If one drop of semen contains more life than one drop of blood, then why doesn't Dracula suck dicks instead?
Hmm, I hadn't thought of that.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Draculonian Logic
If one drop of semen contains more life than one drop of blood, then why doesn't Dracula suck dicks instead?
Hmm, I hadn't thought of that.
Memphis Steve's Charity Work
I've decided to do something altruistic for a change. And since October is Breast Cancer/Domestic Violence/Grrl Power/BallBusting/Misandry Awareness Month, I've decided to do something in that spirit.
So, as of today, and for the next 30 days, I'm Pooping for Breast Cancer!
That's right, I'm asking you all to pledge to donate whatever amount you feel comfortable with to the Susan G. Komen Foundation each time I poop.
Here's how it works: you pledge an amount to pay per poop. Each time I poop, I'll text you on my cellphone to let you know I've just laid a big load. At the end of 30 days, I'll post the total number of poops I've taken during the pledge period, and you send the amount you pledged to Susan G. Komen's sisters in Houston, Texas, where they will apply it towards whatever they decide, in their sister's honor.
So, if you're willing to participate, please let me know by emailing or replying in the comments with your cell phone number.
Let's all poop for boobs!
It's the right thing to do!
OJ in Hell
So then I slit her ... ugh, damn heartburn is killing me
One day OJ Simpson has a heart attack and dies. He immediately goes to hell, where the devil is waiting for him.
"I don't know what to do," says the devil. "You are on my list, but I have no room for you. You definitely have to stay here, so I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I've got a few folks here who weren't quite as bad as you. I'll let one of them go, but you have to take their place. I'll even let YOU decide who leaves."
OJ thought that sounded pretty good, so the devil opened the door to the first room. In it was Ted Kennedy in a large pool of water. Ted kept diving in, and surfacing, empty handed. Over and over, and over he dove in and surfaced with nothing. Such was his fate in hell.
I did not drown that woman, Mary Jo Kopechne
"No," said OJ. "I don't think so. I'm not a good swimmer, and I don't think I could do that all day long."
The devil led him to the door of the next room. Inside was Al Gore with a thermometer and a clipboard. He would rush to one part of the room, look at the thermometer, and write down the temperature on the clipboard. Then he would rush to another part of the room and repeat the whole process. Everywhere he went the temperature was always the same.
I am not making this shit up, global warming
"No, this is no good," said OJ. "I would be constantly bored taking the temperature and writing it on a piece of paper for all eternity."
The devil opened the third door. Through it OJ saw Bill Clinton lying on a bed. His arms were tied over his head and his legs were restrained in a spread eagle pose. Bent over him was Monica Lewinsky doing what made Monica famous.
OJ looked at this in disbelief, and finally said, "Yea, man. I can handle this!"
I did not have sex with that woman, Monica uh uh UH! Aaaaah
The devil smiled and said, "Ok, Monica.....You're free to go!"
Ha Ha!
Happy Halloween!
* Courtesy of Liquid Illusions
Monday, October 29, 2007
If Women Controlled The World
Bowling
Choosing a new car
Computer accessories
Parking lots
Speedometer
All the tools she'll ever need
Toilet seats
Toilet paper
Computer keyboards
Ow
*Courtesy of Amber
Monday - Yay
Kill me now
It's Monday again. So excited. There was ice on my windshield, but it looked like water and didn't feel cold enough for ice. So of course I ruined my windshield wipers on it.
I backed all the way down the driveway, noticing that my truck didn't seem to want to coast very well. Then I realized that my parking brake was on. It just barely slowed me down. Great.
I actually got an email asking me where 'Fuck You Friday' was last Friday. I hadn't done one of those in a long, long time. I don't know if I have it in me to do any new ones. I also don't know if anyone else would want to see any new ones.
I did see a few headlines this morning that caught my eye:
We don't even pretend to care about the men anymore, although I have nothing against there being more hot, buff women running around.
It's all about me, really
This is old news. In fact, it's almost older than I am. I guess when all the news is for women only, eventually you run out of new things to report. Here's a radical thought: some athletes are male. Maybe there is something to report for them?
We're all excited here in the States. Why shouldn't we be? We love a good Marxist dictatorship. It always goes so well for us, not to mention how it goes for The People who live under it. Plus, we helped buy this. And by 'we' I'm referring to some billionaires in New York City who shall remain named George Soros, as well as a handful of other wealthy drug addicts.
Here's a big shocker from an early morning NBC show. They had a woman teach them how women should fight against "an attacker." So she brought a guy up onstage to help her demonstrate. This was fortunate because it wouldn't have worked very well had it been a girl. Guess what she did? Anyone? Anyone? Bueler? Kicks to the groin, stabbing to the groin, etc. Oh, and don't forget his eyes and throat. Is this news to anyone? This required 10 minutes of airtime? They had a dummy up there to demonstrate on, so why bring up the guy? The woman had a book she was pushing. I don't think anything that she said requires a book. Just pop in a Disney movie or turn on "America's Funniest Home Videos" and BAM, there it is. You don't need her book.
I missed all the pro games yesterday. Here's a college football finish you should watch, though. MSN isn't showing me any scores, but judging from the headline I assume the Colts beat the Patriots? I skipped the entire World Series. Sorry if this shocks you. Boston vs Colorado? I live in Memphis. We couldn't care less down here.
The more I hear of Germany in the news, the more it sounds like a fun place to be. Maybe I should start brushing up on my German again? From naked women stopping at a convenience store for gas, to women on the bus causing such a distraction that the driver has to stop and ask her to put them away, to naked girls having sex and accidently burning down their parents house, to kids in go-karts evading the police, Germany sounds like a party all the time.
German girls do it better!
Oh here they go again! A 19-year-old German woman escaped from a juvenile detention center by climbing inside the suitcase of another girl who was being released. Wacky! Although I have to ask, why was a 19-year-old being held in a juvenile detention center?
Well, what do you expect from an unrepentent KGB man? Anyway, we're staging entire elections all over the world, so he's in good company. And you should see how The Press works whenever there are protestors they agree with. They round them all up and jam them together for the photo or video footage, making it appear as if it was a huge crowd, rather than the 5 or 6 unemployed losers that it actually is. Same ole same ole.
If you think about it, God has been "online" longer than anyone in history. In fact, God has been online and wireless since Adam and Eve. Prayer is high technology. It doesn't get any better than that.
Actually, boiled nuts means you should switch to boxers and perhaps wear looser pants. It's a bad thing and can do permanent damage if you aren't careful. This sort of thing also happens in hot tubs, but is usually not permanent.
Mary Winkler is looking at this article with great interest. Just killed your man? Need to move some property to pay for your upcoming trip to Las Vegas? Here's how.
It's a bird, it's a plane, it's ... Super Toe!
Three girls came to school dressed as Captain Underpants. The boys, and a small group of girls from the softball team, were very excited about it. The principal, unfortunately, was less so. He sent them home and banned Halloween costumes entirely. The entire school is in an uproar. "Bring back Captain Underpants!"
Captain Underpants - my hero!
Sorry for the excessive dose of cranky today. I'm tired and sore and spent my weekend moving limited-slip differentials, cast iron control arms, brick paving stones, and other lovely items from the old house to the new. Both I and my truck are dead tired and rather sore today. And I'm feeling more than a little down. Perhaps I can cheer you up with something far, far more exciting? Do you love Prunella de Ville? Do you think she's hot? Well, you're right.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Girl Reaction
I went to lunch at my usual place. I couldn't decide if I wanted to take my food and drive home to do a few things before returning to work, or just sit down and eat it there. As I was heading towards the door, a relatively attractive woman in sweats came in.
I decided to eat it there.
As I sat at a table, facing the line of people, I noticed that the woman paid some attention to me, here and there, and some attention to the guy who came and stood in line after her. It was nothing dramatic. Women are rarely obvious. But it got me curious.
And besides, what else was there to do while sitting alone eating a sandwich?
A beautiful 20-something girl in skin-tight jeans came in with her mother. My attention immediately shifted. Would I get any reaction from her? She was really impressive. Her mother wasn't bad, either.
Ah, here and there, just bit, she stood and posed her ass in front of me, apparently enjoying some guy-reaction from me, or so it seemed. I tried to be subtle, but hell, I'm a guy. How subtle are we when staring at a 20-year-old's ass? Not so much.
She and her mother took their time getting their things together. She stood with assets out in the middle of my line of sight, where I could easily see, while talking to her mother. Then they slowly left. She watched me watching her ass out of the corner of her eye.
This was fascinating stuff. Not bad at all.
An older woman came in, reasonably attractive, but probably in her 40s. She was far less subtle than the 20-something girl. She spoke to me from across the room. I spoke back. We said a few things and then had nothing more to say. She went and sat down at another table, facing me.
