Your Children Are Still In A Public School, Because…? Part II

Atlanta public school teachers and officials deliberately cheat while scoring standardized tests, to inflate their record of achievement.

And why should they do this? For the money, of course!

So long as the Public School systems in this country are government-union monopolies, so long as they are run by union-backed mercenaries and paper-pushers for the benefit of politicians, so long as they are stuffed full with battalions of teachers drawn from the lowest stratum of academic performance, and so long as the System survives with little discipline, oversight, or responsibility, it will continue to remain little more than a sinkhole for taxpayer money that could otherwise be used someplace else to much greater effect and general benefit.


And we’ll continue to raise future generations of blathering idiots who can’t add or read, and who don’t know their history quite as well as they know proper condom use. Remember: this is the generation that will have to take care of you in your old age, and now we know that some of them are getting passing grades only because their teachers and principals conspire to give such to them without making the effort to ensure they earn these passing grades.


That might require actual work on behalf of the School System.


The next generation, from what I can see, is going to consist of largely stupid people, laboring under the pretense of knowledge having been showered with watered-down academic ‘qualifications’, probably living at a lower standard than we do even in these economically-depressed times, perpetually angry, perpetually led by the nose by their politicians, unable to exercise the same kind of level-headed judgment you’d expect to find in a German Shepherd.


A frightening prospect, certainly.


This phenomenon isn’t just confined to Atlanta, either. Its prevalence was evident in my neck of the woods this past July 4th . See this post.

The headlock which unionized lowest-common-denominator teachers, professional bureaucrats, politicians, and ‘advocacy groups’ have on the American Educational System must be broken. It speaks volumes that here in New York -- where the Public School system spends $18,000 a year per pupil, and only manages to create more nose-picking morons, while it expands into the ‘Charter School’ area of education (i.e. a more expensive idiot factory), while the local Catholic Schools which spend much less per student -- and get much better results -- are closing their doors for lack of funding (mostly because the Pope won’t sell a painting or two, and the Archbishop can’t be bothered to give up his limousine).



I can promise you that teachers and administrators huddling behind locked doors in the (rhetorical) dead of night in a conspiracy to inflate their test scores in order to justify higher salaries and funding, or lowering standards in order to accomplish the same, is something that would almost never happen in a Catholic School setting.


It happens all the time in the world of Public School Education.


Mostly because the people who run the public schools have few real marketable skills, and questionable academic achievements, and so they need to cheat in order to avoid having to work for a living in a Private Sector they’re poorly prepared for, secure in the knowledge that they have the backing of a union machine which exists solely to suck up money, manipulate and subvert the political process, and intimidate it’s enemies, real and perceived.


After all, every idiot in America deserves a $76,000-a-year-for-eight-months-job, complete with sweetheart pension and gold-plated health benefits that most Wall Street types would have to perform several acts of forced oral sex in order to obtain.


Every last one of us pays for this kind of bloated, corrupt, irresponsible system, and our children are being cheated of their opportunity for a better future the longer this state of affairs is allowed to continue.

Dear Staten Island Parents: Your Children are Animals…

And it was such a lovely evening, too.


It was the 4th of July, and there we were, my date and I, not to mention thousands of others, eagerly awaiting the promised fireworks show that has usually taken place off the South Beach Boardwalk these last few years.

The Boardwalk had quite the crowd upon it. There were little children running around, laughing and playing. A few souls wandered the beach. There was a live band at the South Fin Café -- and they were pretty good for a local cover band, too. The event had, as it always has, attracted a rather large crowd. I would estimate there were easily 6,000-to-8,000 people there.

And most of them were well-behaved.

But the teenagers…

The local species of teenager has always left something to be desired. This is, in many ways, not their fault; they live on an island in which real-estate is something the developers use to squeeze three houses onto a lot zoned for two – with a nod and a wink from local government, who sees this minor violation of the law as no big deal; it simply means more property taxes to collect -- and with which the City seems more interested in creating parks which we don’t not need, which will go mostly unused, and cost far more in maintenance than they’ll ever generate, out of whatever may be left after the McMansions go up. There are few recreational outlets for your typical teen in these parts mostly for those reasons; there’s no place to put such things, anymore.

This is not a new phenomenon, either: it was much the same in my day, when the majority of our teenaged recreation revolved around keggers in the deep woods and finding places to park so that you could make out with Mary Jane Sugarshorts. After that, your choices were extremely poor. There’s at least two or three fewer movie theatres around here than when I was a kid (30 years ago!), and there’s also four fewer bowling alleys (all demolished to make way for condos), and the City is building a $70 million dollar monstrosity of an indoor running track here (are you kidding me?) when it could be using the money to keep the public swimming pools open, or maybe selling the land to a private concern which could open an amusement park or something (there were also more amusement parks – 5 – here when I was a kid. There’s now exactly one, I think).

