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Man, there’s some serious alcohol going down here, and mass quantities of consumables. My new favorite drink is bourbon and Safeway diet cream soda…yummy.

Update:

Bourbon and prune juice is really good, too. I shit you not.

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new years placemark 4: due to excessive partying

Fuck You! We do what we want!!

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new years placemark 3: due to excessive partying

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new years placemark 2: due to excessive partying

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new years placemark: due to excessive partying

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Bring On The Terror!

You whippersnappers have probably never been spanked properly…this would go a long way towards explaining the sorry state of our country today.

Back when I was being spanked regularly, I recall wanting to get it over with, and right away. I did not want to “wait til my Father got home”, or wait til after chores, or whatever excuses the lazy whacker came up with to put it off…no, I wanted it over with…the waiting just made it worse.

We are going to get whacked. Some ‘Bad Guy’ is planning it, perhaps even implementing it as we speak. Let’s get it over with. I would like to volunteer any family reunion of mine (that doesn’t include my children) as ground zero, but the Bad Guys are going to do what they wilt…
I just want them to do it, and soon.

Hit the Super Bowl? Fine. I won’t be watching, anyway, except for the ads. Heck, pick any target, and have at it. I’m ready. We’re ready. A positive side effect will be that we will crush, kill, and destroy anybody we think was remotely involved in it this time. We as a nation are collectively tired of this shit. We want an excuse to whack hippies and other left-wing commie scum of our own, so a glorious pogrom will ensue.

Please, Mr. Terrorist…spank us soon?

Thanks.

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You Say You Want A Revolution…

Well, you can’t have one. It’s funny, too, because revolutionary cultures such as Russia, Cuba, and China are always happy to point out how America was born. But our Powers That Be looked at all of that Revolution stuff and began, slowly but surely, to put a stop to that nonsense… and pretty words from Jefferson about “watering the Tree of Liberty with the blood of Patriots” be damned.

Lincoln killed the dream of States Rights (along with many of the best and brightest of our Patriot bloodline) with his Civil War, and showed that habeas corpus was just a joke…a cruel tease that was just so much smoke blown up our collective skirts.

And now? You think you can change things with your vote? Your vote is about as useful and meaningful as that little red plastic flower that old men try to sell you in front of the stores the week before Memorial Day. How many of you reading this know what that flower even means? Thought so.

I, a firearms enthusiast, voted for Bush, and he has flat stated that he is going to sign an extension of the Assault Weapons Ban. That was just one of the big anal reamings that Clinton gave this country. And Bush continues to sign any mega-state nonsense that gets put on his desk. He actively campaigns to allow illegal cockroaches to swarm over our borders. I have gotten a better return on my investment with a $10 bill in a Tijuana whorehouse than I have ever gotten from my vote for GW Bush. And that gorgeous Tijuana hooker never gave me anything that kept on giving, but GW’s taxes are gonna last forever, and his policies can’t be cured.

So, you wanna join some ‘group’ and take up arms? You wanna try to ‘make a difference’? Good luck. Any group you think to join is going to have more agents provocateur from various government agencies than True Believers. And even a True Believer will sell you out like a bitch when the electric shocks begin to course through his testicles.

That is why I’ve given up. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. I’ll take whatever sugar Uncle Sam wants to give out, and just be glad that I don’t have anything he wants. Heck, I donated two sons to his military, along with several years of my own life. Thanks for the checks, Uncle!

No, the drama needed to ‘make a difference’ is too great. You have to be completely alone, with nothing to lose. You can’t be crazy, and you have to be alert every minute of the day. You’d have to be a helluva shot, too, because you could not afford to engage your enemy up close, because you’d have no back-up. You would have to do a lot of exhaustive research, and you’d find that your primary target would be judges, because they are doing the most damage to society today. And, oh my gosh, the low level bureaucrats you would have to perforate. These are the folks that implement the policies at the level that effect Americans. Robin Hood knew this…he didn’t go after the Sheriff, he went after his Tax Collectors. As a lone, military sanctioned sniper in wartime, you don’t go after the officers…you go after the truck drivers…the cooks…people who will make the machine grind to a halt.

