- My ‘War’ With Kent was better-natured than it may at first appear.
- No Gods were harmed during this war.
- Some mortal egos may have been bruised however.
- This post is a chocolate mess.
I once knew a Theist named Kent
Who told me his Joy Heaven Sent
But his mind slipped a gear
His faith fled in fear
So I gave up on Kent for Lent
What do you call a ‘Facebooker’ who accuses another ‘Facebooker’ of hacking his own post and then reports said ‘hacker’ to Facebook for hacking his own post and then posts on his timeline, in excruciating detail how he, using his stellar sleuth skillset, figured all this out?
Take your time…
OK, time’s up.
“A Self-Made Fool, Devoid of Logic, who plays the ‘Pity Me’ card because he wants to become a laughing stock for anyone who knows how Facebook actually works.” (And for some who don’t)
Or succinctly put, you call him “Kent”
But don’t take MY word for it; you can read some samples of his ‘piercing eloquence’ below:
To let everyone get a little good news or good thought or just bring a little happiness on Facebook. I try to be positive and enjoy getting in contact with others old and new friends.
Check my profile I want to share and be friendly with all post and maybe make a positive difference in as many peoples’ lives as I can. Try and let the good things in the world come to light. Every now and then I may post something negative but it is trying to make a positive difference.
This is as good of a world as you want it to be. I choose to try and stay away from the bad things in the world. There really is a lot of good going on out there. I want to enjoy and be as happy as I can. While sharing my happiness with all I can. Happy,happy,happy
“While sharing my happiness with all I can. Happy,happy,happy”
Classic case of ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’
Who are you trying to convince of your “happy, happy, happy,” happiness?
You or ‘they’? All of ‘they’?
I think you, as do probably 99.99 percent of posters, just seek validation of your self-worth.
All are just ‘chasing likes’.
And this is fine—human nature, as it were.
I have read a lot of your posts on your timeline and your profile.
And it seems to me your ‘happy happy happiness’ is primarily just a proselytizing form of sausage wrapped in a saccharine pancake smothered in syrup.
Once again, who are you trying to convince?
Does your ‘faith’ require incessant posts requiring the great unwashed mass of the rest of us to “like, type ‘amen’, and share” if we too believe?
I’m actually not sure that I completely discount your sincerity, but it does tax credulity.
But you go Bro!
Keep posting your syrupy praises of God, Jesus, and whomever else gives you that happy,happy,happy.
Why the hell not?
Still a free country, eh?
Peace be unto you Kent.
Or perhaps that should have read,
‘Peace is onto you Kent.’
My friend are you hell bent on trying to make people think you are an arrogant inconsiderate individual that places one under a microscope to disrespect their character coming to a narrow minded hypothesis attempting to destroy or manipulate their actions in such a manner that will somehow give you the feeling of superior intelligence that has no effect or the ability to change the individuals status or manner in which his goal to share and maybe bring a little faith and joy to their likes and beliefs.
I am only trying to stand strong by my spiritual beliefs. Sharing with those that I feel are doing the same. God bless you Lance. Thank you for two things. Bringing attention to others that my self worth and my ability to share my faith with others is of most importance to me.
I want nothing and I give God my Heavenly Father all the Praise and glory. For with out him I nor anyone or anything could be possible or exist. You should get what I have been blessed with.
Yes, you can be happy, happy,happy. Go for it it is a free Country. I truly believe you would have a different perspective on life in general and you can have topics that have a more sense of purpose. You are close what I think of my self is as important to me as what other think also.
I really appreciate your concern. At least you know the content of the majority of my post. This is my purpose to share with and post to my friends that enjoy and appreciate what I have to share. This is Facebook just as you shared your opinion you opened the door where I can share mine.
I hope you are not offended. This is not my intention and it will never be. God bless you Lance thank you for this humbling experience. Remember always give God all the praise and glory. Bless you once again.
Your response is in serious need of an edit. Allow me to distill it down to the salient points:
- Lance is a pompous ass
- Lance believes (i.e., Lance has ‘Faith’—joke there for ya Kent) that he is the smartest person in the room.
- Kent is trying desperately to hang onto his faith by shit-posting endless memes over-expressing same, even though he freely admits that his intended audience already ‘believe’—preaching to the choir, as it were.
- Lance needs to ‘find’ God in order to be happy and have a sense of purpose.
- Lance needs to give an imaginary friend all the credit for everything Lance ever does. (I assume this includes both good and bad??)