Just then, a Blonde-haired, blue-eyed college girl came in, wearing a Univerisity of Memphis sweatshirt and tight jeans. She actually paused to look at me for a moment as she entered, then turned to look outside, and then went up to stand in line. Another, very unattractive woman came in and stood with her. They talked about medical things as they ordered. The girl seemed to move her butt around a lot, which acted like a waving red cape to a bull for me.
After they had gotten their food, the girl stopped and stood in front of me while talking to her very unattractive friend. They talked for quite awhile and as they did so, I noticed that the beautiful blonde girl was always standing facing me. I tried to act as if I didn't notice. Eventually, they moved out the door and stood outside.
Ah, here's the real test.
The blonde girl then stopped just outside the door and talked some more to her ugly friend. As she did so, she turned, once again, to face me, so that her friend, and I really appreciated this, had her back to me.
Just for the heck of it, and to feed my own fatigued ego, I got up and left. As I walked past the beautiful girl, I took note of what she did.
She turned towards me as I walked past and kept turning with me as I walked all the way to my truck. Even as her friend began to walk away and say 'goodbye' the girl walked backwards, talking to her departing friend and still facing me.
Do I smell like pussy today? Is there money sticking out of my pants pocket that I don't know about? Is there something in the air? Should I buy a lottery ticket today? Is there something unusual or impressive about a man in black pants, black shoes, and a blue button-down shirt? What's up with this?
Whatever it is, I'm damn happy about it. I wish it was like this every day.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Stuff in the News and other crap
Lucky Bastard
Identity Thieves
Research on identity thieves has determined that they are 54 percent black, one third female, and 71 percent had no previous criminal record.
Simple enough, right?
Here is how the Associated Press reported this finding:
"Two-thirds of the identity thieves were male. 42.5 percent of offenders were between the ages of 25 and 34. Another 18 percent were between the ages of 18 and 24."
Hmm, no mention of the females and nothing said about race at all. According to the writers at CBS, of course, all of this is wrong. All identity thieves, and in fact all criminals, are white and male and members of the Screen Actors Guild.
Australian court fines bare breasted barmaid
Oh Lord, how I want to go to Australia! An Australia barmaid was smashing beer cans between her breasts while her friend hung spoons from her nipples. A cop saw it and fined her. Man, why don't they do these things at bars here in Memphis? Hell, why don't they do this at Hooters?
Woman stabs tied-up lover and drinks his blood
An Arizona woman tied up a man to have sex with him. Then she announced that, oh by the way, she thinks she's a vampire and wants to drink his blood. And then she began stabbing him in various places and drinking the blood. He survived and recovered, but she got a sentence of 10 years for it. If she had simply cut off his penis or testicles and drank that blood she'd have walked away without doing any time at all. And if she'd simply killed him and then drank up, she'd maybe get a few days at a local hotel for "counseling" and then be free to do it again. What a funny justice system we have here. Everyone is crazy.
More bras stolen from Victoria's Secret
There has been a recent crime spree in which thousands of dollars worth of Victoria's Secret bras are being stolen. Police ask everyone to be on the lookout for large-breasted sexy women who are wearing Victoria's Secret bras, as one of them is the thief. I plan to do my part and keep my eyes open at all times for this dangerous criminal. I might even try to apprehend her if I get the chance. Personally, I suspect BottleBlonde.
Shares of Google stock are up so much, one share costs almost as much as 1 ounce of solid gold.
Torture
An article in the Wall Street Journal on Monday says that US Law defines toture as "the intentional infliction of "severe pain or suffering." The intentional infliction of pain or suffering that is not severe is not torture, although depending upon the circumstances it may constitute forbidden "cruel, inhuman or degrading" (CID) treatment."
I'm thinking that the practice of training police to shoot or press the Taser into a man's groin and fry his genitals with 50,000 volts because he won't cooperate or is otherwise resistant, but nonviolent and unarmed, certainly qualifies as both cruel, inhuman and most certainly degrading treatment, as well as being an intentional infliction of severe pain and suffering. But what do I know?
Sex and the Presidency
There was an article in the Wall Street Journal on Saturday in which writer Peggy Noonan argues that Hillary Clinton's biggest obstacle isn't that she is a woman, and thus perceived as too weak and soft. It is that she is perceived as a bulldozer who tramples on people and is thus not ladylike. Interestingly, Hillary is referred to throughout the article as "Mrs. Clinton." The Wall Street Journal, ever politically correct, doesn't acknowledge the marital status of any woman or allow the use of the title "Mrs" at any time, except when writing about Hillary Clinton. She is, apparently, the only married woman in the entire United States, according to The Press. Senator Diane Feinstein and Secretary of State Condi Rice are also mentioned in the article. Mrs. Feinstein and Miss Rice or both referred to as "Ms."
Apparently the Journal wants us all to think of Hillary as a sweet housewife and has thus chosen to break the feminist rule against honoring or acknowledging a woman's marriage, but only for Hillary. She's special.
Dumbledore is Gay
Who wanted to know this? Why is it coming out now? Why can't we just read the books and be left to make up our own minds? And why, of all the sexual possibilities of the story, what with engorgement spells that cause chosen bodyparts to grow enormously large and immobilization spells that render a person unable to move and the imperius curse that makes a person do whatever they're directed to, is this the only sexual thing to come from all of the Harry Potter stories? Not that I'm wanting Mrs. Rowling to sex up the Potter books. It just seems odd that this, of all things, is it. Personally, I'd prefer to find out that Hermoine, or better still, Fleur Delacour, is a raging nymphomaniac. But whatever.
So anyway, it's raining and cold in Memphis today and I don't have much else going on to talk about. I haven't been to the gym, what with all the moving I'm doing, so I can't say that I've had any spectacular farts while squatting. I haven't been to Redneckville since this weekend, so I don't know what the teenagers and drug dealer there have been up to. And I haven't spent much time in traffic, so there's nothing much to say about the lunatics that inhabit the roads of Memphis, and often the shoulders and ditches beside the roads, as well.
Tonight is more moving of crap. We hope this is the last of it. We watched one of our new neighbors move out of their house in the pouring rain. It looked quite familiar. It has poured down rain on us with every single move we have ever done. Our neighbors' truck got stuck in their lawn and had to be pulled out with a large tow truck. They're from Texas and came here for a job, only to be laid off within a year. They are, I believe, returning to Texas with or without finding a job there first. Good for them. Run! Run for your lives before this place locks you in a death grip and never lets you go!
So anyway, what's up with you?
Monday, October 22, 2007
Monday Morning Oh Monday Morning
I spent my entire weekend moving crap from the old house to the new house. Our attic was full. Our garage is overloaded. Everything must go!
My Wife was supposed to get a truck for Saturday so we could move it all in one trip. Plus, I have some car parts that are too big to fit in the back of my little pickup (ute), so a big truck is needed. Well, she forgot and then couldn't get one when she finally called. So we made many, many trips back and forth between houses, covered in sweat and overloaded with stuff. I had a shelf blow out of my truck and land in the road. I had another shelf come apart and fly all over the road. I had something magically work it's way out of the bed and fall behind me with a loud CLANG as it hit the asphalt and rolled in the street. I have no idea how it got out of the bed of the truck without using magic.
And still there is more crap to haul.
We are so sore. And so tired. And boy is My Wife cranky. Yessiree Bob! (I think that's 'bloody hell' for you UK folks.)
I hadn't mentioned this before, but I'll go ahead and mention it now, basically because I have nothing else to say. 2 weeks ago we came home at 8 p.m. on a Saturday night to find the gate wide open. I went to check it out and found a small aluminum bat lying on the ground in my backyard. When I picked up the bat I saw glass. Then I saw our kitchen window, all smashed in. I told My Wife that we had a burglar. Then I grabbed my cell phone out of the truck and called the police. My Wife, meanwhile, walked around to the front of the house.
"There's a window broken here, too," she shouted to me.
The police came and searched the house. We hadn't gone inside yet and weren't sure if the burglar was in there or not. I hadn't been home since Friday morning at 8 a.m., which left all of Friday night and Saturday for someone to invade my home. They clearly had been close by and noticed no lights and no truck in the driveway Friday night after all the high school partiers had gone home to bed. So they took the opportunity to give me this goodbye present.
Unlike all the times that my lovely neighbor has tried to murder me through sabotaging my cars, this time the police actually called for a CSI unit to come and take evidence. And this time, like all the other times, there was no shortage of evidence to be found.
