As they say, you can't make this stuff up.
He had a girlfriend? This fat fuck stuck in a chair for two years with maggots swarming him had a girlfriend?
A morbidly obese man is dead after he was found fused to a chair that he had been stuck on for two years.
The 43-year-old man from Bellaire, Ohio, was discovered unconscious on Sunday by his girlfriend.
Emergency crews had to pry him free, as his skin was stuck to the recliner with urine, feces and maggots.
Local reports say one officer threw away his uniform because the conditions were so putrid.
I don't have a girlfriend. And now I remember why:
Women be fucking crazy.
One hundred years ago today the U.S. Army adopted the Colt Automatic Pistol designed by John Moses Browning as their official sidearm. Designated the Automatic Pistol, Caliber .45, M1911, it remained the Army's official sidearm until its replacement by the Beretta 92F 9mm in 1985.
I'd show you a picture of my 1911, but technically it doesn't exist. If it were to exist, however, it would look like this:
Except mine has a combat hammer.
Browning, of course, also created the Colt-Browning Model 1895 gas-operated machine gun, the Browning 50-caliber machine gun, the Browning Automatic Rifle, and the Browning Auto-5 shotgun.
Obviously a racist.
H/t Ace for the reminder.
For anyone who doesn't hit American Digest at least twice a day: you are short shrifting yourself. Gerard is a mad genius, with a work ethic I can only
hate his guts for admire.
I don't normally pimp other writers because, well, because I am an arrogant, self-serving bastard, that's why. It's all about me, usually.
I'll make an exception here. Fly thee hence, or whatever the phrase is. Now I shall go back to contemplating my own navel, and its inherent awesomeness.
I live on a very small island off the coast of Georgia. The order of business here is decay. From the overwhelming Spanish moss (Nature's depressant) to the tumbling of live oak leaves in the spring it is a thrombotic thing. Most hardwoods lose their leaves in the fall. Not live oaks. While you see the rebirth of life in the azaleas and dogwoods and redbuds, you also see death when the live oaks shudder, and free themselves of dead leaf. One cannot keep them swept, or under control. One merely abides.
Decay. As I said, it is the order of the day. You cannot escape it. Rot. Ruin. Giant fucking cockroaches that fly. Pestilent sand gnats. Rapacious mosquitoes. Rats that could eat a cat. Oppossums and raccoons the size of little ponies.
Why would I stay here? Well, for the same reason the denizens of Fargo and Minneapolis stay there, buried under snow and sleet. It's what you know, and you love it for what it is.
Down here we call it the hurtch. Painful, but too painful to leave behind.
Did I mention I am surrounded by faggots? Aye. But faggots, like fences, make for good neighbors. They bring me wonderful foodstuffs, and in turn they sleep well at night knowing I have enough firepower to blow the fucking shit out of anyone who would dare trespass on their soil. I am their knight-errant.
It's synergy, man. It's like fucking symbiosis. Who is the host, and who is the parasite? It doesn't really matter. We're all a little bit of both, at the end of the day.
I'd love to say how much I miss Elizabeth Taylor, but unfortunately I am reminded of a comment my mother made when Liz and Burton remarried about 1975. Now, they were both off my radar at the time, me being a teenager, but my mother, never known to cast aspersions upon others, sniffed, and said Who gives a damn. She's a fat whore and he's a pox-scarred drunk. Those words stayed with me. Longer than the buzz I was covertly experiencing at the time, at any rates.
For perspective, Mom may have been internalizing her own marriage. But I could never take the two actors seriously again. And, of course, this was vitiated when Burton muttered, two years later, in Exorcist 2: The Heretic:
Fuck. Nobody can overcome an acting job like that. What's that Johnny Cash lyric? And the liquor was strong...
Anywhats, Bless her soul. And I did like Burton in The Wild Geese when he looked in the camera and said I'm dry when I work. Now that's acting.
Introducing the John Lennon Special Edition Mont Blanc Writing Instrument.
Twenty years ago every grasping wannabe in my corporation sported a Mont Blanc. They couldn't quite yet afford the Benz, but it was their way of saying I have arrived.
I cannot tell you how much ill will and enmity I created on those occasions when I interrupted a passionate (read: contentious) meeting by saying I cannot believe you expect me to take you seriously when you value your worth by wearing a fucking one hundred and fifty dollar ink pen in your shirt pocket. What were you thinking, moron?
And, no, that attitude ultimately did not work out to my betterment.
Anyway, now even Lennon is being given the treatment. Not that he probably didn't have a few, but he was likely unaware his pampered staff had treated themselves to a dozen.
A John Lennon Mont Blanc. Get the fuck outta here.
