Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Only problem is... is... well. I will try to explain it so that a reporter can get it.
We qualified for CHIP through the tentacles, I mean, the concerns of the Public School Scheme.
We filled out forms, included our tax returns, and voilà! Like magic, our 4 progenies were covered!
We received our insurance cards, picked out by the Office of Wealth Redistribution and went to our local clinic to go shopping. When we got to the checkout line....in the medical business, that is the first place you go, by the way, we were told that the doctors don't take patients with this insurance company! So we had to wait a year, in order to get a new one, and by that time, we still were paying out of pocket. Of course, you say, why get a different doctor who would take your insurance, then? Good question. Here is my answer: Why should I have to get a new doctor, when we were satisfied with what we had, and our doctors had seen us for years before, and knew my kids so well? Why have to do that? Some things are worth keeping and paying through the nose for, if you have to.
Finding a dentist who would take our insurance was even harder. And when the kids were diagnosed with severe allergies, we had to wait more than a month for a doctor to see them. Meanwhile, the CHIP office changed our insurance company, and when we went in, the whole process had to be repeated!
Our youngest had premature onset of puberty. Seeing a specialist required a six month wait at one hospital nowhere near us, and in the end, we discovered the cure would have been worse than the early puberty itself, and worse....this treatment, still experimental, wasn't covered.
I am of the opinion that a simple solution is always the best. It works with my chiropractor. Doctors simply offer their patients a menu-type of payment plan. I can choose to pay a lump sum of $320, and get 12 treatments. Or, I could pay a flat fee of 35 dollars for each treatment. Either way, it is a much more reasonable way of paying for care.
Oh, I am sorry...This is a good idea. We are talking about Democrats.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
$158 for 6th row center aisle seats.
$25 for the size 7X thong with $2 toy sandbag tied to the front..for thrust, when she threw it at her beloved Martin. ( I hope and pray he didn't get a restraining order.)
$1.79 for posterboard, $3.18 for the BadAss Black Sharpie.
Getting to say in words: "Quit begging, Martin, I'll marry you!" Priceless.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
The U.S. State Department, always looking for the easy, appeasy way out of the latest morass, has come up with an idea! Let me know how that goes.
Gerard Vanderleun has highlighted yet more glorious writing on the intarwebs. This time It is House of Eratosthenes.
You read one blogger, who introduces you to yet another blogger, and pretty soon, you are much smarter than some college professors and university presidents....at a fraction of the price.
Well, that's my whoring linkfest for the day. Tomorrow is Haramfest Sunday, and I need to find something tantalizing for my man when he gets back from the rugged outdoors...Happy Birthday Husman!
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Roasted Pork à la Boricua, (It's all in the Mojo, Baybay!)
with Chou-fleur Gratinée
Followed by Toasted Hazelnut Brownies.....mmmmmmmmmmm, Nutella!
While the recipe I linked to for the Mojo marinade is probably quite delicious, I made mine this way: And note the measurements:
Lemon juice, lime juice, anyway you can get them. Several good sploshes will do you.
Orange juice, about a half cup...more like two good glugs and a splosh.
Honey, from the squeeze bear, a couple of ppfffllttts, just until a nice sticky puddle forms in the middle of citrusville.
To which I add a half bottle of Tabasco sauce...the red kind.
One large serving spoon of recaito....a cilantro base that comes from Goya. Mah-bellous estoff!
Cumin, a table spoon, heaping
Paprika, a table spoon, heaping
Badia's Complete Seasoning, three modest shakes
Cracked pepper, as much as you want
Kosher salt, a good shake
Olive oil, drizzled in whilst whisking happily away.
When all is said and done, El Cervo should have his Mojo, and all will be happy in the Harmonious Oven, baybay. Turn the pork roast all around in the stuff and cook slow in a 300 degree oven forever, till its done....make sure to baste, because the more it cooks, the more sticky and sweet/hot it gets! When you see that there is a dark caramelization of the top of the roast, cover it and let it cook a bit longer.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, but them are some mighty fine eats, ma'am. Remove from the oven, leave it covered and crank the oven to 350. Don't even think of opening the lid.
Now for the cauliflower. Core it, chop it into florets, rinse it and toss it with a nice buttermilk ranch dressing and some seasoned croutons that have soaked in some milk for a half hour, and loads of cooked bits of bacon. Toss in a bag of shredded cheddar cheese. Pour all that goodness into a buttered casserole and bake for about 45 minutes, until browned and bubbly on top. Keep the oven at 350.
Serve either with rice, potatoes, or go easy on yourself, just make plain egg noodles and toss with butter. Usually, I would serve an arroz azafrán with black beans, but we did that last night, so we went international with the German egg noodles and Fwench chou-fleur.
Dessert is why people live to put themselves through the ringer all week long:
Take two boxes of good, fudge brownie mix, the kind that makes a square 8x8 pan, and double the ingredients, substituting melted butter for oil. Heat the jar of Nutella in the microwave for a few secs, and pour some of that love into the batter. Sprinkle chopped and toasted hazelnuts, about one cup, over the top of the batter. Bake in a 9x13 cake pan for about 27 minutes. After removing from the oven, drizzle Nutella over the nuts lightly. Or you can withhold the nuts till after baking. Spread out a thin layer of Nutella over the top of the warm brownies, add the hazelnuts, and voilà! Your week has meaning, at least until next Sunday. You can serve with ice cream, or do this: Take an instant flavored coffee mix, like International House of Coffees, and whip it into heavy whipping cream and serve it with your decadent brownie.
Moammar sez: "Employees should NOT eat this at their desks during the month of Ramadan...it ain't nice! We get offended, then we seethe, and then bad things happen."
