Saturday, September 14, 2002

Have you ever believed that you knew someone, only to discover, all at once, that you didn't know them at all? I did that. I am still trying to figure out how that happened. It almost killed me, too.

I'm fifty years old. I should know better by now.
GROUP CAPTAIN, SIR please tell me that THIS AIN'T SO.

Barry-Lee Hastings, 25, stabbed career criminal Roger Williams 12 times in the back and the back of the head after the intruder charged at him with a crowbar.

Hastings was cleared of murder but found guilty of manslaughter on a 10-2 majority.

He was refused bail by Judge Brian Barker who remanded him to Belmarsh maximum security prison pending sentence on 4 October. As he was led to the cells he told his sobbing wife Nicola: "Tell the kids I love them to bits."

I moved up here in the woods and sandhills of southeast Georgia many years ago to be around hardy country folk who grow crops, drive pickup trucks, shoot deer, chew tobacco and understand right from wrong. I don't believe you could hand-pick twelve people in Effingham County who would convict that man of a crime.

Hell, where I live, we would pin a medal on his chest and hold a barbeque dinner at the church in his honor.

That story put me right off the sandwich I was about to eat.

Thanks (I think) to ANDY.
Damn! I didn't realize I could still focus on one subject long enough to post what I wrote below...
Okay, the lovely, red-toenailed JONI has taken me to task for being a Male Chauvinist Pig. In a face-to-face confrontation, I would argue that point with her, because I don't believe that I am an MCP. I despise idealistic, heads-up-their-butts feminists and their radical, looney-tune denial of the facts of life, just the way I do tree-hugging, manatee-saving environmentalists. I believe that too many people look at the world through the wrong end of the binoculars, so that everything becomes compressed, distorted and totally out of perspective. There's a lot of obsession over trivia out there.

Joni Fisked me, so I'm about to attempt a Fisk Within A Fisk in response. Kids, DO NOT try this at home.

Sorry Darlin? Not Half As Sorry as You Will Be....

Joni said: "I generally like Acidman's self-proclaimed vitriolic rants. But this time, in response to a "feminist" post by Mindscapes, Heartstrings and Soul-Searching, I think he missed the mark. I've excised his comment to her post so I could dissect it here. My comments are underlined."

Sorry, darlin', but I believe you've had your head pumped full of a lot of raw sewage over "feminism." That "women earning 1/3 of what men earn in the same job" is absolute bullshit. That urban legend has been shot down everywhere except college campuses today. NO BUSINESS would DARE pay a woman 1/3 the salary it paid a man for the same work in the US today. The EEOC and a locust-swarm of lawyers would sue the living daylights out of them and WIN. Many incompetent women hold high-paying jobs just so the jelly-bean count will be correct to the Powers That Be.

Joni says: "So you're saying that because there are laws that prevent discrimination, among other things, that businesses are simply obeying them? Haven't you been watching the news or reading the papers? If corporations behaved and went by the books and paid attention to what is legal then my law firm and others like it would be out of business. Corporations break laws like this every day. I still subscribe to the maxim that a woman has to work twice as hard as a man does to get anywhere. But since I'm in a "pink collar" profession, I don't have to worry about hitting my head on that glass ceiling. But don't think for a second that it doesn't happen. I can pull up case after case for you. Not only in your own Circuit, but all over the country. And as soon as I finish this post I just might."

Joni: I have been deposed four times in "sexual harassment" lawsuits brought against my company. We won all four, because the woman in question was a worthless piece of shit and received EXACTLY what she deserved by being fired. But a boss treads on eggshells dealing with that situation. Expect the lawsuit, expect the EEOC investigators and expect a big shit-storm no matter what. Yes, "hostile environment" is the first thing out of a lazy bitch's mouth and she will lie like hell, after being carefully instructed about WHAT KIND OF LIES to tell for maximum effect by a scum-sucking lawyer, who KNOWS that he has a goldbrick for a client but just wants to reap some money out of a fertile field of fucked-up law. I submit that more more innocent people get raped by avaricious "discrimination" lawsuits than victims suffer true discrimination. It's just my opinion, after 23 years of dealing with this shit in a REAL workplace, so I could be wrong. Just keep your paperwork in order, if you're in my position.

That "contraception" nonsense? WOMEN become pregnant; men don't. Who do you THINK the burden of contraception should be on? In an ideal world, the woman would be responsible enough to ensure that no "accidents" happened. But when the law is structured that an illegitimate child is a meal ticket to welfare, child-support and a host of other government rewards, responsibility is NOT encouraged. Hell, I had a vasectomy YEARS ago because women can't be trusted to watch out for themselves.

Joni says: "Well, isn't it just like a man to think he can run around and spill his precious semen anywhere he fucking well pleases and devil be damned the consequences. Women don't get pregnant by themselves. And they shouldn't be required to raise the brat alone either. Responsibility should be borne equally by both partners. You're more of a MCP than I dared dream possible. Bah. Nothing surprises me anymore."

Yep, men are like that, splling their precious semen everywhere they go. It would land on bushes and trees and between the pages of pornographic magazines if there weren't so many horny women willing to harvest it for themselves. Women DON'T get pregnant by themselves. It always takes two to tango. But the woman is the one who BECOMES pregnant, and it ain't rocket science to figure out how that happens, and it ain't rocket science to figure out how to prevent it. You seem to have a very fungible definition of "responsibility." Yeah, I understand that if I become pregnant, I'LL be the one who gestates for nine months, I'LL be the one who delivers the baby, and I'LL be the one stuck with it when all is said and done. So, if I get pregnant, it's YOUR FAULT, too!

Bullshit. I run my life better than that.

Joni said: "Snipped rant about Susan Faludi, whoever she may be. I'm too lazy to look on Google."

You should read her. A true feminist fucktard.

Men and women are not equal, and they never will be. Men, as a rule have more upper-body strength, can run faster, and do more physically demanding tasks than a woman can. Women are just as smart (and maybe MORE devious) and they have the force of government guaranteeing not only "equality," but a leg up in the workplace today.

Joni says: " Well, I know a helluva lot of men who are content to sit on their asses while women support them. And raise the kids. And you completely ignore the fact that it's not WOMEN who are getting all the perks. It's minority men! So much so that the WASP male is probably more discriminated against than any other demographic group there is. (When he bothers to get a job that is.)"

As a WASP male who has worked 23 years at the same place and climbed up the ranks, worked hard, provided for my family, brought home the bacon, put in incredible overtime and saw it all taken away from me by a judge who resembled Howard Sprague from the Andy Griffith show, I totally agree with that statement. So, what? That's how it goes. If anybody ever told you life was fair, they lied to you.

