Clutch plays Charlotte December 27th. Be there or be gay.

Fireboys, Wannabe Fireboys, and Rednecks

There is a blog out there devoted to firetrucks and EMS vehicles. It's not bad on the visuals, but it's lousy with breathless description. Now, a kid's fascination with loud sirens and death is natural, I think, and in that context it would be a sin to tell the child to get a fucking clue. But, contrary to the comments left above, the site clearly is being run by grownups, with the kid(s) along for the ride. Looking at it that way makes me wonder: what kind of responsible person would allow a child to worship firemen? Or their trucks? (That's just sad).
See, the problem with firemen is that they don't do anything. Most of their time is spent sitting around "eating spaghetti-o's and watching porn," as someone once said. And, of course, sucking the municipal clock. But, good news, the firemen do drive the truck, which costs about $1,000 to crank, to the grocery store when they make a spaghetti-o's run. Because, you know, there might be a fire or something. At the store. Or something.
Look, I used to live a few blocks from a firehouse. The station was about two hundred feet away from the grocery store. Those assholes still drove the firetruck to the goddamn store. NOT because they didn't want to walk. NOT because they bought a lot of groceries. NOT because they liked or cared about wasting public money. But because they wanted everyone to see them in their shiny red truck. See? They also have a morbid fascination with the woo-woo trucks. And a fixation on things that look (and squirt) like big phalluses. And they want you to know that they know that you ought to worship them as "heroes" because they...um...just are, OK? Now, start worshipping goddammit!!
And this gets to the heart of the problem. Have you ever seen a volunteer firefighter? Saddest people in the world. As volunteers, unpaid workers, they will festoon their trucks (their personal vehicles, now) with stickers, flags, and a light bar, just so you know they're sort-of-kind-of-maybe-like firemen. And yes, they all drive trucks, mostly Chevy and Ford full-size duallys. Which they bought just for this reason. When you see a rednecky-looking guy in a dually, and it doesn't have a ridiculous goddamn light bar and nine thousand stickers on it, that's a volunteer firefighter whose application is on hold.
Finally, firefighters are first responders. This is the part, if you don't care about the incredible pork-barrel waste of public money, that you might be personally interested in. As first responders, firemen get to take the 911 calls as they see fit. Before police or medics show up, you always get a goddamn firetruck. What the fuck are you going to do with a firetruck at a bank robbery? How many times do they fire up that engine and drive to a call where a cop or an ambulance would have been more useful? If I'm dying, I don't want a fucking fireman giving me CPR; I want the speedier ambulance and its far more competent EMS workers to give me CPR--and a lift to the hospital. I don't want bratwurst, lesbian jokes, or a trip to the grocery store, so lose the firemen!
Now, you'll say, firemen ARE medics. Well, in some places. In Chicago, for instance, the city gave all the EMS services to private companies and to the fire department. The firemen now drive ambulances. Why? Because the rotten bastards didn't have enough to do to justify their existence otherwise. This is part of the reason that they are also first responders: they have nothing else to do. This, it seems to me, is political. They pulled some strings and now they look busy. They aren't, of course, but they look it.
To wrap up: any parent worth a damn would sit their kids down and tell them, "Son/Daughter, I want great things for you. I want you to be a helpful, productive member of society. Not a thief, or a malingerer, or a braggart. I want you to always do what you can to help others and to keep our nation financially sound and it's people healthy. In other words, Son/Daughter, don't be a fireman!"

New Rules for Jackasses

From now on, no comments left by fuckwads will be allowed to remain on my blog. I will decide the definition of "fuckwad." It's my blog.
This isn't a free speech issue; especially as Stan (The Man) Fish has conclusively proven, in his annihilation of Dinesh D'Souza (spelling? Do I care if I misspell the name of a total race traitor sellout ass-sucker?), that no such thing exists. If you have something to say, you must balance it against social interest, says I, and make some kind of argument for its validity. This ain't no free market of ideas, people. We want proof of usefulness.
Which brings me to the ban on all asinine comments left by someone other than me. Frankly, if the current crop of right-wing bungholes who have lately sullied this site with their presence cannot make a coherent argument, that's nobody's fault but theirs. They should have to suffer for their stupidity, not me (or you). So, in an effort to "elevate the discourse" that they're always screaming about, I propose to leave them out of it. Everything they touch turns to stupid, after all.
So, farewell, dumbasses. You have lost yet another battle for intellectual equality. If you have any questions about the big words in this post, buy a dictionary or have a liberal explain them to you. Bye bye, now.

