Prelude to my Next Podcast

December 14th, 2014

Here, LOSERS. Hoping to get the next podcast up before Christmas, where I will be spending a week with my kids and family up in Alaska while you all beat your teenage common-law wives/stepdaughters in your trailers and smoke meth and crap in buckets. Merry Christmas!


A scorpion trapped inside a jar chooses to sting itself to death to escape intolerable pain.

Her name was [K], and she was to be my new co-worker at the funeral home. She was described as being similar to me in height and build; a former Marine who recently returned from Iraq and who had not yet attended mortuary school. She knew she wanted to be a funeral director, walked in off the street and asked for a job, and was hired on the spot. She was from [the South], yet knew she wanted to live in Portland, Oregon, so she drove herself all the way here. She planned out everything she wanted to do in life, and at age 23, had accomplished all she had so far said she would. This was one of the things I would come to admire about her. While others talked about all the things they would do or buy or see one day, K did everything of which she spoke. With her, there were no pipe dreams or meaningless wishes – there was only action.

She was actually a bit shorter than I, which made her quite short, and as for being of similar build…I don’t know about that. The first thing you noticed about her was the giant ass. I was offended that someone thought my ass was that big. Whenever people asked about her, they always referred to her as “the girl with the really big ass.” Her butt looked abnormally out-of-place, as though it really belonged on another body.

We became instant friends, and she would be one of the few women I would ever befriend. One day she was to speak at a Veterans’ Day parade for our funeral home, and she was getting ready in her dress uniform and was hurriedly gelling her hair back. She asked if I could “shellac it to [her] head” and I asked, “Isn’t it ok already?” She said, “Not in the Marine Corps!” It all had to be off her face and off her collar, so I squeezed a handful of gel into my hands and smeared it through her hair.

My [white doofus] boyfriend at the time, hearing this, was surprised. “You touched a woman?! You must really like her.” He knew of my hatred, fear and mistrust of all females. But she was different, and I never really knew why. We never asked questions. We didn’t have to.

I knew that she had been engaged to her high school sweetheart, and she would explain matter-of-factly that he had died by suicide shortly after they had both enlisted. He shot himself out in the desert. As funeral directors we knew the bureaucratic nightmares that active duty military deaths presented, as well as the additional factors complicated by the fact that K was not his legally married spouse. They had been engaged since high school, and she was now reduced to “just his girlfriend” as his family fought over everything.

She often spoke of her high school years, and what would surprise me is her recollection of her own body. She described herself numerous times as “skinny” or “too small” or “undersized.” Her Myspace profile even listed her body type as “slim/slender” and according to her driver’s license, she weighed 100 pounds. There was just no way. That ass…

Eventually, we would become roommates, and she got fatter and fatter. Her lower back bulged out over her jeans. Her face and neck grew as well. She was an avid reader, even more so than I. She owned several large bookshelves – real furniture, the kind you order and have delivered and the delivery guys set it up in your room, not the kind you buy in a store and assemble yourself with the Allen wrench. Since she was so short, she also owned a ladder that was especially for the bookshelves. I thought that was the neatest thing ever.

One day when she wasn’t home, I wanted to get a book from the top shelf, but she had the ladder in her room. I grabbed something else to step on, an ottoman with a zippered top. Why a zipper? Curiosity took over and I unzipped it. The ottoman was hollow, and contained only a photo album.

Looking through old photos is a favorite pastime of mine. I can look over my own albums for hours, and if I know you and like you and find you interesting, I want to see all your old photos too. I want to see your parents when they were young, your baby pictures, your first grade play, your high school track team picture, your pets and your weird haircut. K was my best friend. I wanted to see her album.

It was a scrapbook of pictures of her and her late high school sweetheart. The first picture looked like a prom picture, she in a red spaghetti-strap dress, and I really don’t remember what he looked like. Just a teenage boy at a high school dance…but I immediately noticed just how thin she really had been. I could see why it was hard for her to see that this was not her body anymore.

I looked through more of the pages and saw bony shoulders and elbows, flat hips and stomach, and no ass whatsoever. Just a small, cute skinny kid. Lots of pictures of her with her boyfriend, drinking beers, playing video games, hanging out at school just being kids. Then of the two of them in the Marines…in fatigues, and in dress uniforms.

Then a newspaper article about his death. I read it, and it mentioned he died of “friendly fire,” a gunshot to the abdomen.

Friendly fire? K had been saying for over a year that he killed himself.

Did he kill himself by shooting himself in the stomach? Not likely. People shoot themselves in the head – through the temples, with the gun in the mouth, or just under the chin.

I have seen several who have shot themselves in the center of the chest. Perhaps this is symbolic of a broken heart, or maybe they were just afraid if they shot themselves in the head, they might survive in a brain-dead state. But no one shoots himself in the stomach.

