Saturday, October 05, 2002

I own several guns, and the 76% Worshipable Woman carries a .38 revolver in her purse. It's a nice Ladysmith, but I told her last night that unless she practices a LOT with it (she has never fired the thing), she had better be able to touch her target with the 2" barrel, or she'll miss.

Of couse, that's not a bad thing. That little hand-cannon makes enough noise that she could point it straight up at the ceiling and fire away if she heard a burglar in the house. The would-be thieving bastard would take out window glass and screen, leaving a shit-trail on the floor as he ran for his worthless life. A Ladysmith is LOUD outdoors. Fire one inside a house and you'll think hellzapoppin'.

She wants another, more powerful and accurate weapon for home protection. I recommended a 410 shotgun.

I don't know if ARMED LIBERAL would agree, but I believe that a 410 is the ideal firearm for dealing with footpads and critters, inside or outside the house. It is easy to handle, you don't need to stick bricks in your back pockets to deal with the kick, and it makes a nice hole in what you shoot at from 20 feet, which is a LONG shot inside your home. And it makes a loud noise, too.

When I played guitar for a living, I carried a Colt .22 derringer, a nice two-trigger, over and under double-barrel. It was smaller than a pack of cigarettes and held two .22 longs. It fit nicely in a jacket pocket or in the back pocket of a pair of Levis. It made me feel warm and fuzzy when I left bars in downtown Savannah at 3:00 AM and carried two guitars down back lanes or through bushy squares to get to my car.

I left the Red Lion Tavern at the Desoto Hilton one night and walked about a block to where I had parked. As I was opening the trunk of my car, I saw a lanky black guy with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth approaching. Behind me, I heard another person coming my way. "Hey, man," said the lanky black guy,"You got a light?" I heard the footsteps behind me pick up their pace.

I pulled the derringer out of my pocket and stuck it in the black guy's face. "I've got your light RIGHT HERE!" I yelled.

"JESUS! HE GOTTA GUN!" the bastard screamed. He turned on his heel and ran, and so did his partner behind me.

I stood there in the street for a moment, feeling downright proud of myself. They were going to rob me, and I scared them off. I was a goddam Clint Eastwood. I was John Wayne. Man, I was COOL! I stuck the derringer back in my pocket and attempted to light a cigarette.

My hands were shaking so badly that I almost set my hair on fire.

If I had NOT been armed that night, I would have been robbed or killed. That's what those two shits intended to do, and a .22 derringer changed their minds.

If THAT gun loomed large to them, think about what the wrong end of a 410 shotgun looks like.
Life just keeps amazing me with all its surprises.

I emailed THAT SEKIMORI CHICK yesterday, because I've had all I can stand of BLOGGER. I really HATE that, too. As a complete, computer nit-wit fucktard, I must admit that without a service such as Blogger, I never would have started a weblog, and I never would have stuck with it for as long as I have. But I'm tired of driving a junk car on may-pop tires that may leave me stranded on the side of the road at any given time. I'm buying a new ride.

I have a soft spot in my heart for every car and every girlfriend I've had in my life. I remember the joy they gave me, and seldom recall the pain. I want to bid Blogspot a fond farewell, and hope that I will always cherish the memories. I'll leave a rose on the pillow, but LEAVE, I will.

New look, coming SOON!

After I made that decision, my doorbell rang last night. I opened it to discover the 76% Worshipable Woman returned from the dead and asking if she could come in and have a glass of wine. I had Quinton and young Jack occupied with chicken burgers and french fries at the time, so I invited her in. After I put the boys to bed, she and I talked until the wee hours and I really enjoyed her company. I thought that I was on her shit list, the way I am HERE (BUTT GRUMBLES, my ass!), but she said that she had been suffering from viral pneumonia and other health problems since.... what?.... January?

Okay, I'll buy that. Shit, I'll buy stuff RONCO makes. I'm easy.

It's good to be back on friendly terms with her again. Maybe I'll try serious seduction next.

Friday, October 04, 2002

This was supposed to be a LOVE TEST, but I didn't like any of the multiple-choice answers. So, as a public service to those who expect this kind of shit out of me, I'm going to post the actual questions with MY answers.

1. The end of the world is coming, if you can save only one kind of animal, which one will you pick?

A good dog. A dog really is "man's best friend," and I've never had a dog bite me as viciously as some women have. I would enjoy the dog as a loyal companion when the world ended. Then, if things got really bad, I could kill it and eat it, in a stew with some wild onions.

2. You go to Africa. When you visit a tribe, they insist you take an animal as a souvenir, which one will you choose?

The chief's most beautiful daughter, of course!

3. You did something wrong. Instead of being a human, God punish you to be an animal, you will choose...

Samonella. That way, I can punish OTHER PEOPLE, too. Just like God, and pretty much in the same way.

4. If you have the power to make one species disappear forever, which one will that be?


5. One day, you met an animal which can speak human language, you wish that'll be...

Hillary Clinton. She doesn't speak "human." She just pretends to in front of microphones.

6. On an isolated island, you can only have an animal as your companion, which one you'll choose...

DA GODDESS!!!! Or Britney Spears. Or Nicole Kidman. Or Nina Hartley. Or...

7. If you have the super power to tame all kinds of animal, you'll choose what kind of animal to be your pet?

See the answers to question #6.

8. If you have a 5-minute time to be an animal, which one you would like to be?

Ron Jeremy. But I want a LOT LONGER than five minutes.

