31 May 2008

Fear and Loathing in Bridgeport, Part One

Foreword. The preceding four volumes of Bile bring us up to about March of 2001. Back then, I was training a Marine Reserves Rifle Company in Bossier City, Louisiana as the active duty "inspector-instructor". My company had been mobilized about two months after the 9-11 attacks, and were securing the fenceline at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. So, you can guess that I was not doing just a whole lot, with my reserve Marines out in Cuba. Well, my boss at the time made the decision to send me and my training chief to Bridgeport, California (way up in the mountains, close to Reno, NV) with a few other battalion staff members from Houston, to do advance planning for the companies that had yet to be mobilized. What followed is a legendary story.

I got back from this little trip and immediately started typing. I had just read Hell's Angels: The Strange and Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs, by Hunter S. Thompson, so I decided to attempt something similar in tone. About a year after I wrote this I finally watched Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and was relatively pleased at my effort.

This was released as a serial, in seven parts. I will remain true to that here, and post a chapter a day. Enjoy.

Unclean


IntroductionIt began, as it often has throughout my Marine Corps career, as a simple TAD trip, a planning conference aboard the quiet little base of MWTC, Bridgeport, CA. It turned into some sort of Tolkeinesque journey to the land of fucking Mordor, 'cept I didn't have a ring, a sword, or hairy fucking feet, Chief looked nothing like Gandalf, and the Nazgul weren't warriors with fiery swords, they were fucking Blackjack dealers.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you:

Fear and Loathing in Bridgeport
Part One: Vegas to Beatty

0730, 13 March. On the Plane at Shreveport Regional.
I'm here on the plane, and my ass is killing me from the body cavity search that I received from an overweight middle-aged security guard named Wanda at Shreveport Regional Airport. Wanda loves her job. I regret commenting on her choice of hair color. I think she scratched my fucking tonsils. The stewardess asked why I keep standing in the aisle, so I keep telling her that I ran a marathon and my legs are tight. It's bullshit and we both know it, but she's polite enough to ignore the pool of blood at my feet, and has just asked me to stand next to the rear restroom so the crew chief doesn't get pissed at her and tell her to make me sit. I really appreciate it, I almost passed out during takeoff. If they make me sit down, Gunny Boynton'll have to carry me through the Houston Airport.

Gunny. Jesus, talk about anti-social. Some old-woman asked him if he was in the Navy and Guns put her in an arm bar. We had ten National Guardsmen covering us with their little M-4s, but Guns wouldn't let her up until she sung the first verse of the Hymn. It was kind of funny until Boynton rabbit punched her when she screwed up and sang "from the Shores of Montezuma, and the Halls of Tripoli". I mean shit, it was close enough for me, but Boynton kept yelling about "ungrateful fucks" and "not lowering standards". She eventually got it right, but I don't think she'll ever pitch in the major leagues again. I spoke with the Nasty Guard Lieutenant about it, but he didn't seem to follow what I was saying. As a matter of fact, he never actually answered anything I said. He just kept on about NASCAR, and drooling between his three front teeth. I expect to hear about the whole thing later. I told him my name was LtCol James J Buckley, and the guy beating up the old lady was MSgt Greg Treacy. He didn't ID me, and I wasn't offering any other information. I mentioned something about his needing to get his boys some hot chow, and got on the plane.

1200 13 March. Las Vegas, Nevada.

Guns is at it again. Some idiot walked by him and said "Hoo-Aah", and Boynton started a line training demo on the guy. He got through most of line 1 before the guy passed out completely. The guy's nose is pretty much gone, and his neck doesn't look quite right. We got here two hours before battalion is due in, and we found one of the airport bars as soon as we figured that out. I've had about three Jamesons and smoked four of Boynton's cigarettes once I rumaged through my carry-on baggage and realized that I'd left my pipe in Bossier. Boynton and I roundly cussed the bartender after she charged Gunny five bucks for a fresh pack. She protested that it wasn't her fault right before Gunny got her a good one with an open handed slap as he yelled something about "taking responsibility for one's actions". I feel like that Security Guard in Shreveport left her wrist watch up my backside. It'll be good when Maj V gets here and rents us a fucking truck. These folks are completely ignoring Boynton's abuse of this guy, I just told 'em that Boynton was a pimp and the guy tried to skip out on one of his whores without paying. The National Guard troops immediately apologized and wished us a good day, but the bartender still looks pretty pissed about the slap. I gotta remember to get Chief Hines to medicate Gunny before travel.

1300 13 March. Las Vegas, Nevada.

Four more whiskeys and I can bearly shee shtraigt. That fuckking guard defiinnately left something up there. Been flatulayting conshtantly for the last thirrteeeen minutes. Everyone else besiides me and thuh Gunnny have left the playsh. He's pissed 'caush I shmoked another nine of his shiggerettes. HA, I shaid shiggerettes, that's fucking funny...........

1500 13 March. N US Highway 95, Nevada.

