Saturday, August 30, 2008
If I Lived In New Orleans...
Just kidding! You couldn't give me a luxury condo rent-free- to live there. But, for the sake of argument, if I did live there, I would be gone. As of yesterday.
Living in and around New Orleans is like living in 'Fight Club'. Take a punch to the face, get up off the floor, take another punch to the face, get up, repeat until you die.
I've seen the photos and film of the scuzzy toothless white trash that live there, and of the feral, murderous black trash that prey on everyone, including each other. No thanks. When the crime rates rose as the Katrina refugees invaded, wherever they were sent, no matter how much assistance they were given, I knew we were dealing with a subspecies of homo sapien: homo assholis.
Kim du Toit notes that his readers from that area aren't reporting the natives buying survival supplies. No, they are buying AR-15's, and cases of ammunition. They've been there, and done that, and fuck any subhuman troll that would make a good citizen feel the need to arm themselves thusly because said subhuman has refused to join the human race, and chooses to behave like an animal.
The best thing that could happen to New Orleans would be to get scrubbed out to sea, to be followed by a catastrophic levee failure that flushes everything and everybody else out to sea as well.
By the way, I hate gumbo.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Ah yes, the Ladies. This tale may not have a happy ending...
The man stood at a precipice, one that led downwards. Far, far downwards. It made no sense, this deep cistern, boring down and down. Sometimes he fought. Screeching things that made his blade glow, and ring like a bell, and sing like a crystalline being from deep within the earth, and beings came at him, and he fought and killed them, they snarling upon his blade, and his heart grew heavy and still heavier as he approached the cold silver light they defended so fiercely.
Finally, he achieved the bottom, slaughtered a dozen creatures who bled blue, and faced his goal. The air fairly glowed with silver light, and three thrones held dessicated crones...dessicated, yet they fairly bristled with power and menace.
The man took an en garde position, and began to slide across the floor cautiously. Suddenly, his sword was torn from his fingers by an invisible force, and before he could move, it turned back at him, point first, and flew into his chest with a wet crunch. He lay on the stone floor, and coughed up his own life's blood for a change, and he clawed at the blade that impaled him, slicing up his own fingers...
And the ladies cackled, fit to break glass, and cause infants to die in their cribs, as their mother's milk curdled within their breasts.
The man felt everything going dark...
The sun came out today. Sarah Palin was who I chose as the only hope for us, but that asshole Linseed Grahamnesty was pushing for Lieberman (?!?) which would have made people sit out the election in droves.
Instead, McCain gives us this wonderful woman, and she gives me hope. I just wish the roles were reversed, and she was slated for the pilot's seat. Now, let's all wait for the media to make many attempts to destroy her, and thus destroy their own party's chances, for at least the next four years.
I say bring it on, just bring it on. McCain and Palin each compliment the others strengths, act as 'force multipliers' if you will. McCain seemed rudderless, right up until this morning. Now, he knows for the first time that he has a genuine chance.
Please God, make it so...
Thursday, August 28, 2008
The wife and I left the kids with my parents today, and went out to see Batman2 together. I had her drive, because I have gotten so feeble I don't trust myself. As a matter of fact, I told her that this was probably the last time we'd be out together. She teared up a little, but she nodded in acceptance.
The wife really enjoyed the movie, and I liked it better the second time around. I honestly don't see how they can make a better sequel, let alone replace Heath Ledger. Then we went to my bar because the wife wanted some french fries and iced tea, and I wanted something with vodka and pineapple juice.
I cracked a sick joke that cracked her up. I do that a lot, and then she laughs, and feels guilty, and then I make her sputter with something even worse. What I said was something along the lines of 'wouldn't it be funny if I died and fell in someone's pool' and then I imitated a little kid looking out the window...'mommy, look, there's a giant lemon floating in the pool...'
I suppose you'd have to see me to get that.
I've been preparing the wife for...the future, or rather my lack of one, for some time now. For the most part, she has adapted well. Were the roles reversed, I'd be a mess. But I'm not her, I'm me. And I wouldn't know how to be anybody else, nor would I want to.
The other day, a stray pit-bull came into the yard from somewhere else, and began barking at and menacing the kids. The wife roared at it like a she-lion and went after it. It ran from the yard, this 50lb mouthful of teeth and bad attitude, running like a scared rabbit.
The kids are in good hands. I don't know what the future holds, but I am comforted by her good stewardship.
Father, into your hands, I commend my spirit...
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
The Ladies In The Dark...
The man was uncertain, and that didn't happen often. He had a task to perform, and wasn't sure how to perform it. He did know guns wouldn't work, the rest was a mystery, and failure meant a fate worse than death. It meant...
He popped the trunk lid of his car, and began to fidget through his knife selection. A selection most profound. He hefted this one, and that one, and then he felt a presence while toying with a silver spike, and he turned and struck like a snake, and the creature he struck screeched, and then moved at him even faster. The man changed elements from silver, to iron, and threw a rune-carven blade into its bony chest. The bony thing, entrails prominent, screeched again, only this time it dropped to the ground, where its heels drummed as its chest cavity flamed up blue.
