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Archive for December, 2011

That someone had to even waste the breath to say this scares me so much that I get anxiety attacks.

Hell, Republicans are doing everything possible to help Obama win.

The fact that no one has beaten the everloving stuffing out of Donald Trump is great support for my argument.

Why the RNC isn’t vetting candidates as hard or harder than the Democrats stymies me.  Look at all the effort wasted on people like Cain.  Cain looked all right, but it wasn’t until accusations piled up hip deep that it was obvious that the man was so devoid of common sense that he’d even try to run with skeletons and even still-warm bodies in his closet.

All of the wasted effort and slashing of the frontrunners by the laggers – here’s what’s happening:

In 2012, there is going to be an election which is very similar to the world heavyweight boxing title.

In preparation for it, all the Republican hopefuls are going to engage in razor fighting and everyone assumes that if they are going down their situation can be saved with a kamikaze razor.

People like Trump who duck in the melee now and then to shoot front-runners in the ass with stuff ranging from sedatives to paralytics to gasoline is the new millennium’s answer to Ross Perot.

Sniping the leader  rather than weeding out the weak DOES NOT MAKE FOR WINNING AN ELECTION.  Natural selection results in stronger individuals when you let the carnivores eat the weak.  If you kill off the strongest so only the weakest can take each other down then when it comes to the primary a choice between weaker candidates is all that is left.

Dick Morris is no dummy.  If he’s expending the breath to say Ron Paul would be a win for Obama worries me.  The implication is that that Mittens or Newt, neither of which are good solid electable Presidential material, could slash each other to the point where they bleed to death, or some idiot could attack the better of the two so they can attack the weaker…

Don’t get me wrong – I think every last Republican in the field is better than Obama… every… single… one… but I also think that we’re treading into the waters of unelectability with Mittens and Gingrich, and Ron Paul… if we get Paul, hell, let’s just not even bother with the election, okay?

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Found over on Weasel Zippers.  It makes me ashamed that I was born and raised in Orygun, even though I am one of perhaps six folks to come from there that are conservative.

Occupy Portland Mom Places 4-Year-Old Daughter On Train Tracks During Protest To Shut Down Port of Portland…

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It’s economics writers like this one that really really piss me off.

The real dirty little secret of the American economy is that we are doing OK.

Sure, if you’re a bigger company and can get a loan, or if you’re not locked in one place because your house is so far underwater that you’ve got fish spawning in your attic insulation, or if you felt comfortable splurging now and then (even though you’re far from it), or if you felt like there’s nothing really that says something can’t come right along and wipe out a huge number of businesses w/o working up much of a sweat.

We are NOT doing OK.  We are pursuing the practice of spending beyond our means with a very shaky economy with high unemployment.  That is not ok, it has never been ok, and will never BE ok by any definition written by someone who isn’t smoking crack cocaine.

In its final statement before the end of the year, the Federal Reserve described the economy as “expanding moderately.” Almost all major statistics suggest that “moderately” may be an understatement. Manufacturing surveys such as those conducted by the Institute for Supply Management have been above 50 for months, which indicates growth. The same goes for service-sector surveys.

The overall economy as defined by GDP figures has been in the range of 2 percent, not great, but also not artificially inflated by too-easy credit, as was the case between 2004 and 2007. Incomes are flat or slightly down, but savings are up, which shows that the vast majority are living within their means and making solid choice about the lives.

Unemployment remains high, and structural, but also stagnant. Job gains are minimal, but so are job losses. And consumer sentiment, a fickle barometer, but indicative of moods and expectations, has been slowly creeping up against a tide of negative views about the U.S. and the world emanating from politics, Wall Street and the media.

But here’s the question – if all the statistics say that the economy is doing great, and every person out there has this awful gut feeling that things are anything but… please tell me how the economy is doing great.

The statement “consumer sentiment, a fickle barometer” is one of the most arrogant things to say.  Consumer sentiment is just fine, it is the idiots reading the tea leaves that contribute to the notion of ‘fickle barometer’.

