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::Previous::
  • Double...

  • I Got Yer Big Bang...

  • The Scariest Ideas In Science

  • Conservative Christian...

  • Just For You Know...

  • Heroes...

  • Kiss My Ass...

  • Is Your Pussy So Big...

  • Okay, I'm Pretty Sure This Is Porn...

  • Glad I Don't Like...

  • Has Anybody Heard...

  • More...

  • Why Women Should Not be Allowed To Vote...

  • It's Official...

  • Food Chat...

  • Common...

  • Haloscan Bitch...

  • Hats On Backwards...

  • Simply...

  • She's Not Food!

  • On Writing...

  • Lieberman May Support GOP!

  • Tick...Tick...Tick...

  • America, Fuck Yeah!

  • Yep...

  • Why Is This So Hard?

  • Oh, Before I Forget...

  • 24 Widow...

  • You Gotta See This...

  • This Is...

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  • I'M NAKED, AND I HAVE A GUN!!!

  • You May Bow And Scrape...

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  • How To Make Your Daughter Into A Whore...

  • I Feel Bad...

  • The Dresden Files...

  • Game Blog...

  • How Can You Drink That Crap?

  • Do You Swear...

  • Closed For Football...

  • I Should, Like...

  • Pure Bias...

  • HAH! I WAS RIGHT!

  • Oh, My Troopies...

  • Who Knew...

  • This Is...

  • The Human Stain...

  • If This Doesn't Make Your Dick Hard...

  • Blogworld...



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

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        Wednesday, January 31, 2007

    Double...

    ...jeopardy.

    Now, that's just some funny shit right there, I don't care who ya are. Talk about yer karma.

    On a lighter note: MOLLY IVINS IS DEAD!!!

    YAY!!!




       

    I Got Yer Big Bang...

    ...hangin right heah...




       

    The Scariest Ideas In Science

    Be afraid.




       

    Conservative Christian...

    Yep, that's me. Like it or lump it. And that's about it. Oh, I'll accept a few other labels, Father (Dad, not the molester guy in a dress type) , Veteran. Asshole. Yeah, I think that's about it.
    It's when you decide to break down all those labels into sub-labels, that you fall into the morass of idiocy that labeling can bring on...


    I have no religion, other than the belief in God, and that He sent His Son Jesus to earth to die for our sins, and that He rose again, and gave us the gift of The Holy Spirit to minister to us, as needed. I look upon all religions with a jaundiced eye. A jaundiced, hostile eye. All.

    It should be noted that I am writing this as a blanket answer to the many curious emails I have received from what are apparently new readers, who are curious about me. I wouldn't consider this a 'mission statement' for the blog, but merely an insight as to where its writer is coming from.

    You'll note in the title to this post, that I put Conservative first. That is because my Christianity is personal, and I could give a shit what you are, or consider yourself to be. That's a private matter between you and God, and it makes me uncomfortable when someone goes around beating their chest and hosannaing. I cheerlead for God here and there, because I love Him, He scares the shit out of me, and if I would thank a reader for a donation, why wouldn't I thank God in public, on my site, for something cool He did for me? Simple.

    I'm a registered Republican, even though most of them, well, nearly all, disgust me. There is no other alternative that is not either evil, naive, or just plain stupid.

    I'm a Conservative who believes in Social Services. It's not my fault that they have become bloated, corrupt bureaucracies. That's just human nature at work. Still, they do good work. There's a price for living in a civilized society. Pay it, or go somewhere else.

    I am completely anti abortion, and pro death penalty. If you see a disconnect there, welcome to your new status as an idiot. I think abortion should be unsafe, and legal. Here's your coat-hanger, bitch, now get to work. Oh, and here's a sonagram of it, too. I want you to see what it is you are killing.

    Somebody's bound to say "Oh, what about all of the innocent people released from death row?" Fukkem. Omelette, eggs, you Liberaltarian retard. Some people just need to be killed, and if one of them happens to be innocent (and haven't we all sinned and come short of the Glory of God?) tough shit. I didn't know him or her, and I could care a crap less.

    I hate 'male' queers, but I don't care who you fuck. I don't think it should be illegal, but I think that it should legally be put out of sight, out of mind. No, you can't have your stupid parade, faggot, and no more fag shows and movies. You kiss your lover in public, in front of my kids, and it should be a law that several cops can Rodney King your asses into next week.

    Crikey, it's illegal to smoke and spit on the sidewalk, and two faggots can play tonsil hockey in the park where my kids are swinging? And no, you can't adopt that little boy, you stupid buttfuck. This is an adoption agency, not a whorehouse.

    I think you should be allowed to carry any weapon you want, without a permit or registration, in any manner you care to, and if you act the fool with it, there should be no penalty for anybody who cares to that kills the shit out of your dumb ass.
    And yes, this includes tanks and cannons and fighter planes. Except those should be registered, and any ammo you buy for, say, your 155 mm howitzer, should be kept out of residential neighborhoods.
    Again, if you fuck up and pop off your .50 cal and shoot a round through twenty or thirty houses, we should all be legally allowed to come to your house and shoot you in the head. A bunch.

    I don't know much about it, but the Flat Tax sounds like a good idea. And I like it that the government meddles in marriage. Keeps alla you sister fuckers out there in line. And I want you tested for disease, too. And I want alla you nasty fuckers vaccinated. Only if anybody dies from it, a member of the board of the company who made it gets randomly picked and killed in a public and gruesome way. And their families are fair game, too.
    And by 'dies from it', I mean directly because of a bad or poorly made batch, not some predisposition or genetic weakness. Fuck them.

    I believe in an extraordinarily, embarrassingly, ridiculously strong military. And I think we should send it everywhere. When our President reaches up to scratch his head, world leaders should flinch and duck, and just feel damn glad that this time he didn't smack them.

    I don't think states have any rights. You're part of the Union now, Bucky, so isn't it about time y'all get used to it? I live in the West, but I don't self-identify as a 'Westerner'. All this Northerner Southerner Midwesterner bullshit is just that. Bullshit. We're all Americans. You an immigrant? Check your foreign-ass bullshit at the door. Okay, you can keep your food, I probably like it. But no, dummy, your kids can't carry ceremonial daggers at school.

    And you hyper-religious weirdos...yeah, I'm looking at you, Hasidim and Muslims (and is there any difference between them, really?) cut that shit out. Keep that shit in the house, or in your church. Y'all sound like faggots, what with all your whining for 'acceptance' and 'tolerance'.
    Fuck you.

    I am sick of this myth that we were ever a 'free' people, then, or now. The closest we ever came was a brief period during the Westward Expansion, and even then, the pioneers weren't free from the depredations of indians, and other verminous predators.

    Hmmm, I think that's about it. Or all I can think of, anyway. Feel free to comment or email for clarification. I'm having a tough time with email, because I just switched back to Outlook from Mozilla Thunderbird, because someone is spamming the shit out of me, and I can't get Spamfighter to work in Mozilla.

    I've survived over half a century now, and have seen and been through a lot. Still, I hope you think for yourself, and 'ware the 'gurus'. Most people are 80% full of shit some of the time, and a 100% full of shit some of the time.

    Those numbers go up if you meet them on the internet.




        Tuesday, January 30, 2007

    Just For You Know...

    The wife is trying to crack her back, on her back, at the top of the upstairs landing, and Nat is countering with the Pink Slinky Offense, Slinky-ing the piss out of her, and collapsing into gales of gigglement.

    I taught Nat how to hold the 'base' of the Slinky, and project it forth accurately, as a weapon.

    I suspect that the wife is going to extract her pound of flesh from someone, as she has become a bit cranky due to the continuous assault, and also because she is out of brownies (I suspect she inhaled the entire bag in one whiff, much as the T-Rex in J-Park inhaled that goofy fuck off of the toilet... snap into a Slim Jim!).

    Johnny is dancing.

    3 episodes of 24 left, before I get to go see if the DVR fucked up this season, too.

    Pity me.




       

    Heroes...

    Less annoying than 'Lost', and fifty times as addictive. But still, annoying.

    The gal who plays Indestructible Girl makes me spooge a little, every time I see her. She has the perfect face, but mostly, she has the Perfect Lips (and yes, I bet the wife is tired of hearing about this).
    When a woman, no matter how she otherwise might look, can make a facial expression that makes her lips a perfect or near perfect rectangle, well, those are Perfect Lips.

    The wife likes the little Jap. Thinks he's just as cute as a button. Wants to bring him home, and line a box with an old blanket for him, and please oh please, can we keep him Daddy?

    I actually like the 'Horn Rim' character. I'd be curious to know if that's deliberate. Though I fucking hate that harelip motherfucker with a purple passion. He nearly ruins the show for me.

    Hate the little black kid, though I'd happily adopt him.

    Oh well, must see TV. What can I say?




       

    Kiss My Ass...

    ...all you MSM weenies, lefty traitors, and Cut-N-Run bloggers.

    Read this.

    And be very aware that your next words here may be your last words here, no matter who you are, or of the cost to me.




       

    Is Your Pussy So Big...

    ...that you have to use an entire roll of paper towels as a tampon?

    Do you people see the kind of mind I have to live in?

    Pity me. This is what happens when I run out of money and wine. Be afraid.

    On a semi-unrelated note, I remember my dad changing the oil and filter in our car(s), back in the day. I marveled as he shlucked out the old roll with a screwdriver, into the pan, and then shoved a fresh new roll of toilet paper into the filter cap. Yes folks, that's how they did it in pre-historic times.

    Give me money, and I'll write the post I've been holding back about my family's secrets. There's cannibalism! The more money, the more secrets! Will there be incest? Tune in to find out!

    Otherwise, vicious crapblogging ensues, and I'll be forced to tell you of the time I was making love on the beach and found another woman's used Tampon stuck to my hand, as I was grasping the fervid breast of my lover.

    Don't push me...