The man went back to the trunk, and picked out a Celtic sword of iron. He smelled the blade, and put his ear against it, and heard thousands of screams. He didn't bother with a scabbard. Assuming he survived, he had no use for one. He'd be busy adding more screams to it.
He snapped a small iron double-headed hand axe to his belt, hung a bandoleer of heavy throwing daggers to his kit, and went inside of the House of Darkness...
The darkness was suffocating. Not merely darkness, but negative light. Marrow sapping.
And somewhere, down below, the Ladies waited...
His sword began to glow, bluish green...and then the tip of the blade began to burn an incandescent white. He was where he was meant to be...
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
Trying to understand this political season is like trying to masturbate whilst jumping on a trampoline. And blowing bubbles with your other hand, balancing the bubble bottle under one arm, while the dog yaks up on the carpet.
Or maybe like trying to fuck an epileptic whore in mid fit, under a strobe light, while a 300 pound dominatrix in a leather corset slaps a flogging whip into her palm, and pops out one of her raddled, sagging breasts, and begins sucking the nipple...
But there's my synopsis of this election season. For both
parties. We have a choice between prostitutes and whores, and the conventions are nothing more than a beauty contest between pigs.
I almost worked a reference to 4H in there, except they are a reputable, respectable organization.
All the 3rd party dorks are the retards, running around the party. They make everybody nervous and creep them out, but everybody tolerates them, and their antics.
As for me? I ain't gonna vote. None of them has given me one damn good reason to vote for them at all. Fukkem all, up the ass, with a sharp stick.
Help Chris Muir...
That cartoon at the top of my blog? It's there for me. I really enjoy his work. He's asking for help, and if I had the means, I would.
Go here: Chris Muir
and do what you can. How many Conservative cartoonists can you think of? I can think of only one. And above all else, Chris is just damn funny and extremely talented.
Please help him out if you can.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
The big man stood and watched as the one tire on the car spun for a bit, then stopped. He listened as the hot engine ticked and cooled. He watched the woman crushed behind the wheel, the roof crushed down on her, as she coughed blood, and moaned, and cried in pain.
He watched her dying.
Gasping the last breaths she would breathe on this earth. Watched as the gasoline from the ruptured tank poured down the slope towards the still hot engine, where a wire dangled and jumped as it touched the side of the engine, and sparked.
She was in agony, and felt her imminent death sweeping over her, and she despaired. It is easy to say you'd be strong, but it is more likely that you will go out shitting your pants and screaming. She would have screamed, except her chest was too crushed, so all she could manage was a wounded, bubbling moan, as she felt her own blood run down her neck and soak her blouse.
The big man leaned forward intently. He felt the imminence of her ending, but could do nothing until the fullness of her life was complete.
The engine sparked, the gasoline ignited, and the car began to burn. And she with it. Now, she screamed.
Her hair began to burn, and still she held on. Her flesh began to bubble, and still she held on. She took as deep a breath as she could to scream again, and her lungs crisped, and finally...she let go.
The big man reached quickly 'into' her, and brought her out. Then they both just stood there, at the edge of the flames, and watched the car burn. She said "Well, that was...unpleasant..."
He said "Why yes...I imagine it was."
She looked up at his face, and asked "Am I..."
He nodded in the affirmative. "Are you..."
this time he inclined his head, as an affirmative acknowledgment of identity. He said "I have been with you since you were born, and ever since. I have protected you when and where the rules permitted, and now I am here to take you home...your true home."
He held out his hand, and she took it, and they stepped into the peace that passeth understanding.
Friday, August 22, 2008
There's a post under the Friday Ass post, but I started it this morning, and finished it just now. I don't play games with timestamps, so just scroll. If you want.
Half A Man...
I haven't been doing too well.Yesterday, I was in hell. While inflating my air-bed, I accidentally inflated the inclinable back rest part, and then the motor burned out on me. So I'm left with this huge incline that's just fine for watching TV, or reading, but not for sleeping. And the only sleeping area would make a nice toddler bed.
The wife helped me take a shower, and get dressed. Which made me feel unbelievably worthless. I imagine y'all are getting pretty tired about hearing about all my problems, but it's my life, and it's all I've got until I don't have it anymore. So, if you're gonna read here, you're gonna get more of this than either one of us wants to hear about. Walk a mile in my flip-flops and see how you
like it. Later on, I'm going to test the bed to see if it just got overheated and reset, or am I just fucked.
After the wife showered me, I felt nearly like the old Bane. The wife has been helping me up lately, but I waved her off, and said 'watch this!' and just stood right up. She was amazed. Me, too, quite frankly. And except for some pretty bad cramping early in the morning, and in spite of a lot of restlessness from the discomfort of the bed early on, I slept like a baby until 9:30 this morning. Note this posts' time-stamp. That's when the pain hit me again, and when I started this post. It is nearly 3pm and I am just about to round this up.
My hands were shaking so badly yesterday (pre shower) that I spasmed while doing some mouse clicking operation and Firefox did something crazy with my bookmarks and switched them all around, into the wrong files, and I don't recognize my own machine. I know how to fix it, but it is gonna be a pain in the ass, and this is close as I have ever come to blasting a computer with gunfire. I'm still pissed.
