Too bad, so sad...

Nice work, Eli.

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XLVI

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“Fellow anons: we are pleased to bring you the dismantling of a major US-based white supremacist network known as the “American Third Position”(A3P). These racist losers have chapters across the US, operate several white power websites, forums and online stores, and are even running a candidate in the 2012 elections. Although they try hard to maintain a professional public image to camouflage their vile racism, we’re now airing all their dirty laundry all over the internet. Contained in this major dump are several thousand private forum messages, personal emails, internal organization notes, names, phone numbers, home addresses and other information on all of their members and supporters. It’s time for these cowardly suit and tie white supremacists to sleep with one
eye open. Scared much?

In addition to finding the usual racist rants and interactions with other white power groups, we also found a disturbingly high amount of members who are also involved in campaigning for Ron Paul. According to these messages, Ron Paul has regularly met with many A3P members, even engaging in conference calls with their board of directors. Ron Paul’s racist politics and affiliations are already well known, being viciously anti-immigrant, anti-abortion and against gay marriage — not to mention having authored the racist “Ron Paul Papers” and receiving financial support from other white power groups (pictured with Don Black from stormfront.org). Hard to believe Ron Paul draws some support from the left and the occupation movements, especially now that it is confirmed Ron Paul hangs out with straight up racist hate groups.

We put extra effort in ruining the life of A3P webmaster Jamie Kelso. On top of being on the board of directors of A3P, former $cientologist, and high ranking Ron Paul organizer, he also is the account owner of german nazi forums and store nsl-forum.org, rhs-versand.com. We went ahead and wiped those websites off the internet as well, dumping private messages and order information. Aside from us releasing his information such as his social security number, address, resume and private discussions, we also heard some folks went on a joyride with Kelso’s credit card and made some lulzy purchases, including sex toy purchases and making donations to the Anti Defamation League and many others. Oops.

We call upon not only other antifascists but all those opposed to white supremacy to utilize this information and make hell for these white nationalist scumbags. It is essential if we wish to live in a world free from oppression to
expose and confront racists at their jobs, their schools, at their homes and in the streets.

No Dialogue! No sympathy! Destroy White Supremacy!”

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Say it ain’t so, Ron. Say it ain’t so…

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But not this damn bike, nor the one I just traded Zooter for.  Neither of those motorcycles are even near my age.  There’s the perpetual youth of it.  I can buy new.  I can be new, assuming I can keep up with the bikes, which I cannot, rusty tin man that I am.

No loss.  Rebound adjustment fixes most of lost youth.  I love rebound adjustment so much I believe any bike which does not have this capability is below even a novice rider. Of all the lazy engineering. . .it is damn impolite not to offer rebound on Honda Rebels.  Shit.  Chivalry is dead.

Speaking of death, if ever there was a more pertinent quote about the fatal perils of these demon bikes, I defy anyone to top this:

“If I was dead, I wouldn’t know I was dead.  That’s the only thing I have against death.  I want to enjoy my death.” -Samuel Beckett, Eleutheria.

Well maybe not.  No.  I’m right about Beckett being right.  That about sums it all up if you read it a few times.  All this nonsense about the walking death sentence and its supposed sanctity can be defeated by that alone; at least the last of Beckett’s poetry.  (I know he’s talking about enjoying death after death, but I’m being goofy.)

“I want to enjoy my death.”

Is that really too much to ask of death?  Hell, we would most likely trade our lives for this pleasure.  It would be worth the faith to believe that a moment before we go we are allowed to stop time and direct our own passing.  You can’t argue, you can’t change your course because you’re already fucked, but the Grim Reaper will allow you to frame the final moment.   And adjust the contrast and hue.

Oh wait.  We can do that if we choose to.  If we put our risks in one basket, the eggs will probably break through what we wove.  Huh?  I think The Wiz said that already, and if he didn’t I don’t want to admit that I did.

It’s the machine.  The machine is broken.  This is not my damn fault.  Absurdity is to blame.

Camus won the Nobel with absurdity.  He used a typewriter as well.  Albert never had a motorcycle that I heard or read of.  A motorcycle seems absurd enough for Camus’ cause, even though Sartre would call him a nihilist.  They didn’t always get along.

Looking at the sparkly paint of the bike I traded the 1000cc single shot pistol for, I began to feel sleepy.  Finally.  When fatigue takes over, I know I will be okay.  Total exhaustion would set upon me by nightfall.  I hoped.

In the old days I’d drink myself to sleep, but these days it causes the dreams to occur and the cycle seems to take longer to stop when alcohol is involved.  A night on the town sends me directly to sweating nightmares and teeth gnashing days of anger of no tangible origin.  Even a nice evening with friends is connected to dreams which never die.  My hangovers go back to four years of age.

The problem with getting over the imagery of my past is that I feel owned by my subconscious.  Like a race where someone blocked me until the end, I cannot keep my line.  But unlike a race, I don’t have any chance of getting around this competitor in my life.  It would be easy to say, “you have the power to move on.”  But tell that shit to a Viet Nam vet who still wakes up with the memories, or injuries and who inside knows, even if he acts like the memories aren’t there, they are.

“Are you okay?”

The question snaps me out of a fatigue seizure of some sort.  Was I sleeping?  Here on the curb?

I open my eyes and look up to see my neighbor.  Smiling, but angry for some reason, I give the excuse I always give, which isn’t necessarily untrue, “I’m just tired.”

“Oh,” she says with a curious concern in her eyes, “I thought I heard you talking.”

Maybe I was.  I don’t know.  She continues into her apartment and I stand up to enter mine.  Almost falling over, I walk slowly into the dark apartment to make coffee, so that I will not fall asleep at 6PM.

A book I’ve been reading is sitting on the table, opened and annotated by my own hand.   I read.

“Well,” said Amory, “I simply state that I’m a product of a versatile mind in a restless generation-with every reason to throw my mind and pen in with the radicals.  Even if, deep in my heart, I thought we were all blind atoms in a world as limited as the stroke of a pendulum, I and my sort would struggle against tradition; try, at least, to displace old cants with new ones.”

Why can’t I enjoy my death?  If the answer isn’t a new cant, I don’t want to hear it.  I’m tired of these weepy old cants which say this life isn’t mine to take away.  Seems the platitudes about living with our choices end with the final choice.  If so, every hero who died in a war is a sinner, and those who sent him there are the hero.

This would be the last motorcycle I would ever own.  It was only a 600, only capable of 140, but that’ll do it.  Well, that and one dark night of screaming around the hills, and one mistake.  It would have to end that way.

One corner and one mistake.  Yep.  I’m going to enjoy my death.

A smirk appeared under my nose.  Shit, I was happy again.

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The Motor Cyclist III: Absurdity

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Good for ADZ, good for 'Merica.

We have always been a staunchly conservative website here at ADZ.  Since the days when I was the A/V technician for the Nixon campaigns, through Leo’s time as grammar advisor for the Bush administration, ADZ has never wavered from our conviction that a good America can only be achieved through conservative politics.

Plus, the fucking Democrats never want to play ball no matter how much of Dorkchick’s bootlegging money we try to launder through their campaigns. Fucking socialists.  Well, Clinton would listen, when he wasn’t staining the Oval Office.

But by the grace of The Lord, Newt Gingrich has taken millions from us and if we can get him into office, ADZ will be pissing off the balcony on OWS and leaving you losers behind to fend for your lazy selves.  To further hedge our bets, we packed the pockets of all GOP candidates, except Ron Paul because we couldn’t find his campaign headquarters.  We have plans for you peasants.

Long war, long workdays, no public education, and the ability to jail any commenter who doesn’t bow before us like one of Herman Cain’s white women; this is the future we see ourselves ruling.  Fuck the rest of you.  Seriously, you’re going to pay for ever setting foot on our damn planet.  We are Atlas, and we will shrug you fucking fleas right off.

Shit, you’re gonna die…

But don’t take my word for it, take Newt by his own words… Here’s some hot Newt on Newt action:

“Gingrich – Primary mission, Advocate of civilization, Definer of civilization, Teacher of the rules of civilization, Leader of the civilizing forces.” ~ Newt Gingrich

“I have enormous personal ambition. I want to shift the entire planet. And I’m doing it. I am now a famous person. I represent real power.” ~Newt Gingrich

“The most serious, systematic revolutionary of modern times.” ~Newt Gingrich

“She isn’t young enough or pretty enough to be the President’s wife.”~Newt Gingrich ( talking about his first wife after divorcing her.)

“It doesn’t matter what I do. People need to hear what I have to say. There’s no one else who can say what I can say. It doesn’t matter what I live.” ~Newt Gingrich

“We should replace bilingual education with immersion in English so people learn the common language of the country and they learn the language of prosperity, not the language of living in a ghetto.” ~Newt Gingrich

President Newt.  Endorsed by Leo Bloom, ADZ and me, however I’m unsure of what name I’m writing under.  Doesn’t matter for our purposes here.  Newt speaks for us, now bow to Newt.

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President Newt 2012: Inspiring Quotes from Newt

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Today, Congress holds hearings on the first American Internet censorship system.
This bill can pass. If it does the Internet and free speech will never be the same.

Join all of us to stop this bill.

Website Blocking
The government can order service providers to block websites for infringing links posted by any users.

Risk of Jail for Ordinary Users
It becomes a felony with a potential 5 year sentence to stream a copyrighted work that would cost more than $2,500 to license, even if you are a totally noncommercial user, e.g. singing a pop song on Facebook.

Chaos for the Internet
Thousands of sites that are legal under the DMCA would face new legal threats. People trying to keep the internet more secure wouldn’t be able to rely on the integrity of the DNS system.

PROTECT IP Act Breaks The Internet from Fight for the Future on Vimeo.

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This is crap. Do something about it:

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Plenty of girls in Dallas if this is his taste.

I was in Dallas, which at some point in history had the most strip clubs per capita in all of America.  Even Vegas couldn’t match Dallas’ love of throwing dollars at women for taking their clothes off.  To me, throwing money at women was Donald Trump’s gig, a capitalist form of sex, and never to be confused with love. Dollars for boobies means pain and the poorhouse and did not work for me.

But whatever works for you or Herman Cain…I’m not judgemental, I’m liberally minded, a live and let live type person.  I assure you though, from experiences in DFW, I’ve experienced the cynical love philosophy of the fallen: We all pay for it somehow.

Literally or symbolically this somehow exists, it was easy to believe, but not for me.  Chasing the green carrot for the greatest thing takes all the fun out of life, let alone love or sex. Still, there are those who pay for it somehow.  This was certainly true in the Dallas/Ft Worth area.  Remember, the breast implant was invented in Dallas.  I saw Herman Cain at Love Field airport, downtown Dallas, where I decided to sit out traffic after dropping off my inconsiderate girl friend who moved her flight to 5 P.M. on Friday.  Perusing the internet I of course saw his face, this time checking email when his mug was forced onto me again.

I checked the photo.  It was a him.  Mr. American Dream of the GOP.  One of the good ones.  Darker than Obama, and meaner’n Cheney; he was a conservative pamphlet of characteristics a think tank designed somewhere near piles of money.

He was wearing a mild disguise, a cabbie hat and ridiculously thin, rectangular sunglasses, but dressed like a casual Old Navy version of Bill Cosby from the shoulders down.  Around the pathetic shades I could see his eyes flicking back and forth as women passed, scanning their bodies greedily head to toe, shaking his head and occasionally licking his lips.  I was sitting in his periphery, and hiding nicely in my aviator sunglasses, or so I thought, until his eyes followed a particularly junky trunk, then caught his own reflection twice in my cheap sunglasses.  His disguise met mine, his expression changed to G-O-Preditorial.  Before I could blink Cain sat down beside me.

“What do you think of Herman there?” He barked softly with malice, pointing at my screen.

I bought time with stupidity since I knew he wouldn’t like my first answer, “Huh?  Were you talking to me?”

His rectangular, black sunglasses covered his eyes, but not the thin skin near which can tell even more.  I could tell he was feeling his fire, he could see I was but a fly to him. He didn’t have to take my crap.  All humanity is but a bridge to Supercain.

“Don’t act stupid.  You know who I am.  You’re looking at me.”  He took off the sunglasses and slapped them against my computer screen.  One of the lenses popped out into my lap.  He snatched it up and continued, “Don’t lie.  Never lie to me.  What is your name?”

“Martin.”

“Like Dr. King huh?  Bull,” a woman distracted him, he spoke softly while leering, “King was a whining punk and if I find out you’re lying to me I will crush you.  I’m the fucking Godfather, you pink fucker.  So now you know where we stand.  What are you going to do?”

I took off my sunglasses and stared into his, “Why do you have to be so hard Herman? Go straight for the jugular, intimidate…you’re an asshole Herman.  If you’d just be cool, I might take you out on the town, show you some Dallas action.”

He smiled and peered over the pimp shades. “What do you know about some action?”

The way he asked made me shudder slightly.  Any disgusting thing I may have done in a past life paled to the swarmy innuendo of his question.  Action.  He’s like these punk Dallas businessmen who get off on Harry Hines for peep booths and caged girls and prostitutes who solicit you from their own cars.

I worked at a studio supply company in an industrial complex near Harry Hines where I found a crack pipe, a bloody t-shirt, a soiled condom, and human waste by the dumpster, like a horrific pictogram of the love money buys.  Each night as I left work, Mercedes and Lexus cars were exiting I-35 for action.  Starched shirts, conservative values, and more money than brains or class.  Fifty-thousand dollar a year millionaires combing for Action. It wasn’t even sexual, it was monetary.  Proof that, as advertised (or As Seen on TV), money equalled Action.

Not my gig at all, no sir.  It’s too ugly to describe.  But how often does Herman Cain enter this terrible mosaic?  Several times apparently.

I smirked at Cain, “I know a place where you can find what men like you are looking for.”

Reaching under his V-neck sweater vest he pulled out his roll, “This is my banging money.  You want to party?  I’m cool.  Take me to the action.”

