Thursday, August 31, 2006

I need a priest

My 2-year-old, the Nestling Sparrow, is possessed.

I desperately need help, preferably of the supernatural kind, as my copy of "What To Expect The Toddler Years" does not seem to cover possession of any kind. In fact, the writers of that exalted tome are not of the opinion that my son is possessed, at all. They seem to think that this behavior is normal for a toddler, which leads me to wonder just how horrible their children are, to lead them to this conclusion. I have had a 2-year-old before, and she never acted like this. I suppose she was saving it up for her teenage years, as she is surly as fuck now.

The Nestling Sparrow has been waking up at night, between 3 and 5 in the morning, and wanting us to get up and play. He awakens with various shouts, usually at the top of his lungs, like "Hi! I Bambi deer!" (His favorite movie at the moment is "Bambi") "Mommy, I Bambi deer! Mommy, wake up!"

Then there is also the "Planets" song from "Blue's Clues." If the government really wanted to get information out of the "enemy combatants" at Gitmo, they should put a 2-year-old in with the prisoners, and have the toddler demand that those poor bastards sing it over and over and over and over.... They will crack after a few days. Believe me, they will crack.

Just so you fuckers can have this song in your heads, here it is:

"Well, the Sun's a hot star, and Mercury's hot, too! Venus is the brightest planet, and Earth's home to me and you! Mars is the red one, Jupiter's most wide! Saturn's got those icy rings, and Uranus spins on its side! Neptune's really windy, and Pluto's really small.... You wanted to name the planets, and now we've named them all!"

I think it would have been better if Uranus was the windy one, but what can you do?

We are ready to kill the Nestling Sparrow. He sleeps in the same room with us, in his crib, right next to our bed. We get this song at full-force, every morning, before that "hot star" has even risen. We only have 2 bedrooms in our house, and soon the Fledgling Sparrow will be sharing a room with him, but we cannot move him in there just yet, as he does not sleep through the night. Fledgling Sparrow will be starting school next week, and she cannot afford to lose any brain cells through lack of sleep, as god knows she has few enough to begin with ("Honor Student," my petunia; Honor Students don't have to know shit nowadays, I guess). She will be applying for college in just a couple of years, and if we have any hope of getting her out of the house, she must maintain that GPA. I don't see how it can be that hard, what with grade inflation and all, but there you have it.

I didn't even attempt to quiet down Nestling Sparrow last night. I got him up and brought him out into the living room at 4 in the morning, so the Spouse Sparrow could sleep. I figured he could sit on my lap, while I surfed the Net.

Monstee, I have to give you a shout-out. I didn't get a chance to read your blog at all, but your Cave is fucking brilliant. The Nestling Sparrow loved it. I was not allowed to move from your animated picture for almost an hour, so I napped in the computer chair while holding the sprog. I hope you enjoyed the conversation with Nestling Sparrow, although it seemed a bit one-sided on this end. Nestling Sparrow tells me that your picture was taken while you were in the forest, and that you are a very funny Monstee. He laughed a lot, and liked the jokes you told him. He also likes the picture of your Hatchling in ballet gear. He says she is a good dancer.

The Nestling Sparrow wants to come live in your cave with you, and as I am willing to ship him off, I think you should give me your location. If you eat the Nestling Sparrow, please don't bother telling me; I'd rather not know. I'll just think of him, all happy and laughing, while I finally lay down to get some fucking sleep.

Fat Sparrow

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Fuck you and the horse-faced wife you rode in on

Matthew Broderick is at it again. He just can't seem to stay out of trouble in Ireland, whether it's NI or RoI.

You would think that after not knowing how to drive on the right (or left) side of the road, and killing a couple of locals in Enniskillen, County Fermanagh, NI, he would vacation someplace else. But no, apparently not, for here he was in Ireland again, getting his collarbone broken in a fall from a horse. No, you fuckers, it was NOT his wife he was riding at the time. It was an actual horse, but I can see how you were confused.

Note to Matthew Broderick: Please don't ride (or drive) anything else in Ireland or NI, including your horse-faced wife.

When 70-something William Shatner can ride a horse better than you, it's time to lay off the ponies, Matt. What's next, taking up ATV riding with Ozzy Osbourne?

Fat Sparrow

Miscellaneous name-dropping

I highly recommend that you all scurry over to Old Knudsen's blog, as he is really asking for it this time. Catch up now, before the Prods do him in. Old Knudsen can only hope that the Ulster Frys do Mad Dog in before Mad Dog has a chance to get poor Old Knudsen (what with that wooden leg and all, he can't run very fast anymore).

And, just to warn you, I will now be posting about my cats. I was wary about turning this into a kitty blog, but if the intrepid Harry Hutton can do it, I can surely ride on his coat-tails, dammit.

I was re-reading Foot Eater's blog, and I was inspired by his post on Iran's president's blog, and my own experiences in the world of bad blogs, to come up with a new project. I suggest that we learn how to say "Your blog sucks" in as many languages as possible. This will be extremely useful, as we can leave the "Your blog sucks" in the blogger's comments section, in their native language. As I am an American, and vastly lacking in any languages other than English and Spanish, I would appreciate some help. Please do not make me do research; being an American, I am a lazy fucker.

Also, if any of you wiseacres posts a comment on here about how this blog sucks, I will put a curse on you that will make your penis turn green and break out in open, oozing sores. Don't think that you can get a cream for that; you will be properly fucked.

Fat Sparrow

Monday, August 28, 2006

Stop planetary discrimination NOW!

Poor Pluto. Apparently size does matter, especially if you lean a little bit to the left, and your orbit is a bit confused, if you know what I mean.

A group of astronomers belonging to the International Astronomical Union (are astronomers so badly paid, and work under such dire conditions that they need a union?), 2,500 strong, descending on some god-forsaken Eastern European craphole, and handed Pluto its walking papers.

See, this is what happens when you have democracy. Only 300 of the astronomers showed up to vote; the rest were recovering from being completely shit-faced on Czech beer. I'll bet all of them sent in an expense report to their governments or various institutions, though, whether they voted or not. This would never have happened in a dictatorship. In a dictatorship, Pluto would still be part of the Mouseketeers. Even better is a Theocracy, in which only one vote counts: God's vote. That's the way to get things done, and keep shit efficient. Anyone protests, burn 'em.

The dropping of Pluto has now totally fucked up all the mnemonics people use. Don't ask me to list them, as I can remember the names and the order of the planets, but not the mnemonic used to remember the order, strangely enough (something about someone's mom and nine pizzas). No doubt it's due to me being shit-faced on Mexican beer, but there you have it.

The mnemonics I do know, having had them drilled into my head repeatedly, and very recently, are the ones using song, from 2 kid's shows, "Blue's Clues", and "Little Einsteins". My 2-year-old, the Nestling Sparrow, knows the planets and their order now, thanks to these songs, and I do not have the heart to tell him that Pluto has carked it. The Spouse Sparrow has even made him little planet cardboard cut-outs, appropriately painted, and the Nestling Sparrow loves them so much he takes them to bed with him. Pluto is one of the Nestling Sparrow's favorites, and he will tell you "Pluto is the small one!" The Nestling Sparrow plans on visiting all the planets in his rocket, as soon as he gets the kinks worked out, which mainly involves banging on his rocket with a toy hammer. Fucking heartless astronomers, stomping on the dreams of small children.

I think that they should rename the remaining 8 planets, with the names of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, and they should do it quickly, before Disney sues over the booting of Pluto. Renaming the planets after the Dwarfs will appease the gods of Disney (and before the lot of you anal-retentive butt-fuckers start in on me about how the plural of "dwarf" is "dwarves," well, DUH! I didn't name the movie, Disney did, and it's not my fault he didn't know fuck-all). Hardly anyone objects to Disney movies, and our current planet naming system is un-Christian, and favors pagans, so we are just asking to get sued by some right-wing Christian religious group. My suggestion will take care of all of this in one fell swoop, and Disney can then pay NASA to put giant banners advertising various Disney goods on each of the planets. NASA will have to get efficient then, the dumb fucks, otherwise Disney Corp. will be in there setting them straight immediately. I am sure Disney can give NASA some good tips on space travel, as they have never lost anyone by a giant explosion due to defective O-rings or tiles on Star Tours. It will be a win-win situation for all involved.

