Monday, December 31, 2012

From my Sister

Wisdom from an old Jewish Man...

A female CNN journalist heard about a very old Jewish man who had been going to the Western Wall to pray, twice a day, every day, for a long, long time.

So she went to check it out. She went to the Western Wall and there he was, walking slowly up to the holy site.

She watched him pray and after about 45 minutes. When he turned to leave, using a cane and moving very slowly, she approached him for an interview.

"Pardon me, sir, I'm Rebecca Smith from CNN. What's your name?

"Morris Feinberg," he replied.

"Sir, how long have you been coming to the Western Wall and praying?" 

"For about 60 years."

"60 years! That's amazing! What do you pray for?"

"I pray for peace between the Christians, Jews and the Muslims."
"I pray for all the wars and all the hatred to stop."
"I pray for all our children to grow up safely as responsible adults and to love their fellow man."
"I pray that politicians tell us the truth and put the interests of the people ahead of their own interests."

"How do you feel after doing this for 60 years?"

"Like I'm talking to a fucking wall."

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Happy People.

I was watching Court TV today and they were reading some kids journal from the days leading up to him killing his family.  The day before the murders he wrote a one line entry.

I despise happy people.

There in lies our answer. That's what motivates NPD's and sociopaths. Front, back, and inside. I don't think you can fix that.

Monday, December 24, 2012

Like a Bridge over Troubled Water

A mathematical expression of the frequency resonance
between periodic high and low
Barbaric tantrum activity.
Delta's in brackets
quantify the consumption of .99 cent six packs of beer
and pickled eggs
by fat sweaty construction workers
to the varying distance between bar-stools and parking lots
containing station wagons with sleeping bags and pillows.
It correlates the probability of discovery by current cuckholded husband
based on the frequency of past discovery
episodic ruination of holiday cheer for every one witnessing
shameless histrionics and domestic violence.
Fuck you mom!

My mother made our holidays a special time for us!

Sunday, December 23, 2012

An apology to my borderline ex-wife.

Evidently my ex reads my blog. I will not take down what I have written about her, but I will issue an apology. Like she said so many times through out our marriage I must prove beyond a reasonable doubt  any accusations  I make about her and about her actions.
I will do her one better. I let her webcam her own defense to my implications of her driving by at a high rate of speed, and agreed to post her comments here. Unaltered and unedited. I give you  the cum dumpster.

Saturday, December 22, 2012

Blah blah blah

The biggest problem for me this time of year is the large amount of time I have to fill, and the small amount of activity I have to fill it with.  I sit and get caught up in reams of meaningless thought. A nauseating and endless loop of blah blah blah that stretches from ear to shining ear.
I get caught up when I read things from people that have been altered by the personality disordered, and how they say we should be some kind of a flat line.
No anger.
No bitterness.
At least none we should be willing to talk about lest we appear to be less than someone who makes each day one of constant self improvement. That we should be blogging as if we are a finished product and be sharing how we became whole again.
I don't get it.
The day will never come when I don't have to sit on my hands to keep myself from going down and throttling my mother like a Sunday dinner chicken.
It's not hyperbole. It's not embellishment. It's a constant fight to suppress this urge.
And I don't care who knows.
Which brings me to my round about point.
The reason I don't care is because I know I am not the person that is fucked up. It's her. And I'll be goddamned if I am going to become some shrinking violet and not tell it like it is about that fucking slut from hell.
I am not fucked up.
You are not fucked up.
We are not fucked up.
It's them.
(ok we are fucked up but they made us this way)
They have no problem telling the most outrageous lies about their sons and daughters.
Why would any of us shy away from telling the truth about them, or showing the emotions they have left of us with to sort out on our own?

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

The meaning of life.

By god I found it. The meaning of life. Too bad it's written in Korean.

스윙 바이(swing-by)란 우주 탐사선의 항법 중 하나로, 여러 행성의 인력을 이용하여 항로를 변경한다. 즉 우주선이 목성같은 큰 행성의 궤도를 지날 때 행성의 인력에 끌려 들어가다 '바깥으로 튕겨져 나가듯' 속력을 얻는 것을 말한다. 다른 행성으로 가는 제일 안정적인 방법이었던 호만 궤도보다 더 발전된 형태인데, 호만 궤도보다 더 빠른 시간에 목적지에 도착할 수 있다. 예를 들어 보이저 탐사선의 경우 목성에서 스윙바이를 하면 자동차가 주유소에서 연료를 얻는 것과 같은 개념이 된다. 다른 말로 '행성궤도 접근통과'라고도 한다.

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Of all the Stephen King Quotes

This one is my favorite.

“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them -- words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a tellar but for want of an understanding ear.” 
― Stephen KingDifferent Seasons

Thursday, December 13, 2012

Jenna Bush Hager Is Pregnant

Photo of Alienatedmom

It's too easy. Going to Daily strength. Shooting fish in a barrel. The way they view the world is more than one off. Buckle your seat belts. It's going to be a bumpy ride. 

Jenna Bush Hager Is Pregnant

I have my Christmas wishes this year, peace on earth, feed the hungry, cures for the sick, clothing and shelter for the needy... 

Luv you need to put some distance between you and Palm Beach. An African kid dies from malaria every thirty seconds. Shopping cart people now out number rats. The last time there was peace on Earth we were living in trees. 

someone help me...i cant stop crying

I miss my son!!! I miss my son!! He is 19 his dad and I divorcing after 20 yrs nasty divorce from a narcissist...

Aw shut the fuck up.

