The purpled-tongued stutterer Obama signed this bullshit NDAA into law today.
Awesome.
He had "serious reservations," though...so it's cool.
Treasonous bastard...
Happy fucking New Year.
Stock up and hold on to your false teeth, ladies.
2012 could get rough.
It's 30 minutes to midnight, and I feel like a door has been closed.
I worked all day, and the kids are off at a party somewhere, so it's just me and my wife to ring in the New Year by ourselves for the first time in almost 20 years.
I can't help but think about what kind of future my children are facing.
I am not optimistic, but I'll be damned if I blame myself.
Just in time
to spool up the war machine once again...
I mean...with Iraq and
Afghanistan winding down, the arms manufacturers need to sell more
weapons.
Right?
Iran is as good a place as any to open up a new market, I guess.
Right?
This American government is beyond corrupt and immoral.
Right?
A solid year of campaigning ahead, and then this little party with Iran will kick off right after the purple-tongued stutterer declares himself the popularly elected victor.
Maybe.
This shit sickatates me.
I'll be God-damned if I'll send my sons or daughter over there to get their asses shot off or blown up.
On December 25, 1776, Washington and his troops crossed the Delaware River to kill up a shitload of Hessian mercenaries.
Nothing says Merry Christmas like sneaking up and slitting the throats of and/or capturing 900 hungover krauts!
It's Yuletide stories like this that make me feel all warm and gooey inside, and bring visions of sugar plumbs, candy canes, and bayonets dancing in my noggin.
Or something...
Merry Christmas to all my intardnet buddies.
Keep your powder dry.
Satanic, demon-possessed gingerbread warrior, equipped with candy cane sword and cinnamon roll shield, prepares to open up a 55 gallon drum of whup-ass on Nazi storm troopers. Artwork done many years ago by my son Willie. It hangs on our Christmas tree!
I did a complete front brake job on the wife's family truckster today…a 2001 Dodge Grand Caravan…in the driveway in near-freezing temperatures because I’m hard like that.
And a cheap bastard…
MOPARS suck. Did I tell you that recently?
Why do I have to replace front pads and rotors every two years?
Back in the day with non-computer-designed vehicles, brakes would last forever, and a guy could get rotors and drums turned or resurfaced, and that shit would last ten years.
I made three trips to the parts store to do this project because the parts-number-reading chick behind the counter gave me the wrong shit.
She said I gave her bum scoop as to the brake setup on the car.
Looky here, bitch. I’ve owned this sled for ten fucking years, and I can do a front brake job with my eyes closed, my pecker in one hand, and a beer in the other.
I know what I have, and I know what I told you.
Thanks for nothing.
Girls should not work in auto parts stores.
Girls should be at home wearing frilly clothing and making sammiches for their men.
That’s what I think.
Caravans=bad design.
Front heavy sons-a-bitches eat brakes like it's cool.
Front suspension components not up to the task either.
Light, stamped bullshit with cheesy rubber bushings and no grease zerks…designed and built by union commie heathen Canadians from Canadia.
Well...this bullshit passed the House, and that stuttering, Akita-tongued, treasonous, cocksucker Obama has indicated he will sign it!
What. The. Fuck?
I am filled with sadness and anger on this day...the 220th birthday of our Bill Of Rights.
Bury that motherfucker.
It is dead and putrefying.
This is a goddamned funeral.
Benedict Arnold has a boner
It is unbelievable to me that Republican Indiana Senators Lugar and Coates voted FOR this unconstitutional abomination, while my Representative...Democrat uber-Lib Andre Carson...voted AGAINST it.
I sent Andre Carson a note of thanks. I don't have a history of sending Mr. Carson pleasant missives.
The world is upside down, my friends.
Pardon me while I go vomit.
###
You think this shit can't happen again?
If it does, you can bet your ass they won't let you just stroll out of their camps and go back home...that is...if you even still HAVE a home to stroll back to when it's all over...that is...if it ever IS all over.
It pretty much puts the USA in a state of perpetual war and makes the USA a battlefield, and allows for all kinds of unsavory un-Constitutional shit to go down with our military gettin' all war-like in places it's not supposed to get all war-like.
