Hmmmm...

Quiz results:

The Rogers Indicator of Multiple Intelligences You scored as a Visual/Spatial You probably feel at home with the visual arts, maps, charts, and diagrams. You tend to think in images and pictures. You learn best by looking at pictures and slides, watching videos or movies, and visualizing. People like you include sculptors, painters, surgeons and engineers. Visual/Spatial 96% Verbal/Linguistic 93% Bodily/Kinesthetic 86% Intrapersonal 79% Musical/Rhythmic 68% Interpersonal 68% Logical/Mathematical 39%

Via Chromed Curses.

The Goddess Speaks!

Go, and worship!

No Country For Old Men...

Go, see this movie. Even the title rings my bell. I can't hardly tell you anything without it being a spoiler, just know ye that it is a Coen Bros. project, Tommy Lee Jones and Josh Brolin are great in it, and I jumped out of my skin at least twice. And it is not a horror movie. Per se.

And it has more twists and turns than a snakes asshole, so just sit back and enjoy it for the pure enjoyment of expert acting and film-making.

You'll thank me...

Of A Tuesday Afternoon, And Such...

Johnny wants hamburgers for his birthday meal. Probably for the best, though I did make an effort to talk him into baked mac & cheese. I plugged up the toilet badly the last two times we had that. Once for nearly three days.

So, the wife and kids went to Costco to stock up on dead ground cow, and Nat got into some trouble involving an exercise treadmill, and her refusal to get off, so she is napping as we speak, looking like a deflated balloon there, in the bed, clutching her stuffed rabbit, and looking about six months old, her little lips all relaxed and looking fit to take to the breast.

Johnny put on his apron, washed his hands, and is helping the wife form patties for the freezer, until such a time.

These gray, cold days are murderous to my psyche. Or perhaps my psyche is just murderous. Weather extremis at either end of the thermometer can cause homicidal ideation. Africa is not the safest place in the world, and in Alaska, sometimes people act out with axes and such.
Here in Oregon, this time of year, suicide gets contemplated, or perhaps the felonious slitting of some miscreant who wears a coat you don't like, or who doesn't park straight.

I see an old man, shuffling along, looking like a ruffled bird on an ice covered branch, and I wonder. I sniff a little, and I can smell the gunpowder, and the dust from bullets chewing up stone, as he empties the entire magazine of his BAR into a window he thought he saw flashes coming from, and a Panther tank busts through a wall down the street, turns its turret and he dives frantically through a shattered doorway as the earth cracks and God speaks with a mighty roar, and to his stupefied eyes, he sees the legs of his best friend take several steps past the doorway, before they collapse in a heap, and he wonders where the extra ammo for his BAR is that his best friend in the world was carrying, and feels a wave of shame burn over him for the thought...

Yes, these sorts of days can be a burden...

Have Some Sympathy...

...for The Devil.

It really is his turf, you know.

Funny...

This is an actual letter from an Austin woman sent to American company
Proctor and Gamble regarding their feminine products. She really gets
rolling after the first paragraph.
PC Magazine's 2007 editors' choice for best webmail-award-winning letter

Dear Mr. Thatcher,

I have been a loyal user of your 'Always' maxi pads for over 20 years
and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the Leak Guard
Core or Dri-Weave absorbency, I'd probably never go horseback riding
or salsa dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down
the beach in tight, white shorts.

But my favorite feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings.
Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it
is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can't tell you how safe and secure
I feel each month knowing there's a little F-16 in my pants.

Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? Ever suffered
from 'the curse'? I'm guessing you haven't. Well, my time of the month
is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces
violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my
body will adjust and I'll be transformed into what my husband likes to
call 'an inbred hillbilly with knife skills.' Isn't the human body
amazing?

As Brand Manager in the Feminine-Hygiene Division, you've no doubt
seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your
customers monthly visits from 'Aunt Flo'. Therefore, you must know
about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our
intense mood swings, crying, jags, and out-of-control behavior. You
surely realize it's a tough time for most women. In fact, only last
week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her
boyfriend's testicles into a George Foreman Grill just because he told
her he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by drunken chimps.
Crazy!

