Made it to Mackinac Island and am overlooking the lake with a glass of Glenlivet.
That’s the stuff.
Made it to Mackinac Island and am overlooking the lake with a glass of Glenlivet.
That’s the stuff.
After all, it has a history of causing you to get naked and eat people.
All I could hear about on the ride home today was how Kristen Stewart, best known as emo teen cutter Bella Swan… Seriously? Bella Swan? That’s the character’s fucking name? Okay, I just looked it up and confirmed that Stephanie Meyer is indeed that much of a hack. Anyway, she plays the female lead in the Twilight films, and from what I could tell from the one movie my wife allowed me to take her to, it involves her mostly moping around and looking angsty.
Anyway, the big buzz is about how she admitted to having an affair with her director on the film Snow White and the Huntsman. Her director, Rupert Sanders, who is married and has two children with one of her co-stars. She admitted it, of course, AFTER pictures of her and this douchebag were leaked.
I know, I’m stooping to celebrity gossip, but I just had to say, I feel bad for her long-term boyfriend Robert Pa-something. My first wife cheated on me with one of her co-workers, too, but at least the whole country didn’t see pictures of it. Although I wish they had – I probably would have done better on the financial settlement. And although this dude is already in constant danger of being smothered by a panty-tsunami, by all accounts he was a faithful and dutiful partner, so I doubt even Brad Branson could dig him out of his funk right now. Humiliation and betrayal are not exactly the most powerful aphrodisiacs.
As for Rupert Sanders (pictured above with his box lunch), what a shitball. And now your kids are going to know what a piece of shit you are.
If you have any kind of decent relationship with your children, they think you are the best, bravest, kindest, funniest, most handsome and special man in the world. How could you trade how that makes you feel for anything, much less a pale, pasty piece of homely ass who’s young enough to BE one of those children. Ugh. Man card: PULLED.
However, the same people who right now are decrying the “values” of Chik-Fil-A are going to continue to patronize the films of these two paragons of virtue.
Vacation time is almost upon us. Every summer, we take our Master Race to Mackinac Island, Michigan for a few days to relax. With the hectic pace of our lives, it’s always a nice way to put on the brakes: with no cars on the island, you’re forced to slow down and take it easy. Leisurely strolls, bike rides, and at the Grand Hotel, there’s always the opportunity to let the kids practice their best manners. Past 6 p.m. on the hotel grounds, jacket and tie are required for gentlemen, and dresses for the ladies. After dinner, there is drinks and dancing with all my girls, but starting last year, The Heir decided he wanted to branch out and dance with girls who weren’t his sisters.
And so my son got his first wingman.
As he was only six years old, I kept my advice simple: find a girl you like, approach her and introduce yourself. “Hi, my name is The Heir. Would you like to dance?”
The first couple of tries did not go well. Mostly because girls his age are too shy to dance with boys. But, like the trooper he is, he kept plugging away and danced with three different girls in one night. That’s my boy. But, like any good wingman, I’m always thinking How could I increase his hit rate? What advice can I give him to step up his game?
Then I remembered that there’s all kinds of information on the Internet. And that’s when I found what may be the most awesome website in the entire world. With advice for both the novice and advanced player, Brad Branson gives you so many lady-killing skills that you’ll need a St. Bernard to dig you out of the vagina-lanche of strange pooter that’s going to come rolling down the mountain. For the first time in the Empire of Jeff Newsletter, I am going to have to put this EXPLOSIVE dating advice below the fold, because I cannot be held responsible for what you do with the ULTIMATE POWER OVER WOMEN these secrets will give you.
I didn’t have an update to my post on dealing with the picketers at work, because last Thursday, they decided to picket 30 area grocery stores that are owned by their parent company and broaden their sphere of annoyance. Friday I was golfing with some potential clients, so if they were there, I didn’t see ‘em.
Now they’re back in force. There were about 40 of them today, split between both driveways. To be honest, it was the last thing on my mind when I drove into work in my usual Monday morning zombie haze. There were six of them standing directly in the driveway when I pulled to a halt in front of a cluster of three bookish Asian types, who quickly skittered far out of the way, and I pulled past them and drove to the shipping entrance.
