This is my Blog...There are many like it, but this one is mine...
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Stay Away From My Food...
If I joined you at your table and started helping myself to bites from your plate, how would that make you feel? What if you went to take a bite, and I slapped the fork out of your hand? What if I changed your entire order, and gave you only the food I wanted you to have?
And yet you allow the government to do all this and more to you at every level of your life. Oregon is passing a bill today that will make bicycle helmets mandatory for every adult. First they came for the children, and that was such a success, they are now doing it to all of us. California has banned transfats in the entire state. And there is no credible evidence that they do any harm. And while that statement may be debatable, the government has removed all chance of that, now.
It is getting harder and harder to 'live off the grid'. When the police get paid from the fines they get when they write a ticket, when a neighbor will call the authorities and report you for cutting down a tree in your own yard, or for spanking your child, the places where you won't get bothered become harder and harder to find. And don't even try to sit out in the middle of a lake and fish, while you drink a beer.
Better have a license for that fish, and leave that beer at home. You could lose your boat, your trailer, your pick-up, and a lot of money. Or even your life, since the boat-pigs are the cops who couldn't make it on the street. And he's got at least sixteen of his friends with him in the magazine well of his pistol.
Don't worry if you're an indian, though, you can machine-gun a whale and drag it to the beach where your tribe will whack it up, and then go dynamite fishing for salmon, fill your boat with them, and take them back to your American taxpayer-built fish-processing plant, and let the illegal alien workers process them for distribution and sale while you and your buddies go get drunk.
What a country we have become. We are no longer 'on the way there'...
Have you ever noticed how a succession of routine miracles can make you a tad blase'? Do you think any of the Apostles walked over to Jesus with a cup of water and said 'Ahem!' and the Lord waved his hand and made it into a fine Merlot, and the Apostle went back over and resumed his conversation as if nothing had happened out of the ordinary?
Well, I Praised the Lord today, I'll tell you. I have this little work truck, that I haven't driven since the last time I worked. It has been sitting out front, taking up a parking space, rotting (two tires have gone flat, and all are unsalvageable...) and it doesn't have a battery, the inside of the cab is mildewed, and I had the registration out since I was going to call the junkyard to come haul it off.
And this afternoon, while the wife was at Hellboy 2 (she loved it) Nat was watching one of her Cinderella DVD's, and the DVD player up and died. And we are broke. Rent paid, bills paid, and flat-ass broke.
And then the wife gets home from the movie and getting a haircut, and notices a note flapping under the windshield wiper of my piece of shit truck. She brings it in, and reads it to me. Someone wants to buy it, and wants to know how much we want for it.
My first reaction is 'Fuck! Just give it to him!' The wife, having some Jew blood in her, begins to bargain and scheme. Which got me to thinking...hey, we can get a nice DVD player for around $50. She said $75, and I said whatever. So she dug out the paperwork, called him, and he came right over and signed the bill of sale, and brought out a $100 bill. The wife said she'd have to go get change, and he just waved his hand, and said 'keep it'.
Well, she does have really nice tits.
Anyway, thanks again, God, for your undeserved favor. And the new DVD player.
Okay, I am writing this for myself...and that is all you need to know about me, right there.
When I cry, I am crying for myself. Not for you, or anything that has happened to you. And no, I am not a selfish person. I am a very giving, loving caring person. If it makes me happy to be so. I could also sit in one of your kitchen chairs, and watch you bleed out, because I had new tennis shoes on. As I eat a yogurt I got from your fridge.
Unless it benefited me somehow to save you. Even if it was just the simple fact that it made me feel good to do it. But you owe me some tennis shoes, fucker.
I actually hope that you 'don't get it'. Oh, I attract the odd psychopath here and there who enjoy 'fessing up'. They think they've found a 'kindred spirit' in me. People like me use people like them as thralls.
God made me, and it amused Him to leave a few vital parts out. I have had to attempt to jury-rig those parts, and through trial and error, I would like to think that I am very close to becoming a real boy. It is kinda like attempting to build a complex machine when you have lost the manual and the instructions. I have had more failures than successes.
The wife has become pretty good at reading me.She knows just before the shit hits the fan, it is on its way. She steps behind me, puts her little birds under her wings, and waits for me to unleash hell. Usually, the reptile part of whomever's brain warns them that here, here there be dragons. Usually.
If they don't, well...
The first time I ever saw one of those movie slo-mo CGI and bullet-cam scenes, I said to myself "Hey! I never even met any of these dickheads!" Because that is exactly what happens to me. A lot of people have told me that I write violence realistically. Uhhhh...guess why?
The room goes silent. I can see and hear everything. The drawn knife makes a snap as the clip becomes free of the pocket, the snap of a sheath opening...oops, bad news. Big knife in play. The slithery sound of a pistol being drawn, the less sound, the shorter the barrel, and the likelihood that the shooter shoots and carries a lot. Time to stop, drop, and roll.
Blam! That sound is gonna startle everybody in the room. Except me. Did you hear the sound of an ejected cartridge hitting the carpet? Or clinking on the linoleum? I'd rather deal with a (likely El Cheapo) auto pistol than a revolver...roll towards him as fast as you can, roll your body into his shins, reach up, grab the waistline of his pants with both of your hands, and pull him forward. As he hits the floor, spin over him like a wrestler, and decide which way you want to kill him. Just make it quick. There are other assholes alive in the room.
At some point, time will start again, so you will know that you are done.
I wrote Monday about how the wife and I were going to watch 'Serenity'. Well, we didn't get around to it until last night. After I whined. No, when I brought up the subject last Monday evening of what we were gonna watch, I gave her the choice, of course, and she came at me out of left field with the request "Can we watch 'Shaun of the Dead?"
Do I have an awesome wife, or what? She bought me the DVD for my birthday, and it hadn't even been opened yet, and she pours herself a couple of shots of whiskey over ice, unwraps the DVD, loads it in, and we sit and drink whiskey and watch a zombie movie together! Is that great, or what?!
And then when it is over, she goes to the menu and chooses the extras we're gonna watch!
This is easily the best movie I have seen all year, and for pure enjoyment, it has joined my top five favorite movies of all time. And I have likely seen more movies than you have had hot meals.
I really, really loved the first Hellboy, and the sequel is easily a thousand percent better, and that's saying something. The wife is going this afternoon to see it. She has learned that when I say go to a movie, she should go to the movie. Nattie loves Hellboy, and we watch it together every time it comes on cable. I would take her to see #2 in a heartbeat.
As usual, post spoilers in the comments, and taste oblivion.
And get your ass out to a theatre and see this movie. Fuck Batman.
The wife is putting the brats to bed. John fucked around with her camera phone, and deleted every photo on it. Nat took a dive in the 9th round outside, and hamburgered her knees and elbows, and is acting like a wounded veteran of Flanders. And I have no patience for idiocy. I have been alternately tormenting her with the promise of amputations, and him with the fact that he deleted all of the photos of several of the best days of his life.
And the wife and I will go downstairs and watch 'Serenity' when she finishes putting the retards to bed.
All kids are retards until they can legally drink. And then they are just stupid for about ten more years.
...wrote this post a while back, and it might benefit some of you newbies. Newbies being anyone who has had a blog for less than two years, and/or posts once a week or less. Don't like it? Fuck you. Get off my internet.
I know for a fact that Rob read me every day. And I him. We emailed a lot. I won't go into any more detail than that, for several reasons that are none of your business.
He was the quintessential blogger, a true classic. We clicked, because we each sensed the other didn't really give a shit. Though I had the advantage over him of A) being a better writer (and he knew it, and it drove him nuts) and B) I didn't have the issues that emotions bring, which issues he battled until the end.
He had gotten used to having his ass kissed, and I faced him as a man, and there is not enough Chapstick in the world to make any ass-kissing palatable to me. I got a lot of readers from him when he was alive, and I'm guessing that 99% fell away when he died. I wrote the most honest obituary that may have ever been written, and I could feel the collective gasp rushing all across the internets.
Oh well...I have never been about stacking up readers like poker chips. Read, or not. No effect on me. When people give you money for no good reason except that they enjoy you, then you can talk shit.
