I hate the Blues

I’m not sure I feel comfortable discussing this subject. I’ll be honest, I think that people around here and on this site have made it nearly impossible to have a serious discussion about this subject without calling one another horrible names. So even to write about it under as suedonympho could get me in huge amounts of trouble.

When you see something, say something. I’ve seen enough, and I’m going to say something.

I don’t like the blues.

There, I said it. I feel better. Perhaps I do feel a little shameful. Only because it took this long for me to say it. And yes, perhaps someone may even try to shame me. I can see this post has the potential to cause quite a shit storm if published. Oy vey, how some people are going to react.

Seriously. I’ve tried to like the blues. I’ve listened. I’ve even attended sessions in basements; brisket and wine night. Not a fan. I just can’t like them, the blues. After a while it’s the same stupid shit over and over and over. It’s just said in a different way. I can’t stand the incantation like nature of the message. The way they preach on and on. Jesus Christ enough already with that. It’s almost lecturing, but it’s paternalistic. Like ohhhhhhhhh listen to me, you don’t know the suffering I’ve had. Allow me to sing to you my wisdoms. My people this, my woman that, my dad this.

If you don’t love everything about the blues then you hate all the blues. Period. That’s what happened today. If I don’t like one, I don’t like any. I’m immediately cast off as a radical. A threat. A terrorist. All or none. You don’t like them, I don’t like them, the solution? Split the record down the middle and now you both have half of an album you can’t play on the record player.

Some of them, with the way they dress. It’s always the same. White shirt, black pants, simple leather shoes. As if they are sooo god damn poor. Their whole life they were. The way they speak. They have their own secret language for god sake. They refuse to stop singing from on high about all their problems.

How long are you going to complain about how bad you have it? The blues this. The blues that. If you knew how bad it was, you’d be blue too. How long before you finally own your shit, and accept some of the blame for where you are in life?

The thrill is gone for me. Yes, it is. I can’t take the blues. Their mojo or mysticism as some call it, well it isn’t working on me anymore. I could care less about how you people only want bowlegged women. I mean really, who needs to hear how bad it is that you have a woman so large it hurts when she gets on top? Yes, the blues are offensive. I quit you, so don’t beg me, please don’t beg me not to go.

You people, yes, I said you people, I’ll say it again probably because I’m running out of material, you people have a global platform that promotes your “culture”. It broadcasts it in my car, on my phone, on my twitter, I even see it on youtube. But the second I go and criticize the blues, you can sure count an entire army roaring back on me like Goliath on David. They’ll scream that I wish all their records cut up into pieces, tossed into an incinerator, and deleted from hard drives all across the earth.

Why can’t I just not like the blues without being called names? Why can’t I say that I tried to like the blues and it never worked out? It isn’t personal. It’s a choice I made and stick too. Listen, I even dated one. But the parents? Oy, they hated me. They didn’t choose me as the one, I guess. Something about their daughter idolizing me as if I was her god. (not the first woman to have done this btw)

But because of my job I could only really go out one night a week. And this one little thing seemed to be what caused the biggest problem. I tried to explain that Saturday was it for me and traditionally it had become my family’s movie night. I explained that it was the way I was raised. Saturday, we go out, Sunday we rest.

Her parents insisted that Saturday was for the blues. That was the way god intended it and so god forbid I be allowed to take her out for a cheeseburger and movie, even worse do it on Saturday. So, we broke up.

She did give me back my Led Zeppelin Albums. She wasn’t allowed to keep them in her house. Some kind of laws would have been broken. Her peoples laws she said. Blue laws. When I came to pick them up, she threw them at me. Crying, she screamed, “My people will never accept this. This is not real blues! It’s not even blues inspired!” Sobbing, her dark locks covering her face.

“Everyone will learn that they just copied their works from a bunch of other blues. History will show that they stole from my people, and collected their sheckles without shame.”

Awkward right? Out on the front step. She did this. I schlepped back to my car and drove away, Physical Graffiti blaring. Screw the uppity blues. Their standards. Oh how devout they are, but in time the will just Muddy their waters when it suits them.

It’s not how I was raised, to not like blues. I blame social media. I don’t remember even really knowing anything about the blues growing up. I was raised as a progressive. Sure, some people say I was Rushed into adulthood. I like to think that I was Rolling Stone and had tried to branch out into other culturally acceptable sects.

