A it poem doesn't about make me sense.

If I
it hate
weren't people
for and
babies, the
I'd stupid
be things
a we
nihilist. do.
If I
it hate
weren't gun
for control
the but
second feel
ammendment, it
I'd is
be necessary.
a I
constitutionalist. just
If don't
it like
weren't cooking
for ground
hamburger, chuck,
I'd it
eat makes
red me
meat. gag.

Looking For the Girl Who Once Lived In Carbondale- Craigslist poem

I am the guy who had very long hair and a
black corvette
with a blower coming out of the hood.
I said you looked like Janis Joplin
I was married at the time and wanted you
bad
I own a home in Texas now
and would like you to come live with me
I hope you are out there

in admiration, yes, for he,ee

who is this ee cummings guy, who
thInks he is s o spec
ial that his name
need


not

be capitalized?
And have you read his poetry?

GOODNESS!

His punctuation skills

are a t r o c i o u s

Non Attractive Guy Needs One Night Stand - Written From Craigslist Personal Ad

I'm by no means the cutest guy
but i would love to have a

NO

STRINGS

ATTACHED
relationshiP with

someone.


I'm 5'7 160 lbs,


blondish hair
with blue-green eyes.

It would make my day!

Fluoride awareness for beginners

I have strong opinions about things. I like to express those opinions...enthusiastically. Some call this "arguing" or "being confrontational" or "pushy" or "picking fights" or "conversationally aggressive." I disagree. I think, since I base my opinions on logical reasoning and factual evidence, that everyone else thinks they know what they are talking about until they talk to me and become enlightened. I have been told that this is a character flaw, so I am trying my damnedest to correct myself. This post is my first exercise in argumentative moderation.
Instead of rambling on and on about the effects of fluoride in our water supply and how no one should drink fluoridated water unless they want to lose their free-thinking capabilities, I will simply post some snippets of info I have found while researching fluoride over the past year or so. I won't pressure you in any way. However, I will assume, if you take the time to read the information, that you will make the right decision for yourself and your family.

Did you know that for years fluoride was classified as a toxic waste in this country? In fact, not too long ago its only approved uses were as an insecticide and a RAT POISON!
And that's just how your body treats it - as a poison.Plenty of studies have been done over the years - and the results are frightening. Fluoridation has been linked to immune system alteration, musculoskeletal harm, genetic damage, thyroid dysfunction, and even cancer.
- Dr. William Campbell Douglass (The Fluoride Myth Busted)


"As far as I know, there is no one who has done any serious research into whether the fluoridated person is really more docile, easier to rule, more impressed by authority than the non-fluoridated one. There is, though, one peculiar thing: every Dutch doctor has a medical reference book for 1984. One of the chapters is entitled "Tranquillisers". Looking at the "minor Tranquillisers" I find twenty-four substances: their chemical formulae do not show any connection with fluoride. However, there is also a heading, "major Tranquillisers". Of those there are twenty-seven, and seven of them are a fluoride compound. One of these is Semap. It is one of the strongest anti-psychotic substances we know. This means that twenty-five per cent of the major Tranquillisers are connected with fluoride."
-Dr Hans Moolenburgh (Fluoride - The Freedom Fight)



Despite dental pressure, 99% of western continental Europe has rejected, banned, or stopped fluoridation due to environmental, health, legal, or ethical concerns

Only about 5% of the world population is fluoridated and more than 50% of these people live in North America. The Danish Minister of Environment recommended against fluoridation in 1977 because "no adequate studies had been carried out on its long-term effects on human organ systems other than teeth and because not enough studies had been done on the effects of fluoride discharges on freshwater ecosystems."

"In 1978, the West German Association of Gas & Water Experts rejected fluoridation for legal reasons and because 'the so-called optimal fluoride concentration of 1 mg per L is close to the dose at which long-term damage [to the human body] is to be expected.' "
- Fluoridation.com

"I am quite convinced that water fluoridation, in a not-too-distant future, will be consigned to medical history."
- Dr. ARVID CARLSSON, Winner, Nobel Prize for Medicine (2000).

Get educated. Fluoridealert.org is a good place to start.

Poetry can bring every man closer to God
so long as they open their heart
to the Great iamb.

See more Jack Black videos at Funny or Die

IN CELEBRATION OF THE 100TH (OFFICIAL) POST AND CALL FOR REJOICE FROM IDLE MINDS or TO THE INTERMITTENT FOLLOWERS OF THE STRANGELOOP IDEOLOGY.

Families baste while desperately

grasping

still, like stained glass gestapos

unbalanced
and
apprehensive.

A momentous occurance

we say.

Clap why don't you?
lighten up would
ya?

Pull the lever and

smile

for the 100th post.

hip hip

Leave it to the Germans.

This German immigrant living in Philly has a really long name. I can't confirm if it is the longest in the world, but it's long nonetheless. I'll bet he hated filling out scan-trons in high school.

(First and "middle" names)
Adolph Blaine Charles David Earl Frederick Gerald Hubert
Irvim John Kenneth Loyd Martin Nero Oliver Paul Quincy
Randolph Sherman Thomas Uncas Victor Willian Xerxes Yancy
Zeus

(Last name)
Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorffvoralternwarengewissenhaf
tschaferswesenchafewarenwholgepflegeundsorgfaltigkeitbeschut
zenvonangereifenduchihrraubgiriigfeindewelchevorralternzwolf
tausendjahresvorandieerscheinenbanderersteerdeemmeshedrraums
chiffgebrauchlichtalsseinursprungvonkraftgestartseinlangefah
rthinzwischensternartigraumaufdersuchenachdiesternwelshegeha
btbewohnbarplanetenkreisedrehensichundwohinderneurassevanver
standigmenshlichkeittkonntevortpflanzenundsicherfreunanleben
slamdlichfreudeundruhemitnichteinfurchtvorangreifenvonandere
rintlligentgeschopfsvonhinzwischensternartigraum

Senior

This literally pisses me off.

The whole purpose of using the word literally before an assumed hyperbole is to eliminate the possibility that it is a hyperbole at all, and to emphasize the literal meaning of what was said.
Some examples would be:

- I was literally up all night working on my essay. (Implies the speaker was working from dusk to dawn. Believable.)

- I literally drank a whole pot of coffee this morning. (Implies that the coffee is now gone and was consumed in its entirety. Believable.)

However, some people feel that they can use a hyperbole and literally to further emphasize the ludicrous nature of the statement.
Some examples would be:

- “He literally chewed my ass all day.” (Implies the speaker's ass was being gnawed on for a whole twenty-four hour period. Unbelievable)

- “What an expensive taxi ride! That cab driver literally charged me an arm and a leg.” (Implies the cab driver in this scenario forced the speaker to dismember himself to pay for the fare. Also unbelievable.)

- “I literally slept for six days straight.” (Implies the speaker slept for 144 hours with no water or food. Not even possible. )

- "I'm literally doing like a million things at once right now." (This is just ridiculous.)

If you are guilty of this silly debauchery of the English language, please do me a favor and stop it. Thank you.

Word Play

John and Marco were playing a newly invented game in which they were allowed only one timeout, which lasted twenty seconds. John got frustrated halfway through the game when Marco took his twenty second timeout due to extreme fatigue. Was John’s frustration justified?

You’re calm in your element, like a coy fish among plastic Buddhas.
You strut with a lustful hip pop, eyes locked on mine.
You smooth your blouse and flash a faux smile.
Your tag reads Jessica,
saleswoman.
You cradle my hand with thin, soy fingers, barely curled, faintly thrusting.
You slide a pen from your glossy bun. “Let me know what you’re looking for.” You say. “I’ll be your
saleswoman.”
You lead me through the store on stilettos, on fibrous calves that writhe, clench with every step.
Your body says you’re a different kind of
saleswoman.
You make as much effort to defy as you do to flaunt, but with your shoulders pulled back,
you coax me to forget that you are only my
saleswoman.
You don’t know it yet, but I’m sold.

The. Best. Sandwich. Ever.

The ideology behind the sandwich is beautiful. The simplicity combined with the astounding number of combinations of ingredients makes a perfect opportunity for, well, an opportunist.

The following is the best sandwich ever. If, after making it, you don't believe me, I really don't care because that means you probably have ageusia and you should visit your family doctor.

Ingredients needed: Turkey breast, roast beef, one fried egg, whole wheat bread, hot mustard, mayonnaise, pepper jack cheese, swiss cheese, tomato, lettuce, Texas Pete's hot sauce, avocado, salt, pepper.

Preparation - Take all the ingredients (minus the whole wheat) and place them between two pieces of whole wheat (insert whole wheat)

Animal Collective Tribute

Just a little video I threw together for my favorite band.

To The Late Poached Egg

I long for your taste,
the feel of you inside me
filling me.
I remember the mornings
we spent together,
you offered, spilled
your inner core.
I alone, know the softness
your inside holds.
Why have you gone?
Give me what I

need.

You were not created
for McMuffins alone.

Yahoo! Answers questions - Nine

IF YOU COULD PICK ANY FLAVOR IN THE WORLD? What flavor would your pet be?
What about your grandmother?


