Misandric Monday - Just another day in America

LYNNWOOD, Wash. – A 78-year-old woman arrested last month for allegedly beating her 84-year-old husband because she believed he cheated on her several times during their marriage was merely charged Thursday with assault. Prosecutors said she hit him with a bowl, pipe and carpet sweeper. He suffered broken ribs, pelvis and a wrist.

One witness told police the woman admitted kicking her husband three times in the groin in the last six months because she believed he had an affair 35 years ago. No explanation was given as to why she wasn't arrested immediately following her admission to having so viciously sexually abused her husband on those 3 occasions prior to her latest assault. No information was made available as to whether the witness, knowing the woman was violently sexually abusing her husband, was also charged for failing to intervene or report the crimes.

The woman was jailed on $70,000 bail, which is expected to be raised fairly quickly by Hollywood feminists who will then pay for her dream team of attorneys. She is expected to get off on the charges, much like all the others before her, and possibly have a book written about her life. Ann Rule is rumored to be already hard at work on it, portraying her as a valiant victim fighting back against an evil man.

This story, like all stories of vicious abuse of males by their wives or girlfriends, was published in the 'humorous' news rather than the mainstream news. Had the roles been reversed, this would be the top story of the year, used to promote domestic violence 'awareness', but only for women bashing men. When the sexes are reversed, it is never referred to as domestic violence, especially by politicians and prosecutors, because the Violence Against Women Act says this doesn't even exist. No, instead it is referred to as a joke.

Meanwhile, CNN is running a major story on "Why Dads Kill Their Families" even as their news network continues to talk non-stop about Where's Caylee and why did her sexy young mom murder her?
Information from: The Herald, http://www.heraldnet.com

Michael Vick, the NFL quarterback who was convicted of illegal dog-fighting just got out of prison. He served 21 months of a 3 year sentence. That's exactly 21 months longer than American women who murder their husbands serve, such as Mary Winkler who shot her sleeping husband in the back, which tells you who our justice system values more, men or dogs.

Meanwhile, CNN is running a major story about "Why fathers murder their families" in a barely-disguised effort to promote the idea that all men are dangerous and should be removed from their households, leaving single mothers to run everything alone, which is part the Marxist feminist ideal.

The article concludes with this statement: "People don't get involved, even when they know there's threat in violence because they believe they don't think anything will happen. It's essential to get to domestic violence safe houses and be much more proactive in understanding there are people who have problems."

Of course, none of these 'domestic violence safe houses' allow men, even when the men are running from psychotic wives like Mary Winkler and have their kids with them. This part isn't mentioned, apparently because it's assumed that everyone already knows.

... and now for something intelligent ...

Dr Christina Hoff Sommers
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Why Parents Drink

A Mother passing by her son's bedroom was astonished to see that his bed was nicely made and everything was picked up.

Then she saw an envelope, propped up prominently on the pillow that was addressed to 'Mom' With the worst premonition she opened the envelope with trembling hands and read the letter.

Dear Mom:

It is with great regret and sorrow that I'm writing you. I had to elope with my new girlfriend because I wanted to avoid a scene with Dad and you. I have been finding real passion with Stacy and she is so nice. But I knew you would not approve of her because of all her piercings, tattoos, tight motorcycle clothes and the fact that she is much older than I am. But it's not only the passion... Mom she's pregnant. Stacy said that we will be very happy. Sh e owns a trailer in the woods and has a stack of firewood for the whole winter. We share a dream of having many more children.

Stacy has opened my eyes to the fact that marijuana doesn't really hurt anyone. We'll be growing it for ourselves and trading it with the other people that live nearby for cocaine and ecstasy. In the meantime we will pray that science will find a cure for AIDS so Stacy can get better. She deserves it. Don't worry Mom. I'm 15 and I know how to take care of myself. Someday I'm sure that we will be back to visit so that you can get to know your grandchildren.

Your Son Paul

P.S. Mom, none of the above is true. I'm over at Dustin's house. I just wanted to remind you that there are worse things in life than the report card that's in my center desk drawer.

I love you.

Call me when it's safe to come home

* Stolen shamelessly from Rachel
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I Knew A Girl Once

I knew a girl once. She was for as long as I knew her, a bundle of energy, a ball of fire, a bottle of vodka, a pair of handcuffs, an inspiration.

She had a look in her eyes, it was there all the time, it seemed to silently, wordlessly say to anyone who was paying attention, "let's go get into trouble. C'mon, it'll be fun."

