October 31, 2002
Coming soon, I hope.
My brother is diabetic. He was diagnosed as a toddler and has taken insulin shots all of his life. I believe he is why I don't have much of a sweet tooth today, because he couldn't eat candy as a child and it wouldn't have been fair to allow me to eat it in front of him, so my family never had candy around the house. We never ate dessert after supper, either, and I don't to this day.
Halloween was different, because it was altogether fitting and proper to go out and collect all the sugary loot you could garner that one night of the year, then eat it until you puked. I LIKED Halloween.
My brother was an enthusiastic trick-or-treater, even though he couldn't eat the candy. He would collect a bag full, sort it into different categories, then stash it in his closet. When everybody else in the neighborhood ran out of trick-or-treat loot, he would break out his stash and SELL IT, piece by piece.
He is a successful attorney today. Go figure.
Only six trick-or-treaters so far.
Of course, I did befuddle a couple of young ballerinas a moment ago when I opened the door, heard the high-pitched "TRICKERTREAT!" and solemnly announced that nobody lived here.
They hung their heads and started to walk away.
I had to shout after them that I was only kidding---come back and get some candy. They did, and said, "Thank you." Mom and Dad were holding flashlights and laughing their asses off out in the street.
I really shouldn't play such head-games with little kids. Yeah, and I shouldn't smoke and drink, either.
I played two of the best football games of my life on Halloween night.
The first was when I was 12 years old, playing for the Savannah Gas little league team. We were in a 7-7 tie with our most hated rival, the Jaycees, as time was ticking away in the fourth quarter. They had the ball. With less than a minute left in the game, I saw a trick play coming. One guy ran from the sidelines to the huddle, but TWO guys left the huddle and ran for the sidelines. They were gonna try "The Sleeper!"
My dad taught me every trick play he ever saw. He never played football, but he was a student of the game, and I knew all about flea-flickers, muddy-huddles, fumblerooskys and sleepers when I was 12. I saw what was coming.
On a sleeper, one of the two guys leaving the huddle and heading for the sidelines doesn't leave the field. He stops one yard short and becomes an incredibly invisible split end all mixed up with everybody else on the sidelines while remaining an eligible receiver. If the play works as designed, the defense doesn't notice him, the quarterback takes the snap and throws a quick-drop pass to that guy all alone on the sidelines, and he waltzes untouched for a score while the defensive backfield is busy pulling their jockstraps up from around their ankles.
I pretended that I didn't notice what was happening, but at the snap I broke for the sleeper as hard as I could run. I intercepted the pass and returned it 60 yards for a touchdown on the final play of the game. We won 13-7. I turned their sleeper into a nightmare.
Five years later, as a senior in high school, I intercepted two passes in one game against Groves High School on Halloween night. I returned one of those interceptions for a touchdown. My score didn't win the game (we beat them 48-0) but I was the only person on the team to score a defensive touchdown that season.
I always think of football on Halloween night.
It's almost dark outside, and I hear excited children screaming and squealing in the street. I may require a time-out while I hand out candy to the spooks and goblins soon to reach my door.
Young Jack is a ninja tonight. He already stopped by to model his costume, but the dummy didn't bring his treat bag. Idjit. I would have given him a good start on the night even if it WAS still daylight outside.
I found a post on SAMIZDATA that almost cured all my sinus problems by causing a full swallow of white zinfandel to come out of my nose. The following is actual courtroom testimony in the trial of a man accused of stealing 40,000 coathangers from hotel closets.
Counsel: What is your name?
Chrysler: Chrysler. Arnold Chrysler.
Counsel: Is that your own name?
Chrysler: Whose name do you think it is?
Counsel: I am just asking if it is your name.
Chrysler: And I have just told you it is. Why do you doubt it?
Counsel: It is not unknown for people to give a false name in court.
Chrysler: Which court?
Counsel: This court.
Chrysler: What is the name of this court?
Counsel: This is No 5 Court.
Chrysler: No, that is the number of this court. What is the name of this court?
Counsel: It is quite immaterial what the name of this court is!
Chrysler: Then perhaps it is immaterial if Chrysler is really my name.
Counsel: No, not really, you see because...
Judge: Mr Lovelace?
Counsel: Yes, m'lud?
Judge: I think Mr Chrysler is running rings round you already. I would try a new line of attack if I were you.
Counsel: Thank you, m'lud.
Chrysler: And thank you from ME, m'lud. It's nice to be appreciated.
Judge: Shut up, witness.
Chrysler: Willingly, m'lud. It is a pleasure to be told to shut up by you. For you, I would...
Judge: Shut up, witness. Carry on, Mr Lovelace.
Counsel: Now, Mr Chrysler, for let us assume that that is your name, you are accused of purloining in excess of 40,000 hotel coat hangers.
Chrysler: I am.
Counsel: Can you explain how this came about?
Chrysler: Yes. I had 40,000 coats which I needed to hang up.
Counsel: Is that true?
Counsel: Then why did you say it?
Chrysler: To attempt to throw you off balance.
Counsel: Off balance?
Chrysler: Certainly. As you know, all barristers seek to undermine the confidence of any hostile witness, or defendant. Therefore it must be equally open to the witness, or defendant, to try to shake the confidence of a hostile barrister.
Counsel: On the contrary, you are not here to indulge in cut and thrust with me. You are only here to answer my questions.
Chrysler: Was that a question?
Chrysler: Then I can't answer it.
Judge: Come on, Mr Lovelace! I think you are still being given the run-around here. You can do better than that. At least, for the sake of the English bar, I hope you can.
Counsel: Yes, m'lud. Now, Mr Chrysler, perhaps you will describe what reason you had to steal 40,000 coat hangers?
Chrysler: Is that a question?
Chrysler: It doesn't sound like one. It sounds like a proposition which doesn't believe in itself. You know, "Perhaps I will describe the reason I had to steal 40,000 coat hangers... Perhaps I won't... Perhaps I'll sing a little song instead..."
Judge: In fairness to Mr Lovelace, Mr Chrysler, I should remind you that barristers have an innate reluctance to frame a question as a question. Where you and I would say,"Where were you on Tuesday?", they are more likely to say, "Perhaps you could now inform the court of your precise whereabouts on the day after that Monday?". It isn't, strictly, a question, and it is not graceful English but you must pretend that it is a question and then answer it, otherwise we will be here for ever. Do you understand?
Chrysler: Yes, m'lud.
Judge: Carry on, Mr Lovelace.
Counsel: Mr Chrysler, why did you steal 40,000 hotel coat hangers, knowing as you must have that hotel coat hangers are designed to be useless outside hotel wardrobes?
Chrysler: Because I build and sell wardrobes which are specially designed to take nothing but hotel coat hangers.
I thought that was a parody lifted from The Onion but it's TRUE. )Here's the LINK. I hope Mr. Chrysler beats the rap.
The RIGHT WING TEXAN waxed philosophical the other day and said, "I have always been interested in the cultural, political, and attitudinal differences in Texas compared to other parts of the country - particularly either coast. Believe me, the differences in general are huge."
I agree. I have visited Texas several times (my first ex-wife was from Fort Worth) and I've appreciated the unique Texas culture. Texas grows more pretty women than Pennsylvania grows mushrooms. I won't say the women all are 10s, but I damned sure saw a LOT of 9.5s sashaying around everywhere I looked.
Everyone I dealt with was friendly and polite, even the hairy, tattooed guy, laid back on his Harley and drinking an 8-pack of Miller ponies in a 7-11 parking lot when I got lost trying to find a golf course where I had a tee time. The Iranian dude behind the counter inside didn't speakee English very well, so I asked the biker if he knew where the course was. He said yes, and started to give me directions, then said, "Fuck it, man. It's easier to TAKE you there. Just follow me." I did, and he led me right to the place. He pointed to the entrance, gave me a thumbs up and thundered on down the road.
That's the kind of thing I am accustomed to, living down South. But Texas is NOT a Southern state. Texas is just too... TEXAS to be really Southern. We true Southerners have a LOT in common with our Texan cousins, but there are significant differences.
The obvious one is barbecue. Southerners barbecue pig. If you mention barbecue in Jawja, EVERYBODY knows you're talking about the other white meat. In Texas, they barbecue BEEF. I got my first lesson in that difference one day when I had a craving for some ribs. My first ex-wife was going to the grocery store, so I said, "Honey, why don't you buy some ribs and I'll barbecue them for supper tonight." She returned with beef ribs, and was SHOCKED when I asked, "Why did you buy beef ribs? I wanted to barbecue!"
The other difference is hats. Southern men like their hats, but they usually wear caps with a logo on the FRONT, because no true Southerner turns the goddam thing around and wears it with the bill pointing assward unless he's in a bassboat burning a 200 Mercury full-blast across a lake. Southerners turn the hat around then to keep it from blowing off, but as soon as the boat slows down, we turn the bill to the front again to keep the sun out of our eyes while we fish. My favorite hat right now is a camoflage number with "United Rentals" on the FRONT. Texans, on the other hand, like their cowboy hats, even if they've never been closer to an actual cow than the milk cooler at Krogers. I really have no problem with that, but it IS a cultural difference.
I won't even mention the boot thing. I'll just repeat an old joke: What do you get if you kick the shit out of a Texan? An empty pair of cowboy boots.
I don't mean to be anti-Texas, because I am NOT. I love the state, and I have more blog-buddies from Texas than I do from Georgia (Okay, RWT, I'll beat you to it--- that's probably because more people can READ AND WRITE in Texas).
Besides, we share an appreciation for pickup trucks, guns, football, the Great Outdoors, fishing, campfires, fiddle music, food cooked on an open fire and prolific alcohol consumption. Texas may not be Southern, but it's the next best thing.
And that's high praise from Acidman. If you've read this blog for long, you know what I think about yankees and left-coast lunatics.
October 30, 2002
More Ex-Wife Bullshit
I received an email from the Bloodless Cunt at work today informing me that my son now is enrolled in a wrestling class that practices from 6:30 until 8:45 every SATURDAY NIGHT in Springfield, 14 miles down the road from where I live. This Saturday night my beloved Georgia Bulldogs play the hated Florida Gators on ESPN with a 7:30 kickoff.
I have a somewhat different attitude toward Quinton wrestling and Quinton playing soccer. If my school had offered a wrestling program, I would have been better at that than I was at football, and I was pretty good at football. My boy is built a lot like I was in my younger days and he is strong as an ox for his size. He has big legs, a low waist and good upper-body strength. Like me, he is built to wrestle.
The little shit has practiced enough on ME that he should fear no opponent he faces, ever. He seems to be ready to rumble, even when matched against older, heavier opponents. He suprises those bigger boys by whipping their asses sometimes.
I hate soccer with a passion, because I believe that it is a titty-hugging, pussy-assed game that only mamas can enjoy, mainly because they like the social life that goes with it. I believe that soccer sucks as a sport and is downright unAmerican as a game. It's WAY too French for me.
But wrestling is different. Yeah. That's mano-a-mano, like fending off a pulling guard and making a tackle in the backfield. And if my boy has found a sport where he can kick some ass, I want to be there to watch.
We'll be there Saturday night.
OH. MY. GOD.
There is something terribly wrong with THIS TEST. LOOKIT HOW I SCORED!!!!
As someone who spent most of the last half of last year dealing with prostate cancer, I believe that I truthfully can testify that I DON'T LIKE HAVING THINGS STUCK UP MY ASS! Tried it, numerous times, and didn't like it.
Yep, they're out there already... those people who hear screaming voices in their heads, see "realities" that others can't see and generally lack a random clue generator. Did the Bush Administration KILL PAUL WELLSTONE? Enquirer minds want to know.
That nausea-inducing, witless gasbag TED RALL is on the case, too. If Ted sees something, sane people KNOW that it's not there, but I worry about the insane people who swallow this crap. I understand that Elvis lives, we never landed on the moon, J.Edgar Hoover had JFK killed, and Bush stole the election. I'll concede all that.
But if you REALLY want to talk conspiracy, just look at the facts. Paul Wellstone was in a tough race to retain his Senate seat. Certain unnamed Powers That Be noticed that when Robert Torricelli dropped out of the New Jersey race and the Democrat Party reanimated a taxidermed fossil to take his place, polls showed that the fossil had a lot better chance than Torricelli did to WIN.
Cut to a dark room, where shadowy figures speak in whispers...
"Wellstone's gotta go. He could cost us control of the Senate."
"Do you realize what you're saying, man? His wife and daughter will be on that plane. Plus some other people, too."
"Just look at new Jersey. We have our own reanimated, taxidermed shill to run in Wellstone's place. We're talking control of the Senate here. I say sacrifice is warranted in this case."
"Yeah, that makes sense. But how do we blame it on the Republicans when WE have everything to gain? I mean, even a blithering idiot could see that Wellstone's death helps US more than it does THEM."
"Fuggetaboudit. The people we want on OUR side have to climb a long way up the food chain to achieve blithering idiot status. I make them jump like THAT! (Snaps fingers for emphasis)
"Okay, Bill.... whatever you say...."
"Terry, just make it happen, okay? Trust me. It'll work out fine."
That's MY conspiracy theory.
The same people who killed Paul Wellstone got Buddy Holly, Jim Croce, Audie Murphy, Patsy Cline, Rocky Marciano, the Lynnerd Skinnerd Band, and that great Savannah restauranteur Carey Hilliard.
Damn their eyes!
Rich of BRAIN SQUEEZINGS has decided that he wants to start brewing his own beer and is asking for advice from anyone who knows anything about the subject. Always willing to share my knowledge of the arcane with anyone who will listen, I offer this missive on home brewing.
It is FUN! Making your own beer is like conducting an experiment with a really cool chemistry set and being able to drink the end result without turning into a hairy, murderous freak like Mr. Hyde. You just turn into a drunken, slobbering freak like a lot of fans you see at professional hockey games.
My beer-making tools were a 5-gallon glass carboy, a funnel, a bottle capper, a four-foot piece of 1/2" plastic tubing, a rubber stopper with a hole in it for the neck of the carboy, a long glass tube that fit the hole in the stopper, and a short glass tube that did the same thing. I also had a bubble-counter device that fit the stopper, too. All these nifty things are available over the internet and likely for sale at a brewpub, if you have one nearby. I bought mine at The Mill in Savannah. I also bought 10 pounds of corn sugar, a 3-pound bag of spray-dried malt extract (for dark beers), three packs of various hops (they are rated on a bitterness scale), 1,000 bottle caps, and two cans of kit beer.
I then bought four cases of long-neck beer bottles for $2.00 per case from the bartender at The Blue-Collar Lounge, a bar down the street from where I lived at the time. I poured two cups of bleach into a clean plastic garbage can and filled the can with enough water to sink all the bottles. That will soak the labels off the bottles and disinfect them at the same time.
I started out making kit beers because they are the easy way for a beginner to learn and they usually turn out well. A kit beer basically is beer syrup in a can with a packet of yeast and cooking instructions included. The first batch I made was a "Cooper's Ale" (I think) from Australia.
Step one before brewing is to sterilize all your equipment. Bacteria love the nutrient-rich environment of sugar, yeast grains and hops that you are about to create and they will thrive there, turning the beer cidery and undrinkable if you give them a chance. I ran everything I used through the dishwasher first, except the carboy, which wouldn't fit, so I rinsed it thoroughly with a 5% bleach solution, then filled it with water and added four effervescing denture-cleanser tablets.
I cooked my batches on the kitchen stove. Just put some water in a big pot, bring it to a boil, and add the kit beer syrup. Lower the heat to a simmer and add sugar, stirring constantly to a) keep from "scorching" your beer and 2) keep the damned concoction in the pot, because it will boil over like Vesuvius if you aren't careful.
Most kit recipes call for four cups of sugar. I always used six-- the more sugar you add, the higher the alcohol content of the resultant beer. Mine usually ran around 7% (14 proof!) when finished. With the Coopers, I used four cups of corn sugar and two cups of malt extract. The beer came out a beautiful red color that way.
Cook the mixture for 45 minutes, then empty the carboy. Add about 4" of tap water to the carboy, insert the funnel into the neck of the carboy, and CAREFULLY pour the still-boiling contents of the pot down the funnel. Remove the funnel, fill the carboy to 5" air space with water and cover the top of the carboy (I used a dishwasher-sterilized baggie and a rubber band). Allow it to sit and cool until it is no more than titty-warm to the touch. Then pitch in the yeast.
Insert the rubber stopper in the neck of the carboy. Stick the short glass tube in the hole and connect the plastic tubing to the glass tube. Fill a coffee can 1/2 full of 5% bleach solution, poke a hole in the plastic top, and stick the other end of the plastic tubing through the hole that the end of the tube is beneath the liquid. Set the carboy in a safe place-- I used my laundry room.
Now wait about two weeks. Within the first 24 hours, the mixture in the carboy will begin to bubble furiously as the yeast devours the sugar and gives off CO2 and alcohol. The coffee can will bubble furiously, too, as the gas escapes. By day 2, the mixture is working alive and the coffee can starts making noises like a baby alligator, hissing and grunting. This process continues for a few days, then begins to subside. When you see very few bubbles rising from what is now about 2" of sediment in the bottom of the carboy, remove the blow-off tubing and insert the bubble-counter in the stopper.
The bubble-counter is a small plastic cylinder with a ball that seals the bottom. Fill it with 5% bleach solution and watch as gas forms in the carboy, lifts the ball, and allows a bubble to escape. When you see one bubble every two minutes, the beer is ready for the bottle.
Add 3/4 cup of priming sugar to the carboy. This sugar will give your beer its foam.
I always ran the bottles through the dishwasher on the rinse cycle and bottled my beer with the bottles still in the washer for easy cleanup. The long glass tube with the plastic tubing attached is the siphon. Fill the bottles, cap them, and set them in a cool, dark place for a few days.
WARNING! DO NOT siphon the sediment at the bottom of the carboy. That stuff has truly amazing laxitive qualities and if you don't enjoy shitting your pants, stay away from that stuff. Always leave about an inch of beer in the carboy. You should end up with 48-52 bottles.
The beer should age for two weeks, but I always liked to try a bottle after two days, then another one at four days and then another one after a week, just to see how the process was progressing. Sometimes, I pronounced the batch ready to go in 7 days.
I made more batches of more different kinds of beer than I can remember. But I remember that they ALL were good.
Go for it, Rich!
UPDATE Something ate every comment on this post, and this post only. I DID NOT DO THAT, because I wasn't fucking with anything at the time. At least I don't think I was. If you wanted me to know what you said, try to comment again or email me.
Enough to Wake the Dead
Say what you want about JESSE VENTURA, but he showed more class than most others who attended that "memorial service" for Paul Wellstone yesterday. Ventura walked out in disgust.
I didn't watch any of the spectacle because I always thought Wellstone was a socialist dingbat -- a genuine, honest one, but a socialist dingbat nevertheless. I believe that the country is better off without him in the Senate. But I was hoping to see him thrown out by Minnesota voters on November 5th, not killed in a plane crash along with his wife and daughter. That's a true tragedy.
But for the people attending the memorial, three dead Wellstones weren't nearly as tragic as the thought of Democrats losing control of the Senate. The damned thing turned into a giant, shameless CAMPAIGN RALLY.