Okay, you folks have a great weekend. We'll see if I see you. Gotta go, my hands are shaking, and I'm tired of fixing spelling errors...Update:
Praise God! The bed controls had just reset, because it had gotten too hot. I was able to inflate it to where I wanted it a bit ago. Of course, every time I get in it, air hisses out in a big way. So, I'll get an adequate nights sleep, until it goes flat. Blow it up again, and thank God for another nights fairly good nights sleep.
As long as I didn't have to get up and use the bathroom too many times.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Just Another Product...
...that I'll be boycotting
forever. Goodbye, Coke. Go sleep with the fishes, along with McDonald's.
If you support queers, or ragheads, you are dead to me.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Case-Hardened Steel, Black Matte, Parachute Cord As A Grip...
He pulled his arm back, and threw one into the things forehead. The creature flipped back and lay on its own lower legs, forehead split like a vegetarians cantaloupe, black blood pulsing slowly from the skull, up and around the blade...
He heard two more, stealthy, behind him and turned and flickered the two throwing axes in his hands and one hit a forehead, and the other was caught in the fist of the second grinning fiend, triumphant, until the man moved in, drawing the straight razor from the pouch behind his neck, and he split the thing's armpit open, then ran the blade from its belt buckle to its throat, like you'd run a stick through water, and its black guts spilled out, smelling of the rotten blood it had stolen from others, and as the creature collapsed, the man reached out and took his throwing axe from its weakening hand.
He had found a nest, and had entered it after dark. He was beginning to entertain the very real possibility that he was fucked...
This Is My Last Resort...
Hey, honey, sorry for the late call. Pop does that shit to me, and your bro uses me like Google, because I know everything.
This stupid blog is what I do. How sad is that? Nothing's all right...nothing is fine. And it is funny...I won't miss myself. I will miss a lot of things. A few people. Root beer floats. KFC biscuits. Their entire menu for that matter. Popeye's chicken, and biscuits, also, for that matter. Just about anything from A&W. Especially the chili dogs.
Check this shit
out...maybe there is
hope for the future. Nahhhhh....
By the way, please do not mistake me for a depressed person. I am happy, calm, and ready for whatever life brings me.
Monday, August 18, 2008
It's Pukin' Time!
Last night, rather, yesterday evening, to be more precise, it wasn't even 8pm, and I just felt crappy and exhausted. So I went to bed. Missed that Terminator show I really like, completely forgot it was coming up.
coming up was everything I'd eaten the day before. At 2:30 am, violently. I barely made it to the toilet, and hurled until I was choking on my colon. As I was calling out to God to please take me, just take me now! I broke a full on sweat, and realized that I was really sick. Especially when I went from the 'burning up' part, to the shivering and freezing
part. And I got to thinking about the other times in my life where puke had figured in a humorous and memorable way.
Do any of you have a memory that just cracks you up every time you think about it, and it happened a long time ago? I mean, you just belly laugh thinking about it?
My moment is shortly after Bush1 puked on the Prime Minister of Japan. I saw this comedian on TV, it may have been The Amazing Johnathon...the guy had that kind of expressive face. Anyway, he established that that was where he was gonna go, to Bush1 puking, and then he pretended to be the Japanese Prime Minister, and looked over to his right in anticapatory horror, and he says "Uhhhh, Mistah Plesident, you rook rike you gonna bro chunk!"
and then he mimed catching a lapful of hot hurl...
Oh, I laughed so hard, I slid off the couch to the floor and was helpless with laughter for ten minutes. Every time I do that bit, I make at least one person snort their nose inside out.
So, do any of you have a moment like that?
Anyway, I ended up sleeping until an hour (or so) ago. I hadn't heard any blasts of thunder for the previous couple of hours. We have a week of off an on lightning ahead of us, and I don't think you folks want to buy me another computer. Especially as my writing has started to suck. So I'll be dropping out even more than usual.
Welcome to another week. I wonder what unpleasant mysteries this one brings...
Sunday, August 17, 2008
We have suffered through 100+ degree days for a week or so now, and last night I was sleeping in front of my window fan, when God began tromping around outside, shining His flashlight around, looking for a place to piss. He found one, and it was all over us.
Golly, did it ever rain. And lightning hammered the sky, sparking off great flashes that you could see through closed eyelids. And the hot air was chilled, and soon I had to pull a quilt over me, and I snuggled into it happily and drifted off back into sleep again, dreaming of cannon fire, and Frost Giants bowling with giant ice-balls.
It is nearly noon, and I am still chilly, and I love it. May it stay thus for many more days, I prithee, Oh Lord.
I may be keeping the PC off quite a bit, today. The weather radar shows wolves circling around us, and I've lost enough computers to that sort of nonsense.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
My Feminine Side...
Go and get in touch
with it. My darling daughter is back, and blogging, and she rocks my socks off.
I'm funny, she's funnier. I'm scary, she's scarier. I am so proud.
Plus, she makes painfully cute babies.
I have always known this
was possible, and I have all the scientific education of Bozo The Clown. But there is simply some things that have to exist because, though you may not know how or why, you know they must
And anything that makes Einstein nervous is all right by me. I bet Tesla was playing with this stuff. We lost so much when he was assassinated. Fucking Edison.
