Stupidity Breeds Stupidity
The TomKitten is loosed upon the world. Brangelina have bred and are awaiting the results. Fetus Spears has already been the cause of one call to CPS. And now we have news that Fetus Spears V.2 is in production. I could go on with the list of luminaries that are about to spit out babies or have done so recently, but it'll just belabor the point.
The point is, I read daily on blogs and hear all over the media about "stupid people shouldn't breed," or "people should have a license to have babies," or some other supposed remedy for the multitude of annoying fucks who give birth to more stupid, annoying fucks. Last night on Mind of Mencia I heard what should have been occurring to all those who lament that the world is getting dumber. To quote:
Mencia: If you have one D student, who are they gonna breed with? ANOTHER D student! And when one D student breeds with another D student, what do you get?
Audience: DeeDeeDee!
Finally, someone ELSE who totally gets that combating stupidity requires guidance! His suggestion was to require C students to only make babies with A students to increase the chances of producing a child bright enough to pound sand. I think my idea is much better: Having smart people step up and out-produce the stupid people child-wise.
I'm totally serious! Make a smarter world, smart people, one squalling shit factory at a time!
The Married
Honey and I were having a conversation that started with a comment about this news article on Channel 4. He said something about chasing married women around, how it’s not very bright and how he’s never done it. I told him I hadn’t knowingly ever chased a married man, and the conversation (oh, so bright and intelligent at the start) devolved…well, see for yourself:
Honey: Why did you go out with him if he was married?
Me: I didn’t KNOW the silly fuckhead was married–found out when someone else told me, and that was the end of it.
Honey: What?
Me: What the hell would I ever have wanted a man who was married but not to me FOR?
Honey: I dunno…trails off as I start ranting
Me: Seriously–what fucking good would a married man do me? He’d never be around when I actually needed him, he’d be with WifeyPoo…
Honey: What about…
Me: Just busting back since I was on a really good roll and I knew he’d put up with it because I was naked…So he’d do me exactly no fucking good whatsoever.
Honey: How does a married man hit on another woman anyhow?
Me: Usually it’s the “but the sex will be awesome” bullshit that all men try on every woman they want to sleep with.
Honey: Does that work?
Me: Not on me. Shit, I could get spectacular sex with unmarried men. Hell, technology has advanced to the point that if I can’t get great sex with an unmarried man, I can do it my damned self!
Honey: True, true.
Me: Getting it on with a married one would just be annoying. Married men chasing strange tail is like a fucking disease.
Honey: Huh?
Me: Yeah! I used to think about those guys with capital letters in my mind, like “The Married.”
Honey: Whut?
Me: Still nekkid, still on a roll…Yeah, they’re like having a disease. I’d think “I’ve got The Married chasing me,” in the same tone as I’d think “I’ve got The Measles” or “I’ve got the crabs.”
Honey: Being married isn’t like a disease. People tell me it’s nice.
Me: Sure, it’d be nice with a man who was married to ME, but with a man married to someone else, having sex with them would be like having crabs–annoying, irritating, and a real pain in the ass to get rid of.
Honey: Oh.
Me: Dealing with someone else’s husband wanting your body is like having syphillis, only a simple shot isn’t enough to get rid of him.
Honey: So, you’re saying when we get married you’ll still want me?
Me: Sure, about as much as I do right now, Honey.
He didn’t look happy about that for some strange reason that probably has a lot to do with his mother’s penchant for snoopiness and there being a little pervy boy with his bedroom directly across the hall from ours.
It’s afternoons like this that I’m grateful that her hearing is failing and that Garand has to work once in awhile to support his porn site subscriptions.
You’re not fooling anyone
Hat tip to Towleroad for this one
Tom Cruise is whining again, folks, like that should be a fucking surprise to anyone who's had his jumping on couches and strange relationship press field days shoved down their throats. I just thank Dog for Netflix–anytime some dumbass makes the mistake of thinking this dillhole's life is worth reporting on I have something else to watch. The difference this time is that the reason Slapnuts is in the news reeks of censorship.
It seems that the Scientology poster assface doesn't like an episode of South Park. I'm sure you all know which one he doesn't like. Well, in the US, if a public figure doesn't like being made fun of, that's just tough shit. According to the laws, celebrities don't get to object when they're made fun of because it's a side effect of making all that Undogly money that they make. Good for all us cranky, snarky bloggers, isn't it? Unfortunately, it may not work the same way in the UK. It seems Mr. Cruise is threatening to sue if the episode airs again, and reportedly Paramount has agreed.
Aw, hell, Paramount–suck it up. If one looks at the literal content of the episode, Tom Cruise is literally in (Stan's) closet and all his friends are just begging him to come out. It's an (animated) representation of (a badly drawn) Tom Cruise in a (pretend) closet in a (non-existent) house in a (made-up) little white bread mountain town.
In other words, "What's the big fuckin' deal, bitch?"
If it's the overall implication that he's actually gay but not telling anyone that bothers him, that's just tough shit. After all, if two marriages, two children, innumerable relationships and a massive pile sprinkling of talk concerning Tom Cruise having relationships with men and the assload of video and still pictures tiny little small snippets of images that really aren't him at all supposedly in gay-looking positions don't convince the world that Tom Cruise is not gay, how will one more lawsuit manage it all by itself?
After all, most legal opinion is that while Tom can certainly try to sue, most of the approaches his legal team can take to a lawsuit miss an important link somewhere along the line. While he can be mad all he wants about the episode, it's clear that its intent is satirical, not defamatory. He would also need to prove any harm to his reputation or his career by either picturing him unwilling to get his sorry ass out of a little boy's closet or by the scene's use as a euphemism for a man hiding his homosexuality. Seems to me it'd be pretty difficult to prove that one little cartoon trashed his career, in the face of all he's done to destroy his credibility as an action star all on his own.
In short, I was never crazy about the little whiner, and I've become less crazy about him because his behavior in the past year has not been that of a stable individual. Normal people do not jump up and down on Oprah's couch, moon repeatedly over a woman they've only dated a month, get into bitchfights with NBC interviewers based on little more than being asked to back up a line of bullshit Tom came up with in the first place, nor do they go buy fucking home ultrasound machines when their girlfriends are pregnant.
Tom Cruise did these things, not anyone he may choose to sue for piss-taking him on a stupid (but hilarious) cartoon show. If he doesn't want people making fun of him, he should quit making it so fucking easy to do so.
Bad Dogs?