Negative views about the US and the world emanating from politics, Wall Street, and the media ARE CORRECT.  Things are really quite dire.  So either the author is quibbling and saying nothing at all – OR – he is trying to say in a couched fashion that things are lookin’ good and it’ll be a sunny day tomorrow.   One is a waste of everyone’s time and the other is an “expert” who needs to start infusing analyses with reality.

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It seems that some people would like excuses because they feel uncomfortable turning down a holiday drink.

How about “No, I would not care for a drink” and if that doesn’t work say “Why the f*ck do you care if I have a drink or not?  I don’t want one, and leave me alone about it.”    Is either one of those just too difficult to say?

They suggest that some of those below are acceptable, which if the people are so casual of acquaintances that you can use these (or if you care so little you can say you get really racist after a few drinks) why do you care what they think when you tell them “No” and fall back on “Piss off”?

“No thanks. I get really racist after a few drinks.”

“Before I accept, I should warn you I brought a guitar with me.”

“I love drinking, but it doesn’t half make me vomit.”

“Not for me, I have a flight to catch later on. No, I’m a pilot.”

“I know I don’t look it, but I’m only 15. It’s a long and deeply disturbing story.”

How about this instead?

“Only two of the violent assault convictions were ever provably due to alcohol and I’ve paid my debt to society, so… sure, why not?”

I’m sure you guys have got more…

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Yeah, I hate quizzes online.  Usually sent to you by the same people that tell you if you don’t forward a message about a Pomeranian with testicles that can heal small girls with brain cancer to ten other people you will have cancer of the testicles within three weeks and if you are a woman you’ll grow some within two weeks and three weeks after that you’ll have testicular cancer.  And usually it means you don’t love others, too, I’ve found.  And the quiz generally tests you on how in tune you are with the Crocodile Repo Alley People of Jersey’s Oddest Shore or some weird-ass crap show like that.

But I was intrigued.  Intercollegiate Full Civic Literacy Exam.

If you use the full address to that link you get this message prior to the exam:

Full Civic Literacy Exam (from our 2008 survey)

Are you more knowledgeable than the average citizen? The average score for all 2,508 Americans taking the following test was 49%; college educators scored 55%. Can you do better? Questions were drawn from past ISI surveys, as well as other nationally recognized exams.

I got 80%.  Shame, oh the shame.  To be fair I actually intellectually did know the answers to three more but had my head up my ass when taking the quiz.

Alternatively if you use the shortest version of the http: address you get this:

American Civic Knowledge Survey

Both the ancient Greeks and Romans valued wise and public-spirited citizens. Let’s see just how wise you really are? Are you a Barbarian, Philosopher King, or something in-between?

Please be aware that by clicking on this shorter quiz’s answers at random I got 20% correct so if you get lower than that you really ought to feel pretty ashamed.

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All right folks.  I may have done something not so smart Saturday night but it was because I felt so good I didn’t even think about it.  We have a hand-chopper (Blitzhacker) thing and I was chopping up pickles.  Six hits, light ones, with my right hand…. and bazinga.  Not sure what happened, probably nothing bad but it was kind of painful.  Intensely related to my neck.  Hurts other places.

Damn damn damn.

Anyway, this next snippet of story takes balls.  Castrating of lambs can be hazardous to your health.  Especially if you use your teeth.

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So if you are sitting there in your back yard and the rich kid up on the hill is using his iPad helicopter to spy on your sister while she sunbathes and takes pictures of you doing … things… and then uses pictures of both for his own uses and shares them with the other neighbors…  do you give him back his iQuadcopter when it lands in your yard?

I think Iran is a bunch of slimy bastards but somehow Obama calling them up and telling them they *have* to give our stealth craft back… boy would I ever tell him to stuff it if I were in their shoes.

Iran is a bunch of douchebags that should be bombed the rest of the way back into the stone ages before they are actually able to strike Israel.   But at the same time I don’t blame them for saying to the US “Hey, thanks, free spy-plane!”

