My friend Sasha is a wonderful person, but she's tragically unhip. Why, you ask? Because she doesn't have one of the attractive posters such as that you see at the top of the right sidebar.
Obey Butterstick. Land! Peace! Bamboo!
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Why I Love the Maryland Terrapins
Because I'm completely bugfuck psychotic, that's why.
Because I'm unhinged, that's why.
Because I'm a fucking deranged moonbat, that's why.
I will hope that some future Landru looks back, remembering this day, and laughs.
My hope is likely to be futile.
Because I'm unhinged, that's why.
Because I'm a fucking deranged moonbat, that's why.
I will hope that some future Landru looks back, remembering this day, and laughs.
My hope is likely to be futile.
Shut The Fucking Fuck Up
This is really not a very complicated thing. There are a series of facts in play here, to wit:
If you shoot someone--that is to say, if a gun goes off and hits someone, and you're the person who pulled the trigger--it's your fucking fault. The gun didn't shoot someone. You did. Just ask the fucking NRA. Ought to be easy enough; you're funding them. There is no explanation, there is no justification: it is your fault. You done wrong.
When you are a public official, and you shoot someone, and you deliberately contrive to keep the story out of the news for 24 hours, you have done a wrong thing. There is no explanation, there is no justification: it is your fault. You done wrong.
The Vice President shooting someone has nothing to do with Ted Kennedy being drunk 37 years ago, or with Bill Clinton smearing an intern's lipstick, or with Vince Foster's suicide (the latest in a pathetic series of non sequiturs raised by fascist apologist and self-loathing racist nightmare Michelle Malkin). If you see any connection between these events, I humbly suggest that you shut the fuck up before someone sensible deprives you of your privilege of communicating with the rest of humanity. Seriously. You're an embarrassment to protoplasm. Shut the fucking fuck up, you lying shitbird.
Historical comfort: the last Vice President to shoot someone while in office was also an unmitigated scumbag.
If you shoot someone--that is to say, if a gun goes off and hits someone, and you're the person who pulled the trigger--it's your fucking fault. The gun didn't shoot someone. You did. Just ask the fucking NRA. Ought to be easy enough; you're funding them. There is no explanation, there is no justification: it is your fault. You done wrong.
When you are a public official, and you shoot someone, and you deliberately contrive to keep the story out of the news for 24 hours, you have done a wrong thing. There is no explanation, there is no justification: it is your fault. You done wrong.
The Vice President shooting someone has nothing to do with Ted Kennedy being drunk 37 years ago, or with Bill Clinton smearing an intern's lipstick, or with Vince Foster's suicide (the latest in a pathetic series of non sequiturs raised by fascist apologist and self-loathing racist nightmare Michelle Malkin). If you see any connection between these events, I humbly suggest that you shut the fuck up before someone sensible deprives you of your privilege of communicating with the rest of humanity. Seriously. You're an embarrassment to protoplasm. Shut the fucking fuck up, you lying shitbird.
Historical comfort: the last Vice President to shoot someone while in office was also an unmitigated scumbag.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Enough
Yes, yes, you want news. And you want it from me. And I only give you news when I'm avoiding other things I should be doing. And my avoidance mechanism hasn't kicked in for the last six weeks or so, because my self-preservation mechanism has been overspeeding.
Okay, the rundown: Ilse and I got married on Friday the 13th, which was also Lee-Jackson Day. The best man was our friend the Wheezus, and the matron of honor was our friend Purple. BlackdogRed could not be troubled to attend, the first of my many weddings which he has missed. Something about open-heart surgery, or his sister's funeral, or feeding hungry tribespeople in the Amazon, or something. Selfish fuck. Same for my brother, 32-Ounce, who was busy raping the government in the ass, or vice-versa. Thanks to Wheezus and Purple for making sure that our witnesses weren't county employees.
I am more or less fully employed, which means I actually leave my cavern about three days a week. So far, those days have been whirlwindy, and I haven't had time to steal time from my employers by blogging. That may sort of start to ease on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. When I am working at home, my avoidance mechanism leads me to other things besides blogging, Civ4 and NHL Hockey 2006 being the other things of the moment.
Yesterday, I went to the cardiologist. He told me things my heart surgeon hadn't told me. Things like "You're going to die," and "We're going to crack your chest," and "Your coronary arteries are more clogged up than we told you earlier." These things explain the general pastiness and the shortness of breath and the abject failure of December's cardiac procedure to enable me to respire when I run up the stairs. These things are not good. I am losing weight very gradually, and I will quit smoking soon. Smells like more overhaul work in the next couple-three years, though. And, of course, I'll just get all that fixed in time to die of cancer or a Malkin/Duke-inspired aneurysm anyway.