I’m just sayin, dontcha know. It’s hopeless, anyway.

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Hippie Scalping…

The Hippie is the only animal I can think of, offhand, that if you kill one, you do not want it’s pelt for any reason.

Killing a Hippie is much like killing a rat or some other vermin…you do it as pest control, and dump the carcass in the dumpster, trying very hard to not touch it.

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Compare and Contrast…

I can’t help but notice that a whole bunch of Iragians got severely squished by their own domeciles recently. This is because the news is keeping it in my face long after the four seconds during which I actually gave a crap about it.

Okay. So a 2,000 year old sand castle finally gets around to collapsing on the descendants of the original castle builders, mashing an alarming quantity of them quite flat. The insane leaders of this insane country declare that they “will rebuild”… one would assume that, as is their custom, said rebuilding will involve the same building techniques. And more Iragians will move in and cross their fingers against the next shaker…

Members of this same clan of lunatics hijack some Marvels of Western Civilization, and fly them into some other Marvels of Western Civilization, and 3,000 innocent people get disintegrated. The government affected vows to allow it’s private citizens to rebuild. New designs are submitted, and work begins.

So, for those of you keeping score at home, it looks like:

Powers of Darkness- 3,000ish

God- 20,000 and counting

Sound about right? Like I always say, don’t be pissin God off.

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Insult to Injury…

It was so quiet around midnight last night that it woke me up…dead quiet. Even the silence was muffled. This could mean only one thing. I sprang to the window and threw up the sash, and sure as fuck…snow.

Shit. I hate snow. Had fun today, though, filming my wife with the new video camera as she abused my tots with snowballs…”Catch, Baby!” whap “Waaaahhhhh!!!”

Gotta love it.

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Talking Out Yer Ass…

I really need to do some more research…my Gut tells me GW is okay…my Gut also tells me GW is a Globalist Prick who makes Clinton look like George Patton. My Gut is confused.

My Gut has lied to me before. It has told me “hey, it’s just a fart,” and then squinched out a good squirt of butt-sauce and ruined a perfectly good pair of pants.

Moral of the story? Your Gut can save your ass, but it is just as likely to give it a good smear.

I need to ponder some more…I’ll get back to you on this.

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Raiders…RIP…

Fuck.

Any questions?

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Fatal flaw in ‘Die Hard’…

…John McLane should have killed Hans first, in the scene when Hans had the ‘drop’ on him (when Bruce Willis handed him the empty pistol), and then the thugs came up in the elevator and opened fire. He should have unzipped Hans like a can of beans, and then turned and cut up the rest with well aimed, short bursts…he had the element of surprise, and their Aug Steyr’s would climb badly on full auto at short range.

Update:

It was brought to my attention by a new reader that the 5.56 Aug Steyr does not climb as stated above. I know that. From when the bad guys were assembling their weapons, it looked to me that they were assembling them in the 7.62 SAW version. Coupled with the hellacious muzzle fire that the armorer and special effects person saw fit to apply, I assumed the 7.62 configuration, which would climb, even in a bull-pup configuration.

So there.

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Check This Site Out…

He may be smarter than me, and that’s pretty hard to do…leastways, he works hard to sound smarter. He also has a column at WorldNet Daily.

I enjoy his writing, though I often disagree with his conclusions, which I am sure he would think makes me stupid.

Heh.

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BOMB CANADA NOW!!!

