Rupert Boneham, Libertarian Candidate For Indiana Governor?

Rupert Boneham, Libertarian candidate for Indiana governor?

Come on.  You’re kidding me, right?

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!

Dan Wheldon

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.

That's how I will always remember Dan Wheldon.

 

A Father's Fictional Interview With A Daughter's Fictional Prospective Boyfriend

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.

Fuck A Bunch Of Che Guevara

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.

Maybe it's just me...

Dear Occupy _______ (fill in the location of your choice) Protestor:

Dear Occupy _______ (fill in the location of your choice) Protestor:

You go on ahead and have your protest.

It is your right, as you well know, but I thought you should know something…

I am a man of peace. 

I am legally armed.

I have a deep love for my fellow citizens. 

I have a capacity for violence. 

I enjoy life. 

I intend to pursue happiness for as long as possible.

You should know something else about me.

Should you decide to go feral, as your European and Middle Eastern counterparts have recently gone…

Should you threaten me, my family, or my property…

I will fucking kill you.

It is my right.

I thought you should know.

Have a nice day.

Sincerely,

Concerned American

Ausgezeichnet!

Where Were You On 9/11?

Where were you on 9/11? 

Who gives a fuck, right?

Well, I’m gonna tell you where I was. 

Give a fuck or not.

It was a beautiful cloudless early fall day…one of those fall days where the faint smell of autumn leaves is in the air…bringing thoughts of football games, warm sweaters, bonfires, whisky flasks, and shapely coeds.

But I digress…

At the time, I worked a four-day workweek (nights, as usual), and Tuesdays were my mid-week day off.

My wife and kids were off to school by the time I dragged my sorry ass out of the rack.

My plans for the day were not earth-shattering:  Shit, shower, shave, do some yard work at my elderly mother and father’s home on the other side of town, and search for some small parts for my 1968 Chevrolet Chevelle I was in the extremely slow process of restoring.

I never turned on a radio or a TV while preparing for my day.

I hop into my Oldsmobile and immediately pop in a Lynyrd Skynyrd cassette.  (I know…a cassette?   Lynyrd Skynyrd?  An Oldsmobile?  Fuck!  How old ARE you, grandpa?)

First thing I had to do was fuel my car, so on the way to my parent’s house, I stopped at a truck stop.

It was here that I first sensed that something was awry.

At the pumps, people looked more angry, shitty, and pissed off than usual…but I thought nothing of it at the time. 

Inside at the busy cashier’s counter, I detected the same thing. 

Nobody was talking. 

You could cut the atmosphere with a knife.

Walking out to my car I thought, “Something is up.  Something bad has happened.  I better eject the Skynyrd tape and listen to the radio.”

No more “Mississippi Kid” for today…

Out on the interstate I hear some shit about planes hitting the World Trade Center buildings.  One of the towers has already collapsed.  The second tower is expected to fall at any moment.

What.  The.  Fuck?  What kind of asshole flies airliners into skyscrapers?  It is an attack.  It is war.   It is my Pearl Harbor moment.

As soon as I get to my parent’s house, I run in and loudly ask Mom if she’s got the TV on.  She replies that she does not.

I tell her, “Turn it on!  We’re under attack!”

As soon as her old Philco warms up, we are amazed by what we are seeing.

What.  The.  Fuck?   

Mom doesn’t say such things, but I do.

My father strolled into the house, and I asked him what he thought.  I told him I thought it was this generation’s “Pearl Harbor” moment.

I don’t remember Dad’s exact words, but it didn’t seem to me that he was all that shocked and emotional as I was.

“Yeah…that’s really sumpthin,’ isn’t it?”

Maybe it was because he had better things to worry about…like maybe the lung cancer that was killing him.  In six months, he would be dead.  What the fuck did he care about some shit like Muslim motherfuckers vaporizing Americans wholesale? 

He was probably more concerned about his next breath…and I don’t blame him one bit.

