You people really need to start sorting yourselves out, you know that?


My work is never done.

Here I am, out saving the world from the perils it's helpless baby hands get itself into, and I try to take a little time off for some heavy affection... but no. So many things to write about. Well, I guess it's time once again. Time for a little ‘fuck you' attitude, as TMOI calls it. I can't say I'm not looking forward to it though, what about you? Ehn, scratch that... I don't really care if you're ready or not.

The Agenda, in no particular order:
Idiots.
Me vs Idiots.
More Idiots.
The Menace is Still Strong (and wrong (and scary (and debilitating)))

It has come to my attention that I'm a filthy bastard. No, I think the exact term was ‘fuckin bastard', actually. In typical Breasted Menace fashion, this person was a) very nice and cordial to me for a good five months. Maybe more, maybe less. And then, in perfect BREM behaviour, she b) turned her spiteful, ungrateful back on me, spewing semi-intelligent comments with no explanation of why. Ahh, should I expect anything less? No. I should have known it would only be a matter of time before such a heinous act of inbreeding occurred, but as usual, I gave the benefit of the doubt and thought nothing of such previous behaviour in relation to this young woman. One bad apple does not the bunch make, right? Well, I TRY to believe that. Currently I've about two females not on my arse looking for a fight, which isn't too bad for me. And these two, well, I suspect them of no such treachery, in my normal trusting fashion. So bitch, ‘hooray for me and fuck you', as the song says. Well, I've got a little poem I wrote today in English lit to share with you all. Yes, all three of you that read this regularly.

So after five months or so
You've changed your mind of me.
Call me a ‘fuckin bastard'
quite irresponsibly

How do I respond to this?
Well there's two different ways.
I can accept and be polite
but now wouldn't that be lame?

Tell me, have I ‘sold out'?
Or have I ever lied?
I just tell it as I see it.
I just tell my funny side.

I gave you a chance for redemption
I asked you what was wrong.
I did it various different times
but I don't know what's going on.

I tried to find out from you
you can't say I didn't try.
But you preferred to call me names.
Typical, you won't say why.

So you? You can can kiss my ass
and suck my fucking dick.
You can surely go to hell
where you can stay that thick.

I wish upon you itchy rashes
that cover your fat body.
Scabies, scabs, crabs and boils
and other things that naughty.

And you can rot down in a hole
and you can be a bitch.
And rabid dogs can tear your face
and you can be a wretch.

Show me a link to your fucking page.
Lets see how well you do.
Write about what people expect
and the greatness that is you.

Don't forget to belittle me
for something I ain't done.
Don't explain a thing you say
write nice for everyone.

Be the perfect robot
keep everything inside
Trot along singing la de da
and forget you ever cried.

Forget how I understood you
and all your suffering
and I'll leave a message in your guestbook
a pointlessless, petty thing.

And I'll call you names for no reason
because you did that to me.
My priorities are out of whack
since I like revenge, you see.

Beat it. I'm not wasting any more rhyming thought on a simple Breasted Menace. Be happy with what you got. Okay, so there's the first idiot chapter. Geez, no one can just leave me alone, you know? I gotta be attacked mindlessly ALL the friggin time. Just when I was settling down too, you know? I was letting stresses get have their torrid way with me... I just didn't care. I was having fun, I was feeling heavily affectionate for the first time in a while. Hmn, too bad I can't be writing about that right now. Oh well. Anger or devotion... the endorphins still flow either way. Onward.

So this is a pathetic page. That's a given. I only know a mental handful of html (and don't use some shitty pagebuilder thing), and I don't really care to know any more, except maybe a frame code or two. But that's for later. Anyhow, I was sitting in the floor washroom, just thinkin' and a thinkin'. And I took my train of thought out of Shitsville into my room. And I watched it after that. I watched it develop and puff it's grey smoke. The little idea engineer was a-shovelin' coal into the furnace like crazy. I came up with a loose assortment of written thoughts and feelings, which I will attempt to sew together now. Remember, this all began as disjointed thoughts and will probably stay relatively loose in comparison to other works.

Speech.

