Monday, March 31, 2008
...I am bedeviled by your human emotion.
I actually felt guilt today. I think. How do you people handle this? Like Butthead, I hate things that suck. And your stupid emotions, the range of them, sucks.
I liked me better when I was me. I was comfortable in my skin, being whatever I am. And then the wife came along and began to chip away at the stone, and make me feel. For someone other than me. Be very happy, and relieved that you are nowhere near me as I molt.
I want to hang on to my old self, and pull it out as needed, and rub it for the genie to appear and do my bidding.
Do I have hope? What is this 'Hope' of which you speak? You want me with you when the shit encounters the rotating oscillator. You want my darkness, the things I can do without my pupils changing at all. And still, some of you think I am bragging.
I don't want to be me. I hate me. I can imitate sanity, but it is not me. Though I am not insane. I never have hurt someone who didn't practically beg for it.
One night, evening, actually, the wife and I, pre-kids, were in a mall food court, just before a movie we wanted to see was to start. A large group of youthful black gangsters came in and invaded the place. And I could smell the scent of gun oil, and the sharp bright tang of brass cartridges...
Some of them hard-eyed me, and scoped out the wife as well, she in her prime. Mindful of surveillance cameras, I slipped my (unlicensed, unregistered) .45 Colt auto out of my waistband (holsters show intent, in court) and put it in my lap, under the table. I removed my mags from my Bianchi ballistic nylon pouches, and distributed them into my coat pockets, and the front of my pants.
I caught the eye of the gang's Alpha Male, quite by accident. I was telling the wife of the escape route we would need to take, and as I scanned the court, I caught his eye, and knew he was the leader.
He saw me seeing him, and I believe he saw his death, because as soon as I registered him, I knew I was going to kill him first.
I could smell that scent that denotes a shotgun. Those plastic tubes full of death (shotgun shells) have a scent. As do rubber grips, and slide assemblies. More than one. Earlier in the week, one of these black gangstas had his shotgun, mounted on a strap on his shoulder, had an accidental discharge in a mall, that fragged him an a couple of friends. Left a nice crater in the floor of the JC Penney's.
Suffice to say, they thought about fucking with me, and didn't. Did I look intimidating? Heck no. A couple of whites, twenty gangstas? Shit, don't kid yourself.
But I had a bullet for anybody who cared to be my daisy, and they knew it. When the wife and I rose to go to the theatre across the big hall, I slipped my pistol up under my armpit. That, folks, is why you Parkerise.
The wife came home from work today, and said 'honey, cover me while I take out the trash, there's a tweaker out there collecting cans and bottles'. I don't think she knows, but I had her covered with a scoped rifle both there, and back.
She moved out there wide, so as to present me a target if one lunged at her. Then moved in, dumped the trash bag in, and came on back home.
Yep, that's my baby. And then Johnny sang her the 'Welcome Home' song, even though she'd been home for an hour (at least) already, and he had sung it to her when she got home.
I love my little family.
Fuck Mohamad Up The Ass...
...with a sharp stick. And fuck allah, too, piss on all their unholy names. Boy fucking cocksuckers.
Gun all of those motherfuckers down in great steaming bloody heaps, and when they hide behind their children, shoot through them to get to the fucking goatfuckers. The bitches just breed more cockroaches, and the kids grow up to kill and explode. Like little feral beasts.
I shall never turn the other cheek to this accursed 'people', and if that damns me, so be it. I will not share my Heaven with these sons and daughters of pigs, apes, and dogs. I place the bottom of my boot on their faces, and grind until I hear crunching.
Bring it on, you buttfucks, I'm ready for you. I can't wait to stand over you as you twitch in agony, and grind my red-hot rifle barrel into one of your eye sockets. Or maybe I'll cut your neck, like you seem to enjoy doing so much. Or maybe I'll slit open your throat, and pull your tongue out through the hole. No, I'd have to touch your filthy self.
I don't mind your blood splattering up my arm, but I don't otherwise care to touch you. I'd sooner butcher a leprous pig.
Fuck, the well of my hatred for all of you cocksucking motherfuckers knows no bounds. You'd do better taking on Satan in Hell, than fucking with me. He taught me everything I know, and I just quiver at the thought of slaughtering any of you.
With most extreme prejudice.
Oh, did I mention Fuck Mohamud? Fuck him up the ass with a Jewish queer's dick.
Tell your mom I'm ready to fuck her. An Arab woman is the only woman I'd wear a rubber for. I don't need any disease common to farm animals.
Like Asking For Extra Mayo...
...on your shit sandwich. You are still eating shit.
That is how I think of this current political season. How do these cocksuckers manage to dominate the news cycles, and get people to actually care about them? When you can answer that question, you have revealed the man behind the curtain.
I never thought I could see someone as bad as Bush has turned out to be, and then they throw three of them at us.
Of course, you can always vote for Ron Paul. If you're retarded. Please, tell me the difference between Ron Paul and Ralph Nader? Never mind, I don't care.
As of this point, I do not intend to vote. I may change my mind, but I really want to punish the McCainchurian candidate. So I'd vote for Hillary, if I vote. Because a Muslim drug dealer cannot be allowed into the Presidency. Or anywhere near it. I am extremely uncomfortable even having him in the Senate.
Whatever happens, I guarantee you that the next four years after January 2008 will be interesting times, indeed.
This Bitch Kinda Scares Me...
Okay, yeah...she scares me a lot.
We're All Friends Again, Right?
Some of you late arrivals to the party are lucky I didn't leave it up all day (at the very least). I saw the reactions I was getting, and wussed out. Oh well, that's the end of the fun for this year.
Johnny has been vacuuming like a madman for about an hour, and had no idea he was dead. Nattie has made herself a 'stage', and is making up songs, and is forcing us all to come listen.
When the wife got home from work this morning, I told her of the depth of my perfidy, and she gasped, and said "You know if Baby Marine read that he is already in his car on the way here!"
Ooops. Oh, and she thinks I'm terrible.
It just occurred to me that this blog is like Seinfield (Seinfeld?) a very entertaining show that was about nothing. I would shoot myself if I had to write about politics every day. Britney is more interesting. I've laid out my thoughts and beliefs on Life, the Universe, and Everything, and I don't like to repeat myself.
Maybe this blog is winding to a close, achieving entropy. When you start killing your kids for amusement, well, that could be a sign. I really enjoy doing this, and I'm not really bored. Yet.
I still have about a million stories in me, but I'm not sure I want to, or even should share them with the big wide world. Though it's not like I'm gonna lose my job if I do, or anything.
I'm at a crossroads right now, and the only thing you know for sure about crossroads, is that some distance down the road, you're gonna come to another one.
The world has turned into a boring, politically correct place, and the world has lost its mind.
Death holds no fear for me. I would embrace it with open arms.
I figured it would bug y'all some, but I didn't expect this level of emotion. So I'm calling off the prank, and blaming it all on Wendy. It was her idea. Honest. Sorry for any damage I may have done to your psyches, and thanks for all of your kind words. I just went down a bit ago and gave John and Nat each a chocolate bunny, and they are watching cartoons and munching contentedly, and yes, they are both very much alive.
I'll leave the evidence of my perfidy up down there. Have a great day!
Johnny died peacefully in his sleep last night. I can't go on anymore. Goodbye.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
...to have on
while you write.
Don't bother with the video. Rammstein is good, too. Inspires poetry. Bloody, sticky stuff, stapled to the walls, as chains with hooks dangle and jingle, with torn meat dripping on them...
But maybe that's just me.
Especially For Nate...
I teared up watching this
, and I don't know why.
All Volunteer Military...
What part of that confuses you?
And if you join voluntarily, I think you should be able to quit voluntarily
, as long as it is not under arms in a foreign theatre of war.
Lose their benefits? Fine. Lose any future ability to make a claim to the VA? Fine. Have their future wages garnisheed to collect back any bonuses paid to them? Fine. Criminalize their behavior and jail them?
Been there, told to go back, don't wanna go? Well, here's your BCD (Bad Conduct Discharge). Good luck on ever getting a decent job again. Ever.
People vote with their feet all the time. And don't give me any of that UCMJ bullshit. If you quit a job, they can't come to your house when you're done and make you go back and help them finish a big new order that just came in. And put you in jail if you tell them to go fuck themselves.
And yet, that is just what the US Military does.
Join, serve your term, and get out, if you want. Fuck Stop Loss.
We are not conscripts. We are Americans.
...I have no problem with Al-Sadr and his goons holding on to their weapons, which is what the latest story I just read on Drudge says. I won't give up mine, either, just because somebody demands I do.
Don't get me wrong, I'd still be more than happy to put a bullet in his fat head, but he is most definitely what passes for a politician over there. He's roughly the equivalent of one of our State Governors.
It has always seemed like a crime to me that our troops take weapons away from private citizens over there, weapons they really, really need. Yeah, they shoot at you with one, and JDAM their entire house flat and turn their family into wet confetti.