Looking back at the questions, I don't think I took a Love Test. Musta got lost wrestling with the corkscrew...I believe that I took an accidental PETA TEST. Boy, are THEY gonna be pissed at me if they ever read this.

I don't know how I got to where I got, when I set out to get where I was going. That's the story of my life.
This is straight from The Department of NO SHIT, SHERLOCK:

Democratic divisions over Iraq burst into election-year view this week, glaringly so when House Democratic Leader Dick Gephardt and Senate Majority Leader Tom Daschle parted company over legislation backing the use of force.

Hmmm.... sounds like they may be "politicizing" the war. I hate it when that happens.

The Dumbocrats have their dicks caught in a wringer over the issue with Iraq. They really wish to focus attention on the economy and flinging free pills at senile old farts, but nobody is listening. Meanwhile, they have Democrap propeller-heads such as Bonior and McFartbrain going to Baghdad, singing "Kumbaya" and bloviating about taking the face of evil at "face value." Throw in that walking work of taxidermy, Robert Byrd, who is REALLY hoping that if he can stop an attack on Iraq, Saddam will build a Robert Byrd Palace in West Virginia, and you have a goddam Animal House. Daschle weeps, then throws a tantrum. Kennedy sobers up long enough to read a speech designed to make him appear moderate.

With such dissention in the ranks, they attempt to rig an election in New Jersey, hoping that all loyal Dickocrats rally around sleaze the way they did for Clinton. But Cowboy Bush, that "dumb" bastard, appears to have headed them off at the pass. To me, the contortions the Dementedocrats are performing now that they're routed and in utter confusion, seem to be a contest for who can be the highest floating turd in the commode. You think they're not a bunch of bloodless fucks? Look at how they cut EACH OTHER'S THROATS!

George Bush is giving them a Fleet enema. They may as well bend over and enjoy.
GAWD! I just had the neighborhood Cookie Monsters descend like a swarm of locusts on the Crackerbox, and I'm out $37 as a result. Of course, I'm due to receive a box of Double Chocolate Chip cookies, a box of White Chocolate Macadamea cookies, and a box of Chocolate Brownie cookies in November. Plus, I contributed to the worthy cause of Rincon Elementary School. It is obvious from my orders that I like chocolate.

The problem is... I don't eat cookies.

When I was a senior in high school, I got a job at the internationally-famous Byrd Cookie Company, where I boxed cookies, bagged cookies, delivered cookies and ATE ALL THE COOKIES I WANTED. That was Mr. Byrd's policy: EAT ALL THE COOKIES YOU WANT! He knew, probably from experience with other eighteen year-old young men, that a new employee eats like bush-hog for about two weeks, then gets sick and tired of cookies. The first time I walked into his cookie factory, I thought it was the most wonderful-smelling place my nostrils had ever detected.

After two weeks of eating all the cookies I wanted, I felt like puking when I smelled cookies. I don't care for cookies to this day.

I ate ALL I WANTED. Forever.
As a child in Harlan County, Kentucky, I can remember racing to the outhouse, but I've never seen an OUTHOUSE RACE. I wonder if the winner receives a ticker-tape parade, where the ticker-tape is made from shredded pages from a Sears catalogue?
Why Not?

Dragging the electoral process into court is becoming as common as crap in a cow pasture, and it's just as smelly. The latest bunch of sore losers have filed suit to overturn CYNTHIA MCKINNEY'S well-deserved drubbing at the polls.

The state [my beloved state of Georgia] does not require voters to register by party and allows them to vote in the primary of their choice. But the plaintiffs in the suit are asking the court to declare crossover votes unconstitutional and invalid, giving McKinney the victory.

If Georgia was New Jersey (or FLORIDA!), where the state Supreme Court reads goat entrails and chicken bones while making fart-noises with their armpits to divine the law, this suit might have a chance. But we're in Red-State country here, and we're more likely to see snow next Fourth of July than see this piece of cow-pie lawsuit go anywhere, except into the compost heap where it belongs.

Maybe McKinney can gin up some people to sue JEWS next. After all, they WERE RESPONSIBLE FOR HER DEFEAT.

Her dingbat behavior had nothing to do with it.

Thursday, October 03, 2002

I am either stunned or ready to fall out of my chair laughing. I haven't decided yet.

But I DO know that SUGARMAMA is pissed off over seeing pictures of BRITNEY SPEAR'S ASS. I kinda liked them myself.

Plus, I can only imagine the Google-hits I'll get from linking to BRITNEY SPEAR'S ASS.

BWHAHAHAHAHA! (I decided. I fell out of my chair.)
We bid a fond (well, no-so-fond) adios to a new employee at work today. He was 19 years-old, able to escape from a minimum-wage job throwing sacks of fertilizer at "Webb's Seed and Feed" just down the road from me, and welcomed with open arms to a place that was willing to offer him three times what he was making before, medical benefits, a retirement plan, 401-K, and the opportunity for advancement.

Before he managed to actually show up and work 60 days on the job (his probabionary period) he was late three times, missed four days of work (three of those were medically excused for a KIDNEY STONE! How the hell does a 19 year-old KID get kidney stones?) went home early three times (Sick to his stomach twice and... I am not making this up, CHAPPED NUTS from sweating in his crotch-area, and he got our medical department to assign him to two days of "light duty" for that. I don't have "light duty" where he worked, so he sat on his lazy ass for two days while other people did his work, and that didn't bother him at all.) He was late again yesterday, so we fired him today.

