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  • More On Child Rearing...

  • God Will Never Tempt Me With This...

  • A Look...

  • Corroborating Evidence...

  • On 'Therapy'...

  • Raising Your Kids Right...

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • Little Surprise Here...

  • I Am In Such A Fucking Rage...

  • Life Is Full Of Questions...

  • Interesting Juxtaposition...

  • My New Sex Doll...

  • The Signal...

  • Damn!

  • Do You Dream Of Jeannie?

  • This Is Happening A Lot Lately...

  • Hillary Clinton...

  • Just A Programming Note, And Stuff...

  • Well Heeled...

  • Well...

  • The Wife And I, Last Night...

  • One, Whose Opinion Matters To Me...

  • Everything I Know...

  • Now, This Is Kinda Cool...

  • Sorry, Kids...

  • Oh, Fuck Alla You Goofy Prudes...

  • It Was A Dark And Stormy Knight...

  • One Warm, Spring Afternoon...Finis...

  • I'll See You...

  • It's Amazing...

  • In Case of Zombie Attack...

  • Still More Prayers Needed...

  • Go Look Out Your Window! Now!

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • Working The Wall...

  • When Leftists Make Sense...

  • Damn...Still More Perfection...

  • I Have No Problem...

  • Well, This Is...

  • Still On The Gun Theme...

  • You Have Got To Watch...

  • One Of Many...

  • Wanna Watch...

  • The Most Beautiful Handgun Ever Made...

  • Oh, My...

  • Well...

  • Another Beautiful Day...

  • Blasts From The Past...

  • Another Blast From The Past...

  • You Sit, In The Sun...

  • Two Birds...

  • Men...

  • An Unbearably Gorgeous Day...

  • Something To Cheer You Up...

  • More Perfection...

  • Clouding The Issue With Facts...

  • Taking Vox To Task, And Stuff...

  • I'm A Little Sick To My Stomach...

  • Ron Paul Sucks...

  • Some Of You...

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • I Just Had To Put This Up...

  • I'm A Sucker...

  • Yet Another Nat Update...

  • If It Ain't One Thing, It's Another...

  • Assuming God...

  • The Saga Of Nat Continues...

  • You Get What You Pay For...

  • More Prayer, Please...

  • Pray For Nat, Please...

  • It Occurs To Me...

  • Pity Me...

  • When Police Don't Do Their Job...

  • Absolute Perfection In Womanhood...

  • Blog Bleg...

  • I Am An Enigma...

  • I Am Not A Pundit...

  • Do Me A Personal Favor...

  • Can We Start Killing Them Yet?

  • So, Everybody's Sick, I Guess?

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • Kate Coe Asked Me, Laughing...

  • Eduturbation...

  • How To Work A Room...

  • Bullshit Rumors...

  • I'm So Sorry...

  • Yup...

  • My Work Here Is Through...

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        Friday, February 29, 2008

    More On Child Rearing...

    Now, you Catholic priests settle down. I am not using 'rearing' in the context you are used to. No, more in the context of raising a herd of sheep (you rednecks and Scotsmen calm down, too).

    It took me awhile to teach the wife this trick, but she's getting it: when they are fucking up, ignore them. If they bug you, unemotionally assign a consequence to any more such behavior. If they test you, fuck up their day.

    Follow through! Simple 'if this then that' logic statements.

    They are not your equal. Most of the time they don't even understand (or listen to) the words you use. I can't tell you how many times I have been watching from the sidelines, watching the wife discipline, jibber-jabbering away, and then I simply step in and ask the kid(s) "Okay, now what did Momma just say?"

    She used to marvel at the blank looks and shrugs this elicited from them.

    The average person has to listen to something at least twelve times before they remember it. It comes quicker if you beat their ass while telling them. Pain compliance, deprivation, and isolation are excellent teachers.

    I have trained dogs. I have trained small children. I really cannot tell the difference between the two. Except that dogs tend to learn more quickly.

    I haven't had to whap a kid in days. Though I have lifted the belt a time or two. I can make a kid fly. Because they know I will follow through. That if I feel a need to go nuclear on them, they will be sleeping on a mattress in a bare room while everything they hold dear languishes in the garage, and spiders lay eggs in their teddy bear's eyes.

    And there will be nothing but vegetables for every meal.

    Do they still test me? Us? Of course. Like the scorpion, it's in their nature. You may or may not know what an IEP is. Your basic education is no fault of mine. But each child needs their own, including which behavior mod works for them, and it needs to be consistently applied, and enforced.

    And the root word of 'enforced' is 'force'. Forget that at your peril.

    And unless they've hurt one another, I never let them see anger. I go robotic. The Dad-Bot. No emotion. I am finally getting the wife to do this. She always wanted to go all female on them, and chatter, and try to appeal to their emotions. People, kids aren't even developed yet. Let alone their emotions. They will reflect you, because they suck it all in and learn to be what they see around them. Garbage in, garbage out, in its simplest, most basic form.

    So be, be cold. Give them nothing but the promised retribution. At the most, permit yourself a mournful look of sadness. They have disappointed you so badly, and you regret, truly regret the inevitability of their coming discomfort.

    And like I said, IEP-wise, have a plan going in, of things you can threaten to take away, if. Punishments that have worked. This is helpful when they act out in public. Your 'bag of tricks', as it were. All of my kids have embarrassed me exactly once each in a store. And they've always been mannerly angels in a restaurant. Or else.

    And perhaps most importantly, let them feel invested in whatever consequence they get. Tell them they chose it. You laid out the consequences, they chose it in spite of your best intentions, so, sorry, here ya go, live with it.

    Now, that was a poor choice, wasn't it?

    And when it is all over and done, and the time is appropriate, remind them of how much you love them, and how sorry you are for the bad decisions they made, and ask them to not make you do such a thing anymore, and...

    Assure them that you will, if they make you.


    God Will Never Tempt Me With This...

    Oh, I would SO fail...


    Oh, my goodness. Yes, I think I would be helpless.


    A Look...

    ...behind the curtain.

    This does not bode well. I am afraid there will be much weeping and gnashing of teeth. And the simple, strategic solution, is for the Superpowers to reinstitute Colonialism in the backwaters that currently provide the world with these products.

    Bad day to be an African or South American...


    Corroborating Evidence...

    Trained observers, just saying what they saw.

        Thursday, February 28, 2008

    On 'Therapy'...

    Two words:

    1. Worthless


    2. Dangerous.

    I'm gonna lose some readers, here, and likely some friends, but I used to hire all kinds of licensed 'therapists' in my ex-business, and I would no sooner let them root around in my loved one's heads, than I would hire a drunken illegal Mexican to cut my hair with hedge trimmers.

    Oh yeah, one 'did you some good'. How do you know? What standards, what training do you have to judge by? Oh, you let them under your hood, and you have no clue as to...

    Oh, fuck this shit.

    In all of my time in the nutcracker biz, I only met two psychologists who were worth their weight, and every psychiatrist I met was batshit crazy. But they could give you scrips for good shit, so there is that.

    This is like watching a movie, and knowing a character you have grown to care about is headed around a mountain curve where the bridge is out...

    The dichotomy of me, is that I care nothing about any of you, and that I care all about all of you. These feelings war in me constantly.

    Maybe I need therapy.

    That was a joke. A very, very bad joke.

    Therapy was invented by women so they could have a priest assuage their guilt about their decisions. Usually poor decisions.

    Well, if you've come here for absolution, boy did you take a wrong turn.

    If you want enablers, life is full of them. Most of them end up here on the net telling you how great and brave and wonderful you are.

    Good on ya'll. Enjoy the fantasy.


    Raising Your Kids Right...

    You can do everything right, and then see them go to prison as adults for some heinous crime. You can do everything wrong, and end up with your adult child becoming a pediatrician and being a gentle person.

    The only thing you can do, is to make sure that you don't have to put up with any shit while they live with you.

    The wife gave Nat her old watch when she bought her new one she needed for work (more functionality) and I just released her from her room after she sat on her bed for a half hour for pinching Johnny. I called her in when she told me her time was up, and I hugged on her and loved on her, and told her she was better than the puncher and pincher she has been acting like. That this wasn't her. She sobbed a bit, held me for a bit, then scampered off to watch TV.

    Will it work? Will I have to repeat it?

    Yesterday, I was upstairs on the landing, the front door was open, she was outside on the sidewalk, and I teased at her, and she turned and screamed at me to 'Be Quiet!', and the wife reached out and snatched her by the nape-hair and slung her into the house with the admonition that her outside play (it was a beautiful day) was over for the day, and get your little ass upstairs to your room.

    The wife had to go pee, so I commanded John to sit on the bench on the porch where I could keep an eye on him while the wife pottied, and Nat moaned and begged from her room behind me, offering her soul if she could just go back outside.
    As the aggrieved (yelled at) party I felt like I could modify the decree to my satisfaction, so I did.

    I told Nat she could go back outside, as long as she would consent to a good hard belting, a 'put my back into it' belting, if she ever yelled at me like that again. She winced and squirmed. She's been there.

    And then she agreed. I repeated the contract, and described all it entailed, and she agreed again. And then I asked her if she was sure, and repeated the terms of the contract, and that she was quite literally betting her ass. She agreed.

    Last night, I pushed all the right buttons on her, on purpose, and she started to yell, and then clapped both hands over her mouth until her eyes bugged.

    She remembered. My eyes began to narrow, and she choked her own self off before she could bellow.

