On A Winter’s Day…

I repost this every few months or so. It was one of the first things I wrote in this blog:

A female friend of mine asked for my help in getting an abortion back in the 70’s. I forget how far along she was, but she was at least a few months along. It wasn’t my baby, so I didn’t care and said sure. She paid my gas and bought beer, and we went to the clinic and she asked me to come in with her. The staff assumed I was the father, so there was no problem with me going in.

They gloved me up and gave her a big old shot of Pitocin, and left me alone with her. Some time passed, and she began looking for all the world like she was having a baby. The nurse came in once and told me to encourage her to push, and went back out to help other girls kill their babies.

After one particularly huge pushing event, I heard a squishy, popping sound, and I looked under her drape and there was a puppy…no, wait, it was a little dark haired baby…for some reason I picked it up in my hands. It filled my cupped hands, its tennis ball sized head covered with dark brown hair, its little legs going back along my wrists. Through the gloves, I could feel it’s warmth…its heartbeat…it moved a little as it died, probably because no one came to clear its lungs.

The girl just stared up at the ceiling, breathing hard…tears running down her cheeks into her ears. Touched for some reason, I held it until the nurse came and took it from me and put it in a pan and took it away. She came back in a couple of minutes and helped me dress the girl. She looked at us with a strange light in her eyes and said “it was a girl”… I think she was upset.

The girl sobbed softly, and we didn’t talk on the trip back.

One Riot, One Ranger…

I doubt you hear that said anymore, unless someone is reminiscing. With the politically correct, neutered, pussy cops the police academies seem to be churning out these days, I bet even the Texas Rangers get diversity training, now.

There was a time though, that when a Ranger rode into town, he put his star on the outside of his coat, with all the dust buffed off, as a warning to you.

It meant that you stopped all of whatever dumb shit you were doing, or he’d kill you to make it stop. And if you were Mexican, he’d likely kill you anyway for being Mexican In Public, so you’d best skedaddle as fast as you could back over the border. Better make a run for that damn border.

Rangers travelled singly, and in packs, and they kept the peace in a very huge amount of territory, and there are ghost towns now where somebody was both stupid and lucky enough to kill one.

There were never really more than a hundred and fifty of them, and there hasn’t been what I would call an ‘OG’ (Original Gangsta) Ranger since 1936, when they all resigned or were fired when a corrupt woman was elected Governor of Texas and she put all her cronies in.

I used to know one of the OG Rangers, and he was an impressive man.

A little old banty rooster of a man, wizened from decades in the sun, top of his Stetson just barely to my chin, that old buzzard terrified the shit out of me, and I was a 20 year old bad-ass (or so I thought).

My girlfriend at the time, the redhead of the ‘beer mugs and blackout story’ fame, did side work for old folks in town, cleaning and cooking for them, and this proud old man was one of her clients. She worked more and harder than anyone I have ever known, and she took to taking pharmaceutical speed to give her the pep she needed, and I sold her much of it. Eventually, she would go on to become a burned out, wasted fat hulk, ridden by lice, and not even remembering me.

That old Ranger would have doubtless kilt me had he known. As it was, my long hair and beard made him crazy, and she had to protect me from him as it was, by threatening to quit him, and he adored her, so I was mostly safe.

The first time I ever saw the old ranger, he was launching into this breakfast place I was in and slapping an example of our local consabulary in the back of his head and taking his gun.

The deputy sheriff had been sitting with his back to the front door, his cowboy hat tipped back on his head, making time with the waitress there, at the seat by the cash register. When struck, his hat flew off, his coffee flew, and he lurched around to see a wild eyed old man in a Stetson and a black suit with a string tie, and his own gun pointed right between his eyes.

I was some impressed, and surprised that the deputy hadn’t pissed himself, though there was a stain. Probably coffee.

The old Ranger was shaking with rage, and chewed this guys ass out up one side to the other about being fuck-all dumb enough to sit with his back to the door like that, and it was something to behold. I thought the deputy was gonna cry.

Finally, out of gas, the old man handed the gun back, butt first, and stalked off to sit in the corner, his back against two walls, to have his repast. The cop collected himself and left.

I learned more about the old Ranger in the ensuing weeks, as my girlfriend drug me along. The first words he ever said to me were “There was a time that I would have killed you, and everybody who looks like you!” as he shook a bony finger in my face. The look in those old, cold blue eyes showed me that, why yes, my death is just swimming inside…right..there…
I considered knifing him on the spot, and maybe he saw that, too, and he cackled as if that cheered him up some.

A few minutes later, after my girlfriend had cooled his jets, he was proudly showing off to me a brand new in the box Universal .30 caliber M-1 Carbine. He saw that I knew how to handle guns, and showed me some more, and warmed to me…some.

In time, I learned what he meant, and he meant it exactly, about killing me. He was a lonely old man, and I was truly interested in him, and I enjoyed watching my girlfriends lady-parts as she bustled around his spartan studio apartment. He did, too.

He ended up showing me pictures he had, sepia, brownish things, the kind you know where they are standing there because the photographer told them to not move, and there was just a big flash of chemicals and a fwump!

Pictures of young men, hanging dead from trees by a rope, their eyes agoggle, sometimes some tongue lolling, a recently startled horse off to one side, guileless in its participation with the death of its most recent rider…

Piles of dead Mexicans, spattered with blood, festooned with cartridge belts, shot all to shit and gone…

White men, laid out on boards, or in boxes, or in the backs of wagons…

And always, surounded by grinning, or serious, or blank-faced hard men, them festooned with the finest firearms of their day. Their horses looking like they had just recently been bought from Arabian princes, or feudal knights. I don’t much like horses, but these were the Hummers of horseflesh, thick, muscular beasts, War Horses, who would not flinch when your rifle sent a man to hell.

And this old mans eyes, shining like the chrome hubcaps of Death’s hearse out at me from so many of those photos, looking out at me…me looking like the twin of so many of his strange fruit, arranged in trees and dangling above these men of violence.

And yes, Men of Honor.

For that’s what they were…Knights of the Old Republic, principled killers, tasked with keeping a fledgling, growing society safe from the predators who were swarming.
Predators who looked like me.

Young men, run out of the cities in the north by hard-fisted Irish policemen, coming out to the wild frontier, to rape and kill and take without giving back…meeting proud Sons of Texas, who would kill them on the spot for wearing the wrong clothes, or facial hair configuration, because they had learned…knew now…what someone who looked like that meant.

I cut my hair into the style of the day, and trimmed my beard down considerable, and he relaxed around me. I had learned the art of ‘fitting in’. Do not make someone’s trigger finger itch.

This story just kind of unfolded, here. Wrote itself. It started when I asked myself the whimsical question:

“What would my Old Ranger have done today had he been there in New Orleans and heard a cop shrug and say ‘Nothing we can do…there’s not enough of us, and I don’t want to start a riot’…”

What, indeed…

.

Death By Dough…

The kitchen is the most dangerous room in the house. At least in my house.

I was so focused on my tongue wound, I forgot to tell you about the Attack Of The Killer Biscuits that happened not ten minutes previous to my encounter with the Yoghurt Cup From Hell.