Her mouth was shaped in such a way, affected by her high strong cheekbones, that she always appeared to be grinning. It was a grin of mischief, knowing what she was about to do and anxious to get busy doing it. It was contagious, and yet, I don't think she even knew it was there.

You couldn't go anywhere with her without noticing how people reacted to her. It was instantaneous. She entered a crowded room and slowly, one by one, every head would turn and notice her, every face would either smile a naughty smile, mimicking the one on her face, or draw up in fear at the threat that she embodied.

Men were drawn to her. She was beautiful in a dark and very dangerous way. She didn't have the fullest lips or the biggest breasts. Her hair was long and brown. She wouldn't steal your breath with her body alone. She was beautiful, make no mistake, but most of her power came from that fire burning inside of her, the fire that shown through her eyes and her ever-present naughty smile. She was pure sex, like a bomb getting ready to explode at any moment. And she was as addicted to sex as she was to any alcohol or drug. Ten men couldn't satisfy her, although she was more than willing to let them try.

Sometimes she would call me late, late at night. Sometimes it might be 2 or 3 or even 4 in the morning. She had something on her mind and always, always she was intensely excited about it. You couldn't help but envy the perpetual excitement, the ever-present optimism inside of her. She had a million new ideas. Her mind was always racing. Her passions were always burning. She was frequently stoned.

She could drink like an Irish alcoholic, smoke like a Jewish New York lesbian, and run all night like an Olympic marathoner, all without ever seeming to run out of gas. Sure, she would get drunk, she would get high, she would eventually pass out, but up until that moment of drug-forced unconsciousness she was blazing along at full speed like the fireball she was.

I don't know when she slept. Even after partying all evening, then calling me at 3 or 4 in the morning to tell me about her latest inspiration, when morning came she was always at work, dressed professionally and looking perfect, and yet, somehow still radiating pure sex.

No one could keep up with her, although we all tried at times. Running with her was a thrill like no other. The danger, the fun, the ever present sexual threat, and even the times you'd get arrested because of her, was all somehow more exciting and fun than anything you might ever experience anywhere else in the world. But before too long, every single one of us would eventually run out of gas and have to stop to rest. Meanwhile, she rolled on, driven as if by some invisible force deep inside of her, some insatiable need of which she would never speak.

All of her life she reminded me of a train, rolling down a steep mountain, having no brakes and perpetually building up speed. But the mountain never seemed to have a bottom and the train never seemed to stop accelerating. She defied logic. She defied the laws of nature. Each time you felt convinced she was about to fly off the tracks, she'd just keep going faster, faster, faster, powering through every obstacle like a meteor.

One thing she admitted to, the only thing she ever openly cried to me about, was the loneliness that went with her amazing and exciting life. No man could keep up with her. No woman either. There was no lover with enough strength to hang onto the wild ride that was her daily experience for any length of time. Love alone was not strong enough to conquer the perpetual challenge of her.

Every time I saw her, as the years rolled ever more quickly past, she had a new boyfriend on her arm. She grew older, but he never did. She went from being dangerous jailbait as a teenager to the predatory cougar you tried to hide your son from, and yet somehow you barely noticed her aging. The fire inside seemed somehow to keep her forever young. It was in her eyes, always something in her eyes that set the world ablaze everywhere she went.

In my email, in my inbox every single day, there is another letter from someone somewhere in the world who is unhappy and unfulfilled. He doesn't touch you as much as you wish he would. He doesn't want you the way you know he should. You both go without having sex together for ridiculously long periods of time and you wonder, "am I the only one? What is wrong with us?"

Your life isn't what you thought it would be. It isn't exciting or even all that much fun. You think back and realize that it never really has been anything all that great and adventurous. Everyone on television, on the internet, or even in your own neighborhood, just seems to be having a better and more exciting life than you. You think there is something wrong with you. Somehow you just don't have the bright, fulfilling life you were promised. Somehow your light doesn't shine quite as brightly as other people's does. You worry that you have missed out, taken the wrong road, missed a turn somewhere. You see the movie stars on the covers of the magazines and wonder what it must be like to live such an exciting and glamorous life.

You think you are all alone, but you are not. You are like most people. You are normal.

But you are nothing like her.

The last time I saw her, I knew what was going to come. I could see it in those fabulous brown eyes, blended there with the fire and the fun and the ever present excitement, I could see that she was finally tired and ready to lie down. Her eyes didn't shine quite as brightly. There was just a hint of pain instead. That voice saying "let's go get into trouble" now seemed to be falling silent. She just wasn't enjoying it anymore. I knew it despite her ever present grin. I knew it, I could feel it, although I can't quite explain how.