As I’m getting my briefcase out of my truck, I hear someone shout “Sir! Excuse me, sir?” and I turn around.
Oh no, they’ve sent the muscle.
The “muscle” is about 6’3″ of fucking pasty-white cookie dough in a sleeveless tank t-shirt. Now, what the fuck does this lumpy pile of goo want? I think, imagining how gross his gut rolls would feel, clammily embracing my fist as I drive it towards his spine.
“Umm, we’d just like to ask you to slow down when you’re coming down the driveway.”
“I did slow down. Everybody got out of the way just fine.”
“Yeah, well, we’d just like you to slow down, because, umm for safety.”
Oh, hell no. Now I’m getting pissed.
“You know what’s really unsafe? STANDING IN THE MIDDLE OF A FUCKING DRIVEWAY.” I turn around and swipe my key fob over the electronic lock and open the door while this nerd tries to think of something witty or tough to save face.
“Well, it’s not safe, umm… getting arrested for running someone over!” I don’t think either of us knows what the fuck that meant, but I didn’t want him to think I was rude by ignoring him.
“PFFFFT! Fuck off!” I snort over my shoulder as I enter the building, now in a good mood and ready for work.
Fast-forward a couple of hours and now I see our IT chief and all-around physical plant manager heading for the door with copies of the building’s blueprints and some letters. He tells me our boss, who owns the building, located our property line and is notifying these union dicks to stay off of it. You see, we have a very lush campus – about 120-foot setback from the road, beautiful shade trees and cool, green grass, and he doesn’t want these motherfuckers enjoying any of it. These pukes are only allowed to be on public property. In front of our building, that means no more than one foot inside the sidewalk, which means not a lick of shade. And it’s back up over 100 degrees again today. That’s how The Man says “Fuck You.”
So, I see him again later, after he reports back to the boss, and the union sissies say that if we want to play hardball, then they can too, because somebody bumped into one of their picketers and they are going to press charges for assault!
“Really?” I ask him. “What did The Boss say to that?”
“He said, ‘It wasn’t Jeff that ran somebody over, was it?’”
You see what I have to put up with? No respect. As it turns out, they are waging a 2-week long vendetta against one of our other tenants, who is a lawyer at a fairly large plaintiff’s firm. He had been trying to leave and these idiots had put cones in the driveway, and no one was getting up out of the shade to move them. So he got out of his car and tossed a cone out of his way. As he was pulling out, these nerds chase after him, slapping and kicking his car. So he gets out and has a shouting match with these people.
It’s getting fucking ugly out there. Can’t wait for tomorrow. Because if they’re thinking they’re going to set up their fucking Ewok village on our lawn, now we get the cops involved. Too hot for popcorn, so I’m thinking I’ll be eating a nice sherbet or a parfait and watch these geeks shrivel up in direct sunlight.
P.S. Thank you all for your suggestions. I now have “Butcher’s Hook” by Slipknot queued up and ready to make some nerd eardrums bleed.
I have very little to say on the recent mass murder in Aurora, Colorado. What can I say? That I’m against it? Events like these, while not exactly common, are certainly not rare. If you search Wikipedia for a “List of Rampage Killers”, it is a depressingly long list, and it is not exhaustive. People go nuts. They want revenge for slights, real or imagined, or they’re depressed, or they want attention. Some of them commit mass murder just for shits and giggles, which seems to be the motivation for this asshole in Colorado, who while displaying an impressive amount of meticulous planning, as well as technical and tactical proficiency, seemed to have no particular axe to grind.
There will always be nutjobs, “normal” folks going berserk and the occasional “evil” actor who just thinks it would be neato to see how many innocent people he can kill before running out of ammo or being stopped by the police. Who will perpetrate the next rampage killing is not predictable; that there will be another is guaranteed.
What is also depressingly predictable is the swiftness of the stupidity immediately following such events, as politicians and activists trample each other to get in front of a microphone and call for a ban on one or more of the inanimate objects that the latest rampage killer used in his crime.
