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James Lileks
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Now With Best ofs!

Haunted Soldier

Curses & Chrome

All Atwitter

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Random Bits of Pomposity


Vox Day



Doc in the Box

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Atlas Shrugs

Twenty Major




  • Red Light District...

  • Women Are Only Good For Cleaning...

  • Ann Coulter Is Brilliant...

  • Painkiller...

  • Ron Paul= EVIL PORK SPENDER!!!

  • All The Songs (I Think)

  • Thanks, Donater!

  • Ron Paul...

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • The Day I Have Dreaded Has Arrived...

  • A Cartoon For A Cartoon...

  • An Excellent Plan...

  • Just For You Know...

  • Read This...

  • Mail Order Brides...

  • Never Vote For An Incumbent, Again...

  • He Does All The Hard Work...

  • I'm No Fan Of Professional Wrestling, But!

  • This Is My Brain, On Drugs...

  • Hmmmm...

  • A Rare Velociman Sighting...

  • Ugh...

  • Good Sci-Fi Fare...

  • I'm Rubbing Off On The Wife...

  • Urgent Fish-Tank Update!

  • Whither The Daisy Cutter?

  • Can You Refute...

  • Ron Paul...

  • John Scalzi...

  • HA! In Your Face, Bitches...

  • Rare Photo Of The Prophet's Wife Found!

  • Words Are Like Legos...

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  • Maybe You've Seen...

  • A Dear Blog-Friend Of Me And My Family...

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  • I Love Redheads...

  • Banned by PBS: Muslims Against Jihad...

  • Are Brad Pitt And George Clooney Gay?

  • Blast From The Past...

  • WW2: Global War On Terror...


  • I Bet All You Broads Just Hate Her...

  • Another Good Reason...

  • I Just Broke My Best Ruler...

  • Smart Kid...

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  • 100 (Legally) Free PC Games...

  • A Cautionary Tale...

  • A Worthy Cause...

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  • Have You Ever...

  • Thanks, Burt...

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • Waiting For Comcast...

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  • Fun With Animals...

  • Satanic, My Ass...

  • Just Four Words....

  • Marriage: Not For Everybody...

  • Yeah, I Been Lollygagging...

  • All You Really Need To Know...

  • Oh, This Is Rich...

  • Happy Father's Day To Me!

  • Just An Aside...

  • Let This Be A Lesson To You...

  • I Love Iron Chef...

  • Fuck Ron Paul...

  • Ron Paul Sucks...

  • Can This Be...

  • Swollen Glands...

  • Fuck Ron Paul...

  • Police...

  • Fuck China...

  • Disgruntled...

  • You Cut One Spic...

  • From Whence All The Traffic?

  • Other Than The Wife...

  • $20 Worth Of Copper Wire...

  • Peek-A-Boo...

  • Deniable Rights...

  • Penis Talk...

  • Wherein Sears Blows Me...

  • Worthy Causes...

  • Imagine My Joy...

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • President Bush, Resign...

  • Restructuring Hate...

  • A Good...

  • Hogwash...

  • Reading Between The Lines...

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        Saturday, June 30, 2007

    Red Light District...

    I have an idea. Let's let every city that wants one, (or more, depending upon the size of the city) have a Red Light District. But only in that district. No outlying strip clubs and raunchy bars. Put it all in one area, foot traffic and rickshaws only.

    You own a bucket of blood in some other part of town? Fine, the city will sieze it from you and give you an equal space in the RLD. You can take your fixtures, get a loan from the city, and be up and running in a couple of weeks.

    Provide plenty of secure parking for the customers and employees, where they have to turn their keys in, and blow a decent (non-illegal) alcohol level to get their keys back, or take a cab or a tram home, no questions asked. For $20 bucks, they can ride in the tow truck that pulls their car if they need their car for work in the morning. The tow driver boots it in your driveway, and you can drive again when you blow clean. Any cop or tow driver can drop by and test you and remove it.

    Each RLD has a police substation, staffed with a mix of veteran cops, rookies, and trainees. A great place to learn your skills. Walking beats only. Great place to train undercover operatives, too. Plus, they can burn any crooked bastard cops who are drinking on duty and shaking folks down.

    Now, the rest of the city can have all the bars they want, but they'd be the nice quiet bars like I like, fern bars and such. Maybe a few pool halls. But, you wanna see naked titties swinging around, and rub elbows with bikers and other trash, live a little dangerously, well, the RLD is for you.

    Go on a safari.

    Yep, the RLD would have the tittie bars, the queer bars, the S&M dives, all the places that are currently spread out all over your average city like a bad rash. It would be Disneyland for pervs.

    I'd wanna own the hotel franchise for a couple of these places. Party your ass off, grab a whore, and go get a room. And all confined safely in one protected wildlife preserve safely away from the straights and norms and mundanes. All of whose money is as welcome as anybody else's should they choose to take a walk on the wild side.

    And the possibilities for financial reward are nearly endless...


    Upon re-reading this, I feel that my definition of a RLD is in order. The first thought in most of your heads is hookers, I am sure of it. That is not how I see it.

    Oh, to be sure, they'd be all over the place, but a RLD to me is a place where the steam from society's pressure cooker can be safely let out with no danger to the salt of the earth folks who don't need that kind of drama.

    There are some folks who are just more in touch with their Dark Side than others, and short of locking them away, and absent a crime, they need a place to go, too.

    Or they'll be all up in your grill.

    Still, I have no problem with prostitution at all. I do want its practitioners licensed and tested, at least to the extent we do manicurists. Excuse me, nail technicians.

    Smart city fathers have managed their criminal element like this for centuries. And God help us, keep the religious crusaders and ninny-nannies away from the process, by deadly force, if necessary.

    Keep your morals off my dick.


    Women Are Only Good For Cleaning...

    Hey, don't get mad at me, Hillary said it here:

    "Somebody said to me the other day if there was ever a time for a woman president it's now because we're going to have to do a lot of cleaning."

    The women, many of who brought their daughters to the $100 per plate "Women for Hillary" breakfast, applauded wildly.

    "Grab your buckets, grab your brooms..."

    So hey, bitches, down on your hands and knees.

    Hillary said so.

    Nice to see all those mothers bringing their daughters up right...


    Ann Coulter Is Brilliant...

    Of course, you already know that, but still...

    The other day I saw her being interviewed by some squat, suppurating talking turd or other, and the turd grunted and emitted a vapor cloud in the form of a question, something along the lines of 'so well, smartass, what would YOU do to solve the immigration problem', and she looked at him archly and told him she could solve the problem literally overnight.

    The turd looked skeptical, and Ann said yeah, I would simply pass a law that made every illegal alien eligible for the prevailing wage you would pay a citizen for the job, at the very least, the Federal Minimum Wage, and give them the ability to sue the employer who withholds proper pay and benefits a citizen would otherwise receive.


    I've said it before, Ann Coulter is my Litmus Test for whether or not you are an idiot. Call her shrill? I just listen to that fine, cultured, modulated Alto voice of hers, and I do not hear the shrill. Just yours, whiner. Shut up.

    One of my complaints about her, way back when I first started writing about her, was that she was too cultured, took too much shit, and didn't fight back. I fantasize that she reads here, and listens to me, because boy has that kid come into her own.

    She rules every panel she's on, strides into obvious ambushes like a gunfighter, and mows down any who would stand against her, eviscerating them so completely you could stuff them with rice and pop them into the oven.

    If you do not worship the Goddess, you are not only an idiot, but a liberal, and likely have strong homosexual tendencies.

    The only thing that bothers me about her is her alleged friendship with that bloviating, infected uterus Bill Maher.

    Oh well, even her feet of clay are pretty...

        Friday, June 29, 2007


    We've all heard the word so many times on ads, it has become so familiar to us, that it comes as a surprise when you tell your six year old daughter, who has just chowed her knee on the asphalt outside that you are going to put the two worst words she knows on her leg to make her feel better.

    Pain. Killer. Just add freaking out...

    The wife had no Idea why Nat was going all insurgent on her, but, being a genius, I immediately grasped the translation issue and stepped in and interpreted, and Nat gave me the 'ohhhhhh!' look, and then gave the wife the monkey face (and I am thinking of the suspicious look a Woolly Monkey gives you, from under its brow) and then the wife got the 'well why didn't you just say so' look from both of us.

    John's out in a corner of the lawn, happily digging like a gopher, surrounded by yellow toy vehicles, and now Nat is back out there, hobbling around, using this toy golf club like a cane, trying out for an Oscar. At the very least, a Day-Time Emmy.

    The wife is outside practicing her Dim Mak skills on the outside plants, while the inside plants respirate a sigh of relief...spared yet another day. I tell her to stay the heck away from my cacti. She's the only person I've ever known to have killed one.

    Yes, Nat has been a spy all afternoon. 'Johnsons' to be exact, her boy alter ego. She was outside drawing chalk outlines around cars when she gratered her knee, along with the top of her foot just above the shoe.

    I have no idea how she did it, but I told her big boys don't cry (and got a look, but she shut up) and I went and got a butt-wipe (adult, flushable wipes, they're wonderful... keeps your ass kissing-sweet) and handed it to her and told her to clean herself up, and showed her how to fold the dirty parts in and not wipe dirt into the scrape.

