This is my Blog...There are many like it, but this one is mine...
Monday, June 30, 2008
Hollywood Stars...
...each need to have at least three of these. Damn that is cool. Be sure to watch the video. Just surround yourself by guys with these. Instead of a message, send a big black rectangle. Make them think their camera is shot.
After seeing this video, I think that even when I was a strong young man, I'd have been afraid of getting in bed with her. Man or woman, I think she could likely kick most of our asses.
We just recently got home from driving half the length of Oregon and back. I feel like I have been put in an industrial drier with several sacks full of bowling balls.
But the kids had fun. One of my Dearest Readers gifted them a while back with tickets to the Hood River Thomas The Tank Engine Ride, wherein they would be going on an actual, full-sized train on real tracks, which would be pulled by an actual Thomas the Tank Engine. She also sent two Engineer's Caps and scarves covered in Thomas logo-ry.
The wife and I decided to surprise them. Oh, we told them they had a surprise coming, and it drove them nuts. And they drove us nuts in turn. So, we arranged to rent a car from Mr Hertz...our rattletrap might make it up to Hood River, but there was no guarantee of it making it back. So we rented a 'Kia Hyundai Sonata' this morning at $37 for the day, which was the bill from the gas station we filled it at before returning it. Got 33mpg.
Our clunker doesn't have A/C either, so it was a good thing the rental did, because it was hotter than the backside of The Devil's scrotum today. And when we got there, I was standing on a seabead of shimmering hot asphalt, amidst a sea of screaming children, which were blissfully difficult to hear, due to vicious psychopaths having put a large amp near every electrical outlet, said amps blaring out Thomas songs as if Noriega was holed up in one of the outbuildings.
Rewind to the surprise: The wife and I finally couldn't take it anymore, so we would tell them on our way out of town. Now, you must understand that they's been playing the ad for this shindig on every channel for weeks, and it drives the kids nuts, and they beg and wheedle, and the wife and I hang our heads mournfully and tell them how we are too poor (well, we kinda are, now that you mention it) to take them and 'maybe next year'. The kids always just said 'Awwww!' and slumped off.
We had just rented the car, and that had piqued their interest, and now we were pulling out of Jack & The Box after getting them breakfast, and finally they broke, and asked 'where we going?' The wife arched an eyebrow at me, and I nodded, and she said to the kids "Hey kids, it is going to be hot today, you're going to need hats." As they were already wearing caps, their heads quirked to the side, like dogs hearing a cat fart, and then the wife swept out the Engineer hats and their eyes got wide, and then she handed them each a kerchief, and said "you better have these on, too, while you ride on Thomas's train."
And she showed them the train tickets. We were heroes. As is their benefactor, who the wife gave the proper credit to.
So, how was their day? Oh, their day was perfect. As was the wife's. My day sucked dead donkey balls through a straw, but enough about me. There were snacks and games, a petting zoo, something that almost looked like a magician, or some sort of other entertainer, and of course, Thomas, in all his smoke-stacky, smiling, whistle-tooting glory. I vowed that if anyone else tootled that whistle just one more time, there was going to be a Public Display of Gunfire.
I looked at my kids beaming faces, and I just didn't have it in me.
Now, I am going to take a man-size portion of Ibuprofen and Benadryl, and slide into bed before the 9pm hour finds a pumpkin sitting here in my hermitage. God's anger is splitting the sky from horizon to horizon, the power is out in half the town, a cold wind is dropping the temperature fast, and I wish to go snuggle under my blanky.
I get the weirdest, coolest gifts. This time it was a box full of praying mantis egg sacs. Hopefully, they will be out in our yard soon, slaughtering pests. The instructions say that one adult mantis can cover 3,500 square feet. Well, they'll be hatching and cannibalizing each other soon. I hope.
Anybody remember the story I told where I found one on the sidewalk, and while I was admiring it, Johnny came out of nowhere with an intent look on his face, and raised his foot to stomp it?
I slapped his descending leg aside, and picked the mantis up (to his goggle-eyed horror) and set in the top of our climbing rose vine. "Only smash bugs in the house! And NEVER a praying mantis! Or Daddy will stomp YOU!"
I just got a nice hit on my Amazon tipjar, and I sent you an email thanking you, and it got bounced back as a 'permanent failure'. My email, that is.
Well, thank you. It is folks like you who keep me tapping at these keys. It costs us about $150 bucks to Comcast every month, and without you folks, I couldn't do it. In fact, wouldn't, because I am not going to descend into dial-up hell.
Where I used to live, while I was in high school, we had this old stagecoach road that they had paved many moons ago, and it had been the primary access road up to our mountain aerie, until they made the main road up from the valley. Now, this old road ended up in the valley, at a covered bridge, and then petered out, and another, more robust road took its place.
The old road went down the side of the canyon, hugged it like the murderous, twisting serpent it is, and at the top of it, you could look down, and see the violent twists and turns it took, the switchbacks, and what appeared to be a near vertical drop that would take your breath away. Still does. And I have jumped out of flying vehicles. At night.
So naturally we kids, being immortal, and sporting freshly minted 'driver's' licenses, would get loaded and take it at breakneck speeds. I think my guardian angel developed a Valium habit back then. And every so often, Death would be waiting patiently around a blind curve, and then he would swing his scythe, and take one of us. Or more.
One such was a guy I knew well, and it pains me now that I cannot remember his name. He was on his motorcycle, and the road slipped out from under him like a poorly secured carpet, and gravity and momentum tag-teamed him. To death. Closed casket. A bunch of us went to his funeral, and they all cried, and then we went off and mourned as was our wont, with beer, and perhaps a little pot. He had been a good, nice guy. And he was gone. Forever.
One of us got the idea to go to the accident site, so we piled into cars, and drove solemnly in a column down that road. And sure enough, we found the last place on this earth where he had drawn breath. It was easy...just look for the spot with the white spray-paint outline of the crumpled guy, the spot with all the gooey purple and red stuff in it, and all around it, that the buzzards are circling above, wondering where the food is.
We stood there, for awhile, just looking, and finally cars began to leave, one by one. You couldn't turn around anywhere on this road, so once you started, you were committed to the trip. As if by consensus, we all turned right, at the end of the road, and we went to a swimming hole and went skinny dipping and drank more beer.
Now, in those days we didn't do any of that 'teddy bears and flowers and white crosses' bullshit at the site where a friend had passed on. What did happen, though, was that somebody went down and freshened the outline of him. They didn't have white spray paint, so they used another color (I forget which) and then others picked it up, and the death-scene began to look positively psychedelic. Very 70's.
Well, years passed. Nearly two decades. I had left California and moved to Oklahoma, joined the military to get out of there, served, had children, moved back to the city at the bottom of the hill to attend University, and one day I took my kids up the hill to see my old high school. We did our thing, I reminisced, and we left.
On our way out of town, I saw the entrance to the road described above, and on a whim, I turned down it. I wanted to see the place where my friend had died one more time, and I hoped that I could find it. Could I? Oh yes, I could.
I came around a familiar curve, and saw ahead of me maybe three cars, and a bunch of high school aged kids standing around. The sense of deja vu that washed over me made me dizzy. I pulled up behind the last car and parked. You couldn't pass on that road. I got out, and my kids piled out, and we approached the group.