Nat and I wanted some pie, and she wanted some juice first, so I poured her some juice sans sippy lid…I’m kind of a rebel that way, living on the edge like that just makes me feel, somehow more alive, you know?

Sorry ladies, I’m spoken for. You’ll have to find yourselves another Bad Boy.

So anyway, Nat is standing there, goggling cross-eyed into the juice cup clutched in both little fat hands, a cup which I have deliberately overfilled, as I am training her fine motor skills, and I reopen the fridge, and reach down to a lower shelf for the Key Lime pie, and find out, quite abruptly that, why yes, the wife indeed has set a death-trap for me.

I had asked her to buy me a tube of cheapo biscuit dough so I could try out this quick and dirty Sopapilla recipe I have found, and in revenge, she bought them for me. And placed them in the fridge, in a most threatening and misfortunate disposition, whereupon the tube slid out along with the pie, hit the floor, and exploded loudly and forcefully, nearly causing an unfortunate ‘underwear incident’.

I mean, that fucker exploded! The tube, still with a four biscuit throw weight warhead in it, shot at my face, and I managed to flicker my head out of the way but a few biscuits whapped into my chest, and when all was said and done, the kitchen was well and truly festooned with gobbets of biscuit dough.

As a tribute to my training, Nat was standing there, her eyes squinched shut, and not moving a muscle. Nor spilling a drop. She peeped one eye open, noted that nobody was obviously dead or bleeding, and resumed sipping her juice, while I picked biscuitry off of her, then me, then the floor, the walls, the front of the stove, and so on.

Johnny hollered from the stairwell “Bust…my…bumpers! What da heck wuth dat!”

“I just shot Nattie!” I shouted back.

“Don’t you thyoot my thithter!!” he cried out with some alarum. Nat rolled her eyes, and said “Oh shut up, John, Daddy didn’t shoot me…” Note that she did not say ‘wouldn’t shoot me’. That’s my girl. Too much trust isn’t healthy in a relationship. Keep em guessing, is what I always say.

Anyway, I collected all of the little flappy used-condom looking things, blew the dirt and fuzz off them as best I could, slapped them onto a cookie sheet, and baked them. Nat was suspicious, so I had her go over them with Johnny’s magnifying glass until she was satisfied.

With butter and honey, they were quite good.

One Sunny Day, In A Field…

This very day, as a matter of fact. It is not very often that October twenty-first falls on a Friday, and when it does, I am blessed with a long day of memories of another Friday, long and long ago, where my entire life changed rather abruptly.

This is the part where you turn back. As I take the lantern from it’s hook, and trim the wick, and light it, and swing open a thick door, covered in cobwebs, and you see the stairs there before us, winding down into darkness…

I look back over my shoulder at you, and one of my eyebrows, over a cold blue eye, as the shadows flicker, raises, asking you silently, are you sure you care to follow?

You sure?

Well, then…watch your step…

My first memory of the day is lying there, on my back, looking up at the clearest, bluest sky I have ever seen, it marred only slightly by a rising column of black smoke.

Well, how in the heck did I end up here? I ask myself. Weeds tickle my ears, but I am too encumbered by lassitude to bother moving. I hear the crackle of fire, and my leg hurts with a dull ache, and I hear sirens wailing off in the distance, and I think I’ll just lay here and rest for a bit.

This day actually began about two months ago, on my first day of classes at my first University. That was a good day, and in my Sociology class, I met the woman who would become the greatest love of my life.

I was surprised she even talked to me, a woman, well a girl, really, but one of such beauty and sophistication that it was like an abrupt altitude change just to see her. And she wanted to partner on our first assigned project with me! I was surprised, pleased, and flattered all at once.

She drug me off to the library, and we worked and laughed and played and touched, a little, the tentative first touches that signal interest. The arm, close to yours, the slight touch of the side of her perfect breast as she leaned over me to point out something in a book. The hand on the leg, briefly, the playful punch on the shoulder. The lightest of taps, but electrifying.

We became fast friends, very quickly. We made up reasons to be in each others presence. We lurked outside each others classes, and acted surprised when we bumped into each other.

Within a few days, we were holding hands everywhere we went, and kissing, and she would walk beside me, holding my arm, and we’d gaze into each others eyes, and walk into things.

She lived in the dorms, I lived a town away. When we had to be parted, we dominated our respective telephones. Cell phones were still a dream, so we hogged the phone at our respective dwellings and whiled away the hours, getting to know each other.

She sang opera. She was a music major, on a scholarship. She had a place waiting for her back east, singing in a big opera, some group whose name you’d probably recognize if I could remember it. She sang like an angel, and sang everywhere we went. She sang to me, love songs. I still can’t listen to Roberta Flack sing ‘First Time Ever’, and ‘Killing Me Softly’ well, kills me.

We loved and touched and petted, heavy, and neither of us were virgins, but we never made love, because we decided in the first week or so that we were going to get married as soon as we could, and we wanted to save it. I still don’t know if I regret that, or not.

She had a heart condition, newly developed, that frightened me considerable. I caught her several times when she’d just drop. Then her eyes would flutter, life would return to her, and she’d smile and kiss the worries from my face. She had a doctor’s appointment on Monday, the 24th of October, to start looking into what caused it. In the meantime, we tried to avoid anything that would startle her or overexcite her, and if we danced, we danced close.

I woke up once, in the ambulance, and cried out her name. The attendants looked squirmy, uncomfortable. They ended up sedating me because, even tied to a board, my neck in a brace, and in really interesting pain, I fought them so I could get out and go be with her.

She had a roommate, a pretty little thing, as vivacious and outgoing as you’d ever want. She loved me, too, and was always teasing us about stealing me. We three spent a lot of time together, and I’m sure I received many envious glances in the college beer joints we frequented at the edge of campus, but I wouldn’t know, because I was caught in the eyes of my beloved.

This Friday, this fateful Friday, I was to take them both to the roommate’s hometown, where My Love had agreed some weeks before to stay the weekend with her roommate at her parent’s home. We were to leave after the last class of the day, and after we finished packing my car with the baggage two females require to survive two days in a comfortable home.

My car was a red ‘64 Chevy Impala SS, with a 327 V8 High Performance engine. It had barely 10,000 miles on it, and from a standing start in the middle of the street, I could floor it and throw the wheel in a hard turn and spin the car aiming back the way it had come in a whirl of tire smoke and engine roar. It’s dual exhaust pipes would alternately burble, growl, or roar, depending on the demands I put on it, and I loved that car nearly as much as my woman.

It was the most comfortable, responsive car I have ever owned, and I’ll never own another like it. Roomy, clean, comfortable, two could lay, intertwined and cooing silliness into each others ears, on either back seat or front. When she was with me, I drove fairly sedately, but when alone, I was a terror. I drove like a madman. No more, though, no more…

Oh, get to it, man! This is what you came here for, right? Still here? Enjoying tasty little sips of my agony, are we?

Well, here you go…

The roommate wanted to stop by ‘our’ bar before we left school. She wanted to get a snootfull before we left, because she was a party party girl, dontcha know. We had thrown all of their crap into my car, most in the trunk, but the roommate wanted her little portable TV in the back seat with her, along with her stereo. It was the TV that would break her neck.