So often I have heard people say, "if only I had known, if only there had been some sort of warning, if only they had reached out to me, I might have somehow stopped them." I knew there was no one who could stop her. There never had been in all her life. And there wasn't going to be now. No one could stop this overwhelming force of magnificent will. I'm simply grateful that I knew her well enough to know what I was seeing, to recognize that this was the last time we would talk and my only chance to say 'goodbye' to an amazing person.

Sometimes I find myself sitting in silence and wondering, why does God make people like this? So many of them end up the same way. Oh sure, some die as if by accident, an overdose of pills or a car accident at 2 a.m. in which they were traveling at incredible speed. These people, throughout their lives, are like some human ball of fire that lights up the otherwise mundane lives of the rest of us and makes us wish for something more. It is as if they were put here to show us mortals that life was meant to be lived and then, when there is no more living to do, to die with as much flash and fire as they lived and be done with it. No regrets. No looking back. No tears.

If we could finally find a cure for this bipolar disorder, this manic depression, these blazing maniacs among us, which is what I believe she probably was although I never saw anything but the manic side in all our lives, would we really want to end it? I mean, for those who suffer and wish to be cured, sure, I can see how we need to find a way to help them. But for those who are like her, who seem to love every minute of it right up until the very end, do we really want to snuff out that flame? How empty life would be without these shining stars. And how empty their lives would be, having flown so high, to suddenly have their amazing wings clipped and fall to earth down here with the rest of us. I wonder, if we could cure this, should we?

A night without stars would be very dark indeed.

Tyrell: "You were made as well as we could make you."

Batty: "But not to last."

Tyrell: "The light that burns twice as bright burns for half as long - and you have burned so very, very brightly, Roy. Look at you, you're the prodigal son; you're quite a prize."

Batty: "I've done... questionable things."

Tyrell: "Also extraodinary things; revel in your time."

from the film "Blade Runner"
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My dick hurts. Will you kiss it until it feels better?

Feel my pain

I farted. It was a rough one. I clearly need to poop, so you know the gas coming out of my ass is extra lethal right now.

There is a mosquito buzzing around in my office. I was already eaten alive by one that got into my bedroom the other night. Apparently the fucker followed me to work. I hope it isn't expecting to get paid.

I had something I wanted to say, but I can't remember what it was. Naturally I began to write anyway, despite having no clear direction or inspiration, because this is, after all, a blog and that's how we roll out on the blog.

Why do people react to cars on the road based on how the assume the car is going to be driven, rather than waiting to see what it does? For example, in my giant 4x4 the old bitches see my gleaming chrome brush guard shining in their rearview mirrors and immediately assume I'm going to ride their asses and scare them. So they just go ahead and start hitting their brakes as if I am doing this. The problem is, I'm not. At least, not until they hit their brakes and bring me up close and personal. Then I sit on my horn and blast them until the long lost miscarriage they didn't know they had come shooting out their vaginas and lands on their gas pedal, causing them to accelerate like mad.

Meanwhile, if I get into a car I have been using from time to time lately, an old light gray generaic GM that looks like something my mom would drive, because she did, I can crawl right up everyone's ass and check them for cancerous polyps and no one even notices. The truth is, I drive like a bat-out-of-hell in that car. I did 90 on the way into work this morning and the cops looked right through me as if I were invisible.

That's 90 mph, not kph. It would be 145 kph for all your feriners owt thar.

I experienced a similar invisibility phenomenon way back in college. It was in an old Buick, come to think of it. I had a 1969 Buick Wildcat with a 430 cubic inch V8 big block motor cranking out 490 foot pounds of torque and 360 horsepower. I did a brake stand and made a huge cloud of smoke one time. Then, with the wheels still spinning, I let off the brake and tore off down the road, making big black tire marks on the pavement and leaving roughly half the tread from my tires behind as I did so.

Better to burn out than fade away

Not 20 feet from where I did this I came flying around a row of trees, only to come face-to-face with a Rocket City cop sitting in his patrol car. He was looking right at me. Or rather, he was looking right through me, clearly searching for the car that had been racing its engine and burning rubber on a public street. He looked right through my car trying to find the culprit. I drove on past him without ever being seen, like something out of a sci fi movie where a guy gains the ability to turn invisible and then goes around groping hot girls tits.

OK, I don't know if they ever made that movie, but let's be honest, this is what we'd do with a power like that if we had it. I sure as hell would.

