Sonofabiscuitbox's Xanga

Poisonous Plants down on the Bayou

Sat, 18 Jul 2009 22:27:51 GMT

After numerous times camping in both the civilian and military world (yes, they are two different worlds...one is real, and the other is not), and years of working outside, as a hard-working and proud laborer, I have encountered quite a few poisonous plants, but have always been relatively lucky about avoiding exposure to them. I look before I step, but it has come to me recently, that not everyone knows what to be looking for, and this ignorance could give someone a severe rash...lol...so when it comes to poisonous plants, either wrap it up (your skin, that is), or consider practicing complete and total abstinence of physical contact with the following poisonous 3 common chlorophyll containing critters: Poison Ivy, Poison Oak, and Poison Sumac (yes, due to a deference for these urushoil oil containing plants).

Remember this: Toxicodendrons are not your friends, mon!

The first offender is the most common, Poison Ivy

In this case, and also the case of poison oak, the "leaves of three, let 'em be" saying is actually accurate. Also, pay close attention to the little seed/berry clusters to clue you in that this aint the stuff little lambs eat (as seen in the middle of the picture).

Check this next one out...it's poison oak.

This is not as commonly found around these here parts, but should still be looked out for, and especially in places with a nature to concrete ratio of over 5:1 (meaning that for every one pound of concrete, there are 5 pounds of nature). Notice that it still comes in clusters of 3 leaves, but...these actually look like oak leaves (so 'poison oak' is not just a clever name).

Now, here's a personal favorite of mine. I actually had a couple of classes with Poison Sumac, at Brookhaven Community College:

There is no specific amount of leaves for this magnificent bastard to possess, but it's look is rather distinctive anyway, so it'd be kind of difficult to confuse it for an edible or smokable plant.

And that's what I sometimes ponder upon, when thinking of the history of botantical discoveries over the span of human existence. Sometimes we mock the eras of ancestors who came before us, and their rudimentary knowledge of sanitation, hygiene, medicine, religious beliefs, etc., but these fuckers had a hard job, taste-testing these plants in order to develop some type of traditionally shared database. I'm sure a few people may have smoked poison ivy, before they found out Marijuana and Opium were the ones that would get them high. However, the traditional system of "the plant edibility test" was probably developed very early on, to prevent someone from dying just to test one plant out. The plant edibility test is still the best method a person with no technology or a knowledge of plants, can use to find out which plants they can eat when they're stranded in the wild (or merely challenging themselves?).

I strongly urge people in this age of artificial social networking, to get outside, admire the beauty of some plants and trees and perhaps get back to your roots.

Alienated from the mundane and how to get back on the track to mediocrity!

Fri, 03 Jul 2009 02:42:27 GMT

Could you be more shameless? Than to struggle to pop out the bubble of nameless?

I'm aimless but directed, my goals are set, erected, but yet to be perfected,

It's infective to sort through these wreckless electives,

There's nothin to toughen the choice but these options,

And no one's stoppin me from dreamin,

I'm possessed with unrest, mind caressed by the demons,

Eyes gleamin, like coal steamin or burnin,

The forks in the road provide learnin from turnin,

And I yearn to arrive, bruised, battered, not shattered and still alive,

At some place in my mind I can rent to own, a happy space or a place when I'm no longer content to roam,

When the foam of the tides, bubbles away as palm trees sway, and the breeze is the only connection to things from miles away,

And I become an island, truely in and of myself, with more exports than imports of that sort of natural wealth.

Cool wind in my hair...

Mon, 09 Feb 2009 06:46:25 GMT

Colonia de Tlaltenango, Cuernavaca, Morelos, Mex.

Cactus Man...doin' his thang

The Sacred City of Teotihuacan...Pyramids of the Sun and Moon (wrong angle)

Ciudad de primavera eterno, abrazame y me ofrece seguridad de corazon, mente, cuerpo, y alma

Puedo oir tu voz de distancia, y me llamas a mi tierra madre, mas cerca y juntos con el mundo,

La tercera piedra del sol; mi hogar y mi carcel, el lugar de nacimiento y algun dia el lugar para morir...

