I'm not going to say a word. I'm not going to comment here about it at all. All I'm going to say is, READ THIS.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Read This
I'm not going to say a word. I'm not going to comment here about it at all. All I'm going to say is, READ THIS.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Electile Dysfunction
From Urbandictionary.com:
Electile Dysfunction:
The inability to become aroused over any of the choices for President put forth by either party during an election year.
"Is anyone appealing to you in this years presidential race?"
"Naa… No one excites me. I think I'm suffering from Electile Dysfunction."
And the solution is found at Boundandgags:
Voteagra
Do you find yourself with the inability to become aroused by any of our choices for President of the United States of America?
Then you may suffer from Electile Dysfunction.
If that’s the case take Voteagra.
This was brought to my attention by the lovely Danni
Electile Dysfunction:
The inability to become aroused over any of the choices for President put forth by either party during an election year.
"Is anyone appealing to you in this years presidential race?"
"Naa… No one excites me. I think I'm suffering from Electile Dysfunction."
And the solution is found at Boundandgags:
Voteagra
Do you find yourself with the inability to become aroused by any of our choices for President of the United States of America?
Then you may suffer from Electile Dysfunction.
If that’s the case take Voteagra.
This was brought to my attention by the lovely Danni
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Running On a Treadmill, Goin' Down and Down
I went to the gym because it's cold and raining outside.
Oh sure, the rest of the country has lovely white snow. In Memphis we get gray wet shit that may or may not turn to ice and drop our powerlines. Again.
Anyway, I needed a run. I wanted to do something else. But I looked in the mirror and concluded that I needed a run. About a 100 mile run. But as my lunchbreak isn't quite that long, I settled for a shorter one.
I got on a treadmill and I slowly worked my way up to a good speed. I stared from TV set to TV set as they all either talked about Obama, Hillary, or how the stock market analysts all swore we should sell everything RIGHT NOW as the market is diving, and right after we did, they all bought up all our sales at dirt cheap prices and went yachting with big fat smiles on their faces.
Four miles on a treadmill is mind-numbingly painful. This gym being so small and sparsely populated is a double-edged sword. When I'm lifting weights it's great to be left all alone so I can focus on what I'm doing. When I'm on the treadmill forced to look at Oprah's big fat face, I'd much prefer that some good-looking women come in and run with me. I may be only vaguely aware of their presence, and they may bring seriously unappreciated drama to the gym when there are too many of them, but I swear to God, even a little drama is better than what I had.
One of the channels appeared to be talking football. But they kept intermingling it with clips from the Brady Bunch. WTF? And then they had several of the Bradys on, too, all grown up. They'd switch from Tom Brady to Greg Brady and then show a clip of Marsha being hit in the nose with the football. I guess it was supposed to be funny. Maybe if the sound was on I'd have appreciated it better?
One TV was on CNN, but the subtitles were hosed and taking up over half the screen, so all I could see was the tops of people's communist heads and then a big black rectangle covering the rest with the odd phrase "Hnnnnnnnnggggggggg" written across it. I guess whomever was responsible for trasnscripting the dialog for deaf people must have died and fallen onto the keyboard?
CNN reporters
Fox News was on another one of the TVs. I don't know what they were saying, but they have a female reporter who looks like a living, breathing Barbie doll. I swear, if they ever make a Barbie movie, she should play Barbie. She's hot. Even without knowing what she was saying, I liked her. I assumed she was saying nice things. About me. To me, in fact. To be frank, I think she was hitting on me.
It was then that I suspected I may have run far enough. I was seeing spots and my sweat had turned cold. The Fox News lady had asked me to marry her and I had said 'yes'. We were going to honeymoon in Australia. Something seemed odd about the whole scenario, but I wasn't complaining.
Why am I running?
Oh yeah. Time to stop and take a shower. And put my brain back in. Damn, that treadmill running is boring as hell.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Lucky Night at the Bar
A guy had an interesting experience recently involving an "older" woman he met at a bar.
She looked pretty darn HOT for 60. She was drinking quite a bit and, while they were chatting, she came right out and asked him if he'd ever had a "sportsman's double" - a mother and daughter threesome.
He said no, but she might be able to talk him into it.
So she slams back one last drink, wipes her mouth and, looking directly into his eyes, says, "Tonight's your lucky night."
So they go back to her place.
She clicks on the hall light right as they enter, and she shouts upstairs:
"Mom! You still awake?"
* Emailed to me by Stacy the Peanut Queen
She looked pretty darn HOT for 60. She was drinking quite a bit and, while they were chatting, she came right out and asked him if he'd ever had a "sportsman's double" - a mother and daughter threesome.
He said no, but she might be able to talk him into it.
So she slams back one last drink, wipes her mouth and, looking directly into his eyes, says, "Tonight's your lucky night."
So they go back to her place.
She clicks on the hall light right as they enter, and she shouts upstairs:
"Mom! You still awake?"
* Emailed to me by Stacy the Peanut Queen
Thursday, February 21, 2008
The Wall Street Journal Attacks for Hillary
WARNING: political commentary and excerpts from actual piece of political propaganda in this blog post.
I may not have the black vote, but I got the gay vote
The grrlz of the Wall Street Journal are absolutely freaking out over Hillary's failure to stomp out the Black Usurper, so they've broken out the big guns. They've hired a hitman named Jonathan Kaufman to write an inflammatory piece intended to enrage all the women who aren't voting for Hillary by trying to convince them that this whole thing is a white male conspiracy. I won't post the entire article, because it's boring, but I'll go over a few highlights with a little commentary just for fun.
The title of the article is "White Men Hold Key for Democrats". Right away, I was asking myself, "what the fuck are they up to? Neither political party will acknowledge white males at all, and now a Leftist is? What gives?"
So let's take a look:
"In a Democratic presidential nomination race that pits a black man against a woman, the victor may well be determined by white men.
The working-class white men who toil in the steel mills and auto plants here are part of a volatile cohort that has long helped steer the nation's political course. Once, blue-collar males were the bedrock of Franklin Roosevelt's New Deal coalition. They became "Reagan Democrats," helping to propel Ronald Reagan into office in the 1980s. Bill Clinton won many of them back to the Democratic Party in 1992. Two years later they were "angry white males," resentful of affirmative action and the women's movement, who helped Republicans capture Congress."
Hmm, it didn't take even two full paragraphs for him to slander us as "angry white males", a bigoted phrase used exclusively by the haters among the Hard Left who couldn't figure out what went wrong in 1994 and wanted blood in revenge for their losses (as always.) And his explanation as to why white males voted the way they did in 1994 is as insulting as he could make it, accusing the white males of being "resentful of affirmative action and the women's movement", as if either of these subjects were ever even mentioned in 1994, as opposed to the nationwide screaming about giant tax increases and radical 'social programs' they funded. I guess when all you have is a big Marxist hammer (how appropriate), everything becomes a damn white male capitalist nail.
"Now this group of voters is set to help determine the Democratic nominee, and the next occupant of the White House. Working-class white men make up nearly one-quarter of the electorate, outnumbering African-American and Hispanic voters combined. As the Democratic primary race intensifies, some of these white men are finding it hard to identify with the remaining two candidates, Sen. Hillary Rodham Clinton and Sen. Barack Obama."
Never before have I heard or read of anyone in the Press or anywhere else, for that matter, acknowledging that white males make up such a large percentage of the voters, and that we might actually be of some value or influence if ever given a candidate who will stand up for us. The problem is, we haven't been given such a candidate, not ever.
"Blue-collar men could also emerge as an important swing constituency in November -- either backing the Democrats' eventual nominee, or shifting to some degree toward Sen. John McCain, the presumptive Republican nominee, whose war record and straight-talking approach could make him appealing to many working-class men.
Marc Dann, Ohio's Democratic attorney general, frets about the reluctance of some of these blue-collar Democrats to embrace either of his party's candidates. "I worry about [the appeal of] McCain," says Mr. Dann, who lives in Youngstown. "It's not like watching an episode of Archie Bunker -- but there are real issues" that white male voters here have with Sen. Clinton and Sen. Obama."
Notice how the perception from the hard Left is that any white male who doesn't support their candidate is something out of "an episode of Archie Bunker", a preachy, rather bigoted show that hasn't been on TV since the early 1970s. And then he comments that "there are real issues", as if anyone not voting for Clinton or Obama is clearly just not educated enough on the issues and must be ignorant and prejudiced. This assumption is, of course, unchallenged in the article.
"Working-class men are generally defined as those without a college degree, including union members and workers with service and technical jobs, typically making less than $50,000 a year. They are especially crucial in Ohio, where they make up about 28% of the vote, as well as other battleground states including Michigan (about 27%), West Virginia (33%), Missouri (27%), Minnesota (27%), Pennsylvania (27%), Wisconsin (29%) and Iowa (34%).
In Youngstown, many working-class men say they will vote according to issues, especially economic ones including health care, free trade and the loss of manufacturing jobs. But in conversations in union halls, bars and factories, race and gender are never far from the surface. at least, not in the minds of a radical religious fanatic from the Church of Progressive Political Correctness, where race and "gender" are all that anyone ever thinks about, and hate is everywhere they look, if only because they themselves are so filled with it.
"I don't think the country is ready for a woman president yet," says Duane Tkac, a burly vocational instructor at a prison here and a member of the local branch of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters union. "The country is in too much turmoil. I don't think she can handle the pressure, the terrorists." He plans to vote for Sen. Obama."
It must have taken a long, long time and lot of free alcohol to ply a statement like this out of old Duane here. I've never yet heard such a statement from any white male and I've been one my entire life. Either that, or true to the patterns of the journalists on the self-righteous side of our progressive media, he just created this guy and his statement out of thin air.
Ah, but what a perfect statement for inflamming women, eh? What a great way to stir those young, educated girls who have chosen, despite the best efforts of elderly New York feminists to force them to 'choose' Hillary, to instead vote for Obama! Those ungrateful fools! But what a work of pure propaganda genius! Goebbels would be proud! This is reminiscent of the great Time magazine issue of the late '90s entitled "Is Feminism Dead", which was nothing more than a piece of a carefully orchestrated membership drive by the wealthiest female supremacists in Media and the Whitehouse at that time, and which was quite successful.
Why no one reads Time anymore
"Don Pompelia, retired from the Air Force, supports Sen. Clinton. "I'm hoping Hillary gets the nomination. But if she doesn't, I'm not voting for that guy. I'm going Republican," he booms as he picks up his morning coffee at McDonald's. "There are going to be a lot of people crossing over to the Republicans because he's black.""
Ah yes, despite the goal here, Mr. Kaufman just couldn't restrain himself. Even though it's Democrats he's talking about, they are, after all, white male Democrats, and thus must still be pure bigots, subhuman dogs, the only group of Americans who are guilty of sexism or racism, and the only group that anyone is allowed, even encouraged, to HATE. The inclusion of this comment is interesting in that it seems to distract from the goal, which is to stir up women to vote for Hillary. He's off track, but perhaps he can't help himself. He's no doubt spent a lifetime writing propaganda claiming all white males are racists. How can he just stop now that he has a black presidential candidate, even if Obama is the enemy?
Not Hillary
And now, Mr. Kaufman fires his ultimate weapon of "gender war" destruction, and it's a tired one:
""For a lot of blue-collar guys over 40, Hillary Clinton is a poster child for everything about the women's movement that they don't like -- their wife going back to work, their daughters rebelling, the rise of women in the workplace," says Gerald Austin, an Ohio political strategist."
Oh, THIS is why so many people don't like Hillary! It's because of the wives going back to work, daughters rebelling against .... something, and the rise of women in the workplace. That must be it! It's perpetually 1973 and those damn women don't know their place. Where's my leisure suit? Did you iron my tie, bitch? My Ford Pinto won't start, dammit. Did you hear about Karen Carpenter dying? Damn that Richard Nixon and this quagmire of a war in Vietnam! I'm so out of touch! I'm a Marxist baby boomer living in the past and all I know how to do is slam on The Man. Thank God the Wall Street Journal will still hire me.
It couldn't POSSIBLY be that white males, black males, and women who don't hate males, dislike Hillary because she's a misandric sexist bigot, representing the most extreme fringe of anti-male hatred and legislated oppression, as well as an icon of all the misandric sexual violence and abuse encouraged in every segment of society, where castrating a man or a boy is celebrated as some sort of heroic deed.