I love my new invisibility powers!

Anyway, I intend to use my newfound super powers only for good. And by good I mean feeling up the chicks. I already told you that, but I thought you might not have been listening. And also, I just enjoy thinking about it.

So, speaking of Jessica Biel naked, I found out last night that her new movie with her hot naked body dancing on a pole is going straight to DVD. I don't know what that's about, seeing as audiences would line up and pay ridiculous ticket prices to see that girl naked, but I have already put this bitch on pre-order over on Amazon. I even pre-ordered the Blu-Ray version, and I don't own a Blu-Ray DVD player yet. I say 'yet' because this movie is going to inspire me to get one.

Holy bajingos, Jessica Biel dancing naked! I'm so happy I could just cry.

She brings tears to my eyes and a bulge to my pants

Some of my fellow bloggers are clearly funnier and more creative than others. I want to warn all of you in advance, I'm stealing funny pictures off your blogs almost as fast as the Democrats are stealing our nation's future with their $10 trillion 'landmark' deficit spending. A few of you are true geniuses at finding the most obscure and hilarious photos. I thank you for that and I will be reusing them in various future posts. If I ever inadvertently steal and repost a photo that you took yourself, and you don't appreciate it, please feel free to let me know.

"Dear Memphis Cunt,

that photo of the half-naked whore at a big, fat Greek wedding was my cousin. Only I get to laugh at her and post those photos. They are not for you to use. If you don't take them down right away I am going to come to Memphis and make you cry like Tyra Banks on Oprah talking about how she wasn't really abused, but one time she felt as if she was. You get me? I hope we have an understanding here because Memphis is a shithole and I'd hate to have to come there.

More Creative Blogger Than You"

Damn you, Memphis!

So, I still need to poop. While writing this I have had not merely one, but two new assignments sent to me by way of email. It's not as if I don't already have enough to do. It's simply that the need to poop stirs the creative juices in my head and forces me to release them one way or another. Blogging is my mental form of pooping, apparently. I know you all feel the same. Let's face it, we're all just shitting all over the internet, but it's fun. And also, you never run out of paper.

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Much Ado About Sumthin'

Steph blogged again!

Holy shit! Steph updated her blog! Seriously, go check it out. This is like Christmas, only without the fat guy in the red suit or the annoying TV commercials or any of that shit.

I'm so excited!

OK, so it was a special circumstance. Even so, I'm more excited than a fat kid locked in a bakery full of cakes. Clearly my life is lacking in stimulation.

This is awesome!

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Poll: Do You Hear Annoying Music On My Blog?

I have had several complaints that "the Chipmunk Song" has suddenly appeared on my blog and is driving several of you insane. I have multiple requests to remove it.

The problem is, I didn't install any Chipmunk Song onto my blog. When I view my own blog I don't hear any song. When I check the layout code and HTML I also don't see any Chipmunk Song. The fact that I don't hear it or find it makes it very difficult for me to remove it.

I need to ask you, whether you read my blog through some sort of Subscription Reader service or come here and view it directly, A) do you hear a song playing? B) If so, is it The Chipmunk Song? C) Do you hear it regardless of how you access my blog posts? And lastly, D) what browser are you using?

Please leave a comment and answer me 'yes' or 'no' about the annoying music. I am doing everything I can to track this down and put an end to it, but it might help if I knew who does and who does not hear the music. Also, if you know the official title of this stupid song that I can't hear, would you tell me what it is, please?

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Misandric Monday - What a Mom Wants

** I copied this article from the Wall Street Journal. I didn't see the need to add anything to it. The author says it well enough **


Around this time every year, we begin seeing state-of-motherhood reports that analyze how moms are faring. In our prosperous past, feel-good angles, like how much a mom's housework is worth, took center stage. But thanks to the struggling economy, this Mother's Day has seen a rise in more serious stories. Take, for example, the case of Eleanor Hemmert.

In a recent segment on how the country's rising unemployment is affecting moms, "Good Morning America" gave viewers a glimpse into the life of Mrs. Hemmert. Because male-dominated industries like finance, construction and manufacturing have been the hardest hit by the economic meltdown, men have experienced nearly 80% of the layoffs in the current recession. Mrs. Hemmert's husband, Rick, is among them. To compensate for his lack of income, she has started spending as many as 14 hours a day at the office trying to close deals. In contrast, Rick, now the at-home parent, has taken up most of the tasks that used to belong to his wife -- cooking dinner, doing the laundry, and caring for the couple's 7-year-old daughter.