Cuando el dia llega, cambiame al pulvo de donde veni y me olvidas pronto, porque yo te olvidare tambien.

Take this path over the gently rolling hills into the complacence of October sunsets,

The burnt orange sun evokes crayola colored comforts from a more innocent time,

Riding bikes and eating Campbell's soup, then off to soccer practice right after Batman,

Popping contraband pocket-sized explosives down by the creek, with water mocassins swimming,

What to wear for Halloween? Does Amy Young like me as much as I like her?

I should get her to check "yes" or "no" or maybe even include "maybe" as an option...couldn't hurt,

Not as much as scuffs from scuffles and rashes from ramp jumping; rope burns and road rash,

Black eyes and bruises, but it don't matter, cuz I heal like Wolverine, 'cept faster...

Am I a mutant like the X-men? I guess I'll find out when I hit puberty, whenever that is...

Hey mom, I found this cat outside and she's hurt, so can we keep her? I'll feed her everyday!

Hey dad, wanna throw the football? Can we read a story? Ask me questions I know the answers to,

I want to prove how smart I am, and watch me do this while you're at it...oops, let me try that one more time,

I'll get it this time, I swear! Haha...aren't I good?

Hey, where does God come from? How does Santa move so quickly? Eww...those people are kissing!

Let's fold and fly some paper airplanes, eat fruit snacks, and throw the baseball in the backyard,

Spend time with me now, and don't take it for granted, because 8 more years and I won't want to be seen with you.

I have some confessions to make...I haven't attended mass in quite a while now.

Tue, 03 Feb 2009 02:11:11 GMT

I was thinking today about some of my eccentricities (or what the less tactful may refer to as tendencies toward "lameless") that others have commented on over the years, and also decided to add some that only those in my "inner circle" may know about me...and perhaps even one or two that only I know (pretty soon to be 'knew'). Well, here it is...you're hearin' it first...spankin' new and shizz:

I wear socks with my sandals. This is usually only around the house, because for some reason it just feels right...enough roommates, friends and SO's have commented on it for me to feel like an outcast. One person said I was "Soooooo asian"...whatever that means. Truth is, it just makes me feel like an albino ninja turtle.

I eat condiments straight from the packet. Say what you may, but I will remind you that we all bleed the same color...unless a person happens to be in an oxygen free environment. However, sometimes when I have left over condiment packets (be it spicy mustard, bbq sauce, Arby's sauce, ketchup, etc.), I feel inclined to eat them if I know I am just going to throw them away. Some people say, "Put them in the fridge, then...save 'em for another meal!" and to them I reply, "Maybe I'm still hungry!!!"

I shadow-box...a lot. And no, I'm not talking about making a cool case for a book report type of shadow-box...more like the violently beating the air into submission with ferocious Tekken combos, that would bring Jinpachi to his knees. I'm not afraid to do it when people are watching, but I really let loose when I have an IPOD with my favorite jams, and there are no people within a half-mile radius. Oftentimes, I make up fight scenarios in my mind, and fight invisible enemies...so far I'm undefeated...though critics (in my cavernous and surprisingly hollow expanse of a mind) say I haven't fought any real "contenders".

I count my steps quite often. (On a sidenote: I think Orthodox Jews are pimps...like Matisyahu or whatever his name is) Yes, for some reason I have been counting my steps, on a pretty consistent basis (though not all the time) since I was around 10 years old. It works as a mantra of sorts to keep me from worrying (smells like OCD...hmm), and has also caused me to become quite adept at judging distances for lawns, targets with the M16, how close I can get to those who have restraining orders against me...and so forth.

I sing along to music by female artists, using falsetto. For some reason, if I like a song, I must sing along to it...and try to maintain as much integrity to the way the artist sounds as possible. I have been caught singing along to Regina Spektor, Imogen Heap, Fergie, The Cranberries, and many, many more...some people say my girl voice sounds pretty good (hmm...maybe something to fall back on during these harsh economic times...hmmm...where to steal a wig?).

