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17th Anniversary Rant

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  • 17th Anniversary Rant

    17th Anniversary Rant

    Well, last Friday marked the 17th Anniversary of my getting my own place, back in 1993. (Editorial note: I began writing this post on July 2.)

    At the time, I went ahead and did what I could of a video rant to commemorate the occassion, considering the fact that I couldn't do a decent one, due to the fact that my JVC camcorder will now only record direct to VHS, (which, in a lot of ways, is an improvement, because, that way, it will record for as long as the battery holds a charge, which is a little over three hours, whereas, before, when the door on the thing actually would close, you could only record for as long as the camcorder tape lasted, which is only an hour and a half) and the VHS part of my VHS to DVD machine has been eating tapes ever since January.

    My Mom took it to be rapaired back in March, but the dirty little inbred that works at the place lied to her and said he worked on it when he didn't. It was in the same shape when I finally tried it out, a month and a half or so later that it was when she took it in. This is the same little shit-for-brains that actually had the GALL to tell me that I needed to either rip the tabs off the back of the camcorder tapes, or, otherwise, stick a toothpick in them to hold the tabs open if I wanted them to play right. It took all the self-restraint I could muster not to shove both toothpick and camcorder tape up his stupid little inbred ass.

    I recorded 30 minutes of video on my stupid, piece of shit Samsung DVD camcorder, plus an extra hour and a half on audio cassette.

    Rather than merely transcribe that rant verbatim, however, I'll just try to hit the high points, and maybe add a few things that I missed.

    (Now I realize it's been over a month since I've worked on my autobiography, and, yes, I do intend to get back to it pretty soon. However, the things that Weird Harold Queervington's been saying lately are really starting to piss me off, and my next rant will be dealing with that. Also, I think I will ask about John Todd, and try to find out what, if anything, Pastor Lindstedt knows/thinks about this puzzling, enigmatic individual, and then I'll re-commence.)

    It was June 25, 1993, my sister's seventeenth birthday. At the end of the party, I gathered up the last few personal belongings that hadn't already been moved down here, got into the passenger's seat of my grandpa's Mitsubishi Montero, and he drove me home---to my new home, this 1992 Southwind single-wide trailer, sitting on what had previously been a vacant lot, in between my grandpa's house and my uncle's.

    If you were to turn onto the road that I live on, from the south end, I would be the third home you would pass on your left. The first house is the home of one James Sanford Wright, now deceased, (his widow lives there now) for whose family the road is named, built by his father back in the 1890's. You would pass the driveway to my parents' house, but the house itself cannot be seen from the road. The next house you would've passed would be my uncle's red brick house, and my trailer is right after that.

    Since that time, a worthless sack of shit named Sam Chadwick moved up on the hill in the hollow in between the Wrights' house and my parents', off of the road where the old haybarn used to stand. My Dad owns everything on the left side of the road, so he had to ask his permission to move down there. If he had it to do over again, he would've said no. Chadwick's a former prison guard and a probable drug dealer. At any rate, he's a fucking dopehead, as are all his friends, who come around all hours of day and night. That fucking ex-piglouse has really turned our neighborhood to shit.

    Also, in 1996, my sister got married and got her own place, a double-wide, down at the bottom of the hill on my parents' property. Her driveway is the same as my parents', but you can see her house from the main road. So, now, instead of third, I'm actually fifth on the left.

    I went inside and flopped down on the maroon-colored foam rubber lounge chair that had previously been up in my "cabin", a little building that my grandpa had built for me up on the little hill in the woods behind my parents' house, back when I was eight years old. It now serves as a storage shed.

    When I was younger, I would go up there to masturbate and sometimes hang out with the cat, who my Dad didn't allow inside the house in those days. Then, in the summer of 1991, I started going up there to smoke. One of the first things I did, after I had graduated high school, was to buy a little corncob pipe, some pipe tobacco, and a pack of lighters. Many times, when I had gone to Dollywood, or somewhere like that with my parents', we would pass someone, usually an old man, smoking a pipe, and I had remembered how good it had smelled. I was determined to try smoking some pipe tobacco myself.

    Before that, I had actually tried a little bit of pipe tobacco that my sister's boyfriend had brought over. In April, 1990, I had gotten the brilliant idea of rolling up some leaves I had pulled off of a bush in the woods and smoking them, just to see what would happen. Maybe I would get a buzz from it. Then again, maybe it would kill me. I didn't much care which, being the little doofus that I was at that age. So I went and told my sister, who I knew, even at that age, snuck a cigarette whenever she got the chance. She had also smoked pot a couple of times, too, and told me about it. (Actually, unbeknownst to me, or anybody else at the time, she was actually doing about every drug there was. Oliver Springs Elementary was famous for drugs in those days. She was still in the eighth grade at that point, and not yet fourteen.) So I figured she might know something about rolling cigarettes and/or joints.

    So, we got together, rolled up not only the leaves but some weeds and dried grass as well, and smoked it all, up there in the cabin. Then, after that, when she would bring friends over, we would all go up to the cabin, and we would smoke dried pine needles and willow leaves. (There weren't any willow trees on my parents' property, but there was one on my grandparents'. We would gather up the leaves and take them to the cabin so we'd have some in reserve.)

    At some point around this time, I was walking in the woods close by the cabin, and found this little piece of wood that seemed to be just begging to be made into the bowl of a pipe. It was the damnedest thing. So I hollowed it out on both ends, and made it into a bowl. Then I broke off a length of bamboo, to use for a stem, and used my Mom's glue gun to hot-glue the two together. So I had a little homemade pipe in 1990.

    But, the problem was, you see, that I was afraid of cigarette lighters. I would always think the flame was gonna burn my hand. So I would always get my sister or one of her friends to light the stuff for me before I could smoke it. But, at this point, I had had it with that shit. I was a grown-ass man, and I wanted to smoke whenever I bloody well pleased, not just when my sister or some of her friends were around.

    So I made it a point to face my fear of lighters and conquer it, once and for all. I opened the pack, took out a lighter, and flicked the wheel over and over until I had finally convinced myself that I wasn't gonna burn myself with the damn things.

    Then, after that, I would go up to the cabin every chance I got and smoke my pipe. Sometimes I would mix pipe tobacco with willow leaves or pine needles, and smoke it all together. Sometimes I would just smoke the pipe tobacco by itself. But it was always nice to know that, even if I did run out of pipe tobacco, I always had the other to smoke, and it wasn't gonna cost me a dime.

    I had a favorite tape at that time that I chose as my "smoking tape". It contained songs from Steppenwolf's BORN TO BE WILD album and Neil Young's DECADE double-album. I would listen to it, smoke my pipe, and pretend to get high. Hell, maybe I actually did get a little high. Who knows? But, anyway, I was a little wanna-be hippie back in those days.

    Sometimes, though, I wouldn't listen to it. I would just read my recently-purchased book of Irish history while I smoked. Seemed to fit the mood pretty well.

    But, anyway, at first, I was kinda trying to hide it from my parents, since I didn't really think it was any of their business, and, after all, I was of legal age. But, after they found out, they allowed me to smoke in my bedroom as well, and I often did so. Still, though, sometimes the cabin just seemed to beckon me. There, at least, I could pretend that I was living alone.

    But, like I said, I flopped down on that foam-rubber lounge chair, covered in maroon velour cloth, and had a smoke.

    Then, after a few hours, I decided to let go with a song. My first karaoke machine, on which I had recorded a good number of songs when my parents were gone, was sitting on the table. So I put in a cassette tape and busted loose with a version of "Alice's Blues", a song I had written a couple of weeks earlier. In between verses, I did a little rant about my current situation, and my hopes for the future.


    by CGO

    Well I ain't ever
    Goin' down
    And I ain't ever
    Sellin' out
    But I feel
    Like a fool

    Started out
    So long ago
    Started out
    Just looking for my soul
    And you know I feel
    Just like a fool

    Never had no reason
    Not to believe
    Some would give
    And some would just receive
    But I feel like a fool

    When that old sun
    Came up for me
    He didn't charge
    No user's fee
    And I feel like a fool

    CHORUS: When I get blinded by the light
    Tunnel vision works its will with me
    And then I look down at all the vital organs
    That I've trampled into victory
    And you know I feel
    So down and out
    Somebody had to come
    And bail ol' Charlie out
    You know I feel
    Like such a fool

    Well, my friends
    Were always there
    And there were some
    Who could never care
    But I feel like a fool

    And my dick
    Was my friend
    I never thought he'd ever try
    To do me in
    You know I feel
    Like a fool

    And sometimes
    My head starts to ring
    I'm a knight
    At the end of a rubber string
    You know I feel
    Like a fool

    All these creatures
    Seem to be havin' a ball
    They're good for laughs
    But, brother, that is all
    You know I feel
    Like a fool

    And there's bourgeois voices
    In my head
    Saying: "Let's go out for a sundae
    And contemplate the dead!"
    The cars roll by
    So nice and white
    On a Sunday night


    So now I await
    With little dread
    To hear them screaming
    "Off with his head!"
    You know I feel
    Like such a fool



    Thus began the Big Campout.