Just when I was beginning to despair that Israel was committing national suicide, Omri gently pulled me back from the ledge with this soothing reminder of the superiority of Western Civilization. So I am stealing this from him and shamelessly posting it here, with my two shekels added. First of all, the clip isn't nearly long enough. If you click on Omri's link above, you will get to see more videos embedded. There is something ethereal about classical music that puts to bed all this nonsense that evolution explains away everything. The devil and Allah, perhaps they are one and the same. They both hate music. May Israel molt off this evil skin of corrupt governance that has wrapped itself around her and may she be redeemed by the best and brightest of her righteous sons and daughters. Keep blogging, Omri! God Bless Israel.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Taken By: Tom Ash
Running Man taken with Orion ED80mm and Canon 350D Hutech modified.
Processed in Image Plus and PS-CS. Cropped from original M 42 image.
Image located here.
I thought about posting a series of links that would describe this day for me, but instead I will remember a man I once admired. Born on September 11th, he nearly died on September 11th.
On September 11th, 1978, I was sitting in my second level Spanish class, getting ready to wish Mr. Andy Lake a very happy birthday.
I had a terrible crush on Mr. Lake. He was a ruggedly good looking redhead, with a dry but wicked sense of humor. He was disfigured from head to toe, having once suffered third degree burns over most of his body, which made him all that more attractive. Just something about him made all the girls want to mother him, I guess. We were too polite to ask how he got those injuries.
In spite of his burned body and limp - he needed a cane to walk, he was the track coach at our High school. He radiated a quiet joy, crippled as he was, and always in pain, and that had a very profound effect on us.
Although I never came out and told him that I had a crush on him, he knew, and was patient with me and never ridiculed me about it. He became a mentor to my younger brother, taking him in and helping train him to become a record-breaking long jumper and runner. Sports Illustrated even wrote articles about my brother! (He would be mad at me for boasting, but hell, that's what envious sisters do!)
On this birthday, September 11th, 1978, Mr. Lake didn't feel much like celebrating. He was very thoughtful and told us about his 19th birthday.
He celebrated by going to as many bars as he could. There were no such things as designated drivers in those days. You simply took your chances. He took his and nearly lost his life when the small car he was a passenger in ran into the back of a hop truck.
A hop truck is a slowly moving, wide vehicle with large, barbed coils onto which hop vines are removed from their poles and wires and wrapped before taken to the breweries. Hops are one of the chief crops in the Yakima valley, and when sharing the road with a hop truck, you give them a wide berth.
Which is exactly what didn't happen on that September 11th of Mr. Lake's 19th year.
The small vehicle went into all those razor sharp coils, and Andy Lake, not wearing a seat belt, went through the window of the car in flames. The other passengers were killed.
He spent many years recovering from this accident, and always credited God for whatever healing he had.
Not a church man, Andy celebrated his faith by being close to nature, and by being an inspiration to all who knew and loved him. He was not only our Spanish teacher and track coach, but he took us rafting down the Yakima river. He took us fishing.
In those days, he lived in a small bungalow. He always welcomed his students as equals.
He died last year. Here is his obituary:
Andrew Lake, 58, of Moxee died Thursday in Yakima.
He was born in Seattle. He taught 19 years at East Valley School District and owned and operated Yakima White Water & Fishing Guide.
Survivors include his parents, Ted and Alta Lake of Leavenworth, Wash.; a brother, Patrick W. Lake of Los Angeles; and three sisters, Katherine L. Lake of Salt Lake City, Mary E. Brandt of East Wenatchee and Lynn A. Meredith of Everett, Wash.
Memorial services will be held at a later date.
Run among the stars, Mr. Lake.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Last night's Tasty Infidelicacy was Ham and Bean soup with Cornbread.
Here is my recipe: 1 1 lb. bag of dry white beans, your choice. I use large lima beans.
1 Spanish onion, diced.
1 1 lb. bag of carrots, peeled, and chopped large, on the bias
2 ham hocks (I use the meaty hocks, the knuckles are all fat.)
1 package of Uncle Wiley's Bean and Pea Seasoning (thank me now!)
cracked pepper, and bay leaf. Fresh chopped parsley for when it's done.
Sauté the onions in corn oil or butter, not much is needed. Just until they start to sweat. Don't caramelize them. Pour almost a half gallon of water over the onions and add the rinsed beans. You don't need to soak them overnight. Add the seasoning packet, the hocks and bay leaf. Season with cracked pepper or a little bit of dried crushed red pepper flakes. Cook on medium heat until it begins to boil, then lower the temp and let it all simmer. Cover and stir occasionally. In the middle of the cooking, add your chopped carrots and cover, til the meat is fork tender and the beans are nearly softened. Remove the meat and bones, and cut the meat into bite-sized morsels and add back to the pot. This is a soup more than a stew. When done, the beans will be soft to the point of melting in your mouth. Chopped fresh parsley adds a bright zing to it all. Remove the bay leaf. Serve with cornbread.
Cornbread. Preheat your oven to 400. Place your cornbread skillet, hopefully a cast iron skillet that your momma gave you, in the oven. Heat the empty skillet. Meanwhile, mix your batter. I use 3 boxes of Jiffy Cornbread mix and alter it with the addition of creamed corn and diced jalapeños instead of oil. Otherwise, mix it according to the recipe and before adding it to the heated pan, add a little corn oil, or if you are going for a really good crust, melt some saved bacon fat in the skillet, and when it gets all bubbly, quickly pour in your batter and bake it for
20 minutes. Suppertime. And that means time for a good story:
This is a true story about how convoluted definitions have become. If the smart people in academia and the press would just leave the rest of us all the hell alone, we could talk to each other honestly about anything. Religion, race, sex, politics, you name it! Anything.
One of the ways we break down our self-imposed barriers is through the offering of food. In talking about race in America, food is the best way I know of for talking about the differences between regions, religions and cultures. Fast food may be all pervasive, but when we retire to the bunkers of serenity that are our homes, we don't want anything fast or resembling McDonald's. We want comfort and happy memories of childhood.