All just so we can be safe from terrorists an' shits...
Fuck that noise.
Kiss your rights of a speedy trial, a warrant, and probable cause goodbye.
The Constitution will "mean whatever they say it means."
Oh...and the new law will also make it cool for our guys and gals in uniform to blow goats. Isn't THAT special?
Assholes!
Don't tell me I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about because I'm just a dumb-ass truck driver either.
I have eyes that see and ears that hear, gawd-dammit. I know fucked up shit when it is presented to me.
I can sense that shit, so don't parse words with me and tell me I'm getting fucking hysterical.
Fuck you. I don't need a lawyer or a degree to know when I'm about to be vigorously ass-raped.
Y'all best be writin' some serious shit to your representatives.
About a year ago I posted some dark shit I was feeling in a screed I called Combat Antenna.
It may or may not be helpful for both of my fans to read it before you go any further.
The following will make sense to some, and not so much to others...and it sure as hell is going to furrow a brow or two with some of my dear family members.
Whatever.
I sometimes have a hard time expressing myself when I'm not being the silly class clown, but here it goes...
Many in the patriot/constitutional restoration/militia community (understandably) whine and cry about poor turnout at our events, and wonder why attendance is so sparse.
I suppose there are many reasons for light attendance.
In my own piss-poor way, I will put forth a reason or two I came up with…
Rightly or wrongly, the movement is portrayed as a bunch of angry old racist southern rednecks running around in the woods with guns.
I, for one, have no problem with “rednecks.”
Hell…I’m a born and bred Hoosier, so it would be hypocritical for me to hate on rednecks, as I pretty much consider myself one.
In fact…I have been called a redneck more than once in my life, and I never took it as an insult.
And guns? Well…I kinda LIKE guns!
Old and angry? Yeah…you got me there.
I suppose I am also a Yankee, but over the years I have found that I have more in common with southern folks than not.
What I’m saying is that I don’t consider angry old racist rednecks to be exclusive to the south.
Clear as mud? Probably not…
That said, I have absolutely no interest in standing shoulder-to-shoulder, risking my ass, breaking bread, or sharing brotherly/patriotic moments with a fucking racist.
If you hate blacks, Jews, Hispanics, Asians, or Indians just because they are blacks, Jews, Hispanics, Asians, or Indians, then I won’t help you, and I sure as fuck ain’t gonna risk my ass along side you.
You better find a better reason to hate a fool, or I won’t help you, and Lord knows we have plenty of solid reasons to hate on the government assholes that tread on our rights and subvert our Constitution like it is cool.
That’s enough hate to last a man a lifetime.
If you are a Kluxer, I won’t help you.
If you are a Nazi, I won’t help you.
If you are a Commie, I won’t help you.
If there is one thing I learned while briefly dabbling in all things Marine Corps-ish, it is that if you have a job to do and your ass is on the line, you don’t give a damn what color of skin the guy has in the hole next to you…or where he’s from.
All you know is that you both have skin in the game.
You both have something to lose if you don’t hold up your end of the bargain.
Kinda makes things nice, clean, neat…and “moral.”
If we don’t have moral…we ain’t got shit…and I, personally, won’t help.
We must have moral leaders also.
I won’t follow any leader who has the morals of an alley cat.
That’s the kinda shit that got us into this mess in the first place.
I ain't steppin' off no porch...and I ain't goin' to no green...and I ain't standin' shoulder-to-shoulder...with a fucking asshole.
So there.
And to all you government douche bags checking out this blog...
A simple, undefined reply when an ignorant comment or action is made. Brought to life in the South Park series, when Mr. Derp made a guest apperance at South Park Elementary as the chef for a day, followed by hitting himself in the head with a hammer and exclaiming "Derp!"
After almost five long ghastly years, this site is under re-construction
Please excuse the mess.
While trying to freshen up the look of things around here, I fucked up royal.
Yes.
I am a big dumbass.
All the crap will remain while I work to fix things, but it will look like shit and probably be hard to read.
Fret not. I'll have it all back more better and brighter than ever.