For one thing, it was a happening. For hours ahead of time crowds lined up to get first crack at seating inside the University of Minnesota's Williams Arena. By the time the so-called dignitaries began to arrive, the crowd was being entertained by a hip soul band. The politicians played right along, waving and smiling and saluting as they walked in to loud cheers from the audience. Leading the way was Bill Clinton, who could be detected mouthing thank you's in response to the cheering, grateful that the event seemed to him to be about him. The Hillary at his side was soon enough smiling and grinning too.
When we elect "leaders" such as these swine, we get the government we deserve.
October 29, 2002
The spider that has lived behind the commode since I moved into the Crackerbox has expanded his (her?) domain. The web reaches all the way to the towel rack by the bathtub now and it is intricacy in its layers are fascinating. It catches a lot of mosquitoes and houseflys, and I'm all for that, but the damned thing needs to know that it can't take over the entire bathroom for itself.
I like my pet spider. It's not a BIG spider, but it's pretty fierce-looking and it's a web-spinning dervish. It has a voracious appetite, which is a good thing, because I like it when it eats pests in my home.
But I'm beginning to believe that it thinks it OWNS the place.
I figure it'll weave my toilet paper into its web in a day or so, then we'll have to come to an understanding about who's in charge around here.
I was strolling through my blogroll tonight and caught RAVENWOOD fisking some lame-brain about the Second Amendment. I was disappointed the the Ravin' One didn't link to the excrement he was cleaning off the bottom of his shoe, because I might have added my $5.25 cents worth to the arguement.
I have a very simple philosophy about gun ownership. The wise men who wrote the Constitution wanted an armed citizenry and that's why they included the right to keep and bear arms as the SECOND AMENDMENT, behind only freedom of religion, press, protest and petition. An armed citizenry can protect itself, without reliance on government forces to do it for them. And at the time, an armed citizenry could resist government forces that grew too big for their britches. Maybe we can't take to the woods and fight off tanks and smart bombs anymore, but armed citizens still are gonna be difficult to control; they will be a LOT MORE difficult to control than a disarmed citizenry.
Wanna talk snipers? A LOT of 16 year-old boys where I live are crack shots from 200 yards with a genuine high-powered rifle (30-06) because they hunt deer with their dads, and if you can't hit a deer at 200 yards, you won't harvest much venison in hunting season. CNN reporters and anti-gun clueless folk such as DAWN OLSEN won't understand it, but that's part of the way of life where I live. We shoot guns. A LOT. We teach our kids to shoot guns. And we hit where we aim. That's our intrepetation of "gun control."
I own guns because I have used them to kill vermin and vectors that menaced me and mine. I lived on a 5-acre mini-farm in the middle of the woods for several years and encountered rabid racoons, poisonous snakes, feral cats and one really shitty free-range chicken that I shot dead for the good of the homestead. I would have been a fool to live there, in a truly "natural" setting, 20 miles from the nearest police station without owning SEVERAL firearms. I am not a fool.
Of course, I also own a chainsaw, a weed-whacker, a riding lawn mower, a tiller, a circular saw, a hammer, an axe and a set of Ginsu knives, all of which could be deadly weapons in the wrong hands, or simply tools if utilized correctly.
I have my guns here, too, where I live now. I'm in a neighborhood, but we're WAY back in the boonies, and I'll bet that most, if not ALL of my neighbors own guns, too. I like it that way.
It keeps things peaceful.
I could Become Fond of YOU...
The more I fool around (and that is a totally apt term for MY efforts) with Movable Type, the more I'm beginning to like it. STACY sent me a brief tutorial today (Thanks, darlin'--- you did a GREAT JOB on the site) and I'm seriously considering donning my pith helmet, strapping a machete to my waist, donning my snake-proof boots and wading back into the jungle that almost ate me alive yesterday.
I would say, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained," but I suspect that those are the last words a lemming says before he jumps off a cliff.
My 15 Seconds of Fame
I was INSTAPUNDITED today.
I thought my hit counter appeared to be on amphetamines.
WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!
When you sit down for Thanksgiving dinner next month, you need to know that the food on the table is LOADED with known carcinogens. Yes, THAT'S RIGHT, carcinogens. And they weren't put there by evil pesticide manufacturers, greedy processed-food corporations or Big Tobacco companies. Mother Nature did it.
Scientists associated with the American Council on Science and Health once again have analyzed the natural foods that make up a traditional holiday dinner—and once again have found that they are loaded with "carcinogens": chemicals that in large doses cause cancer in laboratory animals. None of these chemicals are made by man or added to the foods. Indeed, all of these "carcinogens" occur naturally in foods.
That's downright frightening, isn't it? It's enough to make me want to start my very own grassroots environmentalist hysteria campaign against "Toxic Turkeys" and "Cancer Cranberrysauce."
Other blithering idiots are doing the same thing over acrylamide, the deadly ingredient just discovered in french fries by propeller-headed scientists with too much grant money on their hands and not enough talent to do true scientific research. Some blithering idiot health-nuts and blithering idiot politicians want to DO SOMETHING about acrylamide, too.
I have some suggestions about what they should do, but I refuse to write about pounding french fries up their asses with chipping hammers on my beautiful new site. No, Acidman has decided to clean up his act to fit the plush new digs and stop calling such people retarded, pucker-butted fuckwits who couldn't buy a clue with a platinum Visa Card. I'm not going to do that any more.
But I am sick and tired of the death-scare of the week because some asshole discovered some chemical in the parts per BILLIONS in something we eat or drink and trumpets the discovery by saying "WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!"
Bullshit. We've been eating and drinking poisons since the dawn of man, and we will continue to do so as long as the race exists. EVERYTHING is deadly in a large enough dose. NOTHING is deadly when the dose is not lethal or even harmful.
We're getting far too large a dose of enviromental scaremongering today about boogie-men that don't exist. THAT is harmful.
Reader Chase Kimball wrote to tell me this:
"You may or may not be aware that there is an obscure medical term for
That word sounds exactly like the noise my gut makes when I think about Hillary Clinton.
October 28, 2002
Government Cares About Me
Today, my boss handed me a thick stack of papers and said I had until the end of the month to complete the assignment inside. I opened the envelope and saw a stack of OSHA training manuals, with the obligatory tests included. I gave them a quick perusal and said, "I have only THREE DAYS to get this done?"
"YES," my boss said.
Since I didn't do it today, I have only two days left to complete this goddam coloring book the government insists that I do because I work in a "hazardous" environment around "toxic" chemicals. This is mandatory training that I must endure because some fat-assed bureaucrat who wouldn't know a chemical spill from a mud puddle brain-farted this regulation while ensconsed behind a desk in Washington, DC, with nothing better to do that pester me to justify his useless existence.
Here is how it works: The books do a poor job of translating OSHA regulations into plain English, but they DO have certain words highlighted in yellow. The highlighted words are the answers to the test questions. So, you pull out the test, look for the yellow highlights in the workbook, fill in the answers, and be done with this dog-and-pony show in about ten minutes. You score 100% on the test without ever reading a single word of the book that isn't highlighted, and you are trained.
I am SO GLAD my government takes such good care of me.
Everybody Knows What You SHOULD Have Done
The second-guessing, finger-pointing, Monday-morning quarterbacking, raised-eyebrow critics are feasting on the fact that ABOUT 120 HOSTAGES were killed by the gas used to facilitate the hostage rescue in Moscow. The deaths of those innocents is a crying shame, but I STILL submit that the rescue was a success.
The terrorists (NOT Chechen "gunmen" or "freedom fighters" or "hostage takers." They were fucking TERRORISTS!) were armed to the teeth, wearing Palestinian bomb-belts and already killing hostages when the rescue team went in. If I were in that theater, I would have said, "DO IT!" If my son were in there, I would have said the same thing.
I believe that everybody in that building, all 800 of them, would have died if the rescue had not been attempted. I also believe that the dead terrorists and the living hostages send a good, effective message to others who might try the same thing somewhere down the road. As civilized people, we must sometimes be barbarous when dealing with barbarians, no matter how unpleasant it may be to do. Force is all the barbarians understand, and we should give them a CLEAR example of the force we are willing to unleash on them if they ask for it.
I believe that many of the dead hostages could have been saved if the Russian military had been more forthcoming about the nature of the gas they used, but that's Russia for you. I wouldn't bet money that the troops who launched the gas attack knew what they were dealing with. I work with a lot of "toxic" chemicals every day, and I've never seen a Russian MSDS. I WILL wager that most Russians have never seen one, either.
The military should have told the doctors what they were dealing with. Lives could have been saved. But even the Russian, tight-lipped, stupidity about sharing information doesn't change the fact that they stopped the terrorism. The operation succeeded. They could have done better, but THEY DID IT!
WE in the USA could have done it better, IF we were willing to do it at all, and IF we were willing to sacrifice a few careers because too many hostages died, and IF we were willing to watch CNN rehash the events over and over again to the point of nausea. I really believe that if the same thing happened here, it would be a lot like Colombine, where the police stayed out of the school while the killers rampaged, because it was DANGEROUS in there. Yeah. Dangerous for a few political careers. That was a sickening episode of American history, especially when the cops wouldn't help that shot-to-shit boy crawling out the school window on national TV. They let him drop to the ground and lie there bleeding. I was proud to be an American when I watched that piece of film.
I question whether we have the balls to deal with the terrorism that is bound to happen in this country, sooner or later. After all, one shithead with a .223 rifle shut down football games, closed schools and had people walking zig-zag down the road from fear of DYING AT HIS HAND. The "Guardian Anglels" were pumping gas for frightened people, for crying out loud.
Look at who that demon was. I complete fucked-up, fuckwit failure of a man, driving a $250 car and SLEEPING IN IT. Whatta maroon! If we allow a retard such as THAT PIECE OF SHIT to scare us all to death, we're totally unprepared to deal with REAL trouble.
That worries me...
God Does Not Like Me
Bejus! I took one trip into the MT template file to add a couple of folks to my blogroll and I managed to wipe out my entire fricking new page in the process. I have been floundering around like a goddam snakehead fish heading for a fresh pond for TWO HOURS now, and I think I finally managed to bring the new GUT RUMBLES back from the Twilight Zone.
Goddam! I don't know what I did to cause the problem, and I really don't know what I did to fix it. But I DO know one thing--- the blogroll stays JUST LIKE IT IS RIGHT NOW until I figure out just whatthefuck I'm doing. Anybody looking to see their blog added there just better be patient. It's nothing personal. BUT I AM NOT GOING THERE AGAIN! At least not yet.
October 27, 2002
Recondo 32 and his lovely wife, Georgia, spent the night in the Crackerbox last night after we returned from Wisenbacker's all beered-up and triumphant after my beloved Bulldogs opened a serious can of whup-ass on Kentucky yesterday. Recondo claimed the couch, as usual, and Georgia slept on the Palestinean Bomber blow-up bed.
I had to get up and go to work early today.
I can recall times when my head felt worse that it did at 6:00 this morning, but I can't recall many. I ate the Breakfast of Champions, which is a cold Mountain Dew and four Tylenol. By the time I got to work, I was full of piss and vinegar. That lasted for about three hours, when I left work will all reports completed and all operating systems functioning between the ditches.
I started seriously considering a long nap while I was driving home. Yes, the thought of a pillow and a soft bed and warm sheets was sounding like a most excellent idea.
Alas, that was not to be. Recondo and Georgia were STILL AT MY HOUSE when I got home. Today became Movie Morning. We watched K-PAX, which they had never seen before. I even made popcorn. That's a damned good movie, featuring two of my favorite actors, Jeff Bridges and Kevin Spacey. STARMAN made me an absolute Jeff Bridges fan (that movie and the fact that I watched his dad in Sea Hunt all through my childhood) and I've never seen Kevin Spacey in anything where he wasn't superb, including that bomb Clint Eastwood made from Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.
Georgia has a new camera, a little, tiny digital tool, and she took a few pictures. That made me think about all the pictures that I DON'T have. I look around the Crackerbox and other than the pictures my mom gave me of my dad, everything I have was taken since I moved here. I have nothing to show for nine years of my life, my son's infanthood and the mini-farm I once owned. Evidently, I got divorced from all of that, too.
Bullshit. I want some of those pictures. I want my damned souvenirs.
I earned them.
Stranger in a Strange Land
When I say that I am a computer nitwit, I am not kidding. If you don't believe me, just ask DA GODDESS, or JONI or MAJIC MARC, all of whom have tried to edumicate me and failed miserably. I really believe that I am a hopeless case for two reasons.
1) I think I have my mind made up not to learn this shit. I didn't hit the ground running with it, so now I refuse even to walk. Besides, my brain is full. I don't have room for anything else.
2) I don't have the necessary attention span for this shit. Computer geekery reminds me of watching my father assemble those model ships he liked to build, where you have ten quadzillion tiny pieces that you need tweezers to handle and you use needle and thread passed through incredibly tiny eyelets to hoist the mainsail and stiffen the jib and shiver me timbers.
Blow me down. I once took a shotgun to a goddam brand-new barbecue grill when I couldn't make the thing resemble the picture on the box. AND I AM NOT MAKING THAT UP! I'm afraid that if I become really frustrated, I'll shoot my computer, too. The barbecue grill cost only $89 and it deserved to die. My computer cost a lot more than $89 dollars, but when I hand down a death sentence, I don't dally around with appeals--- I carry it out while I'm still pissed off. Therefore, I really don't need to travel far down the path of computer code, for my computer's sake.
Just thinking about that barbecue grill pissed me off. I'm gonna go open a bottle of wine.
Another Sunday Evening
I hate Sunday evenings anyway, but this one sucks especially hard. It's spitting rain outside and my body clock is all discombobulated from coming off Daylight Savings Time. It's almost dark and it's not 6:00 yet. I don't know whether I should open a bottle of Habersham Winery Merlot or make a bowl of chicken noodle soup. I feel pretty much "Bah!" so I'll probably opt for the wine.
On the plus side, the clock in my truck now reads the correct hour, for the first time since Daylight Savings Time started. I never reset the sumbitch and it finally caught up with itself. BWHAHAHAHA!
See? Patience is a virtue.
I believe I semi-officially have a new GUT RUMBLES page now. How do you like it?
Going for a Test Drive
Okay, I am in the new world of Movable Type, and I am as lost as a sheep in the woods. I may require a LONG TIME to figure out what I'm doing.
October 26, 2002
I found this HERE.
"We were waiting for this storm, we were sure it was necessary. The terrorists said to us, 'God is Allah, and we are eager to get into his kingdom. The Chechen women, who were among the terrorists, said they would be glad to gain freedom and were prepared to blow up themselves. When some noise was periodically heard outside the building, the female terrorists scattered around the hall among the sitting hostages. They laid hands on their belts and shouted that they would blow up the hall and themselves together with all those sitting," Chernyak said.
Would we have the testicular fortitude in America to handle such a situation, or would authorities blither and blather worrying about covering their asses until all the hostages were dead? What would our sterling news media make of this (in my opinion) outstanding hostage rescue operation?
The DC sniper case is a good illustration of what's wrong with the news media today. If I didn't know any better, I would believe that Chandra Levy and the sniper victims are the ONLY PEOPLE EVER MURDERED in the DC area. That's bullshit, but you wouldn't know it from watching CNN and the rest of the breathless reporters out there. I believe that somehow, probably with the advent of CNN, we've gone from REPORTING the news to MANUFACTURING the news. After all, when you report 24-7, around the clock, you've gotta have SOMETHING to say; otherwise, you have nothing but dead air. I believe that the czars who run the BIG MEDIA believe that nothing is news unless they declare it to be. They are wrong.
Major news organizations ignored this situation in Russia, while recycling sniper stories, and that's a crying shame. This same situation could be coming soon to a theater near you.
I would call that news.
All across Blogdom people are
All across Blogdom people are writing about the hack attack on Blogger.com. I was blissfully unaware of any problems. The sumbitch has worked better for me SINCE the hack than it was doing before.
Maybe Blogger needs to be hacked more often.
You can read the story
You can read the story of a BIG OLE WUSS being plied with alcohol, then hogtied and hauled to get a vasectomy, then you can contrast HIS behavior with my stalwart display of dignity and courage when facing the same operation. I went voluntarily to have a vasectomy.
After my son was born, the then-darling wife and I thought about having another child but decided against it. We figured that we had hit the jackpot with Quinton and we should quit while we were ahead. She had been taking some kind of shot for a couple of months (depoprevara, or something like that. I called them "Parvo Shots") to prevent ovulation and she liked the fact that she stopped having periods, too. But she became convinced that she shots were causing her to gain weight. She wanted off them but was reluctant to start taking the pill again. So, being the Southern Gentleman that I am, I said, "Why don't I just go get clipped?"
I stopped by at work the next day and saw Deniese, the company's Nurse Practicioner, and told her that I wanted to get a vasectomy. She picked up the phone and made me an appointment with Dr. Shook, her choice of urologists and I man I was later to become far too well-acquainted with, but that's another blog altogether. I went by Shook's office after work that day and filled out all the necessary paperwork for my operation three weeks later.
I had to take one form home with me for the wife to sign. In the state of Georgia, spousal consent is required before a married man can have a vasectomy. I didn't think twice about it at the time, but I find the idea incredibly ironic now. I could not go out and get clipped without my wife's permission. But SHE could go out eighteen months later and de-nut me with a divorce lawyer and I didn't have a FUCKING VOICE AT ALL in that matter. Something is terribly wrong with that picture. Okay, that's another blog, too.
On the appointed day, the wife and I showed up at Dr. Shook's office. She was there to drive me home afterward. The doctor had offered anesthesia and I accepted eagerly. As a person who has HIS OWN GAS MASK at the dentist's office, I am a certified anesthesia-hound anytime ANY doctor wants to do something I find unpleasant, and since I find GOING TO THE DOCTOR unpleasant, I just say "yes!" if drugs are offered.
I was called and told to remove my clothes and don a hospital gown. I did. I was led to an examination room and told to lie on a table. I did. The nurse lifted my gown, examined my equipment and said, "You didn't shave."
I had to admit that, no, I didn't shave. Nowhere in all that literature I read about the operation did I see any instructions about doing that, so I didn't. "Well, we'll take care of that right now," she said in a businesslike tone while snapping on a pair of latex gloves.
"I want my shot!" I whined.
I didn't get my shot. I got wet and lathered and shaved by a professional who used a Bic disposable razor. In other circumstances, I might have found the experience to be erotic. Had the wife and I known ahead of time that this procedure was required, we could have played some fun games with it. But having that nurse do it shrunk me like a spider on a hot stove. I was embarrassed, not because of being shaved, but because of what happened to me. My manhood resembled a stack of dimes 30-cents tall. My proud portabella became a button mushroom. I expected to look like a man with two navels any minute now. I was humiliated, and worried that my wanger might NEVER recover.
When the nurse finished, the doctor arrived. I got my shot then, but it wasn't much of a shot. I would rather have had my gas mask from the dentist's office and a nice bottle of nitrous. I watched as the nurse laid out a series of torture devices on the Mayo table next to me, and couldn't help thinking of the movie Braveheart, where the torturers displayed all their knives, hooks and tongs right before they eviscerated Mel Gibson. The doctor picked up a hypodermic needle that resembled a bicycle pump and gave me two shots in a place where no man EVER wants to see a hypodermic needle pointed.
