Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Prick ‘Em And Stick ‘Em

A few one liners that made me laugh out loud this week.

So some woman in Australia is sitting under a Thorn Tree, eating a Vegemite samwich, and she has an epiphany…….I’ll set his dick on fire like a TikiTorch. Midtown Miscreant

I always figured Pooh’s friends moved into the hundred-acre wood first, and Pooh wanted to follow them, but there was no room available after the other animals got all their houses built. Poor Mr. Sanders just got in the way. So Pooh, being a psychopath, butchered him with an ax and buried him under the floorboards. Sort of an “eminent domain” kinda thing. Morgan (The King) Freeberg

Ever wondered why it’s called the Enlightenment? No, you twat, you haven’t. You think you should rule over some rustifarian demi-paradise as some sort of philosopher-king. That’s it in a nutshell isn’t it? No fucking wonder the Enlightenment thinkers in the American colonies got rid of twatting cuntpoles like you. The Brilliant Nick at Counting Cats in Zanzibar

Time for a musical interlude from the backlogs of Sippican’s treasure chest.

Cat’s Cradle

The backdoor didn’t swing open that Wednesday afternoon. I sat watching that piece of hinged wood for an hour before I called the school.

Did he earn a detention? Could you double check, please? The parents of his friends and acquaintances hadn’t seen him that afternoon, quizzing their sons in muffled telephone voices, before saying sorry, no, but we’ll call, I promise.

I drove the streets, hit all the parks, before calling the police. The panic steadily filling my throat broke loose in fierce waves when the officer shook my hand ten minutes later.

Living in a small town has its benefits, especially when your circle of close friends include the men who own the banks, fund the college basketball team and sit on the city council. Police come fast when you’re important to the people who are important.

The man I worked for hired a detective the next day to find my boy, a mobbed up guy who rousted the underbelly of Champaign/Urbana for six straight days. I have no idea how much that cost.  Kenny was old school, I was one of his and that man always took care of his own without a second thought.

It didn’t matter though, that intensive public and private search, nobody found my boy. My velvet skinned, fourteen year old child was lost to me.

Sound hurts your skin when your child’s gone missing. Heightened senses cause every whisper to grate, the slightest aroma becomes nauseating, appetite is a remnant of some past life and the simple act of breathing becomes an ache of hard work. Sleep cannot happen, missing an hour on watch would be an unforgivable sin. You feel like the animal you truly are when your child turns up gone, reduced to little more than compulsive pacing or unnatural stillness and nothing, not a single blessed thing, exists except for his face and your need to hold it between your hands.

The good call came almost three weeks later. The father of my son’s best friend pressured his boy hard until he broke, my boy was alive and apparently stoned out of his mind a few short miles from home. This good man promised that his son would be muzzled until I captured my child.

My bare edged teenager had been living with some college drop outs in a squalid apartment near campus, these immature dipshits intended to follow Phish across the country as soon as they could scrape up enough cash to fix their van. A VW van. Modern day hippies had seduced my bruised child with dreams of asinine stupidity and hits of decent blotter.

Turns out my boy had been casing our house, hiding in the senile neighbor’s privet, waiting for it to empty so he could grab a knapsack of belongings before heading off on his big adventure. My despair had turned into commando parenting mode by the time I hung up the phone. My husband and I left for work the next morning, parked a block over then walked back home. We watched my boy begin his stroll across the back lawn with a young stranger who obviously hadn’t seen a mother’s touch in a very long time, the king headed out the front door to grab the car packed with suitcases and tickets as I greeted my stunned progeny in the kitchen. I exiled his friend to the back porch and proceeded to guilt my child into temporary submission until we could coax him into the car and onto a plane ride headed home to Texas and out of harm’s way. It wasn’t hard. My son, despite his problems, loved and trusted me.

I lied to my child on that two hour flight home and I plied him with more lies when we piled into the car for the long drive north seven days later. I watched his heart break and a bitter distrust take hold when we pulled into the military school situated three hours south of Champaign. I lied to save my son and it about killed my soul to do it. It took him four long years to forgive my deception. I still think his life and current success was worth that hard price.

I experienced a brief loss, barely tasting the edge of real devastation or the crush of guilt fueled insanity that parents faced with the harsh reality of a truly lost child must embrace. Dante obviously wasn’t a father because he didn’t know jack shit about the true rings of Hell.

Say a prayer for your children and another one for yourself, then hope to God your true blessings never go missing.

