Uncooked Veggies Cause DNC Cooty Attack Before Iowa Caucus!

The Science Daily site has the full report here:

Yes, boys and girls, uncooked vegetables aren’t quite what you were brainwashed by the idiotic mainstream media from birth taught to believe. Seems the vitamin content can actually be enhanced by the cooking process, rather than being fucked up and destroyed. Who knew?

Apparently those typically-mediocre high school graduates, who’ve taken years months of their lives to learn to write complete sentences, were wrong in their evaluation of the nutrition science research a few generations ago.

Or maybe the liberally-biased science researchers had an agenda and cunningly fit the data to their foregone and self-serving conclusions.

No. No way could that ever happen. Forget I said that.

Or maybe the (heh) journalist misunderstood the researcher’s secretary when he phone-interviewed her and tried to chat his way into her pants. Because there’s one thing we can pretty much be sure of: the (heh) journalist sure as shit didn’t understand the actual data, analysis, conclusions, and published technical results of a Nutrition Scientist sufficiently well to critique it – or even grasp its meaning – properly.

Science works in mysterious ways, as we all know.

I’d actually discovered this fact decades ago when I attempted to subsist entirely upon deep-fried pork skins for a month and didn’t get too sick.

So if you’re suffering from a raw-veggie induced vitamin deficiency and there are no pork skins available, chew on this:

I Pwind ‘Em As The Law Watched – Powerless!

Last night I totally pwind ‘em!

I bask in the glory of my pwin greatness!

I am my pwin Ideal!

I met the Enemy on a battlefield of their pwin choosing. And I took the measure of their toes. In their obliviousness, I counted cups on ‘em. Kinda.

No quarter asked or given. No nickels or dimes either, dammit!

I took no prisoners. I posted no bills.

That is how you pronounce the word pwned, isn’t it? “Pwind”?

The Law was there – I’d say well over a quarter-ton of it – 5 young Porkers-to-be With Guns. Three squad cars worth. One car was a County Mounty, the other two – City. The Boys sat there like mushrooms, sipping their coffees and nibbling their lard sandwiches, oblivious to the great goings-on that took place Right. Under. Their. Snouts.

It was a packed house. The joint was busier ‘n I’ve ever seen it at 3:30 AM, and it was a target-rich environment – let me tell you. We had Emo. We had Goth. We had punk. We had wino – a pair. And the Law, of course.

There was a sprinkling of civilians – scattered here and there – but not what I would call a factor, something that needed to be strategically considered, y’know? Truth be told, I tend to look right through them nowadays. I don’t even see them.

But I get ahead of myself.

I nailed a low-hanging Emo fruit before I even got properly into the place: he made the mistake of holding the door for the limping old man that was me. He was wearing soft-toed cloth no-name deck shoes. Dirty white. No socks, the fool.

Chalk up one left big toe. And the poor fucker apologized to me! for him leaving his toe out there in my way! I mumble *rhubarb* and pass on by.

Pwind.

I get inside and – oh shit – it’s the Knowing waitress. Oh, man….

She doesn’t blink, she doesn’t bat an eye, she just asks, “smoking or non?” like she’d never seen me before.

I start to get a good feeling about things as she indifferently leads me right over next to a table of loud-talking Goths. Perfect targeting! – as one of the G’s gets up – bathroom break – and kind of does the “easy old-timer” dance around me & my cane as he passes. I have a wide Denny’s aisle stance – intentionally. He pats me gently on the back in passing “easy there”, and I squeeze my whoopee a bit. It responds perfectly.

Blat.

Crisp, short, and quiet. Subtle.

And – by god! – the waitress doesn’t twitch! The Goth kinda pauses and blinks and half-smiles – not sure if it was me or her, and then heads on to the toilet.

Pwind!

As I maneuver to sit down I accidentally release my cane so it falls over onto the (occupied) booth seat across the aisle and whacks into the chicks knee over there. I narrowly miss her coffee cup arm (rats!), which is just setting down the cup. A double hit – foiled by luck. But I still get the knee. I *rhubarb* her apologetically and retrieve my cane.

Pwind.

I sit down – squee’ing my whoopee briefly and quietly, to the apparent delight of the knee-chicks boyfriend – who snickers quietly to himself in a rather ungentlemanly manner. How rude!

I note that at this time the Knowing waitress makes a small tactical mistake in her cover persona: she brings me my coffee and big ice-water without me ordering it.

Boys and girls – its mistakes like this that can get you caught and killed by the enemy: moments like this can blow your cover completely. You have to consider every aspect of your actions if you want to be a waitress who Knows. You have to be the waitress.

Its like golf: you have to be the ball.

Fortunately, the Gods smiled upon the poor girl and none of the Goths noticed.

Anyway:

The waitress took my Hammy order, and barely cracked a smile when I winked at her while unrolling my napkin and silverware bundle. Good woman! Stout heart! Marry me!

