Go to content Go to navigation Go to search

A radical blogs his wife's mastectomy. Thanks for the mammories.


The difference between a contemporary radical's flop and the old sixties-type pad is that instead of the rooms being carpeted with nothing but stems and seeds, nowadays a thin white film of ground up oxycontin and vicodin covers everything. It got so bad that I had to borrow the hotel's Orek just to clear a path to the bathroom. And I ended up cramming half a bottle of my Adderall in the crevice tool just to keep the damn thing breathing. Right about then I figured it was time to go.

While maddmom dozed in the recliner I collected all of the left over pamphlets, dog-eard copies of Nozick and the macrame portrait of Ayn Rand madmmom made out of her leg hair. I stapled what I could to the walls in a rough outline of the dollar sign, then piled the rest into the garden tub, poured in the remains of the six bottles of rubbing alcohol we brought with us and was about to throw in a match when there was a knock on the door.

The knock startled me enough that I yelled to maddmom to get the damn door, she yelled back that 1, she can't use her arms, 2 she's stoned out of her mind, and 3 who the hell do I think I am anyway waking her up like that after all she's been through and can she get a glass of water and what time do we need to be at the doctor's and what the hell is all that dust on everything?

I didn't answer maddmom, but I did answer the door. Only to find a couple of Armani-wearing mortgage brokers selling re-fi's to support their German car habit. I told them that there was a bathtub full of credit reports but the power was out, so they'd need to rad by candlelight. As they started their low-speed shuffle though the clouds of narcotic powder, I collected maddmom, her pills, her bandages and her recliner, shoved them all into the back of the Kia and floored it. Only several hundred feet down the best roads your tax money could buy I heard the muffled "thump" that meant someone had just got to the Wilt Chamberlain analogy.

A quick stop at maddmom's plastic surgeon confirmed the fact that she was healing very well, and that I have a large and unsightly mole on my right cheek that could be fixed if I wanted. I told him that anyone can do a nice set of boobs, but that I'd wait until the Federal Government guaranteed quality before I let anyone take a scalpel to my face. You know, because they did so well with peanut butter.

Later that day, maddmom and her new foobs, my mole, and myself finally made it back to the McMahonsion where our tax deductions greeted us with open arms. We were glad to be home.

A radical blogs his wife's mastectomy. Part 37


Four days of eating nothing but oxycodone can really do a number on your system. I'm exhausted and fantastically deep in hock to the damn leprechauns. Now I know where they get all that freaking gold. Who would have thought the little bastards knew so much about jai alai? All I'm saying is that ESPN Classic is obviously a tool of the fascists and needs to be taken DOWN man!

I can only imagine how maddmom feels, even though I've been assured that there is some nutritional value in the anti-biotics that she gets to eat three times a day. At any rate, this morning I knew that I had to do something food-wise, so I push-started the Kia and headed out to hunt me up some government arugula.

I didn't want to deal with all of the panhandlers at the Whole Foods up the street, and I could tell by the number of tastefully foreign cars in the lot at Trader Joe's that that place was infested with welfare queens, so I passed on that one too. A couple of miles up the road I found an "everything for a dollar" store that looked like the kind of place that would take cash without any questions. Deep in the back, hidden under a couple of hundred cans of Mexican knock-off Armour All, I found two six-pound bags of enriched rice and one EZ-squeeze bottle of generic catsup.

It took some doing to get back to the car, some slob in her Ugg boots and gold jewelry glommed on to me in the parking lot, trying to sell me an iPhone to support her botox habit. Sad. When the revolution comes, she'll be taken care of. There's lots of empty rental units for divorcees out there. Maybe we'll meet up at the Regal Beagle someday.

I managed to make it back to the hotel in time for the meeting, and we passed a motion to have some stencils made of Dave Ramsey's face and buy a whole mess of off-brand spraypaint.

Power to the PEOPLE!

A radical blogs his wife's mastectomy. Part 13 2/5


Between maddmom's inability to use her arms and my bursitis flaring up from sleeping in the chair in the hospital, it's really a chore to fortify the hotel room properly. I think maddmom is developing a flat spot on her forehead from propping the plywood up against the windows and it's making her cranky. Hotel management is a little worried that President Wilson Goode might get the wrong idea if he catches wind of the loudspeakers and insurance might not cover any fire damage. I say to hell with it, that's what lawyers are for, right?

Appearance is important for any revolutionary movement, and maddmom and I had some spirited discussion last night. We've decided that the vandyke is totally out, this isn't the Revolutionary Party of Overweight suburban Dads (splitters!) so I have to be clean shaven, and that means disposable razors. They are cheap, and you can get a bunch for a buck at any Big Lots store. Which is nice, you get to avoid most of the welfare queens you might see spending their bailout check at the local Walgreen's.

