Spectacular

What does Uigeadail mean? Aviation Grade, methinks.

Over the course of the holidays I found myself downstairs with Flapz going over a new model RC airplane. More gum-flapping went on than anything actually constructive so I brought out a bottle of Ardbeg that I bought last year. I thought it would be yet another of these damnable endless, unremarkable 'special bottlings' the distillers are coming out with. Michael Jackson (the celebrity scotch expert/whisky drunk - not the musician) - claims that the standard Ardbeg bottling is The Best Scotch Whisky On Planet Earth. I didn't see it myself but I am a liquor pig that will drink whatever is in the jerry can. (Who said that?!?!?).

In any event the spirit loosened our gobs, we started talking about motorcycles, family, women and bitching about work and before we knew it - half the bottle was gone, it was 9 PM and we were both yawning and half in the bag! 

I just bought another bottle for about $84.00 or thereabouts...and darn it...I think I am going to buy another one after that! This is one seriously sweet and smoky whisky. I would give my left nut for a glass of this, a cigar (just one...sob...what can one cigar hurt?) - and a campfire. Sadly I had to quit smoking about 7 years ago but if I ever get cancer, I am going to celebrate with a great big honking gagger of a stogie - and half a glass of this stuff! I have to be careful or I will find myself looking forward to it!

2015 is bid an overdue farwell in this household - and 2016 is off to a perilous start! Wouldn't have it any other way either. Cheers to you!

Holy Crap! What Happened At Canada Goose???

Back when I was hunting, ice fishing and winter camping I went all-out on my gear. I bought the big sleeping bags that would let you sleep in a tent, in the middle of a Canadian winter - in absolute comfort. It was awesome, I could go and pull into one of those provincial campgrounds in the back country that are filled right up in summer - and shoot .22's and black powder rifles because I was the only one there. We went out in some seriously chilly weather in our younger days and the only limit was the truck - vehicles start getting tetchy about starting in -25~-30C. You have to start worrying about the dog too.

In any event I resolved some time ago that my next parka would be my last. I was sick and tired of the cheap crap made in china and wanted a garment meant for cold weather. My dogs don't like camping in -30C but they still like going for their walks in it.

So it was that I came across Canada Goose.

What in blazes happened to the pricing??? I remember that the one I wanted was over $1000.00! Even a dedicated outdoorsman like me had to bog on that...but there were times I came really, really close to pulling the trigger on one even at those prices. (Usually right after coming in after a really chilly dog walk. What in hell is wrong with these dogs anyways? At those temps they can bark off a loaf and it's frozen before I can even pick it up! Gawd, I HATE DOGS).

 

An early spring camping trip, light years ago...

 

 

Wait. Where was I? I started ranting about dogs...?...oh yeah: Canada Goose! I notice the prices have absolutely tumbled! What gives? I hope the quality hasn't gone into the crapper...

 

 

I am going to discuss this with my better half post haste! Assuming QA/QC haven't slid, this is now a reasonably priced item of clothing!

 

Another civic tip from your Friendly Neighbourhood Glen Filthie! If anyone's heard any rumours please let me know.

2015 Taking Stock

By the grace of God I did alright in 2015. Knock on wood and all that.

Workwise I've done okay. I have worked for outright psychotics and nutbars over the course of my career and I only stay with them long enough to find the next paycheque and then flip them off and move on. I've been with my current employer 8-1/2 years now. They have sanity and psychological issues (as does Yours Truly) but they treat me well. I cannot complain even though I still do sometimes. Gotta do something about that - it's unmanly.

I shed my last tears for my daughter this year although the sorrow still remains. Ours is a broken home then, like too many others these days. So be it. The bodies are buried, the words have been said, and it is time to pick up the pieces and move on. Kids have to find their own way too. So do us kids, I suppose - after 33 years I finally did something about my fucking in laws. They've never respected me, they were often openly contemptuous and undermined me as a father and a husband more times than I could count. Nor would they respect the boundaries between our family and theirs. This year they got it back with both barrels, and I think they were shocked and devastated. Spite isn't something that comes to me naturally, but I still can't bring myself to feel sorry for them or regret my words or actions. At least now, I can look forward to the rest of my life. As it was my in laws thought they were going to spend their retirement trying to ruin mine for fun and entertainment. Some good did come of all this though - the family fireworks has drawn my wife and I closer together. She is a good woman and I don't care what her family says - I am a good man.

The house is paid off but in need of some upgrades and improvement. We have managed to save a little bit of money and though we aren't rich - we're free. I have too many toys - and not enough time to possibly enjoy them all. I've spent my life saving and sacrificing to get to this point and now that I'm here I wonder where to go next! How stupid is that? I haven't felt this lost since my high school graduation. Do you even remember yours? How you wake up after the party the next day, hung over...and go "Now, what?" Some people are driven and know exactly where they're going before they even get there. Life just seems to happen to me and then I wonder how in blazes I got here afterward! HAR HAR HAR! It's been a helluva ride at times. A fella needs a mission in life and I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. Maybe the name of the game right now is to just keep putting one foot in front of the other - and just walk my good-for-nothing dogs into the ground. It seems to work for them. They don't know where they're going and could care less!

 

My moral and intellectual helmsman

Screw it. I hereby proclaim that 2015 was a GOOD year for us. I still have my health, and thanks to our hard work and sacrifice in earlier years we have CHOICES and for that, I am thankful. A lot of people don't. We are going to be thinking ours over in the next week - wish us luck. I hope your 2015 was good for you too.

 

The Profiteer

Bob is lecturing on how women are ruining the world again.

Not to knock Bob, but if I were to pick nits:

"That's why you don't see them (women) as carpenters and cab drivers and coal miners and loggers and iron workers..."

Well now, that isn't exactly true, Bob. Part of my job is doing safety sessions with  major clients in the proper use and care of bolting and torque tools in the steel erection industry. I have seen a handful of females in my sessions in the steel yards, and usually I only see them once. Bob is right in that they typically don't last long. It's hard, tough work in extreme heat and blistering cold and it takes a tough person to do it.

 

Oh you sexy thang...stripped down with that vixen's smile....

Here in the real world the average iron worker wears a leather harness festooned with

heavy pry bars, spud wrenches and hammers and has pouches filled with 1" (and larger) nuts and bolts, reamers, drift pins, etc. When they bring out the heavy artillery with the impacts, torque guns and bolting tools their loadout can easily weigh about half of what this scantily clad iron working gal does.

There's no place for chivalry in an environment like that. There's deadlines and pressure and if you don't do your job some other poor slob will have to. Iron workers won't put up with that chit nor should they - that job is tough enough as it is.

I only met one gal that stuck with it for any amount of time. During one of my safety lecture sessions, this lady interrupted, she flirted with the guys and when I asked her to stop it and pay attention - she told me I was a stupid ass. (Technically true, but an inappropriate discussion for the subject at hand). Quiet, deep laughter rippled through the audience of men big enough to take apart M1 Abrams tanks with their hands. You don't eff with guys like this. I replied "Yeah? I think you're a cunned stunt, lady. And - you can either pay attention, or get the hell out. I don't have time for your chit." I spoke to her the way I would to the guys. Because equality, dontchya know! The fellas were okay with that and a few smirked quietly to themselves. I went on with my dog-and-pony show.

 

Our military is in for a REALLY rude lesson in the merits and realities of empowered feminism.

 

And of course a short while later she was back at it. "Have it your way Chickie," I said. "Get out." It was inevitable with a crowd like that. "Hey! How do I get out of this? I want to go too!!!" they hooted. All I could say is "Door's right there, fellas. But just so ya know - the Yard Foreman is serious about this little safety course and he expects me to be too. If you're not worried about that - you can just waltz right out that door with the lady." Being old hands none of them did - safety is a creed in most of the big steel yards nowadays, and woe be unto he that dares the rage and fury of ruling safety Nazis.

