BaneRants  

You must be at least this tall to ride this ride

::Tip Jar::






::Menu::

View My Stats




eXTReMe Tracker


Crusader for Christ Crusader against Islam


This blog is protected from memes by Grundir the Implacable



Creative Commons License
This work
licensed under
a Creative
Commons License
.

RSS FEED

email me






::Links::


Pat Dollard

James Lileks
(My Idol)


Sharp Knife
(My Other Hero)


BaneRants
(Wordpress)

Now With Best ofs!

Haunted Soldier

Curses & Chrome

All Atwitter

Maiden Magnetic

Random Bits of Pomposity

Baldilocks

Vox Day

Velociman

Pondering...

Doc in the Box

Protein Wisdom

Atlas Shrugs

Twenty Major

Northwoods
Woman


Kolyada.com

Olbermmeinfuhrer

DaddyBlogger



::Previous::
  • I Guess This Is My Dead Horse...

  • Any Dead Indian...

  • I'll Tell You Once More, Before I Get Off The Floor..

  • Roughly The Equivalent

  • Birds Gotta Fly, Fingers Gotta Write...

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • A Sound Defense...

  • Two Things At Once...

  • Life Lessons...

  • It Has Come To My Attention...

  • It Is Easy...

  • Talent, On Loan From God...

  • Thanks, Skillet...

  • Too Hot For Words...

  • It's Been Too Long...

  • Shimmy Update...

  • Jeezly Crow...

  • If You Can...

  • Wherein Nat Tells Me A Story...

  • I Love...

  • I Can Kill You...

  • Ron Paul...

  • Things That Make Bane Happy...

  • I Probably Shouldn't Do This, But...

  • The Spirit Is Willing, But...

  • A Little Gift...

  • God...

  • If You Go Out With This Chick...

  • Now, Where'd I Put That Lotion...

  • Pray For Granny...

  • More Sex Talk...

  • What Is Wrong With Some Of You Fuckers?

  • For SondraK...

  • Stupid Sex Tricks...

  • Golly...

  • So, My Fingers Smell Like Pussy...

  • Mohamud's Wife...

  • Going Out On The Ice...

  • Still More Perfection...

  • Truth Or Consequences...

  • An Old Man, Dreaming...

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • Have I Ever Told You...

  • So...

  • The Two Goddesses...

  • Ron Paul...

  • Take The Kids To The Park...

  • Presented Without Comment...

  • So, There I Was...

  • Rate Me, Bitches!

  • I Used To Dance...

  • FUCK Saint Martin Luther King...

  • Absolute Perfection...

  • The Irrational Athiest...

  • This Is What I Married...

  • For My Boys In The Box...

  • Drop By...

  • Your Daily Finger Eruption...

  • Have Some Boobs...

  • Fucking Mormons...

  • Pretty Words...

  • Check Out The Uncircumcised Dickhead...

  • Urgent Help Needed...

  • Things Bane Is Apparently Not To Say...

  • Meeow!!!

  • Off The Grid...

  • Thump Thump Thump...

  • Go...

  • The Goddess Speaks!

  • Bipartisanship Is Just Another Word...

  • She Can Knock On My Wood...

  • There Is No Spoon...

  • Blatant Voter Fraud...

  • There's That Word Again...

  • Police Are Now The Enemy...

  • Jews = Muslims...

  • NOW I Want To Punch Him!

  • Still More Gunhandling...

  • Nattie Runs Like Dale Earnhardt Drives...

  • More On Gun Handling...

  • Chapter And Verse...

  • I'm Sorry...

  • On Gunhandling...



  • ::Past::
  • September 2002
  • October 2002
  • November 2002
  • December 2002
  • January 2003
  • February 2003
  • March 2003
  • April 2003
  • May 2003
  • June 2003
  • July 2003
  • August 2003
  • September 2003
  • October 2003
  • November 2003
  • December 2003
  • January 2004
  • February 2004
  • March 2004
  • April 2004
  • May 2004
  • June 2004
  • July 2004
  • August 2004
  • September 2004
  • October 2004
  • November 2004
  • December 2004
  • January 2005
  • February 2005
  • March 2005
  • April 2005
  • May 2005
  • June 2005
  • July 2005
  • August 2005
  • September 2005
  • October 2005
  • November 2005
  • December 2005
  • January 2006
  • February 2006
  • March 2006
  • April 2006
  • May 2006
  • June 2006
  • July 2006
  • August 2006
  • September 2006
  • October 2006
  • November 2006
  • December 2006
  • January 2007
  • February 2007
  • March 2007
  • April 2007
  • May 2007
  • June 2007
  • July 2007
  • August 2007
  • September 2007
  • October 2007
  • November 2007
  • December 2007
  • January 2008
  • February 2008
  • March 2008
  • April 2008
  • May 2008
  • June 2008
  • July 2008
  • August 2008
  • September 2008
  • March 2009
  • June 2009
  • July 2009
  • August 2009
  • October 2009
  • November 2009
  • May 2011
  • September 2012







  • This is my Blog...There are many like it, but this one is mine...

    This page is powered by Blogger.


        Thursday, January 31, 2008

    I Guess This Is My Dead Horse...

    I sure seem to be beating it pretty routinely, and the ladies seem to be interested in it...

    I'm talkin about fightin, not fuckin, you nasty sluts.

    I aim most of my fighting writing towards women, because if they can do it, anybody can, and besides, are the rest of you men, or mice? Okay, who out there just squeaked...

    Smartass.

    Men attack other men for a myriad of reasons, but not often to fuck them. Women, on the other hand...or should I say 'females'. Well, that's a whore of a different color, and whether it is some guy who just got out of the state mental hospital for murdering and raping 5 high school girls ten years ago, or a female-phobic Muslim who can't get access to a goat or a donkey, or a young boy, you, my dear, are about to get fucked.

    When a rapist's dick is in your mouth, or up your ass, I would think that the question of rape as sex, or an act of violence, has become pretty much, shall we say, 'moot'?

    Now, fighting is like music...some people just have a talent for it, others struggle. What is your weakness? Your glasses get knocked off and you're blind as a bat? Practice in the dark. Are you uncoordinated as a three-legged camel trying to make it up a sand dune? Crikey, there's all kinds of stuff you can do for that. I spent hours stacking nickels on the back of my elbow, and then snatching my hand forward to catch the entire stack, intact.

    Do not try that in front of a window, the first time.

    Can you play Jacks? Hula Hoop? Frisbee? Dance? The word 'kata' means 'dance'. Look it up. My nipples are getting sore.

    Half of your rapist's work is done by you. Not paying attention. Not looking around. Got two grocery bags to carry? Why? Put em in a cart. When the nice young man in the apron asks if you need help out to your car, smile and say 'why, yes!'

    C'mon, you've seen the Discovery Channel, you mammal. What do deer do? Yeah, they look around, constantly, and they don't worry about looking silly. Hold your cell phone to your head, and pretend to talk. Is a lone dick-slinger gonna attack a woman who is connected to the world outside his twisted fantasy?

    The ones you've got to watch out for are the stone cold predators. The ones where if you listen close, you can hear the deep rumbling growl. I know, because I am one. When I worked as a skip-tracer, I stalked and served the ones no one else could do. Now, what if I wanted to fuck you?

    Worst case scenario, baby. Plan for it, prepare for it, and hope it never happens. Yeah, that's what every dead bitch you see on Fox News thought, too.

    I love you ladies, and I would never harm a hair on your sweet heads, but there are monsters out there who would take your hair, attached to your bleeding scalp, and nail it to their shed wall with all of the others.

    Arm, and train. Become an Amazon woman, in your heart.

    Just, please, watch yourselves.




       

    Any Dead Indian...

    ...is a good indian.

    Just making the world a better place, one indian at a time.




       

    I'll Tell You Once More, Before I Get Off The Floor..

    Don't bring me down.

    I mentioned 'fighting from the floor' somewhere in the comments. Lay (lie?) down on your back, your legs toward an opponent, and tell me what you see. Imagine what they see. Ladies, your legs are generally the strongest appendages you have, and due to your piss-poor habits of observation, you are most likely to end up on your back, anyway.

    Use one leg to sweep and protect, and the other to kick. Snap your kicks into them. The counter to this type of attack is to grab the attacking foot and spin your prone opponent around(ish) and then kick them in the head. Ow. Don't allow that to happen.

    Brace your hands on the floor/ground, palms down, when you kick, if you can. Push up and into it, but don't commit. You can get in a damn good blow that way, and get your leg back for another shot. And under no circumstances should you turn over on your belly. Think about that.

    If you must shift positions, or rise for some reason, turn onto one hip, keeping your eyes on the threat, and roll up to standing. I cannot recommend that show 'Shimmy' enough. Aside from making you just a sexy hot bitch, they show moves from kneeling, and seated, to standing, that are just marvelous.

    Ahhhh, there is just so much I wish I could teach you before I go. Remember, move like smoke, strike like you are cutting through smoke. Don't overextend, run if you can, chew til you strike blood if cornered. Elbows are excellent weapons. Palm-heel strikes. Knees to large muscle groups in the lower body. Stomp down hard on feet, after raking the edge of your shoe down their shin.

    Shoot to kill, accept crippling them grudgingly. You are surrounded by weapons. It's no 'ninja thing'. Just use your imagination. As in, 'I wonder what would happen if I swung this toaster by its cord?' Can of hairspray+lighter= Flamethrower.

    No gun yet? Answer the door with your biggest kitchen knife. When you use the knife in the kitchen, try cutting things one-handed with it, in other words, not steadying the item to be cut with the opposite hand. Use the point of the blade to flip over pieces of vegetable, and meat. Poke them. You are training your hand. Try using your 'off hand'. You never know...

    I write this shit because I am tired of reading every damn day about some dumbass getting killed in their own home by a family member or intruder. Crikey, didn't that dumb bitch who got stabbed to death have any access to couch cushions? I would beat your ass to death with a Tonka truck. If I didn't have an opportunity to shoot you so full of holes you'd whistle in the wind, first.

    I've beaten men so that they only survived death by accident, because I learned very early on, that just because they are bleeding, and begging for mercy, it doesn't mean they won't come back and jap you as soon as your back is turned. Fuckers. No mercy for them any more.