Yes, I admit I went through a Moody period, but all those Doors seemed to shut over time. I tried to go the Alternative route, but it got to Emotional, and it just delved into a popular culture that everyone liked regardless of how empty the message seemed to become.

Man, If I got a Nickle Back for every bad blues album I bought I’d be rich. And so as I struggle to find ways to wrap this post up, I’ll just come back to where I started.

I don’t like blues and I am willing to accept all the anger and hate that comes with it.

Especially from a cabal that say they are progressive, but between you, and me will be the first person to laugh at a joke about the blues.


Thank you for your service

Don’t thank me for my service, go fuck yourself.

I want that to be my new response and the one that everyone else uses. This weekend when I go to get my free haircut and that cute little 22-year-old that never does my eye brows is finishing up, I want her to be caught off guard. “Thank you for your service, sir”. “Don’t thank me for my service, go fuck yourself” Oh man the look on her face. That’s what you get for not cutting back these caterpillars. Get a real job kiddo. Sorry, not sorry.

Yer god damn right I’m going to Texas Roadhouse and getting my 6 oz free filet. No, I’m not leaving a tip. I’m a veteran. I served. It’s my right. As the waitress swings by to give her thanks right before I leave, yes it will be a female, I’ll kindly reply while looking her in the eye, as I was trained to do, “Don’t thank me, go fuck yourself” Maybe she’ll think I have PTSD. Hell, she’ll probably be happy I didn’t walk in and shoot the place up with my freshly purchased AR-15 equipped with a bump stock that people like that fuckstick Gregg Lavelle couldn’t find the balls to ban. BTW, you’re a pussy Gregg. Yes, I spelled your name wrong on purpose. And no, I won’t thank you for your service. Good riddance. You blocked constituents off of your facebook page. You deserve to lose coward. You live in N. Wilmington in a fucking bubble and you as an elected official can’t take a few critical words from social media? You aren’t fit to serve. Don’t thank me, go fuck yourself. America. Fuck yeah.

But I digress

Man do I ever recoil when people say to me, “Thank you for your service” I don’t know what else to say, so saying, “Don’t thank me, go fuck yourself” seems like what I’m going to stick with going forward. It seems appropriate. Admit it, you like it.

But why is that the natural response anymore? When did this nonsense start? It wasn’t until what, 5 years ago? It had to be from that fucking fraud of a media outlet. It’s definitely conservative in nature. God knows a liberal, antifa, pole smoker wouldn’t thank a veteran. Am I right, Frank? (Air high fiving you right now brother!)

I don’t finish washing the dishes at home and my kids proudly, warmly, sincerely thank me for scrubbing the melted shredded cheddar off their plate? You know how freaking hard it is to clean dried, melted Costco cheddar which has oozed out of a decrusted grilled cheese sammy? No, fuck you, you little shit, go get your own damn water from your red sippy cup that has to have 3 cubes of ice in it.

After a sweaty night of coitus, I don’t roll off, huffing and puffing, after what probably felt like an eternity to her and say, “hey thanks for your service” Though I should. Maybe spot her a finsky for the effort next time? I’ll report back after Christmas. That’s the next scheduled event.

You see, your America, the one you live in that makes you believe if I tell you I served my country you need to thank me, that’s not my America. In fact, it’s not fucking American at all. It’s some coopted bullshit that is akin to the fake fucking war on Christmas. It’s some conservative media concocted jingoistic nonsense meant to divide us. To give you a sense of pride. A sense of nationalism. A sense that because you say it, it means you care; thus, you are a patriot and love America.

It’s like this fucking nonsense that came out of nowhere right before the election. Remember the caravan of big strong men coming to rape your wife? Which, let’s be honest, 90% of you reading this right now have wives that are fat, lumpy, celluloid ridden piles of shit that a Guatemalan travelling 1,000 miles on foot wouldn’t be able to harden his tamale for even if it meant Trump granted him asylum.

Get real man, don’t thank me for my service. You aren’t any more of a real American than I am b/c I wear sea green chino’s from vineyard vines and you wear Dickies.

Ok so we’ve established this, go fuck yourself. You don’t care about my service. You don’t care about this country. You don’t care about doing shit to save our democracy. You think thanking a veteran for his service is some sort of patriotic response. That’s what this is boiling down to. Do you feel like you did something for your country when you say it? Like you carried that rifle in boot camp? Did you get a mental picture of the boot camp stuff in Full Metal Jacket? In your head while thanking me, You were double timing it on a 12-mile hike with your jungle boots on, and had to duck and cover while the drill sergeant was hurling invectives at you. Hooroah, DRILL SERGEANT!!!