Last night’s blogging was difficult for me. It wasn’t difficult because of the subject matter (I’m sorry for all the “EW” reactions but some things just need to be said and no one in this house is listening). I had to make that post and the ones which will follow. It was really hard to blog last night because there was hours upon hours of screeching going on all afternoon and evening. It was all the same ear-splitting phrase, over and over and over.
“Bad DOGGGGGG! BAAAD DOGGGGSSSS!”
So, what did the dogs do to incur everyone’s wrath? They snagged a 3 pound package of hamburger out of a grocery bag left on the floor for two hours, dragged it into H’sMa’s bedroom and had themselves a high-pro party.
Read that again.
MY dogs (they’re suddenly MY dogs when they misbehave) got screamed at by everyone but me for fucking HOURS because they took off with a package of meat that was left sitting ON THE DOG-DAMNED FLOOR. That’s right, it was on the floor for two hours, and three people busted THEIR chops for succumbing to the temptation that THE YELLING PEOPLE laid out for their doggie asses.
Why didn’t I put it away? Because when my back bitched about bending down to the floor to do exactly that, I got the shrill screaming treatment (I made the mistake of allowing a yelp out of my mouth when my leg wouldn’t hold me up, which makes it all my fault, right?). I had two people bitching that I’d even attempted to make sure people ate the food instead of the dogs. What would you do? Damned straight you’d leave it right where it lay.
I did too. I bit my tongue, left the bags right where they’d been left, and went back to killing things standing between me and my favorite dragon. Fuck ’em if one small yip offended them so much. Don’t leave shit in the floor and I won’t be yipping trying to clean it up.
Another half hour later, the shrieking started. “Where’s that hamburger?” “Zeke, you BAAAAD DOGGGGGGG!” “Dani, put that down NOW! Baaadddd DOGGGGGG!” “You two get NO LOVE from Daddy!” Eventually the dogs found that the only room in the house not full of insane noisy humans was the computer room, so I had two dogs looking at me, liquid eyes begging for a kind word. I knew better–if I’d said one word about it not being their fault I’d still be getting yelled at, and so would the dogs. I couldn’t just sit there and watch my Beagle shake like Michael J. Fox either–the whole thing would never have happened if that food had been put where it belonged.
I compromised. After all, the humans were too busy listening to themselves bitch at the top of their vocal ranges to hear two dogs being petted, scritched and loved on. I scritched, I petted, I used my softest voice to tell them it wasn’t their Dog-damned fault the higher life forms were too lazy to put groceries away and too proud to let anyone else do it. I let the dogs know that Daddy would get over this fucking snit before bedtime, or I’d be starting some screeching myself.
I know my dogs didn’t understand my words anymore than they understood the ones being hammered at them by everyone else. It did seem like the tone of my voice did calm them a little, but they looked at me so strangely every time I’d giggle over how mad my fiance and his mother got. I’d snicker. The dogs would eye me suspiciously, as if I were about to join the shriek party. I’d go back to scritching them and watch them relax until another giggle snuck out.
Yeah, I laughed to myself over how mad they were at the dogs, when in fact it was their own lazy damned fault that the dogs were able to reach the meat in the first place. I’m evil, vile, and likely going straight to Hell.
Scritch…scritch…pet…I can live with that.
Six More Pseudo-Shopping Days
Well, I can't say I was bored Saturday. I can say I was annoyed, angry, frozen, pissed-off, put-upon, had my time totally wasted, hungry, chilled to the bone, and ready to kill.
Honey and I had planned to go Xmas shopping Saturday. We'd planned it for a week, ever since we found out he had a reprieve from Hell (YOU work at a Meijer's during the Silly Season and tell me it's not Hell) scheduled for that day. Finally, I'd be able to get out of MY personal Hell and get the bits and pieces of shopping done that I hadn't been able to do with no car. Sure, I could have made someone ship me the stoopid stuff, like the chocolate-covered cherries I love this time of year and the cans of cashews, but it's ridiculous to pay shipping when there's places close by that have them cheap.
Saturday dawns, clear and cold, two days after piles of snow shit down from the sky. Honey decides he's not going anywhere, because he had trouble getting in the driveway due to his tires needing replacement. Beautiful–does that mean Honey's never going anywhere ever again (shudder)? Why, no of course not–he has to work Sunday. "And your tires are going to fucking GROW tread overnight? Just get the new tires you need and we'll go shopping afterward."
I'm a fucking moron. I really should know better than to think anything will be that easy these days.
Of course the tire shop is PACKED, which made for excellent people watching but really sucked the southbound end of a northbound, syphilitic donkey when it came to getting tires put on. (Remind me sometime to tell you how I know that men look absolutely ridiculous in green rubber clogs.) Anyhow, Honey gets the guy to admit there are tires for Baby, the store has them in stock, and that the people in their employ can be empowered to put them on the car. This takes approximately half an hour longer than it should, due to the jerk not believing that an automotive engineer actually knows what kind of tires his car TAKES, plus the obligatory ooh-ing and aah-ing over one of Detroit's finest hunks of sheet metal.
The male admiration dance done, we sit down to wait. Did I mention that the heat in Honey's car is out? Neither did he–I got a wee little bit cold during the 20 minute drive over in the teens-temperature weather. By a "wee little bit" I mean I froze my fat ass off! Good DOG it was cold out there! By the time we arrived at the tire shop I'd talked myself out of the Caribou run I was going to ask for and decided hot coffee at the tire shop would only suck taste-wise, but it was hot and we wouldn't have to wait for it.
Wrong again, Serra. They had run OUT of coffee in the cute little stainless steel air pot they usually serve it in. Not only that, but it seemed to take three of the little dillholes to help the bleached blonde with the fake tits pick out tires, leaving zero to go make any more. They weren't dissuaded by her husband being on the cell phone talking to her at the time either. It took one of them half an hour to tear his eyes away from her false mammary glands to make coffee, and that was because SHE wanted some! Aw, fuck you running, bitch. I bet the heat in YOUR kinderschnoozenvagen works!
TWO hours later, these morons finally admit they're too dumb to pour piss from a boot with the directions written on the heel. They come out and tell Honey that they just can't get one of the lug nuts to budge and they have no equipment to make it budge. You heard me right–a place that does nothing but tires has no equipment that will let them remove a stubborn lug nut. Nice. They suggest we take it down the road to Tuffy's, where they're competent and have more than a tire mounter and an air wrench for tools.
We arrive at Tuffy's less than an hour before both Dipshit Tire and Tuffy's close. The nice man inside (no sarcasm here, folks–this guy was truly nice, if acting a little like an artist in the process of painting the next Mona Lisa) has Honey cough up Baby's keys and sets to work. Just before closing, we get the bad news.
