Things I can't believe

* Congress apologized for slavery. Seriously? I'm sure the politically correct thing to say is "wow, this is great, how evolved and enlightened we've become," or even "gee, 'bout fucking time you heartless dickwads." But honestly, I've got to say "What? Really? We've got a failing economy, a mortgage crisis, and energy crisis, at least one war going on, and this is what you're spending your time on? Really?"

Don't get me wrong, I think we should recognize the evils of slavery. We fought a civil war over it after all (and over other things, as well, , but American History 101 teaches us that it was about freeing slaves, so that's what we believe, right?). Slavery, and by extension, Jim Crow laws, are awful, and a shameful chapter in the history of our country. You know what else is awful and shameful? Fighting a war over oil and calling it a War on Terror. People losing their homes when banks go upside-down. Not being able to afford to drive your car. For everyone celebrating this PC Congressional Achievement, remember: IT IS A B.S. RE-ELECTION TACTIC DESIGNED TO DISTRACT YOU FROM WHAT'S REALLY GOING ON! By celebrating this referendum, you are denigrating your own cause and cheapening any gains that might be made.



This guys fucking rule. I downloaded the album on iTunes. Totally worth it.

Also, I shot a 117 today. Took 10 strokes off of my game from last week. Had my first par!


Fucking Dad shot a 98, and had a birdie. He can never let me have my moment... *grumble grumble*

Only about 20 days 'til school starts. Better get some more rounds in.

Ugh!

We worked out! Ran, lifted, swam. The swimming was nice. The running was hard. The lifting hurt. We old, we broken.

Soon: New hotness.

Keepin' On

Had a meeting with my new LS Principal today. Yet another administrator worried about band. I soothed her nerves. I think she likes me, in the way that administrators like teachers who don't cause them problems. I think things at the elementary school level are going to be okay.

MS and HS I don't know about yet. I've only met my MS principal once, and it was a short "hihowareya." I haven't met the HS guy yet. I should probably do that.

Gindo and I joined a gym yesterday, and we're going for our first visit tonight. Hopefully it will be awesome, and we will both have the bodies of gods.

Who's the Master?

There are only two answers to this question.

This is one.



This is the other.

From a Friend of a Friend: On Augusta , KS

Sent to me by a friend, who's friend grew up in the aforementioned small KS town. I present "Disgusta," "Disgusta Redoux," and "Disgusta Retoix"...

It was a town like no other. Filled with 7,000 friendly people. People who would give you the shirt off their back, the fists off their arms, and the toes off their boots (after burying them in your ass). People who worked hard every day and never farted. People who would shoot first and ask questions later. If they could think of any questions. A place where a boy could finger-fuck his dachshund without interference from the state. A place where everyone was happy, yet no one was gay. A place where the son of a preacher man could grow up to be King of the Gypsies. A place where the son of a high school guidance counselor could set a path for his youngest son that would lead to fame, joy, and job satisfaction. A place where the son of a refinery worker could grown up to be Satan or Hitler or an odd combination of both. And a place where both those sons could join together to torture a poor, neurotic, fat orphan who came to town in the fourth grade. That was my Augusta, m;y friend. And that ain't the half of it.

Augusta. A place where a boy could slam vokka and snort MDA until his liver popped. A place where everyone was treated with dignity and respect, whether your name was Kootch, or Crazy Suzy, or Booger Red, or Hey Nigger. A place where a well-meaning youth club could teach you how dangerous it was to run cross-country by knocking out a few of your teeth (and isn't that a cheap price for such knowledge?). A place where, if you had a van, you could cut a lot of meat. A place where people never confused the Sex Room with the Slave Room. A place where a Fat Jap could break the limbs off your Dad's new tree, and no one would drop an atom bomb on him. A place where any red-blooded American boy, could be proud to catch Old Joe or Brown Nuts from a skanky slut, knowing he could still cop a script for antibiotics from Dr. Frank, who wouldn't tell your mom like your family doctor would. A place where there were enough blind drunks around that a big girl didn't have to resort to homosexuals for dancing partners. And that, is just a little bit more about my Augusta.

Augusta. It was a town where you did not fush wif Moody. A town where you could pick up an enormous, hissing possum and cradle it like a baby while you tried to punch out the back window of a 1963 Impala. A town full of tater suckers who are not jealous or envious of those with teeth. A town where Snag Burris still rides tall on the street sweeper every summer night, still wondering how a woman could get so mad at him that she'd burn the head of his dick with a lit cigarette. A town where cheese is a verb, not a noun. A town where you could set a man's hair on fire and not feel guilty about it. A town where people were proud of you when you clamped a bottle of whiskey under your car hood and ran a plastic tube from the bottle to the glove compartment so you could take shots on the move without having to worry about the pigs, man. A town with its own bouncing big Buddha boy. A town without shame. A town without dingleberries.