The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that Americas just
crawling with homicidal maniacs in Capri pants... Which brings me to
the reason for my letter.

Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to
reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always
maxi-pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these
words: 'Have a Happy Period.'

Are you fu**ing kidding me? What I mean is, does any part of your tiny
middle-manager brain really think happiness - actual smiling, laughing
happiness is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything
mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable? Well, did it, James?

FYI, unless you're some kind of sick S&M freak girl, there will never
be anything 'happy' about a day in which you have to jack yourself up
on Motrin and Kahlua and lock yourself in your house just so you don't
march down to the local Walgreen's armed with a hunting rifle and a
sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory.

For the love of God, pull your head out, man! If you just have to slap
a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say
something that's actually pertinent, like 'Put down the Hammer' or
'Vehicular Manslaughter is Wrong', or are you just picking on us?

Sir, please inform your Accounting Department that, effective
immediately, there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits, for I have
chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will
certainly miss your Flex-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your
brand of condescending bull sh*t. And that's a promise I will keep.
Always.

Best,
Wendi *******
Austin , TX

Ron Paul...

Goobery looking retard, or big fat traitorous idiot?

Father Forgive Me...

It has been three days since the last time I blogged. And I just passed most of a pumpkin pie.

The air outside is white, and colder'n a witches clit. Were Civilization to fail, and catch you unawares, you would die in short order.

Well, Thanksgiving is passed, thank God, now the threat of Christmas looms large, as well as Johnny's birthday. I won't be able to threaten to cancel either one soon. The kids are SO naive.

Dammit, I don't feel good, and I am bored to tears. I hate this time of year, always have.

New Blog, Long Time Blogger...

This little darlin can come up with surprises. It has been fun watching her grow up. Normally, I avoid 'diary blogs', because I don't care all that much about anyone's life.

But Dear Manda, were I single, and had my old stamina back, I would take on as a project, much as you might tame a wild horse so's you can ride it.

Still, I suspect I'd get thrown a time or two...

Aaaahhh...

Is there anything better than the smell of homemade dinner rolls cooking? I think not. Unless you are sniffing your finger after diddling the milk maid.

When dinner cometh, I believe that I will have rolls, sour cream, and Mrs Renfro's jalapeños (relatively mild) with that spiral ham...might throw some dark meat turkey into the mix. Heavenly.

So, how's your day going? Are you surrounded with dead bodies, as the chain saw slowly vibrates in a lazy circle on the dining room table? Are you in a Tryptophan haze? Or getting so drunk that it hides the intention you have to murder that pesky relative you've hated for years, who is only alive because you're too pretty for prison...

Jeez, if we all went out and sodomized just one indian to death...

A boy can dream, can't he?

The Goddess Speaks!

Go, and worship!

I Warned You...

Entry was easy, almost too easy. A few slices and jabs, and hold them while they choke out ocher, and then set them down carefully to avoid noise. Finally, he was alone with his wife, her lover, and four of his personal guard, professionals, not the scabs he had carved up while they jerked against him.

The up side to Ecstasy is a heightened sense of awareness, and an uncanny control...the downside is the powerful erection pressing against his pants from holding men while they twitched and died...

He slipped his two Hawes .44's from his pants, one in each hand, and felt some shame that the smooth rosewood handles made his manhood rage all the harder...

There was a brief burst of thunder, and fire, and bodies hit the floor. Her lover shamed himself at the last moment, begging, and soiling himself with an earthy, barnyard stench, and then his brain flopped out and against the wall like a thrown bowl of strawberry oatmeal and...

She lay there, terror personified, as he punched out the empties and reloaded. The barrels had cooled enough by then he could slide them back into his waistband. "What did I tell you, way back when?" he asked, and he knew it was just for him, because she was too far gone into terror and horror, her primal gut screaming down deep that here, here there be monsters.

She was speckled with the blood of others, and her eyes widened as he brought out one of his knives. She made as if to turn away when he moved towards her lover with it, so he cracked her a good one on a part of her skull that would keep her conscious.

