The one that was an update that needed to be posted.

I ran across a youtube video/article that was asking:

What’s more respectful: “Diabetic” or “Person with Diabetes”?

I have that particular ailment and I can say without remorse:

What is more respectful? Dan. My name is Dan. Maybe Jim. James is fine. If you call me Danny, you better be a 5′ nymphet with shocking red hair and an Irish brogue that makes my clothes fall off.

The dude with the eyepatch is not blindy. Dude missing a leg isn’t limpy. I am not Diabetic/Person with Diabetes. I ask no special treatment. I don’t want tax breaks or a free ride. I want to work and keep what I earn.

And you can call me Dan. Danny if you can make my clothes fall off.


The one where criticism is not an attack…

An interesting trend has popped up. It goes along the lines of: “If you criticize, you must fix the problem by joining in, or forever shut the hell up.”

For example:

Don’t like how the military prosecutes a war? Put on a uniform.
Have trouble with police shooting kids? Grab a badge.

And, if not, then well you hate America, apple pie, and various endangered species which we are sure you consume on Sundays with plenty of gravy. But thank you for joining in this civilized discourse, you monster.

To which I think there is only one reply: You want to talk at the big persons table? Learn to think for yourself.
SunTsu (Sun Tsu? Son Tsoo?) Had a thing about “if you wait by the river long enough, the bodies of your enemies will float by” Now, all warrior zen bull aside, that’s a great idea. Time heals all wounds and so on; Until you get an enemy that demands tribute, enjoys a little hobby of punching you in the nose, or is trained to overreact to the presence of toy guns. Then your chances of being the face-down floater-in-chief are much higher than his and patience and forbearance is no longer a virtue.
I cannot think of any adverse situation, in any persons life, professional or personal, that can be solved by shrugging and saying “It is what it is”. And that is not hate. It is not lack of support for those that wear camo, wear a badge, or for that matter men who pick up my garbage. If the garbage men were driving those monster trucks unsafely, it would not be anti-garbage to demand they be retrained.
This argument -if you are not one of this group you cannot criticize that group – as earth shakingly stupid as it is, is spouted by people of all political beliefs, ages, and creeds. I feel that many rap songs are vapid, derogatory toward women, and utterly without artistic merit. I am not a rapper, but I feel utterly justified in saying so. I feel that if I pay $8 for a meal, it should be edible. Though I do not work in fast food, I feel I can comment on whether one place makes decent food or not, and spend accordingly. And that last point is closer to the whole point.

The military and police are there to serve at the will of the people. And if you think things are perfect, you are far from correct. If you think criticism shows a lack of support for a lot of fine people who do a hard job, then you are farther from correct to the point of lacking the basic skills to converse in polite society. You should wear a diaper. On your head. It will be our secret little sign that I can ignore you and avoid you on the street.

I pay the wages of the military and the police. What they do they do in my name, and thus I have a responsibility to keep tabs and make sure the things done in my name are right and just. The US vs THEM arguments are false. WE are THEM. THEY are US. In deed, if not reality.

The one where I am part of the problem, I guess…

I just read a update that basically stated


OK, I understand where you are coming from, but holy Hand Grenades of Antioch, when I read that it makes me WANT to piss you off. I want to defend the underdog no matter how slimy and skeezy. And since this was a female teacher having romper room time with a 16 year old guy… I’m sorry I cannot care. If the boy says he was raped, then there is a problem. When he goes to school and brags “Jinkies, fellas, guess who just put it in the German teacher’s pooper?”… this is not a sign that a guy has been raped.

So, I’m part of the problem, I guess. I have discovered an upside: Now I get to bitch that I didn’t get to bang the 22 year old teacher because this is somehow now all my fault in all caps.

Wrong: Yes. Teachers should not have sex with students. Lose her job: Yes. She is unfit for the profession she spent so much time and cash to get the degree for. Jail Time: Please. If he had actually been raped, yes. As it is, he may be a kid, but he is not a child. This was not a toddler, preteen, or moppet.