While working for a newspaper back in the day that there were paste-up artists, a young black woman and I started an honest and riveting conversation about what it means to be black in America.
My first instinct was to avoid talking about it altogether, but she was insistent, and the conversation took a direction I never anticipated. I will try to honestly recreate it from memory:
She: "I'm quitting the NAACP."
She: "People there keep telling me I am not black enough? How can I not be black enough?"
Me: "I would say you're a lovely deep shade of dark brown sugar, possibly coffee,
but n'au lait."
She: *laughing* "No, I'm serious. Some woman told me that I dress "white"...because I had a plaid skirt on!"
Me: "Maybe you are trying to pass for Scottish! I'm Scots-Irish, with a couple of Welsh bastards thrown into the mix just to keep us humble."
She: "She told me she saw this woman on Oprah that said black women in this country should dress African-American. With African clothing! I can't show up for work looking like that, I would get it all dirty! Then she said that my name Karen, isn't a black woman's name! What does THAT mean? I know I'm a black woman".
Me: Okay, by that logic I could consider myself a black woman! I mean, my grandmother, for whom I am named had the first name Juanita, and she always hated it when my Yank dad called her WAAAAAH-needa. And, my dad is a jazz musician, and jazz is black music, right? He always jokes that we had a cracker in the woodshed, whenever he has to explain to people why he sounds so black when he plays. Plus, I make soul food all the time!
She: *quite skeptically* "Soul food? What kind of soul food do you make?
Me: "Hocks and beans and cornbread."
She: "Can you do the collard greens?
Me: "Sure, but my husband won't eat them. He will eat spinach, but it isn't the same thing. That's like white people's collard greens."
She: "No one makes hocks and beans better than my momma."
Me: "I do. Trust me on this."
She: "If you can make hocks and beans AND cornbread better than my momma, I will officially make you a home girl. "
Me: "Can I do the snap, if I succeed?"
So the next night I brought our supper in.
She: "This IS better than my momma's! And the cornbread is so moist! Okay! You are an official home girl!"
I immediately got on the PA system and announced to the entire composing room that I was officially designated a home girl! Word. And now I get to do the snap. This is the same recipe I have always had, with the exception of the Uncle Wiley's Bean seasoning added.
By the way, Karen has the best taste in Black Gospel Music. And if this is the gold standard of being a proper black lady in America, then me 'n' Eva Cassidy are as Black as we wanna be.
Next week, I will attempt to become a Boricua.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Friday, September 7, 2007
The Shafi'i school of Islamic jurisprudence forbids men and women to dye their hair black "except when the intention is jihad...as a show of strength to unbelievers" ('Umdat al-Salik e.4.4)
I applaud Robert Spencer and Hugh Fitzgerald for slogging through this unreadable bilge. Saves me the effort and gives me time to say this:
"Quick, boys, we must surrender! He's dyed his beard black! On my mark, get ready,
get set: CRINGE!"
I don't necessarily agree with the writer at Sippican Cottage about The Dangerous Book for Boys, though I do like his own list, which got me thinking about moments of my boyhood, years before I morphed into a bleedin' girl. Oh, those were happy days, indeed. First, let's look at his list, which I heartily endorse:
1. Ride a bicycle without a helmet. You heard me. And no spandex spangled with lavender and chrome yellow blotches and French words. You'll wear canvas shoes, too. You will not have anything with you that people with helmets refer to as "hydration." Eventually, you can get a blast of rubber-tasting hot water from a garden hose.
2. Tell your 5th grade teacher, when she starts in with the Vegan lecture again during a spelling lesson, that you're going to kill and eat your supper as soon as you can get your hands on some weapons. Then inform her that if she gives you anything less than a 'B" on any report card because you told her that, your father will have a phalanx of lawyers turn her life into a deposition purgatory. Then don't pass in any homework for the remainder of the term. Let's see who has the stones.
3. We're playing FOOTBALL, without any equipment but the ball. There are no rules, so this chapter is short. Soccer is Irish stepdancing with a ball introduced. We don't want any of that.
4. We're going out with dad on Earth Day, and we're cutting down a tree with a chainsaw. Dad is hung over and is in a hurry and there is only one set of ear and eye protection, so one of you risks blinding, the other deafness. Solidarity is the hallmark of any male bonding ritual. The chainsaw's guard is cheap and flimsy, but that doesn't matter because it came out of the box broken anyway. Which leads us to...
5. Duct Tape. We're going to use a lot of duct tape. We are going to dress our wounds, splint our shins, fix our tools, and tape our little brother's door shut with glorious, magnificent Duct Tape. When the womenfolk complain about the gummy residue it leaves on your siblings, we will remove it with rags soaked in acetone. These will be disposed of improperly. I guess. Who reads the MSDS sheet? Girls.
6.We are not cave men, son. Electronics are a part of our world now. You will find pictures of girls on the internet who are not clothed. You will educate yourself on the proper procedure for removing cookies and browsing history. You will leave one picture of a girl wearing only very steeply inclined shoes and a fetching pill-box hat on the hard-drive, and when it is discovered --by mom-- you can deny, deny, deny. Then watch your dad squirm and sleep on the couch for a week.
8. You will have a sip of Dad's beer while you watch the football game together. You will remark on the grooming, stature, or level of pneumatic charms displayed by a Baltimore Ravens cheerleader while doing so. Dad's beer tastes awful, and dad knows it, so this isn't all that dangerous for you. He, however, is risking a decade in the pokey over this. We're in this dangerous thing together, son.