We stopped by the bar, and My Love wasn’t drinking, because we were already worried about her heart, and I nursed a glass of beer because I was handling precious cargo, and roomie guzzled for a bit until she was satiated and decided it was time to go. We went to stand up, and My Love slumped against me, and I held her until she came back, and I begged her to let me take her to the hospital. She said no, she’d be fine until Monday, and therefore chose another route.

We got into my car, and Hi Ho Silver, away we sped.

The roads were nearly deserted. A college town can empty out like magic on the weekend. We ate the road up, My Love there beside me, snug up against me, her warm hand on my thigh. She eschewed the seatbelt, that she might be closer to me, and her pretty legs were crossed at the ankles, resting there on the transmission hump, and all was right with the world. We were both realizing the coming agony of being separated for an entire weekend, and being incommunicado due to long distance charges. There was a sort of loving melancholia as my car ate up the distance much quicker than I would have liked. The roomie sat behind us, and left us alone for a change, knowing this would be our last time together for a while.

I know that I gave my car a name, but for the life of me I cannot remember what it was. But I’m sure that it was a female name. She had never let me down, and every part of her was perfect, and she died in agony and flame.

We finally got out of the more citified areas, and off the freeway, and into the rural countryside. Is that redundant? I don’t care, because the roomie was guiding me through some real hillbilly stickville. Except it wasn’t. Most of the homes spoke of money, little wild, country estates. I was desperate to remember all of the twists and turns, so that I could find my way back out of here, and then back in again to pick them up again.

The roomie told me that we were nearly there, and we were passing down a small street that was unusual in that it had houses on each side, several of them, a little country neighborhood. Suddenly, dogs rushed up all around the car, laughing and jumping and barking and just saying hello, and My Love became anxious and worriful that I would strike one, even though I was moving at a crawl, and I was becoming some anxious, too, that one of the little bastards was going to scratch my car, and My Love slumped against me, and her crossed ankles rolled off the transmission hump, her insensate, and knocked my right foot off of the gas pedal and under the brake pedal and I turned to push her legs away and rolled the stop sign I probably wouldn’t have seen anyway, it being covered with overhanging brush as it was, and I rolled out into the intersection and some good old boy in a pickem-up truck with his wife, going an estimated 120 miles an hour, T-boned me and sent my car 200 feet and My Love flew out behind me, out the window and was decapitated immediately and the roomie flew out and landed somewhere and I, safely in my lap and shoulder belt, sat slumped, unconscious in a burning car that was shattered beyond recognition.

The radiologist was trying to take x-rays of me, and I was slipping in and out from drugs and trauma, and he was having a tough time. I was shivering, probably shock, and he asked me to please hold still, and I tried, I really did. Then he said he had to take a picture of my left knee, and would I please turn it a little, and I tried, and pain shot through me like a bolt, and gave me the strength to push up on my elbows and look to see, and my leg was a nightmare of ripped meat, and glistening white bone. Hey look! I can see my kneecap from here!

I slumped back down and prayed for darkness.

There’s more, oh there’s more, but I’ve wallowed enough, I think. If you could distill the pain and anguish and loss of that time into a tincture, a bottle of it the size of a perfume sample would be enough to kill a grown man.

Moments of time still flicker, though, flapping by like the tape left at the end of a Movietone News Reel, little pictures that jump up onto the screen as they flip flip flip past the light.

Her favorite color was yellow. The funeral, closed casket of course, was redolent with the smell of literally thousands of yellow roses. The mourners stared at me, wondering who this scarred, broken man was, sobbing out his life in the wheelchair in the back of the church. Then the whispers, then more stares.

She seemed to have hundreds of family and friends. I had never met any. We had only had time for school, and for each other, and hadn’t gotten to the family stage.

It was a bit awkward.

My grief gave me cachet, though. Greater than any of theirs, even her parents, it was my passport, my badge. No one could face it and doubt that here, here sits someone who loved her more than any of you ever thought you could. More than even you, you who saw her first baby steps, heard her sing for the first time in church.

And, I had a witness. The roomie lived. Though she had no more memory of the crash than I, she had full memory of our love and commitment to each other, my dead love and I. She had shared in the gushy girl talk roommates do when the beau has left and his beloved dishes and they giggle and say filthy girl things and talk goofy romantic talk.

The roomie had heard My Love’s end of many long phone conversations, as she labored to study and ignore it.

She eventually came out of her coma in a few months. Wore one of those Halo neck/head brace thingies for awhile. Last time I saw her, one hand twisted up a bit, and she walked with a not severe but noticeable lurch. We cried together. She asked me, begged me not to kill myself.

Flip flip flip flip…images…

Me, gun in my mouth, smelling the oil, and the cartridges. Then, no, that’s not right, no one should have to see someone they love up in the front of the church in a closed casket. I stared at her death-box until they took it away. Then I went and mourned as they lowered her into the ground. I wanted to be in there with her so badly…

So I took the gun out of my mouth and pressed the muzzle against my broken heart, and ratcheted back the hammer. I was six ounces away from going to be with My Love, and I couldn’t wait. Joy mixed with anguish is a bitter ambrosia, indeed.

Something, her voice, maybe, said no, I don’t want to see you go like this. I can’t watch it. Can’t bear it, my love…live. Live for me.

And a warm hand closed over mine and helped me lower the hammer gently and I slid the pistol back into it’s holster.

I lived.

And died, every year again, on the 21st. For a long time. And then I looked into the eyes of my first newborn son, and thought I might see a bit of someone I knew once in there. And then another newborn, and another.

The Lord, He give. The Lord, He take away.

He gave me six beautiful, wonderful children, and now, I am married to the Greatest Love of my life. My first great love understands, I am sure. Heaven’s choir has it’s finest Mezzo Soprano, and my wife sings like an angel, too.

On earth, as it is in Heaven.

One thing before we go, here. I’ll just tack it here on the end, because I don’t know where else to put it. It is an anomaly, but it needs to be told, so I guess here is as good a place as any.

I have mentioned my wound. It was grievous beyond description, but clean. A precise knife cut in the shape of the number 7, paralleling and crossing over the top of my knee. It was the only real wound on my body. I was otherwise relatively unscathed, just a few bruises and scratches.

As I healed, I obsessed with the idea of seeing my car. The intersection. My memory stopped at My Love, slumped at my side, and to this day, I have not one recollection of the impact, nor anything subsequent, except for what I have related here.
I assumed something sharp in the car had gouged me, and that I had somehow crawled out on my own and passed out in the field. But I wanted to see.

My parents drove me to the wrecking yard where my car had been taken. I tottered out on my cane, wincing with every step, having just gotten out of the hospital the day before.

The keys still hung in the ignition. I looked around inside, and could find nothing that looked like it could have or had, indeed, cut me. There was no blood visible in or on the car, and I went over it carefully. Then, startled, I noted that my seatbelts had been cut, sliced clean through, as if by razor or scalpel. Hmmmm, that’s odd, I thought.

I scavenged a few things from the car…her family, their families had already gotten the suitcases and anything that wasn’t broken. I got our notebooks and shared projects book, and her notebook, with doodles in it, our names in hearts and such, that tore me open yet again; yet I still treasure them on a certain day in October, then lock them away.

