I recently cleaned out some of my old hard drives and found something I wrote a while ago but never shared.  A little something to think about when things get you down, moonbats drive you nuts, or you are fed up with everything.  

A Simple Analysis of 20th Century Thought:

• Capitalism, he who dies owns the most toys wins.
• Hari Krishna, he who plays with the most toys wins.
• Catholicism, he who denies himself the most toys and little boys wins.
• Anglican, the boys were our toys first.
• Atheism, there is no toy or boy maker.
• Polytheism, there are many toy or boy makers.
• Evolutionism, the toys made themselves.
• Church of Christian Scientist, we are the toys.
• Communism, everyone gets the same number of toys and you are in big trouble if we catch you selling your toys or playing with them.
• B’hai, all your toys and are fine by us.
• Amish, toys with batteries are surely a sin.
• Protesting Moonbatism, war toys are evil.
• Good Ole Lefty, toys that are violent are to be rounded up and put into camps in order to become nonviolent toys.
• Taoism, the stuffed rabbit is as important as the dump truck.
• Mormonism, every boy can have as many toys as he wants.
• Voodoo, let me borrow that doll for a while.
• Hinduism, he who plays with plastic farm animals loses.
• Seventh Day Adventist, he who plays with toys on Saturday loses.
• Southern Baptist, if your toy is Disney product, you have a one-way ticket to hell.
• Jehovah’s Witness, he who sells the most toys door to door wins.
• Pentecostalism, he whose toys can speak wins.
• Existentialism, toys are a figment of your imagination.
• Confucianism, once a toy is dipped in the water, it is no longer dry.
• Non-Denominationalism, we don’t care where the toys come from lets just play with them.
• Agnosticism, it is not possible to know whether the toys make a bit of difference.
• Unitarian Universalism, we still have not decided if the toys exist, much less how, where, or who made them.

Isn’t that nice?

     What if …

     You move into a house with the intention of buying the place.  The landlord still has stuff there, and promises to come back and get it all out.  Eight months pass, it’s all still there, and the landlord has never bothered to do anything as far as your purchase of the house, either.
     All of a sudden, the landlord gives you ten days to vacate.  Nine days later, the landlord, who lives two states away, shows up and tells you the house will be sold.  You ask, “How much?  I wanna buy it.”
     The landlord replies, “No, you can’t have it.  No, I don’t want your money.  You’ve never paid me a dime!”
     The landlord is clearly insane.

     While you’re gone, the landlord moves into a bedroom.  The landlord throws away a bunch of your things while you’re gone, moves a bunch of things, breaks some things.
     Dumbfounded, you wonder what’s going on.  The landlord gloats, “I broke things?  Well, I’d hate to have to move your television, your computers.  They’re very expensive!”

     You’ve paid your rent.  You’ve kept the place up.  You’ve mowed the yard.  You’ve paid the utility bills, and kept everything up to date.  You’ve made friends with the neighbors, even helped them with some home repairs in a crunch.

     So what do ya do?

     And does it change things if said landlord is the person who gave birth to you?
     Some people you trust, and don’t think you need to get receipts from.  This just goes to show you that trust like that is extremely stupid.

     Some days I think: Estrogen makes people crazy.  Some go insane for having it, and others go insane for putting up with the ones who have it.   

     There’s some proof to it, too.  Just look at space shuttle astronaut Lisa “Robochick” Nowak.  She was charged with attempted murder and accused of plotting to kidnap Colleen Shipman, who she believed was messing with “her boyfriend,” space shuttle pilot William “Billy-O” Oefelein.

     Estrogen, all the way.

     The last few months, I’ve had a lot of great experiences with women.  Paramount of these has been talking to ex-wives and ex-girlfriends, and just kind of making sure the air’s totally clear.  One hundred percent closure, making sure we’ve said all that we ever needed to say to one another, and generally cutting through the years of crap and getting back to the business of being friends again.
     I’ve hung out with the usual suspects, as well, and generally had a great time.  Pirate Chicks rule, because we get together, laugh at everything, and pretty no subject is sacred.  No drama, so for the most part, they don’t really fit inside the Estrogen-Crazy bubble.  Yay!