Best answer- My grandparents were raised during the great depression and raised my parents to live very miserly and frugal. My parents in turn, passed these practices down to my siblings and me. Therefore, I can say with absolute certainty that the flavor I would choose for my late dog Pookie would be similar to mutton; dark meat but not as greasy or earthy. My grandmother on the other hand would be a combination of sponge candy and aspercreme.

Estate Auction (revised)

They arrive early - farmers and
families with kids in bare feet - to graze
rows of boxes before bidding starts.
Dad twirls his mustache on the porch
gnaws a tooth pick
eyes the auctioneer testing the
microphone.
"They can have it all." he says
with a heavy hand on my back.

We watch him sell grandma's church clothes
to a woman no one knows. His tongue flutters
through consonants like a frayed tarp
on a passing semi.
"Dish and cup set! Good condition!"
numbered cards flash high through autumn air
tethered by stained farmer fingers.

"Clock, still runs! Starting bids at 20 dollars!"
Highest bidder.
All to the highest bidder.
Yup! and Yup! and Yup! and Yup!
until all is sold
and the strangers disperse
as though from Babylon,
carrying pieces of a century,
of a family, leaving only
the plump,black ants
circling unblossomed peonies,
and lilac petals
falling into unkempt grass.

News in Spanish, then nothing. Garbled evangelical rant broke through the silence, yet Clay still spun the dial, moving the needle through walls of eerie static and blips of fleeting, scrambled voices. Tri-state… cancer research…corn prices… He stopped somewhere around preset six when he finally picked up a solid signal. It was symphony, which was better than the sound of a rattling F-150 over corduroy gravel, but he soon remembered that all Yuppie music sounds alike. He turned the volume knob to overpower the hissing blast of the heater.
The world outside was no more than layered gray and black. The snow and sky, mailboxes and trees, all melted together until momentarily reassembled when struck by his passing headlights. He cracked his window and lit a cigarette. He inhaled quickly, exhaled slowly. Schubert streamed through the cab.
He passed a set of twin silos and turned into a gated drive, coming to a rest in his tracks from the previous morning. With a twist of a key the headlights died, almost symbolically with the silencing of the music. Save the tinking from under the hood, all returned to silence. He finished his cigarette in the dark, grabbed his flashlight and stepped into the cold. A trail of trampled brown grass and leaves led to a humble brush pile, under which rested Clay’s Conibear 220 trap. It was baited with fish guts and as he walked closer, he smelled the frozen, oily rot. He twisted his flashlight and grunted as he squatted. The trap was set deep. The dense beam bounced off bark and leaves before falling on a mass of matted, frozen fur, crimped between rust brown iron. It was too small to be a fox, but he still held hope for a coon or mink.
He zipped his Carhartt and wriggled into the blackness, arm extended, fingers searching frosted mud. In a desperate attempt to expedite the process, he swung his arm in small loops until finally landing, with a thud, on furry flesh. It was small-too small for a coon, too coarse for a mink. He sighed. Another damned possum. Cramped breathing was now replaced by muffled groans and curses. He wriggled backwards tugging on the carcass, uprooting the trap and thrashing through impeding twigs. Clumps of snow fell down his collar.
He inched out of the brush and rose to his knees, flinging the animal through the dark toward his truck. It spun for a moment before hitting a post near the gate. Though instead of the familiar, soft thwack he expected, it produced a clear, perceptible jingle – metal on metal. Clay scratched his beard with his meaty hand and dug in his pocket for his cigarettes. He smiled.
“Guess it wasn’t a possum after all.”

He stood over the dead cat, shining a flashlight at the ID tags dangling from the fraying collar.
“Delilah”
314 Rural Route 6
319-555-6311
Someone would be looking for it, and the creased, spiraling torso blatantly suggested the cause of death. He couldn’t leave it. The last thing he needed was another pissed off farmer’s wife flying off the handle about being humane and how we live in a modern world and what’s the point in trapping anyway and you know that was my daughter’s favorite cat. Not today.
He dropped it into his truck bed atop empty cigarette packs, shotgun shells and hamburger wrappers. The sun was a sliver on the horizon, silhouetting the distant tree line against an ashy-orange Midwestern sky. He turned the key and slammed the door.
******
The road curved around a grain elevator and slimmed to one dirt lane flanked by careening ditches. Clay slowed as he dropped off the gravel onto the unplowed path. Wind had filled any existing tracks with snow, leaving a miniature, white desert landscape sprawling before his clamoring truck. He rolled through the dunes blaring Bach. When he got to a solitary mail box he stopped and retrieved two damp envelopes. 10 Free Sunday Issues with 6 month Subscription! and a bill from Fox County Electric Co-op. A red stamp in the corner read FINAL NOTICE. He jammed them in his coat pocket and pulled into the driveway.
The yard was littered with tires and cinder blocks, rusted bicycles and piles of unknown matter covered with blue, vinyl tarps. An archaic tractor rested in a cluster of cedars giving the property an eerie feeling of finality. The Ford stopped directly in front of the porch.
“Dad! Getchyer ass up!” Clay stepped out of the truck, slapping the mail against his thigh. He hopped over a missing step and knocked twice before entering. It smelled of wet carpet and stale beer. Clay opened the fridge and scanned the shelves for something fresh. Stacked Styrofoam take-out boxes teetered. Mustard. Soy sauce. Vodka. He closed the fridge.
“Dad! Come on, I got your mail. They’re ‘bout to shut off your electric.” He listened for the familiar rustling from the bedroom, for the slow, heavy footsteps down the hall to the dingy bathroom. He listened but heard nothing.
“Dad!” Yelling louder now, he rushed down the hallway, shuffling his rubber boots through dirty laundry and empty beer cans. Family pictures hung crooked on the wall. Clay glanced at the 8x10 of his father, 25 years younger, standing on the roof of Aunt Brauer’s house smiling and extending a blurry, waving hand. He liked this one. It reminded him of the Dad of his childhood. The Dad who kept food in the fridge. The Dad who paid his bills on time. His dad used to be a good man, and he appreciated the reminder.
The bedroom door was closed. With a kick, it swung open revealing a thin, weathered mattress stacked on a box spring. The sheets were balled up at the foot, unmoved from the day prior. A poorly anchored ceiling fan thumped above, casting quivering light across floral wallpaper. Outside a dog bayed.
In the kitchen he found a pen in a drawer under the microwave and scribbled a note on a nearby, greasy, paper plate.
Stopped by at seven.
Have to go to work. Call me at the
grain elevator. Give me a list of groceries
you need and I’ll bring them by tonight.
PAY YOUR ELECTRIC BILL!!
CLAY
He set the note on the coffee table next to a soggy, butt covered TV Guide, overdue bill on top. The clutter was smothering. For a moment he considered cleaning, but rejected the idea when he saw a cockroach dart under a wrinkled receipt, taking refuge in the undergrowth of wrinkly magazines and sticky, crushed Dixie cups. He hurried toward the door, away from the squalor.
He pushed the screen and stepped out feeling liberated, like a prisoner of war emerging from a rat infested bamboo cage. The world was thawing and water trickled from icicles making trenches in the snow under the awning of the porch. The freshness of the outside air clashed with the stale thickness seeping from the screen behind him.
He stood on the sagging porch thinking of how long it had taken for this degrading transformation to take place. Ten years? Twenty? Had it always been this way, with layered, aging clutter? A raven hopped around an amputated truck bed behind a distant, sterile cherry tree. Soon, another pair glided from a looming oak, landing with a throaty grunt. They congregated like old women after church, belling and snorting as they circled a lumpy mound in the snow. Clay watched curiously as more birds floated in and intermittent cawing became a chaotic argument, a raucous conflictive dispute. He squinted and his head rolled to one side. His face morphed from childish curiosity to curled confusion. Concern. Disgust. Disbelief. He inched closer, cautious as though approaching an un-tethered, sleeping pit bull. The birds reluctantly scattered in synchronized pairs. He stared, rigid and blank, at what lay beneath.

