Grasping at Claws to a Groovy Beat

I have been severely lagging in updating this site lately; and for that I apologize.

It’s partly due to the fact that I have been preparing for an upcoming vacation to Nova Scotia (which I’m sure will fill up entire gigabytes worth of ranting by the time I return home 6 days later) these days, and partly due to the fact that it’s been a slow news week.

Of course, I realize Dr. Robert A. Moog died yesterday from an inoperable brain tumor, but that’s hardly anything to build an entire blog post around. Instead, I played some Depeche Mode albums in my bedroom in effigy, and realized how much I hate the sound of synthesizers, and ‘Switched-On Bach’ in particular…so, ‘nuff said on that particular topic. I'm sure Brian Eno is crushed, but I'm not quite so moved.

However, there was one interesting tidbit of freak news I found worthy of being examined on a closer level, and that’s about Hope, the the Chinese tiger that died recently in South Africa. This rare endangered tiger had been brought from a Chinese zoo to South Africa as part of a “rewilding program”, seen by some to be the last chance at saving the species from extinction, to encourage the animals how to hunt for themselves.

Apparently, Hope did not even have the basic survival skills to make rice and noodles. Likewise, I doubt there were any nearby restaurants from which to order vital take-out food. So I don’t feel her chances were very good in the first place. You'd think they'd have taught her at least how to boil water before releasing her out to the open African Plains.

In Birmingham, they shot the bomber..."

Convicted serial bomber Eric Rudolph apologized this past Monday to the victims of a nail bomb he exploded at the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta, killing a woman and wounding more than 100 people in the vicinity. And now he’s sorry…very sorry.

Whoopee-fucking-shit. Pardon me if I don’t exactly weep for joy.

Rudolph said he hadn’t intended to harm bystanders but only embarrass the U.S. government when he planted the nail bomb in Centennial Olympic Park on July 27th, 1996. Yeah, good plan dipshit. He’s lucky I wasn’t the judge at that trial – I’d have had him strung up by his pubic hair from the nearest tree and had him used as a piñata by the Hungarian Olympic Women’s Weightlifting team.

Who cares if he’s sorry – we should have put a bullet between his eyes. Rudolph plea-bargained with federal prosecutors to plead guilty to three other accounts of bombings at abortion clinics in Birmingham, Alabama in order to drop the death penalty. I know I would have been happily kicked back outside Death Row with my glass of whiskey and Lynryd Skynryd playing on a boom box waiting for the lights to flicker had they decided to fry his ass.

Somebody had better explain to this guy that it’s hard to support life by willfully taking it away. But then again, if that somebody just happens to be a gargantuan black cell-mate that goes by “Mad Dog”, who is doing 15-20 years for a public rampage caused by repressed psychotic anger manifesting in an intense desire to chainsaw apart the expensive geegaws of technological society, so be it. And if “Mad Dog” just also happens to be an avid Pro-Choice advocate - so much the better!

He stated he had “sincerely hoped to achieve (his) objectives without harming innocent civilians”. Pardon? So, by placing a nail bomb, which designed to maim as opposed to kill, in a busy public park he was hoping to harm, who, the squirrels?

Get fucked sicko!

I’d say if this murderous terrorist bastard was truly “sorry” he wouldn’t have fled into the North Carolina mountains for 5 years before being caught skulking around a dumpster in the middle of the night in 2003. What was he doing all that time – practicing his apology speech?

Fuck him. He doesn’t deserve out sympathy or our forgiveness – he deserves slow torture.
Okay, I feel better now.

Fucked on Fuck

It was commented to me that I perhaps use profane language too much in my blog posts- particularly in reference to the word “fuck”.

I admit it. Guilty as charged. What can I say? The world is a fucked up kind of place and so am I. Sometimes there’s really just the one way to actually refer to something. As in: “That’s fucked up!” Nuff said.

Besides, there are just so many colorful variations of this wonderful, but largely misunderstood superlative. I can be adapted to describe or convey just about every emmotion or situation known to mankind. To the linguistic world, the use of the word “fuck” is like baring witness to the blooming of a rare tropical flower. Its pedals unfurl outwards into the sentence structure with a beautiful delicate foulness.

Consider the possible options of this uniquely versatile word: fuckhead, fuckstick, fucktard, fuckwit, fuckwad, as well as my current favorite, fuck-a-doodle-doo. In any shape or form, the word “fuck” is going to immediately attract someone’s attention. And with my smattered diaper of literary works constantly laid bare within these web pages on a daily basis, it’s safe to say I want your attention...BAD!

All the greats of history probably did too! Consider the following:

Michangelo: "You want me to fucking paint where?"

Christopher Columbus: "Where the fuck are we?"

Gen. Custer: "Where the fuck did they come from?"