No? That’s not it? Well, why do you say it? Really? Why didn’t you say it like 10 years ago to me? Where was my god damn free Lube Job then? Huh? I know god damn well you didn’t thank anyone 15 years ago. Why didn’t you say it to me like 20 years ago? Why do you thank someone for their service now? What’s the god damn point? Do you have a clue? Any?

Let me answer that for you. No. You’re a pathetic excuse for a free-thinking American that can’t see how manipulated you are.

Do you realize that only like 15 years ago we started an illegal war? It’s not a big deal any more I know. Waterboard under the bridge, right. We went into war with the “Army we have”. IEDs blew up Humvees that had no doors filled with 19 y/o kids that didn’t have body armor. NBFD. We went into an illegal war unprepared, had our children murdered, and gave the people in charge a pass. Do you know that the country where the bombers of 9/11 were from is Saudi Arabia and we, Obamba too, sold weapons to those pieces of shit? We did nothing to the actual people responsible. Meh, oh well.

So again, don’t thank me for my service, go fuck yourself. As long as it’s not you serving, sure it’s easy to say thanks isn’t it? Thanks Betsy. It means a lot. Now ring up my fucking Fruit of the Looms, America’s choice jalapeno flavored salt and vinegar kettle style chips, and don’t put that single use American flag in the same bag as that discounted 10lb bag of chicken wings. Did I tell you I’m putting that flag up Sunday morning? One day a year, old glory shines bitches!

Hey, you reading this, what sacrifice did you make? Ohhhhh you’re a real American aren’t you, you thank people for their service. Oh I know, I don’t live in your real America do I. I don’t know the struggles you have. The one that has me battling the traffic of Main St. Middletown. Oh, honey look at the bunting on that house. This is our America isn’t it. Kids! Take a picture and put it on your Instagram. I’m gonna send this one to mom. She’ll be so proud. Your America right, the one I assume is in Bear Delaware or somewhere in Kent or Sussex county? The one that has a cousin in Rockford and can’t quit oxy. Oh your America in Felton? That makes your America a whopping 30 minutes’ drive from 10,000,000 million people. So, In case you didn’t know you live in the in the greater Philadelphia market. Or DC, or Baltimore.

Your America is my America you moron. You just choose to believe your world is different than mine. One thing we both can agree on though is the America those LARP kids live in, well that aint our America. I mean What. The. Fuck? Cab Calloway kids man. Sheesh.

Hey Bill? Do you still have a yellow magnet on your car? NO? Why the hell not? Hey, I want you to lean in closer, and read this, DID YOU KNOW WE ARE STILL AT FUCKING WAR? Thanks for hanging in there for a few years until the yellow faded or the lease expired on that king cab F150.

I will be honest though, I don’t see them for sale at the Dollar General anymore. I guess you can get a pass for your waning patriotism. Next time you swing by and have to buy those mylar balloons for Austin’s birthday, make sure to hit up the cashier and tell her (yes her) that you want to speak to her manager. When he comes out of the back room exasperated, glasses askew, combover no longer combed over, green button-down shirt all untucked and hanging awry over his black belt, find out why there aren’t any yellow ribbon magnets for sale no more.

And……by now you know I’m a veteran, and I tell people I am. Yet I hate hearing people thank me for my service. Hey guess what, go fuck yourself. It’s my right, I’m a veteran. My guess is 90 percent of the 10 readers (1) that visit this site aren’t veterans. Did you thank someone because you are ashamed you didn’t serve? Do you thank them because you wouldn’t ever tell your children or grandchildren to serve and you feel the least you can do is thank someone that had the balls to serve?

You see, if you are going to thank me for my service, I think it mostly means you didn’t serve. And that means you’re a pussy. Ipso Facto that means to me, you are a fraud. It screams to me that you know deep down you don’t, and won’t ever have the stones to serve your country. You won’t tell your own children or grandchildren to serve the country because they could die. They could be sent to war. Serving in the military is for other people that don’t have the opportunities your kids do. My god, imagine little Tucker sent to fight an illegal war and die. Jesus how awful. Imagine little Cayliegh went into the Air Force got raped or sexually assaulted by one of her peers and never finds justice. Man, that is awful. Hey, tell your son I said, “Thank you for you service!”

