Bill Clinton wanted to screw interns.


Dubya Bush intends to screw Saddam.


Advice to Saddam: BITE DOWN HARD!!!

An oldie but ... very currently ... a goodie.

"Naturally the common people don't want war: Neither in Russia, nor in England, nor for that matter in Germany. That is understood. But, after all, it is the leaders of the country who determine the policy and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy, or a fascist dictatorship, or a parliament, or a communist dictatorship. Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the peacemakers for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same in any country."
~ Herman Goering, president of the Reichstag and founder of the Gestapo, in speaking to the Nuremberg War Crimes Tribunal

The another meaning of the holy shit.

And how she loves her gun? And what about her holy grenade?

Many of those killed by the two bombs that tore through a nightclub district on Bali island Saturday were Australians as well as other foreigners from Canada, Britain, Germany and Sweden. Three Americans were among the more than 300 people injured. No one claimed responsibility for the bombings.

The Guardian

Taking into account the recent posting by Mr Sedgwick that begins: Australian officials on high alert after terror warning...and given that the majority of the people killed in Bali were Australian, that only three Americans were injured, that the American Government would have had no way of knowing about this or any other possible attack, that nobody has claimed responsibility and that George Bush has been having one hell of a hard time drumming up support for his War Against Terrorism...well...if I was a conspiracy theorist I'd say that...but no...no, that's ridiculous...nobody would ever stoop to something so low as that, would they? Well...they wouldn't.

The first victim of war is always the truth. The second is always the innocent.

From Deputy Editor Sedgwick's desk:- "Authorities are on high alert after the United States warned Australia of a possible threat by terrorists to blow up power stations and electrical transmission lines."

Dammit those Indonesian night clubs looked so much like power stations and electrical transmission lines, Agent Gordon Liddy should be forgiven for his little top secret faux pas. Anyhow that's mere detail. The upshot of it all is not all bad or tragic, the Australian Prime Minister is now frothing at the mouth and yelling "Toldya, toldya!" (Of course in a controlled, considered statesmanlike way.) It will be in the same controlled, considered statesmanlike way that he will tell the Australian people that he will be, with a heavy heart and an even heavier hard on, committing thousands of Australian young men (and women, for our Johnny is an equal opportunity body bag kinda guy) to the fight against terrorism.

Well played George W.     Game, set and memorial plaques for all.

Will somebody please explain to the Great British public that Ulrika Johnson is a talentless, worthless old slapper with no redeeming qualities whatsoever?

For once I'm not going to blame the media for the fact that she's on every magazine cover, newspaper front page, early evening television programme etc. After all, they're only feeding the zombified populace with the sort of shallow celebrity gruel that such factory-fodder demands.

But, to be blunt, I'm sick of seeing her ugly Norwegian face wherever I look. I don't give a stuff about her opinion on men, on fashion, on football or on politics. The woman is a nothing. A big fat zero. A nonentity of the first degree. She's never done squat. She can't sing, she can't write, she can't tell jokes, she can't draw, she can't act and she can't formulate an opinion to rival the steam off my shit.

She's just one of those irritating, weasly twats that are famous simply for being famous. I don't care if she slept with Sven Whatever-his-name-is. He's another boring, untalented Norwegian. And while we're about it, will somebody please explain to the British population that football is crap as well? It's mindless, uninteresting drivel. Two hours (or however long it takes) of a couple of dozen thick bastards trying to launch a pig's bladder off their toecaps between two sticks. Every week. For ever.

My suspicion about Ulrika is that the average braindead Brit is trying to replace that other icon of blandness, Princess Diana, to fill out his/her worthless, dull little life. Although, to be honest, I found an old plank on the beach yesterday that had far more character than either of them, was more photogenic and would cost far less to photograph.

Admittedly it hasn't slept with Sven yet...but that's only a matter of time surely.

Now this is a doozie of a posting from a blog I stumbled across.
Not sure whether it is chilling or just pathetic.

How I Love My Gun

(A note inspired by Rachel Lucas.)

What does it take to sit around and abstract a form of metal -- arguably the most pervasive plastic in all techne? To ply the material to a form requires a purpose, if the form is to be useful beyond the mere glance, and this is the most important manifestation of the thing that sets mankind apart. Oh, I think it's cute that seals crack abalone shells with rocks, or that chimpanzees jam sticky weeds into termite holes. It's even more cute when some weeper calls it "technology" and jumps up & down with the raptures over "98% of DNA" with which I'm supposed to throb in sibling resonance, but I get over it just about as quick as it takes me to pick up the TV remote and flip to "American Movie Classics".

Editor's note. I have spared our reader a lot of orgasmic waffle by undertaking a substantial spot of slash and burn editing.

... that's where a nice pistol is just the thing.

I'd be interested to know if anyone could point out a machine with such power so precisely refined into such a tight little package. It's a two-way street, to me: a marvel in the way that the thing can deliver such a multiplied projection of human mind from such a resolved application of mind: the razor-sharp set of concepts from which it emerges into material form.

I prefer a semi-auto, and the comparison is striking to me: it's been little more than a century since the idea of an auto-loading pistol came into the world, and we're just coming up on a century of powered flight. Two machines meant to extend a person's physical limits beyond those known by untold billions of human beings for thousands of years.

What a swell time to be alive.

Forever, people who required physical force for sustenance or defense were limited to what they could throw with their arms (a word come down to us with undeniable provenance). Some unknown genius started the ball slowly rolling with a bit of yew strung with sinew in order to extend the primitive power, and everybody knows that projectiles explosively propelled go back centuries, but I can't help it: when I think about standing around pouring powder out of a horn and plunging lead balls for a rate of something like two rounds a minute, it just makes me sad for people who didn't live to feel the satisfying catch of a loaded magazine into place, ready for that first rack of the slide.

I keep a pistol on my desk. I keep a magazine loaded with dry-fire pads, and, at odd moments of the day, I'll reach over and pick it up, drop the mag, clear the chamber, put that round back on top of the magazine, and put it back in place, all just to feel the action of that slide: just in order to work the machine. It's the sound and feel of it. The measured tension of the return-spring, the simple orderly coordination of the magazine spring introducing the new round to the chamber... now & then, I'll just strip off the chambered round with a hard rack of the slide, in order to marvel at the precise grip of the extractor at the edge of the brass rim.

"Look how that thing works. What a cool little chunk of engineering."

I do this the way some people reach over and tap the little swinging balls that knock into each other when they're bemused or bored. Me? I play with a little machine. It just happens to be a pistol.

Editor's note ... also happens to sound like a penis substitute to me.

Now, some people are convinced that I'm a kook. Well, you know what? They can believe that if they want to. That's their business, in the way that this is my business. I don't really care what they think.

...except that they should bloody well leave me alone with it, that is.

It's true: that's a lot of the whole point of this particular machine power.

Otherwise, however, what could possibly be more elegant in design than this?



(My Beretta 92FS)


If you can be arsed there is another *fine* entry on this blog. "Ya gotta love a woman who knows what to do with her hands and stays clear of the trigger until she's ready to discharge the weapon." This entry has brought me down on the side of "pathetic" rather than "chilling".

Jesus wept!