Albert Einstein: "Any fucktard could fucking get it!"

Neil Armstrong: "How in the fuck did we get here?"

It’s a “me” thing maybe. After all, I am nothing without my limited fucking lexicon, kay?

But okay, perhaps I am using the f-word a little too much. It doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m harboring any excess pent-up aggression, nor do I believe that I am exhibiting any signs of repressed anxiety. My ulcers are not bleeding out with imploded rage.

Maybe sometimes I just feel like using the word “fuck”.

So fuck off then (in the nicest way possible).

Dear Anonymous Posters:

Brace yourselves peoples; there’s a hard rain about to fall.

Sadly, I have had to disallow anonymous people from ever posting their comments to my blogsites. It seems that this open invitation to include everyone in the fun has led to a few unruly fucktards (and I use this term in only the most harshest of senses) abusing the opportunity in order to post everything from pyramid scams to mortgage rate companies.

I’m fed up to the nines with it. These morons are a waste of good air.

I AM NOT THE SIDE OF A BUS, NOR DO I APPRECIATE YOU SPAMMING MY BELOVED LITERARY DIARRHEA THAT LAY WITHIN THESE WEBPAGES!

Just like the similar fucktards who still continue to call my home at 9:30PM on weeknights to sell me newspaper subscriptions - I hope an unmaned airplane crashes into your house. You all suck donkey balls.

If I knew who you were or where you lived I’d have you executed by guys named Vinnie and Mad Dog as the inopportunistic dipshits that you are. First however, I’d have my homeboys work you over with ice picks and blowtorches before actually putting the welcome bullet between your eyes.

To any other anonymous posters who may have had something clever and witty to add to my musings, I appologize for the added inconvenience and I encourage you to register a FREE account in order to continue visiting and participating in my jovial bitterness.

Okay, rant over. Commence bullshit….

God = 5, Boy Scouts = 0

Man, God REALLY does have a hate-on for the Boy Scouts lately, huh? And this time, in his haste to randomly pick off some hapless Boy Scout, he instead bagged himself an 8-year-old girl in the process.

This time god’s chosen instrument of demise was a falling tree, which he crashed down suddenly on a first-aid class at the 600-acre Joseph A. Clitta Scout Reservation in New Jersey. Only this time, the Scout Camp was occupied by a bunch of pre-teenaged girls on a weeklong “Learning for Life” program.

Oops.

It’s been a hard summer on the Boy Scouts so far this year. Five others have died recently from other such random natural causes (and that includes stupidity too!). This tree incident is just the latest in a series of tragedies to strike Scout-related activities.

You just know this has to affect their national enrollment. I know I sure as shit wouldn’t join the boy Scouts these days even if you fucking paid me. In fact, I wouldn’t accept a merit badge now if it came lodged in J-Lo’s ass.

I may not be able to find my way through the neighborhood dog park without a map, compass, and Sherpa guide – but at least I’ll arrive alive!

I wonder why God is so hell-bent on messing with the Boy Scouts lately? Have they not helped enough old ladies cross streets? Or maybe he’s just in one of those oh-so-famous pissy moods of his and is simply taking it out on the Boy Scouts just for kicks. Perhaps he’s just become bored with picking on the Ramones

Manky Memo

There is this yellow office memo that has been hanging above the sink in the Men’s Bathroom at work for the past two years or so. It’s all watermarked and tattered, and by the look of it, has some unidentifiable fungus growing on it to boot.

This memo was originally intended to remind employees to clean the fecal matter from their hands after finishing with their bid’ness. Among the multiple lifeforms all vying for survival on this single sheet of soiled paper is the message “THE EASIEST WAY TO AVOID SPREADING GERMS AND BACTERIA IS TO WASH YOUR HANDS.”

Never mind washing your hands, I’d say the best way to stave off the spread of germs and infection is by finally throwing this manky fucking office memo away before it grows ebola or something.

I’d do it myself but I’m afraid that if I should ever attempt to touch it without wearing anything as strong as a pair of heavy protective radiation gloves and maybe a good sterilizing inside a vacuum sealed compression chamber before exiting the room, I’d probably contract the plaque or something.

Stupid Is As Stupid Does

Jessica Simpson, who plays Daisy Duke in the new ‘Dukes of Hazzard’ movie, admitted on the David Letterman Show that she attacked a man with a pool cue on the set when she mistook him for a stuntman with whom she was supposed to be filming her scene.

Apparently, the paparazzi’s tabloid princess expected the pool cue to break over the cast members back after connecting. Unfortunately, there were two problems with this scenario at the time. 1) The pool cue was not an easily breakable prop, and 2) the dude was not a stuntman.

So basically, the bleached blonde bimbette was, in essence, taking some poor helpless man to town with the business end of a pool cue. Okay, how stupid is stupid exactly?

