Wednesday, November 23, 2005
global thanks
As we rapidly approach American Thanksgiving, and the official beginning of Overeating Season, please allow me to pause, and give thanks to you, my dear reader.
It never ceases to amaze me that people take time from their otherwise busy lives to read my rants and ramblings. I am humbled and remain grateful that somehow my voice is heard above the cyber-din by many fine folks across the globe.
As we all give thanks for the bounty and goodness of our lives, please know, my dear reader, that you are yet another star in my celestial sky of thankful things.
Like Bartles and Jaymes of old, I thank you for your support.
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It never ceases to amaze me that people take time from their otherwise busy lives to read my rants and ramblings. I am humbled and remain grateful that somehow my voice is heard above the cyber-din by many fine folks across the globe.
As we all give thanks for the bounty and goodness of our lives, please know, my dear reader, that you are yet another star in my celestial sky of thankful things.
Like Bartles and Jaymes of old, I thank you for your support.
|
accuracy in presidential background signage
Like me, my dear reader, are you tired of seeing dubya in front of those large cheesy signs at public appearances that say stupid feel-good pseudo patriotic crap like "Mission Accomplished" or "Strength for America" or "America: Blah De Fucking Blah"?
I thought as much.
Don'cha just wish that you could see dubya standing in front of a large sign at a public appearance that accurately reflects his personality and his presidency?
I know I do.
Well, my dear reader, let me fold my arms, blink, and with a slight nod. . .
. . . color me genie. . .
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I thought as much.
Don'cha just wish that you could see dubya standing in front of a large sign at a public appearance that accurately reflects his personality and his presidency?
I know I do.
Well, my dear reader, let me fold my arms, blink, and with a slight nod. . .
. . . color me genie. . .
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Sunday, November 20, 2005
center of hell
That's where we found ourselves yesterday, right smack fucking dab in the middle of our personal vision of Hell.
Completely surrounded, on all sides as far as your eyes could see.
Trapped.
"Oh my fucking God, my dear Doctor Noyz (or 'OMFG MY DDN' if you are feeling more text message inclined)," you are doubtless saying (or texting) to yourself right now my dear reader, "Are you okay? For Chris'sakes man, I implore you to please relieve yourself of the burden of the tale."
I will try.
Yes, I will try, although I shudder at the thought of some memories.
Yes, I will try. I will share our story not to share our pain, but to share the triumph or Our Family over The Ordeal.
I will share our great victory and tales of our bounty.
And explain that as in the eye of every hurricane, you can find a little piece of heaven in the center of every hell (the proverbial silver lining to every dark cloud or somesuch nonsense? BLAUGCH!)
Let us begin. . .
Yesterday, as a slight chill which was perhaps a forboding of things to come, drifted in on the breeze of a slightly cloudy autumn afternoon, The Wife and I loaded The Boy and his gear into the Family Truckster and set course for the black heart and soulless void of a shallow, vapid consumer culture run amok with egotistical affluence.
We knowingly, willingly, even eagerly, journeyed about 30 minutes southwards to the greatest monument and symbol of Sprawl culture yet devised by the minds of fiendish men. It represents most all that I find most loathsome and despicable.
Yes my dear reader, you are correct. We went to the mall. But not just any mall.
Not just any ol' shopping mall, with its Dillards and its Nordstroms and its Sears at the cheap end where high school students continually flock to the food court attempting to escape and smooth the unattractive truth but the suburbs have no charms to soothe the restless dreams of youth.
Not just any ol' mega suburban strip mall with it's Home Depot, Circuit City, Bed Bath & Beyond, Petco, and Borders Books.
Not even the mega suburban strip mall right down the street from the other mega suburban strip mall with its Lowes Home Improvement, Best Buy, Linens & Things, Petsmart, and Barnes & Noble.
No, no, no, my dear reader. None of those places would be sufficient. As I'm sure you are well aware, The Good Doctor Noyz is generally not inclined to to anything half-assed. I'm going balls out full on rock out with your cock out head banging fist pumping hard drinking fast living fire both fucking barrels full fucking steam pedal to the metal ahead if I'm moving an inch.
So. . .
We went to the Mother of All Malls, a mall so grand in its shopping and massive in its scope that it ranks as the third most popular tourist destination in The Great Lone Star State, following the Alamo and Six Flags over Texas, according to a news report I saw yesterday.
It is a veritable Mecca for SUV driving soccer moms.
I hate it. Vehemently.