I nodded for no real reason.  A well formed woman walked by and distracted him.  I watched the side of his face as he leered.  Suddenly he jumped in front of her, “Hey, you’re a fine looking woman.  What do you do for a living?  I can get you a job. Shit, if you only knew, I create jobs.”

It was ugly and pathetic.  Herman obviously was at a total loss with women.  His approach was clumsy and insulting and the reason I hate most men.  It’s god damned embarrassing.  She smiled sympathetically, like he was a senile man after a near death experience with too much money, and walked backwards.

“Come on baby, where you headed?  Why don’t you go have some fun with me?”  He showed her the bank roll.  She looked so stunned I should have stepped in, but there were onlookers who saw Cain’s lame pimp act and I didn’t want anyone to think I was with him. The whole scene was difficult to watch, but in a small way, I felt sorry for Herman.

“Bitch,” Herman said and sat back down, “I bet she was thinking about it though.  They’re all whores you know?  You’re going to take me to the places where my money talks, right?”

“That’s right.”  I said.  “Plenty of places here in Dallas peddling your needs.  Great city you’re in Herman.”

“Call me ‘C-dog,’” he said, “and take me to these places.  Blondes, I want blondes.”

We walked toward the exit, Herman making half-passes at every woman along the way.  A brunette woman smiled at me, and I thought she was an old girlfriend.  I glanced twice and she approached us before we made it to the parking area.

“You don’t remember me do you?”

I did, “Stacey right?  You were friends with Melissa weren’t you?”

She smiled and nodded, “What are you doing these days?”

We talked briefly while I explained where I was in life while Herman stared down her blouse.  We hugged, she kissed my cheek and told me to call her, which I had no intention of doing.  She was from Houston, and her friend Melissa was from Dallas, and during some blurry years I spent time with both of them but left when I realized they were both screwing me in the evenings and hustling old rich men all day.  Herman liked Stacey, and in her day she would have taken everything he had and left him crying.  Her scene made me darker than Herman, and pitifully depressed. My girl on the plane had rectified all that.

Stacey walked off.  Herman turned to me, “You hit that shit?”

“I slept with her and her room mate.  It wasn’t the weirdest I ever got.”

This past debauchery pleased C-dog; he thought he found a compatriot.  But I was Un-American by his standards because I lived for love, not cheap gratification; at least these days.  Gratification is not love, nor even that gratifying.  It’s as cheap as a Godfather’s pizza.

Love is rebellion against men like Herman.  I wasn’t on the high road for noble reasons entirely, I did it to have something money couldn’t touch, and politicians are powerless against; smirking at those who fell for the fallen belief: we all pay for it somehow. Yet there will always be those who can be bought, such as it be, and the cliches about it all proof.

I hated these cliches and I was determined to work out my hatred on Herman Cain.  A loving heart is my hammer, but my vicious side held the tongs.  Feeling the monster come over me, I smiled evilly, then told Herman Cain, “Come on C-dog.  Like your boy Nugent sings, it’s ‘wang dang sweet poontang.’  Let’s party.”

“I love Ted Nugent,” C-dog exclaimed.

Wingman for a fantastic symbol of the American Dream

Creating jobs for women, trickling down

as the moneyed men show their love,

with plans for your future, their ends…

We all pay for that somehow.

Believe that.

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Herman Cain Do Attitude: Departure from Love Field

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Gosh I miss her!

But the same thing is going to happen to most of the GOP candidates after the first primary.

THAT’S all part of our sensible Presidential Election Cycle wherein the candidates are selected, and National Policy is determined by about twenty farmers in Iowa!

This is all even more exciting this election cycle because my daughter Katy is now a Registered Voter! (They grow up so fast!)

I can remember when being a Republican meant “voting against your own best interests because a black guy might get a break.” NOW it’s “voting against your own best interests because a black guy might get re-elected.” Boy how the times have changed!

Hopefully I’ve got Katy fully indoctrinated, but there is a Whole Wide World of young people out there.  So to help all new voters here is my:

SIMPLE POLITICAL PRIMER!

First there are the DEMOCRATS. They come in all shapes and sizes—from every race and religion. The Democratic Party welcomes all Americans, even those born in Hawaii.

Then there are the REPUBLICANS. Their hair is blue.

The Republican Party has two CORE BELIEFS.

1. Rich People should not pay taxes.

2. Taxes should not be paid by rich people.

You might wonder how such a simple message appeals to so many voters. The answer is simple.

Let’s imagine a Republican pulling away from his reserved parking place behind the large discount store where he manages the Lawn & Garden Department.

He arrives at his $17,000 mobile home and parks beside his $10,000 bass boat, both of which will truly be his in just 58 more payments. He goes inside and turns on his $5000 flat panel TV, pats his $800 Doberman pinscher on the head, snorts a couple of $20 Lortabs and thinks, “I’M RICH!”

To appeal to voters that are smarter than their pets Republicans have also learned to raise other controversial issues that threaten our very way of life (like Gay people in the military) and to take one side (or in Mitt Romney’s case BOTH sides) of those issues.

However such subjects become far less important after the primaries in Iowa, New Hampshire and South Carolina. Luckily Rush Limbaugh continues to shriek about them for three hours every afternoon. Therefore when the candidates drop them completely for the Florida primary it goes largely unnoticed.

Upon election those issues are completely replaced by National Security Dangers that can only be solved by invading countries with lot of oil, and of course ensuring RICH PEOPLE DO NOT PAY TAXES.

You young voters probably have some questions. To help out, here’s more information presented in a handy Q & A format!

QUESTION:   Do ALL Republicans have blue hair?

ANSWER:      Those that HAVE hair.

QUESTION:   How does having Gays in the military threaten National Security?

ANSWER:      Imagine the President ordering a nuclear strike (upwind from the oil fields) only to find his fleet of Ohio Class Submarines are all tied alongside with their crews frantically searching for matching curtains.  (I also shudder to think what “Maverick” might actually be doing with “GOOSE,” his “BACKSEATER.”)

QUESTION:   Why aren’t GOP contenders like Mitch Daniels and Jim DeMint running for President in 2012?

ANSWER:      The same reason LADY GAGA isn’t challenging MIKE TYSON to a 15-round boxing match.

QUESTION:   There seem to be a LOT of people that HATE President Obama. Is that just because he’s black?

ANSWER:      Please disregard the fact that I am vigorously nodding in an affirmative manner. Of Course Not! Nor do those people really want to electrocute Mexicans crossing the border, (in fact that’s why Texas instituted lethal injection.)

___

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POLITICS 101

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I think a towel party is in order. Judge William "The Law" Adams; big tough guy who can beat women.

Texas judge William Adams viciously beats daughter who has cerebral palsy for using the internet.   Warning this video is disturbing.

Fred Roberts

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5. The Fred Diaries: Ask not…but what is the most shameful thing you will do for your country?

Judge, jury, executioner and a douchebag.

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I always thought cocaine was a dumb drug and nothing positive could come from it, but when Sarah Palin, coked to gills, pointed her shotgun at me and told me to, “get dirty” with her, I had to snort.  Sarah had been railing up all night, to the dismay of the rest of us and Glen Rice who declined the drugs as all athletes do.  Only Glen was immune from Sarah’s gun wielding demands to join her, and only because he was feeding her the Alabama Blacksnake in front of her husband.

After she forced me to do drugs, I retreated to a nearby restroom in the lodge, and did the best I could to remove the evil dust from my nose.  That’s when Sarah kicked down the door.

“Are you a fucking Narc?  Are you from the liberal media?  Who the fuck are you motherfucker?”

You can’t turn your back on a drug, especially when the drug is holding a Benelli skeet gun in your face and pregnant.  I

thought of her unborn child and what the terrible drugs might do to it in the womb, but then survival mode kicked in.

“Look Sarah, you know who I am, you invited me here because of that night at the Motel 6 so many years ago.”

Her face changed from aggression to low level panic, “Are  you the guy with the Gila Monster?”

“No.  I was the guy with the Nixon mask.  Remember?  You sucked my ‘not a crook.’”

“OH yeah.  Gawd damn, I was totally geeking out that night.  Didn’t I hump the telephone?”

“More than that.  But you were on heroin and blow that night.”

She leaned against the broken door and stroked the barrel of the shotgun longingly.  ”What happened Fred?  I used to be fun you know?  Now I got this baby in me and the only way I can party is to go off in the woods with the snowmobile.” Then she started laughing and didn’t stop for several minutes.  ”I’m a snowmobile.”

This strapping black man laid the black beef in your Tea Party candidate. Rumors are that his massive schlong and Sarah's coke abuse gave her child Down's.

Glen Rice looked worried behind her.  Moving slowly, he slid the shotgun out of her hands.  Sarah, staring at me as I blew the coke out my nose onto some tissue, shook her head, “We had fun that night Fred.  I never have fun anymore.”

I started to toss the tissue, but Sarah grabbed it and ate it, “Tastes better than coke boogers.”

Even Glenn Beck was disgusted, and he was in the tub rubbing his own excrement onto his face, blotto on Adderall and human flesh.  He puked once, swallowed a portion of an Eskimo, then asked Sarah to urinate on him.  I had been in some weird places as a result of my youthful partying, but this took the cake.  I can handle ten Latin Kings suddenly thinking I’m a cop and get out alive, but after this snowmobile scene, I had to seek help.

I still don’t remember fully how I got out of the cabin and back to town.  I had to hit a couple of people, and kick Glen Rice in the balls, but it was freaking survival.  I stole a snowmobile and rode it like I had.

Fueled by the Columbian Lobotomy, Sarah gave chase for about half a mile.  I’d look over my shoulder and see her streaking naked, coke covering her lips like Scarface, and her protruding pregnant belly bouncing with each stride.  God help that poor kid.

I had always suspected the ultra conservative types were hypocritical projectionists… and then she got NEAR power.  Holy shit, that’ll make someone turn to drugs.  I’m checking into Dr. Drew’s Celebrity Acquaintance rehab.  Maybe I can get a room near Heidi Fleiss and ask her how my ex-fiance is doing in the business.

Just say no.

-Fred

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Chopping Lines with Mama Bear Sarah Palin

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(If it makes it easier, let me get into character for you. “REPEAL OBAMACARE NOW! Just like MILLIONS of Americans I WANT my Health Insurance DROPPED the MINUTE I get SICK!”)
Here we go! I don’t think I’d choose MICHELLE BACHMAN. Unlike my candidate, she’s not just SAYING crazy shit TO GET ELECTED, she believes CRAZY SHIT. (Michelle, Honey. I have a message for you AND your blue-haired constituency: He’s BLACK, he’s PRESIDENT, GET USED TO IT!)

I’ll tell you something ELSE too. Until Obama CARRIED INDIANA in 2008, (the first Democrat since GROVER CLEVELAND) I wasn’t too proud of my home state. But even HOOSIERS would NOT elect A LOON like Michelle Bachman.

MY OWN BACHMAN THEORY is a bunch of people in one part of Minnesota got DRUNK and DARED EACH OTHER to vote for her. Then on Wednesday morning they all woke up with TERRIBLE headaches, turned on their televisions and said, “Oh Fuck.” NOW I think people across America are feeling the same way.

SORRY GODFATHERS’S PIZZA GUY! While I think that 999 would be FINE, FINE, FINE, I’m not ready to base ANYTHING on the CHILEAN MODEL.

And WHAT is up Rick Santorum’s ASS? No, really. Judging by his expression I’m guessing an UMBRELLA!

NEWT? Sorry buddy but Nancy Reagan has been talking to your late ex-wife. Yeah, it ain’t happening…

Always nice to see you RON PAUL, have fun getting GROPED by the TSA TONIGHT! Great News! They let ME reassemble the PLANE for YOU! So I hope you have SAFE FLIGHT! (Did I tighten the lug nuts?)

YEAH BUH BYE. And very nice meeting you Governor Huntsman! Hey, hang on a second there. You don’t want to get on THAT plane!

FORGET IT MITT! Yeah I SAW. You’re right it WAS a TRIP-FLOP! And you STUCK the LANDING!

“Now I’d like to turn to MY PICK, Texas Governor RICK PERRY! Governor Perry over the weekend your state EXECUTED 234 people” APPLAUSE, APPLAUSE, APPLAUSE, APPLAUSE, APPLAUSE, APPLAUSE…

I LIKE RICK PERRY. Sincerely, I DO.

Oliver Stone should have got HIM to play the President in “W”!

Yeah he’s SAYING he doesn’t believe in Evolution and Global Warming but it’s clear he DOES. He just don’t let it slow him down none!

And did you see how he had Bachman FRANTICALLY signaling her staff to find out who Galileo WAS, and what STATE he “got outvoted” IN? But BY THEN Perry had ALREADY moved on to calling Social Security a “Ponzi Scheme.” (Which, for the record, it IS.)

If I can’t have both SMART and HONEST (like President Obama) I’ll take SMART.

(NO! BEAT IT MITT! It only works the first TWO TIMES!)

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The Republicans chances for winning in 2012: “0″

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And if you will allow me George Bush’s liberty to make up words, I am not very overwhelmable.

BUT NOW there’s a new TERROR THREAT, a blackout in California and when I logged on I saw there’s A BIG MOOSE STUCK IN A TREE!

So while I thank President Obama FOR SEWING UP THE 2012 election TONIGHT, (and THAT’S a page) as promised I watched the Republican debate and I WAS BLOWN AWAY!

NOT just by the CANDIDATES, (several I had never even HEARD OF) but by the POSSIBILITIES!FIRST, it was on MSNBC! Wow! REALLY?

The questions were direct, (at least that’s what I THOUGHT until the LAST ONE.) And while I didn’t actually check, I

presume that was comprehensively whined-about. (“They didn’t even ASK about BIRTH CERTIFICATES!” (stomp) “And NOW I broke A HEEL!”

Then I thought what if THEY REALLY asked tough questions. AND RIGHT THERE WAS A WHOLE PAGE.

