Remember that latest patient of hers, that died? That she wrote up her last words and gave them to the woman's daughter? Yeah, that one. Well, today, in the mail, a lovely, touching thank you card arrived, with a bonus check large enough so that the wife can get the two crowns on her teeth she needs. Badly.
See why I praise The Lord? And His Mysterious Ways?
If I lived in Colorado, I'd be going in to women's locker rooms, and sitting on a bench, with a raincoat in my lap. As you changed clothes, I'd holler "Yeah!Shake it for daddy, baby!"
I'd go into your toilet stalls, and piss all over the seat, and then leave it up. Serves you right for voting these assholes in. How do you like it now, bitches? I'd get a bunch of guys together and pig out on Mexican food, and beer, and then we'd all troop into the ladies...whoops! Can't call it that now, can we, and we'd all go in and take huge dumps, and read newspapers. For about an hour. And leave the dump. And the seat up.
What, don't like it, bitches? I'll put your pretty ass in jail for a year, and fine you $10,000! How do you like me now, bitches?
There is no way I could play cards with this babe. No wonder she won. I've heard of Poker Face, but Poker Tits? She is ridiculously gorgeous. I'd be lifting up the table and spilling chips all over. And I wouldn't be using my hands to do it.
Chicks like that, they just drop their clothes on the bedroom floor, and you go spoit!, and say "Thanks, I'm done..." and leave, before you start getting the uncontrollable urge to buy her jewelry.
I have written about this time and time again. Bottom line? If it feels good, shoot it. Best firearms advice I could ever give. Does it feel good in your hand? Can you handle the recoil? Does the gun appeal to you aesthetically?
There is nothing I can't fire, but there are some weapons it pains me to do so. The high crack! that certain low caliber, short barreled pistols put out, disturbs me. Certain grip styles, the Smith & Wesson 'saw handle' type, hurt me in the higher calibers. I can fire a .444 Marlin, or a 45-70, with no ill effect. Double O Buck from a twelve gauge rocks my world, rattles my cage, etc. I only fire it for familiarization. The rest of the time I practice with birdshot.
Suggestions? Yeah...ladies? Try the Browning BDA in .380. See how it fits. Your hand. Do you have strong hands? Try a Colt .45 ACP Officers Model. The wife shoots my .45 using full-house loads, and begs for more bullets. And at 20 feet, she puts all the rounds into a 2" circle drawn on a paper plate. Eat that, guys.
And she fires my .44 Magnum with 300 grain carbine loads in it like she would handle an ejaculating penis.
Like most women I've shot with, she does not care for shoulder fired weapons, above .22 caliber. Unless you had brothers, you are not used to taking a beating. But she fires my shorty Winchester .44 AE carbine loaded with .44 Specials, just fine.
Wanna talk about a nasty crack? Fire a 9mm compact pistol (don't get me started on .40 compacts...just fine if you want to set your attacker on fire with the muzzle blast. And be deaf). Damn, you want to talk about a vagino-ear infection? It will fuck you in the ear, and send you down the road to Hearingaidville. Anybody who is both into firearms, and a musician can tell you what I mean.
It is a matter of tone. A loud boom! is one thing, a sharp crack! is quite another. It is a matter of pitch.
So, potential gun buyers, consider where you live. Your choice of gun and ammo just might be dictated by how many neighbours you might kill with an errant shot. I keep my .44 loaded with the first two rounds being snakeshot. Tiny BB's. You will cough up a lung. Now, if I lived in the boonies, I'd shoot some asshole with a 45-70 just to see how many times I could make him (or her) flip over. Like Cirque de Solei.
Again, ladies, it is like a purse. If you don't like the gun, you won't carry it. And don't listen (too close) to the guys working at the store. I mean, gun-shop. Opinions are like assholes...
I turned on my tracking software the other day, and saw that I was getting the shit pinged out of me. I mean, it was constant. And 98% of them originated from China. Came in through Los Angeles, and then up to my computer. Crikey. I finally turned the software off. The others either came from Russia, or Eastern Europe. And I mean it was constant.
When I was in the military, computers were nearly unheard of. There was no such thing as a personal computer (I think). We navigated by compass, and used woodcraft to find or way around. And good old-fashioned paper maps. Except for our machine guns, we weren't any more sophisticated than soldiers from centuries ago. Heck, our radios (PRC-71's) didn't even have chips in them.
Now, every soldier and vehicle is computerized, from the engine to the fighting gear, and we move around according to GPS equipment and satellites out in space, and communicate with computerized equipment. And there is a PC on every desk, and most troops have their own personal laptops.
It chills my blood to think of what a hostile force could do if they could hack into those systems. Shut them down, or divert Stryker platoons into an ambush. Launch missiles. Throw off artillery coordinates. Land planes in the ocean, instead of on the carrier deck. Explode cruise missiles in their launch tubes. Divert supplies. Leave troops in mortal combat blind, troops who have become dependent on their electronics.
How many American babies on ventilators and people in ICU's died during those blackouts? Didn't we invade a country for killing Americans in New York? Trains have been doing stupid shit, lately. Being where they shouldn't be. Crashing into each other. I have witnessed traffic lights going batshit here and there, for awhile, and seen railroad crossing guards drop for no reason, not a train in sight, and smash the crap out of a car. Actually, that's pretty cool.
What if you can invade an automobile plant's computerized production line? Have it leave out certain crucial parts? Sure have been a lot of massive recalls lately. What if you could up the dosage in certain drugs at a pharmaceutical manufacturing company?
Do they put computer chips in pacemakers? Hmmmmm...
I know every cell phone in America has chips in them. Most household appliances. All cars made after a certain year. And every damn motherboard and memory chip used in America is made overseas. What are 'they' putting on it? In it? If there are any American made exceptions, they are negligible, and still likely assembled from foreign components.
Made by people who hate us.
How soon we grow up, and forget the lesson of Snow White and the apple. There is a doctrine in law called 'the fruit of the poisonous tree'. In other words, any evidence found after an illegal search is in and of itself contaminated. Poisoned. Unusable.
It should be a law. Federal. Get Ted Kennedy to propose it before he has his final spaz-out.
I have been in malls with bars in them. When your wife is purse-shopping, there is nothing better than to step into a cool, dark place, and have a beer and a shot. Don't get me wrong, I love malls. I'm a confirmed Mallie. I like going to malls even when I have no plan to buy anything. But...
Sometimes you just want to sit down. And have an adult beverage. Is that too much to ask? The best bar/restaraunt I have ever been in was a Steak & Ale in the center of Oklahoma City. It was a 'fern bar', and utterly relaxing. Sexy Bartendresses and waitresses, and excellent food. They had intimate booths that were nearly closed off, where you could take your date and sit in front of a stained glass window as the sun set.
I vote that Steak & Ale becomes the Director in charge of Homeland Mall Restarauntuering. Damn, I miss that place. What kind of backwards-ass country doesn't have a bar/restaraunt in every mall?
Bet the coach gets replaced by a raghead? Just like Mexicans, you let one in, and next thing, all you got is Mexicans. I have seen Mexicans lie, plant rumors, and sexually harass (etc.) to get whites fired, or make them quit, until all you have is Mexican cousins and friends clotting the place.
And for that matter, what is Hell? Seeing as how I seemed to have booked passage to one or the other, I have been pondering this lately. More than usual.
I think if you make Heaven at this point in time, in Biblical history, that you end up in an anteroom, that looks like whatever you imagine it to be. Mine would be a Hooter's, where hot angel chicks served you beer and wine, and meats of your choice, while you watch highlight reels of your life on a 200" plasma screen, mixed with live action of what is going on now, live, with your family. "Shit, I didn't even think she liked Mexicans...dayum..." and a warrior angel appears beside you, and says "Wamme to go kill the bitch? It's what I do..."
Uh, no thanks. But you can whack that beaner, dude. *POOF!*
Hell. Hmmmmm, that's a difficult one. I don't believe in the Catholic version. Nor the Jewish one. All religions suck balls anyway. But we have been given a few peeks in the Bible, though those have doubtless been fucked up by the Jews for your shopping pleasure, anyway.