This ride don't need no tickets. There's just a donation box at the exit. Do, or do not.
Poor Scott Adams, I knew thee well. Too well, in fact.
I shall read thee no more, forever, your stupid maunderings on your poor excuse for a 'blog'. You just may be the dumbest smart person it has ever been my misfortune to clot my brain with their nonsense.
Oh, I am still a big fan of Dilbert. That is where you take the leash off of your id and let it loose to run through the park. So I know you're capable of rationality. It is just too bad that you don't show a shred of it elsewhere.
Does it bother you that people pay you to come talk to them, and come to your restaraunt because of the success of a few drawn lines? You've got Dogbert inside of you. Any fool can see that. Let him out, and lock up that semi-literate fucking hippy that is currently possessing you.
Too bad...I know your kind. You are what you are, and you're going to always stay that way. And all of your loyal sycophants will make you feel like everything you say is just peachy-keen.
...believe anything you read on the internet. At least without verifying it from two separate sources first.
Check this out. It purports to be a carven tree in Mozambique, Africa. It says so, too. So does the site that led me to the photos.
It is, in fact, photos of a 'tree' at Disneyworld, Florida, in Jungle Land, that is made out of fiberglass. An amazing achievement, to be sure, but...not Africa. Not tree. Not wood. And to add insult to injury, in the last photo in the series, you can see a bit of the roof of the gift shop in the lower right corner.
Doesn't really work with me. I like all kinds. I don't have a 'type'. I'm just curious if you do. I used to mock friends of mine who had a 'type'. They would spend the weekend dateless and jacking off before they would even consider changing the template of their ideal woman. By Sunday night, I would have gone out with three different women since Friday, and he had struck out with three different chicks that fit his template.
And I'm tempted to ask you all to quit praying for me, but I fear pissing God off. You see, my eyes have gone from yellow, back to white, and my yellowed skin is turning pink again.
It is like buying a plane ticket, then finding out your flight is canceled. Fuck. I was all packed, and ready to go. And I can't bring myself to eject manually. Oh, it has nothing to do with 'having the guts'. I just finally realize that there are several people I care a very great deal about that would be shattered by my moving on.
Shit. I finally had a great excuse to check out, and my body betrays me. Oh well, Praise The Lord in all things, right? So...
My buddy Doc made a video. Ask yourself, boys, how would you like to get in the ring with any of those chicks? Marines train at full contact. Sometimes they let them wear body armor, but nobody pulls their punches, or trains American dojo style, which I call 'practicing how to not hit anybody'.
One of the few regrets I have is never having had a chance to learn the Marine fighting system.
I could kick my own ass. One of my readers here, with the handle 'Lynch', asked me yesterday to pray for he and his family, who are apparently going through a rough patch. And I totally spaced it.
Prayer works, people. I've seen it happen too many times, where a situation that was very bad turned into something good. How can I say this when I am becoming a ruined hulk of a man? Heck, I don't know the how or the why of it. Don't care. I am God's willing, happy slave.
Just pray for Lynch, and let God do the rest. Or not. A miracle is truly needed here, in his life.
To harm any of my kids, let alone kill one, is something I simply cannot conceive of. If one of them tried to kill me, I would try my hardest to let them. That would be difficult, as I am programmed to survive at all costs, but this cost I could not bear, and would not endure it unless it was to save the wife and/or others of my kids from one of my spawn, gone rogue.
I'm not Batman. I'm the Punisher.
Oh yeah, tell me again how Islam is a religion of peace. And just why do we let these Muzzie fucks into our country? If we were keeping score, Christianity would come in dead last in a contest to see who killed the most of their fellow humans in the name of their religion. Guess who would come in first?
Hitler did his best to beat Islam's High Score, and Stalin took his shot as well. They both performed admirably, but Islam still holds the title and the belt. Fuck, I truly hate those fuck fuckers.
Yes, this is hate speech. I hate you, Muzzie.
Want Peace On Earth? Well, hunt down and kill every Muslim you can find, burn every Koran in existence; If I was 25 years old again, I would hunt them for sport. Whenever I see a video of some asshole shooting a burkha-clad bitch in the head on a soccer field, I say 'Good!' One less Muslim incubator of another terrorist.
Muslim kids aren't children...they are just smaller cockroaches.
The Crossroads have been used so much in fiction, that people have quit taking it seriously. Just like parents read their children funny stories about friendly werewolves, and vampire children who become a child's friend, or a sea monster that a boy keeps in his tub.
The Grimm's Brothers knew better, and related tales they had heard passed down through antiquity. And they knew damn well they were true. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, and you had best keep your ass on the path. Or else...
He waited at his own crossroads, and the shadows grew long, then went away, and the stars came out. Had he been in Europe, at some point in the past, gibbets would have adorned each corner of the crossroad, and the prisoners chewed their own flesh while they starved, and then they would have consecrated the unholy ground with their own shit, as they went mad, and then collapsed in their cage, and the ravens would come fight over their living flesh.
Where he waited now was a place where slave-masters had hung runaway slaves as they caught them. A hanged man will spunk as he dies, and they would have their foremen pull down the slaves pants, and the Aristocrat Landowners would place bets on how far out into the dry dirt of the road the spunk would fly.
He stood at the most notorious crossroads of all, where Robert Johnson was thought to have sold his soul to become the finest guitar player in the world. A crossroads in the deepest of the deep south.And each crossroads has a demon that waits. Does nothing but...
Hey you caught me in a coma And I don't think I wanna Ever come back to this...world again Kinda like it in a coma 'Cause no one's ever gonna Oh, make me come back to this...world again Now I feel as if I'm floating away I can't feel all the pressure And I like it this way But my body's callin' My body's callin' Won't ya come back to this...world again Suspended deep in a sea of black I've got the light at the end I've got the bones on the mast Well I've gone sailin', I've gone sailin' I could leave so easily While friends are calling back to me I said they're They're leaving it all up to me When all I needed was clarity And someone to tell me What the fuck is going on Goddamn it!
Slippin' farther an farther away It's a miracle how long we can stay In a world our minds created In a world that's full of shit
Help me Help me Help me Help me Bastard
Please understand me I'm climbin' through the wreckage Of all my twisted dreams But this cheap investigation just can't stifle all my screams And I'm waitin' at the crossroads Waiting for you Waiting for you Where are you
No one's gonna bother me anymore No one's gonna mess with my head no more I can't understand what all the fightin's for But it's so nice here down off the shore I wish you could see this 'Cause there's nothing to see It's peaceful here and it's fine with me Not like the world where I used to live I never really wanted to live
Zap him again Zap the son of a bitch again
Ya live your life like it's a coma So won't you tell me why we'd wanna With all the reasons you give it's It's kinda hard to believe But who am I to tell you that I've seen any reason why you should stay Maybe we'd be better off without you anyway
You got a one way ticket On your last chance ride Gotta one way ticket To your suicide Gotta one way ticket An there's no way out alive An all this crass communication That has left you in the cold Isn't much for consolation When you feel so weak and old But is home is where the heart is Then there's stories to be told No you don't need a doctor No one else can heal your soul
Got your mind in submission Got your life on the line But nobody pulled the trigger They just stepped aside They be down by the water While you watch 'em waving goodbye They be callin' in the morning They be hangin' on the phone They be waiting for an answer When you know nobody's home And when the bell's stopped ringing It was nobody's fault but your own There were always ample warnings There were always subtle signs And you would have seen it comin' But we gave you too much time And when you said that no one's listening Why'd your best friend drop a dime Sometimes we get so tired of waiting For a way to spend our time An "It's so easy" to be social "It's so easy" to be cool Yeah it's easy to be hungry When you ain't got shit to lose And I wish that I could help you With what you hope to find But I'm still out here waiting Watching reruns of my life When you reach the point of breaking Know it's gonna take some time To heal the broken memories That another man would need Just to survive
Fortunately, we can't have any here. Pets, in case you didn't 'get it'.
I don't have any pet peeves. I have a list. 'Things Bane will shoot'; 'things Bane will merely beat the shit out of'; and 'Things Bane will ignore because they are lower than whale shit, only less important'.
