Archive for the ‘Guest Story’ Category

On the morning of December 7, impotent 1941 the Japanese navy launched an attack on the United States at Pearl Harbor hoping to cripple the mighty US Navy. Later, when the Emperor addressed his people he went to great lengths to emphasize the industrial might of the United States. He even mentioned a little city, Pittsburgh Pennsylvania, stating that if the Japanese industry could not out produce this steel town, then Japan could not hope to win the war.

Elsewhere in the country, the motor city was beginning to emerge as General Motors and Ford Motor Company became industry leaders. Around the country the ship yards were booming, a little tool company called Mesta Machine Works was supplying machine tools to the growing manufacturing industry, glass was king in a little towns like Jeannette, and the country was clothed by textiles made in America. As the country shifted to a war time economy, this industrial might of the United States was put to work to provide the materials needed by the country to fight this foreign aggression. To the men who fought and died during World War II, this was the country as they knew it.

Today we see a greatly different country. The Big Three Automakers have been reduced to mere remnant of what they once were. The Steel industry of Pittsburgh is all but gone, with only a few of the once mighty steel mills still standing. Textiles have all but disappeared from the United States; try to find a winter jacket made in America today. Most electronics are now made in the Far East. The industrial might of the United States is gone.

In the light of this anniversary of the day that will live in infamy, I would like to pose a question for discussion among the readers of this list. What would someone who died during WWII, perhaps more specifically the Asian theater (Pearl Harbor), think if they came back to life and saw the country as it is now?

As I have tried to point out, when these soldiers went to war, the US was an industrial giant. The US controlled major portions of industry from autos to textiles, from steel to electronics. Taking this industrial might even further, these companies also had factories in other countries, some of which we were soon to be fighting. What would these soldiers who gave the ultimate sacrifice say if they came back to see all of the US industrial might now located in foreign countries? What would they say if they saw their children and grandchildren driving cars made by the very country they died fighting? Would they understand times change? Would they be resentful? What would they say of all the politics and policies that allowed this to happen? Remember a few facts, when Nissan came to the United States, they were so concerned by the similarity of Nissan to Nippon they decided to be known as Dautson in the United States. Also to enter into this country, many times these Japanese companies employed vast numbers of lobbyists and public relations people to influence the politicians and the people of this country. This question could also be posed to those who died in Korea (and by extension of the conflict China) and Vietnam. For these people would also be met by a flood of products from these countries.

I hope the dear readers of the list won’t degenerate into Union bashing, Auto bashing, CEO bashing, or any other special interest bashing. If you readers and writers wish to do this, please put yourself in the shoes of those who had just one day to see the United States many years after their ultimate sacrifice. Please approach it from possible angles such as: Would those people agree that perceived quality means more than national pride of product? Would those people see a disagreement on work force politics or organization as justification to buy a product from those countries who were once mortal enemies?

Lastly, what would they say if they saw so much of our country’s debt in the hands of these same countries? Would they still feel we won any of these wars? Would they resent their sacrifice of life in light of where the country has gone industrially and economically? What would they think of the push to a global economy?

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Skippy’s Warning: This one goes far, even for me. While that warning sinks in, bear in mind that in the past year I have made light of lesbian koalas, forced clown cannibalism, and pterodactyl porn without flinching.

Often within the realm of intellectual discourse, scholars stumble upon a question or a problem unto which no unanimous solution can be afforded. This is usually the case with matters that are seemingly limited to our own subjectivity – our tastes, preferences, desires – allowing us only to “agree to disagree”. And this is generally understandable; after all, while you and I may enjoy pepperoni on our pizza, there is no objective measure by which we can rationally argue it as the best topping.

But there is one debate that I believe is not limited to subjectivity and which has a clear, unquestionable, objective solution, and that is the question of which Sailor Scout is the most fuckable.

Before we can even pursue a definitive answer to this question, we must define our criteria for “fuckability”. “Fuckability” is not merely one’s physical ability to be fucked – as in, a dog is fuckable because it has a penetrable orifice but a slab or marble is not because it does not – but also the degree to which one could be fucked under normal conditions.

