Now I’m seriously pissed. I spent about a half an hour updating this stupid blog which no one reads but me anyway, and then Blogger lost the frigging thing! And there is no way on God’s green earth that I can remember everything I put down. Nor do I want to start typing it over. Remember, I have to work for a living. It’s a good thing this is a hobby and not my job, or I would have been out looking for employment elsewhere a LONG time ago.
Well, got that off my chest. (Ouch! Oooh! Yow! Pulling chest hairs! Yikes!) Yep, that’s me, Steve of the Apemen. My father used to tell me that when they brought me out of the delivery room (remember, children, back in the Dark Ages they didn’t LET the fathers in the same room where the mothers delivered), he couldn’t decide to hold me in his arms or give me a peanut. Real ego-boosting material, eh? At least it keeps the boys busy at times; when they get bored, I let them braid the hair on my back. That keeps them occupied for at least an hour or so.
ET: That’s disgusting!
ET: Hair on your back?
Yeah, so what? You want me to shave it? Hell, I can’t even SEE it.
ET: Yeah, but everyone else can.
Well, bubba, that’s their problem, not mine.
ET: Doesn’t it bother you?
Only the fact that it makes it hard for people to believe that I’m part Amerindian. Other than that, no.
ET: Well, it should!
It doesn’t. Look, go talk to Zod
or something, I’m busy.
Work has been keeping me busy lately. Hey, I shouldn't complain, at least I have a job. May not be the best one in the world, but it (kinda) pays the bills.
I didn't realize how close the war had come to home until this last weekend. Me and The Boys were out doing some yard work on Sunday afternoon when a small plane flew overhead. Now, usually when this happens, we all stop and look up just to check it out. Yes, we're that much redneck. This time, however, J let out a scream that could only be described as terrifying, "Dad! Are they going to bomb us?" Took me forever to calm him down.
Out of the mouths of babes . . .
The Good, the Bad and the Slow and Ugly
The war in Iraqistan seems to be going out way. Of course, why shouldn't it? We're bombing the bejezus out of anyone who dares stand in our way. Better be careful how I phrase myself here, somebody might think I'm antiwar or something. Far from it; personally, I think we should have taken Saddam out years ago. But we didn't, and now we have to pay the price in lives to remove him and his sociopathic sons from power. I hate the fact that American (and Iraqi) soldiers have to lose their lives so that a dictator can try to stay in power, but there it is.
An American POW was rescued yesterday, a female soldier. Now, I'm not gonna launch into a tirade about how women shouldn't be on the front lines, carrying weapons, etc. First, I'd get disemboweled by The Better Half (who, IMHO, could easily qualify for Special Forces without even trying). Second, it's none of my freakin' business. If a woman wants to stand on the front lines, and is as capable as the men around her
, why not? But don't put women on the front lines merely because societal pressure makes you do it. If they are every bit as good as the men at fighting and killing, then go for it.
is to a story in the News & Disturber about what is probably my favorite flying machine in the entire world, the A10 "Warthog". You gotta love a plane that can take a lickin' and keep on tickin'. Plus having enough firepower to shred a tank or two can't be all bad. So the thing looks like a flying toad; so what? You want glamor, join the Blue Angels. The Warthog is a fighting machine, pure and simple. I'd rather have one of those bad boys supporting me on the ground than an entire squadron of F-18s.
Keep our troops in your prayers. The oldest son of one of my friends is in the 82nd Airborne and they haven't heard from him since he was deployed to Kuwait a couple of months ago. My own son, Beelzebub, is shipping out to Parris Island (OOOOH-RAHHHH!) in a week or so. Selfish of me, but I hope this mess is over before he completes boot camp, otherwise I'll be getting mail from the ass end of nowhere, aka Iraqistan.
Time to get back to what they pay me to do. (Ugh. Get club, pound stupid people. Wait . . . me be here all night doing that. Get club, pound really
stupid people. Ugh, same thing. No can win.)