When I die, I want at least a few of my choicest barbs to survive, and toward that end I hope to capture here some of my infamously acidic retorts, and even create a few fresh.  Welcome to

my place to rant (like reX), to voice my sometimes obscene, ocassionally vulgar, but always interesting opinion.  I hope it upsets you. 

Like a dung pile, the U.S. is an uncommonly fertile place for meddling, nosey jerks who pry into other peoples lives, searching for any evidence of sweetness or light, which they seek to bury in their shit.  They—or you, as the case may be—are joyless, frowning pricks and cunts who want everyone to be equal in misery.  This site is for them, but not only them; it is also intended as bait for phoney assholes (like I tried to be for a long time, but failed) who make a show of being enlightened and 'with it' and have elevated political correctness to an art form with their exquisitely careful parsing of prevailing attitudes and with their near-flawless execution of their artifice.  These fascist sophisticates impose their addiction to self-scripting upon innocents with the same condescending resentment that the dung-people impose their shit upon the pure. 

A former friend of mine worked in a home for 'emotionally disturbed' boys.  It was a modern orphanage, re-titled in deference to the popular illusion that people have changed since the 18th century, and that children are not now abandoned, but instead have an illness.  Appropriately, it was a Catholic institution, run by a magnificiently miserable priest, Monsigner Dung-Prick.  My friend told me a story of a boy there who had a habit of masturbating onto the door knobs, especially the one on the front door, especially on days when some boys where going out on visits with relatives or potential adoptive parents. 

Part of my fasacination with this story is the speed with which beat-off boy could coat a doorknob; apparently it took less than 30 seconds.  I almost envied his achievment in using his rage to completely subjugate sex.  However, I did not envy him for whatever events were the origins of his behavior.  Can't have been pleasant. 

Monsignor Dung-Prick was rushing through the house on one of the visiting days, tensely frowning, deliciously indulging a sense of self-pity over some exaggerated 'crisis' as he headed toward the front door.  But beat-off boy beat him, and Monsignor Dung-Prick grabbed the slimey, gooey doorknob in his bare ecclesiastical hand.  The outcome of this story appeals to my fascination with tragedy.  If the priest had been a little less Catholic, and a little more human, the incident would have been insignificant, merely humorous, it might even have paid-off some of Monsignor D-P's karmic debt through poetic justice. 

But no, the old prick had not made it to monsignor by letting misbehaving boys get-off without punishment, and he was brutal in his 'corrective' measures.  The story was more than a year old when I heard it, and the boy had still not outlived the repercussions from the repressed old man.  Beat-off boy was still being confined to his room most of every day, and these confinements—which were his choice, according to the prevailing logic—often resulted in his exclusion from meals.  The boy's rage was escalating chronically, and the Monsignor was determined to repress the boy's rage (like he had repressed his own, perhaps, during his preparations to become a priest). 

Two infantile personalities locked in conflict, and the one who knew how to let go, refused.