Too Late To Apologize

Via  Cato @ Liberty.  An anthem for the Tea Party Folks?

Time for some foreign policy talk and a little schooling for those of you still inclined to believe that Afghanistan is winnable in the near future.

We routed the bad guys in short order, took dominion over all corners and set about creating our brand of western governance without a breath of resistance. The stunning fact that we had cornered Bin Laden and allowed him to ghost into greater significance was unforgivable and completely inexplicable until we saw the shots being called behind the curtain. Our troops didn’t fail, the men on the ground tried to kill the bastard, the harsh fact is that the political men running this war weren’t playing the same game. They still aren’t.

What constitutes winnable is up for broad debate, many would be satisfied with the eradication of Al Queda and the Taliban, more believe a stable and fully operational Afghan government and society are the optimum goal posts. I doubt either are achievable without factoring in the huge elephant perched in our midst or facing the reality that our government is intentionally leaving out salient facts that would inform the American public’s opinion on this war while they’re purposely pursuing a military strategy destined to fail because of wider foreign policy considerations.

Pakistan is the central problem in the Afghan war and our government is fully complicit in concealing that opaque secret from public view and hampering our military efforts because of it.

The dark irony of our war on the Taliban is that we financed its creation and supported the government that gave birth to this problem child through the ISI under the auspices of Benizer Bhutto. We’ve been in bed with Pakistan since its inception, we have actively encouraged and condoned their multiple terrorist cadres, praised their house cleaning genocidal rampages, ignored their drug trade, madrassas, rampant illiteracy, nuclear aspirations and their illegal selling of such technology. The violent oppression of its own people never caused the state department, or a succession of presidencies, to skip a beat. We were happy to use and munificently fund this brutal third world tool at our convenience in the game of geopolitics and hadn’t the slightest problem ignoring their vile habits and nastier predilections.

We’re currently paying the harsh price for decades of shady political maneuvering with the real blood of our sons and Washington still refuses to curb their beast. We are funding the very guns and sanctuaries used to kill our people and tolerating Pakistan’s undeniable complicity with a blanket of official silence.

I’m ready to bring our people home. I see no indication that our government is serious about addressing this fundamental problem on any level, eliminating the terrorists with clear impunity or of fostering a functioning society of protective law in Afghanistan. The State Department’s warped agenda of demented craftsmanship is still running this war and I’m done supporting those delusional Faustians.

Pundita pieces the puzzle together with brilliance and style, the woman’s a treasure of well written information and I steer you to her bountiful library with full confidence. Yes, she’s conservative and pro-military, but more importantly she wants to know the truth and doesn’t cut any slack when it comes to the facts. The list of must reads on this topic are listed below, read them and weep.

Pakistan – U.S. relations: Why General Stanley McChrystal is going straight to hell

Afghanistan War: McChrystal’s Choice, and an updated version of “The Bridge on the River Kwai”

How the U.S. Government built a perpetual war machine in Afghanistan and sacrificed American values in the process

Alden Pyle in Pakistan, Part 1

I don’t take this subject lightly, 9/11 was a defining moment in my life and I have family serving in this war zone. I have friends with sons working there as well. I want our people to come home victorious and in one piece. The problem is that I don’t trust the men in charge to get it done anymore.

Holy Shit

More photos and a video of the giantess wearing porn star shoes at The Chive.  A sweet curtsy to a Nation of Cowards for this eye bobbling wonder of flesh.

Smog And Thunder

No politics here today, I can’t swallow another presidential or congressional sound bite at the moment. Lying fallow, replenishing the soil, shrugging off the constant irritations issued from those houses of obscene consumption and pernicious mendacity is the current goal.

Let’s reach for dollops of the amusing, absurd, heartbreaking or sublime. Let the fools fight alone for a day or twenty while we ponder other things.

A great war fought with the weapons of paint, brush and talent between Los Angeles and San Francisco makes for a good start.

California was teetering on the edge of doom. Animosity between Los Angeles and San Francisco had grown out of control. War was looming in the hearts of men and women from Petaluma to Pacoima. Then, in early May, General Juan Gomez de los Angeles led his Southern troops in an offensive against the Bay Area. Once the Battle of San Francisco began there was no turning back . . .

A cool video trailer of the project for your enjoyment. Hat’s Off to Weather Sealed.

Dogs make no distinction between Sunday and Monday, they keep to a rigid schedule, dictated by their bowels, your desire to sleep an extra hour on the weekend is of absolutely no account in their scheme of things.

