18 May 2008

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

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