Spoiled Slackers, Thou Protest The Wrong Things

consequences

I believe in the First Amendment.  I also believe that actions have consequences, and that rights come with obligations.  This  being said, the controversy about sports players protesting the national anthem speaks volumes not only on those who think it fitting to spit on the graves of those who fought and died for our country, but on those who approve of such disrespect.

Anyone has the right to protest anything, as long as that protest does not involve destruction of property or injury to others. Your First Amendment rights end when those rights interfere with my right to my person and property.  Even as despicable and odious as such “protests” that disrespect our nation and our Veterans are, they have the right to do it.  They also have the obligation to face the consequences of their actions.

Today’s younger generations – starting sadly with Boomers and GenXers, and to a toxic extent among Millenials, have no sense of history because history is barely taught. The rudimentary “history” taught in today’s public schools is nothing more than a leftist diatribe that condemns traditional American values, throws on an unjustified white guilt trip (reverse racism) while lifting up globalism and socialism. Both globalism and socialism are failed and defeatist systems.  The former USSR and present-day Venezuela are good examples of how leftist principles in government (don’t) work.

When one doesn’t understand history, and when the popular faux history that is widely taught demonizes American nationalism and American hegemony, and one mistakes celebrity soundbites for Gospel truth, any kind of poison and inanity can be easily spread around.  All it takes is for one jackwagon who would be better off sticking to carrying a football to run his mouth without consulting the facts to create a controversy that should never exist.

We as a nation should know better than to entertain the race card, especially when the accusations of “oppression” come from someone who has never known it.  I find it hard to believe that football players who make millions of dollars a year in the NFL are “persecuted” or denied opportunity due to their race.

It is true that equality of opportunity does not guarantee equality of outcome. One’s race is not a hindrance to education, employment or opportunities.  One’s culture, upbringing and lack of personal ambition are hindrances to all of the above though, which should cause individuals to look at him or her selves first.

Before you scream “Oppression!” look in the mirror.  It is necessary to ask, and not just of the black community but also of certain white communities as well who have bought into the governmental dependency cycle, to look in the mirror.  If you expect the world or the government to give you everything without you having to earn it, you are the problem.  Only you can fix it.  Not the government, not “whitey,” but you.  Rights have obligations.  Get off the welfare dole and do some sort of meaningful work. Put down the crack pipe.  Stop killing each other. Start working with law enforcement to clean up our communities.

Do you have the right to protest the national anthem and/or to disrespect our country and our flag.  Yes you do.  I also have the right to call you out for the despicable fool you are.

 

 

Strange Song Lyrics, Walmart, Livestock, and Back to 1981 (or not)

Guillotine-Names

I was just thinking what an interesting world it would be if I wrote trivia questions for money. I have stored away too much esoteric and ephemeral knowledge for my own good over the years. Making it multiple guess would be too easy.  I go for fill in the blanks, which at least requires some thought and/or creativity.

The first question I came up with? It’s a real blast from the past.

Name a song with the word “guillotine” in it.

I am sure there are more than one, but the one I am thinking of is, “Bastille Day” by Rush.

Even cooler is the rest of the phrase: “the guillotine will claim her bloody prize.”

Beheaded

At least I used a cartoon. Lighten up.

Imagine the lyrics police on that one today, although it’s better than all the sister raping and cop killing in rap music. If you could understand the lyrics in rap music, that is.

I am dating myself in saying that, especially knowing that rap has been around since before Blondie and her song “Rapture,” and that dates back to 1981, when Reagan was President, Steve Perry was the hottest thing in Spandex, and all was right with the world, except that the cars sucked.

steve-perry

Some things really suck about getting old. Since my car was trashed almost 3 months ago (yes I am pleased with the new Corolla, but still residually pissed about the perfectly fine 2014 Corolla that got trashed) I am finally feeling somewhat normal again.  Therapy for my shoulder did actually work, which I am glad about even though I have had to fight the other guy’s insurance for bloody everything and I am still hashing over various things.  I didn’t ask to get rear ended by some moron with a history of seizures who should have known better than to be driving.  I didn’t ask to deal with four or five full blown arthritis flares along the way either.  Thanks, asshole.