I have a chemical engineer and a mechanical engineer who work with me in my area of responsibility. They both are male, both are hard-working and good at their jobs. Both also talk about graduating from college with 3.5 GPAs and watching recruiters swarm around females with a 2.2 GPA, just to get the jelly-bean count correct. If I were a black lesbian today, the goddam world would be my oyster. That's just how fucked-up things are.

Go out in the real world and see for yourself. If you're half-assed at what you do, you'll go to the front of the line because you are female.

Joni says:" That's pure bullshit. The only way you get to the head of the line is by being good, period. Man or woman. Unless you are unfortunate enough to work in an office like mine where it's more important WHO you know than WHAT you know. I have no pedigree. All I bring to the table is my intelligence and work ethic. Fuck them if that isn't enough."

I am a white, Southern, heterosexual male. That's FOUR strikes against me in the politically-correct workplace of today. I BETTER be good at my job, or I won't last long. Go back and read about engineers.

I live with this shit every day. Rant complete.

Joni asks: "What shit do you live with everyday? YOU are the head of the plant, aren't you? Not a woman? So what woman has trampled your masculine sensibilities (now THERE'S an oxymoron for you) by climbing over you to get to the top?"

No, I am not head of the plant. I am production coordinator for one of three areas of the plant. I'm a boss, but I'm not a BIG TIME boss. I'm more like a Chief Petty Officer or a Top Sergeant than I am royalty in the pecking order. I like it that way. I spend more time dealing with the people and the problems in the area than I do going to meetings and dealing with the royalty.

My ex-wife was a lowly lab supervisor when she recruited me to become her husband (and yes, she did that). I was the youngest General Foreman in the history of the plant at the time, and I ran the "widowmaker," the sulfuric acid plant (does "Acidman" ring a bell now?), the steam plant all all the site services. Once she got her fangs in me, I saw a lot of potential in her and taught her a lot, often in bed at night while we smoked cigarettes and talked about work. I predicted back then that I had probably played my string out about as far as it would ever reach, but the sky was the limit for her.

She had a degree in chemistry (I was an English Major), she was a go-getter, but most important of all, she was an ATTRACTIVE FEMALE. We didn't have enough females in top jobs, and Corporate would be looking for some, just to make the jelly-bean count look better to the government. She was in the right place at the right political time.

I was correct in everything I said to her back then. She is "Manager of Continuous Improvement" today, and she sits on her adulterous, fine ass in a nice office with the Plant Manager just two doors away. She's in Phonex, Arizona this week, and I don't know why I wasn't allowed to keep Quinton here while she was gone. I suspect she left those duties to her dope-smoking, unemployed lover just to spite me. She does that a lot.

So, Joni, THAT'S the woman who trampled my masculine sensibilities, oxymoron or not. It's been a rough year for me.

Joni said: "Come and get me, Hoss!"

I believe I just did.
So much for the strength, intellectual clarity and cast-iron asses on feminist women. In a typical little-spoiled-girl snit, JELLYBEAN dropped me from her blogroll. Excuse me, while I go find a tall building so that I may jump off the roof immediately. (Goddess, she dropped YOU, too! Da bitch!)

If feminists were honest to begin with, we never would have corrupted the English language with such an abomination as "Gender Studies," because gender means: 1. SEX 2. a subclass within a grammatical class (as noun, pronoun, adjective or verb) of a language that is partly arbirtary but also partly based on distinguishable characteristics (as shape, social rank, manner of existence, or sex) and that determines agreement with and selection of other words or a grammatical form in such a subclass.

That's from Webster's Ninth Collegiate Dictionary. I'm certain that the definition will change (if it hasn't already-- my dictionary is 10 years old) to reflect the cowardice of those who prefer to use "gender" when they really mean "sex." You can't say "sex" when talking about the difference between men and women. Women become uncomfortable because that word just sounds so gross!. A Martha Stewart mentality gave us "gender," so we don't have to say "sex," the same way it gave us "choice" to mean "killing a baby." It sounds so much prettier that way. (I am woman. I am strong. I just don't like gross words, especially when they describe what I'm actually doing, talking about or thinking. That upsets me. I want things to be pretty, even when they're not. If YOU won't lie to me, I'll lie to myself!)

Gender is a GREAT word for feminists, when they can't bring themselves to say "sex." Gender sounds MECHANICAL, not PHYSICAL. It's the perfect word!

Now, Martha Stewart can get drunk and have "gender" with a stranger she met in a bar. The world is a better place. So pretty.

Can you imagine a college offering courses in "SEX STUDIES?" Of course not! Every guy on campus (and a few really adventerous women) would sign up hoping to participate in full-fledged orgies in the classroom. Have the politically correct censors start talking about making textbooks "sex-neutral" and every guy on campus will run like hell, cupping his balls in both hands and screaming at the top of his lungs. That "sex-neutral" term brings visions of enuichs and large snipping devices to the front of the typical male cerebellum, and typical males don't like that.

So, we have "Gender Studies" and "gender-neutral" textbooks. When we speak of the difference between men and women, we speak of "gender." It's all so clinical, scientific, and oh, so pretty.

And altogether full of shit.

Friday, September 13, 2002

We made the new grade of pigment in most excellent fashion. All the people who came to criticize, finger-point and crucify went away today, amazed by our success and disappointed that they couldn't go home and tell Corporate just how fucking stupid we are.

I believe I predicted that result on Monday, before we ever started.
Every now and then, I can rant my ass off, and no matter WHAT I write, it flies off into the ozone far over the head of the college student who was meant to understand it. If I receive a condescending insult in return, I realize that I am dealing with a person a lot like I was 30 years ago when I thought I was smart and didn't know shit from shinola. I'm in a really pissy mood tonight, but I would attack THIS SANCTIMONIOUS DRIVEL anyway, even if I were in a great mood.

I just linked to a very long and gassy post written by an obviously intelligent young woman who is having her brains sucked right out of her head as we speak. Read THIS (comments are MINE):

And they (That would be ME) throw in personalised insults into their diatribes to boot-- such as sniping at the fact that I'm in academia which means that I am unaware of the "Real World". (No, that was not a "personalized insult." It was a statement of fact. Never was I warmer in my life than when I was wrapped in the warm cocoon of "academia," where I was totally insulated from the world and snug in my intellectualism. If I had not been fast on my feet and quick to adapt after that experience, the real world would have eaten me alive when I became a butterfly.) This scenario could be absolutely and conveniently tailored to any other woman regardless of her occupation ( Uhh... how do you get THERE from HERE!?). For example, a sister of a friend of mine (Nothing beats first-hand experience) is a stay-at-home mom because she chose to do so by quitting her job to take care of the kids. She's still on the ball when it comes to developments in feminism (What does THAT mean?) and she advocates women's rights (So do I. I just don't advocate SPECIAL RIGHTS for women) However, she told my friend--who was a classmate of mine during undergrad studies--(rough life, those undergrad studies) very bitterly that whenever (ALWAYS? Every single time?) when she let it be known that she is a feminist of sorts (What is "a feminist of sorts?" Is that different from a "feminist?"), she gets told: "You're a housewife. You're only talking through your nose. You don't know nothing!" (If she's a housewife, she knows a lot more about the real world than YOU do, darlin'.)

