Saturday, May 25, 2002

What's the frequency, KENNETH?.
My grandmother has THIS EFFECT on most people who meet her. What a wonderful woman she is.

Friday, May 24, 2002


The following ad in "The Atlanta Journal" is reported to have gotten numerous calls.....

SINGLE BLACK FEMALE... Seeks male companionship, ethnicity unimportant. I'm a very good looking girl who LOVES to play. I love
long walks in the woods, riding in your pickup truck, hunting, camping, and fishing trips, cozy winter nights lying by the fire. Candlelight dinners will have me eating out of your hand. Rub me the right way and watch me respond. I'll be at the front door when you get home from work, wearing only what nature gave me. Kiss me and I'm yours.
Call xxx-xxxx and ask for Daisy."
Over 150 men found themselves talking to the Local Humane Society about an eight-week-old black LABRADOR retriever......
My young man has fallen out on me. He is asleep, after a grand evening of fun and games with his friends. I just left his bedroom, where I laid my hand on his chest and felt him breathe while I gazed at his handsome face and wished that I had more time with him. I don't appreciate the fact that a bloodless cunt can unilaterally decide that she prefers another man in her bed, screw him behind my back just to make sure, then take me to court and rake me over the coals, have the divorce become final while I am laying like a butchered piece of meat in a hospital bed, and walk away with everything I ever cared about in my life. But the divorce laws of Georgia are set up that way.

Women are victims of society? Bullshit! My bloodless cunt built a revolving door before she made her ultimate move. She tossed me out, moved him in, and never missed a beat in between. One week earlier, we discussed the possibility that I might have prostate cancer. I was waiting on the results of the biopsy (Siso-- you hate details? I could curl your teeth with that story) and she said, "Poof. Rob, you don't have cancer." So, she threw most of my clothes in my truck, packed my other stuff in boxes and filed divorce papers while the dope-smoking lover moved into my home. When I discovered, one week later, that I DID have cancer, she said, "oh, I'm sorry," with all the heartfelt emotion one would expect if I had said "I just lost my Bic cigarette lighter."

I'll never understand that crap if I live to be as old as my grandmother. (When the shit hit the fan, Mommie said,"I always knew she was a bitch, but I thought she was more of a lady than that." The cunt fooled the wisest woman I know.)

I thought she was my partner, my lover and my BEST FRIEND. Obviously, I was delusional. Now, eight months later, I lay my hand on my son's chest, watch him sleep and wonder how HE feels about it all. He made year-long honor roll in school. The babysitter who tends him in the afternoons says he is a wonderful, smart, well-behaved boy. He is all of that and more. He is MY SON!

And I have "visitation" every other week. That unemployed, dope-smoking, hepatitus-C positive (I am NOT making that up) bastard my ex-cunt chose for fresh dick spends more time with my son than I do, and I am not one bit happy about that. If the cunt was going to take a lover, I wish she had aimed a little higher than she did. She is a member of the "Executive Management Team" at work, and she probably will rise higher in the ranks. Still, I would much rather my son grow up to be like ME rather than her, and I certainly hope he turns out better than HIM. I hope my son develops a small streak of integrity, which he will not find in his current environment.

Yeah, HEATHER I give too many details sometimes. But it's MY blog, MY life and I can screw both up all I want to.
If you are not careful, you will be sucked into playing with the NAME-O-METER for hours. My name is Robert, and that monniker was number one (in the decade when I was born) or number two for newborns for several years. My name has dropped to #20 now. As a lifelong Robert Smith, I wanted something different for my son.

I named him Quinton for two reasons. First, I am an English major and I was forced to read many works by William Faulkner. If that doesn't ring a bell, go read William Faulkner. Second, the name "Quinton" means "fifth son" and he WAS on my side of the family, starting from my grandfather, which is as far back as we can trace the Smith family tree, since the Harlan County Courthouse burned down sometime around 1900 and all the family birth records were consumed in the fire.

If you want to see why I didn't name my son after me, have some fun and go HERE.
I have my son with me this weekend. We arrived at the crackerbox house and Jack was out in his driveway awaiting Quinton's arrival. My son opened the front door, threw his belongings in the corner and said, "Daddy, can I play with Jack?" Jack was already at the front door and hopping up and down as if he needed to pee really badly. "Uncle Rob! Can Quinton play with me?"

Of course, I told them both HELL NO! This is an official, court-sanctioned, lawyer-paid-for visitation weekend, and my son is gonna stay RIGHT HERE and adore ME the entire time.

I didn't really say that. My son and four of the neighborhood young'uns are tearing up my yard in some kind of weird tackle-baseball game right now. I have Mountain Dew and some other concoction I can't remember for when they get thirsty, which they will, because I have Mountain Dew and other concoctions that I GIVE THEM WHEN THEY ARE THIRSTY. When I was a kid, my mama always said, "Drink from the water hose!" and we did. I should try that now, and maybe my yard would not be the playground of the neighborhood.