Or leave them alone. Work within their system, make goodwill wherever you can, realize that every Arab man, woman, and child lies as easily as they breathe, and you'll be okay.
And if an IED goes off, kill everybody within a half a mile, just to be sure.Update:
Drudge is trumpeting a banner headline on his site that says 'Muslims More Numerous Than Catholics!'
Well, duh. That like saying 'Cockroaches More Numerous Than Humans!' Shit, we already knew that.
I might as well take my fingers for a spin...
My bladder took me for a walk at 5:30 this morning, and there was a light dusting of snow over everything. Woke up at 9am, and the skies were bright blue, and the sun flooded into the house, and it was God giving us a hug and telling us He likes us best, far better than those states east of us, whom He is smiting.
Man, I farted my ass off all night long from those damn bean burritos yesterday. I even took a few preemptive beano. You ever fart so loud, it wakes you up? And they were scent free. Dammit. I like to fluff the covers, and sniff them up. I believe in recycling. Well, of my own vapors.
Just one of several reasons the wife and I sleep in separate rooms.
We still have Easter eggs left, and I was a tad peckish when I arose, so I opened the fridge and the wife has peeled several, and placed them in a ziplock bag. They are still colored, though, so I picked the two that looked the least tumorous, put them in a small bowl, did a couple of grinds of sea salt, cut up some French Bread and toasted and buttered it, poured a shot of bourbon, and settled in front of the television.
Every news channel was clotted with Democrats. Arguing with Republicans who called them 'their friends'. We are fucked. So fucked. And I bet these boiled eggs begin to percolate soon. Probably about the time Nat gets home from church. And I can grab the back of her head and stuff it into my butt crack and honk one that'll blow her hair back.
Ahhhh, the precious memories she'll have.
I know I've told this here before, but it's worth another tell. When we all lived at the other house, and my Baby Marine and oldest daughter were still in high school and living with us, Johnny was just learning to motorvate around. He could crawl, and could pull himself up to a wavering stand, and somehow, he got up on the couch where his big brother was laying on his side, watching TV with me, I there in my easy chair.
Well, Johnny got behind him, and starting at his feet, began to inch-worm along, working very hard to probably get up to his neck and hug him around it. Johnny loves that boy.
Well, the elder son watched his movement, and when Johnny's head got even with his bunghole, the eldest blatted out a fart of alarming loudness, and vile affect. The funniest part, though, was that as the report was still resounding, Johnny popped up like an angry Prairie Dog. The look of absolute disgust and outrage on his maimed little face was priceless.
I laughed so hard, I literally couldn't stay in my chair, and slid to the floor. We were all in absolute hysterics. We watched a lot of Farscape in those days, and my nickname for Johnny was 'The Hymerian'. And Johnny couldn't unass that couch fast enough. He literally dove for the floor (and fresh air) and my eldest caught him and lowered him down. None of us could talk for at least ten minutes.
I blew Johnny off before I hugged him, and told his big brother to get his nasty ass into the bathroom and take a damn shit. I had to fan the front door for a bit. I was so proud.
The turd does not fall far from the bunghole.
So how's your hole? Family? HA! That's one of my faves. I used to use that on chicks all the time. It's the pause that sells it. Here is my new favorite joke I've seen going around the internet:
'So, two baby seals walk into a club...'
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Wherein I Perish...
I am so hungry. And everything I can think of to eat in the house turns my stomach. I have become a sensitive sort. The wife just left on a mission, and I begged pretty for some bean burritos from Taco Bell. I can always eat those. Though I really want a fuckin grilled steak.
Speaking of fuckin, I think I need to fuck the wife more. Or something. Damn, she's going crazy. Rearranging furniture, adding area rugs, and other unnatural acts. She's cleaning shit out, and cleaning shit up, and I wouldn't be a bit surprised if I woke up in the dumpster on trash day.
Her boss/partner gave her a two year old color (duh) TV today, and a nearly new DVD player for it. She's putting it in her room, which is just fine, but it absolutely HAS to have all of her furniture in there moved around in order to fit. And she wants a small secretary. The desk, not the midget.
Speaking of this 'partner' bullshit, how is 'the partner' buying a new big-ass plasma TV, and cares not a whit about a TV she likely spent hundreds of dollars on not long ago? Oh well, when she gets to work, the wife makes more than an LVN/LPN, and sometimes as much as an RN. Hospice, dontcha know. Like garbage-men, few people want to do (or can handle) that type of work. So it pays. And it costs those who do it, too.
So I don't bitch too much when she redecorates. And the families who are saying 'better you than me' don't bitch about paying her wage.
I couldn't do it.
Friday, March 28, 2008
What a day. There's a little writing competition over at Bruce Bethke's blog that I'll likely not join because, though once a fan, CSI (Las Vegas...there are so many now) just makes me sad. I'm fine with death and all that, just not as the entree of every fucking meal.
Plus I had an eager new blogger drop by with a request, and dammit, homey don't play dat shit.
The wife is sad, because one of her charges died, and died hard and ugly. Like Nietzsche, apparently something, or some things, came for him at the end. One would like to think that bright beings tore him from their grasp. One would like to think. My Fraternal Grandfather, when his time came, he surrounded by sons and daughters and his wife, they saw him quivering in mortal terror, as the room darkened, and shadows crawled.
Might shouldn't read this at night. This is how I live, how I have always lived, since my youth. I'm used to it.
Your mileage may vary.
The wife went up and spent some time in the Bible. It comforts her. The kids and I watched Food Network downstairs, and ate chocolate eggs. Little ones. Crunchy. Delightful. I write this way to make the Writing Nazis nuts. Amuses me.
I submitted my 'One Sunny Day In A Field' post to folks that were going to put it in a book, and give it basically worldwide distribution. Trouble is, it was too long, so the editor sent it back with edits. Normal in the writing/publishing biz, eh? To my shame, I considered it. To my credit, I said, hey, this is perfect as is, and if you don't want it that way, it is your loss.
Scruples suck. But dammit, it's perfect.
G'night folks, any of you still up at odd hours. Be you reading this in Saturday's daylight, shame on you. Go do something with your family. Take your Dad out to lunch.
You just never know...
I went to this guys
blog (who also reads and comments here), and found out a couple of strange things. First, after serving in the Army for 24 years, he has gone back in, and luckily for him, he is a Major. And then I figured out he is 47 years old. And he's gonna be in Iraq, soon. Wow.
Sparrow, LL, you may want to contact him, and see if he wants or needs to become one of your adoptees.
I thought very long and hard after 9/11 about going back in and going over there in some capacity, either military, or civilian. As long as I could carry a gun. And then I realized that...
I'm a Non-Hack. My medical profile prevents me from performing any useful function, and they wouldn't even consider me. Blackwater was very interested in me, and the wife was going crazy at the idea I might leave her and go over. And frankly, since I gave up the idea, well, how many times has John had to go into the hospital?
Plus, I knew in my heart that I had become a non-hack. Couldn't hack it anymore. The first time I stepped out of air-conditioning into 120 degree heat, I would have likely fallen over dead.
Well, he's a Major, and will get whatever officer perks and stuff they get, and will likely end up as a Battalion S1 or S2, and write reports in an air conditioned office or TOC, but still, he's 47. And in Iraq. I am jealous, and feel more than a little diminished by that.
Throwing Something Up...
Yesterday was the wife's first real day off in quite a while. She went into an ecstasy of cleaning and straightening. She calls it 'puttering', and she actually likes
to do it. Gives her pleasure.
When I used to work, I got a day off, and it was lump time. Couch, bed, didn't matter. Back when I had friends, they would come to my place and nag me to go places with them, and I'd give in and go and have a little fun, but I never saw the point to it. It always seemed rather desperate, like 'dammit, we're here to have fun, so get to having fun, dammit!'
Heck, I can drink at home, and cheaper. And bars are full of assholes. Theaters are full of people who cough and talk. I can order movies in, make my own Orville Redenbacher buttered popcorn, Hebrew National hot dogs, and sit on my own couch in my underwear and scratch my balls as much as I want.
The wife took the kids out for lunch yesterday, after a long puttering session around the house. She kinda halfheartedly invited me along, knowing better, but I told her the truth, that I got to spend way too much time with them, and she doesn't, and it turns out I was right. They had a blast.
Johnny ordered curried rice as it was yellow, and yellow is his favorite color. Turns out he doesn't like it. His face was scandalized. Now he's downstairs with all their toy cooking utensils and toy foods and is 'running a Burger King'. Noble ambition...
Nat found a plastic treasure chest, and is putting her most valued treasures in it, hiding it upstairs, then running downstairs and making herself a treasure map so she can find it again. She is Pirate Nattie. Little role reversal going on here?
A long time ago when I was little, five or six, I went out into the front yard with a few boxes, and made a little storefront, and decorated it with my crayons. I had been saving up a bunch of empty food cartons and cans, and I loaded my shelves, and sat happily behind it, waiting for 'customers'.