We found SSgt Kirk about twenty minutes after the last entry. He was humping the leg of some really big girl like a fucking Basset Hound. I think she kinda liked it. Guns poured some cold water on him while I hit him repeatedly on the nose with a newspaper until he backed off of her. He then showed me his new telescoping fishing rod that he wants to fish with in Bridgeport, but then couldn't get it collapsed right and stood in the middle of the airport yelling "you motherfucker" at it and spitting on it to lubricate the joint that wouldn't collapse. Everyone looked at us like we were fucking nuts. I explained that he was diabetic and stuffed some sugar cubes in his mouth. That seemed to satisfy everyone. Maj V, Top Mac, and Chief Cervantes showed up about 1330. Top walked around the airport naked to the waist until Visted asked him to put a shirt on. Chief just started playing slots. The Major had some Marine Corps emblem on every stich of clothing he had on. Which was cool; until some old guy asked Guns if the Major was in the Air Force and Guns stuffed him head first into a garbage can. We waited until the baggage showed up. Everyone found theirs, and we waited until 1430 for Chief to get through gambling. He won seven-hundred fucking dollars and we found him getting a blow job from some Mamasita in a bathroom stall. He finally got his luggage, and Maj V rented the truck.

Top is driving. Kirk and I asked in the Hertz parking lot if we could stop and take a leak before we got out of town, and Top assured us that he would. However, he put it on cruise control in the parking lot, and we haven't slowed past seventy-five since then. While watching the fear on the faces of the Japanese tourists trying to get out of our way was pretty cool, I had my doubts when the Las Vegas cops chased us down 95. I think they gave up when Kirk pulled the .8 gauge shotgun out of some secret compartment of his high-speed British day pack and shot out the front tires of the lead vehicle. Kirk has threatened the MSgt with castration ten times if he doesn't stop and let us piss and eat. Top keeps laughing this maniacal motherfucking laugh that sounds like it came off of that Stephen King movie "It", while he masturbates in the driver's seat. Major V keeps looking back and talking to us so he isn't forced to acknowledge Top's self-abuse. Kirk keeps looking for cops out the back window. I'm getting a headache from the airport booze. Plus, the need to urinate has brought on acute pain in the genetalia that feels like someone has hit me in the balls with a 120 volt cable. I'd piss in my spit bottle but it's half full and Kirk just stuffed a rag in the neck, lit it on fire, and threw it at a road sign.

1600 13 March. "The Burro" restaurant. Beatty, Nevada.
Kirk has found true love. After sniffing the hostess' butt, (a woman who has pierced every flat surface of her head and neck), he seems to have clearly made a connection. Apparently, butt-sniffing is actually a courting ritual in Western Nevada. She took our drink orders and demanded immediate payment. After ordering a rare '30's vintage bottle of Madeira, Maj V told me to pay the tab. When she brought the bottle, he took two swigs, threw it into the fireplace, and bought himself a Forty of Olde English. I didn't actually see that though. I was in the bathroom, pissing for thirty seven minutes. Kirk pissed for like thirty-nine minutes before he left in tears of absolute joy. I was pretty happy m'self.

Between the bathroom and the table we found Chief on the Slots. He had just won four-hundred more dollars and was on his ninth beer. Kirk and I rolled him over to the table and found Gunny beating some teen-age boy senseless with a plastic bottle of ranch dressing. Apparently the kid asked if he was a recruiter. Top let it go on for another minute before he tossed the kid behind the lunch counter and told Guns to have a seat. I asked Top to put on a shirt again, he grumbled, but he did at least get dressed. Major V is making eyes with the she-male at the next table. Kirk apparently did not approve of the fact that the hostess had actually pierced her eye-lids; so he's left her alone and is working on the two pounds of raw hamburger that he ordered. My steak is roughly the weight and volume of a human head. I've had almost a six-pack waiting for my food, and my hangover has disappeared. The wristwatch up my ass just beeped on the hour. Hopefully, once I get this beef hindquarter consumed, I can pass that thing, 'cause I know it's gonna keep me awake tonight.

Immundus saecula saeculorum,
Unclean

Fear and Loathing in Bridgeport Part Two

30 May 2008

Bile IV

Prologue. There is a weekly cycle to all this. There really is. By Wednesday, I generally have a head of steam going with regards to the various and sundry things that piss me off. This society, this village that is the creation of the socialist media and their lap dogs, generally spew tripe faster than I can retain it all. We seem lately, as a society, to be caught in a contradiction that doesn't seem to bother most of the voting public. On one side, we are told that we are at war, on the other, we are sung to sleep by a media who seems to want on the one hand to forgive the deaths of our fellow citizens in the name of democratic fairness, and on the other to bomb those fuckers into dust. Maybe it's the Orwellian prophesy come true, maybe people are just too involved in other shit to care, or maybe, as I believe, it's that the average person on this fruited fucking plain is just too unfamiliar with the rules of logic, or the solemn face of reason, to actually apply some common sense to the messages that are being fed to them like geese being fattened up for pate`. Anyway you slice it, people out there are making decisions that are criminally stupid. Not your normal, benign, stupidity, like some idiot making a left hand turn on a busy thoroughfare without checking oncoming traffic. No, I'm talking about malignant stupidity, shit that will send this whole thing crashing down on us like my Uncle Sonny's barn.

Due to some odd quirk of fate, I seem to be immune to this common lack of common sense. I have been placed on this planet, like some sort of sick sideshow freak, to watch this shit go down and rail against it like some drunk-assed Don Quixote. Like "A Clockwork Orange", my eyelids have been taped open while I am forced to watch in stunned fucking amazement as people come to conclusions that defy every fiber of logic, reason, or common sense ever conceived by those who have created this great nation.