“ohhh my god he died in training exercise? Sheesh, my bad” go fuck yourself.

My guess is that you don’t think much about people serving most of the year. My guess is when having those icky thoughts thrusted upon you, the shame you feel inside is lessened by throwing out what seems to be a from the heart, sincere, patriotic response.

So next time you hear someone is a veteran I want you to think long and hard, long and Ron Jeremy long and hard. I want you to search deep down, balls deep down, into that pit of your stomach now filled with anxiety and shame, shame at the thought of Ron Jeremy’s dong and shame at the thought that the reason you thank someone for their service is because you don’t want to actually process those awkward feelsies, those squirmy, leg crossing emotions you now are overwhelmed with, those feelings that are telling you that you aren’t a real american, that you aren’t a patriot, that you’re a coward. A coward that wants to think he’d run into a school being cut down with automatically rifled bullets, but never ever in a million years would actually do it.

You don’t want to have to think about the very real possibility that Travis will be murdered by an Afghanny. Murdered in a war that was started when he was still kicking a soccer ball in the wrong direction down at MOT on a cold Saturday morning which you were running late on, and didn’t have time to pick up that beloved pumpkin latte. That latte that would have kept your hands warm while you listened to other dads, festooned in Cabela camo vests yap away about their sons travel fall ball aspirations.

We know you don’t want to think that Carol Ann will be raped and beaten in a foreign country by her recently promoted NCO. We sure as shit know that you are powerless over what could happen and is way more likely to happen to your son, daughter, grandson, or granddaughter in the military, during the theater of war which we are still waging in several countries.

In closing, if any of you thank someone for their service, your penance is to go buy that magnet you never replaced.

But honestly just don’t thank me or anyone for their service. When you do though, I hope you here me in your ear saying, “Don’t thank me for my service, go fuck yourself”

Caravans and Tacos

What’s more of a threat to this country, Jared Kushner not paying any federal income taxes on $100,000,000 to $200,000,000 of income for 6 years or a caravan of poor people 1,000 miles away?

The answer is pretty fucking obvious if you’re not racists

Next Question; What’s more of a threat to the citizens of this country, especially older white Americans on retirement receiving Social Security and Medicare a caravan of poor people 1,000 miles away OR having your safety net taken away from you?

Again, the answer is pretty fucking obvious if you’re not racist.



Not sure how his blogging hadn’t been an issue before hand.  I think he was a good thing for the Union.  I think he is a good person.  Maybe I’m being a hypocrite.  If my shit ever becomes public man oh man trying to explain away any of it would be a nightmare.  People don’t get sarcasm, or know when what you are saying is tongue and cheek and meant to demean the people that really believe it.

Good luck Mike, you’ll land on your feet for sure.



Never Forget

I was fortunate enough to have this cross posted on DL

Never forget.  Don’t.  You can’t.  You would felate a sailor at a bar in Texas if you could wouldn’t you.  You would move to fucking Texas to get away from us fucking liberal pussies that just want socialism and everything free.  Fucking transgender voting treasonous fucktards that want to take away your hard earned money and pass it off to the “city” people that don’t do shit but kill cops, sell cigarettes outside of bodegas, and smoke crack.  God damn mother fucking Alabama is where it’s at people. Nick Saban.  Honda.  Jack Daniels.  That’s my America. (beats chest)  That’s the America I know and love.  Where I can roll coal in my dualie, festooned with 2 magnetic flags (so as not to ruin the paint job), 1 faded but still relevant yellow ribbon, and maybe even one of those R.I.P stickers from June 8 1998 to Aug 23 2016 for my Uncle that died early to an overdose of bad heroin he got from a darkie.

Man I bet you’d move to fucking Alaska to live with the bush men, or hell maybe a state that will allow you to open carry an AR15 like jesus wanted. Where smacking your wife around on a Wednesday is just pregame for shit that’s gonna go down on Friday night after a long week of working  That big vein in the Okey Smokey Coal Mines of West Virginia.  FUUUUUUUCKKKKKK BLACK LUNG…I NEED A JOB AND WILL WORK SO HARD TO PROVE TO YOU HOW LOYAL I AM TO AMERICA.

