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Anti-Idiotarian Rottweiler » Archive for Imperial Thoughts
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Archive for the “Imperial Thoughts” Category

And that is the subject of today’s rant.

It’s not going to be pretty, so any of you with tender sensibilities should probably refrain from reading the rest. I’m also not going to be particularly interested in any vapid excuses or rationalizations, but go ahead and post them if you must. Just don’t expect me to be all that interested in them.

There are a lot of things that soldiers are afraid of because soldiers, just like everybody else, are people, no matter how much the buddy-fucking likes of Jack Murtha enjoy calling them baby-killers and cold-blooded murderers. The obvious fears are things such as getting maimed, mutilated or killed, but one particularly haunting fear is the fear of opening a letter from home and finding a “Dear John” inside.

This may seem strange to the average civilian. How on Earth can your girlfriend (or, in today’s coed military, boyfriend) leaving you be more scary than a bullet? It’s quite simple, however. You see, one of the things that keep you sane, if not the single most important thing, is looking forward to the job being done and you coming home again. Home to all that you’ve been fighting for because yes, Virginia, soldiers really do fight FOR something. Nobody but the most deranged of leftards can possibly be stupid enough to think that our troops put themselves, voluntarily, in a situation as utterly and thoroughly fucked up as a live, shooting war just for the sheer bloody-minded heck of it.

There are less strenuous and far more enjoyable ways of killing yourself if that’s what you’re looking for. Not that anybody shipping out expects to be killed, but one does acknowledge that it could happen. But it’s probably going to happen to somebody else. I digress…

So there you are, utterly miserable, dirty, haven’t had a decent meal in days, much less a good night’s sleep, the natives are restless and trying to kill you in myriad ways, maybe you just held your best buddy’s hand as he drowned in his own blood a few days ago, you get the picture… What do you do? You take refuge from the hellish insanity that is war in dreaming of home. Dreaming of that beautiful day in the future when you’ll get a vacation from Hell and come home to hug your loved ones, kiss your girlfriend, get a frolicking roll in the hay, anything you want to do first thing you hop off the plane that might take your mind off the fact that it isn’t at all for sure that you’ll ever see that day. But that is what you live for. I repeat, because it’s quite important: THAT IS WHAT YOU LIVE FOR.

And then comes mail call, and that sweet reminder of a saner, safer world is passed on to you and you tear it open with anything you have at hand, breathing in the smell of peace and home, only to find a note saying that your girlfriend/wife/fiancee was “feeling lonely” and that there’s this wonderful man who really knows how to listen, and how it’s just impossible for her to go on living like this, blah, blah, blah…

The short version is that she’s been humping like a starved rabbit with some fuck who knew all the right words but hey, it’s no big deal, right? You can always find another. Sayonara and have a nice rest of your life, grunt.

Heck, it’s not like it was HIM who had to face the horrors and inhumane tedium of going through day after day of shopping, having your hair done, paying the bills and vacuuming the living room carpet and keeping your knees together at night, right?

Here’s what happens next, you randy cow: Since you just pulled the rug out from under your soldier, he’s now bound to be a bit distracted at times, and not necessarily appropriate times. Having your entire reason for hanging in there blown up in your face tends to do that to somebody who’s staring the Grim Reaper in the face on a daily basis. You start wondering who’s fucking the girl you were stupid enough to believe cared a rat’s arse about you, you start wondering who, if anybody, will be there to pick you up at the airport and, worst of all, your comforting daydreams during lulls in the fighting are gone. Gone for good.

So you start not paying attention, things you would’ve spotted coming from a mile off in the past suddenly don’t jump out at you like they used to, safety regulations become suggestions and, sooner or later, you get yourself or your buddies fucked up. If you don’t belong to the group of “Dear John’ed” troops who start volunteering for mine clearing duty, if you know what I mean. In that case, you might “only” get yourself killed.

All because one rancid cunt stateside couldn’t possibly face another day alone in bed.

So here’s the deal, prospective soldier’s wives: Your man is about to go to Hell for you. For you and for everybody else. It’ll be 8 to 12 months before you see him again, and that’s just the way it is. If you don’t think you’re up to that, start dating the short order cook at Denny’s, the night watchman at the local Motel 6 or a porn star. There’s no shame in that. Some people, men AND women alike, just can’t go through more than a few days without a hump, so embrace your inner mink and choose partners accordingly.

Seriously, though. Long distance relationships aren’t easy, and you should think long and hard before you get into one. Just do everybody a favor and think long and hard BEFORE his orders arrive and he ships off.

