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Pat Dollard

James Lileks
(My Idol)

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Haunted Soldier

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  • Answer In Your Hearts...

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • You've Brought Johnny Through, A Time Or Two...

  • Okay, Now This Is...

  • Bush And Clinton...

  • Spacebunny's New Avatar...

  • Still MORE On Gunhandling...

  • America Is Bessed By God...So Far...

  • If I Still Smoked...

  • The Best Replies...

  • The Black Death...

  • Rules Of Engagement...

  • Oh Yeah...

  • One For Shorty...

  • And You Dare To Say...

  • Good For Him...

  • A Monday Funny...

  • Happy...

  • If This Doesn't Make You Want To Kick Some Ass...

  • As I Lay Dying...

  • Man, Woman, Or Child...

  • If You Love Someone...

  • Why...

  • Can You Even GET Too Negative?

  • Just A Thought...

  • Staff Sergeant? 20 Yrs Old?

  • Some Of You Might...

  • Do You Ever...

  • The Second Best...

  • Last Time I Checked...

  • Whole Lotta Shakin...

  • Oh, Baby...

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  • Your...

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  • Well, Crap...

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  • One For Obama Hussein...

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  • The Goddess Speaks!

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  • For Blacknads...

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  • A Little Something...

  • I Laughed Until Tears Squirted Out...

  • Time For Beddy-Bye...

  • Tuning My Windows...

  • Oh, Yeah...

  • On A Winter's Day...

  • Prayer Request...

  • I Banged A 15 Year Old Once...

  • Okay Now...

  • Wherein I Am Remiss...

  • There, But For The Grace Of God...

  • I Love Good Erotic Cartoons...

  • I have A Question...

  • A Simple Solution...

  • Fucking...

  • On The Day...

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        Wednesday, April 30, 2008

    Answer In Your Hearts...

    Who would you vote for, an honest racist? Or a Political tool? Seriously. Don't grandstand here, either way, I don't want to hear it.

    Just have an inner dialog with yourself. Email me if you want. You are talking with your own heart, right now. If you bullshit yourself, you can never trust you again. And no, I don't care how many of your relatives died fighting the Nazis. Shut up and go set your Honda Accord on fire. Or your Mercedes.

    Get over it. Live in the here and now. And for goodness sakes, just be honest for once in your life.

    And yes, that dress makes your ass look fat. Go change. Oh, if I only had a dollar for every time I have said that...

    Your turn.


    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go! And worship!


    You've Brought Johnny Through, A Time Or Two...

    Now I'm asking you to pray for this little guy. And his family.

    God's Will be done...


    Okay, Now This Is...

    ...just cool. As heck.


    Bush And Clinton...

    Traitors In Chief.

    There's not much else I can say about this. Except...

    We're fucked.


    Spacebunny's New Avatar...

        Tuesday, April 29, 2008

    Still MORE On Gunhandling...

    If you have to puke in the parking lot before target practice, well, perhaps knitting is more your forte. Sorry, inside joke...

    I think I have told this story before (gosh, there have been so many...) but when I was first hired as a cop, I was taken out to the police range, and they had set up what I bet they figured was an impossible course, designed to humiliate me, and let them lecture me on my faults.

    They had set up a series of 'hostage' silhouettes, several on wheeled carts, pulled by ropes and pulleys, including the 'hostage takers', shifting back and forth. One hostage shot, failed you. I had a standard police issue 12 ga. Remington 870 Police Model, and a holstered stainless issue S&W .357, loaded with .38 +P+ SJHP hollowpoints, and four speed loaders.

    The Sergeant blew his whistle, and...

    I couched the shotgun in the crook of my opposite arm, and drew my pistol, crouched, and shot the closest terrorists. In the head. Holstered, and pumped the shotgun from the hip into the rest of the 'bad guys' (00 Buck) squatted down, laid the shotgun down, drew my pistol, snapped open the cylinder, dumped empties, dropped in a speedloader's worth of new rounds, and made sure none of them would go to trial.

    It was suddenly very quiet. I reloaded, and reholstered, and turned to the sergeant, the corporal, and the other two officers standing there. Staring at me. The sergeant finally turned to the other cops, and said "Uh...I think he passed."

    Odd how that job didn't work out.


    America Is Bessed By God...So Far...

    If this had happened in a backwards-ass third world Muslim country, hundreds, if not thousands, would be dead. And we'd be feeding the survivors.

    I have felt for a long time now like we are truly testing God's patience, and bullshit like 'Reverend' Wright calling God's kid a nigger doesn't help at all.

    Apparently, we still have an intercessor, but I dread the day when He takes His hand away, and lets the wolves descend. And the four horsemen. It will effect most dreadfully my television viewing, and my access to cold beer.


    If I Still Smoked...

    I'd do this in a heartbeat. And fuck terrorism. Why should I care? My government doesn't, with it's open borders, and other suicidal bullshit. If the government cared, they could suspend all Federal and State taxes on tobacco for a year, which would drop the price of legal cigarettes precipitously, and undercut the smugglers, and stop the flow of money to the terrorists.

    By the way, know where I can buy any black market gasoline?


    The Best Replies... history.


    The Black Death...

    Everything you ever wanted to know.

    I say bring it on again.

        Monday, April 28, 2008

    Rules Of Engagement...

    Must see TV on Monday night. After 'The Big Bang', and 'How I Met Your Mother'. I am bored by '2.5 Men'. Their shtick has worn thin, and the little fat bastard with the glandular disorder has far surpassed being .5ths worth of kid. They need to change the title to 'One Male Whore, A Queer, And A Fat Fireplug That Looks Like He Ate Several Of His School Chums'.


    'Rules of Engagement' is a gem. The wife and I routinely squirt out tears of laughter...nay, we guffaw, and sometimes even chortle, over their antics. This was the only show that made me regret the writer's strike.

    It is extra funny, because both the wife and I see me as the Patrick Warburton character. He has me down pat. Or I him. I get confused. If you've ever wanted to meet me, watch this show, and tell me who your Daddy is. Come to Daddy...

    The writing is superb, the characters are perfect, and...well, dammit, just watch it.


    Oh Yeah...

    I would have totally said this.


    One For Shorty...

    I really enjoy his blog. It always gets me fired up. The juices flowing. I have enjoyed watching him grow, over the years. I feel almost...patriarchal towards him. He's still got some stages to go through, but I think he'll do fine. If he lives.

    See, I have a rule...put your hands on me, and you get cut, deep, and wide. I hope he stays frosty, in case he meets someone like me, in the course of his duties.

    I used to do what he's doing now, working as a bouncer, but I worked solo. I don't like, nor do I work well with others. And when you are alone, you can hit anybody you want. They have to watch out for their friends, you can use their friends as cover. And projectiles.
    Nothing stops a group of assholes quicker than for you to move in on their Alpha and put his back against you as you hold his larynx and make him choke every time his posse moves toward you.

    Frog-march him to the edge of your turf (never leave the light, always assume one or more of them has a gun) then press down on his shoulders until his legs spread, step back quickly, and kick him in the balls (still from behind) to send him staggering forward. Go for a Field Goal. it will take at least two of his cohorts to carry him to their car, while you back away up to the front door of the bar, keeping an eye on them all the way.

    Real, genuine badasses do not generally cause trouble. It will behoove you to learn who they are, and glad-hand them, and comp them a drink here and there, so if the shit really hits the fan inside, you can call on them to help you out in a pinch. Those guys just love a chance to kick some ass for free, and after, make sure they don't pay for another drink for the rest of the night.

    I remember after one particular brawl, and the mess was cleared up, and the cops took those who could still walk to the pokey, having my waitresses deliver about five pitchers of beer to the guys who helped me's table, and line up about a dozen shots of good whiskey for them. Small price for not having to go to the hospital, and not having the whole place thrashed.

    Fighting in your bar is like fighting in your house. The people who live there already know not to fuck with you, and you know your way around the place, intimately. And every bouncer knows the difference in degrees of a chair scooting back. If it grinds back and clatters, you know you got a fight happening, or about to happen.

    Or the sound of a pool cue slamming on a table. And my favorite, bitches talking trash. For all the child rearing, and monthly cramps, thank goodness they can't handle simple pain-compliance holds, and cry all the way to the front door, their mascara streaming down their face like a sad, sad clown.

    And I loved calling the cops on drunks I'd just chucked out, as they weaved away. Enjoy your DUI, asshole. And I gave the pigs the asshole's plate number, too. In case they made it home.

    I'm pretty sure I've mentioned this before, but a real, serious fight should not last more than a few seconds. It should sound like a drum riff, and end with your opponent reeling, or on the floor in a heap. The next time you buy a steak, and set it out on the counter, still in its packaging, take one of your sharp knives, and slice through the plastic, into the meat. Draw the blade from the top of it to the bottom. And listen...

    That is what getting cut sounds like. So watch it.


    And You Dare To Say...

    ...that the Iraqi people aren't grateful.


    Good For Him...

    We need a lot more of this. If I were sitting on the Grand Jury, this case would not even come to trial.

    And, may I ask, whatever happened to the Jury Nullification Movement? I haven't heard a peep about it for years. Though I have seen judges refusing to empanel juries, and adjudicating cases and giving sentences on their own.


    A Monday Funny...


    Via Desert Cat.

        Sunday, April 27, 2008



    Me love it, long time. I hope it was Shake & Bake.


    If This Doesn't Make You Want To Kick Some Ass...

    Well, you're just a queer. And I love how they took some queers music and turned it into a manly anthem.


    As I Lay Dying...

    Okay, I may have done a stupid thing. Well, stupider than usual. I was munching on a bag of Sour Skittles (gosh, I love those) and I dropped one. Well, I was reading on my computer screen, and I dropped one, and reached down to pick it up, and said 'ooooo! Peanut M&M!' and popped it into my mouth, and crunched away.

    It was only as I swallowed that I realized that A) I hadn't had any peanut M&M's in my room for months and B) Fuck, that bastard tastes green.