I love playing old school RPG's. Up until this point in my life, the first rule of my RPG addiction, was not to talk about my RPG addiction...but I'm reaching out to whoever is listening. During some of the more dismal, bleak, and hopeless moments of my life, I have thrown myself into the imaginary worlds of the Role-playing game and spent many an hour vacationing in my mind, to some place that is more interesting, and definitely less ordinary and monotonous than my so-called life (I'm part emo...I think my great grandma on my mom's side was full emo...not to be confused with emu...which reminds me of a longer and more disturbing story about why I have so much fine blond body hair). And no, I do not play WOW (too mainstream...I'm an indie gamer)...but I will get down on some Oblivion.

I cry during sad movies, but strongly and silently...no whimpering. I feel no need to defend myself here, and in fact, I pity all those who laugh at me, for not possessing the sometimes overwhelming sense of empathy I have for people who are acting like people who are experiencing tragedy. I cry when I watch Braveheart, The Last Samurai, Gattaca (not all the time), Click (once), The Fountain (if you feel nothing from this movie you have no soul), Schindler's List, and perhaps a few more, but I can't quite recall them (either that, or I don't want to name all of them since I may or may not be starting to feel a bit self-conscious of my wussyness). For the record, I just shed a single (sometimes consective single tears...making a stream of tears...but not like streaming down my face in a pathetic way)...you know what? Just shut up! Shut up! All of you! Stop making fun of meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!! Oops...flashback to gradeschool *curls into ball*...hot water burn baby...

This takes us to my final confession...please hear me out before assuming I am a coprophiliac! I just don't know what else to put here, picture-wise. I was going to write, I entertain myself in strange ways...but this does not really explain it too well. Ok, get ready for it: Sometimes, when I'm in a public place, especially a high-stress-having-to-wait-in-line type of situation (i.e. DMV, post office, the Veterans Hospital pharmacy, Six Flags...), and I notice my hatred of people creeping up on me like my dead grandmother with a knife in her teeth (thanks, Hunter S. Thompson), I begin envisioning outrageously funny scenarios taking place. These scenarios cater to my sophomoric sense of humor, since they are specially concocted for the purpose of my own entertainment. So for example....*thought bubble pops up in line at the DMV* "Hmmm...that would be funny if that nervous-looking sweaty bald guy over there just let out a blood curdling scream, jumped up on the counter and took a shit, and started slinging it at people (me excluded)!"...and then I beginning laughing to myself about how funny something like that would be, and suddenly I am zen-like in my state of mind. I remember the 4 noble truths...and acheive balance...balance aside from the hysterical and seemingly inappropriate laughter that begins drawing the attention of others, that is. If only they knew how inappropriate it really was...

Now...I hope that wasn't too disturbing. I feel very vulnerable now for having shared this softer side of myself...please do not use this insight into my very soul to harm me in any way. Sometimes I can be too trusting...I hope this wasn't a mistake that will end in heartbreak.

Shalom...

Butteryfly in the wind without a ca...eh eh air eh eh eh eh air

Wed, 21 Jan 2009 13:39:50 GMT

When I last left you, it was right when plans had been formed for me to meet Cindy's parents for the first time. I was uneasy about this, since they don't speak english too well.

Luckily for me, however, I picked up some Vietnamese phrases from my dad over the years, that he had learned whilst pillaging, raping, plundering, and of course, killing (and raping) babies...since that's really all the United States ever does when they go to another country. And of course, above all, we enjoy these things that we do, since we are by our very nature an imperialistic nation, bent on sucking the souls from those whose countries we occupy like oh-so-many Necromongers.

(*hint of sarcasm*...hmm...shame that I have to add this in parentheses, but some slower people can stumble across my page from time to time and end up criticizing that which they don't understand...yes, the gentle monster that is my mind in text form).

Back to the story: I mainly used "chao ahn" and "chao ba" for salutations and "cam un" for the giving of thanks. But allow me to digress from the specifics of my communication and start this weiner dog off from the beginning, and perhaps also in a linear line of redundancy before I go to the ATM machine and enter my PIN number.