I've never met God, except in passing, but I can't see Him allowing the rebel angels back in. Hell for me would be being separated from my family forever. Especially if I got to sit there in a Hooter's run by faggots, serving shitty hot wings, and Bud Light. Watching my family. In Heaven. Man, that would suck.
So, I just don't know. Nobody gets out alive, and nobody gets back from this trip. When it happens, it has happened, and that's all there is to it. Whine all you want, someone's gonna come along and hang your ass in a gibbet at the crossroads, while crows peck your eyes out.
Prognosis is not good for me. Soul-wise. Good news? Mine is no dirtier than yours. Surprise!
Well, I can't report back from the afterlife, so, hey, mystery. Mind your P's & Q's, folks...
Some of you may have noted that I can be a little weird. And yes, I'm talking about myself, despite all of the know-it-alls out there who say you shouldn't. I write this stuff to leave a record of myself for my kids, family, and friends, and if you don't like it, fuck off and go read somewhere else. Don't you wish you had a nearly day by day record of things you did when you were two?
The wife just called from Costco, and after we hung up, I had to press the button on the Caller ID box that was blinking, because it drives me nuts, and it's right by the fish, so I just know it must drive them nuts, too, and I will even go downstairs after taking a call upstairs to stop the flashing, because I don't want the fish or the snail or the shrimp (the frog died) going all psycho.
I always put my socks and shoes on one foot at a time, so if a fire starts or something, I can hop out of the house carrying the other shoe and sock. And I always start with the right foot, because I don't want to get started on the wrong foot. Pants included. And I insist the kids do it, and have nagged the wife enough that she just gave up, and now she starts her day on the right foot, too.
Speaking of shoes, I always double knot my shoes. If the shoestrings are too short to do this, I will buy new strings and replace them.
I can't handle tongue depressors, popsicle sticks, or wooden spoons. In fact, we don't even have any in the house. Touching them makes me gag, and just the idea of having them in my mouth has been known to make me vomit. The wife cuts any ice cream product off of the stick and puts it in a bowl for me. Or, in a pinch, I will wrap the handle part of the stick in the wrapper, and nibble carefully down to the vicinity of the stick, and either throw the rest away, or give it to somebody else to finish, as I hurriedly leave the area, because if I hear the stick scrape on their teeth, I may vomit.
I think this is a residual of being abused by mean doctors when I was very little, doctors who smoked while they examined you, and would try to see your stomach through your mouth with the damned tongue depressor. Just writing about this has made my mouth fill with pre-barf saliva. Yeesh.
I have a very difficult time making left turns, especially when there's traffic. I will go out of my way to make sure my trip is a series of straightaways and right turns only, wherever possible. If I absolutely have to make a left turn, I will go down a side street to the middle of the block, zip across to the opposite side street, turn around in a drive-way or parking lot, go back out to the main street, and, you guessed it, make a right turn onto it.
Whenever I buy any form of lottery item, I warn the clerk in advance to not tell me 'good luck!' like he or she does to everybody else. I only patronize places where I have trained the clerks in this matter. To the extent that they will turn and whisper to a new co-worker 'psssst...don't tell him good luck on his way out!'
I will eat damn near anything, I just don't want them to touch each other on the plate. And I insist on separate plates for non-like items, i.e., do not EVER get syrup on my sausage or eggs. I tip well, do what the fuck I say. I take care of this matter at time of ordering, and the more nervous glances I get from the kitchen and wait staff, the bigger the tip. I'm there for service, so fucking serve me.
I have been known to go into a place, and hand the wait-person a $5 or a $10, or whatever, and say "Here's half your tip, you get the other half when it becomes time for me to leave, if I leave happy. Otherwise, please put it towards my tab when I pay the rest of the bill."
I wouldn't be a bit surprised to have other quirks, but I can't think of any more off hand. I'm sure you all are normal and well-adjusted folks, and not at all weird.
Well, not this exact space, but I feel like some of you who have a propensity to get all squirrelly when I write certain kinds of posts, could use some advance warning, before I drop the bomb on you.
I stayed up half of last night, writing my last will and testament in my head. I usually write with no or at least very little advance preparation, and I can go to sleep within 30 seconds, but I surely tossed and turned last night.
Whole lotta things to think about. People to think about. Considerations.
You see, the VA has killed me. It is just a matter of time. Around this time last year, I nearly died, and was brought back from the edge by the wife, and some good doctoring at a new facility. But, the damage was done.
And it doesn't bug me a bit. Well, I worry about the handful of humans I am pretty sure I love, and how they will handle their own futures, but mine is definitely limited. And no, I have no real official diagnosis of that fact, I just know it to be so. The way a goose knows to fly back north in Spring. And that goose has walked across my grave.
I'm not asking for sympathy. Or advice. Or anything else, for that matter. No whiners.
I've been a vital man all of my life, and now I am not so much of one, and I am ready to step up on that platform and ride that train to wherever it goes. I bought the ticket. I'm sure my personal lifestyle over many decades has contributed to my current...situation.
So, soon, I shall post my last will and testament up here, because my family is spread all over the world. And I don't want to pay a lawyer. And I will have hundreds of witnesses, so fuck a notary, too. Plus, thinking of myself cooling in a box in the next room while some turd gets paid to read my words to whatever family made it there just gives me the creeps.
Oh, and in case I die in my sleep tonight before writing it, the wife gets everything I own, and passes it out to whatever family as wants it. We've discussed it before. And yes, she freaks out. And remember to tell her to make sure my Dad gets his Dad's Winchester back, and my .44. He still thinks it's his.
And Wendy, you can shitcan this blog, or whatever you want, just please burn a copy of it for each member of my close family first.
Now, see there? Some of you are nutting up already. And I'm gonna stop right here on this post. I haven't even touched on half the shit I thought of last night.
I met this fucker several times, read a couple of his books, and dismissed him as a talentless, egomaniacal hack. I shall not mourn his passage.
At least Harlan Ellison has talent. And is still an egomaniacal prick. I once saw him Mace a Convention security guard (who was dressed, appropriately, as a Redshirt from Star Trek) right in the face, as the poor guy was running up to give the little dwarf a phone message. "He was attacking me!" Ellison cried out. Little prick.
Finding out how many 'big-time' authors are such despicable and utter pricks, cunts, homos, complete and utter dorks, and idiot-savants, it would amaze you.
I have a very short list of authors I have met that I do not despise as human beings:
William Tucker Tanith Lee Stephen King (though he's an utter liberal douche) Joe Haldeman Roger Zelazny (fucking duh. What a saint) George RR Martin
Geez, I can't think of any more offhand, though I have met (and partied) with probably five times that many.
I got to thinking about the 1,800 Veterans who are buried every day, and all of those Veterans out there in harms way, and I just said fuck it. It just made me too depressed to write about it, so I'll just say...
God Bless Them All.
The wife is teaching a bloc (block?) of history to the kids today, and she chose to educate them about Memorial Day. She was showing examples of Arlington Cemetery, and The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, but she was frustrated because all of the photos in the book were too small. So she called upstairs and asked me if I would Google pics, so she could bring the kids up and show them. I initially balked, but dammit, I'm a Dad, and Dads pass stuff forward. It becomes our only purpose for existence.
So I found a bunch of high-res photos, and she brought the kids up, and as I went through them, explaining each one, trying not to cry, they grew quiet, and the kid-wiggles turned to stock-still children. I showed them the Viet Nam Memorial, and they could read the names of the dead, and I explained that each name was a father, a brother, a son.
And I held my thumb and forefinger very close together ('this close') and told them how easily my name could have been on that wall. I tried to enlist, you know. And the recruiter told me no thanks, the war was winding down, and they had all the bodies they needed.
The wife told them about the hostages in Iran, the 444 day captivity (Fuck Jimmy Carter!) and how I enlisted to go kill Iranians. And then a new President came in, and the Iranians let our people go. But I was still in, and loved every minute of my service.
Nat whispered to me "They knew you were coming to shoot them, so they let them go..."
When they finally left my room, I broke down, and cried like a baby. All of those headstones. That wall. The last picture I showed them was of a young woman, laying on a grave, likely her husband's, in a state of total emotional collapse. That got me...
Our politicians would do well to consider the consequences of releasing The Dogs of War. Every decision to put American men and women in harms way, should be made in a large, glass-walled room, in the center of that sea of crosses at Arlington National Cemetery.
