This Blog Is Closed…

…for now, anyway. The babe at Chromed Curses fixed me up, and I’m running again. I will be back here at The Original Home Of BaneRants, with (maybe) light posting here in future. I might use this place as a mirror. Depends on how much effort I have to exert.

There’s a lot of things I like about this blog here, but the other is home, and I have it set up just the way I like it. I’ll keep the other new Blogger blog up as a spare, in case I neck-fuck the original again. Damn, I’m gonna miss this blogs categories thingy. Whatevah. I will keep an eye on the comments, here, and if anyone acts like a turd, I will moderate the comments, so behave.

Anyway, LL (Loopy Libertarian) is my new hero, and she earned her link, both here and there, with clusters. I can’t believe all the people I had try, and she does it in like ten minutes. Fucking genius.

Too bad she’s such a bitch…

Vote With Your Feet…

Well, right now, I’ve got hardly any voters at all. My traffic has died, but I know who my friends are!

So, here’s your chance. I have three blogs, as of this week, all parallel universe versions of BaneRants. Out of courtesy, I have been posting the brain-cramps that fall into my head on all three sites, for the most part.

I like WordPress, I really do. It has nice aspects. I am still not satisfied with it, and it bewilders me as yet, but I like it.

I am terribly fond of my old blogger blog. Though it vexes me, as it is a poor, broken thing. My archives went to shit, and I blame WordPress, for shitty transfer code. Yet, it is broken, and has been for some time. Still, it has my ads, and my tip jars, and the bloggy things that make me smile. WordPress’s sitemeter app is Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition, and even if I could figure out some way to display it (guess what: I can’t) I wouldn’t, because it is illogical and stupid, and doesn’t synch with any time in any known universe.

My new Blogger blog is shiny. And new. And everything works. I would have done it before I went to WordPress if I had been thinking clearly, which, obviously, I was not. It looks more Baneish than the WordPress blog, though it is austere, and looks kinda high school.

One of my dear, dear friends and patrons made me a .jpg of my old blog flames that appears to be perfect in every way, yet I lack the skill to insert it.

So…I think I have answered my own question.

Fuck you, I do what I want. I will continue to take the extra minute and a half to post at all three, and count up the comments on all three in a few weeks, and make my decision then.

Back to square one…

 

The Poo Containers, They Plot…

I hear them there, there in their big brown bag, whispering and giggling. They know they intimidate me, and they can smell fear.

Yes, I have been even more procrastinary than usual, and have put off collecting my Secret Sauce, and yes, I could die from such behavior, but quite frankly I do not care. In fact I believe I’d rather.

Oh, to be sure, I’ll have a good look at my poo, before sending it on it’s way to the Poo Men. Okay, I might poke at it a bit, to uncover some interesting looking treasure, but actually handle it on purpose? Egads. 

Aha! My Mom is a nurse! And she’s both seen my bum and handled my poo before. Of course, it has been awhile.

I am vexed. We have finally found something the wife won’t do for me. Well, that, and let me push in her little hemorrhoid I gave her by virtue of too much, shall we say, enthusiasm on my part. It’s not that she holds it against me, it is more that she refuses to, no matter how I beg. When Gargantua attempts to slip near there, she tenses up, and her hand begins to slide towards the 5 cell Mag-Lite she keeps by her bed.

He and I slink off, bereft, yet she will make no butts about it.

Pity me.

Once again, I did not win the lottery, so I am unable to hire someone to handle my poo for me. Instead a bunch of meat-slinging yahoos and Viet Cong get it.

There goes my investment portifolio…

 

CRAP!!!

I give up. This is something you’d hire a negroe for. Or me.

I am still not finished with February, and I’ve been at it nearly eight hours. My sinews ring with pain.

I think I write too much. Perhaps if I delete all but one post a week? Keep my favorite? Repair it, and move on?

DAMMIT! I see people, when I am in top form, and I mean LOTS of people, mining my archives for MONTHS of my nattering! I shan’t be able to wipe my own ass at this rate, from the Carpal Tunnel.

Crappitty crap crappitty crap crap. I shall doubtless piddle down my leg, tonight, for being unable to control Gargantua with my weakened, suffering digitii.

Oh, why did I write so much? This is just stupid.

I am highly pisstivitated.

 

Pity Me!

I am just barely through repairing the month of February on my original Blogger blog. My shoulders burn, my eyes water, and my fingers ache.

Yet I will not be bested by this foul demon! Mordor beckons, and the Ring weighs me down, so.

Hold me, Sam, just hold me…

 

Premature Articulation…

I may have spoke too soon. I think maybe my nice shiny new (and free!) McAfee Privacy Suite is blocking the write window of WordPress from opening. I have to turn off all privacy options to blog, now.

Is this worth the aggravation, I ask you? I’m the kind of guy who when a pet gets sick, goes and gets the gun. Why people spend money on their pets, unless it is to save a valuable breeder, is beyond me. Sure, I get sad whenever Ladyfish dies, but geez louise, my ex boss has sunk over $10k into his German Shepherd for hip replacement surgery, among other things. I’d have sunk a bullet into it, long ago.

