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Everything posted by RDCanecutter
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Armynie. Airforcenie. Navynie. Marines . . . nie.
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That's not a problem that's an opportunity! Encourage it to spread to about a city block across, at least 40' deep. Line the inner sides of it with 3 stories of studio apartments stacked like Lego blocks to stabilize it. Green community space down in the middle, birds flying through waterfall mist under suspended bridges. Of course more will sink at some point. Just save what you can, keep chiseling out more home space, call the lowest level "DwarvenHeim" and let the gamer dudes bid for it. signed, RDCanecutter Resident of area riddled with sink holes so won't he feel real "funny" one day, ha.
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That's that cold reality pushing in. Maybe they shrink anyway. Maybe you wake up and you're fishing with your Granddad. I wish you well.
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Enjoy the free baseball! Take every inning you can get.
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You're not gonna find better images than MTG throat-pulsing dominance displays, unless it's Loomer tightening up so much in a crouch that she extrudes body waste from multiple orifices, possibly every pore. That's pure Edna St. Vincent-Millay. But the story fades away without new blood! There have to be some of your favorite abominations that we didn't think of-- Jump in! Nancy Mace can't stay waiting in the wings.
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I just gave him a back rub in the steam room. Pretty sure we both enjoyed it, mmm.
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Who-OAH Black Betty Bam a lam. Birmingham. I live in that small Venn diagram section where you can walk to bars and bus stops but you don't have to pre-plan where to take cover. Where some people are Karens but there are no HOAs.
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I know my travel patterns back about 15 yers ago have to have bleeped some bloops, first I'd stop and visit family in the Hill Country, all of whom were terrified of Mexico (C'mon Dad, they don't cut EVERYbody's head off) so I'd always pop over a bridge alone with a wad of cash and an unhurried demeanor, find my items that I could triple on eBay, pull em on the front seat right there in the open, no ma'am nothing to declare, then they'd go all around my faithful old rat-wagon tapping its interestingly-bondo'd hull, wave me through. For I was the Han Solo of hand-stitched Puebla blouses, the good homemade ones with puffy thread. One time I dropped down the backside from Abilene after making a sale to dude for 11 Franklins that I popped in a sock and did a good chunk of the Border from Del Rio to Laredo. I'd make camp on the Mexican side, patrol around on foot, then jam a chair under the motel door and sleep til dawn. Then, with no particular haste, I would track down as many traditional Puebla blouses as they had, make a "we both still make money" offer for the lot. All friendly and they'd usually go pull some extras out of the back that'd been duds since 1992 and we'd find a happy price. Then I'd go back on the American side and mail the whole bundle Priority Mail back to Bama. That road down closest to the river is somewhat stark. If you get the jeebies from being watched by hidden eyes, it will be quite stimulating. Quemado was an oasis from a silent movie. BP looked pure Aztec, I figure he of all of them had authority to allow me on the continent. I sat watching the bridge in Eagle Pass for 15 minutes and just didn't feel it. Took the little river road down to Laredo, parked over the bus station, and went into Nuevo Laredo trying my usual tricks but all they had were (possibly Chinese) clothes that I'd have to pay 13 dollars for to make a measly 2 extra, no town for me, so I styled over to Banco Elektra and turned the Puebla Blouse Fund into a bag full of silver Libertads, preferably the chunkier old ones. So yeah, I like stories. My small-time shopping weekend may have eventually pulled in a thousand profit, but at every stop I wondered how incongruous, how "why is this guy here" the whole thing was. I was almost the only guy on that route, driving a fairly odd little car. They had to get bored and checked with each other. Odd time.
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I don't so much party as drag one foot through an alternate universe and just sorta hang out in both. but yeah man any Surlsters that pass through The Ham, gimme at least a day's heads up, and I'll show you around if I'm not knocked out by some cheap-shot affliction.
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That'd be the ending in my novel: Vladimir Putin saves the US, digs out the nests of pedophiles, and gives vengeance to the abused. Y'all would LIKE LITERALLY never see it coming.
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Ignore the Doug Jones stuff in the article. We aren't there yet. But the situation could develop. What's up right now: Vicious-Ass Possibly Smart Most Likely Psychotic Alabama Gubernatorial Candidates Are diggin into Florida Tubbs tax records. Mr. Al Capone used to have a house right up the road in Mountain Brook. He dressed so well, was so polite. Wonder why he stopped comin' round? https://www.alreporter.com/2025/11/17/tubervilles-eligibility-crisis-dark-money-surge-and-jones-wildcard/ Democrats here, as is tradition, can best hope for "less bad." But a tag team of Republicans citing the law against the Archduke de Maga, I mean shit that's almost like we clicked the ruby slippers and we're back in Kansas pre-Trump.
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Possible brain tumor recurrence plus heavy-hittin cancer pills plus middle of flu recovery blood pressure waffling up and down and maybe too much Sri Racha on them dumplings and my wife got them nice LEGS don't she there she is walkin to that fridge where the BEER is yes don't mind if I DO it's like a scholarship to UT in the 90s when everything was already kinda expensive but you could still drink day-to-day off finding 20s on the sidewalk. And they were there, if you'd just look. They were there.
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Yeah. Oh HELL Yeah.
