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::Previous::
  • Doctor Who...

  • Way...

  • I Just Saw An Ad...

  • On Obama...

  • I Have A Jug Of Pee...

  • Simply...

  • Black, And Right...

  • I Call Bullshit...

  • Some...

  • Madwomen...

  • A Bad Day For Somebody...

  • Want Some...

  • Yay!

  • Remember When...

  • Ragheads Gettin Blowed Up...

  • A Panoramic Glimpse...

  • Amazing Pic...

  • I Like Bananas, Too...

  • Dr Marten Rocks...

  • I Love My New Statcounter...

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • Now I Wanna Shoot Some Folks...

  • Sometimes...

  • I Like...

  • You Gotta See...

  • Oh Well...

  • This Is Just...

  • Deadly Clothing...

  • I Just May Be The Last Man On Earth...

  • Okay...

  • Udderly Beautiful...

  • Kids Are Weird...

  • Lest Ye Forget...

  • On Carlos Hathcock...

  • Dammit!

  • Fuck Islam...

  • Shooter... (A Review)

  • Anybody Know...

  • Thank You, James Hooker!

  • Keep Your Eyes Open...

  • Read Ye...

  • I Think He Lost A Contact...

  • Oh, You Think You're So...

  • More On A Theme...

  • My Most Embarrassing Moment...

  • This Is How It's Done, Kiddies...

  • Fucking...

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  • This Is...

  • Did You...

  • My New Arab Fuck Doll...

  • You May Not Have Noticed...

  • Okay...

  • Battlefield Of Dreams...

  • I Think I'm Turning Japanese...

  • Homie Don't Play Dat...

  • I'm Going On Record Here...

  • I Could Live...

  • 15 Minutes...

  • When Someone Calls You Opinionated...

  • If You're Not Pissed Off...

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • Another Good Reason...

  • Behind The Scenes...

  • Oh, Joy...

  • I'm Honestly Not Sure...

  • Go Ahead...Punk...

  • History Is...

  • Bleg...

  • Is This...

  • A Warning...

  • I Love This...

  • The Machinery Of Finality...

  • Whoa...

  • 300 (Redux)

  • A Little Late...

  • A Worthy Prayer Request...

  • Mental Health Day...

  • Something You Should...

  • Hot Nude Arab...

  • Sometimes, Cool Happens...

  • Why Doesn't Somebody...



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

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        Saturday, March 31, 2007

    Doctor Who...

    ...meets the Beatles.

    And a tidbit of one of the best opening song sequences in history.

    And yellow matter custard, dripping from a dead dog's eye...

    I would love to meet up with John Lennon, fresh popped back out of Hell's pustular asshole, hand him an MP5, and say "Let's get some..." throw bolts, kick the door in, and kill the livid shit out of folks as what badly need killin.

    Rake hot copper through screaming idiots who think that mercy is coming, because somehow, they, uh, deserve mercy? Why?

    Ask not for whom the ringing brass bells of smoking cartridges glittering to the floor toll...

    They toll for you.




       

    Way...

    ...cool.




       

    I Just Saw An Ad...

    ...for this.

    Is that the coolest thing, ever? Every survival pack should have one (or more) of those. That's just fantastic.

    Speaking of survival, you should go here, and participate in the survey. I did. Don't be a dumbshit, follow his rules. I'm fine with you posting your answers in the comments here (though please, do email them to him, too, like he says; he gets a far greater cross-section of people than I do, and I'd like to see some good, solid results). I won't tell you what I picked. I assume he will post what I sent him today when he's ready. I will freely mock any of your choices, and anybody who correctly guesses all of my choices, gets an autographed picture of my nuts.

    Speaking of survival yet again, does anyone know of a good internet source for inexpensive, non-corrosive 7.62x39 ammo? I'm thinking in lots of 1,000 rds. I like Wolf ammo. Is that stupid? And do you know where I can mail order cheap 30 rd mags for my Saiga 7.62x39?

    Thanks.




       

    On Obama...

    I couldn't have said it better myself.

    That's Noel, originally from that link over there 'Sharp Knife', now also group-posting at I blog I've never read, Cold Fury.

    I just scroll to his name, and enjoy. What a keen mind and wit. It's almost like having Ben Franklin back, except Noel isn't a bald-headed fruit.

    Seriously, if you want to take your flaccid mind out for a jog, read Noel's writing, wherever you can find it. He has resurrected the lost art of the Patriotic Pamphleteer.


    Update:

    Hmmmmmm...




       

    I Have A Jug Of Pee...

    Well, I had a jug of pee. By the bed. I just emptied it, and rinsed it well in the tub, and replaced it by the bed in what has now become its honored spot.

    I asked the wife if she would like to see my jug of pee before I emptied it, as it was near half a gallon of majestic amber liquid, and that's just from last night. And now we're not talking, and this sort of discussion has been put off limits ever again. I offered Nat some to rinse her paint brushes in (she's being craftish today) and now none of the women in this house are talking to me.

    Johnny, on the other hand, was quite impressed with my pee. "Good peeing, Dad!" he offered cheerily, with a 'thumbs up' to boot. Obviously a civilized and discerning sort.

    This damn pill I'm taking for my high blood pressure is also a diuretic, and I have been pissing every two hours at night, barely making it to the pot (and twice, too late) and it's exhausting. Tis a far far better thing I do, to lay out my hose, and place the nozzle into the neck of the jug, and let fly. Then cap off, and go back to Dreamland. I feel great today, plus there's, hey, pee. Cool.

    Bitch of it is, though, Gargantua can't get his head into the hole, so I have to make a seal and hold him there, and then the jug swells alarmingly from the pressure. And the second or third time, I pissed down the inside of the handle I was holding and thought I had pissed on my hand, and nearly fucking dropped the jug. Dammit. That was close. My pee stinks.

    Man, if you lost that much blood, you'd pass out.

    And there's no way I could use a conventional urinal. I would have had to have about three of them last night, or get up and empty one, which would defeat the purpose. So, we are saving gallon plastic milk jugs around Bane House. They're good for a few rinses, and then they get 'gamey', if you catch my drift.

    Well, if you'll excuse me, I have to go pee again...




       

    Simply...

    ...amazing.

    My Dad used to do stuff like this. He still makes custom staffs he carves out of shovel handles, then adds a curve of deer antler to the top for a crook. He used to fill a milk carton with plaster of paris and let it harden. Then he'd take X-Acto knives to it and carve it into amazing shapes, geometrical, with other loose shapes inside them. I remember one that was like four Doric columns, with a Greekish/Roman looking roof, with two perfect spheres inside it. He is completely ambidextrous (he'll beat your ass at a video game he's never played before... very annoying) and that, plus vision like mine, is what gave him the gift, I think.

    I remember watching him in college frustrating the crap out of little Japs and Chinks at ping pong. He would play with a paddle in each hand, and stand in the center of the table. Do not play him for money.

    I've watched him go to a blackboard, extend his arms out with a piece of chalk in each hand, and draw two different, complicated drawings and have them meet exactly in front of him. Or two identical drawings.

    You should see his painting and photography. What an eye. And because he couldn't read (a side effect of ambidexterity is often dyslexia) they thought he was retarded in school, because he couldn't learn to read. So he never finished high school. Finally, he ran into a researcher at a university he wanted to attend who recognized his problem and had new ways to train his eyes to focus together on a task like reading. He did the exercises, learned to read, and graduated with a degree.

    I still remember being little, and him trying to read me a story, and how painful is was for me to watch him try. Especially as I could read fluently since I was, like two or three years old.

    Sigh...


    Update:

    Curious, I emailed Mom. Remember, they were not quite 19 when they had me:

    You were 5...you read the newspaper within 3 weeks the month you started 1st. grade with Mrs. _________. You started school in Sept. the year you turned 5, with Mrs ________ . BUT you knew at age 3, by memory, every single word in the Mother Goose Book I gave to you by just looking at the pictures, but I think you were actually learning to read words then...

    I still have that big old book. I love it. It has every single Mother Goose rhyme, ever, and illustration in a style not seen, well, not seen for over 50 years. Beautiful stuff.




       

    Black, And Right...

    To Our Americans Serving in Iraq...

    Please, folks, distribute this as far and wide as you can. The only way the good people of America that are left are going to see things like this, is if we grassroots types spread it around on our blogs, and in our emails.

    I don't know who that guy is, but I would love to see and hear more of him, and I'd damn sure vote for him for President.

    God Bless America.




        Friday, March 30, 2007

    I Call Bullshit...

    I just read this article, and this jumped out at me:

    "Millions and millions and millions of rounds," were fired at Antietam, Potter said.

    Oh, hockey. I'm sure everybody had a very bad day there, but all you have to do is compute the basic load of Union and Rebel soldiers, and the amount of artillery, and what each Caisson could hold, and figure out pretty closely how many rounds were fired.

    'Science' sucks.




       

    Some...

    ...tough bastards.

    And some damn good news. Good to hear about Iraqi military stepping up.




       

    Madwomen...

    I was doing my reading this morning, which took me here, which led me here, and then, quite by accident (except I read him every day) I went here and found him referencing the same subject (you'll have to scroll manually to the post entitled 'Vagina Monologues' because Jeff's permalinks are fucked up somehow).

    Now, each person has some interesting points, and none of them seem terribly disparate. So I looked at it through each of their eyes, and saw where the emperor became somewhat unclothed. Vox is independently wealthy and happily married to a woman he chose as carefully as one would choose prized breeding stock. I'm not terribly familiar with Dr Helen, but I know enough to assume that she is likely very well off financially, and both she and Vox are at a place where they can comfortably disassociate themselves from the hurly burly of society.