9. You will fight with your fists with the biggest jerk in your school. If you're the biggest jerk in your school, you will fight with at least two classmates at a time, or any adult that rides a recumbent bicycle. You will all be in trouble, bigtime, with every adult involved. You will sit on the bench outside some boneless wonder's school administration office, rubbing your shiners, and share the respect reserved only for the men in the arena. It's the only real way to make friends with people you don't like.
10. You will give the Dangerous Book For Boys to your little sister. (Or you can send it to good ol' Jauhara. I'm someone's little sister!)
Update: Visit our Borderline Sociopathic Blog For Boys.
I can say, without having to take the Fifth, that I have done almost everything on the above list, and then some. Here are some of the things I did, mostly in a scientific quest to prove that everything that happens in a Road Runner cartoon can be replicated in the real world, if you have the time, an anvil, a rope and pulley and lots of dynamite.
My baptism into boyworld came with my brother's hand-me-downs. Most girls would complain, but not me! Oh no! First thing I did was cut my hair. A boy's hair cut. With shaggy long bangs that hung in my eyes. (No barrettes. EVER!)
I then immersed myself into the Old Testament for Boys ... followed by the New Testament for Boys. Having prepared myself to live as a boy, which is what I always wanted to be, I began living in earnest.
I ran away from home, and told my folks I was going to Destination X. I took the brothers with me, along with canned beans, a can opener, matches, a tin pan, and tin cups. We took pocket knives and flashlights. No sleeping bags...regrettably. We lasted a weekend by the Missouri River in Montana. Next to the river were large drainage pipes, bone dry, near the dam. We walked across the dam and got caught. We caught fish and cooked them and ate them.
Once, while walking the tracks from Yakima to Selah, in order to check out the horse skeleton hanging from a cliff, we were beset by older bullies who were going to rob us . They waved a BB gun at us, and I promptly fell to the ground and had the hairiest, scariest seizure I could fake. My little sister and brother fell down weeping, wailing, that they'd forgotten my medication (gosh we were good fakers) pleading for God to spare me. just. this. once. Finding mercy within their blackened souls, they let us go, and when I "came to", we limped feebly into the dusty town of Selah, while they hung back, making sure we were all right....piece of advice: NEVER TURN AROUND AND SCREAM "SUCKERS" AT THE PEOPLE WHO JUST CUT YOU A BREAK! IT REALLY PISSES THEM OFF.
We had wars. Tribal wars. With dreaded enemies. The Carmelly brothers and their ratfaced little sister. We concocted biological weapons of the most disgusting nature. Every bodily fluid, and I mean every, including solid waste, found its way into the Bucket of Dreaded Repercussion. Added to that was anything that could ferment...mostly rotted crab apples from the base of our crabapple tree. Lovely stuff. The Carmellys would attack our fort, which was the garage in the back yard, at the end of the drive. (No such thing as a connected garage, though middle class and rich folk had them) We would sit on the roof and wait for them to approach from the back, in the alley. Let's just say, their mere rocks were no match for our Bucket of Dreaded Repercussion.
I had slingshots. And I killt critters with them.
I got spanked. With a belt. Often. Sometimes with an orange Hot Wheels track. (Word of advice: Never ask for a Christmas present that can be used as a form of punishment on your bare bottom. Kinda ruins the whole "fun toy" concept.)
Once, when some kid stuck his backside in my face at my desk in Mr. St. George's 7th grade pre-algebra class, I promptly put my shitkicker up his jean shielded crack and kicked him to the floor. When he challenged me to a fight after school, I showed up, and surrounded by wagering well-wishers, we beat the living snot out of each other. I got off easy with only two black eyes. He got a puffy perdy little mouf and a bloodied nose. We remained good friends until the end of junior high. The girls wouldn't have anything to do with me after that, insulting me with an unctuous, sneering, "Boy". Later, I would be called a Lesbian, though I had no idea what the hell that meant.
I won as many belching contests as I lost. I smoked cherry cigars on Saturday mornings in front of the Seventh-Day Adventist Church, just as the parishioners were getting out. I got my brother his very own cigarette roller so that he wouldn't have to keep stealing Marlboros from the IGA.
I spent my quarters on dryer rides at the laundromat. I bought rubber doggie poo with my allowance money, and fake dead rats that looked so real they scared my step mother. I could go on and on, but you get my drift.
A POX on you who have robbed the kids of their childhoods. Especially the boys, and those who, like me, would be boys, if they'd had their druthers.
I curse you to your faces and Damn You Straight to Hell, metrosexual social engineers!
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
I don't usually do two posts in one night. I guess I must be a little ambitious. Rather, I think it is the restless leg syndrome acting up again...and it is really a nasty annoyance. Lately, I have been limping. My legs are cramping more at night, they feel weak when I stand, and lying down just aggravates them. So I relish these productive bouts of insomnia.
I post comments at a great number of blogs. Strike that. I post comments at a number of really great blogs.
Discarded Lies has by far, the most eclectic bunch of people adding their two cents. I mean really eclectic. And eccentric. The wit coming out of the minds of these people is sharper than any blogging knife in the internet knife block. We get each other's jokes, and add to them. If you are ever looking for genuine conversation on the internet, Discarded Lies is probably the best source. All the commentators are contributors in one way or another. I would not hesitate to say that DL is the only blog which is a living, breathing entity, with its own life...and soap opera, where we all are characters in the Ferkakta Diner.
Next up is Bookworm Room. This lovely lawyer lady is a thoughtful and excellent writer. She is also one of the most honest thinkers I have come across. I admire and respect her. She writes in a way I only wish I could, but at least she lets me comment and doesn't make fun of me if I sound silly or misinformed.
Little Green Footballs. I am one of the lucky people who managed to get registered in one of the fleeting five minute windows of opportunity that opens up rarely. I treat my registration there like gold, along with the thousand or so other registrants. Occasionally, I will get the chance to post early, like before 780, but those are the rare times, and who really reads all those posts anyway?