I have been getting so irritated by a certain bunch of closet queens on a certain blog that obviously fear the concept of a strong woman so badly that they can't even deal with the fictional ones...uh, that means fictional women. And maybe 2% could even hope to come out alive in a confrontation with any one of certain WWF divas. Hey, wrestling is fictional, right?
I give up. I worked with a little dyke once in anti-shoplifting, and I watched her routinely kick off in guy's asses who really, really didn't want to get caught. One of them was robbing the store with a sawed-off shotgun. I learned early on to not get in between her and her prey. Just cut her loose, like a Doberman.
Speaking of which, what does your average Dobie weigh? 80 pounds? And they basically have only their teeth to attack with? A small woman weighs 100-120 pounds, has teeth, claws, and feet, and is more than willing to use them all on you at the same time, and will. Plus, God made her relatively immune to pain, so she can shit kids and not die, and you want to face this creature when it goes insane on you? You big badass you?
And now, what if she's not just motivated, but she's well trained?
My first Judo teacher was this little redhead, about 40 or so years old...hard to tell. Smoked Cigs and weed. I never finished an encounter with her on the mat where I didn't carefully count all of my testicles to make sure they were still there.
She wore a black belt, with five diagonal red stripes at the end of each side. If you don't know what that means, well, you really have no business in this conversation now, do you. She earned that belt, in Japan. Fighting men. Men who have no use for women other than to fuck them. Which means, basically, that she had to be twice as good as any man to earn that belt.
One time, I attacked her, and she disappeared. She had jumped up over me and kicked me in the back of the head. Left me a tad scrambled for an hour or so. And just how many other women do you think she trained over the years? She punched me so hard on more than one occasion, I thought I was going to shit myself. And she was pulling her punches.
I went to a few tournaments, just to watch her fight. Otherwise, they bore the shit out of me. Male black belts, having drawn her as an opponent, literally shuddered, looking at her.
Yeah, maybe she's the only one like her in the world. You wish, stud.
The best, scariest martial artist I've ever seen or heard of, could have killed her from across the room. He was literally terrifying. And he was about the size the wife was when we met. Short, slight, 100 pounds or so soaking wet, and as deadly as any viper. One time we were walking through the university campus at night, where he worked as a janitor (yes, even great martial artists have to eat. And when you only train 4 or 5 people a year, well...) and some co-worker who had a grudge of some sort against him...
So, before we had gotten to the corner we had to turn at to get wherever we were going to, oh, say 20 feet away or so, my sensei gave me the high sign, and signaled that someone was waiting around the corner. And then, he stepped around the corner...
The lurker swung about a four foot length 2x4 at his head, like Babe Ruth going for outta da park, and my sensei simply held up his hand edge-wise and moved to meet the board, and the damn thing exploded into splinters. Cut in half.
My sensei reached down calmly and picked up his broken half, and the other guy was holding his arm in his other arm, like he'd been in an accident, and my sensei asked him "do you think I could fit this piece of wood up your ass?"
As far as I know, the guy is still running.
Do not ever underestimate your opponent, or judge a book by its cover. And I've seen plenty of fighters feign weakness, and leave openings that were just traps. I'm a silver-haired old man...wanna fuck with me? My Judo sensei, if she's still even alive, is the last old lady in the world whose purse you want to try to steal.
I've met hitmen and Hells Angels in their 50's, and I watched a scrawny hippy boy about 15 or 16 years old accurately flipping Gillette razor blades into a cupboard door, making coherent patterns with them. With one hand. From across the room. I've seen skinny young girls climb a large angry man like he was a tree and beat him down in a few seconds, and her girlfriends have to pull her off while she is stomping him out like a campfire, so she didn't kill him.
Wanna get locked into a cell with some big black gangsta bitch, who has been fighting for survival since she was five? Let me know how that works out for you. Send pics, if you can.
If we've learned anything here, kiddies, it is that, if you want to survive, check your prejudices and preconceived notions at the door before you step out into the big, bad world.
Unless you want to end up wearing your ass for a hat.
I read this article, and I had to laugh. Folks, this so-called 'oil-crises' is just another hoax, designed to make the sheep run to and fro and sow confusion, while the wolves get away with murder.
I remember moving from California to Oklahoma during the 1970's 'gas crises'. I left long gas station lines, and days that you could only get gas according to the last letter on your license plate behind me.
In Oklahoma, we had all the gas we wanted, at great prices, and we laughed at the rest of the idiots on the news every evening. I worked on oil rigs, where we struck oil, and saw many other rigs around us, dotting the landscape like giant steel mosquitoes, strike oil.
I drove to work on these rigs through fields of literally thousands of working pumps, passing truck after truck that had just drained a pumps storage tank, and was on the way somewhere else.
Let me repeat: It is a manufactured crisis! We are being manipulated! Get it?
The Bushes, et al, have been in bed with OPEC since OPEC began. Heck, they probably organized it. We have shown how we can flatten any country whenever we want to. They fire up their fanatics, we fire up ours. Chaos reigns supreme. And...things happen. Behind the scenes.
I used to worry about Chavez, until I realized that he is just the latest boogey-man they wave at us to keep us agitated. Oh, to be sure, there are some very deadly machinations going on all over the world, and power struggles of every sort, but did you think that Robert Mugabe stays in power because he is some kind of fucking Great Leader?
I haven't figured out why the Powers That Be forced out the white farmers from Rhodesia, unless it is to attain the obvious result: the starvation and death of Africans, and to concentrate the power of whomever controls whatever food is left. Oh, and perhaps the rich, and some not to be found anywhere else on earth natural resources might have something to do with it, as well.
If you think that we don't have a Ruling Elite, I suggest you rethink. Oh yeah, sometimes one of our politicians goes 'an intern too far', but he only gets smacked down if he looks like he may be going off the reservation. President Carter's son Chip told incoming First Son Michael Reagan how the Secret Service could get him pure cocaine, any time he wanted.
Bill Clinton used the Secret Service as his personal pimps. O.J. Simpson walks free because of his contacts like Eason Jordan, who also bought Monica's silence, and Mr Jordan got Monica to do something she normally found very difficult to do...close her mouth.
Remember Jordan? Bill Clinton's golfing buddy? Newest son of Bush One? Yeah...
We The People do not have a chance. When the Blackhawk helicopter hovers over your farmstead, and the 30mm cannon hoses you into mist if you so much as show a gun, and the trucks come barreling up your driveway to pick up any zip-tied members of your family that survived, and they search for and loot anything you have hoarded and load it up, along with your family, who will enjoy all the comforts of a FEMA reeducation camp (but not for long) well...
Don't come crying to me. I warned you. And you and I? Yep. We're part of the problem.
I hate their nasty food anyway, but because of this, I just called the wife downstairs and told her I'd beat one of their sandwiches out of her guts if she ever eats one again. Well, I'd want to, anyway.
There are so many good choices in town, anyway, who needs their waxy, nasty shit? They were good, once, but guess what you get when you take the fat out of food...that's right, flavorless cardboard crap.
And even if they made the best sandwich in the world, and I dreamed about it at night, I would still boycott them. Even if they replaced Jared with Pamela Anderson.
I slept 12 hours last night, woke up at 11 this morning, just had crepes with applesauce filling in them and whipped cream on them, and now I have the entire weekend ahead of me to be by myself if I want. Well, except that the wife is leaving this evening to go do some more holy-rolling.
Last night, the kids and I nested on the couch together, and watched the Johnny Depp Willy Wonka together, as I said yesterday, and Tim Burton did not disappoint, for once. A beautiful, amazing movie, full of multi-level themes, many of them quite dark.
We broke in the first half hour or so, as I had to pause it, and break out the candy. The kid's Christmas and Easter stash. This morning, the floor around the couch looked like someone had thrown a grenade into a pinata. The wife was not pleased.
Hey, it ain't a candy binge if you are not flinging wrappers everywhere. After a bit, the kids didn't want anymore, and I'd eaten all the stuff I liked, so the feast subsided, and we just watched the movie. Every so often, Nat would clap her hands together and exclaim "Oh! It's soooo beeyootiful!" It really is a gorgeous film.