Things that fall under the 'will shoot' category include journalists, politicians, and a host of child molesters and other scum. As I have gotten old and frail, the 'beat the shit out of' list has turned into the 'hack up with edged weapons' list.
Oh yeah, while I'm thinking about it, zip over to my daughter's blog and wish her a Happy Birthday.
I don't know which I hate more, birthdays, or Christmas. Okay, I hate Easter the most. Fucking pagan-ass holiday.
Christians sometimes make me ashamed to be a Christian. Almost. Dipshit Christian Fundamentalists outnumber dipshit pagans like, a million to one.In all of my life, I've only been to one church where I felt comfortable, and wanted to come back. The wife and I, freshly minted as a couple, went there a lot. It was a Cavalry Chapel. The pastor was going to marry us.
Then my ex came and talked to the Pastor, and told him she wanted to 'reconcile with me'. Bitch knew all the loopholes. The pastor called us into his office, and said he couldn't marry the wife and I, until I made every effort at reconciliation. And even then, he couldn't marry two divorced people.
The wife and I thanked him for his time, and left. She is churched, now, but I haven't been inside a Christian church since. Never will. Until I'm up front, in a box, words being spoken over me by people who I don't even know.
Please, family, if Johnny and Nat want to climb into the box and lay with me awhile, let them.
Yesterday, the wife and kids seem to get back a little sooner from the kids' play date at the park. She ushered the kids into the house, as I watched from the landing above...I like to do that whole 'The Pope In His Balcony At St Peter's square' thing. I held my peace because the wife's face had death, destruction, and just a touch of murder on it.
Nat flew up past me with a look of panic on her face, and ran into her room and hid in a corner. The wife stomped up the stairs...Doom Incarnate. She went into my room, and went through my belt collection, and chose one that took her fancy. She took a few practice swings, then stepped up to the plate.
Long story short: Nat had been playing with a boy, and he pissed her off, and she yelled at him that 'he was a freak!' The wife stalked over to her and told her that we do not call people those names, and Nat started her downward spiral into perdition by yelling at the wife 'But he's a freak!' We've all heard how fond God is of Rebellion, and what He does when you rebel, and His saints pretty much follow the same rules.
The wife slapped the belt into her hand with a crack, and ordered Nat to rise and come stand before her. She turned to me, I there putting on my most angry, contemptuous face. The wife snaps at me and asks "What is the nastiest tasting shaving cream you have?" I told her, and she snatched Nat by the front of her hair, and drug her into the bathroom.
Nat hasn't been alive all that long, and I am sure that she saw what there was of it flash before her eyes.
So, the wife gets the can of Noxema medicated menthol shaving cream, fills Nat's mouth with it, and tells her to recite her ABC's. And don't you dare spit until Mom tells you to. She tried to tongue it out at one point, and I cupped my hand and popped it way into the back of her mouth. After several false starts, and restarts (I think she may have been a little distracted) she got the ABC's and the wife let her spit and rinse. And now, let the beatings begin...
The wife dragged Nat back into her room, and wore out some leather. I must emphasize, here, the the entire time through all of this the wife was reading Nat the Riot Act, cataloging her sins, offering dire predictions of Nat's future if she didn't repent her ways, and ever did it again, and here is where I found that Nat had refused to come to her mother in the park, had indeed sassed her most foul, in full voice, and had made a general spectacle of herself to one and all.
The wife turned away, thought better of it, and went back and gave her three more whacks. Then, unsatisfied with her backhand, she went back again and worked on it.
My first grandchild. My first granddaughter. If you are reading this now, you are fifteen years old, and I am dead. Don't get bugged by that, I'm not. Feel free to get creeped out. Dead people creep me out, too.
Do you have a driver's license yet? A car? Or is the world such a fucked up place, that if you want a car, you just go throw a skeleton out from behind the wheel, and drive away? Ooops, Grandpa said fuck. That's okay, so does your Mom. Just don't do it yourself for a few years, because it makes you sound like a slut.
And no, I'm not one of those creepy Grandpa ghosts that floats around in the bathroom and watches you take a shit, or a shower, or undress in your room. Though I'd like to think you've felt a comforting presence a time or two when you were going through some difficult times.
Are you still a virgin? Your dead Grandpa hopes so. Don't piss off the dead Grandpa.
I wish I could meet you now, hold you, sit and listen to you talk. Your Dad make it through the war? Hope so, a girl needs her Dad. How's your Mom doing? She ever become a book writer like I hoped? She's the second best woman I've ever known. How's the first best woman, my wife? Your best Grandma? How's she doing? How's Johnny and Nat doing? You ever see them? I figure your Uncle Johnny is dead by now, too. Especially if times got hard.
Questions questions, and no way to get them answered. Well, I'm still alive as of the writing of this letter, so I'm gonna go out and do some still alive stuff. After I look at your baby pictures again. Wanna know what I look like? What I am like? Your Aunt Nattie is my female twin; and now go look at your Uncles from my side of the family, then...
Go look at your Mother.
Love you, Gremlin. Sorry I missed so much of your life. Have a good one.
I've been feeling bad (well, worse than usual) since Sunday. Constipated beyond belief. Acute Turd Poisoning. And this morning, early, I finally passed the baby hippo, so hard it pulled in my soft spot. And then I had to beat it to death with a hammer. It is difficult to wipe your butt when you are floating weightless around the bathroom.
Last night during family TV time I paused the TV so I could go in and pass this bastard, but I was fruitless and did not multiply, though I did manage to pass some vapor past the vapor lock. Nearly peeled the paint off the walls. So I escaped, and went back to the TV.
Quite some time later, it became bedtime, and I began cracking the whip. One kid (John) upstairs to brush teeth, Nat downstairs. She crashed into there to begin her ablutions, then staggered out crying and choking...my Air-Child had been waiting in there to pounce on the first person foolish enough to step into it's lair.
I made her stay in there and brush her teeth, as she gagged and spit and cried. Hey, you gotta make em tough. Me? I stayed outside the kill zone, and directed. The wife, being a veteran, rushed past holding her breath, running upstairs to climb above its rated ceiling.
Nat finally rushed out, looking like a trainee fresh out of the tear-gas chamber.
God gave us all these natural toys to play with, we should honor him by playing with them. And with the toys of others. If they'll sit still for it. And not call the police.
I just went down to the living room with the bucket that hasn't left my side all day, and carrying a small bowl with a spoon in it that had held vanilla pudding I had eaten in an effort to settle my stomach. Johnny asked "What's that, Dad?" Man, I hate dumb questions.
"It's a bowl of puke from my puke bucket, and I brought it to you so it wouldn't be wasted...now, eat it..." and I held it out to him. He acted like I had offered him a live cobra, and couldn't scoot to the other end of the couch fast enough. Nat was mocking him, so I made as if to stick it in her face, and she did a back-flip up and over the couch, putting it between me and her. Then I saw her face rise slightly up to check on me, doing a pretty good imitation of Kilroy.
The wife spends a lot of time squatted behind the kitchen counter, quaking and holding both hands over her mouth to stifle laughter. Sometimes I'll bring the kids back there and tell them "Now look! You went and made your Mother cry!" And she shrieks laughter through her hands and I tell the kids to get in there and 'comfort their Mother' and they solemnly go in and begin to pet and pat her and say "It's okay, Mommy..." and by now she is down on her hands and knees, and gasping for air. "She's choking!" I yell, and their eyes bug out and they begin to slap her on her back, all over, because it seems to work on TV.
One of these days, the kids are gonna learn how to dial 911, and I'm gonna be screwed.
Later, she'll call me on the intercom in my room and hiss "You prick! The little assholes slapped me around all over the place! They cried when you ran from the room saying you 'just couldn't take it anymore'....I'm gonna have fucking bruises!"
The heavens, maybe? I was reading this article, and I was reminded of one of my favorite pet theories. And just ignore all of the time estimates in the article. Whenever I hear some science nerd blabbing about ' hundreds of millions of years', I just hold out my palm and say 'talk to the hand'.
My old timers know about this, but for my new readers, I'll just flat out tell you that I believe humanity was created by God on Mars. I think that is where the Garden is/was. Put a human in a cave, with no timepieces, and they will revert to Martian time very quickly. We are hard-wired for it.
