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  • Just Another Reason...

  • Ooooops!

  • Laura Ingraham...

  • A Good Post...

  • Thanks, Darlin!

  • Do You Ever Cramp Up...

  • RIP, Red Eye...

  • Maggie, And The Ferocious Beast...

  • I Don't Think...

  • Emergency...

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • 40 Milligrams A Day...

  • ADD/ADHD? Are They Real?

  • My Rifle Is My Friend...

  • The Myth Of The Invincible Jihadist...

  • How The Global Warmists Will...

  • I Guess I'm A...

  • Nature Is Amazing...

  • One For The Skeptics...

  • I Did Not Think...

  • Prayer Request...

  • I Guess I Have...

  • Right When You're Wrong...

  • Snakes On A Train...

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  • Just A Thought...

  • Lie Down With Dogs...

  • Some Iraq War...

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  • So...

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  • One Of The Saddest Stories...

  • Fuck Islam...

  • Spring Is Busting Out All Over...

  • Beautiful Art...

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  • I Did Not Know...

  • Feels Like A Monday...

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  • A Damned...

  • On Turds, And The Manufactury Thereof...

  • Today Is Her Birthday, The House Is Full Of Flowers...

  • Wherein Nat Clogs The Toilet...

  • I Love Women...

  • Okay...

  • About An Hour From Where I Live...

  • Don't Click On The Day By Day Cartoon...

  • I Guess...

  • Buy...

  • George Bush=...

  • Ooooops!

  • I Rarely Eat Candy...

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        Thursday, May 31, 2007

    Just Another Reason... hate faggots.

    Abnormal freak motherfuckers, every damn one of them.

    True story: I fell in with a gang of real freaks, bikers, ex-cons, and other ne'er do wells one time. I was young. It seemed the cool thing to do. And there was booze and drugs, plus, there was something heady about vicious men treating me with respect, and apologizing to me if they thought they'd pissed me off.

    They had a guy, a hanger on, who used to be one of their high school teachers when they'd been in high school together. Before Viet Nam, and/or prison. This teacher was a flaming, closeted faggot, and they tolerated him because he gave them money and drugs, and he would show up in his suit and tie he'd worn that day at work, and among us, he stood out like a turd in a punchbowl.

    He never hit on anybody in the gang, cuz they'd hit back so hard his over-stretched asshole would have burst out of his pants, flown across the room, fallen into someone's drink, and got his fairy ass stomped to death. And, being pretty, I kept as much of the room between he and I as possible.

    And BOY would he get fucked up. I mean, insanely blotto. And then he would start to scream drunkenly for "someone, PLEASE take me out to find a boy...I want to suck a boy's dick!" I would generally leave at this point, or some of the guys would throw him into the car and take off with him.

    One evening, the guy who owned the house winked at me and invited me to come along. I resisted, but he said come on, it'll be fun. And then we're goin out for pizza and more beers, so I reluctantly got in the car with them, in the back, as far as I could get from the drunken fruiter.

    Well, apparently they had a well traveled route that they used for times like this...a routine, if you will. They drove him through the unsavory parts of an already unsavory town, and he would stick his upper body out of the window and honk, in a pleading, begging, boozy voice, at the top of his lungs "Please! Will somebody let me suck their dick? I need a boy! A pretty, sweet boy! Puhleeeeeze let me suck your dick!"

    ...and the winos and street trash who had seen this performance before would just gesture and turn away. I shrank into the seat, fearful that someone I knew would see me. Then, suddenly, the car pulled over, someone pulled the inside handle and kicked the door open, and the faggot spilled out into the street.

    Behind us, as we drove away, I heard him again..."Puhleeeze! I need a dick to suck!"

    And my car-mates cackled like madmen, while I just wanted a shower.

    Wasn't much in the mood for pizza anymore that night, either.



    Some interesting points. And scary.


    Laura Ingraham...

    ...rips Bush a new asshole.

    Damn I wish we had her on in the afternoon instead of that idiot Savage.


    A Good Post... quite often one that gets you to thinking on several different levels.

    [BTW, it has come to my attention that some of you are not reading the linked articles in my posts, because you just begin blabbing away and making suggestions and requests for information, that were already addressed in the linked article. Which is why I linked it. So cut it out.]

    The linked post got me to thinking about my experiences with Estes Rocketry, and in wood shop, and in Home Ec class. Yeah, I took Home Ec, wanna make sumthin of it? 'Course, it was called 'Boys Foods' like somehow that would be less insulting.

    There were a few jocks in there looking for easy credits, and lots of chicks. I loved it. The teacher was a pleasant, no-nonsense type, the big classroom was full of stoves and tables and sinks and counter area, and you got to eat what you made. For my final, I made deep fried cauliflower with cheddar cheese sauce. I got an A+, and rave reviews.

    I loved/hated my shop classes, because shop teachers are notorious assholes, and so are most of the knuckle-dragger types that take shop on purpose. Sorry, but that's just the way it is. And then there's the weird guys that are always making crossbows, or some other sort of weapon. I never took metal shop, and I have always regretted it. I would love to go to some junior college and take some basic courses.

    For my woodshop final, I made a seamless box, that you couldn't tell how it opened by looking at it. It pulls apart. I still have it, and I keep my most precious keepsakes in it. At some point I carved the rune for 'possession' on the top.

    Well, I'm boring myself, so you're likely already asleep, so...


    Thanks, Darlin!

    This hasn't arrived yet, but I finally figured out this was what was coming, you minx.

    I think I must have the best readers in the world. This is just fantastic. Life-changing.

    My old air bed, as I've said, looks like the bottom of a cafeteria table, what with all of the glue gobs. Still, it has saved my life. I got one of those special foam pads at Costco, you know, the ones that reform after you make a dent in them? Yeah, they really work. With my arthritis, I roll off of a regular mattress in the morning feeling 100 years old.

    Is this a Christmas miracle, or what? I truly do have angels watching over me.


    Do You Ever Cramp Up...

    ...when you cum?

    Man, I hate that. You're in the midst of bustin a good one (are there any bad ones?) and BAM! leg cramp, and you're in there augering away, and groaning in agony, and she's groaning in ecstasy, bustin her own because your 'pleasure' sends her over the edge, and you're trying to shake the cramp out and your leg is twitching and you're kicking your own ass and the wife begins to worry that maybe you're having a heart attack on top of her and the kids will finally wander in and find her pinned under your big dead ass...

    Ow. Getting old sucks. Now that my blister has healed down to an angry black dot, I think it's time to put my new boots back on, and take them for some walks. Plus, take more calcium. Plus, I've been having back cramps lately. Move wrong, and twang! I'm handicapped for a bit. And my write hand, I mean, right, has been cramping up, too.

    I think I'm the star of a new show called 'Men Decaying Badly'. I hope it has a short run.

    Have I mentioned that getting old sucks?


    RIP, Red Eye...

    You're dead. To me, anyway.

    Looks like they fired Rachel Marsden. I'd heard the rumors, and I tuned in last night, and yep, they're true. So I turned it off.

    I liked the chemistry she brought, I loved the unease she engendered in the rest of the cast (and guests) and it is too bad that the show is dead to me, because I really enjoyed it. With her in it. She kept the rest of the lunatics centered, in an odd way.

    And you might (or might not) have noted some changes in my sidebar. I'm not going to tolerate people who have no respect for me, and who have stupid opinions. And if you disrespect Ann Coulter, you're just an idiot. Simplest test of who to ignore there is.


    Oh well, I hear there's bazillions of blogs out there. I'm sure I can find one that does not aggravate me, and that is not run by a closeted gay man who thinks his little RINO chick friend can take better photos than Glenn Reynolds. That's like comparing Andy Warhol's 'art' to John Wayne Gacy's clever clown paintings. Puhleeze..

    And it occurs to me, that if you spend half your time crowing about what a great writer you are, well, you just might not be.

    I did it once, for grins.


        Wednesday, May 30, 2007

    Maggie, And The Ferocious Beast...

    In No-Where Land. Come along, if you can...

    Maggie and her producer liked to take little jaunts 'off the reservation' in between tapings. They took Hamilton with them, of course. He provided snacks, and comic relief, plus, he was the most consistent source for quality blow in No-Where Land you could find, and though a pig, it was known that he would never squeal.

    So, their party slipped away, and chose a path never yet taken, stooping and squirming between black boughed trees, where brightly colored small birds and animals writhed, embowered in tangling vines that sucked all life and color from them...

    Maggie wanted to have a happy picnic, get her nose on, and maybe, just maybe the producer would make her a...

    The party of three burst out into a sunlit clearing, and became a party of two, because a huge, ferocious beast stepped from under the dappled shade he had been taking cover under, and shot out a long, black, licorice-whip looking forked tongue from its slack, pointed lips, and skewered Hamilton straight through his chest, and reeled Hamilton back to him and up into his mouth in a trice...

    Well, not exactly in to its mouth...

    Maggie and her producer watched, dumbstruck and nauseous, as the beasts lower lip extended out into some sort of fleshy hammock, which wrapped around Hamilton, and began to pulse.

    Now Hamilton squealed...and then began to scream.

    The beast closed its huge eyes and began to quiver with pleasure. Even the large, blood-red dots that adorned its ocher skin seemed to swirl and bubble.