Our local newspaper has been having a field day with this Pluto thing, so much so that you would think that Pluto is one of our local corrupt mayors, up for re-election. They even went to the trouble to interview, get this -- astrologers. I like astrology as much as the next person, as it is quite entertaining, and if you know how it works, it makes perfect sense. For those of you who don't know how astrology works, let me clarify it for you: The astrologer makes shit up. This is a time-honored tradition, and you don't have to be too bright to do it. You just have to know who's the mark, and who's the astrologer. If you are paying for a chart, you're the mark. It's a simple game of playing the spread, as far as giving you a defining account of your personality. Your "Sun Sign" may be nothing like your personality, but wait! There's also your "Rising Sign," which will clarify things further. There's also your "Love Sign," "Stop Sign," "Closed Sign," and "'Signs', another crap movie with Mel Gibson." Any of these should have some aspects of your personality. Even if they don't, a wise astrologer, summing up her mark, will simply tell you that those signs that do not currently match your personality will "manifest in the fullness of time." See, all bases are covered.

The astrologers that were interviewed in our paper were a real hoot. It would be impossible to paraphrase the stupidity of these gits, so let me quote them (with the parenthetical, rhetorical italicized inserts being mine, of course)....

"It's impossible to discount Pluto. Pluto has a very powerful influence on every individual life and on the planet (what did you all do before 1930, then?!)," said Patricia St. James, 69, an astrologer who does psychic readings at Temecula's Lady of the Lake, a new-age gift store. "The way astrology is set up to be read, it's in a circle with the sun at the center and the planets go around the sun (thank fuck, you've actually heard of this thing called astronomy, then). In every individual's chart, there is a segment that is ruled by Pluto," she said. "If we take Pluto out of the equation, how are we going to read that chart?" (uh, the same way you did before 1930, or back in the day when astronomers only thought there were 5 planets?)

Another quote, from Lydia Hammond, 56, a therapeutic astrologer (don't ask me; I guess it sounds more impressive than "wack-job nut-case") in Riverside, said the new definition could have other consequences. "Geminis and Virgos share a planetary ruler, Mercury. Venus rules Libras and Tauruses. If there are more planets, each of those astrological signs could end up with their own planetary ruler. It could put astrology back on the map as an important science."

An important science? What the fuck? Is this the 13th century? And more planets? Are there more planets out there? Gee, I dunno. What do the stars tell you? If you want more planets for astrology, just make some up. Fuck's sake, just add in satellites, and tell people that the "stars" are beaming messages directly to their heads. That's where Lydia Hammond, therapeutic astrologer, is getting her information from. "Important science," my ass. These idiots should just join up with the Intelligent Design people, they obviously have the same level of education in math, science, and history. Just substitute "God" for "stars" and you have the exact same mumbo-jumbo.

I wonder how long it will be before the astrologers figure this out, and start demanding that our schools teach astrology during science class. Thanks a lot, International Astronomical Union. Fucking space cadets, the lot of you.

Fat Sparrow

Saturday, August 26, 2006

Segue to Segway

Segway has released its new models, including one that's supposed to be the equivalent of an SUV, with 4-wheel-drive. Someone should tell them things with 4-wheel-drive are supposed to have four wheels. I would have thought that one was kind of a no-brainer. The new models of Segways even come with an alarm, although the spokesperson said Segway thefts are not generally a problem. Imagine that, no one wanting to steal a Segway.

Segway insists that they are doing quite well financially, although they will not release any financial details of their company. I cannot believe that they are doing all that well, because who the fuck would buy one of these things? The inventor, Dean Kamen, obviously does not understand the American market. The only people who can ride Segways are young, fit people; the same kind of people who make a fetish of exercise, and ride bikes when they have cars that work perfectly fine. They are not likely to ride something that will not tone their butts, and makes them look like a doofus, besides.

If Segway wants to corner the American market, they should not charge $6,000.00 (which is the price of a small car, for fuck's sake) for something that does not have a seat, and will not keep the rain off of you. If they want to succeed, Segway should study the Personal Scooter and "Power Chair" market, which is booming in America.

Personal Scooters have become very, very popular amongst the fat and unhealthy geezer crowd. Personal Scooters have seats, and they make them in heavy-duty models, which is important, as Americans are big fat fucks, and they have baskets on the front and back, so you have someplace to stash your cigarettes and oxygen tanks while you mow down young people on the sidewalks. You can drive them with one hand, so that you can easily flick your cigarette butts down when you have finished. If you have a Personal Scooter, you can board the bus first, and take up the entire front half, while giving dirty looks to all the people who are still relatively skinny enough to walk.

Personal Scooters are also very popular in stores, such as Wal-Fuck, who provide them for their "disabled" customers to use while shopping. It is quite amusing to see the fat, wheezing white trash customers fight to get one on a Saturday, as there are usually only 2 Personal Scooters per store.

It is truly amazing that now, in America, you can be considered disabled just because you ate your way to a weight of 500 lbs., and cannot be arsed to diet or exercise. These people act as if they are so put upon, claiming that the airlines, movie theaters, public transportation systems, and McDonald's are discriminating against them because they do not have seats big enough to fit their wide-load asses. These lardos get really cranky about it, too. I thought fat people are supposed to be jolly. Making average-weight people afraid of you is not likely to help your cause. The only reason skinny people accommodate these fatties at all is because they are afraid of being eaten. In the back of their heads, every time they see a fat person, they hear Fat Bastard yelling "Get in my belly!" and they want to back slowly away, so that they are out of arm's reach. Unfortunately, with the advent of Personal Scooters, the fat people can now chase them down, and eat them.

I think fat people should have more sports that they can participate in, other than eating contests, which are always won by some Jap that maybe weighs 90 lbs. dripping wet, and I think they should copy the Segway people, who have invented "Segway polo." The fat scooter people can play polo with hooks instead of polo clubs, and use doughnuts instead of polo balls. Breaks will be allowed for cigarettes and oxygen tank recharging. It will be very patriotic, as only Americans will be fat enough to join. Sign up now.

Fat Sparrow

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Subway sandwiches tame the savage beast

Okay, I have had some dinner, and I am feeling slightly better now. I told you I get cranky when I don't eat.

But Hezbollah can still go and fuck themselves.

Fat Sparrow

You fucking hypocrites

We got a real treat today, with Hezbollah on the news. I know that I, personally, just cannot get enough coverage of boring, endless crap from the Mid-East.

Those stupid fuckers in Hezbollah were going on about how they have defeated Israel and America, and have emerged victorious from this whole Lebanon thing. They were handing out money right and left (on camera, of course; it's no use doing good deeds unless you get some media mileage out of it) to all their supporters whose houses got bombed, and tallying it all up on a laptop. The part that really chapped my thighs is that they were handing out American money, hundred-dollar bills. If you had any sort of economy at all, you would not be using American money. You fucking hypocrites! How dare you slag off America, and then use American money?! I suppose handing out camels is unwieldy, so they must resort to using our fucking money.

And then to add insult to injury, those fucking bastards are using a laptop! They continually badmouth America and Western culture, and all you see on TV are terrorist-voting sand niggers using American and Western technology. Get out of your cars and fucking walk if you don't like Western technology. Get rid of your toilets, and go shit in a bush. Take down your fucking websites. Get off your cell phones, and put your iPods away. You are not "using our own technology against us," as some of those dumb shites like to say. Unless you are planning on blowing up toilets and iPods, and you only have them to study the technology, you are self-centered capitalist consumers, just like all us Americans you supposedly hate. I just know all these Hezbollah leaders have houses that are totally awash in American technology, and they're all secretly hoping they'll get featured on "Cribs."

I hope that stupid Hezbollah cunt that was using the laptop had a Dell, and I hope that the batteries exploded, violently gelding him. And then, when he goes to the hospital, I hope they rub cattle dung on the burns, and refuse to give him antibiotics. Kiss my American fucking ass, you sheep shagger.

I hope you get bombed back into the Stone Age, you stupid fucks, not that I am bitter.

Fat Sparrow

Take my Fox news reporter, please

Apparently a Fox news reporter and a cameraman have been kidnapped in the Gaza Strip. Those crazy Palestinians just can't stand not getting all the attention, what with Lebanon becoming the latest newswhores and all.

If Hamas can kidnap one Fox news person, why can't they kidnap all of them? Bill O'Reilly, being the fine, upstanding person he is, offered to exchange himself for the missing reporter, but the spokes-raghead for Hamas said "Thanks, but no thanks. We may be dumb, but we're not Irish." Bill O'Reilly then went on to breathe heavily on the phone, and ask the Hamas spokes-raghead what his wife was wearing under her burka.

Note to Hamas: Stop kidnapping journalists. It's boring, and it will only get you on the news for 2 minutes, in between all the Lebanon stories. Learn tap-dancing, or something.