Maybe I should have gotten a lawyer, but I hate the legal profession even more than the medical industry. I refuse to refer to the medical industry as “health care.” They don’t care, and the last thing they want for their pocket books is for anyone to actually be healthy. The legal profession, insurance companies and the medical industry are all rip-offs, and all are in cahoots.  Follow the money trail.

Yesterday I saw another one of those displays of cross stitch patterns that are a bit on the dark side. I love cross stitch, but haven’t done it in a long time.  I would like to indulge in a nice cross stitch piece with a dark saying or two.  I saw one that had a cactus, then underneath it the word, “prick.” That one is funny. I am considering designing a simple one about being a sweetie and wiping the seatie if you sprinkle when you tinkle.  Then again, maybe a subtle DON’T PISS ON MY TOILET SEAT would serve me better.

field-of-f-cks

It’s been enjoyable being able to cook again- real food like beef and noodles or rotisserie Cornish hens, or grilled meat. Jerry was never pleased with anything I cooked, except sometimes bacon, and toward the end about the only thing I could get him to eat were chocolate covered mini-donuts. It was sad but there wasn’t anything I could do, and I felt like everything I did do was wrong.

I have said it before, and maybe it’s cruel to see someone’s passing as a relief, but Jerry’s truly was. He had been unhappy and ill and suffering for many years, and I bore much of the weight of his frustration and pain and sorrow.  When I see people who I’ve not seen in awhile and have to explain what happened I can’t pretend to be all grief stricken and weepy.  It’s not my personality anyway to be emotional and maudlin – yes, autistics get emotional, but not on cue, and not usually in any kind of “normal” appearing way.  I strive to keep my emotions private and sometimes I am so good at it I convince myself I don’t have any at all.  Then something taps the latch and the floodgate springs open at the most inopportune time.

I’ve had a few freaky dreams lately. The one about hanging out in a pen with a bull- yes, as in bovine-was especially weird.  Why was I the only one he would be docile around? Everyone else would just aggravate him and make him aggressive, but I could do anything with him.  Maybe it’s about boundaries or control issues- both are things at which I completely suck in the real world.  Being the bull master in dreams- not really the stuff power trips and fantasies are made of- but I guess I have to take whatever power I can get.

I’ve had that effect on dogs and a few cats, but I generally avoid animals larger than dogs. I have a healthy respect for horses.  It’s been years since I’ve ridden a horse.  I like them, but they are harder to read than dogs and there is a lot less margin for error with them.  You cheese off a dog and you get a warning snarl or raised hackles or any number of other warning signals.  Dogs are good at body language, even to the point of getting an autistic person to get it. Dogs normally want to help.   Cheese off a horse, however, and you are like as not to get kicked across his stall with little or no warning.  Horses don’t have to be nice.  They are only nice if they respect you.

Of cattle, I know nothing.

I never really had to hang out with cattle, except in Newark, Ohio.

There were, and likely still are, some Really Fat Cows there. Even 20+ years ago there was a stampede of heifers sporting too much cleavage stuffed into too small bras, and the parade of big butts hanging out of leggings stretched beyond reasonable limits was on.  It was when I worked in Newark that I could buy “dinky sizes” such as 10 or 12 on the clearance rack at the discount store.  I could also find 38D bras marked down which never happened in less ample parts of the world. It was also in Newark that I learned there is such a thing as women’s size 20 underwear, and that they could also serve as a car cover for my Corolla with room to spare.

Granted, morbid obesity is a thing in rural Ohio and it’s almost as bad as heroin or crack. People don’t have much to do other than watch TV, play on the Internet, screw, and scarf those dreadful greasy $5 pizzas from Little Caesar’s, unless they’re shooting heroin, making meth or smoking crack, that is.

There is Wal-Mart though. Wal-Mart is an endless source of entertainment.