I must be WAY out of touch with the younger generation. The job that young man was offered was the one I started with at the plant. During MY probationary period, I caught a terrible case of the flu and came to work anyway, with a 102 degree fever. I made my shift and did four hours overtime, too, at the very worst of my fever, chills and trembles, because my name was on the schedule. I figued that any sane employer was going to look at me HARD during that probationary period, and know that with my job really on the line, when I could be fired at the snap of a finger, he was seeing the very best he was EVER gonna see from me. I wasn't going to fuck up a good thing. I wanted that job.

I'm starting to see a few of the new hires that remind me of me, but I still have a lot of "Rusty-Nuts" (the nickname this asshole earned among his coworkers) coming down the pike. We have 60 working days to cull 'em, and we're starting to do a good job of that. After "Rusty's" third incident, I called him into my office and told him that he was on thin ice. "If you don't want this job, say so now," I told him. "There are a hundred others on the street that DO want it, so you can save me, you, and somebody we don't know a lot of grief if you just quit. Keep on the way you're going, and I'll fire you. SOON!"

He was repentent, contrite and slobbering in his promises to do better. That lasted three days, and now he's gone.

I suppose he'll go back to slinging fertilizer at Webb's Seed and Feed. If they want him.

I know that I DON'T!
What do you do when a vast majority of people surveyed view your profession with the same respect and admiration they hold for Nigerian email spammers and crack-whores? Do you take a good, long look at what you're doing and wonder if just MAYBE you should clean up your act a bit?

No, not if you're a LAWYER. Instead, you launch a giant PR campaign designed to con people into believing something other than the truth, which is why lawyers are so despised in the first place. Good idea!

Why do we have jokes such as this one? A man walks into a bar and greets a gorgeous single woman. She looks him in the eye and says, "I'll screw anybody, anytime, anywhere, anyplace."

His hilarious reply: "What law firm are you with?"

Although it is politically incorrect to say it, I submit that stereotypes exist because they sometimes are accurate. If there weren't enough true examples around, nobody could create a "stereotype" to begin with. The stereotype might not be true ALL the time, but it's true often enough to give it solid purchase in people's perceptions.

If you're a really sensitive, liberal, multiculturalist hockwad idiot angel of understanding, I suggest that you log off this blog and go elsewhere RIGHT NOW, before you read any further, because I am about to offend your delicate self. You have been properly warned!

Let's all get together and START some stereotypes. After all, stereotypes have nothing to do with the way people actually behave; they are the product of biased, bigoted minds, so we should be able to create any stereotypes we want, right out of whole cloth, just by saying it often enough, and whatever we say should ring true in biased, bigoted minds. Let's try these:

Jews are lazy, they breed like rabbits, and they're happy living on welfare. The worthless bastards.

Blacks are really good businessmen. They control the whole American economy, behind the scenes. The devious shits.

Southerners are rude, obnoxious and always in a hurry. They lack manners. Pompous asses.

Irishmen don't drink and they don't believe in fighting. They're the force behind the new temperance movement in this country. They would enter law enforcement to vanquish Demon Rum, but any sort of violence is against their nature. Party-pooping pricks.

One thing you've got to admit about the Italians. THEY would never be involved in organized crime. The goddam MORMONS run the rackets, the gambling, the prostitutes and the drugs in this country. The Italians try to stop them, but the goddam Mormons already have a network of families in control. That's why you see dead Mormons on the street after a gang war and Italians going on missionary trips to South America every year. Murdering Mormons.

Asians have rhythmn. They can sing and dance like nobody else, run like a deer and play basketball REALLY well. They don't do well in school (they call that "acting white") but when they become rich entertainers or NBA stars, they all want a WHITE WOMAN. Lecherous animals.

Polish scientists dominate the Nobel Prizes. Smart-asses.

And now, the BIG ONE: Lawyers are selfless defenders of the weak and the downtrodden. Like the Red Cross, the Salvation Army, the March of Dimes and Mother Teresa, LAWYERS are there to help when no one else will. They don't mind the low wages and the long hours that go with the job. The good they do in the world is reward enough for them. What saints they are!

The problem with lawyers being perceived as scum-sucking, bottom-feeding, money-grubbing shitwads is that TOO MANY OF THEM FIT THE STEREOTYPE! Gawd-damn! Just open your fucking phone book. NO! DON'T OPEN IT! Just look on the back. I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts that there's a full-cover advertisment for a LAWYER there. And I'll guarantee he specializes in "personal injury, medical malpractice, worker's compensation, nursing home abuse, auto accidents, DUI and bankruptcy." With "Free Consultation." That's what's on the back of MY phone book. YOURS may include "asbestos litigation fortunes, phen-phen class action booty, toxic tort windfalls, cancer-causing cell phone money-mines, lead paint riches, tobacco loot, and product liability sweepstakes."

And lawyers wonder why they are perceived as money-grubbing sluts?

If we did away with class action lawsuits and adopted a "loser pays" system, we would have a lot of starving lawyers sleeping under bridges and panhandling on the streets instead of driving legitimate businesses bankrupt, inflating the cost of insurance for EVERYONE, and throwing millions of people out of jobs every year, while the lawyers get rich. They then give fortunes to the Democrat Party, which is rapidly becoming a wholly-owned subisidary of the Trial Lawyers Association, to ensure that we DON'T change ANYTHING.