Fat Sparrow

The Cautionary Tale of The Old Bat

Make sure the sprogs are in bed, and you are safely bundled up, and your house is locked, because as promised, I am about to begin my tale of The Old Bat.

I was a Young and Hot Sparrow, back in the day, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and people were allowed to smoke wherever they want in California, which is a bad thing, and surely has contributed to global warming, even if Al Fucking Bore didn't mention it in his movie. I was young and idealistic, even voted Democrat occasionally, with a bright and shiny hope for mankind, and I was sure I could make the world a better place. Fuck, but I was dumb when I was 19.

I lived out in the 'Burbs, an empty kind of place, still half-rural from the time our town was mainly dairies and farms, and there was only one Mini-Mart around, from which I bought my cancer sticks. If you can believe it, it was actually owned by a white person. Yes, I know I'm dating myself here, but the shock value is worth it. Because that Mini-Mart was the only one around, everyone for miles around shopped there for their necessities, the grocery stores in town each being 5 miles in the opposite directions, so the owner, Joe (like I can remember what the fuck his name was? Do you have any idea how many drugs I've done?) knew just about everyone in the neighborhood.

One time, when it had just started raining, I went in on my lunch break, to buy my cancer sticks. Joe pointed out this little old lady to me, that apparently was one of his regulars, and told me that she walked up to his store. It was raining, he said, and would I be kind enough to take her home? Sure, says I, figuring that the tottering old dear can't live that far away if she had walked up to Joe's store. It would be a quick errand, I'd still have time to eat my lunch, and I'd score some points with The Big Guy. Why not, right? Well, obviously I'm going to tell why not, otherwise this cautionary tale for the kiddies would be pointless, duh.

The old dear didn't get around too well, and was deaf as a post, so Joe had a bit of a time explaining to her what it was that I was going to do for her. Eventually she understood what was going on. I helped her out to my car, and tried to hand her in, and hold her purse for her, but she was very suspicious of me going anywhere near her purse, and would not let me touch the old nasty clunker of a handbag. I don't know why, as the pair of designer pumps I had on had undoubtedly cost more than whatever cash she was carrying in that antique clutch.

I made sure her seat belt was on, loaded her small bag of shopping in, and away we went. I was incredibly polite, and did not light up, even though I was gagging for one, and for once I did not even speed. After we had gone about a mile down the road, she pointed out a house up ahead, and I pulled in to the driveway. I started to get out, and to unload her and her shopping, when she mentions that this is not her house. It turns out that this is merely a house that she admires and likes the look of. She then looks at me as if I am the one that is slightly daft. Fair enough, think I, I have questioned my sanity many a time, and maybe I had misheard her about the house, as she talks quite softly. That in itself is unusual for people that are hard of hearing, as they will most often go on quite loudly. My cousin was born deaf, and when she gets upset, she starts ululating the most strident gibberish that no one can understand, and we must poke her with a stick to keep her quiet. Don't get me started on deaf people.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, back in the car I go, and off we go, down the road again. The old dear grips my arm, with a strength that I would not have suspected she possessed, and asks me if I can stop driving so fast. We are going 15 MPH. If I go any slower, I will have stopped. I attempt to shake off her arm, as my car is a stick shift, and I desperately need to shift before we stall out, as we are going so slow.

We make a few turns, and the old dear points out another house. I pull in to the driveway, and start to get out, when the old dear mentions that this is not her house. No, her house is on the next street over. By now I am beginning to twig that this old dear is fucked in the head, and I am really going to be in for it.

Off we go again, to the next street over, and this fucking old bat tells me that none of these houses look familiar. I ask her, through clenched teeth, for the name of the street on which her house resides. She cannot tell me. She is pretty sure it has a name, but it has slipped out of her grasp at the moment. She thinks it might be green, or maybe beige, with green trim, and it might have a tree out front, or it might not. She cannot remember if it has any address numbers on it. She behaves as if I am the most depraved, impertinent whore of an individual she has ever heard of for even asking her these questions.

So off we go, AGAIN, street by street, canvassing the neighborhood of older homes, as I am sure she does not live in one of the newer tract homes. Eventually she lets out a soft cry, and again clutches my arm with her bony, wrinkled claw. We have found her home. I now have 10 minutes left on my lunch hour, and will barely get back to work on time, and I still have not had anything to eat.

Me not having anything to eat is a very serious situation, as I am one of those people that get extremely grouchy if not fed on a regular basis. It is now vitally essential that I bundle her out of the car as quickly as possible, so that I may attempt to find some food in our restaurant-starved section of the 'burbs, and get back to work before my boss (who is a complete harpy and also my mother, by the way), has a shit fit about me being late.

I open the door for her, grab her bag from the hatchback, and try to undo her seatbelt, and SHE WILL NOT GET OUT OF MY CAR. She pipes up that she would like to go to the mall, which is 12 miles away, and do some shopping there, and possible spend the day, and would I be kind enough to take her? I do not even reply to this, but I do pry her bony old ass out of my car, shove her far enough away from it to be able to slam the door, and zoom off.

I go back to Joe's store to get a sandwich, as that is the only food for miles around. As I am purchasing my sandwich (which was quite good; they also had a deli there in the store) Joe inquires about the old dear. I tell him "Fuck off! You owe me, big time!" and race out the door. He will just have to wait to hear the story another time.

I make it back to work, 15 minutes late, and my mother the boss proceeds to berate me in front of all the other employees. It is no use trying to tell her that I was being a Good Samaritan, because even though she is a churchgoing woman, she was also a Young Republican back in the '60's, and we all know that Business comes before God. I take it like the bitch I am, and dream of the nursing home that I will one day be picking out for her, as my revenge.

So now you know, my children, the Cautionary Tale of The Old Bat, and why you will never catch me voluntarily helping those fucking oxygen thieves ever again.

Fat Sparrow

Monday, August 21, 2006

In-valid geezers

Fuck's sake, what is wrong with people that they cannot take care of their old people and keep them off the streets?

People complain about all the young hoodlums being out on the streets, and rightly so, but they are nowhere near as bad as geezers. With the kids, you have the hope that eventually they will wise the fuck up, and learn to stop shitting themselves, but old people are useless; their best days are over. They now spend their time trying to remember what the fuck they have done with their teeth, and drooling on themselves.

Americans do not spend any money on taking care of their old people, and rightly so, as they do not get any value for their money. Old people are everywhere these days, and I do not think that the government is throwing enough money at the problem of keeping them out of the public eye. This is not valid. These people have already taken a number in God's waiting room, and they don't even know it, because they are far more out of it than any stoned teenager. You get all kinds of PSA's reminding parents to look after their kids, but what we really need is an agency that keeps geezers off the streets.

It's all well and good to be worrying about teenagers doing drugs, but stoned teenagers are amusing, at least. They ride their skateboards around, and then trip and fall in front of me, which sets me up nicely to say witty things like, "I always wanted men to fall at my feet, but you're a bit young." They cannot appreciate my marvelous and clever repartee, but it's hard to get a good audience. You get what you pay for.

The Fledgling Sparrow and I were out shopping the other night, as night is the only decent time to go shopping when it is hotter than the face of the fucking sun during the daytime; it is so hot that when people in Africa are told how hot it is here in So Cal, they say "Nung m'gubu !kleh pak!" which is African for, "Fuck me, but that is hot!"

We had just finished our shopping at the place I fondly refer to as "Wal-Fuck," and there, at the street corner, was a geezer. Now, it was 9 o' clock at night, no decent time for old people to be out; like the commercials say, "Do you know where your geezer is?" This geezer was right there at the crossing, in a wheelchair, and he was muttering something incoherently, and waving his arm in the general direction of the crossing button, as if he wanted to cross. I cannot understand why he would need someone to push the button for him, as he was only a foot from it, and if he could not manage to push the button, how on earth was he going to make it across the street? If he was that helpless, how did he manage to get there, anyway?

I certainly was not going to help him push the button, or push him across the street, because I have helped old people before, and they will fuck you over every time. I just know that if I had helped him cross the street, he would have wanted me to continue pushing him the four miles uphill to get him back to the place he rolled out of. What am I, a gift? I don't think so. If there is one thing my readers know (all 3 of them, I can hear you out there, breathing) it is that I am no fucking Girl Scout. Girl Scouts put advisories on their cookie boxes to warn other people about people like me.