Fill in the Blanks: F_CK Y_U REP_BLIC_N

This is what I love about Republicans (see comments on "I Lied" post below), and it's a great weapon for us new, improved Lefties to use on them, too. Whenever the going gets tough, and the little fucktards can't keep up, mentally or physically, they yell shit like "Go back to Russia!" and "Love it or Leave it!"
Every normal person (do they still have those?) knows those phrases are just about the dumbest things an American can say. They are fundamentally un-American. This is supposed to be the one place (sorry, England) where you can win an argument about big issues with persuasion, not volume. But the dumbass bukakke enthusiasts on the Right are so far up Bill O'Reilly's obviously well-greased ass to know that.
So here's what we do: use it against them. They clearly believe that this is an un-trumpable "argument," so let's see them squirm when we tell them to take their dictatorial principles and "go back to Saudi Arabia." I'm guessing they wouldn't get it, or if they did, that they'd somehow dismiss our catch-phrase in favor of a second helping of their own. This is how the half of the population whose asses are connected to their brainstems thinks.
Anyway, give it a try. And, if it doesn't work, do as I've suggested below and knock their fucking teeth out. This is the new manifesto. You call me a traitor to the country I am trying to save from assholes like you, and I will beat you until I feel better--and that might take a while.
As for "Anonymous" posters to this site, well, you're all a bunch of fucking cowards. Why don't you go back to "yellow" France, you girls? You are clearly a bunch of pussies. Case closed.

By the way, boys, Ann Coulter is a dude. Get used to it. Billy O still thinks she's hot, in that bone-clacking, Adam's apple-bobbing, screeching harpie kind of way. You know why she had to become a woman, right? Some liberal cut her balls off. Watch out you don't get the same.

I Lied

OK, I'm still here, but I promise that I'll leave soon.
Two things, while they're in my head:

1. Haven't heard much from the screaming fascists on the Right about Rumsfeld's big fuckup the other day. Why so quiet, morons? Finally found your shame? Or just too dumb to spin this one correctly? Look, it's really simple: It's the troops' fault. Our army is full of liberals and commie faggots, and that's why we didn't win. Rumsfeld was telling the God's honest truth up there...right?
THAT's how you spin it--by NOT spinning it. Then, if people swallow it, you know you've won.
But, see, I don't think that's how the dummies on the Right will play it, because somewhere, deep down in their black, cowardly little hearts, they know damn well that Americans are not with them on this. We never were. We were just a little lazy and a little confused. But that's over--now I see clearly, as Joe Strummer would say. Tonight it's raining on the angels of the city. Did anyone prophesize these people? Only Travis...


2. If you're a Republican and you're going somewhere sunny and oceanic for the holidays, don't bother to take any kind of floatation device or swim near lifeguards.
Now, look--I'm not saying I want you to drown. This occurred to me the other day, and I'm sharing it with you as a good deed.
It's not that you'll sink; the opposite, in fact. What I realized the other day (after taking a good, heavy dump that vaguely resembled the President's wife) is that turds float!

Sayonara, Bitches!

I'm off after today to sunny, open shop North Carolina, where me and my military buddies (LOTS of bases in NC) are gonna get together and make a frag list. Wholly hypothetical, you understand. Like, "If I had one grenade and a choice between Zell Miller, Jesus, and GW FUPA*, which would get the pill?"
Anyway, there ain't no computers down there (which, if I understand double negatives, means that there are) so I will only post when it's convenient. Which will likely be not at all, since an estimated 85% of my target demographic lives there and I can just walk over to their houses.
For the rest of you suckers, stay well, stay liberal, and get me some Republican trophy body parts. Take their balls, if you can find any; or better yet, get me some teeth. Those soft, fat, man-titty-having right-wingers have obviously taken Arnold to heart: they've become total girlie men, and they're on the run! Get 'em! Kill! Kill!



