Some people collect Hummels, other people collect, you know, dead babies.
OCEAN CITY, Maryland (AP) -- Investigators found three tiny bodies wrapped in plastic at the home of a woman who was charged last week with killing her newborn child, police said Monday. Authorities were still searching the property, and there was a backhoe at the site Monday morning.
Christy Freeman was charged last week with killing her newborn, police say.
None of the bodies was full-term, and only the death that Christy Freeman had already been charged with was recent, said Ocean City Police spokesman Barry Neeb.
"The rest could be a number of years old," he said.
Two were found in bags along with what investigators believe to be a placenta in a trunk in Christy Freeman's bedroom, and another was in a garbage bag found in a motor home parked in her driveway, police said. The remains were sent to the chief medical examiner in Baltimore to determine the causes of their deaths, their ages and whether they were related to Freeman, 37.
Christy: So, what do you think of my collection?
Neighbor: My, that's quite a lot of fetuses? Where did you get them? E-bay?
Christy: Oh no! I made them myself. And let me tell you, it takes a long time to make one. The easy part is suffocating them in plastic bags. But it's all worth it.
Neighbor: Wow! It is a very impressive collection. But if you're going to go to all that trouble to make them and kill them, why hide them in bags. You need a little nick-nack shelf to put them on.
Christy: Ya think? Golly, you're right. First I'll have to dig up the ones in the yard. Damnit, I knew I shouldn't have buried the old ones.
The End
Quick question: Who's fucking crazy Christy? I mean really.
On this day in 2003, the last old-style Beetle, the economy car produced by the German automaker Volkswagen, rolled off the assembly line in Puebla, Mexico. Why these German "Cars of the People" or "Vahgens uf da Volk" were being made in Mexico is anybodys' guess. One theory is that Adolf Eichmann opened his own Volkswagen factory in the Yucatan peninsula after he escaped from the Nuremberg trials of 1947-1964. Nobody noticed that an obviously German genocidal maniac had opened a car factory in Mexico because nobody cares about Mexico. It's a great place to go and blend in, whether you're a tourist or someone who has just participated in the slaughter of six million Jews.
But back to the car itself. There are so many things wrong with the Beetle I scarcely know where to begin. First off it's made by Germans, who I hate. Or Mexicans. Not crazy about them either. They may be great engineers but their language and accents are atrocious. A simple "have a nice day" in German sounds like you're being ordered to a gas chamber. Not a pretty language. Secondly, the vehicle looks like a bug. I for one do not want my car to look like an insect. Thirdly, I was in my first accident in a Volkwagen Beetle. We got hit by a Cadillac. A word of advice: If you are going to be hit by a Cadillac, don't be in a Volkswagen. Not surprisingly it looked like a squished bug and everyone in the car was badly injured. Safety was not the first priority of the engineers of the Volkswagen. It's the "car of the people" only if you really hate people and want them either maimed or dead. Which seems to describe the Germans.
A few years after surviving that accident, I, being the genius that I am, bought a Volkswagen Beetle. It ran like shit, had no power steering or air conditioning, always smelled like gasoline so I always wondered when I would explode and the worst part was the engine was in the trunk. Who thought that up? I was always throwing shit into the engine. Groceries, luggage, you name it. Which is probably why it ran like shit. And I avoided Cadillacs like the plague.
So I'm glad that the old style Beetle has been retired. Unfortunately, they've brought it back. And it's still as small, round and ugly as ever. And just as popular. With fucking hippies. It's always been a hippy car but now it's the car of the neo-hippies. I hold anyone in a Beetle with absolute contempt. The people who drive them are either hippy college kids who want you to believe they care about the environment, or it's 50-60 year old boomers who are reliving their college days. I don't know who's worse. Eh, I hate them both equally.
In conclusion, I hate the Volkswagen Beetle. And hippies. Also, I'd like everyone to leave a comment about your experiences with the Beetle. Or your experiences with anal bleeding. Hell, I don't care what you leave a comment about, just leave a comment. I'd like to break my previous Today in History record of 4 lousy comments. God, is anybody even reading this? I just want a little adoration. Is that so much to ask? Do you people have any idea how much thought and sweat and time I put into this website? Any idea? A good 20-25 minutes a week, you bastards. Type my fingers to the bone. Fucking ungrateful fucks. I hate you all.