The call for federal lawmakers to tighten gun laws has intensified following the mass shooting in Colorado, with New Jersey Democratic Sen. Frank R. Lautenberg urging Congress on Saturday to swiftly address a ban on certain weapons.
“Let’s stop wasting time and start saving lives,” Lautenberg, D-N.J. said on his Twitter account. “Congress must prioritize a ban on high-capacity gun magazines.”
You already tried that once, with the Federal Assault Weapons Ban in 1994. And how did that work out? Five years later, in 1999, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold committed what is now the most infamous school massacre in U.S. history, in Columbine, Colorado. The main weapon wielded by Klebold was an Intratec TEC-DC9, a 9mm semi-automatic machine pistol which had been specifically banned by name in the 1994 Assault Weapons Ban. And what of “high-capacity magazines?” The AWB restricted magazines with a capacity greater than 10 rounds, yet Klebold had 52, 32, and 28-round magazines for his weapon. To top it all off, these boys were minors. They weren’t legally allowed to purchase and possess firearms in the first place, yet somehow THAT law didn’t seem to stop them, either.
More importantly, most rampage killings in the same period were NOT committed with “assault weapons” or rifles with high-capacity magazines. They were carried out with handguns. Small caliber, large caliber, revolver and semi-automatic. These are just a few examples, and I pulled them only from the period of the Assault Weapons Ban, 1994-2004:
Larry Ashbrook – murdered 7 and wounded 7 more with a 9mm Ruger and a .380 AMT.
Darnell Collins – murdered 7 and wounded 3 others with a .22 caliber Smith and Wesson revolver.
Mark Barton – remember this asshole? He was the day trader in Atlanta that lost all his money, beat his wife and two children to death with a hammer, and went on to kill 10 more at his place of employment. Weapons used, besides a hammer, were a Colt 1911A1 in .45, a 9mm Glock 17, a, H&R .22 revolver, and a Raven .25 semi-auto.
Luther Casteel - murdered 2 and wounded 16 others, armed with two shotguns, one an H&R, another unknown shotgun, a Smith and Wesson 9mm semiauto, and a S&W .357 Magnum revolver.
Andrew Golden and Mitchell Johnson – murdered 5 and wounded 10 others in the Westside Middle School Massacre. Armed with: Remington 742 .30-06 rifle, Universal .30 M1 Carbine replica, Smith & Wesson .38 revolver, Double Deuce Buddie .22 two-shot derringer, Star .380 pistol, FIE .380 pistol, Ruger Security Six .357 revolver, Davis Industries .38 two-shot derringer, and a Charter Arms .38 revolver. An impressive arsenal FOR A COUPLE OF FUCKING 12 YEAR-OLDS.
As you can see, idiotic legislation to ban high-capacity magazines or scary-looking weapons does fuck-all to prevent murder using those same inanimate objects, or murder using OTHER types of inanimate objects. Or maybe, we should just write a law making ANY murder illegal, that way we’ll be sure to prevent bludgeoning, stabbings, strangulations, crushings, drownings, tossing a motherfucker off a roof, or having molten gold poured on your head.
Wait. We ALREADY have laws that make murder illegal? Get the fuck outta here. How is it possible that we still have murder in this country if it’s been outlawed?!
Get your fucking head out of your ass, Lautenberg. You can’t ban guns in America. There are hundreds of millions of them out there. It’s too late. And even if you could, people would murder each other with knives, pointy sticks, non-pointy, heavier sticks, bricks, cars, belts, and bare hands.
Tragedy is inevitable and unavoidable, closely followed by stupidity from our public “servants.” Round and round it goes, until the sun is cold and dead. Stupidity should be easily avoidable, and yet, here we are.
Maybe we should ban it.
There have been many complaints that Mitt Romney is not willing to “go after” or “get tough” with Obama. Some say he’s a wimp, some say he’s husbanding his resources for the last three months of the general election. I happen to think that he was biding his time and looking for an opportunity. Look what happened when David Axelrod thought he would get fuckin’ cute by holding a rally in Boston – Mitt’s home base. Instead, he got heckled by a shit-ton of Romney supporters and was left looking like an idiot, sputtering “You can’t handle the truth.” Yeah, it was kinda gay when Nicholson said it the first time, and you’re no Nicholson, chump.