Celebrating Breath

After I can drum up the type of gratitude that I need to keep my perspective, then I will move into thinking about what I learned the most from the last six months of Hashi Mashi, how it changed me both physically and emotionally and then start to form the new goals and concepts for the next four quarters, for the next year.



What caused your estrangement?

I have a 23 year old daughter who met a much older man at work, she had been living at home, and she knew we would not approve

Nuff said.

I can't keep this up. I would rather drink ipicache and puke on the carpet.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Tracy Richter.

It's not hard to find criminal's in this world. Swing a dead rat and you'll hit one of some caliber. They're every where. Serial murderers. Armed robbers. Embezzlers. Habitual double parkers. 
You could be living next door to one and never know.
Until they get caught. Some keep it reeled in. Some break so crazy they are nailed cat quick. 
Women killers are an intrigue.  I like to watch society keep not believing they are capable of what they find so easy to do.  My mother like's to put a twist on her twist. If she kept the lion's share of her betrayals to herself, she might have hummed right along until providence put out her lights. 
Sociopath's are dual entry accountants.
For each back stab, there must be a balancing nose rubbed in the filth.
Nothing is over without cashing that check of betrayal. To reveal themselves and watch the hollow face of loved ones having dinner with someone normal, only to realize they are sitting across from a sociopath.
That's what they live for.
That's the pay off.
That lightening strike and death rattle makes them squirm with orgasmic joy.
I have seen it.
You don't want to. 
It's not easy to find a homicidal, soccer mom hybrid.  
There are women who kill. But rarely do they resort to the subterfuge of a Tracey Richter.

Guys are too busy humping their legs to catch the reptilian lack of sparkle.  Eyes that are on, but show no one of conscience within.

Before a poor slob knows it, he is snared in that tar pit trap of obsessive love.
Ripe for betrayal.

If she were mixing a drink and wanting to fuck me, I would go easy on her too. But if she were mixing me a drink, that would mean she wasn't convicted of first degree murder, and sentenced to life without parole.

Tracey and her second husband met and married in Chicago.
Jim Fischer sums her up here.

After she married number two, she claimed an oral surgeon sexually assaulted her during sedation. Part of a plot to extort 150K from him.
Said she woke up dressed in red high heels with him masturbating.
Accused her first husband of being a pedophile. Plastered the cars and telephone poles in his neighborhood with posters of his picture and claims of his perversion.
The evidence of his deviancy was this.
The evidence of her rape at the hands of her dentist was this.
She waited for months to tell anyone about her assault.
Even her new husband.
She left the house in black skirts to model for Black Velvet whiskey. With nary a check forthcoming.
Sorry Tracy. You're doable, but not even close. 

Her fidelity was in question.
Accusations made.
Accusations denied.
A new start for this marriage was in order.
A new start was made.
In Early Iowa.
A town her second husband apologized to for the carnage she unleashed.

Early Iowa.
 She, for what ever reason, had a kid over to the house. Ostensibly to help with filing.
It ended with her shooting him in the back nine times and claiming he was in on a murder for hire plot with her first husband. She had the kid write a notebook detailing plans about him and her ex-husband conspiring to kill her, then planted it in the kids car. Imagine that 20 year old writing what amounts to a suicide note with a gun to his head.

The law never bought her story, and they kept the notebook's existence quiet to avoid scandalizing the ex further. They were that sure she was a lying sack.
The kids death led to the parents divorce. And the eventual suicide of his father.
While these folks came unraveled, she moved to Omaha and appeared on the Montel Williams show.
She was a hero. A heroine that saved the life of herself and her then 11 year old son.

And for what?

It would be bad enough if these people, just whacked the person they have decided to whack. But this ripples out through every one.
Lives are changed.
Lives are ended.
Lives are distorted beyond belief.
And people are robbed of things that money can't replace.

 In a matter of a moment

Lost till the end of time

It's the evening of another day

And the end of mine

Now the starlight which has found me

Lost for a million years

Tries to linger as it fills my eyes

Till it disappears

Could it be that somebody else is

Looking into my mind

Some other place


Some other time

Some other place


Some other time

Like a mirror held before me

Large as the sky is wide

And the image is reflected

Back to the other side

Could it be that somebody else is

Looking into my mind

Some other place


Some other time

Some other place


Some other time

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Calabanastan 650

Calabanastan 650 is the brand name for the medication containing 500 milligrams of Calfiminist Sistartrate and 150 milligrams of potassium nitrate (salt peter). Calabanastan is indicated for the relief of chronic independent thought. Calabanastan is available by prescription only. It is a powerful central nervous system antagonist that decreases episodic rational thought while increasing social isolation and marked avoidance of internet blogs written by undesirable scofflaws. The action of Calabanastan is unknown. It is believed to target synaptic activity in the frontal lesbonic lobe of the brain. Calabanastan replaces even tempered demeanor with aggressive and impulsive moods, causing the patient to leave unhinged anonymous comments on prohibited blogs .
It is possible to relapse into rational thought while taking Calabanastan.  If you engage in dialogue with a disapproved blogger, or you feel an episode of level headed thinking overtaking you, take the next dose of Calabanastan 650 and cease reciprocal contact with bloggers not found on the list of approved thinkers.
After rational thought passes, it it safe to continue visiting excluded blogs, but only to flood their comment threads with diatribes attributed to fictitious lawyers. Restrict the duration of visits to the time necessary to carpet bomb the blog. LEAVE before you read or try to comprehend the contents of the post..

 Let your lack of impulse control and irrational anger be your guide.

