25 November 2015

A Thursday, Some Years Ago

Standing at the bus stop this morning, 6:40 am, waiting for the #5, just like I always do.  It’s still dark out. I’m caught off guard by the weather. . .it’s colder than I thought it would be.  A lot colder.  I just have a little sweatshirt jacket.  This sucks.  Why am I standing out here, freezing, just to go to some shitty job?  A line from a movie runs through my head:

My life? There's nothing to it. It's the story of a sorry chump. The story of a man like so many others, as common as can be.

Sorry chump. . .like so many others.  Amen.

I ruminate over this, as I slowly freeze.  I see little pictures from my life. There’s Kirsten, unfolding a shirt I’d just folded, and then re-folding it, her way.  A lesser man, that is, a lesser sorry chump, might have given her a beating. . .or worse.  Me?  To this day, I still fold the laundry her way.

The story of a sorry chump. . .I was ruminating over this when a shitty-looking little car pulls over right next to me at the bus stop.  I’ve been riding buses longer than most of the losers on this shitty planet have been alive, and this has never happened to me before.  I can hear some shitty music coming from inside the shitty-looking car.  The passenger window goes down.  The shitty music assaults my ears.

“YOU WANT A RIDE?” the driver shouts.

It sounds like a girl.  Or a woman.  Whatever you want to call them.  I look in.  Too dark.  Can’t tell if it’s ugly or what.  But, Hell, what kind of chick would pull a stupid stunt like this?  Gotta be nuts or trying to pull some scam.

“No, thanks,” I say.

The nut or the scammer drives off, the shitty music trailing in the wind.

I see little pictures from my life: There’s Jerry, my moron boss.  “Can you start using those little ‘Sign Here’ stickers on your paperwork?  I don’t have time to search through these documents looking for the signature line.  I just want to be able to go right to the line and be done with it.”  There’s me, walking over to Sandra’s cube, Sandra, Jerry’s admin.  “You got any of those ‘Sign Here’ stickers?”  There’s me, the sorry chump, sticking the stickers on the fucking paperwork.  The story of a sorry chump.

The shitty-looking little car pulls up again.  Down goes the passenger window.  I hear that same shitty music again. . .it sounds like something Lynyrd Skynyrd might have done, after they had drank a gallon or two of human blood.


Where’s that bus, anyway?  It should have been here by now.  I’m a sorry chump, I think.  What have I got to lose?  I open the door.  The dome light shines.  Sometimes you’re the windshield. . .most times you’re the bug.  She’s ugly.  I look down the street.  Still no bus.  It’s cold.  I get in.  No reason not to.

“I’M RITA!” she shouts.

Rita.  A dumb name.


I watch her reach over and hit a button on the dashboard.  Hmmn.  There’s something wrong with this picture, but I just can’t quite figure out what.  But at least it’s quiet, now.

“What was that terrible music?” I ask.

“Terrible?  I’ve never heard Black Label Society called ‘terrible’ before.”

I don’t say anything.  I enjoy the long quiet awkward pause.

She finally thinks of something to say.

“What music do you like? Maybe I have it."

What a joke.  I don’t like music, but I’m not about to get into that with Rita.

“I like opera.  You got any?”

“Opera?  Are you a professor or something?”

“Yeah.  Something. By the way, you can just drop me off at the corner of Ellsworth and Varsity.  Thanks.”

“There’s a Denny’s a little ways up.  You want to buy me breakfast?”

I laugh to myself.  Denny’s.

“I really don’t have time.  I have to be at work by 7:30.”

“You have to work on Thanksgiving?  That’s too bad.”

Thanksgiving?  Ah, shit.  I was waiting for a bus that would never arrive.  My God, it is Thanksgiving.  People must have been talking about Thanksgiving at work yesterday, Hell, all week, and it just never registered.  Man, I am too withdrawn from my surroundings.  I’m a little unnerved by my degree of disconnection.

I sit there in that shitty little car for a few seconds, totally without thought, brain-dead, nothing to process to bring me back to the here-and-now. . .a Thanksgiving Day vegetable.

Finally that line from the movie creeps back into my head.

My life? There's nothing to it. It's the story of a sorry chump.

In the movie, this guy, this fifty year old guy, just pounds on a pregnant middle-aged woman, really hammers her belly with some vicious right hands. . .and he says something like, *now your baby is hamburger meat.  He’s lucky he’ll never have to see your ugly face.*  At the end of the movie, the guy fucks his autistic daughter.  Yet he can say about himself: “The story of a man like so many others, as common—”

“Hello.  HELLO!”