This particular redneck neighbor of mine is not what you'd call a rocket scientist. He tends to get high and then come pay me a late-night visit, often involving tools. He likes to drain my brakes of fluid, disconnect my shocks, stab my roof in an attempt at making a hole all the way through, remove lug nuts, deflate tires, overinflate tires, slice fuel lines, try to open the windows of the house, try to pry the sliding glass door in back of my house off the tracks, try to pick the locks of the doors with a screwdriver, and other fun and exciting diversions that a criminal finds amusing. He never wears gloves and always leaves lots of himself behind.
Up until now, the police have never bothered gathering any of the evidence he leaves. Apparently attempted murder is not nearly as serious as a burglary in Redneckville.
But this time they did gather evidence. They said they "hoped" he left some prints behind. Well good God, did he ever! Prints and blood everywhere you could hope to find it. He practically left his driver's license.
Yes, blood. 'Grandmaster Genius', as I am now calling my mysterious repeat visitor, took his bat to the window and then climbed through, ignoring the jagged broken glass poking out from every direction, but still managing to place his hand on the shards covering the windowsill as he entered, puncturing his hand and dripping blood in a nice, large puddle just under the window.
Interestingly, he didn't take his bat to the 2 large glass doors just beside the window. These doors have a glass break alarm on them as well as a regular sensor. Grandmaster Genius knows this from the 3 previous attempts to pry them open over the past 8 years in which he has set off our alarm.
Ah, the alarm. Where was the alarm during all of this? Well, as the house is for sale and being shown, we were asked not to set the alarm so that the agents coming inside wouldn't have to fumble with it to turn it off. So, no alarm was on. Had it been, even though Grandmaster Genius broke through the kitchen window instead of the glass doors, the glass break alarm would have gone off anyway, saving him the trouble of cutting himself and bleeding on our home.
We searched the house to see if Grandmaster Genius had taken anything. What we found makes sense only if you remember that he's a drug dealer and addict. He apparently went from the kitchen, into the den, where he tried to open the sliding glass doors from the inside. Being a Redneck Mensa candidate, he couldn't even open the door from inside the house. No, it doesn't require a key. It just requires a functioning brain, which he lacks while stoned. He smeared his blood on it, but could not open it.
So then, being frustrated by the door, and finding no cash or bank statements or anything of value that he could carry all by himself, he went out into my garage, opened my toolbox, scattered the tools around, and pulled out a baseball-sized socket.
He used to be a fairly good baseball player, or so his former coach tells me.
He went back inside the house and threw the socket as hard as he could at one of our front windows, ironically aiming straight for his own house. It barely went throught the window, glancing off the frame as it smashed through the glass, and landed in the front yard. Then he left.
The company that installed our windows, all of which are brand new, said that these double-paned windows are extremely hard to break, even if you have a bat. They demonstrate this for you when you buy them, throwing a mallet at one of their own windows as hard as they can. The mallet bounces off and the glass doesn't break. Grandmaster Genius had to swing his aluminum bat pretty hard to do as much damage as he did. The neighbor behind us said she heard something, but didn't know what it was and didn't call the police, although she thought about it. She said she heard furniture moving, too. This would have been Grandmaster Genius climbing in the window and sliding the kitchen table and chairs as he fumbled his way in, spilling his own blood in the process.
The police went around to my neighbors and questioned one or two of them. They questioned Yo G and his parents, Mr and Mrs G. They went looking to question Rooster, or so they said, but they didn't find him. Rooster had closed up his garage, which is normally open with him sitting just inside of it from about 9 pm until 2 a.m. every single night of the week and especially on Friday and Saturday. The high school kids like to hang out there from time to time because he gives them beer and cigarettes and sometimes other things which Yo G supplies to him. The door is always open. Rooster is always there. But not tonight. All the lights were out and he wasn't answering the door.
The police indicated that with all the evidence they found, catching the person responsible was simply a matter of processing and acting on the results. They also said that more than likely, whomever did this was going to brag to someone and then, as is usually the case, word would get back to the police. They count on this, in fact, because it is so common and so predictable as to be nearly foolproof.
Ah well, that may be the case with normal criminals, but that's not how Grandmaster Genius rolls. In all the 8 years that he has targeted us, he has never told anyone anything. One of the reasons for this, according to the original detective assigned to handle our ongoing case, is because he gets so stoned before committing his crimes that by the next morning he can't really remember it well. Sometimes he can't remember it at all. Ironically, his inebriated state of mind protects him from himself. He can't brag about things he can't entirely recall, although he has tried a few times, prompting a few arguments with some of the older high school kids at Rooster's in which they called him "a fucking criminal" loudly enough for me to hear from all the way across the street at my house.
Say what you want about the bunch of high school kids hanging out and partying across the street from my house, but they know a criminal when they meet one and they themselves have never caused me any problems. If they knew who broke in, they would tell the police eventually.
Since the break-in, 'someone' has been spreading the usual rumor around the neighborhood that we are certain it was Rooster who did it. This same someone, we believe, is the someone who claimed to have witnessed him shoot out the window of my truck 8 years ago in the very first attack on us that didn't involve The Fireman's kid and friends.
The Fireman's kid and friends is an entirely different story, and we did suspect them at first, but having an apparent eye-witness who pointed the finger at Rooster and said, to both me and the police, "I saw him" pretty well diverted my attention away from them. It also diverted our attention away from his son, Yo G.
For about 5 years, Rooster and The G Family were having a very heated feud. Rooster was frequently drunk and out of his mind, and Yo G was on parole for buglary. Neither family wanted to have anything at all to do with the police, so they rarely ever involved them. Whenever they had a fight, the mysterious Grandmaster Genius would vandalize my cars in the middle of the night. When I called the police, Mr. Yo G Senior would come over, ask what had happened, ask who I thought did it, and then point the finger at Rooster.
After 5 years, their feud ended. Yo G was frequently seen sitting with Rooster in the doorway of Rooster's garage, drinking and smoking and talking about this and that. Rooster had been in trouble with the law a few times during all of this in incidents involving his drunkeness and his mother, who often was the one who had called the police to report that Rooster was out of control and she was afraid.
When the feud stopped, the attempts on my life eased, but didn't stop entirely. The last one was a close call, nearly setting my car on fire. As the police were taking their report, Mr. Yo G Senior appeared, as usual, asking me who I thought did it. I knew what he wanted to hear, although I no longer believed it to be true, so I answered, "Rooster."
"What? Rooster? Why do you think that?" he exclaimed incredulously, "I don't think Rooster is doing this at all."
"Well, all these years you've said you believed it was Rooster, and you've known him far longer than I have. And you said you saw him that first time," I reminded Mr. G.
"Whaaaat? I never said that! I never said that!" he repeated.
He is quoted in the police report saying that, but apparently he doesn't know this. He assumes I have forgotten why I dropped my own initial suspicions and turned my attention to Rooster. But I have not. I have written down every incident and made careful notes of whom I suspect and why. He and his son appear in those notes frequently.
Several days after the break-in and brief questioning of Yo G by a police officer, My Wife stopped at the house where the pretty high school neighbor girl lives. She's a soccer and basketball player, one-time cheerleader, and was the initial attraction that began drawing in ever larger crowds of high school boys to our corner of the neighborhood. Eventually, other pretty girls came along and the whole thing grew into a sort of outdoor roving club, with her house as the entry point. She's a nice girl and very friendly.
My Wife asked her, in front of several of her friends, if she knew anything or had heard anything about our house being broken into. The girl said she had heard that we think Rooster did it.
We hadn't said anything to anyone about who we suspected, and yet already someone had spread the word among the crowd that hangs out with Rooster that we think he did it. Meanwhile, Yo G was over at Rooster's house telling Rooster the same thing, that we suspected him, even though the police never even questioned Rooster. Rooster was in a panic and had withdrawn into his house and not appeared in his garage for over a week. And who can blame him?
To be fair, there have been problems involving Rooster over the years, when he was drinking hard and coming outside into the street to shout at phantoms, or anyone who happened by. More than once I watched him stand in the middle of the intersection, pointing angrily up the road at no one in particular and screaming, "damn niggers!" When he first came over to our house to introduce himself, My Wife answered the door to a slightly inebriated man with long hair and a scruffy beard who identified himself as 'Rooster' as his dog peed on the side of our house. This did not make a good first impression with My Wife. Things did not improve from there.
One week before the break-in, we came home from church to find Rooster in a fight with Mr. and Mrs. Yo G. Mrs. G was shouting "I'm calling the police!" And then Mr. G said it, too. Rooster went into a panic. We didn't know what the fight was about, but we knew the odds of the Gs calling the police on Rooster, who knows so much about their son, Yo G, was slim. We watched Rooster pace around his driveway and then go back out to the intersection to scream at no one in particular as he waited for the police. Several hours later, no police had arrived and Rooster went in the house.
