E R N I E ' S H O U S E O F W H O O P A S S
Things Crashing Everywhere
I went to see "The Incredible Hulk" when it opened on Friday. They went to a theater with a digital screen. Some time into the film, the screen froze. So after a minute or so, a couple of other people started yelling, "The screen's frozen!" Just as it quieted down, I turned around and screamed, "Hit control-alt-delete!". Everyone was in hysterics!
I don't know if you recall hearing about it, but two weeks ago a US Army ambulance was attacked with a rocket propelled grenade in, where else of course, Baghdad. The medic who was tending to wounded in the back was killed, but all of his patients lived to be transported to the 28th Combat Support Hospital. Nothing but animals over there, Tell you..
THIS TESTS YOUR MOUSE FOR CLICK ACCURACY.
When I say to move, it means go someplace else, not switch positions so you are still in the way.
The dish with the paw print are yours and contain your food. The other dishes are mine and contain my food. Please note, placing a pawprint in the middle of my plate and food does not stake a claim for it becoming your food and dish, nor do I find that aesthetically pleasing in the slightest
The stairway was not designed by NASCAR and is not a racetrack. Beating me to the bottom is not the object. Tripping me doesn't help, because I fall faster than you can run.
I can not buy anything bigger than a king size bed. I am very sorry about this. Do not think I will continue to sleep on the couch to ensure your comfort. Look at videos of dogs sleeping, they can actually curl up in a ball. It is not necessary to sleep perpendicular to me stretched out to the fullest extent possible. I also know that your sticking tail straight out and having your tongue hanging out the other end to maximize space used is nothing but doggy sarcasm, you littele bastard.
When I am playing my playstation, jumping up and trying to grab the man through the television is not helpful. Barking at me because I'm not helping you achieve your goal does not win you any extra brownie points.
For the last time, there is not a secret exit from the bathroom. If by some miracle I beat you there and manage to get the door shut, it is not necessary to claw, whine, try to turn the knob, or get your paw under the edge and try to pull the door open. I must exit through the same door I entered. In addition, I have been using bathrooms for years, canine attendance is not mandatory.
Finally, the proper order is kiss me, then go smell other dogs ass. I can not stress this enough.
Oh, and when we went in and cleaned house in Afghanistan, and we withdrew the majority of our forces immediately afterwards, and the world shit on us for abandoning the Afghan people and leaving a power vacuum. So this after ousting Saddam we stay in Iraq to help furnish a government, and this time the world accuses us of trying to occupy Iraq. And I don't know about you, but I'm a little sick and tired of waking every day and reading one of our soldiers was killed by some attack in Baghdad. I say we pull out and nuke em from orbit, it's the only way to be sure. Fuck em.
Just click on the year you were born and see what movies were playing at that time
And You Wonder Why I Fear Spiders
I am a huge pussy when it comes to spiders... arachnophobia big time. Snakes, bugs, scorpions, puke, dead people, whatever... all that doesn't bother me. Toss in a 4:1 leg ratio and I screech like a little girl.
Think I'm a chump? Take a look at the below pictures of a guy who was bit by a Brown Recluse spider. Some of the pictures towards the end are pretty nasty, but take a look at the last on-it is a picture of the spider itself. Now we all should know what to look out for. I thought this would be a good thing to post as it is summer time and people are going to be digging around for yardwork, etc. The following illustrates the progression of a brown recluse spider bite. Yummy.
There is lots of time left in the Paul Smith Harley raffle. Buy a ticket or I will have you flogged and sell your carcass.
Let Me Tell You About A Man Named Paul
Whether or not you agreed with the war on Iraq and/or the events that led up to that war, one quality has always remained unwavering within us the American public; we support our troops. And support we did. We cheered and held rallies, awarded medals, and let them all bask in the well deserved spotlight of heroism. We even spent extra effort reassuring our POW's know they were never far from our thoughts during their captivity, and afford them untold honors and unimaginable attention we usually reserve for (much less deserving, I might add) our favorite Hollywood stars and world class athletes. In addition to having her name a household world, Jessica Lynch has had offers to host popular television shows and has two full scholarships waiting for her when she finally makes it through her grueling rehabilitation.
And not to say any of these people are undeserving of this doting, but what may I ask, about our soldiers who didn't make it home? What about their families? Or even more specifically, what about the children who will have to grow up without a parent, who won't have a father watch them graduate elementary school, or build them a lemonade stand, or a mother reassure them before taking a drivers test? What about the widowed spouse who will look upon their next wedding anniversary with dread instead of joy? Who supports and holds these people up?
You do. So let me tell you a story about a man named Paul.
Sergeant First Class Paul R. Smith, age 33, Bravo Company, 11th Engineer Battalion of the 3rd Infantry Division, died heroically leading his squad in battle on Friday, April 4, 2003, in Baghdad, Iraq, during Operation Iraqi Freedom. Events that have gotten him nominated for the Medal of Honor.