    The other night, the wife was teasing her, and as the wife came towards her there on the couch, Nat kicked out repeatedly at her, and I heard one of the wife's finger knuckles pop, and in about a millisecond, I swept the wife aside, reached in and grabbed my big seven year old up off the couch, held her up off the floor, an inch or two from my face, and snarled, quite seriously, that I would reach down her throat and pull her little asshole out up through her mouth if she ever struck her mother again.

    I smelled pee.

    Good parenting? Dunno. Don't care. Life's too short to let yourself, and your life be dominated by short people. You already give them, and give up so much, that the truly dumb shit has no place in your life. Especially as it impacts that life, and the lives of other family members who are doing just fine.

    I remember, back when I was ten or eleven years old, playing over at a friend from school's house. Now, he had this little brother about three or four years old, and he was an unholy terror. He ran around in his underwear all the time, and would attack, physically, anybody, any time, anywhere. And they coddled him. Dad was a doctor, and they all just lived with it.

    Well, this one day, the little monster went into the garden shed, and fetched a hand sickle, and because of some real or imagined slight, he ran over and cut one of his brother's hands off.

    I remember watching the whole thing unfold, and people trying to corral this little bastard without hurting him, and the ambulance coming and hauling his pale, unconscious by now from blood loss brother off to the hospital...

    I remember thinking the ten year old equivalent of this thought: 'Why doesn't someone crush this little cocksuckers head in with a rock? Or a bat?'

    Every evil-ass cocksucker you all complain about after having seen them on the news, was a kid once.

    Think about that.

        Wednesday, February 27, 2008

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go! And worship!


    Little Surprise Here...

        Tuesday, February 26, 2008

    I Am In Such A Fucking Rage...

    And I'm gonna take you with me. Don't like the trip? I'll swerve to the curb and you can jump off the bus.

    But I won't slow down.

    Fuck. I hurt the only thing on the planet I care about this morning, and I only have two speeds: cold, and hot.

    I want to go over to the 7-11, and grab a Mexican by the back of his neck, smash his face into the pay pone he's calling Mexico from, step around to the other phone, and elbow his buddy's face in, and...

    Well, that would be wrong. Or so I've been told.

    I have to write this stuff out here. It keeps me, well, not sane, in the way you judge sanity, but, shall we say, 'under control'.

    The downside, is that I bleed my venom into the holes I chew in the side of your neck, and you become contaminated, too.

    There has never been a time that I recommend that you read me, or link to me.

    I am a tragic accident of nature, and even more tragically, I know it. Have come to know it, anyway. Not that I understand...

    Ahhhh, she's home. The kids are singing her the greeting song. Color floods my life again.


    Life Is Full Of Questions...

    Where did I come from? Where am I going? How do I get rid of this dead hooker?

    Am I writing this post just as filler to get the latest tittie pic down below the fold so your boss doesn't see it when you open my page?

    I made the wife cry this morning, all the way to work. And I felt like a complete sonofabitch. She countered my rage with emotion, and boy, do I feel like a smelly, mangy cur.

    And no, rage is not an emotion. It is a state of being. I feel better when I rage. John triggered me, and I said some rude things, and then counter-punched the wife with my words when she tried to intervene, and she crumpled and cried and I could have cheerfully died.


    I am going to have to mend some fences when she gets home. I suggested, over the phone, that she tell her client that she was sniffly and puffy from allergies. Well, that didn't help at all.

    Shit, I can't do anything right. I am both enhanced, and baffled by the wife's range of emotion.

    I don't know how you humans do it...


    Interesting Juxtaposition...


    My New Sex Doll...

    Fuck saving John Conner. Little homo. No, I would reprogram her to be my personal bodyguard and love-bot.

    Oh baby...

    And it wouldn't be cheating! "Honey, it's just like as if I was fucking the toaster!"


    The Signal...

    I haven't seen this movie yet, but on the face of it it looks like a straight ripoff of Stephen King's book 'Cell'.

    Hey Steve, call your lawyer.

        Monday, February 25, 2008



    Do You Dream Of Jeannie?

    Am I the only one who, as a kid, watched her show, laying on my belly on the floor, and rubbing one off through my pants?

        Sunday, February 24, 2008

    This Is Happening A Lot Lately...

    Taylor needs our prayers.

    All of us who identify as Christians, need to clap for her, and tell God we do believe in fairies. And no fair praying just because she's beautiful and has a great rack.

    Some people get lost. The needle jumps out of the groove. Skips.

    Oh great, I see in comments she doesn't want attention called to her...

    Tough shit, baby, you are going to get a severe praying for, and if you open up, the Holy Spirit will pour bucket-loads of Blessings upon you.

    Are you ready?


    Hillary Clinton...

    Pro child rape.

    It's right there, in black and white.


    Just A Programming Note, And Stuff...

    It bugs me a little that nobody seems to have read my 'Dark And Stormy Knight' post below. I liked it, a lot. Oh well.

    Yesterday, my youngest Marine and I took my Dad out for a belated birthday breakfast and a movie. We got to the theatre to see Rambo, and the assholes had lied both on their website, and Fandango. Fuck Carmike Cinemas.

    So, I said, let's go to Albany and see if the theatre has it there. Fuck, Dad was already potted on Chivas Regal, and singing Irish drinking songs in the back of the car (I have no idea why) and son and I had a good buzz going, so why not drive twenty miles at high speeds alongside a rain swollen river to catch a movie?

    So, we get there, and no Rambo. Bummer. That's what Dad wanted for his birthday. But they were showing 'No Country For Old Men', which I had already enjoyed, so I bought tickets, and we got in about two minutes before it started. Awesome flic.

    Then we get outside, and the son says 'get in, were gonna catch the 3:45 Rambo...' little fucker pays attention, dammit. I gotta tell you, I was not all that excited about seeing it, but, hey, birthday wish, so...

    Damn, that was an awesome movie. I turned to my posse as the credits rolled, and said 'Fuck...I feel refreshed...'

    Damn, what a good movie. Stallone gets my vote as Best Director. Fuck those stupid Oscars. I can't bear to (and will not) turn on the television again until all of the Hollywood drug addicts and bulimics are offa my screen.

    Most realistically violent movie I've seen since 'Private Ryan'. Make sure to see it in an HD theatre, with surround sound. I swear, I spit the blood of others out a few times. Got outside, and checked my clothing for traces.

    I mean it. What are you waiting for? Git!


    Well Heeled...



    ...this outta brighten your day. Put it together with this, and the documented evidence of prison camps abutting rail lines all over the country, give the power to your new Muslim Overlord, and, well...

    It's all just waiting for the ovens to be installed.

        Saturday, February 23, 2008

    The Wife And I, Last Night...

        Friday, February 22, 2008

    One, Whose Opinion Matters To Me...

    I do enjoy your comments, but being me, I don't trust them, as regards my 'work' here.


    The wife, I have let her inside my shields, nay, I have placed the point of her blade over my heart, and bade her to puncture me, should she wish. If I turned, a smoking pistol in each of my hands, I would stand, cruciform, if she wished to empty her own gun into me. And I would feel blessed in doing so. Honored.

    So, when she reads something I've written, over my shoulder, and I feel her hot tears spatter on that shoulder, and when finished reading, she asks for a kleenex and rushes off, well...

    I feel honored. Blessed. I can struggle on.

    I can't call her my muse, though she has been. Here and there. She fits me into her heart, or her vagina, and envelopes me in her warmth, and Dear God, I pray that blessing upon all of you. Not her, you perv, but find your own gift from God.

    Writing is easy. Children do it. But...

    Cutting your wrists and dipping the fountain pen into the ichor, and scratching out your life...

    That's something completely different, now, isn't it.

    I'm not about to go off on some insane riff about how being a blogger is some kind of sacred trust. Nope.

    But you know when you see the magic, don't you...


    Everything I Know...

    ...I've learned from others.

    I may possess some native abilities, but I have assimilated others, as the Borg do. Pick the best, discard the rest.

    Stephen King has written phrases so pretty they make me cry out in jealousy. He can't write shit about firearms, being a Maine Liberal and all, but his description in 'Salem's Lot of the handyman's hand falling onto the bedside table, or his line from Pet Sematary (a book I despised, along with Cujo) of the father clawing his way out of the grave, and 'his fingernail peeled back like a wet decal'...

    Well, if you didn't just cringe, and check your own fingers...

    Or my absolute favorite writer of all time, now sadly dead, Roger Zelazny, describing nightfall:

    "The night turned black, and came down with a case of stars..."

    That is poetry, folks. I suppose poetry can soothe and uplift you. If you're in to that. Me, I like to be slapped upside the head with it, and turned in a direction I've never seen, and have someone play my spine like a bass fiddle.

    Over and over
    my Dad has said
    'Son, lay down, upon the bed!'
    I hear the belt from his pants swishing,
    I bite the pillow, wishing, wishing,
    That I had not done that awful thing
    that now makes my posterior sting.

    The first thing I ever had published. In the local paper. I was in the 8th grade. Couldn't get that published anywhere, today.

    You learn from me, maybe. I learn from you. Maybe.

    Just...keep writing. It is the one thing that can live beyond you.


    Now, This Is Kinda Cool...

    Just by accident, I found a link to me that translated my blog into some sort of alien jibber-jabber. I think it's Woptalian, or something.

    Having written the stuff, it amuses me to see other languages try to wrap their heads around it.


    Sorry, Kids...

    I'm just gonna kill you. Don't give me an excuse.

    The wife and I were just discussing the Fox News story about the 54 year old female bus driver who got in the fight on her bus with a few teenaged bitches, and we both agreed that, yep, in future, if attacked by a kid, we're just gonna kill them.