I don't believe that the PR campaign will work, but buying politicians and suing in Jackson County, Mississippi does. Lawyers should forget about polishing their image and stick with what they're good at.

Sucking scum and getting rich.

Hmmm... I now must add another entry under TALL DOGS on my blogroll. I have done something (outrageous, no doubt--even though I can't imagine ANYTHING outrageous on MY blog) to attract attention from the good Libertarians at SAMIZDATA. I am grateful for a place on their blogroll, but what I would REALLY like is a chance to enjoy the smell of gunsmoke with Perry (I will furnish my own guns and ammunition), a lively debate with David (I will supply my own sarcastic wit) and the company of Natalie and Natalija, in the hopes that someone will take my picture with those lovely and intelligent women (I will buy dinner and the wine).

Thanks, y'all!

Wednesday, October 02, 2002

Captain Kangaroo was one of my favorite people when I was a child. I spent many a morning listening to his jingling keys as he strolled around the Treasure House in his uniform, with Grandfather Clock, Mr. Moose, Mr. Greenjeans and his other companions, including Tom Terriffic and Mighty Manfred The Wonderdog. Crabby Appleton was always "rotten to the core" in the cartoons. I miss those days of innocence, and I was delighted when my mama sent me an interesting email. I knew that Lee Marvin was a decorated Marine in WWII. But I didn't know the REST OF THE STORY.

Captain Kangaroo turned 75 recently, which is odd, because he's never looked a day under 75 (Birthday 6/27/27). It reminded me of the following story.

Hope you enjoy it as much as I did. Some people have been a bit offended that Lee Marvin is buried in a grave alongside 3 and 4 star generals at Arlington National Cemetery. His marker gives his name, rank (PVT) and service(USMC). Nothing else. Here's a guy who was only a famous movie star who served his time; why the heck does he rate burial with these guys?

Well, following is the amazing answer: I always liked Lee Marvin, but did not know the extent of his Corps experiences. In a time when many Hollywood stars served their country in the armed forces, often in rear-echelon posts where they were carefully protected, only to be trotted out to perform for the cameras in war bond promotions, Lee Marvin was a genuine Hero. He won the Navy Cross at Iwo Jima. There is only one higher Naval award...the Medal Of Honor.

If that is a surprising comment on the true character of the man, he credits his sergeant with an even greater show of bravery. Dialog From The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson: His guest was Lee Marvin.

Johnny said, "Lee, I'll bet a lot of people are unaware that you were a Marine in the initial landing at Iwo Jima... and that during the
course of that action you earned the Navy Cross and were severely wounded." "Yeah, yeah... I got shot square in the ass and they gave me the Cross for securing a hot spot about halfway up Suribachi...bad thing about getting shot up on a mountain is guys gettin' shot hauling you down. But Johnny, at Iwo I served under the bravest man I ever knew... We both got the Cross the same day, but what he did for his Cross made mine look cheap in comparison. The dumb bastard actually stood up on Red beach and directed his troops to move forward and get the hell off the beach. That Sergeant and I have been lifelong friends. When they brought me off Suribachi we passed the Sergeant, and he lit a smoke and passed it to me lying on my belly on the litter and said, 'Where'd they get you, Lee?'

Well, Bob... if you make it home before me, tell Mom to sell the outhouse! Johnny, I'm not lying...Sergeant Keeshan was the bravest man I ever knew..... Bob Keeshan...

You and the world know him as Captain Kangaroo."

And on the show, he couldn't outfox Bunny Rabbit. Go figure...

UPDATE: I was curious, so I Googled and found THIS. The story is a good one, but it ain't true!
Surprise, surprise.

The New Jersey Supreme Court ruled unanimously that New Jersey state law doesn't say what it says, and therefore means that a fossil named Frank Lautenberg will replace Robert "Soprano" Torricelli on the November ballot for senator from that very confused state. The reasoning behind the decision could have come from the addled brain of Barbra Streisand.

The court cited previous rulings that said election law should be broadly interpreted to "allow parties to put their candidates on the ballot, and most importantly, to allow the voters a choice."

Allowing the Democrats to replace Torricelli, the justices said, was a move "in favor of a full and fair ballot choice for the voters of New Jersey."

In other words, election law should mean that 51 days is an arbitrary number, to be "broadly interpreted" to mean 36 days, or 10 days, or even 24 hours, as long as it allows the "voters a choice," and the Democrats a chance to perform whatever trickery is necessary to retain control of the Senate. That New Jersey Senate seat is far too important to allow the voters of New Jersey to decide it all by themselves, when there's still time to fool them into doing what the Democrats desperately need. That's certainly a "full" (of SHIT) and "fair" (FAIRLY BLATANT CHEATING) ballot choice.

My problem with this reasoning is that the voters HAD a CHOICE with Torricelli on the ballot, and Democrat Powers that Be didn't approve of the choice the voters were going to make. So, they decided to change the rules in the middle of the game, and EVERYBODY was locked in and on board before they tipped the first domino. Yes, the state has a law that says they can't do what they want to do, but that's no problem. They will simply violate the law and get the Supreme Court to say it's okay. They did that. And it worked out just fine, because it was all planned well in advance. Neat. VERY Clever.