The dance halls are largely gone, replaced with upscale lounges (places where the local metrosexuals can stew in their own pretenses), as are most of the skating parks and rinks (you can ice skate all you want, but who wants to in July?). These kids have no outlets for all their pent-up energy.

Of course, it’s not just that excess youthful energy and lack of outlets that are to blame, either; there’s a generation of parents who have been extremely lax about the job, and perhaps the words ‘Baby Mama’ and ‘Sperm Donor’ are more applicable -- and closer to the truth -- than the appellation ‘parents’. Most would-be parents in this neck of the woods are blissfully ignorant of what terrible little beasts their children are when out of sight, and they seem very comfortable in the adage that what they don’t know won’t keep them awake at night.

All of these things came together Monday night…and ruined the 4th of July for everyone.

It begins with the fights. It almost always does.

Brawls erupt everywhere. Most are simply pushing matches or minor skirmishes, easily broken up by the Police, or by bystanders. A few are serious donnybrooks where one gets the impression that the reason for all this warfare is a simple surplus of testosterone and a shortage of intelligence. However, the majority of the combatants are not who you might assume they would be; they’re girls. I must have missed the memo when it became a requirement of young ladyhood that you must have a good right cross.

There were, by my count, at least four ‘big’ girl fights within my field of view. By ‘big’ I mean they involved four or more girls, often in a shifting, swirling, maelstrom of constantly-shifting sides and loyalties, in which the girl who has your back right this very second suddenly changes her mind just as soon as she gets hit, or as she decides to take a swipe at another -- usually otherwise uninvolved -- girl she has a beef with. It’s all unpredictable. It becomes impossible to tell what all this fighting is about, what with all the screaming and hair-pulling and whatnot, and it was all reminiscent of the United Nation’s Security Council, only with more fists and much more intestinal fortitude.

If I were a teenaged boy in this day-and-age, I might fear for my safety taking one of these chicks out.

Not for nothing, but girls today are apparently watching MMA and WWE. Even some of the (bigger) boys watching these fights looked as if they were close to wetting their own pants out of anxiety. These girls are scary. There is nothing lady-like in their language, their dress, or demeanor, and they practice a style of street fighting that would have impressed all the Old-Guard young toughs of the Old Neighborhood back in Brooklyn.

Then came the extremely dangerous, immature, and indiscriminate practice of throwing fireworks and other incendiary devices willy-nilly within crowded spaces. Let me repeat that: several youths (douchebags) found it necessary and proper to walk about a crowded Boardwalk, tossing lit fireworks indiscriminately, with small children in close proximately, not to mention that one extremely mean-looking pit bull.

And just what sort of asshole brings a pit bull to a gathering of thousands in which there’s sure to be complete chaos and explosions? The same sort of asshole who would throw lit fireworks into a crowd, naturally. It wasn’t enough to come to the event, you had to bring your weapon-on-a-leash and then expose him to loud noises and complete pandemonium, as well?

A goodly number of these teenagers appeared to be intoxicated, leading one to wonder just where they got the booze (probably in the same places I got it when I was their age). Marijuana smoke could be smelled just about everywhere.

These sorts of thing don’t exactly shock me; I’ve lived here long enough, and seen this phenomenon often enough, not to mention it’s all the same shit I did when I was a kid (except for throwing fireworks). Complain to a kid’s parents about their child’s obnoxious behavior around here and you get the “Not-My-Kid-Now-Get-the-Fuck-off-my-Stoop” routine. You could have solid, undeniable evidence of their child’s misdeeds and they simply don’t care. So far as they’re concerned, their child is an absolute angel and if they were involved in something untoward it just HAS TO BE a case where someone else’s kid either talked them into it, or did it and then got the other kids blamed for it.

I could present a video, complete with play-by-play commentary, of their children burning down an orphanage, and it would not register. If parents don’t want to know, then they don’t want to know, I figure.

I expected this kind of bad behavior from the usual sources; the fourth generation Mafia-wannabes, the offspring of the Shanty Irish six-pack-and-a-potato set, the descendants of the Municipal Workers who have jobs simply because they can breathe without mechanical assistance and read at a 3rd grade level, the illegal immigrants for whom simple concepts like sanitation and public restrooms are nearly impossible to fathom, let alone those who don’t feel any shame whatsoever in celebrating the Independence of a country they’ve invaded and are robbing blind.

However, I was not prepared for what was perhaps the worst behavior of the evening: large groups of black kids, often 50 or more to a group. They don’t speak to one another; they yell at each other and over each other. It is impossible to see how anyone communicates, because they’re all yelling at the same time. One group fights another at the drop of a hat (one large-scale brawl erupted when two groups from rival neighborhoods happened to pass one another). The language -- when you can manage to pick out a word here or there in all that Urban Patois -- is even more debased and foul than that used by the pugilistic White Girls.

