Okay, here it is. I may do separate posts, or just add to the end of it, according to my whim and my whimsy. Or I may just get sick of it and let it die.
This is raw, unedited writing. I (kinda) spellcheck as I write, but this is pure, unadulterated first draft. I may or may not tinker with it. I may or may not let you see it. I will print it out in its current form, and every so often, and send it to myself as a certified letter, and leave it unopened until such a time I get rich in court from some potential future thieving dumb-ass.

Have fun, and:

Do Not Read This…

I mean it. You have been warned…

She rocked there, in her chair, in the sunlight, the poor cooling thing held against her chest.

Rocking. Cooling. Her eyes empty.

The chair creaks, and groans, as if it, too, cannot bear this burden…

At some point, she realizes that instinct has taken over, and that she has opened her robe, and set it to suck, there, once warm, now cool against her breast. Which aches, full of milk. The nipple, bereft, yet eager, but little blue lips just refuse to take it, and the tiny moist sound they make as she tries, pulls her mind out of that special reverie mothers go into when they feed their young, and…

She begins to scream…

DO NOT READ THIS!!! (pt 2)

Her left heel drummed on the hardwood floor, for a bit. Then her right, for a bit more. Then both heels. Then her body bowed, pushing her up into a near perfect arch, then her buttocks, clad only in a nightie, smacked back down to the floor. She lay still, for a while.

Motes danced in the sunlight for a bit, and all was quiet. For a bit. And then her fingernails began to castanet on the floor, then her hands clawed, peeling up curls of wax, and then she awoke, and sat up, a whoop of air leaving her lungs…

Not to be replaced.

She was hungry. In another life, she might have described herself as being ‘a bit peckish’, because she was too much of a gentlewoman to ever have said she was starving, but she was…

Starving.

Her avid eyes scanned the room, and settled on a bundle, wrapped in a fuzzy blue blanket, seemingly dropped there…abandoned. She flipped to her hands and knees in a trice, and scuttled across the floor, turned her head like a dog, snapped down, and began to…

____________

Pastor Hammis opened the door to his mini-van, and crunched his left loafer down into the white gravel of his driveway. After a pause, the right loafer joined it, and he stood up, outside of his vehicle.
Behind him he vaguely registered the side door sliding open, and more crunches as his other three children joined him there, in the afternoon sunlight.

The service had gone well, and things had proceeded swimmingly, until the after-service potluck began, and then the situation had become, as his Dear Old Dad, the previous Rector, would have observed, and labeled as ‘problematic’.

He reached back into the van, between the two front seats, and brought out the heavy aluminum pitcher, that had held smoothies not just an hour ago, and then been covered with blood and hair, for a bit, and then, because Little Sarah screamed and seemed to want to roll up into a ball when she looked at it, he had taken the box of Handi-Wipes from under the seat and wiped it down.
Still, it couldn’t cover up the round dents, here and there, on the outside of the casing. He sighed. Turned to the kids. “You coming?”

Todd looked a little pale, and he and Sarah sat down in the edge of the open cargo space. Millicent set her jaw, and stepped up beside him, and fished out her new house key, which she had only just newly been entrusted with at the beginning of this school year. She was a big girl, now. And brave.

Sam Hammis, Pastor of his flock, Priest of his home, sighed, looked toward the front door of his quiet house, and stepped forward…
_________________________

Don’t Read…Well, You Know The Drill…

…and glass sprayed outwards from the upstairs bedroom. The ‘Baby’s Room’, as they had all come to call it.

Pastor Sam’s wife came flying out and down, like a special effects shot gone terribly awry, but the snap of her forearms breaking, and the crunch of her kneecaps and forehead as they met the gravel was all too real.

As Mommy’s face raised up, her forehead embedded with chunks of white gravel, her lower face festooned with what looked like blackberry jam, and maybe small bits of pulled pork, Millicent hitched out a small cry, and dropped down to the drive, to sit for a while.
Behind Sam, he heard thumping as the other two sought refuge deeper in the van.

Pastor Sam brought the pitcher up, almost languidly and looked at his reflection in it. He noted that he had ‘missed a spot’. Had they been doing the dishes together, he could just hear his beloved wife chiding him. Gently. Sweetness was her hallmark.
He saw that in the spot he had missed, was a bit of dark matter, and some hairs. He nearly succumbed to hysteria when he asked himself the obvious question: “Which one of these is from the skull of my Dad?”

