This is my firs post from my eyephone, so ignore the inevitable spelling errors and nonsense words lol
I traveled home to Missouri today. I love the whole travel process honestly. I live 15 minutes from love feild in Dallas and the drive on the tollway is one of my favorite things to do. The airport was swarming with people tryin to get places for the holiday. Airports are always intersting. So many varietys of people, its like a giant box of lost and found stuff, nothing belongs there. Anyway, i slept most of the way and landed in a chilly 40 degree mid west winter. Somethings about Missouri i will never miss.

I always spend the first few minutes in the house scoping out whats changed, checkin out rooms, new furniture, new paint. Im like a dog getting used to a new owner. I love how a house can change but the people inside it remain the same for the most part. Dinner was still ready and on the table at 6, everyone ate together as soon as my dad got home. Some stuff about home i will always miss. I wouldnt trade anything for my family. My parents have always been the best example of a Christ centered life and i never really understood it untill i left and tried to make it on my own. In societys ever growing divorce centered culture, having a solid family is a major blessing. I cant imagine growing up being any better than it was for me. Sure my parents and i didnt always see eye to eye, but they somehow always knew what was best for me. I love my family.

I read about david again tonight. If i could be like anyone in the bible, my favor is slowly shifting toward Him.

“God forbid i should lay a finger on His anointed”
1 Samuel 26:10

I dont know how many times i’ve sought revenge on someone i’ve deemed my enemy. Its human nature. An eye for an eye. But somehow david saw his enemys as Gods people too. He chose not to take revenge when it would have been acceptable to take. He prayed for the people that hurt him the most. I cant help but feel challenged to begin to do the same. I can only imagine what the world might look like if we as Christians, instead of condeming those that disregaurded us, would begin to pray for their lives. To ask God to bless them and reveal himself to him in a real way. I think thats what God called us to do, to love our enemys as His children. I’ve never really taken the time to accept that challenge but i think its something that God would appreciate a great deal and in the long run would change
my jaded heart and bring my attitude closer to his.

I know this is difficult to do. Pride always gets in the way and we always justify revenge without thinking of how much more damage it can do. I pray we as Christians look to Davids example in seeing our enemys as one of Gods own. I pray next time someone does wrong by us, nomatter how severe, that we pray to see Gods love poured out in their lives. Ive got a few people i know i need to do this for and im sure you do too. So may we lay down our pride and see eachother through Christ eyes and begin to be like David, asking God to bless those who dont value our lives //

'I say, Rupert. Just love the flowers. Did mumsy trim them for you?'

What’s this I read in The Daily Mail?

The toffs at Eton College are willing to share their boating lake and sports’ facilities with the common lads from the local scruffy comprehensive school?

And – according to their headmaster, Tony Little – they are quite happy to be involved with other schools, too.  As if they have been thinking about it!  And for a long while!  After all, mutual links between independent and state  schools are not new – and it is 2009, after all, Mr Little!

Wow!  So what’s going on at Eton College?  Do I detect a warmer, more humane wind a-blowing through them fausty old schoolrooms?

Or is there something more sinister behind their seemingly wonderful act of benevolence?

So is this sharing being done out of the goodness of their rich little hearts?

Or is it because the Charity Commission is after their rich little arses?

A Charity Commission who would not hesitate to remove the charitable status of any independent school who dares not to engage positively with the community around them.

So what would it mean to a school like Eton if it did lose its charitable status, you might innocently ask?

Well, the school would have to pay more tax, that’s what!  Something they don’t do as much as you think because they are all charities – you know, like Oxfam, Mencap, Mind……except without the good works for the benefit of mankind! You get the message – a charity in name only……but with all the tax benefits.                                                                                                    

So some charity these schools then, you might exclaim!  Greedy, eh?

Yes, I would cry!

And who would benefit from all of this charitable status?

Well, there’s only one answer, isn’t there?  It’s the monied, priviledged middle class of this country, the ones who send their Ruperts and Herminoes to posh schools and who want to ensure that these schools continue to thrive for centuries and generations to come.

After all, like begets like.

Until the financial cord is cut.

If you don’t know these characters yet, where have you been? You can find out who they are here. In the last episode, Heffneus threw a party for the Gods during which OJ cut off a mortal’s head in an surprising moment of rage. Heffneus was obviously perturbed by this and vowed revenge…

Cheneyticus, Cruiseus, Palina and Heffneus all meet at Heff’s mansion to plot their revenge in the interests of evil. He has gathered those whom he considers his closest allies of the day. As the God of wine as well as madness, this is a constantly revolving ally list because of the blackouts….and the madness. He has picked Cheneyticus and Cruiseus because of their allegiance to the dark side and ability to manipulate the masses, and he has allowed Palina to come because she’s hot.

Heffneus began, “Thank you for coming. As you all know I have been shown a great disrespect by OJ.” He was interrupted my Palina, “Well hiya, I broughtcha a signed copy of my book for ya!” Heffneus grabbed the book out of her hand and immediately used it as a coaster for his overflowing Crunk Cup. “Please don’t interrupt me again Palina, it’s rude.” He then continued his tirade against OJ, “That foolish oaf can’t just come to my party and cut the head off of one of my guests. It was rude and not at all sexy, and I won’t stand for it. My penis almost became dreadfully flaccid, so obviously my penis won’t stand for it either.” He then grabbed his erection to show his erection’s support. 

“Why is Phelpius passed out on your couch?” asked Cruiseus. Heffneus replied, “I think he lives here now. See how damn cute he is? When he strokes and kicks like that he’s dreaming he’s swimming. I brought in a stoner-whisperer to train him. I’ll make sweet love to him after I get a nice cankle massage.”

Cheneyticus- “Well, you’re just a disgusting pervert aren’t you?”

Heffneus- “I could remind you that your daughter delights in gay love, as do I.”

Cheneyticus- “Grmphh aghrr.”

Heffneus- “What was that? That’s what I thought bitch.”

Cruiseus- “You’re both so polluted with thetans. I must take you to meet my friends.”

Palina- “Ya know, you’re muckin about with some dangerous stuff there mister. Those are occultist practices. You need the Holy Spirit to fix ya right up.”

Cruiseus- “You’re being glib, you moron.”