You all know by now how I’m pretty much an old school kind of guy.
If it’s dusty, rusty, and in need of some tender loving care…I like it.
Cars, trucks, firearms, bikes (motorized or not), houses, buildings, bridges.
Today I will specifically discuss older vehicles, because something happened recently which brought the thought to mind.
I’ll get to THAT eventually.
Maybe.
Back in the day, it was relatively rare for a vehicle to have bucket seats unless you are talking about a Corvette or some kind of queer Eurofag car.
It was all bench seating, all the time.
I don’t think I ever owned a vehicle with bucket or split front seats until several years into my marriage, (and by then it didn’t matter anymore!)
All modern vehicles have split front seating now.
Shit…even heavy duty dump trucks and semi tractors are outfitted with lavish interiors that would make a 1960s homeowner jealous.
I believe there are a number of reasons for this.
I will enumerate those reasons for you now:
A-The typical American ass is enormous and requires king-sized LazyBoy type furniture to accommodate it.
B-The typical person now carries along so much shit with them to make it through the day that massive center consoles the size of home entertainment centers are required to store all the crap.
3-Daughters.
I have vague foggy fond memories of going on car dates back in the day.
If my date slid over next to me immediately after getting in the car, I knew the girl was cool and wanted to be with me. (I can recall a time or two when I actually wondered why the girl agreed to go out with me because of the way she behaved once we were on the date. I appreciate a little enthusiasm.)
Sliding over is not possible with bucket seats, or with huge refrigerators and workstations in the way.
They go to his vehicle…a beat up 90’s model Chevy short bed pickup (I approve) with a bench seat.
He does not open the door for her. (I do not approve)
He gets in. She gets it.
They pull away from the curb in front of the house, and before they clear the next-door neighbor’s property line, I see my daughter quickly slide over.
It was cute...
Fuck.
I should probably recommend a nice new modern Japanese coupe to the young man.
Mom and Dad always said I’d “get mine” some day when I had children.
I don’t watch much TV, and I’ve never watched Survivor, so I don’t give two shits about all of that.
My first thoughts were, “Dude looks like a bug-eyed, speed-freak refugee from a Grateful Dead road tour. This cannot be serious.”
Then, my disgruntled revolutionary self takes over and I think, “Hell…why not? He would be better than the douche-bag lawyer types from either party who don’t give a damn about anything except re-election and act like the Constitution and the Bill of Rights are items in their personal hygiene DOP kit.”
Besides all that, the weasel dick twerp we have in the Indiana governor's mansion now looks like a poseur ass on a Harley-Davidson.
I am all in.
Rupert Boneham, Libertarian candidate for Indiana governor!
Please get a haircut and a shave, however. Don’t cut all of it off. Just trim it back some. You look like a lunatic!
I ain't no racin' expert, and this is the only place I can say this without being crucified...
I watched it unfold live on television.
Only a handful of laps into the race, and there had already been a tire rubbing incident.
I thought, "Oh fuck. This is really outta hand."
Then they switched to Wheldon's in-car camera.
You can see a puff of smoke off in the distance, and I was thinking at that moment, "Back out of that shit now!"
Wheldon backed out of it a moment or two later, but it wasn't enough.
From the aerial shots, it looks like he damn near went balls to the wall into that mess.
You suppose he thought he could worm his way through that shit?
Was his reaction time too slow?
Am I an asshole?
Who knows?
Either way...it sucks.
Even though I have spent alarming and ridiculous amounts of time at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway over the years, I never had an up-close and personal interaction with Dan Wheldon at Indy during the month of May.
I tend to observe and take mental notes and pictures, and I don't act like an asshole and pester drivers for autographs and other bothersome favors.
Except for this one time a few years ago...
I had consumed inordinate amounts of beer that day, and I was strolling through the garage area with a couple of my racin' buddies.
This was immediately after Wheldon had his new teeth installed. His chompers were so new and gleamy white that their reflection would blind ground squirrels on a sunny day.
Soon...here comes Wheldon cruising through the garage area on a golf cart.
