Sunday, October 28, 2012

Sycophants


I don't like ass kissers, flag wavers or team players. I like people who buck the system. Individualists. I often warn people: Somewhere along the way, someone is going to tell you, there is no "I" in team. What you should tell them is, maybe not. But there is an "I" in independence, individuality and integrity. Avoid teams at all costs. Keep your circle small. Never join a group that has a name. If they say, we are the so and so's, take a walk. And if, somehow, you must join, if it's unavoidable, such as a union or a trade association  go ahead and join. But don't participate; it will be your death. And if they tell you you're not a team player, congratulate them on being observant.
                                                                George Carlin


Friday, October 26, 2012

Divide, Conquer, and Isolate.




During my first marriage, my wife and I, and another couple, went to see a hypnotist preforming at a comedy club. As soon as the hypnotist asked for volunteers, the other husband jammed his hand high up in the air. I had known this guy forever. I was hoping he would be an unhypnotizable  brick, and I would finally get the definitive proof I have longed for that all the hypnosis induced chicken clucking cliche's people bandy about are bullshit.

And I was right. There was not a clucking chicken to be found on stage.
What we did find was a group of people that thought they were neighbors in a trailer park. One that had been been visited recently by extraterrestrials. He convinced them that they were on a Jerry Springeresque talk show, and that one of the women had slept with E.T. and was now carrying it's child.

The other women were calling the "pregnant" woman a slut. They were convinced that her propensity to wear provocative attire was tantamount to "asking" for it, and that if she was with alien child, she had no one to blame but her slutty self. For a while I thought they might come to blows over all this alien fucking. They sounded more jealous than put off.

 He then got my friend up to the mike all finger snapping and riffing some beat generation Ginsberg- Kerouac hybrid that didn't make a lick of sense.
Later my friend told me that it was as if a curtain had been lowered around him and it made the hypnotists words true and unquestionable. That no matter what else his sense's were telling him, he could not over power the thought that every thing the hypnotist said was true. His description was chock full of the qualifying "sort of's" and "kind of's" that let me know I would never understand it unless I lived it. And over the years he never lost that look of  bewilderment whenever he was called on to tell the story.

This manipulation of the subconscious is an analogue to living with a malignant narcissist.

I never had a lot of face time with my mother. She was never "there," even when she was there. She was more like a crazy aunt that should have been locked in the basement and best avoided whenever possible.
After my fathers death I saw her on holidays, and if she was living in town maybe once a month.
I always thought that maybe she was kind of jealous of any woman I brought over to meet her.
But that's just silly, right?

I do know I quit bringing women over to her house, because something wasn't quite right with the way she acted.

After her stroke, I moved in and came and went as I pleased. She didn't clamp down on me directly. But I always thought that maybe she kind of wanted more control than most would consider healthy.
But that's just silly, right?

What she did do was find issues that were unacceptable with every one I knew. And then hammered on these issues until I withdrew.
By the time I came to my sense's, I was walled off from the world.  I had isolated myself, and insulated myself from everyone in my old life except for my ex-wife. Even with her I about bit her head off anytime I came up.

She was a real life 2001 a Space Odyssey.
Alone in this howling void of a spacecraft, I was observed constantly by an unblinking lens that registered every action and word.
I had hoped to make up for the lost time wasted by fate. But it was not fate that had kept us apart.
What I got was her systematically rewriting my youth. Rewriting my relationship with my father.
Minimizing her evil and positioning herself as Mother fucking Teresa.
And I bought it. I bought it all. Why would anyone lie. Especially not my own mother.
I wanted to believe. So bad. I wanted to believe that things were never as bad as I remembered, and if they were, that she had changed. Mellowed with age.
And if she had backed off a half a click, or had an ounce of impulse control, or a single boundary, I might still be down there.
But a narcissist never knows when to say when.
Each passing day inched us further from reality, and closer to life in her fantasy.
And then she lost me.
She was talking to herself and no one else.
In an instant, she fell from the grace of the sage to a stupid, twisted, old crazy bitch.
And she knew I knew her for what she is.
This was something she couldn't allow.  Every day after, I presented with the same posture as before.
But she understood that I was no longer a believer, and her narcissistic rages became a daily ritual. Something endurable if she could keep it this side of torment.
But a narcissist doesn't know when to say when.
When it came down to her or me, I picked me.

I am not sure why disordered people dedicate themselves to cutting victims from the herd. I do not know why their need to isolate and dominate becomes an obsession.
It's a strategy of divide and conquer. Isolate and dominate.
Create a captive audience and spoon feed them whatever reality strikes their fancy, with none of those pesky and inarguable bits of distraction.
Like truth.