My Mother came out, and told me there were people that would arrest me and throw me in jail for 'violating copywrite' or something, so in a panic, I cleaned it all up and threw it away. And I never played that game again.
What you do to them when they're small lasts forever.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
You Know How I Know The Shooters Are Muslim?
Because they are such fucking bad shots
Put me on that highway with a rifle, and everybody I shoot at dies.Update:
I was wrong
. Just stupid white boy tricks.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
is the most egregious examples of blatant anti-gun propaganda I have ever seen.
Read it. Read between the lines. A skilled writer ghost-writing for Sara Brady.
Do you see one
actual statistic showing so-called 'assault weapon's' statistics in America? No. Just tear-jerking bullshit about criminals, who are going to do what criminals do, regardless of the law(s).
And statistics collected from all over the world, doubtless made up, because who's counting in Darfur, and elsewhere.
Still think Fox is a Conservative news organization?
How Do You See The World?
I mean, the world around you. I could care less about the rest of it.
A bit ago, I was taking a nap, and a car door slammed. I sleep mostly on my back now, with my hands crossed at the wrist, on my chest. I neither moved, nor opened my eyes, but my consciousness swiveled like a turret, and locked on to what was going on outside. Menus showing me choices of my weapons, and submenus for possible threats appeared on the screen of my closed eyelids, and I could 'see' the entire room, the house, and the area immediately outside.
How do you folks see your world? I'm truly curious. This is how I live, and I'm okay with it, but I'm not so egoistic as to think I am unique.
With my eyes closed, I can see everything in my room. In my house. I go a bit nuts when the wife moves something, but then I incorporate it into my programming, and move on. This is very useful in the case of a big blackout. If you've ever been in a citywide blackout at midnight on a cloudy night, it will be the closest thing you will ever encounter to being a mile underground and having your headlamp fail.
Of course, the wife and I each have a large Mag-Lite by our beds, and flashlights placed strategically all over the house. You never know which room you'll be in when civilization goes away. We also have 'decorative' candles placed all over. One lit candle, in the right place, will give enough ambient light for you to move safely throughout the house.
Oh, and if you must shoot in low light or no light conditions, take your sight picture, close your eyes, and fire. I go so far as to put my opposite hand over my eyes. Even a .22 pistol's flash will leave you blind as a bat for a bit. 12 gauge? Fuggidabout it, blindo.
I honestly don't know if how I see the world is a skill, or an accident of birth, or if everybody can do it. Can you? When I saw the first Terminator movie, I was instantly comfortable with the way he looked at his world, except the red is just silly. I see in black and white and gray when I'm in that mode.
Just for your amusement, I'll relate a a tale. When I was in the police academy, they took us to the range for qualification. At the end, was our test, a sort of Hogan's Alley thing they had set up, with various stations to run to, including the first target, which included a cement drain pipe about three feet in diameter, with a silhouette target, shoulders and head, at the far end of it.
I watched various baby police pant and puff their way through the course, and then come back and high five their compatriots. My favorite part was when, just before the timer started, they'd flip their caps around backwards. Oh, puhleeze.
Well, like a dork, I had forgotten my earplugs, so I screwed a .38+P round in each ear, and slept until it was my turn.
When someone finally kicked the sole of my shoe and said it was my turn, folks had smoked enough cigarettes, that I was able to pick up a couple of butts, tear the tobacco part off, and screw them into my ears for ear plugs. I was using a Ruger Security Six .357, loaded with the aforementioned .38+P's, and had several speed loaders.
Step one of the course was to stand at the starting point, behind a door (just a regular door, held up by sandbags at the base) and then open it, and begin. This is where the macho men turned their hats around, and began to take in big whooping gulps of air, like they were gonna dive to a record depth. Don't do that.
I opened the door, took a knee, right in the doorway, shot the target at the end of the culvert in the face, rose back up, stepped behind the doorjamb, and shot all the rest of the targets from there.
I popped the cylinder, popped out the empties, yelled 'clear', and you could have heard a pin drop, as I pulled the butts out of my ears.
Took me less than thirty seconds. Mostly all head shots.
So there you go.Update:
Oh, to be clear, I reloaded several times during this. And I put the empty speedloaders in my pockets rather than drop them on the ground. Those damn things are expensive.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Hey There Little Red Riding Hood...
Is 'Hate Speech' Speech?
Then it is, ipso facto, Constitutionally protected speech. But you do not, can not be coerced into listening to it, or attending a venue where such speech occurs.
Don't like what I say here? Leave. Don't like what some un-American commie nigger 'preacher' says in his house of devil worship? Leave.
Yeah, I said nigger. I don't care if he was white, a person like that is a nigger.
Don't like it? Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.
Just don't forget, Greg Beck, that big black bouncer with a blog, was a dear blog-friend of mine before he died. We pissed each other off on occasion, but what are friends for? He wrote what he wrote, fearlessly and unashamed.
When you can't say what you want, whenever and wherever you want (other than 'Fire!' in a crowded theatre) you are no longer free.
That is all.
doesn't make your balls suck up inside your body. Or be you becunted, make flop-sweat form under your tits.
Folks, that's the real thing. That's how they really did it in those days.
Damn, my palms are still sweating.
Heisted from Lileks
Monday, March 24, 2008
I Said A Baaaaad Thing...
I have been known to do that. Anyway, the kids were upstairs doing LeapPad stuff, and the wife and I were watching 'Sean of the Dead', oddly, a movie we both enjoy together.
And this hot zombie chick wandered past the camera, with a great rack, and I said "You know, I'd actually put on a rubber to bang that..."
, and I had to pause the DVR while she rushed into the bathroom to dry heave. And when she came back out with disgust and murder in her eyes, I said "Hey, it's not like I'd put it in her mouth!"
Cue another trip to the bathroom, and more dry-heaving."Just because you think it doesn't mean you have to say it!"
she finally choked out. Boy, was she
I tried to explain that I would only do it if I was the last living human on earth, but she was having none of it.
So, How Was YOUR Easter?
Stolen from Denny
Before he met his untimely demise, the Easter Bunny apparently made it to Costco and bought two kick-ass Easter Baskets. Allow me to let you in on a secret: Costco is the absolute very best place to buy stuff for gift and gimmick themed holidays. And get there a week or two ahead, at least. Their fireworks for 4th of July are the very best, and those dang Easter baskets are the best I've ever seen.
Their buyers (for the store) are thoughtful, and only accept the best. All the candy in the baskets is big name, and fresh, and Johnny's stuff came in a dinosaur themed Nylon box, that unzips down into a play surface for the toy dinosaurs that came with it. Now, he is 'Mountain-Climber Johnny', and wearing it around as a back-pack.
I really cannot recommend Costco enough. If something breaks, whenever, you take it back, they give you store credit, if you can't find a replacement for it there. Perfect.
I always feel safe when I am in that store. No disgusting poor feral minorities, just well to do ones, nodding and smiling. Heck, when we're in there, we're probably the poorest ones in the building. Best and most diverse meat selection in two counties. The Sample Ladies (that's what our kids call them) love our kids, and light up when they see them. And stuff the little bastards at every station. And unlike other stores, we often actually end up buying the product that they are pimping.
Oh yeah, the wife and kids went to church yesterday, too. Something about somebody made some sacrifice for humanity, or something.
But hey! We got big packs of Starburst, Livesaver gummies, and bags of Jelly Bellies! And solid milk chocolate rabbits!
So, today lights the fuse on the rest of the week, and that fuse burns faster and faster for me, as the years click by. Friday will be here in a few minutes.
Enjoy the interval.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
But Who's Counting?
Well, the media, that's who. All the media outlets. The Big Lie is that any of them are Conservative in any way, shape, or form.
They keep tallying our honored dead, which, compared to other conflicts, are a minuscule amount. And while I grieve over each and every one of them, the media, ever the boll weevils, ever the bone cancer in the spine of America, continue to trumpet the score of our sacred dead as if it was half-time at some sporting event.
And our pampered people give themselves wedgies with their very own panties, out of ignorance of the fact that more Americans died in the water and on the beaches of Normandy on D-Day than have, and likely will die in this entire, and necessary subjugation of the Dervish.
Most of my 'fellow Americans' are not worth the hot piss I would take on them.
I would love to be proven wrong.
...just may be one of the coolest
things I've ever seen in my life.
Feelin Kinda Maudlin Today...
Actually, I feel more maudlin for Jesus than I do for myself, but I've got plenty of maudlin to go around. Everybody being all nice to Him, one day out of the year. For the most part. Like when people you see once a year come to your birthday and be nice to you, but you catch them sneaking glances at their watch.
And dammit, it musta hurt like a bitch when they spent most of the day killing Him. I bet He shudders over it til this day whenever He thinks about it. And then He got to die and go down to Hell for three days and nights. Imagine His joy. And his killers fucked Him up so bad, that when He rose from the tomb, He still had the marks on Him. Including the mark of His death-blow.