    So, go out and have a nice day. And buy a damn weapon.




        Wednesday, January 30, 2008

    Roughly The Equivalent

    ...of what I get to look at every night.
















    More perfection here.

    Thank you, God.




       

    Birds Gotta Fly, Fingers Gotta Write...

    Apparently, I am picking up a flock of critics, that follow me around, quacking...

    Fukkem. I love duck meat, properly cooked.

    The wife is taking the kids someplace, and said goodbye, and I said 'come give me a kiss', and she came into my room and said 'I just put on fresh lipstick', and I said 'I don't want to kiss you there' and I grabbed her tight ass and brought her to me and smooched on her cunt through her jeans as she shuddered, and complained. Weakly.

    What? How do you romance your woman? Or man, be you a woman? Do you suck and swallow him and let him hear you gag on it, ladies? Men, do you ask her where best on her to kiss is, and then do it, without complaint, with enthusiasm, regardless of what is on television?

    Most important, and no, I'm not kidding, do you say grace over her, and thank God, Jesus, The Holy Spirit, and all the Holy Angels for what you are about to receive?

    I mean it. I don't care if you mutter the prayer into her vulva. She doesn't, either.

    Just, pray. Give thanks. Worship her. If you can't, rethink the relationship.

    I know I failed in my first marriage. For a lot of reasons, and she was wrong, and I was wrong. Spilt milk...water under the bridge. And four kids mentally scarred for life.
    No biggie, right?

    Well, I'm trying to step outside of the crime scene tape that is my life...I give you all a glimpse into it so you can wince, and look away, and go and sin no more.

    Sadly, I fear I'm like every video you saw in high school...

    Nobody paid attention.




       

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!




       

    A Sound Defense...

    There is some silliness in martial arts about the 'ki-yi' sound.

    Well, it is not all that silly, but it is difficult to teach, yet essential, especially for a woman. 'To' a woman? Whatevah...

    Singers have the ability, naturally. To call up the power from their center and project it. Forcefully.
    Imagine your kid is in the parking lot, and about to dart out in front of a car, and you expel the words that stops them dead in their tracks, and everybody in the parking lot turns and looks at you in surprise.

    Yeah, that's it. I took plenty of martial arts before I entered the military, but I never knew how to yell until I had to yell at a group of men. Make them move, or stop, or turn, or just cut their shit out.

    I have been accused of sounding like a Drill Instructor. Guilty as charged.

    And that ability to burst forth with a blast of sound will freeze an opponent, center your 'chi', and give you the edge. Ladies? Your voices are in a higher range. Cough out the sound from your abdomen...roar. It will startle the crap out of a man.

    A timely shout can mean the difference between life and death, or ass-rape.

    Learn it, love it...live it.




       

    Two Things At Once...

    It drives the wife nuts. And I have no idea how I do it. My training? My ADD? That I'm ambidextrous? All the above? None of the above?

    I'll be talking with the wife, pausing to yell at the kids, watching TV, and listening to my portable radio. All at the same time. Do any of you do that? Sometimes it drives me nuts.

    Alcohol helps me focus down, and shuts out the other stuff.

    Do you know who has the fastest reflexes? Astronauts? Race car drivers? No...

    Weight lifters. Seems that doing repetitive movements over and over actually makes your nerves bigger, and the signal travels quicker. I wonder if that works with your brain, as well.

    Like I always say, practice, practice, practice. And think now, so you don't have to think later. Can you draw your weapon while seated? Why not? Is it in your purse, or worse, you don't have one?

    I carry more cutlery than an Iron Chef when I go out, and pistols, and I'd carry an AK-47 if I could fit it in anywhere. I'd like to think I can draw and cause harm from any position, standing, seated, prone, whatever. What does this make me?

    Yes, a coward. I hate pain. Well, my pain. I will do anything to not feel pain. Do not frighten me.

    Of course, if you like pain, have at it...




       

    Life Lessons...

    Yeah, I've been talking about sex a lot, lately. Hour for hour, I bet I've had more of it than you had all last year.

    And it was a conscious decision.

    I had fallen behind in my duties as a husband. The wife and I are perhaps the two most sexual people on earth, but I had been sick. And depressed from my kid on deployment to Iraq. And stuff. And more stuff. And the most central theme of our marriage just fell through the cracks. She stifled herself, I was stifled, and life lurched on...

    And then I woke up. And removed the crystal lid from her bier and kissed her, and she woke up.

    And then we celebrated. A lot.

    I hereby solemnly swear, in front of all of you, that I shall not, ever again, let her field lay fallow, and that I will plow it during both good times and bad, and enjoy the rich earth the plow turns up.

    Amen.




        Tuesday, January 29, 2008

    It Has Come To My Attention...

    ...that some people have confused me with an angry person. Sure, I have a well of rage, but I keep it safely in the containment dome. Mostly.

    Now, don't confuse me for someone who gives a shit what you think (except for you, and, oh you, and maybe you over there) but seriously, when did 'speaking your mind' become 'anger'?

    As has been noted here and there, I'd likely not survive if I stalked around enraged and showing it all the time. I am not fool enough to think that there is no young, strong man, who could whip my ass in a heartbeat...maybe.

    And cops? Hey, they'll just make more. Give it up.

    No, my rage is in an underground silo, with a field of grass on top of it, and a nice bungalow and a kiddie playground built over it.

    You turn one key, and I'll turn the other one, and let's see what happens.




       

    It Is Easy...

    So easy, I am almost afraid to tell you.

    When a blade comes at you, just flick it away, as you would flick a fly. Redirect your attacker into the most uncomfortable position possible. Gun pointed at you? Step aside. Move. Watch that black hole in the front of it, and keep it bisected, like a half moon.

    Snipers around? You're fucked.

    Wrists, elbows, these are all your redirect points. Light slaps. Back of your hand. Fast, less than a second. Once redirected, step in and stomp your attacker so badly that if they live, it is purely by accident.

    Never kick above their knees (unless they're down, then, have at it...) and don't make a fist, unless you are hammering something on them. Expend too much energy, and you will tire, and they will win.

    Arm around your throat from behind? Turn into them as you would turn to face your lover, and now they are yours. Hug them, and take those fist-hammers and beat their kidneys into bloody mush.

    Tear their throat out with your teeth. Try for the larynx, but it is human nature to protect that by dropping the jaw, and shrugging up, so go for the carotid. There's one on either side. The jugular will spray, and blind you, and ruin your footing. Read an anatomy book. Pay attention to the pictures.

    There's a blow, I believe it's called the 'Hiraken'...whatever, it simply means clapping your cupped hands hard over the attacker's ears...you can clap, can't you? See how easy this is?

    When a hand comes at you, simply make the peace sign, catch the wrist in the V, and raise your arm. Now, pause for a moment, and look at the landscape of targets this fool has presented. Gosh, we have ribs (hard elbow shot) and depending on what side of the body you have exposed, we have liver, and spleen, and if you spun them correctly, you have kidneys, always a show-stopper.

    Don't use your knees until they make the 'O' face. That means they have bought a ticket to the 'Land O Pain', and you are the conductor on this train. Heck, the engineer.
    A trained fighter can use your raised knee (think about it) against you, so you need to keep your feet on the ground until they close their eyes in agony.

    And watch for the fake.

    And forget the balls. The most beat to shit guy in the world will come to life when his boys are threatened. Instead, cripple him by kneeing him hard in the outer thigh (while you are locking up his arms with holds) or the inner thigh...smash any of those large muscles...

    Ladies, if he drops, run. If you're in a fight with a chick, a good knee to the cunt shuts that shit down most riki tik.

    If you can brush your hair, and apply make-up, close-in fighting should just come naturally to you. Imagine you and your opponent are locked into a tube, where neither one of you can extend your arms past your elbows.

    Now...fight.




       

    Talent, On Loan From God...

    This is one of the pictures the wife made and sent to Sparrow...
















    Have I mentioned lately how lucky I am?




       

    Thanks, Skillet...
















    Yeah...pretty much.




       

    Too Hot For Words...

    Watch this and learn something.

    Try not to masturbate.

    Try...




       

    It's Been Too Long...

    ...since I have revisited my favorite artist.

    Were I wealthy, I would own everything he produces.

    Gosh, he worships women, as do I...




       

    Shimmy Update...

    Hey, ladies, check this out. Remember my post on the Fitness Network channel's show 'Shimmy'?

    The wife made herself cum yesterday doing some of the Egyptian hip moves.

    She came upstairs, panting, and told me. And then stole an hour or so of my life.

    Thank you, God...




       

    Jeezly Crow...
















    Fuck that. I'd kill myself before I lived there.




       

    If You Can...

    ...make it to the last photo of this page, and not beat your meat senseless, well...

    You're gay.

    I bet even straight chicks rub their fingers over their nether lips while looking.


    Update:

    Oh, my...




       

    Wherein Nat Tells Me A Story...

    She is only recently seven. She has been making 'angel wings' out of some frilly material, with the intent to 'sell them to buy the family food'.
    Somehow, the subject came up about her special day in church. She thought she had told me before, but I had no memory of it.

    She said: "Dad, you renember when [Baby Marine] took us to church that time? Mom wasn't there? Welllll, God told me very quietly to 'look up', and I saw angels wings, and some of their faces. And I think I saw Jesus, too..."

    Out of the mouths of babes.




       

    I Love...

    ...my boys.




        Monday, January 28, 2008

    I Can Kill You...

    I will kill you.

    Why do you faggots make me repeat myself? What's the level above Alpha Male?

    How many years have I been doing this? Go into my archives...even the fiction...yeah, I can do it. May have done it. Statute of limitations...

    I am a six foot tall man, 220 pounds, who can kill you with either hand, bare, or armed with a knife, or a bottle opener, or a Barbie doll. How'd you like to die, twitching on the floor, with Barbie legs jammed into one of your eyes up to her hips?

    Stupid fuckers...

    People from decades ago, if they're still alive, have nightmares about me, and finger their scars when they think about me.

    Don't mistake this for bragging. I'm ashamed, and sorrowful. I would still open up on you like a Swiss Army Knife if you fucked with me, or mine. I can't help my nature, no matter how hard I try.
    And I could fuck your wife in a puddle of your own blood on the kitchen floor and make her come harder than you ever could.