    Seventeen years, four cars, two cassette decks, three CD players, three television sets, countless VCRs, at least five or six DVD players, three refrigerators, probably seven or eight toaster ovens, four pairs of prescription eyeglasses, seven or eight different karaoke machines, (Thankfully, I was able to make the master tapes of all ten of my albums before the last one gave out, around late 1999 or early 2000.) three presidents, and, of course, innumerable socks, tennis shoes, and pairs of underwear later, I can proudly say that I'm not much the worse for wear.

    I was determined to live by nobody's rules but my own. And I have. And, so long as there's breath in my body, I will continue to do so.

    In seventeen years I've never scrubbed the toilet, swept, mopped, or vacuumed a floor, mowed my lawn, washed a window, or cleaned the tub. Few, if any married men can say that. Hell, I don't even take out the garbage. My Dad does that, once a week.

    So, as a result, I live in abject squalor, as you may well have imagined. The first couple of years weren't too bad. Mom and Dad would come down every month or so and clean the floors and the bathroom. I never asked them too, and, frankly, could've given a fuck less, but they took it upon themselves to do so, and no more often than they did it, I wasn't gonna object. If it had been once a week instead of once a month, I would've told them to fuck off, and, had they been foolish enough to persist, I would've met them at the door and gone upside their heads with my shillelagh.

    But, eventually, they began to slack off, and, nowadays, it's more like once a year that my toilet and tub get cleaned, and it's just my Dad doing it. My Mom can stand neither the smell nor the sight of the place. She won't take more than two or three steps inside when she comes down at all.

    Needless to say, I'm plagued with every type of pest God ever made. From November '93 on, I heard scratching up under my floorboards on cold nights and mornings. It would always start when the heat kicked on. My Dad speculated that a groundhog he had seen coming out of the woods to the right of my trailer was crawling up under it to get warm, and the noise from the heater was startling it. Could've been. Or it could've been mice, even then. Who knows?

    But, at any rate, I've had problems with mice and rats ever since 1999. I've caught four or five in traps over the years, but the little bastards just keep coming back every winter. It sucks.

    Flies are always bad in the summertime, but the fly strips make it bearable. There were a couple of years when I had a really bad ant problem. 1997 was the worst. That Fourth Of Jew-Lie, a big black ant actually tried to crawl down my buttcrack while I was taking a shit. Gives a whole new meaning to the term "queen ant", huh? Thank God I was able to grab the little fucker and squash him before he made it to my sphincter.

    It's crawling with spiders, too, but, thankfully, they're not very big. The big ones give me the creeps. I'd sooner burn the place to the ground than tolerate the likes of them. Most of the ones I see are small enough to squash between my thumb and forefinger without fear of being bitten. My usual way of dealing with the larger ones, say, between an inch and an inch and a half in diameter, is to simply set them on fire. And I do love watching the little bastards burn.

    One time, I was lucky enough to witness a fight between one of the medium-sized spiders and some sort of elongated black insect with wings that looked something like a cross between a mosquito and a cockroach. I captured it on videotape, doing a running commentary, ala Howard Kosell. (sp?) The black insect had gotten caught in the spider's web, and I guess the spider was trying to sting/bite it into submission, but it was putting up a damn good fight. I watched it for about ten minutes before I got bored with it. Who knows how long it took the spider to paralyze the other insect.

    And, of course, there's the waspers. I kill about five to ten of them every year. The past couple of years the horseflies and deerflies have been getting really bad, too. The latter you can sometimes squash with your finger, when they're stupid enough to light on something for very long, but, with horseflies, you pretty much have to either hit them with the flyswat or spray them with wasper spray.

    Once I got stung by one of those fuzzy red-and-black caterpillars as it crawled across my lounge chair. Pissed me off so bad I sprayed a whole bottle of wasper spray in and around that chair, hoping it would kill the little fucker if he had hidden in there. Since he never crawled out and died, I guess he must've crawled back through the wall or something. At any rate, I never saw the little fucker again.

    And, once, I had the unsettling experience of finding a damn thousand-legger making its way across an issue of GOLDMINE magazine on top of a crate of records. Thankfully, it just brushed past my hand and didn't sting me. From everything I've heard, it hurts like hell. About as bad as a scorpion sting.

    Thankfully, scorpions are the one critter that I haven't been plagued with down here. I guess it's because my trailer's right off the road, just a few feet from it, instead of high up on a hill like my parents' house. They used to kill about five or six scorpions a year up there, and got stung quite a few times. I never got stung by one, but I killed quite a few myself, when I was living there. I did kill one in my room, around 1991, I believe. My sister killed one in her room, after she saw the cat batting it around with his paws. I guess cats are pretty smart, because it didn't sting him. Then, the day I moved out, when they were moving my bed, they found and killed one underneath it.

    But, no doubt about it, the last seventeen years have been the best years of my life. There were some bad times, of course, but, without a doubt, as Jimmy Buffett once put it, "the pleasure was worth all the pain". I wouldn't trade my life for anything. Grant it, a maid would be nice, or, better yet, a nice little S&M love-bitch that I could make do all the things I don't want to do, and fuck to boot. But, given my physical and economic realities, I wouldn't trade it for anything. Beats the hell out of actually working for a living and still being poor, like most of these inbred fucktards around here.

    I could talk about all the friends I've had and lost, for whatever reason, but, all in all, I've got to say that my life is richer for having known them. None of them actually betrayed me but one, that fat tub of pigshit, Calvin Mann. That cocksucker took my $200 and took off to South Carolina, never to return. Should've known not to trust a fat, pot-smoking sack of shit like that, but, honestly, I just thought he was stupid, not treacherous. Kinda like ol' LiarBill DeClueless, I guess.

    John Patrick left behind a legacy of dozens of heavy metal tapes which I'm still listening to. Not to mention the various CDs and VHS tapes he made for me. John was a good ol' guy. I miss him.

    Even Butch Rosenbalm, my sister's goofy, part-Jewish ex-husband, had his good points. We shared a lot of tastes in music and movies, and, goofy little mischling though he was, we did have some interesting conversations. And, unlike your typical kike, he was fairly generous. There were times when he would take me places when I didn't have gas money to take myself. And, the one Christmas that he lived with my sister, he got me a Christmas present, even though he knew damn good and well that I didn't have any money to get him anything. I made him some tapes, though.

    That little fucktard who calls himself "Joe Citizen", however, is another matter, altogether. (I now call him "Jew's Shitty Son", since he admitted having some Jewish blood.) Yeah, we had some good times together, and I still have fond memories, but the way that ended still sticks in my craw, and always will. After two years of friendship and him calling us "eternal brothers", he suddenly decides he can no longer tolerate the fact that I'm on the dole, even though he knew it from Day One, I never hid it from him, and he never said one word about it those two years.

    Personally, I think the little prick was just JEALOUS. He worked his goofy little butt off, day after day, putting down floor tiles for people who could buy and sell him, and probably did buy and sell his ancestors, yet he was as poor as I was. The little shit even had a chance to get on the dole himself, after he hurt his back, and I encouraged him to do so, but he refused. So he didn't have a damn thing to bitch about. It was his own damn fault.

    I think that, basically, what happened was, he never approved of my situation in the first place, but, aside from one e-mail that he sent me before we had actually even met each other in the flesh, (We met on a forum called Method Of Control. Long story. I intend to cover it in my autobiography.) he never said anything about it, because he knew I had a temper, and was afraid I would beat the shit out of him if he did. You see, he's only about five foot eight, and looks like a little fourteen or fifteen-year-old boy. I could've certainly stomped a mudhole in his ass if I'd wanted to.

    But, out of fear, he never said anything about it, and he allowed his jealousy to turn into resentment and his resentment to turn into contempt. So, finally, like the little coward that he was, he simply ended the whole thing by sending me a pissy little e-mail telling me things he was simply too CHICKENSHIT to say to my face.

    When I first moved down here, I didn't have a car, which, needless to say, sucked ass. I had to get my grandpa to take me to Knoxville, whenever I wanted to go to Lost & Found to buy records, and my Dad to take me pretty much everywhere else.

