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My erudite peers never cease to amaze simple minded me. They deconstruct the lingustic foibles of a man who is a two-fold Ivy League graduate--a feat that is only surpassed by his ability to fly fighter jets. He is definitely the village idiot. I am such a dullard for ever thinking otherwise.

Of course, his occasional lapse into the mispronounceable[1] could easily be attributed to the heterogeneous nation we live in. God damn the vernacular diversity of our country, why can't we all speak in accordance with the wishes of Mary Newton Bruder, God Rest Her Anal Retentive Soul.

I know that the millions of doctors, lawyers, programmers, teachers, accountants, writers, politicians, and, yes, even retail managers who fail to live up to standards set forth by the disciples of Bruder (which must include all the cerebral inclined folk who commented on my previous post) are simple minded dullards--I am just glad for all the company.

I just hope that you, the intellectual elite and inheritors of Robert's Rules of Order, apply your just and unbiased criticism to all peoples; we can all learn so much from your perfect purveyance of the English language.

Go to Hell

P.S. I wanted to write about sexual harassment but I got stuck after opening the post with, “The Whore deserves to suck on horse scrotum."

This isn't conclusive evidence but it does provide support for my assertion: The President isn't stupid.


Go to Hell

Today I fired someone. I didn't enjoy the experience. Don't get me wrong, I have no problem with firing an employee for bad work performance, but I am bothered when a forty-something adult male begins blubbering like a baby. At least he waited till the end of the auction to break down.

My help continues to amaze me, and the alien overlords, with their ineptitude. In over thirty auctions we haven't been able to balance the books once. Usually, we are under thirty or forty dollars, but today we mysteriously came ahead eighty or so bucks. Dad was pleased with the result and ignored my very apt point: Our cashier continues to improperly tally the sale total, which is costing us (meaning you) money. Habitual mistakes, whether "good" or bad" in nature, signify a serious problem. Of course, he ignored me and when I tried to stress my point, he called Bob an ass. I should fire everyone, including myself.


However, the real highlight of today wasn't the blubbering ex-employee or math challenged cashier; I had the pleasure of dealing with the biggest cunts, ever. Now, I know what you are saying, "Biggest cunts, ever? Surely, you are exaggerating about the size of their vaginal cavities." Well, I am not. This mother and daughter duo are know as Canyon Grande and Canyon Almost As Grande As Fat-Ass Mother's.

Orifice sizes aside, my real problem with the girls were their rude behavior towards father and me.

Incident number one appeared very innocuous in nature. I was speaking with an elderly couple about the results of their auction the week before. Since their combined ages were nearing 190 and an auction was taking place while we were talking, I found it necessary to speak very loudly. Throughout the conversation I heard a shhhhh sound emanating from directly behind us. By the time I finished speaking with the couple the shhhh was drowning out my voice and the auctioneer's. I turned around to see the origin of the shrill shhhhh; low and behold, I spied the two cavernous sluts.

Incidents two and three dealt with the same problem: Dad's inability to write upcoming instead of next. He chose not to sell a Longaberger basket in the auction because there were several consigned already and he didn't want to overload the sale with bored housewife fodder. Now, in the previous auction he did have the basket in question on a shelf marked "Next Auction." He apologized for his apparent mistake but the gaping holes didn't take kindly to his rationale and stomped off--I believe they went to sacrifice a cow. Shortly thereafter, I attempted to soothe the savage beasts, but it was to no avail. In unison--as if they shared the same malignant tumor-- they bellowed, "It is false advertising. It is false advertising. You can't do this. Blah, blah, blah, we voted for Nader, blah, blah." I looked at them for a few moments, shook my head and promptly walked away.

I related the experience to one of my employees who responded, "They are fucking cunts. They think they are better than us. Fucking cunts." I smiled and applauded his astute observation.
It is good to know that I have one good employee, at least.




Go to Hell

The Grudge v. Bob

Results: I spent ten hours curled up in a ball with the lights on, mind you that seven of those hours were during the day.

The Grudge - 1

Bob - Scared Shitless



Go to Hell

Linking Logs is Fun


The only place where free speech isn't encouraged: The University.


I was going to say "Be careful or you will shoot your eye out." but that seems a little insensitive. Instead, here is to the Boston Police Force and their resolute desire to shoot innocent bystanders in the eye. I imagine it is hoping too much for the officer, who seems to have difficulty differentiating between the head and body, to be severely disciplined and/or fired.


Confucius say, "The superior man likes big boobies and wings, in that order."



Go to Hell

This seems terribly appropriate:


Casey at the Bat
by Ernest Lawrence Thayer



The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The restClung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that—We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand; And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, "Strike two!"

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.





Go to Hell

I want to write a short story. Actually, I want to write several dozen short stories. But, I will have to start with just one. I have mulled over one idea for nearly two years but decided it wouldn't play out so well; it seems a direct to trash bin release had a similar concept. And, writing a story about serial killers (in particular one who cuts up young college coeds) hits a little close to home, you know.

Therefore, I am going in a totally new direction, and I think it will be much easier. It involves poker, the devil, lost souls, redemption, and Helen Keller. I have always been fascinated with the morality tales dealing with the devil. How one always loses (unless it is a fiddle contest, or involving the namesake of a dictionary) when given their greatest desires. Anyway, it is my plan to have a viewable draft finished by Halloween.

I know you are asking yourselves: What does this mean to me? And, why do fuck do I care?
The answer is simple: You all are my bitch, bitches.

The time I usually devote to writing on my blog will instead be used on the story. I will probably post a link or two, maybe even a hate filled racist rant, however; it is my intention to spend the majority of my time on the computer looking up porn, then writing my story.


Wish me luck,

Go to Hell

Go figure: Who would have thought Syria was selling billions of dollars worth of weapons to Iraq. I always thought they were simply taking the moral high road when they objected to enforcing the UN Resolution(s).

Makes me wonder if the WMD's, the ones that so many people now say don't exist-even those the United States actually sold to Iraq, were transported over to Syria before the war began.

It is something to ponder, isn't it?


Go to Hell

Return to Puberty


Today, sanity gave way to reality. Darth Vader donned his helmet, leaving his son grasping for lies and only finding harsh truth. I want to fall asleep and wake up on morrow's eve-- I hope today is only monstrous dream. But if I slumber while locked in an everpresent nightmare, won't I awake to the same damning truth. It is a conudrum, though what would one expect in a world constructed with lies, a world that cannot accept truth.



Go to Hell