I don't know if there is a lesson in this.
If there is, it might be:
Never outsource the ability to think for yourself.
Never trade self sufficiency for a false sense of security.
Know that the answers to your questions lie within you.
Know that anyone attempting to commandeer your autonomy does not have your interests at heart.
Know that no matter how good a person's intentions appear,
and no matter how well spoken a person may be, if they tell you they are expanding your world by asking you to make yourself smaller, they are using you as a means to their own end.




Thursday, October 25, 2012

Deal with it.




The unfunny thing about the disordered is that in their war of taking all and leaving nothing behind, their tenacity for destruction ultimately kills that which they champion. Like a kid that grabs the whole pie for himself and then drops it making his get away.
My mother knows the price of everything and the value of nothing. She'll fight tooth and nail to avenge the indignity suffered at the hands of a careless cashier, yet let a financial adviser sell her the least performing portfolio in history. Contractors routinely take her money and bail with the job half finished. Service men repair unbroken appliance's just to shut her up.
She tried to entice me into her web with the promise of a new car. Even a house. But the stand that cost her a relationship with me was from me adding a clearance priced pizza cutter to her grocery tab and giving it to my ex-wife.
The cutter was symbolic as much for her as it was for me. To her it represented losing the war of driving me and my ex-wife apart. For me it was the last straw in a life of being badgered by minutiae from a woman who would end some one's life for a price.

And so I walk on and think I am done. Certainly I have paid enough dues for one life. It's been a hard fight just to keep my head above water. Now there can be no where to go but up.
Guess again.
You can't swing a dead cat without hitting some douche canoe that wants to reinvent your wheel.
Everywhere I turn, there is one more boring and selfish fucktardashian waiting to jack up my shit box. It just never stops.
All I need is to fall in line. They will do my thinking for me.
Dudes and Dudettes, I already have a mother and a congressman.
I didn't come this far to hand over the keys of my life to someone I don't even know.
I think I will be cremated.
I don't need one of these goons forcing me into the position I will lie for all eternity.


Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Sense of Humor Quotes.


A person without a sense of humor is like wagon without springs. It's jolted by every pebble in the road.
Henry Ward Beecher.

When humor go's, there go's civilization.
Erma Bombeck

If I had no sense of humor. I would have long ago committed suicide.
Mahatma Ghandi

Humor is perhaps a sense of intellectual perspective: an awareness that some things are really important, others not; and that the two kinds are most oddly jumbled in every day affairs.
Christopher Morley.

True humor springs not more from the head than from the heart. It is not contempt; it's essence is love. It issues not in laughter but in still smile, which lie far deeper.
Carlyle Thomas

Having a sense of humor has served me more than it has hurt me - just in the sense that it has allowed me to keep my sanity.
Dee Dee Myers

Analyzing humor is like dissecting a frog. Few people are interested and the frog dies from it.
E.B. White

Nothing is more funny than a chick telling someone to suck their dick. See they don't really have one.
 Doug Hart.



Monday, October 22, 2012

Creepy


From Joanna Ashmun's site.
http://www.halcyon.com/jmashmun/npd/traits.html#contra


Narcissists are  extremely sensitive to personal criticism. They think that they must be seen as perfect or superior or infallible or else they are worthless. They can't tolerate the least disagreement. Their reasoning seems to be something like "I am a good person and can do no wrong.  They will say, "You just have to accept me the way I am. (God made me this way, so God loves me even if you are too stupid to understand how special I am.)" Accepting them as they are (and staying away from them entirely) is excellent advice.  They can't see that they have a problem; it's always somebody else who has the problem and needs to change. There are usually a favored few whom narcissists regard as absolutely above reproach, even for egregious misconduct or actual crime, and about whom they won't brook the slightest criticism. These are people the narcissists are terrified of, though they'll tell you that what they feel is love and respect; apparently they don't know the difference between fear and love. Narcissists just get worse and worse as they grow older; their parents and other authority figures that they've feared die off, and there's less and less outside influence to keep them in check. 

Narcissists are totally and inflexibly authoritarian. In other words, they are suck-ups. They want to be authority figures and, short of that, they want to be associated with authority figures. In their hearts, they know they can't think well, have no judgment about what matters, are not connected with the world they inhabit, so they cling fanatically to the opinions of people they regard as authority figures -- such as their parents, teachers, doctors, ministers. Where relevant, this may include scientists or professors or artists, but narcissists stick to people they know personally, since they aren't engaged enough with the world to get their authoritative opinions from TV, movies, books or dead geniuses/saints/heroes. If they get in trouble over some or another opinion they've put forth, they'll blame the source -- "It was okay with Dr. Somebody," "My father taught me that," etc. If you're still thinking of the narcissist as odd-but-normal, this shirking of responsibility will seem dishonest and craven -- well, it is but it's really an admission of weakness: they really mean it: they said what they said because someone they admire or fear said it and they're trying to borrow that person's strength. 

