Saturday, August 30, 2014

The New Improved Dialogical Saloon Wine And Cigar Bar

 I stood outside the structure called The New Improved Dialogical Saloon Wine and Cigar Bar
   I noticed it was all painted in lavender.
   I turned left and right and looked up and down the street.
   It looked a lot like Virginia City Nevada here.
   "If this is actually Virginia City this bar might be over a hundred years old. Maybe a hundred years ago lavender was not a color fraught with significance. Maybe it was just a color. Not an announcement."
   For me to talk, ruminate, and try to solve puzzles to myself aloud in a public place is not at all unusual.
   I stepped up the steps, and putting my hands in front of me, I pushed aside the flappy saloon doors of the Dialogue Saloon and sauntered inside.
   i made a point of acting like i owned the place. Naturally nobody gave a shit. Naturally i was ignored. Naturally i interpreted this as fear and respect. 
   i noticed first of all the lavender touches here and there throughout the decor, subtle and hard to detect: the lavender bar; the lavender floor; the lavender walls; the lavender ceiling; the lavender dishware; the lavender clothing  on the waiters and other male personnel. i wondered if maybe this was a gay establishment. 
   i went over to someone standing and talking to a hot chick at the same time leaning in her direction in an effort to be more personal.  i tapped him a little on one shoulder. He straightened back up, all defensive and annoyed but at least seemingly willing to see what the fuck was up.
   "Yeah?" he said, more or less with a edge but certainly civilized.
    I said "This a gay bar?" 
   He stared at me, a look of bewilderment mixed with some added bewilderment. 
   "Why the fuck would you ask that." he inquired in a not specifically rhetorical way. I think he was actually curious about the answer.
    "Well,  it's all lavender in here." i pointed out. 
    He considered this for a second and then said "What makes something gay is a dick in the mouth or up the ass when the mouth or the ass with a dick up it has a dick of its own. not lavender appointments." 
    "i would hardly call 'painting every fucking thing in sight lavender' an appointment." 
    He spat on the floor and said "This aint a gay bar. Ok?"
    i said "Sure. No need to get fucking hostile." 
    He said "The fact that you're still alive right now means i am not getting hostile. Trust me."
    i stepped slowly backwards away from him in a final gazing appraisal of his words before we parted company - which parting was now in progress -  and i wondered what exactly he meant. He may have been drunk. Its hard to decipher the meandering blather of an inebriate. But this was a bar after all. Finding a drunk inside it would not be out of the ordinary. 
   A hostess - in lavender - approached me with a tray and some empty glasses and inquired if i would like a drink. 
   i checked her out. She was something. I wont go into detail but just imagine a chick who was something. She was one of those. 
   She had on one of those French Maid things only with a lot less material. There were tits in there, certainly, as i could see, and there were two legs with most of them uncovered by the frilly bottom part. Still, there was all the fucking lavender in here so i decided to do some subtle detective work via a kind of round-about method i have of discerning the truth of things while seeming to be asking an innocent question.
    "You have a vagina do you, I presume?" 
    She - or it - looked right at me without changing expression and said "Yeah. I do." 
   "Were you born with it?" 
   "Yeah. I was. You want a drink?" 
    Wow. I had to admire her reserve. AND i assumed she was telling the truth. 
   Since she was so smoking hot i decided to advance the chit chat to a more meaningful level. 
   "You want me to fuck you at all at some point, maybe?"  
    She looked at me for what seemed a long time. Then she said "You have any idea how old i am?"  I said nope. Didnt see how it mattered but i didnt mentioned that. She said "i'm 19." 
    I said "Good for you. I'm 70. You're a piker at aging compared to me." 
    She said "I aint about to fuck a fucking grampa dilapidated saggy skinned, saggy faced, probably endentulate, fucking walking corpse."  
    "I presume you mean me," I said.
    "Yeah. I mean you." she said. 
     I said,  "Yeah well let me tell you a little something about the corpse you're not about to fuck.  In fact let me tell you something about old men in general since you seem to be oblivious to everything in general. It's a fact us old geezers might look like a shambling versions of Hell. But that thing you will be sucking on - which will my fucking cock - looks now just like it looked when i was 16: young, vibrant, hard, and smooth as talcum. And your eyes will be so closed-shut with euphoria and orgasmic helplessness from my fingerfucking magic you wont give a shit what the rest of me looks like. Bitch." 
   She looked at me for a very long time. This was not unusual for her to do since from way back at the start of the relationship she had been doing that a lot already. Well, she was doing it again and then after a while she said "That's got my attention, believe it or not. Your cock really looks a lot better than you do?"
   "Most things look better than I do, toots, but if you like cock at all you won't be able to tell mine - or any other old coot's cock with a boner - you wont be able to tell it from the cock of the Negro basketball player you fucked in college. Except for the color. And maybe the size. Assuming you fucked a Negro basketball player in college."
   "No, I never did," she said matter of factly.
   "When did you fuck a Negro. In high school?"
   "I never fucked a Negro ever. Listen," she said, "when do you want to do all this fucking with that smooth and slender sausage saber of semen sauce that you say comes out of a dick that looks like it's 19, same age as me."
   "I never said it was slender. I don't know why you would even assume that. The width of my cock never came up in the discussion. I don't know why you are making that assumption. Assuming it's unwarranted. And I said it looks 16. Not 19"
   "Do you want to fuck me or not."
    I said sure. Why not.
   I would describe the encounter which took place in the alley behind the dumpster on a mattress that may have been used previously by one or two persons at one time or another judging by its mostly liquid contents and it not being a waterbed. I would describe it as interesting. But I think a gentleman often chooses to hide the details of fallen virtue in the fairer sex from lechers such as, say, yourself. And I am, if nothing else, a gentleman. Be assured however that when it was done she was convinced that I had not been lying.
   "Yeah, you look like hell, alright, but your cock has not an age spot or wrinkle on it. Well, it does now, maybe - have some wrinkles - but it's flaccid. So….."
   I said, "I tole ya." 
   "Yeah, well, I guess I've learned something."
   "You'll learn more later, it has VD. Also just like a 16 year old's."
   "Hey," she said, "What cock doesnt." 
   We shook hands and I departed the premises of the Dialogical Saloon and went my way, a vagabond of love in a love-starved world. 
   Now, I know what you're saying: "Say, were there any pillows on that mattress?"
   There were, but they were not to my liking and while she wanted to cuddle and hug and sleep the night away in contented post-coital relaxation and happiness I said "No, you have to go back inside, you have customers waiting at the bar and at at least four tables."