The very next weekend, our house was broken into.
The next weekend after that, we had movers take our remaining furniture out and move it to the new house.
This past weekend, while we were packing our truck, Mr. Yo G Senior came by. He asked me about the break-in and mentioned that the police had rather aggressively accused his son, Yo G. All I knew was that the police had gone to question several of my neighbors while examining them for cuts from the window. Apparently they only ever questioned Yo G, and not in a matter-of-fact manner, either.
The next day, yesterday, Mrs. Yo G came over. She asked us about the "broken window", never saying "burglary." Then she said, "you know who I think did it? It was them high school kids always hanging out over there with Rooster. They're out there until all hours of the night, drinking and making noise. He has no business hanging out with kids like that. He's too old. He's 54 years old! I've been tempted to call the police and report him for corrupting minors. He's giving them beer. That's the only reason they're over there. I told them one time that I was calling the police on them and then they all scattered."
I mentioned that I had seen them there all summer and never had a problem with them. I remember being a high school kid and hanging out just like they are. People didn't like us, but we didn't cause problems. And we had nowhere else to go.
As this conversation was taking place, the pretty high school girl came by on her bicycle, looking for Rooster. He was nowhere in sight, but she could easily overhear our conversation.
Mrs. G paid no attention to her, but went on about her suspicions of the high school kids and how they were hanging out right outside her bedroom window, keeping her awake at night.
We talked about a few other things and then, somehow, it came out that the woman who owns the gym I now work out is her ex-sister-in-law, who apparently divorced Mrs. G's brother to marry her personal trainer, the same trainer whom I am talking to about hiring for myself.
I doubt that I'll leave My Wife to marry him, though, in case you were worried about me.
Later, after Mrs. G had gone home, The Pretty Girl on the bicycle found Rooster and sat with him outside his garage. They talked and watched us packing. They weren't exactly smiling at us, either. Later, more high school kids came over and hung out. I don't know for sure that The Pretty Girl overheard Mrs. G accusing them of the break-in, or if she was simply comforting Rooster, who no doubt believes we are accusing him. But it was nice of her to sit with him. And I'm sure he appreciates it very much.
The detective handling our case called me on Friday to inform me that he had only just submitted the evidence for processing. There is no telling how long processing will take. It concerns me that the person I suspect of being Grandmaster Genius appears to enjoy a certain amount of police protection in exchange for informing on his clients, who are then arrested just when they happen to have large quantities of recently purchased illegal substances on them. I'm concerned that, should he be considered valuable by the police, they may not choose to give me the correct results so that we can prosecute. But we'll just have to wait and see.
This is life here in Redneckville, just outside of Memphis, where your neighbors are mostly white, and life is rarely dull. Yeeha.
My Wife was supposed to get a truck for Saturday so we could move it all in one trip. Plus, I have some car parts that are too big to fit in the back of my little pickup (ute), so a big truck is needed. Well, she forgot and then couldn't get one when she finally called. So we made many, many trips back and forth between houses, covered in sweat and overloaded with stuff. I had a shelf blow out of my truck and land in the road. I had another shelf come apart and fly all over the road. I had something magically work it's way out of the bed and fall behind me with a loud CLANG as it hit the asphalt and rolled in the street. I have no idea how it got out of the bed of the truck without using magic.
And still there is more crap to haul.
We are so sore. And so tired. And boy is My Wife cranky. Yessiree Bob! (I think that's 'bloody hell' for you UK folks.)
I hadn't mentioned this before, but I'll go ahead and mention it now, basically because I have nothing else to say. 2 weeks ago we came home at 8 p.m. on a Saturday night to find the gate wide open. I went to check it out and found a small aluminum bat lying on the ground in my backyard. When I picked up the bat I saw glass. Then I saw our kitchen window, all smashed in. I told My Wife that we had a burglar. Then I grabbed my cell phone out of the truck and called the police. My Wife, meanwhile, walked around to the front of the house.
"There's a window broken here, too," she shouted to me.
The police came and searched the house. We hadn't gone inside yet and weren't sure if the burglar was in there or not. I hadn't been home since Friday morning at 8 a.m., which left all of Friday night and Saturday for someone to invade my home. They clearly had been close by and noticed no lights and no truck in the driveway Friday night after all the high school partiers had gone home to bed. So they took the opportunity to give me this goodbye present.
Unlike all the times that my lovely neighbor has tried to murder me through sabotaging my cars, this time the police actually called for a CSI unit to come and take evidence. And this time, like all the other times, there was no shortage of evidence to be found.
This particular redneck neighbor of mine is not what you'd call a rocket scientist. He tends to get high and then come pay me a late-night visit, often involving tools. He likes to drain my brakes of fluid, disconnect my shocks, stab my roof in an attempt at making a hole all the way through, remove lug nuts, deflate tires, overinflate tires, slice fuel lines, try to open the windows of the house, try to pry the sliding glass door in back of my house off the tracks, try to pick the locks of the doors with a screwdriver, and other fun and exciting diversions that a criminal finds amusing. He never wears gloves and always leaves lots of himself behind.
Up until now, the police have never bothered gathering any of the evidence he leaves. Apparently attempted murder is not nearly as serious as a burglary in Redneckville.
But this time they did gather evidence. They said they "hoped" he left some prints behind. Well good God, did he ever! Prints and blood everywhere you could hope to find it. He practically left his driver's license.
Yes, blood. 'Grandmaster Genius', as I am now calling my mysterious repeat visitor, took his bat to the window and then climbed through, ignoring the jagged broken glass poking out from every direction, but still managing to place his hand on the shards covering the windowsill as he entered, puncturing his hand and dripping blood in a nice, large puddle just under the window.
Interestingly, he didn't take his bat to the 2 large glass doors just beside the window. These doors have a glass break alarm on them as well as a regular sensor. Grandmaster Genius knows this from the 3 previous attempts to pry them open over the past 8 years in which he has set off our alarm.
Ah, the alarm. Where was the alarm during all of this? Well, as the house is for sale and being shown, we were asked not to set the alarm so that the agents coming inside wouldn't have to fumble with it to turn it off. So, no alarm was on. Had it been, even though Grandmaster Genius broke through the kitchen window instead of the glass doors, the glass break alarm would have gone off anyway, saving him the trouble of cutting himself and bleeding on our home.
We searched the house to see if Grandmaster Genius had taken anything. What we found makes sense only if you remember that he's a drug dealer and addict. He apparently went from the kitchen, into the den, where he tried to open the sliding glass doors from the inside. Being a Redneck Mensa candidate, he couldn't even open the door from inside the house. No, it doesn't require a key. It just requires a functioning brain, which he lacks while stoned. He smeared his blood on it, but could not open it.
So then, being frustrated by the door, and finding no cash or bank statements or anything of value that he could carry all by himself, he went out into my garage, opened my toolbox, scattered the tools around, and pulled out a baseball-sized socket.
He used to be a fairly good baseball player, or so his former coach tells me.
He went back inside the house and threw the socket as hard as he could at one of our front windows, ironically aiming straight for his own house. It barely went throught the window, glancing off the frame as it smashed through the glass, and landed in the front yard. Then he left.
The company that installed our windows, all of which are brand new, said that these double-paned windows are extremely hard to break, even if you have a bat. They demonstrate this for you when you buy them, throwing a mallet at one of their own windows as hard as they can. The mallet bounces off and the glass doesn't break. Grandmaster Genius had to swing his aluminum bat pretty hard to do as much damage as he did. The neighbor behind us said she heard something, but didn't know what it was and didn't call the police, although she thought about it. She said she heard furniture moving, too. This would have been Grandmaster Genius climbing in the window and sliding the kitchen table and chairs as he fumbled his way in, spilling his own blood in the process.
The police went around to my neighbors and questioned one or two of them. They questioned Yo G and his parents, Mr and Mrs G. They went looking to question Rooster, or so they said, but they didn't find him. Rooster had closed up his garage, which is normally open with him sitting just inside of it from about 9 pm until 2 a.m. every single night of the week and especially on Friday and Saturday. The high school kids like to hang out there from time to time because he gives them beer and cigarettes and sometimes other things which Yo G supplies to him. The door is always open. Rooster is always there. But not tonight. All the lights were out and he wasn't answering the door.
The police indicated that with all the evidence they found, catching the person responsible was simply a matter of processing and acting on the results. They also said that more than likely, whomever did this was going to brag to someone and then, as is usually the case, word would get back to the police. They count on this, in fact, because it is so common and so predictable as to be nearly foolproof.