Of course, it makes a mockery of the Rule of Law and leaves me wondering why I can't do the same thing when I get caught with my pants down. If the law is fungible for the power-hungry, why should it be inflexible toward me? I must abide by the letter of the law because I'm not important for control of the Senate? YOU don't because you ARE? We have DIFFERENT LAWS for DIFFERENT PEOPLE in this country?

That's unfair, and I always thought the Democrats were the party of fairness! That's what they SAY, the nasty, gutter-dwelling, scum-crawling, ass-toads.

But it ain't what they do.
Ouch! Speaking of malignant troll-bitches, there is one in Louisana that jumped up and bit me square in the ass, and other places below my belt last night. I would link to her immature, infantile efforts at humor, but it would be a waste of valuable bandwidth. I sent a storm to blow her away, and I predict that her blog will not be available for a long, long time. That's what she gets for messing with Acidman.

I just hope she's not sitting in her Louisiana one-holer outhouse with a handful of pages from the 1998 Sears catalogue when the big wind hits. The Munchkins in Kansas won't appreciate the splashdown she makes when she finally lands. (I can see the dancing Munchkins now: "We represent the... PORT-O-LET Guild...") Of course, from what I've seen written on the bathroom wall at the Greyhound bus station, just below where she put her phone number, several people attest that her ASS is big enough to anchor ANYTHING through a storm. In fact, the Louisiana Department of Transportation requires her to wear a "WIDE LOAD" warning label on her rear end when she walks to the Welfare Office to pick up her check.

I'm really suprised that she found the time to put down the crack pipe, stop having illegitimate children sired by bikers named "Stinker" and write about me. And she hurt my feelings so badly.

I have always believed that Rose O'Donnell was a malignant bitch-troll from the first time I saw her perform her stand-up act on Comedy Central sometime in 1993. I detected a seething pile of worms and snakes inside her big, round head, with the multiple chins, long before she became a screaming gun-control advocate and a general twit in public. She may have convinced a lot of gullible people that she was the "Queen of Nice," but she never fooled me. Rosie is one twisted sister.

She is being sued for several godzillion dollars by the former publisher of Rosie magazine, who accuses her of being pretty much the kind of woman I recognized when I first saw her. You can read the entire complaint HERE, but I'll provide a short exerpt.

6. From the inception of the Magazine until early summer 2002, O'Donnell generally was content to leave major editorial and business decisions and day-to-day operations relating to the Magazine to experienced G+J magazine executives, while providing general guidance to ensure that the tone and content of the Magazine reflected her celebrity persona.

7. All of this changed drastically beginning in July 2002, when O'Donnell, having recently terminated her daytime television talk show, began to transform her public persona from the warm, fun-loving "Queen of Nice" to a self-proclaimed "uber bitch," and to behave erratically and in defiance of her contractual commitments to G+J. O'Donnell's bizarre and ofttimes mean-spirited behavior soon had the effect of making it difficult, and ultimately impossible, for G+J to continue publishing the Magazine.

8. O'Donnell's wrongful actions, which began in or about July 2002, and continued through September 18, 2002, when she quit the Magazine without any legal or other justification, and thereafter, have included: (i) Relentless attempts to fire or cause the firing of the Editor-in-Chief (who had been hired with O'Donnell's specific consent); (ii) efforts to usurp the duties, undermine the authority, and countermand the assignments of the Editor-in-Chief, and to exercise unfettered control over the content and appearance of the Magazine, despite O'Donnell's acknowledged lack of experience in publishing magazines and her infrequent appearances at the Magazine's offices; (iii) numerous public statements and profanity-laced diatribes disparaging G+J, its people, and the Magazine itself; (iv) threats to withhold cooperation, cancel certain issues or shut the Magazine down entirely if G+J did not accede to her demands; (v) late withdrawal of previously approved articles, causing substantial production problems; (vi) demands that a group of outsiders, including O'Donnell's friends, relatives and publicists, be permitted to attend senior editorial meetings, and that a triumvirate drawn from that group be allowed to make non-delegable editorial decisions for her; and (vii) attempts to change the Magazine's contents during the one-week period prior to the close of an issue.

9. Through the summer of 2002, O'Donnell and her entourage became increasingly abusive and insulting to Magazine management and staff, haranguing them and making it clear on numerous occasions that O'Donnell would "walk" and "take down" the Magazine and G+J unless she was given her way on all disputed issues and gained absolute control.

10. O'Donnell's efforts to sabotage the Magazine unless G+J capitulated to her bizarre and increasingly intemperate demands culminated on September 18, 2002, when O'Donnell, by written notice, and after repeated threats to do so, unilaterally terminated the Joint Venture Agreement, quit her position as Editorial Director, and just walked away from the Magazine and its more than 150 employees.

Sweet, sweet Rosie...

Tuesday, October 01, 2002

Be still, my heart! The same enviro-whacko tactic worked on silicone breast implants, second-hand smoke and toxic mold, so it SHOULD have worked against CELL PHONES THAT CAUSE BRAIN CANCER. Dr. Christopher Newman developed a tumor behind his ear, and like any good citizen today, found someone with deep pockets to sue. The tumor could not simply be bad luck, genetic disposition or sheer coincidence. No, in Dr. Newman's tumorous mind, MOTOROLA did it. With a goddam, insidious, radiation-emitting, tumor-causing cellular phone.