Saturday, October 20, 2012

I feel like I owe it to someone.




You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop and look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself," I lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.
Eleanor Roosevelt.


All my life, as a child living with my mother and after, I always felt like I was on a road that I didn't want to be on. Every one told me not to worry. That not liking your direction in life was normal. Implying that this abnormality was some how a driving force in finding the right direction and finding a better station in life.
These were the people who didn't know the truth about the Barbarian. People that didn't understand that there were really people like my mother. And people who wouldn't want to understand if I could get it through their thick head what a twisted sick fuck it was that had instilled all these insecurities.

Fear is not a bad thing. Fear is an indicator that we are leaving our comfort zone.
But I don't want to give in an inch to fear.
I don't want to be that guy anymore.

All my life with the Barbarian, fear would be one thing I rarely felt. Having an open door to her house was playing it safe. Every thing I did was safe.
As long as my actions were not ones she opposed, there was no need to fear.
This was entirely impossible, because she would have opposed every thing I did. Every thing I stood for.
Each time I was in her presence, I was forced to split myself in two. And like the false self a Narcissist presents to outsiders, I was forced to present a false self to her.
I could talk about drinking, and chasing skirts, because that fit into the world she approved of.
Or a friend banging another friend's wife.
And betrayal's and lies.
It's what she feeds on.
But I could never speak of my love for a woman and her children.
I could never speak about any act of kindness bestowed on someone else.
That would make me a mark.
And no matter what projection fest she subjected me to on any given day, it was to be weathered and never in a million years was I to ever criticize her.
Never.
To say the smallest, unmeasured word, was to open myself up to the worst narcissistic rage.
                    

                                                                           






                   




    

                   



                   



    

                   



Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Sorry Bess. I have to steal your post.

This is from  Bess's latest post where she posted a link from. Anna V's blog.

This articulates my feelings about the dust up.

It is impossible to explain how evil came into being without, in some substantive way, lessening it. We assume when something is explained to our satisfaction that we've taken the mystery out of the puzzle. Its not evil...its the result of abuse. Its not evil...they have messed up chemicals in their brains. Its not evil...their genetics are at fault. Any explanation of the etiology of evil must discount the power of choice, free will, and personal responsibility. Period.

Don't fall for what passes for "truth" by the prescribers of false righteousness. They want peace at all costs. They are willing to overlook the crimes of abusers in order to keep things looking good on the surface. They want you to screw yourself by pretending someone didn't injure you, steal from you, slander you, etc. They demand you submit to bad treatment so they don't have to deal with anything as messy as your hurt or angry feelings at having been crapped on and screwed yet again. See what I'm saying? These people who condemn your negative feelings are demanding you put up with being raped. They are demanding your silence. In fact, in a real sense, they are piling on with the narcissist. They don't want to be inconvenienced by your justifiable reactions to evil deeds done to you or yours. Do not give moral weight to the opinions of someone who is only studying their own convenience and therefore willing to subvert justice in the name of a false peace or truce with evil.

Give up your quest to find peace at the cost of honesty. Be honest with yourself about what you feel. Attempts to lessen the guilt of the guilty is an illegitimate way to cope with your negative reactions to them. Accept the truth that a decent person should be angry and outraged at perverted and evil behaviors. Evil people create themselves. They stand before God Himself with no excuses for their evil deeds. He will strip away all their excuses in the final judgment and they will be forced to bear the full guilt for their choices. We should quit trying to be better than God Himself.

Monday, October 15, 2012

This is not a forum.


It seems that there are people that suffer from the illusion that  ACON blogs are bound together and that it is acceptable protocol to scold people about the opinions they express on their blogs. Folks seem to be appointing themselves arbiters of good taste and feel entitled to tell a person that their approach about a certain topic is unacceptable. Even if you express it in terms of how someones words evokes fear in others, it still contributes to the chilling effect.You can say whatever you want. That's what this is all about. But if anyone thinks that snide anonymous comments will curtail a goddamn thing, you are mistaken. I am the most passive aggressive S.O.B. you will ever find. It's runs in my family. Telling me to shut up is such an exercise in futility that my feeble mind can't even come up with a metaphor. 
I can tell you that whatever sense of community exists here is not derived from a bunch of scolding, and knuckle swatting It's from a long term, free exchange of ideas. Your writing is no more or less valid than mine. Nor is mine more valid than yours.
I'll write what I want, and you write what you want, and never the twain shall meet.
This was never an issue before you know who flipped the you know what out.  Her nuttiness is not the source of any tension. It's every one straddling fences and taking first one side and then another.
She's a nut. Plain and simple.
Be shocked at her. Don't be shocked at the people that saw it coming.
And as much as the Ginger Midget is busting a nut at the up roar she caused. I think it is great. Any way you slice it she comes up looking like the Queen fucktard in all this. For her to think she got one over on us just shows the large caliber fuck tard she really is. She's just passing through. We'll be blogging on long after she is gone.


