The Prodigal Son Returns . . .

. . . to blogging. Apologies for the hiatus. I took a break after the halfway point. The real reason is I've been busy as hell. Lots going on in the Governance Section, (and seeds to plant).

Thanks to Engie, Ma, Amander and everyone else that sent packages and seeds!

They will be put to great use I assure you.


INCOMING MORTARS . . .

OK, just one.


Jihadi fires mortars, and I don't care.

Jihadi fires mortars, and I don't care . . . (to the tune of "Jimmy Crack Corn").

Indirect Fire's become boring. Its so Summer 2006. I want a chance to shoot the bastards that launch them. And yes, kill them, and watch them bleed to death, (if I'm lucky). Don't think I'd lose sleep over it. Now, or in the future. And I've thought about it. (you know me.)

That's not unchecked braggadocio. Its personal. You need to have it happen to you. And I haven't seen or experienced any fraction of the worst of it. But its meant to terrorize you. Which it effectively does for maybe the first 5 months. My attitude used to be, "Holy Shnikes! Head for the hills! The Sky is Falling! By the beard of Zeus!!"

Now, its an annoyance. A hindrance. A time-waster. A provocation, and an impotent gesture of self-hatred. A finger-poke in your eye by an ass-clown 3 miles away.

You spend some time here, and like anywhere else, you get to know the characters. These jizz-buckets will shake your hand. I've probably shaken a few with blood on their hands. They're not terrifying nether-world creatures from a dark nightmare. They're fat, lazy double-y chromosome, inbred retards. Most are illiterate, and would agree with you if you could talk to them. They're balding, failed businessmen, with limps. They watch Manchester United Soccer games (a clear sign of evil). They have hemmhoroids, and wear reading glasses. They beat one of their wives when the chores aren't done. (ALL THE CHORES - THE MEN DO NOTHING) They think nothing of the carnage they launch from a tube. They're not strategists, and not effective. Just grocery clerks for a mad-blind incoherent dogma. "Launch a rocket or two today?" "Na, I'll get around to it tomorrow. Big games on tonight."

Its no more important than the impish, punkish, childish sense of insecure bravado they get, and the money they're paid to do it. These pre-cognitive homo-limpoids do not qualify as human. They are dingle-berries. Silly. Playing a lethal game of paintball.

Unconcern for their own lives is merited. I reccomend ritual suicide out in the desert. Complete and comprehensive lack of concern for other lives . . . others who might be evolving opposable fore-fingers, might be dancing, might be taking off the hijab for a minute in front of the mirror, might be - I dunno - learning to read, or practicing for school, teaching their young son how to ride a bike, playing soccer in the back garden - - - the lack of concern for these lives, (not to mention the Great Satan's soldiers who are laboring mightily to get just one toilet seat working in this whole G-D country before some ass-hat comes along and blows it up) - that's what's MADDENING.

I don't think the creature exists, or has ever existed in the world or in history - that is more contemptible, that represents more comprehensive a failure and regression - than the (Arab) Mohammedan franchise jihadi. If ever a group self-nominated for extermination - THIS IS IT, people. They are begging us . . . .