QFT

Some people are like big, puffy clouds – when they disappear, it’s a beautiful day!

- Anonymous t-shirt slogan


Christmas Bonus

Apparently someone down in the trailer park will be enjoying an extra merry holiday season thanks to a timely commercial endorsement.


QFT

“There are men in this world who go about demanding to be killed. They argue in gambling games; they jump out of their cars in a rage if someone so much as scratches their fender. These people wander through the streets calling out ‘Kill me, kill me.’”
- Don Vito Corleone
The Godfather,
by Mario Puzo


I’m Thinking Plugs For Sure…

Is it just me or has The Cabin Boy™ had some work done?

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Serious Rule 5

I figure it’s about time for a real Rule 5 post around here. In preparation, I reviewed Stacy’s explanation; there is a lot implied about showing a lot of skin, but there is also much to be said for modesty and mystery as well, in a sexy-from-the-neck-up way.

Here are a few favorites:

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P!nk is definitely sexy from the neck up – I just like the attitude she projects, something like, “yes you can take me home tonight, but don’t be surprised when I snap you like a twig.”

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Gia Gadot is a veteran of the Fast and Furious franchise, also set to play Wonder Woman. She’s yummy.

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Cote de Pablo was Ziva David on NCIS for many years, where she toyed with everyone. Another whose modesty impresses. I did not find but one or two bikini shots, and they felt wrong. So I stuck with what has always worked for me, the consumer.

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Padma Lakshmi. Eating bacon. Call this a two-fer.

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The iconic Marilyn Monroe. Followed by two acolytes:

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The unashamedly curvy Christina Hendricks…

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and the smoking hot Kate Upton.

I respect women who defy the conventional wisdom and tell the world “I have curves and I am not afraid to use them.”

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Tried not to objectify Anna Kendrick.

Failed miserably. I’ll muddle through, somehow.

And finally, my first serious Rule 5 effort cannot be complete without a deep bow of respect to The Standard By Which All Pin-Ups Past Present And Future Must Be Measured:

Miss Bettie Page:

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It was so hard to settle on just one Bettie. But that means I can use others later!


Earworm Wednesday!

Okay, after last week’s rendition of “Footloose,” I happened to find a video of “Dancing in the Movies” set to the same tune. Fun to watch, but I can’t possibly repeat a song just for the visuals.

But…

My kids put me on to this movie “Pitch Perfect” when it hit cable last year. No great shakes as a film, but many fun a cappella performances.

Plus, Anna Kendrick.

I don’t suppose it’s giving much away to spoil that it comes down to Guys vs. Girls in the final scene.

Here’s both performances.


Here’s A Grain Of Sand For You

The written word is a very powerful thing.  It has brought down presidents.  And people who can’t spell.  Or type.  People have done great good through their writing.  I have done great evil through my writing, even though some barely consider it typing.  I don’t take it lightly.  I’m nearly 300 lbs, I don’t take anything lightly.  Writing is an art.  What I do is more like self-abuse.  Some artists are better than others.  The picture that accompanies this blog was taken the day I retired from the National Institutes of Health in 2011, and I am holding some of the awards that were used as extra ballast in the canvas bag they put me in when they tossed be in the Potomac River. Thank goodness for the good old Swiss Army knife I carried back then, and the ambulance, and the paramedic who lost the coin flip and gave me mouth-to-mouth.

I respect my chosen career enough to know that I am no longer capable of being stupid in front of people who will pay for the privilege of watching.  I have given people who hate me far too many opportunities to mock me (like now!) and downplay my fast-declining abilities.  In other words, I can not only not hit the high fastball anymore… I can’t even see it.  At least, not until just before it pelts me in the face.  Again.

Was a time (see? Typing, not writing), as long as we’re going to use the baseball metaphor, when I could see the pitcher’s fingers on the laces of the ball when he let go, and I could anticipate the pitch based on that alone.  How that relates to writing press releases I have no idea, but it’s an interesting image in a non sequitur kind of way.  Now, I can barely see the pitcher.  Metaphorically.  Metaphysically. Metastatically.

I’m missing things that a typist who has accomplished things I’ve accomplished in my body of work should never miss.  I used to be able to type 40 words a minute with one hand and juggle tennis balls with the other while spinning plates with my feet and telling dirty jokes all at the same time!  Can you believe they forced a talent like mine to retire??  But it took a rocket scientist like WJJ Hoge of all people, to make me realize that I had all the information I needed about my credit card minimum payments right there on the statement I received every month.  I had $1200 in book marketing expenses to pay off, and it never occurred to me to check it!  A year ago, I would never have missed such an obvious clue.  It took an electrical engineer to show this idiot who has lost the ability to see the high hot one (boy, that brings back Navy memories!), to open my eyes to how far I’ve slipped in the past year.

It’s okay, though.  Tomorrow I’ll have forgotten all about it.  I’ll pull on my tights and my cape and become SOOPER JERNOMALIST all over again.