    And yet each has one or more pools of darkness in their lives. Vox has family troubles, and Dr Helen is battling disease. I also suspect that she has other issues that drew her to the field (and its focus) she is in. I'll not dissect Jeff too much here, since he seems to be more of an amused observer of all this, but he has a near bottomless well of rage that he keeps a tight restrictor valve on (and might not, in fact, know he has such rage) and he uses his blog to let off the steam, as it were. So do I, so I can relate.

    So, I'm going to assume that you've gone and read my linked posts, come up with some sort of opinion of your own, so now I'll tell you why you are likely wrong. In a roundabout way. Be patient with me.

    Let me begin by asking you who you think would make a better Starship Captain, Spock, or Kirk? Spock, never angry, Kirk, bubbling over with rage half the time, and mad as heck at somebody the rest of the time. Who is the more effective leader? I submit to you, it is Kirk. He's the one you want on your side in a fight. Furthermore, Spock and Kirk were most definitely involved in a relationship, as close as any marriage.

    Now, don't get all gay on me, here. It was pointed out many times that Kirk's first love was the ship; substitute the ship for a job or an avocation or a career or whatever. It was also pointed out that Spock's seeming emotionlessness (is that a word? well, it is, now) handicapped him time after time, and that he, too, kept a seething rage just barely under control, and occasionally let it slip out, usually to ill effect.

    Now, in an otherwise normal man/woman relationship, it remains to be seen which person will play which role. I submit to you that men are no more or less emotional than women, and vice versa. Women just possess hormones that make them occasionally (or more often, depending upon the woman) go all pon'far on our asses.

    And much depends on the man or the woman. There is near infinite variation, but I think all of this talk about how women are different from men (and vice versa) stems from the human desire to feel unique. Special. Different. What? You mean to tell me you've never met a 'bitchy' man? Or a strong bawdy woman who you'd be proud to have at your side in a brawl?

    For every teary eyed bitchy woman you bring me, I'll go out and find a man who looks just like her. Ditto with every stereotype. And of course God and Nature built both sexes with important differences, and gave us each a ceiling, a plateau, if you will, that we cannot pass. Thus, vive le difference, but we have far more in common than out of it.

    I submit to you that any differences noted by Vox and Dr Helen are artificial, imposed social constructs. People who have been allowed or encouraged or molded by Society to behave the way they do. It is no more 'natural' for a woman to grow angry and strike a man, than it is for him to grow angry and strike her.

    As to Vox's comments on anger, and angry people, I submit to you that if you are not angry at this stupid world and the stupid humans who inhabit it with you, that you are either fundamentally defective in some way, or you have just taken a rather substantial bong hit.
    I hit the floor in the morning angry, and I pull the covers over myself at night pissed off. In between, I find the occasional oasis of peace and joy, and I'm grateful for them. But the anger's always there.

    I could no more understand why someone would look to have their anger removed, than why they would have their sexual organs cut off. It's like these fools who completely unload their guns 'for safety'. All that means is you don't trust yourself enough to be trusted with a firearm.
    Same thing with anger. I could no more imagine stifling my anger, than I could stand to have one empty magazine in my house.

    And I haven't fired a gun in a couple of years, now. Or lost my temper, other than on the internet. Have I yelled? Oh yeah. Got kids? Sooner or later, you'll yell. Got a mate? Sooner or later they'll piss you off. I've only known one couple who never fought. Ever. Or raised their voices to their kids. Ever. He was a PA, she was a nurse. She tried to start an affair with me one time. Take that for what its worth. You're gonna express your passion in one way or another, if you have any.

    And if you don't have any, I pity you. But every machine that uses steam, uses some sort of regulator, and that's the key to managing anger. The wife and I have one hard and fast rule: Never yell at each other in public. And don't go to bed on your anger. Don't hold it in, but figure out why you're really pissed before you express yourself. Okay, I guess that's three hard and fast rules.

    When I dated, I parted at the first fight. Buh-bye. Adios. I stayed married to my first wife far too long, although to my credit, we did divorce and separate a lot. After my final divorce, I told my friends I was going to hire a hitman to just come kill me in my sleep if I ever got back with her again.

    Being afraid of anger is just as silly as being afraid of love, or even (oddly) fear. FDR got one thing right when he said "The only thing we have to fear, is fear itself."

    Exactly.




       

    A Bad Day For Somebody...

    I've been meaning to blog on my son's (my youngest Marine) new car, so I guess now's as good a time as any...

    He bought a brand new Toyota Prius, with all the bells and whistles. If they offered it, he got it.
    $35,000. And since he's a newly licensed first time driver, they stuck him with a $300 a month insurance bill. Well, that's what he says, but I bet it's closer to $500.

    Good thing, too, cuz he got nailed by a drunk driver last night and totaled his car. She was twice the legal limit (drunk) and hit one of his tires so hard it burst. At least I hope, for my sons sake, that the insurance adjuster totals it. Sounds like his frame is fucked, along with a bunch of other stuff.

    He says he's okay, but the wife cautioned him that whiplash (and such) can show up a couple days later. He's pissed because his chain of command won't let him take the day off to take care of business. I figure one of two things: either his chain has a mission to complete, or one or more people in the chain hates him, or is jealous or feels threatened or something.

    So, if you could shoot some prayers and happy thoughts towards my son and his situation, I'd be grateful. I've got a feeling he's pretty discombobulated. He's only owned the car for a week.

    By the way, Strawberry Frosted Mini-Wheats are really awesome.




        Thursday, March 29, 2007

    Want Some...

    ...coffee?

    Make sure to click on 'apris' at the end.




       

    Yay!

    He's back! From the brain-dead!

    Bill! And he's blogging with Paul! It's like two, two, two mints in one!

    I am thrilled. I still remember when ole Bill, well, I can't remember what he called his blog... but, anyway, he had a feature that he called 'Suck-Watch', where he would rate your bog, and I was a new blogger, and I'll never forget that he came on to my blog and told me I didn't suck too bad.

    Heady praise, indeed. If I have one person to thank for my continuance of this silly enterprise, it would be Bill (AKA: 'Will'). He showed me that you could run out of your house naked, and masturbate on Girl Scouts and other suspicious types, and still maintain writing integrity, even as your life collapsed in a fiery, hopeless heap around you.

    I owe nearly everything about the blogger I am today, to Bill. And thence, to Paul, whom I met through Bill, who taught me precision, and the ability to maintain a coherent narrative inside the little white box the program gives us.

    I am not kidding. I am so glad both Bill and Paul have risen from the ashes. I bend the knee and touch my forelock to their talent, and I hope they stay periscope up for a while.




       

    Remember When...

    ...the wife went to the ER a while back? Possible Ectopic Pregnancy?

    Yeah, we just got the ER bill alone, and it's well north of $1,000. And we haven't got the bill from the physician yet. I'm betting they match.

    I'm asking myself, 'what would an illegal alien do?' No shit. Aside from the fact that we can't pay it, why should we, when millions don't? Are they throwing a dart at a board, populated only by white people?

    The wife spent two days filling out paperwork and gathering all of our pitiful financial information, and turned it in to the hospital some time ago. There's grants and such available, and she called today, and was told they hadn't even looked at it, and to check back in a couple of weeks.

    I'm gonna be pissed if we have to move to Mexico. Heck, I can't even afford passports. Maybe we can sneak across.

    I hear that's pretty easy.




       

    Ragheads Gettin Blowed Up...

    Always good for a laugh. As is their shooting. And the fact that they themselves provide incontrovertible truth that they use mosques as fighting positions.

    As a Commander, before I moved into a town, I'd order all those minarets blowed up. Hey, give the survivors something productive to do when we leave.




       

    A Panoramic Glimpse...

    ...into our very near future.

    And I don't think there's a damn thing we can do about it. Western Civilization seems Hell-Bent on suicide, and when a suicide jumps, they'll take you with them if you stand too close.




       

    Amazing Pic...


















    Go here for more awesome pics. Sorry, no titties.




       

    I Like Bananas, Too...





       

    Dr Marten Rocks...

    These boots rock. This is my favorite pair, if I could get them with steel toes. I also really like the Wellington's. Again, there's no point in spending that kind of money and not get steel toes.

    I also love Red Wing's. I can't tell if I like these, or these best.

    I gotta do something. I own one pair of shoes I can wear, and they are shot. I have a pair of tennies, and a pair of boots, but the boots kill my hips. Sigh.

    When I started having to pay for my own clothes, I bought the $6 tennies from the bin in the grocery store. I was that way with all my clothes. You want how much for that rag? Fu-huck you. Helloooo K-Mart.

    When I was 27, and had just graduated from Basic Training and was in AIT, the Army switched from running PT in boots, to running it in tennies. Well, none of us had tennies. We were still restricted to barracks, and in total training mode.

    So, they ran us in formation down to the PX, and had us go in by squad, and pick out tennis shoes, and they billed our pay for them. Well, by the time my squad got in, the other assholes had fucked their buddies, and picked over all of the cheap shit, so I had to take a pair of $120 New Balance running shoes. Fuck, I was pissed. That was like $300 in 2007 dollars, and was much of my pay.