Gates of Vienna, which keeps its watchful eyes on the jihadists in our midst, and in the midst of others...especially Scandinavia. I adore the Baron and Dymphna.
Faith Freedom. I admire greatly what Ali Sina is doing on behalf of the apostates of the world. He has bravely opened up his forum to allow Muslims to post their hatred and bile, and for the most part, most of the Muslims attempt to debate the nonbelievers with a lot of blather, but overall, it is a well-written exposé of Islam. I would go so far to say that this site, along with a number of others is integral to the defense of western civilization.
Finally, I really like posting at Jihad Watch and Dhimmi Watch, where I posted today. The topic was the ignorance prevailing in academia, and which is why I changed the name of this blog again. Here is one of the comments to one of the comments left on this article, written by Hugh Fitzgerald:
Aww, who DOESN'T like babies? I do. Everybody does! Well, time for our mail bag, and it's all about CUTE WIDDO BABIES! Here are our letters, from hither and yon (not to be confused with Michael Yon, warblogger extraordinaire): First, from Mr. Micheal Davies, who wrote me not long ago. and whom I made quite happy...it's always nice to make people feel so, you know, validated.
Micheal Davies < > wrote:
I Thank you for your prompt response to my proposal to you, which came as a great relief as I am desperately in need of a foreign partner who does not have any kind of relationship with me.I am sorry for responding late, I had an attack and went into coma and I just regained consciousness today. I got your email from the Internet, in my search for a complete stranger whom I will entrust with my will, after due consultation with my terrestrial guidance, and your names endeared me to you. You certainly don't need to own a company to execute my project.
I have lived a very rough life. As the only son of my late parents who were very rich in Gold mining business, which is my family business, I inherited a gold factory from my father and I have also done this business to its fullest, and as the business I so much cherished, I became very successful and success got into my head and i got carried away. As a result of my wreck less passed, I lost my focus, I divorced my wife and she sued for alimony because we were legally married, and the court ruling was in her favour and as alimony, I paid her off with all the running capital we had in our safe, with the hope that I will gradually pick up again, but the peace that had eluded me was greater than I imagined as I was continually being plagued by one problem or the other until I was struck with cancer which is gradually eating away my life.
In the heat of all these controversies, I repented and gave my life to God, as He alone can give me rest, I repented because I discovered life was vanity and the acquisition of materialism is also vanity because in the midst of abundance, here I am sick from an ailment my money couldn't cure and while I am gradually dying away in the confines of a medical home, my relatives are squandering my wealth, in a life style that will do them no good, in a life style that does not glorify God. My relatives had actually concluded arrangement to sell off my estate when my attention was drawn to this crime, I had to sell the estate and put the proceeds from the sales totally 15.5million in a secured vault with a security firm, with the hope that when I get well, I will reorganise my business but my doctor has told me that I have few months to live due to the destruct ions the cancer has done to my oesophagus. I am now a permanent resident of the hospital. blahblah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah
blahblah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blahblah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blahblah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah * YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWN*
blahblah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah
blahblah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah
God bless you!
And from my other penpal:
I am very happy to inform you about my success in getting that fund Now,
I want you to contact my secretary on the information below
NAME; Mr.Alex Kamara
Office telephone : +229 93 48 93 66
ask him to send you the total sum of (USD1.5m) in a bank draft, which I
kept for your compensation. CONTACT HIM ON this email;
And here is my response to both of them:
Thank YOU, dear Friends and Investors! We are pleased to do business with you... I am sure you will find our stock very much to your liking: We have some fine children, ready for your dispensational needs. Take a look at some of these beauts. Delicate little things. They can crawl right inside a cool oven and scrub it down without even wetting themselves! How many times have you tried to get all those dirty bits out of your oven, thinking, "if only I had a small, pliable infant! The job would be a piece of cake!" And let me tell ya something else, guys....The lye only TENDERIZES them. Yeah, that's right. DUAL USE BABIES. Once you've had them clean your oven, you can bake those succulent little tykes in that very same, sanitized oven, knowing that the fork tender little so and so is both CLEAN AND DELICIOUS!! Not many companies will back that claim up, now will they? Oh no, my good man, No indeed!
I think, good sir, that once you've tried our Multi-use children, you will WANT to sell that cow and invest in some really fine beans. We're talking Golden Goose, Golden Ovaries, Golden Eggs, Singing Harp and the whole nine yards. The pair of children you saw in our link will only set you back 10 000 $US, cashiers check or wire transfer. We will leave that up to you.
I feel warm in all the blackened nether regions of my heart, knowing that I have made someone special very happy!
Thursday, August 30, 2007
This is the title character of the Korean animated film, "Doggy Poo". I have a lot of questions about what might be wrong with South Korean society...don't get me wrong, I don't have a problem with a culture where they eat DOGS....per se, but really....this is ...it's...it is just. wrong.
On so many levels. Where to start? Well, I can imagine the poor North Koreans watching this and thinking, "that's one tasty looking turd, there. I wonder if the Dear Leader will allot us more feces than we usually get."
Or maybe they are thinking, "The Dear Leader ALWAYS gets to eat the DOG, while we are stuck eating only the feces! NOT FAIR!" And the specter of feces, I mean food riots breaking out in Pyongyang seem almost promising. At least one hopes.
Oh well, a hilarious and mercifully brief synopsis of this 2003 movie can be found HERE, and try not to spew anything hot at the computer....I take no responsibility.
Speaking of which, Throbert's cat's poo found his purpose! (scroll down the page a bit)
While I don't dislike Korean cuisine, per se..... I draw the line at the North Korean cat poo recipe pictured above. There are some ethnic foods that are just. never. kosher.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Here is the letter I received from Jerry Mickey:
It is my precious time to thank you once again after all well done transaction
with your partnership and your co operation you provided to made it sucessful.
