There are schools that teach young minds to save the environment, but a government that consistently destroys what's left of it. Do they bother to tell the kids that nothing they do can stop or even reverse
the history of commercial abuse that has occured?

Newspapers scream that the "race card" is no longer a point of contention in society, but there are riots in Philly, Cincinnati, and LA... (And no matter what "they" say about it, all cops can go to hell). We tell ourselves and each other that the world is getting better, but the only proof we need is one night of not-so-bad news.

So challenge what you see, read, and hear. Confirm the world with your own eyes. It's getting more dangerous everyday to live with your head in the sand. Just ask anyone...

now get off yer asses and vote on eminem and have fun with McVeigh.Graffiti

also check out Gay Robots III - gay robot mates with jesus

Gangly fleshy bits of penis creep past her lips, slip over her teeth, rest on her tongue. Sleep. Stay in her for the warmth. Rest. When she bites down I’m awake and I move further. Past her uvula, dodging her tonsils, navigating the thin corridor of her esophagus...

I’m a probe. Dick probe. Pushing. Sensing her gag I crawl slower, take my time. Penetrating her... Deeper...

Deeper. “Swallow me.” She can’t scream but her attempt sends shivers over my length – sends shivers through my skin - echoes of her apparent discomfort. I’m in her stomach. Pushing through her past through her digested past. Hurried...

Hurried now because I’m uncomfortable. Hurried because I don’t want her to don’t need her to show me what she is who she is... What she’s done. I can feel dicks, the broken shafts of dicks of other men dead and limp inside of her stomach. Dicks she’s chewed off. She bites. Here is where she bites. Either that or the men aren’t ever long enough to reach further, to see any further...

For now, her stomach is frightening to me. I find a sphincter and gently push through. Push my way out. I’m snaking through her intestine. Further...

Further now into twenty-four feet of shit that her and I now share. We’re both coated in whom she has swallowed, whomever she has sucked down. Twenty-four feet of who she is in full, although often mistakes as the repulsive and as the sum of who she is not...

The plunge... The colon. Slide through. Slide past the detail, the painful knowledge of what she’s done, what, or rather whom she might prefer. Dodge past the reality, the substance and hurry into her anus...

I’m choking.

Sliding past another portal, another sphincter I dash into, and soon out of her last exit. Out of her ass. My dick pushes, breaks apart her final tight, rusted door. Air. Release. Breathe...

I breathe. My urethra breathes... Then, as I take time away, outside of her, reflecting on the horrors of her past, I slide back, smoothly reentering her colon, more ready than before to deal with her shit.

Oh yes. I wouldn't be surprised if, by now, y'all were wonderin' an' worryin' that maybe ol' JEB'd run outta bedtime stories. Well, the answer is a resounding "nope". I'm here to tellya--as long as that jackass Wonderaz lives 'n' breathes, ol' JEB'll always have more stories to share than he could ever possibly tell.

True--they're nearly always tales of woe, disgust, humiliation, misery and shame. And this one I'm 'bout to lay on ya is no different. I've learned over time (a considerable amount o' time) that's just how 'tis, and how it's always gonna be, a-hangin' with the high 'n' mighty jackassedness.

Another truism--if I had all the damn money I've pissed away over the years on bail bondsmen fer wonderturd the jailbird, I'd be a semi-wealthy man. Yep, I could be livin' on a tropical beach, instead o' rottin' away in a stale, urinized cesspool called a "resthome".

Oh well. So be it.

Hang on there, a minute . . . I lost my train o' thought. Jeebus.

Oh! This ordeal began several years ago. Me 'n' the jackass were on the road in my trusty blue Chevy Apache pickup on our way to Bokchito. He had a rich uncle there who went by the name o' "Dink". To this day, I don't know Dink's real name, or even if he had a real name. I just know everybody called 'im "Dink". Anyways, we wuz hopin' to pick up some extra bucks thrashin' peanuts fer ol' Dinkums.

We were still a long way from our destination when we decided to pull over at a fast food eatin' joint called "Doug's Taco Dog". I voiced serious misgivings 'cause o' the name, but Wonder swore up an' down he'd heard the place served great grub. On the bright side, at least it wasn't named "Doug's Dog Taco", or I woulda had to put my foot down.