Fortunately, I need not do so without retort. I can bug the shit out of others willing to listen as I point this fucking inanity out. The advent of the internet has given me a forum in which I can spew venom like a rattlesnake on crystal meth. And thus, I sit, bottle of Jameson close at hand, purchased for just such an occasion, amidst children screaming violent promises of dismemberment and destruction to their siblings behind me, I am ready--utterly fueled--to deliver your...

BILE
Volume IV
Aristotelian ethics, and Fat guys in court


1) "It's not their fault, son. Their culture demands that they kill thousands of infidels". (A nod to St. Michael of Ann Arbor for providing the azimuth for this chapter). I read today, in an op-ed piece by a conservative writer named Linda Chavez, that "The NEA, with help from the American Red Cross and Johnson and Johnson Company, is distributing free lesson plans to help teachers incorporate instruction on the [9/11] terrorist attack in their regular curriculum. But the plans bend over backward not to cast blame against any group or country..." Apparently this direction was decided on by several laboratory Scopes' Monkeys who wished to avenge their fallen brethren against those who would teach them sign language. Yes, that's right, the teachers union wishes to teach your children that the nine-eleven attacks were as innocuous as the 1970 tornado that caused the vast majority of the trailer trash in Lubbock County, Texas to live in the back of their fucking station wagons. Perhaps even worse however, is the specter of self-denigration that is present in this curriculum, for it seems to dwell on "historical instances of American intolerance". It seeks to absolve these sonsabitches of any wrongdoing by pointing at the mistakes of our own Leviathan. Look kids, know this, any mistakes made by my grandfathers do not absolve a group of people of culpability for immolating thousands of innocent civilians in an office building. Period. Yes, my old man was a drunken ignorant fool. No, you cannot shoot me in the face because of that fact.

Even better, (and I love this part) this whole line of reasoning starts down a logical equation that ends with the conclusion that your ideas are no better than anyone else's. Howzat? Do those priests who display their penchant for self-gratification at the expense of school children have a moral justification for buggering simply because they are sentient humans? What kind of errant bullshit are these idiots seeking to justify here? Does their guilt at the acceptance of the designated hitter (which is clearly a liberal/egalitarian movement) and interleague play (which is just more multicultural bullshit) run so deep that they wish to validate these attacks on the sovereignty of this nation? I chalk this line of reasoning up to a culture steeped in mescaline and bell-bottomed trousers.

Linda Chavez, however, writes it off as simple misplaced tolerance. She says that "[t]olerance is a distinctly Western attribute, a value not shared in most of the Islamic world, much less by those individuals who attacked the United States last year." Chavez points out that this tolerance is most times seen as a virtue. That is true, unless you go over the edge.

Aristotle maintained that anything and everything that is virtuous could be made vicious by taking it to any extreme. He claimed that there existed a "golden mean" in which most everything is virtuous if taken in moderation. There are times when anger is called for, and times when being too angry about something stupid is simply pigheaded and vicious. There are times when dispensing justice is absolutely necessary for a man's soul, but when taken to an extreme, this same thing can result in the laws becoming arbitrary and cruel. There are even times when drunkenness is called for, as long as you don't stay up drinking until all hours while emailing insane caustic bullshit to people who are too busy to read your insanity...

In this case, the NEA has lost their everlovingfucking minds. Tolerance was never extended to the Barbary Pirates in the early part of the 19th century, because they were a buncha lawless fuckheads. Today, we are dealing with no different an animal. I won't even give credence to their cause by calling them "terrorists", for that word has a connotation that implies that some cause or other is at the root of their actions. Me? I don't give a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut what their reasons are. I just want them dead because they are criminals of the worst sort, just like Jefferson wanted the Barbary pirates dead in the early 1800s. They shouldn't be portrayed in the international media as being enemies of the United States either, they should be cast as cruel murderers who wish to kill anyone who does not share their beliefs. Period. War on Terrorism? It's got a nice ring, but it's semantic horseshit. This is us policing up a criminal element on a large enough scale to give Elliot Ness a hard-on the size of the Eiffel fucking Tower.

Bottom Line: the NEA, with help from the Red Cross, and Johnson and Johnson should be made to give King-Kong a hand job with a handful of creek rocks. Their idea of polite society is going to kill any virtuous desire to extract justice from these criminal fuckers. Their tripe is as vicious as anything that is pushed by the KKK, the Russian Communist Party, or the German Socialist Union. I'm not exaggerating. If this shit isn't tagged as the bullshit that it clearly is by thinking people, then it will be the end of us, sure as God made prairie dogs.

2) "He asked me if I wanted to Super-Size, so I gained 250 pounds..." I have officially fucking seen it all. Today. About 1730 this afternoon. It appears that the court system of several states are groaning under the weight of another frivolous class action lawsuit. This time, it ain't the widows of morons who smoked four packs a day, despite the fucking warnings right there on the packs themselves. It ain't at the behest of the families of coal miners who died of the black lung. Naw. It's on behalf of a group of fat motherfuckers who are actually suing fast food companies because they don't have the discipline to avoid putting prohibitive amounts of lard soaked french fries and processed meat products down their disgusting fucking suckholes. Come again? That's like ya'll suing Anheuser-Busch for me getting drunk and writing you this shit. The suits contend that the plaintiffs just couldn't help themselves, that the fast food industry made them do themselves wrong. I guess I'll sue Hugh Hefner for making me masturbate for the last twenty years. Jesus.