“We obviously believe strongly in a diplomatic approach. We want to see the Iranians engage and, as you know, we have attempted to bring about that engagement over the course of the last three-plus years. It has not proven effective, but we are not giving up on it,” [Secretary of State Hilary Clinton] said.

What isn’t said as loudly by the Obama administration:

Yeah, we’ve seen how lots of sucking up and bowing has really proven less effective in controlling the leaders of rogue nations and human-rights-trampling nations than we would have thought.   We really thought toadying up and acting all beta-male would be respected by these regimes and they would fall right in line with our new Metrosexual Alpha-Shemale approach – you know, the one President Obama keeps demonstrating time and time again?  It’s designed to make everyone think you’re alpha male without you ever having to be that way – it’s much safer, we think.

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A dripping-fangs friend of mine wondered not too long ago how it came to be that some things… came to be. He said:

LK, you read my mind again. I can’t count the number of times I’ve asked myself about – say – heroin: Who the fiddly-fuck said, “Hey! I’m gonna mix this opiate solution with some alkali stuff and take the precipitate, strain it, and shoot the clear juice into my arm vein this Saturday night for a good time!”

I rolled up my sleeves, put on my thinking cap and thought real hard about such matters and realized that Heroin, I’ve already had a suspicion about. Many stories would be similar to the bullshit I’m about to spout…

… and yes, it’s bullshit, just like when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor, but let me run with it.

You look at laudanum, they made tinctures of all sorts of things, some good, some bad…. One day they discovered that wonderful little poppy just living it’s little poppy life in the wild and someone decided to load up a muffin because people were really hungry and tried everything at one time. Almost assuredly some Poor Bastard tried muffins topped with Nightshade when it was his turn to try things out, and so They assembled in short order and quietly and quickly crossed Nightshade off of the list of “Things We Might Eat On a Muffin Top”†.

So one of these guys ate a muffin that was 50% opium poppy, and/or didn’t pass a drug test, and/or saw God or Yahweh or whoever while simultaneously not feeling the lower half of his body and They gathered around and said “Why, this must be Something Special”.

The mechanism is clear:  A guy loaded up a muffin, got cataclysmically high, took some detailed notes, and They started making tinctures and reductions and powders, but the people that did it were knowledgeable people – edjumakated – and while they got addicted on a truly massive scale they generally did it safely enough that the addiction eventually killed them, not the preparation.

And one day, Joe Six-Meade-Pack was chumming-out-of-societal-class along with his rich friend because, even though they grew up in the sewers together, they had rapidly divergent lives beginning one day when one of them boffed the Queen’s maid’s brother’s barbers’ in-the-Convent-for-life sister and knocked her preggers and it Wouldn’t Do to have that Scandal so close to the Crown so the Royal family gave him a title and land – Duke of TumbleSnatch or some such thing… intending to buy his silence and extract future promises to spread no more wantonly sowed seed in the vicinity of the Crown unless called upon to do so by God and the Queen Herself.

Now, one day they’re chumming and Joe Six-Meade-Pack notices Sir Flounder, Duke of Tumblesnatch, doing a little bit of this and a bit of that to a mysterious preparation and then quickly – and expertly – jab a patented Very Expensive Hypodermic Device into his arm and sigh with the release normally only heard when 15 year old boys (coming around full circle, coincidentally) knock up some (S/s)ister other than their own.

So Joe consults with Flounder and learns the arcane arts of shooting drugs – the training of which, though having taken years on Sir Flounder’s part has been compressed into a 15 minute seminar touching on the most basic of things that Joe cannot hope to follow in the extensive detail that would imply that he understood things on a fundamental level causing Joe later to make up parts of the procedure from whole cloth while incorporating just enough of Sir Flounder’s wisdom to lend an air of legitimacy to the whole matter.