*FUPA is an old acronym for that bulge women get just below their beltlines. It stands for Fat Upper Pussy Area. It describes Bush perfectly, especially if you saw him in that tiny little army jacket yesterday.

Why do Republicans Hate America so Much?

So, Don Rumsfeld goes to talk to our boys in uniform and one of them has the fucking AUDACITY to ask why he and his mates have to crawl through Iraqi garbage dumps to get scrap metal to armor their vehicles. The DOD isn't, it turns out, doing much in the way of protecting our troops.
Rumsfeld responds by essentially saying "Hey, you never get to go to war with the perfect army, so you go with the one you do have." Which, translated, means "You fucktards are on your own. This whole thing is YOUR fault."
That's right, Il Douche, BLAME THE TROOPS. That's just like a Republican. I'm getting pretty sick of them laying everything on our brave boys and girls in uniform. Rumsfuck must have some leftover feelings for his old buddy Saddam, because he's offering our friends and neighbors in the military as sacrifices to the god of ill-gotten, Reagan era foreign aid: namely, the rocket-propelled grenade deity.
The assholes in Washington blunder and fume and then fuck up royal, and all that happens is they blame the people whose bravery and sacrifice made it possible for fuckups like GW Bush to have the freedom to be a dumbass in the first place. Christ, how did he avoid being drowned at birth, as he would have been in any other nation on this earth?
The point is, Republicans have no values, no standards, and no shame. They are totally undermining not only their own people (the troops) but also AMERICA ITSELF, since the message they're sending is "This isn't our war. We could take it or leave it. We like it when the nation and its soldiers get attacked."
Real fucking smart, 'tards.
I'm about sick of this un-American bullshit. I think they ought to allow the boys in uniform to bring their weapons to these "pep rallies" (especially the ones with GW Pussyfat). Then we'll see how fucking glib Rumsfuck and the rest of the nutsuckers are.

Republicans: Pussies Destroying America while You Stand and Cheer

Final Words of the Dizznitch for a While

Breedbate

Someone looking for an argument.
See: Not James O'Keefe


Quakebuttock

A Coward
See: James O'Keefe


Irrumation

Fellatio
See: Secret handshake of Rutgers College Republicans (NAMBLA)


Fimiterious

Growing or living in excrement
See: James O'Keefe


Napoo

Nothing; dead; finished
See: The American Right

Republican Douchehole Falls Down, Injures Vagina

Oh Lord, if you exist, please be the God of vengeance of the Old Testament. And, I humbly beseech you, smite the stupid asshole who left a comment below in the "Words" post (the first one only. The second one was me. I assume my punishment was having to read his idiotic, digital smegma removal of a post).
Now that you've read it, tell me this: why are Republicans such enormous vaginas? I mean no direspect to women or their vaginas, but is there anything worse than BEING a pussy? This guy is about to burst into tears (I think his typos might have actually been the result of big, fat teardrops hitting the keyboard as he pecked out his semi-literate message). Have we become so powerful, Almighty Fellow Lefties, that right-wingers tear up at the thought of us, the same way they do when they make a wrong turn and wind up driving their SUVs through a bad neighborhood? have you ever seen those fuckwads? They look like they're about to cry--and if a black person cared enough to confront them, I believe they would bawl like the big, overfed, undereducated babies they are. What a bunch of fucking useless cunts!
I have a partial solution to this young man's (?) problem. Let him (?) exercise what he (?) apparently believes is his (?) right as an American: to be an individual. This she-male is all in a huff because he (?) wants what he (?) wants, and ain't nobody gonna tell him (?) no diff'ernt, goddammit! A very nice university professor offered to teach him (?) and his (?) band of drunken, piss-drinking frat boy (?) MBA candidates about politics and history, and how one might make a reasonable argument for conservatism by utilizing those tools.
The monkeys wanted none of it. They jeered, and double-dealt, just like the Rovian assclowns they are, and took to their 1000 typewriters attempting to produce that most elusive of masterpieces: the conservative manifesto (little tip for the TV/TS Young Republicans: if Ayn Rand couldn't do it, you dumb shits don't have a prayer. HA!). Instead, all that came out was shit-stained gibberish. Naturally.
So now, they're back at square one, asking who, oh WHO?! will teach them; if by "teach" we understand that they mean "let us do and say whatever we want, and what we want is to be like Karl Rove, George Bush, Charles Krauthammer, and any other easy-answer nutless wonders we can latch onto!"
Here's the solution: fuck them. Fuck them till they're dead. They want to be rampant individualists (and they hate being cursed at, too--), so let's let them go at it. They think community and the state are a bad thing, well fine. Kick their bitch asses out of Rutgers, the STATE University of New Jersey. Make them pay back all the property owners whose TAXES paid for the schools the little jerkoffs went to. Make them all go out and live in the Heartland of America--you know, the boonies--without food, shelter, or clothes, since we all, every one of us, helped make those things possible. No city sewer, or electricity, or running water, or police protection, or roads, or cars, or any other fucking thing. They can all live in goddamn mud fucking huts, and cower in the corner wondering when (not if!) their neighbors will come over, kill them, and take their shit. THAT, my friends, is the Hobbesian nightmare, and these STUPID ASSHOLE NUMBNUT TWAT JOCKEYS WANT IT!!!!!
Cancer and syphilis can't possibly get them all; but oh God! if you're up there...