Heffneus- “Will you two please just shut the fuck up? This is all about me. Look at me. Look at my glorious erection!”

Cheneyticus- “Grumphh agaghh errr.”

Cruiseus- “Lord Xenu.”

Palina- “Well, ya got that goin for ya, dontcha!”

Suddenly the lights dimmed as if by their own accord. War Pigs by Black Sabbath started playing in the background and Cheneyticus began, “I have concocted a stereotypically nefarious plan…” He was interrupted by Cruiseus, “Why don’t you just take him hunting?” Cheneyticus answered, “Why don’t you just go fuck yourself?” Heffneus interjected with, “Didn’t you wear that line out on the floor of the senate?” “Haha, good one Heff!” Cheneyticus continued, “Now do you want your revenge or not?”

“Ok then, here’s what we do…We lead OJ to believe that he’s been cast in The Naked Gun 44 ½ ‘Is Leslie Nielsen Really Still Alive?’ We send him and a fake film crew composed of my Blackwater boys to Afghanistan to ‘shoot’ a ‘scene.’ We set up a meeting with high level Al-Qaida operatives as part of the ‘plot.’ We plant heroin, bombs, a Koran, and architectural plans for the Sydney Opera House in his hotel room. Maybe a head too. You just can’t have enough evidence against that slippery bastard. Anyway, we get him to read his ‘script’ filled with incriminating lines, filming it all. As soon as we yell cut, we send in my spooks to extraordinarily rendition his black ass. We throw him in a hole somewhere. With any luck at all Barackus will come to his defense and claim we set him up. We can then accuse Barackus of being soft on terror and of being a secret heroin warlord. We’ll get Cryboy, Ditto and The Beav to spin it all in our favor….

The God of death will be locked away.

Heffneus will have his revenge.

We can move for a Godly impeachment.

And maybe, just maybe The Throne will be mine again! Oh, I’m back baby, and it feels so right! How does next month work for you guys?”

Cruiseus flipped through Dianetics, took a Niacin tablet and smiled.

Palina said, “You betcha!”

Heffneus grabbed his throbbing erection and threw up into his Crunk Cup, which then spilled over onto Palina’s book.

Phelpius dreamed he was swimming, stroking and kicking the couch.

Living well is the best revenge.

- George Herbet

skip to 1:30 for the action:

Cats bears grudges … cats take revenge even for unintentional slights …

I am so pumped! I have finally received my Autographed by Michael Bay Transformers Revenge of the Fallen DVD today in the mail! This is the coolest thing ever! And it’s actually signed!

Here in the picture you can see my current Transformers ROTF collection so far. The biggest poster on the left is an actually movie poster from the theaters and it has two sides for some reason. But anyway im super pumped and the bumblebee toy i have in my right hand actually transformers into the camaro. It is so detailed! Woot!

And the DVD I am holding is signed by Michael Bay himself!

]]> http://ladyraine.wordpress.com/2009/11/23/exposed-roissy-in-dc/ Mon, 23 Nov 2009 19:49:38 +0000 Lady Raine http://ladyraine.wordpress.com/2009/11/23/exposed-roissy-in-dc/

"Roissy in DC" author: James C. Weidmann

Jimmy-The-Jew:  ”Roissy in DC”

Now, let me just say this.  I have never felt the need to dedicate a post to Roissy because we all know (in his many pathetic, repeated blog posts dedicated to me) that is exactly what he wants.  He wants to be the “dark villain” and the “dangerous man”.  Sadly, most women can see upon reading a few words of his that he is not a dangerous nor scary man.  He’s a sad, lonely, 40’s-something guy…..stuck in a big city…..where he just can’t keep up with the competition  (please refer to what he looks like and what he WEARS as a man his age to see what I am referring to).

*I am interested to see if Roissy “takes it like a man” or shrieks like a schoolgirl and demand it be removed.  ( I say this because Roissy has felt free to find and post photos of me, my family, my personal info, and anything else he can find to “call me out”).  I wonder if the “dishee” can also take it.*

Desperation drips from his false online persona like a broken rusty rain gutter that everyone gave up on fixing long ago……

If you are NOT familiar with blogger, “Roissy in DC“……I’d suggest you click and read a bit of his blog (you’re welcome, Roissy).

This is a man who claims to be a Master of Seduction, a Jesus-Like Savior of (wimpy) men, a Colossus of Gaming, and of course an all around “Ladies Man”.

He extols the virtues of dodging child support payments, physically intimidating your wives & girlfriends to “keep them in line”, and even encourages men to “raw-dog” it and have as much unprotected sex as you possibly can (gross….can you say STD’s and MORE babies in foster care???).

Unfortunately, the men he is preying upon don’t realize that he is NOT out to help them, NOT out “offer advice”, but out ONLY to reassure himself in his aging, middle-aged, desperation…..that ANYONE still wants to hear what he has to say.

You all know the expression “Well….if I’m going down….I’m taking everyone with me.”  THAT is exactly what Roissy’s “Game” advice to men is.  It’s like the crack under a recovering crack-heads nose…….the “miracle diet pill” to the lifetime Anorexic……and the walking, talking ENABLER of the further decline of modern men in today’s society.  He encourages men to go back to the “id”…..the caveman inside themselves…….and care about nothing but eating, sleeping, and fucking.

Every step that man has taken forward in the world, Roissy helps them to take a step back.  For every man who DOES have discipline and character (and self-control)……Roissy helps to enable 10 more NOT to be.

The chauvinism, arrogance, and cock-obsessed points aside……Roissy is a living breathing example of the stereotype that many men have been trying to not be a part of:  drooling, horny, pussy-obsessed, “cocks-on-wheels” with not a thought in their head except finding a warm-hole.  (Pardon the nasty expression, but that is the main thought process of men like these).

Anyway…..I received an email directly from a mysterious (and generous) Miss X.  This is evidently a woman who feels much the same way that I do and is tired of witnessing this sort of degradation in our society as whole.

*NOTE:  I will remove tidbits from the email that could/would give away the identity of “Miss X” and how she may be “familiar” with Roissy.  I will also mark my own comments with *asterisks* and Italics so there is no confusion.*

Dear Lady Raine,

I’ve been a longtime admirer of your contributions to the debate at Roissy’s. However, his recent smugness has exceeded even my tolerance, and I thought I might offer a little birthday present to you to offset the bile you’ve received from him:

I believe I know Roissy’s real name.