- Lance needs to be blessed, and often, and by someone who knows how.
- That about cover it?
- You’re welcome
Lest I forget
I wrote these for you
Added a photo too
Make someone’s day!
*Death Poetry Day*
A post was once written
No one was smitten
I’d call that fittin’
Shit it was named
Its one claim to fame
Now that’s a damn shame
He once wrote a post
Lesser than most
Shit it was called
Comments were stalled
The content was trite
Just didn’t seem right
To waste all my time
Nor even a lime
To drop in my rum
Ho Hum! Ho Hum! Ho Hum!
(The lack of the lime was the least egregious of the sins)
A Cunt of a Man called Osteen
Built a Church so very Pristine
But he refused to let in
Those flooded in sin
“Fuck ‘em! They’re way too Unclean.”
“I know y’all love me. You need to get on social media. But First give Harvey-The–Hurricane the ol’ heave-ho! God Blesses you, but I don’t. Move along. We’re closed.”
“My God, they killed them all!”
Here comes the story of the Hurricane.
“WoW! Who would’ve ever thought they’d find me doing God’s work?”
“Lil Kim’s got the hydrogen bomb”
His news bitch announced in singsong
“He’ll mount it one day
“And launch it your way
“Then smartly fuck off to Hong Kong”
There once was a boy name of Kim
Who decided to act on a whim
He launched a big bomb
In the direction of Guam
And that was the ending of him!
In a Loon we call Kim Jong-Un
The World sees a silly buffoon
But he put up his Dukes
Oh Fuck me; They’re Nukes!
And The World is now singing new tunes!
‘A Celestial North Korea’
Credit: Christopher Hitchens
A full week has passed
Since Jon GOT that ass
Even Dany GOT pleased
By Crow’s bended knees
And now we must fast for Season The Last
(And That’s The GOTcha)
Bonus Content Below:
The Most Lovely and Captivating and Charmingly Endearing Emilia
The Iron Throne – Game of Thrones’ AWFUL final episode
Vid Content Cred: Critical Drinker
I’ve had a few requests to pull this passage out of the longer post:
I suppose it can best be described as
“The Peabody Affair”
which occurred sometime in 1963. For those of you who may not have read the original, which I know is a bit longish; perhaps this will pique your interest.
Thanks for reading
Those were happy times for the most part, and we lived in a very small garage apartment owned by some friends of my grandparents. My mother had a beautiful voice and would sing a cappella constantly while cooking, doing dishes, or just mucking about the apartment.
My ‘musical talents’ have obviously come from my father’s side.
The elderly couple who owned the apartment and the very large house and yard surrounding it were called The Benbows. They were very nice people and apparently very, very good friends of my grandmother; hence our living there for what I now must assume was cheap rent.
I liked them well enough I suppose. They had a ranch somewhere close to Fremont and I do remember going there at least once for the ‘roundup.’ There were horses, cows, dogs, cats, varmints, barbecue, (Not barbecued varmints!) and a nice creek to go skinny dipping in.
All right there in the Bay Area. Amazing to me now, but that was many years ago…
What I didn’t like about the arrangement was the fact that Mrs. Benbow had a pet Tom Turkey, named ‘Mr. Peabody.’
This bird hated little boys. And he was passionate about it. Mom would give me a cookie and tell me, “Now, go play outside and let me finish cleaning the house.”
I feared the outside while holding cookies. Mr. Peabody would lie in wait for me, and as soon as he saw me with cookies or anything resembling cookies, he would launch his attack.
With a strongly developed sense of self-preservation even at that tender age, I would drop the cookies and flee (Read: Run Like Hell) back to mom, complaining about this evil bird.
She would laugh and tell me to get over it, or “Why don’t you just play somewhere else?”
Easily said Mom.
“Remember? I’m not allowed to cross the street???”
Grrrr…. This was not the proper response from someone who was supposed to love me above and beyond all things on Earth.
One day as I was warily munching a cookie, I saw Mr. Peabody circling, sizing me up for the attack that was certain to follow, but that day I did not flee. Something had come over me and instead of running for the apartment I ran for a large stick I had noticed on the ground just outside the door.
Someone, or Some Thing had put that stick there for a reason and I was quite certain I knew what the reason was. I grabbed the stick and confronted Mr. Peabody.