Ah well, that may be the case with normal criminals, but that's not how Grandmaster Genius rolls. In all the 8 years that he has targeted us, he has never told anyone anything. One of the reasons for this, according to the original detective assigned to handle our ongoing case, is because he gets so stoned before committing his crimes that by the next morning he can't really remember it well. Sometimes he can't remember it at all. Ironically, his inebriated state of mind protects him from himself. He can't brag about things he can't entirely recall, although he has tried a few times, prompting a few arguments with some of the older high school kids at Rooster's in which they called him "a fucking criminal" loudly enough for me to hear from all the way across the street at my house.
Say what you want about the bunch of high school kids hanging out and partying across the street from my house, but they know a criminal when they meet one and they themselves have never caused me any problems. If they knew who broke in, they would tell the police eventually.
Since the break-in, 'someone' has been spreading the usual rumor around the neighborhood that we are certain it was Rooster who did it. This same someone, we believe, is the someone who claimed to have witnessed him shoot out the window of my truck 8 years ago in the very first attack on us that didn't involve The Fireman's kid and friends.
The Fireman's kid and friends is an entirely different story, and we did suspect them at first, but having an apparent eye-witness who pointed the finger at Rooster and said, to both me and the police, "I saw him" pretty well diverted my attention away from them. It also diverted our attention away from his son, Yo G.
For about 5 years, Rooster and The G Family were having a very heated feud. Rooster was frequently drunk and out of his mind, and Yo G was on parole for buglary. Neither family wanted to have anything at all to do with the police, so they rarely ever involved them. Whenever they had a fight, the mysterious Grandmaster Genius would vandalize my cars in the middle of the night. When I called the police, Mr. Yo G Senior would come over, ask what had happened, ask who I thought did it, and then point the finger at Rooster.
After 5 years, their feud ended. Yo G was frequently seen sitting with Rooster in the doorway of Rooster's garage, drinking and smoking and talking about this and that. Rooster had been in trouble with the law a few times during all of this in incidents involving his drunkeness and his mother, who often was the one who had called the police to report that Rooster was out of control and she was afraid.
When the feud stopped, the attempts on my life eased, but didn't stop entirely. The last one was a close call, nearly setting my car on fire. As the police were taking their report, Mr. Yo G Senior appeared, as usual, asking me who I thought did it. I knew what he wanted to hear, although I no longer believed it to be true, so I answered, "Rooster."
"What? Rooster? Why do you think that?" he exclaimed incredulously, "I don't think Rooster is doing this at all."
"Well, all these years you've said you believed it was Rooster, and you've known him far longer than I have. And you said you saw him that first time," I reminded Mr. G.
"Whaaaat? I never said that! I never said that!" he repeated.
He is quoted in the police report saying that, but apparently he doesn't know this. He assumes I have forgotten why I dropped my own initial suspicions and turned my attention to Rooster. But I have not. I have written down every incident and made careful notes of whom I suspect and why. He and his son appear in those notes frequently.
Several days after the break-in and brief questioning of Yo G by a police officer, My Wife stopped at the house where the pretty high school neighbor girl lives. She's a soccer and basketball player, one-time cheerleader, and was the initial attraction that began drawing in ever larger crowds of high school boys to our corner of the neighborhood. Eventually, other pretty girls came along and the whole thing grew into a sort of outdoor roving club, with her house as the entry point. She's a nice girl and very friendly.
My Wife asked her, in front of several of her friends, if she knew anything or had heard anything about our house being broken into. The girl said she had heard that we think Rooster did it.
We hadn't said anything to anyone about who we suspected, and yet already someone had spread the word among the crowd that hangs out with Rooster that we think he did it. Meanwhile, Yo G was over at Rooster's house telling Rooster the same thing, that we suspected him, even though the police never even questioned Rooster. Rooster was in a panic and had withdrawn into his house and not appeared in his garage for over a week. And who can blame him?
To be fair, there have been problems involving Rooster over the years, when he was drinking hard and coming outside into the street to shout at phantoms, or anyone who happened by. More than once I watched him stand in the middle of the intersection, pointing angrily up the road at no one in particular and screaming, "damn niggers!" When he first came over to our house to introduce himself, My Wife answered the door to a slightly inebriated man with long hair and a scruffy beard who identified himself as 'Rooster' as his dog peed on the side of our house. This did not make a good first impression with My Wife. Things did not improve from there.
One week before the break-in, we came home from church to find Rooster in a fight with Mr. and Mrs. Yo G. Mrs. G was shouting "I'm calling the police!" And then Mr. G said it, too. Rooster went into a panic. We didn't know what the fight was about, but we knew the odds of the Gs calling the police on Rooster, who knows so much about their son, Yo G, was slim. We watched Rooster pace around his driveway and then go back out to the intersection to scream at no one in particular as he waited for the police. Several hours later, no police had arrived and Rooster went in the house.
The very next weekend, our house was broken into.
The next weekend after that, we had movers take our remaining furniture out and move it to the new house.
This past weekend, while we were packing our truck, Mr. Yo G Senior came by. He asked me about the break-in and mentioned that the police had rather aggressively accused his son, Yo G. All I knew was that the police had gone to question several of my neighbors while examining them for cuts from the window. Apparently they only ever questioned Yo G, and not in a matter-of-fact manner, either.
The next day, yesterday, Mrs. Yo G came over. She asked us about the "broken window", never saying "burglary." Then she said, "you know who I think did it? It was them high school kids always hanging out over there with Rooster. They're out there until all hours of the night, drinking and making noise. He has no business hanging out with kids like that. He's too old. He's 54 years old! I've been tempted to call the police and report him for corrupting minors. He's giving them beer. That's the only reason they're over there. I told them one time that I was calling the police on them and then they all scattered."
I mentioned that I had seen them there all summer and never had a problem with them. I remember being a high school kid and hanging out just like they are. People didn't like us, but we didn't cause problems. And we had nowhere else to go.
As this conversation was taking place, the pretty high school girl came by on her bicycle, looking for Rooster. He was nowhere in sight, but she could easily overhear our conversation.
Mrs. G paid no attention to her, but went on about her suspicions of the high school kids and how they were hanging out right outside her bedroom window, keeping her awake at night.
We talked about a few other things and then, somehow, it came out that the woman who owns the gym I now work out is her ex-sister-in-law, who apparently divorced Mrs. G's brother to marry her personal trainer, the same trainer whom I am talking to about hiring for myself.
I doubt that I'll leave My Wife to marry him, though, in case you were worried about me.
Later, after Mrs. G had gone home, The Pretty Girl on the bicycle found Rooster and sat with him outside his garage. They talked and watched us packing. They weren't exactly smiling at us, either. Later, more high school kids came over and hung out. I don't know for sure that The Pretty Girl overheard Mrs. G accusing them of the break-in, or if she was simply comforting Rooster, who no doubt believes we are accusing him. But it was nice of her to sit with him. And I'm sure he appreciates it very much.
The detective handling our case called me on Friday to inform me that he had only just submitted the evidence for processing. There is no telling how long processing will take. It concerns me that the person I suspect of being Grandmaster Genius appears to enjoy a certain amount of police protection in exchange for informing on his clients, who are then arrested just when they happen to have large quantities of recently purchased illegal substances on them. I'm concerned that, should he be considered valuable by the police, they may not choose to give me the correct results so that we can prosecute. But we'll just have to wait and see.
This is life here in Redneckville, just outside of Memphis, where your neighbors are mostly white, and life is rarely dull. Yeeha.
Morning Love Making
(Stacy the lovely Peanut Queen emailed this to me)
Tyrone asked his work buddy, Robert, one morning, "Man, why you always so damn happy when you come to work every day?"
Robert replied, "That's because I make love to my wife every morning before work."
Amazed, Tyrone asked him how he gets his wife to make love to him every morning.
"That's easy," Robert said. "I just tell her this little poem that I made up. She loves it! It goes like this: blonde hair, blonde hair, eyes so blue. I love waking up and making love to you!"
Tyrone said, "Man, you white guys are so damn sentimental!" But he decided it wouldn't hurt to give it a try. So he spent the rest of the day thinking of a poem for his wife.
The next day Tyrone showed up to work just beat to hell; bruised eyes, broken nose, fat lip, the works!!!
Robert asked, "Man, what happened to you?!"
Tyrone said, "I don't know, man. I went home and tried your advice. I just told her the poem I made for her."
Well, what poem did you tell her?
Tyrone said: "Nappy head, nappy head, eyes like a frog. If I could roll your fat ass over, I'd hump you like a dog!"
Tyrone asked his work buddy, Robert, one morning, "Man, why you always so damn happy when you come to work every day?"
Robert replied, "That's because I make love to my wife every morning before work."
Amazed, Tyrone asked him how he gets his wife to make love to him every morning.
