That's Mr. Tabernacle To You

You'd Think I Died. Keep Wishing.

2006-10-06T14:54:00.000-04:00

Christ. Time really does fly the older you get. It looks like I haven't touched this blog since end of August when Jack forced me to destroy my kitchen table. Just like that. A month went by.

Horseshit.

Maybe it's because all the days that roll on by seem just as miserable as the one before. I don't know. I can't really tell any of them apart anymore. I get up, I take a shit, I eat some cereal, take another shit, go to work, come home, eat a Hot Pocket, watch some TV, listen to Jack's crazy ass adventures and then go to bed.

Wash. Rince. Fucking repeat.

This is the life I've carved out for myself? This is the best I can do with the remaining time I've got left?

I think about my 'heart attack' and I wonder when the next one is coming. If I were to take the dirt nap today, could I look back on my life and think: Yeah, Bill. Not too shabby. Not too shabby at all, old timer. Well. Could I?

Probably not.

Well, I don't mean to get reflective or bore any of my remaining readers with my rambling. You're probably wondering where the next nasty story is or the next time I make a complete ass out of myself.

I sense it's just around the corner. Here's why:

I started talking about 'not having much time left' and me being 'in the Korean War for crissakes' with Jack one night while we were sitting up watching a Chuck Bronson movie on the cable tv. He started asking me shit about women. I told him I was married (and divorced) three times. Each one of them worse than the one before. I even went so far to say I was glad one of them was dead.

"Fuck her," I said. I'd had a few too many to drink. I don't do it often, but when I do, look the fuck out.

"Wow," Jack said. "So you haven't thought about dating again? You know, getting back on the horse?"

I looked at Jack like someone had dipped him in shit and put doughnut sprinkles on him. Was he out of his fucking mind? I had to ask him.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"No," Jack said, belching into the crook of his arm. The boy's got manners, I'll give him that. "I just think you'd probably be a little healthier if, you know, you were with a lady from time to time."

"Trust me," I said, almost tempted to break my empty bottle over his damn fool head. "One reason I'm such a crabby son of a bitch is because of broads. I've been shit on too many times to fall into that racket again."

Jack sighed and shook his head. "I don't know, man. I just think it's kind of sad. I mean, I hope when I get older I'm not going to end up a miserable old prick like you..."

The stink eye I gave him stopped him dead in his tracks.

"No offense, but I sort of wonder if I'm going to end up like this. Old, living in an apartment, not getting any pusssy..."

"Hey, hey," I shouted, gripping the bottle tighter. "I can get pussy. I just don't like the trouble attached to it. Christ. I was balls deep in Korean hookers when your goddamn dad was a zygote in your grandpa's nutsack."

"What?"

"Never mind," I said. "My point is, that time is over. My friend Murray tried to hook me up with some broad in California a couple years ago and that went down the shitter. I think I'm just..."

Jack looked up. I guess I stopped in mid-sentence.

"Just what, Bill?"

I shook my dumb old head. "I guess I'm just waiting to die."

Jack grabbed me by the sleeve and shook me. My baseball cap popped off and fell to the floor.

"Fuck all that, man. I'm going to get you laid. That is my new mission in life."

I shook my head. Yeah, I could just see that. Jack will bring home some young little floozy and she'd take one look at me and throw up all over herself. I'm old, I'm miserable, and I look like I'm ready for the crypt.

"Don't even..."

"You're not the boss of me, Bill," Jack said. He stood up and went over to the computer. "Some way, some how, I'm going to set you up with someone."

"But, why?" I started to get nervous. I've seen this punk kid when he gets an idea in his head. He gets shit done. It's scary, almost.

Jack ignored me and started typing shit into the computer. Great. He was going to scour the internet for me. I'm sure I'll end up with some old fat broad so ugly she makes the street crack.

I tried all night to talk to the little prick. He wouldn't say word one to me. I ended up going to bed, afraid for morning and what his 'quest' will bring. It's nights like those where I hope I go to sleep and never wake up.

Stay tuned, Tabbies. I think shit is about to get much worse.

I Didn't Need To See That.

2006-08-31T10:14:00.000-04:00

Tabbies,

Having a roommate is the shits. I mean, Jack is a good kid and all, but there's something about another person sharing your personal space that just gets up in the crack of your ass and starts to itch. You know?

Take the food situation. I don't like a whole lot of variety in my diet. Give me a Hot Pocket and a cold beer and I'm set for the night. I make sure I have plenty on hand so that I don't have to go to the store and stock up on those breaded delights. When I came home from work the other night, I found Jack sprawled out on the couch asleep. The crazy son of a bitch was wearing his skivvies and nothing else, a half-eaten broccoli, chicken and cheese Hot Pocket on his chest. Some of that day-glo cheese seeped out and was bonding to his three or four chest hairs.

That must've hurt like a motherfucker. Burned, at least. But no, Jack slept right through it. I don't know if I was pissed about the mess he'd made or that he'd gotten into my HP supply. Fucking kids.

Another time in the middle of the night, he came back to the apartment, piss drunk. He stumbled around the place, knocking over chairs, banging into walls and made it to the bathroom. There, he proceeded to throw up like someone was taking a rake to his insides and pulling 'em up through his throat. I lay in bed, looking at the ceiling and wishing he'd just go ahead and die already. I listened as he said:

"Oh, God Jesus. Oh, God Jesus.... Oh Gaaa-rowwwlffhfgdhu!!!!"

The poor, miserable prick was calling in a favor to God n' Jesus and they were both responding with a big 'fuck you.' He threw up for what seemed like 3 hours.

The capper was when I worked a day shift and cut out early to go and get a check up, you know, because of my fucking heart. I punched out in the early afternoon, took the goddamn bus to my appointment, got the 'change your diet this, watch your activity level that and I headed back to the apartment. When I got there, I could see the smell-ass shoes Jack wore in the entryway, alongside another pair of smaller chick-like shoes.

Great.

Thinking he was in his room probably drilling some floozy, I went into the kitchen. There, on my kitchen table, was a naked girl of about 21, attached at the vagina to Jack's fuckstick. They took no notice of me in the kitchen door way and were going at it like a couple of nymphomaniacs.

"Yeah, you like that? You like a little Jack-in-the-box?"

I couldn't believe he said that to this broad as he drilled his piss-pump home. Over and over. The broad's tits were doing pirouettes on her chest as she clutched the sides of my shitty little table.

I couldn't believe I was watching this. I also didn't realize she'd seen me.

"Oh shit," she said covering up her serviceable funbags. "Your dad is home."

Jack withdrew like it was second nature. 'Shlop.'

"Shit, Bill," Jack said, out of breath. "I didn't think you'd be home until, you know, later."

I blinked and watched as the girl scrambled to get dressed. She didn't know if she should cover her tits, her groomed snapper, or her nice round shitbox. I think she wished she had an extra arm to get the job done.

"Yeah," I think I said. "I sort of didn't think I'd have to worry about you fucking someone on my kitchen table. Where I eat my goddamn meals."

Jack turned and looked at the table as if he hadn't thought of that. He didn't bother pulling on some pants, but I really wished he would have. It's a little unsettling talking to someone with their sex-slickened dong hanging out.

"I'll call you later, Jack," the young chick said, buttoning her loose cans into a flannel shirt. She looked at me and smiled with a shrug. "Sorry."

Jack sort of stood there, not sure where to look or what to do. He started to talk and I interrupted him.

"You know I'm going to have to burn this table now, right?"

Jack looked down at his diminishing erection. He nodded to the floor.

That night, with Jack's help, I pulled my kitchen table (one of the few things I got from my 2nd divorce) and with a small axe I used to wield when I was one of those faggots that liked to camp every weekend, I chopped the table into kindling. I dropped the pieces into an empty garbage can and lit the whole fucking works up.

Jack and I stood there in front of the barrel fire like a couple of homeless assholes, shifting our weight and shuffling our feet. We didn't say anything.

We just watched the fire.

Those Cocks.

2006-08-04T00:41:00.000-04:00

So, it's been a while. What'd you expect? I had what has been determined a minor heart attack. For christ's sake. I still don't think that was it. I'm convinced I fell down and knocked my damn fool head on something.

Regardless, I've been taking it easy.

I don't have much time. I'm actually going back to work today, but I figured I'd update the 2.1 people who still actually give a shit about ol' Bill Tabernacle.

Jack moved into my apartment. You know, the bar-back from the bar where I almost fucking ate it? Yeah. It's a temporary move, but he insisted, saying it'd be better if he was around in case I (in his words) "Do another face plant in the concrete."

I oughta bust that son of a bitch in his smart mouth.

What is it with e-mail? How come I don't get any? Make me wonder why I bothered with the bullshit. I mean, I was in the Korean War for crissakes. Shouldn't I be getting some messages from the government? Letters of appreciation from the citizens I fought to protect?

No. Instead, I get propoganda for prick pills.

In the e-mail was this picture:

Don't get me wrong. I don't mind looking at the photograph, what with the heavy, heavy boobs that woman has hanging off of her, but it's a little fucking sickening too. Do they really need to rub it in that my cock is on auto-pilot?

I look at this picture and wonder if it isn't time to put the bayonet into my chest and just take the one-way ticket to Silent Town forever.

I'm never going to get behind a whore like that.

My fucking hair never looked that good.

What the hell are they talking about? Rabbit hole?

Christ. I swear, sometimes I don't even know what the hell people are talking about anymore. If you can avoid it, don't get old.

It's for the fucking birds.

The Phantom Shitter 3: The Last Stand

2006-06-14T13:45:00.000-04:00

(pack a lunch for this one, Tabermaniacs)

Oh Tabbies,

I'm trying to get more goddamn creative about my bloggy titles. I sort of stole this from some movie title that's in the cinemas around here. I have no shitting idea what it's about. It sounded like a pornographic movie title, but I could be wrong.

Hopefully, the subject of this edition of TMTTY will clue some of your more daft sonsabitches as to what's going on. The Phantom Shitter has been unmasked. It's about goddamned time too. I was getting sick of the barrel-sized ass-missiles he was leaving behind.

It started a couple nights ago.

I was busy wiping the bar and scratching my fuck-stick and paste pellets when Jack came up to me, all excited. He threw the empty bottles he'd collected into the can and they broke with a nerve-rattling 'CLINK!'

"Holy shit, son," I said, thumbing a piece of Juicy Fruit into my word hole. "Ease up on the bottle tossing."

"Sorry, Bill," Jack said, doing a dance like he had to piss something fierce. "I was just in the pisser, when I heard something godawful."

My eyes lit up. I gave my case of chronic jock-itch a rest. My balls could be scratched later. If this was going where I thought it was going, all that extra-curricular shit could wait.

"The Phantom Shitter?"

Jack gulped and nodded, still doing the I-really-have-to-piss dance that 3 year olds sometimes do.

"What makes you think so?" I put the towel down, poured Beefcake Murphy his final beer for the night and waved the prick off.

"There's someone screaming in there, kind of like they're giving birth."

This had to be it. I came around the bar like a madman, ignoring the sharp pains racing into my trick knee. This was it. This was my moment in the sun. This was when I was going to get to the bottom of the monster who lay waste (literally) to the bathroom's at my place of employment.

"Jack, my boy," I said with I'm sure a twinkle in my eye. "Let's fucking do this."

I kicked the door to the bathroom open and waited a moment. The stink rolled into Jack and I like a fog of filth. I almost welcomed it, much like a hunter must welcome the signs and trackings of his prey. It definitely smelled like shit. We were on the trail, all right.

"Oh god, help," some poor miserable son of a bitch muttered from the middle stall. A fart thundered from somewhere behind the battered stall door, making the rest of the bathroom quake a bit.

At least it seemed to.

Odd, I thought. Our old buddy usually drops his industrial-sized droppings in the last stall. How curious...

"I can't get it out, for the love of Jesus," the Phantom Shitter exclaimed. I could hear him shuffling around in there, fighting that turd through the much-too-small opening. I couldn't imagine what it was like to try and force something so colossal out of your own body.

"We'll call the paramedics," Jack called out.

I turned and slapped him across the face. He looked at me like a wounded, abused child. I held up one finger, the only thing I could think of to make him stop and wait a minute. We didn't want the goddamn paramedics in here ruining our shot at the big time. No way.

"Oh...it's definitely stuck," the Shitter screeched. "Please send some help."

I decided enough was enough. I puffed up my chest, and got ready to kick the door in. I was used to taking the lead and bringing dangerous, unsavory situations to a close. After all, I was in the Korean War for crissakes.

With a grunt, I kicked the door in, letting it smack against the interior stall wall with a loud BANG! There, standing with his pants around his ankles, was Fred Gustafson.

The Phantom Shitter?

"Oh, man," old Fred groaned. "Thank god."