How we got to Earth, I have no idea, but I suspect that it was shortly after Adam and Eve were cast from the Garden. I believe that what we call 'Atlanteans' were actually Adamites, very advanced, brilliant, with technology that looked like magic. I suspect that Cain was banished from Mars for his crime of fratricide, and transported by angels to Earth.
I suspect that his parents missed their only son so much, they found a way to join him there. The Bible says that there was a full-blown society that Cain went out into it, and a mark was put upon him, so that no man would harm him. Could harm him? I think Cain was the first vampire. I think he bred with Adam's first wife Lilith, and their offspring have been bedeviling us since.
And some of us, the Dhampir, still carry a portion of his essence inside us...
Anyway, there was a war in the heavens, and Earth won. It was kind of a Heinleinesque 'Moon Is A Harsh Mistress' scenario, with both sides using ammo scrounged from various asteroid fields. Look at the moon. Have you ever seen photos of the DMZ in Viet Nam, when the B-52's were busy? Yep. And we had a large moon that could be kept between us and them, with low enough gravity to make launching things from its surface a relatively simple proposition.
Oh, they got their licks in on us. Go back and look at those pictures in the linked article.
But we hammered them and hammered them until we tore their atmosphere away, and their planet looked like a damn golf ball. Did they sue for peace? Beg for a place to settle on our little blue ball? I dunno, I left my psychic powers in my other pants.
That's for another day. I'm bored. I just report...
There were maybe about 1,500 of the Old Ones left on earth. And maybe 3,000 or so thralls. And when the food supply began to be decimated by the legions of the dead, the Old ones became understandably worried. They could eat and survive on one thing, and the undead were depriving them of it. By the billions. What had been as simple as ordering out for pizza, now became as difficult as finding the rare restaurant that served truffles found in only one acre of Belgian woods. Something had to be done, something they had never done before....
They broke up into battalions, companies, squads, and went all over the earth, looking for survivors. And saving them. Murasama blades whickered and snickered, and the dead fell like wheat before a scythe.
Gunships went up and down city streets, mini-guns and rockets cutting the dead down like a grinder, and humans, the few that were left, cheered from the rooftops. And their 'rescuers' did not need night vision devices.
They parked on rooftops, and were greeted as heroes. Their 'heroes' could smell whether or not a man or a woman had been spayed or neutered, rendered useless for their purposes. Such were seized and fed and bled and fed again, and nurtured as you would a milk cow.
Those who had their reproductive organs intact were carefully transported to safe places in the upper Midwest, provided with female companionship, and every luxury they could want, considering the dead world. And protection they couldn't see, from thralls that fed on deer, elk, and whatever else crossed their path. The dead didn't appear often, but when they did, silenced sniper rifles shattered their brains.
Instead of having a boy zipping around outside on his Razor Scooter he won at his boy's club, or running up occasionally to my room for smooches, he could have ended up as a pile of components in scarlet ichor, in a stainless steel sink in an abattoir somewhere. Yes, the wife and I would have been denied some of the hardest, most gut-wrenching years of our lives. But Nat wouldn't have a big brother to play Sorry with, and a buddy to help her make forts in the living room.
If a child dies after birth, it is a tragedy. If it is torn from the womb and killed, well...
Here you go, folks. And you better play nice, cuz she's my daughter. Plus, her writing kicks your writings' ass. I know she's giving me a run for my money. Every father dotes on their child, but telling them 'you can do it!' is just cruel, if they can't. And sooner or later, they will figure out that you are a lying asshole.
About four of you know who she is. Keep it to yourself, or face oblivion. Sweet child O' Mine, might I suggest you unlimber a credit card, and pay the whopping $12 fee for a Haloscan Premium membership? Nobody (including me) likes to do that word verification bullshit to comment.
He rushed in, just barely ahead of grasping dead hands, and slammed the door until the bolts clicked. He noted several gray fingers wiggling on the floor, like grubs, still trying to get to him. He whooped in great gasps of superheated air, air that actually hurt his lungs, but he had just run up ten flights of stairs, and even hot air was precious.
And then the usual pounding began. Relentless dead fists, that would, absolutely would not stop until their owners were feasting on his torn flesh. He knew better than to lean against an entryway wall...they sensed you there, and went into a frenzy...and then the first fist broke through the door, the hand reaching blindly for...anything. Something to eat. Him.
He pulled his razor sharp machete and lopped that arm off at the forearm, like cutting a dried salami in half. As the hand headed towards the floor to join its much smaller brethren, still wiggling there, he noted with some detachment that it was a right hand, that the arm did not react or bleed when it passed over the jagged teeth of broken wood, and then it pulled back, and he began to hear the exposed bones of the forearm cracking against the outside of the door in concert with the other hungry, pounding fists.
The man sprinted as quietly as he could into the far left bedroom of the apartment. He had known that this day was likely inevitable, and he didn't want them to see him, if possible. His mere presence drove them crazy, when they spotted him, it drove them to superhuman efforts.
He climbed the ladder that he had set up to a hole he had made previously in the ceiling, and as quietly as he could, he pulled the ladder up after him, and positioned the piece of ceiling over the hole, and then lit a small, scented votive candle both to mask his scent, and give him light to traverse the crawlspace that led to the roof.
Once up, he quietly made his way to the shelter he had made out of opaque Visqueen, where a refrigerator and a small A/C hummed quietly, well away from his gas cans and other supplies. Outside, a Honda generator hummed. When he had first turned all this stuff on, his dead friends had gone berserk, clotting the streets below, but unable to get in, because they couldn't figure it out. They're dumb, they're all messed up. Eventually, they wandered off, and sometimes you'd hear the horrified screams of some unlucky survivor. Or survivors.
Now, he was pretty sure he was alone in the city.
He went to the fridge and got a cold beer, and a couple of slices of baloney, and some canned bread, and sat down on his canvas lawn chair and let out a long sigh as he chewed. He had found a butcher shop with its own generator, running, and he had been nurturing it with fuel and regular maintenance ever since. He'd be dead before their stocks ran out. He went and got some French's mustard and slathered it on, and all was right with the world.
Except for that whole Walking Dead thing.
Al Gore had been full of shit. Everybody had been full of shit. Nature hadn't turned on Man, some men had taken a shot at other men, and turned 99% of all mankind into what was likely shuffling around in the apartment somewhere below him about now. Sniffing, looking for that rich, fresh meat.
He listened to ham radio at night, when the asphalt heat sink of the city allowed him to venture out on the roof. Sometimes he heard broadcasts where the broadcaster abruptly stopped, then the screaming began, until the signal disappeared. There was at least one man, at the SETI array, away from it all, who claimed to be a scientist. He also claimed that someone had re-engineered the rabies virus, and that when men in towel hats released it all over the world, well...
The man thought that sounded as plausible as anything else he had heard. Whatever it was, it certainly was infectious. He dreaded winter. He'd have to reinforce his shelter against the weight of snow, and the battering of the wind.
His last thought, as he began to doze off, there in his chair, was "Damn...all things considered, I would have chosen Global Warming."
And things shuffled, blind and hungry, below him...
The kids and their youth group get together every Wednesday at a different park (and we have lots of parks) here in town for a 'play date', and to picnic together.
Last week, some kid punched her in the shoulder. As I understand it, she pretty much waxed the park with him. Today, another boy took his shot. Admittedly, she was apparently being a little bitch about taking turns, but you don't hit girls, especially when you are bigger and older than her.
I hear that she pretty much tenderized him, and he ran off to his mommy.
I don't care what I write, what stand I take, someone (and likely more than one) will dig and dig and search and search until they find that one (and always iffy) exception that apparently thusly invalidates the rule. Jeez...
I don't care what it is, either. I could come out against infant cannibalism, and they will attempt to come up with a position that it is okay in some situations. You watch, in the comments to this post, at least one person is going to tell me that they agree with me all the time, so that invalidates the entire post somehow.
These people used to be the kids in school who 'knew' all the answers, and insisted that everybody recognize that fact.
Oh well, takes all kinds, I suppose. No it doesn't! Yes it does! No it doesn't! Yes it does!