"That's easy," Robert said. "I just tell her this little poem that I made up. She loves it! It goes like this: blonde hair, blonde hair, eyes so blue. I love waking up and making love to you!"
Tyrone said, "Man, you white guys are so damn sentimental!" But he decided it wouldn't hurt to give it a try. So he spent the rest of the day thinking of a poem for his wife.
The next day Tyrone showed up to work just beat to hell; bruised eyes, broken nose, fat lip, the works!!!
Robert asked, "Man, what happened to you?!"
Tyrone said, "I don't know, man. I went home and tried your advice. I just told her the poem I made for her."
Well, what poem did you tell her?
Tyrone said: "Nappy head, nappy head, eyes like a frog. If I could roll your fat ass over, I'd hump you like a dog!"
Friday, October 19, 2007
Cartoon recreation of this morning
Stacy the Peanut Queen showed me this and I thought now was as good a time as any to make use of it.
WARNING: this is slow and only mildly amusing in a crying man sort of way.
SLAM!
Hi. Fuck off.
I was just sitting at my desk, as innocent as a newborn baby.
OK, fine. But I wasn't doing anything perverted or illegal. I was just sitting here minding my own business.
In walks a beautiful woman with short blonde hair, C-cups, wear a nice white blouse and short black skirt.
It's a sales rep from some other company, come to take more of our money.
I look up at her as she walks past my office.
I smile the same smile I show to everyone else who walks past my office.
She glances at me briefly, rolls her eyes and snorts as she continues on her way.
What the fuck?!
I didn't offer to buy her a drink.
I didn't say "wuzzup" in an obvious attempt to try to appear 21 and cool.
I didn't say "how YOU doin'", even though it did cross my mind after she had passed from view.
I didn't even have a CHANCE to think dirty thoughts or react in any way beyond my normal smile and nod.
I was just sitting here. And somehow I got slammed and rejected by some hot girl before I even knew what hit me.
What the fuck?!
Thursday, October 18, 2007
IDH #36 - Kelly Ripa
IDH #36 - Kelly Ripa
She's like concentrated sunshine in a tiny blonde package.
I just love her!
Thursday Things To Think About
It's Thursday. I've got a lot on my mind, but none of it is useful for blogging. Rather than bomb you with more of my own mental poopery, I'm going to endow you with the wisdom of great thinkers of the past. No need to thank me. Just send nude photos.
For our public officials, who see no reason to be concerned that many of our police departments are increasingly casual about routinely targeting the genitals of average male citizens in a rising tide of sexual violence and torture that makes it difficult to tell the good guys from the bad, and for everyone else who doesn't see why it matters just so long as it never happens to them:
"In a society where anything goes, eventually everything will."
G.K. Chesterton - writer
"It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity."
Albert Einstein - physicist
"No man is entirely worthless; he can always serve as a bad example."
Brian Oldfield - Olympic shot putter
For all the feminist teachers who spend at least half of every school day spewing their hatred of males onto the boys in their classrooms, and then wonder why they don't perform better than they do:
"We live by encouragement and die without it - slowly, sadly, angrily."
Celeste Holm - actress
For all the filmmakers and television executives who can't figure out where their audience went:
"A market is never saturated with a good product, but it is very quickly saturated with a bad one."
Henry Ford - industrialist
And perhaps a prediction of hope for the future:
"There is no coming to consciousness without pain."
Carl Jung - psychiatrist
We've certainly got the pain thing down pat. We're all experts at inflicting the worst pain on our brothers these days. Do you think it might one day lead us to something better? Or will this cultural and moral slide continue into oblivion? Only God knows, I guess, and he isn't talking.
And finally, for myself, because there is really nothing that I can do about most of the big picture issues that are concerning me so much:
"Don't take life too seriously. You'll never get out alive."
Bugs Bunny - cartoon character
Today In The News
Controversial DNA pioneer's talk halted
One of the co-discoverers of DNA had been censored for saying out loud that evidence suggests humans of European descent tend to have higher intelligence than descendents of African descent. He said it is a shame that so many of our social policies are based on the idea that everyone's intelligence is the same, which it is not. His statements drew immediate hissy fits from politicians and political activists who make their living by claiming that all differences between the two groups is the result of discrimination by the European descendents.
Feminists Have More Fun
Feminists at the Rutgers Women's Leadership Institute have concluded that feminists have more fun and are happier than everyone else. Their 'study' consisted of calling up Rutgers students on the phone, all of whom had to pass the feminist board of admissions before being admitted, and asking them. They also called former Rutgers students. They concluded that because everyone at Rutgers thinks feminism is awesome, it really must be awesome. These are the same women, it should be pointed out, who cried and fainted when Don Imus referred to them as "nappy headed hos". It should also be pointed out that Hillary Clinton is running for President of the United States and there will be much more of this feminist political and religious propaganda in the coming months, so brace yourselves.
Swearing at work boosts team spirit, morale: research
Researchers from a university that is not Rutgers have determined that swearing at work could, in the right circumstances, foster solidarity among employees and express frustration, stress or other feelings.
Maine school to offer contraceptives
The progressive feminists in Maine have succeeded in spreading feminist happiness to a whole new level, inspiring 17 pregnancies among its' three middle schools in the past four years. In order to ... um ... celebrate this great feminist milestone, they have decided to begin prescribing birth control pills to all middle school girls without parental consent or permission. In fact, parents aren't allowed to be informed at all due to feminist law which prohibits parents from knowing anything about the sex lives of their own female children. The Portland school board made this decision without any input from parents. The only dissenting votes came from men on the board. The Board says "a full range of contraception will be made available", presumably meaning that the 'morning after' pill and other abortion-related options will be presented without parental notification or consent, but without the ugly hassle of flat out saying it.
Portland school head nurse Amanda Rowe
She knows better than you how to raise your children
For our public officials, who see no reason to be concerned that many of our police departments are increasingly casual about routinely targeting the genitals of average male citizens in a rising tide of sexual violence and torture that makes it difficult to tell the good guys from the bad, and for everyone else who doesn't see why it matters just so long as it never happens to them:
"In a society where anything goes, eventually everything will."
G.K. Chesterton - writer
"It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity."
Albert Einstein - physicist
"No man is entirely worthless; he can always serve as a bad example."
Brian Oldfield - Olympic shot putter
For all the feminist teachers who spend at least half of every school day spewing their hatred of males onto the boys in their classrooms, and then wonder why they don't perform better than they do:
"We live by encouragement and die without it - slowly, sadly, angrily."
Celeste Holm - actress
For all the filmmakers and television executives who can't figure out where their audience went:
"A market is never saturated with a good product, but it is very quickly saturated with a bad one."
Henry Ford - industrialist
And perhaps a prediction of hope for the future:
"There is no coming to consciousness without pain."
Carl Jung - psychiatrist
We've certainly got the pain thing down pat. We're all experts at inflicting the worst pain on our brothers these days. Do you think it might one day lead us to something better? Or will this cultural and moral slide continue into oblivion? Only God knows, I guess, and he isn't talking.
And finally, for myself, because there is really nothing that I can do about most of the big picture issues that are concerning me so much:
"Don't take life too seriously. You'll never get out alive."
Bugs Bunny - cartoon character
One of the co-discoverers of DNA had been censored for saying out loud that evidence suggests humans of European descent tend to have higher intelligence than descendents of African descent. He said it is a shame that so many of our social policies are based on the idea that everyone's intelligence is the same, which it is not. His statements drew immediate hissy fits from politicians and political activists who make their living by claiming that all differences between the two groups is the result of discrimination by the European descendents.
Feminists at the Rutgers Women's Leadership Institute have concluded that feminists have more fun and are happier than everyone else. Their 'study' consisted of calling up Rutgers students on the phone, all of whom had to pass the feminist board of admissions before being admitted, and asking them. They also called former Rutgers students. They concluded that because everyone at Rutgers thinks feminism is awesome, it really must be awesome. These are the same women, it should be pointed out, who cried and fainted when Don Imus referred to them as "nappy headed hos". It should also be pointed out that Hillary Clinton is running for President of the United States and there will be much more of this feminist political and religious propaganda in the coming months, so brace yourselves.
Researchers from a university that is not Rutgers have determined that swearing at work could, in the right circumstances, foster solidarity among employees and express frustration, stress or other feelings.
The progressive feminists in Maine have succeeded in spreading feminist happiness to a whole new level, inspiring 17 pregnancies among its' three middle schools in the past four years. In order to ... um ... celebrate this great feminist milestone, they have decided to begin prescribing birth control pills to all middle school girls without parental consent or permission. In fact, parents aren't allowed to be informed at all due to feminist law which prohibits parents from knowing anything about the sex lives of their own female children. The Portland school board made this decision without any input from parents. The only dissenting votes came from men on the board. The Board says "a full range of contraception will be made available", presumably meaning that the 'morning after' pill and other abortion-related options will be presented without parental notification or consent, but without the ugly hassle of flat out saying it.