I looked at the scene. There wasn't a giant log lying in, on, or above the toilet water. A small cloud of yellow indicated that Fred took a piss and that was it. What was curious, though was was he was doing...to the toilet paper dispenser.

"What are you doing to the toilet paper dispenser, Fred?" I looked down and saw that his manhood had somehow got caught between the 'active' roll of toilet paper and the one up above it, used when the 'active' roll was depleted.

"I was taking a piss, drunk off my ass when I looked down. The bitch was asking for it, man!"

He pulled and tried to free his miserable prick, but it stayed caught. His piss pump was stuck between the two rolls of toilet paper.

"What the fuck," I muttered, slowly putting the scenario together. I'd heard of horny, drunk guys, but this was...

"Ridiculous," Jack said, still holding his red face. "You tried to fuck the toilet paper thing."

Fred groaned. "It looked just like a nice comfortable vagina, guys. Two nice, neat rolls. Close together. You gotta understand. I thought I could slip it in, pump it a few times and be on my way."

I wanted to haul off and kick ol' Fred in the ass for being so stupid, but I didn't want to sully my boot and I didn't want him to get any more stuck than he was. I turned to Jack with a sigh. It seemed we weren't going to crack the Phantom Shitter case that night after all.

"Sorry I slapped you, kid," I apologized. "I guess I over-reacted."

"It's cool, Bill," Jack replied, with a small smile. "Thought we had 'em, huh?"

"Ayuh," I muttered. Then, feeling like a real shit-heel, I asked him to go and call the ambulance. He went off, a little too excited to get out of the men's bathroom.

"You won't tell my wife, will ya?" Fred reached down and gripped his urine pipe, giving it a few good tugs. It was stuck fast.

"Nah," I said, backing out of the stall. "Help is on the way, there, Freddy."

He thanked me and as I was leaving the bathroom, I heard the last stall flush. I hadn't realized anyone else was in there. I turned on my heel, and saw a smaller, strange-looking man come out. He made his way to the sink and, looking at me in the corner of his eye, washed his hands.

The hands were small, almost feminine. As if to further prove it, the nails were longer. He looked up into the scratched up mirror and wiped his mouth. His mustache moved a fraction of an inch and when he pulled his hand back, the mustache came off!

This cock-sucker was in disguise!!!

That was when the stink hit me. It wasn't ol' Fred in his stall after all that had made the nuclear war in the bar's shitteria. It was this shifty, crazy son of a bitch.

To confirm my suspicions, I peeked my head into the stall.

There it was. A giant log the size of a telephone pole, lying half into the bowl full of sludge, half out. The Phantom Shitter had struck again and he was standing a mere two feet from me. When he saw that I saw the atrocity he'd left on the toilet seat, he broke into a run, heading for the door.

Now, I'm no marathon runner or an action hero, but I had to catch this vile son of a bitch. No matter what.

I was out the door and after the Phantom, knocking into Molly who had a pitcher of beer on her tray. It went down in a golden shower of beer and glasses broke like we were at some Jew's wedding.

The Phantom ran like a girl, but I was right on his ass, watching as his mangy hair fell off of his head and landed at the foot of some dick-nose dressed in NASCAR shit.

The costume was falling apart. In no time, I would know who the Phantom REALLY was.

He got to the front door without any problem and went around the corner, heading toward the back of the building. I was grunting and wheezing right behind him. I didn't care about my knee, my job or anything else. I was going to catch this prick once and for all.

The Phantom turned the corner and made his last mistake. He stood in the little alcove where we keep the dumpster. The miserable motherfucker was trapped.

I caught up with him and stood there, waiting for him to turn around and face the music.

"You sick son of a bitch," I wheezed. "There's something wrong with you."

"No," the Phantom said as he turned around. "There's something wrong with you, Bill."

Bill? Who the fuck did this dirty bastard think he was. That's Mr. Tabern...

Shit. I looked and saw the Phantom face to face. It wasn't a guy at all, but a woman. A woman I recognized. I wasn't sure until I saw the messed-up eye. If I wasn't mistaken, she'd gotten that injury last Christmas.

No, the Phantom Shitter wasn't some dude. It was...

Shirley.

Surely you remember Shirley.

I don't know what happened next. Somehow my eyes got all swimmy, my legs weakened beneath me and I could've sworn I saw ol' Shirley do a backflip and land in the dumpster. After that, everything went dark.

All I know is I woke up in the hospital. Jack was sitting next to my bed.

"You got a concussion," he said, looking at me like I was covered in maggots. "People say they saw you run out of the bathroom and out into the streets. The paramedics brought both you and ol' Fred in. Good thing I called those guys."

I sighed. I had no idea what the fuck was going on. I just know I shouldn't have slapped the kid.

God damn it.

Sometimes I Wish The Terrorists Would Just Win Already

2006-06-05T10:01:00.000-04:00

Tabbies,

I know I'm a vet and all that patriotic horseshit, but sometimes I really do wish the terrorists would just go ahead and win already. I mean it. Everyone talks about how great this country is and how we have all of these so-called freedoms, but you know what? I'm not buying it.

Do this little test. Go somewhere crowded and just act like a goddamn sponge. Absorb all of the human filth walking around on cottage cheese legs, listen to how people talk to their kids, notice how customer service people treat their customers. Look at the piles of garbage on the grounds. Watch a fat woman eat a greasy hamburger in one hand and suck on a cigarette with the other. Look at a douchebag with NASCAR shit all over his shitty Chevy Cavalier. Notice how much gas costs.

Sometimes, I just shake my head and say: Fuck this country.

Corrupt politicians shooting people in the face while hunting. A goddamn gorilla running the Whitehouse (referred by B. Tabernacle as the 'Shithouse'), that human phony Oprah Winnpeg (or whatever the fuck her name is) telling people how to live and PEOPLE LISTENING TO HER!!!

It's enough to make me want to fall onto my bayonet and call it a day.

If I seem exceptionally owly and curt today, it's for good reason. I had to do some shopping for supplies and I goddamn hate doing it. Because it makes me reflect on this shit in one convenient spot.

Our area Walmart.

Now, usually I go out and buy as much toiletpaper (turd tickets) deodorant, toothpaste, soap, etc. as I can afford so I don't have to venture out as often. But, I strung it out as far as I could. I had to goddamn go.

Now, since the passing of my beloved Silvia, I had to take the bus. Lots of fun if you've got to haul 20+ plastic Walmart bags back onboard with you. Well, it's horseshit.

So there I am, an hour later looking to find the best buy on dish soap when I see some douchebag ignoring his kids while he's busy inspecting a Dale Earnhardt Jr. wall clock. He's looking at it like a horny prick looks through a peephole at a naked dancing whore. Of course, he's got about 150 pounds of surplus beef hanging over his belt buckle. His kids are trying to reach something up on one of the shelves and have even gone so far as to start scaling the merchandise racks.

I can only pause and watch with rapt fascination. This is going to be interesting.

The kid pulls down a remote-controlled NASCAR car, all while applying his full weight to the shelves. The little porker's eyes open wide as he hears a metallic snap and wouldn't you know it, the whole goddamn works (shelves and all) comes raining down on him and his little brother. There's a 'whack' as the kid hits the floor and he's pelted with about 30 more of those redneck race cars.

NASCAR Sr. drops the clock in what I think is going to be a heroic move to pull his buried boys from the wreckage, but instead he yanks the kids up by the arm and smacks them both in the head, adding insult to injury.

"Now look whatchu did," the toothless prick mumbles. Both kids start screaming and crying, my blood pressure went through the fucking roof and I just wanted to GET THE FUCK OUT of there.

I don't want to seem like any more of a judgemental asshole than I've already portrayed myself, but I literally looked around me after that incident and I saw stuff that made me ashamed to be an American. To my left was a woman who weighed 500 pounds easily riding around on one of those scooters. I think she was maybe 42 years old. On top of it? She had a rose tattoo on her industrial-sized leg. What a goddamn mess. I'm 70 years old and I was in the Korean War for crissakes. I don't need any shitty scooter. Get up and walk you fat trashbag full of shit.

As I made my way down the aisle, I saw some pregnant broad pushing a cart loaded with shitty food and about 13 kids running back and forth from shelf to shelf, trying their best to pitch their wanted purchases to the their parents. Both of them looked like they fell off the back of wagon loaded down with comatose patients. The idea that these two were going to have ANOTHER kid made me sick to my stomach.

I brought my shit to the counter and had to put up with some scab named 'Marlene's' smarmy remarks. She looked at the 12 packs of toilet paper and said, "Boy, looks like someone goes through the TP!"

I gave her the patented Tabernacle stink-eye.

She muttered under her breath, I paid for my shit and hefted all of my products out toward the bus stop. Now, I'm not a praying man, but I said a little something under my breath, just wishing a fucking A-Bomb would drop on the Walmart moments after I left. It would be like a scene from a movie, except the rest of the town would benefit from the people inside being incinerated.

Hey, a guy's got to dream, right?

Christ. Just thinking about my 'shopping day' makes me pissed. I need a goddamn drink.

The Pounding In My Ears, The Pounding of My Fists

2006-05-17T15:18:00.000-04:00

Tabbies,

Thanks for sticking with your ol' buddy Bill. It's a disgrace that I don't get on here to update this pile of dogshit blogger-thing more often. I wish I could say I'm too busy chasing skirts and whooping it up, but that would be a lie.

Bill Tabernacle doesn't lie.

Truth is, I've just about had it with my neighbors. I'm ready to sharpen my bayonet and filet those sonsabitches. If you've been following my previous groanings, you'll know I've got some inconsiderate neighbors who like to listen to loud, horrible music. You know, the kind that shakes the walls and makes your testicles leap into your pelvis?

Yes. That kind of music.

It happened again last night. There I was, getting some much deserved shut-eye in my comfortable, dumpy little bed. It's an old shitty mattress. If you took the sheets off, it looks like someone was murdered on it, but damn if it ain't comfortable.

Anyway, I'm off track. I was dreaming about Hot Pockets, or internet breasts, or some damn thing and the next thing I know, my framed picture of Sophia Loren is rattling on my wall. If it kept up, the cock-sucking thing was going to come down and break over my dumb head.

I sat up in a cold sweat. Fuck, I thought. Was it the Koreans?

I sometimes wonder if they'll ever come looking for me. Straining to hear a little better, I figure out what is making that goddamn racket. It's my shitting neighbors.

If you remember, I went over there before and threatened to beat the shit out of the woman in front of her kids if this kind of monkey business continued. I think I might have called her a cooze to put a little salt in the wound.

Well, I had fucking had it.

I got up, put on my robe (I didn't want my piss pump to poke through my pajama pants) and got ready to kick some ass.

I went out the goddamn door. All I could hear was 'WHOOMP, WHAAM, BOOM-BOOM, SLAAAM.' I don't know how anyone can call that over zealous horseshit music, but that's what some folks like to listen to.

I clenched up a fist and pounded it into my open hand. Oh, yes. A punch from ol' Bill Tabernacle would still hurt. And that's what I had on my mind. Delivering the hurting. As I reached up to pound on the door of the apartment and punch this dumb bitch right in the mush, I heard something that made me think again.

Her kids. Her goddamn kids.

Yes, yes. I know. I threatened to beat this dumb twat up in front of her kids, but now that it was the moment of truth, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I couldn't imagine how scary that would be for some kid. Some crazy old white prick comes in and beats the shit out of your mom while you look on in horror.

So I did what anyone else would do. I made a different plan of attack. Changing up your stategy is nothing for an old vet like me. You assess the situation and plan your course of action with the options presented to you. This is the kind of shit I did when I was in the service. Lest anyone forget: I was in the Korean War for crissakes.

I found a large black Sharpie marker. I found a brick outside by the dumpster.

With just a little light from the street lamps, I scrawled the message:

TURN MUSIC
DOWN. CUNT!

Then, I heaved the brick through her apartment window. I'm pretty sure I didn't hit any of her kids, but I knocked some shit over with the brick. I heard the crashing of glass and something else in there tipped over.

In seconds, the music was turned off and I heard the words that have become music to my ears:

"Goddamn, muthafucka! What the fuck is this?"

A second later, I heard her ranting and raving. Apparently she saw my hastily written message. I ducked into the shadows in just the nick of time. I crouched down next to some garbage cans, making my trick knee sing. I think I might have played a note or two on the ol' butt trumpet too. She poked her head out the broken window, looking for the culprit. She was swearing up a storm, but I couldn't make heads or tails of it. It sounded like a bunch of clicks and whistles to me.

There I sat, breathing in my own stink, wincing from the pain in my leg, smiling like some kind of stupid juvenile delinquent. I couldn't help it.

Lesson? Don't fuck with Bill Tabernacle. Otherwise, out come the bricks.

Murray the Jew

2006-05-04T14:53:00.000-04:00

Holy fuck.

My friend Murray Goldfarb (aka Murray the Jew) is back in action. I had no idea. The old prick didn't see it fit to call me up or anything.