Now, don’t get hung up in the details – opium, laudanum, the date of the hypodermic, merits in the 1800’s of smoking vs. shooting drugs, etc., you KNOW that something similar is what has happened down through the ages – the conveyance of huge amounts of information from knowledgeable people to… complete and utter morons.

Some fellow, entirely “in the know”, pressed by an idiot friend who had no business attempting such things, lent his knowledge in sum or in part, and said knowledge was lost partially in translation, was embellished upon, got fucked up, misplaced, coffee-stained, used as a rag after a nooner with the cleaning lady or some ruminant animal, and was presented later as a very peculiar set of instructions claiming to do something amazing and succeeding only by virtue of not alarmingly killing enough people outright.

How else can one explain the prevalence and across-all-classes nature of meth cookery?  The things a wild chemist uses in the process are things that no sane or educated chemist would think of using, yet bathtub chemistry seems to work just enough of the time that the LD-50 dose (the lethal dose is determined by the contaminants) is above the tolerance level of most addicts and they get away with poisoning their customers slowly with toxic compounds.

Look up Krokodil sometime for a Tale of Failure so extreme that in comparison meth addicts by and large look like 1%-ers.

† However, shortly afterwards, They assembled in secrecy and quickly added Nightshade to the list of “Things We Might Add to some Inconvenient Bastard’s Soup”.

If you like the “Origins” idea, let me know.  I have more stories along these lines.

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There are some Origins, however, that I cannot begin to understand.  Such as why a person would let themselves be injected in the weiner with silicone by someone unqualified off the street.

You would have to have some pretty substandard equipment to let yourself be treated by this person – yes, a picture of the actual creature that injected the poor dumb small dicked bastard.

She looks like a Sleestack from the  kids’ show in the 70’s, Land of the Lost.

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For probably the first time ever, I agree with the punishment given my clerics in Saudi Arabia.

An official Saudi newspaper says a man convicted of raping his daughter has been sentenced to receive 2,080 lashes over the course of a 13-year prison term.

That’s roughly 3 lashes per week.  Juuuuust long enough to let him tenderly heal from the last ones before adding the new ones.

Ok, I’d sign off on it with one change.  ONE of the lashes has to be across the soles of his feet.

We don’t want to torture him, after all.

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A cut above…

Cruel Wife found our kitties, Jill and Jack, lying on my side of the bed on top of one of my shirts bestowing Catsmus blessings upon the Holy Chicken of Christmas while I was in the hospital.  High Priestess Cruel Wife delivered the HC^2 to the altar next to my bed.   Now, if you are squeamish, just be content with the kitties and do not scroll down.

Here I have been blessed with the HC^2’s Anointment of Anonymity.  Yes, that gash looks like something that Aggie of Sith would bestow using her Machete of Zombie Filleting +4.   Correction, that is what it would look like if Aggie used a machete and lots of Wound Sealant compound instead of sutures.  Apparently this doc is not a fan of catgut and rarely uses a knot where a squirt of something else will do.

Below is what the x-ray showed once the plate was installed.  Disc taken out, piece of my sternum popped in, and plate and screws from a door hinge from Lowe’s. (I asked that they use the Redneck Grab-bag Special rather than the fancy-schmancy Ti6Al4V golden-child formulations)

Yes.

My. Head.  Is.   Being.    Held.     On.      Using.       Two.         Screws.

I suspect that the vertical wire is for the longer-range antennae that is connected to the fish-hooks the government installed in my brain years ago.  Mind control.  It’s all about mind control.

I can’t even feel the piece of sternum that they stole.  Can’t feel the screws all that much.  Can feel the incision and the sore neck ligaments that got stretched out.

I have some problems swallowing, which puts a damper on my food intake, but that’s not such a bad thing.  I chew my food much more thoroughly and enjoy each bite more because taking a big huge swallow isn’t really all that much fun.