But I enjoy the young'uns. Screw my yard.
I stole THIS LINK from the ever-vigilant LHCB, but I cannot let it rest as quietly as he did. I feel compelled to dissect this airheaded piece of absolute drivel that a COLLEGE EDUCATED FOOL wrote, with nobody holding a knife to her throat at the time. She spewed this crap of her own free will, and my only wish for her is that she lives long enough to look back on her idiot days and cringe.

Try this for starters: "From the start, I didn't like NU. There aren't enough minorities, and the few that are here aren't "down with the brown" anyway, so they turned me off. The level of superficiality is suffocating. I felt choked by the pretentiousness that engulfs this place.." In other words, I came to a place where everyone was not a standard, cookie-cutter version of the world AS I BELIEVE IT SHOULD BE, and therefore, it's all, like, SO BOGUS, don't you know. If I can't choke people with my own superficiality and pretentiousness, then something is wrong with this place. Minorities that aren't "down with the brown" aren't real minorities, because they don't behave the way I EXPECT THEM TO. After all, I AM THE JUDGE OF ALL THINGS IMPORTANT IN LIFE!

"Funny, most NU activists aren't big fans of this place. That's why we try so hard to change it — because we see how much it sucks, and we know what it should be like." Yeah, it should be just the way YOU want it to be, you spoiled brat. If it was THAT BAD, why did you stay there? You weren't in Iraq, North Korea or Cuba, for crying out loud. You were free to leave any time your delicate sensibilities were overloaded. But you stayed, you bitched and you were graduated. You are a whining coward.

"Then you'll end up an embittered senior with nothing to show for her activism but a bad GPA.." Sister, unless they offered a major in Self-Righteous Activism, you have no one to blame but yourself for the shitty GPA. Most universities (Berkeley excluded) actually expect you to MATRICULATE. You chose not to. Instead, your immaturity prevailed over all the money your parents spent to send you to a VERY EXPENSIVE school (I am assuming that you didn't work two jobs while attending college the way I DID. Working would cut seriously into your activist agenda. First things first, don't you know.) and you sat on your lovely princess ass developing grievances instead of getting an education. Don't blame that terrible school for your personal shortcomings. Take a long look in the mirror chiquita loca.

"And if I'm dreading leaving, it's only because the real world is looming before me, and I'm scared of being devoured. But something tells me I won't be. If I made it through NU, hell, I'm ready for the big, bad world." Right, you pathetic loser. College is the ultimate cocoon, a warm, insulated place where the outside world never intrudes and your success or failure is measured by TESTS you can STUDY for, after being given the information to study ahead of time. You couldn't handle THAT, you stupid twit. The real world is a pop test every day, and failure doesn't mean you have to repeat the course. Failure means YOU ARE A FAILURE ALL OF YOUR LIFE. If you're not afraid of being devoured in that arena cara mia, you should be. The real world is filled with two kinds of people-- the sheep and the wolves. You believe crying "baaa, baaa, baaa" makes you special. That's true, because you'll be served on a Blue Plate when the wolves get a scent of your perpetually wounded self.

"So I will leave behind the mistakes I've made, all the bitter regrets. And I will take with me the friendships I've made, the lessons I've learned, the memories that make me smile. It's really the most any of us can do." No, you fool. Most people who are graduated from Northwestern leave with AN EDUCATION. Those mistakes, regrets, and friendships are part of the package, but learning what you were sent there to learn was the entire point of going there in the first place, you whimpering dorkess. I believe the "lessons" you learned didn't come from a classroom, and they will serve you poorly in the real world.

I believe you have been a professional whiner all of your life. College taught you to whine louder because you couldn't always get your way.

The real world will stomp you like a roach.

The 76% worshipable woman who sometimes spends the night at my house sent me this message today:

One day a farmer's donkey fell into an abandoned well. The animal cried piteously for hours as the farmer tried to figure out what to do. Finally, he decided the animal was old and the well needed to be covered up anyway, so it just wasn't worth it to him to try to retrieve the donkey.
He invited all his neighbors to come over and help him. They each grabbed a shovel and began to shovel dirt into the well. Realizing what was happening, the donkey at first cried and wailed horribly. Then, a few shovelfuls later, he quieted down completely. The farmer peered down into the well, and was astounded by what he saw. With every shovelful of dirt that hit his back, the donkey was doing something amazing. He would shake it off and take a step up on the new layer of dirt. As the farmer's neighbors continued to shovel dirt on top of the animal, he would shake it off and take a step up. Pretty soon, the donkey stepped up over the edge of the well and trotted off, to the shock and astonishment of all the neighbors!
Life is going to shovel dirt on you, all kinds of dirt.
The trick to getting out of the well is to not let it bury you, but to shake it off and take a step up. Each of our troubles is a stepping-stone. We can get out of the deepest wells just by not stopping, never giving up!
Shake it off and take a step up!
Remember the five simple rules to be happy:
Free your heart from hatred.
Free your mind from worries.
Live simply.
Give more.
Expect less.