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Kiddie-creeping is the third rail for MAGA candidates. Trump has been operating like a Vampire lording over mesmerized servants. This is the part in his Mexican Horror Movie where Santo looks up from the 600 year old codex, stares at the camera, and says "Ahí tenemos el Rey de los Robaniños-ES EL TROMP." Next up panning montage of Trump servants, guards, hoodlum layabouts just *snap out of it* and snatch up the local equivalent of a pitchfork. Joined by some skinny hippies with reedy voices and a gospel choir of joyous Sistahs, they surround El TROMP who hisses and darts from window to window at Mar-A-Lago. Just as the freed former minions crash through the barriers, we hear a muffled roar from inside the boat house, and with the bull-like burst of twin 4,000 hp Nachomama hydro-jets, Trump and any of his non-stoned sons ESCAPE into the drear Atlantic. Anguished voices arise, but just at their loudest they seem to fade. Instead of noise there is silence. The low sun behind them leaves an explosion of color, just the same as the ancient blind priest saw as a child over his home in Hiroshima. No one notices the old man, who kneels, placing one palm flat on the sand. His sightlessly scans the Eastern skies, finds something, and whispers. His voice, instead of fading, is picked up by small gusts who hand it off to steady breeze who expand it to huge brutal Nor'Easters in their aerial ice palaces when ZWACK some of the braver ones salute and dive straight down. El Tromp notices the water spout forming aggressively off the port bow. "Look at that dumb water tornado. SAD, pain in the ass. C'mon. go around, point the other way. 'Starboard?' I dunno, I speak American. Right, yeah right, go riiiight." EL TROMP grabs the railing as the 4,000 hp Twin Nano-Tuned Vyper-Detailed Twin Nachomama hydo-jets spin the ship in a starbord bank that would have thrown a lesser man into the deep, had El Tromp not smashed his bone spurs into the Vintage Mongolian Cherry-wood parquet and thereby gained two more anchors that gave him the grip of a giant, dripping, Numidian Cliff Spider. Yes the Numidians love him. The Waterspout lags far behind them. Very fine people, the Numidians. There is squabbling, the boys. They're boys, they squabble. Numidians, fine people, strong people-- wtf feels like the wind is coming straight down-- a Numidian walked up to me, crying from his eyes, he said WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON-- I SEE GIANT FUCkIN JAWS and we we w are Inside them CHOMP An ancient beast the size of an office-block rises from the depths from which he had been called. The creature seeks out his old friend among the milling humans on the coast. The old priest whispers, miraculously reaches the sea monster, the gorilla-whale, and share a smile. Then the creature rips a colossal shart, and debris mixed with orange streaks swirl out into the Gulf Stream. FIN FotografÍa: Raul Martínez Solares Productor Ejecutivo: Mario A. Zacarías
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Well dammit. put him in some tight swim suit because we don't need the fish all getting anal cancer too. Seriously, nuke it from orbit.
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There but for the grace of God go I. Couple of decades ago, was not really into my job and ready to drift, Because I was a driftah, yeah. Anyway, had good record in Military Police, spoke OK Spanish. Border Patrol was hiring. I may not have still been in now, but shitty soul-killing encounters aren't exclusive to now. This dude wouldn't have cracked up unless he knew inside that many of his deeds were wrong.
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I expected more bass from Magua.
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MTG and Boebert are on my card if I ever get dropped into a bar brawl backed by two house reps. (Sorry Dems, y'all just wanna talk.) With these two women I'm guaranteed a win-- Boebert goes Feral Corpse Rat droppin to all fours and biting chunks outta shins, shakin her head and growlin, givin my pansy ass the safe opportunity to throw some cheap-shot throat punches. As more come at us I just turtle up until I hear MTG go into hulk mode, then gtf outta the way as she crashes past. Maybe open a beer and watch, then clock anybody on the back of the head who tries to get up. Stay down, fool, stay down. Meanwhile halfway across the wrecked room Boebert's still got those rat incisors going like fava beans and a nice Chianti sa sa sa, and MTG in her red rage has got her mitts on two kegs putting those Orangutan back muscles to work. Victory is inevitable but the danger is not over-- until the red mist leaves their minds, they are likely to turn on friend or foe. Best to throw a box of donuts out in the parking lot and ring the dinner bell,
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Check out Skippy deLachecul there at the end casting warding spells to see off attacks on his master.
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Splain Loocy. nm/I googled. Mireille or French cleavage. That came out after I did the basics, and right before it was looked down upon for accurately portraying mid-80's life, including the creeper professor.
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Oh Hell Yeah. https://give.utexas.edu/a-new-francais-interactif#donors We hit the target and are a little beyond, thanks to several of us and a big dog-chokin wad o cash there at the end by an anonymous high energy donor. Hey. Appreciate it. Will try my best to supply high-quality cartoons. Speaking of which, a raccoon and a possum would be comedic gold, and throw in a grackle and you've got a little hoodlum gang. The thing is, we've already got 9 main characters, half of whom could use more script time. This trio would be fun to draw with some Calvin n' Hobbes manic energy, their scruffy hides all spiked out. I make no promises, but I'll see what I can do. Thanks to every Surlyite who helped in present, past, or future.
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