"Baby fish mouth! Baby fish mouth!"

Without "Baby fish mouth!" I don't think we'd have "Baby with a nail gun!" or even "Dog on fire! Dog on Fire!"

She didn't write, "I'll have what she's having." Billy did. But that movie was nothing if it wasn't her baby.

Not to mention that women attracted to men they're not with have been looking for a pair of red suede pumps since the beginning of time on our planet, earth.

The Shortest Night Of The Year Begins

Ushering in again already... THE 29TH ANNUAL TALK AS YOUR FAVORITE DEADWOOD CHARACTER DAY OF SUMMER SATURNALIANNA!

This year I'm going with Calamity Jane. It's short, funny, subtle and loud.

Dirt worshippers have slaughtered a family of Square Heads on the road to Spearfishing. Or so we thought. It was actually Road Agents hired by Gem owner, Al Swearington, who, upon hearing of the slaughter, offers circa $5 (dollars) for every decapitated Indian head, no longer attached to its other attached parts, brought into town. Posses plan to leave first thing in the morning (circa 11:15 on the A.M.). Jane, upon hearing their quest for revenge starts not until the following morning, exclaims, "Well what's your FUCKIN' HURRY!!!" [sic]

(Full Disclosure: I knew, I knew, Rock Of Ages, would be terrible. Great cast, sure, but way too many Top 10 Terrible Rock Songs Of All Time. I just didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings.)

"You've seen White Fang like, a hundred times, right?

"And Babe?

"So, yeah, you know I could turn on you at the drop of a hat, that same hat you tried to put on my head this winter because you thought my being warm was more important than my not looking almost as stupid as one of those halfwits on my new favorite show, Dogs In The City? And I'm not talking about the dogs either.

"Just so you know.

"Now back to work."

Fort Piqua, June 19th(?!?), Looking Northeast

Comic Relief

"What was it he said a few years ago, his campaign slogan? 'Hope and change'?!? Now he's HOPING they'll CHANGE the subject! Oh. That's good. And funny as well, what I said there!"
(You gotta admit, he would kill at the Correspondents' Dinner. Literally. He's been voted Presidential Hopeful Most Likely To Kill Someone Accidentally.)

---------

Smartest Guy In The Room

"Whatever, Putin. You best quit dicking with Iran and Syria, motherfucker, or I will cut your fucking throat. You see how it works with those sand niggers? I cut their leader's fucking throat, another one pops up like Jack cocksucking Jeebs, so I cut his fucking throat. I won't fucking blow his head off with one of those ray guns; I will fucking slit his throat Dan fucking Dority-style with the Presidential Letter Opener. Not that one; the one with the picture of John Adams on the sheath. So go ahead, cocksucker. Pop your bald-ass head up out of the Persian Gulf again, and I will will fucking cut your motherfucking cocksucking throat. Oh. Enjoy your day."

---------

Georgia Snatch

"I want other guy, one before him, the retard, with vice president machine man Darth Vader. He was stupid and malleable. And rich. This new dark guy, scares me. I must go pretend kill shark."

Happy Mothers' Day, Part 2 (I.e., Happy Fathers' Day)

E.g., good job, dads, impregnating someone, your wife, perhaps. Newsflash: She did all the work.

As the proud father of an 11-year old (dog, or so, we think), my plans for today:

1. Construction begins and ends on The Moonpie Memorial Beef Rib Rack Smoker Plus Chamber Of Mysteries.
2. Setting one post with homemade L bracket into ceiling main cross beam. But let's try to do two.
3. Feel the love! (Or, in Moonpie's case, barely noticeable gratitude mixed with the utter joy only a dog can feel that no human language on earth has a word for. The latter is worth... that word.)

Pictures of progress to follow as I go through the magic of edit, depending on reliability of The Moonpie Memorial Beef Rib Rack Smoker Plus Chamber Of Mysteries.

Full Disclosure:
A. Once a week I go into town specifically to buy Moonpie the biggest rack of beef ribs I can find. I give her one first thing in the morning as a special treat. But since I've not been the best dad to her for the first 10 years, I aim to be the best for the next 10 years, please, god willing.
B. I don't know how the private sector is doing, but my family seems to be doing just fine. They don't have to have jobs, though one of the few things we all share is a scary work ethic (I was a very hard-working drunk), and they lead lives of relative leisure and want for nothing, and there's nothing they don't want. Oh, and, by the way, this is the case because of our Father.

Happy Fathers' Day.





"Moonpie. I'm tired. But it's a pretty good tired. Shall we see what the 4-1-1 is over there in Deadwood?"

What Would A 2nd Term Obama Presidency Look Like?!?!?!?

Day0001.

