16 May 2009

Haaaaay potheads! Write your own fucking book!

I have not the slightest thing against legal ganja, not a bit.  And I do NOT want to "tax the shit out of it" like so many potheds advocate.  I have an issue with the fucking potheads.

Look, you fucking retards, write your own fucking book about getting high and saving the world.  My book is about a couple who does not give a flying shit what you idiots do.

Stop walking up to me on public parks while I am working on the SukiSite website and bugging me about the weed theme.  I had enough when I was writing the book with you people telling me "you need to add a legal pot theme" to it  (maaaaan).


Write your own fucking book and market it.  Noooo, there is not enough recreational drug use in popular music, movies or literature?  WRITE IT AND MARKET IT YOURSELF, fuck headed retards.

If the pot is not affecting your big giant brain why must you be such intrusive annoying assholes about it?

Edit note 17 May 2009:  Wow, deja vu is right Suki

Starbucks Customers so Suck!

What the hell is wrong with the people at my Starbucks?  I know they are bad all over, especially down in John's area, but here? AGH!

Don't get me wrong, I heart the staff!  And I don't say that just because I have seen Fight Club either.  But these damn customers, can't they figure out what the hell they want?

Sitting here fussing with the Suki book character profile and general websurfing I have heard "um" about 1000x more than in an Obama press conference.

How about blasting your voice a bit louder and wandering around all over running people over trying to figure out which bottled something you want?

Is "brother" something white haired 40 something Caucasian loud guys MUST say in every other sentence?

Why does he use a cell phone if people can hear him three blocks away just fine?

BECAUSE THE SMOKING AREA IS OUTSIDE!  I would not be smoking by the OUTSIDE ASHTRAY if I could smoke inside.  If you don't like my smoke hang a fucking sign around your neck and stay the hell away from me.

I do not speak "Asian".  You obviously speak 'European'.

I "got that accent" in Virginia.  Yes, we have existed there for quite a while.  I think before Pearl Harbor, but my family only got there after Vietnam and they are not from there either.

No, I am American.  My parents are from other countries.

If they had pizza it would be in the big glass case.

If they are out of something it is not "in the back", they are out of it there too.

No, my laptop is not for public use.  Same as my lap.

Thanks for coming up and trying to sit at my table while I am busy on my computer!  Of all of the empty seats in this place you chose my lap as your favorite spot!

Yes, it is still "my spot" when I am gone to the ladies room or out smoking.

I must have heard six people ask what kind of cheese was in some CREAM CHEESE pastry thingie.  I always wished the staff would reply with "Provolone" or something.

::: Were your children raised by wolves?  I think the wolves were doing a better job. :::

::: Why is he sitting at the next table looking at me and making clicking noses and scraping the chair across the floor?  Can't he go someplace where there is someone interested in talking to him, instead of ONE grungy little waiting-for-beloved-boyfriend-girl in the whole place?  Perhaps I should call Beloved BF and use all the cutsie names I use for Him? :::

And now for the best pulp headlines of the week:
Craigslist Stops Running Erotic Services Ads

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Pelosi, Pelosi, Pleosithon

Doesn't this woman hold herself up as some sort of feminist?  A shining example to women?

She'd best get out the aluminum foil and baking soda to remove the tarnish, or maybe just stop talking.

New York Times:

Mr. Panetta, a former Democratic congressman from California and a longtime associate of Ms. Pelosi, issued a statement that said the agency’s “contemporaneous records from September 2002 indicate that C.I.A. officers briefed truthfully,” a rebuttal of Ms. Pelosi’s claim on Thursday that intelligence officials had lied to her.
US News & World Report

Things have gotten so serious that former House Speaker Newt Gingrich weighed in with criticisms of his own. Rarely shy about using strong language to bring attention to serious subjects, Gingrich toldABC News that Pelosi continually evolving explanations amounted to "nitpicking in a fundamentally dishonest way."
Pointing out that, as the ranking Democrat on the House Intelligence Committee during the period in question, Pelosi was empowered to ask any question she wanted of the CIA representatives who briefed the panel. "She had an absolute obligation to know what was going on and she had an absolute obligation to speak up." If the right questions weren't asked, Gingrich said, "Its Nancy Pelosi's fault."
LA Times (Former home of Matt Welch)
Panetta's written statement, which was directed to CIA employees but released publicly, marked a rare instance in which the secretive agency's leadership has chosen to publicly challenge a high-ranking lawmaker.

