“All I Ever Learned From Love Was How To Out Shoot Someone Who Out-Drew You” Ye
Maybe there’s a God above But all I’ve ever learned from love Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya And it’s not a cry that you hear at night It’s not somebody who’s seen the light It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah
Ah! I Learned That! From An Early Age!
“Hallelujah! You Mother-Fuckers!”
***
Jackson Browne Was / Is A Misogynist. And An Idiot! But I Kinda, Sorta, Forgave Him That. Not Really! Do NOT Even Ask Me How Nor Why.
Never, Ever Ask Me Questions! But Y’all Know, How Much I Love, Respect, And Admire Women… Especially The Texan-Variety–Fuk U Jackson Browne!
Joni! WTF Were You Thinking? Drinking?
I Cannot Fix This Image. Believe Me: I Tried.
Multiple Times.
(Not really—He is An Asshole–I Do Not Tolerate Abuse of Women–Well-Documented By Me In These Pages)
Oh Yeah! I ‘Almost’ Forgot–Or Perhaps At This Pint, I No Longer Give-A-Shit–J/K): I Do Respect My Readers and Do Realize Some Have ‘Sensitive’ Ears And Sensitivities
I Actually Love & Respect Elon Musk–But I’ll NEVER Admit That… This Post is all-Fucked Up– Discombobulated–Pretty Certain it is All My Fault.
Free Speech! That is The Luxury America Gave To Me!
Watch ‘Till The End–I’m Not Pressuring You—
The Vid Promo & Commentary
Becuz I’m Jealous of His Wealth/Success/Excess–
Richest Man On This Planet.
He Throws Around Cash Money Like I Spit Out-Used Snuff
Twitter Employee Undergoes Therapy Over Elon Musk Takeover
SAN FRANCISCO, CA—Elon Musk’s bid to purchase Twitter came up short after 138,000 board votes were found at 2 a.m., a company spokesman confirmed Tuesday. Musk had been in talks to purchase the company for $44 billion.
“We really thought Musk was going to pull this one out,” said Twitter CEO Parag Agrawal. “The yes votes had a strong lead when I went to bed last night, but that was before we counted all the mail-in votes that one of our employees found in locker 142 at the bus terminal.”
When the final votes were tallied, the takeover bid failed by a final tally of 10 votes for, 138,000 votes against. While the final result came as a shock to most observers, Agrawal said the election was fair. “Twitter takes election integrity very seriously,” he noted. “I can confidently say this was the most secure election in American history.”
A shocked Musk took to Twitter Tuesday to express his outrage. “Those ballots…that’s a whole big scam,” Musk tweeted. “The only way I could have lost is if this was rigged! I refuse to accept the results of this vote!”
Musk later tweeted that he was planning a demonstration at Twitter headquarters on May 6 to protest the results. His account was then permanently suspended by Twitter for questioning the integrity of the election.
Mandy is absolutely triggered by Twitter’s possible takeover by Elon Musk. She attends a Twitter-sponsored therapy session to help her cope.
And know this too: Lance is in-love with being in-love—Just gotta find the right girl…. ‘Tis a life-long quest. Kinda like the search for the Holy Grail.
“O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable…”
And, surprise! I wrote a paper on this as well.
For University.
Got an A-Plus.
Then I moved in with my Prof, My Shakespeare Prof.
Got a B-Minus on that endeavor.
My Goal ‘Tonight’ is to catch up.
Yep
To catch up with my blogging friends.
I aim (good Texan verb, ‘aim’) to read and comment on one thousand! Posts! Shazam!! “Gall Eee Sargent Carter!”
Now of course even y’all Yankees out there recognize that as hyperbole at best and bullshit at real.
Only people who use WP Reader can even ‘like’ a thousand posts a night with the simple-minded click of a simple-minded mouse. And Hell! It ain’t the mouse that is simple. It’s the mouse driver.
So, I just say: I will try (jes’ as soon as I post this here post) to get to readin’ ‘stead of writin’.
This is my goal and it is an honorable one. I may get to fifteen, but my likes and my comments are the real deal… so take that with some grain of… humble
And yes, I hope to prosper by my efforts (i.e., get more of y’all to read MY shit—tit for tat, eh? Yeah, that is what it is all about, ain’t it, Alfie?
Since I seem to have swerved back into my Nat Wood kick….
And no. Nat did NOT do her own singing.
But, Y’all knew that too.
It was this Fine Lady:
Marni Nixon
Classically trained, Ms. Nixon was throughout the 1950s and ’60s the unseen — and usually uncredited — singing voice of the stars in a spate of celebrated Hollywood films. She dubbed Deborah Kerr in “The King and I,” Natalie Wood in “West Side Story” and Audrey Hepburn in “My Fair Lady,” among many others.
Cred: I don’t remember from Where I stole This From….