It’s what’s-her-name. . .Rita. . .she must have been talking to me all this time.

“Sorry,” I say, “I nodded off for a second.  What were you saying?”

“I said it’s your last chance to buy me breakfast.  There’s Denny’s.”

We’re at a red light.  Denny’s is right past the intersection. The only reason to deny her a breakfast feast at Denny’s would be my own arrogance, which seems absurd at this point.  A sardonic chuckle passes through my brain, as I observe my Thanksgiving fate. . .Thanksgiving, the day meant to share warmth and love with family and friends, and to offer thanks to the *Higher Power*. . .Thanksgiving, the day I eat at Denny’s with an ugly stranger.


Look at this menu.  How can these concoctions be digested?  You could shit and out would come the remains of your *Moons Over My Hammy* breakfast sandwich, and it would look just the same as the menu picture.  It makes me slightly nauseous to look at these grotesque creations.  This *Fabulous French Toast Platter* is an insult to the great nation of France.  But I dare not take my eyes off the menu, lest I gaze upon Rita. . .for she is an even less appetizing dish.  She looks like one of those haggard 10 centimes whores that used to pose for Van Gogh.  

Here comes the waitress.  Rita orders something called a *Denver Scramble.*  What an insult to the great Neal Cassady.

The waitress looks at me. It's my turn.  

“Just give me a bagel and a glass of water.”

The waitress reaches for my menu.  I hold on tight.

“I can take that for you, sir,” she says

“I’d like to keep it, if you don’t mind.”

She looks at me like I’m weird, then walks away.

I stare down at the menu.  Every now and then I hear Rita cough.  I see little pictures from my life.  There’s Amy S****, in her coffin.  17 years old.  Not a tear shed for her by anybody.  Her friends just standing around, looking stupid.  Her divorced parents looking aggravated.  I see myself observing the scene there, in the funeral chapel.  All those of no value, alive, going through the motions in front of the dead treasure.  Eighteen years ago.  What a long, long eighteen years.

I look up from the menu.  There’s Rita.  Shop-worn.  Beat-up.  Eroded by life.  

“Let me ask you something,” I say.

She looks happy that I am going to talk to her.  “What?”

“What were you doing out driving around at a quarter to seven on Thanksgiving morning?”

“Nothing, really.”

Frizzy straw-colored hair.  Long chin.  Big nose.  Two day old make-up caked over acne scars.  

“Just driving around, huh?”

“I guess so,” she says.

“You’re an early bird, huh?”

“Not really,” she says.

Gee, what a conversation.  Too beaten-down to say anything of meaning.  If she ever did try to communicate, she’d probably cry. . .35, 40 years of misery come flooding out.  

A couple minutes pass by.  The food comes.

“What’s this?” I ask the waitress, pointing at a little plastic tube of cream cheese on my plate.

“It’s cream cheese,” she says.

“So it is,” I say, “so it is.  But I didn’t order cream cheese.  I ordered a bagel and a glass of water.  That cream cheese better not be on the check.”

“I’ll make sure it’s not, sir,” she says in a patronizing tone.

She fucks up, and I get patronized.  That’s America, for you.  Shoot up a fucking carload of civilians at some check-point in Iraq, and then sniff that they didn’t stop when you waved at them.  It’s the same principle with the cream cheese.

Rita gets down to business with her *Denver Scramble.*  She really can work that fork.  I watch her shovel it in.  There’s something wrong with this picture, but I just can’t quite figure out what.  I’ll say one thing for her: at least she’s not fat.  She’s probably missed a meal or two, in her day.  Gaunt, you would call her.  

“Chow’s pretty good, huh?”

She nods her head while she chews. . .then she just stops, takes a huge swallow, a little sob or a gasp or a burp or something comes up. . .tears well in her eyes. . .her face turns red.  Is she choking?  Or just crying like a fucking baby?

“I have nothing to be thankful for,” she splutters.

Just crying like a baby in her scrambled eggs.  I knew it.  I knew it would come to this.

Man, why couldn’t I remember it was Thanksgiving this morning?  The story of a sorry chump.

“It’s decent of you to come here with me,” she says, trying to regain her composure.  “There’s not much human decency left in the world.”

Human decency.  I want to laugh in the worst way.  But I hold back.  Human and decency go together like oil and water.  Even a sorry chump like me knows that.