Even when the pool cue failed to break, do you think she thought to herself “hey, something is not quite right here”? No - of course not. Instead, the silly ditz keeps wacking away fruitlessly until the innocent bastard was covered in welts from her beating. Finally, after she had whipped the tartar out of the poor guy, the pool cue did eventually break ending his trial by ass-whooping.

Now here’s someone who truly does deserve a big syringe of battery acid in order to put her out of her misery before her complete stupidity injures any other non-partisan bystanders.

Prehistoric Pussy Pounder

Where I previously have accused the Germans of being of an unromantic breed of evildoer, archeologists apparently decided to go ahead and try to prove me wrong.

An object, 20cm – long, 3cm – wide, has recently been discovered in a German cave. It is said to be around 28,000 years old and has been sculpted out of polished stone. Experts happen to believe that the found object is a prehistoric dildo.

WTF?

You mean there are knowledgeable people with certified advanced learning in Paleodildology or something? They’re shitting me – right? Or did a group of archaeologists just give the phallic polished stone the ‘ol sniff test for remnants of remaining cavewoman cooch? I bet that 28,000 years after pounding some major Jurassic pussy, that masonry massager must have been pretty ripe and easy to distinguish from the other surrounding rocks found at the site. What’s so “expert” about that?

Anyways, researchers are suggesting that its among the oldest of Ye Olde Wang ever discovered. The fact that it’s life-sized says to scientists that it was probably, indeed, used as a sex aid. Well, now we know what Wilma was doing when Fred went out bowling with his buddies from the Loyal Order of Waterbuffalos. She just stayed home and fucked herself stupid before Fred returned home hollering for his dinner.

To me, the fact that this was found in a GERMAN cave only serves to reinforce my belief that the Germans are in fact evil to the core. Even back then, they were fashioning the perfect way to fuck one other over.

One other thing I don’t understand is why did some caveman spend so much time polishing a rock to be comfortably inserted into his wife’s vagina in the first place? Considering that there must have been an abundance of easy-to-insert sticks and animal bones laying around instead, he must have really been an inadequate lover that he would feel so inclined to invest in such intensified labor.

Turds of Love

There is no living thing on this planet that gets less action than I do. I never get any sex. Nada, zero, el-zilcho. I make a Benedictine monk look like Wilt Chamberlain. In fact, my sex life is about as action-packed as an old man standing at a public bathroom urinal.

It’s that pathetic. Just this moment, I thought I heard the distinct snap of broken streams of crusty saliva as, somewhere, the future mother of my children just lifted her head out of a puddle of drool.

God, I hope she has a ripper body!

Anyways, my sexual failings aside, I will openly admit here that I am no Matthew McConaughey, but what I lack in chiseled perfection I certainly make up for in lustful obsession. If any lucky female were ever to find it within themselves to look past all my warts, they would find that I am actually the catch of the century. I would worship her; I would cherish her; I would bottle and store her turds in little specimen jars and keep them in an ornamental cabinet in the closet.

Somebody just has to find that attractive and endearing – even if it’s just another weirdo that happens to like having their turds inventoried and preserved for all posterity.

But perhaps I go to far…

Human Chew Toy

So, I'm sitting here with my bowl of chilled grapes and reading the comments left from my legions of loyal blog readers, whom I affectionately refer to as ‘Tofutards’ (all three or four of you) and suddenly, I have a cat gnawing on my right hand. Not a nibbling, or a "love biting" exactly...but a real gnawing.

Now it doesn't hurt all, nor is he doing any damage - but Miso is totally into chewing on my right hand at the moment. I feel like a fucking chew toy.

An hour or so ago I scrubbed out my porcelain kitchen sink with bleach and that particular scrubbing hand still has a weak smell of disinfectant on it despite being washed thoroughly. Once he got one whiff of this bleachy smell, he got all worked up and is making some serious effort to lick, chew, and gnaw at the fingers and palm of my right hand.

That's weird, right?

Now I've watched him lick plastic shopping bags and just about every leaf and stem on every plant in my patio garden, but I've NEVER seen him so fixated on chewing on something as he is with my right hand at the moment. You'd think I was made out of tuna or something.

WTF?

My cat is such a spaz. So now, besides his ongoing war with the neighborhood raccoons I will have to confront the fact that my junkie cat also huffs bleach. Why can't he just mow down katnip and sprawl out on the floor in a furry puddle like most other cats?

Osama's been Snortin'

Osama bin Laden sure is a wiley son of a bitch, isn’t he? For one thing, he sure knows how to hit America where it hurts just as he surely knows how to hide and operate a kidney dialysis machine in the caves of Afghanistan for over 5 years.

Case in point?

