ermagerd!

and speaking of crass commercialism...

iron maiden has their own beer...

mötörhead has their own booze.

we're all going to hell in a handbasket.

—the bastard

this weak in anime

wow guy.

screw me?

no

screw YOU!

—the bastard

there is something inherently wrong…

…with vegan jerky

i mean seriously.

jerky is supposed to be made of meat.

not… um… vegan… stuff

unless of course it's made of real vegans

in whichcase, someone at my store is getting arrested.

this is the sort of thing that only an affluent society could spawn.

vegan fair that maybe looks and maybe tastes like the food they foreswear for ethical reasons.

hell… these ethical reasons wouldn't exist if there wasn't enough to eat in this country.

in the northwest territory, they eat raw freshly killed seal because that's what's for dinner up there.

there is no disaffected teenage Inuit saying, "ah hay ma. I don't eat seal. that shit is unethical and cruel to the seal."

you know why, because there is no fucking vegan seal substitute.

that said, if you wanna be an ethical vegan, the bastard can direct you to a dosa shoppe. but if you are going to buy vegan meat substitutes, you're fooling yourself.

meat meat meat meat meat meat MEAT.

that is all

—the bastard

…on travesties

OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD!

WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!?

—the bastard

…on office space

the bastard leads an exciting life.

no really.

he does.

so much so, he buys a bottle of whiskey on a thursday night and proceeds to do his laundry.

only, there was an oddity tonight.

no. not the whiskey.

it was the woman working on her computer in the laundry room.

now I had no idea that we leased out office space in our bread baking/ roach bait smelling basement

or that the laundry room was also our corporate suites.

but, this wrecked my clothes washing rhythm.

yeah.

that's all I got. go die.

—the bastard

tragic or magic

quite frankly, the bastard doesn't get it.

when did the disconnect happen?

at what pout did it become socially acceptable to dress like a well pressed hobo when you get on a plane?

take this person here all rockin some ugly looking nikes with argyle socks and her 1980's adidas nylon track pants.

she's got a little bit of the captain in her too.

what the hell?!

is it tragic?

or is it magic?

or is it symptomatic of a greater problem in today's flight culture?

I wonder if we've just gotten lazy as a culture or perhaps this has been a colossal passive aggressive statement on the decline of the luxuriousness of air travel.

I could ponder this or let the 4 fingers of bakers do it's work.

hrm. the bastard chooses the latter.

—the bastard

hat trick

now the bastard asks you.

what's with you people?

and your giant assed trucks?

and your inability to park them?

now admittedly, the bastard drives a small car.

and knows how to park it.

but this was all taking place 20 feet from my car.

get it together ya 10 titted freaks.

—the bastard

seriously…separated at birth?

I was heading home this evening,

and the bastard saw this unfortunate bellyband bound into this weeks village voice.

and the resemblance was uncanny.

—the bastard

this weak in anime

special out of context "who the hell is translating this?" edition


there's nothing the bastard liek better than taking shit out of context.

case meets point

apparently shooting at shit is a thrill this man cannot explain to the women.

perhaps something gets lost in the translation

perhaps not.

—the bastard

...killing time; the rails

rolling toward Stamford.

taking pictures today.

house of the rising sun comes on.

not the animals version which the bastard loves.

the scorpions version.

yeah.

the scorpions.

the bastard finds it difficult to wrap his head around the idea of klaus meine's father being a gambling man from new orleans.

—the bastard

hat trick

"ahhhhhhhhhhh"

"whu"

"ewwwwwwwww"

"izzit time?", the bastard follows up with. you see every distressed utterance from my ladyfriend may mean it's go time.

"nooooo"

"home invasion?, aliens have landed? who shot who in the what now?"

"kitty pooped on the floor"

"god dammit."

now the bastard was never really cat person to begin with but, it's stuff like this that clinches it for me sometimes. i had another 40 minutes of unconsciousness coming to me and poops mcgee here has trashed that.

i mean i'm all upons now. when my ladyfriend is distressed, i think it's go time. baby's on the way. time to grab the bags and head up to the hospital. i don't enjoy my bastard sleep getting interupted.

so we clean up the crap. settle down to enjoy 30 minutes of quietude and the little shit machine jumps up on the bed and starts pissing on the bed.

and it's all i can do to not fling this old ass creature out the window.


really. it was harder work to just start yelling than to toss this beast out the window

hard

fucking

work

so after a stern talking to, and some sheets in the hamper, i feed this jerk who i have ceased calling by his name. i just scowl and call him "cat" the way i'd call someone "jerk".

and i settle down for what could only be phoning in 20 minutes of unwind. this creature irks me. sure my pet craps all over his floor but he's in a frikkin' tank.