    They made us sit down right there in formation and change from boots to tennies, and run all the way back up to Infantry Hill and our barracks. So, I slipped my new shoes on, and began to hover about three feet off the ground. Or at least that's how it felt. I couldn't stand still. My shoes wanted to bounce around. It hit me, 'ahhhh, so this is why people spend the big bucks...' as I bounded (in formation) like a damn gazelle to the barracks. And those shoes lasted me long after I got out of the military. It made me sad when I had to finally throw them away.

    But then I fell back into my bad old habits of buying cheap again, and now I just go in and pay $20 for the same pair of Nevados Hikers again and again, but now my arthritis is getting worse, I'm thinkin it might be time to baby myself again. And since I'm not as sprightly as I once was, buy footwear that can do a miscreant some real damage. Just stomping the arch of someone's foot really gets their attention.

    Ah well, a boy can dream...


    Update:

    This would be a sneaky-ass pair of stealth ass-kickers for a broad to wear. Play hob on a shin.




       

    I Love My New Statcounter...

    What a fun new toy. I can waste a whole half hour piddling around through it. Except I found a search string that led someone here that said something like 'which vein does the doctor use to inject the snake anti-venom into', or something like that.
    Yeesh. Could there be anything worse than needles and veins and venomous serpents, all in one sentence? I shudder.

    Dang, I didn't win the lottery again last night. That's my retirement plan. If I did win, I'd start a book company and call it 'Politically Incorrect Books'. I would print writing by people , oh, say, like me? I don't like SteveH any more, because of all the mean stupid things he said about me a while back, but you'll note that I still keep his book ad up there. Damn right. A rising tide raises all boats, and I wish him all the success in the world. My new company would print him and pimp him and other writers like him, and we'd make a friggen fortune.

    My publishing company would take no left wing, faggot bullshit, but would publish just about anything but KKK and Nazi bullshit. And if a prominent author wanted to vent their spleen under a pseudonym, well, I'd be there for them. I'd like to start a couple of Right Wing magazines, and pay well enough to attract the big-name writers, and the Goddess Ann could say faggot all she wanted.

    Larry Flynt had his 'Asshole of the Month', I would have my 'Dirty Faggot of the Month'. Superimpose the face of the latest egregiously stupid, offensive homosexual over the face of a Matthew Shepherd-like character, hanging from a fence. Rosie O'Donnell would likely be there a lot.
    Hey, why can they all say what they want, and we can't? There you go with that 'oh, because we're above all that' bullshit. They're not above it, and they're winning. And the next person who claims to know what the American people want or think is gonna get kicked in the crotch.

    The 'American People' watch American Idol. Fuck them.

    The only thing I like better than hearing a Liberal cry, is hearing some so-called 'Conservative' popinjay puff out their chest and condemn Ann Coulter (or me, for that matter) for using our God-given freedom of speech and talent to tweak the noses of the perpetually whiny little bitches of the Left. Fukkem all in the neck.

    Political Correctness can kiss my hairy white heterosexual Right Wing ass.


    Update:

    I just went and peeked at my Statcounter again, and found: my+brother+makes+me+touch+his+cock. C'mon you nasty fuckers, cut that out.




        Wednesday, March 28, 2007

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go! And worship!




       

    Now I Wanna Shoot Some Folks...

    Thanks, Skillet, for sending me this.

    You'd better stock up on what you need if this is true. Our stores only keep three days worth (or less) of goods to stock shelves with. And I guess it's time to get those gas cans out of storage and fillem up.

    I am 100% for the US truckers on this, of course, and I hope they bring the government to its knees. Of course, this period during April would be a great time for GW to declare Martial Law, which I expect he has been just itching to do, the bastard. Too bad, Georgie boy, there aren't enough military truck drivers to take up the slack (been on a freeway lately, Georgie?).
    I've seen gas station storage tanks empty in a couple of hours during a panic. I've been inside stores after a disaster and watched the shelves empty like fast-motion photography.

    And I almost pity those fucking Mexican truck drivers. It's gonna look like 'Damnation Alley' on our freeways for them, what with certain people (*ahem*) shooting tires out and such. Hey, it's simple preemptive self defense. That article I linked to was absolutely correct about Mexican truckers. Oh sure, they'll clean a few up pretty and pose them for the cameras, in front of shiny new trucks, but if the Mexican truckers roll onto America's freeways, it is gonna be a bloodbath.

    Look at all the carnage the damn beaners are already causing in mere passenger cars. Now give that fucker an 18 wheeler hauling propane tanks.

    Yeah, tell me that won't happen. Try.


    Update:

    I showed this to the wife, and she shrugged and said oh well, we just fill up the car first, and buy plenty of milk. I said, no honey, you don't understand, if this thing goes off according to plan, there will be the initial three day interruption, and then no telling how long for the trucks to get moving again, get their loads and destinations, and then drive there. And since the people who will be impacted by the strike are generally stupid, they might try to take out their anger on the truck drivers, and then we will have chaos.

    It could take a month, if ever, for things to get back to 'normal'. And don't put it beyond Bush to do something stupid to make things worse. He's all about the beaner, and screw America.

    Can ya'll hang for a month?


    Update:

    What a clusterfuck.




       

    Sometimes...

    ...it's just not worth getting out of bed in the morning. As I surf the world from my PC, I see the entire spectacle has been filmed today in Dildo-Rama, and everybody is trying to shove it up everybody else's ass.

    The wife has wanted to see 'Wild Hogs' since she first saw the previews. Me? Not so much, but she knows my tastes, and if she says go, I will. Thanks to my beautiful Patroness, and a regular monthly Patron, I had the money to give her to go, and pick up a nice slab of Special Dark chocolate on the way, to sneak in and nibble on. She used the three letters today in a sentence that strike fear into any man with sense's heart: PMS. 'Here baby, you just relax, put down that knife, and go out and have a good time'.

    The wife has another charge. Another little old lady teetering on the precipice of death. She only sits with her two hours a day. The money ain't much, but it keeps us in essentials. The wife came home telling me how this woman is starving herself to death. Won't eat. Well, we can't have that, we needs our essentials. So, I engaged the Big Brain, asked a few questions, and found out that they were foolishly trying to feed this woman 'food'. People at that age are like five year old kids. They don't want to eat their damn vegetables, either. Heck, they practically are one. It'd be like cannibalism.

    I told the wife she needs to start making this woman the wife's patented Kick-Ass Awesome Smoothies, and I could see the light go on. Well, long story short, the wife's boss contacted the family for permission, and the next day there was a new blender on the counter, and a freezer full of chocolate ice cream, the old bats favorite. The wife whipped up a chocolate-banana smoothie, and the old gals eyes lit up when she tasted it, and she has started making the transition from limpid Dachau victim waiting for the Reaper, to bright-eyed little old lady putting on weight, and taking an interest in her surroundings again.

    And she's started accepting other food, if it is stuff she confesses to liking. So she'll have a couple of fried eggs, some raisin toast, some fruit, and her shake, which is also being cut with protein powder, and the Reaper will still get her, but likely not this month.

    The Lord works...

    Hey, how bout them there British hostages? Boy oh boy is the curtain about to get thrown back on that dog and pony show. If Iran was gonna do something, they should have done it by now. Since they haven't, I can only assume that this is all a drama being put on for our distraction from something else. Something either already underway, or about to be.

    I wish I could put my finger on what it is. What it is going to be. I wonder what a really dirty bomb, say, Scud-delivered, would do to an aircraft carrier? Would they have to abandon ship? Work in protective gear? Tow it out to the Marianas Trench and scuttle it?

    I suspect something, probably several somethings are going to pop soon on our soil. That school bus full of kids in the Philippines could have been some kind of signal to sleepers, here, too. Saying 'this is what we want you guys to do', with very little muss or fuss, and not risking any communication intercepts by US Intelligence. Communication via Shadow Puppet.

    I read somewhere today that 272 people on one commercial plane came down with the same flu. What if that was done on purpose? What if the same people did it to commercial planes transporting our troops, the most common method of transport? What if it wasn't the flu this time? Smallpox?

    Well, this post is certainly going all over the road, isn't it? The kids are down watching Little House on the Prairie for the first time. Remains to be seen if it becomes a hit. I remember my teacher in third grade reading them to the class during story time. Fascinating stuff. We sat there enthralled.
    I read the books voraciously. Anybody remember the 'We Were There...' books? Like, 'We Were There At The Battle Of Gettysburg'. I loved those books. Pulled you right into historical events, and made you part of it. They were in the libraries of every school I ever attended, until maybe my last year or so of High School. Then they just disappeared. I graduated in 1973.

    Well, I haven't done it in a while. Turning on the TV first thing in the morning to see if anything is getting blowed up. I started doing that the morning of 9/12, and continued for a few years, then cut it out when it became all celebrity trial, or death, or rehab, all the time.

    Now I'm back at it. Something's coming...


    Update:

    The wife says "Go see 'Wild Hogs'!"

    She described it as a 'chick-flick that you would like'. She says the chemistry between the actors is fantastic, it is silly, campy fun, and there is a peripheral actor (from 'Scrubs') who plays a cop, who steals the show.

    So, there ya go.




       

    I Like...

    Michael Chrichton.

    He makes sense every time I read what he has to say.




        Tuesday, March 27, 2007

    You Gotta See...

    ...this. 45 minutes of pure gold.


    Via Pat Dollard.




       

    Oh Well...

    Bye, Tancredo.

    If you connect yourself with one of the Buchananazis, stick a fork in yourself, cuz yer done.

    What a stupid decision. Well, thanks for the warning, Tom. Lie down with dogs, wake up with fleas.

    Fuck off.




       

    This Is Just...

    ...monstrous. On so many levels.