This (WHAT?), naturally (by whose definition?), precludes any civilised debate (you don't want a debate. You DEMAND ACCEPTANCE) or opportunity to exchange ideas and discuss points and issues.

There you have it!

Drink a pot of coffee and read the entire, lenghty, long-winded feminist screed, plus the OTHER feminist screed before that one. It's just as long, and just as vacuous. Also be sure to read the offhand dismissal she give to me and Da Goddess for our ignorance of the Real World and our disagreement with what she learned in school.

Innocence is SO precious... misguided, but precious....

DA GODDESS has started doing these cutesey-bloggy things about people she met through blogging, where she provides 25 snippets of essential information about the person behind the post. I don't know how she gathers this information, but I DO know that Da Goddess has her ways. She just finished this sickening, syrup-dripping, goo-goo-eyed profile of Rich, who pens the most excellent BRAIN SQUEEZINGS blog.

I admit that I do NOT know Rich, except through reading his blog. But I feel a mysterious power in my Crackerbox house tonight and I believe that my psychic antennae are all a-quiver. Like a gypsy, I am attuned to the Other World. I see THE TRUTH BEHIND THE ANSWERS!

1) Rich's nickname used to be Dex. That's because he sold dexadrine on the school playground. He later earned the nickname "Crack" in college.

2) In high school, he played football - linebacker. That's because his "friends" told him to LINE up way BACK there. No, FARTHER than that. Keep going... yeah, back there in the trees! Stay there!

3) November, 2001, he stumbled around his place, stubbed his toe, and the nail is just now growing back. He was drunk as a worm.

4) Rich likes the nape of a woman's neck. (Is he a vampire or a blogger?) Potential hairdresser.

5) LIPS are probably his favorite part on women. Although, he has learned to appreciate a fine back. Uh.. WHICH lips? And he appreciates a fine back because he's accustomed to watching women run away from him.

6) He has two dogs. Sebastian and Reese. Sebastian likes to interrupt phone calls if he hears his name. Reese was named after CANDY! Rich likes it when they hump his leg, too.

7) The man has never heard of "Family Affair" (I asked if Sebastian was named after Sebastian Cabot - which prompted the reply, "Who?") He probably said, "Who, me?" believing that when you asked about Family Affair you knew some of the horrible secrets about his incestuous background.

8) He recently recorded a CD. On it, he pretends to be Nigerian royalty and asks for your credit card number to help him move 10-quadzillion dollars out of "his" country in return for a big chuck of money.

9) Best e-mail he ever got was from Anne. Anne? Yeah, she sent me a copy of THAT one. BWHAHAHA! Anne was a card, wasn't she?

10) The weirdest e-mail he ever received was for ELF BOWLING. (I guess my e-mails don't count as weird!?) What's weird about ELF BOWLING? HUH?

11) Sarah got him blogging. Rich is putty in a woman's hands.

12) He says he would NEVER SAY NEVER about blogging. (He might not blog a day or so, but he can't stop it no matter what rehab programs his family throws him in.) He hasn't posted in three days. Prick!

13) His mother has never admitted to dropping him on his head as a child. She never admitted to sending him to the store and moving to a new home before he got back, either. She did that TWICE.

14) If Rich could be a superhero, he would be: Indecision Guy or Animal Man. He was torn between the two. Let's just see how "torn" he is after he reads THIS purile post! He may want to see my Cracker ass "torn."

15) He liked watching Super Friends and Fat Albert as a child. That's because he had NO REAL FRIENDS as a child.

16) He has never turned down sex.....intentionally. No, but he has passed out on the floor numerous times in a puddle of his own puke with a nekkid woman saying, "RICH! RICH! Wake up! I WANT YOU!"

17) His birthday is 11 days before mine. Yeah. He lies about his age, too.

18) Rich knows what a Brazilian Bikini Wax is. KNOWS? He has them DONE!

19) The blogger he most respects is Acidman. But he LUSTS after ME! Sometimes, Rich gets it all just right.

20) When asked the total count on pornographic magazines in his home, he said: "I haven't counted recently." He can't count that high, but most of them are no good anymore from having all the pages glued together with... SOMETHING.

21) He has a soothing, sexy voice. Yeah, he's counting on that Nigerian CD to make him wealthy.

22) He can remember being in a "sunken space" and looking up at his mom and dad while they were talking. This means he was either VERY young and in a basinette/crib or was kept in a well. They were trying to BURY YOU ALIVE, Rich! That was a HOLE IN THE BACK YARD you were in. I read all about it in the National Enquirer years ago. I believe you were kept sedated for a few years after that trauma.

23) That said, his earliest CLEAR childhood memories are from around the time he was 8 or 9 years old. That's when he first realized that he didn't have a clue....

24) Rich once had a cat named Gatita. He killed that cat in a Satanic ritual designed to raise Gaia to Goddess Of All. He's looking for another cat.

25) He has never made a sex video. That he KNOWS OF! Thanks to a very sleazy, but proficient private detective I paid to follow him for ONE ENTIRE YEAR, I have an interesting video of Rich, a black woman in a tu-tu, a truck driver with a tattoo on his left forearm and three sheep in a Motel 6 vibrating bed.

If that Nigerian CD scam pays off, I MAY give you a chance to buy that piece of MOST INCRIMINATING EVIDENCE from me.

Gawd! The usually reliable GROUP CAPTAIN lured me into a den of iniquity this evening. I...I...I AM SHOCKED!

Read his post, and BE SURE to check the comments. Then, go to DAWN'S post and read the comments THERE. Gawd! I never realized that so many people run around in the world with nothing but sex on their minds.

I thought it was just ME!
The DAMNED YANKEE finally posted #75 through #100 on his 100 THINGS ABOUT 100 BLOGGERS list, and I am number 83.

083 acidman - He has a pet spider in his bathroom, loves greasy fried foods and thinks vegetarians are full of shit. Asshole lawyers and politicians piss him off and he has enjoyed having group sex numerous times. Rincon, Georgia, United States.

I quibble with his diction somewhat. "He has enjoyed group sex numerous times" suggests that possibly I had group sex a few times when I DIDN'T enjoy it. Nope, never happened. I enjoyed it EVERY time.