A single bullet stole him away from a wife, two children, his parents, his brother, and two sisters. All that Paul had, including his family and all his worldly possessions, has been left behind. After grappling with the shock of their loss, they were left to deal with his world affairs, including what to do with his prized possession, a 1984 FXRT Harley Davidson motorcycle. After some debate, it was agreed that raffling it off -- with 100% of the proceeds to benefit Paul's wife and two children -- would be the most practical and least painful way to find the bike new ownership.
I have personally spoken with Paul's family and verified the authenticity of this raffle. None of this "my cousin's sister's brother's uncle's mailman says" stuff here. I even had them send me copies of documents that only Paul's family would have access to and verified their authenticity as well. This is the real deal, I personally guarantee.
Personal letter from President Bush
Those of you who call yourselves devoted readers know each holiday season I've asked for donations to buy plane tickets for our military troops and you've never let me down. Last year I asked you to donate towards Daisy's veterinary bills, and you never let me down. And so this brings us to one of two occasional through the entire year where I will ask you, my faithful EHOWA subscriber, so reach into your pocketbook and see what you can't find to help someone in need.
raffle tickets are $25 each and may be purchased:
the raffle will be held on July 19th, 2003 at Earl Small's Harley-Davidson
In fact, I'll further sweeten the pot. If one of my subscribers wins, and they joined my mailing list on or before 9/11/2001, I'll pay to have the Harley shipped to you anywhere in the continental United States (if you live in Alaska, or Hawaii, we'll talk.)
So please, buy a raffle ticket or two to help Sergeant First Class Paul Smith's family. And who knows, you just might win a hero's Harley in the process.
visit the official site dedicated to Paul's memory and the raffle of his motorcycle
Live Free Or Die My Ass
So Sunday afternoon me and a buddy of mine load up a couple ATV's in my truck and off we go to the state parks of New Hampshire to do some hard trail riding. We get there, unload the quads and change into our riding gear. Park Ranger shows up. No big deal, right? My Raptor is registered in NH, and so is my buddy's Blaster... only as we look now the fucking registration stickers are gone off his, apparently the victim of a vigorous powerwashing following my last riding episode.
"Sorry," says Mr Park Ranger Man, "no sticker = no ride. Unless you want to pay a $125 fine up front, then you can ride for the day." Keep in mind that to register in NH is $73 and expires on June 30th of EACH year... meaning if I were to drive up and register today... it'd expire in two weeks. So having been denied, I changed back into my regular clothes, packed our shit up, and drove home to go surf porn.
I'd like to also point out that while we're having this conversation with the ranger guy, there's 17 and 18 year old kids zooming around the parking lot, no helmet, no shirt, doing fucking wheelies. But that's okay my friend, because they had a fucking sticker. That is fucked.
Oh, by the way, I also noticed something bery ironic today. Take a look at my "Peace in the Middle East" article I wrote a year and a half ago. In the twenty-first pagagraph change, "So for eithteen months now," to, "So for thirty-three months now," and then in the twenty-second paragraph change "The Saudi peace plan," to "The Bush peace plan," and presto it's still as accurate and up to date as the day I wrote it.
Jennifer "DD" Dute rides again!
Okay I'm Better Now
So after a longer than expected hiatius, I'm back in sunny ol Beantown. Or rainy ol Beantown, depending on how you look at it. But for me it sure as hell beats being roasted alive every time you step outside the door of an air conditioned hotel with air so fucking dry your sinuses shrivel up like an old guy's balls.
But I did have my fair share of fun though. Spent some time cruising up and down the Riverwalk and while we were grabbing some drinks at Dick's Last Resort, I spotted the familiar scene of about ten youngfolks all having a grand ol time over a few pitchers of beer, and all guys all wearing crew cuts. No I'm not talking about the last stag fil I made, I'm talking about you can recognize them as young military folks... especially since there's like three Air Force bases all within 20 minutes drive of downtown. Anyway, these kids were getting ready to pay their tab and I waved their waitress over. She was a bitch at first because I wasn't her table and she didn't want to expend the extra fucking twenty calories to walk one table over to see what the fuck I wanted. So when she gets there I ask her to discreetly ask these guys & gals if they're all military. She asks "why". Yeah because me with my shorts and t-shirt I'm obviously a fucking suicide bomber, I said, "bitch just answer the damned question". "Yes they are, I checked all their military id's when they ordered beer". "Cool," says I, "then I'll pick up their tab for them." And then the corker - she asks me, "Why?" Jesus H. Christ, are people in this world that fucking cynical?
So I pick up the tab, the group comes over to say thank you and you could all tell by the looks on their faces they were thinking the same thing... "Man I wish we had ordered more beer."
Man I love America!
Oh, and I also decided that I want to date a stripper. Any of you out there?
Yep, Still In Texas
San Antonio Texas, to be exact, right down here where they celebrate cultural diversity.
Good thing the guy I'm travelling with likes to drink Cosmopolitans. Yes, I said Cosmopolitans. Sigh.
Help Me I'm Melting
Yesterday's weather? Hot and sticky, with highs in the 90's.
Today's weather? Hot and sticky, with highs in the 90's.