I know that you like investigation…. take a look at James (Jim) C. Wiedmann, employed by FINRA (a private finance regulatory body in D.C.). Also interviewed in the Mail and Globe article “When Players Turn Into Boyfriends.” See if this rings any bells:

The pickup artist’s message for wannabe players and boyfriends alike is essentially “don’t be a wuss,” says J. Wiedmann, a Washington-based white-collar-crime investigator. Mr. Wiedmann, who did not want his full name used, launched his “reality-based seduction” blog, “Roissy in DC: Where Pretty Lies Perish,” last year. Reviled and beloved, the blog is full of devilish relationship strategies.


“I’ve written about the importance of instilling dread in your girlfriend by turning off your phone twice a week, or calling her from a busy place where women are laughing in the background … despite her protestations to the contrary, a little bit of uncertainty goes a long way to keeping her aroused for you,” Mr. Wiedmann said in an interview.


Aside from the usual fawning and vitriolic responses to his posts, Mr. Wiedmann has been seeing more pleas for relationship advice in his inbox lately. “Most of my male readers ask for advice on how to win that ‘one girl’ over. They’re struggling to get out of the discount bin of the sexual market,” he says.

(http://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/article714983.ece)

Roissy published a blog entry entitled “I Am In the Globe and Mail,” but has recently deleted it.
(http://roissy.wordpress.com/2008/12/19/i-am-in-the-globe-and-mail/).

He is 41. His birth day and month are the same as listed in this profile, but he lies about the year. This is what he looks like.
(http://www.puaconnect.com/roissy/)

If you’d like any further confirmation, try a Google search for “Roissy’s real name.”

He loves to brag about his exploits, but abuses women while hiding under a cloak of secrecy. And now he is making it a personal crusade to attack all the women on his blog who are still willing to stick around. Please be careful — some of the men at his site are very angry and seem a few minutes away from snapping.

From one woman to another,
Miss X

*I also received this in my comments section from another one of my readers*

You should send Roissy a nice thank you card:

Jim Wiedmann
1778 Lanier Pl NW #9C
Washington, DC 20009

 

*OH, JIM…….LOL…..what does one even say about this?  Other than the fact that a 41 year old “finance-nerd” who dresses like he’s a 21 year old emo-prep college-boy.  The fact that he constantly berates women and evidently LIES about his age even to his own readership is really rather funny.  I recall so many articles talking about how “young hot women just LOVE old, pasty gross men” and now I know why he’s so desperate to get other men to believe this kind of thing.

You would think that JUST the fact that he’s a middle-aged, pasty-white finance-Jew posing as a playboy would be reason enough for people to disregard his opinions and advice (like most people already do)…..but there are and always will be looking for their “own personal jesus” to tell them it’s okay to hate women, hate life, hate responsibility, hate morals, hate “hard work”, and hate ANYONE AND EVERYONE that you can possibly think of to blame for being  what they have become.

This falls into my “Why People Are Assholes” post.  Roissy may not be a big-name who is going to influence anyone who actually matters……but he’s certainly known enough to be influencing men who otherwise may have turned to look at THEMSELVES (yes I know introspection is a crazy concept for guys like him) for their failures/shortcomings in life.

It’s a dangerous world we live in when there is a “miracle pill”, a quick fix, and a (insert random group) to blame for everything a person DOESN’T do to be responsible for their own lives.

Our good friend Jimmy-The-Jew, here is just one of them.*

Yes, Gentlemen....THIS is the man you are asking for advice on picking up ladies.....(Note: The....errr..."artwork" done to this pic wasn't done by me. This is the way the photo was when I saved it, lol)

*Yes, Ladies I know…..it’s hard to control yourself in the presence of such an Adonis, but please try to remain calm for the sake of our female dignity.*

Update:  Much like I expected….some of Roissy’s shrieking henchman came here telling me I have “stepped over the line”.  For a bit on the “history”….this is the first time I have published a “post about Roissy” on my blog.  Roissy has published at least 6 or more posts specifically about me.  Containing personal photos of me AND MY son….which is “unsavory” in the first place.  But he then continued over the past 6 months to try to slander me, give out personal info (like mentioning the town I live in as often as he can) and worst of all posts porno videos and says that it is ME in the video (and isn’t.)  He has publicly posted lies on his blog accusing me of prostitution AND pornography and attached my photos to the (complete lies) he is telling.

I never really bothered posting about it here on my blog, because anyone who knows me in real life knows those things aren’t true and are ridiculous…..but that doesn’t change the fact that Roissy likes to go and play in people’s lives and slander innocent people for his own amusement and to up his blog stats without remorse and without even having  a good motive to do it.  Just because it gets him attention.

Well I think it’s high time someone finally fixed his little red wagon, and I’m certainly the woman for the job

*Update:  November 25*

Here is another address that is identical except for a different Apartment number…..ooops guess it WAS a residential address….silly old me with my tiny female brain…..

Wiedmann, James C

Age:40-44

1778 Lanier Pl NW, Apt 8B

Washington, DC 20009-2190

*This is dedicated RIGHT to Roissy for the post back in June where he posted my son’s name, age, and photo without my permission (and involving kids is the lowest you can go anyhow):*

Address History

• 2 in Washington, DC
• 1 in Chevy Chase, MD
• 1 in Somerville, NJ
• 1 in Ventnor City, NJ
• 1 in Atlantic City, NJ

Aliases

• James Wiedmann
• Jim Wiedmann
• James Charles Weidman

Relatives

• L Wiedmann
• Catherine R Wiedmann
• Lisa A Wiedmann

*Ouuuuuuuuuuuch, Jimmy*

(Inspired by Ain’t Your Fairytale by Sonata Arctica)

Hear my young ones!

For centuries we have been hunted, killed and skinned by humans. Now our time has come! We shall seek justice!

We all know that man is much more superior than us… in almost every aspect. But can we just let them do this unforgivable act on and on? No! They have once feared us greatly and now the time has come to make them feel that apprehension again!