I walked on, as we had 2 miles still to go before we were home, and Wal-Fuck seriously does my head in. I wanted some peace and quiet in the cool, polluted night air, so I put as much distance between us and the geezer as quickly as possible. The Fledgling Sparrow immediately began to give me crap for not helping the gimpy geezer, as I am always telling her to be a good person, help others, and so on. That's the kind of shit you tell kids. But my daughter is finally reaching the age where I can begin telling her about some of the ugly truths in life, geezers being one of them, so I told her the story of The Cautionary Tale of The Old Bat. It was an appropriate time to tell the story, as it was a dark and spooky night, as are most nights in our ghetto; a good time for a ghost story.

It should be a ghost story, as I seriously hope that old bat is dead by now. I still shiver when I think of it. But it is late, my children, and that story will have to wait for another time.

Fat Sparrow

Saturday, August 19, 2006

The gene pool definitely needs some chlorine in it

If aliens ever come to our planet, and you are the one that must convince them that humanity is worthwhile, and that said aliens should not eat us, do not, under any circumstances, hit the "Next Blog" button on Blogger in a misguided attempt to convince them.

I wish someone would have told me just how bad random blogs can be, before I clicked on that "Next blog" button.

If you are in doubt about how bad blogs can be, check out this little gem, which I found by hitting that "Next blog" button. They discuss an "anti-semantic" (sic) chain letter from MySpace. That's right, they are slagging off anti-semantics, when in fact, they are anti-semantic themselves. If only they were pro-semantic, they would know that what they mean to say, of course, is "anti-Semitic." The unintentional irony is killing me.

With defenders of the faith like these ones, I am sure the Jews have nothing to worry about from the likes of Hezbollah.

Fat Sparrow

Will the Virgin mind if you eat her out?

It seems that the Virgin Mary has appeared again, this time in some chocolate drippings.

Now, you may doubt that Jesus's Mom would appear to people in chocolate drippings, grilled cheese sandwiches, or tortillas, but you have to remember that this is America, and we are big, fat fucks, and the only thing that we will pay attention to is food or TV. The Virgin cannot demean Herself by appearing on "The OC" (like there are any virgins on there, anyway; She would stand out like a sore thumb amongst all those teenage whores), so food it is.

I personally believe that the chocolate drippings look like the Virgin Mary. I have several statuettes of her around my house, as Mary is my Homegirl, and they do resemble the chocolate drippings. But, there are also dildos that look like the Virgin Mary, so you have to wonder.

The people who own the chocolate drippings have enclosed it in a glass box, and keep it air-conditioned, so that it will not melt. They have far more fortitude than I do, obviously. If I had that chocolate in front of me, I would have eaten it eventually, even if I truly believed that it was the Virgin Mary, which leads us to an interesting question: If you ate the Virgin Mary, would you go to hell? I can't find anything about it in the Bible, although it says that eating Jesus is okay. In fact, eating Jesus is actually a required thing, if you can believe that. Go figure. I think that if eating Jesus was so important, they should definitely make him out of chocolate, and then more people would want to eat him, as he would be tasty.

I'm going to write to my good friend Benny, who also happens to be The Pope, and tell him my suggestions. I think you should do the same; he just loves to hear from people who have new suggestions for how the Church can be improved.

Fat Sparrow

Friday, August 18, 2006

You cannot make this shit up

For those of you who were wondering about the "Mongo" picture I had posted in a previous entry, I am just thrilled to be able to tell you that this is an actual photo, from our actual local newspaper, about an actual local summer camp for actual local Mongos, in our actual local mountains, not too far from our house (actually).

It is not, I repeat not, a PhotoShopped picture. I am very flattered that any of my readers could assume that I am computer-savvy enough to be able to use a computer photo editing program, but I assure you that this is not the case.

If you have any doubts, please refer to my e-mail addy, which is TheFatSparrow@aol.com. Please note the "@aol.com" part. This is my genuine, bona fide certification that I am a computer fuckwit. To me, "photo shop" is the place around the corner, where I go to get my 35mm film developed, as I am such a loser that I do not even have a digital camera.

I was going to put a link up to the Mongo picture, but the fuckers at the newspaper won't let me access the article without charging me $2.95. Sorry, but I am not willing to pay those kinds of outrageous prices to humor you twats. If any of you idiots are willing to pay that, you can find it at The Press Enterprise, titled "Lessons in Resilience," dated August 13, 2006. Please e-mail me if you do, so that I can make fun of you, oops, I mean "immortalize you in the posts of my blog."

Continuing in the same vein of "You Cannot Make This Shit Up," we have my latest offering, an ad that is running in our local Pennysaver. The ad reads, "Free used hooker for fishing. Call Blonde (951) 681-0486."

I am encouraging everyone to call. The international country code for America is "001" (America made up the rules for the phone structure setup, so obviously we're #1). Make sure you dial 001-1-951-681-0486. I am sure the advertiser will be very, very happy to get a nationwide and international response to their ad. If you do call, please, please let me know. You will have my utmost admiration, as you will obviously have quite a set on you.

You might also ask them if the hooker will accompany you to other recreational activities, or if fishing is the only one that the hooker is interested in. Since the hooker is interested in fishing, you may also want to ask if the hooker has caught crabs. In the interest of quality assurance, you might ask them just how "used" the hooker is; if the hooker has been used hard, she/he may not be such a bargain, even if the hooker is free.

Fat Sparrow

Thursday, August 17, 2006

You, a person of culture? It is to laugh

I recently read a story about big-butted Columbian ants, and the people who eat them.

This is wrong, so very wrong. Ants are not food, unless you are an anteater.

One time, at band camp, I went to take a drink of my soda, and there was an ant on it, and it got in my mouth, and it tasted really, really, nasty. That's what ants do. They have this substance, called formic acid, that they produce, just so they taste blechh. I do not believe that covering them in chocolate would help.

I can understand the native peoples of Columbia eating them, because maybe they do not have nice food. And Columbia is a big jungle, and many people are poor, and jungles have lots and lots of bugs. But it is not right for them to dip them in chocolate, and sell them at Harrods. That is what happens when you let camel jockeys buy your department stores.

The dirty Frenchies are eating them, too, as they will eat any old shite. They are an imported delicacy in France, and the stinky frog-eaters compare these horrid, one-inch long ants to caviar. This is not a fair comparison, as caviar is a lovely food, and does not, as my husband insists, taste like semen. Please do not ask me how he knows what semen tastes like. I do not want to know myself.

You should not, under any circumstances, eat anything with more than four legs. You should never, never eat anything with six legs, AND wings. You certainly should not charge $1.50 each for the "privilege" of eating bugs. If you paid me $1.50, I would not even look at one close up. You should not consider yourself a cultured person, and look down your long Gallic nose at Americans, while slagging them off, if you are eating ants. You should put the ant back in the box, and go eat a Big Mac.

Fat Sparrow

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

In which I introduce Old Knudsen, the crazy rambling fucker

We have a new contributor, Old Knudsen, for those of you that were wondering what those last posts were all about.

He can also be found on his blog, Old Bitter Balls, which is also in my links section. You will notice a marked difference in the style of his posts on his blog, as compared to what has been posted here. I am an anal-retentive type of bird, who likes a tidy nest, so I edited and cleaned up his posts. I won't be doing that anymore, as that was the hell of a lot of trouble to go through for that illiterate fucker. You'll just have to enjoy his comments au naturel when he comments on here.

If there is too much whinging (not the least of which will be on my part), I may go back to editing his posts. Either way, don't blame me for his shortcomings, him being a short-arse is not my fault.


Fat Sparrow

Old Knudsen introduces himself and rambles on (age will do that to you)

Old Knudsen comes from where the wind is cold and truth is seen through keyholes; where the men were men and so were the women sometimes. Ah well, any port in a storm.

During the 80's I worked at sea a lot; I caught crabs for a living. NO! Ya dirty fuckers, Old Knudsen wasn't a man whore, he was a fisherman. I caught lobster too, and if they had went around me pubes they would have snipped my huge cock off.

Old Knudsen had strong hands back then; many a fellow would marvel at my grip. They would ask me to squeeze things, and I could make a grown man cry like a baby. It was such fun. They used to rib me, saying,"Young Knudsen, you have hands like a girly-boy, you can pull my creels in and I'll make a man of you." Those beautiful bastards, it brings a tear to me eye to be recalling such things.

Us fisher folk were always cold and smelling like fish, and so were the hookers that hung around the docks. No, Old Knudsen never paid for that pleasure; anyway that's none of your business, fuck off.

