Assholes ‘R’ Us!



Some asshole just emailed me:

(Yes My email Addy is ‘Public’)

I have No Fear!

Feel Free!

‘lancemarcom781@gmail.com’

**************

I quote her:

“We” (Really?  ‘We?—whois ‘We’?)

She continued,

“We are sick to death of reading about your dead sister! STFU!”

Of course I could NOT let this go.

I had to respond.

And I did,

“Dear ‘We’,” I began.

“I have myriad words for you:

Please allow me to break them down into simple numerical form, so that your feeble mind may process & and maybe even digest:

  1. Fuck you
  2. Fuck you
  3. There is a ‘Feature’ that most Computer Mice have: It is called: ‘Scroll Down.’
  4. There is yet another, more recent Social Media Feature: it is moniker’d, “Ignore.” Try it. And if it don’t work for you, Call Mark Fuckle-Berg.
  5. Do NOT Call me! I will hurt your Soy-Based–Feelings.
  6. You do realize you are attempting to ‘Flame a Writer?’
  7. A writer possessed of a rapier wit.
  8. And a veteran of more ‘Flame Wars’ than you can even imagine in your wildest dreams?
  9. Here is a Clue
  10. And A Nickel
  11. 1st The Clue: ‘You are Clueless.’
  12. Now The Nickel: Go Sit & Spin on top of a Dildo.
  13.  Until it turns you into a ‘Happy- Slut.’
  14.  Have a Day—A Nice One.
  15. Love, Lance”

Cheers!

**************

Just some Small-Mindless

Added Value:

Cornelia an’ Lance–Drunk–Basra, Iraq, Circa …

I forget.

Circa sometime.

(Probably in the past: not tomorrow…)

Credit: moronbrothersKY

(I love SOUTHERN!–Ever have I mentioned this?)

********

Yeah! I am Drunk!

Sue me!

The line forms to The Right!

Take a Number!

Good Luck!

Bonne chance!

Had to Drop some Francaise.

Forgot the “Joni”

Maybe Next Time….

No!

Need Some Joni up in here!

“Save Paradise!”

(Or Just Pave it Over and Call it a Day.)

I’ve looked at ‘Lance’

From

From Both Sides Now.

Neither One Was Pleasing.

(Scroll Down to The End… For The Ian.)

*************

I know I have posted these words/sentiments of mine before.

But,

But Justin Case some of Y’all didn’t read.

Or Could Never Be Bothered Enough to Notice,

I say them Once Again:

“I enjoy ‘Entertainers.’

I enjoy being ‘Entertained’

By People who know how.

To Entertain.

Do I give a Fuck about their Politics?

Or Which Gender of the month they embrace?

Or Their Personal Lives?

Or How many times their fame and fortune allowed them to say stupid shit?

Or how many under-age Lolitas they fucked during their misspent youth?”

Or How Many Times They Have Been To Rehab?”

I can answer all of the above questions.

Succinctly.

With Just One Word:

“NO.”

As Promised Above:

Between the lines of photographs,

I’ve seen the past
It isn’t pleasing

I do not feel a sudden urge to credit the artist.

I you have ever ‘read’ me, you already know.

******

And if you be new here, welcome aboard!

Welcome Aboard The Insane Train!

Now, will you kindly surrender your ticket?

Please?

******

Last and final thought:

Bobby Darin was/is ‘The King of Cool.’

Forever!

Street Cred: Cannot find him/Her

“Oh Lord! It’s Hard to be Humble.”

Lance Looks in the Mirror

First time in some years…

(Risky, Dangerous Enterprise? Yes?!)

Casually regards the visage staring back at him.

“Something’s missing,” he says.

Dons DEVO hat.

Yeah!

Hell yeah!

That’s the “Look!”

********

“Maternity Flight Suits????”

Joe? Really?

I never watched the movie, “G.I. Jane”

(Because it was a farce and insulted the Navy SEAL program), but… come on Man!”

“Maternity Flight Suits????”

***********

(Maybe it is time for me to give ‘G.I. Jane’ a second chance. Cannot possibly be worse than the garbage coming down the pike these days.)

*******

I died along the way.

But at least I showed up.

