A good friend of mine, a man I’ve never met, is dying.

I’m sitting in my living room, eating a blueberry scone and drinking coffee, enjoying  a pretty comfortable life.

A couple thousand miles from here,  a good man is facing the end of his life;  not in comfort, no matter what is being considered. 

Every one of us dies; this man isn’t exempt.

Cancer is an insidious and  disgustingly presumptuous disease, with no respect for human dignity, even in the face of it’s victories.

But it is a slight beyond measure for this good man to meet his death bathed in the sour sweat of humiliation, weakness, and ignominy brought on by the thick, fevered blanket of this disgusting disease.  Implanted tubes drain the horrid byproducts of the invasion, as other tubes pump in medicine that, it is hoped, will kill the cancer before it kills him.  It’s a sad and seemingly small hope, nearly cruel, to be held out to him.

A once large and strong man is made small and weak by errant cells, with nefarious aims;  plastic tubing slaps him in the face.

I’ve called him a “good man” twice  now, but is he? 

He’s as good as the rest of us; worse than some, better than many. 

He’s a good man, and though his life may not be a footnote in anyone’s  history text, it’s a life that many would do well to model.   

He loves his family, and worked hard…hard…to show them his love and to  take care of them, until he simply couldn’t any more.

Good men don’t have to be perfect, but at the end of this man’s life, he’s been good enough to have a wife who still adores him, kids that love him, and an extended family,   all being made some degree less by his disease.

That is a measure of a life well spent.

I’ve never met the man, nor will I ever, and for that, I feel cheated beyond measure. 

We’d have been good friends, loud with each other;  the hippy and the redneck locked in friendly battle, him mocking  the length of my hair, me wondering aloud how he can keep his cigarettes wound up in his tee shirt sleeve like that…

I know I would have liked that.

I think he would have.

You did well, Danny, my friend, you did well.

Banks, and their overdraft fees, saved my life by gleefully raping me.

Banks, like insurance companies, are evil institutions.  They rape, pillage, and plunder their customers, have for years, and will for years to come.  They may be necessary institutions, but not necessarily in the form they have now.

I’m not going to outline any new banking structure, here. But what I am doing is telling you what everyone already knows, at least regular people. 

Banks fuck their customers in all kinds of ways  to make money.   Own a house?  How about a credit card? Checking account?  Debit or ATM card?  If you do, then you know what I’m talking about. 

You get fucked every time you turn around, mostly without your knowledge.  You know what I’m talking about, right? Those cool little surprises you get from your bank, showing  your balance, whatever it is, going down. Unless it’s a credit card balance, and then it goes up.  But, whatever happens, you get fucked, your bank makes money.

If one responds, as the banking industry has done, that everything the banks do is legal, and, whether they read the information or not, customers were told how they would be charged, or how rates might change, I’d say that was bullshit.  Until they use type to explain all the fees, and how they are charged, that is the same size and boldness as the type they use to advertize their services to the public, they ain’t told nobody shit, no matter what the fuck they say.

I’d also add that they can try telling that shit to someone else, it won’t work with me, not that it matters.

ATM and debit cards, and the overdraft fees that are associated with using them to overdraw your account, have been in the news for months, now. 

You know the deal, you go to the store to buy some groceries, or something, the total is $25, but you only have $15 in your account.  (You may or may not know this, of course. There are many of us who have never, not once, balanced a checking account, and just sorta guess how much money we have left.) You pass over your debit card, the dude processes it, and, even though you are $10 short of cash to pay the bill, the bank, very nicely, pays it for you. 

And then they charge you a $35 fee for doing you that favor, assuming that’s what it is. 

So your loaf of bread, pound of grapes, tube of KY, (that new stuff that heats up,) and Pop Tarts, cost you $60 instead of $25, but you got the stuff, and you weren’t embarrassed by having a small charge be denied, and then feeling like the low rent piece of irresponsible shit that you really are. 

$35 seems a small price to pay for that piece of mind, if you ask me.