Sunday, October 14, 2012

Jim Goad for President.



I always say. Anything worth doing, is worth waiting till the last minute to do. And in that spirit, I would like to start a grass roots movement for all Americans to have Jim Goad placed on the ballet as a write in candidate in next month's presidential elections. I am well aware that Mr. Goad's lack of awareness of me calling him to duty, as well as me reprinting his column without permission makes me more likely to get a C&D from a Mexican mall lawyer than it will result in Goad answering this call to arms. But I feel it is incumbent on me to be proactive in today's political landscape. If for no other reason than to atone for a ten year absence from the polls. Don't blame me, take it up with the state of Texas.
Ladies and Gentleman. I give you Jim Goad, the next president of  Los Unido Estado.


Lets invade Canada!


Although I think it would be very, very
funny if we were actually to invade and
forcefully subjugate Canada, I’m actually somewhat serious
when I say that we should at least consider doing so.
We can annex the Canadian territories peacefully or by
force, and I must state for the record that I’d prefer it be by
force if for no other reason than the personal amusement
and emotional satisfaction it would bring me.
Even though we hear endless propaganda about how
Canucks are our happy-go-lucky trade partners who share
the world’s longest undefended border with us, I believe
it’s in our nation’s best interest to storm the 49th parallel
and make Canada our 51st state.


I realize that the idea of invading Our Boring Neighbor
to the North has been a comic device in films such as
Canadian Bacon and the South Park movie. It has also
been suggested in essays you can find all over the Net,
ranging in intent from completely satirical to rabidly literal.
So I’m by no means claiming that my idea is original.
However, I like to believe that no man alive is able to articulate
the reasons we should do this better than I can.
Invading Canada and immediately enslaving its inhabitants
would be a good thing for the following reasons...


REASON #1: We can get the fuck out of the Middle East and
let them eat each other alive over there.
Canada’s oil reserves are second only to Saudi Arabia’s. Rolling
right over Canada would be much quicker and less complicated
than the current war in the Middle East, where our endless meddling
over oil only further serves to stir the wrath of the bloodthirsty
Mohammedan hordes.
There are 1.2 billion Muslims worldwide.
There are only 33 million or so people in Canada.
It’s much less risky to piss off the Canadians.
What are they going to
throw at us—beer bottles
and snowballs?
The rest of the world
wouldn’t really CARE as much
if we invaded Canada, because,
like us, the rest of the world
doesn’t really care about
Canada generally or even think
about it that much.


REASON #2: Canadians
accuse us of being a racist
country, although America
is far more diverse than
Canada. By annexing
Canada, we can use the
almighty force of law to
make it the Land of Diversity
its current inhabitants
desire it to be.


When Canadians criticize
America, they rarely do so in
terms of cultural, scientific,
and global accomplishments,
because they obviously can’t
compete with us on those
levels. So they’ll take the
predictable route and blame us for all the supposed racism running
wild through the streets here.
It’s so easy to judge from atop the frozen sidelines, isn’t it? It’s
tres facile for you to sit up there amid heaping mounds of snowballs
and potatoes and condemn us, isn’t it?
But let’s look at the numbers:
In 2006, there were nearly eight million more black people
living in the USA than there were total people living in all of
Canada.
In 2006, there were 12.7 million more Hispanics living in the
USA than there were total people living in all of Canada.
In 2006, there were almost five million more foreign-born
people living in the USA than there were total people living in all
of Canada.


Remember—Canada is actually larger than the USA. It’s second
in size only to Russia. Surely, if they’re so serious about multiculturalism,
they’d have room for some of these people.
There are currently—what?—an estimated five or so black people
living in Canada, and they are officially known by their street
name, “The Toronto Raptors.”
Canada hosts nearly four times as many Asians as they do
blacks, and they ain’t got many Asians.
You need more than one race to be a racist country. You can’t
lecture anyone about racism when you haven’t at least had an
honest chance to be racist.
Being that Canadians are generally as white as their winters,
their anti-racism rings a little hollow. Basically, the scope of their
cultural diversity extends to a tolerance of the French—the worst
of all possible groups to tolerate.