In world news, they're still pigs. Muslims hate us, so the best course is to hate them back. Anything short of return hatred is coddling, Communism, or cowardice. Administration officials lie without consequence, and shoot their friends with impunity (breaking Texas fish and wildlife law in the process, I hear). Then lie about it, without consequence. After attempting to cover it up, without consequence. Then use it as a rhetorical weapon against us when we bitch about it. The first person to suggest, in my physical presence, a correlation between Ted Kennedy's driving and Dick Cheney's weekend misadventure, will be the victim of a felonious assault. And the world will be a better place.
Actually, the correct response to a suggestion of any correlation there is that you'd rather hunt with Dick Cheney than ride with Laura Bush. Then, at least you're defending yourself when you commit the felonious assault.
In local news, it's cold. And it snowed. There are those who did not wish to believe me when I said there would, most affirmatively, be a mid-February snowstorm, because there always is. They're crying now. And sliding. And cold.
In television news, there is no television news. I am told that a new season of Survivor started recently; I haven't seen it, and I don't intend to. I'll watch the finale in a few months, because there is some tradition that must be respected, but my intent as of right now is to watch it cold, without having watched any of the rest of the season.
In sports news, the Terps suck, speedskaters, figure skaters, and freestyle skiers are pussies, and the U.S. womens' hockey team, which I sort of dig, will win the silver medal after taking an unholy whipping from 20 Quebecois chicas named Danielle Omelette and Pauline Dusalope. I have decided that the way women look in hockey equipment is a crime against nature, and a particularly unkind one, at that. I still watch, though, because beating the snot out of Commies in hockey is what made our country great, and I expect it to continue to do so.
More sometime. Apologies to those of you who keep clicking this space hoping to find something. Try Tuesdays or Wednesdays, for now.
Okay, the rundown: Ilse and I got married on Friday the 13th, which was also Lee-Jackson Day. The best man was our friend the Wheezus, and the matron of honor was our friend Purple. BlackdogRed could not be troubled to attend, the first of my many weddings which he has missed. Something about open-heart surgery, or his sister's funeral, or feeding hungry tribespeople in the Amazon, or something. Selfish fuck. Same for my brother, 32-Ounce, who was busy raping the government in the ass, or vice-versa. Thanks to Wheezus and Purple for making sure that our witnesses weren't county employees.
I am more or less fully employed, which means I actually leave my cavern about three days a week. So far, those days have been whirlwindy, and I haven't had time to steal time from my employers by blogging. That may sort of start to ease on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. When I am working at home, my avoidance mechanism leads me to other things besides blogging, Civ4 and NHL Hockey 2006 being the other things of the moment.
Yesterday, I went to the cardiologist. He told me things my heart surgeon hadn't told me. Things like "You're going to die," and "We're going to crack your chest," and "Your coronary arteries are more clogged up than we told you earlier." These things explain the general pastiness and the shortness of breath and the abject failure of December's cardiac procedure to enable me to respire when I run up the stairs. These things are not good. I am losing weight very gradually, and I will quit smoking soon. Smells like more overhaul work in the next couple-three years, though. And, of course, I'll just get all that fixed in time to die of cancer or a Malkin/Duke-inspired aneurysm anyway.
In world news, they're still pigs. Muslims hate us, so the best course is to hate them back. Anything short of return hatred is coddling, Communism, or cowardice. Administration officials lie without consequence, and shoot their friends with impunity (breaking Texas fish and wildlife law in the process, I hear). Then lie about it, without consequence. After attempting to cover it up, without consequence. Then use it as a rhetorical weapon against us when we bitch about it. The first person to suggest, in my physical presence, a correlation between Ted Kennedy's driving and Dick Cheney's weekend misadventure, will be the victim of a felonious assault. And the world will be a better place.
Actually, the correct response to a suggestion of any correlation there is that you'd rather hunt with Dick Cheney than ride with Laura Bush. Then, at least you're defending yourself when you commit the felonious assault.
In local news, it's cold. And it snowed. There are those who did not wish to believe me when I said there would, most affirmatively, be a mid-February snowstorm, because there always is. They're crying now. And sliding. And cold.
In television news, there is no television news. I am told that a new season of Survivor started recently; I haven't seen it, and I don't intend to. I'll watch the finale in a few months, because there is some tradition that must be respected, but my intent as of right now is to watch it cold, without having watched any of the rest of the season.
In sports news, the Terps suck, speedskaters, figure skaters, and freestyle skiers are pussies, and the U.S. womens' hockey team, which I sort of dig, will win the silver medal after taking an unholy whipping from 20 Quebecois chicas named Danielle Omelette and Pauline Dusalope. I have decided that the way women look in hockey equipment is a crime against nature, and a particularly unkind one, at that. I still watch, though, because beating the snot out of Commies in hockey is what made our country great, and I expect it to continue to do so.
More sometime. Apologies to those of you who keep clicking this space hoping to find something. Try Tuesdays or Wednesdays, for now.
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