The racial and gender bias in the 2008 Democratic primaries was an issue whether or not we as a Nation wanted to admit it. You know there are a lot of narrow-minded racists in this country that would never vote for a black turd. There are an equal number of misogynist cocks that would never cast their vote for a female douche. It’s not hard to see where the votes for these two candidates came from.

Balack Osama, riding an overwhelming wave of African-American support, killed Billary in most big cities, while she lynched him (metaphorically, goddammit. metaphorically!) in rural areas. In fact, the success of any black candidate for any office can be directly correlated to the proportion of African-Americans in the population. Why do you think three of the past four mayors of Philadelphia (dating back to 1984) have been black? According to the 2000 Census, 45% of Philly is white, 43.2% is black. I grew up in Philly, and I remember the racial tension of the campaigns when the city elected its first black mayor. Even after Goode‘s popularity waned following the MOVE investigation, he was still re-elected. Amazing! All this just proves my point. There doesn’t have to be more blacks in an electoral area, there just has to be a somewhat equal percentage of blacks and white… and with those numbers, black candidates are more likely to be elected to office. In predominately whites areas, black electoral success is not so easy. I wonder what would happen if both parties threw us a curve ball. In 2016, if the Democratic party nominated a cunt… we’ll call her Oprah, and the Republican party nominated a cocksucker, oh, let’s say openly gay comedian Scott Thompson (yeah, I know he’s Canadian). I think this country would loose its fucking mind. Congress would outlaw watermelon, fried chicken, rainbow parties, and maple leafs for sure!

Anyway, let me make myself clear. I am not a fan of Balack Osama. In fact, I’d have rather had a president with tits (and I don’t mean McCain’s man tits). The point of this blog entry is certainly not to defend race- or gender-based political decision making. I’m just pointing out that it exists and that it will be a factor in the upcoming general election. In fact, when the Democrats started jockeying for the 2008 nomination back in, shit, 1972 I think, I wanted Billary to be president because it would piss off so many republicans. But now Billary has bowed out and we’re left with Osama and Old Man McCain. Doesn’t it worry anyone that McCain is 71 and wants to be president? What if he died after being elected? Fuck, George Carlin died at 71, people! (And if you weren’t paying attention, I used all seven of George’s words you can never say on television above. Rest in peace, George.)

Anyway, I’m leaning towards wanting Balack Osama to win… but for reasons that aren’t so clear.

As a country, I think we must nominate and elect an African American. Seriously, how will the rest of the world view the U.S. if we don’t nominate a black man for President? We’d be seen as the racist, war mongering assholes that we were 230 years ago, sans the powdered wigs. If we elect Balack Osama, every single race card in America expires! No shit! Think about it. “Yo dawg, I not be gettin’ dat job at da McDonald’s because I is black.” Ugh, sorry my negro friend, you did not get the job because ebonics is your primary language and you have more “bling” on your teeth than Mr. T wore in The A-Team. There would be no more affirmative action. No longer could the race card be effectively used against us cracker-ass crackers! Whites and blacks would be on equal footing. If anyone tried to play the race card, all we’d have to do is point to a picture of our black president. Shit, I’d carry a picture of Balack Osama in my wallet! The so-called race card would be as useful as little orange $500 Monopoly bills at the gas pump… or, as my uncle Bob used to say, “as useful as a limp dick in a whorehouse.”

Gas prices fucking suck! There’s not a whole lot more I can say than that. I’d have bet all the sweat on my nut sack plus three quarters, a nickel, and two pennies (that’s all I got, man) that I’d never long for the days of $3.30 a gallon gas. Just a dollar lower than today’s ass-raping prices would save me $132 a month. When we started this commute from hell to Seattle (also known as hell), gas prices were about $2.30 a gallon. Now they’re nearly double! Personally, I don’t give two squirts of camel shit why the prices are so goddamn high. Someone, be it A-rabs, the government, big oil companies, or little green martians, needs to do something about the price of gas in this fucking country before the price of everything is out of the reach of us middle-aged white guys making forty to fifty thousand a year. Seriously! The price of everything (and by everything, I mean everyfuckingthing) is going up and up thanks to the high cost of fuel. Of course, salary isn’t rising to match the rising cost of everything. Increased spending plus stagnant earning equals no money. Anyone else see a problem here?