For some reason, not sure why, the wife and I got to talking yesterday about her bleeding twat. Yes, it IS that time of the month, why do you ask? Anyway, a bunch of memories came flooding back, hemorrhaging, if you will, of a time in my life, long and long ago. A much crazier time, not the pastoral quietude I currently enjoy.
I used to party at a house once upon a time, long and long ago, and I partied with folks Jesus would have been comfortable with. Murderers, thieves, women who undoubtedly hooked part time, outlaw bikers, felons, misdemeanants, and scoundrels of every sort.
I fit right in.
One night, my girlfriend (live-in, who was one day to become the mother of four of my children) and I went to see Journey in concert. This was before they got the new (to me, now) singer. She had gone to the local high school with the original singer, and he scored us tickets, and backstage passes. Gosh, those fuckers were loud. It was just before the album with 'Wheel In The Sky' came out, and they did the song as an encore.
I forget the guys name, but he was a white guy with an afro, and faggy 70's silk shirts and velvety bellbottoms, and he was taller than me, and I hated him right off the bat. And my woman invited him to come to the den of iniquity with us and party, and he said sure, so off we went.
Well, she drank herself half blind right away, and has enough Cherokee blood in her, she just plain cannot handle her alcohol. And this asshole from Journey was all over her. I sat in the corner and burned, and drank, and most of the people there knew me, and kept darting nervous glances my way. And I was painfully aware of the pistol in my belt.
Finally, he casually cupped one of her breasts in his hand, and she smiled drunkenly up at him, and okay, fucker, it's on. I stood and drew and the owner of the house said 'Bane, no!' and I rolled the gun by the trigger guard around one finger, and handed it to him butt first, and said 'you'd best hold onto this' and then got to the couch where they were sitting, cupped my hand around the nape of his neck and lifted him up to me, gut-punched him to knock any fight out of him, then tossed him stumbling and running to keep from falling, to the front door.
People moved back to get out of our way. I slammed him out through the screen door onto the raised porch, and the dumb shit actually tried to fight. Well, at least he raised his fists up. So I punched him in his jaw hard enough to knock him over the porch rail and he flipped up and over and lay there, splayed out on the lawn.
I turned to the guys out on the porch smoking and drinking (over flow capacity, dontcha know) and snarled something along the lines of "Get this fucking cocksucker out of my sight before I kill him..." and a couple of them peeled off, and helped him to a car and drove him away.
I think I may have related that story here, but not in such great detail. That was a weird weekend. And yes, we would drink til everybody left, then pass out,wake up, go to breakfast, and start all over again. That same night, some grunt, on leave from Viet Nam (or maybe the war had ended, and he was fresh back...I forget) sat on the couch and drank and drank and drank, and never lost that 1,000 yard stare. Haunted, he was. Finally, he topped off his tank, and passed out. Somebody laid him out on the couch, and eventually, you could see a spreading stain of urine forming a Rorschach Blot around him in the crotchal area.
The wife of the homeowner saw it, and screeched "Get this fucker out of here!" so the guys as what brung him, hauled him outside. I got curious, and eventually went outside to enjoy the spectacle. Being helpful friends, they had provided him with a beer to sober him up, and he was propped up against a car, looking for all the world like a punch-drunk boxer leaning into the ropes.
And it was my car. I bounded over the fence and headed for them, and the other guys moved away, and drunk-boy just stood there, well, slumped there, drooling, and trying to get the neck of the bottle into his mouth. I yelled "Get your motherfucking pissy ass off my car!"
He just kinda looked at me like a dumb animal. "I said move, motherfucker, or I'm gonna stomp a turd outta you!" and his eyes went cold and hard, and he began to calculate odds and angles, and boy did I know that look all too well, so when he open-palmed the beer in his hand at the side of my head, I dropped under it, and then snapped a kick into his gut.
Fight over. He's laying on his side, vomiting, curled up in a ball, and I'm in my car trunk rummaging for a rag and some cleaning agent to remove his piss from my '64 Chevy Impala SS before I end up with a butt-shaped stain on it. I learned later that he was some kind of Force Recon Marine. Fuck him. Stay off my car. His wouldn't be the last Marine ass I ever kicked.
Well, I'm old, and domesticated now, and about to go downstairs and eat a 'German Chocolate Cake' Blizzard from Dairy Queen, so I'll sign off, now. Maybe for the day, maybe not. Thunderstorms threaten.
Dammit, I distracted myself. Damned ADD. All of that menstrual stuff I wrote above had a point, but I got sidetracked. "Ooooo, look! Ice cream!"
One night, there, on that weird weekend, I had to piss. So I stood up and announced loudly to the room that 'I have to go drain my uterus!'. Oh, I got razzed. The very reaction I was seeking. And every time I went to the bathroom as long as I went to that house from that day forward, whenever I got up to go to the bathroom, someone would ask 'Gonna go drain yer uterus?' and the room would fall out with laughter.
Well, on this day, I went in to pee, and spotted a box of tampons. I finished pissing, and opened one, popped it out, and put it in a pocket. I then ambled in to the kitchen (yes, they were still hooting at me) and got the ketchup out of the fridge, and soaked the tampon in it. Then I stuffed the tampon down the front of my pants, and ambled back in to the living room.
I went up to the lady of the house (more like house bitch) and reached in and grabbed the string, and popped it out of my pants, and asked her 'hey, do you have any more of these? I'm having a pretty heavy flow this month...' and oh, you should have seen the place fall out.
Then I got to chasing guys around with it, and they would run in horror like little bitches. One chick threatened that if I stuck mine on her, she'd stick hers on me.
My son and his woman got snowed out of their camping trip, so I didn't have to loan out My Baby to him for four, horrible days.
To Whom It May Concern: Fuck you. If you want to borrow one of my guns, well, shoulda bought your own, eh? Never again. I'm still constipated. Laxative time in the morning. In other words, you've got more disposable income than I do, so buy your own fucking gun.
Whew. Dodged a bullet with that one.
So, the kids are down, we watched the new Willy Wonka together. Six thumbs up. Really great. The wife is out holy rolling again. She is supposedly learning 'healing'. Well, when I was getting the pistol I was going to loan my son down today, some asshole (I'm lookin at you, wife!) had put a Bic lighter up on top of it, that we use to light the barbecue.
And that fucker slid off the towel I cover the gun case with, and dropped down directly onto one of my toes. Oh man, did I ever cuss up a storm. Fuck, that hurt. She knelt in front of me, and held her hand over my foot, and prayed too softly for me to make out, and what had been agony, just faded away. I said "Hey, honey, while you're down there, could you pray for a bigger dick for me?" She snorted, and said "I don't ever want anything bigger than what you've got..." so my toe quit hurting, and I got a nice compliment.
From HAARP (look it up yourself) to weather control, to whales beaching for no reason, I think that countries are either sniping at each other, by non-nuclear means, or are in collusion to keep the sheep and cattle upset, and running to and fro. While culling the herd, here and there.
Of course, I believe humanity is headed into the 'End Times', but seriously, do you think God gave Einstein E=mc2? Gave Alfred Nobel the formula for nitroglycerin? And if not Him, who? Who gave Humanity the idea to make Bronze weapons? Iron? Folded Damascus Steel?
There has been a steady hand on the tiller of Battleship Earth, and I submit to you, that it is not God's Hand.
Is it possible that we have been groomed over history as a War Machine, for a final battle? Well?
And no, not the little furry flying mammal. That would just be creepy.
No, she swung, in the living room, an actual baseball bat. In all his life I have never heard Johnny scream like that. Dammit! And I had to make a haircut appointment! Little bitch...
So I fly downstairs, and an amazing tear-fueled cluster-fuck is going on, and I can see dollar signs in the wife's eyes as she holds Johnny's mashed glasses (priorities, dontcha know) and Nat is seeing her life flash before her eyes as I descend like doom incarnate, and I check Johnny, and no blood, no petechial hemorrhage in the eyeball, pupils equal and reactive, just loads of boogers streaming, and...
"Get him to the eye doctor, now...fuck an appointment, move!" She moved. Nat had already retreated to her bed. She knew her future, like a fell Gypsy woman. And yes, I grabbed a shoe brush, and paddled her little fat pink butt cheeks still pinker. One solid whack per year old.