The one thing I value about myself is my honesty.  I’m not always right. Okay, I’m not EVER right.  But I can state that I have never written a story with the intent to deceive.  And I can say that because I value my honesty.  I don’t exercise it, but I value it.  It’s like a golden ring, a…Precious, if you like, kept hidden in a safe. I think, like a Precious, honesty is too valuable to be used, and too dangerous.  If I used the honesty that I value so much, people would begin expecting me to be honest all the time.  And that can’t happen.  Because then I would have to admit all the times I have been proven wrong.  And, if we’re speaking honestly, which we may or may not be doing, I have been proven wrong A LOT.  If I have been wrong, whenever that was pointed out and proven to an arbitrary and capricious standard known only to me, I have always issued a correction.  Which is the same as saying I have never issued an honest correction.  Sure, I have issued corrections, but they are those half-assed, you-think-I’m-wrong-but-I’m here-to-CORRECT-you corrections.

I had to retire in 2011 because I could no longer manage the commute.  I kept forgetting where I was, and several three letter agencies that I didn’t work for were getting very upset when I showed up at the gate several times a week insisting I worked there and they were in the wrong place. Eventually everybody decided that it would be easier to take away the car keys.  They tried to take away the computer too, but I put by foot down.  It made my balls hurt when I did that.  But we also knew that my ability to process facts and keep them organized would eventually suffer from this condition. (The Parkinson’s, not the being a human dick, though that has disadvantages too.)  And I have certainly reached that point.  Whether we’re talking about not being able to process and organize facts, or my balls hurting every time I take a step, I have definitely reached that point.

I am not shutting down the blog.  I expect to keep writing about the Kimberlin lawsuits (I should have no trouble there, he packs his briefs with disorganized facts just like I pack mine with STOP! DO NOT LET THE HONESTY OUT!!) and about my own serial legal beatdowns (again with the unprocessed disorganized facts, but I KNOW I don’t have to worry about wearing out my PRESSSSHHHHHIOUS honesty in that endeavor) delivered to my leaky, sand-filled vagina by the taunting evil of WJJ Hoge and his small but mighty band of followers.  I am only one man with a handful of sockpuppets, but THIS. IS. SPARTA!!!!!!!  They may not fight in the shade of the arrows I can fire, but I’ll bet they don’t have near enough sunscreen.  So there’s that.

They are free to say whatever they want about me, especially about my flapping skirts heading for the hills when Patrick Grady comes to Maryland to fight the second groundless Fear-Peace Order I have filed against him in less than six months.  Say, I wonder if that, along with that brave lawsuit I filed then withdrew in a three day window last May, might have any bearing on an attempt to have me declared a vexatious litigant?  I doubt it.  I have a hard time processing facts and keeping them organized, remember?

I know what I’ve done in my life, and as I look back I do so with very few regrets.  The Japanese tranny isn’t one of the regrets, and neither is the way I treated my children and my first two wives.  That’s no reason for them not to talk to me, though.  There are plenty of other reasons for that, reasons that I can’t process, organize or even recall.

The headline indicates my gift to each of you.  As I have clearly been affected by the common late stage LegalButthurt “execute me dysfunctionally” disorder, I issue you each a grain of sand from my delicate labia to take whenever you read something I’ve written.  I’m not going to do any more investigating until the next time, at least I don’t believe I will.  And you can trust me on that because I value my precious honesty too much to ever use it.  If I do break that pledge, it will be because I forgot I made it and I can’t process or organize those facts (to say nothing of any facts I might find or make up when I’m trying to dox somebody like shaka49) , I will have a friend double and triple check my poor processing and disorganization before I publish.  Hopefully my friend Mark in MD or State’s Attorney Wayne will be able to do that for me without laughing hysterically, because that makes me mad, and when I get mad I jump up and down and that makes my balls hurt more, and I fall down and then something else gets hurt too.

I can no longer trust my own judgment on some (any – SHUT UP!  HONESTY, GET BACK IN THE VAULT!) of these matters. And my detractors love pointing out when I type like a mamboing monkey with muscular dystrophy, let alone when I get a whole post full of facts incorrect because someone led me like a tethered goat down the primrose path.  They are going to say whatever they are going to say, and frankly, I don’t give a good God damn.  At least not enough to spend the NEXT eleven months griping about defamation, slander, libel, perjury, intentional infliction and false negative reviews, like I have the PAST eleven.

That’s just not going to happen.

I need to step away from the plate, hang up the cleats and watch the game as a spectator, not as a player.  The continuous and repeated impact of the high hard one just doesn’t feel the same these days as it did back when I was in the Navy.

I have too little respect for journalism to actually practice it.  I will continue to run my little internet radio stations and write for entertainment purposes.  (My entertainment, not yours.  What I think is entertaining turns the stomach of the overwhelming majority of normal people.)  But I can no longer expect, or ask, anyone to take what I write as fact.  What I really mean by that is – I know no one ever believed anything I wrote in the past; but now the time has come to admit that even I can’t delude myself any longer.

And Team Hoggy, and especially you, Krendler:  Fuck each and every one of you.


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