"I said, back then, that I would never kill you, but that I would make you eat his dick, whoever the poor bastard was...so now..." and his blade made a silvery snipping sound as it did its dark deed, and then...

"...take ye...and eat..."

Screw You...Move...

I have been hearing people on the radio and the blogs whining about how tough travel is this time of year. Fuck ya'll. You couldn't get me to travel at this time of year for love nor money. Where's the rule that says you have to pack yourself into a tube full of fellow meat and risk life and limb, and then get back home with a new virus and spread it all over your town?

I wanna see all the 'oh shit!' looks on the faces of people in a flying meat tube when Al Queda blows a wing off with a ground to air missile. 'Hey, maybe we still are at war...' cue screaming sounds.

And who needs missiles, when Mother Nature is perfectly happy icing up the wings of your plane herself? That bitch nearly got me in Denver Colorado, one stormy December night. Fortunately, even the pilot freaked out, and I stayed for free in a hotel for a few days. Comped by TWA.

I joined the military just to get away from Oklahoma winters, as that was my only option at the time. So I know it can be done. I will choose to not live in a place where you will die if the normal accouterments of civilization fail. Nor will I travel through such.

Join me, won't you, in celebrating how we fucked over the indians? Thanks for the land, indians...shoulda fought harder. If ever there was an illustration of the superiority of the white race over aboriginal peoples, this was it. Even when some of the white tribes turned against other white tribes, and tried like heck to bring the indians up to speed to help them conquer the white tribes, they couldn't do it, and ended up doing the Ghost Dance until white men got bored with it and shot them.

As a student of history, especially of the Westward Expansion (which fascinates me...it is a model that anyone would be wise to follow should they desire the low-impact conquering of a country) I find it fascinating to see how many opportunities the Red Man had to repulse and destroy the invading white tribes. And they blew it, every time.

I'm gonna close here by destroying one myth, which is that we got corn from the indians. The Pilgrims found the stash of indian corn, dug it up, and over the decades the white man took the tiny little gnarled ears of 'indian corn', and bred and recrossed the strains until we now have the big yellow ears of corn that give us so much bounty today. Everything the white man touched, ended up improved.

So, for this week, I give thanks that the indians were so lame. If the Apaches, and the tremendous indian cavalrymen from the plains had set aside their differences...if the great indian nations of the eastern United States had paid attention and been capable of learning, this would be an indian nation, now.

Thankfully, they were, indeed, like savage children. So they failed.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Hmmmm...

I don't know anything about these books. Is Vimes cool? Or a dork?

Which Discworld Character are you like:

You scored as a Commander Samuel Vimes

You are Samuel Vimes, Captain of Ankh-Morporks city Watch. You are a knight, married to the very wealthy, noble lady Sybil Ramkin. You often walk the streets at night, and are able to tell where you are by the feel of the cobbles under your boots. You always do what is right that is, what needs to be done to keep the city safe, even when it seems bad.

Commander Samuel Vimes 100% Greebo 94% The Librarian 94% Lord Havelock Vetinari 88% Rincewind 88% Cohen The Barbarian 81% Death 63% Gytha (Nanny) Ogg 63% Esmerelda (Granny) Weatherwax 56% Carrot Ironfounderson 50%

Via this guy, who I also know nothing about.

Oh My...

My Muse...

...is prowling about its cage like a beast, looking for something or someone to tear a new asshole out of.
I been busy, and have felt bad (arthritis) and I have been neglecting my typing lessons. I cry your pardon.

Nat had a wonderful birthday, and the baked mac & cheese I supped upon clogged the upstairs toilet this morning during recycling. I'm a brick layer. I had felt bloated, so I chugged some apple juice, natural, with pulp, and gave birth ten minutes later. You know those blue frozen chunks that fall from the sky? Those are mine. Even now, some scientist is chipping away at one of my assteroids, thinking it extraterrestrial.

So, we're having a spiral ham for Thanksgiving. And the best parts of the turkey, packaged neatly. Much easier to cook, and faster, too. I whined for a coconut cream pie and got it, as well as an apple pie, and the wife is determined to make a few pumpkin pies.
I may only eat pie. And maybe a ham sandwich. And my sister's awesome stuffing. I could eat stuffing all by itself.