    Maggie cut off a scream, because at the first tone of it, an eye-stalk had popped up from the beasts forehead, and stared balefully at her with its black, black eye.
    Its absurd, yet horrifying lower lip kept squeezing Hamilton's remains, which had quit squealing some time ago, until finally, it unrolled like a wet, moist blanket, and a skull and a pile of bones clattered down to the ground, sounding like a bamboo wind chime clattering to the patio deck after the string has broke.

    The beasts large eyes beheld her coldly, and its curious lip became as normal as it could be again, and that black tongue whipped out and around, and cleaned its face of several varieties of stains, many of them red. Its stomach, at least Maggie assumed that was what it was, growled like boulders in a steel drum, and she knew she was next.
    She shot a glance over to where her producer was, and found him far lower than he had been. In fact, he was passed completely out, his glasses askew on his face.

    "Asshole!" she cried, and then, holding one hand out to the beast, and gesturing with the other to the collapsed producer, she bleated "Take him! I'll give you him!"

    The beast looked at her and sighed, a sound like dead men blowing their cold lips and their last dying breath over the tin pipes of the Devil's calliope... "Fine," he said, "...and then I shall sup on you, my little capon..."

    ...and his tongue shot out, and the producer entered the hell of its maw, and eventually, more bones would clatter to the ground.

    Now, Maggie, being a brave, precocious, imaginative young lady, had no idea what to do, except to stand there, and wait like a lady for her turn to be mulched. This vexed her so much, that she pitched her pith helmet at the beast, and began to swear at him, using every word she had ever heard, and making some up as needed.

    It was when she had conjugated several verbs, and implied both directly and indirectly that the beast was stupid, fat, a bastard, and smelt as well, that suddenly, his mighty head fell, his eyestalk slipped back into his head, he crossed his front leg-trunks over each other, and muttered "I'gh naugh faht" and his lips fell open, and the remains of the producer slopped out onto the pink, green, and purple grass. The producers red, still-sinewy skull seemed to stare at her accusingly, the glasses still on its 'face' askew, and the one eye left looked like it wanted another chance...or a lawyer...

    Sensing her opening, Maggie bunched her fists and held them at her sides, and began to scream at the beast that yes, he was a fat fat fatty, and stupid stupid stupidest, and he began to cry, and to blubber, and squirt tears that looked like a rain of blood from a wood-chipper, and he wailed "I wasn't gonna eat you anyway, because you look like a broccoli floret fucked a used tampon and had an abortion!"

    And that is how friendships, and children's shows, are born.


    I Don't Think...

    ...that I'll ever fly again.



    I mean it.




    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!


    40 Milligrams A Day...

    ...of morphine.

    That's how much the wife's charge gets in a 24 hour period. Statistically, you do not live longer than 48 hours after being put on such a dose.

    She is about to enter her second month on it.

    She eats nothing.

    She drinks no more than 8 ounces of water a day.

    She used to be a teacher in real life, and now she lays on her back, and 'writes' with one hand on an imaginary chalkboard. The wife says the old woman just beamed when the wife asked her if that was what she was doing, and said "Why yes, of course, can't you read it?"

    I truly wish we could.

    She has a foot on either side of the Great Divide, and I truly, truly wish I could see how she is describing it.


    ADD/ADHD? Are They Real?

    And if so, what do you do about it?

    Before we get started, a disclaimer. I don't claim to be an expert, and you follow anything that appears to be advice here at your own risk. Everything I say is based on personal experience, anecdotal evidence, a bunch of personal research, and hearsay, so: throw away those crutches and hop on a skateboard at your own risk.

    I have known exactly one other adult besides myself that claimed to have it. He was on Ritalin and in his 30's. Me? I wish, I love that stuff. And if I had ADD as a kid, I didn't notice, but looking back, I'd say that I had a 'touch' of it then. If there is such a thing as Adult Onset ADD, well, I'm pretty sure I've got it now.

    I've told you the tale of getting custody of my son, and of weaning him off of the Ritalin my ex had allowed the school to put him on. Was it all easy and sweetness and light after? HECK no. It was work, on both of our parts.

    And that's the key, there. He wanted off the drugs because they 'made him stupid'. Made him feel bad. 'He wanted' being the key phrase, here. I'da probly kept him on them, otherwise. Maybe.

    In a nutshell, here are some things (I can think of right now, an update may follow) that made it so my son was successful in getting off and staying off of ADD drugs (he was about 13 at the time):

    First, as I mentioned, the personal desire.

    Then, a very real belief that I would give him the promised ass-whippings and punishments if he 'acted out' at school or at home, and getting him to commit to it, i.e., agree, sincerely.

    As you can see, we're deep into behavior mod territory, here. And for every stick you need a carrot, so:

    Video games. Nintendo (any good console will do, though) and PC, with cool, interesting games. Books. Good, interesting books that they pick out. Don't be a frakkin snob. Comics.
    My son loved these war-gaming card games, and would do anything for another box of them.

    Then, you need to adjust their surroundings, whether it be at home, or at school. At home, I kept him in front of me when we watched TV. He had several behaviors, finger snapping and wiggling, and foot twitching, and manic blinking...well, I just called it 'twitching', and would call that word out when I observed him at it, and I taught him circular breathing, and how to get himself out of that cycle of twitching. Redneck bio-feedback.

    At school, wherever possible I had him sit in the front of the room, where nothing could distract him. Always give them a safety valve at first, so they can feel safe calling you to come pull them out if they begin to feel overwhelmed. After a while, make up excuses why you 'just can't make it'. It is a weaning process, fortified with behavior modification.

    And again, they have to want to. He was such a spaz when I first got him home. I believe his ADD was a combination of the stressors of the divorce, a lack of decent parenting, especially fathering, sibling stress from the other three who went through the divorce with him, and the piece of shit New Age public schools that lets kids run wild like animals.

    Eventually, he weaned himself away from all of his odd/self-destructive behaviors, and moved on to become a man I greatly admire. Actually, after the initial rough patch, he became a teenager I actually liked, a rarity in this day and age, especially for me.

    So, he had ADD, what is ADHD? I am firmly convinced that it is ADD with a bad diet. Remove certain foods, soft drinks and candy, certain allergens, and you remove the H from ADD, and are left with a workable human, instead of a spastic animal.

    Have them tested for food allergies. It could be a thing as simple as gluten that is jacking them up. It could also be a sign that Daddy or Father McFeeley has been popping them up the pooter, so exercise caution, and combine whatever common sense you have with professional advice, and don't be afraid to get a fourth and fifth opinion.

    And don't 'opinion shop' until you get the one that fits your preconceived notion. Be open, stay wary.

    None of the above was easy, and there was a lot of trial and error. But I applied common sense and logic at every stage, and what you see above is the result.

    The first time I watched him play a video game for two hours straight, undistracted by anything, and paying close attention... Hey presto! I thought the 'A' in 'ADD' stood for 'attention'? What have we here? Look, he's paying attention like a sumbitch, what gives?
    The look on his face when I pointed that out was priceless.

    It's not that they can't pay attention, it's that they don't wanna pay attention. So you have got to help them wanna.

    And the dark side of the coin, and one that plagues all of us afflicted with it, is that we see everything. Pay attention to everything. Every Thing. Thebirdinthetreetheconversation(s)goingoninclass

    Everything. Ritalin (falsely) filters that out, but it brings a few other nasty things to the party. It is a very defective crutch. I suspect that if a kid likes it, they really don't need it.
    I taught my son to see what was in front of him, and to turn all the rest of it into white noise...surrounding you, but not of you, in you. If that makes sense.

    If you don't learn to put on a set of psychic blinders, I truly believe you can go mad. And then, when you take them off, you can become the best driver in the world. Or a fighter pilot.

    Unless you get distracted...


    My Rifle Is My Friend...

    Machine gun porn.

    Thanks to AJW308.


    The Myth Of The Invincible Jihadist...

    First off, let me restate that judging anything Eastern by Western standards is almost always futile and silly.

    Over on Vox's blog I made a statement defending the 'surge' in Iraq to the effect that we (the military) are killing and capturing them (Jihadis) in droves, and the rest are running away.
    Other commenters, conveniently avoided addressing the 'killing and capturing' part, and focused on the 'running away' part, and mocked me with a claim that running away is the Arab Way, and they'd just come back to kick our asses.

    I can hear my Iraq Vet readers snickering from here.

    And then someone said how brave suicide bombers were so brave. Puhleeze. That is a prime example of judging East by West. Suicide bombers are brave, they must be, because you are too chicken to be able to do what they do.

    Then child molesters must be brave, too, because you could never do that, either. I hope.

    Why do you people seem to have so much trouble grasping that an entire race of people can be just fucking nuts? The same people that would argue that certain dangerous breeds of dogs have been bred to be that way will try to tell me that Muslims are good people, because they've met several nice ones and had tea with them. I met a nice Pit Bull once. It licked my hand.

    And if suicide bombers are so brave and eager to die, why do they have to get paid huge (for them) piles of money, get shot full of drugs, and then have handlers deliver them to their targets?

    If bravery was a factor, crowds of them would be rushing into US bases and American malls and wreaking genuine havoc. Instead, they are being chained into bomb trucks, to keep their family from being slaughtered back home by their Muslim brothers. Or they have to go out and find a retard to do it. Or people who genuinely want to commit suicide, and may thus be safely categorized as mentally ill.

    All those show-crowds you see where good Muslims are signing up to become martyrs? Yeah, they get $50 and a T-Shirt. Then they tell their parents 'hey, if Mustafa calls, I'm not here, okay?'