And they actually try to go around intimidating the white people they come across, as if it’s some sort of game. That doesn’t work on me (after all, I can still kick ass even in my advanced age), but there were people who were frightened or intimidated into giving up their seats on the benches, or ‘encouraged’ to find themselves another spot on the Boardwalk because the Jersey Street set decided they wanted to set up camp right there.

The Police, I’m told privately, were so worried about the possibility of a riot at this thing, what with all these drunken, violent, retarded, armed-with-explosives-and-vicious-dogs, gang-banging, brawling mass of knuckledraggers about, that…

The fireworks event was cancelled outright…and no explanation of just why was given.

Probably because that might have sparked an even bigger riot.

The Authorities decided it would be better and easier to have the crowd disperse than it would be to keep good public order. But not before they made a huge show of force. Perhaps they were right. From what I saw that evening, this was probably a prudent decision.

This is yet one more aspect of life on Staten Island that is being ruined by a rotting culture. In the grand scheme of things I will survive the cancellation of a fireworks show; the upside was that I had more time with my date (we retreated to the South Fin Grill for drinks. Review: they might as well draw a pistol on you when they present you with your bill). The downside is this is just yet another indication of How Things Came To Be How They Are.

You can no longer have a nice, family-friendly, community-centered event on this island; the teenagers arrive in great numbers and in foul mood, and fuck it up for everyone.

If I had the money, I could make a fortune providing these assholes with some place to go and have a good time, and spare the rest of the community the aggravation. Maybe an arcade, or a dance hall (the new rage seems to be pool halls, which have had recently to restrict their clientele to keep the 16-and-unders out because of all the issues that arise), perhaps even a cabaret where the teenaged garage bands could play (we used to have these, too -- the cabarets -- but they’re all gone now, having been razed in order to build yet another dominated-by-a-tanning-salon strip mall), but I can see why no one who does have the cash actually might invest it in this fashion;

It’s because these kids are fucking animals. More trouble than they’re worth.

Who wants to have to deal with the fighting, the drinking, the vandalism, the added security, the higher insurance costs, the trouble with the cops, and last-but-certainly-not-least, the extremely petulant attitudes of Staten Islanders when it comes to certain ‘Not-in-my-backyard’ issues. Everyone agrees there’s nothing for the kids to do, and in the same breath everyone agrees the solution should be in someone else’s neighborhood. Everyone agrees the kids are out of control, but no one accepts responsibility for their own out-of-control kid, and in fact, defends him/her at every turn, even when they are undeniably wrong.

About the only GOOD thing one can take from the events of Monday night is that none of the trouble seemed to be racially motivated. This has been a problem on Staten Island since time immemorial (race riots were once common in Staten Island public schools), but I can’t seem to recall one instance in which a fight took place between people of different races. Whites fought with whites, and blacks with blacks, and never the two did meet.

Thank the nonexistent deity for small blessings, right?

Still, it’s a crying shame that an event which has become a perennial local favorite must be cancelled at the very last minute because people have forgotten what it is to have even a minimum standard of decent behavior in public.

It Has Something to Do With Balls...

...and how you use them, apparently.

Gay Softball League Argues Over The Definition of 'Gay'.

To paraphrase Orwell "Some Gays are More Equal Than Others", it seems.

President Frequent Flyer Miles Strikes Again...

Can you imagine just what sort of Third-World shithole we'd be living in by now if this guy were actually trying to do the job to the best of his ability?

The best thing about Barack Obama is all the time he spends NOT being President of the United States, in fact often avoiding the job as if it came with a case of full-blown AIDS. Which means the important aspects of the job of President are probably being left to a motley assortment of others: Joe Biden, Lord-knows-how-many-ideologically-driven-Czars, White House aides and advisers, Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid.

If you can find a bigger collection of retards anywhere on Planet Earth, I'll send you $5.

I hate to engage in racist stereotypes, but it needs to be said, I think:

Barack Obama likes picking up the paycheck, he likes the perks that come with the office,. he believes he's entitled to do whatever he can get away with -- but he's one of the laziest people I've ever seen in my life, and his inattention to detail is so pronounced that you begin to suspect that all of his qualifications are fake, begin to remember that the lofty speeches are written by someone else, and that he's probably passed through Life on Affirmative Action. One gets the impression that Barack Obama spends his days in the Oval Office playing X-box and pick-up basketball, and when it's necessary to trot him out in public, he's been told what to say, and since he has the attention span of a flea, he invariably fucks even that up.

"Unengaged" does not even begin to describe Barack Obama.

So far, if he's accomplished anything in nearly 3 years, it has been to reinforce pre-existing and negative racial stereotypes about the work ethic -- or lack thereof -- of black men.

