How Do I Love This Shite? Lemme Count the Ways.

Wow!

Holy sheepshit!

Be still, my beatin' meat -- uh, I mean "heart"!

I now actually have the option of blogging in Hindi! Ain't that the shit?

What I wanna know is: Why the fuck can't I blog in Lepontic or Old Norse?

Son of Fuath na Yuppie, Part Deux (Yeux Put Out, Babe?)

“Beamers”. Lexuses (or should that be “Lexi”? Fuck if I know…). SUV’s. Even -- Can this be? Could there be a sight more loathly and hateful to my yeën? --a fuckin’ minivan!

They were right! Mom was right! The preacher was right!

It’s finally happened. I’ve finally died and gone to hell!

And why am I not the least fucking bit surprised to discover that hell is filled with yuppies?

I know! I’ll write. Yeah, that’s it. It’s the only way to endure the next few hours. But what’s this? No! It can’t be! The horror! The horror! My laptop’s dead! Shit! This won’t do at all! Cruel fate, you fickle, loose-legged bitch!

Muttering curses in English, German and Turkish, I emerge from my car like foul-tempered, foulmouthed butterfly from its cocoon, and stomp up the hill to the hospital’s main entrance. The day is sunny and clear -- if a bit crisp -- a fact that renders the scenery as attractive as my mood is not.

“Following my nose”, as it were, I locate an ATM, spend two bucks on a twenty-dollar withdrawal, and, on a guess, make my way to the hospital gift shop. Great. Just fucking great. No notebooks. Nothing but ridiculously overpriced journal-type books and the item I reluctantly opt to purchase, a queer-as-a-three-dollar-bill lookin’ notepad, priced at six bucks. Said notepad is furnished with -- of all things -- an unsharpened pencil.

With yet another muttered curse, I set off in search of an eatery.

The hospital cafeteria is pretentiously named, and offers a pretentious bill of fare at extortionate prices. Aw, fuck this! Stick yer friggin 59¢ hard-boiled egg up yer ass! Where’s McDonalds? Fortunately, there is one. I order a sausage, egg and cheese bagel, hash browns and orange juice. Ain’t that much else on the menu. Well, there goes my diet, and this breakfast is probably my entire fat allowance for the day.

Odd that there would be a McDonalds in a hospital, ain’t it? Maybe the relationship is a symbiotic circle of sorts: Eat there, pack ten tons of lard onto one’s ass, clog the ol’ arteries like Elvis’s colon, and then be treated onsite for obesity and cardiac dysfunction.

I stomp back to my car, notice that there is, in fact, a pen in the glove compartment, and begin scribbling in between bites of greasy bagel and sips of orange juice.


And still there are the specimens of that most repulsive of subspecies (Yuppus americanus), the yuppie. Why are there so many of them here? Do they work here, or are they all patients? One wouldn’t think so. They way they scarf down TrimSpa and spend half their lives in Bally’s or Gold’s, one would imagine they’d be the picture of radiant good health. Could they indeed be patients? Surfing high on a wave of misanthropy, I hope so. One of them looks at me, and receives a “What are you starin’ at, fuckface?” glare for his pains.

What’s your story, knob job? I wonder, as he walks away. Prostate the size of a hubbard squash? Can’t get it up anymore? That it? Ya comin’ here in hopes of getting’ a prescription for Viagra, so’s the missus doesn’t start bangin’ that guy in accounting or wherever?

Aha! I’ve got it! You’re here for the benefit of your pudgy little larvae, aren’t you? That’s it! Your genetically inferior offspring have to be treated for ADD and peanut-allergies, don’t they? And naturally, you -- overflowing font of deoxyribonucleic uncleanness that you are -- have brought them in, haven’t you? Devil take you all!

Nah, that probably ain’t right. The pediatric hospital’s across the street. Well who cares why you’re here? As long as you have an illness of some sort -- preferably terminal -- I’m reasonably happy. Happy enough not to shank you in the parking lot, at any rate.

Another exits his car and starts up the hill, and I pass from Conrad (“Live rightly. Die, die”) -- to Carpenter: James Woods ramming a stake into a vampire and screaming: “Die! Die! Fucking die!” -- to a bumper sticker that was popular during my high school and college years: “Die, Yuppie Scum.”

Ironically, these thoughts of mortality infuse me with a sort of vitality -- an invigorating rush of disdain. Vulgar, posturing, Babbitt vermin! May you drown in your fuckin’ lattes and espressos! May you be consumed in the cleansing flames of populism! Be ye ever so vile -- and certes, ye are most vile -- no day, no eternity of days, however spent, could gentle your condition!

