In article <1992Jun2.074232.14930@news.iastate.edu>
z1dan@exnet.iastate.edu (Dan Sorenson -- Love Rhino) writes:
> Towns like ours shouldn't have to put up with such
> "undesirables" as we have been forced to deal with in recent weeks.
> Denise, I would suggest getting out while you can. There's an
> angry mob forming, and I know from experience that they don't
> take prisoners.

Dan, Dan, let's not try to be so elitist. Each community needs its quota of people who do not fit into the norm, if only to keep life from getting boring.

Take me for instance. I'm a sick, twisted fuck. Yet there has to be someplace that will accept me and my behavior. Surely Peevetown can use a sort of "missing link" persona such as myself.

And Denise, you sound like my kinda girl. Got any plans?

ObPeeve: Feeling so good about life today that I can't think of anything to peeve about in my initial post.
------------------------------------------------
Vinnie Jordan, 160 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch.
vinniej@sco.COM
"A dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste."
-------------------------------------------------------

In article <2hjlto$kcf@jethro.Corp.Sun.COM> geoffm@purplehaze.Corp.Sun.COM writes:
>If women would standardize on the spelling of their names, this wouldn't
>be a problem.  Lately it's all the rage for females to come up with the
>most creative spellings possible for what would otherwise be commonplace
>monikers.  My friend Kevin's wife is named "Jacqui," for instance.  The
>first time I saw her named spelled that way, I thought it was meant as a
>joke.  Fortunately, I hedged my bets and didn't laugh...

Thanks for the insight, Jeff.

Peeve: Double standards!
 

______________________________________________________
Vinnie Jordan, 160 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch. vinniej@sco.COM
           "A dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In article <jtchewCL2qM7.K2v@netcom.com> jtchew@netcom.com (Joe Chew) writes: >Oh, you Brits and your complaints.  Try public transit in the US.

A legit peeve if ever there was one. 'Specially for long distance travel.

As Feorag said, the buses in Santa Cruz are almost pleasant, as  opposed to big city transit. But the worst, the absolute fuckin' pits, is the Greyhound bus system.

So why ride the thing? Well, my daughter's birthday was last week, and I took a 4-day holiday to go hang with her. My ol' lady had to work the 2 days that I decided to take off, and, "Why not just take the bus up there?" Thanks a lot, honey. Good idea.

Trip started out good; drinks at 9 in the morning at the Bullet, breakfast downtown and even ran into a guy I hadn't seen in 2-3  years, who proceeded to accompany me for a couple of last drinks before boarding the bus. The fun stopped there.

First off, there was no bathroom on this coach, and I was about to embark on a 3-hour journey to lovely Oakland, Ca. With about six vodka tonics floating around in my belly, knowing that the usual path that vodka tonics take is to the urinary tract.

Peeve: If you think about the fact that you have to piss, the pain and suffering become unbearable.

!Peeve: The driver, a little weasel of a man who looked a bit like Don Knotts, complete with wagging Adam's apple, took pity on me and promised he wouldn't leave the San Jose depot until I was back  on the bus.

So, bladder emptied, we proceed to Oakland via every conceivable place to stop that the driver could think of. Finally, I get off at the Oakland depot, and my brain tells me that if I have a one hour layover, anywhere, the obvious way to spend it is with my hand wrapped around something cold. Off I go in search of a bar.

Unrelated Peeve: Although I consider myself a person without any racial prejudices, (Hey, it's easy enough to hate folks on an individual basis) I have to admit to feeling discomfort at being  the only honkie in a downtown Oakland bar. And whether I feel any animosity or not has nothing to do with the fact that I was *not* welcome in that bar. The bartender made every effort to make me feel that way. Y'see, I watch 'tenders when they make my drink, and this cat tipped the bottle up so that less than a 1/2 shot went in the glass, filled it with soda and sat it on the bar in front of me. He laid the straw on the bar, which he had neglected to wipe down when I came in, rather than put the straw in the drink. Subtle hints, but very clear to a former street punk like myself. The tension in the bar was palpable. I paid for the "soda" and hit the fuckin' bricks back toward the bus, muttering about how I was going to buy a 1/2 pint for on the way back.

30 minutes later, I was in Martinez, a peeve in itself unless you  really enjoy the smell of petroleum from the numerous oil refineries  in the area. Spent a very unpeevesome time there, so I'll cut to the return trip.

After purchasing libations, (a pint of Southern Comfort) I caught the bus going home. It was crowded, and I copped a seat next to a rather shabby looking woman who happened to be headed to SC also. She regaled  me with her horror stories of how she had contracted head lice "on a bus just like this!!" She was pleasant enough, though, and after a few miles I kind of warmed up to her, and we had a rather fun talk, which broke up the monotony.

That's when *HE* got on. A drunken, burned out road type. He, too, was  headed to Santa Cruz. About 10 miles into his journey, he decided that he wanted to sing Jackson Browne songs at the top of his voice, which was pretty fuckin' loud. I took it as long as I could, before turning and screaming, "Would you shut the fuck up?" (I'm no politician) He yelled something about his rights, after which I informed him that if he insisted on exercising his right to sing, I would in turn exercise *my* right to punch the livin' shit out of him upon our arrival in SC. He said, "Hey, I'm not bothering anybody!" I sighed, then rose out of my seat and walked to where he was sitting. I then asked him if, since he wasn't bothering anyone, he could explain to me why I had felt the necessity to want to impair his health. He had no answer for that, and spent the rest of the trip "shutting the fuck up." Not as dumb as I had at first thought.

Finally, *Finally*, the bus let me off in Santa Cruz, the Comfort nearly gone with the help of my female friend. Jackson Browne beat a hasty retreat down a sidestreet, in case the whiskey were to re-awaken my previous anger. I hotfooted it over to the Bullet, where I got  good and soused until the ol' lady got off of work. Then we headed out for a Valentine's Day dinner, while I shared my story of the bus trip, which had her practically rolling in the aisles at the rest- aurant.

And when I got home, I swore to never leave the driving to them again.
 

_________________________________________________________
Vinnie Jordan, 160 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch. vinniej@sco.COM
           "A dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste."                    -------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In article <1994Feb20.071713.12236@emba.uvm.edu> cblaise@mole.uvm.edu (Chris Blaise) writes:
>       What the hell?!  In 91, I started reading National Lampoon.  It
>stopped in early '92.  I finally find another humor magazine and even
>subscribe to it only to find out from WPIX news that it's been cancelled!
>       Any recommendations for magazines of a similiar nature to Nat.
>Lamp or Spy?

No way am I going to tell you, Chris. You're a jinx, don't you know? Subscribe to something that is generally hated. That way, we can be
assured that that publication will soon go the way of the dinos.

Suggestions;

MAD Magazine
Reader's Digest
Anything to do with racing cars
Anything to do with wrestling

Well, you get the picture. If you're gonna doom a magazine by subscribing to it, kill off the ones with no redeeming values, and leave the good humor mags alone.

Peeve: Constipation. After about a week of company, parties and rich foods, I came up empty at the dumping station, forcing me to take a concoction called Metamucil. Stuff tastes like it wants to be alone. No help for the first day. Ol' lady says I didn't take enough, and that I shpuld take it until something happened. I trusted her, and she betrayed me. After the stuff finally started to work, there was a  bit of a backlog, so when I  acheived initial success, there was a long period of time before the ol' insides stabilized. Not much is sadder than a man who has to turn down an invitation to a birthday party on a Saturday because he's stuck squatting on the shitter.

Peeve#2: My ol' lady went to the party without me, and undoubtedly  told the story, creating gales of laughter at my expense.

__________________________________________________________
Vinnie Jordan, 160 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch. vinniej@sco.COM
           "A dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Newsgroups: alt.peeves
From: vinniej@sco.com (King of Beasts)
Subject: Re: alt.mother_teresa.clu
Organization: The Santa Cruz Operation, Inc.
Date: Fri, 04 Mar 1994 22:29:29 GMT
Message-ID: <1994Mar04.222929.881@sco.com>
Sender: news@sco.com (News admin)
Lines: 45
 

In article <62.2595.439.0N0E9099@phant.boise.id.us> mike.wase@phant.boise.id.us (Mike Wase) writes:
>(As for murder: murder implies a deliberate, responsible act directed
>(towards the termination of an individual of equal moral value. I do
>(not consider children to be of equal moral value to adult human beings
>(or indeed to other adult animals. (The average cat shows more sign
>(of sentience than a baby: why should the cat have fewer "rights" than
>(the rug-rat?)

Equal moral value? How you figger? Each of us has his own morals that we choose to live by. But each would examine the morals of another and attach a worth or value to it, and I suspect they would all be different. For me, I had a discussion with someone just yesterday, and she found the idea of being neutral and non-participatory repugnant in a situation that could result in the harm of another, while I consider mindin' your own business a matter of course. Y'see, I think everyone should have the right to screw up their lives, if they are doing what they believe in, without my interference. And they will, with or without my participation. Now, I'm not saying I'm right or wrong. What I'm saying is that, while my friend was in total disagreement, my moral judgment was on one end of a spectrum in my eyes, and at the other in hers. Someone else may find them somewhere in the middle.

Point being that the term "equal moral value" is a judgment call at best, and also intimates that there is one set of rules for all to  go by. For me, I'd not like the responsibility of making a set of rules that you would have to pattern your life after.

Would you?

>You're right. Cats should be killed, too.

Mike, meet Booter. Booter, Mike.