In rare cases, users may experience a decrease in hostility, agitation, or depressed moods while taking Calabanastan. If you notice an increase in relaxed or calm states of mind, double your dose of Calabanastan and slam your thumb in a car door.
Some people can have serious reactions to Calabanastan. It is not uncommon to develop a chapped ass, bulging eyes, and protruding veins in the neck and forehead. Long term exposure can lead to hot steam whistling out one or both the ears. This is all normal and will serve as a visual warning to others that you are medicated and not a person to be trifled with.

Any unused or out of date medications should be disposed of safely by inserting pills into cheese wedges and thrown to the dog in your neighbors yard. A 24 hour therapeutic dose should dispatch even the largest dog.  If the animal remains asymptomatic, DO NOT jump the fence into the dogs territory.
Call animal control and ask for a technician properly trained in the use of tranquilizer dart administration.

Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Stacey Castor.
Was found guilty of poisoning her then husband David Castor with antifreeze and them attempting to murder her own daughter, Ashley Wallace, with a cocktail of cruised pills mixed in vodka and Sprite. She forged a suicide note and placed it next to her daughter to lead the investigators to believe it was her daughter that poisoned her husband and not her.


Monday, December 3, 2012

White Oleander

Jonsi's latest post continues to make me think. I would like to have a relationship with my mother. I would like to have a loving relationship with my mother. About all it would take would be to sit across the table from her, and hear her say things were pretty crazy back then. You are older now than I was back then, and you know how things can get away from you like a kite on a windy day. I should have left you kids out of it. But I didn't. And I can't change that now.
Not even that. Just admit that what I know to be true is true.
She admits to things off the cuff. I have heard her joke about the panic of having a dead guy on hand and no where to hide him. Yet, defending my self against her merciless verbal onslaught by pointing out her own lack of moral fiber gets a full on denial of all of it.
Like my analogy of getting to normalcy being a journey I just don't have a map for, my mother doesn't have the foggiest idea about how far off the beaten track she is, and even if she did, she wouldn't spend a snap of her fingers to make up anything to any one around her.
This is when she becomes NPD. As opposed to a full on bat shit sociopath.

She is so blinkered that she thinks she has us all fooled. That she can reach across the table and metaphorically slap us on the side of the head and settle back in her seat and deny she did it.
Mom, you just dinged me on the side of the head. Oh I did not~!
My ear is still ringing!
It's from all that pot you used to smoke.
She has never looked at her kids as offspring. We were the low ranking competition. Now that the rest of her world died off, we are all that she's got left to attack.
That's the only way to explain the war she waged against me and Sis the past few years.

I don't like the movie White Oleander. It's perfect until the end.
When Michelle Pfieffer could have thrown her kid under the bus, she takes the high road and stays in jail.
For those of you that believe that scenario, watch Investigation Discovery on cable. There is a segment on "Women who Kill" There is not a one of them that didn't tried to pin it on their daughter if they could get away with it.

Saturday, December 1, 2012

Like a journey I just don't have a map for.

When people talk about the old and hard ways we came up, it always works around to how you can't miss things that didn't exist. I remember back when a phone call from Dallas to San Francisco cost several dollars. These were the days when you could leave for work with a dollar and pack no lunch and come back home with a quarter. Adding machines weighed 30 pounds and were a series of cams and cogs  driven by an electric motor. Skyping was what your father saw in Dick Tracey comic books in the thirties.
  Jonsi has a nice post out right about now. About how, despite the frictional situations that all families endure, her family was pretty goddamn normal. Other than an easily overlook-able pissing down the stairs episode.
I love to hear of normal families. I've seen enough of them to know that I would have liked to have lived in one. I started writing this to say I am somewhat envious because I saw enough normality to covet it. But as I tip tapped away, I realize my understanding of normalcy is no less murky now than how I would have understood  a UPC code back then.
The closet thing I can remember to good times was that every Saturday we would go grocery shopping. Shopping for the week, but also to make hamburgers later that night. Jackie Gleason would be on and my father would grill the burgers and we would sit in front of the TV and watch his variety show. The one with the June Taylor dancers.  Long after the Honeymooner's came and went. I would all but press my nose  against the screen and try and imagine myself in the television as the shot skimmed the waters of Miami beach and then flew up in the air just before it crashed.
Those were the only good times I can remember. And they didn't last long. It was a thin slice between the Barbarian's last affair and the next. And before her local celebrity status took away any chance of good times forever.
She could have made it up to us. But my father didn't exact that price. No matter how dearly he paid for her freedom.
I think if I was only broken I might be fixable.  But there just isn't much there to fix.
There isn't enough of me to send to the mechanic and still run the machine.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

No Rest for The Wicked.

1. Having qualities tending to injury and mischief; having a nature or properties which tend to badness; mischievous
2. Having or exhibiting bad moral qualities; morally corrupt; wicked; wrong; vicious; as, evil conduct, thoughts, heart, words
3. Producing or threatening sorrow, distress, injury, or calamity

