Angry dude here, the lucky husband of the Crazy Duck Lady.

Today's my birthday. I'll be fiftajjdisoijd this year.

I was born on my Dad's birthday. So I never really had big birthday parties or anything like that, especially considering the economic status my immediate family had when I was growing up.

But this is the first year that I've had my birthday that my Dad was not around to at least say "happy birthday" to me, and that I couldn't do the same to him. He died a number of months ago.

My Mom misses him so much, but she did wish me a happy birthday today. My wife and my boys will be here with me as I praise the good Lord for another year of life, and for all of them, I could never express enough gratitude.

Happy birthday, Dad. I love you, and will until I see you again.

Dear little morons,

Angry Old Fat Man here, aka your worst nightmare and the reason you dream of gulags as places to put me and my generation in.

Let me announce today's topic: the New Atheism and its ignorant dipshit unthinking followers.

I have been on Youtube lately and made the mistake of reading the comments, the writers of which overwhelmingly suffer horribly from the Dunning–Kruger effect.

This is mainly because young little morons do not know that they are ignorant, and therefore display their stupidity by believing if SMURT PEEPLZ HURP DURP (i.e., people that are as ignorant as they are) say it, it must be true and the little morons must repeat it 2 B SMURT 2 HYULK HYULK.

The piece of spinach stuck in my teeth right now is the description of Christianity as a "Bronze Age fairy tale hurp durp".

These little imbeciles have latched onto the "it's fashionable to be atheist because it makes me look smurt hyuk hyuk", which is an ignorant piece of mental trash and philosophical laziness. Why? Because anybody with any cursory knowledge of history and/or Christianity could tell you it's simply not true. It is also not true of the Quran.

The Iron Age (which, please note, succeeded the Bronze Age) began long before the advent of the New Testament and, for that matter, the Quran (which I don't care for, but anyways...) . Jesus Christ was crucified during the early Imperial period of Ancient Rome. As any enemy of Rome at the time could tell you, the typical Roman soldier did NOT have a bronze sword. It was STEEL, it was hard, and it was as nearly as sharp as a razor. So no, it WASN'T the Bronze Age.

Islam came along after a couple of hundred years of Imperial Rome's collapse. Scimitars were long, curved, hard, and sharp. AND STEEL.

So this whole "Bronze Age" bullshit you want to pull out is simply you being parrots for people only slightly more knowledgeable than you are, if you consider Kim Kardashian's huge ass and drooling hatred of President Donald Trump to be knowledge. You need to put down the Playstation controller, go outside, and get a job, at which point you will begin praying that the government doesn't take all of your money and give it to a useless basement-dwelling moocher who has bipolar PTSD autism that only allows him to breathe and maintain a Twitch channel to play some game with his fellow moochers with lots of bright lights and loud noises.

AOFM signing off, for now.

 

Mad Daddy here.

I do Facebook, mostly for extended family contact. But sometimes I see things that get me riled, because of how truly ignorant they are.

Now in this case, I'm not talking "ignorant" as in a euphemism for some sort of bigotry or other name-calling from a "progressive". I'm talking truly, utterly ignorant, as in the person in question doesn't really know what they're saying or asking for.

...continue reading "Know What You’re Asking For, Before You Get It"

goat-in-duck-costume

Lauricella runs a goat rescue group called Goats of Anarchy in New Jersey. She thought the duck costume would look cute on her baby goats, especially the newest rescue goat named Polly. So she bought the costume and took it home, not thinking too much of it. Little did Lauricella know just how much Polly would love that duck costume.

Howdy sweeties, it's the angry old husband here, been awhile, nice to talk to you again, yadda yadda yadda.

Thanks to Facebook, I found the video that is the pinnacle of ecstasy for my dear wife, the Crazy Duck Lady.

What few of you know is that not only does she revere ducks (especially baby ducks), she likes to talk randomly about fish as well.

Well, the video below was practically tailor-made for her. Check it out - a baby duck feeding fish.

Let me tell you about this so-called War on Women.

The people who yell most about it will tell you that they just want women to be equal to men. What they really want is equality of behavior, not equality of worth. They want to eliminate the natural, God-given differences between man and woman, the male and the female. The differences are there for a reason, and they are not just physical.

And these differences are what I find to be the most beautiful things about women.