Then, to the scene of the crime. My Dad had apparently been there, already, because he knew the way. I couldn’t have gotten there myself if you’d have held a gun to my head. Nothing was familiar. It was as if I had never been there before, and maybe this was all a dream.

And then the laughing dogs surrounded our car, and my blood went cold.

We were here.

As we slowly approached the intersection, I almost didn’t recognize it. All four corners had been mowed down close, cleared way back of weeds and brush, and four shiny new stop signs glowered in four different directions. Nice, big ones, and no bullet holes, neither.

This place was a shrine.

I asked my Dad to park, and I got out and hobbled to the sign I may or may not have been able to stop at. Have you ever had an opportunity to stand literally at the crossroads of your life? Where things changed in an instant? It was eerie.

I placed my palm against that sign, and then turned away and hobbled to my right, down the road, towards the impact crater, for that is indeed what it was. Every step hurt, and I relished the pain, the only penance I could perform. Also, I wanted to get in shape as soon as possible, so I could get back into our class, and finish it. Weird, huh.

I hopped across the ditch and hobbled several yards across the rutted field to where dried pools of fire retardant and my own, black blood spattered in and around a deep gouge in the earth.

Lost in my reverie, a voice startled me.

“Howdy…” and I jumped, and turned. “Sorry to scare ya, there, but I was talking to your Daddy over there, and he told me you was the fella that was in this here accident.”

I said that yes I was, and I noted that a small group of neighbors had formed around my parents car, and they were all smiling and talking.

To make a long story short, and because I am tired and at the end of this, just let me tell you what he said.

He told me that everybody heard the crash, and came running down the hill to see, and as they were running up to the car, taking it all in, and people running back to call 911, and it must have been chaos, and they notice a stranger, through the smoke, reaching into my car and lifting me out like a child, and laying me down on the ground and kneeling beside me as they all rushed up and milled around and then they noticed he was gone. They didn’t see how he got there, or how he left, and they never saw him before nor saw him again.

“Din’t even stick around long enough for us to say boo or thank ya or howdy do…” he told me, and then nodded wisely and said “Musta had warrants…cops was comin down the road by then…”

Yes. Musta had warrants. Or maybe be somebody who knew that, if left unscathed, I would have surely killed myself from the agony and the anguish and the terrible guilt of it all. That I needed my mark.

My penance.

Okay, I’m done.

Okay, We’ll Try This…

Wendy says Firefly suggested I put my ‘Best Of’s’ over here, so as to not clutter up my regular blog. Why not? We shall see…

When It Snows…

…it can fall so quietly, that you don’t know you are screwed until you look out the window, or try to open your front door.

That’s how I look at the state of the world today. The snow has fallen, and it is too late to dig out.

My End Times believing Christian family and friends all seem to think that there is going to be some big signs in the heavens, and clear warnings. I always tell them that it is happening, right now, in bits and pieces, slowly and surely, right before our unseeing eyes.

You go to bed in a free land, and wake up and are no longer in control of your home or your children or what you can do to your own body, or where you can go. Nearly everything you can do can get you fined and/or imprisoned if you do it in a way The State doesn’t appreciate. And The State is made up of people, people who make damn good money and great benefits doing what they do, and they will walk over your bodies and those of your children to hang onto them.

Every rule or regulation they make is ultimately enforced at the barrel of a gun, and breaking even the slightest infraction comes with the very real possibility of your death or imprisonment.

Think it’s not? Ever see a guy get ass raped in jail because he got picked up on a warrant for parking tickets? I have. AIDS: Anally Injected Death Sentence. Game over. For parking tickets.

Yes, we’re getting snowed in, and the temptation is to just go to sleep there, in it, and let the warmth and lassitude overcome you. It really is easier that way, you know.

Give up…

Bad Dreams…Sad Dreams…

It seems regurgitating one’s dreams in public has gotten popular in blogdome as well, so here’s one that has me sipping bourbon and feeling off-centered on a Sunday morning before 10am:

I was desperately trying to get to my oldest son’s High School football game where he was quarterbacking, and every obstacle that could get in my way, did. There was a flood, but I made it around the washed out road…there was lightning, and trees fell, but I finally made it to the stadium, and trying to find a parking space in this muddy field was impossible, so I finally said screw it and dumped the car and headed to the stadium entrance on foot…it was clogged with people, so I ended up jumping the fence and pushing and shoving my way through until suddenly, there was no resistance at all, and people began streaming back out towards the parking lot…I burst out onto an upper landing, hoping for just a glimpse of my son, but the band was filing off the field, and groundskeepers were beginning to clean up…I asked someone where the after game party for the players was going to be and he pointed in the direction of the other side of the stadium from where I was. Again, I ran and struggled to get over there, even vaulting a fire that someone had started to burn the leftover paper decorations and trimmings from a high school football game, and when I got to the picnic area where the party had been, everybody had already gotten on to several dark green, military buses, and were pulling away from me. They were all in some kind of drab military uniform, and I spotted my son in the window of one bus as he passed by, and I screamed and waved to get his attention, but he didn’t seem to see me and the bus pulled away…

I never made it to one of my sons football games…ever. Oh, I tried, but the divorce, work, and all of life’s other petty bullshit kept me away from him. I regret this more than I regret the death’s of some of my loved one’s that have passed on…

Be warned…

Perspective…

Some young Marines, yesterday, came upon a 4 year old Iraqi boy who had been cut in half by something fast and hot and final…the boy was still alive, and trying to crawl.

Our Marines did what they could, summoning aid and whatnot, but I think we all know the outcome. Had I been their NCO, I would have ordered them to move on ahead, and then knelt and gently put that child out of his misery…we would have all gone on to have our own special nightmares…later.

There is a job to do…it is messy, and only certain, very special people can do it. Compare the amount of deployed military to the population of just the United States alone, and you see that it is a very infinitesimal slice, comparatively.

I wish people would just shut the fuck up and back the fuck off and try to keep things in perspective. More people will die this Sunday in car accidents going to and from church than have died and been wounded and been captured and tortured to death in this whole fucking war.

And there will still be the story of a little boy, seeing his own guts laid out around him, and some young Americans who will never forget that image for the rest of their lives.

God Bless them all…

Once Bitten, Twice Fried…

At least 96 people were killed and 187 hurt after a Rhode Island nightclub erupted in flames during a ‘Great White’ rock concert Thursday night…I guess if you gotta go, half smashed listening to some good metal oldies is better than taking a swim with a Kennedy. I feel a little guilty, though, like when you hear a bus went over a cliff and you think ‘Yikes!’ and then you hear it was migrant farm workers and breathe a sigh of relief. A bunch of RI yuppie Democrats is pretty far down my scale of working up a good give a dang…sorry.

Now, if it would have been a Jim Jeffords fund raiser, I’d be actively celebrating. Instead I’m just annoyed at real news being covered up by the media anal exam they give every trivial story nowadays, though I must admit that the whole live-cam on the scene ‘Firestarter’ re-enactment is pretty cool.

As usual, I wonder what is going on in the real world that is being obscured by this Reality TV Rhode Islander Roast. And I can’t wait for all the crocodile tear ‘memorial’ ceremonies to start…little stacks of flowers, cards, and bears left by well coiffed fakers who are just hoping to get on TV while they pose for the cameras.