Gentlemen, the end is right around the fucking corner. The apocalypse is at hand. Several state civil courts are actually hearing this shit. Really. I mean, I had huge problems with these idiot smokers who blamed RJ Reynolds for selling them the cancer sticks that put 'em in the ground, I watched in bemused silence as idiot after idiot would walk through the produce section that I worked at early in life looking, actually looking, for a grape to slip on so they could sue the store, but this is just sent me over the fucking edge. Fat-asses who don't have the willpower to stop eating actually seeking legal redress, using up my tax dollars, to absolve themselves of any responsibility for being terrestrial cetaceans, acting like some human form of termite, for eating more in one day than most third world nations produce in a decade, for acting like gluttonous hippopotami. Amazing.

The fact that these hogs actually blame another for their unsightliness and ill-health is just another piece in the end-game puzzle. Does anybody think for one fucking second that the framers of the constitution created a judiciary for this kind of vapid, inane, stupid bullshit? Anybody? We set the civil courts up so the rights of the "little guy" wouldn't get trampled,(pun fucking intended). Out of a traditional sense of common fairness that harks back to early English Common Law, we saw from the beginning that those without money, without position, without power, would need representation and a voice. I think I speak with complete and utter fucking authority when I say that the framers never eeeeeeeeeven contemplated so gross, both literally and figuratively, a miscarriage of the original intent of the civil court system. The to and fro of common custom; whether it be the lawless chaos of the mid 19th century west, or the licentiousness of the late 20th century; is clearly anticipated in the founding document. It gave the legislature, the executive, and the judicial branches ample latitude to allow for changes in social mores, and more importantly, it mandated that these three branches leave us the fuck alone. However, it also clearly anticipated that the wise folks of these United States would also, in kind, accept some form of personal responsibility for their actions. Whether you are the President and you hire a buncha Cubans to steal campaign documents out of a DC hotel, or a common citizen who slaps the piss out of a surly bartender, you are expected to do the right thing and take your lumps. Simply put, it assumes that idiocy will be punished for a failure to accept responsibility. Thus, IF THESE BEHEMOTHS DIE BECAUSE THEY ATE TOO MUCH, THEN THE HERD WILL PROSPER AS A RESULT. No one will be responsible for their pathetic forms except themselves.

This is just another page out of the sorry chapter that I live daily. We have people who take an oath to do a job and then expect everything to be hunky-fucking-dorry when they renege on their end of the deal. "Why should I be held accountable?" they ask, "I can't be held responsible for the expectations of others." Wrong, assface. You are responsible for the expectations of others every time you enter into a contract. Whether it's Joel mowing my neighbor's yard, or me being a Marine Captain, we both are judged and paid by the grace of those for whom we provide services for. Guess what? If we don't hold ourselves up to that scrutiny then we get jackshit. That's why these fatasses should get nothing, because they have sat in front of the idiot box for months at a time taking no risks, entering into no contracts, performing exactly zero for the society that nurtured them. Fuck 'em. Set 'em loose in the desert between Beatty and Tenopah, Nevada and let 'em fight the coyotes for food. They have sucked the marrow out of the bones of better men for too long, let them suffer.

Fin.

Immundus saecula saeculorum,Unclean

18 May 2008

Bile III

After enduring another day-long trip through the surreal terrain that is the Esher painting of my life (attached is a recent photo of my office), I read sections A and B of the Dallas Morning News, as opposed to just the box scores in the baseball section of the sports page. I found that the world is indeed going to shit on a hotplate. Oh, don't get me wrong, it's been careening down this shitpipe since well before the usurpation of Senatorial power by the Roman Emperors, but we're in the last stages of the dive, and I've got my bow rosined and my fiddle tuned. Tonight, we look at evidence of Vatican denial, the recent adventures of Atom Ant, and crazy people with paint buckets. It ain't fiction, it's the news...

It's your weekly
BILE
Volume III

1) Vatican says one fuck-up ain't enough, two kids is one too many. In a PR move not seen since the second Nixon administration, the Vatican said today that their priests will only get launched after buggering TWO kids. That's right folks, despite the outrage from various parishes the world over at the conduct of these men of God, the Pope sez Nope. The vast insipidity of this move staggers the imagination. If God is awake and watching this little freak show, I bet he's laughing his ass off at this little turn. A group of men, who have forsworn the hairy subject out of devotion to a higher cause, will not be cast from their respective holy orders after being found groping, buggering, or sweating profusely at the sight of children. Only after they've been given "due process", which the Vatican defines as a second chance, (and what I define as a clear admission that the Church would be shit outta priests by the end of the year,) will these criminals be cast out of Holy Mother Church. This can't be right, Carlin dreamed this shit up, right? Just when you thought that they had maxxed out their stupid points after five Crusades and the Inquisition, the Roman dictator may just piss off an entire generation of believers. Vivendo sacerdotium!