Cats are nasty animals, and dogs are even worse. They lay around with their bare assholes hanging out, and lick them, then lick you with the same tongue...and you nasty fuckers who let your dogs lick you on the mouth just let that little factoid settle in...why don't you just lick your pet's asshole clean for them? Cut out the middleman?
Anyway, your pets rub their assholes on you, and stick them any damn where they want. Let your cat(s) get up on the kitchen counters? Hey, Fluffy just went and took a shit! And buried it with her hands! And then licked them 'clean'! I've told you about my cat Rex, who was sitting on the windowsill looking out at the birds, and I noticed the worms just falling out of his asshole as if it was a pasta maker.
I just opened the window, and chucked him out (we lived in a second floor apartment). Free cat.
So why not pants-train them while they're babies? Of course, dogs would likely look at a diaper as if it was a bag lunch. But when I was a kid, I had a Woolly Monkey, and my Grandma made him some diapers out of cloth diapers, with Velcro tabs, and they worked great. We couldn't let him in the house without them, cuz it was just a nightmare of monkey shit.
I'll likely have pets no more, forever. Well, except fish. And then only if all I have to do is look at them. Birds? Fuck birds. They shit if you look at them funny, and squawk at inopportune times. And the bigger so-called 'smart' birds need more attention than a woman. I'd end up stuffing a pillow with it.
My Daughter-In-Law has a fucking Guinea Pig! They die if you look at them hard, and throwing them is out of the question. At least you can throw a cat. That's how I've trained all of my cats to stay off my bed, and the kitchen counters. And table. A few times of getting launched into the nearest wall, and staggering away going 'meow fuck, oh meow fuck' and they get the idea. Especially as I increase the velocity of the throw each time. Do or die, kitty, your choice. If they refuse to learn, they get a date with Mr .22, and a free dumpster ride.
Anyway, cats: pants. Dogs: no tongue. That will be all.
Twice, since I moved here, several police agencies have done sweeps of registered sex offenders, who number in the low thousands around here. Guess how many offenders they find at the addresses the offenders report?
0. That symbol stands for 'zero'. Zip, zero, nada.
The wife is off cleaning an apartment today. I am always stunned at the money she makes doing it. Crap, if I'da known that, I woulda started a business doing it a long time ago. Get a big apartment complex with a high turnover rate, and just work that sucker.
And I ain't giving no 10% of what I make to any church. I tip for value and service received, and a sore ass and a pretty good nap aren't enough to deserve 10% of my income. And besides, God lifted that requirement a long time ago. It drives me nuts when Christians begin to act like they're Jews from 3,000 years ago. Cut it out, it's embarrassing.
The wife and I do not and will never give to a charity. Well, I give to the DAV when I can. They do good work, and I have benefited from them before. What we do, is wait for God to put us in a situation, usually a store, where the woman in front of us is scrabbling through her change purse, finds she doesn't have enough, and starts putting things up on the counter from the cart, as her skinny kids look on sadly.
I'll get the cashiers attention, and if I can, I just pay for the whole cart. If I can't, I offer to pay the difference. The gratitude I get from the little family there is enough to fill up my little black heart for a year. The wife did that one time, paid off the whole cart, then ran into the woman down the road later, sweating as she pushed her cart full of bags towards wherever she lived. The wife pulled up just in front of her, parked, and went and opened her trunk. "C'mon, I'll give you a ride..."
Turns out she and her husband and kids were staying in a garage attic of friends, because their house had burned down, and taken their car with it. Her husband took the bus to and from work as he tried to make enough to start over. The wife went to her friends, and found one of them had a property they could hold off on getting the rent for awhile, and she got their husbands with trucks to move in donated furniture (and some of it looked suspiciously new) and toys and appliances and a decent old car that was just clogging someone's driveway, and...
That's how you do it.
As to the title of this post, when I was a kid, we had everything, and we had nothing. I got a harmonica for my birthday, once. It was a Hohner, and I still have it. I worked my little butt off picking fruit and selling it to housewives door to door. I used to stand under the exhaust vent of the bakery while walking home from school, bathing in that fresh-baked bread smell. That was as close as I got to a donut, unless I collected my pennies, and bought a day old. Which I would nibble on all the way home, which was a goodly distance.
Some kids thought I was rich, because I had a bright yellow slicker, and red rubber overboots, and didn't arrive at school shivering and soaked, like some of the other kids did. But my family couldn't afford the extravagance of a 50cent hot lunch, so Mom made me a lunch every day. Some days, commodity peanut butter and jelly, some days commodity cheese. Some days cottage cheese and sliced olive sandwiches. All sandwiches made from thick slabs of home made bread. And every so often, I got a nickel for milk.
I thought I had things a bit rough, until I heard my grandparents and other old folk reminiscing. About the piece of penny hard candy they somehow managed to buy, and they would pass it around the circle, each child sucking it for a bit, then passing it on. Or a piece of gum, that always started with the eldest, got chewed some, then passed on down, until the youngest could just chaw away.
Then he or she would stick it on the bedpost for the next day, and they'd all get into the bed, oldest in the middle, youngest on the outside. And a fat thunder mug under the bed, that was full of shit and piss by morning. The father usually took on the duties of emptying it, to avoid disgusting accidents. And oh how the old folk would chortle when they related tales of their various fathers having hilarious accidents on the stairs.
Baths, once a week, in a wash-tub, Mom first, then Dad, then the kids from firstborn on down. And when you see pictures of those families, all skinny, looking like refugees...hey, they were normal, healthy American families of the time. Look at photos of WW2 trainees on their first day of basic training. Have you ever been in that good shape?
Well, I'm boring myself, so I'll stop now. I may or may not see you again today.
I had a chance today to go see that new Hellboy movie, and I just did not feel motivated to go through the effort of getting ready, and driving there. Besides, it is devilish hot today...or so I told myself, even though I would have been in the 'new' car which I am told has wonderful air conditioning.
I just checked the temp, and it's 92. Too hot to walk to and from the car in. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. By the way, folks, and apropos of nothing besides my gratitude; thanks for the donations that have allowed the wife to get the new tie-rods she needs and have them installed. She has been a little white around the eyes, lately, worrier that she is, because work has not been coming in for she and her boss/partner.
I guess old folk just up and croak this time of the year, when it's hot. Oh well, people with money and guilt always have a family member dying, who they don't want to take care of themselves.
I have a weird way of communicating with the wife. It used to annoy her, then she got used to it. She'll ask my opinion on something, and quite often I could care less either way, so I'll say 'We Report, You Decide' or something equally lame. She knows now that if she is talking about the minutiae of life, that I am only looking at her to be polite, and that I don't hear a fucking thing. Go talk to the toaster, honey.
Oh, have you ever wondered why I call her 'the wife'? Well, because I am too damn lazy to capitalize the first letters. She'll be the last one I ever have, no matter what, and I am crazy about her. Sometimes I realize that I haven't shown her that enough, lately, so I tell her, and then do my best to show her. She lives like a single woman, free as a bird, and she has a husband and two kids.
She went through enough with Johnny in those first several years of his life, that...well, it would have broken most women. Or at best, left them bitter and pinch-faced. I began to discern a need, and when I felt that Johnny had stabilized enough that even a boob like me could take care of him, I started encouraging her to take breaks. So, her church ladies, who did stuff all the time, like go to retreats and such stepped in, and that is what began to refill the wife's soul. Men, no matter how close you are to your woman, she needs two things: A) girlfriend time, and B) alone time. No you, no kids, just her, doing whatever she wants. And men, you wouldn't understand what they want, so just let them off their leash and let them run.
Remember? Girls are different than boys? And in far more ways than just plumbing.
So, anyway, this is what has percolated in my fevered mind today. Just one last word: if you don't want to throw her down and put your brand on her, don't get married...date. Heck, live together. Roommates with privileges. To me, every woman I ever met was the one.
I just spent some time with Johnny watching a Blue Oyster Cult video of 'Godzilla' on YouTube. We clapped to the beat together. He was in Heaven. As I've said, he's a great, enthusiastic clapper.