I have had quite a bit of very personal and up close experience with this sort of thing over the past two years, so I’m qualified to spout off for the rest of the irresponsible, low rent pieces of shit, because I am one.

From the time I became a cripple, up until fairly recently, I lived from one financial crisis to another.  I’m not going to drag you thru it, but my financial situation got to be horrendous, on the literal edge of losing what little I have, including a place to live.

Out of necessity, and with full knowledge of how I was being charged,  I overdrew my account innumerable times, at great cost, because I could see no way to either eat or pay some bill that absolutely needed to be paid.  (By the way, the only credit I carry is a car payment. Everything else is electricity, internet, garbage…that sort of thing.)

I have no idea how much money I blew like that, riding in the red at the bank, until one of my meager disability checks came in and was nearly swallowed up by the minus sign, only to begin again after the new check was eaten up. It was a lot.

Still, I’d have drown…completely and unutterably gone down…as in homeless…if it wasn’t for being able to overrun my account, and loans from friends who were willing to wait until I had a money flow established to be paid back.

I  loved the Bank of the West for ass fucking me deep and hard, because without me paying them to rape me, my daughter would have been hungry many times, and we would both probably be living at some fucking rescue mission or some damned thing, having to listen to how Jesus loves us before we got our baloney sammich and carton of milk…and, oh by the way, homeless or not, hungry or not, I am NOT drinking the watery secretions from some barnyard animal’s tit. FUCK YOU, Jesus, I’ll pass, if it’s all same to you.

The practice, as saving as it was for us, was, nevertheless, disgustingly evil. 

Up until very recently, the banks were allowed to charge the debit to your account in any order they chose to, regardless of the order in which the transactions actually took place.  They could, for example, charge a large debit first, thus depleting your account, then charge the five purchases you made prior to that large one…only now there is no money for them, so the bank goes ahead and pays them for you, charging $35 a pop. They create an extra $175 over what you should really owe them, $35.

They can’t do that anymore. 

Being one of the scum of society, and having to dance-bank like that is no picnic, and when they were allowed to charge in that manner, it was nearly unbearable.

Still, I made it thru to where I am economically, now…safe and normal…because those lousy cocksuckers at Bank of the West dry fucked me, and then wiped their dicks on my dress.

And I thank them for it.

How many of those Academy Award people got laid on Academy Award night, do you suppose?

Never mind the acting, let’s talk about what regular guys are concerned with, shall we?  (I’m all keeping it real and shit…)

Sure was a lotta pussy at them Academy Awards, wasn’t there?

Some year, now that I’m nearly living alone, I’m going to get all fucked up on something, get naked, grease up, and jack all the way thru the Academy Awards, from the red carpet crap, till the very last award, spewing a stupendous stream of spooge as The End rolls across the screen.

It’s not that those actress women are THAT hot, and even when they are, the show isn’t,  you know? But, I thought I should have one big jizzfest where I make up for all those high school boners I got watching with my parents.  Especially with my mom…I mean…you know, she wasn’t half bad…

All seriousness aside, those good looking women, in all that fancy jewelry and expensive dresses and shit, are just begging to get banged, am I right?

I always try and take women at their word, especially when they are wearing some kind of FUCK ME! clothing…and everyone at the Academy Awards was, or was trying to look fuckable, you can’t fool me. 

Except, most of the women would probably call me  a list of bad names, beginning with “pig.” 

Hey, I’m no different than most regular guys, except maybe I don’t give a fuck if people like what I have to say or not, and most guys are still trying to get laid, you know? So I can understand their reluctance to say anything.  But, because they don’t say anything, doesn’t mean they don’t think it.

I understand these things. I’ve been a guy for quite a few years, now.

There IS a problem with this, of course. 

Women dress how they dress.

Sometimes it’s to entice men;  just as often it has nothing to do with men at all.  And sometimes it’s to give us blue balls, knowing they look hot, but we still ain’t gettin’ none.

But, that’s not the problem.