    I told the wife, and she is freaking out. If I die, she will likely kick the crap out of my corpse. She and the kids came up and prayed over me. It was embarrassing. She wants me to make myself barf. I like barfing, but I do not want to waste perfectly good Skittles. Quandary.

    Anyway, if you don't hear from me for a while, I am either dead, or camped out near a toilet. I shall endeavour to not fart for awhile, just in case. That will be tough.


    Man, Woman, Or Child... break into my house, and you die.

    It really is that simple. Except, I may play with you awhile. And run my barbecue a while longer.


    If You Love Someone...

    ...set them free.

    When a high-risk sex offender was about to be released from prison, he had no place to stay. The state told him to sleep under a bridge beneath U.S. 2 near Snohomish.

    Three days after being released from prison, David J. Torrence, 43, on Wednesday cut off the electronic monitoring bracelet he was issued and stopped reporting to his parole officer.

    He's a level-3 sex offender and considered at the highest risk of reoffending.

    "The only reason he was there under the bridge was so we could know where he was."

    The bridge near Snohomish was selected because it was convenient for Torrence to check in with parole supervisors and get transportation to other services, Rehberg said, adding there were no other alternatives for the homeless offender.
    "I didn't want him under that bridge either," she said.

    "He's a stranger rapist, which is the worst of all kinds," Snohomish County sheriff's detective Joseph Beard said. Beard tracks sex offenders in the county.

    Torrence was sentenced to more than seven years in prison. Since completing that sentence, he's been arrested several more times.
    "He has a history of failing to register," Beard said.

    State laws prevent them from living within 800 feet of a school or other places where minors come together to play.

    So, is 900 feet away okay? And just how long does it take to drive a sound-proofed van 800 feet, anyway?

    In the first three months of 2008, the state Department of Corrections released 34 level-3 sex offenders. Of those, 15 were homeless at release, said spokeswoman Anna Aylward.

    Your tax dollars at work. Serve and protect. Blah blah blah...


    Why... should be disturbed.

    And those people are not alone. You humans have become sport. Prey. I have met the types that hunt you. For real. It is a game to them. 'Look at me, how smart I am!'

    Did you think that you would never become 'Big Game'?

    Welcome to the club.


    Can You Even GET Too Negative?

    Especially with this field of shitheads both parties have fielded? Well, apparently that is what 50% of the pussies felt when interviewed here. What a bunch of flappy, old-folks-home, look like a grilled cheese sandwich when you spread the bread vaginas these weak-sister, limp-wristed, idiot motherfuckers must be. And we let them vote.

    I want my elected representatives meeting yours under the Dueling Tree at dawn, and doing their best to shoot or stab them to death. I want vital men, who will club a man down with their cane, and jamb Nancy Pelosi up against a table, throw up her skirt, rip off her panties, and butt-fuck her from behind.

    And you wonder why I do not care if D.C. gets nuked, and in fact, eagerly anticipate it?

    Think 'toilet', and 'flush handle'...

    There's your 'negative'. Fuckers.


    Just A Thought...

    Is there anything sexier than a chick whispering dirty stuff into your ear, in German, while you fuck her?

    I didn't think so...


    Staff Sergeant? 20 Yrs Old?

    Damn, if that's not a typo, this guy must have been some kind of Super-Soldier.

    And that is why you do not let those animals capture you, ever. Keep the last grenade for yourself.

    And our own traitors at home get their pink panties in a bunch when we make a few of them (our prisoners) stand on a box with a bag on their heads. Heck, I talked to a Major from GW1, who told me that they had to keep the lights on their Republican Guard captives at all times, because left in the dark, they would all start butt-fucking each other. Filthy animals.

    And people bitch because we stacked a few of them naked in a pile? Shit, that was eHarmony, to those cocksuckers.


    Some Of You Might...

    ...enjoy this.

    This is art, not that other poor scrabbling and kindergarten collages and paint spatters, that idiots pay huge amount of money for, in an attempt to validate their empty, hollow existence.

    Art is like porn. I know it when I see it, and if it's good, it makes me feel good.

        Saturday, April 26, 2008

    Do You Ever...

    ...get one of those genuine 'veins in your teeth' moments? And no, I'm not talking about cock-veins, faggot.

    What do you people do? You humans? Let's say you can kill anyone you want, in a violent explosion of blood and spray and fire, and you really, really want to, well, how do you stop it? The demon?

    I have bitten my cheek until I swallow blood, and held the edge of my hand in the crack of a door, and squeezed until tears of pain squirted out of my eyes. How do you keep from slaughtering? Do you just like Nancy Reagan, say no?

    It is not in me to harm a hair on the heads of anyone I care about. I think. I hope. But that is a very short list. And I resolved not to kill my ex, even though she clearly needed it. She was part of my kid's lives, and it would have fucked them up. The only loophole is self-defense, and I pray often that she steps into that coil of rope, there on the forest floor. Goodness knows, she is both stupid and crazy enough to try it.

    Oh Dear God, a video of what I would do to her and her cohorts would make a hardened homicide detective vomit. Give me an excuse. Please.

    Fuck, I hate myself. I hate what I am. With me, there is no Dark Side. Just a deep, empty well, that echoes with screams, and the fires of Hell glitter down there, so deeply that they do not disturb the black ink that swirls around the inside. Drama? You fucking wish. The last sound on this earth you will hear is the crunch of your larynx, which I will have crushed, quite by accident. I'll be (kinda) sorry, you'll be (kinda) dead.

    And I can't stop it. Johnny stepped on the top of my foot the other night, and the back of my fist went into his right kidney before I could stop it, and sure, I was able to pull it (the punch, not his kidney) but still, he arched in a bow of agony, and I am still apologizing for it. And he is still forgiving me.

    The wife spars with me, and watches my eyes, even though I have tried to train that out of her. Watch the hands, and all movement comes from the spine. She watches my eyes, to see if they change. If they go dark, and 'away'. When that happens, she jumps back, and waves her arms, and shouts to get my attention.

    And I didn't feel a thing.

    I really hate myself.

    Please don't confuse this with your standard Emo self-hatred, a plea for help, or anything more than a dog who has just crawled under the porch to die, because he senses it is imminent.

    And do not ever confuse me with someone who gives a shit. Because I am not alone. And one day you will, I guarantee you, run across someone who's not as well adjusted and well behaved as I am. Rue that day.

    My kind slaughters its way through your kind like a wolf kills a flock of chickens. Both figuratively, and literally. I have often wondered if we are another genus of Homo Erectus. I know the wife is coming back to the house when she is six blocks away. When she thinks about calling me, I call her. I see in the dark. Have a nose as sensitive as a dog's. Heal in hours from cuts. Though that particular talent has slown down as I have abused my liver beyond all bounds of human propriety.

    Do we stand as sentinels against the Darkness? Were we made 'special', to stand cold and strong, and vicious, against the encroachment of the Night? I have no idea. And a peculiar aspect of my condition is that I do not possess an ego, the pride, which caused the Lightbearer to Fall, and take so many with him. Do we straddle both Darkness, and Light, and are we called to Great Deeds?

    Fuck, I pray God I am not. I am old, and tired.

    And vicious.


    The Second Best... in rock-n-roll history. Next to the Beatles, of course.

    At any given time, Guns-N-Roses, Def Leppard, and Ted Nugent vie for second spot, depending on my mood. Still, they are all in the top five.

    Led Zep doesn't hardly make a blip, just because I love a couple of (Black Dog) their songs. The Stones haven't done anything since Goatshead Soup, and even then, only a couple of songs (Heartbreaker) on that album were worth a shit.

    I'm not saying there are no other bands worth listening to, I'm just saying that the bands I've named in my top 5 are my go-to bands, and the only ones I can listen to an entire album of, at one sitting, without getting tired of it. The linked tune, shit, I've listened to it at least 15 times already, and it is playing right now, again.


    Last Time I Checked...

    ...issuing terroristic threats is a serious crime. Probably exacerbated by them being issued in Manhattan. So why isn't his fat black ass in Guantanamo already?

    Let's see, so I go to Ground Zero, with my loyal cadre of followers, known for rioting on command, and tell all and sundry I am going to shut the city down if my every desire is not catered to, which includes having three cops, two of whom are black, convicted, even though Double Jeapardy applies...

    Yeah, that'd work...


    Oh, and I might as well put this here. Dude, whoever you are, I tried to thank you for the hit on my tip jar, but I'm not gonna jump through the hoops to do so, so I'll just do it here.



    Whole Lotta Shakin...

    I have family in the Reno area, as well as other parts of Nevada. Do any of you have any anecdotes, direct reports from family and friends, about this? I'd appreciate it.

    We are having a flurry of quakes in the ocean off the Oregon Coast in areas not known for such activity. I see such, tied in with what is going on in Nevada, as being something along the lines of the maid shaking a sheet, so that the far end snaps, as the part she is holding trembles and settles.

    Whatever, I'm worried about my people. I sat through a 6.5 once...well, I bounced around on the floor helplessly, and watched the chimney fall onto the lawn past the side window. There is not much more than that that you need to feel helpless and insignificant in the entire scheme of things.

    I watched Johnny scampering up and down the sidewalk today, stomping spiders that the wife had flushed out with the lawnmower...

    Yeah...kinda like that.


    Oh, Baby...

    Bloodrayne2 is on Sci-Fi Network tonight, directed by the always wonderful Uwe Boll. If you believe the bullshit barfed out by the fanbois (spit!) you will think Herr Boll is terrible, but I assure you, he is not. He has an artists eye for composition and lighting, and does action as well or better than anybody.

    If you like Paul Verhoeven's work (and I love it) you will love Uwe. Otherwise, go masturbate over your chick flicks, and your Orlando Bloom elf action figure.