Now most of the turkeys I have known are not terribly bright and Mr. Peabody being no exception kept charging me with his wings flapping, his beak squawking, and his talons kicking up dust as if he expected this to be just another easy victory for him in the never ending Cookie Wars.
I smacked him full force right in the side, “dusting him off” so to speak and releasing a small cloud of turkey feathers from him and a large “Whoop!” from me. This shocked him for an instant, but then he rejoined the battle in earnest and came at me again complaining even louder than before.
With new found courage and drunk from the power that only MWTD, Massive Weapons of Turkey Destruction can provide, I stood my ground and let him have it again. This time he grew some intelligence and ran from me.
He actually ran from me!
I couldn’t believe it!
Of course I had to chase him now.
Memories of all the times of torment suffered, all the skinned knees, and all the hurt pride and of all the cookies lost flooded my mind.
I was going to have my satisfaction. I chased that poor bird all around the yard, giddy with my newly found manhood and laughing manically the whole time.
Mr. Peabody ended up running into the entrance to the stairwell leading to our apartment and promptly got stuck behind the water heater. As much as I hated that turkey I did not want him to die stuck behind that appliance in that awful way. I tried in vain to poke him out, but had to give up when called in to supper.
Panic had started growing in my mind at that point, as I knew I would be blamed for the untimely end of The Gracious and Good Mr. Peabody even though I am certain there had been no witnesses.
Well, the damn bird did end up dying there and horribly so I am sure, and at the time I was somewhat remorseful, but as I look back on that experience, no longer am.
May he rot in Hell!
And even though relentlessly interrogated and upon more than one occasion, I never confessed to the murder of the Beloved Mr. Peabody–Until this day.
And I am optimistically confident I can trust you not to drop a dime…
“Here, hold this!” said the Texan to his credulous girlfriend as he handed her his half-empty half-pint of Jim Beam, stomped the shit out of the accelerator on his pickup truck and flew headlong into oblivion…
“I don’t need no stinkin’ roads. I’m going to Afghanistan!”
I need to be ‘institutionalized’ somewhere far far away.
In a place where life is tenuous at worst and exciting at best and the pay is good and booze is scarce and the women are… well, usually not to be found, except on the Internet.
That is how Lance stays out of trouble…
It works well-enough in theory anyway.
The following is Part One of a transcribed letter I wrote to a Significant Other while cooling my heels in Helmand Province and Kandahar, Afghanistan trying to get my CAC renewed (Common Access Card: An ID card for Civilians working with the U.S. Military).
‘South Park’ is, for lack of a better term, A Holding Facility ‘soullessly owned and operated’ by DynCorp International for transients, itinerants, illiterates, sycophants, miscreants, and other sad and lonely temporarily homeless people just trying to travel through, hoping to land somewhere else, anywhere else, and the sooner the better…
South Park is understaffed, under-financed, under-achieving, under-esteeming, underwhelming, and sometimes underwater.
It is also overpopulated, misconceiving, deceiving and just plain infuriating.
Southpark will depress you, repress you, digress you, digest you, and shit you out if you allow it.
Writing saved me from insanity there.
“I’ve gotta go to South Park?”
“You’re shitting me, right?”
Saturday 28 July 2012, Camp Dwyer PAX Terminal, Afghanistan 1218hrs
I’m sitting in the PAX terminal. We boarded the plane, (Sixties-Era, prop job) a couple of hours ago, but they were just kidding.
After sitting on the tarmac for about forty five minutes they brought us back here. Seems someone forgot to feed the hamsters which are actually responsible for propelling the plane and hence, they died.
We were told not to worry; they are flying in some fresh, well-fed hamsters from KAF (Kandahar Air Field) and once they get those settled into the plane’s power plant, we will be good to go: wheels up around 1430hrs.
So here I sit, thinking of you, Dubai, and Hamster Avionics.
This PAX terminal isn’t too bad, as these places go. (I have seen worse—and better). Like every other facility on Dwyer, it is a tent, but it is a rather enormous tent and they have provided the weary travelers with bottled water and MRE’s. So I am sated, as far as it goes. You see, I really am low maintenance.
Not being inclined to ignore any opportunity to ‘talk’ to you, I am using the tools (pen and paper) I thoughtfully provided myself in the event such opportunity did manifest itself. So here I sit, happily communicating to you using Nineteenth Century Technology. I do hope you are properly impressed.
Page From Original Document
“And what lovely penmanship!” She exclaimed.
“Thank you,” he said.
