Figures.
When I up and decide to actually start using this raggedy little corner of the internet to spout off again instead of letting it rot, my place of employment goes back into “How much can we work your ass before you die?” mode.
Beats the hell out of being on reduced hours and having to choose between which bills don’t get paid every month, but it does take the spring out of one’s step…
I have a confession of sorts to make. One most of the folks who still read my little dank corner of the intrawebs probably don’t suspect.
I. Am. Happy. Happier than I dared believe I could ever be again given the turbulent road my personal life has taken the past several years.
Many months ago I started conversing via e-mail and Facebook with someone I’ve “known” for years through the blogs (but had never met in the flesh). She was just starting the end run of a long and unhappy marriage, separated from her husband pending divorce.
Before long, we ended up talking for several hours a day. I used to joke about being the stereotypical monosyllabic minimum information kind of guy on the phone. When dividing my cell phone usage by # of calls, it averaged out to around 31 seconds a call. The longer calls were when I was put on hold while ordering pizza.
I talked to this woman for 54 hours last month. That doesn’t include the texting, which I also used to make fun of people for 
For a long time, we both tried to find reasons why how we both were starting to feel wasn’t real. We analyzed and scrutinized and came up with reason after reason to explain away how we couldn’t possibly be truthfully this attracted to one another. That it was just infatuation, and it would fade.
Every reason rang hollow. Those feelings got stronger no matter how many times and ways we put them to the test. After we met in the flesh, it became exponentially stronger.
I have fallen in love with a wonderfully intelligent, beautiful, sweet, caring Woman. A Woman with a fantastic and demented sense of humor (but not as demented or sick as mine, thank heaven). Someone who isn’t afraid to call me out on my many faults, but loves me anyway. Someone who inspires me to do better.
Someone who is smart as hell, but isn’t afraid to be silly. Someone who (inexplicably) loves the fact that I am the way that I am, but brings out the side of me that seriously threatens to damage my curmudgeon/asshole street cred Someone who looks at the world around her just a bit off kilter, in a way I absolutely adore. Someone who concentrates on finding solutions, instead of looking for more problems.
My arm feels like it was designed to be around her shoulders. A day without talking to her is physically painful. I want to camp with her, and watch the sun come up. When I dream about us, we are often 70 years old and still together, and it feels right in a way I have never felt before… (the other dreams are private!). She makes me want to do things I never had interest in before, because I know doing them with HER will make it fun.
I want to make her happy. I want us to be happy together. Forever.
“Soulmate” is a word I used to file in the same category as “Bigfoot”, “Loch Ness Monster”, and “Intelligent Joe Biden quote”.
No longer.
Cupid punched one through my glacis plate and into the ten ring over my left ventricle. I am officially, solidly, and completely in love with her.
Who is this woman that owns my heart now? The woman who completely ruined my master plan to be miserable and alone for a really long time before throwing myself on the market?
Excuse me while I disturb the hell out of my neighbors by doing the happy jig on the front lawn
Og outed me. He figured out that I’ve been moonlighting at a second job on top of my factory cough “Career” cough.
Gotta make ends meet somehow, ya know. Gotta keep the sporran full
PS: It’s an antenna from my old ‘78 pinto, not a 72…..
…speak your fucking mind.
Growing up, my mother was a soft spoken woman unless you reeeeeeeally pissed her off.
My Father and Grandmother? Yeah, not so much. If they thought someone was an asshole, you were left in absolutely no doubt exactly how much of an asshole they considered that person to be. In detail. At length.
Apple, tree, not falling far from, yeah I know…
That said, John Murtha can go fucking burn in hell, and I’m glad I’m no longer sharing a biosphere with the crooked, pork legislating, back stabbing piece of shit. A lot of people like playing the “I hated the man, but I won’t speak ill of the dead” game, when in reality they feel exactly as I do. I could forgive the crooked legislating since that seems to be what his constituents wanted his ass to do, but the bullshit he said about the Marines in Haditha forever landed his arse on my “shit on their grave” list.
I’d rather be seen as an honest asshole than pretend to have an iota of remorse now that the prick has attained room temp.
Whilst watching the Saints win their first Superbowl at a private party at The Pub, this piece of Eco-Nazi bullshit downright harshed my mellow:
This is exactly the kind of fucking police state the environmentalist nanny-statists masturbate thinking about imposing on us every night.