Finally, the wife and John came back home. He'll be fine. I put him in charge of his sister, in front of her. "She can get out of bed if you let her, buddy, but you decide..." Nat was a quivering heap of Jello, hiding under her covers. I had explained very carefully how her actions would affect the rest of her regretfully short life if she had blinded Johnny with her rank, careless stupidity.
John considered his power, for a moment, then was magnanimous in his mercy and forgiveness. I should have made her lick his feet, but that's just me.
And the best part? I made my haircut appointment with five minutes to spare! Aren't you excited?
We gun-owners (I have guns on the brain today, for some reason) have enjoyed a brief Renaissance in the last few years, after the long dark night of the Clinton years. Well, it looks like night is about to fall again this November.
Time to stock up on stuff that will be declared illegal soon. Hi-cap mags, 'assault' rifles. In other words, all the good stuff, that any normal, law abiding American gun owner would want, and which will be denied to them by the same people who make you smoke outside, and give talks about condom use to your kindergartners.
I wonder what kind of bell I ring when I order 1,000 rounds of ammo online? 'To the Batpole, Robin! There is perfidy afoot!'
Oh well, we've never been free. Even Wyatt Earp made you check your guns in when you came to town. You can't spit, your dog can't shit, there's places you can't park, and places you can't sit.
Your neighborhood association tells you you can't fly our country's flag, how big your bushes can be, when to mow your lawn, how late you can stay up at night, and you paid $200,000 or so for the privilege.
You get the government you allow yourselves to have.
I mean, actually sick. A pain right in the center of my body, just under the sternum. And I still can't believe I did it.
I agreed to let my Baby Marine borrow one of my pistols and a few mags for over the weekend, while he and his girlfriend go camping. Sure, I can spare it, but it makes me sick. For a bit there, I was actually thinking that 'well, if it is God's Will that they die, by criminal, or by cougar, who am I to interfere in the Great Circle of Life?'
Ugh, I may puke. I have never been separated from one of my Babies for this long. And she's unregistered, too. A clean piece. Oh, shut up, Bane, or you're gonna have to run to the bathroom and hurl.
I told him 'Never Again'...and, well, it remains to be seen if I can physically part with it when he drops by tomorrow. Likely, I'll just make him drag me outside, attached to it like a mother to her child, and then cry as they drive away.
It has been awhile since I have dealt with emotional pain at this level. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go assure all of my other firearms that Daddy still loves them, and he will never abandon them.
Oh, fuck. He might need a knife, too. But not the Bowie! Or the Gerber! Fuck you, punk, buy your own knife.
Ooops! I was asked by the wife Saturday night to put out a prayer request for the husband of a friend of hers, whose wife found him passed out on the front porch when she came home. His name, interestingly enough, is John. He's in the hospital, still.
Well, he's not out of the woods yet, and could use a Double 00 load of buckshot prayer.
Shhhh! Don't let the wife read this, or I will be an officially bigger asshole than I already am.
So, please hook up with God, and send John some prayers his way. Thanks.
A shout out to a Scout Sniper. Every package you send him gets dispersed amongst his platoon. A worthy cause. Try to hide some plastic airline bottles of booze in there, if you can. I have it on good authority that our guys appreciate that. No fucking glass. Don't be stupid.
Thanks in advance, those of you who do help he and his crew out.
Yep, it's another couple of those days, where it is fucking up again. Not showing the correct amounts of comments, making them disappear and reappear, and sometimes not opening at all.
Deal with it. I love both Blogger and Haloscan, they're free, and they mostly always work. Well, I paid the $12 back in the day to get the Premium Haloscan Membership, but that's it. I pay way to much to keep my monthly internet connection from Comcast, and that's it. A lot of my tip jar action goes into that bill, and it gets pretty bleak when the donations slow down.
Let's see, feed the kids, or blog. Hmmmmm...
Anyway, that is the state of the internet today, so there ya go. And thanks for your patronage, yet again. I can't thank Amazon donaters because it is always anonymous, but thanks. A lot. Same to any of you Paypal people who I have missed because of my email fuckup of late. Seriously.
That's gotta smart. Fucking Marines. Speaking of which, I was just on the phone talking with my youngest one, and somebody came along and gave him a direct order to go play basketball.
And Nat just said to me "You should listen to yourself...now that's crazy talk!" I had just asked her to get a cheese stick for Johnny, and told her she could have one for herself, and she said she didn't want one, so I said "Now that's just crazy talk!" and thus, her response above.
And she's only seven. Gosh, she's gonna be a handful.
I hope he dies. Soon. Painfully. Couldn't happen to a more deserving guy.
I am so sick of hearing so-called 'Conservatives' mush-mouthing today about how we should all pray for that fat, murderous fuck. What is this terrible influence that has crept into and infected our society, that says we should reach out and help our enemy up when he's down, instead of snapping his neck with the edge of your foot?
I don't get it, I won't get it, and don't try to make me get it.
A viler bloodline hasn't existed on this planet since the Borgias. From Joe Kennedy up to the present, they have defiled everything and everybody they touch. I am making a list of every so-called 'Conservative' I hear today, mumbling platitudes about Teddy and the Kennedy family.
The wife and I were chatting this morning, and she mentioned that I must not have slept too well, because she heard me moving around downstairs at 2:30 this morning when she got up to pee. Trouble is, that wasn't me. And I told her so. She said "I know your sounds, and it was you..."
Either I'm walking in my sleep, or someone is doing a good imitation of me. Or something.
Remember the post a bit back I wrote on the wife's dying charge's last words? As she died? Well the wife is out meeting with the dead woman's daughter right now, and giving her a sympathy card with her mother's last words annotated in it, along with a personal note of condolence from the wife. The last person in this life that held the woman's hand as she entered the next life.
Was it me? I told her if she hears it again, to come and check me, and if I am abed, wake me, and I'll pass out guns, and we'll go check it out. If I'm not in bed, approach with caution. Might not be the best idea to startle me awake.
I only walked in my sleep during one period in my life. My first son was newly born, and I was working my ass off in the oilfields in the panhandles of Oklahoma and Texas. Worse, I didn't walk in my sleep, I cooked in my sleep.
My parents and my ex and me and the baby lived in one of those big old huge two-story houses, like you see in the movie 'Twister'. The town where much of that picture was filmed in. To be clear, I lived in that town.
My Dad woke me up very early one morning. I was standing in front of the stove, eggs burning in a pan, a can of Coors Light on the counter, and in my work coveralls, they unzipped down to my belly button, the only other article of clothing on me being my underwear, and one sock. That was scary.
I really don't know. Was it live? Or was it Memorex... I know I go out of my body, I've told you that before. Women in bed with me have screamed when they see me floating above my body, looking at them. Without fail, they always describe my eyes as being empty black holes. When they scream, I snap back in, and get what I very rarely get, a monumental headache.
I travel all over, here and there, but to my knowledge, I have never tromped around the living room. And I've been doing this shit as long as I can remember. This is either something new, some Thing else, or I'm sleepwalking. And the sleepwalking part scares the shit out of me.
Spirits can't cock firearms. Or use them to deleterious effect.
I swear, if I find out I really am walking about at night, in my sleep, unawares, I will have the wife use restraints on me. If it turns out to be some sort of spook, God and I are gonna kick its fuckin ass.
And if some previous tenant has keys to the place, I will ventilate their ventricles.
He's on his way to the Hobby Shop to get checked out. His temp is 102 and rising, even with fever reducers on board. He is listless, and just not being...Johnny.
I suspect his ear stints have become infected. Nat blasted him in the earholes with the hose outside the other day while they were out there trying to get cool, and within an hour, he began to have earaches.
Well, once more into the breach, dear friends. The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune seem to have found us yet again. Nat says she is sorry. It remains to be seen just how sorry she may end up being. Always a crapshoot, this Johnny business.
God's Will be done.
Praise the Lord! And thanks, folks. The wife just got home with Johnny, and she described hearing/feeling kind of a 'click' in her 'spirit', and a sudden feeling of 'rightness'. She reached over and touched Johnny, and his temp was normal.
The doctor couldn't even see in his ear because of all the pus, but he could see that John's eardrum had burst. We have medicine and antibiotics for it, and the doc says that eardrums often heal themselves. Except for sometimes in kids with stints in their ears. Ooops.
