. . .you can kiss my carbon footcheese, dickhead.
Welcome to Mississippi, Globullshit Warming style.
. . .you can kiss my carbon footcheese, dickhead.
This is why I love Smith & Wessom firearms.
On January 22nd renowned gun maker Smith & Wesson joined Sturm, Ruger, & Co., by announcing it would cease California sales of its semi-automatic pistols due to microstamping requirements that went into effect last year.
And here's another reason I love Smith & Wesson firearms:
Part handgun, part flamethrower.
And partially funded by our tax dollars.
Live Action has proved this in our investigations over and over again, catching Planned Parenthood covering up statutory rape and child sex trafficking. And while abortion apologists like to claim that our investigations are manipulative and false, Planned Parenthood and the abortion industry have shown repeatedly that our investigations are, sadly, extremely accurate. An abortionist in Indiana was caught covering up the statutory rape of a 13-year-old girl. And there are more real-world examples, like the 13-year-old impregnated by her stepfather and forced into an abortion, or the 11-year-old girl raped by her 17-year-old boyfriend and given an abortion. 40-year-old Adam Gault kidnapped teenager Danielle Cramer and held her captive for over a year, impregnated her, and took her to Planned Parenthood for an abortion. They killed the baby and then gave Cramer back to Gault. There are more, of course, but all of these crimes have one thing in common: the clinic staffers knew and did nothing.
I hope someone loses the key to his cell for a couple of years.
The local denizens of the Dade County lockup are gonna love those pants.
. . .also spake.
A very interesting in-depth article about the chef who brought down a governor.
He probably got tired of making tourneed potatoes.
Life is never what you think it is. Always full of surprises and you wake up one day and realize, fuck, I'm old. But with age comes wisdom. And psoriasis. And a colonoscopy. And fewer boners. And larger bills. And maybe less hair on your head and more in your ears.
But you know what? Your dick may not work like it used to. And you might find yourself rubbing the old monkey while you sniff the dirty panties that you stole from your wife's best friend, but fuck it man, when it all comes down to what you can have and have not as you age, I'd take wisdom over everything. And your old lady's friend is probably a skank anyway.
George Carlin once said "Think of how stupid the average person is, and realize half of them are stupider than that." Don't be stupid, be smart. Be smart. And buy your dirty panties online. If your old lady finds you wearing her friend's purple ruched-back hip-huggers over your face as you rub it out to some Thai Ladyboy porn she is going to kick you right in the old. . .
Which really won't matter cause those fuckers don't work no more anyways. Good luck with the rest of your life. Your testosterone might be gone, but you've still got your fucking brains.
And your tranny porn.
A blind and deaf three-toed sloth could have predicted this.
I'm not even sure what to say about this other than the 2014 mid-term elections cannot come soon enough. Reasonable people must eject the cancerous moles of Washington who are spending us into oblivion. Goddamn money don't grow on trees, ya know.
Once Pandora's Box has been opened it is awfully difficult to get the lid back on. Especially so once someone has been granted "rights".
Smoke 'em if you got 'em.
It's about damn time someone found the intestinal fortitude to stand up to the monkey circus that is Obamacare.
No surprise that it is being spearheaded by a woman.
The states need to fight this thing tooth and nail because once it collapses and needs bailing out, it is going to make the 2008 mortgage collapse look like a penny poker game.
Closer every day.
Even while the current leadership of our nation continues to downsize and gut our military and punish veterans for their past service to this great nation, behind the scenes there are wonderfully amazing things happening.
I remember back in the Reagan days they said stuff like this would never work. Indeed.
Stop it humans, just stop it.
You do not need an internet connected toothbrush. Repeat after me: You don't not need an internet connected toothbrush.
Why? Because you do not need an internet connected toothbrush!
Baby, it's cold outside.
This global warming business is getting out of hand. It was a balmy 18 degrees at Camp Burning Toast this morning and the grass was frozen, the stairs were frozen, the door to my truck was frozen, even poor Number 72, our completely untamed outside tomcat, made no attempt to run away from his bed on the porch as he usually does. I guess he was frozen too. In hindsight, maybe I should have checked on him.
As a matter of fact, I have just been informed that we have a 7 cat mutiny at home. No one wants to spend the day outside as is the norm. Who can blame them?
All this talk of cold makes me lust for things of warmth. Good whiskey, tabasco sauce, a hot cup of Costa Rican coffee. And women from Colombia.
Since I missed out on my normal Friday pinup, here is a Ms. Monday instead. . .
Stay thirsty my friends. And remember: Colombia ain't just about coffee and cocaine.
What are you, fucking Coca-Cola?
These goddamned communists need to be flushed out of our political system like the slimy turds they are. Half-a-million bucks on a LinkedIn profile? Good heavens!