Nutsacks.

I really can’t stand ‘em.

But you’ve probably figured that out by now.

I'm Such a Whore...

I probably shouldn't snarl "What are you starin' at, fuckface?" at inanimate objects, but that's neither here nor there. Neither is the fact that I have a "woody".

What is both here and there, is the fact that I've taken to sellin' my redneck ass on the streetcorner known as MySpace. Just call me "Midnight Cowboy".

Heh heh heh...

Today's Language Lesson

Nemo me impune lacessit.

Vae Victis

Both have a nice ring, to them, don't they?

So Whaddaya Think?

How do ya like the new color scheme? Does it get ya all gooey 'twixt the gams? It's kinda "Alice-Cooperish" in a Special Forces kinda way, dontcha think? "Red, white, black and blue..." an' a' tha'.

"I'll send you a love letter. Straight from my heart, fucker!" You know what a 'love letter' is? It's a bullet from a fuckin' gun, fucker! You receive a 'love letter' from me, you're fucked forever!"

--Dennis Hopper, Blue Velvet

Just Wondering.

Has anyone other than m'ownself noticed that Ann Coulter -- once a prime specimen of red-blooded, conservative, gun-toting, "Rightgrrrrl" fuckability; once a beautiful and insightful woman (her Yankee origins notwithstanding), whose golden mane any man would gladly have caressed while groaning: "Oh yeah, baby! Just like that! You do that so well! A little more to the right! Now talk The Federalist to me!" -- has "morphed" into the very spirit and image of a " 'head'-for-backstage-pass", anorexic, neocunt, crack-whore?

I was just wondering.

It's a fucking tragic thing to behold.

She had a gifted mind, one that served the conservative/libertarian/individualist cause defiantly and articulately during the long, dark night of the Clinton regime.

What a mind! What a spirit!

Her defense of Joseph McCarthy was brilliant.

The new asshole which she kindly and generously opted to tear yet another asshole -- Al Franken, the Sean Hannity of the tree-hugging, bone-smoking, baby-raper crowd known as "democrats"-- was a marvel to behold.

The post-9/11 article that led neocon "Überschlitz" Jonah Goldberg to send her packing from "the house that Buckley built" was vicious and off-the-mark, but impassioned and sincere.

And then everything went to hell.

Pity, that.

As the neocon cause crumbles into dust and she and her puppet-masters hand the country to the commies (democrats) on a silver platter, it occurs to me that her once scintillating mind has calcified as badly as fossilized dinosaur shit, and that I -- the ultimate, id-driven "horndog" -- wouldn't fuck her with your dick and your retard cousin pumpin'.

That ain't good. I'm usually so horny that the crack of dawn aint' safe.

But not when it comes to Ann Coulter, more's the pity. Upon reading anything she's had to say for the last three years, ol' Willie the one-eyed, white "wonder weasel" has opted to chase other chickens, claiming that "not-so-gentle Annie's" words -- and her very image -- prevent him from choking even his own...

Good night, sleep tight, and don't let the crab-lice bite.

How Hard Does This Suck?

I had a great fucking news-oriented rant ready to post on Green Hell, at which point typepad went tits-up and I lost it. I don't pay squat for this blog (it being free and all), so why I haven't had this problem here yet is quite a mystery.

So much for bitching and whining.

I'd rather rant, rave and raise hell.

And abuse alliteration abominably.

Fuck talk-show hosts.

Why is it that AIDS, which doesn't even make it into the top ten leading causes of death in the US, receives as much funding and publicity as it does when compared to cancer, the second leading cause of disease-related death?

My guess is that it's because lung cancer is the lethal "leader of the pack". As any talk-show host can attest, lung cancer is a consequence of smoking, as often as not. Therefore, the sufferer essentially "has it coming", as it's a lifestyle-related disease.

But so is AIDS. When I hear a talk-show host haughtily snorting that junkies and "pirates" "have it coming" because they shoot up with dirty needles or allow themselves to be "Dutch doored" sans protection, then I'll take them seriously.

Have a nice day, and fuck you.

Fuath na Yuppie

Damn. Nothin' to raise hell about today except for my deep-seated aversion to yuppies. Took my Da to the radiology unit at Northside Hospital this morning, at which point the battery in my laptop gave up the ghost.