My Critics So Far

   I rail against the Constitution on three sites that come to mind that I remember: here, on Facebook, from which I have been banned from posting for a month because i say nigger a lot. A Marine of all people ratted me out because I hurt his feelings. My opinion of the Marines as a force-for-fear dropped a bit because of this incident. I guess their new war strategy is to tell the commanding officers of the enemy that their underlings are shooting at them and could they tell them to stop it.
   And, getting back to my original statement,  I do it - lambaste the Constitution -  to some extent on The Aging Rebel, a site run by a normal person and commented on by bloviating, strutting Dads Their Own Kids Want To Kill.
   So far I have never had anyone contradict anything bad I have said about the Constitution. I have had them all tell me to go fuck myself though. I keep telling them "For once it's not all about me: but rather, where is the error in my views." No one - and by "no one" i mean not one person ever by anyone's counting or number system - has ever said "Ok, well,  first of all you are wrong about……" and then told me what I was wrong about. I mean chitchat and cameraderie go right out the window. It's all "Why you commie pinko traitor, go live in Russia if you don't like it here." Actually I do like it here: San Simeon is only 250 miles away. In fact if I was going to move anywhere it would probably be there. But Russia? I would hate it there. I don't know why everyone thinks I would like it there better. Though I hear the teenage girls will fuck anything rather than not be fucking because orgasm is the only thing the State does not control or forbid or regulate there.