Also, the donkey kicked the shit out of the guy that tried to bury him. Which brings me to another moral for this story: When you try to cover your ass, it always comes back and gets you.

I believe she is trying to tell me something in the form of a parable. I don't get it. I believe I will call her tonight and ask her to come over to my house and explain it to me.

Thursday, May 23, 2002

Today is my grandmother's 91st birthday.

Although physically frail, she still lives in her own home and remains sharp as a tack mentally. I believe she quit school around eighth grade or so to get married and raise five young'uns, but she's one of the wisest people I've ever met. I believe I inherited a lot of my sense of humor from her, because she can be both salty and absurd, which are traits I admire. From the offspring of her five children, their children's offspring, THEIR children's offspring and, yes, THEIR CHILDREN'S offspring she has become the Queen Mother of a clan of damned near 100 souls, all of whom are connected to her. She is a magnificent woman and I am proud to be her grandson.

Happy Birthday, Mommie! I love you.
Hey! I'm a FEATURED LINK on PLANET ZACK! And ZACK RULES! If you don't believe ME, ask HIM.

Thank you kind sir, even if I WAS randomly selected. As a shameless, hit-trolling, blog-whore, I'll take free PR any way I can get it.
This blithering nincompoop is a TEACHER? He may have been thinking about NUMBERS (sixty-nine, sixty-eight (you do me and I'll owe you one) or $20, same as downtown), but I don't believe his mind was on math at the time. You decide.

Thanks to PEJMAN for the story.
My bloodless cunt of an ex-wife did something similar to THIS to me, but she never claimed amnesia. She forgot all about me on purpose, and did a remarkably thorough job of it.
Unions have outlived their original purpose and exist today as a ball and chain on business, where the union's central concern is determining how much money can members extort for the least amount of work and be totally obnoxious at the same time. Here's an example of HOW LOW THEY WILL GO.

If the flaming anuses filing the grievance had been doing their jobs, the volunteers wouldn't have had a project to do in the first place. My advice is, accept their grievence, pay them their unearned money, then fire their sorry asses. Pricks!
I should have THIS GUY'S original problem. Since my prostate surgery, erections are something I dream about frequently but seldom experience because I have to STICK A HYPODERMIC NEEDLE IN MY WANGER to rouse the ex-mighty warrior. I've got to want an erection VERY BADLY to do that, and even then I have to think about it... well, long and hard. I have had a couple of unpleasant experiences with the fix-a-flat kit. A six-hour hard-on may sound like a dream come true for some, but I've been there, done that. When it is chemically induced, it becomes extremely painful after a while. Then it becomes MAKE A GROWN MAN CRY painful. Then you start to wonder if YOU'RE GONNA DIE!

I've tried ice packs, muscle relaxers, shots of Jagermiester, wished for an exorcist and even considered making a 911 call while in the throes of that agony (I figured the 911 folks would write me off as a crank call instead of believing that I was calling about my crank), but I never seriously considered attacking a woman with a machete, carving out her intestines and eating them.

I may, next time.
This is one ROTTEN BASTARD. He should be horsewhipped, then jailed.

Wednesday, May 22, 2002

The preening Eric Alterman is so proud of his NEW BLOG that he's already writing stupid things: "His [David Brock} stories had the ring of truth to me, but who am I to say without having been there or checking them out myself? But it seems incumbant on those who insist he’s lying to disprove (rather than simply) deny what he says." Yeah, gasbag, just the way YOU did when you put Cathy Young on your Israelophile list without checking her writing first, then weasel-worded when your ass was fact-checked. Caught with your journalistic pants down, you blew the whole thing off as a pesonal attack on you instead of your personal pomposity and laziness.

I read Alterman's columns regularly (I am attempting to become bulemic) and the same symmetrical assholery shines through time and time again. I would love to buy this guy for what he's worth, then sell him for what he THINKS he's worth. I could retire tomorrow.

No matter what the subject, Alterman always managed to sneak in a comment about how Bush stole the 2000 election, and he persisted in doing so in every column I read until 9/11. Then, he subsided and sat silently on his pity-pot for a while. But he has his very on (edited) blog now, so he's back to knawing on that dessicated bone again: "That said, there’s a lot of news out there, and most of it is going along just fine without my comment. (YOU GOT THAT RIGHT!) This “What Did He Know and When Did He Know It?” is significant and central, but everybody seems to be playing their parts just fine (WHO? HILLARY CLINTON?)without my kibitzing. (WHEW! THAT'S NICE TO KNOW) Every morning I just download from the links provided by Media Whores Online on the story and save it in a file in case I ever need it. (YES, YOU BLOG-WRITING, WEB-SURFING YODA, WHO DIDN'T KNOW WHAT A BLOG WAS UNTIL A HOST OF THEM ROSE UP AND RIPPED YOUR ASS TO SHREDS. OH, WORSHIP THE LINKMEISTER!)

