rather like Frodo relinquishing the Ring. I mean it. She was like a dragon, on her pile of gold, eyeing me with some suspicion, as if I were a brigand, come to steal her gold. Oh, and she shit her pants yesterday, too. Ha! She made it to the bathroom, and shinned her panties off and snuck them into the wash. She wasn't gonna tell me until I was bitching about my ordeal this morning.

    So, without further ado, and hopefully, doo-doo, I present you:


    Bane's Wife's Percimin Cookies

    [Hey, I just said she was smart, not that she was literate. I blame the public schools. And what else can you expect from a woman who shits her pants.]

    Preheat oven to 350
    (this recipe doubles easily)
    1 cup ripe percimins (pealed)
    1 teaspoon baking soda

    Food process and let set (sit?)
    Note: The pectin and soda will gel into a solid very quickly
    [For clarification: Persimmons are extremely high in natural pectin. No, you do not add it]

    Cream: 1/2 cup softened butter
    1 egg
    1 cup sugar
    2 teaspoons real vanilla extract

    Add: 2 cups all purpose flour
    1.5 teaspoon cinnamon
    1.5 teaspoon fresh grated nutmeg
    1.5 teaspoon ground cloves
    1/2 teaspoon ground ginger

    Then add 1.5 cups finely chopped walnuts, and .5 to 3/4 cup yellow raisins.

    Bake: 12-15 minutes until slightly browned on the edges, on ungreased cookie sheet, remove to cooling racks.

    Other options: grated orange or lemon zest (I say, why not both!) and a rum butter or citrus glaze is optional (again, I say why not both! that's what we're trying next).

    Purchase: large (6 roll) pack of Charmin 2-ply toilet paper. You'll need it.

    Coincidentally, I just finished wiping Nattie's ass, as she had shat a turd so huge it lifted majestically out of the water and up the bowl, like a beached whale.

    Merry Christmas!


    Update:

    Okay, The Saint is pissed. Thank goodness I extracted a promise from her to not whap me in the head (Saints do that? Why yes, they do) for what I wrote, above. She expected me to fix her spelling, but I thought it was cute, and she: MOST ASSUREDLY does not think it was cute, so, hello, doghouse.

    Woof.





       

    A Writing Exercise...

    I took some of you along. Sorry. Had to be done, couldn't help it.

    I can't believe some of you ignored my warning. I bet Taylor peeked. The wife recoiled at the first paragraph and turned and left the room. Hearing my mad laughter later, she queried, and finally read them both. Not her cup of tea, but she gave me reluctant props. Malaprops.

    You see, the first post just popped right into my head, and I had to write it. The picture was right there. Some people have to paint, I had to write. I saw every detail of the room. Of her. I had to know.

    But I knew better, and thus, the warning. Enter at your own risk. I chose to do it here, rather than in the privacy of Word, because this is where I am most comfortable. It is that simple.

    The second post sprang from the first, from simple (to my mind, anyway) logical progression. It had to be, and it had to be that way. Whenever I began to color outside of the lines, I heard an alarm jangle, erased, and got back with the program.
    If I continue this (and that is not assured) you and I will both have to see where it leads, and go there together. Or not. My only choice is to not write it. Your only choice is not to read.

    Stephen King has flirted with Christian Horror a time or two, like a virgin pursing her lips to smooch her first glans...oh, that's not really fair, a couple of times he has just cannonballed into it, but mostly, I think he has that Liberals 'fear of offending' thing going. 'What will people think?'

    Well, I don't give a shit. Go show your receipt and get your money back.

    And if I tell you not to read something, well...

    Maybe you should listen.


    .




        Thursday, December 21, 2006

    DO NOT READ THIS!!! (pt 2)

    Okay, I warned you fuckers...


    Her left heel drummed on the hardwood floor, for a bit. Then her right, for a bit more. Then both heels. Then her body bowed, pushing her up into a near perfect arch, then her buttocks, clad only in a nightie, smacked back down to the floor. She lay still, for a while.

    Motes danced in the sunlight for a bit, and all was quiet. For a bit. And then her fingernails began to castanet on the floor, then her hands clawed, peeling up curls of wax, and then she awoke, and sat up, a whoop of air leaving her lungs...

    Not to be replaced.

    She was hungry. In another life, she might have described herself as being 'a bit peckish', because she was too much of a gentlewoman to ever have said she was starving, but she was...

    Starving.

    Her avid eyes scanned the room, and settled on a bundle, wrapped in a fuzzy blue blanket, seemingly dropped there...abandoned. She flipped to her hands and knees in a trice, and scuttled across the floor, turned her head like a dog, snapped down, and began to...