Once he HAS shipped off, think of it this way: He’s not exactly out there watching movies, nightclubbing and having a jolly good time, so is it too fucking much to ask of you to keep your bed empty until he gets home? I mean, is that so fucking hard that you can’t possibly face the ordeal of it while he’s merely out there dodging mortar rounds, IEDs and incoming small arms fire? Is buying a fucking dildo so embarrassing that it’s better to fuck up some guy overseas who might get himself and his buddies killed as a result?

All I’m asking is that you, for a few months of your life, keep your vagina under control. Heck, you might even save somebody’s life that way.

Think about it.

Not that the ones who NEED to read this ever will, but I needed to get it off my chest.

Thatisall.

P.S.: A couple of post-publish addenda:

1) As I alluded to in the beginning, we have a coed military today, so anything I said in the above goes for the men out there as well.

2) I realize that some relationships turn out to be mistakes. But if you reach that conclusion, you don’t HAVE to drop the fucking bomb while he’s in country. You wouldn’t walk up to your surgeon husband while he’s in the middle of a quadruple bypass and tell him that you’ve been fucking the pool boy and that you want a divorce, would you?

3) I also realize that I used the word “fuck” and its derivatives more than usual in the above. I make no apologies for that. You were warned, and, moreover, you Jody-humping stateside sluts ought to be grateful that that’s ALL I’m doing.

4) //NOTHING FOLLOWS

Comments 37 Comments »

What one?

Well, the war, dammit. Some of us, myself included, know this as The Long War, but I think we all know which war we’re talking about.

Why? Because we’re in it, and that’s what we do. We don’t enter fights to lose them, we don’t enter fights to look for “an honorable way out”, we enter fights to win them, dammit, and it’s pissing me off royally to see some quarters claiming to be on our side looking for “peace with honor.”

There’s only ONE sort of “peace with honor”, and that’s the kind of peace where you’re the one dictating the conditions for it and the other side is on his knees asking you to please don’t shoot him in the face. Negotiated peace doesn’t count for squat. It only means that the other side will laugh at you and go back to rearm during the ceasefire, working towards kicking you in the nuts when you least expect it.

Peace with honor is when your erstwhile opponent is crawling in the dust, begging you not to hurt him anymore and offering to lick the sweat off of your scrotum if only you’ll quit kicking him in the fucking face.

If that’s too fucking rough for you, then you shouldn’t ever think about entering a fight, because you’re too damn lily-livered to do so in the first place.

So don’t give me any crap about surges and last hurrahs, don’t sing me any damn lullabys about “negotiating” with our enemies, because you don’t negotiate with dirt. And until we can get out of our Oprahfied ideas about the subhuman slime we’re fighting being anything more than dirt, we’re fucked. We didn’t pick this damn fight, it was thrown in our general direction, and it’s up to the ululating goat herders who were fucking daft enough to pick it to say “uncle.” They could’ve just minded their own fucking business and left us the fuck alone and they wouldn’t be facing the monumental ass-kicking that these United States are capable of delivering to asswipes dumb enough to ask for it.

I don’t feel in the least bit sorry for them.

They can end it, right fucking now, by getting down on their fucking knees and begging us to stop. And frankly, anything less than that is nothing short of a defeat for us, and I don’t handle defeats very well. They tend to piss me off, and I get decidedly unpleasant when I’m pissed off.

So don’t give me any blather about “acceptable outcomes”, because there IS only ONE acceptable outcome, and that is us winning. There is the winner, and then there are the “also rans”, and I don’t much like belonging to the latter, because they’re worthless pukes. If you’re some metrosexual loser who can live with that, I’d much appreciate it if you’d just find a nice gun and eat a bullet from it, because you’re only fucking up my gene pool by continuing to waste oxygen.

You think this nation was built on the back of people talking about compromise and agonizing endlessly about “rights” not being respected? I hate to fucking break it to you, but it wasn’t. I know you don’t like to hear it, but your comfortable lives in the suburbs with your nice houses and air conditioned SUVs wouldn’t even be possible if it hadn’t been for rough men making rough choices on your behalfs. But perhaps you’d like it better if you were still slogging it out from day to day in log cabins while trying to fend off the locals with front loaders?

I grow increasingly sick and fucking tired of lazy, fat, pampered assholes thinking that their lives of leisure are somehow G-d given, denying the fact that a lot of people much better than they can ever hope to be had to suffer through Hell on Earth to build the foundations upon which they’re now squatting. The loathsome, useless, fat, overpaid, underworked assholes that they are.