“I guess you’ve seen your share of hard times, huh?” I ask.

She nods her head and wipes a napkin across her nose.

There’s no point in asking for the details.  Maybe somebody raped her.  Maybe somebody owes her ten dollars.  A person can only take so much.  Some can take more, some can take less.  Well, I should have been a philosopher.  

“Is there anything to be thankful for?” she asks.

There’s really only maybe two or three things you have to do in this world.  One of them is to tell the Truth.  

“Yeah, there might be something to be thankful for,” I say.

“What?” she asks, wiping her nose again.  

Something just doesn’t look right.  What is it?  I look again.  Son of a bitch, there it is.  She’s missing the little finger on her right hand.  Huh.  Huh huh huh.  What about that?  Maybe a dog bit it off.  Who knows?

I remember when I was in wood shop in high school.  Brent Anderson sawed off the tip of his pinky with a—

“What is it?  What’s there to be thankful for?” she asks.

“Oh, yeah.  Death.  A few will be thankful at death.  They will be with Christ.”

She’s stopped crying now.  Tears have all dried.  No more sad look on her face.  It was a McBreakdown.  It’s the American Way.  She eyes me with suspicion.

“It’s very simple, Rita, very simple.  Jesus said ‘I am the door: by Me if any man enter in, he shall be saved, and shall go in and out, and find pasture.’  That’s all there is.  If you can hear it, you have reason to be thankful.  If you can’t hear it, well, then this is as good as it gets: a free meal with yours truly at Denny’s,” I conclude with a chuckle.

“I wish I could believe that, but. . .”

She’s polite about it.  But, then again, she ought to be. . .it’s a small price to pay for a *Denver Scramble.*

I could tell her it’s not about her ability to *believe* it or not. . . I could say: “lady, this ain’t Ripley’s Museum. . .you either hear it or you don’t.”  But why belabor the point?  As He said: “But ye believe not, because ye are not of My sheep, as I said unto you. My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me: And I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of My hand.”

But whatever drive-thru emotional crisis that led her to seek someone out, someone she could grieve with over a plate of scrambled eggs, well, that has all passed.  She’s *normal,* again.  Ready for another day or two on the Wheel of Life.  She’s back working that fork with her four-fingered hand.  Solomon advised: “Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts.”  Strong drink, scrambled eggs: same difference.  
“Aren’t you going to eat your bagel?” she asks.

I shake my head.  “You want it?”

“Sure, if you’re not going to eat it.”

“Be my guest.”

Nothing to do now but watch her eat her fill, then pay the check.  

My life? There's nothing to it. It's the story of a sorry chump. The story of a man like so many others, as common as can be.

Wayward Pines

Wayward Pines Intertitle.png
Ha ha ha ha!  Maybe the dumbest show on television since. . .since. . .Hell, since forever. . .yes, this might be the dumbest program EVER.  It makes Knight Rider seem sophisticated.

The plot?  After some climate change shit or whatever begins to turn human beings into naked pasty-faced cannibals, a bunch of boring people are frozen for 2000 years, then thawed out to re-start civilization. . .in the middle of fucking Idaho!  Anyway, the nerd scientist who runs the New Human Revue refuses to tell the survivors the truth (they all still think it's 2015) because he tried this same human popsicle trick once before, but he told the first batch of humansicles the truth. . .and. . .they just couldn't handle the truth. . .they got all depressed and shit, a bunch of them committed suicide, and a bunch of others just started wreaking general havoc and laying waste to Wayward Pines I. . .so, anyways, the nerd scientist forces his second batch of WP humansicles to live a 1984-like existence.  Of course, some people are suspicious and try to rebel, which creates an extremely tedious subplot, which, amazingly, detracts from the ludicrous main plot, which has more holes than Charlie Sheen's immune system. {click here for rimshot}.  

And not only may this be the dumbest show ever, it's probably the worst-acted, also.  The main characters are Wayward Pines new sheriff and his wife and son. . .the son is played by somebody named Charlie Tahan, a method actor.  Unfortunately, it's the robot method. {click here for rimshot}  It's as lifeless and mechanical performance as you will ever see.  The wife is played by Robert Rodriguez pin-up girl Carla Gugino, and as for her performance, let's just say she showed greater emotional depth in Spy Kids.