Sometimes I think it would be funny to strap on a Go Pro in Wal-Mart and just see how it goes. What kinds of weird shit would I encounter?

walmartian

Deplorably Yours, Levity, and Solemnity

donald-trump-businessjunkee

I admit that at the beginning of the Presidential campaign season I wondered about Donald Trump and his motives for wanting to run.  Here’s a guy who doesn’t need to do anything other than count his money and golf, or whatever it is rich old guys enjoy.  So why on earth would a guy like this blow a boatload of scratch on a Presidential campaign?

So was the Trump bid for President a power trip?  A bucket list thing?  I was looking for motive, and I generally don’t see the best in people until it’s blatantly obvious.  I am cynical by nature. I figured it was one of those celebrity prank type things for the longest time.

As time went on and I listened to Mr. Trump, he made sense.  What he was saying and his proposed vision for America struck a chord with me.  After eight years of Obama and his complete ineptitude, it was refreshing to hear a Reaganesque voice amid the defeatist, globalist noise.

Needless to say I am thrilled at the prospect of a fundamental change of direction in American government- a rejection of globalism, a return of national identity, and dare I think it, a return to American hegemony on the world stage.

I don’t really see any need for being a graceless winner.  I think it’s blatantly obvious that the anti-American agenda has been rejected.  No reason to rub it in.

 

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like (Tacky) Christmas, and a License for Bad Behavior

wpid-mntsdcardDCIMCamera2013-11-29-12.54.46.jpg.jpg

I knew my pink skeleton from Halloween could become a year-round decoration!

I adore tacky Christmas decorations.  I like the nice ones too, but I can identify with “decorate with what you can find.”  A discarded Bud Light bikini bimbo cardboard display from last summer’s beer promotion at the drive thru can be made festive, if that’s all you have.   Some rednecks up in the west side of Marion did that one year and I’m still kicking myself in the ass for not having a camera handy to capture that moment.

budlight

Just hang some tinsel and beer cans off of her (like pasties) and you’re all set!

Dad absolutely loathed the holidays when we were growing up, and because we were poor, he waited until the last minute to begrudgingly allow us to put up anything.  One year I stuffed a left over live Christmas tree from one of those tree lot sales after it had ended (on December 23rd, because there were no decorations in the house) in my ’72 Super Beetle and brought it home and set it up.  Dad didn’t like it, but I think he let me go ahead and do it just because it was so much fun for him to watch me unload this nice, crooked, sappy, spiky tree out of the passenger’s seat of said Super Beetle in the middle of an ice storm.  He has a sick sense of humor too.  The tree ended up a bit less than five feet tall and resembled a Charlie Brown tree- but it was free.

Now I have an artificial tree, and it’s pink.  Jerry is afraid that a real Christmas tree is a fire hazard (coming from Mr. Let’s-Drink-a-Fifth-of-Wild-Turkey-Then-Start-a-Fire-in-the-Fireplace-with-Gasoline) so I decided to humor him.

small pink tree

Tastefully tacky?

Jerry can be quite the asshole with absolutely no provocation or logical explanation at all, but any kind of holiday is a sort of license for bad behavior for him.  If he can show his ass, get me upset, or otherwise make a Drama Queen Scene, that’s when he will do it.  Every holiday.  Especially Christmas.  I’m better off to go to 12 Noon Christmas Eve service at church, and then get out of town for the next 36-48 hours.  Guaranteed.

holiday-badattitude

He wonders why on every holiday I beat feet and go somewhere else to wait it out.  Holidays are the few times a year where going to my oldest sister’s actually is a more attractive option than staying home.  This is even taking into consideration her obnoxious in-laws (and I thought mine were raised by wolves) and the fact that she beat the hell out of me every day for the first thirteen years of my life.

Yesterday (Thanksgiving) was no exception to his holiday angst.  I figured if I was out of the house by 8 AM I would be OK.   He had gotten really shitfaced Wednesday night so I figured he would still be sleeping good when I took off. Unfortunately he had set his alarm (?) for 6:30 (he doesn’t get up that early when he has to work) so I got the full “Where’s my breakfast?” and “What did you do with my pills/smokes/underwear/any other item that I normally never touch?” rant.  I was in no mood for his little tirade, and I basically told him he could shove his smokes up his ass and eat shit for all I care.

brat tantrum

56, going on 2.