    Our nations soul is rotten. Beyond repair, I think.




       

    Deadly Clothing...

    Sometime back, a lovely blonde with an utterly fantastic set of tits was decapitated by her own scarf, which got entangled in the wire wheels of her sports car, and popped her head off like a champagne cork.
    I do not know why you people wear those things, I said that to the wife early on in our relationship, and she scoffed, and I took her down in a flash from the front with her own scarf and choked her nigh on into darkness.

    She got the point.

    I asked her, now, what if I had done that from behind, you fumbling for your keys in a dark parking lot. And then I whipped her scarf off, and showed her several belt techniques where she ended up immobilized each time, tied up in her own clothing, helpless.

    The first time I borrowed a woman's shirt to wear... hey, it looked like a man's shirt, and the one I had been wearing was covered in blood... I felt retarded trying to button it up. I had no idea that clothing made for women buttons on the opposite side from what men's clothing does. I looked like a cub bear playing with his peter, and she laughed and finally explained to me that no, I did not have dain bramage, and she showed me the difference. I was dumbfounded.

    And it helped me develop several techniques to use both men and women's clothing against them. Instead of trying to lift someone up when you have your fists bunched in their shirt, try crossing those bunched handfuls and see what a sausage you've just made of them. You can pull one side hard, and spin them to where their back is to you, then work their kidneys, or take them to their knees, and knee them at the base of their skull. Uh, sometimes they die. Your mileage may vary...

    These idiots who wear ball caps backwards... that's the first thing I'd grab, from behind (the best place to attack a human from, btw) the bill of it. Yank back, expose the throat, fold your thumb under your palm and snap the straight edge of your first finger and thumb-knuckle into their throat.

    Game Over.

    I love the hair-pull takedown, but what if he's some shave-headed Mexican? Simple, let him thrust at you with whatever arm he chooses, move along it and deflect it, drop your deflecting arm down across his chest to the sternum, turn into him so his shoulders are perpendicular to his (you should both look from above like a 'T') and take your other hand, and claw it into his eye sockets and snap his head back. I like to smash my knee up into the base of his skull at this time, but, hey.
    Ideally, it should resemble a Pastor baptizing a new convert. Except a little different.

    Shoes: if you are buying shoes for fashion, you declare your victimhood. We've all seen the movies where the dumb bitch tries to run from the bad guy in heels. Well, some of the worst pain I discovered in my life was when I was in a parking lot and went to kick this asshole in the nuts with my pointy-toed cowboy boots, and the slick leather soles betrayed me, and I slammed down in a spectacular pratfall, right on my tailbone. I really thought I was gonna shit my pants.

    I could barely pull myself under a pickup truck to keep the guy from putting the boots to me, and I thank God that I had friends there fighting, too. I was damn near paralyzed.

    As soon as I could walk again (several days) I went out and bought a sweet pair of brindle colored square-toed motorcycle boots, with good-gripping, thick waffle soles. Someone would get in my face, and I'd rake the edge of one of those soles down his shin, or just snap a kick straight into the shin, and when he inevitably bent over from agony, I'd hold both my palms together at my crotch level and snap them up into his face, and when he came up straight, a good elbow into the solar plexus.

    Game over.

    I've never owned a pair of Doc Martins, but I'd love to. They look like the perfect fighting shoe. Ladies, SAS makes several perfect varieties of shoe which look elegant, yet form a stable fighting platform, and can be used to kick with, or better yet, run in. I'm not all that familiar with the martial arts world anymore, but I bet there are women pimping shoes designed for it. Chuck Norris (used to?) sell some kick-ass stretch jeans. They looked normal, but were designed for fighting.

    Purses? Yeah, put that strap right there by your neck. If I need some cash, or some pussy, I'll just flip it up over your neck from behind, and take you down like a rodeo calf. Well, not me, but I'm sure you've got lots of fever-eyed fans out there who would just love to help you out with that rape fantasy.

    Harsh words, sure, but other than that, there not a damn thing I can do to help you, any more than I expect you to help me the next time I take the garbage out in a neighborhood crawling with feral hobos. Do I slip a pistol under my shirt?

    Well, what do you think?




       

    I Just May Be The Last Man On Earth...

    ...to have seen this video.

    I despise the music, and that kind of music, with a purple passion, but I know creative and cool when I see it, and that is creative and cool at its very best.




       

    Okay...

    ...this is weird.

    Tell me, other than in crystalline structures, and structures created by living things, does the hexagon naturally occur in nature? At that scale? Twice?

    Inquiring minds...


    Update:

    A better shot, and more info.




       

    Udderly Beautiful...

    Warning: Contains some Clamation Photography...






























































    I think this next one is my fave...



























       

    Kids Are Weird...

    ...daughters are weirder. Guys, if you think women are hard (read: impossible) to understand, what makes you think you can understand an unformed one? A 'woman in progress'?

    And by 'daughters', I mean 'little girls'. My eldest daughter has gone and growed up and got herself knocked up, so she's in the 'woman' category, now. Not that I ever really understood her when she was little.

    With her, as she slid into teenagehood, I had to set up boundaries with consequences so dire that to cross them would invite disaster upon her head of near-biblical proportions. You do that with boys, and they say 'fukkit, old man, let's see what you got'. Whereas girls do not want to have their heads shaved for felonious dyeing, or have to go live in the park with the hobos because they date a guy with a padlock hanging from his scrotum.

    That last paragraph illustrates the difference between men and women right there, I think.

    As to Nat, damn but if she isn't a little freakazoid. Imagination for days, and not all of it healthy. She has characters she slips into, with clothing appropriate to them. Some of them are boys, and talk with deep voices. Danged weirdo. Right now, she has turned a card table into a house, festooned with blankets. She has conned Johnny into driving his new remote control dump truck in to her so she can 'fix' it. Translation: she gains control of it for a time, and fondles it avariciously, while pretending to 'fix' it.

    And she has developed a nasty new habit. I started it, I guess, when she was sick. She was sniffing her snot and swallowing it, and her gut was filling with it, and she'd puke it up. Nasty. I tried to get her to blow her nose, and provided her with kleenex and a sack to throw the used ones into, and yet she kept swallowing her snots.

    Well, I took it upon myself to describe in great detail the vile, vicious red-eyed snot demons that live in her boogers, and now I cannot get her to keep her spit in her mouth. And she's a lousy spitter. She feels that if she is anywhere near the sink, she is home free, and horks one out, and I come in to find a quivering banana slug dehydrating out of the reach of the water, and other peoples snot happens to be one of my issues. I have punched people for spitting nasty lungers in front of me. Farting, too, but that's another post.

    So, I have my parenting work cut out for me. She also rushes in way too often and fires up her mermaid electric toothbrush and beats the heck out of her gums just in case some of the snot demons are still lurking in there. I started to tell her how too much tooth brushing will knock all the white off of her teeth and leave nothing but ragged black bloody stumps, but her eyes began to widen with such horror that I backed off. I don't want her to develop a phobia against teeth brushing.

    Not too many people know this fact about me: my Mom, when I was real little, to ensure hand-washing during the potty training process, described germs in great detail to me. But she gave me no perspective as to the size of germs, so I envisioned them as these green, taloned witches, screaming up the pipes toward my tender young buttocks, in order to rip my little nuts off.

    So, I didn't sit on a toilet for the first several years of my life. I would stand on the seat, aiming carefully, eyeing the waters for the approach of witches, and drop my doots from height, aiming carefully. And nobody ever knew, until I went to Kindergarten, and my peers noted my technique, and mocked and shamed me accordingly.
    I still can't linger on a toilet. Read a book on it? Fuh-huck you. And a porta-potty or latrine is a special horror.

    So, trust me, I know how badly parenting can go awry, and how carefully you must choose your words. Though I think my crapobatics gave me much of the shooting accuracy I have today, still, the wrong turn of phrase at the wrong time can give you a bulimic, or a lesbian, or a lesbian bulimic. Or a kid who lives in horror at the thought of swallowing their own saliva.

    Or one who didn't learn what a toilet seat feels like against their ass for years and years...




       

    Lest Ye Forget...

    Doc In The Box and his wife are still headed for the Milblog Conference. You folks done real good so far, but there's a ways to go, so head on over as you can, and give what you can, pretty please.

    A worthy cause.




       

    On Carlos Hathcock...

    Stephen Hunter, the writer of 'Point of Impact', upon which the movie 'Shooter' is based, writes this fine eulogy of a fine Marine.




       

    Dammit!

    Fuck I am in a foul mood. I know I've blogged on this before, but I just heard that PSA with Michael Douglas again, where he is tolling a bell for all the little bastards (kids) that AIDS has killed all over the world.

    And then he'll go march for abortion rights.

    These people are insane idiots, and should only be allowed to talk when they're reading someone else's lines in a movie or TV show or play.




       

    Fuck Islam...

    I'm getting sick and tired of this shit. If some Muslim cocksucker refuses to scan my pork products, I am making a huge stink in the middle of the store, involving the manager, and heading straight to an attorney to file a Civil Rights Violation complaint against the store, the chain, and all of its Muslim staff.

    Fuck these people. They can lawyer up, I can lawyer up. Go ahead, violate my First Amendment rights you Muslim fucks, just try to censor my blog or shut me down. I know of lawyers who will sue you just as soon as look at you, and the Service provider you intimidate, and your fucking stupid-ass mosque you attend, and we'll prove that Islam is both a religious and political conglomeration, and when we win, every fucking lawyer in the country is gonna smell money in the water and come down on you harder than any Stryker Brigade ever could.