******

“Brent?”
“Hey listen Clay, I’m swamped right now. Call me back in an hour.”
“No. Brent, I called because – “
“Clay, seriously. I’m about to walk into a conference and everybody’s waiting and – “
“Dad’s dead.” Spoken aloud, the words were abrasive and cold as though read from a police blotter or a morning situation brief. He felt he should say more or reword the delicate situation and present it again, more eloquently, but it was too late. 66 years of life had been concluded with two words. Two syllables. There was silence on the other end. “Brent, you still there?”
“Yeah,” he spoke quieter, with less annoyance and distraction. “I’m still here. What happened?”
“He got tanked last night and passed out in the snow. Froze to death. I found him this morning, by the cherry tree.” Clay turned from the receiver and took a deep breath. He was shaking.
“Well,” said Brent, quicker and less affected than Clay was expecting, “serves him right. We all knew it was comin’ and we told him over and over again. Dad, that shit’s gonna kill you! It’s gonna kill you, Dad! And now look. Now look, Clay! He’s dead and it serves him right and I don’t…” he trailed off, pulling the phone from his cheek. More silence.
“Listen, I haven’t called the Sheriff yet. I just thought you’d want to know first.” He needed to end this conversation and thought it best to use something official.
“Yeah. That’s fine. I’ll leave tonight if the roads are okay. I gotta go. Thanks for calling.” He hung up before Clay could respond, leaving him slouching to a dial tone in a decaying house. Dad’s dead. It jarred his mind once more, and then he dialed 911.
******
Oblong, lumpy tufts of white fell from the turbid sky as Clay slowly turned the dial of his propane stove just inside the barn door. He watched the blue flame grow until it tickled the bottom of the steel, wax-filled vat. The dirt floor was strewn with pots and pans stained with dye, tractor parts, soda bottles and tools. Antlers and dusty furs hung from the walls, linear and organized at one time, but now, crammed and overlapping like pins on a VFW hat. He wore a rubber apron over a torn flannel coat and stained sweatpants. His boots were unlaced. When he saw that the wax was liquefied, but not smoking, he dropped a bundle of traps into the vat. Six at a time, two minutes per bundle. He set his watch.
The smooth whine of an imported engine echoed across a barren bean field. Clay squinted through the mid-day sun to see his brother’s Mercedes rolling toward him, fluorescent-blue running lights gliding above his wet, slushy drive.
Brent stepped out wearing a black suit under a pressed, grey trench coat. He was just tall enough to look like an adult, but a bit too scrawny, Clay thought, to be taken seriously as a lawyer. He hiked his pants up at the thighs and tip-toed through the muck to the dryness of the barn. Once inside, he shook the melting flakes off his head and turned his attention toward his brother.
“Three and a half hours before your father’s funeral, and you’re in your barn playing Jeremiah Johnson. You never stop, do you?”
“You need something?” Clay looked at his watch.
Brent squatted and curiously inspected the vat. His smooth baby face reflected in the steaming liquid. “What is this stuff, oil?” He sniffed with petite nostrils.
“It’s wax. Seals any remaining scent left by previous animals. Come on Brent, you didn’t come here to talk about trapping. What do you want?”
Brent reached in his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Here, take this.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a eulogy. Pastor Thom wrote it for dad. Said we didn’t have to use his if we had something better, but figured we wouldn’t. He wanted me to read it but I’m not going to. That’s your job.”
“Whoa, wait.” Clay looked up from the printout. “What’s that mean? I’m not reading this- how is it my job?” His watch blipped and he removed his traps, keeping his eyes locked on his brother.
“Oh get real, Clay. We both know Dad would want you to speak at his funeral, not me. Hell, I barely talked to the guy for two years.”
“Damnit! I knew it was gonna turn out this way. DAD WAS A DRUNK! Been that way for the past ten years. All the friends he used to have gave up on him and he gave up on us. He was the town boozer and everyone knew it, but they’ll be singing his praises today! Oh, he was a single father who raised two kids. He was a hard worker. He was a God fearing man.” Clay held his arms to the sky and waved his hands mockingly. “Just because he’s dead doesn’t make him a good person. He’s still worthless to me. I’m not reading a thing.” He turned the knob on the propane tank until the flames extinguished with a quick pop, and grabbed his hat from the nearby welder. He slapped it on his head and walked toward his truck. Brent followed.
“Come on Clay. What’re you doing? You have to start getting ready.”
“I’m not going, Brent.”
“What? No, you have to! It’s our dad’s funeral. You can’t just skip it like high school art class.” Brent stepped in front of his brother, stopping him. “So what now? You’re going trapping instead of your own father’s funeral?”
Clay skirted around him and hoisted himself into his truck. It turned over several times before starting with a gurgling explosion. He rested his elbow out the window and looked at his brother. “That’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”
******

33 traps of various types lay hidden along the river valley of southern Fox County. Snares, foot traps and conibears baited with fish guts, sardines and dog food had been strategically placed over a six mile stretch of frozen farmland and muddy slough banks. Usually, Clay checked and re-baited around ten traps a day, saving the most lucrative ones for the days he felt particularly hapless. Today he would check them all.
He parked on the road and left his truck running. As he trampled through the grass and saplings toward his trap he imagined the funeral home – somber and perfumy . Organs on CD playing over mounted speakers. Strangers signing a guestbook. Quiet comments on beautiful flowers. Closed casket.
It was a nice service, they’ll say. The family seems to be holding up well and I wonder what will happen to his place? and Oh, what a horrible shame.
He got to a bank of a frozen stream and followed it north to a swollen, crumbling stump. He had hollowed out a small cavity angled into the ground, just large enough to fit a trap, and glazed it with salty fish – a hole which was now filled with a fat mass of writhing grey and black fur.
The raccoon had obviously bumped the trap while inspecting the peculiarly unnatural cavern. The iron was clamped diagonally across the shoulder and abdomen, pinching its right arm tight against a hip. Clay lit a cigarette as it struggled in short bursts of energy, pulling and pushing against the relentless, metal captor.
A small sandbar jutted into the shallow stream behind him where he found a smooth, oval stone slightly bigger than a brick. He lifted it above his head several times, gauging its capabilities. The raccoon lay still, recuperating from its futile fight-preparing for its next. Clay returned, stone in hand.
He was a good man they’ll say. Drank a lot though. The raccoon twisted violently, its skin rumpled and chafed against sinewy muscle. Clay lifted the rock. You know, he raised those boys all by himself. Worked his ass off for those kids. Hisses surged through yellow teeth. Lips curled and quivered. It’s a damned shame it ended that way. He used to be such a nice guy. He brought down the stone using both hands. Jaws clenched. Eyes open. You know, those kids were all he had. It fell with the precision of an awl, punching through and continuing into the earth, through the earth. He just let himself go is what he did. He was lucky those boys still helped him. Clay fell to his knees in the muffled forest. The animal twitched in the shadow of its executor. Then, all was still. It’s a damned shame it ended that way. It’s a damned shame.

Yahoo! Answers questions - eight

My grandfather had always collected old issues of Playboy, Club, etc. throughout the 1950s, 60s, and 70s. He must have had over a thousand copies in his garage. When I was a young boy he caught me looking at them and it became an ongoing family joke. We bring it up frequently and everyone laughs. Last year, when I went to visit, he said if I ever wanted them to just take some because he believed they would end up in the trash eventually. I made a mental note. Last week I stopped by their house and looked in the garage to see if their car was there. It wasn't, but I did see a pile of Playboys stacked next to the trash can. They were from the fifties and I thought they might be collectibles so I picked a few issues up and took them with me, only to find my grandparents pulling in the driveway. Grandpa, who has horrible Alzheimer's, came running from the car calling me a thief. My grandma was shocked that I was stealing grandpas "smut" and I should be ashamed of myself. I tried to explain that he told me I could have them and that he doesn't remember but my grandma wouldn't settle down. Now everyone thinks I'm a Playboy thief. My mom won't talk to me and my sister said today that I was "as disgusting as ever"
What do I do?

Best answer- Grandpa and grandma are hypocrite freaks. I mean seriously he bought all of those books and kept them in their for years?? Grampa's laughing at you, are you serious. End up in the trash eventually, sounds like they are prized possessions to them.

My response- yes, they are hypocrites and they are freaks. All I wanted was a little antique smut but thanks to grandpa and his little disease, I have to stick to my sears catalog.

Yahoo! Answers questions - Seven

But why steal that?
I have a fifteen year old neighbor. He is a nice kid but he's kind of quiet. Today, I stepped out of the house to run to the grocery store and forgot to lock the door. He was sitting on his porch when I left. When I returned, I walked in my house to find him standing in my living room with something in his hands. I thought he stole something of mine so I calmly asked him to show me what it was. He sheepishly opened his hands to reveal a wadded up pair of my dirty underwear. He ran out the door as I stood there in awe, but he took the underwear with him! To make it even worse, he had stolen the smelly, sweaty pair that I wore to the gym on Thursday. He had to have dug for them. What gives? Should I tell his parents, or talk to him, or just leave it alone? Help!!

Best answer- I used to do that.

shoes too small

where weathered
hide of cows gone by
and pocked, shredded rubber
part ways, there is a
slightest foreshadowing of
what is to come.
the strategic, determined
wriggle through stubborn
thread is subtle,
yet to think I never knew!
suddenly the fleshy
protrusion squeezes
forth, humbly posting atop
an unpolished hill top.

ENLARGE AND READ

Yahoo! Answers questions - Six

(Another reminder to my readers, these questions were manufactured by me to get a radical response from the Yahoo Answers community. They in no way represent my personal opinions. So don't freak out and call me, Mom!)

Sir, did you order the breast milk?

I had a rough day at work yesterday so I decided to spoil myself a little and go out to eat at a fancy steak house. The waitress sat me at a small table around a corner where I could enjoy my meal in peace. I could only see one other table from where I sat, which was good because I hate watching other people eat.
I ordered my food and started quietly reading the paper. Suddenly, from around the corner came a family of five,to sit in the only table in the whole restaurant that I could see. Sitting down directly in my line of sight was a woman with a screaming new born baby. She quickly sat down, set her purse on the floor and pulled her plump, veiny breast out and popped it in her kid's mouth!!!
"OH MY SWEET VISHNU!" I yelled. The whole family turned and looked at me, including the newborn with a nipple down his throat and yellow colostrum rolling down his cheek. "CANT YOU COVER THAT UP!?" I screamed. She was extremely offended and got all self conscious and started crying. Did I do the wrong thing? Should I not be offended by this? Is it that hard to cover up those rascals when feeding? They make pumps for a reason.