MEANWHILE, IN CALIFORNIA…
Mitt Romney gave a speech in front of the shuttered and bankrupt Solyndra plant, Obama’s $535 million sinkhole. ON THE SAME DAY.
When given the opportunity, Mitt will go for the cock punch. And what an opportunity Obama dropped in his lap a couple of days ago.
“If you were successful, somebody along the line gave you some help,” he continued. “There was a great teacher somewhere in your life. Somebody helped to create this unbelievable American system that we have that allowed you to thrive. Somebody invested in roads and bridges. If you’ve got a business—you didn’t build that. Somebody else made that happen.”
Seriously, bitch? Seriously? There is just so much wrong with that that I just had to get involved, but as I have been otherwise swamped at work, and was unable to advise Mr. Romney personally, I sent my colleague Sensei John Kreese to lay out a reasoned response to the President’s speech. His consultation resulted in the following action plan:
Let’s see how he did.
Oh, damn. Oh, DAAAAAAYYYUUUMMMM! Barry, you just got fuckin’ served, playa!
And as per usual, your lickspittles are running around behind you, trying to clean up the mess you made with your own mouth. And as per usual, when they have to write twenty articles explaining how what we may have actually heard, wasn’t what you actually meant, you end up looking like an even bigger asshole.
I could just splash around in the schadenfruede all day, but I don’t want to eat all my candy at once. It’s going to be a long election season.
I have a pretty eclectic taste in books, but my favorite genre has always been science fiction, and my favorite sub-genre of that is military science fiction. But every once in a while, a new niche will take off that has all kinds of interesting possibilites, like Superhero Fiction.
No, not novelizations of comic books or the fucking Avengers movies or the Justice League queers. I’m talking fresh, new superheroes. Superheroes in unusual situations, like a zombie apocalypse. Noirish crime thrillers set in the Louisiana swamp. C-List superheroes with powers so seemingly useless that they’re more of a hindrance than a help. And sometimes, supervillains that you just can’t help feeling sorry for.
All of these were fantastic reads (and re-reads), with interestingly imagined worlds, deeply flawed, vulnerable and most importantly, human characters. Nothing bores the tits off me faster than a godlike, invulnerable hero like Superman. Who gives a shit? There’s nothing at stake because he can’t be killed (until D.C. Comics needs an infusion of capital) and his interior life is b-o-r-i-n-g. I’d rather read about superheroes who have similar needs, hopes and desires. Like me. Superheroes who are sometimes not in the mood for your shit. Like me. Superheroes that are sometimes fuckups. Like me.
If I were a superhero, I’d be Donnie Guillory in “They Tell Me I’m The Bad Guy”, written by R.D. Harless. This character talks like I think. ‘Nuff said.
I don’t know who this guy is, but I know that he’s from Louisiana, so he’s a homeboy, and this is his first novel. Couple of typos and grammar boo-boos, but who gives a shit? Self-publishing has opened up the literary marketplace for both hacks and unknown brilliant comedic writers alike. This guy is one of the latter. If Amazon didn’t exist, I would have missed out on a novel I’ll be reading over and over because some of the lines in it are just that good.
Have a Kindle? It’s only $2.99, so quit being a cheap bastard and do yourself a favor. Buy this book.
There are nuclear engineers on strike in front of my building. Last year, the Canadian government sold their commercial reactor business to a private company, mainly because it was an inefficient gagglefuck of public sector unionized layabouts with lifetime tenure and guaranteed government pensions.
And when the government of fucking CANADA decides you’re not worth spending money on anymore, you have reached the pinnacle of uselessness.
So, the company that bought this division has decided they don’t want to guarantee pensions, and you nerds can go on the local version of 401(k) plans.
“Pay for our own retirement?!” the nerds cried. “Unreasonable!”
And so now they’re picketing my office building, in which their employer has recently leased office space, but they haven’t even moved in, yet. Their company leases about five large buildings in the area, so Ive seen them around.