The worst acting, however, is turned in by the show's *star:* Matt Dillon.  I've always thought Dillon was a horrible actor, completely tone deaf. . .but after watching Dillon puzzle over his lines episode after episode in Wayward Pines, I now believe old Matty is the worst actor in the history of acting.  There's never been an actor who has understood his character less than Dillon.  Never.  He's the dumbest actor who ever lived.  The dog in Hachi understood his character better. {click here for rimshot}  

But anyways, there is something good about Wayward Pines. . .there won't be a second season!{click here for rimshot}
[Note in the clip above how the actress can't help laughing at how absurdly melodramatically Dillon delivers the line Because Pilcher's a control freak.]

20 November 2015

The Day In Fear


People are understandably frightened. . .

Ha ha ha. . .

But yes, I suppose the sheeple are *understandably frightened*. . .they understand there will be *terror* attacks in America.  The attacks are inevitable.  Americans will die from Satanic violence.  Inevitable.  America has used violence all over the world to try to cast out her own personal *Satans.*  But violence is not the Father of Peace and Safety.  Violence breeds only violence, and sooner or later that violence will visit America, again.

Americans, after seeing a hundred or so French cut down living just as they live, fear their turn is coming, and see the bogeyman everywhere. . .they tremble, imagining a horde of dirty, smelly Syrian refugees (it doesn't matter that in *reality* hardly any have been let in) wearing bomb vests. . . 

Maybe they'll get us at the shopping mall on Black Friday?  Or at the football game on Saturday or Sunday?

What these frightened American rabbits refuse to consider is the Syrian refugees who make them quake in fear are scared rabbits themselves, having already experienced Satanic violence.  No solidarit√© for them. . .

Ha ha ha. . .here's all the solidarit√© they get from one of America's great self-proclaimed Christians:

So ends another great day in American fear. . .

19 November 2015

The Only Thing We Have To Fear Is. . .uh. . .Bearded Men

Something called The Gateway Pundit, 18 November 2015: Washington, D.C. Fox affiliate WTTG-TV reporter Emily Miller posted to Twitter Wednesday night an internal police memo on four suspicious bearded men seen at the Pentagon on Sunday. Miller said the memo from the Metro Transit Police was leaked to her by a source who thought the public should know. Photos of the men walking in the Pentagon Metro Station shows them each having beards and appearing to be Middle Eastern. Miller writes: “This is scary: Be On The Lookout alert for these men on DC metro at Pentagon. Note it was a warm on Sunday.”

Ha ha ha. . .

Ah, for the good old days of terror, when level-headed leaders like George Bush told us to stay calm and go shopping. . .

Four bearded sand niggers strolling through the metro station wearing coats on a warm (60 degrees) Sunday. . .

This is scary. . .

Here's the Twitter profile picture of our ace reporter Emily Miller:

Note the cross AND the gun. . .covering all her bases, as they say. . .

Which do you think she has more faith in?
Does Emily Miller Have More Faith In Her Savior Or Her Gun To Protect Her From Bearded Men?
Poll Maker

The Most Powerful Nation On Earth, with a $666 billion military. . .home to a nation of frightened rabbits.

I hope ace reporter Emily Miller didn't inadvertently give the *terrorists* some valuable feedback on their *dry run*. . .I mean, maybe now they'll shave and leave their coats in the closet?  Damn! And we almost had 'em!!

17 November 2015

The American Spirit

WBRZ, 17 November 15: Syrian Refugee Already Missing In Baton Rouge Area. At least one Syrian refugee that was in the process of resettling in the Baton Rouge area has already gone missing, according to a report by WBRZ. As reported earlier by the Hayride, there are another 7 Syrian refugees in Kenner and 6 more in the New Orleans area. The news may seem alarming that neither state government nor the federal government track newly-arrived refugees who have just entered the country, but it is actually not uncommon at all.

Ha ha ha!  It never ceases to amaze, the fear of the sheeple!  

Ha ha ha!  A *witches coven* of 13 raggedy-ass sand niggers in Louisiana, and one goes missing, and PANIC sets in!

Let's see, we got Amber Alerts when cute little kids go missing, what alert can we have when a Syrian refugee goes missing?

These Syrian refugees are our 21st century lepers.  Better put a cowbell around their neck, so we know where they are. . . 

Oh, yes. . .like I said, this is the 21st century.  Put a microchip in them, so we can track them and make sure they are out picking fruit, or mopping hospital floors, like they're supposed to be doing.

Better yet, let's not let anymore in:

This is what fifteen years of constant Military Media Complex propaganda does to a population: turns it YELLOW.  

Probably a majority of the America population considers itself Christian. . .

For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.