The problem is that, no matter why a woman dresses as she does, or despite the message she’d like to send, or thinks she’s sending,  every guy that likes the way a chick is dressed, knows she wants to fuck.

Your woman gets dressed up to go to a party where there will be adult beverages, and perhaps a taste or two of illegal substances, she’s looking hot, you sure ought to be able to expect to get fucked or blown nasty some time during the night, no?

Got a date to a New Year’s Eve party?  Tell me she ain’t oozing promise to fuck you till you bleed later on, am I right?

Just going out to dinner, and she’s wearing those pants that go up the crack of her ass, just the way you like?  Hey, man, she’s obviously telling you it’s ass time when you guys get home, with maybe some face time in the car.

You see what I’m getting at with these examples, right?  There are a million of them, these are just three of the hundreds of personal examples I could give you, but still have too much pride for.

It was just a difference in language.  We were speaking different languages at those times, do you see?

She didn’t speak “thick dick,” and I didn’t speak “cunt.”

Now, imagine the Academy Awards. 

Though I don’t give a shit about them, they are a BIG deal all over the world, and anyone of the big shots showing up there is a powerful rich celebrity type, either accompanied by his woman, or her man…and all the guys are thinking that tonight, this night of all nights, he’s going to get full access to that amazing body.  If she gets an Academy Award, and she drinks a little, she’s gonna beg me to fuck her with it…shit…how hot is that going to be?

That’s what I’d be thinking. It’s what any regular guy would be thinking.

How many of those guys went home and had to jack off? 

Worse, how many of them were too goddamned pissed off too wax the dolphin, being rebuffed by that cock teasing cunt again?

I’m glad I have none of those expectations any more. They were too stressful and annoying. Sure, you get to fuck now and then, and sometimes it’s even really good…but…more often than not, it was just a wasted hardon.

Well…I mean…with her.  (There were several “hers,” by the way…all thru my life.)

In the words of that famous hippy poet and philosopher, U. Enore…

No problem. If you don’t want to fuck me, someone else will.  I’ve never had a problem getting laid.  How about we do it your way for a while, and see how that works out for you?

---

 

…When I get you home, I’ll give you a sausage to eat, a goddamned Italian sausage, you know what I mean, baby…?

This is hot, tit torture goes mainstream.

Unc takes time out from writing something serious, to objectify women.

I spoke about Sarkozy’s wife there the other day, and what a piece of ass I think she is. I allowed as how, yes, she was very thin, but after getting past that, she shore do be fuckable.

I offer this as Exhibit B.

Study Précis: Environmental aspects of aberrant reincarnation; an abstract on human malformations in the lower castes on the Indian subcontinent.

What the FUCK is wrong in India?

Ok, ok, yeah, there is a lot wrong in India, but I’m not talking about shitting in holes and all the flies and the turds flowing down the Ganges and starving to death.

I’m talking about shit like this…

…and this…

You know what I mean?  You barely  find these kinds of freaks anywhere in the world but India,  and even when you do find something, it’s a rarity.

Not so in India.  You can barely swing a dead Hindu without whacking a goddamned freak. 

I used to think this was a combination of high population, poor sanitation, poor environmental controls, if any, uncontrolled industrial emissions, poor diet…all those sort of things. 

As reasonable as that sounds, it ain’t so. I done studied on it, and I’mma educate you people right now.

It’s the fucking Hindus and their goddamned reincarnation that’s at fault here.

The idea with reincarnation  is that everyone lives a bunch of lives. The soul lives on, but one’s physical self is reborn with  different bodies and different personalities over an indeterminate span of time.  As one lives one’s  corporeal lives, over time, one learns that  experiencing and enjoying bodily pleasures is not where one should lie with one’s mind and heart, and one begins to seek the more lasting and meaningful satisfactions, and those lie in the spiritual world.

That’s just stupid, is what that is…or…so I used to think. 

I mean, that’s no kind of crap for anyone to dream up.  And, after someone did, how would anyone ever be convinced that you weren’t full of shit? 