A young man was bent over at the waist, a spray can in his hand, and he was freshening up the outline. Several others had spray cans, and had either already sprayed, or were waiting their turn. They were solemn, and respectful, and it looked like some kind of ritual.
I finally walked up to them and asked them if they knew the person the outline had been drawn around. They replied no, and told me this was something every class had done for years. I could still remember his name, then, and I told it to them, and told them how he was a classmate of mine, and told them how I had been there on the first day this ritual had begun. They were in awe. And I never went back there.
Hi family, I don't normally send out e-mails like this, but I have a friend in need. My friend _____ that I met in Georgia moved here not long after us when her husband got stationed at Ft. _____ as well. Her husband, ____, is a Ranger and was deployed over the last few months but was sent home early (2 1/2 weeks ago) due to an injury. He was on patrols and stepped on an IED. He is now at a very good hospital in _______ and is recovering from multiple surgeries and skin grafts. His right leg was hurt the worst, with broken bones and missing muscle tissue. This was the first chance my friend had to call me because she has been tending to her husband and concerned family members. I'm just asking that you guys would pray that his rehab is successful and that he would be able to walk without needing a cane or brace. They are both in pretty good spirits all things considered and they find out Monday if ____ will be able to start rehab. It could have been a lot worse so they are very thankful that ____ is home and safe. Anyways, I'm sure you guys know the drill and thank you so much for taking the time to lift up my friends. I love you all very much and feel free to call!
Fuck that, I think I'll just tell a story, instead. So gather 'round, children, scoot closer to the fire...stay in the light...and I'll see what I can dig up...
One time, long and long ago, when I was a much younger man, well, still a boy, really, though I thought of myself as a man, I used to play with bad things. Bad Things. Folks as what were not from around here, but had snuck through dark tears in the fabric of what we refer to as reality. And they were all like that pretty girl, who speaks sweet, and draws you in, and then you find out why her last several boyfriends had left her behind. If they were lucky.
Because she is mean, and black hearted, and does not have your best interests at heart. Oh nossir, not at all. Her greatest pleasure is your suffering, and through you, causing the suffering of others. She is an 'equal opportunity' (as they say) destroyer, and has an absolute, burning hatred for you, everyone you love, and all of your kind.
And she is well and truly practiced at her mischief.
And she has lots of friends. Well, maybe not actually 'friends', but creatures just like her, and they will help her out in any way they can. As long as it hurts you. And your family. And your friends. And anybody else your shadow falls across.
Well, I'm here to tell ya, I stood one night, at the edge of a canyon, in the middle of a furious mountain-style thunder and lightning storm, and I gave my soul to the Devil, being disgruntled by religion, and maybe a little stoned, and the only thing that saved me was that my soul was not mine to give away, or sell. It belongs to God. Of course, the spawn of the Father of Lies will tell you different, and tempt you to despair, but that is the God's Honest Righteous Truth right there.
You may have custody of your soul, but God owns the title to it, and you can't give it away, and nobody can take it. But oh boy, will Hell ever descend upon you. And bring friends.
Did I get gifts? Oh yeah...I could run in complete darkness, through the darkest woods at full midnight, and a golden path would unroll in front of me, and it was always unerring. I was getting harassed at boarding school by this huge farmboy, whose sole objective seemed to be to make my life miserable. I cursed him. And the next day, while being given a ride out to pick apples in the schools apple orchard on a tractor, I riding on one fender, my tormentor on the other, I watched some unseen force lift him up in the air, and then slam him down so hard into the dirt of the access road that he died on the spot.
Four more kids I didn't like died that year, in a death toll greater than the last 25 years at that school. And the Assistant Dean, a Mexican who I hated, because he was always punishing me for some nonsense or other, went to show off by putting this nineteen foot boa constrictor on his shoulder, a snake that was as tame and well-fed as can be, and the snake threw a couple of coils around his neck, and nearly popped his head off. Only the fact that there were at least fifty men and boys there saved his life.
I finally got kicked out of there, just as my Dad had 15 years before. My Mom, on the other hand, graduated from there. I was kicked out for renting pornography, running a house of prostitution in the basement of the chapel, selling cigarettes, and other counts too numerous to mention.
The Dean had me go to the car after he told me in his office, and took me straight-away to the Greyhound bus station. I said 'hey, what about my stuff?' and he said 'we'll mail it to you'.
I had heard through the grapevine that it was going to occur, so that morning, at my slaving job in the cafeteria, I went into the walk-in and pissed in all of the big milk containers, and then, since one of my jobs was to load the juice machines, I went into the vegetable storage area where there were always big Tomato Worms, collected a few handfuls of them, and then dropped them into the agitators of the juice machines before I filled them with water and concentrate.
Then I snagged four cans of Sterno from the camping supplies room, and went out front and positioned each one under the Head Cook's tires, of his car parked out front. Then I went around lighting them. As my Dean drove me out of there, he didn't appear to notice the tires burning merrily, or the four columns of black smoke rising up into the sky.
...exactly what, here? Hey, kids see tits at the beach all the time. So why not a few very nice ones, attached to some very nice looking young ladies?
Shoot, I'd have taken any of my boys there on purpose. And taken my daughters, too, and impressed upon them just how badly I would fuck up their life if they ever acted like those women. And no, dammit! I would NOT take them to see male strippers. I've got my double-standards, you've got yours.
Of all the real shit to worry about in the world today, that bullshit isn't even on my radar.
We've had temps in the 60's and low 70's since the beginning of June. Today, and on into next week some time, it is supposed to be into the mid and upper 90's. Ugh. I may perish.
I just lay around like a lizard when it gets that hot...well, I kinda do that anyway, but when a fan is just stirring around the hot air like you would stir a drink that would be too hot to sip right now, well, something's wrong.
Anybody with an IQ of less than 100, should be sterilized or killed. And most definitely not allowed to vote.
I have taken several IQ tests, including one where I was both stoned, and drunk. I finished, and the psychiatrist went off to score it. He came back with his brow furrowed. He was amazed at how high I had scored.
So was I.
And I took my SAT's, and got some kind of amazing score. And fuck, was I hammered. And an essay I wrote in a Blue Book (anybody remember those?) was used in a creative writing handbook for writing classes, and as far as I know, still is. Yeah, they asked me if they could use it. And no, I never saw a penny from it.
But little bitches like this are what is dragging humanity down.
What a fuckin joke. I open 'child-proof' caps one-handed all the time. I send my kids to get me this or that pill all the time from those bottles. Even Johnny, with his crippled little hands, can open them. I just tell them that the shit will kill them, if I don't kill them first, and if they take any of them, they have to go to the hospital and get lots of shots, and a big tube shoved up their butt.
I believe in ruling by terror.
One time Nat got into some sort of chewable. I snatched her off to the bathroom, bent her over the toilet, and two of my fingers had their way with the back of her throat. She puked up everything, including breast milk she had suckled as a newborn, and I'm going all R. Lee Ermey on her, and Johnny and the wife are watching goggle eyed from the bathroom doorway, and I ask him "Did you eat any?!!" and he shook his head NO!! so hard I feared it might fall off.
I love you, kids, but I will fuck you up to make sure you do not fuck your own damn self up.
He stood outside the bar, and the neon sign above him sputtered, and several letters had died. To him, it looked like the sign said 'Blac ock'. He smiled, pulled his .45 Colt Peacemaker, pulled the big hammer back to half-cock, and rolled the cylinder down his leather-clad arm, making sure each chamber was filled with either terrible injury, or violent death.