This morning the doc chastised me for babying my neck.  He said “Tip your head all the way to the right.   No, you can move it more than that.  Ok, now the left… uh huh… tip it all the way back…. forward now… more… more…”

I said “But… but… ok, the physical and occupational therapists came in and told me all these things that I have to do in a certain way, how to hold my head, how to move to get out of bed…”

He looks at me with this “I pity you” look and says “Who are you going to listen to?  Them or me?  Listen to ME.  I’ve done lots of these.  Your bones are more solid than 99% of the other people’s out there† – you have very strong bones.  You could get in a car accident and you’d be fine.  Don’t baby it.”

I shook his hand for like the tenth time today, able to feel his hand with all five fingers and said “Thanks Doc, really.”

There is independent corroboration on the bone toughness thing.  Years ago when I had my arm mangled in the machine at the plywood plant the orthopedic surgeon (we’ll call her Dr. Frigide) had to enlist the help of a family friend, also a doctor (we’ll call him Doc Peter Relief).  Apparently they were having a horrible time getting the screws installed properly even with oversized holes in the arm bones.  Dr. Frigide wasn’t the largest gal in the world but she was a physical anomaly – she was a blackbody radiator hovering around 2-3K.  The room would drop by 10-15 degrees when she walked in.  She was straining to get them in my even a few turns and Doc PR was sweating profusely by the time the deed was done even with her there to cool things off.    They could only figure that years of lifting heavy weights and draining cows of their daily output (plus genetics) led to some strong bones and kept them from being shattered much worse than they were.   Osteoporosis is likely not going to be one of the things I’ll be afflicted with when I grow older.

I’ll have a more in-depth recounting of the day tomorrow.

Update:  Perhaps the fingers-sensation-free-of-tinglies tingly feeling that I was getting was a bit premature.  I suppose good days and bad days exist here, too.  But, there’s been no neck and arm pain still.  I’ve got no complaints there.

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Authors note: Although I stopped blogging many months ago, that didn’t mean that I stopped following the thoughts, lives, and adventures of my many internet friends still out there word-smithing away for their readers pleasure!

And like all of you wonderful readers and commenters at Lemur Kings Folly, I’ve felt great concern for our host and buddy regarding his neck issues and their impact on his life and family.

That LK has so often expressed his anxiety – not about himself,  but about how his infirmities might burden his family – is quite revealing. It reveals the man’s strength of character – the finest.

So I’ve tried to entertain him with the familiar, remind him of how bad it could be (or get) with my darkest imagination, and express my hopes for the eventual outcome. I hope he – and you – has giggles over this!

************************************************************

Franken-boy slowly lifted the trembling fork-load of Rooty-Tooty-Fresh-N-Fruity towards his mouth, seemingly unaware that he was being observed. The obnoxious little brat across the isle in the next booth was watching him – rapt – but Franken-boy’s focus was on the fork and its contents, and nothing else.

Just as the fork came within range of Franken-boy’s open and clearly desperate-for-food piehole, the large mouthful slipped off the fork (plop), then tumbled down the front of his shirt and under the table – never to be seen again.

Franken-boy silently watched this latest setback and his shoulders slumped realistically – all hope fading from his eyes. He knew now that he was going to starve.

The little brat couldn’t help but burst into loud, hysterical laughter at this magnificently executed pratfall, and was promptly, energetically, and repeatedly smacked by his mother, who’d had quite enough of the little shit by now.

Franken-boy looked up at his elderly companion with appropriately worshipful eyes and quietly but eagerly asked, “Was that right, Master? Did I do it right?”

The fanged and dripping mouth of Steamboat McGoo spat, “Yes. Yes, my young apprentice…soon your training will be complete…take these!” and he reached clawed and grizzled paws towards the doomed child. In them, He was holding a cane and a whoopee cushion.
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“Nn…noooooo!!!”

Lemur King snapped back into consciousness, his neck awash in agony bright as chrome-reflected sunlight, his eyes feeling hot and rust-grained.

He hurt.