Ever notice how their mascara never runs, these pseudo-snifflers? And the cameramen, bored, always oblige by filming the hotties as they pose by the ‘makeshift’ memorial. Heck, go give those bears and flowers to some sick little kids in a hospital, these folks are just ash tray filling, now.

If someone wants to start a fund for those burn victims, though, mark me down for a donation, that shit hurts. If it were me in that hospital, I’d be begging someone to OD me with a tube of street H before I had to endure any more pain, and then spend the rest of my life looking like a fallen souffle’.

Oh, well, I’ve spent enough time grieving over this…

Fuck Germany…

I read a comment by some German where he complained about Americans reminding Europe of their debt to us for our sacrifices during WW2.

He says that no one he knows, including himself has ever suffered under a dictatorship and whatnot, so why does he owe us anything?

Hmmmm, makes sense to me. I’ll trade you liberals that, and you give me no more pestering about slave reparations, and we’ll call it even, okay?

Hey, I never fought in WW2, either, and I never met any of my relatives at family reunions who died over there, so I never got the opportunity to miss sitting around and talking with them.

I’ve got nothing to lose on this one, just shut the heck up about slave reparations and we have a deal.

Oh, and Kraut-boy? Don’t whine when we pull out our 80,000 or so troops that made it so you could ‘wake up in a democracy every morning’…don’t whine when your economy collapses because our military quit buying your crap and paying you rent.

And I’m sure your great German military will be able to keep you safe when we’re gone, and other countries start licking their lips at the fat little German baby that is laying unprotected in the woods.

Hey, call on your allies the French if you need anything, okay? Let me know how all this works out for you, buddy…auf wienersen!

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I think we should stop teaching kids about AIDS in school…it just ruins the surprise.

Dateline Sunday: The Shuttle Astronauts Are Still Dead!

There may be one or two people in the Amazon Rainforest, or on the steppes of Outer Mongolia who do not know this as yet, but everybody else on the planet, every minute of the day since yesterday morning, is absolutely sure that our shuttle exploded, creating a scattering of debris and deep-fried astronaut parts across the southern end of the North American continent.
I wonder if the family of the dead Israeli astronaut felt any better watching Billy Bob and Joe Bob and their dog wandering around the still smoking crash site yesterday. Do you think maybe King found himself a barbecued kosher snack?
Billy Bob: King, you drop that there rib bone raht now!

King: Grrrrrr….

Joe Bob: He means it yew dumass dawg, spit thet out raht now!!

King: Grrrr….snack…grrr…chomp…

Billy Bob: Sheeit, Joe Bob, I feel like shit warmed over, let’s go breathe sum more uh thet there smoke…

Joe Bob: Hey, looky here! Sum dum sumbitch dropped they moto-sicle hel-mutt!!

Billy Bob: Mine!…

Joe Bob: Mine…I done saw it furst! King! Quit a-sniffen around in muh new hel-mutt!! Whas thet you got there? Ewwww, now g’wan boy, you spit that out!…

Last I checked, Jews feel that dogs are unclean animals, and having one prance around, possibly lifting it’s leg and peeing…and yes, possibly even snacking on the kosher corpus of a loved one must be especially horrifying.
Lost in all of this are the three poor bastards up in the International Space Station looking down…. ‘Fuck!!! Ah Double-Fuck!! There goes our fucking ride! Oh, we are so fucked!!’

I want to see their videos on the NASA channel now.

Oh, screw you…I cried when I saw what happened yesterday, but frigging move on already! How many babies have died in car crashes in the last 48 hours? How many babies have been aborted and rendered into component, salable parts?
I never take news coverage too seriously, but puh-lease, give me a frigging break already…

I Talk With Real Marines A Lot…

Some of them are my sons.I have asked for an ear collection, but none of those worthless brown ones. I want the white ones from the ‘human shields’.

You who think to stand against us should be very afraid. All of your logic and pretty words are as nothing, when the bayonet goes in and twists…

And don’t think that you matter, there on the ground, because he is already moving on to his next victim…

Yeah, we gave them cookies and water in the last one…they surrendered to us in droves, and it was almost comical.

Of course, we buried a whole bunch of Islamo-turds in miles of trenches, but that was just the most sanitary thing to do, dontcha-know…

We didn’t have the images of our people falling to their deaths, then…the hard SMACK that made even seasoned firefighters flinch…

We didn’t have the images of couples leaping, hand in hand, to spatter many stories below, never to be buried together…

We didn’t have the image of our own planes augering into our own buildings, while our breakfast cooled unnoticed on the counters of our kitchens, while we decided to keep the kids home that day…

And then we saw the films of little raghead bastards celebrating, dancing in our own streets, and in the ‘Arab Streets’, throwing candy to cheering little Ay-rab animals…

The rage has been simmering, and now hundreds of thousands of us are going to descend on the first target and annihilate it, and slaughter until we get our fill, and then we are going to move on to the next target…

Why do you think we need all of those carrier battle groups for just one shitty camel-dump of a country?

Oh, just watch the dominoes fall, and watch people like me, here in the rear with the gear, use our highly trained skills when the Arab sleepers finally awake…

God is Great…

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I Heard The Other Day…

…that more people die from the flu each year than die of AIDS, and yet I fail to discern a flu ribbon on the lapels of the soft hearted and softheaded.Instead, I am expected to send my tax money overseas, so some African baby-raper can live another day to bust open some screaming little infant girls pussy, and then pass the poison into her.

I read today that two Palestinkian boys, ages 8 and 13, were apprehended in an Israeli community (in Israel) while they were in the middle of an attempted murder spree.

Yes folks, the little bastards are being ‘jumped in’ to criminal gangs like Hamas and Al Aqsucka’s. To ‘make their bones’, they must go forth and kill Jews. These little fellas were enthusiastic, but luckily for their targets, they just weren’t any good at it.

I don’t know why or how the little wastes of skin survived…Jews are either exercising restraint like I never knew was possible, or Jews are just shitty shots.

Some little raghead swine breaks into MY house and proceeds to fillet my little son or daughter, the Jews in the trash bag suits are gonna be sponging up bits of him from all over my house, later. Then I’d mail the little fuckers head to his mom.

I bought myself a little Koran the other day…

Ornate-looking piece of pagan gimcrackery.

I tried wiping my ass with a few torn out pages, but the resulting ink-stain on my starfish was hard on my briefs, so, instead, I now just tear off a page, and drop it down in the mess, and piss on it, and then flush.

Hey, you got your candle-light vigils, don’t mess with mine.

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I Just Now…

…had one of the proudest moments of my life.I had bought some cheap-ass cookies. You know the kind, the crisp creme wafers that come in white and pink and brown.

I was feeding my small children like they were baby goats at the petting zoo, and I munched one and gave my wife another, and, gourmand that she is, she began to inquire as to what was the ‘magic flavor’ that these cookies contain that makes you scarf the whole package and snuffle in the wrapper for crumbs.

Ever helpful, I opined that perhaps it was the “squeezings of the vaginal warts of the Prophet Mohamud’s wife”, whereupon she lurched quickly to the downstairs bathroom and vomited.

She is now sitting queazily on the couch as we speak, mopping her brow, and trying to hold back more gorge…boy is she pissed.