He punched bullets out of his gunbelt with his left thumb, and dropped them into the left pocket of his duster, reholstered, and stepped into the bar...
His first thought was 'den of iniquity'. He hadn't reconned...he liked surprises. Faces turned towards him, and some laughed outright. You couldn't frighten these people, and he liked that just fine. He'd already placed small C4 charges under the gas tanks of every third motorcycle backed up to the curb outside. He knew the kind of people he was dealing with...
And deal with them he would. That was what he had been paid for. For over a thousand years, since before his people had accepted Jesus as their personal Saviour, and quit raiding the monasteries along the coast of Briton.
The people inside the room saw a big man, in a black leather duster, that practically swept the floor, wearing a black leather hat...a big fan of Clint, he had had it custom made...a black cavalry shirt, and black jeans and boots. His face in shadow. Being dangerous individuals, all, they mocked him, and he sucked it up like sweet nectar.
He needed no photo to spot his target, and it didn't matter, because nobody but him was going to make it out alive...
He spotted the man. A child rapist. many times over, who had only ever made one mistake...he let the father of his latest victim live, after raping his 7 year old daughter in front of him. And that father had somehow managed to find The Killer. And make a bargain.
And his target was right over there, sitting against the wall, surrounded by 'friends', in a semi-circular booth, and the man drew the Peacemaker and made his peace with the first two people sitting at the end of the booth, then fanned his pistol empty into his primary target, right in the face, as requested. The 'man' jerked and spasmed as the slugs tore his face and skull and brain away, and his spirit left him, and spiraled down into Hell.
He holstered, and cross-drew twin .45 automatics from shoulder holsters, and began to do what he did best...kill. He could tuck a scalding hot pistol under the leather armpit of his duster as he dropped mags, and reloaded. A lot of folks took bullets in the back, as they were scrambling for exits. If they stood to fight, he cut them down as if with a scythe.
His pistols run dry, he unsnapped his Benelli auto shotgun from under his right armpit, swung it up, and was reminded of old times, when daguerreotype photographers would light trays of their chemicals to capture a moment...he was capturing final moments. Their last on this earth.
Then he unsnapped his Uzi from under the other arm, and went around the room putting three round bursts into anything that still twitched. As he finished his circuit of the bar, he heard a noise from behind the bar. He sniffed, and smelled piss. "Stand up..." he said.
He heard scuttling, and in two strides he was at the end of the bar, and the bartender, on his hands and knees, was crawling around, as if he thought he could escape. The Killer drew his machete from behind his neck, the scabbard down his back, and the bartender cringed and put his face in his hands, and said "Dear God...please! Have mercy!"
As he arranged the machete in his hand for the proper stroke, and picked which of the cervical vertebrae to cut between, the Killer said "God's busy right now...and you're fucked..." and then chopped downwards, with one clean slice.
Before the pool of blood spread too quickly, and fucked up his boots, his gloved hand reached down and picked up the head by its ponytail, and set it up on the bar. For a brief moment of whimsy, he thought about erasing the white-board that advertised drink specials and writing, 'No Shoes, No Shirt, No Head...No Service...' Instead, he pulled a little box out of his right shirt pocket, flipped up a cover on the front, hit the toggle switch. and left out the back as the motorcycles in the front went off in a Daisy Chain of fire and steel.
A few years ago, I was running late to my evening computer repair class at a local junior college, and I saw this thing hovering in the air, essentially motionless, yet turning ever so slightly.
It was about 500 yards away from me, and I could see details clearly. Hullo, 20/10 vision here. It looked like it was suspended by a cable from a large crane, except there was no cable, no crane, no wires near it...it was just..there. Hanging. In mid-air.
The sun was still up, not to set for another half hour or so, and it was bathed in sunlight, as well as being lit from the inside.My impression of it was that it was a cross of Doctor Who's Tardis, and a Chinese temple. It had a red roof that looked exactly like a pagoda. Red, with four corners.
It looked as if the box part had been painted decoratively. And the 'roof' was copied on the bottom of it. I'd guess that it was about fifteen feet high, with each side being approximately five to six feet across. The road I was on curved around the farmhouse, so I lost sight of it behind the trees and the barn, and then I got a perfect view of it after I passed.
I wish now I had pulled off the road and parked, but I was worried about getting to class, so I kept on going. But that is a true and accurate accounting of what I saw with my own eyes, and when I saw the pic in the British press, I must confess, it gave me quite a jolt.
This may just be the single dumbest thing I have read all year. Here's a highlight:
Rick Winslow, a Game and Fish large carnivore biologist, said it's rare for a mountain lion to kill a human. The last reported human killing by a lion in New Mexico was in 1974 when an 8-year-old Arroyo Seco boy was killed by a 47-pound female mountain lion.
You know why they're not reported? BECAUSE A PILE OF MOUNTAIN LION SHIT CAN'T MAKE IT TO A PHONE!!! THEY FUCKING EAT YOU!!!
Here's another Gem of Genius:
"Attacks by wildlife may become more frequent as our growing population expands into the urban-wildland interface," Winslow said. "New Mexico has a healthy population of mountain lions and people who live around them must learn to take precautions and avoid dangerous encounters."
Yes, dipshit, it is called 'killing every motherfucking one you see'!!!
I've LIVED in mountain lion country, and that crap you hear that 'they are more scared of you than you are of them' is complete and utter bullshit. I killed this bitch-cat one time that would drop by at night, and put her front paws on our cabin windows (6' off the ground) and look around, and check us out while we slept. Finally, I put slugs in my shotgun, and blew her fucking head off. Shot the window out, too. And set my covers on fire. You just roll them up and it smothers it.
And the next morning, I tracked her back to her den, found her kits, and used #2 shot to shred them as they mewled there. Fuck a damn mountain lion. It pissed me off, too, cuz I coulda got a nice piece of change from the local university for her skeleton, after the buzzards and ants and beetles picked it clean, but I had ruined it by blowing half her head off.
They hear you coming, and it is like a normal cat hearing the can-opener running. And they're sneaky fuckers, too. I always used to watch my back trail when I was in the woods. And check out branches before I walked under them. And I had one knock me on my ass once. I had found an old mine-shaft that probably hadn't been seen since the 1800's, and curious, I approached it to peek around inside.
Well, the mountain lion finally couldn't stand it anymore, and burst out past me and ran off. I was finally able to swallow my heart back down to where it belonged. It had to be a male, because if it had been a female with babies, she'd have done her best to kill me.
And you know what? I wouldn't have been able to make it to a phone, either.
My eyes burn, and I am exhausted. Time for sleep, perchance to dream. What a day, eh?
For most of my readers, it is 3am, and hopefully you're either getting good and properly laid, or snuggled into the arms of Morpheus.
As I said, Good Night. Have a great Tuesday. Tuesday is Garbage Truck Day around here, and Johnny will be wild about it. The garbagemen have come to expect him, and wave at him, and he waves back, ecstatic.
If you're married, and don't feel that way, well, just why the fuck did you marry her? Why do you bother to stay married? Dump the bitch and go find one who steals your heart, and keeps it safe next to hers, so they beat together.
I mean it.