There's an old joke, where a guy moves to the mountains. His neighbor invites him to a party.
There will be dancing, he is warned. To which the man agrees.
There will be drinking, he is warned. To which the man agrees.
There will be fighting, he is warned. To which the man agrees, with obvious qualms.
There will be fucking, he is told. To which the man agrees, assuming the obvious fact that women will be available.
When the hillbilly is leaving he asks "What should I wear?"
And the hillbilly says, "It don't matter. Just gonna be you and me."
I think about that joke from time to time. Especially after having just taken Puddyhead on a camping foray to George L. Smith State Park. Christ, what a thing. I thought he understood the nature of central Georgia. I can only say at least he wasn't taken bait. Although in the wee hours I offered him up to The Boys. They declined, I assume from spent drunkenness. Lucky for Pud, especially because he was all dronked up too, and fair game in these parts.
It's self-preservation down here, dammit. Every man for himself. I packed a pistol.
More to come. I just need a few legal releases.
I certainly feel for the people of Japan, but I'm sorry: I can't see anyone in a cleanroom suit anymore without picturing them country linedancing.
Very creepy, but like all things creepy, strangely compelling to me.
Who first coined the term "blood and treasure" to convey our expenditures in the Afghanistan and Iraq wars? It has become such a trope I find myself gagging every time I see it. Opiners on both sides of the divide are constantly reminding us of the blood and treasure and lives and treasure expended in the wars.
Look here: it ain't fucking treasure. It's just tax dollars. Treasure is found in a pirate's chest, or a king's counting house. What we've spent of these wars is a drop in the bucket compared to Medicaid expenditures.
To call these sums "treasure" not only cheapens the term, it implicitly affirms we are spending our very birthrights and souls fighting these scoundrels.
Repeat after me: it ain't fucking treasure. And the next person who lobs that hackneyed term about will get an earful from me.
The blood? Now that's accurate enough.
I am increasingly disposed to the notion that Obama will not run again in 2012. He'll pull an LBJ.
Why? Well, why should he? The world is in turmoil, he has no answers, nor does he seek any. He fancied this a backslapping job. Surrounded by sycophants, and the world's most incredible perquisites. It is that, but it is so much more. More than he reckoned upon.
Obama can regretfully choose not to run, and his immediate benefits (not only as of January 2013, but considerably before) will kick in. He will pretend to run this month, and exit gracefully just prior to the New Hampshire primaries. Win-fucking-win.
A new book, millions upon millions on the speaking tour. Actually, he'd be an idiot to run again. His gut ain't in it, and he just isn't suited to the job. He may have been naive, but he's not stupid.
He's out. Not yet, but as soon as he gets a bit of pressure from party wannabees. I say January, but it may be earlier.
The boy just didn't have any game. Even he knows that now. The same reason he sat on the bench in high school. He's, basically, a pussy. And he just got the clue bat.
Puddyhead has always wanted to be a rapper. He debuted his new stuff at Deb's Bar & Grill last night. It was impressive, although I'm not sure Low T is the best moniker out there.
Here's another one of those damnable Facebook party games. I really don't care for Facebook, because I just don't get it. I regret joining, but it is a convenient forum to excise my bile when I'm away from my computer and don't feel like HTMLing from a fucking cell phone.
I don't care to figure out how to earn coins and such so I can find out who said what about me!!!!
I did answer a few questions, and threw everyone under the bus. I suspect this is a diabolical ploy by Zuckerberg to get everyone so pissed off that they unfriend each other, et voilà! Reboot! Facebook 2.0!
I will say this: whoever said they would not trust me with their life? You're right. I admire your keen insight into my nature, by the way, and would like to take you to Vegas. Or the surrounding desert environs. Putz.
Yes, he's back on the sidebar. This is not so much a testament to resurrection as it is an acknowledgement of blood pressure issues.
...for acting like a lovestruck teenager..."
These stories, while activating my gonads, are never as cool as they seem. Yes, she is a lesbian. No, she is not hot. Another cyberchase that foundered on the rocks.
I apparently have nothing but time on my hands. Here's Ian Gillian shredding his pipes, and Ritchie Gilmore shredding his Fender.
Tull. From the Rolling Stones' 1968 Rock & Roll Circus. Because my generation should share the Charlie Manson vibe with everyone.
I woke up at 5 of the clock, and poured my obligatory Inver House. Once the sun came up I began plinking my cardboard target with my Crosman Marksman wrist rocket slingshot. My shots were errant, owing to the fag-assed pocket Crosman inbued this slingshot with, but I hit about 33% of my shots.
If I were a major league baseball player that would be pretty good. But I'm not. I'm a guy with a slingshot in his backyard. With a Scotch.