    Bitch.

    I have tasted civilization, and found it not to my liking. Think of me as the Sabertooth Tiger, stalking you, and adjust your lives accordingly.

    Thank your God for this blog, because I just want to go out and fuck somebody up right now, real bad.

    Secret: violence is better than sex...




       

    Ron Paul...

    ...still crazy after all these years.

    We had the 'Bush Derangement Syndrome', which is still going on even though he's a liberal, and not even running.

    Now we've got the 'Paul Derangement Syndrome', wherein people support him even though he's a provable loon, and has absolutely zero chance of winning.

    Sigh...




       

    Things That Make Bane Happy...

    Skiers dieing. Skateboarders getting their tiny nuts racked while grinding on handrails. People in California having power blackouts. And mudslides. And fires.

    My big fat cock.

    Jeez, do any of you know about some sort of widget that I can put in my sidebar, to keep track of frequency and length of the wife and I's fuck sessions? So I can stop writing about it? I feel like a rooster, crowing after nailing his hen.

    I mean, the wife gets home from work at noon today, and rapes me for 45 minutes, and says she'll be back for more later. We always laugh when some pitiful comedian on TV says that sex stops after marriage, and I look over and see that 'come hither' look, as she lets her fingers do the walking, and, well...

    It has always been awesome, but now it is scary awesome. Can't walk, or pour a drink into a shotglass without spilling awesome.

    Yeah, getting old sucks, but I finally understand why old folks in the rest homes fuck so much.




       

    I Probably Shouldn't Do This, But...

    Here's a pic I took of the wife as she was riding me the other night...
















    Just kidding, but it spooked us both out when I showed her the pic on Kim du Toits blog. Frigging identical.

    Now do you see why I thank God for my incredible good fortune?




        Saturday, January 26, 2008

    The Spirit Is Willing, But...

    Well, you know the rest...

    The wife and I just spent the last two and a half hours boxing the compass, and acting out scenes from [movie title deleted due to the wife threatening me with death] and other important art films that should have won an Oscar but got cheated by some bitch-flick.

    We finally heard the sounds of restless children, and smelled the roast in the oven reaching serious doneness, so we reluctantly uncorked, promising one another Round 2 later tonight, and then...

    We moved. We each had shaky legs, and were sore here and there, including several places the Catholic Church would definitely not approve of, and we asked each other for a rain check.

    I hear it is going to rain tomorrow...




       

    A Little Gift...

    ...for you men.

    And you dykes.

    Bon Appetite...




       

    God...

    ...is watching you.




       

    If You Go Out With This Chick...

    ...you better know how to fight. And/or carry a gun.

    Trust me...





       

    Now, Where'd I Put That Lotion...





       

    Pray For Granny...

    Artemis is having a tough time of it. It sounds to me as if the veil between this world and the next is getting pretty thin for her grandmother.

    A tough row to hoe for a loving grandchild. So...

    Pray, okay?




        Friday, January 25, 2008

    More Sex Talk...

    Don't worry, the full moon will wane, the planets realign, she'll start to bleed like a stuck pig, and we'll take a break...

    But!

    Tonight we were both so sore from the last few days, and she was tired, and has to go to work early in the morning, so...

    I worshiped her with my mouth. Yes, I said grace first.

    Again, if you can't leave your woman looking like Linda Blair, and speaking Klingon, you're not doing it right. And, oh yes, it was on the couch downstairs, and she went and fetched a towel to lay on, because she's 'been there' before.

    Where the hip breaks, just there, at the curve, suck it. Tongue it. Chicks hate chilly wet spitty parts, so when you move to another part, put a free hand on the wet spot and wipe it off and warm it up. It's the polite thing to do.

    Lick and suck (hard) on the femoral artery...smooch the entire back of the knee. Stick your tongue into her sweet spot, and pull her hand down to her clit, rub some pussy grease on your fingers, and reach up and twist a nipple while she moans and comes in your mouth.

    You know that dimple at the base of the spine? Suck and tongue in it, while working her glutes with one hand, as you work your finger(s) into her with the other.

    You get what you pay for. Make her stupid, make her senseless, make her your porn star, and tell her how much you love her while you do it.

    Unless you just picked her up in a bar...




       

    What Is Wrong With Some Of You Fuckers?

    I am either a liar, deluded, or telling the truth as I see it. I have spent years, here, sharing stories of my supernatural experiences, and my brushes with God. I could go downstairs right now, and lay my hands on two of His miracles, neither of whom should have been born, and one who should have died over and over and over again.

    I don't pimp for churches, and you know it, and I'm a genius, and you suspect it's true, and while I tend to the eccentric, I am not crazy, so...

    Why do so many of you refuse to believe in God? Mad at Him? Didn't get that pony you wanted as a kid? You whine about your 'freedoms', and then you whine when He gives it to you, and you use it to murder little Blackfricans in the Dark Continent, and in all of the other venues where man displays his inhumanity to man.

    I absolutely understand God's impetus for The Flood. If it was up to me, I'd douche this planet clean, and no Ark for you.

    Give thanks to Him that I am not divine, or I swear, I would kill you all.




       

    For SondraK...

    ...cuz I know she can't help herself, and still lurks here...






       

    Stupid Sex Tricks...

    You learn something new every day. Or you should. Last night, the wife and I were necking, and she reached down to my house shorts and found me rampant, and pulled them down just far enough so she could mount me.

    We found that the elastic band of my shorts held my balls out, and pushed them into her love crack. Drove us both nuts. Having your balls consumed by a hot, moist pair of nether-lips, well, if we can't fuck in Heaven, I don't wanna go.

    And I mentioned condoms. I never use them. I have written on this before. 99% of the time, I get to see the chick frantically fishing out the busted condom from her love canal, as I look down in surprise at what has become a mere cock ring. At least until Magnums came along. Let me tell you, you can pick up some cashier pussy just buying a box of those.

    But!

    Worried about VD? Don't fuck the filthy bitch/bastard! Duh! Simple. Worried about pregnancy? Just don't fuck! Idiots! I used to ask to see their pill package, and I'd open it to see if they had been taking them.

    I used to fuck chicks whose name I didn't even know. This was before Ronald Reagan released AIDS onto an unsuspecting world. If you don't start thinking with your dick/pussy until you get in bed with her/him, you'll do fine. Or you could die. Slut.

    I am happily married to the last pussy I'll ever have, and one reason (perhaps the main one?) is that our sex lives previous to marriage were identical, as are our sex drives.
    Hello, remember the Prayer of Thanks For Pussy? You do have it on your refrigerator, don't you?

    If God gives you a Blessing, and you don't choose to use it, well, don't come cryin to me...




       

    Golly...

    I can remember clearly the days when I could hop out of bed after partying all night, run my fingers through my hair, and head to work.
    Now, I wake up looking like last nights used condom, thrown carelessly to the floor, and feel like I have been trampled by a herd of pigs.

    I have taken to laying on the couch, and Nat runs and gets the detangler spray and a brush, and does me like a Barbie Styling Head.
    Eventually, like any self-respecting Terminator, I reassemble, and rediscover my youth. For a bit.

    Speaking of diseased foreskins, has anyone seen that walking pustule John McCain lately? He almost makes that butt-plug Ron Paul look good. Almost. I'd like to waterboard the fuck out of the both of them, just for fun. "Solve Pi to the 200th decimal point! What?" Bubble bubble...

    Sigh...snow is everywhere, and there is not one person I will vote for in the upcoming election debacle. Please God, can we get a nice dictatorship? Impale GWB on the White House lawn, and put Dick Cheney in charge, with Scooter Libby as his veep?

    Amen...




        Thursday, January 24, 2008

    So, My Fingers Smell Like Pussy...

    Snow blankets the ground outside, the kids have red apple cheeks from playing in it with the wife this afternoon, and I sucked her juices off my fingers in front of her, a bit ago, and she spasmed on the bed.

    It is a good thing, and lucky for her, that we don't sleep together anymore. It is a full moon. I am having my period. Yes, I would drive any of you women insane, and still, you'd crawl back to me. Sorry, I have a bit of a cramp, and I need to get to bed, being old, and all.

    If you read this tomorrow, under the light of Friday, you might not appreciate it, but...

    Pull her panties down, and cleave her with your tongue, whilst grasping her buttocks in your palms, and working those nerve plexuses and muscles...

    You reap what you sow.

    Gentlemen? Don't think you have to get up on your woman and drill for oil. Spoon, enter, let her choose the rhythm, encourage her to play with her nubbin, and just lay there, feeling her up, letting her rock on you, and if she asks you to pump her hard, do it.

    See how easy this is?

    Sex is like falling off a log. Anybody can do it.




       

    Mohamud's Wife...

    Damn, I'd bang the pigshit out of that muslim bitch...






       

    Going Out On The Ice...

    I very much respect the decision this couple made.

    Sometimes, there just comes a time. I've been meaning to post on suicide for some time, now, calling it 'the sincerest form of self-criticism'. But it is not a joking matter. Okay, sorry, yes it is, but seriously, it will be the last decision you will ever make.

    The world tries to kill you from conception, to birth, and all through your life. Taking your life into your own hands, and ending it, can be noble, or cowardly, or nothing at all. I can use all my fingers, and maybe a couple of toes, to count the people that I would care about if they died. Heck, some (okay a lot) of people would cheer me right the fuck up to see them die in huge droves. Flocks of fuckers could assume room temperature, and if I noticed, I could go to sleep with a smile on my face.

    But in the end, it's your life.

    Take it or leave it.




       

    Still More Perfection...

















    And even more perfection...













        Wednesday, January 23, 2008

    Truth Or Consequences...

    Yet again, I am being accused of lying...of being a chimera. Question: Why would I? Question: How could I?

    Hey, kids of mine, speak up if you want. Stay anonymous, please. You know me. Hey, I do this (mostly) for you. Have I lied one time? Sure, through some of the shit, you weren't born yet, but puhleeze.

    It is a sad day when some wimp judges you by the things he or she cannot and/or never has done. Fucked a motel room full of Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders? Yep, been there, done that. You haven't? Well, it only sucks to be you if you let it. Shit, I'm jealous of Donald Trump. Well, his money, and where he dips his wick, anyway.