The world is moving on, into a new and different time. You need a Battle Buddy, a cook, and someone you trust to cover you in combat, and who you know damn well would die before she allowed harm to happen to her cubs. Or better yet, kill her opponent, mercilessly. You don't even have to be married. The faggots have devalued that particular coin of the realm. Just commit to each other, til death do you part, and understand that, goshdarnit, it really could occur.
If you can't imagine yourself dying to keep your woman alive, or dying yourself should she move on into that Great Mystery, sure, fuck her, and then move on. My woman has been gone to her ladies group for three hours, and already the very marrow of my bones cries out for her return. And I could have pretty much any woman I wanted.
Five days nearly killed me. Yeah, I don't get it, either. I just know it's real.
Even girlfriends still want 'security'. I have had several at the same time, and I can attest to that. But you need to understand, at the core of your being, what 'forever' actually means. I am so ashamed of my failed first marriage that I still can't look myself in the eyes in the mirror. Children grow up, and you get pot luck, but you picked that woman, and made solemn promises and vows in front of God, and usually your entire family.
An admission of failure after all that, rips your soul in half.
And you don't get it back. You are diminished...forever. You lied to God, and you broke a contract with a woman you loved. Or she broke it with you. Whatever.
I was lucky enough to find a woman who was willing to replace my torn soul with part of hers, and then we intertwined and rebuilt ourselves and became one. You hurt one of us, you have hurt us both. And when I hurt her with my temper, my stupid mouth, I might have just as well have driven an icicle into my own heart.
I repent to her like I repent to God. I'll even go to my knees if I have to. And I kneel to no other human on this earth.
What an asshole. I'm glad he's dead. Well, he's likely smokin a turd in Hell about now, unless he repented at the last moment, as the Reaper approached him. Be an atheist all you want, I could give a fuck. But use your 'bully pulpit' to bash God over and over and over, well...Go To Hell.
Was he funny? Creative? Fuck yes, and therein lies his crime. You don't go to a restaurant to be harangued by your server for your political beliefs or your religion, so why would you go to a 'comedy' show to see someone, no matter how articulate and funny they are, do it? And pay to get in?
If his God-bashing provided one service, it was to separate the wheat from the chaff, and everybody who laughed and clapped at his blasphemy was marked, and put on a list. I very much would not want to be on that list when my time comes.
I'm pretty sure God loves me, and puts up with my shit because I am very careful to not cross over his line. Heck, King David danced naked through the streets of his city, and killed a guy to get pussy...and by 'kill', I mean 'murdered'. And Jesus Himself came from his lineage.
Kind of an aside, here, but don't you find it a little odd that the Jews (well, most of them) who are such fanatics about genealogy and bloodlines, continue to stubbornly, hard-headedly, deny Christ?
...you read something like this. I have no idea who wrote it, it was sent to me in email, and oh my, can I ever relate. Enjoy:
Colonoscopy
I called my friend Andy Sable, a gastroenterologist, to make an appointment for a colonoscopy. A few days later, in his office, Andy showed me a color diagram of the colon, a lengthy organ that appears to go all over the place, at one point passing briefly through Minneapolis . Then Andy explained the colonoscopy procedure to me in a thorough, reassuring and patient manner. I nodded thoughtfully, but I didn't really hear anything he said, because my brain was shrieking, quote, 'HE'S GOING TO STICK A TUBE 17,000 FEET UP YOUR BEHIND!'
I left Andy's office with some written instructions, and a prescription for a product called 'MoviPrep, 'which comes in a box large enough to hold a microwave oven. I will discuss MoviPrep in detail later; for now suffice it to say that we must never allow it to fall into the hands of America 's enemies.
I spent the next several days productively sitting around being nervous. Then, on the day before my colonoscopy, I began my preparation. In accordance with my instructions, I didn't eat any solid food that day; all I had was chicken broth, which is basically water, only with less flavor. Then, in the evening, I took the MoviPrep. You mix two packets of powder together in a one-liter plastic jug, and then you fill it with lukewarm water. (For those unfamiliar with the metric system, a liter is about 32 gallons.) Then you have to drink the whole jug. This takes about an hour, because MoviPrep tastes - and here I am being kind - like a mixture of goat spit and urinal cleanser, with just a hint of lemon.
The instructions for MoviPrep, clearly written by somebody with a great sense of humor, state that after you drink it, 'a loose watery bowel movement may result.' This is kind of like saying that after you jump off your roof, you may experience contact with the ground.
MoviPrep is a nuclear laxative.. I don't want to be too graphic, here, but: Have you ever seen a space-shuttle launch? This is pretty much the MoviPrep experience, with you as the shuttle. There are times when you wish the commode had a seat belt. You spend several hours pretty much confined to the bathroom, spurting violently. You eliminate everything. And then, when you figure you must be totally empty, you have to drink another liter of MoviPrep, at which point, as far as I can tell, your bowels travel into the future and start eliminating food that you have not even eaten yet.
After an action-packed evening, I finally got to sleep. The next morning my wife drove me to the clinic. I was very nervous. Not only was I worried about the procedure, but I had been experiencing occasional return bouts of MoviPrep spurtage. I was thinking, 'What if I spurt on Andy?' How do you apologize to a friend for something like that? Flowers would not be enough.
At the clinic I had to sign many forms acknowledging that I understood and totally agreed with whatever the heck the forms said. Then they led me to a room full of other colonoscopy people, where I went inside a little curtained space and took off my clothes and put on one of those hospital garments designed by sadist perverts, the kind that, when you put it on, makes you feel even more naked than when you are actually naked.
Then a nurse named Eddie put a little needle in a vein in my left hand. Ordinarily I would have fainted, but Eddie was very good, and I was already lying down. Eddie also told me that some people put vodka in their MoviPrep. At first I was ticked off that I hadn't thought of this, but then I pondered what would happen if you got yourself too tipsy to make it to the bathroom, so you were staggering around in full Fire Hose Mode. You would have no choice but to burn your house.
When everything was ready, Eddie wheeled me into the procedure room, where Andy was waiting with a nurse and an anesthesiologist. I did not see the 17,000-foot tube, but I knew Andy had it hidden around there somewhere. I was seriously nervous at this point. Andy had me roll over on my left side, and the anesthesiologist began hooking something up to the needle in my hand. There was music playing in the room, and I realized that the song was 'Dancing Queen' by Abba. I remarked to Andy that, of all the songs that could be playing during this particular procedure, 'Dancing Queen' has to be the least appropriate.
'You want me to turn it up?' said Andy, from somewhere behind me. 'Ha ha,' I said. And then it was time, the moment I had been dreading for more than a decade. If you are squeamish, prepare yourself, because I am going to tell you, in explicit detail, exactly what it was like.
I have no idea. Really. I slept through it. One moment, Abba was shrieking 'Dancing Queen! Feel the beat from the tambourine' and the next moment, I was back in the other room, waking up in a very mellow mood.. Andy was looking down at me and asking me how I felt. I felt excellent. I felt even more excellent when Andy told me that it was all over, and that my colon had passed with flying colors. I have never been prouder of an internal organ.
Update:
A commenter tells me that this is part of a Dave Barry column. Figures.
A 'Veteran' -- whether active duty, discharged, retired, or reserve -- is someone who, at one point in his life, wrote a blank check made payable to 'The United States of America,' for an amount of 'up to, and including his life.' That is honor, and there are way too many people in this country today, who no longer understand that fact.