    Some time, you need to go rent all of Uwe's work over a weekend, and have a marathon. You will be wrung out at the end of it, trust me. And much like the Friday The 13th movies, his films tend to be a place for new, up and coming actors and actresses, or those who might be off their prime for Hollywood, to show their chops.

    Sometimes, with a machete.


    Enjoy Your Sabbath!


    On Fighting...

    I have talked a lot here about technique(s), but I'd like to now discuss the pure physical act of fighting itself. I suppose the best example I have, and perhaps the most horrifying, is the fight in 'Private Ryan' between the German and the Jewish-American soldier near the end of the movie, where the Jew gets bested and runs out of gas, and the German gently, deliberately slides his knife into him. And he dies slow, and in horror, knowing it is coming, and that there is not a damn thing he can do to stop his own death.

    Well, actually, there were several things he could have done, but that is for another post, but all you need to know right now that he became exhausted, and he gave up.


    The best examples of what I call 'stamina fighters' are boxers. They train their abdomens to take multiple blows, and they do all kinds of aerobic work to build up...stamina.
    I would likely not be able to hold out for three minutes today in a real fight (hence, the gun) but your average boxer can go many rounds, toe to to, with someone else who wants to take their head off. That, folks, is stamina.
    And yet you see the ref warning them to not hang on each other, they get so exhausted, and they sit in their corners whooping in great gulps of air, and sweat like a coal-miner.

    And yet, I have noted an odd phenomena; when I have turned to run during a fight where I could barely hold my hands up, because I heard police cars, or all his friends were boiling out of the bar, or I was just plain tired of getting my ass beat on, I get a second wind, and the energy comes from somewhere so that I could run like a deer.
    Bugging out is my favorite martial arts technique.

    But let's say, you've surprised an intruder, and he's between you and any weapon, and any exit. He is unarmed, and up to no good. Pop quiz, hotshot, what do you do?

    Well, you have a choice, do you bet it all on the possibility that one of your large muscles (your legs) will disable him right away? If you miss, or it has no effect, well, it takes a lot of oxygen and energy to move those big muscles violently. Add to that, that you are probably scared, and breathing fast and shallow, and you'll wear down pretty damn quick. And you can't say 'time out!' in this situation.

    No, you know the terrain of your house better than he does. My suggestion is that you back yourself into a corner, and make him come to you if he wants you. Breathe in through your nose, exhaust CO2 out of your mouth. Keep control of your heart. And I hope you have placed cleaning equipment strategically around (this assumes you are in the kitchen, which is where the back door is usually kept, where most criminals break in) such as spray bottles of pure bleach set on 'stream', and a nice thick broom/mop handle you can stab with (never swing).

    I am not going to go into close-in fighting techniques, here, except to say that never under estimate the efficacy of the two-handed shove, while braced against a wall. And if an opening presents itself to run, do not turn your back, nor run backwards...both recipes for disaster. Run sideways, and do not cross your legs/ankles over each other. Slide one foot, and then the other. Heck, hop sideways like a bird, just don't trip yourself up, and get to that gun.

    You do have a gun, don't you? No? Oh my...

    If you must somehow call 911, for some reason, just dial the number, and slide the phone under the couch or something. They will find you.

    Back to strategical weapons placement; if I were a woman living alone, and weren't so heavily armed already, I would place one of those short magnetic strip knife holders just inside the kitchen door, just past the light switch, with at least a 10", razor sharp French Chef's knife on it, and a hand towel mounted over it so it was hidden, but I could get to it easily.

    If I didn't have one already, I'd pay an electrician to put at least a double gang switch just inside the door, with one switch going to a floodlight just above the back door outside, that shines straight down on whoever you have heard tinkering with your door. You do have dual key deadbolts already, don't you? So they can't break the glass, and easily let themselves in? Oh? Pity...

    98% of all self defense is being prepared for when that 2% comes at you. You'll buy insurance for your stupid car, but you won't harden your home...where's the sense in that? You won't buy a lottery ticket because you think the odds are for idiots, but statistics show that crime is reaching out its tentacles into every community in America. And you don't prepare.

    To make a long story mercifully shorter, mind your oxygen control in a fight, do not overextend, run like a little bitch as needed, and remember, all of your long muscles need oxygen and energy to keep working, and when that runs out, well...

    I have seen guys, too winded and exhausted to fight any more, just stand there, bent over, gasping, hands on their knees, and waiting for the final blow to land.

    That's just pretty damn sad. And be you a woman, and this happens in the privacy of your own dwelling, well...

        Friday, April 25, 2008


    ...dream date, ladies.


    Be Still My Heart...

    And here's more of her, being extremely naughty. She's so stellar, I even forgive her her belly piercing. Add extremely cut abs, and a bit wider hips (but not by much) and you would have something very similar to what I married. And for some reason, I think of Spacebunny when I look at this woman.

    Though I don't think of her naked, of course.


    Make A Stand...


    Internet retailers should announce a moratorium on any purchases from New York beginning June 1st. Fuck you, New York. When consumers realize that they are about to be cut off, they will scream to high heaven. And if they don't, fukkem.

    Wanna flex your flaccid muscles, New York? Yeah, good luck with that. And if the internet retailers bend over for this bullshit, I personally will boycott their sites forever. I'll pay a few bucks more to not have to buy stuff from a pussy.


    Curiouser And Curiouser...

    Proof that Osama Obama's old lady likes to hang wif da terrorists.

    Thanks to one of my readers. Hey, pass this around to everybody you know. Post it on your blogs. Let's make it viral.

        Thursday, April 24, 2008

    One For My Long-Time Readers...

    Have you ever noted a change in me? I'm serious, and curious. I feel like I have been steadily who I am for years, but you folks, the consumers, may have noted a change.

    I'd appreciate something I normally don't tolerate, criticism.


    Oh Gosh...

    I want one of these soooo bad. And no, I'm not kidding.

    Any of you planning a trip to the Ukraine?

    Get me one!


    How Much You Wanna Bet...

    ...that the little bastards who bullied this kid are black?

    This little bitch certainly is. I hope that cunt gets sent away for a long time, and forcibly sterilized. No, I hope she gets raped by a dyke with AIDS and fucking dies. In horrible pain.

    There are plenty enough idiot white assholes to go around, but statistics show that there is an insignificant amount of white on black violence, whereas there is a race war in this country against we honkeys.

    And just an aside, why is there any problem with that bitches murder of her baby? Wasn't it the most dramatic display of Pro-Choice? Tell me again why we can vacuum them out in bloody chunks, but can't take them on a terminal swim?

    Maybe I'm just slow...


    I rest my case.


    Simply Fascinating...

    To me, anyway. The Archimedes Codex.


    More fascinating stuff.


    Why Bother... terrorists to fight terrorism? This adds new meaning to the term 'counter-productive'. Instead of shooting them like the dogs they are, we're arming them, and giving them our best training.

    Like I said, not stupid. Deliberate. This does not bode well.


    Are We Just Stupid?

    Or what? Read the linked article, I'll wait right here.

    Okay, you back? Well, I used to think we were just stupid, the People for putting up with this bullshit, and the Government, for doing it. I no longer feel that way.

    Looking at it logically, and considering recent history, I can only believe that it is being done deliberately. Premeditatedly, with the goal of subsumation of this country into a larger whole, that very much does not have the American People's best interests at heart.

    Reading this morning that there are armored police officers carrying machine guns and using attack dogs, being set loose on the subway platforms in New York City. And it will spread throughout the country, soon. They want to take our guns, and replace them with machine gun toting strangers in crowds.

    And we can't get an illegal alien sex criminal and murderer deported, but 'the authorities' are perfecting the art of stealing your children. Tell me again, exactly why are we tolerating all this?

    It is waaay past time for a citizen revolt, and I see no one doing it, except for animal rights crazies and environmentalist and anti-war wackos.

    Have I mentioned lately that we're fucked?

    Something is wrong when a high school student has the guts to bomb or shoot up his school, and yet IRS and BATF buildings remain intact.

    It is far past time for so-called patriots to get crazy.

        Wednesday, April 23, 2008

    Go Into The Light...

    I always chuckle when I watch TV shows and movies where the person in-frame has a gun, looking for a Bad Guy, or a Bad Thing, and they put their flashlight right in front of their face. Where do you think the Bad Thing is gonna shoot? And why is it in front of your face?

    And please, mount a flashlight on your weapon. Or a Laser. Thanks for the direct line back to where I want to shoot. A bunch.

    If you must use a flashlight, tactically, hold it well away from you, and sweep with it. Never let it remain steady, and turn it off when you have a grasp of the terrain in front of you. You'll thank me when you don't get a sucking head wound. Sorry, Infantry Joke.

    Better yet, keep a supply of glow sticks handy, crack one, and toss it to where you last heard the noise, and then light them up. With gunfire.

    Night vision stuff has gotten so cheap, that you really have got no excuse. Hey, wanna protect your house? Hire an electrician to hook up some of those extremely bright emergency lights, and make you a master switch in your bedroom (and perhaps in a few other places in the house). Aim them away from where you will likely be, and lie in wait.

    Light is very important, and a lack of it can be even more important. Set up a lamp in your hallway, on a table, turn only it on, and look for the shadowed places you can meld into to remain unseen. Forewarned is forearmed.

    And then shoot the guy with the flashlight. In the face (Hint: just above the light) and then roll to the next patch of darkness, because your gunflash just gave your position away.

    I was trained in the 'three second move'. Fire, count 'one-two-three' as you scramble, then drop and fire again. It is exhausting, but it can prevent you from being ventilated. And that's always a good thing...

    Isn't it?


    The Painter...

    He mixed his paint, and readied his rollers. First, he took a wide brush and worked the corners, and made sure that when rolling, he wouldn't have to get near the ceiling flocking, or any of the wood cabinets in the kitchen. He was kind of under the gun, because the carpet guys were coming in this afternoon, and he wanted to be done by then.
    He hated the sound and smell of old carpet being ripped up. Reminded him of what he imagined peeling a corpse might sound like.