Fuck you, Audi. You really need to show the rest of that video, where you show up at my house and I kill every last one of those uniformed cocksuckers and dump their lead contaminated corpses into a mass grave dug right down into the aquifer. Then I’ll smash through your checkpoint with my Flex-Fuel (runs on coal, styrofoam, and rendered baby seal fat) battering ram enhanced semi-trailer with that fucking anteater (wtf?) impaled on a spike for a hood ornament. One the carnage is done, I’ll hang your dripping scalps from your Segway scooters and paint more green swastikas on my drivers side front panel.
This shit would be funny if the motherfuckers weren’t actually trying to make it happen.
Read some of the comments on that video. There are a LOT of ecotard taintslurpers who would LOVE this shit to be reality.
Fuck you, Audi. Fuck you with a barbed wire dildo of John Holmesian proportions.
With all the “Oh my god, the gas pedal is stuck AIIRRGGHHH!!!!” recall shit going on right now, it would be the PERFECT fucking time to do some vehicular slaughter and have Toyota pay off the next of kin. Maybe even get a check from them for the “mental anguish” suffered from imprinting a reverse stamp of your front license plate in the skull of some shithead who righteously deserves it.
Get a good lawyer and you may even be able to get a jury to buy you were trying to shift into neutral and stop the car when you back over the twitching bodies…. hmmm…
Oh what a feeling…
I think that the Lefty talk radio company Air America going tits up into bankruptcy is a very sad thing.
Nope, that wasn’t a typo.
Every fund raising drive that sucked money out of the pockets of die hard “progressives” was an engine for keeping those dollars out of campaign donations.
Every minute of air time used by barking moonbats to screech and verbally fling shit across the airwaves at their 14 listeners was one they weren’t on talk shows or writing op-eds. You think cutting them off is a good thing, wait until we start seeing FemmeTard Garafolo in the news ranting now that she has the time on her hands.
I’ll miss you, Air America, but I guess a running joke can only limp for so long before collapsing in it’s own vomit.
Between shit like this:
Those of you wondering how DOJ uses your tax dollars to enforce our nation’s laws might be interested to learn that Eric Holder has apparently hired former Democratic campaign bloggers to work at the department in what appears to be a secret propaganda unit. According to a story at The Muffled Oar website, the bloggers are housed in the Office of Public Affairs (the press office). Their job is to place “anonymous comments, or comments under pseudonyms, at newspaper websites with stories critical of the Department of Justice, Holder and President Obama.” One of the bloggers is former DNC and John Edwards staffer Tracy Russo, whose name was featured prominently on the department’s introduction of its new website on October 1.
And the “Ellie Light” letters that smell like a skunk boiled in cat shit:
In recent days, a letter defending Obama has appeared in dozens of newspapers throughout the country — all signed by an “Ellie Light.” In the letters, which all use identical language, Ms. Light explains that Obama never promised to fix all our problems quickly or painlessly. She declares:
Today, the president is being attacked as if he’d promised that our problems would wash off in the morning. He never did. It’s time for Americans to realize that governing is hard work, and that a president can’t just wave a magic wand and fix everything.
Editors all over the country found Light’s message strangely compelling. It was reprinted at The Politico; the Philadelphia Daily News; the San Francisco Examiner; the Washington Times; and a USA Today blog. In addition, the letter has appeared at literally dozens of small-town papers across the country, with names like the Los Banos Enterprise, the North Adams Transcript, and the Danbury News-Times.
It occurs to me that the high acolytes of Comrade Obamavich’s personality cult resemble nothing more than a group of shit licking comment trolls given a phenomenal budget (our tax dollars) to play with, and a Federal stick to threaten any forum that dares attempt to moderate them.
IE:
1) Belligerent labeling of anyone who disagrees with them as racist/sexist/terrorist/etc? Check
2) Can’t keep their lies straight from one statement to the next? Check
3) Attempting to silence anyone who disagrees with them? Check
4) Artificially attempting to hijack every discussion? Check
5) Making me want to fingerpaint with their fucking entrails while they writhe disemboweled in the gutter? Fucking CHECK
I’m hoping we can delete these assholes in November, because if we can’t then it’s time to burn down the fucking server.
How many Democrats do you think were secretly happy that Scott Brown won in Mass. on Tuesday because now it gives them a plausible excuse to back away from the electoral cliff Comrade Obamavich and his politburo are pushing them over? You know, the ones who actually give a fuck about being reelected?
