Thursday, February 19, 2015

Music To Drink Whiskey By (Slapping Your Wife On The Ass Optional But Recommended)

I am certain that everyone who reads my crap, who's musically plugged-in, especially one particular undead bastard, has heard of these cats.

I hadn't until yesterday. I am old. Please shoot me now.

I want to think, as a local example, Rockford Mules, or, historically/nationally, Rossington-Collins. Anyhow, this is much nifty dirty boogie. (And the first video, especially, is a damn stitch!)

The Sheepdogs

Tuesday, February 17, 2015

A Bit Of paleo History

Anyone reading this blog can tell I'm not exactly right. So Imma share a few stories of my past with the understanding that, as part of my biography, they make absolute sense.

I went to college at the University of Wisconsin - Eau Claire, known for damn near not a damn thing except for the Footbridge over the Chippewa River, which at the time was known to have the coldest recorded temperature in the contiguous United States. Fucking yay. I also peed off it after a particularly usual night at the bars and got yelled at by a cop who refused to shake my hand after he let me go and I wanted to start a religion in his honor.

I'm crossing the bridge one day, 1989 maybe?, on my way to my apartment in the college ghetto, when I met with some lady, walking a St. Bernard, crossing the bridge in the other direction.

"Hey, Cujo!" says paleo, and kneels down to collect smooches from a dog larger than he.

Says the lady, "I have to say,"
Says I, "Ja?"
Says she, "You are the first caucasian person who has ever called my dog 'Cujo'."
Says I, "Ah."
Expounds she, "Do you know who usually calls this dog 'Cujo'?"
Queries I, "No?"
Filibusters she, "People. Of color."
Stutters I, "Ah. Good. Um. Ok. I, have to go, um, anywhere, really."

I'd Be This Pissed If I Had No Drinking Water, Too

The next little vignette is again set in Eau Claire, in 1994. I was sharing an apartment with a co-worker (and part-time paleo-chauffeur - see the rest of this sentence), still in the college ghetto, (I was young, footloose, fancy free, and sans driver's license), in a bit of a hellhole (I was also pretty broke, see 'sans driver's license'). I, of course, believe in ghosts. And Bigfoots. UFOs. Giorgio Tsoukalos. My roommate/co-worker was several years younger, seriously crazy, a bit mentally slow perhaps, whether due to illness or the fact that he had a brutal upbringing I'm not certain, and while not religious, very superstitious.

I was cool with the day we came home after a typical 9+ hour workday and found our shower on, with the water still hot. Little weird, lot unlikely, but harmless and kinda neat. Randy didn't really puzzle it out the way I did (if we had left it on in the morning, how the hell was there hot water) and didn't particularly care. Not so one evening.

We were watching TV and the answering machine beeped. (Ask your parents, kids.) The phone had been silent. Huh. Randy got up and played the message. The tape rewound for quite a while. What came out at first seemed like white noise, but then we could make out the sounds of a TV. Shortly we heard our voices, the conversation we'd been having 10 minutes prior. The answering machine had turned on the memo function (again, kids, ask your never mind) and recorded us for the length of the tape. I got shivers and wondered about the possibility of creating a television show about hunting ghosts. Randy, being more superstitious and far more decisive, yanked the machine and any cords that remained attached off the table and sent it off the balcony out to the street.

Two Crashed Trains In A Couple Days. Are You Kidding Me?!?

Last story. This ain'tn't particularly freaky, but goes under the category of "What In Blazes".

In 1992, myself and two college buddies, Big Larry and Lil' Larry, went to Larry's parent's home in Hayward, WI, about February. We went to Cable on Saturday to go cross-country skiing on the Birkebeiner trail, and then winter camping in the Kissick Swamp Wildlife Area.

Please understand, by winter camping... Well, at this point in our camping careers we were prepared, having gone from the surplus maggot bag to proper 70 below winter bags, and, luckily, this time, brought a tent. (This was not always the case... Bright.) We brought assorted cuts of meat to roast over a campfire, enough meat to turn sweat to cholesterol and urine to orange-ish, ummm, urine. Gathered wood, then gathered some wood. We were concerned about temperatures that night so we gathered a little more wood. Took down a dead tree. And 19 live trees. Squirrels nests. Blair witch hangie thingies.

We settled down after a while, three in a tent, warm, well fed, (there was beer buried under the coals for the morning for a touch of fun). At some point in the middle the night, freezing rain sealed us in the tent (to be gleefully borked off in the AM). 

This was pre-cellphone era, and I've never toted a watch too much, so I can't swear by the time, but it was still the middle of the night, the freezing rain had stopped but it was still some time to dawn. Lil' Larry woke us. After the obligatory "What the fuck?" from Big Larry and "Is there coffee?" from paleo, Lil' Larry shushed us. As fog cleared, I heard, we heard, the sounds of a helicopter, doing what sounded to be a sweep of maybe a mile wide, and heading in our direction. The sound continued to move, back and forth and slowly coming closer, for maybe 10 minutes, then stopped. 

Inside the tent, we obviously saw nothing, but as it approached our curiosity grew. Middle of the night, we were not thinking other than, helicopter. And when the sound of blades abruptly stopped, we thought 'no helicopter' and went the hell back to bed.(z) It was with the light of dawn that we realized, hey, 'that sumbitch just stopped', and 'yeah, we're not in the middle of British Columbia, but we're pretty damn isolated. What in the hell was all that?!?'