It’s not as common today for doctors or others to falsely list the cause of death as an accident when it was really a suicide. But even if that’s what was going on here, why would the newspaper be unusually specific and state the bullet wound was in the stomach?

I never asked. This was her sorrow, and it was hers to discuss as she wished. I asked her what his name was, what he looked like and when he died, I asked about his funeral services and if she was still in contact with his family, but I never asked anything about the specifics of his death.

Where I work, we have a contract wherein we provide all mortuary services to active duty military personnel. I was told that they would almost all be suicides. I asked why being in the military is so bad, and some co-workers explained some things to me, things I would never have understood, having never been in the military. I get it now.

There is one simple answer to an often-asked question: “Why did he kill himself?” Because he didn’t want to live. He evaluated his life and made the decision he thought was best. It may not be the one you would have made in the same situation, but it was never yours to make, and after weighing the alternatives, he decided it was the choice for him.

When I have finished the prep work on one of these people, military officers then come in and inspect everything I have done – the condition of the body, the appearance of the incisions, the facial features. Then they advise me as to when I can take the next step, which usually includes restorative work on the face if he has shot himself in the head. “Next time,” the officer told me, “you can start the wax work [technique to conceal bullet wounds] before we get here; that’ll save you some time on the next one.”

Next time. The next one. They know there will be another…and another…and another.

It is never up to anyone other than the individual if he should have made another choice. What if he or she had children? Aren’t they reason enough to force yourself to go on? No. They are not. A child is its own person with its own life and does not exist in order to provide you with something to cling to. And, once a person has overridden their own survival instinct, they are not likely to be influenced by guilt. You can call them selfish all you want; deride them for being “bad parents” who don’t care…it never works if they are truly determined to die.

In mortuary school we were told, “Ask not of what the subject died, but rather, what conditions exist.” It was a reminder to us, as professionals, to temporarily disconnect ourselves from any emotion surrounding the death so that we could do our jobs. This is no longer a baby who fought meningitis and then died after doctors frantically worked on him for thirteen hours; the dashed hope of a young couple who was joyous over the birth of a son after having three daughters. This is not the teenage boy who was found dead in his room by his father after the two of them had a fight. We have an infant case and an adult-sized case. An intact body. An autopsied body. A restoration. It matters very little how they died.

One man took me three days to finish. It was a shotgun in the mouth, found by his wife and daughter. My supervisor chided me for “wasting all that time on a suicide.” He didn’t see the point in spending three days on someone who chose to take his own life and made it so I had to work on a weekend. I felt differently; that perhaps his family deserved a last goodbye with him looking the way they remembered him and not the way they found him. But to many, a person who has chosen suicide evokes such strong feelings of scorn and derision that they will take their feelings out on the deceased body.

Other co-workers voiced surprise over a young woman’s suicide because she was pretty. Are we supposed to believe pretty people never feel intolerable pain?

And the eighty-two-year-old man; small caliber handgun through the temples. Everyone wondered why. Most likely he realized it wasn’t going to get much better from here. I got it. Why did no one else?

K and I eventually lost touch. I’ll never know if [he] was like one of these people I will most certainly see again, one who just didn’t want to go back and saw no other way out, or if he really did die the way the paper said he did and K had felt some need to lie about it. I’ll just have to add this to the growing list of what I will never have answered, and I know I was never meant to know.

Another Fireside Chat Video

October 27th, 2014

Includes missing files from last podcast; gerbils; butts

Who Am I, Anyway?

October 2nd, 2014

newgenerationsmAn intro for people new to this blog. Cori describes working for Harold and her decision to leave.

Emerald Cup Routine

July 25th, 2014

sheepshagtricolorIn a rare turn of events, Cori contemptuously mocks and bullies a lesser-known group of individuals simply because their worldview is slightly different than her own.

More Nutcases

May 16th, 2014

The death of Fred Phelps, and yet another Nazi scumbag doing what he does.fred

I know, I’m supposed to be working on the podcast but I wanted to get this thing posted before the contest. This is my white doofus friend who, by the way, is all mad because his mom didn’t pay his phone bill in time. And I know the color’s all screwy but I didn’t feel like fiddling with it anymore.

Send Lawyers, Guns and Money

March 24th, 2014

So, I’ve decided to initiate a frivolous lawsuit. :)

I joined this new gym back in December and they offered a basic membership for $10 a month, or a “deluxe” membership for $20 a month that was supposed to include unlimited tanning and massage. I signed up for “deluxe” and paid 6 months in advance.

Well, they didn’t have tanning and massage available, and whenever I asked about it, it was always “next week it should be here.” Four months later it still isn’t here, so I (and hundreds of others) have paid double for our memberships, not to mention paying for tanning and massage off-site when we realized we wouldn’t be getting it at the gym.