    Darn you, darn you to heck Jeff Goldstein, for writing stuff like this that gets my dander up first thing in the morning. Just the thought of these nasty fuckers washing their filthy nasty raghead feet in sinks I wash my hands in... well, just yeesh! Dammit.

    Fuck Islam, fuck Mohammad (piss be upon him) and fuck that phony moon god Allah. My God can SO kick your homosexual god's ass...




        Monday, March 26, 2007

    Shooter... (A Review)

    Are you still here? GO! SEE IT!

    I'll wait right here...

    Thanks, my lovely Patroness, for allowing me to go enjoy this film. And beers.

    In the mean time, those of you who have seen it may 'look below the fold', as they say. If you haven't seen it, I promise to ruin it for you, so...GIT!


    Still here? Okay...

    First, you must view this film through the eyes of its director, Antoine Fuqua. I first took notice of him in his wonderful film 'Training Day', and then with the even more wonderful 'Tears of the Sun', starring Bruce Willis. I said to myself, 'Hey, they are giving this guy (Fuqua) all of the cool toys to play with'.
    Big money. Big stars. Big scripts. And he consistently produces. Then he knocked my socks off again with 'King Arthur', an amazing, beautiful film.

    And when I say 'view this film through his eyes', I mean just that. Such a man with a vision I rarely get to see. Mel Gibson has it. Ridley Scott had it. Spielberg has occasional brilliant flashes of it. But Fuqua has a view of the world, the world of his film, and a unique and special ability to take you there with him, to stand behind you with his warm palms on either side of your face, point you to the thing, and the next thing, and whisper softly in your ear "See? Good..." and move on to the next thing.

    At one point in 'Shooter', a character says (and I paraphrase) "Just when you think you know what's goin on, you'll learn you didn't know nuthin..." and Fuqua proves that again and again in this film. And, as in all of his films, he shows you his own vision through the tired eyes of weary, jaded warriors, burnt out, and used up, and dangerous beyond all imagination.
    And he involves the innocent, mere victims, caught up in the maelstrom of evil mens' making, and heroes are left to correct things, and perhaps die trying.

    The gun stuff is near perfect, though I am always weirded out by a left-handed gunner. The medical stuff was incredible. Totally believable to me. Well done, and really added to the tension of the film.
    The close in hand to hand stuff was perfect, and the attack dog scene made me want to cheer out loud.

    Some of the 'whodunnit stuff' got a little out of hand. I'd have to see it again to see if they wrote themselves out of corners unfairly and, perhaps, sloppily. A few bits left me going 'huh?', but by and large, it all clicked, and was completely plausible. If you accept the fact that a man can outrun strafing bullets. I guess he was pretty fast. But, hey...

    The female characters were stunning, beautiful, believable, and strong. The bad guys were bad. I got to hate Danny Glover even more than I thought was possible. There was some 'close to over the top' anti-government chatter, but nothing (except for the 'no WMD' bullshit) I didn't agree with.

    And the final scene was just perfect. I hope to see many more sequels in this franchise.




       

    Anybody Know...

    ...if this is true?

    I love hating the Clinton's, but I want to hate them for the right reasons.

    Ditto, the Bushes.




       

    Thank You, James Hooker!

    You rock!

    Hey, I know you said 'To Nat And Johnny' for the remote control dump truck, and 'Pirates of the Carribean 2', but Nat has enough shit, so John gets the truck (or at least a semblance of control over it) and Nat and John could barely make it a third of the way through Pirates 1 before they freaked out, so the wife and I are gonna use it for a date night. I've seen it, and want to again (a lot) and she hasn't, and I know she's gonna love it.

    So thanks, and thanks, and thanks again. I am humbled by your generous gift. We are humbled. The wife says to say thanks, too, and Johnny is enraptured.

    Hey, folks, LL (Wendy) spends a shit-pile of dough on postage to send stuff to me, and to military personnel all over the world. I'd really appreciate it if you'd adopt her as a 'cause', and contribute to whatever cause she is currently pimping. She asks for nothing for herself, and works her ass off. Toni, too. When you see buttons on these gal's (and people like them) sidebars, you can be sure that 100% is going to whatever charity or cause they have chosen.

    I am lucky to have come to 'know' people like you all.

    And again, James: Thanks. I wish you could hear the squeals of delight from downstairs.




       

    Keep Your Eyes Open...

    ...for this crap.

    The Islamoslobs can't invent anything, but they sure can fuck it up.




       

    Read Ye...

    ...all of it.

    If this is not one of your daily reads, make it so. I can't think of anyone, including Michael Yon (though he's no slouch) who is disseminating better, and more accurate (and scary) information from The Muddle East today.




       

    I Think He Lost A Contact...

















    I'm betting this is every womans idea of a perfect date. Am I wrong?




       

    Oh, You Think You're So...

    ...smart.

    It looks interesting on the face of it, but I'd really want to know what kind of testing was done, and how big the sample was, where they got their data, from how many different substrates of each country's society(s).

    I mean, if you designed a fair and accurate test of IQ for a Bushman in Australia to take, that would accurately portray his IQ, I would likely fail it if I took it, because I would have no idea what all the references mean.

    Suffice to say, I'm smart as shit, and broke as heck, so so much for that myth. And I'd be surprised if Trump's IQ even breaks 100, so there's that, too.

    Oh well...




       

    More On A Theme...

    Read this. Pay special attention to the last couple of paragraphs at the end.




        Sunday, March 25, 2007

    My Most Embarrassing Moment...

    We just got back from taking the kids to the park. I have this little soft felt/leather belt-clip holster I use for my big, long-barreled pistols (and my brass knucks) and it has always worked great. I have also put my .380 and my .25 in it, and never had a problem. Because I was always sitting in a restaurant or bar or theatre, up against a seat back.

    Well, today I slipped the .25 in it at the right side of my back (under the kidney) and we went to the park. I left the big guns in the car, grabbed my book, and followed the flying kids and the wife across the grass to the playground, and took my position at a picnic table where I could see them if I wanted, and began to read.

    Then this pesty woman came and sat beside me and kept chatting me up. Now, I had been leaning forward on my elbows to read, and my pistol and holster had managed to flip up and over my belt, and were hanging out from under my loose shirt. Upside down. I was lucky the felt gripped the pistol and kept it from falling out.

    I casually tucked it back in, and wondered how many parents had called SWAT already. The good news is that I have that casual 'off-duty cop' look going for me. Ball cap, short hair, sunglasses, loose shirt, Jeans, hikers, and I didn't panic or act suspicious. On the outside.
    Truthfully, I don't even think the broad noticed, but when she asked me what I did, I said I was a retired cop, and she seemed happy about that. And proceeded to bug the shit out of me for cop stories.

    I couldn't get away from there soon enough.

    That's only happened to me twice before. Once a few years ago in a mega store parking lot, where I'd just slipped a small pistol behind my belt to go inside and cash a check. The pistol slipped down into my underwear while I was walking across the parking lot, and I stood there looking like I was shaking a turd down my pants-leg until I sheepishly pulled it out from my cuff and left in embarrassment. Yes, people were watching.

    The other time was in math class in high school, when my (stolen) 1911 .45 worked its way out of the back of my pants, hit every part of the chair on the way down, and then clunked! on the floor. I was stoned out of my skull from lunch-pot and beer, and all eyes were on me, except for the teacher, who was oblivious, writing equations on the board.
    I retrieved it, stuck it back behind my belt, and horse-whispered "BB gun..."

    The teacher had taken roll already, and was still lost in his equations, so I arranged my black trench coat with a flair, and exited class, and school, for the rest of the day.




       

    This Is How It's Done, Kiddies...

    Just like this.

    Contact LL (Wendy) or Toni or any number of contacts on their sidebars for how to do it, and who to do it to. Ferinstance, Cpl M is at the base my youngest Marine just vacated. He is a worthy cause.

    I am so damn glad, especially watching things in the Muddle East percolating the way they are, that my sons are stateside. But this war goes on, and everything you send gets used by somebody, somehow. I read a story this morning I don't know is true or not, about some Marines getting a package of Tampons by accident, and then they got hit, and lives were saved by using them as wound-pluggers. Maybe Doc can straighten me out on that one. But it sounds right, plugging a deep wound-channel with an expandable plug, inserted via a tube.

    Anyway, adopt your own damn Military, wouldja? Please?




       

    Fucking...

    ...asshole.

    It's true what they say: The military is at war. The American people are not.

    I pray, I actually pray that we get hit here, and hit hard, to wake up these flag-defecating assholes, and these Principals that won't cut a soldier on leave's family a break.

    Most Americans are pussies, and they need to get hard.

    Make it soon, Lord, I pray.




       

    Felonious...

    ...BBQ.

    This is becoming a trend, far from the first instance I've seen of this. Women do it, too.

    I bet it smells pretty good, too. Wouldn't surprise me to find out there's some surreptitious snacking going on. I mean, yeah, you're telling yourself that you are using the Bullseye BBQ Sauce so the neighbours won't notice all that burning hair and teeth smell, but after a bit, your tummy growls, and hey, maybe just a little piece of this flank steak, here...

    Me? I'll have a breast, thank you.




       

    This Is...

    ...Abomination.

    Please vote accordingly.




       

    Did You...

    ...know this?




       

    My New Arab Fuck Doll...

    I put that title there to piss off the rags. I love seeing the search phrases they look for, just so they can piss themselves off. Try it yourself. Write a title like 'Allah Sucks Pig Penis' and then write an innocuous post about mowing your lawn. See how many hits you get, and from where. Fuck those maggots.