He's started a blog here. Who Needs A Drink?

Christ. This is good news. He and I had some crazy ass adventures in the past.

Goddamn.

I Might Have A Roommate Soon.

2006-05-04T14:39:00.000-04:00

Tabbies. How are you?

Some people have sent me e-mail about my decision to extract some of the angry bullshit I put on 'those other people's sites.' I thought I'd share an e-mail with you that struck me as poignant.

Hey Bill, you old cunt. Why'd you puss out and wipe out your comments about those CA assholes??? Ha, ha.. Just playin'. LOL!!!! - Super Jeremy

Here was my response:

Dearest Super Jeremy:

Fuck you. First off, it's my goddamn blog and I'll run it as I see fit. I still think those people are fucking crazy for posting that personal shit on their sites, but even so, it really wasn't my place to weigh in. I said what I wanted, and that was that.

Secondly, I hope you're not a regular reader of my fine blog. If so, please don't ever come back. Also, I hope you fall on a knife. No. I'm not just playing, you prick. Treat me with some respect. I was in the Korean War for crissakes.

Your lovin'
Super Bill

Alright. I'm closing the books on this bullshit once and for all.

As you may have surmised from the title of this shitty entry, I might get a roommate. Not sure it's going to be the best idea, but ol' Jack from the bar got thrown out of his girlfriend's apartment and he's got nowhere to go.

One part thinks it'll be hilarious to have the kid around, but the other part of me thinks it'll be a demonstration in complete and utter fucking annoyance. I have no idea what this asshole is like outside of being at the bar investigating the Phantom Shitter, cracking wise about some of the patrons, etc.

The kid might be a complete shithead.

I'm supposed to know in the next week whether he needs a joint to rest his head or not.

Christ. Me and my big mouth.

Stay tuned Tabbies...

Ah, Fuck It.

2006-04-25T16:00:00.000-04:00

Tabbies,

So I've taken down the two posts where I laid into those folks out in California. You remember, the ones about the dude who has a drinking problem? How he and his wife are having problems?

Yeah. I decided it probably wasn't going to help the guy (and his wife) to have my dumb old ass chiming in, telling them what's what. I've had that problem in the past. Sticking my snout in where it doesn't belong, thinking that my worldly advice was 'tough love' and that they'd take what I said to heart. I've been told I've got a knack for writing or speaking before I think and I guess this is one of those times.

Thing is, I've had problems of my own in the past. Shit. Try getting divorced three times, coping with the horrors of war, and having a family that can't stand you. Also, I lost one of my best friends, Murray the Jew. I have NO IDEA where that son of a bitch is.

So, I'll mind my own business and let those folks mind theirs. It's a shitty enough world we live in. Doesn't need to be any shittier by having me rub their noses in it.

Some might say: Bill, you really do have a heart. You're not such an asshole after all.

To them I say: Why don't you shut up?

There's Going To Be A Homicide

2006-03-22T13:25:00.000-05:00

What the fuck, Tabbies?

If I seem owly and a little more angrier than usual, it's for good reason. I slept maybe 2 hours last night. I've got some new neighbors that've moved into the apartment next to mine (there are two units above the bar, not the one I work at, but the one below where my goddamn apartment is) and they're the worst human bags of shit I've ever encountered in my life.

Ever. And I've seen a lot of human garbage. None of the people I've ever run into before have been as horrible as these bags of piss. I'm even including the Koreans on this one, and you know how I feel about some of those Koreans.

You know, because I was in the Korean War for crissakes.

But, since I don't want to come off racist (and lose every single one of my 3 readers), I'll leave their race anonymous. How would that be? Just keep this in mind: I love all races, every single person regardless of their skin color. Even the Chinks.

A little levity there. Lighten the fuck up.

This is the thing. For every race, there are those anomolies that exist that make you jump to a derogatory term to streamline your anger. As an Irish/German mutt, I consider myself a 'white guy' and therefore I'm sometimes stung by the racial epithets thrust upon me.

"Hey Bill, you dumb cracker." (not so bad)

"Fuck you, Tabernacle! You goddamn honky!" (still no tears)

"I'll kill you, you whitebread son of a bitch!" (what's with the bread/cracker references?)

"You white trash piece of shit." (okay, that's uncalled for)

But, you get the drift. There are white people you can get behind, and then there are the miserable excuses for human beings in my race that fall into the 'white trash' category. Same holds true for black folks, Indians, Asian people and even homosexuals. There are some gay people and there are some straight up faggots.

I didn't make the rules, I'm just an astute goddamn observer.

Well, the people who live on the other side of my wall are fall deeply into the derogatory category of their race. They're everything you would absolutely hate in a neighbor and more. I mean, I'm a goddamn vet. I know that and a pocketful of change doesn't get you much these days, but for Christ's sake...

Last night, they had their shitty, shitty loud music up so loud, my dickbag was rattling around in my long-johns. That's just not right.

Now, I know I work crazy-ass late hours at the bar, so I end up going to bed late (or early depending on your stupid point of view) but coming home at 3am and hearing WHOOOMP, WHUMP, WHOOM WOOOM WOOM BOOOOM is enough to drive me to murder. I served in the Korean War and I heard my share of loud, booming noises. I don't need to hear the horseshit in my own fucking apartment.

After about 20 minutes of this horseshit, I went over to their apartment and knocked on the door. Inside I could hear some woman cackling and a kid shouting: "Hey...someone's at the muh-fuggin' door!"

Two seconds later, a bug-eyed woman who looked like she was ready to take a swipe at me opened the door. She was wearing a housedress that needed some serious laundering, had those fingernails that some dumb broads pay too much money for, and a cigarette dangling out of her mouth. In the background, I could see a couple kids grab-assing on the couch. I remembered it was a Wednesday night.

A school night! What in the sweet name of Christ were these little shits still doing up? And why was this dumb-ass woman permitting it?

"Hello," I said, biting my tongue. "My name is Bill and I live in the apartment next door..."

"Uh-huh," she said wrinkling up her lips around the putrid cigarette stub.

"Yes, well the music. If you could just turn it down a bit, I'd really appreciate it."

"You don't get to come up into here and tell me to turn MY motherfucking music down," she said, pulling the cig from her nasty mouth and putting it out on the door frame. "I pay rent in this motherfucker and..."

I put up a hand and gave her the trademark Tabernacle stinkeye.

"Turn the music down, you goddamn cooze. Or I'll kick the shit out of you in front of your kids."

She opened her mouth to unleash a tidal wave, but caught the crazy-as-a-shithouse-rat look in my eye and stopped herself short.

"Have a nice night."

I turned and headed back to my apartment, my heart thundering in my chest like someone jumpstarted the goddamn thing with those electro paddles they use on TV. My adrenalin was going through the roof, making my ears ring.

The real fuck-all? I was so amped up from my encounter that I couldn't sleep for more than a couple hours anyway. I've got my ear open for this bitch, though. I have a feeling the battle has just begun.

Fuck people. Especially my neighbors and her rambunctious kids. Fuck 'em.

Return of the Phantom Shitter

2006-03-13T14:50:00.000-05:00

Afternoon Tabbies,

Remember some time back when I was telling you about the disgusting grease spot of a human that left the tree-trunk-sized ass log in the men's shitter? It was late last year, if memory serves.

Well, this past Saturday, the PHANTOM SHITTER returned!

I'd all but forgotten about the monstrosity this vile filthy son of a bitch left last time and I went into the can to take a quick slash before Jack (the bar back) and I started to clean the place up for the night.

As soon as I walked in, I could smell ol' PS's calling card.

"Christ Almighty," I grunted, feeling a squirt of vomit jump up into mouth. It seemed the lights dimmed a little and the music from the jukebox out in the bar was between songs. I swear, I'm not John Spielberg, but sometimes the shit around me has a real Hollywood like quality. Call me paranoid, but I'm still waiting for some unlucky prick to jump out with a camera and tell me the stuff that's been happening is all a joke and it'll be on TV, like that dead bastard's show Candy Camera, or whatever.

I'll tell you this: someone tries to pull one over on ol' Bill Tabernacle and they'll be tasting the business end of my bayonet. I'm not putting up with that horseshit. I was in the Korean War for crissakes.

So, long story short, I kicked open the stall doors. Sitting on one of the stalls was ol' Beefcake Murphy, asleep with his pants around his ankles, his wang touching the porcelin, and a wet spot down his left leg. God knows what was floating beneath him in the bowl.

"Get up, you silly fuck," I said, smacking him across the temple. The fat prick grunted, farted and started to stand up. His piss pump dangled like a baby's finger in his unbelievable forest of public hair.

Normally I don't look at the utilities of another man, but if there's a chance I might get a faceful of piss, I'm keeping both eyes open, son. The night I was having, the last thing I needed was for ol' Murphy to squirt me in the gob.

Beefcake started pulling up his pants and staggered out of the stall. A quick glance told me he wasn't the Phantom Shitter. There was a good gallon of two of low grade diarrhea in his bowl. I warned Phil about having our big chili special on Saturdays. It just doesn't agree with most folks and the poor cleaning guy, Faji, ends up spending all his time making the toilets somewhat presentable.

I checked the next stall. Nothing. The only thing I noticed was a new piece of graffiti scrawled into the wall: I wear cunts like hats.

Charming. I'm sure all of the ladies are lined up at your door, pal.

The last stall had to be it. If memory served, it was also the place the vile son of a bitch shit his guts out the first time. The stink was overwhelming, but I had no choice. I had to crack this case once and for all.

There, lying half in the bowl and half on the seat(!) was the evidence that our bar had once again been visited by the PHANTOM SHITTER. Seriously. It's almost inhuman. How could anyone without an asshole like the Lincoln Tunnel pass something so big out of their shitcutter? How does it not look like a murder took place in this stall? There should be blood in the toilet, claw marks on the walls, and we should've heard this poor soul's scream of terror as this monster screamed it's way out of his asshole.

How was this possible?

"Holy huge shit," a voice from behind me said. I half expected it to be Beefcake Murphy, but he was washing his dick in the sink. No. Standing behind me, was Jack. He had four empty bottles in his hand, and he stood there with his mouth agape, amazed at the brown record breaker desecrating our bar's toilets.

"Close your mouth, son," I warned him. "Try not to breathe it in."

"Is it the Phantom?"

"Ayuh," I said and spit at the thing, half expecting it to spring up and attack the both of us. "Get a ruler."

Jack, ever the loyal barback went and found a ruler in the back office and brought it back to me. I hadn't moved an inch while he left. I only heard Beefcake slip and fall, whacking his dumb head on our filthy floors.

"You gonna push it back in, or..." Jack slapped the ruler in my hand. The way he was talking, he thought the giant shit was like a beached whale and it was just a matter of me rolling it back to whence it came, but no. I had other plans.

I took the ruler and getting closer than I cared, stuck one end into the cakey, brown mass. I pressed down until I could feel the end touch the seat. I had to measure the thing, there was no getting around it.

"Fuck me," I muttered and gagged. It was like I'd released even more stink by cutting into the thing. I squinted through watering eyes and looked to see the number on the ruler. I blinked to make sure it was legit.

The turd was just under six inches thick.

Jack gave the sign of the cross. I gulped back the vomit in my mouth.

"This is unbelievable, boy," I whispered, trying hard to keep any open orifices on my face closed. "There is a monster frequenting our bar and we've got to catch him."

Jack nodded. He knew what was at stake. He pulled out his cell phone and somehow managed to take a picture of the thing, complete with the ruler stuck into it. It seemed we had to keep our eyes peeled for this creature. This fiend with the anus not unlike a boa constrictor.

We would find him.
Confront him.
Suggest he seek medical attention.
Also, we would ask him to not leave giant, mutant turds on our toilet seats.

I closed the door. Faji would have his hands full cleaning up this atrocity.

I'll Be Goddamned.

2006-03-02T19:44:00.000-05:00

Sometimes you learn from your mistakes, Tabbies.

When I signed up for this internet shit, I was thinking I paid a little money and I could have the entire internet for as long as I wanted.

Turns out, I have to pay for the complete HORSESHIT EVERY GOD DAMN MONTH. Did you all know about this? How come no one bothered to tell me? I swear. I sometimes wondered why I bothered to even get this godforsaken portal to garbage in the comfort of my apartment.

Then I remember I like downloading pictures of boobs and assaulting other people on the internet who don't know anything.

Yes. I'm a simple man with simple pleasures. Also, I don't like people very much.

Well, as you can surmise, I ended up forking over a little cash to keep this stupid blog page afloat for a while longer. I noticed that people were wondering where I was. Right. Like anyone actually gives a shit and a half what happens to ol' Bill.

Do you? I'm touched.

So, I'll do my best to bring you the latest in Tabernacle news, but I gotta admit, there hasn't been much happening. If I made a list of the big events that happened since I wrote something on here last, you'd probably delete the address thing up top and never come back.