    I had wrecked my second car, a mindnight-blue 1979 Camaro, a couple of months before I moved down here. (Four days after Waco, to be exact.) I didn't get another one until June 20, 1996. That car was a 1986 Oldsmobile Calais, and was a piece of shit, pretty much from Day One. Damn thing kept cutting off all the time, and the dumbass mechanic my Dad kept taking it to couldn't figure out why. Turned out be the spark plug wires, of all things. And, wouldn't you know it? It had only been about a month after we got it running right again that I wrecked it. Oh well. Never liked the color of the damn thing, anyhow. It was this shiny teal-blue color, way too light a shade for my taste, and with no green at all to make it even halfway bearable. It was, quite frankly, an old woman car. Never really liked it all that much, but, after going three years without any car, I was glad to get it. I didn't quite have it a year before I wrecked it, sometime in April, 1997.

    Then, on May 31st, I got my fourth car, a 1987 Buick Skyhawk. Actually bought it from a nigger in Harriman. He was an honest nigger, though, because that car lasted me over seven years, ---the longest I've ever had any car,---and I didn't really have much trouble with it. Of course, due to the age, certain things did go bad, and have to be replaced, but never had any problems with the motor, and, I believe the tires that were on it the night I hit that deer back in December 2004, were the same tires that were on it when I bought it. Drove it all the way up to the Knob Creek Machine Gun Shoot in West Point, Kentucky and back without any problem. Over 400 miles and a four and a half-hour drive each way. Loved the color, too. It was a beautiful royal blue color. Next to my 1993 Pontiac Grand Prix, it was the prettiest car I ever had.

    On January 3rd, 2005, I got the 1993 Pontiac Grand Prix. It was, undoubtedly, the best-looking car I've ever had, even though it was the oldest. Anyone who saw it would've sworn it was brand new, rather than twelve years old. It was royal blue, too, though a lighter shade, and, after a good waxing, it shined like a sapphire. The body style was bad-assed, too. The sportiest looking car I've ever owned, besides the Camaro, and the paint on that Camaro looked like shit, too. There were big-ass rust spots on the hood. Of course, at age 19, though, I didn't care about any of that. I just thought I was the biggest badass on the face of the earth because I had a Camaro with a 350 engine in it.

    I wrecked it the first time in August 2006, but it was the other driver's fault. The fool turned right in front of me, said he didn't even see me coming, and I had the right-of-way. Nonetheless, even though it was the other driver's fault, and even the damn piglice agreed with me on that point, we still had to pay most of the bill for getting the damn thing fixed. ("We" meaning my grandpa, actually. He was the only one in the family who could afford to pay for it.)

    Then, on December 3, 2008, as I was on my way back from a visit with my cousin, Andi, I collided with a fucking wetback at a traffic light a couple of blocks from her apartment. Fucking totalled the car. Even though the dumb spic was acting like a fool and, under the circumstances, should've just let me go on through, since he had paused for several seconds and almost come to a complete stop at the red light, technically, he had the right-of-way, so the pig sided with him. Needless to say, though, the fucking wetback couldn't speak English, and didn't even have a license, being an illegal immigrunt, and the pig cited him for that shit, too. Dirty little fucker had the gall to actually sue my insurance company, though. Claimed he was injured. What horseshit.

    So, at long last, on February 21, 2009, I got my sixth and current car, a forest-green-colored 2001 Chevy Lumina. The tires are old and damn near bald and the front-end alignment's been out-of-whack for almost a year now. It handles pretty well, once you know how to manage it, but it does give me a good scare every now and then.

    Now, at this point, I think I oughta talk a little about Andi. I'm not gonna say anything that might potentially embarrass her, but, suffice it to say, she's the only female I've ever met that actually thinks and behaves like a real human being. Just as I believe I have a soul, in spite of being a mamzer, I also believe she has a soul, in spite of having a vagina. But, like I say, she's the first and ONLY female that I've ever known to have one.

    She's also the first person that I ever met who seemed to actually "get" me,---to really understand me, deep down. She has proved to me, once and for all, that Cordelia does exist. She wasn't just a figment of Shakespeare's imagination. I consider her a spiritual sister, and could no more hate her than my own reflection. For the past four years, she's been sort of like the Melanie to my Ashley, allbeit in a decidedly non-sexual way. (Although, seriously, did anyone really believe there was anything between Olivia De Havilland and that little pole-smoking Jewboy they got to play the role? I certainly didn't. And it just made the Scarlett character look like even more of a slut, since she all but raped the poor little faggot in her wanton lust for him.)

    Undoubtedly, the happiest year of my life was 2007, when I was visiting her an average of two to three times a month at that first apartment of hers. It was a much mellower scene back then. The building she lived in was mostly White. There was one black family living there, plus a nigger transvestite and his/her/its girlfriend, but, aside from that, all the other tenants were White, at least in the nominal sense. I thought nothing of wearing my white imitation wool jacket with all the Nazi, Confederate, and Klan patches on it when I went to visit her there in the wintertime.

    After she moved to Sambo Central, however, back in September of that year, we've had a lot fewer visits. A grand total of six, actually, the last one being that day in December 2008 when I wrecked the Pontiac.

    The main reason for this is that her health has deteriorated quite a bit. Aside from having problems with her knees, (which is what caused her to move to the other apartment complex in the first place. The apartment she lives in now is on the ground floor, while the first one she lived in was on the second floor, and her knees were always hurting from having to climb the stairs.) she has Crohn's disease. That's why it kinda pissed me off the first time I heard Pastor Lindstedt refer to it as "Jew ass cancer". Of course, I suppose it's possible that she does have a small amount of Jewish blood way back in her family tree, since she told me she was part Portugese, and there were definitely a lot of Jews in Portugal, back in the day.

    And, I must confess, at this point, that my own health isn't exactly perfect, either, by any means. I weigh over 400 pounds, live on basically nothing but fast food and junk food, and, for the past five years, anyway, have been smoking like a fiend. I started smoking cigars regularly for one reason and one reason only: Because I found that it helped my digestion. To be blunt, it helps me to shit, and, frankly, I need all the bloody damned help I can get, since, for almost nine years now, I've suffered from IBS with constipation, due mostly, I suppose, to my weight and sedentary lifestyle.

    Before 2005, I only smoked cigars when I would go up to visit with my friends up at Gatlinburlier, a Jew-owned tobacco shop up in Gatlinburg, which I finally decided to quit patronizing, back in 2006. When I would go up there to visit my friends, Mike and Dave, I would always smoke a few of their expensive cheroots. If Dave was there, he would always let me have them for free, but Mike would charge me, though he would at least give me a discount.

    What essentially happened there was that my friend, Dave, who worked there, quit back in December 2003, and, after that, I slacked off a lot on going there. I had been going up there like every other week for awhile. Then I found out that my other friend, Mike, was a brainwashed little neo-con ZOGling whose brother was a literal ZOGbot, working for Dyncorp or Blackwater or one of those rent-a-thug-type paramilitary outfits.

    Shocked the living shit out of me, at the time, but I figured I'd better keep an eye on him for awhile, until I had determined that he wasn't a potential snitch. The conclusion that I ended up coming to was that, while Mike was simply too much of a PUSSY to risk snitching, unless his ass was on the line, anyway, his best friend, and another Gatlinburlier employee, Father Rick, or Father Prick as I call him, was probably snitching at every given opportunity.

    I don't know if he's actually receiving a Federal paycheck like Hal Turdner or not, but he's a snitch by inclination, if not by profession. He pretty well admitted to having been a Freemason at one point, and he had nothing but good to say about those vile little Jew-tools, although it was unclear whether he was still technically one of them or not. You would think that would be kind of unusual for a Catholic to be a Freemason, considering the age-old war between the two, with actual papal encyclicals being issued against it, but Father Prick is associated with one of those Catholic-lite churches called the Cyrian Orthodox Church, which is somewhat similar to the Greek Orthodox Church. Their priests are allowed to marry, too, and I've seen his wife. Ugly little bitch looks like a shrunken Janet Reno.

    Also, aside from just working for a Jew, he actually schmoozes with them on a regular basis, which tells you all you need to know about the swine. He's a bit of an intellectual, who studies ancient history and early Church history and so forth, kinda like William Finck, so I just asked him, point blank, one day whether or not he believed there was a New World Order, and the ugly little bastard looked me right in the eye and said no. So I knew then and there that he was working for it. Any well-informed person who denies the existence of the NWO is working for it, plain and simple.

    So I stopped going there, because I was no longer able to look that dirty bastard in the eye and pretend that I didn't hate him. It made me sick just to look at him. You can't blame a kike for acting like a kike, but a guy like that....well, he's a mamzer, at any rate. He's too damn ugly to be anything else. May well have some Jew blood himself. He reminds me a lot of some sketches I've seen of either Danton or Marat, one of those Jews involved in the French Revolution.