And yet there is little evidence of this spirit in America.  Instead, the sheeple exhibit a spirit of fear, weakness, hate and mental instability. . .

Shortly after Louisiana was put on Sand Alert, the missing refugee, the Destroyer of *Christian Civilization,* was found:

UPDATE: Louisiana State Police contacted the charity organization that originally resettled the Syrian refugee in Baton Rouge and were told that the individual has been settled with a family out of state. According to the charity, the individual is not missing, but has been resettled outside of Louisiana.

Ha ha ha. . .

Louisiana can breathe again. . .the missing sand nigger is now some other state's nightmare.

These type of stories expose the heart of America, even the heart of America that proclaims itself Christian:

Terror at death, terror at life outside of America's borders, terror at any existence that is not American Materialist. 

The American cannot imagine any other life to be worth living. . . 

[And certainly, as their fear of death demonstrates, they cannot even imagine their faith's promised life after death. . .]

Imagine if an American Christian had to be a refugee. . .God help him.

05 November 2015

Fukushima: The Enemy They Dare Not Name

Fukushima nuclear waste now found
off all US states on Pacific Coast
Counterpunch, 3 November 2015: As time passes, a bona fide message emerges from within the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant disaster scenario, and that message is that once a nuclear power plant loses it, the unraveling only gets worse and worse until it’s at its worst, and still, there’s no stopping it. Similar to opening Pandora’s box, there’s no stopping a ferocious atom-splitting insanity that knows no end. As it unfolds, the Fukushima story grows more convoluted and way more chilling. For example, according to The Japan Times, October 30th Edition: “Extremely high radiation levels and the inability to grasp the details about melted nuclear fuel make it impossible for the utility to chart the course of its planned decommissioning of the reactors at the plant. Thereby, the bitter truth behind a major nuclear meltdown shows its true colors: “Impossible for the utility to chart the course of its planned decommissioning…” is very definitive, divulging the weak underbelly of the fission-to-heat process; only one slip-up, and it’s deadly dangerous and likely out of control! Nobody has any idea of what to do next. There is no playbook. It’s likely impossible to do anything remedial once a melted nuclear core has burrowed into the ground because deadly isotopes uncontrollably spread erratically, ubiquitously into the surrounding underground soil and water. Then what? In the final analysis, there is a distinct probability that Fukushima has no final analysis. Reports out of Japan indicate that Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant cleanup and decommissioning is severely restricted by extremely high radiation levels and the inability to grasp the details about melted nuclear fuel. What could be worse?

The Military Media Complex loves to frighten the sheeple. . .

ISIS will chop off your head!

Dirty, smelly immigrants will shit on your lawn and rape your daughter!

So why does the Military Media Complex ignore Fukushima?  Why not feed the sheeple endless stories about the dying Pacific Ocean, the contaminated food supplies, the skyrocketing rates of thyroid cancer, etc., etc.?   Here's a monster that will be killing people for hundreds of years, long after ISIS is gone and forgotten, but the Military Media Complex, which thrives on fear, ignores it.  Why?

The reason the Military Media Complex ignores Fukushima is because it's a REAL threat. . .unlike the FAKES of ISIS, immigrants, Iran, Russia, North Korea, etc., etc.

The Military Media Complex can use ISIS and grubby immigrants to manipulate the sheeple into supporting a perpetual war economy. They can stand up these Straw Men to frighten the timid sheeple, then knock them down with their war economy toys, and repeat the process over and over and over again, in an endless cycle of corporate killers reaping the profits of the wars they sow.

And as they knock down these Straw Men, the Military Media Complex makes it appear as if it serves a necessary purpose. . .

The Military Media Complex ignores Fukushima because it is real, and there is not a God damned thing the Complex can do about it. . .and if the Military Media Complex told the sheeple the true threat of Fukushima, not only would the sheeple shit their slave labor-sewn pants, but they'd demand the Complex do something about it. . .but the Military Media Complex can't do anything about Fukushima, and to admit the threat, and admit their inability to counter the threat, would expose the Military Media Complex in the eyes of the sheeple as the profligate, ineffectual Master it is. . .

And maybe, when the sheeple realized they were being poisoned to death, and their Masters didn't warn them or marshal their resources to try to limit the harm, well, maybe then the sheeple would pick up their pitchforks and come after the Complex. . .and that's why the Military Media Complex ignores the Fukushima story.

[If you are wondering what the Fukushima story is all about, go here and start reading. . .enjoy!]