Of course, the Hindus largely live in India,  the ones that aren’t running convenience stores and motels here, and most of those people, nice as they seem to be, are largely a bunch of dumbasses, with no education and mostly illiterate, making dust sammiches for dinner, while cows walk thru the bedroom shitting, unmolested. 

Those people will believe anything.

A bunch of silly shit, is all, no matter how many millions of Indian rice farmers believe it.

That’s what I used to think.  No more.

Turns out that at Staffordshire University, at Stoke-on-Trent, they’ve  been studying the deformed kids that keep getting birthed by these people, thinking initially, as I mentioned earlier, that there was probably some sort of environmental and or  medical condition or conditions responsible.

What they found out, instead,  was that reincarnation is a fact, put succinctly.  Their research is long and difficult to read, and I’ve not read it, but have read a précis of it…and, though it’s hard to believe, it seems credible.

So, what you have are all these souls racing around trying to find bodies that are decent. No soul worth his salt would want to be a fucking leper, or one of the guys that cleans out the shit holes in the railway toilets, or like those little kids in that Indian movie where the kid fell in the pit full of shit and piss.

So, they’re frantic, the souls are, in a spiritual sense, to get a good body, and every so often two of them collide…and you got yourself another Hindu freak.

That would explain it, of course, but you have to wonder how come some of the rich Hindus don’t have this happen to them, don’t you? It’s always in some disgusting and fly infested village in Elephant Breath, India where these things happen.

I don’t know, for sure,  but maybe when you work your way up to that kind of status in India…you know, anything above picking bugs out of oxen shit for lunch…you figure you have it made and everyone slows down.

I’m thinking this poor fucker should have run a little faster…

 

I don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with these Chinamen.

Alright, now, that’s enough. You godless motherfuckers are going to get us white people killed.

Another fucking earthquake in some godforsaken, third world shithole, this time, one in Turkey.

Look, I don’t give a shit how many of these places are wiped out.  Sure, there is human suffering. Well, that’s not my fault, and they were suffering before.  Usually while blaming Americans for something, so fuck ‘em.

Besides, what is really lost?

Holy shit, there’s no more Haiti!

Yeah…and?

The place was a sump hole, to begin with.   Let the Dominican Republic take the place over, and be done with it.  They could force the Haitians to change their language, and maybe use them for slaves and such.  They could bang the good looking ones, make the ugly ones do all the work they won’t do, and let the rest forage for themselves.

I don’t see why we’re spending a penny down there.

Chili?

Well, while Chili is way above Haiti on the food chain, their only real contribution to my world is making it possible for me to have delicious fruit all year around. Winters would be pretty bleak without them, I have to admit.

BUT, the grape area wasn’t hurt, so their earthquake makes no difference to me, at all.

And, now, Turkey?

Right, well, listen, that whole part of the world should take the fuckin’ gas pipe, as far as I’m concerned.  The world would be a whole lot better off without the lunatics of all varieties and stripes, but especially the fucking muslim ones, that ooze out of that part of the globe. 

If god saw fit to strike the Turks, hey, who am I to argue with GOD, you know?

Fuck ‘em. It’s god’s will. 

Tough shit, you guys…

But there is something bigger and more sinister at work here, you people. Either no one has noticed, or political correctness disallows the truth to be spoken, I don’t know which.  Fuck all that, I’m here to tell the truth, because DA TRUFF WILL SET YOU FREE!

Before we go on, what the hell does that mean, anyway?  The truth will set you free.  It’s not right, for one thing.  Slaves knew they were slaves in Virginia, but that didn’t go very far in lettin’ ‘em loose, did it?

Maybe it means something a little less literal.

It comes from the Bible, but I never understood what anything meant in that fucking book, least of all when one of the gods were talking, so that’s of no use to me.

I guess it could mean that one is always free to make the best choices with which one might be faced, if one knows the facts of a situation.  Would god say something like that?  Why not just say it?