Words, words, words

metopomancy

fortunetelling by examining the face

Yesterday's Ass Whipping

North Carolina Tar Heels-91
Kenfucky Wildcats-78

Word of the Dizzay

Diacope: Pron: "die-ahk-uh-pee"

1. the separation of a word by the interpolation of another or others
EXAMPLE: "absogoddamlutely" (and I might add, "fanfuckingtastic" which I believe is the new slogan of the NBA. Which is defuckinglightfully crapsuckingtacular)

Or, for all you Simpsons fans out there, "Buenos dingdongdiddelydias, Flandiddelyanders."

2. a deep cut or wound (shouldn't that be "a goddick-lickingwhorebaghelldamn deep cut or wound"?)

From The Word Lover's Dictionary by Josefa Heifetz

Be Lame at the Lanes

Great (or pukey--depending on your sensibilities) Bowling Names

*Just to get it out of the way, there will be no craptacular obvious sex puns, like "I'll Finger Your Balls," "Third Hole," "Ball Tosser," "Skidmark," "Quick Release," "Oil Pattern," "Double Wood," "Queer Ass Fag," or any other kind of bullshit that any dumbass redneck could come up with. You'll see what I mean.

Here you go:

Bolare'
Bowlcaccio
Mr. Bowlvedere
BowldFinger
Sir Splits-a-lot
Splitfinger Gutterball (fastball)
El Bowlrado
Bowl and Chain
Sweaty Bowls
Mannheim SteamBowler
Bowlgarian
Bowlshevik
Pinderella
Pindar (6th century Greek poet--for the obscurantists out there)
Washout
A-pin-dectomy
Pinfall Wizard
JRR Bowlkien
Pinultimate
Bowlshit
Bowlwinkle
Pin Love Again
Splithead
Bowlkanization
Pickup Schmuck
EmBowldened
Bowlker T. and the MGs
Bowlf Bag
Let's Roll! (yeah, it's a 9/11 joke; fucking sue me)

More as I think of them. Feel free to suggest some. I am actually soliciting comments. Jesus, how the mighty have fallen.

Take a look at where all the assholes live

Maybe it's just me, but I think this chick is pretty hot. It's the big nose.

DONE!

I am done with my research paper, bitches!! I can now stare off into space, pick my nose, or do anything else I want to. I AM DONE.

37 pages
10,724 words
100% Utter crap


WoooOOOOHOOOOOooooo

Are You Lost or Just Stupid?

