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Pat Dollard

James Lileks
(My Idol)

Sharp Knife
(My Other Hero)


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Haunted Soldier

Curses & Chrome

All Atwitter

Maiden Magnetic

Random Bits of Pomposity


Vox Day



Doc in the Box

Protein Wisdom

Atlas Shrugs

Twenty Major




  • This Calms Me Down...

  • My Brain Hurts...

  • Words To Live By?

  • Won't You Be My Neighbor?

  • Duncan Hunter...

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • I DO Believe In Fairies!

  • Go Buy This Book...

  • Fall Has Fell...

  • Dive, Dive!

  • Run To The Hills...

  • Chicks Hate It...

  • Time And Space...

  • Start Your Day...

  • Shit...

  • Lock And Load...

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • Ron's Retards...

  • Pensive...

  • The Bourne Whatchamacallit...(A Movie Review)

  • How To Start A Story...

  • Yep...

  • No Tattoos...

  • Interlude...

  • Family? What Family?

  • Movie Reviews...

  • Yellow Sky At Morning...

  • Deconstructing A Comment...

  • Hey, He Only Wanted...

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • September 11th, 2001...

  • Greg Beck Is Dead...

  • Tis the Season...

  • Ron Paul's Worshippers...

  • The Loon Cries On The Lake, In The Early Morn...

  • Ron Paul: Beloved Of Idiots...

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • Breath Like A Yak Fart...

  • Retard On Deck...

  • I Haven't Been Everywhere...

  • If You Hear A Cancer...

  • Ugh...

  • Missing The Boat...

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  • This is my Blog...There are many like it, but this one is mine...

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        Sunday, September 30, 2007

    This Calms Me Down...

    If I was in a band, it'd be this one. I'd pray that people request this song. A lot.

    The only band I can think of in the last ten years that a) doesn't suck and b) rocks.

    Off topic, the wife has been watching the news quite a bit lately. She hasn't forgot her gun for weeks now. Sometimes she carries two. And a Ka-bar at all times out of the house. And in the yard. I made it shaving close sharp for her.

    Bad times are coming, and those of you who scoff, well, your house may become my grocery store.

    I might let you live if you have Pop Tarts.


    My Brain Hurts...

    A car chase went through my brain, and cats have fucked in my mouth. And I don't mind your rabid doggie, and I don't mind it when he bites...

    Tomorrow I go among hostiles to pin sergeant strypes on my youngest, and I'll be going to be among the people who made me what I am today. People worse than me. Just imagine that, for a moment...

    Danger. High voltage. Fire in the disco, fire in the gates of hell...

    Have you ever smelt the clothes her sexy clothes?
    Have you ever got to know her
    Like I do?
    Have you ever reversed roles?
    Gave up control?
    Stayed home and let your woman
    Support you?

    My son asks why I make a face when the subject of tomorrow's guests comes up. I can't tell him, of course. Too much of a burden on the next generation. The stories will die with me. If I did not fear prison and man-rape, certain people would die with me, too.

    The day is runny like a cold egg and snot Smoothie, and tomorrow will be today's stutter, only with Marines (good thing) and family (bad) thrown in. I will stand and smile, unable by circumstance and medical quagmire to drink alcohol, so I will just conjure the sweet jolt of heavy magnum pistol fire as the shock of the shot travels back up my arm, and the rotten black zombie brains of some relative or other projectile vomit out of a crater in their head.

    And people will wonder why that man over there is smiling such a peaceful smile...

    And why his eyes are so, so cold.

        Saturday, September 29, 2007

    Words To Live By?

    I am strongly in favor of using poisoned gas against uncivilized tribes. The moral effect should be good and it would spread a lively terror.
    ~ Winston Churchill commenting on the British use of poison gas against the Iraqis after World War I

    To be wronged is nothing unless you continue to remember it.
    ~ Confucius

    If you ever drop your keys into a river of molten lava, let 'em go, because, man, they're gone.
    ~ Jack Handey

    Invisible Pink Unicorns are beings of awesome mystical power. We know this because they manage to be invisible and pink at the same time. Like all religions, the Faith of the Invisible Pink Unicorns is based upon both logic and faith. We have faith that they are pink; we logically know that they are invisible because we can't see them.
    ~ Steve Eley

    If you speak the truth, have one foot in the stirrup.
    ~ Turkish proverb

    The world is divided into people who think they are right.
    ~ Unknown

    My final point about alcohol, about drugs, about pornography; what business is it of yours what I do, read, buy, see, fuck or take into my body as long as I don't harm another human being whilst on this planet? And for those of you having a little moral dilemma on how to answer this, I'll answer for you. None of your fucking business! Take that to the bank, cash it and take it on a vacation outta my fucking life.
    ~ Bill Hicks