 

Later of course, the fit hit the shan when the class had to do their safety test on the material I had covered. The lady failed. They had her re-write it and gave her the answers, but I wouldn't give her a ticket. That in turn had their VP calling mine to demand that this obvious case of misogyny be dealt with - at once. Eventually the Corporate Machine finally got around to asking me for my side of the story, which I duly explained - and concluded that no, I don't care how mad the social justice wanks get - I was not going to sign off on that bitch's training cert.

 

There are realities to be dealt with in the real world, and I was eventually 'persuaded' to sign off...but only after we got a very nice purchase order for more equipment and a commitment for even more after that. Let it not be said that Filthie is an unreasonable man. I can almost hear the spirit of my role model and hero, Lesiure Suit Larry: "NYUK NYUK NYUK! Way to go, Junior!!!!" At which point he would probably turn to God and start bragging "Didjya see that??? I taught him everything he knows...!!!".  We'll be lucky if we don't both end up in hell I suppose, HAR HAR HAR! One might think that is the conclusion of my tale, but I beg the readers' forbearance. It gets better.

 

Fear not, men - for The Old Boys Club is not dead. In fact, it is positively thriving in this age of sexual equality and tolerance! For a year later I got the call from The Owner. There had been a serious industrial incident involving our tools in one of the steel yards during the night shift, and the client's Safety Nazis were clamouring for a scape goat! I would be luckier than blazes if it didn't end up being me as I was the designated sales/trainer on our equipment for that yard. One worker had gotten badly hurt and it was a 'Near Miss' incident for another. How could this happen? Had I not trained their workers properly? Oh, you can bet your arse there will be an inquiry!!! I was told to be in the client's Board Room tomorrow at 9:00. DON'T BE LATE.

 

Oh boy.

 

So the next morning I go into that board room expecting to be drawn and quartered. It was even worse than I had feared. The suits were all there, and I was stiffly introduced to the lawyers who would be asking some very difficult questions about our training process. About an hour later the victims of the accident were brought in to describe their side of things...two women. And - surprise,  surprise - one was the chick I had thrown out of my class a year before. The Yard Foreman was there and did the face/palm thing. The gal didn't recognize me - but I remembered her all to well.

 

The meeting was eventually turned over to me to formally discuss the incident with the victims. The lawyers duly asked me if I minded if they recorded the discussion? It would be my pleasure, I told the slimeballs. I started by reminding everyone that I had thrown this lady out of my course a year ago. I will always savour the glint of recognition in that gal's eyes when she remembered who I was. I almost sobbed as I described but left nameless the people that forced me - under duress - to sign off on her training. With my halo virtually shimmering in righteousness, I expressed a deep and dreadful concern about the possibility of a repeat incident like this because of that woman's conduct and attitude towards safety. Dammit, an example should be made about stuff like this! I yam outraged! I yam disgruntled and...offended. Won't anyone take safety seriously???  By the time I was done the execs all had done the face/palm thing too. I shut my yap then - just as ol' Larry would have - and let the Old Boys think as they nervously looked across the table at their own slavering feral Safety Nazis. "We'll finish this up here, folks," the Veep said, "and take all this under advisement. Mr. Filthie - thank you for taking the time to be with us today - we will be in touch." And with that, he fled the room. Milliseconds later a few of the Safety Nazis got up, made hasty farewells, and took to his heels baying and yapping like the dogs they were! The lawyers gave me looks of contempt and fury as they hustled the ladies out. In less than a minute there were only two of us left! The Yard Foreman smirked at me and said "Yannow what Filthie? You're a fuggin prick!"

 

"High praise indeed, Sean," I laughed. "Yes. Yes, I am." Gawd, sometimes I love this job.

 

 

 

In every war there are winners and losers but ya never hear about the finks that profit from both sides. Is it morally wrong to profit from the War Of The Sexes? It is a war for stupid people because anything that hurts one gender ultimately hurts them both. Why not exploit them for fun and profit?

 With the next PO we got cleaned us out at the Edmonton branch, and we had to start snacking on Vancouver's inventory for awhile. The order after that cleaned us out of stock nationally. The maintenance contract after that swamped our techs and it was so bad we had to air freight tools out to the other locations in order to turn them around fast enough to keep the client happy. Oh, I had to tweek my safety sessions a bit and consult with the client's Saftey Nazis for awhile - nothing is free in The Old Boy's Club.

 

Funnily enough, we never DID get around to resolving the real reasons behind that workplace incident. Nor did I ever find out who won the war I had started between the client's workplace Vibrancy & Diversity clan and the heavily female dominated safety Nazis.

 

Wouldn't be surprised if some good ol' boy over there took them all aside, told them all to STFU - and get on with business. Common sense has a nasty way of breaking out when $$$$ are on the line.

 

 



Artifacts

As an old fart I get to sit back and watch the bloviating blogging boys of the Manosphere and quietly laugh behind my hands as they strut and preen and struggle to deal with the modern feral woman - and I suppose that I shouldn't. There but for the grace of God go I.  In the real world I've lost count of the good, solid men that should be happily married - but aren't. How in hell did I luck out when they didn't? It's like having 'survivor's guilt' almost.

It was a spectacular winter day at the rod n gun club today. When I got up to the front gate I had to stop and let a couple white tailed deer amble across the road. At our club wildlife has the right of way. There wasn't a soul at the range today - just the way I like it. 20 years ago it was easy to hit a couple days a week like that. Today, it usually sounds like Viet Nam out there and we had to cap our membership because we just have too many people for the facilities we have.

 

There she is. If God allows me to fall from this earth with a gun in my hand - may it be this one. Some men would like to crap out on the golf course...I would like to croak at the range doing something I love too.

 

 

That's a modern repro of the Winchester 1876 Centennial Rifle. This gun is a big, gentle bear to shoot.

 

 

Praise the lord and pass...errrr...pray that I remembered to put gun powder in some of these...

 

 

We're shooting the obsolete .45-75 calibre today. You can't buy this ammo - some outfit in the States makes it but they want $75.00/Box of 20. Brass is almost impossible to get here in Canada too - it is around but it is very, very expensive. The bullets I cast myself, and the cases are charged with black powder. This is the first cartridge gun ever adopted by the RCMP, but they preferred a carbine variant of the gun. Making the ammo for this gun is an art and a science - one that I haven't mastered yet. The brass looks horrible because of the salts created by the burning  black powder propellant. It looks awful but is perfectly fine to use. 

 

 

This beaded panel on my gun case was the height of manly fashion when the squaws beaded the artifacts and clothes of their men in the days of The Edmonton House Brigade.

 

 

Do you want to know how to identify a good woman and a suitable mate? Ask her to bead something for you. That beaded panel on the side of the buckskin gun case may not look like much to us today, but back when Edmonton was nothing more than a wooden fort and an RCMP garrison - colourful accents like this stood out like a neon sign on a dark night! Only the big shots and high rollers had stuff embellished like this. That pattern is similar to the ones used by the squaws and trappers around Edmonton in the early 1800's. My wife did it by hand - and it is a helluva lot of work. The case and the beading are a perfect PC (period correct) compliment to the gun. It took my soul mate  a long winter season's leisure time to do that too. Some collectors will pay through the nose for stuff like this.

 

 

Back in history some women went to great lengths to demonstrate their love for their men. You can say what ya want about my arts n crafts...but how many women would invest time like that in their men today? If more did...there probably wouldn't be such rampant divorce rates. There's more love in those little glass beads than any gold ring or Christmas gift.