But it wasn't that bad. A slight sting.... then MY NUTSACK WENT NUMB!
That is one hell of an unusual sensation. I believe that most men LIKE feeling their balls, except for those occasions where the cods absorb a sharp blow and you crawl around on all fours (actually, you crawl on ALL THREES, if you're not curled in a fetal position, because one hand will be tenderly cupping your nuts) making pig noises for a while until the pain subsides. Having them just GO AWAY like that is very disconcerting.
The doctor picked up a scalpel and said, "Do you know any good jokes?" (I AM NOT MAKING THAT UP!)
I informed the good doctor that I knew a gazillion good jokes, but he wasn't going to hear one now, because the LAST THING I wanted him doing was laughing like a maniac while he sliced into my testicles. I really didn't think that was a good idea. I wanted him to concentrate carefully on the task at hand.
He did something with the scalpel, did something with with another tool (I felt a slight tug there), then he picked up what appeared to be a soldering iron. I saw a tendril of smoke rise from between my legs, and the aroma hit my nostrils: PIG ROAST! Bejus! I knew it for a fact then. All men ARE PIGS, because I smelled just like a Boston Butt on a spit when the doctor cauterized whatever he had cut down there.
The entire operation lasted about fifteen minutes. I was told to get dressed and apply an icepack to my balls as soon as I got home. They gave me one pain pill and one sleeping pill and told me not to lift anything heavy for the next few days. I went home, took the pain pill, applied an icepack to my wound, sprawled on the couch and watched Willie Nelson in Barbarossa on HBO. I lifted nothing heavier than a 12-ounce beer can the entire time. I took the sleeping pill that night, slept like a baby and awoke the next morning with no swelling, no pain and not even a bruise. Just two sets of two stitches on my scrotum to show for it all. There's nothing to this, I thought.
My wife went out to feed the goats and chickens that morning. She came back and said, "We've got a goat problem." I figured that one or two of the escape artists had gotten through the fence again and run down the road to seduce that slut-goat Elvira at Bob and Sue's house. "I can't go rope them this time," I said. "I'm wounded."
"I think Billy is dead," she said.
Billy was my Alpha goat. He was a big, nasty, ill-tempered, head-butting, beard-pissing, sodomizing stink-bomb, but I was fond of him. He would eat out of my hand and no one else's. I suppose he recognized a kindred spirit in me. I went outside to check and, sure enough, Billy was gone to that great grasspatch in the sky.
The weather sucked. A misting rain was falling, the glowering clouds were battleship gray and the temperature was about 45 degrees with a chill northeast wind. Billy was still limber, so I knew that he hadn't been dead long. "I need to bury him," I told the wife.
"Don't you do that, Rob. You know what the doctor said. Call Ed or Willy and see if they'll do it. They owe you a favor." I said I would, later.
I went back inside and sprawled on the couch. She took Quinton and went to the grocery store. I went back outside and buried Billy in the rain. That was MY job. The other three goats stood in a line and baaaa-ed like a Greek chorus while I dug the hole, dragged Billy into it and covered him up. I was so careful about not hurting my nuts while I did all that that I damned near threw my back out using poor shovel technique. But I suffered no lasting damage from it.
I was at Keller's Flea Market a few months after my operation, and I almost bought a neat belt buckle I saw. It said "VASECTOMY--- ALL JUICE AND NO SEED."
October 25, 2002
Well, he appeared to be
Well, he appeared to be at death's door for years (that Man in the Wilderness movie must have taken a lot out of him) and finally RICHARD HARRIS shed the mortal coil today. I will miss him.
Have you ever heard of
Have you ever heard of THE LADDER THEORY? Having had the ladder pulled out from under me, I believe every word of it.
I also had my physical
I also had my physical at work today. Yeah, they lassoed the Cracker and dragged him kicking and screaming to Medical for my yearly once-over.
2) My eyesight at distance is (right) 20-15 and (left) 20-18, with a combined 20-15 score. Yes, I am eagle-eyed. My up-close eyesight was 20-umpteen-gazillion, even with my Wal-Mart reading glasses. The nurse suggested that I go see an eye doctor. I told her I might go to Wal-Mart and upgrade to more intense magnification lenses off the $6.00 eyeglass tree.
3) My lung-capacity test put me in the top 5% of men in my age group. The nurse was amazed. "You smoke, don't you?" she asked. "All I can, whenever I can," I replied. "You really ought to quit," she said. "You have excellent lungs." I didn't tell her that I was not surprised, because I am WIND.
4) My blood pressure was 120 over 70. Resting heart rate: 72. Must be all that wine I drink.
5) My bloodwork was excellent, and the PSA is still zero. Good. Cholesterol is 180.
6) My EKG was fucked up. The nurse was concerned. "You've had a big change in your EKG from last year to this year. There's a lot of noise in this one, but a couple of places on this chart suggest that parts of your heart may not be getting adequate blood flow. That's a big change for just a year. Do you want me to make a copy of this for your doctor?" I told her, "Calibrate your machine." Fuck! The way MY heart got stomped last year, the sumbitch OUGHTA be sucking wind. It oughta make a noise like a car going down the road on a flat tire. Not LUB-dub, but WHOMPTA-WHOMPTA. When I get out of bed in the morning, I keep expecting my ass to fall off and make a noise like a hubcap hitting pavement: CLINGALINGALINGALING! Piss on that EKG.
So, I will live forever, unless something kills me first. OSHA has their hearing and breathing data that they require, and I am free to work the weekend duty.
And I stick to my original fatalistic philosophy: on the day you were born, you exited your mama's womb with an expiration date stamped on your ass, just like a gallon of milk. You can't see it, but it's there. You can't change it.
And I don't want to.
I have the duty this
I have the duty this weekend, which means I have to haul my Cracker ass out to the plant for the next two days to do all the production reports and keep all the bigwigs informed about problems, injuries, environmental incidents and such. Along with the company-supplied cell phone they gave me a week ago, I also get to wear the BEEPER OF THE GODS for the weekend. Essentially, I am on call 24-7 until Monday morning.
I've always thought weekend duty was a crock. The bigwigs all have laptops that they take home with them on the weekends, and all production status is entered into the computer at work before 7:00 AM every day. If the bigwigs were THAT curious about what was going on in their absence (the place usually runs better when they aren't around), they could plug into the network and check it out over their morning coffee. But that would require them to access reports from the individual areas and that's a waste of valuable bigwig time. So, peons such as I go to the plant, collate the different reports onto one form and email the form to the bigwigs. That's essentially what weekend duty amounts to.
I work in the Finishing area. If an area other than Finishing has a problem, I'll get a call about it, but they might as well speak Farsi over the phone for all the good I can do them. I am not about to give advice and make decisions when I don't have a clue what they're talking about. "What do you usually do when this happens?" I ask. They tell me. "Okay, try THAT again," I suggest. If that doesn't work, I tell them to call THEIR coordinator at home and ask HIM what to do. When I DON'T have the weekend duty I get calls about Finishing problems, because people from the other areas don't know any more about my area than I know about theirs. It's silly.
But I'll be there in the morning...
The lovely and spankable Meesh
The lovely and spankable Meesh has a story about... well, let's just call it THE UNSINKABLE MOLLY BROWN. I got a nice chuckle out of that one...
For anyone interested, here is
For anyone interested, here is the possible origin of the sniper's CAUGHT LIKE A DUCK IN A NOOSE statement. The story fits, but I just wonder what a dude named Mohammed was doing reading Cherokee Indian myths.
That DOESN'T fit.
October 24, 2002
The more I read the
The more I read the ARMED LIBERAL the more I realize that we have differences in political philosophy that yawn like the Grand Canyon, but a focus on individual rights that are remarkably similar. He wrote this:
To deal with these [problems] wisely will require that we restate our commitment to some common goals, and to some processes – some governmental, some political, some private – that will tie us to these common goals. And we must do it while maintaining and improving both freedoms – the freedom to, and the freedom from. And it is exactly that shared commitment to some set of goals, and that shared sense of common citizenship that is eroded by the kind of politics and kind of commentary that I criticize.
What is happening now, as the election nears, is that political advertisments are attempting to shatter all of the USA into small pieces, so that the maggot politicians can pick them up, one by one. They are setting group against group, not for the good of the country, but simply to benefit themselves. What is happening now has nothing do do with what is good for the country, or what is good for individual citizens. It's all about politicians wielding power, and every voter is a pawn in that chess-game.
I call bullshit!
I believe that I could sit down to dinner and drinks with the Armed Liberal, and we could argue about our beliefs and walk away friends (especially after I picked up the check). But the modern political landscape is all slash-and-burn, and the winner walks away with the opponent humiliated, broken, and preferably dead. Elections are not the goddam Roman Circus. And I'm not sure that I want the "winners" governing if they will sink to the depths they do to win.
But that's how the game is played today, because it works, not for the good of the country, but for the good of the maggots who LOVE crawling in the shit.
Ladies and gentlemen, THIS PAP
Ladies and gentlemen, THIS PAP is what passes for "environmental science" today.
The study – carried out by doctors and scientists at the Erasmus University in Rotterdam – is the first in the world to show that normal levels of the chemicals affect humans. It follows a host of studies showing that gender-benders can turn wildlife species, from gulls and alligators to fish and turtles, into hermaphrodites. In the case of the children in the study, the chemicals caused girls to play with guns and pretend to be soldiers, and boys to play with dolls and tea sets and dress up in female clothes.
What more can I say?
Someone very soon now will
Someone very soon now will be the lucky person to give me my hit number:
If YOU are the lucky one to do that, I will send you a bottle of wine from the Habersham Winery, located right here in my beloved state of Georgia. I opened a bottle of "Scarlett" tonight, and it tastes pretty good to me. If my typos become more frequent on subsequent posts, it's because I REALLY LIKE the wine.
So, if you are number 25,000 tonight, let me know and I will send you a bottle of wine.
If I remember this promise. And if I don't drink it all first.
My blog-buddy, the RIGHT-WING TEXAN
My blog-buddy, the RIGHT-WING TEXAN suggested that I perform the "Mother of All Fiskings" on this..... uh...(be diplomatic, Rob)... PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A COLLEGE STUDENT, but I believe that I will pass on the challenge, because the fuckwit college student is studying to be a psychologist. Based on my experience, I conclude that people become psychologists because they know that THEY are fucked-up, and want to pretend that they're not. This confused jelly-brain probably lies in bed at night and fisks HIMSELF, just for the fun of it.
Besides, just look at the picture accompanying the article. Do you really believe that this Carrot-Top wanna-be has any pride to wound? I doubt it. Women took that away from him a LONG time ago.
So, I'll pass on attacking the misguided boy. Maybe he'll outgrow his delusions and get a real brain someday. Maybe he'll get a haircut that makes him look like something other than a poisonous mushroom with a short stem. Maybe he'll catch a real clue just walking around with his slack jaw open. I doubt it, but I'll wish him luck for now.
The main reason that I will cut the boy some slack is that I have copies of some things that I wrote back in my college days that make me cringe to read today. I knew EVERYTHING back then, just like this kid does. (C'mon, RWT. I'll bet you have a few of those skeletons rattling in YOUR closet, too, don't you?) Therefore, I will not fisk.
But I'll wager that a lot of other people do. I just hope the young man is jocked up tight, because he's gonna need to be.
According to THIS TEST, I
According to THIS TEST, I am WIND!
Of course, a lot of people might call me just Hot Air, but this is The United States of America, by Gawd, and people are entitled to an opinion, even if it's wrong.
Test borrowed from SAM'S BLOG. (That's my 19 year-old daughter, by the way. She is proof that some acorns don't fall far from the tree.)
I know that I am
I know that I am being politically-incorrect, totally insensitive and downright antisocial, but my FIRST THOUGHT when I saw THIS PICTURE was:
Where is the goddam gas station sniper when we NEED him?
Oh well. I managed to
Oh well. I managed to save this:
Hilarious Dear Abby Letter
When I got to her place we reviewed the list and trimmed it down to just under a hundred ... then she floored me.
She said that in a month I would be a married man and that before that happened, she wanted to have sex with me. Then she just stood up and walked to her bedroom and on her way said that I knew where the front door was if I wanted to leave.
I stood there for about five minutes and finally decided that I knew exactly how to deal with this situation. I headed straight out the
There, leaning against my car was her husband, my father-in-law to be. He was smiling. He explained that they just wanted to be sure I was a good kid and would be true to their little girl. I shook his hand and he congratulated me on passing their little test.
Abby, should I tell my fiancee' what her parents did, and that I thought their "little test" was asinine and insulting to my character?
Or should I keep the whole thing to myself including the fact that the reason I was walking out to my car was to get a condom?
Blogger ate everything I posted
Blogger ate everything I posted yesterday. EVERYTHING!
October 22, 2002
I bought a case of
I bought a case of wine from the Habersham Winery Taste Shop when I was in Dahlonega. I found that place about six years ago and I go there every time I'm in North Georgia. I didn't know Georgia MADE wine, other than the home-made scuppernog kind. But the Habersham Winery takes its job seriously and makes some fine stuff. Plus, they offered a 15% discount if I bought 12 bottles.
I like the little old ladies who run the shop. I can taste all the wine I want (the sign over the counter says "four samples maximum," but I work my charm and the sign doesn't matter anymore. If you buy the first two you try (I know what I'm looking for anyway), just say, "I have a friend who likes the darker wines. Could I try a couple of those?" and here come more samples, with a little bowl of crackers to cleanse the pallate in between. Buy those and they'll hit you with the 15% discount for a case. You say, "I don't know....I've had my four samples....but I really would like to taste THAT ONE." The rules go out the window.
When we left the place with my case of wine, Recondo 32 said, "Smith, you are a SLUT!" He had witnessed my performance. I just grinned.
Tell 'em Rob sent you. They LOVE ME there.
The earliest memory I have
The earliest memory I have is catching a butterfly with my bare fingers in the front-yard flowerbed by the fence in my Old Kentucky home. I may have been four year-old at the time. I remember a lot about living in the coal mining camp and I remember being very happy there, except for the trips to Dr. Begley's office for typhoid shots and polio shots and smallpox vaccinations, things my son will never know (unless terorists have their way).
I remember listing to my grandmother tell stories about her childhood (she was about 45 at the time, but she was OLD to me) and I recall vividly thinking about a path through the wildflowers on the other side of the railroad trestle where we lived, and how she had travelled a long way down that path where I was not allowed to go. I envied the memories she had.
I am five years older than she was then. I have travelled FAR down that path in my lifetime, not only through the wildflowers, but into the weeds, the briars, the poison ivy and the quicksand, too. I look back now and I really don't understand how I went from being Beaver Cleaver (although a lot of those traits still survive), to a high-school jockstrap, to a dope-smoking bohemian English Major in college, to an advertising copywriter, to a six-year professional musician, to a 23-year employee in a chemical plant. I had about one hundred "girlfriends" along the way and never contracted a single STD during my swashbuckling days. I never cheated on a wife. I am loyal, if nothing else.
Who would'a ever thunk THAT? Not ME!
I like living by myself now. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. The Crackerbox is a nice home (Joan? What would it cost to buy this place on 1/2 acre of wooded land where YOU live?). I own all the toys a man my age should own (except a trophy younger woman). I'm not rich, but I have more money than I know what to do with. I spend it freely; that's what it's for.
But I keep looking back and wondering how I fucked up everything in the rear-view mirror. It's too late to go back now.
I hate that.
This story will make little
This story will make little sense to anyone who doesn't work in a chemical plant around all sorts of really neat operating equipment, but I saw something today that I had never seen before. We had a massive, disasterous plug-up of wet slurry in a thing called a "dryer." Obviously, even for the uninitated, a "dryer" is not supposed to produce fricking MUD. A dryer is supposed to DRY pigment, not make mud. This one made MUD today.
I checked all the obvious things first, and I could find nothing wrong. So, I had to put on my thinking cap. After talking to the operator and checking the trends on the DCS, I knew what had happened and I knew how to fix it. We ended up putting about five tons of wet pigment on the ground to unplug everything. Meanwhile, an electrician replaced the burnt thermal-coupling that told my brilliant computer-controlled system to do exactly what it did.
Anybody who believes that computers are "smart" should work around computers that control process equipment. A computer will believe a reading of vacuum on a 600# steam header, it will believe reverse-flow in a pressurized system and it will damn surely suck on a bogus temperature reading. That's why we still pay human operators to watch this shit.
Computers a great when they work. But they are merciless bastards when they become confused.
Monika is back on THE
Monika is back on THE GROUP CAPTAIN'S PAGE with another senseless, brainless, clueless screed, wherein she asks the baffling question: "Is there any REAL difference between George Bush and Saddam Hussein? Is there any REAL difference between the United States of America and Iraq?"
Weighty questions indeed, for a lightweight and delusional mind. I will not bother fisking this one, because I waste my time doing so. I'll just answer her question: No, dear. There's not a dime's worth of difference between the two, except the USA has a stronger army.
If ignorance is bliss, Monika is one happy woman.
October 21, 2002
I remember that great American
I remember that great American martyr LENNY BRUCE explaining why the Catholic Church had resplendent, opulent cathedrals in some of the poorest areas of the world, where the worshipers lived like wretches. I am paraphrasing here, but Lenny basically said, "Hey, if you live in a shithole, would YOU want to go to a shithole to worship God? No! You want to see something better than the shithole you live in every day."
I believe that Lenny's philosophy applies in THIS CASE, too. According to Lecturer Trond Andresen of the Norwegian Institute of Technology in Trondheim:
"Ugly people should be spotlighted in the media in the same way that the media wishes to emphasize persons from ethnic minorities," Andresen, a lecture at the Department of Engineering Cybernetics, said to newspaper Bergens Tidende.
I think that most people, the vast majority of whom will never make People Magazine's 50 Sexiest issue, don't want to look at people just as ugly as THEY THEMSELVES are all the time. Gawd! Didn't Andresen ever hear of living a rich fantasy life? Just because I'm eating fish-heads and rice every day doesn't mean I don't want to see a picture of a mouth-watering chunk of Prime Rib every chance I get. Even though all my logic tells me differently, I still can look at that picture and imagine that one fine day, I just MIGHT get to sink my teeth into something like that.
That's what keeps people who eat fish-heads and rice every day from hanging themselves from the most handy tree limb. That's what fuels their desire to live. That's also what sells a lot of fancy cars, cool clothes, alcoholic beverages and credit cards. Save your money, buy THIS, and you just might get to sink your teeth into some juicy Prime Rib for once in your miserable life. That's a reason to get out of bed in the morning.
Looking at ugly people telling you that I AM JUST LIKE YOU AND THAT'S ALL YOU'LL EVER SINK YOUR TEETH INTO is bound to send people like me to rummaging through the tool box, locating the rope and searching for a handy tree limb. I may not be handsome, but I DO NOT want to be surrounded by ugly people all my life. I shave every day, so I get all the dose of ugly I need before I leave the Crackerbox in the morning. PLEASE assure me that I'll see something better before I go to bed at night.