Matt, Rogers, and I were in Viva Young, Olongapo City. I had been struck by The Thunderbolt. Rog was buying the beer for the next ten years. Matt was drawing a charcoal portrait on a cocktail napkin of a sweet, young lovely Filipina with a glass eye. Mama-San was not happy.
My Primary Problem:
Mama-San
SNAFU (‘Situation Normal: All Fucked Up’)
My Secondary Problem:
‘Thunderbolt Smitten Status’
Breaks down like this:
The ‘Smite-he’—Me—couldn’t get close enough to the ‘Smite-er—Her—she proved elusive, un-approachable, un-attainable, closely watched overby Mama-the Big-She-San.
Yes. It was all very confounding, convoluted, and complicated.
***
Matt and I retired to the pool tables. Me hoping to fleece him outta some beer money—He hoping for good conversation, free billiard lessons, and some Lance Good-Natured Wolf-Ticket Talk.
(Rog had declined my offer of a double-or-nothing eight-ball re-match)
But Matt was willing and ‘free’, as the Filipina ‘model’ for his napkin art had been compelled (by Mama-San) to taxi onto the runway.
He also knew I would take it easy on him and his wallet. I only truly enjoyed taking Rog’s money, no one else’s. Well, except for the occasional Jar-Head’s, even though the fleecing of ‘Marine-Sheeps’ could, and often did prove somewhat problematical, health-wise—my health-wise.
Matt and I both were getting what we wanted until…
Until Pain walked in.
Pain (his real name) was my roommate back when I was in BUD/s Class 140, 1986.
Pain was a pain in the ass.
He was a tow-head boy, weighing in at about one-hundred and fifty. One-hundred-fifty pounds of attitude. Bad attitude.
Peanut sans the good to outweigh the bad. I did not appreciate his style.
Nor his presence.
One of My Girls, (yes they were ‘mine’—this was My Bar, wasn’t it?) brought me a beer and said,
“Hey! Dat guy jus’ walk in, he Naa-bee-steeel.”
“Yes Honey. I know him.”
“He yor pren?”
(Filipinas have some difficulty pronouncing the letter ‘F’)
“Nope. He’s trouble, and thanks for the beer.”
Still holding my pool cue, I walked over to Pain.
“Hey Pain!” I said. “How’s it been hangin’?”
“Whaaa?? Hey. Uh…Oh, don’t I know you from somewhere? Oh yeah. Buds. Back in ’86.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Class One-Forty. You were my roommate for about a week until I got you kicked out of the room for smacking my other roommate upside the head.”
“Yeah, you were a little snitch-bitch. An’ your other roommate was an idiot.”
“Don’t think so. He was my Friend.”
“What was yer name? Mark… Clark… something or other… Mark..um…?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Marcom.”
“You rocked out didn’t ya?”
“Yeah, I rocked out. Got hurt. Apparently you made it. In SEALs.”
“Got ‘hurt’ eh? Whatever. Yeah, I didn’t rock out.”
“Good for you.”
“Wanna beer?”
“No Pain, I do not. What I want is for you to take your ass outta here. You see, this bar is for ‘Black Shoe Sailors’—Fleet Sailors—only. This is Our bar, and we don’t really want any prima-donnas hangin’ out here swillin’ beer and breathin’ air. This bar—MY Bar—is a private bar, so… mosey on The Fuck On.”
“I go where I please. Fuck you!”
“Excuse me, but this ain’t your kind of place. This joint’s not big e’nuff to house your inflated Navy Spec-War ego; I suggest you SEAL-Flop your fishy-smellin’ ass on down to The California Club. It’s close to Shit River on Magsaysay—can’t miss it—look for the neon that says, ‘Morons Welcome’. The ceilings have high enough clearance for your big head, and there’s lots of girls. You and your ego and your attitude and your money will be welcome there.”
“You’re pissing me off.”
By this point, I had unconsciously reversed my grip on the pool cue, turning it into a baseball bat. Matt came up to my shoulder and whispered,
“Uh… Lance, don’t do it.”
I had forty pounds on Pain. I could take him with or without the pool cue-turned-seal-smasher.
Mama-San, ever astute, came up to me and said,
“Sailor Man, you need sit down.”
I said, “Mama-San, Not until this asshole leaves.”
She said, “Okay, but you gonna pix the purniture.”
Standing two heads high over him, I turned back to Pain, “You need to leave Son.”
Apparently a light suddenly lit and he, making good use of his ‘situational awareness’ said, “Maybe I’ll check out that California Club after all.” And left.
The Jar Heads on the other side of the bar applauded. One said with a belly-laugh,
“Hoo-Ah Squiddy! That guy’s an asshole! Seen him around town.”
“Thanks,” I said, pitching my cue-stick to Matt, who clumsily failed to catch it, spilling his beer in the attempt as he watched the cue bounce off the deck.
I laughed at Matt then yelled, “Hey! Mama-San! Send me an’ Matt ah coupla beers! I just saw my life flash!”
(Not really. I fear no man, but it makes for good prose, eh?)