Don't forget to comment! Thanks!!!
I've decided to make Today In History a regular feature. Not only because of it's immense popularity (the last one got almost 5 comments!), but also because it's so easy to write. I steal most of it from some website, which I don't link or give credit to, and then I make the rest of the shit up. Bang! Instant post.
When I say a regular feature I mean basically whenever I fucking feel like it. Some days in history are better than others. Take today in history for instance. Not a whole hell of a lot going on. For thousands of years the Earth has been gravitating around the moon and in all that time nothing really interesting happened on July 27th for some reason. However, for today's Today in History we'll focus on Michael Vick. That's correct, today is the day after the day Michael Vick was arraigned on Federal Dog fighting charges.
This has been well publicized so I won't go into all that here. Nor will I offer my opinion on his innocence or guilt. But here's my solution to the whole mess. Instead of a lengthy, circus-like trial, I propose that, on national TV, Michael Vick and the dogs he allegedly trained to kill, are put into a small room. Michael Vick is then covered in sirloin steaks:
If the dogs just eat the steaks and not Michael Vick, he's not guilty.
If they eat the steaks and Michael Vick, the evidence is inconclusive and it's declared a mistrial. In this event, a long, heartfelt apology will be read to his mother by the presiding judge. Also, a really, really talented mortician, like the Mexican guy from Six Feet Under, will try to put his severed limbs and head back together so they can have an open coffin. This wll be paid for by the state.
But if they ignore the steak and eat Michael Vick, he's guilty and gets the death penalty which obviously was already carried out during sentencing.
That's fair, no? And I'd pay to watch it.
Release the hounds!!!
Completing a treacherous thousand-mile exodus, an ill and exhausted Brigham Young and fellow members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints arrived in Utah's Great Salt Lake Valley on July 24, 1847. They were ill and exhausted because everyone had eight to twelve wives who simultaneously bitched at them and told them they were lost and to "pull over and ask for directions for Christ's Sake!". This went on for a thousand miles. The Mormon pioneers viewed their arrival as the founding of a Mormon homeland, hence Pioneer Day. The Mormons, as they were commonly known, left their settlement in Nauvoo, Illinois, and journeyed West seeking refuge from religious persecution because they were a bunch of psycho, polygamist whackjobs.
July 24 is still celebrated as Pioneer Day in Utah and several other Western states. The bravery of the original settlers and their strength of character and physical endurance is commemorated with festivities including games and music, speeches, parades, rodeos, and picnics. Their physical endurance is still tested when the menfolk have to fuck and perform cunnilingus on each of their fifteen wives one after another until everyone has climaxed. This goes on for eight days and is known as Mormonukkah or The festival of Cum. Mormonukkah ends when the last candle is lit and a Mormonic dreidel is ceremoniously jammed up the oldest childs' ass.
Have you ever had good friend call up and tell you they were getting a divorce or dumping their boy/girl friend and you went on a super long rant about how you never liked them anyway, and how happy you were that finally, you'd never have to see the offensive party again, and listed a lot of really good reasons why that person was a horrible piece of shit, and added in plenty of name calling and really insulting, derogatory shit only to have them call you a few weeks later and tell you they’re getting back together?
Doh!
So the Old Man and I scoured some more classic cars today. Decided that what we want is a pre-'70's Nova or Camaro that runs and has a decent body.
Found a '69 Camaro today with new paint, side pipes, roll cage, and a 10-bolt rear; price? Insanely cheap. Only thing is, it needs a new carb. So if we want to drive it away, we need to either bring a trailer with us, or a new carb and install it before we leave.
Let me tell you something about classic cars that come with roll cages: they've been raced. A LOT. Yeah, it's never a car that's going to be on a Barrett-Jackson TV whore-fest, but it'll defintely be a car that moves faster than any car that's ever been on a Barrett-Jackson whorefest.
I mean, what's the point of owning a car that moves that fast, if you don't move it that fast on a regular basis?
By now I'm sure you're all familiar with LOLCats, but just in case you're not:
...and...
You get the basic idea, yes?