Portland school head nurse Amanda Rowe
She knows better than you how to raise your children
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Wifeism XIII - Stuck in Stupidville
"Hey! HEY!" My Wife yelled at me from across our kitchen. "What, are you stuck in Stupidville?!"
"What?" I replied, turning from the window to look over at her.
"I swear, you're about as entertaining as a plugged toilet."
"What?" I replied, turning from the window to look over at her.
"I swear, you're about as entertaining as a plugged toilet."
Nothing
I had a class yesterday, so if anyone felt ignored or mistreated while I was gone, I apologize. I was not here.
I discovered a few things while off at my lovely meeting. First, the Hilton has a really nice place here, which used to be called the Rosemark, but apparently Hilton stole it from them.
Second, there are a bunch of hot college women running around downstairs at the Hilton, taking some sort of exam. There were guys with them, too, but I hardly noticed them.
Third, the music in the men's bathroom is straight out of a nightmare flashback going to 1975 or something. It was awful. It was truly, truly awful. This music would make Karen Carpenter puke, and her music makes me puke. It was pukeadelic.
Fourth, some genius decided to put these funky automated toilet seat covering devices on all the men's toilets. They take up half the seat and leave the men with some tough choices to make. When you sit on these toilets you quickly discover that you can either a) put you butthole over the toilet while resting your 'junk' on the seat, which ultimately results in you pooping in the water, but peeing into the floor and your pants which are down there around your ankles, or b) putting your 'junk' inside the seat so you can pee in the toilet, but forcing you to jack up your butthole onto the back of the seat, leaving a poop pile there as it skids its' way down your backside and into the water.
Judging from the fact that every single seat had a brown smear all down the back I must conclude that option b was the preferred choice.
Yuck.
So much for Hilton quality. This is a mood-killer. No amount of gold-plated coffee cups and hot college women running around outside in the halls could make up for this offense. 3 stars for you, Hilton! Now get rid of those damn man-proof toilet seats before we start pooping in the floor in protest.
OK, enough about that. The seminar was boring and it was cold as hell in there and I kept having to leave to go thaw out in the hallway. None of the college girls hit on me at all. What is wrong with them? Don't they want to get with this hot piece of man-meat?
Stop laughing.
The coffee was good, though. I have no idea what kind of coffee it was, but it tasted better than any coffee I've ever had. I normally only drink coffee to wake up. I've never tasted a coffee that I thought wasn't crap without cream and sugar in it. But this stuff, whatever it was, was just fine. It also was hot, so everyone was using their hot coffee cups to warm their hands throughout the long speech.
After the conference, I went to our old house to load up my truck with stuff from the garage that the movers didn't take. After seeing how much damage the movers did to our furniture I guess I'm glad they left the garage alone. Assholes.
It's a funny thing, but in the old neighborhood, just this past year or two, I have noticed a steady flood of good-looking high school and college aged girls appearing. Throughout all the years we've lived in this place there have been tons of guys and little kids and drunken rednecks sitting on their porches shouting at people and such, but not many girls, and not many good-looking girls at that. But this past year or so, all of that has changed. Every time I go out in the driveway to load up my truck or work on the cars, at least one, and usually two, good-looking girls will come strolling by. More and more and more of them have accumulated here in the neighborhood. I don't know where they're all coming from, but it makes this move difficult.
This totally sucks. For 8 long years we've suffered through this neighborhood, being attacked and harassed and assaulted and you name it. And now that we're finally getting out, BOOM, beautiful girls everywhere I look.
Oh sure, I know I can't do anything with them anyway. I'm not saying I would have liked to run around chasing high school girls. Lord knows I'm too old to hit on a 17-year-old girl. And no man wants to hear the dreaded and penis-deflating "ew, you're OLD." It just somehow makes me feel happy when they are around. It's like sunshine in the midst of a dark fog. It's happiness in jeans. I don't know.
So anyway, today our TV hookup was moved to the new house, which means no more watching Network TV with the rabbit ears. This past Friday the movers came and destroyed as much of our furniture as possible as they shifted our belongings from the old house to the new house. If we charged them for the things they destroyed I think they'd owe us at the end of the day.
The TV guy who hooked up our equipment and got us set up at the new house wants to buy My Dad's old banana wagon. I doubt he'll ever show up with the money, but if he does then that is taken care of. My Wife hates the car and wants it gone. If you can imagine a banana yellow stationwagon/hearse sitting in your driveway then you might understand why. If you're a man you're probably thinking, "what's wrong with that?" And if you're a woman you're no doubt saying to yourself, "ewwwwww NASTY!" So, while this is happening, My Sister is emailing to ask me to hurry up and come buy her Bronco.
I was just flipping around on Google when I somehow discovered something very disturbing, which has absolutely nothing to do with anything I've written here. In Ireland, the police have a weapon they call the Baton Gun. Remember how I was upset about the police in the U.S. often shooting men in the genitals with the Taser, sometimes on purpose and sometimes simply because the Taser was designed to spear men's genitals even when the cop tries not to? Yeah? Well, the Irish Baton Gun instructs police to aim for the "belt buckle" area, wink wink, but in practice is being used by police to shoot the groin EVERY SINGLE TIME. When they miss then they hit the hip or thigh. But they're aiming for the groin on purpose. They say you shouldn't aim for the head because it will penetrate the skull. So, I'm thinking if it penetrates the skull then it pretty much obliterates the genitals of a man, right? Yep.
And here we all were taught that the Roman Empire was cruel and barbaric, what with it's use of castration as a punishment or threat in virtually any and all circumstances. How silly was all of that? We've mechanized their whole system and added precision and efficiency to it with laser sights and high voltage and air-propelled batons. And all the while, we know that this only leads to an ever more violent and rebellious population, just as it did for the Romans. But even so, we like to think we're smarter than they were and this time will be different. Also, doing it with a rifle or Taser allows for a greater degree of depersonalization, placing the male victim further away and making it seem a little less real than when their blood is all over your hands and their screams are ringing in your ears, as it was for the Romans.
It won't be long now that all cops were be demanding and receiving special groin protection for themselves when the public responds to all this sexual violence and abuse with their own sexual violence and abuse. Not that groin protection isn't needed already. It just isn't needed as badly as it will be in the future. There was once a time when only our military was taught to assault the genitals, for use in war only. I guess now that we're all ruled by feminism, we've decided that our own male civilians are invaders and need to be treated as enemy combatants?
Hey, anything goes means anything goes. Peace, security, happiness, it all goes.
OK, well, I've rambled like always, but somehow it's not hitting today. I think I'll stop here and just let this fly. Hopefully tomorrow I'll feel more creative than today.
I discovered a few things while off at my lovely meeting. First, the Hilton has a really nice place here, which used to be called the Rosemark, but apparently Hilton stole it from them.
Second, there are a bunch of hot college women running around downstairs at the Hilton, taking some sort of exam. There were guys with them, too, but I hardly noticed them.
Third, the music in the men's bathroom is straight out of a nightmare flashback going to 1975 or something. It was awful. It was truly, truly awful. This music would make Karen Carpenter puke, and her music makes me puke. It was pukeadelic.
Fourth, some genius decided to put these funky automated toilet seat covering devices on all the men's toilets. They take up half the seat and leave the men with some tough choices to make. When you sit on these toilets you quickly discover that you can either a) put you butthole over the toilet while resting your 'junk' on the seat, which ultimately results in you pooping in the water, but peeing into the floor and your pants which are down there around your ankles, or b) putting your 'junk' inside the seat so you can pee in the toilet, but forcing you to jack up your butthole onto the back of the seat, leaving a poop pile there as it skids its' way down your backside and into the water.
Judging from the fact that every single seat had a brown smear all down the back I must conclude that option b was the preferred choice.
Yuck.
So much for Hilton quality. This is a mood-killer. No amount of gold-plated coffee cups and hot college women running around outside in the halls could make up for this offense. 3 stars for you, Hilton! Now get rid of those damn man-proof toilet seats before we start pooping in the floor in protest.
OK, enough about that. The seminar was boring and it was cold as hell in there and I kept having to leave to go thaw out in the hallway. None of the college girls hit on me at all. What is wrong with them? Don't they want to get with this hot piece of man-meat?
Stop laughing.