I’ve been amusing myself with VBS.TV while the rest of the house sleeps in and thought you might enjoy some of the more disturbing corners of world that I’ve visited this morning. While I would love to embed these short videos, I can’t. The plug-in I need to install is apparently beyond my limited grasp, so links it is.

Our first stop is Bulgaria to buy a dirty bomb.

Next on the tour is the Tribal Region of Pakistan, where we’ll visit one of the largest gun markets in the world.

A short side trip to a Boy Scout Troop in Beirut is on the schedule.

Our final destination is Liberia, possibly the most depraved country on earth.

A Deficit Of Trust

I was going to wait until he was done, but I can’t.

I despise this shallow man and everything he stands for.

He’s either:

A) a full blown socialist.

B) an idiot.

C) a lobotomy patient.

D) a liar

E) demented

F) full of shit

G) a hypocrite

H) Poorly raised by a delusional hippie Boomer

I’m going for the full combo, with supporting pictorial evidence for C. provided below.


Crash Into Me

Mateó Alvarez felt satisfied with the small armload of dress shirts he managed to find on the crowded racks, no frayed collars or stains today. Twenty dollars goes a long way in Goodwill stores, Lord knows he doesn’t have money to spare for new work clothes. Looking professional on the job brings in more customers, besides dress shirts keep the sun off his arms, cooler than t-shirts when the heat scorches well before noon.

The toy section caught his eye as headed towards the cash register, something for his daughter, maybe. Maya was still easy to please at three, but he knew her mother would tighten her eyes at the gift. Elise didn’t like used things, unpackaged goods. He shrugged off her thoughtless irritation, choosing a soft, brown bear, happily dressed for a rain storm in bright crayon vinyl, the price tag equalling three of his good shirts. He abandoned two of them in the toy aisle before leaving with his purchases.

There was an hour to kill before he could surprise Maya. His visits had to be timed properly if he wanted to avoid running into that maracón, Elliot. The man who wore fifty dollar dress shirts and drove a German car would wonder why this yardman was bringing gifts to his home instead of mowing the lawn. He decided to risk waiting in the small neighborhood park two blocks away, hoping the suspicious white women living in the big houses surrounding the shade wouldn’t call the police. Elise had forbidden any visits after four o’clock when her neighbors began arriving home from work, which left him with a small window to see Maya and her mother.

Thirty eight rolled in with a hard curve, smacking Elise straight in the face. The perfect life she’d crafted with meticulous care was left to unravel in wild loops while she came fully undone. One fine June morning in that pivotal year, she seduced her gardener. Three months later, her architectural firm in a state of chaotic neglect, Elise plunged head long into her affair, shuttering twelve years of a multi-million dollar career. Six months later, hip deep into Mateo, she turned up pregnant. Divorce proceedings from Elliot took place a few short weeks after Maya came into the world. A new job as the grocery store florist suited her just fine, while poor Elliot was left reeling from the inexplicable meltdown of his life.

Elise’s husband had no clue that he’d been cuckolded, didn’t have an inkling the yardman even existed, believed the daughter bearing his name was, in fact, truly his and reasonably wondered if his short, dumpy, dependably intelligent wife had gone certifiably insane. It never occurred to him that his honey skinned, black-eyed daughter, flaunting a mane of chestnut hair, was an unlikely expression of two unattractive, blue-eyed, blondes. His engineer’s mind counted it as a random throwback to some ancient gene pool, trusting the old Elise with everything truthful that mattered in life as explanation. Adjusting to the recent shocks rammed down his throat didn’t move this perception into any new awareness.

Elliot never saw the door close behind the woman he loved, she’d left on cat paws a full year earlier. Maybe that’s why she bailed after nearly twenty years of solid marriage. Benign neglect tends to leave brutal causalities in its wake.

Mateo hugged his daughter in the driveway and grabbed Elise’s hand, the Paddington bear drew the expected response from both of his women. The visit was short, daddy never left anyone’s lips and the new yardman’s jealous arrival signaled a quick end to the affection. Elliot’s Mercedes and devotional checkbook pulled in an hour later.

She eventually did tell Elliot the truth, he refused it, preferring to claim Maya and his memories as his own. Mateo gave up and retired to Sonora last year. The new yard man has been replaced by a fresh Guatemalan pool boy.

Elise certainly isn’t bored anymore.

State Of The Union

Be there or be square.

Older Posts »