Over the next few days, the rage and anger in me rose to stratospheric levels…almost to the point where I could not function normally.

Frustration. 

I wanted someone to hate.  I wanted someone whose neck I could wrap my hands around and slowly squeeze the life out of.

But who?  Nameless, faceless, goat-humping Islamic dickheads without a country.  How in the hell do I, or anybody, fight that?

I bought a “Don’t Tread On Me” flag.  (I’ve flown it every day since 9/11.  It makes me feel better.  We all must do our part.)

Went to church that Sunday.  It was not a pretty sight.  I broke down right there in front of my family, my God, everybody…sobbing…with tears of rage…asking for relief from the hatred that was eating me alive.

Went to my old Marine Corps Reserve unit to ask them if I could re-up to get some payback. 

They said, “Thanks, but no thanks, old-timer.  This war will be a young man’s game.  Try the National Guard.”

At work, I generously suggested to my boss that he should use company funds to erect a flagpole in front of the facility in order to display our patriotism and solidarity and togetherness.

He agreed, and within a week the pole was in place and I was given the honor of being the first to hoist the colors.

I was a big hero.  Sorta.

The pole was installed by patriotic workmen who seemingly forgot to use a level.

The pole was crooked.  Pretty much.

USA!  USA!  USA!

All of this reminds me of the national feelings of “patriotism and solidarity and togetherness” of those early days after the 9/11 attacks.

Sure…it lasted…what…three days…a week?

Then it was right back to the politics and finger pointing…enough to make a guy vomit.

2011.

A decade has passed.

Big Brother is tightening the noose. 

Frogs in a simmering pot. 

The Constitution and the Bill of Rights are being used as ass-wipe. 

Multiple, never-ending wars with uncounted lives and treasure squandered. 

The country is broke and then some.

Its citizens are more polarized than ever before. 

The Free Shit Army is set to unleash blitzkrieg. 

Bin Laden’s brain-pan has been ventilated, and he sleeps with the fishes.

Yet he wins.  

Cinematic Recommendations For Patriots, 3 Percenters, and Other Rabble-Rousing Revolutionaries

I've said it before...

Life is too short for bad cinema.

The following are some movies I've watched recently on Netflix.

I give all of these flicks a four out of a possible five stars.  

The subject matter of these films is kinda dark, so you probably won't be wanting to watch them with your best girl or anything.

Or small children...

This is guy stuff for the most part.  These movies will get your blood pressure up and flowing.

Trust me on this.  I don't recommend shit that sucks.

Check them out if you haven't seen them and are so inclined.

These movies will give you many interesting things to think about.

Maybe.

Feel free to add your own recommendations in the comments section...and I mean different stuff...not the run-of-the-mill bullshit.

Yes.  I've seen Red Dawn...

No.  I don't think I'm Siskel or Ebert...

Dicks.

_____

 

Michael Collins

1996 Rated-R 

-Julia Roberts is in this.  I find it amusing how her "Irish" accent comes and goes.  She does have a purty mouth, however.  The scene at the "footy match" is especially brutal, and will piss a guy right off...

"Neil Jordan directed this powerful biopic about the rise and fall of Michael Collins (Liam Neeson), the charismatic leader of Ireland's fight for independence. Collins and his companions de Valera (Alan Rickman), Broy (Stephen Rea), Boland (Aidan Quinn) and Kitty Kiernan (Julia Roberts) used guerilla warfare to attack the British. The eventual treaty was seen by many as a weak compromise, and Collins was branded a traitor to the Irish cause."

 

Flame and Citron

2008 Rated-TV-MA 

-English subtitles are only mildly annoying.  Intrigue, skullduggery, double-crossing, and exquisite violence.  Kill a Nazi for Mommy, won't you?

"Based on actual events, this exciting drama tells the story of World War II Danish Resistance fighters Flame (Thure Lindhardt) and Citron (Mads Mikkelsen). Taking orders from Resistance leader Aksel Winther (Peter Mygind), the two systematically assassinate Danish collaborators and Nazi officers. But they are far from heroic in their personal lives, and filmmaker Ole Christian Madsen explores the serious flaws of these complex men."