I'm sure you'll find something to talk about.

Peeve: This is the second discussion on morals I've had this morning, in 2 different newsgroups. The world is chock-full of people who think they know what's best for me and the rest of the world.

_____________________________________________________________
Vinnie Jordan, 160 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch. vinniej@sco.COM
           "A dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: vinniej@sco.COM (King of Beasts)
Newsgroups: alt.peeves
Subject: Obit
Date: 18 Mar 1994 14:30:58 -0600
Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway
Lines: 42
Sender: daemon@cs.utexas.edu
Message-ID: <9403181234.aa20855@srv324b.sco.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: cs.utexas.edu

Paddington is dead, is dead, is dead. (TM Walter Cronkite)

We finally had to put Ginny's dog to sleep. He had a stroke, his third, Tuesday night. Wednesday, Ginny had her mind made up. She sent me to work, and wanted to deal with it alone.

Big deal. Who really gives a fuck? I mean, he had arthritis in his back legs, going blind and was deaf as a post. He was on his last legs for a year, and his body just quit on him.

!Peeve: She managed to find a vet that would come to the house, eliminating the need to take him somewhere to get snuffed and then bring him home again to bury.

So he lay in the driveway where he had fallen the night before. We covered him, but he wasn't going anywhere. He didn't even recognize us at first, but by morning he could see me as I stopped on the way down the stairs to give him a cookie. That was the last time I saw him alive.

So the Kevorkianesque guy came and gave him a shot of phenobarbitol, and it was all over in about 5 seconds. He laid his head on his paws and just died. No gasping, no pain or anything. The medical profession should take a good long look at this practice.

Tears all around as we wrapped him in an Army blanket and carried him to his resting place, the same spot he always sat when his mom was in the back yard raking leaves or whatever. The kid next door yelled over, "What ya doin?" and his mother came out and yanked him into the house, 'cause she knew. Kids are like that, if I'd have said "Burying the dog. He died today," and he'd have prolly said "Oh," and that would be the extent of his curiosity.

So now the big, gentle creature, who needed only a few cookies and an occasional pat on the head to feel secure, is dead. Big deal.  Who really gives a fuck?

I do. Me and the woman who makes my world go 'round.

Oh, and don't tell Geoff.....

Those bored by vacation posts can hit their "n" key now.

Had the good fortune of taking a vacation in Yosemite Valley. I'd never been there before, but I can guarantee I'll be going back.
 

Yosemite is absolutely one of the most beautiful places on Earth. The sheer rock walls are nearly vertical, and people defy gravity climbing them. To stand at the base of one of them and look straight up is to see a sight so impressive, it makes even one so conceited and self-aggrandizing as myself feel humble.

The first thing one should do before committing to being camped on a mountain is to ensure that the person/people you are going with aren't going to drive you batshit before the week is over. That's where my buddy Dave comes in. Dave is the kind of guy you can belch or  fart or pick your nose around without feeling the need to excuse yourself. The kind of guy you can just sit with, without feeling the need  to force conversation. The kind of guy who listens when you talk, and only asks that you show the same respect when his turn rolls around. Dave is beautiful.

Camping is many things.

Peeves: Camping is sharing your bedroll with spiders and your food  with ants. It's sunburns and bugbites, and inclement weather. It's picking up a stick, any ol' stick will do, and sharpening it to a point; then cramming it into the ass end of an artificially colored fatty little sausage. Wait!! I ain't done yet. Then you uniformly cremate said sausage until it's evenly black on the outside and cold and spongy on the inside, at which point you put it in a cold, crappy bun and slather it with catsup and mustard and *put it in your mouth!!* It's bathing in water so cold that your testicles burrow into your lower belly and your asshole clenches so tight, you'll swear you'll never crap out anything thicker than a pencil.

But, lest I discourage you, there's the other side

UnPeeves: Camping is sitting in the sun with nothing to do but nothing. It's turning off the analytical flood that is your working mind and replacing it with the "Be here now" philosophy of the pseudo-Buddhists and not worrying about anything bigger than if all the ice melts before you get off your lazy, vacationing ass to go get more. It's falling asleep to the sound of the rushing river at the side of your camp. It's drinking a cold beer by a roaring fire while telling jokes and stories. It's meeting other campers, people whom you wouldn't spit on if their fuckin' hair was on fire out in the world, and partying and sharing with them. It's blowing a joint of high grade sensemilla while adoring the panorama that surrounds you in every direction.

!Peeve: Dave works for a beer distributor. Now me, I'm not much of a beer drinker. To me, beer is for washing down shots of 80proof toxins. Dave is a big beer fan, but not the American swill. He always takes me to  places that sell imported beer, trying to educate my stupid tongue to the finer beers. As a distributor, he uncovers some unheard of brands or limited edition runs by some  of the many regional brewers in the area. And by God, there's hope for me. I've been able to discern one beer from another, and have even found some I like! There's a brew from Humboldt Brewing Company, and you BA peevers shouldn't have too much trouble finding it. It's called Red Nectar, and comes highly recommended. "Rednecks," we call 'em.

After 3 days of perfect weather, sunny and 70-80 degrees, we hiked and walked and drove ourselves to exhaustion. On the 4th day, the weather turned a bit to partly cloudy and cooler and on the 5th, it rained real hard. So we stayed at camp, drinking this red elixir and sealing each view into our consciousness so we could recall those pictures in our minds to thwartoff the inevitable return to civilization. On  Friday, it didn't appear that the rain was gonna let up, so we took one last ride through the park.

!Peeve: The clouds were collected around the highest peaks, swirling and partially covering them. Made some beautiful pictures.

Peeve: I found out the weather the next day was beautiful, and we could have stayed another day.
 

____________________________________________________________
Vinnie Jordan, 160 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch. vinniej@sco.COM
           "A dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste."                    -------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In article <2qtj55$c39@vixen.cso.uiuc.edu> CROSSD@SCORPION.AG.UIUC.EDU (David Cross) writes:
>Peeve:  People who come to this country to live and never try to learn
>American (the local dialect of English).  I wouldn't expect to be able
>to live in France without speaking French.  Why should someone expect that >people will adapt to their language when they move here?

This tends to backfire on the immigrants who adopt this practice, as it  confines them to their own communities, and seriously hampers any career opportunities they might be able to pursue.

Now, bilingual is a definite feather in the cap for these folks. I've been turned down from some interesting sounding jobs 'cause I couldn't speak Spanish. It would behoove these folks to take the time to learn the language, and if they choose not to, well, that's their blues, and no problem to me.

'Course, it's a pain when you go to a store, and the person waiting on you can't grasp the language well enough to effectively complete the transaction, but that's another peeve for another time.

>BonusPeeve:  People so stupid they think Jesus really did speak English.

I don't get this peeve. Anytime I've read the Bible, all the quotes that are atttributed to JC were all in English.

____________________________________________________________
Vinnie Jordan, 160 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch. vinniej@sco.COM
           "A dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste."                    -------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In article <mandibleCq0t4n.A6x@netcom.com> mandible@netcom.com (Articulate Mandible) writes:
>Hey! booter! Gilbert Roland's the most recent one!\
>Articulate Mandible

Wrong-o, little buccaroo.

JackieO died the other day. Many's the night that I spent sleeping in my own spooge after wanking with the thought of Ms. Onassis licking my private parts.

Now, she wasn't all that drop  dead beautiful, but there was an elegance about her that just made you want to have her lips wrapped around your fuckin' unit.

Too bad I'll never experience it.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Vinnie Jordan     "SICK, TWISTED FUCK" (tm)                  vinniej@sco.COM
       "Being an asshole means never wanting to say you're sorry"
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Newsgroups: alt.peeves
From: vinniej@sco.COM (King of Beasts)
Subject: Re: The "Pussy" Manifesto
Organization: The Santa Cruz Operation, Inc.
Date: Wed, 25 May 1994 21:52:50 GMT
Message-ID: <1994May25.215250.16567@sco.com>
References: <mandibleCqC6Gt.EFy@netcom.com> <2rvead$t6m@vixen.cso.uiuc.edu> <2rvuq6$j26@Mercury.mcs.com>
Sender: news@sco.com (News admin)
Lines: 20

In article <2rvuq6$j26@Mercury.mcs.com> finch@MCS.COM (Deirdre Sholto-Douglas) writes:
>I purr when I'm content, scratch when provoked and fall asleep in the sun.
>The comparision is apt enough where I'm concerned...despite the fact that
>I (only rarely) climb on the counter or shed.  The only real difference
>between myself and my furry owners is the brand of 'catnip' we prefer...
>and the fact that my 'box' also has a sink and a tub.

Deirdre,

I think I speak for all the male population of Peevetown when Isay I'd like to see your box.

Peeve: Bad puns, and my inability to resist using them.
 

___________________________________________________________
Vinnie Jordan, 160 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch. vinniej@sco.COM
           "A dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In article <2s5gt8$4r9@herald.indirect.com> grizzarv@indirect.com (Robert V. Grizzard) writes:
>I have explained this to Mr. Monroe, and said I would apologize in public
>for my mistake.  This is that apology.  Anything in my previous post that
>points to Mr. Monroe is redirected to the appropriate target, who knows
>who he is.

Damn. A show of class. In this fuckin' jungle of Peevetown, it's very common for some of us, myself especially, to go off on people over small slights. But in the rare instances where someone actually comes out and says, "Hey, I stepped on my dick" is admirable in my mind.