Normal conditions are as follows: we, the fucker, are a heterosexual male with typical heterosexual male tendencies. That is, our tastes and habits do not deviate from the typical societal norm. For this reason we can eliminate Chibi Moon from discussion because she is prepubescent and thus not “fuckable”. The same applies to Chibi Chibi, who is both a child and some sort of abstract corporeal entity, neither of which we would normally fuck. Moreover, Sailor Uranus and Sailor Neptune are lesbians in a committed relationship, so it is doubtful that they too would be fuckable under these conditions. Granted, many scholars theorize most lesbians are just faking and can be broken of their man-hating habits by a variety of simple procedures, most common of which is the standard “deep dicking”, however such matters are still heavily debated. Besides, having to break a woman of her lesbian tendencies merely adds to our wooing workload, and thus decreases fuckability. For simplicity’s sake, Uranus and Neptune will be classified as “Not Fuckable” as opposed to “Ultra Low Tier”.

I doubt most scholars would object to Sailor Mercury and Sailor Moon herself being assigned to our “Low Tier” of fuckability. Sailor Mercury is rarely portrayed as anything more than a frigid scholar, completely absorbed in her school work, possessing few other hobbies or special interests. Yes, you could fuck her if you so desired, but it would be entirely passionless and sterile, like fucking a pig’s fresh carcass–warm, yes, but hardly mobile or responsive. Additionally, her constant intellectual banter would prove tiresome and would create too difficult an environment for any sane man to sustain an erection. The same is not true of Sailor Moon, who is obviously far less frigid and far easier to interact with, plus her kisses taste like bubblegum, which is also a plus. But then why assign her to the low tier? First of all, she is in a committed relationship with Tuxedo Mask; granted, as an adversary he’d hardly be threatening, what with his limp-wristed rose throwing and scrawny build–easily dealt with by a simple shotgun to the face–but being faced with any sort of competitor merely adds to the time and effort necessary to bed a woman. Second, Sailor Moon has a daughter from the future who is not only irritating as all hell but who would also serve to complicate the relationship. We would be obligated to frequently deliver the all too infamous “I’m not your fucking dad” speech and her presence would consistently serve to derail all sexual tension. Why settle for Sailor Moon when there so many other Sailor Scouts who have no such baggage?

Sailor Pluto and Sailor Saturn are among the least developed characters throughout the entire run of the animated series. Other than their looks, which are comparable to that of their other scouts, there is really no criteria by which they can be judged. Obviously, Sailor Saturn is not fuckable in baby form, ala the beginning of Sailor Stars but I must concede that Sailor Saturn under the possession of Mistress 9 would actually be quite the terrifically viscous fuck, with biting and scratching, among other acts of kinky fun. “She definitely looks like she knows how to take a dick,” a colleague argued. However, the fact that she is evil, and the ephemeral nature of the whole possession, still would keep her from being included in the “Top Tier”. And, on a purely technical note, Mistress 9 possession is not default Sailor Saturn, so its relevance to this discussion is questionable. All in all, there is no obvious reason to assume anyone would have a particularly difficult or easy time fucking either of these two, nor anything to imply it wouldn’t be good. Therefore we must default them to “Mid Tier”.

This only leaves us with Sailor Venus, Sailor Mars, and Sailor Jupiter for our high tier. We can justify their presence by first asserting there are no particular limitations in pursuing them; they are heterosexual, they are not in committed relationships, and they have been known to fawn over men. Next, we can see that they each have their own particular positive qualities; for instance, Sailor Venus is the Sailor Scout of love, therefore it is not unreasonable to assume she would be particularly affectionate and amorous, the kind of woman you “make love” to, not just merely fuck. Sailor Mars is a Shinto priestess and has the ability to exorcise demons, which I know would benefit me personally in many ways, and has, appropriately enough, a rather fiery personality. Whereas Venus would fuck with passion, Mars would fuck with fervor, as if she were trying to break your very manhood from your body. Thus we would be foolish to deny them spots in the “Top Tier”.

< But what of Sailor Jupiter? Surely we did not forget her? Of course not, as we have asserted upon initiating this discussion, there can be only one objective answer to who is the most fuckable Sailor Scout. Our eliminative process has restricted our final candidates to Mars, Venus, and Jupiter, and the exclusion of Jupiter from the "Top Tier" can only mean I believe her to be the most fuckable. But how can I defend this claim? Jupiter obviously fulfills the same difficulty requirements as the other two, but it is her unique characteristics that allow her to outshine them. Of all the scouts she is considered the best cook, and while snuggling and exorcising demons have their benefits, neither is as consistently useful as cooking ability. On average, we eat three times a day, seven days a week; how often do we need a good snuggle? How often do we need a demon exorcised? Next, Jupiter is the physically largest Sailor Scout. Not only is she simply the tallest, but her thighs and posterior are the most muscular, allowing her to crush you like some sort of wildly erotic sex vice. Being the most physically powerful you know you could engage her in wild and viscous acts of animalistic fucking. And when she finishes bruising the living hell out of your manhood, she can make you a milkshake or some fudge cake. Being the biggest tomboy of the group, after having sex and eating, and then having more sex, you could snuggle up on the couch and play LittleBigPlanet with her.

