Category: yecch

Pastor finds Jesus Christ up his mom’s vagina

Here’s one way you can fight abortion. You can go back to the womb, back to the time before you were born, or right after you were born but months before you ended up in the hospital, and you can watch Jesus bitch-slap your mother. Then you can recount a harrowing tale of survival and high-five everyone because you just won the all time yuck episode of Fear Factor.

Delivered from Abortion: Healing a Forgotten Memory
July 31, 2012 By Gordon Dalbey

Late in the fall of 1943, as Nazi submarines terrorized Allied shipping, a young Navy officer and his wife faced a terrible dilemma when he deployed to an aircraft carrier in the North Atlantic.

What a dilemma. Should we abort our baby? Or should we let the Nazis do it? The Ubermenschen aren’t going to be too happy about clothing and feeding a roach-eyed whackadoodle.

The doctor, however, had a solution to her problem. Handing her a small, dark red vial and scheduling her for an appointment the following week, he explained that he could “fix everything” quickly and easily after she took the pills.

Days later, before the appointment, the young woman shook the pills out of the vial into her hand and closed her fist. Shaking from both cold and anxiety, she poured a glass of water with her other hand. Uneasily, she hesitated and looked out a frost-covered kitchen window. “What if this is the son my husband wants?” she thought. Turning to her fist, she paused, then opened it and lifted the glass of water.

Remarkable details from the scene supplied by Gordon, considering the vantage point. Maybe his womb was brilliantly lit and appointed with high glass and mirrors? Whether it’s hosting an impromptu Summer gabfest or a ratrace detente with the executive class, Crotch Heights is your glittering destination.

I remembered my recurrent nightmare of swimming frantically underwater and, strangely, breathing while submerged—an amniotic, prenatal “memory”? Once, I told a psychiatrist how I felt “trapped” and panicky in close relationships with women. Fears of death had dogged me, and a pervasive, empty sense of not belonging anywhere.

The buffeting waves. The bad dreams. All of the chaos and noise whenever the janitor dropped by, just to say “Hey there Carol, you look nice today.” Now everything makes sense.

I cried out suddenly, desperately. “Save me, Jesus!” As I lay trapped and trembling, in my mind’s eye I saw a figure come into the kitchen and stand by my mother. With a single gesture, he reached and swept the pills out of her hand and into the trash can.

Amazed, I watched as he then turned to me. “You don’t owe your life to your mother,” he declared. “It was I who stayed her hand. You belong to me.”

I tried to say something. But with a firm gaze and a silent wave, he told me…”No.” That’s when our eyes met, and I just couldn’t tear myself away. BOW-CHIGGA-BWAAAOOOOOWWW.

A cool sensation of release swept over me. Sighing deeply, I lay quiet. Later, I remembered Jesus’ promise to his followers, “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8:32NIV).

Indeed, this watershed experience freed me to face many unhealthy dynamics in my life—most notably, feeling overly responsible for my mother’s happiness and guilty for wanting a life of my own.

There’s a little something for the non-fiction fans in the audience.

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Mitt Romney and the ‘Eat My Chocolate’ story

This is strange. Here’s a tidbit that comes by way of author Bryan Young, whose brother worked at a Seattle’s Best in Provo, Utah. He told it to Jesus General (who is manly, amen), and that’s how I came across it. You might be surprised, or you might be nauseated, by the oddball generosity of Mitt Romney:

One day in 2010 the baristas were surprised to see Mitt Romney and his wife come to the counter.

Since they’re both Mormon, neither ordered a coffee drink. They each ordered a hot chocolate and took them… without tipping. It seemed odd for someone so wealthy not to tip, but no one thought of it as a big deal. Baristas usually make less than minimum wage and make their living on tips. I understand that it’s not worth Bill Gates’ time to pick up a hundred dollar bill, but Mr. Millionaire couldn’t dump his change in the tip jar?

The man was out of touch…

…only they didn’t know just how out of touch he was until later.

Romney spent some time in the coffee shop as his wife browsed through books before they were called to leave.

On their way out, Anne throws away her half-consumed hot chocolate, but Mitt approaches the counter. “I know you guys can’t sell this again, but I was wondering if one of you guys wanted the rest of my hot chocolate.”