Hope the reference to the male genitalia doesn't set off another fuckin' flamewar, but it's a saying I learned in the Navy, and 20 years ago there were so few women in the service that that saying was acceptable.

Peeve: I've overposted this week. I got a lot o' bad shit going on in my life right now, and I guess I'm perhaps in maximum peeve mode. Of course, this is the forum for me to do these things, but I suspect I've prolly overdone it this week.

Peeve2: Some folks are gonna respond to my rantings, but by the time I return, a bunch of them will have been puked out by my news server, leaving the impression that I'm too cowardly to respond to them.

You got a beef with anything I say, send it to e-mail, and we'll have a discussion. It ain't necessary to waste these other folks' time. Especially re-opening threads that will have died by then.

Peeve3: No peeves 'til I get back. This forum is addictive as hell. Before I moved here, I lived in alt.tasteless, and I never knew this place existed. But I used to get the same withdrawals when I'd go on holiday in those days.

Y'all take care of yourselves.
 

Vinnie

>ObPeeveTheSecond:  That I can't reach my own ass to kick it.

You did. But you did it with style. While I doubt you care, Irespect you for it.

_______________________________________________________________
Vinnie Jordan, 160 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch. vinniej@sco.COM
           "A dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tuesday, one tough motherfucker bit the dust. He wasn't a nice man, and never claimed to be. He was a carbon copy of the ol' VinMan. About 5'8", 160 lbs, with the ability to romp and stomp with the best of them.

Hadn't seen the bastard in 9 years. Last time I saw him, we slipped drinks in our pockets out of a bar, slowly walked down the downtown mall, sipped 'em and talked about life.

He was a smart man. One of the smartest I've had the pleasure of spending time with. His favorite place to go was the Planetarium in Forest Park. He was knowledgable about plants and birds and all the things you wouldn't think a man who brawled in bars and did a stint in both the Korean War and Marion Correctional Institute would have.

He taught me that it was OK to cry, but to do it alone so you don't cause your blues to become other people's. He taught me to  throw the uppercuts that knock down much larger opponents. He taught me that there was nothing that can happen that you can't find humor in, and for these lessons I can't thank him enough.

Well, the previous statement about the last time I saw him wasn't entirely accurate. The last time I saw him was on the day he died. He weighed all of 118 pounnds. He had one o' those things on his arm where, if you pushed the button, it would release a decent dose of Demerol, which is a synthetic opiate. (For the uninitiated) Oddly, he wouldn't use it. He was afraid of becoming dependent on the stuff. I'd wait until he fell asleep, which was often, as he was real weak at the end. When I'd hear him snore, I'd push the button twice. Then I kissed him on the lips for the first time since I was about 7, when I had told him, "I'm too old to kiss you on the lips anymore."
 

And then he died that night.

Call your dad on Father's day. You may not get another chance.

In article <mandibleCsHL7I.JJ9@netcom.com> mandible@netcom.com (Articulate Mandible) writes:
>A Friend from yore had a pet gander. One day we were stolling down a lane
>looking for mischief when the dawg loped up to us from across a field.
>The goose leapt, got the dog confused with its wings, raked it once
>or twice in the eyes with its spurs, and finished it off in pretty short
>order.

Had a distant relative who was a farmer. Sometimes we'd just want to get out of the city and we'd drive the 100 or so miles to Uncle Duke's. (Is that a good hick name or what?) He had 2 geese when we got there one time. He had one when we left later that afternoon.

I was 9 years old, and was out front wandering around. Geese are not nice birds, and they fuck with you without provocation. One of them got to chasing me. They don't really run that fast, and it was easy to stay out of reach, where it would nip me if it got the opportunity. But that ain't the point. I'd run far enough to get away and stop, but eventually the tireless, pesky goose just kept on going. Even as a child, I ran out of patience easily. The damned thing had chased me  to the point that I was out of sight, and city kids can get lost purty easy if they are out of their element. (Snipe hunting story deleted for brevity and because everyone's heard it)

So, I found a big stick and made my stand. The ghastly goose just wouldn't stop going, as if there was a contract on me and his job was to fulfill it.

Geese have a weak spot; their neck. I took my best Babe Ruth swing when it got close enough, and it's neck snapped neatly and drooped over sideways. It walked around in a couple of circles before dropping to the ground and going into it's death throes. I was both scared and elated at the same time; scared of the whipping I was gonna get, and elated at the thought of vanquishing my enemy.

Even now, when I go to Pleasure Point, I take my daughter so she can feed a loaf or two of bread to the ducks, as she loves to do when I have her. The geese are well behaved, mostly keep their  distance. Occasionally, a brave one will come over if he's real hungry. But they see it in my eyes; I am a goose killer, and they mostly stay away.

________________________________________________________________ Vinnie Jordan, 160 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch. vinniej@sco.COM
           "A dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste."                    -------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mr. Garrett,

I take exception to your post about .sigs that don't change. Mine never change, but I have a lot of them, and use them in their appropriate locations. I have  my work sigs, anti-PC sig, etc.

Let's take my peeve .sig here.
___________________________________________________________
Vinnie Jordan, 170 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch. vinniej@sco.COM
           "A dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Now, you might think that the first line is just macho posturing. But you don't know me. I actually did change it when the calendar and increase of my beer consumption
caused me to gain 10 unwanted pounds.

The second line, well, let's just say that I have a filthy fuckin' mouth to go along with my dirty mind, and to waste either one just ain't my style. Think of it less as a tag line and more of a philosophy.

Then, there's my old alt.tasteless sig......

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Vinnie Jordan     "SICK, TWISTED FUCK" (tm)                  vinniej@sco.COM
       "Being an asshole means never wanting to say you're sorry"
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

You gotta admit, it's appropriate. Even got my personal title TMed, and the tagline is of my own creation. I don't come up with clever taglines too often, so I hang on to this old fossil.

Y'see, Dave, I'd rather put any creativity into my posting, as I don't see the .sig as part of the post, just a signature. So lighten the fuck up.

____________________________________________________________
Vinnie Jordan, 170 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch. vinniej@sco.COM
           "Fuck you, Dave." There. Is that better?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Newsgroups: alt.peeves
From: vinniej@sco.COM (King of Beasts)
Subject: Re: Elections.  Again.
Organization: The Santa Cruz Operation, Inc.
Date: Fri, 04 Nov 1994 16:54:02 GMT
Message-ID: <1994Nov04.165402.8840@sco.com>
References: <393jvb$o5t@crl7.crl.com>
Sender: news@sco.com (News admin)
Lines: 22
 
 

In article <393jvb$o5t@crl7.crl.com> rickg@crl.com (Rick Gordon) writes:
>Now I hear that the election isn't until November *8*th, more than a week,
>another mendacious, cancerous week of poormouthing pieties away.  What a
>cruel trick this is.

That's democracy, pal.

I was perusing my mail yesterday, and found a campaign flyer for two guys with interesting names;

First off, there's Dick Chinn. Reminds me of some joke's punchline. Then, the other guy's name was Cumstay. I don't have to tell you what I thought of, but I think I'd vote for these guys just to see their fuckin' names in the paper every other day or so.

!Peeve: Unusual names.

_____________________________________________________________
Vinnie Jordan, 170 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch. vinniej@sco.COM
Me speak for SCO? Surely you jest. They don't even like me much.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We don't really talk much about sports here, but something happened Saturday night that merits recognition.

Big George Foreman became the heavyweight champion of the world again, after losing it 20 years ago to Ali. George is 45 now, and had to file a suit to get permission to fight, with his detractors saying he was too old, and might get hurt. Look who's laughin' now!!

George, if you're not familiar with him, is a gregarious and happy fellow, who jokes about training at the dinner table. He fights about 40-50 pounds heavier than he did in his prime, and is so irreverent about the game he's in that even his opponents have trouble getting an attitude against him.

He wasn't always that way. When he first came up, he was a sullen, brooding brute of a man, who gave the appearance of having a whole shitload of demons inside. His career appeared to be over, when he lost to the Greatest in 1974 and subsequently retired to take up the pulpit as a Texas preacher.

He came back 7-8 years ago with a new attitude and the same crushing right hand that was his trademark. But the glower was replaced by a beaming smile and a funny banter that showed that he was indeed a new man. He's a big crowd pleaser now, and he's the champ. Couldn't happen to a better guy.

So drink a toast to old George, a real nice guy in a world where there ain't a whole lot of them.

VJ

"It was a lot of fun playing the Chinese, but an hour later, we wanted
to play them again." *Bobby Knight at the 1980 Olympics.*

Newsgroups: alt.feminism,alt.sex,alt.politics.correct,rec.org.mensa,alt.peeves
From: vinniej@sco.COM (King of Beasts)
Subject: Re: Queer space
Message-ID: <D0IDI4.KMF@demon.co.uk>
Sender: news@demon.co.uk (Usenet Administration)
Nntp-Posting-Host: srv324b.sco.com
Organization: The Santa Cruz Operation, Inc.
References: <steiner.1137169125B@news.best.com> <3c4t9b$7no@larry.rice.edu> <steiner.1137237908G@news.best.com>
Date: Thu, 8 Dec 1994 20:13:15 GMT
Lines: 54

In article <steiner.1137237908G@news.best.com> steiner@best.com (Mike Steiner) writes:
>In Article <3c4t9b$7no@larry.rice.edu>, garrett@math13.rice.edu (David
>Garrett) wrote:
>>This is getting rather tiresome. I understand you just fine, you
>>vapid, puerile little cocksucker, and I, along with most of the other
>>people who've been subjected to your histrionic, self-important
>>squealing for the past couple of weeks, don't feel that you deserve
>>any better than what you've been getting based on your actions.
>You don't understand shit, you pompus ass.  I am not going to become a
>punching bag for you bunch of overinflated egos with delusions of grandeur.