    ____________

    Pastor Hammis opened the door to his mini-van, and crunched his left loafer down into the white gravel of his driveway. After a pause, the right loafer joined it, and he stood up, outside of his vehicle.
    Behind him he vaguely registered the side door sliding open, and more crunches as his other three children joined him there, in the afternoon sunlight.

    The service had gone well, and things had proceeded swimmingly, until the after-service potluck began, and then the situation had become, as his Dear Old Dad, the previous Rector, would have observed, and labeled as 'problematic'.

    He reached back into the van, between the two front seats, and brought out the heavy aluminum pitcher, that had held smoothies not just an hour ago, and then been covered with blood and hair, for a bit, and then, because Little Sarah screamed and seemed to want to roll up into a ball when she looked at it, he had taken the box of Handi-Wipes from under the seat and wiped it down.
    Still, it couldn't cover up the round dents, here and there, on the outside of the casing. He sighed. Turned to the kids. "You coming?"

    Todd looked a little pale, and he and Sarah sat down in the edge of the open cargo space. Millicent set her jaw, and stepped up beside him, and fished out her new house key, which she had only just newly been entrusted with at the beginning of this school year. She was a big girl, now. And brave.

    Sam Hammis, Pastor of his flock, Priest of his home, sighed, looked toward the front door of his quiet house, and stepped forward...
    _________________________




       

    Going Out On A Limb...

    Won't be the first time. Won't be the last.

    I just got back from a milblog, where many of my readers comment, and...

    Well, it's not my style (anymore) to beard someone in their own den, especially someone I respect as a brother, and just for going over there, into the hell...

    But...

    What a whiny-ass motherfucker. Shut up. Get over it. War is heck. Get over it. If your woman left you, you chose poorly to begin with, or she faced her own demons and lost.

    Deal.

    Yeah, PTSD is real. If yer a nut. I spent my time jumping into snow and mud filled gutters when a truck back-fired. Get over it. I did.

    Those cars coming up on you in the rear view mirror? Hello! Likely not hajis! Get over it. And if they are, shootem. 'Course, you bein a nut an all, you probably shouldn't be allowed around firearms for a while.

    You nut.

    Yeah yeah yeah, 'war is hell' blah blah blah. Get some perspective, motherfucker. Life is hell. Shit happens. Most of it is bad shit. Some of it is nightmare shit. Pain is just weakness leaving the body. Deal.

    You know what, whiny guy? Yeah, lay back and let someone force a bowling ball up your ass. Millions of women shit a baby every day. You don't hear them whining about PTSD. The next time they see a dick, do they run, screaming?

    Ooooo! And there's blood involved! Scawwy!

    The only blood that scares me is mine...maybe my wife and/or my kids. Yours? Well...not mine.

    Thank God.

    I appreciate the insights and perspectives into the shit we are into, 'over there', but for goodness sakes, quit whining.

    And the rest of you, please, quit enabling him.

    It's unseemly.

    Bitching and complaining, of course, is always appreciated. Should be required, in fact...


    .




       

    A Very Interesting...

    ...perspective.

    You might be surprised to know that I agree with Foxy Brown, my Nubian Queen, 100% on this.


    .




       

    Via The Inimitable...

    ...Yabu, I find this link to this absolutely lovely piece of writing.

    Couldn't have said it better myself, and guess what...

    You need to learn it, love it, and, sadly, you are already living it.


    .




       

    Do Not Read This...(Pt 1)


    I mean it. You have been warned...



    She rocked there, in her chair, in the sunlight, the poor cooling thing held against her chest.

    Rocking. Cooling. Her eyes empty.

    The chair creaks, and groans, as if it, too, cannot bear this burden...

    At some point, she realizes that instinct has taken over, and that she has opened her robe, and set it to suck, there, once warm, now cool against her breast. Which aches, full of milk. The nipple, bereft, yet eager, but little blue lips just refuse to take it, and the tiny moist sound they make as she tries, pulls her mind out of that special reverie mothers go into when they feed their young, and...

    She begins to scream...


    Hey. I warned you.




       

    Wow!

    A faggot I don't hate!

    Gay designer STEFANO GABBANA is against the idea of same sex couples becoming parents, because he believes children need both a mother and a father. Gabbana insists taking a child away from its mother is "cruel" and that he will never adopt, although a female friend recently agreed to become the surrogate mother of his child through artificial insemination. He says, "I am opposed to the idea of a child growing up with two gay parents. A child needs a mother and a father. "I could not imagine my childhood without my mother. I also believe that it is cruel to take a baby away from its mother."

    Wonders never cease...


    .




       

    Martial Arts, Redux...

    I forgot (or neglected to) mention in my post below, my recommendation for a Baby's First Martial Arts Instruction Program...

    I highly recommend that everybody start off with Judo, especially the kids. Learning how to fall properly and instinctively has saved my ass more than any other thing I've learned in my life, except maybe my defensive driving courses. Which also reminds me...