It took all day today to unclog my loaf from the commode.

Have I mentioned how tired I am after 50 years of 'traditional' meals? I'm hoping for pizza for Christmas. It's what Jesus would eat. Like a big communion wafer, with olives and deli meat. Though I don't imagine that Christ takes Communion. Communion just has to be symbolic, or one Sunday a month would be a real bitch for Jesus..."Body of Christ..." OW! Sonafabitch!

God has to have a sense of humor. After all...

...He made me.

Nat's Birthday Is Imminent...

...so of course, I told her it was canceled. Christmas, too. Rather than weep, she glared at me, and I feared that I may be getting cudgeled soon. Good. Toughen her up.

Little bitch still believes in Santa, so she wins every argument about so and so toy being too expensive by simply huffing and saying "well fine...I'll just get Santa to get it for me..." How do you trump that one? I'm not going to be the one she still hates when she's 35 and has kids of her own. Better you than me.

So she just won't get the stuff, and she'll hate Santa instead. Transference. Works for me.

I woke up this morning with part of a poem stuck in my head:

I awoke on the floor
all covered with sin
he'd knocked at my heart
and I'd let him come in...

Weird.

Johnny is psyched about his imminent birthday, as well. Making plans. Nat chose a 'Sprinkle Cake', and I am lobbying Johnny for carrot cake. Though he'll likely pick something nasty, and child-like. Sprinkle Cake...ptui!

Last night the wife got a big, fresh loaf of French bread, sliced it up thick, toasted it in the oven, then dipped it in the egg mix and pan-fried it. She made up some fresh apple topping, we added Cool Whip to taste (shut up, I love Cool Whip) and genuine Costco maple syrup. Damn, that was good. I'm a lucky man. We had Jimmy Dean's original sausage, too. That's my (our) favorite.So much better than all these weird flavors they're doing nowadays.

Well, I'm mostly just sitting around making sure the kids don't kill themselves or each other, while the wife works. My arthritis is giving me fits.

Y'all have a great weekend...

My...

...hero.

The Goddess Speaks!

Go, and worship!

Ron Paul...

Nazi...

Politics, Sports, & Religion...

None of these should be discussed with anybody who is not a fan of your team. Its like the old joke about teaching a pig to sing. It merely wears you out, and only annoys the pig.
Blogging gives birds of totally different feathers a chance to flock together, and people who were never meant to socialize with one another get together and piss each other off.

And unless everybody involved in a debate is a trained expert on the subject of the debate, its likely that there is going to be some scrapping going on. And that is soooo boring, I can't begin to express my contempt for it. Next thing you know, folks are swinging their IQs around, and then someone loses an eye.

And you can have two guys who can rebuild a Chevy from the ground up, and they will argue about some petty crap, because one guy likes the makes, models, and years that are different than what the other guy likes.

And then there's the times when you know damn well you are right, what you mean when you say it, and that they are wrong, and/or misunderstand you. That's a special kind of annoyance, right there.

And that is why I very rarely comment on the blogs of others anymore. That, and I like several of you, and I always seem to manage to piss you or your regular commenters off.

So there.

Birds...

...of a feather...

Hmmmm...

You Are a Kinetic Learner

You learn best by doing, and you have a talent for complicated, physical tasks. You excel at athletics, drama, and fixing things. You would be an excellent Olympic athlete - or a Broadway star!

What's Your Learning Style?

I'm Boring Myself...

I used to write some pretty good stuff. I think. Now, I write crap that makes hyenas chew their own living guts out.

Here.

Elsewhere, I think I do pretty good.

Wanna know something funny? My shoulders hurt so bad, that even using a pencil is problematic. Video game stress, I think.

I have scattered, bloody chunks of novels all around the house. Life intrudes, and the meat explodes and turns dark.
I can write a short story, or novella that will make you cry. And I have no idea how to get rid of it, profitably.