So my Gilette gel deodorant (with power caps...of which there is nothing powerful about), was beginning to half-life itself much quicker, as my armpit must've provided some ideal conditions for it to stop working, and revert from its gestault into useless individual ingredients that really had no business in the crevices of my body, unless they could try and muster a goddamn sense of teamwork. This was two hours before I was going to leave to see her. So I did what any American patriot would do...I strode downstairs and got myself a drink. Chimay...Belgian ale, brewed by Trappiste monks (Or by cold-hearted brewing companies, but at least in their same philanthropic spirit, of giving the world a beer with 10% alcohol by volume). I had no time to enjoy the taste, and slammed a glass...it was not enough. It did nothing. Now, I was accompanied with the shame of not being able to handle nervousness of my own, without enjoying the company of Mr. Buzz Aldrin. Yes, I like to personify my states of inebriation...or I do now, at least.

So I called up Cindy, to ask her some questions about customs and courtesies. Her mother was Mrs. Vo, but her dad was Mr. Lam, and her brother was simply Vin. And it might be a good idea to bring a fruit basket...which she had mentioned days before, but I had totally forgotten. Shit. Why did they have to close Fruit Baskets-R-US? Fortunately, Korean Pears would be an acceptable alternative. So I beat feet (in my Flintstone car...or not far from it) to Super H-Mart, which I had recently been introduced to by her, and her friends Jeffrey and Sophearry.

What the hell am I doing writing this? I got class today. TO BE CONTINUED...

And the saga continues: So this H-mart place caught me off guard when I first went in there last week, after eating at Tofu Restaurant adjacent to it. I was thinking, "Holy Judas Priest's barbershop quartet fucking an old lady in confessional! This place is like a Mighty Max portal into an urban part of Seoul or Taipei..." Since I've only been to Taipei and never Seoul, but H-mart is indeed Korean, I had to adjust fire on my assumptions of what a portal leading into an urban market in Seoul would really look like. But this place had Taipei written all over it...except it was in Han'gul. I decided to get the more expensive and individually wrapped case of pears, since you know what they say about first impressions...I'm going to go ahead and assume you know what they say, since I in fact, do not.

I arrive at Cindy's house to a warm greeting from her and her brother. Her mother and father come out a few seconds later..."don't fuck up the greetings like President Obama messed up on his inagural swear-in.." Showing more premonition than a mentally challenged kid in a vat of goo (that reminds me of that Goo book by Dr. Seuss...I would recommend it if you have not read it already, because it will change your life).

So, there was a ton of food awaiting me on the kitchen table! All homemade, but not too obscure to scare the white-boy types of foods. Spring rolls, egg rolls, won ton soup, and fried rice..all delicious, but I was hoping they'd bust out with something a bit more up there on the scale of "mama's home cookin'-this is what we use to test whether or not you are man enough for our daughter"...

To Be Re-Continued....

So apparently it's impolite to try and make too much conversation at the table with Cindy's family (from what she told me), so those are indeed, my kind of people. Eating is down to business, and insert all that nonsense later. Her brother translated while her mom ~~interrogated~~ questioned me about my schooling, my job, and the Marine Corps. It was like a Socratic seminar in its elegance, and I felt like some type of important diplomat...answering, *translation*, response *translation*, new question *translation*...and you get the just of it. Luckily, when I get nervous, though, I am told that I look very calm...because aside from answering all the fun questions about my life, I couldn't help but feel like I was in the midst of a game of "whiteboy in the middle". haha...goodtimes.

After all was said and done with the interview process, I got to go with her to her room. It was surprisingly neat, yet she apologized for its messiness...hmm. And then came the bombardment with the plaques...Creekview Highschool Class Favorite: Most Talented; Class Favorite: Most Creative...for multiple consecutive years. This is when I realized we were even further apart in our two worlds...yet so close in so many other realms, and I was taken aback by the notion that some way we were able to forge a connection with such vastly different personalities...

Picture time!

You stay classy, free world...

