Photography: Brick Icicles??? Brickles??

Danny Choo posted these pics on Boing Boing and had this to say:

"This abandoned Russian fortress is probably one of the creepiest places I have seen.

The reason for it to have such a strange look is because it was used later by Russian army to test the influence of Russian alternative to napalm inside of the brick houses.

Due to very high temperature of napalm the bricks started melting just like ice melts in the spring forming the icicles, but those icicles are of red brick."

Quentin Tarantino: Inglorious Basterds

Oh I know where I'm gonna be in august. I do love a good bloodbath!

It'll Be A Cold Day In Hell...

...before this broad gets a dime of my money!



Does that make me an insensitive bitch? Probably. But the fact remains that this chick, Nadya Suleman, was already the mother or 6 children (3 of which are disabled) before she decided to channel her own inner bitch and have litter of 8 more children. That's fourteen children, ya'll. Fourteen children for a single mother who has no job, is living with her parents, is currently $50K in debt and receiving foodstamps. Happy accidents are one thing, but this chick already had enough children to start her own music group. So why in God's name would she risk her health and that of her children by not only deciding to go through invitro again, but choosing to carry all eight to term? Her mother thinks that she isn't wrapped too tight and it's not hard to see why. This broad wanted a whole bunch of babies with no way to pay for their care and upbringing and now she's looking for a handout. No Fucking Way!

Do I feel sorry for these kids? Of course, I do--they're looking at being raised in poverty by a total crackpot. So why won't I donate? Because I (and no one else for that matter) has no reason to beleive that any money given to this broad will go toward taking care of those children. How do I know that she won't save it up to see if she can carry ten next time? And believe me, there will be a next time. Just like people who don't know when to stop with the plastic surgery, this one doesn't know when to stop with the baby-making. I'll be damned if I contribute to enabling her in what is obviously a psychological condition.

Where is Homey Da Clown and his sock when you him??

Flashback: A Prayer for the Whipped

So I actually started this blog on Myspace a few years ago and it kind of fell off. Now that I'm focused on Tha Borderlands, I thought that I'd post some of my old blogs (in no particular order) each week, just to give folks an opportunity to see where I've been coming from. I must say that after reading some of them, I think I've mellowed out a bit. Enjoy.

June 23, 2006

A Prayer...For the Whipped

I said I would have this blog ready by the end of the week and I intend to keep my promise. But, I have to admit that I struggled to find the words to express my sadness, dismay, and disgust over the subject of this particular entry...Whipped Men.

I guess I had trouble figuring out how I wanted to approach this particular subject.

On one hand, I'm sympathetic towards the plight of the Whipped Man. Deep down I know that a whipped man is a good man, a kind man, a gentleman who has fallen prey to a far more aggressive woman in possession of what may or may not be the poonani from heaven. I know that the reason these men are such easy prey is because of their overwhelming need for outside validation. It is this need that sends them running into the arms of their oppressors to be ruled by an iron fist wrapped in a velvet glove. I know that whipped men can and have been productive members of society but when given the choice between the needs of the many and the needs of She Who Must Be Obeyed, the many can kiss their asses goodbye.

I also realize that the relationship between the whipper and the whipped is very symbiotic. The whipper is worshipped and the whipped finds solace in the attention (be it positive or negative) they receive. Both parties are obviously attempting to fill some hole caused by a certain lack of self esteem and if they aren't harming anyone else in the process, what difference does it make, right?

But then on the other hand, I wonder...

What the fuck is the matter with these dudes?! No amount of coochie in the world is worth losing your self-respect--if you had any to begin with! What's worse is that now, pussy isn't the determining factor for being whipped. A guy can be totally whipped without having even smelled it let alone hit it. And these bastards are multiplying like rabbits! They're coming out of the womb with big signs on their foreheads that read "Please, whip my ass!"

Many a time have I sat and watched one of these dickless wonders give up family, friends and asprirations for the sake of the megabeast. It has sickened me to my core. Have I tried to do something about it? Yes! But unfortunately, the first symptom of being whipped is Can't Understand Normal Thinking syndrome or C.U.N.Ts. The ability to hear goes flying out the window right along with reason and rationale.