If you want to supplement your knowledge on the story - or any significant story - that makes W look bad and reminds everybody that we’d have been better off with an honest election in 2000, that’s where I’d go first, for the links." (YEAH, YOU AND THOSE LINKS AGAIN. AND ISN'T IT INSIGHTFUL THAT YOU "SUPPLEMENT YOUR KNOWLEDGE" BY FERRETING OUT JUICY TIDBITS THAT MAKE W "LOOK BAD?" THAT'S NOT A QUEST FOR KNOWLEDGE, HAREBRAIN. THAT'S JUSTIFYING YOUR OWN NARROW MIND.)

Picking on this idiot is just too easy to be fun.

Read his comments. EVERYBODY LOVES HIM!

Yeah, right. He must have a very diligent editor.

A ten year-old boy, the youngest of 55 contestants in the National Geographic Bee, won the contest today by correctly identifying the Lop Nur nuclear testing site as a place in China. Calvin McCarter won $25,000. Now the young champion returns to Michigan to continue his HOME SCHOOLING. Most public school students can't find China on a globe and believe that Lop Nor is a strange planet in one of the STAR WARS movies. Many of their teachers know no better. That's a sad state of affairs.
I came home from work today, checked my mailbox and discovered an envelope containing something from the Internal Revenue Service. I felt it and knew immediately that it wasn't my refund check, because it was too thick. It was a LETTER! I immediately flew into a black rage. Those greedy vultures were not satisfied with all the meat they already pecked from my skinny ass. Oh, no. They wanted MORE! I knew they were going to keep my refund and tell me I owed THEM money instead.

I went inside, sat on the couch and opened the envelope with trembling fingers. By God, I thought, there had better be a fooking phone number in here to call when I find out how bad they're screwing me! I will not sit still for this kind of harassment from a government that wastes my money the way this one does. I'll call Jack Kingston, my representative in Congress. I'll call Zell Miller, MY FAVORITE SENATOR! Hell, I'll call GEORGE W. BUSH HIS OWN SELF if they really piss me off!

Then, I read that I overstated my taxable income by $1,000 on my return, and by IRS calculations, I was due an extra $275 dollars on my refund check. If I disagreed with their figures, I could call a Customer Service number to bitch about it. If I agreed, I was told (in italics) do not contact us.

Well, shut my mouth.

As I have stated repeatedly on this blog, I am an English Major and I DON'T DO MATH. Obviously, I don't do it well, if I was about to screw myself out of $275 on my tax return. I believe I'll opt for the do not contact us option in this deal, and check the batteries in my solar-powered calculator.

Tuesday, May 21, 2002

Just in case the lovely and talented HEATHER hasn't heard this joke yet, being so busy hiding all those dead bodies in her attic that LEX told me about, she may pause from slinging quicklime and using the shrinkwrap machine for a moment and contemplete this:

On GIRL'S NIGHT OUT, four friends went to a Chippendale strip-show, hit a few bars and danced themselves senseless. They were too loaded to make it all the way back home, so when they saw a sign saying "HOTEL FOR WOMEN ONLY," they stopped to check it out, thinking they might spend the night. The desk clerk confirmed that yes, the hotel was for women only and it had five floors.

"Each floor has a sign saying what is offered there," the desk clerk explained. "You may stop and take a room on any floor you wish, but we have one ironclad rule. If you leave a floor, you MAY NOT return to it once you've gone upstairs." The women agreed to check it out and went unsteadily up the stairs to the first floor.

There, they saw a sign: There are fifteen rooms on this floor. Every one comes with a man. The men are poor lovers and they will be totally insensitive to your deepest needs. The women instantly agreed that NOBODY wanted a room there. They went to the second floor.

There, they saw another sign: There are ten rooms on this floor, and every room comes with a man. The men are poor lovers, but they will be sensitive to your EVERY need. The women thought for a nanosecond, then hurried up the stairs to the third floor.

There, they saw another sign: There are eight rooms on this floor. Every room comes with a man. Every man is a fairly good lover, and he will be sensitive to your needs sometimes, when he's not sprawled on the couch drinking beer and watching football on TV. In other words, we have a fairly typical crop of men up here. The women thought about it for a minute, but decided that they could all ride a cab back home and get THAT, so they climbed to the fourth floor.

There, the sign said: There are only four rooms on this floor. Every one comes with a man, who is handsome, a fantastic lover, incredibly sensitive to your every need, rich beyond your wildest dreams and desperate to marry a woman that he will treat like a princess for the rest of her life. The women thought for a while, agreed that THIS floor was very tempting, then decided to check out the fifth floor.