Then I thought about a debate on Fox (or one of the other “PAID ADVERTISMENT” networks) which would include, among other things, a game where you’d have to drink every time somebody said, “African American” AND THAT’S A PAGE.

NOW I don’t know WHAT to do with THESE PEOPLE? (You were right Mom, crazy as shit-house rats.)

I knew Mitt Romney of course, whose desperation made me wonder if he was FINALLY running out of money. “NO, I’m not IN the TEA PARTY, but I BROKE UP and sold off LIPTON!”

Ron Paul was there as always. WHY, I have no idea.

HOLY SHIT! Did you just say some of these people DON’T BELIEVE IN EVOLUTION? You saved THAT for the END?

Wait, the guy that MAKES people get INOCULATIONS doesn’t believe in evolution? What was in the needle, HOLY WATER?

AND you don’t believe in Global Warming EITHER. Helloooo. You better DIAL “999” because YOUR STATE IS ON FIRE!

And THAT’S A BOOK!

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NEW YORK | Mon Sep 12, 2011 11:47am EDT

NEW YORK (Reuters) – Anybody who’s smoked marijuana knows about “the munchies,” that desire to eat everything within reach. But a study from France has found that, surprisingly, pot smokers are actually less likely than non-smokers to pack on weight.

Using data covering more than 50,000 U.S. adults, researchers headed by Yann Le Strat, a psychiatrist at the Louis-Mourier Hospital in Colombes, France, found that roughly 14 percent to 17 percent of the people

reporting that they smoked pot at least three days per week were obese.

That compared with a 22 to 25 percent obesity rate among people who said they had not used pot in the past 12 months.

“Initially, we thought we made a mistake,” said Le Strat, adding that he and co-author Bernard Le Foll checked the results several times to make sure they were correct.

“This is only a preliminary result. It doesn’t mean that marijuana does actually help you lose weight, but perhaps there is a component that does.”

The study, published in the American Journal of Epidemiology, included two surveys of U.S. adults — one covering 43,000 people, the other about 9,300 respondents. Both had been conducted by branches of the U.S. National Institutes of Health between 2001 and 2009.

The larger of the surveys found that 14 percent of pot smokers were obese compared to 22 percent who didn’t smoke pot. Similarly, the smaller survey found 17 percent of pot smokers to be obese compared to 25 percent of non-smokers.

Of all respondents to both surveys, between four percent and seven percent said they smoked pot at least three times a week.

Whether or not they smoked cigarettes as well had no influence on the obesity findings, though the researchers did not look at whether diet and exercise habits were different in pot smokers and non-smokers.

According to another recent survey, from the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration, pot use is on the rise in the United States. Almost 16 million U.S. residents used marijuana in 2010, an increase from about 15 million in 2007.

Scientists have researched the role of various molecules within marijuana smoke that produce the high feeling, block pain, and may underlie the hunger for food typically provoked by pot use.

Cannabinoids, molecules similar to natural signaling chemicals in the body, are believed to be key to stimulating appetite — so much so that in 2006, a drug called Rimonabant, designed to work against cannabinoids, was developed.

Rimonabant was approved in more than 30 countries, but not in the United States, for the treatment of obesity. But the drug was pulled off shelves two years later because of an increased risk of suicide among its users.

Whether cannabinoids are the only appetite stimulants in pot smoke, or whether other chemicals might account for the effect, remains to be seen, the researchers say.

Other experts said the results didn’t surprise them.

“There’s no evidence that repeated marijuana use can increase body weight,” said Vincenzo Di Marzo, professor at the Institute of Biomolecular Chemistry in Pozzuoli, Italy, who was not part of the study.

He warned that the study does not show that smoking pot helps you lose weight, but that it could be a starting point for future research.

Le Strat echoed this view and warned against experimenting with pot as a diet aid.

“I see people living with marijuana dependence. I hope people don’t interpret the results to mean that if they use marijuana, they’ll lose weight,” he added. SOURCE: bit.ly/mQOCXt

(Reporting by Linda Thrasybule at Reuters Health; editing by Elaine Lies)

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Smoking marijuana not linked to obesity: study

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Master of Disaster

Any inspiration I extend toward any endeavor usually ends when irony begets cynicism, and my hopeless romantic is once again disappointed by the profound banality of unending stupidity.  Why will fads come and go but being an idiot never goes out of style?  I believe in the timeless truths but my damned soul will not give up on the futile hope that humanity will one day realize we’re all idiots, get on with things and forever end the absolute tyranny of our dumb asses exhibited throughout the history of humankind.  This hope, this dying light, only brings more irony, cynicism and hopelessness, like the flickering bulbs of Christmas lights after Baby Jesus Day.  I know exactly why humanity will never press forward, I have a fantastic example of the very problem:  Me.

There is no damned future and the joke is on us.  Sounds dark, but I think it’s funny, at least when I’m not pissed off. Nothing pisses me off more than reading about stupid bullshit politicians or the fucking army of weasels both sides use to attack each other like a game of Rodent Electric Football at our expense.  It poisons us all to swim through their dung and the rotting corpses they leave behind.  Stinks too.  Worse than all the above, even the writing, is that it makes me just as stupid as them.  It also makes me keep pushing for SOME god damned resolution, only to push myself into maddening insomnia trying to find the perfect way to say all motion is a joke of perception.  

Huh.  That’s almost it.  But then the fucking idiots and weasels and rats and politicians and pundits and Heaven Freaks and gun toters and whores and Rick Perry come in and think otherwise.  I’m right.  St. Francis of Allah Jimi Hendrix Paul Leary DAMNIT… I am right.

Ain’t my idea anyway.  Strewn across all mythologies of business, all religion, all politics is the notion that we are here for a reason.  Some believe it’s profit, some prophet, some prophet profit politics; all pricks, even the girls.  I hate Ann Coulter.  Ayn Rand has been pissing me off too lately, but only because she was so fucking Freudian those motherfuckers on the Right have adopted what was once a cry for the individual and turned it into another way to fuck as all with cigar shaped cockitalism.

Maybe we’re not here for anything at all, especially this bullshit buffet in front of us.  I’m not the ATM for the fucking motorcycle industry, nor am I here to finance wrong wars, nor finance the financiers nor swallow anyone’s bullshit but my own, and that of my beloved friends and family.  That’s enough to keep me busy but sadly I’m still dealing with this bullshit about MOTION.

Never happens.  Progression, regression; diversion, and reckless abandon of truth begets my own abandon.  False motion makes me want to run like hell, dive on a motorcycle… No.  I have to pay for that too.  It’s from without.  

Leaders need followers, prophets need seekers, and there is no intelligence without absolute stupidity.  And I need a motorcycle?  Just once I’d like to be surprised.  I’d like to get my romantic notion, my naive dream about my own motion being pure, mine, and not merely two wheeled consumption.  Yet like all the other idiots, I attribute my purity to some connection I’ve fooled myself into believing was truth.  Self off a shelf.

There is no such thing as motion.  The idea contrary always makes me want to run.  They’ll only catch me after the crash.  Maybe that’ll teach them there is only stop, no motion.

TJ’s Cycle, Duke of North Lamar

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THEN there’s brown paper packages tied up with strings. IF THAT BROWN PAPER PACKAGE contains CIGARS it SKY-ROCKETS straight to the TOP OF THE LIST.

IT GOES WITHOUT SAYING how much I love my Daughter KATHRYN MAE JONES. I also don’t mind her bewildering decision to become Hispanic one little bit.

Brandy and I NEVER have to EXPLAIN JOKES to OUR KID. And Katy’s getting pretty damn funny herself. Our “Little Wonder” also INSISTS she’s going to live to be 123—thus giving herself ample time to pick a COUNTRY OF ORIGIN.

However, MOST OF ALL, I love My Wife, BRANDY JONES.

IT’S NO EXAGGERATION when I say I could never have accomplished ANYTHING without her. Brandy not only explained concepts I didn’t understood (like ‘layaway’) but also made helpful suggestions like paying the bill BEFORE they TURN THE POWER OFF.

That BRANDY is BEAUTIFUL, LOVING and GENEROUS is all an AMAZING bonus.

Of course I love Brandy’s family too. Most people make fun of in-laws, but my latest set is helpful and FEARLESS. It’s rare indeed to have ANOTHER FAMILY ready to SWING INTO ACTION the MOMENT YOU CALL (or in my case STOMP ON THE FLOOR.)

As for MY FAMILY, I have written many times that we truly DID put ‘THE FUN’ in DYSFUNCTIONAL!

My Mom is WONDERFUL! Seriously. EVERYBODY loves her! But NO ONE more than ME! Who else’s Mom would SMUGGLE DRUGS across THE BORDER for ONE OF HER KIDS?

I love my brother ERIC JONES too. He’s the only Republican on EARTH that believes it should be MANDATORY that EVERY EMPLOYER provides a 401K.

I love my other brother DAVID JONES just as much. However David still has issues with our Father. SINCE DAD DIED in 2006 I fear many of his issues may go UNRESOLVED.

When asked how MANY guns I HAVE, I answer, “WAY more than I NEED, but not as many AS I WANT.” I feel the same way about Air Jordans.

AND GOD HOW I LOVE MY SCOOTER! It SOMEHOW came back from the DEAD! (Actually a “ZOMBIE-SCOOTER” would explain a LOT!)

THOUGH I acquired it on the “Somebody ELSE breaks it, so YOU BOUGHT IT” plan, I STILL LOVE the darn thing! I enjoy it EVEN when I’M FLYING OVER THE HANDLEBARS!

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What I Love Most

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A trophy plaque shows me finishing 2nd in 125 open at my home track in 1992.  That same weekend I quit by dramatically screwing my Moto 4 to the wall of my father’s shop and telling him, “I’m sick of spending money on these damn things.”  He laughed and understood, but it was still a somber moment.  Before then, I was still a motorcycle racer/person.  After that hole was drilled in my old lid, that definition died for 15 years.

Then dad died.  A friend had recovered a stolen ZX6 and left it in my shop for repair.  After fingering it for a while, I bought it and became a motorcycle rider again.  Seven years later, I’m fucking sick of these damn machines again.  They own me.

That is not how it should be.  And I get to be annoyed by these guys asking me if I can wheelie all the time?  What do I like about these things?

Martin

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However, before I get to THAT it might not be a bad idea to do A QUICK RECAP. You might remember from the first installment that if there was one thing ALL of my colleagues, past and present could agree on it would be this:

I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’M DOING.
After five installments (and nearly five years) THAT hasn’t changed.. In fact I know less NOW than I did when we STARTED!

To illustrate this I used the following example. While we were still working in the basement ‘BOB’ made minimum wage, ‘BILL’ made $9.00 per hour and ‘JIM’ made $12.00! (These were not their real names.) Somehow Bob, Bill and Jim learned EXACTLY how much each other made. (We had always tried to keep that secret by PRINTING IT ALL OUT and handing it over to everybody along with their weekly check.) WHAT WE DIDN’T PRINT OUT WAS:

1. BILL WAS LIVING IN OUR OFFICE and

2. BOB CALLED IN SICK so often we’d NEVER ACTUALLY MET, but none of THAT mattered BECAUSE

3. I had no idea how much money ANYBODY made (and STILL don’t.)

With the addition of a rather dysfunctional bookstore and VAST QUANTITIES of METHANE, this is precisely where we still are TODAY.

But don’t you worry about my wife and I not stopping to “SMELL THE ROSES.”

At least once a week we give the MAID the NIGHT OFF and TAKE THE BENTLEY out to the MARINA. Then we CAST OFF and let the breeze take us to whatever distant shore it will.

THAT’S usually where THE COPS are waiting to ARREST us because we spent ALL OUR MONEY on CRAZY LUXURIES like FOOD.

But we both look GOOD IN ORANGE while we wait for somebody to RAISE enough MONEY (apparently by selling forks) to make BAIL. Then we go right back to work.

What we want to do now, with the help of our priceless colleagues, but also FOR our priceless colleagues is to MAKE SOMETHING HAPPEN.

I’M in an AWKWARD spot MYSELF because I ALREADY achieved ALL MY GOALS. I just wish I’d set the bar a little higher. MY objectives were to have my own HOUSE, start my own BUSINESS and WRITE A BOOK. Done, done AND DONE (4 times.) So now WHAT?

I need a comprehensive PLAN. The trouble is that after STEP ONE, “BUY FEBREZE,” I run into a BRICK WALL.

Off the record I was told that the fact I KNOW I “should HAVE a plan” puts me a step above most. That same wise soul also pointed out that sitting in the dark playing video games IS A PLAN.

But that’s not going to be enough for me.

I have a bunch of awards (I lost about HALF in the divorce) I put up on the wall behind my desk.

Some people scoff at them (my guess is that the people scoffing DON’T have a bunch of awards) but I don’t care. I don’t put them up to remind myself I’m a good salesman or to impress others.

Each of those awards represents hundreds of thousands or even MILLIONS OF DOLLARS I made for SOMEBODY ELSE.

I busted my ass everywhere I went for years. And all I ever wanted from THOSE COMPANIES was a seat at the table–the chance to participate—the chance to say, “Hey, let’s try this,” or “What happens if we try that?”

THAT’S something I never got ONCE in TWENTY-FIVE-YEARS.

YET it’s the FIRST THING I give it to EVERY employee the minute they walk through the door.

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The details of my location are unimportant.  I’m just happy to be out of Abilene.  Shortly before I finally found a truck to haul my motorcycle crap, shots were fired and Klan fliers were on the lawn.  I still hear sirens and first gear clutch dumps in my dreams.  Just imagine total darkness with blood dripping everywhere.  It was like that.

But no more.  In this secret location, I will not be found.  No authorities know my location.  I’m away from the slaughter and relatively safe for now, but I’ll need a bike that can do 160, and I need it soon.  Everyone needs a means for escape these days.  Seriously.  Make a Plan B.  Coyote attack is imminent.