Say...that's not a bad idea.

SHIT THAT HAPPENED TO ME (BILL TABERNACLE) RECENTLY:

- I read somewhere that having your nutsack shaved is something you've got to try once before you die. Since I thought that type of stuff was reserved for Nancy-boys, I never bothered. Now, I'm a grizzled old man who will stab anyone who looks at me funny, so I tried it. First off, my testicles hang down a good 4-5 inches and look like they're swathed in a turkey neck. It's ugly. Why I thought to even put a razor down there is beyond me. Lo and behold, I nicked my nuts pretty good and bleed like a murdered pig. Also, I got blood on my last good towel. Fuck this.

- Some shitbird asked me for spare change on the street while I was walking to work (Silvia, I miss you more than ever). I told him to go hang himself. If you've read my dumb blog for some time, you'll know I've got no time for the 'homeless.' I think most of these assholes are scam artists, so I don't give them a red cent. Usually when I open my trap, they want to fight and you know me, I'll never back down from a hobo. Or anyone for that matter. I was in the Korean War for crissakes. Turns out the guy was homeless. Later that night I walked by and saw him sleeping under a parkbench next to a fresh pile of dogshit. Good. At least he's honest. Still, I was tempted to kick him.

- I don't mean for every other post to be related to my (or certain people dressed like sandwiches) bowel movements, but have you ever lowered yourself onto the pot and wondered halfway through if you were going to live through the experience? I did. I'm not sure what I ate, but it felt like I was trying to pass a thorny loaf of bread through my shitcutter. Honest to Pete, I thought my swollen o-ring was going to skip past the industrial sized log I fired out to be lost forever down the thunderbucket. Makes me wish I had cancer.

Good night.

Eastbound Sandwich

2006-01-31T15:24:00.000-05:00

BT Beauties,

There's a nice feeling when I open this stupid goddamn Blogger page to see that no one has left a comment for quite some time. Christ, I'm usually surprised that anyone even stops by here anymore. It's not like I've got anything important to say.

Seriously. There's got to be a better way for you and I to spend what little time we have left. I'm amazed that I even bother logging into this piece of shit. What's the point, really? Is this what I've been reduced to? An old vet trying his hardest to keep up with the times? Truth be told, the times have left me behind like a redheaded child with violent explosive diarrhea...

...and no pants.

Last night, Jack (the bar back) and I were shooting the shit. I told him how much I hated my fucking job serving the same shitheads the same beers and drinks night after night after goddamned night.

This probably isn't what he wanted to hear, epecially since he's hoping to someday become a bartender like his old buddy Bill.

It didn't phase the young bastard one iota.

Instead, we started talking about shit jobs we've had. I told him about how I was in the Korean War for crissakes and he said he knew that, that everyone knew that. He also reminded me of the plaque he bought for me as the Secret Santa.

"Oh, right," I mumbled.

I talked about working at the hardware store (and the break-in Murray the Jew and I staged), I mentioned when I used to sell shoes to fat women, and how I was also a security guard for a hotel back in the 70's. All shit jobs.

Wouldn't you know it? Jack had an ace in the hole. The young prick had me beat.

Apparently, a couple years ago he was really desperate for dough. So much so that he worked at a new sandwich place out here in Jersey. They were just getting up and running and since East Coasters are such pricks about their sandwiches, no one would give the place the time of day. So, Jack's boss got the idea to rent a fucking sandwich costume and have his employees dress up in it, stand out by the interstate and wave people in, dressed like a goddamn club sandwich.

They all took turns, but one morning Jack came in for work late. He'd blown his fucking mind on booze and the marijuana so he wasn't feeling so hot. He was what he called 'feeling greasy.' He had the trots, the dry heaves, etc.

Well, his boss wasn't having any of it. In fact, he was so pissed about Jack being late (to his third shift on the job) that he made Jack wear the fucking sandwich get up all day. Now, normally this would be a gift. If you're feeling like a loaded diaper and retching, being away from food is the best plan. Especially if you can be outside and breath some moderately fresh air.

Jack said it was a fate worse than death. Stuck inside the sandwich, breathing his own stink and dry heaving as he flagged cars down to come on in and have a fucking sandwich for Christ's sake.

I nearly pissed the pants I had on listening to his story.

"It gets worse," Jack warned me.

"Then keep fucking going, son," I said, sipping the rest of my warm beer.

About an hour and a half of dancing around like an asshole, his own asshole started doing the shuck n' jive. He turned and his stomach sounded like a goddamn thunderstorm was rolling in. Only it wasn't going to be a thunderstorm. Shitstorm was more like it.

Jack didn't know what to do. If he ran back to the store (which was forbidden) his manager was going to can his ass. If he didn't, he was going to make the inside of the sandwich suit stink something fierce.

So, he did what any hung-over male outside a busy interstate with the trots dressed in a sandwich suit would do. He dropped his pants and squatted.

He said he didn't care. No one could see his face, but almost everyone that was heading eastbound saw an unforgettable sight. A giant sandwich with legs was shitting his guts out on the side of the road.

Halfway through the ordeal, the stink wafted up to his nose and he began to vomit. He positioned his head down to puke down and out through the opening where his legs were. He said he threw up all over his own cock and legs.

It must've looked like the sandwich was literally dying on the side of the road.

I'd have given my shriveled left testicle to see that.

Jack let me know that once he was done, he removed the suit as best he could, left it on the side of the road and after pulling up his pants, hitchhiked his way home.

In retrospect, he'd never felt better.

I've never laughed so goddamn hard in my life. Proof positive that I'm a sick son of a bitch. Other people's misery puts a smile on my stupid face.

I'm A Goddamn Voyeur, Now.

2006-01-04T15:49:00.000-05:00

Tabernacle Tit-heads,

There's something about watching two people fucking that makes the old blood pump race. You know what I mean?

There I was earlier today, sitting in my shitbox old apartment, minding my own business watching Hogan's Heroes and eating a broccoli, chicken and cheese Hot Pocket when I hear a blood-curdling scream from the building next to mine.

I took another bite and hopped up from my chair. I don't remember if I was excited because I thought someone was getting murdered, or what, but I hobbled my way over to the bedroom window, moved the dirty drapes out of the way and looked down.

If someone was getting slaughtered, I figured it might as well be between the buildings.

Nothing. Just the old bag from the other apartment tossing a sack of trash into the dumpster. Old cunt.

I was about to go back and watch Colonel Klink get pissed at Hogan and friends, when I happened to glance at the apartment next to mine, across the mini-alley.

There, for all the world (at least all the Bill's) to see, was a tall skinny guy giving some giant hog of a woman the fucking of a lifetime. He stood there, shorts down to his knees, glasses still in place, laying pipe in something that was lying on the bed like some kind of deflated hot air balloon.

Her giant, sloppy tits were swimming around like they were paddles in an oversized raft. The nipples on those monstrosities were horrid. They were the size of dinner plates and looked like a dog had gotten after them. You know, chewed 'em up but good?

Awful.

The dork laying the pipe stopped for effect, swatted her tree-trunk-like thigh and proceeded to slowly thrust his piss pump in slowly, ever-so-slowly. The hog on the bed grabbed the pillows like they were bundt cakes and screamed at the top of her lungs.

Now this was something!

While I don't want to sound like some kind of queer, I couldn't help but wonder what artillery this skinny fuck was packing. I mean, I don't like guys or anything. After all, I was in the Korean War for crissakes. But still, I had to wonder what his secret was.

What did this 110 pound punk have that made Moby Dick's daughter shriek like this?

As if the guy could hear the questions cycling through my amazed mind, he pulled his swollen johnson out and rolled her over. I watched as her giant buttcheeks sent ripples of fat away from her cavernous buttcrack to the triple-sized thighs.

It was then I saw what my neighbor was packing.

The guy had a short prick, but what he lacked in length, it uncannily was made up in girth. This bean-pole had a cock on him as wide as a stove pipe. Honest to god. Go get a can of coffee and you've got a pretty close match.

It was unbelievable. I had to keep watching...

...that was, until he parted the fat slob's massive butt cheeks to reveal the snarly, hairy shit socket contatined inside. It looked like someone used it as an ashtray. He was going for the back door. That monster was going to put that giant thing in her dumper.

That was all I could watch.

I went back to the living room to my Cold Pocket and turned Hogan's Heroes up. Way up.

Even so, I could still hear that big bitch's screams.

A stove-pipe. I'm not shitting you.

Hey Secret Santa. Fuck You!

2005-12-23T11:01:00.000-05:00

Enough about the shit I found in the toilet. I've had so many goddamn e-mails about this, it's starting to make me regret sharing the story. Yes, I should've saved it. One reader suggested I extract the thing and bronze the fucking turd.

Admittedly, it would've made a hell of a doorstop.

Who knows, maybe Faji (Arab clean-up fellow) took it home and ate it. Judging by the stink of the food some of those people eat, I wouldn't put it past him.

Anyway, I've got to tell you, I'm not much for the holidays. I know. Big surprise. But fucking Shirley, one of the barmaids at the bar decided it would be fun for us to exchange gifts and do the secret Santa thing. At first I didn't know what the fuck she was talking about, but I guess you 'secretly' buy some shitty gifts throughout the last week of Xmas and give them to one person.

There are six of us working at the bar and I was the only one who said: 'Bullshit.'

After much whining and people giving me the stink-eye, I gave in.

"It doesn't have to be anything big or fancy, Bill," Shirley promised. "Just something nice."

I couldn't help but notice how fucked up her eye was from when she got it poked thanks to the horrible fake tree she set up weeks ago. I must've nodded and then next thing I know, we're pulling names out of a goddamn hat.

Guess who's name I got? Shirley's.

I have no idea who go mine, but when I find the cocksucker, it's going to be war. And believe me, Bill-o-maniacs, I know war. I was in the Korean War for crissakes.

So, I had to buy gifts for Shirley.

Now, while I'm sure I don't need to remind you, but I'm not exactly a ladies man. I'm especially not a ladies man when said lady happens to look like a poor man's quasimodo, complete with a fucked up eye. I've been divorced three times. What do I know about getting gifts for people?

I came into work a few days later and found the first gift from my 'secret Santa.' It said: Ho ho ho, Bill. I hope you like apples.

I unwrapped the package and sure enough, there was a goddamn apple in there. Bruised and just awful looking.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," I said aloud. I don't care if my Secret Santa (whoever the cunt was) could hear me. I gave a suspicious look at Jack the barback, but he was busy giving his ass a good, deep itch, which reminded me to never shake hands with that young prick.

It then dawned on me who it probably was. It was Shirley! She was trying to tell me something like she always did with the rest of the guys in the bar. We should eat healthier and get some exercise, all that shit.

I'd show her.

Since I hadn't bought her a gift yet, I had a plan. When no one was looking, I slipped into the women's can and found some change. I bought two maxi pads and two tampons from machine and wrapped them in toilet paper.

With a marker we kept behind the bar, I wrote: Shirley. Merry Christmas! These are gifts for your snatch. Secret Santa on the makeshift package.

I discreetly slipped the works into the pocket of her coat in the backroom. She'd have a nice surpise when she reached for her gloves.

While I don't mean to drag this fucking story out, I'll give you a rundown of the presents I got and what I got for Shirley in return.

From my Secret Santa (Shirley):
- An expired bus transfer
- A box of rusty paper clips
- A naked autographed picture of Kathy Bates

What I bought Shirley (in return):
- A Weight Watchers frozen grilled chicken meal
- A douchebag
- A picture of an elephant taking a piss.

Fuck it. All is fair in war. And like I said, I know war.

Just yesterday, we were supposed to bring our last gift in and give it to your person personally. While I waited to see what I got from Shirley before I went and bought her something (to match the insult) I went all out. I went to the park with a small cardboard box and I found all sorts of frozen dog shit and put it in. I wasn't about to be outdone.

Fuck Shirley and her Christmas spirit. Try and fuck with Bill Tabernacle, will you?

Before we opened all six of us (we usually don't staff ourselves that heavily, but the holidays, you know) got together with our gifts. I had even gone so far as to wrap the box in nice paper and slapped of fucking bow on the box of shit.

"Okay," Shirley said with a smile. "Exchange!"

I didn't know why she was smiling. Did she have the ultimate insult gift for me? I zeroed in on her and watched in horror as she took her gift and brought it over to Randy, the daytime bartender.

Fuck me. Shirley wasn't my Secret Santa.

"Hey, Bill," Jack said. "Here you go."

I looked down and saw a nice, flat wrapped package in the kids grubby hand. I took it and opened it, feeling like a complete asshole. There, in my hands was a nicely engraved plaque that said: In Honor of Korean War Vet: Bill Tabernacle. It said some other shit on it too, but I'm not going to lie. The thing was/is fucking beautiful.