Another vacation? More golf? Really? You know,Mr. President, it is usually customary for someone to actually DO SOMETHING before becoming mentally and physically tired enough to require a vacation. But, I'm a generous guy; I've seen what happens when you're apparently trying your best, and I'm willing to make you a deal:

You can have all the vacation time you want, right up until the election. Play golf every hour of every day. Send Michelle to Portugal, Sri Lanka, Timbuktu, for all I care, with as many servants as she arrogantly thinks she needs and is entitled to (she's forgotten that She's First Lady of the United States, not the Queen of the Universe). Give Air Force One the workout you absolutely know she's just craving. Hell, I'll even pay for your hotel room...oops, I already do...but that's beside the point.

Take all the time off you want, Mr. President, because the less you do, the better life gets for everyone else;

The more you're away, the less Washington screws with us.

The more you're away, the less time I have to spend watching you on my television screen while simultaneously trying to hold back a projectile vomit.

The more you're away, the more Presidential even the weakest Republican 2012 candidate looks. You make them all appear infinitely qualified by comparison, and your only hope for re-election is to stay off the idiot box so that people can't make that comparison and become complacent on Election Day, unable to make the choice between Giant Douche or Turd Sandwich.

The more you're away, the less sanctimonious and hypocritical blather I'll have to listen to.

Go on, Mr. Odingbat, take that extra week off...we've earned it.

Welcome, Insane Asylum Readers...

Thanks for stopping by, and on behalf of and all the Asylum Elves (Lefty, Swifty, Stig and Bruno) here at Lunatic Central, we hope you enjoy the flow of insanity, and shocking display of deep mental defect.

We love the stat bumps here at Lunatic Central! Big props to Mr. C and Nena Grace at the Insane Asylum!

Halperin: Dick Leaves a Bad Taste in His Mouth...

So, Time Magazine's (that's still in business?) Mark Halperin called President Obama a 'dick' on Morning Joe?


What's so completely shocking about this is not that (P)MSNBC allowed such a visceral criticism of It's Messiah to hit the airwaves, but that Mika Bra-bra-bra-shin-ski should go through the giggling schoolgirl routine when she heard the word. You're not fooling anyone, Mika: we know that you're intimately familiar with that word.


How do you think she got that job in the first place?

I don’t know what all the brouhaha is about: Halperin’s criticism -- even his use of a slang term for a penis -- was extraordinarily mild when you stop to consider just what a disaster Barack Obama is/was/has become.

The Reality of Obama is not what The Promise of Obama, well... promised. It never could be. But that was painfully obvious – to everyone, except maybe Libtards – way back in 2008. Had the Press, which was busily cheering Obama on, and in fact made Obama into a Messianic figure, had instead been doing it’s primary job – discovering who the man was, and what he was all about, instead of being mystified by soaring speeches and an unusual racial bio – they would not be quite as disappointed today as they so obviously are.

Then again, part of being a Libtard is always about being disappointed. That’s bound to happen when you dream of impossible things, and live in a fantasy world where other people’s money buys everything, and Human Nature is something that can be routinely ignored. Liberals engage in what a psychiatrist might call ‘A Self-Defeating-Self-Fulfilling Prophecy’ loop in all things. If they were all put on the couch, every last one of them would emerge as a prime candidate for heavy doses of Prozac.

This is in large part because Modern Liberalism is primarily about emotions, and not about facts, logic or  the realistic evaluation of possibilities. People who react emotionally to everything, people who make great leaps of faith and jump to conclusions without thinking, usually find themselves sorely disappointed.


And in denial about the part they’ve played in their own failure.


The Left in this country is bitter, negative, unhelpful, combative, spiteful, delusional, misguided, deluded, retarded, and permanently adolescent. And it doesn’t matter who is power; they would have been just as disappointed, no matterwho had won the election of 2008, and we’d probably even be hearing many of the same complaints from the Left about a Hillary Clinton presidency, because she at least has the minimum of braincells required to make compromises, and the ambition to do whatever it takes to be seen as successful, and that often means giving a big middle finger to the Left for selfish, personal ends. Especially when those ends might clash with boilerplate Libtardism.


The difference in this case is that the Press had an emotional stake in the election and success of Barack Obama, and it never occurred to them that he just might not be up to the job. The greatest indication that Barry isn’t up to the task is all the time he spends not doing it; the multiple vacations, the golf outings, the jetting off to fundraisers, the set-piece kabuki plays of political speeches in front of rabid supporters (some of whom, it’s been rumored, have been paid to cheer, and even faint, on cue). He's never at the scene of an oil spill, flood, or tornado, and he seems to leave the job of actually governing to Joe Biden and Congress.