There they saw this sign: There are no rooms here. There are no men here. We built this floor only to prove that YOU CAN'T PLEASE A WOMAN!

Drumroll, please......
I am going to bed early tonight (that means BEFORE 9:30, which is my usual bedtime) because I've had a rough two days at work. All sorts of powerful eyes are focused on the run of new pigment we started yesterday, and I have a large responsibility for seeing that all goes smoothly. Some of those powerful people would love nothing better than to see us fall flat on our asses and fail miserably. I don't intend for that to happen. I believe I can fly.

I've had this Monday Mission stuff since I saw it on Dave Tepper's site, but I didn't really want to go there. The Monday Mission requires that some highly personal stuff be laid out on the table for anyone to read.

Well, I'm in that kind of mood tonight.

1) When was the last time you went out with a true love of yours? What did the two of you do that made it special? I have experienced only one true love in my life. I have known many women, but only one true love, and I misplaced that emotion. The last time my true love and I "went out" together, we met in the Effingham County Courthouse to sign divorce papers. She seemed gleeful at the time. I left the courthouse and stopped in the parking lot of a seed-and-feed store in Springfield and cried my eyes out for about ten minutes in my truck. Then, I went back to work. I don't believe I'll ever fully recover from that experience, thanks to a true love who turned out to be a bloodless cunt.

2) Which far-away friend would you most like to see again? I would like to see Dr. Ken Tenore, head of the Marine Biology Department at the University of Maryland, the last I heard from him. Oh, the stories we could tell after 20 years.

3) Any high or low points about this weekend? What went on? As a Southern Gentlemen, I will not provide details, but a certain 76% worshipable woman did spend Saturday night with me, after being wined and dined most royally. You don't need to know what went on.

4)I've been thinking about getting a buzz-cut for the summer, a big change for me. Have you ever made any drastic changes to your appearance? I grew my hair long in college (really LONG!) and kept it fairly long during my semi-professional musician days. Yes, I wore pony-tails. When I went to work in the chemical plant, I started keeping my hair much shorter, but I wasn't really religious about haircuts. It grew long from time to time because I was to sorry to go to a barber. In April of last year, I had a hot, sweaty day at work and got a buzz-cut the next weekend. I wore it that way on our vacation to St. Martin's and really LIKED it. The bloodless cunt didn't. I have not cut the back of my head since, and I have a respectable (some call it "ratty") pony tail again. So, I believe I can say I have made many drastic changes to my appearance over the years. But I'm the same, sweet 41% worshipable guy on the inside.

5) How long do you think a couple should date before they get married? Or if you are married, do you think you should have waited longer to get hitched? I am a fine one to answer that question. Therefore, I won't.

We have TERRORISM EVERYWHERE! Environmentalist, freak-o nutballs don't hijack airplanes and blow up buildings (at least not yet) but they surely know how to throw a scare. Read THIS CLAPTRAP, then go enjoy a nice, dead, burnt animal for supper.
I believe that THIS DECISION is stupid, and it shows exactly how frightened government is to take bold action the prevent future hijackings. The same way they conduct the silly non-profiling shoe checks of grandmothers, pregnant women and Vodkapundits, for fear of offending potential Islamic terrorists by actually checking THEIR ASSES, they swoon at the thought of pilots being armed in the cockpit for fear of offending people who dislike guns. That is idiotic, pre-9/11 thinking, and such politically-correct crap has no place in the world today, not when lives actually are at stake.

We can celebrate the bravery of the passengers on flight 93, because those courageous individuals deserve to be remembered. But if the pilot of the plane or ANY ONE OF THOSE PASSENGERS had been armed with a handgun, we might be pinning medals to their living, breathing chests now instead of mourning their deaths. A jihad doesn't go far when it's box-cutters against 9mm, rapid-fire ammunition fired from a Colt semi-automatic pistol.

Just announcing that airline pilots are armed throws a terrible kink into the plans of future hijackers. "Okay, Osama, Allah be blessed! Let me get this straight... if I make to the cockpit with my boxcutter, I have to use that puny weapon to kill a crew armed with pistols, which I will do because Allah will grant me strength. If I accomplish that part of the mission, which I will, because Allah smiles on his children, I must stay alive long enough to fly the plane into my target while I spray liquids like a human car wash and attempt to see where I'm going using the new, black, hollow eye one of the bullets put in the middle of my forehead? Ah, yes, Allah will guide me. I am certain Allah is great and Allah is good and Allah will give me 72 virgins when I die... but the more I think about it, the more I believe... THIS SHIT AIN'T GONNA WORK!"