That’s all I got. It’s too hot to write any more. Where the hell did this sweltering heat come from? The first 20 days of “June-uary” barely made it to 65°F here in the northwest of the Pacific Northwest. Now it’s June 29, and we’re in the middle of a near-record heat wave. Someone turn off the furnace! My butt crack is a canyon of swamp-ass! Simply excrement!

I have a tale to tell about my right knee, but I’ll wait until I get back from the doctor about that. I was supposed to see the doc on the 20th, but missed the appointment because of shitty traffic from Seattle to Whidbey Island. That appointment was rescheduled for July 3.

It’s a video game console. Video games were invented for entertainment and for the fatass fuckers who can’t actually play football, baseball, basketball, hockey, or drive race cars, jet skis, motocycles, or shoot people, aliens, monsters, et cetera, et alii, ad nauseam, so on and so forth. Game-playing Americans have prided themselves on sitting in front of the TV while eating Cheetos and improving their hand-eye coordination. Who the fuck told Nintendo they could make a game console that requires the user to stand up, let alone exercise? Goddamn, I’ve been sitting in front of a computer all day long. When I get home, I don’t want to play a video game that requires, you know, physical fitness. Fucking Jap bastards, what the shit, man? The only thing gamer geeks should be exercising is their thumbs… and their right arms during certain other activities (if ya know what I mean).

When I did a little reading on the Wii, I found that people are complaining about soreness in their extremities after playing the Wii for long periods of time. This just proves my point, people; video game consoles are for flabby wastes of humanity, and that’s the way your Higher Power intended it to be. I find it hilarious that Nintendo responded to the many complaints of sore necks, shoulders, and joints. You know what their response was? "Work out more, fatsos… If people are finding themselves sore, they may need to exercise more." Slanty-eyed dicks! That’s what they’re doing while playing your console! That’s what’s causing their pain! If it wasn’t for your console, they’d be enjoying a pain-free evening while eating Krispy Kreme doughnuts. These poor people… arms flailing like the Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man from Family Guy or an epileptic waterhead on crack, their Wiimotes flying out of their hands and smashing into their two thousand dollar plasma television screens… and all Nintendo can say is, “exercise more.” American gamers don’t want buns of steel, motherfuckers, they want buns of cinnamon! Sonofafuck, am I the only one that sees this as a pandemic? It’s only a matter of time before James Sokolove starts advertising on late night television. “Have you or a loved-one suffered serious or even minor injuries due to the use of the Nintendo Wii? Call the law offices of James Sokolove. We can help get you the money you deserve.” Those motherfuckers are lining up at the courthouse. By the way, Wiimote? How stereotypical of them. I know Japanese have a difficult time pronouncing their Rs, but that’s just ridiculous. “It’s fried rice, you plick.”

I’m writing this update in email before sending it to the server. Spry, the company that hosts my VPS is doing maintenance from nine tonight until five tomorrow morning. I doubt the server will be operational by the time I finish if I typed directly on the blog. All these goddamned Wikipedia links take for ever! I’m a little disappointed about this maintenance, though. I checked the uptime on the server this afternoon, and I had over 208 days.

wafwot@yavang:~$ uptime
  14:48:03 up 208 days, 3:45,  1 user,  load average: 0.08, 0.02, 0.01

Try that on a Windows server, bitches! It’s next to impossible unless you run Linux. Thanks a lot, Lyle, for killing my uptime! I keed I keed! I know they were moving servers to a new data center, and there’s no way to do that unless you unplug shit. The people at Spry are awesome, and I’ve never had a problem since I’ve been with them… Especially in the past 208 days! They’re rock fucking solid, baby! (hehe, let’s see ‘em use that quote on their web site.) As you can see, the server is back up and my quest for long uptimes begins again.

