Bush Condoms

Our Mother Country went to the cupboard to get her people a bone. When we got there...The cupboard was bare...So Bush gave us a bone of his own.
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Hi Paul F, first visit to your blog, thanks for visiting mine. Ah, a James Mitchner (sp) fan hey? A great author, all of his books are interesting once you get past the history lessons. He is one of the few authors I’ve ever collected. Some of them should be required reading for kids in school. Like “The Drifters”.
Don’t worry about it, getting old is overrated. I spent my first thirty years trying to kill myself. Then I spent my second thirty years trying to kill myself. Obviously, I am not very good at killing myself. I have no intention of dying in a hospital, I prefer being a headline on the front page. It will be my last good deed, I’ll figure out some way to make it a good thing for others. I think my death might be the next most interesting I do. Have a great and interesting journey friend.
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Want to make some great waterproof glue? Melt some stryrofoam in an ounce or two of gasoline. It’s slow to cure but it sure holds well, I make all my gates with it when I make gates for others, God hates a sagging gate. Or, more expensive, but if you want a good waterproof sealer for wood, or anything else, melt it in laquer thinner to the thickness you want it to be. Hey, eight bucks for a gallon laquer thinner to make a very good sealer isn’t that expensive. Just make sure you paint over it though as it doesn’t have much UV protection in it. As for melting it, you should be able to find a café in your area that would be willing to give you some used cooking oil. Just heat it up and strain it through a good paint filter. Café cooking oils are formulated these days to have a high flash point. If you don’t work out much of the oil you can make candles with styrofoam, but I don’t think that is a good idea as burning styrofoam is nasty stuff.
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I don’t know if it is Firefox or what, but I notice that sometimes I have to do a page refresh to get the latest post on someone else’s blog. The fast and easy to do that, for me anyway, is to hit the F5 key.
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Lusty said on a blog… “Mr P; I think you are manipulating the word "religion" a little. Any dictionary definition will tell you that it does mean belief in a divine or superhuman power.” Well, Lusty, has it ever occurred to you that the dictionaries may be wrong? That this power may simply be human?
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So I went to look at Mister P’s blog. Kind of interesting, but he doesn’t seem so wise to me, just full of questions is all. Like he says, “What good are questions?” He sounds to me like Socrates reborn. He drove everyone nuts with endless questions also. Entertaining site though, I’ll visit it some as it seems they need my answers there. :-)… I’m not saying all the questions are wrong, I just like conclusions is all, having a belief. Duh! I don’t know, is not a good answer to me.
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I walked over to the IGS store one day and a logger type was there with his big macho pickup, he had parked it so that it was taking up two parking spots and left the engine running, polluting the planet while in the store. People like that just irritate the hell out of me. But you have to be careful what you say to big macho logger types, it turned out that I didn’t have to say anything. When he came out of the store a little gal went over to him and chewed his ass out. Told him that he didn’t have any fucking business taking up two parking spots, and leaving his engine running. Bless her little heart, some times I wish I was a woman so I could get away with things like that. Even back when I was pretty ignorant and macho in the wrong ways I still always tried to live within certain rules of respect and decency. I didn’t litter, take up two parking spots, yielded to others, opened doors for others, things like that. I didn’t think about pollution much but I was too cheap to burn up gasoline for no good reason. Now I will turn the engine off and coast half a block to the traffic light. I suppose my biggest fault was liking to drive 100 miles an hour on public highways. In those days of course, every trip in the west was measured in six packs. Boise? Oh sure, better grab a case. Salt Lake City? We’ll restock in Boise when we fuel up. LOL
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Some of you have read the Mark Twain on cussing thing, but I’m going to toss it in here anyway, with a few thoughts of my own. Is cussing socially acceptable? Sure it is, just not in all places is all, like where there is a lot of prudes or stuffed shirts. In most any bar or tavern you will hear people cussing. Or in any workplace where the folks know each other well. Or almost any place two or more people are together. Even at the community theatre where I went to watch “British Marriage” on Sunday. There where only three parts, all of them women, and at least two of them said ‘fuck’, one quite a number of times. There was also some mention of sluts and bitches. Pretty good play, I enjoyed it. I even get clerks cussing at times, it’s a good way for both of us to let off a little steam about life’s little pressures.
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Mark Twain and the Art of Swearing, by Lyle Larsen
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Mark Twain sagely observed that under certain trying circumstances swearing provides relief denied even to prayer. Most people, of course, unlike Mark Twain, never acquire proficiency in this field, but remain amateurs all their lives. They seek relief in trying circumstances by uttering a series of flat and commonplace vulgarities that fail to solace themselves or to inspire others. These people--that is to say, most of us--would do better to stick with prayer and leave swearing to the masters.
