No More Twinkies, But At Least The Union Survived Intact...

I've said it before, and it bears repeating: Unions exist to ensure that complete, mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging, addle-brained doofuses can manage to get and keep overpaid, underworked jobs that their feeble abilities to simply breathe, eat, shit and occupy a particular and unique point in space and time would otherwise make them unqualified for.

Union Big: Hostess out of business, but this only proves the union's power and resolve.

Because, let's face it: it all would have been for nothing if people had kept their jobs in this time of great economic uncertainty and rising prices, only to see the union get busted in the process. That would have been a fucking tragedy.

I'm sure all of those people who are now without a job are so happy they could shit, because that's exactly what they were talked into going on strike for in the first place: to save the union.

They Know Not What They Have Done...

I would like to dedicate this screed to all of you complete and utter morons out there who did the unthinkable, and pulled the lever for one Barack Hussein Obama some ten days ago. I truly wish you all the worst kind of inhuman suffering these next four years, and that, like a Biblical curse, the sin you have committed is passed on from father to son, mother to daughter, and so on, indefinitely.

Yes, that is mean. Yes, it's even cruel to wish that bad things should happen to complete strangers, who, for all I know, happen to be fine and decent people who just made a choice I happen to disagree with. But then again, it's terribly apropos given the sense of smug satisfaction and the complete douchbaggery with which the average Obama voter in these parts has behaved. I'll get to some individual examples in just a minute, but first, I want to try to explain to you assholes just what it is you have accomplished, because most of you seem clueless about the effects your vote will have beyond "I'm gettin' _______ for free!", and "Suck on that,.Whitey!".

Staten Island is the New New Orleans, Part II...

Please bear with me, folks. Blogging has been extremely light, as I'm still doing a bit of work around the house post-hurricane, and I picked entirely the wrong week to commit to the fucking nicotine patch.

Two weeks of being cooped up with Tess (or as I like to refer to her now, Princess Pain-in-the-Ass) and her late husband's mother (who fled Brick, New Jersey before she lost power and heat in the storm, and has been here right up until yesterday), in addition to a lack of cigarette smoke, have made me irritable. The stupid-but-entirely-necessary upkeep of this old house, badly neglected by Tess and her late husband as they are/were both near-invalids, is eating up my time as I meet with general contractors, chimney and fireplace guys, concrete companies, roofers and electricians.

There's much to do in the way of stuff that falls under the category of routine maintenance that simply wasn't done, which has now become necessary after the storm, and is now piling up. If I have to talk to one more Italian with a tape measure or a pencil jammed behind his ear, I might have to go on a killing spree.