We pulled up and strolled inside. There was a pimple faced li'l kid (nothin' against pimples--this kid just had a bunch of 'em, too many to count, in fact) who just stood there by the register, a-pickin' at an especially large 'n' festered zit on the very tip o' his nose. I finally asked what in hell wuz a Taco Dog. In reply, he just reached around with his zit-picker and grabbed sumpin' that looked like a corn dog. He took a bite, then handed it to me. It was similar to a corn dog, except instead of a wiener inside, there was a core o' a pungent, brownish-orange substance oozing out like lumpy pudding from the middle.

I passed on 'em, but the jackass ordered a half dozen. I settled fer some nachos, since they didn't look nearly as sinister as those taco dogs. We both got the house drink special, however, which was a frozen banana concoction called a "slusharita".

We sat down in front of a TV suspended from the ceiling, I suppose fer the diners' viewing pleasure. As we ate, Wonder was intently watching a documentary 'bout some ol' gal who'd popped Mickey D's fer some big bucks. The old lady claimed she'd burned the shit outta herself when she accidentally dumped a cup o' MacDonald's coffee in her lap.

I swear, when that program started talkin' 'bout the tub o' money she got, I began hearin' those rusty gears in that sick and feeble jackass brain a-creakin' an' a-squealin' like there was no tomorrow. Lemme just tellya like it is--I've learned, from experiences too numerous to count, that noise from that noggin o' his is always a portent of very bad things to come.

Sure 'nuff, my instincts were correct. As if in a trance, his eyes still glued to the boob tube, ol' Wonder took a big swig o' that ice cold slusharita. Suddenly, he grabbed his head with both hands and let out a howl that sounded like a coon dog listenin' to feedback from a Marshall amp. Naturally, when his hands went to his head, gravity took charge o' the slusharita and the remaining contents were promptly deposited in his lap.

He put on an Oscar-worthy performance, I must say, although this was to be no one-act show. Oh, Wonder Cagney hit the floor a-rollin' an' a-sobbin'. The peewee zit-picker apparently paused long enough to dial 911, 'cause the Deaf (pronounced deef) Smith County EMS arrived in no time flat.

I got in ol' blue and followed the ambulance to the hospital.

fast-forward two years later . . . .

"Oyez! Oyez! The County Court o' Deaf Smith County, great State of Texas, is now in session, the Honorable County Judge Rollo M. Pulchney presiding!"

How in hell Wonder's case ever made it to a jury is beyond me. But, there he was, a-wearin' a polka-dot tie 'n' plaid shirt, sittin' next to his lawyer, Truman "Tuffy" Trujillo. "Tuffy" had a reputation, alright, but he'd earned it from years o' hard drinkin', rather than any kinda courtroom prowress.

Sittin' at the other table was Doug Sliger, owner 'n' sole proprietor o' Doug's Taco Dog. Immediately to his left was the attorney provided by his liability insurance carrier. Her name was Jane Chesworth and lemme put it as simple as I can--Ms. Chesworth Esquire had flamin' read hair and was built like the proverbial brick shithouse. To be precise, she had a rack o' melons on her that'd revive the nursin' instinct outta even the most jaded, over-the-hill, sumbitch alive.

*Bam-bam-bam!* Hizzonor Pulchney rapped the gavel, hacked and snorted, then said, "Miss Chestworthy, are you ready?"

"Umm, that's CHEZ-werth, your honor, and yes, we are ready", she cooed as she stood up in all her mammaried glory.

Wonder jumps up and hollers, "Hey Judge! We're ready, too, and that monster over there owes me millions o' dollars for my pain 'n sufferin' 'n' other stuff, too!" The sudden outburst apparently woke-up Tuffy, 'cause he springs up, pounds his fist on the table, and yells, "Your honor, I object as being incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial!"

Without diverting his gaze from Ms. Chesworth's awesome baby feeders, Judge Pulchney says in an icy, deadpan voice, "I could not agree with you more, counselor. Now, sit yore client down so's we can get on with it."

And get on with it, they did. The jackass took the stand, of course, and ranted on and on 'bout the dangers o' frozen slusharitas. Said he had a $250 ambulance and emergency room bill, plus millions o' dollars worth o' pain 'n' sufferin'. Told the jury 'bout how his testicles 'n' crank had been ravaged by frostbite from the exceedingly dangerous slusharita. Claimed he had to endure the humiliation o' wearin' adult diapers 'cause that "infernal" slusharita had robbed him of all bladder control. He testified on and on 'bout daily excruciating migraines brought on by the severe head freeze he'd sustained from his first gulp of the frozen concoction. Then, with tears in his eyes, he dropped his voice, looked at the jurors and said, "Worst thang of all is I can't git it up anymore. You know? I just can't git an e-rek-shun. I-I-I've lost my manliness, my manhood!" With that, he just dropped his head and began sobbing like a baby.