OMFG First responders.  I’ve been ranting away here and I want to know when do they get a day by the way?  Why haven’t we anointed the college dropouts, and wanna be FOP fan boys that were losers in high school and hung out with the would be 40 year old unshaven, overweight pedophiles that would take turns washing their pick up trucks sans new lift kits out front of the volunteer firefighter station?   How on earth has this not happened yet.  Think about the real americans trolling around in their Ford 350 Ambulance, tape dangling from their belt, scissors at the ready to remove clothing so they can put a tourniquet on that artery?  Seriously, how has this not become some nationwide us v/ them trope that fox news, info wars and breitbart have jumped on?

Holy crap it’s 9/11.  OMG.  (fans self)  I feel like I need to go buy a case of bud light, or shit, go all classic and buy a case of Natty light where I can kick back at some camper park and wax poetic with other real americans.  I can’t believe what an amalgamated mess of coagulated  memories I have about this day.  Bin Laden bombed us. That fucking sand n****er.  Can you believe that piece of shit with his other towel head friends living in a cave in Baghdad Iraq or Tehran Iran or wherever it doesn’t matter.  They are all dog hating, alcohol abstaining, Mohammed loving freaks that don’t appreciate our American values and believe in that murderous tool kit they call the kooran.  I see one more bitch in a hijab I’m gonna lose my shit live on facebook and hope to god it goes viral enough for me to be a recurring guest on Tucker Carlson.

I know it’s 9/11 and I can tell you right now, that there is nothing better than how this country has changed for the better.  Under that monkey Obama I would never have been able to outright tell an idiot on welfare to go get a job or better yet yell at a queer at Starbucks to leave the country and go to that socialist failing dystopia in Europe you love so much.  Shit the other day I cheered when they called the cops on those two “African americans” sucking on free wifi and not buying shit.  You know damn well “they” just go in there to cause trouble and stick their chins out about how it’s their store.

Seriously though, I can remember where I was on 9/11 like it was yesterday.  Some of you may even know the story by now.  I was sitting in a cube.  My own 3×3 cube covered with shoulder high walls, adorned with multiple stickers on a pyramid, next to my “commendations” for hitting goal successfully 9 months in a row and the 2 family pictures I was allowed to have per guidelines.  My sister emailed me and said to go to a TV.  My cell phone didn’t work.  The Manager wouldn’t let us really go to the internet to check the news, I remember people popping up like whack o moles from their cubes and they told us to sit back down so we could decision more credit cards. It was early in the month and we had a long way to go before we could hit our goal of a approving a few hundred thousand of those morons filling out cards at a recent Nascar event.  They really wanted that Dale Earnhardt card back then.  Fuck Jeff Gordon.

One plane into the tower.  A second plane into another tower.  What in holy hell was going on.  Another version of OKC.  Which I remember because I was standing topside in Norfolk Va with my colt 45 hanging on my hip.  This was unfolding all on live tv.  I will never forget the people literally jumping from the towers.  I will never forget it. Ever.  Seeing my fellow Americans jump from a building.  Enflamed.  Smoking.  Jumping to their deaths.  Falling, camera panning in, panning back.  Peter Jennings.  ON LIVE TELEVISION.  Jesus h fucking Christ what the fuck is going on?  Who did this?

FYI we got out of work early that day.  SUUUHWEEET.  Like 7 hours of pay.  Thank you Saddam.  Time to drink.

After that we learned it was Afghanistan. Or actually Iraq.  Facts matter.  Bush stood on a pile of rubble. Bull horn.  Bullshit.  Smoke em out of their caves.  Called them everything up to but not towel heads.  Patriot.  Our Flags went up, their pants went down, The fans get up and they get out of town. The arena is empty except for one man. Still driving and striving as fast as he can.  Sorry had a moment there…

It’s now like what?  40 years since 9/11?  I’ve divorced, remarried, had 5 jobs, another great depression struck because of the Democrats, anddddddddddd we hate blacks again shamelessly, out in the open.  It’s like having been at 3 Thanksgiving dinners on one day and now we, America finally gets to let loosen our racist bull riding championship belt buckle.