     So here’s the weird stuff from the last week:

• A young girl decided to create overly dramatic situations involving violence towards other people, just to see how I’d react.  Me, being old, realized it for what it was.  I died laughing as I walked away.
• A bartender/server decided to sit down uninvited, start flipping her drink on me, calling me names, and when I decided I’d had enough (I was mean back — heh), she decided to say I’d poured a drink on her (never happened!) and send out a couple of guys to attempt to cause me physical harm.  Laughed all the way to the car.
• A pretty hot one my age decided to get all weird, complaining that she’s boring, not very smart and too old.  “Oh, and I’m fat.  I need to lose weight.”  At that point, I couldn’t help but laughing at her 115 pound, skinny butt, and of course, she got more than a little pissed off.  She told me to copulate myself, or words to that effect.

     Ones like that are pretty easy to just walk away from.  Drama, drama, and more drama.  Life’s too short.

     Sometimes, tho, it’s people you care about.  Friends you’ve known for years, people you talk to on a regular basis.  You let your guard down with them.
     Last Saturday was a case in point why I shouldn’t.

     I liked hanging out with “Elle” for a couple of weeks, getting to know her.  She was good fun, enjoyed movies and we could pretty much talk about anything.
     Eventually, though, the conversation became nothing but self deprecation on her part, having an extremely poor opinion of herself.
     Me being a guy, and wanting to fix things rather than listening to constant complaining, I reminded her about what she’s accomplished in her life, the fact that she’s a beautiful woman, and that she needs to just relax and take things as they come.
     Of course, she felt that this proved her point that I’m ”smarter” than her, and that she’s “an idiot,” and I’m “a jerk” for making her feel so stupid.
     Finally, I just told her:

If you wanna get along, we’ll get along. If something isn’t working, I’ll try and fix it. But don’t you dare come over here and kick me in the balls for caring enough to try and make you feel good about yourself.

     Sad, really.  I liked her, and she didn’t.  You can’t do anything with that.
     Haven’t heard from her since.

     Later that day, I was talking to a friend about it, and I’ve known her for about twelve years.  I was decidedly a little down about the whole Elle situation, which, according to the people I’m around most, just isn’t like me.
     “You don’t know how to date.  You never have.  You’re too sexual,” she says.
     When I consider that she’s been a friend for twelve years, and I’ve never been sexual with her, and she’s seen me go in and out of some pretty intense relationships, I couldn’t help but wonder what man pissed her off that day.
     “Hmm, okay,” I said.  “I guess ya never knew me.”
     I had to walk away and ponder that one.

     Next, I hit a few more of the same.  Grave “observations” about myself and my personality which were clearly aimed at someone else entirely.

     And then, finally, I was talking to “Kay” online.  We talk occasionally, haven’t ever dated or even talked about it.  But she came out with a winner.
     “You hate sex.”
     A minor argument ensued, and I said, “Ok, well, on that note, I’m gonna call it an early night.  I’ve had enough of that kinda thing today.”
     A little dishonest of me, perhaps, but I just wanted away from that silliness: I hung out with a couple of friends for rest of the night.  We discussed.  We laughed.  We always do. 

     The aftermath of the Kay-thing got funnier tonight, tho.  It has changed and twisted so many times over the last few hours that it’s hard to figure out, from moment to moment, what, specifically, she was angry about.
     It all started earlier tonight when she asked if I was “still in a grumpy mood” (which I wasn’t actually in one to begin with), and I responded laughing:

I was in a fine mood [Saturday night]. Just had four of “you people” (you ones with Estrogen) giving me shit that day, and I had more than I wanted or needed of those judgemental statements with no basis in reality.

     Well, apparently that was enough to set her off, even with the smiley, the subsequent laughter, and outright assuring her there was no mean-spirited intent to any of it.
     Estrogen Logic (the oxymoron) dictated that I was the one who was being grumpy the other night, since I didn’t feel like putting up with insults.
     It apparently also dictated a few other twisted things that made no sense, but I’ll digress them to her since I don’t understand them.
     I mean, I am male and all… *rolls eyes* 

     But all grumpiness aside, when she finally realized that I wasn’t really bothered (I didn’t care), it was the “judgemental statements with no basis in reality” wisecrack that really got to her.
     But, hey, she let me know that I live in a screwed up reality, where I’m an unhappy whiner who never has any fun.
     I’ll bet I would be, since I also “hate sex.” 