“No thanks,” one of the other baristas told him, wondering if this was some sort of bizarre joke.

“I don’t want to waste it, there’s still plenty left, it’s still perfectly good…”

According to my brother, Romney seemed genuinely confused by their refusal. His hot chocolate was so good he didn’t want to waste it, but it wasn’t so good that it was worth tipping those who made it. “I think the important part of this story isn’t the tipping,” my brother explained. “It’s that he doesn’t understand that everyone else is throwing their unused drinks away because they understand that it’s against social norms. His germs are on it, but somehow, in his mind, his millionaire saliva is good enough that it shouldn’t bother a barista of the serving class.”


Is this the weirdest man ever to run for president? I leave it to you.

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The funny way National Review cares for California

California, that’s us. Unemployment is pegged over 10%, the state government’s poorer than a fruit picker, the mention of the word ‘water’ in polite society starts fistfights, and, beginning about a month from now, the Santa Ana winds will turn greater Los Angeles into gunpowder in a potter’s kiln. There are so many good reasons for the bleedinghearts at National Review to worry about us.

If Californians did not have enough problems already, they are about to be deprived of delicious, fattened liver.

Jesus, now this.

As of July 1, when Arnold Schwarzenegger’s 2004 “Force Fed Birds” act finally took effect, California became the first state in the nation to ban foie gras.

No more tortured goose organs for you. The fates. They are cruel.

Some, like the newly founded Coalition for Humane and Ethical Farming Standards (CHEFS), say the law goes too far. “It would lead to the widespread production and sale of contraband, black-market foie gras that would be dangerous to animal welfare and customers,” the CHEFS website states.

Because CHEFS are all about animal welfare. Similar arguments were forwarded the author by GNASHING BIRD MAGNETO. Now, here’s how the Review tie up this piece. No ma’am, I’m not making this up:

These birds are only the most recent job creators pushed out of the Golden State.

When the attorney general deports the Hell’s Angels, the morticians lobby will collapse.

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Turn out the lights: Thomas Kinkade dead

The cynical artist with facile hands and a powerful lust for business, Thomas Kinkade, has died. He was 54.

The controversial Christian and jillionaire will not be missed. It’s a sorry shame he didn’t die a day sooner. He was a gifted man who seduced and repulsed the world with his portraits of incandescent treacle. He trademarked himself “Thomas Kinkade, Painter of Light.” He may have mass-produced and sold as many as ten million paintings. Here’s one:

Though he may have rivaled only Andy Warhol for success in the business of art, he was neither satisfied nor respected. He was angry at critics and frequently drunk.

[Kinkade’s Media Arts Group executive John] Dandois also said of Kinkade, “Thom would be fine, he would be drinking, and then all of a sudden, you couldn’t tell where the boundary was, and then he became very incoherent, and he would start cursing and doing a lot of weird stuff like touching himself.” On 11 June 2010, Kinkade was arrested in Carmel, California on suspicion of driving while under the influence of alcohol.

He thought Pablo Picasso was lame. Kinkade believed himself to be great because he outsold everyone else, as if that were important. Creating factories to produce his ‘paintings’ wasn’t relevant, but you’re welcome to admire that too. His art was licensed to the likes of Wal-Mart and Hallmark for calendars, puzzles, CDs, greeting and gift cards. Have some more:

His arrogance extended to creating entire Thomas Kinkade towns. In 2002, Salon‘s Janelle Brown visited “The Village at Hiddenbrooke, A Thomas Kinkade Painter of Light™ Community.”

Kinkade has parlayed his fame into an entire country-cottage industry of Kinkade-licensed products, as seen on QVC — home furnishings, La-Z-Boy chairs and sofas, wallpaper, linens, china, stationery sets, Hallmark greeting cards and so on . . The Village at Hiddenbrooke bills itself as the culmination of Kinkade’s vision: an actual manifestation of the quaint cottages, charming gazebos and inspiring landscapes in his artwork.

Except that it isn’t. What you find in the rolling hills behind Vallejo is the exact opposite of the Kinkadeian ideal. Instead of quaint cottages, there’s generic tract housing; instead of lush landscapes, concrete patios; instead of a cozy village, there’s a bland collection of homes with nothing — not a church, not a cafe, not even a town square — to draw them together.