    I'm sure I could cut a teen open, deep, and wide, and not find any 'self-esteem' gland in there. No, it is a false, liberal construct, that has made kids forget their place in the pecking order. This whole 'for the children' bullshit is going to get any little bitch/bastard killed if they try to pull it on me.

    A while ago, when the wife and I came out of Tra Vigne's restaurant in St Helena, California, two little spic bastards, about 15 years old, flipped my wife off and called her a whore. And went bicycling off on their little trick bikes, cackling as if they were somebody.

    I was driving a full-size 90's Chevy Suburban, with the biggest V8 money could buy, and I did my very very best to run those little assholes down, and crush the life out of them. I drove through hedges, across yards, popped it into reverse and backed up at them when they dodged, and their eyes became white with terror.

    When I saw that I couldn't get them with my vehicle, I fished my .45 out from the center console, and tried to line up a shot. The man with the scythe was waiting, off at the side, his skeletal fingers clacking impatiently, cheering me on.

    Suffice to say, they got away. The wife looked at me funny, but she knew better than to talk to me. I raged in frustration all the way home.

    Listen to me, you little cocksuckers. The last thing you will see in this lifetime is my (or the wife's) satisfied smile, as we slide a knife into your guts. It might sadden the wife, later, but you will see no mercy in my eyes, and I will relive the moment when I killed you over and over, for my own pleasure, forever.

    Now, come fuck with me...


    Oh, Fuck Alla You Goofy Prudes...

    I love this story. If I had a nickel for every older woman I banged when I was in high school, including teachers, well, I'd have a lot of nickels.

    I used to get picked up after school by this 35 year old hottie, and one time, this guy who had seen me getting into her car, said "Dude...your mom's hot..." and I said uh, she's not my Mom.

    I hate all of this 'predatory teacher' bullshit. If a male (or a female) is over 12 years old, and they want to fuck, fuck em. I would pay some of these hotties I've seen to usher my boys into manhood.

    The oldest broad I had before I was 18 was 63 years old, and she wrung me out and left me crumpled, then reinflated me, and came back for more. She ran 11 miles every morning. I finally had to escape her. Gray hair is not becoming on a 17 year old.

    You can disagree with me, and you will be wrong. Know how to seduce a teenage boy? Bend over, and he'll mount you like a stallion. Now, I am against the seduction by older men of young girls, but A) who wouldn't want to fuck a young girl and B) most of the time, they are throwing themselves at you.

    Dang, I've banged my babysitters, my teachers, the gal who was preparing me for baptism, most of my Dad's employees...crikey, I could go on.

    Hey, kids, leave those teachers alone.

    If I was damaged, I loved every second of it.


    It Was A Dark And Stormy Knight...

    He walked down the sidewalk, along the street, running the fingers of his left hand along the picket fence, the sinuousity nearly overwhelming him. Whenever he took on human form, he reveled in the pure joy of flesh. It was no wonder the Father's Chosen found it so easy to fall, time and time again.

    He turned up the short path to the white house, and he saw two of The Fallen, squatting there on the lawn, eyes riveted on an upstairs window, slavering...waiting.
    "Not this time, boys..." and he waved his hand, and they fled, up and over the fence, and running off, screaming screams only he could hear, unless you were just at the edge of sleep and waking...

    He opened the front door, and stepped into the house. Grief has a scent, and the air was thick with its stench. He turned and went up the stairs to the second floor, and walked down the hall to the baby's room. The father was downstairs with relatives, the mother sat in her rocker, holding the infant, and sobbing her heart out.

    He put his hand over her eyes, and said "Shhhh, sleep, and be comforted..." and she sagged and began to snore softly, lines of care and pain fading from her face. He scooped up the infant in one big hand, and held it to his chest. He could still feel just the tiniest of flutters coming from it. He was not too late.

    He asked no questions, ever. He killed the firstborn in droves, on command, and he performed other services for The Father. He slew, and slaughtered, and saved, all with the same detachment, and joy in a job well done.

    He laid the infant down in its crib, and held his hand gently on it until all went still, and then he said "Come, little one...someone wants to see you..." and he raised his hand, and held, for a moment, the Breath of God, which soon turned into a glowing mirror image of the cooling infant, there in the crib.

    Its bright eyes caught his, and it smiled and cooed, and this was his favorite part of his job. He reached down with his other hand, and tickled its nose, and it laughed, and held onto his finger, and he swelled and turned into a column of light, and went to present his gift at the throne of the Father...

        Thursday, February 21, 2008

    One Warm, Spring Afternoon...Finis...

    I think I'm ready to be done with this. To tell it all. And the best way to tell it, is to just tell it...

    After the ziggurat incident (chronicled below), I became haunted. Hunted. She would seek me out, and nuzzle my neck from behind, and sometimes, I could almost see her. She took me in my bed, or while driving...

    One night, I was overcome by terror, and my parents were overwhelmed by icy cold. When I finally was able to force their (unlocked) bedroom door open, their breath was rising in a vapor to the ceiling, a fog covered the floor, as if from a fog machine, and I couldn't rouse them.

    A sense of undirected horror overwhelmed me, and I grabbed a blanket, and fled the house (a former hospital) and went to my car and fell into an exhausted sleep.

    As dawn broke, I awoke, and saw two human figures, with bat wings, flying up and over the trees, on a path from my car, to the Spanish house I have previously described.

    That was the last time I saw or felt their presence. I think they knew they'd worn out their welcome. Plus, as they looked into me, I looked into them. Dark. Dark. Dark. Not soulless, per se, but nothing you'd recognize as human.

    There are things...

    Your belief is not a requirement, your disbelief is nothing to me. Believe, or not.

    It's your funeral...


    I'll See You... my dreams...

    All has not always been love and light between the wife and I. She'd come to me, drawn, then pull away, and her millionaire husband knew how to distract her, and take her away from me. I listened to this song many times, huddled in a ball on the floor, crying as if I'd been gut-shot.

    The light would die, and endless cold winter would set in, and then, I'd see her again.

    She taught me emotion. And pain. And true love, unselfish, giving.

    She stood behind me, a bit ago, listening to this song, as tears ran down my face, and I held her hand there, on my shoulder, and tried not to sob.

    Here's another one that just kills me. I can barely see the keyboard.

    She came back upstairs and tried to apologize, or something, and I waved her off, telling her that that water is long gone, under the bridge...

    So, why are my cheeks wet.


    It's Amazing... well this video syncs with this music.

    Mute the Zemanova video, and start the Rammstein song.

    Trust me.


    Absolutely reprehensible

    You've been warned, so don't blame me if you go to Hell. I mean, it's not like God made tits, or anything...

        Wednesday, February 20, 2008

    In Case of Zombie Attack...

    I gotta admit, zombies freak me out. They feel no pain, no fear, and they only want one thing. Us.

    Guns jam, blades get dull, you get tired swinging that crowbar or tire iron, and you have to stop for food, rest, and sleep. But zombies are relentless. Tireless. Persistent. What to do?
    I must confess, I have no decent plan. My current home would hold out for about ten minutes, until they burst through, and I killed my family and myself.

    Chainsaws? Their blood is contaminated. One spray into your mouth and/or eyes, and you'll be munching on your family. What to do...

    I really can't think of anything. Zombies are the single most devastating creatures in fiction.


    Still More Prayers Needed...

    Are we under assault, or what?

    Let God work His Works through you, and all of us, if He so wills it.

    Man, that just plain sucks.


    Go Look Out Your Window! Now!

    Eastward! God is making shadow puppets again, for the easily amused. I'm 52 years old. I've seen eclipses before. Blowjobs never get old.

    But, eclipses?


    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!


    Working The Wall...

    Find a spot in your house, where the walls intersect, leaving a sharp edge (corner) and stand in front of it. I mean, nose close. That wall has gotten into your face. You just turned around, and there it was, and now...

    Put your palm facing towards you, bring it up in front of your face, and snap the back of your hand into the wall. That hurt? you didn't do it right. Practice. And I want to hear a smack like you slapped a defrosted chicken into the wall.

    Now, practice turning your palm outward ('talk to the hand!') and smashing your palm/heel into the wall. You short? Work upwards. Look where your elbows are after the strike. Follow up with elbows. That hurt? Practice.

    When you become proficient (meaning you can do it every time, without pain to yourself) draw your knife from wherever you keep it on your body (you do have a knife, right?) and practice drawing your blade across an imaginary throat. Cut the wall. Putty is cheap.

    You have two hands. Use one to jam the head back, and the other to destroy their throat.
    Ever see a Praying Mantis? They hold their arms ready, close to their bodies, alert, and then they strike. And they never take their eyes off their opponent.

    Remember the wall? The corner? The right angle? When you work the wall in front of you, follow up with a hard slap to where you think your imaginary opponent's ear might be. Or the hinge of their jaw.

    I read a silly man's silly blog today, obviously a person of no experience, where he disparaged 'chi'. Now, any professionally trained singer knows that he is full of shit right away. As do wind instrument players. Oh, and weight lifters. And on and on and on...


    When you strike, strike from your center. Your diaphragm. You will actually feel your hands get 'hot' when you do it right. This is the well of power that lets mothers lift cars off of their children. The makers of films like 'The Matrix', and 'Crouching Tiger' understand this, because when you 'get in the groove' (for lack of a better phrase) that is how it looks.

    You must not develop 'tunnel vision'...that is for amateurs. Develop (at the very least) 180 degree vision. See it all, catalog it, prioritize threats, and always have at least two exits.

    And work those walls. Start slow.


    When Leftists Make Sense...

    ...the end is near.


    Damn...Still More Perfection...