It's been a while since we've had a points-o-rama, so here we go:
Using these supplied photos, create a LOLCat of your own design. Submit via the comments (use your blog or any one of the myriad number of photo hosting sites available); each submission will get points, and the bombass ones will get even more points. I'll kick it off below the fold.
There are a lot of things about the internet that are irritating. But nothing drives me crazier than those little clips or games where the instructions are to look closely for a red dot or ghost figure. You know, you look really closely and then all of the sudden a decomposing banshee squeals across the screen. Your heart rate doubles. You choke on your own screams. Your butthole puckers, but it's too late. You have shit your pants.
Whoever invented those is evil. I hope they have a huge karmic asskicking waiting for them in the afterlife. Delivered, of course, by a gaggle of those corpse banshees.
The only funny ones are where the parents set up their kids. That's funny shit. At least until the therapy bill comes!
Ever since Mom died, Dad hasn't been the same. He's getting better, but he's definitely got a muted affect. He's got a group of guys from work that he shoots pool and plays poker with a couple times a week, and they've been talking about going deep sea fishing recently; but you can tell he's lonely. It's pretty sad, so I generally try not to think about him all by himself in that empty house.
Then I got an idea: I like cars, the old man likes cars; therefore we should get an old car and restore it. Sounds like a hell of a lot of fun, and I think it'd be cathartic in a number of ways. Thus began the search.
Originally, we looked at old MGB's; late 60's to early 70's; mainly because Dad had one back in the day. I was surprised at the prices they were going for. It's a game that you can get into for cheap; for less than $5k you can get a functioning model. We also looked at Ford pickups from the 50's, a few muscle cars, other classic sedans, etc. I think we've decided we want to buy something for less than five grand, and be able to spend less than five grand on it over the course of the next year getting it back in shape. The total cap would be 10 g's, so whatever we saved on the price of the car we'd just put into the restoration. We'd do all the engine and mechanical work ourselves, and either get something with a good body or hire someone to do touch up work for us.
We both started getting pretty excited this past week. After scouring the web for classic junk for sale, I'm optomistic that we'll be able to find something that fits our budget constraints, but's still fun to drive. I'd love to get something that's got a little of that American muscle under the hood, but those kinds of cars are so sought after that it's getting hard to find something that runs and doesn't have a weighty price tag or isn't ate up with a terminal case of Michigan Cancer.
So, if you live in the South East and you've got something you're willing to part with or know someone who does, holler at me.
So I had to have emergency surgery on Thursday night for appendicitis. It's good to be alive and all, but going to the hospital is just downright humiliating.
First, you get in there and they make you take off your clothes and put on a skirt. A skirt that's specifically engineered so that it's impossible to get on or off the bed without showing the world your junk.
Then they poke you, push on your guts, take a look at your balls, maybe fondle them and ask you to do something pointless like cough.
From there it's off to the OR, where your junk is sheared like a sheep. Seriously, they just pull out the clippers and mow a giant bald spot right above your dong so that your unit looks like it's suffering an acute case of male pattern baldness.
To top it all off, they drug the ever-loving shit out of you, so that when you come to you're flailing about, screaming incoherently at no one in specific. When they finally calm you down, you're so out of it that you start talking about all kinds of inappropriate subject matter. Namely, that someone shaved your junk and now a bunch of people have seen it. Then you start to worry out loud about the fact that you work at this hospital, and you're not sure you like sharing your oddly shaven no-no parts with co-workers you've not previously met.
Then, you wake up the next morning, groggy, in more pain than you were in before you came to the hospital, and it starts all over again. Nurses and doctors are gawking at the new haircut your 'Mini Me' got, while poking and prodding and asking stupid questions like "Does this hurt?" Yes it hurts, but the physical pain is not nearly as bad as the emotional trauma.
Just great. I hope I never see those people again. I mean, how would you feel? I might see these people again at work, while I'm walking down the hall or giving a presentation, and the first thing I'll think of is "She's seen my dong with a bad haircut" or worse, "That's the guy that held my balls while I coughed for him."
Fucking great.
I spent my summer vacation at the Jersey Shore - Sun and Fun capitol of, well, New Jersey. We were visiting friends who have a lovely house with a beautiful pool close to the beach. They have a great dog named Rusty, a German Shepherd mix who I adored. Rusty doesn't like water. Consequently, he would freak out a little whenever anyone went in the pool. He would try to "save" you by running up to you, stopping, and then getting a very worried look on his face as if to say, "What in God's name is wrong with you people? That stuff you're so casually jumping into is WATER!!" Funny dog.