I don't have a lot of faith in the sky marshall idea. Not many highly trained people have the desire, nor the totally cramp-resistant ass required to spend long hours on a boring Greyhound bus with wings watching alertly for potential terrorists the entire time. If the government staffs this job the same way they've done "airport security" (HA!) we'll end up with a lot of low-paid, highly-crazed rent-a-Rambos who have more in common with Barney Fife than Marshal Matt Dillon. They may be a bigger danger to passengers than the fooking hijackers.

Give the pilots guns. If that scares the shit out of some passengers, that's tough. It scares the shit out of hijackers, too.

Wow! I had a minor heart attack from believing my ENTIRE PAGE had been eaten by Blogger until I checked ANOTHER BLOGSPOT SITE and discovered what was wrong. The author of the other site probably will dance naked in his shower tonight using far too much soap when he realizes that I visited him before I did The Professor. Don't get a swelled head, buddy (or inordinate swelling anywhere else for that matter). You just got lucky this time.

And I don't care if your inevitable demise comes in the heat of passion. WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!

Monday, May 20, 2002

I must have Typical Rotten Monday At Work Syndrome. My posts this evening are all spittle-flecked invectives about war and slaughter. I really need to tie these rants into something humorous, just to change the pace.

Okay, a guy walks into a bar with a REALLY UGLY, fuzzy yellow creature on a leash. A drunk at the bar leans over and says, "Mister, I don' wanna offend you, but that's the UGLIEST, nappy-haired, short-legged yella dog I ever saw."

"Yeah, Bruce is ugly," the newcomer replies, "but he can whip any dog in this town."

"What? You got a ugly yella dog named "Bruce" and you think he can fight?"

"Bruce can whip any dog in this town." There was some discussion around the bar, bets were made, and the bartender stepped outside to fetch "Killer," a 220-pound Rotweiller, snarling and slavering on the end of a choke-leash made from a US Navy Destroyer's anchor chain. The men cleared a space in the bar, then carefully released each animal from its leash. "Get 'im Killer!," the locals screamed. "Okay, Bruce, he's all yours," said the newcomer.

The fight was over in 10 seconds. Bruce grabbed the Rotweiller by the neck, snapped his head clean off and swallowed it whole.

"My, god, mister!" the old drunk said in amazement. Where did you find that dog?"

The man collected his winnings and put the leash back on Bruce. "I found him in a place we Georgia boys call "Okefenokee," where he was the meanest alligator in the swamp before I painted him yellow and bought him that fur coat."

Screw with America and you end up fighting Bruce.
Thanks to Joanne Jacobs, I found this description of the death of the Navy SEAL who fell out of his helicopter during Operation Anaconda. "Meanwhile, Roberts crawled from where he fell about 200 feet or yards (not certain which) to hide, activated his emergency beacon. --60 + heavily armed Al Qaeda in the area. When the rescue helo came back, a machinegun opened up on it as it came in. Realizing the gravity of the situation, Roberts totally disregarded his safety and attacked it with a handgun and his grenades. He was killed in a close quarter firefight, incredibly outnumbered and outgunned." You can read more about it HERE.

Yeah, we're weak and decadent all right.
FBI Director Robert Meuller says that suicide bombers can be expected to perform their exploding asshole routines in the United States. He's probably right, because Islamic troglodytes aren't very bright. They really believe that we are a weak and decadent people, who lack the courage to stand up to a bunch of blithering, unwashed zealots if the aforementioned zealots are crazy enough to explode themselves in public places. That sort of idiocy is supposed to demoralize Americans and encourage our natural instincts to just roll over and surrender like a fat Jawja possum when threatened.

Osama thought the same thing. Where is his mangy ass now? I haven't seen his stinking pie-hole open, praising glory to Allah on a cheesy videotape for several months now. I suspect the bastard is dead, but even if he's not, he sure isn't sticking his head up to thumb his nose at the Great Satan anymore. He thought we were weak and decadent, too. Comfortable understanding a docile foe, he attacked us. As a result, he learned about thermobaric bombs and daisycutters, and saw his terrorist organization ripped to shreds. If he IS still alive, he is not enjoying a pleasant time, and his days are numbered. He KNOWS it, too.

If Islamobombers want to take their show on the road and try it here, we probably cannot stop them. They probably can create a few nasty incidents and kill some innocent civilians. If they do that, it will be the biggest mistake they ever made.

Americans are slow to anger, but when we become REALLY PISSED OFF, you don't want to be the one who did it. We can be merciless, implacable and effective in war. Once we are truly motivated, the full might of the strongest country in the history of the world can land like a ton of bricks on you. You can't escape that sort of anger, or strength, and YOU CAN'T WIN.

What you can accomplish is to make us so angry, so disgusted with the likes of you, and so fed up with your determination to be a festering boil on the buttocks of the planet that we give up being reasonable, stop trying to find a peaceful solution and just cold-bloodedly EXTERMINATE YOU. We have the means to do it, and if you are dumb enough to start blowing up women and children in shopping malls and pizza parlors in this country, you are certain to provide us the will. You really don't want to go there.