 How do seekers of truth decide what is evil and what is merely wicked? Is it a function of moral relativism? Is evil the opposite of good, or is it the the absence of good?
I know the difference between right and wrong. And I didn't learn it from my parents.
Bonobo chimps have a grasp on altruism, compassion, and empathy.  And they come about these traits by instinct.
I won't hold it against the male chimps that they are notoriously pussy whipped,
I don't see evil as a moral relative. If you have no problem fucking with a person in a way that would be intolerable to you, then you have a problem.
There may be magnitudes of evil deeds, but wrong is wrong, and if you have to be told your actions are wrong,  then you need a thump on the schnout. 
Evil is more than doing wrong. It's the desire to do wrong. It's going out of your way to make someone miserable, when causing that misery is the only pay off to you.
To cause suffering for the sake of causing suffering.
It's destroying lives and hurting people for no reason other than the sheer joy of watching people's downfall.   
People are caught up in Hollywood's habit of enticing fans with bold strokes of dialogue that mean nothing.
Professor Quirrell from Harry Potter tells us that there is no good and evil, only power and those too weak to use it.
That's the sound my cat makes hacking up a hair ball.
And what the fuck does that mean? I mean really. Does it mean that might makes right?
So the Hitlers and Stalin's of the world were neither good nor evil?
Their grasp certainly exceeded their reach when it came to snuffing out millions of lives.
Since I am stronger than an ant I am entitled to annihilate them with a magnifying glass?
For the record, I never burned ants with a magnifying glass.
The low carbon foot print of a magnifying glass isn't enough to offset the pointlessness and tedium of it all.
Give me a cup of gas and a bottle rocket to stick in the ground. I want omnipotent pyrotechnics, and instant gratification.
Sinner ants in the hands of an angry god.
That logic applied to humans remains valid?

 Would there be a national holocaust celebration each year if the axis powers had won the war?


What happened to the people that disappeared from Stalin's inner circle?
Communist's ten little Indian's.
That is one picture duplicated three times.
With an ever shrinking number of comrades in arms.

If an intoxicated driver kills my kid will you be dispassionate enough to give him probation?
While an intoxicated driver that kills your kid should be sentenced to death? 

Evil is relative. What you see as varying degrees of good and bad are really what is good and bad concerning what effects your life. 

My homicidal maniac is merely a nuisance to you. And should not be labeled as evil. Because you don't have to sit across from her at Thanksgiving dinner.
But living with my homicidal maniac may lead you to rethink your way of thinking.
At least long enough to get the bitch committed to the asylum for the criminally insane. 
Although that would negate the evil part.
Insanity isn't evil.
For they know not what they did as they took a child (maybe yours) and drowned it in a bath tub.

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

A shovel just makes too much goddamn racket!

Trojan Vibrations Twister Intimate Massager

Got an ad here for the for the Trojan Vibrating Twister. It has four unique twistable positions. Eight settings, five speeds, and three pulse patterns, It has a high quality silicon tip.  It's water resistant, soft, durable, and easy to clean. It also comes with an elegant Satin pouch for discrete storage.
And it's sold at Walgreen's.
Right next to the pocket pussies.
Yeah right.
Show me one motorized vagina sold outside of the red light district and i'll eat it after some hairy fat bastard has thoroughly used it.

Women have masturbation aid parties where appliances are tossed around like Tupperware. Mix and match. Trade'em like baseball cards.
Then they go home and check their husband's browser history to make sure there are no porn hits. Woe to the man who has surfed forbidden waters. For the woman this is tantamount to cheating. And it will be used as justification to subcontract the application of the above mentioned twister to Juan the pool boy.
I contributed on a relationship advice site for several years. The second sentence out of a woman's mouth  that discovered porn on her husbands computer would be her intent to grudge fuck the first sweaty body she could find with a penis attached.
Like a live penis is so much more sanitary than a flat screen.

I have yet to meet a chick that didn't have a motorized dick.
And I say, God Bless'you.
But give us a little latitude will ya?
What gives?
Women are all a flutter about discovering the dynamics of their sexuality. We are to behold them with great wonder as they embark on a journey of sexual self actualization.
Grunty wanking pervose pigs.
It's not a word so let me save you the trouble.

How about women who won't work? Just won't do it! Not because they are raising a family. Not for any reason other than they just won't.
And I am good with that and so is everybody else.
But men that exercise this option are ripe for emasculation.
I learned early on to never ask if a woman has a job.
Always ask if a woman works "OUTSIDE" the home.

Who wants to tell me the most blatant example of sexual discrimination?
You there in the back. Yes you!
No, it's not because women are commonly referred to as Honey, Babe, or Gorgeous.
Anyone else? Anyone?
Is it because a startling new survey tells us that nearly 4 of ten girls were made fun of for being a girl, while only 1 of ten boys were made fun of for being a boy?
Ummmmmm not so much.
Glass ceiling?
Wage disparity?
How about conscription?
What about a person, legally ordered by the state to serve in the armed forces. Oh well that doesn't count does it?
For over two hundred years, men have been drafted, hunted down, and jailed if they don't comply with the requirements set forth by the government of the United States.

Even if there is no open draft for a war, all men must register.  Whether they like it or not. After the age of  18, a man must sign up at the post office. Just so Uncle Sam can keep tabs on him and drag him kicking and screaming to the front to get his ass blown off.
I too, went down and signed my happy ass up. Because they will send yo'ass to prison for just thinking about dodging the draft.
It's a $250,000 fine, and up to five years in jail if you don't. And that price is right. As in a quarter of a million dollars.
I have another question for you.
What is the total number of men; dead, missing and wounded in all US wars and military actions?
How many of these were women?
Who knows. Women are barred from direct ground combat.
In the current conflict in Iraq and Afghanistan over 6000 men have been killed.
Compared to 140 women.
Not to worry. While feminists sing cumbahyah to not suffer the indignity of  having doora opened for them, politicians are working overtime to give women the full combat rights men enjoy.
If you want to hold protests for something, I would dedicate my effort into protesting that.
Cuz it's hard to register a complaint from the grave.

You guys don't have it so bad.
You just have to put up with men and our bothersome penis's.
But so do we.
And a penis is a very willful boy.