It couldn't possibly be that Hillary's ideas and campaign promises don't resound at all with white males, or most anyone else, especially those old enough to remember her health care disaster of the early '90s.
I'm sure it has nothing to do with the vicious slaughter in Waco, Texas that her hand-picked Attorney General, Janet Reno, orchestrated with both Clintons' full approval.
It couldn't have anything to do with the memory of armed soldiers kidnapping Elian Gonzalez at gunpoint in order to send him back to a communist Cuban prison while the Clintons claimed, quite unconvincingly, that they did it for fathers' rights, something they never mentioned even once before or after that shameful day.
It couldn't possibly be that Hillary herself is such a stiff, arrogant, cold-blooded cunt that virtually no one actually likes her, and that those who do support her for President are simply doing so precisely for the very reasons they complain that others don't - simply because she's a woman.
No, that can't be it. It must be Archie Bunker and his carefully scripted sexist and racist rants from long, long ago. That must be it. It can't be that both men and women alike dislike Hillary Clinton because Hillary Clinton is so incredibly dislikeable.
This, clearly, has never occurred to the Wall Street Journal or anyone from the aging Baby Boomer Left, who see their own resistance to Obama, not as a reflection of their own personal racism, but as a symbol of their loyalty to "crushing the Patriachy" and with it, Archie Bunker, a character portrayed by an actor who died many, many years ago, but who in their minds lives on for as long as they do, because he and his prejudices are inside of them, and they just can't admit it.
WHY DON'T PEOPLE LIKE ME?!
Mr. Kaufman wasn't satisfied with this, though. He was getting paid by the word. And anyway, he wanted to try to do more damage. He wanted to fire more shots at his Straw White Man. He wanted more work in the future. So to try to put a polish on his turd he wrote this:
"Mr. Leihgeber, the steelworker, says he supports Sen. Clinton for her experience and positions. He carries a book bag to work every day with his lunch and a newspaper inside and a Clinton button pinned to the outside. Some days, he says, he turns the bag around so the Clinton button doesn't show; he says he doesn't like dealing with his co-workers' derogatory comments. Mr. Leihgeber says he wouldn't be heckled so much for an Obama pin.
"People don't want to speak out against Obama because of the fear of being seen as racist," he says. "It's easier to say you want to keep a woman barefoot and pregnant....You can call a woman anything."
Mr. Leihgeber, a steelworker, carries a bag with giant Barbie pink pin on it featuring the face of Ellen Degeneres, er, I mean Hilllary Clinton, every day. And the big mean bullies call him names for it. From this he concludes, according to Mr. Kaufman, that they wouldn't think him such a big, whopping pussy if he were for Obama. "Barefoot and pregnant," he says, an expression that hasn't applied to anyone in America in generations, but which fits perfectly with the arrogant view certain self-righteous feminist women's studies professors, some of whom claim to be male, maintain of anyone who dares to disagree with them.
I see this pathetic man being stuffed into his locker every day during lunchbreak. I see wedgies. I see him sitting alone, a misfit, completely unable to comprehend his manly coworkers. I see him drinking a diet Coke while everyone else has a beer. I also see him single, because no woman wants a man like this. But again, such a misfit is perfect fodder for an article in support of Hillary. He's a dream come true.
Momma wanted a girl - and practically got one
"In national polls, white men overall have been more favorable than white women toward Sen. Obama. In a survey done in September by Pew Research, white men overall gave Sen. Obama more positive ratings than did white women, in categories including whether he was tough, smart, friendly and honest. In the same categories, white males gave Sen. Clinton consistently lower marks than white women did.
For some women, that confirms that sexism runs deeper than racism among many men. "My mother, who was the first woman lawyer in a big D.C. firm, always said that blacks got in before women," says Caryl Rivers, a professor at Boston University who supports Sen. Clinton. "Then the white guys figured everything had gone to hell anyway, so they might as well let the women in.""
The best part of this statement is the admission that more women are favoring Hillary, while more men are favoring Obama. He only notices the part in which men's opinions are suspect, of course, because that's all he wants to see. Nevertheless, anyone who looks closely can see that the results of the Pew survey could just as easily indicate sexism among the women as it could among the men. Of course, sexism by women is supposed to be admirable and good, to be encouraged, and this may be why Mr. Kaufman failed to mention it.
Mr. Kaufman also failed to break down the results of the Pew poll by age, because doing so would likely show that among women under 40, Mr. Obama is the preferred candidate, completely obliterating the claim that everything is all about sex and race.
Caryl Rivers' statement, claiming blacks "got in before women" is simply a statement of pure ignorance. There have been women in Washington for a very, very long time, something the Marxist feminists don't care to acknowledge because it interferes with their worldview in which women are simply oppressed and locked out by a magical patriarchal 'glass ceiling'. Then again, Miss Rivers, and I'm quite sure it's "Miss" and not "Mrs", teaches at Boston University, so it's quite understandable that her views are totally whack way out in left field.
Not voting for Hillary
"For some white men here, Sen. Obama's appeal is that he is different from many black leaders they have seen in the past. "The guys I work with, they know Jesse Jackson and they know Al Sharpton. They call them all sorts of terrible things," says Robert Hagan, a locomotive engineer and a state representative, referring to these politicians' sometimes-inflammatory rhetoric and focus on black causes. "They don't talk about Obama like that.""
"Sometimes-inflammatory rhetoric"? Wow, that was generous! Yes, Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton do engage in "sometimes-inflammatory rhetoric" from time-to-time. And so do many of the journalists at The Wall Street Journal, apparently. Still, calling the things Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton say "sometimes-inflammatory rhetoric" is like saying that Adolph Hilter was sometimes mean.
Rememeber Tawana Brawley!
"At a Teamsters hall here, a dozen burly men in gabardine jackets and baseball caps gather over coffee and overstuffed donuts for a union meeting of prison workers. "There is a misunderstanding that older white guys aren't going to vote for a black man," says Jim Marcum, a job counselor at the prison. "That's not true." Mr. Marcum says he voted for Ronald Reagan and George H.W. Bush. This time he plans to vote for Sen. Obama. "He's a breath of fresh air."
Natalie Grant, a black woman who works with Mr. Marcum at the prison, walks in and grabs some coffee.
"You really voting for Obama?" she says.
"Yes," says Mr. Marcum.
Ms. Grant laughs. "I knew there was some brother in you," she says. Mr. Marcum smiles.""
Here is an entire conversation that Mr. Kaufman and the entire hard-Left simply cannot comprehend. The idea that white males might not be voting based on sex or race is simply inconceivable to someone who has spent their entire life embracing a religious and political belief system based entirely on self-righteous arrogance and vitriolic hatred entirely focused on sex and race.
'Surely there must be some veiled meaning to this conversation. Surely they must have been oppressing her somehow. This just doesn't make sense. How come we don't have any black, er, African American friends we can talk to like that?'
Hmm, that's a big mystery.
"Across town, 14 steelworkers brought together to talk about the election say they predominantly supported Sen. John Edwards before he dropped out of the race. Now 13 of them say they are leaning toward Sen. Clinton. They praise her experience and toughness in withstanding the Monica Lewinsky scandal. Former President Bill Clinton remains enormously popular here, with many blue-collar men saying that they like the fact that he would be in the White House as well.
"I think she has the right person in the bedroom with her," says Joe Marion, who works at the local prison."
Bwa ha ha! Oh, I nearly peed myself laughing at this one. Bill doesn't even live with Hillary anymore. They separated long ago. That whole pretense is over. There is only one pretense left, and Hillary has even danced carefully with the idea of admitting to that several times.
I don't think so
"Both Sen. Clinton's and Sen. Obama's campaigns say race and gender shouldn't be a consideration"
Oh reeeeeally? Then why are there so many articles and commentaries everywhere, such as this one, trying to encourage women to vote for Hillary because she's a woman? How did that happen, I wonder, if race and sex aren't going to be used by their campaigns and supporters as an issue? Oh wait, I remember how this works, she has her people do it while she pretends she's NOT doing it. I had almost forgotten how that whole thing is done.
All they ever think about is sex
""I think if we nominate one of these two, we are talking about McCain as president," says Bob Rodkey, a firefighter who doesn't like either candidate but plans to vote for Sen. Clinton in the primary. "I talk to a lot of my Democratic friends and they are going to cross over in November or not vote at all. We don't have a viable candidate. Neither of them is one of us.""
It's interesting to discover that neither side, Democrat or Republican, is particularly excited about the choices. Well, except for all of those damned gender-traitors voting for Obama! Argh! Ungrateful girls!
"Mr. Rodkey says he will vote for a Democrat in the fall. He plans to urge his friends to do the same. "Hopefully they will listen to the message, and not who's delivering it," he says."
If he really meant that, he wouldn't already be saying that he's voting for a Democrat in the fall. He'd be saying he's voting for a candidate, whichever one has the right message and the right qualifications, without regard for the political party they represent, because until we all start doing that, we're going to continue getting lousy and disappointing choices like these.
I may not have the black vote, but I got the gay vote
The grrlz of the Wall Street Journal are absolutely freaking out over Hillary's failure to stomp out the Black Usurper, so they've broken out the big guns. They've hired a hitman named Jonathan Kaufman to write an inflammatory piece intended to enrage all the women who aren't voting for Hillary by trying to convince them that this whole thing is a white male conspiracy. I won't post the entire article, because it's boring, but I'll go over a few highlights with a little commentary just for fun.
The title of the article is "White Men Hold Key for Democrats". Right away, I was asking myself, "what the fuck are they up to? Neither political party will acknowledge white males at all, and now a Leftist is? What gives?"
So let's take a look:
"In a Democratic presidential nomination race that pits a black man against a woman, the victor may well be determined by white men.
The working-class white men who toil in the steel mills and auto plants here are part of a volatile cohort that has long helped steer the nation's political course. Once, blue-collar males were the bedrock of Franklin Roosevelt's New Deal coalition. They became "Reagan Democrats," helping to propel Ronald Reagan into office in the 1980s. Bill Clinton won many of them back to the Democratic Party in 1992. Two years later they were "angry white males," resentful of affirmative action and the women's movement, who helped Republicans capture Congress."
Hmm, it didn't take even two full paragraphs for him to slander us as "angry white males", a bigoted phrase used exclusively by the haters among the Hard Left who couldn't figure out what went wrong in 1994 and wanted blood in revenge for their losses (as always.) And his explanation as to why white males voted the way they did in 1994 is as insulting as he could make it, accusing the white males of being "resentful of affirmative action and the women's movement", as if either of these subjects were ever even mentioned in 1994, as opposed to the nationwide screaming about giant tax increases and radical 'social programs' they funded. I guess when all you have is a big Marxist hammer (how appropriate), everything becomes a damn white male capitalist nail.
"Now this group of voters is set to help determine the Democratic nominee, and the next occupant of the White House. Working-class white men make up nearly one-quarter of the electorate, outnumbering African-American and Hispanic voters combined. As the Democratic primary race intensifies, some of these white men are finding it hard to identify with the remaining two candidates, Sen. Hillary Rodham Clinton and Sen. Barack Obama."
Never before have I heard or read of anyone in the Press or anywhere else, for that matter, acknowledging that white males make up such a large percentage of the voters, and that we might actually be of some value or influence if ever given a candidate who will stand up for us. The problem is, we haven't been given such a candidate, not ever.
"Blue-collar men could also emerge as an important swing constituency in November -- either backing the Democrats' eventual nominee, or shifting to some degree toward Sen. John McCain, the presumptive Republican nominee, whose war record and straight-talking approach could make him appealing to many working-class men.
Marc Dann, Ohio's Democratic attorney general, frets about the reluctance of some of these blue-collar Democrats to embrace either of his party's candidates. "I worry about [the appeal of] McCain," says Mr. Dann, who lives in Youngstown. "It's not like watching an episode of Archie Bunker -- but there are real issues" that white male voters here have with Sen. Clinton and Sen. Obama."
Notice how the perception from the hard Left is that any white male who doesn't support their candidate is something out of "an episode of Archie Bunker", a preachy, rather bigoted show that hasn't been on TV since the early 1970s. And then he comments that "there are real issues", as if anyone not voting for Clinton or Obama is clearly just not educated enough on the issues and must be ignorant and prejudiced. This assumption is, of course, unchallenged in the article.