Look who's number 87! It's JONI! 087 joni - She and ebay addict who does not have pierced ears but has a tattoo on her ankle who can sing the Israeli national anthem in Hebrew. Some call her intense and she wishes she was on more peoples blogrolls. Houston, Texas, United States.

That list should make for some interesting reading.

Thursday, September 12, 2002

Behold the Bronze God!
AMAZING HOME MOVIES of Da Goddess and Gutdude!

And, to make it simple, HERE HE IS!

Posted with permission from Acidman Mars by Da Goddess

Hope that didn't sound like I was fawning too much, Rob.

Yeah, I have hair under that hat, too. And bloodshot eyes behind the sunglasses. I'm not certain if that picture was taken before, after, or during several visits to the Tiki Bar at the resort.
Hmmm... THIS really didn't measure up to my expectations.

You think you have friends. We know how it is. You hang out with them, they smile, they're friendly, you get on well together.
Well, here's the thing: secretly, deep down, they fucking hate you. All they really want to do is hassle you; reject you; kick you while you're down. And who are we to stop them? Who, in fact, is anyone?
That's what this tool is all about. Type in your name below, and you'll receive an insulting name with which they can harangue you into a painful, early grave.

The best this test could do is: Zebra bastard zebra zebra zebra zebra fucker Semenspit

Hell, I'm a lot worse than THAT!


I cannot follow directions written in a language I do not comprehend. I have pictures on a prodigy account. I can do all sorts of wonderful things with them there. I have no idea how to transfer those pictures to this blog. The last line on my instructions says, "you can now view the page by clicking on the link they give you to add more-- go back to

And THAT'S IT! It stops right in the middle of the fricking page on the backside of the piece of paper that has "POSTING PHOTOS" as the title at the top of the OTHER SIDE of the piece of paper. What a dirty trick.

I know someone who may write a nice blog but will NEVER make a living writing operating instructions, the way I once did.
I revamped my blogroll just a bit. I didn't feel much like writing after my "Johnny U" post, so I decided to try to mess around in "Template" for a while. If you look closely, you'll find a couple of new additions, and if anybody is unhappy with their placement in the pecking order, DON'T BE. I read them all, every day, in no particular order. But I'm REALLY considering dropping MEESH all the way down to the bottom for that crap about the RIGHT-WING TEXAN being such a "hottie." Gawd, woman! The man's a TEXAN, for crying out loud. A Texan is BORN with an ego the Houston Astrodome couldn't contain, and you're pumping MORE hot air in? Don't DO that!

Wanna see a picture of ME? I'm going to pull out my two pages of hand-written notes about how to post a picture on this page and see what happens. I'll try to pick one where I'm not nekkid, too, just so I don't scare off the PG-13 crowd. Wait... I'm not sure I have any pictures where I'm not nekkid, but I'll go look.

Stay Tuned.
I have been in a blue funk all day. This morning, I went through my usual workday routine, which always includes watching ESPN NEWS during the 4:30 until 5:00 AM segment. I usually want to see how the Atlanta Braves did, catch a few good highlights and pour a Mountain Dew down my neck for the caffene wake-up it gives me.

I didn't need the caffene to wake me up today. I learned that the ULTIMATE FOOTBALL HERO of my younger days was dead.

JOHNNY UNITAS died at the age of 69 yesterday of a heart attack while working out at a physical therapy center near his home in Baltimore. I believe that a lot of my youth died with him. God, but I feel old today.

I was a rabid Baltimore Colts fan as far back as I can remember, watching them play on a black-and-white TV and worshiping "Johnny U," the miracle man, the greatest quarterback of all time. I loved that ridiculous slope-shouldered, wide-hipped, Ichabod Crane figure he cut on the field, with his high-top "combat boot" shoes and his flat-top haircut. I was a little, skinny transplanted hillbilly who desperately wanted to play football, even though I had none of the physical attributes coaches seek in a player. Unitas gave me hope, because I figured that if HE could look as as bad as HE DID on the field and still excell at the game, then so could I.

And Unitas excelled the way no one had done before. At one time, he held 22 career passing records, and they all would have been difficult to beat if the rules of the game had not changed to make passing so much easier today. Unitas was largely responsible for those rule changes. His wide-open, air-attack offense excited people, drew crowds and made the NFL what it is. All those steriod-enhanced millionaires playing pro ball today owe a debt of gratutude to the man who blazed their trail to the big time. Unitas once was the highest-paid player in the NFL when he made $60,000 per year.

He embodied everything a quarterback was supposed to be. He was tough (he once had his face smashed, broke several ribs that punctured his lung and got up from the mud to throw a winning touchdown pass on the final play of the game against the Chicago Bears), he was a leader (NOBODY talked in HIS huddle but HIM) and he called ALL of his own plays, a concept long gone in quarterbacks today.

One of the few possessions I managed to keep after my divorce was my football card collection. Right now, I'm looking at a 1959 Johnny Unitas, when he was 26 years old and fresh off the sudden-death victory over the Giants in the 1958 World Championship game. He really was an ugly fucker, with a smile that was almost a sneer, crooked teeth and that geeky flat-top haircut. He doesn't look like much of a football player, but he went on to win another championship that year.

After 18 years in the NFL, he retired, a broken-down shadow of the man he once was. I wish he had hung up the high-top boots sooner. I wish he had quit while he was at the top of his game. Hell, I REALLY wish he was STILL PLAYING! God, how I loved that man!

Life after football was not kind to him. An elbow injury caused his once-golden right arm to atrophy, he went bankrupt, developed prostate cancer afterward and had a triple-bypass heart operation in 1993. He finally was reduced to making his living signing autographs and selling his memorabelia. That's a sad ending for a great man.

I saw a poll on MSNBC today where people voted for the greatest quarterback of all time. Joe Montana won. John Unitas finished second. A lot of people who voted in that poll probably never saw Unitas play. I did. I watched them BOTH! Joe Montana was GOOD, but he wasn't fit to hold Johnny Unitas' jockstrap.

Unitas was the greatest quarterback I ever saw play the game. His records may fall, as many have already, but I will always remember what he was, once upon a time.

He was MY HERO!

Wednesday, September 11, 2002


Shortly after President Bush took office, an old man approached the White House from the park across Pennsylvania Ave where he'd been sitting on a park bench. He spoke to the U.S.Marine standing guard and said, "I would like to go in and meet with President Clinton." The Marine looked at the man and said, "Sir, Mr. Clinton is no longer president and no longer resides here."

The old man said, "Okay," and walked away.

The following day, the same man approached the White House and said to the same Marine, "I would like to go in and meet with President Clinton." The marine again told the man, "Sir, Mr. Clinton is no longer president and no longer resides here." The man thanked him and, again, just walked away.

The third day, the same man approached the White House and spoke to the very same U.S.Marine, saying "I would like to go in and meet with President Clinton."