The coffee was good, though. I have no idea what kind of coffee it was, but it tasted better than any coffee I've ever had. I normally only drink coffee to wake up. I've never tasted a coffee that I thought wasn't crap without cream and sugar in it. But this stuff, whatever it was, was just fine. It also was hot, so everyone was using their hot coffee cups to warm their hands throughout the long speech.
After the conference, I went to our old house to load up my truck with stuff from the garage that the movers didn't take. After seeing how much damage the movers did to our furniture I guess I'm glad they left the garage alone. Assholes.
It's a funny thing, but in the old neighborhood, just this past year or two, I have noticed a steady flood of good-looking high school and college aged girls appearing. Throughout all the years we've lived in this place there have been tons of guys and little kids and drunken rednecks sitting on their porches shouting at people and such, but not many girls, and not many good-looking girls at that. But this past year or so, all of that has changed. Every time I go out in the driveway to load up my truck or work on the cars, at least one, and usually two, good-looking girls will come strolling by. More and more and more of them have accumulated here in the neighborhood. I don't know where they're all coming from, but it makes this move difficult.
This totally sucks. For 8 long years we've suffered through this neighborhood, being attacked and harassed and assaulted and you name it. And now that we're finally getting out, BOOM, beautiful girls everywhere I look.
Oh sure, I know I can't do anything with them anyway. I'm not saying I would have liked to run around chasing high school girls. Lord knows I'm too old to hit on a 17-year-old girl. And no man wants to hear the dreaded and penis-deflating "ew, you're OLD." It just somehow makes me feel happy when they are around. It's like sunshine in the midst of a dark fog. It's happiness in jeans. I don't know.
So anyway, today our TV hookup was moved to the new house, which means no more watching Network TV with the rabbit ears. This past Friday the movers came and destroyed as much of our furniture as possible as they shifted our belongings from the old house to the new house. If we charged them for the things they destroyed I think they'd owe us at the end of the day.
The TV guy who hooked up our equipment and got us set up at the new house wants to buy My Dad's old banana wagon. I doubt he'll ever show up with the money, but if he does then that is taken care of. My Wife hates the car and wants it gone. If you can imagine a banana yellow stationwagon/hearse sitting in your driveway then you might understand why. If you're a man you're probably thinking, "what's wrong with that?" And if you're a woman you're no doubt saying to yourself, "ewwwwww NASTY!" So, while this is happening, My Sister is emailing to ask me to hurry up and come buy her Bronco.
I was just flipping around on Google when I somehow discovered something very disturbing, which has absolutely nothing to do with anything I've written here. In Ireland, the police have a weapon they call the Baton Gun. Remember how I was upset about the police in the U.S. often shooting men in the genitals with the Taser, sometimes on purpose and sometimes simply because the Taser was designed to spear men's genitals even when the cop tries not to? Yeah? Well, the Irish Baton Gun instructs police to aim for the "belt buckle" area, wink wink, but in practice is being used by police to shoot the groin EVERY SINGLE TIME. When they miss then they hit the hip or thigh. But they're aiming for the groin on purpose. They say you shouldn't aim for the head because it will penetrate the skull. So, I'm thinking if it penetrates the skull then it pretty much obliterates the genitals of a man, right? Yep.
And here we all were taught that the Roman Empire was cruel and barbaric, what with it's use of castration as a punishment or threat in virtually any and all circumstances. How silly was all of that? We've mechanized their whole system and added precision and efficiency to it with laser sights and high voltage and air-propelled batons. And all the while, we know that this only leads to an ever more violent and rebellious population, just as it did for the Romans. But even so, we like to think we're smarter than they were and this time will be different. Also, doing it with a rifle or Taser allows for a greater degree of depersonalization, placing the male victim further away and making it seem a little less real than when their blood is all over your hands and their screams are ringing in your ears, as it was for the Romans.
It won't be long now that all cops were be demanding and receiving special groin protection for themselves when the public responds to all this sexual violence and abuse with their own sexual violence and abuse. Not that groin protection isn't needed already. It just isn't needed as badly as it will be in the future. There was once a time when only our military was taught to assault the genitals, for use in war only. I guess now that we're all ruled by feminism, we've decided that our own male civilians are invaders and need to be treated as enemy combatants?
Hey, anything goes means anything goes. Peace, security, happiness, it all goes.
OK, well, I've rambled like always, but somehow it's not hitting today. I think I'll stop here and just let this fly. Hopefully tomorrow I'll feel more creative than today.
A Stupid Study About Coffee
Coffee may slow memory declines in women: study
By Ishani Ganguli
Mon Aug 6, 4:56 PM ET
WASHINGTON (Reuters) - Drinking more than three cups of coffee a day helped protect older women against some age-related memory decline, French researchers said on Monday, giving women more reason to love the world's second most popular stimulant, with the vibrator being the most popular.
Men did not enjoy the same benefit, they said. Especially from the vibrator.
"The more coffee one drank, the better the effects seemed to be on (women's) memory functioning in particular," said Karen Ritchie at the French National Institute of Medical Research, whose work appears in the journal Neurology. "They remembered all sorts of shit to be mad at their husbands and families about, going way, way back, in some cases to when their teenaged children were babies."
The researchers followed more than 7,000 men and women in three French cities, checking their health and mental function and asking them about their current and past eating and drinking habits, their friends, and their daily activities.
They used this information to sort out the specific role caffeine played in these women's lives.
They found that women who drank more than three cups of coffee per day, or its caffeine equivalent in tea, retained more of their verbal and -- to a lesser extent -- visual memories over four years.
They were also much crankier and generally more angry and difficult to get along with.
These extra-pissed-off but stimulated french women had a 33 percent lower odds of having verbal memory declines and 18 percent lower odds of having visual and spatial memory declines, compared to women who drank one cup or fewer per day and were less pissed-off.
The effect also depended on age, with women over 80 reaping more benefits from these beverages than those who were 10 to 15 years younger, Ritchie's team wrote. It was unclear whether current or former coffee consumption made the difference, and whether or not the coffee was high quality or cheap, nasty shit.
Some studies in mice have suggested that caffeine might block the buildup of proteins that lead to mental decline.
Ritchie is not sure why only women benefited in her study, although she admits to not paying much attention to the men.
"Our best guess is that women don't metabolize coffee in the same way (as men)," she said in a telephone interview. "Also, men tend to let things go, whereas women hold onto grudges, sometimes for life, which requires that they remember more. I suppose it would have helped if I had actually talked to any of the men, but ... eh, whatever."
Ritchie plans to follow the women longer to see if caffeine delays the onset of dementia -- the mental confusion that signals Alzheimer's disease and other brain disorders.
She said people should weigh any brain gains derived from caffeine against other effects of the stimulant, including raised blood pressure, shorter tempers, and increased pooping.
The average American drinks one to two cups of coffee a day, according to the National Coffee Association. The average American woman drinks three to four cups of expensive Starbucks coffee and is pissed off at someone roughly 50 percent of the time.
Mmmm, in a minute I'm going to kill you
Monday, October 15, 2007
News Words and Their Meanings
Oh yeah, baby, to hell with the piles upon piles of posts sitting in draft waiting to be released into the Blogosphere! This shit was just sent to me by the famous Holly, so of course it goes first! This is funny stuff.
Here are the winners of the Washington Post Mensa Invitational, which once again asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition. Put your thinking cap on. These are really clever!!! The 2007 winners are:
1. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying (or building) a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period of time.
2. Ignoranus: A person who's both stupid AND an a- -hole.
3. Intaxication: Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which only lasts until you realize that it was your money to start with.
4. Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.
5. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.
6. Foreploy: Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting some.
7. Giraffiti: Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.
8.Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.
9. Inoculatte: To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
10. Hipatitis: Terminal coolness.
11. Osteopornosis: A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)
12. Karmageddon: It's when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, and then the Earth explodes and it's a serious bummer.
13. Decafalon (n. ): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.
14. Glibido: All talk and no action.
15. Dopeler Effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.
16. Arachnoleptic Fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.
17. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
18. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you're eating.
Here are the winners of the Washington Post Mensa Invitational, which once again asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition. Put your thinking cap on. These are really clever!!! The 2007 winners are:
1. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying (or building) a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period of time.
2. Ignoranus: A person who's both stupid AND an a- -hole.
3. Intaxication: Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which only lasts until you realize that it was your money to start with.
4. Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.
5. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.
6. Foreploy: Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting some.
7. Giraffiti: Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.
8.Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.
9. Inoculatte: To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
10. Hipatitis: Terminal coolness.
11. Osteopornosis: A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)
12. Karmageddon: It's when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, and then the Earth explodes and it's a serious bummer.
13. Decafalon (n. ): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.
14. Glibido: All talk and no action.
15. Dopeler Effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.
16. Arachnoleptic Fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.
17. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
18. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you're eating.
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