I’m two bike sales away from comfort.  Until then, you didn’t read this, you don’t know where I am.  Best to tell people you heard I was in Australia.  That’s it.  I’m not in Australia, but I’m not in the country right now.  Shit, it’s hard to post right now.  I’m being watched.  Fucking Mormons…

And I’m being edited these days.  Unlike the old days I can’t cover my trail.  Not that I ever really could.

Point?  God is against me.  Need a death machine bike…but at the moment I’d settle for a chain breaker or a heavy set of bolt cutters.

Elizabeth Montgomery

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Fred checks in.

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We poop stuff like this

All right, let me preface this by saying I am a die-hard Longhorn fan. University of Texas is my school, my brother’s school, my husband attended, and my husband’s brother played football on scholarship on the same team as Earl Campbell. I also have many friends that were not fortunate enough to go to UT. There has always been a healthy rivalry with the close friends that I love. But, as this is a more public forum, I wanted to explain that while grounded in truth, this is SATIRE. And written from the point of view of DorkChick, an admitted Longhorn lover.

It's all true.

So, it started on Friday or so when apparently-not-the-official-someone suggested to the Dallas Morning News that the Aggies would absolutely totally be going to the South Eastern Conference because they hated the Big 12 conference and it sucked old-lady titties. Obviously, losing frequently to the Longhorns in football games and network affiliations proved to be the last straw. In our defense, we are pretty awesome and I could totally see why someone would be jealous of us.

The letter may have looked like this

Unfortunately, they forgot to notify the SEC about this move. And, received a letter back saying: “Dear Sir Or Madam, We appreciate your interest in our conference. We care about you and hope you can find a suitable conference for your athletic endeavors elsewhere.”

I have not seen an OFFICIAL response from the Aggies yet, but I would imagine it would go something like this: “After the reach-around at that party last year, I thought you really cared. You even called me CUTE!”. Little did they know, SEC is kind of a slut and gave everyone a reach-around.

I'm sorry, I've been a little hung up this weekend

In reality, the SEC is probably just a tad OCD and likes really round numbers in multiples of 2. I mean, really, the Big 13? And, as far as wanting a more competitive conference, perhaps they should have chosen the Mountain West or something. I suppose that way, they could have had the crap beaten out of them by Boise State, instead of Texas or Alabama. Or, perhaps, they could have gone to Conference USA and had the crap beat out of them by TCU. I mean, the possibilities are endless in which conference they could have gone to lose more games. At least in Big 12 they had Baylor…

They were probably wearing this shirt

I think it probably took the last 2 days for SEC to call everyone and say, “Did YOU say they could join?” after getting

everyone’s responses, “I’ve been pretty drunk this weekend, but not THAT drunk.”

In my opinion, A&M should have sent a letter, through a friend that said something like, “I like you. Do you like me? Check yes or no.” before making an announcement like that. Now that they have gone out and said that stuff out loud, it is a bit too late. The Big 12 conference is mad, the legislators are mad, the State of Texas is mad. But, what really do you expect from, uhm, er, sheep “lovers”?

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I don’t know how it happened, but all the people I see on-line are leaning in ONE direction and LEANING LEFT hard enough to fall off their GAY BAR STOOLS.

THAT’S because they’re a BUNCH of mamby-PAMBY, artsy-WARTSY, bleeding-HEART, Democrat LIBERAL Homosexual GAYS!
I have NO IDEA WHY, but that’s all I see!

Yet MY BELIEFS could not be MORE CONSERVATIVE!

I believe life begins BEFORE conception! Sometimes a late-night PHONE CALL is all it takes.

I believe in the DEATH PENALTY too. Frankly, I don’t know why it takes SO LONG to happen. When the POLICE go to make an arrest they ALREADY have guns WITH THEM. Why drag it out?

And don’t even get me started on GAYS IN THE MILITARY!

Imagine flying an F-15 like Tom Cruise in TOP GUN. Suddenly there’s A MISSILE on your tail. But instead of shooting FLARES or CHAFF your Radar Intercept Officer (“Goose”) is bouncing off the canopy listening to CHER’S GREATEST HITS.

Even if GLOBAL WARMING is happening WHO CARES?

They’re all so worried about what happens to POLAR BEARS if all the ice melts! Let me tell you, it’s WAY harder to shoot a bear in the water than out on the ice! ASK SARAH PALIN!

Do I THINK teaching SEX EDUCATION in school is all right?

I don’t KNOW! Does THE POPE THINK teaching EVOLUTION in school is all right?

What?

He does? Really? The POPE!?! Since when?

WELL THERE YOU GO AGAIN!

What I want to know is HOW I get MYSELF invited to a TEA PARTY?

I know they won’t see THIS but I heard they have TELEPHONES almost FIGURED OUT.

Would SOMEBODY please make a call for me?

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Why I Am A Conservative

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I’m actually way BEYOND ignoring, I’m OBLIVIOUS. I’m not even watching.

I don’t NEED to watch. Stop my ANYWHERE if I get something wrong.

The DEMOCRATS are saying we need to pay teachers and fix our crumbling infrastructure especially roads, bridges and tunnels (which will create jobs.)

The REPUBLICANS say the DEFICIT is going to KIDNAP, TORTURE AND THEN KILL our GRANDCHILDREN.

The GOP solution to this crisis, WAIT FOR IT, is CUTTING RICH PEOPLE’S TAXES!

WOW! Did THAT ONE came out of LEFT FIELD or WHAT?!?

AND THE AMAZING THING about THE REPUBLICAN solution is that it works FOR ANY PROBLEM including SUN SPOTS!

SURE the GOP knows about the bridges and roads but understand the only CRITICAL infrastructure is RUNWAYS at PRIVATE AIRPORTS.

THAT WAY the CEO’s can circle overhead in their private jets as they SHIP JOBS OFFSHORE on the FUN SHIPS of the CARNIVAL CRUISE LINE!

Did I get anything wrong?

Even if I’m WRONG, (which, by the way, has never happened) I STILL DON’T CARE!

This is not a crisis.

OH THE HORROR! If this isn’t RESOLVED it’s going to lower AMERICA’S CREDIT RATING?

WHO GIVES FUCK?

I’m pretty sure our STEALTH BOMBERS and TOMAHAWK CRUISE MISSILES are willing to CO-SIGN a loan for whatever we need.

Let me know if the CHINESE send DOG THE BOUNTY HUNTER to try to REPOMAN one of our AIRCRAFT CARRIERS.

Then I’ll BE SURE to TUNE IN!

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Why say no, when it feels so good to say yes?

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This is our lake July 17, 2011

Yep, That is what I am saying..

I would not want THAT on my deck at all!

2) Stop drinking water. Some good alternatives are beer, wine, and bourbon. This has an added benefit of adding the scent of alcohol to the CRAZY pee. Wild animals will stay FAR away, so there will be no worries about ‘coons biting off your toes while you are passed out on the back deck.

3) Stop showering. C’mon, if everyone does it, you won’t notice the stench of your own body any longer. Just pretend you are French. Note: it helps if you get a white flag and learn the ever handy phrase, “Je suis mieux que vous et d’une douche.” The French think that only douches shower. Don’t be a douche.

This would be a start

4) Actively engage in lake-raising activities. My favorite solution is that everyone in the Austin and surrounding areas go purchase 14,363 kegs of beer each and pour it into the lake in order to fill it to capacity. This would accomplish a feeling of making a difference for the underprivileged people of the world that bought nice houses on the lake. It would also allow us to have an open boat ramp in order to launch our jet skis. There is also the added benefit of not having to worry about drinking the lake water. See, it is a Win-Win situation for everyone!

Not to be comfused with a deer. This is a deer. There are a lot of them in my lake already.

Especially us. Please do your part in helping conserve water. Because, if I am good then the world is good. You want the world to be good, right?!

Our lake September 25, 2010. It could be great again, just filled with beer! That's what I call WINNING!

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It's good to be the king. I can "hurt" anyone I want to, just like Jesus told the GOP to do.

I called John last night at about eleven PM, and found ole Johnny as giddy as a schoolgirl.  Usually when Boehner and I talk, it’s off the record, but I recorded our conversation for posterity because John’s bid for power is historic, and as a writer, it is my duty to document the truth for our national archives.

JB-John Boehner

FR-Fred Roberts

FR- I got to say John, you really have those socialists over a barrel right now.  You’re hurting them.

JB- That’s the plan.  And I don’t call them socialists, I call the other party of this country “the enemy.”

FR-Even though they’re Americans?

JB-Look, that nigger and his liberal followers are not Americans.  Americans are white guys like me, not some muddy faced terrorist like Obama.

FR- Er, yeah (wow, that’s terrible.)  Well, so what are the GOP’s real plans?

JB- Death to all who oppose us.  We want to inflict damage, hurt people.  We want to hurt old people, poor people, niggers, spics, kikes…all who oppose us.  This is a rich white man’s country and it’s high time we weeded out the undesirables as Jesus told us to.

FR- You seem in a good mood, is it because you think this will make you president one day.

JB- Maybe, but right now I’m just happy because I got to kick a starving Mexican child on the way home.

FR- Good work.  It’s fairly easy to see the future under the GOP.

JB- It’s time we redefine government, make it smaller, and more accessible to those government should serve like corporate America, the oil industry, and of course Jesus; in that order.

FR- Yeah, well it’s getting late.  Anything else you want to say John? I have to go (before I want to kill myself to avoid people like him.)

John Boehner- Just watch history be made.  We’re going to destroy this country and blame the nigger.  I have to run anyway Fred, Newt lined up some starving children for us to ignore while we eat filets.  Nothing makes a steak better than knowing children are starving.  I must thank the Lord for my blessings, he obviously doesn’t like the poor or he would have made them politicians. Smote the poor!

…The horror; the horror

Fred Roberts

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2. Pre-Death Statement from Fred
3. That Buttholes interview from the bed…
4. Dorkchives: First Band Interview
5. Interview with DorkChick, Part I

Interview with John Boehner

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I see you...

The first blogs I wrote were from the perspective of a low rent media mogul.  I acted as if Dorkzine was a player in the world game, and began to mimic the vocabulary of the nation just like the media outlets do.  Through my imitation, I learned a great deal about how the media works, and when Bob gave Dorkzine all the bells and whistles, I learned how the future would be shaped.

Before I blogged I had no idea the depth, or depth, or depth, of the invasion the net is on our personal info.  It is no conspiracy to say you’re being watched.  At the risk of blowing a trade secret, if you’re logged on right now I can see the top of your house.

The top of your house!  Used every physical form of word emphasis there…

Don’t fear, they can do it at the Comedy Central website, or any freaking website you are on, and if you’re on facebook, anything you type goes straight to google and yahoo to use as target marketing when you check your email.  It is no damn coincidence that typing, “my tires just blew out on my car” on facebook will bring up an ad for discount tires on your email homepage; and in your zipcode.  Your Iphone is doing it too, and as Dorkchick pointed out, triangulating your global position.

Well, what the fuck are you rambling about Fred?  Shouldn’t you be finishing these retarded Beck Diary blogs? This blog is to say that the media, the politicians, and industry mines every bit of your net habits for ratings, votes, or profit.  I have never once used the features of our amazing dashboard to pander to the readers; quite the opposite.  I don’t give a fuck about Search Engine Oriented content for hits or profit.  I write, like Ricky Bobby races, for ME, and the search engines are to get notice from either my glorious influences (great motorcycle writers, comedians, musicians) or to put my middle finger in the face of people who annoy me like, oh I dunno, Glenn Beck.

It works, I have thanked some fantastic people for their influence, and I hit google using Glenn Beck’s name higher than he does.  Thanks Bob.  Youdaman.

I use the search engines to send messages in bottles to people.  There.  I admit it, but I’m hardly being an asshole doing it since the net is mining my life for the purpose of polls, business ideas, and money.  Glenn Beck uses the search engines to create shows.  He can search what everyone is talking about, see their google history when they go to his site, and he’s got an army helping him do it.  It is no bit of kismet that he speaks for people, he fucking stole their words from the net and sold them back to people who simply do not understand how the modern world works.

It’s all in the keywords.  Those facebook political polls have great sway, as does what you post online.  I used this blog and facebook to sway, test, and annoy.  It seems rather rude now, but I’m not making money on it so I don’t believe it is evil.  And I never pandered to your info, never.  I only write what I want because I can’t let money nor popularity sway what I honestly consider my art form.  Albeit terribly inept artistically…

I’m a cranky bitch sometimes online, but I am not a whore.  Glenn is a whore, the politicians, all those target ads on facebook… cheap streetwalkers.

Perhaps I should go back and utilize some bold print and SEO keywords so this blog hits more people.  Fuck that.  I wrote to see what was in my head, and I’m just as surprised as anyone about what comes out.  I never intended to write to this point, it just happened.

I did, however, intend to tell everyone that my blogs about Glenn Beck and his revolution are ending TODAY, or TODAY.  I really can’t get the hang of repeated bold print…  F. Scott once mocked someone in a novel for it, and exclamation points…It could be worse though, I could sell your info to marketers, make money, and act like a fucking prophet because I can speak directly and specifically to anyone out there who googles “lisa+kellys+ass.”

Best I could do. Apparently, Lisa Kelly has no ass. Sorry guys.

…and if you were to mimic Beck long enough, you would feel his dark, tortured heart and know, like me, that he is Kurtz Modern.

Exterminate the brutes!  The horror; the horror….

xox

fredbob

Related posts:

1. The Beck Diaries: The Return of Fred
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3. South Austin Motorcycles Website and Forum
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5. Fred Hacks in for an Ice Road Truckers post

Seriously folks: SEO content, motorcycles, art, and I need a break.

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1. The Beck Diaries: New GBTV ad. Please share.
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4. The Beck Diaries: Day One
5. The Beck Diaries: Day Two

The Beck Diaries: What is GBTV? (2)

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Allahnya fished her military hand bag, “Here.”

I put on the aviators she handed me.  Obama was standing near a small Lear with Robert.  Everything hit me at once, like truth was handed to me; truth I couldn’t take.  I was scared.  Very scared.  Panicking.  