    Update:

    Oh, and when Dad was finished changing the oil, he'd go over to the curb, to the sewer opening, and dump the whole mess in. Along with a gazillion or so Dad's up and down the street that Saturday, who were also all washing their cars with gosh knows what kind of soaps, and spraying their whitewalls with stuff that would make the dog puke and stagger off, and then rinsing it all down the driveway into that self-same sewer, and thence, to the sea.

    How did we survive?! How can we still be alive? All us kids had toy guns that shot hard plastic bullets! How is it that anyone from that generation still has any eyeballs left? If you saw a cap-pistol cap from those times, they contained like, what? A half a gram of explosives? And we set off entire rolls of them with hammers! I blew an entire cinderblock into chunks with one hammer blow on a roll of caps once. Couldn't hear for a half hour.

    What a bunch of coddled pussies we are raising today. Try to find a roll of caps, anywhere, or a cap gun to shoot them in. Yet five year old Chinese and Mexican kids can go buy M-1000's, of which I saw a Mexican kid in Tijuana lift an entire car a foot into the air with.

    That is telling, I think. And they let Arab kids wear C-4!

    We are doomed.




       

    Okay, I'm Pretty Sure This Is Porn...

    Bat Porn!











       

    Glad I Don't Like...

    ...ice cream.




       

    Has Anybody Heard...

    ...anything about that tax resistor holed up in his compound with guns and friends? I haven't seen a peep. Any links to real news would be appreciated.




       

    More...

    Coolness.






       

    Why Women Should Not be Allowed To Vote...

    ...or drive.




       

    It's Official...

    The Beatles are the best rock and roll band in the world.

    'I've Got A Feeling' still gives me goose bumps. And yes, Ringo is the best rock and roll drummer in history. Fuck all those other shirtless, sweaty, tattooed posers with their massive drum kits. They're just monkeys clashing cymbals together, compared to Ringo.

    Who else could get up on a cold rooftop, and play so tight, sound so good, not all engineered to shit, and bring an entire city to its knees?

    Yeah, thought so.

    Best rock and roll band, ever.




       

    Food Chat...

    First thing, I've been getting questions as to whether we have eaten the exotic meat we got for Christmas. You know, the kangaroo and ostrich and stuff? Hey, don't you think I would have written about it already? Duh?

    I think we're waiting for barbecue weather. The meat is all packaged perfectly, and frozen like granite. It will keep. And I think cooking over coals and (maybe) wood chips will only make it better. Plus, having it there, gives us something to daydream about, and plot over, and fill the hole in our empty, bleak lives. You know, like how you can buy a lottery ticket, and daydream for a few days what it would be like to be rich?

    Anyway, I actually heard SteveH blaspheme the other day, and call the Food Network boring.
    Boring! I nearly fainted. That channel is probably 30% of our family's television watching. We love all of the contests, Bobby Flay, and yes, even Batali. I see Iron Chef finally got Masumoto a challenge. I was beginning to believe that he wasn't even on the show any more, except during the intro.

    It was like the dumbest, worst episode ever, too. Just pissed me off. Battle Beet? Crikey. Hey, Iron Chef show, please show us ingredients we might actually want to eat? And fuck Battle Lentil, too. I like lentils, but I didn't even bother watching it.
    Although I must say, I am seriously considering putting some thinly sliced pickled beets and a pungent cheese on my next hamburger.

    Which brings me to one of my favorite sandwiches:

    Battle Hambugah!

    Sorry. Got carried away. We had hamburgers last night. She always cooks a few patties to put in the fridge, because the next day, I like to slice them thin (edge to edge) and eat them cold between two slices of regular bread. I prefer punk white bread, but rye or black is nice, too.
    I like to mix it up with the condiments, but I usually like some spicy deli mustard.

    And mayo, of course, Best Foods/Hellman's, because there is no other brand that does not indicate your homosexuality. We have been trying to excise soy products of all kinds from our diet, as we do not wish to turn into disgusting homosexual perverts. You'd be surprised, once you start reading labels, just how difficult that is to do. It's everywhere.

    So the wife buys a jar of Best Foods made with Canola (yellow lid, not blue) and I am initially skeptical. I find I like it even better than my beloved old-style mayo (blue lid). We had it in tuna: wonderful. Great on the burgers. Really nice texture, too. Just good stuff, and darn good for ya. I hope. Back to the burger sandwich, it is sometimes nice to put Mrs Renfro's sliced jalapeƱos on it. Those are our faves. Enough heat to pack a punch without mauling either your mouth, or your intestinal tract.

    We use the juice (vinegar?) from the jar in lots of stuff, too. Scrambling eggs? Dump some in. Crock-potting? Ditto. I wish they made their jars a third larger, and just put more juice in it. And the kids really love this malt vinegar we found that they sell in this fish place we go to when it's a Blue Moon. On their vegetables. Splash it on broccoli and cauliflower, and they wolf it down. Peas. The wife always tosses a little butter and sugar on her veggies when she cooks them. We have no problem with the kids eating veggies at Bane House. We leave a paper plate of cut up carrots and apples out for them to forage in throughout the day.

    Oh, on the aquarium front, the frog lets the wife pet it! It's so cool. He'll actually come up to the surface to get petted, and the wife takes a fingertip and rubs his/her back. The frog sticks around til the wife gets tired of it. Cool.

    Hey, I've heard that there is some sort of aquarium vacuum that you can clean out a tank with. Just stick it in and suck out all the crap and dirty water, and recycle clean water back in. Anybody know about this? Ever use one?

    Anyway, Happy Tuesday, gotta go. Those 24 episodes aren't gonna watch themselves.




        Monday, January 29, 2007

    Common...

    ...sense.

    Apparently, an extremely limited commodity.




       

    Haloscan Bitch...

    I had my settings set so that in my comments moderation page, it showed the title of the post you were commenting in, so if necessary, I could go reread it and find out just what the heck you were talking about.

    Now, all the titles turned into a string of numbers, and no matter what I do (and yes, I know how) I can't get it to go back. I've emailed Haloscan, but they never call back, so that's hopeless.

    Anyone else having this problem?




       

    Hats On Backwards...

    I think it's stupid, unless the sun is to your back and you are protecting your neck. And when you're firing a rifle, scoped or not, putting the bill of your cap forward keeps the glint off your scope, or your rear sight, and lets you concentrate on the target.

    I used to laugh, in the police academy, when recruits doing an entry or something would suddenly whip their caps around and look all serious. Macho poseurs...

    I don't care if you're firing rifle or handgun, even at night the brim of a cap is useful to keep you focused in front of you, and cut out the random glare of headlights and streetlights. And in close quarters, it makes it more difficult for your opponent to see your eyes.

    I am not a 'hat person'. Rarely wear one. Inclement weather, and driving excepted. But I'll slap on my Swiss Army cap if I have to gun up and go down and check the house, or go outside to.

    If you are in a situation where you have to check upper floors and windows and such, for threats, sure, tilt it back, some, but don't flip it around.

    Fag.


    Update:

    Oh, and for a woman, or a man with long hair, slipping a cap on is the quickest way to secure your hair in the event of an approaching sudden conflict. Tying your hair back takes both hands, no matter how quickly you can do it. And you still don't have a cap on.




       

    Simply...

    ...Brilliant.

    When he's not on the pipe, or hitting the absinthe, Jeff Goldstein is quite simply the finest political pundit writing today.

    It's funny, how he and SteveH appear to be at loggerheads, and yet they both have such a similar ability to absolutely knife through the bullshit and flay open the corpse on the table, and get to the guts of the matter.

    Update:

    The hits just keep on coming...




       

    She's Not Food!

    That's what Nat screeched at me a bit ago as I was trying to eat her Polly Pocket. She was telling me that she had gotten it in a Happy Meal, so I said oh, then it must be food, so I snatched it up and began to munch on it. She attacked, of course, and I fended her off, explaining to her that Polly was the best French Fry I ever had.

    I think this could go a long way to explaining much of the elder abuse we see today. The kids are just getting even...


    So, anyway, I finally go back upstairs, and not long after, I hear more screeching from downstairs, but this is genuine 'that's gonna leave a mark' pain screeching. I hear the wife tending to her, learn she has a 'boo-boo', and I leapt into action, grabbed the tube of Neosporin (with pain relief!) and bustled down to minister to her wound.

    She had a barely legible buff mark on her calf... she had overreached while going for one toy, and being both balance and gravitationally challenged, she toppled, and fell on another toy. This frakkin house is one big toy box. As minuscule as her 'wound' appears to be, it affords me an opportunity to minister to her.

    As I gently smoothed the ointment on her calf, she showed me a couple of other small scrapes in her collection, that she's picked up over the last week or so, so I diligently medicate them all, and her snuffles fade away, and she hugs me and thanks me and returns to Spongebob, contented.

    It's important that parents switch hit in their roles, I think. I do not always nurture and cuddle, and the wife rarely kicks ass. But you do that, switch roles often enough, and each party gets something out of it. The child does not see you as always being one thing, and you get to enjoy the reaction from doing something you don't normally do.

    The kids don't even think about coming to my bed in the middle of the night because of a bad dream. Lucky for them. No, it is the wife they go to for that comfort. They bring the broken stuff to me.

    Today I got to nurture, and we both got something out of it. And it offsets my usual gruff, torturous nature. Like maybe I'm an ogre, but I am a kindly green one that only eats the bad children.

    I also find it useful to apply criminal penalties to criminal behavior. Hitting and stealing and lying are all punishable out there 'in the world', why not in the house? When their room is being used for incarceration purposes, I actually call it 'Kid Jail'. If they perform a chore poorly, or neglect to perform it, I 'fire' them. And cast them out.
    You no longer can enjoy the benefits of the company, since you don't work here anymore, so off goes that TV, oh, and those toys are mine, too, since I bought them... tut tut, I bought that food, too, step away... what's that? Oh, you want to rejoin the family of man? Well, okay, but you're on double secret probation.

