I don't pretend to know what war is like. I don't even want to know. I just know that it has its place. War is. We all fight our own wars every day and most of them don't add up to much in the grand scheme of things. But they are ours. And we fight. And we will keep on fighting whether we win or lose. The point is to fight, to follow the light, to keep on just because we know WE ARE RIGHT. God help us all in this our hour of need.

Fuck you.

I sent this to AST. I hope liked it.

Guy taking a shit kills his wife by knocking her in the head with the stupid door -
by
Guts On Parade

It was one of those shits you wish you could take a picture of and send to your friends. Born of coffee and beer and cigarettes and chicken wings and the croissant you had at 11 and the chili you had last night, it was perfect. I took a drag off the one-hitter and leaned back.
WHAM! The door flies open BAM right in the fucking forehead. Fucking drunk bitch. I kick the door closed. I hear her hit the wall. Doh... Just a sound. A small sound. A sound like she'd fallen. Like a body hitting a wall. And then a sigh.
Fucking bitch. We'd been out drinking. Together, then apart, then together again. It'd been okay until the cab ride home. We got a little belligerent. It wasn't that bad, really. I thought she'd just go to sleep. That's when BAM she hit me with the fucking door. Ow. I kicked back. I was taking a shit for God's sake and I was really stoned. That’s what they don’t really get. I wasn’t even mad at her. I was pretty much over it. I just wanted her to be quiet and go to sleep.
She fell. She sighed. It was the most convincing sound I’ve ever heard. It was like, “I’m done with this, man” I expected her to come up off that floor, really hacked off, and then she’d yell at me for not helping her and I’d be stoned...
I laughed when I heard her sigh. It was the sound that everything’s okay. I wiped my ass. And washed my hands.

NOW!

Chalk another one up for the Gender Equality Movement. Make that two. First, Jennifer Parcells got her 20-year-old ass zapped in the 'Raq, becoming yet another in a growing list of American female KIAs. (AGAIN proving that women do have what it takes to serve in combat. Their bodies absorb bullets and shrapnel just like those of their male counterparts!) Second, Anna Nicole died. Yay! (Dead pornstars can't undermine The Movement if they've choked to death on their own puke. Let this be a lesson to money-grubbing, pill-popping, self-hating whores everywhere...)

Will Bunch wants to know why we'll only hear about one of the above deaths on the news. I want to know why we'll never hear about any of these deaths on the news. I mean, I dig the novelty aspect of it (you know, she was a woman) and yeah, she was probably real brave and an American hero or whatever when she was catching all that lead, but, seriously, where's the fucking love for ALL the dead grunts?

I'm all for women in combat but maybe they should start marketing death to little girls like they do to little boys. You know, Combat Barbie in her Sport Up-Armored Humvee and FOB Dreamhouse. Soccer in combat boots. Pink toy guns. That's the road to real equality.

Hating the Troops

What the fuck is wrong with people? I found this quite by accident and, man, are there some dumb sonsabitches running around this country. Okay, granted, William Arkin is a douchebag. When you say some dumb shit like, "So, we pay the soldiers a decent wage, take care of their families, provide them with housing and medical care and vast social support systems and ship obscene amenities into the war zone for them...", you're obviously a douche and you've never frozen your ass off in the middle of nowhere because the powers that be sent you five thousand pairs of socks instead of one parka or tried to convince some pissed-off underpaid VA nurse to let you in the hospital before you go cyclical in the town square. Eat the apple, fuck the Corps, Arkin. You're a douchebag. (Even though I do think his point re: how some of these soldiers need to quit being such whiny pussies about why they're not getting enough emotional support from the American people is a valid one. Seriously, shut the fuck up and watch your goddam sector). HOWEVER...