And inspite of all of this, one has to ask...where the fuck are the homeboys?!! Where are the men who will take these pathetic souls under their wings and dump them in a Fight Club where they'll be beaten until they can see straight? Whatever happened to Bros before Hoes?

It is a sad and sordid mess, my friends. And I know that there isn't an easy answer. All one can do is sit, reflect, and pray for their salvation.

And that is what I will do. I will pray that one day these gentle creatures will open their eyes and retrieve their balls from the mason jar under their oppressor's bed.

Love, Peace & Soul

I Love Jesus...But I Drink A Little.

Fucking Hilarious.

Iraqi Shoe Monument

A huge sculpture of one of the shoes that went flying at ole Dubya's head last month has been unveiled in front of the Tikrit Orphanage in Iraq. Apparently the sculptor, Laith al-Amiri, sculpted the shoe with the help of the children living in the orphanage. While reason dictates that it is completely inappropriate and disrepectful to throw anything at any visiting international official, my inner revolutionary was tickled pink when I saw those bad boys launched across the room. Too bad Dubya's still pretty spry in his old age.

Let's Run Through the House W/Scissors, Ya'll!

A friend of mine sent me this and it's true. The way I was raised ('70s baby, '80s child) is much different from the way that kids today are getting brought up.

TO ALL THE KIDS WHO SURVIVED the 1930's, 40's, 50's, 60's and 70's!!

First, we survived being born to mothers who smoked and/or drank while they were pregnant.

They took aspirin, ate blue cheese dressing, tuna from a can, and didn't get tested for diabetes.

Then after that trauma, we were put to sleep on our tummies in baby cribs covered with bright colored lead-based paints.

We had no child proof lids on medicine bottles, doors or cabinets and when we rode our bikes, we had no helmets, not to mention, the risks we took hitchhiking.

As infants & children, we would ride in cars with no car seats, booster seats, seat belts or air bags..

Riding in the back of a pick up on a warm day was always a special treat.

We drank water from the garden hose and NOT from a bottle.

We shared one soft drink with four friends, from one bottle and NO ONE actually died from this.

We ate cupcakes, white bread and real butter and drank Kool-aid made with sugar, but we weren't overweight because,

WE WERE ALWAYS OUTSIDE PLAYING!

We would leave home in the morning and play all day, as long as we were back when the streetlights came on.

No one was able to reach us all day. And we were OK.

We would spend hours building our go-carts out of scraps and then ride down the hill, only to find out we forgot the brakes. After running into the bushes a few times, we learned to solve the problem.

We did not have Playstations, Nintendo's, X-boxes, no video games at all,no 150 channels on cable, no video movies or DVD's, no surround-sound or CD's, no cell phones, no personal computers, no Internet or chatrooms...

WE HAD FRIENDS and we went outside and found them!

We fell out of trees, got cut, broke bones and teeth and there were no lawsuits from these accidents.

We ate worms and mud pies made from dirt, and the worms did not live in us forever.

We were given BB guns for our 10th birthdays, made up games with sticks and tennis balls and although we were told it would happen, we did not poke out very many eyes.

We rode bikes or walked to a friend's house and knocked on the door or rang the bell, or just walked in and talked to them!

Little League had tryouts and not everyone made the team. Those who didn't had to learn to deal with disappointment. Imagine that!!

The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke the law was unheard of. They actually sided with the law!

These generations have produced some of the best risk-takers, problem solvers and inventors ever!

The past 50 years have been an explosion of innovation and new ideas.

We had freedom, failure, success and responsibility, and we learned HOW TO DEAL WITH IT ALL!

If YOU are one of them CONGRATULATIONS!

You might want to share this with others who have had the luck to grow up as kids, before the lawyers and the government regulated so much of our lives for our own good .

While you are at it, forward it to your kids so they will know how brave (and lucky) their parents were.

Kind of makes you want to run through the house with scissors, doesn't it?!