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Everything You Need To Know About The Jews

   Hitler was right about the Jews, they actually are the cause of all the world's troubles. He was wrong in thinking that they all had to be killed. Without the law the Jews are helpless. They have no weapons without the law. They hide behind the law which they created. However if you get rid of the law the Jews will disappear. They will have no refuge. And I think we know from history that they sure as fuck ain't about to fight. Oh they might make a bit of a pretense at it. But when it comes to "Ok, fucker, let's settle this"…………no. It ain't gonna happen. They don't settle things. They drag them out. They can drag things out for thousands of years and never get tired or bored.
   Now the way you demonstrate that a Jew is helpless without the law is to suggest to him that all laws are evil. There will be no end to his laughing. However were you to whisper to him a plan that you created to abolish the existence of all human-legislated law he would kill you on the spot. He would find that ability to kill that Jews usually run away from and he would find it anxious to go to work because you would be so solidly dead within a billionth of a second that your body might not find out about if for a good five minutes. Meanwhile the Jew would be gone and you would be falling to the ground with not a soul around. That is how fast a Jew would kill you if you were to whisper to him a way to abolish all legislation and all courts of law and all methods of law enforcement. Try it. Well, if you come up with a way to….you know……do all that stuff. I actually know a way. But I'll be damned if I am going to say what it is here. I know for a fact at least 8 Jews read this. Getting killed by one Jew would be bad enough. Getting killed by eight of the fuckers? That would be hard to live down.

The Koran Versus Jesus

   According to the Koran God cannot have a son. At least allah can't. Yahweh can but Allah can't. Not that the Koran ever mentions Yahweh. In the Koran Allah is the Bible deity, or "the book" deity as the Koran refers to the Old Testament. Or its forbears. Or its afterburners. Whatever they're called. The Pentytuke. The Talmuck. Some fuckin' thing like that. At any rate, god cannot have a son. So Jesus is not god. And since Christians not only worship a Jew but worship this Jew as the creator of the universe…….well, that is why Muslims detest Christians more than they detest anything else, including pigs, jews, women, heterosexuality, cleanliness, underwear, the avoidance of murder and the abstaining from incest with prepubescent children. So the Koran, rather than state that Allah, unlike Yahweh, is weak in some areas, such as sexual intercourse with women, it merely asks, rather than states, the question, over and over and over "Can God have a son?" And to this question asked over and over in the Koran, the anwer you are supposed to give is no. Even though God can actually have a son if the God is Yahweh. So the Koran basically admits that its god is a bit of a shithead when it comes to omnipotence. Or any other kind of potency probably since if you cant get it up for a human female you could be fuckin' gay.  

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Banned Again

Oh, hi, blog. Yes that's right, I have been banned from Facebook for 30 days for saying nigger. and it was a Marine that did it. A white Marine. No one ever said Marines were intelligent. Just killers. And he certainly killed me off for a month. I'm gonna get through this. I will be more sensitive of Marine Feelings from now on. I have learned my lesson. On the plus side, or maybe on the minus side, I will be posting a lot of posts on this blog. And probably my anti Constitution blog and my New Las Vegas blog. So it should all work out.