The guys at Dipshit Tire weren't quite as incompetent, stupid and weak as we'd thought, because OTHER incompetent, stupid weaklings had managed to cross-thread that lug nut. Yep–picture someone screwing the lid onto your favorite pickles crooked, only they used an impact wrench so it was tighter than a virgin's ass. Turns out that Spunkass Tire, the folks who put the last tire on, fucked it over so that no one else could possibly work on it. What they failed to realize is that they won't be able to work on it easily either.
We're told that tire is not coming off today, and it's not coming off at all short of a torch job to sever the bolt the nut screws onto, which will need to be followed by putting a new bolt on. This job will be lengthy and expensive. Honey thanks the man, who very nicely cut the usual fee in half as he'd only put labor into the car at that point, gave us his card, and we trundled off into the night.
At 5 pm on Saturday, here's what I'd accomplished:
SEVERAL rounds of muttering about asswipes who were programmed to say "We only do tires"
FOUR hours of sitting in colder than necessary places
TOO many choruses of "You will NOT point and giggle" to myself
Two visits to places where not a single thing was sold for holiday gifting or frolicing but were packed with folk whose destiny was to piss me off
THREE searches of my purse for quarters to purchase junk food to tide me over until the nightmare ended.
ONE blurt of "You're fucking kidding me!" in an appropriate but not necessarily welcome point in the conversation at Tuffy's.
While we were waiting at Tuffy's, I resigned myself to no shopping being done. I was tired. I hurt like I'd been beat with a tire iron. I was shivering even in a heavy leather coat. Dog-damnit, I hadn't had a decent cup of coffee all day! Stick a fork in the bitch, I was DONE. In between apologies for the total lack of shopping glee, I talked Honey into a stop at Big Boy (best Country Fried Steak I can get here) once we left Tuffy's, then MAYBE, IF I fucking felt like it, we'd hit Hel*Mouth.
Turns out that's what we did–I resisted the urge to drink my dinner (Livingston County has a new smoking law, but it doesn't apply to places with bars, so Big Boy has a bar), pigged out on deep fried meat, potatoes and some of the best coleslaw I don't make myself, and went to Hel*Mouth before going home. On reaching home I decided that throwing my still-frozen ass in bed, covering it with every blanket we could find, supplying me liberally with hot chocolate and good movies was the best plan I could come up with.
Next year, screw it–if I can't buy it online, I'm not giving it.
Ten Tips for Driving Amongst the Stoopid
1. Don't think that they'll (insert smart driving technique here). They won't.
2. Don't think they won't (insert typical dumbassed stunt here). They will.
3. They will (insert typical dumbassed stunt here) every fucking time it's certain to be the absolute worst thing to do in their situation.
4. They will (insert typical dumbassed stunt here) every fucking time it's certain to be the absolute worst thing to do in your situation.
5. No matter how hard you pray, the dipshit bleached blonde yuppie driving the Kinderschnootzenvagen ahead of you will not fold her cell phone and jam it through her temple as hard as she possibly can. She will not suffer the instantaneous body death state you're petitioning God to grant her to match her brain's lack of electrical activity.
6. If you have not been to the store yet for the last-minute Turkey Killin' Day goods, you're offically screwed before you leave the house.
7. Special 4WD owner note: Your ass is not invincible. Your mass does not behave any differently in slippery conditions than a non 4WD of the same mass, and in spite of your vagen's equipment you are every bit as likely to fishtail out of control and damned near hit the Lumina I'm driving as someone without 4WD.
7a. See? You're also just as likely to find your sorry ass in a ditch when you over-drive your ability to stop. By the way, did you remember your cell phone? No? Well, I didn't either.
8. Another note: You're going to hate yourself when you get your next insurance bill. Your insurance agent, however, will love your sorry, stoopid, "I'm in the ditch with less than an inch of snow on the ground–I suck dirty green donkey dicks" 4WD ass, because your premiums for the next three years will put all four of her children through college.
9. Hel*Mouth does not stock replacement brains, Dear PuttingMyMascaraOnWhileDriving. I tried very hard to get their pharmacy to order one for you, but it's just not possible. Your current state of brain failure makes you ineligible for a transplant.
10. Um, see that white shit on your car? The law encourages its removal from your vehicle before putting it in motion. CLEAR THE FUCKER OFF BEFORE YOU HIT THE ROAD, SHITSMEAR!
Why…
…you're NOT seeing Ask Your Psychic Fiend yet.
1. The little hosemaster is pissing me off again–stoopid ho wanted General Tso's Chicken, so I gamble on City Wok (think South Park), only to come up all bars with a great dose of the good shit…only for her to take half a dozen chopstickfuls and decide the body's too FUCKING tired to eat it! Stoopid ho.
The fact that the rest of this post shows WHY the body was too tired to eat it is completely beside the point.
So, here's how this day went:
Since the last time Honey and I, uh, played checkers (please remember that my brother reads this blog and I have little desire to blind him again, so you may assume that "playing fucking checkers" is NOT what we were doing) my back's been acting like I took a kidney punch from Mike Tyson, who followed up with a clothesline. This has not been good, but I woke up feeling halfway decent this morning, so I decided to do the errands I couldn't do yesterday.
Bad idea. There were multitudes of asshat fucktarded short-bus-riding dildofaces running around SE Michigan today. I must admit here that I was one of them, much to my dismay and fury.
LONG POINTLESS RANT WARNING:
Do not email me and say I didn't warn your ass.
Don't put it in the fucking comments either (Yes, Ian and VG, I'm talking to YOU).
Stop #1's the bank–the one that called me to tell me about an unauthorized charge to my debit card resulting in over $80 in fees! Nice, huh? Well, I managed to get there without getting hit by any of the dorkdrivers, only to find out that I would have to cancel the card and get a new one. I know how they got the number and I also know they kept it when they shouldn't have. Fucking magazine subscriptions. Well, I have a temp card until my new one arrives. Nice, but the half hour it cost me sucked.
Meanwhile the back I thought was appeased with heaping helpings of my balm was awakening, and wasn't happy about it. Mikey T was back and I still had shit to do. So, I ignore it and keep driving–off to the grocery store.
I get there and promptly show why I belonged in the dipshit category today–asked one of the folks that works with my fiance where he was. The nice lady looked at me, smiled that gentle smile one uses when talking to the mentally challenged, and tells me he's at his usual store, which apparently wasn't the one I was standing in. Busted–I know pain makes me drifty but I didn't realize how much until then. So I blushed, apologized, played it off like I really seriously thought he was working another store today, and got my stuff and headed for the checkout.