We and the humans once shared an ancient bond in the Garden of Eden. We coexisted peacefully. Mankind was once a benevolent race… But not anymore. They have broken the bond. They were the ones who started this war… thousands of lifetimes ago…

They would hunt us in the day. Slaughter us for our skin. Now its payback time!

My young ones! Listen to your elder!

Tonight, the moon is full and blue. Selene’s blessings are upon us. Nyx shall guide us in the dead of night. Strike fear into the heart of man! Let those intruders feel the wrath of Fenrisúlfr’s children!

Now follow the trail of blood. Make them pay the price for desecrating Artemis’ realm. Track them down until the dawn!

Now! The pack they’ve always feared is back! Hunt my young ones! Let the hunt begin!

Filmen starter med at hovedpersonen Sam, spillet af Shia LaBeouf, er på vej på college, han har så godt som helt afskåret sig fra Autobots (de gode transformers) aktiviteter på jorden. imens på et andet sted på planeten er Decepticons (de onde transformers) tilbage, USA præsident mener det er pga. Autobots og vil derfor have dem væk fra jorden, men i virkeligheden er de efter Sam. Da de kommer efter ham, ofre Optimus Prime (Autobots leder) sig for at Sam kan slippe væk, det går senere op for Sam at den eneste der kan redde jorden er Optimus, og han skal nu kæmpe for at forsøge at genoplive Optimus.
Kanon aktion film, den har alt hvad nr. 1 havde, aktion, utroligt god special effekts/grafik (tænker på robotterne), lidt humor og sidst men ikke mindst Megan Fox. den har også formået ikke bare at være en kedelig efterfølger men er en film så sagtens kan stå alene, derfor får den 4/5 stjerner.

Ditlev

I love the prophetic walk and feel for those Christians who have not been exposed to it. It is so important in one’s life.

Here is an example of what I mean: A few days ago, my baby brother who is an elder in the church he attnends texted me a message that said in just a few words “stay calm”. Well when I read it I had nothing to be upset about. Well it was a prohetic warning because within days I experienced something that made me go ballistic! I mean I was wanting to seek revenge. Even now I’m typing this at 3:55 am because I am so angry. Thank God for His instruction to fast because I know had I not been fasting I would have gone postal.

When people hurt us our first impulse is to hurt them back. But every time I start to do something that I shouldn’t do I hear the words Stay calm. Well I am really trying to. Pray for me!

Deuteronomy 32:35: 

35 Vengeance is Mine, and retribution,
In due time their foot will slip;
For the day of their calamity is near,
And the impending things are hastening upon them

Romans 12:19:

19  Never take your own revenge, beloved, but leave room for the wrath of God, for it is written, VENGEANCE IS MINE, I WILL REPAY,” says the Lord

When you have brought up kids, there are memories you store directly in your tear ducts. .. Robert Brault

I’ve debated how to write this post for several days, and it’s been difficult.  My role as attorney at law is to uphold the law. Most of the time, that also means to pursue justice. Sometimes these two goals don’t match. These are the hard cases.

I have a client (who has asked me to blog about his case), the victim of a biased judge and a vindictive ex-wife. For several years, the parties utilized the custody court in the state of Tennessee, because that’s where they lived, at first.

After they split up, the wife moved to Pennsylvania with their son, not bothering to get court permission to do so. My client, a high-powered computer consultant, then worked for Microsoft at points around the globe, without an address in the States. But the court awarded him summer and holiday visits with his son.

The mother denied him the right to visit several times thereafter. Although he applied to the FBI and other agencies, he was told they would not get involved in custody matters. (Those same agencies are now the ones prosecuting HIM.) He had to enforce his Tennessee order rights at the court in Pennsylvania, with the mother being held in contempt of court for violating the order.

After multiple findings of contempt, the judge in Tennessee finally gave my client primary custody and said he could take his son to live with him abroad. My client was then making fabulous money for Microsoft, but because the mother was afraid of something happening in the pro-Arab countries where my client was being sent, he quit his job (!) and became a freelance consultant instead. The child got the chance to experience living in many different places, at a much better standard of living, and better schooling and opportunities.

The summer of 2006 came, and he sent the child to stay with his mother, per the court order. Before the summer was over, she filed an emergency petition in Pennsylvania (even though the child hadn’t lived here for six months, as the law requires) to keep the child. Judge William White had said if Tennessee acted on the case, he would stay out of it, as federal law requires, and told her to put the child on the plane. The child went back to his father, as the court order required.

After that, however, the Pennsylvania  judge reneged on his statement. He scheduled numerous hearings, despite our continued objection, which my client did not attend. We steadfastly and consistently opposed jurisdiction in Pennsylvania while a valid Tennessee order was in effect. He issued a bench warrant for my client for failure to appear, when he knew he had no jurisdiction in the first place. He granted the mother custody pending further hearing, despite the fact that Tennessee said it was holding jurisdiction during the minority of the child, and the fact that the child DID NOT LIVE IN PENNSYLVANIA.

So now my client has been the subject of a case for international kidnapping, with the FBI and various governments around the world involved. Most recently he was arrested in Bulgaria, and his passport revoked. He talks about his situation here. Interpol took his credit cards and passport; the credit cards have now been used by unknown persons as far away as London. WHILE HE WAS IN CUSTODY. They are treating him like he is a dangerous criminal, when all he is, is a father who wants some time with his son.

It is truly a sad story. The child has been listed with the National Clearinghouse for Missing and Exploited Children when mother knew very well where the child was. I bet he was even on a milk carton somewhere. The end of the story remains to be seen, but anything positive coming from it is hard to envision.

The really sad part of the story is that if the mother had held to the original terms of her court order and sent the child to visit his father as scheduled, my client would never have gone after primary custody. He was content to let his son live in the States then, and have splendid holidays overseas. But by constantly denying him visits, forcing him back into court to effectuate his orders, the mother created this situation where he had to get primary custody to be sure he’d see his son.

And now, he knows that if he sends his son back to visit, he’ll likely not see him again until the child is 18, because she has always refused to comply with their current Tennessee order, in the only court that truly has jurisdiction.