     WHO KNEW?!?!

     So I have to ask … I’m dying laughing the entire time I’m writing this, because, to me, it’s funny.
     Should I go over to these peoples’ houses and search their basements for Pods…?

     Nah … they’re tough girls.  They’ll probably get over it.

     Then I’ll laugh at them some more. 

     Do you ever meet people who will, at all costs, attempt to corner you and verbally attack you for no reason whatsoever?

     Most everyone tells me how easy I am to get along with, and feel that they talk to me about anything and everything because I actually listen.  They also tell me that I wear my heart on my sleeve a lot, and tend not to come asking a lot of questions when I appear to be stressed or shaken.
     I have two people in my life who go out of their way to ignore all of that.  Instead, they prefer to sit back and make verbal assaults, threaten me with violence and make sure to tell me that it’s all my fault that they are so angry.  It’s nonsense, and I have no time for it.

     Mind you, if I’m having lunch with one of them and that sort of thing starts, I’ll get up and walk out.  If they call me on the phone, I’ll hang up.  If I see them in public and wave to them and they glare at me and walk in the other direction, I’m certainly not going to chase them down.
     These actions, however, are mortal sins in their eyes.

     Two weeks ago, I was taken to lunch by one of them, and before I finished eating, the tirade started.  It was vicious, and completely one-sided.  I simply got up and walked out of the restaurant.
     This, of course, started a series of calls to my office phone and cellphone, complete with hateful, spiteful voicemails.  Apparently, getting up and walking away is “immature” and “weak,” and illustrative of what a “disgrace” I am.

     Later that night, after the walking-away-at-the-restaurant incident, she decided to physically corner me.  As I attempted to leave, she ran around me like a pack of rabid chihuahuas, spewing incessant, inflammatory ankle-biting.  The blood-lust in her eyes glowed in the dark, and the acidic venom coming from her mouth was enough to pierce my thick skin.
     Fight or flight kicked in.  I was cornered with nowhere to go, and I finally blew up and gave her the verbal bashing she needed.  Of course, that’s never the end of it, is it?  Instead, she attempted to hit me, throw things at me and scream bloody murder.
     Fortunately, while she was preoccupied trashing the place and finding something else to kick and throw, I took the opportunity to get the Hell out of there.
     I don’t need that.  Nobody needs that.

     Of course, that didn’t stop her from running and telling everyone what I said.  Nevermind the events leading up to it, or what happened after — the important thing is what I said, and nothing else matters.
     And thus, we come to party number two.  Three times in the last two weeks, he’s called and started screaming at me, prompting me to simply hang up.  I don’t have time for that, especially when I’m working.
     Yes, working, mind you.  Apparently, I’m expected to drop everything, listen to tirade after tirade of circular nonsense, one point of contention dependent on another, but when the first is debunked, the rest stand like a house of cards with the bottom level missing — something clearly impossible without zero gravity and some Elmer’s Glue.
     Hanging up, of course, meets with with an hour-long series of phone calls, complete with voice mails threatening violence, telling me how “childish” and “weak” I am… and that I’m a “disgrace.”

     I would submit that the more mature, and difficult, thing to do is to simply not give a damn what they think.
     Unfortunately, that sort of logic is lost on these two.

     The only “disgrace” is that they’re both family.
     Situations like that, you can’t win.  All you can do is walk away and hope for the best.  And somehow, I’m resigned to the fact that that’ll never happen.

     As I’ve mentioned before, I generally hang out with women.  I’m comfortable around them.  I enjoy their company and companionship.  But dating is tough.  When you go from “friends” to “more than friends,” there are substantial changes in what’s allowed and what isn’t, what they’re worrying about and the way they treat you.