Tonight, we stopped at the Swinomish Indian reservation for gasoline and cigarettes. I paid for gas at the pump, but had to go inside the store for a carton of cancer sticks. I stood in line while two Indian cashiers (casino Indians trying to act all Slurpee Indian) chatted with a customer about puppies. I was standing there for about 25 minutes before I finally got my turn. I could be wrong about that time, it may have only been one minute… but hell, why should I (and the others behind me) have to wait at all? There is a silver lining though. I learned the ancient meaning of “Swinomish.” It’s a native American word for “Land of Postal Workers.”

Yesterday, I received an email at work, with the subject line, “Too much penis is never a bad thing.” Normally this type of junk goes straight in the Trash folder, but I think this particular email came from our Sales Department. No, it couldn’t have. Well, maybe. I don’t know. Ho-ly crap, what if it did? Somebody please hold me, I think I’m gonna cry.

Recently, people have berated me for talking too much about crap in my blog, like I’m a coprophiliac, or some shit. Oh, goddammit! I assure you I have no such fondness for crap. Poop is just funny, like farts, and it makes people laugh. I strive to make people laugh at this ridiculous fucked upness, and turds are an easy laugh. But to prove to those of you (Tina) that don’t think I can do it, I’ll go 10 posts without resorting to toilet humor. That’s at least two months worths of blogging. But, if I fall victim to some restroom antics like the phantom door shaker, or a barking co-worker, I will write it down. You may just have to deal with an entire update about dookie…

Let’s start with a little story. A friend of mine related a tale that I find somewhat disturbing. He works for a Bank in Portland, and they’ve had some commotion with a fellow co-worker. He tells me that this co-worker (whom I’ll call Pam for reasons of anonymity) has performed her duties satisfactorily, but her reliability is in the porcelain funnel o' shit, as evidenced by this list:

• One time, poor Pam slept off a bender in the bank (with the alarm off) because she was too drunk to drive home. Ho-ly crap!
• Another time, Pam requested time off because she needed to cry over being dumped by her boyfriend. I guess Pam isn’t known for crying, or shouldn’t cry because she’s the manly type, or something. Sweet Jesus.
• While talking to co-worker, Pam called a customer a “cunt.” It wasn’t in earshot of the customer, but the female co-worker was highly upset. Poor misguided Pam was called to the bank president’s office for an ass chewing.
• Pam also messed up a customer’s bank account which ended up costing the bank about $1000.
• On more than one occasion, Pam has been caught sleeping at her desk. Could it be all that crying that’s keeping her up at nights? Maybe. I don’t know.
• And twice, Pam didn’t show up to work on time. No big deal if she was only five or so minutes late. Poop occurs. But my friend said it was four and a half hours one time, and just recently it was more than two hours! Apparently, Pam has a position at the bank that requires her to take… loan application calls from the East Coast starting at five in the morning. If she’s not there, a loan may not get processed, and the bank can’t have that!
• She went to a customer’s house to help them with their banking needs, and was dressed like it was laundry day in Pamsworld™. Instead of going in banking attire, she was wearing a t-shirt with a worn out Trans-Am iron-on. Her ratty jeans were held up with a length of sisal rope, and she was wearing sneakers!

Worst. Employee. Ever. The only thing Pam hasn’t done is play Windows Solitaire all day long when she should be working. Wow. If we had an employee like that in the company I work for, she would surely be fired. That type of behavior simply doesn’t fly in the IT industry. Our managers won’t stand for such piss-poor work ethics, and you would be shown the door. I’ve seen it happen to several sysadmins. Funny thing however, Pam still retains her job at the bank! Can you believe it? Color me dubious, goddammit! If that list of shit is true, Pam works for the most lenient company in all of Oregon, possibly the entire West Coast! Can you imagine the perception other employees of that bank must have? “Hey, we can dick off without fear of being fired, because Pam’s still here.” I wouldn’t bank with those people if you paid me. Who knows what would happen to your life’s savings?

Continuing on the line of co-workers… If you’ve read this collection of nonsensical bullshit in the past, you know that I’m in a carpool and we have a soul-crushing 200-mile-a-day round trip commute. In our carpool, we worked out a simple solution to buying gasoline: rotation. We each take turns buying tanks of fuel. This has been working well for us, until recently. Yesterday, when it came time for one of our carpoolers to fill the tank, he complained that he only had $25 in his account. Jesus-fucking-Christ! So, an arrangement was made where I would pay for this tank, and he would buy the next tank on Monday. I may be a cranky motherfucker by nature, but I’m flexible and understand being strapped for cash.

