Neanderpundit

To a mechanic, there is nothing more ubiquitous than the red shop rag. I have, probably, three thousand. I package them in old Wal-Mart bags and when they are all filthy, I wash them at a work clothes washer at a laundromat.

I have them everywhere. They show up in my sock drawer. I always roll one up and tuck it behind the battery in the truck, so I can check oil. I have a dozen with a tube of waterless hand cleaner in the truck’s emergency kit. They line the drawers of my toolbox. They wrap, oily, around pistols and gun parts.

When dad died, the boys at Ford, not without some ceremony, presented me with his toolbox and the contents of his locker. Toolboxes are very personal, and contain the tools that person finds most useful, in the specific job they do. Like my father before me, I work in automation, only the type of automation he used was a full generation behind what I do, and the gap widens daily.

Anyway, I took the keys to dad’s toolbox and opened it, packed a few of my own extra or large tools in the toolbox, and slid it down to the basement where it rests, most of the time. Yesterday, one of the things I needed out of dad’s toolbox was a slidehammer I put there a year or so ago, and as I pulled it out, a red rag fell out onto the floor.

I picked it up- because it had clunked softly as it fell, which red rags just don’t do- and unrolled it to find dad’s pipe.
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As a parent I am unwilling that any mother’s son die. Any. Ever. Even islamofascists. Life is too short to cause anyone more grief.

Ms Sheehan, contrary to what she says, Is not grieving for her child. She stopped caring about her child at all, when she decided he had gone to fight for “the Fuhrer”. Now, in Crawford, she holds up signs asking George Bush why HE killed her son, demonstrating her total disconnect with reality.

Michele Malkin does this in more detail, more clearly, than ever I could, but I’d like to discuss something with Ms Sheehan, should she ever decide to show her face in my lowly blog:

We have been extremely patient. We have given muslims all over the world, every possible chance to stop killing innocent people. They have not stopped killing innocent people. We have to stop them from killing innocent people before they kill everyone. It is their aim to kill everyone. If you cannot understand this simple fact, you need to pay more attention and stop drinking the koolade.

Speaking of drinking the koolade, Here’s something that needs some clarification. You cannot support the troops unless you support their comander in chief. You can disagree with him, but if you support the troops, you support their boss. Don’t support Bush? you don’t support the troops. Period. Clear?

What the HELL is it about hippies that they somehow think that nudity will solve the world’s problems? Why do naked hippies insist on protesting all that is actually valuable in the world? Do they have NO CLUE that they are birth to death a consumer of all the things they consider so ruthlessly evil?

I mean seriously. Barewitness? More like barewitless.
Stop Urban 4X4’s? Huh? were you BORN a moron, or were you raised by a pair of castoff birkenstocks?

Is there some faulty gene that makes these morons think that by laying naked in the grass, their scrawny naked frames spelling out such brilliance as “NO GM CROPS” (like everyone immediately knows what the hell THAT means) they will somehow be able to effect global change?

Does that amount of exposure of the naked body cause the reason centers in your brain to malfunction so that you begin to believe that nudity will make me stop driving my Explorer?

Does “artists against war” make any sense to ANYONE? It’s like saying “Weevils against formica”. Believe me, I’ve had the displeasure of getting up close and personal with a bunch of legitimate ‘artists” and let me assure you of something: You cannot be “against” something that is utterly, utterly beyond your comprehension.

Update: To make it EXQUISITELY clear that I’m not taking potshots at Mr Alger or his fine work, let me state this: When I was in the graphics arts business, working for an ad agency, “graphic” artists were considered “wrists”. People good at doing artwork-for-hire. People who did what the customer wanted without letting too much of ther own creativity alter the piece beyond the customer’s needs. Those people I worked with, at the time, considered themselves “wrists”. they considered the drama queen morons who pissed off their families and acquaintances so they couild “suffer for their art” to be “legitimate” artists. Mr Alger, we’re in the same church, just different pews.

Perhaps there is a feeling that by showing us their wrinkly, saggy, nasty asses, shrivelled and pruney scrota, downward pointing nipples and the combined acres of neck wattles and hairy armpits, that we’ll all just give up in disgust. Close, but no bananna. I had to help be a caregiver for my maternal grandfather, and a maternal great aunt, and believe me, no hippie has anything on a 92 year old man for ugly naked, nor a 87 year old woman for the essence of antisexual encounter. I have a strong stomach for the type, and frankly, the tires on my V8 Explorer give great traction on naked hippie flesh.

Asstards. Fucknuggets. Clueless social parasites. Smelly ugly hairy bastards. Jesus, couldn’t we put these people on a fucking island and let them breed themselves back to cattle and then sell them to the former soviet union as meat animals?

Yeah, I guess you’re right. Only a hippie would eat that shit.