Your first glimpse of Hiddenbrooke features four enormous satellite dishes and a radio tower, nestled in a green valley next to an oblivious troop of grazing cows from the adjacent farm. The second thing you see upon arrival in Hiddenbrooke is an endless stretch of the community’s semi-identical greige tract homes, squeezed in close.

Hiddenbrooke is still around. Many of his hundreds of exclusive galleries are not. While it may have cost franchisees $100,000 or more to buy into the Kinkade trade, they labored to make the sort of money they were promised. They frequently encountered competition from a seemingly unscrupulous business competitor: Thomas Kinkade.

Kinkade’s company, Media Arts Group Inc., has been accused of unfair dealings with owners of Thomas Kinkade Signature Gallery franchises. In 2006, an arbitration board awarded Karen Hazlewood and Jeffrey Spinello $860,000 in damages and $1.2 million in fees and expenses due to Kinkade’s company “[failing] to disclose material information” that would have discouraged them from investing in the gallery. The award was later increased to $2.8 million with interest and legal fees. The plaintiffs and other former gallery owners have also leveled accusations of being pressured to open additional galleries that were not financially viable, being forced to take on expensive, unsalable inventory, and being undercut by discount outlets whose prices they were not allowed to match.

The unfortunates felt victimized not only for the loss of income, but for a kind of spiritual betrayal.

Former gallery dealers also charged that Kinkade uses Christianity as a tool to take advantage of people. “They really knew how to bait the hook,” said one ex-dealer who spoke on condition of anonymity. “They certainly used the Christian hook.” One former dealer’s lawyer stated “Most of my clients got involved with Kinkade because it was presented as a religious opportunity. Being defrauded is awful enough, but doing it in the name of God is really despicable.” On June 2, 2010, Pacific Metro, the artist’s production company, filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy, one day after defaulting on a $1 million court imposed payment to the aforementioned Karen Hazlewood and Jeffrey Spinello. A $500,000 payment had previously been disbursed.

One more:

A.S. Hamrah, writing in The Baffler, detailed the impact his life would have on others:

“Kinkade is a living testament to how the triumph of kitsch values has repercussions in the marketplace, outside the world of taste.”

Thomas Kinkade, dead at 54. Bury him deep.

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John Derbyshire, mental illness and racism

Just came across John Derbyshire’s ultra-racist Trayvon riposte in Taki’s Magazine. This was surely inspired by so many black people talking publicly about themselves and their concerns. The tragedy has become too much for the National Review’s Dorkasaurus Rex to tolerate.

Derb reminds me a bit of my own Dad. He was an engineer. When I was 11, he gave me the talk about sex. It lasted ten minutes. It was the first time anyone read me a technical instruction manual, I guessed, from memory. At least it was in English, so that was nice.

There’s also a little bit of my sophomore year Berkeley roommate in Derb. He was 100% organic chemist, 100% of the time. I remember when my girlfriend came up from Santa Barbara to visit me, the roommate seemed impressed with her looks. The minute she stepped out of the room, he looked at me blankly and asked: “HAVE YOU MADE LOVE TO HER?” I tried to Scanners his fucking head, but he didn’t even blink.

What I’m trying to say: John carries on not only in combative and stupid fashion, but also with the sort of brain damage that renders him perfectly insulting. He and the similar cubes feel it’s a personal strength rather than a flaw people want to beat to death with clubs. John thinks he is the Excalibur that’s laid low the shallow premises and lazy thinking around him. He’s really an Asperger’s bully-hire the National Review trot out to headbutt liberals.

Women, for example. In September of 2009, he appeared on Alan Colmes’ radio show. This was his ‘political‘ argument . .

Alan: What is the case against female suffrage?

John: Well the conservative case against it is that, is that women lean hard to the left. They, uh, they want someone to, to nurture, they want someone to help raise their kids, and if men aren’t inclined to do it, which in the present days they’re not much, then they’d like the state to do it for them.

Got that? Again:

John: Among the hopes that I do not realistically nurse is the hope that female suffrage will be repealed.

You figure even the National Review might recognize Derb for the deeply disturbed man he is. But no, they just love him.