For the next three days we spent our time sunning and swimming and eating and drinking and then drinking some more. We drank like we were at a Roman orgy and the lines to the vomitorium were empty. We drank a lot. Our first night there, they threw a little party for us. We met their lovely neighbor D, who had just been paroled from prison for stabbing some guy 80 times in the head with a butter knife (the guy lived). Apparently, a butter knife was all D could get his hands on. I imagine if he had managed to grab a butcher knife, he wouldn't have been at the party. We played many games at the party. One game was electrocuting each other with a low-voltage dog collar. One person would hold the "remote" and put it on 1 (low) or 2 or 10 (high) and then electrocute the idiot wearing the dog collar. What fun! Another fun game was to punch some unsuspecting drunk at the party in the nuts. The beauty of this game is that no one really ever expects to get punched in the nuts. Thank God for Vodka, huh?
Anywho, one day turned into the next; fun, sun, food, drink. On our last full day there, we were just about to head out and play drunk Bingo (yes, there is such a thing) at about noon, when I decided to jump in the pool. I went to the diving board and look! Here comes Rusty! He's worried. God, he's adorable. It turns out Rusty likes me best of all because he really, really didn't want me to go into the pool. He made sure about a third of a pound of me never made it in. I jumped - he lunged, nuff said. When I got out of the pool a few seconds later the deck looked the Tate-LoBianco murders. Bloody footprints, splatters everywhere. I had a hole in my leg the size of a half dollar and about a half inch deep. Plus, one little fang mark that wasn't so little. A fairly uneventful trip to the ER and a few stitches later and I was good as new. Except I was limping and maimed. And pus-y and bleeding. And whining. Other than that - good as new.
Oh, and one thing that really grossed me out - before they stitched it up, in the wound there was this glistening white stuff which the Doctor told me was fat. My own fat!! There's something deeply disconcerting about that and I'm not sure why. I guess deep down we're all just well-marbled T-bones. Meat. And I think that's what bothers me.
The ridiculousness of what Glenn Reynolds has called the 'hairshirt' approach to environmentalism has turned a new corner. According to the article at Bloomberg, some nutter wants to outlaw cars that exceed 100mph:
"Fast, powerful cars within a few years may be outlawed in Europe, an idea that has been raised ostensibly because Ferraris and Porsches produce too much carbon dioxide. For those who abhor sports cars as vulgar symbols of affluence (along with vacation homes, furs and fancy jewelry), such a ban could be a two-fer: Saving the planet while cutting economic inequality."
(emphasis mine)
Firstly, taking someone's Ferrari away is most certainly not going to do a damn thing to cut economic inequality; and such an insinuation is either an attempt incite the class warriors or just petty pot-stirring. What banning these cars would most certainly mean is these people will spend their disposable income on something else. Maybe an exclusive vacation to Fiji - flying in a private jet, no doubt. Or maybe a few extra thousand square feet in their vacation home - that's soaking up gobs of energy all year round.
Secondly, this is an immature attempt at solving a problem, and maybe even a complete misdiagnosis of the problem itself. The problem is not sports cars, it's consumption. That being said, outlawing the relatively small number of exotics in the world would do little to curb consumption. We're talking about the smallest market (per capita) of car buyers, and the cars that are probably driven the least number of miles a year.
A funny little note - just about anything this side of a '73 Civic will hit 100mph. But we'll leave the absurdity of this guideline out, simple out of respect for the member of Parliament who's responsible for this brain fart.
A more viable solution would be to start bumping up our fuel efficiency standards. Via RFK Jr. in Outside Magazine, 11/2004 (one of my favorite quotes):
"Here's how you do it. If we raise fuel-efficiency standards by just one mile per gallon, we save two ANWR's full of oil over the projected 50-year life of the fields. If we raise them 2.7 mpg, that's more than all the oil we import from Iraq and Kuwait combined. If we raise standards by 8 mpg, we don't have to import one drop of Persian Gulf oil into this country. Fuel efficiency is an untapped resource. It's cheap oil."