    Now, go do your chore.

    I leave treats out in the open, but I count them, and I check. Nobody steals in this house anymore. Took some effort, but I can leave a bowl of M&M's out now, and they will stay undisturbed. They know to ask once, and not nag. And all of this (well...most) is done without beatings.

    Though never underestimate the power of The Force. The trick is, to terrorize them beforehand, so when your relatively mild physical abuse is administered, they are pretty sure they are being killed. But not.
    The wife and I practiced using the tools (15" ruler, and a belt) on each other, so we could rate the pain level for ourselves. And then we had hot sex. Nothing like paddling a woman's heiney to get her revved up.

    Note, I said 'woman'. And yes, I know kids are smaller and softer. Still, I suspect that their nervous system down there doesn't fully develop until later years, since they fall on it so much, often with no apparent effect.

    So, there you go. Fuck Dr Phil.




       

    On Writing...

    Some interesting perspective.




        Sunday, January 28, 2007

    Lieberman May Support GOP!

    Big fucking whoop. Why is it always a choice of getting fucked up the ass by the guy with the littlest dick? Ow...thank you sir, may I have another...

    Has everybody forgotten that this tool was running to become Vice-President of the country with that other tool Al Gore?

    Never mind the fact that I'd cut my own throat before I'd listen to a speech by that whiny Jew bastard... ooops, can I still say that in America? Well, he is! Fuck me, wears his religion on his sleeve like a damn Muslim.

    Crikey, you people are gullible. Yeah yeah yeah, I voted for Bush, too... littlest dick... sorry. Wait til Hillary is ramming her strap-on up y'alls asses. Coated in axle grease and Sterno, and sprinkled with ground glass. Yeah, go ahead and abstain, or better yet, do a 'protest vote'.

    Thank you Ma'am, may I have another?

    Why yes...yes, I believe you can.

    For eight years.




       

    Tick...Tick...Tick...

    Read it, and weep.

    It is only a matter of time, folks. All of those assholes over there have traditionally done their attacking in the Spring, for thousands of years of recorded history.

    This Spring? I dunno, but when the mud dries, the shit flies.

    I suspect...




       

    America, Fuck Yeah!

    And fuck France. Go there to see why, and to get a nice list of who to tell to fuck off. Wild Turkey? Say it ain't so!

    Alas, I thought I knew thee...

    Get thee hence.




       

    Yep...





       

    Why Is This So Hard?

    What makes people even think Arabs want Democracy? Goodness knows I'd be willing to consider a new system, as long as it wasn't Sharia. This one sucks.

    I used to think, logically, that, well, why wouldn't everybody want to be just like us? I mean, just look at everybody flooding in here?

    Dude, she doesn't love you for your Democracy, she loves you for your money.

    We are like the abuse victim who keeps thinking their mate will change, if only... whatever. I've been pondering for five years how wealthy, educated young Arab men could come here, live here, and still want to blow the place up, and make it look like their place.
    And then I started hearing about Americans, leaving the USA to go live in those shitholes, and take up their ways, and ding! the light went on.

    They like things that way. Why is my room/office area so messy and nasty? Because I like it that way!

    Duh.

    I can be slow...




       

    Oh, Before I Forget...

    I really appreciate all of you cretins over on Vox's blog lecturing me about God and stuff.

    Not.

    Believe whatever you want, I could care less. When I see wrong, and stupid, I'm gonna call you on it. It's people like you who make people who persecute Christians so damn enthusiastic about it.

    And a catholic calling ME pagan? Oh, that is so rich.




       

    24 Widow...

    The wife. Thanks, Dave and Morris! I forget which one of you got me what, but I've been sequestered in my room watching the last season (#5) of 24 a lot, lately. And whichever of you got me BOTH of the Riddick movies, in the unrated director's cut! Just damn. Coulda knocked me over with a feather. What a wonderful surprise.

    The wife burst in on me last night and drug me to her room for a good rapin, and today she bought some extra extra dark chocolate brownies, so I think we may be in that part of the cycle of life where I get molested a lot. Yippee! With the ex, this was the signal to hide all of the knives and guns. I like this better.

    Man, 24 is like a show within a show within a show. A cross between a Rubik's Cube and an onion. And I already banned some turd for posting spoilers, so don't.

    You may have noted a paucity of posting, lately. Sorry.

    Not.




       

    You Gotta See This...

    Fear the Granny Airbag...




        Saturday, January 27, 2007

    This Is...

    ...just plain sweet.

    Not much 'touches' me, but this sure did.




       

    How To Do It Right...

    Fuck hearts and minds.

    If I grab you by the balls, the rest of you will go wherever I want it to.




       

    Falling In To Place...

    It takes me a while, sometimes, to figure a thing out. Here I am on a Saturday, the wife at work, the kids content, and it hit me. Finally.

    The Autism post I wrote yesterday fits the situation at the wife's work perfectly. The parents, doting on a teenage retarded kid, suspended in baby-hood by a doctor's carelessness, and doting on their now three year old 'perfect' child. To all of their detriment.

    As an outsider, looking in, I am able to give the wife perspective, when she reports that this kid appears to hate her, and acts out, and is a danger to himself and others. Yes, he is spoiled. If he wants an airplane ride, he gets one. In an airplane. But, he is fiercely protective of his big brother. Watches the wife like a hawk. He knows something is amiss.

    And the wife is not their first care provider. This tells me that there is a reason they leave. Or are let go. Fortunately for the family, the wife is a saint, and as such, brutally honest. 'Hey, your kid is a little bastard, and I'm tired of putting up with his shit', honest.

    So far, it looks like the parents are so desperate for a break, that they will do anything, but that bit I wrote on parental guilt could rear its head at any time, they'll transfer blame to the wife, and she'll be gone down the road, and they'll start the whole cycle over again.

    Life is hard. Even when the water looks smooth, there are things, swimming, swirling, just underneath the surface.

    Things with teeth.




       

    Shoot First...

    ...or not.

    I guess it just depends on how bad you wanna get hurt, I guess.




        Friday, January 26, 2007

    Oh...

    ...fuck yeah.

    Man, I hate coffee.




       

    If It's Rated 'R'...

    ...who brought all these children?

    A-fucking-men. I have been in movies where I wouldn't take my wife to see what was showing, and there's a bunch of idiot parents with a pack of five year olds because they couldn't get a sitter. Or more likely, just didn't care.
    So little Betty-Sue gets to see women raped up the ass onscreen by a space monster, and hulking murderers chain-sawing off heads.

    Lovely.

    Can't smoke around em, but we can fill their heads full of murder and fucking.

    What a country...




       

    Send Your Kids...

    ...to school! Trust me!




       

    Why...

    ...do these people get a trial, instead of just being beaten to death inside a cell?

    Go ahead...I'm waiting.




       

    More...

    ...fuckeduppedness.

    There is SO much more than meets the eye on this. Unbelievable. Why was a unit that small allowed to go outside the wire, anyway? Not enough men, scrub the mission. Rinse. Repeat.
    I would not want to go anywhere in that shithole without at least 25 heavily armed AMERICAN! hardasses with me, preferably fifty, to keep the rags from getting froggy on a whim.

    Someone had those poor dumb bastards dialed in before they even woke up that morning, and now good families are mourning them.

    I exchanged emails earlier in the week with a Marine over there, he extolling the virtues of his unit's interpreter, and how much he liked him and got along with him...

    Oh, you mean the spy who would sell you out in a heartbeat and have you getting power-drilled in the guts, and beheaded on a terrorist video? That 'really nice guy'?

    Where the fuck you think the bad guys get their intel from?

    Yeah, sure, they'll go out on raids with you. Bet they don't get attacked much. Bet they direct us to people their people want fucked over by the Big Bad Americans. A lot.

    Trust no one but your buddy, and watch that fucker like a hawk.




       

    Some Good News?

    I think, maybe. If we put our money where our mouth is.

    Let the bodies hit the floor.




       

    I Wanna Keep Track...

    ...of Pt1 and Pt2, so I'm archiving them for myself, here, but feel free to read them. Fascinating stuff, and I bet most of you (excluding ajw308) don't know shit about this.

    As an aside, they're from (GASP!) Pajamas Media, a resource I have come to use and rely upon more and more lately.
    I could care less about the silly little spats going around the blogosphere re PJM, though I am a bit pissed about Baldilocks getting fucked over, if indeed she did. I do not know.

    If this means I don't get to sit at the lunch table with the Cool Kids, too fucking bad. I'd rather eat outside, leaning against a tree, anyway.

    I am going to continue to read whoever I want, link to whoever I want, and enjoy all of the kufflufferation that can go on between grown adults. A blogger I hugely respect insulted Bill Ardolino once...well, a lot, and Ardolino is over in Iraq putting out fantastic dispatches now.

    Don't believe everything you read. Except for me.




       

    Autism...

    An interesting article.

    Johnny may have a touch of it. It's hard to say what ails him. He gets overloaded easily, and will do repetitive behaviors over and over, to some inner delight. But he doesn't have the Autist's standoffishness, in fact he is almost overly friendly. He says hello to strangers all the time, and introduces himself, and chats them up. Just a bit ago, as they were leaving to go get his braces (feet) fitted, he was just going out the door and he gasped and said "Ooops! I almost fohgot!" and came running back in to kiss my cheek and 'give me a big squeezy hug'.

    Oh well, he's a work in progress. I'd fix him if I could, but I can't so we just apply spackle here and there, and pretend a truck didn't just crash through the wall into our lives.

    Yeah, he's repetitive, and ritualistic, but I got to thinking about it this morning, as he went through his 'greeting Daddy upon awakening' ritual, who among us isn't ritualistic? Think about what you do in the bathroom, from the toilet, to the shower, to brushing your teeth, how many different rituals, right there?