    There are all kinds of people in blogging that give me a twinge of jealousy, but I'm not a cunt about it. Kim du Toit is a world traveler, Cowboy Blob owns machine guns, every female blogger out there has a clit.

    Do you hear me whining about it? Except for now? No, I write my shit, and they write theirs, and all is right in blogland. Until some whiny pussy who thinks they're all that comes along and calls you out. Loser.

    My favorite part is that I've been meaning to write this post for a while, and the cunt thinks it is all about them. By the way, cunt, your writing, your blog, and you suck, you big snide vagina, so fuck you. You're a time-waster, like one of those dumbass stick-men games. And less amusing. As in, not at all.

    Blow me.




       

    An Old Man, Dreaming...

    Most of you are too young to remember the old theatres, where the screens were as large as a football field, and ashtrays were built into the arms of the seats.

    Where you could go to the snack bar and buy a couple of Mustard Missiles from a pretty girl who smiled and called you sir, and seemed just darned happy to be there, by shucks, and then you carted your two huge dogs over to the condiment center, and slathered them with mustard and relish and sometimes, ketchup, from open bin-type containers, using metal scoops...

    And then the condiments became packets, and then...they were gone. Oh, some place might still have dogs, but you look at the price, and say 'fuck that, I can buy a steak and a martini after the movie for that much...'

    When did popcorn start coming out of big plastic garbage bags, to be warmed up in a pseudo-popper? Oh yeah, when disenfranchised teens began burning the shit so they didn't have to make it anymore.

    Why don't Mexicans do this job? Shit, I'd sign off on amnesty if I could get my theatre back. Fuck, I'd Zyklon-B any American kid under the age of 25, and start over. Except for mine. Of course.

    Two movies for two bucks, with an intermission, fresh popcorn, two delicious hotdogs for under a buck...crikey, the drive-in had pizza, and the best damn barbecue beef sandwich I have ever had to this day...burritos, cigarettes (suck in breath showing your horror) ice cream...the works. The worst pizza I ever got there was better than the best Pizza Hut has to offer today.

    And boy, just look at all those white kids workin their asses off. Under the watchful eye of the overseer (the owner) I bet there was 25 kids working at the drive-in, at least. The indoor theatres? Two stories high, three snack bars? Hardly any waiting to be served?

    Well, they're all torn down, now. That time, those days are, sadly, gone.

    Enjoy the world you've let happen.




       

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!

    Fuck John McCain, and fuck the North Vietnamese for not finishing the job. I have taken more heroic shits than him.




       

    Have I Ever Told You...

    ...about the night I smashed some idiots head in with my MagLite?

    I went through my archives on a search for 'flashlight', and couldn't find it amongst the thousands of posts, so, here is a cautionary tale. Plus, I'm pretty sure the statute of limitations has run out, so...

    I was working private security. I had left my police job ahead of a bullet, the Brotherhood had closed ranks behind me, and the once most sought after applicant, who had his choice of any job, had people lying to him, about him, and turning him away. Shit happens.

    So, I moved me and my little family back to my old stomping grounds, signed up at the university to get edjuhmuhcated, and went looking for work to hold up my end while my (one day to become) ex used the nursing license I had paid for her to get to make money.

    I walked in to a private security company, and told the owner that I wanted to work nights, told him how much I wanted to be paid, gave him my history, and told him I refused to work with any of his security retards. He hired me on the spot, and gave me his new contract for driving a vehicle around, and checking on various city properties at night, as well as a few private businesses.

    I did have to wear a uniform shirt, which was fine with me, but I wore my own beat up jeans, and a pair of my own boots. And then one night, I came an ass-hair away from getting killed.

    I would do my rounds, roust bums and teenagers (rarely) and then I would park in a brightly lit parking lot with a view all around me, reach into my book bag, and then do my homework assignments and required readings.

    And on that one night, traveling from point A to point B, I met a Frat-Rat.
    Now, let it be known, that I hate Frat-Rats. You know, fraternity boys. If Greg Beck was still alive, I'm sure we could have a lively conversation about how many of their asses we have cheerfully beaten while bouncing in bars and clubs.

    You see, the rats travel in packs, believe themselves superior to all other life forms, are obnoxious beyond belief, piss-poor tippers, and can't hold their liquor for shit. And watching the light fade from their eyes shortly after you've sprayed most of the caps on their teeth out of their mouth all over the parking lot like a spilt box of Chiclets...well, that's just plain glorious.

    So, when this Frat-Rat came into the curve I was headed for at about 70 mph in a 20 mph curve, and lost it in his Mazda and hit the built up curb and then spun out in my direction and caromed in circles of black rubber and smoke towards me, and I judged his progress like a pool shot, and drove through where I figured he would not be, and he banged once more into the opposite curb behind me and high centered onto it...

    I backed my vehicle up opposite his, grabbed my flashlight (5, maybe 6 cell...long) and approached his car, there, ticking and clicking, headlights still on, rocking on the curb, and as I got there, his door popped open, and I shone my light in his eyes. He'd seen my badge at about the same time I had gotten a contact high from his breath.

    I knew there was a fraternity/sorority bash going on in a rec center just up the street. His tuxedo, with the posy in the lapel labeled him a fraternity man. His seatbelt habits made him a lucky man. His nearly killing me made him a marked man.

    He began to ramble something along the lines of 'offisher, I...' and I swung down hard with the flashlight, and made sure if he lived, that he'd be drinking his food through a straw for quite some time. My wife and kids use this road, asshole.

    I hit him so hard the cap popped off the end of the flashlight, and batteries flew out onto the road. I collected them up, reloaded, screwed the cap back on, and checked out my handiwork. From being unhurt, now he sagged like the sack of shit he was, and blood ran out of his nose and mouth. Beauty.

    I drove away.

    Out of morbid curiosity (the best kind) I drove by about an hour later. A bunch of guys in tuxedos were moving the Mazda off the curb, and had a pickup with some tow straps already laid out. Jawbreaker was nowhere to be seen. With that many assholes in the open, I fingered the grip of my .45 there, barrel stuffed into the crack of the passenger seat, and I imagine I probably keened a bit, like a dog spotting a squirrel in the yard, while stuck in the house.

    The odds were not good, for a host of reasons. Besides...

    My work there was through.




       

    So...

    ...I was checking the wife's oil last night, and I think I may have blown a rotator cuff. Hope not, but ow. She can barely move her jaw today, so we're even.

    And Wendy just emailed me and asked me to tell ya'll to shut the fuck up and quit emailing her, she knows already, and is working on it.
    This is the weirdest hobby I have ever had. And it's free! Well, except for the fee to have the internet.

    Oh, the wife's oil was just fine. Mighty fine. I put the tip of my dipstick up against her G-Spot there near the end of the festivities, and flexed the head of it (Kegels) against it, and she became a madwoman for a bit. Still has a bit of a stutter. I'm a great mechanic.

    Thank God for Ibuprofen. And thank God for C-sections. Certain portions of the wife are tighter and firmer than a 15 year old girl's. Thank you, Jesus, for that which I have received, and for making me still able to receive it.

    You ever say grace over a pussy before you eat it? Thank God for it, all of it, the woman, from head to toe? The Bible says to give thanks in all things, so why wouldn't you give thanks for His greatest gift of all? And no, shrieking 'Oh God Oh God' over and over doesn't count.

    Thank you, oh Lord, for my penis. And for her vagina. And her tits. And ass. And mouth, oh Lord. I thank you for this playground you have given us to frisk about on, to ride and to hold, amen.

    Write out that prayer, and post it on your fridge. Use it as a bookmark in your Bible.

    Praise God for pussy!




       

    The Two Goddesses...

    You'll note that the pic is dedicated to me.

    Neener neener...




       

    Ron Paul...

    ...can kiss his black ass.

    Amen, brother, and thanks, Snog.




        Tuesday, January 22, 2008

    Take The Kids To The Park...

    ...and freeze them to the equipment. Lick a piece of candy and stick it to a pole, and get their attention. Hilarity ensues...

    I kinda mostly really hate to bitch about how great stuff was in the past, but dammit, have they fucked up parks. First, you have your drug addicts and 'homeless' (read: escaped mental patients) cluttering up the place, leaving needles and trash around, and shitting everywhere. Then, you have the perverts, using the place as their own private hunting preserve. Or just taking pics of your kids to go home and jerk off over, and share them on their MySpace page with their other perv buddies. You know, cops, and firemen, and priests, and gym teachers...

    I always knew gym teachers were fucked in the head six ways from santa claus.

    But seeyusslee (note: Ebonics) when was the last time you saw a teeter-totter? High swings so you could touch the sky? A merry-go-round? I used to take my sons when they were little to a park called Charlie Brown Park in Monterey, when I was stationed at Fort Ord. Fuckin place could kill you or break you sixteen ways from Sunday, and it was a blast. I used to play on stuff with them, it was so much fun.

    I haven't been back in decades, but I can guaran-damn-tee ya (Note: redneck) that the place has been altered, neutered, and fucked up beyond all recognition.

    Now, when I take the kids to a park, it's all 'yay, grass...now, let's go home'. I can see plenty of grass around my house without wasting gas, and so far, the government will still let me bat a whiffle ball, or throw a football at my kid's heads in my own yard.

    All of my filthy habits have been nearly taxed and regulated out of existence...gosh, I'm glad I don't smoke anymore. One day, I expect a fee to be applied for jacking off.
    I'm not going to go off on a rant against the government. I love the government. It protects us from each other, and keeps us from having to worry about wild animals, and wilder indians. If you're tired of civilization, pack up and move to Somalia, or the Sudan. Don't bother letting me know how that works out for you, cuz I already know, and I hate whining, unless I'm the one doing it.

    No, what I hate about government, is all the shit-for-brains assholes we let do it. Local government everywhere is clogged by these butt-plugs who went out and campaigned for the job because everybody who was qualified to do it had something better to do.
    So, one day, we end up looking around at a world utterly transformed for the worse, and saying 'what the fuck?'

    It's as if you exited from a bomb shelter to find that androids had taken over and created Stepford all around you.

    And now, it's too late to string them up. Because they're everywhere...