In a moment of somewhat youthful drunken exuberance I shouted out, "TOOOFUSSES!"
My buddies were guffawing themselves senseless.
Dan had a huge, shit-eating grin on his face as he drove by, and just shook his head in delighted feigned disgust.
First of all…I remember what it was like being a raging hormonal teenaged boy/ young man. Deep down we are/were a bunch of no-good rotten sons-a-bitches…
With that in mind, let us commence with the interrogation.
Why do you want to date my daughter?
What is it that attracts you to her?
If you are a smart lad you will not answer, “…her smokin’ body.”
You will answer something about her intellect, her sense of humor, her musical and athletic ability, her leadership skills, or her strong-willed and independent personality.
Those would all be excellent answers.
How do you think she got to be the person you so admire?
I’ll tell you how. It’s because her mother and I raised her that way.
That said…you had better show respect to her mother and I for how we raised our daughter, and you had better respect our daughter and treat her with the respect SHE deserves.
If you do not, you will not be seeing my daughter socially, and you and I will have a big problem.
You may be asking yourself, “Mr. Zoomie…exactly how should I show that respect?”
Be a man and a gentleman at all times.
You should be old enough to know what that means, especially if you were raised by a proper father. However…these days, I cannot assume this is the case…so I’ll try to help you.
You will speak to my daughter as you would your own mother. (I’ll assume you show your own mother respect and courtesy.)
Ghetto parlance, trash talk, insults, and put-downs are not acceptable.
Pretend I am standing within earshot when you speak to my daughter, and you should be good to go.
You and I both know there are a lot of punks, assholes, and predators out there. I’ll assume (for now) that you are not one of them, as otherwise my daughter wouldn’t have chosen you to date.
Do you know how to fight? Have you ever been punched in the face? Are you at least WILLING to fight?
You had better be willing to fight if you are going to go out in public with my daughter. It will be your job to protect her and defend her honor when I cannot.
A dramatic representation of what I'm talking about
If you must defend my daughter, I expect you to fight like a lion. I don’t expect you to be Bruce Lee, but I expect you to put in one hell of an effort. If you don’t believe you are willing and able to do this, then I can’t help you, and you can’t date my daughter.
I am willing to take a bullet for my daughter.
Are you?
You cannot possibly know what it is like to be a father, but I’ll ask you this.
Do you have a sister who you love? Would you want a young man like you going out with her? How would you want a young man to treat your sister?
A father feels the same way about his daughter, only a thousand times more.
There will be no drugs, booze, or weed while you date my daughter. I know what all three look like, taste like, and smell like. Back in my rowdy younger days, and unlike President Clinton, I inhaled.
These days, from what I am led to believe, much of your generation considers oral sex akin to a good night kiss…no big deal and commonly expected.
Guess again.
Oral sex IS sex, despite what President Clinton says, and there will be none of it either.
My daughter is precious to me. She is no one’s plaything or sex toy. If she is abused, I will return the abuse ten-fold to the abuser.
That is a promise, not a threat.
I am very sneaky, and although I am old, I know my way around computers and the Internet. If you ask any of my children, they will tell you that I have discovered many things they really didn’t want me to know about.
Because I am old, I am wise.
Because I am old, I also know many treacherous dirty tricks.
You should remember three things about me:
-I am fiercely protective of my family.
-I have a good-sized firearms collection.
-I practice.
I hope you and my daughter have an enjoyable date.
I expect her return no later than 11pm.
Rules For Dating This Marine’s Daughter (revised)
-original author unknown
Rule One:
If you pull into my driveway and honk you'd better be delivering a package, because you're sure not picking anything up.
Rule Two:
You do not touch my daughter in front of me. You may glance at her, so long as you do not peer at anything below her neck. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off of my daughter's body, I will remove them.
Rule Three:
I am aware that it is considered fashionable for boys of your age to wear their trousers so loosely that they appear to be falling off their hips. Please don't take this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are complete idiots. Still, I want to be fair and open minded about this issue, so I propose this compromise: You may come to the door with your underwear showing and your pants ten sizes too big, and I will not object. However, in order to ensure that your clothes do not, in fact, come off during the course of your date with my daughter, I will take my electric nail gun and fasten your trousers securely in place to your waist.