    He's also the only East Tennessean I've ever met, despite the unfortunate (and partially-accurate) perception that a lot of people have of this region, to actually express pride in the treason of his ancestors during the War for Southern Independence. Even has a stupid little War-era ZOG shitrag that he brings into work with him. So proud that all his worthless little white trash ancestors went against their own state and sided with the North. I'd feed the little cocksucker his testicles just for that.

    So, not knowing as much about the character and practical limitations of snitches in those days as I do now, I figured that, if I was to tell the worthless little prick what I actually thought of him, the next day the ZOGbots would be kicking my door in. And it just wasn't worth it. Otherwise, I would've chewed on his worthless ass like a dog on a milkbone.

    Besides, I could no longer justify knowingly giving my money to a Jew, no matter how good his merchandise was, so I just quit going there. Haven't patronized the place since April 2006.

    But, anyhow, around June or July of 2005, I started trying out some of the cheap cigars that they sell in grocery stores. I started out with Middleton's but soon got sick ot them. They have filter-tips which are actually glued to the ends, and you can actually taste the glue. Pretty damn gross. Also, they're wrapped in paper, instead of actual tobacco leaf. I tried Phillies for awhile, and decided I didn't care much for them, either. Eventually, I ended up smoking Backwoods and have been smoking them ever since. They're as good a cigar as you can get at a gas station or grocery store. 100% tobacco.

    A couple of years ago, I hit on the idea of unrolling the cigar butts and smoking them in a pipe, mixed with Mini-Wheats crumbs. Definitely helps my digestion, and saves me money to boot, since I don't have to spend as much money on Mini-Wheats every week, which is my laxative of choice. Those crumbs go a looooooooooooooooooooong way. I've got two big bags full of them. And each box is about 5%-10% crumbs.

    Not exactly wonderful for my lungs, though. Some mornings I wake up and can barely breath. Until I get a hot shower to open up my pores, I'm pretty damn miserable. I've also done a lot of indoor burning over the years, in a small little grill that I've got.

    Back in October 1999, I made the mistake of burning a stack of styrofoam plates, and soon discovered the folly of that act. The whole house filled up with thick, black smoke, so thick that I coudn't even see, let alone breathe. I had to run outside and sit in the car for almost an hour, coughing and gagging for the first few minutes. I ended up having to spend the night at my sister's house. Luckily, her and her then live-in boyfriend, John Patrick, were gone that night. Totally ruined my CD player, and the place smelled funny for about a week after that.

    Pastor Lindstedt: Burning styrofoam produces cyanide gas. It is a wonder that TrashCanMan72 didn't poison himself for good back then. Cyanide gas is a poison and an effective poison at that.

    So, needless to say, I'm not in the best of health.

    Also, I guess I should talk a little about my sleeping situation, and the problems involved with that. When I first moved down here, I had the same headboard and bed frame that I had had since I was seven years old, which had been my uncle's as a teenager. It was at least 40 years old when it finally broke, back in 2007. I had gone through a couple of different mattresses, but the one I had in 2007 I believe I had had since at least '97 or '98. It was one of those two-sided mattresses that you could flip over. Really thick and really comfortable. I always slept well on it.

    Now, originally, my bed was in here in what is now the computer room. Back then it was my bedroom. What happened was, I went through three different lounge chairs in my living room. The maroon-colored one that I had when I first moved down here gave out in '95, and was replaced by a blue one that used to be my grandma's. That one gave out in early '96, and my grandpa bought a black one for me which lasted until '99. By then they had stopped making those kinds of foam rubber lounge chairs, and he got me a great big La-Z-Boy chair instead.

    Once, in spring of '99, one of those big-ass rain bees (Not sure anybody knows what I'm talking about, but they're a type of elongated, yellow-and-black-striped bee, in between the size of a yellow jacket and a carpenter bee. They look kinda like waspers when they fly by, but, when you look closer, you realize that they have black, moth-like wings. Around here, we call them "rain bees". ) got in here and flew into this room, so, not having any wasper spray at the time, or even a flyswat to kill him with, I just shut the door on him, and determined to sleep in the La-Z-Boy chair that night.

    That first time, it was kinda weird, and I kept having dreams that I was sleeping on a patio chair out on somebody's deck. But then, one night, in October of '99, I had come home from a day-long Lost & Found blitz, in which I had spent the remainder of my birthday money, and had topped the night off by getting a pizza at Big Ed's in Oak Ridge. (Best pizza on the face of the earth, as far as I'm concerned.) When I came through the door, I was dog-tired, and, after putting my records in a safe place, where I knew they wouldn't be wallered on or knocked in the floor, I just flopped down in that La-Z-Boy and went to sleep. And, after that, it just became a habit.

    So, from then until early April 2002, I slept on the La-Z-Boy chair every night, instead of in my bed. It caused a lot of cramping in my neck and sides, but I just didn't give a shit. I was simply too fucking lazy, after I had finished watching TV for the night, to simply get up and walk to my bedroom and get in bed.

    And I realize that a lot of you are probably thinking, "Damn, man, how fucking lazy do you have to be to really mind walking twelve or thirteen steps to the bedroom?" "You must be pretty damn lazy!" But, when you think about it, the average Amerikoon whigger probably has a television set in his bedroom, so that, when he finishes watching TV for the night, all he has to do is simply turn it off and go to sleep. I never had that.

    So, what happened was, I slept in the La-Z-Boy chair every night until the damn thing broke in April of 2002. And, would you believe I was so damn desperate to sleep on the thing, after having become accustomed to it, that, when the headrest wouldn't lean back, I actually tried to lay my head on the footrest and sleep that way? Then, finally, in desperation, I pushed the broken La-Z-Boy chain in front of the door, dragged the mattress off my bed, took it into the living room, propped it up against the wall, and slept sideways on it. It kinda felt like the La-Z-Boy.

    The next day, when my Dad came down, he saw what I had done, and, since he knew I had a rat problem, he was worried that rats would be crawling on me if I kept sleeping on the mattress where it was, and, since I couldn't really argue with his logic on that, I helped him move the whole bed into the living room, where it's been ever since.

    When, in November of 2003, I got my own computer, we went ahead and put it, the desk on which it sits, and my 100% leather computer chair in here, where the bed used to be. Before that, I had been using a computer that John Patrick rigged up for me and my sister to use, up at her house, after he left in October 2001. She had gotten a monitor and keyboard for Christmas, one of the years when he was living with her, and he hooked them up to an old computer that he didn't need anymore.

    Like I say, the original headboard and bed frame gave out on me in late spring or early summer of 2007, and, for some bizarre reason or other, my Dad chose to throw out the mattress I had along with the frame, even though there was nothing wrong with it. (He said there were holes in it, and there were, but, big deal. I had made them with my toenails, tossing and turning in my sleep.) It was probably the most comfortable mattress I ever had. And dumbass got rid of it, and replaced it with a cheap-ass $100 piece of shit. God I hated him for that.

    It only lasted about six months, and then, surprise, surprise, he had to replace it with a $200 piece of shit that wasn't much better, really. Fucking dipshit. I think I"ve gone through about four different mattresses since he got rid of that good one. They generally last only six months to a year. The little cheap-ass things simply weren't made for a 400 pound man. That's the bottom line.

    Then, in late April of last year, that headboard gave out on me, and he made a new one for me. This March, they picked up a new mattress and boxsprings for me, and reinforced the bed frame with wooden boards. Finally, they made a kind of wooden box frame around the boxsprings, about a foot above the metal frame to hold the mattress and boxsprings in place. It's somewhat of an improvement, but I still get neck and shoulder cramps like a motherfucker. Just not as bad as before.

    I sleep really well in the wintertime, for the most part, but not so much in the summertime. Not having central heat and air like my sister, uncle, and grandpa, it gets pretty damn hot around noon, and unless I'm just unusually tired, it pretty much forces me to get up around then. I've got a wall unit at the foot of my bed, but, in the summer all it does is make things bearly tolerable and keep me from dying of heat stroke. It sure as hell doesn't cool me off. Feels pretty nice after the sun goes down, but, shit, that's not when you need it the most.

    Grant it, my parents don't have central heat and air either, but they've got one of those big-ass industrial-strength air conditioners in their den which pretty well cools the whole house off. Plus they've got ceiling fans in every room except the bathrooms, including what used to be my bedroom, which Mom now uses as a sewing room. All I've got is one wall unit in the living room and one in here.

    And, since I live in a trailer with a tin roof, it's always at least ten to fifteen degrees warmer in here than it is outside. It's like living in a fucking sardine can. My dumbass Dad painted the roof white a couple of years ago, because he'd heard all the bullshit government propaganda about how it was supposed to make the place cooler, so you use less energy. ABSOLUTE TOTAL HORSESHIT. Didn't change a thing. Hell, if anything, the lighter color attracts the sun even more!!! (Ever walk on a beach with white sand? Think about it.) Putting cedar chips or pieces of melted tire rubber on it might've worked, but just painting it white didn't do jack shit.