    Oh my. I'd eat a mile of her doots just to find out where they came from...


    I Have No Problem...

    ...with this.

    I'll join a gym just so I can shower with women, and I'll wash my dick. A lot. Hey! Don't oppress me! I have rights!

    And if I spot some faggot in there, they'll find him drowned, his head in a toilet.

    Hey! As a Sociopathic American, I think I have the right to free expression, under the First Amendment.

    Don't judge me...


    Well, This Is...


        Tuesday, February 19, 2008

    Still On The Gun Theme...

    Yessir, that's my Baby. Only she's got Sandalwood grips, and is Parkerized. And I can shuck that smoke-wagon from my low-slung hip holster before you can get your hand out of your pocket. And yes, I'd bet both of our lives on it.

    When she fires, it sounds like Mjolnir puncturing a Jotun, and striking steel on the other side. People stop what they're doing, and stare.

    I'm accurate for a body or head shot from the hip within 50 feet, and further than that, I can turn to the side and aim...well, I went up against a guy with a Thompson-Center Contender, scoped, one time, shooting clay pigeons left on a berm about 200 yards away. I fired Elmer Keith style, laying down, weapon on my knee. And I out-shot him.

    As I've said, the wife, tiny thing, loves to shoot it, and begs for more bullets.

    She, and She, are beasts.


    You Have Got To Watch...


    Truly talented people, with way to much time on their hands.


    One Of Many...

    ...theme songs I have. Each for different occasions.

    I remember head-banging to this, while getting a blowjob in my Monte Carlo, speeding down the freeway, fingering her and making her scream. Lots of 'hers'.

    I got admiring applause one time, stuck in traffic, after she performed her finishing move and sat up. Lots of honking, and guys (and gals) nodding and clapping.


    Wanna Watch...

    ...all the Sarah Connor/Terminator episodes for free?

    You're welcome.



    The Most Beautiful Handgun Ever Made...

    ...and the second most beautiful, sexy handgun, ever.

        Monday, February 18, 2008

    Oh, My...

    I have gots to get me a pair of these!



    We know what LL has been up to...


    Another Beautiful Day...

    And I've seriously considered shooting myself to keep from having to hear one more word of political talk. How many assholes can dance on the head of a pin...

    Nat may have pooped out the last of her butt-plug. She is under strict orders not to flush until one of the parental units views her loaf, and today, this morning, she shat one that had a tail on it. The others have just been cylinders. You're welcome.

    She is more frisky than she has been, though she still has to stay on her cleansing diet for another week or so. No bread products or milk, or cheese, or meat, except for small amounts of boiled chicken. I took some of her Metamucil a bit ago, so I had best remember not to fart.

    What's today again? Oh yeah, Monday. We can't celebrate the birthday's of old white men any more, and the entire state of California is mandated to teach their kindergarteners about faggots. What a crazy, mixed up world we live in. You can go to jail for defending your home, and the dirtbag family of the dirtbag you shot can sue you for everything you own or will ever own, and predators walk the halls of our schools, looking for sheep, and there is no shepherd to protect those sheep. Crazy.

    People can kill you over cartoons, and entire governments sanction it. People can kill their children, call it religion, and get away with it.

    One gallon of gas costs me as much as it cost me to fill the tank of my first car. People blow up their asses like a gunny-sack full of oranges, yet it is the fault of the restaurant where they stuffed their fat faces.

    School cafeterias have switched to all healthy diets, so don't even try to shop at a store within a mile of a school during lunch time, because it will be overcrowded with rude little cocksuckers of both sexes, buying corn dogs and boxes of donuts, and shoplifting like mad things. Which cost is passed on to you, the adult consumer.

    You can legally rip a living human infant from its mother's womb, but you go to prison for killing a dog.'s a beautiful day.

        Sunday, February 17, 2008

    Blasts From The Past...

    I was going through my posts of last January (2006) and really enjoying my writing then, and reading all the comments. My, how time flies.

    Most of those commenters are gone. A few went on to make their own wonderful blogs. Many of the blogs linked in the comments are dead and gone. I even banned a few. My fuse is short.

    Hardly anybody comments here anymore, yet I have more readers than ever. Weird.

    The family just got home from church. Johnny is playing air guitar to 'Hey Man, Nice Shot' from my PC speakers, and they shall be out and about on their trikes in a few.

    I am craving a McDonald's fish sandwich. Had an Arby's one the other day, hated it. Though they still make the best BLT money can buy, or you can make yourself.

    Hey, I want to ask a favor. His name is Paul, and he is dying. Pray for him, and his family. He's got a tough row to hoe, and he needs to be uplifted, whether he likes it or not. No atheists in the trenches, right?

    I have adored his work for years, I like and admire him, and if God Wills it, I'd like him to stick around a bit longer.

    Cancer sucks.


    Another Blast From The Past...

    From when the blog was good...enjoy:

    One Warm, Spring Afternoon...

    Can anyone remember the sheer joy of walking home from school on a long, sunny afternoon? Scaring the cows away from the fence, making eyes at the girls walking home on the other side of the two lane country road from you, throwing rocks at each other to signal your affection?

    I do. I knew every dog that needed tormenting, every yard to hurry past, because the mean old man would twist your ear from between the shrubbery if you didn't scarper.

    The apples are just getting ripe, here, and over here, there be berries, succulent black busters, the size of a small egg, in great clusters, where drunken bees buzz somnolently.

    On one such fine day, I was reveling in my youth, having no idea it was transient, and what awaited me in my future, and I was as free as any bird that squawked and ducked my rocks.

    Ahhhh, the birds, and the bees. And the bugs. The high pitched whine of living, singing insects, calling out to each other, announcing themselves as food. Looking up at a phone line, pre-cable of course, and seeing a fat bird, with a shimmering corona of bug-wings protruding from either side of it's beak, wings as which twitched a bit, as whatever it was suffocated and died. Then, the gulping began, while the bird still watches you with malevolent, shining eyes, lest you chuck a rock.

    It's got your number, boyo. And it would just as happily pluck at one of your eyes as you cooled there, on your back, in a field, but those are Winter Thoughts, and today is warm, and succulent, and vibrates with life.

    The cries and calls of the other kids fade as each finds a home, or heads up a lane, and eventually, I am alone, with my thoughts, and my daydreams, and I scuff at rocks, and leap across the shadows of wires, put there I am sure to give me the pleasure of feeling my youthful muscles and sinews expand and contract as I skip, and leap to the far side of the ditch and back, and then the long, tree-shadowed lane to my home hoves into view, and my heart beats with pure joy as I step into the shadowed lane, because home beckons, down that far end, beyond the sheltering woods.

    (To Be Continued...maybe)

    As is my wont, on these, I cry fair warning. I declare the above and the following to be true, to the best of my recollection. Continue at your own risk. I have written a few pieces here that were fiction, and I believe they were obvious as such. 'Haunted Soldier' was true. Just for you know.

    This tale will be covered up, soon enough, by the nonsense I usually post. You must then seek it out apurpose.

    Do so at your own risk.

    Yes, I must continue. The tale writes itself...


    I spent much of the night awake, yestereve, and what sleep I did get was troubled, and sweaty.
    Her breath, warm on my neck again, after all these years, the memory of it still excites me, and turns my bones to wet ash.

    Opening this box is almost more than I can bear, and yet it must be done.

    You still here? I can do this thing alone, you know. These words are sinking lower and lower, and soon they will slide under the gently roiling surface of the shifting sandy muck of the internet…

    Your presence here is not required.


    It is getting harder and harder to come back here. To hear someone refer to this as 'snippets' is nearly unbearable.

    I let the wife read this last night, and she quizzed me, curiously. Then she, somewhat sardonically, thanked me for her future nightmares.

    I had finished telling her the story, and I had gone far away, as had my eyes, and when I came back into the here and now, her face was some consternated. She had travelled with me, you see, and had not enjoyed the trip. No, not one itty bitty bit.
    Shadows take on new meaning. Clicks on the upstairs window glass at night resound with darker import. A lovers breath, on your neck, from behind, chills, rather than warms.

    I would bury this. You should. Turn away, now. Otherwise, you must either think me insane, or accept the complete understanding that everything you know, everything you thought you knew, is wrong.

    You think I am, but I really am not playing, here.

    This story made me believe in God.

    And His counterpart.

    My Faith, which I curse to this day, was born here...


    So, we're back. Together, but not, because you and I are seeing through the eyes of a child. A child you can never be, and I can never be, again.

    The little boy who lived down the lane. I knew every leaf. I was the snoopiest of snoops, and would sneak through yards, day and night, and peer through windows, and watch. Creepy, to be sure, but not. I merely consumed, breathed in the lives of others. Observed. With no intent to interact, if discovery threatened, I would flee like a sprite.

    The houses had nearly all been built in the post-war housing boom of the fifties, as places for worn warriors of both battle, and industry, to retire. Some homes pre-dated that by a decade or so, but all were perfectly wonderful abodes, some full of families with children, some with an old couple, or a widow, or a widower.

    The forest, and the thick underbrush, kept things quiet, and each home was an oasis in the middle of a fairy-tale forest.
    My house was the last house on the right, and beyond was the forest, untamed, and the Feather River Canyon, and the Feather River, where once some prospector pulled out a gold nugget the size of a console color television. I roamed those woods at will, always armed, and lived like a wild indian. Or pirate. Or space explorer, depending on my whim.

    I knew every leaf.

    As I turned into the lane, a single path of gravel and dirt, where all the men cooperated by filling any chuckhole in front of their own place, I passed by the second house on the right, just as asphalt turned to scutter, and I saw that something had disturbed my forest.