Thanks, Jesus. Better you than me. I mighta lasted 10 minutes, tops, and then said fukkit and charged at the nearest guy with a sword, just so we can get this crap over with, thank you very much.
And Jesus did it, on purpose, when with a word, He could have dropped everybody around Him dead, dead, dead. Think about that. I'm pulling out your fingernails with a pair of Vice Grips, and with a word, you can make it stop. Heck, with a word, He could have had every angel of His that was watching His torture in agony, go forth, and they would have cheerfully slaughtered everybody in the Middle East in about a half an hour. Or less.
And I bet He's pissed. Heck, the Bible says
He's pissed. He's coming back with a sword in His mouth, and a mighty army of Host with Him, and the devil's gonna get what for, as well as all of those who have served the Son of Perdition.
And Satan knew it the moment Christ's heart stopped beating, and the temple veil was rent by an angry angel. He knew right then, that he was well and truly fucked, and that furthermore, he had fucked himself. Pride's a bitch, ain't it, old boy?
Well, Lord, I don't believe in Easter, but I'm glad you went through with your sacrifice, whenever it happened. And grateful. And I really hope that the Rapture is real (though I have my doubts) because I really really don't want to be in your way when you come rolling back in.
Oh, and thanks for forgiving my sins. That had to take awhile.
I love you, Lord.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
If You Own Guns...
...or want to own guns, you need to hear this
By Ted Nugent, one of my very few living heroes.
down the throat of the next anti-war coward you meet.
The Stench Of Boiled Eggs Is Strong In This One...
The wife and our spawn are coloring ovoid chicken fetuses right now. I am cowering in my room, so as to not get any evil voodoo devil magic on me, or be blinded by harmful Easter Rays.
No matter how many times I attempt to convince the wife that all of these solstice holidays are just false Catholic constructs, so as to let other pagans join their cult back in the day, well...
Just like most of you who have been brainwashed about so-called 'holy-days' since childhood, her face clenches like a fist, and she decorates trees, and the house, and makes fertility symbols, and yesterday I actually ate a cookie in the shape of Our Lord's cross. Hope I don't go to hell for that.
Cruciform cookies aside, I do not mind having a candy-intensive day for the kids, but I try to let them know that we are celebrating the Easter Bunny dying for our sins.
The wife hates
Y'all know I'm a Christian, right? I believe in the Bible and everything, and no matter how I try, I can't find painted Easter Eggs, or the Easter Bunny anywhere between the covers of The Book. Or commandments to go to church on Sunday, and take up a collection for the Church Building Fund. It is very frustrating to know the history and origins of everything, and then see your loved ones shrugging it off, and buying into it lock, stock, and barrel. And bringing your kids with them.
Dammit, I can worship God any time of the day or any day of the week I want to. I refuse to follow your stupid restrictions. And if I want fellowship, I'll grab my own dick. There's a reason there are more women in churches than men. Pussified men. Or guys looking for nookie, or little kid nookie.
Like I always tell the wife, where do the predators wait for their prey. Yeah, the watering hole. Bad guys have (unprecedentedly) been targeting churches, lately, so why would I go voluntarily into a possible kill zone?
I already know what I write here is gonna piss some people off. And I'm gonna get comments saying 'well, my church isn't that way at all!' Having an Easter service tomorrow?
I rest my case.
As Alistair Crowley said, "Do what thou wilt shall be the whole extent of the law."
So, go on...
Do what thou wilt.
Dang, This Chick Is Ripped...
Again, I am such a lucky man. When I first got married to the wife, she was at least that ripped, maybe more. She can still pump up her arms, and 'hulk' (you weightlifters know what that is) and startle most men. The others just admire her, because they know the work that goes into being a woman and being able to do that. It was with some trepidation that I taught her several methods how to break a man's neck.
I'd hate to really piss her off.
The Shroud Of Turin...
I could really give a shit about this
, as I'm not some pagan catholic who runs around worshiping relics. But nevertheless, I find it fascinating.
But, the image has a full beard and a full head of hair. Please correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't Christ's torturers yank his beard out? And likely his hair, too?
I dunno, it just doesn't pass the logic test with me.
What do you think?
Friday, March 21, 2008
Listen To The Nannies Whine...
is such a great idea, that the nannies just have to try to shut it down.
I Don't Talk About Rifles Much...
My personal emphasis is on personal, close combat, and for that, there is nothing like a pistol in the hand of a trained person to wreak havoc with.
I own several rifles. I used to hunt, as I've said, until A) it got so easy as to become unfair and B) I noted so many parasites in the meat I killed, so as to disgust me.
I have four rifles I consider close combat weapons. Two Ruger 10/22's, with all the gear, folding stocks, muzzle brakes and such. Each is scoped, with rings I can also see my 'open' sights through below the scopes. 25 round mags, taped together. Then there's my Winchester AE .44 mag carbine. I can easily manipulate it inside a car, and it will flat knock your dick in the dirt. And then, of course, there's my sexy AK-47 Saiga clone, an actual Kalashnikov, with 30 round mags, and I would fuck that hot black bitch if I could, she is that sexy.
I've been shooting rifles since I was, what, eleven years old? Most of them are too unwieldy and ungainly to use in a fight. And don't try to tell Sgt. York, or Bill Hickok a pistol is not suitable for a fight.
I'm kinda hijacking my own post here, about rifles, but you need to practice until you are deadly with a pistol at 50 yards. And accurate out to 100. Consistently. No scope, or gadgets. If your pistol can't do it, find one that can.
Rifles? Crikey, that's a hard one. People who talk shit about the 5.56 just piss me off. Yeah, the M-16 is a flawed weapon. Deeply. The 6.8 is hopefully the future. But as I've said, go out 300 yards, and let me shoot you with an M-16, and then come back and tell me how it just tickled.
Me, personally, in combat, I would want an M-14. Damn fine weapon. The Garand was ground-breaking, but was burdened by too much wood (heavy as shit) and a small magazine capacity. And the enemy, in close combat, knew you were empty by the noisy 'ka-ching!' the magazine made as it ejected.
Personally, I would have organized my squad with Thompson gunners and men with M-1's up font on the assault, Garand riflemen hanging back to cover, and a BAR man and .30 cal machine gunner on overwatch, from a vantage point. With a bazooka man and his loader just behind the Tommy-gunners, to bust up any entrenched resistance, and/or take out snipers. But that's just me...
Long guns...I've essentially got no use for them. I consider the shotgun a long gun, so I guess I kinda take that last statement back. A little. Perfect close combat weapon. I have a sawed off (at both ends) shotgun that is essentially a large, 12 gauge pistol, and a big Mossberg 'Defender' in 12 gauge.I've got spare 00 buck mounted on the gun, and I keep a bandoleer of 00 draped over the barrel. To keep the dust out. Yeah, that's it.
You hit a deer at a hundred yards with a sabot round, and it will flip in place, leave a puff of dust and blood spray hanging in the air, as it's little hooves wave bye-bye to the world. I'd face any animal, including humans, in the world, with a ten round tube full of 12 gauge sabot rounds.
I know all about adjusting scopes and such, but the military made me be able to hit steel reactive targets at 800 yards with 'iron' sights, so what's the point? Unless you're getting paid for it. And they want a camera attached to the scope so they can enjoy the DVD. Not that I'd know anything about that.
All that being said, there are a few rifles I am just in love with. The Marlin .444. Ditto the 45-70. I love a bullet that makes things fall down and go boom. And maybe bounce a couple of times. At just about any range. .50 Barrett, heck, .50 anything.
That said, I'd rather have a decent submachine gun. I can cook off 3 round bursts close enough to you at any range to shake up your concentration, until I can maneuver in close enough to put my foot on your chest, and blow your brains all over my boots.
Hmmmm, is the M-60 a rifle? Most impressive weapon, next to maybe the Browning .50 I've ever fired. I chopped a house down one time with an M-60. And it terrorizes vehicles. An automatic deer rifle. Nuff said.
Never owned a rifle? Buy a Ruger 10/22, and an AK at the same time. Take them to the range. Shoot the .22 first, until you can hit the paper and not embarrass yourself. Then fire the AK. 25 yards, to start. Ladies might have trouble with the action. The AK has an enormous spring in it. That is why it always, always works. Before you go, make yourself intimately familiar with how they each work. Take them apart. Read the manuals. Dry fire them.
Ideally, you should not spend more than $400. And you'll be prepared for anything. Now, go buy a pistol.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Every So Often...
...I like to repost this
Makes my dick hard. That guy going down the rope? I used to do that. Loved it.
Coarsening The Discourse...
Can I take credit for it? I think so.
I have noted in blogs I read, that also read me, my own cadences coming back at me. The writers ride the edge now, are brutally frank an honest, and a lot more fun to read.
Hey, I'm a pioneer.