But still they yammer about our tragic legacy of slavery, immortalized
in the Steven Spielberg film Amistad. You probably didn’t
know that Canadians practiced slavery, too. It was abolished in
Canada not by the Canadians, but by the British Crown—in 1834.
Wow. You beat us to the punch by 31 years, and no one gives you
any credit for it. That sucks.
I’m going to gingerly raise the possibility that Canada’s terrain
and climate weren’t exactly hospitable to a profitable slave-plantation
economy. Their farming season is, what—one week in mid-
July? What would slaves do in Canada, anyway—go ice-fishing?
What’s most ironic is that Canadian public affairs and media
are rife with a clearly articulated anti-Americanism that in any
other context would be classified as bigotry. In a real sense they
are largely and openly prejudiced against Americans, the only
other quasi-ethnic group they’ve really ever had to deal with in
large numbers. Their cold bronchial lungs blow a predictably icy
blast of anti-Americanism that is both convenient and hypocritical.
At times it seems as if a smug anti-Americanism is the defining
part of their culture.
How many times will these jealous frozen knobs see fit to criticize
our socially complex nation until we see fit to attack them?


Here’s what I propose: After forcibly annexing Canada and taking
its oil, we immediately transport one-half of America’s nonwhite
population there, as well as any whites who wish to go.
We take your oil, and you receive a huge chunk of the diversity
you deem to be so precious from afar.
Let CANADA take the tired, the poor, the weary, the dysfunctional,
and the smelly for a change.
There’d be no more Manitoba or Saskatchewan or Alberta, if
those places ever really existed in the first place. It’d be one big
fat frozen welfare state called “Canada,” and we’d use it like the
Russians use Siberia.
I also propose the immediate and earnest construction of a
Repopulation Superhighway leading between Mexico and the new
American state of Canada.
By annexing Canada, I need to make clear that I am not proposing
that we unify all of North America into one nation. I
can’t see the benefit of invading Mexico. No one is moving there.
They’re all moving here. Let’s keep it an uninterrupted flow
from Mexico north to Canada. Let’s build a Human Habitrail
leading directly from Matamoros to Ottawa.
Hello, People of the Ice? Open up your hearts, because we’re
sending millions of your beloved People of the Sun your way.
REASON #3: Canadians are boring.
Canada is a majestic land of unspoiled natural wonderment, but
the human beings who inhabit it bear absolutely no responsibility
for that fact.
Instead, Canadians themselves have brought nothing of
beauty—whether it be literary, musical, cinematic, cultural, or
philosophical—with which to complement the magnificent natural
backdrop that frames their dull, ugly existence.
Go to wikipedia’s “Famous Canadians” page if you want a good
laugh. Scroll down and down and down past names you’ve never
heard and will probably never hear again if you don’t make a
conscious decision to do so. Of the few names you actually HAVE
heard, nearly all of them had the good sense to move to America
once they made a name for themselves.


During the days of the British Empire, Canada is apparently
where the Crown decided to send all its boring people.
Think about it—these are people so innately exciting, they pick
a fucking LEAF as their national symbol.
A fucking LEAF.
You were too cowardly and weak to rebel against the British
Empire, and you still haven’t officially wrested yourself away from
the Queen’s saggy teat.
You have no culture because you never really had the balls or
ingenuity to invent yourself like America did. You’ve had your
unimaginative baby mouth glued entirely to England’s mossy tit
until very, very recently.

Face it, Canada—you’re just a former British colony that never
amounted to much. You’re Pete Best, and we’re The Beatles.
Americans don’t know much about Canada because there isn’t
much to know.
Canada has an inferiority complex for a good reason. It’s inferior.
We’re not culturally imperialistic—we just HAVE a culture, and
your lack of one causes ours to fill the vacuum you’ve created with
your own unoriginality.
You hate us because we get all the attention. But if there was
anything about Canadian culture that was remotely interesting or
innovative or that inspired emulation, the world would have recognized
it by now.
You’re a weirdo tribe of people so out of your fucking minds,
you caught a distant glimpse of the Northern Lights and thought
that a place NORTH OF MINNESOTA would be a hospitable
environment to raise anything but a family of polar bears. You
beheld a frozen, dismal, Arctic hell, and you said, “Yeah—THIS is
where I’m gonna lay down roots!”
You’ll notice that not too many people followed you.


I’ve HAD IT with Canada.
Fuck a Canuck.
Canada, I’m all for bannin’ ya.
I don’t even like Canadian bacon. I always order the Sausage &
Egg McMuffin instead.
Canadians aren’t all bad, though. I admire George Chuvalo and
Stompin’ Tom Connors.
Of course you’ve never heard of them.
They’re Canadian.