We need to exterminate these fiends! Infiltrating infected cows into the heart of our West Coast dairy land…bastards. At least beef prices are dropping like Clinton’s pants in front of an intern. What’s a little twitching when you’re getting Prime Rib at hamburger prices? Wanna have some fun? When yer in the meat department, pick up a nice roast, and then act like it’s shaking and quivering in your hands and say “Ahhh, no wonder it’s been marked down…”

The sooner these vile Canusians are killed to the last moose-fucker, the safer we will be. Al Queda does not worry me nearly as much as the Al Quenadians do. Why can’t we put our prisoners to work on building a Great Wall between Canada and Mexico? I’m all for going to the moon, but first things first, dammit!

And why can’t we build one giant-ass airport out in one of our deserts, where all international flights would land? They could then, after being checked up their ass for bugs and gas, be flown to their ultimate destinations. Why do we have international flights just zipping around like mosquitos, going wherever they want? Stupid.

We need to declare Canada a state, and kill any of them that object, and their little cows, too…and all of the French ones (cows and people) as well. We can then ship all of our muslims up there to where the French Canusians used to live so we can keep an eye on them…kind of a benign gulag, or ghetto if you will. Just build a big space needle in the middle of the new muslim city, put a big neutron bomb in it, and tell em “yep…you guys wanna play ‘fuckaround’, we got somethin fer yer asses right here, muthafukkas! Bring it on!”

No more Mister Nice American!

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Aarrrgghhh…my weekend ‘Raider Related’ depression has set in. They are playing the Chargers tomorrow, and it’s not even being carried on any channel I can find.

Note to terrorists: If you’re gonna do it anyway, Qualcom Stadium would be a good place to start…give my Glorious Raiders an excuse to lose. Just wipe out the whole team and their management and ownership, and then we can start fresh. I’d like to request you use something quick and painless…I love my Raiders, and do not wish to see them suffer. Except that big fat fucker whose name I can’t remember who always moves prior to the snap and gets my Glorious Raiders flags all the time. He can suffer.

Thank you.

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If This Doesn’t Piss You Off…

Go to this blog and read the post entitled ‘The Emporer Has No Armor’.

Now, Dammit!

Is it any wonder I hate our dumbass retarded innefficient government?

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Truer Words Were Never Spoke…

I swiped this from Kim du Toit:

“There is room for but one language in this country, and that is the English language, for we must assure that the crucible turns out Americans and not some random dwellers in a polyglot boarding house.” — President Theodore Roosevelt

Yep. ‘Nuff said.

Speaking of Mr. du Toit, he cusses just as much if not more than me, and he gets all kinds of awards, and people call me an extremist. Except for the fact that he’s a Godless Athiest and had best change his ways afore he smokes a turd in hell, and I am a God-Fearing Christian, he and I are right down the line in agreement on nearly everything.

Sigh…

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Ho Ho Ho, Ho…

This is my favorite Holiday Story so far…really ‘lit my log’, if you will. Enjoy!

KANSAS CITY, Mo. — Kansas City police are investigating after a woman was impaled on her neighbor’s wrought iron fence the same day the neighbor’s home was robbed, KMBC reported.

Mary Beth Byers, 37, was trying to climb over the fence when she was impaled on it early Thursday morning. Her husband heard her screaming and found Byers stuck in the fence. He supported her to prevent the iron spike from impaling Byers further while waiting for paramedics to arrive.

A resident who witnessed the incident said the woman had slipped 6 to 8 inches down on the fence. Gail Stark, the victim’s mother, said paramedics had to remove part of the fence to free the impaled woman.

She was taken to an area hospital, where she was listed in serious condition.

Byers told authorities she went to her neighbor’s house to return some garage sale items. But later in the day, the neighbor, who lives in the 1200 block of Northeast 81st Street, reported that her home had been robbed. Police are looking into the incident.

I’d like to think she was straddling the fence when she became impaled…but maybe that’s just me…

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Hey, Iran! What’s Shakin?

Hah! I kill me. Sucks to be an Iranian, today, eh? Well, I imagine it must pretty much suck all of the time, but most especially when you get a few tons of rock dropped on you…”Hey, Mahmoud! Wanna get stoned?!?” Heh heh.