     Last month, I put up a personal ad on a dating site just to see what would come of it.  My profile was natural, just a quick ramble about myself, what I didn’t want, what I was looking for and where I wanted to end up.
     I was also quite clear that I didn’t want to date women with children, because there are simply too many points of possible conflict such as distraction which take away from being able to get to know one another, conflicts with schedules, meeting ex-husbands and ex-boyfriends, families who don’t take kindly to anyone else other than the father-of-a-child being with their daughter, discipline issues, etc. etc. etc.  I simply don’t want the stress of that.
     I was also quite clear that I wasn’t looking for mind games, and wasn’t putting up the ad simply to find a boink-of-the-night.
     Unfortunately, all of these things were ignored.

     Out of fifteen people who I went out with over the course of a month (yes, my profile was popular)…

• Nine went out specifically to complain about the fact that I didn’t want children.  Insults ranged from my being selfish, having a worthless life, being a sexist, to nothing but pure profanity.
• Two went out specifically for sex.  One became extremely angry and stormed out mid-date because I wasn’t interested in helping her get back at her cheating husband.  The other got so entirely falling-down drunk that she couldn’t keep her clothes on, and then decided to profanely take a knock at my sexuality because I didn’t find her particularly attractive at that point.
• One went out, talked about what a great time she had and how much she was looking forward to our next date, but stood me up and then systematically and callously went out of her way to ignore me without bothering to even tell me what was going on.

     The remaining three were sweet, they were fun.  There was no real chemistry between us, but they’ve become friends nonetheless.  But a twenty-five percent rate of having an amicable time together is bad odds.  It is absolutely astounding that seventy-fire percent of the women I went out with from that site were such total … err, umm … well, you know.

     It’s truly refreshing to see Joan over at Seven Inches of Sense make a similar argument.  It’s good to know that just when I’m feeling despondent, someone of the opposite sex can pipe up and make an argument about very thing that’s I have known is true, and has been bugging the crap out of me.

Somehow, over the past fifteen or so years, the attitude of women has changed drastically. They have gone from striving to prove their worth, to asserting it without ever having proven anything. And the problem is, somebody is allowing them to do it. Men have become so scared of being called ’sexist’ that they are enabling these bitchy little divas to walk all over them. It’s time for that to stop, boys. There are other options.

Seriously, if I see another video, movie, or book about what scum men are and how the scorned woman can destroy them, I think I might just pluck my eyeballs from their sockets. Do you know how much shit a man would get for putting this kind of hatred out into the world against women? Need I remind you of the fallout over the Eminem song, Guilty Conscience, where a man is urged to kill his cheating wife? It got ugly. Yet when the Dixie Chicks sang a song about killing an abusive spouse, people dedicate websites to explaining step-by-step how to get away with murder. Seems a bit lopsided doesn’t it?

[...]

I’ve been hurt by men in some truly horrific ways. But at the end of the day, how I handle it is the only thing within my control. And that is the only part of the ordeal that says anything about my character. Everything else is on them. If I go off the deep end and ruin someone’s life because they hurt me, that becomes definitive of who I am as a person, and as a woman. Do I want to be a cruel, jaded bitch? Not especially. There are people who think this makes me a pushover. Personally, I think it makes me an adult…not a whiney little child.

I don’t make demands of my mates (except in bed). I make requests. How they react to my requests, lets me know what kind of person they are and if the relationship is going to work out. But everywhere I look, I see women beating men down into submission with the entitled diva attitude. It makes me very sad for those men. I guess they don’t know it doesn’t have to be like that. Even though that attitude does seem to dominate popular culture, it isn’t indicative of all women. Just keep looking and you’re bound to run up on a good one at some point. But when you do, you better hold on to her for dear life because she might not come around a second time.

     Bravo, Joan!  You’ve singlehandedly restored my faith that there might actually be some normal, rational women out there past my group of friends!
     I was actually starting to wonder…

     If you see this face in a personal ad, do what she did — run away!

     In case you were dead between April 26th and May 13th of 2005, I’ll recap.