Anyway, thanks again, folks. John is downstairs right now, wolfing a burger, his first food of the day. And he seems pretty much his usual self. Except he can't hear shit.
So, I had my hands down my pants, Googling myself today, and...
Boy, I had totally forgotten this. Well, sadly, I never forget, but it was tucked safely away in the lock-box of 'Things Bane Would Rather Not Dwell On'.
Wow, thanks again, people, to all of you who participated, and helped me and my little broken boy, and my family, survive. Bad times, made tolerable. I don't even want to go back and read what was going on in that time period. You do not get PTSD just from combat.
But thanks again, you who participated, who flew in on wings of eagles and brought light into our dark world. The wife and I cried a lot, then, in those days, both in pain, and in gratitude. May you all be blessed to never see the dying of the light, or anticipate it. Which is worse, I think.
Anyway, I'm having trouble seeing the keyboard right now, so, Happy Sunday to you all.
Read the comments, too. They show zero, but there's plenty. Enjoy. Inneresting who was then, and is now, in the way of commenters...readers.
I have told you all before, many come here, few stay. Sooner or later, I will piss you off. What you do about that is your business. I have lost paying customers. One woman gave me $1,000, and then disappeared. Oh well.
I'll change for you. Trust me. Seriously. No...seriously. I am caring so hard what you think about me right now, that my underwear just burst into flames. How's My Writing? Please call 1-800...
And thanks to those of you who have stuck around. Oddly, I find I appreciate it.
That does it. I officially no longer support this war. Furthermore, may I encourage my sons to not reenlist? These people are fools. Politicians have always been fools, but when your military 'leadership' become fools, I consider every order from that point on to be an unlawful order.
Officers? Resign your commissions. En masse. Scare the shit out of them. Whether you are over there, or about to go over there, resign. NCO's? Turn in your stripes. This is the only way to get a fool's attention.
I am deadly serious. And you fuckers all know I am no pacifist or fucked up in the head Libertarian dreamer.
I have met the government, and it is us. People will do anything they feel they have to do to survive. We demonize the Romans for making mass slaughter a spectator sport, or the Germans for using the cold tactics of an exterminator. And we sacrifice millions of infants to Moloch. So, who is the Bad Guy, here?
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: you really, really do not want to frighten a group of people who outnumber you, and are in positions of whatever passes for 'power'. Ask Rodney King.
You think all we imported from Nazi Germany after the war were their rocket scientists? Shit, I'll bet you anything that there are caves and mines prepared all over the country, near rail lines, ready to accept Americans being marched into them, where someone will push a button, and nerve gas will be released.
I know for a fact that every telephone in the Greater Boston Area was tapped at one time. Every. Phone. Might still be. I don't care, fuck Boston. I know for a fact that there are teams of government assassins roaming American cities right now. That they are so thick, they run across each other all the time, and wave and say hi. Many of them hold the rank of General Officer, and are the coldest, most jolly killers you'd never want to meet.
And all of that movie stuff about 'cleaners'? True. They will 'sanitize' an entire city block if they need to in order to accomplish their mission. And one day, people like that will be called upon to sanitize entire cities. By whatever means necessary.
Now, I look forward to death. So far, I am a terrible failure at achieving that goal. You, on the other hand, might wish to hang on to life. Sometimes at any cost... This is the type of person who becomes an informant, or a prison camp guard. Or maybe they just drive the train. Or clean out the ovens.
It always takes people. Large groups of people rarely kill themselves. I have met the government, and...
Saw it on Encore tonight (sorry if I misdirected you to Starz, earlier).
A completely serviceable occult movie, and teen flic, and even though rated PG-13, well worth renting, or catching again on cable. Genuine WTF moments, twists and turns, a very nice script, a nice soundtrack that was mostly metal and rock, and no Emo, some genuinely creepy moments, and a great line, something along the line of "Fuck you, Harry Potter!" Literally.
I really enjoyed this movie. A really good sit on the couch and munch popcorn flic, with enough real occult trappings to make me genuinely uncomfortable.
You must work hard, or clever, or both, to get me out of my comfort zone. This movie managed.
I'm supposed to post something every day, huh. Too bad most of you are like the guy who goes to the party and doesn't bring any booze, drinks up everybody else's, and then clogs the toilet with puke.
Just kidding! Gosh, how I love you all...
So, the wife is going with her girlfriends tonight to holy-roll. She seems to get something from it. The kids and I are going to watch an Indiana Jones marathon on Sci-Fi Channel...shit...hang on a second...
Damn, I thought I was hearing a woman screaming, but it was just a booger caught crossways in my nose. And no, I didn't eat it.
So, tonight is loaded with vegetative goodness, and I slept in til 10am, because the wife snuck my door shut, and kept the kids quiet. I forced her down for a rest today, and she passed out like a dead woman. With her ass in panties. Aiming at me. Like Scarlett Johannson's in that flic with whatsisname, the goofy guy from Caddyshack. Only this movie was in Japan. I really enjoyed it, a lot. Lost In Translation? Maybe...
Anyway, I considered some humpage, but dammit, she looked so peaceful...shit! My nose is screaming again! What, are those fuckers breeding in there? Anyway, I didn't have the heart, and went down instead and watched that Ninja Warrior show with the kids, watching gooks splat, and eating cold Domino's from last night.
Don't you wish you had my life of fun and adventure?
Take my liver...please. Variation on Henny Youngman, for you illiterati.
Shit, my Acu-Rite digital thermometer, right by my head, tells me it is 87 degrees. I'm pretty sure God hates me, and is giving me a foretaste of Hell. Speaking of which, I am in mourning for...
Shit, it is 5:40 pm now, and I forgot what I was gonna say. May as well wrap this up.
Just finished BSG. And my weekly Sci-Fi Channel fest. Wow.
Listening to ICP very muted. Don't need a pan to the skull. The kids and the wife are down. John put himself to bed. Says 'fuck this!' about the first monster on Dr Who, while Nat was crowing that the alien looked like 'a boiled Mister Potatohead!' Oh, what I have wrought.
Hey, society, no need to thank me. Better watch your sons, though. She's beautiful, will get more beautiful (if my oldest daughter is any indication) and damn, she strikes like a snake. I avoid her easily, of course, but I can see the stitches on a fastball.
She is going to be formidable when she comes of age and size. If I'm alive, I'll teach her a few things. If I'm dead, the wife will teach her what I have taught her.
Shit, how did it become Saturday? Where was I? Dammit! I am just enjoying a semi-cool breeze from my window fan. It hit 100 today. And the wife had a girlfriend over, putting in a pocket garden in our back yard. Hick bitch brought compost and steer shit with her, buckets of it, so I sat around all evening while the wife was at some religious shindig, sniffing my armpits, and checking my shorts, and wondering 'what the fuck?' I accused both kids of shitting themselves, and made them go attempt to shit, and check their shorts, and then I passed by the window and that rich barnyard smell flooded into my sinuses.
Oh. Sorry kids. Haven't broken the wife's balls yet over it. Tomorrow will come soon enough. We already get plenty of tomatoes from the plants we've got, and I don't want to smell shit all summer. I don't care how good fresh vegetables taste, I can go to the store, and not have to smell shit and rotting compost.
Sorry to be all over the road here, folks. Shit, 12:17 am? Crap. Time for a shot, chase with water, and a couple of Sour Skittles...okay, back...
My inner rage came up tonight, but I was able to stuff it. Well, extinguish it. I am surrounded by so much of what appears to be love, that it is like fire retardant on a gas fire. I don't think I'm mellowing, but I am changing. The wife's friend watched me, this afternoon, doing sticky hands with Nat, and training John in balance (by essentially knocking him over if he allowed it) and when I met her, I shook her hand, and it was sweaty, and I wiped my hand off on the wife's tank top while she futilely tried to stop me, and the woman's eyes grew...well, a bit wide. And thoughtful.
Whatevah...12:28am...I'm beat. Enjoy your Saturday. Sorry to afflict you with such disjointed shit.