Saturday, October 13, 2012

Looks like what drives me crazy Don't have no effect on you--

Crazy people are the shit sandwich of the world. And we all have to take a bite. The crazy are ubiquitous and possess an unending zest to smear themselves on everyone. They are the virus that attaches themselves to unsuspecting hosts. Like small pox they are the grim reapers infecting the indigenous and engulfing the new world.
Crazy and contagious.
Illogical and irrational.
I prefer my crazy out in the open.
Where I can see it coming. If I can see crazy I can step aside. Let it roar past me like an amphetamine crazed trucker coming home unannounced to find Sancho holding his wife's ankles akimbo.
I'll take that before I ride captive in crazies back seat.
Catching the crazy over spray, from their crazy sneezes, blowing back in my face from their open crazy window.
Long after humans are instinct, anthropologists from some successive and unimaginable species, will find our fossil signature below a thin band of dumb fuck sediment wherever rocks formed in this age are exposed.  Scratching their heads and wondering what catastrophe could be responsible for taking a thriving species to extinction in a few short years. The dumb fuck boundary.
Crazy people are dumb.
They are represented as crafty mind fuckers in Hollywood psychodramas, but take it from me, they are just plain old dumb fuckery dumb. I lived with two crazy people and it is unrelenting boredom.
It's a shake down from a five year old.
It's a neighbor watching with binoculars and scribbling illegible notes about your habits to report you for breaking laws that exist in their mind only.
Illogical tales.
Improbable stories spinning from a five year old that can't keep his lies straight. Writhing in his chair denying himself a piss for fear of missing out on the clever mind fucking drama he subjects you to.
Save it for someone else crazy person. I can get that kind of entertainment feeding popcorn to a mouse and analyzing the acoustical properties of it's farts.
So if you want.
Go sit by the person wrapped in yellow crazy crime tape.
You paid for your ride just like me.
But I'll be blending in at the back of the bus.
Next to Napoleon.







Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Thrasher


Three years ago today, I ran screaming from the house of The Barbarian. Since that time, the light from the sun has traveled seventy one percent of the distance to Proxima Centauri.  Mercury has orbited the sun 12.4475 times, and the US has racked up debt to the tune of 16 trillion dollars.


Down here in Texas, we are still swabbing alcohol on the injection site of prisoners before we put them to death. We have to be careful about who we sell rope and cans of gas to. And the Barbarian has made zero effort to redeem herself.
What my mother HAS done is to cut me out of her will. Became bestess bud's with my ex-wife. Hired my ex-wives boyfriend to paint her house. The same guy that precipitated our divorce. Kept a log of every person that called while I lived down there and dialed them up and blasted me to who ever answered. Even if she got a wrong number.
Regarding her and my borderline ex. I have never seen two people that so thoroughly despised one another. Now they have developed a fast friendship with me as their common enemy. She has befriended the woman who stole and forged checks from my glass shop. And the three of them cackle like setting hens about fucking me over as each one denies to the others that they have ever done an underhanded thing in their lives.
The Barbarian was determined to screw me the instant I walked out of her house. Long before I took the offensive. Long before my campaign to make her the pariah of North Texas.
It was the essence of devalue and discard.
It illustrates what these people really feel for their sons and daughters.
As soon as I re-issued the old newspaper clippings regarding her murderous life, I received a call from the Garland police. I never called them back. If they want me, they can come and get me.
Bust me or shut the fu fu fu
....bust me or shut the fu fu.
Bust me or shut fn fn
Arrest me or pipe down will ya.
I didn't break any laws. They know it and so do I.
So fuck the do right boys,  fuck the Barbarian, fuck my borderline ex wife, and fuck that poofy, bony ass, stick of a red hat wearing decrepit slut that can't keep her fingers out of the till.
And if you can still get it back up, fuck'em all again.
That bitch did every despicable thing she could imagine. Except pick up a phone and call me.

Why am I telling you this?
Because in every narcissist there is little bit of Barbarian. Yours has some too. The opportunity to bloom just hasn't presented itself.
If those of you in low contact or medium chill think you are exempt from this kind of shit, start tossing around the prospect of  no contact and watch your narcissist turn on a dime.
A pathological narcissist will not be coerced into behaving more like a human and less like a werewolf just because they are making you miserable. The thought of losing their "beloved" child because of their hard headed, my way or the highway thinking, runs through their minds like shit through a goose.
The thought of puny you issuing edicts or ultimatums will set them off like a roman candle.
Passive resistance is for suicides. The philosophy of going limp like a two year old dressing for a blizzard just won't work. It pisses them off more.
Gandhi is the fuck-tard that came up with that hogwash. It served him well didn't it?
When he wasn't rotting in prison and before he was assassinated.
It flies in the face of self preservation. Where would we be if our ancestors had reasoned with Saber Toothed Tigers?
It's dangerous to bury your head in the sand while crazy people are driving around using their feet to steer and hanging out the window swinging a baseball bat.
Maybe a live chicken is better than a dead duck, but after a point discretion is no longer discretion. Discretion is painting a bulls-eye on the back of your head and taping a kick me sign to your back.
These guys are not the rotting carcass of an albatross that the powers that be tied around our necks to punish us.
They are human. And they are fallible, and they walk the same road as us.
Remove that carcass and move on.
If it comes down to me or them, I pick me.