"I just wanted to fuck with you with those other gifts," Jack said. "Merry Christmas, buddy."

I just nodded and looked at the thing as Jack got his gift from Faji. It was the special edition DVD of some movie the kid was always jawing about. He was happy. Everyone was happy, but in the corner of my eye I could see Shirley looking around. Everyone had gotten their gift but her.

There I stood with a wrapped box of frozen (probably thawed by now) dog shit.

Fuck me.

I don't think I have to tell you what happened, but I will anyway. She saw that I was the only one with a wrapped package in one hand and my opened gift in the other. She came over, said: "So, it's you. You're my Secret Santa. I should've known."

"I...," I stammered, like a stuttering jackass trying to recite 'Peter Piper' in front of the class.

She grabbed the gift before I could do anything and tore it open. She sighed before opening the box. She took a look at the nicely arranged dog shit and then mashed the box (melted turds and all) into my chest.

"I hope you go to hell, Bill Tabernacle," she said and a tear leaked out of that messed up eye. "I don't even have to hope. You're going there, mister."

With that, she walked out and that was the last any of us had ever seen of her.

There I stood, with a Korean War plaque in my hand, dog shit mashed into my shirt looking like the complete asshole I've become. I'd been swindled and forced to participate in some fucking holiday ritual and ended up getting the shit end of the stick. Literally.

So, fuck Christmas. I'm going to sit home, ignore the phone calls from my family, drink until I pass out and count the hours until the horrible fucking holiday is done.

The Phantom Shitter

2005-12-12T10:52:00.000-05:00

Happy Holidays, Taber-philes.

Christ, I can't even make that look convincing, let alone sincere. So, we'll leave the holidays where they belong: in the toilet.

In case you were wondering, I haven't heard from my son or his horrible wife about my Thanksgiving escape. I think they get the idea that I'd rather floss my crotch with barbed wire than sit with them at another god-damned uncomfortable 'family' dinner.

Fuck them.

So, speaking of toilets, I've got a mystery I'm trying to unravel. It started this past Saturday and I'll be dipped in steaming liquid shit if I can't figure it out.

Now, let me set the record straight. The bar I work at isn't some nice little place where the douchebags from downtown get together after a hard day at the office for a little 'wind-down.' No, the bar I tend is a blue-collar, 3rd rate beer-pouring, fuck you if you break the jukebox kind of place. The electronic dartboard doesn't work, most of the neon lights advertising the beers are flickering or out, and the restrooms are places you go to die, not go in there to fucking 'rest.'

Christ, that's good.

Let's put it this way: two of the three urinals in the men's shitter aren't working. One got broken when Drunk Jerry got pissed off and drove his steel-toed boot through the back of it. He screamed that the urinal cake was laughing at the size of his dick and he just went apeshit. The second one is so clogged up with shit that we just taped a sign over it that said "Closed.' Damn if people don't still squirt a few shots in there anyway.

None of the stalls have doors and haven't since I've known about the place. Sure there's all kinds of great writing on the walls. I don't know who's got the patience to sit on the shitter with a knife and carve out things like: My cock is huge or Mary is a filthy whore, but the people who drop a deuce at our place certainly do.

But this all pales in comparison for the goddamn criminal in my midst. Someone who frequents the bar is a very, very sick individual. I'm telling you, they need to see a fucking doctor. Now.

At close on Saturday night, I went into the bathroom to take a quick piss before heading home. I was tired, irritated and wanted to get home, have a Hot Pocket and drop into bed. As I'm watering the back of the urinal I catch the stink.

You know what stink I'm talking about. I won't turn this blog into shit and fart jokes if I can help it. I mean, I'm not that juvenile. I was in the Korean War for crissakes.

After zipping up my third arm, I sauntered over to the last stall. I don't know why, I mean, I'm not the goddamn janitor (he's an Arabic dude named Faji or something and he comes in mornings to clean up), but curiosity got the better of me.

I peeked into the stall and my goddamn eyes almost wept instantly. Not only was the stink legendary, but the sheer SIZE of what I saw was enough to make me go back to church on Sundays.

Okay, let's not get fucking carried away here.

There, hanging over the edge of the toilet like a grown man's arm was the single BIGGEST turd I have ever seen in my life. Nothing in my time in the service could have prepared me for the brown colossus that lie before me.

Imagine those logs you put in the fire that you can buy in stores. I think they're called Duraflame or some shit. Fine. Now imagine unwrapping it and having something that thick and awful coming out of your tender ass.

That's how big this thing was. I had to do the Tabernacle double-take to make sure I wasn't dreaming or piss drunk. I wasn't. It was there, big and brown as day.

I couldn't take my eyes off of it. My nose twitched like a pedophile's pants at a kindergarten Christmas paegent. All that could run through my head was: Who? Who in their right mind could crap out something so huge? So thick? Whoever it was must've had an asshole the size of the Lincoln tunnel.

As I finally drew my eyes away and headed to the sink to wash my hands, a series of questions ran through my head.

- Was it Drunk Jerry? Nah. He hadn't been in tonight.
- How did they manage to get it up onto the seat? It was like the thing wanted to crawl out to freedom.
- Why wouldn't they flush it?
- Were they proud of this monster BM?
- Was there a Guiness Book of World Records section for something like this?
- How much does that thing weigh?
- Just who was the Phantom Shitter?

I left the turd for Faji to clean up in the morning. I went home, didn't bother to eat a Hot Pocket, and tried unsuccessfully to sleep.

The contents of that toilet haunted me. I could only hope whoever was responsible was either dead or just passing through town. Goodnight Phantom Shitter, whoever you are.

You sick fuck.

Thanksgiving? Yeah. Thanks For Nothing.

2005-11-28T15:43:00.000-05:00

Tabernuts.

I hope the holiday went well for all of you. Well, that's a lie, actually. I sort of hope it was as horseshit for you as it was for me. I know that's not a nice thing to say to the 2-3 of you people that actually check in on old Bill, but right now that's how it goes.

I don't know why I dislike what's left of my family, I really don't. Maybe it's because I'm sensible and honest and every one else in the tree is just so goddamn uppity and fakey. I've tried time and time again to try and be the better man. All it leaves me with is the feeling I've just eaten a shit sandwich and I'm being asked if I want seconds.

So, if you haven't surmised, I ended up at my son's house for a Thanksgiving dinner.

Here's the thing, though. I planned on trying to get out of it. I told him that the bar was open and I was scheduled to tend bar for all of the other low-life losers who didn't have a place to stick some turkey into their gobs. But, my son bested me. He called the bar directly and found out we were closed for the holidays.

Son of a bitch. He is, you know. My son. My ex-wife? His mother? She was a Grade A bitch. One of the worst broads ever.

Anyway, I got caught, and next thing you know I'm on a goddamned Greyhound to their place in Boston. Not only do I have to listen to some old woman retching in the on board toilet in the back, but I got some slovenly fat fuck in the seat next to me. Christ Jesus. His rolls (and I'm not talking about the ones on the dinner table) were literally spilling out over the hand rails and onto me.

Not what I needed.

When I got there, it was just the cold shoulder all around. Even my dumb grandkid acted like he'd rather I went into his room and take a dump in his toybox.

The trend, in the years I actually showed up for Thanksgiving dinner, has been that we'd sit around, shoot the shit and then settle down to eat. Nope. This time, I walked in. My jacket was unceremoniously tossed into a closet and I was seated at the dinner table.

My son tried to engage me in conversation while his rotten wife and kid did their best to stare down their mashed potatoes. I just nodded in the right spots and did my best to be civil. I mean, Christ. They wanted ME there. I did everything I could (short of murder) to get out of going.

At one point my daughter-in-law looked up and said: 'You really don't want anything to do with us, do you Bill?'

I was busy trying to see what in the fuck that shiny thing was in my stuffing, so I didn't hear her so well. I looked up and said: 'What's that?'

To that, she dropped her fork and threw her napkin onto her unfinished plate. She stood up and pointed her finger at me. At me! Nobody points their finger at me.

I was in the Korean War for crissakes.

'Don't play the confused vet routine with me, Bill. You heard me loud and clear! You don't want anything to do with our family, do you?'

'Not when you go and holler at me, I sure don't.'

Again, I looked down at the stuffing. I think there was something foreign in that stuff. What was it? Poision? Some sort of insect? Judging by past meals at my son's house, I wouldn't put it past either of them.

My son, ever the hero, kept his stupid mouth shut. My grandson adjusted his chair or farted. Not sure which.

I thought about all of the crappy things that my son and I have done to each other in the past and I kept my mouth shut. I thought about how my long-ass trip in that horrible bus couldn't have been any worse. I thought about why I even bothered to make amends for getting caught in a lie. I thought about how I'd like to be anywhere but at my son's house right then.

'I have to go to the can,' I think I mumbled.

I excused myself and got up from the table while my shitty daughter-in-law kept screeching about something. Once in the toilet, I stood there looking at my miserable face in the mirror. I looked at the fucking handtowels with a turkey wearing a pilgrim hat embroidered on them. I looked at the window and thought how great it would be to jump through it.

Well, thinking is one thing. Doing is another.

Being as stealthy as I could, I pulled the cord for the blinds and exposed the window behind the shitter. I undid the latch, threw the window open and kicked the screen with everything I had. The frame bent and after another kick, the son of a bitch was out in the yard. Knowing I'd never be able to throw myself out the window like that prick Steven Segal does in movies, I stepped on the toilet (cracking the lid) and climbed out without doing too much damage to myself.

I brushed my hands as I stood on the screen and started walking to their backyard. I supposed I'd have to call a taxi or some shit to get back home.

My only regret? I left my jacket there. Thankfully, my goddamn wallet and keys were in my pocket.

Fuck Thanksgiving, especially when you've got nothing to be thankful for.

Smells A Lot Like Shit-mas

2005-11-11T11:09:00.000-05:00

Tabby-philes,

Thanks for all of your kind e-mails in regards to Silvia. I can't believe how horribly that plan played out, but this kind of shit seems to happen to your old buddy Bill. It's like God is sitting up on his goddamn holier-than-thou chair, giving me the finger.

Some days I wish he's just use that finger to finish the deal. Snuff me out, you cock. I've had enough.

But enough of the cheery portion of my writing. It's getting to that time of the year where I want to sharpen my bayonet and throw it into the face of someone wearing a sweater so fucking hideous, that pudding-eating prick Bill Cosby wouldn't be caught wearing.

Yes. The holidays are coming and I'm not happy about it.

Thanksgiving is coming up and I'm sure I'm going to get the obligatory, half-hearted invite to visit my son and his horrible wife for dinner. I don't even like turkey, for crissakes. If they had a variety of Hot Pockets I could enjoy, maybe... Even still, I'm not much of a conversationalist and I'm still not sure my grandson is all there in the head. The kid has a case of the bug-eyes and he just stares.

I had to check my face in the mirror to make sure a bird didn't shit on me or something.

Needless to say, I probably won't be spending Thanksgiving there.

At the bar I work at (don't ask, I won't tell) ol' Shirley started pulling out the Christmas decorations yesterday. I don't think the shitbirds that come to our bar want to see fucking Santa Claus and his bitch-whore wife hanging from our filthy ceiling. She even tried to set up the shabby fake tree (the late & stupid previous owner) Herbert left behind and the damn thing tipped over and a wire from one of the branches poked her in her eye.

Jack the barback took her to the hospital, because her eye had started to swell and she couldn't get it to stop watering. Great. When she comes back, we're going to have a goddamn pirate on our staff. Avast, fuckers.

I don't know what it is, but Christmas almost always leaves me feeling hollow. Like after I've emptied my stomach when I've got a case of the trots and my asshole is burning like someone set a lit match to it.

Fuck this season.

The 'Silvia' Adventure Part 2

2005-10-28T10:34:00.000-04:00

I don't know why I subject myself to this. I do something stupid and like an ass-ended moron, I write about my dumb follies on this goddamn blog. Seriously. Someone hit me in the nose with a hammer. I'm really getting stupid in my old age.

So, I've gotten some e-mails back from some jokers who thought what happened when I attempted to rescue my beloved car was hilarious. They can't believe I would fuck things up so badly and had a laugh at old Bill's expense. Sure. Why not? I'm only a veteran of a foreign war. It's not like I've earned your respect or anything.

I was in the Korean War for crissakes. This is the thanks I get.

Well, I'll play the game. I know that some of you are sincerely interested in my woes and not using me as a goddamn silly old fart puppet you can laugh at like some kind of dipshit mongoloid clown. Some of you care. I think.

Enough crying. Let me pick up the story a couple days later...

The walk home in the friggin' dark didn't do much for my shitty back or my trick knee. I'm even embarassed to say that on my way back to my apartment I had to drop my pants in an alley behind a Taco Bell and get rid of the burrito I ate from the gas station. Have you ever heard the expression 'taking a mud dump?' Well, now you have. You figure it out. There's nothing more eye-opening than wiping your soggy, battered asshole with a chulupa wrapper. What the hell is a chulupa anyway? I'll never know. I'm staying away from that awful Mexican food.