"Working-class men are generally defined as those without a college degree, including union members and workers with service and technical jobs, typically making less than $50,000 a year. They are especially crucial in Ohio, where they make up about 28% of the vote, as well as other battleground states including Michigan (about 27%), West Virginia (33%), Missouri (27%), Minnesota (27%), Pennsylvania (27%), Wisconsin (29%) and Iowa (34%).
In Youngstown, many working-class men say they will vote according to issues, especially economic ones including health care, free trade and the loss of manufacturing jobs. But in conversations in union halls, bars and factories, race and gender are never far from the surface. at least, not in the minds of a radical religious fanatic from the Church of Progressive Political Correctness, where race and "gender" are all that anyone ever thinks about, and hate is everywhere they look, if only because they themselves are so filled with it.
"I don't think the country is ready for a woman president yet," says Duane Tkac, a burly vocational instructor at a prison here and a member of the local branch of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters union. "The country is in too much turmoil. I don't think she can handle the pressure, the terrorists." He plans to vote for Sen. Obama."
It must have taken a long, long time and lot of free alcohol to ply a statement like this out of old Duane here. I've never yet heard such a statement from any white male and I've been one my entire life. Either that, or true to the patterns of the journalists on the self-righteous side of our progressive media, he just created this guy and his statement out of thin air.
Ah, but what a perfect statement for inflamming women, eh? What a great way to stir those young, educated girls who have chosen, despite the best efforts of elderly New York feminists to force them to 'choose' Hillary, to instead vote for Obama! Those ungrateful fools! But what a work of pure propaganda genius! Goebbels would be proud! This is reminiscent of the great Time magazine issue of the late '90s entitled "Is Feminism Dead", which was nothing more than a piece of a carefully orchestrated membership drive by the wealthiest female supremacists in Media and the Whitehouse at that time, and which was quite successful.
Why no one reads Time anymore
"Don Pompelia, retired from the Air Force, supports Sen. Clinton. "I'm hoping Hillary gets the nomination. But if she doesn't, I'm not voting for that guy. I'm going Republican," he booms as he picks up his morning coffee at McDonald's. "There are going to be a lot of people crossing over to the Republicans because he's black.""
Ah yes, despite the goal here, Mr. Kaufman just couldn't restrain himself. Even though it's Democrats he's talking about, they are, after all, white male Democrats, and thus must still be pure bigots, subhuman dogs, the only group of Americans who are guilty of sexism or racism, and the only group that anyone is allowed, even encouraged, to HATE. The inclusion of this comment is interesting in that it seems to distract from the goal, which is to stir up women to vote for Hillary. He's off track, but perhaps he can't help himself. He's no doubt spent a lifetime writing propaganda claiming all white males are racists. How can he just stop now that he has a black presidential candidate, even if Obama is the enemy?
Not Hillary
And now, Mr. Kaufman fires his ultimate weapon of "gender war" destruction, and it's a tired one:
""For a lot of blue-collar guys over 40, Hillary Clinton is a poster child for everything about the women's movement that they don't like -- their wife going back to work, their daughters rebelling, the rise of women in the workplace," says Gerald Austin, an Ohio political strategist."
Oh, THIS is why so many people don't like Hillary! It's because of the wives going back to work, daughters rebelling against .... something, and the rise of women in the workplace. That must be it! It's perpetually 1973 and those damn women don't know their place. Where's my leisure suit? Did you iron my tie, bitch? My Ford Pinto won't start, dammit. Did you hear about Karen Carpenter dying? Damn that Richard Nixon and this quagmire of a war in Vietnam! I'm so out of touch! I'm a Marxist baby boomer living in the past and all I know how to do is slam on The Man. Thank God the Wall Street Journal will still hire me.
It couldn't POSSIBLY be that white males, black males, and women who don't hate males, dislike Hillary because she's a misandric sexist bigot, representing the most extreme fringe of anti-male hatred and legislated oppression, as well as an icon of all the misandric sexual violence and abuse encouraged in every segment of society, where castrating a man or a boy is celebrated as some sort of heroic deed.
It couldn't possibly be that Hillary's ideas and campaign promises don't resound at all with white males, or most anyone else, especially those old enough to remember her health care disaster of the early '90s.
I'm sure it has nothing to do with the vicious slaughter in Waco, Texas that her hand-picked Attorney General, Janet Reno, orchestrated with both Clintons' full approval.
It couldn't have anything to do with the memory of armed soldiers kidnapping Elian Gonzalez at gunpoint in order to send him back to a communist Cuban prison while the Clintons claimed, quite unconvincingly, that they did it for fathers' rights, something they never mentioned even once before or after that shameful day.
It couldn't possibly be that Hillary herself is such a stiff, arrogant, cold-blooded cunt that virtually no one actually likes her, and that those who do support her for President are simply doing so precisely for the very reasons they complain that others don't - simply because she's a woman.
No, that can't be it. It must be Archie Bunker and his carefully scripted sexist and racist rants from long, long ago. That must be it. It can't be that both men and women alike dislike Hillary Clinton because Hillary Clinton is so incredibly dislikeable.
This, clearly, has never occurred to the Wall Street Journal or anyone from the aging Baby Boomer Left, who see their own resistance to Obama, not as a reflection of their own personal racism, but as a symbol of their loyalty to "crushing the Patriachy" and with it, Archie Bunker, a character portrayed by an actor who died many, many years ago, but who in their minds lives on for as long as they do, because he and his prejudices are inside of them, and they just can't admit it.
WHY DON'T PEOPLE LIKE ME?!
Mr. Kaufman wasn't satisfied with this, though. He was getting paid by the word. And anyway, he wanted to try to do more damage. He wanted to fire more shots at his Straw White Man. He wanted more work in the future. So to try to put a polish on his turd he wrote this:
"Mr. Leihgeber, the steelworker, says he supports Sen. Clinton for her experience and positions. He carries a book bag to work every day with his lunch and a newspaper inside and a Clinton button pinned to the outside. Some days, he says, he turns the bag around so the Clinton button doesn't show; he says he doesn't like dealing with his co-workers' derogatory comments. Mr. Leihgeber says he wouldn't be heckled so much for an Obama pin.
"People don't want to speak out against Obama because of the fear of being seen as racist," he says. "It's easier to say you want to keep a woman barefoot and pregnant....You can call a woman anything."
Mr. Leihgeber, a steelworker, carries a bag with giant Barbie pink pin on it featuring the face of Ellen Degeneres, er, I mean Hilllary Clinton, every day. And the big mean bullies call him names for it. From this he concludes, according to Mr. Kaufman, that they wouldn't think him such a big, whopping pussy if he were for Obama. "Barefoot and pregnant," he says, an expression that hasn't applied to anyone in America in generations, but which fits perfectly with the arrogant view certain self-righteous feminist women's studies professors, some of whom claim to be male, maintain of anyone who dares to disagree with them.
I see this pathetic man being stuffed into his locker every day during lunchbreak. I see wedgies. I see him sitting alone, a misfit, completely unable to comprehend his manly coworkers. I see him drinking a diet Coke while everyone else has a beer. I also see him single, because no woman wants a man like this. But again, such a misfit is perfect fodder for an article in support of Hillary. He's a dream come true.
Momma wanted a girl - and practically got one
"In national polls, white men overall have been more favorable than white women toward Sen. Obama. In a survey done in September by Pew Research, white men overall gave Sen. Obama more positive ratings than did white women, in categories including whether he was tough, smart, friendly and honest. In the same categories, white males gave Sen. Clinton consistently lower marks than white women did.
For some women, that confirms that sexism runs deeper than racism among many men. "My mother, who was the first woman lawyer in a big D.C. firm, always said that blacks got in before women," says Caryl Rivers, a professor at Boston University who supports Sen. Clinton. "Then the white guys figured everything had gone to hell anyway, so they might as well let the women in.""
The best part of this statement is the admission that more women are favoring Hillary, while more men are favoring Obama. He only notices the part in which men's opinions are suspect, of course, because that's all he wants to see. Nevertheless, anyone who looks closely can see that the results of the Pew survey could just as easily indicate sexism among the women as it could among the men. Of course, sexism by women is supposed to be admirable and good, to be encouraged, and this may be why Mr. Kaufman failed to mention it.
Mr. Kaufman also failed to break down the results of the Pew poll by age, because doing so would likely show that among women under 40, Mr. Obama is the preferred candidate, completely obliterating the claim that everything is all about sex and race.
Caryl Rivers' statement, claiming blacks "got in before women" is simply a statement of pure ignorance. There have been women in Washington for a very, very long time, something the Marxist feminists don't care to acknowledge because it interferes with their worldview in which women are simply oppressed and locked out by a magical patriarchal 'glass ceiling'. Then again, Miss Rivers, and I'm quite sure it's "Miss" and not "Mrs", teaches at Boston University, so it's quite understandable that her views are totally whack way out in left field.
Not voting for Hillary
"For some white men here, Sen. Obama's appeal is that he is different from many black leaders they have seen in the past. "The guys I work with, they know Jesse Jackson and they know Al Sharpton. They call them all sorts of terrible things," says Robert Hagan, a locomotive engineer and a state representative, referring to these politicians' sometimes-inflammatory rhetoric and focus on black causes. "They don't talk about Obama like that.""
"Sometimes-inflammatory rhetoric"? Wow, that was generous! Yes, Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton do engage in "sometimes-inflammatory rhetoric" from time-to-time. And so do many of the journalists at The Wall Street Journal, apparently. Still, calling the things Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton say "sometimes-inflammatory rhetoric" is like saying that Adolph Hilter was sometimes mean.
Rememeber Tawana Brawley!
"At a Teamsters hall here, a dozen burly men in gabardine jackets and baseball caps gather over coffee and overstuffed donuts for a union meeting of prison workers. "There is a misunderstanding that older white guys aren't going to vote for a black man," says Jim Marcum, a job counselor at the prison. "That's not true." Mr. Marcum says he voted for Ronald Reagan and George H.W. Bush. This time he plans to vote for Sen. Obama. "He's a breath of fresh air."
Natalie Grant, a black woman who works with Mr. Marcum at the prison, walks in and grabs some coffee.
"You really voting for Obama?" she says.
"Yes," says Mr. Marcum.
Ms. Grant laughs. "I knew there was some brother in you," she says. Mr. Marcum smiles.""
Here is an entire conversation that Mr. Kaufman and the entire hard-Left simply cannot comprehend. The idea that white males might not be voting based on sex or race is simply inconceivable to someone who has spent their entire life embracing a religious and political belief system based entirely on self-righteous arrogance and vitriolic hatred entirely focused on sex and race.
'Surely there must be some veiled meaning to this conversation. Surely they must have been oppressing her somehow. This just doesn't make sense. How come we don't have any black, er, African American friends we can talk to like that?'
Hmm, that's a big mystery.
"Across town, 14 steelworkers brought together to talk about the election say they predominantly supported Sen. John Edwards before he dropped out of the race. Now 13 of them say they are leaning toward Sen. Clinton. They praise her experience and toughness in withstanding the Monica Lewinsky scandal. Former President Bill Clinton remains enormously popular here, with many blue-collar men saying that they like the fact that he would be in the White House as well.
"I think she has the right person in the bedroom with her," says Joe Marion, who works at the local prison."
Bwa ha ha! Oh, I nearly peed myself laughing at this one. Bill doesn't even live with Hillary anymore. They separated long ago. That whole pretense is over. There is only one pretense left, and Hillary has even danced carefully with the idea of admitting to that several times.
I don't think so
"Both Sen. Clinton's and Sen. Obama's campaigns say race and gender shouldn't be a consideration"
Oh reeeeeally? Then why are there so many articles and commentaries everywhere, such as this one, trying to encourage women to vote for Hillary because she's a woman? How did that happen, I wonder, if race and sex aren't going to be used by their campaigns and supporters as an issue? Oh wait, I remember how this works, she has her people do it while she pretends she's NOT doing it. I had almost forgotten how that whole thing is done.
All they ever think about is sex
""I think if we nominate one of these two, we are talking about McCain as president," says Bob Rodkey, a firefighter who doesn't like either candidate but plans to vote for Sen. Clinton in the primary. "I talk to a lot of my Democratic friends and they are going to cross over in November or not vote at all. We don't have a viable candidate. Neither of them is one of us.""