Some people aren't getting this concept. I write. You read, if you want. That is my concession to you. You do not comment. You are silent. If you like to write asinine things, get your OWN BLOG. DUMB SHITS.
That goes double for Republicans.
And triple for coffee-brewing artfags from Canada. Why don't you spend more time ootside and less on my blog? Or would you miss hearing aboot how much I hate Canada, eh?

Word of the Day

"kordax"

1. an ancient Dionysian phallic dance performed in the nude
2. any lively Renaissance court dance
also spelled "cordax"

That Yellow Bastard

Some dipshit has left a comment below.
You know the policy.
Posts from here on out will be utter shit. I hope you're happy, "Anonymous," because you have fucked this up for everyone else. If anyone wants to kick Anonymous' ass, you have my permission.

El Camino Community College Girls Say, "Um...OK"

The longest trip of my life was the excursion to New Jersey/New York that I took with a girlfriend in 1998, when I was a sophomore in college. She came to visit me from California (long distance relationship not real successful) and stayed two weeks in NC (LOOOOONG weeks). Suffice to say, not as interesting in person as she seemed when the setting was Manhattan Beach and I was a horny tourist. D'oh!
Anyway, she had a cousin in NY and wanted to go up there while she was on the East Coast; apparently she didn't know how to read a map, because she thought New York was just a few hours from Charlotte (it's 12 hours away, but who's counting?). We (I) loaded up our (my) truck and we (I) commenced to drive the 11 hours to New Brunswick, NJ, where we (we) stayed overnight with our (my) friends. She (her) didn't do one goddamn bit of the driving because she (dumbass) didn;t know how to drive stick (insert sex joke here) and was unwilling to learn, even though we (her sleeping, me up all night driving) were travelling on a major highway and it was fifth gear all the way. People, train your children to be decent human beings. Buy manual!
That was pretty much a relationship-breaker right there. Josh gets a little cranky when he has to stare at one turnpike after another for a whole day. BTW, there is no way to get through Baltimore without paying that fucking $2 toll, so don't go out of your way trying to avoid it. I did, and the wankers got me with a toll booth out in the middle of a county road. And I added another hour to the trip. Sack of dicks.
We took the train into NY, and she did that thing that women seem to like to do where they look at all the maps in the train station (the fucking train SAYS right on the side where it's going!) and then they want to ask directions from the pimp who is eyeballing their purse once they get into the city, and then they want to talk to people on the street really loud and say stuff like, "I wonder where the Empire State Building is?" (hint: look up) and "I wonder if we can see a Broadway show?"--which is like wearing a shirt that says "I'm gay and I won't fight back. Please mug me."
Her cousin turned out to own a very small but nice apartment in Manhattan (about a block from the park) and she was a lawyer, although she had a prominently-displayed diploma from the Harvard graduate school of language. She spoke French. She was also one of those people who somehow has a piano in a 600-square foot apartment. How did she get it in there? Ship in a bottle and all that.
We went to Central Park (boring and frozen--oh, did I mention it was motherfucking January? It was so cold that I saw a pigeon frozen to a bum's jacket. I have no f-ing clue how that happened. Ah, sweet mystery of life). We saw the Empire State Building (it took three hours to get up to the observation deck. We spent about 30 minutes on a floor that was really just a waiting room, but the windows were open--it was 20 degrees outside--and the thought crossed my mind, "I wonder if somebody got tired of waiting in line and just jumped out the goddamn window?"). We ate a hotdog that we bought at a cart. We got "famous NY cheesecake" (it's imported, you know; it goes out into the Bay on a scow and then comes right back. My piece had some weird, testicle-shaped indentations in it.). We did see that Broadway show, "On the Town" by Rogers and not-Hammerstein (Oscar had apparently kicked by the time that one was written. It was perfect for Gene Kelly. If only he weren't still dead, too). It was great. The only redeeming experience of the whole herpes-meets sciatica annoyance factor of a trip.
After three dicktastic days in the Windy Apple (the people were also incredibly big assholes, even though I was expecting it. Super. Huge. Assholes. Kind of like people from California, the other self-obsessed state), we headed back. We had bought our tickets from the machine in the train station in New Brunswick. They were $11 and I paid with a $20 bill. I got 9 Sacajawea (Sp? Who knows/cares?) dollars back, because that was when the guys over at the US Mint had first hit on that fat whore of an idea. All three days in NY I tried to buy stuff with my Sacs, but not one of those scuzzy fuckers would take them. And, once they refused payment, they didn't accept my "I guess it's free, then" argument. Doucheholes. And, 9 one-dollar coins will pull your pants down. I tried to buy a belt, but it cost $9, after which I wouldn't need it anymore. It was a real conundrum, because the guy wouldn't take the Sacajaweas either.
When we got back in the car (guess who was driving?), I knew I only had 11 hours of torture left and then the California Cross would be gone for good. It was like waiting for Christmas. I talked to myself, sang along with the radio, anything to avoid counting the mile markers.
The point of this story is that my girlfriend was a college girl. El Camino Community College, which she called Junoir College but I called secretary school. 6 of one...and etc. To alleviate some of the intense hate I was feeling towards her for not doing a lick of the driving, I began to tell her stories. All lies and none of them very convincing or even with much of a point. It was like that Norm MacDonald bit where people lie for no reason. "Did you ever see that movie with Meryl Streep and the horse?" "Yes." "And your brain says, 'Wait a minute--what the hell am I lying about over here?'" It was along those lines. She believed every one of them, too, though not without some skepticism.
The best one was that the most popular brand of diapers in the country was Pamplers. With the extra 'p' after the 'm'. She was puzzled and then she argued with me for a while about how it was really "Pampers," but I wore her down through persistence, earnestness, and some made-up legal clauses that specified the name change for copyright reasons. In the end, she admitted that she had never looked very hard at the label of a diaper package and that she would do so in the future. So, the joke is that she flew all the way back to LA and then went to a WalMart and looked at some diapers and found out that I was lying. By then, we were broken up anyway, so what the hell?
I stopped at a 7-11 in Richmond (they don't have them in Charlotte anymore) and bought the pissiest tasting slurpee of all time, but it was 3 am and I was riding high on sugar and nostalgia. That slurpee reminded me of when I was a very ugly kid and my mom used to take us to the laundromat every weekend to wash clothes. It was attached to a 7-11 and sometimes, if we had some change left over, we got slurpees.
I was so fucking excited about that slurpee that I damn near cried all the way to Raleigh.

