Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Barbarians At The Gate...
At the gate? Heck, they're inside it already. This is how a city dies
. It's a long read, and I'm only on page 4, but I think people desperately need to see, to have their eyes open, at what the Mexicans intend for this entire country, if we let them.
All that labor and opportunity talk is just a smokescreen. They want our land, and they want us out of it, and we are enabling them.
I really do think it's too late. The spics have a Hacienda, Strong Man mentality, and that is how they are chopping up our states, piece by piece. First the happy smiling workers, and when they reach a certain saturation point, the smiles fade, and they begin terraforming their stolen section of America into Mexico.
We have no place to go, and as a people, we are too weak-willed to fight. Heck, our military is full of them already. Good American Patriots all, I'm sure.
America is staring into the chasm of extinction. If you are an American...
This means you.
Lies, And Damn Lies...
I saw this in the comments of another blog where slimy Liberal Orcs are battling noble Conservative Men and Elves:
That’s pretty funny. Hans Blix’s Valentine’s Day, 2003, report to the UN noted that there were still 1,000 tons of chemical agent unaccounted for, among other things. The CIA said it was a slam-dunk that he had them. Iraqi military officers _thought_ they were going to be issued them during the 2003 invasion. Russian intelligence warned the US he had them. Bill Clinton publicly supported the invasion in 2003, firmly believing Saddam had WMDs. Even Joseph Wilson’s classified (and later declassified) report to the CIA supported the contention that Saddam had approached Nigeria about purchasing yellowcake, though Nigeria turned him down.
The real lie about WMDs is the one you’re spouting.
Memorize that, and stuff it down the throat of the next Libtard you confront on this issue.
It's The Little Things...
I don't know how it is with you, but me, I can weather all sorts of big huge crisis's, no problem, but when some little frigging thing comes along, it can send me through the roof.
I remember once when I had to stop every ticking clock we had in the house. The house would get quiet, and they would drive me nuts with the ticking. And we have lots of clocks. I want to know what time it is wherever I am in the house, same as I want to be near a gun.
So I got a few of the wife's thin mini-pads and cut them in squares and went around the house with double-sided tape, and padded between the clocks and the walls they were hung on, or under the tables or dressers or whatever they were sitting on.
I get a chip in my fingernail, and I am worthless until I trim it. Got a string hanging off the cuff of my shirt? Ditto. Little things.
So, I've got this gel wrist-rest mouse pad that I use. I inherited it from my son when he went into the Marines. And now there's a split in the wrist-rest, that exposes me to the sticky whateveritis gel inside unless I place everything just right, and still, my errant wrist will wonder over sometimes, and the damn thing attaches to me like a sucker-fish, gives me a gooey wet kiss, and leaves a little slime on me as I recoil in disgust.
Okay, I take it back. This is not a little thing.
Apparently extremely limited release, and then straight to DVD. I'd like to see this. Anything by Mike Judge has got my attention.
The Adventure Continues...
Johnny came down with the crud at about 6am today, spewing from both ends. The wife caught this one. He's on the couch, now, watching cartoons through half-lidded eyes, and looks like a pile of sodden white pasta someone left there. Temp of 102.
Nat is the reluctant nurse and bucket fetcher. I have set her to making sure he keeps covered, and being 'Bucket Girl', and she is somewhere between 'nurturing' and 'fuck this!'. Tough tittie, Little Missy, Daddy has important blogging to do.
I was supposed to go up to the VA hospital today, but the weather sucks, plus I just didn't want to. The mountains to the west of us tend to act like a razor blade, chopping up lines of powder that cross over them, and each line sifts down over us.
I am fearful of that (thankfully) rare and terrible familial event, where both parents are deathly ill, and the little kids are healthy. Ugh. Both of my parents got mono when I was in eighth grade, and I had to nurse them, since a bad case of mono just puts you down. I also had to go to school, and go to my job as a dishwasher (kids could work back then... I've been paying employment taxes since I was 13). I used the small bit of money I got from that job to buy the small bit of groceries they were able to consume, and we made it through. I bicycled everywhere.
got the mono. I'd fall asleep on the floor several times, while crawling from the bed to the bathroom. Very nasty stuff.
I just went down to check on Johnny, and he gave me a start. A flashback. His looks and the attitude he was laying in reminded me of all his desperate times in the hospital, and I was nearly overwhelmed. I can truthfully say that I would not wish upon my worst enemy seeing their child struggling in a hospital bed.
I mean it. There are people I hate so bad I wish them dead, and some I would cheerfully execute myself. I still wouldn't wish them to go through what we've gone through. Even Muslims. Sure, kill them and their entire families, but do it quick and clean and merciful in a flash of fire.
It touches even my hard heart to see a Muslim parent cradling their wounded child in their arms, even though they would doubtless do the same for me with great verve and gusto.
The wife is out buying a pregnancy test kit. Yes, I know we had her spayed, but she has one tube left, and Gargantua delivers a mighty payload, and we fear an ectopic pregnancy. She lost her other tube and our first child to one. With resultant scarring to the other tube. Which makes both Johnny and Nat miracle babies. Shocked the piss out of her doctors, I'll tell you.
Like I need more drama in my life...Update:
Well, the wife peed on the stick thingy, and it came up negative. I asked her if she'd held her cooter right, and got The Look. Still, she bought two of them, and has a doctor's appointment, so we'll see. She's WAAAAY late on her period.
Nat asked for and received and ate a half a grilled cheese sandwich, so I think she's pretty much out of the woods, except for the snot.
John still looks like a roughly used and cast away condom, idly tossed on the couch. Deflated.
Life goes on...
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
The Joos Made Me Do It!
I don't get this
. But then again, I've never truly understood these nasty, violent retarded children. Palestinians? Heck, even other Arabs kill them. It takes crazy to recognize even more crazy.
I guess that's what you get when all you read is the stupid-ass koran all day, and get buggered by the Imam and his other boyfriends.
Just a bunch of crazy retarded children. And we ship them money and guns, so...
What does that make us?
Now, I'm No Economist...
...I'm just an armchair strategist, but I predicted this
a long time ago. I predicted it as the opening salvo to a preemptive strike on our country by China and Russia and their Muslim allies.
The US and Israel have been doing a huge amount of saber rattling towards Iran, to such a point that it appears inevitable. So why not utilize Bush's perfectly sane and sound
policy of preemption themselves, against us?
When I am playing a strategy game, and it appears that I am about to lose the forces I have in play, I attack with everything I've got, and destroy as many resources as I can. Sometimes I win.
The first attacks won't even look like attacks, just stuff like in the above linked story. Look for some sort of Chinese aggression against Taiwan soon, too. That's what I'd do. Make your opponent try to walk across a kitchen floor covered in marbles.
Most of our elected officials have been bought and paid well for for years, half of our population are listless traitors, and we have allowed millions of invaders to come into our land and take root.
And do you think Mother Russia has forgiven us for what we did to them in Afghanistan? We are about to attack Iran for doing the same thing to us in Iraq. Let's at least be honest with ourselves.
I am so comfortable with the fact that our news organizations are more than happy to publish our top secret battle plans that have been leaked to them by Clinton holdovers (moles) that Bush was too stupid to purge when he took over. Dumbass
I hate Bill Clinton, but I admired the ruthless way he swept out all of Bush's appointees when he took over. I bet all of those people who lost their jobs were just delighted to hear Bush Sr calling their executioner his 'new son'.
Oh well, I just hope my kid gets back from Iraq and up here on leave with his brother before the Chinese sub offshore nukes camp Pendleton
, San Diego, and the entire L.A. Basin. Thanks again Bill Clinton
for allowing the Chinese the technology to make the quietest
subs on the planet.
Have I mentioned we're fucked?
Now, That's Comedy Gold...
Ever been in a store run by Asians, and had some blacks come in? It's like throwing a cat and a dog in a box together.
In case I haven't mentioned it, because I do not define myself by my color, I am white. I can go freely into a black or Asian business, and be treated like a customer. If one or the other of those two species encroaches on one or the other's turf, whoo boy, look out. And everybody hates the spics, and they hate everybody.
Funny, when I go into a muzzie-owned store, one of them always follows me around like I'm a nigger. I get the fish-eye the entire time I'm in there. But like I've said elsewhere, damn but if those aren't the cleanest, neatest stores in town.
Oh well, we've never had racial harmony, and never will. And whites kill whites, and blacks kill blacks, and everybody kills each other, and that's just how it's gonna be until God calls 'Game Over!', and if you don't like it, I'll kill you.
Ha! Just kidding. That would take effort.
Do Not Begrudge The Garbage Man...
...his wage. He does a job I would not care to do for any pay, on fair days and foul, and this day is spectacularly foul.
Strong winds, with gusts to 45mph, and still, the trucks rumble and growl outside. Oddly, I've never seen a female garbage-person. Why is that, do you suppose?