So many people just pussy-foot around an issue, and try to wax erudite and flowery...me, I just strip naked and cannonball into the middle of the pool. Don't like it? You've got a mouse. Click the fuck on outta here. Some folks seem to enjoy me.
I do worry about becoming trendy, though, like when yuppies go for drinks at an S&M bar to observe the freaks at play. Well, there's going to a nice safe zoo, and then there's going on an African safari, and getting out of your vehicle.
Depending on my mood, I like to slap you around some. Maybe touch your inner child in a way it doesn't like or understand. I have been told that my writing sometimes gives readers nightmares. Hey, I'm sharing and caring that way.
I've said it before, if you cry over it, I've cried over it. If you laugh, I already cracked myself up. If it pisses you off, I'm enraged over it.
Blogging is a new detour on the information highway, a new way of communicating, that can quite literally be said to be revolutionary. I'm not going to blather on about blogging being some sort of sacred trust, it's not. But again, just try to fill an auditorium with several hundreds of people daily who want to hear your every word.
No, except for Googlers and tittie-hounds, I assume you come here to see what I'm up to. Agree, or disagree, you read. People keep telling me I should write a bestseller...have you seen my statcounter? Now, how many copies of a book are sold before it sinks beneath the waves and down to Davey Jones Bargain Bin?
I rest my case.
Anyway, thanks for your patronage, and for the (sadly) few of you folk who hit my tip jars. And thanks for your own blogs, some of you, that have provided me with entertainment and food for thought over the years.
Why Obama Cannot Be Allowed To Win...
...is illustrated right here
Boy, talk about your wolf in sheep's clothing...Update:More
on this crazed islamic jigaboo.
Writing that actually made Bane smile from ear to ear, in anticipation of panties twisting world-wide.
And please remember, I am the only one allowed to talk racist shit, here. Thanks.Update:Still more
on this bullshit artist. It's a tough job to make Hillary look good, yet Osama Hussein somehow manages.
...how long before they find this guy
dead in an alley somewhere. And a large amount of attrition begins to occur amongst his employees.
One Little Indian Girl...
Nat disappeared into her room a while ago, for awhile. I knew we had watched Dances With Wolves last night, and I had put it out of my mind.
A while later, she pounced into my room, dressed in a leopard print thingamajig, wrapped around her Sari style, covering her 'buttons' (that's what she calls her boobs) and her midriff exposed, and something else covering her waist area. She had a band of some sort on her head, and her bright pink feather pen stuck in the back. She had some kind of Tinkertoy contraption, and she announced that A) she was an indian and B) this was her bow, that she uses to shoot white people.
I told her that I hated indians, and sorry, but I was going to have to shoot her.
She immediately started backpedaling, and assured me she was just playing, and wasn't a real indian, and assured me that she was still my daughter. And then ran out of my room.
I just thought I'd tell you, cuz I thought it was funny.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
I am wallowing in a sea of stupidity. You people cut it out. Please.
I can do pretty dumb shit, but crikey, I wade through the stagnant sea of festering humanity, and it is a wonder folks don't just swallow their tongues and die.
Is it any wonder I do not fear a worldwide pandemic? As long as there's no zombies, I'll be happy with wind breezing between canyons of empty buildings, and weeds growing up through the pavement.
Sorry to be such a downer, but like I always say, give me the Big Red Button, and I will push it.
The internet seems to have suffered a grievous head injury today. Heck, lately. I want to pull the internet's underwear up over its head, and thwap it in the bean with a whiffle bat until it begins to stutter, and begs for mercy.
I want a bumper sticker that says 'Avoid Retards'. Talk about a zombie movie, that is pretty much what I see when I venture out into the outside world. Am I superior to you? Heck, I don't know. But the cattle I am sometimes forced to move among, well, they are deserving of nothing but slaughter.
Go to a Bed Bath & Beyond some time, or a K-Mart. BB&B is like a porno shop for me and the wife, but in K-Mart, observe the strutting raghead, with his covered wife walking her dutiful paces behind him. It is all I can do to not slash his fucking throat. And hers, for living in America, and putting up with that shit. And for squirting little pre-terrorists out of her clitless cunt.
Do I seem to be in a bad mood? Very fucking perceptive of you.
I Could Not Imagine This Happening...
...in any school
I or my kids ever attended.
And then I saw their pictures.
And I said 'ohhhhh, I get it now...'
Does this music
just make you want to go out and slash up a pregnant actress, or what?
War Arrows...(a repost)
I wrote this last April, and I really enjoy it. This is vintage...Bane:
Have any of you ever seen any? No, not these scrawny Tinkertoy sticks with high tech, barbish things on one end, and plastic feathers on the other like Ted Nugent uses. I mean, the big war arrows that were used by people who really wanted to kill people on purpose, and they didn't fuck around.
If they were in charge today, our troops wouldn't be armed with fancy telescoping pellet rifles, but with drum-fed, .50 cal bmg's, and exploding ammunition.
A war arrow is to a regular arrow, as a big crayon designed for three year olds and retards is to the little skinny ones that come in a pack that could hold cigarettes.
When hit with a war arrow, you would likely flip back over your horse's ass, and be drug the rest of the way to death whilst stuck in your stirrups. Whump! and you are struck down. The recurve bow was invented to deliver these arrows, and there are verified tales of American Plains Indians firing them completely through a buffalo while on horseback. A similar (yet wildly different) bow, the English Longbow, was reliably recorded to have pinned more than one armored knight to his horse; in one case I am familiar with, pinning a knight through both of his heavily armored legs, through his war horse's heavy scale armor (and other leather-ware) and leaving the doomed knight to remain seated on a great horse, as it slowly collapsed on the field, trapping him... and then the village boys come out to do their nasty work with their poignards.
Oh, I'm sorry, you didn't know about that? Yes, these civilized men, whom all liberals and intellectuals look up to as the Fathers of Modern Civilization, gave children long-bladed knives, with which to scamper about with on the battlefield, and poke through the eye-slits of fallen knights and hack their eyes out, at the very least.
These knights were otherwise unassailable, being riveted, literally, into plate armor, and placed with a crane upon a horse that makes a Clydesdale (their descendants) look small.
So the boys swept the field, and took what booty they could. And then the local blacksmiths came out, with hammer and tong, and opened up the cans these rich men had sealed themselves into, and took the armor away to be repaired and refinished, and resold again (and oh yes, they took any of the intimate jewelry they found inside, given to Sir Knight by M'Lady for good luck, and for love, and other silly notions.
Isn't war grand?
And finally, the beggars and the ragpickers and the Gypsies descended upon the field, and stripped the bodies naked (the horses having been butchered in place, and drawn off in wagons to be sold in the market) and the impatient, hungry ravens, and their lesser brethren, the crows, who have been stalking around in the blood-made mud, now hop over to the abandoned dead, and begin to pluck out delicacies.
As darkness falls, the rats will swarm away from the town, and their usual feast of garbage and infant's lips, and for a while, each corpse will look alive again, as its skin ripples from the busy pack within it, roiling around inside, choosing the best bits.
We'd like to think we have moved on. We'd like to think. And many of us have. And forgotten. Or never knew.
But there are, in the human family, those who still live there. Oh, many of them live in palaces, and have fleets of luxury cars. Yet still, their past calls them. They know their past, study it, worship it. And yes, live in it.
As a Lycanthrope answers the call of the moon, these desert dwellers are compelled by their own inner natures, routinely, to answer the call of the desert. They leave behind their Western facades, and go out to where their own nature tells them they belong, and they race camels, and horses, and play games where an animal head is the ball, and I daresay many of them use human heads just as they did before, when prying Western eyes are not present.
It has been said of me that I hate these people because 'I do not know them'. I say to you, that I hate them because I do know them.
I have seen the little boys, raised to be girls, and thence, women. Coiffed and perfumed, put in dresses, wearing makeup. One father of such was a physician, so we cannot attribute it to... what, ignorance?
And the brown vermin we allow to spread across our borders like so much spilled chocolate... oh, I've heard it all:
"But...but, we Mayans had calendars and science and..."
Sorry, still stuck on that whole 'ripping living human hearts out' thing...
"But...but, we had a great civilization!"
Hmmmmm, what part of 'ripping living human hearts out' is confusing you?
"Oh fuck you, infidel, we Arabs invented the concept of Zero!"
Yes, and you've been giving us exactly that, ever since.
...to VERY reluctantly vote for McCain. That's his daughter. I sure would like to see more of her...
7 Good Reasons...
...to not get married
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go poke my own eyes out.
More of this angel here
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
The Dulcet Tones...
...of Sinead O'Conner are playing in my room right now, swirling her warm moist tongue around inside my earholes, gently licking at my nipples...
Hey, apparently she hates Catholics, too. And have you ever done a bald chick? Outside of an oncology ward, I mean? Pervert.
And those eyes...I just want to fall naked into them, and soak her up.