Open your eyes, Mikey. You already have. You're the Chuck Wepner of the 'net.
For the non-fans of boxing, of which I've no doubt there are many, ol' Chuck was a club fighter out of New Jersey who went by the nickname of the Bayonne Bleeder. He never really set out to win fights; his goal was just to go the distance. He'd be outpointed, bleeding from front to back, to the screams of the bloodthirsty fans who came to see how bad of a beating  the poor fucker would take. He considered not getting knocked out a moral victory, even if he lost the fight.

That's you, Steiner. You think that, as long as you keep slinging the stale insults and tired, juvenile profanity, that perhaps the judges won't see what a terrific beating you've absorbed, and how badly you lost the fight. And in this way, you fool only yourself, which is no real accomplishment. The rest of us look at you with a mixture of amusement and pity, as we await your futile bleatings to the contrary. Has it ever occurred to your diseased brain that you have everyone against you and no one behind you because perhaps you are ineffective in debate? Or that you're a loose cannon with no guidance system? Probably not. Would that I saw even *one* person take your side and mean it, I wouldn't see you in the same negative light. A similar negative light, maybe, but not the same one.

>You're a bunch of jackals, lying in wait for your next victim, but  refuse
>to be a victim, and that you can't handle that, you miserable excuse for a
>human being.

You are a victim, Mikey. And you always will be, as you walk through life absorbing the punishment of your betters, which is anyone who breathes.

>You're a piece of jestam floating along the internet, spreading filth and >corruption wherever you may turn up.
>Do the world a favor and blow your brains out (you'll find them--if you look >really hard, they're so small--inside your rectum), scumbag.

I should delete this, but I thought I'd leave it in to save you the trouble of repeating it. It seems that it's the only defense you can muster.

_________________________________________________________
Vinnie Jordan, 170 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch. vinniej@sco.COM
Me speak for SCO? Surely you jest. They don't even like me much. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Newsgroups:  alt.feminism,soc.women,soc.men,alt.politics.correct,alt.sex,rec.org.mensa,alt.peeves
From: vinniej@sco.COM (King of Beasts)
Subject: Re: Paglia's Talk at Stanford: Sex, Politics, Censorship, etc.
X-Nntp-Posting-Host: srv324b.sco.com
Message-ID: <D0vFMH.ALM@demon.co.uk>
Sender: news@demon.co.uk (Usenet Administration)
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References: <3comnu$665@agate.berkeley.edu> <ayseD0uC3n.C7E@netcom.com> <3cpppj$1qdo@argo.unm.edu>
Date: Thu, 15 Dec 1994 21:27:53 GMT
Lines: 31
 

In article <3cpppj$1qdo@argo.unm.edu> barsun@unm.edu (hans f  barsun) writes:
>    When I think of some of the drivel that I have posted over the past year,
>I shudder.  You see, I am soon to finish my M.S. and am currently looking for
>a good job ($$$$, fun work) so my writing may be seen by many potential
>employers.  Therefore, I do need to be careful of what I say and how I say it.

It never ceases to amaze me, even in a forum such as a.p, that anyone would think that what they say is going to be remembered by anyone a week after it was written, much less slam career doors on them. I mean, once in a while, a real gem gets posted. Occasionally, you'll find something so precious that you'll make a .sig out of it. And there are the Steiners of the world who are for beating on, and good whipping boys are hard to come by.

Unfortunately, or fortunately as the case may be, you don't really fit into any of these categories, Hans. You write respectably, but not in any way outstandingly. You can rest assured that no employers out there are shovin' your resume into the trash because of what you've written. And if you're worried about them not hiring you for what you've written, think about this; If they hang out in Peevetown, they would approve of the content. If they remembered  any of your posts, which I doubt, they'd be more in- clined to feel a sort of bond with you, rather than hold it against you. If they don't read this or any other group that you post to, they don't know you're alive.

Peeve: Inflated egos.

__________________________________________________________

Vinnie Jordan, 170 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch. vinniej@sco.COM
Me speak for SCO? Surely you jest. They don't even like me much. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In article <3cqbjf$lpr@tilde.csc.ti.com> KOOgar@dlep1.itg.ti.com (KOOgar) writes:
>In article <D0v439.IyL@demon.co.uk>, vinniej@sco.COM (King of Beasts) says:
>>Peeve: Being an atheist, and not giving a shit about the "real" meaning
>>of Christmas, which is the birthday of some sleazy looking, unkempt
>>cat who convinced the world that he was more than an ordinary man.
>       This bothers you?

Somewhat. Due to the fact that I neither enjoy the commercial or religious aspects of a time of year that most people associate with joy, I have no real enthusiasm.

Of course, I'm not averse to taking this part of the season to participate in 10 days of badly needed vaction time, which brings me to the obligatory...

UNPeeve!! I'm outta here for a coupla weeks. Merry Christmas to all my peevin' brothers and sisters. Death to Steiner and his family. Get all the head you can over the holidays, and stay as mean as ever. Much to your dismay, I'll be back, unless I hedonize myself to death, always a possibility in my case.
___________________________________________________________
Vinnie Jordan, 170 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch. vinniej@sco.COM
Me speak for SCO? Surely you jest. They don't even like me much.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In article <3da4md$rd2@jazzmin.vnet.net> moxie@jazzmin.vnet.net (merde) writes:
>In article <levine.788022790@symcom>,
>however, this december marks my seventh year on the
>net.  during that time, i have always used all
>lowercase.  (except, of course, when someone's
>malformed bangpath required otherwise... ah, the
>days of uucp...)

This tells me one of two things; either you have low self-esteem, or you're just too damned lazy to take the effort to make your writing look pleasant.

Or, perhaps you're making some sort of symbol of your uniqueness. Should that be the case, you'll be disappointed to know that most of the people who post in lower case tend to be poor quality contributors.

BTW, merde means shit in some language, I forget which, as I'm still struggling with English, the only language an American ever needs to learn.

Whatever your reasons are for being an obstinate, twerpy shithead, I hope you slip and break your fingers, so we won't be treated to any more of your stubborn "uniqueness."

Twat.

____________________________________________________________
Vinnie Jordan, 170 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch. vinniej@sco.COM
Me speak for SCO? Surely you jest. They don't even like me much.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Newsgroups: rec.org.mensa,alt.peeves
From: vinniej@sco.COM (King of Beasts)
Subject: Re: Typo creeping death
X-Nntp-Posting-Host: srv324b.sco.com
Message-ID: <D1onGA.JEu@demon.co.uk>
Sender: news@demon.co.uk (Usenet Administration)
Organization: The Santa Cruz Operation, Inc.
References: <3dvc0r$p8t@nntp.Stanford.EDU> <3e2emd$104@bcfreenet.seflin.lib.fl.us> <3e2ioo$7ni@Mercury.mcs.com>
Date: Sat, 31 Dec 1994 16:07:22 GMT
Lines: 16
 

In article <3e2ioo$7ni@Mercury.mcs.com> finch@MCS.COM (Deirdre Sholto-Douglas) writes:
>BTW, Susan, it's a pity that you are so deplorably uncaring that you
>managed, in your final paragraph, to actually spell your own dog's
>name in two different manners.  Leads me to believe you're making up
>your little story.  Maybe you should name the next one S-P-O-T.  I think,

I suspect the numb twat would probably spell it S-T-O-P half of the time.

Peeve: Mensans, simply because of what they've shown me the last month. Where the hell do they get off feeling even equality, let alone any sort of superiority, with the spewf they pollute the 'net with?
_______________________________________________________________
Vinnie Jordan, 170 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch. vinniej@sco.COM
Me speak for SCO? Surely you jest. They don't even like me much.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Newsgroups: alt.peeves
Path: vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!uwm.edu!lll-winken.llnl.gov!simtel!noc.netcom.net!netcom.com!pigface
From: pigface@netcom.com
Subject: Elaine?
Message-ID: <pigfaceDB9s1K.Ksu@netcom.com>
Organization: NETCOM On-line Communication Services (408 261-4700 guest)
Date: Thu, 6 Jul 1995 00:58:31 GMT
Lines: 99
Sender: pigface@netcom13.netcom.com

Get yer shovels out, honey. We got work to do.

Sure, y'all know about Eva Gabor and Wolfman Jack. But there are a couple of entries into the annals of formerly live humans that you wouldn't have heard about.

A former coworker of mine, who I really didn't like much, was despondent over the fact that his wife left him. This despondency manifested itself in a peculiar way, causing a severe ear infection. At least, I assume it was an ear infection, because he attempted to clear it using the barrel end of a gun. Expectedly, the infection cleared up immediately. Hope hisinsurance was paid up.

It's really nice outside. Not a cloud in the sky, temps in the 75-80 range, a light ocean breeze wafting over my little beach community. My supervisor was just promoted to a management position, and he sent out mail to assure us that he wasn't going to be "one of them." "Don't worry. Our working relationships will not change."

Yeah? Well, let's see if this cat's on the level.