"So pray tell me why, my Good Doctor Noyz, for the love of all that is holy why, did you drag your family to such a hellish place?" you are thinking to yourself right now, aren't you my dear reader?
I can tell you in a single word:
Converse, man Converse!
Yes, like you I realize their not quite the same since the company went bankrupt and shut down its American factories, reorganized and now all the shoes are made in China most likely by children who make pennies to support the grandeur of my footwear.
Like you, I will always cherish my original Cons with "MADE IN THE U.S.A." once proudly printed even if now well-worn and no longer legible on the little rubber tag at the base of the heel. I continually seek out the originals at flea markets, garage sales and second hand shops.
But really now, used tennis shoes? Ooogh, that can be nasty, not that I haven't done it, several times.
But really now, we all know it's the Bush's world and we just live in its new order. Global society, global economy, blah de fucking blah.
Converse has opened an outlet store! Converse has opened an outlet store!
I last bought a pair of shoes in December 2003. They were black leather Cons I purchased to wear when The Wife and I got married. The Wife wore silver sparkly oxford Cons. Needless to say, we both just love the shoes. I will always remember the first time I saw her. She was wearing a Led Zeppelin t-shirt, nicely fitting blue jeans, and a comfortably worn pair of red Converse All-Stars. I knew right then she was the girl for me.
The Wife and I both love them, but since they stopped being made in the U.S.A. and sold for $19.99 at discount sporting goods stores and began selling for 40 bucks and up at the trendy mall stores because the Hip Hop scene has discoved them and thus made them cool again we haven't bought any.
Not because of the Hip Hop scene thing, Like Ice Cube, I'm down with the P.E. More because of the price doubling thing. Some things just aren't right.
[In typical fashion I find myself wandering off topic. Thank you, my dear reader, for your patience and indulgence. The Red Bull and vodka I am enjoying in lieu of my Sunday morning coffee must be beginning to take effect.]
The Wife and learn through electronic correspondence from our good friends at Converse that this weekend, starting FRIDAY, they are opening a brand new outlet store in the aforementioned hellish place.
Tempting, yes. . . but not quite tempting enough.
At the end of the email, we read the following:
Well le'metellya, you can do your best to take the boy out of the consumer driven culture but you can't take the consumer driven culture totally out of the boy.
Sweet merciful crap. We are so there.
And so we were.
And so we found ourselves driving around for about 45 minutes looking for a place to park. Seriously. Although when I say driving, I don't so much mean driving in the traditional sense of making continual steady forward progress. I mean it more in the inching forward slowly as another drop in an endless dammed and damned up river of traffic.
Madness, shear madness, I know, but we were nothing if not committed to our quest to obtain new cool shoes for the entire family.
So we slowly, painfully circled the giant lot seeking an opening by the blessed blue and white sign that granted us preferential parking treatment due to The Boy's use of a wheelchair.
(If I finish this ranting before the family awakes and I have another Red Bull and vodka I may find myself firing off an angrily sarcastic letter to the management of said shopping facility about the inadequacies of their parking for individuals with disabilities. As as related note, I have an idea for an aspiring documentarian or videographer: go to that blasted place and just hang out, watching the people who park in the handicapped parking, even with the proper permit. Watch them, then ask them about their "disability". We were forced to wander a great distance and I saw hundreds if not thousands of our fellow shoppers. I saw not one person with a wheelchair or walking with any visible disability, not so much as a cane or a limp! I suspect some bastards are scamming the system. They are the lowest form of scum. And I again I digress. . . )
Finally we found a place to park. While unloading The Boy and his gear we heard the following over a PA system:
Due to problems with the aforementioned parking, we trek across the lot to the other side of the mall and move with slow yet steady progress across the sea of faces and shopping bags towards our goal. We journey from the east, like three wise kings of old following the sign of a star (or in our case, a sign with a star), to the sacred destination.
Finally, we are there: Nirvana, Mecca, and Heaven all rolled-up into one single convenient (minus the whole parking mess and moving through the crowds thing) location. . .
The Converse Outlet.
I am a both a kid in a candy store and a middle-aged woman with a new credit card waiting with growing impatience outside Dillards at five am the day after Thanksgiving.
You see, my dear reader, as I know you well recall, The Wife is full-time nursing student, and I'm a humble public school teacher. It has not been easy always making family ends meet on a teacher's salary.
Praise the Lord (PTL?) for financial aid. Yes! The Wife's financial aid check came in. As basically neither one of us have purchased clothing of any sort for ourselves since before or for our wedding, now almost a blissful two years hence (we're just not the shopping type). . .