He noted that there were a couple of blond hairs there, amongst the silver, and a few short brown ones, and his reverie nearly killed him…

A stony scuttery sound brought him out of his fugue, and he saw his beautiful, loving wife crab-crawling across the white gravel towards him, mere feet away, her wrists flopping, like a rag doll’s, her legs akimbo and dragging, her eyes blazing, and her jaws snapping at his daughter, seated there, with a terrible purpose, and…

He brought the pitcher, up and over, and down, and smashed the base of it hard, onto the point where the nine bones of the skull of the woman who’s virginity he had taken…been given, on the night of their marriage when they were both nineteen years of age…

She cracked like a three-minute egg, and dropped as if all her strings had been cut, and her most secret sauce leaked out all over Millicent’s buckle shoes, and began to spread up her pale blue socks, threatening to go all the way to the frilly lace anklets.

His wife’s fingers clawed in the white gravel, weakly, and mercifully, briefly, then stopped, and he dropped to his knees, and as he began to vomit helplessly on the one true love of his life’s body, he could only hear his daughter choking back screams, and no sound at all from the van.

They all well knew, by now, that they were not alone…

Don’t Read This…

Pastor Sam looked down at the pitcher in his hand. Look Ma, more hair. Blood.

He looked up to Heaven, and saw nothing there. How much can one man take…

His gaze swirled back into the yard, and beyond, and whatever instinct that had kept him…them, alive up to now, targeted his vision on a man, just over there, standing in the shadows of a line of Cypress trees that his grandfather had planted along the drive long before he was born, into this terrible day.

He saw the man light a cigarette, the flash of the match, and then a hot finger dug into his chest and pulled him, staggering forward, then the color washed out of his world, and all became black and white, and…

His wife’s eyes were still open, though clouded. Nobody’s home…

Her hand was relaxed, now, the ring, signifying their love, and commitment, glinted in the afternoon sun, and he pushed his hand across, through the marinara that had spilt, and tried to take her hand in his, and…
…his head jumped up off of the gravel as the high-powered round, point blank and from just a few feet away shattered his brain and turned off all the lights in a spray of white powdered gravel and blood pudding…

A trail of smoke that was not cigarette smoke curled up from the fat cylinder screwed on to the front of the man’s big automatic, a man who did not, in fact, smoke cigarettes. And he was taking it all in. A girl whom he did not know at all, her legs spattered up to mid calf with a dead woman’s (her mother’s?) ocher, her eyes rolling like a calf, as well, he…

…took quick aim and phutted a round between her eyes and she arced back and crunched into the gravel, and vibrated for a bit, but she wouldn’t ‘come back’. And they tended to, when touched by the fluids of ‘the contaminated’, as he had come to think of them. He put the muzzle of the weapon to his own temple, and heard the fine hairs there sizzle and curl. After he was dead, no burn would form, he was confident of that, and…

…a choked cry from the mini-van made his hand target the open cargo door, and…

He strode forward, Death Incarnate, and did a proper search, and…

Two children. Covered in stains. Some from earlier. Some fresh. The eyes of the boy begging him. For. Something. The girl’s he couldn’t see, because her face was buried in the boys neck, and chewing like she just hadn’t been raised with any manners at all.

He took two steps back, and his gun spoke for him, twice. Gas sloshed in the tank for a bit, and then stilled, and the man absently dropped out the magazine into his hand, slid in a full one, dropped the slide forward with the press of a lever, and…

The wife and I were watching Boston Legal last night, and Tom Selleck was on. Now, I am not envious of too many men on earth, but I have always wished I looked like him. Even old, now, he is a friggen stud.

I paused the show, and told the wife this, that even now, I wished I looked like him.

She snorted and said “On his best day, he’s not as good looking as you…”

Not true, but it made me feel good. I said that, and she got pissed, and told me to shut up.

Women…

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.

…of all of the pics I have ever posted here, ya think? I just checked, and the file is HUGE! Many pics I have just collected on my own, and never posted. Probably at least 50% more than the oldest old-timer here has seen. At least.

Cartoons, titties, dead ragheads, goofy stuff.

Hmmmmm…

I better take advantage of this while WordPress is up again. The ‘Write Post’ function has dropped in and out all day. How I suffer for my art!