at least food will keep him from any more morning theatrics.

but, i'm wrong. apparently an 18 year old cat doesn't do scoldings well. so he throws up his breakfast.

yeah.

i look at the ceiling and say, to the fates, "i didn't need the sleep anyway; go to hell"

so mess cleaned up, i go to work, and after 3 cups of coffee, the bastard still feels like this


i'm kind of hoping that this isn't the bellweather for the day.

carpenter is coming in to finish some crap for the apartment. my ladyfriend and i are making a go at trying to raise a baby in 455 sqare feet so, we're working some furniture solutions. problem is this guy's bush league too.

it never ends.

hopefully, this'll be it. touch wood. the accountant is coming in for a visit. the mofo is picking her up from the airport so we can all have some family time. and by family time, the bastard means be irish. slanche, ye pogues mahone.

—the bastard

...on bad ideas

so the bastard came back from lunch to find a box on his chair.

in the box were several little bottles of red bull arranged not quite unlike dr. jekyll's vial of formula a la the league of extraordinary gentlemen.

now, the bastard likes a gift as much as the next man but, i couldn't escape the notion that this would be a REALLY bad idea to have after 4 cups of coffee.

murderous rampage anyone?

—the bastard

this just in...

...and I say this as a parent.

hell is other people's kids.

stop kicking me you little fucker!!!

and can you quiet down that beastful baby you have writhing on you?

—the bastard

...on oddities

saw this on a bookshelf where we were holding our meetings during the offsite.

i have NO idea what the hell this is, or if it tastes good.

—the bastard

well that's something you don't see every day

breakfast is the most important meal of the day in these parts.

hell, in any parts really.

but when the bastard's on vacay, coffee becomes a more daunting task.

so after dropping the boy off at school, i get some breakfast and a cup of coffee to dock my oil tanker on.

while driving back to an empty house and some packing I realize that um not driving so fast so I pick it up for the old man in the gun boat who's riding the bastard's ass.

it was then and only then, that he gave me the finger. as if it was some manner of delayed response.

oh

he's moving,

fuck him.

so i snapped his mug for posterity and oddly enough, he slowed down markedly. odd thing.

—the bastard

the bastard said it before and he'll say it again

...could any hell be more real

or now?

—the bastard

the bastard doesn't know what's worse

the movie title sexy mexi sluts

or

mouthful of black.

what the hell?

-the bastard

the bastard has to axe you

have you her had one of those days,

where you get to work,

and because you're heading out on vacation, there's NO way you can get out early.

only to find out the practically everything you own has gotten rained on?

yeah, me too.

-the bastard

...on the grate outdoors

so, the bastard is back from camping.

it was a short trip, when i look at it in the long view.

it started out with my drive to long island city to get the mofo, where i became the paragon of road rage. not since the great altoids tin throwing of 1997, has the bastard ever lost his shit at such a high degree while behind the wheel. i actually leaned out the window on northern boulevard to yell "you suck at life" at some poor woman who apparently REALLY sucked at life.

the bastard however, will stick by this story.

by the time we got up to the woods, there fire was starting, and the thrilla boys were already taking care of the business of camping.

it was a good first day. and sometimes, that's all you need is one good day in the woods and then your shit is correct.

upon waking up at 6 am on saturday, it looked like the makings of an overcast day.

by 7 am, it was starting to drizzle.

by 8am, it was drizzling sideways with the makings of sideways precipitation. so the mofo and i started breaking down our racks in anticipation of an early bug out.

following this course of action, discussions about breakfast ensued.

this spirited discussion went on to become much more elaborate array of talking points that touched on the nature of wilderness survival, needs in the wilderness, and the ethics of taking credit for one's work in the wilderness community.

as well as walking the walk and perhaps the shelving of rhymes.

so while we finished up the breaking up camp, the wind picked up and the drizzle became rain which prompted the mofo to address the earlier point as to why we were breaking camp by asking if everyone would have preferred to break camp now that it was raining catd and dogs. agreeing with his point, the bastard got breakfast at the bottom of the mountain and all was good.

—the bastard

...on the heartland

so the bastard's ladyfriend is out in iowa (pronounced ah-o-ah) this week on assignment.

it seems that her company is kind of like mine insomuch as they feel it's cheaper to do it by the home office.

in the bastard's case, the home office is actually stockholm but, our head vampire is from florida so everything is cheaper in florida...maybe but, probably not.

anyway, the bastard's ladyfriend am in iowa and this is the majestic beauty she has come across. and that beauty is the git-n-go. it's no wawa mart. mostly because it's the git-n-go. could any hell be more real or now.

—the bastard