Using clear, objective, scientific examination skills, we have found a solution to a problem most scholars would have incorrectly labeled as “subjective”. Remember, readers, all things can be explored through the rational means I have demonstrated today.

Polkster has a web-comic called Polkout.com , which he would like you to visit.

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My National Guard unit the 139th ROC traveled from Frankfurt, Germany to Taszar, Hungry via bus in August, 1997. In Austria, in the middle of the night, we stopped at a McDonald’s to eat a very late supper. I had eaten at McDonald’s in Germany and Holland prior to this, so it was not a shock to find one here.

In spite of this, it was a surreal scene. The mountain air was chilly and it was foggy. Everyone that worked at McDonald’s was wearing Mexican sombreros and what appeared to be bits and pieces of Mexican peasant clothing from a sitcom. There were posters and signs showing tacos, burritos and more of the stuff you’d expect to find at Taco Bell.

I did not have much time to enjoy the sights and sounds of an Austrian McDonald’s that was stuck in an episode of the Outer Limits.

Sitting behind me in the bus was a fake ranger.  He told us that he had been a ranger and we all looked up to him because of this.  During our bus ride he kept having nightmares and would wake up screaming and kicking, not exactly what you’d expect from a ranger.  Later on we found out that he was a poser – but that’s another story.  When he would jerk awake he would kick me in the back and got me good a few times.

I told him to stay awake so he would stop kicking me, and it quickly devolved into a stupid “did not-did too” type of argument popular among four-year-olds.

Out of the darkness came a voice that told me to “stop whining.”

In the Back to the Future movies, Marty McFly would go ballistic if you called him chicken. At that time, my psycho button was to be accused of whining.

I went zero to psycho in two seconds and yelled, “F*** You!”

All noise in the bus died. I then heard the chem sergeant say, “You need to add “sir” to that.”

No guts, no glory. I then yelled, “F*** You, SIR!”

At McDonald’s everyone else ran into the store to sample the Austrian tacos and hamburgers. I stood at attention by the bus while my captain tried to chew me out for dropping the F-bomb on him. The short version of his rant: I was not allowed to drop an F-bomb on an officer and if I did it again, I would get written up, blah-blah-blah.

My mind kept wandering because the food smells. All I could think was, “could you hurry up? I’m hungry!” Instead I nodded my head and said, “Yes sir,” as if I was paying attention to him.
That night I got a Quarter Pounder combo and also got away with “murder.”

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I just got Boomerang, the classic cartoons channel, and it’s sweet.  It’s been so long since I’ve watched the Herculoids or Johnny Quest–the only thing the channel needs is more hardcore 80’s/early 90’s shows, like the Centurions and Pirates of Dark Water and Reboot.

Which brings me to my next point: the Smurfs.  Oh man, I was watching the Smurfs–sober no less–and in some intense moment of clarity–like God was massaging my brain or something–I had this weird insight into Smurf sociology and biology.  You know what it was?  It was the presence of Sassette, the only other female Smurf that sparked this intense revelation.  Ignoring Smurfette, because she was artificially implanted into Smurf society by Gargamel, Sassette is the only naturally occurring female Smurf.  But that leads to a host of problems in terms of Smurf reproduction, right?  How the hell do Smurfs reproduce?  One female and all these males?

Well I’ve come up with a pretty adequate theory, I call it the Thunderdome Hypothesis.  Once the lone female Smurf reaches sexual maturity all of the male Smurfs–save for the gay ones, like Vanity Smurf–enter a battle royale.  All Smurfs enter, one Smurf leaves.  And that champion Smurf, who is considered fittest of all Smurfs, is crowned Papa Smurf and must wear a red uniform, marking his status as leader as well as metaphorically symbolizing the blood of his brothers that stains his very soul. That Smurf then breeds, and the female repopulates the village until she births a female, after which she shrivels up and dies.

That Papa Smurf, or the Alpha Smurf, as I call him, proceeds to rule over the village until the next Smurf battle.  Then he surrenders his uniform to the next Alpha, and steps down, taking a simple advisory rule until his death–like Grandpa Smurf.  Also, Smurfs live hundreds of years–as referenced by Farmer Smurf in that episode where Smurfette was searching for a blue rose–so this event is relatively rare.