I looked at Allahnya to see if she was real, “I may need that wheelchair after all.”

“It’s only a little further.  I’m practically carrying you anyway.”

“Good thing I’m skinny,” I felt like I was drowning in 10W-40 motor oil.  I could barely move my limbs and fear wouldn’t go away.  “Maybe this isn’t the right thing to do.  I need out of this.  I feel like I’m in a corner.”

Allahnya stopped us, straightened me, then said, “You’re just weak.”

“That hurt.”

“No stupid.  I mean your body is weak.”

Knowing my own weight, “That could hurt too.”

She laughed and I felt better.  Her smile was all I wanted, but I got more with her giggle.  Fear subsided.

“What the hell can I say to you?” she asked.

“I’m old too.”

“And scared,” she said nodding.

“I know why now.”

She knew why as well. “You want assurance.”

I nodded, “But not about this Beck nonsense, about what’s important.”

“I know, believe me.” she sighed, “ You haven’t given me much.”

Typically male of me, “You nursed my heart and I haven’t even thanked you.”

She removed my sunglasses and looked into my eyes, searching for a moment before she saw me in them, and saw the tear drop.  For all the bad that I am, worthless at times, I have never been saved but by the assurance of her look of acceptance, her acceptance of me applied as a universal, but particular to my delicate ego, perhaps in only this instance (she could throw me away), is how I define myself.  If a woman I love can love me, the un-brute, the mouthy little mad man who hates everything women hate about the dull, brutish swagger of the male species, I can be proud.  Nothing else in life has ever made me feel as complete.  My entire life dilemma is that I only cared for her, and the male white world wanted me to care for them.  See why I hate swaggering men?  The idea is absurd.  Join this American Fraternity…no way.  I live for her.

“Thank you.  You’re beautiful.”  I said.  And it’s hard to seem insincere with a tear running down your cheek.

Being beautiful, timeless, she replied, “Thank you.”

We embraced, cheek to cheek and it was deeper than all of life.  Two should never fear one.  One is where the fear comes from.  One hurts the world because one is often in pain.  Two can save it.

We made it to the small plane and I limped aboard with three people I would have never guessed I would be graced with.  A low panic came upon me as I stared at the other characters on the plane.  Absurdity.  I could stand it no longer.

“Pardon me,” my voice was elevated slightly, then quickly, at full volume. “Have I gone out of my limited mind?! Honestly, I don’t know.  This makes no sense at all.  I’m absolutely batshit right?  Just tell me.  I don’t know.  I don’t know.  And I shudder at the thought of this entire fucking plan.  Just send a fucking missile to blow him up.”

Giggles.

“I’m serious damnit!  I can’t do this.  I won’t take it!”

“You don’t have to take it Fred,” Obama yelled over the engines cranking up, “He prefers to receive.  Might want to check out this folder Robert made.  It’s all in here.”

Laughter.

“I’m glad you all think this is funny but it’s my ass.”

Muted snorting, constant giggling from my nurse.

Obama yelled, for the whole plane, “I told you it’s his ass.

Even the pilots were laughing.  A Secret Service agent dripped blood from the lips, dutifully biting his own tongue.  The co-pilot was sucking from an oxygen mask with a red face, snorting and trying to keep it together.

“I’m not enjoying being the butt of your fucking humor Barry.”

Robert broke loose, laughing as the plane leveled out.  Allahnya was gasping for breath at my side.  Obama never missed a beat, “I think everyone seems to be enjoying it.  Right?  Let’s take a poll, maybe two polls.  How ever many polls it takes Fred.”

Secret Service wet himself.  The pilots finally saved me, begging the President to stop, “Please sir, we’re trying to fly.”

“Calm down Fred,” Barrack said, He reached toward me and I jumped back into my seat next to Allahnya.

“Keep your hands off me you damn socialist,” I told the president, turning to her, “but not you.”

Robert walked to our seat, my seat with a girl.  He sparkled his eyes at me, “We need to talk.”

“Not right now damnit.  No more.  I, ah, I dunno.  No gay right now okay?  I’m fine with it, I mean for you, but I’m a little guy and the idea of being around Glenn…if he touches me my instincts say fight like hell immediately.  Gouge his eyes out first shot.  Rip an ear off, throat punch, high damage quickly or my ass gets fucked.  My 125 pounds has to strike fast.  I keep thinking of Deliverance.  Robert, not a judgement or whatever.  But this is a fucking nightmare.”

Allahnya giggled.

“What?”

She shook her head, “Fucking nightmare. I know, it’s silly.”

“You’re the dream,” I told her.

Robert bit his lip, his eyes alone could have won him gold in figure skating.  I couldn’t be mean to him, that’s what John Wayne would do.  He looked concerned, “We should talk.”

I held my knees and stared at the material of my pants, “I don’t want to come across like a damn redneck, but I don’t want any fucking gay pointers from you Robert.”

Of course, giggles again.  Fucking pointers.  Come across.  Everything was gay now.

Obama leaned in, looked at both Robert and Allahnya, “I think he’s had about all he can swallow.”

Robert agreed dryly, “No more polling.”

Allahnya waved them away, “Stop it y’all.  I feel sorry for Fred.  I’m sorry Fred.  It makes me gag to think about sleeping with Glenn Beck. Ew.  I don’t know any women who find him attractive, even the racist ones.”

Robert defended his lover, “Look.  He does have some good qualities.”

Allahnya replied, like breaking news, “Girlfriend, looks ain’t one of them.”

Robert nodded knowingly, “He can be very tender though.”

She hummed, and squeezed toward me, speaking to Robert, “I think that’s better you know.”

“Me too,” Robert replied.

“Fred is tender,” she said to Robert in a whisper, “he’s a wounded bird.”

Robert frowned a tragedy, “Oh.  Yeah. I can see it.”

“Enough,” I begged weakly, “I don’t understand why this is the only plan.  I’ll never be able to return to West Texas.  I’ll be caged in Travis County, completely loathed across the state.  No, I’ll move.  To California.  Get back into something tough like motorcycles, become a West Coast Stunter.“

“Glenn and I have a condo in San Fran, lots of those hot wheelie guys around there,” Robert said.

“Stop. Please.” I murmured.

“I was offering to give it to you.  It’s the least I could do for letting Glenn shoot you.  I thought the gun was unloaded, but he picked up one I hadn’t checked.  I feel terrible.”

Obama stopped reading Robert’s brief (shut up) “Fred, Robert saved you.  He called for help as Glenn sent out his ridiculous call to arms.”

Allahnya squeezed my arm, “He’s your hero Fred.”

Robert seized the moment, “And we must talk Fred.  I have to tell you some things.  Doesn’t have to be formal, over drinks, whatever.”

“Let’s go have drinks with Robert,” Allahnya suggested, “all is well for the most part at the moment, and I haven’t been off that base in days.”

I turned to Obama, “Remember that cool shit?  Forget it Barry.  You’re an asshole.  And you owe me some sort of explanation.”

“We can’t hurt anymore American citizens.  I’m joking on you but the current situation is terrible.  People have died.  The melting pot is boiling.  This shit has escalated to violence, over healthcare,” his eyes were grave, “I can’t have that be my legacy Fred.  Not as the first black president.  I have to be perfect you know, perfect as can be. I need you to do this for me.  This isn’t for all that beer and food I bought you last summer in Austin, this is for your country.”

Robert and Allahnya smiled.  I was numb but imagined an off key Sousa March beginning, drums and pipes and limping white guys wearing wigs.  Heritage.  Obama wouldn’t have asked those guys.  But people were getting hurt.  Glenn’s tactics were ugly.  No humanity.  The horror.

Obama continued, “I could send in an operative to drag him out.  It would take a while because I would have to account for all the renegade weapons.  I can’t have a dead soldier on my hands.  I’m not Cheney.  I have trouble sleeping at night as it is.  I can’t let soldiers die for Glenn Beck.”

“So you’ll kill me?  Thanks.  Thanks a lot Mr. Presi-dick.  Beck will rape my corpse.  That’ll be my legacy.”

Robert looked nervous.  Obama glanced at him once, then to me, but quickly back to him, “What?  Don’t tell me.  Seriously?”

Robert shrugged, slowly turning his head sideways, “It wasn’t a gay thing.  Don’t let this be our legacy.  Glenn will burn enough as it is.  It wasn’t a human corpse.”

“What was it Robert?” Obama pressed.

“A frog. About five really.  We were drunk and wired on his meds.  We were camping.  Cooking out.”  Robert said and nodded once.

Barry half smiled, half in disbelief, then turned to me shaking his head, “Have you seen that frog video?  With the monkey?”

“Yeah Barry, you’re asking me to be the damn frog.  Nobody who saw that video thinks the frog is a hero.  Don’t pull any patriotic bullshit on me. If that fat monkey Glenn gets on top of me and I can’t get him off,” I couldn’t continue, totally frogged, “he’s still got people right? With guns?  Shit, he could have me in some hole underneath the castle for a freakin’ month.  I’d rather be shot again.”

Robert interjected, “I’m going with you.  He doesn’t know we’re working together.  I assure you, you can walk right in.  I swear.  He won’t hurt you.  I can assure that.”

“Can you assure the safety of my proclivity, the sanctity of my right not to get fucked by a Gay Conservative Libert-aryan Pundit?  Anymore than I already have?  He and all his followers want people like me dead.  Maybe they’ll all rape my corpse.” I looked at Barry, “Are you sure your intelligence here is good Mr. President?”

Allahnya blurted mid laugh, “Are you sure about the W.A.Ds?  Huh? Huh?  Think about it.  That’s a twofer.”

I shook my head as they mocked my fate, all of them laughing and gasping for air while I pondered the universe for anything to grasp onto.  Anything but Glenn.  This was a no win situation for me.  Even if everything went according to plan, I still looked like a fool.  Such is the way of the wordfighter I suppose.  Live by the word, die by the word.

Because I mocked, now I have to look over my shoulder, not for someone offended though, not like in the old days.  I have to look over my shoulder for a fat, aryan, albino monkey jacked up on Speederall intent on my physical love, or death, or both, depending on his mood.  Surely there was a way the Navy could train a tall, bull, frog for the job.

-Fred Roberts

Related posts:

1. The Fred Diaries: Weakness
2. The Fred Diaries: Ask not…but what is the most shameful thing you will do for your country?
3. The Fred Diaries: A not so surprising visit
4. The Fred Diaries: Where am I? Tactics foreshadowed, and get me off this damn morphine.
5. The Fred Diaries: We have you surrounded Glenn

The Fred Diaries: Sending in the Frogman

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The following day Allahnya brought military casuals for me to dress in with breakfast.  She removed the oxygen tubes, the IVs, and gave me two pills I had to take before she would let me eat, “There’s no pain meds Fred.  It’s just to help you heal.”

I did what was necessary, ate, then she helped me out of bed to a chair.  Barry walked in with some man who looked familiar.  The man stared at my junk until I covered it with the pants, “Who the fuck is this guy Barry?”

Obama looked at me and smiled, “This is Robert, Glenn’s lover.”

Anger swept over me, “I should kill you now but the irony saved your life.”

Obama looked Presidential suddenly, “He’s on our side Fred.  I can’t let you kill him.”

I shook it off, “I won’t hurt anyone.  I don’t even want to kill Glenn.”

“You don’t have to kill him,” Robert said, “you could seduce him.  He has a crush on you.”

I laughed along with the nurse and a grinning president until a sharp chest pain made me cough, “Oh shit that’s funny.  I heard, and knew about you Robert.  But it was unsubstantiated for the most part.  Some net journalist friends hipped me to his sexuality.  By the way, being a Satanic Socialist Progressive, I support your rights.  But I don’t swing that way.”

Barry jumped in, “Think of the humor Fred.  This will destroy everything he stands for.  His followers, and he still has many across the country, too many for comfort, the followers will be heart broken.  These militia rubes will be devastated.”

Through a growl of pain as I pulled my shirt on quickly to get away from Robert’s stare I said, “I can’t pull it off.  I’ll lose character and just beat him senseless.”

“Please don’t hurt him,” Robert said.  He exhaled forcefully, “I do love him.”

Everyone was baffled, but nothing about Glenn made sense.  I’d gotten used to that fact dealing with him through the blogs.  Still I had to ask Robert, “Why?  He’s a fucking maniac because he’s projecting your secret love.  How could anyone love that dangerous queer?  Even his own mother drowned herself to get away from him.”

“I have my reasons.  Glenn is a troubled child in a man’s body.  There is empathy involved, and I would prefer you not question or judge me.”  Robert wasn’t smug, he had all the air of a tiny, but strong, woman putting her foot down.  It was just odd coming from a six footer dressed like Secret Service.

I shrugged, “So I’m supposed to go blow him for the good of the country.  Shit Barry, I doubt a Navy Seal would take that fucking mission.”

“You just have to draw him out,” Barry smirked.

“Out?  That’s the problem really isn’t it Robert?”

Robert didn’t answer me, “He believes your gay.”

I rolled my eyes.  Being short, articulate and still thin, toned, and single at 41 put the gay mark on me.  Plus, I think there’s pictures of me from a fetish ball in the nineties floating around the net.  I wore a male skirt one year.  I didn’t realize I’d be so deep in national politics or I would have worn the plastic pants from the year before.  I was with women all evening.  There are no gay skeletons, but even my friends wondered due to all of the above.  I was comfortable with myself, comfortable at not being a brute man, a bit girly at times because of my body; the fact that most women liked me, and a few loved me made it a non-issue, but I didn’t want to go down, ahem, in history as the guy who seduced that Nazi Glenn Beck.

“God damn Barry.  You’re throwing me under the bus,” before he could respond I turned to Allahnya, “I’m not gay.  I’m just thin and have a decent vocabulary.”

“I believe you Fred,” she covered her mouth trying not to laugh.

I smiled too, “I want to prove it suddenly.  Come on Allahnya, it’s for National Security.  Unless we do it right now, the terrorists have won.”