    Why of course the people don't want war. Why should some poor slob on a farm want to risk his life in a war when the best he can get out of it is to come back to his farm in one piece? Naturally, the common people don't want war; neither in Russia, nor in England, nor for that matter in Germany. That is understood. But after all, it is the leaders of the country who determine the policy, and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy, or a fascist dictatorship, or a parliament, or a communist dictatorship... Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is to tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger.
    ~ Nazi Hermann Goering

    It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both.
    ~ Niccolo Machiavelli

    I have examined all of the known superstitions of the world and I do not find in our superstitions of Christianity one redeeming feature. They are all founded on fables and mythology. Christianity has made one-half the world fools and the other half hypocrites.
    ~ Thomas Jefferson

    War is hell and all that, but it has a good deal to recommend it. It wipes out all the small nuisances of peacetime.
    ~ Ian Hay

    This monkey mythology of Darwin is the cause of permissiveness, promiscuity, prophylactics, perversions, pregnancies, abortions, porno-therapy, pollution, poisoning and proliferation of crimes of all types.
    ~ Judge Braswell Dean

    Religion is not merely the opium of the masses; it's the cyanide.
    ~ Tom Robbins

    Just drive down that road, until you get blown up.
    ~ General George Patton, to reconnaissance troops

    Pray: To ask the laws of the universe to be annulled on behalf of a single petitioner confessedly unworthy.
    ~ Ambrose Bierce

    I complained that I had no pussy, until I met a man who had no penis.
    ~ Bane


    Won't You Be My Neighbor?

    I love this woman. Use all your well-learned politics, or I'll lay your soul to waste...

    I'd sharpen her sword for her any old time.

        Friday, September 28, 2007

    Duncan Hunter...

    California Representative Duncan Hunter (R)

    95.38% match

    From this test:

        Wednesday, September 26, 2007

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!

        Tuesday, September 25, 2007

    I DO Believe In Fairies!

    Don't take something serious that was poked at you in fun...

    Who'd a thunk a few faggots would have brought a mighty country like Iran to its knees? Figuratively speaking. Almajibbajabba came on over and poked our most sacred of cows right in the eye with a sharp dick. Next thing you know, he'll be calling Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton niggers.

    I love it. The wife tells me she saw Alan Colmes looking like someone had blown a live Pufferfish up his asshole. It probably had to fight the Gerbil over corn. How do you defend such behavior by a primitive screwhead like Almadabbadoojibubbie? I don't know, but I'll try. If he could show me the button that would vaporise all of our faggots, I'd jamb down hard on it in a heartbeat.

    Throw in all of our muslims, and you got a deal.

        Monday, September 24, 2007

    Go Buy This Book...

    This one. I don't even need to read the blurbs to know I want it.

    The writer of that blog is damn good one, too, a REAL writer, as in 'one who gets paid for it'. As opposed to all you fake writers.

    Buy the book. Read the blog. That is all.


    Fall Has Fell...

    ...right on my head. It's colder'n a penguins pecker around here, and I'm taking diuretics that make my skin cold as a dead mans. I spied the wife's comely round breast the other night, and reached in and cupped it, and she shrieked like banshee and took a swing. She thought I did it on purpose. Got a nice stiff nipple out of the deal. I told her "Let me touch the other one...they're not even..." and she shrieked a little again and put a couch pillow over her boobs, and began to sidle sideways towards the knife block.

    The only reason to get married is to have a playmate, and because you BOTH want to have kids.

    Anyway, I'm going off the grid for awhile to play World of Warcraft, so you might not see me for days. I'm leveling up my Gnome Mage and my Dark Elf Hunter. So far, the gnome is the baddest ass of the two. Here's this little tiny guy, that you could make a bed for in a violin case, and he's blasting the dogshit out of creatures several levels above him.

    And if you see some tiny bald guy zap a rabbit, that's me. Freaks people out. Freaks Nat out. They let out a squeak of anguish as they die in a big flaming crater, and that just never gets old.

    I would love to go to a WoW convention. I'd just carry around a mug of beer, and when all the ijjits in costume asked me what I was, I'd say "I'm a fucking Dwarf, can't you tell?" If they persisted, I'd tell them that I'd activated a Chameleon Spell. If they kept bugging me, I'd lift my leg and fart loudly, and yell "Level 5 Fireball!" Better yet, put one hand in my armpit, and point to people with the other arm as I flap the arm with the hand in the armpit and yell "Plague of Frogs! Level 10!"