Earlier this year my favorite cat, Wildcat, disappeared from Camp Burning Toast. We didn't think much of it at first as we were used to his frequent disappearances, sometimes two or three days at a time, sometimes longer. But this time it seemed different.
After a week, I was quite worried. After two, I was fearing for the worst. Regularly, I would ride around the property on El Kabong with the hopes that the engine noise would help draw him out of whatever obscure hiding place he was in. My mind would drift often, conjuring up images of him flattened or being hit by a car and slowly dying in the scrub alongside a road. Or worse yet, a potential encounter with coyotes of which there a many. Legions, in fact. I would try to right myself and not think of such things, but after all he was my favorite cat. A cat who was much like a dog.
Over the last few years he had a regular habit of meeting me at the top of the hill near the gate where he would happily climb in the truck for the two hundred yard trip down to the house. I missed him each day when I turned the corner at the gate and he was not there and I couldn't enjoy his silly companionship in this simple act of bonding.
Eventually, my searches became less frequent but I had never really given up hope. I never felt inside like he was gone. I imagined that he had simply moved on like many of my cats have before. Black Kitty left and I am pretty sure that I see him from time to time at another house up the road a bit. Something was always nagging at my heart with Wildcat.
On one fine, hot summer evening my better half and I were outside pottering around in the flower garden when my love shouted in a breathless and unbelieving voice: WILDCAT! And there we was trotting up the gravel drive, filthy, emaciated, and injured badly on his legs. I just couldn't believe that after almost two and a half months he was finally home. I don't think he could quite fathom it either as he was somewhat cautious during his approach, at times galloping on his bad legs, but stalling every now and again to take another look as if his eyes didn't understand what he was seeing.
We finally coaxed him into the house and naturally the other nine felines had to investigate the new arrival. Cats can always sense weirdness and are of course curious and what was going on was only compounded by the emotional vortex of what we humans were experiencing. Needless to say Wildcat was starving and in pretty bad shape. He had a festering, gaping hole in one foreleg and another injury that seemed to be healing relatively well considering his overall condition. He was covered in grime, fleas, had a few ticks, assuredly intestinal worms, and just looked like hell warmed in a microwave oven.
In between gobbling up mouthfuls of food and milk and grumbling at his investigators, he eventually simmered down and took a long nap. We were infinitely relieved about his return and immediately hatched a plan to get him to the vet the next day to make sure his overall health was in check.
He recovered well over the next couple of weeks after some antibiotics, a bath, and some down time at home, but it didn't take him long to return to his rambling ways. He doesn't stay gone as long, he's back to the two or three days stints, but every now and then we won't see him for a week. Lately however, his has been home in the evenings, almost a regular as rain. And he still likes to take a ride in the truck or on El Kabong, but he has changed just a little.
I suppose I would change too if I were lost God knows where for 2 months. I often ponder what goes on in his little cat head about his ad-, or, misadventure really, but there is no way that I will ever know what happened, where he went, or what he saw. He lives with it and I can only be happy that he is home.
The hate just never stops. Never.
And we are the poorer for it.
I do not know the name of this woman, but after a long afternoon of drinking with my friends in her bar in New Orleans she was kind enough to help me during my inebriated stupor by packing away my camera and other belongings and even following us out into the street to ensure for our general well-being.
I am a veteran of drinking binges in New Orleans and I cannot think of another instance when someone has gone out of their way to be helpful to one drunk person in a sea of drunken fools. Not that I was in any great danger of a mugging with my large cache of shirtless, tattooed security forces that look like they fell out of the pages of Easyriders motorcycle magazine. But anyway, it was a thoughtful and unexpected event. And I don't think I ever got to say thank you to this stranger who spoke with an alluring eastern European accent.
So, thank you stranger who spoke with an alluring eastern European accent.
Unsurprising that something like this would happen in a place called Beaverton.
And they say that voter registration is racist intimidation and oppressive against minorities?
Well, what if it's their own people committing voter fraud? I guess minority versus minority isn't oppression.
Clearly, I'm a racist for even noting that.
Let me introduce you to a wonderful Southern version of the Bloody Mary.
If you are going to use a pre-made mix, then I highly suggest Zing Zang. As a matter of fact, if you don't use Zing Zang you should break off your fingers and stick them in a dog's ass.
To the Zing Zang add, and again another recommended item, Tito's Handmade Vodka, add a dash or two of Worcestershire, a squirt of lemon juice, one dash of Tabasco, some freshly ground black pepper and some sliced pickled okra, banana peppers, dill gherkins, olives of choice, and some sliced cherry or teardrop tomatoes. A bay leaf garnish and drink up, lush!
We call this The Soup, Salad, Sandwich Drink Drink.
Seems, I've been right all along! It don't take no science degree to understand this!