1. There are not, and there never have been, libraries filled with bipartisan studies concluding that legal Mexican immigrants, or illegal immigrants, not only do not take jobs away from patriotic citizens, but, in times of economic growth, actually add to the stimulating of the economy.
2. If there are or ever have been such studies, they were conducted exclusively by Obama supporting Nazi faggots 48 years ago.
3. Children of illegal Mexican immigrants who get into college have done so because of affirmative action, not because their application package was superior to those who did not get in, even if those who did not get in planned on majoring in Not Going To Class with a minor in Too Drunk From Frat Party Still.
4. Their admissions packages were probably superior only because they cheated off the paper of a blond white girl, and because liberal arts colleges' admissions boards are made up of liberal faggots. A meritocracy is still a meritocracy, no matter how it's redefined to appeal to the so-called lazy. And stupid.
5. Illegal Mexican immigrants are in fact taking jobs away from legal patriotic citizens. The studies that prove this are: a. "When was the last time you saw a white landscaping crew member mowing your lawn?"; and b. "When was the last time you saw a white mason's apprentice repairing your custom brick barbecue pit?"
6. Faggots.

So, a vote for Sambo is a vote for illegal Mexican immigrant Nazi faggots. And Fear Of A Black Planet will be the least of your worries. Replaced by fear of a brown planet, you see. Where the brown is not a tan.

Your move, gringo.

Should Bryan Fischer have the AIDS virus assfucked directly into his pancreas?

Yes.

I suppose I could and should go on and on and on citing various citations and quoting various quotes, but I'm tired and I still have to calibrate my chain sharpener so that I can stay warm this coming winter so that I can mind my own business and not tell people what they should and should not do with their bodies, and, yes, their love.

And while my telling Bryan Fischer what he should do with his own body, or, rather, what should be done with his own body, and, yes, frankly, to it, is, indeed, ironic, when you think about it, it's pretty a priori,* and a posteriori.**

"Yeah, so if you guys would like to be treated less like idiots, you should probably think about behaving less like idiots."
-Jesus (as told to us by our dad, through his actions and attitudes, rather than anything he said, ever)

*Latin for "high priority"
** Latin for "up the ass"

[And a classical education is yet again... VINDICATED!!!]

Drop Deadwood, Or, "Deadwood Revisited"

Anyways, I may have mentioned that I went ahead and bought the entire series a couple weeks ago. I couldn't stand it anymore, having not been back to that crazy town with all the zaniness and hijinks since 2007. And all that post-civil war Montana cocksucking.

So last night I finally threw in the first disc and watched Episodes 1 and 2. And after having spent so much time away from the series and so much time being a character in the series, just in B'ham and Piqua, and, you know, modern day, give or take, I have just this to say on my reunion with David Milch's writing:

"Poetry."

Feels good to be back. And it continues to have one of the greatest TV show theme songs of all time, and that includes both "Alice" and "Good Times".

Also, I was a bit surprised at my family re: their reactions, support, congratulations, "attaboys!", keep it ups, &c., and so forth and things of that nature with regard to my 1 year birthday. It reminded me: I don't drink not for them; I don't drink for me. Because I still haven't heard from any of them. Which is good. Because, frankly, that whole time I was drunk for 10 years I forgot to notice what self-absorbed assholes many of them are.

Which, unless I'm sorely mistaken, gives a whole new meaning to the phrase, "Sour grapes!" No resentment; just disappointment. That has to be okay, but I'm not sure how much longer it's healthy to keep it to myself, yet, at the same, just who "benefits" from me sharing my feelings with them. Best sometimes not to care.

This Old House Hour, French Open, Chores

The property to the south of me is owned by, what all my neighbors and I agree upon, a real dick -- what dad would call a bad neighbor, and what mom would call a pud. They've damned up the creek that runs north to south, which floods Tom's bean field to the east, and they don't see to the drainage tile, which floods Tom's west corn field. Right now the land isn't tillable, and is basically a wetland.

I don't want to buy the property; I need to buy the property, if for no other reason than it might make Tom's life just a little easier.

The problem: How would I set up a series of channels and ditches and levers and pulleys in order to create a pond that at the same time keeps the water out of Tom's fields?

Answer: I don't know. But something tells me every pond begins with a shovel. (Or explosives.)

And on the 7th day, God rested.

And cracked open a Natty Lite.

Okay, alright. Well this hell-hole pretty much puts the "geddon" in "armageddon". It's like Mars, but with slightly better weather and less promising life forms. Jesus.

The woman thing was a stroke of genius, if I do say so myself. Smart, funny, wise beyond her gender. [cosmic Chortle here] Soft, bumpy, smells good. So not a total loss.

But what we need is some sort of creature whose loyalty is surpassed only by its protectiveness. Affectionate, but not needy. Definitely not needy. I mean Adam over there really puts the "depend" in "codependent". (Note to self: Pre-engineer basic bladder failure at around age 32 -- like they'll survive that long! I'll call it "Intelligent Designed Obsolescence".) Well, at least Adam gives me something to point and laugh at already again.