I LIKE to look at beautiful people, especially beautiful women. And I don't care what that anal-retentive, envy-assed Andresen thinks about it, the ugly prick. I would not buy a sports car hawked by Rosie O'Donnel in the hope that I could take HER for a ride. I would not buy Budweiser in a bar and send one over to Janet Reno in the hope that she would come home with me that night. Hillary Clinton couldn't give me ice water in the desert.
Let Nichole Kidman, however, crawl half-nekkid and sultry on the hood of a Chrysler PT Cruiser and flash me some red toenails along with a come-hither look, and I'm ready to buy. I hate the fucking car, but I LOVE the sales pitch. It gives me hope that one day, just maybe...
Andresen must be one tortured sumbitch. And like most idiots, he wants YOU to be like HIM. You know... UGLY!
October 20, 2002
San Fransisco 49s' wide receiver
San Fransisco 49s' wide receiver Terrell Owens is disgrace to himself, a disgrace to his team and a disgrace to football, a game I still love with a passion.
Owens has spent much of the week defending his behavior following his second touchdown catch in a 28-21 victory over Seattle last Sunday. After the score, Owens reached into his sock and pulled out a pen to sign the ball. He then handed it to his financial adviser sitting nearby.
It was a "stunt," all right-- an egotistical display of selfish asininity that has no place on ANY athletic field. Terrell may believe that he is the greatest
Somebody wise should stick a sweatsock in Terrell's mouth and sew his lips shut, too. "Racism" had nothing to do with people taking offense at his purile antics. Most people don't like shitwits, and his self-aggrandizing display of absolute fucktoolery in a professional football game, coupled with his mealy-mouthed excuses afterward surely qualify for a nomination to the Shitwit Hall of Fame in my book.
Terrell Owens is a prime example of why I seldom watch professional sports any more. The term "professional" should mean more than just "I get paid for doing this." A professional should behave as one, and not set the kind of example I would strangle my son for following. Most "professionals" don't see it that way. A few class acts still exist, but the thugs, hoodlums, gangsters and shitwits are taking over. I just wonder how long the PGA Tour can last before golfers contract the Idiot Fever that has infected almost every other professional sport and THEY start doing wookie-dances on the green, fist-fighting over who is "away" on the green, choking coaches and charging for autographs.
They can have that kind of game; I want no part of it.
What do you know... HERE
What do you know... HERE IS SOMEONE willing to defend my favorite Acidwoman, or at least drum up a little comparative analysis of Ann Coulter's writing versus the darling of leftist rant. I believe that it is a great idea.
The cabins at Blood Mountain
The cabins at Blood Mountain have no phone service (and my cell didn't work there, either), but the owner has installed satellite television. Therefore, I was privileged to watch CNN's "All Sniper, All the Time" coverage while I was deep in the woods. I wish had packed my TV brick.
The breathless, round-the-clock reporting featured the same "news" gathered immediately after the shooting of the 47 year-old FBI analyst on Monday, along with three days worth of clueless speculation, shameless fear-mongering, and a lot of well-coiffed people with good teeth posing for the camera. I liked looking at the hottie news-babes, but the rest of that crap was pure sound and fury, signifying nothing.
CNN and the rest of the media are not performing a public service and they are not helping to solve the crimes; instead, they are making mountains from molehills, disrupting people's lives and possibly encouraging copy-cats to start their own murder campaigns. After what appears to be HIS LATEST ESCAPADE, the sniper has people afraid to pump gas, afraid to send their children to school and afraid of every white van they see. I don't believe that the twisted bastard deserves that sort of notoriety.
First of all, he's not THAT good a shot. "Sniper" is a title he does not deserve, but it sounds much more frightening than "maniac with a rifle." Plus, in a population of well over a million people, twelve random attempts at assassination DO NOT justify the fear people are showing in this situation. They still drive their cars, and that's a LOT more dangerous than pumping gas, and you're a LOT more likely to encounter a nutjob with a driver's license than a nutjob with a rifle.
And I do not believe that we should encourage the Wimping Of America when terrorists have declared war. The news media, having discovered the latest panic-button, are pressing it as hard as they can just to fill up air time and generate ratings.
Either Blogger was fine and
Either Blogger was fine and I did something really stupid to screw up my computer (which is a distinct possibility), or Blogger healed itself at the exact time I went through every gyration I could think of to get my computer functioning again. I sure hope it was me and not Blogger; otherwise, I sacrificed a perfectly good goat for nothing. I noticed some other people having trouble, but I believe that mine may have been about 99% self-inflicted. That happens to me a lot.
Anyway, I'm back in the saddle again.
One more try...
One more try...
Nothing has published since 3:00
Nothing has published since 3:00 yesterday afternoon. What gives?
Okay I tried a regular blogspot post and it published. Must be just PRO in brain-lock. One more reason to bail out of Blogger...
October 19, 2002
My F SCORE is mere
My F SCORE is mere 3.4, which makes me "disciplined but tolerant-- a true American." I knew that all along, even if others might suspect differently. THIS TEST proves it and will expose your inner wimp, inner fascist or... inner ME!
The test was shamelessly stolen from MARC, who stole it from someone else. He is a true American, too.
Blogger tried to eat it
Blogger tried to eat it again, but I managed to save THE LATEST POST from my son on his new blog.
When we set up the blog, he wanted to call it "Quinton Farted." I talked him out of that name, but he didn't stray far from his original intentions with his second choice. Due to some maintenance problems I wasn't quite finished with in my bedroom last night, (yeah... there's one hell of a blog just waiting to be told about THAT) we both slept on the couch. Quinton was under the ratty white blanket on the love seat and I was under a comforter on the sofa. I had to get him up and moving in time to drive 40 miles to a soccer game by 8:00 this morning, so I woke him at 6:45.
He sat up, looked at me with sleepy eyes.... and started making fart-noises with a hand in his armpit. I AM NOT MAKING THAT UP! So, his blog title fits; the flower of my joy is a FART BLOSSOM.
I will be leaving Blogger shortly, and I hope to bid it a fond farewell. But I may leave cussing like a sailor if it keeps screwing with my kid's posts. I am accustomed to the hassle, and I put up with it. My son will shoot the computer with fart-bullets he manufactures using his armpit and a pointed finger, and he will wander off to do other things if Blogger screws with him. I hope that doesn't happen, although even Blogger Pro has stopped publishing for most of today and he's operating on simple Blogspot.
He would rather make fart-noises with his armpit anyway.
I found THIS LINK on
I found THIS LINK on The Group Captain's Page and it made me think, which is NOT my forte. But I agree with the Group Captain that a couple of names don't belong on that list of the 10 Greatest Britons of All Time. If a similar poll were taken in the USA now would we end up with something like this?
Top 10 Americans of All Time:
1) Bill Clinton
Such a list would not surprise me at all, given the popular confusion between fame and greatness today. Here are my picks of the Top Ten Americans, for what they're worth. If you've never heard of a few, it's probably because they haven't been on TV or People magazine lately.
1) George Washington
I have good reasons for chosing every one, and I would be happy to debate anyone who disagrees with me.
I see from my comments
I see from my comments that SISOFLEXX has never heard of Blood Mountain, even though she lives just 10 miles from Dahlonega. That goes to show that you can NEVER really Southernize a Yankee.
Blood Mountain is in the middle of nowhere, surrounded on all sides by Cleveland to the south, Blairsville to the north and Helen and Dahlonega on the flanks. It's on highway 129, at the border of Union County and the Applachian Trail. I would say "you can't miss it," but you can. I didn't, and neither did DAX MONTANA.
But we're Southern boys. The lovely miss Georgia had no trouble locating the place, either. But she's a Southern woman.
Some things you just can't explain...
I really don't understand why
I really don't understand why I do a lot of the things I do. I picked up my son yesterday and was notified by the BC that Quinton had 1) a soccer game at 8:00 in the morning all the way over in southside Savannah, then 2) a car wash at the Sonic drive-in in Rincon from 11:00 until 1:00.
I had a few objections to this schedule.
First of all, I cut my vacation short and paid for a cabin that I left two days early to be with my son this weekend. Had I known he was so heavily booked on his social calender, I may have reconsidered that choice. It would have been nice to know before 6:00 on Friday, when I picked him up.
Second, who in the hell except an overbearing Soccer Mom, who does this shit a lot more for HER personal gratification than my son's, has him scheduled to play soccer at sunrise forty miles away from home, then wash cars in 50-degree weather TWO miles away from home when the game is over? That's batshit planning to me. And it's also batshit thinking. Eight year-olds don't need to be washing cars in this kind of weather. I started to ask, "How much money do they expect to raise at this all-important car wash? If I write 'em a fucking check for that amount, plus fifty dollars, can I keep Quinton today?" It's MY SATURDAY with him.
Third, I see my son every other weekend, from 6:00 on Friday evening until 6:00 on Sunday evening. The BC has him THE REST OF HIS LIFE and I don't appreciate her booking MY weekend with shit SHE wants him to do. I took him to the soccer game this morning, at 8:00 so that he could warm up before the face-off, kick-off or whatever the hell they call the start of a soccer game at 8:30. She arrived 30 seconds before the beginning of the game and was one hell of a show all by herself. I didn't know she was there until I heard her holding court from a lawn chair ten yards away. The men gathered around like flies on shit (and YES, that is a PERFECT analogy) as the other Soccer Moms stared in abject adoration at the Queen of Them All. The game was a sideshow that really deflected the spotlight from her.
I didn't receive so much as a how-de-do, and I wanted to puke. While I'm standing there tasting food I ate three days ago on Blood Mountain, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and saw the only person in the world I despise more than the Bloodless Cunt. "How are you doing, Rob," said Joe Thompson, the most worthless, scheming, ass-kissing, loogie-stain of a person I've EVER met in my life. He stuck out his hand to me. I kept my hands in the pockets of my jeans.
"I wasn't doing worth a shit, then I saw you. The day just got worse."
So, I left. I elbowed my way through her throngs of fans to reach the Soccer Goddess and told her, "I'm outta here. When Quinton is finished with the grand multiple-county tour you have planned for him today, you can bring him back to my house or not. But if his "schedule" on MY WEEKENDS has any more shit like today on it, notify the coach, the car-washers and EVERYBODY ELSE involved that he won't be there."
I am certain that she can explain to her adoring fans what a total asshole I am, without mentioning the unemployed dope-smoker and the other downright sleazy things she has done to me. That's fine. But she needs to get her greasy fingers out of my son's head and stop manipulating that boy for her own aggrandizement. My son didn't want to play soccer this morning. He warmed the bench for all but about two minutes while I was there, and he DAMNED SURELY didn't want to wash cars after the game. SHE wanted that.
Now, I don't know if he'll be back here today or not. That depends on her mood, I suppose. But I know one thing.
I'll never have to ask that question again.
October 18, 2002
A CERTAIN INDIVIDUAL may want
A CERTAIN INDIVIDUAL may want to hear the rest of a story I told him on Blood Mountain. I realize that most people who read this blog can't understand how I could ever even POSSIBLY piss someone off with the rants I write, and when I tell them about hateful or threatening emails I receive, they laugh and call me paranoid. Maybe so, but I have gotten a few missives that fall into that "I Know What You Did Last Summer" category.
The anonymous ones don't bother me, because any asshole too cowardly to identify himself damned surely doesn't have the balls to look me in the face and strike me dead. Those jackoffs lead rich fantasy lives. They also smoke cigarette butts that they pluck out of uninals in public bathrooms and de-pissify under that modified hair-dryer in the corner of the Men's Room before they light them and grin like a mule eating briars the entire time. Fuckwits. Maybe the DC sniper wrote me. But that nutless wonder prefers to shoot schoolboys and gas-pumpers, hero that he is, so I don't worry.
I usually carry a gun. (Or keep one fairly handy, at least) If he shoots at ME, he had better not miss.
But a couple of the folks who want to see me dead, or "punished" for my writing don't mind saying who they are, or promising that they will "get me," given the chance. I don't intend to give them the chance, but John Hinkleys exist in this world, and I may be receiving love notes from one of them. I believe most of that shit is 99.9% bluff, but you never really know...
So, Dax, that was why I reacted the way I did in the woods when I first met you. Yeah, I was worried for a moment there. But I almost wish you had been the assassin sent to kill me. You remember what I told you about the cleanup operation that was supposed to occur at my house while I was camping?
It didn't happen. And the end result was WORSE than Recondo 32 predicted. It was a horrific return home. At least the swarm of ants I discovered in the bedroom ate most of the evidence.
But they didn't eat the smell....
Beware, bloggers! There is a
Beware, bloggers! There is a NEW KID ON THE BLOCK and he's destined for greatness.
The little sucker reminds me a lot of me. But I DID NOT pick the name of his page, nor did I describe it for him. I talked him out of doing WORSE! The pup may take to blogging like a black lab does to water.
It wouldn't surprise me if he did....
As I was packing Sunday
As I was packing Sunday evening for my trip to the mountains, I received a phone call.
"Want some company?" asked Recondo 32. He had experienced one of his frequent brain-farts and decided that he wanted to amass fantastic wealth by panning for gold around Dahlonega. I already had told him earlier in the week that he and his lovely wife, Georgia, were welcome to use the cabin for the weekend after I went back home, but he decided to get a head start, so I told him to come on. I picked him up where he lives in Nowhere, South Carolina, and took him with me. We argued the entire trip.
I believe that I am just twisted enough to really enjoy the company of someone who argues about EVERYTHING, including what kind of gas I choose to put in my truck and what kind of dressing I like on a McDonald's hamburger. Recondo 32 does that. If I hadn't had that asshole around to keep the waters churning and muddy, I might have become lonely up high in that cabin. Thanks to his lively wit and spouting pie-hole, I never had the chance. I mainly stayed pissed off, and thought about killing him more than once.
Isn't it GREAT to have friends?
This post is for all
This post is for all the women who believe that I am an insensitive beast of a pig of a swine.
Ever wondered what it would be like if Dear Abby was a man?
Dear Mr. Abby:
Q: My husband wants a threesome with my best friend and me.
A: Obviously your husband cannot get enough of you! Knowing that there is only one of you, he can only settle for the next best thing - your best friend. Far from being an issue, this can bring you closer together. Why not get some of your old college oommates involved too? If you are still apprehensive, maybe you should let him be with your friends without you. If you're still not sure then just perform oral sex on him and cook him a nice meal, while you think about it.
Dear Mr. Abby:
Q: My husband continually asks me to perform oral sex on him.
Dear Mr. Abby:
Q: My husband has too many nights out with the boys.
A: This is perfectly natural behavior and it should be encouraged. The man is a hunter and he needs to prove his prowess with other men. A night out chasing young single girls is a great stress relief and can foster a more peaceful and relaxing home. Remember, nothing can rekindle your relationship better than the man being away for a day or two (it's a great time to clean the house too)! Just look at how emotional and happy he is when he returns to his stable home. The best thing to do when he gets home is for you and your best friend to perform oral sex on him. Then cook him a nice meal.
Dear Mr. Abby:
Q: My husband doesn't know where my clitoris is.
Dear Mr. Abby:
Q: My husband is uninterested in foreplay.
A: You are a bad person for bringing it up and should seek sensitivity training. Foreplay to a man is very stressful and time consuming. Sex should be available to your husband on demand with no pesky requests for foreplay. What this means is that you do not love your man as much as you should - he should never have to work to get you in the mood. Stop being so selfish! Perhaps you can make it up to him by performing oral sex on him and cook him a nice meal.
Q: My husband always has an orgasm then rolls over and goes to sleep never giving me one.
A: I'm not sure I understand the problem. Perhaps you've forgotten to cook him a nice meal?
I did not write that stuff, but I COULD have. Hell, sometimes I think I SHOULD have. If you believe that I'm wrong, feel free to change my mind by bringing your best friend over to the Crackerbox. After you BOTH perform oral sex on me, I'll tell you what I think of the nice meal you cook afterward.
If I don't roll over and go to sleep first.
I have returned. I am
I have returned. I am alive.
I also am tired, hung-over and filled with stories that I do not have time to tell right now. I need a shower and a glass of white zin first. I just wish to assure everyone that it was a GOOD TRIP.
A few more like that one will kill my Cracker ass, too.
October 14, 2002
It's still dark outside, and
It's still dark outside, and I have most of my travelling stuff piled in the living room floor. A cold front is moving in today, and the temperature is supposed to be in the low 30s in North Georgia tonight. Good fireplace and campfire weather, but maybe not so good for sitting on the deck of the cabin and playing my guitar to the trees. Or playing that mountain golf course in Blairsville, either, but I'm taking my beloved Martin AND my sometimes-beloved King Cobras with me. I can always play guitar INSIDE the cabin, and if I don't touch the golf clubs, it won't be anything different from the last year and a half.
I've also decided to come back home next Friday. That way, I don't have to work out a change in my son's visitation with the despised ex-wife, and I'll have some time before I go back to work to complete at least some of the 500 things I should have done already but didn't. Besides, I'll probably be suffering the DTs of serious blog-withdrawal by then.
I'm kinda looking forward to the drive up there. I know all the back-roads and shortcuts between here and Athens (thanks to my days as a student at The University of Georgia) and I want to see if I can get from here to Blood Mountain in five hours. Unencumbered by a wife and a child, I won't have to stop for food (twice) and bathrooms (every 50 miles), so I believe that I can make the trip in a blue streak, as long as I avoid detection and detention by any local constabulary I encounter along the way.
I believe that speed limits are fungible rules, to be obeyed only if you have a good chance of being caught violating them. So, I drive fast. I intend to do that again today.
And I'll be back Friday evening, if all goes well.
October 13, 2002
I have about 500 things
I have about 500 things I really ought to do before I leave for the mountains tomorrow. I should have done 250 of them yesterday, but I drank beer and watched football games instead. Now, I'm faced with a task-list that is impossible to complete, so I probably won't even start.
Fuck it. I'm on vacation.
I went down to Weisenbaker's
I went down to Weisenbaker's Bar yesterday to watch the Dawgs on a big-screen TV and eat dead, burnt beef while young waitresses with red toenails provided me with frozen mugs full of beer. I don't drink beer often anymore, but the Killian's Red was delicious, especially when the bar was not crowded and the Dawgs kicked Tennessee's ass while I cheered and barked as if I were on the 50 yard-line at Sanford Stadium. One of the waitresses, named "Nichole," was very attentive and mentioned that her mama has been divorced for a year and NEVER goes out, and I am "perfect" for her, being the handsome and charming "older" man that I am. She gave me her MAMA'S PHONE NUMBER, too. Mama is named "Lisa."
I called Lisa last night and got an answering machine, so I left a message saying that I would call back. I didn't have to. She called ME back. I may have dinner with her AND Nichole tonight, just to prove that I'm not a crazed rapist and a sexual deviant. (I am NOT a crazed rapist... just crazed.) Lisa lives about two miles away, and I hope to meet her this evening.
I've never had a daughter set me up with her mama before. Is that strange?
For those outside the inner
For those outside the inner circle of a small, but tightly-knit blog-world, I wish to announce that a certain QUEEN BEE successfully survived surgery yesterday, in spite of all the bribes I paid the doctors and nurses for different results. Damn.