Folks, again, you all (well mostly all) have me wrong. I have consorted with faggots of all sexes. Gone bowling with them. I have boinked lesbians. Perhaps it was my own eyes, and long, beautiful eyelashes that brought them in. Queers have hit on me nearly all my life. I have hit a few of them, as well. SMACK
, go away and leave me alone.
The second best soldier (and a good friend of mine) I ever knew was a faggot. He'd been kicked out of West Point a couple of years in, for extreme faggotry. He was getting kicked out of my unit for the same offense. A doctor had given him a prescription to jack off at least ten times a day. The guy was a fucking Super Soldier. I was the best shot in the Battalion, but he was no slouch.
And his grasp of squad tactics, whether assaulting, or defending, was superb. I would have gone into combat with him in a heartbeat. Just not taken any showers with him...
You do not want to meet the first best soldier I ever knew. He was, quite simply, a Terminator. A psychotic Terminator. Attacking him was like throwing yourself into a garbage bin full of sharpened angle iron. If someone frightens me, you might not care to meet them.
The worst, well one of the worst beatings I ever got was over the last piece of pizza in the Domino's box.
Well, that's it, for now. Food for thought, for awhile. If it is cold gruel, sorry. It's what I have.
Who Am I?
I write this, because that seems to be the question on everyone's mind who comes here, squinting, with their hands over their eyes, peeking through their fingers to read...
First off, I'm a husband. First and foremost. A happy one, and damned lucky and glad to be yoked the way I am. We are as different as two puzzle pieces that just happen to be able to fit together.
Secondly, I'm a Father. No, not one of those molesters in black dresses, a real father, of two sweet young children, whom I would cheerfully kill and/or die for. Anybody on earth, except for the wife. My older kids? I love them dearly, but they are adults, and thus on their own. Though if any of them called me and said 'bring lawyers, guns and money Dad, come get me out of this', I would reenact the Terminator scene where he takes out the police station.
Which brings us to me. A commenter on Vox's blog imagined me as Lord Humungus from Mad Max. Where do people get these ideas? Silly.
Number one, that word means 'diminutive person', and
I only weigh 215, and stand at just about exactly six foot tall, and have a 44R chest. Number two, I love big veiny guys. Just nip those fat veins with small cuts, with the tip of your blade, and let all their hydraulic fluid run out.
I have no idea where people get this idea that I am some kind of badass. I'm what, 52 years old now? About to turn 53 very soon. April. My hair is nearly all gray now, except for the birthmark on my scalp, the size of a fifty cent piece, that has always grown out silver.
I have been sick, recently, and I am growing older and more feeble by the day. I can still move across the room and catch a glass of milk Nat just knocked off the table before it spills. But I'm likely to get a cramp from that.
My hands are rock steady, and I can still see the front sight of my pistols, which is all you really need. I can no longer jump up backwards and land with both feet on a parking meter. A useless trick, really, except as it teaches directional awareness. You generally do not want to be impaled with a parking meter up your ass. Oh, and I could do it drunk, too. Those were the days.
The wife and I got married 17 years ago. She was 27, I was 35. Best year of my life. Worst year of my life. We were told she could never have kids. She had two. She's out with them now. Her parents are now dead, mine are alive. I have four adult children from a previous marriage, and one of them has made me a grandpa.
I have no money, but I am a rich man. I can die now, happy.
When Going Near the Ocean...
...it is always important to bring along a flotation device.
This Is Impossible...
There is simply no logical way for any tissue whatsoever to survive 1 billion years or so.This creature
therefore negates the THEORY of Evolution in one fell swope.
You can squint, and cross your fingers, and face the Galapagos and pray to Saint Darwin all you want, but your (admittedly touching) faith is all for naught.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Massive cockfighting ring
uncovered and busted in Oregon today.
In related news, Colonel Sanders slaughtered thousands of chickens all across the state today, and stuffed them into pressure cookers after dismembering them. The State Attorney General is deciding how to bring charges against Colonel Sanders, and his co-conspirators.
Lawyers for Popeye's Chicken, an apparent 'unindicted co-conspirator', said that their client 'had no comment'.
Now that all the latest kerfluffle appears to be settling down, I feel free to chime in, here.
There are many many jobs you couldn't pay me enough to do. That is no excuse for me to condemn someone else for doing it. It is especially amusing when I see an avowed atheist pontificating against anything 'immoral', and spreading their morals around. Exactly where
did you get those morals? Thought so. Shut up.
Christ hung with whores. Didn't bug the Son of God one little bit. I've been a pimp. And women have paid me to have sex with them. A lot. I didn't seek it out. It was just their idea. Hey, pussy? Money? Alright!
Streetwalkers, i.e., crack-whores and such, are perhaps the most pitiful creatures on the planet. And if you fuck one, I hope your dick rots and falls off. Which it likely will.
Because of the specialness that is me, the prostitutes in this town I lived sought me out, paid me of their own volition, fed me, fucked me, and cut my hair. Yes, most, if not all of them were hair stylists. This was their side job. They had stables of steady customers, most of them older, or even elderly men, mostly widowers.
Now, if you can prove to me where the harm in that is...
How do you think a crippled man gets sex? Feels like a man? Finds life worth living another day? I see the same light in a talented whore's eyes, a non drug-addled bitch, that I see in a nurses eyes. And I have fucked a veritable truck-load of nurses.
Angels of mercy. Sometimes soiled angels, but...angels.
My girls, well, ladies, weren't my 'property', or my chattel. They were my friends, and I protected them in much the way a sheepdog watches over a flock he loves. I have done very bad things to guys who hurt them, or even threatened to.
I was always a little confused about it all. These women had jobs all over town. Hairdressers. Bartenders. Cashiers. Hookers. Where do you separate it? If you take a chick you just met out on the town and feed her and entertain her, you might not get laid. With these women, it was guaranteed. The best date you ever had, and you get to leave, after. No strings.
If things were iffy, I'd meet the guy at the door, shake his hand, smile my patented smile, and say 'take good care of my friend, here'. I never had to say 'or else'. And then I'd leave. Sometimes, for fun, and practice, I'd shadow her as they went around town. Noticing me was a severe loss of points. For me. You'd be surprised how easy it is.
Spitzer is a vile prick, but, other that the ironic aspect of it, I cannot fault a man with a catcher's mitt for a face for going out and paying premium price for poontang. The only issue should be where he stole the money to pay for it. Just damn, that chick is fine.
Just show me the money trail...
Blast From The Past...
, my writing idol, I find this gem
I wanted that toy so badly, that I would have sold my little sister for it. Never got one. The most popular kid in the neighborhood was the most popular kid because he got one somehow. For the unbelievably high price of $11.98. That was real money in those days. Woulda kept me in comics and caps for my cap-pistol, and in fresh bags of toy soldiers for a year.
I took that cannon, and folded an enemy neighbor kid (we were playing war, as usual) in half, and he lay there gasping like a fish, and his mother chased me around with a broom for a bit.
You couldn't make that toy in America today. Negroes would picket your yard if you had one out playing with it, and the nannies and company lawyers would keep it from being manufactured in the first place.
I had a full sized working replica of a .45, that cycled, and everything. Fired spring loaded bullets out of brass cartridges you load in the clip, after putting a Greenie Stickum Cap on each primer, for a proper bang. A shot to your temple would make you see stars, and have to go sit down for a bit. Trust me.
Did we wear eye protection? Heck no. That's for pussies. I had a formed piece of solder, fired from a bobby pin gun, zip across the bridge of my nose (leaving a fresh cut) and sink an inch or so into the wooden fence I (thought I) was using for cover. Just three inches to the left, and...
Nowadays, about all you can say is 'here's your Nerf ball, kid. Sorry'. And hope they don't get any hypodermic needles stuck in them while playing at the park. And never ever use the sandbox, because that is where hypes dispose of their evidence after shooting up. Before he (or she) goes and takes a shit in the playhouse.
Well, at least I
had a great childhood...
Ron Paul, Anti-American Traitor...
Well, I see he is talking shit about his country yet again. Sounds just like that commie bastard 'pastor' of Osama Hussein's. What's his name? Wright? Who fucking cares. He's only worth the cheapest ammo I own.
And Ron Paul...golly, I get the same roil in my stomach when I look at that goofy fuck that I get when I see Sean Penn, or BS Streisand, or Oprah.
Thank goodness that mortician looking motherfucker does not have the slightest chance of spit surviving a hot griddle to get near the Presidency. If our government would just track down and kill all the Ron Paul voters, the collective IQ of the nation would rise considerably.
My Favorite Song, Ever...
And I can sing it
, too, and you couldn't tell the difference.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
I Want To Know...
I woke up this morning like I usually do on Sunday mornings, to the clatter of the kid's church shoes heading out to our ratty car, the clicking of the wife's heels following close behind. Car doors slammed, the engine struggled to life, and the car limped off to take them to their social club.