This blogging stuff is easy. Heck, writing is easy. But even Chuck had a Dickens of a time getting rid of his for profit.

Oh well... Everything is 'Art' now. I'd be uncomfortable being in that club, and would join none such as would have me.

Not that I'm fighting off offers...

The Goddess Speaks!

Go, and worship!

The Saint Gets Older...

Thanks to those of you who contributed money for the wife's birthday dinner last night. I basically fed most of my family, and tipped well enough to make the waitresses' day.

The wife and I split Cannelloni and Manicotti and Raviolis. They use lots of veal, and it was fantastic. Some of the best Italian food we've ever had, and not terribly expensive. My youngest Marine was able to come, my sis, my parents, and the two brats, loaded with appetite, and the bill didn't break the bank. I have $4 left, and have been passing some wonderful stools.

The wife and I came home and had a Fart War, until we agreed to a mutual armistice, and to stay in our separate bathrooms and light matches with the fan on. My own farts were burning my eyes, and that underwear will be traumatized for life. I swear, we were both exhaling brown clouds out of our mouths, and when I brushed my teeth, well, just 'whoo boy'.

She got the new Coulter book, of course, and some foo foo stuff like a robe and slippers. But most of all, she had a happy glow on her face, which has been sadly lacking, lately. Our 17th anniversary is this week, and you know what? I feel like we're truly comfortable around each other for the first time. I mean comfortable enough to be silly and act retarded, or to fight about something and not get all freaked out, just kiss and make up.

How many young marrieds waste that by divorcing in the first few years? I'm really starting to pay attention to oldsters who have been married for fifty years and such, to see how they did it.

The wife is a keeper, and I wanna make sure I am worthy of her investment in me.

Fag B-Gone...

I'm just putting this up because a) she's stunning and b) it wigs out the homos that comment over at Vox's blog.

Damn, she is perfect...

And Another Thing...

A certain 'blogger' likes to brag about 'blogging in the clear'...under his own name. He acts all brave and self righteous.

And then he deletes posts, chickens out and doesn't write stuff, just general pussy crap.

I'll stay anonymous, thank you. I can say what I want, and still have a career. Don't even make me look up and list all of the professional writers who used pseudonyms.

And the hypocritical 'blogger' has bragged before about not using his real name. Don't bother looking. He's likely deleted those posts, too.

Wuss...

Off To The Races...

Nat and John came in 2nd place, and got silver medals. They had a special medal for John, figuring the 'tard needed a consolation prize, and his car smoked all but one of theirs.

He has been wearing his two medals all day, the silver for speed, and a bronze for his car (which looks like shit) looking good.

The faces on the older kids and their parents were stunned when his car smoked theirs. Same with Nat. They used a laser to time them, but I didn't need one to see that damn, those were some fast cars. And I had had to reglue one of Nat's axles back on just that morning cuz she had been dicking around.

Guys were checking out the cars to detect the secret. Let the kid do the work themselves, dickhead. No secret.

So, the kids have been walking on air all day, and making a point of showing off their medals and ribbons.

Good. They earned it.

Am I A Racist?

You bet your ass I am. And if you've ever tucked your arm tighter over your purse, or gone to use a different ATM when a minority walks by you, you're a racist, too.

Common sense.

Now, if you make it the focal point of your life, and wear the outfit with the armband and read all the books, you've got more problems than I can help you with, even if I wanted to. I used to say 'I'm not a racist, I hate everybody'. But now I've narrowed it down to Mexicans and indians and towel heads. Black people have enough problems without me making their lives miserable, and Eskimos make up for being indians by killing whales and seals, so they're cool.

The worst kind of fool is a white fool who sticks up for other races against 'one of his/her own'. Black people generally don't like you, they laugh at you behind your back for not having any rhythm, and unless you're at a medical convention or something where they are likely richer than you, they don't like you.

All of the little brown people see you as a mark, someone to get over on, to victimize, and unless you have made some true friends in the group (I like blacks) you will always be treated with suspicion and contempt. And jealousy and fear.