My other proud family moment was about six or seven years ago, when one of my now Marines was about thirteen or so.

I was joking around with one of his older brothers, while he was eating dinner by himself at the table, minding his own business.

I remember I said something about ‘giving an elderly woman head was like spreading open a grilled cheese sandwich’, and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him puke up quietly onto his plate…boy was he mad.

I think I may have dislocated a couple of ribs, I laughed so hard.

I was in a theatre some years ago, staying on the barf theme, and it was a horror movie, and there was some pretty enthusiastic mayhem going on up on the screen. It was graphic, and ugly, and there was no music, and you could hear the cutting and the gargled groans and the splash of blood and viscera, and you could just feel the audience all tense and primed…

So, I mimicked a real grotesque vomit sound, all “bluuuurrrggghhh” and all, and some chick a few rows in front of me just lost it, hurking wildly, and you could hear the splash bigtime, and then some chick behind me blew chunks, and a real puke-fest ensued.

It was awesome.

I’m guessing I triggered at least five or six full glottal pukes, and goodness knows how many other saliva drooling private hurk-fests (“I will not puke…I will NOT puke”uuurrrrghghghg).

I rule.

Oh, and the secret flavor is just plain old citrus.

These cookies rule, too.

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This Is All Just Too Depressing…

People going on like anything matters…like there will ever be a Christmas again, at least one where many of the presents don’t say ‘made in China’ on them.This is like watching a movie where a burning fuse is racing towards a keg of TNT, and no one in the film notices, no matter how loud you yell at the screen.

We are living in those last few seconds in Terminator 2, just before SkyNet drops the hammer on ‘life as we know it’.

Pundits are prattling on about their usual empty-headed nonsense, people care whether some frog twat made a pop’n fresh baby…even I care about the Raider’s chances to be in the Super Bowl, when I know in the back of my reptile brain that there is an excellent chance that Oakland will be under several feet of radioactive mud come this time next year.

Don’t agree?

Doesn’t matter…the trees whisper, birds migrate, spreading their virii…Norwalk, West Nile, maybe even Ebola, scientists say…doesn’t matter…the birds are getting lost, flying down chimney’s, looking startled and surprised…whole flocks of them.

Grown men have sex with little babies, film it, and then trade the pictures to other grown men.

Some of these babies were sold by their mother’s for drugs…and then those babies sometimes survive to become adults themselves.

Children are being taught from kindergarten on up to accept evil as good, perversion as the norm, and we act surprised when they grow up and kill us in our beds.

Don’t worry, though…because it’s too late to worry. Arm yourselves, store rations, it won’t matter…just save the last bullet for yourself.

Sweet Dreams…because you have been dreaming, haven’t you?

Dreams like you’ve never dreamt before. Do you wake at odd hours in the night, listening? Were those hoofbeats you heard? Do the dead ones from your past appear in your dreams as if it was perfectly natural for them to be talking to you? Do you wake because you just struck out in your sleep at something you were sure was peering intently into your sleeping face with a knowing smile?

The trees whisper secrets to each other…the house moans in it’s sleep, everyday things you’ve always taken for granted look somehow…different.

The end is not near, my friends, it is almost here…

Good night.

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My Worst Day, Ever…

Well, I’m sure you’re all happy to hear that I made it back alive from San Diego.

Yay.

The only terrorists I saw were the little Abu-Sayyaf monkeys working ’security’ at the gates. One of them, the broad with the wand, looked like a little gook hobbit…she could have blown me while standing. The wand looked like a rifle in her hands, and I could have had a pistol in a shoulder holster and she couldn’t have reached it.

As it was, I managed to smuggle in my Spyderco Police Model in my checked luggage…I ain’t gonna be unarmed down in jungle-land, I’ll tell you.

They have signs in the airport now that tell you not to joke around. They say they are serious.

Every so often some turd-worldian with a mouth full of marbles makes an announcement over the public address system that makes people look at each other with ‘what the fuck?’ looks on their faces. I felt really secure, sitting in the plane, with the back door open out to the tarmac that any diaper-head with a gun and a grudge could have waltzed through and right into the cabin, cuz they never once shut the cabin door until just before takeoff.

Ahhh, fukkit, we’re doomed.
I spent a lovely week with my daughter and sons, enjoying the Marine graduation ceremonies, then watching DI’s ‘kill’ recruits in the ‘Pits’ around the base.
I made a tactical error, though, last Thursday evening. I thought it would be a great idea to get a bottle of Canadian Mist and some beers and get plowed on Boilermakers, watch TV in the room, and get enough sleep so I could go to the Colors ceremony early in the morning.

I poured my shot, cracked my beer, and offered my sons a tipple, as well.

My hippie/goth son took his, and my Marine Sergeant son took his, and my daughter burrowed deeper into her book and her bed, disgusted with all of us.

My sons remarked on how smooth and tasty the bourbon was, and began to drink straight from the bottle. The trouble started when an acquaintance my Marine brought with him couldn’t handle his liquor, and began to talk shit. My goth son, insulted, and blind drunk by now, staggered outside saying he was “gonna fuggin hitchhike back to Oregon”; my Marine had left, and here I was, face to face with this drunk, raving stranger.

I was sitting at the foot of my bed, and this guy I didn’t know, had never met before, was talking major shit and getting all up in my face. This would have been okay, I could have waited until my Marine came back and took over, but my daughter tried to say something and this guy showed that he was willing to hurt us both. I knew there was no way I could take this guy in an unfair fight, and I could see that he was waiting for me to make a move, so I put my hands under my ass, sat on them, and offered him my jaw for him to hit…

…this guy was really beginning to scare me. I noticed that he would close his eyes and turn his head away briefly before he would get back into my face…

…by this time my daughter was crying on her bed, and I had gone completely combat sober…
…his eyes closed…I slipped my knife out of my pocket with my thumb, into my hand, under my ass cheek…his eyes closed, I opened the blade and held the knife open along my leg…I pulled my left hand out from under my ass and made a dismissive gesture to distract him…then I told him to shut the fuck up and either do something or quit boring me to death.

If he’d have grabbed me then, I would have cut the underside of his upper arm and then slashed him across the forehead to blind him with his own blood, and then I might of had to poke a hole in something important…
…without taking my eyes off him, I told my daughter to get the hell out and she rushed out of the room behind him. Then, almost anticlimactically, my Marine came back, the asshole left, and my son spent an hour apologizing for his buddies’ behavior.

Man, I love that guy…my son, I mean. I hope to never see or hear from that other guy again. I can�t remember the last time any man scared me that bad. I almost cut myself sneaking that badass knife back into my pocket.
My daughter found my goth son wandering around the parking lot with his pants off at three a.m., covered in mud, and she and her boyfriend thoughtfully brought him back and threw him in bed with me…

…in the morning, the sheets looked like I’d mud-fucked a herd of pigs…wonder what the maid thought about that one?
I had two very hung over sons the next day. The Marine held it back, but the goth puked several times, especially when I offered to go get him some raw oysters in tomato juice to help him out…ungrateful S.O.B.

Ahhh, I love him, too. A Dad worries, but I have really great kids in spite of all my efforts to fuck them up.
I just wish I was better at telling them that.