The role reversal caused by men's job losses is one byproduct of the economic downturn that has many news outlets, if not outright cheering, at least tentatively applauding. In her online column for Forbes, Elisabeth Eaves likened stay-at-home mothers re-entering the workforce to more-permanent Rosie the Riveters, commenting, "thanks to the recession, we may be at just such another socio-sexual inflection point." New York Times contributor Lisa Belkin wondered if women might finally become the majority of American workers, suggesting that such a development would be a "silver lining" in these dark times. One Salon writer celebrated the possibility that the "long-awaited redistribution of domestic labor might prove crucial in finally evening the professional playing field," while another wondered whether the financial crisis could turn out to be "accidentally feminist."

It isn't just the media promoting the idea that increasing numbers of mothers putting in more hours in paid work represents progress for women. Left-leaning think tanks, as well as the Obama administration, are also undertaking efforts to further the trend the recession began.

In mid-April, the Center for American Progress announced that it is teaming with the University of Southern California and Time Magazine to explore the impact the recession has had on women. While acknowledging that being the family breadwinner may be a burden to some mothers, Heather Boushey, a senior economist at the center and project co-editor, said that it can also be "an opportunity." On April 22 she informed Congress that the rising unemployment of men has provided many working moms much-needed domestic help.

That may seem a rather callous perspective to out-of-work men, but Miss. Boushey's take is perfectly appropriate to "A Woman's Nation," a venture that John Podesta, the CEO of the Center for American Progress, promises will consider "the central question of the role government, business, and faith organizations, as well as individual women and men should play in supporting women's role now in the workforce…. " Given how many of the center's former employees work for the Obama administration, it's little surprise how closely the project dovetails with a March 11 executive order forming a White House Council on Women and Girls that aims to increase women's employment in various male-dominated industries.

There's only one problem with all these efforts to support mom in her new financial-provider role, and Mrs. Hemmert presents a stark picture of it. However empowered the media, the think tanks and the White House tell her she should be, she is profoundly unhappy to have changed places with her spouse. "I don't like coming home and seeing him in my apron," Mrs. Hemmert says while watching her husband make dinner. She reacts with outright revulsion to the phrase "Mr. Mom," and her mouth hardens into a thin line when her husband explains that it isn't necessarily a man's job to earn a living for his family, that a man can also be "the person who handles children and sets up play dates."

Mrs. Hemmert admits that she sees her own parental job as something separate and different from her husband's, and she not only resents him for usurping her role but has lost some respect for him. "I'm a woman, and I want to be a mother first," she states simply.

To be fair, many women who found themselves in Mrs. Hemmert's position wouldn't experience the same level of displeasure and disappointment in their husbands that she expresses. But research indicates that most do share her desire to be a mother first and an earner second. And they, too, prefer a husband who's more interested in bringing home the bacon than in cooking it.

Virtually every reputable poll taken on mothers and work reveals that a strong majority of moms prefer to work part time or fewer hours. Reflecting the results of many other polling organizations, the Pew Research Center's most recent survey found that only 21% of mothers with children under the age of 18 say full-time employment is the ideal situation for them. The rest prefer either part-time work or not working at all. In contrast, fully 72% of fathers say a full-time job is the best option for them.

But Mrs. Hemmert isn't just an everywoman in wanting to work fewer hours; she's also an everywoman in wanting her husband to take the lead in providing. In 2006, a University of Virginia study found that contrary to many feminists' preoccupation with equal division of household tasks, dishwashing men do not happy women make. Along with a spouse who offers affection, attention and empathy, what really makes women happy is one who earns at least two-thirds of the family income.

The study's authors, W. Bradford Wilcox and Steven L. Nock, expressed surprise at finding that even self-described feminist women are happiest when their husbands do most of the breadwinning. Though the study resulted in a great deal of clamor among commentators who objected to its seemingly outdated conclusions, it differs little from the work of many evolutionary psychologists. David Buss, one of the founders of the field, conducted the largest investigation to date into the subject of human mating. After studying more than 10,000 subjects in 37 countries in the late 1980s, Mr. Buss and his team found that "women more than men in all 37 cultures valued mates with good financial prospects…."

Of course, this is one of those observations likely to elicit a "well, no kidding" from average people. The idea that most moms would rather not work full time and that most wives want their husbands to provide for their families is news only in the news business. Yet Capitol Hill continues to focus on women's employment. The House added a section to the Troubled Asset Relief Program that creates an "Office of Minority and Women Inclusion" to, among other things, ensure that companies receiving TARP money maintain an adequate (though unspecified) percentage of female workers.