    But, it's like they say, you don't really know what a "good night's sleep" really is until you actually get one. The last really good night's sleep I got was in October 2005, at Little Biff's Motel in Valley Station, Kentucky. That was my second trip to Knob Creek, and, since I don't have an RV and *DO NOT* do the actual camping thing, it was either Little Biff's or sleeping in the car, and, I must admit, it was a close-run thing that year. Luckily for me, one of the guys who made a reservation never showed. Otherwise, I would've been sleeping in the car.

    But that was the best night's sleep I had had in years. Hell, I slept so soundly I guess my subconscious mind thought I was dead and forced me to wake up after the first couple of hours. I remember that I didn't dream at all, and that's consistent with what I've read, that, in the deepest stages of sleep, you don't dream. But I always dream when I sleep at home, if I actually get to sleep at all. Honestly, that's sometimes the only way I can tell that I have slept.

    But, all in all, considering that I live in a state of complete and utter squalor, I think I've done pretty damn well for myself. (To be honest with you, I haven't even told you the half of it, but, the fact of the matter is, were I to do so, it would simply take too long to explain why I piss on the floor of the room that is now my library, and, when the smell becomes downright unbearable, throw cigar ashes on top of the piss, to improve the smell a little, but, suffice it to say, I do. Hell, if certain people knew how I live, I have no doubt they would condemn this trailer and burn it and haul me off to the looney bin. ) I've lived all my life, but the last seventeen years in particular, in defiance of the whole hellspawned female race. And, while I've undoubtedly (and, I suppose, rather predictably) deteriorated physically, I've only improved spiritually and intellectually, and that, after all, is all that matters.

    Two trips to Kentucky. Two trips to Greeneville. Two trips to the Battle Of Blue Springs re-enactment in Mosheim. Two to the Battle Of Fort Sanders re-enactment in Corryton. One to the Davy Crockett bithplace in Limestone. Six Civil War re-enactments in all. Countless trips to Lost & Found, Disc Exchange West, McKays, Mr. Gatti's (Oak Ridge, Knoxville, and Sevierville), CiCi's Pizza, Backyard Burgers, both of Andi's apartments, Gatlinburlier, All About Music, The Rhythm Section, Fuddrucker's, Golden Corral (Knoxville and Sevierville) and Smoky Mountain Knifeworks. All of those are just the places that I actually drove to by myself. Adding the places I went with my parents, I would have to include Chimney Rock Park, (three times) up in North Carolina, Blowing Rock, (also in NC) Franklin, NC, Chickamauga Battlefield, Rock City, (twice) Stone Mountain, Georgia, and Kyle Carver's Orchard and Apple House Restaurant, in Cosby, TN (four times).

    Then there are the two places that my conscience led me to,---where I went out of a sense of duty to the Resistance, as I perceived it, anyway,---Nashville, in July of 2000, and Franklin, (TN) in November of 2006. The first trip was merely to vote some Perot loyalists out of their committee positions within the Reform Party, and I went with a whole delegation from East Tennessee, which I described, in great detail, elsewhere on this forum. The second, I believed at the time would, quite possibly be my last stand. I was ready to die, and, if at all possible, to take some of the enemy out with me.

    Now I know that what I'm about to say is gonna freak a lot of people out, and some will, undoubtedly, question my judgement in choosing to share it with you here. Nonetheless, I will proceed, because the fact of the matter is that, A. Since I committed no criminal act, I really have nothing to fear in terms of legal reprisals, and, B. I see little point in worrying about people merely "watching me", since, in fact, I have no doubt that they've been watching me, ever since my first night surfing the Internet on 7/7/'01.

    The bottom line is this: When I went to Franklin, I had taken with me a quart of pure grain alcohol, a lighter, a box of Kleenex, and two vials of my feces. Now I will simply allow you to speculate, as you will, as to what I intended to do with the alcohol, lighter, and Kleenex, but what I intended to do with the feces should be fairly obvious. Since I had been informed that the mayor of that town had forbade the Confederate flag from being displayed at the event in any way, shape, or form, I simply intended to throw my shit at the bastard, like a monkey in a zoo. Served him right, I thought.

    But, when I actually arrived in Franklin, my plans immediately began to fall apart. Clausewicz (sp?) was right. No battle plan ever survives actual contact with the enemy. The first thing I realized is that, while my Mapquest directions had led me to where the event (a commemoration of the 142nd Anniversary of the Battle of Franklin) was to take place, there wasn't any bloody damn place to park there, and, what was worse, the place was crawling with piglice.

    I didn't know what to do, so I just kept on going until I saw a McDonald's and parked in their parking lot. Then, since it was an hour earlier there than here, (most of Middle Tennessee and all of West Tennessee is in the Central Time Zone) I went inside to take a shit and do some serious thinking.

    I decided my best bet would be to wait until there was no one around close by to see what I was doing and then soak some of the Kleenex in the alcohol and put them and the lighter in one pocket and at least one of the viles of feces in the other, and then just walk to the place and wait.

    But, when I went back out there, the place had become more crowded than ever. There was a beat up old towtruck parked right beside me, and the inbreds in the cab looked like the type that just couldn't wait to snitch. I sighed deeply and decided there wasn't really any point in trying to soak the Kleenex in alcohol right under their noses. It would simply be too risky. I tried to shove the smallest vial of feces into one pocket, but it made too obvious a bulge. It was sure to raise suspicion, I thought. So, then, sighing even more deeply, I put the vial of feces back on the back seat, closed the back door, threw my car keys onto the passenger seat, locked the driver's side door, and slammed it shut. I had to. Otherwise, I was afraid I would simply wuss out.

    You see, if I did nothing to heckle the mayor, they wouldn't really even have a pretext for arresting me, even though I had worn my all-over-print Confederate Battle Flag t-shirt. Technically, though, a shirt is not a flag, and I had only heard that the mayor had banned actual flags. So, had I not given the douchebag a hard time, I might've otherwise been able to simply walk back to the McDonald's parking lot and drive on home, none the worse for wear. And I was *NOT* gonna allow myself to do that.

    So, by locking my keys in the car, I was telling myself: "Alright, boy, this is it!!!" "You're up Shit Creek, now, and it's time to fucking swim!!!" "You're going to jail and that's all there is to it." "So, for fuck's sake, GET YOUR LICKS IN AND MAKE IT WORTH YOUR WHILE!!!" I had crossed the Rubicon. There was no turning back.

    So, with nothing in my pocket but a cigarette lighter in a hand-beaded Irish flag lighter cover and an empty wallet, I began to make my way to the monument, where the ceremony was to take place. I would, at least, give the traitorous little scalawag a good cussing out, and, as a result, would be spending at least one night in jail, maybe longer.

    Taking the sidewalk, I walked right past two piglice cars blocking off both lanes of traffic. The two piggies, one male and one female, were standing outside of their vehicles. Neither one paid me any mind as I walked past.

    Walking a little further, I saw a large Confederate Battle Flag attached to a trailer hitch and thought, "That's where I belong, by God!" so I walked over there. There were two men dressed in Confederate uniforms. One was an older man, about my grandpa's age, who was wearing glasses. The other was a younger man, either around my Dad's and uncle's age, or between my age and theirs, I thought, with a big, bushy salt-and-pepper beard. I found out later he was a JEB Stuart re-enactor.

    There was also a short, youngish, blonde-haired woman standing there. And she spoke to me. She explained all the trouble that she and others had gone to to put on the event, and how many in the City Council had opposed them. She pleaded with me and the others not to boo or heckle the mayor when he came out, because she feared that, if such an outburst was to occur, their opponents would seize on it as proof that such events only caused divisiveness and stirred up old wounds, and there would never be another one.

    I asked her, point blank, whether there was any chance that I would be arrested, merely for wearing the shirt, and she looked at me like I had three heads. "Why, no!" she replied. "Whatever gave you that idea?" I explained to her all that I had read about it in the local paper and seen on the local news. Then I asked her whether the Confederate Battle Flag had, in fact, been banned from the event. She said that it hadn't. That certain parties had objected to the flag, during the discussions, but that no one, least of all the mayor, had forbidden it.

    I heaved a sigh of relief that might've been barely audible. So no night in jail, after all. Guess I'd have to call my parents to come and get me, since I couldn't get back into my car, let alone drive it home, but I'd cross that bridge when I came to it. My relief, however, was fleeting, and soon turned to disappointment. "Wait a minute!" I thought. "If the Confederate flag hasn't been banned, then why am I even here?" Grant it, the commemoration ceremony would, no doubt, be interesting, but, damnit, I hadn't even brought my camcorder. I had come as a warrior, not a tourist.