We were ready to gas the entire island of Japan to end the slaughter in World War II if the two nukes we owned didn't get the job done. We dropped the nukes, and they worked. We didn't need the gas. But we had it, and we were ready to use it.

Push us far enough, and we will nuke you, gas you and do whatever else is necessary to GET RID OF YOU and everybody LIKE you. If you can't sane up and join the 20th century, get ready to leave it. Don't start your shit here. We don't tolerate that sort of behavior.
Saddam Hussein has been getting a little cheeky lately, moving missles and other nasty things into the no-fly zones, and got a SLAP ON THE WRIST today by having one of his radar sites removed from service. Here is the typical Arab description of the event, sent straight from that Bizarro-World where they live: "Enemy (US and British) warplanes bombed civilian and services installations in the province of Muthanna, wounding four citizens," the spokesman said, quoted by Iraq's official INA news agency.

"Iraq's missile batteries confronted (the aircraft) and forced them to flee to their bases in Saudi Arabia and Kuwait," he said.

Lying infidels of the Great Satan and its barbaric US Central Command said the warplanes "used precision-guided weapons to strike an aircraft direction-finding site in southern Iraq at approximately 6:30 pm EDT (2230 GMT)" on Sunday.

"Coalition aircraft struck carefully pre-planned targets to neutralize hostile threats endangering our aircrews," the command said.

That's why you can't believe a damned thing Americans say. They fly into peaceful Iraq, bomb the hell out of innocent civilians for no good reason, and probably would have done much more mindless slaughter if the brave Iraqi defense forces had not sent the murderous invaders running for their lives.

At least that the Iraqi version of events. And crazed Arabs stick to their stories, no matter how absurd. I'll be delighted when we take out Saddam and his fruitloop cronies once and for all. That day may not be far off, unless the brave Iraqi defense forces really frightened us today. And pigs have wings, too.

Yes, the Democrats and the reporters huffed and puffed, but they never made much of a case against George Bush for being asleep at the wheel before 9/11. The more the story unfolded, the more foolish the critics appeared. The latest POLL RESULTS show that most people believe that a full-scale investigation into the administration's handling of intelligence information before the attacks would be "unproductive or too political." And they still give Bush a 75% approval rating.

Nice try, Tom, Dick and Hillary, but your two-bit scheme to make a mountain out of this molehill failed. Back to the drawing board.

On the way home from work today, I heard a caller on a talk radio show who made an interesting observation about connecting the dots to form a picture from random clues. She mentioned the movie, The Sixth Sense. I had to cackle when I heard that, because I am the only person I know who realized that the Bruce Willis character was dead early in the film. I figured it out during the anniversary scene at the restaurant. The clues just piled up like cordwood after that.

But most people didn't see the dots, let alone connect them, when they first watched the movie. If you view that movie a second time, however, it's all obvious. The clues jump off the screen and slap you right between the eyes. People wonder, "How could I have MISSED THAT the first time?" They missed it because they weren't expecting it to mean anything important. It was lost in the background noise.

That's why hindsight is so much easier than foresight. When you know what to look for, it's not all that difficult to find. Yeah, all the clues about hijacked airplanes being used as suicide bombers were in the intelligence information various government agencies had at the time. Knowing what happened, almost anyone can see the plan writ large in the clues. But nobody saw it before it happened, before the pattern was already laid out over the dots. The idea was too fantastic to be easily believed, and that's the main reason the terrorists were able to pull it off.

Nobody really has a sixth sense.

Sunday, May 19, 2002

Do you like pizza? Well, you shouldn't, because that evil food (invented right here in American) is BAD FOR YOU and if you eat it, you're GONNA DIE!. Yes, the food police are taking out a RICO warrant on pizza and Long-haired Country Boy is PIZZED OFF about it, and I feel the same way.

The Center for Science in the Public Interest (as a member of the public, I wish desperately that these busybodies would BUTT OUT OF MY LIFE, since I am not interested in their efforts to save me from myself) took upon itself, with no encouragement from the public, the task of telling all of America how and what to eat. "CSPI, headed by self-styled (read: self-righteous) consumer food advocate Michael Jacobson, has previously criticized the nutritional value of movie theater popcorn, Chinese food and soft drinks." They probably don't like Mom or apple pie, either. "We are going to give consumers tips on how to make pizza a more healthful meal." The recommendations include ordering pizza with half the cheese and avoiding pizza with cheese-stuffed crust." Actually, this lunatic group would prefer that you threw away the pizza and ate the cardboard box it came in, along with some tofu and organic bean sprouts. They should be dipped in fondue and fed to the fire ants.

I may be stepping into quicksand here, but I'll say it anyway. The Feminist movement has outlived its usefulness the same way unions and black activists have. Fighting tooth and nail to justify the absolutely worst among their ranks, feminists have become the grand excusers and supporters of the perpetually outraged, while the world, unnoticed by the Feminists, made itself an oyster for women who wish to achieve.