I’m still waiting to see if he has the locks changed today and/or if he throws my shit out on the lawn.  That wouldn’t surprise me, because Jerry is the poster child for conditional “love” if that’s what you call it.  I stopped believing in the concept of romantic “love” many, many years ago.  As long as I run and fetch and kiss his ass, he claims to “love” me.  But the minute I assert any type of resistance to his constant shit-slinging, he goes on and on about how I don’t do anything for him, ya-da, ya-da, just like a brat child who doesn’t get his way.  I put up with his shit mostly because I’m old, and for the sake of the dogs.

I don’t understand why this brat child in a geezer’s body, who would have absolutely no clue how to do more to maintain himself than the most basic of personal hygiene, wants to threaten me.  That’s not very smart on his part.  Before you tell me to get out, be careful what you wish for.  You might just get it- and when I am done, I am done.  Just ask my ex.  Only this time I won’t show nearly as much mercy, and I will get a better attorney.  You don’t want me to channel my inner ruthless bitch.  Trust me on that.

forgiveness

I guess I just have to forgive stupid, because I can’t fix it.

Sometimes I wish I could just go from Halloween and skip to about May 1.  I am not a terribly big fan of the holidays, mostly because of Jerry’s bad behavior.  I know I need to sincerely examine why I put up with it because my tolerance of it defies logic.  On one level I’m smarter than that, but on another level, I am letting my emotions govern my behavior. “Following my heart” and showing mercy have always gotten me into trouble.

I’ll see how he behaves tonight.

Back to Nature, Hardware Salad, and “Mother” Does Not Start with “S”

Kids change a lot in the span of about ten years.  Ten year olds and (nearly) twenty year olds don’t really have much in common.  Ten years ago, Steve-o was collecting Beanie Babies and Pokemon cards. He slept with a night light until he was twelve because his evil biological grandmother decided he should sleep in a dark basement when he was four years old (that ended her visitations…) and that experience must have done something to traumatize him for a long, long time.  Admittedly my evil ex mother-in-law was pretty damned scary, even for adults.  I am glad she didn’t have life insurance on me and I didn’t have anything of any real value for her to inherit had I been stupid enough to put her in my will or make her executor of my estate.   No wonder her son turned out to be the poster child for OCD and all sorts of other psychological abnormalities.  (must…not…offend…Mother…)  I think she still has some pretty hefty life insurance policies on my ex and she would score big if he dropped dead.  She is probably still sitting on the million or so that she inherited when her various relatives all died- and left all their cash and other assets to her.  But enough about my evil ex  mother-in-law.  She is quite fine where she is, with her Hardware Salad and her measuring cup.

Today Steve-o is collecting Snap-On tools, various performance upgrade parts for his ’68 VW Bug, and empty Jagermeister bottles.  I think he has moved on from sleeping with a night light on to sleeping on compliant females, but even to this day he does not like to sleep either alone or in the dark.  Creepy.  I have to wonder if the old bat tried to make him eat Hardware Salad too.

I know I wanted to get off the subject of my ex mother-in-law, but Hardware Salad deserves a bit of an explanation.  I think she was trying to do Waldorf Salad or something of that nature, but Hardware Salad, as near as I can tell, included:

Pretzels

Carrot peelings

Apple pieces, core and seeds included

Red Grapes, including pits (I assume because non-pitted grapes are cheaper)

Assorted Nuts (nut assortments are cheaper than just walnuts)

Loads of greasy mayonnaise (acck, acck, acck, my throat is filling up with snot drainage just thinking about it)

Celery

Sauerkraut?  I swear that’s what it was- as a substitute for coconut???  I have no earthly idea.

Marshmallows (????WTF??)

Vinegar

All of the above is set in lime Jell-o, (???) and topped with a tiny teaspoon of watery, off-brand Cool Whip.