Headgear is also important, it's an easy way to tell the hip from the oh-so-very square. Thought about the beret, but since that would mean spending money, we decided to go with what we had at hand. That just happens to be loads of well used A cup bras.

The new foobs are twice the size of the boobs they replaced (may they rest in peace), and since our manifesto requires us to be thrify, I picked out a nice one. It's my favorite, burgundy leather with nailhead trim. Lots of good memories with this one. Or is it mammaries? I get confused.

Anyway, the squares will see me coming miles away.

A radical blogs his wife's mastectomy. part 11


I had a dream that I saved all the crap from maddmom's JP drains in some water balloons and tossed them at the local Countrywide Mortgage office.

When I woke up maddmom said I had been giggling like a schoolgirl caught scribbling dirty words on the wall with sidewalk chalk.

Had a meeting at the library with the group where we've decided to take all of the the new acquisition handbills and 'accidentally' drop them at the entrance to the local Barnes and Nobel.

A radical blogs his wife's mastectomy. part 2

Nurse maddad and his patient went out to buy a bra for the new foobs yesterday and ran head on into a dilemma. Do we follow accepted protocol and head to Nordstrom like the rest of the bailout-hungry po'folk or do we act like the rich snobs we are and head to Wal-Mart to oppress the masses?

You know the answer already. We rocked the Status-Symbol mobile, our Kia, over to the Wal-Mart where we bought two new bras. On Sale. With CASH.

I think today we might go out to eat. I'm in the mood for something fancy, like the dollar menu at McDonald's. The parking lot at the local Micky D's overlooks the Olive Garden and it will provide us with a little bit of dinner theater to watch the peasants struggle to find a place to park the Beemer where it won't get dinged by the neighbor's Range Rover Sport. Ha! Let the squares eat government lobster. I loaded up on the free breakfast at the motel where maddmom and I are holed up, so to paraphrase Frank Booth, "Grilled shrimp Caprese? Fuck that shit, TWO ALL BEEF PATTIES!"

Even without boobs, maddmom and I can kick out the Jams, Motherfuckers!

Take two of these and call me in the mourning...


Not misspelled.

maddmom had a bilateral mastectomy on Friday, with reconstruction. She's doing great. We are holed up in the Chelsea with a couple of pounds of vicodin and percocet, our guns, and incriminating pictures of some very important people. Rent's been paid up for months, so leave us alone. That smell is our business.

I don't know if it's polite to blog your wife's mastectomy, so I didn't do it. But there's nothing published that says it's tacky to use the loss of boobs for the revofuckinglution!

RIGHT ON! Actually right and left off, but you get it man.

This hour of PBS is brought to you by the letter B


Joe Camel sticks his toe back in the door.

Will our kids ever be safe?

Secrecy and denial as Pakistan lets CIA use airbase to strike militants - Times Online

Secrecy and denial as Pakistan lets CIA use airbase to strike militants.

Now I realize this might never occur to these people but maybe, just maybe, this was secret for a reason?

Hey, I know, let's just tell everyone the names and cell phone numbers of all of our spies too. You know, just to play fair. After all, the "militants" wear uniforms and operate out in the open...oh wait...

Five days without maddad makes one week


I'm somewhat preoccupied and this place will feel the effect.

I was on the road most of last week. I drove about 900 miles, mostly in the dark or in the rain. I somehow managed to avoid two speeding tickets, all of the tolls and some major league potholes. I did not avoid any traffic lights or traffic in general.

So there, that's what I did last week.

This weekend I visited with friends from out of town, who were in town and the Beast and the Prince had a swim meet.

I think I need to get the two of them a great big bong.

The Prince over-practiced last week. He was doing two-a-days and ended up cramping up during his breast stroke, which is usually his best. He did manage to shave almost a quarter-second off of his freestyle. But I think some THC might do him some good in the relaxing department.

The Beast came in third in his heat in freestyle, 26th over all, and got DQ'ed in the backstroke because he didn't touch before his turn. Getting that boy baked might just make him sleep better.

Dangeresque watched. I think he'll be ready for the next meet, at least he says he will be, his mother doesn't think so. If we get him wasted he might lose his fear of heights, water, trees, cows, the dark, bright lights, elephants, snakes, bent street signs, loud noises, melted chocolate bars, an unopened box of nails, library books, wall to wall carpet, and the telephone.

On the other hand he might get so paranoid that the entire universe collapses.

Can't hurt, right?

This is why you're fat.


This is why you're fat.