    One last note, I sure am seeing a lot of 'foreign fighters' getting killed and captured in Iraq. And not in Los Angeles or Chicago.

    So much for that 'fight them there rather than here' argument being dumb, eh?

    Nothing says success like success.


    How The Global Warmists Will...

    ...come at the unbelievers.

    Infidels like me. You?

        Tuesday, May 29, 2007

    I Guess I'm A...

    ...Slithering Reptile. Look for me, way, WAY down there.

    I deleted their counter a long time ago, because it looked like nonsense to me, and messed with my template. I have the one I have now (Statcounter...Sitemeter blows) for my own amusement. I have no idea if or how accurate it is, and could care less.

    It burns my shorts though, to have people way above me, with only baby picture sites, no comments, and just looking stupid-ass in general. For some reason.


    No peace, no justice!


    Nature Is Amazing...

    Proof of which is in this amazing video.


    One For The Skeptics...

    Read this, and see why my talk of psychic matters and such just might not be the load of hooey you think it is.

    Some phenomena I have observed in myself (and I tell you this not necessarily in relation to the linked articles):

    I cannot wear gold jewelry, though I can wear silver, white gold, and platinum. Gold rots on me.
    I cannot wear a mechanical watch, especially self-winding. Waste of money, they die in a week.
    Street lights go out when I pass underneath them, especially while walking or biking. This is very annoying, though sometimes helpful. It doesn't happen all the time, and sometimes it is just one, and sometimes one whole side of the street. When I make the return trip, there it goes again. Annoying when you're looking for street signs.

    An inordinate amount of people around me that I have gotten angry with have gotten sick, become injured, or died. The two owners who evicted the wife and I (to move a relative in) with very little warning during a very difficult (Johnny related) time in our lives died within months, one of a fast acting cancer, and one of a heart attack. To my discredit, I laughed out loud when I heard about it, and I still don't feel bad.

    Did I do it? I dunno, but like the Clinton's, there sure have been a whole lot of coincidences. A kid who was bullying me in 8th grade was riding on the back of a tractor, and the bottom draw-string of his coat got entangled with a lug nut on the rear wheel, and he was picked up and slammed to the ground so hard he died instantly. I was riding in a truck behind him, and it looked like a giant hand had picked him up and slammed him down on the ground like a GI Joe doll.

    I tried not to laugh at his funeral I was forced to attend.

    It can't be consistent, assuming it's real, or Rosie wouldn't be alive, nor would Jimmy Carter, and a host of others I could name. It's just that, when I'm angry, or in a bad mood, and the wrong person says or does the wrong thing, sometimes, something happens. It has been a long time since I have taken a Statistics class, but just off the top of my head, it would seem that the odds of the things that have happened in my life being coincidental are pretty astronomical.

    There was a time when I was 'in' the occult that I focused all of this...whatever it is, and used it. And there are things that smell that sort of activity, and come a runnin, oh yes. Which is why I don't turn red lights green anymore. It makes me feel guilty, like listening to Marilyn Manson does. And I hate pissing God off.

    I could rattle on about this stuff all day, but it would just be mental masturbation. Besides, I've got better things to do...

    Sh'yeah, right.


    I Did Not Think...

    ...about this yesterday, or I would have likely been in a blacker mood than I already was.

    Fuck, I hate Bush.


    Prayer Request...

    Frequent commenter Big Cat writes:

    I would also appreciate....prayers for my dad. He's going in Friday June 2 to have some cancer removed from one of his lungs. They are doing it laproscopically so hopefully his recovery time will be a lot quicker, but... Thanks!

    Thanks, folks.


    I Guess I Have...

    ...a fast brain.


    Right When You're Wrong...


    I note while toodling through my comments this morning, my troll club ready in my eager hands, that some folks appear to have decided that I need judgment and advice. I suppose that's the risk you take when you run a public blog.


    Class, have we forgotten what opinions are like? Allow me to get out of the way first that I am a Christian, God and me are tight, and I talk to him all the time. And I not only do not fear death, I would welcome it like a beloved friend.

    So don't be silly.

    I have seen a disturbing tendency in Blogworld for people to declare themselves the 'victor' in a 'debate' simply because they declared themselves the victor. A slightly upgraded version of 'no tap backs'.

    Newsflash: declaring yourself right does not make it so, and no one is obligated to go out and provide reams of proof for their case, though some folks sadly and tediously do so. I see one of those exchanges, I'm outta there. Any comment longer than a few lines better be damed fascinating and well written and funny, and/or contain links to pics of titties, or I just move on.

    And as I've said before, any comment thread with more than fifty or so comments in it has usually descended into drivel, and is being dominated by the serial bloviators who get their identity by being seen by others.

    When I say something is fact, it is because I have seen it to be so, and more than once, so having someone come along and say 'nuh-uh' or 'well, maybe it was this' or 'maybe it's that' just gets them ignored. So much so that I just wrote an entire post on the subject.

    Well, it's worth it if it reduces my irritation level an iota or two. And that level has been pretty high lately, especially since my damn bed has taken to deflating me down to the floor every two hours. I found the highly elusive leak this morning, and patched it, and in the process discovered that my night sweats had turned the area of the vinyl mattress where I sleep into a mildewy mess, so the house reeks of Lysol and Clorox, and it's supposed to hit 90 degrees today, and I want to punch somebody in the face just for that.

    And the old broad is still hanging in there, so my broad is there all day again, and my sister is champing at the bit to get back to work even though she is still messed up, and...

    Okay, here's the short list of things I am afraid of:

    My wife and kids dying or getting injured, especially in a way I couldn't stop it. A vile, wasting disease. Prison. Hell. Arachnids.

    I think that's it.

    Happy Tuesday!


    Oh, and the ocean.

        Monday, May 28, 2007

    Snakes On A Train...

    This post reminds me of one of the many annoyances I forgot to post on in my train/zoo trip post a couple of weeks ago.

    Headed down, on the morning train, Amtrak had a Disney movie playing on the overhead TV's, which was especially cool, as I had never seen this technology on public transportation before. I don't get out much. All this stuff appears to have developed in the last five years since I've flown, or taken a train anywhere.

    So, anyway, here we are, two reserved train cars full of Christians with homeschooled kids of all ages, heading back home in the evening, and the televisions light up with the always wholesome and tasteful Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore, starring in 'Music And Lyrics', rated PG-13 'for some sexual content'.

    Now, imagine the stink, for me, if we had been two carloads of Muslims with their children, and 'Babe, Pig In The City' had come on.
    And PG-13 is the new R, and yes, there was some fuckin, and yes, the men of the group mobbed the conductor and got our televisions turned off.


    I fear getting a contact STD just from looking at Drew Barrymore. Though '50 First Dates' was cute and clever, I must admit.

    Anyway, take it all for what it's worth, mark another one in the 'American Civilization Is Dead' column, and let's just move on, shall we?

    Please check your overhead luggage compartment before you debark.

    Thank you...


    Heavy On My Mind...

    My cockles are full of cold, muddy ditch water.

    Sorry I haven't been terribly creative, lately. I have been using the interwebs as more of a distraction, than an outlet. I determined a while back to not take people down to my level, who might not otherwise go there, and I try not to violate that vow as much as I can.

    Sure, I'm kind of a basement dweller, but there's no reason to take you to the sub sub-basement with me. Sub sub sub sub...

    Some of you have tried to convince me that my writing has power. If that is true, in my quest to find out who I am here, and to become a better person (insert snicker here) I think it would be counterproductive to take innocent readers down the spider hole with me.

    By way of a partial explanation, the wife is sickly, but her job is nothing more than a deathwatch, so she goes, now, all day, and her boss takes the nights. They both want someone who cares about her to be there when the old woman's soul flees her husk.

    And that will be soon. I would fear to be near her at this time, because the fabric between the spaces has grown thin around her, and there are things that want me. The wife's light is strong, yet even she suffers from some malady that chokes her, and medicine cannot touch.
    The old woman's heart functions at about 8% right now, so they tell me, and her lungs are filling with fluid, and creatures from below throw dice for her soul, and those from above wonder if they will prevail.

    Still, she holds on, though her intake is only water, now, measured in milliliters, sprayed in small spritzes into her sagging mouth, her throat rubbed to induce swallowing.

    And I brought something on myself that I have been fighting since yesterday. Curious (and isn't that always how it starts?) I Googled to find pagans and wiccans and other darkness worshipers in my town, only to find that I was surrounded by them, perhaps even badly outnumbered.
    Worse, as I surfed, they had their symbols all over their websites, and people, those things have power.

    And they brought something through. I feel like Frodo must have felt when Sauron's eye fell upon him from Mordor.
    I cannot emphasize enough how dangerous dabbling is. Most of these people (all?) are what Fr Malachai Martin referred to as being 'perfectly possessed'. Volunteers. Front line foot-soldiers for the Prince of this Earth.

    The Accuser.

    And my soul is bruised.

    God-Willing, I'll bounce back, but seeing that the 'Reverend' (female of course) of our local Unitarian Universalist church holds Sabbats and Esbats twice a week for her Brights and Enlighteneds, just came as a body blow to me. A check of every other West Coast Unitarian 'church' showed the same thing.

    And the foulness that only lower animals, dogs, cats, bats, owls...and people like me can sense poured over me from these sites and caught me unawares, and, well, you can pray for me if you want, be you a saved Child of Jesus Christ.