The good thing about a progressive increase in fuel efficiency standards is that it would pull the automotive industry in conjunction with the recent push from consumers for more efficient vehicles. Give the industry time to learn what consumers want, and to innovate those wants into a quality product. Hell, Lotus has been making fuel efficient, relatively affordable (and immensely fun to drive, might I add) sports cars for years.
As an aside, I just used the words RFK Jr. and progressive in the same breath. Hey, a guy's allowed to dabble, right?
Between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five I subscribed to Gentleman’s Quarterly. This is more of a confession than a fact. I do not repent.
I concoct very elaborate stories about myself in strange situations. If I go to a party and don’t know too many people I usually make up a cover life and go into incredible detail. A lot of people out there think they’ve met an Earl or a Duke. Others think they’ve had dinner with the foremost authority on Algonquin languages, Burmese antiquities, medieval soil analysis or the descendent of a wide range of famous Wild West types. In the past I’ve had business cards made up with various impressive credentials. My theory is that if you’re never going to see a person again, why not make up incredible characters and lives for them. Once in line at the grocery store I told the cashier that I was about to go and cheat on my wife. It was a very intense moment for the woman. Next time someone asks you what you do just give it a try. Do you think someone’s going to question you on your made up job as a falcon trainer?
I am non-confrontational and I have a hard time saying no. When I was younger I dated some girls simply because I didn’t have the heart to say no to them. It took a long time to make progress and in the end I never totally changed. Instead of saying no I would just never answer the phone or totally avoid the situation. Then they would go completely crazy and accuse me of using them or stringing them along. These berserker scenes almost always occurred in public.
I don’t usually hold a grudge because I’m forgiving by nature, but on the occasions that I do, it is cast in stone.
If I become interested a subject I will spend years becoming an expert on it. No matter the cost or research time involved.
I hate skiing. Hate it. The feel of those boots on my feet enrage me.
I’ve been all over the world and I’ve eaten in some of the best restaurants. I’ve sampled the wares of many fine chefs, including the top pastry chefs on the business.
The best chocolate cake in the world is fucking Duncan Hines.
And they're right when they say that too. Why, just this morning I saw an elderly woman succumb while rocking back and forth on her front porch swing. The air was so humid she drowned right there on the spot. Dang.
Yesterday at the bar was Bloody Mary Sunday. They are on special every Sunday, but I guess a lot of people got hammered on Saturday. I must have made 20 darn Bloody Mary's yesterday. Not to toot my own horn, but everyone says mine are the best. So I decided that I shouldn't deprive the world of my bloody mary awesomeness any longer. Here is the receipe-please do not indulge unless you are 21 or older-I don't want any po-po showing up at my doorstep...
The Best Blood Mary Ever
Start with 1 1/2-3 oz Vodka (depending on how strong you want it). I prefer the triple distilled kinds, they're smoother; pour over ice in a 12-16 oz glass. Top vodka with Spicy Hot V8. Add 4-5 dashes of worcestershire sauce, 2-3 dashes of hot sauce (I like Franks Red Hot, but that might be related to my Buffalo roots). Add a dash of garlic powder and a dash of celery salt (1/8 of a teaspoon if you want to measure). Fresh cracked black pepper is crucial-I usually do 2-3 turns on my pepper grinder. Some people like to add horseradish to their drinks-It's good but a little chunky for my taste. If you want it, 1/8 of a teaspoon would be enough!
Mix well, preferable by transfering back and forth between glasses. Set aside for a moment. Pour some old bay onto a small flat plate. Moisten the rim of the glass destined to hold the finished bloody mary. Dip the glass rim into the old bay (similar to salting a glass for a margartita-okay, exactly like it). Pour the finished bloody mary into the old bay adorned glass. Add a celery stalk and a few large spanish olives. Kick back and relax--That hangover will be gone in no time!
Don't know if anyone else had seen this, but I think it highlights the mindset of our Middle Eastern enemies.
"While it is true that Oliver Stone is considered to be among the opposition in the U.S., the opposition is still part of the Great Satan."
In other words, they don't care if you're left or right, a hawk or a dove. They don't hate us simply for what we believe and what we do, but for who we are: American.