    So, he rolled the ceiling in the kitchen, not bothering with a drop cloth. He was a professional. A painter by trade. Then he moved on into the living room, and went to spackle the usual ragged part of the entryway, beaten by little fingers scrabbling at it as they launched into the room. And by the wedding rings of parents. Landlords call this 'attrition'.

    As he was spackling, he noticed pencil marks, with names and dates beside them. And the same names appeared, at different heights on the wall. As the dates went into the future of whoever was being measured, he knew that was what it was, because he did it with his own kids. Ruler marks, and then append the name and the date, and a joyful time was had by all.

    The painter turned to his pan and his roller, and once again caught sight of the dark brown stains on the carpet. Two big ones, outlined by tape, and two little ones, outlined by tape. 'You must be this tall' he thought to himself, and swallowed hysterical, horrified laughter. That wouldn't do. He had a job to finish. He studiously avoided thinking of his own children.

    He soaked his roller in paint, standard white...the landlord wanted to resume his income stream as soon as possible, and stepped toward the last record on this earth of the stains behind him standing erect, full of life, in the bosom of their family.

    And he began to roll...


    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!


    I WANT Egg On My Face...

    Unlike the doomsayers who gleefully hope and pray for doom, I love being wrong. Every bullet I do not have to fire in self-defense is a good one. Every day with the lights on, the water running, and food on the table whenever I want it, is a good day.

    I was wrong about Y2K, and I am very happy to admit it. But, I was prepared. I'm seeing signs in both directions, that this food shortage is real, or just a bunch of hype. I vote for hype. Please. Let it be hype. Let bunnies frolic with baby deer and virgins dance and sing in the forest. Please.

    But if I'm right, and you're wrong, you die. Or at least live, well, survive, most uncomfortably.

    I have somehow acquired a reputation as some sort of murderous maniac, and a war lover. Well, I love war, as long as it happens in your country. And I would only murder you if you've got it coming. Think of me as a consequence.

    So, bottom line, be prepared, and hope you never have to use it. Whatever the meaning of 'it' is.

    So, live long, and prosper. And stay off my lawn.



    Okay okay! I'm pondering.


    You Can Have My Penis...

    ...when you pry it from my cold, dead hand...


    No Wonder They Drink...

    Fuck this. I'd be on the first plane out so quick your head'd spin.


    This Kills Me...


    All The Web Apps You'll Ever Need...

    ...all in one place. Wow.

        Tuesday, April 22, 2008

    Ahhhh...I'm Spent...

    The wife came home with an absolute pile of survival food. Tomorrow, she goes out to have Johnny's teeth worked on, and on her way back, she is going to purchase containers for the food and supplies. Isn't that what a gook yells at you before they jump out from behind a tree and shoot you in the back? 'Supplies!' Whatevah...

    I feel the wave coming, and I would be remiss if I didn't do my duty as the Patriarch, and oversee the securest possible future for my family. I sure would love to have some of my Marines here, to help me out should the shit hit the fan, but I fully understand that they have many other obligations. I shall not whine.

    What would you do if a beloved family member(s) showed up on your doorstep in a time of great crisis, where your next acquisition of supplies is not assured, and demand that you share with them?
    Pop quiz...what do you do?

    Tough one, eh? At least for me. I'd likely mulch them, and give thanks for the bounty their sacrifice produced in my garden. But maybe that's just me.
    It is probably not a good idea to put me in survival mode. As I've said, I see red targeting cursors, and I absolutely will not stop until you are dead.

    At least now, I am beginning to learn to regret my actions. After.


    Fuck The Earth...

    I left all the lights on all over the house today. I flushed a toilet every time I walked by one. Sometimes several times. If it wasn't so cold, I'd have gone out in the back yard and augured a hole, and fucked your Mother, you stupid fucking hippies.

    I hope that the next time Algore gets in a canoe, he is beset by hillbillys, who make him squeal like a pig. And nuke fucking Kyoto. We missed one.

    If you are ever out using Roundup on the driveway, and your curbs, and some hippie bitch (somehow the guys always know better) comes up and begins to lecture you about how it runs off and gets into the river and harms the waterfowl, just give her a couple of good squirts. The look on their face is priceless. Then say "Fuck a damn duck, and fuck you..."

    Tell them if they call the cops, you'll kill their entire lawn, and dump the rest of the bottle down the sewer drain. Only one ever called the cops. When he arrived, I told him I was cleaning it, and it went off. I thought he was gonna bust a rib laughing. Then he went to talk to her, and she was the typical hyperactive tofu-sucking hippie harridan they all are, and he couldn't get away fast enough. Oh, and sorry about your lawn...

    Bitch. Fuck, I hate hippies.



    This rocks.

    Via Blackfive.


    They Found It!

    They found the WMD!

    What is disgusting about this story, is that our vaunted Homeland Security Department didn't have a clue as to what the little bastard was up to until his parents ratted him out, even though he was using a computer to order known bomb components off the internet from multiple sources, including eBay.

    Still scared of Carnivore? Pussy.


    7 Years Of Lean...

    The wife is out stocking up on staples, due to our nervousness over the actual food rationing going on here on the West Coast. She is buying several big plastic bins, and filling them with large bags of rice and flour, various beans and legumes, and plastic pitchers to put the stuff in to keep the bugs out. Or in, as the case may be, if they come pre-infested for our shopping pleasure.

    We already have a lot of stuff, and could eat comfortably for weeks, but I want more stuff for the long haul. Just in case. She is buying powdered milk, and cans of Dinty Moore Beef Stew. I hate to spring for the $70 for a case of MRE's, but I just may. And I'm gonna order a 1,000 round sealed tin of 7.62x39 ammo here in a bit, and maybe a few more 30 round mags. Nothing takes the worry out of being close like a 30 round mag.

    Oh, and she's picking up several gallons of cooking oil, and various jellies and jams, and peanut butter. You know, the essentials. I wanted her to pick up a big bag of Masa, but she says it has a tendency to go rancid before you can use it all. Dammit, I wanted to be able to make flatbread if push comes to shove. Oh well, I trust her judgment.

    And I want to get a pump-type water filter with extra cartridges. We have several 10gal bottles in the garage, but when those run out, and if the taps stop running, I'll need to go down to the river near me and fill them, and there is all kinds of beasties in that water. And boiling it just wastes precious fuel.
    Speaking of, we're filling our propane tank today for the barbecue, and we might buy another full one to keep in the garage.

    I've said this before, turn off every breaker in the panel, and close off water going into your house. It's midnight now, inside and outside the house. Pop quiz...what do you do? Do you have a plan? Have you been buying more TP than you need whenever you buy your normal amount, and squirreled it away? Now, where you gonna shit when the toilet stops working?

    Do you have flashlights out in the open and have you practiced finding landmarks in your house to get to them? You'd be surprised at how alien the landscape gets in pitch dark.
    When the screaming starts down the block because of the home invaders that are running amok, do you have a firearm to defend yourself and your loved ones with? Extra mags? Those people aren't going to give you time to reload mags.

    The wife and I have a drill where I drop an empty mag out and toss it to her and slap in a full one, and she reloads. You can keep up a continuous stream of fire that way. They sell all kinds of small(ish) canvas shoulder bags of all sorts in surplus stores and such. I fill one with all my mags from one gun, and a box of 50 loose rounds, and hang it near where I've stashed the gun in question. I have a full bandoleer of 00 draped over the barrel of my Mossberg. Just grab and go.

    My long guns are the only ones I don't keep a round chambered in, though the magazines are all filled. All of my pistols are set to rock-n-roll. I'm lucky, in that I can move through darkness easily, even if all the lights in the city are off from a blackout, on a cloudy night. The wife has red lenses on her tactical flashlights, so she can see, and not steal my vision when she turns it off.

    Oh, there's more, there's tons more to know, and to prepare, but this'll do for a basic list. Just remember to recycle and replace your emergency food every so often. Most of that crap won't keep. If you don't care to eat it, donate it to a church for the poor, but fuck the homeless. You feed rats, you get more rats.
    And make sure you replace the food with the same or better food.

    And if there are so-called 'emergency rations', like MRE's and other camping-type stuff, dammit, practice how to cook it and eat it before you're starving. Okay? You don't want to be fumbling with an unfamiliar product and trying to heat it with its special heating pouches or heat tabs when all you want to do is friggin eat.

    And if there are other starving people around you, you might want to consider not heating it? Oh, and did I mention female menstrual products when I was talking about TP? You might want to lay in a couple of cases of those. And simple bandages of all sizes, and gauze, and antiseptic, and on and on and on, but that's a whole nother post.

    Me and mine will stay and survive in place, and fight anyone who tries to uproot and/or 'evacuate' us. The wife and I have already agreed that we believe in God, and an Afterlife, and that if necessary we will take whatever assholes with us that volunteer to go by trying to put their hands on us.

    I could care a whit about dying, I just hope it doesn't hurt too much.

        Monday, April 21, 2008

    Vote For Obama bin Laden!

    Because Michael Moore says so.

    Fucking fat commie bastard...


    I'm Sorry For Killing Johnny...

    I am feeling something that I think is guilt. This is a rare, unfamiliar thing for me. I shall try to get over it, and no doubt will succeed, but I feel like I need to apologize again for my terrible April Fool's prank. And you have no idea how difficult this is to do so.

    For instance, the wife told me a bit ago when I asked her what she was doing, that she was collecting her unused clothing for a friend who had had a spot of bad luck. Seems her husband had had a heart attack, and her house had burned down, all on the same day. While she was at church. On Easter.

    I couldn't hold it in, and just sputtered out laughter. Now that's comedy gold, right there. The wife put on her hurt face, and I put my hand over my mouth and tried to stop. Tears were squirting out of my eyes. "Why would you laugh at a thing like that?" she asked me in indignation.