    The wife was all aflutter, wanting to butt in, but I told her hey, Nat knows where it hurts, and she needs to learn to do this. The wife got to apply unguents and bandages.

    Dammit, I guess I'm something of a hoverer, too. I want to be in the shower right now, but they're all outside, and I am on overwatch. They have no idea my pistol is near me, and I am ready to plug any pervert or Pit Bull who comes along before the first scream is all the way out of one of their throats.

    It is nerve-wracking...


    Ron Paul= EVIL PORK SPENDER!!!

    But hey, it's okay because when caught, he fesses up, right?

    Go here to get the full list. Apparently, there's so much of it, that it jammed up my PC trying to download the .pdf file.

    Flying Monkeys in 5...4...3...2...

        Thursday, June 28, 2007

    All The Songs (I Think)

    ...from my favorite episode of Buffy.

    And I think this one is my favorite song of them all. Or was it the Bunny Song?


    H/T to Greg Beck, for stirring the memories.


    Thanks, Donater!

    For this!

    I was beginning to think nobody loves me anymore.

    You rock!


    Ron Paul...

    ...evil home invader, breaks and enters!

    Countdown to Flying Monkey incursion in 5...4...3...2...


    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!


    The Day I Have Dreaded Has Arrived...

    The day when Johnathan would finally internalize and recognize that he is different, and perhaps even substandard.

    He was downstairs with Natalie, happily doing the Pilates DVD with her for homeschool P.E., and it came to him. "I can't do dis..." and he sat down and waves of sadness washed up on his shores, and overwhelmed him, because no, actually, he could not do this.

    My dear, sweet, broken little man...

    Them both bereft, and disconsolate, the wife brought him up to me, and I held him for a bit and told him how proud I am of him, and he soaked me up. I explained that parts of Daddy are broken, too, and Daddy can't do Pilates, either. He was mean there's something Daddy can't do? Blasphemy!

    I explained to him how the doctors are working on ways to fix his broken parts, and make them work proper, and just look how much you can do right now. I explained how he could help Momma make home-made corn tortillas, and her eyes narrowed...hey, have you ever had home-made tortillas? To die for, and I have been angling for some for awhile...what, honey, you want to crush the little crippled boys dreams?

    I'm an asshole, eeoh-leoh, eeoh-leoh...

    No, that status came when I suggested to him he could also help Momma make sopapillas, I believe. I have been craving them, too.

    Anyway, the clouds parted, and once again, his face shown like the sun, and he bounced off back to Pilates with my admonition to 'just do what you can do', and with any luck...

    Daddy gets home-made corn tortillas tonight.


    A Cartoon For A Cartoon...

    Via: This place.


    An Excellent Plan...

    ...from a most interesting source.

    Hey, can we trade Presidents?

        Wednesday, June 27, 2007

    Just For You Know...

    I have been suffering horribly here with Firefox for some time now. Everything has been slow and chunky. Why, it sometimes took a couple of seconds after I clicked on the red X for the tab to close. And then, to my horror, it could take several seconds for the tab to finally close.

    I don't have that kind of time, people. I want my Instant Gratification.

    Well as I said, I suffered, and as I've said, I'm a horrible procrastinator, but finally, the pain got to be too much.
    So, I cleaned up junk files on the computer, and defragged. I ran virus scanners, and diagnostics. Nothing.

    Then, in the back of my big brain, likely stuffed under my discarded memories of my ex-wife, I realized that some time ago, in a fit of stupid, I had succumbed to that disease of all PC users, Installitis, and had said yes, why not? when Google asked me if I wanted to download and install their bright shiny new toolbar for Firefox. What could it hurt?

    So, I raced to the Control Panel, and uninstalled it, restarted my PC, started Firefox, and crap, only marginally better, but still hesitant and slow.

    A couple of days went by, and then today, as I was about to scream and throw this fucker out the window, it hit me: hey! I installed that fucking Yahoo toolbar, too!

    Race to Control Panel, repeat. Bliss.

    It's a tough job, being a genius, but someone's got to do it. You see, shortly after installing each toolbar I realized two things: a) they were worthless to me, and b) they played Hobb with my ADD. So I hid them. From myself. But they were still there, working their eeevil.

    Not anymore, baybee!

    I rule...


    Read This...

    Absorb the smart.

    Absolutely brilliant analysis. And there's a serious warning in there, too, for you non-foolish virgins.


    Mail Order Brides...

    There was once a time for them. A man could be sure that he was getting a marriageable woman, who wanted to get married to him, and as he was in a place (the Frontier) where women were scarce, it benefited both parties to be brought together.

    Nowadays, women equal or outnumber men in America, and all a man has to do is go out and dip his pole into the water to catch one. Trouble is, there's sharks in those waters, with sharp teeth, so you'd best mind your pole.

    And these online dating services? Crikey, have you seen them? If she's not a fat toothless hag, grinning and having her cat wave at the camera, she's a hooker, who will discuss her rates with you after initial contact. Getting involved with one of those places is like merging onto an eight lane freeway populated by drunks and psychos and road-ragers.

    And let's say a lady finds 'Mister Right' at one of these sites. What's the guarantee that on the second or third date, Mister 'Can't Get A Date The Normal Way' doesn't show up with his rape kit?

    And guys, what's the guarantee that the hottie you pick's boyfriend isn't parked downstairs with a few of his felonious friends, waiting for her signal, in order that they may come up and change the entire rest of your life?

    At the very least, nowadays she has the very real power to move into your life and rape you for half your stuff.

    If you don't have time to find a partner, that's your fault. You ordered your life, and you are in control of it. I worked three jobs and went to school full time and was married, and I still dated all the time. Yes, I'm a dog. Now, answer my ad.

    Maybe your intuition will find me out. That's what hundreds of other women thought, too.

    The dating scene is hairy enough without adding the extra excitement of anonymous strangers of genuinely possible ill will to shop for you as if you were a cantaloupe.

    Or meat...


    Never Vote For An Incumbent, Again...

    Except for maybe Tancredo. We The People need to vote against every current office-holder at every level of electable position in this land. Until we get it right.

    If they say one pro-immigration word, they're gone. If they say one pro-Islam word, they're gone. If they say one anti-war, retreat in the face of enemy onslaught word, they're gone.

    It really is that simple, and it could be done. And don't give me any of your crap about 'polls taken of the American people...' You can't tell me that the MSM lies and distorts all the time, and then expect me to take their polls seriously, especially as the most famous pollster of all of them is a fucking Arab.

    There needs to be a grass roots effort to get every single taxpayer in this country to make a promise to the government that we will not file our taxes on or before the 15th of April until the government makes itself accountable to us again.

    Such an action could very well make my family homeless, but that is a price I was willing to pay. We suffered greatly during the government shutdown under Clinton, but I was 100% behind the Republican's (under Newt) actions then.

    Let's put our money where our mouths are...


    He Does All The Hard Work... I don't have to.

    Here's a nice round-up of everything you need to know about the scurrilous, self-serving attack on the Goddess Ann by that vile scum Chris Matthews on Hardball last night.

    Please note that the Goddess does not fear to beard a toothless liberal lion in his filthy den, but that pussy John Edwards hides behind his wife's skirts and chickens out of debates on Fox.


    What the Goddess really said.

    And she really likes Sam Brownback. Hmmmmm...

        Tuesday, June 26, 2007

    I'm No Fan Of Professional Wrestling, But!

    I am sick and tired of going around the blogs today and seeing people who would likely pull a muscle if they reached around to wipe their ass too quick disparaging these genuine athletes.
    I'd like to see any one of these loudmouths last ten seconds (eight of which would likely be spent running and screaming like a little bitch) in the ring with one of these monsters.

    I've had relatives who were pro football players. The earth moves when they move, the floor creaks...they have reflexes they don't need to use.

    So, what's your sport? Perhaps only Curling doesn't have a steroid problem, and even that is doubtful. I've seen the nude calender. And if you can look deeply into football and baseball, our two biggest sports, and show me how they are any less silly, any less controlled by owners and managers (and the Mob)... well, you can't.

    I was in my early 20's, managing an Oklahoma beer bar one late Sunday evening, and the place was dead. I was all by myself. I liked it that way. And then the screen door screeched, and the doorway filled with this big man in a suit, and he came in and sat down in front of me and ordered a beer.

    He had already got his drunk on somewhere else, and I figured he was just winding down so he didn't wind too badly on the way home. I was pretty clueless, and felt no danger from this old, steely-haired stranger, and I may have been giving him a bit of sass, or just joshing him a bit as we made that sort of desultory Sunday night one of us is drunk bar chat on a warm summer's night where cicadas buzzed, and bats flickered past the front light outside, where you could hear the smack of the moth into their mouth.

    Out of the corner of my eye...I may have been wiping the bar, or stacking empties, I noticed him take his hands off of his cradled beer, and he cupped one in front of the other, and then I heard a pistol shot. Yes, I jumped.

    It was as loud as a .25 automatic, and he had done it by smacking the middle finger of one hand into his other cupped palm.