2) "He just said 'GO!', and we all ran away." In case you were all wondering what had happened to that pop icon known during the Reagan era as Atom Ant, he got arrested after holding a pub full of Englishmen at bay with a fucking starting pistol. Apparently, Atom pleaded (pled?) guilty on Tuesday to brawling in a North London pub. According to the prosecutor, this walking fashion statement walked into a bar, in London for Chrissake, dressed in full cowboy regalia. When his fellow patrons (and I ain't making this shit up, kids) started laughing and whistling the theme from The Good,the Bad, and the Ugly, the 47 year old singer pulled his piece... er...his starting pistol and threatened the astonished onlookers. I don't even have to work very hard for this one. This guy who was born in the fucking Eisenhower administration feels insecure enough about his clothing to warrant threatening people with a drive by starting. I want to know who called the cops on this guy. I mean who could possibly have dialed 911 through the fucking tears of laughter? Who could have really wanted to press charges against this guy? Hell, I'd have given him a fiver and told him to show up again on Tuesday. This is better than most stand-up that I've seen lately. Jesus wept, what a fuck up.

3) "One move and I'll paint your office." Laura says this is better than the Atom Ant story. Some 49 year old guy who, according to his mother, suffers from depression and can't hold down a job, apparently lost his ever loving fucking mind on Monday. Tired of receiving junk mail postcards, this guy walked into the ad agency who prints and mails them and demanded that they stop. When the receptionist stopped his tirade so she could get a manager in on this little party, the guy runs out into the parking lot, retrieves a gallon of paint out of his truck, and procedes to apply a somewhat uneven coat to the a computer, a desk, and the surrounding walls. Then (and this is journalism at it's best) "Ignoring pleas to stop, [he] splashed white paint on the employee as well". The fucking paper interviewed his mom. She said of the veritable glut of junk mail: "You get so much. You start spilling your mail all over the ground and making a mess. No matter what you say, they keep sending it. He's called everybody." I love it. Hey folks, when I finally fucking snap and roll my truck over a platoon of senior citizens waiting for the bus, somebody please call my Mom. Her number is (806) 795-2470. Tell her what happened and tell her to call the newspaper. She'll figure out something good. "This has been coming for some time," she'd say, "Larry's Father was as crazy as Dad's old hat, and his step-father was as worthless as a Bible in a titty bar. I thought he'd do it years ago. I'll bet those old fuckers had it coming."

C'mon, Hitler's mom blamed the Prussian public schooling, for the love of God..."

5) "But Dad, I was just pointing at the clouds..." This wasn't in the paper, but I gotta let this one go. There I am, pulling out of my driveway, with my 14 year old talking barnacle in the car with me, when we see the neighbor's 4 year old kid playing in his front yard. I wave in a friendly way as I see him advance to the curb acting like he's got something to say. I roll down the window and smile, when this little shit grins like he invented teeth and flips me the bird! You gotta be shitting me! Joel says, "ooooh, bad move," as I jack the car into reverse and pull curbside. The boy flees inside the house like a French conscript. I go tell the old man that his boy just gave me the 2d Bn, 3d Marine greeting of the day and the guy acts like I'm a Jehovah's Witness trying to sell him a vacuum cleaner. I'm sorry, but if someone came to me telling me that Daniel had arbitrarily rendered the Lubbock peace sign, I'd thank them politely and apologize for my brat's behavior before jerking a half hitch outta that kid's ass. I know that I got beat for doing that kind of shit, and I know that I beat Joel like a runaway slave for doing that to my mother-in-law (it took all the discipline I could muster not to tip him a fiver, though). I hope that the guy next door didn't mind me shearing all the hair off of his cat...

Finally,
6) "In a statement from the Oval Office, the President expressed his sincere wish that Mr. DiCaprio shut his fucking gob about environmental issues." Dennis Leary talked about this a few years ago, but apparently nobody listened. Who are these media clowns who think that their jobs as entertainers give them the green light to run their man pleasers about shit that has absofuckinglutely nothing to do with acting, movies, music, or academy awards. Yesterday, the star of that tribute to the power of women to get men to see movies that they wouldn't be caught dead seeing, I speak of Leonardo DiCaprio, got up in front of a microphone and derided the country of his birth as the biggest polluter in the world before pleading with President Bush to attend the Earth Summit. Apparently, his role in Titanic has given him a unique perspective on the various and sundry ways that the US has surpassed the former USSR in production of materials which are hazardous to life on Earth. Apparently, this kid hasn't the sense God gave lemmings. Apparently, this wart on the genetalia of society missed the news the day that they announced that we are fighting a war. Apparently, this blight on the crop of mankind thinks that President Bush has nothing better to do than go where he dictates. Whatthemotherfuck??? Who are these people? You didn't see James Dean or Steve McQueen doing shit like this because they had the good sense to stick to what they knew. (Drinking and Driving) You didn't hear Marilyn decrying the plight of whales. You never saw Clark Gable whining about Tibetan civil rights, or speaking to our "awareness" of this issue or that. Know why? ‘Cause they knew nobody wanted to hear their bullshit, that's why. What changed since then? Mike Cochran nailed it on the head a few months ago: we began to recognize Beatle's songs as a viable alternative to sound international and domestic policy. Don't believe it? Once these parasites figured out that they could sway public opinion about the war in Vietnam by putting out such tripe as "All you need is Love" and "Give peace a Chance", (I'll bet Neville Chamberlain would debate that shit...) every singer, actor, comedian, and mime figured that they were completely free to spew their every inanity to a willing public. We, the sheeple, would nod in recognition of their superior logic on such critical subjects as baby seals and the rights of animals. We would all stop wearing any fabric that was the result of the death of sentient beings and we would eat yogurt and fucking tofu for the rest of time. We would live in some huge commune where all we would do is take drugs, wear hideous clothing, and copulate like crack-addicted lab rats.