Things went well until I realized three things:
1. I'd forgotten the Mountain Dew that was 50% of the reason I chose to deal with a Meijer's on a Friday. Just spaced it since my back was complaining about me not taking an electric cart. I thought about explaining to it that there weren't any misbegotten sonofawhore carts because fatter people than me already had them, but I'd already shown once today that I should have taken the short bus.
2. It does not take two cashiers to operate a register, no matter how many keys and buttons they use. Turns out the fucking computer crashed, locked the system, cash drawer and long-assed line completely up. Of course it had to happen when I was NEXT in line.
3. As I was removing all my shit from the conveyor belt, it dawned on me that I'd also forgotten the OTHER 50% of the reason I'd been in the store–H'sMa wanted mushrooms for tonight's stroganoff for dinner.
Shit. Shit. So, I went back past the nice lady that was dishing out 8 oz containers of ice cream (damned good ice cream too–I had the punkin) and took her up on the offer I'd passed on. Not so bad, but have you ever tried steering a bad shopping cart while eating from a bowl of rock-hard ice cream? I damned near took out an entire display of wine.
Anyhoo, I managed to get the mushrooms, snagged a couple other items that looked good, found a checkout lane with a functioning computer, then got the hell out of there before giving in to the urge to tell a woman that if her four children weren't afflicted with ADD, then I was the fucking Queen of America.
I almost made it out of the parking lot without muttering obscenities under my breath. Almost. I'd have done it too if the old lady waiting for my parking spot had allowed me enough motherfuckingdogdamned ROOM TO ACTUALLY PULL OUT OF IT! Fucking bitch had the nerve to look pissed and mouth things I couldn't read at me.
I've had enough–I know Brighton, MI sucks ass to drive in, but I had no choice. My bank is there and so is the storage facility where most of my worldly possessions live. I had to go pay the fee today, had to go CANCEL my FUCKING debit card, so I HAD to go to Land of the Delusionally Privileged Yuppie Scumpuppy, Brighton, MI.
I did show a flash of intellect–I plotted the trip to eliminate having to make a left hand turn into or out of You-Stash (not its real name–pseudonym substituted because I'd someday like to reclaim my shit in one piece). As I pull up to the office, I see this big, honkin', glaring sign saying "CLOSED." Oh, HELL no they are not! NO, they're NOT making me drive up there again after today!! See, these jackasses do NOT send bills or invoices, so there's no way for me to safely mail them anything. I don't trust people who don't bill for services–I prefer to stick my money directly in their hot little hands (via check) and get me a receipt, just in case of trouble.
I decide these folks are fucking Dog-damned well GOING to take my check–their sign says they're open 'til five, they're going to open the door for me if I have to put my foot thru it. The fact that I can't lift my leg more than six inches off the ground due to the incredible pain I'm now in has no bearing on my plan to insist on service. I don't fucking care if they've been shot in a double-suicide-homicide-genocide-whatevercide, they have my shit and I'm making SURE they're going to leave it right in the little storage cube I've been paying fucking rent on for the past six months.
Silly me–turns out that Pop (as in Mom and Pop operation) fergot to change the sign this mornin'. They're paid, I'm outta there…
…and right back into the war zone that is driving in SE MI.
Turns out the exit I need on 23 to get back to 96 and from there back home is closed. So is the road I used to live on, which would be the alternate route. Nice. Dumbfucks. I take 23 South instead of North, intending to hit Silver Lake Road and head home via the back roads. I say quiet prayers between trying to comfort my screaming back, hoping that all the kinderschnootzenvagendrivens (aka bleached-blonde dipshits driving minivans) have gone to fuck up someone else's wet dream and aren't in my area code anymore. I prayed I'd left them behind.
My prayers were not answered. Some stoopid bitch who must have gotten her license from a fucking CrackerJack box (I say this because it's obvious to me that she can't drive a straight line and that there's no way in Hell she passed a legitimate driver's exam) tailgated me all the way to South Lyon. For those not here (you blessed individuals) that's about 20 miles of twisty, turny, speedtrap-littered country road, with no passing zone, one lane each way, and no reprieve from Hell. She even made the turn onto 10 Mile with me, the miserable crack whore!
As I was making that turn (for those who do know the area, yeah, I missed a turn before that one and took the long way. Shut up–I already admitted that I should have stood in bed) I cancelled plans for the KFC run that'd been sounding like a good idea. I'd had enough of trying to deal with the roads and drivers. I saw the City Wok on the way home and thought that'd make a good substitute. YPF agreed, so I pulled in and got our General Tso's Chicken for me and some Almond Chicken for H'sMa.
And that brings us to the point where I shut YPF back up in the ash can, ate the fortune cookie without her, called it a day and headed for a big session of Kill-Maim-Dismember.
Three more things went wrong–I'll spare you the LotGD fiasco.
But I'm still pissed that there were no Dog-damned almonds in the Almond Chicken.
I'm also pissed that after all this, H'sMa decided to make Taco Bake tonight instead.
PMS and ESP
Yeah, I'm the bitch who knows everything tonight. I know it all, and it is all pissing me off.
Here's the list:
1. There's been a three-day fight going on with one of my discussion lists. If I didn't know better (and I really don't) I'd swear that disciples of Gary Young have infiltrated it just to stir shit with those on the list who qualify as experts (unlike Gary Young, who qualifies as the same sort of person as Miss Cleo. If you're thinking "cock-juggling thundercunt", you'd be entirely correct). I'm getting tired of it even as I realize the necessity of debunking the piles of bullshit being spread as Gospel concerning use of essential oils. So I stew, letting the experts (the REAL experts) handle it, getting more sick of the bullshit by the post.
2. One great big smack upside the head to the guy in my LotGD clan who thinks threatening death to those who don't join our clan is a way to win friends and influence people. No wonder his daughter quit our clan yesterday. And fuck no, we're not still going to obliterate the clan whose leader basically groveled and knelt at my feet yesterday, begging me not to kill his mostly-noob clan. You're just going to have to go be a heartless prick elsewhere.
3. For the hundredth time, there is no Apple essential oil (EO), no Lilac essential oil, no Cool Citrus Basil EO, no Cherry anything EO, and there sure as fuck is not any such thing as Love Spell EO! And, for the thousandth time, IF IT DOES NOT COME FROM A PLANT, ROOT, FLOWER OR OTHER LIVING THING POSSESSING VOLATILE OILS, IT IS NOT FUCKING DOG-DAMNED AROMATHERAPY, YOU LYING BOOTLICKING BITCHES!