I've never played that game, enjoyed by idiots, wherein I begrudge anyone the money they make. I don't like gougers, but you didn't have to give them the money you allowed them to gouge you out of. I don't mind a bit that Ted Turner and Bill Gates are rich. I would hate them, rich or poor, and I think it says something not too nice about a person that they niggle about the financial status of a person. Except for poor people. I hate those fuckers.
I neither know nor care what the rest of the world thinks about anything, but this country has grown entirely too Classist for my tastes. Used to be, you had what you had, strove for more, and only worried about what the other guy had to the extent that you tried to keep your lawn better looking than his.
Now, with the advent of continuous and ever-prying news media, having initiated a culture of celebrity worship and envy, you start to hear the rumblings of discontent from the Have-Nots, with more and more suggestions that things be taken away from the Haves, simply because they have it.
It used to be that you envied a person who had more than you did, but they gave you hope that you, too, could one day hope to attain that level.
Now, measures have been put in place for the forcible taking of that persons wealth and property, and avenues exist for the envier to acquire that persons wealth and/or property without any real effort on their part.
And I'm not just referring to the Welfare State, or abominations like Kelo, I'm talking about confiscatory tax rates that cause a person to lose their house, coupled with government programs aimed at the poor to allow them to turn around and purchase that house with taxpayer funded grant monies.
And you thought Communism was dead...
Monday, February 26, 2007
...this guys work. He's listed as 'Kolyada.com' in the links in my sidebar. Go check his stuff out. This is new, and he's just getting better.
And remember, the medium he works in is: ball-fucking-point PEN!
Note: the bottom picture is a blowup of the detail in the top one. How this guy has anything at listed as 'For Sale' and not 'Sold' is beyond my understanding.
...the next stone cold dead Beaner
is going to be.
Yep. You do NOT fuck with Big Oil and last long.
Couldn't happen to a nicer pumpkin-head...
If you haven't already, you need to check this guy
I've seen him on 'Red Eye', and he seems to be a super personable, erudite guy, and all around stud. I hope they put him on regularly. You would do well to buy his DVD. I've seen several clips from it, and the one up on his page is by far the most dramatic, I think. In one spot, I nearly jumped out of my chair.
And speaking of 'Red Eye', I'm not sure, but I think she might have come out as Pro-Infanticide, which if true, saddens me deeply, and takes her off my list of hotties I masturbate over.
Sorry For The Boring...
I've been a little preoccupied. It's hard to keep Nat down today, and it's hard to get me up. She wants to run around, and I'm a lump.
The wife thinks Nat's pretty much well. Nat has the trots, of course. Might just be the apple juice. She ate an egg this morning, and slept through the night, except for a bed-crapping incident. Well, it stayed in her pull-up, and it is scary that I completely slept through the entire ordeal as the wife cleaned her up.
It was my turn. I protected the wife for two nights, she owed me one. I didn't wake up til 10:30am. Family illness takes something out of the whole family. Johnny got pretty much neglected, except for basic needs, so he'd done about had enough of that crap by yesterday afternoon, and began shadowing me everywhere I went. He pretty much attached himself to my hip, and snuggled in next to me whenever I sat down.
I have enough parenting experience to know that Nat could relapse in a moment. Or not. We keep the bucket handy. I think I fought the bug off, whatever it was. I don't know how medically accurate this is, but I've always had this image in my mind of little kid bugs being smaller, and more easily defeated by adult immune systems. I don't know, but it's happened to me a lot, where I'll get a 'touch' of something, and then it'll pass without too much bother.
I could care a shit about the Oscars, what with me being heterosexual and all, but I did hear today that Al Gore managed to effectively devalue all the Oscars anybody else has ever won. He is to Oscars what Arafat was to Nobel Peace Prizes.
Oh well. Our little family appears to be coming out on the other side of this latest drama. I watch Johnny close. He does not handle sickness well. Even a simple cold can be life-threatening to him. That should make some of my crazier trolls happy.
Hey, use my link over there and follow it to Hog On Ice, and a few posts down, you'll find a link to Sondra K's blog where she has a fantastic looking Lemon Scented Blackberry Pancake recipe. I just printed it out for the wife, and we're gonna try it real soon. The Lemon Butter recipe there is worth the trip alone.
While I'm talking about food, one of Steve's commenters on one of his chili posts mentioned pouring cornbread batter on top of cooked chili and finishing it in the oven. That is just a fantastic way to do it.
We like to (generally) make our chili in the crock pot, and slow cook it. Then transfer it into our iron Dutch Oven and pour the batter over it, throw a pile of grated cheese on it, put the lid on, and bake it. You can use a glass baking pan if you don't have a Dutch Oven.
The fast and dirty method is to get a can or two of your favorite chili (we like Stagg, with Walla-Walla onions in it) and a box of cornbread mix, heat the chili in a pan on the stove while you mix up the cornbread, then pour the chili into a pan, throw on the batter and cheese, and bake til the cornbread is done. If you want to get fancy, you can chop up and onion and mix it into the batter along with the cheese, some chili powder, paprika, dried (or fresh, yum) chives, whatever floats your boat. Sliced jalapeños.
Well, look, I've gone and made myself hungry. Time to go forage...Update:
Okay, it was delicious. Johnny ate more than I did.
2 cans Nalley's Chili, one cheese, one HOT, both with meat
1 can Ro-Tel
. (see link for type, there's several)
1/3 medium onion, chopped
sharp cheddar cheese, pile
Marie Callendar's Original cornbread mix
Dump chili into glass baking dish. Mix cornbread batter. Stir two tablespoons of Ro-Tel into batter, stir the rest of the can into the chili. Also the chopped onion. Pour batter on top and spread evenly, bake at 375 for at least 30 minutes, begin checking at 20. Five minutes after you decide the cornbread is almost
done, dump the cheese on top and spread it out.
I doubt if it took her five minutes to put this meal together, and then the cooking time. We took it out too soon, so we finished off the crust in the microwave.
And you can tart it up any way you'd like. Next time I'd like to throw some Fritos into the chili. This was a sweet cornbread, which gave us leeway to really Bam! up the heat more than we normally would. Next time I want to stir Mrs Renfro's sliced jalapeños into the batter, too.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
I Puke, Therefore I Am...
I say goodbye to
Green Eggs and Ham,
I think I swallowed
an urchin or two
they jostle my tummy
and cause me to spew...
Some wine, I think
would make me feel better
or maybe just stain
the wife's good sweater.
Actually I kid
don't feel all that bad
some vino and naps
might make me less sad...
or I'll wake in a pool
of my own vomit
Hey! I've got Codeine!that
should calm it.
Why You Don't Spit On It...
...or burn it
. Made my day.
And thanks for this
, Burt, good news to wake up to.
Folks, I just woke up for a bit, and I think the Green Demon is trying to get its hooks in me. Nat is doing a little better. A little. Drugged her ass and she slept through the night. Except for the parts every thirty minutes she made animal sounds and I had to go check on her.
I don't know if I'm sick, or just suffering from exhaustion, but a bit ago I chilled so hard I feared I'd break my teeth chattering, and my temp is a skosh away from 100.
We shall see. Though whatever you see, it's not likely to be me. Pray for Wendy in her snowy hellhole. Pray for Toni's son. Pray for my boy, who is due to come home soon, and is getting mortared and rocketed pretty regular.
A good day to pray...
Saturday, February 24, 2007
I was dozing on Johnny's bed keeping Nat company in their room, and at 11:30 am a couple of fucking Mexicans banged on the door looking for 'people who speak Spanish'. Go away bitches.
I look out the window, and there's groups of them, going from door to door, dressed Jehovah's Witness style. WTF?
[Interlude: Just back from Nat, barfing. She said she was starving, and she'd held down a couple of sippy cups of Gatorade, so I tried her with some vanilla yogurt, and a half a piece of toast. A definite no-go. Funny thing was, she didn't actually puke, but she drug yogurt all over her sheets while spazzing out for the bucket, so yes, as a matter of fact the washer IS running again, thank you for asking.]
Where was I... oh yeah, fuck today. And fuck Mexicans. And people who come to your door unsolicited. Ever. Fuckers.
I am just the most unhappy camper, ever. The wife is going to part 2 of the thing she went to last night, leaving me all alone. Then, since she had to get up early and go to work, I did all of the nursing and parenting myself to protect her sleep. So I've got Johnny happy downstairs, fed, playing with trains, watching cartoons, and listening to Raffi, a person who is torture to my ears.
How, you may ask is he able to do that, you might ask. Well, I'll tell you. A bit ago as I was tucking a fresh sheet over Nat, and pulling up her blankets, she looked so miserable huddled there, that I asked her if she wanted to listen to any music, and she brightened some and said "Oh yes please, Daddy!"
so I popped open the lid to the CD player on their dresser and said something along the lines of 'Ugh, Raffi' and she said "Oh, I love Raffi"
so I pressed play.
Little did I realize, or stop to even think, that I have the baby monitor on, so now as I type, I hear that Raffi has a spider on his head, and he wishes he was dead, and well, that makes two of us, I think. Oh please, not the Dredel Dredel Dredel song...
And Johnny is happily bebopping to Raffi on the downstairs speaker. All Raffi, all the time.