Thanks to the freedoms our boys in the service gave us, and our CIA tortured for I can now tell a brown beaner to go the fuck back home all while waiting in line at the Dollar General mid decision on purchasing the slim jim or hungry jack teriyaki beef jerky for my boy Chase.  It’s god damned beautiful.  We’ve turned back the clocks and are making America Great.  Black Lives Don’t Matter.  Blue Lives do.  NFL Players are a disgrace.  LeBron James is starting a madrassa.  Hockey is on the cusp of becoming America’s sport (as it should have always been).  Evangelical Christians are in government, can fuck porn stars, marry foreign Slovenian escorts that whisper in broken English mid pump, “fuck in wet spot big American rich business man”.  *(yes I would all day long with Melania)* Can I get a HOOOORAHHHHHH, NEVER FORGET BITCHES!!!!!  It’s our America and we are taking it back.  Come try to take it away from my deplorable overweight sausage fingers.

It’s now 2018, And I’m in a motherfucking post 9/11 nirvana.  Women finally have to admit the pill induces abortion. They are subservient to men.  Welcome to MY AMERICA where Politicians openly blow shit up on television asking me to vote for them.  You aint gotta ask me to vote man, just ask me who to kill for you!  FUCK I’m so goddamned AMERICANNED UP RIGHT NOW I want to smash a beer on my head and have the suds run down my chin, wetting the collar of my cutoff camo/these colors don’t run, fruit of the loom outlet T.

So much has happened since 9/11.  Never forget Puerto Ricans are a sub species of ungrateful Mexican Americans that by the grace of god were invaded by us a 100 years ago, we lied to about giving them their own independence and now can treat them like the leaches they are.

There is so much greatness that’s occurred at the hands of Republicans it hard to ever forget 9/11, Saddam Hussein’s army that invaded NYC, and the American flag safety blanket we have been ensconced with thanks to the first responders that beat back the first wave of jet fighters.

I don’t know where this all ends.  I don’t even know where it really began.  Fact’s matter.  Or they don’t.  I don’t even know anymore.  I just know that today is 9/11 and I’m not gonna ever forget what happened.  I’m not gonna forget who did it. And I’m gonna die fighting for these freedoms that I have now.  The ones I should have always have had but liberal coastal elites kept from me because they know better even though they never lived out here in the real world of my town that has no red lights, one stop sign, a mayor and Little Caesars that stays open till 11 on Saturdays.

God bless America.  Never Forget.

I still hate the President

What’s left to say?

What can I say that has not been said?

The president and his party are the heaped pile of shit left on the riverbank of the Ganges from a squatting man adorned in dusty, shit covered sandals.

They are the rim of juice left on the hole of a worn and well ridden prostitute on her last gasps of life

They are the festering fetid splotches of picked scabs being consumed by flies on the body of an overdosed heroin addict

Collectively I hate them.  I hate who they are.  I hate who they represent and what they are doing to this country. I hate the god they hide behind.  I nearly hate their god as much as I hate them.

Their craven cowardice is only eclipsed by their arrogant bravado.  I want to punch their smug fucking faces like Tyler Durden atop Pretty Boy

Fuck you and fuck you and fuck you again

Did a Domestic Terrorist kill a Delaware State Trooper

By now, every body in the region knows that a Delaware State Trooper was murdered at a Wawa in Middletown Delaware.  

But what people don’t is that it looks like the father told some law enforcement the day before Sealy to the life of a state trooper.  He either contacted State or County police out of concern for peoples safety due to his son’s extreme behavior.  The father had taken his own measures to kick Sealy out of his house the day before which could explain why the news reports he was at his “parents” house.  He probably hadn’t moved all his gear out or his guns and ammo.


Allegedly Burgon Sealy was wanting to take out more people, but as we already know didn’t.  It seems that the officer was responding to a call from Wawa about Burgon who had been sitting in his car at the Wawa for several hours.   Perhaps he had been waiting and thinking about what he wanted to do, also maybe because his father had kicked him out he had no where to really go.

Lastly another piece or two of info that could explain why it took so long for police to force the killer out of the house was that it seems that the reason the gas they lobbed into the home didn’t work is because Sealy had some sort of ventilation mask.  Also part of the reason the officers didn’t storm the house sooner was because Sealy had armor piercing bullets.

So the question is to what “extremes” was Sealy going to to have his father call the police and kick his son out?


Why is Delaware Spending $30m on KidsPeace? A Private out of state Charity

You know I’m just thumbing through Delaware’s Open Data and numbers are jumping out to me.  Especially Programs that have no locations in Delaware.  I’m sure KidsPeace is a great program, but $30,000,000 for an out of state program seems like something ripe for review.

Hey Carney, maybe you could cut this?  And create some jobs in Delaware by finding a program right here in our state?