So then I started thinking, what impact will Smurfette’s presence have on the stability of the Smurf village and social hierarchy?  You can’t have two Alphas; that would lead to an imbalanced hierarchy and the depletion of resources due to overpopulation.  So I imagine Papa Smurf must have issued some sort of decree where no Smurf is permitted to have any sort of sexual relations with Smurfette; her presence will be tolerated, for the Smurfs are a peaceful people, but she will not be considered a reproductive female.

You know what would be a f!cking amazing Smurf story arc?  So Smurfette has an affair, or is raped, or whatever, and becomes impregnated.  Papa Smurf, realizing what sort of hell might be unleashed upon the Smurf order, announces that Smurfette and her unborn child must be killed–the first Smurf execution in history–to the shock of all Smurfs.  He places his hand on her torso and exclaims, “Within this wretched womb gestates an impure soul.  It must die, for it descends from an unclean magic.  Its birth shall destroy us all.”  Some Smurfs understand, while others–especially Rapist Smurf–are outraged.  An uprising ensues where the village is divided in two.

The Smurf is born, but it’s not blue, no, some unsmurfly color, bearing the mark of its own damnation.  An omen, feels Papa Smurf, who starts pressing ever harder for the death of it and its mother.  Under the cover of nightfall, Smurfette and her followers flee, and establish a second village.

Village 2, under the military leadership of Brainy Smurf, launches a preemptive offensive on Village 1, attempting to assassinate Papa Smurf after it’s discovered that Papa Smurf is organizing death squads to slaughter Village 2 for their insubordination.  “There can be only one Alpha!” He shouts and beats his fist as Grandpa Smurf rubs his shoulders and tries to calm him down.

The assassination is botched by some sort of series of hilarious hijinks, and an all out war ensues.  Smurfs are being slaughtered left and right, it’s bloody, horrific, a war to end all Smurf wars.  Finally, as Village 1 is set ablaze by Arsonist Smurf, Papa Smurf pleads to Mother Nature for aid–who’s forced to balance the knowledge that this bloody mess was started by Papa Smurf’s own hubris, while Smurfette and her progeny are corrupted creatures, unnatural, tainted–she strikes the earth before the invading Village 2 army, dividing the land in two and sinking the second village into the sea.

Smurfette watches on, alone, atop some high perch as the new village sinks; Smurf soldiers are clasping the rocks of the eroding soil, some falling hundreds of feet into the sea.  She turns to the original Smurf village, watching it burn, her vision blurred by tears.  Suddenly, she’s short of breath, choking, falling to the ground and grasping her throat.  Meanwhile, the fallen Smurfs, tumbling under the force of the ocean currents, open their eyes and begin gasping for air.  Their blue color fades and they begin sprouting tubes from their heads: Mother Nature’s greatest act of mercy.  And thus the Snorks are born.

I need friends.

Polkster has a web-comic called Polkout.com , which he would like you to visit.

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This is one of those stories that no one actually believes could have happened, health but it did.

I was stationed at Diogenes Station in Turkey for 17 months, canada ed spanning from February 1981 until July 1982, at which point I went to Ft. Dix, NJ to ETS.  I worked in the TCC, the Tele-Communication Center, or comm center for short.

When I arrived we used state of the art 1950 equipment for putting messages on paper tape which would then run through a reader and became some sort of code that could be transmitted via microwave equipment that had been installed in 1947.  No lie.

In a few months time we had state of the art 1981 computer equipment to send and receive message traffic.  It’s very primitive compared to what we all have today, but was very futuristic at that time.

I served under two different Sergeant First Classes, Vietnam era vets, that were incredible studs.  When they wore their ribbons, they had the ones that you literally had to kill for.

When they went back to the states we got white-boy Fat Albert.  He had made rank quickly in Vietnam too, but was frustrated because he hadn’t gotten promoted in about ten years and would be leaving the army at the end of his Turkish tour if he didn’t make rank.  He knew nothing of our computer equipment and refused to learn.  Did I mention that he was fat?  He wouldn’t pass today’s “tape-test” even if they could find a tape big enough to go around him.

He took a personal dislike to me and told me so.  He ended his “initial counseling session” with me by saying, “You came into this army an E-1 and I’m going to send you home an E-1.”