This is going to be a long day...Update:
Again mit da shleeping. Again mit da cultists bam-bam-bamming on the door, and fondling my doorbell. Mormons this time. Two hot chicks. I had a gun in my hand. Behind the door of course.
I pondered allowing them in, and then forcing them to disrobe, and perform cunnilingus upon each other, but, you know, there is just no really good way to explain that to your children. And you also just know the little rat-finks will run and tattle to Mommy when she gets home.
I bet those chicks wouldn't have said a word to anybody after I let them go, though.
So I told them I had the flu (hey, could
be true) coughed on them, and slammed the door.
Friday, February 23, 2007
More Americans Are Killed...
...by illegal aliens
each year, than in nearly the entire war in Iraq.
And now, here come the Mexican truckers
Let the carnage asada begin...
Urgent Fish-Tank Update!
Well, Ladyfish MkX is doing very well, and ever more weller since the wife brought home the worms. I suspect the Pet Shop people use some sort of mind control rays on her, cuz she goes there to get the tank water tested (it's free) and comes back with bags of shit, every time. Maybe the guy is just really hot. Hmmmmmmm... I'll have to go with her next time and check things out. Honey, if you're gonna fuck for fish, fuck for better fish, okay?
All right, that's just sick and wrong, right there. Sigh...
So, anyway, she comes back, balancing several bags, her bra on backwards (just kidding!) (about the bra!) (not the bags!) (dammit!) and I help her in, and it seems that the guy convinced her that our current aquarium rocks were leaching dolomite or dilithium crystals or something out into the water, so he sold her a big bag of some other kind of rocks he says are better.
Please note that this is the same store that sold us the original rocks in the first place.
And she bought a stick. Well, piece of wood. Apparently, there is special wood out there, that has magical pH balancing properties. She bought an algae eating fish, just a tiny little thing, with obvious ADD symptoms. And she bought just the cutest little shrimp you ever did see, to eat algae and poo as well.
And the worms.
They are stored in the fridge, in a yogurt cup, that happens to be one of Nat's favorite flavors. I am eagerly awaiting that
special moment, right there, I'll tell ya. When she goes foraging for a snack, and....
I just shivered a bit. Oh, the possibilities for parenting fun are nearly endless. Drop one in the tub. Drape one across the bristles of a toothbrush. There, I shivered with happiness again...
Anyway, Ladyfish went absolutely BATshit! for those worms. I do believe she would have eaten them til she died. And then the frog spotted them from the other side, and came barreling through the barricade and began to snork them up wildly, like a starving little green hunchback.
And when the wife dropped a load (doesn't that sound naughty?) into the other side, you'd have thought she'd put an electric prod up the catfish's ass, the way he went berserk over them.
Feeding time at the Banequarium is gonna be Happy Fun Time from now on. It's a blast to watch them all go nuts.
Used to be, the wife would drop in their pellets or flakes or whatever, and they all got that expression on their faces school kids get when the lunch lady in the cafeteria plops a bowl of Lima Beans down on your tray, or a big plop of horse cum... or maybe that's just what we
Now, they all act like the wife dropped cocaine in there. Well, except for the shrimp, who just clatters busily along the bottom, paddling around the rocks... "Oh look! More poo! I've died and gone to Heaven!"
Oh, and the little sucker-fish, who just skids along the glass like a window washer. I think that's what Muslim Terrorists (isn't that redundant?) actually get when they die. They get sent to the aquariums of infidels to suck algae of the glass. Algae reproduce asexually, right? So they're technically virgins, right? Here's your virgins, Ahmed, suck away!
I'd like to get another shrimp and put it on Lady's side. See if she beats the shit out of it or not.
Maybe buy it another stick to take cover under...
Nat is sick again. Temp of 102, and shivering in her bed, where she put her ownself. A very unusual occurrence, in that I have never seen her do that before.
What gives? She just got over being sick, after just getting over being sick, after...
I guess it's inevitable that Johnny is going to drop soon, then. It appears they pass it around. Great, and I let him eat out of my soup bowl. His own spoon, but...
I keep hearing about this 'Norwalk Virus' going around. I mean, wouldn't the kids build up an immunity? Isn't that what flu shots are supposed to do? Dammit, I don't believe in flu shots, for myself, anyway, but I'm gonna have the wife and kids go get em. I'm tired of this crap.
Hey, maybe we have that 'Sick House Syndrome' thingy I've heard about, where mold or something makes you sick.
I dunno, gotta do something.
Every other time I go up to VA, the food court has signs on the self serve stuff (like pizza) saying 'No Self Service Due To An Outbreak Of The Norwalk Virus'. Why anybody would allow people to be putting their booger-hooks all over the food anywhere, let alone a hospital, is beyond my ken. I've actually seen nasty fuckers there (and elsewhere) pawing over the donuts to decide which one they want. Yeesh.
I don't eat anything up there that I didn't bring myself, or buy and unwrap out of a vending machine. And have you ever seen some asshole at a buffet decide they took too much of something, and pick it up and put it back? With their hand? Off a plate they already ate once off of? Double-yeesh! And I know if Paul is reading this, his toes are curled up inside his shoes, or tearing carpet out of the rug. Me, too.
Oh well, The Masque Of The Green Near-Death has descended upon Bane House. The wife is headed out for more Children's Tylenol and chicken noodle soup.
Nat just puked a bucket-load. Good girl. Excellent puking. The wife held her hair back at the toilet, while I took the trash-can liner out of the bucket and went downstairs and scandalized Johnny with it for a bit. Then I had him open a paper grocery sack for me and I dropped the tied off bag in, washed my hands, and took the package to the front door to take out when she goes.
The urge to take it to one of the neighbour's houses front porch, set the sack on fire, ring the doorbell, and run, was almost too overpowering, but I resisted.
The wife is going tonight to a thing she signed up for to go to weeks ago, so I am only whining a little about being left alone with a sick kid.
And my, but don't so many of us spend a lot of time blogging about blogging. If this isn't the most self-centered, introspective medium I've ever seen, I don't know what is.
Anyway, I've been trying to come up with a name for what kind of blogger I think I am. I thought up 'Free Range Blogger' at first, and then changed it to 'Freeblogger', but I think I like Pureblogger better, myself.
There are Milbloggers, all military all the time. There are political bloggers. Diarists. Essayists. Bloggers attached to companies or organizations of some sort. There's linkers, and porn-hounds. There's fiction blogs. Fan blogs. Cooking blogs. Heck, I've even seen knitting blogs, and blogs where they just throw math equations at each other.
And then there's me. I do it all (well, not the knitting or math) and I do it anonymously, and I'm beholden to no one, and I can and do say anything I want. So far.
I'm not seeking fame or recognition, in fact, I take steps (or don't take them) to actively avoid it. But I notice that the bloggers who get the TV face time and the write-ups are either the one trick pony bloggers (usually political) or bloggers who rub elbows with already famous people.
I've known and met famous people a lot, and almost without exception, they are utter, self-centered, malicious dicks, and why anyone would actively seek to socialize with them is beyond me. The preening and glad-handing that goes on at those things is enough to gag a maggot.
I'm happy to apply for a job I want, but I'm not getting on my knees under a desk for it. Unless she's hot. Hey, eatin ain't cheatin, right?
Well, I see more and more bloggers getting face time, and the media is picking up that it has become popular, so it will give them more material to fill in between commercials, so pretty soon all the cool kids are going to want a blog, and servers are going to get jammed up, and formerly free providers are gonna start charging for it, and then it's bye bye blogging for old-school bloggers like me.
And I think that the last piece of the puzzle you need in order to call yourself a Pureblogger: a verifiable history of blogging, as in archives of your posts. Anybody can start a blog and call themselves a blogger. You can walk out of the DMV with your first license and call yourself a driver, too. But you can't call yourself a NASCAR Driver.
Time and effort, folks. Time, and effort...
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Another Good Reason...
...to send your kids to school
And you'll note that I did not differentiate between 'Public' and 'Private' schools. And I include all colleges in this abjuration, as well. Unless you want your daughter coming home with a baby in her belly some asshole fucked into her while she was passed out at a frat party.
Would this entail some changes in your lives? Oh, I'm sorry. Maybe your kid won't be the one getting ass-raped in the restroom by the bigger kids who think its funny and tape it with their cellphones. Do you really wanna play Anus Roulette with your kid's bung? Well, alrighty then.
The schools sure aren't going to change, except for the worse, and you, we can't change them. The system is broken, and now its breaking your kids.
Other than by you, in your own home, the only other viable option I can see is some sort of small co-op situation, where female parents of at least one of the children set up schedules to teach, each with supervision. Two women minimum. No men, unless they are supervised by a woman.
I am so tired of this bullshit.Update:
I think this post needs an addendum: I don't think any small child needs more than three hours a day of actual schooling. Their brains get full. And who started this five day a week bullshit? That's just Welfare for teachers. Subsidies. Yeah, go out and design something to give yourself a job and have the government steal money from others to pay you to do it poorly.