    And you know, I have no idea. It was just funny as heck to me. And last night, Johnny was sitting on the floor in front of me while I lay on the couch as we watched TV, and I started pretending to wipe boogers on his teeth from behind. Several times. He would react very indignantly, and spit them out on his sister. Now note, neither child moved to get out of range.

    The wife made me stop. Threatened to take away my dessert privileges. Party-pooper.

    And ya'lls apparently honest and total outrage when I finally admitted to a spoof, made me wonder. Made me a bit sad. Made me feel...guilty?
    I really pissed off several people I really like, and I didn't mean to. I planned it, and implemented it, and I did not expect to see the reaction I got. And normally, I kinda like hurting people and freaking them out.

    This time, it felt (there's that word) a little different. I had a blast killing myself last year, and I think I really sold it. I soaked up your wails like fine wine, and cherished every sip. My co-conspirator was squirming in agony. Did I have more than one co-conspirator? I forget. This year, just felt...different.

    Again, sorry for any psychic damage I did to any of you. I must admit it gave me a bit of a twinge writing the post in question about Johnny. But damn, if I didn't sell it, eh?

    Maybe next year, Nattie will have a bit of an accident. Put up a pic I find somewhere of some little girl in a box, about her age.

    But that would be wrong, right?


    Another Reason... hate Muslims. As if you needed one.

    That is one of the most tragic stories I have ever read.


    I Feel Just Wretched...

    I finally was able to barf a bit ago. I wanted to all night, and had fevers and chills, and stupid dreams. I don't know how much free ice-cream I'll be putting out here on this blog today. It may just be a touch of gastritis. I hope. That'll pass much sooner.

    The wife came home and baked us up a pan of mac & cheese, and I scarfed. Johnny ate more than me, but it was all I'd had all day, and I ate more than I usually do. Johnny and Nat ate it too, and they're fine. It's just me. Maybe the wife is poisoning me. Wouldn't blame her.

    So anyway, Happy Monday. See you around.

        Sunday, April 20, 2008

    Just For You Anti-War Pussies Know...

    19,000 men died, that's died, in the Battle of the Bulge alone. Hitler's last big push. Hitler's last stand. And that 19,000 (have I mentioned, 19,000?) figure does not include wounded and permanently crippled.

    You know, kinda like you all who are at one with the Code Pink types. Why aren't you backing Cindy Sheehan for President? What, no strength of your convictions?

    Howsabout a Ron Paul/Cindy Sheehan ticket? Or vice versa. I can't tell either of those ugly bitches apart.

    Don't like what I just said? Fuck you, shut up, and eat your cold gruel.


    A Blah Sunday Post...

    I awoke early to snow again. Now it's gone, but thunderstorms threaten. I think one snuck by a bit ago, because my brand new Radio Shack radio began to hiss and spit like a kitten, a sure sign that lightning is flashing somewhere. Somewhere close.

    You know what? I won't go shooting with somebody(s) who drone on about 'safety', and 'trigger finger placement', and won't drink beer when they shoot. Fuck that. It's a FUCKING GUN, DUMMY!!! GUNS ARE BY THEIR VERY NATURE UNSAFE!!! Glad I could get that off my chest. As long as you don't point your gun at me for any reason, and I hear safeties click on, and see a proper clearing procedure, I don't give a shit what you do. If you can't hold your liquor, I ain't gonna be hanging out with you anyway.

    If you hit me with a ricochet, I shoot you in the leg. It's that simple and easy. 'Trigger finger placement...' Worrying about that bullshit is a sure sign of an anal retent. Again, if you're some kind of spaz, with your guns filed down to a one pound trigger pull, I don't want to shoot with you. Geez.

    Nattie is bringing me her toy food to show me. She is an orphan, and this is all the food she could find, and when it is all gone, she is going to starve to death in this cold, cruel world. Gads, what a morbid little shit. Earlier, Ken kept jumping off of things, and breaking things on himself, which she would then bandage with twist-ties from the kitchen drawer. She has made a stretcher for him and everything. I'm not sure I should have got her that nurse kit.

    Speaking of, do any of you remember those nurse/doctor kits way back in the day, that had pill bottles in them with pill-shaped candies in them? Yeah, just try to market one of those kits now.

    I miss my wife. I'm gonna be half tempted to lock myself in my room once she gets here, and let her do her Motherly Magic. But I know I'm gonna want to bask in the glow of her goodness as much as the kids, and she will be buoyant, with tales to tell of her weekend. Those ladies do cut up. They revert to being 10 year old girls, when farts were hysterical, and playing tricks on the other girls was the height of comedic pleasure.

    I just heard a crash from downstairs, and Nat began wailing like an air-raid siren. Seems she had tripped over Johnny's train set and driven a piece of track into her side. I had Johnny check on her, and taking a page from my book, he leaned over the stairwell from upstairs and hollered 'Nattie, come up and see Dad!' I knew that if I heard her wail 'I can't!' that I had trouble, and would need to rush to investigate.

    Instead, I heard the poor wounded bird come flapping slowly up the stairs, and I went into nurturing, solicitous mode. Checked out her ribs, red mark just below them. Girl wailing, check. So I grabbed my scissors and snipped the top off of a new pack of Sour Skittles, and said 'you need some of these special pills, pick a few...' and the tears stopped as she peered intently into the bag, and started popping them into her mouth and crunching away.

    Problem solved.

    I told her to look in the toilet when she pees, next time, and check for blood, and save it and come tell me if she sees any, so I can look.

    Peace reigns, Spongebob entertains, and we're expecting the rains.

    Happy Sunday!



    This is just awful. We are getting very near the End, I think.

    Come, Lord Jesus, come.


    How Can THis Be?

    Chicago has some of the most restrictive gun laws in the world. So who is doing all this shooting? Are you trying to tell me that the bad guys didn't give up their guns?

    Dammit, we need more gun laws! House to house searches by the police to seize any guns they find!

    Yeah, that'll fix the problem.

        Saturday, April 19, 2008


    They're like baby spiders, that crawl all over the parent when they hatch, and suck the life from them. And yet, we tolerate it, because we love them, and we want our genes to carry on. Except for you folks who put them in school buses on icy roads, and send them to school with gangstas. Embrace oblivion.

    Well, they've been fed, watered, and now they are reading for extra time up. I took care of the fish per the wife's instructions, and it was deja vu, all over again. You have no idea how much having kids is exactly like pet care until you have them.

    Or plants. Feed, water, expose to sunshine, speak to them, even though they don't understand a damn word you say.

    When I think of how little nigroe children in Africa carry rifles taller than them, and are encouraged to kill with them, well, need I bring up the Global Pandemic again? No species that treats its children like that should continue to exist any longer than it takes to snuff them out.

    Killing adults is fine. They should have fought harder. Killing kids is just cheating. Killing their spirits just might be worse.

    Oh well, I'm about to go dump these monkeys into their beds. Hugs, smooches, prayers for Mom, and getting sucked under Nat's bed by the Under The Bed Monster. Ahhhh, childhood memories are so important.

    If I hear them jazz-assing around in their room, later, I may tape my eyebrows, nose, and upper lip up, and leap into their room with my red-lensed flashlight shining up into my face from under my chin.

    That's always good for a laugh. But, curiously, they tend to behave for some reason once tucked in.

    Yes, it's a mystery to me, too.


    Verdict On The Hotdogs...

    I hate them. Lips and assholes. Turkey, chicken, and pork. Flavorless turds, though the bun is an amazing freak of nature.

    Kids: Love them. Begged me to serve them for dinner, too.

    You peel the entire hotdog and bun out of a condom of some sort, and it is in a paper basket like you get in 7/11, only lined with that freakish microwave substance that enhances microwave cooking. Then you pull the dog out of the freakishly fresh bun, strip its own personal condom off, replace in bun, and within 3 minutes you have four steaming Oscar Mayer hot dogs.

    Apply condiments, serve. Amazing. No muss, no fuss. And nobody has died, yet. Though I came perilously close to puking up the one I ate.

    Just FYI, I woke at six this morning to piss, and it was snowing like a globe, and everything was blanketed in white. I woke up at 8:30am, and everything was clear and dry. That's how I like my snow.




    You won't believe what just happened.

    The doorbell rang, and I wasn't expecting anybody, so I went down the stairs and hollered 'who is it?' and I didn't recognize the chick voice, so I held the muzzle of my .45 against the door as I opened it, just in case, and it was just the prettiest little waif of a college girl, with an Obama For President sticker on her jacket. I almost fired right then, but I clicked the safety on instead.

    She had a clipboard, and asked me if I was Mr ______, and I said 'one of them', and she said do you mind if I come in and talk to you about Barack Obama, and I said 'yes, I mind very much, I hate that guy, and so does my wife'.

    She looked at her board in some confusion, and we finally figured out that my hippy son who has the same name as me must have registered Democrat just to piss me off...I told her he'd register Socialist party if he thought it would give me a stroke. Anyway, we got things straightened out that I wasn't him, and the wife and I are registered Republicans.

    So she made the obvious leap of thought that liberals are prone to leap to, and said, so you and your wife are going to vote for John McCain, and for the first time in the conversation, I cussed. 'Fuck no!' I said, 'I hate that asshole almost as bad as I hate Obama!' She blinked, and gave me that head-tilt 'does not compute' look. I proceeded to further fry her circuits, and continued "I'd vote for Hillary before I'd vote for either of the other two, and if you had any idea of how much I hate that bitch, you'd know that is saying something'.

    Then I said, 'but I hope it doesn't come to that...' and I smelled ozone as more of her circuits fried, and again with the head-tilt, and she inquired as to what I meant by that. I said 'Well, I am holding out hope that a candidate we haven't seen yet steps out at the last minute, and if they do, they will get my vote, just to keep those other three turds outta my punchbowl in any way possible'.

    A pondering look pulled over her face, and she thanked me for my time, and kinda staggered on down my walk as she left. Probably to go somewhere and have a drink.

    Nice butt, too.