Twice

*************

This post is in desperate need of some

‘Joni’

To talk me down off that ledge

I have found me Precariously placed on…

(or is it ‘upon’?)

Which is the ‘proper’ word?

Ask me how many fucks I give.

I write; therefore I Yam!

Just call me ‘Popeye!’

************

Vid Cred: jmms429

Song credit: Who do you think?

Windows Are Not Impediments in My World:

Merely Distractions.

How did I get so drunk so fast?

I only had sixteen glasses of wine in twelve minutes!

Scuze for a moment.

Bill Gates is on CNN.

I have to remove a shoe, so that I might puke into it.

BRB!

OK.

I tried and tried and I tried!

To get through this CNN interview with

Bill Gates.

Could not take any more!

Picked up my TV and threw it out the window.

(It, the window, was not open)

It is open now…

I hear sirens in the distance.

Growing louder, and louder!

Ooops!

“And you can’t find your waitress with a Geiger Counter.”

Been there.

Too many times…

The computer has been Drinking.

Not me!

Vid Credit: MasterBiblicalMemory

Genius!

**********

I only Drop This In Because I like It!

This Would Not Be A Proper TT&H Post W/O Some Joni!

(And I Love Joni!)

Y’all Know That!

.

The Joke Is On Me (And On You–For Even Being Here) Broadcast News

Facebook Post:
Good morning!
I am feeling somewhat “normal” today.
Trying to stay two steps ahead of the neck pain.
Taking lots of Ibuprofen and booze.
Put MS Muse Out of my Misery.
But I miss her already.
I just may have a life after all.
Or not.
“O, that way madness lies; let me shun that;
No more of that.”
—King Lear, Act 3, Scene 4
Too heavy?
Fuck with me?
You’ll get what you fucking deserve.
Love,
Lance…
The NSA Are on Their Way!

“Hey! Hey! NSA! On The Way!
(Ditto the Local Cops!)
“Surround the House!”
“Madman Inside!”
“Be careful Boys!”
“Let’s Take Him Down…”
“But Quietly.”
“No Muss. No Fuss.”

*****

Do not Fuck with Me!

I will not Hesitate to Empty a Clip Into Your Dome.

MS Muse– Miss Misery:

Feel Free To Conduct A Search

For ‘Abusive Muse.’

There you may find happiness.

******

BONUS MATERIAL BELOW

Crit-After-My-Own-Heart-Drinker-Man!

If you do not watch this, or appreciate this…

Your Loss

Insanity

Fuck You Bob!

(Ed Note: This Post is Becoming more and more about Melanie, and less and less about Dylan. My Original intent was to do a Dylan Bit. I Got Distracted)

The more I discover about this woman, the more I fall in fantasy love with her.

She is so fucking charming.

She captivates and fascinates.

My God! But she is a beautiful woman!
“Mel, why did I NOT ever run into you?

I would have roo’d/woo’d you.”
(Or tried to)

Street Cred for Vid: Navegantadelanave

*****

Would have given my best shot anyhow. (Such as that would’ve been at the time–my attention span was brief, but for you, I would have taken my time.

And worked ‘The Problem’ I had with my infatuation)

“I wish I could find a good book to live in.”

–Melanie

(Actually I have one. It is entitled “The Complete Works of Shakespeare.”) I am gonna live there.

Current state of “Lance Mind:”

****

Hollis Brown

He lived on the outside of town

Hollis Brown

He lived on the outside of town

With his wife and five children

And his cabin fallin’ down

You looked for work and money

And you walked a rugged mile

You looked for work and money

And you walked a rugged mile

Your children are so hungry

That they don’t know how to smile

Your baby’s eyes look crazy

They’re a-tuggin’ at your sleeve

Your baby’s eyes look crazy

They’re a-tuggin’ at your sleeve

You walk the floor and wonder why

With every breath you breathe

The rats have got your flour

Bad blood it got your mare

The rats have got your flour

Bad blood it got your mare

If there’s anyone that knows

Is there anyone that cares?