If Mark Halperin is disappointed in B.O. because Gitmo is still open, because there’s no Single-Payer system in place, because instead of two unpopular wars we now have three (and possibly four), because Republicans and Tea Party people haven’t been frog-marched to the Concentration Camps, because homosexuals still don’t have the right to have buck-naked swordfights in the public square, or because there hasn’t been a federal investigation of Sarah Palin’s womb yet, then he has only himself to blame.


He promoted and then probably voted for this dick.


And George W. Bush’s name had become by November of 2008, ‘Mud’.


The Press did that, too, and Halperin was in the vanguard then.


By comparison, George W. Bush now looks like a reasonable man, a veritable Bismark/Disraeli/Churchill/Reagan all rolled up into one, even if the truth of his Presidency was far from it. The Press, led by people like Halperin, who did such a bad job of covering the Bush Administration (likely because they were far too busy making fun of Bush’s cowboy accent and portraying him as a drooling idiot) was entirely AWOL on the subject of covering Barack Obama the Candidate, and has done nothing but cover for him since. And now they’re tired of it.


I do have to say one thing in Halperin’s defense: you would never have heard the word ‘Dick’ applied to Obama’s predecessors by a member of the media in the past, and while the Lefty press certainly was thinking ‘Dick’ about Reagan, Bush I and II, they at least never crossed that line of disrespect. It’s telling that the man they built up and supported, the man they’ve been lying about for the last five years, the man that The Press has such a vested interest in, is now openly mocked and disrespected in such visceral terms.


Perhaps for the first time in his career, Halperin is telling the truth.


You could only imagine what other adjectives, and body parts, Halperin would have mentioned had Barack Obama been a Republican.

Cat: The Other White Meat...

I hate cats. With a passion.

If it were up to me, your typical tabby housecat would be on the Endangered Species List and we'd be able to undertake an effort at Mass Extinction that would guarantee that the only place you'd ever be able to know there was ever any such animal would be a visit to the Museum of Natural History, where little plaster replicas of feline skeletons would be on display, like those of the dinosaurs and three-toed-giant ground sloths.

If there's anything more useless than a housecat, I can't figure out just what that might be. Yeah, yeah, I know, they keep the vermin out of the house, and they provide love (cats don't love; they simply attach themselves  to whoever feeds them regularly) and companionship, and give complete retards an opportunity to waste money and emotional energy on cute little cat outfits, kitty litter, saccharine, vomit-inducing calendars and YouTube videos, and Cat Fancy magazine, but is it all really worth it?

I mean, a dog -- at least a great big one -- serves a useful purpose and can at least scare off potential burglars, rapists, and serial killers who invade your property, if not chew such degenerates to shreds. I'm definitely a Dog Person, and not those little yapping rats on leashes wearing little cardigans, either. A chihuahua is almost as useless as a cat, if you ask me. Give me a great, frightening German Shepherd, the wolf-like Malamute,  or a saddle-ready Great Dane any day of the week,.

What has prompted this little diatribe against certain members of the Genus Felix has been the behavior and activities of the neighborhood cats.

For some reason I have yet to discern, the little Kitty Gangstas in this neighborhood have taken to my front lawn, treating it as if it were their own private Disneyland. My evenings are replete with the sounds of cat fights, cat orgies, and the chorus of singing and meowing housepets set loose for the night. These activities invariably seem to take place right below my bedroom window.

I would hazard to guess that the abundant shrubbery and flower beds tend to give horny cats those safe-and-secluded retreats they require for their noisy fuck sessions, much like humans use those seedy, out-of-the-way No-Tell-Motels out by the airport, where they charge short-stay rates and extra for clean sheets, and every Civil War-era bathroom you wouldn't use without the full panoply of inoculations against tropical diseases has it's own second-rate, your-guess-is-as-good-as-mine condom dispenser, just in case you forgot.

Nary an evening goes by, and it's gotten worse since summer is here; when I'm not chasing kitties out of the flowerbeds, or I'm not awakened by the sound of cats doing it doggie-style, sometimes in groups. Cleaning cat crap off the front lawn is a disturbing chore, and this is only occasionally made more interesting by the surprise discovery of the dead squirrels, birds, small rodents, and large insects scattered about the property, stalked and murdered by the thoughtless little cretins, and left to rot, fester and smell in the heat.

They don't even TRY to eat them, or drag them home to their owners. Hell, one of them actually dragged a squirrel that had been hit by a car out of the street on onto my front lawn, probably as a love offering to one of his fuckmates.

But last night was the Absolute Last Straw.

I had just stepped out onto the front stoop for a smoke, when my nostrils were assaulted by the most offensive odor imaginable. It was worse than the rancid aroma of New Jersey at low tide. It was a scent that would make a Pakistani Incontinent Leper ward smell like a perfume factory. It's a smell that affronts: it is not only an attack upon the old olfactory sense, but it'll actually make your eyes water and your stomach churn. I know this effluvium all too well.having once had a girlfriend with an abundance of male cats in her full-of-fur-urine-turds-and-stink home.