It's not what Arkin said that I really give a shit about, it's what transpired AFTER Arkin published his post that boggles my mind. The outpouring of redneck sentiment on how Arkin should be strung from his testicles for daring to speak his mind questioning the HOLINESS of our troops or the SANCTITY of the grunt's retard opinion on what's happening on the home front. Give me a break. I know grunts. When they're not waging war, they're sending tearful fucking e-mails back home to Mary Jane, jerking off, shooting dogs, or lighting their own farts. They're idiots. That's why they joined the Motherfucker in the first place. Patriotism, king and country, blah blah blah. Why did you join the military? Number one answer on the board: I WANT TO BLOW SHIT UP AND SHOOT HAJ. For sure, I love the dumb fuckers but, come on, nobody's gonna give Spec 4 Retard a Fulbright anytime soon. The poor bastards in the National Guard and Reserves are a different breed, I guess - they're older and wiser retards with real lives and such, I don't know. Debating the various scholarly qualifications of our nation's armed forces is not why I'm here. I'm here to gut the stupid assholes who like to call people fag and commie because they don't agree with the way shit has gone down, and to make it sound like everyone who wants to know WHAT THE FUCK is really a raghead sui-bomber with FREEDOM in the crosshairs. "The LIBERAL MEDIA is losing the war..." "When you question our policies, you embolden the terrorists..." What??? Shut the fuck up.

You know what emboldens terrorists? NOT HAVING ANY FUCKING ELECTRICITY. Stupid dipshits who can't keep their Kodak in their pocket when they're torturing people at Abu Ghraib. Rage-crazy PFC's who are so fucked up about their dead bros they go out and rape a 15-year-old girl after shooting her whole family. Trash not getting picked up for four years. Hospitals having to use Kleenex because they don't have any bandages. I mean, the idea that a bunch of fucking vegans holding Free Mumia posters and dancing in front of the National Mall somehow caused the giant shitstorm that is The Sandbox right now is absolutely retarded. Even with Arkin and the rest of the Liberal Media Establishment and the Democrats and Penn/Sarandon/Robbins et al behind them, in no way were these doofus hippies responsible for the lack of military planning, foresight, and plain goddam common sense that preceded this current clusterfuck. You wanna know what emboldens terrorists? Bush, Cheney, and the Joint Fucking Chiefs. Those are some terrorist-emboldening motherfuckers. Shit, you can show Ali Al-Qaeda an entire PowerPoint presentation of CodePink locked in an orgy with the ANSWER coalition and you won't get nearly the emboldenment than if you show him one smiling pic of W. That dude emboldens terrorists without even trying. If he really gave a shit about not emboldening terrorists, he'd do a sui-bomber number himself and take the whole White House with him.

Again, I digress. The point here is the yellow-ribboners and flag-wavers and plain dumb motherfuckers who think the world would be a better place if we all just fell into line and followed W off the cliff should really do some soul-searching before they start accusing people of not supporting the troops. I support the shit out of the troops. Do I think they're all up for sainthood? No. Do I think they're getting screwed? For sure. Do I feel sorry for them becaue they're stuck in some shithole halfway around the world because the HNIC is an idiot? Not really. After all, they signed on the dotted line. And there's always college to look forward to. No, I support the troops because why the hell wouldn't I? I don't want them to die or get blown up or see some shit that will fry their minds for all time. But I feel the best way for me to do my part to get them the fuck out of harm's way is to raise a clamor and demand accountability and, I don't know, A FUCKING PLAN from the powers that be. And I think accusing some d.b. WaPo blogger of hating the troops just because he wants G.I. Joe to show us civvies some respec' is on its face a lame-ass pussy thing to do. The real troop haters are out there but I guess it's easier to point fingers than dig for answers. So, for all of you who think that challenging your leaders is a sign of latent terroristic tendencies, let me just leave you with these final thoughts:

Here in America we are descended in blood and in spirit from revolutionists and rebels - men and women who dare to dissent from accepted doctrine. As their heirs, may we never confuse honest dissent with disloyal subversion. - Dwight D. Eisenhower

Naturally, the common people don't want war ... but after all it is the leaders of a country who determine the policy, and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy, or a fascist dictatorship, or a parliament, or a communist dictatorship. Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is to tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same in every country. - Hermann Goering

Bitches.