So, has he violated the language of an order? You can decide that for yourself. Has he done something wrong? I don’t think so. He’s been forced, as many parents are, into an untenable position because of the vindictive and selfish behavior of the other parent in a custody battle.

Who won here? Not the mother. Not the father. Not the son, because in either household at this moment, under these facts, he must be denied access to his other parent. Not the lawyers. Not the system. Not the FBI, attorney general’s office or NCMEC, spending thousands of taxpayers’ dollars on something that this mother could have made unnecessary. No one, really. No one.

Too bad Solomon died years ago; we could use his wisdom about now.

What’s up, mofos? You didn’t really think I’d be gone for good, did you? Shit, I’m Jimmy Motherfucking Cayne. Yeah, I had to lay low for awhizile after the shit that went down last year. Had to decompress, plan my next move.

I’m sure I don’t need to give you any background on what I’ve been up to in the past year. The shit that went down in March 2008 was well chronicled in the press, at least if you read the Daily Bulletins of the American Contract Bridge League.  I mean, I’m in the middle of the most important motherfucking card game of my life, trying to defend my crown in Nashville, and that douchebag Dimon is blowing up my pager with $2-a-share this, counterparty risk that, Chapter 11 implications, blah-blah-blah-motherfucking blah. Do you have any freaking idea how stressful the Spingold Knockout round is at the North American Bridge Championships?? Of course you don’t, Dimon,  ‘cuz you’re a douchebag! Why don’t you go model the risk of me breaking your nose, asshole?

Anyway, that’s all behind me now and I can honestly say I’m all the better for my time off from Wall Street and competitive cards.  But that doesn’t mean Jimmy Cayne’s not gonna pop open the tabs on a whole motherfucking six-pack worth of revenge whoop-ass on the fools in the press and Wall Street who tried to take me down. I’m talking to you, Flyshit on the Wall and Goldman Sucks. Take each other’s cock out of your mouth and listen up: Move over rover, it’s time for Jimmy to take over.

So one day last week, over some Purple Haze and fresh-baked blueberry muffins,  me and the friendly fellow from the Max Green delivery service started talking over how to get back at all you motherfuckers. He brought up the idea of a blog, and I’ve always fancied myself as a bit of an Ernest Hemmingway, so I said set it up, hombre, and lets blog the shit outta this motherfucker.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking. “Fake Jimmy Cayne,” that’s such a great idea. Or at least it was when Fake Steve Jobs thought of it a million years ago! Yeah, keep thinking that assholes, that’s exactly how Jimmy Motherfucking Cayne wants you to think.  Just like at the table, you keep on passing as I keep on racking up the tricks, sucka.

I’ll leave Steve to outline the story:

http://waiterrant.net/?p=1573

So about two months ago me and my previously mentioned best girlfriend went to a random bar to sing karaoke.  Needless to say (but still worth mentioning) I was drunk… again.  This time I was having fun and around far too many women who were cool and held my interest to be worried about a man.

Okay, that was a lie.  Anyway, so this couple that was there, they sat in the corner and drank beer and never said a word to anyone.  The girl got up and sang, she did her best and was very sweet – the way she sang – like she was incredibly shy.  Well, on down the clock we tick and around 12:30 they got up to leave, except we were all talking and moving around our table, so they just stood there for a second – until they caught my eye.

I of course introduced myself – I’m Annie, what are your names and why are you leaving?! Stay! Have fun!  I”m like… the siren of alcohol and sluttiness.  I just made up that word.  So anyway – They introduce themselves and say they are leaving but ask if I am going to come back to this bar because they come all the time and there’s no one their age who comes – even though I’m like… 5 years younger than them.

I said sure, they left, and I forgot all about them because when I finished screaming out “I”m the Only One” and making the other 18 people in the bar – literally – swoon and clap and scream, a beautiful cowboy type, we’ll call him Muddy, comes up to me and shoves a beer in my hand, grabs me around the waist and breathes on my neck before telling me “That was… fucken bewtuful girl!” (my attempt at his accent)

I instantly lose my panties over this man and forget everything else.   He asks for my phone number, I get shy and get some butterflies… he really is pretty.  Muddy and his accent.  After he calls me and comes over – we ALL knew he was coming over – We talk for a little while and he kisses me.  We touch and talk and laugh and I tell him no sex – because I think I could like him.  I want to get to know him.

He begs me, please let me stick it in you – just once.  What’s once going to do, I ask him, and we laugh more.  I truly believe he understands why I don’t want to have sex just then.  he stays for hours, we drink beer, get to know each other, and we sit on my sofa in the dark, talking about our lives and what we like and hate.  He tells me the beard I love so much is because he covers up a scar from being kicked by a farm animal when he was younger.  I tell him I wish there was a beard to hide a fat ass – and he laughs.  Beard panties.

He leaves because I’m tired and we’re not going to have sex.  He’s tired of touch it/slap it away.  That game is only fun for so long.  He texts me when he gets home and sends a pic of his cock – decent sized, straight, cut, and nice to look at.  He says “It’s not big, but you can have it whenever you want.”  I pass out.  It’s 6 in the morning.  He sends me 37 text messages over the next 3 hours.  I don’t hear any of them.

I wake up to 6 voicemails and 5 are from him.  The last one says, “Hay, call me when u wake up.  I’ll come over an let ya suck my dick.” *click noise*  That was all it was.  He said he would… let. me suck. his dick. He’ll LET me. Suck it.  He’ll do me the favour and let me suck on it.

I text him back and I say “I don’t get down like that.  Give me some time, get 2 know me and I’m more than sure I’ll be doing more than sucking your cock.”

He replies and says “nvm, i don’t like 2 wait.”

That is that.  I never hear from Muddy again – until a week later when we go back to the same bar and he’s there.  with his wife.  His friend, a pretty man with a funny accent takes me to the side and says he is sorry he couldn’t tell me what was going on before his friend came to my house.  He tells me it’s not cool and I am a beautiful girl who deserves better.  He hugs me and asks me if I want a beer.  I say no and leave.

Fuck that dude.  But as much of a douchebag as  he was, the real crazy parts?  They come next.

……………………………..Up Next?  S.12 – Your Brand of Crazy Pt. 2

Marty cradled the Ruger Sportsman lovingly, Circassian walnut cool against his cheek. In the lush park below, a puff of earth appeared beside the carved fairy tree.