I used to think he was a retard, because he would hoot like an ape, and clap his hands at the oddest times, seemingly without control, or reason. I finally asked him about it, instead of just shutting him up, and in his Johnny Way, he explained to me that he liked the echoes it made. I noted where he did it, unusual architecture spots in the house, and on the covered front porch, and he pointed out the exact acoustical spots he was working, and sure enough, when I put my hands at his level and clapped in those same spots, I got perfect echo-location feedback.
The wife was relieved when I explained him to her. Oh yeah, she's at the funeral of a dear friend, right now. Just an aside.
And John is in Heaven when we take him to the mall. Those high ceilings, that linoleum floor...Echo Heaven. He marches in, and cuts loose, and fuck you if you don't like it. If it is a dark night, and the power goes out, I am convinced he could echo-locate us to an exit. The way his mind works, I am sure that he has a map of everywhere he goes stored in a special file in his brain.
Sometimes 'special' is an insult. Sometimes it just means they can do stuff you can't.
He was my age, and now he's gone, never to grow another day older. At least in this lifetime. I mostly liked him, thought his political stance was too moderate for me, and he had to at least pretend to support the policies of that asshole President of ours. Yes, ours. Yours. Deal with it. And he kicked ass on the yellow-dog press like nobody I've ever seen, which I hope will be an inspiration for successive Press Secretaries.
Well, God Bless Tony's family in their time of loss, comfort them, and take your child home.
...and my nausea wants to go puke. And I am pretty sure you all are tired of reading about this bullshit. Okay, I'll try to stop.
But I write about what I see. What I feel. What I've seen and felt. Me me me me. What, you want me to write about the kids? About how the wife and Nat were out on the porch today, cracking walnuts, and Johnny blundered out and kicked the entire bucket of freshly cracked walnut meat all over the grass and the dirt? And the wife made him pick up every damn one of them, on pain of death?
Or the heat we suffered through today, which will be ten degrees hotter tomorrow?
Or how it feels to have the sights of your 30-30 Winchester centered on the temple of the driver of the car that brought the guys to steal your car. How you want to squeeze it off so badly, but you say hey, not worth it, so you raise the sights a few inches and pull the trigger, and a tongue of flame leaps out into the night a good thirty feet, and their car, well, parts of it, explode into a cloud of shattered glass and torn window fittings.
And the gang leaps through shattered windows with their legs hanging out like shrimp, if shrimp wore blue jeans, and they speed away, and hey, thanks dudes! For leaving me a nice jack.
Whatever. Tomorrow promises to be hotter than the seal between Rosie's thighs. If I can survive til Monday, it should be back down to the 60's and 70's.
BTW, I put up a vid of a band video a while back that had a black guy as the lead, his band was white, and he was doing anti-jihad rap-metal. Anybody remember who they were? It has been driving me nuts all day.
Never mind, I found it: Stuck Mojo, doing Open Season.
That's too bad, too, because McDonald's has always been my family's go-to place for junk food. We went there (well, drove through there) all the time, and spent lots of money. Oh well, they'll either learn the lesson it took Ford two years to learn, that America is a Christian nation, or not.
I hope they surrender like Ford recently did, so I can get my fish sandwiches again. Until such a time, McDonald's, you are dead to me. It's up to you whether you prefer the business of the tiny 1% or less of faggots, who probably don't even eat there, and if they do, they just buy a salad, over the business of the enormous Christian majority of this country, who buy several bags of food there at least once a week, and likely more.
You choose. Well, you chose once, and you chose wrong. We're a forgiving people, though, so we'll give you another chance, like we did Ford.
Now that there I vote as 'Title of The Day'. From this article.
Shit, I would absolutely go into an authentic Chinese restaurant and order the Dog Plate. I've eaten dog, and it is wonderful. It was a Black Lab, as I recall, caught and stewed by hobos, who shared with me their bounty (they had caught in someone's yard) during one of my frequent forays into vagabondom during my misspent youth. I rode my thumb everywhere, in those pre-serial-killer days.
I will eat just about anything, except testicles of any sort, or seafood with spikes and/or appendages. Donkey is mentioned in the linked article, and I would not eat those, either. I have been offered horsemeat, but was put off by the smell. I will not eat any rodent, insect, or turtle. I might consider eating a snapping turtle. Mean bastards.
I have eaten many snakes. Though I would never eat frog for any reason.
The drugs I have to take have stolen much of my sense of smell, and most of my appetite. And what taste I have left has been altered, so foods I used to relish, now smell like crap, and I crave foods I would never have touched before. And cooking pancakes, once a pleasure, well, now they smell horrible to me. This is probably the worst part of my decline and fall.
You owe it to yourself to wangle a visit to an American artillery range at night. Especially if they are practicing 'troops in the open, fire for effect' drills and suchlike. When the KARUMP! KARUMP! starts, and rounds streak outward, and the far horizon lights up in flashes like God is angry, and bringing down the fire and lightening, well...
When the ground under your feet is juddering and shaking, and it feels as if Gimliesque dwarves are hammering your boot-soles from just underneath the earth, and you have to bend at the knees, and hold your arms out to retain your balance, as each big gun fires in its turn, maybe a second...or two apart. And most of these are combined arms drills, with targets coordinated between tanks, 155 howitzers, heavy mortars, along with 81mm's providing flare illumination, mixed with HE.
And, oh My Dear God, who could think to stand against this? Tankers are weaving long serpentine lines of tracers downrange, both .50 cal and 7.62 coax, and the wall of lead going out is magnificent, and terrible, and nothing grows there, ever again.
And I and my company were formed into a column of twos, called to attention, and marched along just under a berm where multiple tanks were parked in a line, and given the command "Forwhordddd, Martch!" And we did. They had been kind enough to allow us our ear plugs...
The Gates of Hell opened above us, and I doubt the tankers even knew we were there. The tank commanders started rockin and rollin with their .50 cals, and big hot brass came tumbling down the bank, and then the big guns began to kick off, one at a time, in rapid succession, all down the row, as we marched, at shoulder arms, bayonets fixed.
BOOM! and the entire tank would raise up some, and the bore evacuator would pump out a huge belch of smoke that would waft down and over us, and then the line would begin to belch like angry dragons again, a constant stream of high explosives thundering out and ripping the air not more than 20 feet above our heads. The pressure wave felt like a wooden oar being slammed across your shoulders.
What we thought was snot running down our faces, we later found to be blood, running out of our noses. Your cheeks would flap back when the main gun fired, and make you grin, whether you wanted to, or not. I used just my eyes to peer out from under my helmet, and watched the spectacle.
My words are too poor to describe such a thing. Perhaps one word works: Majesty.
To their credit, our NCO's went with us, then gathered us up at the far end, and had us use EE (Escape and Evasion) techniques to get back to our camp in the woods. Part of our orders were to stay hidden from the MP's that guarded this section of road, and the artillery range. For two days. We did it.
As squads of us staggered back into our camouflaged tent area, we all noticed that each of us was black with gunsmoke. We left our clothing draped over our tents, crawled in, and left consciousness behind for awhile.
I've been saying that more and more, lately. Walking past the computer, and just saying 'screw it', and moving on. And as my life slips away, I fear it is taking my intellect with it, bit by nearly imperceptible bit. I just want to sit on the couch and pet a kitten, and watch cartoons.
My memory is fading, and lately I have developed the alarming habit of reacting to things I dreamt the night before, during the next day, as if they were real. Realistic, but not real, I keep telling myself. I have asked the wife to keep an eye on me for that crap, and treat pretty much everything I say with suspicion. It is very weird continuing a conversation you thought you had the day before, when in actuality you had it that night, in your sleep. At some point, I may ending up unloading all of my guns, and giving them to her for safe keeping. All of my weapons, for that matter.
Blood runs out of my nose whenever it wants to, and I vomit at least once a day. Or more. And as I type, sometimes the letters put themselves where they want to, and I have to really settle down and edit myself. And I just shake my head at the childish errors.
This is not me, and I am only staying around because the wife won't let me go. When I sense she is prepared for me to go, I am gone. Watching myself rot around me is more than I choose to bear, except for her, I will.
I believe in an Afterlife, though what form it will take, I have no idea. And I will leave on a wake of terror, driven by the boatman, terror for what might happen to my family once I'm gone. The wife already feels that terror, and is clutching at my tattered soul to keep me here.