What they do is mill around the entrance to the two driveways of the parking lot and block traffic, asking you to roll down your window and asking you where you work. This usually results in their “scab” coworkers soaking up a ration of shit from these idiots for crossing the picket line, while the traffic piles up in the street behind them.
Until they stopped my truck and asked me where I work.
“None of your goddamn business, Sparky. That’s where I work. Now move that cone and get the fuck out of my way.”
“But we’re on str-”
“Shut. UP. I don’t give a shit about your labor dispute. I don’t work for you or with you. You keep getting in my way and it’s going to get ugly. MOVE.”
After a few seconds of excited blinking, they hurriedly moved the cones aside and I sped past, 5.2l v8 belching aromatic hydrocarbon fumes. For the next hour I sat at my desk, thinking That was FUN. And there’s another group of them in the other driveway - I need to go out for some coffee!
You can imagine how the next trip went. By now, the word had obviously spread to not talk to the asshole in the black F-150. Because when I started hauling ass back down the driveway for lunch, this is what I saw:
On the way back from lunch, I swung back over to the other driveway to see if there was anyone I hadn’t met. As it turns out, there was a fat little dumpling waddling slowly in front of me as I returned.
“Hey, lady! If you work as slow as you walk, it’s no wonder you’re out of a job.”
“Where do you-”
“AGAIN. None. Of. Your. Business. MOVE IT.”
“Well, legally, we’re allowed to slow you-”
“BullSHIT you aaaaarrrrrreeeee…”
That last was hollered as I whipped my truck around her “muscle”, some skinny-ass Asian kid in a tank top. You ain’t big enough to block a driveway by yourself, Scooter.
Again, let me stress: these are nuclear engineers on strike. Not exactly your Teamsters or Pipefitters Local. They have never spent this much time in the sun, and it’s over 100 degrees outside. They’re not built for confrontation. And my boss, who owns the building, has decided that he will do whatever he can to bring maximum misery to these whining pissmires. And they’re in it for the long haul.
If you have any suggestions for creative insults, jokes or scorn that you would like passed along, please leave them in the comments. This will be an ongoing project until the strike is over or I am jailed without Internet access.
You’re all aware by now of the “outrage” ginned up by Congress that the clothing for our US Olympic athletes, designed by Ralph Lauren, will be manufactured in China. Big fucking deal. Clothes are made in China. Lots of things are made in China, because it’s fucking cheaper. You make clothes here, and now your whiny-assed employees start joining unions and demanding things like $7.25 an hour and piss breaks every other day. Now you’re paying twice as much for threads that don’t even have to be shipped overseas. Fuck that.
What I’m hacked off about is what these uniforms LOOK LIKE.
Seriously, Ralph Lauren – fuck you. This is the AMERICAN Olympic team, asshole, not the FRENCH Olympic team. That ascot? The berets? The solid blue, white and red flashes on said berets? That’s the French flag, you fucking imbecile.
When you wear the French flag, you look like a French fag. And I bet he saved a lot of material costs by removing the ball pouch from our male athletes’ pants. The female might have gotten away with this outfit because she’s cute – kind of looks like a stewardess. But she looks like a French stewardess, so you know her body odor could knock a buzzard off a shitwagon.
Congratulations, Ralph Lauren, you can even fuck up something as simple and pure as a pretty girl.
Forget about the China angle. It’s stupid. No one is complaining that America is losing its manufacturing know-how to a country that specializes in exploding cigars, flimsy barbecue tongs, and fake rubber dog vomit. Clothes are simple to make. Simple means cheap. If it can be done cheaper elsewhere, fucking do it elsewhere.
Instead, we should be worried about having our best athletes look like a bunch of mincing sissies as they carry the Stars and Stripes into the opening ceremonies. God knows Obama has done enough to weaken the brand. We don’t need this bullshit.
I will prepare burnt offerings of ribs and beef to appease Its hunger. I will offer It single-malt tribute to quench Its thirst. Prayer sticks, rolled in Havana, will be lit in hopes of dulling Its senses, the smoke carrying my prayers that It does not sense the helpless Canadians surrounding It.
I must steel my nerve and ready my liver. My brother arrives tomorrow.