If our media and our government really want to show support to mothers, they might consider actually listening to them. What they're saying is quite clear: If you want to help us, help the men we're married to.

Megan Basham is the author of "Beside Every Successful Man: Getting the Life You Want by Helping Your Husband Get Ahead."

Printed in The Wall Street Journal, page W13

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Loonies on the Path XLV - Tiny Red Cunt

road rage

Hello Mr Passive/Aggressive. How are you today? You seem to be enjoying yourself as you crawl onto the interstate at 40 mph, gleefully piling up a line of cars behind you. Your bright red Hyundai is like a waving flag in front of a long line of charging bulls, people who might actually like their jobs and want to get on their way to work, but can't because of you. That's exactly what you intend, too, isn't it?

I was a long ways back from you, but even I could see you playing your game, fucking everyone over for your own personal enjoyment. The instant there was a second lane to the on-ramp, several women passed you on the right in that short 50 yard span of road that exists for drivers to merge. They clearly prefered that option rather than wait to see if you were actually going to force us all to try to merge into the 70 mph interstate traffic at 40 mph. You risked the lives of every single person behind you, and you did it on purpose. You did it because this is what you do. This is your thing. It's who you are.

Even from back in the pack where I was, I could see the signs of a passive/aggressive at play. I could see your bright red speck far ahead, with an army of drivers trapped behind you. I said to myself, "if this is intentional, he'll move to the next lane over as soon as he can in anticipation of angry drivers behind him getting over to pass him. He'll do it specifically to make sure he remains in their way for as long as humanly possible."

Sure enough, that is exactly what you did. You cut off all the cars stuck directly behind you as they moved to pass and finally be free. You can't stand for your victims to escape. Like all passive/aggressives, you hold them in their prison cells for as long as you can, cutting over as you see them moving to pass and making sure they can't get by without maximum risk and effort, enraging them as much as you can. You do this because it gives you pleasure. In fact, hurting other people is perhaps the only thing in your life that gives you any happiness at all. Isn't it?

When I caught up with you, having never gotten out of the slow lane myself because I knew that's the LAST place a rolling roadblock like you would be, I couldn't help but notice the telltale signs of a raging cunt all over you. Your car is tiny, a 4-cylinder death-trap. Despite the heat, you had the windows rolled down, presumably because you think it saves gas and you are a cheap-assed bastard. The girl with you was your daughter, yes? Poor girl was so embarrassed. The fire-engine red color you chose for your brand new air-conditionerless car tells me that you are a very aggressive passive/aggressive. You are mad as hell at the world, aren't you? As if that weren't enough, the bumper sticker you placed dead center of your rear bumper said it all, "PLEASE GET CLOSER - I like hitting my brakes." You are such an angry cunt that you even advertise what you are doing. Most passive/aggressives are bitches who desperately want to lash out at the world, but all the while want that 'plausible deniability' that seems so ultra important to people like you.

"Oh, you must have been going awfully fast when you hit me. I didn't even see you coming."

Yes you did. You crossed over 5 lanes to cut me off and lock up your brakes, bitch. Not only did you see me, but you targeted me.

Ah, but this is not you. Your anger is boiling over to the point that you can't even pretend to be fucking us all over by accident. You want us all to know that it's on purpose. You want to stand on the roof of your car like a surfboard and flick the whole world off as you clog up traffic and send teenagers skidding down into the ditch and soccer moms crashing into the concrete divider, all because normal people are afraid to hit you.

I know you saw me. I know you did because my big-assed 4x4 is a magnet to passive/aggressive cunts like you.

I like this word, 'cunt', which I have adopted from my favorite people, the Aussies. It describes people like you so perfectly.

I know you saw my big truck with the gleaming chrome push bars welded to the front, a bumper for a bumper, because every passive/aggressive driver in the Rocket City is drawn to my big truck with the scary bumper. They long to get in front of me and hit their brakes. They can't help themselves but want to challenge me because they assume things about me based on my vehicle. They don't know about my tiny little minitruck and couldn't comprehend that I might ever drive such a vulnerable vehicle and not be bothered by it. They assume I'm as angry as they are and begging for a fight. And they treat me as if I am.