KidsPeace is a private charity dedicated to serving the behavioral and mental health needs of children, families and communities. 
Founded in 1882, KidsPeace provides a unique psychiatric hospital; a comprehensive range of residential treatment programs; accredited educational services; and a variety of foster care and community-based treatment programs to help people in need overcome challenges and transform their lives. KidsPeace provides emotional and physical health care and educational services in an atmosphere of teamwork, compassion and creativity. 

KidsPeace offers services in Georgia, Indiana, Maine, Maryland, New York, North Carolina, Pennsylvania, and Virginia. KidsPeace is accredited by The Joint Commission in Georgia, North Carolina and Pennsylvania. KidsPeace does not discriminate in regard to admissions in terms of sex, race, creed, color, national origin, LEP (Limited English Proficiency), religious beliefs, disabilities or handicapping conditions. KidsPeace is a Drug-Free Workplace. We respect our clients’ privacy. The models represented in this Web site are for illustrative purposes only and in no way represent or endorse KidsPeace.


Ideas of you

It is welling up again, tormenting me, fermenting and bubbling.  Here it comes.  The pain.  It’s here again.  It’s right behind my eyes.  They swell as I blink.  The pressure from all the fatigue has set in.  My eyes are sealing the flood of emotion that wants to break out and rapture my entire body.  One day the entire damn of pain will unleash its will on any one close enough to feel it. My eyes for now are able to hold back the pain.

I’m driving and it’s the worst time for me.  I am exhausted from the day behind me.  I can’t pull over and rest.  I have to keep going.  My hands grip the wheel.  My knuckles whiten.  The fatigue, it makes me think of you.  Can you see them, my fatigued feelings?  Do you see them laying in agony about me.  Can you understand what it is I constantly feel?

I see you.  You are right here.  Always right there.  I hate it.  I love it.  I dwell in it because it’s a familiar pool of pain that I must lap constantly and without rest. To rest is to let it die; to let you die and the memory of you abandon me.  So I must continue to swim in it, I flip turn and it propels me into the next meters of anguish.  I guess it’s my heart that creates this pain?  I don’t know.  I’m too shallow to understand.  It is why I keep wading in this blackness of my own consequence.  I guess if I understood it, or if I tried to I’d be able to paddle forward and not remember the pain it causes.

The weight presses down upon me, pushes on my heart, up my throat, and into my eyes, this weight, this pressure, it’s real.  I’m feeling it again and it’s torturous.  I try to stuff it in a place I don’t have to visit.

The pain, it’s a bubble, no a black balloon.  A black balloon of leaded pain that I transport around, cutting into my wrist. It is handcuffed to me, a thousand pound, black balloon of torment that I failingly try to stuff into a closet I no longer want to open or clean out of my heart, my mind, my conscious.

This, these thoughts, they all send my senses into a frenzy. I’m laying with you again.  I’m touching you.  The coarse brown hair I feel with my thumb as I stroke a triangle behind your earlobe.  I’m softly keying on your neck.  Touching your skin with the tips of my fingers, from index to pinky. The fingers drum in search of the rhythm that will open your heart .  My finger strikes the dampness on a hairless part of your neck.  I lean my body into yours.  Closing the distance of your back into me.  I just want to go to sleep with you forever, and not have to drown in this cesspool of purposelessness.

I can’t go back to you though.  I know it.  You are horrible for me.  I’m horrible when I’ve ingested you; I abused you and we both suffered from it.  I’ve consumed you to the point I balanced on an apex of destruction.  I can no longer balance on this pointlessness, seesaw on the axis of shame.  My life was a failure and you were the buoy I clung to.

What is the point of doing this over and over and over again. This nonsense.

My eyes are closed.  I’m laying here with you now.  I’m pressed up against you and curling into a ball with you.  The tears, they leak out.   I’m trying to resist the pain that the other half of me wants to feel, that wants to flagellate me.  A half of my being battles with the half that wants to erase all memory of you.  It won’t let me go.

I don’t know what to do anymore.  I can’t run from it.  I can’t forget it.  You forever are a piece of me. I am on trial with Kafka.  I’m in a sweltering hot room of doom with other people controlling the emotions I’ve been tied up with and I have no escape from. I lay under the covers, sweating out the pain and struggle to find the answers.