I started another Blogger blog at http://banerants2.blogspot.com. It works flawlessly. Note to self! Back-up template into Word before fucking with it!

Sorry for being so boring today. The free ice cream has been pretty bland, huh?

Shit, try having blogger remove the formatting from every post you’ve ever written over more than three years and see what kind of day you’ll have.

/whining

The new ca-ca-candy snack for coprophiles! Little brown chunks of bountiful, bootyful goodness, and they’re halel, so you can serve them to your Muslim sheethead friends!

So, what’s the first thing that popped into your head when you woke up this morning? Or should I say ‘pooped into’…

Get Off My Lawn!

It has come to my attention that people that I do not like have come here, rummaging around and leaving fingerprints on the inside of my monitor screen.

Go Away! I hate ya! Don’t make me rock-salt yer ass!

The rest of you…go get me another damn beer.

Need Another Reason To Hate Catholics?

I don’t, either, but here’s one, anyway.

Boy-fucking men in dresses…what’s not to love?

Bring It On, Part II…

This cheers me up. I just hate it when they hide.

I just hope that raghead ain’t lying…making stuff up. This world needs a good Nuclear High Colonic, and somebody has to start it.

Fingers crossed!

All Right, You Bitches…

It seems some folk come here, just for me being nasty. Since I can’t help myself, that’s about as pitiful as setting up a strobe light on the sidewalk, and waiting for some unfortunate epileptic to come along and spaz out.

Hey! Sometimes I think! And, like, have an opinion…about stuff…

Dudes/ettes…it just don’t matter. Rent a storage unit, and put 55 gallon drums full of fuel, ammo, and batteries…and other stuff that it is going to be difficult to get ahold of when civilization falls…

…soon.

If you’ve got a basement, or bunker, so much the better.

Wormwood is coming…

Sari About That…

Hey, maybe you assholes should move? Or set up tents…on a trampoline. We don’t need to invade Iran. We can just put a bunch of people on the border, and have them jump up and down until the whole place falls over.

Man, doesn’t the morning weather girl on Fox News look like some Sorority Babe that I used to shag, or what?

Friday? Already?

Thank God.

The Goddess Ann Speaks!

Go, ye, and worship!

I just finished watching her as she deftly eviscerated that Irish nigger pig O’Reilly on his own show…her clit is bigger than his alcohol preserved little Gherkin…

WHAT THE FUCK!!!!

Dammit!…O’Reilly has to be the love child of Madeline Albright’s pussy-fart, cross-breeding with Al Franken’s skidmark…he is not worthy to chew the stains from Rush’s speedo…

FUCK!!

Ain’t THIS Some Shit…

Articles like this make me want to invent a time machine and go back and abort bureaucrats who are responsible for debacles like this.

Instead of baby wipes and cookies, should we be mailing them cases of ammo?

More Cuntism…

Read this, and tell me again why you want to pay any ‘Institution of Higher Learning’ one penny to ‘educate’ your kids.

Just get it over with quick, like pulling off a bandage…cut their genitals off, ram a crochet hook up their nose and fish around for a bit, and BINGO! You got a libtard!

Save a LOT of money that way…

I’d almost Forgotten…

I was reading a post on Road Rage at this blog, and was driven to comment thusly:

It helps when you point a gun at them.

Parenting is a skill.

Indeed…and there are many more stories too numerous to mention here.

And yes, the statute of limitations is past.

It’s Hard To Rant…

…yet somehow I manage. It is 10ish on a Sunday morning. I have just spewed two unique posts in ten minutes. I am eating cold pizza and drinking a glass of wine. Can life GET any better than this?

I called one of my sons yesterday, and told him I was afraid that Something Bad was about to happen, because things are going Too Damn Good.

There is always a moment of warmth and bliss, just before Life inserts the glass-encrusted dildo right up your rectum, with perhaps more enthusiasm than such an event warrants.

Nevertheless…

Hmmm, let’s see…

My motherboard on my old computer fried last Sunday, and between then and now, I have built a badass P4 Game Monster (the parts of which were a birthday present from last year) and I have become a member of a gun range, a birthday present from this year.

So, Friday after work, I went to my orientation for the range. I took guns. I have a confession to make…

Bane has not fired a gun in seven years. Except for drunken, back-yard shooting during holidays, and the covert sniping of various house pets, wildlife, and miscreants. But today, I am surrounded by gun parts in various stages of cleaning, and typing on a computer so fast that I have yet to see an hourglass.