Thank you for a great line to steal, Ms T, oh you of The Great Tits, and Masturbatory Tendencies. Though I will never forgive you for the elderly grandpa homo porn. That fucking pic still rolls up in the Magic 8-Ball of my mind, and gacks me out. That was just sick and wrong, and a crime against humanity.
Hey, bitches, do you ever get the impression that guys only hang around your blog to have a Real Live Girl to talk to? I'm curious. I have no idea what my ratio of female to male readers is. And I know it is 'Sooper Secret', but what is it that keeps you broads coming to this old reprobate's blog?
Is it because I genuinely like you? Do you sense I would be as honest with you in person as I am here? Is it my fatherhood? There are plenty of other blogs. Blogs where you don't hear 'fuck' and 'shit' on a regular basis, or graphic descriptions of doodies.
I mean, I will bitch slap you down in a heartbeat if I think you deserve it. I am Tarzan, brought to London, and dressed up in a tuxedo. Is that it? I don't consider myself a 'Bad Boy'. Never have. I have always been mannerly, and polite. Until it's time to stop being polite.
The wife is...well, she used to be, before she met me, the gentlest being in the world. A cross between an angel, and a unicorn. Now, she loads up combat gear like a grunt before a roll-out, and carries a switchblade. Do not fuck with her. And after her roll-out tonight, she and the kids headed over to the old folks home, to play piano, and sing. Johnny is likely 'directing' like crazy about now. The old folks eat it up.
I'll snarl at the wife..."Bitch!"...and she'll snarl right back, "Asshole!" and we're both right. And we snicker, and move on. Communication. One or the other of us will come up to one or the other of us, and say "Okay, I want you to fuck me as soon as possible"...and one or the other of us slides in a DVD for the kids, issues dire threats to stay downstairs, and then, well...
So, ladies, have I bored you with this post? Touched a nerve? Dish.
I saw someone was mining my archives of December, 2007, so being bored, I went there, scrolled down to the bottom, and read my way up. After a bit, I said to myself 'Damn! This guy is good!'
My, how things change.
I can't write my way out of a wet paper sack anymore. I'm tempted to threaten to quit again, but that has become boring, too. I can hear everybody saying "Just shut up and quit already, dummy!" And they're right. Writing that used to flow like a breath of warm air over the Fairy Queen's naked belly, now just moves like sludge from a shit-factory.
Ah well, just another inevitability I have to accept.
I note that Rush is taking more and more time off, lately. He used to talk like I used to write...easily, glibly, naturally. Now, he's forcing it. He doesn't take time off because he can, but because he has to. I understand.
On this, the first of many more days of summer, I sit under a sky that God has shaded in graphite, and cool rain spritzes down occasionally. The college students are flying south, and we get to have possession of our little town for a few months, and not risk death at every intersection, or be affronted by rude men and women children in our theatres and restaurants.
When something you love to do becomes work, well, guess what. It's work. All that bullshit talk about 'craft'? Yep. It marks the declination where your hobby, your passion, became work. And then somebody(s) hits my tip jars and I feel obligated to pay a debt. I find that it is not a bad feeling.
I spoke of this once, some time ago: I was at the Riverfront Farmers Market, where folks sold their wares, and you cannot get any fresher vegetables, or eggs, or honey than they proffer there. It began to rain (hey, Oregon) and the kids and I took shelter under the cover of a city bus stop, while the wife continued to shop, scuttling from covered vendor to covered vendor.
Sitting on the bench was a boy of perhaps fifteen years, playing a guitar. He was playing classical music, and the kids and I watched him, entranced, as he shifted effortlessly from style to style, song to song, his eyes closed, feeling the music, making us feel it, taking us along for the ride.
Finally, I fished in my pocket (I don't carry a wallet) and pulled out about six bucks, as I recall. All I had on me. And I tossed it into his open guitar case there on the bench beside him. His eyes, slitted, took it in, and though I couldn't imagine him getting any better, he did, playing his heart out, like the caged bird sings.
Finally, his Mom came along and broke the spell, or I'd likely still be standing there now. The wife beckoned to me, completing the exorcism, and the kids and I scampered over to see what she wanted.
Anyway, sorry for the poor fare I have been serving here at my establishment, lately. Things'll get better. Or they won't. We shall see. What there is of my life is just fine. I'm no more morose and unhappy than usual.
I wrote a post below asking you all to pray, and that is a good thing, but I have no idea how you would get money to he and his wife. Insurance is one thing, but day to day expenses, living out of motels, has to eat into the most frugal person's savings.
A lot of people 'back there' are suffering, but here is a man who is suffering now, and those of us who read him, 'know' him. So please, let God work through you, and pour out whatever blessings you can on he, and his wife, and his dogs.
I'm fine with government, but your government ends where my nose begins. I'm no anarchist, but I am a rebel. Blowing shit up does not work. They'll just use your money to fix it.
Now, killing folks, on the other hand...
Well, I guess they won't be doing whatever again, in this lifetime.
This means that before you fart, you will be sitting on the toilet in the upright and locked position, hands and feet inside the seating area, and an oxygen mask may drop from the compartment above you.
Yes, I took stool softeners yesterday. My pipes had been backed up for two days, and I was feeling puny, and the directions said take one, so I took three, and within an hour or so, I passed a Butt-Truncheon of truly gargantuan proportion. Suffice to say, I am no longer a virgin. There was even blood.
And those pills are just the gift that keeps on giving. Hooo...boy. 'Houston, we have softness...repeat, the stool is soft, and you are a go for launch...' On the upside, I feel light as a feather. I'm afraid to step in front of a fan for fear I'll whistle. Alimentary, my Dear Watson.
Well, my Dear Readers, thanks for showing an interest in my colonary delights. The 'No Farting' light just came on again, so I must scamper to my seat.
...if I went around talking about my whiteness all the time? Yep: A Racist. And they'd be right.
So why do black people get a pass? They talk about their race as much as any Klansman talks about his. Get the fuck over it, already.
Every time I turn around, I hear assholes like Spike Lee talking about their blackness. Wanting quotas. 'There must be so much dark meat in this production, or you're racist.'
And how many times have you honkeys (any white people offended by that appellation?) (thought not) heard 'it's a Black Thing...you wouldn't understand'? No, I have no idea how to pic a 'fro, or use Gerri Curl. Don't care. I've never used a bidet, either. So? The list of things I have no idea how to do would fill volumes.
I've said this before, when I used to hang with the darkies, back in the day, the males of the species would approach me, and posture aggressively, but I had read enough Dian Fossey that I knew what to do, and I was eventually accepted into the tribe. The White Ape.
White men are more different from any woman, than they are from any black man. And yet, I would have nothing in common with either a black or for that matter, a white billionaire.
Am I prejudiced? You are fucking-A right I am. Any peoples who threaten my continued existence, and that of my family, well, I hate your fucking guts, with great passion. Every chance I get, I will take you down, put my boot on your head, and put a bullet into your temple so it squots like a melon. I'm lookin at you, Arabs.
Are there any black assholes? Sure. Assholes come in all colors, shapes, and sizes. Uncivilized motherfuckers abound. Can't help that.
...and tell me: would you stand within one hundred feet of her when she's firing at those steel targets near the end? And if you say 'Sure!' I'll know you are an idiot, and not to be taken seriously. Damn, bullets bounce back. If you don't know that, give up your firearms, and go buy Nerf pistols. Dumbass.