Best Answer #1- You are a sad, pathetic, lonely person. Do you really feel the need to have the world bend to your daily neurotic twists? Grow up.

Best Answer #2- American women take their freedoms for granted. In many places in the middle east, they can't even show their faces in public. You'd think girls here'd be happy about flashing their whorish little ankles around, but now they want to expose their breasts?

Just the other day, I went to my favorite bar to enjoy a beer, and the girl on the stage kept dancing and flashing her cervix at me.

It's simply disgusting.

For all the O'Reilly Fans

I just found this beautiful clip, thought I'd share. Thanks Kimba.

NO MORE!

The GOP is finally dead.
Let’s lift our hands in praise
and set our minds on future times
filled with better days.

They tried to tear this country down
with God and fear and war,
but on this day we make a stand
and boldly say “NO MORE!”

“No More!” to secret agencies
infringing on our rights.
“No More!” to Texas oil men
picking global fights.

“No More!” to aristocracy
dining off our dime.
“No More!” to intel cover-ups
and blatant Wall Street crime.

“No More!” to bible politics
and Evangelic rule.
“No More!” No Child Left Behind
and underfunded schools.

So stand with us and say “No More!”
to Bush and all the rest,
and let’s lead Lady Liberty
to the bright and shining left.

Process of Elimination

The following conversation took place on November 4th, 2008.

Matt (while walking through my front door)- Well, it's done.

Patrick- What's done?

M - I voted.

P - Sweet. Were the lines long?

M - No. It went pretty smoothly.

P - Nice.

M - I voted for myself.

P - What?

M - I voted for myself.

P - You mean you wrote your name in?

M - Yeah.

P - Why?

M - Why not? I wasn't about to vote for any of those assholes.

Obama '08

Do you love your country? Do you wish you had more money? Do you dislike people who have more money than you? Do you want some of their money? Do you feel guilty for suppressing the African American population for hundreds of years? Do you want hope? Do you want change? Do you hope for change?

If you answered yes to any of the above questions, Barack Obama is your man. As a community organizer Barack gave hope to thousands by giving some extremely motivational speeches. As a U.S. senator, Barack gave even more inspirational speeches to other politicians and Illinois citizens. With his perfect balance of eloquent speech and body language, Obama has the capability of changing the way Americans feel about the government, and who wouldn't want to feel better about the government? Let's get back to the days of true American pride, when a president could actually pronounce words correctly and present himself as a capable leader. Let's get back to loving America once again.
Vote for inspiration. Vote for hope. Hope for inspiration. Inspire for change. Change the vote. Vote for Obama.

(Paid for by Obama '08)

McCain '08

Do you hate your country? Do you enjoy being attacked by radical, extremist, Muslim terrorist groups driven by hate and jealousy for free democratic nations such as America? Do you hate servicemen who have sacrificed, even died, for the ideals Americans hold so dear? Do you want gays and atheists to take over the world?

If you answered no to any of the above questions, John McCain is your man. John believes in America and its people so much, he sacrificed seven years of his life in a dark, cold, vile Vietnamese prison cell. He's got the scars to prove it. As a senator, John dedicated his life to taking on his own party as a true maverick in Washington. He's got the scars to prove that, too. Let's cut to the chase. John McCain has a lot of scars. He loves his country and its military might and he has scars.

So when you hold that ballot in your hand on Tuesday, think about those scars. Scars on his back, scars on his legs, scars on his shoulders...scars everywhere. Scars, scars, scars.
Plus his middle name isn't Hussein.

(Paid for by John McCain 2008)

Yahoo! Answers questions - five

How many commandments am I allowed to break?
How many of the ten commandments am I allowed to break before I am not allowed into heaven anymore? Is there a set rule? I think I have broken several of them, am I screwed? I really, really, really want to go to heaven and I am starting to get worried. What can I do (other than repent, I need hard results)? Is it like a grading system? I have broken five commandments, which is like 50%. In my book that is failing! Help!

Best answer- None! if you do you can always get forgiveness!

Victory

twenty minutes
to write a poem.
to find myself
and scribble it
on paper
i search
prod
dig
endure
all in vain
the needle ticks
each second a sliver of
failure
ripening into that
which is my defeat.
i win.

Yahoo! Answers questions - Four

Is my brother a fugitive?
Yesterday my brother called me up and said he had two tickets for a concert and wanted me to go. I initially said no because he always finds a way to get into trouble, but he promised to be good so I agreed to it. We had a few drinks before the show so we could really feel the music, but he continued drinking and got smashed. He did behave himself for the most part and I was proud of him. When the show was over he found me in the crowd and told me he had met a girl and was going to get a ride home with her. I didn't object, so I went home without him and went to bed.
This morning I woke up and found him passed out in the backyard, beaten, bruised, shirtless and handcuffed. I quickly drug him into the house and noticed two puncture wounds on his back, so I think he got the taser. Should he turn himself in? He had no wallet last night so the cops didn't get his ID. No one knew who he was and I know he didn't tell them his name. Anyone know how to get handcuffs off? What should I do?

Best Answer- he is ur bro....take his side. Blood is thicker than water.

My response- I realize blood is thicker than water, though I am having a hard time deciding whether or not it is thicker than cold hard cash. Crime stoppers is anonymous right? I will take his side publicly, but I may have to turn him in. On the other hand, he is a mean mofo.

Yahoo! Answers questions - Three

I'm in love with him, but only when he's a she!I have worked with Rob for about nine months now. He is a normal guy, likes sports, rock music etc. Last week he asked me to go out with him and a few of his friends to Philly. When I showed up at his apartment he sat me down and let me in on a little secret. He was a transvestite. He dressed up and acted like a woman on weekends. At first I was a little freaked out but being the open minded fellow that I am, I learned to accept it... and eventually got very close to Rob's other personality, Roberta. I have no feelings for Rob as a man but when he is Roberta he is soo sexy. He is smart, attractive, fit, elegant and my lord can she dance. We have so much fun together but he doesn't know how I feel. I am not gay and neither is he but I cant stop thinking about Roberta. Its as though they are two different people. Should I tell Rob about it? Should I act on my emotions? I feel so weird. I am a freak huh? Please help. Im so confused.

Best Answer- WTF??

Second Best- I believe that this is like any normal relationship... its as if you like your best friends sister and when Rob is Roberta you should tell her... him?

Yahoo! Answers questions - Two

Daughter or Lover?
Before getting married to my last wife, Regina, I had reservations about her daughter, Chloe. She was 15, attractive, and had quite the little attitude about her. As an older man with no experience with children, I wasn't so sure I could handle her. They both convinced me otherwise and we finally got married. Things between Chloe and me went great. We got along wonderfully, however, I can't say the same about her mom. We fought and fought, and after four long years, we called it quits. The divorce has just been finalized. I tried to move on by seeing other women but something was missing, I longed for something, but I wasn't sure just what.
Yesterday I heard a knock at the door. I opened it up to find Chloe, crying that she missed me. I felt very proud, untill she started talking about how we can be together now that her mom was out of the picture. She tried to kiss me (with tongue) and tonight she wants to spend the night. I don't know what to do. She is very
attractive and totally legal. I cant stop thinking about her and I recently realized that she is what I have been missing all this time. Should I give it a shot?

Best answer-You've more than proved you can handle children, but now you'll have to prove that you can handle a barely legal adult.

Let her spend the night tonight, but remember that she still has feelings for you in a fatherly capacity. In order to have a meaningful and romantic relationship, you will have to destroy any paternal respect she may still feel for you.

If you really love her as a burgeoning sexual creature, you must slip in her room tonight with a ski mask, ball-gag and bull whip, and systematically deconstruct the last remnants of childlike trust and modesty she may be feeling.

By morning, you should have a clean slate (after you mop the floor) to begin your new relationship.

Longest Answer- No. What you are experiencing is 'normal' and what she is experiencing is 'normal' as well. She is far too young to understand that the reason she is attracted to you is because you were the stable guy within her life that gave her a constant love and she returned that love with innocence. What she is missing is the friendship and closeness. Her hormones are making her want to take it to a deeper level...a more sexual level. You need to have more control over the situation and let her know you will always be there for her, but not in that way.

What you are missing is the closeness of a relationship. You are experiencing -- the empty nest. You want her back because you've watched her grow into a young woman and with the divorce you were ultimately left alone in an "empty nest". Try to get back in the game by being more social and maybe joining a few community projects...maybe take a few classes.

If you go to bed with your ex step-daughter there will be trouble. You will ultimately ruin a relationship between a mother and a daughter. You may hate your ex-wife but bedding her daughter is wrong on many different levels. If you feel like the daughter may have too much control over you...masturbate before you see her, which will help keep your parasympathetic nervous system in control. Ultimately it will help you think without being distracted by arousal.

Let her know that it is wrong and if you guys just can't be friends -- you shouldn't see each other. You are the one that needs to take control of the situation

Yahoo! Answers questions - One

I need constant brain stimulation. When I'm bored, I get desperate for anything that will turn my gears and inspire me, and lately, I've been very, very desperate. Until I discovered Yahoo Answers. It's basically a big Q and A forum with an ass load of topics and no policing force to catch delinquent posters.

I will list a few of my questions along with the best answers, and you will all see why I love doing this.