    When I told her how bad I hated George Bush and his dad, I thought she was gonna have a stroke.


    I Guess The Muslims...

    ...aren't the only wacky religious nuts out there. This bullshit is disgusting.

    That crap like that can go on in this day and age, is proof that humans have no worth at all. What we need is a good old fashioned worldwide pandemic, to clean the scourge of humanity from the planet.


        Friday, April 18, 2008

    Is It Just Me...

    ...or does your average Dairy Queen Blizzard look like a snowman just took a shit in your cup? Yeesh. Chew those Oreos better, asshole. And lay off the peanuts.

    Had some excitement earlier. A late night knock at the door. So I answered it in typical heavily armed fashion, and when I said 'who is it?' I got this mushmouth bullshit, so I opened the door prepared to bring down the thunder.

    It was my ex neighbor, a truck driver, and he was trying to get rid of cases of Oscar Meyer hotdogs in buns, because the shipment had been refused for some reason. The expiration date is way next month, so I put my gun away and accepted a case of them. He mushmouths because he wears dentures, and generally looks like Popeye The Sailorman. Nearly got himself killed.

    Well, I've got lunch for the kids tomorrow. I'll test it out on them, before I eat any. If they're alive after an hour, and not puking, heck, I may have me a couple.

    Fuck, it's cold tonight. I keep cranking up the heater, trying to coax my testicles back down. Brrrrr.

    Well, I've got BSG on pause, and that show is not gonna watch itself. Hugs and kisses...

    To your little sister!




    Okay, I got the kids showered, teeth brushed, PJ'd, John's in his CPAP, both are tucked and covered, and full of lasagna. Death threats re the morning: issued. Extra blankets at the foot of their beds, to pull up as needed in the night, as the Nexrad radar shows pink and white shit mowing over us, and out as far as the radar can see.

    And most of it that isn't hitting us, is headed towards where the wife is. In the mountains. Trust me, she has survival gear with her, and instructions on how to seal off a fireplace room from the rest of the cold, cold building, if need be.

    I will be going down soon to hit the Sci-Fi channel, hard. Four hours, at least. New Doctor Who! Woo Hoo! And BSG.

    I might hit the sauce, too. A little bit. My ex is in Oregon, so I'm at Defcon Whatever The Highest Rating Is. Locked and loaded. Not a great night to drop by and bang on a window behind me. Maybe your head will grow back. Or not.

    Well, I've got my windows tuned, and The Reaper is already playing his oboe, made from the femurs of Catholic priests.

    I'm ready for Friday night...


    Hey, You Get To Pray That Someone Dies...

    But dies quick, clean, and easy. I could live with...well, die with that.

    So what're you waiting for? Get on over there and pray to God that He sends one of His angels that is experienced with that sort of stuff to snuff her, and for God to send His Holy Spirit to minister and comfort the living left behind.
    Might need a crowd of ministering spirits, too. I guess He would know what is needed.



    Well, Crap...

    The wife is wending her way to her retreat...well she's probably there already. Her weekend there is always a once a year period of wonderfulness. She comes back refreshed, physically, and spiritually. They stay at a place, out in nature, that has a real chef, helped by good old fashioned cooks, and they bake all their breads and pastries fresh daily.

    Before she left, UPS knocked on the door, and delivered a present from a dear blog-friend I have never met. Damn, that broad can wrap a present. Nat wanted the wrapping, intact, so I am trying to take apart this anal retentive Chinese Puzzle of a wrap job tighter than any trainee's bed covers before an inspection.

    I finally got to the goods, and do you folks remember the discussion we had about those aluminum cups back in the day, a few days ago? Yes, in the box was a full set of them. The wife and I handled them in wonder. What an incredibly thoughtful gift. The wife told me how she remembered the exact taste of cherry Kool-Aid just looking at them. Memories of my own came floating to the surface. Amazing.

    Well, the kids are whining about being hungry. I hear you are supposed to feed them occasionally, or something. Hey, I gave them some Sun Chips a while ago. Whiners.

    At least I have enough of Daddy's Special Medicine to get me through the weekend. Fortunately, the weather has gone to shit for this weekend. It is even supposed to snow, and thunderstorm. So they can't nag me to take them to the park or something. Of course, there's always the mall. It is such a pain in the ass to take a big girl and boy into a restroom when they whine that they have to pee. Women can get away with it, guys, well fuck, there's always some guy with his schlong out taking a stand-up whiz when you go into the Men's.

    So there you are, all three of you hiding in a stall, and one of them always has to take a shit, and then it makes you have to go, and I'm always afraid some kid-snatcher is gonna reach under the door and snatch one of them and drag them away screaming, and the kids are telling me I stink, and it's just a mess.

    Screw it. I'll put pull-ups on them if we go anywhere.

        Thursday, April 17, 2008


    The wife is going on her annual 'women's retreat' with her church buddies, leaving tomorrow for the weekend. In one of those strange twists of fate, she paid for her boss's (well, more like Senior Partner) way. They have a blast together, love each other, and I guess I don't understand girl friendships to this day. You bitches are weird.

    Anyway, she is cleaning and packing today, and I looked over the edge of the balcony, and said 'where are your ten bags, packed for the weekend?' She started to answer as seriously, then caught herself and laughed and said 'oh, fuck you'. That's my girl.

    As I've said before, she packs for a day trip, like Sir Hillary packed for an Everest expedition. She'll be gone until Sunday sometime, but the weather is going to snowy shit, so I told her to stay as long as she'd like.

    And I've got the kids. She laid in a supply of corndogs, and green chili beef burritos. Frozen for our protection. Did you know there's a company that makes all-beef corndogs again? Not those pitiful chicken ones? Expensive as shit. And only about half a dozen to a package. I told her to buy those next time, for she and I. Screw the kids.

    So, I'll be Daddy Dearest this weekend. The kids don't tend to mess up with me. Her they test. Me, not so much. Should be fun. Except for the big-ass storm supposedly headed our way, if the severe weather warnings are to be believed.

    It is with great trembling and trepidation that I loaned the wife (my smallest) shake flashlight, so she can have it in her purse. I kept the big one. I told her that if anything bad happens, to eat the fattest bitch, first. I think she was comforted.

    So, there you go. Another exciting chapter in the never-ending adventure that is Bane's life. You people are like family to me...

    And yes, that should worry you.



    ...this is fucked up.

    Hopefully, there will be a happy ending to this story. And I can't believe that commie bitch Feinstein is actually coming down on the right side of this issue.

    Wonders never cease...



    That just may be my favorite show on television, maybe ever. And the older brother of the two looks damn near identical to my oldest son. Except my boy is much taller.
    Tonights episode (a repeat) is a particularly good one, very similar to Groundhog Day, one of my top ten favorite movies of all time. Watch it. You'll thank me.

    This is my favorite kind of show (besides all the spooky stuff). A long, continuing story arc with the same characters dropping in and out, as needed. Some of them dying. And yet, each episode is a stand alone story as well. Pure bliss. If you see the show, you'll see the brothers car. And I had one exactly like it, but green, and with Corvette wheels. I raced two Pontiac Trans Ams from OKC to Tulsa in it one time on the toll road, and we went (averaged) 120 mph, and none of us could shake each other, and took turns leading.

    This really is one fantastic show, and you could do a lot worse than buying (if there is one) a boxed set of every show so far.

    Trust me.


    My New Hero...

    Via LL (see sidebar, Chromed Curses) I found this lovely gem.

    Now that's just plain funny.

        Wednesday, April 16, 2008

    One For Obama Hussein...

    Or is it Osama Barack? I can never keep those fuckers straight...


    I Don't Like Mormons...

    I think Mormonism is a stupid, evil cult, still...

    I am very alarmed by this seizure of Mormon children, with apparently no evidence, or probable cause, and they take hundreds of children, and question them without their parents present, and make not one arrest of any adult, as far as I can see.

    I can't stomach that monkeyspank O'Reilly, and despise the Scientologist twat Greta Von Cistern, and the rest of the coverage makes me want to retch, too. So I have been getting my info from print, and talk radio...the very select few who will even talk about it.
    I tend to think Michael Savage is a dolt, but he has brought me over to his point of view on this one.

    This bullshit is just wrong. First they came for the Mormon's kids. And eventually, they will get around to coming for yours. That is just the way it works. The pigs approached the compound with armored vehicles, wearing full battle regalia, and armed with machine guns.

    Do you want to look out your front window, and see that? And it is not a foreign power, but your own fellow American citizens?

    As I have said many times...there is a storm brewing.


    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!


    Thank You, Folks...

    ...for all of your kind felicitations. It never fails to surprise and startle me. And thanks for the gifts and cash that are wending my way.

    It will be interesting to see if I am still extant by this time next year. Either dead, or raddled with an incurable disease. At which point, it is check-out time. Time to get my affairs in order, and then walk out onto the ice flo.

    The wife is out for Chinese with a pack of her girlfriends, celebrating the birthday of one of them. She wanted to cancel it, but I said 'get out!' I'm happy as a clam to lounge at home. My family called and wanted to honor me in some way, so I threw them a bone in the form of KFC and baked home-made mac & cheese. Sometime next week.

    This evening, the wife takes the kids to the kid's group, for their weekly socialization. And I will have blessed peace for awhile. Nat has built me a 'throne' on my couch.
    I shall lounge on it, and absorb whiskey and television.

    Oh, I got Shaun of the Dead from the wife, too. We watch it together, and laugh our asses off. Extreme British Comedy, mixed with Extreme Zombie Horror. What's not to love? Oh, and I got three bags of Sour Skittles. They're like crack to me.

    Well, sorry, not much free ice cream today. Sorry. Hey, I've got years of archives, go for it. Have fun.

    And thanks again for this last year, folks.

        Tuesday, April 15, 2008

    Early Birthday...

    The family and I went out this afternoon, to the mall, to get Nat's ears repierced, as the previous earring holes had grown shut. She was brave, only squirted a few tears, and chewed the sucker she got defiantly, after.