That just goes to show that you can't buy trustworthy people anymore.
No one should be suprised
No one should be suprised to learn that GEORGE CARLIN is one of my favorite comedians. He is outrageous, insulting, acerbic and profane, always capable of behaving like a red-assed baboon, and reminds me very much of me.
I also find STEVEN WRIGHT incredibly funny. Those two comics, one over-the-top and one completely deadpan, are about as far apart in presentation as you can get. Both make me laugh out loud when I watch them perform. Does that say something puzzling about my sense of humor, or does it say something very frightening about ME?
That's my enigma for today.
October 12, 2002
Georgia beat Tennessee today in
Georgia beat Tennessee today in a damn fine football game that I believed my beloved Bulldogs were going to blow in the end. I was wrong, they won, and life is good.
Hey, RWT! Still think da Dawgs are over-rated?
Fucktoolery at large. "Patriotism threatens
Fucktoolery at large.
"Patriotism threatens free speech with death. It is infuriated by thoughtful hesitation, constructive criticism of our leaders and pleas for peace. It despises people of foreign birth. It has specifically blamed homosexuals, feminists and the American Civil Liberties Union. In other words, the American flag stands for intimidation, censorship, violence, bigotry, sexism, homophobia and shoving the Constitution through a paper shredder. Whom are we calling terrorists here?" -- Barbara Kingsolver, novelist, Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, September 27
Read more such wisdom HERE and keep your barf-bag handy.
The German philosopher Monique is
The German philosopher Monique is back on THE GROUP CAPTAIN'S BLOG, and she's making me crazy again. Does all of Europe believe what SHE does about the United States, or is she a lot like those drum-beating, slogan-shouting, sign-wavers who show up at "anti-globalization" protests just to pretend that they're living in 1968? I really want to know.
Moni speaks English as a second language, so ignore the grammer in her screed. Just pay attention to the thought process and the misconceptions they spring from.
Today's news said that Jimmy Carter (Mr Peanut) got the Nobel-price for peace. Isn't it fun that he is so much liked in Europe? In Europe this is seen as some kind of clear sign to Mr. Bush jun. who is having really way too much fun with his role as leader of the strongest nation worldwide.
President Bush is NOT having "way too much fun" in his role. Bill Clinton did that, the slut. Most Americans recognize Jimmy Carter for the incompetent jackass he was. And is. But Europe worships Carter and Clinton. Go figure.
I had a long discussion about our social system at another place and maybe this could be interesting (even if someone else could add how it works in other places). When we here hear about the American economy and how good it worked while Clinton was on power, we also always hear about the bad social system. We hear that sure people work, but they do not have sufficient holidays, they get paid low wages and have to have several jobs to make a living (not the few highly-paid people, I mean the average employee).
Yep, as long as Clinton was on
In some things, I think, the German social system has its pros and it surely has its cons. When you work (as I do) and you get paid, you need a tax card. On this tax card is written your tax class. Classes are: 1 - for single living people; 2 - for single living with child; 3 - married and the one who earns more; 4 - married and both get equal money; 5 - married, partner has 3; 6 - second tax card for second job, about 50% taxes at this class. I have 3 with one child, my sweetie has 5 - because he works just 20 hours, he earns less than I do. This tax class sorts how much you have to pay on monthly taxes and insurances. Everyone who works to bis himself has to pay for unemployment insurance. That makes it possible that if you lose your job, you get paid for a few months time about 60something of your last income from the state - unemployment money. After that and still now having found a job (with 4.000.000 unemployed people something that could happen from time to time), you get paid lower money - Unemployment help. Both payments include health insurance (I shudder, when I read that in the US it depends on the money if you get medical help in good quality or not, to me this sounds... inhuman and cruel. Is it really that tough there?).
In America, you have a tax card on every paycheck you draw. The vorcaious government maw takes a large bite before you ever see the money (I am single, one dependent, 36% Federal tax bracket, plus 6% more to the state of Georgia. Government takes almost half of what I earn). But income doesn't come from the "state" (it is EXTRACTED BY the state) unless you're content to be a tick on the belly of a mangy dog. We have people like that, and the state pays them, but they are not paid well. They are encouraged to GET A JOB! Pay people for not working and guess what you get? PEOPLE NOT WORKING! Government needs working people to PAY TAXES instead of sucking the freebie teat. So, we don't make unemployment comfortable, because it shouldn't be. And by the way, this "inhuman and cruel" medical crap is an outright lie. It is AGAINST FEDERAL LAW to refuse treatment to anybody who needs it, whether they have insurance or can pay for it. That's one reason MY medical premiums are so expensive. I'm paying for the ticks on the dog's belly. But EVERYBODY receives quality health care, quicker and better than where yours is "free."
If you can not work (or just if you do not work...) and you don't get unemployment money, or the money you get is too less, you can get welfare money. Welfare money can get everyone who lives in Germany (also foreigners with an official resident status) and can not make a living on his own. There are some exceptions (students usually do not get it, people who do not realize rights they have against others - like children against their parents and so on - usually do not get it as long as they don't realize them), but mostly everyone living here can get money. And this money is pretty much: it includes -payment for health insurance (which is about 100,- EUR monthly), rent for a reasonable sized flat, about 280,--EUR for the first one, 220,-- for the partner and up to 200,-- EUR for each child. There are also extra-payments for clothes, furniture and special occasions like pregnancy, childbirth, circumcision, wedding and some more. But for the extra-payments you need to give some proof for the need of it.
Hey! You live in a MONEY STORE! Don't work, don't hit a lick and get paid for sitting on your ass in a home the government provides. Nirvana! No wonder you have 4,000,000 unemployed.
Most people who get welfare money do need it for a short time and then, after a crisis (divorce, child and no place in a day-care, illness, alcoholism, drugs...) they start to take place at the *real life* again. But some, from my experiences I'd say something between 10% and 20% sure do cheat the system pretty hard. There are single mothers who can't go to work, because of a child, but in reality they're living together with someone and not telling the welfare office. In the anonymity of a city, this happens really a lot. Also the people who work without paying taxes (we call it black-working), they get welfare money and also work without papers.
Amazing. The government sets up a non-worker's paradise and people scammed the system, like greedy ticks on a mangy dog's belly. Imagine that. We did a heartless thing in 1996 called "Welfare Reform" that really did a lot to get the ticks off the dog.
Sure, it has some weak points, but being the left romanticist I am, I think the cheaters are weight up by the people who really need this help and can find back to life again with this help. And those, who get really helped are worth having some cheaters.
The cheaters outnumber the ones who need help. They always do when govenment subsidizes cheating.
We do not have slums, we do not have trailer parks. Sure, we have parts of cities, where it is more dangerous to live, where more poor people live than somewhere else, but for what I see, we have a far higher standard in social care for people with less money. I think, I do not like a state which cares for unemployed and homeless just in an asylum.
We have slums in the USA. They generally are government-subsidized housing projects, where the people live rent-free, draw welfare checks and turn the place into a goddam jungle. Residents there use a lot of free health care in treatment of gunshot wounds. They have no incentive to better themselves, they raise feral children taught the arts of crime by seasoned professionals and they get paid for it. At least in an American trailer park, a lot of people OWN THEIR TRAILERS!.
Socialism will reduce Germany to a worthless sump, eventually, and True Believers don't see it coming. True Believers think that paying people for not working, providing homes for the unemployed and making health care free is a good thing. It is, if you want a lot of unemployed people contributing nothing for all the benefits they enjoy. That system can't last.
I don't know. Maybe it can, if they have a Social Security Trust Fund to raid.
The ex-Governor of my beloved
The ex-Governor of my beloved state of Georgia won the Nobel Peace Prize. Yes, Jimmy Carter has been recognized for all the great things he has done in the name of peace. VODKAPUNDIT lists them, in case you have fogotten this altogether forgettable ex-Governor, ex-President and extraterrestrial.
I am proud that I never voted for Jimmy Carter in any election, ever. He may have been a MORAL MAN, but he was an incompetent administrator and a grinning jackass when he was in charge. Most of the problems in the Middle East today are the result of James Earl Carter's fucktoolery as President. He deserves a Nobel Peace prize about as much as a murdering thug such as Yasser Arafat does.
Wait! Yasser has one already. My bad.
Jimmy Carter should have stuck with growing peanuts and building "Habitat for Humanity" houses, things that he is good at. He can plant a seed and drive a nail. But he NEVER COULD run a government, not the state of Georgia's and damned surely not the entire United States of America. The man is a walking example of the PETER PRINCIPLE. And he wins the Nobel Peace Prize. What the $%#@!!*&^%$#!! does THAT say about the Nobel Peace Prize?
I'm taking a deep breath and calming down. I've been especially angry and vitriolic lately, and I'm attempting to control my passion. This shit doesn't make it easy to do.
I am on vacation. I leave for a week in the mountains on Monday. I am mellow.
As long as I don't think about Jimmy Carter.
October 11, 2002
Once again, I'll accept the
According to the Bush administration, the threat posed by Iraq is serious enough to risk the lives of American soldiers, to end the lives of what would undoubtedly be thousands of Iraqi soldiers and civilians, and to risk a chemical or biological attack on the American homeland, but not serious enough to interrupt prime-time television. None of the big three broadcast networks carried President Bush's case-for-war speech Monday night because, they say, the White House didn't ask. Preempting Saddam Hussein is one thing, apparently, but preempting Drew Carey is another.
I believe that THE NETWORKS made that decision, not the Bush administration. Bush didn't "ask," so the networks didn't report? Shame, shame on President Bush. He didn't go, "Hey, POWER GUYS, this is the President of the United States. I just wanted to let you know that I'm making a speech tonight, where I'm urging that The United States Of America go to war against Iraq. Would you PLEASE broadcast my speech?" The fat guy with the gold rolex in BROADCAST COMMAND looked at his schedule at 7:45 PM and said, "No call from Bush, begging for coverage? His time is up. He must not believe that his speech is newsworthy. He didn't kiss my ass and grovel. Run 'Drew Carey.' "
The Post reports that "the White House said it did not put in the usual formal request because it wanted to keep the American public from thinking we were going to war." As the hour for the speech approached, The Post says, White House officials had second thoughts and offered to "beef up" the speech to entice the networks, but it was too late.
Too late for what? To have the networks cover important news? THAT'S THEIR FUCKING JOB! They didn't do it, and it's the Bush administration's fault? My aching ass.
This notion that a call to arms can be beefed up or beefed down at will, like the idea that people should give their support for a war without really thinking it's going to happen, is characteristic of the Bush sell job. Foreigners, the New York Times reports, read Bush's speech as backing down from an inexorable commitment to "regime change," while in America it was seen as his toughest statement yet. Whatever.
Yeah, "whatever." Who in the bacteria-infested colon of Satan wrote that line? That inestinal tract obviously has been "beefed up and beefed down" numerous times. And you can wipe the end result of all that "beefing" with the editorial page of the New York Times. That's all it's fit for anymore. Tell me you didn't write that, Michael!
Ambiguity has its place in dealings among nations, and so does a bit of studied irrationality. Sending mixed signals and leaving the enemy uncertain what you might do next are valid tactics. But the cloud of confusion that surrounds Bush's Iraq policy is not tactical. It's the real thing. And the dissembling is aimed at the American citizenry, not at Saddam Hussein. Hussein knows how close he is or isn't to a usable nuclear bomb -- we're the ones who are expected to take Bush's word for it.
I remember having such insights when I was wrapped in a cloud of marijuana smoke in my college days. I practiced "studied irrationality," and I sent a lot of "mixed signals." I lived in a "cloud of confusion." I eventually outgrew that shit, but I kinda miss the good ole days every now and then. I want some of what this stoner dopehead pretending to be Kinsley has been smoking. Then, I might discover "the real thing" the blithering idiot is talking about.
"Iraq could decide on any given day" to give biological or chemical weapons to terrorists for use against the United States, Bush said Monday night. The wording is cleverly designed to imply more than it actually says. It doesn't say an Iraq-sponsored biological attack could actually happen tomorrow. But the only purpose of the phrase "on any given day" is to suggest that it might.
Oh, you know SO MUCH! You see right through that "any given day" crap because you are much more clever than President Bush, and privy to insight and information that he doesn't have. Will we have an attack from terrorists TOMORROW? Probably not. Should we suspect that we "MIGHT," in the near future? Nah. What a ridiculous suggestion!
So the question then arises: If Saddam Hussein has the desire and ability to attack the United States with chemical and biological weapons, either directly or using surrogates, why hasn't he done so? Possibly because he fears reprisal. Bush's emphasis on the danger of Hussein's giving these weapons to terrorists, rather than his using them himself, was another bit of careful wording, intended to suggest that Hussein could avoid reprisal by leaving no fingerprints. But Hussein surely realizes that evidence will be found linking him to any terrorist act for the foreseeable future, whether such evidence exists or not. Meanwhile, though, if the United States is inexorably committed to "regime change" -- which, in any scenario, Hussein is unlikely to survive in one piece -- any reason for him to show restraint disappears.
Right. He won't do anything to piss us off, except shoot at our planes in the no-fly zones, lie like a dog whenever cornered on a question, and break every promise he ever made about being a good boy. Other than those slight perfidies, the man is a saint. You want to trust him to play by the rules, because he hasn't given weapons of mass destruction to terrorists yet. Therefore, he never will. Bullshit!
We know that Saddam is a nutjob. We know that he has chemical and biological weapons. So, tell me all you know about the "foreseeable future," and I want to cut the deck before I read your Tarot cards, to see if I get the same divination.
The CIA makes this obvious point in a document made public this week. The agency's assessment is that Iraq is unlikely to use biological or chemical weapons against the United States unless we attack Iraq and Saddam Hussein concludes he has nothing to lose. The administration disagrees, naturally. Whatever small basis either side may have for its conclusion, we who must follow the dispute in the papers have even less. Who knows who's right? But Bush cannot have it both ways. He cannot insist that Hussein is able and eager to do so much harm to the United States that we must go to war to remove him, and at the same time refuse to acknowledge the increased risk of such harm as one of the costs of going to war.
What kind of "small basis" are we talking about here? I don't see anything small about it. It's BIG, you idiot, and that's why we need to open a can of serious asswhup on Saddam. "Who knows what's right?" You pontificate as if YOU DO, but I sincerely believe that Saddam is WRONG for the Middle East, for the United States and for the world. Getting rid of him is a risk we should be willing to take.
The Bush campaign for war against Iraq has been insulting to American citizens, not just because it has been dishonest but because it has been unserious. A lie is insulting; an obvious lie is doubly insulting. Arguments that stumble into each other like drunks are not serious. Washington is abuzz with the "real reason" this or that subgroup of the administration wants this war.
Your writing is insulting. It also is unserious, while pretending to be serious. That's doubly insulting. And that Washington "buzz" you hear are voices in your head attempting to take control of your testicles. DON'T LISTEN!
A serious and respectful effort to rally the citizenry would offer the real reasons, would base the conclusion on the evidence rather than vice versa, would admit to the ambiguities and uncertainties, would be frank about the potential cost. A serious effort to take the nation into war would not hesitate to interrupt people while they're watching a sitcom.
I agree. The networks should have thought about that. But they probably were totally mesmerized and struck dumb by that last paragraph you crafted. Man, I just GOTTA get some of that dope you're smoking! That "ambiguity and uncertainty" and "vice versa" stuff is PROFOUND. I believe that I may have pulled a brain-muscle attempting to absorb all that wisdom at once. When people who speak your language trasnslate it, I hope they tell me what that gibberish means.
But citizens ought to be more serious too. They tell pollsters they favor the Bush policy, then they say they favor conditions such as U.N. approval that are not part of the Bush policy. Many, in polls, seem to make a distinction between war, which they favor, and casualties, which they don't. Neither side in this argument has an open-and-shut case, and certainly agreeing with the president's case doesn't make you a fool. Agreeing with the president even though you didn't hear his case -- because he apparently didn't much care if you heard it -- is a different story.
Okay, I favor war, but I don't favor casualties. That's BAD? I should want war and LOTS of casualties? Or should I just go for casualties without the war? I am confused. I read this entire whateveritwas, and my head hurts.
Damn you for doing this to me, Vodka-man!
I've done some wild and
I've done some wild and crazy things in my life, but I have never showed up at a police station WITH A NAIL AND A FIRECRACKER IN MY WANG. At least not that I recall. But I DO KNOW that it WASN'T ME doing this:
The unidentified man from nearby Trenton, N.J., told the stunned cops he had inserted the objects himself, but refused to say why. He asked them to take him to the hospital.
I didn't do that. All my nails and firecrackers are accounted for. I'm currently searching for my wang. I know that it's around here somewhere...
In the spirit of Halloween,
In the spirit of Halloween, I present THIS STORY that you can tell your kids around the fireplace at night.
Once upon a time, a man sodomized a pumpkin... and they lived happily ever after.
Personally, I believe that the police should have left this man alone, as long as he was having deviant sex with a consenting vegetable in the privacy of his own home. I've had sex with consenting women who had a lot in common with garden-grown okra (slick, slimy and GOOD if you heat them up just right) and I want to know that if I ever see a really good-looking cantelope, I can have my way with it. Government should stay out of that crap, if you ask me. That's easy for me to say, because I'M not the one arrested for fucking a pumpkin. Somebody else did that.
His picture is on that link.
If you see this man in the grocery store, STAY AWAY FROM THE PRODUCE AISLE! YOU COULD BE NEXT!!!!
I've seen the "Two Cows"
I've seen the "Two Cows" joke before via email, but DAMIAN PENNY posted a new and improved version, so I stole it.
And added a few myself.
DEMOCRAT: You have two cows. Your neighbor has none. You feel guilty for being successful. You vote people into office who put a tax on your cows, forcing you to sell one to raise money to pay the tax. The people you voted for then take the tax money, buy a cow and give it to your neighbor. You feel righteous. Barbara Streisand sings for you.
OSAMA BIN LADEN: Osama is dead in a cave, along with two dead cows. He is seen on videotape milking the cows, and Arab News proclaims the tape to be proof that Osama is still alive and poised to bring America to its knees, just as soon as he is finished milking the cows, which is taking longer than expected.
BLOGGERS:Somebody linked to a story about two cows. Another blogger read it, called bullshit, and fisked the cows. The original blogger called bullshit back and fisked the fisk. The cows became famous for one day, then everybody forgot about them when Barbra Streisand diverted the attention of all the cow-floggers toward HER bovinity.
ROBERT FISK: Fisk encountered two cows. They knocked him down and stomped him. In a lengthy, gaseous article for The Guardian he explained that he understood why they did it and felt that he deserved it, too. Many readers failed to comprehend his thinking, but all agreed that he deserved it.
ROBERT BYRD: The esteemed Senator from West Virginia inserted pork-barrel spending into the Education Bill and used taxpayer dollars to buy two cows, which will stand in the "Robert C. Byrd Cow Pasture," purchased with additional taxpayer dollars as a part of the Farm Bill. The cows are officially named "The Robert C. Byrd Memorial Cows." They don't give milk, but they have 2,653 federally-funded caretakers watching over them, paid for by another pork-chop in the Homeland Security Bill, which also named a freeway overpass, a bridge and an office complex after the honorable Senator. Life is good, unless you're a taxpayer.