    Johnny always yells up from downstairs, after I flush the toilet "Good morning, Daddy! I did my chore!" (opening the living room curtains and making his bed) followed by "How'd you sleep?" Every morning.
    And when I come to get my dinner plate, he always, always asks me "Are you hungry?" Every time. After, it's always "Well, how was that dinner...did you like it?"

    Whenever the wife leaves to go somewhere, he always asks me several times where she went, even though she and I both told him where before she even left. The cycle stops when I make him think, and tell me himself where she went.
    Whenever we are all set to drive somewhere in the car, the wife always, always has to get out and go back inside to do something. That is her ritual. Mine is to put the car in gear and gun the engine and say "Let's leave Mommy!" and make him scream an anguished "NO! NO, DADDY!"

    That never gets old. And he'll do it every time. And he's nine.

    He's too smart to be a retard, in fact he's capable of brilliant intuitive leaps, and problem solving. I just don't know. I'll not have him be somebody's guinea pig, and I love him just the way he is, and yes, sometimes hate him for it, too.

    And there's the Dark Secret of disability, though I suspect Dads have it more than Moms: I hate you for being damaged, for not being normal, for making me feel bad so much.
    And then the love (I hope) overwhelms, and you realize you just gave in to an all too human, yet petty and small emotion, and move on.
    If you stuff that, deny it, it'll kill you. Or someone else. Or maybe just a perfectly good relationship.

    Might I suggest, that if you are in a similar situation yourself, that you do some serious self-examination, and then share it with your spouse, somewhere where it is safe for you both to cry, and without distractions.
    And after you both get your own heads straight, move on to any siblings, because there is a huge chance they've got that dark place in their heart, too, and it can erupt in all sorts of ways.

    You can take your anger out on the healthy one, too, just for being healthy. I mean, how dare they be so normal, eh? And do not steal from one child, to feed the other. One of them is bound to languish.

    Anyway, advice, likely worth what you paid for it, take it or leave it.

    But it works for us.




       

    The Wrong Impression...

    I think I've quite accidentally given the impression here that I am some kind of fighter. I am not. Oh, I'll beat the shit out of you if I can, but I have no interest whatsoever in fighting you.

    I hated taking punches in practice. Soon, I began training on my own to avoid them. Most trainers train you to get hit. I wanna find one that trains you not to be hit, and if that means a running coach, fine. No matter how badass you are, there are always one or more badasses out there that can use you as a butt plug.

    I've been in lots of fights, and punched this or that fool out, here and there, sometimes just for looking at me wrong, but I don't talk, and I don't linger. Crikey, at the very least, you just committed a misdemeanor with potential jail time attached to it. Run! Boogie on out of there!

    Yeah, I've stalked and attacked people here and there. I don't see much difference, other than semantic, in serving a felony warrant, or looking up and beating down some fool who done your woman wrong, or searching out an angry father to serve divorce papers on him. I've done all that, and more.

    I am humbled, now, by my age and infirmities. I'm that old tiger, long in the tooth, who prowls by himself, now, looking for mice to catch, perhaps the occasional soft, unattended baby.
    But you still really wouldn't want to corner it...

    Today, I'm more like Earl, just trying to be a better person. I may or may not have paid the full measure of my sins. Yet.
    As a commenter said, I am forgiven, but I still feel that you owe the burden of being good, or at least striving to, because I do not believe in once forgiven, always forgiven. Or there's some people I'd just walk up to and shoot in the face.

    I chronicle my life, here on this blog, as a cautionary tale, for my kids, and anyone who'd care to make use of it. Not to brag. This blog is not a training manual.

    It's a warning sign.




       

    Is This Porn?

    If you think it is, I submit to you that you may just have some, shall we say, issues?













































        Thursday, January 25, 2007

    Nope, No Terrorism...

    ...here, folks. Move along...nothing to see here.




       

    Prunkin Doetry...

    The Future is
    not solid
    formed, in forms
    and then cemented
    furthermore, your
    life is not assured, so
    be sure it's only rented

    the price you pay
    is just the price
    you care to pony up
    be bad, go down
    be good, go up
    some find that
    most demented

    So, be the asshole that you are,
    and not the one you're not
    nobody really gives a shit, so
    try not to die a twat.




       

    A Very Nice...

    ...summation of the current Iraq situation.

    I read the article he critiques and summarizes, today, and it is very good and very hopeful. Jeff does a far better job of dissecting it than I ever could, as it is not only 'not my bag' (I'm not qualified) but he is a far better writer than me.

    Go, get edjuhmuhcated. Seriously, you need to read it.




       

    When Did Insensitivity...

    ...become a crime?

    Even if I had the money, I wouldn't send my kids to any college or university. Let them waste their own money.

    And now I'm craving fried chicken and an Old English 800. Dammit.




       

    Oh My...

    Tits and ass for days...




       

    Ouch...

    Good thing we're a Democracy, ain't it?


    Update:

    Time to give up, yet?




       

    Blogger Contest...

    I had an idea for a blogger contest, but not one of these weeniefied glorified self-congratulatory circle jerks.

    No, for money.

    Anybody can submit themselves or another blog, but they have to pay a buy in. When the pot hits a certain level (I'm thinkin $100 buy in, and $1,000 pot) then the contest can begin, but the only way you can vote, is with Paypal, at oh, say $5 per vote, with a max of $100 per voter? And all of that vote money goes into the pot, and goes to the winning blogger.

    I would suggest that to be nominated, the blogger has to have at least a years body of documented work, with at least a hundred posts in it.

    Winner takes all, pure popularity contest, by people putting their money where their mouth is.

    Whaddaya think? Are you ready for a Throw Down?


    Update:

    I really really like this idea. I voiced some concerns in the comments, but I think it could really be something akin to one of those televised high stakes poker games.

    Maybe have a few month period to get the publicity out, and get tons of bloggers competing. Maybe combine the voting part, with a judging component as well, where each contestant presents their five best 'dishes' to some impartial, non-blogger judges, who are themselves professional writers?

    Watch the excitement grow, as the pot grows? Maybe in addition to the five 'best-ofs', have to submit one new post written especially for the contest?

    I dunno...I'd compete, but other than advice, I wouldn't/couldn't get involved. And probably neither could any of the contestants, though I would trust Wendy and Cpl M implicitly.

    Hmmmmmmmm...

    Update:

    Track the IP's of contestants, to see how many times they vote for themselves! Put that number in brackets by their name on the contestant list in one color, and next to it, how many actual people have voted for them (as opposed to a few proxies paying the maximum $100 all at once).

    This could be good...




       

    Go...

    ...here, and watch the trailer.

    Go here, to buy the DVD.

    Hey, somebody get me a copy, wouldja?




       

    Conflicted...

    Hmmmmm, maybe Mookie Sadr ain't so bad, after all.

    It's hard to tell the assholes apart without a scorecard, but if I was (ugh) a Shiitheadite, I'd be gettin me some payback on those Palestinian fucks, too. Fucking cockroaches.

    The damage Saddam did to that country is going to take generations to fix.




       

    Product Placement...

    Boy, that ActiveOn stuff really works. Haven't tried that HeadOn product of theirs, as we rarely get headaches. But on my arthritis, gee golly. And almost instantly, too.

    The bridge of my nose where it has been broken so many times really hurt from the CPAP mask last night, so I put some on just now, because my computer glasses were vexing me, and dayum, it's like magic.

    It's good for bumps and bruises on the brats, too. The wife is using it on this pinched nerve she's been troubled with in her shoulder.

    Around $10 for a tube of it, and damn well worth every penny.

    Get some.




       

    Hand Me Downs...

    I never had the pleasure. I was the oldest, and had only a younger sister. During the period where my parents were poor, and I was young, I suffered as did probably all kids of parents who were raised During The Depression suffered.
    It pained them to spend scarce money on clothes and shoes for me, and it pained me if I scuffed my shoes or tore a hole in something. Literally. I got my ass beat.

    And they bought my clothes and shoes a few sizes too large, so I could 'grow into them'. Fuck, I hated that. And I wasn't alone. You look at photos of boys from the 50's and 60's, and you'll note that they appear to have abnormally large feet, and and rolled up pants cuffs, and a fetish for baggy shirts and pants.

    Nope. That's just how they dressed us. Goodwill 'Store' couldn't have made it in those days, because we wore our clothes to tatters before we got new ones. I had church clothes, school clothes, and play clothes, and I damn well better not forget to change from one to the other post haste.
    I wore my shoes until you could see toes wiggling, and they'd get too full of gravel when I walked and started wearing out my socks.

    My Mom's Mom was an accomplished seamstress and knitter, and oh, the special hell of wearing those clothes and sweaters to school. She made them from whatever fabric was on sale, and if magenta yarn was on sale, guess who had to wear the magenta sweater to school? With the lime-green zig-zag stripes?

    I have heard horror stories and whining about hand me downs all my life. One of my sons is insane about it, I think maybe because he was the youngest brother. Irregardless (and yes, that's a word! I just fucking used it, didn't I?) he can't stand to own anything that was owned or worn or used by someone else. You could offer him a two year old Ferrari and he'd turn it down.

    I'm exactly the opposite. I love yard sales, and Goodwill, and the Salvation Army, all that stuff. I'll go down the line of pants until I find the section in my size, pick out something that I don't hate, buy it, and wear it, and I don't care if some guy took his last dump in them before he died, as long as I can't smell it and the stain isn't too bad.

    I promise you that my son will read that last line and at the very least, dry-heave a little. I once made him puke by comparing opening up an old ladies cootch to spreading open the bread in a grilled cheese sandwich. Whoops! There it is. His brother and I laughed ourselves into collapse over that one. Can't hardly believe he's a Marine now.

    Anyway, there's some kids at the wife's church that are just at the perfect ages to hand stuff down to Nat and John, clothes, and toys, and books, and DVDs' they have outgrown. So every so often the wife comes home with the latest hefty bag full of goodies, and these people must be rich, cuz it's quality stuff. A lot of it barely broken in, if used at all. Nike, all the fancy brands.
    Sometimes you can tell they had a favorite coat, and ignored all of the others, likely Christmas presents from gramma.