    Funny how I never got 'Plays Well With Others' marked on my report card...

        Sunday, September 23, 2007

    Dive, Dive!

    I got to thinking about muff diving, and I wondered why there weren't condiments provided for such an activity. And don't give me that fish crap. You've either never gobbled Lady Box, or your girlfriend has an infection. Rinse and spit.

    Chocolate sauce and the rest of that crap is just nasty, especially matted in hair pie. Looks like road kill, or she just expressed her anal glands during a diarrhea fit. Maybe sprinkles, like you get at Baskin Robbins? Festive, they melt away, and darn it, they taste good.

    No nuts, though. Any salty ones will make her clam sizzle like a salted snail on the sidewalk. And then there's the screaming.

    I was thinking of shooting Jello Shots up there with a turkey baster where you've cut off the tip, and left just the shaft of the tube, but then I got to thinking about how you'd look like a dropout from clown school after, and you just might give her OBGYN a heart attack.

    I don't like the ladies eating food or drink off my Love-stick, either. I had a chick bring out a bottle of Creme de Menthe and commence lovingly laving my privates with it. That's one scream they heard in space. Ow. To say my dick felt as if it was on fire, is to insult fire. And the piss I took later was nearly as bad as the one I took after another novice knob swallower took the word 'blowjob' seriously.

    She inflated my bladder like a cheap balloon. I could float around the bedroom, my head bouncing off the ceiling. And yes, there was screaming.

    Okay, I just lied, because I thought that would be funnier than what actually happened. We were at the drive-in movie theatre, and she fished out my trouser trout, and before I could scream "NOOOOOO!" she huffed in a big breath of good clean mountain air, and docked with my love-station, and blew like she was adrift at sea and had come across a deflated life raft.

    I nearly shit myself. And she'd hit her gag reflex, and puked up barbecue beef and pizza and warm Pabst beer and all the gum she'd ever swallowed directly into my lap, then bounced her head off the steering wheel while recoiling from my scream. Or maybe I bounced her head. I forget.

    I scooched over to the door, trying to keep the mess from spilling in the car, and made it. I was shaking puke and mucus off out onto the gravel, with my tallywhacker hanging out, and I looked up to see the car next to us was full of her girlfriends. Their expressions ranged from abject horror, to big grins. Thank God they didn't have cell phone cameras in those days. I'd have had to set their car on fire.

    I tucked my weiner in and staggered to the restroom, the movie playing in my hair, and people yelling at me to get out of the way. I got (mostly) cleaned up, and then went to the trough to take a piss. I stood there in agony, holding the pipes so hard I thought I'd crush them, shaking and shuddering as the air fought for supremacy with the urine to see who got out first. Some guy, probably a sailor, tsk'd at me and said "Got the clap, eh?" I could barely stand, let alone respond.

    I got back to my car, and she and her carload of girlfriends were gone. I was pissed, because I wanted her to suck the venom out.

        Saturday, September 22, 2007

    Run To The Hills...

    Gosh I hate indians. Like Drew Carey says, they should have fought harder. Fucking pussies.

    This song gives me wood. This is a sweet version of it.

    This guy is my Great Grand-Uncle. This ugly bastard surrendered to him.

    I just wish they hadn't fucked up all the indians, and left me a few. I'd love to shell and Gatling an indian 'village', if you can call a collection of sticks and rags a village.

    I'd love to go shoot up an indian casino, but you just know they have some tough white guys working security.

    Oh well. Fuck indians. I used to. She was the Freshman Queen from the university I was attending. Bitch used to steal from me all the time. Called it 'OIT', or 'Old Indian Trick'. Her dad came home drunk one night and beat her mom. Mom waited til he passed out, then sewed him up in his blankets with an upholstery needle. Then she went out to the well, removed the cotter key from the pump handle, and took that heavy handle back inside and tenderized every square inch of him. Tenderized him to death. On the Res, she got away with it, too.

    Man, I hate indians...


    Here's the only indian song I know. It goes with the way they dance. Well, that, and the wounded, shaking bird with their ass hanging out. But I can't handle that one. Funky nasty naked injun bootay.


    Chicks Hate It...

    ...when you do this.


    Time And Space...

    The space man pressed in hard on the big red button, and the steel ramp opened and began to lower. There was a hiss like an opening beer can, and then atmosphere began to rush out over the top of the lowering ramp until he felt the warm crackle of the shields surround him and stop the rush of air.