Accidentally squashed neighbors cat.I Need help?
My neighbors and I don't particularly get along. They have had problems with my "free spirited" lifestyle ever since I moved in. We have been in several arguments and they avoid me at all costs. I, personally don't have a problem with them, but keep my distance, knowing their feelings about me.
Last week I had a party in my back yard, we got a little drunk and loud and they called the cops. They were all standing on their front steps as the police officer put me in the car. Out of rage and anger I yelled "I will get you back for this, I swear on my life!!" I didn't mean it at all and I had no intentions on actually doing anything to them.
This morning I got in my car and as I backed out of the driveway, I heard a loud SKREEETCH! It was their beloved pet cat Sammy, she was apparently sleeping in my wheel well.
The cat was pretty tore up and it was quite the ugly sight. I quickly sprayed off my car with a hose and placed the cat on their porch so they could give it a proper
burial. Now they think I did it on purpose! They have been banging on my door all morning, but I wont answer it. What should I do? Please help!

Best answer- Leave em a note and tell 'em next time it'll be one of their kids.
That'll shut em up right quick.

Longest answer- This is just awful...for ALL of you. I'm going to try not to appear as though I'm lecturing you but please, in the future remember to "keep your words short and sweet. You never know which ones you'll eat" okay?
There were hard feelings already but I understand how upsetting this must be for you, the one on the inside of that door. I am inclined to believe you didn't hurt Sammy on purpose. Give them that chance. They're angry and I've no doubt you must be scared now. But YOU must understand that part of the reason they are getting increasingly aggitated is because you're hiding from them. I AM NOT SUGGESTING THAT YOU GO OUTSIDE TO CONFRONT THESE PEOPLE. But you MUST talk to them. Don't get the police into a situation unless they are kicking your door or threatening you, please. Call them on the phone if you have their number... say something truthful like "I know you keep beating on the door but I was afraid you'd hurt me if I opened it. I swear to God I didn't hurt Sammy on purpose!"
Put a note on your door that says "I AM AFRAID TO OPEN THE DOOR, PLEASE LET ME EXPLAIN!"
Go TO the door and talk to them...don't open it until you've made contact and everyone calms down. Be honest, tell them you've got a big mouth and you put your foot in it. Above all tell them you're SORRY. If you would never have hurt Sammy on purpose then TELL THEM that.
Can you imagine what they must be going through? If they loved this cat so much it was as if you'd laid their dead, mangled child on their porch and walked away. They are devastated and out of devastation comes anger and the need to blame someone. You've unwittingly made yourself the target of that anger. Only you can stop what your words created.
They're human..just like you are. Don't play that "well, she shouldn't have been outside" game with these people. It's not going to help. It sounds to me as though they've formed an opinion of you without really knowing you. Perhaps given the chance, they could see for themselves that you are not the type of person who would do such a thing intentionally.
Please make some effort to reach out to them provided they don't turn psycho on you and start throwing stuff at your house or such as that. I think you can work this out.
If you don't? You're going to spend a long time behind that door feeling just as you do now.

Lord Knows How She Loves That Bushy Mustache and Tequilla Breath On a Sweaty, Tijuana night.

the rhinestones
and sequins make him childish,
vulnerable in a dispensing way.
She watches him tap his foot
on the dirt floor as he jams
the strings of his guitar,
fingers groping, stroking
perfectly as an aside.

She insists their eyes met
during the second song-
corazon, corazon, corazon,
to the same three chords,
always the same three chords.
So she stays,exposing
her legs in a less
than subtle way, while
blowing cigarette smoke
into the rattling ceiling fan,
drinking cheap beer,
waiting for him to
finish.

Shitty morning

An old lady is trudging through the mud with
rubber boots and floppy breasts slapping,
flapping, under a wet, wool coat.
It's raining and I want a fucking cup
of coffee and sure as hell don't want
to talk to her.

She's humming - something jovial - and
it pisses me off even more that someone
could humm when they're covered in sludge.
Naive, I guess, but I'm still pissed.

Her coat buttons are huge, like a
stoplight down her potbelly. I pretend not
to see her and look to the road, hoping
she'll walk by and leave me alone because
all I want is a fucking cup of coffee.

Her boots slide in the grass behind me
and every step is soggy suction. She
stops walking but not humming. I grit
my teeth. I don't know the song.

The rain gets fat and loud and I
wonder what the hell she's doing
back there. I don't turn around, in
case there's still a chance of not
talking to her. She taps my arm.

Your book bag is unzipped.
she says, pointing with a drippy finger.
Your books are all wet.
And with that she starts humming again
and turns away in the rain.

in a military town

It's not a walk,
but a stiff,
meaty shuffle,
back and forth,
across the road,
from bar to mall,
from mall to bar,
tattoo parlors and
barber shops.
All I can do is watch
the shaved heads bounce
up and down
behind more shaved heads
in hopes that one of them
will step in my gum.

JUST TO LET YOU KNOW

For all three of my dedicated followers, I have started a new blog, but it is still under my profile. Check it out if you'd like.

www.billboardshepherd.blogspot.com

"There is a tragic flaw in our precious Constitution, and I don't know what can be done to fix it. This is it: Only nut cases want to be president." — Kurt Vonnegut

SPAM haikus 3

Thank you, servicemen,
for giving me the freedom
to eat SPAM all day.

If SPAM grew on trees,
I would change my profession
to an orchardist.

When I eat some SPAM,
I'm overwhelmed with pleasure,
but not the sex kind.

Try the SPAM diet.
You may, or may not lose weight,
but hey, guilt free SPAM!

Oh, by the way God, your reputation is on the line

Russian Rambo

A heavily armed recluse nicknamed Russia's Rambo of the Forest has been gunned down in a shoot-out with police.
Alexander Bichkov, had lived a semi-feral existence in the woods for 20 years, terrorising locals and the police if they ventured near him.
A giant at 6ft 7in with a wild straggly beard, the man lived in an old shack and self-made camps, hunted animals for food and only ventured out of the forest in summer when he wouldn't leave footprints leading back to where he lived.
Russian police said he descended from a family of criminals who were exiled by Stalin to the Kostroma region 450 miles east of Moscow, in the 1940s.
At the end of Soviet times nearly 20 years ago he disappeared from his home in a village in the region after refusing a court order to pay alimony to his ex-wife following an acrimonious divorce.
He was declared dead by his family in 1997 because he had been missing for so long.
But now it is known the former forestry worker had fled into the dense Kologriv woods near his village, which were designated as a nature reserve a few years ago.
Terrified local police refused to go into the woods to hunt him down ever since he captured a local commander while out hunting and held him at gunpoint for hours before freeing him and then disappearing into the trees.
Even after he burned down 30 holiday homes in the area belonging to rich Muscovites, police refused to pursue the man they dubbed "Rambo", after the popular action-film hero played by Sylvester Stallone, who was skilled in weaponry and survival.
They did not know - until killing him on March 14 - his true identity, which was obtained from documents they found and through checks with his family.
He was finally shot after the head of the Department of Natural Reserves in Moscow, angered by the inaction of local police, ordered a surveillance operation on him.
After finding out where he lived, six specialist policemen - including Afghan war veterans - from outside the local police and four armed Park rangers went into the forest on snowmobiles to hunt him down and try to arrest him.
Locals nicknamed Bichov Rambo after he became a recluse and terrorised locals like the fictional character played by Sylvester Stallone
But the hermit, who carried two shotguns and a home-made pistol, ambushed them and wounded two.
He then set alight a swathe of forest as a diversion, tracked behind the men and was apparently preparing to start firing on them again.
But a police sniper managed to shoot him in the head, killing him instantly.
One of the policemen, Andrei Potemkin, said: "He ambushed us and I told him to surrender and that we wouldn't hurt him.
"He yelled 'I've nothing to lose' and opened fire.
"He hit two of the others and fired at me. My bullet-proof vest saved my life. He then set his place on fire, and everything was covered with smoke.
"He's a real professional. While we were helping the wounded, he made a circle around us, hiding in the smoke, and cut us off.
"It was pure chance the sniper suddenly saw his figure in the trees and pulled the trigger. He shot him right in the head and he died in a flash."
Police later found in his semi-destroyed lair more weapons, dozens of furs, hundreds of traps and books about hunting and survival.
Locals told of their relief that the man who had haunted the region for so long was dead.
Maria Muzhalova said: "Parents would not let their children go to school without dogs going with them.
"He would steal boots from outside people's homes and steal potatoes from the fields. If you came across him in the summer, he was way too scary-looking to confront him."
Director of the Kologriv nature reserve, Maxim Sinitzin said; "We were all sick and tired of him. He kept leaving traps for animals everywhere.
"We'd break them and he'd make more. Once he trapped three of our inspectors and told them he'd kill them if he ever saw them in the woods again."
Police said that the man used to be a forestry worker.
After his wife left him and the court order against him, he turned into a recluse, cutting himself off from society.
He lived at an abandoned forestry station, miles from the nearest village.
Police sources said: "At the time the forest had not been designated as a nature reserve so no one bothered him for years.
"Then his parents died and his sister and her husband had him declared legally dead - as they had not seen him for so long - and sold his house.
"We think this may have enraged him, making him angry at anybody who moved into the region to build a house, so much that he would burn down their homes because he had none of his own."
When the forest was later made into a nature reserve, hunting was banned, leading to violent clashes between Bichkov and park rangers who would remove his traps, police said.
"He felt he was the king of the forest," one said.
"He had his house, a shed, and his hunting traps. When we went after him he fought to the end. "It was all he had left. He had nowhere to go."