    Now, I began to notice those hands. Stronger looking hands I have never seen on a man, fingers, as the cliche goes, the size of sausages. Bratwursts. As I recall, he had two big rings, cluttered with diamonds, that had to have been custom made to fit those huge fingers.

    He seemed old to me, because I was young, but I now suspect he wasn't over sixty. And under a very nice yellowish suit jacket, his chest looked to be wider than an axe handle. His arms filled out the tailored jacket, a jacket that I would have likely looked like a child in, and I was 6', 210 pounds at the time.
    His shirt was white satin, and his tie looked like it was made of knotted ropes of silver, and a tie pin with more extravagant diamonds kept it to him.

    It appeared that, between his alcohol on board, and my flippant manner, that I had offended someone who suddenly, to my better late than never realization, could likely reach across the bar and snap my neck before I could get to my .44 magnum.

    I began to mollify. Oh, I can be a good mollifier. And I got him to talking about himself, and I didn't have to fake interest, because his story was fascinating. Oh, I remember what I had said to get his dander up...he had mentioned that he was a retired professional wrestler, and I had snickered and said something about wrestling being fake.

    Nearly got me rearranged.

    I learned several lessons, that night, that have served me through the years. And when he got up off the barstool to leave, in his yellowish jacket and pants, and went outside and got into his yellow Cadillac El Dorado that sagged some as he settled into it and zoomed off in a cloud of Oklahoma dust, I realized that I needed to breathe.

    So I did.


    This Is My Brain, On Drugs...

    I just woke up a few minutes ago (it's 6pm, here) and I passed out at 2:30pm. The wife is going (just left) to a church shindig tonight, so I have urchin duty, and my brain feels like a drying pig placenta.

    The wife did have a great idea, which gave me half a day of near normalcy. She said take today's at noon, and tomorrow's at five or so, and have all the side effects in my sleep.
    See, yesterday, I felt terrible until about 6pm, and then I began to perk up to near normalcy, and felt fine for the rest of the evening.

    She's so smart.

    Drugs are bad, kids. Unless they're really good ones. The one I'm on now is supposed to save my life, but it is mismanaging the rest of it like I was Elvis.


    If I was really rich, I'd take LSD every so often. Have a special rec-room made, and staff it with some WWE Diva types, who could subdue and soothe me if I got rowdy. I'd do little bits of the best quality Morphine, here and there, too. But I'd smoke it in a hookah, with some fine mild tobacco. No pot. Pot is for retards, or the manufacture thereof. I never felt my own intelligence more keenly than when the last clouds of the pot influence fell away when I quit smoking it, back in the day.

    I had come close, boy had I. And several of my friends went over the edge. When I hear they've made it even stronger today, I shudder. Oh well, makes gangstas easier to catch. You ever see those poor dumb bastards faces in a rap video, or during an interview? Pitiful.

    I love good pharmaceutical speed, Benzedrine and the like. It is the only time I feel fully alive, and at my top potential. I did a semester's worth of term papers in one day, one time, and got A+'s on all of them. I think there were 20-25 of them, three page minimum, typed, double space.

    Cocaine is everything they say about it, and worse. Pure poison. WMD. Stay away from it. I used to deal it, long ago, and could use all I wanted. This was back when Time and Newsweek were telling us all it was the new miracle vitamin. Something told me different, and I pulled back from it, too. Probably just in time.

    Hmmmm, 15 minutes til Spongebob is over. Guess I'll have to go down and splay out on the couch. Please, no puppet shows or picnics. Surely they have done something beastly today I can put them to bed early for.

    The heat got up to a punishing 87 today, but my BP med got me through that by lowering my body temp til I shivered under my quilt in an agued state. As I recall, that is how this old Polar Bear made it through the heat of last summer.

    Hey, maybe side effects ain't so bad. And look! Boner!



    This is interesting.

    And just another reason why television and print news is worthless. I hadn't heard of this, have you?


    A Rare Velociman Sighting...

        Monday, June 25, 2007


    The blood pressure med I was on (Hydrochlorothiazide) was giving me some really vicious side effects, so I quit taking it yesterday and switched back to Verapamil today. I had forgotten how awful it makes me feel. Like having the flu.

    So I have spent much of today in a fugue state. I even slept through Rush. And I think I am going back to bed to sleep til tomorrow.

    I'm not asking for advice, here (unless you've got some really good advice) I'm just whining. And trust me when I tell you I don't fear death.

    At this juncture, I would welcome it.


    Good Sci-Fi Fare...

    I only disagreed with a couple of movies on his list, and then, not very strongly.

    Too many good movies get ignored on the shelf.


    I'm Rubbing Off On The Wife...

    And I don't mean just to induce orgasm.

    She bought a whoopee cushion and two packs of Pop Rocks the other day, and gleefully invited me to watch as she ambushed the kids before school this morning.

    She inflated the cushion and put it under Nat's chair pad at the table, then called her in and had her sit down. Gotcha!

    The kids were excited about the Pop Rocks (candy, duh) and the wife opened each package and poured the contents into a sundae cup for each of them. Then she teaspooned a mouthful into each of their pie-holes, and oh, you should have seen their faces.

    Johnny looked like a dog had just lifted its leg in his mouth...utter horror and disgust, tinged with alarm. Nat was just...stunned.

    The wife was just purely gleeful. I fear I may have broken her mind.

    There can be only one...

        Sunday, June 24, 2007

    Urgent Fish-Tank Update!

    Well, the new Neon Tetras made it through the night. So did the new algae-sucker fish. Although it is not small enough like the Tetras for the Assault Frog to ingest. Though I'm sure he'd try, if the sucker fish wasn't such a spastic crack-whore, constantly going 'ooooo, slime!' and zipping from goober to goober, and suck suckin away.

    The wife and Johnny went out yesterday, and came back with bags o' fish. She dumped the algae eater in first, and he went right to work.

    Then she dumped in the three tiny Tetras, and oh boy, that friggen frog went on point like a Rottweiler, and began to stalk and hunt. I mean, he went from happy go lucky little froggy, bipping around for our amusement, to a cross between The Terminator and a Cylon, with a little Incredible Hulk thrown in.

    The frog was this teensy, skinny, cute little thing when we first got him. Now, he's four times the size, even though his body is probably still less that 2 inches long. He has fattened, and flattened, and his mouth has widened, and he could suck a Tetra down in a quick heartbeat. If he could catch them.

    They are schooling fish, and after their initial alarm at his assaults, they are now schooling him. Teasing the piss out of him. He was so exhausted today, he couldn't make it to the surface to sip air, and just slumped back to the bottom, to weakly launch himself again.

    Finally, he got a sip of air, and then another, and yet another, and then he went and sat in the top of the plants by the aerator and stayed in the bubbles for awhile, looking despondent.

    While the Tetras frolicked all around him, hoping to instigate another lunge.

    All the while, the catfish just bumbles around, the slow child of the tank, and the snail squeegees up to the top, drops like a rock, and then starts all over again. I haven't seen the shrimp in a couple of days. It's my favorite creature in the tank.

    Oh well, for less than the price of a movie, any one of them can be replaced.


    Whither The Daisy Cutter?

    It occurs to me that such would be a lovely deterrent weapon to use on people who are shooting missiles at you.Wanna shoot a missile over the border? Fine, here's your Daisy Cutter. Wanna set up interlocking fields of fire with anti-tank crews and IED's when Israeli tanks feel a need to go into Gaza or wherever? Fine, clear the area with Daisy Cutters.

    I think we've already established that there are no Arab civilians, and that they're all really fond of terror. Let's give them some.

    My Mother always used to mock me and my 'hit them back twice as hard as they hit you' policy I had when I was a kid. That's okay, I knew even then she was nuts. And now my policy is 'hit back until all cellular activity ceases in the opponent'.

    If I am minding my own business, and you attack me, assuming you live, I will figure strongly in your nightmares for the rest of your miserable existence. One of the reasons I stay as alert as I do is in case someone who has been nursing a grudge for years, perhaps decades, makes the effort to find me and come see me.

    Oh, people will still attack you, but not as much, and the observers will shake their heads and say damn, shouldn't have done that, dumbass.

    And why we're not using Napalm anymore is something I'll never understand. The perfect pest control. They should push huge rubber bags of it out of the backs of cargo planes, with altimeters set to blow det cord wrapped all around it.

    And I don't know why we haven't Daisy Cuttered the piss out of Tikrit yet. Put high value terrorist detainees in a prison in the middle of the place, guarded by Iraqi police we suspect of hanky-panky, wait til folks gather to start breaking them out, and BOOM!
    Sorry, I was cleaning it, and it went off.

    Then Spectre Gunship the place until all future anthropologists find there is spent rounds and shrapnel.


    Can You Refute...

    ...any of these IRS arguments?

    If you can, legally, why are you still paying taxes?


    Ron Paul...

    ...flaming narcissist!

    Countdown to Flying Monkey arrival in 5...4...3...2...


    Folks, I think we have a Flying Monkey land speed record.


    John Scalzi...

    ...on teenage writing.

    Although I think his words ring true for anybody at any age who has decided to embark on a writing career.

    Scalzi is a Godless heathen, of course, and will no doubt partake in the fiery pits of Hell, but sometimes, hey, when you're right, you're right.