It's interesting to discover that neither side, Democrat or Republican, is particularly excited about the choices. Well, except for all of those damned gender-traitors voting for Obama! Argh! Ungrateful girls!
"Mr. Rodkey says he will vote for a Democrat in the fall. He plans to urge his friends to do the same. "Hopefully they will listen to the message, and not who's delivering it," he says."
If he really meant that, he wouldn't already be saying that he's voting for a Democrat in the fall. He'd be saying he's voting for a candidate, whichever one has the right message and the right qualifications, without regard for the political party they represent, because until we all start doing that, we're going to continue getting lousy and disappointing choices like these.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Rocker Mom's Rockin' Survey Questions
1. Do you know anyone in prison at the present moment?
I know many. You lookin' for a boyfriend or something?
2. Have you ever logged onto a boyfriend/girlfriend/crush's MySpace or Facebook
No, I'm more of a stand out in the bushes and watch them through binoculars kind of guy. Or in Steph's case, out on the balcony peeking in through her bedroom window which is asymmetrically located over her bed. Awesome!
3. When is the last time you ate peanut butter and jelly?
That's for me to know and you to find out. I'll never talk, you commie!
4. Do you have a desk in your room?
More of a table that serves as a desk because my desk won't fit up the stairs and the movers were a couple of LOSERS
5. Have you ever gotten naked at a party?
I doubt it because, knowing my friends, if I had there'd be pictures all over the internet.
6.Weirdest thing you've ever smoked out of?
My ass
7. Are you named after one of your parents or grandparents?
Yes, I was named after all of them. They came first. I came after. Duh.
8. Can you walk a straight line when you're sober?
If I'm motivated properly. Otherwise I swagger like John fucking Wayne
9. Do you throw up gang signs?
Is my middle finger a gang sign? If so, then Yes.
10. Have you ever broken a rib?
Back when God was creating Eve, but not since then.
11. Would you rather be a girl or a guy?
Depends. If I were a girl, would I be hot? Ugly girls don't get treated much better than guys, so that wouldn't improve things much. But if I were a HOT girl, then it would be worth it. Did you know that those biotches on 1 vs 100 get paid six figures to stand there holding those suitcases? And they work 3 days a month.
12. Who is the most spoiled person you know?
Those suitcase girls on 1 vs 100
13. Would you rather have a million dollars or true love?
A million dollars ain't what it used to be, especially American dollars. So I think I might just have to go with true love and hope to make my own million as soon as this damn recession-obsessed market gets over itself and starts to move upwards again.
14. Have you ever had sex in church?
No, I can't say that I have. But I have committed several felonies in church. Don't tell anyone. Well, God already knows, but aside from that,, don't tell anyone.
15. Is your boyfriend/girlfriend a marine?
No, but she could be. She's a maniac, maaaaaniac, and she's dancing like she's never danced before!
16. Do you watch the Grannys?
WTF? Apparently not.
17. Would you ever work for the border patrol?
Not after they threw two agents in prison for shooting an armed drug dealer in the ass as he ran away while shooting at them.
18. Whats one word that would describe your relationship?
With whom?
19. Whats the grossest thing you've ever seen?
A big fat lesbian woman with the body of a walrus getting oral sex from another lesbian woman. Augh, my brain is burning just remembering this! They never look like THAT in porn. It looked like two pink walruses licking each other.
20. Have you ever been in love?
Courtney Love? I think I'd remember that. Because of, you know, the raging herpes I'd have afterwards.
21. Do you have a porn collection?
Yes, I collect fine French porn from the 17th century. The scripts are a little weak, but the actresses try real hard.
22. What are you thinking about?
I just read that Barack Obama is a black nationalist and goes to a black nationalist church. That's the same as a fascist except instead of believing the mythical Aryan race to be supreme, they believe blacks are supreme. Or, like your standard American feminist.
23. Have you ever been in a serious relationship?
How serious is marriage?
24. Is your birthday on a holiday?
It used to be on the same day as the Superbowl, but then we added more teams and moved it back a week or two. Some people consider the Superbowl to be a holiday. Even though it's a Sunday.
25. When's the last time you were in a physical fight?
Does slamming around with fat black racists in WalMart count? I guess I don't even notice it anymore. They do that shit all the time.
26. Do you have any friends or family in the war right now?
What war? Congress says Iraq is a police action, just like when Clinton sent us to Somalia and Bosnia and Iraq and the Chinese Embassy (oops, sorry about that) and all the other places. We haven't been officially in a war since WWII. But then that's politics for you.
27. Where did you originally live?
In Mom and Dad's house, otherwise known as the deepest level of hell.
28. Do you worry about global warming?
No, Al Gore's constant flatulence doesn't bother me that much.
29. Do you like polar bears?
No, they steal my paper every morning.
30. Have you ever been cheated on?
I do believe I have. We were engaged at the time. Apparently she had other ideas.
31. Have you ever drank alcohol?
Yep, I have drank alcohol. Alcohol can be fun.
32 . What slang word(s) do you call marijuana?
Bill Clinton, as in "don't bogart the Bill Clinton, man"
33. Are you an atheist?
No, I'm a Baptist. I believe God isn't here, but if you leave your name, number, and a brief message he'll get back to you as soon as he can.
34. Did you lose your virginity to your neighbor?
No, I was too stupid and they were twins, which made it hard because you know you can't stop at just one.
35. Did or do you think your childhood dreams will come true?
Clearly not.
36. What's on your mind?
The top of my skull, thank God.
37. What's your opinion on gold?
$900+ per ounce is way too damned expensive
38. Are you a country boy/girl or city slicker?
I'm a loser. I can't dance and I can't ride a bull either
39. Are you an only child?
HA HA HA HA!!! no
40. Do you want to hit something?
It wasn't really on my mind, but if given the chance I think I could make it a priority.
This is how they announce the death of a tyrant when his family is running things behind the scenes. If Stalin had had a younger brother whom he hadn't slaughtered, when he died there would have been a press release saying "Great Leader Joseph Stalin nobly steps down out of the goodness of his heart."
American communists love Castro and due to their heavy influence in our press, the news is very careful how they play this story, being sure to follow the Party line as closely as they can and still get away with.
The people who lived under this "great leader", though, feel differently
He's dead! He's finally dead!"
And in Miami Florida ...
He is in hell today!
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Tickle Me Elmo
There is a factory in Northern Minnesota which makes the Tickle Me Elmo toys. The toy laughs when you tickle it under the arms.
Well, Lena is hired at The Tickle Me Elmo factory and she reports for her first day promptly at 8:00 AM .
The next day at 8:45 AM there is a knock at the Personnel Manager's door. The Foreman throws open the door and begins to rant about the new employee.
He complains that she is incredibly slow and the whole line is backing up, putting the entire production line behind schedule.
The Personnel Manager decides he should see this for himself, so the 2 men march down to the factory floor.
When they get there the line is so backed up that there are Tickle Me Elmo's all over the factory floor and they're really beginning to pile up.
At the end of the line stands Lena surrounded by mountains of Tickle Me Elmo's. She has a roll of plush red fabric and a huge bag of small marbles.
The 2 men watch in amazement as she cuts a little piece of fabric, wraps it around two marbles and begins to carefully sew the little pac kage between Elmo's legs.
The Personnel Manager bursts into laughter.
After several minutes of hysterics he pulls himself together and approaches Lena.
"I'm sorry," he says to her, barely able to keep a straight face, "but I think you misunderstood the instructions I gave you yesterday..."
"Your job is to give Elmo two test tickles.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
In the News - Killing Me Softly With Double Standards
Mary Winkler, husband murderer, is back in court demanding custody of their children. She insists that she should not be denied custody of the children they produced together simply because she shot their father in the back with a shotgun and murdered him before dragging the kids off to Florida to hide from the police. Mary has gained national celebrity for murdering her husband and father of her children and even appeared on Oprah.
Bobby Cutts Jr, a police officer, elbowed his pregnant girlfriend in the throat as she was trying to stop him from leaving their house, resulting in her death. His highly emotional testimony in which he claimed that it was an accident and that he was remorseful, but had panicked and hid the body, was played over and over on the news networks. He was found guilty of aggravated murder for the death of the fetus, murder for the death of girlfriend Jessie Davis, abuse of a corpse, burglary, and child endangerment. He faces a maximum possible sentence of death.
Monique Johnson, Memphis jailer, shot and killed her boyfriend, Memphis police officer Tony Hayes, almost 2 years ago. Mr. Hayes had briefly dated Miss Johnson before breaking off their relationship and filing for a restraining order against her after discovering that she was violent, abusive, jealous, and controlling. She tracked him down and shot him shortly after, placing his body in the trunk of his car and leaving it there, where police found it a week later. Monique claimed, quite predictably, that she is “the real victim” and that she was “abused”, echoing the tried and true defense of the thousands of women who murder their boyfriends and husbands in the United States every year, only to get off with minimal sentences. The long list of Monique’s ex-boyfriends who were attacked by her and subsequently filed for restraining orders against her was ignored during the trial, as well as in most of the news coverage. The week of her sentencing, the CDC released a statement promoting the controversial claim that 1 of every 4 women are abused, and that women who are abused suffer the exact same stress and "post combat syndrome" as soldiers in actual combat. The CDC claim was instantly picked up and publicized on the front page of every major newspaper in America. This claim, created over 35 years ago by feminists, has been repeatedly placed in doubt by non-feminist researchers, but continues to be a popular weapon amongst defense attorneys when trying to get women off for murdering men. The jury in Monique’s trial, clearly influenced by the CDC’s heavily publicized propaganda, as well as by the recent Mary Winkler trial in which she also shot and killed her husband and claimed she was abused, were asked to find her guilty of first degree murder, in that the evidence strongly indicated that she hunted boyfriend Tony Hayes down and killed him with full intent of murdering him. The jury chose, instead, to hang tightly onto the popular Western belief that a woman simply cannot be responsible for her actions and cannot possibly be evil or bad. They found her guilty, instead, of the very minor offense of reckless homicide. Reckless homicide is the offense of accidently killing someone with no criminal intent, the same as manslaughter. She may receive a maximum sentence of 4 years, but is expected to receive the same sentence as Mary Winkler and hundreds of thousands of other female offenders over the years, which is “time served.” Time served means no punishment at all, but she gets credit for the time she was in jail awaiting trial, 17 months, as it was such a huge inconvenience.
Also on Friday, a Memphis strip club owner, a man, was found guilty of promoting prostitution and sentenced to 18 months in jail, one month longer than Monique is expected to receive, 16 months longer than Mary Winkler received, and a full 18 months longer than Lorena Bobbitt received.
Friday's news was just so overflowing with irony that I had to blog about it.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
The Adventures of Spongebob Stinkypants - Litterbox Troubles
We were sitting together on the couch, watching a particularly offensive episode of "Grounded for Life" on ABC Family. The show turned out to be about as family friendly as your average Jenna Jameson film, only a lot more offensive and violent. I was contemplating the oddity of our nation's tolerance of graphic sexual violence, but shock at a bare booby, when suddenly My Wife said, "Good God, something smells like SHIT!"
"What, you mean, literally like shit, or just really bad?" I asked, having virtually no sense of smell myself and thus not being aware of any change in our air quality.
"Literally," she replied. "He must be in the litterbox, but I can't imagine what he's doing in there. It's never smelled this bad before!"
Finally, we both got up and went to check on Spongebob. I walked into the laundry room where the litterbox is kept. Stinky ran past me as I entered. What I saw explained why he was running.
On the edge of the litterbox, perched at the entrance to the box, was a big wad of cat shit, almost as big as the cat himself.
In the floor, on the tiles and in the grout, were long, brown smears where Stinky had dragged his apparently shit-covered ass across the floor, trying to wipe the shit off.
"Get out! GET OUT!" I heard My Wife shouting from the kitchen. I went to investigate.
"He's wiped his ass on the kitchen floor!" she screamed. "Look at this!" and she pointed to the streaks on the floor of our kitchen.
We both went looking for the oh-so-appropriately named Stinky. I found him under the dining room table and we cornered him there. I threw open the door to the backyard and we chased him out.
Somehow, in the short time he had spent in the dining room, he had managed to leave shit on the floor there, too. My Wife was livid.