    But, we were still at the mall, and hey, birthday tomorrow, and Radio Shack was just down the way, so the wife bought me one of these, knowing I was pining for my $120 Radio Shack radio, which is now $149. Inflation, anyone? Gosh, I love this new radio. I feel it up as if it is a lover. It is heavy and substantial. and with just 15 cranks and no batteries in it (yet) the flashlight shown strong, and the AM radio played, and brought in every station clearly that I normally listen to. And it'll charge your dang cell phone. I'm still looking for the blowjob attachment. I'm sure it has one.

    Next, to Borders, where I fell in love with and was bought this. My copy has a Thompson submachine gun on the cover, and different pistols, but damn, what a beautiful book. It will join several other books in my firearms research library, and hold a place of honor. I really cannot say enough positive things about this book. Except I got it for $2.99. Score!

    Or this book. What a gorgeous book. It is like a popup book for adults. Faux leather binding, beautiful art inside, with many representations of this and that from the story, and you lift them up, and find hints, tidbits, and things of relevance that moves a gripping tale along nicely. A big, heavy tome, as is the gun book above. A bargain at $7.99.

    Then we went to the Italian place that I took the wife to on her birthday last November, and she and I split two entrees, one of Cannelloni, and one of Manicotti, and got a medium pizza for the kids to nosh on. We noshed it, too. The pizza arrived with our salads, and it made the perfect horse-doovers.

    When our entrees arrived, heck, we ended up feeding the kids dang near half of them, and still we all staggered out like we'd each swallowed a basketball. And the gas we emit is making our guardian angels breathe through their wings tonight, and squint through the tears.

    A very nice afternoon. And tomorrow morning, the wife will head out to fetch me goodies from one of our (very) high-end bakeries in town. Probably an eclair drizzled in white chocolate, and maybe a piece of carrot cake. I hear theirs are made by virgin girls who have never seen a man. They frolic like nymphs, naked, under a full moon, as they mix the cake batter, and then tell a unicorn sad stories until it cries, then they fold its tears into the frosting they lave onto the cooling cake, using their firm, full breasts as spatulas with which to apply it.

    Why yes, thank you it is that good.

    Now that I think about it, tomorrow would be a great day to die. I don't really want to go through another year of this life crap, and you know what? Nobody would forget my birthday. Ever. Plus, it would look cool on the headstone. People would go 'huh?'.

    Alas, I am cursed to live. Far longer than I ever wished to. Hey, maybe the wife'll splurge on a bottle of pear brandy! I'd stay alive just long enough to finish that if I was given the choice.

    Well, here's to me, I'll be 53, so lift a glass, then kiss my ass...


    Okay, This... just weird.

    Get me fucked up enough, and I'd do it. Especially if there was Ethiopian poontang involved. But only me getting a blowjob. As we all know, that is not adultery.



    I Find This...

    ...very disturbing.

    I've been a criminal, and I've been a cop. And I'm here to tell you that many cops are criminals. I think it is mostly a frustration with a fucked up system, so they cheat. They plant drugs. They lie on the stand. They are frustrated and befuckled at every turn by stupid 'Rules of Engagement', and they know they are dealing with the worst of humanity, so why not, eh?

    And then it becomes a habit. And then it catches an innocent person, or someone they just plain want to fuck with because they don't like them.

    I was nearly killed one time because of a predatory prosecutor. And it is why I am no longer a cop. I barely escaped with my life, and was actively threatened by other cops I was going to be killed.

    I was being an upstanding boy scout, trying to walk the straight and narrow. I was kind of a Super Cop, and very smart, and within short order, I uncovered the murder by police of a drug dealer, and a Mafia private airport that flew in contraband of all sorts, on a private farm, and was guarded by certain cops when flights would come in. Cops in uniform, in marked police cars, on city time.

    I knew I couldn't go to my chain of command, so I went, on my own time, and confided in the prosecutor.

    Oooops...Big Mistake? Or Bad Idea?

    I will never trust anyone in 'law enforcement ever again.

    And neither should you.

        Monday, April 14, 2008

    For Blacknads...

    I only put this up to drive my stalker, Blacknads, more insane than he already is. Oh, who am I kidding, as I've said, that is my favorite pose a woman can strike.

    That such beauty can drive a fundy faux Christian nuts, is just a bonus. I love dual use tools.


    Bits Of Childhood, Redux...

    I am bouncing off of the lovely Jean's blog, where she writes an extremely poignant post of a collection of her own bits.

    My strongest memories...hmmmm. Well, let us start with me in my crib, whistling. When I told my parents of that memory, they were astounded. I was about five months old at the time. Still couldn't read a calendar, though.

    Hmmmm...the Pickwick Bookstore in Los Angeles. I was five, and could already read. I remember walking out with Kipling's Jungle Book, and Other Tales, under my arm, along with a compilation of Mark Twain novels. Then I walked down the street with my parents, and we stood mesmerized, in front of a TV store's main display window, and I watched Bonanza on the first color television my parents and I had ever seen, along with a crowd of others who had gathered on the sidewalk.

    I remember to this day being drawn in and delighted and terrified by the tales in those books. And then, it was off to the races. Every spare quarter was spent on paperbacks at used bookstores.

    I remember my startlement when I was five or six, and my mother lost her patience with me, and stabbed me in the belly with a sharpened pencil. The cold feeling of shock as a foreign object enters your gut. I can still see the black dot of the tip of the pencil that broke off in me, just to the left of my belly-button, nearly fifty years later. And I can still conjure the feeling of shock and betrayal.

    I remember, what, was I six or seven? My Mom was at the corner laundromat, and I was outside being a kid, and this motorcycle cop, in mirror shades and helmet, and leathers, looking for all the world like one of Darth Vader's elite stormtroopers, swooshed up on his motorcycle, the heat from the engine washing over me, and he grabbed from behind, and began to dry-hump me from behind, while screaming gibberish.

    A crowd quickly formed, and several men tore me away, and then 'subdued' the man. I didn't know the phrase 'beat the shit out of' in those days.

    I remember laying on my back, what was I? 9? 10? 11? Something...under a tree, with my neighborhood friends, and we fantasizing about what foods we'd like to eat. We were always hungry. Adults never gave us enough food. We'd lay there and talk about going to a special store where you could eat all of the cake, and donuts, and sandwiches you could stand. And then we'd talk about all of the toys that we saw on TV, that we were never going to get.

    I remember the sharp tang of those colored aluminum 'glasses' that adults used to buy, to serve kids milk and water and soda and juice in. We had no idea we were drinking in toxicity. And then we'd go watch Superman. And Zorro. And if you went and stayed with Grandma a while, you got to watch Combat! Or the 11th Hour. Scared the shit out of me, the 11th hour did.

    My Dad, getting out of his car when I was small, bringing me cardboard boxes and packing materials from his job at the phone company as a lineman. The job he quit because they made him work on Saturdays, and we were Adventists. Yeah, life kinda went to shit for awhile, after that.

    I probably deserved a good stabbin. Right?


    A Little Something... brighten your day. It sure did brighten mine.

    I tease certain of them, but I have always liked and admired Australians. They have some dipshit politicians, but who doesn't.

    If you'd be so kind as to send this linked post to your friends and family in the military, I'd appreciate it.


    I Laughed Until Tears Squirted Out...

    I dare you to try watching this at work.

    Oh, my ribs hurt.

        Sunday, April 13, 2008

    Time For Beddy-Bye...

    I need to go snuggle in my blanky, and get ready for the horrible ordeal of childcare tomorrow. Thank goodness the wife took the kids to the park and ran them ragged, today. So much for resting on the eighth day of the week..

    We all sat in a pile and watched 'Catwoman' this evening. I really enjoy that movie, and screw all the dumbass fanboy's opinions. I was whacking off to her before any of you whiny little bastards were born.

    The wife and Nat loved it, John yawned like an alligator on a sunny sandbank all through it. I thought there was a clear and present danger of him turning his head inside-out.

    Well, as usual, I am not making any sense at this hour, and I am gravely disappointed that the wind seems to have abated. Please excuse the disjointed syntax and amateurish 'prose'. I blame the hour, the Benadryl, and perhaps a tipple of whiskey. Or two.

    I hope you all had as lovely a Sunday as I did, and may your Monday feel like a Friday.

    Before I go, I would ask you, and thank you in advance, to visit the bloggers in my sidebar, and those that I link to. It is a rare thing when I do so, recommend, I mean, and shortly after I do, I usually remove their training wheels. If you can't ride it, get off the bike. No shame in that.

    To get your readers, you must earn your readers, and nurture them, cultivate them, spray their little leaves, and most of all, provide them some kick-ass fertilizer. And I don't mean bullshit. I mean a slurry made from your own blood, sweat, and tears, and a dread satisfaction that whatever you just put up meets your standards.

    I did not intend to go off on a rant, here, but dammit, just kick some ass. Write like the bird, once caged, now free, sings. It's in you. It is in all of you. You are on the bull, in a chute, your hand wrapped in the rope, and the timer is counting down to the next few moments when the rodeo clown opens the gate.

    I should probably shut up now. But there's keys to be pressed. Words float above them, begging to be freed. However they can be put on the screen, and transmitted, they just want to live. To frolic. To slither. To lunge like a tiger onto a mahout. To tickle someone's skin like a bunch of butterflies, or rip it off like a hungry hyena.

    Set them free. You write. You corral those words like a trained sheepdog, and put them where you want them.

    And then you have to take them to market. In Blogdom, that means eyeballs. And that means going out to other blogs and not being a boring, stupid asshole, and saying something relevant in the comments sections of others, to pique their curiosity about you, and follow you back, and see what else you have to say. Blogging is a Communicative Disease. So, communicate.

    It really is that simple. And now, to bed with me.



    Tuning My Windows...