Monday, November 26, 2012


I was raised in the south in the days when certain people were not afforded the same rights as others.
Every Sunday, I would ride with my grandfather to the parts of town where these folks lived,  and we sold them eggs and vegetables from his farm. They took me into their home and bounced me on their knee and fixed me food.  I can close my eyes and taste it today.
On Saturday, when farmers congregated at the county seat,  I was not allowed to acknowledge that these folks existed. They knew what the score was. They couldn't acknowledge our existence either.

Back in those days they put labels on Iodine bottles to deliver the message that the contents of the bottle were poisonous.  So poisonous that there needed to be a warning that transcended language so people wouldn't drink the stuff. Something that any one could decipher. Even a child.

They settled on the skull and cross bones.
I understand the discrimination that labels foster. I understand that it is dangerous to apply labels that only reflect the ignorance of an misinformed society.
When the clear and present danger someone represents to the people around them, far exceeds the cost of typecasting this person, it is incumbent on those aware of their potential to do what ever it takes to shield others from this harm.
Calling some one evil is a tacky thing to do. It is rude, subjective, and only serves to diminish this person's standing in the community. But if this person is evil, I think we owe it to others to get the word out. Calling someone evil is not actionable in a court of law.
The statement is not specific enough to cause harm. No one would act on these words. Unless they had already come to the same conclusion and needed a push in that direction.
Sugar coating what we know about an evil person is worse than tacky. It's as bad as a person not reporting a murder for hire plot.
If you knew someone was going to be whacked, I would think the intended victim would want to be notified.
"I didn't want to get involved," doesn't mean much to the person that gets murdered.
The words we use to label a person are irrelevant. As long as we speak the truth, the semantics of word choice shouldn't matter.
Evil people like to be known as evil.
I say we give them what they want.

Friday, November 23, 2012

Marriage. The Leading Cause of Divorce.

If every married couple you know ends up divorced, and it doesn't make you stop and wonder if your upcoming marriage is the best plan for your future, then may you get what's coming to you. Because there is no advantage large enough to off set the fact that you just spent a years salary to legally bind yourself to the most unstable person you know.
The short term financial gains of marriage are great. Tax advantages. Health insurance breaks. It's a perfect financial front to present to banking institutions. Two can live as cheaply as one, and with two incomes, it's a snap to buy that first home, retire mortgage debt, and accumulate equity.
There are the gender specific skills trade off. Like changing a tire.
Although it costs five bucks at Pep Boys, and any woman with breasts, can con any straight man within miles to change it for free. You still need to hedge your bets.

Enjoy this unparalleled accumulation of wealth while you can. In a few years you guys will be a bundle of bitter hate, both working over time to sabotage and undermine exactly everything that the other is trying to do. Those assets will disappear in a flurry of single malt scotch, hair plugs, and divorce litigation in a tenth of the time it took to acquire.
People shake their heads at the middle aged guy, flying down the freeway in a convertible with the top down, crooning "My Way" while his comb over cascades inches away  from being sucked into the intake of a Peterbilt.
 He has more direction than you.
He knows right where he wants this life to take him. And that would be head long into the piers of the Ventura Highway bridge over the 405.

Veteran's of holy matrimony. Ask yourself this.
Has my spouse spun as far out of control as I have?
Have they?
Are they banging around with every twenty something bit of fluff they can get cornered?
Quit playing sugar daddie and move the oxycontin addicted, barely legal, affair partner hill billies you and your wife have been fucking, into the pool house you paid for with bank fraud and a third mortgage. And with the money you save, get the therapy you all will desperately need after the kids start banging each other instead of you and your wife. Then maybe a judge will grant you a divorce.
Drug addiction is great justification for your life spiraling out of control, so stock up on Valium's.
Bleach your short term memory while you still have the illusion of control, and before it dawns on you that with out money, control feels a lot like self loathing. If you are shaking your head up and down asking yourself how a cracker from Texas knows you so well, it is already too late.
Way too late.
You are going to have to stand in place like a kid in a dunce cap. Let your your soon to be ex slice your throat. And lay your empty head on your empty wallet beside the pile of month old credit card statements  and bleed out.

I have these words of hope for you.
This is what you need to do.
 NEXT TIME the Jones for marriage dulls your senses.
Find a magic marker, take a piece of cardboard, and make a sign asking for donations to the national "don't get your ass dragged from your car and beaten while stopped at a red light fund."
Panhandling is your destination employment anyway. Why wait til the last minute.
Start hustling change and marinating your liver in cheap wine now.
Apply yourself, and with any luck, you will be dead before you get old.
Who from the 60's never sang "my generation" in the shower?
It was a trick question.
No one took showers back in the sixties. The closest to bathing any of my friends got, was standing in the rain after the wind blew our tent away at Woodstock.
So get married if you want. We'll have something in common.

If I could choose between marriage, and reliving a week-end in up state New York, vibrating in sync to ear splitting, and mind numbingly naive lyrics about changing the world, while having a psychotic breakdown induced by harsh psychedelics manufactured in a bath tub by flunking chemistry students from Berkeley. Then spending several more years of accelerated aging brought on by drinking the cheapest of shoplifted wine and eating nothing but surplus government cheese.
Only to finish off by having my final years roll by in a horrific wasting away in some Nazi concentration camp-like warehouse for the disposal of the aged and in-firmed folks relegated to the margins of society.
It wouldn't give me one seconds pause.
Don't even have to think about it.
Not for a second.
If I had started that tailspin up front, instead of getting married, I would be dead by now and all my ex wives would be sorry they ever treated me the way they did.

I know what you folks that think you know it all are saying. Oh fuck you mister know it all bastard headed rat fucking piece of shit Q you. Me and boopsy love each other ever so much, and we are tying the knot this very week end.
Oh yeah?

