What did tornadoes sound like before we had freight trains?
What did storm damage look like before we had war zones?
Before they had trucks to fall off of, where did unbelievable bargains come from?
That's about it for now. Laters.
Oh, it's just a fantasy of mine. Can't you just imagine the Left's sputtering implosion over something so sweet as that!?
Of course, the State Run Media would, out of expediency, swear she was having an affair with Rush. . .
O.K., really? I'm posting those particular words just to catch the google hits. I'm sure some leftard is looking for that particular bait.
Meanwhile, I just went through my archives from last November. Looks like I was way ahead of the current mood toward the long-gone Republican Party. It may not be dead yet, but it sure is a dull excuse for a party. The only people showing up are the insecure ones afraid of being left out.
However, if Sarah Palin would host a national radio talk show, just think of the immediate influx of cash into her beleaguered legal funds, the immediate following, and the hopeful replacement for Hannity's mostly cringe-worthy three hours of self-indulgence. I may have to send her some cash once I get a full two-weeks' paycheck in my new job.
****
Yes, I still like my job working with that devil, alcohol! My lovely oxford uniform shirt with snazzy logo inspires other clerks around town while I'm out shopping: Oooh! You work there?! Yessiree. Cache. Prestige. Awe. Yeah, I be stylin', they be hatin'. I don't even miss the office atmosphere of my former iterations of career choices. And the physicality of the work is doing a number on my arms and back. Bring it, Michelle O. Your guns got nuthin' on mine.
Later, peeps. I got five full days ahead of me with brutal shift work, but I have a by-gawd job . Praise be.
From the Onion News Network. Found in the various treasures of American Digest, home of a thoroughly excellent blog and extraordinary writer.
Light 'em off en masse:
Borrowed from the Young Americans.
Have a happy Fourth!
Anthony Van Loo has a defib implant for a heart condition. It allowed him to instantly and miraculously "reboot" after he K.D'd (Keeled Dover) on the field last weekend. He was up and off to the E.R., later released with no additional damage to his condition. Check it out and watch him jump!
More info at haha.nu
Apt. Such is a word fitly spoken. Can we make this moniker stick?
I'm on the Bus, not under it! Leslie asked me to participate in Take Three, a little writing exercise wherein you are given three sentences and must use them in a short story of 1,000 words. It's worth noting that it is a true experience from just the other day, and I arrived home on said day to find my 1,000 word assignment. I couldn't believe the convergence!
The random three sentences are in boldface:
I hate nature… and WalMart. Maybe not necessarily in that order, but both seem predisposed to favor the better survival instincts that I have so far managed to avoid. Today I experienced both nemeses in rapid succession as I hurried through the checkout line while the sounds of very near and numerous lightning strikes were thundering through the building. They were so close you could almost feel the hair standing up on your skin and that's never good. But, it's north Florida and we all know that you just have to tough it out. Nobody really carries umbrellas since they are a tell-tale sign that You're Not From Around Here, Are Ya, Lighting Rod?
Survival is key in the jungles of WalMart. Like some prehistoric computer game, one must carefully avoid certain demographics of people and place if one is to achieve the highest skill level reward: actually finding what's needed, on sale, and getting through the checkout lane first in line -- before the rain hits, not buying anything you didn't plan to. Yeah, I'm hard-core for this today. I am maneuvering for the hat trick, racing with the approaching storm because I know I am going to have to drive right into it to get home.
WalMart seems to attract grandparents who are raising their grandkids, and on any given day you have Nana, harried and weary, busting chops and riding herd on children who have no physical or cultural resemblance to her. Ungrateful and confused whelps that are by turns neglected and indulged by their working parents when they get home. These are just the sorts of game-ending Death Stars of the Golden Check Out Lane that you don't want to find yourself standing behind in line.
But I was happily smug and inattentive, proud of my WalMart run so far. I'd avoided the siren call of so many shiny things made by happy, grateful children in some mud-caked backwoods country, I'd kept to my plan, I stayed away from the cheap snacks aisle, I was home free with only the worry of the raucous thunder disturbing my winning edge.
A checkout lane with only one granny and her kidlet, and they're almost done. I position myself, lay out the items on the conveyor for maximum efficiency, have my debit card unholstered and my pin number at the ready, like an itchy trigger finger. It's all perfect. And then Nana starts asking questions of kidlet: “Where did you get that? Is that yours? Stop bouncing that. Did you bring that from home?”
My debit card begins to pivot downward in my now slackening grip, like some sad flower of hope wilted before fully opened. My breath has abated down to the instinctual quiet of watchfulness, since there is a razor-thin opening of time wherein one must decide to flee to another lane with all of its unknowns or stick out the growing uncertainty of success in your present circumstances. What to do?
The cashier is staring off into the distance, not even attempting interference or offering help. Good for her. Kidlet is now getting in Nana's grill; he's all of 10 years old but channeling his inner gangsta and bewildering a typical white woman who only expects respect for her person and others' property. And then kidlet attempts to play above his skill level and an insouiciant, "Chill, Nana, it's none of your business," phrase actually escapes his stupid brain pan and tumbles out of his mouth.
And that’s when Nana went commando. She called up the generations of grandmothers before her, and like some towering Fate came thundering down upon the ears of that dullard child with invectives and inarticulate, animal-like predications of his future and his chances of attaining one. Her arthritic hands snatched up the offending toy like a pebble out of the master’s hand and slammed it down on the conveyor belt. “How much is that?” she demanded. The unhurried cashier looked it up and charged her accordingly. They retrieved their several bags from the carousel and headed out, Nana still nattering away and kidlet slouching behind her, loathe to even touch the cherished orb of his temptations: a super ball. Just as well. Nana pitched the hated thing into the nearest trash can on the way out.