    I just want to interject, here, that I bet you a nickel you've got a P.O.S.T. Certified Police Academy at a junior college somewhere around you. If you do, don't phone them (cuz they'll likely shine you on) go there and see if you can take their firearms and defensive driving courses as stand-alone courses. I bet you can. My police academy would let you.
    If you've never fired a gun, they'll teach you the basics, and then some. You'll likely have to provide your own gun, so buy what they tell you, so you don't get refused.

    And everybody who drives a car should go through at least one defensive/offensive driving course.

    So, Judo. And don't let people talk crap to you about gi's and such. Buy them, wear them, and be glad for them. Mat-burns hurt. Think of the whole thing as training wheels, that you take off when you get confident enough to ride without them.
    Eventually, if you stick with it, you'll fight in street clothes and shoes. I recommend you working out at least part of the time in what you wear to work. What you wear to the bar. What you normally wear.

    Kind of eye opening, and can really influence future buying decisions. A light leather vest or jacket can stop a lot of knife slashes, and dull the thud of a fist some. And being in the wrong shoes can get you killed. SAS makes a lot of attractive, yet sensible shoes for women. Expensive.

    Vox has some pretty good advice on choosing, for lack of a better word, 'schools'. But I would be comfortable with a 'belt factory' (where they just want to make money to sell you new and different colored belts) if they do the basics, and have lots of kids of the same age group (and size) together, with plenty of instructors and assistants to keep an eye on the kids.

    You don't want a smaller child getting bullied and/or dominated by a larger one in the beginning. There will be plenty of time for that later. Let some false confidence build up, then tear it down. Nobody should feel like they're a badass in the real world. Mike Tyson and Cassius Clay have both had the black beat off em a time or two. I have been stomped. More than once.

    Think of Judo as you would a tumbling class, or ballet. And by the way, if only women teach the class, ballet is fantastic for boys. They get to be around girls, and learn grace, poise, and balance. And endurance and suppleness, too. Think about it.
    I, personally, would keep my kid in Judo until junior, maybe senior high. I'd switch them around to different schools, so they don't get contaminated too much by any one instructor who thinks he's God's Gift to the sport.
    Plus, if they develop a bond with their classmates there is a strong chance that they are going to pull their punches, and that is a bad habit to start. You want them to be the new kid, suspicious of everybody.

    Don't be afraid to give your kid a break, either. They're not fucking Rocky. Lighten up. Reward success, shun failure. Buy Arnica Gel, it really works to take away bruising, and pain.

    Some of you reading this may be old. Find an instructor your age. That understands your limitations, and perhaps shares them themselves. Women? Begin training under a woman (oh my, that just gave me wood). Alternate between women and men (sproing!) but in the beginning, a woman. That's my advice, take it or leave it. A female street cop or former street cop, if you can find one, because I guarantee you she's had her ass kicked for real a time or six, and there is no substitute for experience. There should be male students in her class. Shows she has confidence.

    Now, I confess to not knowing crap about the new (to me anyway) stuff like Krav Maga, and a few other things I've heard about. Hey, if they work, they work. Any technique is better than no technique at all. Maybe.

    Just never forget, it's all rock-paper-scissors, any move can be countered, and buggering off at a high rate of speed to live to fight (or bugger off again) another day has no dishonor attached to it.

    And if you've found any value in these words, gimme a damn dollar.

    Dammit.





       

    Another Damn List...

    Via Sparrow.
    Okay, I'll play along, and I'm reading it for the first time as I do this. I will bold the things I've done.

    Rules - copy the list and bold face the items you've done. Send it back to
    the friend who sent it to you, then send it on to other friends. Ask them
    about their experiences!

    01. Bought everyone in the bar a drink
    02. Swam with wild dolphins (fukkem)
    03. Climbed a mountain
    04. Driven anything over 100 MPH
    05. Been inside the Great Pyramid (fukkem)
    06. Held a tarantula (fukkem)
    07. Taken a candlelit bath with someone (fucked em)