I was a brand new E-5, a Buck Sergeant, and had been working in a Staff Sergeant’s slot for about a year at that time, beginning when I was a Specialist.  I was always put on the night shift, which corresponded with the day shift in the USA, which meant we were always very busy with a high volume of message traffic coming in and going out.  From the time that Fat Albert took over I always got stuck with less than half the people I needed to run this shift, but we always got the work done and ended up being the envy of the day shift.  I had some really good guys working with me.  I also pissed off Fat Albert, because he truly wanted to write counseling statements on me in preparation for filing some sort of charges against me and taking my rank.

Just about every day Fat Albert would post his “Order of the Day” on the door between his office and our work area.  We would have to read them and then initial that we had done so.  Failure to do so would get you written up, except for that short, fat female Specialist with short hair that he had a crush on.

One day, after reading his stupid order, the usual rant about us needing to run the vacuum or empty the garbage like we always did, I read his signature block and realized that it was just about perfect if you added M-O-U-S-E.

My team was coming on and getting briefed by the other team, everyone was hustling and bustling around.  Fat Albert was waddling out to go drink his supper at the Sports Bar.

I walked over to a computer and typed out “M-O-U-S-E,” printed off a single copy and did not save anything to disk or tape.  I cut out the word, shredded the paper with the cut out hole in it and clear taped the M-O-U-S-E underneath Fat Albert’s signature block.  I wiped the tape with my sleeve just in case he had the MPs try to lift a print.  No one noticed a thing.

I then volunteered to burn the classified trash, which included the shredded paper I had just added.  Yep, I was paranoid, but I also knew he was out to get me.

The next day was my day off.  I was down at our private beach on the Black Sea when I was approached by a Specialist from the day shift.  She was off too, but had had to go into the comm center for some reason.  She said to me, “Don’t say anything because I don’t want to lie if I get questioned, but I know that you did it.”

I acted surprised but it didn’t fool her.  She told me that Fat Albert had turned purple and stood there screaming incoherently, barely able to shout out my name and the occasional f-bomb.  We laughed about his reaction and “wondered” how anyone could have done what they did. Can you purchase Cialis and save money, here https://www.fortissurgicalhospital.com/cialis-20-mg/ the best offers for generic Cialis 20 mg, 10 mg, 5 mg.

For the next few months, until I ETS’d, I was a local celebrity among my peers.

Oh yeah, I was a Buck Sergeant when I ETS’d and I was given an Army Commendation Medal by the unit commander.  Go figure.

SFC Cole
NCOIC TCC
M-O-U-S-E

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Don’t you just love voice automated systems, error messaging services, and all the other technology out there so that people no longer have to talk to actual people? Well what happens when you get a particularly dumb or literal person on the other end of technology?

Example:

Person dials a number on a phone. Three raising tones and then: “We’re sorry. The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please hang up and try again.” Person hangs up and dials the same number. Three raising tones and then: “We’re sorry. The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please hang up and try again.” Person hangs up and dials the same number. Three raising tones and then: “We’re sorry. The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please hang up and try again.” Ad infinitum.

Or the instructions that become so famous I need only mention them and most of America knows of which I’m talking. Lather, Rinse, Repeat. Well what happens if you get stuck on the repeat part? Are you doomed to a lifetime of showering and washing? And even worse is the conditioner. Lather, let stand 2-5 minutes, rinse, repeat. So now there is the 2-3 minutes of standing in the shower added in the mix. Aigh!

Then you have the directions that seem to be arguing with themselves: “To open package, carefully cut open with shark knife or scissors.” followed by big bold letters “DO NOT OPEN USING SHARP OBJECTS!” Make up your mind will you?!?

And everyone’s favorite, the directions and warnings so obvious that you know someone had to do it for them to put the warning on there. Like the warning on a hair dryer: “Warning: Do not use while in the shower!” Duh!

Well I thought I’d keep this short, and let you all put your favorites in here, so feel free to contribute.