    He held a big, well, a huge bag of nuts that both looked and tasted remarkably like pistachios, which were his favorite snack, perhaps even his favorite food of all. He had shot an entire months pay on them at the last dirtball they had stopped at, but that was better than booze and pussy any day of the week, as far as he was concerned.

    The gorilla rushed him, snarling, and if he had been any closer to the edge, he might have dropped his nuts. They'd put him out an airlock if he did any harm to a cyborgorilla...they cost as much as a decent sized ship, and did all the heavy work on a cargo boat. But there were no rules against causing psychological pain and anguish, so he ordered the computer to place the already locked down monster in a position where it could watch him eat.

    The space man walked up to the edge of the cargo ramp, and sat down. His legs were encased in metal boots from the knees down, and he watched swirling patterns of frost form on them, until the field caught up with him and encased him in safety.

    He looked out upon a vista that made men and women who saw it leave home and family for hard work and travel, or just go insane...

    As far as he could see, above him, below him, all around him, was a sea of stars. And galaxies. And sometimes a dark herd of rocks would blunder by like a bunch of elephants, while the proximity alerts blared their warnings. He reached into one of the many pockets of his utility shirt, and brought out a hemostat he had filched from an aid station. The tip was black from smoke. So, someone else had been putting it to use.

    He carefully opened the bag of nuts, and took one out, slipped on a vacuum suit glove and put a good grip on it with the hemostat, and then quickly held it out beyond the force field. It cracked, but he couldn't hear the crack. Pieces of shell went swirling off into the forever, and he batted the nut from floating state, back to himself, where the false gravity let it fall into his lap. He laughed out loud like a little boy. He hadn't been able to crack even one of those nuts, even with a hammer or spanner.

    He munched on it, chewing away joyfully, then repeated the trick again and again, while occasionally offering one to the gorilla. Then cheerfully cracking another nut using space, the power of the universe, and the largess of a ship that tried very hard to keep its human crew alive, in spite of themselves.

    The space man, after offering a nut to the cyborgorilla, with the predictable reaction, pondered briefly what things would be like if the controls of the beast ever broke down. If the ship lost control of it. He shuddered, and fished out another nut...


    Start Your Day...

    ...with this...

    And now, for one of my favorite songs, ever...

    Guess who?


    I thought I put up two songs, but I only repeatedly posted one. Oh well.


    Ahhhh, here it is.

    I wish I could write half that well.

        Friday, September 21, 2007


    My wireless optical mouse died on me last night, in the middle of a huge attack on your narrator by multiple monsters while playing WoW. Fukkit. I quit. I've got a junk mouse hooked up but the cord drives me nuts. So, guess who's quitting blogging (worse that usual); at least for awhile.

    Oh well...

    See you guys around.

        Thursday, September 20, 2007

    Lock And Load...

    Prepare for zombie attacks.

    If I lived anywhere near Peru, I would be at an airport right now, and catching a plane even if I had to hijack it.

    Martian missile silos? I have always said that Earth has warred with Mars at least once...

        Wednesday, September 19, 2007

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go! And worship!

        Tuesday, September 18, 2007

    Ron's Retards...

    ...stuff ballot boxes like Democrats and other Communists.

    Ron Paul doesn't have a snowball's chance in Hades, yet he comes out on top in poll after poll. What an idiot.

    His Flying Monkeys obviously have no morals, and no shame.



        Monday, September 17, 2007

    The Bourne Whatchamacallit...(A Movie Review)

    That's how I ordered my ticket. I literally could not remember the name of the movie. And some time during the first hour, I got hit with such a bad case of deja vu that I thought I was having a full on acid flashback.

    And have I mentioned that this was perhaps the most boring movie I've ever seen? It rests on its previous laurels, and you feel as if you are staring at a poster for the first film, flapping listlessly in the wind. And not very loudly, or in an exciting fashion. They don't even make an effort to be original, or spice things up. Matt Damon keeps one expression on his face the entire time. People who died in previous episodes are brought back with no explanation whatsoever. And who'da thought gunfire and explosions could get boring and tedious?

    I actually enjoyed the first couple of Bourne movies, but this one is like getting a lobotomy. Up through your asshole. With an unwashed cow inseminating glove.

    I'm not kidding about the deja vu. That must be what a panic attack feels like. I literally thought I was losing my mind for a few minutes. And not in the good way.

    There is more action and interest in any five minutes of the latest James Bond movie, than there are in this entire movie. And I went there expecting, hoping for it to rock my socks off. Instead, all I wanted to do was put those rocks into my pants pockets, and step off into a pool.