    Kill All The...


    How many more lunatic idiots like this one are out there? This is purely anecdotal on my part, but I have met and known plenty of judges in my life, and I can think of precisely one that was a nice, normal human being, and not a grandstanding idiot.

    The bitch judge who presided over my last divorce was nicknamed 'Cocaine Annie', and it was common knowledge among the local constabulary that she fed her habit via the evidence locker.

    On the day of my divorce 'trial', I sat there for hours watching her ream man after man, taking his money and kids away, and acting like some sort of manic, proud Crusader. I knew I was screwed before it was my turn, and by golly, I was. She wouldn't even let me speak in my defense (I couldn't afford a lawyer, but my ex had one provided for her from The Feminist Women's Health Center...they did all of her paperwork for her, too, for free, on the condition that she allege I was a child abuser).

    You want to cure much of this (or any) country's ills, start with the judges.


    Just A Thought...

    ...for those of you who are personally uncomfortable and/or unfamiliar with firearms: why not buy a Taser gun?

    I would love for the wife and I to each own one. What a hoot to go up and kick the crap out of some yahoo you've got twitching on the ground.

    I can't afford to pay attention, so I'm not going to research models and costs, but seriously, now that I think about it, what a great idea.

    Wonder how they work on dogs...


    Lie Down With Dogs...

    ...wake up with fleas.

    And oh my people, our turn is coming. Oh yes indeedy, it is.

    It has already started, and people are blind to it.


    Some Iraq War...


    Why I Read Blogs...

    You gotta dig through a lotta shit to find the pony, but when you do, it is darn well worth it.

    All you'll ever need to neutralize the current liberal propagandtastic bullshit on the war. What a lovely gift to receive on a Memorial Day.

    Found at Protein Wisdom.

        Sunday, May 27, 2007

    I Keep Reading These Stories...

    ...from the Middle East about how much ragheads, especially Palestinkian ones, just love to build tunnels. What is it with brown people and tunnels, anyway, are they rats?

    It got me to thinking, why don't we (and the Israelis) have specialized weapons to deal with tunnels? Big armored auger trucks, with sounding equipment built in, that could drive along til it spots a tunnel, then unlimber the auger, dig down, and drop in something boomy.

    Armored tankers that could put a hose into a tunnel entrance and pump in an explosive gas. Then just drop a flare down, and watch the fun begin.

    These people shit in the street because they are too third-world stupid to build sewer systems, but they'll dig tunnels to kill Jews with.

    It's beyond past time to nerve gas all of the Palestinian territories. And Tehran.

    They'd do us the same favor.


    In Your Face...

    ...Ron Paul fans.


    A Hottie...

    ...caps on Mormonism.


    You might find this read interesting, for an eye witness account of early Mormonism. This book is practically a Bible for Mormons who leave the church.

    I read an original copy way back when, and it sure opened my eyes up.


    Oddly Enough...

    ...I think that this is a great idea.

    And long overdue.


    Five Times In The Head...

    Wow, he was pissed.

    And restraining orders and gun confiscation work so well.

    Maybe if she had had it printed on a titanium helmet.


    My Sister's At The Hospital...

    She thought she had the flu, but then the headaches got worse, so Dad just took her in.

    She's a life-long crip, born Spina Bifida, and I'm told she was the first to survive. I was four when she was born, and I can remember her being a March of Dimes poster girl, there on her little crutches, flashbulbs popping, her just beaming away, in wonderment at all the attention.

    Hydrocephalic, of course, and they put a shunt in her head that failed long ago. They tend to do that. And now she is having intense headaches, dizziness, and nausea.

    Some prayer would be nice.

    I would really, really miss her if she was gone, and that's about all I can say right now.


    Sis Update:

    Well, Vicodin wasn't touching the pain, so they upgraded it to Percocet, gave her Cipro, and sent her home. They think it might be her kidneys and/or ureters. She has passed so many kidney stones, they think she's pretty torn up in that area.

    She's one of these 'strong independent cripples', the kind I can't stand. I mean I hate the whiners, too, at the opposite end of the spectrum, but when your whole family lives in town and wants to help, and you're paralyzed from the waist down, and you don't ask for help until you have to be taken to the emergency room in agony, well...

    So the family is going to do an intervention as soon as she gets well enough to travel. We're taking her up to some specialists in Portland to look at her, if I have to 5150 her.

    She wouldn't dream of us not getting Johnny the care he needs, and that is one of the things I'm gonna put in her face. If you want to kill yourself, I'll loan you the pistol, otherwise, shut the fuck up and get in the car.


    Why I'm Happy...

    ...that Fred Reed lives in Mexico.

    Yeah, let me know how that works out for ya, Freddy Boy. Couldn't have picked a nicer place to expat.

    I feel about expats like I do about people who go into the ocean on purpose. Hey, do what you want, just don't come crying to me when you get your head torn off.


    Don't Cry Wolf...

    Can you imagine me being here, and what would have happened?

    That's one of the dumber ideas I have ever seen ill-conceived. I mean, the other day I was out and about with 6 full mags of .45 (plus one in the gun) and two 25 round mags for it.

    And zombies? Fuck, I would have made a mess.

    Zombies freak me right the fuck out.

        Saturday, May 26, 2007

    Something You Don't See...

    ...every day.

    If you're interested, there's at least six parts to this.

    Fascinating insight...


    Blast From The Past...




    I wanted to see 'The War Wagon' and 'Battle of the Bulge' so bad when they came out, but my parents were religious nuts at the time (SDA), so I missed them, and years later, when I finally got to see them, they sucked.

    Cocoa powder. I snuck me a big ole tablespoon of it when I was little. Crammed the entire thing into my mouth, expecting nirvana. Unsweetened cocoa powder. Sucked. Plus, I threw up in some mean old neighbor lady's pansy bed, and she whupped on me with her broom, then turned the hose on me. Sucked.

    Famous people. Most of them are little midgety little motherfuckers, with bad attitudes, and they're not smart, and they're rude. And they suck. One notable exception was the guy who played Ensign Chekhov. I used to play volleyball with him and some other actors, and he was a prince. Just a plain nice guy. The other exception was the biker that The Terminator took his clothes, his boots, and his motorcycle from. After the biker put his cigar out on his chest. He was a real biker, who got typecast playing bikers. Go figure. Really sweet guy, dying from liver failure. I scared him, for some reason...he thought I wanted his scalp or something. I assured him we were fine, and we had a great time, though I felt kinda bad drinking around him, because he couldn't any more.

    Lobster. Sucks. Wanted to like it, don't.

    Women. Suck. It's like rummaging through a box of rotten tomatoes to find one that's barely edible.

    Men. Ditto. Except they're not for eating. Well, for me, anyway.

    College. Sucks. Thought I'd love it, looked forward to it all my life. Dummies, teaching dummies to be dumber, and threatened by any sign of true excellence. Retard foundries. Making leaden statues, of no real worth, and shipping them out the door with no quality control.

    Scotch. Blows. I would truly love to be a Scotch drinker. Hey, alcohol. See: blows.

    Scallops. See: Lobster. Ditto, oysters. Though I love the sauce.

    Buffalo, lamb, sushi. Duck.

    Most blogs. Some blogs I used to like.

    This blog.



    Kids...What Can You Do?


    Yes, Because Apple Is... stable.



    Funny... none of these shitholes happens to be in America.

    I thought we were all bad?


    Descend With Me...

    ...into chemical madness.


    Email From A Marine...

    Our interceptor vests (we use the same ones as the army) will hopefully stop a handful of 762 rounds, the enemy's preferred choice, but the dragon skin will stop an entire magazine of 762 and come out laughing. A young Marine I was in training with a few weeks ago was in a scout sniper platoon and had bought a dragon skin vest for himself (6g's I believe he said, hey, can you put a price on not dying though?) but is unable to wear it for anything other than cheney protection while hunting because it's not authorized gear and the Marine Corps won't let him wear into combat. Harumph...


    Expressing Yourself...

    Good morning,Oman! You fuckers. I should get woke up by my defective smoke alarm more often. 5:30 am, and I just finished blowing out the squawky motherfucker, and my eye hurts because I think I rubbed my eyeball on my pillow, and the wife is in her room hacking up a lung, so I might as well turn on the computer, and my statcounter is clogged with ragheads, and...


    I don't talk at you, I talk to you. With you. That is the key to any successful communication. Human interaction. Whatever.

    It is why Stephen King will always kick Gore Vidal's ass.

    Engaging in conversation is just the first step. Too many people forget the part after 'okay, now that you've got my attention...' You hit the hot chick with a killer pick-up line, now what do you do?

    I've got no 'formula' here, I just do what I've always done. Talk. To you. Seduction doesn't work, unless they want to be fucked. I wrote my little post begging for money, and got $10. Thanks, Australia! You rock! You can lead a whore to penis, but you can't make her suck. And I have no idea what I just said. But it tickled me.

    What am I still doing up?

    I can't believe the wife's charge is still alive. Neither can the wife, or her boss. They made careful plans around her death, expecting it, and have a new client starting Monday, and now all they can do is look at each other and shrug. I suggested that one of them use a pillow to good effect, but apparently that is frowned upon in some circles. With real, actual frowns.
    Hey, be proactive! I said, but nobody listens to me.

    Except for you, and what are you doing reading this drivel on a Saturday? Luzer.