After a couple days of rest back in my apartment (which I had to break into, so long security deposit) I was ready to make another attempt. I put the cock-sucking spare Silvia keys into my pocket and checked to make sure the sonsabitches were there. Every five minutes I patted the front of my pants like some kind of pervert until I heard the jingle of the keys.

Good. Fine. Great.

With a newly loaded bus pass, I was on my way.

After an uneventful bus ride (besides the old indian woman who blew a giant hunk of snot out of her giant gin-blossomed nose using the 'farmers kleenex) I was back on ol' David Curtis's street. There, parked in the same spot I'd seen her only days ago, was my beloved (but tainted) Silvia.

This time I wasn't going to fuck around. This time I wasn't going to try any old Army moves and try to be all coy. No sir. This time I was going to go straight in. No retreat, no surrender.

I took a deep breath, adjusted my baseball cap and walked confidently across the street to the driveway. The ever-alert Curtis dog, Muffy, began yapping like someone had put a snausage in it's ass.

Bark all you want, poochy. I'm taking what's mine.

I went to the driver's side door, inserted the key, popped the lock open and slid into what used to be my car. Oh, how she'd changed. The seats were covered with some sort of albino tiger fake fur cover. It looked like the inside of a French whore's bedroom. The steering wheel I remember turning sharply to avoid the cops was gone. Instead, there was a metal stiff chain-looking thing. I guess that's what the youth of today like to use to steer. It looked fucking ridiculous. A small rubber naked woman, posing like the Virgin Mary (except, she was naked) sat on the dash.

That, I liked.

I could bore you with all the other modifications done to Silvia (besides the stupid spoiler and stickers and rotten paintjob), but it just makes me want to cry. I figured I'd have time to weep like a whiny little woman later. I had a car to get out of this neighborhood.

Like she'd never been gone, I slid the key into her slit and turned her on. (christ, this is poetry) The engine roared to life and I knew the moment of truth had come. A side glance at the door revealved a shape looking out the window.

A fat kid with multicolored hair and a nose-ring stood at the screen door. He wore a black faded t-shirt that said 'Nice Tits' and his mouth was open like he was going to put a giant hot hero inside (that's a sandwich).

"All right, you cocksucker," I mumbled. "Watch your goddamn car go bye-bye."

Maybe it was the poor lighting. Maybe it was just that I hadn't driven Silvia in so long. Maybe it was the loud screeching music screaming out of the speakers I never knew she had. I meant to peel out in reverse and leave a couple inches of rubber on his driveway.

That didn't happen.

In my earnest, I put the son of a bitch into drive.

Old Silvia bucked, squealed and shot forward smashing through the flimsy aluminum garage door, tearing it the fuck off of the hinges. Pieces of metal and hunks of support came crashing down, but the car kept surging forward.

Thank Christ there wasn't another car in there. Part of me almost wishes there was. That would've put a stop to the soured rescue mission. But no, the car kept going and I gripped the chain-steering-wheeling-fucking-thing like my life depended on it.

In a way, it did.

I never knew how big of a tank my old girl was, but she smashed through a couple of kids bikes, knocked over a tool chest and blasted out through the back wall like it was made of styrofoam. In a matter of seconds, I had completely destroyed the Curtis garage and was driving like a banshee through their backyard.

Good. Fuck them.

Siliva made short work of a flimsy chainlink fence and I jerked the wheel a hard right, just like ol' Gene Hackman in that 'French Connection' movie. I was in the alley and narrowly missed taking out the corner of another garage.

Pieces of garage, fencing and whatever else the fuck I drove through slid off of Siliva's tarnished frame. She chugged a little bit as if something was stuck underneath her in the transmission or whatever. I floored it, knocked over three garbage cans and she roared back to life.

I was home free. The end of the alley, and salvation was in sight.

Or so I thought.

As I reached the end of the lane, I took a quick look to the right. There, bearing down on me was the bus. The same goddamn bus I'd just jumped off of only minutes earlier to get to the Curtis stronghold. With no time to lose, I gunned Siliva with everything she had. Sadly, it was too little, too late.

The bus tagged Silvia's ass end and knocked the faggy little jap-spoiler off of the back, but also sent me and my beloved car in a kitty-whompus direction. I hit the curb going 60 and was airborne.

Did you ever watch that show 'The Dukes of Hazzard?' Me neither. But both I and the car were airborne. I think while we careened through the air I tried to turn the radio off. I couldn't concentrate with all that racket.

The impact was ugly.

The car had managed to turn sideways and smashed into a gazebo in the backyard of some poor old prick. Silvia took a New Jersey bounce and slid through the slatted fence of another yard and came to rest with a crunch in front of a fruity fountain with some little stone statue of a kid pissing into a birdbath.

With a grunt and a chug of the engine, my Silvia stopped breathing.

I could hear shouts and could see lights turning on in the houses around me. In a daze, I broke the keys off in the ignition and grabbed the ring with my apartment key on it. Like I was channeling my Army days, I climbed up, popped open the squeaky passenger-side door and climbed the fuck out.

The mashed front end of the bus was all I could see in the street, two houses away. People were starting to come out and others looked through the window. I had only seconds to get the fuck out of Dodge.

Knowing my knee was going to hurt like a motherfucker, I jumped down off of my car and landed in a lilac bush. A stick poked me in the crotch, but I got up, winced and hobbled between the two garages and into the alley. I tried to collect myself and walked toward the bus. As I went past the final resting place of my car, I could feel a tear skitter down my bearded face.

"Sorry old girl," I whispered as I pulled the bus pass out of my pocket. "I did the best I could."

In a way, it was for the best. No one else was going to own Silvia but me and the old car I remembered wasn't what she used to be. A part of me feels like I put her out of her misery.

Pretending I hadn't just pulled the worst getaway in New Jersey's history, I stood with the other assholes from the bus on the sidewalk and surveyed the damage. No one was any wiser.

At least, I don't think they were.

The 'Silvia' Adventure Part 1

2005-10-14T11:15:00.000-04:00

Oh, Christ.

I'm telling you. Old age is a motherfucker. I completely forgot to write about my attempt to get my old Chrysler 'Silvia' back from that punk kid who bought it at the impound lot auction. Seriously. I'm the worst goddamn blogger on the face of this scarred nation.

Shit. Do I even have any readers left?

Anyway, as I mentioned exactly a month ago (the guilt is making my trick knee act up), I needed to rescue my old car and I planned on doing a night maneuver if possible. I didn't want to attract any extra attention, so I figured I'd drum up some of my infantry skills from the war.

Did I mention I was in the Korean War? Well, I was dammit.

I used the last credit on my bus pass and the 'bad-neighborhood-on-wheels' dropped me off a block from young David Curtis's house. In case you're not keeping score, that's the kid's name. Fuck anonymity.

I realized that this had better work or I was going to have a long-ass walk back home. The bus that dropped me off was the last one for the night.

Moving all stealthy, like those chinese guys in pajamas with swords, I cut across the street and hunched down near some bushes. The gas station burrito I ate while waiting for the bus did a tumble in the gut and I squeezed off an anxious fart by accident. It sounded like a fucking bugle in the still of the night. (christ, this is good. I should write a novel)

I looked up from the bushes and other than the stink from my colon, I was alone. There, across the poorly-kept hedge was the Curtis household. The large window in the front of the house was lit, so that told me my stealth-moves were really in order. Keeping my ass down (and cricking the shit out of my back) I made my way to the driveway.

Goddamn, I wish Murray the Jew was around to run reconnaissance for me. This going solo shit is/was for the birds.

Anyway, there in the driveway, was my car. My Silvia. Sort of.

In the time I spent planning my daring rescue, that goddamn kid DEFACED my car.

I stood there, blinking in disbelief. My crotch of my swampy pants clung to my thigh as I just waited for the image to clear. It never did.

Firstly, he had installed one of those stupid-ass fins on the back of the car. What the fuck?!?!? This car is/was a CLASSIC. You don't go putting that stupid gook stuff on the car to make it look like it can drive faster. The engine alone will get that sweet piece of machinery down the road. Not a goddamn fin.

Secondly, he painted the damn thing with paint that looked like he sprayed it on with 3 or 4 aerosol cans. What was once a nice metalic tan, had become a thin black sheen on the paint job of my once beautiful car.

Thirdly, ol' David Curtis put one of those decals on the windshield that declared the make of the car. A big white banner that said CHRYSLER announced that, yes, fuckers, a Chrysler was coming your way. Not that you could tell with all the shit he did to it.

The worst? He had a bumper sticker placed crooked on the trunk hatch that said: ASS, GAS NO ONE RIDE FOR FREE.

Not sure if there was something in my eye or what, but a tear whistled down my cheek. I felt like one of those Indians that sees garbage on the road. You know, those Tonto guys from the commercials?

Just as I was getting ready to make my move, I could hear the screen door in back open.

"Shit on me," I muttered and dove back behind the bushes.

It was some chunky older broad hooking up a poodle to the leash outside the door for his evening piddle. The dingy-looking shit scampered toward the lawn, but paused as if it smelled something.

That something? Me, goddammit.

I didn't care. I was going to rescue my car and get it out of the clutches of this punk if my life depended on it. I was so keyed up that I was ready to fight anyone or any poodle to get the job done.

I moved as silently as I could manage, back into the driveway. As I did, my foot stepped on a rock and I twisted my trick knee something fierce. I hollered a medium volumed 'Fuck!' and immediately, the goddamn dog started yapping like someone put a nickel in its ass.

I rolled onto the driveway, ending up behind Silivia's driver's side rear bumper. I could smell the shitty paint that punk used. From inside the house, I could hear a kid's voice yell:

"Muffy! Shut the fuck up!"

Followed by: "David! Watch your mouth!"

That's enough of this shit, I thought and stood up. I got myself over to the driver's side door and reached into my pocket for Silvia's spare key I kept in case of emergencies. My hand brushed past my extinguised bus pass and fingered the few coins I had in there.

That was it. I only had the bus pass, .37 in change and a small piece of pocket lint in there.

"Sweet mother of Christ," I muttered. I'd made such a point to put the spare key on the ring with the rest of my keys that I left the whole son of a bitching thing on the kitchen table next to the goddamn bus schedule.

That meant three things. I couldn't get Silvia just then. I had locked myself out of my apartment.

And I had a long walk home.

Next time, I'll be ready you thieving little prick. Believe it. You can't keep this vet down.

The Shit Is On.

2005-09-14T15:53:00.000-04:00

Tabbies,

I finally got the word back from my contact on the police force. He ran the license number for my beloved Chrysler, Silvia. Sure enough, she's now owned by some 17-year-old snotrag. I've already looked up the punk's name and address and I took the midtown bus down to his neck of the woods.

Son of a bitch. There she was is in plain sight and I just couldn't do a goddamn thing about it right then and there.

These are times I wish I had my old friend Murray the Jew with me. He and I used to get into some goddamn shennigans, boy. I tell you what.

I jangled the keys in my pocket and made sure to keep my face hidden under my stupid baseball cap. I know I look suspicious as it is, but trying to sneak Sylvia out of their driveway in the middle of the day isn't just risky, it's damn foolhardy.

So, I've got some planning to do. This weekend. I'll be back.

Sorry, little David Curtis. That's my goddamn car.

Those Thieving Motherfuckers

2005-09-05T22:47:00.000-04:00

Well, that's that.

I went out to the impound lot to try and spring my goddamn Chrysler free. Guess what? It's goddamn gone. They said after 8 months or so, they auction the son of a bitch off and now, some 17 year old puss face is driving my beloved Silvia around.

Even worse? He bought it for $85.00. It would've cost me more than that to spring the goddamn car out of the impound.

Oh, this boils my blood. It's times like these that I wish I had a decent set of hooters (like Sandra) so I could get myself of motherfucking discount. These old man tits just ain't cutting the mustard...or bread, or whatever that stupid-ass saying is.

If you think I'm giving up on this shit, forget it. I've got a friend down on the force who is going to run the numbers for me and let me know who's got my car. Yeah, yeah...it's illegal as shit, but I don't care.

Ol' Bill kept a spare set of keys in case I locked myself out again and I'll be goddamned if I don't still have 'em. Some drippy-nosed kid isn't going to be any the wiser. I'm going to find the little prick's address, get ol' Silvia back and maybe heave a brick through his window for good measure.

It's been said once and I'll say it again. You can't keep a good vet down.

I mean, I was in the Korean War for crissakes...

What The Christ Was That?

2005-08-26T00:14:00.000-04:00

Tabern-acle-o-holics,

I have no idea what just happened. Alls I can remember is typing some words into an electric mail thing (isn't that what e-mail stands for?) and the next thing I know, I'm on my gritty hardwood floor, staring at the dust bunnies underneath my shitty old computer desk.