Heartbreak Hotel...New Year...New Beginnings...and dropping a cup of pee-pee on the floor

Tue, 13 Jan 2009 23:37:19 GMT

Premonition is a spooky thing...especially when these brief glimpses of the future turn out to be phophetic. If only I'd have predicted that 2 years of my life would be tied up in a relationship that would abruptly end after much fighting and the saying of many means things from both parties. It's amazing how 2 normally mature, fully-functional adults can regress into a child-like state of name-calling and arguements about...well...whether or not what they are arguing about is even an arguement to begin with. AHHHHHHHHHH...and a sigh of relief comes from deep within me! It took some strength and tenacity to realize that though I was addicted to this person, in the end, quitting her cold-turkey was the best plan of action.

I cried...in a manner which I had not done since I was a pre-pubescent little shit of a humanoid. I didn't want to hurt her, but I was also trying to avoid becoming a bitter old man, like the one in my friend Carlos's domestic violence class said, "After 40 years of marriage, I just wanted to know what it would feel like to hit her...and it felt GREAT!" No thanks. I'm already a naturally bitter and misanthropic person, due to an overestimation of my abilities when it comes to reading people. Well, most of the time it's pretty dead-on, but every now and then I'm dead wrong. Back to the point, though...I don't need any more reasons in my life to be bitter and full of regret. I can only imagine the type of hatred a person could feel when they project this bitterness onto someone else as being the source of it...whew! So it was the hardest thing in the world to walk away from someone I'd planned the rest of my life with...even discuss names of future children, but ask any 10 adult people if they have experienced the same type of lost love, and probably at least 5 of them will say "Yes..." and the other 5 are either too scared to open themselves up, are "career-oriented", eunuchs, serial killers, or haven't found and lost what they thought was "The one"...

So now, in my possible naivety, I have already found again what I think is "The one". And I am suddenly reminded of Jerry Maguire where all those women keep saying, "He can't be alone...he's afraid to be alone...blah blah blah". Bullshit...I've been a non-relationship person for more of my life than I have been a relationship person, and though I may be a tad bit slow on the uptake, I DO learn some lessons over time. This thing we're in, baby, what is it now? Ah, yes...life! It's a constant process of clicking and jiving, and working one's way into a groove...finding that sweet spot where balance sets in...the Yin to offset the Yang, or vice-versa...

Now SHE...this ONE, I speak of...is quite the opposite of me, indeed. But the things we have in common are the important ones...the things that cut to the very core of me. We finish eachother's sentences in a non-sickening way...and we understand how the other feels without even having to express it...most of the time. However, when we aren't as good at guessing, we're even better at communicating with eachother...physically, verbally, etc.

Cindy is her name, and I'm meeting her parents on Saturday. Her favorite Street Fighter character was Ibuki, so I designed a T-shirt for her with the female ninja herself on it, with "Go Ninja, Go..." in an Asian-style (but in English?) font. That's the first time since macaroni and glitter that I've put "effort" into a Christmas gift...the ways she inspires me to think and be, are beyond compare! I love her.

Now on to other topics, since if there are still any people who read this, I'd rather not induce vomiting.

As I finish school, I've got to hustle to get my paper, you kno-whamsayin'? I've become the "go-to" guy of sorts for this dude who bought a house off my dad's girlfriend. He needs a fence stained, I do it...needs help moving, I get my buddies...wants a landscaping rock, I got it covered (all obtained semi-legally), wants some new Pampas Grass in the front yard (even though it's not the season for it)...I got it, mayne. Irrigation has slowed down, and freezing my balls off, wet and caked with mud is only a luxury I have the pleasure of enjoying maybe 30 hours a week, at most. So I got some other hustles going...Marine Corps Reserves offers 20-24 hours of work a month...G.I. Bill deposits money into my account....growing marijuana...uh...is something I would never do (obviously, or else I would not have mentioned it, since I am very paranoid about the po-po)...but I've heard that with the proper N-P-K ratio of fertilizer, a well-ventilated area, and either a Metal Halide light or High Pressure Sodium one of considerable wattage and a light timer...perhaps with a hydroponic setup, one can grow some killer green! Hahaha just kidding...