    Oddly,a quirk of mine is that I can no more read the works of a known atheist than I can listen to music from a known queer.

    Oh well.


    HA! In Your Face, Bitches...

    Online Dating

    Mingle2 - Online Dating


    Rare Photo Of The Prophet's Wife Found!

    You go, Mohammud! (menstrual piss be upon his unholy name)

    Stolen from Bloody Scot.


    A nice Sunday read on why Muslims suck.


    Words Are Like Legos...

    That's the image I woke up with in my mind, this morning.

    You open the tin, and there they are, all perfectly serviceable words, in all shapes and colors and sizes, all jumbled in a pile, waiting for you to make something.
    So you reach in and begin to fit them together, and make structures for the little Lego people to live in, and conveyances for the little Lego people to travel on, and after a bit, it begins to make some sort of sense.

    A true artist will then take the next step, and use Photoshop, and a video camera, and animate their creation, and make it come alive.

    Sometimes words are like puzzle pieces. I mean, there's the damn picture, right in front of you, but just look at the mess in this box. 1,000 pieces? Kiss my ass. Certain writers will labor over those thousand pieces, and finally come up with a complex picture after much hard work.

    Others will reimagine the the whole project into a 16 piece kids puzzle, and put the same picture together in less time, with less of those puzzly lines to distract the viewer.

    I got the reaction I predicted to myself when I wrote the 'dirty talking' post below. "Well, you do it, too!"

    Here's an experiment for you: go take a shit, and wipe your ass. Now, write about it.


    Make it funny. Something your mother would read to her girlfriends at Bridge where they'd all giggle guiltily over their Sherry. Something you wouldn't be ashamed for people that know you to read. Let's just assume that you are capable of shame, here. Work with me.

    There's writing, and then there's writing, and like pornography, the average person knows it when they see it.

    Thus endeth the lesson.

        Saturday, June 23, 2007

    I Cuss...

    ...but I don't talk dirty. Generally.

    There is a difference, you know. I've likely had more pussy than you'll never get. And it made me uncomfortable when kids on the playground talked filthy about it even when I was a kid.

    For an adult to do it, they've either got a mental problem, an unhealthy obsession, or they're nuts. Or not getting much, if any, and what they get is not very good.

    I'm just gonna lay the ole figurative dick right out on the table, here. I've been accused of being a pornographer, because I like to post the occasional picture of a superb example of womanhood. Folks, pornography is yucky. With extremely rare exceptions. And I've seen it all. Sure, I get a rise, here and there, but watching some chick with razor burn on her crotch pulsing her shaving bumps around some guys rubberized shaft, both of them desperately trying to 'act', is not something I find stimulating.

    And reading sex talk on blogs, unless extremely (and rarely) well done, is just...creepy.

    Pretty Lady did it right, one time, in her post 'How To Give A Good Christian Blowjob'. That was brilliant. But I don't want to hear about how you rimmed your boyfriend's asshole. Just cut it out. There's sharing, and then there's showing your food at the table.

    I don't want to see what you've got in your mouth, and I don't wanna see what you caught in the kleenex. Have some decorum, you humps.

    I could go on, but I won't. You dillweeds of both sexes are gonna do what yer gonna do.

    And yes, it diminishes you.


    Maybe You've Seen...


    So what, pass it on, then.


    A Dear Blog-Friend Of Me And My Family... hurtin for certain, and could really use your prayers.

    Life comes at you fast.

    And I am just amazed at what studs so many of my lady-readers are.


    Only So Many Words...

    This blogging thing may have ruined me as a writer. And a reader. Or maybe I'm just old. But I notice how wordy so many bloggers are, and I just shudder and move on.

    Some are worth the read, but very few. Some I see have a big one loaded up, and I rub my palms together and say 'goody goody'. Most, I just sigh and scroll.

    I'm not getting paid by the word, here. Heck, donations have dropped to nearly nothing, so I have been taking somewhat of a break. Oh, I piddle around, but nothing terribly substantial. Assuming I ever wrote such.

    An ending paragraph is just as important as a beginning one, perhaps, okay, more so. Okay, now you've got them hooked, how are you going to pat their bottom and send them on their way? And make them want to come back?

    In the end, we're all in a service industry, especially we who blog for tips. Yeah, the draw is we blog for ourselves, and that is enchanting and intoxicating for a reader, but hey, I've got hundreds of people a day passing through here, and to not be mindful of that, would be the worst form of snobbery and self-delusion, I think.

    I have noted that I pare words mercilessly. Not being paid by the word, why should I exert the pressure on the keys to write one I do not need? Plus, I am trying to tighten, to polish, if you will, my 'craft'. Prissy, pretentious word, that, I know. Sorry. Still, I would like to delude myself that it applies.

    Now see? I left off the 'to me' at the end of that last sentence, where another might have appended it. Paring. Too many writers take your hand like you're a blind person and lead you around everywhere having you touch things and explaining them to you, when the reality is, you can fucking read for yourself and you are at the very least somewhat computer savvy and you don't need your widdle nosey wiped for you.

    At least, I'm not gonna do it here.

    So, stagger along with me here, if you wish. Agree, disagree, mock, praise, I'm still gonna do what I wanna do, my way. For awhile longer. I didn't start this blog with a goal to reach, but I wouldn't be surprised if I reached one. What happens then? I don't know.

    Some (a lot of) blogs have Thesis Statements. A purpose. Me? I go to wherever my donkey takes me. You seem to like hearing about my kids and family. Hey, I like writing about them. Things pop into my head, and 'hey presto!', I have a venue.

    If you enjoy this place, that's your problem. Don't blame me.


    I Went And Held My Kids For A While...

    ...after I read this post.

    And then I had the wife read it...

    She's trying to figure out whether to be pissed at me or not.

    Oh, the times we have held each other as the staff rolled Johnny's bed into surgery, he in a stupor from the Versed, yet still holding his hands out to us. My palm, still warm from the impression of his misshapen palm in mine.

    And then the doors close.


    I Love Redheads...


    Banned by PBS: Muslims Against Jihad...

    The film PBS was too chickenshit to run. It's on at 6pm Pacific, so watch it, and let's all get our hate on for Islam.


    Are Brad Pitt And George Clooney Gay?

    Well, you be the judge.

        Friday, June 22, 2007

    Blast From The Past...

    Tuesday, August 31, 2004

    Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dust-bunny...

    Early this morning, I heard a disturbance coming from the kid's room...panicky, tiny, breathless shrieks, thumping feet, the sounds of fighting...I raced to the door...

    There was my three year old daughter, in mortal combat with a cloud of mutant, radioactive bees, twisting, turning, gasping, transfixed in the bars of morning light streaming through the spinning blades of her window fan...she was beset on all sides by glowing, supernatural, darting faeries, and she danced and fought like a warrior princess...well, at least until she fell on her ass and noticed me stifling hysterics in the doorway.

    Well, those were some big-ass dust motes, I'm here to tell you. She kept a wary eye on those spinning dust devils as she edged around the light, towards me, and then fled down the stairs to regale her mother with tales of battle.

    A Bronze Star, at the very least.


    WW2: Global War On Terror...

    Well, wasn't it?

    And we fought the various competing ideologies, Nazism, Fascism, Japism, all over the world, including in our own country.

    We devastated civilized Italy, and they have great food! And people we like! Many of whom were/are related to our own citizens. Ditto Germans. Not so much, Japs.

    Our entire country pulled together, and the few mewling detractors were either ignored, or ruthlessly put down. As it should be.

    So, why do so many fools seem to not take this current World War we are in seriously? I mean, we've had our Pearl Harbor, we have troops on the American Idol that seductive? Tell me, I've never watched it. Is it American Idol that is making so many of you roll over and bare your throats to Islam, and allow your elected 'representatives' to go to enemy countries and make deals of their own on your behalf?

    It's the video games, isn't it. Fucked up your attention span. And World of Warcraft is more important than the unlubed camel-cock Islam is slipping into us all while drool slips down your chins in a silver stream as you frantically mash buttons on your electronic devices.

    We never got the flying cars, but we did get the Soma...



    And when you find yourself allied with Dennis Kucinovitch, well, you've got a big fat problem.

    Ron Paul: Stupid Fuckhead? Or Functionally retarded Simpleton? You be the judge...

    But hey, he really seems to like the Constitution! That's gotta mean something, right?



    I Bet All You Broads Just Hate Her...


    Another Good Reason... not depend on the police for your protection.



    I Just Broke My Best Ruler...

    ...on Nat's little ass. Little snot. The wife and John had gone out together to empty the garbage and check the mail, and Nat was desperate to accompany them, but the wife told her she couldn't come because she had to finish her lunch.

    Now, the swirling morass of psychosis that is the six year old girl-brain interpreted that statement to mean 'you can come outside as soon as you finish your sandwich', so the next thing I hear is the front door flying open, and her sandaled feet clip-clapping down the driveway at a high rate of speed.

    "NATTIE!" I holler from my seat at the computer, and I hear her screech to a halt. I holler for her to get back in here and upstairs. I do not like to chase you in order to beat your ass.