    Have a nice day!




       

    Presented Without Comment...

    What you don't know can't hurt you, right?




       

    So, There I Was...

    ...a bit ago, slappin the ass, and gnawin through the grass, and I got to thinking, yeah, the door's locked, but the kid's room is right next door, so are they in there listening to me treat Mommy like a whore?

    Did any of you ever catch your parents? Snoop? Nat is just as sneaky as there is...

    I wonder.




        Monday, January 21, 2008

    Rate Me, Bitches!

    Yep, Haloscan is fiddling again. I clicked a little box and said 'why not?' and now all of my posts have stars underneath with which you may rate them.

    I am not going to vote for myself, and frankly, I have no idea how the thing works.

    Have fun...




       

    I Used To Dance...

    Walking is a chore, now, but I used to cut a rug. The Baptists are correct: dancing is just fucking while standing up...

    If you do it properly.

    There are probably several types of dancers, but when you talk about white boys, there are: those who think they can dance, and afford no end of amusement to the crowd, and those who just plain can.

    Can you draw women out onto the floor to gyrate with you with just a gesture, and then a couple of their friends, and then cut the one you want from the herd and get a blowjob from her in her car? You're a dancer.

    Note, I am concentrating on men here...women can just stand there and shake their tits. The males will flock from miles around to seek her favor.
    But: a man, much like birds on the nature shows, has to perform, and the better the performance, well, blowjob. Kicking the teddy bears off her bed and dog-styling her while she shrieks and hitches and bucks...need I say more?

    When the wife and I married, we were both at the height of our hotness, I the Alpha wolf, and she my killer she-bitch, and one time we went into the Top-Flight Ballroom, a bar and meat market in Chico CA, and put a good buzz on, and set to dancin. I was totally into her, and we were grinding and mashing, and I swear, I was about to cum, and the DJ asked us if we'd mellow out so they didn't get their license pulled.

    We came out of our gyratical stupor and noted that we were alone in a circle of dance floor, surrounded by wide-eyed guys, and beautiful college girls licking beads of estrogen-sweat off their upper lips. We got applauded when we went to find a table and refill.

    I could probably teach you how to dance, but then I'd have to kill ya. And trust me, none of these faggots on the dance shows 'has it'. Oh, some can move pretty, but to draw women in, hypnotized and helpless, I think you have to be born with it, quite frankly.

    I was also very pretty, but I've seen plain guys, and flat out ugly guys, put the moves down, and draw women in to their gravitational pull.

    One of my greatest regrets is never learning to Tango, and not being able to do it now.




       

    FUCK Saint Martin Luther King...

    I have a middle name, too, and I am not pretentious enough to use it. I know, I know, bitching about MLK on this day is like bitching about hearing Santa Claus touted over and over on Christmas, but why even have the fucking day in the first place?

    Honoring that plagiarizing, sexual reprobate of a Communist, who's two closest lieutenants were the idiot twins, Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton...and let's not forget that punk-ass bitch Andrew Young, just makes me crazy. Note: I have not said 'nigger' once, and if you do, you will disappear. Fucking racist bastard. Just like MLK and his crew were.

    Yeah, it was way past time for the government to recognize and codify that black people are humans, too, but how long do we whites (hereafter referred to as: The Majority) need that cock shoved down our throats?

    Oh, I know, I know, all of you out there who have been raised since kindergarten (isn't that a Nazi word?) to worship at the altar of Saint Martin, are clutching your chests and having the vapors about now. 'Why, I colored his portrait with Crayons many many times!' you say.

    Well, fuck you.

    Who has done more for humanity of all colors than the discoverer of Penicillin? Where's his day? And Columbus? Without whom I would not be alive and enjoying being a citizen in the greatest country in the world?
    No, people protest on his day, so please allow me to unzip and unlimber my member and spray hot piss all over your fake-ass holiday.

    This holiday exists because politicians wanted to pander to their corrals of black cattle that they feed and nurture and keep ignorant, fat, happy, and stupid, so they can come by every so often and harvest their votes. Prove me wrong. Try.

    Like I always say, that scrawny cracker should have shot a few more of King's crew on that balcony. We could get the whole week off.

    But then, the liquor stores here would be closed for a week, so there is that...




       

    Absolute Perfection...





        Saturday, January 19, 2008

    The Irrational Athiest...

    by Vox Day. (A Review)

    I have decided to start reviewing this book a chunk at a time. It is the kind of writing that compels me to write, and he does all of your thinking for you, so you don't have to do anything but lay back and enjoy it. So far.
    And what a work of art it is. So far. It grabs you by the nose with velvet gloved fingers, pulls you around where it wants you to go...I am reminded of the Francis Dollarhyde character in Manhunter, when he is giving the slide show to the creep reporter Freddy Lounds, saying "Do you see?" as he takes Freddy from one scene of horror to the next.

    Just reading the chapter headings was a joy, and made me want to dive into the pool of words he has presented and ordered for our pleasure. As of now, I recommend you buy this book. That may change, but I suspect not. This is obviously a labor of love, written by one who loves his work.

    More to come...


    Update:

    A petty critique...

    Bane is not happy with the footnoting. It vexes his ADD so to have to go on to the bottom of the next page and read it. Bane realizes that this may just be a quirk of the format in which he received the book, yet he remains vexed.

    Update:

    The facts come at you, thick and fast, like bugs attracted to your headlights while driving through farmland in Spring.
    This is not a critique, merely an observation. Just keep your mouth closed.

    My little postman is working himself to exhaustion, pigeonholing everything. Screw the overpaid SOB, now he's got real work to do.

    This is very much like reading a Coulter book, without all the paper cuts.


    Update:

    Oh, did I mention that you have to be smart to read this book? There is the slightest chance that reading it will make you smarter, but should you be unprepared, and not packing a somewhat formidable IQ, you will be much like an armadillo attempting to cross a Texas highway.

    Now, back to my reading...

    Addendum...

    Like I always say, you must be at least this tall to ride this ride. And dummies need not apply. BTW, it just keeps on getting better and better...

    Addendum...

    The wife was reading page 35 over my shoulder, and she said "What a beautiful piece of writing...I love how it flows so smoothly, let's buy it." She's hot to read it, but her breathing down my neck gives me a boner, so, Sunday...Amazon...be there.

    Addendum...

    I just had a thought, while reading: 'this is rather like being a kitten caught up in a ball of yarn'. Enjoyable, but hey, yarn. Even I have had to stop and reread here and there. Could just be the whiskey, but...

    'scuse me, that yarn's just asking for it...gotta go.

    Update:

    Do me a favor, and go here, and decipher the hieroglyphics, runes, and gobbledygook, and order the book accordingly.

    For what it is worth, I am really enjoying it, immensely, odd, considering what a fragile, damaged soul the author is.

    Now shoo, get along little dogey, follow my every command as if it was the word of God, and just...

    Buy it.




       

    This Is What I Married...















    Stolen shamelessly from Kim du Toit.

    I hollered at the wife to come look, and she came in, and thought I'd put one of her modeling pics up from back in the day.

    Who says God doesn't love me...




       

    For My Boys In The Box...















    More to cum...




       

    Drop By...

    ...read this post, and tell this guy how much we appreciate him.

    Fuck the New York Times...

    Update:

    Dammit, Doc is back in the sandbox again. Give him some love.




        Friday, January 18, 2008

    Your Daily Finger Eruption...

    I got burned out reading the book on my screen...can't a brutha get a hard copy for review? Cheap bastid. Love it, so far, by the way, except for your inevitable inability to resist sniping at our Middle Eastern adventures.

    I don't mind your rabid doggy, and I don't mind it when he bites...

    Buy Vox's book, fuckers. Don't ever come before me and call yourself a Christian or an Atheist until you have read this book. I mean it. And I'm mean.

    The days are nights, and the nights are longer, and I am looking forward to Daylight Savings Time.

    The wife refused to wear the leopard suit (posted below) for me, and I said, Baby, you're dressing for the dick, not for your girlfriends. You will dress up like Little Bo Peep and carry a sheep if I say so. Or the sheep gets it...

    Well, Happy Friday, and welcome to another artificially constructed holiday (the 'weekend', for you slow learners). Enjoy your man-touching spectacles, involving balls. Personally, I'd rather see lions tearing apart illegal aliens in the arena, but hey...there's plenty of time for that. It's coming, you know.

    Comanche Moon threw a tire and rattled to the side of the road, throwing rubber, there at the last. The wife and I looked at each other and as one, said 'what the fuck?' A terrible implosion of a show that showed great promise. Writer's strike? I dunno, but when you leave the action and jump ahead 7 years, that tells me you filmed the last part first with the Second Unit, you shot your wad for ratings, and you think I'm stupid.

    I wanna see that Dungeon Siege movie, but A) I'm broke and B) it doesn't show til 7ish at night. Bane does not go see movies at night. Dark, plus dark, equals dark things with access to people of the light. And then there's that whole germ-carrier thing going on. Coughing snotrag bags of meat squeaking their nasty teeth into their popcorn and mumbling to one another, which may as well be shouting as far as I'm concerned.

    I know I've told ya'll the 'Critters' story before, but many of you are new, and it is a jewel in my crown, and probably why my older kids don't visit me. All that much...

    Remember 'Critters'? Classic Sci-Fi film, and one I wanted to see very badly. My oldest daughter hadn't been born yet, my three boys ranged from toddler to tots, the movie wasn't rated too badly, I was large and in charge, so off we went.

    BOY! was that a scary motherfucker. Ooops! Brought the kids out of the matinée (lifelong habit, the matinée) and they were shaking, and hungry, and...
    They wanted bologna sandwiches, which was just fine with me, and they sat at table while I prepared lunch.

    As is wont to happen, a spirit of evil overcame me, and I plotted. Kids, rattled: check. In the movie, the space critters would flex and shoot poisonous spines out of their backs, and into the soft white meat of various humanoids, so...

    I tore off a couple of chunks of baloney and mayo'd them to my neck, stuck a toothpick into each one, smeared some ketchup around, staggered out of the kitchen, and gargled "Critters!" Hilarity ensued. I played dead for a while. Any wonder I have two Marines, and another son who refuses to see me?

    Ha, what a joker I am. Well, it was pretty dang funny...

    Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go play 'Terrifying Giant Vampire Bat' with my current batch of little ones. There will be screaming.

    Tell me again how 'learning' is a marker for intelligence?




       

    Have Some Boobs...

    I'm getting reader's cramp, so...
    __________________
























    __________________




       

    Fucking Mormons...

    Wes has a great post and a fine dissection of a typical attitude towards the Immigration Invasion.

    There are/is more than one part(s) to it, so be sure to read the whole thing.

    Fuck you, Orson Scott Card...you're dead to me.




       

    Pretty Words...

    I've been taken in before by the pretty words of politicians, and then they lay me down in bed, flip me over, and assfuck me. With no lube.

    Checking out records, there is no one, including Fred Thompson, who is worthy of being taken into my bed. Oh, Fred talks purdy, but...

    I will no longer ever again hold my nose and vote, with my fingers crossed.




       

    Check Out The Uncircumcised Dickhead...

    ...in the keffeya (and no, I don't give a shit how it is spelled).

    One more Hollywood dickhead off my list...




        Thursday, January 17, 2008

    Urgent Help Needed...

    Via My dear friend (and how many people alive can I say that about?) Sparrow, I find a link to this blog, and one of the worst, most desperate problems it has ever been my misfortune to read about.

    I know there are people who read me that could write a check to them and cover it all. Do it, ya cheap bastards. Dig deep. A blow for the Byrne's is a strike against Canada! Do your patriotic duty, and let's fuck Canada!

    Man, I got chest pains just reading their story. Oh, and pray, too, especially as the guy (Chris Byrne) is an atheist. I love it when God helps an atheist out.

    Grim cosmic irony...


    Update:

    I'm gonna leave this up top for awhile, so new stuff (if any) will appear below it.

    And apparently I was some confused about his religious status; he an his wife are Catholics. Is this a test, Lord?

    Well, do what you can for them please, folks. And spread this around to your blogs and friends and blog-friends.

    Let's use the internet for a force of Canadian destruction! Damned commies...




       

    Things Bane Is Apparently Not To Say...

    To Wife: 'put a sock in it!' or 'Damn, go wash that pussy...'

    In front of daughter, while watching Lazytown: 'Dayum, that little pink-haired bitch is hot!'

    To handicapped, ill-formed son: 'Go fetch me the coldest beer those little paws can find in the fridge, mutant...'

    Don't judge me...




       

    Meeow!!!
















    More of this wild pussycat here.




       

    Off The Grid...

    I'm gonna blow this pop-stand for at least the rest of the day. I gotta read a book, and so far, it's really good, even though I initially cared nothing for the subject, nor the protagonists .

    So, unless tiny aliens burst out of my fingertips and force me to write something, I'll only be through here to sweep the trash out of my comments every so often.

    I'll be back when I'm done, whenever that is.




        Wednesday, January 16, 2008

    Thump Thump Thump...

    Is this thing on? My last comment was at 10am, and I made it.

    You slackers are a bunch of non-slack lacking lazy motherfuckers, is all I can say...




       

    Go...

    ...and whack yourself blind.

    Or at least until you need glasses.




       

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!




       

    Bipartisanship Is Just Another Word...

    ...for gang rape.

    One person, your enemy, is bad enough when they assfuck you; having one of your kin hold you down while you're getting rammed is the true meaning of 'insult to injury'.
    When I vote for a champion to go into the dragon's lair, I don't want to see him flying out on the dragon's back, as it flames me to toast.

    Where did this urge to 'get along' come from? Why do they refer to themselves as 'friends'? As a cruel joke, I assure you I don't find it humorous. And I love a good cruel joke. What happened to the days where they met under trees and shot at one another? Caned a miscreant on the floor of the Senate?

    I would so totally vote for someone in a political debate who went over to his or her opponent and punched them hard in the face, and put the boots to them until security pulled them off.

    If I was in the same building with Cynthia McKinney, I would walk over and kick her in the cunt so hard she would wear it as a novelty necklace. "What is that setting, dear?" "Oh, that's just my clit..."

    I'd kick Barney Frank in the cunt, too. Just not enough cunt kicken goin on round here. And I'd kick Dr James Dobson in his cunt, too. Sorry, his syrupy voice just came on the radio to tell me how to raise my kids.

    Fuck, I know how to raise kids. Let them watch 'Bats' on cable, and then flap around after them with a big black blanket over your shoulders, making bat screeching sounds.

    So there.




       

    She Can Knock On My Wood...

    ...any old time.

    What a set of pipes, natural range, and an ass on gimbals, with legs all the way up to it. Goodness.

    Even surrounded by the most atrocious collection of satin-wrapped negroe faggots ever seen, she shines.

    I am smitten...

    Update:

    Drop some acid, and check out this version. Oh, those lips...they could go down on history.




        Tuesday, January 15, 2008

    There Is No Spoon...

    Though rumored to exist, there is no single 'Sun Source' for martial arts that exists, though some come close. No, it is more like traveling the world and finding different parts of the weapon, and assembling it frantically as the monster comes for you, and then saying 'fuck it' and grabbing your girlfriend's cat by the back legs and beating the motherfucker to death with it. And then jumping up and down on the beasts head until it mooshes. And then, go stomp the monster to death.

    Palm/heel strike: reach up to touch your hair...smile...detour at your ear and reach out and down(ish) and swivel up until the palm meets the point of their chin, nose, or...

    What, you missed? Asshole pull back? In my world, that is Banespeak for 'oh please, chop me in the throat, won't you?' so curl your fingers of your striking hand slightly, yet tightly, cocking your thumb under your first finger, and strike those knuckles downward into their exposed throat.

    Be the axe, baby. If they cough blood, rub it on your face. It will confuse the easily confused police.

    Bring the knee opposite to your striking hand hard across into the side of their hip, hard. They should stagger and/or fly (depending on both your size, strength, and precision of delivery) off to the side, exposing their back. If so, kick hard into the kidneys...if barefoot (i.e., just escaped from the basement dungeon, and just what the fuck were you doing down there?) use your heel(s).

    If he (or she) ends up on the floor facing you, remember my 'oh fuck, I'm dying' rule. Wounded animal, and all that. Plus, maybe the fucker(ess) is high, or drunk, or worse, both. I have seen assholes on PCP absolutely waste a group of cops.

    So, on the kitchen table is a Mossberg 12 gauge pump, and a couple of holstered pistols. You go to pick up the shotgun and draw a pistol, a big 1911 .45. These guns eject to the right, and because of where they were, you have them in opposite hands from what you are comfortable with. Toss the pistol up in the air a bit, slap the shotgun (using my tossing technique) vertically into your right hand, catch the pistol as it comes back centerline to your chest, tuck it under your left armpit as if it was a shoulder holster, and test to see if the shotgun is loaded by aiming it at the man on the floor and pulling the trigger. Safety off? Got nothin but click? Press the slide release and rack it, looking into the ejection port...a red, yellow, green, or black fat round jump up in there? Good, rack it closed, and blow that cocksucker on the floor apart.

    Head or gut, dealer's choice.

    Rack it again so the smoking empty flies out, look for a second round, and also feel up in the loading well with your thumb to see if another round (feel for the primer, and engraving on the rim...smooth is bad) is ready for its closeup...shit, empty? No boxes of rounds on the table? Yeah, a new box? But wait, you hear footsteps a few rooms away, coming your direction.

    Set the shotgun on the table, and pull that slightly sweaty pistol out from your armpit, and push back gently on the Mainspring bushing so the chamber opens up a little (oops, told ya this was the advanced course) and see if you see the brass of a cartridge...if you think you have enough time, drop the mag and check...no time? Grab the second pistol on the table and repeat, rack both hammers back, and face the door. Make yourself as small as possible.

    Tip both pistols slightly towards each other, remember the left one will be ejecting hot brass, so hold it a bit lower than the right one...draw a line in your mind straight to your target, like shooting pool. You only need to tip the barrels slightly towards each other at this range. Ideally, the bullets should follow a triangle downrange and meet at the center line you have drawn with your eyes.

    The German Gestapo developed a technique where two men with machine pistols would stand outside of a door, and the one on the left would draw a diagonal line of bullets from top right of the door, to bottom left, and the other would repeat the process from top left to bottom left...then they would change magazines, and sweep back and forth at waist level, and then the entry team would...

    Well, you've got more pressing needs now, don't you...

    So, where were we, oh yes, your friend(s) down the hall are bursting in, so you look above the sights, keeping only one of the front sights in your concentration (the other hand will follow...you have been practicing, right, my darlings?) and you press each trigger rapidly, but ALTERNATING! keeping your eyes focused, but squinting...you are filling the room with gunsmoke and boiled blood...footing is treacherous, the casings act like some scamp rolled marbles out onto the floor, and the greasy blood acts like, well, grease. Kneel, or squat. Or lay down in the mess, turn to one side, and fire from there.

    Believe it or not, you present less of a target laying horizontal to an attack, than perpendicular to it. Think about it. And your attackers have entered what is called 'The Fatal Funnel'. Think about that, too. Sketch it out.

    So, you've blasted your guns empty, the slides have locked back on empty magazines, and you note through the smoke that makes the room look like a kitchen fire is happening, that your humble narrator has provided a stack of loaded magazines on the table, because he loves you, and...

    Unless customized, the magazine ejection button is on the left side of each pistol. Try to not let them drop out on the linoleum floor, won't you? There may be other miscreants waiting just outside that know just what that clatter means.
    So, with the thumb of the right hand, and the trigger finger of the left hand, access the buttons, and drop out the empty mags onto the body of the shotgun blast recipient...hopefully he has stopped twitching by now, cuz that's just creepy, and...

    Keeping the guns in your hands, reach out and recover a full magazine with the thumb and last two fingers of your left hand, seat it into the magazine well of the gun in your right hand, and use right thumb on slide release letting slide snap forward, loading a round in, repeat procedure for left gun, using opposite hands and fingers, duh.

    See how easy this is?

    Now go out in the mud and the blood of several jungles, or the frozen wastelands of the Battle of the Bulge, or the hammering sandstorms and drugged up jihadis of Ramadi, and see how it works for ya...