I sat up in bed, rubbed some life into my face with the palms of my hands, and rose to head for the bathroom to take a whiz. The wife had, thoughtfully, closed my door, and put a towel under it. She knows I hate the smell of her brewing coffee, and that it wakes me up, and makes me cranky.
I open the door, and another smell hits me...Corned Beef, cooking. Rich, and wonderful. She's crock-potting again.
The question I have is, does anybody know of any stories where a crock pot has fucked up, and burned a kitchen, or even the entire house down? I've heard a lot of scary appliance stories, but never one involving a crock-pot. Are they the perfect appliance?
I had a blow drier explode flame out of it and singe my hair, and pepper my scalp with metal fragments. Good thing I was already in the bathroom, because it startled the shit out of me.
Oh, and I might as well put this here: Last week, while I was at the movie, the wife had the kids help her take the big recliner out of the kid's room, down the stairs, and out to the dumpster. From the tale she told, I wish to heck I had a video of the entire process.
The chair had served its purpose. It was the one she used to sit with Johnny in her lap when he was little, and rock him and soothe him on the Bad Nights. Or she'd just give Nat huggies while sitting in it, and then lay her down when she fell asleep.
But now, the chair was just used to stack clothes on, and it stole a lot of valuable play space from the room, and I've been bitching about it for weeks, and the wife agreed.
I think it just took her some time to grieve over it, to get used to losing something that had figured so prominently in her and Nat and Johnny's lives.
So they ganged up on that big heavy fucker, and shagged it out to the dumpster. I know she's very strong, but I still don't know how they did it. Willpower, I guess. I'm not long for this earth, and it does me good to see that I have made myself a strong, independent woman out of her. No woman should 'need' a man. They should want one.
So after some rearrangement, the kid's room is a lot more open, and I notice that they both spend much more time playing in there. Yesterday Nat made a cage (out of cushions) for several of the stuffed lions they have (Johnny loves lions, so people give him lions, please, no more lions) and then she punched them all in their heads to 'knock them out' and then put a comforter over the top ("It's solid steel, Dad!"
) to keep them in, then got a couple of the biggest stuffed dogs they have (big, very big) and put them on the perimeter to 'guard them, in case they tried to get out'.
And then, as she is wont to do, she butterflied off downstairs to do something or other, so I crept in and bent back the solid steel cover and got the two biggest lions out, and arranged them and the dogs in fighting poses, with the lions on top, obviously winning.
Eventually, she flitted back up the stairs, and went in to check on her prisoners. I heard a gasp, and then some good and proper lion punchin, and they all got warnings and a good talkin to, and then she flew into me here at my desk and gave me the angry monkey look. I lied, of couse, when confronted, and said dammit, girl, Daddy is too busy to go messing around, and she began to look puzzleificated and confusious.
In other words, she bought it. And until her logic circuits evolve, and she quits believing in Santa and the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny, she will believe that two of her stuffed lions broke out and somehow attacked their guards.
And that's just the way it should be.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Up Shit Creek...
That's where Blogger has been for me all day. IE could read my blog, but I hate it. So...
Looks like everything is ship-shape now, and I'm 9 minutes away from watching a horror movie. Helps me sleep, watching folks get fucked up worse than I have been. Relaxing.
See you tomorrow. Maybe.
Not So Bad Afterall?
John McCain gives me just the tiniest glimmer of hope
Does This Pucker Your Bunghole?
Friday, March 14, 2008
Go see this movie! Now! In the theatre! Nobody under 16. I can't wait to see the Director's Cut.
It's like a cross between Mad Max, 28 Days and 28 Days Later, and Resident Evil. But no zombies, and no monsters. Just very, very bad humans. Living human monsters. It is pure 'Survival Horror', at its finest.
I'm not gonna detail any of it, because it would spoil it. I wish I had written this screenplay.
The soundtrack is gonna be worth buying, alone. And there's a chick in there that I would not have wanted to tangle with on my best day in the best year of my life. That's all I'll say about that.
Gore? Duh! Buckets! And they sell it...when a head gets lopped or blown off, you absolutely buy it. Near as I can tell, they skimped on nothing making this film. Huge crowds of extras, major battles, awesome car chases and crashes, and this movie must have been both a stuntman's dream, and his nightmare.
There are more twists and turns than a snake's asshole, and I was left, at the end, quite literally spent. Wrung out. Happy, and contented.
And covered in blood
Do not read another preview, or watch another commercial/trailer for it
Just go fucking see it. ASAP!
Out To Lunch...
I rarely leave the house. I am, today. Perhaps later there will be a movie review. Try to guess what I'm going to see. The winner gets to suck off a seeing eye dog.
Now I've got to go shave, and cleanse my filthy body, and prettify for my foray into civilization. I hate civilization, and everybody in it. Except for you, and you, and maybe you over there.
Pray for me. Pray for those I meet. I am in a mood...
Shoot The Little Bastards...
All those women and children and elderly in 'Palestine'
have become combatants. Kill them as needed. I could have, would have popped that little bastard from the article without a seconds thought, and slept like a baby that night.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
My Little Man...
I was just on the way to bed, and I doubt anybody is up to read this...
Johnny was moaning and crying out under his CPAP mask, full asleep, and breathing distressed. The wife was already abed, so I slid in and began to stroke his lumpy tow-head, and whisper reassurances to him, and I put my fingers in his palm like all of those times when he went into surgery, groggy from drugs, and came back out, comatose, blood running out of his nose.
He settled, as I whispered a song to him, the I love you a bushel and a peck one. The one I sang to him in the hospital, going into the House of Pain, and coming out.
Do you ever check your kids, and swear they're not breathing? And you put your finger under their nose, and when their soft breath blows across it, you nearly cry out with relief?
With Johnny, it could happen every night. The End, I mean. He can't stay awake, but he fears the failing of the light. Bad Things have been done to him in the dark, even in daylight, his eyes covered with cotton and gauze.
The wife can calm and soothe him, when the bad times, the tough sleep, where dark memories gibber and caper comes. But my touch, for some reason I do not understand, sends him deep into REM sleep. Nurses have watched his monitor stats drop, and his oxygen stats increase, when I just lay my hand on his chest. When I sing softly to him, and tell him 'Daddy's here', he slides into some state that feeds me as well.
I call it...
Awesome if you live in the boonies, and have the internet.Update:
This broad takes care of business
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
...and fuck him
. I'm glad he's dead.
What Kind of Empath Are You?
created with QuizFarm.com
|You scored as Precog|
You are a Precog Empath. You are a visionary & a human thermostat. You can predict outcomes and see where paths may lead. You are a good scout and a guide to others. Be careful of your dreams. Your sight penetrates the veil that hides the truth from mankind. (from "The Book of Storms" by Jad Alexander at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Empaths/)
Stoled from Livey
BTW, never lie on these to get the 'score' you want. Some are pretty damn good.
...and get off the pot
Oh, that's funny. And just one more reason on my list of why I despise you humans.
Well, most of you.
My Restless Fingers...
And, as usual lately, it seems I have nothing to say. But I have a powerful desire to say it. It is like overfilling a fountain pen (remember those?) and when you place it on the paper, the ink just runs out like a frightened squid.
Roll Roll Roll your flab
down the long buffet
stuff that garbage in your mouth
I hope you die that way.
See? I just woke up from a nap with that in my head. Crazy, mixed up dreams. Part of it was I met a girl I had known when she was a child, and now she wanted her some man. I wanted to, but this new-found guilty conscience of mine made me feel guilty, and my dream provided all kinds of impediments to her getting me alone, and she was clearly getting frustrated, which made me no end of nervous.
Chicks can rape you, too. All they need to do is cry rape, and you are in for a world of hurt, though you touched her not a whit. Wives beat their husbands all the time, and yell spousal abuse if he tries to report it. I actually had an angry woman cut her own cheek with a fingernail til she bled, then slap herself hard enough in the face to leave a mark, and threaten to call the cops on me.
I forget what she was trying to coerce me into doing now, but I stepped up to her and told her that when I made bail, I'd come back and shoot her six times in the face. She looked deeply into the soulless well of my eyes, and saw the truth of it. I picked up my things, got in my car, and shook the dust off my sandals from that place.
It actually tickles me a bit when some of the numbnuts commenters over at Vox's blog say I wouldn't say things to their face that I write on the net. No, bungwipe, I would be too busy letting all of that hot air out of you.
I don't react well to apparent aggression, even in written form. Some wag once said the definition of stress is 'not being able to choke the living shit out of some asshole that desperately needs a good choking'. Yep.
I totally understand the tigers in the zoo that just lay there, and look at you disdainfully. Or turn their backs on the crowd, and lay down again. They are wound so tight with hatred...look at all those assholes, all that food, and I'm in this fucking cage. Fukkit.
And then some dumbshit sticks his arm through the bars, or jumps into their enclosure. Has that ever
worked out well?