    A large branch, in the driveway that led up to the adobe looking home that had been empty for some time, had been ripped away, torn from the upper trunk, about ten feet or so from the ground, and the pale meat of the tree shown out starkly, and the branch itself lay tossed aside, under some shrubbery.
    I conjectured that someone's moving van had taken a bit of damage, whilst backing in, and fresh tire marks on the cement driveway made the picture clear.

    I was already being pulled up towards the house, you see, hoisted by my own curiousity, and we all know how well that goes, if you are a cat.

    I had snooped on this house a time or two, and found it boring. I am still put off by that Spanish style adobe architecture, and this one was especially pretentious, with large windows in every wall, and skylights, and they had the temerity, did the owners, to put heavy drapes over each window, so that it was a real bitch to peep in. But, peep I had, and all I had been rewarded with was a view of dark, oily looking hardwood floors, and indistinct furniture items, covered with sheets, like some poor, retarded child at Halloween.

    Today was different, though, I noted with some surprise as I approached. The curtains had all been thrown wide open, and the afternoon sunlight, striking golden and strong through multiple glassed entrances, lit up the inside of the house like a magic lantern.

    I walked up to the main, front window, just off of the driveway, and stood agog at what I saw there in the living room...


    I'd grown up in libraries, and had learned to read almost as soon as my eyes could focus.
    In the olden times, libraries were places where they stored actual books, great old things, where the knowledge of Man was reposited, not sanctuaries for cheap novels and CD's and Gay Studies to hide in, before the inevitable library fund raising sale, to make room for more new pantheons of pap.

    I had pored over tome after tome, since earliest childhood, to the approving gaze of true scholars, who were there to devour knowledge as well, so, as I gazed into the living room window, that blazing afternoon, I damn well knew a ziggurat when I saw one.

    Well, that was my first impression, anyway. It wasn't tiered at all, in fact, it was a perfect cube, as near as I could tell, made of stone. Or ivory. Or bone. Or pressed wood. Or...

    The bas relief carvings on it moved, there under the afternoon sun, ever so slightly, and told stories, and danced, and wove spells, and worked magics, and I heard singing, great choirs, as if coming from different parts of the compass, and blending...

    My brain numbed, I listened, as I had no choice. I was riveted, there, as I gazed upon this pale cube, some six foot at every dimension, covered in ancient scripts and carvings of people, and animals, and monstrous things, and I heard an undercurrent of voices, as if a crowd, talking, murmuring, muttering, sometimes laughing, and the occasional scream.

    And I heard singing. Great choirs, individual arias, dirges, praise, and then I became aware that I was being watched. From inside the cube. The ziggurat...

    A man slept, yet was aware, but the bright, curious mind of a woman touched mine, and held me still, and moved through me, and knew me...

    Have you ever been licked, by a lover, on your most private places? Someone you trusted enough that, yes, you can go ahead and put your fingers in there, if you wish it, because it must be right, if you wish it...

    And then I woke, because my body could no longer stand, frozen as it was, and the sun I had gone somewhere else with, up high, was now nearly down, mere bright fingers thrusting through the lower foliage, and I, roused from my stupor in an agony of settled blood and pins and needles, turned and ran for my home as if on wings.

    As if pursued by Hell...


    You Sit, In The Sun...

    [I wrote this January, last year. I reprint it, lest we forget...]

    I know that you do, and your gloved palms press into your eyes...gloves that smell like brass and gunsmoke and chaw...

    You are surrounded by a sea of spent brass, and you smell hot blood and scorched metal and dirt and human shit and hear chopper blades and radio squawks and scared men beginning to yell and your friend screaming as he dies...

    The smoke and the sand swirls, and the snot runs unnoticed down your chin, onto your clamshell, and dries as quick as it hits, as if on a skillet...

    And you look up, and all you see are men and boys in dresses, and black eyeballs, bugged out in hatred. Hatred for you...

    You stand, rising up like an old man, though you just graduated high school not long ago, and your hands fall naturally to the grip and the charging handle of your M240G, and your left hand gives the box a slap, and you know you're full, and you can kill each and every motherfucking thing within a mile of you, and there is not a motherfucking thing that can stop fact, your bro's will swing the .50's around and blow the world to hell and the Grunts will pump 203's into windows and rip up everything with staccato bursts of copper-steel death and...

    Discipline takes hold. No matter what those faggots back home say, you are a man, and you have been beaten like steel, and you, yourself are a weapon, and weapons DO NOT go off until ordered to do so. Motherfucker.

    The animals with their black eyes, making monkey noises, have no idea how close they have come to devastation.

    Your best friends hand flops over the side of the stretcher as they slam him into the helo...

    Tears dry as quickly as sweat...

    Don't they?

        Saturday, February 16, 2008

    Two Birds... stone.

    These stories make Bane happy. I'm just sad anybody at all lived.

    Get your genes out of my pool.




    Do you like women? Oh, I know, there are some egregious cunts out there, I've met quite a few, but in general, do you genuinely like women? Womankind? Maybe even love them?

    I'm not talking biological lust, though that's always good, when healthy. I'm talking genuine appreciation for womanhood. As I've said before, looking upon them as if you found some unicorns frolicking in a secluded meadow.

    Some asshole, some where, declared war, enmity between the sexes, and it has led to no good end. I wish I could unravel it, and heal the rift, and bring the sexes back into their natural balance, but I fear it has gone too far.

    Women are damaged because of it. Men are crippled because of it, and it remains for the few voices like mine to hold up a candle of hope, and to close the few rifts we are capable of closing.

    Man should be an oak, strong, tall, with sheltering branches. Woman should be a willow, supple, beautiful, her secret heart hidden by overhanging branches. With her young saplings nurtured close to her trunk, hidden from the elements.

    When you end up wanting nothing, something will come to you. I believe that. No one man has ever been as messed up as I have been, and I finally shed that old dead skin and live anew.

    So, too, can you.


    An Unbearably Gorgeous Day...

    The wife's at work, the kids are entranced by Spongebob, and the sky is blue enough to make your teeth ache, with only a few, fluffy, unthreatening clouds.

    Nat's mega-turd is breaking up, a bit at a time, I am basking in the glow of one of the most gorgeous monitors I've ever seen...Johnny comes in every so often just to look at it, and compliment me on it.

    George Bush loves me so much, he is sending me money, with which I will buy bullets, and perhaps another gun.

    I have whiskey, and could care less if Monday is a holiday, or not. I shall take a sleeping pill tonight, and wake up about noon tomorrow. And if I should die before I wake, I don't give a shit.

    Because today is perfect.


    Something To Cheer You Up...


    More Perfection... womanhood.

        Friday, February 15, 2008

    Clouding The Issue With Facts...

    That is probably my biggest issue with blogging, bloggers, and commenters. Nobody thinks for themselves. They run off and scoop up dubious 'facts' from dubious sources, present them, and stand there with their fists on their hips like they've just made a point.

    Well, maybe you did, and maybe you didn't. And homey don't play dat.

    I bring my education, experience, and my keen wit and logic. Rarely, I'll go to a source I trust and have vetted to my satisfaction, but...

    Crikey. I get more bullshit thrown at me as 'fact' than you can shake a dick at. Utter bullshit. My detector is highly calibrated, and I would guess that at least 90% of all quoted 'facts' are utter hogwash. And even if true, taken and used out of context.

    Bible quotes are the worst. Taken out of context continually. It's like using the dictionary to support your argument, most of the time. Doesn't make any sense.

    This is the arena of ideas, but please, please, please, make them your own. No one respects someone who has to go run and get their mommy when the going gets tough.


    Taking Vox To Task, And Stuff...

    First, just let me say, that I am hypnotized by my new 22" flat screen monitor. I wondered if it would be much different than my 19" that went tits up...why yes, yes it is, very much, thank you. I feel like I'm at a drive-in theatre. Absolutely amazing. Thanks again and again.

    Now to Vox, something simple, yet annoying, and proof that even the smartest people can be dead wrong, here and there...

    He makes a statement that basically states that having kids supersedes romance, as I understand him, and he appears to think that that should be the natural order of things. Well, he's always been very Aryan about things, and he is most assuredly dead wrong on this one.

    He besmirches the romantic dinner over candlelight, with wine, and that is one of the wife and most assuredly I's favorite things to do. We still have waitresses ask us if we were just married. Shedding the brats for a rare evening together is one of our life's greatest pleasures. We love the same wines and foods, and love to trade fork-fulls of whatever we've ordered back and forth, and to try new things.

    We have been in some of the very best restaurants, and know how to order, and what to expect, and it is just another decadent enhancement to an already decadent marriage to be able to share an intimate evening with each other.

    Getting home and having the kids blast into us is just a bonus, and we flirt with each other slyly while we put them to bed, and then sneak off behind a lockable door and consummate the evening and cherish one another in moisture and thrusting.

    It happens so seldom, that we get to get away, that it always feels like a first date, and we play on that, our little game.

    If your wife is not your best friend, well, I pity you. I can see in color, and you can't. She should be the number one thing of value that you own, and you hers. One would assume that you would do your best to secure and protect and cherish your most valuable possession.

    One would assume...

        Thursday, February 14, 2008

    I'm A Little Sick To My Stomach...

    I've been listening to Savage, and reading about this Bernie Ward situation while he talks, and I need a puke bucket. Figures the perv is a (lapsed) ordained Catholic priest. I think there might be two, maybe three priests who are not sexual perverts. They outta chemically castrate all those assholes.