    The only part of this movie that is worth seeing is the door swinging closed as you leave. I wouldn't even rent it.


    How To Start A Story...

    The beginning of the beginning, just before the end…

    First, all the novelists died. Then the storytellers began to drop. Then the comedians began to keel over their microphone stands, and soon, the quiet hubbub of gentle men and women subsided into a quiet like the deep depths of a haunted forest, and the people were even afraid to read the books and stories that had been left behind…

    The chaos that ensued after the vast unwashed decided that the printed word was toxic cannot be chronicled, because it wasn't. The sword became mightier than the pen, and Mankind's previous works made great, temporary columns of gray ash as whatever gods who caused death to creators and consumers of writing alike were appeased, and the new Dark Age that fell across all lands would have made people cry to have the old one back, if they had any record of it.

    Sadly, you could search for a week, and should you somehow manage to find a once ubiquitous package of Bic pens, a crowd would fall upon you and crucify you to a barn with them before you could scratch out your initials on the back of a (blank) matchbook cover...




    No Tattoos...

    Or piercings, for that matter. I have been looking for a beautiful woman to post a photo of for weeks, and every time I think I've found one, turns out she's tattooed or pierced like a cow. Barf me out. Could you eat a steak that has someone's mother or ex-girlfriends name marked indelibly into it? Or that has a ring and some dingle-balls dangling from it? Yuck.

    Oh well, here's something (finally) that looks good enough to eat:

    If you know this chick, and her ass is marked up like a Merchant Marine's arm, please don't tell me. Let the fantasy brew...

        Sunday, September 16, 2007


    Here's a neat trick to pull on your kid (Note: works best on daughters):

    Look concerned at them, and stare at their hand. Ask "What's that in your hand?" They will be looking at their hand, so just take it, and they will likely show you the back of their hand first. "No, there's something in your hand..." and when they flip it over, spit in it.

    "See? I told you there was something in your hand!"

    This teaches them to not doubt your word. And to not trust anybody.


        Saturday, September 15, 2007

    Family? What Family?

    I see bloggers mentioning their families a lot. Well, here and there. It goes like 'well, I won't be blogging this weekend because I have to spend some quality family time...'

    Fuck that. My kid comes in the room, I say 'who are you again?' and pop them in the thigh with the pellet gun. Life's too short to be held down by rugrats. Heck, they have toys. And it makes the time you do spend with them (i.e., not shooting them) seem much sweeter. Or so I'm told.

    I've trained the wife pretty well. She's up in Washington at my daughter's baby shower, and she has Nat with her. I have John with me, and I was gonna walk him down to the Circle K to get him an ice cream, but I'm nearly broke, and a weather system is settling in that makes my hips hurt like a toothache.
    So, it's Spongebob for you, little fella! Quality time. I took a four hour nap. He watched me. Hey, I let him pick a pile of books, and he had his glasses by his pillow.

    One day they will be abandoning you, no matter how good of a parent you were. You hope.

    So anyway, the doctor prescribed me this laxative called Lactulose, and I've got about six quarts of it in a pile. Whooo baby, does that stuff work good. I was having problems with retardation, due to poisons building up in me, but I shit myself clear-headed in a day and a half. Now, it's just recreational. The family knows that when I get up with a certain look on my face, they better clear the way. Stuff tastes great, too.

    I still can't piss proper, or have an orgasm (well, I can have the sensation, but there's no muss or fuss, if you know what I mean) but danged if I don't have crappin down to an art form. I am missing farting though. That activity has become more trouble than it's worth, involving as it does a clothes change, and grumbling from the wife as her head pops up from my lap and her hair is blown all cattywampus. Sometimes there is stew.

    When I get a kid to 'pull my finger' it sounds like kicking off a damned chainsaw. The kids have learnt to stand sideways when they do it, like a gunfighter. Wish we had a cat. I'd inflate that fucker like a pufferfish.

    I'll be glad if I get well, but there are some advantages to being struck by disease.

        Friday, September 14, 2007

    Movie Reviews...

    I've seen 'Shoot 'Em Up', 'Death Sentence', and 'Halloween' in the last week.

    I loved 'Shoot 'Em Up'. A hyper-violent cartoon of a movie. My son and I laughed out loud several times, even as guys were getting their heads shot off. And two words: Monica Bellucci. Also, Clive Owen is my personal hero. Except for the carrots.

    'Death Sentence' mostly flopped on the deck like a dying fish. I couldn't figure out if Kevin Bacon's hair was supposed to look that bad on purpose. John Goodman had a fantastic cameo. I wanted to see much more of him. He could have carried the entire movie himself. There was some of the worst make-up effects I have ever seen. But otherwise not a bad movie, and hyper-violent as well.