On that high note, Tuffy's direct examination had ended. With a flourish of his right hand, he announced, "I tender this poor, pitiful witness, yer honor!" I couldn't help but notice several of the jurors slumping down in their chairs, covering their mouths and rolling their eyes as Tuffy stumbled back to his table.

Ms. Chesworth slowly approached Wonder with her back to the jury. As she sauntered to the witness box, I caught just enough of a flash to see that three buttons on her blouse had somehow come undone, exposing more o' her boy toys than the law should allow. I'll hand it to her, though. It was an ingenious ploy, since she had the Judge droolin' while our lad Wonderaz began sweatin' bullets and squirmin' in his seat.

She asked a few questions until she was satisfied the witness was sufficiently "warmed up". Miss Jane then directed the jackass to get up from his seat and walk over to a table about 10 feet from the jury booth. Wonder looked pleadingly up at the Judge, but Hizzoner just pointed him to the table without once breakin' his eyes from the one woman hooter review occuring on the courtroom floor.

So, Wonder slowly arose. Hunkered over with both hands over his crotch, he quickly shuffled over to the table and sat down.

Ms. Chesworth placed her hands on the table and leaned over. With eight or nine inches of prime and creamy cleavage less than 3 feet from Wonder's red, perspiring face, she inquired, "Sir, why were you slouched over with your hands covering your groin area when you walked to this table?"

"Uh . . . uh . . . m-m-m-my m-man-hoo-hoo-hood wuz achin' from the-the f-f-frost-b-b-bite!" The jackass was sinking fast.

"Oh really?", she purred. "Well, I'm sooo sorry, sir. This won't take long. I just need for you to show us what happened on that awful day. Mmmm-kay? The Chesworth loaves o' plenty inched even closer to the gulping and twitching Wonderaz.

"Ho-ho-hokay, m-m-m-ma'm." The jackass was fixin' to git the ten count.

Thereupon, Ms. Chesworth produced an empty slusharita cup. She put it on the table and, as Wonderaz reached for it, her left mega-boob just happened to come to rest on top of the cup. The jackass's hand started tremblin' and his eyelids had disappeared.

That did it. Wonder snapped. "YAAAAAHHHHH!!!! BUBUBUBUBUBU!!!" He shot outta his chair and buried his face smack dab in the middle o' the promised land. Ms. Chesworth just turned her head and looked at the jury as she gave the jackass a little jiggle, just for good measure.

Of course, within seconds, our aspiring millionaire had been subdued by a coupla deputies. As the jackass stood there with his wrists handcuffed behind his back, Ms Chesworth, Esq. patted her hair, straightened her blouse, then pointed at Wonder's crotch and said in a loud, triumphant voice, "Your honor, I move to introduce defense exhibit number one, the plaintiff's erection!"

The courtroom went dead silent as all eyes turned to the bulging defense exhibit number one. The jackass's eyes began darting around wildly, then he finally blurted out, "IT'S A MIRACLE!!! PRAISE BE!!! I'M CURED!!! HALLELUJAH!!! I'M CURED!!! PRAISE BE!!! AAAHAHAHAHAAA!!! HALLELUJAH!!!"

Judge Pulchney rapped the gavel and announced, "I've heard all I'm gonna hear! Case dismissed! Officers, remove the prisoner!"

As the deputies led Wonderaz to his free room 'n' board, we could still hear him babbling, "I'M CURED! A MIRACLE!! HALLELUJAH, I'M CURED! GOD BLESS AMERICA! I AM SOOOO CURED . . . ."

Amen.

k?thx.bing

We all know we live in a time of progress, but consider the kind of progress that surrounds us. It is all scientific, technological progress. There has been philosophical progress on arcane issues of knowledge and whatnot, and social science has regular paradigm shifts. We are learning more and more about the physical universe we live in and advertisers are finding better ways to get us to buy their stuff. But what kind of social progress have we made? What about learning from the experiences of others? I think a convincing argument could be made that society has devolved in as many respects as it has advanced.

It seems to me that so much of what we know in life comes from two places: school and self-experience. Of course we learn things from family and friends, but if you look at the way that smaller societies integrate the incoming and outgoing generations, I can’t help but think that we are missing something. There is no need for us to re-invent the wheel, but it seems that is what we must do in this day and age. Not to open the can of worms about school violence, but part of the problems stem from poor environments that kids are raised in. This isn’t a critique of parents so much as an observation that the cycle of birth through growth and learning to aged wisdom and teaching no longer functions as it did.