    Anyway, as I was leaving the twilight of sleep and aborning into the muzzy warmth of wakefulness this morning, of course my thoughts turned to having sex with dolls. I mean, that's not adultery, right? Fucking a fuck-puppet? Thought so.

    And then I got to thinking, damn, those suckers are expensive, and I bet I could get them to make me one that looked like anybody I wanted. Any sex. Any age. Maybe if we got each offender a fuck-muppet to his own desire, they'd leave those kids alone, eh? And how's about getting hot looking female teachers a 16 year old rubber boy toy when they graduate from teaching school? Might cut down some on the drama. 'Course, then those poor horny teen boys wouldn't be getting hot teacher booger, but hey, they obviously can't handle it anyway, the schmucks.

    And then I got to thinking that, shit, those damn dolls are expensive. The wrong people are involved in their manufacture. We need to get a proven company, say, Hasbro, to start up a line of full-size, animatronic fuck-dolls. Make em in China (or some other shithole) to bring down the cost, and start off the line with an Anna Nicole Smith doll. My genius idea is to have the packaging include two wheels built in at the bottom of the box, and a handle in the back of it, so the consumer can just wheel it up to the cashier, and then out to his (or her) car. Smart, eh?

    Put a recharging port in her heel, and provide a cord to plug in to the wall in the bedroom, or wherever. Give her a programmable voice, so she can tell you, specifically you, what a stud you are, and talk filthy. Or, for the loons, beg you to not kill her. And what better way to teach your kids the birds and the bees? Back to packaging, leave a 'Try Me!' hole open over the breast area, so the customer can feel her lifelike melons.

    So, as I was waking up more, the true idea of genius hit me... make a young Arab boy doll, and call him Ali. Make a young Arab girl doll, and call her Aisha. Put her in a full burkha, but still leave the 'Try Me!' hole over the boob area. Is this genius, or what? All those boy-raping Mullah's would line up to buy Ali. Each doll could come with its own copy of the Koran!

    Want another wife, Achmed? Buy one! Without all the nagging, and the smelly relatives!
    I would buy Aisha and program her to scream 'Yes, slam me up the ass with your hot Crusader sword of Love!'
    If any of you go out and make this happen, you heard it here first, so I want my cut.

    And a free doll.




       

    --------------------------------------------------------------------
    25 things I have learned in 50 years (by Dave Barry)
    ---------------------------------------------------------------------
    1. The badness of a movie is directly proportional to the number of
    helicopters in it.

    2. You will never find anybody who can give you a clear and compelling
    reason why we observe daylight-saving time.

    3. People who feel the need to tell you that they have an excellent sense
    of humor are telling you that they have no sense of humor.

    4. The most valuable function performed by the federal government is
    entertainment.






    5. You should never say anything to a woman that even remotely suggests you
    think she's pregnant unless you can see an actual baby emerging from her
    at that moment.

    6. A penny saved is worthless.

    7. They can hold all the peace talks they want, but there will never be
    peace in the Middle East. Billions of years from now, when Earth is
    hurtling toward the Sun and there is nothing left alive on the planet
    except a few microorganisms, the microorganisms living in the Middle East
    will be bitter enemies.

    8. The most powerful force in the universe is gossip.

    9. The one thing that unites all human beings, regardless of age, gender,
    religion, economic status, or ethnic background, is that, deep down
    inside, we all believe that we are above-average drivers.

    10. There comes a time when you should stop expecting other people to make
    a big deal about your birthday. That time is age 11.

    11. There is a very fine line between "hobby" and "mental illness."

    12. People who want to share their religious views with you almost never
    want you to share yours with them.

    13. There apparently exists, somewhere in Los Angeles, a computer that
    generates concepts for television sitcoms. When TV executives need a
    new concept, they turn on this computer; after sorting through millions
    of possible plot premises, it spits out, "THREE QUIRKY BUT ATTRACTIVE
    YOUNG PEOPLE LIVING IN AN APARTMENT," and the executives turn this
    concept into a show. The next time they need an idea, the computer
    spits out, "SIX QUIRKY BUT ATTRACTIVE YOUNG PEOPLE LIVING IN AN
    APARTMENT." Then the next time, it spits out, "FOUR QUIRKY BUT
    ATTRACTIVE YOUNG PEOPLE LIVING IN AN APARTMENT." And so on. We need
    to locate this computer and destroy it with hammers.

    14. Nobody is normal.

    15. At least once per year, some group of scientists will become very
    excited and announce that:
    * The universe is even bigger than they thought!
    * There are even more subatomic particles than they thought!
    * Whatever they announced last year about global warming is wrong.

    16. If you had to identify, in one word, the reason why the human race has
    not achieved, and never will achieve, its full potential, that word
    would be "meetings."

    17. The main accomplishment of almost all organized protests is to annoy
    people who are not in them.

    18. The value of advertising is that it tells you the exact opposite of what
    the advertiser actually thinks. For example:
    * If the advertisement says "This is not your father's Oldsmobile," the
    advertiser is desperately concerned that this Oldsmobile, like all other
    Oldsmobiles, appeals primarily to old farts like your father.
    * If Coke and Pepsi spend billions of dollars to convince you that there
    are significant differences between these two products, both companies
    realize that Pepsi and Coke are virtually identical.
    * If the advertisement strongly suggests that Nike shoes enable athletes
    to perform amazing feats, Nike wants you to disregard the fact that shoe
    brand is unrelated to athletic ability.
    * If Budweiser runs an elaborate advertising campaign stressing the
    critical importance of a beer's "born-on" date, Budweiser knows this
    factor has virtually nothing to do with how good a beer tastes.

    19. If there really is a God who created the entire universe with all of
    its glories, and He decides to deliver a message to humanity, He will
    not use, as His messenger, a person on cable TV with a bad hairstyle.

    20. You should not confuse your career with your life.

    21. A person who is nice to you, but rude to the waiter, is not a nice person.

    22. No matter what happens, somebody will find a way to take it too seriously.

    23. When trouble arises and things look bad, there is always one individual
    who perceives a solution and is willing to take command. Very often,
    that individual is crazy.

    24. Your friends love you anyway.

    25. Nobody cares if you can't dance well. Just get up and dance.

    -- Dave Barry




        Saturday, March 24, 2007

    You May Not Have Noticed...

    ...but up there in the 'Day By Day' cartoon is a link to Oleg Volk's place, where he is hosting shots from the nude photo shoot of Samantha, festooned with guns. I thought H&K was going to do it... untold story? Whatevah.

    Go, enjoy. Chris Muir RULEZ!!!

    Can't wait for the calendar...




       

    Okay...

    Which would you rather me review, 'Shooter', or 'The Hills Have Eyes 2'?

    Personally, 'Hills 2' scares the shit out of me. 'Hills 1' was brutal, and this one looks like Wes Craven going all out at his nasty best. And I wanna see it. I think.

    'Shooter' looks just plain cool, but I have been wrong before about movies like this, and come out disgusted. Matt Damon surprised me; his spy movies kicked ass, and paid a nice homage to the books. I just found out 'Shooter' is based on a book I've never heard of, so I'm not qualified to speak to that, just if the writing and gun-stuff sucks or not.

    So, if you want my opinion, pony up. I'm broke, and I ain't gonna go in to 'Hills 2' without a snoot-full, either. What was that damn cave movie I reviewed last summer? With the chicks? Fucker scared the shit out of me. Damn what a brutal, beautiful movie.

    If you do hit the tip jar, email me and tell me which one you want me to review.

    Thanks.




       

    Battlefield Of Dreams...

    I think I've said this before, that if you could spend a night in my sleeping brain, you'd likely claw your own eyes out upon awakening.

    As the steam of dreams is wont to do, it slowly burns off as the sun rises, and fades away. But some of it wraiths stealthily off to hide in the dark, moist places, to come back later. It's not done with you yet...

    Early this morning, while still dark, I was in this huge old rotting barn of a house, its walls gleaming with phosphorescent corpse glow, and black mushrooms grew from patches of lichen and rot, and the mushrooms blew wet kisses at me as I passed, and smiled, showing broken, splayed teeth.
    The floor was rotten, and a step could send several tiles clattering in their turn, buckling up like shuffled cards, revealing rotted holes beneath them, a fall through which could lead to a drop of several stories.

    Figures, gobbets of flesh, actually, and large, began to come out of closets and armoires where they had been hiding. Twisted things, with knobbly arms growing from misshapen shoulders, tipped with claws, and suckers, and covered with warts and boils and suppurating lesions... they wanted to touch me, to taste me. To absorb me. And I sensed their touch would be fatal.

    I don't normally fear, at least not like normal people. Silly shit freaks me out, but if I spot a real monstrous thing, I'm all like 'Hey! Let's kill it!' So when I began to taste fear, real terror, I realized I was dreaming, and my mind took over. Now, when dreaming, and this happens, the hardest thing to do is to stay asleep, and in the dream. So, when I begin to become aware of myself, I quickly interact with the dream environment, to 'solidify it', as it were, so it doesn't vanish like so much smoke.
    It was then that I noticed that I was not alone in my dream. There were other dreamers in there with me.

    I have noted this phenomenon many times over the years. Dreamers, sometimes conscious astral travelers, some benign, some hostile. The demonic. The angelic. Sometimes the confused remnants of the dead. Sometimes you can interact with them, even engage them in conversation. Most often, the realization that you are real will snap them awake, and they will simply disappear... wink out, as it were. Disconcerting.