Let’s see, now…a 6.5 earthquake hits a major population center in California the other day, and two rich broads get squished coming out of a jewelry store.

The same earthquake hits in Iran, and thousands die. Hmmmmm.

Whose God is stronger now, infidels? Hah! In your face! Who builds your shitty houses, anyway?
Our deaths only number in the thousands when the disaster involves members of The Religion O Peace(TM).

We learned after 1906 that it didn’t pay to stack bricks to make a building, and that having fire departments was a really good idea.

Apparently, this must be the Middle East’s first earthquake. I’m sure they’ll be better prepared for the next one.

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Can I Have My Life Back, Now?

Whew…glad that shit’s over. Can we turn off the sappy music and schmaltzy TV now? Can we resume regular programming? Leave The Tinselight Zone? Okay, that last one was reaching, but it’s all over but the shopping, folks, let’s move on!

I managed to get out of assembling the really hard toys, i.e., any Hot Wheels track setup. I look serious and scientific while I use manly tools to remove battery covers and insert batteries and make sure things turn on…chimp work, in other words.
The wife, though, sits bemusedly in a scatter of track parts and gaily colored plastic shapes that have to rational relation to each other, squinting to read a poorly translated set of ‘instructions’ someone thoughtfully printed out on a 3′ by 3′ sheet of flimsy paper in twelve languages including Christ’s Aramaic.

I am glad to know that on the other side of the world right now, some furriner is sitting in a pile of sharp-edged plastic, squinting at his set of ‘instructions’, and wondering just how many monkeys it took to type them up.

I drank an entire fifth of damn good brandy between 3pm and 1am on Christmas Eve, except for a good knock I saved to put in my coffee Christmas morning. I’m pretty sure I got laid…well, someone got laid…or something, anyway.
My parents gave us a video camera and I my cruel wife filmed me in all of my Christmas Morning Glory, looking like a fur-covered ball of food you’d find under the couch a month later. Tousled is kinda cute, or so I’m told…I looked more like the afterbirth from a Mongolian gang-bang…the sheet marks made me look all piratey, and hadn’t faded by the time I went down for my Christmas Afternoon Nap.

Oh well, the little ones had a blast, and that’s what counts. I didn’t shoot any family members, or even piss any off. I got several really relieved emails congratulating me about that. My prodigal son even called…and even my non-prodigal ones. Cheap bastards coulda sent money and/or liquor. Oh well.

I’m gonna celebrate New Years Eve like I was at an Iraqi wedding, so be sure to wear your helmets! Gravity’s a bitch, and so’s this hangover.

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Christmas Eve Sucks, Too…

I have to get the kids to bed so I can sneak the ridiculously huge pile of presents out of the back of my truck and into the house…little fuckers are eyeballing me, too. They’ve heard my whoppers before, and are prepared to believe Santa is something Daddy came up with while drinking his ‘apple juice’. It is noteworthy that I can leave a glass of anything anywhere in the house, and come back to find it untouched. They are free to sip from Daddy’s glass any time they want, and having done so in the past, they bypass it as if it were a bubbling pool at Chernobyl.

I want to slip into something a little more comfortable, have another drink or seven, and perhaps pork Mrs Claus, but the little turds will not cut me any slack. I sip my V.S.O.P. brandy, and glare at them. They glare back. My ass chaps.

Dammit! Get to fucking bed! It is raining outside, so I am assured of a good soaking as I mule in their loot. It took me seven armloads of big-ass boxes from the storage shed to the back of my truck…the water draining off the hatch of my camper top and down my butt crack…actually, that felt kinda good…soothing. Present-hauling is rough work.

Ah, the Thunder-Bunny and her Mutant Brother are blumping up to bed! I prepare to strike!

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Let Slip The Logs Of War!

Man, I just passed a Yule Log that probably raised the levels of the oceans around the world by an inch or so…
even now, Bangladeshi’s are running inland, screaming “Ganesha Dammit! He has passed another Loaf of Doom! Run for your lives!!” as the tidal wave approaches.