We stopped at Costco in Mount Vernon for gas, where I spent thirty dollars even. As we left the gas pumps, we made a detour to EB Games, where the carpooler — who claimed to only have $25 in his account — chasséd his rotund keister into the store and bought an expansion pack to The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion. What in the Spic and Span hell, man? We can buy games, but not gas? I didn’t throw the bullshit flag until today, ’cause I was too busy stringing an unnecessary number of angry exclamation points together in my head. That shit ain’t right. Gas, grass, or ass, bitch! Nobody rides free! And trust me when I say no one wants any of that ass.

My segues are working out well tonight, as I have another nugget about ass. Have you ever had one of those moments where you suddenly have to shit? It happened to me yesterday, and I’m here to tell you about it. I was at work yesterday, as I frequently am, and had just come back from lunch. I was doing just fine at my desk, when all of a sudden my body said, “hey gallbladder, we need some bile,” and sadly there was no response. My gallbladder went AWOL in 1998, and this behavior is normal at times. Any-way… I clenched my whale eye tighter, and beat a path to the rest room down the hall. I’ll be a sonofabitch if both stalls weren’t occupied. Screw this! With my colon in distress, I headed for the elevators to use the toilets on the third floor. Ten fucking minutes passed before the elevator doors opened. It may have been closer to 30 seconds, but the space-time continuum gets all fuckered up in situations like this… so I just don’t know.

Two floors down, and in unfamiliar surroundings, I start bombing. Then, I hear the restroom door open. I don’t know about you, but I always cough a little fake cough or clear my throat to let the newcomer know that they are not alone. I don’t need some whackjob baby talking to his “little man” at the urinal, or whistling a little tune while taking a piss. “C’mon lil’ buddy. Time t’come on out and do your bidness.” Goddamn I hate public toilets.

Back to the story… In mid-drop, the intruder decides to try the door to my stall. But it’s not a simple little tug, or a knock. No. It’s full-on yanking and rattling like he’s trying to un-stick his garage door after it jumped off it’s tracks. The attempt startles me, causing… the bomb bay doors to close prematurely. Motherfuck!!! I shouted out “Occupied,” probably loud enough for the people at FiberCloud on the 19th floor to hear. All I heard back was an irritated sigh. Excuse the shit, literally, outta me! Holy shit, man! What makes a person think that a closed shitter stall is an invitation to rip the door off it’s hinges? I listened as Mr. Door Shaker used a urinal to take a piss then leave… without washing his hands. I spent the next five minutes going through half the roll of paper to return my sphincter to some resemblance of it’s pre-shit self.

Okay, that’s all for now. All that talk about coming up with a title, and I stuck to work-related topics, and managed to slip in a little bit of corporate toilet humor, too. So, I changed the title from “Miscellany” to “Work Strife.” You probably don’t care, do you?

And to add insult to injury, the oil companies announce record profits for the quarter. Fuckin’ DUH! If you gouge us at the pumps, of course you’re going to turn a profit! And this fat bastard gets a $400 million retirement salary! So, while the common people are digging in their couch cushions, looking for nickels and dimes amongst the lost remote controls and crumb-covered Milk Duds to fund our addiction to fuel, Lee Raymond is lounging around on his yacht counting his four hundred million dollars.

If that cocksucker in the White House (who’s playing “President” like 8 year old boys play “Cowboys and Indians”) wasn’t a former oil executive, he’d do something about it. Maybe if the oil corporations weren’t allowed to lobby and get their way, engine manufactures could produce an engine that could get 200 miles to the gallon. But we don’t live in Fantasy Land, and the oil companies must produce gas for inefficient internal combustion engines that haven’t changed much since the 19th century!

I could bitch more about expensive gas, but what’s the point? Things aren’t going to change until it’s a crisis (remember Y2K?). We all just have to face facts. We’re dependent on oil. Our economy is based on oil, and we don’t have enough. They could charge $19.99⁹ a gallon, and us poor fuckers would buy just enough to ride our lawn mowers to work.