     Duluth, Georgia resident, Jennifer “Deer in Headlights” Wilbanks (pictured above), was about to get married to her fiance, John Mason, in a lavish wedding of nearly seven hundred guests and attendants.
     However, shortly before she was to make the final leap to becoming Jennifer “Dear in Headlights” Mason, she decided to put on some sweats and go for a jog.  When she didn’t come back, everyone was worried.
     It made headlines immediately, the picture above being plastered all over every Newspaper, television channel and telephone pole in the continental United States.  Some Media asshats even went so far as to attempt to turn John Mason into another Scott Peterson — viciously accusing him of foul play in the disappearance.  
     The exhaustive search by authorities, family, friends and concerned citizens turned up nothing.  But four days later on April 30th, Jennifer called from a pay phone at a 7-11 in Albuquerque, New Mexico.  She claimed to have been abducted against her will by a man and woman in a van, and that she had been sexually assaulted by the couple.
     Of course, none of that was true, as it turned out.  She’d simply run away, citing that she “needed some time alone.”  She also expressed amazement, saying she didn’t think anyone would be looking for her.

     As a fitting retort, Fox News had a nice little tidbit…

Ryan Kelly, owner of the Park Cafe, an eatery a few blocks from Wilbanks’ house that gave out coffee and sandwiches to searchers, said he was glad Wilbanks was alive and healthy.

“But that being said, this is one of the most selfish and self-centered acts I’ve ever seen. We saw her parents, and you could see the anguish in their eyes. It was terrible,” he said.

“I don’t care where you are — unless you’re in the Amazon rain forest, you’d know everybody was out looking for you.”

     Aside from ruining a wedding of nearly seven hundred people, Wilbanks exhausted State and Federal resources looking for her.  She caused her fiance considerable pain and suffering not only in disappearing and his fearing the worst, but he also had to put up with a Media Hell-bent on trying to pin him as a murderer.  The poor guy also ended up looking a fool for his tearful plea for her safe return.  She exhausted the time, money and resources of citizens groups who assisted in the search.  She wasted the Media’s time, in fact, and we all know what they charge to run a commercial.

     John Mason, however, stayed with her.  Well, for another year, anyway.  They finally broke up in May 2006.

     But in an interesting twist, it was revealed publicly yesterday that Wilbanks was suing Mr. Mason for $500,000.  Regan Media, who bought the rights to the “Runaway Bride” story, gave Mason $500,000.  He bought a house with it.  And, of course, in May, he kicked her out.
     But why did he get the money from Reagan Media instead of her?  Well, while Wilbanks was undergoing therapy (for being — in addition to stupid, selfish and a witch with a capital B — clinically nutso), she made another idiotic move — she made Mason, the guy whose life she turned upside down, her Power of Attorney.
     So now she’s suing for half the money, and another “$250,000 in punitive damages.”  She was even brazen enough to call Mason “overly litigous.”  And still complaining that he hasn’t returned a few wedding gifts — which she apparently used.

     Maybe I’m just mean … but at least $250,000 of that seems entirely frivolous.  As for the other half, there’s a bit of an argument for, too.
     Quite honestly, a ruined wedding of nearly seven hundred people isn’t cheap.  Neither is getting your story front page all over the country.  Nor stopping your entire life.  Nor hiring private investigators.  Nor him paying for her “medical care” over the last year.  Nor…
     And in the long run, surely there’s a cost for him … I mean, the mental anguish of it, being accused of murder, made to look like a fool, putting up with her dumb ass for the next year…
     Get the idea?

     “Overly litigous,” indeed …

     Back in my “prime,” I was considered to be one of the most trustworthy people there ever was.  Family, Friends, Customers, Criminals, Police, Random Asshats and, especially, Politicians would tell me all their secrets.  I could keep my mouth shut.

     I was always very good at keeping my mouth shut.

     Eventually, their problems would become my problems, in trying to resolve the injustices in a given situation.  Still, though I would play Devil’s Advocate for a lot, I’d keep my mouth shut.]

     I was always good like that.  That why everyone felt they could trust me … Why they felt I could keep their secrets.

     Those are the things that keep me up at night.  Not my guilt — no, other peoples.

     And it pisses me off.
     Many months ago, I finally got the opportunity to meet one of the objects of my torment.  I beat his sorry ass to a bloody pulp, all the time lecturing him about why it was a stupid idea to put me in this situation.
     A few months later, he killed himself.

     Good.

     One less asshat in the world.