    I essentially love San Francisco, beautiful city, but you could not give me a 10,000 sq ft penthouse in the finest building in the city. I suspect God is going to smite the city soon, like he did in 1906. That place has always been a cesspool of filth and perversion. Read your history.

    On a happier note, I take delivery of a brand new 22" LCD flat-screen monitor tomorrow, courtesy of a patrona who took pity on me. Things will doubtless improve around here, but I can hardly bear to look at this screen now. Thank you, you wonderful woman. Screw the rest of you pikers. Except for you, you, and oh, you over there.

    I gave Nat a Dixie Cup full of mineral oil today. Works for me. Express elevator to my asshole. She's still trying to unlodge her parasitical turd. Her energy is better, but again, there's that haunted, uncomfortable look she has to her.

    Oh, the post below about the charitable thing, that I contributed writing to, you have to pay to buy the book when it comes out, you meaning 'me'. That's fine. Like I said, it appears legit, and appears to be attempting to do good works in a fairly unique way.

    There's always something new under the sun...


    Ron Paul Sucks...

    ...big donkey dicks. And here's proof!


    Some Of You...

    ...might be interested in submitting some of your work to this place.

    I submitted my 'One Sunny Day, In A Field' post. Why not. Seems to be for a good cause, and it might be a chance to disseminate your work to a wider audience.

    Go for it.

        Wednesday, February 13, 2008

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go! And Worship!

    And so true...


    I Just Had To Put This Up... I can drool over the entire thing at my leisure.

    Via Kim du Toit, who is just a naughty, naughty man.


    I'm A Sucker...

    ...for a woman's cry for help.

    Check it out, and ask for God to pay attention and work His Will in this one, if you would.

    I judge a person (in part) by the friends they surround themselves with, and in this case, that is all I need to know.

    Let us pray...


    Yet Another Nat Update...

    I should have titled this post 'My Daughter's Asshole' but I don't need the riff-raff that sort of post brings. A lot of people have been nagging me to tell how she's doing, so I'll put up this response to my latest email so I don't have to write more:

    She’s on clear liquids for awhile to clear an impaction, and taking peristalsis enablers and stool softeners, and she sleeps all the time, and is fairly bouncy the rest of the time. The wife is picking up some Fleets today. That should be fun, making an ass-rocket.

    I do believe the prayers worked. She went from a full-on appendicitis attack, to a surgeon turning to the wife and telling her everything looked healthy, though there was a tiny chunk of poo in the intestine, that was normal. (after the CT scan).

    So there.


    Oh yeah, I forgot to mention the intestinal blockage. Some giant turd we are trying to whittle down.

        Tuesday, February 12, 2008

    If It Ain't One Thing, It's Another...

    Dammit. Remember how I told you my computer was messing up? Well, I suspected it could be the monitor, and it was. My beautiful, clear, flat-screen ViewSonic died this morning, so now I have my old round screened, blurry 17" back in place. Sonofabitch. Man, I can hardly look at it without my eyes watering.

    Nat's flitting around like a pink fairy, but her eyes look haunted. Whether by memory, or an uncertain knowledge of something looming in her future, I do not know. I pray this passes. Remind me to have the wife take her back in at the end of the week and have her sonagrammed.

    Damn, my eyes can actually see the screen redrawing, and its driving me nuts.

    Gotta go.

        Monday, February 11, 2008

    Assuming God...

    How does He work? Oh, I don't want to hear any of your religious bullshit...if He exists, how does He work?

    He did the Macro once, which is why you humans don't fish termites out of mounds with tubes of grass. I suspect He works in the micro, now, using his other creations (angels, dummy) to carry out His Will.

    Hey, God? Sorry about all those sparrows I made fall. Between my Red Ryder and my slingshot, we must have really disturbed your naps.

    He watched His kid die, like rabid fans watch the Superbowl. Wringing His hands, and unable to do a dang thing about it. And the other team got fucked. Heck, they went in confident, and slunk out even bigger losers than they had been on all previous seasons.

    So, why is Johnny alive? He shouldn't be. Events tried time and again, including clear servants of Darkness. Why is Nat alive, and about to be made well? And what would it do to your 'Faith' if she snuffed it? I have recounted the times I should have been killed here on this blog, countless times, and I have left a lot of stuff out.

    Is that God, or pure coincidence? If it's luck, then why can't I win the Lottery for shit?

    So, Atheist Boy, you're saying there's multi-levels of luck?

    Sounds like religion to me.

    I hate religions...


    The Saga Of Nat Continues...

    Her doctor sent her right away for a sonagram of her guts and girl parts. I asked the wife 'what, no blood test?' and she said nope, she asked him why, and he said that was just the first step, and he was jumping her ahead a couple of steps.

    I can deal with that.

    LL called and warned me about 'Cilia Disease' and I told the wife, and she left a note about it for the doc and then headed for the lab. She also said 'oh yeah, I have a friend with that', which blew me away, as I'd never heard of it, and here she knows someone with it.

    Nat had two bites of hamburger pattie today, and a little Gatorade. I really hope this is something they can fix without surgery. Oh well, I've been scared spitless for my children before. Won't be the first time, and doubtless not the last.

    This is the kind of ride you pay for when you buy the ticket.


    Well, it's official:

    The doctor just called, and he's lining up a surgeon. The wife and Nat are headed back to the hospital, and I guess they're gonna crack Nat ASAP.

    Do NOT let loons tell you your kid is okay when common sense makes you know better.


    Well, assuming you're still up...

    The surgeon poked, and prodded, and filled her with ink, and determined that yea verily, the appendix was wroth with poo, but that there was a proper air bubble behind it, so it was written that he scribed scrips for potions and such, wherewith to cleanse the girl, without slicing her open, and the people said...

    We shall see.

    And she did become condemned to a liquid diet for some days, and to ingest the sorcerer's potions, in the hopes that said blockage will return to the heck in which it belongs, thus to be expelled out into the dark nether regions, and thence into the River Styx.

    And the Princess, and the Queen, were released back to their castle, from whence they came, yet still tarried for awhile at the sorcerer's, waiting for the magic scrolls and potions with which to revive the Princess, her still abed, stoned out of her everlovin mind.

    The Queen sounds tired, and as empty as a summer's chrysalis, when I speak to her on the speaking stone. A device which I can ill afford to utilize for too long, ere my seed wither and die, and my brain develop the wasting sickness.


    You Get What You Pay For...

    ...when you vote for Obama.

    You buy the rope you will be hung with.

    Via Protein Wisdom.


    More Prayer, Please...

    My dear friend LL needs her family lifted up, especially her sister, who just lost a baby. LL is having a rough patch, too.


        Sunday, February 10, 2008

    Pray For Nat, Please...

    It is very likely that she has appendicitis, and the wife is taking her in to the ER soon. Nat is suffering quite a bit. We thought it was flu, but it has gone on too long, and when you touch her just above the right hip on the abdomen, she yells and cries.

    So, any sincere prayer to Jesus and His Dad would be greatly appreciated.

    I hate seeing my kids broken...


    Well, the wife just headed to ER with Nat. Nat went from being lethargic and wincy, to bouncing around from the excitement of adventure. I made her stay seated. For all we know, she could be ready to burst.

    The wife packed for two days, cuz we have no experience with this. Heck, they might crack her and send her home tonight, for all I know.

    Anyway, all Christian prayers are appreciated.


    Guess who just walked through the door? Right, the wife and Nat. They wait for nearly three hours, then the Doc brings her in, pokes, prods, and listens to her and pronounces that according to his expert opinion, she has no appendicitis or bowel obstruction.
    Note something missing? Yeah, any sort of blood test, especially to check the WBC count.


    So, we're taking her to her regular doctor tomorrow afternoon, and she is sitting over the toilet right now, her hair pulled back, feeling like she has to puke. Gall Bladder? Fuck if I know. She's got no fever, no signs of the flu (other than the nausea), and she can't even eat ice cream. Or candy. We've offered her all her favorites.

    I'm stumped. But at least they get to sleep in their own beds tonight.

    Thanks for all the prayer, folks.

    To be continued...


    It Occurs To Me...

    ...that I haven't written anything lately that is overtly offensive, racist, or anything else that makes a hippie cry, or makes your big ole man-vagina clench up.

    Oh, my, you have got to hear this. Awesome.

    And my blood is boiling just fine without it. If anything happens to Nat, the doctor will be lucky to be working in an emergency room when I kick the door open and enter, with extreme prejudice. Maybe they can sew his head back on.

    So how's that bat-eared nigger Muslim drug-abuser doing? You know who I meant right away, didn't you. Hey, didn't we hang a Hussein recently? After defenestrating his two bastard rapist sons and then blowing their rotten guts out in the courtyard?

    I don't know why we don't equip certain men in fire teams with Thompson subguns. The .45 ACP round is like says, forever. Wanna fire up some drugs, strap on your vest, and attack some grunts? Fine. Enjoy landing on your back, half your head shot away with one round, your chest crushed by five more.

    My blood is up, and the urge to slaughter is strong, almost unbearable. When I was in the RDF (Rapid Deployment Force) on an airfield, and the C-130's were sitting there, us sitting in the shade of a wing, moving as the sun moved, and the ammo trucks came up and began passing out cases of bullets and grenades and rockets, and we started loading mags, pouching grenades, and tying down rocket tubes, I've never felt so alive.

    Even though I knew from briefings that we were just being used as Reagan's saber, to rattle, while he achieved some political goal, and that we were being spied on by Russia six ways from Sunday, including from space, still, I felt alive, for a bit. A treasured toy, taken off the shelf, to go to infinity, and beyond.