And whenever their creature comforts are in the least bit of danger, they start whining like the obese worthless sacks of skin that they are. Fuck, they make me SICK! Sometimes, when I’m really in a bad damn mood, I find myself wishing that all of those fine men and women on the ramparts would just lay down their arms and tell the spoiled fucks to go fuck themselves. They wouldn’t last three fucking minutes, and our gene pool would get a much needed cleansing in the process.

But that’s not how I roll. For some obscure reason, I still think that those dumb fucks are worth defending, and that’s how our troops out there feel too.

So would it KILL the civilian shits back here enjoying the fruits of their labor to say “thank you” every once in a fucking while?

I mean, if the dorks whiling away their time watching “American Idol” back at home enjoy their way of life, would it really be that fucking hard for them to acknowledge the fact that they wouldn’t HAVE those diversions if it weren’t for men and women willing to kick the barbarians in the nuts?

I mean, do you idiots really think that you can just opt out of wars? OK, so I have to confess something here, and that is the fact that I thought, back during the Cold War, just as everybody else stupid enough to volunteer for fighting in it (I was one of those stupid people), that once that one was over, if it was ever to be over, there would be no wars ever again. Heck, we dreamed about that fantasy world all the time because none of us really wanted to die, and then all of a sudden it happened, thanks to the Gipper. The Cold War was over, and we could all go back to dancing with the fucking unicorns and living high and mighty off of the Peace Dividend, right?

Wrong.

As long as there’s somebody in this world who has something that somebody else wants, there’ll be wars.

It’s uncomfortable, but it’s the truth.

And the only way to keep that bastard from taking away what’s yours is to kick him in the fucking nuts until he loses interest in your possessions because the pain in his scrotum distracts him from chopping your empty head off.

Deal with it, or do us all a favor by killing yourselves, because I sure as Hell am not going to join your suicide party.

And I want to thank all of you out there today, all of you Marines, Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen manning the ramparts, my brothers and sisters always, I want to thank you for the splendid but thankless job you’re doing, I want to thank you for defending my right to be an obnoxious asshole spouting off my opinion, and I want you to know that you’re the fucking best that this degenerate, pathetic nation has to offer, that you’re our shining star and our only hope, and that I thank my Maker every single damn day of the year that we have people such as you.

Because without you, we’d be even worse fucked than we already are.

And that’s saying something.

Comments 21 Comments »

His Majesty isn’t exactly on Jack Cafferty’s shortlist of people he has to write Christmas cards to, but we fail to see what the big friggin’ deal is with him pointing out the obvious the other day when he, referring to the narcolepsy-inducing, nauseating 24/7 coverage of America’s most fake boobs dying, asked Wolf Blitzer if Anna Nicole Smith was still dead.

Maybe it’s because they don’t like Jack very much, we know that we don’t, but in this particular case he hit the nail square on the head.

So’s to eliminate any confusion and avoid endless discussions about irrelevant matters, here’s our take on it (and, we suspect, Jack’s too):

No, we don’t take any delight in Anna Nicole’s passing. She never harmed us or anybody we knew, as a matter of fact we don’t think she harmed anybody at all.

No, there’s nothing funny about the way she died. If there were, we’d have been posting tasteless jokes about it since the news broke, because that’s what we do. But there is nothing funny about a young woman screwing up her life beyond belief and ending up feeling that her only recourse is to take the short route out of this Vale of Tears. It’s quite sad and, unfortunately, it happens every day. His Imperial Vileness hopes and prays that G-d may find mercy on her soul and that she might find the peace and happiness that she obviously was unable to find here on Earth.

What we find truly, utterly sickening and, moreover, an utter waste of our time, is when the networks decide that she, because of her having managed to install a pair of truly magnificent fake mammaries on herself, is worthy of wall-to-wall coverage when she kicks the bucket. What we find even MORE sickening is that people who had absolutely no use for her vapid self when she was still breathing, suddenly decide that she’s the reincarnation of Mother Theresa because her vital signs happened to suddenly cease.

She was a gold-digging, subretarded, inheritance-hunting prostitute when she was alive and we, for the life of us, can’t see why her lack of breathing suddenly changed all of that.

As a matter of fact, if it wasn’t for a the lack of a Y chromosome, two silicone boobs, no Senate seat and no history of betraying her own nation, she’d be John Kerry.

Comments 25 Comments »