    To look at John and Nat, you'd think we were rich, and it has been this way practically from their births. And lucky for Nat, these little rich girls have a princess fetish, too, so she gets faery wings and magic wands and crowns and gowns and ballet slippers. Kid books are expensive, so it's nice to get a pile of age appropriate books every so often.

    So the wife and kids sit there and winnow out what they want, what they need, then put the rest back in the bag, and the wife delivers it to another family that is similar in circumstances to ours, and so it goes. See? Trickle down really does work.

    If God blesses me sufficiently so that I can, my fantasy is to purchase gift cards in varying amounts at the places I shop, and have the manager give them to various shoppers that I decide I want to gift. And no, not just to the coeds with the nice tits.
    To the little family, putting things back that they can't afford. Having to buy the small pack of diapers for an infant, because payday is days away. Hey, maybe give one to a bum, so the sheriff will have a hot time in the ole drunk tank tonight.

    I have no problem with charity, getting it, or giving it. True charity, given from the heart, infuses nobility into that heart, I think. I have been touched by it, and have touched others with it. As I've said, I do not know what we would have done without Ronald McDonald house, and the cheerful givers who constantly bless that place.

    And the look of gratitude on someone's face when they find that they just don't have quite enough to meet the bill at the grocery store, and you nod to the cashier and tell her to put it on your bill, is well worth the price of admission.




       

    It's Nice To Start The Day...

    ...with a good laugh.

    I still have tears in my eyes.




        Wednesday, January 24, 2007

    I'm Gonna...

    ...do this.

    I love corned beef. It is my favorite cow product, with loose meat Pastrami following a close second. And that recipe looks simple.

    Costco has it, occasionally, for a decent price, but I'm thinkin that a nice, marked down because it's about to rot pot roast, or better yet, London Broil, would kick ass. Hey, already aged and tender, right? And as soon as the brine and other stuff hits it, all the bacteria just say fukkit and give up the ghost, and hey presto, after a while, corned beef sandwiches!

    This could be good...




       

    Illogic And Stupidity Abound...

    I have served, my sons serve, yet you cannot find a single instance where I have told someone they have no right to an opinion because they haven't. That 'chickenhawk' meme is just so much utter bullshit, and the best sign that you are dealing with either a poor thinker and/or a pedant when you hear it.

    Are they trying to say that a childless First Couple in the White House would mean that President could not prosecute a war? That's just stupid. Alexander was gay. Shut up.

    If you have no children, and offer me advice on child-rearing, why wouldn't I listen? After all, you were a child, and I can only assume you were raised. Can no childless woman possess maternal instincts? Does having kids make you a good parent? Does having served in the military make you brave, and strong, and virtuous?

    As to the cut and run cowards I see all over the internet today, they make me want to puke. Illogical fools abound, with the worst being the Viet Nam comparares. Yes, the Yugo is a car. Yes, the Ferrari is a car. Yes, they both have four wheels. Need I go on?

    And the one significant fact those fools consistently ignore, is that we cut and ran from Viet Nam. Thanks for the advice, idiots.

    People, we were given a brain for more reasons than just to keep our head from collapsing. Use that fucker. Think. It has been a hard road, and I locked my brakes and my tires smoked several times, but I finally brought myself around from being a Bush cheerleader, to being disgusted by him.

    But unlike some jilted junior high student who then goes home and hangs himself with a belt in his closet because he gets jilted, I am willing to reconsider our relationship, after some therapy, and some demonstrated good behavior.
    Now, I doubt that's gonna happen, seriously, but the minds I see today aren't closed, they're wrapped in eight inches of tinfoil and welded shut.

    Do I believe that we are on a slow train ride to Armageddon, and the switchman has died of a heart attack? Yes I do. And it will speed up soon, and there is a steep incline with dangerous curves ahead.

    But crikey can Liberaltarians be a bunch of soft-pated motherfuckers sometimes. There will be plenty of doom and gloom for everybody.

    But this Iraq war ain't it.


    Update:

    I just want to make it perfectly clear to any nimrods out there that I do not support this war out of any pseudo-patriotic sentiment, or because my sons are there. I'd far rather them be home.
    But, I have wrapped my brain around this war, and what we are doing makes a perfect, logical, strategic sense to me. I have issues with the 'how', but not the what or why.

    What we are doing needs to be done, pure and simple. That more needs to be done, and better, is a whole separate issue.


    Update:

    As I understand it, nearly every element of platoon size or better in the German army during WW2 had a unit photographer, who filmed the fighting, and the aftermath. I have seen tons of it.
    American units had embeds, some of whom even fought when things got dire. They lived with the troops, ate with the troops, got lice with the troops, and died with the troops.

    I have heard calls to pull out the embeds in Iraq. I could support that for two reasons only: they pull out all of the hair-sprayed hotel mavens from the Green Zone who just buy and show jihadi propaganda; and/or the US Military is planning on doing a scorched earth plan and doesn't want any witnesses.

    I am in favor of either or both.

    Otherwise, they should have 84C Mopic units in every company sized unit, at a minimum, being shadowed by a vetted civilian reporter who has signed away his First Amendment rights like every recruit does, and who submits their reports to Intelligence, first, before they go out to the wire services.

    The public doesn't have a right to know, but they do have a need to know, and it should be catered to, for the good of the war effort.




       

    How Can It Be Prehistoric...

    ...if it still exists?

    Take your stupid THEORY! of Evolution and shove it up your ass. You don't know shit.




       

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go! And worship!




       

    Michelle Malkin...

    ...rocks.

    Funny, I don't see any of her blowhard detractors walking through the streets of Baghdad.

    I've seen several of these, now, and I find them both interesting, and useful. I get a lot of good stuff from the Pajamas Media portal, as well. An everyday read, now. Like it or not, some of their people are doing some very good work.




       

    Just An Aside...

    It must really suck to be a left-handed Muslim.




       

    It Must Be Spring...

    ...cuz we're cleaning.

    DEEP cleaning. And I have an owie. I went down to get a sandwich, and the kids were cowering, and the wife was barking commands and remonstrations, like R. Lee Ermey on estrogen, and she has torn the living room apart.

    Do we really even own this much shit?

    Apparently the shelf-life of shelves bought at K-Mart (or was it Target? Costco?) is not very long. We bought these metal basket-shelves, cubbies, actually, some time ago, and the plastic connectors at each juncture are beginning to crumble, and self destruct. Another feat of marvelous Chinese engineering. If they make their weapons like they make the shit they sell us, we have nothing to fear.

    So, I got drafted, by virtue of the fact that the wife was going insane, so I took one look, noted the problem, and we fixed it (the shelves had sprung, pretty much, apart).
    Now, y'all know I'm a woman lover, but I just want to tell ya, that I'm glad that I didn't have to operate any of the weapons and machinery built by all of the Rosie the Riveters back during WW2, when females entered the workforce en masse.

    I have heard tales of lots of grenades being delivered to the front, that had been assembled by a crew of women whose periods had synchronized back at the factory, and the grenades had as short a fuze as the women did, and surprised quite a few GI's with premature explodication.

    So, because she is denied certain spacial and mechanical knowledge by virtue of having a vagina, she zigged when she should have zagged, and I got an owie. Nice working with you, honey.

    Sigh...




       

    One Of Many Reasons...

    ...why Liberals are crazy.

    I mean it, snug your tinfoil hat down tight before you read, because the Crazy Force is strong in this one.

    I got this off a Libtard site where the owner agrees with it and bemoans it.




       

    State Of The Union...

    This pretty much covers how I feel about The President's speech last night.

    I'm still no Bush fan, and there were a lot of 'disconnect moments', but he said stuff that needed to be said.

    Now, it just needs to be done, and there's the rub...

    Update:

    Uh oh...when MSNBC supports you and thinks you are doing a good job, well...




       

    Frenzy...

    The kids love it when the wife goes into one of her periodic cleaning frenzies. I love it, too, because it is a signal that she badly needs to get laid. Whoopee!
    She calls it 'cleaning', I call it 'moving a pile of shit from one side of the house to the other', and a 'huge waste of time and general pain in the ass'.

    Tonight she will whine about the pains in her necks and shoulders, then plop herself down between me and the TV, her back to the couch, and demand a massage, which I will give, and when my hands get too tired, I will let them wander down and begin to gently maul her boobs, and then...

    Woo Hoo!

    The kids love these cleaning frenzies because the wife uncovers, from the primordial ooze, toys they haven't seen in ages. Johnny is yelling cheery messages to himself into his record-a-phone, and playing them back to himself, to his great delight.
    Have I mentioned how I like to leave cheery greetings on these devices, in the store that's selling them? Oh yes. Like 'THERE IS NO SANTA! HE'S NOT REAL!' or 'YOUR DAD DIDN'T REALLY TAKE YOUR PUPPY TO A FARM FOR A BETTER LIFE, HE KILLED IT!!!

    It's just part of my caring, giving nature. And then there's the ever popular 'Ask your Mom what a blowjob is...', or a perennial crowd favorite 'FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!'

    And why do people persist in leaving printers out with paper in them in the store, hooked up to word processors? I like to type stuff like "I have a rifle aimed at the base of your skull. Take out all of your money, and place it under this printer. Then leave the store. I am watching you. Tell no one, or you will be killed."

    Twenty-four is really not enough hours in a day to fuck with people.




       

    I Just Told Wendy...

    ...that I wouldn't let these people kiss my ass for 30%. 70%, maybe.

    What do ya'll think? Looks like a simple appeal to vanity, to me.




       

    Fuck Canada...

    In honor of my latest stalker, I dug into my archives here, and here.

    I present the second link because the link to the second link in the first link doesn't work. Ow.