Don't Bet On It...
I saw a lot of weird shit in my days as a bartender/bouncer. And I'm here to tell you, if some guy wants to bet that he can piss in his own ear from twenty feet away, don't take that bet. You'll be buying drinks for a guy whose earhole smells like piss for the rest of the night.
There are guys out there who have developed some weird, goofy skill, perfected it, and take it to bars and use it to get drinks, money for drink, and their own personal amusement.
Here's an example, and was the first and last time I ever got taken:
The appeal is to pride (as are most of their tricks) and I was a young, prideful man, who still hadn't learned that I didn't know it all. This fellow got all the dice from the horse cups, put one down in front of him, tore the top cover off of a book of matches, placed it on the first die, and then stacked the rest of the dice in a column on the matchbook cover.
Then he bet us that he would pay $100 to anyone who could get the cover out and not knock the dice over. Simple, right? Oh how we tried. And the dice kept rattling on the bar.
You see, we tried so hard because the bet was, if he could do it, we owed him
Finally, we gave up, and told him okay, smartass, let's see what you've got. So he walked up to the stack of dice, and flicked the matchbook cover out with a quick snap of his middle finger. The cover flew out, and the dice didn't move. To say that we were dumbfounded would be an understatement. We paid up. You do NOT welsh on a bet.
That incident, and many others I've seen, and a few I've done myself, has made it to where if you tell me you can, or will do something, I believe you, until such a time as you prove yourself to be just another bullshitting blowhard.
Friday, August 15, 2008
He Joins The Club...
He sat on the bed in his hotel room, and checked his gun. Again. It was a habit he didn't mind having, even if it was a bit OCD. He had loaded the big automatic while wearing his thin leather gloves, and as he slipped the slide back, sure enough, there was a round in the chamber. The same round that had been there the last ten times he'd checked.
He grasped the silencer and made sure it wasn't loose...it wasn't, and the bedside table alarm clock beeped, to tell him it was time to go. He turned off the alarm, hooked up the brick of C-4 to wires he had previously exposed, slid his pistol into the nylon under arm shoulder holster, picked up the small bag he had brought, and left the room. Before leaving completely, he hooked another wire up to a small black box at the top of the door, and a small LED light on it went green. So did a light on the block of C-4. If someone entered the room, it would sterilize automatically.
You really didn't want to see the red light. If left alone, his bomb would go off in an hour. He needed to hurry. The explosion would keep the police busy. And he had work to do...
He drove to the Holidome two miles away in record time. Without breaking any traffic laws. He had practiced for a week. Tonight was the night. His employer didn't know who among them would change human history, so he was getting paid to kill them all. And the pay was very good. And he never asked why. They had pissed somebody off, or whatever, and he always got paid. Or else.
He had been in contact with these guys at something called 'Rampant Loon Press' for months, now, long enough to have gained their trust. Become one of them. He'd even written some silly stories, to fit in. And tonight, they would die.
He had already checked into the Holidome via computer, so he just handed over his printout, and they gave him his keycard. He was an imposing figure, in a wide-brimmed hat, a black Confederate-type uniform shirt, black jeans, all covered by a black canvas duster. The motorcycle boots completed the ensemble.
He had found that any witnesses left alive only saw the clothes.
He headed upstairs to the conference room where the writer's group was supposed to assemble, and walked in. He had been deliberately late, so everyone else was already there. His was the only name tag left to give out.
A very sweet looking woman snatched his nametag off of the sheet, and rushed at him, gushing about how much she had enjoyed his stories. She obviously had a good heart, so he drew and shot her in it.
Then he fired and reloaded and fired and reloaded until nobody moved. Then he slipped in a 25 round magazine, and went methodically around the room, putting two more rounds into each head. All with no more noise than microwaving a bag of popcorn.
He didn't think he could have done this job, if it wasn't for what his employer had showed him. One of these men would have ended the world.
No chance of that now.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
8 Drugs Doctors Would Never Take
Jeez Louise, I see ads for this crap
on TV every day.
Nope Nope Nope...
...no terrorism here
Just out of curiosity, why couldn't you take the baking soda out of a fire extinguisher, replace it with cyanide powder, repressurize the tank, and head for a mosque to do some pest control? I used to refill my boss's fire extinguishers all the time, back in the day. Its easy.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
What In The Sam Hill!
I just found out that there was a real Sam Hill. And that the wife is related to him. She has seen his name in their family Bible. Heard his story from her oldest living relative. Cool, eh?
The first names on the list got off the boat at Plymouth rock. Some of the men fought at Valley Forge with Washington. Many of the names fought in the Civil War. All the names span the history of the United States, since before we became the United States, and were merely Colonists.
The wife's Dads immediate family all died from the flu in 1918. Each and every one of them. He headed West, and met my Mother In Law, and they created the wife.
When she held that family Bible in her hands, she was holding a thing as sacred as the Constitution. And she knew it. They couldn't put it in a copier without destroying it, so the wife's sister took digital photos of the important parts. The wife read love letters hundreds of years old, written on parchment, or vellum, that must have cost dearly in those days. If you took someone from those days into your home office, they would think that they had met the richest person in the Colonies.