Hi Mom

Just wanted to let you know, I got on eBay to bid on that thing, but the time was off by one hour (it was Pacific time), so the auction ended one hour before I got there. Sorry. I hope you found another one somewhere else. Although really, where are you going to get another pickled whale's penis this close to Christmas?

"What" is the Meaning of Life.

Every year that I have been in school, the question comes to mind right about the time that term papers are due: "What is the meaning of life?"
Now, I'm no philosopher, but why is the whole world stacked against progress? How come politicians make the rules but they themselves are too dumb to run their own campaigns? Why do our representatives look more like spokesmodels than thinkers? Why is human cloning illegal if it means we could have a whole Senate full of Robert Byrds?
Above all, why are historians so useless?
Why do they love tragedy when the useful past is comedy (thanks, Jim)? Why do they lionize farmers instead of intellectuals? Isn't the current anti-intellectualism in some ways a product of the shame academics feel, the result of which is that they won't discuss ideas? Is the shitkicker in the White House our legacy??
If I could only win the lottery, everything would be OK....
Reminds me of that Springsteen song, Meeting Across the River.

Castration: It's Better than Nothing

My brother-in-law, Greg (who has obviously not been paying attention to the "no readers" sign), informs me that Tom "Clutch Cargo" Ridge has waddled out of the Bushevik cabinet, color-coded chart in tow. When asked about the ridiculous system for advertising our national weakness level, Clutch apparently said in its defense, "Well, it's better than nothing."
To which Greg, a true American and possibly the best Rapid Response man in the South, says: "Yeah, that's like saying, 'When I'm really hungry, an eight-piece bucket of deep-fried shit is better than nothing.'"
Bravo, my brother. Bravo.



Other stuff that's better than nothing:
Golf club in thunderstorm
Coupon for one free chainsaw enema
Third testicle growing out of forehead