    She sees the ruler on the way up the stairs and begins to blubber lame excuses and twisted six year old logic, but I splay her in the perp position up against the bathroom outer wall and began to whap. "You (whap!) do not (whap!) ever (whap!) open any outside door (whap!) of this house (whap!) without permission! (crack!) DAMMIT!"

    She looked at my now impotent whapping implement of choice with horror. Surely she was to be killed for using her butt with which to break my ruler. Fortunately, I was still angry enough that I was able to keep from laughing. So I grabbed a convenient plastic coat hanger, and finished the job.

    Her little Levi skirt had protected her from all but the psychological damage, but she acted like I had taken the knout to her. Then the wife and John came back in, and I regaled the tale of her sin, and the wife got to snarl at her for a bit.

    We use the 'baby duck analogy' around here a lot. You know the one, where the lallygagging baby duck gets separated from his family and picked off by whatever creature we think will be most scary at the moment? Yeah, that one.

    We get enough vagabonds and ne'er-do-wells cutting through our area to get to the 7/11 or the bus stop that we have a policy of eyes on the kids at all times. It makes me squirm when I hear someone say on the news 'I only turned my back for a minute!' and then the camera cuts to teams of well meaning neighbors combing the fields around the house for the disappeared child.

    And then she's found two days later, stuffed under a hedge, her panties around her ankles. And a week after that, a neighbor boy confesses. And a few days later it all starts over again.

    An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure...


    Smart Kid...

    ...except for the joining Mensa part. Dumbest bunch of geeks and nerds I ever met, always trying to one-up each other and speak in secret codes like a bunch of little girls...

    Hey, maybe she fits in after all.

        Thursday, June 21, 2007

    Two Pissholes In A Snowbank...

    That's how my eyes feel.

    I maybe got 5 hours sleep last night, and I'm a 12 hour man (when I can get it) with an eight hour minimum.

    Moustache Time: That is the various times of the day where the sunlight is special for trimming various parts of your facial hairs.
    When I used to work, and I'd get home around 5:30pm or so, I used to spend a few minutes in the car finishing my beer, listening to Savage (pre-hatred) and trimming my 'stache in the driver's side-view mirror. Best light of the day, if the sun is setting behind you.

    I think I'll go see a movie tomorrow. TBA, later. Getting shot in the back of my head ruins my concentration.

    I'm hungry, and the wife made cake-style brownies, with nuts. My fave. And we have Cool Whip. Will the chocolate keep me up tonight, too? We shall see!

    Hey, who wants to live forever...

    I don't think the religionists really put too much thought into this whole 'living forever' thing. Do you really wanna? Are you sure?

    Aren't you just a little bit concerned that you sound like some of your dark-side co-religionist counterparts who think they're gonna get 72 raisins or something?

    Be careful what you wish for...

    Me? I totally believe In God and Jesus and Heaven and an Afterlife and everything, but right now, I could happily sink into some dark black, rich loamy earth somewhere, and sleep for eternity, dreaming dreams, and listening to the Earth's heart thrum, until the Sun expands and sends my component particles spreading out in a cloud, like a good sneeze, into the multiverse.

    God bless me...


    Is It Melon Season Already?



    And I hope they're still doing it.

    Or at least someone is.

    Now, more than ever.

    Must Die!

    And I hate that. The site is just plain toxic to my computer. It took me (Yeah, the genius) days to figure it out, but it turns out it hangs my PC so bad that I've had to restart multiple times.

    I love the site, too. It's like Drudge, if he was a real boy. But the damn thing updates constantly, eats system resources constantly, and hangs like a bitch. And it's rotten with spyware and adware, so my defenses are being pummeled continuously, and it ruins the overall porn-surfing experience.

    Kidding! (or is he...)

    Bye, Breitbart. Gonna miss you. Great idea, piss-poor execution. Say hello to the Edsel for me.


    Who Are...

    ...these 'Protestant Churches' that support Palestine, against Israel?

    If I (God forbid) found myself to be a member of one, I would walk out without hesitation, and flip a lit Molotov Cocktail in behind me, chain the door shut, and listen to them scream in an early hell of their own making.

    Fuck me, talk about wolves in sheep's clothing...


    My Sister Sent Me This...

    Did Philip do what I think he did?

    Did Phillip Fart? What do you think?
    L-R, Queen Elizabeth, Prince Phillip, Princess Ann,
    Prince Charles, and Prince Harry in the back.

    (click to enlarge, dummy)

    The expressions are priceless!

    Go back and look at the progression of each one.

    The queen's is especially funny.


    100 (Legally) Free PC Games...

    Full versions.

    I've heard of a few, but I haven't played any but Wolfenstein. Have any of you played any of these? Any recommendations?


    A Cautionary Tale...

    Nat just got home from the ear doctor. Yesterday, we found out that she has perfect vision, and today the ear doctor told the wife he couldn't see her tympanic membranes for all of the earwax and crud.

    So, he got a little syringe thingy and hosed all that crap out of her head into a basin, and showed her, and she gagged. I got her again when I asked her why she didn't eat it, cuz it's full of vitamins? Oh, she nearly blew gorge, and screamed at me, so I chased her around with one of my used Q-Tips for a while.

    Now, she can hear like a bat, and she is going around doing goofy stuff to test her new hearing. Tapping her foot lightly on the floor and marveling that she can hear it.

    Have your greasy little kids checked out, people, is the message here. I have told before how long it took me to notice that my oldest son needed glasses when he was little. All the times I punished him for sitting too close to the TV. How he and his grades suffered in school. And the look on his face when he finally came out of the optometrist's office with his new glasses on, and he could see the world for the first time.

    Like an arrow through my heart.

    He did not know what a power transformer looked like. Or that wires went from pole to pole.

    At least I finally caught it. I noticed that, a perfect reader, he was for shit at the alphabet game you play in the car. Always dead last. Hmmm, finally I put two and two together, a light went on, and his life changed in an instant.

    And now my daughter can hear.


    A Worthy Cause...

    ...and it won't cost you anything but a couple of minutes.

    Please give.


    on the same.

        Wednesday, June 20, 2007

    This Is Just...

    ...a very nice blog.

    I enjoy his writing very much, and it's not often I read a blog and get the idea that 'hey, I could sit with him awhile...'

    I envy him his life, and wish him well in it.


    This Is Why You Should Have To...

    ...get a permit to breed. I'm serious. Pass a test and everything.

    I don't care if the race dies out, as long as it takes stupid fuckers like this with it.

    One of Johnny's hospital mates when he was in for work one time was a dying infant, whose white-trash teenage parents had propped a full bottle of formula into its mouth with blankets, and the infant, of course, aspirated the formula into its lungs.

    I prayed that it was God's Will that it die, so it would not have to be exposed to those morons ever again as its 'parents'.

    Fuck, I hate people...


    Have You Ever...

    ...been fired?

    I sure have. Bunches. Fired, let go, laid off, down-sized, the works. You, well, I, never really get used to it. I always work my ass off, rise through the ranks, get awards, then, shazam.

    Except for now, I have never been unemployed very long, unless I wanted to be.

    I've been jobless for so long now, I'm not sure I'd know what to do with a job if it dropped in my lap. You want me to get up when? Wear what?

    Hey, Wendy, copy that .wav file in the link, and install it on Mary's computer as her default 'you've got mail' sound. When she freaks, tell her loudly that she needs to quit surfing for porn, because it appears she got a virus.

    I've done plenty of firing, too. It feels good, because by the time someone pisses me off bad enough to fire em, I want them to go blow their brains all over the pitiable box of stuff next to them on the car seat. Wet cleanup in parking space D-19.

    Or better yet, have them come back in shooting, so I can hold some fat asshole I hate in front of me.

    Oh, and I swiped that .wav file from Lileks' latest post. He'll never miss it.


    Thanks, Burt...

    I got sent in email a link to something I think I've read and posted before, but either way, I'm gonna put this and this up again because I think they're cool and funny and very well written.

    So there.


    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!


    Waiting For Comcast...

    We've got the ole 'window from noon til 2pm' thing going on. Hey, at least we got the house deep cleaned. And the VCR and DVD player fell off the downstairs TV onto the wife's head and nearly knocked out all her brains. She is not happy. All my yelling and cursing did not help.

    I felt led to apologize to her and the kids after. "Daddies should never talk that way to Mommies. I was very wrong. I'm sorry."

    Whups, he's here...

    [Resuming at 2:39pm]

    Dammit, sonofabitch took my downstairs HD cable box with him when he left. Said it was regulations since I don't have an HDTV. Fucker. Lost a bunch of saved movies and shows, too. Comcast blows.

    Plus it had a nice bright LED clock on the front you could see from anywhere in the living room or kitchen. Piss.
    Turns out the new box upstairs wasn't communicating with the Comcast office because I had hooked it up wrong. I mean, it worked perfectly, but I couldn't order pay per view, which I have never done, and likely never will. And the new box got a better signal, even though it is on a splitter with the cable modem, which befuddled him no end. He went outside and fiddled with all the cable boxes in the area, came back in and fiddled some more with my cables, pronounced that he had kicked it up a couple of notches, and left.

    With my old box. Fucker.

    Come the Apocalypse, everybody in a Comcast uniform gets it first...


