This past week you suspended a 6 year old for making the shape of a gun with his pudgy little pitters, claiming it “made other students uncomfortable.”

As the mother of a previously-6 year old, I shall now elucidate for you exactly what engenders a state of uncomfortableness for a child of that age:

• Having to go pee pee.
• Having to go doo doo.
• Being kissed on the cheek by Susie.
• Being kissed on the cheek by Grandma.

Pretty much everything else is met with 100mph enthusiasm and the same lack of worry exhibited by a 3 month old Labrador Retriever.

I know at least some of you have to be parents, have observed the same relative unconcern and resiliency in your own young children, so kindly do us all a favor and stop “showing your asses” as my mother would say.  A kindergartener is not going to set off the next Columbine, you astonishing pack of morons.

Terrorists who want to overthrow the United States government must now register with South Carolina’s Secretary of State and declare their intentions — or face a $25,000 fine and up to 10 years in prison.

The state’s “Subversive Activities Registration Act,” passed last year and now officially on the books, states that “every member of a subversive organization, or an organization subject to foreign control, every foreign agent and every person who advocates, teaches, advises or practices the duty, necessity or propriety of controlling, conducting, seizing or overthrowing the government of the United States … shall register with the Secretary of State.”

I sincerely hope the good citizens of South Carolina take a look at the nard who sponsored this stinking waste of taxpayer dollars, and unelect them posthaste.

Funny how a grown-up man – much less an alleged professional journalist – hasn’t the capability to be embarrassed by the drivel coming out of his piehole.

(Via this guy.)

The fact that this son of a whore didn’t pay for that bullshit himself tells you everything you need to know about him.*

*To the inevitable comment from the Faithful:  Yes, I realize other Presidents have probably done similar…but not after bleating so very publicly that “we’re all going to have to make some sacrifices.”  Fucking hypocrite can officially blow it out his ass.

Just sayin’…

Dear Pseudo-Elitist Fucktard:

(I call you a “pseudo” elitist  because if you were truly elitist you wouldn’t be blogging for a living, eh?)  You pathetic, whingy infants make me ill, with your dirt-shall-never-touch-this-manicure sensibilities.  Just how do you suppose you reached your current ivory tower-esque height, little man….by springing forth from the forehead of a convenient deity?  No, your foregoers tilled the land, husbandried the animals, GREW THEIR OWN FUCKING FOOD.  

And they did it all, somehow, without being sneering, contemptuous asstards.  I’m sure they’re looking down on you from Valhalla right now, wondering why your parents failed to raise you with anything resembling respect for those who work so hard to provide everything you snap up weekly at your local Whole Foods.  Think all that just falls out of a gigantic horn of plenty, do you?  

Having chickens in the yard does not automatically mean “poor,” nor does it mean “survivalist nutbar.”  I would have chickens in a heartbeat if our lot size was large enough to meet the local livestock codes, because fresh eggs ROCK, you nard.  And – I know this is going to be a difficult concept for you to grasp – things you’ve grown yourself (seeds you’ve started, plants you’ve tended, fruits you’ve harvested, livestock you’ve nurtured) JUST TASTE BETTER.  It is partly because the results are “fresh off the vine,” and partly the intense satisfaction of having bygod done it yourself. 

But I can see how the latter would be a completely alien concept for you, seeing as how it requires getting all DIRTY and stuff.  

Signed With Hooting Derision,
Liberty Girl

Nevertheless, about that “surprise visit”.

It wasn’t. The visit was communicated a full 24 hours in advance and a small contingent of soldiers – not screaming hoards – were rustled into a meeting place at Camp Victory.

Got this email from a sergeant that was there.

“We were pre-screened, asked by officials “Who voted for Obama?”, and then those who raised their hands were shuffled to the front of the receiving line. They even handed out digital cameras and asked them to hold them up.”

Take a look at the picture at AP and notice all the cameras are the same models? Coincidence? I think not.

I’m SHOCKED, I tell you.  *yawn*

(Via Transterrestrial Musings)

(Via AoS)

Thanks so much for continuing to confirm that when you say, “We all have to sacrifice,” what you really mean is, “YOU all have to sacrifice.  Me, I’m having custom fucking pizza, bitches.”  

Look, I realize you fucking amateurs are totally new to this game, so here’s a free hint:  If you’re going to indulge in conspicuous consumption then maybe you’d better shut the entire fuck up about everyone else’s.

As MLG says, “You want skin in the game?  You can have the skin of my fucking nutsack.”

Love,
People Who Hate You More and More Each Day

Sir Saggy-Pants (who has increasingly fucking irritated me with his very presence, not to mention his utterly unwarranted swagger, propensity for going about half-clothed, and general antagonism towards neighborhood children) and the Father Figure (who had a nerve-wracking habit of belting out the latest country hit whilst standing shirtless in his driveway, clutching a beer in one hand and idly scratching his increasingly deer jerky-like hide with the other) have been tossed the fuck out, most likely due to their complete lack of material contribution to the Cause over there.  Well, other than that SWEET bench seat stolen from the interior of some hapless van, I’m sure.  

Nosy Neighbor has it that the boy is all of 15 years old, never attended school (to this I can personally vouch, working from home as I do), and was known to amble about the neighborhood with a brewsky of his own screwed into his pubescent fist.  I do wish I had known the child was less than the age of independence, I would have delighted in turning his truant ass in.  Ah well, too late now.  And the reward is no more bad country, no more saggy underpants, and no more duck eggs thrown at my vehicle and neighboring houses.  The Muscovy population around here may recover yet.