He is a shining example of conservatives’ calculated depravity. You have to assume someone so poorly mentally composed would stomp a toddler or start a tragic fire at some point. Today’s post comes close to doing it. Here Derb writes to warn ‘his’ kids in the same manner those tragic-glorious black people warn their own about America:

(10a) Avoid concentrations of blacks not all known to you personally.

(10b) Stay out of heavily black neighborhoods.

(10c) If planning a trip to a beach or amusement park at some date, find out whether it is likely to be swamped with blacks on that date (neglect of that one got me the closest I have ever gotten to death by gunshot).

(10d) Do not attend events likely to draw a lot of blacks.

(10e) If you are at some public event at which the number of blacks suddenly swells, leave as quickly as possible.

(10f) Do not settle in a district or municipality run by black politicians.

(10g) Before voting for a black politician, scrutinize his/her character much more carefully than you would a white.

(10h) Do not act the Good Samaritan to blacks in apparent distress, e.g., on the highway.

(10i) If accosted by a strange black in the street, smile and say something polite but keep moving . .


Derb will swear he is honest and he is brilliant. He’s just mentally ill.

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Remember when Rush went after Michael J. Fox?

There’s been some interest in Fat Fuck’s human nature. Folks have dug up this old clip from my YouTube channel and watched in jaw-gaping wonder. Whenever he goes all Rushbo, like when he denounces a blameless citizen as a “slut” to his millions of listeners, the video gets views. “Has this man always had the heart of a psychotic wolverine?” people ask themselves. “When you piggyback Satan’s soul on your own, does it stick its finger up your ass?” others wonder.

Who can blame them? There are so many things to learn about the Army of Evil. And there are so few times we can ask an unrendered, fully-capitated person about it. It was bloody difficult getting Mussolini to say “peep” while hanging upside down from a meat hook.

So, what’s it like to be a member in whatever ‘standing’ shitstaining stands for?



Hmm, Rush? If you die even one second before Michael J. Fox, I’ll believe there’s a god.

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Saturday night and it’s okay to put things in Dana Loesch’s vagina

The Golden Pundit, Dana Loesch, weighs in on Virginia’s shocking Valentine Wand Law. You could call it the “On your back, whore, so we can cram things in you” law. I was enlightened by this take:

“’Oh what about the Virginia rape? The rapes that, the forced rapes of women who are pregnant?’ What!? Wait a minute. They had no problem having similar to a trans-vaginal procedure when they engaged in the act that resulted in their pregnancy…”

Quote Dana: They had absolutely no problem putting something in their vaginas yesterday. Why can’t the government put something in their vaginas today? That’s a good point. You know how women are, they’ll be all orgasm before you can even turn the thing on. There’s a reason to think positively of it. Think of the pleasure that technology brings. I think about the government doing this to pregnant women, but it only makes me sick.

Remember friends: Dana has been pregnant before. Twice. So feel free to shove things in her – preferably an object that emits electromagnetic radiation. Have a doctor knock her on her ass and cram a flashlight in her. Try one of those Maglites cops love to bounce off felons’ skulls, that will do. Put it in there. A Chevy headlight. An x-ray machine. The space shuttle. It’s government owned and not doing much of nothing, no harm done. Stuff’s been up in there before. I like logic. I love soup.

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Republican government pushes you on your back, shoves a probe in you and cranks up the electricity

What was Winston Smith’s crime? Having sex with Julia. Falling in love with Julia.

O’Brien picked up the cage, and, as he did so, pressed something in it. There was a sharp click. Winston made a frantic effort to tear himself loose from the chair. It was hopeless; every part of him, even his head, was held immovably. O’Brien moved the cage nearer. It was less than a metre from Winston’s face.

“I have pressed the first lever,” said O’Brien. “You understand the construction of this cage. The mask will fit over your head, leaving no exit. When I press this other lever, the door of the cage will slide up. These starving brutes will shoot out of it like bullets.”

Rats. Remember that? Now consider the legislation about to be signed into law by the governor of Virginia. Imagine what Big Brother will soon force upon many panicked and love-struck women:

The Virginia legislature has passed a bill that will force women seeking an abortion to undergo a medically unnecessary transvaginal ultrasound. The mandated procedure requires that a woman’s vagina be distended with a speculum and that a probe be inserted into the vagina and manipulated around so as to produce a high-resolution picture of the uterus and surrounding organs — once again, for no medically sound reason. Governor Bob McDonnell has said that he will sign the bill.