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Mark Twain, pen name of Samuel Clemens, learned to swear from the best practitioners of the art--mostly steamboatmen on the Mississippi River, and miners in the West. This was at a time when vivid swearing captured the youth, spirit, and vitality of young America, a time when gifted swearers commanded respect and admiration.
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When the mate of a Mississippi steamboat, for instance, gave the simplest order, wrote Clemens, "he discharged it like a blast of lightning and sent a long, reverberating peal of profanity thundering after it." The average landsman, if he wanted the gangplank moved a little forward, might say, "James, or William, one of you push that plank forward, please." The mate of a steamboat, on the other hand, would roar, "Here, now, start that gang-plank for'ard! Lively, now! What're you about! Snatch it! snatch it! There! there! Aft again! aft again! Don't you hear me? Dash it to dash! (fuck to fuck) are you going to sleep over it! 'Vast heaving. 'Vast heaving, I tell you! Going to heave it clear astern? WHERE're you going with that barrel! for'ard with it 'fore I make you swallow it, you dash-dash-dash-dashed (You fucking stupid son of a bitch) split between a tired mud-turtle and a crippled hearse-horse!" Clemens wished at the time that he could talk like that.
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Several years after Clemens himself became a riverboat pilot, the Civil War shut down traffic on the Mississippi, and Clemens decided to try his fortunes in the gold fields and silver mines of California and the Nevada Territory. There he discovered that miners were no less adept at swearing than steamboatmen. He found that "when it comes to pure ornamental cursing," the American miner "is gifted above the sons of men." He admired their talents: "There is nothing like listening to an artist--all his passions passing away in lava, smoke, thunder, lightning, and earthquake."
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Clemens eventually became an artist himself. By the time he gave up the rugged life of the West for more sedate living in the East, he had learned to swear with the best of them. He could blaspheme, he said, "in a way that made my breath smell of brimstone." Swearing by then had become so deeply ingrained in the fabric of his character, that even after he established himself as a famous writer, married a New England girl of good social standing, bought a fashionable house in Hartford, and started raising a family, he could not curb his blasphemous speech. "There ought to be a room in this house to swear in," he told a friend. "It's dangerous to have to repress an emotion like that." [Yes it is, those that repress swearing make bombs]
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A recent biographer mourned the fact that he had never heard Jenny Lind sing or Mark Twain swear [Or God, um, me]. The juxtaposition seems appropriate, for those who did hear Mark Twain swear have testified that it was the performance of a master and not at all vulgar or offensive. A woman named Elizabeth Wallace occasionally heard Clemens in his billiard room: "Gently, slowly, with no profane inflexions of voice, but irresistibly as though they had the headwaters of the Mississippi for their source, came this stream of unholy adjectives and choice expletives." She was not all shocked but rather impressed.
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The maid, Katy Leary, recalled that Mark Twain's profanity was too imaginative to really seem bad. "It was sort of funny," she remembered, "and a part of him somehow. Sort of amusing it was--and gay--not like real swearing."
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One day Jean, Clemens's young daughter, was offended to hear a man swearing in the street outside. Katy Leary reminded her that she often heard her father swear in the same way. "Oh, no, Katy!" said Jean. "You're mistaken. That wasn't swearing. That was only one of papa's jokes!" [Ya gotta understand that it’s a good way of letting off steam].
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Clemens's wife, Livy, was one of the few who did not appreciate her husband's swearing, and he tried to keep watch on his tongue when she was close by; but one day something irritated him, and, thinking his wife could not hear, he launched into a torrent of red-hot profanity. When he entered his wife's room a short time later, she coolly repeated word-for-word everything he had said. [I taught Helen that it was okay to swear, at least in private. And she has always loved risque jokes, might as well be what you are. Like it says on my wall, ‘Just Be Yourself’].
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"Livy," he replied, astounded yet amused, "did it sound like that?" "Of course it did," she said, "only worse. I wanted you to hear just how it sounded." "Livy, it would pain me to think that when I swear it sounds like that. You got the words right, Livy, but you don't know the tune."
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Mark Twain lived during Victorian times. That may explain why so many people commented on the brilliance of his profanity, but nobody recorded exactly what he said. The best indication we have of Mark Twain's talents in this area comes from a letter in which he refers to an editor as a "quadrilateral astronomical incandescent son of a bitch." Said Mark Twain towards the end of his life, "If I cannot swear in heaven I shall not stay there."
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[You got that right Mark, everyone in heaven swears, even God].