My Wife, having a good sense of smell, which is lucky in that it compensates for my near total lack, can't stand to deal with shit. She can't handlel the odor at all. And so it falls to me to clean up after Stinky and his litterbox antics.
I spent the next hour mopping and scraping and mopping some more. My Wife took our other mop and dealt with the kitchen floor. After I had finished the laundry room, where the worst of it was, I handled the dining room.
Stinky, meanwhile, was at the back door, looking scared and wanting to come in. It was 22 degrees outside, but that normally doesn't bother him. And I wasn't kean on letting him back in.
"It's too cold outside to leave him out there," My Wife insisted. So, having cleaned the house, I formulated a plan and began to implement it.
I went upstairs and retrieved Stinky's own personal litterbox. I grabbed his food dish while I was there. I carried the whole thing downstairs and put it into the hall bathroom. Remembering how he had opened the drawer of the vanity and locked himself into the bathroom, I took the drawer out altogether. Then I went and got Stinky.
The minute I opened the back door, he shot into the house. "Come here!" I said, as calmly as a man who had just spent an hour cleaning shit can be.
He ignored me and ran around.
"Has he cleaned the shit off his butt?" My Wife asked.
"I don't know. There's plenty of grass outside. I should think he wiped it on that," I said, hopefully.
Finally, I managed to grab Stinky and carry him to the bathroom, where I threw him in and shut the door.
"Are you just going to leave him in there all night?" My Wife asked.
"Yes."
At least, that was the plan.
We were tired and it was late, especially for My Wife, who has to get up extra early for work each morning. So we went and started getting ready for bed. Stinky, meanwhile, was making all kinds of noise in the bathroom, which echoed and amplified everything he did, including his continuous serenade of meowing.
I got My Wife tucked into bed and went to check on Stinky.
Carefully I opened the door, reaching my hand in to shut the cabinet door that he had opened and which was partially blocking the door. Then I stuck my head in and took a look around. There were shit marks all over the floor, just like the ones he had left in the laundry room.
"Oh no you didn't!" I said, sounding nothing like a black girl at all. I felt my blood pressure skyrocketing as I swung the door open the rest of the way and reached in for Stinky. He ran around, thinking we were playing, until I managed to get ahold of the back of his neck and lift him up.
"Meow?"
"OUTSIDE!"
I carried him unceremoniously to the back door, opened it, and set him out in the cold.
"Are you throwing back outside?" My Wife yelled to me from the bedroom.
I shut and locked the door before walking back to the bedroom where she was. "He's staying out. He didn't clean any of it off himself while he was out. He wiped his ass all over the bathroom floor, just like he did all the other rooms."
Then I turned and went back to the laundry room, retrieved the still damp mop and bucket, and headed for the bathroom to begin cleaning all over again. It was now nearly midnight.
By the time I had finished with the bathroom, I was sweating. "Great," I said to myself. "I just love being covered in sweat and shit and cleaners before going to bed."
But as I was cleaning, I had been thinking. I had never seen Stinky afraid of being outside, yet every time I had opened the door for him tonight, unlike his usual response of wanting me to come out instead of himself to come in, he had come running with wide eyes and shot into the house. I had no idea what was bugging him, but I wasn't very happy with the idea of leaving him out there, in sub-freezing temperatures, with something possibly hunting him.
There is a big himalayan tomcat that comes around from time to time, looking for Stinky. He's gigantic, whereas Stinky is not even ful grown yet. Stinky has fought him before. He doesn't show much fear of him anymore. Just last night, in fact, I had seen the cat on our back porch looking up at Stinky, who was perched on top of our grille where he always is. I had swung open the back door and chased the cat across our backyard, nearly pulling a hamstring in the process. When I had returned from the chase, Stinky was still sitting on the grille, showing no interest. He didn't even want to come inside the house.
If that giant tomcat doesn't scare Stinky anymore, I can't imagine what is. Nothing else has ever shown up on our back porch like that. At least, not that I know of.
Finally I decided that I knew what I had to do. So I went to the backdoor and turned on the light. Stinky came running. I opened the door and he streaked into the house without slowing down. I grabbed him up and carried him back to the bathroom, with him complaining all the way. I took him inside and shut the bathroom door behind me. Then I put him down in the shower and turned on the faucet.
Our shower in the hall bathroom has one of those attachments with a long hose and a sprayer on the end. Women seem to like them for reasons that have little to do with showering, but to me they're mostly a pain in the ass. But on this occasion, it was just what I needed. I held Stinky with one hand and the shower sprayer with the other, and began spraying him right up the ass.
Oh, he wasn't happy about that. Oh no. Not at all. But it was the only way. His hair is so long and so thick and was so matted with shit that nothing short of a hose-down was going to clean him up.
I washed and washed and washed until my arms were tired. He was thoroughly unhappy and upset, but exhausted from the battle. By the time I was through, he was barely fighting me. Finally I was satisfied and I stopped spraying him. I let go and he ran behind the toilet. I grabbed a towel and dragged him out from behind the toilet.
I will never understand why, as much as cats hate being wet, they seem to hate being dried off even more. But they do. He fought the towels, he bit the towels, he clawed the towels, and he complained the whole time.
Finally he was dry enough to satisfy me. I set out his litterbox and food dish again, and left him there to spend the night in the bathroom, just in case I had missed anything.
So now I know why our Little Girl cat doesn't want to use the litterbox after Stinky has used it. The idiot stands backwards in the box, with his face pressed against the back and his butt at the entrance, peeing and pooping right where she stands when she uses it. And he smells awful when he goes, too. And now I'm working on a plan to train him to turn his ass around, so we don't ever have to spend another night cleaning up shit off the edge of the litterbox, off his ass, and off the floors of our house.
"What, you mean, literally like shit, or just really bad?" I asked, having virtually no sense of smell myself and thus not being aware of any change in our air quality.
"Literally," she replied. "He must be in the litterbox, but I can't imagine what he's doing in there. It's never smelled this bad before!"
Finally, we both got up and went to check on Spongebob. I walked into the laundry room where the litterbox is kept. Stinky ran past me as I entered. What I saw explained why he was running.
On the edge of the litterbox, perched at the entrance to the box, was a big wad of cat shit, almost as big as the cat himself.
In the floor, on the tiles and in the grout, were long, brown smears where Stinky had dragged his apparently shit-covered ass across the floor, trying to wipe the shit off.
"Get out! GET OUT!" I heard My Wife shouting from the kitchen. I went to investigate.
"He's wiped his ass on the kitchen floor!" she screamed. "Look at this!" and she pointed to the streaks on the floor of our kitchen.
We both went looking for the oh-so-appropriately named Stinky. I found him under the dining room table and we cornered him there. I threw open the door to the backyard and we chased him out.
Somehow, in the short time he had spent in the dining room, he had managed to leave shit on the floor there, too. My Wife was livid.
My Wife, having a good sense of smell, which is lucky in that it compensates for my near total lack, can't stand to deal with shit. She can't handlel the odor at all. And so it falls to me to clean up after Stinky and his litterbox antics.
I spent the next hour mopping and scraping and mopping some more. My Wife took our other mop and dealt with the kitchen floor. After I had finished the laundry room, where the worst of it was, I handled the dining room.
Stinky, meanwhile, was at the back door, looking scared and wanting to come in. It was 22 degrees outside, but that normally doesn't bother him. And I wasn't kean on letting him back in.
"It's too cold outside to leave him out there," My Wife insisted. So, having cleaned the house, I formulated a plan and began to implement it.
I went upstairs and retrieved Stinky's own personal litterbox. I grabbed his food dish while I was there. I carried the whole thing downstairs and put it into the hall bathroom. Remembering how he had opened the drawer of the vanity and locked himself into the bathroom, I took the drawer out altogether. Then I went and got Stinky.
The minute I opened the back door, he shot into the house. "Come here!" I said, as calmly as a man who had just spent an hour cleaning shit can be.
He ignored me and ran around.
"Has he cleaned the shit off his butt?" My Wife asked.
"I don't know. There's plenty of grass outside. I should think he wiped it on that," I said, hopefully.
Finally, I managed to grab Stinky and carry him to the bathroom, where I threw him in and shut the door.
"Are you just going to leave him in there all night?" My Wife asked.
"Yes."
At least, that was the plan.
We were tired and it was late, especially for My Wife, who has to get up extra early for work each morning. So we went and started getting ready for bed. Stinky, meanwhile, was making all kinds of noise in the bathroom, which echoed and amplified everything he did, including his continuous serenade of meowing.
I got My Wife tucked into bed and went to check on Stinky.
Carefully I opened the door, reaching my hand in to shut the cabinet door that he had opened and which was partially blocking the door. Then I stuck my head in and took a look around. There were shit marks all over the floor, just like the ones he had left in the laundry room.
"Oh no you didn't!" I said, sounding nothing like a black girl at all. I felt my blood pressure skyrocketing as I swung the door open the rest of the way and reached in for Stinky. He ran around, thinking we were playing, until I managed to get ahold of the back of his neck and lift him up.
"Meow?"
"OUTSIDE!"
I carried him unceremoniously to the back door, opened it, and set him out in the cold.
"Are you throwing back outside?" My Wife yelled to me from the bedroom.
I shut and locked the door before walking back to the bedroom where she was. "He's staying out. He didn't clean any of it off himself while he was out. He wiped his ass all over the bathroom floor, just like he did all the other rooms."
Then I turned and went back to the laundry room, retrieved the still damp mop and bucket, and headed for the bathroom to begin cleaning all over again. It was now nearly midnight.
By the time I had finished with the bathroom, I was sweating. "Great," I said to myself. "I just love being covered in sweat and shit and cleaners before going to bed."
But as I was cleaning, I had been thinking. I had never seen Stinky afraid of being outside, yet every time I had opened the door for him tonight, unlike his usual response of wanting me to come out instead of himself to come in, he had come running with wide eyes and shot into the house. I had no idea what was bugging him, but I wasn't very happy with the idea of leaving him out there, in sub-freezing temperatures, with something possibly hunting him.
There is a big himalayan tomcat that comes around from time to time, looking for Stinky. He's gigantic, whereas Stinky is not even ful grown yet. Stinky has fought him before. He doesn't show much fear of him anymore. Just last night, in fact, I had seen the cat on our back porch looking up at Stinky, who was perched on top of our grille where he always is. I had swung open the back door and chased the cat across our backyard, nearly pulling a hamstring in the process. When I had returned from the chase, Stinky was still sitting on the grille, showing no interest. He didn't even want to come inside the house.
If that giant tomcat doesn't scare Stinky anymore, I can't imagine what is. Nothing else has ever shown up on our back porch like that. At least, not that I know of.
Finally I decided that I knew what I had to do. So I went to the backdoor and turned on the light. Stinky came running. I opened the door and he streaked into the house without slowing down. I grabbed him up and carried him back to the bathroom, with him complaining all the way. I took him inside and shut the bathroom door behind me. Then I put him down in the shower and turned on the faucet.
Our shower in the hall bathroom has one of those attachments with a long hose and a sprayer on the end. Women seem to like them for reasons that have little to do with showering, but to me they're mostly a pain in the ass. But on this occasion, it was just what I needed. I held Stinky with one hand and the shower sprayer with the other, and began spraying him right up the ass.
Oh, he wasn't happy about that. Oh no. Not at all. But it was the only way. His hair is so long and so thick and was so matted with shit that nothing short of a hose-down was going to clean him up.
I washed and washed and washed until my arms were tired. He was thoroughly unhappy and upset, but exhausted from the battle. By the time I was through, he was barely fighting me. Finally I was satisfied and I stopped spraying him. I let go and he ran behind the toilet. I grabbed a towel and dragged him out from behind the toilet.
I will never understand why, as much as cats hate being wet, they seem to hate being dried off even more. But they do. He fought the towels, he bit the towels, he clawed the towels, and he complained the whole time.
Finally he was dry enough to satisfy me. I set out his litterbox and food dish again, and left him there to spend the night in the bathroom, just in case I had missed anything.
So now I know why our Little Girl cat doesn't want to use the litterbox after Stinky has used it. The idiot stands backwards in the box, with his face pressed against the back and his butt at the entrance, peeing and pooping right where she stands when she uses it. And he smells awful when he goes, too. And now I'm working on a plan to train him to turn his ass around, so we don't ever have to spend another night cleaning up shit off the edge of the litterbox, off his ass, and off the floors of our house.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Who Are You Voting For?