Christ. That's where I left that copy of Perfect 10 magazine.

Holy shit. I don't know if it was some kind of electric shock, my old ticker doing a goddamn backflip in my ribcage or maybe it was divine intervention.

Nah. Couldn't be that. I don't believe in all that God & Jesus-y bullshit. Those stories are made up for kids. You know, so they'll behave themselves.

Not much to report. I've been saving up my extra money (less the dough I'm out for the goddamn pickles...don't get me started on that again) to see if I can't get my Chrysler out of the impound lot. It's been there for shit...5 years?

I'm thinking it should still be there. I don't know if I'll have to get my license redone again or how any of that happy horseshit works. You'd think, because of my veteran's status, that they'd just let me drive and go about my business.

I mean, c'mon. I was in the Korean War for crissakes.

Anyone see that Pamela Anderson show on the Comedy channel? The only reason I did was because I've got free cable in my apartment. The stupid shit that lived here before me must keep paying for it without even knowing. Maybe he's on that auto-pay business they've got.

"Hey, everyone," says Pam. "I'm here at the beach with my giant chest balls. Also, I'm a whore."

Anyway, I watched it. A lot of half-assed celebrities making fun of ol' Pam. But boy, is she a piece of work. And by piece of work, I mean she's a complete pig. As I've mentioned, I like the boobs as much as any red-blooded American man, but those things are ridiculous.

It's like she's trying to smuggle a couple of nipple-capped medicine balls in under her t-shirt. When did a nice handful of boob-meat need to become comically large and engorged slabs of plastic? Who needs tits that big? Her shirt sure doesn't. The poor cotton fucker is practically screaming under the tension those dirty pillows are creating.

I don't get it. Then again, I'm still trying to figure out how I ended up ass-over-teakettle and fell out of my goddamn chair.

I knew this computer would bring nothing but heartache and misey. Damn it all.

It's A Shit Life I've Carved Out

2005-08-18T10:23:00.000-04:00

Bill-i-acs,

Probably didn't expect another post so soon from your old pal, did you? Well, that's the way shit works sometimes. I have moments where I feel like I've got to unload things off my chest, other times I don't want anything to do with computers, Bloggy pages, or any of you.

Sorry. That's how I am sometimes.

Well, it's been a miserable week of work. The people coming into the bar I work at can be some of the most shiftiest, low-down, dirty rat bastards known to man. I've got a pretty good reputation being the 2nd in command behind the bar, but while Charlie was out on his yearly run to Jamaica, I've been left in charge.

I've said it once before and I'll say it again: People are puke.

At the bar, we've got all sorts of shit people can buy while sitting there drinking their sad lives away. Pretzels, candy bars, that stupid Red Bull shit, the works. I thought it would be a good idea to bring in a big glass barrel of pickles for some of these shits to eat. The owner, Old Man Phillips gave his usual response to my suggestion:

"I don't give a shit."

I did, though. So, pulling a couple of twenty's from the bar's petty cash, I stopped and got a barrel of the fattest, greenest sonsabitches I could. I figured selling 'em for a buck a piece would be a decent price and we'd turn a little profit.

For the record, I fucking love pickles.

Well, on Tuesday night, the usual softball crowd came in. We sponsor three teams. Most of the people on the teams are ungodly jack-offs, but there are a few decent eggs.

One of the faggots * in his stupid baseball pants hopped over the counter and twisted the lid as though he meant to help himself to a pickle. I was busy cracking the cap off of a MGD for Johnson (as usual) and I didn't have a chance to stop the son of a bitch.

I did notice that his fat ham-hands were filthy. Covered in the tell-tale red softball field dust. Well, in the space of 5 seconds, I saw about 5 delicious pickles in jeopardy. Using my old Army instincts (I was in the Korean War, for crissakes) I leapt to the other end of the bar.

It was too late. His filthy hand had extracted a juicy green guy from the glass depths. Green dill water dripped off of his goddamn arm.

I was furious. Realizing the barrel was ruined, I picked the pickle thief up by the back of his homo baseball pants and threw him over the bar. He tumbled into a bar stool and the pickle he'd thieved snapped in half.

"Goddamn you, Bill. What's yer problem," the cunt yelled.

"The pickles, motherfucker. That's the problem. You just fucked up a whole barrel, you son of a bitch."

I was pissed. I would've hopped over the bar myself if it weren't for my shitty trick knee. I rounded the end and grabbed the prick by the scruff of his shirt and the stupid pants. I'm not a strong guy, but I had energy to boot. I kept thinking: All those pickles...ruined! I picked him up, kicked open the front door and tossed him onto the front sidewalk next to all the cigarette butts.

His teammates laughed and drank, but I didn't think that shit was funny. Knowing the barrel was ruined, I went back into the bar, hefted the glass barrel, went back outside and tossed the whole works down on the stupid thieving bastard.

The glass exploded and the 48 (I had one before he cunted the whole batch) pickles and gallons of juice rained down on him.

"There, fuckface," I hollered. "Have as many pickles as you want!"

I left the miserable prick out there, waiting for him to try and get wise and come back for a piece of Bill.

I'm still waiting.

Christ. My back hurts...and I'm out almost 40 bones for the barrel of pickles.

Fuck me.

*Now, I don't know if he's really one of those homosexuals or not. Don't send the hate mail. I just like the sound of the word. He could eat vagina for breakfast, dinner and lunch but the fact remains that I consider him a faggot. Deal with it.

Like A Tampon - Bloated and Fat With Useless Matter

2005-08-17T08:23:00.000-04:00

I usually don't dedicate so much time and attention to things so significant as a needy loser who scours the internet in search for things (friendship, blogger buddies, vagina), but I'm willing to make the exception for a certain fat little douchebag who can't seem to fall on a knife when it's been requested time and time again.

Yes, Bill-o-philes. Our moon-faced, wart-cocked, cro-magnon-foreheaded friend is back. I'm, of course, talking about Mr. Underhill. Or should I say Bryce?

Bryce? Jesus Christ. If that isn't the most feminine name for a fellow I've heard in my almost 7 decades sulking around this planet, I don't know what is. They might as well have named him 'Claire.' I saw a movie back in the 80's where a long-hair said that 'Claire' was a fat girl's name.

'Bryce' is the equivalent.

But, after being chased off the internet for people exposing him for the sad little cunt that he is, the sideburned son of a bitch has built another little blog for himself. Watch in earnest as he builds his little list of links on the side. Also watch how he manages to reply to every single comment made on his sad, sad little blog. Watch how people who don't know any better will embrace him as witty, charming, and just a funny, funny guy.

What's his secret? Well, no secret. When you're a fat little friar with nothing to do but build a fantasy world around yourself, you've got ample time to make sad, child-molester-like sexual remarks back to your female posters in the hopes of seducing them online and getting them to fly out to his place.

"What happens next, Bill?" You may ask.

Well, through some miracle, ol' Bloated Bryce will slip his warty, cheese-pizza-with-everything-on-it cock into your cooze (or hairy man's butthole. Hey, a hole's a hole, right Bryce? As long as there's a little heat in there).

This is the mark of a complete loser.

I've had people e-mail me and say "Who do you think you are?" or "How can you be so callused?"

Simple. I'm an old fucking man. I've done my tour on this miserable planet. That's why. Plus, I take great pride in besting this fat little fraud. His comebacks are nothing short of weak. While he considers himself sly and cunning, the replies he has for ol' Bill are loaded with 2nd grade retorts.

Christ. My retarded grandson is sharper with words than this beady-eyed little prick could ever hope to be. So, see for yourself what all the bullshit is about. Visit his I-hope-I-get-some-snatch-out-of-this blog. Watch the 'master' work his wiles on unsuspecting broads (and dudes) who just don't know any better.

But just remember. Ol' Bill had this fuck's number waaaay back. Refer to one of my earlier posts entitled: 'The Internet Is Full of Self-Loving Shitheads.'

Bryce. Jesus Christ.

Your loving,

Bill Tabernacle

P.S. Wanna cock-punch Mr. Underhill? Sign him up for some spam. He loves it. misterunderhill@gmail.com

100 Things About Bill (Finally Goddamn Done)

2005-08-17T00:02:00.000-04:00

I've seen other Bloggies have these things on there and since I'm new to Blogger (having left Live Journal high and dry for some months) I thought I'd better let you all know a little bit about me. We'll see if I can stay awake long enough for 100 of these fuckers.

1. I was in the Korean War.
2. Some people think I look like that actor, Dick Dreyfuss.
3. My best friend Murray the Jew hasn't been heard from in over a year.
4. I think the bourbon finally did him in.
5. I like to eat Lean Pockets. (Chicken, Broccoli & Cheese)
6. I've beaten 4-5 homeless people who asked for it.
7. I've shot 5 times as many Koreans. (See #1)
8. I think they asked for it too, but I can't be certain. I don't speak Korean.
9. I live in a shitty apartment in Jersey.
10. The apartment is above a horseshit Country/Western bar.
11. No, I won't give you my address.
12. I have a terrbile relationship with my family.
13. My son hates me. Doesn't matter. I don't care for him much either.
14. I've been married and divorced 3 times. One of the old coozes is dead.
15. I actually like women, though. Really.
16. I'm a fan of breasts. So much so, that I subscribed to the Show Your Boobs LiveJournal Community.
17. Some of the boobs in there are fucking terrible looking.
18. There are dudes that post pictures of their cocks in there. That's not right.
19. When I was younger, I stole a car.
20. After I was done with it, I returned it to the house but took a shit on the dashboard.
21. You know, as a 'thank you' gift.
22. No wonder I've got no friends.
23. My birthday is on Valentine's Day.
24. I'm 66 years old.
25. I feel like I'm 83.
26. I haven't been laid since the mid-70's.
27. Good thing. My pubic hair looks like I've got Richard Simmons in a neck vice.
28. I was fired from a Hardware Store a year or so ago.
29. Afterwards, I broke in, stole some tools and wrecked the place.
30. I haven't been able to show my face in the old neighborhood since.
31. I like to eat meat.
32. I once joined a vegetarian community online and asked them if they even cared for the feelings of plants.
33. I was booted out of the community a few hours later.
34. Uptight douchebags.
35. I had an older brother who became a priest.
36. He died 7 years ago while swinging that smelly incense thing around.
37. The son of a bitch was only 68 years old.
38. We never got along because I wouldn't stop with the altar boy jokes.
39. I miss ol' Phil.
40. I think Oprah Winfrey is an big fat money-grubbing bitch. I can't stand the sight of that woman. I also hate how she turns her blackness off and on. One minute she's saying 'girlfriend' every other word, then she switches it off and talks all proper. Bullshit.
41. I've got a trick knee.
42. I think I got it from the Korean War, but I can't remember so well, goddamit.
43. I don't like much in the way of TV. That reality stuff is the worst. I almost wish I could heave the set right through the window. That'd teach 'em.
44. I once had someone break off a pencil in my arm. I got lead poisoning and haven't been able to shit right ever since.
45. I use a bible to prop up a wobbly table in my kitchen.
46. Those Latter Day Saint jokers/Jesus freaks sent me one free and haven't left me alone ever since.
47. That's the last time I accept any 'free' offers.
48. I feel sorry for really religious people.
49. On second thought, no...I don't. If they're too easily duped into believing that some dancing god is just hoping they'll be good so they can go to heaven, or some other make-believe fairy wonderland, well...fuck them.
50. I believe in aliens.
51. I'm convinced that I saw a ship or somehting shoot a laser at a tree back when I had my Chrysler. The son of a bitch fired a laser beam, knocked the old thing down and then blasted the hell out of there.
52. No one believes me, though.
53. My 1st wife was a cold fish.
54. As soon as we married, she shut her vagina down for business. I peeked into her underwear once and noticed that she had her nether regions all boarded up like an abandoned factory. She was a barrel of fun, I'll tell you.
55. I'm glad I divorced her ass.
56. If I saw that asshole Carson Daly in the street, I would hunt him down like he was a sasquatch. He and his jug-head needed a pounding he'll never forget. Ol' Bill Tabernacle is the man for the job.
57. Not sure why I thought of Carson Daly just then. Must've been the sound of the bar below my apartment putting the trash in the dumpster.
58. I would put his bullet-ridden corpse in a dumpster. No sweat.
59. I should really eat some breakfast. My head isn't right.
60. I'm out of Hot Pockets.
61. My grandson sent me a birthday card back in February. I just got it a week ago. I guess the post office didn't think I'd need it until then.
62. I just tossed it in the shitcan. That kind of stuff really bums me out.
63. I'm thinking about growing my beard out.
64. The only reason I don't think I will is because if I get into another fight, my opponent will be able to grab my beard and throw punches into my face. I'll be helpless because, you know, they've got my beard.
65. Some girl I met online liked to send me naked pictures of herself. It was a little odd. I would open up my e-mail (bill_tabernacle@yahoo.com) and there'd be a ton of them in there. I'm not sure what the meaning of it was, but I'll admit: I haven't deleted them or anything. I think she was like 24 or something.
66. Christ. I wish I was 24 again.
67. I think I'm going to die alone.
68. That's a depressing thought. Then again, I'm sure I brought it on myself. I'm not the easiest guy in the world to live with. I'm actually amazed I found 3 different broads who wanted to marry me somewhere along the line.
69. I have never lowered my penis into a woman's mouth. Not sure why I thought of this just then.
70. The women I've been tangled up with just weren't into that sort of thing. I've heard I'm missing out. Thanks for rubbing it in.
71. I'm usually not this dirty. I apologize if I'm offending the 2 or 3 of you who actually read this miserable, poorly-thought-out blog.
72. I've got a short attention span.
73. I once broke a bottle over my friend Murray's head.
74. Son of a bitch asked for it. He was all cranked up on bourbon and looked at me sideways.
75. I think the movie 'Starship Troopers' is good shit.
76. I love seeing the military doing it's thing, even if it is against giant bugs from space.
77. People that wear those trendy 'Livestrong' yellow bracelets are giant twats.
78. Come to think of it, anyone who advertises the causes they support are walking vaginas.
79. I once hit a hobo with my car.
80. The dumb shit didn't look where he was going. I just left his body in a dumpster. This was back when I lived in Delaware.
81. Fuckin' Delaware.
82. The last book I read was Catch 22. Someone told me it was a comedy. I thought it was goddamn terrible. I haven't read a thing since.
83. That was back in 1985.
84. Sometimes, when my trick leg is keeping me from sleeping at night, I make myself a salami, cheese, and avocado sandwich. That usually puts me down.
85. The fat woman that comes into the bar on Thursdays gave me her phone number last week.
86. I wouldn't call her for all the money in Donald Trump's asshole.
87. I'm realizing that I'm not really talking about myself too much on this list.
88. Christ. It's harder than it looks.
89. It's nearly impossible to offend and/or anger me.
90. Lord knows, people have tried. I'm angered by life, not what some cunt-mouth has to say.
91. That goes for the ressurrected load of semen that should have been swallowed, Mr. Underhill.
92. If I saw him in the street, I would set up a knife and make sure he falls onto it.
93. Then I would cut off his giant, flabby head, pull the teeth out of his skull with a pair of pliers, smash them with a hammer, and burn the rest of his useless body.
94. I'm guessing he won't be missed.
95. I think the music of today is mostly shit.
96. I wish Johnny Cash would release another album.
97. If I were a cheese, I would be sharp cheddar.
98. Sharp. Like my bayonet.
99. I got the bayonet during my tour in Korea.
100. Did I mention I was in the Korean War? I was, dammit.