It’s a problem, yes. A bigger part of the problem is everyone looks at a 16 year old and sees a 6 year old. People have had / are having sex at 16 pretty much as a matter of course throughout human history.

Not me. I am a nerd.I played Dungeons and Dragons. I was a virgin for a long, long time. Which is good. 16 year old guys are not my type.

The one that is short and was typed with fists

I am aghast to see when a public figure, especially an entertainer, makes a joke that isn’t really funny and winds up getting a face full of PC-TNT. You know the kind I’m talking about. Then they grovel, and wheedle about how ‘your cause matters to me and my miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiillionz of $$$$.’

This especially makes me retch when the global warming entertainivist owns a yacht, a private airplane, and 4 mansions, or the animal rights entertainivist dresses in black urban ninja leather gear for many roles, or when the anti gun entertainivist is only famous for the body counts in movies that rival battles fought in the civil war… anything similar.

And it offends me that there are two groups of equally guilty assholes:
Gruppen 1) The assholes demanding someone pander to them. OR ELSE.
Gruppen 2) The assholes pandering to the other assholes, completely without sincerity, and yet become their champions.

Guess which category this guy falls in to. Oh, and that beard makes you look like a child trick or treating as blackbeard. Jerk.

My solution?

“I’m sorry I offended you. “

Short, simple, to the point, and if they still demand pandering action, throw them out of your personal office window. If not, then just shut up if you fear these cause-mongrels so much. They only nip at your heals because they know you fear their bark.But shying away and begging them you are either an attention whore, or you stand for nothing other than your bank account. Do not expect me to respect either.

And worse, once you are done pandering and making them feel all powerful, they come and nip at the rest of us as well, and are supremely offended when we kick them in the face for biting.

The one where I revisit another bad idea…

Some language NSFW. Then again, this one calls for it.

I was cleaning my room, looking for my muse. I already have 2,000 words today, and I was going to get a chore or two done while I recharged then I found some neat stuff, then I posted something, then I read something and suddenly: internets.

I happened upon a blog post reposted by a friend, that basically said We need to die already.

And this douchebag, (sorry) dickface, I apologize, the mongrel of human kindness that wrote it had a long list of detractors replying. And one supporter.

The supporter said, more or less: I’m a doctor and you know there is a bit of truth in what he is saying. To which I had a reply. And, because I am the height of laziness not one to waste words. I thought I would repost them here, slightly edited since I am no longer locomoting on an engine redlined with steam:

My Father is 75. He and I are not the closest in our family unit. He and my brother get along far better, I realize. They have the same hobbies. They have a lot to talk about. Still, even if we live two states away, if he calls I am there. If an 18 year old in the prime of his sexual potency, usefulness to society, and feelings of immortality, were to draw a gun on my father I would spatter the young punk’s thinking parts into airborne vapor without hesitation.

My father spent decades running into buildings that were on fire, literally on fucking fire, to pull out people who would otherwise have died choking on the ashes of their own lives. Then he and his men fought the blaze that would threaten lives on every side. He spent days at a time away from his family, doing a hazardous job, as far back as the 70’s when the equipment was laughable compared to the space aged stuff they have now. He still did it. He still ran in to burning buildings.

And you know what? I have never heard him brag about that, never heard him pat himself of the back, never mention it to strangers unless asked. Even then it’s just a simple: I was a firefighter.

Anyone, ANYONE, tells me he has not earned every single breath he wants that modern science can deliver, I point to the legions of people, but for him are only bodies in the ground. I can guarantee he never asked how old the people trapped in a burning building were before he chucked on his gear and climbed the ladder into an inferno.

And THAT is the problem with the abstract. The author of this drivel, this pontificating perverted pissant, can go on all he wants about how much better it would be if “people” died at 75. If that is his wish I’ll send him the Raven .22lr and the bullet with a blessing and precise instructions.

My father is not “people”. He is my father. And whether it be punk or surgeon, or bureaucrat who decides he has lived enough, they get the same treatment.