Only Users Lose Drugs

Austin, TX, 2001(?) - My friend, The Mysterious Mexican, and I are downtown. MG and her friend are waiting for us to go back to her place to have a few drinks and unwind after a hard night of drinking and winding. Inspiration strikes me. I turn to TMM and say, "Wanna score some crack?" MG rolls her eyes - "I'm outta here."
Of course, The Mexican is with me. He loves drugs. Especially shitty ones. And this being Austin, Red River St. is the place to be if you want to score crack. Specifically the corner of Red River and 7th where back in the day you could find almost any drug you wanted provided you wanted crack.
We're drunk. Too drunk. But onward we stumble until we happen upon a Black Guy. Of course, he has to be a drug dealer, right? "What you want?" "See, dude, I told you." My racist first impressions turn out to be correct. The guy is indeed a drug dealer. "Rock. Give me 40." The Mexican is impressed with my grasp of the lingo. He nods. He lends a certain air of criminality to the proceedings due to his brownish-ness and this puts the Black Guy at ease. He hands me two vials of crack. I hand him two folded 20s, palming them to him in some sort of white-boy dap action he at first can't figure out. He does manage however to take the money from me before he hauls ass. I look at The Mexican. "Awesome." "Let's go smoke this shit." "How do you do it?" "Hell if I know. Let's just put it in a one-hitter. I have one back at MG's." It's a plan.
We hurry away. I'm excited. Very excited. After living in Austin for most of a decade, I've finally managed to score crack off the street. It's a huge moment in my evolution as a scumbag. In my excitement, I neglect to put the vials in my pocket, preferring instead to carry them in my hand as we hurriedly cross 7th St. Then I fall down. For no reason. And the crack vials go skittering across the pavement. I'm crossing against the light, cars are coming, I'm on the ground trying to get my mind around what has just happened to me, and my crack is lying in the street. What to do, what to do...
The Mexican runs over to help me up. A lady crossing the street looks at me and my friend, looks down to the ground. "Better pick up your drugs. Cars comin'." Yes, let's pick up the drugs. We find one immediately, glittering like a diamond in the middle of the street. It screams "DRUGS! GET THEM!" The Mexican hurriedly grabs the vial much to the delight of a small crowd of onlookers who happened to be lucky enough to watch the whole thing go down. "Get it, man! Get your drugs!" "Where?" "Over there! Watch out! Cars!" I look up and see traffic bearing down on us. Where is that other vial?
"Dude, we have to go. It's gone. Let's go." I don't want to give up the hunt for my 20-rock but the honking of horns convinces me. Cops cannot be far away. In fact, there are two on horseback a block away and they seem tuned in.
We make it out of the intersection and haul ass up the street. My hands are bleeding, my jeans are ripped, The Mexican is still convulsing with laughter, but we are free.
We get back to MG's after a high-speed but ultimately uneventful drunk drive from downtown to Hyde Park. I run upstairs to get the pipe. MG: "What the fuck happened to you?" "Uh, nothing." "Why are you all bloody and why are your jeans ripped?" "Uh, I fell down." I find my pipe. "What are you doing?" "Nothing. Be right back."
I get back downstairs. The Mexican is eyeing the vial. "It's like the movies. They really put the shit in little plastic vials." "Yeah, they sell the vials at Gaspipe." "Really?!" "Yeah, man, Gaspipe sells crack vials." "That's so weird. I thought they'd be all, I don't know, anti-crack or something." "Nope. Those hippies love crack. Here let's put it in here." We load the rock into the one-hitter. I offer The Mexican the first hit. "No, man, go first. I wanna see what happens to you." I put the flame to it. Sizzle, crackle, pop, smoke - I pull hard. The taste of chemicals and burned cocaine fills my lungs. Yep, that's crack. I pass the pipe to TM.
He puts the lighter to it, draws, holds it. We exhale. He passes it back. Nothing left. "That's it." "What?" "That's it. No mas." "Really?" "Yeah." "That's fucked up." "Yeah, but I'm high."