This Chain Email thing is out of control!!!

Experts agree that the 9/11 attack plan called for 5 terrorists on each of the 4 planes used in the attacks. It was discovered that there were only 4 terrorists on flight 93 which went down in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. It had been posited that the 20th hijacker was a neer-do-well in Minnesota who failed to secure the necessary flight training.

Sources close to the McCain campaign have stated that there is reason to believe that Senator Obama was supposed to be the 20th hijacker.

There were a number of individuals who had purchased tickets for flight 93, but did not board the flight. Among the list is the name of an individual who was to connect with flight 93 from Chicago. The person in question's name was B.H. O'Hara. Mr. O'Hara apparently missed his flight which departed Chicago.

McCain staffers have pointed out the lack of evidence that Barack Obama did not use the alias "O'Hara" to purchase the flight tickets. They cite the identical vowels in the two surnames as being more than mere coincidence.

McCain staffers went on to say that there is also no evidence that would prove that Obama has not secretly and anonymously secured flight training.

It was also pointed out that Obama's father lived in Africa which is the same continent where al Qaeda bombed US embassies, and where Somalia is located.

The McCain campaign is currently crafting a TV spot which will focus on the astonishing lack of evidence that Obama was not supposed to be the 20th hijacker.

Magnus Magnusson interviewed Carl Sagan and Stephen Hawking in 1988.

Do you think God can intervene in the universe as he wants? Or is God, too, bound by the laws of science?

Your question of whether God is bound by the laws of science is a bit like the question 'can God make a stone so that is so heavy he cannot lift it?' I dont think it is very useful to speculate on what God might or might not be able to do, rather we should examine what he actually does with the universe we live in. All our observation suggests that it operates according to well defined laws. These laws may have been ordained by God, but it seems that he does not intervene in the universe to break the laws.

My Interview with a Politician

Hello Mr. Politician. Thanks for joining us.

No, thank you for taking the time to interview me today and let the great American people get to know me. Rarely are we granted the opportunity to interact with each other in a non-partisan way and I appreciate the chance to do so. That's what makes this country a great nation - one worth fighting for - and that is exactly what I intend to do. Fight for you.

You know, I've been watching the debates lately and I gotta tell ya, I've not been impressed. Why so much question dodging and him-hawing around?

You know, I get a lot of people asking me the same question you just asked, and, let's be clear, I know its difficult with today's economy, to make it. The steel worker in Pittsburgh is feeling it, the teacher in Montana is struggling and the single mother in Utah is under a lot of pressure to make some vital decisions for her family. I'm not blind to these things, and you have to decide, do you want four more years of the same or do you want to put country first?

But you never answered my... nevermind. Let's move on. How do you feel about the conflict in Iraq? If you are elected, what's the next step?

Lets be clear because the American people want straight talk. America has been tested before. This country has been through a lot, and our brave military men and women have sacrificed everything for democracy, for freedom, for what is right. So, if the pundits want to say pass or fail, that's fine, I say one thing; God bless this wonderful country, and if you elect me, I'll make sure that happens.

Make sure what happens, Mr. Politician?

I'll make sure big oil is taxed, and I mean big time. I'll cut taxes until no one pays taxes on anything, ever. I will eliminate greed in all people across the globe and change Washington from the inside out. I will implement the best plan in Iraq and Afghanistan and at the same time I will sit down with all the terrorists at one time and just talk. Talk, talk, talk, until everything is worked out. Oh, also I'll completely stop global warming. By myself.

Those are some big promises, Mr. Politician. Are you sure you are going to fulfil your obligation to keep these promises?


I promise I will. You can take that to the bank, unless, of course, you bank with Washington Mutual. (Laughs) But no, really. I dream big. And I walk the walk, unlike the other guy. They talk the talk. They say they walk the walk, but they voted 43 times against walk walking. 43 times! So how is voting against walk walking helping out the American people? How is voting 19 times against paying troops in Iraq being patriotic? How is voting for evil and tyranny 9 times being patriotic? I sure don't know, but I do know one thing. I love this country.

To be honest Mr. Politician, I don't know what you just said. Can you clarify?

God Bless America and most importantly, may God bless the troops in Iraq and Afghanistan and anywhere else there are Americans who can vote. (Gives thumbs up)

I looked out the window
at the pouring rain.
"Boy it's raining cats and dogs out there."
I said.
Then I realized that
it wasn't really raining
cats and dogs,
it was just water,
and I felt really guilty
for lying.

Patrick's Bumper Sticker Paradox

Suppose one Cretan says to another Cretan, "All Cretans are liars." A paradox is created, for if all Cretans are in fact liars, what he says is true, which would make him not a liar. If he is lying, that means Cretans are not liars, but this is negated by the fact that he is lying.

Now, suppose you are sitting in traffic behind an '87 Buick. Suppose on this Buick there is a bumper sticker, and suppose this bumper sticker reads 'YOU ARE AN IDIOT' in bold, red letters. Once again, we have a paradox. Only an idiot would slap a bumper sticker like that on his car. Because he is an idiot, what he chooses to display on his jalopy should be ignored by people like me, who are not idiots. This is what is referred to as Patrick's Bumper Sticker Paradox.

Loophole

I found this while blog surfing and couldn't help but post it HERE.

This is when I say I will never eat McDonalds food again. Then I actually refrain from eating it for about 2 weeks. Then I take my sons there and order them both Big Macs.

"What? You guys don't like Big Macs? Grrrr! I guess I have to eat both of them and shovel the remaining lettuce in my mouth and lick the cheese off the box. Why aren't you drinking your Super Sized Dr. Pepper? Fine, I suppose I'll drink that too."

Kids are so picky these days.

You know what I love about Sarah Palin? Unlike other politicians, she knows what she's talking about and she doesn't repeat herself over and over...and over. VP material for sure.

Not So Jolly Now

It was a dry, scorching day in Al Anbar, Iraq. We had been tasked to hold a blocking position on a busy road in east Fallujah. Another unit was conducting a day long raid and we were to prevent any insurgents from entering or exiting the area. Sounds exciting, right? That's what I thought too, until the seventh hour of not seeing a single moving vehicle - insurgent filled or otherwise. I did, however, unwillingly shoulder another daunting task; fending off annoying Arab kids.
They came in scores, babbling shattered English with their hands in the air, screaming, "I lob you meester. O zey khan you see!" and asking to trade ridiculous items like bowls and sticks for laptops and rifles. It was tolerable for a little less than 12 minutes. Then, as the crowd of smelly, brown adolescents grew to mob standards, my teammate and I decided to launch our own mission; Operation Jolly Rancher.
It started by simply loading Jolly Ranchers ( 5 pound bags were issued to our team by the corpsman to maintain blood sugar levels) into our slingshots (issued to us by our unit for warding off wild dogs) and launching them as far as possible. The intention was to get 100+ kids to sprint 120 yards to find a single Jolly Rancher buried amongst the trash and debris of the breathtaking cityscape. It didn't work.
The crowd was growing and we needed to think of something quick. I looked down to see a tall Iraqi boy holding up a pencil.
"Meester, meester, give me money Amerikhan, I give you peeyencil." He wriggled through the crowd as though his idea trumped their persistent yelling, begging and bowl-bartering. His eyes were fixed on me. I watched him carefully as he pushed closer to the vehicle. I was amazed at his confidence and faith in the practical value of his pencil. Just as he opened his mouth to pitch his deal once again, a super sonic, grape Jolly Rancher whizzed through the air and impacted with a fleshy slap just below his left eye. I turned to see my teammate, Paris, standing on the hood of the vehicle, freshly fired slingshot still in hand.
"All right you little pricks!" he yelled. "Who's next?" He loaded another Jolly Rancher. "Watermelon this time, assholes."
We split the bag. He took the right side of the truck, I took the left, and together we unleashed assorted flavors of pain and carnage. It was like a parade gone horribly wrong. Within one minute, the road was just as void of pesky kids as it was of terrorist filled getaway cars. I felt kind of bad, still do. Kind of. But we did what we had to do. All is fair in love and war.

SPAM haikus 2

I found a genie
and wished for a can of SPAM.
I don't regret it.

Sometimes, late at night
I wake up in a cold sweat
reaching for your SPAM.

Because it's THE LAW! 2

The more I read, the better it gets. Gotta love that old testament.

Deuteronomy 22.8 When you build a new house, be sure to put a railing around the edge of the roof. Then you will not be responsible if someone falls off and is killed.

Deuteronomy 23.1 No man who has been castrated or whose penis has been cut off may be included among the Lord's people.


Deuteronomy 21.10-14 When the Lord your God gives you victory in battle and you take prisoners, you may see among them a beautiful woman that you like and want to marry. Take her to your home, where she will shave her head, cut her fingernails, and change her clothes. She is to stay in your home and mourn for her parents for a month; after that, you may marry her. Later, if you no longer want her, you are to let her go free. Since you forced her to have intercourse with you, you cannot treat her as a slave and sell her.