I even told my parents they better watch it. Anything Medicaire can’t handle, they’re walking out on the ice.

So you can imagine my joy over my sick blogger blog, and at having to click off my privacy to post, and then type in my password each time.

Never make a lazy sociopath reevaluate whether you are worth the effort to pull back into the boat.

Speaking Of Archives…

Have you ever seen a grander piece of writing than this?

…have you ever seen a more flagrant piece of propaganda? ‘Palestinian Militants’…that’s like calling Jeff Dahmer a ‘Serial Chef’.

Damn I’m good. I will be sorely vexed if my archives bite it.

Update:

AAAARRRGGGHHH!!!

I am so annoyed! Somehow, last night, all of my posts on Blogger had all of their formatting removed, and now they are just lumps of words!

FUCK BLOGGER!

Somewhat Distracted…

As I settle in here, and tinker around with Blogger over there, things may or may not lag in the creativity department. I can get pretty obsessive/compulsive over technology when it gets funky with me.

Yet, it has recently been brought to my attention that life is, indeed, short. I shall endeavor to cease, or at least cut down on, sweating the small stuff.

Watching The Batman cartoon this morning with the kids was not small stuff.

As the wife prepared to go to work, I told her of my dream last night where I found a guy living in one of our closets, and while he threatened me with a fork and a butter knife, I held him at bay with my Spyderco while I frantically signalled her to bring me the nearest gun. She goofed around, pretending to not hear me and acting stupid, and finally my Dad brought me a pistol, and I held it on the loony fucker in my closet and then zip-tied him six ways from Sunday.

I was in an absolute rage at her. I bullied her into standing up straight and keeping her hands down, and I slapped her hard in the face, several times, all the while telling her what I would really do if she ever fucked up again like this. My Dad and my uncle were on the couch, nodding approvingly, saying that well, sometimes you just gotta discipline your woman.

I told her all this while she was putting on her make-up a bit ago, and she grounded me from watching TV anymore. Damn.

Well, this WordPress thingy has some bells and whistles I really like, better than Blogger. But mostly I feel like I’ve been dropped into a spaceship hurtling to it’s doom, with all of the controls unfamiliar to me, and all of the labels in Cryllic.

I did not really want to learn programming.

Sigh…

Update:

One thing that is driving me insane is the date/time is wrong for both posts and comments, and fixing it looks more arcane than I care to handle. Do any of you WordPress fans know a simple fix for the simple-minded?

So, Where Was I?

 

…Out through the night, an’ the whisperin’ breezes, to the place where they keep the imaginary diseases…

 

As you may have noticed, I have been somewhat sickly of late, so my last two days were spent in and around the VA hospital in Portland. My grandfather died in one, and if things are as bad as they could be, I’ll likely do the same.
 
Or not. If I do die, expect light posting. And for me to live-blog it. With photos. I will call it the Death Cam, and oh will my hit count rise. Imagine my joy.
 
I had a pretty lame physical, and one of their vampires took about a cubit of my blood  for testing. To her horror, I pretended to faint, after, when I stood up. I rolled my eyes up into my head, showing her the whites, and fell limply towards her. When I stopped and opened my eyes, the look of horror on her face was worth the whole day. I had been my usual big-sissy self when being stuck with needles, looking away, up to the ceiling… “Is that you, Momma? I’m comin to ya! Oh, so that’s what they mean by ‘going into the light’…” The fun you have at the expense of others is the finest kind, I think.
 
I sent a urine-gram to the lab for testing, as well, and brought home a big sack full of different items with which to collect and store my poo for testing. Now that job right there goes on my list of worse jobs to have, opening that package. She handed me the bag, and I said “What am I supposed to do with this, poop in  it, set it on fire, and ring your doorbell?” She said no.
 
She said they had to test me, and I frowned, and said I wasn’t ready, because I hadn’t had enough time to study for it. She said that these vials I had to fill at home, with my handy new white plastic cowboy hat (adds new meaning to the phrase ‘Go shit in your hat’, don’t it) were just preliminary, and that I would have to come in later, prepared to poop. I said that I would eat a big ole enchilada dinner so I’d be prepared with plenty, but she said that would not be necessary, just to eat normally the night before. I raised my eyebrow knowingly and said ah yes. Whiskey, and pistachio nuts. Then I told her I was kidding, and that I didn’t drink whiskey. It would be wine.
 
And apparently, it is bad form to refer to your handy dandy urine holder cup thingy as a ‘communion cup’, or your poo storage tube thingy as a ‘wafer plate’.
 
I have a lady doctor, and I am sure she is pondering a colonoscopy for me. Right now, I am fielding phone calls for appointments to various specialists, and I shall be doing the back and forth thing here in a couple of weeks, no doubt. I waited three hours between appointments yesterday, bored out of my mind, surrounded by germ infested snot factories. One does not go to the hospital to get well, but I am feeling poorly enough to alarm me, so oh well.
 