Well, let's just say the gloves were off. . .
I don't know how long we were in there. It could have been hours, it could have been days. I felt almost instantly, if falsely, at home. If they didn't totally and instantly have me when "Welcome to the Jungle" played on the in-store system, those bastards sure as hell did by the time I heard "Your Gonna Get Yours".
I wasn't sure if I was buying shoes in the real world or San Andreas. Either way's a pretty sweet deal.
And the shoes! Oh Hallelujah and Sweet Hossanahs in the Highest! The Shoes! At substantial discounts from their original suggested manufacturer's retail price! With 40% off of that!
Can you get drunk on shoes? Had you asked me that prior to yesterday I would have thought you suffered from some mental defect or delusion. Now I'm not so sure.
We must've felt momentarily Imelda Marcos.
We left with lots for all three of us: 15, yes 15 boxes of brand new Converse All Stars, 4 t-shirts and a jacket!
When we left, we left with the record for the largest sale at that location, even with the 40% off!
(Although, in our defense, the store had only been open for a day and a half.)
And when we left, yes, we had to walk back through our personal vision of Hell and go throught the whole getting there ordeal in reverse.
Did we feel guilt for our extravagence, were we perhaps suffering a tinge of buyer's remorse?
Well dahling, remember it was Fernando who taught us that it is "better to look good than to feel good". . .
. . . and we looked mahvelous.
|
Completely surrounded, on all sides as far as your eyes could see.
Trapped.
"Oh my fucking God, my dear Doctor Noyz (or 'OMFG MY DDN' if you are feeling more text message inclined)," you are doubtless saying (or texting) to yourself right now my dear reader, "Are you okay? For Chris'sakes man, I implore you to please relieve yourself of the burden of the tale."
I will try.
Yes, I will try, although I shudder at the thought of some memories.
Yes, I will try. I will share our story not to share our pain, but to share the triumph or Our Family over The Ordeal.
I will share our great victory and tales of our bounty.
And explain that as in the eye of every hurricane, you can find a little piece of heaven in the center of every hell (the proverbial silver lining to every dark cloud or somesuch nonsense? BLAUGCH!)
Let us begin. . .
Yesterday, as a slight chill which was perhaps a forboding of things to come, drifted in on the breeze of a slightly cloudy autumn afternoon, The Wife and I loaded The Boy and his gear into the Family Truckster and set course for the black heart and soulless void of a shallow, vapid consumer culture run amok with egotistical affluence.
We knowingly, willingly, even eagerly, journeyed about 30 minutes southwards to the greatest monument and symbol of Sprawl culture yet devised by the minds of fiendish men. It represents most all that I find most loathsome and despicable.
Yes my dear reader, you are correct. We went to the mall. But not just any mall.
Not just any ol' shopping mall, with its Dillards and its Nordstroms and its Sears at the cheap end where high school students continually flock to the food court attempting to escape and smooth the unattractive truth but the suburbs have no charms to soothe the restless dreams of youth.
Not just any ol' mega suburban strip mall with it's Home Depot, Circuit City, Bed Bath & Beyond, Petco, and Borders Books.
Not even the mega suburban strip mall right down the street from the other mega suburban strip mall with its Lowes Home Improvement, Best Buy, Linens & Things, Petsmart, and Barnes & Noble.
No, no, no, my dear reader. None of those places would be sufficient. As I'm sure you are well aware, The Good Doctor Noyz is generally not inclined to to anything half-assed. I'm going balls out full on rock out with your cock out head banging fist pumping hard drinking fast living fire both fucking barrels full fucking steam pedal to the metal ahead if I'm moving an inch.
So. . .
We went to the Mother of All Malls, a mall so grand in its shopping and massive in its scope that it ranks as the third most popular tourist destination in The Great Lone Star State, following the Alamo and Six Flags over Texas, according to a news report I saw yesterday.
It is a veritable Mecca for SUV driving soccer moms.
I hate it. Vehemently.
"So pray tell me why, my Good Doctor Noyz, for the love of all that is holy why, did you drag your family to such a hellish place?" you are thinking to yourself right now, aren't you my dear reader?
I can tell you in a single word:
shoesBut not just any shoes, the Holy Grail of Footwear: Chucks, Cons. . .
Converse, man Converse!
Yes, like you I realize their not quite the same since the company went bankrupt and shut down its American factories, reorganized and now all the shoes are made in China most likely by children who make pennies to support the grandeur of my footwear.