Friday, July 4, 2014

The Aging Rebel

   The Aging Rebel is a blog devoted to waving the flag of "outlaw biker" sovereignty. And by outlaw biker I mean the groups called bike gangs by the FBI -  the Federal Bureau of Idiots -  and listed in their Most Wanted catalogues. Unlike Islam. Which is not. I told you they were idiots.
   Where was I.
   Oh, yeah. So The Aging Rebel blog is owned by a man named Donald Charles Davis. He's a pro-Mongols, pro-Hells Angels, etc, journalist, essayist, philosopher, reporter, etc devoted to defending what we will call bike gangs. Bike gangs are on a public relations mission lately to "not be called gangs." Because gangs are apparently illegal. Or the name gang is illegal. Or something. According to law enforcement, apparently, "gang" is something only a negro or a Mexican can be a part of apparently and get away with it. "Street gangs" are looked upon with a kind of quiet reverence and tolerance by law enforcement whereas "bike gangs"  are apparently targeted Enemies of the State working on domestic soil for the overthrow of the American way of life. Even though most bike gangs are inhabited by combat veterans who killed foreigners for a low pay rate for several years. Whereas the street gangs never left their filthy squalid neighborhoods and only fought with their girlfriends, and usually - the Mexican slash Aztec slash Central American aborigines certainly - detest America.
   So anyway on this blog there are a lot of followers and commenters who are law enforcement officers and psychopaths who were just too fucking crazy or lazy to become law enforcement officers and people who wish they were cops and people who are not cops but think they are or are free lance law enforcement officers…..anyway there are a lot of childish, psychotic, sadistic bullies who comment because - like most cops - they want to be "outlaw bikers in the Hells Angles." Because they see in these groups they are arresting but want to be a part of…….well, frankly it's complicated. The mind of a law enforcer and wannabe law enforcer is a writhing morass of seething contradictory frustrations. Ten thousand Freuds and ten hundred thousand L Ron Hubbards could not unravel it. So anyway these moronic mental patients want to be a part of this blog. Because the owner of the blog apparently mixes freely with these people -  these biker gangs wanted by the FBI -  and apparently these biker gangs are convinced he has their back. I myself have never seen an occasion that would contradict this conclusion. He does apparently from what I can see does have their back. In fact, if anything, from what i can see, they are the ones that should have his back. And for all i know they might. I dunno. It ain't my universe. I just observe it.
   So this blog is followed by tons and tons of law enforcement types and wannabe law enforcement types and the most preposterous of these are also frustrated writers. Bad frustrated writers. They are also - having cop brains - convinced that this blog is actually theirs. Not the blog owner's. They make great pronouncements on things the blog owner himself never pays any attention to. They relentlessly write long - badly written - treatises on whatever the post is that they are commenting about. They also unerringly drive off anyone who should actually be there who they think is not "manly" enough. To them "not manly" means not insane with mommy and daddy issues. The owner of the blog does not interfere or interact with comment items unless they are aimed at him personally or unless there is some huge disruptive nightmare in progress. Usually there are no huge disruptive nightmares in progress because the cadre of self-proclaimed blog cops patrol the area and dont allow innocent - to them completely alien - thoughts or observations or theories or sentiments….unless they are genuinely vapid, stupid, idiotic, have the word "bro" in them, and are filled with the word "respect." One of these blogger security agents actually has the hilariously ghastly pomposity and This Is My Dominion delusional narcissistic ridiculousness to close all of his remarks with "long may you ride. (those that deserve to)" His kids have to either all be in straight jackets or all on death row or all living under bridges in soul-sucked-dry despair. He is not only the blog's rent-a-cop he is the arbiter of worthiness to have or use a motorcycle. This is not only a cop, this might actually be a chief of police somewhere or perhaps even a congressman.
   There are also real Federal assholes who comment who make no pretense about being anything other than real Federal assholes. They dont pretend to be bikers. They make it clear that they dont like bikers and they dont like the blog. They are as delusional as the blog security guards but at least they have actual jobs in law enforcement and they do not pretend to like bikers - unlike the blog security guards who actually detest bikers but want to be one (remember i said it was convoluted?) At least the bonifide agents of the Feds admit they hate bikers - which they do - so on the sanity level at least they are closer to normal than "long may you ride those that deserve to." 'Cause in "those that deserve to"'s mind nobody actually deserves to. Other than him. Only he deserves to. For some odd reason. One probably having to do with his father.

Saturday, June 21, 2014

The Harley Wind-Up Toy

Regarding the Mattel Hasbro Milton Bradley Wham-O Brand electric bike that the Harley upper-management team of golfing aficionados is creating -  in soundbites, if not in actual fact ….. these executive juggernauts of industry are clearly convinced that something other than the deteriorating "Harley Mystique" is what is keeping their company in the black. Assuming that it actually is in the black. However, they are wrong in thinking that something other than the fading "Harley Mystique" is keeping them afloat. In fact it is only the deteriorating Harley Mystique, and not their actual products, that is keeping them from joining GM in Bailout Wonderland. Not that the Feds would grant Harley bailout- money, because Obama probably hates bikers as much as apparently Harley does, and for-sure as much the ATF and the cops do. Speaking of Harley executives: the internet announcement began with the important and deeply meaningful message, "Riders today. Define tomorrow." Apparently Pigeon English being used as the language-of-choice to announce this bike is a way of announcing to the Third World "Harley is for you, Joe. You like. You have good time on me!"  As the drooling knuckledraggers that created the internet announcement that cries out in boardroom brilliance "Riders Today. Define tomorrow." are going to find out in short order, it is only the Harley Mystique that is keeping the executive washroom staffers in offshore gambling invitations. Not the bikes themselves. In fact "short order" might be the two words they should think about adding to "Riders today. Define tomorrow." making it "Riders today. Define tomorrow. Short order." Because they might all be doing short orders at McDonald's pretty soon, based on the evidence presented via the electric bike announcement.   