She dropped the nurse act, cocking her head and hips simultaneously, “Baby, the condition you’re in, I’d kill you.  But soldier up Fred, you got a date with destiny.”

Obama laughed too hard.  Robert joined in then Barry said, “I like her.  I think I’ll give her Rush Limbaugh’s last tax check.”

Good damn thing Barry is married, because he just made her blush.  I could tell through her gorgeous color, “Keep your mitts off of my nurse you fucking Muslim.  Beck is right, you are the Anti Christ.  I thought I was voting for Flava Flav, but you all look the same.”

Barry smirked at Allahnya, “What is it with these Texas Crackers?”

Allahnya laughed at me while Barry smiled.  Robert was staring at my crotch and I was feeling butt up to the whole room.  I must have looked pathetic because my nurse’s face changed to an expression I immediately felt throughout my body.

She walked to me and spoke softly, “In a couple of weeks you won’t need a nurse anymore and you can be that hero you dumb men always want to be.  You can be my hero.  I did nurse you back after all.”

I smirked at her, then glanced over her shoulder to the men.  Barry tapped Robert’s elbow, “I’m going to grab some coffee and a quick smoke.  We’ll see you two on the plane.”

Allahnya walked me to the door, but instead of opening the heavy hospital door, she turned to me face to face, “I don’t usually go for white guys.”

She kissed me anyway.  We inhaled together, and my heart rate rose, but with her healing power pressed to my mouth, I was ready to die, or date I suppose, for my country.  Too bad she was on my side.  I was ready to give myself fully to her, for the good, or ill, of the nation.  I didn’t care.  I was a human after all, and she showed love.

Despite blood thinners, I pitched a tent.  She brushed her hand lightly across the tent pole, then curled into me, “We can’t now.  Your heart can’t take it, and you have to seduce Glenn Beck.”

The tent fell immediately.

-Fred Roberts

Related posts:

1. The Fred Diaries: Sending in the Frogman
2. The Fred Diaries: A not so surprising visit
3. The Fred Diaries: Weakness
4. The Fred Diaries: Debate me Fatboy!
5. The Fred Diaries: We have you surrounded Glenn

The Fred Diaries: Ask not…but what is the most shameful thing you will do for your country?

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“I brought food for you.  Can you eat?”

Through the drugs and madness I found myself again.  I was human again, hungry, “Yes ma’am.”

I drank some smoothie she brought first, then ate an ice cream scoop’s worth of powdered eggs.  The toast was inhaled but I was still hungry, “Can you please get me more Allahnya? And I’m sorry I went nuts on you.  It wasn’t you.”

“I’ll be right back hon.”

When she returned with another breakfast, she sat and watched me eat.  Always hungry  from a motocross body tuned like a two stroke, and my lifelong and increasingly present insomnia which kept me up to avoid dreams but burned calories faster than jogging, the food absorbed quickly.  After the second serving I was sleepy, but feeling fairly good, “Guess you’re wondering why I freaked out.”

She lifted her chin, looked into my eyes, “I’m guessing it has something to do with all those scars on that skinny body of yours.”

I nodded, “Childhood accident.  Not a big deal.  I wasn’t hurt bad.  There were other kids in the hospital who weren’t as lucky.”

She stood and moved the tray, “I’ve heard that before hon. Too much in Iraq.”

“I hate to say it, but I think I understand.”

She brushed some toast crumbs out of my stubble, “I think you do too.  A friend will be here soon to see you.”

“Who?”

“I can’t tell you.  Don’t ask anymore please because I want to tell you and I really cannot.  Orders.”  She returned to the chair, her smooth brown hands folded in her lap.

“I don’t want to be your problem Allahnya,” I began, then started to tell her why but she interrupted.

“Oh yeah?  Well if you’re not my problem, what are you going to be?”

I think I blushed, but before I could tell her, Barrack freakin’ Obama walked into the room and smiled at her.

She saluted, “Mr. President.”

He waved off formalities, “Call me Barrack please.  And you are?”

She took his hand shake and introduced herself.  Barrack glanced at me and grinned and told her, “I need to talk to this man.  It’s nice to meet you Allahnya.”

She might have blushed, could I tell through her color, “Can I just say thanks?  Sir?  I know your heart is right, and they won’t let you do what you wanted for the country.”

Barrack scratched the back of his head, “I really needed that Allahnya.  Thank you.”

She left the room, both of us admiring her form.  Barry sat down and cocked his brow, “I see you’re being well taken care of.”

“I’ve never been with a black girl.  No reason really, but I think I might be in love,” I told him.  (Barry and I spent a day losing the world in Austin, then Mrs. President found us and he had to leave.  I blogged about it:  President Leroy.  But for national security, and to cover a drinking buddy’s ass, I trashed the post)

Barrack only laughed, “You sound like you’re feeling good.  Have you seen all the reports?”

“About Beck? I saw some shitty video footage.  I saw some mexican bodies on the news.”

He nodded, “He’s surrounded himself like David Koresh.  The problem is extraction.  I’m not going to kill Americans to get to him.”

“Only fan his cause,” I said, then downed another cup of water.  Strength was returning quickly, and the day time morphine dose was manageable.  I felt a little tipsy, like the day Barry and I hung out at the Horseshoe Lounge on S. Lamar, “So you have a plan or anything?”

“I can’t tell you Fred.  I trust you bro, but being the first nigger in the White House you know, I have to be perfect as possible.  You know that.”

“Well it’s good to see you.  You still owe me a trip to Paris on Air Force One, and I’d like it put specifically on the tab of republican tax dollars please.”

He laughed, “I can’t tell you my total plan Fred, but I thought you might want to be involved.  Maybe even be the one who brings him in.”

“Now you’re talking.  But, I can’t fucking move.  I’m hurt pretty bad.”

“You have a tear along the side of your heart.  You’re lucky because the bullet went sideways being shot point blank.  The slug split the outer portion of your heart but didn’t split the interior wall, and it went completely through you without hitting anything else.  Doctors are saying a month of rest until your heart is mended and you’ll be fine.”

“They told me I had to get off motorcycles, that I was forever too weak.”

“Fred, no one told you anything.  You’ve been in and out of consciousness for days.  Dude, you caught a bullet in the chest.  They doped the shit out of you.  Doctors said you were swinging and screaming.  They hit you with Thorazine.  You’ve been hallucinating probably, but you’re probably comfortable with that,” The President said smiling.

I laughed once, “Yeah.  Practiced that often in the late eighties.  Whatever you need of me Barrack, I’ll do, but you’re going to wait a month to pull the fat Nazi out of Texas?”

“We’ve done all we can.  It’s a stand off until he releases the women and children he’s hiding behind.  He thinks he’s got all of Texas, but he doesn’t have shit.  We have him surrounded by troops in a ten mile radius of his god damn castle.  The fucker isn’t going anywhere.”

“Can you tell me details?  Did he kill all those people?”

“In Dallas and Ft Worth, there were 73 murders by random lone wolf crackers who bought his bullshit.  Across the state, just over a hundred people died.  In most larger cities, no one jumped into the food fight.  In rural areas, since entire Texas towns are built around keeping out me, there were no victims.  Right now he’s a traitor, accessory to murder, but we have little evidence because these rubes say they acted alone.  There is no direct order to kill anyone.”

“But he thinks he’s taken over Texas?”

“Yes, because that’s what I want him to think.  Using his tactics against him, we, and the  liberal Jewish Media,” we paused to laugh, “We have been using him as a reality show on a station that doesn’t feed to Texas, but feeds through satellite and is available to most other states. We have pantsed this cracker King and I thought you might want to trod the emperor down the street in his new clothes, when the time comes.”

“Man, you may be a complete socialist and an ineffectual president, but you’re damn cool Barry.”

He laughed, “It’s gotten easier since Rupert and Glenn fucked up.  I’ve gotten lucky this last year.”

“Your heart is in the right place Barry, luck follows good Karma.”

Barry stood, “I’ll be back tomorrow to visit but right now I’m the Commander in Chief, I’m a little too busy to hang out.”

“Hey bring beer when you return.”

“When I return, you and I are flying to Austin, and Allahnya.”

Every once in a while you make a friend who, despite time known, is your brother.  Even before I ran into him hiding in Austin, I could tell he was more like me than any fucking politician in my lifetime, mostly because I have watched him get angry at the same things I do: stupid people.  I voted right.  Don’t call me a fucking socialist or unpatriotic, “You’re the man Barry.  Thanks.”

“I am The Man, which sucks because you and I defined ourselves against The Man.  I just ended up in politics and you’re a lucky fucking slacker enjoying a cold one at some place few go.  Fred, you’re The Man.”

“Fuck that.  I’d have to arrest myself.  If Allahnya will allow it, stock the damn bar on the plane, and maybe get me some of those Colorado Chews if you know what I mean.  Benjamin’s is the best.”

“That’s the one with Franklin on the package.  But I don’t know that.”

He turned to leave, but I called, “Progressive now.  What would Ben Damn Franklin do?”

“Probably take a black girl to the Hellfire Club and molest her with his good arm after he ate the candy,” Barry said over his shoulder, “See you tomorrow.”

Fred Roberts

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2. The Fred Diaries: Sending in the Frogman
3. The Fred Diaries: Ask not…but what is the most shameful thing you will do for your country?
4. The Fred Diaries: Weakness
5. The Fred Diaries: Glenn lays out his terms, I have my additions.

The Fred Diaries: A not so surprising visit

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1. An Explanation of my Dismissal by G. Beck

Jonnie Marbles: Hero

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Some people just don't freaking get it... It has always been this way, nothing ever changes.

Bob Sugar: (Moderator): So after much hoopla you both have agreed to a dialog, a simple discussion. There will be no topics for debate.  A debate may occur but that is not the point per se.  The point is a conversation which I would like to go on record as saying is a hopeless endeavor in this American climate, but if those are the terms, so be it.  Good luck gentleman, good luck Glenn.

As agreed upon, Fred will open the discussion.

Glenn Beck: (Glenn raises his hands in front of his chest, then motions to Fred in a bring it fashion)

Fred Roberts: Okay, let’s start by removing all boundaries you work in Glenn, think not of differences, there is only human.

GB: I’ve said this before.  I’m not a man with a prejudiced bone.  If you had researched you would know.  I mean, I know all about you.

FR: This is my research Glenn.  I want to ask you a few fundamental questions but honestly I don’t even know what they are at this point.

GB: (Smirks)

FR: Oh yeah, remove all boundaries and assume that, as you have often touted, “All men are created equal.”

GB: (Nods)

FR: Now further assume these equal men, women too, these people are free to do as they will as long as they hurt no one.

GB: (Laughs) Today?  Just get to the point.

FR: Now it takes no assumption for me to say that you believe there are people working against you, flexing their freedom in a way which encroaches on your own.  Am I correct?

GB: That is a fact.

FR: It absolutely is not, but I don’t want to digress.  Are you able to speak your mind about this so called fact?

GB: Ha.  I think, I mean–well, what I mean is, of course.  I do it every day.

FR: And by speaking your mind it has afforded you a comfortable living?

GB: It’s because I speak the truth.  People have responded.

FR: Of course they did.  You speak their truth, of that I am certain.

GB: (Groans) Here we go.  What does that mean?

FR: I’m getting to that.  What is truth?

GB: That’s a biggie.  You better get the stenographer some coffee because, well, you know–it’s going to be a long night.   Well, I mean, what you’ve been indoctrinated to believe is truth has to be undone first.

FR: You don’t have a short answer? What is truth?

GB: I mean–you know, really?  Is it–are you that dense?  Hello.  There is no short answer.

FR: Wrong. Truth is beauty; beauty truth.

GB: (Rolls eyes) Then I speak the beauty and the truth.

FR: No you don’t.  You speak of the timely.  Beauty, truth, is timeless.  Truth and beauty are timeless therefore it should be noted that any talk of truth that is not timeless is not truth at all, but fashion.

BS: Damnit Fred. LEO! – bring more beer, he’s on a roll. Sorry, go ahead…

GB: (Stares at Bob at the mere mention of alcohol, hands begin to tremble, then he recovers) I’m with you.  Truth is beauty yada yada. But that’s in the eye of the beholder isn’t it?  See you progressives think…

FR: No politics.  Politics are boundaries.  Purity for beauty’s sake Glenn.

GB: You sound like Al Gore’s poetry.

FR: (Closes his eyes, groans, and leans back in his chair)You divert like a two year old child. Stay with me. (snaps fingers)

BS: (Reaches across table for refreshment; opens another Shiner)

GB: Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

FR: (Sitting up quickly) Yes, beholder beauty is in the eye, but truth is objective, pure, therefore another form of beauty exists.  You follow me?  This is the heart of it all Glenn. There is both objective and subjective truth, therefore, since truth is beauty there must be both objective and subjective beauty.

GB: Of course.

FR: Can you give me an example of objective beauty?

GB: (Shrugging) My son? My son.  Well, I–mean, what I mean is, really, a baby?

FR: You win a prize Glenn.  He’s a fantastic, timeless example.  Babies are pure.  No one can say a baby isn’t beautiful unless they’re a monster.

GB: You did.  You called my son ugly several times.

FR: Yeah, it was terribly untruthful of me.  Ugly.  Even when I’m joking I feel dirty for it.  It’s simply an ugly attack to do that isn’t it dude?

GB: I’ll say.

FR: What if instead of calling your kid ugly, I blamed him for all my problems?  That’s ugly too right?

GB: Why? That’s–I mean, really?  That’s silly isn’t it? I mean–really very silly.

FR: Terribly silly, and isn’t the point, yet.  We’re right on the edge of it Glenn.  Pure, timeless, objective beauty.  Truth Glenn.  We’re outside of the box here Glenn, the box you live in.  Hold tight, I’m about to school you.  Allow me to give another example of objective beauty, objective truth.  No wait, better yet, what does Jesus teach?

GB: (Shrugs slightly) He teaches a lot.

FR: What is the biggie he talks about though?

GB: Love? Is that the answer you’re looking for?

FR: Bingo!