We never got very many of those funny boys with the frilly cuffs, lipstick and hair so full of hairspray that they could become human matches if they got within 6 feet of a naked flame. Well, Old Knudsen knew of the odd one during National Service; you Americans would say "don't ask don't tell," we would say, "backs to the wall."

You know how in nature if an animal was sick or weakly, it would be killed by its own? Well that's the attitude many had in Old Knudsen's town, when we saw a weedy little boy with a pale white face and lipstick. It just brings out the nature in us, poor boy must be at odds with himself. We wouldn't kill him, that's just savage and cruel. No, we would just thrash him soundly and humiliate him, making sure to shave something. I mean, we weren't animals. Of course this explains queer bashing, not the kind of bashing they like, but hey that's all natural. Blame the Lord Almighty, it's not their fault at all.

Old Knudsen has nothing against turd burglars, Catholics, or any type of bum bandit. If Old Knudsen did have anything against them Old Knudsen would wear several layers of clothes, and wrap himself in plastic and wear goggles. They can do whatever they want, as long as no one gets splashed.

Hey, did you know that Liberace was gay? Yes, it was a surprise to me also but there you have it. The man was a genius, he even had a piano in his swimming pool; now that's class.

If you see Billy One Ear don't mention it to him, or anything about his dead wife. He went on the run for killing her, but don't worry, he was cleared later. He still gets a little touchy at it for some reason. The man has fists of fury, one minute you're talking footie to him and then BAM! you're on your back with a crowd around you. Thank God that with years of alcohol old Billy is a little slower. His glory days are having been a minder for the guy from Abba, not the fat bearded one but the dork that looked like a frog.

The 80's was when all the big stars were in their prime. Paul McCartney was forever youthful and having hit records all over the place, I liked that pipes of peace one, then he had that song with Michael (I would never hurt children, I just sleep with them and fiddle about, "Honey I diddled the kids"), Jackson, that one was more like a big smelly number two.

All that ya ya ya banjo music and catchy videos, no wonder the young people's heads were turned. Fake shoulders, fake genders, flock of fucking bastarding seagulls, did you see that hair? Either they weren't hugged enough as a child or they were hugged too much by their gym teacher. Either way, they wanted attention, so we beat them up.

Nothing personal, next time just put a sign saying "kick me" on your back.

Old Knudsen

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Battered Tard and chips

I just read the latest offering the Fat Sparrow shat out of her large, feathered behind, and Old Knudsen just had to reply.

Being a man of the world, Old Knudsen knows a bit about everything and he will be happy to tell it to you.

Mongos prefer to be called "Tards," they have feelings, too, you know. They should also be washed with a mild detergent once a week and have plenty of room to run about and dig. Always have a spray bottle handy to squirt them if they try to go on the rug.

When Old Knudsen was a Young Knudsen, and worked as a fry cook at Tillyman's Fish and Chip Shop (the best battered cod on the mainland), he met his very first Tard. His name was Allen; he had a withered hand, and in order to walk he would fling his leg out in front of him. Of course he wasn't too bright, but Old Knudsen found him to be a great source of amusement. His walking must have taken a lot of effort, as Allen used to sweat like a turkey at Christmas. He'd also rip off sequences of farts as he went. Now, if you don't think a sweaty, farting Tard is funny then you've had a humour bypass operation. Now go get me a pint, ya boring fucker.

By the way, Tillyman, you owe me 8 pound from the time Old Knudsen covered Albert Sorelson's shift; you had better still be alive, ya welching shite.

On one of Old Knudsen's days off I met Allen, who was on his way to work at Tillyman's. Allen picked up rubbish and cleaned the tables there, for just a few hours every week. Of course the sweat was dripping off him. "How's it going, Allen old pal," says I. "If your shift starts at eleven then you're running late; it's ten after," I tell him. With that, Allen flung his leg out and loped down the road at breakneck speed. Well, it was fast for him. Old Knudsen went about his business and promptly forgot all about Allen.

About a week later, Shawn, who also worked at Tillyman's, was telling me how one day last week Allen came rushing in. Allen went upstairs at Tillyman's to put his stuff away, and he was so panicked about being late for his shift he fell down the small flight of stairs. He wasn't hurt; he just landed on his back and flopped about like an upturned turtle.

Shawn nearly pissed himself laughing. Old Knudsen had missed it, so we had to put Allen on his back for a re-enactment, and yes, it was funny. The really funny part was that Old Knudsen had just been kidding about Allen being late; that silly bugger still had 20 minutes until his shift started.

C'mon, people; Tards love it when you treat them like shit like you would anyone else. At least we don't string them up like the bloody Yanks do.

Old Knudsen

Monday, August 14, 2006

Mongo lynching?

Now, I am against Mongos as much as the next person, but I believe they should be put down humanely. There is no need to hang them, like they did to this poor bastard. "Summer camp" for Mongos, indeed. Does he look like he's having fun? They promise them a good time, they lure them in, and they string them up. What happened to painless injections?

Fat Sparrow



Stick it in your ear hole!

I bought a box of Q-Tips the other day, or, as the Spouse Sparrow would call them, "ear buds," which is extremely confusing to dumb Americans like me. "Ear buds" are headphones, or that little thing from a cell phone, that goes in your ear, and is practically invisible, and makes it look like you are a well-dressed schizophrenic while you are talking on the phone. You think those stupid fucks are talking to you, since they are looking right at you, but no; they are talking on the phone.

I don't understand why my British husband cannot call them Q-Tips, even if they are generic, as he calls our vacuum a "Hoover," and it is not, in fact, a Hoover; it is a different brand entirely. He uses it as a noun and a verb, as in "Why don't you Hoover the living room, and quit playing with your stupid blog?" He obviously doesn't have any problem using brand names, but still, he will not say "Q-Tip."

The box of Q-Tips had very explicit instructions on the back, and I am not sure if these are new, or if they have been there all along. It was a warning, in large, bold letters: "DO NOT INSERT IN EAR CANAL!" That has got to be one of the dumbest things I have ever read.

I expressly bought these fuckers for the sole purpose of inserting them in my ear canal, and having a good root around in there, as I cannot stand having water in my ears after I get out of the shower. Everyone I know, or have ever heard of, buys them to stick them in their ear hole. Primitive peoples, like those wacky fuckers in that movie, "The Gods Must Be Crazy," who were not civilized enough to know that a Coke bottle is for masturbating with, even they would pick up a Q-Tip, look at it, and then promptly shove it in their ear. That is what Q-Tips are for, and it is very, very, obvious.

I cannot think why the Q-Tip box would have something so completely asinine as that on it, unless it has to do with lawyers, this being America and all. If that is the case, I have a suggestion for the lawyers on where they can insert their Q-Tips.

Fat Sparrow

Kiddie porn?

I was looking for my rosary today, which I suspected I had lost somewhere under my bed (and what consenting adults do with rosaries in their bedrooms is none of your business).
I had to go and root around under the Spouse Sparrow's side of the bed to find our flashlight (and what consenting adults do with flashlights in their bedrooms is also none of your business) so that I could even see where the rosary had gone to, amidst the dust bunnies, dead bodies, and old wank rags.

What I found under his side of the bed, besides the flashlight, was a video tape. Not too surprising; many men keep their porn stashed under the bed. I was curious to see what it was. Was it something conventional, like "Debbie Does Dallas," something mildly kinky, maybe having to do with Kirk/Spock action and maybe some alien goats? No, it was not.

The title? "The Best Of Mickey Mouse; A Cartoon Anthology."

I don't want to know; that is too perverted even for me.

Fat Sparrow

Sunday, August 13, 2006

Blue's poos

I was watching "Blue's Clues" today with the Nestling Sparrow, like you do.

Steve asked the audience to help out with the clues, like he does, and he asked, "What do you think Blue wants to do with paper, in her special place?"

I dunno; have a shit?

Fat Sparrow

Saturday, August 12, 2006

Hey, Honey? Bono's wearing your hat

I was reading hungbunny, and I saw this picture of Bono, wearing the Spouse Sparrow's old gardening hat. Either the Spouse Sparrow is very trendy, or Bono has no fashion sense. I'm suspecting it's the latter. I'll bet you the Spouse Sparrow got his for cheaper, at the hardware store.

Fat Sparrow

Friday, August 11, 2006

Fakes on a plane

is the most disappointing movie title, ever.

I am, apparently, the one person on the planet who had not heard anything about the movie 'til very recently, and when I did hear about it, I only heard the title mentioned.