So we got piss tested this weekend at drill...and I set a first for the company...the first person to ever drop his cup of pee on the floor! And no...it was not some sort of Gattaca-style switcheroo that I double-oh 7'd on the fly; this was simply an honest mistake. I had to pee at the midget urinal and with the broken finger, I couldn't button my pants up without using both hands...thing is, the midget urinals are some slippery form of octahedral shape, lacking a ledge that their adult equivalents take for granted. The only place to put my pee-cup was on top of the chrome flushing manifold...hmmm...I saw it slipping, but instead of fight, I chose flight, and quickly jumped away as the plastic pee-pee holder fell in slow-motion to the floor. And these dudes lost it...you would've thought I was trying to sneak a bomb through airport security! So I had to go back and drink more water, joining the 2nd and 3rd heats of "nervous pissers" who can't perform while the monitors are staring at their Johnny Wangs. Luckily, the monitor remarked on how I was "not shy at all"...or is that really worthy of a 'luckily'? Lol.

Confucius say: Man who stand on toilet, get high on pot.

Boot Scoot Boogy and pho-ck you

Tue, 02 Dec 2008 23:26:11 GMT

I have already decided that one of my New Year's resolutions is to become a master chef. I have the chopping, slicing, simmering, boiling, baking, broilin, combining of ingredients, and stirring aspects down pretty good. As a matter of fact, this past weekend I decided to go to the asian market (the one on the side of Beltline with Joe's pizza and Wing Stop shut down! Crazy...) and get some fixin's for pho, as you will see my work in the picture. However, I realized while I was cooking it, that I was definitely lacking in the entire logistics department. I ended up running around like a chicken with my head cut off at a few points in time, with stuff on the verge of burning, boiling over, cooling off, getting overcooked, etc. There has got to be some sort of kitchen strategy book I can read, so I may tackle this challenge with a bit more poise and grace the next occasion I decide to cook something other than my standard chili, hamburgers, fajitas, and breakfast tacos (which if put into proper rotation, will never actually get old). Or I could just go out to eat all the time, which is actually preferable in the interest of a dining experience...but you know what they say: it's better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it. Plus, the romantic side of me just sometimes gets the urge to cook for my woman, get out the good table cloth, light some candle, put on some jazz in the background, pop the cork on an old bottle of port, and perhaps end up abruptly clearing the table off before the meal is over in order to make love on its surface. hahaha...better make sure you're eatin with the paper plates and plastic cups...don't want anything to break when it falls to the floor.

However, in the meantime I must wait for my finger to heal so I can acheive iron chef status, and renew my master lover's license. haha...i guess you could say it got revoked. I broke my finger and my appointment with the veterans hospital was only available 3 and a half weeks later, at which point the bone had healed back crooked. So, you guessed it...they had to slice my finger open on both sides, file the bone down, break it again, and reset that shit. I got many, many, nice, happiness-inducing pills from this field trip to the hospital, but unfortunately, having a metal plate in my middle finger for the next month will not permit me to bend or straighten it. Now I have realized what a skilled hand it takes in the kitchen as well...my friends ate the food I cooked, but would you, if the guy preparing the food was using his "strong hand"? Muwahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!

Have no fear, though. This picture was taken the day before I got my stitches out, so by the time I cooked, the scabs had healed. Anyhow, I've decided to go to law school after graduating...part-time, while I work for the EPA. This way, I won't have crazy ass student loans to pay off, since my savings should be able to cover it, assuming I don't deplete them due to a possible future addiction to crack, gambling or prostitutes...and also assuming, that I add back to the savings uh, I'd say about 5% of my pay check. Yes, law school will take about 5 or 6 years this way, but I'll have a steady job and be able to accrue years toward retiring as a federal employee (since I already have a few years from military service...ehhh...why not, I guess) in the meantime. Ok, I've typed enough already about me...how about youse guys and gals?

"Other than that, how'd you like the play, Mrs. Lincoln?"

-Overheard being asked of the former first lady in Ford theater

The psuedo-intellectuals and authority figures who are wrecking our world

Fri, 24 Oct 2008 05:28:38 GMT

I am always suspicious of someone who holds a view so far to the left, or so far to the right, that it would go so far as to label the other side as an enemy. How can they ever accomplish anything, when their antagonistic ways do nothing but drive people with differing viewpoints further from their cause?