Even though Dr. Newman's attorneys presented scientific studies showing that analog phones might cause tumors, Judge Blake ruled that the research results were overwhelmed by a body of evidence that showed no relationship between cell-phone radiation and cancer.
Even the published studies presented by Dr. Newman included reasoning, theories and methodology that "have not gained general acceptance in the scientific community," Judge Blake said in a strongly worded, 23-page ruling.

Where did THIS judge come from?

I don't know, but we need more like her.

If you would like to join the ranks of "ACIDMAN'S MINIONS OF TRASHY WOMEN," please complete this form and submit it to the email address on the left of this page. All applications will be reviewed by Acidman himself, and the qualifications required are not that stringent. You must be female, or a very convincing cross-dresser, or some hairy, beer-bellied creep who wants to pretend to be a woman to join. I'm not that choosy about my fan base. If you want to be a "Minion," just answer the questions.

1) Are you female?

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3) What color are they?

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8) What really turns you on? a) Long walks on the beach b) A quiet evening at home with my lover c) A Motel 6 bed with a dwarf, some black chick in a tu-tu, me, DA GODDESS, a video crew and a goat tied to the bumper of a pickup truck in the parking lot

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Send your application NOW, and receive, as a special gift, your very own sex toy, specially selected from the "Acidman Collection." (Batteries NOT included) Allow 6-8 weeks for delivery, unless you have a REALLY GOOD application form. I may provide faster service then.

Enter NOW!

Another member of my Minions of Trashy Women sees twins in the blogosphere. SUGARMAMA paired me with one I probably would have been forced to kill in the womb. Otherwise, my twin would have killed me first. In fact, I believe that my "twin" would like to make my execution retroactive.

I like Sugarmama. She is a code-writing, computer-crunching, frisbee-throwing, road-running, home-owning Alabama woman (yes, my Minions are EVERYWHERE!) who still uses Blogspot, when she could, and probably SHOULD do better than that. The fact that SHE still uses it makes me feel better about myself.

I don't know any better. She does. And still, we are twins....
Barbra Streisand, that canny political strategist and awesome intellectual, DEMONSTRATED BOTH QUALITIES this weekend at a gala Hollywood Democratic fund-raiser. The blithering dingbat talented singer and actress made a complete fool of herself after she quoted Shakespeare, long-windedly, to reinforce her message that war with Iraq is a bad idea. Unfortunately, Shakespeare didn't write a word of what she quoted.

To make her case not to go to war against Iraq, Streisand quoted extensively from William Shakespeare -- but the quotes were from a William Shakespeare hoax that has been circulating on the internet.

Judging from her other assinities passionate statements uttered on stage, the Dingbat Diva gets a LOT of her information from internet hoaxes.

Streisand told the crowd: "You know, really good artists have a way of being relevant in their time… but great artists are relevant at anytime. So, in the words of William Shakespeare, 'Beware the leader who bangs the drums of war in order to whip the citizenry into a patriotic fervor, for patriotism is indeed a double-edged sword. It both emboldens the blood, just as it narrows the mind…And when the drums of war have reached a fever pitch and the blood boils with hate and the mind has closed, the leader will have no need in seizing the rights of the citizenry. Rather, the citizenry, infused with fear and blinded with patriotism, will offer up all of their rights unto the leader, and gladly so.How do I know? For this is what I have done.And I am Caesar.'"

Streisand explained to the audience: "Imagine that was written over 400 years ago… It's amazing how history without consciousness is destined to repeat itself. So…from the words of William Shakespeare to the words of Irving Berlin…"

Yes, great artists are relevant anytime. And self-important gasbags are irrelevant ALL THE TIME. It is amazing how a complete idiot without consciousness is destined to drool all over herself when she attempts to be merely half-witted and fails.

So from the words of Barbra Streisand to the words of Acidman... "Whatta Maroon!"
Dragonfly Jenny has returned from her Vision Quest, and she seems to be tanned, rested and ready to begin blogging again. She has a couple of pictures from her trip posted, including this beautiful piece of RED TOENAIL PORN, which I am certain she took JUST FOR ME, because she is a charter member of my Minions of Trashy Women and she is attempting to curry favor with me.

It worked, too. Welcome back, Jenny!
Sgt. Stryker has more to say about the Civil War on his blog today. This time, he says the antebellum South had a lot in common with ISLAMIC JIHADISTS. I don't know how many "Beers Across America" Sarge quaffed before he wrote that post, but I believe he was hallucinating.

Let's see... the South was ruled by religious fanatics. Citizens had no rights, and women were beaten on the streets if they allowed a flash of bare ankle to show from beneath their burkas. Southerners routinely stoned adulterers to death, amputated limbs from thieves and called the north the "Great Satan." They dispised infidels and were desperate to become martyrs for their holy cause, because they wanted 72 virgins in paradise. Yep, it all fits.

Bejus, Sarge. Get a grip!

Monday, September 30, 2002

The GROUP CAPTAIN posted some lovely photos of his home base. I can't compete with that, because I live among the sandhills and pine barrens of southeast Georgia. We have a lot of farmland around here, so if you like to see corn and soybeans growing, this is where you need to be. Otherwise, the land is flat, boring and bleached by the hot Southern sun. It ain't real pretty, but it's where I like to live.

I can drive east one hour and be on the beach, I can drive five hours north and be in the mountains and I can go to Atlanta, Jacksonville or Charleston in less than three hours. I can be on Daytona Beach in four hours. I can be in Key West in twelve.