"Nick" in the "comments" on
"Nick" in the "comments" on posts below is absolutely correct. I have been a seething ball of anger, hostility and spite for the past week or so. Really. MORE THAN USUAL. I wish that I knew the reason, but I don't.
I just get REALLY pissed off at the world sometimes.
October 10, 2002
This unmitigated pap appeared in
This unmitigated pap appeared in The New York Times, which I will not link to because it isn't worth YOUR valuable time to register. Thomas Friedman wrote it, and you can go find the entire turditorial yourself, if you have a strong stomach.
"Where are the Democrats who are ready to argue forcefully that the future tax cuts that Mr. Bush pushed through are utterly reckless and need to be repealed — because they will erode the resources the government needs to remain a Great Power in this age of uncertainty? And they send a terrible signal to our kids, corporate leaders and the world: that all that matters is short-term, me-first gratification."
Those Democrats are out there. They just don't have the spine, the courage or the balls to say "We need your 'resources' (READ: MONEY) to redistribute wealth, pour cash down rat-holes and build a few more concrete monuments to Robert Byrd, which is how WE intend to remain in power... uh, I mean make this nation REMAIN a great power." The last thing the Democrats would ever do is send a terrible signal to our kids that all that matters is short-term, me-first gratification. Bill Clinton never did that. And just look at how long-term, nation-first the Democrats behaved in New Jersey.
Where are the Democrats who would declare that the best way to enhance our security, make us better global citizens, reduce our dependence on Middle East oil and leave a better planet for our kids is a Manhattan Project to develop a renewable energy source, along with greater conservation? Mr. Bush has totally ignored the longing by young Americans to be drafted for such a grand project to strengthen America. And so, too, have the Democrats.
They'll be finding jobs in the private sector after the November elections if they mouth that green, ring-tailed monkey crap now, you blithering idiot. They know two things that you dont: #1: Americans don't want to hear that shit right now, and #2 : could you PLEASE leave "the kids" out of your argument? That's the last refuge of a Democrat scoundrel, taken when his argument sucks. Plus, if you knew diddly-squat about energy production (I SUPERVISED energy plants for nine years of my life), you would know that the idea of "renewable" energy sources amounting to anything more than a pimple on a gnats ass is ridiculous. I have one question, and if you answer it correctly, I'll listen to your expert opinion on energy production: What's a "megawatt," and how many homes can a "megawatt" supply with all the energy they need?
Where are the Democrats who would declare that confronting Saddam is legitimate, but it must not be done without real preparation of the U.S. public? Decapitating Saddam's regime will take weeks. Building Iraq into a more decent state, with a real civil society, will take years. But it is this latter project that is the most important — the one that really gets at the underlying threat from the Middle East, which is its failed states. But do we know how to do such nation re-building, and if we do, do Americans want to pay for it? We need to go in prepared for this task (which is unavoidable if we really intend to disarm Iraq) or stay out and rely instead on more aggressive containment, because halfhearted nation-building always ends badly and would surely weaken us. Why aren't the Democrats clarifying this?
They're afraid that voters will throw them out of their comfortable offices if they do, asshole! No, thoughtful Democrats know that we need to dither like Hamlet and stick one thumb up our collective asses and one thumb in our collective mouths and rotate the two every five minutes. We'll shuck and jive, but go with the flow, but "with reservations." (Yeah. I reserve the right to take credit for anything good that happens, and I reserve the right to say "I TOLD you so!" if things go wrong.) What we really need is a concerted effort to get to the underlying problems of the Democrat party. PS- you couldn't work "our kids" into that rant, or did you just get carried away with sanctimony and forget?
At the moment, the Bush team is leading the nation much more by fear than by hope. The Democrats can only win, or only deserve to win, if they can offer a bold alternative. That would be a program for strengthening America based on hope not fear, substance not spin, a program that addresses the primary concern of Americans now: the future for the kids whose pictures they carry around in their wallets.
Bush is not the one making cartoons showing Republicans rolling elderly people in wheelchairs off a cliff. YOU did THAT! Yeah, you pricks have that "hope" thing down pat. Just like your "Man from
The frightening thing to me is that I believe this guy actually believes everything he wrote.
UPDATE Is "hope" anything like prayer? It must be to the "bold" Democrats, because the only time I ever "HOPED" for something in my life was when I split the aces at Blackjack in Harrah's Casino and doubled my $50 bet. I HOPED for two face-cards.
"Hope in one hand and shit in the other and see which one fills up first," as my 91-year-old grandmother says today.
I don't want peoiple like me in a casino running my government.
A host of really lame
A host of really lame editorials have appeared in newspapers to condemn Bush's stance on Iraq. You can read one, along with a good fisking of it, HERE.
Go read THIS POST I
Go read THIS POST I STOLE FROM MOMMABEAR.
Yeah. Sometimes IT IS personal.
I don't know whether to
I don't know whether to gag over THIS RIDICULOUS CRAP because California started it or because the federal government is determined to stop it. Every idiot involved, on BOTH sides, needs to be dragged off and shot.
The Bush administration sided Wednesday with auto manufacturers in opposing a California requirement that a percentage of passenger vehicles sold in the state achieve zero emissions, meaning reliance on all-electric cars.
To California, I wish to say: You people are a bunch of nit-witted, granola-crunching, ring-tailed enviro-monkeys. If people wanted electric cars, people would BUY THEM without government mandates. I want to know: How many of you crystal-gazing, tofu-sucking politicians who passed this kidney stone of legislation drive electric cars? Without wasting my valuable time on a Google search, I'll just hazard a wild guess... hmmmm... NONE! That's for other people to do, right? While you totalitarian asswipes in green cloaks drive YOUR SUVs? Right? May you all find raw sewage in your organic salads.
To the Justice Department, I wish to say: Go away. Federal law overrides everything today, but I don't like to be reminded of it, even if it's a GOOD THING in this case. I know the South was forbidden to secede from the union, but is it okay to KICK CALIFORNIA OUT? If so, let's do that--- for the good of the nation. Let Californians drive electric cars, sit in the dark, worship Gaia, consider Barbra Streisand wise and be totally fucked-up all they want to. I would rather you just bounced the idiots out, as if they were really obnoxious drunks at an otherwise good party, than flex some more law-muscle. I get really nervous when you do that.
But California makes me nervous, too.
Reader Jim Calloway sent an
Reader Jim Calloway sent an interesting email about my post on the Big Three networks' failure to broadcast Bush's speech the other night and the resultant blast of flame I received from JB about it in my "comments." Sadly, I agree with Jim.
"I noticed, in the comments on your post about the networks ignoring the President's speech, that you're being challenged to come up with a constitutional basis for a possible war with Iraq. I suspect that he's right. There isn't any. At least, not if you take the constitution literally as written.
The Constitution was folded, spindled and mutilated by Abraham Lincoln during the Civil War and it has been chopped, diced, shredded and pureed ever since. Now, we don't have The Constitution of the United States of America. Instead, we have "living, breathing" document, which lives an breathes much like a malformed thalidamyde baby. JB can beat his dead horse until his arm falls off, but that isn't going to alter reality one bit. Our courts rule that the Constitution means whatever is expedient, politically-correct or fitting with the agenda of the day. And they've done it for a LONG time. If you entertain any fantasies about that fact, get over them, cause we'll never go back to where this nation started.
I support war against Iraq, and I have my "Constitutional justification" in the term "provide for the common defense." I believe that the Middle East is a festering boil on the asscheek of the world and we need to lance that pus-filled carbuncle before the poison spreads. Call it "preventative" medicine. And we don't stop with Iraq, either. We drag ALL of Araby kicking and screaming into the 21st century, or we kill the ones who won't come. If we don't hit them now, they surely will hit us later. And I believe that sometimes the best defense is a good offense.
Yeah, it's about OIL, too. (Not OIL COMPANIES-- just OIL) We need it, they've got it and we should make sure the supply is reliable. That's difficult to do when dealing with a bunch of highly unreliable people, so THEY need to go.
Is this "empire building?" I don't think so. I believe that it's more akin to fumigating your house to get rid of the vermin, then buying regular pest-control service to make sure that they don't come back.
"Americans will die if we go to war!" No shit. Americans ALREADY have died; MORE will if we DON'T go to war, and that's a damn good reason to do it, do it right, and do it NOW.
Let's start the ball.
October 09, 2002
I should get together with
I should get together with SOUR BOB and compare notes, drink heavily and spend the night in jail. Boy, THAT would teach the ex-wife a lesson, wouldn't it?
Wait... I DID that already, without Sour Bob. It didn't work any magic on the ex but it cost ME a lot of money.
As if there was any
As if there was any doubt their increasing irrelevance, NETWORK NEWS made it official by neglecting to broadcast President Bush's speech about WHY THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA MAY GO TO WAR!
Nope, no story there. Better to air "Drew Carey," "The Fear Factor" and "King of Queens."
I've had moments when I
I've had moments when I disagreed with COLIN POWELL, but this isn't one of them. And I've had moments when I liked Harry Belafonte's sound. But this isn't one of them.
"There's an old saying," Belafonte told 760 KFMB. "In the days of slavery, there were those slaves who lived on the plantation and were those slaves that lived in the house.
I LIKE Powell's response. I've also been forced to reevaluate my opinion of him lately. Maybe Powell isn't the "dove" in the "hawk" administration that lefties thought he was. Maybe a lot of what he said that pissed me off earlier was nothing more than HIS LINE delivered in a carefully-directed script. I don't believe that GWB is stupid, although that is conventional wisdom, and it's bitten everyone who believed it square in the ass. The Dumbocrats wouldn't be so flummoxed now if Bush were really stupid. Bush is more like a Machivellian Tar Baby. Right when his enemies think they've got him, they're suddenly stuck in a place they never intended to be, and they can't get out.
That's not dumb, folks. That's rope-a-dope. And I now believe that Powell's contrarian behavior was part of the plan. It worked, too.
I lump Harry Belefonte into that pile of nitwits and fucktards that make their fame and fortune parroting words other people wrote and somehow become convinced that they are brilliant thinkers. These prima dona stars are well-paid, pampered and adored by audiences, but most of them are as dumb as a can of dirt. If they had a flicker of sense, THEY would be writing their lines instead of hiring others to do it for them. We just got a toxic dose of Barbra Streisand in action, and she proved that fleas on a dog's ass are smarter than she is.
THAT'S a Hollywood celebrity in gone to war and wounded in action from attempting to have a thought process.
I just heard on the
I just heard on the news that some Humvee-riding Marines in Kuwait opened fire on a civilian vehicle when they saw someone brandishing a gun. The civilian vehicle ran off the road and the Marines kept going.
I guess they had live ammunition this time.
Updated BTW: (Before some know-it-all like STRYKER attempts to de-nut me on this) I understand why soldiers DO NOT carry live ammunition in training exercises. The object of the training is to teach soldiers to stay alive in a real battle, not to have them killed by friendly fire in an exercise. Makes perfect sense to me. I undergo quarterly Haz-Mat training and we don't set off an ACTUAL chlorine release just to test our competency in Level-A suits. You learn to do it right when there is no real danger so that you do it right when the danger IS real.
But I'm still delighted that our guys shot FIRST today. Call me a chickenhawk, but we have some Islamokazis in Kuwait, and we need to hasten them on to find the 72 virgins if that's what they want.
I don't want to read about any more dead American soldiers in that "friendly" country.
I remember exactly where I
I remember exactly where I was one year ago today, and I wasn't happy to be there. Actually, that's a lie. I was EXTREMELY HAPPY, thanks to the morphene, but the IV in my arm, the catheter in my wang, the staples in my belly, the drainage tube with the suction bulb on the end and the cute little red-haired nurse who shoved suppositories up MY END every four hours tended to ruin my opium dreams. Plus, the pestiferous hospital staff kept pounding on my back and demanding that I blow into some bong-like device and float a ping-pong ball between two marks on a cylinder, instead of giving me more morphene and catering to my every whim.
They wanted me to get out of bed and walk around, too. So, I did, bare ass exposed from the back of the hospital gown and dragging all the tubes and baggage with me. I went straight to my overnight bag, retrieved my cigarettes and lighter, made my way to the bathroom and had myself a much-needed dose of tar, nicotine and carbon monoxide. I was sitting on the commode amid a rich swirl of Marlboro smoke when a nurse showed up unexpectedly and caught me.
"Smoking is not allowed in the hospital," she announced.
"I'm not smoking," I replied. "Go away and tell EVERYBODY YOU SEE that I am not smoking in the hospital. I'll back up your story."
She shook her head and went away. Damn good nurse.
I am delighted that I am where I am today rather than where I was one year ago. It took a while for me to recover from 10/9/01. As long as I don't over-indulge in the white zin tonight, I'll be fine after 10/9/02. That's a good thing.
I still regret that I didn't ask the red-haired nurse for her name and phone number. She had nice fingers.
Is it just ME, or
Is it just ME, or does BLOGGER appear to be having another brain-fart today?
October 08, 2002
Ladies and gentlemen, STEP BACK
Ladies and gentlemen, STEP BACK from the crazy man and let the guys in the white coats handle this situation.
U.S. Rep. Jim McDermott broadened his attack on George W. Bush's war plans yesterday, saying the president is threatening military action in Iraq as part of a plot to crown himself emperor of America.
I don't know what McVermin has been smoking, but I want a big bag of it, and some 5.0 rolling papers. I need to escape from reality the way he has done. I already have my tinfoil hat on my head. I am ready.
Beejus! This blithering idiot is a CONGRESSMAN, for crying out loud! When did we start raiding looney bins to find such a blithering fuckwit? Oh, yeah... never mind. Solid Democrat territory. Yella-dog country. The useful idiot shitheel gets elected by people who believe that they're still voting for Franklin Roosevelt. All right, I've got it now.
You can have my 5.0 rolling papers. But I'm keeping the tinfoil hat.
I like the word "WANGITUDE"
Gawd! I believe HIS stable contains more minions than MINE.
Here's a DAMN FINE PIECE
Here's a DAMN FINE PIECE about the South. If you're Southern, read it and be proud. If you're a Yankee, read it TWICE, if you can keep your northern head out of your ass that long.
I am old enough to remember spearate bathrooms and drinking fountains, segregated schools and the race-riots of the '60s. I have lived long enough to see the changes, and they are impressive. We still have our red-necked racists down South, but they are a shrinking minority and NOBODY considers them to be anything but the assholes that they are. We have come farther than anywhere else in the nation in true racial harmony, but we Southerners still get crap heaped on our heads from Yankees (that's the first thing that pissed me off about Rosie O'Donnel's stand-up act, which she performed in New York. She launched a big tirade about the backward South, and all the Yankees laughed. Yeah, BWHAHAHA! I threw my TV brick at the screen and I have hated her ever since.) but I've seen how pleasant race relations are in glorious Yankeeland. Buncha fucking snot-nosed hypocrites.
Thanks to DA GODDESS for the link, and I know that SHE KNOWS. She saw my little chunk of the True South for herself. And I don't give a shit what SGT STRYKER thinks about my "sick" culture. I LOVE IT.
The old farmers around the coffee pot at the Swamp Fox would read Stryker and shake their heads. Then, they would say, "That fool does go on SOMETHING FIERCE, don't he?"
And they would be right, as they usually are.
I don't know whether the
I don't know whether the sniper killings around Washington DC have anything to do with Al Qeada or not, but they ARE MOST DEFINITELY acts of terrorism. When gunshots strike down innocent citizens for no apparent reason other than cold-blooded murder, that's terrorism. Anybody can be a victim at any time, and that's unnerving. But IT'S NOT unnerving enough to cause everybody in the nation, or even in the area where the killings are occurring, to crawl under the bed, curl in a fetal position and refuse to go outside EVER AGAIN.
The nutjob(s) committing the random murders will be captured eventually, and even if they go on a real spree, fewer people will be shot than die in auto accidents every day. We don't go into full panic-mode about car wrecks. We accept that kind of death and go on with our lives. But the overwrought reaction to these shootings by the press is likely to have unpleasant consequences down the road, both to American citizens and from terrorists. The press is attempting to scare Americans to death with its breathless reporting of the story. Good job!
If the ragheaded, goat-screwing Islamo-maniacs were too stupid to think of this kind of terror before, they damned surely think about it now, with every news network and newspaper fanning the fires. I can see the gap-toothed, swarthy bastards now, squatting barefoot around a dung-fueled fire in a hole in the rocks and eating goatshit gruel while they plot their newest masterstroke. "Look! See how America trembles? Go get a gun and start shooting people, anyone you see! We will bring the Great Satan to his knees! Allah is wise! And Americans are weak! Just watch CNN."
The press also sins greatly by describing the killer(s) as an "expert" shot using a "high-powered" rifle. A .223 is NOT a high-powered rifle (nor a goddam "assault rifle," either) and with a decent scope and a good rest, an accurate shot at a person from 100+ yards is not that difficult, if you don't mind pulling the trigger with a human being in the crosshairs. I've hit beer cans from that distance with more gun than a .223.
DIPNUT had some worthwhile opinions today, and I want to borrow something from his post that some of those panting reporters should read.
News flash: "high velocity" is not by any means the same thing as "high-power". Kim duToit disparages the .223 as a "varmint round" and he knows what he's talking about. Yes, it can kill you. NATO relies on the fact that .223 (which they call 5.56mm NATO) can kill you. But it's basically a very accurate high-velocity plinker. The reason it is used in tactical carbines is mostly because NATO expected its soldiers to be lousy marksmen prone to panic, and the mild .223 recoil allows the "spray and pray" approach. Besides, if you're going to waste bullets, they might as well be little ones so you can carry more of them.
Three reasons, my man: 1) Fear sells 2) Guns are EVIL 3) Your standard, Journalism-school-issue reporter is totally ignorant about guns and relies on #1 and #2 to tell the story.
I ATTENDED journalism school. I met the dumbest, laziest, most brain-dead, liberal people I've known in my life there. Oh, they could string words together on a piece of paper (we used typewriters in those Dark Ages) but they seldom bothered to understand what they were writing about or reseach any of it. Too fucking lazy, for one thing. And too fucking pre-programmed with polticially-correct cant for another. Just get a good quote from somebody who is afraid, or agrees with YOU, and run with the story. That's reporting.
I see from reading the sniper stories that nothing has changed.
I added a few new
I added a few new folks to the blogroll today. Check 'em out over on the left.
RAVENWOOD arrived thanks to pity comments he left on my posts. I visited his page and discovered blogs such as this one:
Political Coorectness has killed the childhood past-time of 'Show and Tell'. Teachers are scaling back 'Show and Tell' so as not to hurt children's feelings, and encourage competition.
And not keeping score at school football games is about as goddam unAmerican as you can get.
I also added THE FAT GUY, who I discovered thanks to JONI, whose red toenails I miss badly whenever I visit her page, even if I do have my own collection of personal toe-porn she sent me. TFG reminds me of me. You should feel very sorry for him because of that fact.
BO COWGILL is welcome aboard, too, even though I must confess that I had never read his blog until today, when I found him via a hit on my Site Meter. He thinks big, the way I do, and is just as foolish.