You wanted to get over as soon as you saw me. You wanted to cut in front of me. But I have had a lifetime of experience with people like you, having grown up with a mother just like you. I can read your mind, predict your every thought, your every move, anticipate your strategies and counter them before you even realize what it is that you plan to do. I made damn sure I was too far over for you to get to as I passed you by, reading your bumper sticker and peering into your tiny little car to see what sort of bitch was trying so hard to kill the other drivers on this interstate. I saw you there, Mr. Cheap-ass Engineer, with the windows rolled down, your faded white hair blowing in the breeze and your baggy belly hanging down into your lap, the only part of your entire weak, aging body with any size to it at all. You are the epitomy of weakness. You are the reason black men go around looking angry all the time, because pussies like you nearly wet themselves when confronted directly, especially by a black man. They enjoy fucking with you, and you in turn enjoy fucking with every single person on the highway every chance you get.

Your daughter didn't look too happy to be riding with you. And your wife, she's left you, hasn't she? She left your ass long ago and found herself another man. Or maybe another woman. Or a good vibrator. Anything must have been better than staying with the walking human vagina that is you.

And this makes you angry, too, doesn't it? She got everything and you got a big golden shaft shoved straight up your ass. I understand. I know it isn't fair. Nothing in America is fair anymore. Everything is political and white men like you have no one fighting for you. Thus, you have no rights, as you undoubtably discovered when you entered divorce court and got reamed.

So, Mr. Angry Man, what did you do about it? Did you try to fight for your rights and the rights of others like you? Did you join an organization that lobbies for change? Or did you buy a tiny red car, symbolizing your impotence and your rage, and slap a bumper sticker on it announcing to the world that you're mad as hell and you're not going to take it anymore? Did you DO SOMETHING about it, or did you just roll out into traffic, obstructing everyone who comes across you, filled with simmering rage and trying to kill us all in the most cowardly way you could think of - using your car?

We both know the answer to this, don't we? You make me sick, you tiny, angry, faded little man. You aren't a man at all. You're a 12-year-old girl just getting her period for the first time, cramping and raging with hormones like a werewolf under a full moon. You don't make any effort to help yourself, and along with yourself, others like you. You don't do anything useful to push for positive change. Somewhere you probably have a son, whom you know is going to face worse things than you have, because it just keeps getting worse here every day. You could do something about that. You could fight. You could get off your ass and make some kind of effort, if not for yourself, then for your son. But you won't. You just want to sit in that blazing red car with the angry bumper sticker and drive around infuriating everyone you come across. Don't you?

Don't you?

You useless cunt.

If only I'd had my camera with me. I'd like to post your photo on the internet for all the world to see and to mock. More than that, I'd like to send a video clip of your driving to the Rocket City police, along with a clear shot of your license plate, and a letter demanding that they enforce the laws governing the minimum speed on this interstate as well as laws prohibiting obstructing traffic by driving slowly in the passing lane. These are your favorite pasttimes, and I know that.

Ah well, I'll see you again. I know I will. That firey red car with the white banner proclaiming your rage isn't hard to spot. In fact, you don't want to be hard to spot. That's the only thing that separates you from all the bitchy old ladies.

Yes, I'll see you again. And when I do, I'm going to make you an internet star.


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Motherhood in the Animal Kingdom

On the riverbank

In Alaska

In Africa

In India

In the Ocean

In Africa

In Siberia

In Africa

In Antarctica

And finally ...

In Memphis

* Shamelessly stolen from an email sent to me by this mysterious person.
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A Major Award!

I've just won a major award! I am so proud. I want to thank my producers, Mom and Dad, for combining a sperm and an egg to produce me, my director, who is myself of course, and the writers, all of whom are me, for the fabulousness that is my blog and which resulted in my receiving this thing. Also, I want to thank The Laughing Idiot for nominating me. And finally, I want to thank Miss California, for exposing Perez Hilton as a walking cum receptacle disguised as a fashion-challenged ass.

I am a Kreativ Blogger!
and also I can't spell

I am so awesome. I betcha wish you were hot like me, don'tcha?

And now, the time has come for me to nominate another blogger to receive this quite valuable award, in a true 'pay it forward, bitch' fashion. I therefore nominate Fingers McGee and his Whine Guide, a man whom I know will not give a flying monkey shit about it, but who nevertheless is deserving. And also, we all hang out at his blog and waste tons of his comment space with conversations only marginally related to his posts, so I owe him.