I'm no safety weenie, but jeez, I know a flesh endangering situation when I see one.
Check out the timestamps of the last two posts. I wanted to see how many original, totally different posts I could come up with in an hour. So I guess maybe we could count my U-Boat post in there. Or not.
Stir up the stew that is your brain, and when the chunks come up, scoop them. And serve it.
He hears a fist pounding on his front door. Then the thumping of his kid's feet pounding up the stairs, as they'd been trained. He pointed to the room he wanted them to hide in, then made the 'fish swimming' signal with all of the fingers of that hand that told them to go hide in their secret place. They disappeared to their safety spot.
He already knew, but he hollered from upstairs "Who is it?!"
"POLICE...OPEN UP!"
He was surprised they hadn't already bashed the door open. He turned and went and snatched up his .45, dropped two clips of hardball into one pocket of his pajama shorts, grabbed his 10mm, and dropped two clips into the other pocket, and headed downstairs to the door.
A quick glance showed no police present in the back yard...there was another hard pound on his front door, and he yelled "Hold your horses! I hadda put some pants on!" and he tucked the .45 in his right hand under his left armpit, and pretended to fumble with the locks. He unlocked the knob first, and gently tried to turn it. It resisted. Someone on the other side had their hand on it, and would door-jam him as soon as they heard the bolt from the top lock shoot back into the door.
'Okay, baby, here we go' he said to himself, and took the .45 from his armpit, then placed the 10mm up against the door, and emptied the gun in a fan pattern out through the door, dropped the mag, reloaded, snapped open the lock, and stepped out.
The cop who had had his hand on the doorknob was flat on his back, a 10mm round having hit him square in the vest. Draped over the front stoop, his throat was exposed, so he put a .45 Glaser into the soft part, just behind his chin, and the cop's face mask turned instant red, and his combat booted heels began to drum on the porch.
A big automatic in each hand, the man began to walk his yard, and kill. Cops kneeling and firing...he shot them in the upper thigh, ran forward, kicked them in the front of their face mask, and shot their throats or brains out, depending on the angle. Then he'd drop behind their bodies, and fire from side, prone. You don't want to rest your firing arm on a recently dead person, they tend to be...twitchy. Throws your aim off.
He shot his guns dry, and had no more ammo, so he began to loot bodies. Ugh...Sigs. Oh well, we work with what we have...he felt really bad when he ran behind his house and shot a cop through his face-mask, and the guy landed in his wife's garden. And thrashed around a bit.
He looted more mags, then stood up, and saw a couple of cops coming through his front door, so he made them stop. And even if they lived, they'd be crippled for life.
Eventually, the firing died down, and stopped. Quiet descended, but he couldn't hear it. His ears were ringing too loud. "Well, I think I'll go check on the kids" he thought.
He moved tactically back around the house, and as he got to the door, a sniper's bullet hit him square in the back of his skull.
The last thought that he ever thought on this earth, as he watched his own brains spatter in a Rorschach Blot on the wall just inside the foyer was...
I was a 'gifted child'. Most of you probably don't know what that means. It means that adults spot that you're 'different' right off the bat, and that the other kids will kick your ass every day for that difference.
That happened to me my first couple of years in school, until I kinda freaked out, and my parents pulled me out of school, and I took a year off. They told me I was 'small for my age'. Nope, I was too young to be in school, but I was pushed into it because I was such a fucking genius. I learned early on not to hold my hand up to answer questions from the teacher. Especially as mine was mostly the only one up.
So, I'm out of school, and essentially homeschooling, though I don't believe that concept had been invented yet. Then my parents heard of this teacher at a private school named 'Mrs. Manspeaker' who taught what passes for 'special education' way back then. What, 1960 or so? Whatever. So, I met with her, she accepted me (and my parent's money) happily, and they began to take me to her every day.
Mrs. Manspeaker had at least a dozen students. And they were all retards. Or mongoloids. Kids in wheelchairs that lolled their heads around and drooled. My peer group. Well? What do you think a six year old boy is going to think about himself when you say to him 'here you are, you belong here'?
Parents, please don't do that to your kids.
The school was her house, and as I recall, we spent most of the time out in the back yard. I sincerely doubt that there was any kind of oversight back then. And the only memories I have from that time that were in the slightest bit educational, were the books and encyclopedias I devoured at home.
Now, I know in my brain that my parents were trying to do their best for me, as best they understood how, and as best they could. My mother is an analytical genius, a musical prodigy, and she is as crazy as a box of bats. My Dad is crazy smart, and crazy stupid, in equal portions. He is fully ambidextrous, and couldn't read because of it for decades, because one eye wanted to read one page, and the other the other.
Via a great blog, very well written by a good man, I find out that his house just burned down, and he and his wife (and dogs) just barely got out alive.
Please, at the very least, pray for them. Losing your house, and everything in it, well, trouble is I can imagine it, and it is awful.
I don't know why we don't make them, upgrade them with modern technology, use straight explosive torpedoes, and use them to patrol our coasts. With the deck gun, it would be heck on drug shipping.
Use them to be ready to take out offshore oil rigs. Patrol the straits around Somalia, and sink pirates. You could make tons of them, cheaper than these huge tubular behemoths we currently use. You could arm them with a supply of tactical nuclear torpedoes that you could stand off and shoot into an enemy's harbor. Surprise!
With the proper configuration, you could make some into troop carriers, and have fully equipped landing craft mounted on the outside of the sub. Just climb out of the hatch, and drop the boat down into the water. A boat that already is packed with ammo and other equipment in waterproof packaging.
Well? Why not? A fore and aft 5" deck gun, machine gun mounts for .50 cal machine guns, and a mission to harass shipping and coastal facilities, and enough ground-pounders to be able to either board and seize ships, or sneak ashore and wreak quick havoc and then retreat back to the sea. I'd have them travel in pods, and if one got attacked, the others would circle the attacker like hyenas and torpedo the piss out of him.
It would be no problem to provide them with modern non-cavitating propellers, and I see no reason a nuclear power plant to propel the boat, and de-salinate water and keep fresh air being produced. They could shadow our carrier fleets in Wolf Packs, maybe several packs, and free up our big hunter killer's and Polaris nuke subs to go do their job, hunting enemy subs, and waiting offshore to begin taking out enemy cities as needed.
...the best rock-n-roll song ever made. The wife and I listen to both 'Illusion' albums all the time. The only albums I can stomach listening to all the way through. Just now, she came into my room and just said "Melancholy..." Perfect one-word description. Then she rubbed my shoulders, I in my chair, and asked "Are you melancholy?" I just shrugged. I didn't want to chance trying to talk right then.
Oh, and don't bother with the video. I don't. I don't like videos without T&A in them.
Oh my gosh, what a gorgeous game. I love Dawn of War, but this leaves it in the dust. Oh, my gosh.
It didn't like my video card, and set all the video settings to 'low', and it is still so beautiful it makes you wanna cry. Killing shit has never looked so good. I just wish I could turn on shadows.
Red Alert is still my first love, but golly, I may have to cheat on her. And I have only just played the tutorial. Haven't seen the videos yet. Hey, two words: Michael Ironside. And that gook Ceylon chick from BSG. And yes, many more. Campaign mode is next.