Deuteronomy 21.18-21 Suppose someone has a son who is stubborn and rebellious, a son who will not obey his parents, even though they punish him. His parents are to take him before the leaders of the town where he lives and make him stand trial. They are to say to them, "Our son is stubborn and rebellious and refuses to obey us; he wastes money and is a drunkard." Then the men of the city are to stone him to death, and so you will get rid of this evil. Everyone in Israel will hear what has happened and will be afraid.


Deuteronomy 22.28 Suppose a man is caught raping a young woman who is not engaged. He is to pay her father the bride price of fifty pieces of silver, and she is to become his wife, because he forced her to have intercourse with him. He can never divorce her for as long as he lives.

because it's THE LAW!

Leviticus is such a fun book to read. So many specific rules, and covering a plethora of topics too!

Leviticus 15.2,3 When any man has a discharge from his penis, the discharge is unclean, whether the penis runs with it, or is stopped by it.


-Leviticus 11.1-8 You may eat any land animal that has divided hoofs and that also chews the cud, but you must not eat camels, rock badgers, or rabbits. These must be considered unclean for they chew the cud but do not have divided hoofs. Do not eat pigs. They must be considered unclean for they have divided hoofs but do not chew the cud.

-Leviticus 11.9-12 You may eat any kind of fish that has fins and scales, but anything living in the water that does not have fins and scales must not be eaten. You must not eat them or even touch their dead bodies. You must not eat anything that lives in the water and does not have fins and scales.

Leviticus 11.13-19 You must not eat any of the following birds: eagles, owls, hawks, falcons, buzzards, vultures, crows, ostriches, seagulls, storks, herons, pelicans, cormorants, hoopoes, or bats.

Leviticus 11.20,21 All winged insects are unclean, except those that hop.


Leviticus 15.16 When a man has an emission of semen, he must bathe his whole body and remains unclean until evening.

Leviticus 15.19 When a woman has her monthly period, she remains unclean for seven days. Anyone who touches her will remain unclean until evening.

And my favorite Deuteronomy verses;
Deuteronomy 25.7-10 But if the dead man's brother does not want to marry her, she is to go before the town leaders and say "My husband's brother will not do his duty; he refuses to give his brother a descendant among the people of of Israel." Then the town leaders are to summon him and speak to him. If he still refuses to marry his brother's widow, she is to go up to him in the presence of the town leaders, take off one of his sandals, spit in his face and say "This is what happens to the man who refuses to give his brother a descendant." His family will be known in Israel as 'the family of the man who had his sandal pulled off.'

Deuteronomy 25.11-12 If two men are having a fight and the wife of one tries to help her husband by grabbing hold of the other man's genitals, show no mercy; cut off her hand.

SPAM haikus 1

I found this website dedicated to Spam Haikus. I was disappointed to see they have stopped taking submissions so, of course, I turned to the trusty blog.


If SPAM was a sport
I believe that it would be
sweeter than curling.

I wish they would call
all unwanted junk email
VIENNA SAUSAGE.

SPAM is good with eggs
oh wait, who am I kidding?
SPAM is just plain good.

If SPAM was a bird
its feathers would be bright, and
it would mate for life.

I try to avoid Piggly Wiggly as much as possible. The prices aren't any lower, and unless you're looking for pickled pigs' feet or cow pancreas, they don't have anything Food Lion doesn't. It smells like a basement and the floors are polished eight times a day to give it that sterile, capitol hill feel. However, Piggly Wiggly is always good for one thing. Great eavesdropping. For some reason (I'll spare you my personal opinion) the dedicated Piggly Wiggly shoppers seem to have a few less teeth, a few more stains on their tank tops, and mustaches. Lord, I hate mustaches.
Yesterday I was perusing the aisles for some emergency lemon jell-o, when I overheard two men talking politics. It was rather one-sided, with the older, grey haired man rambling on about how it don't matter if that Paladin lady was a mayor or whatever, she stands up for what I believe in and after all that Hussein Obama fella' swore in on a Muslim bible or whatever they call it and I aint votin' for some closet Muslim.
First I laughed (inside of course, he weighed a hundred pounds more than me). Then I got downright angry. I realized it is the ignorant voter that will ruin this election. It's the close-mindedness which will drag this country down even further into the cesspool of debt and recession. It will be people like this guy. I believe the above scenario will weed out a lot of stupid voters and save this country.
Think about it. They only get to choose one option.
"Martha! Don't forget, tonight's the free lottery ticket night. Member, jest like they did it a a few years ago? I think it's down at the middle school gymnasium where all the people vote and stuff. We'll take the Ford!"
"Which one? the F-150 or the Ranger?"
"The one with the Piggly Wiggly stickers on the back. I can feel it! We're gonna win big!!!"

They didn't die in vain after all.

I'm glad to see Burger King has a strong grasp on the meaning of patriotism. Bumper stickers are bad enough, but THIS? I'm glad they appraise the lost lives of service members at $1.29. It's all about little sacrifices, but this is ridiculous. I don't think this is what people mean when they use the term freedom fries.

in hamburg

an irish man showed me how to do it.
he grabbed the empty beer bottle from my hand
and smashed it on the ground.
That's what they do in Hamburg.
not a toss
but a violent, mighty downward sling.
i shatter the next bottle in a gutter
and it explodes into a trillion green shards.
i feel strong and free
and the more i smash the better i feel.
i smash a bottle at the feet of an old man in drag
and again in front of a skin head in leather and studs.
i smash bottles at hookers with crooked eyes
and stained faux fur.
i walk by apartments with closed venetian blinds
and can't help but wonder who is or has been inside
so i smash a bottle for them too.
i'm amazed at the chaos of wild-eyed drivers
honking and swerving and they're so good i wonder
if they have jobs or if they just do this all day.
i'm not finished with my bottle
but i smash it for them anyway.
it takes a lot of broken glass
but eventually i forget about the smell of piss
and sweaty vendors and
i finally see the beauty of hamburg
as the glass crunches under my feet.

Good Advice

I barrel through the house
in a fit of rage
My son watches me
pound my fists
swear
slam the door
as he sits in his high chair
I tell him it's pointless
there's no use in trying
we're going to hell
this whole world is insane
but he just stares at me
and drools.
I stop to take a breath
and realize
he has a point.

Richard’s Auto Body

I don’t know what draws me here. Every time I enter, I’m flooded with fear and guilt like the body shop itself rests on an ancient burial ground and my presence alone is enough to summon demons and bad karma. But I always stay until sunset, giving me just enough time to sprint home before my dad’s Audi putters into our driveway. I can’t read the clock, but I know I have plenty of time for conducting business.
I suppress the mental images of my father’s furrowing brow and angry beard scratching as I make my way through the body shop, toward his office. The flimsy sign on the door reads Employees Only. I push the door open and stand on my toes to hit the light switch, careful not to flip the one on the left which controls the air compressor. With a clink and a hum, the fluorescent bulbs flicker on, revealing the vast, comfortable mysteries of my dad’s business.
It isn’t so much an office as it is a walk-in closet tightly crammed with filing cabinets and a desk. Crooked, framed pictures of Dad smiling with nameless clients and their priceless cars clutter the walls. A stack of outdated NHRA calendars threatens to topple from a shelf above my head, but years of lacquer overspray have forged it into an indestructible tower. The tiny room is cluttered and unkempt, subtly harboring the secrets of being an adult, and more importantly, being my dad.
I climb to the padded seat of the swivel chair where, after a few silent, fluid spins, I get down to business. The surface of everything is covered in a thin layer of Bondo dust and empty paper coffee cups litter the desk. I’m careful not to disturb much as I open the top drawer of the nearest filing cabinet labeled BILLS. I search through tubes of insta-weld and putty knives before finding a suitable estimate book with plenty of carbon paper left.
A yellow phone sits on a stack of tri-county phonebooks. It is spattered with colorful blotches of paint and pink repair putty. After disconnecting the line, I pick it up and press it to my ear with a shoulder, allowing me to talk and write. I speak with a man about repairing his nineteen-something Ford. It’s always a rare car, irreplaceable to the customer- which is why they choose Richard’s Auto Body. I use words like quarter panel and after market parts, ambiguously describing the method I will use to repair their one-of-a-kind vehicle.
My cursive is no more than crooked, chaotic lines with violent, swooping tails dancing across the page in peaks and troughs. I stop every few seconds to lick the pen tip, though I don’t understand why. I inspect my work as I hang up the phone with another satisfied customer. It’s scribbled and illegible. I smile.
“Yup,” I say aloud, “Just like Dad’s.”

Shock and Awesome

I recently learned that The Tarheel Opry house here in Jacksonville has an Internet capable jukebox that can download music off of a website for an extra fee. This has HUGE potential. Here's my plan.
1. Wear the tightest jeans I can buy, maybe a flannel shirt and a cowboy hat, (I'm assuming this is what people wear in these places)and walk in the door like I'm the best damned line dancer in Onslow county.
2. Go straight for the jukebox, download Leafhouse by Animal Collective and place it in queue after Garth Brooks and whatever else people two-step to.
3. Go to the bathroom and take off all my clothes, except my zebra-striped boxer briefs I wore under my Wranglers.
4. Cover my body in brilliantly colored paint, with sparkles and swirls and sticky rhinestones. Decorate my face like a panda. Maybe a kitten.
5. Patiently wait for the intro to Leafhouse.
6. When the music starts and people stop dancing to stare at each other in confusion, I bust through the doors with a WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! waving my arms and slapping my thighs in an interpretive dance which resembles the mating rituals of a an ostrich, but better.
7. Dance until the song is over, or a drunk xenophobic redneck spears me into the Coors light display.