One of the neighborhood tabbies has been spraying (marking his territory) near my front door, the little bastard, and I had just caught him in the act.

I wish I had had a deadly weapon at that very moment, and screw the idea that this may be some child's pet. This animal needed killin', as they say in the South.

Even more aggravating is the fact that the stupid animal had the audacity to stare at me as if I had invaded it's territory. This must be the little brute who's been dragging and stashing dead squirrel carcasses (I've lifted three out of my flowerbeds in the last fortnight, and the first indication they're present is always the stench) all over the property. This must be the Feline Lothario who's been keeping me awake with his raucous lovemaking in the wee hours. This must be the four-legged lunatic who's dug holes all over the front lawn seeking beetles. This is the reason six or so other cats congregate outside my window on a near-nightly basis.

If I ever get the opportunity to kill this little fucktard, he's a goner.

Which brings me to the sheer inconsiderate behavior of my neighbors. I've left signs all over the neighborhood asking people to keep tabs on their tabbies, to no avail. I don't see the need to keep a pet which, frankly, believes it owns you, and which -- probably because it's an annoying little douchebag -- requires you to let it out every night so that you can get some sleep, and fuck everyone else's sleep requirements.

That's not a pet; it's another petulant child that you're raising.

Another notice will go out; I don't want your cats fucking, shitting, meowing, congregating, pissing, spraying, or even breathing beneath  my bedroom window anymore. I'm keeping my Wrist Rocket, baseball bat, and a Super Soaker full of salt water infused with a generous touch of ammonia and chlorine bleach handy in order to defend the old Homestead against this invasion of pesky and destructive little four-footed buggers.

I have half a mind to sell the pelts, and give the meat to the local Chinese and turn the entire enterprise into a lucrative work-from-home opportunity, and if you come to complain with your crying kids in tow, I'll tell you to fuck off. This situation has gotten seriously irritating, and asking Cat Owners to exercise a little restraint with their pets is apparently like asking a democrat to work for a living; it's something they consider outside the realm of normal probabilities.

I've heard the expression "It's like herding cats..." before, and I think whoever coined that phrase was never acquainted with the cats in my neighborhood, who seem to be extremely social to the point of having formed some little kitty street gang dedicated to destroying my landscaping (which costs a pretty penny every month, thank you. Despite what some may say, Mexicans certainly DO NOT work cheap when they can manage it). There's an entire herd of them in my yard every night.

Which should make it extremely easy to help the little bastards shuffle off this mortal coil in numbers that make the effort worthwhile.

Then I might be able to get some sleep and not have my front porch smell like cat's ass.

A Lunatic in Love?

I haven’t been blogging recently because I’ve been rather busy. You see, here I was doing some research for a post last week when I came across something I most certainly did not ever expect to see.


An obituary.

And not just any obituary; this one belonged to the father of a young lady I once dated at the tender age of 19, or at least it was someone with the same name. So, I checked it out, and sure enough, he was survived by a daughter who had the same first name as this old girlfriend. It gets worse, because her name was cross-referenced several times.

In three other obituaries.

The girl had lost her father, a sister, a brother, and her husband, all in the space of two years.

Something was awakened in this Lunatic, an emotion that he vaguely remembers from the very distant past. I think they called it ‘sympathy’ once. It’s not something that comes to me naturally in my Old Age. There’s been too much damage done, too many miles have been put on this ancient mental engine. But I did put my absolutely freakin’ awesome internet skills to work and tracked down this poor unfortunate woman, who coincidentally, lives less than 5 miles from my own front doorstep (and has for some time. Itmight have been dangerous had either known this previously). He made that call to say “I’m truly sorry…if there’s anything I can do…” and…

…The Lunatic and The Lady met three days later. It was the first time they had seen each other in nearly 14 years, and they were almost instantly transported back to a time when they were 19, couldn’t keep their hands off one another, and could get completely day-you-were-born naked before you could say “John Smith”.

That was the problem the first time around, you see.

Youth, they say, is wasted on the young. You could say that was never truer than in the case of The Lunatic and The Lady. We were so young -- and stupid. The courtship was whirlwind, it was passionate, and it was all-too-short. It burned too bright and far too hot, way too soon. This young buck was an immature doofus, completely ruled by his emotions; possessive, demanding, obsessive, jealous. In some ways, she wasn’t a Girl; she was a fortress to be stormed, relentlessly, until the walls all came tumbling down. I frightened her with sheer intensity; She became my drug of choice, and I did actually think I might die if I didn’t at least hear her voice every few hours.

I was convinced that this was THE ONE, but in retrospect, that decision was made by a horny, needy, clingy, 19-year-old who knew nothing about the realities of Life, and even less about True Love.