"Let me be clear: It is not our policy or practice to mislead Congress," said Panetta, a former member of the House of Representatives from Monterey. "That is against our laws and our values."
Records suggest Pelosi, others were told of harsh interrogations (from May 8, 2009)

A chart compiled by the CIA indicates that Pelosi (D-San Francisco) was briefed on Sept. 4, 2002, on the agency's interrogation of alleged Al Qaeda operative Abu Zubaydah, and that the session covered "the particular [enhanced interrogation techniques] that had been employed." The chart does not list the specific methods covered during the briefing. But during the preceding month, the CIA had used the simulated drowning technique known as waterboarding on Abu Zubaydah at least 83 times, according to a Justice Department memo released last month.
Google News tracks Nancy Pelosi quotes here.
I was truly hoping that Feministing would come to the Speaker's defense, but they have not gotten to it yet.
The torture comment has been visited by the Suki Project here and here. Nancy Pelosi's current controversy was mentioned here.
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Nook eBooks and Paperbacks at Barnes and Noble
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Now only 99¢
Suki Series Tech
Order the paperback edition of Suki V: The Collection
Browse the series on Google: Suki ISuki IISuki IIISuki IVSuki V
Fan Fiction: John and Suki: Vacation Fun
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Fact Checking VP Biden

I still cannot believe that I voted for these people.

THE WHITE HOUSE SAID: The stimulus has created or saved 150,000 jobs.
THE FACTS: Since February, the nation has lost more than 1.3 million jobs, according to the Department of Labor. To make the case that the country created jobs over that same stretch, the White House has put forward a benchmark of jobs created "or saved." The argument is that the job numbers would have been even worse had it not been for the stimulus, and the difference between those numbers is a net positive.
To visualize that disconnect, consider this: The administration has promised to create or save 600,000 more jobs in the next 100 days. Even if the nation loses another 5 million jobs during that span (a highly unlikely prospect) the White House could still claim success.
There are few hard numbers when it comes to tracking stimulus jobs. The Obama administration numbers are based on estimates by the White House Council of Economic Advisers, based largely on a formula Obama's transition team put forward. It estimates the effect of tax breaks, government spending and social programs on job growth.
Spending money will put people to work. But spending has a cost. At some point, Washington will have to pay for this program, either by raising taxes or interest rates, and those policies typically hurt job growth. The Obama administration's job data do not take into consideration this back-end cost, an omission some economists, particularly conservative economists, say is a flaw in the analysis.
That is just one of several that the Associated Press takes VP Biden to task over.  Read the whole thing at the link above.
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Nook eBooks and Paperbacks at Barnes and Noble
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Now only 99¢
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Browse the series on Google: Suki ISuki IISuki IIISuki IVSuki V
Fan Fiction: John and Suki: Vacation Fun
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Copyright 1970 - 2011, SJE Enterprises, all rights reserved.

15 May 2009

Domino's Pizza Tracker ROCKS!

In the future of my book, Suki I, I do not even mention this most awsome thing, the Pizza Tracker.

Domino's shows every step: Order Placed; Prep; Bake; Box and Delivery.  Not positive that they are broadcasting as it really happens, but they do put people names with the steps.

One of my favorite books is Snow Crash, but Hiro's world was lacking this feature.

14 May 2009

CIA Lied, Pelosi Died

I was all ready to have a rant about Speaker Pelosi's forgetting about being briefed in 'torture' and waterboarding, and other stuff.  But, Chris Muir knocked it out so much better than I.