I had this whole scenario, in my head, of this really incredible movie; a movie of incredible depth and breadth, and intelligence, and philosophical meanderings of the type never seen on the silver screen before, amazing character portrayals, etc., and all this with a slightly surreal title, one guaranteed to make you think.

The actual movie is about snakes. On a plane.

Bugger.

Fat Sparrow

I hope that haircut came with knickers, because you look like a fucking twat

My son, the Nestling Sparrow, got a haircut today. I am poor, and cannot afford to pay someone else to torture my child and make him scream, so I had to do it myself.

Two-year-olds should not have hair. In fact, no child should have hair, until they are old enough to take care of it themselves. There is just no point. The Nestling Sparrow hates having hair, and he is always tugging at it (his hair, not his lad, you filthy-minded bastard). I would shave it all off, but that is what the dirty Mexicans and filthy white trash do when their small children have lice, so it would look like I am dirty, louse-infested white trash if I shaved his head.

Unfortunately, that means I have to try and get my toddler to hold still while I take a pair of electric clippers to him and attempt to shape up his hair. I tried to hype it up as much as possible, and convince him that it was the most wonderful thing ever, as I had not used clippers on him before. My arguments were persuasive and convincing, and if I were a Hollywood publicist, Mel Gibson would be nominated for "Man of the Year" by the ADL.

The Nestling Sparrow was having none of it. What he wanted to do was to get a hold of the clippers, and shave my hair, and then the Spouse Sparrow's hair, so he could see what it was like. The Spouse Sparrow and I politely declined his request, and the sprog was deeply suspicious after that. If we didn't want it done to us, there must be something very, very wrong with it.

The Spouse Sparrow finally succeeded in getting our son to hold still, and I had a go at the enormous mop that is his hair. It didn't turn out too badly, as long as you don't expect haircuts to be symmetrical, or blended, or have even lengths on the sides.

Afterwards, my teenage daughter, the Fledgling Sparrow, emerged from her cave, and inquired as to why the baby had a Nazi haircut. I promptly held her down and shaved her head bald. Now, when Hallowe'en comes around, they can dress up like Nazis and concentration camp Jews. Fucking teenagers.

Later on tonight, I have to give the Spouse Sparrow his haircut. Then we'll see some real screaming and tantrums.

Fat Sparrow

Permission to come abroad

To accommodate those of you who are bloody Yanks like me, and various other readers who are not familiar with British terminology, I have added an Internet-based British slang dictionary in my "Links" section.

It is composed by a British gentleman of discriminating taste, Ted Duckworth, who is pleasant and friendly, even toward Americans. He is also hung like a horse.

You can use his dictionary to learn how to curse like a true Brit, or at least a North American of British descent, so that even though you may still have an American accent, if you say "eh" a lot, you can pretend to be Canadian when you are captured by Muslims. They fucking well love Canadians, those crazy Muslims.

Fat Sparrow

How to piss off a White, Male, Conservative, Republican, Catholic bookstore owner

It's very easy to piss off a White, Male, Conservative, Republican, Catholic bookstore owner. You can do it, too! Here are some tips to get you started:

Tell him that you are Pro-Choice, and that Jesus is your saviour, not your gynecologist, and that while you have accepted God, it is not in the same way as the Virgin Mary did, and God does not love you "that way" (you sick fuck), so there is no need for Jesus or God to concern Himself with your vagina or uterus.

Tell him that abortion may or may not be murder, but that it is obviously not as bad a sin in the eyes of the Church as divorce is. If you have an abortion, or kill someone, that is a private matter between you and your priest during Confession and Reconciliation. If you get a divorce, you have to go through two years of paperwork for an annulment, processed by the nosiest busy-bodies in your Diocese, and the Bishop has to approve it. Ergo, divorce trumps abortion as far as sins go.

Ask him if he really believes that all sperm are sacred, and, if so, why is he not out protesting male masturbation, and campaigning Congress to get laws passed against it?

Tell him you thought "The Da Vinci Code" was an excellent book, and the movie was even better.

Tell him you don't know what Opus Dei is so upset about, as bad publicity is better than no publicity.

Tell him you pray for Vacations.

Ask him what difference it makes if priests are gay, since they are celibate anyway.

Tell him it is okay if Catholics are gay, as no one is perfect, and we are all sinners in the eyes of God.

Ask him if God didn't create "Adam & Steve," then who did?

Ask him if he sells any versions of the Bible that use "all-inclusive language," so that women don't feel discriminated against.

Tell him you feel really bad about the plight of all the brown, illegal immigrants that are here in America.

Tell him that you do like his store a lot, but that he could get more business by catering to the Quinceanera crowd.

Ask him why he doesn't carry any Santa Muerte merchandise.

Ask him if it upsets him that the money he donates to the Church goes to support a lot of those same brown, illegal immigrants, and the various marches and protests that they attend.

Ask him if it upsets him, as a business owner, that his hard-earned tax dollars also go toward the support of the same thing.

Tell him you think John Kerry is a good Catholic.

Tell him about this website you know of, Divine Interventions, that carries Catholic merchandise.

Ask him if he is feeling all right, or would he like you to call an ambulance.

And finally, ask him if you can have a discount at his store, as you will be shopping there often.


Fat Sparrow

Itchy minge

The Spouse Sparrow has given me an itchy minge. I don't think he meant to; it was just one of those things.

I cannot remember ever having an itchy minge before I met him. I'm sure I must have, I just don't remember it. And truly, it's not all that itchy now. It's more like he has given me a complex about scratching my snatch.

The Spouse Sparrow told me a story about his ex-wife, who would be watching "East Enders" (which apparently gave her her itchy minge), and suddenly, she would have a good root around in the ol' stench trench, and then, rather inelegantly, proclaim "Itchy minge!" and go back to watching her program. I know, I know, you are wondering why he ever left this charming gem of womanhood. Divorce has its reasons, whereof reason knows nothing.

So, thanks to "East Enders," and the Spouse Sparrow's dirty foreigner cock, I now have an itchy minge, and I can never, ever scratch it, because the story he told me about his ex-wife has made me too self-conscious.

Sometimes, at night, while the Spouse Sparrow is lying asleep in bed beside me, and he is contentedly farting away, I think, "Ah, now is my chance -- if that last ripper didn't wake him up, me scratching my muff certainly won't." But no, I cannot risk it; my delicate, maidenly psyche is scarred. I will wait until I am in the shower, and then I will take a wire brush to it.

Fat Sparrow

Thursday, August 10, 2006

Sparrows have won; get over it

I like sparrows. Obviously. They're small, cheeky little birds that have managed to infiltrate everywhere.

I grew up in an area that was all tract homes, built over old dairies and farmland. When they built the houses, they bulldozed everything for miles around to put up the tract homes on. There were no trees, no plants, no anything, other than houses, lawns, and swimming pools. The only birds we had were sparrows and crows. As a little kid, I had no idea that there were so many other types of birds in the world. I had seen sea gulls at the beach, but that was about it. I spent a lot of time in our backyard, wishing we had a tree, and learning to imitate the calls of sparrows and crows.

Since then, I have found out that there are a lot of other birds, in our area even, as my husband has planted trees, bushes, bamboo, flowers, everything in our yards, and they attract all kinds of wildlife. It is very peaceful in our backyard now, and the sound of the wind rustling through the bamboo leaves almost masks the gunfire and police helicopters flying over our neighborhood.

I like having all these plants and trees, as I did not have them growing up. An old hippie, who was hired by our landlady as a house painter, was completely amazed by our yard, and commented "It's like Vietnam in there, man!" The '60's were good to him; not that he can remember them. My husband has woven withy fences all along the side yard, to keep the homeless people from nesting in there, and to keep the drug addicts from having a shite in our bushes, the dirty buggers.

Because of all the plantings, we get all kinds of finches, hummingbirds, kestrels, and hawks, and also mockingbirds that sing to us at night. The crows are starting to come back, having somewhat recovered from the West Nile epidemic. My sparrows are there, too.

I recently found out that there are some stupid fucks out there that do not like sparrows, and consider them a nuisance, as they are not native to America. I find this quite rich, as these people are usually white, upper-class, liberal twats of the type that will self-righteously champion Native American rights. They have whole websites about how sparrows should be euthanized so the native bird population can recover. News flash to them: you're a honky. Go ask an Indian what they think of you being here, whitey. I'll bet they wouldn't mind you being euthanized. Are you going to volunteer for it?