SALON.COM CLOSES @ $.01 / SHARE: Here's what I don't understand: Why doesn't someone just buy all 88,500 shares for a grand total of $885 and liquidate all of the company's assets. You could probably make a profit by reselling all of their servers and software.
Bo, if you and I ever put our heads together on a business deal, we'll end up making most debts owed by Third-World countries appear to be peanuts. I thought you had a damned good idea there for a minute.
But I must warn a few other people: If you don't start blogging again, I'm going to kick you off my prestigious blogroll! SISOFLEXX, what happened to you? Buying that new house put you in the Twilight Zone. I MISS you! And if THE SUPREME BITCH allows that computer virus to kick her ass, I will lose all respect for the Queen of Mean that I loved so well. And DONNA never comes to visit anymore.
Oh, well. Ships do pass in the night, I suppose...
GUT RUMBLES Is a toaster
Is a toaster that talks. It knows your name!
Yeah, THIS PLACE figured me out very quickly. Downright eerie, if you ask me.
Link via TIM BLAIR.
October 07, 2002
Yes, we can always trust
Yes, we can always trust in government to do STUPID THINGS. The pucker-butts who are drunk with their own power in Daytona Beach have decided that the welfare of all citizens depends on the enactment of a "nudity ordinance," designed to replace bikinis with burkas for the good of civilization.
Clue to VOTERS EVERYWHERE: if this shit is all your "leaders" can think up to justify their existence, YOU DON'T NEED THEM. Mob rule would be better.
"Skimpy bathing suits could still be worn legally, Hartman said, as long as one-third of the buttocks or one-quarter of a woman's breast are covered."
Who is going to MEASURE? Show me 1/3 of an ass and 1/4 of a titty. I wanna see that, just so I know what the hell these idiots are talking about enacting into law. I have some questions, too.
If a woman has one boob completely covered and the other one bare, that's only 1/2 a titty, if you go by square inch of flesh, right? Or do we have separate ordinances for invididual titties? How do you enforce this law?
COP: "Ma'am, step off the beach and put your hands on the boardwalk. I think you're showing a little too much ass, and I need to check it out. I wanna get a look at those titties, too, while I'm at it"
HUSBAND: THAWCK! (That's the sound of a fist hitting a jawbone) The cop goes to the hospital, the husband goes to jail, the wife ends up in therapy and the kids go to foster homes. And it's all the fault of Victoria's Secret Swimwear Collection.
I would not have the nerve to propose such idiocy.
Of course, I would never run for political office, either. I have far too many skeletons in my closet that opponents could use against me, but I've blogged about most of those, so I'm not worried about my sins and foibles becoming public knowledge. Just ask, and I'll tell you all about them myself. I suffer from chronic Don't Give A Shit What Other People Think Syndrome, and that is NOT an asset for a politician. Plus, my platform would be to pass NO NEW LAWS. We have more than enough already, and we don't do a good job of enforcing THOSE.
My stump speech would be the same thing over and over: I will vigorously oppose the passage of ANY new legislation, no matter what it is, because too much legislation has fucked up this country, and we don't need to fuck it up any more. If you elect ME, I will draw my salary, play a lot of golf, take every junket from lobbying groups that I can weasel my way into and just enjoy all the perks of high office. I will screw all the women, take all the bribes and live high on the hog. But, I promise to LEAVE YOU ALONE. I expect to become wealthy by being elected, because everybody else does, but I won't whore for the money. I'll take it and screw the people who paid ME, instead of screwing YOU, my constituents.
Vote Acidman in November. And remember the slogan: You don't give a shit, and neither does he.
Thanks to the lovely and tempestuous JONI for this most appreciated link.
Wanna see some CELEBRITY DOUBLES?
A lot of people don't like Ann Coulter, but I do. Yeah, she is outrageous, she is over the top and she exploits her blonde-bombshell looks for maximum effectiveness. In fact, she's a lot like DAWN OLSEN. Ann just does the same thing from the other side of the political spectrum, and makes a LOT more money and creates a much HIGHER PROFILE melding sex and opinion into suet for the masses.
I like the way Ann writes. Read MY blog and figure that one out.
DEMOCRATIC SEN. ROBERT TORRICELLI'S announcement that he was pulling out of the New Jersey Senate race this week looked like a confession of guilt in a Soviet show trial. In the reflection of his dewy eyes, you could almost see Terry McAuliffe mouthing the words to him from the audience. Especially the part where he paid tribute to the great Bill Clinton, to whom Torricelli evidently owes his deeply ingrained sense of ethics.
See? Just read that scalpel-slice. In only three sentences, Ann managed to ridicule THE TORCH, THE CROOK, and THE BIGGEST BASTARD OF ALL TIME with surgical precision. Gawd! I wish that SHE would join my Minions of Trashy Women. I need a new Queen Bee now that DA GODDESS has seen me for the worthless turd that I am and has put me at the top of her Shit List. Situations do flux in this world. But Ann remains consistent.
And I DREAM OF JEANIE doesn't resemble Barbara Eden nearly as much as she resembles the 76% Worshipable Woman. Okay, 76% WW is a few years older than this wanna-be Jeanie, but WW could wear the uniform quite well.
I may buy one, to see if I can talk her into putting it on and granting me a wish or two.
Somebody should have done the
Somebody should have done the world a favor and just RUN OVER THIS STUPID DOOFUS.
Police said that the suspect, Lorenzo Colding, was lying in the middle of the road Sunday when motorist Ross Williams stopped to see what was the matter, Local 6 News reported.
I wonder if this master criminal attempted to vote in the 2000 Presidential election. He lives in Florida.
Think he might have hung a chad on HIS ballot?
I would like to welcome
I would like to welcome MOMMABEAR to my Minions of Trashy Women. My emails don't seem to reach her, but her's make it to Bubba's Bombast Basket, and I received her (better late than never) application form today. I am more than happy to have this impressive woman in my "stable," especially after reading her answers:
1) Are you female? HOW DARE YOU SIR, OF COURSE I AM; DO YOU DOUBT IT? (Never a single doubt in my mind about YOU, MommaBear. I'm not real sure about that JOIE person, however. Anybody who has a color scheme designed to trigger epileptic seizures on their page might also dress in drag.)
2) Do you have painted toenails? NO, PAINTED CLAWS. (I expected no less)
3) What color are they? RED, SO THE BLOOD DOES NOT SHOW. ( RED! That's all I need to know.)
4) Do you think that I am a "pucker-butt" with an "ugly, wrinkled face?" (Careful how you answer THAT one!) YOU LOOK NO WORSE THAN THE REST OF THAT SUBSPICIES, H. SAPIENS(?)™ (Good.)
5) Does reading my blog make you: a) Laugh sometimes b) Throw up
6) Are you: a) Libertarian b) Conservative c) Liberal d) Nymphomaniac
7) What kind of music do you like? a) Hard Rock b) Classical c) Rap d) Anything YOU play for me, you stud-muffin!
8) What really turns you on? a) Long walks on the beach b) A quiet evening at home with my lover c) A Motel 6 bed with a dwarf, some black chick in a tu-tu, me, DA GODDESS, a video crew and a goat tied to the bumper of a pickup truck in the parking lot b. ALWAYS (It was the damned goat that put you off of "c", wasn't it?)
9) I think a man should be: a) Sensitive b) Caring c) A good provider d) Acidman! d. DARLING ACIDMAN (Good answer!)
10) I believe a "Minion" should be: a) a woman b) a woman with red toenails c) a woman with red toenails who reads this blog d) At least ONE of the above. d. MINIONS ARE THOSE WHO SERVE, SO ANY ONE WOULD DO. (You may kneel in the front row at the next meeting!)
Welcome aboard, MommaBear!
October 06, 2002
I live out in the
I live out in the country in Effingham County, Georgia. I am surrounded by crop land, cow pastures, dumpster-farms, roadkill and dogshit. It is a veritable housefly heaven. But if I leave my front foor open for five seconds, every housefly in the state abandons the outdoor paradise to invade MY ABODE! Then, the silly bastards knock their brains out by banging against the windows in a futile attempt to get BACK OUTSIDE! Fucking idiots.
I have a Martha Stewart flyswatter. It is green, and it matches my curtains and the lampshades in the living room. It is a very efficient smasher of flies, and I killed eight today, after Quinton and young Jack left the front door open when they ran outside. I kid you not: the door was open for no longer than FIVE SECONDS. A squadron of flies entered before I could close the door. I killed eight of them, so far. I have at least two more fat, bloated, disease-carrying, multiple-eyed, shit-dippers still buzzing around the house.
I am on the hunt. I got the dumb ones first. I have only the smartest flies remaining. But if they were REALLY smart, they never would have flown into my home in the first place. Dumbasses.
They will die.
Badges? We don't need no
Badges? We don't need no stinking BADGES.
To all the hand-wringing wimps and worry-warts of the world: Be glad it's US and not somebody else as the only superpower on the globe. Your own government couldn't handle that responsibility.
The lovely MEESH has seen
The lovely MEESH has seen fit to write about me, all the way from Malaysia. She said:
I DO believe that Meesh is highly spankable, and if she has red toenails, the circle of lust is complete. I just need to correct her on a few minor points. The South is not "the dirty South." I am dirty. The South is not. And I am NOT "insane." I am the only normal person in the world. Everybody ELSE is crazy. But Meesh has the "pervy, cute ol pucker butt" concept just right.
I am amazed that a young lady in Malaysia writes as well as she does when we have American "students" in college that cannot string coherent words together to fashion a single sentence. That is a shameful fact, and our public education system should be snatched up by the roots and thrown in a Dempsy Dumpster because of its utter failure to teach the most important skill anyone can possess in the workplace or the world today. What good is false "self-esteem" if you can't fucking read and write?
As tax-paying citizens who finance this expensive boondoggle, we should be outraged, demanding our money back and howling for heads to roll. Instead, we continue to elect politicians who are bought and owned by the education establishment, which pours money into re-election coffers to ensure that nothing changes.
Wait... I'm going a little over the top here. Things DO change. The same incompetent establishment digs itself deeper into its turf, receives more money for doing a shitty job, and dumbs-down tests to produce artificial results demonstrating "progress." We still end up with more than half the seniors graduating public schools today unable to handle English and math at a 10th grade level. Would you pay your electric company the full bill if the lights didn't work half the time? Would you bitch about the poor service?
Yeah, you would. But we accept this crap from the teachers' unions and throw more money at them.
Meanwhile, a young lady in Malaysia reads and writes English better than most of her American counterparts. That is a crying shame.
Meesh needs to be SPANKED for that....
California is a fucked-up state,
California is a fucked-up state, with a corrupt governor and a BUNCH of really stupid citizens. I've called the place the Certified Nut-Bowl of America for a long time, but every time I think I've seen California show its ass to the maximum, something new happens to top the previous insanity.
A California jury let OJ Simpson walk free from a horrible double-murder that he committed. That's okay. But show those same tree-hugging, granola-crunching, Rob Reiner-worshiping, new-age, crystal-gazing, whale-saving assholes a woman with lung cancer who smoked for 45 years, and they decide that PHILIP MORRIS MUST DIE!.
A Los Angeles jury Friday ordered tobacco giant Philip Morris Cos. (MO) to pay $28 billion in punitive damages to a 64-year-old woman with lung cancer who sued the company for fraud and negligence.
If any true fraud and negligence exists in this case, it comes from the dumbfuck bitch who filed the suit, the attorney who prosecuted it, the jury which brain-farted the verdict, and the pissant judge who allowed such lunacy to occur in his courtroom.
"Testimony during the trial showed that Ms. Bullock was aware of the health risks of smoking and was warned repeatedly of those risks by her doctors over four decades, and her daughter also urged her to quit. Her response: `I am an adult, this is my business,"' said William Ohlemeyer, the company's associate general counsel.
No, the largest fraud scheme ever perpetrated anywhere is the "Social Security Trust Fund," but I digress. I just find it amazing that people accustomed to being completely brainwashed by environmentalist idiots, political charlatans, Hollywood nincompoops and every snake-oil salesman with a slick line of blather become outraged, OUTRAGED, by God, when a women who smoked for 45 years says that she was seduced into self-destructive behavior by evil tobacco companies. Just fuck me dead.
"We believe that this is an absurd number [28 BILLION DOLLARS] -- the jury might as well have rolled chicken bones to come up with the numbers," said Prudential Securities analyst Rob Campagnino said in a research note titled "Can California Juries Get Any Dumber?"
California juries can ALWAYS get dumber. Trust me.
October 05, 2002
I own several guns, and
I own several guns, and the 76% Worshipable Woman carries a .38 revolver in her purse. It's a nice Ladysmith, but I told her last night that unless she practices a LOT with it (she has never fired the thing), she had better be able to touch her target with the 2" barrel, or she'll miss.
Of couse, that's not a bad thing. That little hand-cannon makes enough noise that she could point it straight up at the ceiling and fire away if she heard a burglar in the house. The would-be thieving bastard would take out window glass and screen, leaving a shit-trail on the floor as he ran for his worthless life. A Ladysmith is LOUD outdoors. Fire one inside a house and you'll think hellzapoppin'.
She wants another, more powerful and accurate weapon for home protection. I recommended a 410 shotgun.
I don't know if ARMED LIBERAL would agree, but I believe that a 410 is the ideal firearm for dealing with footpads and critters, inside or outside the house. It is easy to handle, you don't need to stick bricks in your back pockets to deal with the kick, and it makes a nice hole in what you shoot at from 20 feet, which is a LONG shot inside your home. And it makes a loud noise, too.
When I played guitar for a living, I carried a Colt .22 derringer, a nice two-trigger, over and under double-barrel. It was smaller than a pack of cigarettes and held two .22 longs. It fit nicely in a jacket pocket or in the back pocket of a pair of Levis. It made me feel warm and fuzzy when I left bars in downtown Savannah at 3:00 AM and carried two guitars down back lanes or through bushy squares to get to my car.
I left the Red Lion Tavern at the Desoto Hilton one night and walked about a block to where I had parked. As I was opening the trunk of my car, I saw a lanky black guy with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth approaching. Behind me, I heard another person coming my way. "Hey, man," said the lanky black guy,"You got a light?" I heard the footsteps behind me pick up their pace.
I pulled the derringer out of my pocket and stuck it in the black guy's face. "I've got your light RIGHT HERE!" I yelled.
"JESUS! HE GOTTA GUN!" the bastard screamed. He turned on his heel and ran, and so did his partner behind me.
I stood there in the street for a moment, feeling downright proud of myself. They were going to rob me, and I scared them off. I was a goddam Clint Eastwood. I was John Wayne. Man, I was COOL! I stuck the derringer back in my pocket and attempted to light a cigarette.
My hands were shaking so badly that I almost set my hair on fire.
If I had NOT been armed that night, I would have been robbed or killed. That's what those two shits intended to do, and a .22 derringer changed their minds.
If THAT gun loomed large to them, think about what the wrong end of a 410 shotgun looks like.
Life just keeps amazing me
Life just keeps amazing me with all its surprises.
I emailed THAT SEKIMORI CHICK yesterday, because I've had all I can stand of BLOGGER. I really HATE that, too. As a complete, computer nit-wit fucktard, I must admit that without a service such as Blogger, I never would have started a weblog, and I never would have stuck with it for as long as I have. But I'm tired of driving a junk car on may-pop tires that may leave me stranded on the side of the road at any given time. I'm buying a new ride.
I have a soft spot in my heart for every car and every girlfriend I've had in my life. I remember the joy they gave me, and seldom recall the pain. I want to bid Blogspot a fond farewell, and hope that I will always cherish the memories. I'll leave a rose on the pillow, but LEAVE, I will.
New look, coming SOON!
After I made that decision, my doorbell rang last night. I opened it to discover the 76% Worshipable Woman returned from the dead and asking if she could come in and have a glass of wine. I had Quinton and young Jack occupied with chicken burgers and french fries at the time, so I invited her in. After I put the boys to bed, she and I talked until the wee hours and I really enjoyed her company. I thought that I was on her shit list, the way I am HERE (BUTT GRUMBLES, my ass!), but she said that she had been suffering from viral pneumonia and other health problems since.... what?.... January?
Okay, I'll buy that. Shit, I'll buy stuff RONCO makes. I'm easy.
It's good to be back on friendly terms with her again. Maybe I'll try serious seduction next.
October 04, 2002
This was supposed to be
This was supposed to be a LOVE TEST, but I didn't like any of the multiple-choice answers. So, as a public service to those who expect this kind of shit out of me, I'm going to post the actual questions with MY answers.
1. The end of the world is coming, if you can save only one kind of animal, which one will you pick?
A good dog. A dog really is "man's best friend," and I've never had a dog bite me as viciously as some women have. I would enjoy the dog as a loyal companion when the world ended. Then, if things got really bad, I could kill it and eat it, in a stew with some wild onions.
2. You go to Africa. When you visit a tribe, they insist you take an animal as a souvenir, which one will you choose?
The chief's most beautiful daughter, of course!
3. You did something wrong. Instead of being a human, God punish you to be an animal, you will choose...
Samonella. That way, I can punish OTHER PEOPLE, too. Just like God, and pretty much in the same way.
4. If you have the power to make one species disappear forever, which one will that be?
5. One day, you met an animal which can speak human language, you wish that'll be...
Hillary Clinton. She doesn't speak "human." She just pretends to in front of microphones.
6. On an isolated island, you can only have an animal as your companion, which one you'll choose...
DA GODDESS!!!! Or Britney Spears. Or Nicole Kidman. Or Nina Hartley. Or...
7. If you have the super power to tame all kinds of animal, you'll choose what kind of animal to be your pet?
See the answers to question #6.
8. If you have a 5-minute time to be an animal, which one you would like to be?
Ron Jeremy. But I want a LOT LONGER than five minutes.
Looking back at the questions, I don't think I took a Love Test. Musta got lost wrestling with the corkscrew...I believe that I took an accidental PETA TEST. Boy, are THEY gonna be pissed at me if they ever read this.
I don't know how I got to where I got, when I set out to get where I was going. That's the story of my life.
This is straight from The
This is straight from The Department of NO SHIT, SHERLOCK:
Democratic divisions over Iraq burst into election-year view this week, glaringly so when House Democratic Leader Dick Gephardt and Senate Majority Leader Tom Daschle parted company over legislation backing the use of force.
Hmmm.... sounds like they may be "politicizing" the war. I hate it when that happens.
The Dumbocrats have their dicks caught in a wringer over the issue with Iraq. They really wish to focus attention on the economy and flinging free pills at senile old farts, but nobody is listening. Meanwhile, they have Democrap propeller-heads such as Bonior and McFartbrain going to Baghdad, singing "Kumbaya" and bloviating about taking the face of evil at "face value." Throw in that walking work of taxidermy, Robert Byrd, who is REALLY hoping that if he can stop an attack on Iraq, Saddam will build a Robert Byrd Palace in West Virginia, and you have a goddam Animal House. Daschle weeps, then throws a tantrum. Kennedy sobers up long enough to read a speech designed to make him appear moderate.