3a. Good, organic, Helichrysum Italicum essential oil from Corsica, can be had for $45 for 4 ml, if one knows a wonderful person who ran a co-op (read: no profit made, charges cover costs only) and still has some at a very special price compared to the bigger sites at $197.50 per ounce (minimum order–most places run higher prices on smaller amounts). If someone (name removed due to whining) is selling fucking Heli from Europe (yeah right, WHERE in fucking Europe?) for $15 per OUNCE (as of Sunday night her website proves she is), there is something fucked up about it and HELL no you shouldn't buy it! Even if she used slave labor, distilled the entire field of 40 acres herself, blew her own fucking glass to put it in, and walked it to your front door she would not be able to sell what she claims she has for that price. Do your fucking homework, people!
4. This list could go on all night but I'll cut it short with three words:
PLEASE SEND VALIUM!
He’s at it again
Yeah, I mean that dickhead Fred Phelps. Seems he's found a whole new area of funerals to picket. This soul-sucking asshat now wants to picket the late Chief Justice William Rehnquist's funeral, on the grounds that "on whose official watch America went to Hell in a faggoty handbasket."
What is it with this guy? Anything or anyone that takes the national spotlight off his intolerant, ignorant, inbred ass is automatically the work of the devil? The moment anyone looks away from his constant bids for attention, he's got to find a way to focus it back on him?
Is this guy five years old mentally? Then let's spank him and send him to his corner without any supper.
Then again, he might like that.
You MUST Be Kidding
I did work-friendly-up the title of this post, because I want folks to be able to see it. Frankly, I wish these sites were jokes–as far as the extensive reading I did today shows, they do not seem to be satire or joke sites. That is unfortunate, for the spew on these sites is really sick, even to my somewhat offensive taste. All direct quotes from the Westboro Baptist Church's website, http://www.godhatesfags.com and http://www.godhatesamerica.com , appear because of this statement at the bottom of every page on the website–"All original material on this web site is © 1955-2005 Westboro Baptist Church. You may use any of our material free of charge for any reason."
My buddy Bobbi over at Rants of an Old Blonde posted this to a discussion list we both belong to:
On the [other Yahoo discussion list] list there have been unfortunately sad reports about a Baptist Minister sending out protestors at funerals of soldiers-this man and I use that term loosely is supposed to be a Minister yet he has a very sick idea of his religion – he has a whole site dedicated to this – telling his followers to protest funerals [of killed-in-action soldiers from the US]…sad very sad…
It piqued my interest–who in their right minds stages protests at military funerals? So I went looking, and I found out. I still can't believe this bullshit. I have found no proof that this is not the newest hate crime I've been made aware of. All material I have found seems to be 100% serious, and I am 100% disgusted.
Turns out the minister (and I'm using the term loosely as well since I can't find any proof of ordination–however, he was ordained in 1955, long before Gore invented the Internet) is as serious as a heart attack. It seems that Fred Phelps and his gang of self-righteous Neo-Nazi hatemongers at the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, KS has decided that certain groups of people are going to Hell. Not only does this inbred gang of insane Biblethumpers tell folks they're going to Hell, they stage protests at funerals of AIDS victims and soldiers killed in Iraq, all the while suing to shut up their opposition and shrieking their First Amendment rights at the top of the same lungs used to harass and intimidate those who do not agree with them.
Correct me if I'm wrong, since I haven't had the finely-tuned Comparative Religions classes that I know many of my readers have, but if WBC is a Christian church, isn't it God's job to decide who's going to Hell? Here's old Freddie Asshat's answer, which I think sums it up. I've left off the Bible verses he cites to "prove" why he gets to spew hate; most of the rest of his words appear below in the FAQ straight from the website:
Doesn't the Bible say not to judge?
Yes. However, you may not understand what that means. It means not to judge unrighteously, it means not to judge using your human judgment, and it means not to judge hypocritically. In other words, don't substitute your judgment for God's, and don't judge other people when you are guilty of impenitently engaging in the same sins (i.e., Don't cast the first stone). However, there are several verses in the Bible where we are told to judge. [Several Bible quotes snipped for brevity–see the link for full text]
Many people use the story of the woman taken in adultery as an excuse to not ever preach to anyone. The simple truth of the matter is that Christ not only preached at the woman, but also at all of her accusers. By saying "He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her," Christ was not speaking of someone who was entirely free from any and all sin, as there was no such person other than Christ himself. [Snipped for brevity–see link for the interpretation of the Bible which does not appear here.]
Crying "judge not lest you be judged" or "let he who is without sin cast the first stone" is a favorite tactic among fags and so-called Christians, just like it was among the ancient Sodomites. [More Biblical justification for chronic hate snipped.] It really doesn't make any sense to use these verses against someone who is following Christ's command to preach to every creature, because preaching and judging aren't the same things. So if you're going to use these verses, at least use them in context – don't be a typical sodomite and say it just because you're too weak-minded to address the issues.
If you still think that we aren't supposed to judge under any circumstances, then you better not tell me to stop judging. Otherwise, you'd be guilty of judging me.
I could go on, but this is pretty typical shit, straight from the horse's ass' website.
Now–my big question–where does this ape-faced child-abusing, wife-beating bastard get off picketing the graves of soldiers who fought for his right to BE a loud, obnoxious, hating, nationally-known asshole? Again, from the website:
Letter to a Vulgar Suzy
Hello Simpleton Suzy. (Whatever your real name is, you coward, Suzy fits you perfect, because you’re an empty headed girl by whatever name or gender.)
Let’s get something straight you blaspheming idolater: The take over of fags in this country is expressly at the hands of pious righteous “masculine/straight” “men” like the dead fool Piper. [Ed. note–I inserted the link. It quotes a story about picketing the funeral of Sgt. Christopher Piper] He and his self righteous will worshiping kind live for themselves, not God; they fill up the “churches” with so-called Christians who are as filthy and sinful as the fags; and they have lost all moral authority to tell these fags they’re doing wrong. They are integrally connected to and directly responsible for the state of things in this country.