Deidre gathered his grimy jacket around her knees. ‘Jesus Marty, can we go now? You said “one shot” – that’s three! I’m cold, and we’re going to get caught if we stay any longer!’

Counting to ten in Latin, Marty lay his weapon with exaggerated care on its carry sheath and faced his girlfriend. She looked away as he stroked her bra strap, then put her hand over his. Marty slid his fingers around her throat, his voice quiet and measured.

‘You insisted on coming, remember? I explained to you in detail the importance of today’s exercise. You said you understood my pain and would support me during this difficult time. I’m almost finished. You can either stand by me…’

‘Or what?’ Deidre plucked at his iron grip, tears welling.

Marty stilled and his eyes clouded.

She shuddered. ‘OK baby, I’ll support you. I’ll wait. I’m sorry.’

He endorsed her capitulation with one look and returned to the business of the day. Taking a cloth from his bag, he carefully wiped his hands then pressed them to his face, exhaling slowly.

New laws would soon separate him from his beautiful machine. After agonising deliberation, he’d decided not to seal it in his bedroom wall. Though the risk was slim, discovery would mean jail and he wasn’t going back there for anything.

Settling face down into the travel rug, Marty clutched his rifle and peered past the air conditioning units. The barren roof of the office tower was deserted, as it had been since dawn. Deidre curled into a ball between his splayed legs, warming them pleasantly.

He breathed carefully: in while looking away and out with each return to the sight. Gradually his concentration returned, along with the sense of solemnity he desired.

**********

The Fitzroy Gardens are a paradise for brides: rolling meadows, mighty avenues, follies and ponds. Dozens marry there each year. Hundreds more come for photographs. As a consequence, the gardens have become Melbourne’s premier bride sniping ground.

It began during the recession. Intersections filled with menacing youths, smearing car windscreens with jagged rubber devices. Oblivious to protest, they extracted change from red-light maroons, then fled before two-minute tides.

With the traffic-light market quickly cornered, the poor had to seek alternatives. One Saturday, a dishevelled woman approached a regal bride at the end of her photo session.

‘I’ve just taken two dozen behind-the-scenes shots of your lovely party.’ The dishevelled woman produced a film from her battered Pentax.

The bride regarded her sternly. ‘Yes, I saw you. I wondered why you were creeping around in the bushes like that.’

‘They’re yours for twenty bucks.’

An excited bridesmaid scampered up. ‘What’d you get?’

‘Oh, the best man tripping over the Esky; you pinning the broken strap; the chauffeur pinching a champagne. That sort of thing.’

‘And you want twenty?’

‘Yeah.’

The bridesmaid fished a note from her purse and traded it for the roll, which she pressed into her sister’s gloved hand.

‘Present, babe; from me. Who knows? Some of them might be ace. And what’s twenty bucks on your wedding day?’

‘Too right,’ beamed Melbourne’s first bride sniper, before darting away.

The craze spread like wildfire. From Collins Place to the steps of Parliament, photo sessions were plagued. Canny snipers raided opportunity shops for frocks and morning coats. Thus camouflaged, they became the bane of professional photographers.

Police were disempowered after early arrests led to lawsuits from snap-happy relatives (whose only crime was poor dress). Composition went out the window, ruined by strangers in frayed formal clothing – leaping, grinning and holding ancient cameras aloft to capture every Special Moment.

**********

Martin Banff had been a bride sniper. An honours degree in arts had earned him only a brutal factory job. Desperate for a better life, he took a redundancy package and failed miserably in a lawn mowing franchise – flogging his recalcitrant ride-on to death in a hailstorm.

He next tried pizza delivery, only to be savaged by the wolfhound of an incautious pensioner.

Too proud for the dole, Martin decided to use his expensive Canon rather than pawn it. He targeted an early morning wedding in his best suit and was immediately arrested. He was the first victim of bridal party fight-back, in which family friends pointed out unfamiliar faces to hired guards (who checked identities before calling police).

Martin was given the option of prison or a fine. Too ashamed to contact anyone, he chose incarceration.

On his last morning, four assemblies of sweat, tattoos and missing teeth held him down while a fifth went sloppily last. Marty’s atrophied personality shattered. He returned to society with only mismatched shards. And the human immunovirus.

He secured a cleaning job and a paper round. He rented the cheapest flat. He saved. A disinterested member of his father’s shooting club for years, he started honing his skills with the weapon he’d received for his eighteenth birthday.

He grew to understand and respect it. Then he fell in love with its latent power and began polishing it behind bent venetians in a nightly ritual of obeisance.

He picked up a girl at an early opener pub and told her he was infected. She didn’t care. A fragment of his former self insisted on condoms. Each night Marty sat smoking in the shadow of his rusty balcony – watching tar-bound trees and car parts and vowing revenge on those responsible for his heinous prison experience.

But before his ideas could crystallise, Tasmania’s Port Arthur massacre triggered a revolution in gun laws.

Marty had neither the time nor the resources to identify his targets. Morose and irritable, he spent hours with his rifle, bitter that their brief affair was almost over. Like meeting the perfect girl on school holidays and knowing he’d never see her again, Marty decided to make the most of his remaining time.

The Ruger was beautiful. Sleek and compact, its oil sheen was a potent pheromone to the fluttering thing in Marty’s brain. Cool even in summer, the blued steel clove to his face whenever he sighted: at the television, the toaster, a neighbour’s silhouette or the pulsing temple of his sleeping girlfriend.

Each leapt large in the powerful scope, free from fetter and his to dandle without interference.

He did not want to hand in his gun.

**********

Marty took a sick day on the last Friday of the amnesty. Restless and depressed, he hired ‘Lawrence of Arabia’, again. For the seventh time he watched Peter O’Toole stagger from Turkish headquarters, beaten and raped almost to death.

Later came Marty’s favourite scene. Mounted on a white stallion, beneath the disapproving glare of Omar Sheriff, Lawrence regarded a fleeing enemy column and screamed with spittle-flecked mouth and wild eyes, ‘No prisoners! No prisoners!’ Unable to resist his passion and conviction, his entire army joined him in massacre.