This doesn't happen to me very often, but I began to worry today, and it spiraled out of control. I'm pretty sure it is a Satanic attack (aren't they all) but my family's little life we've built here is so fragile and precarious, that it could teeter out of control with only the slightest of pushes.
My ex landlord, who lives just across the way from me, and is kind of a chum, has a marriage falling apart around him. And his rental business...well, he's about to liquidate his assets, get out of the business, and...
If it can happen to him, it can happen to anyone. Me. And that chills the very marrow of my bones. I've been doing stupid shit all day that I don't normally do (like cleaning my office area) in an effort to distract myself, and it is not working. And it is very hot today, so that vexes me as well.
I thought that writing about this would be helpful...it isn't. At least the wife is off with the kids at a friends house, known for its cool shade, and cool breezes. And I'm here at home. Alone. Just me and my demons.
I like looking at photos of boobs and butts. I love looking at photos of pretty faces. I hate looking at pictures of cooters and bungholes. It's okay when there is a real one right there in front of me, preparing to be boarded, but a photo of one has been known to gag me, like when my Dad used to show his food at the table.
And ladies, if you don't have a body that makes men drool, and makes women go slit their wrists in despair, please keep your clothes on around a camera? Thanks.
And that goes for guys, too. If I met the designer of the Speedo, I would stab him in the neck. And I don't like thongs on women, either. I have a vivid imagination, and I can just see what that sucker must smell like after they've been flossing their asshole with it all day. Yeesh.
Underwear was designed to be a fart and fluid barrier, and if you 'go commando', you are a nasty disgusting person and you should die. You make me sick. Frankly, I don't know why someone hasn't come up with disposable underwear that you could dispense like paper towels, and just throw it away at the end of the day.
Frankly, I do not understand you women and your pantie fetishes. You strip down to them, and prance around the room in overpriced strips of material, thinking to arouse us...heck, just get that shit off and out of the way, and let me at the good stuff. When I'm hungry, the wrapper is just annoying.
If your tits hang down to the floor, heck, I don't care, just hold them up and play with them. And don't smack me in the head with one, that's all I ask.
And all of that 'romantic' bullshit you ladies pull, with candles and rose petals and all that happy crap? Cut it out. Your candles stink, and there are tiny mites on the rose petals that'll get in your bush. And fuck do I ever hate Barry White. We just likely had dinner, I'm working up a good crap, so just point to the parts you want me to lick, and let's get this rodeo started. I got a turd at T minus 45 minutes or so, and you don't want to be in the vicinity during any potential pre-launch engine testing.
So, there you go...I hope you learned something. Who needs that perambulating penis Dr Phil when you've got me?
Someone, the other day, forgot what a Man of Peace I am, and they asked me what the most violent event I have ever been involved in was. I was stumped. Boy, that is hard, as in difficult, to answer. I mean, where do I start? I'm just a big pussy-cat, who pets kittens, and babies fall asleep on me as I hold them. I like flowers. And not just ones that eat flies.
I have observed moments of Ultra-Violence that would curl your hair. As a freshman, I watched a HS senior rare back and kick the chin off of a teacher he had just beaten to the ground. Off. Oh eff eff, off. And for his troubles, the judge sentenced him to Viet Nam, where a Viet Cong machine-gunner opened him up like a can of beans, and finished him off with three rounds just above the eyebrows. And the guy lived. And eventually came out of his coma. Still fucked up, though.
Hmmmm, lessee...I have seen blood hosing off a man's chin as if he was drinking water from a hose, and the runoff poured down his face. I was doing a ride-along one night in a tough California city. I was looking for a cop job, but I was still a civvie. My car got a call for assistance, and we headed to the address of this high school, and soon the call came out 'all units', and you could hear four barrel carburetors go to afterburner status all over town, and sirens kicking on as multiple street warriors switched into ass-kicking mode.
It was a riot. Literally. One bunch of beaners had rented the gym for a dance, and another bunch of beaners, likely a rival gang, had shown up to raise heck. And much heck was raised. It was surreal, seeing guys in suits and ties, and girls in fancy dresses, beating the shit out of each other. Cops began to arrive, and I was likely the only person within a mile to be unarmed.
My ride-along partner unlocked the shotgun, with the secret button, and tossed it at me. I caught it one-handed, and he said "Consider yourself deputized..." and we swung into the fray, and many beaners were butt-stroked into oblivion. And none of them gave me an excuse to shoot them. Dammit.
Then we heard more sirens, off in the distance, getting louder by the second. Uh-oh. CHP. The CHP are so bored with their jobs, giving tickets, and risking death quite literally as they approached each car they stopped, that they love nothing more than a good fight. When you see them, it is kinda like seeing Visigoths burst through your gates. Well, this is one time we were happy to see them. And they waded in like they were taking a beachhead. Many lumps were distributed, free of charge.
Okay, I think I've got it: in High School, my friend and I were headed out across the parking lot, to the woods, to have a smoke. We were just moseying along, and suddenly, several big redneck-style pickups came roaring up and surrounded us...ambush. Each truck was full of assholes, and my friend and I put our backs together, and pulled our knives. When faced by a superior force, cheat. And it was on...
Now, my friend and I both knew each other well, and we knew we needed to get into the trees, where their numerical advantage would be somewhat neutralized. They didn't want us to get there. We were trained fighters, who worked out every day, they were brawlers, who had learned knife fighting from the movies. Still, numbers, eh?
When people say 'it was a blur', that is really what it is. Blurs, mixed with Technicolor freeze-frames, or snippets of video. I remember a guy blindsiding my friend, who was facing another guy armed with a knife, and him kicking the knife out of my friend's hand.
I remember my friend reaching up into the air for the knife with his other hand, catching the knife, and turning and slicing his ambusher across the belly, through his Hawaiian shirt, a move we had practiced many times. My friend's hand would be in a cast for quite awhile after this fight. So we took a stiletto apart and mounted the blade into his cast, so all he had to do was shake his hand, and the blade would snap out. And as he healed, he busted more than one head with that cast.
As for my part of the fight, the assholes seemed to want to kick at me, so I'd deflect their foot, and stab them in the back of their thigh. Game over. I have no idea how long it lasted, but eventually, due to attrition, they all retreated, yelling brave things at us. I think I got sliced a couple of times, and I vaguely recall nearly severing someone's carotid. My knife looked like a paintbrush that needed to be cleaned. Much of my clothing had been sliced up, but my wounds were only superficial. Butterfly bandage stuff. I may have broken a couple of kneecaps. Not mine.
The sun was out, the sky was blue, it was a beautiful day.
I shop all the time on the internet. Try to make me pay a tax? Good-bye!
Ask me for personal information, or make me register to read your bullshit? Good-bye!
Gotta lot of ads on your site, many which flash like a street of Thai whorehouses? Good-bye!
And if you blog about your retarded pets I could give a shit about, and would, in fact, use for target practice, or better yet put out a nice bowl of radiator fluid...Good-bye! Or you better entertain the fuck out of me, and write like an angel.
Write God as G-d? Good-bye. You are a nut. Thanks for the warning. Even God hates you, and thinks you're a pompous ass.
Come to my blog and complain about my writing? Good-bye. Dumb-ass. Especially if you have no blog of your own.
I am SO tired of all the dumb shit. I care more about my shoelaces than I care about most of you. Come, go, stay, leave, go away mad, why would I give a shit? Blow me. Unless you've given me money.
I've written on this before. I fly like a bee through the blogs, pollinating worthy flowers here and there, and absorb anything worth keeping. And make it my own. Everything I read, I study the style, and if I find it wanting, I discard it, and if I like it, I absorb it into my repertoire.
Yep...steal the fuck out of it.
And it becomes just another voice in the choir in my head, and sometimes all the voices sing together, and sometimes there are solos, and sometimes the altos do their part, or the baritones, but in the end, I am the Director.
I understand (as in, 'hear') that I am difficult to imitate. I've been told that I am 'original'. Well, maybe I am, but I have scuffed my boat against enough other boats navigating this sea, that I can barely make out the original color of mine.
And I always shake my head when someone hits my tipjar(s). And they are nearly always for substantial amounts. One time, I got $1,000. What?! Uh...thanks?