Further, while we were busy telling this evil nation to repent, our church was bombed with an IED. I’m sure that tickles you down to your fat toes, which is precisely the point. Did you think the God of Eternity was going to sit back and let this country mock his messengers and persecute the righteous without retribution? Did you think this country could lift its filthy middle finger to God indefinitely without a consequence? Of course you did, because you and your kind think you’re smarter than God, and that you’re in charge. Well you’re wrong! God is in charge, and the Destroyer is not dead. Your quarrel is not with us; it’s with God; he could stop these IED’s and similar deaths at Iraqi hands as easily as he started them. But he’s not going to, because he’s had enough of this God-awful country, and its military prowess, and its precious “fruit” (as that arrogant ass Rumsfeld and his minions call them). He’s telling this nation in the plainest terms what he thinks of their strength; he’s blowing them to smithereens in unprecedented numbers. So don’t cuss us, you fool, wake up and smell the brimstone and the wrath of God!
This nation is doomed. That is our message. It is directly relevant when a dead soldier’s funeral is used to glorify this evil disobedient rebellious country. You all make it a media circus, so we’re going to use the platform to remind you that America is doomed. If you don’t like that, shut up, make the funeral private, and quit kissing America’s ass.
[Further ranting snipped for brevity once again–this fuckface has his own website so if you've got a strong stomach, you can read more there. It's funny until you remember this dipshit is on a mission from Dog.]
I'm amazed at the extent of this dipshit's dogma–until I read the documents on this site. They're documents from a court case to determine ownership of a book written at the behest of a publisher, who later caved to pressure not to publish it in spite of their promise to its author. They later published a diluted version of Jon Michael Bell's expose and Mr. Bell dropped the suit. Essentially, it's the last thing Fred Phelps and Westboro Baptist Church wants you to read.
I suggest reading every single word. I'm going back to finish it right now.
Have a nice day.
Oh, and Mr. Phelps? False prophets make Baby Jeebus cry.
OPB’s
I've always had a pet peeve about bathrooms that belong to other people.
Granted, they're usually cleaner than mine (since it really pisses me off to be the only one cleaning a bathroom others use–I generally clean, bitch for a week, see someone else clean, then repeat). I have to admit that it's always interesting to see what others have done with their bathrooms, how they've decorated, arranged, and set up in general. To tell the truth, Other People's Bathrooms (OPB) aren't so awful, unless you have to take a shower in them. Once one has to shower in them, however, they're always a pain in the ass.
I can start out in any bathroom, after being told exactly where everything is, have all my essentials (or do I?) with me, and even when I've been handed washcloths and towels, I'll still wind up doing something totally retarded because I've never had to find my way around it nekkid, soapy, and in dire need of something I fergot.
Case in point: One of the times I stayed at Beowol|='s house I was preparing for a flight out of MSP to somewhere in Michigan. I naturally wanted to look my best since I was going to meet Honey for one of our 10-hours-one-way dates. Step one in preparing for said date was, certainly, a shower. Beo, wonderful guy that he is, let me use that gorgeous shower in his bathroom–excellently nice, plenty of room, and I didn't bump my fat ass up against the sides while trying to reach my back.
You'd think I'd be in Heaven in this place, and I would have except for my tendency to totally fuck up even the best of wet dreams.
I'd of course forgotten my shampoo and conditioner, and of course didn't catch on to that until I'd already peeled off my clothes and didn't want to have to dress again. Of course I just yelled to him in the bedroom instead.
"Where's yer shampoo? I'm a moron and forgot mine."
"It's in that dispenser thingy on the shower wall."
Ooh! Sweet! Even I can't fuck that up. I hopped in the shower and went to work, making sure everything was sweet and fresh until I came to the point where I had to wash my hair. For the first time, I looked over the dispenser thingy. VERY handy-dandy little dealybopper! Everything was in there, even conditioner! So I washed my hair, conditioned, then rinsed off, dried off and dressed before emerging from the room in a cloud of rainforest-scented steam.
"Wow, I like that conditioner you have–it's not heavy and my hair doesn't feel waxy and loaded down! I only had to use half what I usually use too. What kind is it?"
"Uh, I don't condition my hair–I don't need it."
Ah, shit.
"What's in the conditioner space then?"
Turns out it was his very expensive man-face cleanser. I had thoroughly worked a creamy face wash into my (at the time) mid-back length locks. I once again suck at using OPB's.
See what I mean? I completely, severely suck at showering in OPB's.
I'm just as bad at getting used to new bathrooms when I move–shit, I'm lost for a week there, and I'm the one who sets those up! I confess–I'm a sad, sorry excuse for a human.
But I'm a clean sad sorry excuse, no matter how long it takes or what I wind up putting on me to get that way.
The Subway Diet
I was subjected to those stupid-assed Subway ads again–the ones where Jared bitches about what lovely things places like Mickey D's does to chicken. He's so smug in these commercials that it bugs the batshit out of me.
"You know what fries me? It's what does to chicken. They deep fry it and add fat to a very healthy food!"
Oh, yeah, Jared, I'm SO fucking sure you're all mad and shit about what they do! Don't think you're fooling anyone when you're shilling for another fast fud empire–I know what you're really doing there, you sanctimonious bastard.
While you're bitching and moaning on national television for the sake of a dime, you've got those two aides of yours (you know the ones, the guys you say help you LOSE weight eating cold cuts twice a day) out preparing your hookup.
Oh, fuck you Jared, don't look at me like you're innocent! You know as well as I do that you have those two out in trenchcoats and sunglasses, scavenging the very places you're paid to put down, buying your daily fix for you. You're too well-known thanks to running your fugly face all over the airwaves to go get a decently prepared bucket of chicken yourself, so you flagellate those poor employees of yours into doing it for you.
I see them now, Oh Asinine One–I see one over at KFC, asking if he can have extra honey barbeque sauce on "his" box of whatever chickeny goodness they're scoring for you now. The other one's in the drive-thru at Mac and Don's Supper Club, the very bastion of hellaciously bad-fer-ya fud, demanding double sauce for the Chicken McNoogies and extra mayo on the 10 sammitches he's scoring for you.
I do wonder how they actually make the handoff to you. I'm certain the paparazzi know where your office and home are, and likely have them staked out. But I know you, Jared. You're the fat guy trapped in a skinny dude's body, so you gotta have your fix, any way they can give it to you.
Do they stand on the street corner near your gym, London Fog coats billowing in the wind, flashing wafting goodness in scent form down the street as a signal to you? Or do you meet up with them in a seedy hotel, as if they were regular, honest whores instead of your kept men? Do you make them call you Big Daddy before you pay them back for the food they scored? Or do you just snatch the greasy goodness from their slippery fingers before backhanding them out of the way of your orgy of sin?