    I think I've decided to go with DirectTV. Fuck Comcast.


    I'll See You In My Dreams...

    Turns out the wife and I each had troubling dreams last night, about her dead parents. I never think about them, and they were all up in my dreams last night.

    Well, not 'troubling', so much, as more 'off-putting'. I do not enjoy encountering my beloved dead in my sleep. Turns out the wife doesn't so much, either.

    She was complaining about it, and I said, hey, me too, and then realization dawned in her eyes...

    "You know..." she said, "Yesterday was their wedding anniversary, and I completely forgot it until just now..."

        Tuesday, June 19, 2007

    Fun With Animals...

    I've told you all (back in the day) about the Cat-apult I made to keep cats from pissing in the wife's plants on our second story apartment patio where Johnny came home from the hospital to.

    Watching those formerly sleek felines turn into a ball of screaming fluff as they flew across the apartment commons and smacked into a pine tree was one of the great joys of my life.
    Sadly, they quit coming upstairs for some reason, no matter how much tuna I put out.

    I wish I had seen this before I built my contraption. I got as good loft, but the plywood platform I used clattered like a bastard, and startled the neighbors.

    Fuck, I hate a tree rat, and I have personally killed at least two million of them, over the years. I like to use the 'Viet Cong Sniper Method', and cripple one with a shot through the hips, and then wait for his cohorts to come screaming like a bunch of Muslims. Works for Blue Jays, too.

    There was this trailer park that I used to cut through to get to the oak woods where I could happily murder squirrels in bunches. One time I got the idea to collect up the corpses in a garbage bag, and take them home to see if Dad wanted to spice up our Doberman's dog food.

    As I came back through the trailer park, my rifle over my shoulder, and a bag of dead tree rats over the other, I heard an old man call out to me "What ya got there, sonny?"

    Turns out the trailer park was thick with retired WW2 vets, who were trying to make ends meet and eke out their pensions, and they were from an era where what was in my bag was somewhat of a delicacy.

    There were several old vets on that porch, and in the end, I sold the entire bag to them, and they told me to drop by any time with more.

    I forget what I was paid, something like 50 cents, or a dollar apiece, but I provided protein, and they kept me in ammunition and comics.

    The gun shop where I bought my ammo, also catered to these old warriors, buying their souvenirs they had killed Nazis to acquire, and had snuck back home. Now, they needed groceries, and booze (mostly booze) so the owner of the gun shop basically pawned the stuff for them, and kept them drinking for another few months until they died.

    He had a glassed in case, running the entire length of the store, 100 feet or so, and it was full of silver engraved Lugers with inlaid gold swastikas, and German slogans...there were commemorative daggers and swords of every sort; officer caps, Maltese Crosses, but most of all, dozens and dozens of Lugers and P-38s. And PPK's. And Broomhandle Mausers, including one copy of the legendary Schnellfeur. I've even handled a rare short-barreled Gestapo P-38, fitted to be mounted with a silencer.

    Yes, I knew my guns, even at 13.

    Sigh. I miss those old boys. Killers all. And mostly broken, inside. When I had to move my rifle for some reason, eyes like gunbarrels would lock on to me and assess the threat level. And then the eyes would go rheumy again, and they'd turn back to their beers, or their highballs.

    They're all gone, now.

    Don't worry, though...we're growing a crop of new ones.


    Satanic, My Ass...

    I'd bet good money that Muslim employees were involved with this.

    Fucking savages...


    Just Four Words....

    ...the Border Patrol needs to learn: Interlocking Fields Of Fire.

    Gun this vermin down like the dogs they are. Damn, I wish I was younger. And rich. I'd spend at least two months out of each year in a Ghillie Suit, crawling the border.

    You'd know where I'd been by the circling buzzards.


    Refried Beaner.

    Heh, I love it.


    Marriage: Not For Everybody...

    Heck, likely not for anybody, anymore. Ditto, kids.

    I got lucky, and we're still in love after 16 years. I just asked the wife what she thinks is the percentage of disagree versus agree between us is, and she pondered, and then said 65% to 35%. Then she pondered some more, and made what she doubtless thought was a throwaway statement, but I found most profound: "I think you and I agree with each other 100% politically."

    I think that just about says it all, right there. When you add sexual compatibility (an absolute deal breaker) you have the recipe for long term compatibility.

    If the wife went out and got a piercing and/or tattoo, I would consider that as big a betrayal as adultery, and the marriage would be dead. It's that simple.

    We were friends before we were lovers, and lovers before we got married, and marriage was something we both wanted very badly. I think that is a perfect recipe for success.

    But, I am not pro marriage. Especially now that the faggots are diluting the institution so badly that one day soon, we will be seeing marriage between a woman and her favorite houseplant.

    Were I in the market today, I would not even consider marriage to a woman who was not incredibly rich. Otherwise, before I began to cohabit with a woman (and that is all I would do) I would insist on a prenup drawn up by an attorney. If she refused, I'd watch her get small in my rearview mirror.

    As long as there's Astroglide, I don't 'need' a woman, or her drama. I can be the best bachelor you've ever seen. I'm very good at it. For thirty years (at least) of my life I have been in some sort of relationship, though, either married, or shacking up. There have been interludes of peace.

    Heck, I'm practically a bachelor right now. We date. We get together for conversation, or to watch TV. We screw, and one of us leaves, and we go to our separate corners. It's all about space, people, and if I don't get mine, well, I get a bit nutty. Er.

    Not for me going to sleep spooning, and waking up with her farting on your balls, and the arm underneath her dead from the shoulder down, in a pool of dual butt-sweat.
    Nope, I've got all of my stuff surrounding me, within reach, and the TV at the foot of my bed so I can watch crap TV with the headphones on and shut out the world. Or reach over and flick on the reading lamp, pick up a book, and have at it.

    The wife has her frilly room, and her dumb books (except when she's reading one of my Coulter's) and a walk in closet full of clothes. I have my closet full of crap, and my one shirt that I wear on one of my rare outings.

    It works for us.

    Might not work for you. I strongly recommend against you men getting involved in any furry entanglements. Even if she's shaved it. And don't even think about having kids unless holding somebody else's baby makes you want to be a parent so badly that your head swims.

    And I'm gonna go out on a limb here and offend nearly everybody, and say gentlemen, do NOT become a stepparent to some other mans brood. Good rarely comes from it. It is likely that she is single for a reason, and the kids usually arrive to you already pre-fucked up for your shopping convenience.

    I have seen it work out, but it is a rare thing, indeed. Now, if the stepdaughters are hot, well, that's a whole different story...

    Ha! Just kidding! Or is he...

    The Pill changed the world of women, now we need an easily reversible vasectomy to change the world of men. Keep them tubes shut off until you're absolutely positive you want to make a baby. And just watch her face when the slut comes up to you and tells you she's pregnant with your child, and you show her your certificate of surgery. Just before you hairline her jaw.

    I doubt a jury would convict.

    Please note that I generally oppose men striking women. but there are certain exceptions, where a broad just needs to be knocked out. Not a beating, mind you, just ring her bell so she learns that hey, maybe I shouldn't have pulled that particular lever.

    But that's a whole 'nother post...

        Monday, June 18, 2007

    Yeah, I Been Lollygagging...

    Why, you wanna make sumthin of it?

    Fukkit, I quit. When a dead (acid) man gets more hits than me a year after his fingers went cold, well, what's the point. And it's not about the hits, per se, dammit, and you know that. Just damn, why do I do this?

    I know, I know, its always fun to watch a blogger flop around on the deck, gaffed through the gills, in their final death agony. I do it, too, and mutter 'die pussy' when they disappear.

    I expect no less.

    It's Monday. I'm grumpy. And I have no real reason to be. I realized yesterday that every day is Father's Day around here. If I ask for something, I get it. My kids make me cards and gifts all the time. The wife's senses are specially tuned to my needs and desires. And I to hers; I'd like to think, anyway.

    Oh, and I asked her to pick, so we had salmon, instead of the Mahi-Mahi. She poached it in this apricot beer she likes, in some sauce involving half & half. Wonderful. With seasoned angel hair pasta. And peas. I hate peas. Well, most peas, anyway, unless they are cold in a macaroni salad.

    I did not eat my peas.

    Oh, I did eat the Pepperidge Farm Texas Toast. Yummy.

    We finished dinner, and settled in to watch taped food shows, and then 9 O'Clock rolled around, and I remembered that I had taped Zathura for the kids, so I said hey, let's check out ten minutes of it.

    It was so good, we ended up watching the whole thing.

    I mean, it was based on a novel by the same guy who wrote Jumanji, which also became a movie, and which still freaks the kids out so bad they cannot finish it, so, what could go wrong? Right?

    I have never actually seen the shit scared out of someone, until last night.

    I mean, there we are, each of us in our own pod. The wife on one couch, with John snuggled into her, and Nat and I on another, and I'm not letting her use me for cover, or hide behind a pillow, and then the crazed killer robot smashes through a door and Nat literally levitates a foot or two off the couch and farts out loud like a pachyderm.

    Happy Father's Day!

    Damn, her little ass reeked, plus, I was kinda worried she might swallow her tongue or something, so I paused it, and pulled Father's Day rank, and the wife trundled her off to the shitter where she passed her own weight.