I remain royal to you, as you pleaded me to always be in contact with you in any
Because of your faithfulness,i will not further more to make a contact with
anyone else,despite you because you have done so great to recall.
I hereby writting to let you know about another bigger transaction that worth the
sum of NINE HUNDRED AND EIGTHY FIVE THOUSAND U.S DOLLAR.
I have made every possible arrangement,so what left for you to do is to
contact my secretary in BENIN,His name is MR AKUDO AKUDO .Email:email@example.com
Send him your directly information as follows for fast delivery.
YOUR FULL NAME:
YOUR PHONE NUMBER:
Remember to let me know immeditely after you have done that because the greater joy is ahead of us as you have just experinced the beginning for the past transaction.
Yours faithful partner
HON DUKE MADSON
CONTACT HIM FOR ANOTHER TRANSACTION.
And here is my, ummm, reply:
Jerry, Jerry, Jerry....
In between the lines of all that gobbledy gook there was a message in there somewhere, and I am only too happy to respond:
We have a very large and expanding business. You might just want to invest heavily in this company before it goes public, and then any schmuck will walk in off the streets and invest! Have I got a sweet deal for YOU, my brother!
Our company buys and sells children! No. We aren't another adoption agency. We sell multi-purpose children. Children for their organs, their stem cells, their brain cells. Let me tell you, sir, that a 2 year old girl has more eggs in her teeny tiny ovaries than any 40 year old lady. So we can grow our own children. Think of it. No registrations, no birth certificates, no identities. Only endless supplies of kids for all your wants and needs! Yes sir. We also sell children for scientific experimentation, which means that PETA whole-heartedly endorses our endeavours and is HEAVILY invested. No more cruel experimentation on sad-eyed puppies and fluffy bunnies.
Our multi-use children are also pressed into manufacturing processes, especially in China, where, because of a one-child per family government policy that is strictly enforced, the child labour market is wide open! And WE GET THE BULK OF THE BUSINESS! And because they are OUR children, they don't require payment to parents. You simply cannot lose investing with us! But that's not all!
Even defective children have proven useful for the ever increasing Child Sex Travel Tours currently enjoying favor in exotic locales like Thailand, Guatemala and the Netherlands.
We also refurbish those children who have been exhausted sexually and use them as nutritional fillers in high quality, high-end pet food production. Our pet foods guarantee a silky, shiny, healthy coat and brighter eyes than mere dog chow.
We think you'll agree with us, that the Multi-Purpose Child Industry is the wave of the future. You'd be a real sap not to invest with us!
I think that's an offer you can't refuse!
Monday, August 6, 2007
Quick, before the PC police take it down, watch the following tidbit of naughty infidel theater....
And please, when you see most of the names involved with this deliciously blasphemous production, note how Jewish many of them sound! This could be genuinely called a Zionist Conspiracy!
I took the liberty of writing down the lyrics for you. Just you go ahead and TRY getting these catchy kitschy little songs out of your head!
Make sure you have emptied your bladders before listening to TURNED AND RAN!
I Wanna Be Like Osama!
I wanna be like Osama
I wanna bomb a path to fame across the earth!
I know people may abhor me, but by God they won’t ignore me
When the CIA determines what I’m worth.
I will delegate the killing to the malleable and willing
But be sure to have top billing when the news gets around,
Please make me like Osama B.
I’ll be Islamically renowned!
I wanna be like Osama
I want aplomb, allure and flair that can convince!
If I hadn’t been so rowdy, they’d have let me stay in Saudi,
But I couldn’t play the big leagues as a prince.
So I film eloquent reminders that the Yanks have yet to find us,
Though we’re happy to attack them on home ground!
Please make me like Osama B.
I’ll be Islamically renowned!
And they will speak of me throughout history,
Oh, what bliss to be al Mansour!
I’ll enact my plan, be the bogeyman!
With a brand new holy war!
I wanna be like Osama
I wanna wear designer clothes beneath a robe!
While my lackeys loom like vultures, I’ll declare a clash of cultures,
Kill civilians by the millions round the globe!
Grow a beard down to my navel, conquer YouTube, get on cable,
And be wealthier than any man I know!
Please make me like Osama B.
With an al Jazeera Show!
Who could ask for more, to be six-foot-four,
Oh, the name Mansour will be known!
And I won’t be missed on the wanted list,
With a jihad of my own! Yes a jihad of my own!
I wanna be like Osama
I want celebrity and riches that astound!
Please make me like Osama B
I’ll be Islamically renowned! I’ll be Islamically renowned!
Turned and Ran
Sacre bleu! Zut alors! I was all for ‘oly War!
But I ‘ad no fire to quench!
My brothers in arms tried to squash my qualms.
But I’m afraid that I’m too French!
So as zay marched to fight ze enemy!
From under ze bed I ‘eard ze charge!
I ‘ad been ‘iding zair all afternoon,
Wis a beret and some fromage!
So zen I teep-toed to ze l’aéroport!
And got on a non-stop flight to Cannes!
While lesser men would fight, I made sure zat I’m all right,
Being French, I turned and ran!
Turned and ran, turned and ran!
Better living as a mouse than die a man!
Sroughout l’histoire, it’s la France’s oldest plan.
Turned and ran, turned and ran, turned and ran!
I didn’t want to fight at all, for fears that I would be blown apart.
I could be a splendid look-out pussier,
But not such a brilliant Bonaparte!
So every day was like an Agincourt.
I fled every time a fight began!
Instead of French terroriste, I would razzer be French kissed,
In ze end, I turned and ran!
Turned and ran, sans regret.
Better lose my dignité zan lose my tête!
I don’t like to burn, I’d razzer turn,
Turned and ran, turned and ran, turned and ran!