Tomorrow's weather? Hot and sticky, with highs in the 90's.
The day after that? Hot and sticky, with highs in the 90's.
Am I in hell, you might ask? Well, no but close... San Antonio, Texas. Little suprise trip that the wonderful people I work for like to spring on us from time to time. I left my house at 5am on Monday morning. It was sixty degrees. There was a light mist out. It was comfortable. Later that very same day the automatic doors of the airport slid open and I slammed facefirst into a 95 degree wall of air so thick you could chew it.
So what does this mean for you, fair reader? Well, more strip club reports for one thing. We hit All-Stars last night. Beautiful Texas babes, but at $20 a lap dance, it's a bit on the pricey side. We'll see what I can't find in the seedier parts of town....
Today Is D-Day
Since 1942 British Intelligence had been gathering as much information as possible, looking for a suitable landing ground for the Liberating forces, one of the main priorities being, that the landing beaches had to be in range of fighter air cover from southern England. The shortest and most accessible point was the Pas de Calais, this would give the allies a very short supply line indeed. The Germans under the command of Field Marshall Von Rundstedt also came to this conclusion, and therefore concentrated on reinforcing the Atlantic wall defences in this area.
The Pas de Calais was such an obvious landing area, the Allies decided against it, and went for their other location:- Normandy. It was agreed that five landing beaches, covering a distance of 40 miles would be used. Five divisions would attack in the first wave, with four more divisions landing in the following 24 hours.
The Americans would land on the beaches which lay either side of the River Vire estuary, these were codenamed, "OMAHA" and "UTAH". The British and Canadians would land on the eastern beaches which stretched to the River Orne estuary. These would be codenamed, "SWORD" "JUNO" AND "GOLD".
Erwin Rommel, Monty's old adversary was given command of Army Group B in July 1943, taking over the defence of Belgium and northern France in December that year. Rommel was of the opinion that the likely invasion site would be at the Pas de Calais and he personally supervised the construction of the Atlantic Wall.
He knew that whenever and wherever the invasion force landed, it had to be defeated on the landing beaches, that was imperative. He had obstacles constructed on the beaches the full length of the Normandy coast, these were designed to rip the bottom out of any landing craft, and many did.
The obstacles that were positioned on the landing beaches, were designed so that landing craft approaching at high tide would not see them. Some of them had mines attached, the result of hitting these was catastrophic and many men died never reaching the beach.
Rommel realized that an invasion of the beaches would also be accompanied with a massive airborne assault, he had areas of land flooded to hinder the progress of airborne troops, this was very successful for him, as many of the troops perished in these swamp areas, laden down with heavy equipment and ignorant of the trap.
ROMMEL KNEW THE FIRST TWENTY FOUR HOURS WERE VITAL FOR BOTH SIDES AS HE TOLD HIS MEN "IT WILL BE THE LONGEST DAY".
After years of meticulous planning and seemingly endless training, for the Allied Forces, it all came down to this: The boat ramp goes down, then jump, swim, run, and crawl to the cliffs. Many of the first young men (most not yet 20 years old) entered the surf carrying eighty pounds of equipment. They faced over 200 yards of beach before reaching the first natural feature offering any protection. Blanketed by small-arms fire and bracketed by artillery, they found themselves in hell.
When it was over, the Allied Forces had suffered nearly 10,000 casualties; more than 4,000 were dead. Yet somehow, due to planning and preparation, and due to the valor, fidelity, and sacrifice of the Allied Forces, Fortress Europe had been breached.
Help A Brotha Out
Alright I've been challenged. See that pic of the guy on the right with the "Drink 'till you want me." t-shirt? I've been challenged to find the real deal. Since you folks were so instrumental in finding the skull knob shifter with the flashing eyes, I figured what better group of people to help me out. Help me Obi-Wan, you're my only hope. Anybody know where I can score some?
So, I wonder just who in the hell set this precedent?
Q, Who has blonde hair, surgically enhanced 32E boobs, and is the richest woman in Switzerland?
Speaking of which, somebody better start checking their work a little more before allowing their ads to be run, eh?
And of course, let's all give a round of applause to Chuck, our first flame of 2003.
Oh My Aching Old Bones
I know, I never call, I never write. I'm as bad as a damned college student who takes off and forgets to turn off the water before I go. But unfortunately I don't heal as fast as a college student, as I am still sore from my adventures in all terrain vehicling.
There's this guy in Hamlin, NY who turned about 2-3 acres of his land into a motocross track for his son. Anyway, he lets people ride on it from time to time and this past weekend I was able to do so with one of my brothers. No, I can't tell you exactly where it is because the guy wants to maintain some sense of privacy, so don't make an ass of yourself by asking.
Anyway, this was my first time on a real track, as opposed to trail and sandpit riding like I'm used to doing, so I was a bit new to the jumping world. I had some good ones, and giving credit where credit is due, so did my brother. And of course I had bad ones too... notice my front tires heading into the next hill as opposed to over it. I didn't crash, but had a tough landing and have this red badge of courage to show for it, courtesy of my throttle assembly.
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