    Update:

    Sorry about the sloppy writing on this. I've tried to fix it, but it's a mess.

    Oh well...




       

    Blatant Voter Fraud...

    Go here and vote for Sparrow's caption. I'm gonna dump the wife and go woo a rich woman (Beaches? Holy Crap!) so maybe if I can help push her across the line, she'll want me.

    I'll give her a ring...she just has to buy it...




       

    There's That Word Again...

    ...'youths'.

    What kind of 'youths', do you think? Care to place any bets?

    Didn't think so...




       

    Police Are Now The Enemy...

    Read this. No longer there to 'Protect and Serve', they are there simply to frame, and subjugate.

    I am actually afraid to write this. I am not part of an armed, uniformed gang, that can kill me and the system will intone solemnly that I had it coming. I'm all alone.

    And so are you...




       

    Jews = Muslims...

    This story just pisses me right the fuck off. If they pulled that shit on my wife or daughter, I would Uzi the piss out of those weird ass fuckers. I don't care how weird you are, do your thing. Wear the magic underoos, strap boxes to your foreheads and bob around like an autistic kid. But cross over the line into my personal space with your weird-ass religious bullshit, and prepare for a good old fashioned fuckin up.

    Stay the fuck of my porch, too. And you talk shit to me and/or mine, it is time for you to die. Fuck you.

    God forgives, Bane doesn't.




        Monday, January 14, 2008

    NOW I Want To Punch Him!

    Said to the wife, a bit ago. Nattie had been bragging to me how she could pee in two different colors, so of course, I had to explain how I could pee every color of the rainbow at the same time.

    This made her angry. Especially when I told her how unicorns came from miles around to drink it. I avoided The Fist of Death by a hair, there, and she and her brother were off snuggling in the wife's bed, and I had to pee, and when I came out of the bathroom, I asked them to please not disturb the unicorn that had showed up...

    Things were almost nearly just fine, until I announced that I had given birth to a magic unicorn from my urethra...

    Odds of punching are high. Unicorn Defpunch One, I would think.




       

    Still More Gunhandling...

    Sorry, but its on my mind...

    You may find yourself carrying two weapons, for some reason. Common configurations are long gun plus pistol, two pistols, knife and pistol. I own so many, I have to fight buck fever when it comes time to choose one for some application or other.

    First, might I suggest some Basic Training with two handguns, identical if possible. The usual disclaimers apply, safety-wise...we are getting up into the advanced classes here, kids, but still...

    I started my two gun training with a pair of matched .380 Erma 'Baby Lugers'. Tossing a beercan out in front of me, and bouncing it around. And since I see the type of questions I get asked, except for some reading of the basics, I was self taught. You can do that, you know. Doesn't work too well with brain surgery, but...

    The two pistols brought thunder and lightning just fine, smoke, fire, and flying empties....s'all good. And they punch a fine .38 hole in whatever, and you avoid the crater and resultant dirt bath if you had used .40+ caliber weapons. Heck, a pair of Ruger .22 MKII's would have been perfect.

    Now, I'm not much on safety, aside from being a seatbelt fanatic, but as Butthead would say, 'things that hurt thuck....' Never having been a big fan of the pain, allow me to share hard-earned insights into it...

    Automatics eject hot, screaming hot empties when fired. These bits of scorching brass, should they find themselves suddenly down your shirt, do not play well with nipples. They like to bonk off your face, and flip out like thrown cigarettes into your buddies face, so, in training, put some fucking decent eye protection on.

    Revolvers will shoot a jet of superheated gasses out of both sides of the front of the cylinder (if you don't know this already, well, here's your BB gun) that, depending on the caliber, will flay the meat of your hand open, or leave a finger or two squirming like maggots in the dirt. Not all the danger (of exploding a mechanical contrivance in order to emit a raging chunk of hot metal downrange) occurs at the front of the gun. And I have the scars to prove it.

    And if you are firing a gun and the thing says 'pop' instead of bang, or maybe just goes 'pthhhhhht' like a queer trying to lure you into the bushes, set that gun down right then and there, and back away from it as if it was a cobra snake. Wait for a while.

    You can't call EOD, you stinking civilian, so wait 5 minutes until the gun does or does not explode, then approach cautiously, and open it up and remove all rounds and cast them aside. Then, take a section of cleaning rod (you DID bring your cleaning kit with you, did you not?!) And put it down the barrel from the front, and gently tap the rod with your rubber (or wooden) mallet until the round falls out of the barrel chamber.

    Firing a second round just might have blown your face off, cuz you just had your first squib load, baby. Do not fire the gun again, until you have taken the piece (gun) into a professional gunsmith with metallurgical experience, and told him you had a squib load, so's he can use his alchemy to see if anything was strained or broken.

    Heck, I didn't mean for this to turn into a safety lecture (or did he? Hmmmmm...) but there ya go. I just love you people so much, and the money you send me, that I could just hug you really hard around the throat...but the Carotid Takedown is a subject for another day...

    Just think. Look at the weapon. See where the cartridge explodes, and trace its path as it exits, including all those lovely gasses you primitives create with your crude weaponry on this planet. The gas tube of a 'gas-operated' weapon (oh, AK47, SKS, M-16, AR15) will give you a scorch mark you'll never forget. Barrels of guns get hot. Often at the first shot. Fire a cylinder full of .44 magnum, and then stuff that sucker in your pants, let me know how that works out for ya. I've never trained with women, so I can't describe the stench that sizzled pussy hair and scorched Maxi-Pads give off...oh wait, yes I can.

    Feel the burn!

    Okay, you've bought the gun, now, go out and fuck up with it! Have fun! Don't be a wuss. You have a stove, and likely a microwave. Rode a motorcycle? Shut up then.

    All appliances bring their own risks with them.

    And I still owe ya'll a post on two handed, two gun gunhandling.

    Sorry....




       

    Nattie Runs Like Dale Earnhardt Drives...

    Full out, balls to the wall, and hits things a lot. Have I mentioned her gravity impairment? Yes, she is allergic to it. Johnny runs like a kid who has been in the hospital a few times, and can hardly see for shit...scanning the floor for obstacles, slowing into the turns, etc. When Nat gets on his tail, he abandons all hope. 'Break left, red one! Break left!' BLAM! and the chubby pink Death Star claims another victim.

    Welcome to Monday, my friends. And enemies. I've really got nothing much to say, and plenty of time to say it in. Rush renamed the RINO's today, calling them 'Jellos'...soft and wiggly, and you can see right through them. I like it.

    I have failed you, oh my brethren and sisterns. I forgot to metion that the new Terminator show premiered on Fox last night. The wife and I really, really enjoyed it. Good escapist fun.
    And then I failed you with part 1 of 'Comanche Moon' which premiered last night. It is a prequel to 'Lonsome Dove', which we also loved, and 'Comanche Moon' is quite possibly the best, or at least in the top five of anything ever filmed. Some of the best dialogue I've ever heard, plot twists aplenty, beautifully filmed, wonderfully acted. Val Kilmer's part is worth the price of admission alone.

    My town, my county has been visited by the CDC, because the Norwalk virus is epidemic, and has made its presence known. I have been fighting off some sort of virus for a few weeks. I forget what they call it, but one of its little gifts has been to fill my Eustachian Tubes with liquid, which has thrown my balance out of whack. I can't stand in the middle of a room and close my eyes, or the Gravity Demon leaps off of Nattie and onto my back and tries to ride me to the ground. Makes taking a shower problematic.

    I also want to extend a heartfelt thank you to any of you who have found it in your hearts to open your wallets and help out Chris Byrne and his wife during their time of trouble. I clowned a little, but their plight is deadly serious, and is very much a 'there, but for the Grace of God go I' situation.

    After they get helped, I think bloggers should start rattling the cages of their representatives in this, an election year, and get them to spank Canada on the nose with a rolled up newspaper and train them to not shit on America's rug, anymore.

    This bullshit shall not stand. I am tired of evil-doers being able to scamper across either the southern or northern borders and waggling their fingers in their ears and singing 'olly olly oxen, free!'




        Sunday, January 13, 2008

    More On Gun Handling...

    Read the title, moron. I'm not even sure I should write this. So, if you get killed, don't come cryin ta me...

    All these gun-handlers, spinners and such, you see on TV and the movies, are fools if they have their guns loaded. I played at it, and got good, then realized the value of some of the moves, as well as it being a great way to shoot your own balls off by accident.

    There may come a time when you have to pass your weapon from one hand to the other, for some reason or the other. Keeping in mind that this is a great place to disarm yourself, and thus be fucked, practice, practice, practice. And then practice some more.

    And then practice some more.

    Start off with a thick handled butter knife, and pass it from hand to hand. Learn to open the fingers of the weapon holding hand, and shoot the knife into the slightly cupped palm of your empty hand. You'll 'know it' when you get it right.
    Get a roll of quarters, pass it and pass it. Holding your hands further and further apart, until you can snap it into the opposite palm with hands spread a bit beyond shoulder's width apart.

    Then start over with a sharper knife. Do this with bottles and cans at parties, and you will look badass. Do it with a cocktail, and look like a dumbass.

    Keep upgrading to sharper and bigger and heavier knives, and for every cut you receive, go back to square one. Don't tell me how clumsy you are. A one-eyed dog could do this with training. And, oh, say, hands! Opposable thumbs? Yeah.

    When you can flip a knife into your opposite palm and turn and slash behind you, cleaving a man-sized cardboard target in twain horizontally, and imagine a steaming pile of guts spilling out into his clutching hands, a 'why God?' look on his face, you are ready...

    To start all over again with guns. Rifles and shotguns will come later. Advanced course, and a workout. And I suggest you start your gun work with a pistol, a big heavy revolver, and a large automatic. Throwing a .25 is probably the most dangerous, hardest thing to do.

    So, hie thee to a toy store, and buy a couple of these new hyper realistic pistols, that cycle and 'fire' when you pull the trigger. Then work with pellet guns. The 8mm soft-pel ones are fine. Load em. And remember that every time you dodge a pellet as it ricochets around the room, that you could have just decorated the place with your brains.

    Just remember, start off short, one palm right next to the weapon, and simply place it into your empty palm. Repeat this a billion times or so, and your body will tell you when you are ready to go out to further and further.