There are two people in life you do not lie to, ever. Your lawyer, and your doctor. I told her things I haven’t told my wife, and in the end, she ran her finger down the computer screen, counting. “Hmmmm, I see at least fifteen things here that need immediate or near-immediate attention…”
 
Great, I said to her, why couldn’t I have just gotten the nice quick heart attack I had been hoping for? Why do I have to deconstruct like a zombie?
 
She looked at me funny.
 
I did not get the felonious finger, which was bittersweet. On the one hand, you’ve got a woman’s finger up your butt, and on the other hand, well, you’ve got a woman’s finger up your butt…
 
As a matter of fact, the whole affair was pretty limpid. I was the last patient (now I know why they call them that!) of the day, in a government facility, and baby, it was close to closing time. People’s gots places to go! I’ve had more enthusiastic pat-downs from TSA workers at the airport.
 
She poked and patted and prodded me, here and there, but I never once disrobed. I wanted to get naked, but I didn’t get to so much as remove my shoes. Oh well, you get what you pay for, I suppose, and I pay exactly nothing.
 
By the way, my troopies, all of my military readers…DOCUMENT EVERY FUCKING THING THAT HAPPENS TO YOU, NO MATTER HOW TRIVIAL YOU THINK IT IS, OR HOW BRAVE AND TOUGH YOU WISH TO APPEAR TO BE, OR HOW MUCH YOU GET HARASSED FOR GOING ON SICK CALL!
 
And do records checks on yourself, often. It’s your right, no matter what they try to tell you, and you’ll thank me one day, when that chipped tooth you went in for during training gets you free dental care for the rest of your life because it is listed in your PRF as a service related injury. And that’s the key phrase, ‘Service Related’. If it ain’t Service Related, it didn’t happen. Make sure that corpsman or whoever gets that paperwork in your med file, and transport all of your records to your next duty station yourself, if you can.
 
Man, I don’t know which I hate worse, poor people, or old people. Probably depends on which one I’m looking at. Some Mexican broad there in one of the waiting rooms had let her little bitty toddler completely piss himself, and then, of course, like they all do, run around unsupervised to show everyone how cute he was. And I mean he was soaked, literally, from the chest down, as if he had been dipped in a pool. Urine was squirting out through his parka when he moved, and sheeting down and dripping on the floor.
 
And of course, I, being the Alpha Dad, and magnet for every little snot-nosed pants-load that comes along, get to scamper around and dodge him like a little bitch, because he wanted to latch onto his big new daddy’s leg and give it a hug, and I would have punted the little fucker into the ornamental shrubbery, except I didn’t want to get my boot wet. It was disgusting. I had to keep matadoring his little ass until my business there was done and I could escape.
 
Plus, it is probably not wise to piss off a Mexican in a place that is nearly all staffed by Mexicans, when your very life may depend on one of them to not be pissed off at you and fuck your gringo ass over even more than usual.
 
I tell you, I needed that beer I drank on the drive home.
 
 
.

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…

I Must Confess That I’ve Been Slumming…

I didn’t really know I was slumming, but the hints were there. I just chose to ignore the signs, because I was enjoying myself.
Isn’t that how it always goes? I was goofing off in http://www.right-thinking.com
and in http://kimdutoit.com.

The problem? They call themselves conservatives, and they pretty much tend to talk the talk. But they are both pro abortion, pro drug legalization, pro faggotry, and so on.

Yep, stealth liberals. It makes me genuinely sad. I am literally feeling so betrayed that there is an ache in my heart. Bet you think I didn’t have one of those, eh?

Well, I’m out of there, even though I really enjoyed the interplay and liberal bashing. I still like the guys well enough who host those sites, I just can’t, in good conscience, hang out there anymore.

This is why the only true friend I have is my wife, because she and I agree fully on all of the truly important issues.

I’ll meet someone who I think ‘hmmm, maybe I could make a friend, here’ and then they say something to the effect that ‘what two consenting adults do in the privacy of their own bedroom doesn’t effect me’ or ‘anybody who is anti-abortion and pro death penalty is just a hypocrite’ and the blatant wrongness of statements such as those, and all the other claptrap that proves they are another successful graduate of the American public school system, just knocks the wind out of me.

Oh, I could sit around in a bar with them and shoot the shit (except I don�t go to bars anymore), but I realize that true friendship will just not be possible unless one of us changes…and I’ve spent too much time and research, and have too much experience to change now.

Is that why I blog? Because I’m lonely?

Hmmmm, it’s possible…

Well…

I just got a call from one of my Marine sons who had signed up and contracted for a supply MOS, just passed all of his training and testing in the MOS with flying colors, and is now headed to Kuwait as a grunt…Oh, he’ll be guarding supply lines, but that is about as close as he’ll get to ‘Supply’.

Tell your young’ns this cautionary tale when they come to you with a desire to volunteer.

It just pisses me off that contracts aren’t honored any more. It bugs me that he’s going…heck, I wouldn’t want him going there as a tourist…and I could understand it if he was needed to replace a combat casualty, but this appears to me to be just more GI chickenshit.

My other Marine is gung ho to go, but they won’t let him go…appears he’s more valuable as a recruiter, hustling more wide-eyed innocents in to get fucked over.

Oh well…

.

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.