Between the grape pits and the pretzels and the occasional apple seed, (not to mention celery and I suspect sauerkraut,)  this had to be the most vile dessert ever known to man.  Thankfully on the rare occasion she invited you to dinner, she measured out portions with a measuring cup so that she could budget for every penny she spent on food.  It was only necessary to gag down precisely 1/2 cup of this stuff for politeness’ sake, and I’m assuming that one teaspoon more of it would induce projectile vomiting.  I only gagged it down because I was taught from earliest childhood that when you are a guest at someone’s home you eat what is served, even if it is lacquer thinner with bat turds in it. To do otherwise would be rude, and the Wicked Witch actually thought her Hardware Salad (I forget what she actually called it) was the best dessert ever.   I don’t puke easily, but that stuff was nasty.  I cringe to this day just thinking about it.  It’s sad that after all these years I can still see and actually taste this disaster of a dessert. Acck.  I hope poor Steve-o was never subjected to it.  The Graham crackers were bad enough.  It would have been OK if she’d had enough sense not to give a 20 month old toddler the entire box.

Steve-o looked a lot different before the Puberty Fairy  Demon hit too.  He had a pleasant soprano voice not unlike my own, complete with Central Ohio Newscaster Accent.  On the rare occasions when I would answer his phone (cruel, that, but fun in a mildly malicious sort of way) his buddies would mistake me for him.  Oh, the things his buddies would say to me until they realized it was not Steve-o, but Steve-o’s Mom, which brought about a distinct change in their subject matter and tone.   Then he woke up one morning six inches taller, with an unfamiliar and ominous sounding baritone voice, a hair style reminiscent of Robert Plant in 1971, 7/8″ earrings, back hair, a libido to rival Casa Nova, and an Attitude from hell.  That testosterone is pretty powerful stuff, apparently.

What an odd resemblance.  Above is Steve-o in the outhouse, below is Robert Plant sometime in the early 70’s.

There’s a long, long way between pic#1 and pic#2, believe that.  He parted with the Robert Plant hairstyle shortly after this pic was taken, although the earrings and the funky beard remain.

He looks better with short hair, and even maybe a little less evil.  If he does bother to read my blog, which I doubt, because he would have had a major tizzy fit about the Feces Fountain Incident being recorded for posterity, and for all to see, I’m sure he won’t like me using his Facebook pic.  Oh, well.  If you post your pic online without explicitly stating that no one else can use it, I guess you’re asking for it.  At least I didn’t Photo Shop it first and do something outrageous like put Boy George’s head on his body or something.

I am trying to decide which annual plants to put in my flower beds.  I think I will stick with wave petunias- they did well the last couple of times I bothered to plant flowers.  The rose bushes have a lot of buds on them and I am looking forward to the roses blooming.  That’s as close to nature as I like to get.  Flowers- and the Cougar Pool when it gets here. I am looking forward to that.

Not Very Nice (but Hilarious as Hell) Observations of the Unwashed Masses

I have friends who send me the “People of Walmart” picture collections all the time.  I do find them funny, largely because anyone who ventures out in public looking like that deserves to have their picture posted online ad nauseam and to infinity, if for no other reason than to send a message.  Some people actually have standards, such as keeping one’s butt crack  covered and out of public view. (Steve-o….)  I can’t blame Steve-o for crashing out on the couch, but I can get the pic of his exposed midriff.  He can literally sleep anywhere, which can be fun to both watch and document.

On Sunday, when I was in Marion, Steve-o and I decided to go to Taco Bell, which hopefully was a good thing, because I think he has talked them in to having him work there again on the weekends.   I get culture shock every time I go back up to Marion.  Closer to home, I’m used to seeing foreigners and what I would consider “sophisticated freaks.”  Up there, the freak element is usually morbidly obese, poorly dressed, and always White Trash.   

Sunday was no exception.  I was surprised I noticed her before Steve-o did, but then he is more acclimated to the ways of the Rural Ohio Redneck, because he lives in Marion and goes to school in Lima.  It’s sort of like Deliverance- only without the mountains, canoes or banjos.  There’s not much else to do in rural small towns except to eat and fornicate, so one can expect to see a lot of fat people doing a lot of breeding, especially the ones who don’t have cable.

Steve-o is not a “little guy.”  He’s 6’1″ and somewhere between 180# and 190#.  Up there, however, he is often dwarfed by the women.  One thing I like about going back up there is that by comparison I’m downright petite.  