    Place a move at the end of each pass, once you get used to the transfer move. Make a slash, or a stab, or just turn on the balls of your feet and take a defensive position.
    When using a pellet gun, have a waste can (or two) stuffed with newspaper, that you turn and fire deliberately into. You are teaching your musculature and your nervous system to play nice, and get along with each other, and not hurt you.

    And to hurt someone else without you even really having to think about it.

    This is the place where you step beyond fear, and emotion, and all of those cluttery fluttery thoughts humans allow into their heads, and go Nike, and...

    Just do it.


    Update:

    Whups! Forgot the most important part. You need to be able to watch your opponent(s) and surroundings, and to be able to do this in total darkness. so, go get that blindfold on, and get to work.




       

    Chapter And Verse...

    I have no idea where I got most of my knowledge from. I just know I know, and what I know.

    Don't anybody get their panties wadded, I'm speaking generally, here, about an interweb wide problem: somebody demanding you cite the page and paragraph and line of a book you learned something in and if you can't, that alone is proof you are a lying idiot.

    Look, lawyering is lawyering. I've done it, I know how, and you spend a fuck of a long time in a law library poring over books and previous cases to build your case to present in court...and then some smooth-talking shyster comes in and grabs the emotions of the jury and appeals to their feelings, but that is a whole nother story for another day...

    Let me make up a story to show you what I mean about this infestation of what I call 'internet lawyering':
    I make a statement that bread mold is caused by a type of mold that falls vertically (true) and that you can prevent your bread from going moldy by laying the bag sideways on the counter when you open it, and close it as soon as possible (also true).

    Now pipsqueak A pipes up and says 'what kind of mold is it' and calls you a liar when you can't remember, even though you learned this in a university level botany class 20 years ago.

    Then pipsqueaks B, C, and D pipe up and demand your source, with cries of 'where's the cite?' Now, you know damn well that you traded those books back to the bookstore for beer money 30 minutes after the last final, and that, furthermore, bookstores come out with new versions of books every year to make you have to go out and by them with all that wonderful Pell Grant money, so even if you had the botany textbook in front of you, you'd be hard-pressed to 'find the cite' twenty years later, after 20 or so respawnings of the same material.

    And that doesn't even begin to include all of the anecdotal evidence that we humans collect and store away as fact, even if some of it is distorted, hearsay, or downright lies.
    So, when I sit in a bar with a drunken Huey door-gunner, who I am trying to help work through his PTSD, and he describes the sound of enemy rounds stitching their way down the fuselage towards him, and pounds out the tattoo on the cigarette machine, and the 7th Air Cav boys in the bar flinch and try real hard not to jump for cover, I realize that I have been taken there, and given a glimpse into hell.

    But it's anecdotal. Can't be real. Can't cite the page. Fuck, I can't even remember when it was, except that it was cold because we were wearing coats, and it was in the mid 1970's.

    Heck, maybe I don't even exist. You people have bought me a new computer and monitor, gifts, and given me money. But maybe I just made Johnny up. Maybe Nat isn't real. Maybe I really am a little fat teenager sitting in his mommy's basement, wanking to porn. That seems to be the prevailing insult, isn't it? Delivered with snark and a cackle and everybody has a good laugh...

    Fuck, I hate people...cleansing breath, Bane, hold it, now let it out, slowly...

    And, we're back. Am I saying don't be careful? Take everything at face value? Fuck no! I have run across more liars, charlatans, and fools out there in the hinterwebs than you can shake a dick at. Some do it just for fun. Some have agendas. When my whiskers tickle, I sense the trap, and bug the fuck out.

    I have seen reprehensible bastards using personal tragedies they have made up, to take advantage of people. I've had someone try to run just about every con and hustle on me there is out there, and new ones come every day.

    For safety's sake, blog anonymously, use a false name, and don't put pictures of you or your kids or your house, or mention where you work with any specificity.

    It can come to no good end.




        Saturday, January 12, 2008

    I'm Sorry...

    ...I'm just not seeing the problem with this.

    Except the part where the mom bailed him out, and the dad didn't beat him to death.

    To death, people. Finis. Game Over. To the white meat. Unresponsive, call the coroner.

    And then go take out the mother...




       

    On Gunhandling...

    ...and I'm gonna shoot the first fucker right in the neck who tells me to call it a 'weapon', or a 'rifle' or whatever. Hint: three letters in 'gun'.

    Before I get started, please allow me to clear something up. I'm a slow learner on shit like this. But I've heard more than one person mention my sociopathology as if it was a trait to be admired. Sure, it gives you certain advantages, but if you make it into middle age without being killed, or going to prison, you begin to realize perfectly well that you are intensely handicapped.
    I envy you your emotions, your conscience. I have tried to imitate what you do naturally all my life. Yet, when a threat looms, there's a gun in my hand, suddenly, and I am fully prepared to ventilate someone's ventricles without a seconds hesitation, or a moments regret.

    That makes me sad. Because its all about me, you know...

    So, let's discuss sociopathic killers throughout history (gun history) and admire their steady hands, and body counts.

    First, we have Sergeant Alvin York. Oh, you thought I was going to talk about batshit insane murderers? Whatever gave you that idea?
    Anyway, he set about killing large numbers of Germans with a terrible, certain precision. Despite his religious upbringing, he slaughtered that day, and I am sure that he felt a sense of regret when they surrendered. When your blood gets up, the beast in men wants to howl, and it is tough to get it back into the pet carrier.

    The next two are a tie, William Hickok, and John Wesley Hardin. Hardin went on to become a lawyer, and Hickok was a reprobate who suicidally sat with his back to a door and got shot in the back of his head for his lack of attention to detail.

    George S. Patton almost made my list, because he was a true gunfighter, who killed both theirs and ours with great abandon, but he falls into the 'Batshit Crazy' category, and was thus disqualified.

    I have read every book I could read on all of these fellows, and more (Gunfighters of the Kansas City Cowtowns is an excellent reference) to learn both their histories, and their techniques. Some of it is just silly, and some was useful, and I imported it into my own repertoire.
    Of all of the 'modern' gun writers, I found Elmer Kieth to be the only one who was a pistoleer of any use. There's another old fellow, his name escapes me at the moment, who taught me the technique of looking down the barrel of your own gun in a full length mirror, until you see glowing copper, and then you can shoot a person in the eye from the hip.

    Most everything the so-called 'trick shooters' have to offer is worthless. Custom guns in controlled situations, firing low powered sub-sonic rounds so as to not make the babies in the audience cry, or elderly women urinate themselves.

    The one thing those fellows do have to offer, is the concept of 'practice makes perfect', and gun control. i.e., gun handling. Bill Hickok could fire two pistols accurately at the same time, on targets to his left and right, and hit them. He could split a playing card in half, and once sank three rounds near simultaneously into a mans heart who was coming out of a saloon at least fifty yards away.

    And remember, he used .36 caliber Colts, exclusively. Single action. And I don't think that anybody who hadn't been elected to be his target even flinched when he fired.

    I carried a K14 S&W Masterpiece for a long time, back in the bad old days. 8 3/8ths inch barrel. Sometimes in a Bianchi shoulder holster, sometime just down the pants. When I fired it, it was often at a black dot I'd drawn in the center of a paper plate, and witnesses said it looked as if all the chambers had gone off at once.

    And the holes in the black spot stayed there. And any time I wanted to barbecue, I'd step out onto the back porch at night, shine a flood into the apple orchard, pick out the fattest doe, and drop her. From, oh, about 75 yards or so. If you eat buck, you're gay...

    Ammo was MUCH much cheaper, then, and I shot about 500 rounds a week. Then one day, I realized I could hit anything I aimed at. That bird up there? That shovel handle 100 yards away stuck blade down in the manure pile? Yeah, that one pissed me off, having to replace that handle. Remind me again how I'm a genius...

    And then one day, I realized I didn't need to shoot anymore. That whenever I picked up a gun, I was effective with it. So I quit. Then, I joined the military. And qualified expert each and every time I fired, including the first time, in dreadful snow, falling snow, and I had only recently had the fingernail on my most used trigger finger removed due to a very painful (and incredibly not genius) accident.

    You may have noted that I have not mentioned rifles here. Pistols are works of art, rifles are tools. Becoming expert with a pistol, and switching to a rifle, has to be the same as a carrier pilot getting to land on a large, smooth desert runway. Add a scope, and nothing in front of you survives.

    Shotguns, now, are workout machines, and will flat bust you up if you handle them wrong. Benelli autoloader and SPAS-12 excluded.

    I mentioned elsewhere today, I think it was Kim du Toit's inestimable blog, that weapons are like musical instruments. I'd like to expand on that. Once you've worked with it, a combat folding knife makes one sound when it is opened correctly, and the blade seated properly. This can be the difference between life and death. Or losing a finger or two.

    A properly oiled and sharpened sword makes a special sound when being drawn. A bow, properly strung, an arrow, properly fletched, will make a sound as it travels from quiver to target that says 'hey...you're fucked'.

    All weapons speak in their own language. I daresay women know when kitchen implements are about to act up. Living in an apartment, you know to step out of the stream of your shower when you hear the pipes groan from a toilet flush, upstairs.

    A bullet, passing so close by your ear that it leaves a hank of hair on your shoulder, makes a sound like a manual hedge trimmer cutting into a .22 short primer.

    So, to sum up: don't listen to anybody that doesn't know, shoot constantly with either hand, from all positions, including prone, and upside down (on your back) prone, wear hearing protection at first, then fire as if you were at home, in the dark, in your bedroom, or a hallway...

    'Certified' trainers are useless. Especially cops. 'Schools' are dumb, there just to take your money.
    Map out fields of fire in your house, and plans of attack. Got dogs? Gun train them, or pay a trainer to do it. You don't want Fido screaming in doggy horror, getting between your feet while he pisses all over them.
    Map out methods of entrance and egress into and from your domicile. Map out fields of fire in your yard. Your garage. This shit never happens to you, until it does.

    Mock me if you want, just don't come crying to me when the drunken illegal alien, or my personal favorite, the crackhead couple two houses down drop by for some pussy and knick-knacks they can sell to buy Slim Jims and beer and, oh yeah, more crack.

    But most of all, have fun!!!