    I continued to talk to the men in the Confederate uniforms, and found out that the whole misunderstanding was the result of one article in THE TENNESEAN which all the local press had seized upon and run with. An article which I would later come to realize was, surprise, surprise, written by a dirty lying Jew, who purposely mischaracterized what happened at one particular meeting in order to stir up controversy.

    The mayor, Tom Miller, it turned out, was one of the good guys. Neither one of the men had a bad word to say about him.

    So, anyway, several hours later, the ceremony took place, and, by that time, the whole place was just a sea of Confederate Battle Flags. It did my heart good to see it, I tell you. Must've been like some of the segregation rallies, back in the old days. If the mayor and City Council had banned the Flag, they would've sure had one hell of a fight on their hands. Maybe another Concord and Lexington.

    But, at any rate, why am I telling you all this, you might well ask? BECAUSE, DAMNIT, PEOPLE ALMOST GOT KILLED OVER SOME BULLSHIT DISINFORMATION PUT OUT BY THE JEW!!! And I *DO NOT* want it to happen again!!!

    Maybe the next time, instead of a fuck-up like me, it will be somebody with some actual planning ability and technical know-how who very well succeeds at killing some people, just to find out later that they acted on bad information.

    It kinda reminds me of the trap that Red Mike Vanderblow laid for those Oath-Keepers, although I don't really know all the details. IT CAN HAPPEN!!! So, for fuck's sake, guys, DON'T GO OFF HALF-COCKED!!!

    As it was, I was one of the lucky ones. There wasn't much I really could've done without risking being finished before I had ever begun, so I simply didn't bother. My parents came down to pick me up, and, since my Dad was too tired to drive back that night, they and I both got motel rooms for the night, and, the next morning, me and my Mom went back in her vehicle, while my Dad drove my car back. It could've gone differently, though, had certain factors not come into play.

    But, at any rate, that was Franklin.

    God only knows how many CDs, records, VHS tapes and DVDs I've bought and/or made since I've been down here. Hundreds. Hundreds of books, too. Some that I paid for and some that I got in the free bin at either Mr. K's in Oak Ridge or McKay's in Knoxville. No way I'd ever live long enough to read half of them, let alone all of them.

    So, as I've stated before, I intended, seventeen years ago, to live my life on nobody's terms but my own, and I've done that, and until my last breath, I will continue to do that.

    I was born middle finger first, I intend to die middle finger last, and all that came in between was me telling you the truth, whether you wanted to hear it or not.

    Last edited by Jack; 07-02-2018, 12:41 PM. Reason: Add video.

    "Lay down your silver and your gold
    I am a man who won't be sold
    And even when my heart grows cold
    I'll curse your evil stranglehold."---Horslips, from "Trouble With A Capital 'T'", 1977.

  • #2

    Well, it's like this: I'm getting tired of updating that stupid Charles Kikenheimer thread, so I'll leave off on it for now. When I get any new information on my health, I'll go ahead and post it to that thread, but, for the time being, I intend to leave it alone, as I've been meaning to update this 17TH ANNIVERSARY RANT thread for a week now, and it's high time I did so. So, since I see no point in posting the same information twice, I will simply post my CURRENT update on that here, and leave off on the other.

    I picked up the antibiotics Thursday, but, after I read the side effects of them, I thought long and hard before taking one, let me tell you. ;-( Aside from the usual side effects of nausea, dizziness, and possible diarrhea or vomiting, which didn't overly concern me, this one listed the possibility of cranial pressure, (Which is a side effect somebody like me, with organic brain damage, as it is, can ill afford to have. I'd go all Charles Whitman on somebody's ass, I guarantee it. ) which usually goes away after the drug is out of a person's system, but can lead to SUDDEN BLINDNESS, days, weeks, or even MONTHS after the drug has been taken. That's the first time I was ever prescribed something that they actually admitted might make me go stone blind. Gee-mo-freakin'-netti!!!

    Nonetheless, I was feeling pretty bad, and I didn't have anything else to take that would likely have any effect, so I went ahead and took one. I figured that, since the inflammation was, presumably, causing the pain, that, if the antibiotic did the trick, and knocked out the inflammation, the pain would cease as well. That was the way it worked when I took the Keflex he prescribed for me for a lower infection I had, back in December 2001. I noticed no quantifiable effects besides a rather sharp pain in the lower left part of my stomach, ---which may well have been due to the bacteria in it fighting against the bacteria that caused the infection, and that malignant bacteria fighting back real hard,---and a rather scary feeling that my circulation was actually slowing down. But, being so late in the day when I took the first dose, and not wanting to take any chances with my sleeping, I decided not to take a second dose that day.

    The next day, (yesterday) I didn't feel any worse, but, then again, I didn't feel much better, either, so I thought, "Fuck it!" "I'll just try to go a day without taking it, and see how that goes." So that's what I did. And, this afternoon, when I got up, I felt quite a bit worse. Dizzy as hell, feeling weak and slightly nauseous, and my lower back hurting worse than ever. So, since I'm supposed to wait until two hours after eating anything to take this antibiotic, I decided to go ahead and take a shit, wash my hands, and eat a shitload of fiber cereal and drink as much water as I possibly could, so I did so. That was exactly two hours ago, (It is now 4:23 PM as I write this.) so I'm about to wash the hands again and take another pill.

    At first, I kinda questioned my doctor's judgement, because, reading the literature that came with the drug, I learned that its primary use was in preventing malaria, so it seemed kind of odd to me that he would've prescribed it. After all, I wasn't worried about malaria, just mice-borne diseases, and this isn't even malaria country. But, today, after reading up on both colorectal and stomach cancer, the pieces all started to come together. With both types of cancer, at a certain stage of its development, there is an inflammation, and that's what he had found in my blood. With stomach cancer, in particular, there is something called H. pylori infection, which causes the inflammation. You get it from bad personal hygiene, which makes it EXTREMELY likely that I've got it. :-( :-/ After all, I'm a GUY,---a red-blooded, heterosexual male,---not some little candy-ass, germophobic Jewboy or faggot, who washes his hands every time he farts or touches his dick. I don't wash my hands at all, except after I shit, and I only use soap before I eat, (or pop a pill, if I have to) or when I've got just a ridiculous amount of shit on my hands. That's been my habit for all of my existence, ever since I've been old enough to wash myself in the first place. Little wonder, then, that, as they say, about 50% of the world's population has H. pylori. And that's what the prick is trying to find out. From what I found out about it, the infection is fairly hard to treat without MULTIPLE antibiotics, so he's thinking that, if this ONE antibiotic he gives me makes the inflammation go away, then that rules out H. pylori, and, therefore, stomach cancer. Hell of a fucking goddamned game to play with MY life, though, the dirty fucker.

    But the thing the stupid prick doesn't even know is that I've got one of the main symptoms of stomach cancer: Feeling full after eating only a small amount of food. I figured that would be a symptom of stomach cancer, and, sure enough, it was. I didn't have time to TELL the prick, though, because he was running behind schedule, and was in a big hurry. All I had the chance to really get out was the part about the mice and wanting a blood test and an x-ray.

    The only GOOD thing I found out, though, is that the symptom of feeling full after very little food occurs fairly early in the cancer's progression, so it would, most likely, be treatable. So I can, at least, relax a bit, as I probably won't be dying anytime REAL soon. ;-D

    So, what I need to do, as soon as this fucking prescription runs out, if not before, is get the bastard to order a stool test, and *NOT* one of those that you have to take at his office, because I *CANNOT* DEFECATE ON COMMAND!!! ;-( It'll have to be one of those kinds that they advertize on TV, that you take at home, and just mail to the lab for analysis. And I also need him to order every other x-ray they can do, short of the colonoscopy and rotoscope, and starting with ultrasound. I feel fairly confident that, as much pain as I'm in, if the ultrasound doesn't show it, either the upper or lower g.i.s will, and I won't even have to undergo the barium enema again, let alone the colonoscopy. We shall see what we shall see. At any rate, time is of the essence, and we need to get a move on. ;-( ;-)

    Also, unless I'm feeling just ridiculously better by Tuesday, I'll pick up some Extra-Strength Tylenol for the pain, and one of those back patches for pain, that they advertize on TV. I'll check with the pharmacist, on the Tylenol, to make sure there's no conflict with the antibiotic, but, surely, there shouldn't be.