Like you, I will always cherish my original Cons with "MADE IN THE U.S.A." once proudly printed even if now well-worn and no longer legible on the little rubber tag at the base of the heel. I continually seek out the originals at flea markets, garage sales and second hand shops.
But really now, used tennis shoes? Ooogh, that can be nasty, not that I haven't done it, several times.
But really now, we all know it's the Bush's world and we just live in its new order. Global society, global economy, blah de fucking blah.
Converse has opened an outlet store! Converse has opened an outlet store!
I last bought a pair of shoes in December 2003. They were black leather Cons I purchased to wear when The Wife and I got married. The Wife wore silver sparkly oxford Cons. Needless to say, we both just love the shoes. I will always remember the first time I saw her. She was wearing a Led Zeppelin t-shirt, nicely fitting blue jeans, and a comfortably worn pair of red Converse All-Stars. I knew right then she was the girl for me.The Wife and I both love them, but since they stopped being made in the U.S.A. and sold for $19.99 at discount sporting goods stores and began selling for 40 bucks and up at the trendy mall stores because the Hip Hop scene has discoved them and thus made them cool again we haven't bought any.
Not because of the Hip Hop scene thing, Like Ice Cube, I'm down with the P.E. More because of the price doubling thing. Some things just aren't right.
[In typical fashion I find myself wandering off topic. Thank you, my dear reader, for your patience and indulgence. The Red Bull and vodka I am enjoying in lieu of my Sunday morning coffee must be beginning to take effect.]
The Wife and learn through electronic correspondence from our good friends at Converse that this weekend, starting FRIDAY, they are opening a brand new outlet store in the aforementioned hellish place.
Tempting, yes. . . but not quite tempting enough.
At the end of the email, we read the following:
AS OFFICIAL FRIENDS AND FAMILY OF CONVERSE, WE'LL GIVE YOU AN ADDITIONAL 40% OFF YOUR ENTIRE PURCHASE DURING OUR GRAND OPENING. JUST PRINT OUT THIS EMAIL AND BRING IT WITH YOUAn addtional 40% off of already discounted outlet mall store prices!!!
Well le'metellya, you can do your best to take the boy out of the consumer driven culture but you can't take the consumer driven culture totally out of the boy.
Sweet merciful crap. We are so there.
And so we were.
And so we found ourselves driving around for about 45 minutes looking for a place to park. Seriously. Although when I say driving, I don't so much mean driving in the traditional sense of making continual steady forward progress. I mean it more in the inching forward slowly as another drop in an endless dammed and damned up river of traffic.
Madness, shear madness, I know, but we were nothing if not committed to our quest to obtain new cool shoes for the entire family.
So we slowly, painfully circled the giant lot seeking an opening by the blessed blue and white sign that granted us preferential parking treatment due to The Boy's use of a wheelchair.
(If I finish this ranting before the family awakes and I have another Red Bull and vodka I may find myself firing off an angrily sarcastic letter to the management of said shopping facility about the inadequacies of their parking for individuals with disabilities. As as related note, I have an idea for an aspiring documentarian or videographer: go to that blasted place and just hang out, watching the people who park in the handicapped parking, even with the proper permit. Watch them, then ask them about their "disability". We were forced to wander a great distance and I saw hundreds if not thousands of our fellow shoppers. I saw not one person with a wheelchair or walking with any visible disability, not so much as a cane or a limp! I suspect some bastards are scamming the system. They are the lowest form of scum. And I again I digress. . . )
Finally we found a place to park. While unloading The Boy and his gear we heard the following over a PA system:
I’m just sitting here watching the wheels go round and roundWhat the fuck (WTF!)? John Lennon? Cool yes, but not right, no sir, not right at all. "No longer riding on the merry-go-round"? Hmmm, we just jumped right in the gawdamned middle of it, and it's already spinning too damned fast.
I really love to watch them roll
No longer riding on the merry-go-round
I just had to let it go
Due to problems with the aforementioned parking, we trek across the lot to the other side of the mall and move with slow yet steady progress across the sea of faces and shopping bags towards our goal. We journey from the east, like three wise kings of old following the sign of a star (or in our case, a sign with a star), to the sacred destination.
Finally, we are there: Nirvana, Mecca, and Heaven all rolled-up into one single convenient (minus the whole parking mess and moving through the crowds thing) location. . .
The Converse Outlet.