So, I go into his office, sporting a cross between a tan and a burn from a busy weekend of white water rafting, swimming and eating rich foods, smoking quality herb and drinking expensive vodka. Hardly the look one wants when seeking to get the afternoon off, but dammit, it's too nice to be cooped up.

"You just got back. Why you wanna take the afternoon off?"

(My best whiney voice) "There's nothing to dooo....."

"Quarterly reports are finished?"

"Of course!"

"Metrics turned in?"

"Sure."

He stares at me. My gaze doesn't falter. I smile. He kinda grimaces.

"Get outta here. And don't try this crap every time the weather gets nice." I give a halfhearted nod, and beat feet out of there before he changes his mind.

So, what to do with such a bright and sunny afternoon? Go to the beach? Peruse the Boardwalk? Maybe some effective cycling?

I think not.

I head downtown, to one of the neighborhood bars. I like the family bars, filled with tough old working guys and their equally used-up ol' ladies, folks that a lot of you wouldn't give a second glance to, simply because you're from a different world, as professionals in your fields. But, you hafta remember, I'm a product of that group, and I like to go down and be with the people I know best. Punks, sluts, junkies, whores and thieves. They don't resent my moving on to greener pastures, 'cause they know I'm gonna come back and buy rounds and shoot the shit with 'em, just like in the old days, and tell them stories about the corporate mentality that only reinforce their correct view that those folks that talk about diversity and empowerment are the same ones that fuck the working stiff at every opportunity. We laugh, and drink toasts to the absurdity of a world that allows the educated hillbillies (TM Victor Ivanoff) of the world to run the lives of real people. People with hearts and souls as big as mountains, who have accepted the inequities of life with a shrug and a hearty "What the fuck."

And, then I found out that the ranks had been thinned by one.

I shake a few hands, pony up to the bar, and order a double brandy, up. Charlie, whose real name is Charlotte, and is as feminine as a chick with a tattoo above her right titty can be, pours it and sets it in front of me. She don't take no money, and she's actually kind of distant, unusual for her. I pull her up, and ask what's the matter. She said, "Haven't you heard?" Heard what? "They found Tortuga this morning. Dead."

Now, that took a little shimmer out of the bright sun of the day. Y'see, me and Tortuga did a lot of shit together. He was one of the first people I met when I came to Santa Cruz 20 years ago. He was 10 years older than me, and showed me the ropes of how to maneuver and shape my environment in a strange town, and we went through dope addiction and county jail time together. He was a heavyweight dude, and many's the time we'd sit and discuss street philosophy over double shots of cheap well booze, lamenting the loss of the times when Santa Cruz was a wide open town, and fun to live in, before everyone else figgered it out and overcrowded it.

It wasn't a violent death, nor a drug related one. His body just said "Uncle" in response to the tiring stimulus he applied to it every day of his life. As near as we can tell, he met death the same way he met life; glibly and slowly. Relaxed and impassive, unless somebody directly interfered with his goal, which was to go about his business and have nobody fuck with him. The few that did were quickly oriented to the "Mind yer own" philosophy.

Vicente "Tortuga" Galindez, dead at 49.
 

Pigface

In article <3tk1b9$o8@cronkite.cisco.com> fred_s@anthrax.cisco.com (Frederick Scott) writes:
>kfl@access2.digex.net (Keith F. Lynch) writes:
>>Someone should yank your license until you get a clue.
>Clue?  You're talking to me about "having a clue" and then suggesting some-
>thing no one ever does?  Have you noticed that people DO NOT pull off the
>road for half an hour at sunset?  Have you ever bothered to think to your-
>self, "Now, why is that?".  Gee, _maybe_, it's because what you propose isn't
>even close to anything practical.

Patience, Frederick.

Lynch here brought up this old and tired argument in another group that I read, and created a 3 month flamefest.

Let's play his little clue game.

Clue #1, Keith: You can rap until the cows come home about how cyclists have as much of a right to roads as the motorists. And you'd be wrong. They don't, and their arrogance in adopting the "We're as good as you are" argument is instrumental in the animosity that motorists feel toward cyclists. Roads were made for cars. Take yer toys out of the way, and let the roads be used for their intended purpose, which is to provide automobiles with a way to move from place to place.

Clue #2: No matter how much you natter, you can't change the fact that the cyclist has the disadvantage in any collision. It behooves the bicyclist to make sure that every move they make is safe. Because, if the car hits you, they'll walk away from it. And, invariably, they will.

And, without a doubt, you won't. Perhaps rightfully so.
 

Further, you have no right to say that you have an equal footing in matters concerning who has the right to the roads.

You don't. You're only an annoyance to the motorists.

Worse than that, though, is the false impression that you give, that you are attempting to make the world a little bit prettier by using an alternative form of transportation that doesn't pollute. Bullshit. That's a philosophical concept that gratefully died with the 60s.

Clue #3: The world is a cesspool, and there are a bunch of us that don't really give a tin shit that we're headed in that direction. We're more than happy to use up the world's resources, pollute every conceivable pocket of cleanliness we can find, and piss off the futures of your offspring. Funny how every goal that tree-hugging, socially responsible people like you have are doomed to failure, due to the fact that people like me will stop you at every turn merely by demonstrating our indifference.
 

>>Killing innocent people is *not* acceptable.

"There are no innocent people."   attribution forgotten. accuracy remembered.

>Killing is not the question.  Innocent people get killed all the time.
>I don't care what you define is "acceptable" or "not acceptable", it happens.
>Live with it.

See above.

They don't "get killed," as much as they meet their destiny. People who take a 30 pound bike and attempt to play equality with 3000 pound metal vehicles pretty much deserve whatever mishaps befall them.

Logic. It's a bitch, ain't it?

>>If avoiding it means you have to "pull off the road for, say 1/2 hour" then
>>that's what you do.  More likely, all you'd have to do is slow down to a
>>speed at which you can see where you're going.  If you can't see where
>>you're going, you're going too fast.  If you can't see at all, you should
>>stop.

Wrong.

If the mode of transportation that you choose is basically unsafe, it's unnecessarily egotistical of you to expect the rest of the world to support your decision borne of ignorance.

We don't care. If I run your silly ass over, yeah, I'll be taken to task for it. And, I'll most likely get a slap on the wrist, or even a judicial pardon, for not being able to keep from crushing your shrivelled sphincter when you attempt to take your tiny vehicle into areas that you don't even belong in. I might even feel a twinge of guilt, had I not known what an unjustifiably high esteem you cyclists hold for yourselves.

That misconception frees me of any human feeling I would normally have for my fellow man, suffering the consequences of a situation they could have avoided. You make the choice of competing with the automobiles, and if you get got in the process, don't expect my sympathy.

Cyclists = Idiots. A proven hypothesis......

>>Is this an inconvenience?  Yes.  So what?  Life is more important than
>>convenience.

Whose life? Certainly not someone who deliberately defies both the common sense of avoiding danger and the conventionality of taking their proper place in the scheme of things where one vehicle has both the physical and moral advantage over the other.

Does the name Darwin ring a bell?

>That depends on how much life and how much inconvenience.  This will come as
>a shock to you (it shouldn't if you'd ever bothered to stop and THINK about
>stuff but it obviously is) that the human race has never particularly chosen
>to absolutely and totally optimize our lifestyles towards safety as our sole
>priority.  If we did, progress and commerce would grind to halt as everyone
>hid deep underground in caves out of fear of meteor falling on them or
>whatever.
>Yes, we avoid the foolhardy risks.  If we're fairly certain there's real
>substantial danger involved in an activity, we don't allow it.  But
>marginal danger is inherent in everything we do, driving into the sunset
>included.  If this concerns you, DON'T BE ON YOUR BIKE AT SUNSET.  If the
>marginal danger from imperfect human beings being present in their cars
>concerns you, DON'T BIKE ON ROADS AT ALL.  I don't know where you got the idea
>that it's possible for even very competent human beings to drive automobiles
>totally safely 100% of the time even under optimal conditions.  If you have
>that idea, lose it - it's bullshit.

I suspect that the author of this post will want to distance himself of the ideas I've subscribed to in this post, but I have to say that the previous two paragraphs were nothing short of brilliant.

>>Anyone so arrogant as to think a half hour of their time is worth more
>>than a cyclist's *whole life* doesn't even belong in society at all,
>>never mind behind a wheel.

Anyone who can't take a 1/2 hour out of their day in which they feel unsafe in doing something that puts their life in danger, yet continue to do so, has a fucked up handful of priorities.
 

Pigface

VINNIE JORDAN SPOTTED AT ANTI-NUKE RALLY

Otay, here's the story. Bonnie Raitt, Jackson Browne and Crosby, Stills and Nash did an impromptu free concert in the park, downtown Santa Cruz. The word "free" always stimulates my entertainment gland, and I've got a permanent chubby for Bonnie.

!Peeve: Bonnie Raitt. Here's a broad who's been around more blocks than most of us will ever conceive of. She spent decades wallowing in that odd place called obscurity in the music world, all the time warbling sensuous and gut wrenching bluesy/country tunes about the unfairness of pursuing relationships with the opposite sex, without sounding like an unshaven feminist pokehole. 52 years old, and many times more desirable than 80+% of the women in the audience! Dying in her arms would be an honor.

Anyways ... The park is full of the typical CruzCrowd, a whole buncha disoriented ex- and present dopeheads that still ain't figgered out that the 60s have come and gone, leaving them stuck like a smooth tire in a goddamned mud puddle. Birckenstocks and tie-dyes in abundance, babies sans diapers, booths selling fresh fruit smoothies and organic fuckin' cookies. Lord almighty. I nearly had an acid flashback.