    My overall impression of Canada is that there are maybe 25 of them who do not need to be killed. I shall devote my vast fortune to destroying Canada, and then I shall draw mocking cartoons about it. Fuck Africa. And have you seen that ugly butch bitch I have to wake up to every morning? It's no wonder I have developed such a split personality.

    Gosh, I hate purple. Even now, my highly paid Ninja assassins are spreading out through Canada, with orders to shoot poison darts into the necks of anyone wearing purple.

    Well, I have to go get back to work on our next handheld video game platform, the X-Box 180. It will be a combination video game player, telephone, marital aid, and hot dog steamer. We want our fans to be able to eat while they play, and we're shooting for the female market.

    I am a genius. Fear me.


    .




        Tuesday, January 23, 2007

    Wow!

    Now, full disclosure, I despise David Gregory, and would love to see him swing. Do I think he ever will? I wish, but... no. Sadly.

    Just watch how they move this pea around under various shells. And Russert is such an ass-boil.




       

    What Did The Sadist...

    ...say to the Masochist who was begging him to beat them?

    No.

    Heh. The Libtard is begging for attention, and I'll give him/her/it no more over there. It's embarrassing. And I know dang well they are lurking around, here. Jackals do that, you know.

    My Banning Finger is tingling...

    This is rich.

    And interesting...and revealing, that they should pick a cartoon cat to insult me with.


    Update:

    Okay, I just gotta share. My 'opponent' is nuts. I love it. And people wonder why I stay as anonymous as I can on the internet. I put out bait, and I caught this loon.

    Go, protect yourself with some good, stout tinfoil, and read this insanity. I suggest you not leave your IP, or any other identifying marks behind, lest you INCUR THEIR WRATH!

    I snickered. A lot. Please, read it, and tell me that it's a parody site? Please?




       

    Ladies...

    This is why you don't go to faggots for fashion advice.

    Trust me.

    That girl is just plain dead sexy. But please, no hair, or deodorant balls.

    Thanks.




       

    I'm Putting This Here...

    ...because it is a damn good read, and I want to finish it.

    Damn good.




       

    Oh, My Troopies...

    If you are in Iraq, or about to go there, or in any other Arab shithole, for that matter, you very badly need to read this, and pass it around.

    All you poor, dumb, wide-eyed Americans who have been taught all your lives you can trust someone just because they smile and wave...

    I fear for you.




       

    What Color Is Black People's Dandruff?

    These are the questions that vex me. Do they even get dandruff? And I've seen black guys in porno, and their spooge is white. What's up with that? Shouldn't it look more like Hershey's Syrup?

    Do you think Asians make a round-eye face when they orgasm? You wanna crack an Asian guy up, ask him if he knows how his peculiarly Asiatic facial features were developed. When he says no, squinch your face up in the typical stereotypical 'white person imitating an Asian' face, you know the one, eyes all squinched up and bucking your teeth out, yeah, that one, and then pump your fist over your crotch like you're jerking off.

    You outta get a kick outta that one...




       

    In Case You Missed It...

    The Dresden Files premiere is replaying on Sci-Fi tonight.




       

    For AJW308...

    This outta tickle you, buddy.

    The cell-phone baggie trick is worth the price of admission alone.


    Update:

    I think this fits here. I posted a similar one quite a while ago, so this must be another ongoing Japanese obsession. I love it.

    Could have used more fire...




       

    Breaking My Heart...

    I hate it that I have to quit listening to Rush. I have been a huge fan since he began in Sacramento, but between his giving out 24 spoilers so freely, and playing clips of Liberals speaking, and letting in Liberal callers...

    If I want to hear a Liberal regurgitate, I'll kick him or her in their vagina.

    I am tired of having to reach over and crank down the sound because he says something like "Did you see what Jack Bauer did last night with..." click. Or he plays a clip of Teddy Kennedy's manic gobbling. Click. Or some smarmy Libtard comes on and begins to lecture out of Mao's Little Red Democratic Underground Handbook.

    Click.

    Damn, Rush is good. I have learned a lot from him, in many ways, probably the most important being how to argue with a Liberal: you don't. Any more than you'd argue with your dog, or your two year old, or your couch. Pointless.

    No, you gather facts, and make bold, positive statements, and every so often go out and clean up all of the Liberal birdshit they spray all over your car. Cuz that's all they are. Birds. Pigeons, chickens, crows, vultures, every virulent strain of Liberalism has its own bird-totem.

    Well, thankfully, Season 6 of 24 is winging its way here as we speak (thanks again!) so I'll be able to catch up, and listen to Rush again when he blabs about the show, but when he plays Hillary's sneering little talking through her nose as she's looking down at us voice, that's when I gotta go.




        Monday, January 22, 2007

    Blow It Out Your Nose...

    You see it all over the web, and I've railed about it here, before:

    "Oh dude, that was so funny I blew [insert liquid here] out my nose and all over my monitor!"

    Uh, thanks for that accolade, Sparky, but do you ever hear anybody say:

    "Dude, that porn was sooo sexy, I blew a testicle out my urethra onto the monitor, where it proceeded to crawl down the screen, leaving a trail like a mashed Bing Cherry..."

    No, I submit to you, that you do not.

    And there is a reason for this. I hate to be a spoil sport, but people do not care to hear about your deviated septum that you wracked with cocaine during the 70's and/or 80's and perhaps even on into the 90's. I like to pretend my readers have basic control of all of their faculties, have progressed from the Sippy Cup (and bib) on to adult glassware, and other such appurtenances that indicate adulthood.

    Unless you're picking it, or blowing it, what happens in your nose, should stay in your nose.

    Thank you.




       

    Where NOT...

    ...to shop. Ever.


    .




       

    I'M NAKED, AND I HAVE A GUN!!!

    Pretty much a good, cheery, all-purpose greeting to holler out to someone at your door whom you have no idea who they are, and weren't expecting. Do not use this greeting if you have ordered a pizza, as it is counter-productive.

    Actually, I really was naked, and I had a gun. Though I have successfully bluffed. Funny, I didn't hear the doorbell ring a second time. I no longer (at this time!) have any neighbours who are hot enough to borrow a cup of sugar to; people who know me, know to call first, except for my ignorant-ass Dad, who I will doubtless wing one day, either accidentally, or in a fit of pique at the hour of the day, always too early, or too late.

    The police, if that is who it is, will announce themselves, first. Or right damn quick after. If not, treat them as you would any home invader.
    Dear Intruders: I answer so much as a bird thumping into one of my windows with one hand full of clips, and the other full of pistol. Sometimes I like to break things up with the shotgun or the AK. I wonder if the UPS guy ever questions why I have a bandolier of shotgun shells over one shoulder as I accept a package.

    So, come on down!


    'Heroes' Season Premiere, tonight.




       

    You May Bow And Scrape...

    My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is:
    Sir Bane the Bloody of Frome Valley
    Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title



    Swiped from here. He's 'back in the saddle'. Go, read. Enjoy.




       

    And I Thought I Could...


    ...write a run-on sentence.

    A sample:

    Groups, to parphrase Orwell, of nudists, sex-maniacs, 'Nature Cure' quacks, youthful snob-Bolsheviks, secret teetotallers with vegetarian leanings, food-cranks, pistachio shirt-wearers, professional Communists, astute young social-literary climbers, dock labourers, street hawkers, derelict people, beggars, criminals, tramps, prostitutes, Nonconformists, complete asses, literary intelligentsia, social outcasts, pickpockets, the croyant et pratiquant Socialist, fallen women, fallen animals, the thin-skinned, tear-in-the-eye, pre-war humanitarians, typical left-winger anti-imperialists, drunken fish-porters, the life and soul of cocktail parties, kissing the bums of verminous little lions, card-cheats, Beaujolais-sippers, hygiene-obsessed Utopians, Men-Like-Gods, Etruscan, Pelasgian, Aztec &, Sumerian-romancers, Marxist prigs, vegetarians with wilting beards, Bolshevik commissars (half gangster, half bullhorn), earnest ladies in sandals, shock-headed Marxists chewing polysyllables, escaped Quakers, birth-control freaks, Democrat Party backstairs-crawlers, half-baked antinomians, Pacifist Internationalists, feminist fem-phibians, free-love lizards, divorce-reformers, atheists, overweight hunger-marchers, Daily Worker-readers, high-minded Socialist slum-visitors, bare-bodied pornographers, the foaming denouncers of the bourgeoisie, reformers and 'all that dreary tribe of high-minded women and sandal-wearers and bearded fruit-juice drinkers who come flocking towards the smell of 'progress' like blueflies to a dead cat'.

    Also Republicans.

    I just handed my Pinball Crown to him. Go, read the whole thing.




       

    My Happy Place...

    There is nothing (outside of getting blowjobs and running over the homeless) I enjoy more (hardly) than baiting some Libtard on the Net somewhere, and then batting them around like a crippled mouse.

    Well, I used to love it, but I'm more like the old cat, now, that just likes to lay in the patch of sunlight and lick my penis. Oh, if only...

    I won't say where this occurring, as there is no need to send anyone to join the fray, and I respect the blogger, even though he tends to be a Liberal Dillwhip (hmmmm, new word...I like it) sometimes. Besides, he moderates comments, and I rather enjoy having the privilege of being allowed to comment there.

    These blogfights are so predictable, you could put all of the responses on numbered, color-coded 3x5 cards, or have them in a saved file so you can just cut and paste. And I have literally done just that before.

    What would we do without Liberals? Gosh, I'd like to find out. Funny, they come to your blog (if you have one, he/she/it does not, apparently) and do recon, so they can scamper back and insult you with things they 'learned' about you that they think will hurt your feelings and insult you so bad you'll cry or something.

    Oh, I have feelings, and most of them are bad. You have got to have been let way in under the shell before you can hurt me. It can and has been done, but that has (mercifully) been few and far between.

    So you go, you little anonymous commenter you. Keep admitting you can't understand a damn word I say, because, well, yer stupid... and then get so enraged that you come here and blab something that I ban you for, or worse, I'll treat you civilly, to show you how folks as what have manners do it.