Here is a short list of a few of my personal favorites:

1. Found on a chainsaw: “Do not use as a Halloween prop! Can cause real dismemberment!”
2. Found on a toaster: “Do not use to heat Pop Tarts as fire may occur!” (BTW: There is a basis for this! Search YouTube or Google for “Strawberry PopTart Toaster Fire” as I found it rather awesome)
3. Found on Microwave: “Do not use to dry small pets!” (though sometimes I wish I could use it to “dry” my neighbors chihuahua who pees and craps all over my back porch)
4. Found on bottle of massage oil: “Do not use as personal lubricant. Do not use on waterbeds as injury or suffocation may occur!” Just below this warning is a picture of a person UNDERNEATH the waterbed mattress.
5. Found in a 9mm Baretta 92F instruction manual: “Do not look down barrel and squeeze trigger!”
6. Found on Army mortar round: “Do not hit with hammer!”
7. Found on a Peanut container: “Contains nuts!”
8. Found on a box of matches: “Caution! Flammable!”
9. Warning sign near volcano: “Caution! Do not touch flowing lava! Contact with lava may cause burns or death!”
10. On a Holmes Bathroom Heather (it’s actual name!): “Caution! this product is not to be used in bathrooms!”

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My national guard unit, 139th ROC, North Carolina NG, was sent to Slavonski Brod, Croatia to staff the Task Force Pershing HQ for SFOR in Bosnia.  We were a glorified truck stop for the units moving between Germany and Bosnia.

As an E-5 – Buck Sergeant for the civilians – I ended up being the ranking enlisted man in the Intel section.  One of my guys was Aaron.  Aaron never stopped whining.  “It’s too hot,” “It’s too cold,” “It always rains.”  Waah, waah, waah.  And he worked in an office that heat and AC, plus, being the Intel section for a brigade we had a TV in our room with cable so that we could “monitor the news.”  Cough, cough, ESPN, cough, cough.

I was counseled by my captain for calling Aaron “my bitch” and “Jennifer” because he whined like he had PMS all of the time.  I also couldn’t mention PMS in any context.

I worked a night shift.  I slept during the day – duh.  My cot was near the entrance of our GP medium tent – about the size of the hospital tent in MASH.  We were able to spread out since only six of us slept in it, and since the tent was draped over a wooden frame, we had a door to keep out the weather.

My cot was by the door.  The door had a spring on it so that it would stay shut, but this meant that it would slam shut when opened.  One day Aaron woke me up with his slamming and banging as he switched out his sleeping bag for a freshly cleaned one.  A few minutes later, after he had gone back to work, the door began slamming and banging at a furious rate.

I sat up ready to tear some ass, only to see a line of Specialists and Sergeants formed up and taking turns sitting on Aaron’s fart sack.  Each guy would sit down and then rip a nasty, wet sounding fart, courtesy of nutritious Army chow, then make room for the next guy.

Before I could say, “What the hell?”  One of my specialists, as he was sitting down said, “We do this every time he turns in his fart sack.”  To emphasize his statement, he reached into his butt crack and pulled out some butt fuzz, which he stuffed deep down into the fart sack.

I then got an earful of how Aaron had become a dick after he made Sergeant.  I commiserated with the guys, because it was all true.  I then went back to sleep, but first I took my turn in line.

A few days later as Aaron was hitting the sack and I was getting ready to go to work, Aaron said, “I don’t get it, I just turned in my old sleeping bag and this one already smells like ass.”

I bet it did.  About 20 asses.

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With Skippy talking about road trips and such things it brings to mind that there are several places out there with some sort of attention grabbing gimmick. Some are things like dinosaurs in front of gas stations, others are simply the names of the place. Below are a few names I have come across (and their locations when I can remember them) in my travels. All of these places are reputable places of business that are not what their names imply.

1. Skinny Dick’s Halfway Inn (Alaska) (Hotel and Lounge)
2. Grandma’s Shaved Beaver (Washington) (A restaurant specializing in local game animals)
3. St. Louis Steel Erection (Missouri) (Construction company)
4. Hore’s House (British Columbia) (Bed and Breakfast)
5. The Notty Shop (Alaska) (A souvenir shop and Ice Cream/coffee bar)
6. Knockin’ Boots (Oklahoma) (Obviously it’s a custom boot maker)

And then there are of course the message boards. You have probably seen several of them that when taken out of context would be extremely naughty. Probably the most famous one is a church sign with the message “The most powerful position in the world is on your knees.” There are many others and here are just a few that I have seen:

1. On a taxidermists shop: “Father’s Day Special – Wives, bring ’em in and we’ll skin and stuff ’em for you!”
2. On a sign shared by a grocery store and lingerie shop: “Special Half Off Sale! Come see our melons!”
3. On a sign in the middle of a desert: “Caution! No Water Ahead!”
4. On a church sign: “Laying on your back and yelling “Oh My God” is not the same as going to Church.”