!Peeve: Leather sluts. Mighty appealing to the heathen eye, but even one so simple as I wonders how they can negotiate life's travails on a 90 degree day covered in dead cowskin. Nevertheless, their extra bit of effort was rewarded by slack-jawed admiration from this sexist pig bastard, and acknowledged with knowing smiles as they walked on by.

!Peeve: The lawn chairs the ol' lady bought for a BBQ a few weeks ago. We've used them four times already, attending functions that she has scheduled and not told me about until the last minute. Another peeve for another time ....

So, we go looking for a place to park our asses. We run into Mike, and I give him a heartfelt embrace. Mike's what you might envision a pitbull to look like, were you to try to create a human version. Five feet, seven inches tall, and 200 pounds of gristle and scar tissue. He's a bouncer at the Silver Bullet, and enjoys his job a bit too much, but we're tight, and his violent idiosyncrasies don't bother me much.

We settle down and blow the joint that we brought with us. Me and Mike trade war stories, with Ginny listening out of one ear, occasionally shaking her head.

Peeve: Bonnie made one appearance, singing along with another band for one song. I grabs the binocs from Ginny, and get a good look at her, in a black and white outfit, looking like every man's ideal fucktoy. That was the last I saw of her.

Peeve: Jackson Browne, in town for a Resource Center For Non-Violence sponsored event, after his much-reported abusive relationship with Darryl Hannah. The hypocritical little fuck even had the cojones to launch into a tirade about how he was a victim of the media in the whole affair. A heavyweight biker cat who was sitting right behind me said, "More rock, less talk," an anthem of all the classic rock stations in my town. (and I suspect yours, eh?) I trade some skin with him, and the general area erupts into some Saturday laughter that Mr. Browne would never understand, if he lived to be 1000!

Peeve: Driven crowds, throwing a celebration of an event that they all revile. Further, they used the event to further their own, greenypants, causes, as they had an open mike in between groups. The bullshit was so deep that I was glad I was wearing shorts.

Peeve: Summer not starting, weatherwise, until mid-June, leaving my legs looking unnaturally pale, compared to the unwashed and unemployed masses that surrounded me.

Peeve: People wandering around with petitions for this and that liberal cause, walking away miffed when I say that, "I'm just here for the free music." The !Peeve is that I made 'em feel that way.

Fuck with me, I fuck with you.

!Peeve: The ingredients for strawberry daiquiris that we picked up on the way home.

Peeve: The fog over the house when we got home, eliminating the plan of having frozen daqs on the veranda.

Pigface

From vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!ix.netcom.com!netcom.com!pigface
Thu Aug 10 07:29:18 1995
Newsgroups: alt.peeves
Path: vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!ix.netcom.com!netcom.com!pigface
From: pigfacegnetcom.com
Subject: Re: Where were you?
Message-ID: <pigfaceDD34Gp.GMs@netcom.com>
Organization: Netcom Online Communications Services (408-241-9760login: guest)
References:<40b343$85m@bingnetl.cc.binghamton.edu>
<40bo48$6ba@status.Stanford.EDU> <40c56p$8u6@cegt2Ol.bradley.edu>
Date: Thu, 10 Aug 1995 07:50:49 GMT
Lines: 114
Sender: pigface@netcoml2.netcom.com

In article <40c56p$8u6@cegt2Ol.bradley.edu> jsn@cegt20l.bradley.edu (John
Novak) writes:
>In<40bo48$6ba@status. Stanford. EDU> rna@status. Stanf ord. EDU (Robert Ashcrof t)
writes:
>>I know very little about the Grateful Dead, and I'd just as soon keep
>>it that way, but Garcia lived a life that appeared to be close to the
>>Vinnie Jordan platonic ideal.

>I've never met Vinnie, but I don't think there's anything much
>'Platonic' about Vinnie's ideal life ...

Funny you should bring that up, as I am living it as we speak.

Just dropped the love of my life off at the San Jose airport, to go hang with her ol' college pal, followed by a trip to her mom's on Sunday. I've the house to meself for the next 10 days, leaving me with this schedule;

Wake up, and take power dump. Put tea kettle on. Shower and shave. ('Member, I already shit) Read paper. Read e-mail, and spank the appropriate fuckmeats. Explain the tired ass shift key argument to yet another generation of meatlicks. Take a loooooong walk on the beach. One o'clock daquiris on the deck.

(Note: Rum, blueberries and bananas make an incomparable blended daquiri.)

Two o'clock nap. Start on my stack of magazines and two novels that have been on my "to do" list. Explain the tired ass shift key argument to yet another generation of meatlicks.
Plug the phone in at 5 o'clock, to make sure that work cain't call me. Fuckers! Call the ol' lady. (It's 8 o'clock where she'll be, but I'll be fucked if I'm going to leave the line open for some dimwitted fuck at work to be able to contact me to ask me questions that only I can answer. Adds to my value, and shows 'em that they need to think about what they'll do if I quit, or my fuckin' heart pops, or if they dick up and fire me.) Tell the ol' lady I love 'er.

Hang up, and plug into whatever newsgroup I've picked to pollute that day.

Peeve: Vin be soft. I subscribed to the Grateful Dead group, to see what their reaction was to the death of a motherfucker who did all he could to make his body quit using up our air supply. They were so fuckin' sad that I couldn't follow through with my plan to denigrate their sorrow.

Rest in peace, you corpulent fuck. You played some tasty licks, but you never really lived up to the God-like status that your followers laid upon you. To your credit, you never asked for it, but it fell into your porky lap just the same. Now, all these punks that followed you all around the world are gonna hafta "get a life."

Peeve: Using the phrase, "Get a life."

9 o'clock: Go to bed.

2AM: Wake up. Drink two shots and go back to bed.

Shake well, and repeat ten times.

Peeve: The only break in this idyllic schedule is this Monday, when I have to go to the dentist.

!Peeve: Even for the most basic of dental work, my dentist gives me a 20 piece script for Vicodin. My role is to act submissive while in the chair. God bless 'im!!

Peeve: I ain't going to make it to Jenny's gathering.

!Peeve: I'm going to be the most relaxed SCO employee in history, after 10 days of this kinda therapy.

Peeve: While I find it real flattering for some of you to mention my name in a lot of your posts, and one of you even went so far as to nominate me to a post, "Dean of Peevetown U." I have one thing to say; STOP IT!!

This group is built on group effort. If there was ever a time when we need to work as a group, it's now. It was fun when we went through a stage where we assigned fictitious billets to the most prolific posters, but that was then. And, it was a failed experiment.

Know why? 'Cause we spent so much time digging how motherfuckin' hip we were that we lost track of what the whole point of peeves was. We don't want to lose the momentum of beating up on the shitballs that invade us from time to time. If you want to recognize me as the most aggressive poster, that's cool. That's my function.

On the other hand, I'm not nearly the most literate turd in the bowl. I'd love to have the literacy of the McIntyre's of the world, the mean-ness of the old Banta, and the turn of phrase that Geoff makes so goddamned entertaining.

As it stands now, we're being invaded by the unwashed hordes. We gotta band together to punch the livin' shit out of them, as they wander into areas that they don't belong in.
Peeves was here a long time, and it's got the promise to outlast the other groups, due to the abilities of its denizens.

I ain't no better or worse than you. I just have a different style.

For those of you who criticised me through e-mail for not buttfucking the young man who obviously read the group before posting his honest request for the FAQ, you were wrong. He showed more class by admitting that he wasn't sure of waht he was doing than I did when I first came here. My acceptance of him wasn't a sign of weakness; it was a bit of a payback for any unfair treatment that I subjected anybody else to.

Keep followups to the bare minimum. It ain't that important.

Pigface

Subject: Sometimes, you get one back.
From: pigface@netcom.com (Official Asshole of the 1996 Olympics)
Date: 1996/07/29
Sender:   pigface@netcom11.netcom.com
Organization: NETCOM On-Line Communication Services (408 261-4700 guest)
Newsgroups:   alt.peeves

Ginny asked me why I spend so much time at a certain bar. I said "It's like the TV show, honey. You wanna go where everybody knows your name." That's not the truth, but it's easier than trying to explain the real reason. It's not that she wouldn't like the answer I gave her. She just wouldn't understand.

It's an interesting mix. There's professionals and amateurs. Active and retired criminals. Gamblers. The occasional lawyer. Guys who sell dope, and others that buy it. There are even folks from the computer industry.

But, no geeks.

 Y'know, Charley, there's something about you I really like, but I can't quite put my finger on it," sez I. Her eyes narrow, and she replies, "And you never will, asshole."

These folks get together because they have something in common with each other. They thumb their noses at the rest of society, and they live their lives without regard for rules imposed by invisible powers. They don't ask for anything; they take what they want, and dare anyone to try and take it back. They watch each others' backs, and they don't wait for the law to correct any wrongs that are done to them. They're fresh out of dreams, and they no longer suffer the delusions that reality taught them, over a period of hard years, never really existed. They're real people.

They're my people.

The call came down Friday morning. It was Bobby, who I call the Downtown Crier because of the fact that he's always the first to find out when someone gets their ticket punched, and he arranges the wakes. Morbid little fucker. But, it's his thing, and without him a lot of folks would get buried before the rest of us even knew they were worm food.

Peeve: There's an old saw that there are a lot more old drunks than there are old doctors, but I suspect that there'd be a full investigation if the local medical profession had lost as many sawbones as I have friends in the last five years.