I am a both a kid in a candy store and a middle-aged woman with a new credit card waiting with growing impatience outside Dillards at five am the day after Thanksgiving.
You see, my dear reader, as I know you well recall, The Wife is full-time nursing student, and I'm a humble public school teacher. It has not been easy always making family ends meet on a teacher's salary.
Praise the Lord (PTL?) for financial aid. Yes! The Wife's financial aid check came in. As basically neither one of us have purchased clothing of any sort for ourselves since before or for our wedding, now almost a blissful two years hence (we're just not the shopping type). . .
Well, let's just say the gloves were off. . .
I don't know how long we were in there. It could have been hours, it could have been days. I felt almost instantly, if falsely, at home. If they didn't totally and instantly have me when "Welcome to the Jungle" played on the in-store system, those bastards sure as hell did by the time I heard "Your Gonna Get Yours".
I wasn't sure if I was buying shoes in the real world or San Andreas. Either way's a pretty sweet deal.
And the shoes! Oh Hallelujah and Sweet Hossanahs in the Highest! The Shoes! At substantial discounts from their original suggested manufacturer's retail price! With 40% off of that!
Can you get drunk on shoes? Had you asked me that prior to yesterday I would have thought you suffered from some mental defect or delusion. Now I'm not so sure.
We must've felt momentarily Imelda Marcos.
We left with lots for all three of us: 15, yes 15 boxes of brand new Converse All Stars, 4 t-shirts and a jacket!
When we left, we left with the record for the largest sale at that location, even with the 40% off!
(Although, in our defense, the store had only been open for a day and a half.)
And when we left, yes, we had to walk back through our personal vision of Hell and go throught the whole getting there ordeal in reverse.
Did we feel guilt for our extravagence, were we perhaps suffering a tinge of buyer's remorse?
Well dahling, remember it was Fernando who taught us that it is "better to look good than to feel good". . .
. . . and we looked mahvelous.
|
Thursday, November 17, 2005
amen
Whoa there!
Now hold on just a single gawdamdedminute. I got'sta give pause and give props to my brothaman, the one, the only, the Good Cardinal Biggles. . .
A Letter to the Speaker
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Now hold on just a single gawdamdedminute. I got'sta give pause and give props to my brothaman, the one, the only, the Good Cardinal Biggles. . .
A Letter to the Speaker
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Wednesday, November 16, 2005
smiling
The smile of God is the goal of your lifeI know my dear reader, I know. Right now you are sitting there thinking, "The smile of huh ? Rick Whodafuck? Now wait just one damn minute! Isn't he the guy that wrote that book? Is the Good Doctor Noyz quoting that book?"
- Rick Warren
Yes, yes my dear reader, I must confess: he is, I am.
I know, I know, right now you are most likely gettin' all "no you di'unt" and asking yourself such troublesome questions as, "Is the Good Doctor Noyz going all annoyingly Dr. Phil? Is he turning Oprah on our ass?"
Please allow me to reassure you my dear reader. That is definitely not the case.
I happened to read that quote a couple weeks back while skimming and scanning the book.
"Why?" you then might logically ask.
Well let me tell you.
A couple weeks back I was helping a friend pack up a U-Haul to move. He was given the book as a farewell gift by an appreciative and grateful landlord who was perhaps slightly saddened to see someone he referred to as "his best tenant" leave.
Wow, the times sure have changed even if the President's name hasn't all that much. I recall a time when landlords were appreciative that myself or my friends were leaving and grateful if the deposit was enough to cover the cleaning and repair the damage. But as is typical, I digress. . .
While taking a well earned break from arranging and packing the boxes that collapsed and condensed a friend's entire life into the close confines of a rental truck. . .
(I always knew the skills I gained from the hours and hours and hours spent sitting on the couch playing Tetris really stoned would prove to be valuable. Life is a journey in which you can learn something new each day. . . but again I digress. . . )
So I was taking a break to enjoy a Lone Star and I picked up the book. I started flipping through it and began reading the first few paragraphs of the chapters and other more or less random selections that caught my eye and looked interesting or entertaining.
It pretty much lived up to my expectations.
Which if you know me at all, and I'm quite certain by now my dear reader that you do, you know that my expectations were not exactly high.
Which is to say something like: I thought the book to be loads of inspirational feel good crap by and for people who when handed a menu begin to eat it. Let me restate that last bit: by and for people who mistake the menu for the meal, by people who look at a globe and think they see the world.
Which is to say yet another way, by and for people who interpret the metaphors of their mythologies far to literally, or dare I say, fundamentally.