As for the title, I can't wait to read someone write "CIA Lied, People Died" so I can come back and say "Isn't that the way it is supposed to work?"

Pelosi vs. Pelosi is a good piece of video.

I agree with Obama

This has been a big Obamafest week for me!

No line item or plan for closing the Guantanamo Bay terrorist detention center.

No release of the Abu Ghraib detainee pictures.

Obama agrees with Miss America on same sex marriage (I disagree, the government should stay out of marriage IMHO).  OK, OK, for this one he agreed well in advance.

Looks like a nice, we-can-all-get-along week.

From the comments:

13 May 2009

11 May 2009

Suki I is publishing on Amazon for Kindle

Suki I should be IS available on Kindle in a couple of days NOW.

Kindle sale price $5.35 (Regular price $6.69)

ISBN: 978-0-9824686-0-9

12 May update by John: Suki I will be browsable on Google soon. Uploaded this AM.

10 May 2009

LoneWacko The Novel: Chapter Two

Chapter Two: Introduction (chapter one is over heir)
LoneWacko pondered the cumin connection, fingers hovering over his sticky keyboard. Slowly his thoughts drifted to the day when he first began his quest...

A small, solitary boy hangs on the fence surrounding a playground, gazing morosely through the wire diamonds. Inside, raucous laughter and shrieks of joy ring out. An ecstatic mob of brown children swarms over the grass, hotly contesting possession of a bedraggled soccer ball. The ball rolls to the fence in front of him. A pursuing girl stops and looks at him. "Come play with us," she calls, flashing a brilliant joyful smile, white teeth blazingly bright in contrast to her cinnamon-colored cheeks. The boy's face flushes a deep, deep red, his ears burn, and terror seizes his gut. He whirls, wordlessly, and sprints away down the empty street. As he runs, hot tears stream down his cheeks.

He jerked awake, a small puddle of spittle and vomit pooling on his keyboard. The apartment reeked of corn oil and semen. The ejaculate in his pants had formed a crusty scab gluing his shriveled penis to his underwear. The only white doctor he could find in LA told him it was normal for middle-aged virgins, but he never felt normal. How could it get worse?

He realized it was light out. He had slept all night. The time on the computer said it was noon and the date was 5/5/2009.

"Cinco de Mayo. The fifth of May. What could it mean? Really mean?" LoneWacko shivered a little and farted like a bass guitar.

Chapter Two, Con't: Related passages but disconnected
Lone Wacko approached his 1988 Chrysler LeBaron, running his eyes over its K-frame lines that he adored so much--American engineering at its finest. As he opened the door, the familiar female voice, as always, said "the door is ajar". How he loved that voice. He would dream sometimes that it was the voice of a woman who loved him. He'd never had a woman love him, of course, but that made it all the more special.

He pulled away from the curb, warily looking out for agents of Vincente Fox or careening taco vans, but the road was clear. It was time to track down the next lead Hugh Jazz had given him: a supposed informant by the name of I. P. Knightley who had information on the NAFTA superhighway.

It was time to break this case wide open.


Lone Wacko stood in front of the door and glanced around, making sure the coast was clear. He pulled out his worn lockpicking equipment, made from street cleaner bristles, his old nail clippings, and superglue.

He worked the lock like he would work an aged hooker, but couldn't get the tumblers lined up. He had to get in there--that's where Hugh Jazz had told him to go for a clue regarding David Weigel's ties to Vincente Fox and Salma Hayek. He could practically smell the cumin, and though it turned his stomach, he was quivering with anticipation that this might be the break he needed in this case.


Lone Whacko had some time to kill before he met with Hugh Jazz’s contact so he decided to leave his beloved LeBaron and walk the mean streets of LA. He spent several minutes shaking his fists in impotent rage at random Univision and Galavision billboards, but even this wasn’t giving him the usual ejaculatory thrill that it did. The memory of the prior night in his apartment was still casting a gloomy pall over him. Why not engage in some sabotage and bring the bastards down one brick at a time, he thought to himself.