We’ll see how many smile and chug the almond flavored kool-aid when they try ramming the Health and Prosperity Destruction Act of 2010 through via reconciliation….
So I’ll post it here as filler until I get off my arse and start bitching about politics again
Once upon a time there was a man who didn’t know something. Normally, this wouldn’t have affected his life adversely, because it wasn’t one of those things that nature tends to educate you about in merciless fashion (such as “What would happen if I coated myself in bacon grease and played with these wolves”, or “The Wife will love this new broom for her birthday!”). Instead, this man didn’t know this thing because he could not quantify, analyze, demonstrate, substantiate, validate, or in any way prove that this thing existed or did not exist, and what it’s nature was if it did.
What this man didn’t know was whether God existed, or what his/her/it’s nature was if it/he/she/them did. And, being a man of uncommon honesty, minimal ego, and unfortunate naivety, made the mistake of telling people he didn’t know.
The good folk of the humble village this man called home were a varied and tolerant lot. There were many different houses of worship in the small town where all were welcome to come in and enjoy the company of others who knew the thing that the man did not in the same way. Those who knew that there was no God were not shunned for staying at home. Everyone was content, because everyone knew, and even though everyone knew that the others who knew differently were wrong, it wasn’t something one brought up in polite conversation if one knew what was good for oneself.
Word spreads quickly in a small village, and soon everyone was gossiping about the man who did not know. For years uncounted, everyone in the village had just assumed he was one of the ones who didn’t know the same as they did, and since he was a quiet sort with a tidy little home who never caused trouble the villagers never pried into his business, because that would be rude.
This new revelation, however, changed the man’s status from Quiet Neighbor, to Potential Convert.
Soon, the man couldn’t hardly leave his home without one of his fellow villagers trying to convince him to know what they did. Quickly, he had uninvited folks knocking on his door at all hours of the day.
In ways simple, yet eloquent, he explained his lack of knowing to his friends and neighbors, all of whom knew that God existed, or didn’t, and of course was kind, cruel, loving, stern, omnipotent, nonsense, male, female, animal, mineral, and/or (in the case of the odd young villager who spent most of his days inhaling burning rope plant fumes, eating mushrooms, and giggling at clouds) vegetable.
One by one he pointed out the flaws and benefits in what they knew, made arguments in favor of the things he just made arguments against with the previous proselytizers, discounted both sets of his own arguments as impossible to prove right or wrong, debated the nature of fact versus faith, and with nothing but the utmost respect pointed out in detail why he wasn’t able to know what they did.
All because of how he felt in his heart, and that he had to acknowledge such because he was an uncommonly honest man of minimal ego.
Never because he thought any of what they knew was wrong, but simply because he honestly just didn’t know. And he was comfortable with that. And all he asked was that his friends and neighbors respected his choice, or lack thereof.
Every year thereafter, there was a great feast celebrating the day they impaled the unfortunately naive man in the town square. All the varied houses of worship rang their bells seven times to symbolize how many hours it took him to die, writhing as he slid slowly down the greased stake splitting his anus. Musicians led the parade starting from the blackened circle where his tidy little home once stood, to where his bleached skull still perched atop of the stake he expired upon. Children would run underfoot, faces sticky from eating the festive candy men-on-a-stick, singing nursery rhymes immortalizing how the pitch of the man’s screams changed by how far the stake slid upward into his bowels. Men would drink and tell stories of how the man whose empty eye sockets gleamed overhead had stubbornly refused to be enlightened by anyone, while women would gossip about how if only the man would have had a good wife to set him straight his tidy little home would still stand. Those who knew there was no god sneered at his remains, while the odd young villager ate some mushrooms and continued debating with the man (who was now apparently occupying this plane of existence as a particularly stubborn bud of rope plant, which the odd young man then burned and inhaled to teach it a lesson).
Centuries passed, and the village became a city. The stake and skull were inscribed on the city seal. Once a year, all the bells rang seven times to celebrate the Day of Knowing. Children run underfoot, faces sticky, singing their lilting rhymes. Men drink. Women gossip. Scholars argue about the history of the festival, the origin of the symbolism, and the only thing that any of them agreed upon at all was that they knew something really wonderful must have happened on some day long ago….