And I give Nat sheets, entire reams, to scribble on, and cut up into puppets and whatnot.
She goes through more paper in a month than the entire population of Early America went through in two years, I bet.
Back to that family Bible, do you think that there are any bookbinders today that could print and bind a book that would hold together perfectly for hundreds of years? Maybe, but you would pay dearly for it. And what are the odds of this book, this Bible, surviving indian attacks, war, disease, fire, and likely every other sort of human and natural cataclysm, unscathed?
It has traveled across the country, perhaps more than once. Or even twice. If you touch it, it will likely be the oldest thing you have ever touched. Unless you have fondled a mummy, or dug up lizard bones.
And the kin of every name listed in that book, several pages of family, there in the front, stood around and looked at in in wonder, and each touched it reverently, there, drawn together by the marriage of another descendant.
They didn't think of it, because the book is sacred to them, in more ways than one. But I am going to suggest that the keep the tradition alive, buy some vellum sheets, and mail it around all over the country to family members to sign, and mail it back. By the way, you wanna know what the wife's maiden name is?
Hey Guys, Check This Out...
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Here We Are, Now Entertain Us...
It is so great to have oldest daughter and her Gremlin here. I got to see a couple of firsts. Gremlin getting up to her knees, and then pulling herself up to stand against the ottoman. I bet myself that I could make her run, but then decided better of it.
Mother and child slept here last night, tonight she is going to watch TV with me, then go join the Gremlin and sleep with my parents. Daughter has guts...neither of my parents has decent balance, nor are aerodynamically sound. If they reach down into the porta-crib to comfort a crying baby, they could topple like a sun-struck troll, and mash her into enchilada sauce.
It has been nice to have some alone time, I guess. But I am more than ready for chatty wife and noisy kids time. I just had this terrible image of the brother in law and a couple of his big friends showing up in a moving truck, with a list from her of what she wants, and a note to me saying she just can't take it anymore.
And I wouldn't blame her a bit.
Monday, August 11, 2008
I Feel Stupid, And Contagious...
If I stop believing in you, do you cease to exist? Think about that.
My tiny granddaughter locks eyes with me, and knows my soul, and I hers, and she smiles. She stares into my eyes a lot longer than a 10 month old should have an ability to. She holds my gaze, and I hers.
Has it really been 10 months since I went up and saw her on the day she was born? When I put my finger into her newborn palm, and she jerked, and then turned and looked straight into my eyes? They're not supposed to see at that age.
Her Mother has turned into such a woman. A real woman, and a great Parent. I have known girls that were forty years old. You do know that the wife gave birth to Nat when she was over 40, right? And Nat is perfect.
This weekend, after the wedding, the wife went to dinner with the kids and my uncle (my Dad's only and oldest brother) and my gorgeous, elegant Aunt...gosh, it is nice to have relatives you like, love, and adore, rather then the control freaks drunks, and psychopaths that comprise the rest of my family.
Anyway, I have no horror stories in me, right now. I started watching the movie 'Ghost Ship' last night, but it was so scary, I gave up on it an hour in. There are enough whispers and sly footsteps around my house right now, as it is.
Well, Happy Monday. See you later.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
So Many Gun Myths...
...so little time.
I need to get to sleep, but there are people making purchase decisions, and basing their self defense plans on complete myths. Most specifically, that a shotgun does not need to be aimed, that simply aiming near the bad guy(s), and firing, a hail of pellets will fly out and turn his attacker(s) to hamburger.
The other myth is that a shotgun blast will strike your target and blow them up and out of a window, or through a wall.
A couple of factoids: Large men with much adipose tissue have survive plenty of shotgun close-range hits. The first time I fired a Remington 870 at a window well across the street in a Hogan's Alley, and the round hit dead center in the glass, leaving a hole that would be too tight to get a beer-can through, well, to say I was stunned wouldn't be quite enough to explain my literal jaw-dropping amazement. The window was in otherwise perfect shape, except for the hole I put in it.
So, what do I do? Well, I use chromium lead pellets in Double 00 Buck in mine, or slugs, and I AIM THE DAMN THING!!! Sights help.
Thus endeth the lesson.
Sheesh People, Settle Down...
Gosh, I've been getting comments, and emails, all worried about me, and while I must say, I'm quite touched by it all, but please, don't waste the energy.
Yeah, I miss my wife and babies, but I went to dinner tonight at my parent's house, with my sister, and my daughter and granddaughter, who is just a dream.
Yes, I sleep a lot. Yes, I can barely eat. One of my medications has taken away my ability to taste food, and much of my appetite. My liver is dying by inches, and taking me with it. Some days I quite frankly just want to die.
Doing that by my own hand would steal so much from my family, and piss on any legacy I possibly have, including my last several years here. So it ain't gonna happen.
Though there are some days when it is hard, so hard, to stick around.
Friday, August 08, 2008
...I'm so rone-ree...
The wife called me a bit ago, and she was having herself a riotously good time. Her brothers and sisters are there, our kids are a hit, she looks better than all the other women there, and she's not...