    I got the sense that the people I was seeing early this morning in my dream were friends, part of a social group, perhaps even living together communally, in a house, or a dorm. They were all young, and they had the look of the Anarchist about them. I don't think they knew they were dreaming, and I got the sense that this great haunted house I was in wasn't a simulacrum from my mind, but a creation of one or more of theirs. It felt alien to me. Hostile, even though I'm sure my own mind added a few extra touches.

    They were zipping and creeping around like rats, and I got the sense that they really didn't see me, or at least notice me. I also sensed that whatever picture they presented in the real world, what they kept inside is rotten and nasty. They presented as very feral.

    I conjured my .44 magnum, and tried to shoot one of them. The gun would not fire. Typical. Physics are weird in Dreamland. So I went up behind him, picked him up by his shoulders and smashed him into a wall, then threw him out a window. I'd like to think that some little punk, somewhere in town, woke up on the floor, tangled in his sheets, gasping and covered in sweat.

    My mind then took over the palette that had been prepared for me, and turned the whole thing into a movie set where I was the director and all the monsters actors in make-up, and I had creative meetings with set designers and laid out camera angles and rewrote scripts for the rest of the night, and a great time was had by all.




       

    I Think I'm Turning Japanese...




















    I really think so...




        Friday, March 23, 2007

    Homie Don't Play Dat...

    ...so Homette will find a way.

    Johnny does not want to play, so she waits til he begins playing with his chosen toy, then swoops in and steals it, and runs off, informing him he is now the Sheriff, and now has to chase her and 'unnerarrest' her, and she flits off with his toy, and Johnny chases her in rage, some faux, some real.

    There's times John gets in the mood to play socially, but he mostly just wants to be left alone, to his own devices. And Nat will have none of that. Alas, poor Johnny. I've tried to tell her that he doesn't want to play little girl games, so now I see bizarre iterations where they 'play babies', but she is the 'Evil Baby Kidnapper', and John is the 'Guy With The Sword Who Comes Rescue The Babies', and I have to holler to keep him from running around the house with a wobbly Tinkertoy sword(y) thing and falling and skewering himself.

    I got him some pretty good toy handcuffs, and taught him some handcuffing techniques, but he mostly just handcuffs her to the leg of her bed in their room and then goes downstairs to watch TV. She screeches for a while, then eventually calms down, and escapes.

    Good training.




       

    I'm Going On Record Here...

    ...as really really wanting this pistol in 10mm.

    Here's another view.

    I own the Colt Delta Elite, but I've heard enough wild tales of it 'shooting itself apart' that I want to save it for emergency use only. Depending upon your ammo, the 10mm can easily match .41 Magnum pressures and velocities, and I have ammo that will perform at high end .44 magnum statistics.

    The Megastar claims to be designed to handle it, and I believe it. I have loved shooting Star 9mm's and .45 1911 clones. Not frilly, but beautifully solid guns, and cheap as heck, too. I'd rather have that 10mm Megastar than an H&K or Walther. I have found S&W autos to be clumsy junk. Wouldn't own one.

    Check out the ammo comparison photo in the first link, if you are not familiar with ammunition in general. They put the 10mm to the left of the .45 cartridge, as if to imply inferiority, but note how tall the actual cartridge is compared to the .45. This means they can pack it with far more powder, and more powder means much higher velocity. And the Megastar holds 14+1, which is a lot of friends to have with you in a fight.

    Of course, men and women alike will be equal to or superior to anyone if equipped with this; I realize that it is not realistic for everyone to carry a big pistol like the Megastar, so I present this very viable and powerful option that anyone can slip into a purse or pocket, and loaded with hollowpoints, will put an attacker down effectively, and the ammo is cheap enough to allow you to practice and become proficient with it.




       

    I Could Live...

    ...like this.

    Near the end of the article it gets sad, though. Leave it to the 'modern' world to screw up a beautiful thing.




        Thursday, March 22, 2007

    15 Minutes...

    ...you need to spend.


    Via Mike The Marine...




       

    When Someone Calls You Opinionated...

    ...more often than not, it means you hold one or more opinions, at the very least, they disagree with.

    For instance, I strongly suspect that John Edwards is just as happy as OJ to have a dead ex-wife, and I could give a shit, either. If I thought he was the kind of person to find his wife's imminent demise bothersome, I would actively cheer, as he is my enemy, and anything that weakens an enemy is a good thing. As it is, he will milk this passion play for everything he can get out of it, and wrap it around himself, as needed, like Kevlar sackcloth.

    The prick.

    You see it all over today, otherwise sane people wishing a piece of shit like Edwards well, like somehow he suspended being a piece of shit because his wife has a rotten boob. What? You just flinch? Wuss.

    I hate it when the opposing team's star quarterback gets hauled off in an ambulance, his arms flopping limply over the side of the stretcher, and his opponents all huddle together and cry and pray. They'd best be thanking whoever for taking that motherfucker out, since they were getting their asses whipped.

    This is why we will lose to the Islamofilth, too, because instead of spreading nerve gas over their refugee camps full of future terrorist breeders, and little toddling future terrorists, we are dropping them food. Great idea, there. They rape and execute our prisoners, we let theirs go to fight again... who's the dumbass in this equation?

    Ohhhhhh, riiiiight, we're 'better than them'. Then why is our guy dead, and theirs is alive? I don't think I want to be 'better', if that's the new definition.

    And that's my opinion.


    Update:

    And here's another, oddly similar opinion.

    Well played...




       

    If You're Not Pissed Off...

    ...by this, then you just need to be pissed on.

    This is wrong on so many levels, that I had to look away lest something burst in my brain.




       

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!




       

    Another Good Reason...

    ...to never, ever go in the fucking ocean for any damn reason whatsoever.




       

    Behind The Scenes...

    The true story of the 300 Spartans. Pretty much supports the movie version, I think.




       

    Oh, Joy...

    Via the V-Man, I am presented with this little gem first thing this morning.

    Now right up front, I am all for our presence there. I think it's a good thing we went in and did what we did. I also think that the Taliban will massacre our forces to the last man this Spring Offensive unless those carriers of ours massed over there have a plan for continuous CAS.

    We better have a fully replenished supply of Daisy-Cutters ready, too, and I do not know why we are either not defoliating those poppy fields with extreme prejudice, or buying all of the opium ourselves and destroying it.

    I am afraid there is a good chance of a real military defeat for the US here, if we are not very, very careful. This has all the makings of another Khe Sanh.


    Update:

    CAS= 'Close Air Support'.




        Wednesday, March 21, 2007

    I'm Honestly Not Sure...

    ...how I feel about this.

    Yes, I understand 'norms' and all that, but most of the world today, I would venture, has sex in front of their kids. My Viking ancestors lived long winters in Longhouses. You bet kids saw (and heard) Mom and Dad getting it on. Teepees? Ditto. We truly are the most sexually repressed society in the world, I think, and I rebel against it all the time. Well, most repressed, except for maybe England, Ireland and Scotland, though they're mostly just boy, sister, and sheep fuckers.

    Now, I believe in maintaining our norms, even in our repressed society, because my kids have to live in it, and I don't want them to stand out, and be targets of ridicule. I saw plenty of poor, fucked up in their heads kids, raised by hippies in the 60's and 70's. No thanks.

    I put up a picture of a beautiful naked woman on this blog, and I send a whole host of backwards-ass Puritans into cranio-anal preclampsyia, and they run around screeching to Jesus, forgetting that He and His Dad designed the prototype, and arrayed Woman in all of her Glory for we men. And us, for them.

    Still, I'm confused on the whole issue. I suspect King James and his Castrati scribes changed more than a few jots and tittles, and added a bunch of bogus bullshit on their own. Lies by addition, and lies by omission. Due to the societal norms I am familiar with, the wife and I keep our sex life as private as we can from the kids. But, I'm pretty sure we've been caught out a few times. Time will tell.

    The kids have been to farms. They know where the pee-pees go. My first experience with sex was horrible. I was 9 or so, and my little dog got his cock all knotted up inside another dog, and I had no idea what was going on, and this insane, Good Christian Woman came along for the express purpose of freaking the fuck out, so she could freak me even the further fuck out, try to force the dogs apart (cue animalistic screaming and howling to Jesus) and making a normal situation absolutely horrible for me.

    Well, there's work to be done on this, and minds to be changed, if not outright cracked open. There's a Pandora's Box metaphor to be found in there somewhere, too.

    In the end, there's a fine line between the realm of parenting, and the needs of a society. There's Sodom on one extreme, and the Taliban on the other.

    It's finding the middle ground, the right path, that's a bitch.


    Update:

    Funny I should run across this just after posting the above.


    Update:

    Eddie got it. Key phrase: "I re-read the post..." I put it all in there. The rest of you are thinking about your reaction, and what you want to say, rather than what I said, and offering 'what-if's' and other irrelevant red herrings.

    An emailer suggested that rather than being repressed, that we are obsessed with sex. Obsession is a hallmark of repression. A dead-on sign that a society is unhealthily repressed. So rather than a natural function being celebrated and treated as a norm, it is perverted, twisted, and made nasty.

    I submit to you that you could not sell pornography in a sexually healthy society, and prostitution would be limited to the crippled and ugly for customers.




       

    Go Ahead...Punk...

    ...waste my day...



    .

    Labels:





       

    History Is...

    ...cool.




       

    Bleg...