The New York Post revealed last week that bin Laden met personally with a Colombian drug cartel in 2002, in an attempt to perpetrate the most fiendish act of terrorism you could ever possibly imagine. Even legendary criminal mastermind Lex Luther couldn’t have devised a more sinister plan of destruction. It’s even far more fiendish than the ill-fated plan to make a sequel to 'Jury Duty' with Pauley Shore – and that’s pretty fucking fiendish, eh buuuuuuddy. Okay. Are you ready? Because this is really fiendish, seriously. Osama bin laden is so fiendish that he literally wants to eat your very soul!

According to the Post, Osama bin Laden was planning to buy a whole shitload of coke, and then poison it before unloading it again on a certain unsuspecting Western superpower of unholy junkie infidels. Namely – US!

Ho. Lee. Crap! Is that a fucking act of International terrorism or what? Talk about dishing out a vicious shot to the nose of democracy! So, Osama’s big plan was to kill off a bunch of cokeheads? My god! A life without Courtney Love is just not a life worth living! That fiendish motherfucker!

As the article in the Post notes, “bin Laden hoped that large numbers of Americans dying from poisoned coke would lead to wide-spread terror”. It did not, however, also note that it could be expected that this would also lead the current MTV nation to produce and bust out some of the most sickest jams ever!

The plan ultimately failed though when the Colombians decided they feared reprisals from the U.S. more than bin Laden, so cokeheads can relax for now…if they can. More directly, the Colombian drug cartel feared that the poisoned marching powder could possibly hinder their chances of having the current ‘Monsters of Rock’ tour coming to Bogotá. For them, that was a fate darker than the starting line of the Olympics Men’s 100m Dash. And who could blame them? Ratt kicks ass when properly medicat…err, motivated.

Sure, I can see where people would be spooked if you’re, say, Darryl Strawberry or Charlie Sheen. But personally, I’m not really bothered or threatened in the slightest. I’m not so sure I would really mind if all the paranoid, jittery limp dicks around me started dropping like Ramones.

Now, poison the coffee beans that go into making my precious Tim Horton’s double-doubles, or even fuck with the THC levels in my weed, and I’ll enlist in the Marines myself so that I can have the chance to kick his extreme fundamentalist ass!

Blacksploitation and the New World Order

At the risk of sounding racist, I’d like to ask a question based on the observations I’ve made lately from the multiple CNN updates on the developing situation over in the Middle East. How come terrorists never take black hostages? I have yet so see a single Afro-American, or any other person of Negro decent for that matter, involved as a hostage in some hijacking or kidnapping by any radical fundamentalist organization.

Why is that?

You’ll NEVER see some black guy reading a list of demands in some videotape that has been mysteriously released to the media by some extreme terrorist regime.

“I ‘ave bin acksed to read yoo the followin’ shout-out. I ‘ave bin taken hostage by the peeps of ‘Ahmed’s Kebobs and Siocial Hizballah’, and they be demandin’ some serious bling in return for my safety. So far, we be treated well and we jes be chillin’ like villains. I’d like to give props to my new hommie captoores Mohammed and Sharrif who loosed up my restraints dis mo’nin – they be pretty coo’ brutha's. And I’d also like to send a shout out to L’il Jon and Ray Ray back home. - “Keep it real, yo!” Peace out.”

I guess that’s because among terrorists and hijackers, black citizens of the planet do not represent particularly good bargaining chips. Who’s going to kidnap someone when the most they could probably expect to get in return for their lives would be a bottle discount malt liquor and some used 50 Cent albums?

They Call Me "Mr. Nash"

I’ve decided that I don’t like the developing trend of addressing people by their surname. Is it a new trendy thing, a respect thing, a polite thing, or just an annoying thing?

Just recently at work, my managers have begun addressing me continually as “Mr. Nash”. “How are you today, Mr. Nash?” “Have you finished that assignment yet, Mr. Nash?” “Please stop stabbing me in the head with your pencil, Mr. Nash”. Man, it REALLY pisses me off!

More so, it just makes me paranoid. The only people to ever call me by my surname were my Grade Three teacher Mrs. Walker (whom I expect will be waiting for me in Hell with that menacing meter stick and more multiplication tables), and any police officer I may have had the misfortune of dealing with in my sordid past.

I can appreciate the whole respecting of one’s professional conduct in the workplace, but being continually addressed as “Mr. Nash” makes me feel like an old man. Are they also going to start offering to help me cross the work aisles on my breaks too?

My managers, albeit good guys, are young and portray themselves as hip, proactive, and approachable; someone you can feel free to address by their first name while punching shoulders in the cafeteria. So why do they ruin that office camaraderie by addressing me as “Mr. Nash”? To me, that drives a classification stake between us instantly.

Look, unless you’re going to arrest me with something, or scold me for chewing gum in class – CALL ME BY MY GOD GIVEN FIRST NAME FOR FUCK SAKES!