!Peeve: That ain't what this story's about. This time, I get one back that I almost lost. Jenny's getting out of the hospital tonight, and we're throwing her a coming home party. She's a beauty, she is. Known her since she was 10. Used to bone her mom. In fact, we lived together for a couple of years. We split up because there wasn't anything there after the passion wore off in the initial part of the relationship. But, we're still friends, and I've always stayed close to Jenny, which can mean a lot to a child without a father anywhere close by. I watched her grow titties. I attended her high school graduation, and I saw her determination of getting an associate's degree while holding down a job.

I also introduced her to Rocky. He's a real solid, rough and tumble paisano from Joisey, and he was passing through SannaCrooz on his way to an unknown destination. We became tight, while shaking dice for drinks and discussing life in general. He isn't any intellectual by any stretch of the imagination. But he knows what's what.

About 4-5 months ago, Rocky and Jenny were tooling up a country road on his bike, when he lost control. He wasn't drunk or anything, he just hit a slick patch on a winding road in the wintertime. Jenny fractured her skull and mangled her leg. A lot of handwringing was going on, as she held on through a coma for four of the longest days of Rocky's life. He and Jenny fell head over heels as soon as they met, and he felt that it was his fault that the roads get slick in the winter. He went on a drinking binge, and I had a long talk with him. I didn't feed him any bullshit, about how there's a reason for all things, or that it was God's will, or any of the other stupid advice we get from well meaning friends. I just said, "The accident's behind you. Now, you got to pick up the pieces, and you ain't doing Jenny any favors by acting like a fuckin' repentant sinner." He got hip quick, and after Jenny came out of the coma, he arranged for her to go to physical therapy in the evenings, so he could help with her exercises. Her left leg was mangled, and she had a real hard time getting it to work right. But, she's young and strong. And, determined. That, and a good man, will take you a long way.

As usual, I'm the first one at the bar. I'm a thirsty guy. I lean on the bar, and watch Charley fetch drinks for the waitress. She's got a little tattoo over her titty, steely grey eyes, and a dynamite body that even dropping three kids couldn't knock the curves out of.

"Y'know, Charley, there's something about you I really like, but I can't quite put my finger on it," sez I. Her eyes narrow, and she replies, "And you never will, asshole. The usual?" I say yes, and she pours me a vodka tonic with very little tonic. Her face softens, and she asks, "You here for Jen?" "Yup. I just came a little early to kind of take the edge off of work." We make a little small talk, before the waitress needs some more drinks poured.

Let me show you around the bar.

They just put in all this new glass, and replaced a reefer that had been chillin' beers for the last 40-some years with that modern unit. The new owner is a lot more into maintenance than the previous one, and the regular patrons are grateful.

That old broad is Sherri, a former prostitute who can't shed those black stockings and short skirts, even though she nearly has to pay to get fucked. Karma? You be the judge.

That fat, red-headed Polack in the corner? That's Ronny. Rough Ronny. Ugly mutha, ain't he? Rumor is, he went to the proctologist, and the good doctor stuck his finger in Ronny's mouth. I don't know if that story is true or not, but you'd best not ask him. Next to sucking on vodka and grapefruit juice, Ronny likes kicking ass, and never seems to have any trouble finding recipients for his hobby.

Old Manny, nursing the glass of wine at the table by himself, he's a weird one. Too frail to be a legbreaker, too old to work and too straight to sell dope, yet he always has a wad of bills as thick as an elephant's dick. Nobody asks, 'cause it ain't their business. But everyone wonders. Some things are better not knowing. It destroys the mystery and stifles creative conjecture. And that concludes your tour.

So, I take my drink to a table and wait for friends to show up. I pop a bill into the jukebox, and shortly thereafter, David Ruffin is telling anyone who will listen that he has the month of May even when it's cold outside because of this fine broad who's smoking his bone.

Peeve: 4 of the original 5 Temptations are dead now. That's one reunion tour I'd have liked to see! You just don't feel as sorry for an old soul singer as you do for an aging rocker. The style of life, and music, are more flattering to rhythm and blues singers when they get old.

There's a commotion at the door that can only mean one thing. Big Black Bruce has entered the building. Bruce is a former college football player gone to seed. He weighs in at a tidy 300 pounds, though he'll only claim 250 of them. He's bald as an onion, and he talks like Mr. T.

"VINNIE!" I get up to shake hands, and my little hand disappears into a giant black paw, like a donut in a fat broad's piehole. The other arm sweeps me into an awkward hug, as he screams, "Where you BEEN, you little hobbit lookin' motherFUCKER?"

We sat down and swapped lies for a few minutes. I started a tab, 'cause Bruce is out of work, but he's still a big, thirsty bastard. Drinks are on me, bro. Bill, who we all call Billy the Kid because of his affectation for cowboy boots and hats, cops a seat at our table. He proceeds to tell one of his endless collection of black jokes, to which Bruce commented, "Give you a achy-breaky neck, motherFUCKER." Everybody cracked up, and settled down to do some raw drinking.

I go back to the bar, and I say to Charlie, "If I could taste you just one time, I'd never be hungry again." This was met with a burst of genuine laughter, and she poured me another, saying, "This one's on me, you silly bastard." I left the price of a drink on the bar, and she swept it up and put it into her tip jar. Three kids tend to eat a lot.

We were getting good and juiced, when Jen finally arrived. She looked a little pale, as she hadn't been sunbathing because she was embarrassed by the scars on her once flawless legs. She can work that out later, after the physical healing is done. She and Rocky took up a table at the front of the bar. She looked over at me and smiled, and I raised my glass in salute. I'll get over there, but there are lots of folks there to see her, and I'll wait until the crowd thins a bit. "JENNY," Bruce is shouting. His big head was covered in a wide grin, and he's waving and she's laughing at this oversized child who's acting like a kid at the circus. Billy's chuckling into his sleeve, and I'm just casually observing.

After awhile, the crowd is beginning to thin around her table, so I mosey over to visit. "How are you," I ask. She went into how she was looking for a new job, her therapy and life in general, and I felt all good inside, knowing that this whole scene almost didn't happen. After talking herself out, she got real quiet. She looked at me earnestly, and said, " I look awful, don't I?"

I had a flashback to February, with her laying on that hospital bed, tubes in her arms and bandages over the side of the shaved head, where they'd had to relieve the swelling on her brain, and my eyes got misty. "You've never looked better, Little Bit." I got up and gave her a fatherly smooch on her forehead, under the approving eye of Rocky, who clamped a strong hand on my shoulder. "Thanks for coming. She really wanted you here."

"Where else would I be, Rock? You been doing good with her. Her limp has gotten better. Still doing the night therapy?"

"Yeah, for a couple months more. You ought to come over for dinner. I've picked up a few recipes since all this..."

"Yeah, I can imagine." The image of Rocky in the kitchen cooking is so incongruous with the guy I've known these many years. Interesting how a tragedy can really change a person's makeup. "You better get her home. She's looking a bit tired." I stopped there, when what I really wanted to say was thank you, and I'm really proud of you. Men just don't talk to each other that way. But he knows.

Well, it's getting late. The guest of honor has gone home, and a few of us hang around for awhile. We make the same ol' promises about keeping in touch, about getting together more often. But we all know that the next time we all assemble, it will be when one of us croaks.

Or, when another one of us comes back from the dead.

VJ

"When I think about the old days, sends chills up and down my spine. And life ain't what it seems on the boulevard of
broken dreams, I guess I opened my eyes in the nick of time. But it sure felt like the end of the line."

*Allman Brothers*

The damned thing causes more pain than pleasure. If it ain't some cockbite solicitor, it's something or someone creating some sort of grief.

!Peeve: A friend from the old 'hood where I grew up called me last night. We attended (or, rather, obstructed) high school together. Georgie and I ran the streets together, and since he was the better looking of the two of us, (no real feat) I got all his castoff spooge receptacles.

We also trained together at the Pine Lawn boxing club in St. Louis, which brings me to the source of my peeve.

Our coach was a little hardnosed prick, but with a little patience and a lot of forgiveness, he had a lot to teach us. We were a couple of fun loving little punks with no discipline, and if you don't possess discipline, then boxing ain't the game for you.

Johnny knew how to get the most out of his charges. He taught me to get the proper amount of sleep. He taught me to look at the opponent as an inanimate object, so there'd be no letting up when you got the motherfucker on the ropes. He taught me to do that extra situp, even when my body was tired.

There were  a few things he couldn't do. He couldn't get me to stop smoking, and consequently couldn't get me to do the roadwork that tends to help you a lot in the third round.

And, lastly, he couldn't stop his heart from exploding last Sunday. And a new generation of young street kids won't benefit from his knowledge.

John 'Little Johnny' O'Reilly, dead at 59.

Peeve: Adopting a lifestyle that puts me in the obituary writing business a hell of a lot more often that I'd like to be. I think I'll take the rest of the day off. I don't feel too spunky today.

VJ

In article <50i63p$q0j@lehi.kuentos.guam.net> kmfitz@saba.kuentos.guam.net (Kelly Fitzpatrick) writes:
>Throw in the fact that the Cowboys lost, and it was everything a fan
>could want, until three minutes were left. That's when Emmitt Smith, one
>of the great and classy players in the game, suffered a freak accident
>which ended with him leaving the field strapped to a backboard.