With such dissention in the ranks, they attempt to rig an election in New Jersey, hoping that all loyal Dickocrats rally around sleaze the way they did for Clinton. But Cowboy Bush, that "dumb" bastard, appears to have headed them off at the pass. To me, the contortions the Dementedocrats are performing now that they're routed and in utter confusion, seem to be a contest for who can be the highest floating turd in the commode. You think they're not a bunch of bloodless fucks? Look at how they cut EACH OTHER'S THROATS!
George Bush is giving them a Fleet enema. They may as well bend over and enjoy.
GAWD! I just had the
GAWD! I just had the neighborhood Cookie Monsters descend like a swarm of locusts on the Crackerbox, and I'm out $37 as a result. Of course, I'm due to receive a box of Double Chocolate Chip cookies, a box of White Chocolate Macadamea cookies, and a box of Chocolate Brownie cookies in November. Plus, I contributed to the worthy cause of Rincon Elementary School. It is obvious from my orders that I like chocolate.
The problem is... I don't eat cookies.
When I was a senior in high school, I got a job at the internationally-famous Byrd Cookie Company, where I boxed cookies, bagged cookies, delivered cookies and ATE ALL THE COOKIES I WANTED. That was Mr. Byrd's policy: EAT ALL THE COOKIES YOU WANT! He knew, probably from experience with other eighteen year-old young men, that a new employee eats like bush-hog for about two weeks, then gets sick and tired of cookies. The first time I walked into his cookie factory, I thought it was the most wonderful-smelling place my nostrils had ever detected.
After two weeks of eating all the cookies I wanted, I felt like puking when I smelled cookies. I don't care for cookies to this day.
I ate ALL I WANTED. Forever.
As a child in Harlan
As a child in Harlan County, Kentucky, I can remember racing to the outhouse, but I've never seen an OUTHOUSE RACE. I wonder if the winner receives a ticker-tape parade, where the ticker-tape is made from shredded pages from a Sears catalogue?
Why Not? Dragging the electoral
Dragging the electoral process into court is becoming as common as crap in a cow pasture, and it's just as smelly. The latest bunch of sore losers have filed suit to overturn CYNTHIA MCKINNEY'S well-deserved drubbing at the polls.
The state [my beloved state of Georgia] does not require voters to register by party and allows them to vote in the primary of their choice. But the plaintiffs in the suit are asking the court to declare crossover votes unconstitutional and invalid, giving McKinney the victory.
If Georgia was New Jersey (or FLORIDA!), where the state Supreme Court reads goat entrails and chicken bones while making fart-noises with their armpits to divine the law, this suit might have a chance. But we're in Red-State country here, and we're more likely to see snow next Fourth of July than see this piece of cow-pie lawsuit go anywhere, except into the compost heap where it belongs.
Her dingbat behavior had nothing to do with it.
October 03, 2002
I am either stunned or
I am either stunned or ready to fall out of my chair laughing. I haven't decided yet.
Plus, I can only imagine the Google-hits I'll get from linking to BRITNEY SPEAR'S ASS.
BWHAHAHAHAHA! (I decided. I fell out of my chair.)
We bid a fond (well,
We bid a fond (well, no-so-fond) adios to a new employee at work today. He was 19 years-old, able to escape from a minimum-wage job throwing sacks of fertilizer at "Webb's Seed and Feed" just down the road from me, and welcomed with open arms to a place that was willing to offer him three times what he was making before, medical benefits, a retirement plan, 401-K, and the opportunity for advancement.
Before he managed to actually show up and work 60 days on the job (his probabionary period) he was late three times, missed four days of work (three of those were medically excused for a KIDNEY STONE! How the hell does a 19 year-old KID get kidney stones?) went home early three times (Sick to his stomach twice and... I am not making this up, CHAPPED NUTS from sweating in his crotch-area, and he got our medical department to assign him to two days of "light duty" for that. I don't have "light duty" where he worked, so he sat on his lazy ass for two days while other people did his work, and that didn't bother him at all.) He was late again yesterday, so we fired him today.
I must be WAY out of touch with the younger generation. The job that young man was offered was the one I started with at the plant. During MY probationary period, I caught a terrible case of the flu and came to work anyway, with a 102 degree fever. I made my shift and did four hours overtime, too, at the very worst of my fever, chills and trembles, because my name was on the schedule. I figued that any sane employer was going to look at me HARD during that probationary period, and know that with my job really on the line, when I could be fired at the snap of a finger, he was seeing the very best he was EVER gonna see from me. I wasn't going to fuck up a good thing. I wanted that job.
I'm starting to see a few of the new hires that remind me of me, but I still have a lot of "Rusty-Nuts" (the nickname this asshole earned among his coworkers) coming down the pike. We have 60 working days to cull 'em, and we're starting to do a good job of that. After "Rusty's" third incident, I called him into my office and told him that he was on thin ice. "If you don't want this job, say so now," I told him. "There are a hundred others on the street that DO want it, so you can save me, you, and somebody we don't know a lot of grief if you just quit. Keep on the way you're going, and I'll fire you. SOON!"
He was repentent, contrite and slobbering in his promises to do better. That lasted three days, and now he's gone.
I suppose he'll go back to slinging fertilizer at Webb's Seed and Feed. If they want him.
I know that I DON'T!
What do you do when
What do you do when a vast majority of people surveyed view your profession with the same respect and admiration they hold for Nigerian email spammers and crack-whores? Do you take a good, long look at what you're doing and wonder if just MAYBE you should clean up your act a bit?
No, not if you're a LAWYER. Instead, you launch a giant PR campaign designed to con people into believing something other than the truth, which is why lawyers are so despised in the first place. Good idea!
Why do we have jokes such as this one? A man walks into a bar and greets a gorgeous single woman. She looks him in the eye and says, "I'll screw anybody, anytime, anywhere, anyplace."
His hilarious reply: "What law firm are you with?"
Although it is politically incorrect to say it, I submit that stereotypes exist because they sometimes are accurate. If there weren't enough true examples around, nobody could create a "stereotype" to begin with. The stereotype might not be true ALL the time, but it's true often enough to give it solid purchase in people's perceptions.
If you're a really sensitive, liberal, multiculturalist
Let's all get together and START some stereotypes. After all, stereotypes have nothing to do with the way people actually behave; they are the product of biased, bigoted minds, so we should be able to create any stereotypes we want, right out of whole cloth, just by saying it often enough, and whatever we say should ring true in biased, bigoted minds. Let's try these:
Jews are lazy, they breed like rabbits, and they're happy living on welfare. The worthless bastards.
Blacks are really good businessmen. They control the whole American economy, behind the scenes. The devious shits.
Southerners are rude, obnoxious and always in a hurry. They lack manners. Pompous asses.
Irishmen don't drink and they don't believe in fighting. They're the force behind the new temperance movement in this country. They would enter law enforcement to vanquish Demon Rum, but any sort of violence is against their nature. Party-pooping pricks.
One thing you've got to admit about the Italians. THEY would never be involved in organized crime. The goddam MORMONS run the rackets, the gambling, the prostitutes and the drugs in this country. The Italians try to stop them, but the goddam Mormons already have a network of families in control. That's why you see dead Mormons on the street after a gang war and Italians going on missionary trips to South America every year. Murdering Mormons.
Asians have rhythmn. They can sing and dance like nobody else, run like a deer and play basketball REALLY well. They don't do well in school (they call that "acting white") but when they become rich entertainers or NBA stars, they all want a WHITE WOMAN. Lecherous animals.
Polish scientists dominate the Nobel Prizes. Smart-asses.
And now, the BIG ONE: Lawyers are selfless defenders of the weak and the downtrodden. Like the Red Cross, the Salvation Army, the March of Dimes and Mother Teresa, LAWYERS are there to help when no one else will. They don't mind the low wages and the long hours that go with the job. The good they do in the world is reward enough for them. What saints they are!
The problem with lawyers being perceived as scum-sucking, bottom-feeding, money-grubbing shitwads is that TOO MANY OF THEM FIT THE STEREOTYPE! Gawd-damn! Just open your fucking phone book. NO! DON'T OPEN IT! Just look on the back. I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts that there's a full-cover advertisment for a LAWYER there. And I'll guarantee he specializes in "personal injury, medical malpractice, worker's compensation, nursing home abuse, auto accidents, DUI and bankruptcy." With "Free Consultation." That's what's on the back of MY phone book. YOURS may include "asbestos litigation fortunes, phen-phen class action booty, toxic tort windfalls, cancer-causing cell phone money-mines, lead paint riches, tobacco loot, and product liability sweepstakes."
And lawyers wonder why they are perceived as money-grubbing sluts?
If we did away with class action lawsuits and adopted a "loser pays" system, we would have a lot of starving lawyers sleeping under bridges and panhandling on the streets instead of driving legitimate businesses bankrupt, inflating the cost of insurance for EVERYONE, and throwing millions of people out of jobs every year, while the lawyers get rich. They then give fortunes to the Democrat Party, which is rapidly becoming a wholly-owned subisidary of the Trial Lawyers Association, to ensure that we DON'T change ANYTHING.
I don't believe that the PR campaign will work, but buying politicians and suing in Jackson County, Mississippi does. Lawyers should forget about polishing their image and stick with what they're good at.
Sucking scum and getting rich.
Hmmm... I now must add
Hmmm... I now must add another entry under TALL DOGS on my blogroll. I have done something (outrageous, no doubt--even though I can't imagine ANYTHING outrageous on MY blog) to attract attention from the good Libertarians at SAMIZDATA. I am grateful for a place on their blogroll, but what I would REALLY like is a chance to enjoy the smell of gunsmoke with Perry (I will furnish my own guns and ammunition), a lively debate with David (I will supply my own sarcastic wit) and the company of Natalie and Natalija, in the hopes that someone will take my picture with those lovely and intelligent women (I will buy dinner and the wine).
October 02, 2002
Captain Kangaroo was one of
Captain Kangaroo was one of my favorite people when I was a child. I spent many a morning listening to his jingling keys as he strolled around the Treasure House in his uniform, with Grandfather Clock, Mr. Moose, Mr. Greenjeans and his other companions, including Tom Terriffic and Mighty Manfred The Wonderdog. Crabby Appleton was always "rotten to the core" in the cartoons. I miss those days of innocence, and I was delighted when my mama sent me an interesting email. I knew that Lee Marvin was a decorated Marine in WWII. But I didn't know the REST OF THE STORY.
Captain Kangaroo turned 75 recently, which is odd, because he's never looked a day under 75 (Birthday 6/27/27). It reminded me of the following story.
And on the show, he couldn't outfox Bunny Rabbit. Go figure...
UPDATE: I was curious, so I Googled and found THIS. The story is a good one, but it ain't true!
Surprise, surprise. The New Jersey
The New Jersey Supreme Court ruled unanimously that New Jersey state law doesn't say what it says, and therefore means that a fossil named Frank Lautenberg will replace Robert "Soprano" Torricelli on the November ballot for senator from that very confused state. The reasoning behind the decision could have come from the addled brain of Barbra Streisand.
The court cited previous rulings that said election law should be broadly interpreted to "allow parties to put their candidates on the ballot, and most importantly, to allow the voters a choice."
In other words, election law should mean that 51 days is an arbitrary number, to be "broadly interpreted" to mean 36 days, or 10 days, or even 24 hours, as long as it allows the "voters a choice," and the Democrats a chance to perform whatever trickery is necessary to retain control of the Senate. That New Jersey Senate seat is far too important to allow the voters of New Jersey to decide it all by themselves, when there's still time to fool them into doing what the Democrats desperately need. That's certainly a "full" (of SHIT) and "fair" (FAIRLY BLATANT CHEATING) ballot choice.
My problem with this reasoning is that the voters HAD a CHOICE with Torricelli on the ballot, and Democrat Powers that Be didn't approve of the choice the voters were going to make. So, they decided to change the rules in the middle of the game, and EVERYBODY was locked in and on board before they tipped the first domino. Yes, the state has a law that says they can't do what they want to do, but that's no problem. They will simply violate the law and get the Supreme Court to say it's okay. They did that. And it worked out just fine, because it was all planned well in advance. Neat. VERY Clever.
Of course, it makes a mockery of the Rule of Law and leaves me wondering why I can't do the same thing when I get caught with my pants down. If the law is fungible for the power-hungry, why should it be inflexible toward me? I must abide by the letter of the law because I'm not important for control of the Senate? YOU don't because you ARE? We have DIFFERENT LAWS for DIFFERENT PEOPLE in this country?
That's unfair, and I always thought the Democrats were the party of fairness! That's what they SAY, the nasty, gutter-dwelling, scum-crawling, ass-toads.
But it ain't what they do.
Ouch! Speaking of malignant troll-bitches,
Ouch! Speaking of malignant troll-bitches, there is one in Louisana that jumped up and bit me square in the ass, and other places below my belt last night. I would link to her immature, infantile efforts at humor, but it would be a waste of valuable bandwidth. I sent a storm to blow her away, and I predict that her blog will not be available for a long, long time. That's what she gets for messing with Acidman.
I just hope she's not sitting in her Louisiana one-holer outhouse with a handful of pages from the 1998 Sears catalogue when the big wind hits. The Munchkins in Kansas won't appreciate the splashdown she makes when she finally lands. (I can see the dancing Munchkins now: "We represent the... PORT-O-LET Guild...") Of course, from what I've seen written on the bathroom wall at the Greyhound bus station, just below where she put her phone number, several people attest that her ASS is big enough to anchor ANYTHING through a storm. In fact, the Louisiana Department of Transportation requires her to wear a "WIDE LOAD" warning label on her rear end when she walks to the Welfare Office to pick up her check.
I'm really suprised that she found the time to put down the crack pipe, stop having illegitimate children sired by bikers named "Stinker" and write about me. And she hurt my feelings so badly.
I have always believed that
I have always believed that Rose O'Donnell was a malignant bitch-troll from the first time I saw her perform her stand-up act on Comedy Central sometime in 1993. I detected a seething pile of worms and snakes inside her big, round head, with the multiple chins, long before she became a screaming gun-control advocate and a general twit in public. She may have convinced a lot of gullible people that she was the "Queen of Nice," but she never fooled me. Rosie is one twisted sister.
She is being sued for several godzillion dollars by the former publisher of Rosie magazine, who accuses her of being pretty much the kind of woman I recognized when I first saw her. You can read the entire complaint HERE, but I'll provide a short exerpt.
6. From the inception of the Magazine until early summer 2002, O'Donnell generally was content to leave major editorial and business decisions and day-to-day operations relating to the Magazine to experienced G+J magazine executives, while providing general guidance to ensure that the tone and content of the Magazine reflected her celebrity persona.
Sweet, sweet Rosie...
October 01, 2002
Be still, my heart! The
Be still, my heart! The same enviro-whacko tactic worked on silicone breast implants, second-hand smoke and toxic mold, so it SHOULD have worked against CELL PHONES THAT CAUSE BRAIN CANCER. Dr. Christopher Newman developed a tumor behind his ear, and like any good citizen today, found someone with deep pockets to sue. The tumor could not simply be bad luck, genetic disposition or sheer coincidence. No, in Dr. Newman's tumorous mind, MOTOROLA did it. With a goddam, insidious, radiation-emitting, tumor-causing cellular phone.
Even though Dr. Newman's attorneys presented scientific studies showing that analog phones might cause tumors, Judge Blake ruled that the research results were overwhelmed by a body of evidence that showed no relationship between cell-phone radiation and cancer.
Where did THIS judge come from?
I don't know, but we need more like her.
OFFICIAL APPLICATION FORM If you
OFFICIAL APPLICATION FORM
If you would like to join the ranks of "ACIDMAN'S MINIONS OF TRASHY WOMEN," please complete this form and submit it to the email address on the left of this page. All applications will be reviewed by Acidman himself, and the qualifications required are not that stringent. You must be female, or a very convincing cross-dresser, or some hairy, beer-bellied creep who wants to pretend to be a woman to join. I'm not that choosy about my fan base. If you want to be a "Minion," just answer the questions.
1) Are you female?
2) Do you have painted toenails?
3) What color are they?
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Send your application NOW, and receive, as a special gift, your very own sex toy, specially selected from the "Acidman Collection." (Batteries NOT included) Allow 6-8 weeks for delivery, unless you have a REALLY GOOD application form. I may provide faster service then.
Another member of my Minions
Another member of my Minions of Trashy Women sees twins in the blogosphere. SUGARMAMA paired me with one I probably would have been forced to kill in the womb. Otherwise, my twin would have killed me first. In fact, I believe that my "twin" would like to make my execution retroactive.
I like Sugarmama. She is a code-writing, computer-crunching, frisbee-throwing, road-running, home-owning Alabama woman (yes, my Minions are EVERYWHERE!) who still uses Blogspot, when she could, and probably SHOULD do better than that. The fact that SHE still uses it makes me feel better about myself.
I don't know any better. She does. And still, we are twins....
Barbra Streisand, that canny political
Barbra Streisand, that canny political strategist and awesome intellectual, DEMONSTRATED BOTH QUALITIES this weekend at a gala Hollywood Democratic fund-raiser. The
To make her case not to go to war against Iraq, Streisand quoted extensively from William Shakespeare -- but the quotes were from a William Shakespeare hoax that has been circulating on the internet.
Judging from her other
Streisand told the crowd: "You know, really good artists have a way of being relevant in their time… but great artists are relevant at anytime. So, in the words of William Shakespeare, 'Beware the leader who bangs the drums of war in order to whip the citizenry into a patriotic fervor, for patriotism is indeed a double-edged sword. It both emboldens the blood, just as it narrows the mind…And when the drums of war have reached a fever pitch and the blood boils with hate and the mind has closed, the leader will have no need in seizing the rights of the citizenry. Rather, the citizenry, infused with fear and blinded with patriotism, will offer up all of their rights unto the leader, and gladly so.How do I know? For this is what I have done.And I am Caesar.'"
Yes, great artists are relevant anytime. And self-important gasbags are irrelevant ALL THE TIME. It is amazing how a complete idiot without consciousness is destined to drool all over herself when she attempts to be merely half-witted and fails.
So from the words of Barbra Streisand to the words of Acidman... "Whatta Maroon!"
Dragonfly Jenny has returned from
Dragonfly Jenny has returned from her Vision Quest, and she seems to be tanned, rested and ready to begin blogging again. She has a couple of pictures from her trip posted, including this beautiful piece of RED TOENAIL PORN, which I am certain she took JUST FOR ME, because she is a charter member of my Minions of Trashy Women and she is attempting to curry favor with me.
It worked, too. Welcome back, Jenny!
Sgt. Stryker has more to
Sgt. Stryker has more to say about the Civil War on his blog today. This time, he says the antebellum South had a lot in common with ISLAMIC JIHADISTS. I don't know how many "Beers Across America" Sarge quaffed before he wrote that post, but I believe he was hallucinating.
Let's see... the South was ruled by religious fanatics. Citizens had no rights, and women were beaten on the streets if they allowed a flash of bare ankle to show from beneath their burkas. Southerners routinely stoned adulterers to death, amputated limbs from thieves and called the north the "Great Satan." They dispised infidels and were desperate to become martyrs for their holy cause, because they wanted 72 virgins in paradise. Yep, it all fits.
Bejus, Sarge. Get a grip!
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