You prayed to the Lord above

Oh please send you a friend

You prayed to the Lord above

Oh please send you a friend

Your empty pockets tell yuh

That you ain’t a-got no friend

Your babies are crying louder

It’s pounding on your brain

Your babies are crying louder

It’s pounding on your brain

Your wife’s screams are stabbin’ you

Like the dirty drivin’ rain

Your grass it is turning black

There’s no water in your well

Your grass is turning black

There’s no water in your well

You spent your last lone dollar

On seven shotgun shells

Way out in the wilderness

A cold coyote calls

Way out in the wilderness

A cold coyote calls

Your eyes fix on the shotgun

That’s hangin’ on the wall

Your brain is a-bleedin’

And your legs can’t seem to stand

Your brain is a-bleedin’

And your legs can’t seem to stand

Your eyes fix on the shotgun

That you’re holdin’ in your hand

There’s seven breezes a-blowin’

All around the cabin door

There’s seven breezes a-blowin’

All around the cabin door

Seven shots ring out

Like the ocean’s pounding roar

There’s seven people dead

On a South Dakota farm

There’s seven people dead

On a South Dakota farm

Somewhere in the distance

There’s seven new people born

****

I still hang onto hope for humanity.

Just a little humanity.

Don’t RUST On My Parade*

“Petty Officer Marcom! Your Fifty Cals are Rusty!”

50 Cal NavyA

U.S. Navy photo by Photographer’s Mate Third Class Daniel J. Mark. Cleared for release by ALBG PAO, LCDR Jeff Bender.

Lance Sailor

Marco The Sailorman

I had to  admit. Yes they were. I had tried so hard to keep ahead of the rust, but here I found myself on the leeward side of the second half of a six-month, ‘round-the-whurl-West Pacific Deployment’, and somewhere just off the coast of Somalia.

Yes, rust was my enemy, certainly never my friend—the machine guns were always mounted while we (The USS Callaghan DDG 994, full cast and crew) were Haze-Gray and Underway.

Yes, always mounted and underway:

Haze-Graying, even then

And rusty

My Guns were always supposed to be… somewhere upon the sea… this is what they were purchased for…

And subject to rust. Rust Relentless. Relentless She Be: That Sea. That Salt of the Fucking Sea

Rust.

My Moby Dick-lessness! How could I not keep Rust off my guns?

Freud certainly would have had fun with me

(Sadly, now I know why)

************

My professional life was to be found somewhere rusting in those machine guns.

And that rust you see, that rust occupied a great deal of my daily routine.

The Navy had a solution though. She had provided canvas covers to cover those guns and make them safe from rust. Alas, those canvas covers had seen better days, probably back when Pearl Harbor was just an ordinary Naval Base that no one had ever heard of.

But rust is relentless and timeless.

While scrubbing the Indian Ocean rust off’n my fifty-cals one morning I hatched a plan. Knowing full well we were soon to pull into Mombasa Kenya, after so many month at sea, I conspired to save my money:

Once in Mombasa, I would smuggle one of the moth infected, salt- digested, jig saw’d, Swiss Cheese, ‘holy’ canvas shards off the ship. I would rent a taxi, find me a young child, show him my smuggled ‘prize’, ask him to direct me somewhere, where I could find and nickel and dime (I did not have much money then, not un-life-like now) find a leather shop in Mombasa, present to the leather-maker my Holy Canvas, My Shroud,  My Naval Career, and demand, (for US Dollars), that he make me four such more yet new and brand new.

And functional.

And This is exactly what I did, and to the amazement and astonishment of my Master Chief Petty Officer and my Department Head (almost a Navy Commander… he kind of looked like JFK, now that I think on it. I  did not like particularly like him, but I respected him. Hell, he reminded me of all the things I could have been if I had joined the Nav when I was twelve instead of twenty-eight (Different story. Sorry)

The next time they inspected my Fifty Cals, they were pristine! (They did not take notice nor time to notice that the canvas covers were not exactly Haze-Gray-Naval Gray. No, more like Third-World-Rustic, with just a tiny bit of water buffalo…left over…but Goddamn sure water and sea salt proof.   

And I was so desirous that they did NOT notice, but my Master Chief did notice, yet, never ever noticing nor voicing his ‘inner thoughts’ in front of what he referred to as “Shit Birds” — ‘Officers’ — Never let on.

Master Chief never, ever let out his truth thoughts in front of Shit – Birds. This was his genius. 