    Heh. I always feel better when I let out my inner asshole.


    .




       

    How To Make Your Daughter Into A Whore...

    So, I've been drinking beer, and trying to cheer myself up. This sucks. I'm normally a pretty damn cheerful guy. Angry, but cheery about it. I don't like feeling like this. My motto is 'I don't get stressed, I give stress'. Got that one from my favorite uncle, my Dad's brother.

    I've heard that looking at tits increases endorphins and such in the male brain, and the wife's not here, so I head out onto the web. Then it hit me; I have been possessed of this idea that no matter what search term you enter, if you've got 'safe search' off in Google, you are going to get at least one picture of a woman ramming something up her ass. This has caused some interesting moments when Johnny or Nattie asks me to show them pictures of vacuums, trains, or butterflies.

    But I realized that I hadn't really applied any sort of scientific method, so I searched my black, sad brain for a total innocuous word combination, one that consisted of a woman's name, but bland. So I thought and thought, and came up with 'Mary Smith'. I mean, what could be blander than that, right?

    So I switch Google to 'Images', and type in Mary Smith, and got bored after 15 pages of searching. Just bland old ladies and fat chicks, all of them clothed, none of them doin any ass-rammin. Then I got another idea.

    I changed the first name to Trixie, and it took three pages, but whoa, we have us some ass-rammin goin on right here. And it was intermittent enough through the next few pages so that I decided that yes, indeed, Trixie is a suitable whore name.
    Then, I thought for a moment, and typed in 'Brandy Smith'. WHOA! Houston, we have whores. Boy, did we have whores.

    Parents, do NOT name your daughters Brandy. Unless you want her to be able to put herself through college as a pole-dancin choad smoker.

    I suspect names have power. I think great care should be used in the choosing thereof. Even though I have known some sweet sluts named Mary before. Here and there. But every Brandy has always fucked like a mink.

    And Madison Avenue is right there to mold your little whore for you from the very beginning, with French Maid Halloween outfits, and Bratz dolls, and such. And our schools win, too, where the older girls, already lost, use peer pressure and behavior modeling to teach the new fish the 'right way' to act with a boy.
    And who's there to tell the boys it's wrong? Heck, I fucked three teachers in high school (well, one was an aide) and bought pot from one of them. This was just at the time when the college graduates of the late 60's were replacing retiring teachers right and left. Thanks again, 60's.

    Oh well, now that I have pissed off every woman on the planet named Brandy, I feel a little better. Three beers have helped. I still feel just bad, though. When I write, my mind goes into a well-lit, orderly room, and I sit at at a white-enameled typewriter and the words come to see me, wander over to the fence, and say hello, and if I keep mixing these metaphors, one of them is going to puke.

    Even as I prepare to end this, the bright room is pulling away, growing smaller and smaller, and I realize that I am just in a big black cave... a cave of DOOM! Sorry, I'm just desperate to get my neural pathways reoriented, and to forget the black cave of despair that is always there.
    Oddest thing... just as I wrote that phrase, the screen of my new monitor went completely black for a few seconds...

    Well, back to the cave.

    At least there's beer.




       

    I Feel Bad...

    You people can keep your fancy words, like depression'... I just feel bad.

    Yesterday was a bad day. Bad things happened. I ended up, once again, with the cursor hovering over the delete button of this blog. When I finally fell asleep, I dreamed I did it, and I felt a kind of savage joy. I dunno. Still pondering.

    Slept in late this morning, because I didn't want to face the day. And no, I don't want to talk about it. I'm trying to figure out a way to shut down the comments, without deleting all of the old ones. Some of those gave me joy.

    But there is no joy in Baneville, today. I see a red door, and I want it to turn black. But no sympathy for the devil, thank you.

    This may or may not be my last post, and I could care less. Maybe I'll just take the blog offline for awhile. So, read fast.

    I dunno. 'Scuse me while I go feel bad some more.


    Update:

    Black Sunday, Blue Monday...

    Odd to find that bit just a couple of minutes after posting the above, eh?

    Update:

    Link works now. Sorry. Story of my fucking day. Life.


    .




        Sunday, January 21, 2007

    The Dresden Files...

    9pm tonight, new series on Sci-Fi.

    I have been remiss. I've meant to mention this show for weeks, and true to my procrastinary nature, I fail to mention it til the night it premieres.

    I'm really looking forward to this.


    .




       

    Game Blog...

    Whew, Saints dodged a bullet.

    If I have to watch another Subway ad, I'll kill myself.

    To be continued?

    Update:

    What's with all these Americans named Mohammad? And doesn't it piss off the Muzzies to see their Prophet getting his face mashed into the dirt? Over and over?

    Update:

    Looks like the Bears brought their A-Game. But that scoring drive by the Saints looked positively surgical. If Brees comes out with gloves on, the Bears might rue today.




       

    How Can You Drink That Crap?

    Seriously. I just flushed the toilet, and a great whoof of chlorine came up at me. I went over and turned the tap on in the sink, and there it was again. Yuck.

    I've said it before, tease me about drinking filtered, bottled water, and just shut up and go drink my piss. With a side of estrogen from all of the birth control pill piss getting flushed away. Enjoy your new man-tits and little balls. And people wonder why faggotry is becoming epidemic?

    I didn't mean to start off on an anti fag rant, here, but when I hear about boys in high school making out with each other in the hallways, and remember how long it would have taken the janitors to clean up all the blood if that had gone on in my high school...

    I mourn the loss of my country.

    Time for the Saints, ttfn...

    .




       

    Do You Swear...

    ...to tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?

    No.

    That's what I am going to say the next time I am asked that question. No.

    What?

    I said no. If it is in my best interests to lie, I'm gonna lie like a bastard. And I'll say so, and swear it on a Bible. Think they'll let me testify?

    I've been called for Jury Duty several times, and never once served. I have always said juries are made up of people too stupid to get out of Jury Duty. But no more. Next time, I'm goin. I'll lie like a rug to get in (on?) if I have to, and then I will so fuck things up, they won't know if they're coming, or going.

    And I am a firm, proud believer in (of?) Jury Nullification.

    If I think you're guilty, or I just don't like the cut of your jib, you're goin down. If I think you're innocent, you're goin home. If you're a hot chick, hey, you can pretty much kill just about anybody you want. Blow me, and get out of jail free.

    I like to keep things simple, and uncomplicated.


    .




       

    Closed For Football...

    There's plenty of stuff down there to read, so shut up. I may live-blog a game, probly not.

    The only one I care about is the Saints game. No Saints in the Super Bowl, I no watch Super Bowl, like I said. I'll tape it for the ads.

    Nat's stay-at-home from church with me this morning. Her terrible flu symptoms went away when I said, last week, but she has run a low grade fever all week, and been listless, and appetite free. Her meals have consisted mostly of cheese sticks and yogurt, and a little juice. She's asking for milk today, so that's a good sign. And I think her fever is gone.

    Oh, the wife found a good recipe for some kind of German bread utilizing the food-processed fruit cake that is just wonderful. I made her write it all down, and I'll post it later. She also made the lemon 'tea cookies' from the Better Homes And Gardens Cookbook, that are just fantastic. The only thing she changed in the recipe was to put in a pinch of kosher salt, which really bammed up the flavor. Oh, and she sprinkled a little of this 'Sugar In The Raw' sugar we use over the cookies before she baked them, and it made a lovely light glaze, barely detectable, and pleasantly crunchy.

    Well, I'm gonna go down and play Pollies and Princesses with Nat until the game comes on, so have a great Sunday.

    And thanks, Donater! You've been consistent enough, you get a frog named after you. Small donaters get a rainbow or something named after them, more gets you a frog, or a shrimp. I think we're gonna get a shrimp. Probly end up in jail with Ladyfish. That should be interesting.

    Great, now I have to go see The Hitcher. Anybody care to buy me some nerve tonic to go with it?

    .




        Saturday, January 20, 2007

    I Should, Like...

    ...put this guy in my blogroll, or something.

    I mean, I try to read him every day, and when I manage to catch him on Fox News, it's like finding a Christmas present you missed under the tree, as you're yanking it up out of the corner of the living room at the end of the couch, to go throw it to the curb.

    He and Coulter cause the same reaction: the wife or I see them on, and we leap into action, grab the controller and go set the next appearance of the show they're on to record. Oh, and Dennis Miller, too. Fox is terrible at giving advance notice for its only decent talents.

    Yeah, he kinda violates my 'multiple posters is not a blog' rule, but half of them are him, and the other half are funny as shit. And oh, yes, shit can be funny. I chased Nat all through the house with a pair of my skidmarked undies last night.

    Speaking of, I just locked a goodly portion of Nat's little Polly Pockets in one of those day of the week pill boxes. The bank gave the wife one, as a promo, and I noted her difficulty opening them (even I broke a nail, damn cheap Chink shit) so I popped them all open, and to her horror, I dumped her little bottle of Polly's into their cells, and slammed the doors shut.

    Always helpful, I screamed "They can't breathe, they can't breathe!"

    That should keep her busy for awhile, what with the extrications, and then all those little tiny funerals. Of course, likely she'll just get bored, and borrow one of Johnny's tractors and opt for a mass grave.


    Update:

    Oh my...

    They channel me.


    .




       

    Pure Bias...

    I mean, how many billions of Chinks are there in China, that they could only find the one fat mongoloid to illustrate this story?














    Breitbart, you fag, you're on probation with me, buddy.


    .




       

    HAH! I WAS RIGHT!

    You go, England.

    Now, step up, America, you fat lazy cunt. I shouldn't be able to watch my son take a dump from space, while he's on a US Military base.

    Idiots...


    .




       

    Oh, My Troopies...

    This is why you cannot relax, even on your own base.

    And once they're on base, do they have access to on-base housing? Playgrounds?