I've got the Swamp Fox, Randall's Liquor Store and a Super Wal-Mart just 15 minutes from my house. What else do I need?

See how my MINIONS of TRASHY WOMEN love me? Some of the pictures DA GODDESS sent are too racy to post here, so I won't, mainly because I'm IN some of those pictures, along with a dwarf, some black chick in a tu-tu, and an Indian contortionist name "Haila." Boy, did we create a commotion at that Motel 6!

If we had only left the goat in the parking lot that night, I'll bet the cops never would have showed up...
In that den of intellectual conversation, raging hormones and sexual iniquity, HOOKED ON BLOGGING, JB posted:

Lookie This!

The Bubba of Bombast...The Rincon Rambler...Georgia's Number One Cracker...

The man who has given the phrase "the break of Dawn" a whole new meaning...

Has also achieved blogger whore stardom.

The Instapundit now features Gut Rumbles on the famous left-hand column.

I wasn't going to mention that, because I was utterly stunned when I saw it, and I believed that saying anything about it might make it go away. I didn't realize that Glenn Reynolds knew I existed. I AM one of his (ILLEGITIMATE) Blog Children, but I never have trolled, pestered or emailed him for attention in my life. But I will admit that I am most highly honored to see my humble blog on his roll. Thank you, exalted one!

That's REALLY gonna chap DAWN'S ASS, which I believe she suggested yesterday that I kiss with my "pucker-butted, ugly, wrinkled face." That woman holds a grudge the way some women cradle a baby. She NURSES it. At least she didn't call me OLD, the way she did in a previous rant.

I will kiss your ass GLADLY, Dawn. You name the time and place, and I will be there. You may take pictures, too, and post them on your blog. I'll bring wine and flowers, kiss your ass, then allow you to spit right in my pucker-butted, ugly, wrinkled face if it makes you feel better. I will be submissive and accept whatever humiliation you wish to heap on my ugly, gray-haired, pucker-butted head. I'll give you the chance to get ALL the venom out of your system.

But be forewarned: I may go home and fisk you again. I am Acidman, after all...

I found an excellent response to SGT STRYKER and his screed about The South Was Right over at COLD FURY. Mike makes this excellent point, among many in his post:

The war didn't become principally about slavery even in Lincoln's mind until the Emancipation Proclamation, which, by the way, freed not one slave in the North (yes, there were some even then, and the slave traders were almost universally based there).

I still believe that slavery was an issue in Southern secession, but not the CENTRAL issue. Remember, folks: some of the people involved in that unpleasantness were just one generation removed from the Founders themselves. Robert E. Lee's father was "Light Horse Harry" Lee, a respected hero of the Revolution. The same revolutionary fire and love of personal freedom still burned hotly in people back then, and they didn't like being pushed around by Washington politicians. Revisionist historians try to frame the situation 150 years ago in modern mindset. That's crazy.

In 1860, the nation was not accustomed to having the federal government insert itself into every nook and cranny of life and rule over everything from education to drinking water. We citizens of the Union meekly accept government's unbridled power today, and "Honest Abe" Lincoln laid the foundation upon which the federal Blob squats. Like Jabba the Hutt, the bloated federal government has an insatiable appetite for MORE. More power, more control, more intrusion and MORE OF YOUR MONEY. If the Founders could see what became of the republic they forged, they would drown in their own puke. They wrote the Constitution to STOP that from happening. It happened anyway, largely because of what Lincoln did in the Civil War.

The South WAS right.

And if you want to kill about 30 minutes or so, go check the comments on Stryker's post. Interesting reading there.

Sunday, September 29, 2002


1) Is there a big goal left unattained in your life? What is it?

I want to write a novel and see it become a best-seller.

2) Are you doing (career-wise) what you imagined you'd be doing 10, 15, 20 years ago?

I am doing the very last thing in the universe that I thought I would be doing 25 years ago. As of next month, I've been doing it for 23 years. Life is strange. Go figure.

3) When you were a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?

I wanted to be a professional football player or an astronaut. Those careers never worked out, so I just never grew up.

4) Do you frequently adjust your dreams and goals as you go along?

No. I still want to be a professional football player or an astronaut. Whatta dumb question. OF COURSE I frequently adjust my dreams and goals, sometimes hourly anymore. I would tell you what my dreams and goals are, but they're liable to change before I could write them down.

5) What was your favorite TV show as a kid? Did that have any bearing on what you wanted to be when you grew up?

Howdy-Doody and Captain Kangaroo. Both shows influenced me greatly. I never wanted strings tied to me, but I wanted to grow up to carry a lot of keys. I have achieved both goals.

I would plug JONI'S BLOG a lot more often if she would put the red toenail pictures back on her page. She knows how I am about red toenails, and she let the ones she had there just get up and walk right off the page.

That's a shame. Go now, visit her, and demand that the red toenails be returned to their rightful place. If you don't, the terrorists win.
Have you ever seen a real, live porcupine in the woods? I have. I was hiking in the Cahutta Wilderness in North Georgia on a crisp fall day. The trail was fairly steep, overhung with rhodadendrum, and I was in bulldog-low-gear, holding the straps on my pack and trudging along with my mind engaged in astral projection. I learned to do that a long time ago on steep trails. I keep putting one foot in front of the other, start a song playing in my head, and leave my body to do the grunt-work while my mind soars somewhere far away. The plan was working well that day until I heard a tremedous rustling in the brush on the downhill side of the trail.