Think about how much wiser and mature you are than you were 2, 3, 5, 10 years ago. That developmental process doesn’t really end, you know. People in their 60s are a full decade older, wiser, and experienced than those in their 50s. But it is more than just acquisition of experience and perception. They lived in an entirely different political and social climate, which gives them a unique perspective on life.

Sometimes friends sit around and ponder life without certain comforts, but many of our elders actually know what that was like. You literally can travel back in time when you talk to old people. Take my grandpa, for example. My grandpa is one of the coolest people I know. I lived with him for a summer and even when I wasn’t staying there, I always made a point to go spend an afternoon chatting with him.

He was born in 1923. I never talked to him about what he did before WWII, but I know that he fought the war for three years. We talked of his experiences sometimes, but he didn’t really like to glorify those days. He would bring it up now and again when it was relevant, but mostly we just talked about stuff. He had traveled the world in the war, but had also been all over the U.S. afterwards. He was a farmer. He moved his family of 6 to North Idaho and grew it to 14. 6 boys and 6 girls. Good Catholics.

He was the caretaker of The Old Mission State Park in Northern Idaho, home of the oldest building in the state. He was also a postman and served in the Peace Corps in the Philippines. He always had a small livestock farm and a decent garden that produced stuff for sale at the local farmer’s market. He smoked unfiltered cigarettes, usually generics that he pulled the filters off of and smoked backwards. He was a smart, funny guy who lived a good life.

I learned a lot from talking to him. Just as we are products of our generations so are our elders. The value of talking to them isn’t just "So…… what was life like before cable?" but rather just the perspective they can provide about things. Of course being old doesn’t mean you are a valuable vault of knowledge (take wonderaz, for example). But the image of old people as senile, incompetent, grouchy bastards who can’t drive (again, take wonderaz, for example) deserves to be re-evaluated.

In pre-modern society, elder's lives were learned from and used as examples of morality, integrity, and character. In modern society, we have become so enamored with our own little life-space and the value of technological progress, we have neglected to harvest the bounty of experience that resides in the older generation. There may be some who would ask what we can learn from the fuddy-duddies who lived in a world so unlike what we inhabit today. Modern society, they say, is too new, too versatile, too fast for the past to mean anything.

Of course we think of today as the fastest moments in history, and to a degree this is not inaccurate. But it is foolish to think that just because a generation didn’t go through the Internet revolution they lived a static life. My Grandpa was born in the Roaring 20’s, lived his childhood during the Depression, grew up amidst WWII and then raised a family in the ensuing decades of change from the dawn to the close of the Cold War. Don’t even try to tell me that the people that lived through all that aren’t experienced when it comes to change.

A lot of us spend time talking about this, that and the other, and I think that we could learn a lot from talking about the same stuff with old people. My grandpa was always down for talk about society and politics, international relations and human nature. He always had an anecdote or an old Irish rhyme that was entertaining and relevant. My grandpa impressed me with his knowledge and overall comfort with the world. He knew more about the way people are than many of the anthropologists and psychologists that I study with.

I think that in his day, kids and adults had better rapport than today. I think a lot of the character issues modern society struggles with are partially due to this lack of inspiration and interaction between the old-wise and the young-foolish. Not that talking to an old lady is going to make you a better person, but for me at least, talking to people who have lived a whole life while I have barely started mine is humbling, inspiring, and I respect them.

The connection that I feel to my grandfather and his generation gives me a reverence for the past. I yearn to provide the same time of link to my present (but the future’s past) when I am old. This drives me to lead a good life, a life that not only serves as an example but also helps preserve the world for the future.

What is the point of having unconnected eras? So what if we have faster travel, instantaneous communication? Society is no better off if it cannot build on, or at least continue, the traditions and knowledge of those who came before. Perhaps that is the most pressing threat to modern society?

My grandpa died last summer. He was 77 years old. I miss him, but I learned so much from him that I feel that he lives on with me and through me. My other grandpa died about 10 years ago, before I had a chance to get to know him. As I learned more about him I really miss him because I know of all the things that he could have shown me. I know that knowing my grandpa has made me a better person and honors him with a legacy. I hope that I can do the same someday, but if we don’t re-instate a tradition of knowing our elders, I suspect that opportunity will never come to pass. Society may advance on certain levels, but in other important ways, it will just spin its wheels.

Installment I - gay robots on the rampage