Rule Four:
I'm sure you've been told that in today's world, sex without utilizing a "barrier method" of some kind can kill you. Let me elaborate, when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I will kill you.
Rule Five:
It is usually understood that in order for us to get to know each other, we should talk about sports, politics, and other issues of the day. Please do not do this. The only information I require from you is an indication of when you expect to have my daughter safely back at my house, and the only word I need from you on this subject is "early."
Rule Six:
I have no doubt you are a popular fellow, with many opportunities to date other girls. This is fine with me as long as it is okay with my daughter. Otherwise, once you have gone out with my little girl, you will continue to date no one but her until she is finished with you. If you make her cry, I will make you cry.
Rule Seven:
As you stand in my front hallway, waiting for my daughter to appear, and more than an hour goes by, do not sigh and fidget. If you want to be on time for the movie, you should not be dating. My daughter is putting on her makeup, a process that can take longer than painting the Golden Gate Bridge. Instead of just standing there, why don't you do something useful, like changing the oil in my car?
Rule Eight:
The following places are not appropriate for a date with my daughter: Places where there are beds, sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool. Places where there are no parents, policemen, or nuns within eyesight. Places where there is darkness. Places where there are dancing, holding hands, or happiness. Places where the ambient temperature is warm enough to induce my daughter to wear shorts, tank tops, midriff T-shirts, or anything other than overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka - zipped up to her throat. Movies with a strong romantic or sexual theme are to be avoided; movies which feature chain saws are okay. Hockey games are okay. Old folks homes are better.
Rule Nine:
Do not lie to me. On issues relating to my daughter, I am the all-knowing, merciless god of your universe. If I ask you where you are going and with whom, you have one chance to tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I have a shotgun, a shovel, and five acres behind the house. Do not trifle with me.
Rule Ten:
Be afraid. Be very afraid. It takes very little for me to mistake the sound of your car in the driveway for a SCUD missile coming in over a sand dune near Kuwait. When my Post Traumatic Stress starts acting up, the voices in my head frequently tell me to clean the guns as I wait for you to bring my daughter home. As soon as you pull into the driveway you should exit your car with both hands in plain sight. Speak the perimeter password, announce in a clear voice that you have brought my daughter home safely and early, then return to your car - there is no need for you to come inside. The camouflaged face at the window is mine.
Because I am a realist and I don't like to waste valuable time learning shit that is pointless, (and I freely pass on my life philosophies to my offspring), I recommended to all of my children that they take Spanish language courses in high school.
A couple of summers ago, I accompanied my kids on a tour of their high school as they were going to be new incoming freshmen.
In their Spanish language classroom, I noticed a 8X10 painting of Che Guevara.
My kids had no idea who Che was, so I edumacated them a little on the subject.
Then, I emailed the instructor and asked her what the idea was behind displaying the painting of Che in an American classroom, and whether she was aware of the atrocities Che committed.
She replied that the painting was done by a student, that she was aware of the truth about Che, and that she uses the painting as a tool to teach her students the entire truth about him.
Somewhat satisfied with her answer, and pleased with myself for being an uppity parent, I dropped the matter and went on about my business.
Later on during that school year, I asked my children if the teacher ever waxed poetically or romantically about Che, (or ever mentioned their uppity dad), and my kids said she has never mentioned the commie bastard (or me).
Since that time, I've been monitoring the subjects of the written reports the Spanish teacher assigns my kids during the school year.
My findings include:
Hugo Chavez.
Fidel Castro.
What. The. Fuck?
Apparently, there are no other non-communist Spanish-speaking heroes about whom this teacher's students can write papers.
Interestingly, my own quick online search revealed dozens of names of Hispanic Americans who were awarded the Medal Of Honor.
I suppose these heroic Americans don't rate a report these days in American public schools.
Perhaps a face-to-face conference with this teacher is in order, but, at this time, I am not certain I would be able to conduct myself like a gentleman should.
I am not convinced this teacher is not a commie-loving hippie.