    It wasn't complete coitus interruptus. They'd load us up, and fly us somewhere, and let us shoot the shit out of stuff. Camp out for a week. Or five. Fed us good. Lotsa breaks. Camp Killer. When we started trying to off each other, they figured we'd had enough, and take us back home. Several of us, more than once, ran 10 miles to off post (from the firing range) and bought cases of beer and whiskey to put in our empty rucks, and then run back with them. Last time I did it, I was 30, 31 years old. And it was effortless. And...

    Worth it.


    Pity Me...

    One of the wife's clients (rich) had her son buy her a plasma TV (huge) and they adore the wife, and said 'here take this old (3 yrs) TV if you want it' so the wife had her boss (woman) drop by and meet her and help her muscle this TV (huge) into the back of our car, and then when the wife got home, I scampered out to help her bring it in.

    Now, we had/have (giving it away to my Baby Marine) a big TV. Our old TV had blown, years ago, and I had me some cash, so I headed down to K-Mart on the evening of the day after Christmas, to buy a TV. Money was really no object (at the time) but it was nearly closing time, the store was empty of customers, and lo and behold, this little sweetheart had her price gun out and was marking things either up, or down.

    I found a floor model I liked, and there were no more, other than it, to sell me. I grimaced, and grumped about how it was on all the time, and had been way used, and poked and prodded by customers and their kids, and she looked into my eyes, and took pity on me, and marked it from about $687, down to about $180. Sold.

    It has done us well over the years, just one burned out electronic thingy ('scuse all the technical jargon) that the guy was able to fix in the shop while the wife waited. The wife, beauty that she is (and don't forget the great tits) rarely has to pay full shop rates. I think the guys secretly hope she'll ravish them for $40 off the bill (she doesn't. I think).

    So anyway, the wife and I hump this big bastard Magnavox (with built in VHS and DVR players) out of the back, and into the house, and get it all set up in the entertainment center (while the old TV shivers in fear on the floor) and today, I'll be fucked if I don't feel like someone has lain a 2x4 good and properly across my lower back.

    I coughed this morning, just a little one, and my back screamed in pain, and I said to myself 'oh, fuck! I've got a kidney stone!' and I mentioned it to the wife, and she says 'no, dummy, you were throwing huge televisions around last night. Our old one is 27".

    Duh. I'm an idiot. She's so short, that when we work together like that, I have to drop down to her level to keep the weight from going downhill on her. Now, taking heavy stuff upstairs, I can take the bottom end, and stand up straight.

    But I have sure been pounding down the Ibuprofen today. Ow.


    When Police Don't Do Their Job...

    ...the People will.

        Friday, February 08, 2008

    Absolute Perfection In Womanhood...

    I posted one picture of this chick before, but didn't know who she was.

    Allow me to present you with: Anita Dark.

    Proof of God...


    Blog Bleg...

    My Baby Marine is making a road trip across several states, and he wanted to borrow one of my guns. No can do. The idea makes me nauseous. I'd sooner give him one of my kids.


    Any ideas what he could buy for around $200, in 9mm or .45? Doesn't has to be a workhorse, just has to go bang at the correct end, consistently. Should be able to find mags for it. Should be able to handle Hydrashok ammo.


        Thursday, February 07, 2008

    I Am An Enigma...

    An enigma, wrapped in a tortilla, shrouded in guacamole....

    People keep trying to 'figure me out', so they can slap a comforting label on me. Hullo! (taps self on side of skull with knuckles) I can't figure me out. So what chance do you have?

    All we (well, most of us) have is pixels to look at, the written word, putting down thoughts, and dreams, and ideas, and stories from your life, and I will cheerfully label you an idiot should your thrown pixels form a Rorschach blot of discernible idiocy. Or, you could just disagree with anything I say. Idiot.

    Crap, I'm suddenly hungry, after having pigged out on three yogurts in three days. The wife and John are upstate with him getting a Sleep-Study tonight. Nat and I are alone. We'll snuggle on the couch and eat too much ice cream and she'll talk girl talk and I'll pretend to listen.

    Nat has my powers of sleep, when properly motivated. If she wants to earn something, boom, she's out like a light, and sleeps like a lump until I wake her. Tonight, to wake her up, I made sounds with my hands formed in a megaphone over my mouth...something between a Humpback Whale, and Cthulu rising, and she came flying into my room yelling that 'she'd heard something', and squinting from the light of my monitor, her hair askew, her eyes wild.

    Gosh, I love these special father/daughter moments so...


    I Am Not A Pundit...

    Please don't ever call me that. For one thing, it sounds too close to 'pudendum' for comfort.

    Don't ever call me a journalist, either, or worse yet, a 'citizen journalist'. A garbageman has a more noble profession, and does more for me and mine. Journalists and Tort Lawyiars are the algae suckers in the fish tank...wait, algae suckers make my tank clean and shiny, a benefit.

    I'm just a guy who writes stuff that comes into his fingers. And puts up nude pics to piss of those who deserve to be pissed off. Yet they keep coming back...

    Short of banning, I cannot cure some of these lice. They proclaim to hate me, yet here they are. I get my most current writings thrown back in my face elsewhere, and I'm all like, 'Dude! I hate you, and I've never been to your shitty blog...' They pore over my writings obsessively, chewing their nails, and taking notes.

    Must be journalists...


    Do Me A Personal Favor...


    Go here to my blogbuddy Doc In The Box, email him, and see what he and his boys need, and do what you can.

    He's on his FOURTH tour to Iraq. He's a cheerful and upbeat kinda guy, but that has to wear you down. And read and comment on his blog. I think he likes that. Wish him well, whatever.

    God Bless you, Doc.

        Wednesday, February 06, 2008

    Can We Start Killing Them Yet?

    I'm tempted to say that this woman was just a plain ole dumb bitch for even going to that shithole full of wealthy brown trash, but no American, even if she was Rag-American, should be allowed to be treated like that.

    I don't care about your stupid worthless third-world customs, your stupid religion with its baby raping founder, or anybody else's opinion, anywhere.

    You touch the hair of an American head, your country should be left a smoking hole.

    Sadly, everyone in our government has grown a vagina, and McCain is just the bullet-headed penis to fuck us all with his nasty diseased face, and even nastier belief system.

    Spread em, people, either Penis-Head McCain, or Strap-on Hillary. We're about to get fucked.

    And don't even get me started on that Muslim fuckhead Hussein Obama...


    So, Everybody's Sick, I Guess?

    As I stagger around the blogosphere, I see people sicker than maybe even me, still posting, sick as dogs. I have been sleeping like a dead dog most of the day, when I wasn't watching over the kids, croaking harshly at them while covered in a blanket.

    Nat karate chopped John on his arm...yes, she used her burgeoning powers for evil. I sent her to bed for the rest of the day. She wailed, and begged for a spanking instead...what is it with chicks and spankings, anyway?

    I told her no, of course, but that if she didn't shut up most quick-like, she was going to miss out on her church girl's club meeting tonight. That shut down the air raid siren.

    You know, the little donkey is afraid of the toilet flushing sound? Yeah, she does her business, washes up, then rushes over and flushes and bounds out of the bathroom like demons are on her tail. What the fuck is that all about? So, I make her go in and stand there and flush a couple of times, because she wakes my ass up in the early morn doing that shit.

    One time, I drew in my breath, pointed to the toilet, and screamed "OCTOPUS TENTACLES!!!" Yes, she bolted. She got two extra flushes for 'Cowardice in the Face of Octopus'. She'll come around...

    Gack, I would normally kill for a cheese Danish, and I looked at a package of them from Costco a bit ago, and they just looked like infected bed sores to me.
    And the wife, cruel Daughter of Eve, and Architect of the Falling of Mankind, cooked Tuna Helper tonight, a meal which I normally relish. It actually woke me from my slumber, and I gagged, closed my door and put a towel under it.

    I intercommed her on the phone and asked her what the fuck? Are you stewing a week-old dead whale's asshole that you found on the beach? She did not appreciate that, much. Still, I'd like to think I was the offended party.

    I was (weakly) watching America's Most Fucked Up Police Videos (or whatever it's called) on the brain-sucker a bit ago, and I got to thinking, heck, you caught this fucker dead to rights, on camera, pulled 80 pounds of cocaine out of his trunk, he nearly killed everybody on the road he met trying to get away from you, and in fact injured a few and caused a lot of property damage, his car is stolen, the guns you take off him are stolen, dispatch has told you who he is and he just got out of prison and has a record as thick as a good-sized city's phone book...

    Why not just cap his dumb monkey-ass right there by the side of the road? Parents could tell their wide-eyed kids, faces pressed up against the mini-van as they slowly cruise by "There, look, you little bastards, that's what not eating your peas and sassing your Mom comes to..."

    Now, give me some pussy excuse about 'rights'.

    Well, I've done my 500 words, here, 510 actually, so my work here is through.
    Just funnin. I could stay here, burping out words, until my anus pulled me desperately to the bathroom. Don't have to worry about puke. Gotsa bucket. Sitten on a towel in case Mister Anus gets frisky, and plots a counteroffensive. He does always attack from behind, you know.

    No, I just happened to have Word open, and on a whim, copied and pasted into it and did the word count thingy. I'm not one of those writers who starts the day sternly, with a resolution as to word count, or page count. Keep your expectations low to non-existent, and you'll never be disappointed. Sometimes, you might just wildly exceed your expectations, and the clouds will part, and a gleaming ray of sun will shine down and bathe your Venus in light, as she rises out of the sea in her shell.

    Happened to me, with the wife. No expectations, and suddenly I am Croesus in the pussy department. Oh, yeah, and in love, too. Almost forgot that part.

