getting the fok out of the U.S for awhile. Should be exciting~!

Off to greener pastures, greener mountains up in Nova Scotia for two weeks, where I will be doin' some fishing, some scouting around, and th' wife and me will taste the local fare. in raincoats.

Want to know what else we're doing?

Leticia and I will be a lab rats.
At Dalhousie University' Medical school.
That is the Main Street reason that we are headed to Canada; to try and get pregnant by way of a needle into my reluctant scrotum, then perfectly combined with her egg,
and hopefully, their expertise, to produce an offspring, a gift from God.

I'm hardened, steeled against further pain now.  if I were president, if i were president,

oh~!  the american muzzies, and the american lefties would sure hate me

because i believe in wholesale death to anyone who doesn't believe the same as me.
0 no, malcontent;;; you don't mean that

the hell i don't.  get outta my sight, my country, my nation, you base, self-centered bastards.

i'll assign planes to take you to any destination, and if over the oceans, ram you there nose first.
get it?  i hate you, i hate most of you.

numb is best

i'm drinking again, too much for my own good, to much for my own God,
thanks to the loss of my bestestest friend ever.

i will never, ever be the same as i was,

My son,
the list of people, mostly males, whom I've thought were my best friends seems to be endless.

--that statement, in and of itself, should be disturbing enough.

my last Best Friend Forever, will be my last.  
losing you 
is constant pain to the very core.

I had long ago hardened my heart against friendship and against love, but my last  BFF found a way to sneak into my heart, for a too-short while, and annihilated me first with the degree of his friendship, his love, then again just a week ago, with the degree of his departure from our bond.

from the first line above, read 'i've been through this before.' however never to this extent/depth.

my heart healed well with time THEN.  i don't think that it will do so this time. i welcome death with zeal now, without my beloved friend.  my best friend was the one, the one who got me through prostate cancer with his devotion.  only 18 months ago. where have you gone, son?

where have you gone, son? what did i do that was so terrible, what did i do so suddenly to 
cancel out years and years of our granite, steel-friendship/love between us?

you wiped out our bond, son/friend, not me... but i only want 
to know from you, from your heart 
which i know so damn well, WHY?  maybe i did not know your heart as well as i hoped, sir.

we am living in pain and in bewilderment. at your sudden indifference. not like you used to be.
a "friend" would not inflict such pain, and therefore i must ask you, 

were we ever friends, despite your words, my words, our words,   ?
wth, i know in my heart that we WERE once bestestestest of friends, and family.


 what has happened?


what do i do with my memories of you, of us, of our, of we, of me and you and you and me,
if you intend that we are not friendly, not family, no more?

you've shot me in the heart, my son/friend, yet i live.  i would have asked you to be the one person i would want to execute me, if that were my judgement;;;
part parts of me, want to shoot you now, in part parts of you,
as suddenly as you did me, and as without notice

but i, being the better man in this duo, 
would never duo that tuo yuo.
have a nice life, whatever...................................

FS HO

Here's to Margaret Gipson, an old whore, and mother of three illegitimate moron boys.

Margaret Gipson's personal indulgences into random sex with nameless men are not in my personal memory banks, however, it is totally evident that each moron son (3) is the offspring of a different man, based upon his looks.

Mararet herself is hideous to look at::  One might think that her three sons are triplets, since it IS VERY UNLIKELY that she had sex with a desperate man more than once.

The landlady of 'The Indian Mound' Trailer Park, on Cavanaugh Road, Fort Smith, Arkansas, Ms. Gipson is regarded as the head of the Gestapo there.

A close friend of mine who used to live there, confides to me, and thus to all, that Ms. Gipson would regularly sit on her front porch, her legs spread wide, fingering her distended vulva,  between thighs the size of 55-gallon barrels.

Her three idiot sons living there also, could do no more salient work in life than mow lawns,
and so they found much livelihood inside mommy's trailer park setting.