Looking about the terminal, I have pronounced us a motley crew: About a dozen or so Indians & Sri Lankans, some Filipinos, a smattering of American Expats, couple of Brits, and a few bored Marines scattered about and some behind the counter, whose job it is to search the TCN’s.
The counter has a sign which reads:
“TCN Search Area.”
TCN: ‘Third Country National.’ in case you didn’t know.
“What did you do in The War, Daddy?”
“Son, I put my hands all over aromatic TCN’s.”
“What’s a TCN Daddy?’
“Uh…That’s a very sophisticated weapons system Son.”
1310hrs: PAX Terminal, Dwyer
Ok, for amusement, I took an inventory of the MRE’s stacked on pallets here in the terminal:
56 cases of MRE’s per pallet
12 MRE’s per case
Total MRE’s: 10,080 (assuming my arithmetic is correct, a rather liberal assumption)
Posted on each pallet are four signs which read:
DO NOT EAT!
MRE stands for “Meal, Ready to Eat,” in case you didn’t know, or in this case, “Meal, Not Ready to Eat.”
(“We done been eatin’ ‘em anyways. Hope we don’t die of ptomaine before the hamsters do, causing our Turbo Prop to morph into a glider…”)
1441hrs: Still in PAX terminal
Announcement: “Listen up! We couldn’t get the hamsters here, but we’ve drafted a couple of gerbils and they’re fit for duty.”
(‘Now there’s some happy news,’ I mused.)
He continued, “For all those going to KAF, this means now you’re flying non-stop…”
(Guess gerbils aren’t certified for multi-destination air duty.)
“…and your luggage is already back on the plane. As soon as we warm up the gerbils, you fly. Those of you who are going to FOB Shindan, you will follow me now.”
Someone pipes up, “Are we walking?”
There’s one in every crowd…
Having a few minutes to kill while the gerbils are doing their warm up exercises, I return to the MRE pile and rat-fuck a couple of the boxes.
Then I saw another sign which had previously gone unnoticed by me:
‘Rat-Fuck’ is a technical term which simply means, “To open several bags of MRE’s and take only the premium items, leaving the not premium items for the next schmuck attempting to do same.”
An example of this would be taking all the Reece’s Pieces and chocolate chip cookies, leaving only the cardboard crackers and synthetic peanut butter.
Wheels up and airborne and the gerbils gerbilling their little asses off. Time to destination: thirty minutes.
1613hrs: Flying High (I wish)
I am seated in a window seat. Normally I would take the aisle, but I wanted to describe the spectacular view and with all the beautiful details of this rarified vista below:
Perusing the in-flight movie list (from the one inside my head), I select Lawrence of Arabia (with subtitles in Pashtun). I estimate getting about half-way through the opening credits before we touch down. I listen to the wonderful Academy Award winning musical score.
The scenes of the burning desert are so real inside my head that I actually break a sweat. This Special Effect is helped along quite nicely by the fact that the air-conditioning on this aircraft in non-functional. I suppose one of the collateral duties of the deceased hamsters was operating the A/C unit.
1638hrs: Wheels Down
“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Beautiful Kandahar.”
(I do not doubt his sincerity, but I did detect a bit of sarcasm in his voice.)
“For safety, you are required”, he continued, “to wear your full body armor with your helmet when exiting the aircraft. There really is no danger, but we want you to sweat just that much more. Thank you for flying Gryphon Airlines today and once again, we apologize for the teeny tiny delay we had in leaving Camp Dwyer and we do hope you will… uh, be flying with us again soon.”
(As if we will have a choice)
Please look for Part Two tomorrow.
Author’s Note July 11, 2021: This was a stream of consciousness from 2014, and being such, I will not edit it (overmuch). Here it is, in all of its naked, unpolished bullshit rawness.
“Uh, Mister God… Could you slow the world down just for a moment? I wanna get off. Thanks.”
Now there is a good term from the Cold War, i.e., ‘Le Space Race.’
However, it still rings true today; rings true as something, almost… unattainable, yet so very much coveted.
Cal Gone! Take me away! (sic) Yeah: sick.
Point is, I have spent the better part of my life ‘playing’ computer games. Some might be tempted to label them ‘video’ games.
(“They are NOT video games Love: they are the ways I increase my mental, mental…”)
Old Story warning here:
That guy. That guy, who used to write about distance running, what was his name? Oh Yeah! Joe Henderson; I read all of his books… Oh yeah! He died of a heart-attack… Just details…
He wrote a bit.