These are also the same people who feel that they should support the rights of illegal immigrants, but are secretly afraid of all the brown people taking over. So, while they're giving lip service for the right of all those illegal immigrants to be here, they should try to remember that the sparrows didn't ask to be brought here, but they are here now, and they just want to bang their wives, and raise their little bird families, and fit into whatever niche they can. It's not their fault that they are willing to take whatever leftovers society has thrown out, and are far superior to the native bird population. It's called "evolution," survival of the fittest. You know, that thing you want your kids taught in science class instead of (Not So) Intelligent Design.

It all comes down to self-hate. These people hate themselves for being European, and they hate the sparrows for the same reason; that supposedly, neither of them are native. Well, if the sparrows (and all of us whiteys) aren't native, then what are we? We were born here, and it's been quite some time since we've taken over. Like Spike said to Buffy, "You won; get over it."

Some people have a problem with this concept, and simply cannot grasp the fact that an incident that happened hundreds of years ago has been decided, and the winners of whatever battle, etc. are not simply going to change their minds and say "Oops, I'm sorry! I'm enlightened now, so here, please have your land back."

I have a long-time close friend, whose family is from Ireland (as is mine; whose family isn't, if you're white and in America?!), and years ago she would go on about how the IRA (those murdering arse pimples) were freedom fighters, and if the British were truly as civilized as they thought they were, they would just give all of Ulster back to Ireland. I put up with this for a while, like you do when someone's in their cups, but soon I couldn't take it any longer, so I asked her, quite simply, if she and her family were going to hand their land back over to the Indians. No, they weren't? Would they do it if Northern Ireland belonged to Ireland? Would they move to Ulster then? No? Then you should fucking well shut your gob, you gormless fuckwit. Good friends can say these things to each other, you see, with no hard feelings.

I'm not advocating that we all start our own "White Pride" club. I fucking well hate Nazis. But, I'm getting real tired of seeing T-shirts advertising "Brown Pride," (with a brown hand showing the international sign of good will) and "Black Pride" (with a big black fist). What are those saying, if not "Fuck off, cracker, just because you're white"? If those kids are allowed to wear those to school, then my kid should be allowed to wear a "White Pride" T-shirt to school. And I would damn well make her, too, if not for the fact that she would get seven shades of shite knocked out of her. If it's rude to wear "White Pride" T-shirts, it's just as rude to wear "Brown/Black Pride" T-shirts, and affirmative action and the politically correct twats can kiss my petunia.

I've had a few encounters with white supremacists in my time (my idiot brother being one of them, which is fucking hilarious, as our Gran was full-blooded Cherokee, and we're Dagos on the other side, and he's pretty dark himself, not to mention the fact that he totally wasn't raised that way), and it seems that most of them are too fucking stupid to realize that skin color is not culture. There are white Mexicans, with mainly European ancestry, and Spain and Northern Italy are not full of darkeys, for example. Do those dumb racists count them as "white"? And I don't care what color you are; if you're in to golf or tennis, or any sport involving snow or ice, culturally, that should be counted as you being "white." Good grief; even black people slag off other black people for "acting white" if they play golf or tennis. You see how dumb it is to put people in categories like this, in today's world? Of course you do; you're not a fuckwit.

I don't have anything against immigrants; brown, black, spotted, whatever. I am thankful as fuck for them almost every day. If it wasn't for them, we'd all be stuck eating British food, and believe me, I know first-hand how shite that is. I don't care if they assimilate, I don't care if they learn to speak English; just keep cooking and selling nice food and letting me buy it. Smiling and drooling, while pointing at a menu, has always enabled me to communicate just fine. Waving money around while being extremely polite doesn't hurt, either.

I loved the part in that stupid "Day After Tomorrow" movie where all the dumb Americans are having to ask permission to cross the border to get in to Mexico. That was fucking class. Of course you know it wouldn't be happening that way, though. If the Americans were denied permission, they'd be crashing the gate and scaling the fences, just like the Mexicans do now. It's a whole different set of rules when it's your survival at stake, isn't it? Something that those Minutemen on the border don't seem to realize.

I also loved that new episode of "30 Days," where your Minuteman guy went and lived with that illegal immigrant Mexican family, and then went down to Mexico to see how they all had lived, before they came to America. That was a real eye-opener for that dumb fuck.

Why is it that Americans have no problem sending millions of dollars of aid money to Africa, for starving people, but God forbid we should spend a single cent on anyone dying in our own backyard? I suppose "familiarity breeds contempt," but that's no excuse. I hate that "I got mine; the rest of you can fuck off" attitude that a lot of Americans have. They should all be forced to read Ursula K. Le Guin's "The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas," and have to live in hovels with no running water, or toilets, or food, and then we'll see how dirty and hungry and desperate they are.

I wish people would actually think about all of these issues, instead of having knee-jerk reactions to them, I wish they would force people to take classes in logic and reasoning, and I wish liberal posh white people would quit taking it up the ass from brown and black people, just for being white. It's making it harder for the rest of us, because the message being sent out is, "It's okay to pick on white people," which is the same as saying, "It's okay to pick on people solely based upon the color of their skin," and the posh honkies are just too fucking dumb to realize it.

I wish all the brown and black people that were born here would realize that not all white people are assholes that want to make their life a living hell, and that they have to be pro-active (I am such a twat for using that word) regarding their own futures. This whitey is not keeping you down; your own ignorance is. This here whitey is in the same below-poverty-level, no-car-having, food-stamp-using, welfare ship that you are. It ain't no Carnival cruise, and I'm doing my damnedest to make sure my kids rise way, way above this level, before the water comes in and swamps us. I'm lucky, I know. I'm in this position due to a disability, and my educational level is unbelievably high, compared to the rest of the people in the above-mentioned categories. I skew, and screw, the statistics dreadfully.

I suppose, in the end, what I would like everyone to realize, is that it shouldn't matter what color you are; discrimination is discrimination, dammit. It's a roll of Karma's fucking dice what color or ethnicity you came out, or what country you popped out of your mom's twat in; get over it.

Fat Sparrow

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Bruce Springsteen is a nit on a homeless wanker's crusty pubes

I really dislike Bruce Springsteen; and I had managed to avoid him for a number of years. This all came to an end when I got married. The Spouse Sparrow loves Bruce Springsteen, so I am forced to listen to his music a lot. Since I am still psychologically scarred from MTV repeatedly playing "Dancing in the Dark," this is not valid.

No one should be named "Bruce" unless they are Australian, maybe excepting Bruce Willis. And "Springsteen"? It sounds like a disease. Plus, it kinda sounds gay, which is at odds not only with the name "Bruce" but also the persona he has tried to create. He is a seriously weedy fucker, and all that working out has only made it look like he is in love with himself, and/or gay, and he is not fooling anyone. Who has their ass on an album cover? Big raging homos like George Michael, that's who.

When Bruce Springsteen sings, he looks exactly like he is taking a shit ("Who's The Boss of Number 2?!"). This is not attractive, unless you are into scheisser videos, which I am not. That is nasty. I'll bet he has to check his pants after every concert.

Then there is the part where he is ugly as sin. How on earth can anyone think he is a heart-throb? I have noticed that it is practically required to like Bruce Springsteen if you are from the East Coat, so maybe the East Coast has lower (much lower) standards concerning who is good-looking than we do here, on the West Coast. No snide comments on my looks, please; my husband is not from the East Coast. He's British, which is why it's inexplicable that he even listens to Bruce Springsteen.

Being from California, I didn't even have to hear about Bruce Springsteen 'til the '80's, which was a blessing. KROQ did not play crap like that back in the day, although they do play utter shite now. I don't think he would have gotten any air time in Britain, except for the fact that everything is Number 1 over there for five minutes.

Bruce Springsteen is also dumber than fuck, as he went and married some dumb model, when Patti Scialfa (which also sounds like a disease name, and "Scialfa-Springsteen" is even worse) was hot for him all that time, and would have made a much better match. He ended up marrying her, anyway, after his divorce from the dumb whore model.

If I was Patti Scialfa, and Bruce Springsteen came crawling back to me, I would have told him to fuck off. Then I would have gone and shagged Clarence Clemons, and told Bruce Springsteen how much bigger Clarence's dick was. That's why Clarence is called "The Big Man." Clarence's web site takes forever to load, and has a lot of content (if you know what I mean), and I'm sure that means he takes his time and is really good in the sack.

Fat Sparrow

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Farting gay mongo alien eels

Our dog is farting, and the house is filled with a horrible, noxious cloud of gas, way worse than what we usually get in So Cal. This is serious indoor pollution; the kind the EPA investigates, and if we could get Superfund status, that would be fucking sweet, as I am in dire need of cash.