Gotta have a P4 (I do) and a video card above 6000 to take full advantage of all that this game can pull out of it, but if my 5600 can make it look this pretty, well, just, oh my gosh.
If you're interested in buying this game, look up the specs, and plan accordingly.
And if anybody wants to waste good money on me so's I can buy a bigger video card, don't be shy. Just know you, that if you buy this game, it is not compatible with certain video cards.
Also, they tell you to shut down all of your running processes (including virus checker) that are not system related. I did it when I installed the game, and it was a major pain in the ass. I restarted, and booted up the game, and it appeared to work fine.
Any tech geek out there know if I can open a new profile on Windows XP that has everything pre-disabled, and not effect the other profiles I have on my machine?
Thank GOD she's home. I now know my limit is four days. She was gone five.
Interesting and cool stuff ensues. She told me this morning that among the dozens of women there at the Retreat, during worship, several of them were given commands directly from God to tell all the other women in the bunch that He wants them to lay aside 1/5th of the food they buy, because Bad Times are coming. Store food, can food. Whatever it takes, lean times are coming.
He also told them to tell the other women that war is coming to America. Soon.
And as soon as the wife got home, Blessings began to flow. My Dad called and offered us his Volkswagen bus ('88 Vanagon). For free.
The wife's boss called and said she wanted to give her a car, because she just bought a new one. Two free cars in one day. And our car is nearly shot, as is my truck. I was going to junk it because I'm tired of looking at it, but one of the neighbors offered me $200 for it. Which will pay for the wind-wing that thieves broke out of the wife's boss's car. And pay for several months of insurance.
Praise the Lord?
Gosh, I'm glad she's back. Life without her is a mix of things I can't do, and things I don't wanna do. A while back, we were given a couch by my sister, that is very comfortable. I consider it as 'my' couch. When I come downstairs, anybody on it leaps off it. Well, it is pretty ratty, so the wife bought a nice couch cover, and I'll be damned if I can keep that thing straight. When she's here, it always looks smooth and tucked. She's gone for one day, and it looks like a fucking Shar-pei.
I can cook great, but when I look into the fridge, I can't see anything beyond two inches or so. And the stuff in the freezer may as well not exist. And I hate washing Johnny's CPAP mask.
Well, she's back. I...Live.......Again.
Oddly, Nat did not have one nightmare while she was gone. Last night she screeched in her sleep, so I went in and cuffed her in the head and told her to shut up. Then I covered her back up as her sheet had slipped down to the floor. She never has slept with more than a sheet loosely over her, and maybe a light blanket if it is really Dead of Winter cold. She's a little hotbox. If we ever have to live in our tent, we'll heat it with her.
I think the wife is the only human I have ever truly, deeply missed. I actually make myself sick over it.
Guess what that makes me? Yep, a kid herder. Of course, four of them are adults, and the illusion that I ever had any control over them is long gone. Though one did call me, today. That was nice. While I was talking to my Dad on the phone. Great son am I. Not. But we had a nice talk. He told me today that he has accomplished the one great goal of his life: to outlive his father. Who died at 71 from Tuberculosis exacerbated by having burnt lungs from being gassed in WW1.
I used to lay on the floor in my Dad's Dads house, in a ray of sunlight, and read the Bible to Grandpa while he sat smiling in his easy chair, on his rare visits home to Grandma from the VA Hospital. He always seemed bemused that a child as young as I could read such a book coherently.
My Dad misses me, but I rarely leave the house. Heck, there are days when I don't even go downstairs. Family comes to me. Brings food. Talk. Hug me. Nat and Johnny are on a regular rotation. They decide at some point that they have had enough 'No Dad Time', and knock on my door (unless it is closed) and then come in, and drape themselves over me and soak me up. And I them.
The wife is on her way home right now, Thank God. She has been at a Hen Party up at a resort in Idaho. For five days. And I am so tired of parenting, I could scream.
Nat just bounced upstairs and told me about the Black Power Ranger, and how he has propped himself up against the couch, and is leaning on it with one arm, and she is feeding him soup, and his last cup of coffee, because he drinks five cups of coffee a day. Got all that? Then her finely honed TV cartoon senses detected that 'Iron Man' was back from the ad break, so she asked me to please excuse her, and fluttered off, saying over her shoulder that she had to give the Black Power Ranger some more soup.
Oh yeah, and she said she loved me. And I did not get a single syllable in edgewise during her soliloquy. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am.
The kids couldn't take it anymore, they snuck into the wife's room and busted out the gift she has tortured me with for a week: Command & Conquer 3. And Nat had wrapped up a little camouflaged Hot Wheels car, because she said it 'would remind you of when you were in the Army'. To her, everybody who is in a uniform is 'in the Army'. One size fits all. She had also packaged a small candy cane with the car, for some reason I forget. I asked her if she liked them, and she said oh yes, she loved them very much, so I said that because I enjoyed the car so much, I'd be honored if she and Johnny split the candy cane and munched it down. I despise candy canes.
I've been reading the C&C manual, and it looks awesome. But I'm afraid that my GeForce 5600 video card might not be able to handle it. What makes me crazy, is that I have an awesome card my oldest Marine sent me when he upgraded, still in the box, because the motherboard I have is not compatible with it. Sigh.
I mean, the sucker is still going for $300 bucks. Heck, my sound card might not be able to handle it, either. Boy, I'll be pissed. The idea of kicking NOD ass for awhile, and then leaving this earth with a mouse in my cooling hand, appeals to my nature a great deal.
I dread the day when a Father's Day becomes a reminder of the one I am missing, when that inevitability happens.
Which is why you should endeavour to never die on Christmas. Fucks it up for everybody.
...near the bottom of this post. Sinister, indeed.
And the best part is that we keep letting these assholes into our country by the thousands, to join the herd of Islamic pigs and apes here already.
Hey, I have an idea...the next time we want to invade a country, let's just send our military into it in civilian clothes, on student and work visas. We can rent warehouse space, and ship them all the weapons they'll need in shipping containers.
Dammit, I hit 'Enter' instead of 'Tab, and just the damn post title posted. Damned whiskey.
A bit ago, I paused Dr Who, and went into the bathroom to explode out some particularly vile butt-juice. I had just exploded like a shit-grenade, when I heard Nat screaming upstairs as if she was being raped.
I had put her down in her Mother's bed tonight, as she had been beastly to Johnny waaaay too early this morning...pinching him on the ass and such. So I separated them tonight, in hopes of a nice bit of a sleep-in in the morning (sorry, Doctor Who's fault, that). And now I have the bathroom fan on, she is shrieking, and I am blowing watery pea soup outta me bum (Dr Who Alert).
Then she shrieks something about 'breathing', and I'm all like 'aw fuck, something's wrong with Johnny...' and I whistle her whistle that she knows that she is to respond to on pain of death, dismemberment, and having her composite parts burnt up in the barbecue.
To her credit, she braved the dark, and I am wiping like a sonofabitch, and she stood wailing outside the bathroom door, and I hollered at her "Is Johnny okay?" "Yes..." "Well then, what the fuck is wrong with you!" And then, "Can you breathe?"
"Yuh- yes"
"Well, than shut the fuck up and I'll be out as soon as I can...no dying."
"Oh-okay..."