I’m talking to you in your ear.  I love you, I whisper.  I can’t say I love the idea of you.  Yet I know I love this idea of you and relish the pain it brings.  I love the idea of you I have constructed and what it supposedly represents.  The truth no longer exists. It’s been obliterated by my own mind and perverted into something I can no longer honestly visualize.

I try to construct a dream of you, the idea of you, I want so badly to build it without remorse, without shattered glass and broken dishes.  And yet, I know It doesn’t exist.  The idea of you and the reality of you are what I have conjoined together into a horrible mutated Siamese twin.  My conscious refuses to allow amy distinction and my mind continues to ride a train on these juxtaposed rails of Faustian delusion.

The curve of your body is thrilling.  My hand has drifted from the back of your neck and down the right side to your bare shoulder, your soft skin energizes me, we are sheeted in Egyptian cotton and it hides our shame.  My hand travels down the raised skin on your arm, and into your hand.  We grip each other.  I’m crying again.  I’m sorry I love you.  I’m sorry, I have to do this for me.  I fool myself into knowing that I’m truly worthy of what I want.

Why does this happen like this?  Why can’t I stop it?  Why don’t I just stop it?  Turn up the radio, go home, atomize these feelings?  Why can’t I just destroy them into a mist.  Why can’t these feelings be blown out like a candle and the acrid smoke simply dissipate into the darkness I use to hide in.

I’ve let go of your hand, are you feeling the devastation, the destruction, the rampant senseless emotional violence I’m extolling on you?  I know I’m being selfish.  I’ve objectified you and now am in love with amorphous being.

My left hand swirls on my head.  I search for thorns and blood, and find none.  I try to be pensive and act mature. Taking it all in, you all in. I know what I want.  I want you to see me for what I can be if you let me have you and all this nastiness in my head was not present.

Will you let me have you?  I must obtain you and show you  how vast my love of you truly is. The roughness of my callouses travel over your side and down onto your bare ribs.  One after the other.  Up and over.  Up and over.  Slowly, up and over down to your smallest rib.  Your waste intersects with your hip.  The skin is so smooth and soft.  It’s warm.

My thoughts of you are imagined.  They are created.  They are confounding.  I don’t remember what you feel like anymore.  I create it.  I’ve distilled my thoughts of you.  I don’t know what is real and what isn’t.  You’re more beautiful to me then you were the first day we met.  Everything about you is fashioned into what never was, hasn’t ever been, but what I wish it to be.

I’ve rounded your body now with my hands.  Up and over it all I have traveled. I’m pressed against you now, fully.  The desperation of my emotions have reached a cavalcade of somberness.  I don’t know what to do anymore.  I require you, for me.  I need to tunnel into you. To burrow into you. Where are you going.

What is all this?  It’s nonsense.  I’ve laid here long enough.  I’ve spent too much energy on this.  Once again I have navigated a ship of despondency closer to the rocks and shallow shores than necessary.  I can’t keep doing this. I have to stop. I must finish this agony.  Yet, I can’t.  Yet, I my own self won’t let it end.  I’m sorry I still love you.  We can’t stop loving you. The pain, I love this pain, it continues to well and will well forever.

I have freed my wrist from my want for your darkness. I know you will be back.  I will be back to you, back into you.  I will find you in the convalescent chamber of sobriety I have placed you in.

I will find you again when I am no longer strung out from this intolerable fatigue of repeatedly consuming a dream of you molded from clay of self-pity.

Nascar – Improving Road Rage one race at a time

I’m sure there are plenty of Nascar fans in love with Kapernick for not standing this past season.  I’m sure there are plenty that wish a player would just catch the damn ball and not celebrate every fucking first down.  I just wonder what those following Nascar think about the example these two morons set for their most impressionable viewers?



I found some good Defensive Driving advice that maybe these guys could learn, and apply themselves?

Watch out for the other guy. Part of staying in control is being aware of other drivers and roadway users around you (and what they may suddenly do) so you’re less likely to be caught off guard. For example, if a car speeds past you on the highway but there’s not much space between the car and a slow-moving truck in the same lane, it’s a pretty sure bet the driver will try to pull into your lane directly in front of you. Anticipating what another driver might do and making the appropriate adjustment helps reduce your risk.

Have an escape route. In all driving situations, the best way to avoid potential dangers is to position your vehicle where you have the best chance of seeing and being seen. Having an alternate path of travel also is essential, so always leave yourself an out — a place to move your vehicle if your immediate path of travel is suddenly blocked.