Yeah, I want to start a scam like that. Oooo! And then get the government to force kids to go!
Right now, I can get, on my computer and through the mail, an education from Kindergarten right up to the Doctorate level, without ever leaving the house.
But back to kids, specifically mine, we do hard-core education about three days a week, every other day. About three hours a day intense, and a couple of hours of reenforcement, having them do exercises to show what, if anything, they learned and retained. If we get a sense they are getting overloaded, we break and they get to dance to kid music, or have free-play time, or a snack, or a nature walk outside if the weather's good. And they have to spell the things they see. Or count the cars on one side of the street, then the other, and add them up.
Or they measure and cook things with the wife. Practical applications. And they love to learn, and look forward to it eagerly.
I would think that there would be a market for female in-home tutors/teachers, the way small communities used to hire 'schoolmarms'. Couples and single parents could pool their resources, and hire an educated young woman, or an older woman who still wants to work, and then work up a schedule of parents to go in as teacher's aides and assist. 5-10 kids, no more, 3-4 days a week.
I like it.
When Telling The Truth...
, there will be no more truth.
Truth, always in precious short supply, is an endangered species. You are only free until someone doesn't want you to be.
Freedom is an illusion. I am cognizant of the fact that this blog could disappear at any moment. That people could burst into my house and take my children, and my guns, and my food, for made up reasons, and kill me if I resist, even if they got the wrong house.
And they'd get away with it, because...
Justice is an illusion, too.
...to never ever ever go near the fucking ocean
.If calamari rings were made from the squid they would be the size of tractor tires, he added.
Fuhuck me runnin...
I'm So Proud Of The Wife...
Yesterday evening, after naps, the wife took the kids out in the car somewhere. She had been percolating the creamy potato-bacon soup since lunch, and she simmered out a fart in the car of such surpassing nastiness, that she had to pull into a parking lot and evacuate she and the kids from the car because she couldn't see.
And she called me to share this with me, while the car aired out. I could hear the kids gasping and spitting in the background. The wife was still coughing, a bit.
Yes sir, that's my
woman. You go, girl. Girl Power!
Man, it hailed a bit ago so hard and thick that it looks like it snowed outside. The kids wanted to go out in it while it was hailing. Sure kids, just let me open the door for you, here. Now, go on out there! Have fun!
lasted all of two seconds. They're giving me looks.
Speaking of cloud seeding, I bet the wife's fart went up there into the Craposphere somewhere, and made it storm today. I just betcha.
The Lowering Sky...
There is a promise of thunderstorms in the air here today, and if so, I will be unplugging my equipment until they pass, whenever that is. Yesterday was beautiful, and today they are saying snow tonight and through tomorrow.
Its that damn Global Warming, I tells ya.
The far mountains to the east of us are already getting hammered. They are measuring the snow in multiples of feet, here in Oregon. And the sky is darkening to the west of us. You can feel the change in your ears and your sinuses, and the kids went to put on thermals all on their own. Heaters, off yesterday, are ticking as they heat up right now.
To some degree, you can influence the weather, with methods such as cloud seeding, but otherwise, weather does whatever it pleases.
It takes the pomposity of a Liberal to think (because, you know, the entire world centers around them) that they, we can have any effect, one way or the other on weather and the atmosphere of this planet at all.
They look up into the skies of the cities they infest and see smog, and have no idea of the clean, pristine air the rest of the un-citied planet enjoys.
Now our waters, sure. We can fuck that up. Executives of companies that pollute the water we need to live should be forced to drink a couple of gallons of effluent, collected from the worst part of the pollution. And then shot in the head in the parking lot and left for the birds.
Oh well, too late. There are too many gullible idiots out there listening to the flagrant lies of hucksters and their fabulous appeals to self interest and fear, that one day in the not to distant future, lawn mowers will only be museum pieces, there will be no more homes built with fireplaces, and barbecuing, let alone tailgate parties will be a fading memory.
I yearn to be free, and it is becoming more clear every day that in the end, death will provide the only option to achieve freedom.
Vote For The Doc...
Go on over to Doc In The Box
and follow the milblogging.com link and register and vote for him under the US Navy Milblogger category. Pretty please.
I've Got Some News For You...
No woman will ever become President. No black person, Mormon, or Jew will ever become President.
If Hillary actually survives to become the Democrat front-runner, men of all colors and creeds will rise up as one to smack her down. If she somehow wins, I guarantee it will be through voter fraud.
Someone is out there we haven't seen yet. Or haven't noticed. They will very wisely wait til the last minute possible to announce. Odds are good that they will be a political replacement for another politician who has died suddenly. My vote is plane crash.
This person may or may not be the Antichrist.
There are good odds that come the next election in 2008, we will be living under martial law, due to acts of terror, real, or simulated, and that Bush2 will artificially extend his reign.
This country is dead, and is just looking for a place to fall.
Do You Prespire To Be A Writer?
Maybe you already are one... how do you know unless you write something?
As I've said, if you write anything, you're a writer. ABC's. Do you get paid? So does Danielle Steele. Don't get cocky.
Do people love your work? People love Danielle Steele.
Don't get cocky.
Oprah's book club. Need I say more?
Bloggers blog. Some aspire to be writers. Few write. That is the pure and simple truth.
My personal philosophy is that if you want to write, write. Every day. Something. I write here. I have pads that I scribble stuff out in mechanical pencil, with heavy enough lead that it doesn't snap too much when I get excited.
Women get paid for sex. Did the transfer of cash make the sex great? If she gives it away, later, to a secret lover, does that make the sex worthless?
I enjoy compliments. The ones I like best are from myself. Fuck, dude... that rocked.
If you cry, or if you laugh, or if you throw up a little in your throat, well, you damn well better know that, I, too, already did.
Or I haven't accomplished anything. No, I haven't failed my job, since I don't have one.
No, whatever I had in my brain that I wanted to impart into yours, well, I just failed. Sorry.
Find your path, and walk it. Whether it be a desperate, snowy expanse, where everyone dies as chill flakes descend onto their frozen eyeballs, or a happy place where lollipop trees grow rampant beside a river of chocolate, find your own voice, and use it, unafraid.
You can choose to pull folks ears out from their skulls and yell directly into their brains, or whisper like the slightest breeze passing across a fecund Spring field, that just ruffles the weeds, yet leaves the pods intact.
Or you can just say what you mean, and mean what you say.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Still MORE On Blogging...
Screw you. When the years in your
archives start in 2002, then you can talk.
And this is for the newbies, anyway. A lot of you see multiple comments as a good thing. Just let me tell you, if you see a thread with more than 50 comments on it, it has deteriorated into a shit-flinging monkey-house clusterfuck, and is of no use whatsoever to anyone, except no-life parasites who blabber just to hear themselves. Small-penis'd poor-thinkers who have no concept of the utter paucity of any worth to the poorly spelt shit they spatter up on the screens of others.
I let JohnB blab crazy drunken-ass shit up here because, dammit, he's a damn Iraq war vet, and I owe him that. Still, I edit him here and there, and sometimes delete, because this is my house, and if you come into my house and there is dogshit all over the floor and garbage piled up in the kitchen, I hope you would judge me harshly and not stick around for the hors d'oeuvre plate.
I can't think of one single mega-comment blog that is worth reading through all that shit to try to find a pony. If I must, I go in and make the comment the blogger's post inspired me to make, hoping (and doubting) the blogger will see it, and then I leave. Sometimes I come back and troll a bit, if there are plump targets of opportunity in the open, fire for effect. Mostly, not.
So, in short, if you let idiots clutter up your comments, you lose quality readers and commenters. I am brutal with my policy. I ban, delete, report as spam, and contact IP's with complaints. I will not allow parasites to take advantage of my hospitality with their bullshit ways, and I won't read a blogger that does. At least their comments.
And even then, their blog better be golden, or fascinate me in some fashion.
SteveH sent me an email once, a long time ago. I've since lost it, but he'd linked a post of mine, and the email said something along the lines of "I threw you a bone. By the way, your link looks like fruit salad."
Threw me a bone?! I have never once asked anyone for any help promoting my blog, and have ignored new bloggers who do so. The effrontery, the assumption evident in that email just left me sitting jaw-dropped for several seconds. Don't get me wrong, I love the guy, he's a multiple times daily read. This is no attack. I just do not understand how that type of thought can form.
And don't go crackin wise on my tip jars and new computer. We've already addressed that, and you'll just look stupid. And, thanks for the warning.
Blogging is exactly like gardening. You select and plant the things you want to grow, and then watch the weeds and pests come in and try to fuck them up.
If you love your garden, prune, weed, trim, and spray carefully.
Otherwise, its just a patch of dirt with fertilizer on it.
Labels: on blogging...
The Goddess Speaks!
Go! And Worship
Why Murtha isn't being haunted everywhere he goes to speak in this country by throngs of people yelling 'Traitor!' over and over, is beyond me.
Well, sadly, its not beyond me. Its just an indicator of how dead this country's soul has become.
If you can tolerate abattoirs in your neighborhood where infants are murdered daily, I guess you can pretty much put up with anything, eh?