    If you think the military is not infiltrated by dirtbags, think again. Back in my day, we would have formed vigilance committees, and certain people would have had...accidents.

    Oh well, if you're happy with the guy packing your chute tweaking on acid, or an 'Italian' citizen (read, Algerian, or Lebanese, or whatever) serving you your food, hey...

    Carry on.


    .




       

    Who Knew...

    Sometimes time snaps like a fresh rubber band, and sometimes it wobbles like the elastic in an old fat woman's panties, nevertheless, it has a way of springing back at you.

    SNAP!

    And two moments, decades apart, pop you right in the eye, simultaneously.

    I mean, there I am a bit ago, pondering whacking off to a nude spread of Drew Barrymore from her Playboy spread, and then SNAP! the image of her from ET, where she was so cute and adorable and sweet, and young, and then SNAP!

    ...the image of all of the daughters I've despoiled (well, been despoiled by) of mothers whom I had formerly despoiled (well, been despoiled by) they laying there, underneath me, writhing...

    SNAP!

    I've mentioned one of these before. A guy I was in the eighth grade with, a complete and utter asshole... I beat his ass one time for being an asshole, and he considered us friends. I couldn't keep him from hanging around me. Asshole.

    So, one night, many years later, I'm manning the suicide hotline, and his daughter calls up. As a professional, I divine that she, yes, is some fucked up in the head, and no, she is not likely to die tonight, by hers or anyone else's hand, so we chat, and she turns it into a porn call, cuz she's young, and horny, and bored, and during the course of our conversation, I determined with my considerable detectorial skills that she was the daughter of my former eighth grade school chum, and that she, furthermore, wanted to come over to my house tomorrow and model swim-wear for me.

    Tell me you wouldn't tap that, and I'll call you a big fat liar, and we'll move on.

    Now, I'm 35 years old at the time, and these are the months of my discontent, the period between the time my ex filed for divorce, and when I forswore all others for my beloved and we married, and if there was a woman within a hundred miles of me I didn't stick my dick into, it was only because she could run faster than me, or had a gun.

    Women were leaving me cards under my windshield wipers. Bags of cookies. Bringing me take-out at work. Loaning me their cars, credit cards, moving me in to their house, so...

    I met Tara at the bus stop. She had no car, lived in another town some thirty miles away, and, whatever. I didn't wanna go pick her up.
    So, there she is, 5' 10" of tanned, taut, busty beauty, in tiny blue terry-cloth shorts, a white t-shirt tied up in the middle into a bow, to show a taut, hard stomach, sandaled legs that go all the way up to her ass, a body that other women would either die or pay damn good money for, beautiful, green-eyed... chocolate brown hair, and if she was a day over eighteen, I'd eat her.

    So, I did.

    First, she played dress-up, acting all coy, and demure. Insisting on privacy in the bathroom while she changed into several suits she had. I believe she also modeled, but even now I am hearing again the high-pitched whine of blood loss, as the blood leaves your brain for elsewhere...

    And yes, I'd do it all again. She saved the best suit for last, and then we... frolicked. A lot.

    When the wife finally told me she was mine, and came to me, I gave up, forsook all others, immediately. Neither of us were virgins, but I stayed celibate until the State allowed us to marry, and have been monogamous ever since, though more than one woman has taken me nearly to the brink. I was even caught by co-workers during one such event, and the possibility of losing the wife so terrified me that...

    And I have been naughty on the internet, a time or two. It is easy to forget that there are real people at the other end of the email, or the webcam, or the IM.

    A cautionary tale...

    One that should by no means inhibit any of you ladies from sending me copious quantities of pictures of you naked. Preferably outraging your nethers with power tools, or vegetables.

    No dangling jewelry. I hate that.


    .




       

    This Is...

    ...abomination.

    I wonder what would happen, if a dedicated American military person, upon being presented with the sight of several captured Iranian agents, preparatory to their release back to Iran after their capture, drew his or her pistol and walked briskly down the line of them, shooting each of them in the head.

    And then placed the hot muzzle against their own temple, and called out in a clear strong voice "Praise God, Fuck Allah, and God Bless America..." and blew their own brains out.

    And then the next week, somebody else did the same, again. And somebody else flips a frag into a cage full of fresh-captured al Queda assholes. And so on.

    Payback's a bitch...

    .




       

    The Human Stain...

    Now, I'm no expert in this field (field, get it?) but I was driving through the outskirts of Salinas, California one day, past some (fields, get it?) and the smell coming off them made me want to puke. I'd have rather smelled a three day dead deer.

    My companion informed me that it was because of the fact that they recycled human shit onto the fields for fertilizer.

    Oh.

    So, riddle me this, geniuses, why are we having outbreaks of E Coli contamination only now? I mean, this drive of mine through Salinas was twenty years or more ago. I'm fine with blaming foul Mexicans for it, but I suspect that is just Yanqui bullshit from our factory growers, trying to get American stores to buy American.

    As an aside, why isn't American produce picked by Mexicans any cheaper than Mexican produce, picked by Mexicans? Hmmmmm?

    We've been shitting on our own food since the Dawn of Agriculture. Asians tote their shit back out to the fields and work it in. So why is my bag of salad suddenly poisonous?

    We've been recycling dead animals into live animals as feed for, like, ever, so why now, Mad Cow?

    Someone's got some 'splaining to do...


    .




       

    If This Doesn't Make Your Dick Hard...

    ...and have you jamming out to the video store to BUY this movie, well then, you are just a commie pinko fag now, aren't you.

    I have loved this movie several times. I'd never heard of it, rented it by accident (thinking it was a horror movie...it was Horror Movie Night at the mental health facility where I worked) and we were all totally and blissfully blown away by it.


    .




       

    Blogworld...

    What a strange place. Huge egos. Fragile egos. Fearless writers. Tremulous, self questioning writers. Use the word 'nigger' in a written sentence, and watch the fur fly.

    I was going to write a post, and name names, and fling shit around like a monkey, but I have since thought better of it. I could give a shit about my 'traffic', and I do not care to generate faux traffic, yet I have a bone in my craw, and this is the place where I cough such up, so I am going to do what I sometimes do, and generalize, which drives some of you nuts when I do that, so feel free to fuck off and die.

    Blogworld...what a strange land, full of shifting vistas, a true rabbit hole of psychedelic proportions.

    There once was a blog, a long time ago, that took the name, quite by accident, of that I am positive, of another blog. The other blog heard of this, and attacked, and sent their minions to attack as well, and the innocent blogger lost their job, their blog, and gosh knows what else as a result of it.

    During the conflagration, a genuine Blog War, many harsh words were said, and now, I see that one of the harshest speakers is a regular commenter on the 'winning' bloggers blog. One of my oldest, long-time readers here, who hasn't commented here or emailed me in what, years? You see how the sands shift?

    It would almost be as if Wendy, or Sparrow suddenly turned on me, and took up with a blogger I despise. And despising a blogger is about as silly as really really hating Captain Kangaroo. Or Velcro. Yet we all do it.

    What a web we weave. The winning blogger, a winner by virtue of the fact that one of their minions destroyed the career of the small blogger, is close personal friends with a blogger I greatly enjoy. Two, in fact. And also with one I despise perhaps more than any other blogger who doesn't have 'Kos' in their title.

    Peripherally, all of these bloggers touch, associate, or otherwise have very few degrees of separation with other bloggers, all over the country, the world, even, some of whom I enjoy, some of whom I hate, and isn't it odd that there's no middle ground?

    Okay, I just got back from making Johnny a poached egg on toast. Didn't even notice I was gone, didja... IT'S MAGIC!

    So, I just reread the above words, and yep, I'm not changing a thing. And while I cooked for Johnny, a thought congealed in my brain like the egg on his plate, that has been bizzing around just outside my ear all morning, like some annoying insect...

    You know, when someone self-identifies as a Liberal, you can trust them. They are. Well, not 'trust' them, but I think you know what I mean.

    BUT!

    When someone self-identifies themselves as a Conservative, watch that fucker close. Walk all around them, and bring in the sniffer dogs. You can fellate Dick Cheney all day, but when I hear you are pro choice/stem cell research (Hullo, Glenn Reynolds!) or anti death penalty and that you just love all of your Liberal friends because hey, it's only politics, and the War on Drugs is just such a tragedy and, well...

    You may be something, but it ain't Conservative.

    This post is aimed primarily at you new bloggers, kinda as a cautionary tale. I've seen em come, and I've seen em go. There is a pantheon of bloggers out there who see themselves as Elder Ghods, and who can and will slap you down on a whim as you frisk up to them in your happy, frisky, tail-wagging innocence. I see myself as more of a Loki type, if anything. I don't play well with others.

    If there is one thing I try to do consistently, though, that is to encourage and foster new bloggers who are writers with talent, or at least the hint of a budding talent. There is so much dreck out there, it is wonderful to see a strong new voice finding its range. LL is one such. I already enjoy her, and she gets better every day. Sparrow came to the party with already solid, Mad Skilz. A joy to read.

    There are those out there who would attempt to discourage you from jumping in. Don't listen. Hey, you might suck. Or not. Some are slow starters, some come out with a bang. I have observed professional writers whose skills have improved, just from the daily grind of blogging. Scott Adams is a far better writer today, than he was when he first started his blog. His progress is quite literally measurable.

    Whether as an avocation, or just a hobby, a blog is a wonderful anvil to beat the sword of your mind into sharpness on. I find myself better able to form sentences and speak clearly in the real world as a result of my work here, and just this second Nat bustled in and reminded me that a blog is also a good place to learn to work through distractions and interruptions (she saw an ad for a Barbie Wedding Collection, and was quite excited) a quite useful skill for someone who writes, and also has a life.

    Well, Happy Saturday. I see no one is interested in a 'Hitcher' review. Sigh...

    Oh well, I was a little apprehensive about seeing it, anyway. You'd have to work pretty hard to top the original, and I'm not sure I'm prepared for that.

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