Whatever it is you do, Jared, I know what you don't do. I know you don't pay those poor fuckers enough to deal with your sorry ass. There isn't enough money on the planet to reward them for what they do for you.
If this is art…
From the "'Fight Club,' Anyone?" department and Fark.com comes this most interesting commentary on what truly stoopid motherfuckers will do with their money. To quote the CNN article, dated Saturday, June 18:
Perhaps the oddest piece of work at Art Basel is a bar of soap, displayed on a square of black velvet, purportedly made from Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi's fat, removed during liposuction.
Gianni Monti's work called 'Clean Hands' — the title is a play on the name of an anti-Mafia group — sold in less than an hour for 15,000 euros ($18,000) to a private Swiss collector, according to Monti's Galerie Nicola von Senger of Zurich.
Since Art Basel is a show for people to find unique art investment opportunities and to find interesting showpieces, let's take a look at this bit of news. Someone actually collected the body fat of an Italian Prime Minister. Once collected, they made soap from it. Once made, they took it to a large, expensive, investment art show. Within an hour of showing this, uh, piece of soap, it sold for an exhorbitant amount of money!
In spite of the high EW! factor inherent in such a piece, some Eurotrash, too-rich fucknut PAID someone to let them have this nasty-assed excuse for art for their very own! Some incredibly asinine waste of skin has so much money and so little taste that they want to put this piece somewhere near them, point to it regularly and say, "That soap is made from the Italian PM's sucked-out fat. Aren't I just fabulous for owning such a thing?"
Believe it or not, I did find a picture of this paragon of suds.
No word on whether or not the lather is viable, what scent was added (if any) , the merits of actually using this abomination, or how much the bribe was to get such a disgusting display past the owners and promoters of Art Basel.
What the HELL is WRONG with you?
An Open Letter (Yeah, I do this a LOT–shhh!) to the A&W on Grand River Avenue near Wixom, MI:
What the HELL is WRONG with you? Since when does a damned A&W Root Beer stand run OUT of root beer?
Did you have NO clue how difficult it is to talk Honey into a totally unproductive trip anywhere? He doesn't like just picking his happy ass up to satisfy my whims–he does it because of reasons that will make Beo go blind should he read them here!
I managed it, though. I managed to get him to take me to your establishment, promising bribes of cold, frosty root beer, as only you're able to peddle it (with an additional Beo-blinding inducement).
How did you repay me?? How DID you repay three people lusting for just a taste of your sugar-filled, icy, creamy smooth root-flavored crack? You fucked up, that's how! When I arrived at your little hole in the wall, the nice lady behind the counter informed me only once I'd ordered everything else that your fine restaurant was deficient in the very thing that makes driving Grand River Ave. worth putting up with–ROOT BEER! Instead she taunted me with, "We do still have the Diet.."
Fucking inbred, borderline-autistic LOSERS! I can get fucking DIET at the gas station less than a mile from home! I can get a can of Liquid fucking PAIN at any of a hundred places along the pain in the ass route I had to take to get the real deal from the syphilitic tit-squeezers at your restaurant! If I could DRINK fucking DIET I'd just have DONE that instead of braving 90 degree weather in order to get a mug of your fabulous root-goodness. I was even going to have you dose it liberally with ice cream, you taste-blocking, numb-nutted excuses for purveyors of pure heaven!
It did not help my disposition, nor my displeasure at finding you rootbeer-less, to hear the woman behind the counter call out unflattering things about my size in Spanish. Some Serras would have waited in the parking lot for you to get off work after you called them fat bitches no matter what language it was in. Personally I don't think you're worth the sweat off my tits it would take to do it, so you live another belly-crawling day. That should be retribution enough.
In closing, I leave you with this: May the slobbering significant others of all your employees plague you with requests to see your flabby, saggy, grease-stained tits, especially if you're a male A&W manager of this particular store.
An Open Letter…
…to the fucking CRACKHEAD that designed the interchanges near Madison, Wisconsin.
1. Your mother drank while pregnant with you, causing your delusions of usefulness.
2. Your father was a roomful of homemade LSD-ingesting frat boys who fucked up the formula when they made it, resulting in a deadly mutation that your abortion poster-child ass somehow survived.
3. Both of them should have had enough sense not to bring you into the fucking world.
4. I don't know what misbegotten Cracker Jack box your engineering degree came out of, and I don't care–just do the Midwest a favor and put it the fuck BACK.
5. While you're at it, always remember that you suck dirty green donkey dicks with pustulent red sores, incurable by any known medical science and hopefully preventing you from reproducing your mutated species.
6. If by some deluded chance you decide I'm joking here (and be assured that I am NOT) and dare to design again, at least have the COMMON GOD-DAMNED SENSE to put a fucking GAS STATION in the area!
That is all.
Oh HELL No, part 3
"I gotta get the oil changed."
"Yep, you do. Where are you going to have it done?"
"Hel*Mouth"
He's taking BABY? His pride-and-joy? The hottest sedan ever made? To HEL*MOUTH? I have trouble forming the words to explain just how sick and wrong that truly is. He starts to explain that while letting anyone wearing a Hel*Mouth name tag touch his limited edition, high-performance, great, big, fast wet dream of a car is the uber-sacrilege, it's difficult to fuck up a simple oil change when he's standing right there ready to hurt anyone who doesn't treat Baby with the awe and respect she deserves.
While Honey babysits Baby during her ordeal, I wander the Hel*Mouth until I figure they've had enough time to either do the fucking work or pick themselves up off the floor where Honey would have left them after the wholesale BoA resulting from fucking with his Baby.
The obviously fake strawberry blonde with the neon red short short nails is busy chewing gum and reading the wrong manufacturer's part book for another customer. She ignores me while the guy she's showing off her 43-point IQ to gently hints that what I want might only take a minute. She ignores the hints and ignores me. Meanwhile I see Honey wandering the Automotive section, kid-in-a-candy-store grin firmly in place. He explains that while the oil change itself is only 15 minutes, there's no promise by Hel*Mouth that they will START the oil change anytime soon. He was told to come back in 90 minutes. Yippee shit.
I go back off to wander the yarn section, marveling at how there are only three colors of Hel*Mouth's signature all-cotton line and wondering why it's SUCH an insult to the slack-jawed inbred NASCAR fan behind the cash register to ask if other colors can be ordered. Fine. Fuck you, skanked-up TMR two-bit whore–keep your "How DARE you ask questions of the Oracle of the Hel*Mouth fabric section" attitude and I'll order my yarns online.