    This is really a great movie. We all really enjoyed it, in spite of the fact that all I have to do is growl 'Zorgon!' at the bottom of the stairs and either child will leap upwards to the top without actually appearing to have touched a step in between.

    Today, Nat has an appointment at the eye doctor for an exam, so, ever helpful, I explained how the procedure involved needles being thrust into her eyeballs. And then I found this big black spork from some restaurant or other, still in its protective package, and I told her this was the eye-scraper the doctor had to use, and gave it to her and ordered her to tell the doctor what she had brought for him.

    Like I said, Father's Day is every day.


    All You Really Need To Know...

    ...about 'Global Warming'. Case closed.

    Next case...


    Oh, This Is Rich...

    Here's a Constitutional Amendment I could really get behind.

    Via Atlas Shrugs.

    Death to Islam!


    A leopard cannot change its spots.

        Sunday, June 17, 2007

    Happy Father's Day To Me!

    Lookie what I found!

    Gimme gimme gimme! It's at the top of my wish list.

    I don't know why I read this stuff, as it jeebs the crap out of me, but there you go.

    Wow, look how the time goes. I started writing this at 12:30pm, and now it is 1:30.

    I got off the phone with my Baby Marine, started this, then felt guilty and called my Dad, and we solved all of the world's problems, and then the kids burst in bearing homemade cards and gifts (and flowers they'd just yanked out from weeds in the yard) and the wife had a box of these frozen Bavarian Cream Mini Éclairs that are just to die for (best eaten when frozen, I I did) and we lunched on them, and tonight I get Mahi-Mahi and angel hair pasta.

    My contentment level is high.

    To all you Fathers whose exes aren't letting you see your kids today: hey, shoulda shot the bitch.

    To those of you who still have Cheerios in your bed, and jelly stains on the pillow, hey, ain't it cool?

    To those of you with grown children, hey, here's hoping at least one of them remembers to call today.

    To those of you without kids?

    Hey, sorry...

        Saturday, June 16, 2007

    Just An Aside...

    Why do people who people who are in the religion of Atheism take my God's name in vain so much?

    I mean, I never shout Darwindammit! when I hit my thumb with a hammer. Or, for that matter, curse in the name of any other false ghods, either.

    Methinks they protesteth too mucheth. And I think they believe in God, but are just pissed at Him, and are acting out like cranky toddlers.

    I caught one of George Carlin's rants on God today, and that's exactly what he looked like. An angry child who was just begging for his daddy to pick him up.

    Sad, really...


    Let This Be A Lesson To You...

    A 16 year old boy, who used a knife did all that. And he'd have racked up 4 kills except the sister got lucky. And I bet the neighbors didn't hear a sound.

    I'm just guessing, here, because I do not know all the facts of the case, but my conjecture from the evidence presented so far is that the killer was involved in a homosexual relationship with the teen boy victim. Queers are enthusiastic stabbers.

    You can have the tightest castle in the world, and it will be all for naught if someone on the inside lets an assassin from the outside slip in.

    But still, three kills with a knife... that's some darn good stabbin, right there.


    I Love Iron Chef...

    Our whole little family is addicted to it. We pause it when anyone has to go to the bathroom. We loved Iron Chef Japan, too, even though their secret ingredients (as well as that guy who introduced them) could get a bit, well, creepy.

    That said, though, I have both a complaint, and some creative suggestions that I think would really improve the show, or perhaps even inspire a spinoff show.

    My biggest complaint is the one hour time limit. Yeah, I know, I know, I saw the show on how it is made, and I know they fudge a bit, but in the end, that time limit rules out all sorts of interesting menu options, like slow-roasted meat, for instance. Otherwise good foods that need to perhaps even sit overnight in the fridge, or perhaps a crock-pot to attain their true potential lose out on being put on the menu due to artificial time constraints.

    I'm fine with the secret ingredient bit, but here is what I'd like to see: the first part of the show reveals the secret ingredient to everybody but the chefs. And by everybody, I include the judges and the viewers. I don't mind the celebrity judges (except for some of the idiots they bring in) but I think they should also bring in people off the street. Perhaps have a contest where couples can enter to win tickets.

    I think a staff of trained chefs should take the theme ingredient and make up an actual, restaurant style menu from it, as if these folks had just walked in to a restaurant that featured the secret ingredient as its restaurant theme.

    Then the judges should be allowed to peruse the menu at their leisure, as in a real restaurant, perhaps even with cocktails (that the chef contestants make themselves).

    Then, when they've made their choices, a professional waiter takes their orders, and takes them to the chefs. Then, the secret ingredient is revealed, and the chefs each get a copy of the menu, and ten minutes they can either use to study it, or put into preparation.

    That'll separate the men from the boys.

    According to the menu chosen, the chefs who make it up will make sure that there are pre-prepared items that a regular restaurant would have on hand, such as baked potatoes and the like, but the contestant chefs would have license to interpret the menu (and orders) any way they like.

    One hour is a not unreasonable amount of time to prepare a gourmet meal. For one who would be an Iron Chef.

    And just like in a real restaurant, various things from each order would need to be delivered to the table at various times, not all at once. And I would suggest that the contest be done over two nights, or at least with a few hours between meals for the judges.

    The way they do it now looks too much like NASCAR. I'd rather see a real restaurant set up, and heck, maybe 20 judges at a time, over two nights.
    You could even switch it around, and have them go into some diner in Oklahoma and make breakfast for a bunch of hungry farmers and townspeople.

    Take over an Olive Garden, and do lunch. Work right off the menu they're given, but be allowed a truck full of goodies (truffle oil and whatnot) out back that they can run out to to BAM! it up.

    I think this would rock.


    Fuck Ron Paul...

    You know, I just never get tired of saying that. Plus, I am not showing ip in the first eighteen pages of Google (yet) under a search for 'fuck ron paul', and that peeves me. I mean, a lot of people are saying it, but I wanna be #1.

    This guy says Fuck Ron Paul, too.

    Hey, just a thought, but if by some incredible chance (and I do mean incredible) that the Clintons get back in the White House, do you think they'll bring back all that stuff they stole when they left? And put condoms and sex toys as ornaments on their Christmas tree again?

    Just wondering...


    Hey, I'm up to page 3 on Google, now. I'm so proud.


    Ron Paul Sucks...

    ...and he blows, too.

    Heh. I just love that getting out to the RSS feeds and getting all the Paulyannas stirred up.

    Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go wipe my ass with the Constitution.

    Fly, Flying Monkeys, fly!


    Can This Be...


    If it is, I've never seen anything like that. Talk about your three dimensional thinking.


    Swollen Glands...

    The area under my jaw felt kinda funny this morning, so I put my hand up there and squeezed and found two golf ball sized nodules that turned out to be the epicenter of all pain in the known universe. Ow.

    Then the wife brings me a plate of fresh strawberry shortcake. And I mean, fresh. Whipped cream, shortcake, and fresh picked strawberries. I wolfed it, even though chewing was problematic. And now it's all down there gurgling in my gut, seriously considering respawning violently up my throat like the afterbirth from a Mongolian gang-bang.

    I'll call the kids to let them see.

    Last night my eyes were burning and my nose hurt like I had been punched, so I took a benadryl, and now I'm nursing a benadryl hangover... that crap really knocks me on my ass. I hope I've got some sort of virus, rather than some sort of adult onset allergy like the wife suspects. I've watched people suffer with allergies all my life, and it looks like it really sucks.

    In other news, it looks like Ron Paul's Flying Monkeys Of Futility have descended upon my comments. This makes Bane happy. Stay tuned here for all of your Dreamer Gynecologist Disparagement needs. What a fucking loser loon he is. He and his cultists remind me of the guy in the cartoons who wraps the anchor chain around his leg and then throws it overboard.


    Anyway, I'm likely going to take another benadryl and pass out til tomorrow. Unless I can think of some more mean things to write about Ron Paul. He is such a zero, that could be a challenge.

    But never fear, I shall persevere!

        Friday, June 15, 2007

    Fuck Ron Paul...


    Heh, indeed.



    Always out there to help the kids.

    Hey, thanks, police!


    And, hey, thanks again!


    Fuck China...

    Read this.

    Question: How many of our weapons are killing Chinese?

    Answer: Not Enough.




    Saudi propaganda, of course, but interesting nonetheless.

    Via Pat Dollard.

        Thursday, June 14, 2007

    You Cut One Spic...'ve cut them all. Fuck, you arrest some white European illegal alien, beat the shit out of him, and deport him, and I could care less. Heck, I'll buy everybody involved a drink.

    I just finished watching Geraldo 'debate' Michelle Malkin over illegal immigration on the O'Reilly show. It was like watching three retards fuck in a gunny sack, but bottom line is, Geraldo sees himself as the Great Brown Hope, and feels the pain of all his wetback brothers and sisters.

    Well, since they all fuck each other, I guess I can understand. Some. But geez, what a pompous asshole.

    I learned early in life, that if you fight one spic, you fight them all. I mean, you thump some cocky smartass little beaner, and next thing, you've got his dad and his uncles and his sisters after you. And his grandperes swinging their walkers at you.