 

The manosphereians can go on extremis ad nauseum about women's flaws - they may indeed be socialists and fascists by nature...but they can also be artists, story tellers, crafters and hardy, fiercely loyal allies that you can count on when life's storms are at their worst. When I die and go to hell and some lucky bargain hunter comes across that gun case...will he see the effort, the love and the toil that went into that beading? Will he wonder about the man that inspired the beautiful lady to do it?

 

 

Christmas Day Patrol

When I was a kid in 1967 Canada turned 100 years old and it was a 'thing' for communities to set aside small parcels of land to be designated as 'Centennial Parks'. Ours was a half-section about two miles out of town where they put in ball diamonds, fire pits and out houses. It was heaven for a young fella like myself that liked to pretend he was out camping in the boonies rather than on a bicycle day trip.

Today Centennial Park has been gobbled up by the growing town and has fallen into a deplorable state. Retirement communities surround it now. It's a veritable ghetto for surly, contemptuous senior citizens and degenerate old bastids like Uncle Bob. Rabbits deficate on the walkways. Scurrilous squirrels squawk obscenities and profanities from the trees at the innocent passersby. It's an unplumbed profundity of human trash - and the RCMP won't come near the place. No, those canary-legged cowards leave such cesspits to Captain Sweatpants, And His K9 Crimefighters!!!

 

There are no picnickers here today - a function of senior gangster activity, no doubt.

 

 

My aunt likes to walk these trails. She loudly brags that she's not afraid of me or my pussy-dogs. She didn't look so thrilled when Mort slobbered all over her the other day...when Mort drools, everyone gets slimed. I have seen kids run shrieking from Mort when he starts to drool. His Super Saliva is a devastating crime fighting weapon.

 

 

Amidst all this moral decrepitude, sometimes a fella misses beautiful things that are right under his nose.

 

 

A beautiful tree? Or a deadly boobytrap???

 

 

While walking the shrubs Macey disappeared. Fearing the worst I found her lollygagging nearby and rolling in the snow like a mentally disturbed miscreant - a clear dereliction of duty. I started cursing her out - and a pile of snow fell from the over hanging trees and I went silent as freezing snow slid down the back of my neck. There, it melted and ice cold water trickled down my back to pool in my underwear below. Damnation!!!  I blame the local seniors for this - and they will pay for that, by Godfrey!!!

 



 

 

Is this the end of Captain Sweatpants? Defeated by a soggy bottom?

 

We were beaten into a strategic retreat today - but we'll be back tomorrow. There will be no fun in Centennial Park when I'm around - and properly equipped to deal with the numerous threats of the environment.

 

 

Hey - Chicken Mom wanted snow - and any of you that want some can have it too! Just close up the coop and hit the brooder lamps to keep the birds toasty - and you can have all the snow you want!

 

 

Edit/Addition: There are actually good men out there on patrol doing God awful work on one of the best days of the year. Merry Christmas to the squaddies and the RCMP, the ERT guys and anyone else that drew the short straw and has to work today. I actually saw a squad car in the park today and I feel better knowing there is somebody near looking out for the park and the seniors even on the holidays.

Christmas Trees

Quick! Head over to The Feral Irishman's! He has a spectacular picture on the header of his blog. Someone else had a picture of their family Christmas tree from 1951 and I think they got the ornaments from the same store my parents did in the 60's and 70's.

This year I decreed that I wanted some yuletide cheer around this dump, and my queen delivered. We are old farts so we only have a small tree. And - because I am a retard and a villain that usually gets (and deserves) a lump of coal at Christmas, we spread the wife's presents out a bit so that it looks like I got some too!

 

Goddammit. The kitchen table in the background is covered with electronics and junk! Who's the slob responsible for that?

Errr...sorry about the mess. If it isn't electronics all over the kitchen table, it's friggin guns. Yannow the FBI and the RCMP would probably have a bloody bird if they saw what goes on over that table my father built 15 years ago. It's a sad day when our own law enforcement can't tell the difference between a gun club duffer and a 'domestic terrorist' half the time. You can't see it but the rest of the living room is festooned with red and green ribbons, and holly. What are those red Christmas flowers called? They're all over the place too.

We don't really have any Christmas traditions here. We do have quirks though. On that little tree there's a goofy looking cat decoration that closely resembles Sinker Macduff. I got pished to the gills one Christmas - was it really 25 years ago? -  and "caught" one of the feral kittens living in Pop's haystack out at the farm. I lost 5 quarts of blood but I got him into a box and three days later we had a perfect domestic house cat for our toddling daughter. He loved to eat. There is another cat ornament on the tree that looks nothing like Joe The Schmoe. My daughter and wife brought him home to keep Sinker company a year later. The house literally shook when those two decided to wrestle. You couldn't put presents out until the last moment or they would unwrap them to play with the paper and ribbons. They ate tinsel and loved to climb the tree and knock the ornaments off. Also in there is a white dog ornament that looks something like Sled Dog Sally. She was a pound puppy - a Siberian Husky. Apparently she was part of a puppy mill and was found in a sweltering van in the middle of a blazing hot summer day with about a dozen others - and she was one of the dogs still alive when the rescuers finally got them out. The survivors were confiscated from the owner (I hope he was charged) and eventually she came to live with us. I still remember how shocked she was by the amount of food she got. She would look at her bowl and then at us like "This...? This is all for me?" She loved the cats the second she laid eyes on them. I know how weird this all sounds - but for me, it's a way of holding departed friends close. To me it makes perfect sense! Quirks are quirks, and stupid old men will indulge them.

So here I sit on Christmas Eve. I am warm, snug, in the early hours of the day and thinking to myself, "Jeez, I would sure like to get out of my warm bathrobe and slippers, leave all this Christmas cheer and go outside to freeze my ass off for no good reason whatsoever!" Unfortunately, there's nobody around here that wants to do stuff like that at 6:30 in the morning when it's -14C out.

 

Or is there...?

 

Maybe ol' Mort will take me for my walk? Think I should ask him? Nah - I will probably have to go out and pooh in the snow drifts by myself....sigh.  :)

A Crossroads For Internet Radicals, Riff-Raff And Intellectuals Alike: Recommended Reading

One of the reasons I like Uncle Bob's Treehouse is the complete LACK of political correctness.

You can say anything you want there and ol' Bob will pour you a drink and listen to whatever you have to say. The other denizens there are armed and dangerous - keep one hand on your side arm and the other on your sense of humour at all times. If you have problems with self-esteem, or look for sympathy and support for your foolishness, the Treehouse is the LAST place you want to be! There have been a few food fights there and I have been pelted with rotten vegetables there a few times. I deserved it, no doubt!

 

Pandemonium and mayhem. THIS is living. All fights worth having should end this way too.

By contrast, Jim's Blog is like Unca Bob's Treehouse - only fuel injected, blown and turbocharged on nitrous oxide. Like Bob, Jim does not see mental illness or insanity as any reason to discriminate against his readership or commenters. Are you a holocaust denying fascist nutbar? Take it up with Jim! He is not one himself but he has no respect for Joos and is oblivious to name-calling. He will be happy to give you the soap box and rebut your arguments at his leisure. Or maybe, you ARE an eeeeeeeevil joooo and plotting a Zionist takeover of the world - Jim will gladly give you pointers on which ethnics need to be cleansed - and he will actually make a reasonable case for it. Apparently he is what is called a 'neoreactionary' and I admit that I don't know all that much about them - but some of their ideas are hair-raising at first glance. Others? Oh boy. Some have the ring of truth about them. A lot of them seem to be very deep thinkers, well versed in history, and think inside boxes that are big enough to swallow massive ideologies whole. I often lurk at Jim's and leave - and then furtively check my moral compass afterwards. Moral navigation can be very, very difficult these days but if you want to make sure your compass is calibrated and working - Jim's Blog is an excellent place to check it. I disagree with a lot of the stuff I see posted over there...okay, most of it...but it is somehow refreshing to see opposing viewpoints defended with logic and reason rather than name-calling and shrieking that we see all too much of these days of institutionalized political correctness.