     Too bad the sorry piece of trash never had the balls to apologize to all the people he’d screwed over in his life.  Too bad he never apologized to those he’d confided in when he took the “easy way” out of his guilt.
     No, his worthless ass left everyone else holding the bag, just like he always did.
     The very sad part is, most people will say, “Don’t talk ill of the dead!”
     Why the Hell not?

     I mean, come on, if their bullshit has tormented you for years, why shouldn’t you just come right out and say it?

     And what the Hell was wrong with me that I never said it before?
     Tonight, for instance, I saw someone I haven’t seen in nearly ten years.  A sweet girl who I tried to look out for in the absence of her parents.  A sweet girl who just always seemed to make bad decisions.
     Several times, I took the fall when she messed up.  Several times, I beat on someone severely when she was in harm’s way. 
     She was one of many “homeless” kids back then, and that’s what I did.  I lived downtown, and I tried to keep them outta trouble.

     Still, eventually, things got really bad for her, despite my best intentions.
     Marriage to someone I’d known for a long time, a cloak & dagger psycho snooping around, and a mysterious disappearance as the outcome.

     A few years afterwards, I realized the “mysterious disappearance” wasn’t so mysterious, afterall.  I ended up meeting up with that specific party in another town (in the same state, mind you!) hanging out with a few other mutual friends.
     I kinda figured everyone knew, except this girl.

     Before I left the country seven years ago, I talked to her late, one night, and said, “Hey, about all that shit … you know, doncha?”
     “Yeah.”

     I kinda thought that was the end of it until I saw her again tonight.

     Eventually, reminscing about old times caught up with me.  And maybe her, too.
     Everybody’d else had known for seven years.  Everybody.

     But, it seems, nobody ever told her.

     Just one less secret for me to have to keep.

     I don’t like that … hate that situation.

     Especially between friends and family.
     It’s no damn wonder I feel like I’ve lost my mind, all these secrets.
     Maybe one of these days I’ll figure out how to tell people without telling them… Just get them thinking enough to figure them all out.

     In the meantime, I guess I’ll just keep on keeping my mouth shut … keep on keep secrets that I don’t want …

     With other peoples’ guilt.

     Wish you pricks would spill the beans already, and quit leaving people like me hanging.

     Read/watched/listened to a videoblog earlier today … and … well … OK, here it is….

Really, there’s so much unnecessary opposition against under age purchasing of the Morning-After pill which raises this question: is it really any different than other forms of contraception? So, should condoms and spermicide require proof of age too? Opposers would certainly say yes. Back in the day, when I was under the legal drinking age, kids would just pay an older friend to do a beer run to the liquor store. It’s safe to say that under age teens today will take a similar plan C approach to getting Plan B at their local CVS.

And in a related outrageous reproduction rights topic, many far right-winged pharmacists have regressed back to our country’s puritanical roots and are not filling prescriptions for birth control and the morning-after pill. The reason why? They simply don’t believe in it.

According to Alan Sonfield of the Alan Guttmacher Institute in New York

“there are pharmacists who mistakenly believe contraception is a form of abortion and refuse to prescribe it to anyone.”

Wow, talk about misinformed. How in the hell did these people graduate from pharmacy school if they can’t identify the difference between contraception and an abortion? Reportedly, some pharmacists are going even as far as to hold prescriptions hostage refusing to transfer them to other pharmacies to be filled when time is of the essence, especially for the morning-after pill.

     What the author, Michelle Coudon, misses is the fact that … okay, watch the video again.  Note her pauses.  She’s a very poor actress.

     My problem isn’t that she’s a poor actress … It’s not politics …. It’s not religion …  It’s not a lot of things.
     But those pauses…

     My problem is that *if* this drug is actually effective and reasonably accesible to everyone, it still doesn’t protect a damn person from Sexually Transmitted Diseases.
     Why the Hell should anyone, in this day and age, take a pill as Contraception when there are so many NASTY diseases running around?
     I mean, without Marriage, yadda-yadda, anyway.

     Well, hey … Even though I think l’il’ Michelle is hot enough to take the bed on a round-trip around the room, I still wouldn’t do her even if she promised to take “Plan B” — not without a “Plan A.”  Apparently, “Plan A” (wearing a condom) wasn’t good enough for her in the past or present.
     Quite honestly, even considering “Plan Pre-A,” (not sleeping with them AT ALL) I’ve had my fill of nutso psychobitches who think I’m their baby-daddy.