This chick had at least 150# on Steve-o and probably an inch or two of height as well.  I didn’t take a pic of her out of fear that since she was in an eating establishment she might mistake me for food.  I don’t know where she found such massive pajama bottoms with this print, although Walmart is renowned for the variety of styles in their Plus Size collection.  She had to be a 5X at least.  Now I know who’s buying the size 20 underwear.  Why, oh why, does any clothing manufacturer sell size 20 women’s undies in the thong style?  What’s the point?  I understand that it might take a few yards of material to craft a “brief” style panty (although there’s nothing “brief” about an ass the size of a Toyota Corolla) in that size, but the coverage factor would be well worth it.   If one really wants a 5X thong it would be more cost effective to go to the Tractor Supply store and buy a 25′ spool of rope.  Better yet, for the tiny bit of good it might do, as far as coverage goes, just go commando.  It would spare others the visual of getting to see your thong-string as well as your gut when you get up and stretch and yawn.  Woof.

I had to watch this heifer’s Taco Bell feeding orgy with a sort of a combination of disgust and awe.  I tried to avert my eyes but I simply had to watch, sort of like when there’s a car wreck. You know you shouldn’t stop and gawk, but you just do.   I never knew it was possible to cram two whole tacos in a human (?) mouth at one time, only to munch, chug Mountain Dew, and still manage to carry on a conversation.  The two tacos were only an appetizer.  I gazed in muted horror as She-Behemoth inhaled an order of Nachos Bell Grande, a steak quesadilla, a few burritos, a  box of 12 supreme tacos, with sour cream and guacamole, and a Mountain Dew with a few refills.  Thankfully I am not one who is easily nauseated.  Steve-o (thankfully, or I’d never been able to keep a straight face) was facing the opposite direction of the She-Behemoth during her cram-fest so he didn’t get an eyeful of her power taco-stuffing adventure.  He is not easily nauseated either, but he is also even less likely than I am to hold back his commentary on such a disgusting visual.  I could only hope that if he did see and inevitably comment, that he would be kind enough to comment in German, so at least he would be the only one to understand that he was making crude references to the table manners of feeder swine.

I managed to eat my chili-cheese burrito without much incident.  Steve-o did glance over and see She-Behemoth when he was on his way out, as she was stretching, yawning, and exposing a rather large bare patch of her rather porcine gut (and what I believe was -gag- the string of her thong.)  All he did was look away and shudder.  He saved his commentary for when we got in the car.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him what watching her eat was like.

Now I know why I normally go through the drive-thru at places like Taco Bell, so I don’t have to sit down to eat and feel as if I am in a hog barn observing the sows suck down the slop.

It is sort of cruel to make fun of the large.  I am not rail-thin by any stretch of the imagination, but there’s a difference between being large and being crude and large.  If you have big meaty arms, wear tops with sleeves.  Do the general public a favor and don’t confuse tights or leggings with pants.  If your top doesn’t completely cover your butt, don’t wear it with tights or leggings.  Tight jeans are for Steve Perry in the early ’80’s.  If you don’t look like that, and if you aren’t a dude, don’t go there. 

If I had a time machine…

Another disturbing trend I notice when I’m out in public is there must be a dire shortage of mirrors.  Either that or I’m just old and it has become socially acceptable to go out while wearing house slippers and/or pajamas in general.  I really try to save others from that visual. 

I can stand the PJ parade a lot better than I can the Piercings and/or Tats Gone Wild crowd.  What could possibly compel someone to tattoo his entire arm to look green and scaly like a lizard?  I saw a Target “Team Member” (cringe– any place that has euphemistic names for their employees such as “Associate,”  “Team Member,” etc. is almost always a dreadful place to work, and I’ve commented on that phenomenon before) yesterday who had this done to his left arm.  He was a nice looking young kid at one time- probably even magically delicious- before the 1 1/2″ earrings, before the nose rings, before the lip rings, and I don’t even want to speculate on piercings or tats in other areas.  Maybe that’s why he ended up a stock boy at Target instead of a Chippendale’s dancer.

I have to wonder how many tats are inspired by a little too much drinky-drinky?