When she did the sensible thing and suggested that we see other people (we were about 20 at the time), this Lunatic was devastated. He became vindictive and took her up on her offer with a little trollop who made no bones about what she intended to do, which was to stake her claim upon me. Not to brag, but as a young dude, I was damned cute, I had a job that literally showered me with cash, and I could do The Nasty for hours on end.

I was a catch, as they say. But my heart lay elsewhere. No amount of consequence-free sex was enough to overcome that feeling that I should be with a special someone else.

I then did perhaps the dumbest thing any young man driven crazy by love and all-consuming passion could do; I told The Lady – who was on the verge of changing her mind about the status of our relationship at the time, unbeknownst to me – the truth about my indiscretions, and worse, who they were with (The Trollop had a reputation, built upon the scrawls found only on the finest Men’s Room walls in all of Brooklyn, and by salacious word of mouth. We (my group of male friends at the time) used to say of the Trollop that her greatest ambition in life was to screw her way through the White Pages).

But what can I say? Men are dogs, even in the best of circumstances, and drunk 19/20-year-olds with an erection and a broken heart are perhaps the biggest hounds of all.

In some strange way, I think, it (telling the Lady of my dalliances) was even an expression -- a mentally-deranged one, though it may be -- of love and loyalty. Or at least I may have thought it was at the time. Really, it was more a case of guilty conscience; I was a rotten (in the sense of not being a good one) liar at the time, a skill I unfortunately would acquire as the years went on and mental disorder crept in, and could never hide anything. Besides, we were bound to bump into the Trollop at a later date (we did, and it wasn’t a pretty scene, long story short).

The Lady and The Lunatic continued to see each other on and off for a while, lingering in some sort of relationship Limbo, until IT happened.

IT was an unplanned pregnancy. It almost always is.

We were 20, we were pregnant, and despite The Lunatic’s (totally genuine) proposal of marriage, The Lady was having none of it. She was too young to be a wife and mother, and who the hell knew what sort of husband/father I would have been? In retrospect, I most likely would have been absolutely lousy in both roles. I would have tried my hardest, but these are two areas in life where “A For Effort” just doesn’t cut it. You either succeed or you fail spectacularly.

And here I was, a heartbroken, emotionally-insecure-and-immature drunkard (I had already begun drinking heavily by this time, although I was managing to be the absolute best functioning alcoholic you ever did see) when the decision was made for me; The Lady would have an abortion.

She would have done it without me, but I couldn’t let her face that by herself. I didn’t want to do it, either, but what choice was there? I took her to the clinic. I waited for her. I tried my best in the days after to comfort her, but I was hurting something fierce, too.

We formed what psychiatrists call a trauma bond after that. We could never truly abandon one another, but we also couldn’t be together in quite the way we used to. This sad state of affairs went on for nearly 10 years. We would see one another occasionally, we would even…you know…but things were never quite the same after that. I wanted her, and I hated her. I loved her, but couldn’t forgive her. I could not let it go. She did. She couldn’t have survived otherwise, I think.

Me, on the other hand, I need my wounds to remain raw, to wallow in guilt, shame, and pain, if only because without that agony I will simply forget what not to do and become that which I hate the most; Your Average Male.

We finally said goodbye about a week before she was married. And then there was nothing for 14 years until I had accidentally found an obituary searching for information on someone else. Serendipity. Or was it?

I haven't told you about The Dream…

Three days before I had found that obituary, I’d had a dream. It was one of those dreams that occurs just moments before you awaken, and you don’t know where the original premise came from, or how it started, or even how it ends. You seem to have been just dropped into the dream at some random moment with no idea of what came before, what it’s about, or what you’re doing there, and somehow, you manage to just get swept up in the action before you get pulled out abruptly at yet another random moment. And then you’re awake.

In this dream, I found myself having to explain to my nephews just who The Lady was, why they never knew her, and where she might be now, and finding myself with no answers for their questions.

I don’t believe I had even thought about her for at least a decade before then.

I don’t really hold with that whole “dreams as a predictor of the future” nonsense, but this is the second time in my life -- that I’m aware of -- that I have dreamed something and then had Real Life throw me something directly related to the Dream. Both times it was about a woman from my past, and both times I got the impression that they needed me, or wanted something from me, at the time. Why can’t I dream winning Lotto numbers, instead?

We’re 44 now. There’s been a lot of growing up done in the interim. I’m determined to be a better person nowadays (yeah right!), one who isn’t ruled by his feelings (or his privates), who looks very carefully before he leaps, but that plan was blown to smithereens almost in an instant. In a sense, we’ve become 19 again, you see, transported back in time and space and what felt right and natural then feels very much the same now, and it all seems to have happened seamlessly and quite accidentally. We fell into our old bad habits almost immediately, but this time around, it’s somehow better.

Maybe now we actually know what we’re doing? Or rather, perhaps there have been some boundaries established even if we haven’t actually talked about them, as such.