    This is the kind of day I love. High, gunmetal gray clouds above, and crullers of clouds moving my way. And the wind, oh my, is it ever blowing.
    The trees are bumping and grinding, dancing spastically, and birds fly sideways.

    And I have set my windows open just enough, so that they moan like a wind instrument section seated with corpses, pressing their cold, dead lips to their instruments, and playing the soundtrack for Gehenna.

    I love it. This is no storm, by far, just Spring arranging her petticoats before she takes a seat, and waits for her hot lover, Summer, to come along and sweep her off her feet.
    I do so love storms, though. I love to sit on the porch under an overhang, and watch them roll in like God's own Panzer Division, blowing wild, with artillery flashes, and booms and bangs and rumbles. And then the bacon-sizzle of precipitation, that lashes everything and makes cars going by run their wipers on high.

    I love to hear the groan and creak and crack of trees, and to take cover when the lightning begins to coincide with the boom, and blinds you like a photographers flash-bulb. And thence, to lie in bed, listening to it whip the house, and swirl around like an angry dragon in an attempt to get in.

    I sleep like a baby.

    The wife and kids are at the park again. I wonder how long they'll hold out. I have the house to myself.

    And the windows moan...


    Oh, Yeah...

    Via Blackfive, I find this gem.

    Rock on, boys.


    On A Winter's Day...

    I repost this every few months or so. It was one of the first things I wrote in this blog:

    A female friend of mine asked for my help in getting an abortion back in the 70's. I forget how far along she was, but she was at least a few months along. It wasn't my baby, so I didn't care and said sure. She paid my gas and bought beer, and we went to the clinic and she asked me to come in with her. The staff assumed I was the father, so there was no problem with me going in.

    They gloved me up and gave her a big old shot of Pitocin, and left me alone with her. Some time passed, and she began looking for all the world like she was having a baby. The nurse came in once and told me to encourage her to push, and went back out to help other girls kill their babies.

    After one particularly huge pushing event, I heard a squishy, popping sound, and I looked under her drape and there was a, wait, it was a little dark haired baby...for some reason I picked it up in my hands. It filled my cupped hands, its tennis ball sized head covered with dark brown hair, its little legs going back along my wrists. Through the gloves, I could feel it's warmth...its moved a little as it died, probably because no one came to clear its lungs.

    The girl just stared up at the ceiling, breathing hard...tears running down her cheeks into her ears. Touched for some reason, I held it until the nurse came and took it from me and put it in a pan and took it away. She came back in a couple of minutes and helped me dress the girl. She looked at us with a strange light in her eyes and said "it was a girl"...I think she was upset.

    The girl sobbed softly, and we didn't talk on the trip back.


    Prayer Request...

    Hey, pray for Desert Cat's Dad, would you? His Dad has Leukemia, and that is a tough row to hoe.

    I wish he'd have come to me sooner. And I bet God says that a lot, now that I think about it.

    I sometimes think God lets bad things happen to good people, just so the rest of us will come to Him in prayer, and He can show off.

        Saturday, April 12, 2008

    I Banged A 15 Year Old Once...

    ...who looked damn near exactly like the chick I have hidden under the fold. Heck, I had no idea. She was in a bar, was drinking, bought me drinks, got me swizzled, took me home, and shook me all night long.

    I assumed she was 21 or better, and when I pulled her sweater out with my index finger and peered down at those lovely breasts, well, she raised her hand as if to slap me, and desisted when I breathed out a groan of worship.

    We ended up in my car, in the parking lot, making out for an hour or so, and then she directed me to her house, where we got into a big ole claw-footed tub and played for a while, then moved to her waterbed and played some more, and then slept together in a dried fluid encrusted heap until her older sister, whose house this actually was, stuck her head in, gave me the stink eye, said 'you know she's only fifteen, right?...honey, get up and get ready for school' and, noting that I blanched like a corpse, turned and went back to her bedroom.

    Where she and her male companion continued the stink-eye treatment as I hopped out, pulling my boots on, clothing askew, and to her credit, my little love came out and kissed me passionately goodbye. Were she 18, I'd have gone back for seconds. But I fled, as if the Hounds of Hell were after me.

    And I never saw her again.

    I was 21.




    Okay Now...

    This just rocks. I love everything about it. Worst I ever got my ass kicked on a table was by a chick who stopped by my bar for a beer on her way to a national championship.

    That wasn't so tough to live down, because every guy there was glad they weren't me. Except I got to look down the top of her dress when she made a shot.

    In retrospect, those marvelous mammaries might have been my downfall...


    Wherein I Am Remiss...

    LL of Chromed Curses fame (see my limited, very exclusive blogroll to the left there) has just had a birthday, and I did not put up a post in the celebration thereof. I suck.

    As will you if you do not go over to her 'Happy Birthday' post and tell her Happy Birthday!


    I'll be making a list, and checking it twice...


    There, But For The Grace Of God...

    If I could be frightened, I think this guy would scare the shit out of me.

    57? He only quit because he got caught, and likely has been doing it and getting away with it all of his adult life. He kills as naturally as you breathe.

    If I was a serial killer, I'd be a trucker. The whole country is your hunting ground. You're gone before the police even know your victim(s) are dead.

    Think about that the next time you gas up at a truck stop, and go inside to get a pop, and maybe a meal.

    I'm guessing you wouldn't even see it coming.


    I Love Good Erotic Cartoons...

    Found this via KeesKennis. Who by the way, my dear readers, many of you made him very happy by dropping by. I go by there routinely. He is an amusing fellow, and a rampant attention whore. I recommend his blog as a regular visit.


    I have A Question...

    If government schools think it is a bad thing for you to homeschool your children, why do they encourage you to help them with their homework?
    I mean, you're unqualified, right? So how can you possibly be allowed to be a link in the chain they hang around your children's necks?

    Think about that. And I've lost track of how many parents I've seen working as 'helpers' and assistants in classrooms.

    And another thing, if it is a bad thing to fuck a kid, why is it okay to fuck over their mind?

    Just wondering.


    A Simple Solution... this dilemma. Simply find those faggot bitches and kill them. You would do the same for any other asshole who tried to extort, or otherwise steal $6600 from you. How is this any different?

    Time to take a stand, people.


    Still more fag bullshit.




    Still sending your kids to public schools? Oh, you wacky optimist, you. Yeah, nothing bad can happen to your kid. Why heck, you even talk to their teacher several times a year! What could happen?

    Now, come on over here and put your face right up close to my butt-crack. I'm gonna make a couple of magical unicorns fly out, and for every one you catch, you get a wish granted.

    Trust me...


    On The Day...

    And what a lovely day it is. Gonna hit 80 by noon, supposedly. The windows of the house are open, and the sweet smell of freshly cut grass, gas exhaust, as the wife mows the yard...just that alone makes it sweeter. At the suggestion that perhaps I should do it, I go into my 'wounded bird' routine, flapping around in a circle and looking as crippled as I can.

    Hey, later, I'll make it up to her, and fuck her into a lovely nap. But she's got to shower first. All that sweaty smell, mixed with yard-stench, makes her smell like a hippy.

    The kids are attempting to kick and toss a football (Nerf) to one another. I have a pistol handy, because there is a car out there that is the extension of its owners penis, he washes it every day, literally. The car. I have no idea nor care how he cares for his penis.
    Anyway, if the kids so much as touch his car with the barest tip of one of their little fingers, I fear I shall have to shoot the fellow to calm him down.

    Oh, who am I kidding, I always have a pistol handy. Or an AK-47.

    Okay, I am now liveblogging Nat's meltdown. She got frog-marched into the house for pitching a fit because Johnny got to push the wheelbarrow full of grass from the mower to the grass-dumping spot, and much drama ensued. Okay, she just pulled her own shit together, and is back outside chucking the football with Johnny. Whew. And I only had to talk to her once.

    The wife is tickled because the landlord bought a new mower, which is essentially a heavy-duty Honda like the other one, but 2/3's lighter, and more easily controllable. Plus, it is new, and hey, shiny! Good for you, honey, now get back out there and mow for Daddy.

    Oops! Now Nat's either back in the house, or being forced to sit on the stoop. Take that, violator.

    Darn it, I get crepes again for breakfast/lunch. With apple pie filling, and Cool Whip on top, drizzled with pure Vermont maple syrup. Life is hard, so hard. Pity me.
    And tomorrow, I have to have fresh raspberries as filling, with heavy cream drizzled on them, unt again mit der drizzled maple syrup. I will decide then whether I want a scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side, or Cool Whip. Maybe both. Maybe sliced bananas on the side. Fry them in butter and bourbon? Maraschino cherries and crushed pecans on top? Crushed walnuts?

    Life is so hard. Pity me.

    My philosophy of food is to make it so wonderful, you just want to fuck it. Only being able to eat it should be a letdown. With my birthday coming up, I see baked macaroni in my future. And a coconut cream pie. I despise all cake but carrot. Unless it is from an extremely high end bakery or restaurant. You can keep your giant frosted Twinkies, which is all store bought cakes are.

    Okay, Nat came back in the house and grounded herself, crying piteously. She came up here to see me and wailed 'I can't even pull a weed out! I just wanna watch Spongebob...' so I stood up, and let her hug on me and sob her weed-pulling-impaired anguish out on me until I got tired of it, and then I held her away from me and said 'I know what you need, baby' and she sobbed and said 'What?' and I said 'Easter Candy!'

    So we bounced downstairs, and I got her a paper plate out and poured Sour Skittles (damn, those are good) out on it, tossed in three pink Starburst, and a couple of chocolate eggs, and some Kisses. With nuts in them. Now, Patrick is dressing like a transvestite, Spongebob is trying to pass him off as his 'girlfriend', all of the male sea creatures in Bikini Bottom are hitting on the transvestite starfish, and Nat is munching happily away.

    And Johnny is happily working his butt off outside with the wife. And I'm back up here working my fingers to the bone for you all.

    And all is right with the world. Well, mine, anyway.

    Happy Saturday!