He walked into the nearest toy store and went directly to the Handy Manny aisle. Lone Whacko took a rusted Craftsman mini-Phillips-head screwdriver, circa 1974, and began removing the screw that held the right arm of the Handy Manny doll to its body. When he finished with the last one on the aisle his mouth contorted into a twisted smile as he thought about all the postage charges the toy company would have to pay to fix the dolls, and how all the Hispanic and Anglo collaborator children, whose parents dared to want them to learn a second language, were going to cry tears of sadness as their Handy Manny toys broke after their first use.

“Who’s handy now, Manny?” He said as he kneeled down and stared at one of the dolls eye-to-eye.

“Sir, do you need any help?” asked a store worker.

“No. My work here is done.” Lone Whacko said in a gravely Christian Bale-as-Batman voice. He walked past the worker with a sneer and headed for the door.

“What a prick,” the worker said as Whacko walked out of the store.

Chapter Two: P Brooks Rising
LoneWacko shifted nervously from one foot to the other; he had concealed himself somewhat by lurking in a small group of trees in the garden department of Home Depot. He peered through the leaves of a spindly young maple tree at the group of day laborers on the far side of the parking lot.

"Shopping for a tree?"

He whirled around. "Huh?"

"Are you shopping for a tree, sir?" asked the young man. His brow furrowed nervously as he took in the sweaty, disheveled man before him. "If you have any questions, I'll do my best to answer them..."

The young man stopped, and peered closely at the Wacko. "Are you okay? Shit, you're not having a heart attack or something, are you?" Or jacking off, he thought to himself. He barely squelched his sudden urge to guffaw.

LoneWacko frantically shook his head. "N-n-no. No. I'm okay. I, uh... I was thinking about something else. You kinda of took me by surprise."

"Let me call Lisa, the manager. She knows a lot more about this stuff." He chuckled nervously. "I should be in the roofing department, but the other guy in this department called in sick. He's at the beach, the fucker. Oooh, sorry; we're not supposed to use the "F" word in front of customers"

LoneWacko looked quickly around. "No, seriously, don't bother."

Lisa had threatened to file a restraining order against him, once, and he knew he had to get out of there before she spotted him.

He shot one last baleful look toward the jabbering foreigners. Smoking cigarettes, telling stories, stealing jobs. How dare they act as if they belong here?

How dare they ignore him? He brusquely swept past the baffled sales clerk.

"Another time," he thought to himself. "Another time."


Hello all!  SugarFree sent me a copy of this to mirror here since he does not really want to fuss with a blog.

I don't have time to go back and find all the linkies where he and his buddies collaborated at Hit & Run, so if someone has those handy please leave in comments or e-mail John and me?



Chapter One

It is 8pm in LA, and hard-boiled private dick Lone "Retardo" Whacko, Jr. is hard at work . He takes the last puff from his e-cigarette, throws it to the ground, and snuffs it out with the toe of his MadeInTheUSA black loafer, already looking shabby after a week of use. As he walks back to his one-room apartment he sneers and gestures angrily as he passes a taco cart. The vendor smiles and offers him a free taco, but LoneWhacko slaps it away and smiles with grim satisfaction as the Mexican treat falls to the asphalt and the shell cracks and breaks.

He arrives home and notes with displeasure that his apartment, as always, smells of cheap bourbon, American cheese, and impotent rage, but he can only afford Mexican cleaning ladies. A baby cries down the hall as he shoves the warped door open and then wedges it shut. "Probably an AnchorBaby" he thinks, wishing briefly, wistfully there was something he could do to deport them all. He breaks out a package of Mac & Cheese--more expensive than Ramen Noodles, but at least American--and starts the water boiling, while working the facts of the case through his mind again and again. When he takes out the milk for the cheese sauce, he is struck by its sour odor and realizes the Mexicans have soured his milk once again. He falls to his knees, milk sloshing out of the jug like blood from a severed artery, as he weeps from the injustice of it all.