My Mom called me the other night, worried that I might be dead after the tornadoes had ravaged Memphis. She got me right in the middle of eating supper and seemed to want to talk. I sat and watched my food getting colder and colder as she shot the breeze about this and that, never seeming to want to end the conversation. I thought it was sort of odd, as she didn't really have anything in particular to say. To be perfectly honest, she and I don't talk that much. Go figure.
Anyway, she finally got to what I think may have been her real reason for calling, aside from wanting to know if I was dead or alive.
"Who are all these people running for President?" she asked me. "I don't even know anything about most of them."
I patiently went through each candidate from the Democrat and Republican Party, all the while suspicious, because after all, this is My Mom we're talking about.
I have always suspected that My Mom would go and vote for whomever My Dad disliked the most, not knowing anything about anything, but knowing that she enjoyed frustrating the men in the world as much as possible. I never asked her flat out if she was doing this, though, because asking My Mom a direct question is a lot like trying to wrestle with Jello. You just have to watch for her 'tells' in order to pick up the truth from the midst of all her bullshit.
As I went through all the Republican candidates, I could tell that My Mom was trying hard to pretend she was interested, but she really wasn't.
"Ooooh, mmm hmmm," she yawned.
And when I talked about Obama and even threw in John Edwards, it was obvious that she had no idea who they were.
When I talked about Hillary Clinton it was clear that her interest had perked up a bit. Oh, she tried to talk like she knew a thing or two, but it was easy to tell that she had never heard or read anything that Hillary stands for or promises in her campaign speeches. She knew nothing. Except that Hillary is a woman.
All my life I have been beaten over the head and, of course, the crotch by female supremacists with the claim that it is sexist and thus wrong for a male to ever favor another male simply because of sex. In fact, it is claimed to be wrong for anyone to favor males for any reason. And all my life I have watched as those same hypocritical female supremacists blatantly disregarded this rule where females were concerned, openly encouraging and practicing discrimination in favor of females.
My Mom is, of course, no exception.
My Mom knows vitually nothing about the world around her. She has no idea who Barack Obama or John McCain is. She really doesn't know who Hillary Clinton is, despite living in a house once filled with books on politics, many of which included fascinating and relevant details about Hillary Clinton. She doesn't know what tax rate she pays and she doesn't know what her health care is costing her. She doesn't know what a 'carbon footprint' is. She has no clue what is going on in Kenya, Nigeria, Venezuela, or Russia or why it even matters. She's never even hard of the CAFE standard, even though My Dad talked about all of these things around her for years. But she's voting, by God, and she's voting based on her usual priorities, which is, obviously, hating males.
Yes people, My Mom is voting for Hillary.
Oh, she won't admit it. If I asked her she would just lie, which I think is ironically appropriate considering her choice. I haven't told her who I'm voting for. After all, I haven't decided. But if she knew, she'd just say that this was her choice, too. Then she'd go right on with the conversation as if lying to me was of no consequence whatever and all was well. And on election day, despite what she'd said to me, she'll be pushing that button for the only candidate rumored to possess a vagina. And that's really her only criteria. She's not voting based on logic or reason, and she's certainly not voting based on the issues. She's voting for a vagina.
But the sad fact is, for the past many years in this country, that's what most voters have been doing in election after election whenever there is a lone female candidate.
A few days after My Mom's phone call, I got an email from My Oldest Sister. She's been struggling with trying to help Mom out since Dad's death, and she's found it to be rather frustrating and exhausting. Among the many things Oldest Sister had to say, there was this startling revelation:
"I have had to talk to Mom a great deal these past 2 years. I call her a lot because she gets so depressed and lost without Dad. From talking to her, I am starting to think its better not to talk about anything important because she just believes whatever is popular or whatever is "nice" and doesn't cause waves. Reasoning with her is useless. I guess a lot of people are like that though."
Yeah, I guess a lot of people are like that, too.
"Reasoning with her is useless"
So, who are you voting for in this election? Have you decided? Are you willing to say?
Anyway, she finally got to what I think may have been her real reason for calling, aside from wanting to know if I was dead or alive.
"Who are all these people running for President?" she asked me. "I don't even know anything about most of them."
I patiently went through each candidate from the Democrat and Republican Party, all the while suspicious, because after all, this is My Mom we're talking about.
I have always suspected that My Mom would go and vote for whomever My Dad disliked the most, not knowing anything about anything, but knowing that she enjoyed frustrating the men in the world as much as possible. I never asked her flat out if she was doing this, though, because asking My Mom a direct question is a lot like trying to wrestle with Jello. You just have to watch for her 'tells' in order to pick up the truth from the midst of all her bullshit.
As I went through all the Republican candidates, I could tell that My Mom was trying hard to pretend she was interested, but she really wasn't.
"Ooooh, mmm hmmm," she yawned.
And when I talked about Obama and even threw in John Edwards, it was obvious that she had no idea who they were.
When I talked about Hillary Clinton it was clear that her interest had perked up a bit. Oh, she tried to talk like she knew a thing or two, but it was easy to tell that she had never heard or read anything that Hillary stands for or promises in her campaign speeches. She knew nothing. Except that Hillary is a woman.
All my life I have been beaten over the head and, of course, the crotch by female supremacists with the claim that it is sexist and thus wrong for a male to ever favor another male simply because of sex. In fact, it is claimed to be wrong for anyone to favor males for any reason. And all my life I have watched as those same hypocritical female supremacists blatantly disregarded this rule where females were concerned, openly encouraging and practicing discrimination in favor of females.
My Mom is, of course, no exception.
My Mom knows vitually nothing about the world around her. She has no idea who Barack Obama or John McCain is. She really doesn't know who Hillary Clinton is, despite living in a house once filled with books on politics, many of which included fascinating and relevant details about Hillary Clinton. She doesn't know what tax rate she pays and she doesn't know what her health care is costing her. She doesn't know what a 'carbon footprint' is. She has no clue what is going on in Kenya, Nigeria, Venezuela, or Russia or why it even matters. She's never even hard of the CAFE standard, even though My Dad talked about all of these things around her for years. But she's voting, by God, and she's voting based on her usual priorities, which is, obviously, hating males.
Yes people, My Mom is voting for Hillary.
Oh, she won't admit it. If I asked her she would just lie, which I think is ironically appropriate considering her choice. I haven't told her who I'm voting for. After all, I haven't decided. But if she knew, she'd just say that this was her choice, too. Then she'd go right on with the conversation as if lying to me was of no consequence whatever and all was well. And on election day, despite what she'd said to me, she'll be pushing that button for the only candidate rumored to possess a vagina. And that's really her only criteria. She's not voting based on logic or reason, and she's certainly not voting based on the issues. She's voting for a vagina.
But the sad fact is, for the past many years in this country, that's what most voters have been doing in election after election whenever there is a lone female candidate.
A few days after My Mom's phone call, I got an email from My Oldest Sister. She's been struggling with trying to help Mom out since Dad's death, and she's found it to be rather frustrating and exhausting. Among the many things Oldest Sister had to say, there was this startling revelation:
"I have had to talk to Mom a great deal these past 2 years. I call her a lot because she gets so depressed and lost without Dad. From talking to her, I am starting to think its better not to talk about anything important because she just believes whatever is popular or whatever is "nice" and doesn't cause waves. Reasoning with her is useless. I guess a lot of people are like that though."
Yeah, I guess a lot of people are like that, too.
"Reasoning with her is useless"
So, who are you voting for in this election? Have you decided? Are you willing to say?
Mexico Drops Put of 2008 Olympics
President Felipe Calderón of Mexico has announced Mexico will not participate in the next Summer Olympics.
* Sent to me by Stacy the Peanut Queen
Sunday, February 10, 2008
The Bathroom Adventures of Spongebob Stinkypants
"Why do you keep peeing on my beanbag chair?" I asked my cat, Spongebob Stinkypants, as I held up my beanbag chair and shook it at him. He sat looking up at me, flicking his tail on the hardwood floor excitedly, as he tried to figure out if we were were playing or if he was in trouble. I stuck the section of the chair with evaporated cat pee in his face and made sure his nose was right up in it.
"Here, right here, smell familiar?" I asked him. He backed up a few steps. "Yeah, I thought you might recognize this." And then I carried the chair past him to the hall bathroom, throwing open the door and tossing it into the shower, where I began washing it off for the second time in as many weeks. Spongebob pranced into the bathroom behind me. He plopped down into the cool tile floor behind the now half-open door and spread out.
He loves to follow people into the bathroom. It's his favorite room. If you flush the toilet, he'll jump up onto the rim of the bowl and stick his head in, watching the water go down like it's some great event. More than once I've been standing up peeing, only to see a fuzzy head and paws appear between my legs and lean way out into the toilet, watching the yellow stream spash down into the clear water.
I rinsed the dried cat pee off the vinyl beanbag chair and threw it down into the shower to drip dry. Then I walked out, closing the bathroom door behind me and forgetting about Spongebob.
I plopped down on the couch in the living room and resumed watching "Mission Impossible" with My Wife.
After a long time had passed, I began to hear noises coming from the hall bathroom.
"Did you lock Stinky in the bathroom?" My Wife asked me.
"Yeah, apparently I did," I responded. Neither of us offered to get up and go let him out.
Before long, I heard the sound of cabinet doors being opened and then springing shut again. "Ah, he's learning the fine art of opening cabinets. Great," I commented.
And then we heard another noise, a different noise, the sound of something sort of rumbling. "What the hell was that?" I asked My Wife.
"I don't know. Go check," she replied, still not making any attempt to get up off the couch.
Curious, but dreading the answer, I got up and walked over to the hall bathroom. I turned the doorknob and pushed on the door.
BUMP!
"What the hell?!"
"What?" My Wife yelled to me from the living room. "What'd he do?"
"The door won't open," I yelled back. And then I pressed on it hard enough to bend it just a little so I could peek inside the bathroom. I could just barely see a long strip of wood directly behind the door.
"Oh hell!" I cursed. "He's pulled open the vanity drawer and now the door won't open. Stinky, you dumbass, now you're stuck in there!"
He had pulled the drawer all the way open, so that it was fully extended and completely barricading the door.
Stinky was meowing pitifully now, tired of being in the bathroom and beginning to realize from the tone of my voice that bad things were happening, or about to.
"You opened it," I said uselessly to the cat, "now close it back."
He meowed in response, but didn't touch the drawer again.
I could only just open the door a tiny crack, just enough to see in, but not enough to get anything substantial through, like my hand or even a thick screwdriver. The more I looked at the situation, the more I began to think I was going to have to break the drawer just to get inside.
"Where is the long, thin screwdriver?" I asked My Wife, the woman who constantly steals my tools and then scatters them all about the house rather than putting them back in my toolbox.
"I don't know!" she yelled, apparently insulted that I had asked her. Then she began yelling questions to me about the situation, why I couldn't open the door, and couldn't I just poke my hand in and close the drawer and other thoughts a person might have from a comfortable seat on the couch.
"No, there's no room. There's barely any room to even see in, let alone poke a screwdriver or something in there." I reponded. "I think I may have to trying using a knife blade. It's about the only thing thin enough to fit that would allow me to push on the drawer."
I left to get my longest knife.
When I arrived back, My Wife was just opening the door.
"What did you do?" I asked her.
She held up a long, perfectly flat kitchen utensil. "Spaghetti fork!" she announced proudly. "Good thing I'm Italian!"
Spongebob came running out of the bathroom and went straight up to me. I took his furry face in my hands and said in a playful voice masking my irritation, "So, if you could open the damn thing, why couldn't you close it?"
He meowed happily and then wrapped his paws around my wrists and bit the shit out of my hand. Life in the Memphis Household was back to normal again.
"Here, right here, smell familiar?" I asked him. He backed up a few steps. "Yeah, I thought you might recognize this." And then I carried the chair past him to the hall bathroom, throwing open the door and tossing it into the shower, where I began washing it off for the second time in as many weeks. Spongebob pranced into the bathroom behind me. He plopped down into the cool tile floor behind the now half-open door and spread out.