Labels: The Goddess Ann
A Nice Interlude...
If you're a blogger, you ever have one of those days, or couple of days, when you don't get any email, so you send yourself a test message just to check if your mail server is down? And you're not getting any comments, so you do a test comment to see if your Haloscan is down?
Yeah, me too. It was hectic, and now its not, and I like it.
At the bar I go to sometimes, they gave me a sample of a new beer they put on tap called Springboard Ale. Its made by the same people who make Fat Tire Ale, which is great beer, but I can only enjoy it when I'm eating, otherwise its too overpowering. For me.
The Springboard, on the other hand, is absolutely delightful, with just the slightest bouquet of lemon.
The people that brew it are a bunch of fucking hippies
, but they actually went to Belgium, and studied Belgian brewing methods with an eye to recreating them here, and they have managed to create the Belgian style very well over here, in Colorado.
Is it true, that to cross the border into Colorado, you have to leave your testicles at the gate? I think I heard that somewhere.
Anyway, I really wanted the wife to try it, and I had a little money left over from you good folk's largess, so I said hey, wife, let me take you out for a beer. She goggled at me, a bit. What? Yeah, let's grab the kids, and go taste test this beer, and I'll buy you lunch. And the kids a basket of fries and a shake or something.
Within about 47 seconds, they were all out of their jammies and into their go bye-bye clothes, and waiting for me in the car. I phone her. Uh, hon? I need to take a shower first, but I'll be fast.
So, approximately 30 minutes later, we are all seated in a booth, and having our beers, and looking at the menu. She was as enraptured with the beer as I am. It is really, really good. Like a lemony Lambic without all the foamy.
Nat got to wear her high heel buckle-shoes she loves, and had her hair in ponies, and the restaurant ladies doted on her. Johnny dressed himself like a little man, and looked quite the part, even though he had to change pants once before we left because the Call of the Dirt was too strong, and he had to pounce on his favorite digging spot and grind his tractor into it.
I yelled. Some. Oh, and he got some dotin too from the restaurant ladies. He loves to cheer on the waitresses. He's handin out the positive affirmations right and left. "Excellent job carrying that coffee!" "Very good work cleaning that table, you know"
He has begun appending 'you know' to the end of his sentences, because he wants you to know
. You know.
I told the waitress before we were even seated that we wanted two glasses of Springboard Ale and a basket of fries and two small plates and a vanilla shake and please separate it into two glasses thank you and some Tartar Sauce because I like that on my fries and two menus because I am going to buy this beautiful woman lunch.
They really do like it when you have a plan and take control. They make money for the business with those tables, and you fucking around and playing grab-ass is just interfering with that. If you just want to bullshit, go into the bar for that.
So we got our initial order nice and quick, and the kids tucked in, happy as wiggly little pigs. Nattie hummed a happy little praise song under her breath as she noshed, and Johnny just noshed and took in all the sights, and gave out occasional praise, or safety tips. "You bedder be cafuw... I bet that cawfee is hot, you know."
Johnny and Nat both got excited over the soup of the day when we asked what it was, so the wife and I ordered the soup and salad combo, the bowl, not the cup, and shared with them. It was creamy potato and bacon soup, and it was to die for. They make their soups from scratch, there, and they are delicious. I've mentioned the clam chowder before. They make their own pies there, too, and we thought about splitting a piece of Rhubarb (our personal fave) but we were stuffed.
We left the place, broke, fat and happy, and a nap sounded good to everybody, so now, peace reigns at Bane House.
I gave our waitress a nice tip on the way out, and I hope it does her some good. It's just a diner, but the wife informed me that waitresses practically kill to get jobs at a place like that.
I can see why. There's always people in there, at all times of the day. Its a fairly small place, but the tables are nearly always full, and folks ebb and flow, in and out, constantly.
Oh well, time for my nap. Thanks people. Sorry for the boring.
Everything was just...perfect.
Here we go again
I'd like to send a big shout-out to all Democrat voters, and protest voters, and people who didn't vote:
I'm worried about the bat population, too. I'm an Environmentalist to the extent that I don't want dirty water and air, and I want the forests to be harvested respectfully.
It would be funny if the Killer Bees turned out to be our salvation.
I love and admire Jeff Goldstein
More and more, I begin to feel like I am in a flight of B-17's, and the Messerschmitts are chopping us up. My co-pilot flaps in his harness next to me, the air speed sucking bits of his brains out of a cannon hole in the wind screen to his right, his bloody thumb and forefinger spasming on a picture of his girl that he held for luck.
The nose gunner is bleeding out up front, and the waist-gunners are screaming in my headphones, as another burst of cannon fire rakes my plane.
The bombardier is begging for control, and calling out coordinates and time, and ack-ack pops like popcorn from Hell as I try to keep the ship steady to unload... just unload, and obliterate targets that so badly need obliterating.
This is war, people. Can't you see it? Deadly, and to the hilt.
And no 'Gentleman's War', either.
Did you know that in WW1 that both sides killed on sight any soldier using a saw-toothed bayonet? That they sharpened their entrenching tools (think: little shovel) so they could gut the enemy as they fell into the trenches?
Oh, I'm sorry, did you fall for all that 'sing Christmas carols and ceasefire' bullshit propaganda?
My Grandfather got mustard-gassed, and ended up dying a horrible death as a result.
Fuck you, Jeff. You have a voice. Nay, you have a veritable megaphone of a voice. I am a mere whisper compared to you. Your talent will find a way. A home.
Our country bleeds. We are wounded. Frothing in the waves, blowing blood out of our blowholes, and the packs of avid Killer Whales close in. Not just for us, but for our young.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Why Assholes Cannot Testify In Court...
They lie, the lying assholes.
For instance, mine told me just a bit ago that I was just pinching out a couple of Tootsie Rolls.
Well, it lied!
I stood up to admire my miniatures, and it was a giant Buttaconda! It had a Catholic Missionary and three altar boys pulsing in its gut as it digested them.
If you can't trust your own asshole, who can
I Have A Dream...
I got this idea into my head that, hey, why not take the wife out for a beer? I suggested it to her, and tears actually welled up in her eyes.
You get used to trudging along in your rut, and its hard to notice the person holding out their hand, trying to lift you out of the ditch, eh?
We're broke-ass, but there's no reason us and the kids can't go share a platter of fries, and have liquids, and sit out in public like real human beings. Maybe spring for a shake for them, and split it between em.
There's a new draught beer I want the wife to try that is just wonderful. Its got a light, lemony essence, just a hint, and frothy like a Lambic. It starts with 'Spring...', but I can't remember the rest. My shorts sure do, though. Dammit.
Its the little things, guys. Pulling her into the laundry room and blocking the door and shagging her up against the washer when it is on spin cycle. Heck, kneel there and eat her pussy while her buns shudder against the machine. Quit being a selfish prick.
Chicks love flowers, for some reason. And nobody gives a shit how tired you are, make dinner once in a while. Start the dishwasher. Or unload it. I rinse (she hates that part) and she loads (I hate that part).
Sneak her bedroom door closed in the morning, threaten the kids with death if they make a peep, hypnotize them with cartoons turned down quiet, feed them breakfast, and enjoy the look of wonder on her face when she comes down an hour later wondering if you've all been abducted.
Leave her a gift card to some frou frou place she likes to shop at, as a bookmark in whatever book she's reading. Ask some chick in any store which chocolate makes their knees weak (they all know... its a cult thing) and then buy it. Scrub the tub clean, light candles, leave the chocolate on the bathroom counter, and let her draw her own tub. They're ritualistic that way, plus, that girlie stuff stinks like Chernobyl.
Add champagne? Guaranteed blowjob.
Kids and pets of any sort are guaranteed buzz-kills, so sequester and/or kill them as necessary. See: blowjob.
Folks, this ain't hard. I don't understand divorce, unless you have just genuinely come to despise a person.
Love is nice, but marry for like. Find your best friend, and put your brand on them. Forsake all others who would come between you. Even your own children.
Otherwise, just date. Its all-around cheaper, with less drama.
A Very Public Apology...
I banned and disparaged commenter and new blogger Boss Hog, and I did not know that I owe him a very great debt of honor.
I am heartily sorry for this.
I reacted to a perceived insult, and I was wrong. And even if it was meant as an insult, he gets a pass.
I was wrong.
Another Blog Dies...
to watch the final twitches.
I know, I make this look easy, but there are the burnt out hulks of blog-wrecks all along this freeway we travel.
Some bloggers, like the guy I recommended this morning, and most recently called a cunt and banned him... well, I think that may be a blogging record. Fly into the flame, little moth!
I'll outlast you all! Or maybe I'll die in a sagging heap on the couch after telling everybody to fuck off.
Just never forget these words of wisdom:
It's just a fucking blog...
...like a football bat
If you can't see it, well, guess what...
...this is unconscionable
My personal experience with the VA says that, yes, probably true.
What Are The...
Whatever, that's just friggen sad, right there.
I Thought I'd Link...