Don't think you have it made because you are this * close to the alter and no one has abandoned ship. Talk to me after your new wife turns up naked in the cabin of the lounge singer booked on your honeymoon cruise.
Women take heed. Many a husband has lost himself in the hypnotic rush of flaming drinks served at the captains table in the presence of one of the top rated Wayne Newton impersonator's of the cruise industry.
Laugh at me now.
But you'll see.
Don't forget.
You heard it here first.

Tuesday, November 20, 2012


When I lived on the farm, a dog that killed a chicken, had to be put down. The first kill gave them the taste. The next kill wouldn't be for a meal. The dog runs through for sport, snarling, and snapping, and killing indiscriminately. And there will always be a second time.
The chickens may have been passing through, but they were bound for the the table. No dog was worth more than food.
We couldn't waste money on a vet. So they got the business end of a gun.
After the age of about 10 this duty fell on me. People from the city were always dumping dogs at my grandmother's house. A load of #8 bird shot from 40 or 50 yards out would send a new arrival down the road.  If not, I had to drop it for real.
I did what was asked, and what I was asked was to take care of our survival.
Don't believe what you hear about tying the dead chicken around the dogs neck like an albatross. That's like trying to get a person to lose weight by tying a steak and baked potato to their head. Dog's will eat a fucking diaper and go back for seconds.
I had to snuff maybe three in my life. But if they killed a chicken, they had to go.
This brings my mother to mind. My father and grandmother would confer about the fate of the dog, and  issue an edict.
I was like a sniper under cover, waiting to get the green light to pull the trigger.
All while my mother stayed in her room and mirror gazed.
Every single time that there was an event that bookmarked a snap shot of my surroundings,  she was always sitting in front of the mirror.

When my father snuffed it, she was in front of the mirror.
The few times she was there in a dog/eat/chicken crisis, in front of the mirror.
Before, during, and after dinner, she would be sitting in front of the mirror.
When she caught me flipping her off,  she had been in front of the mirror, and that's where she went after she smacked me.
In the three years her murder charges were pending,  I never saw her in that house when she wasn't primping in front of the mirror.
Me and sis would have gone the way of the chicken eating dogs, if the Barbarian could have gotten  away with it.  And she would have gladly pulled the trigger. If she could have shot us from her seat in front of the mirror.

If you watch Dexter, this will be redundant. This week's show ended as the principles found themselves wishing they were any where else but living the life they are living.  The show closes with a Dexter monologue, and him referencing an earlier conversation with a Russian mobster about Argentina being a good place to disappear and begin again.
Dexter said:
"Everyone wants an Argentina, a place where the slate is wiped clean.
But the truth is, Argentina is just Argentina.
No matter where we go, we take our damage with us.
So is home the place we run to, or is it the place we run from?
Only to hide in places where we are accepted unconditionally.
Places that feel more like home to us.
Because we can finally be who we are.

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Femme Fatale

When last we checked into the Barbarian's criminal past, I had run up a blind alley as far as producing any new relics from her days as the family femme fatale. So I decided to have a go at her partner in crime, the infamous Bill Jobe, but didn't have the cause number for his case, only my mothers. The nice lady,
(h/t to Charlotte) at the Dallas County Clerks office, said if I had my mothers cause number, they would still have a file on her, just no transcript. In Texas, transcripts remain the property of the court reporter, who for all we know is dead, or living under a bridge in Kathmandu.
 I filled out the request, and went home to wait. It had long ago been moved to their warehouse.
I expected to never hear from them again.
Two weeks to the day, I got a call back from the clerk who told me her file was there and to come down and see.
 It weighed about four pounds and was an inch and a half thick. I flung the folder open and it was filled with a zillion motions, and all the subpoena's, and stipulations about what evidence could, and could not be allowed.
Other than the names, it could have been from any murder trial ever tried, in any court of law around the world.
Except for a list of discovery items and bits of her original statement that were going to be the focus of her lawyers strategy. These bits do shed some light on how she got off, and for now these are the only words that I have ever seen/heard that came out of the Barbarian's mouth.
The first page has a couple of paragraphs of a detectives statements, and the second page has a bit of the Barbarian's original statement.
Her description of the driveway and gate are backward. There is a gate and then the side walk. It's all driveway until then. That's not unexpected. But she seems determined to keep calling her partner Willard.
He went by Bill. No one but the State of Texas ever called him Willard. She didn't miss a lick.
Willard Willard Willard.
Was she distancing her self from the appearance that they were in league? 
She is describing him as if he walked in the front to borrow a cup of sugar and walked through the back and emptied her gun in this guys back.
He banged her like a drum, morning, noon, and nitey nite nite.
They mooned around each other like two love struck fifteen year old's. 
And how does this explain that we were in Dallas, with two swinging dicks in orbit around her, when our father was expecting us in Denver like .......NOW!
Everybody says she played every one like a banjo. I don't see it. She didn't have to. 
All she did was shove her titties in some dudes face, and he played himself.
My dick has got me in some pretty tight places (no pun), but c'mon, I still have veto power.
It's not that hard to get laid. Really it's not.
Don't forget, as this action packed scenario played out, she had her eight and fifteen year old kids asleep inside.   

Friday, November 9, 2012

Psychobabble today.

"The fact is, that most psychologists and other respectable people have escaped from their moral chains and are able to observe and think freely."
G. Brock Chisholm

Oh! to live in the rarefied air 
of the psychologist!

 Far above the maladjusted thought process 
 that keeps the unwashed in neanderthal bondage,
Unfettered, the psychologist flees the impulse
prompting those beneath them 
 to sniff the asses of their brethren
 and fling feces at the neighbor.