    Now see? I just antagonized you. Sorry. Really. Come here, let me comfort you. Just rest your face here in my lap...

    Ummmm, I'd better quit while I'm ahead...

        Friday, May 25, 2007

    Statcounter Fun...

    For some reason I can't figure out, my traffic seems to have really spiked.

    So, naturally, my first thought is 'why haven't you bastards hit my Paypal tip jar for at least a dollar?' One can save a starving child.

    And if you are allergic to Paypal, Wendy's (well, my) address is right there on my sidebar. Slap that dollar in an envelope, lick a stamp, and shazam.

    C'mon people, this crap doesn't write itself, y'know.

    Now, Paypal takes their cut, but, hey, if a couple thousand of you give a fuck and a buck, so what? I'll be able to afford better heroin. For the children.

    C'mon, dammit, don't make me beg.

    Oh, wait...


    What A Friggen...


    And put your friggen teeth in, Ron. Douchebag is a gynecologist? Hmmmm, might explain why he's such a pussy.

    Fucking loon.


    Fuck Rachel Carson...

    ...up the ass with a little dead Nigerian kid.

    So, how does her death count compare to Hitler's or Stalin's?

    Environmentalism is mental, and the disease, not the cure.


    Things I Believe In...

    God. Jesus. Jesus is God. I don't get it either. UFO's. Oswald was a patsy, and there was more than one gunman. Ditto Little Timmy McVeigh.

    Magic. Satan. Most lesbians can be cured by a proper application of the pork sword. Alternate universes. Dopplegangers (I have met two of mine. Freaky).

    Windows. Microsoft. Word. Vampires. Faeries. Ghosts. Chi. Ninjas.

    Cigarettes and booze don't kill you, you're just defective. Ditto, any food. Drinking unfiltered city water will fuck you up. 99% of all herbal vitaminical shit is a hoax, a placebo, and nearly every time a product is tested, they find it is just crap.

    Telepathy. That levitation is a sign of demonic possession. Demons. Angels. The Holy Spirit. Catholicism is Satan's comeback from his ass-whipping at the Crucifixion. Ditto, Mormonism, to net the Protestants.

    Government is a big, blind, insane retard, with a running chainsaw in each fist, but its pants are down around its ankles, and if you keep bobbing and weaving, you can survive for a bit longer. But you're getting closer and closer to that corner, and government is between you and the exit.

    Plus, hey, chainsaws.

    Satan invented trampolines, too. And Lawn Darts. Though I have a set in my garage. My parents bought them for my kids at a yard sale. So, some other family had them for awhile. Maybe they have tasted blood. And like it.

    Any toddler that drowns in a bucket of water, likely had it coming. Ditto, anybody who puts any sort of firework in their ass-crack. While being filmed. Or not.

    If you join the military, one of your jobs is to die. So don't whine about it. I mean it. Shut the fuck up. Ditto for families of military persons, especially spouses.

    All commercial media, especially news media, is owned by evil, venal idiots who mean us ill. But Lost is cool.

    My wife. My kids (though I've got my eye on those fuckers). Chunky Monkey, even though I hate Ben & Jerry. See: Microsoft.

    Unicorns. But not that dopey Loch Ness Monster. Even though I've seen one of its cousins.

    Have I mentioned psychic powers? And that many people in mental institutions are there because they have been overwhelmed by theirs? But mediums are fake. Unless they are witches. Channeling Satan. But Medium is a cool show. What's-her-name's tits. Watching taped episodes tonight.

    I believe in...


    Hey, You're All Off Work Now, Right?


    The O.J...



    Still Crazy...

    ...after all these years.

    Hitler nevertheless provided the Mufti, who later sponsored Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat, with a budget of 750,000 Reichsmark per month to foment Jihad in Palestine. In an example of ideological flexibility, the SS even recruited Muslim volunteers and declared that the Muslims living in the Balkans belonged to the "racially valuable" peoples of Europe.

    Islam, the gift that keeps on giving.

    Thanks a lot, Satan.


    Idiot Evolutionist...


    Yeah, because there was no color before we could see it. And there was no sound until we developed ears. Do I need to belabor the point with smells?

    It's not that Evolution Religionists are so wrong that bugs me, it is that they are so fucking snidely, confidently stupid as they go about being wrong.



    Bad Dreams...

    I sometimes have dreams of such wrenching horror, that they jolt me out of my sleep, gasping. Those are kinda fun, and I don't really mind them.

    The ones I hate are the recurring dreams where I am helpless in the face of some stupid shit or other, or where all my teeth fall out in crunchy bits, or all I have to load into my pistol are crusty rusty screws and bolts and nuts and stale PEZ candies.

    Last night I had a dream where I bought a beautiful bolt-action rifle at a gun shop. All stainless, slick action, and beautiful blond wooden stock. And it was only like $50 or so, and I could not believe my good fortune, and snapped it up, and hurried away.

    Then I noticed the caliber that had been etched into the metal. It was something like .263x49Rx161, or something. I was flummoxed. I took it back to the gun shop, but they were closed, so I went to another one, and the owner looked and looked through all of his stock, and finally came up with a deteriorating box of ammo for it, likely the last twenty rounds in the world. The box was crumbling, and the ammo had green blemishes on it, and the rounds were loose in their cartridges, and he wanted some insane price for them, because they were so rare.

    I woke up just plain pissed and disgruntled. Fucker wouldn't even buy the rifle from me.



    Why Women...

    ...should not be allowed to vote.

    Or operate heavy machinery.


    Memorial Day...

    It's not just for hot dogs.

    I've run across Libtard blogs in the last several days, and the meme is Memorial Day is 'a time for the country to come together, to bond, and heal our divisions...'

    Bullshit. First, just let me say that being opposed to you liberal assholes with every fiber of my being makes me a better person than you, and you will still be a piece of shit, and I hate your guts and hope you and all your liberal friends die of cancer or get tortured to death by a muslim. He can use my garage, and my electricity.

    Memorial Day was first conceived as a way to honor our Union dead, who put down the rebel menace in the South, and gave them what for (God Bless General Sherman). Then it became a time to honor all of our war dead, and I'd like to think it honors even those who died in peacetime years.

    Most of you will just fuck off for three days, and bitch on Monday because the liquor stores are closed.

    Why don't you think about taking your kids to a military grave, and explain the true purpose of the day to them, and have them lay flowers they picked, and maybe a homemade thank you card on it?

    I think I'll do that with Nat and John Monday...


    Some Good...


    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go! And worship!

    Sorry, Goddess, for being so late posting this. I have failed you. I will go masturbate to a picture of Rosie O'Donnell as my penance.

    But I'll be thinking about you...


    Words To Live By...

    My theme song.

    Thanks, Desert Cat.

        Thursday, May 24, 2007

    Shoot To Kill...

    Who the fuck are you? Annie Oakley? Wyatt fucking Earp? If you're going to shoot, shoot...don't talk. And, shoot to kill.

    If you take on the awesome responsibility to own a firearm, and you choose to use it offensively or defensively, try your best to kill the motherfucker(s). If they survive, it should be an accident.

    I am reading so many news stories lately where armed citizens, engaged by a felon who would happily kill them, fuck their dog to death, and dispose of both bodies in a field, soaked in gasoline and set afire...

    And these dipshits shoot to wound! What, are you one the frontier with a single shot musket, and you missed? Do they have vital intelligence important to national security so you must, absolutely must keep them alive?

    You've just been given a freebie. Kill them. If not for you, do it for me, so I don't have to worry about the garbage-ass piece of shit.

    And what he or she would happily do to my family.

    Otherwise, just shut the fuck up and go buy a Nerf-bat.

    Good luck with that.


    This Is Just...


    Warning: depictions of old people.

    It could be your Mom or Dad.

    Or you.

    Think about it...


    Writers... this, and despair.

    Then hire a good agent.


    Honesty Is The Best Policy...

    Well, except for when you have to lie, of course.

    And anything you say that is not the truth, or skirts around the truth, is a lie.

    When I get a (rare) compliment here (or in email) it almost always includes a compliment to my 'honesty'. My first reaction is, yeah, so what does that make you? And then I remember that I blog anonymously, 99.9% of you have no idea who I am or if I'm full of shit, and I just shake my head in wonder.

    Rob blogged honestly. It destroyed his livelihood, his life, and ultimately killed him, and I think he wanted it that way.

    That's honesty. Or is it? I've heard tales, which I shall never tell out of school.

    We bloggers are in virgin territory, folks. Virgin forest. Where, just when you think you've seen it all, you top the hill, and other hills covered with virgin forest stretch out before you to beyond the horizon.

    What price truth? I have no job to lose, not even this. I would starve, were it my livelihood. Is that my protection? My armor? Come at me full frontal, and I'll either write you to death, or if you are insane enough to actually seek me out in meat-space, I'll shoot you and cut you into bloody pieces, and urinate into your dying eyes.

    I think that all we who scrive, have a sacred duty to be true, yet the blog Captain's Quarters did not approve the most harmless comment of mine at all, and only puts up fawning compliments, or comments so egregious that they make the opposing side look like idiots. CQ is dead to me (not that they were ever terribly alive).

    Yet, I derive great joy in folding, spindling, and mutilating comments here on this blog. And I despise hypocrisy.

    Go figure.

    I hate to ban someone, only because it ends the joy of toying with them.


    Well, enough introspection. I accidentally 'had a life' today, and I'm glad to be back here, in my subconscious.