The Towers…

I think they should rebuild the towers exactly as they were, with the exception of incorporating modern improvements that were made and/or discovered since they were first built. This would include mounting Phalanx weapons systems and anti-air missiles, staffed full time on the roof, changing watch only by helicopter (I think every large city in America should be protected this way).

Two new towers would be the best ‘Fuck You’ we could say, and the best memorial for the big puddle of American DNA that would be buried honorably underneath them.

I think we should, today, send nuclear capable cruise missles, most unarmed, into the heart of every muslum capital city and ‘holy’ site on the planet, televised live on CNN via ‘missle-cam’, with a presidential address to follow.

Mr. Bush would just say, “you’ve had your warning shot, next time they’re real. The next attack of any sort on American soil, the missles will be armed. The next attack on American interests any where else in the world, the missles will be armed. As you can see, all of the missles that I sent to Iraq today…were armed. Do not test my resolve, or the resolve of the American people, or we…will…bury…you. I have ordered today that all American embassies be closed in every muslim country we have them in, and in any country that supports terrorism. This includes France. I have also today ordered every non-western embassy in the United States closed, and have had all of their staffs deported. Each country so effected may petition to reopen their embassy’s here, with an understanding that any act of espionage from here on out will be considered an Act of War, and will be dealt with severely. All aid to these countries has been suspended until they petition us for aid, and agree to follow certain guidleines and restrictions regarding trade, human rights, and other issues as yet to be worked out with the Secretary Powell and the State Department. Any Act of War or terrorism against the State of Isreal will be considered an Act of War against the United States of America. This will be reevaluated if and when the current PLO government is replaced with a genuine, fairly elected, constitutional democracy. Hear my words, fear my country, and do not doubt that we have the will to do what is necessary.”
Yeah…I wish.

Marital Bliss…

Well, I’m sending my wife away for the weekend to a quiet place in the mountains for a ‘retreat’, away from me and the squallin youngn’s…don’t need her freaking out and engaging in an act of terminal child-bathing cuz she never gets a break, and she snaps one day.

The husband of that crazy bitch in Texas, you know the one, bitch got a ‘little overzealous’ while teaching her kids to snorkle… he should be thrown, bound and naked into the cage of a Viagra’d up mountain gorilla…and did you see that malignant cunt on Fox News today, slugging her four year old daughter? She goes in the cage next. First (and lesser) offenders should be forced to watch the video tape as a warning that next time it could be their ass getting reamed by Koko and his Big Pink Banana.
Fuck privacy, I’m glad that the proliferation of security cameras is catching people like this baby-bashing douchebag…I wanna reach up her snatch and rip out her reproductive organs, like a bloody distributor cap and some spurting plug wires…some people just aren’t fit to breed, and they’re just gonna pass on the disease to their kids. I’m almost afraid to see how that poor little girl turns out, assuming she survived the beating.
I once assisted a DA Homicide Investigator in securing a piece of evidence from a crime scene…the evidence was the entire west wall of the home’s dining room. The wall was decorated with several interesting and colorful blood-spray patterns, indicating where some animal rat bastard had bashed his toddler son’s head against it many, many times. The DA felt that it would be an effective exhibit to wheel into the courtroom for the jury to see.
It was.

Running Bear, Loved Little White Dove…

I’ve decided to become an American Indian, now that some tribes will let anybody join.

I don’t know which Indian name to choose, though…maybe you can help me out? I’m thinking of ‘Stands With a Boner’, or ‘Fucks With a Fist’, or maybe ‘Farts With a Lisp’. We’ll see.

I want to start my own Casino, and make treaties with foreign governments, and launder money through dummy corporations funded by the White Man’s Guilt Money. I want to be able to sell time shares on my new Reservation for foreign terrorists to come and train….yeah, try to tell me that shit ain’t going on right now.
I think I would make a great Indian. I had lots of practice playing one when I was little…well I was mostly the cowboy, sure, but I can be every bit an Indian as those fat assholes that dress up in ‘authentic’ outfits and yodel to made-up indian songs they heard in a John Ford movie somewhere…Indian music is so you can sing when you’re too drunk to remember the words…and bonking a drum with one stick don’t take too much talent either, baby.
I’ve worked security at more than one powwow, lemme tell you. Insurance companies insist on ‘diversity’ in employment before they’ll cover the event, so I was always the only White Boy (‘Head Up His Ass’) crazy enough to volunteer. The Real Security, big injuns who were pissed cuz they had to stay sober, warned me to stay close to them…everybody else there just wanted to kill me…they looked at me like I was the last bonbon on the plate in a fat womans lap…fucking savages.
We would catch the indians (‘Falls With a Thud’) as the alcohol shorted out their synapses, and they dropped like a wet sock. You could watch them start to shudder and sway, like a redwood with a chainsaw up it’s ass…then we’d cart em off to the ‘drunk tent’, two of us carrying them, one at the head (I always took the stinky feet, cuz feet don’t puke) to keep em from dieing from sunburn…we’d prop ‘em on their side with a roll of towels wedged under their back so they wouldn’t roll back, puke, and die…then we’d go out to get another one.
Yep, I think I wanna be an Indian.

All Volunteer Military…

I can think of three words that should paralyze our enemies with fear, if they had the brain power between them to power a piss-ants moped one turn around a dingleberry…

‘All Volunteer Military’

…think about it…

“We all cared so much about our country and our way of life that we joined up, gave up our freedoms for a time, make shit wages, put up with grande servings of bullshit, all to get the opportunity to kill you and your family members and flatten your shitty turd-world country ON PURPOSE!!!! Yeah, you little cocksuckers BETTER run…but wait, I hear yer regrouping…goody, here’s another phrase I hope you intercept before a Big Scary Noise goes off over your head…”troops in the open!…Fire for effect!!”

A zipperhead by any other name is still a zipperhead…they never learn, so ever so often you gotta respray. Mercy is something you leave in a little box at home when you leave, and hope you can find your way back to when it’s over. Rules are for pussies and fools. There is no more Marquis, and his rules merely glossed over the savagery that was going to occur anyway.

These ragpickers…these snaggletoothed filthy degenerate boy-fucking retards in filthy nightshirts, will rape our prisoners of all three sexes. They will torture for information and amusement, but mostly for amusement, so ‘just roll on your rifle and blow out your brains, and go to your God like a soldier’, as was written once by one who knew.
Boys and girls, if it won’t take it’s hands out of it’s pockets’s, shoot it full of holes…if it turns around to walk at you and makes pleading motions with it’s hands, shoot it full of holes…you are the enemy, they want to die killing you, your duty is to assist them as cleanly and humanely as possible…unless, of course, you need one screaming in agony to freak out his brethren and cause them to make a mistake.

Hey, they’d do much the same for you…

Semper Fi

Hearing Today…

…that the Liberal-tarian Party supports ‘immigrant rights’ is the last straw for me. I’ve been skeptical about them all along for their drug stance, now they just may as well run Nader as their candidate.

What limp-wristed assholes…there will NEVER be a successful third party in a nationwide election in this country, and the other two parties are nearly indistinguishable. It’s been said before, if you want the job, you shouldn’t be allowed to have it.
I think every American at the age of 18 should have to take a test, kinda like a cross between the SAT’s and an immigrant style citizenship test, and get a certain score to be able to participate in the benefits of society, i.e, get a driver’s license, drive on public roads, etc.