I dunno why I hang out at Jim's. Their big kerfuffle now is over a porn star being charged with rape by other porn stars and prostitutes! HAR HAR HAR! On one hand it is the stuff of lunacy, degeneracy and stupidity, but Jim and the boys manage to sift most of it out and even derive some legitimate discussions from it. Some of those turkeys have been studying the human animal for a long, long time and they have some very uncomfortable observations...and not all of them can be dismissed as quackery. Perhaps what draws me to Jim's and Unca Bob's is that it is pure, unadulterated weapons-grade Free Speech.

I dunno about you but when I go to the heavily moderated mainstream news media sites these days in an effort to inform myself, I find that the writers come across as childish liberal trolls. Most of their readers are too so I suppose that's fair as far as it goes...but when they troll me, I troll 'em right back! They are trying to gin up sales by manufacturing controversy and outrage...and sadly, over half the population is too stupid to see it and takes it seriously. I get all my news from the blogosphere now because organizations like the CBC and the Globe & Mail aren't worth the time of a rational adult. It's gotten so bad, (and some of the blogs have gotten so good)- that you can pick off current events that the mainstream idiots won't touch with a ten foot pole because it doesn't fit their 'narratives'.

The only question I have is this: can we ever get it back again? The "good ol' days"?  Days when schools and courts didn't vapour lock children's phys ed  programs because the one sexually disturbed transgender student wants to use the girls' locker room? Days when moslem kids with race problems got the strap instead of $15 million dollar pay outs for making fake bombs?

 

Dirka dirka dirka, you stupid little mudflap. In better times this kid would have been strapped and his parents would have been horse whipped.

There is a moral apathy building in our nations and because nature abhors a vacuum - something will rise to fill it. I am not really liking what I see bubbling up through the corruption to fill that void either.

The Snot Nosed Flu Blues

Do you ever go and get that free 'flu shot' they have going on at all the pharmacies? I never do and each year I get the cold and flu and wish I had. For me it always seems to involve another symptom - when I get sick, my skin turns lobster-red and it feels like a sun-burn...and then afterward it peels like a sunburn too.

I went down on Friday and sent a terse text to The Crack to let him know I was out for the day. Then I slammed a big gulp of scotch and went to bed. The weekend was a blur spent gobbling Tylenol and Contac C...and when I got in today I had one exchange with The Crack and almost went home again.

Of course, he figured I was faking it because that's how everyone gets a long weekend around here. He knows, because I'm sure he does it too. In any event he tried to give me a verbal reprimand and I verbally told him to go sod himself. I'm 51 years old, I'm not a kid taking time off to party or goof off and I was in no mood for his BS today because I could use another day off too, truth be told.

Afterward I felt kinda bad unloading on him like that. Then I found out the goof had somehow scored a date on Friday for a Christmas party and wanted me in the office to babysit and lock up. For that guy to get a date, it takes an act of parliament, and all the stars and planets have to align in just a certain way. Suffice it to say it is a rare event. If I had been up to snuff it wouldn't have been a problem.

I can't deal with this nonsense today, all I wanna do is go home, grab a mutt and crash on the floor with a blanket. All I need is one more day...

The Liberal Racial Superman

The living, growing corporation is much like the living, growing biological organism. It ingests, it digests, it excretes and if it is successful and viable it will grow and even reproduce. And, like some organisms, the orifice that ingests is the same one it uses to excrete! For corporations the shipping/receiving departments are usually in the same place. The more evolved and developed corporations will eventually separate them for greater efficiency, but for the evolutionarily retarded corporations - like the one I work for - well, they chit where they eat! HAR HAR HAR! If the brains of the corporation is its management, and that brain is retarded as well - it invariably shows up in the shipping/receiving department. Call it Filthie's Law Of Corporate Orifices and be sure to credit me for the work in any of your own scholarly work you use it in... or my sleazy lawyers will pepper you with frivolous lawsuits and harassment!

Did somebody say "Lawsuit"?

 

Unlike management - running the shipping receiving department, even under the best circumstances - takes a worker that is dedicated, intelligent and capable. The shipper/receiver is an athlete, eidetic, clairvoyant, and patient. When you take a guy that is none of those things, pay him crap wages to do a job that requires all those qualities - you either get a psychotic or a burn out. If you add in enough stress and incompetence from the management you end up with a company that can't tell if it's eating or shitting  and the corporate organism starts to shut down. As a kid I did shipping and receiving and drove a forklift. I stacked boxes in warehouses that didn't have enough room. I managed files that sales and admin people shuffled and mislaid every day. I've made order where there was chaos and been fired for it. I hated the work so much I upgraded my high school marks and went back to school just to get out of it. Sometimes I have nightmares about still working in those hellish sweat shops trying to save men that made 30 times what I did - from themselves. They had no idea what I did, the problems I had, and could care less.

Shipping and receiving is one of the most crucial jobs in the corporate world, but the brains of the Corporate Organism never seriously stops to consider it's bung - until it starts to burn and itch! Our company is like that. If we get anybody competent back there The Crack will fire them in weeks or months. Competence is a threat to incompetence and my boss knows that  all too well. (He's been trying to fire me for the past 7 years). He's seriously hired homeless beardos, crack heads, crack whores, sexually disturbed lesbians, pooch screwing Marxist union flunkies, turd brains of every stripe and colour - and we have the shipping and receiving area to show for it. The corporate ram rods have been out from head office numerous times to sort out the ensuing chaos. Not that I'm any saint - I walked past that mess on the way to my office every day and steadfastly refused to get involved with it. Not. My. Job. No sireeeee!!!!!

Consider this perfect storm of capitalist incompetency: putting low paid, low IQ/low skill workers into a critical corporate role. Do the same with the overpaid mongrels in management. Add in the perfect storm of socialist stupidity: multiculturalism and societal vibrance! I was there the day that those evil forces converged and collided in my company, and I faired no better against them than The Crack did!

One day I just couldn't take it anymore. The path to my office was strewn with obstacles. Unopened packages coming in. Half assembled orders going out. Shop tools, parts, and even janitorial equipment was strewn in between that. Our last shipper/receiver actually had a triple digit IQ and had flipped The Crack off and quit. I shoulda just kept walking but my conscience nagged. Somebody had to try and clean this crap up or I was going to lose my mind. I rolled up my sleeves and went to work. When the VP called and found me running the shipping department he was furious and told me to stop it and do my own job. I replied that I couldn't sell stuff if we didn't receive it and ship it out first - and told him to take it up with The Crack if he had a problem with it, or STFU and fire me. I smiled to myself after I transferred him over and heard the Crack whining about the labour market and wages. The VP was tearing him a new one and it was music to my ears. I went back to work.

At the end of the day I had things almost liveable. I was pretty smug with myself, too. The crap was off the floor, the orders to go out were boxed and set off to the side for the truckers to come in and grab, the paperwork was almost sorted out and the next day somebody else could be the Good Samaritan and deal with the shipments coming in. At least they would be able to move. Glen Filthie: Corporate Super Hero Extraordinaire!!!! Thank you! Thank you very much!!! No autographs!!!!!