Unions still preach the lowest common denominator for job performance. They spend 95% of their time protecting the 5% of worthless assholes who constantly screw up on the job, stay in trouble and should be fired. Unions, by fighting tooth and nail to save the absolutely worst among their ranks, state that the standard of work acceptable today should be equal to, but no better than that of the most incompetent, brain-dead card holder in their ranks. That's one hell of a standard, guaranteed to carry unions far in the future, as the competitive marketplace evolves into a place where these people do not fit. That's why non-union workers are building cars, forging steel and operating a lot of businesses today, while the unions are trolling for service workers, government employees and teachers. Union standards work for lazy janitors, do-nothing bureaucrats and incompetent teachers. Those standards don't work in the real world.

Academics may make a living preaching how women (who OUTNUMBER MEN, by the way, which makes me wonder how in the hell they ever became a MINORITY) and blacks are discriminated against in the workplace, but they work in academia and I work in the WORKPLACE. The academics are full of shit. Businesses troll incessantly for a woman or a black that they can display proudly in a high management position. Businesses are BEATING THE BUSHES trying to find such people! Businesses will take a so-so minority and fire a competent white male because the government requires such absurd behavior. Yes, the US government counts jelly beans by color and sex, if you do business with the federal government. And EVERYBODY does business with the federal government, whether you think you do or not.

I am tired of the whining. I am tired of seeing "equality" meaning that some people are more equal than others, and I damned sure don't like holding the short end of that stick for being a white, heterosexual (well, 47% GAY) Southern male.

Just put everybody on a level field, then let everybody go wrestle for it. May the best man, or woman, win.

I wish I were back in college. I wish I were a black, lesbian female. I could skate to a low-C average, get my degree and have head-hunters swarming all over my front door to offer me great jobs, high pay and very few expectations other than my contribution to the jelly-bean jar.
Global warming has declared a cease-fire around Rincon, Georgia. The rain that started yesterday afternoon lasted all night and into the morning. It was great sleeping weather. A certain 76% worshipable person took full advantage of it while I was up at my usual 5:00 AM. I made coffee and walked out onto my back patio, then almost FROZE MY ASS OFF in less then ten seconds. It was COLD outside.

I intended to change the oil in my truck and cut the weeds, triffids and body-snatcher pods in my yard today, but I believe I'll pass on that stuff. The sky looks like a dingy, low-hanging gray blanket and the wind has that nipple-stiffening chill that I don't enjoy in south Georgia in mid-May. I have a pot of boiled peanuts on the stove and plenty of laundry to do. My kitchen resembles the aftermath of a raid by Sherman's scallywags in their March Through Georgia. The BATHROOM I NEVER ENTER at the end of the hallway has been befouled by my son and Young Jack, and I probably should make that place presentable, just in case Sherry drops over again tonight. I may perform INDOOR domestic duties today.

Or, I may not. As the FAIR ONE says, WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE! So, why worry about it?
My 19 year-old daughter in Texas has started a NEW BLOG, which is a good thing, because I believe she does have some writing ability (some acorns don't fall far from the tree) and I hope she keeps up the effort. Stormcloud, I use my blog to vent some pretty whiney, self-pitiful stuff sometimes and it makes me feel better when I'm done. I will never criticize you for doing the same thing again. Keep writing!
The DAXMAN is confused. He is advising young ladies to pull their pants UP which defies the law of gravity and is one line I don't believe I've uttered in my entire life. Lemme think...

Rob: "Girl, keep those pants ON! And pull them UP in the meantime."

Girl: "No! I want them riding low on my hips, so you can see lots of skin and that sexy butterfly tattoo I have on my left cheek, just before I slowly peel them off to prove that I'm not wearing panties."

Rob: "Girl, keep those pants ON! And pull them UP!"

Bullshit. If I ever behave that way, it'll be after April 9, 2019.
I just took the DEATH TEST and it says I'm going to live to be 67 years old! I will croak on April 9, 2019, of either cancer (33%), heart attack (20%), alcoholism (8%) or drowning (8%). No mention of being shot by a jealous husband or dying of the galloping clap, which is nice to know. The rest of that crap I never worry about anyway.
Here is a NICE PIECE on the blame-game crapola over what Bush knew and when he knew it. The more I hear our esteemed Congressfolk speak on this issue, the more convinced I am that an "Intelligence Report" on them would result in a blank piece of paper.
While the rest of the world bakes and swelters under the onslaught of Global Warming, CENTRAL PARK experiences a new Ice Age in mid-May. Actual climate seems to be just too capricious to predict, even with giant Cray super-computers. Kyoto, anyone?
Sherry is 76% worshipable and a mere 32% gay. And I am happy this morning.