GB: Look Fred, I’m lost.  You’re all over the place.

FR: Thanks Glenn.  I was trying to mimic your Adderall oratory so that’s a compliment.  But let’s stay with love.  Love is truth, therefore beauty.  Completely objective, beyond reproach in any human way.  Everyone with hope believes love is absolute, pure timeless beauty.  Wouldn’t you agree?

GB: Yes.

FR: So knowing now what is truly beautiful, separating the objective truth from the subjective, I don’t see how any man can claim any weight to their words.  Especially you.

GB: So you say.

FR: Now we reenter the subjective Glenn.  Now it is my word against yours and you are just smart enough to know neither word can be proven truthful nor beautiful beyond doubt. Neither of us is right.

GB: (Mockingly Laughs) So where are we now?

FR: The paradox. Here at the mortal paradox, beauty is in the eye. Here in the subjective paradox, no one is right or wrong on the question of truth or beauty, therefore, you’re full of shit. (Laughs)  I just created beauty because the truth is there. (Smiles)

GB: You just created a bunch of semantic crap.  No, I mean, really… truth?  Why talk of beauty at all?

FR: (Slowly, like speaking to a child) Here at the paradox, beyond the objective,completely subjective, your truth is lost because truth no longer TRULY exists for you or me.  You seek to create what you believe is objective truth, or beauty, in the realm of the subjective.  You’re flawed from the start.

GB: Okay whatever. You must hopped up on bennies.

FR: What the fuck are those?  You’re the one jacked up on Adderall.  I can smell the speed coming through your pores. Look at you.  You’re sweating bullets.

GB: (extremely impatient) Just get to the fucking point man!  Finish the fucking discussion. Why did you even include beauty?

FR:  It was a dual tiered discussion.  I wanted to produce two opinions.  I gave you my second opinion.

GB: What? I mean, what I mean is, I mean, really… what?

FR:  You sell truth in the realm of the subjective, which isn’t truth, isn’t beauty, therefore you are a liar and ugly too. I have proven both beyond doubt, which is truth, therefore beauty.  You’re not only full of shit, you’re ugly.

BS: Fuck. LEO, More beer!

GB: (Stares at Fred with a forced smile) And you are not?

FR: (Grinning calmly, speaking musically) I most certainly am at times, we are all ugly at times, but the difference between us is that you believe your words are truth and I believe mine only true to me.  That is the difference between arrogance and enlightenment.  That is the difference between selfishness and enlightened self interest; the difference between ugliness and beauty.

GB: (with blank expression, or possibly awe) Look.   I mean…what I’m saying is, really, very, I mean your wordplay is really very interesting.  Really.  Very. But—I mean, um, I speak the truth.

FR: (Shaking head slowly and smiling) At best we all speak jokes.  Glenn, my half witted friend, the irony of the paradox makes us and life a fantastically beautiful joke. Beyond the timeless, we’re all a bunch of subjective whoopee cushions farting out the tired ironies of the paradox.  Historically opposed, just two whiney poles…

GB: I hate Polacks.  Almost as much as I hate Jews.

FR: Well, I meant something else Glenn, never mind.  No one has an answer to life, history has proven this.  Yet fools like you still think you have an answer because you lack the humor to realize the joke is on us.  We are the joke.  I’m a total joke.  You’re a total joke.

GB: (Laughs dryly, pauses) Look… I mean, well, it’s obvious you have self esteem issues Fred.  The way you think it’s no surprise.  God didn’t put us here as a big joke. There is a point to life.

FR: Sure there is and that point is to be truthful and beautiful, and then die.  You get one shot at beauty, then it’s over.  You could be beautiful, but not with your act because it is not truth.  You better kill all your opposition because unless you silence everyone on the opposite side of the paradox, your truth cannot be.  Beauty will never be yours.  Kinda like your boy Hitler…  better come Fast and Furious with your Extreme Insiders fatboy; history has never been kind to ugly people who don’t understand truth.

BS: Boom. OK. Looks like we’ve run the course of the discussion on beauty, love and truth. Now, let’s turn our attention to the core of the animosity between Glenn and Fred. Glenn, you’ve stood upon a podium preaching your brand of truth for years now, the content of which is what has drawn Fred’s ire, and the primary reason he want’s to shove a shove a cattle prod up your ass. Now would be a good time to clear the air, for both of you to clearly state your positions on some of the major topics which separate you. If I may suggest a course of discussion, I’d be extremely interested in your views on the current state of healthcare.

One moment first…

LEO, damn it – we need more beers, just bring the cooler in here. You suck at this.

Leo Bloom: It’s empty.

BS: Whaddya mean it’s empty?

LB: I drank the last one.

BS: (twitches) What about the booze?

LB: Gone too. Me and the janitor killed it a few minutes ago. I was gonna get more, but I’m drunk and my car won’t start anyway.

BS: Fine, whatever – send DorkChick to fill the bed of that damned Subaru.

LB: Whatever, Dick.

DorkChick: (just walking in the door, muttering semi-incoherently about shitty drivers and no internet) Already one step ahead of you. Beers already here.

BS: You da man, er, Woman, DC.

Apologies, now, where were we – ah, Fred, you started last time – Glenn, please begin.

(Gunshot)

BS: Holy shit.

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The Fred Roberts / Glenn Beck Dialogs: Arguing By Idiots

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A couple of phone calls gave me the info I wanted, Glennies, and now I have YOU surrounded.  Thanks for making this easier Glenn.  See you at church fatboy.

Fred Roberts, Texan by birth (google that up again Glenn, I see you)

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5. The Fred Diaries: Ask not…but what is the most shameful thing you will do for your country?

The Fred Diaries: We have you surrounded Glenn

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Tyranny, it’s where it’s at.

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Just a girl out there, trying to make a buck....

Maybe “The Tot Whisperer”

I HOPE that’s all but WHAT IF she buys a PAWN SHOP? THAT would go like THIS:

“I’m Casey Anthony and I own TOT-MOM-PAWN, It is THE place to fence…What? I asked, WHAT FUCK-FACE?

Fine, whatever, THE place to pawn OTHER PEOPLE’S SHIT for bail money!

Now THIS guy brought in a ‘shank’ that supposedly Clint Eastwood made on ‘The Rock,’ better known as San Quentin…

What NOW!?! Are you fucking Kidding Me!?! Yeah, everybody can see who the victim, WHAT?!?!?

UN-BE-LEAVE-ABLE, Everybody can see WHOM the victim is!!!

Anyway, not San Quentin but ALCATRAZ! Who gives a FUCK? Are you happy now BITCH? Can I get back to the LOSER with the KNIFE?

GOOD! Because I don’t even think it’s a ‘SHANK.’ It’s a damn ‘SHIV,’ but I can’t fucking tell for sure. So I’m having my best-friend…What’s her fucking name again?

Her REAL name? WE just called her SALLY 3 SPOONS, Is that what you want me to call THE BITCH?”

On second thought TOT-MOM might not be able to handle HER OWN SHOW right away, but she would fit into others rather nicely! I’m thinking about the W.W.E!

Gritty reality that you can really suffocate and throw into a swamp, er, I mean, get into.

Picture THIS Title Match!

TOT MOM vs. TONYA HARDNG in a CAGE MATCH for the feather-welter-middle-parole-world- TITLE.

It’s round five and T-MOM has KNEE CAP locked up in a Half-Nelson–no, let’s say a THREE QUARTER’s Nelson…

THEN while the REFEREE is looking THE OTHER WAY, here comes NANCY GRACE out of nowhere and Clobbers TOT MOM with a LADDER!

I for ONE would pay BIG BUCKS to see THAT. Even MORE if somebody BEATS Nancy Grace’s ASS TOO!!!

They just have to be careful TIMING THIS so Tot Mom is out of TRACTION in time to DRIVE THE PACE-CAR at the DAYTONA 500!

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Casey Anthony’s New Reality Series: A Tot-Moms Life on the D-Block

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Fred Roberts

Here’s the note; once again, we do not endorse these dipshits:

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Independence Day in Abilene, Texas: Klan Fliers on the Lawn

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Pardon me a minute, ahem, let me warm up a Glenn…

Oh they want us stopped!  They’re coming to get you and I because they know their time is short.  Let them who have reckoning understand, our number is a human number and we come with wrath.  Think outside of the box America.  You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it save nine lives with a stitch in time.  Where’s the beef? Show me the money!  No. Oh no.  I mean, well, I don’t know…what I’m trying to say is: those forces you feel working against you are real.  Every fear you have is entirely valid and I am the answer to your problems.

I can help you free yourself from the dark forces working against you, and believe me they are dark.  Nudge nudge, and some are merely brown.  But they are coming for us and revolution is now.  The government, the Jews, all the people who have more than you, they got there by taking it from you, and they are scared now because I have you organized.  Yes, we have the power and it is scary to them and I hope they don’t silence me before we the righteous, the large group of individuals that we are, individuals who know what freedom and liberty are, individuals who know that by grouping together for our freedom and liberty we can have a revolution and overthrow the ones who keep us down; us, individuals.

Fredom, liberty, Jesus, a soldier dying, a mother weeping with an apple pie, eerie spooky and vague references to dark forces, and don’t forget money and the red march of the socialists.  Stand tall like Ben Franklin in the whipping booth at The Hellfire Club, be like Jesus and become judge, jury, and executioner of all who oppose us.  We are right, I should know, Jesus told me we were.

Don’t let them silence me, us.  See how it works?

Yeah that’s a fair impression of Glenn.  Three paragraphs and I never said a thing but threw out all his drama symbols, the US, the THEM, Jesus, Socialism and a few hollow platitudes about bullshit our founding father’s once said while they weren’t too busy raping the slaves or smoking weed like Ben Franklin.  Add a flag behind me and I should gain 2.8 million sheep who follow me like Glenn’s people.

Fuck that shit, I’m going racing.  My ego plays out on the throttle and the few words I type here.  It is not my place, nor any other person’s, to save you or me.  I will say this, followers aren’t free, and my path doesn’t exist but under my feet.  But whatever, enjoy your messiah.

fredbob

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If you’re too chickenshit for them apples Fatboy, feel free to back out now in front of God, Country, and your mother frying in Hell.  You got the guts?  Huh?

Think of the forefathers, think of your white heritage, think of Ben Franklin buggering people by the dozen at The Hellfire Club, smoking weed and visiting his slaves.  Like I said, think of your Heritage.  It’s this Heritage you pound the walls about right?  This golden age of white males who had all the answers to your problems, these flawed, egotistical board of honkeys who wrote the Original Argument; these are your heros.  Think of them for courage Glenn.  I bet Ben Franklin would be happy to join in, charred arm and all.  I doubt you have the guts though.  I can tell by your pink, doughy flesh that you’re soft as a shell-less turtle.  Ben Franklin liked black girls; you’re scared of all black people.  Maybe Ben isn’t like you…

You’ll back out.  Hell, take this olive branch now Glenn.  Even you know your limitations.  Debates never go well for you.  That scared look appears in your eyes when you realize you have to improvise; you stammer, you divert, you lose.

Now I feel guilty about the challenge, Old Sport.  See, when I look into your eyes, all I see is a fat kid who wants someone to tell him he’s a good boy.  I honestly see that.  I feel guilt because I had wonderful parents who showed their pride regularly, and my mother is still here to tell me how proud my goofy life makes her.  Oh yeah, that’s what this is about… my goofy life compared to yours.

People like you, by implications made through word choice, are completely exclusive in their beliefs.  You do not offer any tolerance, which by my definition of intelligence ranks you a cold pile of shit.  I know this is difficult for your weak mind to understand Glenn, hopefully the debates will clarify things a bit.

Oh, by the way, I will NOT be bringing any body guards, nor will I be wearing body armor.  If you like, you are welcome to bring a firearm.  By the time of the debates, I will have in place the legal documents which would remove all guilt were you to shoot me and kill me.  The decision is yours, Every.  Some will call you a hero for it and I can tell you that my quick death is a blow for the righteousness of The Future.  My death is a feather in your cap.  Your words have said as much.

Now put your money where your mouth is Fatboy.  July 13th.  This is your Independence Day, kill me and your problems are solved.

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The Fred Diaries: Glenn lays out his terms, I have my additions.

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1.  We will not discuss political topics.

2.  I will not answer questions about my prior remarks about Jews or colored people.

3.  I must have a large bowl of M&Ms in my dressing room, green only, and I require a live gerbil in addition to good lighting and my own Aryan make up man.

Fred wants to debate my character, if I am to understand his last remarks.  I have no doubt that my achievements and personal moral fiber will show me to be an ideal American.  And since Fred is not of my beliefs, it will be easy to show him to be un-American, and possibly of Negroid descent.  Fred is a victim of liberal brain washing tactics, typical of anyone who has read literature prior to 1776, and who has not been baptized.  Please join me Extreme Insiders, this is our moment of truth.  I’m going to whip this liberal punk like our hallowed forefathers whipped slaves.  It’s a “Heritage” thing…

G. Beck

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I shall now challenge Glenn to a debate and the main topic for discussion is his hypothetical.  I need a moderator.  Perhaps Bob will moderate the debate.  Whoever does it, the first topic shall be: Glenn Beck is a fat pile of shit.

Let’s hear point and counterpoint on that.

Bring it Fatboy, I don’t even have to research to prove you’re a fat pile of white shit.  -fredbob

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"But our trip was different. It was a classic affirmation of everything right and true in the national character. It was a gross, physical salute to the fantastic possibilities of life in this country--but only for those with true grit. And we were chock full of that." Hunter S. Thompson

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Weirdspeed Mr. Dunn

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I have to die but I have to get new tires first.

I read Glenn’s last post and was horrified as anyone might have been, The words of Glenn’s post alone are so vulgar one might think, if he were any type of writer, that Glenn was trying to paint the portrait of a dark heart for dramatic purposes.  The actions are dark without a doubt, without any humanity whatsoever.  Murderous.