So, I finish swabbing my poop deck, and step out and close the bathroom door for mercy to both of us. In retrospect, I should have shoved her in there and held the door-knob from the outside while she gagged. But I did not care to have to feed her again.
Her right arm was red. She had slept on it. It had 'fallen asleep'. And then she began to do the 'Dance of Returning Circulation'. I took her upstairs again, checked Johnny just to be sure. He was sleeping like a coma patient. In other words, as usual. Then I went into the wife's room and re-tucked Nat, and gave her some sleeping position tips.
I thought briefly about having her come to my bed, where I could keep an eye on her. But until you've slept in the same bed with Nat, you have never been kicked in the crotch six (or more) times all night.
So, I issued dire threats of mayhem if she went near her and Johnny's room in the morning, ruffled her hair and pulled her covers up and around her, and went back down to finish my Friday night shows.
I show the bottom of my shoe to all of you, and piss on Allah and Mohammud, piss be on all their unholy names.
You know, I kinda miss the Islamassholes that used to swing through here and drive-by cuss me every so often. I tracked one of them to a nuclear submarine base in Bremerton Washington. I no longer show visits from Muslim shitholes around the world on my sitemeter. Maybe they've all anonymized themselves. Oh great, Stealth Ragheads.
Or maybe they tired of the abuse I would pile on them when they stuck their head up. And it's weird...I used to get a lot of hits from .gov sites, CIA.gov and FBI.gov and the like. I haven't seen them in a while, either. And I figure I'm blocked from overseas military sites, because I used to have a lot of overseas military readers. And they'd comment.
Heck, they don't even email anymore. Well, military folks, I still love you all, and miss you all. Terribly. And thinking of my humble blog as being the subject of official orders to not read me just tickles me to no end. Heh...
Oh, and while I'm on a minor roll, here, fuck all minorities, foreigners, queers and other perverts, Democrats, Canadians (all except about five of them) and politicians, and the news media, and 98% of my neighbors. Except for the woman with the big tits, who has a CCW permit (and packs) and who walks her pet Iguana around in the neighborhood on a leash. That is just all around cool, right there.
I love all of my readers, and several members of my family, everybody else, just...
When I first heart Tim Russert died today, I danced a little jig, because I got him mixed up with Chris Matthews, and boy do I hate that fucker.
I guess Russert is a kinda okay guy...well, was. But he was a Liberal, and all Liberals must die, so tough luck, dude. Now, if only the Reaper can get Matthews. And Larry King. Oh happy days.
Hey, it was weird, I was laying down on the couch downstairs with the kids, watching Spongebob, and I dozed of. And my one arm that was kinda near the edge of the couch, had some sort of spasm, and I punched myself in the face. Just 'whap!', and I gave myself a smack.
I have the weirdest dreams while I nap downstairs while cartoons are on and the kids play. They are spies today.
I just haven't felt good all day. I am having a bad spell, and it didn't help that the first news I heard this morning was of the traitors on the Supreme Court stabbing America in the back. And it made me sick. Heartsick.
I've been listless and felt nasty all day. I've just been going through the motions of being a Dad with the kids today. And working on the daily Honey-Do list she left me. Things she normally does. I actually had to go outside once. Ugh. Pity me.
And my little neighborhood is currently beset by vandalistic little hoodlums. They jump up and down on car roofs. Spraypaint that stupid Anarchist symbol all over sheds. And dirty words. Just generally running about like a troop of unruly baboons. Hey, assholes, my kids can read. Gosh, I wish I owned a silenced pistol. At the very least, I'd cripple a couple of them for awhile.
Anyway, so I don't feel like writing anything. All the news is bad, stupid, or stupidly bad. Or badly stupid. And some little asshole passed through our back yard and scuffed through the wife's new garden plot. And I'll make him a sex offender in a heartbeat, too. "Officer! He was looking through the window at my daughter while she was naked, just after her shower!"
I'm surprised that our government even dared to take on the Religion Of Pieces. We'll see how it goes.
People, every one of those Muslim pig-fuckers reads the same book, listens to the same Imams, and if they sound pacifistic, you are being lied to straight to your face.
Save yourselves...kill them all.
They'd do the same for you. And your women. And children. Look at the world, idiots. Do you see a peaceful Muslim anywhere? Unless they are biding their time, hiding in plain sight? And subverting the country they infest from within?
No. And if you do, you are a blind idiot. And just in case you are confused, yes, as a matter of fact, I am recommending genocide.
...pretty green-eyed women. That's automatic death penalty stuff right there.
Men, you do not hit your women. Unless they are beating the shit out of you. And then you only get one whack. Like you'd hit a little puppy on the nose with a newspaper.
I have delighted in, several times, beating the livid shit out of some asshole woman hitter. I took on the toughest meanest asshole in town once for kicking his woman in the cunt with pointy-toed cowboy boots. She was a Penthouse model, and when she healed up from the surgery, she fucked the socks offa me. And I shot him. Hey, he lived, so, statute of limitations and all that.
Shortly after that, bullets began to hit waaaay to close to me to be comfortable...I couldn't even sit on my porch and have a beer. So I left the state, and the rest is history. But let me tell you, fellas, if I'm 80 years old, and walking with a cane, and I see you hit a woman, I will beat you over your head with that cane until you die.
Hey, I'm 80. I'll never see the inside of a prison.
And I am, indeed, alone again. Naturally. Well, except for the two malignant midgets currently soaking up harmful TV rays downstairs. Yep, the wife has left me.
She'll be back some time Sunday, but still...geez, I'm gonna have to do stuff. And stuff.
Pity me.
She bugged out with three girlfriends (well, old broads, who worship the ground the wife walks on) to drive to a completely different state, and party and Praise God with a host of other broads. And there's dancing. It all freaks me out. Go, honey, get that nutty shit out of your system.
I can get Nat to serve breakfast and lunch (cereal, and samwiches) but I have to come up with dinner. And help them perform all of their bed-time rituals. And pray with them. And stuff.
Pity me.
Johnny has already come screaming in pain upstairs, because while adjusting his glasses on his nose, he stuck his own thumb in his very own eye. So I had to be comforting. And wipe away tears. And help him blow his nose. And he is fine, now, but...
Just how many Osama Hussein's closest advisers and dear friends have 'stepped down' (read: 'been thrown under the bus') since all this foolishness started?
And furthermore, how many more of these chancres infest him? How many other dingleberries cling to his ass hair?
That this fucking stammering, bat-eared Muslim fuckhead has made it this far just astounds me. His supporters remind me of fraternity pledges, dropping their pants and bending over for a paddling, and then saying "Thank you sir! May I have another?"
And it does not make me feel any better for my eventual, inevitable vote for McCain. Conservatives are fighting a rear-guard action, in disarray, and complete retreat, and all we have is a choice between an insane person and a Muslim mole.
...for every time I heard someone say to someone else, "You've been around Bane's blog too much..." well, I'd have a bunch of nickels. I have mentioned this before. I hear my own voice being echoed back to me, here and there. It doesn't bother me. Go for it. Again, as I've said, I have absorbed others, Borg-like, into my own repertoire.
I didn't intend to, but apparently I have become the poster boy for Brutal Honesty.
And apparently, I can be crude. Go figure.
Still, it tickles me to see the 'before/after' pictures of these blogs where I have contaminated the blogger's minds with whatever it is that is me.
You must be at least this tall to ride this ride
Monday, June 30, 2008