The Marine, understandably agitated at this point, looked at the man and said, Sir, this is the third day in a row you have been here
asking to speak to Mr. Clinton; I've told you already that Mr. Clinton is no longer the president and no longer resides here. Don't you

The old man looked at the Marine and said, "Oh, I understand. I just love hearing it." The Marine snapped to attention, saluted and said, "See you tomorrow, Sir. Have a good day!"

I found this sickening piece of racist drivel thanks to SUGARMAMA who linked to an appalling article in SALON. Here are the words of an oppressed minority female, still shackled by the chains of slavery in this otherwise free country:

I watched from my window, not on television, as the twin towers fell. As shocked as I was, I felt that this was not my problem as a black person. The people who worked at the World Trade Center were mostly white men, and so they had nothing to do with me as a black woman.

Tha's right, 'ho. You got nothin' in common wid DA MAN! He be keepin' you DOWN! Forget any black people, or FELLOW HUMAN BEINGS who died there. They were not worth caring about to a pitiless shit-wit such as your pompous self. (You also have a giant black bug up your ass that crawled all the way to your brain and ATE IT, if there was anything there to begin with, you blithering idiot.) And you wonder how nutballs such as Cynthia McKinney get elected to high office?

When there was an outpouring of grief and donations from every corner of the United States, I said to myself, If those planes had flown into a housing project and the victims were poor blacks and Latinos, people in Missouri wouldn't give a damn. When I heard that there had been over $1 billion in private donations, I asked myself where was this money before? Why hadn't it been donated to help the homeless, children who do not have access to an education, people who do not have access to healthcare? Here we have people rushing to write checks to people whose families will be taken care of by insurance or their employers.

What outpoured from you? Racist venom and envy, you pathetic, unfeeling creature. Where's MY MONEY? is your reaction to an attack on THE COUNTRY YOU LIVE IN! God, woman! 3,OOO dead people make no impression on you at all, not when your "blackness" is more important. I've got a clue for you, sweetness. The "blackness" is in your cruel heart and your twisted mind. Now I know why that fucktard in North Carloina sued over hearing the word "niggardly." There's a LOT of you crazy, resentful, chip-carrying assholes out there. Hint: Go to Zimbabwe. You'll LOVE it there, among all your fellow black folk. You can starve to death with them in a totally non-racial genocide.

To me, 9/11 was just another example of the American paradigm of deservedness and white entitlement. We are not all Americans; the white investment banker, the white fireman, the white police officer, the white EMT, they are Americans.

Ah, yes, that American paradigm of white entitlement, where affirmative action, racial quotas and Jesse Jackson shakedown operations exist only in the minds of paranoid Klansmen, who ride on horseback through your neighborhood ever night, lynching darkies from every lamp post along the way. Happens all the time... in your feverish dreams.

I cannot express how sick this woman is. The sad part is, she's not alone.

DRAGONFLY JENNY poses some interesting questions on her blog today.

1. Have you ever had to apologize for something really heinous? If so, how did you handle it? (By mail, by email, in person, through another person, via a radio call-in show ...? On "your" territory, on "their" territory, on neutral ground ...?) How much time did you allow to elapse before you issued the apology, and why?

Once in high school, I got into a fight and I was given a simple choice in the principal's office: Apologize and shake hands, or face two weeks detention. The other guy jumped up, said "I'M sorry," and stuck out his hand. I refused to apologize. I wasn't sorry I fought the sumbitch because he had it coming, HE started it and I wanted HIM to know that I wasn't sorry about it. I didn't regret a damned bit of it, except being dragged to the principal's office just when I was getting the upper hand in the fight. I knew that I would light into his ass again right then and there if he asked for it, and I said so. That action cost me two weeks detention while he got off scott-free. (The blissful days LONG before ZERO TOLERANCE) That's one of my lines in the dirt that I will not cross. No one wrings an apology from me when I don't believe it's called for.

But I have given several heartfelt, honest apologies in my life when I realized that I had done hateful, hurtful things to someone who didn't deserve them. Usually, I didn't realize what I had done until after the fact, but I always tried to make my act of contrition, face to face, as soon as I recognized the error I committed. I do such things for two reasons. First, to let the person I hurt know that I truly regret what I did to hurt them. Second, to palliate my own guilty conscience about being such an unmitigated shitass. I'm not kidding folks--- I'm an unmitigated shitass only at work and on this blog. In real life, I'm a nice guy.

2. Was the thing you were apologizing for heinous in your eyes, in the other person/people's eyes, in the eyes of bystanders, or all of the above?

I have NEVER apologized for anything that wasn't deserving of an apology in MY eyes. I always ask the question, "If someone did THAT to ME, how would I feel?" If I analyze all the circumstances and extraneous factors and determine that I would regard myself as an unmitigated shitass for behaving so badly, I apologize. I could give a rat's ass about what "bystanders" think.

3. Was the situation really all your fault, or did you feel the other person contributed as well? If so, did that make it harder to apologize?

If I don't believe that I WAS IN THE WRONG, after analyzing all the circumstances and extraneous factors, I don't apologize. I don't see percentages in that situation, such as "I'm 60% guilty, but you also bear 40% of the responsibility." Either I can justify what I did, or I should apologize.

4. And how did the recipient(s) of your apology respond?

I have a pretty high batting average of having my apologies accepted and my sins forgiven, because I am sincere when I do it, but I ain't batting 1.000. That's why I really need to learn to shut my opinionated mouth sometimes, if I want to have LOTS of people who like me. But, the older I get, the more I like having just a few good friends who have seen me at my worst and my best, and stayed for the ride a long time.

5. Do you think there are some situations in which it's better to remain silent and let things pass, even though you technically owe an apology? In other words, as Venus asked me, what do you think about "Less said, sooner mended"?

I once thought so, but I don't anymore. Say it now, as soon as possible, and get it out in the open. It's the thorn that stays stuck in your side that swells into a really nasty sore over time. Don't let that happen. And if you're on the other end of that deal, SAY SO! Silence may be golden if you're a monk in a monastery, but it never makes a realtionship last.

I totally agree with these test results:

lucky you. you were what every child should be.
carefree. optimistic. and happy.
what kind of child were you?
(brought you by april)

I WAS a happy child.

But I grew up to be a jaded, cynical, manic-depressive adult. Go figure.

Tuesday, September 10, 2002

Okay, I'm taking the VODKAPUNDIT CHALLENGE. He suggested that THIS PURILE PIECE OF CRAP needed a "serious Fisking." I'm not in the BIG LEAGUES, but I know raw meat when I smell it.