Nuremberg was supposed to teach us that even shuffling paperwork in the name of evil is still evil. Giving it aid and comfort is much the same.

The one where we redefine losing…


I hope everyone will forgive me, I’m not waiting to post this one, and it’s a bit red and raw.

I woke up smelling of gunpowder and steak, spent the night with the in-laws bbqing and launching fireworks.. nevermindwhere. That being said, I was gone when the announcement came: CJ Henderson’s Amazon Page had lost his battle with cancer.

Years ago, I sat in the kitchen of Dannielle Ackley Mcphail and her husband Mike. I had been invited into the coven of far more experienced writers, to submit next to them, to stand among them like an equal. I wrote the story, and they were asking me about it to find out how long until submission.

Being young, and without the confidence God gave the common church mouse, I was lamenting whether it was up to snuff, whether I could pull it off, whether I deserved to be in such august company.

Then, at the end of the table, this column, a steel haired mountain of a guy, pipes up with a voice as comforting and gentle as a sandpaper covered sledgehammer. “Jesus, Dan! If it’s good enough, it’s good enough, if it’s not, it’s not. All I know is they think it will be good enough to be next to my stuff, and I’ve been doing this for years. So either submit the damn thing or just quit. >I< don’t need the competition.”

And it was said just that way. The words tumbled across me like an avalanche.
Because, when faced with that level of dumbass (mine), only the bluntest of tools will do (his).

Image of C. J. Henderson

This began a strange, avuncular relationship between CJ and I. It wasn’t totally amicable at times. Cj had opinions he treated as natural laws, and I get the feeling that he saw me like that small dog that hands around Spike in the Warner cartoons.

But he did continue to dispense wisdom, though at times I knew he would rather have just smacked me with a “Neh.” And from time to time I guess he did. I responded with word games, getting under his skin, and expressing opinions I knew would send him into a tirade about Godzilla, the Magnificent Seven, or any number of his sacred cows. I know at times he got tired of it.

And Yes, this guy:


But then came the cancer.

I didn’t get to see Cj for most of his battle. I had moved to a new city, new job, and then got fired from the job the second they could replace me with a college kid. I bring it up because when I saw CJ, he knew. He had followed the posts, because the same thing had happened for him. He planted a seed then, mentioning when he had lost his job, he began writing full time to make ends meet. More on that if I get wacky crazy brave.

But that  is when it struck me: This guy, who is afraid every single day will be more painful than the last, this guy who I had annoyed and competed with, this guy:

Yeah, that guy asked me how >I< was doing. He listened to me talk about getting laid off with no notice, and he listened to my dumb ass vent. He remembered to me when it had happened to him.
Of course I asked him how he was doing, but he didn’t just ask back to be polite. He cared, as he had always cared from the second he had told me to grow up and stop being such a pansy.

He was one of the good ones. The best.

Which I guess brings me to my point. The man lived like a hurricane. He performed like a master. He even took age and all the related goofy bits with a kind of cranky grace. An while now he is dead, he still has his thoughts in hundreds of places in print that will outlive him for decades if not centuries.

The point (for those that skip to the end) is you can say that CJ ‘lost’ his battle with cancer if you really must… But, Goddammit, the reaper has a few less teeth than he did, and when he goes home he’ll damn sure remember the name of CJ Henderson.


Here is a link for the family.


Great thoughts on cancer.


Gotta go, everyone. Goodnight.

The one for my father…

This is my Dad. Yeah, he looks like a quiet kinda guy. You never would believe that he spent decades running into burning buildings, or supervising the kind of men with the raw guts it takes to do so.

We do not see eye to eye with my father on a lot. He is very Big Band, I am techno. He’s gone fishing, I curl up with a book. He was always very triathlon, I have been and remain a couch potato.

Still, he provided for his family. He stood up to corruption and evil. He charged an enemy as nasty as any machine gun nest and could never fire back. He pulled people out of satan’s own fiery maw. I respect my father, and I know of few men who have earned his place in this world as he has.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.