According to Unca Bob the Ancient Greeks have mythical monsters dedicated to defeat Hubris, and mine walked through the door as I sat there basking in my own magnificence and accomplishment. I did a double take as this oddball UFO walked in. If the Nazis had their Perfect Humans in the form of the Aryan Super Race - this guy was the polar opposite liberal response.

He was so goddamned vibrant I didn't know what race he was! He had the buck teeth of the stereotypical comic chinaman and thick glasses over slanty eyes. He had darkish yellowish skin that seemed smack-dab between black and yellow. I think he had an afro...He didn't mince words either.

"Quackquack quack, yakkity yakdonttalkback" he said.

?

"C'est ce f**k?" I replied in my best fwench.

So he starts jibbering and jabbering at the outgoing orders. Was he was a courier here to pick up...? "Are you from ABC Company?" I asked him...er...her...er...it? Yannow the more I looked at this thing the harder it was to tell what gender it was! A sexual hermaphrodite, perhaps? I'll be damned!

So the vibrant nods: yes, he's from ABC Company. Just to make sure..."So Devlin at ABC Company sent you to pick up his shipment? Devlin at the West Edmonton Mall job?" I ask. He nods. "Sign here," I says - and pass him the paperwork on a clip board. Taking the pen with his foot with an opposable thumb, he scratches what I assume to be a signature. Was this thing even human? A trans-sexual trans-human???  I looked up from the 'signature' to look the vibrant over again but he had taken his stuff and gone.

 

An artist's conception of the vibrant. Perhaps he was an illegal alien...

Not ten minutes later, Devlin from ABC walks in and says "Hey, Filthie! I see you've finally gotten that demotion you deserved so much, HAW HAW HAW!!! So...? Where's my stuff?" I did the face/palm thing. Such is the life of the shipper/receiver. I had just sent thousands of dollars of equipment out the door with some possibly extraterrestrial vibrant with no idea where it went. It could be headed out to the next solar system over for all I knew! The signature was unreadable. In addition, my customer was in a panic to lay hands on that material, and we would have to re-do the order to get him out the door in a timely fashion. If this went bad, I had just cost the company northwards of $30,000.00!

When I explained that the perp might be working at the same job Devlin was on he gets on the phone to Sean at DEF Inc. "Let me see if we can't straighten this out Filthie....Oh hello, Sean! Are you still beating your wife and kids? Good good good - say, did you send one of your clippers or wogs over to Filthie's to pick up some bolting tools? " he covers the mouthpiece and turns to me. " Was it Ickydicky Xpong from DEF that picked up?" I looked at the signature I had...I think it was written in Klingon..."Possibly..." I said.

A few more minutes and enquiries proved that I had lucked out. Devlin picked up the stuff for Sean at DEF, took it out to the job site they were both working at, swapped orders and all was well. Sometimes the good guys do win. A lot of times they don't - and that is something to remember for those of us with good jobs as we look down our nose at those that don't.  I threw in the towel and bolted from the shipping and receiving area like a scalded jackrabbit.

It's Christmas. When you're out at lunch, leave a few bucks more on the tip than you usually do for the waitress. If you're in visiting clients make sure you spare a compliment and some consideration for the clericals, shop and support guys. They do thankless jobs with crappy pay and those that do them well deserve all the care, consideration and respect that we can give them. The gods and demons of Hubris are not to be taken lightly. It's been my experience that it pays to appease them with humility and respect if possible.

And please Lord, may I never have to work in shipping and receiving again.

Manly Rights Of Passage

Uncle Bob has done some scholarly works on rights of passage and how the growing lack of them adversely affects our younger men coming up today. He did some interesting posts on that about a year ago and because I think about as fast as a rotten log can burn, I am only digesting this now.

What is a 'right of passage'? I dunno how many stories I've seen where the hero or heroine starts out as a child - goes through some life-changing and often traumatic event - and emerges as a man or a woman. How does that work? Now that I turn my meagre intellect on it - this is nothing new. I never went through any right of passage. Fact is I'm 51 years old now and I still haven't grown up! By the time I get around to it - assuming Darwin or Murphy don't pot me first - I'll probably be lawn food!

What is a right of passage?

A lot of the most interesting bloggers I follow come from 'the wrong side of the tracks' like Uncle Bob. I grew up on a hobby farm run by middle/upper middle class parents and never wanted for anything. Others are patriots like Wirecutter and Brad Torgersen that have done time in the military and have seen the human animal at it's best and worst. Still others are guys like BW that are intrepid explorers or hobbyists that are interesting and engaging people. What rights of passage made those guys the men they are?

A hobby farm is hardly the place for a young man to test himself or define his limits. I suspect my childhood home was much like Chicken Mom's. We had dogs, horses, chickens and a garden, and Mom and Pop kept the property neat as a pin.

 

Chickens on the deck!? If you drop your bubblegum you are best advised to leave it. Do not ask me how I know this.

I had a bunch of bantam chickens and a few Rhode Island Reds and Barred Rocks. The hatcheries gave the breeds fancy names like "Red Sussex" and "Plymouth Rocks" and the hell of it was that they were not only good egg layers, they were also personable and charming as hell. If you had lunch at the picnic table in the back yard, my birds would invite themselves and had no issues with picking at whatever was on your plate, or pecking at your shins below the table to get handouts or attention.

It was an idyllic way to grow up. One day, when I was 12 or 13 I came home to find the neighbour's huskies in our yard. We didn't have a dog of our own at that point, nobody tied theirs up in our subdivision - so I often confiscated the neighbours' dogs for the day to play with and returned them at night. It wasn't unusual to find them waiting for me at the bus stop after school. These dogs belonged to the new yuppy neighbours in the grandest acreage in our subdivision around the bend. The dogs were usually friendly as could be but that day - they had places to be, I guess. I found out why a couple minutes later when I went out to feed the chickens and do my chores.

The dogs had gotten in to the hen house and killed every last bird I had. I was heart broken. Soon mom was out there with my big brother flapping and chattering and my brother was grumbling - and I found myself seized with a cold fury I had never experienced before. Quietly I slipped away and went in the house and pulled down Pop's shotgun. I was almost in a trance as I broke open a box of shells and put them in my pocket. Nobody noticed as walked away, down our long driveway. Excitement like this was unusual around the farm.

I found the huskies on the doorstep of their owners' house. The owners hadn't come home yet. There was a shell in the cheap single shot; all I had to do was pull back the hammer, aim, and shoot. The dogs panted and sat there unconcerned. They still had blood on their muzzles. Two shots. Easy.

I couldn't do it, of course. Dogs are foolish people at best, and these ones had not the slightest idea what they had done. Shooting them would have accomplished nothing. Sometime later the owners drove up and got out of the Benz uncertainly, wondering why the neighbour's kid was on their doorstep with a gun, petting their dogs. I let the husband take the gun, and he quickly went in the house to call my parents. His young wife almost wept when I explained that I was there to kill their dogs and my reasons for it. She asked if she could pay for the birds but I refused. I explained that tt would be a personal favour for me if she would either chain or pen her dogs up in the future though. It wasn't a lie to say some of the other landowners would have shot them on sight and thought nothing of it.

When Pop came home he was ready to tear me a new one. You don't grab guns and threaten neighbours in this family...but ironically they saved my bacon and came to my defense. They stopped by to apologize again for what had happened and explained to my Dad that I had actually conducted myself as a perfect gentleman. That day I didn't care either way - I had lost all interest in anything and grieved the way children do.

Was that a right of passage? At the time I would have said that I failed it, but now as a bigger kid looking back it was the closest I can think of coming to a real 'right of passage'. There are times when I think of the incredibly sheltered, coddled life I've led and I envy the bloggers I read sometimes. I also worry that if I ever were truly tested as those men have been...how would I fare?