 

The Wind That Shakes the Barley

2006 Rated-TV-14 

-probably should have English subtitles because the Irish brogue is pretty heavy.  Watching government agents and traitors "getting theirs" will make your heart soar.  Maybe.

"As political tensions brew in early 1920s Ireland, brothers Damien and Teddy (Cillian Murphy and Padraic Delaney) abandon their civilian lives and take up arms to liberate their country from the oppressive "Black and Tan" squads of Britain. Winner of the Palme d'Or at the 2006 Cannes Film Festival, Ken Loach's provocative drama examines a microcosm of civil war in Cork, Ireland. Liam Cunningham co-stars."

 

Defiance

2008 Rated-R 

-James Bond takes on the Nazis and helps the Polish Jews escape the ghetto and certain extermination.  The guy who plays his brother enjoys nothing more than gunning down Nazis wholesale.  Who could blame him?  What fun!

"Daniel Craig stars as Tuvia Bielski, one of four Jewish brothers who escape from Poland into the forests of Belarus during World War II to lead a band of resistance fighters and create a safe haven for Jewish refugees. The real-life sanctuary established by the Bielski brothers saved more than 1,000 Jews from persecution and death. Liev Schreiber, Jamie Bell and George MacKay also star in this moving historical drama based on actual events."

______

I took the movie descriptions verbatim from Netflix because I'm lazy, I couldn't be assed to write them myself, and because I've never had an original thought in my life.

Sue me.

Go watch the fucking movies!

A Brief Bit Of Mosin Nagant Madness

My son fires his birthday Mosin-Nagant at Atterbury. 

A serious good time was had by all. 

We shot everything. Mosins, handguns, shotguns (clays). 

The two Mosin rifles performed flawlessly, with over 100 rounds per rifle. 

Accuracy was very good. 

Recoil is outta hand with these things. 

Yes. I'm old and my shoulder hurts and I'm a pussy, but the sons had all they could stand as well. None of us have a lot of meat on our bones. 

Will be investigating some sort of recoil padding. 

The Mosin kick truly is BRUTAL! 

BTW...this is a very nice shooting facility. Reasonable rates, well-run, polite staff. 

It seems they keep the idiots and rabble away.

Part 11- My 2011 Indy 500 Blog Mess: Coda

Just a quick post race wrap up here…

Sorry, but I’ve been busy working and haven’t had time to do this up right.

In fact, I don’t know that I’ll ever again have time to do this Indy 500 blog thang right.

So…now is as good a time as any to say that I won’t be doing this shit again.

It’s just too much like work and ponderous with the small amount of time I have.

If I can’t do it right, I’m not gonna do it at all.

It’s been fun, and I am thankful for the people I have met and the propers you have given me.

This years version of the Indy 500 was one of the best in recent memory, and my son and I had a most excellent time of it.

A rookie damn near took all the marbles, but he got excited and lost it in the final corner on the final lap IN the marbles.

Dan Wheldon, aka “Toofusses,” brought home his second Indy win.

Congrats, and I take back what I said about you not being an Indy legend.

Thanks to all who have helped me out along the way.

Mike, Curt, Darc Marc, Trevor, Grover, Glenn, Tommy, Pat, Camp & Brew (I’ll miss youse guys), Trackforum, PT, and all who have expressed enjoyment from reading my foolishness.

Bob Messick photo

I will now return to trying to save our Republic.

Stock up, and have a nice day.

See you next year.

Maybe.

 

Part 10- My 2011 Indy 500 Blog Mess: The International Release Of My Paul Tracy Interview Video!

Here it is.  

I am sorry in advance. 

However, my fetid visage could be useful in keeping rodents away.
  
Thanks to Glenn Harm for the video camera work. Thanks also to Marc Bever, Pat Caporali, Mike Cockrall, and to Paul Tracy for his patience.