, because I really liked it. Plus, I'd like to be among the first to try to help kick-start her fine brown butt back into being the Queen of all Media.
And like I said, that post really provoked me to thought, and that's when blogs are at their best.
We, The Willing...
Wouldn't it be neato if a government car pulled up to my house, and a nice man with proper ID invited me out to lunch at a nice local restaurant?
At some point, after we order, and are enjoying Martinis, he slides me a thick folder, and inside it are the photos and stats of every Islamist fuck within a 50 mile radius that they want killed for being terrorist assholes.
Dinner arrives, and we eat in companionable silence. He slides an aluminum case over to me with his foot, under the table. It's heavy, and I scoot my seat back a bit, put it in my lap, and open it.
Weapons. Silenced, and otherwise. Blocks of explosive that look like green-wrapped sticks of butter. Ammo. A couple of clean credit cards attached to fundage. A few clean cell and sat phones. The keys to a few storage units.
Wouldn't that be neato? And if they did that all over the country?
I hereby volunteer...
A Nice Uplifting Video...
...to put a song in your heart
, and a spring in your step.
If Your IQ Is, Say, Under 110...
...you probably shouldn't read this
Oh, and sorry about all that green. I had to copy it and paste it into word, because it made my eyes scream. I changed the font, too. Because I hated it. And I'm all like, smart, and stuff.
Well, This Is Just...
In a nutshell, stories like this are why we rule the world.
And rightfully so.
Fan Of Flan...
The Queen of Dysfunction
, who, it is rumored, hates me, has a post up today about her adventures with Flan, and energy transference.
As I adore Flan (and the Queen) it inspired me to command Google to fetch me forth a recipe, and I found this lovely site
. There WILL be Flan.
Let there be Flan.
want to try the Coconut Rum Flan.
Ghost Rider (A Review)...
It was so good, I pissed my pants. Literally. Haven't done that since I was two years old. This fucking blood pressure med they have me on is mostly a diuretic, and when I have to piss, it becomes kind of an emergency. I had me a fine Chicken-Fried Steak and ONE beer before I went to see Ghost Rider, and I figured I'd be safe.
There at the end of the movie, I began to feel the urge, but I fought it, because the movie was really rocking and rolling, and as the credits began to roll, I began to do the pee pee dance to the bathroom, which was terribly far away, and I began to spoot pee into my very own drawers.
By the time I made it into a stall and unlimbered the hose, I was very thankful that A) I was wearing a long enough shirt to cover my shame and B) It was raining like heck outside and I could sneak out the exit and slink to my car. Fuck. I musta stood in that stall for ten minutes, using that cheap-ass flimsy toilet paper that they make so hard to get off the roll so you don't use so much, to sop up the sog in my shorts and dry my pants as best I could. And fuck, but I had wanted to go out and have another beer or two, but I stank of piss like an old man in a rest home, and, well, the big stain and all, so...
That's how damn good Ghost Rider is. To put up with that shit. I wish I could go see it again. And I'd piss myself all over again if I had to.
Some gay turd somewhere bitched about Nick Cage's 'bad hairpiece' somewhere, so of course I couldn't keep my eyes off his damn hair, and it looked all natural to me. And I don't mean this in a gay way, but fuck, I wish I had his body. I know what chicks mean by 'eye candy' now. That man is just a pleasure to look at. Sculpted hardly begins to fit it.
It's a relief when Eva Mendes comes along and chases away the gay rays. Damn if she isn't just two fistfuls of hotness. I wanted to look around and say "S'cuse me, anybody mind if I masturbate?"
Some asshole trying to sound smart always says they never make a decent movie based on a comic book. That's bullshit, and it is extra extra bullshit with this movie. Still, if you're a fan, like me, it is special to see how the movie pays homage to the books, by the way the director remakes scenes from actual covers of the Ghost Rider comic, and has Cage pose, just for a moment and remake the covers. I hope to one day own the DVD, and I hope they do comparisons of the covers and scenes. That would be cool.
I'd really love to see it again. And this time, I'm stuffing one of the wife's Maxi-Pads down the front of my shorts.
Chicks'll think I have a big dick. Well, I do, but you know what I'm sayin.
Can We Start Killing Them Yet?
The last two paragraphs in this story
speak volumes about how fallen and weak we have become.Update:
Never mind, they seem to be doing well enough
on their own.
Let Me Ass You A Question...
Lifted from Greg Beck
, a damn fine writer and blogger.
...and continuing with the 'ass' theme...
Drop by and say hi to the newborn, there kicking in his crib. Tell him to fix his links while you're at it... lose the 'index.html' part.
Anybody with a link to 'hotchickswithdouchebags.com' in their blogroll is alright by me.
Now, let's see how long he lasts. We should have a Dead Pool for bloggers.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Now I'M Harping...
Sorry about this.
Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be funny making fun of something that is inherently not funny? I mean the Lefty Progressive assholes of America. They're only funny when they're hanging by the neck from a lamppost or convenient tree, and they shit their pants as they die.
Remember, in Grade School, when the teacher would hand out names of countries you had to research and do a project on? I got The Seychelles one time. Yeah. Bummer. Try to do a collage of the Seychelles.
How do you make Cindy Sheehan funny? I've shat funnier turds than her. That smelled better. How she ever even manage to get knocked up and have a kid... well, I suspect Satan.
Sure, people make fun OF Libtards. Teddy Kennedy comes to mind. But the primary impulse that pervades when his name comes up is not jocularity, it is nausea. Yes, fat people can be funny. The insane: ditto. Murderers? Sure. Alcoholics? Oh yeah. But all in one ruddy, bloviating spider-veined package? That's just High Tragedy, right there.
Besides, that vein has been mined out. Anything being said now about him, somebody already said 20 years ago.
That the show last night managed to elicit so much as a smile is a triumph. And it managed to make us laugh several times. Still, it's like making fun of that one-legged twat who's gonna be on Stumping For The Stars, or whatever. Yeah, you laugh, but its like making fun of the girl who peed her seat in class in sixth grade and just sat there quietly crying.
Humor is not all that hard. If you can 'get' a joke, and laugh heartily at it, and express yourself, you can make up jokes, and write humor. Sure, its not for everybody. My Mom and Sister come to mind. But even they can crack you up if the subject for the material is right.
Liberalism is no such subject. It's like sculpting with sewage water.
I admire anybody who even makes the effort.
They Walk Among Us...
By the way, I hear they caught the letter-bomber in England. All it says is that he's a 20 year old man. Who wants to bet on what religion he is?
So, I Hear I'm Stupid...
I guess it's because I can't stand that horrible Daily Show, with the equally horrible and ultra-smarmy Jon (note: fag spelling of name) Stewart. I hear he and Colbert are supposed to be good comedy writers. Sorry. Don't see it. Can't sit through a show.
1/2 Hour News Hour? After all the reviews, I was expecting a train wreck. Instead, the wife and I got a nice little gem of a train ride through Comedy Land. It exactly filled the bill, and was exactly what we'd hoped for.
I hear 'Wild Hogs' is going to suck, too. I expect to enjoy it very much. I'd like to hire certain blogger prognosticators (blognosticators?) to be my personal shoppers. I'd just tell them to 'go out and get me what you hate'. They'd come back with some mighty cool stuff, I betcha.
But what do I know? I'm very happily married to a beautiful woman that adores me even though I'm poor, I have two wonderful children, and people give me money and gifts simply for blogging.
Maybe I need to reexamine my priorities...Update:
I have six 'children', but four of them are adults. I treasure them all, even the ones that piss me off.
On The 1/2 Hour News Hour...
We loved it. Multiple chuckles. Naysayers wear adult diapers and drive cross-country to do...
Well, whatever it is they do. Because writing those segments for Chris Rock did so well. For the both of them.
I'm going to bed, now. Loved the show, haters!
At least someone agrees with me
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Or at least one of his Commandant's.
The god of this earth is marshaling his forces.
...to have a couple of these
mounted under the headlights of my car, with a firing button on my steering wheel.Update:
Oh baby, I want one of these
so bad. Now that's America, right there, and really all you need to know.
And it occurs to me, that if I was first man in on an entry team in The Rack, that I would absolutely LOVE to have a combination flash-bang, handheld .50 cal pointed out in front of me. Got body armor?
Good. You'll fly further when I shoot you. All the sweeter for killing a muzzie with an Israeli weapon.
You Go To War...
...with the Congress you have. And this one ain't it.
Time to start grassroots recall efforts all over the country, a la the California one that brought that fat piss-head Ahnold.
If you can't take em down from the front, take em down from behind, but just take em down. At least keep so much pressure on them that they lose focus on the mischief they intend to commit at their day job.
And I mean recall some of these White Flag Traitor Republicans like Hagel, too. Pay Newt enough, and he'll come to any function you want and fire up the troops.
And please, Republicans, Conservatives, go to Rudi's functions and protest en masse wherever that evil bastard shows up... please?
We've got barely two years to turn these stupid asshole professional politician's attitudes around, or take their jobs from them. And maybe, just maybe, other good men and women will see there is hope, and throw their hats into the ring, and give us hope.