I searched out my companions,
Who were lost in crystal canyons
When the aimless blade of science
Slashed the pearly gates.

It was then I knew I'd had enough,
Burned my credit card for fuel
Headed out to where the pavement
turns to sand
With a one-way ticket
to the land of truth
And my suitcase in my hand
How I lost my friends
I still don't understand.




Monday, October 8, 2012

Know that you have committed great sins.

 If you ask me what proof I have for these words, I say it because I am the punishment of god. If you had not committed great sins, God would not have sent a punishment like me upon you. 
                                                                                                                Genghis Khan.

Is true evolution away from the malignant narcissist found in the path of peace and forgiveness? The gospel of live and let live?
Or is it in taking an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth?
The ease that a child born from dysfunction willingly immerses themselves back in more dysfunction is something I find stupefying. Am I supposed to come back and give the malignant bastard's a free shot in the name of fair play?
I won't submit myself to placate sadistic bastards who's only regret for driving me to an early grave will be that they will have to find a new toy.
When did these misfits ever play fair with us? And that they played their most intense game when we were children! How unfair is that? It was easy and fun for an adult to plow a child under. Their cruelty must satisfy some primal hunger that was denied them as children
Do we represent their younger weaker self that they will forever loath?
Their weaker self that was taunted and bullied like they taunt and bully us.
Do they care so little about us that we are worth more to them as a punching bag than we are as a  fellow human being?
These are all rhetorical questions.
I all ready know the answer.
They will forever roll us under.
Just for sport.
Just because they need someone close that will bow down to and never best them.
I say a big fuck you to that.
I've got one life. I have sacrificed enough of it to the gods of narcissism.
This go's for any one that willingly wastes my time in a mindless off shoot of some other personality disorder.
Fuck with me and get fucked with back.
Whether it be N douche-bags in my real world or N douche-bags trolling on-line.
You better give it your best shot you fat pussies.
Make it count.
Cuz whatever you give me, you are getting back.
If you don't believe me ask the Barbarian.





Thursday, October 4, 2012

No matter how long you live, you'll be dead longer.

Synchronicity is a funny thing. 
 Jessie  just posted about some low points in her life on the same day I was reminded of one of mine. 
It was back in the 80's and I was working on a framing crew building houses. All of us would all hang out together and we got to be pretty good friend's. One guy named Jeffery was about as crazy in a good way, as our narcissist ass boils are crazy in a bad way. The funniest thing I remember about him was when he lost a weeks pay to our boss. 
Our boss paid us in cash every Friday morning and then come back at lunch time with beer and give us the rest of the day off. After a few cold daddies he would break out the cards and hustle his money back. 
They played poker. They would shoot dice. They would bet on rock, paper, scissors. Those idiot's would wager on how close they could guess the lengths of scrap lumber in the trash pile. 
One Friday, Jeff pointed to a two by four and bet all the pay he had left that it was 88 inches long. Our boss looked at him and said, "No, I think its 92 and 5/8ths."
Jeff had drunkenly pointed out a stud and studs are all the same length. 
92 and 5/8ths.
Jeff laughed about that as hard as any one of us.
Yesterday I was driving through that part of town and the old streets from way back have been converted to one way. I was forced all around and ended up on 11th street.  
That's the street where Jeffery lived. 
Eleven eleven..11th street.
It's so easy to remember.
That's also where he died. 
He walked out on the front porch one day and the postman found him later.
A couple of days after the funeral, we were rained out and took off work. Jeff's wife Sharon came by to say hello. 
She did all she could do to appear normal. She smiled and made polite chit chat. Not a word was spoken about about Jeff and she didn't stay for more than 10 minutes. I could tell she was fighting back her tears.
When she left, I walked her out to her car. 
No one there knew about my father.
I wanted to tell her. 
I wanted to tell her that time will heal every thing. I wanted to let her know that I know what she is going through, and that I know how senseless it all is. I wanted to tell her that someday she will understand why he did what he did, and that her memory of him will not always be tarnished by how he ended his life .
I wanted to tell her that this world is a good place, filled with kind people, and they will be her soft place to fall.
But I didn't want to lie to her.
I just stood there and watched her drive away.
That night after she met Jeffery's parents for supper, she left to go driving around.
What she really did was go back to the house she had shared with Jeff.
I didn't go to her funeral.
It was just too sad.