Marty brooded in the gathering darkness. Lawrence’s tormentors hadn’t been part of the column. Yet his revenge had been absolute. Perhaps the death of any bride would grant Marty the catharsis he craved. One shot, one life – and goodbye to his lovely, lovely Ruger.

The following day was Saturday; the office building he cleaned nightly would be deserted. The roof overlooked the place where he’d been arrested.

**********

Marty pocketed his jeweller’s screwdriver. The scope had taken a knock during the fifteen-flight ascent. Nerves were doubtless interfering as well. After this last adjustment, however, he was confident of accuracy.

He panned to a grove of elms, far from grey suits and gay dresses. Pale leaflets trembled in a gentle breeze.

The possums lay curled together like caterpillars. Marty selected an old, grey male. With a harsh PFFFTT! the bullet rocketed from the Ruger’s silencer. Marty observed the distant impact and the insane scramble of bloodied, sunblind animals. The sight was fine.

The bride was tall with sharp cheekbones and almost horsy teeth. She was handsome rather than beautiful; features to last long after pretty faces had gone to pot. Marty watched her laugh and converse with her entourage.

The rotunda ceremony had been brief; now champagne sparkled. The solid groom stood next to his wife, arm round her waist as if to stop her growing any taller.

Licking his lips, Marty settled his crosshairs over the woman’s heart. Her décolletage rose and fell. Abruptly, she stooped to kiss an elderly man – the father-in-law, if size ran. Marty switched aim to the back of her head. Annoyingly, she then left the rotunda to embrace a knot of friends.

Marty regarded his gun and suppressed a choke of sorrow. Behind him, Deidre snored softly. Sunshine streamed onto his unruly hair, the effect mildly intoxicating. First it heightened his sense of loss. Then, as he basked, it made him feel light-headed; even reckless.

The week had been serious and depressing. Now he was safe in his hiding place. His would be the first crime of its kind in Australia. Surprise guaranteed escape. Could he not have a little fun before consigning the Sportsman to destruction?

With mounting excitement, Marty targeted the groom’s champagne glass. How tempting to take it out first, just to spice things up. He grinned, then gasped as the flute exploded into a cloud of particles. His mouth fell open.

‘What the F*CK?’

He checked the safety, which he’d applied automatically on taking out the possum. He looked at the crowd. There was consternation, but not panic; the groom was uninjured. Had he gripped the glass that tightly? Marty shook his head at the coincidence then rose to his knees and stretched – scanning the horizon to refresh his eye.

Deidre murmured a sleepy protest and pulled a corner of the rug over herself. To his right, Marty noticed a breath of steam drifting from a pipe in the neighbouring roof’s air conditioner. Eyes wide with disbelief, he crouched back into cover and levelled his binoculars at the pipe, just in time to see it withdraw.

He wrenched his gaze back to the wedding party. The bride lay among bent heads, carmine blooming rapidly on her breast.

Stunned, Marty turned to see a dark figure sprinting to the stairwell. Through blinding rage he brought his weapon to bear on the fleeing assassin who had stolen his idea and ruined his revenge. Leading slightly and allowing for the breeze, Marty fired.

And missed.

The round smashed into a louvered window, echoing loudly. The figure dropped, rolled and came up scanning for the source of attack. Marty froze, monitoring his target’s fervent search. From St Vincent’s Hospital came the wail of ambulances.

Concentrating on his opponent’s next move, Marty tried to ignore a strange flicker of light playing over the opposite roof. Then the sun dazzled him and the penny dropped. The scope! Its caps were off! Marty lowered his weapon in panic and the reflection flicked over the face of Bruno De Souza, who immediately fired at the sparkling source.

The bullet slammed into Marty’s cover, releasing a vicious jet of coolant. Deidre sprang in terror from the screaming plume. Bruno saw her vault and was surprised at her sex. Without hesitation he drilled three rounds into her body, cocked his head toward the sirens and reached for the door to safety.

Marty stared aghast at Deidre’s broken form, then took fresh aim. Bruno’s headless corpse tumbled heavily down two flights before slithering to a halt.

The police helicopter descended, wheeling angrily at Marty’s pot shots. Marty knew that Special Operations would be along shortly. He snapped in a fresh clip of ammunition and looked back at the gardens.

A brace of gleaming limousines had just arrived for a shoot.

I just finished reading Philippa Gregory’s A Respectable Trade and I’m feeling very sober.

The story, in brief, is about a Yoruban man, high in the government, who is out on a diplomatic mission and taken as a slave to England, where he is taught English by his owner’s wife in order to be resold as a house slave.  He and the wife fall in love and she has a child but dies in childbirth.  That’s the story in a nutshell.

I guess what makes it so poignant for me is that I never knew there were so many African slaves in England.  I mean, I knew that England outlawed slavery and the slave trade before America did, so it stood to reason that there were some, but according to the book, there was at least “one black face in every village in England”.  Reading other books about England’s history, I never got the sense that there were black people there at all.  I mean, I’ve read Shakespeare’s Othello, but it’s written about a Moor, who I always assumed was a North African, maybe a tradesman.  But I didn’t know there were so many slaves and freedmen in England.  I didn’t know that so many black people had lived and grieved and died in a place I thought was more open-minded than my own country has been.

I don’t know why it matters that I didn’t know.  It all happened a long time ago and there’s nothing I can do to change it now.  I don’t even live in England.  For that matter, when I told Kent about it, he said there were slaves in Europe as well, which I didn’t know.  I’m trying to figure out why I’m upset about it, why it matters to me that people I didn’t know were slaves in a place to which I’ve never been, in a time three centuries ago.  I know that there were slaves in America and that we’ve done quite badly by those from Africa, as well as those who owned this land before whites ever set foot on it.  I guess I thought it was our problem alone, that it hadn’t infected the rest of the world so insidiously.

I guess I thought England and the rest of the world had kept their hands clean, or mostly so.  I guess it couldn’t have been, because the whole world got rum and sugar from the Caribbean.  When there was a sugar tax that the American colonists boycotted, they were also boycotting the slave trade, but that wasn’t why they did it; it didn’t even enter into their calculations.  But I thought that slavery in England was a short-lived, small thing.

It wasn’t.