And don't give me any of that 'innocent until proven guilty' bullshit, either. Motherfucker, if you make it to jail, you are guilty of sumthin. And likely have a record of other bullshit. Cops HATE to do paperwork, and go to court (always on your fucking day off). So if your ass is in the clink, you bought the ticket, and I don't want you voting.
And the linked article has so much other stuff wrong in there, that I need to take a pill. And a baby aspirin.
I've been put in jail exactly once, and my lawyer escorted me there, because my ex was being a tricksy Hobbit, so after two days of dodging cops, I got tired of it and went to see him, and he got me out in an hour. With an apology from the arresting officer.
I've arrested tons of assholes, and they were all fucking guilty. Bad people you wouldn't want to live next door to. I've let plenty other people go for the crime of 'being stupid in public'. I would stand them in front of me, hold their face in my hand, and tell them stuff like 'okay, I'm gonna let you go, but if I ever see you doing stupid shit like this again, I am gonna make it my personal crusade to fuck your shit up...do you understand me?' Nodnodnod...'good, now I am going to turn you around and take these handcuffs offa you, and if you do any stupid shit, I am going to shoot you until you stop twitching...do you understand Me?' Nodnodnodnodnod... 'Good'.
We didn't have dash cams then. If we had of, I would have figured out their range, and avoided them. So would any of the other cops who were trying not to laugh as I dealt with the guy. Bitches, you can't pull that shit with. They will bad-mouth you every time, talk shit, and act the fool. And they went to jail, too. My personal rule was, kick at me one time, here's your hogtie.
The Sheriff's jailers always knew it was me coming into the sally-port gate, from all of the screaming and crying. and that includes the male prisoners. You buy the ticket, don't bitch about the ride.
I did a stupid thing yesterday. Comcast was fucking up and Outlook was acting like it didn't recognize my password, and I said 'screw this' and went over to Mozilla Thunderbird, which didn't seem to work, either.
So I turned off all of my mail for a while, and later, when I turned it back on, it still seemed to be screwed up, but it was downloading stuff, that wasn't appearing in my Inbox, but the notification was dinging every few seconds, and I suddenly realized that Outlook was downloading every piece of email from Thunderbird, that was unread, because I haven't used it for months.
Thousands of emails.
Well, that took some time I'll tell you...and I really want to thank all of you that sent me all of those huge picture and video and music files in the last several months. No, really, thanks a lot. You can never have too much stress in your life.
So, I muted my speakers for a while. A long, long, long long while...shit, I mail-bombed my own self. And if any of you have hit my tip jars recently, the notification is lost in a huge pile of duplicate emails, all jumbled together. But, thanks. Belatedly, or in advance. Whatever.
I don't have the stomach to fix it all right now, and we are under an 'extreme heat and humidity warning', and I just may kill the kids, because they are fighting like sweaty, drunken little weasels.
The wife shut down early from her job (one of them) housecleaning, and came home at noon, all agrouch, and smelling like a dockworker. She went in and took a cool shower, but I got my hand slapped for rolling a nipple between my thumb and forefinger when she came out, and a 'what the fuck were you thinking?' look.
Ah well...Happy Friday, ya'll! We made it through another week, eh? Well, there's always next week...
I haven't felt compelled to write anything compelling or original today. I expect villagers with torches and farm implements at any moment. Good, I can use the target practice. Oh, just kidding. I don't need target practice, but the stress relief would be worth the price of admission. I hate villagers.
I am getting some pisstivitated at this frigging wireless keyboard. I know damn well I typed the letters, and some choose not to appear. Maybe the batteries are dying. Heh...I can relate.
Crap, it is Global Warming outside like a mother. And the next three days are supposed to get up into the 90's. Fuck. Well, it slows down the kids, so there's something. Sad that the wife has to clean a house in it. She makes killer money, but she is saving to have two crowns done. ASAP. So she is taking a fan with her tomorrow, to move about the house.
It's what you do when you don't have health insurance. Or, you could whine to a Democrat. If something catastrophic occurs to one of my immediate family members, hey, we're gonna die. I get some leeway through the VA, and Johnny gets some Social Security Disability for being a fucked up kid. But when it comes time to hit the ER, we pay. Cash and carry. Or we set up payments. We always pay, so they let us.
Hospitals are such fucking highway robbers, too. They have to make up the costs incurred from treating all those illegal aliens who never pay, somewhere. Hey, those people have to send their income back to their relatives in Mexico, you racist. Never mind that their country has one of the largest oil producing industries in the world, you racist you.
Hospital Administrators are thieves on a par with politicians.
Interesting (to me) story: After Johnny was born, and he and the wife and my family were going through our initial travails (and, oh yes, there were more to come) someone came to the hospital up in Portland and donated a nice chunk of cash for the wife to continue staying in Ronald McDonald House. They did it anonymously, and when I asked the staff for a description of the donor, their eyes fell, and they went mum. I didn't press it.
The wife's doctor, who had been with her though 9 months of the toughest pregnancy I have ever seen, and missed all of the signs that a 3rd year med student would have picked up on, and had seen more sonagram photos of the unborn Johnny that have been taken of Britney's crotch, well...he just looked defeated after the C-Section. He knew he had fucked up, and fucked up badly. Incompetently badly. He was seeing his career flashing before his eyes.
And I was tempted. I could have taken him, and his hospital, for a pile of money. Once I saw John, and went back and shuffled through the stack of sonagram photos, it was obvious to me he was wildly abnormal looking.
But I didn't. Sue. I had neither the time, nor the spirit to do so, and I was juggling two teen boys and running back and forth to Portland and working at a very intensive job that we needed me to keep, and I just didn't. Sue.
And one day, when we most needed it, in the darkest month of our life together, a person that the nursing staff refused to identify to us came in and dropped off an envelope full of cash, that took care of all of the wife's needs while she was there, and kept me in gas as I commuted to be with her whenever I could.
And one night, some horrid bitch of a nurse turned off all of the instruments in the pod where Johnny and three other critical babies were, made herself a bed, turned out the lights in there, and went to sleep. The wife woke up in her room, sat bolt upright, dressed hurriedly, and ran to the hospital, and washed and gowned up, and rushed to be by Johnny's side.
The nurse was snoring softly, and the picture was quite clear. The wife backed out softly, and went to get the Charge Nurse, and took her to show her. Yes, Sleeping Beauty lost her job. I hope she lost her license. 2:30 in the morning, with infants who are barely holding on to life...
The anguished wails of parents was something that we, sadly, got used to, over the weeks and months.
But not that fucking night.
And we still have no idea where the envelope with our first and last names came from.
All of my relatives who made their fortune there have moved up here. One of my Dad's sisters gave him a Mercedes a while ago. The L.A. economy will miss them. They employed people, bought luxury goods and homes, and got tired of living in a turd world country and looking over their shoulders all the time.
When you read the linked list, how many white names do you see? Homeless don't count. You can kill those fuckers all day as far as I'm concerned. Crikey, the press whines about our losses in Iraq...what about the constant attrition over here in our cities? I wanna see a running tally of those.
And it always cheers me up seeing an Hispanic surname in an obituary. Hey, man, nice shot.
I don't know why you people who live in bug-infested areas don't just buy a drum of Malathion, and use it full strength. Fuck the EPA. I worked at this place where, at lunch, after eating, we'd amuse ourselves by dipping a long dried weed into the pure Malathion (undiluted) and go up to these big-ass spiders, and I mean big as in fucking enormous, and as you approached them slowly, you'd get about a foot or so away, and suddenly, they just plain up and died. Without a twitch. It was like you hit them with a blowtorch.
I tried to always keep the breeze at my back when using that stuff. Deadly.
I'd let these little bastards finish eating all the fire ants, then I'd nuke em. And I'm wondering why you couldn't make some sort of electrified door and window frame, that pulsed like an electric fence, and would keep crawling insects out of your house. Just zap the shit out of any crawly thing, and turns off when you open the door, and back on when you close it. And turn all of your screens into bug zappers.
Speaking of, I used to put apples and carrots on the wire of our electric fence, where I used to live, on this ranch. The deer would come along an go 'Hey! Apple!' and commence to filching it. Then ZAP! Boy, those fuckers can jump high when properly motivated. And they never learned.
On the way home from our Happy Family Day yesterday, we ran into a cluster-fuck of pedestrianry at a middle school near our house. I figured it was Hillary. Nope. Bill.