Finally, 90 minutes after hitting the bay, Baby's ready to go home, so I check out and we get away from the Hel*Mouth, me making a mental note to bring Holy Water next trip. The first note of "Oh, HELL no!" rears its ugly head within seconds.
"They opened the passenger front window. Took me 10 minutes to put it back in." True that the power window does need fixing, but who the FUCK plays with the windows during an OIL CHANGE? He'd declined to have the car vaccumed so no one should have been IN the passenger front area, let alone playing with the windows! I decide that a look at that service invoice is a good idea.
"Uh, Honey, did you actually DECLINE having the battery checked?"
"Nooooooo! They never asked me if I wanted to skip that."
Oh, nifty. I quickly go thru the rest of the 15-point check he paid extra to have done.
It turns out that the point about an Impala SS having no grease fittings (translation: thingies to squirt lube into/onto) is pure prevarication because Baby needs her lube more than most cars and has six of the fuckers, not ZERO as noted on this sheet. These silly asshats lied again about "recommend replacement" on the Air Filter check (again, not mentioned or asked about during the service). It is also bullshit that "customer declined" having the battery checked–turns out in the tech's notes that "Battery Charger N/A" means this nearly-new fucking Hel*Mouth location has NO battery charger to do the check that they charge people to have done! Nice. Donkey-fucking NICE.
It gets worse.
Honey asked, "Tire pressure?" "Thirty all around," I replied.
"SHIT!" Turns out the wide, high-performance shoes Baby wears should be inflated to 40 in the back and 32 or so in the front. He pulls into a gas station and makes with the tire gauge and air. I hear air being LET OUT of something in the tail. Turns out the asshats inflated one tire to 70 PSI. VERY not cool–those tires each cost more than a set for my entire damned CAR! The little banjo-playing motherfuckers just goosed the air pressure in the tires without checking it afterward.
Needless to say, the air in the car was blue all the way home, each invective bluer than the last. Moral of the story: Even if the guy in the overalls says you have an excellent car, that doesn't mean he actually knows how to service the fucking thing. Especially if that's what the demons at Hel*Mouth pay him to do.
Oh HELL No, part 2
Something else I honestly don’t think belongs at a low, low price–INSTRUMENTS!
No shit, folks–I noticed the wall of guitars, bass guitars, amps, etc as I was leaving last night. I’m already thinking that it is probably a frustrating thing to expect someone to learn how to play something on an instrument purchased at the home of cutthroat competition, when the CLARINET and FLUTE boxes added themselves to my attention span.
You’re fucking KIDDING me–it’s not hard enough to learn wind instruments properly without FURTHER handicapping a student by giving them what is certain to be horseshit equipment! For the love of your favorite composer, people, do NOT encourage the vultures at Wally World in their heresy.
Oh HELL No, Part 1
Here in my new surroundings, I'm finding myself a little bit disoriented. The nearest Meijer (think Super WalMart, KMart, TargetBoutique) is now about 10 miles away, while the enemy WalMart is less than a mile. Guess where I'm stuck doing junk food runs? I'm not happy about supporting these folks in spite of the low low prices. I'd prefer to patronize an ethical store chain. The problem here is that my car still needs a muffler, so since I have to bum rides I need to be considerate of how far I'm asking someone to go.
While the junk food's pretty decently priced, I still won't be picking up many many many of my daily needs, cheap or no. And I certainly won't be popping for the one "Oh, HELL no!" item that caught my eye last night. I had NO clue that WalMart had gone into the Internet business. Certainly I knew they had a website; I did not know that they also ran an ISP. As I said, Oh, HELL no! Not even at $10 a month do I entrust my access to what I need online to a company whose become known for cutthroat competition at the expense of quality, service, and human decency.
Soon as I'm in a position to be paying gas money when I need to go places or get my car fixed, I'm going back to patronizing businesses that support and appreciate those around them.
More in Sorrow
It seems that I have a troll; a troll of my very own. Better than that–a soapmaking troll.
I know who it is. She doesn't think I do, but I do. You see, she's not very smart and has left her fingerprints all over the nasty comments she left.
To the folks this doesn't apply to: Sorry for the post–the move is going very slowly and I'm hoping to be done in a day or two. It's taking the toll I expected on my body but I did expect that. I hope to be making you giggle again soon.
IAN–Thanks so much for the comments! You and Joe are keeping my spirits up and I really appreciate it.
To the troll:
1. Get your own name. I'll explain this v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y so you don't get confused again. Serra is my name and my friends can indeed tell us apart.
2. You know your name.
3. So do I.
4. I'm betting harassing people is against your server's terms of service. Think on it.
Censorship Blows
For those who don't have any clue what Public Access TV is, it's basically the channel on your cable system that runs all the government meetings and really odd, badly-produced shit you see between runs of the TV listings. What it really is (your own chance at putting nearly anything you want on TV) is long enough for a series on this blog. The point is, it's where I truly learned the value of expressing oneself, one's right to do so, and just how many people detest the fact that the right exists at all.
It's come to my attention that I know someone in the last category. I recently posted an advertisement to a discussion list, one where many people also advertise. I seldom post my ads there, and thanks to the list management's reaction I won't be doing so again. I was asked to remove the link to this blog from the email I sent before the ad would be "approved." That link is part of an attachment that goes on EVERY email I send–there's no underhanded shit going on, it simply is there for those who want it. Those who don't want to read it don't have to come here.
My reaction? Tina, the list's owner, can kiss my royal, white, Goddess-proportioned, sweetly-scented, pampered, American, soapmaking, blogging, First-Amendment exercising ASS! I don't censor JACK SHIT, FOR Jack or anyone else on this great giddy globe.
It's her list, and she can do anything she pleases with it. She can even screw me out of the ability to post the same sorts of ads to her list that everyone else does. That is her choice, just as it is her choice to be an neo-Nazi, ass-kissing, boot-licking sycophant. I do not have to like it. I certainly will not keep quiet about it. Most of all, I won't be supporting it with my money by ordering from her ever again or by recommending others buy anything from her either.
If I wanted to whore myself out in any way, Eight Mile is not far from my Greater Detroit Metro area home. I'll gladly provide directions to anyone who wants to be an honest prostitute rather than suck a demented prevaricatrix's ass for the sake of money.
—————————-
ADDENDUM: As expected, I've been terminated from the list in question. I have also been terminated with extreme prejudice (color me sooooo surprised) from another, supposedly impartial supplier evaluation list. In addition, I've been threatened with legal action for libel and/or slander. Whatever.
Whiplash Smile 