John McEnroe, once known as a good tennis player and a VERY ACCOMPLISHED bitcher, whiner and tantrum-thrower, has grown up. Sorta. He can't run the court the way he once did, but his mouth is ageless, powered by a brain that still has no clue. Forget the drivel that he writes in his "sensitive" opening paragraphs. Let's eat the meat. He opines about 9/11:

"For many countries in the world and for thousands of people, war is something they have to live daily; we thought we didn't have to. In a weird way while at first it may have distanced us from the rest of the world I think - or at least I hope - in time it will bring us closer."

You're damned right it will, Johnny. We're already INTIMATE with our enemies in Afghanistan, and I believe that we want to hug Iraq next. Our friends, the Saudis, need to draw deeply from their hookahs and ponder just how close the war on terror will bring us to their tents and rugs, Rolexes and liquor-cabinets. Yes, I believe that we will have a CLOSER relationship with a lot of corrupt regimes around the world before we're finished with what we set out to do.

"As a boy I grew up believing everything was black and white. It came as a shock to discover that most things in life were grey and the most horrific example of that was the attacks on New York and Washington. You think to yourself, "How could someone justify that?" But they did."

As a boy, I watched you show your ass on the tennis court in ways that would have caused my father to strangle me in front of the TV cameras. When I watched YOUR tantrums, I thought to myself, "How could someone justify that?" But YOU did. I am not saying that you have anything in common with terrorists who flew airplanes into the World Trade Center, but a few line referees may disagree with me.

"Apportioning blame was not as cut and dried as people liked to think. I mean, didn't we arm Iraq in their war against Iran? And didn't we back that same Osama bin Laden, who wreaked such havoc and misery upon our country, in his fight against the Russians?

If there is any good to come from this act of evil it is that ultimately it may help us to understand what other people in the world are thinking, be they our friends or our enemies. As a nation we've lost sight of that. We have to improve communication, to be more aware of our shortcomings as well as our strengths."

Oh! WE'RE JUST AS GUILTY AS THE TERRORISTS! The ultimate "Bad Boy" of tennis now throws his racquet into the cesspool of "moral equalivance!" How many times did the Country Club tennis ball-shooter have to hit you in the head to pound your brains into that kind of mush? The blame is crystal clear to me. ARAB TERRORISTS flew those planes. What's confusing about that? Johnny, no "good" will come of that terrible episode, unless you consider forcing the United States to punish the people who attacked us to be a good thing. I don't, but THEY started it, and we are obligated to finish it. Nobody else has the balls or the wherewithall to do it. We're gonna improve "communication," all right. Via daisycutters and smart-bombs. Let the enemy judge our "shortcomings."

"The lack of uniformity in the world's approach to dealing with terrorism is only further proof that we need to find common ground. I think that President Bush has realised he doesn't have the support he thought he had for an attack on Iraq; like all politicians he has just been seeing which way the wind is blowing before he bends with it."

The "lack of uniformity" in the world's approach to dealing with terrorism proves only that other countries are scared to death of these worthlesss terrorist murderers and DON"T have the balls or the wherewithall to do what is necessary. They would much rather keep their collective heads implanted firmly in their asses rather than admit that something must be done. If they admit THAT fact, well... then THEY might have to do something, and they don't want to go there. By the way, the wind is blowing off Ground Zero, and I still smell ashes in the air, even if YOU don't.

"I hope they don't build anything on the site of the old World Trade Center, just a memorial. It would be incredibly inappropriate if they did. So you build one 60 storeys high instead of 110? What does that prove? What sort of show of defiance is that? You have to think of those who died there. That's where we've lost our perspective."

It's incredibly inappropriate that you are being paid to write this pap, especially when we see YOUR perspective:

"Getting back to normality this year has not been easy, since that in itself seemed the wrong thing to do. It took a while before New Yorkers could bring themselves to look each other in the eye, never mind celebrate Christmas in the way most people normally do. You just longed for a sense of calm and continuity. But eventually things do return to normal and I have been as guilty of that as anyone because of a hectic schedule which has involved the promotion of my autobiography, seniors' tennis and television commentary."

Yeah, that terriorist attack bothered you all the way to the bank, didn't it? Yeah, 3,000 people died, and you are CRUSHED and STUNNED by that fact, but you've got an autobiography to sell and some cash to make. Life goes on for YOU, but EVERYBODY ELSE should engage in long, contemplative navel-gazing about that day.

"In travelling the world as a tennis player, I have a better appreciation of other countries than most Americans. We could do with being a little less besotted with money, money, money, win, win, win. When I am in England each summer people always ask: "Why don't English players win Wimbledon? They ought to be more like Americans and play to win." To my mind, it's time Americans started being more like the English - or at least learnt to lose with grace."

Those are stirring words, spoken by a spoiled brat who appreciated other countries by staying in five-star hotels and bitching about the room service. And HE couldn't WIN with grace, let alone lose with grace. Be more like the English? Maybe McEnroe believes that we should be more like the FRENCH and lose ALL THE TIME. Great Moogley-Googley! I've expelled more insightful opionions in a beer-fart that John McEnroe ever has from his brain, because he has lived in a totally insulated world for a long time.

Whatta maroon.

What happened to LIBERTY'S SEE-THROUGH HEAD?. I can't seem to SEE it anymore!

And I wanted to order one of those GARDEN NYMPH posters, too.
Some people were upset with my post about 9/11 yesterday. I have been called "cold," "calloused," and "unfeeling" because I don't believe that a grand weep-a-thon is a proper way to remember the people who died that day. So be it. I also have a real problem with the government sending an army of "grief councelors" to public schools any time something traumatic occurs in the vicinity. That's preaching a culture of victimhood and self-pity in my book. Parents should handle the "grief councelor" duties when children need it, not some government-appointed stranger. My parents did that for me. Of course, I ended up cold, callous and unfeeling as a result.

Michael Moran is a New York City fireman who lost his brother and many friends and fellow firefighters in the Trade Center attack. If anyone has reason to grieve and weep for the cameras, he does. But I admire HIS RESPONSE when he had the chance to speak in a public forum about HIS feelings.

He summed it up for everybody when he spoke his message to bin Laden: "Kiss my royal Irish ass!"

Hmmm.... that may be "cold" to some people (after all, he didn't mention how much he misses his friends and how crushed he is by the loss of his brother, and he didn't cry ONE SINGLE TEAR, the heartless bastard. He simply said, "Kiss my ass." By saying those words, he announced that he may be hurt, but he is unbroken. THAT'S AN AMERICAN RESPONSE!) It's exactly what I would say in that circumstance. I would much rather get mad and get EVEN than show how much tender heart I have, especially to a savage killer who laughs at my display of emotion.

The people who perpetrated that evil deed WANTED us to HURT and they REVEL in our grief.

I will not give them that satisfaction. They can kiss MY ass, too.