    Here, we can do the Sprocket Dance...




    If it sounds too good to be true, it usually is.


    As If...

    ...I needed another reason to love Red-Eye.

    Via SteveH.

        Wednesday, May 23, 2007




    Wherein Nat Beats Johnny's Crippled Ass...

    Well, she gave him a good shakin, and a pinchin, and chucked his ass down, whereupon he narrowly missed whacking his melon on the metal rail of his bed. And as I was exiting the shower, I heard his wail of anguish (in concert with the thump of yet another discovery of gravity) and as I whipped open the bathroom door, naked and dripping, I saw her little pink fairy ass flit past and down the stairs, as guilty a felon as there ever was.

    So, I went R. Lee Ermey on her ass, which froze her in mid abscond, and I reeled her back in with my Dad-powers, and by then a bubbly-faced Johnny had recovered his hominidic abilities and came over to me to show me the red marks she had left on his arms.

    It can't be easy, can it, having a 'special' sibling. I mean, he gets all the cool surgeries, and people dote on him and give him stuff, plus he's the older brother and all...

    So I sentenced her to Early Bed, beginning, oh, say, NOW! and she wailed her way to her bed like a diving Stuka, and cried until I commanded the waters to depart from me. I know them not, and give even less of a crap. You shit your bed, now lie in it.

    The wife was not home yet, as her charge still hangs on to her thread, defying anyone to cut it, so I sent John downstairs, left Nat to her Cheyne-Stoking, dried, dressed, and by then the wife was home, and I narced Nat out.

    Oh, I gave Nat the choice: six (her age) hard smacks on the butt with the ruler, or early bed, and she chose smacks, so, guess what? Yep, early bed.
    Never give them what they want.

    And then I got an idea. Nat has been drawing a lot...a LOT lately on her big magnet pen drawing board (she is getting very good, btw) so I had Johnny bring it to me from downstairs, and I took it in to her, and asked her if she wanted to draw her way out of this situation. Interest dawned in her eyes. Boy is Dad a sucker. A wimp.

    So I told her she could get out of bed and go downstairs and eat dinner and resume life, if only she would draw me a picture of her knocking Johnny down, with him hitting his head and getting hurt...

    Cut To: face, crumpling, as realization, artistic visualization, and horror sets in.

    Ha! In your face, little missy! Danged brother pusher.

    I told her to take her time, but to show me when she was done. Time was taken. Some. Then some more. Then she finally drug herself in to my room, and I had her explain to me every aspect of the drawing, and what it meant. Then (having previously alerted the wife, a very important step) I sent Nat down with instructions to show Mommy, and then John, and explain the drawing to them both, and to then apologize to Johnny, and she could have her life back.

    She walked off, as to the gallows.

    Heh. I rule.


    Smacks withheld will be smacks delivered later. It's inevitable.

    Woke up this morning to the sounds of slap and tickle...Nat was in his bed again, and they were giggling around like a couple of otters. I opened their door, and stood their tapping the ruler onto my other hand. Nat levitated over to her bed, but I lined them both up, and made like a rock drummer on their little butts, one smack per year.

    I gave them a thirty minute quiet sentence. Let's see if they want to go round two...


    The fight went to round two. I whipped the door open, and this time he's in her bed. Loophole.

    Man, they will not be able to sit comfortably today. I don't suspect anything perverse, per se, but I don't like it. I wish we could afford to have separate bedrooms for them. All of our lives would improve.




    I just wanted to write that.


    Insult A Faggot...

    ...go to jail.


    Something... should know.


    On Bill Whittle...

    Never been a fan. People urged me to read him, but I found him to be a bloviater, and lost interest. I stayed a bit longer with that commie Fred Reed, but in the end, his America-hating got to be to much for me, so fuck him.

    I got directed to read a Whittle 'essay' (try, 'tome') today, so I sighed and went there, and he lost me in the first paragraph.

    He blindly equated 'chem-trail' believers with 9/11 conspiracists, and damned them all, so now I know he is a boob. You see, I have seen chemtrails with my own eyes, even before I found out what they were. I'm not going to breast-feed you, go do your own research. There's tons of sites. And yes, many of them are nuts. So are many people who believe in God. Your point?

    With me, the jury's still out on exactly what chemtrails are, and portend, but I know for a fact they exist, and have seen the planes manufacturing them in the sky.

    Bye, Bill.


    Extreme Geek...


    It occurs to me that this technology could be adapted to weapon's sighting system, maybe several of the devices making a sonar picture like a bat sees, allowing a shooter to target in any light, and not have the flare night vision gives.


    Why Aren't...

    ...these assholes hanging from hastily made gallows on the White House lawn?

    It's far past time to let the bodies hit the floor...


    New (To Me ) Blog...

    You may have noted that I have added a new blog at the bottom of my blogroll. They asked nice. And then they nagged.

    I decided to do it, because they appear to do good works, and some of you may be going through parental rights issues.

    So, there you go.


    Rachel Lucas...

    Okay, I've seen several of the Big Blogwheels opining on this (admittedly clever and just as cute as a bug) post of hers.

    Are we still going to women for advice on how to be men, people? Well, I guess some of them like Manginas, so, have at it. Me, I'll stay content to grab them by the back of the hair, push them up against the kitchen counter, knock their legs apart, rip off their panties, fuck them firm and hard until they scream the name of their Savior, wipe off on a dish towel, and have them make me a sandwich.

    If your pussy didn't just twitch a bit, well, hope that whole 'being a lesbian' thing works out for ya.

    And dudes, if you are trolling for tail on the internet, you already have more problems than I can help you with. I have more respect for a woman who hangs out under a lamppost, than I do for for all these Rent A Broad bitches. And if this hurts any of you broad's feelings, there's nothing I can do to help you with that.
    If you haven't ever wanted to put a gun in your mouth and pull the trigger just to stop hearing an E-Harmony ad, you, too are beyond help.

    I realize that not everyone can be a handsome alpha male like me, but for gosh sakes, have some damn self respect. Want some pussy? Ask for it. Make the sale. Want a relationship? Make one. Fuck, this isn't hard. Women are needy, by design. They just might not need you. Deal. Move on. Don't be that booger she can't get off her finger.

    And women love to, to one degree or another, be needed. Make sure it is genuine, and do it. Appreciate them. If you can't do that, move on.

    And guys, never forget that there are alpha females out there, who will chew you up and shit you out, I shit you not. If you can't take the heat, stay out of the snatch.

    Like I always say, if you want a maid or a cook, hire one. If you want a Momma, go visit yours. Take flowers. She'll appreciate it. Don't fuck her, weirdo. Ditto, sisters.

    A true male/female friendship is probably the hardest relationship there is to maintain. And ladies and gentlemen, if your female or male significant other has an opposite sex 'friend', sooner or later they're gonna fuck. I think that's in the Bible or something. Maybe on one of the stone tablets God dropped, or maybe that stuttering fuck Moses dropped.

    Final tip for the day: If their parents (either or both, but especially the Mom) is crazy, well, just look out. Is all I'm saying.

    Good luck...


    War Lovers...

    ...might enjoy this site.

    Pretty cool.


    Sad But True...

    The latest telephone poll taken by the office of the Governor of Texas asked whether people who live in Texas think illegal immigration is a serious problem:

    A) 35% of respondents answered: "Yes, it is a serious problem."

    B) 65% of respondents answered: "No es una problema serio."

    Thanks, Sparrow.


    I Can't Stay Away...

    I have to go read SteveH every day, especially now that barbecue season is starting. One of his commenters said barbecuing over mesquite is nasty. Heresy. But it got me thinking, especially since Steve mentions that barbecuing is like a religion.

    Well, it is. And my particular branch does not like hickory smoke flavor, denies hickory smoke, and all its works. Yuck.

    Steve blasphemes Texas barbecue, but I love it, and I love the big plates of fat, soft white bread they serve to sop up the sauce with. Worst barbecue ever? In California, at so-called 'California Cuisine' joints. Fuck your mango chutney rub, you nasty bastards.

    Probably the best barbecue you'll ever eat is the barbecue you make for yourself. With the exceptions I have mentioned, i.e., the black-owned and run BBQ joints I've been to. And I suspect their secret is that they cook their meat for a long time, slow and low, over low heat, with not a terrible amount of smoke. I mean, there's smoke, but it is diffuse, and just passes the meat by, giving it a gentle kiss before going up the chimney.

    And I never (well, rarely) got any meat that was blackened. I consider that a mark of barbecue failure, and work hard to avoid it. I have read several studies that have tested the carcinogens in barbecued meats, comparing it to cigarette use, and they scared the crap out of me.

    But Steve's right, barbecue is subjective. If I were in one of those bbq contests like you see on Food Network, and I wanted to win, I would go to that area and do recon for a bit, eat what they eat locally, and then speak to their religion. Like it sweet? You got it. Gooey? You betcha. Mango? Here ya go.

    And now, I shall unveil my Super Secret bbq sauce recipe. The key is Ranier Ale. It is the most horrible brew I have ever tasted, and the only beer I have ever actually spit out. It's like having a dead man urinate in your mouth.