Because there's no hope with the crew we've got, or in the direction they're heading us.Update:
Recall Murtha first
. Note the Useful Idiot that comes on blabbering after Brit Hume says his oh so eloquent piece. Why do they keep that idiot on? Comic relief? At least that PBS broad is smart.
You've Got To See This...
, and vote accordingly.
Finally, a politician I can stomach. What a man.Update:
Some good readin
At Least 50,000 Canadian Muslims Agree...
...that Canada should be bombed
Hey, maybe Muslims aren't all that bad after all.
Oh, don't fret. Our turn is coming...
Can A Nuclear Rocket Engine Work?
If so, how, and why aren't we using them?
C'mon, I know I've got NASA guys and engineers reading here. Dish.
Why are we still limiting ourselves with non-renewable fuel, and how would a nuclear powered engine work?
Could you break atmosphere with solid fuel, and then switch to atomic? Could you have hydroponics on board that recycle ships waste and can be used to provide attitude jets, if not actual propulsion?
Maybe Tesla had some ideas.
The 1/2 Hour News Hour...
I'd like to invite you to watch the 1/2 Hour News Hour on Fox News with me at 10pm tonight. Your times may vary. They have saddled the horrible Kimberly Quimfoil in between this show and Red Eye, another show I am really loving, starring Greg Gutfeld
. And the masturbatable Rachel Marsden, who I am hoping stalks me. It's not adultery if she ties you up and makes you do it, is it?
Anyway, there are alleged Conservatives disparaging this 1/2 Hour News Hour all over the net, lately, but the wife and I have seen the clips on Fox News, and we like them. And hey, I'm funny, right? I can be funny, can't I? Please, empower me. Not.
The wife actually saw the first one before me, and she paused the TV (God Bless DVR) and called me down to see it, and we watched it together, and we laughed. I promise a brutally honest review tomorrow. Some of the critics cite the fact that the creators of this show were involved with making 24, Star Trek Enterprise, and several other of my favorite shows of all time.
That is not a terribly clever way to keep me from watching the show. That's like complaining about a blow-job because she got spit on your dick.
I'm just sayin...
Some Thoughts On My Mind...
First off, let me get the thank-yous out of the way. Some of you folks have been very kind to my tip jar this weekend. That was not my intent, but I guess it adds credence to that whole 'cast your bread upon the waters and it shall come back to you' thing. Now I have to decide if I
should send money to Sean. Bastards.
Think of your donations to me as 'buying tickets for the Bane Train'. That's what I was thinking, sitting there on the toilet, a bit ago. From a purely Economics standpoint, your fundage makes possible what some of you seem to enjoy, the stories that happen to me as I move around in the world. I'm broke? I sit around the house and write descriptions of my poo.
Got money? Well, I was at the store picking up wine, and I walked down the candy aisle. A display of candy/toy combinations caught my eye, and stopped me cold ('scuse me, I have to go light some matches, the stench is rolling in here...)(annnnd, we're back...) because I love toys and gadgets, and these were pretty cool, and the kids have been good, and it's been awhile since Christmas, and...
Sonofabitch! Do you know some of those suckers cost like, five bucks? That's just crazy talk! And I mean, literally, suckers. A freakin ball of candy, on a stick, that sits atop, is actually punched down through
Cinderella's skull, and it whirls when you push a button.
Still, it was like $4.89, but I wanted to get it for Nat so bad, and then I got to thinking about hot teenage girls licking it smooth and then pleasuring their nethers with it and creeped myself out (bad boner...down boy, down, boner...) so I put it back, and...
See? If I hadn't of been given money, and gone to the store to buy wine, you would have missed out on that little gem. It would have been like somebody went back in time and shot that hot third cousin of yours when they were a baby and you two never got to have that tryst in the... where was that again? Hey, don't look at me, I was a cousin-bangin sonofabitch.
Oh, you wanna know what I bought the kids? Okay. For .99 cents apiece, I got Nat a red Princess Arielle treasure chest that when you open it, there's a red sucker suspended over some fake (duh) treasure, and she wiggles like a puppy and squeals when she licks it. Every time. She actually sets the table for it before she opens the treasure chest. It is a Big Deal.
I got Johnny a green Spongebob treasure chest, with a Spongebob shaped shovel mounted on it that you dip into some kind of sour, green sugary powder inside it and then lick it off the shovel.
He's not nutty about it like Nat is over hers, but he keeps it out on the counter, and swings by for a lick every so often. And then he goes and brushes his teeth. Ritualistic, or OCD? You be the judge.
The cool thing is will be when I get to buy the cheap-ass Pixie Sticks and refill the chest for him. "Look, Johnny! Your chest is magic!"
Speaking of trains, the local homeschooling group is having a train trip from here to there and back again in a few months, and it's only $9 a person, including food of some sort. I don't know how they managed it, but Johnny will go nuts. Nat probably, too, but John is insane in the membrane about a train. I'm afraid to tell him about it, in case something comes up to keep us from going. Life has a way of intruding.
Well, thanks to you wonderful people, I shall see Ghost Rider, and enter a bar, and between those two events, there lies another tale I shall be blessed to bless you with, here.
And thanks again for blessing me. As I've said, $5 makes me squeal like a little girl.
Maybe I'll buy that Cinderella sucker and do the wife with it. It's cherry. I like the taste of cherry. May give her a stutter.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Wherein The Wife Loses Her Job...
Watch this space...
It wasn't much, just four days a month, and it broke her back moving that big boy around. Still...
His parents are going to put him in a 'home'. How can people do that? Yeah, sure, the elderly. They're yucky. But your own kid? This is gonna kill something in their little one. He loves his big brother with a fierceness, broken or not.
The wife came home just generally bummed, and I told her that God knew what was going to happen before it happened, and He already had a plan in motion. Sometimes you have to remind even very devout people. A little perspective.
The wife wants to do the Faith Walk, but she wants to hold the map, and the compass, and give directions.
Nope. Don't work that way.
Whew, glad to have my Saturdays free again. What's up next, God?
Ahhhhh...Nothing Much To Say...
And no real urge to say it. Much.
Had great sex last night, just put the kids down for a 'rest' (sometimes they actually sleep) and the wife is off work, yet still out somewhere puttering around.
I'm still pissed about losing all of our Presidential holidays. I mean, as pissed as if I was black and they turned MLK Day into 'Dead Nigger Day' pissed. It ain't right.
The sky is a robin's-egg blue over my house right now, and it's 60 degrees. Friggen heat wave. I wanna go see Ghost Rider, bad. Post spoilers, and taste oblivion. You won't be the first. Of course I'll write a review.
Others in the 'Sphere are dissing the new Fox show coming up Sunday night pretty hard. Based on, you know, two minutes of Youtube video. When Fox played the clip, I didn't know what I was watching, and I thought it was pretty cute. I'll give it a shot, and if it sucks, I won't watch it. The American Way. Or at least it used to be. Nowadays, you can't even shave your own fucking head without utter vaginas going crazy and rushing your castle with pitchforks and torches.
Lighten up, people. Ranting is cool. Hey, it's my schtick, my raison d'etre, if you will, but fuck it already, take a pill.
Funny, there was a lot of blubbering, heck, still is, about Pajamas Media, and I have found that it is in my top five places to go for foreign news stories. I had been led to believe that Bill Ardolino had fangs, and drank the blood of Jewish babies, but he is doing some damn fine work from the Middle East.
Of course, he could still be a complete asshole, but...
I've still got some residual stiffness from that sliver of Viagra I took last night. A kid crawls into my lap and BOING!
Gargantua springs to life and sproings them across the living room to face plant into the TV screen.
Just kidding! Jeez... Still, nobody better touch, bump, or nudge him for about three days after, unless they're serious. You ever hear a chain-saw start up? Yeah, kinda like that. The Oregon Vagina Massacre. Awesome stuff. Wish I'da had it when I was 15, and could go all night, anyway. Think of a pink Incredible Hulk.
Speaking of that new Fox News show by Joel Surnow, I just realized that he has participated in some of my favorite television, ever. 24. Special Unit 2. The Equalizer. Dang, I love all those shows. Oh well. I wish him luck with his new one, and as a consumer, I hope it don't suck.
Okay, I'm done.
could be bad.
All my troopies better brush up on their land-nav skills, cuz those GPS toys ain't a gonna work so well, looks like.
I've still got a couple of old-fashioned plug in the wall phones, in case of emergency. It sounds to me like we all might do well to look into survival gear, and tactics, and not for any three days, either.
What would you do if shit went bad for three years
Hey, maybe FEMA will give you a trailer.Update:Fifteen years?!
What a dipshit.
All you White Flag Cowards just make me sick.
All of my safeties are off.Update:
you should know.Update:
Still more stuff
you should know. Hey, here's an idea, why don't all you White Flag Cowards out there put your money where your mouth is, and just join the jihad like these good Americans did? I mean, y'all are already self-identified cowards, and think we're gonna lose. Maybe your new jihadi buddies will let you live?