The next day I was out chopping wood when I heard some clucking on the other side of the woodpile. Wedged tight in between the logs was my little bantam rooster - we called him The Boss.

 

All he needs is a pocket watch and a cigar...

 

Somehow he and a little red bantam hen had survived The Great Filthie Farm Massacre by hiding out in the woodpile while their flock was slaughtered. Ironically they were the first two chickens we ever had too - 'borrowed' from good friends. It must have been hell for the poor things.

 

We eventually got more chickens. The Boss and the little red hen were later 'chicken napped'. One day after school I came home to find the neighbour's little girl headed down our driveway with her wagon in tow. On board, she had The Boss, the little red hen and a few other bantams in rolled up paper grocery bags. She was about four or five and wasn't really aware that she was stealing - but I had her wait, grabbed a few boxes and put the birds in those - and sent her on her way. I was older now, and chickens were just chickens and not pampered pets. Those birds would be better off with her than me, I reasoned. Her father was furious when he later tried to return them and my Dad refused to take them. It was the start of a good friendship between the men and I suppose I had played a part.

 

Was that a right of passage? What is a right of passage? Did you have one...?

Lesiure Suit Larry VS The Amazing Lesbian

I love this time of year at work. Except for on the roads, everyone is happy. They are working steadily along, looking forward to the holidays and some of the less work-ethically-inclined (like Yours Truly) are doing as little as possible as they savour and enjoy the season. It was on just such a day, decades ago with the office phones unusually quiet, and the snow drifting down outside the office window - that I was taking my ease and enjoying some Solitaire time on the computer. Back, then, that was a big thing along with Minesweeper and the other standard Microsoft games every computer had. It wasn't to last; a phone rang, and my hero and role model - Lesiure Suit Larry - began flapping his gums at 100 MPH as he cheerily gabbed with his customer. And dammit, the phone rang again and I did the same.

After hanging up I had to go out back to check stock or fill an order while Larry babbled at the front office phone. He had his back to me, and I was feeling unusually prick-ish that day - so I gave him a dirty cheap shot in the kidneys for fun and amusement. I didn't even see his elbow as it shot up into my face.

Stars exploded behind my eyes. My brain flipped 360 degrees in it's pan, and the next thing I know there are tweety-birds circling above along with orange stars, green moons, and purple horse shoes. Larry turned around, stunned. "Excuse me Nick, but I think I just killed the inside salesman, NYUK NYUK NYUK!!!"

Holding his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, Larry said "Sorry about that, Junior, my reflexes are a little on the fast side and I didn't have time to think..."

"S'alright," I croaked, "You hit like a girl, I didn't feel a thing..." I found my glasses and tottered off to my office. Next thing I know Larry was hovering over me, lightly slapping my face. Apparently I had managed to collapse into my office chair...and had started to bleed. "Well, ya don't look concussed," Larry gabbled, "How many fingers am I holding up...?"

"Fuggoff," I replied.

Lighting a cigarette, Larry passed over a box of Kleenex for me to shove up my nose and told me the story of his lightning fast reflexes and how he came to develop them. What follows is likely bullchit, embellished and made worse by Yours Truly... but it makes for a fine story for a lazy day as we lead up to Christmas...

-----------------------

Larry was a graduate of the Northern Alberta Institute Of Technology, or NAIT as we call it here - Buiness Administration. Even then, the course was widely regarded as the perfect ticket for girls that wanted to go to school to meet a man, and guys that wanted to feel like they would be big wheels one day but would likely just end up being washed up salesmen of one type or another.

Upon graduating Larry found that all the jobs for high-fallutin yuppie corporate execs had been taken and that the oilpatch really didn't have much respect for the suit guys. Larry DID have talents that his fellow graduates didn't. He LOVED to work, he LOVED to talk, he LOVED to wheel and deal...and he could fight if the situation called for it. He was a tall, skinny man in the body, but with thick, ropey arms and he was pretty strong. Women went dippy around him. So it was that he started bouncing at a local bar at the Riviera Hotel.

In those days the Cabaret was the 'in' way for young men to meet women, see and be seen, or sink a pint or two with buds. There was seldom any trouble at these events so Larry learned how to tend bar, do short order cookery and even serve beers. Wherever he went he was loud, boisterous and assertive and soon found himself the 'Night Club Manager'. The Riv had a big problem in those days. The Cabaret was getting old. New hot spots were opening and the new club, Barry T's - was kicking ass and cutting into their business. His mandate was to clean up the hotel's nightclub, make it respectable AND profitable. The Riv was getting old even in those days.

The new rules were simple. You were there for a good time. You didn't fight, you didn't do drugs, and you treated the women with respect or you got pitched out on your ass. Larry approached the new FM radio station, K97,  for advertising. They were brought in to supply the music, the media personalities were expected to attend and he got off to a helluva start. On his opening night there was only one incident: the famous Chuck Chandler (host of Disco Days) showed up and was wired on whatever his dealer had sold him earlier that day! Chuck was quickly isolated, and quietly escorted out the door by Larry's cohort in crime, known only as Steadman.

Where Larry "could take care of himself in a fight" - Steadman ENJOYED it. He had been sent to the hospital more than once and had sent his opponents there too. Rumour was that one day he wanted to be a cop. He took his fighting and the law very seriously and was considered a 'professional' bouncer at the time. Harmless guys like Chuck were handled and dispensed with gently but firmly. The tougher rig pigs and rail roaders took a little more persuasion. Larry presided over all the mayhem, hustle and bustle with his usual cheery demeanour and was a man within his element. Steadman dispensed with the tougher customers and often Larry chipped in to help just as he did with the waitresses, cooks and bar tenders. Everyone had fun when Larry was around. A couple of radio stations tried to head hunt him but Larry refused. He was the young man's version of The Big Wheel.

One day, Larry was flapping his gums and flirting good naturedly with the girls and poking fun at their guys when Steadman came up and pulled him away. "We gotta problem, boss."

Across the dance floor, a couple of hard looking women had walked in. One of them was quite large and obviously a big, imposing bull-dyke. "So what," Larry says, "A couple of carpet-munchers. What are they gonna do? Unless they get stupid, their money is as good as anyone else's. Relax."

"Not these ones, Larry. That big one is a problem. She's the one that cut up Finn a couple weeks back. Her schtick is to come in, start leering and pawing at the girls and provoke the shit out of their boy friends. When they stand up - she cuts them...". Finn was one of Larry's part timers, and had gotten an obscene number of stitches from an unruly woman with a knife one night when Larry was off. It was one for the books - women typically didn't knife guys in the bar. The perp was never found and Steadman seemed to be the only witness besides Finn and the perp herself. "Oh crap," Steadman cursed, "Here we go!" Across the dance floor, voices were raised, male and female, chairs toppled as the combatants stood to square off - and Steadman was already moving.

 

Watch out! She'll bend ya over and make ya bark like a pig...!!!!

"I'll take this one straight on, Larry - you keep her hags and tire-biters off me and jump in if the skank gets lucky...!" And seconds later, he was in between the guy and his gal - and the meanest, ugliest woman either had ever seen. "Let's everyone cool it," Steadman said in a calm,low tone, "I know the barkeep, he'll refill the spilled drinks, no charge, and everyone backs off and nobody gets hurt...let's keep it civil and try and have a good time here...".

But the "lady" would have none of it. "This doesn't concern you tough guy," she said, "Clear out now and you won't get hurt...". Steadman set his feet, and growled "Last chance  chickie..."