    This is something I've noted, and appreciated lately. If a movie decides to get violent, they go all out. I hope all the church ninny-nannies keep their fat noses out of this. Don't like it? Stay home. I lost track of how many limbs I saw shot off, or guttings with knives, or people being torn apart by shotgun blasts. Loved it.

    Halloween? What can I say. You've seen one, you've pretty much seen them all. There was a favorite part of mine where Michael drags a naked high school girl across a polished wooden floor, and her breasts squeak and squeal as she screams. Bet she needed some tittie lotion after filming that bit.

    I wanted everyone to die after the first ten minutes. I'll leave it to you to guess if they did or not. And Rob Zombie (the director, et al) has a fetish about screams, and tying them in with blaring car horns, or alarms...very annoying. Just shut up and die already.

    Other than that, he shows how Michael becomes a monster very well, and you feel sorry for him for about 30 seconds. Everybody who needs to die, does, with plenty of spares thrown in for grins.

    So, 'Shoot 'Em Up' and 'Halloween' for sure, and 'Death Sentence' if you're in a bad mood and want to see some (mostly) assholes get shot up for your viewing pleasure.

    Comedies? Wait for the DVD...


    Yellow Sky At Morning...

    Maybe it's green. I dunno, but with the crawling mist, it looks like men in protective suits could step out and shoot down anybody exposed to it, before tentacles swept out and whisked them screaming away. No one could live in light like this for long, and stay sane.

    I had a great dream. I dreamed I was going through some old boxes in the attic (we don't even have an attic) and I started running across candid shots of Jim Morrison, and John Lennon and other such luminaries of the past. Now, I knew I had never seen these anywhere before, and I also knew that I had just become newly rich. And then I found piles and piles of demo tapes, and even entire albums of previously unpublished music and...

    Next thing I know, I'm in my own office, and twenty people work for me, and I'm handing out cash bonuses right and left, and still the money pours in...
    I have an office, where natural wood is used heavily. And by 'natural', I mean 'still alive'. The branches are trained to grow into utilitarian shapes, and my desk is made from twisted, polished branches, with a polished teak top.

    I still don't know how I got the rights to the photos, videos, and music. But it made me disgustingly rich, and the more wealth I shared, the whinier and bitchier my staff became...

    And then I had to wake/get up because the wife has another batch of old ladies to babysit. Johnny picked Rice Krispies, so he got the (Patrick) prize in it, which Nattie managed to steal in record time. Oh well, she got early bed last night, today I'll just wall her up in her room with some Amontillado.

    Sigh... The doctors are playing with my meds, and that which does not kill me, makes me have to shit like a missionary.
    The wife ran across an acupuncturist who has rebuilt livers with his heathen Chinee magic. Trouble is, he wants $400 for the initial visit, and $80 or so for each additional. The wife knows personally several of the the people he has rebuilt destroyed organs for, so he appears to be legit.

    Just out of my league...

        Thursday, September 13, 2007

    Deconstructing A Comment...

    Roci comments in my 9/11 post:

    I knew one of the three thousand.


    He was a good man and did not deserve what happened to him.

    How do you know? Maybe it was God's judgment...regardless, what about all the victims of car accidents and train wrecks? There are more Americans that die from choking every year than died in the WTC, or in Afghanistan and Iraq in the entire conflict so far.

    I suspect there were a few more like him in that tally.

    So? Irrelevant and emotional.

    I also know a lot of the people rotating in and out of Iraq and afghanistan (sp).


    They are good people too.

    Are you omnipotent or something?

    Some of them pay a very high price for their service.

    So? Repeat after me: 'all volunteer military'...

    The real lesson of 9-11 is that killing people is easy.

    Bah. That's not the lesson I learned. You try flying a jet into a skyscraper. I bet that shit is hard as heck to do.

    None of us is safe. The world is not a safe place. Kill all the Jihadis you want, it only takes one survivor to ruin your day. The only rational response of a nation is to punish that part of the world severely so that they understand that the world is not safe for them either. Or maybe we could just build some schools, drill some wells, and bring indoor plumbing to the unwashed masses and they will become just like us. The only rational response for indivuduals (sp) is to go on with your life and enjoy it while you have it.

    Well, now I'm confused. And I think you must be, too.