It's 5 o'clock somewhere, right?
Don't go away mad. Just. Go. Away.
For God's sake, what in the name of Mother Many is wrong with these politicians? We don't need nor want you any longer, A-hole.
Yeah, this cat is pretty crazy looking. And don't think all that weirdness is just skin deep, because it permeates right down into her little kitty brain.
And anyone caught microwaving Spotted Dick should have their hand cut off and shoved up the ol' root canal. Microwaves are for reheating coffee and popping popcorn. Dammit, don't even get me started about the awful microwave.
Yeah yeah, I know, it's been a while. Sue me, I am human. Mostly. During the week. Weekends are a different story however.
So, I'm sure you are wondering what the heck has been going on? Well, some brilliant person once said, "Same ol' shit, shithead." I concur.
Same ol' shit.
I have ten cats now. Did you know that? Now you do. We go through 15 pounds of cat food per week and suffer from a endless cascade of injured, decapitated, gutted, bleeding carcaii (probably not a real word, but fuck you anyway). Various moles, voles, frogs, lizards, geckos, birds, chipmunks, moths, butterflies; if it walks, hops, flutters, flies, chirps, ribbits or makes any other kind of motion or noise it is a victim. Or soon will be.
What's it like living with ten cats? I would equate it to living in an insane asylum where everyone dresses and acts like cats. I spend more time, particularly when alone, making series after series of cat sounds: blurps, mews, growls, hisses, hums and purrs. I am the keeper of the door as well. Cat A will approach door, meow, I open it, it sits there for an eternity finally moseying outside, I close the door. Twelve second later, Cat A returns to the door it just exited, meows, I open the door dutifully, it sits there for an another eternity and eventually, either comes in to repeat the process within the next 4 minutes or turns away and disappears into the infinity of Camp Burning Toast. Who says you can teach an old dog new tricks? I've got the door thing down pat.
Well, anyways....I guess I should get some work done. Even though there ain't shit to do around here after crippling rain over the weekend and ahead of the mid-week holiday. Hope you all have a good Christmas.
Mine has been great so far, a little early gift for myself. . .although the cats aren't digging it too much. I suspect it is because they have no rhythm. Or it could be that beautiful china cymbal that is so loud I have to wear earplugs. Could be that, but then again, I never seen a cat snapping his fingers.
and you know what that means?
That's right, tomorrow is Saturday and my 3-0 Ole Miss Rebels will take on the number one team in the nation which is currently the Toilet Paper Detergents of Alabama.
Oh and this too. . .
¡Aye Jalisco, mi chihuahua esta bailando adentro mis pantalones!
Oh, and a bonus feature. . .
Sometimes it's just the little things that gets the ball rolling.
Well, it ain't Friday, but by the time Friday rolls in I'll be on the road to the beach for a well deserved vacation of adventure, festivities and anal penetration. Did I say anal penetration? I meant good wholesome fun with family and friends. And my girlfriend's two hot sisters. Yeah, don't worry, my girlfriend never reads my blog.
Anyway, since tomorrow I will only be posting random pictures of travel and unimportant stuff such as that I'll use today to share the wealth of beauty which is this perfect human being:
Yes, it's even worse when she smiles.
¿Y sabes que es eso, no? Si, claro.
¡Aye Mamita, mi chihuahua esta corriendo como un toro con testiculos en fuego!
Sometimes, this is what I wake up to.
Which in retrospect is probably better than an opossum or skunk.
It's 1:15 a. m., I've had three hours sleep. It took 38 minutes to drive from my home to this jobsite. I'm sure I'll work eighteen hours today. In 6 days I will go on a 10 day vacation to 1 house on a 40 mile beach with 8 family members and friends where I will attempt to break my previous drinking record of staying intoxicated for more than 6 days straight.
In 1 minute and 12 seconds I will scratch my balls and within the next 8 minutes I will argue furiously with 16 uneducated types that do not understand the easy principle of a 0.25 water/cement ratio.
I build, therefore I am. And there are no globulars in the chaud froid.
Put the evidence in the car?
You would think a journalist might want to back up such an absurb claim with facts, but welcome to the world of Twits on Twitter.
For all you sorry ass cry babies who think the world is out to get you and you'll never get ahead in life without "help", don't watch this video.
For you who like inspiring stories about people overcoming obstacles in this world we live in, Richie is for you.
We could all learn something from this man.
ATTENTION K-MART SHOPPERS: THERE IS A BLUE LIGHT SPECIAL ON THE GREVIENCE AISLE WHERE EVERYTHING THING EVER MUTTERED IS RACIST!
I'm goddamned sick and tired of this shit.
If you don't think he is the enemy of this country, then you aren't paying attention.
"Would you like to play a game?"
Lucky travel lizard: Where are we going today, Noodledick?