Raptor Jesus

(no subject)

The Preacher's Story in 4 Parts

Then I met Jenny.

30 something. Cute. New mother with two little kids. Breast cancer. Found it too late. Spread all over. Absolutely going to die.

Jenny had only one request. “I know I’m going to die, chaplain. I need time to finish this. It's for my kids. Pray with me that God will give me the strength to finish it.”

She showed me the needlepoint pillow she was making for her children. It was an “alphabet blocks and apples” kind of thing. She knew she would not be there for them. Would not drop them off at kindergarten, would not see baseball games, would not help her daughter pick out her first bra. No weddings, no grandkids. Nothing.

She had this fantasy that her children would cherish this thing - sleep with it, snuggle it. Someday it might be lovingly put on display at her daughter’s wedding. Perhaps there would be a moment of silence. Some part of her would be there.

I was totally hooked. We prayed. We believed. Jesus, this was the kind of prayer you could believe in. We were like idiots and fools.

A couple of days later I went to see her only to find the room filled with doctors and nurses. She was having violent convulsions and terrible pain. I watched while she died hard. Real hard.

As the door shut, the last thing I saw was the unfinished needlepoint lying on the floor.
McCain Ice Cream

(no subject)

This is too good to not repost:

Ejaculatio Praecox, Once More

Our capacity to maintain colonial possessions being somewhat lesser than we imagined it to be, despite the awesome ability of our various cocksucker missile jockeys to blow shit the fuck up, we now find ourselves in the unenviable position of looking like loudmouth punks and being broke-ass bitches. Sucks to be you, America!

Guys like Gerson view America through the moronic, Trump-like, combed-over gaze, congratulating its gaudy-suited, pin-striped, shiny-tie self on masculine vitality as it buys bottle service for all its bitchiz and roolz up in the club, a three-decade-long, brain-addled, boozified, crunkulated, ape-gape, roof-raised, two-turntable fuckwit bridge-and-tunnel courtship that has finally stumbled with its big-titted, probably-a-tranny conquest back to the charge-plate penthouse suite wherein, thishasneverhappenedbeforebaby, America's teeny weeny peenie shoots its paltry load all over the inside of its Calvins before she can even loosen America's fucktarded Regis Philbin tie.

McCain Ice Cream

(no subject)

The new JetBlue terminal at JFK is lovely, I especially appreciated how the pattern on the carpet looks while running full tilt from one end of the terminal to the other. I think I saw some power outlets as well.

I could go into more detail about my hellish travel experience yesterday (2 delayed flights, 1 coffee spilled on me by a obnoxious child, 1 rebooted aeroplane), but lets just cut the crap and talk about the dude who ate my boarding pass.

Crouched underneath the overhead bin waiting for a hole in traffic to merge into, I anxiously peer at my cellphone and boarding pass for my next flight. It's no small coincidence that they both say "7:40pm". After I finally make it past the rest of the cattle on our aptly named Airbus, I do my best OJ Simpson impression as I dash across the terminal (only with less homicide, although it had crossed my mind at that point). Of course I skid to a halt at gate 5 just in time to see the flight status changed to "delayed".

As I'm catching my breath and ruing every camel light I've shoved into my lungs over the years, I notice a gentleman performing what appears to be some sort of calisthenics routine in the waiting area. The man was squatting on the ground, then leaping to his feet repeatedly, and it wasn't until he started rocking violently back and forth that I realized that he had some sort of mental illness. I figured who am I to judge, I'm the idiot who booked a flight with a layover at JFK the day after thanksgiving weekend, so I return to focusing my hatred at the flight information screen.

That's when the gentleman seated on the floor lunged towards me, grabbing my boarding pass out of my hand, and shoved it into his mouth.

10 seconds of slack jawed amazement pass, on the part of both myself, the assorted onlookers, and the JetBlue gate agents. I'm gazing in fascination as I watch this man masticate my ticket home, watching the strands of saliva drip from his chin in what seems to be slow motion.

"Um, I assume you'll be needing another boarding pass sir?" The spell is broken by the gate agent, snapping me back to reality.

"Yes, and please tell me there is booze on this flight".
No Smoking

Writer's Block: Smoked Out

I've decided I'm going to answer all of these inane questions, Hawver style.

Beer and cigarettes once went together like bread and butter, but now smoking in bars is banned in many cities. When you see smokers standing outside bars in the cold and rain, what is your first reaction? Walk on by, join them, or scorn them?

Remember kids, smoking is cool and anyone who tells you otherwise is already dead inside.

Except my wife