    But it kicks ass in barbecue sauce. I buy a good, heavy bbq sauce and cut it with Ranier. I'll throw in some garlic and onion powder, and some dried parsley (hold a handful of it and 'grind' it into the sauce, as fine as you can) and stir it up, and let it percolate in the sun outside.
    Now, I know most people baste sauce on at the end, but I think that's bullshit. I dip the meat in the sauce, which is pretty thin from the beer, and throw it on, piece by piece. I keep a basting brush handy, and baste it several times during the cooking process.

    My meat gets rave reviews.

    Sorry, couldn't help myself. Had to be said.

    When I do fish/shrimp/water creatures, I use cheap Asti Spumante instead of beer. I make a sauce of Asti, lemon juice, a bit of cream of tartar, minced onion, a little cream (make a light flour roue), minced fresh chives, a tad bit of sugar (Karo works best). Make sure to have a decent amount of zest ready and put it in first, or the mix will curdle.

    I like boiled white sweet corn, cut off the cob, on the side with my barbecues (of all kinds) and thick wedge fries and thick white (Texas Toast) bread, but not turned into grease-bread like some do. Just plain.

    A good salad that includes sliced boiled eggs, spinach leaves, and thin-sliced pickled beets. And friggen iceberg lettuce. I love it. If you don't, that's your business, but I love the crunch and the flavor, and it is wonderful in a salad or a sandwich. Romaine lettuce is just monkey food, as far as I'm concerned. Bitter and nasty.

    To me, a perfect bbq is several types of meat, cooked pretty much at the same time. Hamburgers and Hebrew Nationals for the kids (and me...I love HebeNats) and chicken and boneless beef and pork ribs, and a few steaks. I don't like brats, by the way.

    I like to layer the meat (I have an upper and lower shelf propane grill...I have a big Weber charcoal kettle bbq, too...we alternate) so the smoky meats are below, and they contribute their flavors upward. We mix finely chopped onion and paprika into our hamburger patties, and baste them with sauce, and they really contribute to the flavor of other meats.

    Costco is the best place I can imagine to buy meat from. For $90 bucks you can buy a beef loin twice the size of my thigh, and have them cut it up for you. We get the family to go in on it, and store most of it in our freezer, and even poor people can eat fillet mignon on a regular basis. Same thing with ribs.

    If I were a single person, living in an apartment, I would buy one of those cool new tailgating bbq's from Coleman or whoever, that fold up out of the way when you're done. If I couldn't cook on my patio, I'd move. There's nothing like turning on the gas, throwing on a pack of chicken quarters, eating your fill, and having lovely cold bbq chicken waiting in the fridge for you.

    Fuck a Domino's pizza.


    You Should See...


    Via Pat Dollard.


    I Love This...

    Stolen from Greg Beck.

        Tuesday, May 22, 2007

    The Death Of Western Civilization And First world Culture...

    This is all you need to know...

    In July 2005, a 45-year-old man died of internal bleeding after being anally penetrated by an Arabian stallion during a bestiality weekend in the US state of Washington. The victim, a Boeing engineer working on top-secret defence projects named Kenneth Pinyan, suffered a perforated colon.

    The End.




    I say we kill their government, send their people into Iraq as refugees, declare it a state, and use it as a place to send all of our ragheads, and process them into their country of choice.

    Seize all their oil to pay for it, and to shore up our military.

    Fuck Congress.





    If it's not one monkey, it's another...


    Just A Thought...

    If you are a male, and have ever appeared in 'Oz' or 'Prison Break', it is likely that you are a certifiable choad-smoker.

    More than likely.


    What's Good For The Goose... good for the gander.


    So... think the government won't come to take your guns?

    And don't forget Katrina, either.


    In Your Face...

    ...anti-war hippie luuzers!


    One Of The Saddest Stories...

    ...I have ever read.

    I suspect white students are much the same, now. This is why you do not pay for someone's education, or give them loans to attend the daycare center school.

    And I think that should go for every grade after the 8th.


    Fuck Islam...

    These same assholes are here, and they will lie to your face, and stab you (and your children) in the back.

    If you use the term 'moderate Muslim' to my face, I will punch you in yours.

    I think it is far past time to de-louse.

    Yes, all of them, man, woman, and child.


    Spring Is Busting Out All Over...


    Beautiful Art...




    ...having a bad day.


    Okay, Now This Is...

    ...just weird.

    And this is just disgusting.

    Fuck Islam.


    I Did Not Know...


    Yuck. Creepy. And I was eating poached eggs when I read that.

    Thanks, Sean.


    Feels Like A Monday...

    I swear. If it hadn't been for the wonderful finale of 'Heroes' last night, I would have no anchor at all, and be lost, and adrift in my week.

    Been going around doing my morning blog reading. SteveH is still pissing me off with his clueless hypocrisy. 'Hypocrisy Watch, Day 211'. I go there because he writes very well, but all too often I leave with a bad taste in my mouth. No wonder the guy never gets laid, he really seems to despise women. That gets old. And then, to show how hypocritical Pamela of Atlas Shrugs is (a blog who he could not even begin to carry water for, she does so much good work) he puts up a three minute tittie video.

    Uh huh.

    Then he disses Texas barbecue, and says his is better. Uh, hello? Just about anything you make in your own kitchen, with care, to your own tastes, is going to be better than restaurant fare? Mister Obvious?

    Although I must say, I have had barbecue in Oklahoma and Texas that I don't think any white person could ever match. Even at one of those Food Network barbecue competitions. I truly believe those things are the most racist things on earth. Only rich white people get to participate. See any black cooks/chefs on the Food Network? Nope. They would kick everybody but maybe Bobby Flay's ass. And they'd make him sweat a bunch, I bet.

    I learned during my time in the South to look into a restaurant first and look for black people in the cooking area before I spent my money. I had several places where I was a regular, and every piece of barbecue I have made since that time has been an effort to recreate the barbecue I had there. Sometimes I succeed. Nearly.

    Being the sensitive sort that I am, and having gained an understanding of the Southern Black mentality, I knew I was being kow-towed to and shined on because I was a white man, so I just acted natural, tipped well, and kept coming back. Eventually, the false face would fall, and we could treat each other like family, and America's white families could learn a lot from good, solid (non-ghetto) black families.

    The best barbecue I've ever had is spit roasted, turned slowly but constantly, over a mix of charcoal and wood. Not smoked, truly, but open pit, for sure. I hate smokers, and 'smoked' meat. I've tried all sorts of wood chips, soaked in this or that, or dry, and I give up. Yuck. And that mesquite charcoal is an abomination.

    Anything but an open pit is just a pale attempt at trying to recreate meat cooked over an open pit. With one huge exception. If you can find mesquite or madrone wood, use it. It burns extremely hot, but if you can find it, let it burn down to cherry red coals, and cook with the lid off (assuming you have a Weber or similar).

    Crap, now I'm jonesing to barbecue some chicken leg/thigh quarters, and make some potato salad. Summer must be close. A little barbecue hint we found out because we're poor: you can find marked down meat that's at its 'sell-by' date, and not terribly pretty, but they can't sell it because the American shopper is finicky, so they give up and mark fillets way down, and give up.

    That's called 'aged beef', folks, tenderest, tastiest beef you'll ever eat. Buy it and cook it on the same day. Don't try to store it in your own fridge. Does not work for hamburger, fresh is best.

    Well, the propane tank is full, the weather ain't bad, and even a friggen hot dog tastes better off the grill.

    Time to go clean out all the spiders...

        Monday, May 21, 2007

    My First Love...

    I'm writing a little of this, a little of that, here and there, and who knows if it will amount to anything. If my Mother's curse continues, I won't amount to anything, but I've grown used to that.

    The soft bigotry of low expectations...

    Anyway, I've had something niggling in my brain for some time, now, and I am toying with ways to write it. You see, I miss Science Fiction. Oh, not this crap they put out today, noise to signal ratio off the charts, but the good stuff I grew up with, Andre Norton, Glory Road, and such.

    And pirates. I love pirates.

    I want to redo the so-called 'Boys Fiction' genre to appeal to the boy inside we men, and to amuse and entertain myself as well. If it's good, I like reading my own writing just fine.

    Okay, as to 'modern Sci-Fi', Stephen R. Donaldson's 'Gap' series kicked some pretty awesome ass, and came pretty close to what I am seeking. Poor guy's an anal retent of the first order, and writes just to hear his brain rattle sometimes... I bet he has some real OCD issues, but I devoured those books.

    I'd like to be the modern Edgar Rice Burroughs, with a side of Andre Norton (don't fuck with me...yeah, I know she was a broad) and some Tanith Lee, and Heinlein, except without all the mother fucking. Dang, that dude was a perv.

    To me, science should just be a prop. The screen you pull down to show your film on, not the be all end all. I remember stupid fanboys whining over the wonderful 'Outland' starring Sean Connery, and that is why I parted with the Sci-Fi writers community I was involved in at the time. Well, that, and the verbal wedgies I gave them. Oh, and CJ Cherryh drove me nuts (she was 'leader' of the group). I actually made it through exactly one of her books, and then had to go out and punch cows in the face and ravish waitresses and hair stylists for a month just to clear my palate and get my testosterone level back up.

    So, that's one of the things I'm farting around with in my brain right now. I don't know if it is possible, but I would like to write something a thirteen year old boy could read again when he is forty, and go 'damn, this is just as good as when I first read it...heck, better'.

    If cartoons can multi-layer appeal to both kids and adults (See: Spongebob, Family Guy, etc) why can't books?

    Oh well, time to cook dinner...


    A Damned...

    ...good idea.