It's pretty much why I wish I was fat.

This stuff looks awesome. If you compare, say the Turbaconucken ( a chicken inside a duck inside a turkey, all wrapped in bacon) with sixty-six pounds of Starburst jelly beans, you'll see what I mean. If I could eat that damn thing, I wouldn't care if I was fat or not.

Of course, if I could eat that thing I'd probably also have gout and a nasty habit of beheading my wives.

But I'd have my own Church, so bite me... and off with your damn head. As soon as you deep fry me a pork tenderloin wrapped in ham, dipped in Cheese-Wiz and corn dog batter then sprinkled with bacon bits.

On a stick.



It's warm out!

I'm swamped with work, so I just stopped by to let people know that I think the OnStar commercials that GM is running now are really, really ridiculous.

What were these people doing before they wrecked, huh? What's with the whispering?

I wish it was on Youtube. I'm sure it will be, it just sounds so...dirty.

On the other hand, thanks to our new, hopeychangy overlords, we can all have unicorns and rainbows. just click this button:Cornify

Snow Jo...just kidding


I'm so freakin' done. Burnt out.

I'm going to spend tonight drinking and watching cartoons with the kids.

A moment of silence, please


Lux Interior dies at 60

Oh well. The world ends.

Snow shit

13 Quick tips to Make Your Blog STAND OUT from the Crowd

Right, but at 5 hits per day, should I bother?

There's no commercial content on this blog. It's on a blogspot domain. I never did the link whore thing and I don't have a blogroll. I cuss a lot, and two out of my top five favorite bloggers have died. Of the rest one doesn't allow comments and the other two, well they don't post much any more.

I don't use my real name and I hide my profile. The only thing I ever "review" are rental cars. My posts don't normally relate to each other. My grammar sucks.

I'm NOT on Facebook. I don't watch Lost, 24 or American Idol, own a Mac or Tivo, play with Legos, read comic books or think "steampunk" is super-cool. I'd rather pick my eyes out with a fork than go to Bonaroo. I mess with Linux, but it's not any kind of passion. My politics are right of center and all my kids are boys. I don't home school and I don't want to. I go to church but I don't care if you don't. I'm not a gourmet, gourmond, low-carb, vegetarian, vegan, oenophile, cognoscenti, connoisseur, opinion maker, pet lover, photographer, painter, writer, reporter, recording engineer, entertainer, reality star, comedian or lawyer.

Any satire here is probably unintentional, unless it probably isn't. I exercise because I have four kids and I don't want to drop dead. I eat what my wife cooks, what I cook, or what we buy. I work. I look for jobs. I give advice if asked. I have ADD, probably have always had it, just didn't know. No one answers my email. I don't kid myself that I'm important.

In other words, on the Internet, I do everything wrong.

Separated at birth?



There's snow place like home

I think (don't get excited it's been known to happen) that at some point in the last two years I was run over by a truck. Now my body is lying in a hospital bed in a long-term care facility somewhere in a persistant vegetative state. I figured this out last night, when I swear I could hear a steady beep...beep...beep in my right ear, and through blurred half open eyes in the murky darkness I could barely make out a yellow Post-It note stuck next to a big red button with "Please Do Not Push... I MEAN IT THIS TIME!" written on it.

I didn't think anything of it then, but I did sleep later than normal today.

Now that I know I'm not really conscious, I guess I can finally cut loose. I mean, as long as they don't jack me full of some kind of weird experimental wake-up drug.

So, a test. I'm going to teach Skippy and the Beast a pantload of dirty limericks.

In the real world, the Beast would spout off "There Once Was A Man From Nantucket" when asked to lead the Pledge of Allegiance (he gets nervous), and I'll end up sitting in the principal's office. In my new alternate reality, nothing will happen.

This won't be the first test. For months now, Skippy and the Prince have been playing the penis game. Yes, the penis game. It's really not as bad as it sounds, the goal is to shout PENIS! as loud as you can in the most crowded or unacceptable place you can. For example, The Prince got busted when he shouted "PENIS!" in the Junior High cafeteria. Skippy, being only four years old, will get on the telephone extension. So I'll be on the phone, and they'll be a sudden click, a couple of seconds of heavy breathing, and right before I can warn my caller or hang up the phone, the word "PENIS!" rolls down the wire into the conversation like a fart in church.

For some reason, maddmom and I have done nothing about this. So if you are reading this in my brain, keep your kids away from my dirty-mouthed little punks.

So obviously, I'm in an alternate reality. When I wake up, there will be hell to pay. Really.

Just as soon as I stop laughing.

Very need to snow...


Got nothing today, so here's an educational clip.