Monday, September 09, 2002

I believe that I may be in political trouble at work. I was invited back to Hamilton, Mississippi last week for another three days of Chinese Water Torture and I blew the invitation off, telling the torturerers in Hamilton that I "had too much going on" here. That statement wasn't an outright lie (I don't tell outright lies) but it wasn't altogether the unvarnished TRUTH, either. I always have plenty going on, but I really didn't want to go back to that incredibly boring, ridiculous waste of time that involves me flying to a place where they have to pump sunshine in from far away just to illuminate the god-forsaken landscape. I would rather undergo a boil implant on my Cracker ass than go back there.

I also neglected to tell my boss about the invitation. THAT might be considered a lie by omission by some people. After today, I believe that certain people, including the farking PLANT MANAGER, took my small communication lapse as exactly that. I attended a luncheon/strategy session today about yet another new grade of pigment that we begin a trial run on tomorrow. I don't see a big problem with making this new grade, because it is very similar to something we already make well, and I believe that we will have no problem at all producing this pigment.

While I was discussing the process specs with my area Technical Engineer, my Australian boss, the ULTIMATE TALL DOG in the plant, walks up and asks, "Rob, how is the bag filter team going?" I had to think for a minute, because I am on so many goddam "teams" nowadays that I hardly can keep them all straight. But once it dawned on me what he was talking about, his question made my blood run cold. I knew that I had shat in my hat. "Ummm, it's going fine," I stammered.

"What did you think of the first session?" he asked. I saw where this was going and decided to let it all hang out.

"I thought it was an absolute waste of my time and company money," I said. "We spent three days doing something we should have been able to do in less than three hours." He wanted to know why I felt that way. I told him that we sat around a table and watched an incompetentent typist fill out a "matrix" that was quite similar to a beaucratic spreadsheet on "How to Wipe Your Ass" that starts with "toilet paper," and gets to the (ahem!) bottom of the matter by asking next, "Where does paper come from?" When everybody answers, "Trees!" that answer is typed into the matrix (eventually, at least, after about six corrections), then "Where do trees come from?" Answer: SEEDS! Into the matrix that valuable piece on information goes. "What do we need to grow seeds?" Answer: DIRT! "What else?" RAINFALL!

Then, of course, we require someone to harvest the trees, someone to transport them to a factory where people have procesing equipment to render the wood into paper (list all the chemicals required for this process on the matrix), some way to deliver the processed paper to retail outlets, some way for people to get there and buy it (yes, "cars" and "cash" go into the matrix, too), and when all is said and done, we discover, eight hours later, that we need toilet paper to wipe our asses, and we have a "Supply Chain Management Matrix" to prove it.

I decided that very first day that a dog has a damn good idea when he doesn't worry about toilet paper and just scoots his butt all over the carpet with a blissful look on his face when HIS ass needs cleaning. If I thought obtaining asswipe was THAT complicated, I would do the same thing. But THEN, I might have to do a matrix to figure out how THE CARPET came to be on my floor. If toilet paper takes eight hours, getting carpet on a matrix might take two weeks.

"You didn't go to the second session, did you?" he asked. If I close my eyes and hear him speak, he sounds a lot like Paul Hogan in Crocodile Dundee. With my eyes open and staring into his face, he sounded pissed at me. I confessed that I did not attend the second session, but that I was in email communication with the group. Besides, the fucktarded-typist facilitator would be in Savannah on the 17th of this month, and I could provide all the information he needed then. The boss wandered away after that, but I believe that I am seriously in the doghouse.

Oh, well. I just hope the trial run goes as well as I believe it will. If not, I may have TWO black marks on my otherwise sterling record. But if we make the pigment, I think I'll be off the hook.

I believe that I can do it without a matrix, too.
As much as it pains me to admit it, DA GODDESS narrowly outpointed me on last week's SITE METER stats. The bitch.

But, being the true Southern Gentleman I am, I admitted defeat and entered her NEW URL on my blogroll and moved her to the top of the pile (sorry, SUGARMAMA, but that's what you get for all those "Cracker" cracks you cracked, like some crack-smoking crackle-head. I hope you have a nasty crack-up in a Plymouth PT, because I LIKE Cracker Barrel food!).

Yes, that humble, hide-her-light, shy, retiring little wallflower Joan has a NEW SITE, complete with bells whistles, pictures, links within links, a shot of "The Rack" and all sorts of other nifty stuff that makes me want to MURDER HOOPTY! Of course, now that she's gone all high-tech and fancy on me, I can NEVER link to her again. She's out of my league now. Bye-bye, darlin.'

At least I knew you when you were a simple blogspotter... asking MY advice... ohhhh! Those were the days!
I don't intend to turn my television on for the ultimate "Reality Show" that will play on every commercial station, all day long, this Wednesday. As an American, I am offended by the terrorist attack on my country, and I truly believe that payback ten times over to the perpetrators is a moral obligation. But I also believe that wallowing in grief and playing our "pain" to the hilt does nothing but encourage others to do the same thing to us again.

I didn't know a soul who died on 9/11 last year. Their families have my deepest sympathy and the New York firefighters who performed so courageously should never be forgotten. But an endless display of teeth-gnashing and self-flagellation accomplishes nothing but to make us appear weak in the eyes of our enemies. I agree with Rich, who wrote a similar opinion on BRAIN SQUEEZINGS. Now is the time for us to give the upraised middle finger to those who tried to break our spirit and tear us down. Let them know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that we are tougher than they ever believed. Kick their asses and tell them "That's what you get when you fuck with US!" THAT action will impress their savage, evil minds much more than this Princess-Diana bullshit everybody seems to have planned as a rembembrance.

I loved my father deeply. He died at 7:30 in the morning on Columbus Day, October 12, 1992. That was a Sunday. My brother and I made all the funeral arrangements, stood straight and tearless through the reception Monday night and the funeral the next day, and I went back to work on Wednesday. My boss asked me, "What are you doing here? You know you get the day after the funeral off for a Death in the Family." Yeah, I knew that, but everything I needed to do was done, and life goes on. I had spent all the time I intended to spend in ritualistic grief over my father's death. Mama had her brothers and the church ladies looking after her, and I needed something else to occupy my mind.

I cried at night. But nobody else needed to know that, except my wife, who I loved and trusted at the time.

I've never visited my father's grave. I know where it is, and maybe I'll go there someday, but I doubt it. My father isn't there. There's a box under the ground that holds the costume he wore when he was alive, but my father lives in my memory and in my dreams. Placing flowers in that cemetary or wetting the sand with my tears won't bring him back. And it won't make me feel any less of a loss in my life. He knew I loved him; at least I think he did. If he didn't know that, it's too late to change things now.