Hersch seems to think, if I read him correctly, that “the truth” is Jesus, not some sort of religious edict or dogma, as is commonly supposed,  and if that’s true, maybe it makes some metaphoric sense.  But, as in everything concerning the Bible, there is a lot of differing translations to be dealt with, and how to interpret them.  Hirsch is in the minority, but presents  a strong and convincing argument.

Personally, I’m as truthful as I can be, most of the time, and I MUCH prefer to the know truth…facts…of any situation, over any fantasy.

Now, getting back to earthquakes that seem to be wiping out all the riff raff around the world…

God’s a prick.

If the history of natural disasters has shown us anything, it has  shown us that.  The people that can least handle this kind of god-sent shit, are the ones that get them the most.  Ok, well, tough shit, there’s nothing I can do about it.

Sorry, you people.

But you keep bouncing back, thanks to America and a handful of other civilized places that seem to think you should survive, and that puts all of US people, the important ones, in danger, thusly…

Have you ever seen some asshole with “anger management” problems? 

You know, like the big brave guy that married your sister or cousin, or that your best friend married?    The guy gets pissed about something, the something of no import, and starts belittling her, and starts to yell and then to kick the shit out of her.  If she just takes the beating, she’ll probably be ok…if she’s not killed to death.

But let her resist, or try to stand up to face him, and he’ll go nuts, throwing things, breaking shit, and then start beating on the crying kids, who are trying to come between the two of them.See what I mean, here?

The noble thing for the woman  do is just get her ass kicked.

She likes it, anyway, or she wouldn’t be there. But, that way, the kids…the innocents who are just trying to help…won’t get their asses kicked too.

I don’t mind speaking truth to political correctness. 

Hey, it’s time for you third world people to step up to the fucking plate, and do what’s right, for a change, to protect us normal people. 

Take what god gives you, graciously refuse anyone’s help, even people from Hollywood, and just fucking fade into history the way god, obviously, wants you to.

Because any time, now, god is going to have a fucking hissy fit, and normal people, just trying to help, are going to get their asses kicked, too.

C’mon, most of you fuckers can’t even read. 

Plus, look at your living conditions…shitting in holes, pissing in the street…eating weird shit…talking all funny…disease and pestilence and death and retrograde silly shit follow you people around.  

So, if god wants you dead, and he obviously does, just go with it, will you?  I just retired and I don’t want you people fucking this up.

You’ve already fucked yourselves by being poor and stupid.  You could have learned to read, moved, and gotten a job in Peoria, or someplace, you know.  But, oh, no, you had to stay there with crap up to your eyeballs.

Ok, that’s your choice, but don’t fuck up my gig. 

Buzz the fuck off, will you?

I’m going to need one of these when I move to Oregon.

Our friend, and advisor, TG, sent this along. I thought you guys might want to start saving up now, so when I move you can buy me one.

You know?

Yes, Mariah Carey is hotter’n shit. (Let the objectification of women begin!)

I really like “thick” women, and Mariah is that, if nothing else. She deserves to go on the “Fuck me” list, and she will, just as soon as I can remember to put her on it.

Mind you, everything I see and read about her let’s me know she’s an idiot and a dumbass…but, she’s rich and hot.

I don’t have to show you a bunch of her photos for you to appreciate the fuck material that she is, do I?  I could,  you know, there are plenty of photos of her around half naked and begging for it…from me.

I don’t have to go first, or anything. In fact, I  enjoy being at the end of the line, just as long as Mariah is marginally awake, and still capable of telling me how big I am, and that I’m the best of all.

The only problem I can foresee is that she doesn’t appear to be into her ass very much. 

Wait.

I said that wrong.

She may be in her ass every day, for all I know, but she doesn’t emphasize her butt in her photos, is what I mean.  It’s small, for one thing.  Not that it’s necessarily a bad thing, it’s not tiny, but black guys seem to like huge asses (I may be part black,) she’s married to a black guy and plays to black audiences…so maybe she’s  a bit ashamed of her smallish ass, though, as you can see, it’s nothing to be ashamed of, it just not stellar, and not a black butt.  This photo was also taken when she was a lot thinner, so maybe she thinks' her ass is now too big.