I've had black friends and lovers that I liked a lot more than any white person, but I'm special. And I have no automatic knee-jerk reaction one way or another when I meet a person of color. They look for that, you know, and label you accordingly. You're either a racist, or a white kiss-ass to them. They have instincts like a dog for that. And don't think for a minute that the other colors aren't racist to their own.

Blacks catalog other blacks according to the hue of their skin, the texture of their hair, and what part of the country they're from. They know more about racism than you ever thought you could know. And spics and ragheads just want you dead. One or two might not, but it's the other billion or so you have to watch out for.

And God made indians for target practice. What a sad bunch of sad sacks of shit. And don't try to throw their casinos in my face. You think they run those? No, the Mob found a new income stream. If it wasn't for criminals trying to wash drug money, those indians would stewing up their last dog in a beat up camper trailer where their little fat brown children play catch with dog turds outside and endeavour to stay out of the clutches of their uncle 'Fucks Anything He Can Catch'.

You and me can go into a tough black bar and I'll be getting drinks bought for me, while you are getting your head flushed in the toilet. You're safe in a Unicef vehicle, because you're the ice cream truck. And some nigger will still put a pistol in your face and his cohorts will steal you blind. And a lot of well-meaning young white girls have been bent over a fender, their panties ripped down, and feloniously ass-fucked because everybody else in the village already has AIDS, and they think her dewy cunt has the magic cure in it in there somewhere.

Like I said, I hate everybody, but I hate white people most of all. The worst I have been fucked over is by white people. It freaks blacks out to hear you say that, so try it out.

And it ain't racism if it's true...

Whiskey, Dishes, And Apple Pie...

The wife has a (kind of) real job, so she outranks me, so I gotta go down and do the dishes. The house is empty and quiet, because she forgot to stop by McD's and pick us up pies (mass craving going on, here) and I just ran out of whiskey.

The kids' church group is having one of those little wooden car races, and time trials were last night. Johnny and Nat had the fastest cars in the place. Not the prettiest. The fastest.
We let them do all the work on them they could handle, and their four-wheel turds (Nat's is hot pink, John's is orange. Defiantly so...) kicked the older bigger boys asses, where the Dads had milled vital parts on their lathes. Parts on the car. It's hard to mill an actual child, what with all of the screaming and drama.

Sweet revenge...

So, I almost died recently, and for the first time in my life I have to hide my drinking, because the wife blames it, even though the doctor is becoming more sure that the blood pressure med the intern prescribed me is the culprit. Though he'll never say so. And will lie if subpoenaed.

You can't wire a house legally without passing certain tests and milestones in your training, but you can scribble out a scrip for poison, and get someone to take it, because you have silky brown eyes and you fondled his balls and stuck your finger up his ass.

So...they're back. WHERE'S MY PIE!!!

Fuck You, You Nigger Faggot...

What? What'd I say? Hurt your widdle feelings?

Chris Rock tried to hurt mine. He called me a fucking Cracker, and said he hates me. He still has a job. And I'm just kidding...I don't give a shit what that nigger faggot says about me. And if he says it about you, I'll likely think it's funny.

How again do you insult an entire race of people and hurt their feelings? I wanna do it. Make all the niggers and Chinks commit suicide. Well, except for the hot chick Chinks and coons.

I could give a shit about Imus and 'Dog'. And his old lady's tits are too fuckin damn big. And just because you niggers made MLK a saint, doesn't mean he was any less of a nigger. Nigger.

NiggerNiggerNiggerNiggerNiggerNigger. Get over it, monkey boy.

I'm so sick of this bullshit I could go kick a cripple faggot nigger.


Update:

I find it terribly amusing that I can anger a white person by saying 'nigger'. Clueless fucker.
And I bet I've had more black friends (and girlfriends) than he ever has, I'd wager. Not that that really means anything, but I'm just saying.

Sounds like either someone is neglecting to read for comprehension (i.e., they're stupid) or like they've been listening to someone tattling again (i.e., venal, petty, and yes, stupid).

Oh well, any publicity is good publicity, right? I didn't even know about his problems until I read a comment from someone else just now.

Happy Friday, Niggers!