I don’t know where this all eventually goes (two dates with your Ex from the Iron Age does not The Rest of Your Life make!), but I don’t seem to have the usual supply of venom to put on the page these days. I haven’t felt much like blogging, or railing against the stupidity of my fellow bags of protoplasm, and truthfully, I haven’t felt like doing much of anything else this past week, either. I seem to be a bit preoccupied, so excuse me if you come here expecting your daily dose of caustic word vomit, only to leave miserably disappointed.

I’m trying my best whilst laboring under some very unusual circumstances, so please bear with me.

I’m positive that in the coming days, someone will do something so completely stupid that it simply cannot be allowed to pass without comment and all will be right with the world again.

Cure for the Jihad? More Sex...

A Good Wife is a Sex Worker To Her Husband.

So sayeth some Muslim Women's group or other. There's two ways to intepret this story:

a. Women are the cause of all the evils of this world. Best they should just shut up and become somebody's willing slambag.

b. If these women actually succeed, you might just see the Jihad disappear overnight.

Because one of the primary, motivating factors in the Global Jihad (apart from Muzzies being uncivilized little ignoramuses) is sex. The Islamonazi just can't get enough, and he lives in a sewer of a culture which denies him outlets outside of marriage...unless we're talking livestock.

Or the other boys in the cave.

What the woman in this article seems to be describing is what we in the West would refer to as the Madonna/Whore Complex. The crux of this complex is that a woman must fulfill two, often contradictory, roles, simultaneously: she is to be the very model of the 'Good' Wife and Mother. Obedient, pious, meticulous in her care of children and household, publicly respectable, in all ways an extension of her husband, who should never be embarassed in public.

But behind closed tent flaps, she'd better have all the sexual skills, adventurism, and morals, of the A-list porn star.

I know several women south of the Mason-Dixon who would fall into this category; the church-going, well-known pillar of the community kind, maybe of a prominent family, who become a completely different chick as soon as someone's naked and the lights go out. Northern women don't even wait for the lights.

You know, these Muzzie chicks just might be onto something. If Abdul is too busy watching his wives perform oral sex upon one another while the third one performs a nasty upon him, he might stay home more often. Men up to their armpits in pussy tend to be too busy to build roadside bombs, plot terrorist attacks, or snipe at American troops.

Think of it this way: while Hassan is busy porking (doh!) his Good Lady Wives, we could...ahem...pull out...of Afghanistan and Iraq, and nobody would notice.

It's a good sign that in at least one backwards place on Planet Earth, some women are actually suggesting something positive in the efforts to stem the worldwide Jihad. This suggestion is a far cry more useful and doable than anything that has come from the mouths of Western Feminists, who incidentally, don't really give a shit about their oppressed Muslim sisters unless they can attack a Republican by feigning concern and outrage.

If the terrorists are too busy busting a nut, they ain't hijacking anything. And getting your rocks off in this life sort of takes the 'can't wait' factor out of thepromised 72 virgins in the afterlife. Besides, don't you want some chick who knows what she's doing? There's nothing worse than a woman who can't cover her teeth...unless she's chipped one, then that's far worse.

It's also for damned sure a much simpler view of male/female relationships than the one we've evolved here in the West, which has gotten so complicated, so full of extraneous bullshit, and which simply drips with the greatest stupidity and aggravation that the female mind can contrive. Dating is damned difficult nowadays, Ladies, and you made it that way. Don't think so? Then read this:

18 Things All Men Need to Know That Women Won't Tell Them.

My, how helpful you are. We need information, but you won't give it to us. So much for the vaunted 'communication skills' of women. But then I read the article, and no wonder they can't tell us these things!

The article (despite it's glaring grammatical and spelling errors -- someone actually got paid to write this?) is basically devoted to s single premise: women want a Metrosexual. Be the best damned  Metrosexual you can be, young man, and you'll soon be swimming in snatch, yesssiiirrreee!

I think this was once covered in an episode of South Park, truthfully.

At least one third of the article is devoted to hair care and hairstyles, fashion, and...hand lotion. I especially loved this line:

"You need to have the right amount of sex, money and career in [your] hairstyle."

Really?

Just what the fuck does that mean? No wonder you haven't told us, girls! You'd probably be ashamed to utter that in public, wouldn't you?

And people wonder why divorce rates are so high, why consumption of porn is at an all-time high, and why the Japanese are busy devising the sex robot: how the fuck -- as a Man -- do you relate to a shallow dingbat who demands the 'right amount' of 'sex, money and career' in your fucking haircut? By what standard are such things measured? Gentlemen, doesn't shit like this just drive you insane?

It's no wonder I find this fake woman to be the sexiest in all the world!

Mark Steyn Repeats Everything I've Said for the Last Ten Years...

...but says it better than I can.