I had to turn away from it myself.  I feel for the women he killed, those two in the last blog and that one in 1990, but none of the authorities I notified would listen to me.  Seems most cops like Glenn’s agenda, and Glenn.  I can’t stop them, no one can.  He and his followers will kill anyone not like them if the opportunity arises; and it looks like it will.  I can’t think of any way to stop them.  At this point I’m doing the only thing I can think of: acting like an individual.

I’m going dirt track racing because I can’t think of anything else to do with myself.  If anyone reads Glenn’s blogs and my hacked in notes as a story, one might think I was the hero afoot, that I am going to burst in and stop Glenn’s mad plan before it killed us all.  Nope.  I’m going racing.   As a mutant of the industrial world, a man whose personal definition comes in part from a machine, but whose personal battle is of his humanity in contrast to the machine, I’m really not any type of savior to the world which created Glenn Beck.  Hell, this is his world, not mine.

I’m doomed, Glenn said it, and it’s silly to worry about fate.  If mythology taught me anything, it is that the good always die first.  I’m not going to let Glenn kill me, I’ve got to get my bike ready for racing, but I’m not going to stop him either. My time has come to die.  It is time for Glenn to fly. This nation wants a guy like Glenn more than a guy like me.  Glenn’s agenda says as much, because I am not with him, I am against him.  The promised land lies beyond my wasted body.  Only after my blood is spilled can the Right Way lead us, or them, to the golden age.  I must die.

Cool.  But I’m not going to let them kill me before I get up to speed on a dirt track.  I’m having too much fun figuring out the little particulars right now, and I have yet to achieve my goal of speed; I’m still drifting with my feet up because I’m not wearing boots.  Last parking lot practice session though, I found what I needed but then my bike failed me.  I have to tune.  My bike is not set up for me and won’t be until I replace the fork seals and get a true reading on the sag.  I must return to Austin.  I have  much more practice to do.

After that I’ll die, but I’ll take me out, thank you very much.  There will be no crying masses, there will be no flag over my coffin, there will be no mention of me on the news; few will notice I’m gone.  I’m not a good American, not employable, and I’m not even that good on a motorcycle.  No one needs my soul in this world.  Glenn is the hero.

If Glenn died tomorrow, a nation would mourn.  His way is the right way, my way is wrong and doomed.  I am somewhat troubled by what I will miss after I die.  I wonder what the music of Glenn’s world will be, the words, the art…

Not my race though so fuck it.  I’m dead, better get fast at going left ASAP.  I loved the people who helped me in life, and quite a few who didn’t.  And, let’s eee…shit, I could say I loved my country but it wants to kill me so I’m kind of over this place.  And before God and everyone I would like it known that I loved words and motorcycles too.  Goodbye everyone, just in case Glenn kills me sooner than later, it’s been fun.

Found a cheap one, since I'm dead anyway, i'll buy it when I order the fork seals.

Now, I must make a KTM fork cap tool.

Fred-  Dead man walking.

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2. The Beck Diaries: The Return of Fred
3. The Fred Diaries: Debate me Fatboy!
4. The Fred Diaries: Sending in the Frogman
5. The Fred Diaries: Beck likes penis, and his kid isn’t his, it’s mine. I just wish the boy wasn’t so ugly like his mother.

The Beck Diaries: Fred Accepts his Fate

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I HOPE Anthony Weiner will be my first client.

OK, Congressman. REPEAT AFTER ME.

“That is not me.”

If they could somehow PROVE it was YOU, which they cannot, continue saying “That is not me.”

If they find your CYBER DNA, a concept which I am making up RIGHT NOW (but I’m hoping Sarah Palin will pick it up and “run with it!”) REPEAT “That is not me.”

Now Congressman Weiner. 1. I STONGLY suggest you start pronouncing your name WHINER.

2. Say, “That is not me.”

3. Try to work “TOT MOM” into your answers.

4. Try some variations to keep it fresh like:

“Nope, not me.”

“Hey! You know who that ISN’T? Congressman Anthony Weiner! THAT rhymes with MINOR!”

FINALLY, feel free to spend ALL THE TIME you’re spending saying something OTHER THAN “That is not me” discussing the fact that Rudy Giuliani, is the GOP front-runner.
Followed by Donald Trump.

Followed by Sarah Palin. (New Slogan: “We DEMAND Mandatory Cyber DNA Testing.”)

Too late…

Poll Source CNN. (Really.)

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Below-The-Beltway Consultant

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I hope that my fellow Democrats will all join me in proudly adopting that nickname!

I’m off the grid working on a special project so I can’t spend time making my case for my new moniker.

(Off the grid = travel + work)

But I do want to respond to my good friend Ralph Park’s email.

(Good friend = weird author + ‘CAPS LOCK’ KEY)

Ralph’s email begins:

“FIRST A QUESTION…WHY ARE , OBAMAITES, SO TOUCHY? WHY ARE LIBERALS-LIBERALS FIRST-EVEN ABOVE BLOOD?: 155 No. 155 of 365 Remind your liberal friends of the statistic that if liberals donated as much blood as conservatives, America’s blood supply would increase by 45 percent.”

Clearly there’s no arguing with THAT!

Knowing Mr. Parks as I do there’s also no need to look up: 155 No. 155 of 365. (You win THIS time Ralphie, but I’ll be BACK!)

Instead I’d just like to point out “Obamanations” is a much better word than “OBAMAITES.”

And since I’m ALREADY making comparisons I might as well go ahead and say conservatives seem touchier to me than liberals. You don’t have to take my word for it Ralph, LET’S GO TO THE TAPE!

Check it out! THIS crowd is unhappy about rudimentary healthcare reform. HAR! Do you see that “Bury Obamacare with Kennedy” sign? THAT is SO FUNNY because Kennedy had JUST DIED!

(Rudimentary healthcare = Canadians + rolling eyes)

That tea-bag crowd looks pretty touchy to me Ralph! See the picture of Obama there with the BONE stuck through his NOSE? Wait! Isn’t that…HEY! Those guys over there ALL HAVE GUNS!

Compare that crowd to THIS bunch. These people are protesting the war in Iraq. I don’t see any guns. That guy in the tye-dye T-Shirt DOES have Bongo Drums though. They don’t look all that touchy Ralph. Some of them do look stoned…

I have an idea! Let’s compare “water” scandals!

This first one is Bill Clinton’s “Whitewater.” After a seven year and ten month investigation during Clinton’s eight year term they determined at some point he and his wife Hillary had knowingly purchased real estate. Here is the most damning evidence! (It’s a piece of paper with some words written on it.)

The second “water” scandal was Blackwater during the Cheney Administration. Blackwater was a private company in the growing machine-gun-toting-thug industry. This is where they opened up on Iraqi civilians, killed 17 of em.’ (We can bury them with Kennedy too, HAR!)

They look a little touchy to me…

No related posts.

Obamanations

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No, I have no answers, but I’m pretty sure God doesn’t care about the economy.  If GOD is the answer, like all you conservative Bible thumpers always say, than you shouldn’t give a GOD DAMNED FUCK about MONEY.  Fucking whores…

But don’t mind me.  According to Fox news I’m a traitor, and according to the American form of Jesus, the fact that I don’t care about money and love people makes me a demon bound for Hell.  Well, if the douche bag corp suckers of the Republican party are going to Heaven, send me straight to the Inferno.  I don’t want to hang out with Donald Trump in Heaven if all they’re going to do is whine about their tax dollars.

See you in Hell, but if you need anything, mine is yours and I never care about money.  I am not Benjamin’s Bitch.

-fredbob

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4. Seriously folks: SEO content, motorcycles, art, and I need a break.
5. The Fred Diaries: Ask not…but what is the most shameful thing you will do for your country?

Wrap yourself in a flag and pray to Jesus for a tax cut for Donald Trump

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SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 2010

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When you choose a path like Mr. Beck has chosen, of bigotry and finger pointing, of button pushing and general indecency, you might as well paint a target on your back.   Glenn is seriously nervous… Good.  It makes me nervous that his voice is influencing this great country.  I say stick it to him, and listen to him squeal like the piggy he is.  - Fredbob

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5. The Beck Diaries: Profiting off Idiots

Oh ho HO. A reblog from our new friends at The Glenn Beck Review

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to a calling,  to gain

is not a goal, but is

The Goal, of mice, and no men,

who follow their pockets, heartless

rodents who history deemed The Root.

The Hollow, not men

Mistah Kurtz is not dead

Nor is the Colonel, they ring forever

They make the call

Where I saw the Grecian Urn

is only to mine eyes, yours is yours

but mine is yours; beauty

beholder, bewilder, bewitched

be all

Freedom surpassed

by questions of class

an ass’s urn holds more than truth.

Our Garden, our Quest,

The Call

It’s a wonder

The Urn gets mentioned at all.

-fredbob

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5. The Fred Roberts / Glenn Beck Dialogs: Arguing By Idiots

Money isn’t Poetry

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…and Glenn seems to think he’s of the same ilk.  He’s a leper messiah, a divider, and only concerned with how much money he can bilk out of the country before we get wise to his DJ act.  But you’re smart aren’t you Glenn?  The money proves that doesn’t it?

Sure beats getting high and being suicidal while listening to Nirvana like you did in the nineties right?  Or was that just your first failed attempt to tap into a market?  I guess the grunge kids wouldn’t have your fat ass, you had to go to the mid-west and appeal to the scared crackers.  You really found your niche this time Glenn.

You’re no Carlin, you’re no Hicks, hell, you’re not even Carrot Top.  I can’t wait until your ADD meds make that fat wrapped heart of yours explode.  Keep pushing Glenn, and don’t forget your meds.  One day the tears won’t come from your amphetamine psychosis, they’ll come from the pain in your left arm as your pump gives out.  You will not get a hero’s burial, you will be mocked, and many will shit on your grave.

Better not mark the tombstone Glenn… and God knows where your heart lies; in lies.

Keep pumping your ADD meds Glenn, you have much work to do. Throw in some fries with that shake too, you'll see mommy in Hell sooner than you think.

-fredbob

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2. Oh ho HO. A reblog from our new friends at The Glenn Beck Review
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5. The Fred Diaries: Glenn lays out his terms, I have my additions.

The Glenn Beck Comedy tour is on again.

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If the money wants this power, that means the rest of us are really holding something worthwhile.  This new power is very real and can easily be illustrated by the antics of Charlie Sheen.  While I’m sure the majority of people will use this power as Charlie did, for their own vanity, I only wish to flex because I love words and it seems to me that too many idiots are using too few words, a stat easily googled up, and that it is the duty of every lover of words to fill the engines with the RIGHT words and ideas.  What are the right words and ideas?  Anything timeless.

By foregoing the particulars of politics and life, and by only thinking in terms of words and ideas that history has proven absolutely true, we lose a little current events and gain understanding.  For instance, love will never go away.  It is timeless.

“Fear,” is a word I’ve heard so often out of the mouths of people like G. that I have the notion to show you how to remove fear, but unlike G., I am not on a self-fulfilling prophetic quest.  I am not building a problem so that I can make money off showing you the solution.  My goal is balance.  If the search engines are to be filled with a bunch of words only Poe used with such regularity, my blogs will be the antithesis.

Glenn Beck has 2.8 million people who “like” him on Facebook.  If half those people pay 100 bucks a year to listen to his brand of fear mongering and jingoistic button pushing, he’ll have Osama Bin Laden money.  He will be able to afford his own army.  Glenn Beck is a word terrorist; he terrorizes his audience, then soothes them.  He evokes fear, then relieves it and in this aspect Beck is a genius but true wisdom has escaped him.

My name is Fred and I will post a full bio of myself once Bob shows me how to properly re-admin myself.  G. will still be posting his diaries here, but I will now be posting a companion diary of my own.  Thanks for reading, please share.  I have never asked before.

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5. The Fred Diaries: Don’t be Scared

The Beck Diaries: The Return of Fred

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5. The Beck Diaries: Day One

The Beck Diaries: Music for the Revolution

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Well, there’s Maga’s goons at the door.  If they don’t bury me I may hack in from time to time and post about IRT.  Pardon me while I blast the front door with this shotgun.  Here’s the battle IRT producers want:

Still the Queen, even if she doesn't haul a damn thing.

VS

The Red and the Black. No offense Maya, you got the NY moxy, but you don't list motocross freestyle in the bio.

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Fred Hacks in for an Ice Road Truckers post

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The BEST PC I ever HAD wasn’t a PC at ALL! It was a MAC I used in San Francisco from 1988 to 1991. GOD how I miss it!

I could press the ‘1’ key without 1. Auto numbering

I could press the ‘Enter’ key without: a u t o f o r m a t t i n g

My Mac didn’t give a damn HOW I speled words! It was HEAVEN! I could even MAKE UP WORDS, (like “tornadic!”) That so-called ‘obsolete’ technology was WAY ahead of its time. Best of all if I ACCIDENTLY hit the wrong key on my Mac it was NO BIG DEAL!

This damn PC is DANGEROUS! Earlier today I brushed the ‘F9’ key. Suddenly everything I had written (in my life) was in KOREAN!

To make matters worse, 설상가상하려면!

THEN 키보드 불이 나고!

I had to SLOSH MY DIET COKE all over the keyboard just to put it OUT!

I don’t think my old Mac even HAD an ‘F9’ key. If it DID it certainly wasn’t DANGEROUS! With all these EVIL KEYS I’m afraid to glance at the screen. Not too long ago, after a TERRIFYING MONTH I discovered my erectile dysfunction was caused by the ‘Scroll Lock’ key!

By then I was eating Viagra like Tic Tacs! (Do they still make Tic Tacs? If NOT then substitute the word Skittles. Or better yet just hit the ‘Pause/Break’ key and Skittles Skittles Skittles Skittles Skittles AUTOMATICALLY!

Lucky for me I found ‘Insert’ shortly thereafter!

Editors Note:

Before anyone gets any bright ideas about buying a Mac – read this first:

B. Sugar

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Tech Tips By BJ, or “Why have I been having the same computer problems for over a decade?”

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