I'm so mean to my readers, that it blows me away ya'll still come around. Just don't over-think stuff, when you write. I write this stuff like you make saliva. A thought pops into my head, and the keys click. Simple. Although I must admit that I have occasionally considered what I intended to write for an entire ten minutes. Or so.
And that is in each and every one of you. Just fucking write. Don't look to asshole hacks like Kerouac, Joyce, and other so-called 'icons'. They were addled assholes, and their stuff was shit.
And if you take yourself out of the 'here and now' of the bond between you and your writing implement, you lose. Think of the future, and you are doomed. Just fucking write. The future can go fuck itself.
We all have stories in us, whether it is of a spectacular bar-fight, or the time when you were seven, and lay there, your chin in your hands, and watched an anthill, and all of the busy tiny creatures, for hours.
Start a page, turn it into a story, and if you want, stretch it out like Silly Putty, with picture after picture adhesed into the substance, then you smoosh it up, and make more pictures. Hint: so-called 'Great Literature' is mostly shit. Melville was unbearable, Dickens was a Serialist. And he rocked.
If you want to hone your brain to a writer's edge, read as much Mark Twain as you can find. Then read 'Salem's Lot, by Stephen King, which I personally think is the finest novel ever written. Wanna spread your wings? Read his two 'Desperation' novels. Now that is how you push the envelope.
Anyway, take it or leave it. My advice, I mean. You decide what size candle you want to take in the cave with you. Me?
...I have read all year. And trust me, I have read some dumb shit.
Any of you who have kids, or who ever have been a kid, know how hard it is to get them to eat some things. Try to get Nattie to eat avocado. Just try. And God help us all if some black pepper should accidentally touch her food.
So, is she a racist? Does she hate Mexicans? If so, it's not because of me. Though we do all boo as one when an Arab appears on television. And we eat hummus. I love Garbanzos. Go figure.
Fucking England has gone straight into the shitter, and is spinning around, headed for the cesspool. And we are not far behind. The English have a long history of serfdom, and subservience. We were born of Revolution, and I fear that is our last, best hope.
Because our 'leaders' are just as fucking stupid as theirs.
This is an issue that has troubled me for some time. I mean, does Superman zip over to Mt Rushmore, pull out his wang, and piss his initials into Lincoln's forehead? I know that's not pooping, but I hesitate to even imagine the crater and earth tremors when he dumps a Superloaf.
And Batman, holy shit. I remember what a pain in the ass it was to take my gear off when I had to take a shit when I was in the military, and when I was a cop. Now, add a cape and spandex into the picture. And what happens if the Human Torch gets diarrhea? Though I suppose that Invisible Girl can take a crap wherever she wants. Some waiter in a restaraunt steps in it..."What the fuck?!"
And don't even get me started on Iron Man.
Nope, metal battle suits and full body spandex are not conducive to a leisurely dump. I suspect they all develop piles after a while.
So, I spent all afternoon yesterday, from about 2pm, and on in to the evening, til about 10pm, watching TV. I started watching a marathon on the History Channel of 'Tougher in Alaska'. And then another several episodes of 'Ice Road Truckers'. I was just mesmerized, fascinating stuff.
I only got up a few times, to go potty, and check my blog comments. And I watched at least eight hours of television.
Did I waste my time? Hey, I don't care, those shows sucked me in, and pretty soon the wife was on her couch, sucked in, too. Of course, being more enterprising than I, she brought out the Health Rider and worked out for awhile while she watched. And then when she had had enough, the kids took turns wearing themselves out on it, while the wife sat on her couch with her electric belt on. That thing really works, by the way. It has a collateral effect on thighs, and pretty much any muscle in the vicinity.
But I just lay there like a turd on the lawn. And I enjoyed every damn minute of it. I had a cut up Gala apple with peanut butter to dip in for dinner. And I was as happy as a pig in shit. The wife and I talked, during ads, sometimes even during the show. The kids dropped by for hugs, played at our feet, or went upstairs and played, or danced to their music.
...but this is just some stupid shit, right there. Fucking morons.
These are the kinds of Christians that give the rest of us a bad name. I wear many identities: Father, friend, lover, son, asshole, and one of my identities happens to be Christian. I don't wear it on my sleeve, yet I believe, and I could truly give not even a fractional amount of shit if you do or don't, or whatever you worship or do not worship.
Though I have made my feelings about Catholics, Muslims, and any sort of pagan very clear.
I'm cool with God, but religions suck. Every damn one of them.
You might want to tighten your thinking cap before you read this.
Have you ever noticed how Jews are a lot like toddlers? Everything is theirs, and they are always right, you are always wrong, and they will cry at the top of their lungs if they don't get their own way.
I love you Yids, I really do, but even though God likes you best, you are not the be-all/end-all of humanity. And the only thing that separates you from Muslims, besides believing in the right God, is that you are absolutely terrible at killing other people. Unless God sanctions the hit. Then...
The other night our neighbors were acting up again. Noisy, boisterous, and just generally being assholes. At midnight. So, I grabbed one of my pistols...is it wrong that I have to choose which one I want, and hover for a moment in indecision? Anyway, I tucked it up under my armpit, and to the casual observer, I would look like a silver-haired man who was chilly in his nightshirt, hugging himself for warmth with his arms across his chest.
I snuck the door open, and stepped out into the pool of shadow that is our front porch...
And then I got to thinking. Dammit. Don't think, shoot, to paraphrase Tuco. What am I gonna do with the bodies? Fuck, what will happen to the wife and kids after? Will they have to move when I am on the run or in prison? Okay, what if I just point my gun at these idiots, and ask them nicely to be quiet? Crap, they've been drinking, and they're young. One of them is going to make me shoot him.
Thinking is bad.
A fresh burst of ape sounds burst forth from their noise-holes, and I steeled myself for the confrontation, and as I stepped off the rough cement onto the cold grass, I heard the wife's voice, as if from on high...well, the second storey, anyway..."Hey, could you guys keep it down, please? My kids and I can't get any sleep..."
They hushed, one of them said "Yes Ma'am" and they all moved inside and blessed quiet descended over the land. Is it that easy? Fuck me, I was ready to do murder, and she calms the sea with a word? I came back inside, chastened. She met me at the top of the stairs, saw the pistol in my hand, and raised an eyebrow. Then she gave me a hug, and a smile, went into the bathroom and trickled, and went back to bed.
Blew some shit up. Ate some shit. Woke up this morning at 10:30 and staggered downstairs. Ate some more shit. And I swear to you, if I make it out alive after the house fire caused by these little shits outside tonight with their illegal fireworks, I will kill them, and their entire family.
It has been a lovely cool day today, and I only have one burn scar from a fuse last night. I think that's a record, a Personal Best for me. The next few days promise to be temperate, though starting Wednesday, I may be cursing the Sun.
I spent most of today watching the stand-up marathon on the Comedy Network, which meant the kids played a lot upstairs. Sure, they came down, seeking parental companionship, and then I sent them back up. I have been quite the slug today. Recharging batteries, and all that.
I hope all of your Saturdays went well, and may you enjoy Sunday, your Last Day Of Freedom, also.
FOX has been running a series of patriotic blurbs all day, off and on, that show Americans spouting off on this or that, about what they love about America. Then this big black mama comes on and says what she likes best is that she has freedom of speech.
I said "Yeah, right up until I call you a nigger..." The wife fell out, and nearly choked on her soda.
Ask Imus how free his speech is. Howard Cosell. I could go on. And on and on and on and on...
And now every non-white is playing the Race Card, hanging on your every word, ready to pounce, ruin your life, and take your livelihood.
For a word. Speech.
We are having to fight tooth and nail for the 2nd Amendment, and even after the Highest Court in the land makes a decision, municipalities and states are still saying that they can do what they want.
Free? Do not make me laugh. If I strap on one of my guns tonight, how long do you think it will be, in this Open Carry state, before I am surrounded by police officers?
Well, I gotta go blow some shit up pretty soon. Can't trust the wife to come back inside with all of her fingers.
Now, go pretend you're still free for a while longer. Nat is pretending she has just married her Bridesmaid Barbie to Ken. I hear an active fantasy life is healthy.