He barely dodged the first flash of steel. "Bitch has a blade!" someone shouted. Several things happened at once: Larry tied up two of the lesbos, Steadman dodged another swipe and came back with a round house and laid his assailant flat out! An onlooker got the 'knife'...one of those old 1970's era afro combs. The handle had been sharpened and stropped to a mean razor's edge. "Put that in my office," Larry ordered, and call the cops right now! Everyone else relax! She's alright, me and my cohort in crime will escort the lady out, and as for you," he said, pointing at her companions, "You had better hustle. The cops are on the way. Steadman, help me take out the trash!" They both got a shoulder under each of the dazed woman's arms and quickly hustled her out. Behind them, the music started again, people started to relax and talk - and the night life resumed as if nothing had happened.

Once they got outside Larry said " Chit! What are we gonna DO with her, Steadman? We just can't throw her on the sidewalk for the cops..." Steadman told Larry to hold the groggy woman while he slipped out from under her arm, and went over to a nearby dumpster and opened the lid. Then he came back and said "Gimme it."

"Jesus Christ, Steadman! You're NOT going to throw her in the bloody dumpster!!!"  And with that, Steadman took her weight up on his shoulders and heaved her into the dumpster! Inbound police sirens could be heard wailing as they pulled into the parking lot. "Cripes, Steadman!!! What am I gonna tell the bloody cops?!?" Larry gobbled.

Slamming the lid, Steadman said, "You'll figure something out." and went back into the hotel to clean himself up. Seconds later, red and blue lights flashed over the evening scene, and Larry found himself front and centre in the spotlight of the squad car headlights.

"Son of a whore," Larry said to himself as he turned to face the cops.

---------------------------

 

"What a bunch of crap!" I said sarcastically. "YOU beat up Chuck Chandler? THE Chuck Chandler From Disco Daze? Were batshit crazy lesbians even invented yet? You lie like a sidewalk, you stupid old gas bag!" I scoffed.

 

 

"Well if that's gonna be your attitude, after I shared a deeply personal and significant life experience, you can just pack up your stuff and go home! There's blood all over your shirt, the phones are pretty quiet, and I will handle the office today. Are you okay to drive, you wuss...?" Such was Larry's way of giving me a day off.

 

I can't remember what I did with my time off that day, but I will always remember sitting in that office as Larry spun his tale, and I listened like a kid to a bedtime story. It was likely the best elbow smash to the face I ever got in my life.



Understanding Christmas

Even 40 years ago we could all see it. Christmas was turning into something it wasn't meant to be. The stupid, sappy Christmas cartoons came out admonishing kids to remember what the occasion was for and to take the time to remember the less fortunate. It was largely ignored, the kids got hyper and crazy, the adults stressed out - and of course something very special was lost in the hype and shuffle.

Years ago I said 'to hell with the lot of it!' and I've never looked back. When Christians are quietly reminding everyone to keep Christ in Christmas...I hear them now, although I am not a particularly religious man. It's a good message.

The snow is falling softly here in Edmonton and it is beginning to look like Christmas, but with two weeks to go...they're already driving like assholes out there. Road rage rules in the parking lots of the malls. One of my neighbours around the corner rented a man lift to decorate a 30 foot spruce tree in his front yard. It looks great but jeez - what a pain in the ass! I started buying gift certificates and giving the kids money. Shopping? With the crazed homicidal masses? Bah! Humbug!!!

For us this Christmas is going to be very, very special. It will be a day trip to some nameless town just to walk around and get the dogs out. Then, if I can snag an invite, supper will be with these guys:

 

Dad would be the drunk with the glasses, Mom would be the one pocketing the silverware, and I have some athletic younger friends that closely resemble Mr.&Mrs. German Shepherd...

In the hustle and bustle of the holiday sometimes we get so caught up looking after others that we sometimes forget to take care of ourselves. Hopefully your Christmas is stress and pain free. If it isn't - you're doing it wrong! Stop it and start having fun!

Life's Regrets

 

I shoulda bought one when I was in my 20's and miled it out.

 

 

Courtesy of the current economic chit show in the oil and gas industry, combined with the help of the clueless bungholes of our ruling NDP Party - one of my favourite oilfield customers lost his job awhile back in the fall. Apparently he bought a BMW 1200 GS and headed south to unwind and savour his unemployment and freedom. I hear he's somewhere in south of Arizona and is probably in Mexico by now. Sigh. Contrary to appearances that thing is not a dirt bike. It's more aptly described as a 'dirt ROAD bike' ... but I still want one even though my back and butt couldn't take more than a couple hours on that monster.

 

 

 

This is a mistake that I may very well live to make...

 

 

This is a Pietenpol Aircamper. You can't buy these, they are built from plans from wood, wire and fabric. Designed in 1928, the original engines came from Ford Model A's. This one has a Continental or Lycoming engine that is probably making 65 HP and burns around 5 gallons per hour. It's the perfect ride for buzzing cows and landing in grass fields. These were popular with Alberta farmers back in the day when roads were an iffy proposition.

 

 



 

All rise! Judge Filthie Is Presiding...

Damnation. I woulda, coulda shoulda bought one of these back in the early 80's. The one I was looking at was used and the owner wanted a whopping $3800.00. To buy that beast today I think you could easily be looking at six figures. Of course, had I bought it, my close life long business associates, Darwin and Murphy would have wanted to go for a joy ride and I probably would have wrapped it around a telephone pole!

I suppose some things in life are better left undone - so at least you can live to regret them.

Saturday Night Shaker With The Nerds

Well the party was SUPPOSED to be at Uncle Bob's but he still hasn't cleaned the place up since me and the boys from Metallica trashed it a couple weeks ago. All we did was rip out the walls, set the place on fire and have a minor food fight...but Bob is mired in self pity. I think that smokin' hot old cougar he was banging gave up on him too...

 

I wonder if Pastor Peter and the Reverend Horton Heat are professional peers...? Perhaps Horton can cheer up Uncle Bob...

Some Mad Geniuses have been by lately - thanks for stopping by! I guess the party is here tonight...perhaps our esteemed friends from the lofty towers of intellect and principle will help me put the beers out?

 

Amateurs. Bring me a funnel, some lighter fluid and some liquid nitrogen! Watch THIS, you pikers...

 

 

Looks like there are a few additions to the blog roll in the works. Apologies in advance to those selected.

In Which The Pastor Takes Filthie To The Woodshed

 

Nothing to see here, folks - just a bunch of nerds ganging up on one of their own and giving him a great big wedgie! Move along!

 

 

 

...garglegarglegargleargle....GAH!

I said it before, I'll say it again. Peter is a good guy. He's done things I WISH I had the gumption and ability to do. I dunno WHERE he gets the idea that I am dirty and crass from...but I noticed even from childhood that others have made the same mistake with regards to my character and  vocabulary. Can you imagine my chagrin???

I also admit I misjudged Pete. I thought he was an incorrigible old hippy bastard like Uncle Bob with no redeeming qualities whatsoever, who seems to think we sacrifice our kids to meaningless wars for fun and amusement, and as a means of appeasing our inner ape and savage tendencies. What? Why, thank you, Pastor...I do believe I will have another bar of soap, please....

Peter dispenses with me and my arguments thusly:

““We used to be a balanced people. We used to be true to our values, but now we’re willing to betray our values because of a sense of fear? That’s not American. What the hell happened to that America I immigrated to?”

And

"I think the situation was put in a nutshell in the film ‘Gettysburg’, based on the novel ‘The Killer Angels’ by Michael Shaara. Character Buster Kilrain comments: “”Any man who judges by the group is a pea-wit. You take men one at a time.”
That says it all, right there"

Such is the source of my intemperance. I have a deal for our good pastor: I will dispense with my intemperance when he dispenses with his sanctimony.