    Aside from that, though, even though I've got all of this month's money, all I really intend to get is two new notebooks, five kinds of ice cream, two Pepperidge Farm cakes, a family-sized Sara Lee pound cake, and some powdered, chocolate, and cinnamon donuts. I'm gonna stay away from potato chips for the foreseeable future. They're just too hard for my system to process, these days. Hell, it's all I can do to digest the three sweet & salty granola bars I eat every day. :-/ :-( More and more, I feel like I need to eat soft food, as much as possible. And Sara Lee pound cake is the best thing in the world for my stomach. It literally cushions and insulates it like no medicine ever could. Tastes a lot better, too. ;-D Before I pick those things up, I guess I'll go ahead and try a couple of those Bacon Sourdough Kings at Burger King, with large fries and a Sprite. At Trader Joe's, though, (where I intend to go Thursday, after watching THE PURGE, with or without the usual large tub of buttered popcorn and large Sprite, depending on how I feel) I will forego the usual two kinds of potato chips. I'll go ahead and pick up two boxes of their Honey Nut O's, as usual, and a bag each of their Grand Slam (an organic Cracker Jack knock-off) and Chicago-style popcorn (caramel and cheddar mix), as well as some of their deli-sliced roast beef, and Piccata chicken. (I still have enough of all the other kind of meats I get from them so as not to need any more.) And, as far as doing CiCi's pizza buffet, as I planned to do afterwards, I will still do so, but I highly doubt I'll get nearly as much out of it as I usually do. :-( Might only be able to eat maybe a quarter as much as I usually do, and it breaks my heart to admit it.

    You just have to understand how much food fucking MEANS to me. It is a HUGE thing in my life. Aside from jacking off, it is really my only fleshly pleasure. Everything else I do I would quantify as either a spiritual or intellectual pursuit, or, perhaps, a combination of the two. It's been such a big part of my life for so long that I JUST FUCKING HATE TO LET IT GO. IT FLAT-OUT KILLS ME. :-(

    Some of my happiest memories involve food. Honestly, the first really pleasant memory I have in my life is of sitting in one of those little blow-up kiddie pools at my grandma's house, in front of the magnolia tree, to the left of the house, waiting for my grandma to bring me a big plate of fried cornbread, slathered in butter. I remember how delicious it smelled when she first brought it out, through the kitchen door, how I licked my lips in anticipation, and how she laughed when she handed me the plate. I couldn't have been more than three years old, and I might not have even been quite that. Don't get me wrong. I have other memories of that magnolia tree, too. I remember me and my sister playing under it, and finding all kinds of cones laying there on the ground, and our grandma teaching us how they differed from pine cones, in that they were full of beautiful, bright red seeds. I remember climbing almost to the top of that tree, when I was about ten or so. So high I was looking down on my grandma's roof. But, of all my memories of it, there's none that can compare to that first one. I guess that's why I choke up, every time I sing or hear "Beulahland" by Billy Ray Reynolds. Whenever I hear that line, "Where the sweet magnolia grows", it always brings a tear to my eyes. It's the heart and soul of everything I am. It's a Southern thing, damnit. ;-( ;-D And, needless to say, it flat-out KILLS me to think of a goddamned Yankee owning the place now, and coming down with his skanky old wife, and staying there, anytime he pleases. :-( They come down in an RV, that they park on the carport, and an SUV, which they park at the top of the driveway, on the left side of the house. Maybe the goofy-ass Michigan bastards actually sleep in their RV. Personally, I hope they do, rather than bring their trashy, Yankee furniture into that house that I grew up in, every bit as much as my parents' house. The very idea of it makes my skin crawl. They may as well just dig up my grandmother's corpse and rape it. ;-( But, anyway, more on that, later.

    So, anyway, whatever happens, I just hope I don't have to give up normal food altogether, because that would really suck. I can cut way back, if I have to. Just eat the one meal a week that my Dad fixes for me, (Either bacon cheeseburgers, hamburger casserole, or sausage and biscuits, during the spring and summer months, or toasted cheese sandwiches during the winter months. Used to be chili, several years ago, but, needless to say, that got to the point where it disagreed with my stomach, so I had to give it up.) and maybe only eat out, say, four times a month, instead of the two times a week I'm doing now. I'm hoping, too, that, after I manage to get in touch with my cousin, Ben, he will agree to be my exercise partner, at least a couple of times a week. I'm gonna start walking up and down the road that I live on, but I'd feel a lot better about it if I had somebody with me to help me up, if my knees were to suddenly give out on me, and I fell on my ass. ;-D

    ************************************************** **************************************

    Well, I started writing this post on Saturday, and it is now Monday, July 2. I'm gonna do everything in my power to finish it today. But that will be absolutely all I have time to do on here. You have no idea how INCREDIBLY uncomfortable it is for me, sitting in this stupid computer chair. :-/ Even with three pillows, I can tell that I'm only gonna be able to stand it for about an hour at a stretch, and then I'll have to take a break. Saturday I tried to do it more or less continuously, only taking a break to shit and take the medicine, and, so, around 8 that night, I just totally burned out, and, remembering how sore it made me, I just couldn't manage to psyche myself up to get back to it yesterday, so I didn't. I just read and listened to PBS, C-SPAN, and my Music Choice Classic Rock station instead.

    I say listened to, mind you, instead of watched, because my power went out at 7 AM Thursday, and didn't come back on until around 1:30 PM, and, after it came back on, my cable box was fried, as usual. :-( I called it in, but they could't do anything to get the channels on the screen again, so I had to take it in to swap it out, but, damnit, THE SECOND ONE DIDN'T WORK, EITHER, AND NEITHER DID THE THIRD ONE THAT I GOT MY DAD TO SWAP THE SECOND ONE OUT FOR FRIDAY!!! :-( Fucking bastards. So, since I can't afford to be burning my gas to make an infinite number of trips to Oak Ridge and back, and Dad can't either, I simply have no choice but to wait until tomorrow to take it in and swap it out, one last time. If this next one doesn't work, I'm not even gonna fuck with it anymore, but it fucking pisses me off, though, because I haven't had any cable service since 7 AM last Thursday, yet the bastards have been charging me for it, just like I did, and, I have no doubt, will continue to do so. Dirty little cocksuckers. :-( So, basically, ever since Thursday evening, rather than watching TV, I've simply been listening to it on my computer, using the live streaming function, the only exceptions being THE DAILY SHOW and THE OPPOSITION, (the latter of which aired their final episode Thursday night) and TUCKER CARLSON, which I actually made a point to sit in here and watch.

    So, anyway, I have now been down here, on this property, for over 25 years.

    On June 3, 2014, they hauled the old rusty, pissy, shitty, rodent-infested trailer off to LaFollette, TN. They brought this new one down the very next day, and, on the night of June 25, after everything had been moved in and the water and electricity had been turned on, I moved down here. (In the intervening time, I had been sleeping up at my grandparents' house, ---unoccupied since August of the previous year, but not yet sold,---and spent most of my days up at my parents' house, using my sister's computer [She's had her own place since she first got married, back in May 1996, but, after the computer John built for me and her to use, back in 2001, gave out, for some weird reason, when she got a new one, she asked for it to be placed in "the Indian room" up at my parents' house, which used to be her old bedroom, when she lived there. After she left, Mom used it as a place to keep all her Indian stuff, but she kept her computer in there, too.] up until 5 PM, and watching Fux Jooz Channel until 11 PM, followed by THE DAILY SHOW and THE COLBERT REPORT, and then, at midnight, I'd go back to my grandparents' house and go to sleep.) A couple of days later, the cable was hooked up, as well, and I haven't had any problems with it, up until last week. I had to swap boxes a few times, but, every other time, the new box would work. :-( Anyway, I've been living in this trailer ever since, which is over four years now.

    I'm not gonna talk TOO much about my Mom selling my grandparents' house to this Yankee bastard who owns it now. The sad fact of the matter is that she was over a barrel, and he lied like the Devil, as Yankees are wont to do. ;-( He made it sound like he knew all about plumbing and masonry and all these kind of things, and was gonna fix the place back up, and, of course, she was all impressed by the fact that he was a member of the wunnerfool, wunnerfool Wright family, who owned all the land on this road, originally. As it turns out, the rich, money-grubbing bastard just wants to buy up all the land on this road and build a cheap-ass apartment complex. :-( He already bought up Sanford's old place, on the end of the road, after his wife, Bertha, died, and, now, he's thinking he'll just have a few more years to wait (I think the guy's in his early 50's.) before my Dad and Aunt Sheila croak off, and, since the bank owns both of their properties, he'll be able to buy them up cheap, and then he figures maybe he'll make me and my sister "an offer we can't refuse". He's got another think coming, though. ;-( I must admit, that, there for awhile, I seriously thought about blowing the place up, just to keep him from living in it, but, now that I know what his actual plans are, that's the LAST thing I would want to do. Hell, I would just be serving as his unpaid demolition crew. :-/ Fuck that shit. ;-(