From this pool, a supercomputer would pick, lottery style, people to fill in every position from President on down. Then, elections will be held for every position every four years, and Americans will vote with their social security number for the candidates. Any irregularity (i.e., multiple uses of a number) will lead to that vote being discarded and a letter generated to the last known good address of the SSN holder to allow them to clear things up. Any candidate who fails to recieve a certain percentage of votes would ‘lose’ and be replaced by the computer. Fraud carries an automatic death sentence.

Voting would last one week, and your voting receipt would give you one month out of the next twelve to be tax free, and be an automatic entry into a National Lottery where the pot is never below $50 million dollars. There would be no term limits.

Every candidate chosen for governerships on up would also have to take a psychiatric exam. All successful candidates would be paid extravagantly to avoid the temptation of corruption, and would remain tax-free for the rest of their lives, even those serving only one term.
Those pigs in Washington would never allow such a thing, of course…I think I hear the Black Helicopters already. I better go get a last beer outta the fridge before they kick in my door…goodbye…

Man, I Hate Mexicans…

Brown Americans (or any other color American, for that matter, ‘cept ragheads) are okay, but damn furriners piss me off…especially the illegal ones.

And any foreign cocksucker who comes here and won’t assimilate (and I include whites in this, too) should be killed as well. I hear bullshit about how illegals are breaking the law to ‘better themselves’ or their families, and I wonder what would happen to me if I commit a crime to help out my family? What about an omission, like not paying my taxes? Illegals don’t file income tax returns, why should I? They benefit from the taxes I pay, shouldn’t I be able to grab one and say “c’mere, fucker, mow my lawn”? Or, say, screw his wife to make up for how long I’ve been getting screwed by the IRS so spics can come here and screw out pillsbury popup ‘citizens’ and screw up our medical and educational systems?

These little brown turds are why a fucking Tylenol costs $40 in the hospital and my kids don’t use the lunch room at school anymore…because, forget it, if there’s a spic in line ahead of you, and he gets near the front, he motions for twenty-five other little cockroaches to get in front of him, and lunch is over before you ever get there, so your kids either don’t eat, or use their hard earned wages or allowance to go down the street and buy something at the store.

Check out the average cafeteria menu…you’ll see nothing but spic food, cuz those are the only assholes that eat there anymore…and God help you if you fight one of them, cuz then you gotta fight every fucking spic who ever lived, and their sisters. I normally think sexual harrassment is mostly bullshit and made up, but my daughter had two little spic fucks during PE class that were openly ogling her and touching her and driving her so crazy she was about to drop out before I came in and intervened. I had to do it extremely slyly and carefully, so the little bastards didn’t know where it was coming from and try to hurt her.
I have knocked mexicans on their asses in stores because they walked straight at me as if I was expected to move…surprise, assholes, I carry guns!!…pukes.
And it ain’t just the spics. When I was a cop (yeah, ponder THAT for a minute), we had a problem with the local Hmong who would heat coins red hot and press them into their kid’s flesh to ‘chase out demons’, or decapitate a dog and nail it’s head to your door as a warning of some sort.
But spics rule for being fucked up. My Mom was an RN in a psych ward where one of her patients was an elderly mexican woman from a wealthy mexican family. She’d had a breakdown and attempted suicide because she was tired of her male relatives fucking her all the time. She got an attorney and was trying to get asylum to stay here, but her family got the US State Dept involved, and one day they came and took her ‘back home’. It seems that a spic family tradition is to have the older women of the family be obligated to let the younger males fuck them whenever they get the urge…oh, yeah, and in the Napa Valley of California, it is a routine event for a mexican male farm worker, on the way back to mexico, to kidnap a young (8-13) year old white girl, rape the shit out of her all the way there, hook her on smack, and have her working in his field somewhere like a fuckin donkey til she dies. The whole community is in on it, because they turn her back over to him when she tries to escape.
Man, I hate mexicans…

Hey, I Gotta Tell You…

These cunts who marry Ay-rabs, and then whine about losing their kids, like that major whiner-cunt Pat Roush, can just go fuck themselves as far as I’m concerned.DUH!!!

What did you expect, you raghead wannabe douchebags!!!

Ooooh, lessee, “I sold myself to this dark-eyed romeo (gad, go fuck a spic…they’ll be greatful, and mexico is a lot closer to get your kids back from) and now I’m whining because because he, following his religion, beats me with a stick, and takes my kid back home where I have no rights at all?”

These loser sluts who apparently can’t get a decent Amurrican to fuck them, so they start bottom feeding…well, they can all just go hang.

By the way, if I see another fucking firefighter or cop memorial today, I’m gonna puke.

Where are the monuments and ceremonies for all the janitors, pizza guys, secretaries, and hot dog vendors?

I am SO conflicted by this whole 9/11 thing…if you would have asked me before 9/11 if I would have liked to see those shitheads in those buildings get blowed up…I would have enthusiastically said “Hell Yes!!!”

The Pentagon? Why not?

Congress and/or the Senate? Fuckin A!!!

Then it happens, and I gotta pick which victims make me sad and which don’t…

Every time an angel farts, another faggot croaks, that’s my philosophy.

One of my sons was almost in the Pentagon that day, and I’m glad his meeting was canceled, but I can shed no tears for that bloated military industrial bureaucracy getting center punched…

I regret the loss of the passengers and crew, and I hate it that the tools used against us were these subhuman wastes of chromosomes and skin we label as ‘ragheads’.

But, my basic philosophy still holds…don’t bitch about the ride when you bought the ticket.

Eight years of Clinton and her Whore, and thirty years of escalating decadence…

Yeah, we bought and paid for our future.

Deal.

.

Men And Women…

…are two alien species that just happen to be able to interbreed, and achieve a little enjoyment whilst doing so.

Each species is dependent on the other or it would die off, so they’ve formed a sort of give and take truce over the ages in a mutual contract for survival.

Men are thoughtless, unfeeling idiots; Women are thoughtful, all-feeling idiots, and it’s a wonder either one can make it across a room without falling and sticking a fork in their brain and swallowing their tongue and dying.

All of their offspring are self-centered little ‘tards until they begin to gestate and become dangerous to themselves and everyone around them by causing the most car accidents, shootings, surprise pregnancies and bad movies and music.

Then they get old enough to where most movement hurts in some way so they do less of it, tend to cause less trouble (except for the ones who circumnavigate the country in steroidal, goiter-like ‘motor-homes’, blocking traffic for hundreds of miles) and wait for whatever dreary death that was inevitable from the moment they jumped through the love-ring and into their first experience with latex.

So, there, get used to it, deal or not. No woman can be trusted in a jewelry/Costco/clothing store, and a man in a hardware or electronics store will come out feeling like every fleeced rube leaving a carnival has ever felt…guilty and a little flushed, like he just tongue-kissed Gramma for his allowance.

The jewelry will sit in a box, the reciprocating saw will sit in a box, and your kids will bitch about having to try to unload all your crap at the garage sale they will throw after you’re dead.

Hope this helps! Your mileage may vary…