Funny you should mention that. I was watching the game at a dinner house and was sitting at the bar, waiting for the 'tender to mix the drinks I had ordered. Next to me was what would ordinarily be viewed as a fairly intelligent being, until he mentioned how badly his team was doing. The fact that he was a Cowboy fan brought him several notches down the evolutionary ladder in my eyes. It was late in the fourth, and he was blabbering on and on about how Emmitt Smith this and Emmitt Smith that, and when I'd had enough of his demented Texas bullshit, I said, "Emmitt Smith sucks. I hope they snap his neck."

A couple of minutes later, the bar, which had been rollicking during the game, got eerily silent. I went back in, and there was Smith, being carted off the field on a stretcher. the Texan eyed me warily, as if I was directly responsible, and I went back to contemplate the possibilities of my newfound power.

VJ

In article <53ucbn$9lr@vixen.cso.uiuc.edu> levine@symcom.math.uiuc.edu (Lenore Levine) writes:
>triona@zammis.cas.nwu.edu (K. Triona Guidry) writes:
>>What do witches do? Uh... the same things everyone else does? You know,
>>work, clean the house...
>Yeah, but you guys can do it just by wrinkling your nose. It's not fair.

!Peeve: Genuine belly laughs. I read the most boring of threads because I have too much time on my hands, in the hope that someone will add something to make the time commitment worthwhile.

Thanks.

So, there's this homeless haven behind where I work, and I tend to spend my smoking breaks watching the once-upon-a-time people shuffle by. One special specimen wandered by today, as I was indulging me filthy habit. I finished sucking my fag (one-liners cheerfully ignored) and threw it toward the sewer grate. I missed slightly, and the cigarette didn't go through  the hole in the grate. I was on my way to kick it through the hole, and I  heard a voice, saying, "Pick that up. That's littering."

I was dumbfounded that a member of the segment of society I'd rather see slipping through the cracks I'd just attempted to kick my cigarette butt into would deign to speak to me, let alone admonish me. Does he know who I am? Apparently not. My jaw actually got slacked, from not knowing how to answer this creature.

!Peeve: The jaw has an automatic pilot, and when I opened my mouth, "Fuck you, asshole," rolled out.

The thing had the good judgment to continue on his way, before I got too involved with the idea of how much I hate him and his kind, and I went  back inside to let my blood pressure get back into its normal range.

Then, I read this post, and got a nice laugh. Balance, karma, or just a stroke of good luck, I dunno. Everything just seems to even out.

A !Peeve, if there ever was one.

VJ

"Let's use the homeless for crash-test dummies."  *Geoff Miller*

In article <ATAYLOR.96Nov8084409@gauss.nmsu.edu> ataylor@nmsu.edu (Nosy) writes:
>ObPeeve: And he ain't posted no "road trip" report, neither.

Truth is, there wasn't much peevesome about it, Monsieur Taylor.

Keeping in charter, before I get into this boring recount, I'll post me a peeve.

Today is the fifth anniversary of Ginny and I swapping bodily fluids on the same sheets, and guess where the hell I am?

Yaeh, workin' again. I got her a tin of nice cookies that come in a reusable tin, ordained with the ObTeddyBears. After I get out of here, we're gonna watch Tyson punch Holyfield into submission, and head out for a rawther pricey dinner. And if I play my cards right, I'll get me bone smoked.

Anyway, Mexico is something more to be experienced than described. I'm not a good flier, so I went downtown the night before takeoff and  whinged about it to some of my buddies about how much I dreaded the flight. Bruce, tired of hearing about it, went out to his car, and came back with two blue Valiums. "Now shut up, punk."

I did. It ain't wise to argue with a 300 pound man with an attitude.

Me and Gin shot up to the airport a coupla hours early to catch up with the effervescent Karen and her latest sperm donor, John. He's a grisly ol' boatswain's mate from the Coast Guard. Drinks a good 12-18 beers a day, and is thin and wiry. The cocksucker. All in all, though, a good mate and party participant. We check our bags and settle into the bar to get appropriately intoxicated for the plane ride.

Peeve: I forgot I had the Vs in my pocket until we got on the plane, meaning that their effect wouldn't hit me until we were in Mexico. The !Peeve was that the ride home was all rather blurry.

We get to San Jose de los Cabos at 9 that night. I'm fuckin' starving, as I was too nervous to eat on the flight. The first thing I notice is that it's as humid as the atmosphere can be without pouring rain all over our dumb, foreign asses. The second thing was that I couldn't cop me no food until I found a place that would change my filthy American cash for the colorful Monopoly money they use there as a means of exchange. Tough shit. We get to the hotel we had arranged, and the restaurant had closed 20 minutes prior to our arrival. After a thoroughly pitiable demonstration of pissy whining, the concierge (or whatever they call them there) saw to it that I was gotten a meal of smoked fish, hot tortillas and avocados. Well worth the wait.

Next morning, I head to the bar at 8:30 and met up with the Bloody Mary ladies, a bunch of 30ish ladies who were vacationing together from Ohio. We were discussing the advantages and disadvantages of the places we  lived in. "It must be great living in California." "Well, it's definitely beautiful to look at, but in Ohio you don't have to worry about crime, dope and overcrowding as much." "Yeah, but in Ohio, everybody knows everyone else. you can't do *anything* without the whole town knowing about it." "In California, nobody knows their neighbors at all, unless they file a lawsuit against them."

It came out as a draw. They didn't want to come to CA, and I had no desire to visit Ohio.

!Peeve: The best regulatory system for the bowels ever invented would be a breakfast of 2 Bloody Marys, muy caliente, and a plate of scrambled eggs mixed with spicy chorizo with the ever present tortillas. I never tire of really genuine Mexican food, and the food was exquisite, while staying simple and to the basics.

We went into town the next morning, so Karen could shop. Karen *lives* to shop. Me, I only like to shop for food. Karen, though, is a veteran of foreign shopping excursions, and haggles with the locals like she was one of them. I looked on in awe.

I wandered off, and went into a curio shop, looking for a pair of earrings for a friend of mine. There, at the counter, was the stereotypical Mexican man, with a hat tilted over his eyes and feet propped up on the counter. "Buenos dias, senor," I sez. "How are you today?" "I'm working very hard, senor." He flashed a smile, complete with the gold tooth in front that they must issue these people along with their birth certificate. We went around the store, me more talking than shopping. He was most informative, and told me the best local places to eat, and which tourist traps to stay away from. He taught me that haggling with the store owners was much like a sport there. We talked for over a half hour, and I let him overcharge me for the earrings in exchange for his wisdom. His name was, unsurprisingly, Juan, and I wish him every good thing that can happen to a man.

The room we rented was an upgrade from what we had originally contracted for, with a bed the size of a fuckin' soccer field, which was just as well, as the humidity made snuggling not only uncomfortable, but downright unappealing. The fridge was stocked with beer and bottled water, a staple in the country, as the water is truly unsanitary. The maid spent a good hour and a half each day we were there, and I gave her a $20 American tip on the last day. This broad really worked, even washing our dishes when she came to clean the room. In point of fact, I found that work ethic quite common in all the places I visited and ate in. Dirty dishes whisked away as if Ayse had wiggled her witchly nose, drinks that were empty were quickly replenished, food service was timely and the waitfolks were most friendly. I was able to erase the stereotype of the lazy Mexican workers, and came away with a newfound respect for my southern neighbors.

Another false presumption about the Mexican people is that they dislike us NorteAmericanos. It ain't true. They are a most hospitable community, always seeing to it that everything was satisfactory. As I was telling my pal Mel, if they act hostile toward you, it's probably because you're an asshole. For my part, I represented the US in a positive manner, and was thusly treated to good service and genuine hospitality.

ObOddConcept: Vinnie as international goodwill ambassador!

Montezuma exacted his famous revenge on the third day. Apparently, my good manners didn't impress him one iota. Let's just say the shit flew, and leave it at that.

ObDigression: Karen started getting cramps the last day  there, and just chalked it up to the same thing I had. We got a call from her the other day, and it turned out she had to undergo an appendectomy last Tuesday.

We, of course, hit all the touristy places, so we could say we had, but spent most of the time browsing through the unending wave of small stores, and in the pool. We didn't get as much sun time as we'd have liked, as we were busy gawking. But, we did spend as much time in the pool as we could. It had a 'swim-up' bar, with stools set into the pool itself. Bloody Marys for breakfast, pina coladas for lunch and mai tais for dinner. I didn't eat a single bite of red meat, as there was such an abundance of seafood and shellfish that I didn't even miss it.

I love Mexico.

Next stop, England in May.

VJ

To my lady,

"Sugar-pie, HoneyBunch, you know that I love you,
Cain't help myself, I want you and nobody else."
                *The Four Tops*

At this special time of year, I want to express how much you mean to me. When you laugh, I laugh with you, and when you cry, my heart breaks a little each time. Every day, I love you more.

Well, let me rephrase that. 26 out of every 28 days, I love you more. It's those two days, when the Red Tide starts to flow, where you become the type of person I wanna throw off of the front deck or push in front of a bus. Where the fuck do you get off telling me to clean the fucking kitchen, so that it's clean when the  woman who cleans our house comes?

Why is it so difficult to get out of bed on those days,  when you know that that's the time you get up every day the rest of the month?

Why do you hafta fuckin' cry over shit that isn't of any importance any other time? What are you trying to do to my already unbalanced head?

Huh?

I love you, sweets, but I can't wait until you go through  the Change.

?Peeve: Am I gonna live that long?

VJ