Fortunately, no one in the entire South, Midwest, or Texas owned FM radios until the Carter administration. What's more, because we didn't know who they were, when they stopped for gas while navigating through our territory, we mistook them as Comanche bent on destroying our homes and raping our womenfolk, and we shot them. Twice. In the Face. With a Large-bore Rifle. ("Imagine" this motherfucker.)Thus, these territories remain largely free from the siren call of idiocy from such human debris as Rosie, Leo, Barbara Striesand, Alec Baldwin, and Oprah fucking Winfrey. We realize that Rosie is a skewer away from feeding a family of five for a solid winter. We think that Barbara should have her vocal cords removed and replaced with those of Barry White. We firmly believe that Alec was hit on the top of the head repeatedly as a child with a small tack hammer. And we know in our heart of hearts that Oprah was sent to this planet to take over after consuming every scrap of food on the fucking planet. God bless Fly over country. God bless the Sticks.

Instrenuus apprime
Unclean

(Matt has repeatedly told me that this space would be improved with fewer expletives. I found, after staring vapidly at the screen for twenty goddamned minutes searching my brain for an apt aphorism that didn't include the word "fuck" or "shit", that I write like I think, and that cutting out expletives completely throws me off my idiom. Apologies, Matt. I gotta be me, I just gotta be me...)
This from late 2001:

As I careen around the edge of what my mother would call polite society, it occurs to me several times daily that the culture that we live in has basically stopped telling itself the truth. Are we really better off not letting the school principle spank our kids when they act like we did when we got our asses pounded? Are the hyper-active fruits of our loins truly deserving of that little Ritlin capsule that turns them into something out of One Who Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest? Is a public ban on such things as cigarettes really worth the corresponding erosion of our personal liberties? Apparently, many citizens have set aside whole seconds to think things over and have decided that yes, all of the above are truly wise and benevolent decisions. I have spent whole liters of low-rent whiskey, whole twelve inning games, whole boxes of TeAmo Cigars contemplating these very things. Below, I alliterate how I come down on such things as Rule by Mob and child-rearing according to Spock, as well as the omnipresent verbal beat down of Oprah and Rosie fucking O'Donnell.


Gentlemen, I'm here to deliver the weekly

BILE
Volume II

1) The Logical Trap of the True Democracy:
Okay folks, let's get a few things said upfront. First, not one of our founding fathers ever, in his wildest dreams, contemplated making these United States into a true democracy. James Madison fucking said it. It's right there in the Federalist Papers. Words to the effect of:

Hey, I know you want representation, but let's not bullshit ourselves. Some of you people are fucking idiots who have no more right deciding the fate of a nation than you do trying to teach a domesticated animal to play a reeded fucking instrument. However, me and the guys gots us a plan. So, take your ignorant unwashed asses to the polls and vote for whichever of us can manage to stay sober for six consecutive hours into these positions of power and let us decide what oughta happen. If we fuck it up, don't vote for us again. If the fuck ups are really bad, these other cats whom Georgie Treeteeth will appoint will slap us on the ass and get us into line.
Cheers,
Jamie the Madman


All people are not created equal. The founding document was a little unclear on the basis of that concept. While all people are endowed with an inalienable right to equality of opportunity, some people are fucking dolts while others tend to make use of the grey matter provided us by the Omnibenevolent Problem Drinker With the Bad Ass Temper. The current trend of doing focus groups and taking polls about everything is fucking the whole system over. I get called all the time by people wanting to know what I feel about this product or that product. There are companies who exist for the express purpose of asking people these questions. Other companies exist to call up and query folks about their feelings (not thoughts, feelings) about fucking policy issues. I mean, shit, we can't even make it through a regulation nine inning ball game without the yammering fools in the booth throwing out a topic for a fucking online vote. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, QUIT IT! I give false info to these fuckwads just on the off chance that I can jack up their sample and maybe get them to market pickle juice flavored bubblegum. These sorts of polls have directly attributed to me screaming at the TV in the middle of the eighth because fucking CarrotTop is selling goddamned long distance. Market research has directly resulted in not one, but several Ernest fucking movies. The scariest thing of all: politicians are making fucking policy decision based on the outcome of such polls and focus groups. Howzat? We have shitcanned the tenth amendment and are on the way to wiping our asses with the second amendment because Chet, Bobbie Lou, and several other inbred lunatics have been brainwashed into thinking the constitution is a "vague" or "growing" document? I may fucking weep. No, it was a document founded on the principle that people are short sighted by nature and should not be concerned with making decisions beyond choosing matching pairs of knickers to wear with those godawful 18th-century platform shoes. Make the rules minimal. Leave the idiots to their own devices. Keep the Man outta their bidness. Let 'em have guns to keep us honest. This is the doc that I took an oath to, not some ephemeral, vague sandskrit that can't be interpreted unless I'm a member of the fucking bar. Long Live the Republic.