Stuck with me.
Funny thing, one of my regular commenters said in the comments to yesterday's post 'don't kill yourself...' What's funny is that the wife told me the same thing earlier this week. I looked at her with some disgust, and asked her "Who would it be who found my body?"
I mean, think about it. Why would I do that to someone I love? Suicide is the sincerest way to say one of two things: I hate you, and/or I am in so much anguish, I don't want to see next week.
The VA Hospital in Portland did a great job killing me with slow poison, they don't need my
Hey, don't say I didn't warn you about the maudlin. It doesn't help that I am listening to shit like this
I ate a 'Mexican' TV dinner that tasted like some beaner took a shit on the tray. Fried rice, my ass. More like stewed maggots. And 'enchiladas' that were suspiciously tapered on one end. But it was the only meal I had today. Well, I had several rolls of Smarties, and a cereal bar. Oh, and a few Twizzlers. They are so fresh and soft, that they stretch like earthworms in a Robin's beak as the bird aborts the annelid from the dirt.
So, how was your
Friday? What would you do if you had a nice, air-conditioned car (the wife rented, and left me her hot rod) and a pocket full of cash, nobody to depend on you, and the world is your mollusk?
Me, I took two naps. And rearranged my guns because I sent her off with one of them, and it really fucked with my gun-shui. Enjoyed John Edward's discomfort. Tried hard to give a shit about one group of commies killing the shit out of another group of commies. Failed. Heck, I will not, would not ever go there in my life.
Well, I guess it's time to take a sleeping pill, and sleep til noon. Call me and die.
Wouldn't it be funny if I croaked naturally? And the wife came home, and found me and put the boots to my dead ass, yelling angrily "Dammit! You said you wouldn't!"
Or maybe it's just me...
Thursday, August 07, 2008
The wife and the kids are leaving me tomorrow to go to a wedding in another state, and I will be alone for a week. Currently, she is packing furiously, as if she was supplying the Lewis & Clark expedition. And giving Sir Edmund Hillary a hand, as well. In other words, packing as usual.
Dammit. What if I need my window fan turned up to medium? Do I have to do all this shit myself? I sometimes go in when they're gone, and lay in their beds, and breathe in their scents from their pillows.
It would be nice if you all released a flock of prayers for their safety, coming and going. Thanks in advance. I'm dead-ass broke, because she's hoarding all the money for stupid crap like 'food' and 'lodging'. Pfffft, what a waste. Oh well, I'm too fucked up to want to go anywhere, and she filled half our freezer ($20 at Yard-Sale Mart) with frozen dinners that she hoped would appeal to me. Yeah, like I'm gonna open that damn box and heat it up. Pfffft...
Anyway, prepare for maudlin posting. One of my ribs tore itself loose from my body, took my heart with it, and is leaving on a road trip. I miss her already. Oh, and the kids, too. I think I'm supposed to say that. Though I about stomped most of Nattie's guts out today for calling me a liar to my face. Anyone else would be needing stitches, and she needs to learn that not everybody is as well-adjusted as me, and the wrong words to the right person will get your ass kicked. Literally.
If I would have called my dad a liar in a fit of anger, NORAD would still be tracking many of my teeth as they orbited the planet.
Well, Happy Thursday, my friends. To my enemies? Fuck off and die, choking on your own blood. Wish I could help.
As I understand it, there is supposed to be another day tomorrow. Imagine my joy.
What's Perverted, Anymore?
Well, apparently not this
. My stomach's still a bit queasy.
And let me have the wife kneel down on a public sidewalk in San Francisco and blow me, and watch how quick we both become registered sex offenders. A pretty teacher can't fuck a horny 16 year old without going to prison if caught, but a hairy naked man can butt-fuck his twink on a public street while the cops watch.
Gosh, I hate faggots.
One Moment, Frozen Forever...
As I get closer to taking the trip, I am pondering more and more about the destination. People talk about being in Heaven as 'living forever', and they think about all of the things they'd do. Boy, that would annoy the shit right outta me.
I don't want to wink out like a fragile candle, but heck, I've done damn near everything I'd ever want to do. I've lived a full life, and a Post-Armageddon pastoral planet doesn't appeal to me. So I cleaned the rust off of the cogs in my big brain, wound up the key, and set the machinery in motion, and at the end, it spit a small strip of paper out of my mouth. I tore it off, and here is what it said:'Heaven is timeless, one moment of bliss, with no progression, or regression, just one constant moment of ecstasy, in the presence of God.'
I can live with that.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
on the wife, I dare you. You'll draw back a bloody stump, I promise you. Heck, I don't give Nat weapons, yet, but damn, she would punch you in the nuts so fast...
Simple rule, fuckheads, don't touch it unless you've bought it. Grow the fuck up, and keep your hands to yourselves. You just might run into a small, beautiful woman, with nice tits, and grope one of them, and find yourself in an arm lock hold, brought down to her level, and getting stabbed over and over by someone who has a dread fear of being raped, who someone like, oh say, me, has taught and empowered her in techniques that cause instant pain, and/or death.
For the life of me, I have never understood gropers. To me, it is a sex crime, pure and simple. I have never touched a woman without her express permission in my life. But I have fucked up other guys that have.