That would be amazing.

Bluebird-Charles Bukowski

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.


there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

Just sticks

When does a stick
Become a stick?
Why can’t I
Change it into
A gun
Or a sword
Or a baseball bat
Or a scepter?
It’s just a stick now,
And sticks are
Boring.

Hank,
Sometimes it flows. Just like you wrote about. Sometimes it flows uncontrollably, spews violently and it doesn't stop until my fingers want to bleed and splinter. Sometimes I have it and I don't want it, because it is overpowering and controlling, like a woman with a checkbook. Sometimes I have to find the nearest pen and receipt or paper bag. But sometimes it's there, and I know it's there, but it wont come out. It can be a stubborn fucker in there and no amount of cajoling or bribing will get it to emerge.
I wonder if you had this. This barrier between your desires to create and your body's desire to be futile. If it doesn't come, give up you say. If you have to stare at a typewriter or computer screen, it's not for you. But I can't. I simply can't stop. Just like you couldn't stop. You wrote on your death bed, of cats and betting on horses. You knew it was something deeper than "just stop" and sometimes I wish it wasn't. Sometimes I wish I could relax or sleep instead of drinking scalding coffee at two in the morning while pulling my hair out to get something on paper. So were you talking to me when you said QUIT? Should I take up card collecting or scrap booking? No drink or woman's love or wealth, right? You knew, Buk. You knew and I know. We know the power and I can't stop. Won't stop. You never did.

The Last Supper

When I'm dead, don't cry for me
don't shed a single tear.
Just fulfill my final wishes
all laid out right here.
My only wish in passing
is to make for me a deal-
that my family will partake in me
as a Sunday meal.
I know I'll be quite tasty
marbled meat, yet lean
'twill surely be the biggest
rump roast you've ever seen.
Boil me, baste me, cook me up
however you so please;
serve me with a side of rice
and some wine and cheese.
Light a couple candles
use napkins made of cotton.
Make it a a truly gourmet meal
so I'll not be forgotten.
And if I'm not remembered
as a husband, friend or dad,
at least I know that I will be
the best meal they've ever had.

Yahoo! registration obligations - a poem

You want to use our service,
but you must be legal age
to form a binding contract
by laws set forth by states.

Don't tell lies about yourself
in any slight amount.
For if you do, we have the right
to cancel your account.

For our clients, we at yahoo
want the very best.
Even more so for the kids
of thirteen years or less.

So if you're young and want to join,
it surely would behoove you
to ask your parents nicely
and get them to approve you.

But if they do, then let them know
you can access anything,
including email, message boards
and instant messaging.

So as a legal guardian,
you surely are entitled
to determine whether Yahoo! content
is appropriate for your child.



In consideration of your use of the Service, you represent that you are of legal age to form a binding contract and are not a person barred from receiving services under the laws of the United States or other applicable jurisdiction. You also agree to: (a) provide true, accurate, current and complete information about yourself as prompted by the Service's registration form (the "Registration Data") and (b) maintain and promptly update the Registration Data to keep it true, accurate, current and complete. If you provide any information that is untrue, inaccurate, not current or incomplete, or Yahoo! has reasonable grounds to suspect that such information is untrue, inaccurate, not current or incomplete, Yahoo! has the right to suspend or terminate your account and refuse any and all current or future use of the Service (or any portion thereof). Yahoo! is concerned about the safety and privacy of all its users, particularly children. For this reason, parents of children under the age of 13 who wish to allow their children access to the Service must create a Yahoo! Family Account. When you create a Yahoo! Family Account and add your child to the account, you certify that you are at least 18 years old and that you are the legal guardian of the child/children listed on the Yahoo! Family Account. By adding a child to your Yahoo! Family Account, you also give your child permission to access many areas of the Service, including, email, message boards and instant messaging (among others). Please remember that the Service is designed to appeal to a broad audience. Accordingly, as the legal guardian, it is your responsibility to determine whether any of the Service areas and/or Content (as defined in Section 6 below) are appropriate for your child

Lord, I can't wait to don that scarf

I was smiling so hard my face hurt.I sprinted down a cold brick road, past towering Victorian houses and picket fences while leaves of amber and crimson twirled and spun to the ground. Massive oak branches blotted out the sun,marbling the brown grass and cracked sidewalk. I smelled the droopy, gnatty pumpkins and wood burning stoves of my childhood. I was yelling something and I could see my breath.
When I awoke, I was still smiling and my heart beat was shaking my cheeks. I couldn't go back to sleep. I quietly snuck out of bed, concealed by the annoying humm of the air conditioner dripping in the window and stepped out for a smoke into the soggy, musty air of summer.

I have tried a hundred times, I guess,
To find a rhyme for month;
I have failed a hundred times, I know,
But succeeded the hundred and one-th.

There were two men a training went.
It was in December month;
One had his bayonet thrown away,
The other had his gun th-
rown away.

– Miscellaneous Notes and Queries, August 1894

Go to any backwoods honky tonk south of the mason-dixon line while any Merle Haggard or Charlie Daniels song plays on the jukebox and you will hear it screamed above the drunken crowd no less than half a dozen times. The South Will Rise Again! It is the rebel rousin' cry of Dixie and the southerner's claim to fame. After last weekend, despite my personal views on the south and the people unfortunate enough to have been born here, I believe they have the capabilities of doing so.
It started with a car accident. My friend and I were half way through a bottle of Vodka and quickly working our way through two dozen chicken wings when I heard the inimitable sound of colliding vehicles. I haphazardly dropped my chicken on the plate, carefully set down my glass of vodka, and ran outside to see two, mangled, smoking, fluid spewing vehicles sitting feet in front of my lawn. I heard moaning, so I made my way across the pavement to see if anyone needed the assistance of a shirtless, unequipped, half drunk, barefoot, stay-at-home dad. Surely they would.
They didn't.
But I did call 911 and stayed for moral support, doing my best to calm the drunk driver of the crushed car and tell him he needed to sit down and apply direct pressure to his head. He didn't listen and thought it best to simply walk home and let the police take care of the accident. He made it a little more than eight feet before tripping over the curb.
Next came the elderly mother and middle aged son from the smokey depths of the car, reeking of freshly deployed airbag and Pabst Blue Ribbon. Judging by their slurring and arm gestures, I determined they were locals. Judging by their breath, they were also drunk. I guided them both to the curb, and once again cajoled them to apply pressure to various leaking ports on their heads and faces. It was to no avail because who did I think I was, I aint no doctor and I aint even got no shoes on. Silly me.
I was juggling now. The dispatcher on the phone wanted more detailed information, the elderly mother was crying and screaming "what do I do?" into the night sky and the man in the grass was attempting to crawl away. Just when I thought about bidding the whole thing farewell and returning to my abandoned vodka, I saw the glorious, flashing, red and blue lights of an undercover police car approach the chaos. I cautiously pranced around glass and antifreeze toward the man stepping out of the jeep. I thought it odd that he was wearing civilian clothes, but I assumed he was off duty and proceeded to give him a rather in depth situation report. I rambled on about the severity and number of injuries, who was driving and how I believed it all happened. I caught my breath and waited for him to jump into action. He didn't move.
"Well, aren't you going to go over there?" I said after several seconds of him standing on his tip toes to get a better view of the steaming wreckage.
"Oh, no" he said, quite matter-of-factly. "I'm not a cop, I just have this flashing light on my jeep and figured I would come down and sit here to keep other cars from crashing into y'all 'till the cops show up."
It took me several seconds to absorb this, and even then, I had to break it down into more digestible niblets.
He isn't a cop.
He isn't even a volunteer firefighter.
He's just a guy.
With a flashing light.
And a jeep.
Okay, I understood now. All except for WHY THIS GUY HAD A FLASHING LIGHT ON HIS JEEP! Who were these people?
I had little time to dwell on the matter before a truck full of men with unusually large goatees pulled over asking if everyone was okay. They piled out of the extended cab and accessed the tool box in the bed. Out came flashlights, a first aid kit, various tools, blankets and even a few road cones. After all, you never know when you may have to be solely responsible for directing traffic. I wondered how long it would be before someone pulled the jaws of life out of their trunk. I gladly afforded them the spotlight and, after getting my lukewarm drink, played the less demanding role of a spectator from my front yard.
Nineteen agonizing minutes after the collision, the police and fire trucks arrived at a perfectly organized scene. There were cones, triaged patients, jeeps with flashing lights, and someone even found some emergency flares to keep traffic at bay. It was the most organized citizen response I had ever witnessed. There was no panic or bickering, and everyone knew what to do, as if they practiced monthly drills and ran through equipment check lists every morning.
So the next time I find myself in Dukenfield's bar watching two swaying, fifty year old men stand and salute the confederate flag while wailing that the south will rise again, I'm going to take their word for it. Mainly because they scare me, but also because now I know if they really wanted it to happen, they have enough shit in their trunks to get er' done.