Welcome To My Blog;Now,Shut Up.

This is what I get for tryin' to comment on a portion of a poem on one of me brudda-in-law's blogs. Had to sign up for a blog account just to do that.

Oh well. Had been meanin' to do that, anyway. Just took me the longest damned time to do it, and in such a roundabout way, too.

Incompentence and dumb luck, in bloggin', like in every other aspect of life, plays a major role in why matters turn out as they do.

That, in a teeny-weenie nutshell, is how this particular atrocity came into bein'.

That's my story, I'm stickin' to it, and, if you don't like it, well, just take the advice proffered in the entry title.

Hell, even if you do like it, take the same advice anyway.

Oh, as to why this blog's entitled "A Fistful of Teeth", it's because I'm a fan of the Sergio Leone "Dollars" trilogy of Spaghetti Westerns(The ones that made Clint "The Squint" Eastwood a star, for you ignoramuses out there, and you know who you are), and, after reading about all the botching and ineptitude, as well as arrogance, thinly-veiled racism, classism, and so on, concerning Katrina and its aftermath, well, let's just say that I wouldn't mind knocking out the teeth of Messrs Bush, Cheney, Chertoff, Brown, as well as Ms. Blanco's, and any other number of officials, pundits, and their supporters, with a crowbar.

If you're a Bush fan, or just another drooling, rabidly right-wing moron with the brains of suet, and a heart of cat excrement, go somewhere else, 'cos this ain't for you, unless you're a real masochist or Stimpson J. Cat stupid.

If you're those, stick around for the much-dreaded, yet deserved, kick in the teeth that you deserve, and love, in your foul little heart of power-worshipping hearts.

Most of the time when I'm on-line, I try to be polite and reasonable, but not here, 'cos this space's MINE, Baby!!! That is, until the powers that be take it away from me.

In the meantime, shut up and suffer like the little prison-bitch you'll someday be, if there's any justice in the world.

And even if there ain't, here's hopin' you'll be that bitch, anyway.

More later, when and if I feel like it.

'Til then, in the immortal parting words of the late Joe Pyne, "Go gargle with razor blades."

If you can even get the blade packet open, that is, you trouser-fouling nincompoop, you.