Every feeder street I went down was packed with parked cars. The lines to get in to see Mr Bill clotted the sidewalk, and went around the block. Looked like the lines for Star Wars back in the day. While most of you were likely still shitting your Gerber peas.
I could have...seen him from my window, if it weren't for all the intervening trees. I heard on the local news this morning that the crowd was so huge, he had to go out and do his rah rah while standing in the bed of a pickup truck. I wonder if it was lined with Astroturf.
Fuck, I hate that fucking fucker. And her husband.
For your convenience, here is the original post he is referring to. Note how he cherry-picked the lines he put in his own article. Oh well, at least he was stalwart enough to link to my post, which is a rare thing.
Enjoy the comments, too. I and my readers, and even the atheists, were in rare form.
I have been seeing the infomercial for this razor for months, and been intrigued. The last razor you'll ever need? Says so right on the package. Brags about it. Comes with a Lifetime Warranty.
I was out last week with the wife and turds, and I recalled that I was out of blades for my Gillette Mach 3. And neither the wife nor I can resist the 'As Seen On TV' end cap displays. She picked out a solar-powered car window fan. That sucker works, folks. Our car is no longer an oven when we get into it.
And the Infinity Razor works as advertised, too. Better than. The jury is still out, but so far, it is the best, closest shave I have ever had, next to when I used a straight razor. I have a tough-ass beard, and tender baby skin, and shaving can be...problematic. I gave this razor my torture test the first time I used it. The dry shave.
With a two-days growth of beard. And I didn't bleed. A bit. Amazing. Will it last forever? I am always skeptical, but the razor works perfectly so far...with shaving cream, it is a dream. Titanium blades, dontcha know. And it seems like it cuts the hairs co closely, that my face is smooth til the next day. Nat has taken to smooching my cheeks more than usual, and remarking on their smoothness.
I have a couple of trouble spots on my face, where shaving has always been a bitch. Not any more. Oh, and they have a pink model for women and queers. The wife is going to get one. The pink razor, not the queer.
I paid for the razor what I would have paid for a pack of Mach 3 blades. If I actually do end up never needing another razor, the savings over a year will be tremendous. And as soon as stores figure that out, this razor will disappear.
So get one now.
Oh, one more thing, I recommended the Gillette Mach 5 a while back, and I hereby withdraw it. It went a blade (or two) too far. I did love the trimming blade feature, but the blades cannot stand up to routine use. The Mach 3 is better by far.
To bed for me. The wife and kids are already snoring softly, and I am burnt, at both ends. We went to my favorite restaurant after 'Iron Man, and John had a pancake stack, blueberry with whipped cream...Nat had pancakes, buttered, with maple syrup. The wife had some sort of appalling Swiss/Mushroom burger, that looked like a hog's hemorrhoidectomy to me...
I had genuine cod, sliced up and fried as fish sticks, and the little fuckers ate most of it, and filched my fries as well. 'Little Fuckers' includes the wife. Though Johnny did nosh the last quarter portion of her burger. The wife had a Strawberry Margarita, made by a woman who adores me. I had a couple of phat shots, and then, a Long Island Iced Tea, that would peel paint off a battleship.
To my credit, I could walk away, and drive, even though I am pretty sure my most darling bartender was trying to kill me. I tip well. I don't get out much. The wait-staff dotes on me, as does the owner.
The wife was pie-eyed, and enjoyed television, and did not move much. Mexico conspired to enfeeble her. I'm sure of it. Have I mentioned that I hate Mexicans?
Anyway, I am barely coherent now. Light...getting dim...circuits shutting down...
Have a great Tuesday tomorrow...or today...or whatever the fuck.
I just wish I could give you all a big naked hug. Please ignore the pokey bits...
Go see this movie. Twice. They fuck up the ending...you'll see why when you see (no spoilers, assholes!) but the kids loved it, the wife and I adored it, enough to go back in while we were asking for a refund on our tickets because of a power blackout. Some idiot got up close and personal with a power pole, and everything but the emergencies died.
They promised us they'd run it back for us, and they did, and we were happy. Earns every inch of its PG-13 rating, and then some, but the kids never freaked.
What a damn good movie. Summer Blockbuster, indeed. Worth seeing at least twice. Great family flick, great date movie. I would like to grow extra thumbs to put them up for this movie.
The flaws are far outweighed by the perfection, but hey, it is always a great piece of ass right up til she pitches an epileptic fit, right? But then they give you the Metal anthem of all time, Iron Man, and you forgive them, and actually sit through the credits.
Go see this movie, please. I want them to make more. I have always enjoyed Downey, but he has reached his pinnacle, here. And the Tony Stark character is exactly who I would be, in his situation. Scary. I got a couple of good shoulder punchins from the wife when she heard my voice from the screen. Really a bizarre juxtaposition.
Go. See it. And I let out many more than one guffaw. Belly laughing guffaws. And watch yourselves in the comments. You just know some asshole is going to earn oblivion by mouthing off about critical bits. So just go see it. Trust me. Then come back and comment.
Crap, the weather dorks tell us we are going to get up into the 80's and 90's for the next three days. I hope those dickheads are wrong as usual. Then Saturday, we go back to the 60's, and I can come out from under my rock.
I keep telling the wife we need to get new fans to replace the ones we have that have run for years, before one of them burns the house down. The stores are full of them now, at really good prices, that won't stay that way for long. But she pinches a penny until Abraham Lincoln's pubic hair falls off, so...probably why we have so many of them. Pennies, I mean. If left up to me, I am profligate, and believe in partying until you're broke.
Which is why I put her in charge of our finances. I haven't written a check in years. The guy that installed our blinds the other day had to point out where I needed to fill out lines on the blank check she had left me to pay him with. Even then, she had pre-signed it, and dated it, and written in the name of the company. I just hand people cash, and forget my change, and they run after me to give it to me out in the parking lot.
I only care about money when I want booze, food, or some toy. Or if I am spending it on the wife and kids. But the wife, she agonizes over every expense. She has (mostly) quit coming to me for advice, because "Fuck it" is generally not considered sound financial policy. Though I am able to detect the odd Gordian Knot, here and there, and cut through it with great ruthlessness and precision, as needed. When it happens, she looks at me like I'm a god.
There are simple, elegant solutions for nearly everything. You just have to see them. Panic and desperation blind you as surely as squid ink squirted in your face.
One of the keys to our 'success', is that I know my weaknesses (why yes, I have weaknesses, thank you) and her strengths. It is foolish to deny your partner in life's strengths, simply from silly social conventions. Anything that can bleed once a month for a week or so, and not die, and can create a living human being inside their body and pass it through a tiny hole you can barely fit into, is a force to be reckoned with. And one worthy of respect.
So, my bitch is out mowing my lawn...where's yours? Oh, she would so punch me in the arm for that line. But she has learnt to telegraph it, and do it in a deliberate way, so as to avoid a nasty sprain. I flex, and take it. Hey, I earned it.
I've said it before, when playing any kind of computer war game, the moment I get nuclear capability, I use them. It is best if the game has the option for diplomacy. I nuke the other country while I am on 'friendly' status with them.
If I can build nuclear bases and stealth them, all the better.
...and shove him up your ass. I have always known I hated him, but I wasn't sure why. I mean, he was directly responsible for the deaths of over a million Muslims, so there's that positive on his record.
Gandhi was killed by an assassin's bullet 60 years ago.
Well, and there's that positive note.
I heard a story awhile back, I forget where, yet I am confident of its veracity. Seems this guy was a gunner on a gun truck in India (I think) in a Hindu intensive area. He was manning dual .50's, and they were on one of those 'showing the flag' operations. If you know what I'm talking about, you know what I'm talking about.
Anyway, those primitive screwheads worship cows, and let them wander at will, and it seems one had gotten rabies, or Mad Cow, or whatever, and was running amok in the market place, crushing people to death, kids, women, and smashing food and goods stalls, and the backwards-ass country fucks were just standing around, letting their hamburger god do what it wished, not even getting out of the way.
So the gunner, thinking he'd do them a favor, squeezed those butterfly triggers once, and blew that cow into so much stew beef.
He and his men and vehicle barely made it out of that village in one piece.