For the information of the Harley Executive Squadroom Brainstormers  -  Harley Corp did not create the Harley Mystique. The Harley Mystique was not created by an ad campaign. The Harley Mystique was not created by a motorcycle. The Harley Mystique was not created by an overpaid buffoon executive in an untied tie walking around the office with coffee in a paper cup and a suit jacket across his arm looking as though he was just too anxious to get to work on time to worry about getting fully dressed. No: the Harley Mystique is something that exists only because of the existence of the 1950's-circa individuals in groups who had actual, genuine mystiques. And not Harley Mystiques either. Just mystiques. Just real actual mystiques. And who themselves CREATED the Harley Mystique. Groups like the Hells Angels, the Gypsy Jokers, the Galloping Gooses, the Satans Slaves, the Pissed Off Bastards, the Devils Disciples. the Boozefighters, the Mad Hatters; the uniquely American outcasts with the mind set that valued the individual and adventure and exploration over the government mandated lifestyle of school, neighborhood, two kids, a cocker spaniel, What's My Line, the Saturday Evening Post, the licensing of everything from your guns and your cars and your dynamite collection to the licensing of the jizz in your balls, of  time clocks, and working for someone else. No. If there were mystiques that accompanied these men that were genuine American individuals it was the mystiques of  beer, strip joints, dope, and riding alone through the western deserts. Those  were the actual mystiques. Harleys were the Hitchiking Aftermarket Mystiques that these individuals decided to adopt and bring along with them just because these bikes retained some semblance of devotion to the principles of liberty that allegedly this country was created on. Which i assume they assumed was more or less American. Which of course, regarding Harleys, has turned out to be another Hitchiking Hangaround Mystique. Not a real one. No, the men on the bikes are the original mystique. Not the brand of motorcycle they decided to adopt for one reason or another. And those men who are the real mystique are now looking at the skin of their once bulging biceps and watching them wrinkle and fall against the bones of their arms like curtains closing on a grand performance. And when they go so will be gone the mystique. And Harley-Davidson will return to the ash pit of buffoonery it was when it was being nestled like a helpless baby in the arms of a pin-spotting-machine maker. And that's where it would have stayed were it not for an upstart heralder of the dirty filthy riders of Harleys that focused on the men on the Harleys, not the Harleys themselves: rather the men who lived on their Harleys; Easyriders magazine. Say what you want to about it now, at the time it glorified the last of the Americans who bought up this magazine like starving exhausted warriors lapping up water. Men like Joe Teresi, Lou Kimzey, Mil Blair, Keith Ball, Madman Kelly, Billy Thornbury, Izzy Petty, Rip-aroo from San Berdoo, Wino Joe, Miraculous Muthuh, Spider, Hal Robinson, David Mann, and, by the grace and mercies of a gentle and loving jesus, even myself; all dedicated with enthusiasm toward proclaiming the feral, renegade riders of the Harleys, not the Harleys themselves, as the Last Americans. "This is not a nuts and bolts magazine," Lou said." This is an entertainment rag for adult bikers." The largess for Harley Corp from that relentless temporary burst of creative fire is all that Harley has left to hang on to and those men and those readers are fading fast, and when they are gone no one will be giving Harley Davidsons a second look except, especially in the case of the Livewire, to say "what in the name of Fucking Fuck is THAT."  All good things may or may not come to an end. But all stupid things certainly do. And Harley Davidson is one of those stupid things. And the end they have chosen for themselves - in typical fashion for the stupid - is by buffoonery.  And a fitting headstone, assuming they can even, or want to, find the body, would be a Livewire with a grinning Chinaman in a Mao jacket sitting on it shouting " Hi, Yankee swine! You tink me pditty???"