And I guess I’m upset because there’s one more thing that can’t be put right.  There’s been people conquering and conquered as long as there’s been history, but never on such a continental scale, for so many years.

There’s no way to fix what the white people have done.  We can’t give the land back to the Native Americans.  We can’t put Africa back the way it was.  It’s like an egg that’s been broken.  All we can do is get the best out of it we can and move on, but if there’s any “best” left, I don’t know.

I can’t change history by regretting it.  I don’t know what I can change.  It’s arrogant to think I can change anything.

I guess I can only go on as I have been doing, but with a larger reason:

To support those in the world who have less than I in so many ways,

To teach my students of all colors that they are the same people underneath,

To change one thought, one idea, one action, one person, one life at a time.

.

Starting with mine.

Lagunatic and family sat down to a gorgeous meal perfectly cooked by Jimmy. All praise be to my culinary lord, Hubby.

We teased our appetites with some mussels in coconut curry and then moved on to the piece de resistance;  jumbo shrimp in linguini. If I wasn’t on the Demi Moore plan of personal enhancement (to look better at 40 than at 30)  I would have eaten the plates the food was served on (I figure a tummy tuck is best done from the outside first).

Anyway, Julian was delightedly slurping up his noodles in the manner of the iconic scene in Lady and the Tramp when he stopped short:

“Julian, are you done?”

“Yes, Daddy………….. I’m scared.”

“………..Scared of what?”

“Of my food.”

Jimmy and I look at each other all like WTF?!?

“You’re scared of your food?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because, Mommy,  they’re mad at me that I ate all their friends.”

Be proud that I chose not to scar my child for life by pointing out that “they” could have exacted revenge from inside his tummy.  Maybe I’ll just save that little tidbit for tomorrow….when he comes in at the crack of yawn and tries to warm his icicle toes in my abundant lady lumps.

It’d probably be like the ending of the Doctor Doolittle movie when all the animals & birds start attacking the people!!

Part 1 is here. (I posted this more than two weeks ago, but it turns out it was just saved as a draft. Oops.)

*****

“When you were a child,” Garth began unsteadily, “did you ever misbehave?”

“Our observation doesn’t extend that far,” Johnathan piped in, although his attention remained focused on his blade.

Garth shrugged at Lily helplessly, hoping she wouldn’t judge him by the company he keeps and begging her to just answer the question. At least that’s what he thought he was doing; Lily just saw even sadder puppy-dog eyes, which caused her to take the requested action anyway.

“I guess so,” she said. “Not much, but, you know, who doesn’t?”

“And when you did, were you punished?”

Brief terror flickered across Lily’s face. “Yes,” she declared.

Garth noted her steel gaze. “No, no, nothing like that. Just, did, well, did your parents ever do anything to make you mad?”

Lily replied immediately. “All the time.”

“Did you punish them?”

“No. I was a kid. Kids don’t punish parents.”

Garth nodded his encouragement. “All perfectly normal. But did you ever wonder why kids don’t punish parents?”

“No.” Lily considered this question. “I guess it’s because we punish them enough by our misbehavior.”

Johnathan put down the knife and dropped his face into his hands.

“What, that’s not right?” Lily panicked.

“No, no, no. I mean, yes. I mean, no. I mean…” Garth took a breath to compose himself. “It’s not bad, it’s just not right. You know?”

Lily shook her head, bewildered.

“It’s a mentality, a victim’s mentality. Right? You accept your parent’s misbehavior, and even justify it, even though they don’t extend you the same consideration?”

“I still don’t understand.”

Johnathan smiled at her warmly—the first warmth he’d demonstrated in her presence. “What Garth means is, forgiveness is what you do when you don’t have the power for revenge.”

“No,” Lily insisted. “No, that’s not… I mean, yeah, but…”

And her face erupted with the ecstasy of discovering a new world.

“My work here is done,” Johnathan declared. He sheathed his blade, and jauntily high-fived Garth on his way out of the room.

“Couldn’t have done it without you, buddy.”

Johnathan’s guffaws disappeared well after he did.

“He really is an okay person,” Garth explained. “Once you get to know him. And good at what he does.”

“What’s that?”

Garth looked around instinctively for something snide from his partner before it fully hit him that yes, he was alone. This realization provided the same agreeable awkwardness that Johnathan’s presence would have, a point that Garth knew he could bring up at the next meeting to make the fellow do a rare bit of squirming. It also put him into a familiar, if not calm, place to explain.

“I thought you realized,” he said with a goofy giggle. “He stabs people.”

“Oh,” Lily responded, nearly a minute later. She knew it was wrong, yet she suspected it was also right.

“He might slice, I guess. I’ve never really watched or asked. Probably slicing makes more sense, though. Would you need to sharpen the edge to stab?”

Lily shrugged.

“Oh, you won’t need to stab anyone. Or slice or do anything violent. Reg is very clear on that. Not unless you want to.”

“I might want to,” Lily blurted, which she immediately followed by clasping her hands to her mouth.

“Don’t worry,” Garth assured her. “There will be plenty of time to decide that.”

I had read Tartt’s debut novel, The Secret History, several years ago and absolutely loved it, so every time I walked by a copy of The Little Friend, the creepy doll head on the cover beckoned me to read it. Although vastly different from her first work (and nearly ten years after the fact) Tartt is still able to pull the reader into a very specific setting; this time in a small town in 1970s Mississippi.

Harriet, a tom-boyish, stubborn, and precocious 12 year old, has grown up in the shadow of her brother’s murder. When Harriet was just a baby, Robin was found hanging from a tree in the family’s front yard. No clues were left and the killer was never apprehended. The murder destroyed the family, and Harriet has been left mostly to her own devices while her mother fights depression and her older sister withdraws more and more. Over the course of a long and hot summer, Harriet and her best friend Hely take matters into their own hands to solve the 12 year old murder and bring resolution to the family.

The book is at times funny, often dark, and beautifully written throughout. Tartt paints an unmistakable impression of the 1970s South, weaving a tale of family, revenge, pride, and heritage.

Click here to find this book in our catalog.

A friend shared with me today that revenge is taking poison thinking it’ll kill someone else.

I don’t do revenge.

I prefer dancing and the light.

BB Webb