Which in this case refers to the repeated imagery of God as the benign (yet still vengeful, or perhaps more accurately as "He" says in one of the "Commandments", "jealous") Old Man in the Clouds paternal figure.
Um, yeah. . .
Please do not misundertand my meaning. Despite what you might be lead to believe by my recent rantings on the subject, I am not against Christianity in totality as a faith. Only parts of it.
Like dubya, I respect a vibrant faith. Millions of my fellow citizens are Christians. Hell, my mom is one. Say anything bad about her and I'll have to kick your damn ass.
I honor its traditions. Many do not. I oppose those who do not follow the great traditions and have hijacked a great religion.
But again I am going off on a slightly different track than I intended.
The smile of God is the goal of life
It seems oddly incongruous with the rest of the book. Like a bit of ancient Buddhist or Taoist wisdom awkwardly translated from the original Chinese.
Like sumkinda Zen fortune cookie.
I try to imagine the true believers and the faithful, going about their day imagining an Old Man in The Clouds smiling down upon them as they do their best to fulfill their special purpose.
What's it like to think that dad is always watching? At what phase of your emotional and psychological development are you stuck? Anyone? Anyone?
(Their special purpose? Their special porpoise? Wow, I just struck a chord from an acid flashback. Really. He'd remember, maybe.)
Actually the whole damn "purpose thing" struck me as being somewhat sneakily similar to some of the concepts associated with dharma. But then again, I've always had this sneaking suspicion that most of Jesus' teachings were basically concepts of the Eastern philosophies as seen through a Jewish filter to meet the needs and fit the cosmology of his audience.
Now, my dear reader, bear with me and follow that train of thought and expand your concept and consciousness of God. . .
Let us depersonify and assume that God is much more than The Old Man in The Clouds.
Let us not assume that as John Lennon once asserted, "God is a concept by which we measure our pain."
God is Love and Love is Blind and Ray Charles is Blind Therefore Ray Charles Is God.
Okay no, that can't be right. Not that I'm disputing the divinity of Ray Charles. I mean, c'mon dude, he's like totally dead. It's generally rude to dis' the dead.
Unless they were Nazis. I mean like really Nazis. In that case, fuck 'em.
But let's go with the thought that God is more like George Harrison sang:
When you've seen beyond yourself-then you may find, peace of mind,Ponder that for a moment or two.
Is waiting there-
And the time will come when you see we're all one, and life flows on within you and without you.
Then again ponder this:
The smile of God is the goal of life
Yes.
The Boy
Goal?
Score.
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Tuesday, November 15, 2005
where do i sign up?
A question for you, my dear reader:
If you had to choose between
1) dining with Bill O'Reilly at the finest restaurant in all of Manhattan
-- OR --
2) lying naked in the scum and slime of an evaporating pond on the grounds of an overflowing sewage treatment plant while sucking the sweat from the urine soaked and feces caked hairy testicles of a crackhead who hasn't bathed in three months while he is sodomizing the corpse of a pig.
Which would you choose?
Why yes, my dear reader, you are quite correct.
Choice number 1 is incredibly vile, repulsive, and disgusting.
So. . .
. . . bearing that in mind. . .
O’Reilly Resorts To McCarthyism, Plans To Publish Online Enemies List
Any thoughts, comments, suggestions, advice, assistance to get on his list?
|
If you had to choose between
1) dining with Bill O'Reilly at the finest restaurant in all of Manhattan
-- OR --
2) lying naked in the scum and slime of an evaporating pond on the grounds of an overflowing sewage treatment plant while sucking the sweat from the urine soaked and feces caked hairy testicles of a crackhead who hasn't bathed in three months while he is sodomizing the corpse of a pig.
Which would you choose?
Why yes, my dear reader, you are quite correct.
Choice number 1 is incredibly vile, repulsive, and disgusting.
So. . .
. . . bearing that in mind. . .
O’Reilly Resorts To McCarthyism, Plans To Publish Online Enemies List
Any thoughts, comments, suggestions, advice, assistance to get on his list?
|
Friday, November 11, 2005
trick or treat
From Elvis. . . .
The Boy - Halloween 2003
through Oompa. . .
The Boy - Halloween 2004
to Angus. . .
The Boy - Halloween 2005
It's still rock and roll to me.
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The Boy - Halloween 2003
through Oompa. . .
The Boy - Halloween 2004
to Angus. . .
The Boy - Halloween 2005
It's still rock and roll to me.
|