I talked to the manager and he said that when my six months were up, he would give me one additional month for free to make up for this. Except…he’s offering me something that costs $10 in exchange for what will be $60 that I overpaid.

They are also still selling the “deluxe” memberships to people, telling them after the fact that they don’t have what they promised and there are no refunds.

So I decided to sue. :) I’ve had this attorney on retainer for a while; set up with him when I decided to make it public that I left WN, just in case. (In case what, I don’t know, but I just liked knowing he was there.) So now I’ll finally get to meet him and use what I’ve been paying for.

Clearly, I do not care about $60, and it will cost me thousands to take this kind of legal action, but I’m doing it to send a message: don’t go around pissing off people with whom you do business, especially not competitors during the contest season, and ESPECIALLY not women who have nothing but disposable income, free time, and unlimited spite. :) Women tend not to let ANYTHING go, EVER!

I’m in a good position in that in my world, there is no such thing as bad publicity. The absolute worst that will happen to me is I will be kicked out of the gym, if the legal action even takes place before my membership ends in June. So I will look like the person who just tried to stand up for the little guy, to help those for whom $60 IS a lot of money but who were resigned to just letting it go, and the gym and its management will look like the bad guys; those who ripped off well-known local competitors shortly before a show.

I’ve been getting the thumbs-up everywhere I go. I still work out there. :) I’m not going to be intimidated when I have nothing to lose. They were probably figuring on their members being a bunch of low-income fools who would never spend a lot of money on proving a point. :) At this point I will be pissed if management just decides to settle and give everyone a refund; I wanna fight! Guess I’m bored or something…

This is fun! I should see if I can sue someone else, too! Maybe Harold, for promising a white homeland when really there are all these other-colored people here too.

Good thing I already go to three other gyms.

Anyway, just wanted to give you all something else to look at while you’re waiting for the next podcast. Tentative date of April 20; I know it’s a bit removed from the main event (Fred Phelps’ death) but I’m like, really busy…a month away from the contest and now I have these pressing legal issues to deal with…just can’t catch a break at all, you guys!

OK, new post to give people something else on which to comment for a while. Copied this exchange word for word from something going around Facebook.


A reply from CEO of J.P. Morgan to a pretty girl seeking a rich husband…

A young and pretty lady posted this on a popular forum:

Title: What should I do to marry a rich guy?

I’m going to be honest of what I’m going to say here.

I’m 25 this year. I’m very pretty, have style and good taste. I wish to marry a guy with $500k annual salary or above.

You might say that I’m greedy, but an annual salary of $1M is considered only as middle class in New York.

My requirement is not high. Is there anyone in this forum who has an income of $500k annual salary? Are you all married?

I wanted to ask: what should I do to marry rich persons like you?

Among those I’ve dated, the richest is $250k annual income, and it seems that this is my upper limit.

If someone is going to move into high cost residential area on the west of New York City Garden(?), $250k annual income is not enough.

I’m here humbly to ask a few questions:
1) Where do most rich bachelors hang out? (Please list down the names and addresses of bars, restaurant, gym)
2) Which age group should I target?
3) Why most wives of the riches are only average-looking? I’ve met a few girls who don’t have looks and are not interesting, but they are able to marry rich guys.

4) How do you decide who can be your wife, and who can only be your girlfriend? (my target now is to get married)

Ms. Pretty

A philosophical reply from CEO of J.P. Morgan:

Dear Ms. Pretty,
I have read your post with great interest. Guess there are lots of girls out there who have similar questions like yours. Please allow me to analyse your situation as a professional investor.

My annual income is more than $500k, which meets your requirement, so I hope everyone believes that I’m not wasting time here.

From the standpoint of a business person, it is a bad decision to marry you. The answer is very simple, so let me explain.

Put the details aside, what you’re trying to do is an exchange of “beauty” and “money” : Person A provides beauty, and Person B pays for it, fair and square.

However, there’s a deadly problem here, your beauty will fade, but my money will not be gone without any good reason. The fact is, my income might increase from year to year, but you can’t be prettier year after year.

Hence from the viewpoint of economics, I am an appreciation asset, and you are a depreciation asset. It’s not just normal depreciation, but exponential depreciation. If that is your only asset, your value will be much worse 10 years later.

By the terms we use in Wall Street, every trading has a position, dating with you is also a “trading position”.
If the trade value dropped we will sell it and it is not a good idea to keep it for long-term – same goes with the marriage that you wanted. It might be cruel to say this, but in order to make a wiser decision any assets with great depreciation value will be sold or “leased”.

Anyone with over $500k annual income is not a fool; we would only date you, but will not marry you. I would advice that you forget looking for any clues to marry a rich guy. And by the way, you could make yourself to become a rich person with $500k annual income.This has better chance than finding a rich fool.

Hope this reply helps.

J.P. Morgan CEO