The following is a bunch of wannabe activists, posers, windbags, blowhards, retards, and dividers:

Zach De La Rocha: Former lead-singer of Rage Against the Machine, he is probably one of the biggest douchebag poseurs to exist in Orion's Arm. I love the music, and it gets me all kinds of fired up, but this guy should stick to Voltaire's words of wisdom "Anything too stupid to be spoken is sung". I saw this guy interviewing Noam Chomsky once, and he was reading his questions off a piece of paper, like a second grader giving a book report. This guy aint "bout it" and never will be...he's just a "hot topic" version of any real revolutionary, and probably cries himself to sleep at night, knowing this sad fact (cuddled up with a bunch of money, though). All I've ever heard him do is put Abbie Hoffman's ideas into rhymed couplets...he is behind his time, but definitely gets along with artsy people who are quick to condemn a system they are not willing to work to change.

Ann Coulter and Sean Hannity: These two caposi sarcoma buy their style and opinions from Douchewads-R-US. Everything these people say is a slur against "liberals", as if conservativism was a divine doctrine not capable of its own imperfections. The joke is on the people who so blindly follow the opinions these two stooges most likely pull from their receptacles for nonsensical ideas they call "asses". The previously mentioned methods of obtaining bullshit ideas, does great to provide them material for writing books that "smart, well-informed Americans" end up purchasing. These two are laughing all the way to the bank.

Al Sharpton: No one has worked harder to hold African-Americans back, than this man right here. He is the embodiment of a cheating, lying, sonofabitch, who deals race card after race card from the bottom of the deck. This man is good at extorting big businesses by threatening to call them racist, if they don't donate money to him and his cause. Loved seeing Roy Innis push his fatass over on the Morton Downey Junior show (watch it on youtube). Al Sharpton claims he is a crusader for the African-American community, but he's more like a closed fist pinning them down from ever achieving harmony and equality. You can catch more flies with honey than you can with hair-products, Al.

Pat Robertson: I would've picked Jerry Falwell over him, but he's dead, and I don't want to disrespect the man while he rots in hell. Good old Pattycakes, is but another person I just have to wonder sometimes, "Does he believe his own religious bullshit or is it just a ploy to make money?" I would say in his case...BOTH. This has to be one of the most intolerant and narrow-minded false prophets of our time. If there is a God, I hope that He/she/it smites this piece of shit with a lighting bolt or unleashes a plague of locusts on his bitch ass.

Michael Moore: It's mind-boggling how such a fat, fat man could be a champion of the working people, when his food intake alone could possibly feed an entire village of starving Ethiopians. This guy is as one-sided as they come...Bowling for Columbine was alright, but then came Farenheit 9/11, and his true lack of objectivity was revealed. His case is made with loose connections and casts shadows of doubt, not on the people in question, but on him for trying to make a movie that lacks hard facts. This fat god-pigeon of a man, tries to compensate for piss poor journalism by substituting it with extreme bias...nice try, douche.

Lindsey Graham: Rumor has it that this Republican Senator from South Carolina was given the name Lindsey, when it was noticed by his mother after his birth, that he had no penis. All seriousness aside, however, this guy is a joke. He is a Colonel or something in the U.S. Army National Guard (a lawyer), and has claimed time after time to speak for the troops. Let me tell you all something right now; there is a huge difference between speaking for the troops and speaking for YOURSELF. So speak for yourself, Lindsey...do not confuse a high-ranking officer with an enlisted man that bleeds on the battlefield, ever again.

Other douches worth noting:

*The blond chick above is still hot and I would definitely douche her anyday, as long as she's on mute.

You're as cold as Ice...

Fri, 17 Oct 2008 00:57:37 GMT

Just when I get accustomed to to the scalding Texas heat of summertime, temperatures begin increasing in their mildness, and slowly creep further down on the thermometer. Donning a windbreaker at the butt crack of dawn, I tweak the customer's off-kilter irrigation system, inevitably coming into contact with trillions of groups of two oxygen atoms forming polar covalent bonds with an hydrogen atom. Water...and it's goddamn cold, too. This will only become more fun through the coming months, as I "play in the sprinklers" in increasingly penis/scrotum shriveling weather. Last winter, with snow stuck to the ground and flying through the air, we worked on a house where the system would not shut off...if I were the home-dweller, I'd have gone out to the double-check cutoff valve by the curb, and cranked the handle, shutting the system off until springtime and called someone to fix it then. I gotta make that paper, though, so it just aint good business to say, "Call back in a couple months when it's not so cold outside." And to be honest, I bet these people would pay any amount of money just to fix the problem...this is what a "regular" home in Southlake, Texas looks like...