And I should have been cognizant of this, yet I was so somewhat giddy after my .50 Cals had finally passed inspection, that I did not stop to think on that anymore. “Not even Master Chief had seen through my ruse” Yeah, Rite!

 I was drunk with my own cleverness and lying back on my back in my rack, curtain drawn,  congratulating me.

(Now, you must realize how the Military Mind works. I was my Ship’s Armor All–Armorer– IN Charge of All The Ship’s Small Arms! .225 Cal to .50 Cal. If it took two men to lift, wasn’t mine. But one-man-band? Yep!  I was the shit!  I was a Gunner’s Mate 3rd Class! Freshly rocked out of SEAL Training (twice now, but who counts these sorts of thing? I suppose I do) and trying to retain what little was left of my  pride and my so-fifty-caliber-called-life.)

And I loved and Respected My Master Chief. Did not ever want to become an embarrassment to him, nor to my Fellow Gunner’s Mates who worked on the “Big Guns”. (Those ones what ‘bullets’ took two and a half-men to lift)

And even more important, (anyone who has ever ‘Served’ will know this), the Military is Run On Fear:

“Oh God, Please Don’t Let Me Fuck UP!”

That kind of fear.

Well, as I was lying on my back in my middle rack right before Taps with my little blue ‘privacy’ curtain drawn back when someone jerked that sucker back.

Along with my reverie.

Yep.

Master Chief Anderson!

MY MASTER CHIEF

“Son, tell me where you found those brand new gun covers.”

Trying to lie on my side and find an elbow to lean to, I half-coughed out, feigning sleepy-eyed ignorance,

“Master Chief, I had them made while we were in Mombasa.”

(There are people one may lie to in life, but, A Master Chief Petty Officer in the US Navy is not one found amongst those people. Not if one wishes life beyond that moment of sweet deception)

“I see”, was all he said, as he yanked my curtain back shut, thus leaving me alone with my various and sundry.

I did not sleep that night. For you see, I knew I had broken Naval Regs by doing something not-in-the Naval-Seaman’s-Bible–The Blue Book–The book, inches thick as a brick,  “The Book” I had been made to almost memorize while at Recruit Training Command, i.e. boot camp.

41XgCzuhSdL._AC_UL320_SR214,320_

I had broken the rule.

In the Nav, there is a sea sailor preamble, most requisite when one wants to recount a story of ‘when ships were made of wood and men were made of iron’… “Back when Moses was a pup, and this is a no-shitter” This validates and is a ritual never broken. In other words, one never breaks the rule.

Sometime mid-morning the next day, I was summoned to the berth/office of  The Department Head of my Division, Lt. Commander ‘Kennedy’.

Shitting bricks is too trite.

I was nervous.

I gave a hearty rap on the bulkhead door as I was trained to do in boot camp…

“Enter!”

“Petty Officer 3rd Class Marcom Sir!”

“I know who you are Lance; sit down.”

(What??? Lance??? Sit Down???)

Mouth agape I sat down, speechless

“Son, Master Chief Anderson tells me you went out on your own, designed, commissioned, smuggled off a prototype, and paid for, with your own money, those .50 Cal Gun Covers. Is this true?”

“Yes, uh, yessir,” I stammered.

“Well, that shows some fine initiative. How much did you pay Son?”

“Un Sir. Doesn’t matter…. I just, well, the .50 Cals, you know SIR,  cost ten-thousand dollars each, and I thought…rust….an…”

“How much did you pay?!”

“250 Dollars Sir.”

Without saying a word he opened a little three-lock-box (OK; I made that up. It was only a one-lock-box) that he had in a drawer, carefully opened it, and proceeded to hand me two-hundred and fifty bucks.

American

I sat there, dumb founded,  a moment too long, still in shock, looking at the bills in my hand…

“Petty Officer Marcom! “

“Huh…Uh, Huh… Sir?”

“You’re dismissed!”

Jumping up, knocking my chair over,  some tears welling in my eyes,

“Yessir!”

As I saluted him and abruptly left his quarters, quite in haste.

And thus I had survived yet another day in MY  Beloved Navy.

And Just As a Reminder Kids:

Don’t Rain on my Parade: I have enuff Rain for All

 

*And this just once more a rough draft, full of error, so be kind. Trust me: there is no harsher critic of me than me. I sweat commas. 

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.