    Since when do you carry water to your enemy? Oh wait, we give them money and arms.

    Never mind...


    On Turds, And The Manufactury Thereof...

    Pondering Nat's contribution this morning, and my own proud megaliths, got me to thinking about stinking, and what goes in, in proportion to what comes out, and in what form it does so.

    As I've said, the wife cannot cook for four ('Honey, there's only four of us, and three of you are little short fuckers!') so she cooks for the army she doesn't have, and is too penurious to allow me to give it away, so we have had to eat spaghetti for three nights in a row. And Garlic bread.

    Literally, I suggest that we bag something up that fills an entire shelf in the fridge and give some to my parents or something, and she gets a look in her eyes like you'd see in a state prison, just before you get shanked for reaching for an extra biscuit.

    And spaghetti, I think, forms the perfect ass-bat. I mean, you could take one of mine, polish it up a bit, add some metal studs to the tip, and have a serviceable weapon. Though I doubt anyone would care to fight you, because whoo doggies, they stink. I mean, stink like you have to go to the other bathroom and gargle to get the taste out of your mouth stink. The kids come to the closed bathroom door, hold out their hand to the knob, hesitate, think better of it, and go elsewhere.

    A closed bathroom door is a hazmat warning in this house. Excuse me, I have to go change this shirt. Funk is coming off it in waves, I'll go drop it in the machine...

    There, I'm back. Where was I...

    Oh yeah, we eat a lot of poor people food, which means ethnic, and a lot of it is Mexican(ish). Now, that diet can lead to crapping out special sauce so hard you shit on the back of your balls.
    'Wet cleanup on aisle 13!' And you gotta clean the bottom of the seat. Italian? Nope, just good solid loaves and fishes. A miracle.

    Steak is best. All the loaf, very little of the odor, and wipe like Cheryl Crow. Chinese is worst. Just go to the cupboard and dig out an extra roll of two ply, cuz whatever's hangin there ain't enough.

    Oooo! The wife made scratch Tapioca pudding, my absolute fave. Easy to make, but it burns like a bitch if you look away for a second. Of course she only has two speeds on the stove-top: off, and smoking post apocalyptic wasteland. I am forever phoning downstairs and saying 'honey, you're about to burn something', and she has given up calling bullshit on me, and now just runs and lifts it off the burner, because I can smell that tipping point where the item being tortured has absorbed all the calories it can, at least at that temperature.

    Man, I feel frisky, like I want to scoot around on my asshole on the carpet.

    Probly shouldn't...


    Today Is Her Birthday, The House Is Full Of Flowers...

    Not a bad day to die, I suppose, going on the same day you arrived.

    The wife's charge is expected to pass, today. Still, when she gave the old woman her birthday card, she got a smile, and then the drugs foamed in on another wave, and took her away on a slow boat to be with Hypnos.

    I shall make the kids dinner tonight, and hug the wife when she comes in, and perhaps take her upstairs and tuck her into bed, and close the door softly and leave her to her grief.

    Or perhaps we'll all surround her with life, and the kids will serenade her with electronic music and Tinkertoy bucket drums, and they will wonder why Momma tears up occasionally.

    God's Will be done...


    Wherein Nat Clogs The Toilet...

    ...with a targeted loafing.

    I heard the wife coughing and gagging and emitting uncharacteristic curses, so I investigate, and she had been putting unguents on her face in the downstairs bathroom (her make-up parlor) and had noted a stench, and glasses off, and blind as a bat without them, had shuffled over and pulled the handle of the terlet and lo and behold, Nat had filled it like a turtle lays eggs, and the mess began to rise to the rim.

    The wife well knows the horrible sound of a clogged toilet, no whoosh, but a steady run of water, so she scrabbled for her glasses and put them on and dove for the water shut-off and made it barely in time, nose to nose with Nat's leavings.

    Plunging ensued.

    Better her than me. Nat, outside the door, was beaming with pride, and boinging from foot to foot, and made up a spontaneous song about huge poops. The wife was not amused, and declared herself so, but Nat was not to be stifled, such was her sense of accomplishment.

    It is good to be proud of your work.


    I Love Women...



    Now, this is officially the coolest thing, ever.

    Catch movies and shows you missed, right on your computer.


    About An Hour From Where I Live...

        Sunday, May 20, 2007

    Don't Click On The Day By Day Cartoon...

    It's got some sort of redirect that takes you to a Shrek 3 site, and it (personally) shithammers your PC with junk, plus it's Quicktime, which is a crapplication.

    So either scroll to read, or go to his actual site.


    Spam alert over.


    I Guess...

    ...this fish didn't get the Evolution memo.

    Evolutionists can explain this just as easily as they can explain the Lungfish I saw at the zoo the other day...

    Oh wait, no they can't.

    Dumb shits.




    Are we sensing a trend here? The wife and I just read this article, and we spontaneously decided to quit eating at our two favorite Chinese restaurants here in town. Or any of them, for that matter.

    We will avoid the (imported) ethnic foods aisles in our stores, too, though we used to frequent them.

    I don't drink beer from filthy foreign places like Mexico, and Portugal, either.

    Dammit. Wish I could get a house on several acres and raise and grow my own food.




    George Bush=...


    I'd like to see everyone currently on trial (or the lam) for tax evasion use this as their defense, and all of them take it to the Supreme Court.

    Keep those idiots busy for a while.



    This can't be good.

    Was it a probe? Or an attack.

    Don't worry, Michael Chertoff is on the job, even though every time I see him I envision him in a black cowled robe, with a mouthful of fresh baby guts.

    Yeah, that's the guy I want running my Homeland Security, a baby-eater who cheers on this abominable immigration bill.

    We are so fucked.


    I Rarely Eat Candy...

    ...but when I do, these wimps will definitely be off my list.

    You wanna be a vegetarian, fine, but shut the fuck up about it. Instead, they've made it another fanatical religion (as if we need any more) and screw shit up right and left. And they fit hand and glove in with the animal rights loonies.

    Crikey, I make decisions to eat vegetarian all the time, but I don't beat my chest over it. And I will never forgive these assholes for fucking up McDonald's french fries. I've told you before, when they cooked them in beef tallow, people (including me) would pull through the drive-thru just to get a cup of them to munch while driving. They were heavenly. Now, they're just hot wooden sticks.

    If I had the money, I'd set up a restaurant the way I like it, and serve what I want. Transfats and MSG would be on the menu, if you want. Optional. And I'd refuse service to anything that looked Muslim, and have an INS agent stationed at the door.

    It would be mostly a barbecue joint, and beasts of all sorts would be roasting over a spit at all times. But I would also serve you the best damn veggie burger you've ever had, and believe me, it puts most hamburgers to shame.

    I'd hire black and brown Americans, sure, but they'd better be borned here US Citizens, and speak and write perfect English. And no Democrats.

    And no damn salad bar. Those are nasty. You pick your salad from a picture, and my salad technicians will don hairnets and gloves and set to work on it. You pick the part of the carcass you want from a diagram of the cuts, and then use a laser pointer to pick the exact spot you want it cut off of. I've actually eaten at a restaurant in San Francisco (Elizabeth was made out of train cars...really cool) that really did that (except they didn't have laser pointers back then).

    You went to the window, and pointed to the part you wanted on the side of beef (there would be several hanging) and the butcher cut it off and handed it to your waiter, who took it off to be cooked to your specifications. It came with a baked potato the size of a Nerf football, and has remained to this day the best steak meal I have ever had.

    My restaurant would have dining pits in it, with circular, or horseshoe shaped (depending upon the amount of people it was meant to serve) tables. You'd walk down a ramp, and sit with your back to the wall, and the wait staff would come in and serve from inside the circle...none of that reaching across you with hot shit that I hate.

    Finished eating? Made a mess? Fine, they just hose it down a center drain, wipe and mop everything down, and refill it with the next party. Add a padded circular partition around the upper circle, with stickery bushes in planters around the perimeter, and your privacy is assured, and you can make all the noise you want. Give every place setting its own call button and a little microphone/speaker set-up, that goes to their wait-staff's Blackberry, and they can save steps and bring you what you need quicker.

    Suspend plasma TV's so that several pits can view them at the same time, and listen to what's on through their speaker if they want, or turn it off.
    Shoot, now that I think about it, you could have live lobsters in a tank, and the waitress could wheel a screen (or pull out a laptop) and you could choose your lobster remotely. Put numbers on their claw bands. Heck, you could do the same with trout and bass and such. Number tag them, and have the customer pick their own fresh fish, and net it for them.

    Heck, you could order from your computer at home, and have it ready for you when the time for your reservation rolls around. Run a bus service that comes to the customers home, goes from place to place picking up the various parties, and times them with GPS so everything comes off perfectly. Sell drinks and hors d'oeuvre's on the bus. Heck, those could be pre-ordered, too.

    And why don't restaurants offer baby swings and free diapers? Heck, the little bastards can't stay awake in those sumbitching swings, but they're too cumbersome to take in the car. You could order your table set up beforehand with a seating chart, and the table-top by the parent in charge could be removed, and the baby swing put in and locked down (to prevent lawsuits).

    Instead of giving a kid those damn crayons and your logo bullshit to color, hook an electric doodle pad up and give them a disposable scratch pad to draw on. Heck, it could show cartoons, too, and you could give them a cheapo set of ear buds.

    Add three bars, ladies only, men only, and mixed, and you'd have reservations for years ahead.