My father would have been ashamed of me, my mama and my brother if we didn't get over his passing and carry on, as quickly as possible. We did, even though it wasn't easy, especially for my mama.

So, I will be attending no candlelight vigils, joining any prayer sessions or bawling for the television cameras this Wednesday. I'm going to work, as usual, and I will extend my middle finger high in air as salute to the terrorists when my company blows every steam whistle at the plant just after 8:30 that morning, and people assemble for a group hug around the flagpole in front of Building Five.

But I will not weep, and I will not mourn. I didn't do it in public for my father, and I damned surely won't do it for a bunch of strangers, especially when the news media want to turn the whole thing into a public circus. I just hope we kill every last sumbitch who had anything to do with the attack. If you MUST weep, do it at night, in private, the way I did for my father.

Give the dead the dignity they deserve by keeping yours.

Sunday, September 08, 2002


1. My son.

I would run without thinking into a burning building for that boy. I would take a bullet meant for him without hesitation. If I had to lay down my life to save his, I wouldn't think twice about it. What's to think about? I love him more than anything else in this world.

2. My country

Patriotism may be somewhat out of favor now (although it's made quite a comeback since 9/11), but I am proud to be an American, and I believe that freedom, family and friends are worth fighting for. They're worth dying for. We wouldn't be the nation we are today if others had NOT believed that same idea. Arlington Cemetary is filled with such people. They have my gratitude and my respect.

3. My property

What's mine is MINE, and you'll steal it from me only by extreme stealth or overwhelming force. My favorite line in Fiddler on the Roof is when Tevya tells the Russian soldiers, "This is MY land. GET OFF MY LAND." Yeah. MY LAND. MY PROPERTY. Get off, and stay gone, or be ready to fight. Be ready to kill me, too, because that's what it will take to make me let go. If I ran my own political party, its motto would be, "Get off MY LAND."

4. My Personal freedom

Patrick Henry doesn't receive nearly as much publicity as he deserves, although he would be considered an extreme, right-wing radical by most opinion-makers in politics and the press today. "Live Free or Die" is a totally foreign concept for most Americans, but it's NOT to ME. I would rather die on my feet than live on my knees. Give me liberty or give me death. Or at least give me what's left of my liberty before the federal Leviathan takes any more of it.

5. My honor

Yes, I am an unreconstructed Southern rebel, with certain very clear ideas about right and wrong (these ideas may be unconventional to some, but not to ME. I am my own convention.). I make considerable compromises with my values every day, just to keep my job and to stay out of jail, but I have a few lines in the dirt that I WILL NOT cross. My ex-wife hated that fact. She called me hard-headed, stupid and self-destructive numerous times when I ran into one of those lines and refused to cross it, no matter what reward was waiting on the other side, or what punishment came from staying put. Down South, some people say, "I'll die and go to hell before I'll do THAT!" I've lived my life that way for a long time. And I always will, because I'll die and go to hell before I'll cross those lines in the dirt. If I give that up, what's left of me?

And all five started with "MY..." I'm not a martyr. It's all about me.

"Today we mourn the passing of an old friend, by the name of Common Sense.

Common Sense lived a long life but died in the United States from heart failure on the brink of the new millennium. No one really knows how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape.

He selflessly devoted his life to service in schools, hospitals, homes, factories helping folks get jobs done without fanfare and foolishness. For decades, petty rules, silly laws, and frivolous lawsuits held no power over Common Sense. He was credited with cultivating such valued lessons as to know when to come in out of the rain, why the early bird gets the worm, and that life isn't always fair.

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you earn), reliable parenting strategies (the adults are in charge, not the kids), and it's okay to come in second. A veteran of the Industrial Revolution, the Great Depression, and the Technological Revolution, Common Sense survived cultural and educational trends including body piercing, whole language, and "new math." But his health declined when he became infected with the "If-it-only-helps-one-person-it's-worth-it" virus.

In recent decades his waning strength proved no match for the ravages of well intentioned but overbearing regulations. He watched in pain as good people became ruled by self-seeking lawyers. His health rapidly deteriorated when schools endlessly implemented zero-tolerance policies. Reports of a six-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate, a teen suspended for taking a swig of mouthwash after lunch, and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student only worsened his condition. It declined even further when schools had to get parental consent to administer aspirin to a student but could not inform the parent when a female student was pregnant or wanted an abortion.

Finally, Common Sense lost his will to live as the Ten Commandments became contraband, churches became businesses, criminals received better treatment than victims, and federal judges stuck their noses in everything from the Boy Scouts to professional sports. Finally, when a woman, too stupid to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot, was awarded a huge settlement, Common Sense threw in the towel.

As the end neared, Common Sense drifted in and out of logic but was kept informed of developments regarding questionable regulations such as those for low flow toilets, rocking chairs, and stepladders.

Common Sense was preceded in death by his parents, Truth and Trust; his wife, Discretion; his daughter, Responsibility; and his son, Reason. He is survived by two stepbrothers: My Rights, and Ima Whiner.

Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone."

No, people were busy suing over the word "niggardly," wringing their hands about second-hand smoke and global warming, protesting against "racial profiling" (so that wheelchair-bound grandmothers are treated EXACTLY the same as young, unemployed Arab males in airport security checks), blaming McDonald's for their own fat asses, blaming gun manufacturers for "handgun violence," fighting an insane and useless "War on Drugs," buying books by Michael Moore and electing gasbags such as Ted Kennedy and Judas Jim Jeffords to Congress.

Common Sense didn't die of natural causes. It was strangled by Political Correctness.

Link stolen from GLOVEFOX.

Okay, Goddess, I'll show you MINE if you'll show me YOURS:

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If yours is BIGGER than mine, I really don't want to know...

NIGGARDLY: 1. Grudgingly mean about spending or granting; BEGRUDGING 2. provided in meanly limited supply; syn: STINGY

I just thought I would throw that definition, taken from Webster's Ninth Collegiate Dictionary, out to the vacuous, pin-headed, chip-toting, clue-deprived, in-your-face, reparation-seeking, fucktarded, ignorant assholes who want to sue and have people fired when they hear the word. NIGGARDLY is a word that has nothing to do with a racial insult.

Sometimes we are so anxious as a society to present ourselves as paragons of tolerance, free of all racial prejudice, that we lose our sense of reasonableness and justice, shamelessly sacrificing innocent people -- and our integrity.

We can act all high and mighty, but our willingness to punish people for acts of bigotry they didn't commit doesn't demonstrate our virtuousness but our cowardice.

If you're offended by that word, get a life, get a dictionary and GET OUT OF HERE!
I am trying to become a Link Whore, but I can't figure out where to put the code. Joni! Where does it go?

No, I'm not going to stuck it up THERE! My head takes up all the room. Where does it go on my SITE?