    They're like locusts.

    And President Bush? When you've got a complete pinhead like Geraldo enthusiastically supporting and endorsing your immigration plan, you, me, and the entire country have a real fucking problem.

    Well, Jerry Rivers isn't the only mole in Fox News, but I submit to you that he is certainly the most annoying one.


    From Whence All The Traffic?

    Dang, my traffic has spiked, and I can't figure out what's generating it. And that drives me nuts. And nobody's dropped off so much as a housewarming gift. Hey! Our schools win, too!

    This has been going on for a few weeks now. If I had an ego, I'd think it was me, but I suspect that I am just getting random drive-by traffic from search engine schplut. Well, that might explain the uniques, but not the page views.

    If yer new, and sticken around, just don't be an ass, and use a coaster. Flush your dumps, and keep out of my damn medicine cabinet.

    And gimme some damn money if you want any beers from the fridge.


    Other Than The Wife...

    ...this woman holds the world heavyweight title of cutest, sexiest, funniest, most beautiful woman in the world.

    I think I'm in love...


    $20 Worth Of Copper Wire...

    Cut out of a railroad control box by a meth-head to sell for drugs, sets off an alarm somewhere in Texas, where the machines decide that a landslide has blocked the tracks, so every train in Oregon and Washington is stopped for three hours, costing a fortune.

    This is just one of many reasons why I am not only all for the Drug War, but I would like to see a take no prisoners approach added to it. And yes, I mean that after a drug bust, the perp is knelt in the yard amongst the bodies of their shot dead pit bulls, and capped in the back of the head and thrown on a burn pile.

    I volunteer. I'll do it for gas and ammo money.

    And impress any kids they might have into a lifetime of public service, with a bar code on their left wrist and neck that forever identifies them as the spawn of a drug user and possible crack baby.

    Everybody (rightly) whines about the damage illegal aliens are doing to our society, yet I never hear a peep about how much damage drug users and dealers are doing to this country. And even if you legalize everything, you won't be able to get drugs any cheaper than you do now, and you'll still be a worthless, broke-ass addict, having to rob and steal for your habit, which renders you insane, and a menace to society.

    Meth and crack are cheap as shit. So's heroin. Can you imagine how the price would spike if they were legalized and the politicians got their hooks in it? The first carton of cigarettes I ever bought was under $2. I would keep six or so cartons in my fridge at a time.
    Now, just look what taxation has wrought.

    And if drug users are brought out of the shadows, and given the same status as smokers, can you imagine the impact on the health system when they all start using their insurance and public medical services that they had formerly avoided out of fear of discovery?


    I can already hear the whiny comments coming from the shitpotheads that I always get. Fuck you, dopers. Your 'harmless' drug has financed every criminal terrorist gang that victimizes innocent Americans across this land.


    People never learn.




    Deniable Rights...

    You have no rights. In spite of what some mythic document tries to tell you, and no, dummy, it's not 'truth' and it's not 'self-evident'.

    Animals have no rights, either. Let's just get that out of the way right up front. The only protection a creature has at all is if it is owned by you, and the protection of your ownership covers it. If I want to buy a creature and torture it and kill it and eat it, I'll do it. What, you think chaining a dog to a tree all day isn't torture? Cutting its balls off?

    But let's get back to your rights. That you don't have. But live under the delusion that you do have.
    If I can give them to you, they're not yours. If I can take them away, ditto.

    See? No rights.

    Now, try to delude me...

        Wednesday, June 13, 2007

    Penis Talk...

    Be sure to read the first comment, too.


    Wherein Sears Blows Me...

    We bought a Sears Kenmore washer and drier set many years ago, when we were flush, and also got their wonderful service plan with it, which we have faithfully renewed each year, no matter the hardship to us. I have mentioned this before.

    We've never had trouble with the drier, but the service plan has paid for itself with what essentially has turned out to be at least three new washing machines. We use them every day, often several times a day.

    Lately, I have been noting that the drier has had to have loads run through again, so when the wife brought the subject of renewal up again, I said heck yes, and get them out here on a service call.

    Well, the guy pronounced the washer healthy after a thorough exam (though he did balance it better) and then he replaced a belt in the drier, and took his cool-ass vacuum and blew an entire sheep out of my vent hose onto the back lawn. Seriously.

    He didn't say it, but he had that 'you're lucky you all didn't die in a house fire of mysterious origins' look on his face.

    A cautionary tale.

    He told me that this drier typically surges from between 200 to 250 degrees during use. My drier was constipated. That cannot be good.

    Routine maintenance, people, routine maintenance. Schedule it, and live by it.


    Worthy Causes...

    I don't do this enough, because I am mostly pimping for money for myself. Well, that well seems to have gone dry, but if y'all can see fit to dig deep, here, and here, are two bloggers who do genuine good works for our troops.

    Actually, I don't know why these bloggers who give to the troops don't all get together and form a Foundation and pay themselves a little sumthin sumthin and coordinate all the bloggers who want to give, plus go national, and really get a major war effort going.

    But maybe that's just me...


    Imagine My Joy...

    ...when I read this product recall.

    Johnny has several of those listed toys, and now I gotta worry about a kid who already has problems getting worse problems because some corporate fuckheads jobbed out the manufacture to fucking chinks who use lead paint?


    He plays with those things all the time, and now we have to go get his blood tested. And as expensive as those sets are, now I find out that they were made for pennies with chink slave labor?

    Fuck me, I am in a rage. And boycotting everything with the word China anywhere on it, and not just restaurants.

    Fucking gooks...


    Oh yeah, I can't get the frigging .PDF file for the recall form to come up on my computer. If any of you can, I'd appreciate you emailing it to me.

    I just want to know where to mail the dynamite.


    Thanks, guys! I've got it now!


    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!


    President Bush, Resign...

    That's the only sane solution I can think of. And have Cheney pick someone solid like Tancredo or J.D. Hayworth as veep, and announce special elections come this November.

    That'd upset the apple cart, eh?

    Then, in the interim, have Cheney fire every single Clinton holdover in every level of government, and replace them, and let the places close if the Demoncrats want to balk.

    And President Cheney should slap indictments on every treasonous weasel in the government and the media, and declare martial law if the assholes get out of hand.

    We're at war, dammit. And our 'leader' isn't a lame duck.

    He's a dead one.

    Figuratively speaking, of course.


    Restructuring Hate...

    People hate. People have prejudices. That is normative human behavior. If you tell me you have no hatreds or prejudices, I can prove you mistaken (or a liar) in about two minutes.

    What's funny is how when the heavy thumb of Society presses down, and makes it unsafe and unacceptable to hate, say, queers and other minorities, the hatred slips out and turns into something else. So now, it is okay to hate Republicans, and Christians, and white people.

    I've seen people casually accept two girls kissing in a grocery store, and then snarl at the Marine in uniform buying his lunch in the deli.

    I recognize hatred as a natural emotion, and channel it accordingly, and creatively. Denying it in yourself is as foolish and self-destructive as denying love. And if you think a three year old cannot hate with a white hot hatred, well, you've never been around a three year old. Or the kid's a tard.

    Society is telling us it is bad to hate in every way it imaginably can, and in doing so, is fostering a fatal naiveté in those who succumb to Society's nonsense. People, confused, and driven blandly insane, embrace those who would kill them, and reject those that are harmless, even beneficial to them.

    Teach your children how to hate, who to hate, and why. And teach yourself, while you're at it. Pansy.

    When the murder starts, as it must, inevitably, you don't want you and yours to be the ones curled into fetal balls, crying and sucking your thumbs.

    Or maybe you do.


    A Good...




    I just heard some dickweed therapist (male) on the radio claiming that if you buy his book, he can tell you in ten minutes how to change your child's behavior from negative, to positive.


    Sure, I toss around a lot of what appears to be advice around here, but it is just stuff I do, and/or what has worked for me.

    Newsflash: people are different.

    No single book or whatever can reach every person the same way. Were I a therapist (God forbid) the first thing I would do if someone brought me their kid to 'fix' would be to send the kid out of the room, and grill the parents for a while on their own upbringing.

    The smartest kid in the world is still stupid and fucked up, and when you pour a steaming stew of hormones over everything, you get a functional lunatic. Barely functional.

    When you think about it, the above holds true for so-called diet gurus, and financial gurus, and on and on and on.

    I've given you advice on martial arts, and weaponry. Namely, train with someone similar to you, and choose a weapon that suits you. Fits you.

    You wouldn't (I hope) buy a book called 'Home Brain Surgery For Dummies', so why ever would you seek life altering advice from a mass-market book written by a total stranger who wrote it for the money?

    Let me repeat: puh-leeze.


    Reading Between The Lines...

    I began reading here, which led me to here, and now I am troubled.

    Karen Hughes was, and apparently remains, one of Bush's closest advisers. I generally scoff at Bush conspiracy theories. Now, considering how quickly after 9/11 (literally, within hours) he had Osama's family spirited out of the US, something that has always bothered me, I am getting a sick feeling in my gut. Even worse than from all of his continual betrayals of America and Conservatism.

    How can we war successfully against the menace of Islam, while this administration clasps the serpent so close to its bosom?

    This sucks.