His body – laying in a miasma of his own sweaty leavings – contorted in a primal rejection of the imagery now fading from his fuzzy and confused minds eye.

Or, at least, LK tried to contort. He was strapped and fastened down to the surgical table by stout padded canvas belts and could barely breathe – let alone move much more than a muscle or two. Not even that, actually. He was paralyzed.  A breathing mask was fitted snugly over his face, impairing his vision and smelling of an old swimming mask.

All around him lay an ominous dark.

“Sir? Are you OK? Don’t try to move. The anesthetic hasn’t worn off and you’ll hurt yourself.” said a voice – vaguely familiar.

Ah! The voice was that of Dr. Fudgefingers – the surgeon assigned to his case by The O’BuggerCare Board, and from the Rugged Hyman Surgical Group.

“Hgzdjkllgehme?” mumbled LK, not understanding what was going on – or where he was.

“Yes sir, you’ve just come out of surgery and I’m here to tell you all is swell.” The Dark moved a bit and there was a deeper doctor-shadow next to him now.  “The disconnect procedure went flawlessly.”

“Foop Pie-snit?”, LK pronounced carefully, so as not to be misunderstood.

“Yes. I’m sorry to tell you that after we got into the mechanics of your neck-disk internals we found that the whole thing was hopeless. So per your contract, we initiated the cranial separation procedure…”, the doctor said as he reached for either side of LK’s head.

And to LK’s horror, he felt – and saw – his head lift away from the body – now far below him and receding away into the darkness. And it hurt.

“There will be significant residual pain in the neck-stub end, I’m afraid, but we at O’BuggerCare and Suicide Kiosk #37569 provide plenty of opiates…”

But LK heard no more over his own screaming….

… and then the darkness rose up and carried him away… to a place where oblivion would be a kindness.

********************************************************

….and LK woke up, feeling so quietly and peacefully pain-free that his clear and crisp mind struggled to remember a recent comparable state of being.

He felt magnificent.

“We wants data, yes we does”, mumbled LK, and proceeded to move, then to toss and turn his head, shoulders and extremities in ever-more violent motions in an effort to find the until-just-now ever-present pain.

None.  Nada.

“Good data! More.”

Sensing with his noodle, he moved every part of his body trying to detect the least bit – the tiniest shred – of pain.

Zilch.  All his pain centers were apparently sound asleep – comatose, even.

“I could get used to this!”, he exclaimed, threw caution to the winds, and attempted to get up out of the hospital bed. But even as the thought formed, his body’s muscles were already moving him smoothly to a fully erect position next to the bed. Perfectly.

No twinge of anything resembling pain intruded upon the effort. His body was a well-oiled machine.

“Yes, sir – I’ll take this one”, he spoke to the imaginary Body Salesman. “This body will do juuuuuuust fine. Check please!”

There was a rustle and bustle behind him and he turned his head – painlessly, the neck all ball-bearings and teflon gliding – and was inundated by simultaneous hugs, kisses, squeezes, and other pleasant indignities from CW, Girlhead, and Franken-Boy. He bent and lifted a child in each arm – effortlessly – and hugged them tightly. This left him completely defenseless against the huge mega-kiss CW planted on his kisser with …well…her own.

“Things are looking brighter every moment”, LK exclaimed indistinctly past the smothering smooch. “Let’s go eat! I’m starving!”

In a raspy voice that could grind dry bones, worsening with every word,  Franken-boy said “Yeah, Dad!  And I can show you some really… neat tricks… Uncle McGoo showed me this morning!” As he spoke, he held up an ancient whoopee cushion and a twisted cane in his trembling clawed hands.

-Finis

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I am now hooked up to a sedative. See, everyone that comes in sees a calm individual.

Had the anesthesiologist say “your appearance fooled me but not your vitals. So I am going to order up something.”

Bless you, child.

Cruel Wife is sitting 3 feet away banging on her laptop.

And as i said, I just got my sedatives and iV painkiller. Very smooth.

So I am going to knock off for now.

LK

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