     Hot as you are, sorry, dear, but you’re full of shit if you think Contraception, these days, is only about birth control.  It’s no wonder Pharmacists don’t want to approve it for widespread use.

     Some things you just can’t wash off.

     Joseph Ferrante, the self-appointed Greatest Musician on Earth, is a nutjob.

This two NAZIS called Brandon Martus Anton Olsen and this Mr. Fab have been creating problems for our Trascendental guitar virtuoso during the last three years. They are just jealous human nothings trying to create problems for the best musician on Earth. Well, their sort is just like that: abusive NAZIS that create problems for outstanding people. It is just amazing that after reading the gigantic praise in the letters of Rick Wakeman and Bill Bruford about our virtuoso, as well as on the praise letters of BBC, London Capital Radio and Sony Music Publishers, we had to come accross these two VULTURES who even helped program the computer of Google so as to hide the articles of our virtuoso. These two NAZI VULTURES and Google have been doing the impossible to hide the best musician on Earth, whom we support. Well, the stature of the man is determined by the amount of conspiracy they generate

     Given so many “conspiracies,” he must be at least eighteen feet tall.

     And, uh, if I’m not mistaken, that’s three people he listed, but he still refers to them as “This two NAZIS” instead of “These three NAZIS.”  But, math is hard, right?

     If you wonder why I’m waiting until today to post this, take a look at Anton’s post on LR2.com.  An old post, with spam up to a few months ago.
     Now take a look at Mr. Fab’s post on Blogspot.

     Today, he takes his place with the numerous other psychos I’ve written about.

     Apparently, he was such a pathetic multiple-personality self-promotor, it never occurred to him to register “josephferrante.com”

     I’ve used the term “excremental day” a lot, lately.

     I should trademark it.

     It’s been a rough few weeks.
     I’ve had a Partner company screwing an end-client pretty hard.  They don’t mean to, they say.  They apologize profusely to me, instead of the client.  A little, “Oh, we’ll take care of your pissed off customers, considering it’s our fault!” would be nice right about now.
     I’ve had a stalker. I’ve come to some unfortunately conclusions regarding “who” it is, and ”why” they might be doing it.  It’s not something I’ve done, mind you, but rather just some little grade-school jealousy which certainly isn’t my problem — neither business nor pleasure.  *shakes head*
     I’ve had friends telling me, “I’m falling in Love with you!” just because I’m “Mr. Smoothe” — such things as asking them if they’d like a drink when I go to the kitchen.  (Thanks, Swanky — I think you’re right)
     I also found out one of the songs I wrote this week was way, way too similar to an obscure Nine Inch Nails remix, “Closer to God” (yeah, not that radio crap, “Closer,” and it was only the chorus, but it’s certainly close enough to make trouble).
     Like an animal, indeed.

     Speaking of animals….

     I’m a hairy guy, destined to be at least as hairy as Robin Williams by the time I’m fifty.  And though this bit doesn’t really belong in the Canonical “psycho” List (this one was just a witch with a capital B), I haven’t written about Psychos (ex-girlfriends or otherwise) in a few days, and I kinda missed the topic.
     Anyway…. 

     The other night, I started talking to a woman who was a friend-of-friends, and even though I was wearing a “wife-beater” with a shirt over it, she decided to exclaim:
     “Hey, when we leave here, can we all go to my place?  I have a pool!  But ya know what I hate is hairy guys.  I don’t want to clean out the filter.”

     Kinda ticked me off, given that she’d asked me to come home and give her a once over.  She saw my body hair all night, and continually made comments about how she’d love to run her fingers over my chest.
     I was typical “nice guy.”  I told her, “No thanks, sorry, I’m not ready for that.”

     Of course, Hell hath no Fury like that of a woman scorned.  Kinda like Ms. Flakes & Nutjobs.

     It kinda worked on my nerves, anyway.  When you add to that the extreme heat and humidity we’ve had lately, it’s no wonder that I now have a Number 2 haircut.  Military style.
     And a Number 2 everywhere else.
     But, the beard’s still a Number One.

     I have to go, tho … my chest itches.