So there you have it. I hope you enjoyed the show. Try not to let the door hit you in the ass on your way out. Good night everybloody!
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Over at The Stache

I am posting over the The Stache today. Please come visit me. I get lonely.
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News Headlines and Commentary

But I don't feel sick

The Swine Flu epidemic is sweeping the media newsrooms across America. A handful of people have become sick. Some have died down in Mexico, where Universal Healthcare made sure they got the best medical treatment that government can provide. Meanwhile, in the United States, where we have horrible private health care instead of the awesome government controlled, social-security-like health care, only a small baby in Texas has died. The official position of the U.S. Federal Government in response to the Swine Flu epidemic is to encourage everyone to panic and run for their lives. Critics point to how dramatically this response differs from the PC Police's response to the AIDS epidemic, but coincides perfectly with their "the sky is falling" approach to global warming, which is now only permitted to be referred to as "climate change", a more malleable term which could mean any damn thing from a coming ice age (1970s enviroterrorist scam) to raging global heat wave (21st Century enviroterrorist scam).

Meanwhile, the Cunt News Network, CNN, is still focused 100 percent on Casey Anthony and Octomom, because that's what really matters.

Banner week for Dems

In Minnesota, where 'Election Fraud' alarms have been going off since November, Al Franken is on the verge of officially succeeding in stealing the election to the U.S. Senate. This, coupled with Senator Arlen Spectre's decision to finally come out of the closet and admit openly and officially that he is, in fact, a leftist socialist, even changing his name legally from Arlen to "Che Guevara", gives President Obama and the socialist Democratic Party a supermajority in the Senate and total power and control over the entire United States government - every sociopath's dream come true.

I'm afraid your little Tea Party rebellion will fail

H.R.1913 explained

The House of Representatives has just declared the Bill of Rights to be 'merely an annoying suggestion' what with its requirement that all laws meet the Equal Protection clause. The Democrat-controlled House has passed H.R. 1913, which says that any incident in which a gay person is injured, afraid of being injured, or simply offended by anyone who dares to disagree, is a Federal Hate Crime and will be prosecuted by the U.S. Government with massive and outsized penalties (crucifixion) for the accused. Republicans attempted to amend the bill to be more inclusive, adding pregnant women, elderly persons, and veterans to the 'protected classes', but the Democrats wouldn't hear of it. H.R. 1913, also known as the "Perez Hilton is a Misogynistic Cunt" bill, is intended only for the purpose of paying off The Gay Lobby by creating a special privileged and protected class of Americans based solely on their claim that they are homosexuals who love them some ass. They do not have to prove that they are really and truly gay, because no one really wants to see that. This is why, should this bill become law, I am declaring myself to be gay.

Perez Hilton is a Misogynistic Cunt

You don't know the power of the Dark Side!

President Obama is celebrating his first 100 days in the White House by expressing his bitterness and anger at America and those who dare to disagree with his $10 trillion of spending for socialism. What a great start!

As the Democrat-agenda begins to play out, more and more Americans are rereading their Constitution and Bill of Rights, much to the dismay of President Palpatine Obama and his most ardent supporters, who fear that the following clause in the 14 Amendment could be used against him as grounds for impeachment:

"3. No person shall be a Senator or Representative in Congress, or elector of President and Vice-President, or hold any office, civil or military, under the United States, or under any State, who, having previously taken an oath, as a member of Congress, or as an officer of the United States, or as a member of any State legislature, or as an executive or judicial officer of any State, to support the Constitution of the United States, shall have engaged in insurrection or rebellion against the same, or given aid or comfort to the enemies thereof. But Congress may by a vote of two-thirds of each House, remove such disability."

What is beauty?

People Magazine names Michelle Obama to their "Most Beautiful" list, prompting Susan Boyle and a host of other very ordinary-looking persons to submit their names to the magazine along with demands that they, too, be included on the now-meaningless list.

To be fair, the list was chosen by the same misogynistic queens that chose Miss USA this year, so it's somewhat understandable that they don't know what the hell they're talking about.

People Magazine's now meaningless list

Davy Souter

Supreme Court Justice "wavy" Davy Souter, otherwise known as "President Bush Sr's biggest mistake", has announced that he is retiring from the Supreme Court of the United States. This announcement has prompted speculation among Obama's Believers that the President will choose a woman as his replacement, and probably a black lesbian woman just to satisfy their constant craving for life to imitate television as closely as possible. President Obama has refused to say whether he will follow this 'TV diversity' guideline or not, but has stated openly that the single most important qualification for any candidate is that they pass his anti-Constitution litmus test. And also that they kneel down and suck it real good.

Swine Flu Prevention Tip #1

Don't Do This

This has been a public service announcement of Memphis Steve and the Nude Memphis Blog. Be safe - place condoms over all your children to keep them from getting sick.
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