Apparently, this sentiment is totally lost on Mr. Stone:
"I wish the Iranian people well and I only hope their experience with an inept, rigid idealogue president goes better than ours." Given the comparison, I'd have to say ours is going a whole lot better.
My glasses were getting a little worn recently, so I decided it was time to suck it up and deal with the hassle.
I like the frames I have, but the lenses were getting pretty badly scratched up. Besides, I don't have prescription sunglasses, and I was really looking forward to getting some transitional lenses so I could check out chicks at the beach.
During a break in the middle of my day, I walked across the street to my optometrist's office. It's a local shop, and I've been going there for years since they're so close to my office. After talking with the lady about what I was looking for, we ended up striking a really good deal. I was able to get a package deal if I got the transitional lens and this anti-glare/scratch-resistant coating. I wasn't planning on getting an extra coating since the transitional lenses already said they were scratch resistant, but for the price it didn't make sense to turn it down. I got the whole thing at about 27% off and felt like I was doing pretty damn good; especially since we hadn't crested my insurance cap for eyewear.
"Well then, let me take those frames to the back and trace them for the new lenses."
I had no idea what this entailed, but it seemed logical to me. "Okie dokie," I said to the nice lady who just saved me some dough.
About two minutes later she comes back, sits down at our little table, holds the frames out to me and says, "Did you know these are about to break?" She teeters one of the ear peices back and forth, and sure enough; that sucker is held on by about three molecules of metal - right past the hinge near the front of the frame.
Immediately I can tell this dumbass is trying to take me for a ride. If my glasses were in that state during my walk over to the optometrists or at the point I took them off my head and gave them to her, they would have fallen apart in my hands. It is obivous to anyone sitting at the table who has a preschool diploma that this bitch just broke my shit trying to get the lens out of it. Having had glasses all my life, I am aware that when the optometrist takes your glasses away from you, they are in no way responsible for them if they break. Sounds like bullshit, I know, but it's true. I take mine in for the occasional tweak, and they always tell me that if they break them, they're not at fault. I look back at this dumbfuck with a blank look on my face.
"We might need to order new frames," she says as if it's not patently obvious.
Being a cheap bastard, I know that my frames were inexpensive. "Well, can you order that same frame?"
She calls someone on the phone, yadda-yadda, and says to me, "Okay, here's the deal." My asshole puckers, because I know I'm about to get it. "This frame, in the color you wear, is on backorder. However, they have a brown gunmetal color available." I wonder to myself what the hell kind of color brown gunmetal is. Bronze? Metallic Turd? "So what I'm going to do is overnight the brown gunmetal, we'll call you when it's in and put your current lenses in those. That way you have something to wear. Then, when your lenses get in we'll put them in the brown frames, and switch them into your new frames when they come off backorder." I look at her, then my frames, back to her; and try not to say the word 'Fuck.' "Sound good?"
I think for a moment, lean in and say, "It sounds like a story I once heard. A parable, if you will. See, one day this guy was just going about his routine when he felt some discomfort, and discovered there was a broomstick in his ass. He thought to himself 'My word, this is quite irritating'; so he sought professional help to get the broom removed from his ass. Tragically, during the procedure (indeed, almost near the very end!); this trained professional ended up breaking the broom handle off in the man's ass. He wanted to scream, but he was too astounded at the technical ineptitude of the trained professional. Then the person whom he sought help from proposed something that made the man want to cry and kill at the same time. The person said, 'How about you come back tomorrow, we'll pull the broken-off peice out, stick a thicker broomstick in your ass because that's all we've got right now, then when we get a thinner broomstick in we'll swap the thick one out, then when we've got the tools we need, we'll remove the broomstick altogether. But the tools are on backorder and we don't know when that will be. Oh, and you'll be paying for all this too.' " I lean back, without breaking eye contact, and settle into my chair. It was all very Hannibal Lecter: direct, violent, but spoken in an even tone.
She offered to pay for most of the new frames, gave me a steeper discount on the lenses; and I walked out of that place getting the frames and lenses (with all the options I wanted) for just over $100. I'm still a little miffed because I have to jump through all the hoops, but this cheap bastard has never heard of a deal like that. Goddamn right too, because I've got to wear glasses with tape on them for a day or so.
Fuck.