And finally, as I was driving off a military installation there was a sign that simply said “Speed Hump Ahead,” not even 25 feet later there were two deer going at it hot and heavy. This distracted me so much that I actually bottomed out the back end of my truck and the actual speed hump. At http://www.bantuhealth.org/levitra-generic-buy/ you can purchase generic Levitra professional Vardenafil 20mg.

Please feel free to add as many places and names as you would like to this!

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Every now and then I feel moved to offer advice in situations where children are involved. I personally don’t have any children, but my own memories as a child occasionally provide insight as to why a particular course of action may or may not be a good idea.

For example, I once told a co-worker that her boyfriend-of-one-month’s reluctance to introduce her to his daughter probably was not a sign that he was ashamed of her. Rather, he might want to make sure their relationship was serious before bringing her into his daughter’s life.

My experience? As a child of divorced parents, I remember meeting several of my father’s girlfriends and really, really liking them, only to be crushed when they broke up a few weeks later.
So, here I am to offer some advice about raising children, based on my personal experience as a child:
Don’t force your very small child to watch a movie that’s obviously scaring the shit of them. Otherwise, your child will grow up to blame you for their bad subculture choices.

And now for my experience, just so you know I’m not talking out of my ass.

To start, let me just say that I love my mother, and at the end of the day, she was a pretty good parent. However, her one major screw-up resulted in me wasting my high school years as a Goth.
When I was a wee lass, my brother visited a friend who lived about an hour’s drive away from our home. Because he lived so far away that they couldn’t hang out more often, the plan was that my mother would pick my brother up late that night. Which meant I had to go with her, because no sane parent would leave their child alone for hours, and my mother was a sane parent (or so I thought). As a result, I got to stay up past my bedtime, since my mother rationalized that it would be easier to let me sleep in the car than putting me to bed, then waking me back up.

Also that night was the television premier of Aliens. My brother, being a stereotypical pre-teen male, really wanted to see it, but, as I said before, he was at a friend’s. That’s no problem in our house, though, because our mother is a SF-Fantasy junkie. (Seriously. She went to see X-Men all by herself not because she was even remotely familiar with the comic books, but because she heard the words “mutants,” “super-powers” and “Patrick Stewart” used in the same sentence). So, my mother decides to tape Aliens for my brother, and then sits down to watch it herself.

About two hours later, I’m that special kind of loopy that only comes from being really, really tired. Light-headed, cranky, maybe a little spaced out. I especially remember feeling that the hallucinations package was an option my brain was considering for the rock-bottom price of consuming another hundred calories of sugar.

Meanwhile, I was also pretty bored. So, I went to check out what my mother was doing.
My mother was in our finished basement with all the lights turned out, sitting—I shit you not—six inches away from the television. It was the scene where the camera focused on the alien queen, her mouth opens, the little tongue comes out and another mouth opens, all complete with slime dripping off every available surface.

This was the most disgusting thing I’d seen in my short life. So much so that I was convinced I was going to puke. I went to run into the laundry room to hurl in the sink, when my mother—without even looking at me—grabs my wrist and jerks me back to her side.

“No, watch it with me,” she whispered in a voice reminiscent of the demon in The Exorcist, her eyes bright with glee from the mayhem on the screen.

In that instant, my beloved mother became about a thousand times more scary than the film itself, the last fifteen minutes of which I was forced to watch, à la Alex in A Clockwork Orange.

Fast-forward about ten years. I am now a teenage Goth, full of piss and vinegar, convinced that I am where Humanity went wrong.

A friend and I decided the best way to freak out the Squares was to wander into the local Sharper Image (also, this was when the Sharper Image carried cool stuff, like little Porsche go-karts, instead of just the Ionic Air Purifiers and “personal massagers”). In the entryway was a life-sized statue of Giger’s Xenomorph, and that’s when it all came flooding back.

The Queen’s little tongue-mouth. Bishop ripped in half, snot-colored android guts spilling out of his torso. My mother’s Regan MacNeil impression.

And that’s when I realized I had been so mentally scarred that my brain and repressed the memory of a goddamn B-grade horror movie.

Meanwhile, I had coped with the trauma by turning myself into a pathetic little wanna-be vampire who really didn’t like herself all that much. I thought it was hormones, and I would just grow out of it like everyone promised, but no, my mother had done this to me.

My obsession with death and black lipstick and leather collars with spikes was all my mother’s fault.
As soon as I went home, I marched up to my mother and laid the accusation. How could she do that to me, her little baby girl?

“Well, I was scared.”

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The names in the following memo have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent. Please understand, sick this is for humor purposes only, ampoule and is not a serious report.