On Insanity

I think the only time I've ever really good at writing anything is when I'm totally pissed off. The good news is I'm pissed off ALOT. I try to be witty and cool and together, but really I'm just an idiot with anger management issues. To be honest, most of my anger is misdirected and really just a defense mechanism. I got picked on a lot when I was a kid and it used to make me so mad that other people could hurt my feelings so badly that I spent quite a bit of my childhood chasing other kids around with rocks, wondering why they didn't like me even as I tried to bash their brains out.
I'd like to say I grew out of my insanity; that as I matured, a more rational, compassionate aspect of my personality flowered into dominance, leaving me a well-adjusted and caring man.
But, no. That didn't happen.
I just kept getting more and more pissed off. Even as the insults stopped and the other kids became drawn to my dark and sadistic brand of humor, I still could find myself in the middle of a blind rage over the tiniest perceived slight. In short, I was, and continue to be, a huge baby.
Weird.
I really didn't see myself turning out like this. I mean, I don't chase people around with rocks anymore and I haven't thought about murdering anyone in, oh, I don't know, 5 or 6 years, but there's still this whole thing I have with "cool" people and how much I hate them. This can be a real challenge here in New York City.
Lots of stupid people think they're so cool here. And, believe it or not, this place can be a regular cauldron of rage. The good news about this joint is that I'm really good at tuning shit out. The bad news is I work in show business and it's absolutely packed to the rafters with assholes who think they're "cool."
I tend to exaggerate things in my head (because I'm fucking crazy) and I can still go off about most anything. MG bears the brunt of this (I swear, I'm like a bad movie of the week sometimes - Dwight Yoakam would play me...) but she's learned that, like a child, my bawl is much worse than my brawl and tends to ignore me most of the time and forgive me later when ignoring me proves too difficult.
Like, today, for instance. I was absolutely convinced that this chick I work with was talking shit about me. She's 22, fresh out of college, thinks she owns the place, there's no one smarter, she should be the boss - you know the type. I got on IM with the other crusty burnout I work with and launched into an extended tirade (which, regretfully, cannot be reproduced here because we both had to close our chat windows at the same time) about what a fucking stuck-up bitch she was and how dare she and I've got more smarts in the corns in my shit than she's got in her whole head, etc., etc., ad nauseum. My buddy doesn't say anything this whole time. He's just reading along, a smile playing out slowly on his face. Finally, I'm like, "What, dude? What's so fucking funny?"
"You, man. You're crazy."
"Yeah, and your point is..."
"She wasn't even talking about you. She was talking about something totally different. She likes you."
Shit.
"Really?"
"Yeah, man. She was telling the bosses how great she thinks you are."
Fuck.
"But... that's still some funny shit. You should try writing it down."
So yeah, then I feel all bad and shit, ashamed for being such a baby and assuming everything's about me. I walk around with my tail between my legs until I realize no one knows what the fuck's going on because I didn't say anything to anyone and why am I having this dialogue in my head oh yeah because I'm fucking insane. Yeah, that's pretty much my MO.

LIke you care...

Well, me and MG finally found ourselves a place. It's a pretty little 1-bedroom with a big kitchen, lots o' light, a tiny living room and a study. Fourth-floor walk-up, nice building, in the same neighborhood we live now - hunky dory by most accounts. After a prolonged search, we knew finding the right digs would most likely come down to either getting lucky on Craig's List or getting raped by broker's fees. Sad to say, it was the latter. But, hell, it's only money and at least we're finally on our way to being happily situated. We learned a lot about the Brooklyn real estate market during this little venture and we learned more than we wanted to about asking fucking questions before you write the checks, but we did learn. So there's that...
God Save Brooklyn and rent stabilization. I never want to move again.