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| St. Frank |
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| THE |
| OLD MAN'S |
| SOAP BOX! |
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| St. George |
| New Rant: Summer Is Bad I know it's been a while since the last time I showed my face on the internet, but I've been a little under the weather. What's wrong?, nobody said. Well, thanks for the compassion, you sons of bitches. I mean, here I am, dead for all you know, and nobody cares to send an email saying "where are you, old man? are you dead? fuck you!". I swear, sometimes I hate being old. Hell, I always hate being old. It's not something you can really enjoy, if you think about it. Nobody likes being old. It's like saying you like being a quadrapeligic. You don't. It's simply something you have to get used to, and accept. You get old. Nothing you can do about it. If I could stay young by draining the young of their life blood and gorging myself on their sweet crimson candy like some sort of corpulent vampire, I would, believe me. I'd rather be undead than old. Fuck you naysayers! You get to be my age and tell me you wouldn't make the same choice! That you wouldn't sell your soul to the Devil himself for the opportunity to piss standing up one more time! Or to have a decent bowel movement more than once a year! Or to able to get up and walk ... ANYWHERE!!! Or to be able to feed yourself without spilling food all down the front of the cheap plaid shirt your clueless monster children bought at a thrift store when they forgot your birthday! Or don't tell me, because by the time you're old enough to agree with me, I'll be dead. So fuck you! Old Man |
| Old Rant: War Is Good It's true. War is a good thing. All you whining little peaceniks out there love to protest with your cute little signs and you charming little songs and your poor personal hygiene and your penchant for standing in the middle of the road to block traffic, but you don't know the first thing about what you're railing against. But I do. Because I've seen it. I've seen the horrors of war first hand. I was in WW2. The Big One. That's right. I was out in the shit from 1942 to 1944, shooting Krauts and doing my duty for Uncle Sam, until a German bayonet found a home in my belly, and I was shipped home on a gurney, clinging to life and my entrails wishing I could just staple myself back together and grab my gun and go shoot some more filthy Nazi A-holes. The rehabilitation sucked, then the war was over and I married Mona. She was a good lady, full of love and cake. Although as she got older, the love to cake ratio seriously changed. I mean when she died she must have weighed 300 pounds. And I wondered if this was the same girl I married back in '45, or if she was eaten by this manatee somewhere along the way. It was an embarassing funeral, too. You see those shows where people are buried in piano boxes and you think it's funny until you realize that they really do bury big people that way! Then it's just shameful. "How could she let herself go like that?" Maybe it had something to do with all those meals she doubled up on, or the fact that she would steal food right off of my plate. I was about to eat the shrimp, then Captain Ahab spears it right off of my dinner plate, devouring it with a sick slurping noise that sounds remarkably like a wet/dry vacuum cleaner unleashed on a soaked kitchen carpet. God, she was fat. Why the hell did I marry a pig? Old Man |
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| St. Britney |