2) Raising Children as if they are Adults
At some point in the last forty years, and I haven't bothered to research the subject out of scorn for its very nature to find the actual date, an entire fucking generation of people decided to stop teaching their kids by punishing them when they fucked up. Not you and I, mind you, we got the shit beat out of us. Naw, I'm talking about the rest of these slacker motherfuckers who think that they have no obligation to act like sentient beings because they are dealing with "issues", because they are uncertain of their "life choices", and because they claim to feel "marginalized" by their boss, who is a former Marine, and who routinely refers to them as "that Fuck-head". These idiots don't realize that they have "problems", (not issues,) because they can't deal with "responsibility", (not "life choices") because they are weak Fuck-heads who needed the shit beat out of them before it was too late.

Kids, I'm glad I got beat. It made me aware of the gravity of every decision I made. I took shit seriously, ‘cause I might get hided if I missed something. When I did get hided, I learned that I got less if I owned up to it, and never to be so careless as to actually be caught again. Thus, I learned responsibility, the ability to weigh risk versus gain, and attention to detail in covering my own ass. If that ain't a fucking life lesson right there, I'll deal cards with my ass cheeks. Positive reinforcement? I got to fucking eat. Good enough?

It ain't the violence that is the important aspect of this thing. I've spanked my kids maybe three times in the last year. It's them having the expectation that doing something wrong will result in something harmful. Kinda like when they grow up, huh? Spock should have his rectum arc-welded shut for the nightmare that he helped bring about.

3) The Multimedia Bovines
Would somebody explain to me what it is about fucking Oprah and fucking Rosie that is so noteworthy as to merit periodicals in their respective names? Its tough enough for me to dodge their omnipresent lowing on the idiot box without having their huge countenances peering at me from the magazine rack at the fucking check out line. I noddingly accept the fact that the Commandant of the Marine Corps has a reading list, but I cannot, for the life of me, fathom what lowly creature would give a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut that Oprah has a list of books that she approves of. What breed of egomaniacal bitches are these?! Two women who have made a huge living out of openly displaying human idiocy/depravity/suffering for their own profit on daytime TV have seen it fit to hire a fucking editorial staff to further push the tripe that they spew like an infected boil. The two things that scare me are these, my friends: First, someone actually proudly works on their editorial staffs. These people wake up everyday and look proudly in the mirror at the prospect of pedaling this incoherent shit. Second, the publications wouldn't continue to exist, and thus drive me fucking bat-shit, if people would stop purchasing these warts on the genetalia of the national soul. Who buys this shit? Gotta be the same people who watch Ernest movies and groove to CarrotTop commercials. Shoot Me Please.

The Monthly UNclean award For Uncommon Courage (the UNFUC) goes to Pat Tillman. Pat was a Safety working for millions of dollars as a member of the Arizona Cardinals. Amidst much media attention, all of which were ignored by Pat, he enlisted in the US Army with the stated intention of becoming a Ranger and shooting a motherfucker in the face. Coulda used ya in the Suck, Pat. Hat's off to ya. Good luck big guy.

Immundus Saecula Saeculorum,
Unclean

Bile I

This insanity started as a result of 9/11. No shit. Within a month, the United States Marine Corps wanted to pool it's anti-terrorism response forces, and some of those forces were standing on the fenceline in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. So, for some reason that presently escapes me, the Marine Corps decided to mobilize the company of reserve infantry Marines from Bossier City, Louisiana, and give them the Cuba fenceline mission. Thus, my good friend Michael Cochran (henceforth referred to as "St. Michael of Ann Arbor") was the senior man on the detachment that went forward. As I was fresh out of shit to do, without a reserve company nearby to train, I started sending Mike funny shit via email. Well, about two weeks after I started, Mike emailed me and said, "look dude, your stuff is funny. I've been sending it to the following guys, please add them to the distribution, so I don't have to forward it everytime". Well, in this way, the Bile became standardized. Last I checked (at Bile volume 48) I've got 65 addressees on the "Bile list", which grows with every mailing. To make this accessible to others, I'm hanging all my archives as soon as I can, and will begin to post in a conventional way as soon as I can. Do enjoy. Feedback is encouraged. --Unclean

St Michael of Ann Arbor,
Some reflections from the past weekend:
* Nomar hit three homers on his birthday. Alex Rodriguez hit a solo shot in the second inning on Saturday night, and then walked off with a salami in the bottom of the tenth on his 27th birthday. I was in Pohang, S. Korea on my 27th birthday watching in bemused silence as Corporal Gibbons, who had consumed a goodly portion of demon liquor, displayed judgement that has made drunken Marines famous the world over by eating a live frog and then throwing up for 17 consecutive hours. For the life of me, I can't think of a better way to spend a birthday than either winning the adoration of sports fans the world over by launching yard on several occasions, or watching my NCOs attempt to poison themselves in ways not contemplated by an Omniscient Higher Power.