MEMORANDUM FOR:  Major Big High Guy

FROM:   The drunk fool in Hawaii
SUBJECT:  After Actions Report
1. TYPE OF OPERATION:  Goat Rope Boondogle & some real work.
2. DATE OF OPERATION:  21 Sept 08 thru 27 Sept 08 (21 Sept and 27 Sept reserved as travel days).
3. LOCATION: Mary’s House of Pasties, remedy Waikiki Police station, Madame Ho’s Massage facility. Hawaii.
4. CONTROL HEADQUARTERS:  I Love This Bar & Grill
5. UNITS INVOLVED:  A couple of units that I can’t remember, Big Island Liquor.
6. SUPPORTING FORCES:  Dukes den of Tattoo’s.
7. CONCEPT OF OPERATION:  In conjunction with the Local Unit  and the Other Local Unit personnel, MSgt John Wayne and SrA James Jones performed troubleshooting and functional testing of some equipment they didn’t know how to use and Microsoft Solitare system long-haul connectivity between Hawaii, and somewhere in MO.  The idea was then to find ways to justify an additional 4 days on the island to get at tan
8. EXECUTION:  Daily entries made in lieu of a Master Station Log.
Travel day and arrival at Waikiki, HI – 21 September 2008.
Day 1 – (Monday, September 22, 2008).  Slept, woke up and surfed porn, slept some more. At noon went to beach and slept. Woke up, applied coconut oil, slept. Woke up, ate snack, drank dinner, surfed porn, slept.
Day 2 – (Tuesday, September 23, 2008).  Met with and discussed further firewall procedures and technologies with SSgt Smart Guy and SSgt. Other Smart Guy.  Meanwhile, TSgt Bob back at home did some actual work to configure the Missouri firewall. SSgt Hard Worker and SSgt New Guy powered up and configured the highly advance and confusing systems.  Network traffic was then monitored on the firewalls to determine actual utilization.  An additional port was discovered in the firewalls logs as specifically required for connectivity between Missouri and Hawaii.  That port was then added to the firewall Service Groups.   Once network activity was confirmed, we worked for another 5 minutes before leaving the building.  After that hour, went back to beach, slept, drank, got sand kicked on face by Japanese tourist girl, went to hotel and surfed porn.
Day 3 – (Wednesday, September 24, 2008).  Called Missouri to make sure everything was working and stayed an extra day, “Just in case”.  Hung up phone, surfed porn. MSgt. Wayne went scuba diving, SrA Jones went looking for Tattoo parlor he found while surfing porn.  Drank, slept.
Day 4 – (Thursday, September 25, 2008).  SSgt Other Smart Guy continued with the overview and demonstration of the highly technical and confusing systems applications and theory of operation.  While SSgt. Rocket Scientist worked, MSgt. Wayne went scuba diving againg and SrA Jones drank heavily wishing he had not visited the tattoo parlor. Ate dinner, drank, surfed porn, slept some more.
Day 5 – (Friday, September 26, 2008).  Return flight to Missouri Got drunk, slept.
Day 6 – (Saturday, September 27, 2008).   Arrive at HOR early morning, drank, surfed porn, slept.

9. RESULTS:

OVERALL TRAINING:  Good training opportunity for firewall configuration. Maybe next time can take advantage of it. Opportunities existed to learn stuff we will never ever use. Maybe next time can take advantage of it .  UTC qualification and proficiency on firewalls was signed off anyway to make it look good.

OPERATIONS:  The TDY really Rocked!

TRAINING EFFFECTIVENESS RATING:  Yeah, whatever.

10.  ADMINISTRATIVE MATTERS:

Hawaii AFB POC Information:
Networks – SSgt Smart Guy
Networks – SSgt Other Smart Guy
Confusing System – SrA LowManOn TotemPole
Highly Advanced Chat Room Director – SSgt Rocket Scientist

11. SPECIAL REQUIRMENTS, TECHNIQUES AND EQUIPMENT:

Scuba Equipment
Liquor
Sun Tan Lotion
Band-Aids

12. RECOMMENDATIONS/LESSONS LEARNED:

With the information gleaned from this trip, Network Technicians Wayne and Jones will be able to more rapidly and accurately take advantage of further TDYs to exotic and remote locations around the world.

JAMES S. JONES, SRA
PSEUDO MILITARY

Addendum 1 – Total cost of trip including reimbusement for special requirements $41,519.41 to be paid in full by American Tax Payers.

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