    Actually, I do think that making Iraq an imitation of America is a terrific idea. Supposedly civilized Italy and France have all of our benefits, and yet they have many of the troubles Baghdad is experiencing right now. We have led by example, and the light is beginning to go on in the minds of the sheiks of Iraq. Saddam did them and us a big favor by keeping them artificially restrained and controlled for so many years.

    They have a more unique opportunity for success than any of the Arabic states who have lived under the bondage of Islam for so long.

    For every building or sane institution that we build up in Iraq that gets destroyed by the savages among them, more lights go on in minds that previously had nothing to look forward to.
    People really do want a taste of the wonderfulness that is America. And once they've tasted it, they want more.

    And before you try to Mate me with the fact that Arabs are involved in terror here and in London (as well as elsewhere) just remember that those Arabs tend to be at the bottom of their social strata, whereas the Iraqi has had nothing but horror for decades.

    [I do not understand how the terrorist doctors fit into the equation. I'm still pondering that one.]

        Wednesday, September 12, 2007

    Hey, He Only Wanted...

    ...a little head.


    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!

        Tuesday, September 11, 2007

    September 11th, 2001...

    A few thousand people I didn't care about died on that day. I still don't care. Excepting as this or that person (or organization) attempts to use them to rile me up.

    Funny thing, but this realization came to me just today. Ron's Retards try the same trick with their stupid Constitution, and that one isn't gonna work on me anymore, either.

    I heard some lying, manipulative stupid fuck of a Congressman today, putting down Iraqi politicians for taking time off to go on vacation. Yeah, just let that sink in.

    It has been some time coming, this realization that I don't give a shit about the WTC dead. Heck, I love to run out on the field and wave my pom-poms as much as anybody else. But the cost is too high, now. I have two sons who have put their lives on the line, so I want to make real damn sure they can afford it before they throw the dice.

    For any cause.

    And was it my imagination, or did the people involved with today's ceremonies look bored and put upon?

    Before our ass writes any more checks, we ought to make damn sure we've got money in the bank to cover them, I think.


    Greg Beck Is Dead...

    Death's Door is no more. I'm so depressed about this I could crawl into bed and never come out.

    He was a truly good man, and a great writer. He could blog up a storm, too. I never met the man, but I feel like I did. We exchanged emails, and he commented here sometimes. He'll stay on my blogroll until it depresses me so much I take it down.

    I'll miss him.

        Sunday, September 09, 2007

    Tis the Season...

    Death fidgets around from foot to foot, and taps his watch. Some of us are slated to follow him wherever it is he goes. I note that many of you have family that have headed there already lately...oh, it was their time, to be sure; still, Death is nothing, if not a liberal giver, and he spreads his sting around like there was a sale.

    Death senses the time, you see, the Cooling Time...the Winding Time. All year long the works of his watch have buzzed quietly, and lives are taken with a neatness and precision...why, even if there is a cataclysm, the dead line up like calm sleepers.

    Not so the Dead of Winter.

    They lie there, dead on their backs, hands clawed, staring accusingly at a gray sky that has nothing more for them.

    To die, tasting the bitter kiss of Winter's uncaring silver lips must be a special agony. Even worse when it comes during this time, disguised as Spring or Summer, still warm, the warm skin of a necrophiliac...

    ...and then the cold necrotic breath of the Death-Bringer fogs the eyes, and the spirit would scream if it could, as it is ripped from its husk.

    Each soul taken during this time of year, winds Death's watch up just a little more, so as to be ready for the culling of Spring and Summer.

    Or for the only thing that makes Death pray...that great final culling, where he can shrug off his shroud and slaughter freely with his sharp, sharp scythe.

    So mote it be...

        Saturday, September 08, 2007

    Ron Paul's Worshippers...

    ...wet the bed,
    and they would blow him
    if he said.

    And here's another
    piece of libel,
    they'd wipe their lips off
    with the Bible.

    So get out there
    and wave your signs,
    you're robots not
    real men with spines.

    And all I ask for,
    all I pray,
    is you not block the Jiffy Lube
    when I go today.

        Friday, September 07, 2007

    The Loon Cries On The Lake, In The Early Morn...

    Ron Paul, gobbling nut
    Why are you so batshit, son?
    Flying Monkeys, hush...


    Ron Paul: Beloved Of Idiots...

    These chimps just can't believe that their hero and savior is a complete, traitorous loon. It takes a lot to make Teddy Kennedy look good.

    Ron Paul has to wear a bib when he eats, and rubber pants at all times. His worshipers aren't any better, the dirty commie bastards (and bitches).

    Ron Paul is the afterbirth of a Mongolian gang-bang. He'd eat his own boogers, but they're too small, and he keeps choking on them. I'd almost be tempted to become a Neocon if it gave me an opportunity to kick that fool of a veterinarian in his shriveled little Nazi testicle.