Spent five fuckin' hours scrawling anti-yuppie screeds into a ridiculously overpriced notepad I'd purchased at the hospital gift shop for the sake of alleviating boredom.

"What?", screams I at the receptionist, "No bar? No bar? What manner of fuckin' hospital is this, anyway? I drive my ass down here --on my day off, even -- contend with the awful emotional turmoil that 'comes with the territory' of having a gravely ill loved one, and you bastards haven't even the decency to furnish this overpriced pisshole with a boozer?"

Truth be told, I was nowhere near that obnoxious. Gave a yuppie or two the "What are you starin' at , fuckface?" glare, but spent the morning peacefully, for the most part. Got into a chat with a most polite and personable "Good ol' Boy" (one of the few fellow Southerners in evidence at Northside) whom I suspect was one of the support/maintenance staff over a very large and well-fed redtail (that's a species of hawk, for the benefit of you Yankees, yuppies and foreigners) whilst having a smoke in the "leper zone".

The bird had captured my attention some time before, and this gentleman seemed to be the only other person who'd paid him any notice, aside from a hospital employee who caught sight of him and opted not to walk beneath the tree in which he was perched.

This fellow noted that the bird was moulting (an unusual occurrence in January; they usually shed around the time of the equinox, which, in these parts, usually coincides with the last frost date), as did I. He then mentioned that the critter's plumpness probably owed itself to the pigeons who infest the rooftops of the hospital complex, and I agreed. I asked him if ever he'd seen the Blackhawks who glide upon the breeze at the summit of Kennesaw Mountain. He said he had, but that he'd never had one come as close to him as had this particular insouciant and fearless raptor.

Redtails definitely have it over Blackhawks for fuckin' bravery, and that I'll give them. The Blackhawk is all grace and beauty; glistening mahogany feathers, "ooh's" and "aah's" - and distance. The Redtail, on the other hand, is grey and brown. He elicits neither "ooh's" nor "aah's", but fears only what he needs to fear, and involves himself far more closely with the world around him than does his cousin.

We admired the bird in silence for several minutes, and then went our separate ways.

That's it.

Well? What the fuck do you want? The answers to all of life's questions? Let some vacuous asshole such as Al Franken or Sean Hannity ply you with those. I just like to rant, rave, and raise hell.

Mission Statement

This is the way the fucking world ends. Look at this fucking shit we're in, man! Not with a bang, but a whimper.

But I'll neither be whimpering nor fucking "splitting", Jack.

Musket in hand, tomahawk and Bowie in my belt, I'll be sticking it out (in more ways that one) 'til the bitter end. As odd as it may seem for a longtime denizen of the "barbarian fringe" to voice such sentiments, the core elements of "the Empire" (i.e., Western civilization) are worth preserving, even if the empire itself has become abomination. Only a fool throws the baby out with the bathwater, after all. Did you catch that, gentle reader? Worth preserving.

Worth fighting for.

Worth dying for.

Any fucking questions?

If so, pay an illegal alien courier to deliver a hand-written note to King George and Nancy Pelosi as they "69" one another while plotting to shove a poisoned icicle up the ass of the average American "working stiff".

Enough about that.

Green Hell is my "playroom", in which I'm allowed to indulge in introspection, self-medication, and all manner of sweetness and light. RRRB, on the other hand, is ol' Dave gettin' all "Girly Girl" (iffen you ain't read Peter Bagge, fuck you!) an' indulgin' his nastier side. On RRRB, my face is painted every fucking bit as blue as my unapologetic, Rebel, redneck balls, and "the gloves" have been removed and cast into the fire.

Having said that, let me get a few things off my woad-stained chest:

F---, you suck. You're a nutless, gutless, pussy-whipped sack of shit. Putting it bluntly, I could kick your ass. My cancer-stricken, bedridden father could kick your ass. My arthritic mother could kick your ass. My brother's decomposing corpse could kick your ass, and you fucking well know it.

Thanks for the bottle of wine, though. I'll always remember you fondly for that.

C----, you probably don't suck, which (if this is indeed the case, and given the fact that you can't shut yer pontificatin' gob for even a second, I consider pretty fuckin' likely) rather explains a thing or two.

Eat Me

Howdy.

Yer ol' buddy Dave (from Green Hell) here, busting his own cherry in yet another foray into the hot, sticky realm of socio-political, pseudo-intellectual "thoughtporn".

Just reckoned I'd give this new medium a (back-seat?) "test drive".

Nothing to see here yet, so git tae fuck and come back later.

Love you longtime,

David J. Bean