  In the beginning, psychology was the domain of Sigmund Freud. Siggie was a pontificating, starched, cigar smoking, pantie waist, who saw women as phallus sucking whores, aching to revisit the 12 year old self and grind their steaming snatches on the quivering crotch of their long suffering fathers. When it was pointed out to Sigmund, that his ever present cigar was more dick like than any of the objects he alleged his patients used as subliminal cock proxies, he stated that sometimes, "a cigar is just a cigar."  Freud offered no empirical data to back his fraught with kink theories, and countered detractors with the notion that his suppositions were too complicated to be tested.
God must have thought a lot of Freud. He was provided safe passage to London before secular Nazi's could get their oven mitts on him.

Later there were behaviorists. Those who foolishly thought that theory should be based on observable actions, methodically studied, measured, and mathematically computable leading to relevant data that might prove a causal relationship between stimulus, and how the mind reacts to this stimulus.
Alas, there is no money in sound science, and this phase passed like a turnip seed through Oprah's Winfrey's pumpkin sized bilge pipe.

Today the psych industry has pulled back hard from science. Scores of self help books line the shelves of Wal-Mart. Psychologists get rich charging thousands to tell you how and where to tap certain places with your fingertips to achieve an earthbound nirvana.
If you can find a book with theory that is backed by science, it will be found in the occult and paranormal activity's section.
And I know a Korean chick that'll tap me for fifty bucks.

In 1960, 14% of the population had utilized some form of psychological counselling. It was in the days of Eisenhower, and people were feeling the squeeze of a big brother like fist around their necks and wallets. They would deal with their issues in house. There would be no outsourcing of mental health by the greatest generation. They had Pabst Blue Ribbon and Patsy Cline.

  By 1995, the percentage of those feeling the need to empty their attic with help from the grocery clerks of the medical profession rose to about half 50 percent. Something about all that cocaine and disco in the 70's took us to a place that no one came back from.
All we were needing was to be held. To just be held. And in ever increasing numbers.

Predictions are that soon, four out of five people in the general population will have received some form of psychological therapy. One look at reality television will bear me out. No survey needed.
There are still a few scholars and disciplined practitioners, but they are over shadowed by peddlers of too good to be true therapies that advertise their products in the wee hours of the morning.

Certain of their superior intellect, therapists feel that there is a therapeutic solution to all of life's pains. And  no therapy is too ludicrous to be disregarded. Especially not theirs.
Tapping. Acu- puncture. Green tea enema's, Equine Assisted Therapy, Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing, Critical Incident Debriefing, and the Chicken Foot Prance.  CFP is a therapy involving a  shaman with a bone in his nose, and plate in his lip, ritualistically chanting while waving a mummified chicken foot on a machete over the mid section of a large breasted virgin as the clock strikes mid-night.....  ...OK I just made that one up. But I really do think acu-puncture is tantamount to Voo-Doo. They just cut out the middle man. (read doll)
And all are considered a legitimate and nutritious part of a board certified mental health breakfast.

Is there any reservation from practitioners with little or no scientific training?
Not from a profession that works up a treatment plan by watching Fear Factor.
A fly in a blueberry muffin. A tiny toy penis on a co-workers desk. That's all that is needed for a psychologist to declare the observer a "victim" and a chronic PTSD sufferer.

A government study focused on patients with recovered memories of repressed childhood sexual abuse, found that ten percent of the group had experienced suicidal ideation before the onset of therapy. Three years later, 67% of the group had expressed suicidal thoughts. Most had lost their jobs and half had marital breakdowns.
The psychology industry, and make no mistake, it is an industry, will never acknowledge that they impoverish their clients and wreck lives. Nor will they cite the statistics that shows talking things out with friends and family has about the same success rate as relying on the professionals. It is an industry only concerned with protecting it's own interests and expanding it's market and influence. Therapy today is in the hands of a mongrel horde of profiteering wallet mongers, that suggestively bend a diagnosis around a CPT code to facilitate reimbursement by insurance companies.
The industry is wheels within wheels, all going round and round and round.
 Creating drama where drama already exists.

Psychologists have become the ambulance chasers of the 21st century.

Society is now monitored by a force of vigilant sensitivity police, telling us what is the proper emotion to feel and when it is proper to feel it. There is no lack of "expert" therapists, self esteem educators, grief councilors, traumatologists, all prompting us to take a 24/7 reading of the smallest negative thought, so we can thoroughly vent each and every one of our feelings till everyone around us wants to puke.

It has become a patch work of maverick hucksters, doling out an amalgam of brained stormed therapies based on errors in logic, popular myths, and misguided personal beliefs. Practitioners purchase credentials (don't confuse the word credentialed with competent) from a licensing board created in the 50's to keep the fate of the industry out of the hands of real medical health care providers that wanted to reign in the rogue nature of the industry. The providers of psychology knew they were going the way of the buggy whip and formed their own licensing boards to authenticate their industry, create monopolies, and qualify themselves for third party payments. Licensing was never intended to protect the public. It was all for self preservation. Certification is the quickest way for unrecognized professions to achieve parity with traditional practices.
Psych boobs are no exception.
It's about looking professional and getting paid.

To hedge their bets some psychologists align themselves with Eastern religion. 

And what great in roads to a more evolved society can we thank our friendly psychologist for?
Receptionist's are now called director's of first impressions.
Bus drivers are called transporter's of learners.
Manufacturers of ink pens now sell more purple pens than red, because teachers don't want to stigmatize youth with a sea of red ink..