I finally exhaled,. I’m back on track, thankful that the Death Star command wasn’t given: “I need a manager on Register 11!”
The electricity in the air was getting thicker. I was worried, looking at the black sky, little birds being whirled around. The lighting was coming three flashes a second, clouds were boiling and all of a sudden, horns were honking. I looked up to see the formation of a funnel cloud a few miles from the parking lot. I scurried to the car, popped the trunk, tossed in my hard-won prizes and shivered as lightning kept dancing crazily nearby. No time to count seconds between flashes, it was a unified assault. “Sweet Jesus, don’t let me die at WalMart,” I pray.
Into the car, south onto the Interstate where the winds and water create a white-out effect. Moments like this make me very, very nervous. The weather station reports two tornadoes, one almost on top of me, and a waterspout following the north-flowing St. Johns River on its way out to sea. Reports are that the front hasn‘t moved.. “One of us is going to move,” I think to myself and press on past idiots in moving cars with their flashers on. Illegal and stupid!! Other moving cars have no idea if you are stopped in the middle lane or just advertising your nervousness. I mock and curse them, damn Yankees.
Twenty minutes later and the traffic is moving sub-speed, tip-toeing past a pick-up truck that went into the woods, either by hydroplaning or winds, who can say? Prayers offered up by fellow-travelers are assailing the brassy ether above us as we move south, toward sunlight.
I beat nature. . . And WalMart!
Don't eff with 72 year-old farts or you'll get more of the same, ya yobs:
Stupid punk even had a pointy knife. I thought those had been outlawed in Britain. Dude, some wrinkly old Italian guy totally owns you!
Reminded me of this:
There is likely nothing so filthy as money. After 12 days of handling money and obsessive hand washing, I'll just say that my least favorite moment at my new job has to be when the hard-working girls who have just rolled out of their rack show up around 2:00 p.m. to buy the day's libations. I am handed a stack of one dollar bills that are. . . um, slightly, uh, damp. Just . . . eewww!
Worse than that? When a guy hands me a stack of clammy samolians . . .
The Crabby Old Fart set me off this morning talking about guns and how young people have no idea how to settle scores with their fists instead of bullets. He did an absolutely masterful job at saying much more truth, interspersed with his inimitable humor, than many politicians and speech writers of our day can muster. A brilliant must-read.
But the comments got me started on a rant there that I need to finish here:
Guns, like good cigars and expensive whiskey, are for grown-ups. They are perfectly safe within a populace of stable, God-fearing communities that respect life and understand that you don’t live forever. Folks who have lived long enough to know a few things. Folks who have not saturated and dulled their sensibilities with thousands of hours of bloody violence in movies, and who understand the sacred nature of life’s blood, and who are chary to spill it.
Now, with our so-called more modern countries standing on the cusp of implementing euthanasia for crabby old farts with the temerity to grow older and weaker, it might do some young people well to ask themselves why life is considered so cheap, why abortion is so widespread, or why we should care that some young girl was gunned down in Iran for “disrespectin’” the government.
The conscience isn't seared in a moment for most of us. No terrifying war experience or monstrous abuse to the senses has led us to our apathy. We have suffered a Chinese Water Torture-- a slow drip of insistence. And then a soothing sense of entitlement. And then more insistence by Others who simply must prove they are right.
No amount of twittering will save us. The Truth is too tedious, Ideals are too cumbersome, and the insistent and undercutting murmur of, "There is no transcendent Meaning to your monkey life," is giving wide permissions to the psyche, devaluing Life in the process. So it's okay to view people as impediments to your glorious sense of Self in your golden Today. It is how monsters are created and why some of us have no need to invent them.
I'll be yet more vile: abortion, as a broad policy, is wrong, and if that statement offends you, you've been subjected to more insistence than real thinking. Still, you know it and everyone else knows it, in their heart. But the constant barrage of straw arguments, paper-thin statistics, heart-rending exceptions, hypotheticals and the illusion of "progressive thought" and political expediencies has worn you down to milquetoast protestations at best. Abortion is a horrid, nasty, gory Business and woe to those who push down the urgent Something that nags the conscience, that warns the soul to consider meaning beyond the selfish mewling of Today.
Eugenics now comes to take a turn at your forehead, with dripping insistence that, since we can do something, we ought. Dear God, but people will nod in assent as such seemingly reasonable nonsense. Your own mom would smirk at such a childish notion from a ten year-old, but it's frightening to hear it come from a President.
Next up is the insistence that our own damn home would be better off without us. A suicidal and ridiculous agenda being pushed by the "Hugo First" members of the elite. Seriously, people, you simply must read C.S. Lewis' That Hideous Strength to be chilled thoroughly by that old idea coming around again. You think it's new? Lewis foresaw it 60 years ago, the elites and wannabes rushing to cut off their own heads to make room for the Macrobes.
The Left's hypocrisy is at a loss to assimilate the vision of Iranian youth begging us to export our values to their society. They're watching a government use force against its own people and considering how that will play out when 48 percent of their neighbors reject the oppressive New World Order their own Leader wants to impose. They are livid at the news of Honduran heroes who have had done with words and torturous insistence, and have decided to conserve something good. How unprogressive!
And what shall the Left do with NorKons, starving their own people and preparing to kill us just out of a sense of relief?
Dangerous powers are moving. Powerful weapons are in immature, unstable hands, and life is cheap.
You know, with all the Brave New World ideas aimed at your heart and mind, it's a wonder you are still alive.
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