He loves to follow people into the bathroom. It's his favorite room. If you flush the toilet, he'll jump up onto the rim of the bowl and stick his head in, watching the water go down like it's some great event. More than once I've been standing up peeing, only to see a fuzzy head and paws appear between my legs and lean way out into the toilet, watching the yellow stream spash down into the clear water.
I rinsed the dried cat pee off the vinyl beanbag chair and threw it down into the shower to drip dry. Then I walked out, closing the bathroom door behind me and forgetting about Spongebob.
I plopped down on the couch in the living room and resumed watching "Mission Impossible" with My Wife.
After a long time had passed, I began to hear noises coming from the hall bathroom.
"Did you lock Stinky in the bathroom?" My Wife asked me.
"Yeah, apparently I did," I responded. Neither of us offered to get up and go let him out.
Before long, I heard the sound of cabinet doors being opened and then springing shut again. "Ah, he's learning the fine art of opening cabinets. Great," I commented.
And then we heard another noise, a different noise, the sound of something sort of rumbling. "What the hell was that?" I asked My Wife.
"I don't know. Go check," she replied, still not making any attempt to get up off the couch.
Curious, but dreading the answer, I got up and walked over to the hall bathroom. I turned the doorknob and pushed on the door.
BUMP!
"What the hell?!"
"What?" My Wife yelled to me from the living room. "What'd he do?"
"The door won't open," I yelled back. And then I pressed on it hard enough to bend it just a little so I could peek inside the bathroom. I could just barely see a long strip of wood directly behind the door.
"Oh hell!" I cursed. "He's pulled open the vanity drawer and now the door won't open. Stinky, you dumbass, now you're stuck in there!"
He had pulled the drawer all the way open, so that it was fully extended and completely barricading the door.
Stinky was meowing pitifully now, tired of being in the bathroom and beginning to realize from the tone of my voice that bad things were happening, or about to.
"You opened it," I said uselessly to the cat, "now close it back."
He meowed in response, but didn't touch the drawer again.
I could only just open the door a tiny crack, just enough to see in, but not enough to get anything substantial through, like my hand or even a thick screwdriver. The more I looked at the situation, the more I began to think I was going to have to break the drawer just to get inside.
"Where is the long, thin screwdriver?" I asked My Wife, the woman who constantly steals my tools and then scatters them all about the house rather than putting them back in my toolbox.
"I don't know!" she yelled, apparently insulted that I had asked her. Then she began yelling questions to me about the situation, why I couldn't open the door, and couldn't I just poke my hand in and close the drawer and other thoughts a person might have from a comfortable seat on the couch.
"No, there's no room. There's barely any room to even see in, let alone poke a screwdriver or something in there." I reponded. "I think I may have to trying using a knife blade. It's about the only thing thin enough to fit that would allow me to push on the drawer."
I left to get my longest knife.
When I arrived back, My Wife was just opening the door.
"What did you do?" I asked her.
She held up a long, perfectly flat kitchen utensil. "Spaghetti fork!" she announced proudly. "Good thing I'm Italian!"
Spongebob came running out of the bathroom and went straight up to me. I took his furry face in my hands and said in a playful voice masking my irritation, "So, if you could open the damn thing, why couldn't you close it?"
He meowed happily and then wrapped his paws around my wrists and bit the shit out of my hand. Life in the Memphis Household was back to normal again.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Friday and I'm Bored - NEWS!
Campaign for what? All the conservatives have dropped out of the presidential race. We now have 2 communists, a liberal, and a Baptist preacher. Is Bush planning to run for a third term?
I was actually trying to send it to Steph, but I hit the wrong number. Sooo embarrassed!
There's a fart joke here. I'm just afraid to say it.
How do you boost pregnancy exactly? Either she's pregnant or she's not, right? Is this some sort of SUPER pregnancy? Maybe it only lasts 4 1/2 months, but she's twice as hormonal? Sounds dangerous.
Yes, those damn tobacco plants are just leaping up out of the fields and attacking us at random! It's not like people are willingly sticking the tobacco in their faces and lighting it on fire or anything. We're all victims now.
A rare moment of sanity and intelligence from the chaos that is South Africa.
Israeli fighter pilots find that they can fly higher and cope with greater G-forces if they have a massive erection. The main concern, aside from the feminists who dominate Israel not allowing it, is what would happen if they should get shot down while in that condition. They wouldn't be able to run, hide, or fight worth a shit.
My question here is, can the man who was lied to sue the transsexual for deceiving him in the first place? I think he should be allowed to, but of course that would be politically incorrect, so you know it will never be permitted.
I'm picturing Bill Gates in a slim-cut brown '70s suit, kicking in a door and charging into the pirates' lair, aiming a .44 Magnum revolver at the guys now laying on the floor in suprise, as he sneers and says, "Go ahead, make my day!"
Oh gee, whatever gave you that idea? Putin's Russia be anything less than honest and true? Nooooo!
Guys are trying to get laid at a block-party in Kenya, but so far, no luck.
And yet the knife went right through it!
Imagine that, the religious environmentalists may have made a mistake about ethanol. Say it ain't so!
A large population of women pissing The Pill into the water supply seems to have castrated the civilized world. This could explain why everyone today is so bitchy and mean all the time, and there is a distinct shortage of real men.
These men are apparently sleeping with some really ugly women. Personally, I'd give up TV for life if I could have sex with Jessica Biel as much as I wanted for 6 months.
The Messiah is a Komodo dragon? Whaaaaat?
Yes, as more illegal aliens cast their votes in our elections, the whole issue just fades away. Imagine that.
That's ironic, because for years and years conservatives have been asking McCain for his support.
Apparently he was upset by my comment that he would look good on the $1 bill. He wanted the $20.
Every time the female supremacists want to spread some more misandric bullshit in order to recruit women and raise money, they claim 1 out of 4 women suffer ... whatever the fuck it is, rape, domestic violence, boyfriends with bad breath, improperly fitted bras, a vast right-wing conspiracy, etc. All independent researchers, that is, non-feminists, have repeatedly disproven all these claims, including this one about domestic violence. Yet by the time the truth gets out, their government-funded and media-assisted lies have circled the globe many times over and received another $10 billion in taxpayer funding from gutless politicians. The CDC has long been a discredited political propaganda machine and election years are their favorite time for these 'fundraisers'. There will be much more of this in the coming months, you can be sure of that. But there is one real shocker in this story: apparently after 20 years of taking the official position that "all domestic violence is violence against women" they have finally and very begrudgingly admitted that "some men also experience domestic violence." Good golly, who knew?
This woman killed 2 other women and then shot herself. But somehow, some way, a man will be blamed.
I have suffered 'reduced exercise capacity' according to this article. I find that the more times I'm forced to stay indoors and run the treadmill, the more I hate daytime TV.
This is very important news ..... for birds.
Nancy Pelosi and the Democratic Party are trying to transform the AIDS program into an abortion program. It seems there is a lot more money to be made in performing abortions than in treating AIDS. I wonder if Nancy's gay voter base knows about this?
Geez, when was the last time something good came out of Africa? Shit.
This headline seems so fucked up, I just had to include it. Whaaaaaat?
Prostitutes in Dallas have decided that exchanging sex for money is too much trouble. Intead, they've taken to hunting men visiting Dallas on business at the most expensive hotels in town, basically attacking them, slipping them the so-called 'date rape drug', sometimes beating them half to death while they are drugged, and robbing them blind. Feminists continue to insist that female prostitutes are the 'real victims' while the men are the criminals. Dallas police, meanwhile, have assigned a solitary overworked detective to the case with little incentive to bring these politically protected women to justice. And men visiting Dallas on business are, for the most part, not being warned that anything is even going on. The few witnesses that the detective managed to find indicated that the men didn't hire the women, they were either effectively molested and then drugged, or sometimes simply drugged without ever even meeting the women at all. The Press is reporting the story as humorous news, as is their standard practice.
A man in Maine is apparently practicing to be a Dallas prostitute. He's taken to cutting off women who are out driving alone. Once he's in front of them, he stops and leaps out of his vehicle wearing women's underwear, a garter belt and black high-heel boots. Several women have reported nearly running over him as they swerved around him because they were laughing so hard they couldn't manuever well. Police say he isn't necessarily guilty of a crime, but they'll probably just arrest him anyway. Fashion police, meanwhile, say he desperately needs to be apprehended for the next episode of "What Not To Wear".
Courtney Cox is hot
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
B-B-B-Baby you just ain't seen n-n-nuthin' yet
Sooooooo, we had an arctic blast come through and blow off half the shingles on the front side of my roof the other day. Remember that? Ah, the joys of trying to climb up there and nearly falling, the Mexicans in dope smokers, all the fun. Anyway, following the arctic blast that came through and sent my shingles flying like a flock of birds, we had a warm front. A really, really warm front.
For those of you living in Paradise, that is to say, Australia, while you are having an awesome summer, hitting the beach all covered in sunscreen and bikini, we are at the coldest part of our winter. Or rather, we should be. It would normally be around 20 to 30 degrees Farhrenheit around this time, and we'd all be adjusted to the cold by now, praying for snow and road closings and all that. Instead, for the past 2 days it's been 75 degrees outside. Yeah, that's no scorching heat wave, but it's damned warm for February.
I've lived in the Southeastern United States my entire life. I've ridden out many tornadoes. I have a fair knowledge of tornadoes. I know what causes tornadoes and how useless my slab house without a basement is during a tornado. And I knew, 2 days ago, that we were in some deep shit with this 75 degree weather. I was going around to everybody talking about how bad it's going to be when the normal winter cold front comes back and hits this 75 degree warm front and brings hellfire down upon all our heads. People were telling me to shut up and enjoy the warm weather. And I did, but I was waiting for the inevitable.
Yesterday the cold returned with a vengeance. It hit while I was at work. Before I could even head for home, there were already reports of tornadoes on the ground crashing through Arkansas and across the river into Memphis. I had just returned to work after standing in a long line to vote in the Presidential primary election, trying to decide whether to vote for Hillary or Obama.
No, I'm kidding. I had you going there for a minute, didn't I? Yeah, I wasn't voting for either of those two commies. You knew that, right? Except you guys in Australia, who have no idea what I'm talking about because it means nothing to you. And how lucky you are, too!
So anyway, I flipped a coin and voted for the candidate I hoped would be the least inept as our next President. This coin flipping seemed to annoy the poll workers, who up until then hadn't taken their jobs quite so seriously. But honestly, look at our choices. Ah, but I digress. Sorry. Let me get back to the tornadoes.
When I left the voting booth, it was still almost hot outside. There was a steady wind, but nothing threatening yet. We knew the cold was coming. We were bracing ourselves for the return of Winter. But I still had to go back to work. So I did.
I wasn't at work more than an hour before my coworkers started running up and down the halls, "there's a tornado in Arkansas! And there may be more!" The wind was now rattling our building and the windows were shaking. People were debating whether to stay here or try to make it home. Tornadoes can cross from Arkansas and run right through Memphis faster than a crack-ho-gangsta can drive a stolen Cadillac down the sidewalks from downtown to the border of Mississippi, and for those of you who haven't watched our news, they can do that shit real fast, and often do.
For me, there was no debate. Yes, you don't want to be on the road trying to outrun a tornado in your 4x4 no matter how convinced you are that it's an awesome truck with a kickass V8 engine. I have a friend who was in her truck when a tornado caught her. It rolled her 4x4 over and over before sucking her right out the driver's door window, ripping the skin right off her back in the process and flinging her through the air. She lived, but she tells me it kinda hurt. Yeah, I don't want to do that. Still, given the choice between dying at work while in the middle of blogging, or dying at home in my own closet, surrounding by my own shoes and cats and wife, I preferred the security of dying violently and horribly at home.
I mean, who wouldn't?
So, off I ran to my 4x4 to race home like a lunatic in what I was sure was going to be some bad-ass crazy motherfucker traffic. As I approached my truck, I saw that I had left my lights on. "Oh hell, my battery is going to be dead and I'm going to be stuck here trying to find someone to jumper me off during a tornado. That's just GRRRRRREAT!" I Tony the Tigered.