And I have had more pussy than you can shake a dick at. Even strippers who hook on the side hate being groped by strangers. That's why God made bouncers.
Any woman who says 'All men are pigs' has not met me. I can't imagine groping a woman unless it's offered, and I look with contempt on 'men' who do. I would die before I farted in front of a woman, and do not understand the pigs that do. I beat the shit out of some hippie one time at a party who kept farting. I warned him, first, and he said 'Hey man, it's natural!' Yeah, dude, kinda like my fist fits perfectly into your face.
So, we clear? They've taught you since kindergarten to 'keep your hands to yourself'.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
It Is So Easy To Kill...
It is so difficult not to. Watch this video
if you have seen Batman2, then read on unless you haven't seen it, and can see everything, like me. Might ruin it for you...
The Joker. There, but for the Grace of God, go I. You'd be surprised at how easy it is. If you cringed at the idea of dissecting a frog in biology class, well, you are A) lucky and B) not ready to go to the next level. And I was born several levels above that one.
The Joker was treated to immense child abuse, which turned the robot into a psychotic monster. My Dad beat that bullshit out of me. And my Mom made me go cut my own switches. And her Dad used me as an excuse to go to his bar. Down on the waterfront. He left me outside. I was five.
On the way home, he would stop at the Woolworth's and let me pick a toy. For some reason, I always picked a cap pistol.
I have been known to carry two 1911's in the front of my pants, set up for a cross-draw. In other words, butts facing inward...and three mags for each in between them behind my belt. Three more apiece in my front pockets, and three more apiece in each back pocket.
Toy with me, and I just might explode.
Do you really want to be in the same room with The Joker?
This movie really fucked with my head. Not since Hannibal Lecter's autobiographies have I been spoken to from the screen like that.
I am neither proud, nor happy about this.
Monday, August 04, 2008
When The Stars Fall...
I am seeing a phenomenon all throughout the blogosphere. Major bloggers quitting because they are tired of doing it, and/or they got their widdle feelings hurt.
No one, not one of you, or all of you, could say or do anything to make me quit if I didn't want to. That is my decision, should I choose to leave the arena.
If you try to scare me, I'll scare you right back. Your hair will turn white while I do what I would do to you. With a potato peeler. And a corkscrew. And a garlic press. Or whatever else I can find in your kitchen, while you sit there duct-taped to your chair, your mouth taped shut, and breathing blood bubbles out of the two holes where your nose used to be before I sliced it off.
I am pretty much the last person on this planet that you want to piss off. Seriously.
So, quit if you want. Duh, and of course. Just don't ask me to respect your decision. Wimp. I'm dying, and it is not comfortable, and I don't whine about it, so shut the fuck up and deal with it. Some loser troll trying to break your balls? Bat them around as a cat would a mouse. Or just eliminate them from your personal universe.
Blogging has been called lots of things, but so far, and first and foremost, it is the most honest and true form of expression there has ever been. You can say what you want, whenever you want, and it can be read by the entire world. So far.
The Japanese soldiers that assaulted Nanking China, before Pearl Harbor, raped every woman they came across. Then, for amusement, they tossed the woman's infant to a fellow soldier, and the game was to skewer the infant on their bayonet. Bets were made, money was exchanged.
And you whine because some dickwad was mean to you on your blog?
Get some perspective, people.
You can add this
to your list of 'Things That Are Totally Cool'.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
By Popular Demand...
Some of you have asked that I repost a couple of true stories I have written here. So, here is
one, and here is the other. Part 1
, and Part 2
And a bonus track
...shaved off of my balls. Time I'll never get back.
Like I care.
I am alive by accident. My parents were so young. They certainly never planned on the interruption in their lives that was me. They were fresh out of high school, freshly married, and I came along and ruined the party. The 50's, dontcha know.
I came into awareness in my crib, as an infant. I remember huge faces like Macy's Parade balloons, looking down at me while I whistled. Oh, I wasn't doing arias, but I had figured out how to make the sound, so I did. The wife still doesn't know how to whistle, but it is fun to watch her try. She looks so intent, but she looks like she is trying to give an elf CPR through its asshole.
I spent the 60's spreading my wings, and learning my capabilities. And it still took me years to learn I even had them. I took over classrooms...heck, entire schools, until the innate 'Monster Detection' that all humans have to one degree or another kicked in, and they exiled me, for one reason or another.
I must insert the obligatory warning here: you do not want to be what I am. 99% of you, it would drive mad. I will kill the 1% that is left. No, I am not joking. There can be only one.
The 70's and 80's were a blur, though I have chronicled much of it, here. The 90's I spent learning, and being amazed by the wife. Being taught another path, and trust me, there were many moments of absolute agony. And I struggled to make amends to my kids left fatherless by a vicious divorce. Oh, that would be mine.
At one point, working in the nuthouse, in the early 90's, I was back in the break-room sleeping, and I awoke to our extremely beautiful boss, looking down at me intently, as she straddled my cock that she had hardened in my sleep, and she was rocking her clit through her panties, back and forth, and then she gasped, and came, and I felt her warmth...