A.

I am no coward. Let us dispense with that right up front, sir. I was at the controls of an ultralight aircraft when the engine crapped out and did a controlled crash in a field of standing canola. People usually get hurt or killed and I took my little airplane in with the cold hearted detachment any F18 pilot would recognize and approve of. I didn't stop flying that thing until the wreckage stopped moving.

Further, I am 51. At my age I am looking at cholesterol, high blood pressure, prostate cancer, and all the other weapons in the Reaper's arsenal...and all I can do is smile. When you're number is up and God calls you home ... you go. Why fear the inevitable?

I know my own heart, and I know I am not craven. Bullies are likewise cowards - and I refuse to indulge in that behaviour as well. I am not offended by liberal internet morons that accuse me of cowardice, they are less to me than the mud on my boots - but it bothers me when a man like Peter does it.

B.

I read in France they have busted three mosques so far. They've already found HUNDREDS of guns. How many assault rifles do you and your eeeeeeeevil Christian conservatives stockpile in the church, Peter? Are you seriously going to sit there and tell me this is the work of a few rancid individuals with poisoned minds? I'm sorry, boys, but I will not be swayed with this sort of poorly thought out rhetoric.

In the media, from Al Jazeera to TIME Magazine, you can see pictures of tens of thousands of yodelling moslem mudflaps screeching about death to America, Israel, and Britain. If the hundreds of terror attacks a year, with thousands of victims don't convince you that these animals mean business, then the pics of tens of thousands of them screaming for American blood won't either. Shame on you, pastor - for this is the stuff of public record.

 

Relax, everyone. He's one of us...!

 

Just who, exactly, are the cowards here? I suppose I should be happy that Pete is at least questioning himself on this. Look - I know what Peter is trying to say. I know what his point is. I know that war is dehumanizing and wasteful. But who is the coward here? The bully, or the victim that won't stand up to him?

 

Ferchrissakes, hippies. ALL WARS ARE ABOUT MONEY AND POWER. Deal with it. And yes, it is distasteful to think about risking your life or those of your kids in a war over coins and power players who sit safely behind the scenes playing us like pawns. I get it.

 

 

But here in the real world, the guy controlling the money and power is of vital importance to us. That mutt in the pic above is not a lone nutbar. Swarms of mutts just like him have turned the middle east into a desolate, fly blown God forsaken cesspit. And now, large numbers of them are here in the west doing the same thing that made their homelands suitable for animals and that's it.

 

Are you going to tell me Peter, that you can take this mutt from a land where his fellows decapitate TODDLERS - and that he'll be a model citizen as soon as he sets foot in the west? Vox Day prattles about idiots and 'Magic Dirt'. If you are giving men like that ammo for his arguments you SHOULD be questioning yourself. You know what the kids are calling us because of guys like you, Peter?

 

Cuckservatives.

 

Sure, you may laugh and airily dismiss such juvenile name-calling... so why do you go weak in the knees when some moslem monkey calls you a racist?

 

Who's more the craven of us, again?

 

How I Survived The War Of The Sexes - Epilogue

Shortly after the turn of the last century, the Battle Of The Sexes had become all-out trench warfare for a lot of stupid people with weaponized politics and out-house pop science and studies. Diseased minds unleashed weapons of ass destruction that turned the sexual landscape into a no-man's land. Divorce rates sky rocketed, marriage rates tumbled - and we now have two generations of men and women that honestly think a healthy, classical marriage isn't possible or even desireable.

Survival is a matter of definition I suppose. For my wife and I the battles raged all around us and eventually, when members of your own family are affected...it's only a matter before YOU are affected too.

My mother and father in law were Baptists when I first met them. But life had a few kicks for them too, I suppose. My father in law is not a weak man - but he's stupid. He's so stupid that he lets his idiot wife think for him and he defers to her as the head of his family. She was never that bright to begin with but the death of her youngest son (a heart condition the lad was born with)  hurt her deeply. So much so, she threw out her faith... and her morals and ethics accidentally went along with it. Having such a woman as head of a household is never a good thing. Call me a chauvinist - I could care less - but women aren't meant to carry loads and responsibilities like that, and the loss of a son would have made the job that much harder. Without faith, that family's morals and ethics and even realities all inverted...and they became lesser people because of it.

They seemed to latch on to us and cling closer than I was really comfortable with. I clashed bitterly with them in dealings involving my daughter. They felt their roles as grandparents trumped our roles as parents. They often got between me and my daughter and pushed their inverted (pardon me, ahem - "enlightened") morals and ethics at my daughter. She of course, was suffering the even more degenerate and inhumane aspects of the sexual war with the advent of mainstreamed homosexuality. She was busy creating and unleashing demons of her own.

My brother divorced and remarried. My wife's brother did the same. I hardly noticed them because my immediate problems were the outlaws and my daughter - but other families were coming apart at the seams too.

Last summer I figured it had been four years since our family split up - maybe I could patch things up with my inlaws and maybe eventually my daughter. Maybe...just maybe...they would be ready to listen to me. We invited them over for coffee. I apologized and tried to eat some harsh words I had thrown out. My mother in law graciously accepted it. Then I explained exactly why I was angry and said those words, and told them that I wanted the family back together again - but they would have to mind their place in my home and my family. My mother in law was NOT the head of my family; my father in law was no longer going to get between me and my daughter, and the new laws were as follows... ...and they didn't hear a word I said. A couple of weeks later they were stirring the pot between me and my daughter like they always did. Old scars split, old wounds re-opened and I couldn't take it anymore.

A couple weeks ago we almost came to be victims of this insidious, perverted sexual war too. I sat back and took stock: my homosexual daughter was an abject failure. There's no nice way to say it. For me to get along with the family, I would have to invert reality as they did and pretend my daughter wasn't a failure - but a huge success! Because homosexuality, dontchya know. Not only that, but I would have to accept her along with my mother in law as my moral and intellectual superiors. I would have to respect my father in law who had only contempt and derision for me because I wouldn't bow down to his wife. I was faced with a family that was living in such a way that they defied their own biology, 250,000 years of human evolution...and common sense...and I was expected to either go along with it or get lost. They have been daring me to do just that for years now.

Nobody was surprised when I flipped them the bird, but they were shocked and hurt when I asked my wife to come with me. She could go with them, or come with me but she could not do both. No way would I ever allow my family to do to her what hers had done to me and it had to stop once and for all. I think I narrowly won that coin toss.

The casualties in our family feud will do alright. My in-laws have money and treated their remaining son like a king. He'll probably reciprocate. They have family that they DO respect and they will do well with them in their final years. My daughter? Phew! Who knows? While she lived with us I did manage to instill a work ethic that she can activate any time, and I suppose brattiness, laziness and immaturity, unlike homosexuality - is easily cured. She will find her truth eventually, just as we found ours - but lord, the costs she will pay in the process will dwarf ours. Oh well...we're all adults, right?

Right?

My wife was heart broken but she handled it like a solid, beautiful old world woman that my Grandmother would heartily approve of. I think her grandmother would too. She will do splendidly, she has found a small church group comprised of some truly wonderful people. I may join them on occasion if they'll have me. As for me - for the first time in a long, long time...I feel like a man again, and better yet - a husband. On the wrong side of 50...I love my wife now just as I did when we were teens and she took my hand and heart as if she owned them both. I suppose she does.

 

The road we're on is old, rough in places and long...and it's been a helluva ride at times...but the scenery is truly spectacular. I love you, sweetheart.

May you survive YOUR road and battles ahead too.