As he stands, his eyes track to the cork board covered with internet photos that he's crudely nailed to the wall. Nick Gillespie (known Dago), Vicente Fox , Cathy Young, Osama bin Laden, Veroniqe De Rugy ("Collaborator"), Barack Hussein Obama, and a weathered byline picture of Tibor Machan. "How does it all connect?" he mutters as he sops up the spilled milk with a dirty dishtowel.

The stifling apartment air assaults Lonewacko's nostrils in a pungent wave as he squeezes around the mountain of Art Bell transcripts and defiantly mashes the power button on his stained, beige computer tower. Now to the website, he thinks, his lips curling in contempt at the idea; stomach grumbling, he drums his pudgy fingers impatiently waiting for AOL to connect. As the modem whirs and bleeps, Lonewacko's brain petulantly formulates new CamelCase compound words, and he decides that the acidic burning in his gut must be due to Mexican influence. His chattering phone line begins to resemble the cacophonous rhythms of a mariachi band; Lonewacko reaches for his Walker: Texas Ranger promotional Zippo and lights a Virginia Slim 100 with a trembling hand.

His mood is becoming as dark as the black stain now covering his floor, the soot from his never washed dishtowel and the milk were mixing to form an opaque ooze that he couldn't seem to cleanse, much like the painful memories he couldn't seem to get rid of. He clenches the dishtowel tighter in his hand and the same black liquid oozes out and drips on the floor, he's thinking about the time he walked into a Mexican grocery by mistake and tried in vain to find a box of Captain Crunch. "I'll make you pay, by God. I'll make you all pay," he says angrily as he throws the dishtowel at Vicente Fox's picture.

Whacko thinks back on the events of the night before: the Tijuana donkey show, with its powerful scents and sounds of depravity. Why can he only become excited by the things he most despises? Whacko considers seeking professional help. But no, he'll not go the Tony Soprano route. "Therapy is for wops and wetbacks," he thought. It was time to turn his focus to the events at hand, and stop the NAFTASuperHighway before it was too late.

Sticking a fresh tape in his Betamax camcorder, the intrepid journalist double checked the itinerary he had downloaded from the candidate's website earlier that day.

He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and turned the various knobs of the thirteen locks defending him from the teeming throngs of IllegalAliens.

"This is the day" he muttered to himself as he fumbled with the grapefruit-sized ring of keys. "I've got them right where I want them. I'll ask The Question, and EVERYONE will kneel in awe."

He turned toward the stairs, and as he attempted to juggle the cameras, keys, and various appurtenances of his trade, he stepped awkwardly off the landing. He tried desperately to regain his equilibrium, but to no avail.

Suddenly his antiquated phone rings. "Why do you have a rotary phone?" he imagines people would ask him if someone actually ever visited him. His logic is devastatingly simple: you can't press dos for Espanol on a rotary phone.

He picks up the receiver, hoping that maybe Matt Welch or--hope of hopes, the dreamy Jesse Walker--is calling to answer one of the many questions he has bravely posed on his anonymous website. To his surprise, a clearly cloaked voice asks "is this the Lone Whackoff?"

A tingle runs down his spine and he says "Mr. Lonewhacko to you, but yes. Who is this?"

"This is Hugh Jazz. I'm calling with some information you might like, but I can't just come right out and say it--this line may be bugged. Is your refrigerator running?"

"Of course it is. And with American electricity."

"Then maybe you should go catch it!"

Whacko hears a burst of giggles. The phone disconnects and he stares at it.

"Why?" he wonders aloud, "Why would I have to go catch it? It is setting right here and it's not going anywhere. It can't move on its own."

Whacko gently begins to urinate himself as he turns back to his computer. He sorts through his notes, always taken in a code no Mexican could crack. The box of evidence is full and he is finally ready. Trembling with excitement, he begins the article that will bury La Raza once and for all:

The IllegalMexican plot to poison the American food supply with... CUMIN!