So right now school's going good, and the classes I'm taking should be easy A's if I decide to commit at least half a percent of my brainpower to them (same percent of the federal budget that goes to 'earmarks').

Right now I'm procrastinating on reading up on the process of Detailed Troop Decontamination (DTD). I have to teach a two hour long class about it this drill weekend...only 7 more months of this bullshit, and goodbye Marine Corps! It should be interesting to see how my uniform inspection goes since I broke the middle finger on my right hand two weeks ago...you see, during a uniform inspection a Marine must snap to the position of attention, with their feet and legs together, arms extended down their sides, and fists closed. As it stands, I can close every finger on my right hand, EXCEPT for the middle one. So I'm most definitely getting away with shooting the Gunny and Chief Warrant Officer the dirty bird.

Catechol Oxidase and blue elephants raped in the mouth by Norwegian woodys

Wed, 01 Oct 2008 22:39:40 GMT

Excuse the title. I was trying to be funny, but I think I forced it too much...kind of like the time this Guatemalan Marine explained to me why a person can't force out a fart "before its time". He said, "Nah mayne, you can't force it or else it's gonna be a "pedo pesado"...a heavy fart, dude and you might have to change your underwhares." Those wise words stuck with me for the rest of my life.

So now when I am confronted with a difficult decision, and dire cicumstances, I turn to this gentle reminder and find my balance. Perhaps it's my cave of sorts...a place where I can go to escape the sharticles that represent the stresses of daily living. It is the space in my mind, free of sharticulates...aerosolized, liquid, or solid...even plasma.

It's funny when I get stressed, because I find myself constantly making mental calculations to try and trick my mind into thinking a stressful span of time is really not as long as it seems. "Only four more bars of Irish Spring soap until midterms are over..." "Two more tanks of gas until the weekend..." "Only one more roll of toilet paper until...I'm out of toilet paper...oh shit, shit indeed." Back out of the sharticle-free zone, and back into reality...the reality of sharticles.

Don't you wish life was just a giant game of grab-ass sometimes? These guys seem to think it is...

And that is why I admire them so much. I remember growing up as a kid and wanting to be like them. Is it too late? I wonder sometimes. Perhaps the only thing I inherited from them was the genetic marker that predisposes an inability to get laid (a chronic illness that went into remission back in 2001, but briefly comes back when I least expect it). Nobody could say with absolute surety...so I guess I must wait until I one day get backstage passes to that Gwar concert in the sky.

What of the "magos" in this world who want to make something out of nothing? Those who aren't satisfied with a world that makes the rules and punishes people for following them, by giving them a life of mediocrity in return. Do they all end up being devoured by the system they tried so valliantly to rebell against?

Pehaps more often than not, a person's perception becomes twisted when they have a great deal of success pursuing less than orthodox methods of income, and they turn into the very type of people they rebelled against to begin with...generating more fodder to keep the machine running...the one they hated with a passion, and in the end, ended up empowering.

Remember the commercials that were on during Saturday morning cartoons that said, "No one ever says: I wanna be a junkie when I grow up."

The main version of this commercial that comes to mind is this guy with a couple days worth of beard growth in a hoody, running through a park in slow motion. He is drenched in sweat and panting like a dog trying to hump a leg...it's in black and white...what is he running from? All of a sudden an arm reaches out from behind him and grabs his hoody, severly hampering his progress and jerking him back violently. It turns out to be a cop tackling him, and then badabing...cut to the slogan of no one announcing the goal of being a junkie when they reach adulthood.

The only thing I ever took from that commercial as a small child was, "Junkies can run fast...but cops can run slightly faster" so, I of course wanted to be a cop more than a junkie after seeing it. I guess that commercial was successful in its message.