His bit went something like this:
He was ‘runnin’ down a road. Some kid says, “Hey, Hi! Mister Jogger!”
He replied, “Hey Kid! I am not a jogger; I am a runner! A ‘Runner!’ Get it right!”
The kid replied, “Well then, why are you jogging?”
I had to laugh; been there, et etcetera…
This is the part where I get pissed. (And when I get pissed… well, you won’t like me)
The worst thing one (amongst the uninitiated) can say, proclaim:
“Are you still playin’ that damn stupid video game?!!”
“Yes Madame. I am.”
“Oh. Well, be a good boy and don’t go downtown, protesting’ and such…”
“Yessum. I won’t”
“Good boy there then…”
“Yes, Ma’am.” (“Now Fuck Off” This is what I did truly think)
But, SHE did have a point, but MY ‘point’ swerved into something else, which I really do not wanna talk about.
But I will.
My point it thus: Kids that played computer games in the Eighties are now in charge of our world.
And to loosely quote Forrest Gump:
“That is all I am gonna say about that.”
And P.S., Yes! I have, recently, been spending some quality time with some of my computer games. They know me there, and I don’t have to get too creative (actually, I do, but most…) Well, I don’t have to watch my language at least.
My blogging experience is failing me of late. Not to say that I do not appreciate The Community. Just to say… that I am between gigs and this is beginning to weigh upon me.
Certainly, I will be about, but please do not chastise me for not visiting your respective blogs on a respective basis. (My intent is to intentionally do so, albeit, tomorrow), yet… I am real tired.
And my health is no good.
I will catch up…
“For Love or Money”
And yeah! In case you missed my ‘subliminal’ bullshit: (The Joni song) I still miss
Tuesday Ed. Note: This Post Makes Absolutely NO SENSE
Janis Joplin / Big Brother and the Holding Company –
“Combination of the Two”
Yet another bit gleaned from my longer post of 29 Jan 2014.
“‘The Time Has Come,’ The Walrus Said, ‘To Talk of Many Things:
Of Murdered Birds, Of Turtles Green, and Hippies Sellin’ Rings.’”
My mother was probably
“The Original Hippy Chick.”
When Haight-Ashbury was in full bloom, she would not shut up about it until we ventured there.
(Just the two of us. By Ourselves. Mother and Child–You could do that in ’67–No Worries. Don’t try it today. Please Don’t try it today.)
I knew a little of the ‘Hippy Culture’ back then, yet had no desire to experience it ‘up close an’ personal.’
So one bright sunny Saturday morning we packed up the Ol’ Rusty Rambler and headed off to ‘Frisco and Haight-Ashbury.
Okay. Not Really Our ACTUAL Car
But close. Damn close.
To say that trip opened my eyes would be an understatement bordering on felonious. I was shocked, awed, amazed, bothered, bewildered, enlightened, enchanted, enthralled, and all at the same time.
The whole day was a ‘Whirling Dervish’ of attacks on my senses and emotions. I remember clearly all the people with their long hair, colorful clothing, love beads, head bands, peace signs, guitars, laughter, and smoke coming from everywhere and not smelling at all like the smoke from the cigarettes my mother used to light up.
But most of all, I remember
Music was ubiquitous and oh how I did love the music.
We walked up and down those streets for hours and I do believe my mother stopped and purchased some trinket from every single hippy-trinket-seller she visited, which by my estimation, would have been all of two hundred of them.
Not really being a trinkets-man myself, I purchased a pair of small green turtles that I wanted to rescue from a hippy life I was certain they were not well suited for.
I actually remember telling the turtles during the ride home not to worry; that they were safe now, and also apologizing to them if I had left any of their family members behind due to the fact that my meager allowance did not afford me the luxury of benevolence to purchase freedom for the whole lot of them–Even though I did beg mom for an advance to do just that.
The turtles ended up having a fine long Turtle – Life and were probably the only two green turtles to ever migrate from
Texas suited them and me, better. Much better.
Author’s Note: I am a NATIVE Texan. Born in Ladonia, 1957
(Wasn’t MY fault I was forced to live in California for too many years.)
As Always, Thank you for visiting and reading. All comments are welcomed.
Wishing Happy Days Ahead to all My Friends.
“But you know I’m very well protected –
I know this goddamn life too well.”
“Yeah, but I’m gonna take good care of
(Insert your name here)
Honey, ain’t no one gonna dog me down.