If I had children, if I was an irresponsible teen-like white trash father, or just had bad luck, as some do, they might ask me a question. They mi
‘Daddy, what do you do?'
And how would I answer such a question? Hmn. Well, to use slightly more advanced language than in response to a child, here we go. Though I wonder if maybe I should use such language and satiate those who would oppose me...
I don't have a job that pays in monetary gains. At this point in time I neither desire nor require one. I have a different type of position in the grand scheme of things. This world needs many things. One of which is male bitches. This world needs fascist masculinist retards to counteract the seething angry feminist ones. Male bitches.
And I dearie, am the ultimate male bitch.
More? Well, okay, you've twisted my arm.
Varying breasts in place of a full, caring, compassionate heart.
Cold chipped glass marbles instead of loving eyes of blue seas.
An evil wrap of barbed wire and sea salt rather than a nimble, thoughtful mind...
These are the marking characteristics of a Breasted Menace.
I have been punished for the sins of Man. Look upon me and rejoice, oh males, for I shall bear the Breasted Menace burden for you. Drop your shoulder load and tell me your stories of ill will and harsh transgression. For if anger could be harnessed as a source of energy, I could power the free world, and certain parts of China with my rage at the imbalances present in this society. I do not necessarily thrive on conflict. However, I recognize that it can be a necessity. One has to fight fighting with fighting, or roll over and die. For some reason, the earlier part of that resonates with me a little more clearly than the latter, and I hope that would be the same of many of you with intelligent opinions and arguments. There are those who oppose me. That fact is as clear as day. However, there are few that formulate intelligent responses to the things I say. That is a tragedy. I could learn from such people. But no, I have yet to receive a letter or guestbook signing that makes any truly valid points against me. Pity. Possibly I simply go against public opinion. And that makes me wrong? Public opinion means nothing. May I remind us of a certain public opinion back in oh... 1941 Germany? Or how about the public opinion present at any KKK meeting? Public opinion is worth precisely nothing. Now, back to the matter at hand...
‘What do you do, daddy?'
What do I do?
What don't I do, first. I don't lie. I may hold back sometimes, but I don't lie.
‘Well isn't holding back lying?'
Maybe... if you're an idiot. No. I hold back because amazingly, I AM human. When I tell all, people can't handle it. People run. And you know, even I need some human contact now and then. Thank God I got my Dirtmonster is all I have to say about that. I'm as grateful as grateful can be, I assure you. And you know, I don't like her because she agrees with everything I say. She doesn't, I can promise you that. But she's her own person, and she tries. Sometimes she needs a little coaxing from me, but she doesn't give up. She's as effervescent as me, in her own way. She just doesn't know it.
"Daddy, we're getting impatient... stop talking about mommy and what you don't do, and tell us what you DO!"
Okay okay. I imagine having demanding, opinionated kids.
What I do. I try to fight the powers that would restrict you and I. It's up to ourselves to try and do something, to unite those who would unite and support each other. I'll always support the person who supports me, and who makes intelligent, proofed arguments. I may not agree, and I may not follow them, but my faction of followers will not physically war with that of a faction such as that. And it would have to be my faction. I lead or am not involved. It's the simple fact that not too many argue as fervently, feel as much or desire as badly as I. This is the only way I know how to fight. And though I call it fighting, it is more defense than anything. It is defense of myself and thoughts rather than offense on others or upon tyrannical systematic social affairs that has recognized the modern white male as todays great Satan and origin of all evils.
Fuck that.
I write the fight songs that stir hearts and scream the battle cries until my voice is hoarse and beyond. I plan the moves and the barricades. I run sandbags on the frontlines and I take my beats. I try my fucking best, even when I know I'm already defeated. It is difficult for me not to wonder exactly what it is everyone else does. Do they make spasmatic attempts at being witty and bright, and then not explain their words? That sounds about right, a lot of the time.
I do see the salesmen staring at the sun. And I have watched them fall off one by one. Though I do trip and stumble, though I lose my balance from time to time, I do not falter. If I fall I get up under my own power, partly because no one else will, partly because it's good for me. It builds character into me, something that is STRONGLY lacking around these parts, and if I may suggest, the world in general.
That, my precious son Vengeance and my wonderful daugher Shade... that is what I do.

"Attitude... you got some fucking attitude... attitude..."

Well duh. Yes folks, attitude. It's not just a Misfits song anymore. I place importance upon me because hell... no one else is gonna do it, especially if *I* don't. Maybe I'm not a ‘good guy'... but I'm not a ‘bad guy' either. Anti-hero? Maybe. Who cares? I have something of a gift. I can write. I try to share that where I can (read: Unless your gift is being a crabby hag, you're doing a lot less than me)

Judgement.

You know, I really like it when people suggest things for me to write about. It helps to direct me and keep in touch with the minds of the proletariat. One may ask, what gives me the right to judge someone? I say this to you who would ask. I was born. *And* I was born in Canada. That gives me the right to do just about anything, shy of killing and being a retard (both of which many people still do, regardless). Hell, I could burn the flag if I wanted to. Short answer to a stupid question. Nobody's perfect right? Well, wrong. I am, so beat it. If you don't like it... then judge me. I mean, if you say I'm not perfect... isn't that judging me? And then if you do that... well, you can't bitch to me about judging can you? Heads I win, tails you lose... that is, if you're intelligent enough to understand what I'm saying. And if not, then you still lose because you're a fucknut. But I'm not losing sleep over it.

A few notes of Freedom and Freedom of Speech

I don't force this shit down your throat. I'm not quite that arrogant or ignorant. All I know is that I'm right a WHOLE LOT of the time, and people only seem to realize it after they fuck up and don't listen. Hindsight is always 20/20, don't you know.

‘Don't want to have to
take your shit anymore.
I finally concluded that
life is way too short...
The seconds are all running out
it's getting out of hand.' - Greg Graffin, Bad Religion

And always remember, like the disclaimer says... you can bitch about me... I can bitch about you, it's all a very nice system.

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