Questions, comments, scathing rebuttals?

(z) Our usual rule for camping - first one up goes the fuck back to sleep, unless it's paleo, cuz he's just going to make coffee anyhow.

Saturday, February 14, 2015

This May Be The Only Way I Would Enthusiastically Vote For Hillary Clinton

This requires a brief setup.

In Raw Story this morning, it was reported that the au-ful-teurs who made the beloved-in-baptist-Mississippi Twilight-fucking-fanfic-mormon-BDSM epic Fifty Shades Of Grey will be making a film based on BEEENNGHHAAZZZI.

Friend of teh blog Big Bad Bald Bastard (srsly, read him now. He's a wonderful writer and annoyingly prolific) posted in comments
Relativity Media will be teaming up with 50 Shades of Grey
producer Dana Brunetti on what will be the second film in production
about the September 11, 2012 attack on the United States consulate in
Let me guess, just in time for the 2016 Presidential election! Both films will probably have a scene in which Hilary asks, "What does it matter?" completely out of context.
I was inspired to put on my screenwriter's helmet, a lovely shade of tinfoil, with beerholders, and create this little script.

Scene. The Oval Office. The bust of Lincoln is not present, although white dust and granules where it was give some clue to its disposition. In its place, an Ehrlenmeyer flask filled with fetuses. The door from the Chief of Staff's Office slams open and Bill Clinton runs into the room

: "Honey? Mrs. President?"

President Hillary Clinton's head rises from between the legs of an african-american muslim liberal jewish woman, named Fidel, with a Wellesley Masters of Soviet Film Studies

"Who is she now?"

Bill, almost giggling: "The North Koreans have teamed up with the CDC and nuked the SEC championship game. Over 65,000 southern baptists have been turned to pencil lead!"

HRC, sinks back down: "What nomnom does it slozzle matter?nomnomnomnom..."

and scene.

If they film that (and I get credit, bicthes), I will not only overjoyingly vote for Hillary, adding all the local cemeteries, but I'll start donating paychecks.

Jus' sayin'.

Tuesday, February 3, 2015

A Rather Hostile Post On Religion

I don't usually wade too deep into the religion wars, save those occasions where I can mock useless motherfuckers who desperately need to suck on a tailpipe. Joel Osteen. Pope Benny the Inquisitor (1). Zombie Falwell. Can't-Believe-The-Douchemule-Is-Still-Animate Robertson. I have made the point that while I believe in too many random weirdnesses to consider myself an atheist, any organized religion is an evil, devoid of morals, never more than a complicated grift. All of them. Destroyers of the human state, that of being inquisitive, creative, thinking, social creatures. At best they are authoritarian cocksuckers, at their worst, record-breaking killers. Stuff.

Today, however, for whatever syzygy has taken place, I am rather cross with the Roman Empire for going about things half-assed, and starving their kitty-cats.

Arkansas. State Motto, 'Why?'. (h/t Raw Story)
You genuinely heartless rodent molesters. Yeah, I know it's Arkansas and all, one state sharing 21 chromosomes and 19 teeth. 

"paleo, you're shocked? This behaviour belied even your already low expectations of the goddamn south?"

Truthfully, no. It is for those good, god-fearing parishioners, who gave the mother an envelope of clippings stating that her son was already burning, that I sometimes wish there was a hell. You pissants deserve each other, and to judge by the number of recessive genes creeping out here and there, y'all know it, too. I award you one diesel exhaust pipe and a couple million sets of breathing masks.

This Willfully Ignorant Kneebiter doesn't even try to hide the grift. (h/t Raw Story)
Ken Ham. The Encyclopedia of American Loons has a good breakdown, but I must disagree strongly with some of his diagnosis, where he calls Ham an '(unintentional) con artist.' Nor do I think Kenny is especially stupid. 

Oh, he's certainly not going to be the next Nobel Nominee in, say, anything, but this ongoing episode shows the whole damn thing as a grift, and rather successful. Ken Ham, I award you your very own martyr's spit, book of Kwik Trip matches (only the highest quality for such a task), and a lot of THHN wire that I need to take the insulation off of before I turn in the copper.

If you deluded hatemongers want to play politics, pay taxes. (h/t RightWingWatch)
Nuff said. I award the cretin a 1976 Ford Granada, cerulean but somewhat rusty, and an inoperable garage door.

While I don't expect any of these lizard bastards to take advantage of the generosity and the deep pondering that went into the administration of this contest and the trophies given. I can hope. Because I really, really, hate these societal vampires.

One more, brand new to me, and obviously there are details yet to be, ummm, detailed, but taking this at face value, my only question is 'Where is the nearest megachurch?'. (h/t Raw Story)

I really, really, re-a-a-a-l-l-y detest these peckerwoods.

(1) I'm not sure if I'm ashamed, or surprised, if I'm being buffaloed, or if I'm actually reading him right, but I'm inclined to like Francis. Yeah, he's made no progress on any minute advance in Vatican policies from the 40, 50, 80, whatever number of bloodthirsty criminals preceded him, they are still as medievally misanthropic as ever. But I give him credit for seemingly being genuine about living up to the vow of poverty, and big props for infuriating the USCCB and especially Burke's demotion. If he were to start defrocking diddlers en masse and turning over records of the 'penitents' to local DAs, I'd willingly shake his hand.