I was up til 2am loading games, just so I could watch the beginning videos. OOOOO! Ahhhhh!

My toughest decision today is whether to go see ‘Troy’, or finish cleaning my guns and go back to the range. Or both. Or finish my wine and go back to bed.

Sigh…this can’t bode well…

Man, I Hate Catholics…

I just watched this stupid-ass catholic twat of a senator or congresshithead on FOX News (“We’re so fair and balanced we have Geraldo and Eleanor Clift on the payroll!”)…

He was being flagrantly catholic (no, I will not capitalize a false religion), yet he is one of 48 of his political swine-kind, holding office, representing many of the People Of The United States, and yet still whining about how the church is threatening to suspend them from engaging in paganistic ritual acts of cannibalism, if these psuedo-catholics do not quit supporting the murder of infants, and other assorted acts of barbarism usually associated with the Democratic Party.

If you are a catholic, tough. Change your Evil Ways. Get over it. Study your ‘religion’, it’s roots, realize you are a pawn of satan, and repent.

And remember, odds are that the fingers slipping that cracker into your mouth have more than likely recently been wrapped around a little boys dick.

Rinse with the wine, spit on the shaman, and go home and watch Nascar.

…come The Judgement, you’ll thank me.

“4,000 Acres Lost…”

No they weren’t dipshit. They’re still there, they’re just all burned up.

I mostly don’t care how you manipulate the language. Heck, I even enjoy Ebonics. But the circumulous, illogical, nonsensical blather the News-twats use in an attempt to ‘describe’ an actual person, place, thing, or event just serves to rewire the gullible into a new paradigm of thought.

And there lies the danger…the creeping quicksand of dis and misinformation is swallowing us slowly, and wholly.

The next society is going to come upon our hat, quivering on the surface of the pool of muck that swallowed us, and wonder what went wrong…

Yippy-Ki-Yay, Motherfucker!

Happy Tank Day, Palestinkians!

I see that the Israelis are helping you celebrate Tank Day with even more enthusiasm than usual. This bodes well. You think Sharon reads this blog? Heh. If gunships hose a street full of Hamassholes during a funeral, I’ll know I’ve got a Big Fan.

Palestinkians? Hey, if they can make up the name of a nonexistant people and a fake country, so can I. Ditto for Jordan.

If you’ve read the above mentioned link, have you ever seen a more flagrant piece of propaganda? ‘Palestinian Militants’…that’s like calling Jeff Dahmer a ‘Serial Chef’.

That GW can even think about giving the ’stinkians any legitimacy at all, illustrates just how clueless and bankrupt he is and always has been. He has Saudi DNA all over his chin, and is every bit and more the crook his dad was…and Clinton was just the twisted bookmark between those two sorry chapters in history.

How much do you want to bet that Saddam goes free, and eventually regains power? Hmmmm? A sucker bet if I’ve ever seen one. My money says by next Christmas. Mark this spot.

Kerry is not an option. Get your ass up off the couch and vote for Bush, just so I don’t have to look at that moon-faced buttfuck for four years. Then wipe your ass with the vote receipt, and mail it to the White House.

Rumsfeld and Franks deserve all the credit for the amazing success of the invasion of the Middle East. That victory was the Bush Administration’s to fuck up, and they are doing an admirable job of it.

And is it my imagination, or does Tom Ridge use Preparation H for lipstick? That purse-mouth putz must have to push an M&M into his mouth with a pencil. Sheesh.

I’m listening to Rush cap on Kerry’s daughter for ’showing her tits’. Lay off, Rush. Even a moron knows that sheer dresses allow certain flash settings to go through and reflect off of the skin. Besides, they were nice tits.

On a side note: The Olympics are all about showing off your country’s flag. I will not watch one second of the Olympics. Any of our athletes that participate, under the ‘no flag’ rules, should be ashamed of themselves. My family will boycott any product they endorse.

Fukkem.

Hey, Vox, Whaddaya Think Of…

…this?

This looks like it could be one of the horsemen of the Apocalypse, to me, but what do I know.

I can foresee a situation where they attack us simply because of a fear of losing the economic war, with much of the pre-Pearl Harbor panic Japan had because of the various economic denials Roosevelt was laying on them (i.e., steel, rubber, and oil).

Hmmmm…