She grasped my belt in desperation, and tried to tear open the front of my pants. I grasped her wrists, and pulled her hands away gently, and her smoky eyes changed, and she said "You're really serious about her..."
and we all know who she was talking about.
And that is, as far as I understand it...
I think I have communicated that I am just a bit jealous of my two Marine sons. And how proud of them I am. They are in 'non-combat' MOS's, but they have been to cool schools that taught them various nasty tricks. And every Marine is a rifleman. My youngest Marine, when he got to Iraq, was handed an M240G machine gun, and told "Here, you're a door-gunner on a school bus ferrying troops and supplies."
Me? I never saw combat. But being Infantry, I trained every day for it. For years. Daily. Weekly. Monthly. Yearly. First the beat us into steel, then they honed us, then they sharpened us to a razor's edge. And then they did it again. And again.
I became addicted to it. My (ex)wife and my little boys didn't see a whole lot of me in those days. I would leave the house at night, and run very far up to Infantry Hill, where they tended to keep most of us segregated from the pogues. I'd get to the obstacle course, and there would always be several of my fellow grunts there already, and we would run through the course, as fast as we could (while timing ourselves) and then do it again, and keep doing the cargo nets and the inclined walls and all of that other crap until we perfected our times, and became too exhausted to even reach up to scratch our noses.
And all of it done by starlight alone. And if it was foggy? Which it often was? In near zero visibility, with all of the obstacles sheened with slick moisture.
Our officers were useless. They only got themselves assigned to an elite unit to get Infantry Command on their resume. They came, and they went. It was our NCO's that were golden. Nearly all had been to Viet Nam, and knew what serious shit looked like.
Our Platoon Leader was an E-6 looking to make E-7. Nam vet, Ranger qualified, Airborne, Air Assault, etc., etc., etc.
Meanest spic I've ever known. He gave no quarter, and asked for none. We loved him. The dirtiest joke I ever heard was one he told. He could spot a loose helmet chin-strap in the back of a formation, and we cleaned our weapons twice so as to not incur his wrath. He was famous for having a hapless soldier clean every weapon in the arms room before getting released, all the while threatening them because they made him miss dinner, and telling them lurid stories about guys he had known in combat who had come to no good end because of a dirty weapon.
One time, because we had pissed him off for a big brawl we had gotten into with another company on Friday night, he came into the barracks early Saturday morning, went to our area (on the third floor) and went up and down our hall banging two garbage can lids together like cymbals, hollering for us to fall in.
We staggered out, rubbing our eyes, and he gave us our orders: We were to get into full BDU's, and then completely disassemble our rooms, take them outside to the parade deck of our building, and reassemble everything perfectly, in the same order according to squad, perfectly spaced, get it ready for his inspection, then the squad leaders were to report when they were done.
I forget how long he gave us, but it wasn't very much, and then he pulled out a stopwatch, and said "GO!"
We failed the first inspection. We ran it all back upstairs and put it in our room. There was an inspection up there. Many gigs. So we ran it all back downstairs. Passed the inspection, ran it all back upstairs, passed that one, then went beck to the parade deck and fell into formation.
The captain finally showed up around noon, with an officer's club breakfast still likely on his breath, and gave us a rousing speech about how proud he was of us to have gone to the defense of one of our own the night before, pip pip, an all that. Our platoon sergeant obviously agreed with him. Sometimes you can just tell. You learn a lot about someone when you sleep with them.
Maybe I'll tell you some other stories sometime about how he used to take us at night out into the dark, and teach us things.
I'm tired of this, right now.
Batman 2: A Review...
I don't think I could write a review as good as this one
from Roger Ebert. But he puts in spoilers, I do not. I think a good reviewer makes you want to see the movie, does not grandstand, and relies on the trust of his readers that he has made good decisions in the past, and that you should see the movie in question, or not waste your money. I simply do not go see certain kinds of movies, and freely admit I am not qualified to review them. 'Sophie's Choice' and 'The English Patient' come to mind.
That being said, my only regret about 'The Dark Knight' is that I cannot afford to go see it again. And again. And again. It comes perilously close to knocking out 'Hellboy 2' from my Favorite Movie of the Year spot, but H2 has so much magic and wonder woven through it, it is still on top. But still, Batman comes very close. Very, very close.
A very dark movie, I would not take a child of mine under 17 to see it. For the very first time, I truly regret the death of that 'Brokeback Faggot' Heath Ledger's death. I can't imagine who they will find to play The Joker in subsequent films. His was a bravura performance, and while I put no stock in Oscars, he will win one, posthumously. And set the standard for all screen villains to try to reach in the future.
Michael Caine should win one, as well.
This movie was so well written, it nearly made me weep with jealousy. I lost track of the plot twists in the first 30 minutes, and just laid back and enjoyed it. It is not often I jump in my seat, and say to myself 'Whoa! Didn't see that
one coming!' I bet I did that a hundred times yesterday.
And I know the Batman Universe inside and out. I have read the comics all of my literate life.
If you do not go by yourself to a matinée and see this movie, part of your soul will die, and you will be incomplete as a human being.
Friday, August 01, 2008
Ahhhh, the things you learn
I love this stuff.