Heh heh…roughage…

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Even A Stopped Clock…

…is right twice a day. Andrew Sullivan, overrated fruiter that he is, is dead on with this:

Our leading bishops demand hard evidence of Saddam Hussein’s possession of weapons of mass destruction. If we were to demand the same level of proof from their profession, they would all be out of a job.

Good one, fairy. Truth hurt, Catlikkers? Tough.

As we move closer to Christalnacht, my mood worsens. Not a good day to piss off Old Bane.

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Ugh…

Another family-intensive Hallmark Day coming tomorrow. I will be out first thing to purchase a big bottle of liquor as a nerve tonic. My parents and my sister together in the same room with me and my long-suffering wife. And two sugared up little kids who want their presents right fucking now! but they can’t have them until Christmas morning because that is The Wife’s tradition, and nothing stands in the way of that.

Some loving person got my 6 year old a full size radio controlled car that I wouldn’t give a ten year old…some kind of rabid-ass sports car that I’m sure will go well with the front of the TV. With his toys, he knows two speeds…off, and “warp 6, Mr Sulu!” I may have to act the saboteur. I, being a genius, buy both kids each a little remote control car that can’t get stuck no matter what because it has wheels on all sides, and it is not going to break your frigging ankle if it hits you…then some yahoo spoils things by buying him a two foot long Ferrari that weighs as much as a fucking lawn mower. Ho fucking ho.

I shall secret little pints of bourbon all over the house for emergency refills. I have a back-up plan where I intend to retreat to my room and yell “Fuck Christmas!” anytime someone knocks on the door…enough bourbon, and I may fire warning shots through the top frame.

I hear the flu is big this time of year, why can’t I get it? That would be perfect, snug in my little bed with my barf bucket and my snot bag for Kleenex, chugging Nyquil as needed, until visions of giant sugar plums crushing elves to death dance in my head.

Pray for me. My anticipation of misery has my colon in knots, and I am really building up some Christmas Fudge…

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Repost From November…
No Comment…

To those of you who are new here:

I hear folks on other blogs bitch about blogs that do not have comments. These are probably the same lazy whiners that think it’s okay to steal music and software. Fukkem.

You can email me. Many do. Thanks for the compliments, but it’s not neccesary. I do this for me…it’s just a bonus if you enjoy it. If I say something, it is right. You cannot change my mind, and insults just make me happy that I’ve pissed you off.
[NOTE: I have yet to recieve any hate mail...dammit]

Not to say that I cannot change my own mind, but it’s doubtful, because I am in my forties, and set in my ways. I have had a rich life, full of experiences that have formed me in to who I am. I am highly educated, and widely read.

Comments tend to turn into a poor version of IRC, and I would find that intolerable.

That is all…we now return you to your regular programming.

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Shut Up, And Don’t Sing…

James Taylor, who dedicated his song “Brighten Your Face With My Fist” to Darryl Hannah, may be the single worst bald, mullet-headed ‘folk’ singer to have ever clogged the airways with his drek like a tertiary AIDS patient’s phlegm-clotted lungs.

Nobody really liked him for the ten minutes he was hip, and then he whupped on Darryl Hannah, and showed the world what a hypocritical fag-rod he was. It’s difficult to listen to anyone’s love ballads when you can only picture them whacking some hottie in the face…regardless of whether she asked for it or not.

No, he is just an awful singer. What is he, in his fifties, and his testicles still haven’t dropped? Fuck me, but he sounds like an alto castrati.

Even setting aside his awful politics, he being the idiot-minstrel for every lefty politico and cause that spatters from the DNC’s diseased, distended, and well-travelled fart-pipe…he is just a slimy looking reptile, who looks like he slithers into nurseries and sucks the breath from newborn infants.