I retreived my astral self and stood still, ready to duck and cover, waiting for a wild hog or a rutting deer to come charging out of the woods and run me over. That's when the damned porcupine came waddling out onto the trail right in front of me.

It paid me no attention whatsoever as it waddled and snuffled its way up the trail. I followed for a few yards, then walked right up next to the critter. It still paid me no attention, but I was paying CLOSE attention to it. A porcupine is an amazing construction. It sports several different lengths and shapes of quills all over its body and the bristling array is VERY impressive. No wonder it pays no attention to anything around it.

COP 3 was about 20 yards behind me on the trail, and I yelled for him to come look. He did. "Goddam! That's a porcupine," he said. (Cop 3 is very astute about such things.) We walked alongside the porcupine for about a hundred yards. It stopped occasionally to sniff a particularly interesting scent on the trail, and we stopped, too. It started waddling again, and we followed along. Finally, it made an abrupt left turn off the trail and went crashing through the underbrush down the mountain.

"Reckon you could eat one of those things?" I asked.

"I don't see why not," Cop 3 said. "It comes with built-in toothpicks."
The United States Ryder Cup team got a dumpling caught in its throat, choked like a dog eating green grass and allowed the Europeans to walk away as winners.
Tiger Woods was less than dazzling, the rest of the team played like Ass of Fido, and the Americans had their butts handed to them.

I don't believe that the overpaid, over-coddled, rich as Midas golfers of today share the passion for the Ryder Cup that Palmer and Nicklaus did. I knew the magic was gone a few years ago, when the bastards started grumbling about wanting "appearance money" even to show up and play. Being a member of the Ryder Cup team once was a high honor, cherished by those who earned it. Now it seems to be a goddam obligation to some of the players, and I don't think that they put their hearts into the contest.

Well, I shouldn't be surprised. I haven't watched the Olympic Games in over a decade because that "amateur" competition has become an over-hyped, over-commercialized, over-televised money machine. It's gone far since 1972, when the games were wonderfully inspiring, and it's been downhill all the way. Remember those quaint views of the Olympic Village, where the athletes stayed in dorms? Today, millionaire athletes book suites in five-star hotels and bring their posses with them. They grab a gold medal and split. It's just a fucking JOB, man.

Damn near EVERYTHING is just a fucking job today.
I am a "garbage-spewing fuckface." I have "minions" of "trashy women." And I should "FUCK YOU, FUCK OFF AND FUCK YOURSELF, OLD MAN."

I don't believe that Ann Coulter ever wrote anything quite so deliberately cruel as THAT, but I'm not a liberal. Liberal meanness is less mean than regular meanness. Only conservative meanness is ugly.

Sob! (sniffle) Whimper! (sniff) WHAAAAAAAAA! My feelings are hurt. I'm just an old, garbage-spewing fuckface. OLD! Boo-hoo-hoooooo! (sniffle)

I'll curl up in a fetal position and sulk, right after I finish watching the the Falcons' game.
This is a fisking like no other I've ever seen. SILENT but very effective.
My son came to visit yesterday, much to my surprise. He never hooked up with young Jack, who was off somewhere with his sisters, so the pup and I ate boiled peanuts, played football and did manly things together. I may be wrong, but I believe that for an eight year-old, he has a lot more strength per square inch than most boys his age. He's like a goddam coiled spring.

After one tumultous play, I called time-out. "Daddy, will I ever be able to beat you at football?" he asked. Gasping, spent, wasted and sore, I said, "No, you'll never beat the Tall Dog." I needed a nap and a handful of Alieve.

Not today, he won't. But I see a serious ass-whuppin' coming in the near future. I hope I can see the exact moment, because the day before that happens is the day I retire from football, hang up my jockstrap and become a non-participatory COACH.
My BOXCUTTER ATTACK on Dawn Olsen has generated repercussions that I did not anticipate. The LADY HERSELF is none too happy about it, but my comments and emails suggest that Public Opinion says she richly deserved what she received, and she's being a real wimp by pouting about it.

I agree with what MOMMIE JOIE said: "She should have laughed her ass off then toasted YOURS."

Some people just can't take a joke. The only job I've ever been fired from was with the Effingham County Herald, the weekly newspaper here in my neck of the Georgia woods. I wrote a humor column with my picture at the top, and I was famous down at the Swamp Fox, where the elite meet for gas, gossip, cigarettes, beer and propane. But I wrote a column that pricked the delicate sensibilities of the Salzberger community, even though I thought it was funny as hell. They didn't. The descendants of good Lutherans who fled Germany to escape religious persecution formed a lynch-mob and persecuted ME by hate-mailing the publisher of the paper until she fired me.

That's the chance you take when you write.

I missed the column, because I enjoyed seeing my picture in the paper and having people at the Swamp Fox ask me what I was going to write about next, but I didn't weep and gnash my teeth over what happened. Hell, the paper didn't pay me, so it wasn't as if I lost my JOB. I went back to writing an occasional column in the Savannah Morning News and didn't have to nurse a bruised ego in the meantime.

Some people have been absolutely merciless in their criticism of pieces I've written on this blog. Well, that's their right, and that's the chance I took when I hung my ass out on the net in the first place. But they can't FIRE ME, so I don't give two shits in a windstorm about what THEY think. I write what I write. If you don't like it, don't read it. If I hurt your feelings, get over it.

It's a cruel world.