It's Official, I'm A Loser...
And I've got the sticker from Nat to prove it.
The wife got the kids packs of stickers from somewhere yesterday, and they went to town with them. John decorated his cars and trains and trucks, and Nat made up a game where she awarded family members stickers of varying sizes, depending upon the worth of that particular family member.
Nat rushed in to me breathlessly to announce with great glee that she had 'given Mommy the award for Employee of the Day!' A bit later, she snuck in and stuck a much smaller sticker on my arm hairs, and announced that I was the 'Loser of the Day'.
Why, however did I earn this prestigious award, dearie? "Because Mommy works and works and works and feeds us and does laundry, and all you do is sit there and type on your computer"
My sticker says 'GO4IT'. Hey, I'm tryin...Update:
Nat was pooping a bit ago, and doing a play by play announcement of it. "I'm pooping poops as big as..."
and she searched for the words "...as big as my CHEEKS!"
and she squinched up her (face) cheeks to show me.
actually quite impressive, like a mother sea cow with a host of babies. Should I be taking pictures of her doots for her Baby Book? To impress her dates in later years?
I Have Come Here To Chew Bubblegum And Kick Ass...
And I'm all out of bubblegum.
Listen, you stupid shitheads, and you know who you are, a tip jar is not asking your dumb, tight ass for money. It is for people who can and who want to, to donate money for whatever reason. If the plate gets passed to you, and you can't or don't feel like putting anything in, pass it to the next person, you stupid fuck. It's not a personal assault!
I actually lost a regular reader when I first put up my tip jars (by REQUEST! I might add, from multiple people, and someone else actually did it for me!) because he said they made him 'feel guilty for reading and not paying, and he just didn't do that kind of stuff'. Bye, dumbshit.
I get driven to go off on rants like this every so often because here and there I read some of the stupidest block-headedest ignorant-ass bullshit ever, and it just makes the mind reel.
I've mentioned Lileks before on this subject. He has a tip jar. He's a professional writer, who gets paid for writing, and his wife makes a good living as well, so why would he have a tip jar up? He wrote two paragraphs over two days, once, one that made me laugh til I cried, and one that just made me cry. I had money to spare, back then, and I was grateful for the opportunity to send some to his tip jar.
I've also mentioned the time I was downtown at the Farmer's Market with the wife and kids, and we stood mesmerized while a kid of about fifteen years of age or so sat on the sidewalk and played the most beautiful classical Flamenco guitar I have ever heard. Breathtaking. His guitar case was open, and I threw several bills into it. I don't think he noticed. His eyes were closed, and he was caught up in his own music.
Yeah, I'm pimpin hard for Doc and his wife to go on their trip to the Milblogger's Conference. Guess what! They'd go anyway! I specifically asked that we send them in style, and give enough so that if they could, they could pay it forward to some other needy Vet.
Is this charity, assholes? Fuck you. Doc has put his life on the line more times than even he can count FOR OUR KIDS IN IRAQ! Yours. Mine. My neighbor's kids. He, and men like him, are why our kids come home alive.
And you fucking DARE to criticize him, you insignificant piece of worm shit? I actually have a headache over the stress of not being able to choke the life out of you with my bare hands.
Yeah, people give me money and buy me stuff. Apparently, they like me and/or my writing, and have the ability and desire to. If you don't, don't. But please...
Just shut the fuck up about it.
Friday, February 16, 2007
I Have To Have Sex...
The wife is a demanding wench, and I am not in season, but I have made a bargain, and I shall uphold my swollen, purple end of it.
Assuming I do not have a heart attack, or an embolism, I shall return tomorrow.
Damn. I had some really kick-ass TV lined up for tonight...
Children Of Men...
A review (thanks, donaters!).
What can I say? Go see it. Quick. It's not long for theaters, and it's a Big Screen movie.
I spent half the movie with my heart in my throat, clutching the arms of the seat. I cried. A lot. I laughed. I was amazed, and touched.
Yeah yeah yeah, I noticed the Socialist undertone, fuck you, shut up. If you don't like good movies, go back to your crayons, and your safety scissors.
This movie takes risks. Painful, cruel risks. I never knew what I was going to get until the credits rolled. Please, don't read any other review than this if you mean to see it. Those other reviewers are such poseur wankers. Trust me.
They want to impress you with how erudite and educated and, well, all filmy they are, when in truth they participate in standing ovations for crap
at the Sundance Film Festival, and have never been to a Clint Eastwood Marathon in their lives.
I know movies, and this is a damn fine movie. The bartendress at the bar I rushed into to slam back a couple of shots before the movie, asked me what I thought when I went back for a contemplative beer, after.
Truth? I told her, right off the top of my head, that I'd never seen a chick-flick that was also a total guy flick before. Just a first impression from the afterglow.
Obviously, I very much recommend this movie. I would probably not take a kid under 14 or so, unless I was confident they could handle it.
Incredible piece of film.
gonna leave a mark...
A reader mentions Heaven in the comments, and I think it worthy of a post in response.
The correct answer is 'I just don't know'. I mean, the Bible gives hints, and religion and artists and religious artists have made stuff up for centuries, but I just don't know.
The Bible mentions a Heavenly City, and that our bodies will be changed into new bodies. I hope I'll still be able to poop. And I'd really like to keep my dick, Oh Lord.
I've heard stuff about marriage, and babies, and I think it's crap. God loves kids. It's all over the book. Well, except for the ones He ordered poked with swords. But dey ver all bahd...
I don't buy that whole lion laying down with a lamb thing, either, except perhaps as metaphor. A lion eating a salad is not a lion. And hey, why does the lettuce have to die?
But I just don't know. I fear instigating a lot of religious hubbub here, with everybody quoting their favorite saint or scholar, but I bet they don't know, either.
You've heard the phrase 'Heaven on Earth', of course. Well, I've gotten me a piece of it a time or two, enough to know that I am really looking forward to the real thing. However it manifests itself.
I've always wondered if my Heaven will be the same as your Heaven. Either way, if my wife and kids aren't there, I don't want it, God. You can keep it. Just give me Limbo or something. I see a little piece of Heaven every time I look into Johnny or Nat's eyes, and if your Plan is to take that away from me, like I said, just keep it.
One day I hope to see Johnny standing tall, and whole, and strong at my side, his arm draped across my shoulders, as he says..."Yeah, Dad...I've waited for this, too."
You Might Find It Odd...
...that I agree with this
I believed in that, thought up the theory myself, long before I ever read any of the hippy-dippy bullshit the new age cranks came out with. Strip away all of the New Age clap-trap, add a Creator God into the picture, and it makes perfect sense.
If you've ever stood in the surf, and felt the forces rushing towards you from the land behind, and out to sea, and felt the forces rushing at you back from the sea, you know what I mean.
Just for a micro example, you ever take a wicked, wicked dump, and you can cut the air in the bathroom even after you flush, and then get in a nice hot shower? When you get out, where did all that foul odor go?
It was filtered away by all of the droplets of steam, and diffused. If humanity disappeared off the face of the earth today, the skies over our filthiest cities would be clear in less than a week. Within a year, the waters would be pristine again. Within ten years, the oceans would abound with fish and sea mammals, bays and beaches would teem with shellfish of every sort.
Within a hundred years, all of our greatest creations would be fallen mounds, covered in vegetation and wind-blown earth, and caves for bats and nesting birds. The creatures, released from our zoos, would roam the country in herds, and prides, and packs.
The forests, free of Man, would begin their slow, conquering march, again, in their neverending quest to cover the land once more.
And then I'd like to come back, and sit for a spell. See what the old girl's been up to. Camp for a bit. Mosey around.
Mind the tigers...
Thursday, February 15, 2007
This Is Why We Pray...
...over our food
Just kill that fucker.
Previews Of What's To Come...
Texas towns invaded by Army in Operation Last Dance
Feb. 15, 1999: Several bewildered Texas officials found themselves on the hot seat after their small rural towns were used for live-fire military exercises by the Knight Stalkers, an elite group from the U.S. Army's Delta Force, in the unannounced Operation Last Dance.
Despite the 30-minute warning given by police – printed notices posted to residents' doors that did not disclose any details – most residents were shaken up by the simulated bombing runs, hovering black helicopters in the night, firing of live ammunition and explosives very close to innocent bystanders.
In the town of Kingsville, one of eight helicopters hit a telephone pole, starting a fire and horrifying residents who saw it happen. Fire officials said they had no warning the exercise would take place.
Asked the purpose of the exercise, Tomas Sanchez, Kingsville's Federal Emergency Management Agency coordinator, speculated the exercise involved a scenario that required military action because local police could not deal with civilians effectively.
"Martial law has been declared through presidential powers and war powers act, and some citizens have refused to give up their weapons. They have taken over two of the buildings in Kingsville. The police cannot handle it. So you call these guys in. They show up and they zap everybody, take all the weapons, and let the local P.D. clean it up," described Sanchez of the scenario the Night Stalkers were likely given.
Via Worldnet Daily. It's coming, people. Pucker up, and bring your own lube.