    Hey, I can't remember where I posted that video of chicks whacking off, and I wanted to, uh, research it again. Anybody remember where I did it? Not the Christmas 'Oh Come All Ye Faithful' one. The really hot one. For research purposes.

    Also, we just found a bill that came out of left field, so if you have a check written out to PETA or something, cancel it and give me the money instead, okay? I'll run a stray dog over for you.

    Thanks...




        Tuesday, March 20, 2007

    Is This...

    ...quackery? Or what?

    I can substantiate a few claims from my own life, but what do you all think?




       

    A Warning...

    ...to all Americans, especially Americans in the military, and most especially their families, because these Islamists are psychotic cowards.

    I have a daughter, with a child in her belly... do you think for a moment these animals would not cut it out of her, and make her husband, a leader of military men, a casualty of grief?

    Or would they not take my oldest Marine's wife off somewhere and rape and torture her for a couple of weeks?

    They've done it before.

    Beware, and arm yourselves. Your government will not protect you.

    If you are worried about being paranoid, you have already lost. Go, to rotten.com, and listen again to the screams of Nick Berg.

    It is music to their ears.




       

    I Love This...

    ...kind of erotica.

    I grew up on the parodies of it in Playboy and National Lampoon. One of my greatest regrets is throwing away my entire (well, nearly all of it) collection of the National Lampoon. I had all or most of their special production compilations, too.

    Great, I just depressed myself. I've seen no better work before or since.




       

    The Machinery Of Finality...

    The first time I held a gun in my hands, I didn't think one single thought about sporting purposes, or any of the other nonsense that gun lovers spout to try to make themselves less scary to the GFW's (Gun Fearing Wussies).
    Nope, the first thought in my head was along the lines of 'hey, I can kill someone or something bigger than me with this'.

    It made me equal, in a flash of insight, and more than pretty words or good intentions could ever hope to do. I don't own guns for hunting or sporting use, I have them to kill you with, should you require killing.

    I have hunted, but I found it to be boring and messy. Any target shooting I ever did was to become a better, more efficient killer. I didn't need any fancy targets, just a black spot the size of a nickel in the center of a paper plate. Keep shooting until all the bullets go through the same hole, and everything else becomes irrelevant.

    You are likely not my equal, but without a gun, you cannot even compete. I despise all this fluff the NRA and other gun groups blow around about the 'sport', and the so-called wholesome nature of firearms. Bah. Set up a course called 'How to shoot your rapist dead' and see how many women sign up for it. Standing room only, I bet. Get them used to pulling the trigger on another human by starting off with paintball guns and live male volunteers.

    I haven't taken a walk on the beach, or in the woods, or driven in a car unarmed since I was a kid. A little kid. I have used deadly force several times in self defense, on animals and human animals. I have seen human predators sizing me up, sensing that I'm armed, and moving away. Singly, and in groups.

    Nobody's immortal, or invincible. I've deliberately secured my weapon and walked into fights I knew were going to happen. Got my ass whipped a few times. I'll rely on a knife for back-up when alcohol is involved, at a party, or in a bar. Just because some guy is acting the fool, last I checked, there's no death penalty for that. But I'll poke a hole in you or cut something off in a heartbeat if you put your hands on me. Collapse someone's lung and it pretty much stops the festivities right there. Most dangerous guy I ever knew was a legally blind black man who carried a Swiss Army Knife with the biggest blade only 3". And it was sharper than any scalpel you'll ever see.

    Do I care if you hunt or target shoot? Why would I? Do what you want, just don't lie to me or yourself about it. I get real tired of that bullshit saying that 'no gun ever got up off the table and hurt anybody by itself'. It's bullshit. You know it, I know it, fess up, and we can be friends.

    A bowl of fruit on a table has the potential for a meal or a snack. A hammer? Well, could be some picture hanging potential, or maybe even a good thwap upside someone's head if they act the fool. A loaded .45? Well, watch people in a pool when someone throws in a trout. Now, throw in a 6 foot Bull Shark. See?

    It's all about the potential, people.




        Monday, March 19, 2007

    Whoa...





       

    300 (Redux)

    Woops!

    I realized, about ten minutes into 300 this afternoon, that I had not seen it before.

    Dopey me!

    Well, at least the first 30 or 40 minutes of it. The perils of the multiplex theatre, compounded by the idiot dolt nose-pickers they hire to wear their monkey-suits and point to where you, a paying customer, should go.

    So, anyway! I saw the whole thing today, for the first time. Made a whole lot more sense. I walked in last time (first time) at the villagers hanging in the tree scene. And in a completely unrelated aside, I'd like to think that that smarmy asshole Spartan traitor raped Leonidas's wife (the queen) up the ass in that scene. It didn't make sense that she'd put up with that shit in the slightest... it violated her character as presented, so I hope she needs some Tux and Preparation H for her troubles.

    Leonidas should have whacked that hunchback for wearing the uniform in the first place. Don't make an unrelenting character, and then try to metrosexualize him. Same thing with Leonidas's kid. What's with all that huggy bullshit? Stay consistent. And that whole beheading of the Captain's son scene? Bullshit. If you can't hear a charging horse behind you because your Daddy gave you a Warm Fuzzy... well, don't come whining to me when a bunch of Iranian queers use your skull for a spittoon.

    And FUCK! Warner Bros for not looking at the dailies, seeing what a masterpiece they had on their hands, and pumping tons more money into CGI so we could have seen more elephant/rhino action. Losers.

    Well, at least the queen knifed that cocksucker good and proper. That was sweet.

    I really really really hope to see more movies like this in the future.




       

    A Little Late...

    ...for St Patrick's Day *spits on all things Irish* but well worth the wait.

    I wish I was that creative...




       

    A Worthy Prayer Request...

    SteveH started it, and I think it is a worthy idea, as I think Ms Seipp is a worthy woman, and a blogger of note.

    Let's all ask God to let us keep her, okay?

    His Will be done...


    Update:

    Ooops, I just went to her site, and it sounds like she's fucked. Dammit. Oh well, I've enjoyed her for a few years now, here's hoping she gets to hang with God, and wait for the rest of us.

    Of course, a miracle would be cool, too. Hint hint, Lord...




       

    Mental Health Day...

    You ever just feel 'fucked up'? I mean, something you can't quite put your finger on, but you can describe it easily as 'fucked up'?
    As opposed to 'fucked up bad', which is an entirely different thing. If you're 'fucked up bad' you know exactly what and/or who did it.

    Nope, my planets are just misaligned, my feng is out of shui, my karma ran over my dogma, and my shit is weak.

    In short, I am botherated and befuddled, and I don't know why. Back when I had a real job and real health insurance and a real doctor, the first time I went to him, he asked me the routine sorts of patient history questions, and, upon hearing the story of my life, he made assumptions and promptly prescribed psych medication for me. I mean, no one could have gone through and be going through what I was going through and not be nuts, right?

    So I fired his ass and got another doctor that correctly diagnosed me as having high blood pressure and gave me the correct pills for it. Still, I took the psyche meds for awhile out of curiosity. It was pretty interesting. Paxil and Welbutrin. Believe me, it is not a good idea to give a Sociopath medication to make him not care. Just trust me. Plus, I described them as 'stupid in a pill'. It gave me some insight into what it must be like to walk around with your IQ, without the actual head injury.

    I took Valium for awhile after my fiance got killed. I love that stuff. Too bad you get addicted to it and it makes you psychotic. I didn't take it on any regular schedule, just when I got curious as to what my brains would look like splattered on the ceiling. The doc just gave me a big-ass bottle of it, and I took it off and on over the course of about a year, until the bottle was empty.

    But today, the clouds are low, and I can feel the pressure in my ears. The air is misty, and the kids are just a little extra whiny, and the thought just popped into my head that maybe punching an infant in the face would make me feel better, so yeah, I'm a bit twisted today. More twisted than usual, anyway.

    Maybe I'll go see 300 again. Yeah, that's the ticket.




        Sunday, March 18, 2007

    Something You Should...

    ...buy.




       

    Hot Nude Arab...

    ...chicks.

    Well, maybe not so hot. Most of these make me glad for the burkha. You'll have to look for the 'Arab Nude' link and click on it.




       

    Sometimes, Cool Happens...

    This guy came rambling through my comments early this morning. He probably found this blog through Googling himself, and finding that one of you bought me one of his books. He's got a series of Sci-Fi novels that are set here in my home town, in a dark(ish) near-future where modernity has regressed. I'm a little embarrassed that I haven't read it yet. It's sitting in the pile on the table by my bed.

    Well, this is day two of me being a Grandfather. I suspect it's like in the movie 'Invasion Of The Body Snatchers', where they bring the new one in, and the old one deteriorates and wastes away, and the new one takes their place.

    The first thing that popped into my mind yesterday at lunch, when they made their announcement, was that Bible verse about 'woe be unto them that are suckling child when the end comes', or something like that. I think the end is pretty damn nigh, and it's gonna suck to be pregnant, or hauling an infant around.

    Of course, it's gonna suck to be a geezer who can't walk very far, either, and be burdened with little ones. Oh well, I've got a 'No Refugee' policy, anyway. I actually hope that Global Warming is real, cuz it would suck to endure an Apocalypse in the cold, cold winter.




        Saturday, March 17, 2007

    Why Doesn't Somebody...

    ...find out where this asshole lives and go shoot him in the face?

    It really is them or us, you know. And 'Law Enforcement' is obviously not going to protect us.

    It has become the time of the Vigilante...


    Update:

    And on a semi-related note, thank you, Courts, for letting the inmates run the asylum.