* It took me 6 2/3 innings of the Houston game on Sunday (that's about two hours to those who don't measure time like I do) to install the goddamned ceiling fan that my wife purchased for the children's playroom. I have never claimed to be handy with anything other than det cord, C-4, and electric blasting caps, but at exactly what point in the past 15 years did we stop actually using words in installation manuals in favor of pictures with fucking arrows? I understand that using words in English would force the manufacturer to also produce manuals in other languages for imported goods, thus incurring additional production costs, but WOULD SOMEBODY JUST FUCKING TELL ME WHICH WIRE GOES WHERE? Picture it Mike, I've got this fucking Hydra laying at my feet as I sit indian style in the middle of a darkened room trying to discern a black and white wire diagram that has no verbal clues, while holding a black, white, blue, and green wire. I swear to God, Mike, the next time I find myself in that situation, I'm stopping immediately, taking leave, tracking down the crack-smoking design engineer who planned this little project and then I'm dragging him by his balls behind my truck until we arrive at my house, where he will assemble said end-user item, blindfolded, using his feet, in less than ten minutes. Then I'll feed him to my kids.

* Dave Burba must die. This guy is getting paid more than both of us combined. For shit like this. His line from Sunday's 8th inning beat down:
IP H R ER B K HR PC ERA
1/3 7 8 8 0 0 1 33-18 5.58
What this doesn't show is that he came in with two outs, ahead two runs to one, with runners on first and second, in the top of the eigth. Before this Dolt was through pitching BP, the Rangers were down by ten runs. My slow-pitch softball pitcher tosses a better line than this. Sarah's Tee-ball pitcher got outs more efficiently. John Hart should be tortured to death. Narron should be beaten with a knotted plow line for not pulling him after the end of the eigth. Hicks should be stripped naked and have every hair individually plucked from his body for buying, micromanaging, and thus ruining two different franchises (Stars & Rangers).

* Kenny Rogers (the pitcher, not the singer) is the recipient of this week's Unclean award For Unwavering Courage (the coveted UnFUC). Kenny came back to Arlington in '99 to end his career with the Rangers. He put a no-trade clause in his contract and promised the old lady that he wouldn't move her again. He plays over his head all year; he hustles out the
3-1 put out at first, dives for comebackers, he sac-bunted well during interleague foolishness, and has an ERA in the threes for the first time since he was in Oaktown. So naturally, because he is 37 years old, Hart calls him up and says, "Hey Ken, John Hart here, you're doing a great job. You're our only dependable pitcher and you've put a lot of effort into helping develop Bell, Benoit, and Myette. Thanks. Now, pack your shit, we want you in Cincy by the end of the week." To which Kenny said, "Hey John, thanks. Smell of my lemony fresh ass. I've got a house, a dog, and a bitter woman to grow old with. We ain't leaving. Trade Burba, you might be able to fetch a Bronx little league prospect for him before he throws his arm out..." I love it. Fuck 'em Kenny. Fuck 'em and feed 'em fish.

* All these old bastards who live on a golf course waiting to come and give me advice on how I can improve my swing should be made to perform oral sex on Rosie O'Donnell after having their eyelids removed. Just when I get comfortable swinging the club, one of these officious pricks comes and runs his gob about how his way is better, how I'll never improve my game until I do this or that, and otherwise just pissing me off. People, I play this game out of some sick need to waste a prolifigate amount of cash while cursing the Scottish, the slow fucker in front of me, and the cruel God who deems it absolutely necessary that I never, ever reach the green in regulation and that I fuck up every single damned birdie opportunity no matter how short the put. Leave the Unclean be. Just leave the Unclean be.

* The next person who walks by me whistling the theme from Bridge on the River Kwai will be suddenly murdered using a sack full of rolled quarters after being emasculated with a length of rusty piano wire and a ceiling fan. I've had that goddamned song in my head for the past week after some servant of Baal injected it into my brain while standing behind me in the check-out line at the Barksdale PX. Being a Rangers fan who is from Lubbock, Texas should be punishment enough, by God.

* I thought you would enjoy this, in light of recent converations:

Dead HorseThe tribal wisdom of the Dakota Indians, passed on from one generation to thenext, says that when you discover that you are riding a dead horse, the beststrategy is to dismount.But in modern government, because heavyinvestment factors are taken into consideration, other strategies are oftentried with dead horses, including the following:

1. Buying a stronger whip.
2. Changing riders.
3. Threatening the horse with termination.
4. Appointing a committee to study the horse.
5. Arranging to visit other sites to see how they ride dead horses.
6. Lowering the standards so that dead horses can be included.
7. Reclassifying the dead horse as "living-impaired."
8. Hiring outside contractors to ride the dead horse.
9. Harnessing several dead horses together to increase speed.
10. Providing additional funding and/or training to increase the deadhorse's performance.
11. Doing a productivity study to see if lighter riders would improve the dead horse's performance.
12. Declaring that the dead horse carries lower overhead and thereforecontributes more to the bottom line then some other horses.
13. Rewriting the expected performance requirements for all horses.

And, as a final strategy:
14. Promoting the dead horse to a supervisory position. ________________________________
Immundus saecula saeculorum,
Unclean