So now architecture’s very chic now I’m at ze université!
I only work three days a week
From mid-October to the first of May.
Turned and ran, pas all zat!
No body bags for me, I’ll have baguette!
Will I stand one day, mais no! Jamais!
It simply wouldn’t fit God’s plan!
I turned and ran, turned and ran, turned and ran!
Sunday, July 29, 2007
But I digress.
Brother Tim has 3 kids. Harve is the eldest son, taller than me, at a mere 11 years of age, followed by Josh, who is 10, and bringing up the rear is 6 year old Rea, whose sweet little face is framed in a mahogany sea of curls with a constellation of freckles marching across her cheeks and nose. When a large and crunchy beetle landed on the table, Tim was reminded of the following Harve story:
Harve, the Beetle and the Scared Dancers.
Tim, who worked as a sound man for a number of years at the Country Tonight Show in Branson in the Nineties, took the wife and the number one two-year old son to the end of season barbecue at the theater.
As the family sat at a table surrounded by dancers, a rather large disgusting beetle made its debut. Panic ensued. The girls screamed in fright and disgust, and the boys screamed in fear and disgust, and nary a one of the dancers, paralyzed by panic knew what to do. So they scrambled to get away from the table.
Harve stood up on his booster chair and looked at the large bug crawling on the table before him.
Looking with fascination at the slowly moving insect and then at the scurrying dancers, he picked up his foot and brought it down decisively on the intruder, firmly establishing his sexual orientation for life.
And now, a Josh story.
Josh is an überchondriac. That is like being a hypochondriac only more so. I suppose one could analyze why a child becomes a whiny, perpetually "sick" person, risking humiliation at the hands of bullies and ew, girls... but again, I digress.
Josh was jumping off the neighbor's furniture with his friend, when he landed on his wrist, breaking it.
The friend went and got Josh's dad, who brought the boy to the emergency room and the doctor, gently took the boy's hand and told him,
"Now, Josh, you have a broken bone, and it is out of place. I have to put your bone back into the right place before I put a cast on it. I'm going to give you a shot that will make the pain go away, okay?"
Dad took Josh's pale and panicked face into his hand and said, "Josh, you just look at me, 'kay?
As the doctor proceeded to give Josh the shot, Josh screamed out,
"Daddy, I...I'm BLIND!!!!! I can't SEE!" The doctor stopped for a moment and looked at the boy.
Dad shook his head and the doctor continued. Again, Josh screamed out.
"Daddy! I....I....I can't HEAR! I'm DEAF! I CAN"T SEE OR HEAR YOU ANYMORE! DADDY!!!
Again the doctor paused, perplexed while Dad just rolled his eyes and signaled for the doctor to continue.
This time, Josh grabbed his chest and gasped, "Daddy....my lungs.....I can't BREATHE.....They're FILLING UP WITH ENGINE FUEL!!!!" This time, the doctor, quite worried, asked if everything was okay, and Dad said, "Oh, he always does this whenever he has to see the doctor."
I am sorry I have no Rea tales. Not that she doesn't have any, mind you. I just haven't heard any from mom or dad yet. The week is young.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
HotAir Hat is off to you and Bryan!
Go and watch the Ventilators, but then watch the Fray doing their original version of the song. I actually like this one, too.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
The Scullery Maid by Giuseppe Maria Crespi
Annie @ Discarded Lies asks the following question: "Is a British accent all you need to succeed in America?" Well, in the words of Twin Number 2, "Hell to the Yeah!"
I know this how? Not because I am British, by no means. I know this because I pretended to be British in order to get a job, a job I got by lying about everything else through my crooked British-looking teeth, too.
I wasn't always a good liar, since I only lied in order to get out of trouble and pin the blame on my brother. I wasn't very good at it, and I always felt a tinge of remorse....especially if my dad's belt came off and did some harsh asswhoopage. I hope you can forgive me for those times, dear brother. I know I have already gotten over it.
Anyway, back to "How I Became a Fab Success by Lying While Using a British Accent, and How you can, too!"
I was unemployed and apparently, unemployable...at least in the town of Berwick, Pennsylvania.
Although I had worked in the news business for many years, no newspaper wanted to hire me. (They usually hire from within the paper.)
And my abilities as a librarian got me nowhere with the local librarian, who, though desperately needing another librarian, didn't want to pay what I'd made in Lancaster as a newspaper librarian.
So I looked beyond my ken, and applied at restaurants, where no one wanted to hire me because they were always concerned that once a position opened up at the library, I would quit and go there to work.
The grocery stores gave me the same reasons.
Desperate, I decided that the only way to get a job was to lie about my credentials. So I made my mind up to lie.
Number One Rule about Lying to get a job: Lie about everything. I mean EVERYTHING! Make sure that the people you create as references are people you have known a long time, and give fake phone numbers, but make sure it's really long distance, like from England or France, or Morocco, if you want to make sure they won't ever call....and make sure your references are dead, too. I prefer dead references who have died in hideous manners. Suicides aren't necessarily a good idea, but make sure you add in the margins: "Investigators say the explosion was an accident."
Oh, and make sure that the job experience you make up is in relation to the job you are looking for. Which means, if you are applying for a lawyer job or a brain surgeon job...make sure you give yourself lots and lots of brain surgeon or lawyer experience. That way, the prospective boss will really be impressed. And always say that you learn new things quickly.
At this point, I wanted to close the deal, because the personnel director was clearly impressed with me and when she called me in for the interview, I thought to myself, while still out in the lobby waiting, "how do I make sure I get this job, and not these other skanks who are probably better trained than me?"
Answer: English Accent. Boo-Yeah!
As the future boss was looking over my creds and shaking her head with awe at the fact that I had been so well-traveled, she asked me some pointless thing about my childhood...and then, POP, out it came, the Britishest accent you ever did hear!