Do not encourage or allow any empty headed acquaintance of yours to buy his CD’s when the ad comes on TV…as a matter of fact, as they begin to focus on the TV and his sitar-like voice, excreting that nasal yodel of his, whack your friend or family member solidly on the head with a rolled up newspaper or magazine and say “No!” sharply as you jump in between them and the TV, frantically trying to change the channel with your other hand from behind you.

It’s for the children.

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Warning! Orange Alert! Warning!

We are under a very heightened state of alert. This means that old ladies in wheelchairs, and blind white grandfathers (and their grandchildren) will be searched even more thoroughly, and the bins full of nail clippers will overflow.

This alert level is in no way intended to interfere with any illegal aliens who wish to cross our borders, or any ragperson who needs to get on a plane with several of his cohorts.

Thank you. Please continue to infiltrate the country.

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Let Us Pray…

My Glorius Raiders play tonight. My wife is out picking up beer and snacks. I fear that Madden may talk trash during an important play, and an important vein will burst in my big brain, and I’ll be found, mumbling incoherently at the television, both middle fingers extended and locked in rigor.

Prognosis is not good. The Orange Alert is appropriate. I hope that Homeland Security snipers are in the stands, alert for any potential suckiness, ready to shoot the first Raider player that drops the ball and then shrugs and grins about it…you hear that, Jerry Rice?

How many quarterbacks have they broken this year? 3? 4? Fuck. Don’t mock me! You soccer-watching eurotwats! Four of my Raiders linebackers, in full battle regalia, could kill an entire field full of your girly-shorts wearing, skipping and hopping homos…and then stomp your festive little checkerboard ball flat. So just shut up!

I saw the Glorious Saints lose all hope for the season yesterday…because of their parapelegic retard of a kicker they all have to go home and contemplate how much they suck. They should have just handed out short blades and let them all kneel and commit Honorable Seppuku. “There, rookies! Now let that be a lesson to you!”

I think I’m getting a chest pain…

Update:

What kind of dirty cheater uses his Dad’s death to get them stoked up to beat my Glorious Raiders? Curse you, Brett Favre, and your hot sexy wife, too!

Update # 2:

There is only one hope for my Glorious Raiders…someone needs to go kill Brett Favres Mom, too. Right now. Quickly.

Update #3:

Aaaarrrrggghhhh!

That is all.

Update # 4:

It was cruel of me, I know, to suggest that Brett Favre suffer even more loss just to try to insure that my Glorious Losers win a stupid game….oh, who am I kidding, his whole frigging family could die, if that meant my Raiders winning! I’m a FAN, dammit!!

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The Cradle Cap of Civilization…

As I slog through the Iraqi blogs, I find myself at times in need of hip-waders…high rubber boots that keep the crap you’re stepping in off of your clothes. I see repeated references to ‘The Cradle Of Civilization’. Let us leave aside scholarly objections to that, and take it on face value.

What do we do with cradles? We keep our infants in them. When they grow up, they leave and move on, don’t they?

Well, civilization did that about 3,000 years ago…grew up and left…and it never came back. These Arabs seem to be crowing over some dead rocks and pottery that white European and American archaeologists dug up for them, otherwise they would still be letting their camels take a dump on the ground where these antiquities would still be buried.

And who knows what that civilization of 3,000 years ago looked like? Truly looked like? There has been so much interbreeding, rape and pillage, and so many migrations of peoples that the only thing we know for sure about the original occupants of The Fertile Crescent is that they are dead as fuck, and not coming back any time soon…and these camel-riding rug peddlers ain’t it.

15 high tech Russian Mig fighters buried in the desert, and their terrorists are using their version of the Fisher-Price ‘Baby Terrorists First Bomb-Making Kit’, cobbling together their boom-booms from scraps on the ground.
“Oooooh, don’t scare me with your big old civilization, Mr. Arab!” I tremble, alright, but not from fear.

Yes, they gave us the zero…and they are still giving us just that.