So. Something with 4 legs, maybe a tail, with a look that conveys just the right amount of, "Yeah, uh, Simple Jack, were you gonna feed me anytime soon?" mixed in with, "I'm beginning to wonder just who belongs to whom," and perhaps a touch of, "Well I suppose I'd better slog through this fiasco with him so he's not completely alone."

I.e., something that's not a cat.

Hmmm... I'll call it "Undetached Dog Parts". Everybody wins, and a real hoot for the squirrels.



Good!

Checking list... Oh, I've gotta meet with that one pernicious angel who loves music about setting up a timetable where The Dawn Of The Dead Of The End Of Times Of The Night Of The Rise Of The Mindless Worship Of Sloppy Thinking And Mediocrity is ushered in, in the early 21st century, by One Direction, and something called a Bieber. Yikes! Even Baal will want to kill himself when he hears that puss-laden ear crap!

Hey Gabe, let's pump up the jams!

Doesn't it feel good?

Sunset, East Of Piqua, Ohio, June 4, 2012

Something I'm beginning to think that I may not be completely off the beam about with regard to... something Goethe may or may not have said:

"God is in the [re-tells*]."

To me, today, at the beginning of the week, profundities are small, sometimes overlooked, or taken for granted, or dismissed as mundane, by virtue of their supposed insignificance. Me? I'd like to strive, but never reach, obviously, the perfection of Thorton's "poets" and "saints" from Our Town, population: It could always be worse! Because, Jesus, it was; it was so much worse, which makes today, this moment, that much more profound and precious.

*(Oh. Hey, mom, hey dad. Remember when we were watching that episode of The Simpsons and dad laughed so hard at the part where oil lobbyists wanted to drill on Mount Rushmore in Teddy Roosevelt's head? I never get tired of telling that story.)

Well, this might be a good time and place to try to launder my karma.*

[Ongoing.]

There's a rod at the top of which is a bolt that lives on top of my water heater. I believe it's called an anode rod, or something, and its job is to collect the iron in well water like a magnet. Since my hot water smells of iron oxide and sulphur, I need to replace it with a new rod, which entails removing the old one, which I've deemed impossible, considering I've used WD40, PB blast, a blow torch, and the blood of unbaptized jews and mormons. Nothing works. So I've decided to replace the water heater en masse, which scares me on account of my soldering skills, or the lack thereof. Goddamn immovable bolts.

I understand The Church's concern over freedom of religion and birth control. But I wonder if The Church should consider some concerns many folks have with the freedom of young boys not to get ass-fucked out of bible camp.

Tower Heist wasn't very good. I thought it was going to be more ironical. But for the record, I've been in love with Tea Leoni since The Naked Truth. And I realized just recently that every woman I've been in love with, on screen and off [chortle!], has in some way resembled Parker Posey.

The night my mom died was the same night President Obama held his first televised primetime press conference, during which my family decided to ridicule him and anyone and everyone who ever had the least notion that he was a good man who had the chance to be a good president if not a great one. Now, they did this knowing full well that: 1. I really liked him and was hopeful and optimistic, though in my cups at the time mainlining vodka by the mouthful not-so-secretly out of mom's freezer; 2. mom had liked him very much, had voted for him, had watched the inauguration from her hospital bed; 3. mom thought Sarah Palin was not very smart, that Rush Limbaugh was both ignorant and bad for reasonable discussion and disagreement, and that she liked me best.** That was as alone as I've ever felt, and I was made to feel alone by the other kids my mom had raised. Was it intentional? It's my understanding that many better educated people hold that healing begins with forgiveness. But when your own kin starts blaming their own mother's sociopolitical beliefs with which they disagree on cancer and pain medication, I'll take my chances.

I find it hard to fathom that Roger could be past his prime. I don't really care. What I do care about is that my love of watching him play is interfering with my ability to be a straight non-gay male of the heterosexual persuasion. But I'll just add that to the list of things I need to surrender to my higher power, which, currently, is Roger's backhand.

I'm finding it increasingly hard to have to be rigorously honest with myself and others when others neither have to be rigorously honest with themselves nor choose to be.

Where were you when you heard that Kurt had blown his head off? I was at work, at Studebaker's Nursery Farm, in New Carlisle, Ohio. My supervisor kind of made fun of me for how hard I was taking it. Still, working primarily with Mexicans and ex-cons might do that to you. Still, that job remains one of my favorites, the further I get away from it, which is probably why.



*David Randall/Pigeonhed
**Probably, I should say.

What Will Be* Different About A Romney Presidency?

1. Well, for one thing, according to the commercials, he will seem just a tiny little bit less like an android in his campaign commercials than he seems in [real life].
2. Spelling.



[The Matrix]







*"Might Look"