See the Virginia government:



Rats on your face. How about a rat in your ass?

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Jerry Sandusky’s trial will be as horrible as his lawyer

Oh, how I loathe the future. Months and months of Jerry Sandusky reports, the lurid trial dragging on and on, the sight of grown men crying on the stand, the replaying of heartbreaking testimonies on the nightly news. Please spare us, it’s all too horrible.

I fear particularly for what’s approaching given the newest, most reckless player in the tragedy: Joe Amendola, Sandusky’s lawyer. He is flawed, cavalier and stupid:

“Anyone who is naive enough to think for a minute that Tim Curley, Joe Paterno, Gary Schultz and, for that matter, Graham Spanier, the university president, were told by Mike McQueary that he observed Jerry Sandusky having anal sex with a 10-year-old-looking kid in a shower at Penn State . . “

“10-year-old looking kid”? Maybe pint-sized twinks cruise the Penn State locker room? How can we be sure, after all? The whole thing might be a misunderstanding of local gay culture that happens to overlap the football program. Hell, even straight guys like Jerry Sandusky might enjoy “anal sex.” I’m getting nauseated by my own snark.

Joe: we know who the victim was. And 10 year-old boys (and girls) do not engage in “anal sex.” They get raped.

” . . and their response was to simply tell Jerry Sandusky that, ‘Don’t go in the shower room any more with kids.’ I suggest you dial 1-800-REALITY. Because that makes absolutely no sense.”

. . so, somebody dials 1-800-REALITY. And it’s a gay sex line, the “hottest place for triple-X action.” We’re back to hot sexy square one, and the bile is rising.

Is this the worst lawyer? Hard to imagine a more despicable choice. Let’s see: as a 49 year-old, Joe represented a 16 year-old teen seeking emancipation, had sex with her and got her pregnant. They later married, had another kid and divorced, which is excellent. Before you start holding your head, let’s be fair: while she was one-third his age, Sandusky’s victims were one-fifth his age. So there’s really no parallel. I see no reason to worry about having an attorney like that maintain your innocence.

After taking this case, Joe thought it would be a good idea to have Jerry defend himself on TV. That effort produced two of the most horrifying defendant’s clips ever seen. So that was a fine strategy.

Tuesday: Joe, his defendant, the prosecution and the victims all showed up for the first big day of the long legal process, the preliminary hearing. Seeing the media circus, Joe stepped inside and suddenly waived the proceeding. Nothing to see here today, people, no reason to hang around, ‘bye. That, of course, produced a media circus. Victim four:

“This is the most difficult time of my life. I can’t put into words how unbearable this has been on my life, both physically and mentally. I can’t believe they put us through this only to waive the hearing.”

Joe, again, allowed his client to comment:

“We fully intend to put together the best possible defense that we can do, to stay the course, to fight for four quarters.”

Ready for months of football metaphors from the Penn State child rapist? Ugh.

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Texas Mom who sexted boy gets banned from the internet

We tip-toe into the High Court Of Humanity and approach the judge in sidebar, to whisper “Jeez what is wrong with us?”

Texas Mom Banned From Using Internet After ‘Sexting’ 16-Year-Old Boy
By Matthew Bryan Beck | Christian Post | Nov 14 2011

A 38-year-old Texas mom has pleaded guilty Friday of online solicitation of a minor for texting nude photographs of herself to her friend’s 16-year-old son. Lori David was sentenced to five years’ probation.

Investigators said David and the boy’s mother were “jogging buddies,” and that the boy was a high school classmate of David’s son. The boy told investigators that the woman befriended him when she volunteered at the school, and friended him on Facebook.

…According to court documents, David sent the teen two lewd nude photos of herself on Oct. 14, 2010. She was arrested at her home on Nov. 4, 2010, and was later released on bond. Visibly shaken in court Friday, she trembled and cried before the bench.

I am reminded of this:

Elaine: Ugh, I hate people.
Jerry: Yeah, they’re the worst.

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