    Some of us are cursed to be born as blocks of stone, and we are formed, over the years, by people taking whacks at us with hammers. I am the sum total of the creation of others. Oh, sometimes, I see something, standing there on my base, and ponder it, and flakes of stone fall off on their own, and more of the final shape is revealed.

    But mostly, it's just whackin.

    This might be as good a place as any to tell you that if this bullshit keeps up with my computer, I'm gonna say fuckit. I've got lots of stuff to read. It took me 40 minutes of restarting this morning to get the login screen to come up. I am too old to waste so much time on sitting there and pushing a button over and over again. And no, I have no idea what is causing it. Computer skills have moved beyond me.

    So, ta ta for now, gotta date with a toilet. She's gonna suck my big ass, and take all I can give her.

    Then maybe I'll have Nattie come in and flush her. Twofer.



    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go! And worship!

    She is so right on this one, and gets up in anybody's face with it any time anywhere, and doesn't back down.

    Thank God for a sane voice amongst the political punditry in these times.


    Kate Coe Asked Me, Laughing... link to this.

    I wonder if that is the same loon who thinks I am actually Bill Gates. Gosh, I wish I was.

    Here is Kate's email to me:

    I've met Anne Coulter once--in the company of Mickey Kaus, and I've written for the Jewish Journal, so they must be unaware of my anti Anti-Semitism. And while I've freelanced for FOX, so has most everyone in TV. I've worked for Larry David, who wasn't too upset about my alleged ties to Rupert Murdoch.

        Tuesday, February 05, 2008


    1. The mistaken belief that because one is in school, one is receiving an education.

    2. The act of one bragging about the experience after they graduate. Sometimes done in groups (See: circle jerk).

    noun. sometimes verb, as in, "Man, I just got Eduturbated real good in class at the junior college, today!"

    Sometimes confused with 'Education', an archaic process, no longer in use today. (See: buggy whip).


    How To Work A Room...

    Have you ever played team sports? Where some people were just in the way (your team) and everybody else just wanted to take your head off (their team)?

    Yeah, it's kinda like that. Only with no fouls. To either side. As in, whatever you, or any of them do, there's no fouls, until the police arrive.
    You can't say 'Uncle!' or 'Ow, quit it!' Well you can, but if anybody listens, they're just gonna laugh, and kick you some more.

    You generally shouldn't introduce weapons until somebody else does. We're talking a bar, here. The chicks have weapons. Chairs and tables don't count, they're fair. Knives and guns get folk's attention, and amp them up. You're already in trouble. Do not swing chairs (usually) poke with them. Legs, backs (of the chair) it's all good.
    Small round tables are great to slam into people, without even lifting them up, and/or you can just flip them over to slow any pursuit down.

    Now, here's where we come to a decision: to run outside, or not to run outside? That is the question. Be you alone, and competent, I suggest you stay inside, unless you want to face a bunch of assholes in the dimly lit arena of a greasy parking lot.

    No, trust me, someone(s) are frantically dialing 911, so just wait for the police to get there while you kick ass as best you can, and they will give you a nice safe ride away from there, and you can take a taxi back there after you get released on your own recognizance and pick up your car. Heck, I've convinced cops to let me take my car and follow them to the station.

    Don't try to break a beer bottle to fight with. That's movie shit. They use bottles made out of sugar. A longneck Bud (ptui!) bottle makes a lovely club, suitable for smashing wrists of arms reaching for you, bashing in temples (that's gonna make you likely post a good chunk of bail) and just causing general mayhem.

    Got pool cue? Excellent weapon. Turn it around butt first, and hold the skinny end with your other hand, and poke with it. They pull a knife? Slap! that pool cue down on the edge of the pool table, and voila! Sword!
    And pool balls, thrown accurately, are like well-aimed cannon fire.

    Caught in a good old fashioned Hollywood brawl? Gosh, I love those. Spin slowly as you head for the door, watching everything. I had a guy fall across me and my date's table one time with a switchblade sticking out of his butt-cheek. I saved the drinks, kneed the table over, and my date and I went and finished our drinks outside. A thing of beauty.

    With all of the bouncers infesting clubs nowadays, you hardly get to see those anymore. I used to bounce in bars by myself. Stab one guy in the neck, and everybody else labels you a stabber. It's hard to get a good fight on after that. Add to that, the two Town Terminators were friends of mine, because I had made them so with free drinks and excellent service and, well, I was afraid of them, and they were afraid of me, too, and that can lead to a beautiful relationship.

    One of the Terminators hit a guy so hard one time, it sounded like a 50 lb bag of cement dropping five stories and hitting the sidewalk, and the poor bastard literally elevated, flew towards me, hit the floor, and skidded to a stop on the rug at my feet. Unconscious. Awesome.

    What starts a fight? Besides just for fun, I mean. Win a game of pool, especially if money is involved. Have some dude's girl checking you out half the night, and you don't know it (chicks are sly) and then she comes over and asks you to light her cigarette. Snort derisively at any number of sports teams that appear on the television. Dress nice. Just stand there.

    See? No reason at all, and every reason in the world.

    And this is why, when I (rarely) go to a bar, in the afternoon, to avoid the evening crowd, I go pretty, well, a lot heavily armed. Too old to fight, too pretty to take one in the face. I used to think 'the more, the merrier!' but I honestly don't think I could take more than three, maybe four assholes today.

    And then home for the liniment and ibuprofen...


    Bullshit Rumors...

    'They' like to keep us worked up. If it ain't one thing, it's another. I swear, I can hear them giggling from here.

    So, there's gonna be restrictions on fat people eating at all you can eat buffets? Would you like to be the cashier to have to tell Ted Kennedy he needs to either order a dinner salad, or leave?

    That water buffalo would be rumbling around the establishment, bloody veins in his teeth, with two handfuls of ripped off testicles dangling from his white-knuckled fists like small, bloody bolos.

    Yeah, tell Al Sharpton, 'hey, you fat fuck, move on...' Get ready to go work at McDonald's, or WalMart.

    Speaking of, What if you're a big fat bitch/bastard in a hurry, and just want a sack of burgers to feed your family tonight because you're beat from working?

    Sorry, Fatso...limit one per hippo.

    Yeah, that's about the quickest way to start a revolution in America I can think of.

    And first, we kill everybody in Berkley California, and then put that shithole to the torch.


    I'm So Sorry...

    I know what I should do, but I explained the armpit maneuver in my post below terribly. I am a bad, bad writer.

    Please go reread the updated, corrected post, so that you do not make any terrible mistakes.

    Sorry. In short, go behind the armpit, not from the front.



        Monday, February 04, 2008

    My Work Here Is Through...

    Nattie did me proud tonight. I said "c'mere, there's something on your shoulder..." and I reached out for the millionth time to Charlie Horse her, and her eyes lit up red, and she swept me away and counter-punched so I had to block and then leapt back away from me there, on the couch, and shook her finger at me.

    7 years old.

    I told her mom to check her shoulder for poisonous alien bugs, and the wife moved in for her piece, and Nat slapped and redirected like a professional, until the wife whacked Nat's elbow for hurting her, and paralyzed her for a bit...

    Can you even imagine my joy?

    Oh, Nat wailed, and squalled there on the couch, and the wife almost bought it, until I looked at Nat like the proud father I am and said 'damn, that is some of the best faking I ever have seen...'

    ...and Nat grinned like the little doofus she is, and I said 'come here' and pointed to a spot on the floor in front of me. And she shivered and stood, and held out her arm when I commanded, and I slapped on her elbow, and said 'there, you're fixed...'

    And, she was.

    Just try to imagine her at 10. Try.

    She will likely kill you if you jump bad. I love seeing those red Terminator lights go on in the wife's and Nat's eyes when they 'get' a concept. And I have the bruises and scratches to prove it. It's like playing with kittens, who have no real control, yet. But, it is coming...

    Control. What does that mean? People speak in awe about 'a 50 pound pit bull'...well, what about a 50 pound human being? Teeth...check. Paws...worthless. Fingers...check.
    Forehead...check. Sharp elbows...check. Ability to fetch knives from the kitchen...check.

    Oh, I'm sorry, you haven't taught your kids how to use weapons? I'm not talking handguns, or AK's, but you don't give them a paring knife to peel and serve you an apple? An orange? What, your kids psychos?

    Seek help, and/or reconsider your 'parenting'.

    Play games with them. Don't talk about the evil out there...they'll learn about that soon enough. No, make games where you toss them an orange, and if they skewer it, they get a treat. Like training a dog. I've said it before.

    I said it more than once in earlier posts, I feel like I'm 18, but I can revert easily to 7, and see how they see. You adults are the looming, shadowy, loud-talking giants in your little one's lives. Get down to their level. Play. There's the '1 2 3 4' game. It helps you, don't want to break any little fingers. And that teaches control. To the both of you.

    Just put your fingertips on theirs, and count. One through four, and then back, and then switch hands. So simple, even a child could do it. Teach them to protect their thumbs, every so often, by jacking up one of theirs. Not too harshly, heal.

    Watching that 'Terminator' show on Fox tonight...what, you don't watch it with your wife and kids?

    Anyway, the Sarah Conner character put down an elbow move so smooth on a miscreant, such a perfect elbow whatever combo, that I had to grab for a kleenex. Absolutely beautiful, and it would have totally worked.

    I still spend much of the show with my palms clasped together in prayer, hoping someone (or some thing) kills that little vagina of a son of hers.

    When the chicks are tougher than you, and it is believable, well...

    You're a cunt.