I noisily dumped the silverware from the napkin onto the table near the table corner, scooting it around a bit – quickly yet casually getting the tip of the fork handle just a bit underneath the spoon arch.

Dropping my napkin, I lean over into the aisle, lose my balance a bit, and firmly slap my hand onto the table corner (and the fork tines) to catch myself – and fork-flip the spoon across the aisle onto the Goth table, where it hits the fart-snicker guys near-empty coke glass – spilling it!

Pwind!!!!!

More apologies, more *rhubarb*. Meanwhile, my cane falls over and narrowly misses the toe of the bathroom-goer Goth (shit!), who has come back by now – refreshed with some dope up his nose. He bends down and returns it.

Pwind.

Things settle down. My Hammy is still not here so I read my newspaper – making a lot of papery foldy-flappy noise.

Then the Goths leave!

Aww. I wasn’t done with them yet. Rats.

I must have allowed my disappointment to show on my face: the Knowing waitress directs the busboy to get that table cleaned up now, even though there were several others elsewhere that needed clearing.

My Hammy arrives while this was going on, so I practice my food drops and – a bit later, when no one was around – I gave my whoopee a good solid squeeze to see if the cops over in the next area could hear it: one did.

The waitress brought some new customers through – smoking civilians – and tried to get them to sit back a few tables behind me (out of the action, if you get my meaning) but to no avail. They wanted the table where my victims were supposed to sit! Double-rats!

Well, that was it.

Oh, sure, I practiced some more food drops and I spun my empty coffee cup between refills a bit, but my heart wasn’t in it anymore.

When I paid my bill she softly said to me, “I tried to seat those people elsewhere!”. I replied, “Ah, well. We take what chance hands us. I got three anyway.”

Ya know what she said? You’re not gonna believe this.

She said, “No. You got four. You forgot about that guy at the door.”

She was watching me before I even got into the place!

That was early this morning – and I still feel good about it now – at about noon.

Ain’t life wonderful!

Deep-Sea Species Loss Could Lead to Less Nooky for Parameciums and DNC Operatives

Science Daily has the story here:

The real title is “Deep-Sea Species’ Loss Could Lead To Oceans’ Collapse, Study Suggests“.

Read it, and then critique it. I hate this type of so-called journalism. Its cheap, inflamatory, and it insults the reader.

Yeah – my blog is cheap, too. But I’m not getting paid to write it either.

(Photo courtesy of Break.com – I think.)

Ya know, I once asked a good friend what he wanted for a birthday present. He told me, “I want a Chump belt.”

“A what?” says I.

“A Chump belt.”

“….?” Incomprehension – bordering on the profound. He might as well have asked for a blue freddie, or a brick-faced participle in declension.

He then explained what a Chump belt is, and I decided that someday I might want one too.

A Chump belt is one of those western, hand-tooled leather belts that has the wearers name branded onto the belt so it can be read by someone in back of said wearer. We’ve all seen them.

But a Chump belt has the name “Chump” back there instead of “Fred”, or “Jim-Bob”, or “Darlene”. Its a personal type-declaration for the whole world to see.

The photo above reminds me that I once considered owning a Chump belt.

Here’s some smut:

Moray Eels Set To Eat Democrats, Sweep Election

Science Daily has the (old) story here:

Seems Moray eels have two – count ‘em – two sets of friggin’ jaws! Just like Alien! Did you know that? I knew that ’cause I read this article back in September. But that isn’t important.

What’s important is for us to know how many Democrats will be eaten – and whether the Morays plan to stay for dessert.

Wait until you see dessert. She’s back by popular demand – and because I found some more photos I’d misplaced because I’m a doofus. But I am an organized doofus:

The Heartbreak of Psoriasis, and DNC Epilepsy Policy in the Presence of Web Blog Snow

I’d like to talk to you about the heartbreak of psoriasis. But I know nothing about the subject, so I won’t.

Look at this schematic:

Now compare it to this photo:

If you see any similarity between the two photos, you may have psoriasis. So eat your energy bar and drink your milk.

And look at all of these:

How Do You Like My Liberal Copycat Snow?

The snow over at Sweetness & Light is way better I guess they turned it off.

I didn’t even know I could do snow until I noticed it over at Enas Yorl’s place.

So now I have snow too.

The man above is not catching snow. He’s catching goats. The man in the background dropped his. Its in the foreground – still a little wobbly from orbital reentry.

They are goats from space.

Yeah.

They fall from the sky.

Uh-huh.

Here’s some porn:

More Human-DNC Interbreeding Detected.

The Science Daily article is here:

(I have no idea what this photo has to do with anything.)

Anyway…scientists have recently discovered that Human – DNC Neanderthal interbreeding goes back waaaay further than anyone ever suspected. Is there one in your family tree?

(The above skull used to belong to an opossum. I don’t know the opossum’s name or where it lived. Now the skull belongs to a museum. Unless they stole it from someone else. Notice the complete lack of external antennae.)

But who cares? here’s some photos of Angela Mclin that are fairly important mediocre :