    But, the bottom line is this: The Big Campout is getting really old, and, honestly, it just ain't much fun anymore. ;-( Eight years ago, I was still full of piss and vinegar and flipping my finger at "the whole infernal female race" or whatever exactly I called them in my original post. (I realize I could simply scroll down and check, but the post is just so damn LONG, you know.;-D ) but now I know, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that I desperately need one in my life, and don't see much point in going on without one. Since my Mom died, in particular, it's become painfully obvious to me, especially with all these physical problems that I've got now. I mean, what's gonna happen to me when and if this cancer gets worse, and I become bedridden? Who's gonna take care of me? :-/ Not Dad, that's for sure. And my sister, even if she were willing, (which is a BIG "if") wouldn't have much time to spare for me, what with working and having to take care of Dad, too. Besides, IT'S JUST FUCKING CREEPY, you know? I mean, can you imagine your SISTER having to literally wipe your butt for you, like my Dad had to do for my grandma, right before the end? :-0 Gross!!! Like Mammy would say: "It just ain't fittin'!!!" It's not even about a sexual relationship at this point, I just need somebody to take care of me. Roxie has Pastor Lindstedt to take care of her. My grandma had grandpa and both my parents. Even Mom had Dad and my sister. I don't have anybody. And, I must admit, it scares the shit out of me, sometimes. ;-(

    So, just like with the health situation, all I can do is just hope for the best, keep praying about it, and keep looking, right? Surely there's some slightly overweight Daughter of Dixie out there who reveres her Confederate ancestors, doesn't have any use for niggers, doesn't trust Trump The Chump, and is willing to make me the center of her existence, right? ;-D Hope springs eternal, at any rate.

    When I posted my original thread, back in 2010, I would've put a video of the Jimmy Buffett song, "Cowboy In the Jungle" at the end of it, had I known how to do so at the time. I think I will add that one to the original post, as it accurately describes my 17 years of existence down here, up to that point, and the eight years since, but, here, I'm gonna post two videos that fit my current frame of mind: "Lately, I've Been Thinking Too Much Lately" by David Allan Coe and "Desperado" by The Eagles, and two that just pretty much sum up my worldview in general: "Authority Song" and "Golden Gates" by John Cougar Mellencamp.

    Happy listening and happy reading!!! ---CGO 7/2/2018.


    Last edited by Jack; 07-02-2018, 03:12 PM.

    "Lay down your silver and your gold
    I am a man who won't be sold
    And even when my heart grows cold
    I'll curse your evil stranglehold."---Horslips, from "Trouble With A Capital 'T'", 1977.


    • #3
      Health Update 2019

      Well, turns out, it was all a bunch of bullshit.

      From the papers I had received, and everything my sister had been told, I was convinced I was to go in for surgery on my gallbladder at 9:30AM on the 25th. So she gave me my requested wake-up call at 8, (even though I was already up, and had been for hours) and I was ready to leave at 8:45.

      But, when she came down, she had some strange and rather vexing news: This was NOT an appointment for surgery, but merely an appointment for me to meet with the doctor who would be performing it to schedule a TIME for the surgery. That was what she was told over the phone that morning, but even that turned out to be bullshit, we would eventually find out. Needless to say, I was pissed, on one level, albeit somewhat relieved, on another level.

      But, when I got there, and the guy finally came in to talk to me, I realized it was another kind of deal altogether. He had the gall (no pun intended) to ask me why I thought I needed gallbladder surgery in the first place. I was quite pissed by this point, so I told him: "You tell me!" "You're the fucking doctor!!!" So he asked me what my symptoms were, and I told him. He asked whether I had had lots of puking or diarrhea, and I said, "No, no puking, and no more diarrhea than usual." Then he poked and prodded me with his hands on both sides, and, even though I told him it hurt every time, he swore up and down that I didn't have the right symptoms, and that gallbladder surgery would do me no good, and could be endangering my life, unnecessarily. Well, that did it. I told him: "Well, you're the doctor, and I guess you know your business, but you need to tell that DUMBASS, Lenoir, that HE doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about, because his exact words to my sister were: 'Oh, yeah, those gallstones have got to come out.'" He looked quite shocked when I said that, so I reiterated: "That Lenoir is just a plumb FOOL, anyway you slice it."

      So, there you had it. It was just a difference of opinion. Dumbass Lenoir thought I needed the surgery, but the actual surgeon didn't. Said that people had gallstones for years and years without having to have surgery, and that, unless, it was making me miserable, and I couldn't stand NOT to have it out, it was better to just leave it in. And I was inclined to take the word of the actual surgeon over some dipshit general practitioner, who had proven his incompetence, time and time again, at my expense.

      ************************************************** ***************************************

      I guess I should go back to the beginning, and explain how I got to this point. All my symptoms from last year pretty much continued, plus a few new ones, that really scared the shit out of me. I was having pains in my chest, heart palpitations, more trouble breathing than usual, and was coughing up this crud of a dry, gluey consistency. When I went to Lenoir, in March, and told him the symptoms, he said it was pleurisy, and prescribed something for it. It seemed to work, for awhile, and, when I researched the symptoms, I couldn't help but agree with him....that time. ;-(

      But my stomach and lower back pain just kept getting worse and worse, so, back in June, I got my sister to set me up for an appointment so I could get a referral for another x-ray. As it turned out, Lenoir wasn't available that week, but a female doctor named Ann Carter was, so I saw her instead. She seemed to actually know what she was talking about, and to give a shit, to boot. I tried to get her changed to my primary care doctor, but, unfortunately, she's not taking patients right now.

      At any rate, I had the second x-ray done on the 18th, and this one showed that, along with the scoliosis and arthritis, I also had sciatica, a mild convex curvature of the spine, and a possible bone spur in my lower-spine/hip area. Dr. Carter called me later and told me that there were some other things, too, that she had seen that kinda worried her, so she scheduled me for an ultrasound on July 1st.

      Now I don't mind telling you that that little x-ray was a pure, 24-karat, copper-platted BEE-YOTCH!!! They poked and prodded me til I felt like I was gonna pass out, and I had so many muscle spasms driving back home, it's a miracle I didn't fucking wreck. They said my test results would be posted online the next day. They lied. They weren't there the NEXT day, either, or any day that week. The typically lazy-ass ZOGling PUSSIES had simply taken advantage of the Fourth Of Jew-Lie weekend to fuck off for the whole week, and do ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, while, undoubtedly, still getting paid. Typical. ;-(

      When I finally got the results THROUGH THE MAIL the next week, here's what they said:


      INDICATION: Abdominal pain (No shit, Sherlock!!! ;-( )

      COMPARISON: Ultrasound gallbladder January 13, 2011

      FINDINGS: There is no evidence of abdominal aortic aneurysm. The visualized portion of the inferior vena cava is unremarkable.

      Liver is large, dense, and fatty measuring 23.3 x 22.8 x 20.6cm. Common bile duct measures 0.7cm, which is upper limits of normal. There are suspected gallstones, with no wall thickening and negative sonographic Murphy's sign.

      The pancreas is suboptimally visualized.

      Kidneys are poorly visualized with no hydronephrosis. Right kidney measures 12.6 x 7.8 x 5.6cm. Left kidney measures 11.9-6.8 x 6.4cm.

      The spleen is large measuring 16.2 x 11.5 x 7.9cm.

      The patient reported no pain during the exam. (Lying motherfuckers!!! :-( It hurt like hell, and I said so!!!) There is no ascites.

      IMPRESSION: Difficult exam.

      Large dense liver with suspected gallstones and borderline common bile duct size.

      Suboptimal visualization of the pancreas and kidneys.


      Along the bottom, Dr. Carter had scrawled: "Inflammation test may be done to your gallbladder." "Make appt. back in."

      That, I suppose, is why Lenoir said what he said. At any rate, no inflammation test was done, and, from the impression I got from the surgeon, it wasn't really needed.

      On later pages, she had also scrawled: "OK-blood count", "Sugar up-recheck", "Inflammation-testup", "Cholesterol up-needs (a downward-pointed arrow, to indicate "lowering"), "Thyroid-OK", "Testosterone-OK".

      ************************************************** **************************************

      So, that's how I got to this point.

      I got the surgeon, Dr. Graves, to go ahead and set me up another appointment with the gastroenterologist, Dr. Orton, who I saw twice, back in 2017, to try to get his opinion of what's causing my symptoms, and, hopefully, get a couple more x-rays done. (Upper and lower G.I. at the very least.) Then we'll take it from there. Hopefully, if there is any cancer, we'll be able to track it down before it becomes untreatable, or, if it's something else that needs to come out, they can go ahead and remove it, and I can go from there.

      I also need to try to get an appointment with an ear, nose, and throat doctor, ASAP, because these sinuses are fucking killing me. :-(

      "Lay down your silver and your gold
      I am a man who won't be sold
      And even when my heart grows cold
      I'll curse your evil stranglehold."---Horslips, from "Trouble With A Capital 'T'", 1977.