Those Sonsabitches

2005-08-03T23:51:00.000-04:00

I just went into my Yahoo! e-mail account and apparently I haven't been in there for over 4 months. 4 goddamn months!

Well, long story short, they disconnected me. So, if any of my new readers have sent me anything (you know Fuck off, Bill or Please die messages) in the last few months, I apologize. They're gone.

No wonder I have no business on this computer. Christ.

Anyway, I've reinstalled (or whatever you supposed to do) my e-mail so now the e-mail address is up and running. Go ahead. Send something to ol' Bill at: bill_tabernacle@yahoo.com

I promise I won't shitcan it. Unless it's a picture of a cock. I've got not time for that nonsense.

Your lovin',

Bill Tabernacle

This May Be Hard To Believe

2005-07-27T19:34:00.000-04:00

I guess there is cause for celebration in Blogger-ville.

It would seem that everyone's least favorite cro-magnon asshole delight, Mr. Underhill has finally fucked off completely. Yes, yes, Bill-ites. It took me an while to catch up on the news and to sift through some of the words some people typed in my comments section, but I gotta tell you.

This is good news.

Herein lies the problem, however. You know the cunt-flap will be back. He'll take a little time off, take some sandpaper to his wart-cock, try and re-invent himself (he can start by swallowing the business end of a rifle) and then he'll be back in some other incarnation, trying to type his way into the panties of online broads everywhere.

I've seen his type. Hell, I used to make a career out of chasing assholes off the internet. It's what I sometimes think I was put here to do.

So keep your eyes out. If suddenly, some mojo, beady-eyed fuckface shows up and suddenly he's got links galore to other sites, and you notice that all he does is whore himself out to other blogs and answers EVERY GODDAMN COMMENT, then you know the shitheel, Potsie Webber from Happy Days douchbag is back.

Okay...this is all the time I've got for that burlap bag of liquid shit. Until he mans up enough to show his face in my blog and fight to the death (I've got a bayonet from the Korean War, goddammit), he's nothing but a cowardly, cock-diseased, scumbag.

I still hope he falls on a knife.

More later, turds.

What The Christ?

2005-07-21T10:35:00.000-04:00

Hello Bill Fans.

Holy shit. Who would've thunk that anyone was even reading my old Blogger/Internet/Page thing? A post I wrote about that smary douchebag Mister Underhill has gotten a few people to write in and say 'Hats off.'

Thanks for that.

The only problem is, now I've got to dust off my computer typing chops and see if I can keep up with this blog. I mean, I'm an old man. I've got shit to do. Also, I was in the Korean War for crissakes.

An associate of mine, Buck Williams had a similiar beef with that greasy shit it sounds like. I read his post on his bloggy and he went a step further. He's a good lad, that Buck. One of the good ones. Probably able to achieve much more in schooling these blogging twats on what's what.

May he carry on the torch when ol' Bill is riding the hot rail to hell.

So, I need to go an make a Hot Pocket. I'll do my best to toss my 2 nickels in from time to time.

Until then, raise a Pabst in unison. Let's all toast to Mr. Underhill's wart-ecrusted cock falling off so that a small dog can eat the unsatisfying meal only to shit green raisins later.

Or something. I need to stay off the sauce...

More later, Bill-ites.

Your lovin',

Bill Tabernacle

Tired of It, Tired of You.

2005-05-09T09:47:00.000-04:00

Maybe I was just born to be an asshole. It's hard to tell.

As I may have mentioned, (and if I didn't, I'm mentioning it now) I live in a somewhat dumpy apartment above a bar. It sucks that it isn't even the bar I work at, but that's another story entirely.

I woke up yesterday morning to the sound of rain. I looked out the window and saw it was fucking beautiful outside, there was no rain. Christ, there wasn't really any clouds in the sky. I couldn't figure out where the water was coming from. Did one of the pipes in my joint spring a leak?

I'll be fucked if that happens. The landlord is a worthless old cunt who still hasn't made it so the door on my mailslot will quit squeaking.

To my horror, I saw a shabby-looking son of a bitch outside near the dumpsters for Irv's Bar pissing all over the side of it like it was a urinal. Maybe I got a little out of hand, but I was pissed (no pun intended, smartasses). I hollered down to the filthy son of a bitch:

"Hey, fucknose! You can't piss there! How'd you like it if I pinched off a shit on your cardboard box???"

He turned around and glared at me, his filthy dick swinging and cutting a line of piss across his dingy jeans. His mouth opened and it looked like a shark's vagina. There wasn't a single tooth in his rotten mouth.

"Fuh you," he growled.

Yeah, okay. Fuck me. I almost pulled away from the window and crawled back into bed. I guess I could get used to the pissy smell as it wafted into my apartment. I almost hung my head and just said 'To hell with it. The poor fella...'

Then I remembered something: I was in the Korean War for crissakes. NO ONE is going to talk to me like that.

Even though I was still wearing my bathrobe, I came out of the door like gangbusters. I ran barefooted down the steps three at a time. I was going to dash the bum's face apart with my fists. At the bottom of the wooden steps, I stepped onto a piece of glass. The fucker sank in. Deep. That just sent me over the edge.

I didn't bother pulling it out and instead grabbed the nearest thing I could find, which, of course, was a beer bottle. The stupid son of a bitch stood there and I swung and smashed the bottle of Miller Light across his head. I followed it up with a punch in the snot-box and made it a combo when I hit him again with my left.

The miserable toothless bastard went down like a sack of turds. I think he actually ended up in his own foamy puddle of piss. Serves him right. Defacing a dumpster like that. He groaned a bit and I tossed the remains of the bottle on his tattered t-shirt. I know the guy's fallen on hard times, but that doesn't give him the right to piss where he wants and to say 'fuck you' to a vet.

"That's what you get, you smelly sack of shit," I said. I then went up stairs to nurse my wounds and make myself a Hot Pocket.

The homeless situation. I've had it with those pukes. Now I've got a cut up foot to go along with my trick knee. God damn this world.

I Got Some Shit On My Shoe

2005-03-21T23:47:00.000-05:00

I've had a rush of e-mails in the ol' Tabernacle ball...er, mailbag. Seems everyone is wanting to know where I've been and who the hell I am talking to them in such a way.

Especially that down-syndrome looking shit, Mr. Underhill. Did you notice that his cro-magnon-looking picture is suddenly on hiatus? Hmmm... I think a really interesting concept would be if that picture of that tampon-eating idiot wasn't really him. Maybe, it's some fat slob with 4 chins sitting in his mom's basement, living out some fantasy life pretending to be our ol' buddy Potsie Webber from Happy Days.

Now that would be pathetic.

A big question I've been asked many a time: Bill, have you always been this big of an asshole?

First of all, That's Mr. Tabernacle to You. Secondly, yes. If speaking the truth and using the goddamn right to speak (and write) my mind I fought for in Korea is a crime, then lock me up Warden.

I was in the Korean War for crissakes.

If you want to read some of my old-ass adventures, why not stick your stupid face here?

Anyway, I don't have much else to say, other than I really did get some shit on my shoe. If I find the dog that did this.

He's going to pay.

The Internet Is Full Of Self-Loving Shitbirds

2005-03-09T15:45:00.000-05:00

Bill here.

I know the subject line is a no-brainer, but I've had it. I've been trying to get some friends on this new Blogger thing I started and I'll be damned if everyone on the internet are nothing more than a collection of 'lookit me!' assholes.

This guy (Mister Underhill) really gets my heart rate up.

His stupid little blogger with the picture of Potsie Webber from Happy Days on the left side is plenty popular. Want to know why? He adds every single blog he even thinks about to the side and makes sure to comment in these other idiot's blogger pages. Hey buddies, scratch my back and I'll scratch yours.

Fuck all of you.

And...of course, he's completely in love with himself. Here's a post from a couple days ago:

I was just looking in the mirror and realized

I am kind of hot.I could lose a few pounds, but that doesn't show too much unless I take my shirt off, and I could stare into the mirror looking at my face forever.

Fuck you. I hope you fall on a knife.

First off, if that picture of him is accurate and he really is Potsie Webber from Happy Days, he's far from hot. He looks like cro-magnon man. Look at the slanted shelf he calls a forehead. His hair looks like a 3 year old went after it with some kiddie scissors. And that garbage-eating smile. He looks like a child rapist. Seriously. I wonder how many small corpses are buried in his backyard.

The best part? He's posing next to some jizz jar and he had the gall to cut her out of the picture.

Hey dipshit. Hate to break it to you, but we'd rather see the whore standing next to you instead of your moon-faced mug.

Huh. Wow. I think making friends on this thing is going to be tougher than I thought.

Live Journal Can Suck It.

2005-03-07T15:47:00.000-05:00

Bill-o-philes,

Yep. It's your old friend Bill Tabernacle here. I've gotten my shit (and a little dough) together and have gotten myself some internet service so I can help these helpless bags of liquid crap on the internet.

Boy, there's been all kinds of shit going on since my hiatus back in October. First of all, I decided that Live Journal is just too complex for an old fellow like myself. I couldn't get it to do all the fancy pants things I saw some of the other sites do. Besides...everytime I checked my friends list, I ended up seeing pages and pages worth of tits. I must've subscribed to the 'Show Your Boobs' community in a drunken stupor and I'll be damned if I can unsubscribe.

So, if you're one of the blessed few I could tolerate and were wondering why I never bothered to post comments in your shitty journal, that's why. I see a couple pairs of giant fun bags and I tend to get a bit...uh, sidetracked.

There you have it.

We'll see how this Blogger thing works out. I don't have a whole lot of experience with this kind of thing, so I'll try not to fuck things up too horribly. Maybe if I'm lucky, some of the shitbirds from my Live Journal group will rear their ugly heads.

Oh...for those asking? I have no idea where the fuck Murray the Jew is. He left for California sometime last year and I ain't see hide nor hair of the bourbon-drinking bastard. I think once the shit went down at the hardware store, he was afraid to show his liquor nose in these parts.

Nice Shot

2004-04-08T12:22:00.000-04:00