Does the psychology industry manufacture victims?
Does the the tin man have a sheet metal dick?

There are three kinds of people that seek therapy.
Real victims in real psychological distress. Those that are trying to deal and cope with real trauma and abuse.
There are those that fake illness for myriad reasons. For attention or as a party to a frivolous law suit.
And there is what is known as synthetic patients.
Synthetic patients are those that present with a possible troubling history that can be molded, edited, and modified into an experience to solidify a diagnosis that is lucrative to the therapist.
Psychologists are chumming the waters of their practice by pathologizing reasonably normal feelings into a disorder that requires professional treatment.

The demand for psychotherapy keeps pace with the supply, and at times one has the uneasy feeling that the supply may be creating the demand...Psychotherapy is the only form of treatment which appears to create the illness it treats.
Jerome Frank

 If the psychotherapy industry is not hell bent on expanding the market for their services. If they are not looking to saturate this niche at every possible juncture. Then who coined the word co-victimization. Co-victimization is knowing someone that has been abused and/or needs therapy and this entitles you as a third party witness, to the same therapy and legal redress? Who advocates that a wolf whistling construction worker be charged with sexual assault rather than harassment?
Who would reap the benefits from the expert testimony needed to provide learned council the appropriate interpretation to determine if this action did indeed rise to the level of an actual assault.
If you are thinking a psychologist, you can move to the head of the class.
The saddest part of a psychologists aggressive manufacturing of pathology, is that the people they are claiming to fight for will be the biggest losers.  Women account for more than two thirds of the people seeking therapy. Women that have been working for their own sense of independence and self fulfillment for decades.

I regard psychiatry as fifty percent bunk, thirty percent fraud, ten percent parrot talk, and the remaining ten percent just a fancy lingo for the common sense we have had for hundreds and perhaps thousands of years, if we ever had the guts to read it.
~Raymond Chandler

Never lose sight of the huge amount of money that has been invested in promoting the acceptance of  a psychological approach as the cure for all that ails society. Issues that will not stand on their own merit. Issues that would be long forgotten with out an intense campaign to keep them and their practitioners in the forefront of our collective consciousness.
Campaigns that are full of the junk food of language. Buzz words that provide their cause an air of mystic plausibility. Words that are the means for people to talk about themselves and not really say a thing.
Words that provide ego-syntonic reinforcement to hucksters.

Man kind did not get to where we are now by allowing a select group of people to tell us what to think.
Being told what to think is exactly what the psychology driven life demands. Leave autonomy and self determination at the door. And trade one life of quiet desperation for another.
One waits in vain for psychologists to state the limits of their knowledge.
Noam Chomsky

Sunday, November 4, 2012


Never trust a self proclaimed wise person. Their declarations of infinite wisdom are always followed by a bid to appoint themselves leader of the pack.  They shove in with their brass balls and authoritative posture,  waving some relic of a birth certificate as if this is proof of their intellect.
If there is no pack to lead, they'll create one. Then make it their mission statement to keep out people they don't like.
People like you.
I have some news for you. Advanced age just means you are old.
I can't help getting old. But I can avoid being full of bullshit.
Well I can't, but I can display my full of shitness as an option or an opinion.  I can do it in a way that isn't divisive or harmful.
This doesn't apply to the acutely self esteem deficient. Everything under the sun triggers you guys.

As long as there is a willing audience, we will get the same old know it all slap fucks holding court with their dead from the neck up proselytizing.
"I am WELL into my fifties. (Short pause for the E.F.Hutton effect)... and I CAN tell you this."
We know you can, but we wish you wouldn't.
And we'll get the same people that must be told what to think.
"Who knows what everyone else is thinking? I don't dare say what I think. What if I am wrong? I'll wait and see what every one else says, and then I'll agree with them.

Any body that confuses age with wisdom should try standing in a mob of assisted living refugees swarming the slot machines at Choctaw Casino.
If you err to the side of human fallibility, you will get through this life just fine. The odds are, that the beeping,  squawking know it all, is just a fat bag of hot air.
This "I am wise hear me roar" tactic, should be the first red flag you look for. It works too well for them to leave it out.
They lie when they tell us that their arrival at this perfect state of transcendental wisdom and judicious grace, is a function of age. They have always been the insufferable ass you see now. Their sense of entitlement was something they were born with. It's just easier to sell it at this age with a little spoonful of Aunt Bee to make the medicine go down.

Those that fled and deleted blogs don't blame any one but yourselves.
If you read this you probably still think the rest of us are your enemy and you have found a place populated by like minded, compassionate people. But the people Cali turned you against are the people who created this safe haven in the first place.
I don't include myself in this group.
I am speaking of the guys that have been here for years. The upsi's and jonsi's. The mulderfan's and the Vanci's. PA and all the other people who got where they are by writing there own rules and not following some paint by number therapy they found reading Ann Landers. Free standing, free thinkers, that would never ask you to give up your autonomy.  And would never ask you to throw your journal's away because your thinking and writing might expose you to some risk.
For me, aging has been an unfolding of knowing how much stuff is out there that I will NEVER understand. Age doesn't shorten the list of things that will round out my perfection. It lets me know that the kind of wisdom they are preaching about doesn't exist.
Only a fool would offer themselves up as a conduit to perfection.
And only a fool would take them up on it.
There is a reason why humans evolved with mouths that close and ears that stay open.
It's because we need more shutting the fuck up, and less spewing of self aggrandizing bullshit.
Not every thought, opinion, and statement is destined for the history book.
So anonymous flying monkeys from the land of Cali, here you go.
Let the " I know you are but what am I " games begin.