But my truck started without much trouble. I tore out of the parking lot at a calm and leisurely pace, skidding around the turns and jumping speed bumps like Evil Knievel. When I hit the actual roadway, I began doing the speed limit, as this is The Boondocks, after all, and they will flat out bust you for even 1 mph over if given the opportunity. "Ah, but this is a tornado and the weather is nasty," I thought to myself. "There is no way in hell a cop is going to want to mess with me, standing beside my door asking for my license in the driving rain and winds, with multiple tornadoes heading our way." So I took a big chance at the high school dance with a missy who was ready to play. I stepped on the gas. I was hauling ass. And so was everyone else.
A cop passed me going the other way. For a moment I held my breath and watched him in my mirror.
"Yeah, that's what I thought! HA HA!" I shouted triumphantly to myself as he kept on driving in the opposite direction, totally ignoring me.
I made it home in record time. And once there, I of course stood outside in my front yard for about 10 minutes just staring at the purple sky and ominous black clouds that were screaming by. Off in the distance was a constant flash of lightning hitting the ground as the tornadoes were already ripping their way across Memphis.
Why do we do things like this? You hear all the stories of pine straw penetrating an oak tree during a tornado and yet still when one hits we all stand out in the rain and stare at the sky like hypnotized butt-monkeys admiring Beyonce's ass.
After staring at the sky for awhile and satisfying myself that it was sufficiently wild-looking, I finally went in the house. My Wife was already there, with the TV on. The news was going on every local channel, much to our annoyance.
"Are they going to do this right though the new episode of "House"?" I said aloud. "Dammit!"
The tornadoes were spreading out, going man-to-man and hitting Southhaven, Mississippi, Memphis, Tennessee, and Atoka, Tennessee just north of Memphis, all at the same time.
News reporters would later tell us that while the mayor of Southaven was on the roof of his office building shouting instructions and organizing disaster relief, the infamous Mayor Willie Herenton, longtime ruler of Memphis, was cowering down in the basement of the City Council building like a little girl.
The walls and roof of our house were creaking ominously. We had a few candles lit and spread around in case the power went out. We threw our coats and a flashlight into the closet we planned to hide in should the tornadoes appear to be about to hit us directly. Little Girl, our black female cat, had never come home and My Wife was worried about her. Spongebob Stinkypants, my Maine Coon kitten, was running around the house stealing our socks as usual, as if nothing was wrong.
And then suddenly he ran to the back doors and stared out at the sky. He started meowing. On the TV, the news was reporting that Hickory Ridge Mall had been hit by a tornado with people inside. Then a report that several warehouses near the jetport were being torn apart by another tornado. Houses were being blown to pieces in Atoka by yet another tornado. And it was all coming our way.
I went into a dark room and looked out the window to see how bad it looked up in the sky. It was just black. The trees outside we blowing back and forth, but nothing dramatic.
The reporters' signals were all beginning to break up. We were getting their reports in little pieces so that it sounded like "four people are trapped ins ...... an .... they ... firemen are .... scene ... " Sooooo not helpful. At first we thought it was our signal being interferred with by the storm. But when we flipped over to other, non-local channels, everything was fine. So My Wife watched a rerun of "Bones."
Memphis - this morning
All night we kept receiving reports of buildings destroyed, people trapped inside, and cars thrown through the air and landing inside buildings.
And then we received a report of a man killed in the city just east of us. He had been out in his field trying to round up his cows or something. A tornado touched down and he jumped back into his truck. But the tornado just destroyed truck and man together, killing him and leaving him out there in his rain-soaked field.
Somehow the tornadoes had gone right past us without doing much to us. And after this, reports were coming in from Jackson, Tennessee, an hour east of us, of more destruction and death. And then in Nashville. And then Alabama and Georgia. It was over. We were fine.
And then the Little Girl appeared at the door, wanting to come inside. My Wife ran to the door and opened it for her. She came running in and went straight back to the back bedroom, as if to hide. But then almost immediately she came back out again and ran to My Wife, practically willing her to sit down and form a lap. When My Wife sat down finally, Little Girl leaped into her lap and layed there for the rest of the night, hugging My Wife's leg like a teddy bear.
Once the cold finally pushed the warm air out of our area, there was simply a constant wind blowing for the remainder of the night. In the morning, I awoke to the sound of that wind, never ceasing or changing direction. As I was leaving for work I saw that part of our fence around our air conditioning unit had been blown down. That was the only damage I saw.
They say so far they've counted 47 people dead. Local news reported at least 60 people in Memphis alone who are hurt. And yet I didn't even see a shingle missing from my entire roof when I looked up as I drove away this morning. I guess we got lucky this time.
Student - Union University in Jackson
For those of you living in Paradise, that is to say, Australia, while you are having an awesome summer, hitting the beach all covered in sunscreen and bikini, we are at the coldest part of our winter. Or rather, we should be. It would normally be around 20 to 30 degrees Farhrenheit around this time, and we'd all be adjusted to the cold by now, praying for snow and road closings and all that. Instead, for the past 2 days it's been 75 degrees outside. Yeah, that's no scorching heat wave, but it's damned warm for February.
I've lived in the Southeastern United States my entire life. I've ridden out many tornadoes. I have a fair knowledge of tornadoes. I know what causes tornadoes and how useless my slab house without a basement is during a tornado. And I knew, 2 days ago, that we were in some deep shit with this 75 degree weather. I was going around to everybody talking about how bad it's going to be when the normal winter cold front comes back and hits this 75 degree warm front and brings hellfire down upon all our heads. People were telling me to shut up and enjoy the warm weather. And I did, but I was waiting for the inevitable.
Yesterday the cold returned with a vengeance. It hit while I was at work. Before I could even head for home, there were already reports of tornadoes on the ground crashing through Arkansas and across the river into Memphis. I had just returned to work after standing in a long line to vote in the Presidential primary election, trying to decide whether to vote for Hillary or Obama.
No, I'm kidding. I had you going there for a minute, didn't I? Yeah, I wasn't voting for either of those two commies. You knew that, right? Except you guys in Australia, who have no idea what I'm talking about because it means nothing to you. And how lucky you are, too!
So anyway, I flipped a coin and voted for the candidate I hoped would be the least inept as our next President. This coin flipping seemed to annoy the poll workers, who up until then hadn't taken their jobs quite so seriously. But honestly, look at our choices. Ah, but I digress. Sorry. Let me get back to the tornadoes.
When I left the voting booth, it was still almost hot outside. There was a steady wind, but nothing threatening yet. We knew the cold was coming. We were bracing ourselves for the return of Winter. But I still had to go back to work. So I did.
I wasn't at work more than an hour before my coworkers started running up and down the halls, "there's a tornado in Arkansas! And there may be more!" The wind was now rattling our building and the windows were shaking. People were debating whether to stay here or try to make it home. Tornadoes can cross from Arkansas and run right through Memphis faster than a crack-ho-gangsta can drive a stolen Cadillac down the sidewalks from downtown to the border of Mississippi, and for those of you who haven't watched our news, they can do that shit real fast, and often do.
For me, there was no debate. Yes, you don't want to be on the road trying to outrun a tornado in your 4x4 no matter how convinced you are that it's an awesome truck with a kickass V8 engine. I have a friend who was in her truck when a tornado caught her. It rolled her 4x4 over and over before sucking her right out the driver's door window, ripping the skin right off her back in the process and flinging her through the air. She lived, but she tells me it kinda hurt. Yeah, I don't want to do that. Still, given the choice between dying at work while in the middle of blogging, or dying at home in my own closet, surrounding by my own shoes and cats and wife, I preferred the security of dying violently and horribly at home.
I mean, who wouldn't?
So, off I ran to my 4x4 to race home like a lunatic in what I was sure was going to be some bad-ass crazy motherfucker traffic. As I approached my truck, I saw that I had left my lights on. "Oh hell, my battery is going to be dead and I'm going to be stuck here trying to find someone to jumper me off during a tornado. That's just GRRRRRREAT!" I Tony the Tigered.
But my truck started without much trouble. I tore out of the parking lot at a calm and leisurely pace, skidding around the turns and jumping speed bumps like Evil Knievel. When I hit the actual roadway, I began doing the speed limit, as this is The Boondocks, after all, and they will flat out bust you for even 1 mph over if given the opportunity. "Ah, but this is a tornado and the weather is nasty," I thought to myself. "There is no way in hell a cop is going to want to mess with me, standing beside my door asking for my license in the driving rain and winds, with multiple tornadoes heading our way." So I took a big chance at the high school dance with a missy who was ready to play. I stepped on the gas. I was hauling ass. And so was everyone else.
A cop passed me going the other way. For a moment I held my breath and watched him in my mirror.
"Yeah, that's what I thought! HA HA!" I shouted triumphantly to myself as he kept on driving in the opposite direction, totally ignoring me.
I made it home in record time. And once there, I of course stood outside in my front yard for about 10 minutes just staring at the purple sky and ominous black clouds that were screaming by. Off in the distance was a constant flash of lightning hitting the ground as the tornadoes were already ripping their way across Memphis.
Why do we do things like this? You hear all the stories of pine straw penetrating an oak tree during a tornado and yet still when one hits we all stand out in the rain and stare at the sky like hypnotized butt-monkeys admiring Beyonce's ass.
After staring at the sky for awhile and satisfying myself that it was sufficiently wild-looking, I finally went in the house. My Wife was already there, with the TV on. The news was going on every local channel, much to our annoyance.
"Are they going to do this right though the new episode of "House"?" I said aloud. "Dammit!"
The tornadoes were spreading out, going man-to-man and hitting Southhaven, Mississippi, Memphis, Tennessee, and Atoka, Tennessee just north of Memphis, all at the same time.
News reporters would later tell us that while the mayor of Southaven was on the roof of his office building shouting instructions and organizing disaster relief, the infamous Mayor Willie Herenton, longtime ruler of Memphis, was cowering down in the basement of the City Council building like a little girl.
The walls and roof of our house were creaking ominously. We had a few candles lit and spread around in case the power went out. We threw our coats and a flashlight into the closet we planned to hide in should the tornadoes appear to be about to hit us directly. Little Girl, our black female cat, had never come home and My Wife was worried about her. Spongebob Stinkypants, my Maine Coon kitten, was running around the house stealing our socks as usual, as if nothing was wrong.
And then suddenly he ran to the back doors and stared out at the sky. He started meowing. On the TV, the news was reporting that Hickory Ridge Mall had been hit by a tornado with people inside. Then a report that several warehouses near the jetport were being torn apart by another tornado. Houses were being blown to pieces in Atoka by yet another tornado. And it was all coming our way.
I went into a dark room and looked out the window to see how bad it looked up in the sky. It was just black. The trees outside we blowing back and forth, but nothing dramatic.
The reporters' signals were all beginning to break up. We were getting their reports in little pieces so that it sounded like "four people are trapped ins ...... an .... they ... firemen are .... scene ... " Sooooo not helpful. At first we thought it was our signal being interferred with by the storm. But when we flipped over to other, non-local channels, everything was fine. So My Wife watched a rerun of "Bones."
Memphis - this morning
All night we kept receiving reports of buildings destroyed, people trapped inside, and cars thrown through the air and landing inside buildings.
And then we received a report of a man killed in the city just east of us. He had been out in his field trying to round up his cows or something. A tornado touched down and he jumped back into his truck. But the tornado just destroyed truck and man together, killing him and leaving him out there in his rain-soaked field.
Somehow the tornadoes had gone right past us without doing much to us. And after this, reports were coming in from Jackson, Tennessee, an hour east of us, of more destruction and death. And then in Nashville. And then Alabama and Georgia. It was over. We were fine.
And then the Little Girl appeared at the door, wanting to come inside. My Wife ran to the door and opened it for her. She came running in and went straight back to the back bedroom, as if to hide. But then almost immediately she came back out again and ran to My Wife, practically willing her to sit down and form a lap. When My Wife sat down finally, Little Girl leaped into her lap and layed there for the rest of the night, hugging My Wife's leg like a teddy bear.
Once the cold finally pushed the warm air out of our area, there was simply a constant wind blowing for the remainder of the night. In the morning, I awoke to the sound of that wind, never ceasing or changing direction. As I was leaving for work I saw that part of our fence around our air conditioning unit had been blown down. That was the only damage I saw.
They say so far they've counted 47 people dead. Local news reported at least 60 people in Memphis alone who are hurt. And yet I didn't even see a shingle missing from my entire roof when I looked up as I drove away this morning. I guess we got lucky this time.
Student - Union University in Jackson
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