It is a large dog, and a small house, so you do the math for how much oxygen is left. No? You won't? Well, I'll tell you; not fucking much, that's how much. She has worms, which is bad enough in itself, but I can't afford to do anything about it, so we're all suffering. She lets out a big sigh, and then she groans, and then the stench hits you, and then you groan.

The Spouse Sparrow was watching this really lame movie on TV the other night (he will watch anything if it looks truly awful enough), called "Dreamcatcher," I think. Pure crap, probably Stephen King, and it had an incredibly convoluted, highly improbable plot. But, it did have one very memorable scene, in which this old, hunter-type guy comes in from the forest to seek shelter at the main character's cabin. So, he gets invited in, which is dead stupid, as he looked fucking sickly, and I am sure all sickly people should be put down immediately, and doused with bleach before they contaminate me. Do not call me cold-hearted, as I have survived for 36 years by doing this, and no one has missed those people, ever.

There is no way I would have been as dumb as these main characters were, inviting in a festering geezer like that. Sure enough, once he was inside, he started burping and farting like crazy, and then they tell him to lay down on some perfectly clean white sheets (which had to be a serious bitch to keep clean, as the cabin was in Buttfuck, Maine, without a washing machine in sight), and he starts bleeding from his ass like a hole-stretched, aged poofter, and leaves a trail of it on the floor as he goes to the shitter. Extremely inconsiderate, but that's what those do-gooder main characters get for trying to do the white thing.

And did he leave it at that, recover, and clean up his mess? Of course not. He sat down on the toilet, shat out some kind of worm/alien/lamprey thing (I never did figure out which), and promptly died, leaving the worm/alien/lamprey thing to run about and wreak havoc, and I don't know what all, because I had to do the dishes. Not all of us can sit around and watch shite and eat bon-bons, you know.

So, in short, I am afraid this is what the dog is heading for, and I am advising you all to run for it now, while you have the chance. I have seen her arse actually open up, and the farts come out, and I am sure it would not take much for an evil alien eel to come slithering out, and by the smell of it, it will be soon.

My other dog farts too, but as he is a gay homosexual dog, he farts in an appropriate manner. He lets off a little squeaky fart, and then he jumps up with surprise, and sniffs his ass, and looks around as if to say, "Was that me? Do pardon me!" and then he lays back down. The smell is quite bad, and I suspect that he also has worms, but I do not think he has been infiltrated by alien eels just yet. He is a small dog, so maybe that is why. The other dog is large, and the hunting geezer in the movie was a big, fat fuck, so they can obviously support alien eel parasites. If my gay homosexual dog does have an alien eel, it would be a gay homosexual alien eel, and who is going to be afraid of those?

If anyone has seen that lame movie, all the way through, and actually understood the plot, please e-mail me and let me know what the fuck that was all about. There seemed to be a shapeshifting alien that was also a mongo human, that read minds or something. It was all very confusing, and sometimes I think about it while I do the dishes, and sometimes it keeps me awake at night, thinking what a crazy fuck Stephen King is. Also, I would like to know if I should slaughter the dogs and cover them in bleach. Thank you.

Fat Sparrow

Monday, August 07, 2006

Lebanon, Shmebanon: I'm not wearing leg warmers again

I don't know jack shit about computers, which is why I'm on AOL, but AOHell irritates me. I think the reason that they have everything in blue is that blue is supposed to be soothing. Fat lot of good that is, when you're wanting to bang your head on a wall because you can't figure anything out.

Don't even ask me how I managed to set this blog up; it was sheer luck and a lot of sacrifices involving the blood of a cock. That male prostitute will probably never work again. Which reminds me.... I need to order one of those plastic-cover-keyboard-condom thingies.

I don't want to hear the lot of you complain about how I shouldn't be using a computer if I don't know what I'm doing. It's my computer, and Al Gore has given me special permission to use the Internet, and I can tell right now that you're doubting me, which is not very nice. The voices in my head have some very rude things to say about you. I used to be a really cracker-jack programmer, back in 1982, on my Apple IIe, which totally kicked ass. I wrote this program that had a unicorn dancing under a glittering, moving rainbow, with a waterfall in the background.

Stop laughing, it was 1982, and you were wearing headbands and legwarmers. Oh dear, you're still wearing legwarmers? They're trendy again, God help us all. I was looking at the sale ads in the Sunday paper, and some truly awful styles (if you can call them that) are back. Black and white wide stripes? Are these really necessary? Only if you're in prison and it's the 1930's.

This year has been bizarre -- a lot of deja vu, a la 1982. First all the clothing manufacturers expect my daughter to wear the exact same styles of clothing as I did back then (and believe me, I have learned my lesson; you will not see me shelling out money for that crap again), and then Israel invades Lebanon. If I have to put up with Human League on the radio again, it will be too much. What was that bit about people not knowing history being doomed to repeat it? I wasn't paying attention....

People who think that there will ever be peace in the Middle East don't know their history; that lot have been going at it for over 7,000 years now. I could kinda see the point when it was the Fertile Crescent, Garden of Eden thing going on, but now? It's just a bunch of smelly, unwashed, brown people, and I see no reason for putting up with that unless you're getting Mexican food. They should all be forced to read "Guns, Germs, and Steel," so they can realize that they do not have it going on anymore.

Of course, if they were forced to read "Guns, Germs, and Steel," there would be a hell of a lot more suicide bombers than there are now. Jeez, that book did go on. I thought a better name for it would have been "Location, Location, Location: and what they ate while they were there," but I guess that title is not as catchy. There were not enough guns or germs, and steel barely got a mention. What did get mentioned, repeatedly, was the phrase "food production," approximately 1,296,379 times. McDonald's does not talk about food production that much, for Christ's sake. Then again, McDonald's doesn't serve food, so maybe that's why.

Living in a county that's bigger than most European nations, it's hard for me to understand why there is so much fighting over some seemingly useless bits of land. And the Israelis -- what on earth possessed you to agree to that whole "Gee, we'll give you back Israel" thing after World War II? I mean, I feel as bad about the Holocaust as any modern day Gentile-type-person can, I don't have any problem with Jews in general (unlike Mel Gibson, and hey, isn't "Mel" a Jewish sounding kind of name, anyway?). I know exactly one Jew, my childhood doctor, whom I thought was the greatest, and he survived the Holocaust and wrote 2 books about it, so shut yer yap.

What use is a little strip of land, even if it has nice beaches, if you keep getting the shit bombed out of you? Land- and climate-wise, the Middle East is pretty much just like here in So Cal, but you don't have to put up with Fox bringing out stupid TV shows about it (although "The ME" does sound quite catchy, doesn't it?). I think the whole land gift thing was just a plot on the part of the U.N. to get the Jews out of Europe. Ah, the U.N.; sneaky secret Kraut sympathizers, I bet you haven't heard that conspiracy theory before.

Honestly, if the Allies had felt that bad about the Jews getting decimated by the Germans, why didn't they just give Germany to the Jews? After all, most of them were from Germany and the surrounding countries, and the Jews couldn't possibly have fucked up Germany any worse than the Germans had. Plus, it really would have messed with the German's heads, and I am all for that. There's something very rotten at the heart of German culture, and I don't just mean the sauerkraut farts. But wait, now that I think about it, Germany did kinda shape up after they got rid of all the Jews, so maybe those idealogues in that there Weimerainer Republic had something going on after all. Nah, fuck it, I'll take Jews over Germans any day of the week.

Ooooh, I just had a brilliant idea -- Germany is always going on with protesting all the Muslim immigrants they're getting, and how the German (read: white) birthrate is declining, and their country is filling up with camel jockeys, so why don't all the Germans just go and take over one of the countries in the Middle East? Then they can bitch about Jews and Muslims, and really mix it up over there by adding yet another player to the mix. Who am I kidding; they would totally get their asses kicked, and we don't need yet another language in the Middle East that sounds like you're trying to hawk up a loogie when you pronounce words.

But back to Israel, figuratively and literally.... There's no oil there, and the Jews haven't been able to hold that land on their own for centuries, and apparently a bunch of them are also American citizens that voted for Bush, so the Arabs are completely right, and it is all very obviously a devious American plot. But, in our defense, the British started it.

And yes, I do feel bad for Lebanon. Wear your leg warmers to show support.

Fat Sparrow

Friday, August 04, 2006

You sick fuckers

You are definitely a sick fucker. I cannot believe you clicked on that link. You have serious issues, and should be medicated, immediately. Go back to reading my brilliant post, you twat.

Fat Sparrow