Well, needless to say, she was REALLY interested in getting me started right away.
She took me to where I would be working, and introduced me to my new work mates, who were duly impressed with me, because of my Acme™ British Accent, including the German lady, who said, "Oh, I Lufffffff Enklant! I used to liffff in Enklant Zvanzik Yearsss! Vayre Vere you born in Enklant?"
Damn, I hadn't thought about that question. Because my birth certificate says Kansas City, MO, and well, I was going to say that I was accidentally born there, yet British all the way, in spite of my mother's botching it. But I didn't say that, because that would have actually sounded plausible. So I said the following:
"Well, I was born in a rather small and insignificant town, you probably never heard of." (Think dammit. THINK!!!! Something. ANYTHING. MAKE. IT. UP!")
So I did, remembering that English towns are often combinations of ridiculous-sounding words and syllables, like Primbole on Sackwhuthers....and thus I created the small village of Twatsworth. You know, Twatsworth? It straddles the river Bumsuckle?
And that is where I became from: Twatsworth-Upon-Bumsuckle.
Fräulein's blank stare didn't bode well, but luckily, the rest of the staff members were American, so they believed me.
(FYI: I decided, when I went home from work, that Twatsworth-Upon-Bumsuckle was given this name after Henry the VIII came looking for a good wench with whom he could sire a manchild, and seeing only a few cows and inbred farmers around, he proclaimed that there was nary a twatsworth to be had in this Godforsaken land, and that's how our town came into being...just in case it ever came up.)
So now I had a point of origin. As I began my on the job training, I vowed to tell one new outrageous lie after another, every day of the week. I was going to be the best damn dishwasher they EVER had.
Tomorrow: CHAPTER 2 In which I was married to an African Prince (NSFW alert)
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
I never ceased to be amazed by the numbers of really good writers there are on the internet. Blogging has exposed me to far better, more vibrant writing than any recently published book. The numbers of superb and thoughtful blogs is beyond my ability to count, and for me, these writers have done more to get me to think about news than the blatherskytes on television...or the radio.
Even Rush quotes from the blogs. In fact, he is one of the only guys on radio or television doing so. Thanks for the encouragement, Rushbo. Surprisingly, (or not) I quit watching news on television a long time ago. Not even FOX gets my trust. I tried to watch the other day, and all I can think is, "What shallow, vapid people. Why am I wasting my time watching them?"
To be sure, sites like MySpace are just vanity posts for vacuous teenagers with a whole lotta nuttin' to say, but writing that makes an impact on the world is out there.
Allow me to highlight one site today:
Here is a sample of Vanderleun's writing, and if your appetite is whetted sufficiently, go and read the whole site. Slowly, digesting everything a sentence at a time.
Four years in. An inch of time. Four years in and the foolish and credulous among us yearn to get out. Their feelings require it. The power of their Holy Gospel of "Imagine" compels them. Their overflowing pools of compassion for the enslavers of women, the killers of homosexuals, the beheaders of reporters, and the incinerators of men and women working quietly at their desks, rise and flood their minds until their eyes flow with crocodile tears while their mouths emit slogans made of cardboard. They believe the world is run on wishes and that they will always have three more.
Like savages shambling about some campfire where all there is to eat are a few singed tubers, they paint their faces with the tatterdemalion symbols of a summer long sent down to riot with the worms. They clasp hands and sing songs whose lyrics are ash. "We shall... over... come." Overcome what, overcome who? Overcome their nation? Is that their dream? It is the lifelong dream of those that lead them that much is certain.
Four years in and we see these old rotting rituals trotted out in the streets like some pagan procession of idols and shibboleths, like some furred and feathered fetish shaken against the sky by hunkering witch-doctors, to hold back the dark, to frighten off the evil spirits and graven images that trouble the sleep of the dreamers...
Read the whole thing. I wish I could say it as well.
Also posted at My Pet Jawa...which has an excellent photo of the Anti-Gravitas Peace Rally.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Once upon a time, there was a teeny tiny church in a teeny tiny town in the teeny, tiny country of England...which called itself Great Britain, in order to compensate for its smallness.
But, I digress.
In the teeny, tiny church in the teeny tiny town was a teeny tiny music festival, where the people gathered to watch the children put on a musical play,
called "The Three Little Pigs".
Well, in the same little town, in the same little country were new-comers, called Muslims, but in order for the people not to be upset, they were repackaged as "Asians" by the press and the government. And of course, this euphemism put people completely at ease.
Well, the Muslims HATED pigs, due to their religious edicts, so the people of the teeny tiny town, wishing not to offend their new neighbours, decided to retitle the play, "The 3 Little Pugs", until someone pointed out to the frightened play director, that Muslims also find dogs to be as filthy as pigs.
So they sought to placate their new friends by substituting different animals, all to no avail.
The Muslims found everything to be upset about. After the title of the play was deemed too offensive, they found that the mixing of boy children with girl children terribly offensive. So the play director sent the girls packing.
Well, that was not enough, because the Muslims found music to be an evil that Allah hates, so the play director cut the musical numbers, thinking that surely the Muslims would find everything satisfactory at last, but no, they were still offended.
"We have done everything to please you in this matter, and still you are offended! What more can we possibly do?" asked the exasperated play director.
"YOU offend us, filthy infidel! Nothing would make a Muslim happier than if you would simply die!"
Seeing that he at last had found the one thing that would make the Muslim truly happier than anything else in the world, the play director went home and swallowed poison and died, setting the example for all sensitive multi-culturalists everywhere in Europe, which is now called Eurabia.
Update: Damn the sanity which prevails. The Muslims, timid creatures that they are, protest that they aren't after all offended by pigs and their stories. No. Never. So the play is on, and the slow, preemptive surrender continues.
NOT QUITE THE END