There are very few tigers left. Still, I keep an eye out for them. Sometimes our eyes lock on each other, in a bar, or a store, or a restaraunt. There is no staredown. That could lead to violence. We merely acknowledge each other, and look away, and mind our own business.
I recently read a report that says how voices in the lower registers, male voices, show dominance. Now, the few of you who have talked to me, well, I don't think I have a particularly low voice. I consider it mid-range, frankly. But in a bar, or some other particularly place pregnant with the potential for violence, I have noted that my neck actually changes, and I can speak in a throaty growl. Weird.
When I laugh, as I often do, it is with a harsh, baritone bark. People look. People stay away. The lady bartenders find things to putter around with in my immediate vicinity, and we joke, and I tease, and sometimes I find out some guy or other got real angry from a comment of mine (hey, you know
me) and I never got the signals. Cuz he knew better than to put them off.
I'll see some guy in the mirror as he slinks past behind me to the door and she'll say "(whatever) you said about (whatever) really pissed him off...he was mad as heck."
Know your bartenders. Love your bartenders. Tip your bartenders well. They tend to have a better, more 'organic' feel for the room than anybody in there.
Oh, before I close down this cloudburst of nothingness here, one more bar story...
Last time I was in there, a guy came in, young, wiry, strong looking, in painters coveralls, spattered in paint, and he had the stench of Iraq all over him. And he was humming like a tuning fork fresh-struck by a large hammer. And he was looking at me."Are you a veteran?"
he asked. I knew he had seen the veteran's plates on my car. He ordered a triple shot of vodka, with water back, and he was putting off ozone like an overworked electric motor.
I let him chat me up, and I chatted him up, too. He had been in some bad places, and had the names of dead friends tattooed on his arms. We each established our credentials, and then I told him "Brother, you seem to be wound pretty tight..."
which he was. I won't go into details, but he had been thrown out, well, 86'd by the self-same bartender that was serving us, a few nights previously.
He blinked a few times, staring at me. I took quiet command of him, as if I was one of his Senior NCO's, and he accepted it because I made it feel natural, using the quiet confidence that a good NCO develops. I took him on a guided mind tour of where he could go to get help, be with his own kind, and get the poison out. Or at least learn to control it. We spoke for a while, grunt to grunt, and I began to smell less ozone.
Will it work? Heck, I dunno. He didn't tear the place up that day.
And there are thousands and thousands of young men and women out there in the same boat.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
...that I just must be some kind of a freak. I read lots of gun blogs because, hey, I like guns, and I hear guys confidently claiming that certain guns won't shoot certain things at certain distances. Making claims about accuracy that sound like point blank shooting to me. Makes me feel like some sort of idiot savant.
One morning, I think I was about 19 or twenty, I woke up to a bunch of Bluejays in a cherry tree out in my yard, screeching over all of the cherries, and dammit, I had a damn hangover, and was still slightly pasted, so I grabbed my 18 shot Winchester .22 I kept next to the bed, and shot them all through the screen, in a matter of seconds. And fell back into my coma.
18 birds, in less than 18 seconds. They didn't have a chance.
What, you can't do that? Not my problem.
I tell people I killed many a deer, many of them out to 100 yards or so, with that .22, and they scoff. Again, not my problem.
I grew up with a slingshot in my back pocket at all times. Because of my weird eyes, I could follow the trajectory of the various projectiles I fired. When I graduated to bullets, I found that I can see them, as they fly towards whatever I'm shooting at. I'm good up to about .308, and then I can only sense where they go, not see.
And I thought everybody could do it. I don't think I ever missed a baseball in PE class. They just slow down, and I whack them. Wanna take a swing at me? Fine. I'll watch it come, watch your whole body for that matter (all movement comes from the spine) and then I'll decide if I want to fuck you up, and how badly.
And I thought everybody could do this.
Now that I know different, it still keeps me humble, in case I meet someone else like me. Pain sucks.
Hey, the list of shit I cannot do is far longer than the list of what I can. I suck at math. Hate it. I see an equation, and I have to go crap. I know biology, but I hate it, memorizing all of that irrelevant shit. I enjoy astronomy, but beyond the moon, and the Big Dipper, I don't know shit.
I have always admired the Samurai tradition, and thus can cook, sew, paint and draw, write poetry, and...
I can pick up any weapon, even one I've never held before, and fire a bolt or a bullet through your eyeball and into your brain with it.
And I literally thought, for the longest time, that everybody could do that.
hits close to home.
Why do they even get a trial? I miss the gibbet. If that happened to my child, I would slaughter the perps entire family, and then pay the meanest gang in prison to sodomize them every day, and whisper to them how their family screamed as they died.
It's the least I could do.
It Bothers Me...
...when an uploaded Super-Intelligence
says stupid shit. It's like seeing Jesus stub His toe, and yell 'ow! motherfucker
Whole lotta misogyny going on over there. I'm guessing a lot of his commenters have to settle with just jacking off.
I have always been disgusted with friends of mine who 'have a type'. I hate men and women in general that put restrictions on dating, and marriage. Heck, I have had my world rocked by rotund black women; and the wife was 99 pounds when we met.
Interesting how most of the guys who had 'an ideal woman' in their minds never got laid.
Funny, I didn't even like the wife when we first met. She was too pretty, too thin, too in shape, too snooty, etc etc etc, and we tolerated each other because we were assigned together as lab partners.
Now I have a mate who is nearly at my level of smarts, and when she finds herself deficient in some area of knowledge (I know everything, you know) she goes and acquires the knowledge she needs. And we have long, wonderful conversations about life, the universe, and everything.
We make love like otters play. We are best friends. She is the perfect mother. Cooking? Gosh, when we were first dating, she came over to my bachelor pad and cooked me up some Chicken Cacciatore that is still the best I've ever had. She did something to my neck with her mouth last night, as I sat in front of the computer, that left me paralyzed on the entire right side of my body for a bit.
Now, what would I have missed out on in life, if I had limited my options like a five year old at the salad bar who won't eat anything but the dessert?
Now yeah, I have personal standards, and they make me glad I'm not dating these days. No tattoos. Whatsoever. No piercings other than ear lobes, and more than 3 votes you off the island. Must have teeth. And a vagina. I think that about covers it.
You people with 'types', are just typecast, and playing Russian Roulete with life.
Otherwise, enjoy dying alone...
I Can Tell They Want Me...
Monday, March 10, 2008
What A Fucking...
Politician. Rope. Tree. Some assembly required.Update:
See what I mean
? If I were served a summons or given a fine for some dipshittery like that, it is possible that there would be loud noises at the next city council meeting. And empty cartridges rolling around on the floor. And a new election.
Fuck, I hope the Bubonic Plague gets them all if this goes through. Plague is endemic in Colorado.
Serve em right...Update:
Do you see
? And it gets worse
Now that's what the internet is for. That, and tits.
When I was a little kid, my Dad came home one day with his van packed with boxes and boxes of candy bars. Seems a truck had tipped over and spilled its load, and Dad had stopped to help (people still did that in those days).
The driver was okay, and he told Dad that 'fukkit, all of this is now considered spoilage, and we just have to throw it away...take whatever you want'.
That may be why I'm not a very big chocolate eater, now. Boy, did we eat some friggen candy.
Unwrapping A Present...
Click on the pic for magic...
Call your boss over and open this link
. I'm pretty sure you'll get a raise, and maybe even a promotion.
Sunday, March 09, 2008
just kicks ass.
Great writing, great story.
I Guess This Is MY Dead Horse...
is hot. If my 14 year old son told me he nailed her, I'd high five him, give him a beer, and have flowers delivered to her house.
7 years in prison? Crikey, I know I beat this drum all the time, but I am sick and tired of the infantilazation of America's males by this sick society. And it is racist, too. Black boys under the age of 18 knock up chicks all the time, and nobody says a word. Let a white boy simply dip his wick into a hot young teacher, and we have a trial, and it's national fucking news.
The youngest chick I can recall banging was 13. I was fifteen. Yeah, it was rape. She raped the shit out of me. Some of you will try to assign mental motivations to her, but the simple facts of the matter was that she was a normal, church-going, school attending, normal hot little white chick who just wanted to fuck.
But you, well, most of you, have been brainwashed to believe differently. And you're the same limp dick motherfuckers who don't say a word when some Koranimal marries four 13 year old Somali girls and cuts their clits off.
Most civilized societies now and in the past, have had laws outlawing seduction by a man. I think that is fair. It is simply recognizing that women are easily programmable moist robots, and that most men are pigs, who will do and say anything for sex.
Try as I might, I cannot feel guilty about my vast history of sexual conquests. And quite frankly, most of them quite literally fell first into my eyes, and then into my lap. Wives, daughters, women, teens. I had no idea, and no desire to say no.
I have skidded damn close to the edge while married to the wife, but I am a faithful man. Because I want to be.
But like I always say, all you have to do to get a teenage boy to mount you ladies, is hike up your skirt and bend over. And you can't rape a guy whose dick is hard.
Simple Biology 101.