    08. Said "I love you" and meant it
    09. Hugged a tree
    10. Bungee jumped (fuck that)
    11. Visited Paris (fuck them)
    12. Watched a lightning storm at sea
    13. Stayed up all night long and saw the sun rise
    14. Seen the Northern Lights
    15. Gone to a huge sports game
    16. Walked the stairs to the top of the leaning Tower of Pisa
    17. Grown and eaten your own vegetables
    18. Touched an iceberg
    19. Slept under the stars
    20. Changed a baby's diaper (fuck that)
    21. Taken a trip in a hot air balloon
    22. Watched a meteor shower
    23. Gotten drunk on champagne
    24. Given more than you can afford to charity
    25. Looked up at the night sky through a telescope
    26. Had an uncontrollable giggling fit at the worst possible moment
    27. Had a food fight
    28. Bet on a winning horse
    29. Asked out a stranger
    30. Had a snowball fight
    31. Screamed as loudly as you possibly can
    32. Held a lamb
    33. Seen a total eclipse of the moon.
    34. Ridden a roller coaster
    35. Hit a home run
    36. Danced like a fool and not cared who was looking
    37. Adopted an accent for an entire day
    38. Actually felt happy about your life, even for just a moment
    39. Had two hard drives for your computer
    40. Visited all 50 states
    41. Taken care of someone who was drunk
    42. Had amazing friends
    43. Danced with a stranger in a foreign country (fuck them)
    44. Watched wild whales (fuck them, too)
    45. Stolen a sign
    46. Backpacked in Europe (fukkem)
    47. Taken a road-trip
    48. Gone rock climbing
    49. Midnight walk on the beach
    50. Gone sky diving (if helicopters count)
    51. Visited Ireland (oh, bugger those fuckers, the fucking fucks)
    52. Been heartbroken longer than you were actually in love
    53. In a restaurant, sat at a stranger's table and had a meal with them (get away from my food, motherfucker)
    54. Visited Japan (wish I could, would love to)
    55. Milked a cow
    56. Alphabetized your CDs
    57. Pretended to be a superhero
    58. Sung karaoke
    59. Lounged around in bed all day
    60. Played touch football
    61. Gone scuba diving
    62. Kissed in the rain
    63. Played in the mud
    64. Played in the rain
    65. Gone to a drive-in theater
    66. Visited the Great Wall of China (Double fukkem)
    67. Started a business (yep)
    68. Fallen in love and not had your heart broken
    69. Toured ancient sites
    70. Taken a martial arts class
    71. Played D&D for more than 6 hours straight (never played it)
    72. Gotten married
    73. Been in a movie
    74. Crashed a party
    75. Gotten divorced
    76. Gone without food for 5 days
    77. Made cookies from scratch
    78. Won first prize in a costume contest
    79. Ridden a gondola in Venice
    80. Gotten a tattoo
    81. Rafted the Snake River
    82. Been on television news programs as an "expert"
    83. Got flowers for no reason
    84. Performed on stage
    85. Been to Las Vegas (does driving through count?)
    86. Recorded music
    87. Eaten shark
    88. Kissed on the first date
    89. Gone to Thailand (Phukem)
    90. Bought a house
    91. Been in a combat zone
    92. Buried one/both of your parents
    93. Been on a cruise ship
    94. Spoken more than one language fluently
    95. Performed in Rocky Horror (performed with the rest of the audience)
    96. Raised children
    97. Followed your favorite band/singer on tour
    99. Taken an exotic bicycle tour in a foreign country
    100. Picked up and moved to another city
    101. Walked the Golden Gate Bridge
    102. Sang loudly in the car, and didn't stop when you knew someone was looking
    103. Had plastic surgery (reconstructive, yes)
    104. Survived an accident that you shouldn't have survived (not car
    accidents)
    105. Wrote articles for a large publication
    106. Lost over 100 pounds
    107. Held someone while they were having a flashback
    108. Piloted an airplane
    109. Touched a stingray
    110. Broken someone's heart
    111. Helped an animal give birth
    112. Won money on a T.V. game show (my Mom was Queen For A Day once)
    113. Broken a bone
    114. Gone on an African photo safari
    115. Had a facial part pierced other than your ears
    116. Fired a rifle, shotgun, or pistol
    117. Eaten mushrooms that were gathered in the wild
    118. Ridden a horse
    119. Had major surgery
    120. Had a snake as a pet
    121. Hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon
    122. Slept for more than 30 hours over the course of 48 hours - Good Drugs
    123. Visited more foreign countries than U.S. states
    124. Visited all 7 continents
    125. Taken a canoe trip that lasted more than 2 days
    126. Eaten kangaroo meat (soon, baby, soon...)
    127. Eaten sushi
    128. Had your picture in the newspaper
    129. Changed someone's mind about something you care deeply about
    130. Gone back to school
    131. Parasailed
    132. Touched a cockroach
    133. Eaten fried green tomatoes
    134. Read The Iliad - and the Odyssey
    135. Selected one "important" author who you missed in school, and read
    136. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
    137. Skipped all your school reunions
    138. Communicated with someone without sharing a common spoken language
    139. Been elected to public office
    140. Written your own computer language
    141. Thought to yourself that you're living your dream
    142. Had to put someone you love into hospice care
    143. Built your own PC from parts
    144. Sold your own artwork to someone who didn't know you
    145. Had a booth at a street fair
    146. Dyed your hair
    147. Been a DJ - just once and I sucked at it!
    148. Shaved your head
    149. Caused a car accident
    150. Saved someone's life