And I'm entitled to a childish thought or two. So here they are:  

1. Since I am the god of this blog, I can say this: The blog-god alloweth comments. Also, does the blog-god cause poopy comments to be cast into the everlasting fire.
2. Now hear this: I am blog god. If I miss the issue, it is on purpose. If I attack you, then you deserved it.   

I feel better now. More blogging later.

Apparently someone searching for "nasty teachers spanking nasty girls" landed on my site. I know it wasn't a priest, because they were looking for girls, not boys.

Bad catholic joke? Maybe. I certainly know better. But really, how can one resist?

Some of you may remember this. It was my first truly poisonous "slap around". (If you're interested in my other slap arounds, just click the "slap around" button under category, and *boom* like magic they all come up.)

Well, Ms. Asha read it and threw a temper tantrum of magnificent and charming proportions.

Of course, since this site is pretty sterile as far as personal information, she was unable to hold my sweet innocent sisters liable.

Bwahahahahahaha. Yes, Smithers. Unleash the hounds. For the evilness that shrouds itself in anonymity is victorious once again.

I met a guy last night at a poker game who deserves a little slapping around.

I can't use his real name here. I like to keep this space fairly anonymous, and he's so self-important that he probably googles himself three or four times a day. Not that anyone's writing about him, but he just loves the way the keyboard feels under the tender tips of his skinny fingers as he types out his name.

So on this blog, we're going to call him The Little Girl.

The Little Girl is a great substitute name for him for a couple reasons.

• He was the smallest person there, both in mind and in stature.
• He's probably fag, which would be fine if he weren't trying so hard to prove that he's not.

Picking Fights

The Little Girl likes picking fights. Not playful, I'm-trying-to-engage-you-in-conversation fights, real fights. He started jerking some guy's chain about wearing a Favre jersey. 

Now, The Little Girl's a Philadelphia Eagles fan. (No comment on the fact that the Philadelphia Eagles have more experience choking when it counts than shallow-throated midget whore.) Maybe too much of one, because it looks like this guy is trying to morph his already gynormous schnoz into a full-on beak.

But he starts ragging on Bret Favre. And 'round the poker table he'd go. First one person then the next.  My expert opinion is that this dickless wonder was trying to compensate for his lack of stature by becoming a menacing conversational presence. Silly boy. Doesn't he know that his nose was a menacing presence?

Dog Hater

He doesn't like our dog. He set his beer bottle on the ground, because when you don't have a dick, it's hard to "get up" to find a coaster. I handed him a legal pad to set his beer on and said, "this way you don't have to worry about the dog licking around the lip of your beer bottle. A wave of horror washed over his face. "She didn't did she?"

Now keep in mind, I can't imagine anyone not loving my dog. "She sure did." I lied. "She'll have gas for a few days, but it will pass." This, I thought, was funny. "An apology surely will follow." I thought

Not missing a beat, he started to leave to go get a new bottle of beer. His concern wasn't that my 20lb dog might have beer poisoning, his concern was that maybe his man-whore lips had been on a tainted bottle.

The Little Girl was obnoxious, loud, rude, and smelly. The only reason I'd allow him to come here again would be so that I can acquire new material to post here.  

(Note from the author: I have noticed, in my cyber-wanderings that many bloggers write with a profound and moving affection for their feline companions. While I respect their writing abilities, their love for the wretched little kitty-ogres is an emotion I will never be able to share. RK, I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive my little rant.)

Because I spend most of my time living out of a suitcase, it does not make sense for me to have to report to an office at 8:00 am, thank God.

I do however, spend a few days each month working out-of-state with the big boss on "planning-management-marketing-moving-the-ball-forward" stuff.

Because the big boss has a similar travel schedule, he works from his house as well. Which means when I visit, I stay there.

Sound weird? It's not. I have an entire suite / wing of the house to myself. There is no wife for me to answer to, so I have full asthetic / comfort / design privileges for "my wing".

Granted, my budget is limited, but I've decked out my space with the comforts to which I know I am entitled. Little luxuries provide "my wing" with all the comforts of home... like...

• 300 thread count sheets
• down comforter with a 300 thread count duvet
• TONS of pillows
• Complete set of cosmetics / toilletries
• Desk
• Satellite / DVD / Video / TV / Stereo
• Ambience lighting
• Bamboo
• Artwork
• And coming soon, painted walls

The biggest problem with being there (other than the fact that my darlin' lives 600 miles away) is that my boss has a cat.

Not just a cat, a real pussy of a cat. He's a whining, sniveling, shedding, clawless, pumpkin-colored rotting piece of coyote bait.

As you may have discerned from previous posts, felines are not my favorites four-legged creatures. And this little weasel is no exception.

And his bloody dandruff makes my exema act up.

So now, as I'm off to spend my time in purgatory. If I don't slaughter the misearable beast (and by beast, I mean the cat, not my boss) in a ritualistic fashion, I deserve the praise of cat-lovers everywhere for my self-restraint.

There are some people who like watching others get pooed on. This nasty little post is for you.

In my business, I meet alot of loud people. Annoying people. Self-important people. But never ever in all my years and travels, have I met someone as perversely self-involved and obnoxious as Asha.

Asha recently cut herself some throw-back 1980's mega-bangs. I'm talking about bangs that make 80's rockstars' hair look normal. She'll gab to anyone who'll listen about how she cut them herself. Yeck.

Within the first full sentence of talking to her, she was interrupting me, and rattling off her bright-eyed 16 yr. old resume'. Apparently she does stuff sometimes. I absolutely believe that she'd cut her own grandmother's throat to get ahead, especially if it meant adding a line about "Vice President of County Murder Club" to her trumped up resume. 

Now, it's irritating to hear people talk about themselves when they haven't been invited. But it's disgusting to watch Asha pleasuring herself simply by the sound of her words:

"then I (oh god, that sounds good)..."

"I led (oh baby, just like that, just like that)..."

"Everybody loves me (Oh - YES! YES! YES!)..." 

Irritating. Disgusting. But I wasn't actually enraged until...

..In my house, she started picking up cups - that people were using - and handing them to my sister, asking my sister to put them away. THE HELL?

My sister and I were in a room with the door closed and she opened the door while saying "Open this door!" An order? THE HELL?

Look Asha, that may work for your non-existant sisters. But you don't talk to my sisters unless I tell you you can.

Don't look at them funny, don't use "that" tone of voice, and sure as hell don't give them orders, you overgrown self-important pile of rat vomit.

The next time you touch anything in this house that doesn't belong to you, I'll do something really nasty like soil inside your shoes while you're in the other room.

Don't underestimate the power of my will when I decide to bring you down a notch. 

Why is everyone up in arms about the fact that there are no "blacks" on the jury?

After all, have you seen Michael Jackson lately? It seems clear that there aren't any blacks on trial, either?