Just to show how old and wise the recognition of this difference is, look at the Tao symbol, which existed 1,000 years before Christ was born.

tao_symbol

Opposites intertwine to make a perfect whole, each dependent on the other and each one taking shape inside the other. They have true equality - EQUALITY OF WORTH - but are still opposites that touch and fold inside each other.

I came to this epiphany while watching videos of soldiers coming home and reuniting with their families. While every family member had emotional reactions, it was the mothers and daughters who drew my attention.

They would break out in tears and cover their mouths as they ran to their loved one, and I realized they were trying to contain their literally overwhelming joy.

The capacity for that much joy and happiness, and the other feelings of life's experiences, were so beautiful to me. And it will be a horrible, hellish day should that ever be eliminated.

Winning the lottery is a dream.  Making a living as a full-time romance novelist is a goal.

There's a huge difference.

A dream is that fuzzy, happy, pie-in-the sky place we visit to escape reality.  For example, I've often imagined that a long-lost (very, very long and very very lost) relative would pass away peacefully at the age of 100+.  His or her team of lawyers - all wearing suits that cost more than my families' entire wardrobe put together, would show up at my office and tell me that Great, great Uncle or Aunt Mega Money had passed, leaving me everything.  It's a nice, nice thing to imagine, but I come from a very long line of poor folks, so it's a whopper of a dream.

Goals are different.  Goals are dreams wearing work clothes.

A goal is a target you plan and plot to reach.  And you put substance to the planning and plotting by working your little (or, in my case, not so little) tushie off.  That's where the danger comes in.  It's awfully easy to slow down on the work, ratchet up the fuzzy dreaming of the day when........ I might check Amazon and find my books are selling by the hundreds of thousands, or I might get that phone call from a movie producer wanting the rights to one of my books.  That day is never coming unless I work twice as hard at night and over weekends pounding the keyboard, doing social marketing, and then doing more keyboard pounding.

I've still been writing at nights and over weekends - don't get me wrong.  But I haven't been intense enough about it; I haven't been working hard enough.  Sleep is for folks who are happy piddling,  playing and dreaming.

It's far too easy to allow depression at my current circumstances to drain my will and energy so that I want nothing more than to laze around after a full day at the office, and crawl into bed and stay there and sleep all night. My day job is an intense, hard, grinding rat-race filled with nothing but pressure, deadlines and reasons that I'm not doing my job well enough.  Instead of using that to feed my will - I think I've been using it to feed my won't.

Sometime, when I wasn't looking, my goals sneaked back into my closet and put on a fuzzy robe and slippers.

It's time for me to refocus;  to put my nose back on the grindstone and to superglue my fingers to the keyboard.

Whatever your dreams are - do you want to keep them in fuzzy robes and slippers or do you want to suit 'em up and put 'em to work?  And if you think your dreams are already goals - be sure to take frequent time to check up on yourself.  Keep your goals in work clothes because no one ever crossed the finish line in fuzzy slippers.

For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.

- Isaiah 9:6 KJV

He shall be great, and shall be called the Son of the Highest: and the Lord God shall give unto him the throne of his father David:
And he shall reign over the house of Jacob for ever; and of his kingdom there shall be no end.

- Luke 1:31-32

Merry Christmas!

A new study claims that women who take charge at home have less sex than those who don't.  It looked at women who made household decisions like managing the budget, shopping, handling doctor's appointments and scheduling social activities.   It says that women who take charge of such things "can find themselves waiting 100 times longer for passion than those who do things jointly with their partner."

Researches say that there's a sliding scale - the  more decisions women make on their own, the less likely they are to have sex. 

The co-author of the study, Carie Muntifering said, "‘Understanding how women’s position in the household influences their sexual activity may be an essential piece in protecting the sexual rights of women and helping them to achieve a sexual life that is safe and pleasurable."

The study claims that for men, making decisions by themselves does not relate to the timing of sex.  So it's only the little women who are expected never to make a decision.  Men, apparently, are expected to be "bossy." 

I guess the authors of the study want women to stop making decisions.  Women who don't make decisions clearly can't work outside the home.  They also can't work inside the home.  They can't drive, do housework, or raise children.  What's left?  Women could sit, smile and look pretty I guess. 

Oh, no - wait.  Women couldn't do that either. They'd have to decide what to wear, how to make themselves up, how to do their hair and they'd even have to decide to sit down.  In the era of Pan Am and The Playboy Club, this study seems to fit right in.

Sexist, much?