I don’t know, maybe I’m way off base with all of this, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t like anal.  Evil looking girls, like Mariah, always emphasize their asses when they’re into butt fucking.

No matter, I’d still nail it, right after I straddled her chest, put my dick between her tits, and made her face look like a glazed donut.

Unc talks about the Academy Awards.

What the fuck was Sandra Bullock’s problem? She looked like she had a stick up her ass.

Bitch didn’t smile once.

She’s gotta get better drugs than that.

I didn’t write nuthin’ yet. That’s one of the reasons there are no entries today. So far.

But there may be later.

I don’t know what the deal is, today, but I can’t get my brain wrapped around anything, or very little.

So…I think I’ll watch cartoons, eat some grapes, and fuck around on Facebook, and see who I can find to stalk.

OH, YEAH? FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE! …and thanks…sigh…

Today, I had my first Crippled in Public (…echo…echo…) moment.  I should have been prepared for this, but, honestly, it never crossed my mind.

You’ve seen cripples, or people who may not be gimps, but have some sort of medical problem, get all fucked up in public before;  the guy on crutches not being able to get on the bus, or the poor bastard whose shit bag leaks, or one of those autistic kids twists off in the pharmacy, and things like that. 

Inside, you smiled all big to yourself because That ain’t me, and who can blame you?  Me too.

Except today it was me.

Jeny wanted some Gatorade, and I wanted some grapes, so I tossed caution to the wind, took the three dogs, and ventured out the grocery store.

Since I don’t live in some third world shithole, there are plenty of grocery vendors around, and I chose one that was fairly close, and that I knew would have the craved grapes.

Leaving the hounds behind to look handicapped for me, since I was parked in a gimp space, my cane and I headed into the store, grabbed a cart, and commenced shopping.  I bought grapes first, and by the time I got to the grape section, I knew I was in trouble. 

My hip is always uncomfortable, running from “That doesn’t feel too bad,” to “Fuck me!”  Some days pretty good, all things considered, others, not so much, you know?  By the time I got to the grapes, I was already on “Fuck,” with “me” being right around the corner.

Grapes, Gatorade, crackers and cookies, and I’m outta there. 

The crippled spot I was parked in is, maybe, 30 feet from the front door.  I unloaded the cart and slowly gimped my way over to where they park ‘em, slid it in line,  began to turn around…and got stuck in mid-motion.  

My hip wouldn’t move.

It’s not that it hurts, which is does, and the pain inhibits my movement. I just can’t move it. Bone against bone spur, and I’m frozen in place.  This has happened before, but never when I was going in reverse. I mean, when I put the cart back, I made a turn to my left, more of a pivot, and when my fucking hip locked up, I was facing a pillar.  Up close.  Three inches away.  Normally, you’d never notice, because you’re just pivoting to walk away.

Mmhmm.

Imagine, if you will, that you work at a grocery store, and have just helped some old bitch out to her car with her goddamned groceries, and you notice an elderly hippy gentleman, his long, white,  hair nicely pulled back in  a very attractive hippyman ponytail, cane in one hand, car keys in the other, three inches away from a wide stone pillar, apparently talking to it, since I was mumbling profanities, not quite under my breath, and making no apparent attempt to move away…

Sir, are you alright?

What the fuck does it look like to you, Ace? Does it look like I’m doing aright to you?

No, sir, it doesn’t.  Do you need a doctor? What can I do to help?

You don’t happen to have an extra left hip under your apron, do you?

I beg your pardon?

…at which point my hip “unlocked” or, whatever it is that happened, unhappened, and, without saying anything else, I gimped off to the car.

It seems kind of funny now, but at the time, I was pissed off, not at the guy, bless his pointed little head for trying to help, but at my fucking hip.

I was also embarrassed and humiliated, feelings with which I’m fairly unfamiliar, and even less comfortable.

Sometimes it’s harder than others to admit to  yourself that you’re crippled.  Today was one of those times.