    Fuck all of the traitors who support the Rongoloid.

        Wednesday, September 05, 2007

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!

        Tuesday, September 04, 2007

    Breath Like A Yak Fart...

    Damn, that Valerian Root is vile. It comes out of the pores of your skin later, and mists up from your lungs. Sure knocks your ass out, though. Mine, anyway. And you sleep like a dead baby, too.

    I made my doctor spit/crack up today. In reference to this really sweet, attractive, very nice student nurse, I told him she "has a nice bedpan-side manner..." and he snorted, a lot.

    Well, she does.


    Retard On Deck...

    My wits are at an end. The new doctor, a real prince, changed my meds around today, so perhaps I shall get my wits back, but I tell you, I have been a total window-licker for days now. I fell off a curb while walking with the wife today. One of those 'old man falls' that looks so embarrassing when you do it. Not that I'd know. Just saying.

    If you're playing World of Warcraft, and see a retard bumping into a tree and bumping into a tree and bumping into a tree, why yes, that would be me. My (oldest) daughter says 'hey Dad, come on over here', and I say 'okay, just let me finish bumping into this tree'.

    And I am gonna fuck up that rabbit.

        Monday, September 03, 2007

    I Haven't Been Everywhere...

    ...but I've been mostwhere. I grew up in and traveled all over California, and I thought the hottest chicks were from there, until I moved to Oklahoma. And then I traveled through Texas.

    The first time I went to a theatre in Oklahoma City (to see Star Wars) (again) I walked down the line of customers, and at first, I thought I was at the try-outs for a beauty contest, or a Playboy photo shoot. Oklahoma and Texas had, hands down, the most beautiful women I've ever seen. If you see a hottie in California, odds are she's from Oklahoma or Texas.

    That's my opinion, anyway. I haven't been to every state. Guys, what do you think? Ladies?

    If you travel through a state full of hotties, don't bother moving there though. The chicks all have plans to move to California and/or Hawaii. Or New York.

    The only reason I would ever leave my state is ahead of the law, or for a good job, or for just plain economic reasons. Or all the above.

    So, where have ya'll seen the hottest hotties? And where would you live if you could?


    If You Hear A Cancer...

    ...don't answer.

    Tough question: if a hot chick with a great bod gets really sick, should you fuck her good and then kill her?

    She has asked if she should save and donate her (beautiful) hair. First, I don't fuck the hair, second, what have those sick little bitches ever done for me? Third, she's gonna lose it (the hair) from the chemotherapy anyway, so she might as well cut it off now, and sell it to some rich parents and put that money away in case she croaks, though there's a chance she won't.

    And what do you do with the pussy hair? Oh heck, knowing Toni, she probly mows it, anyway.

    I realize that I am just oozing with compassion, here. Sorry. I shouldn't talk about oozing at times like these. So hey, just pray for the woman, okay? I like her, and I'd like to keep her around.

        Sunday, September 02, 2007


    Until such a time as I see my semi-permanent 'doctor' (the fucking hack) (no doubt) I have to drag through life feeling like bowel. Thank God I see him/her/them some time this week.

    And I feel like the Tsetse Fly got me, mon, or some other tropical or sub-tropical vileness. I want to play my new game with my kids very much, but I spend most of the time abed, asleep. And I take a lot of Valerian Root, so my sleep is sound. And a side effect of Valerian Root, and several of the odd meds that I am on, is that I dream wildly and vividly.

    Last night I pooped at work. I mean, really really pooped. So badly that I checked my bedding for turds when I jolted awake.

    I had some papers to get done and turned in, it was close of business Friday, and I really had to poop, as well. I noted a shmear of poo on one corner of the paper, then a pile of lumps in my pants, and then a mighty gob of lumpery on the desk. I was mortified.

    My co-workers were giving me the fish-eye, and rightly so. It was horrible.

    Anyway, all I do is sleep and watch TV. And now I have pooping myself to worry about. I hope the doc will give me some speed, cuz these 'lower my blood pressure meds' just aren't working out.

        Saturday, September 01, 2007

    Missing The Boat...

    Today, I was reading another writer's (an actual author) reminisces, and he mentioned he'd had an idea many years back where the moon (ours) was actually a spaceship. Heck, I had an idea around then where the entire solar system was a spacecraft, with the Sun as fuel and engine, and the other planets as various specialty planets that support humanoids that farm, or manufacture, or whatever.

    Crap, I can't do anything right...