Tuesday, October 2, 2012

Leaving the Heart of the Darkness.




 One nasty lesson I learned in my short time with Mephistopheles was that I have a long forgotten mean streak of  indifference and being aloof.  One more maladapted coping mechanism excavated from the archaeological dig of that seven months. My best guess it that it's from the need to hold my head up to  glares from strangers and from the Polaroid Avoid I acquired by stepping out of court house elevators and into a sea of flash bulbs and 16 millimeter lighting.  
At first I thought it was cool and I strutted like the King of Sweden.
It was later that I got that sinking feeling as I watched myself on the ten o'clock news and knew that every one from school was watching me too. 
 I made it a habit to lag behind. At court and in school.
The press  weren't looking for me. They wanted her.
Staying  away from her was to stay away from the press.
Living with her now, and after about the 100th time I told my mother to shut the fuck up, the malware revealed itself and began a full on collaboration with my operating system. 
Only in reverse. There is no more shrinking back from human bilge water. 
I don't like bullies. I have never liked bullies. 
Now I won't tolerate them. 
That'll probably be my epitaph, but I would rather go down swinging than to spend the day wishing I had said something to the overbearing fat bastard berating the kid sweeping up popcorn and tearing tickets at the Cinemark.
My no contact will be a three year gig on October tenth.  I have only stepped up twice. But when I do step up, it is with all the earnestness of Mike Tyson licking his chops for a bite of ear meat.

Having lived my adult life in the world of straight forward facts.  I say what I mean. And I mean what I say. And if I expect to bull doze a person, I expect to be bulldozed back. 
It's very simple. Childhood head banging be damned. 
As a kid I didn't possess the chutzpah to sell insanity like my parents. Sane people can't do it. It's embarrassing.
After I went to care for Lay Madre and she wanted to pick right back up where she left off,  it was game on.  I haven't wanted to turn it off since.
 It's really fun. 
People are used to getting their way because no one calls them on their blow hard shit. People like my mother.  She out crazies the craziest and people end up walking away. 
It's funny that standing up to my mother is harder for the public at large than standing up to some quaffed douche with a pencil thin mustache. 


I Dont Always - I don't always drink beer, but when i do i get put on house arrest

I don't always get in a douche bags face, but when I do, I do all I can to make him piss his pants.


 Attaching concrete memories of those chaotic days to the nebulous rhetoric gin-mill that is my mother, brought me all the way back to the beginning. 
Full circle.  
Right back where I started.
Only now I am an adult and I don't suffer fools.  Pathologically so. And whatever else my mother is, she is a fool. 
My current malaise is from the knowledge that my journey is about done. My war with this world is over. I am left with what I picked up along the way, and the need to reconcile the books into something that makes some kind of sense.  

If I regret estrangement from my mother, it is because I can no longer muse at what powers of darkness  claim her for their own.  Like the demise of a planet exploring probe, I have  reams of data to sift through, but there could have been so much more.  
The post spin analysis of her world is fascinating and frustrating.  It would make me dizzy even if I could take every thing she said as the gospel truth.  With her misrepresentations of fact, and me trying to compare it to the reality I know is the ultimate in crazy making.
There is my reality, the reality through the lens of a child. There is her delusional perspective. And  there is the truth.
What makes me crazy is that only she knows the real story behind it all.  But that bitch sits there and tells people anything that pops up in her head.
Gah! 
It's like listening to AM radio and driving in the desert.  I lose myself in some radio theater broad cast  as some 100,000 watt Mexican station blasts top forty out the fillings in my teeth.  Descending into the salt flats muddles the mix  with cross over from the Navajo chant channel. Throw in Morse code atmospherically bounced in from Siberia and it's just like having my mother in the car. 
I want to hear it all.  
I end up hearing pops and whistles.
It's a challenge between my simple mind and the desert of her narcissism.  I still must make it across  before my engine boils over and I end up face down in a pool of  toxic mine sludge.

Someone has to do it. Someone needs to understand how their mind works. If only to scribble hobo chalk marks for those who come behind.
Someone must be sacrificed so that others can live on. 
It's the cornerstone of civilization. 

  
I have left the House of the Barbarian. 
The House of the Barbarian has not left me. 
I am marked as the son of the beast.
Heed the warnings of the misanthropic oracle. 
As I go now
some day so shall you. 
It is hard to do the right thing. 
When right is obscured in darkness and evil. 
Run. 
Run and live another day.