Genuine Class: From Cattywompus

"Excuse me, Mr. Squib," the stewardess (- sorry, flight attendant), said, causing me to look up from my SkyMall catalog. I had been pondering buying my valet one of those delightful shirts with the tuxedo on it, and I resented the interruption.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but you're eligible for a complementary upgrade." I raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"I'm in First Class Premier Premium Plus already."

"I understand that, sir. However, Squib-Co stock went up two points today. You're now a billionaire." I nodded coolly. I wasn't surprised by this. I'd know early on that investing in that social networking sight linking well-to-do pedophiles with children in need of school supplies was win-win-win (boy, do those NAMBLA guys click on ads for 'Nick Jr!') What I was surprised at was her knowing my personal worth.

No shirt, no freedom, no service.

Every man is a finger. That finger can flip something larger off, and that's cathartic but it's not productive. OR that finger can lose it's ego and join with other fingers to become a mighty fist of awesome populist dickpunchery. Ayn Rand once postulated those blessed with lucky talent would go on strike to fuck the little people.

Today, we proved that hyberbolic hack wrong. We're going on strike because the little people deserve an internet that lets ANY of them become exceptional. Today Atlas doesn't shrug; he puts down everything of little importance, and then shoulders the load that matters.

-W

How to Take Down a Christmas Tree

If you're one of the many American's who haven't taken down their Christmas Trees before MLK day (as is the Christian custom,) here's a quick way to take care of it. You're welcome.

Before

1. Cover walls and furniture with asbestos sheeting and insulation. 
2. Open all windows for nice cross breeze. 

The Legend of Jango Stevens - From Cattywompus

(Dear Freemont, this is 90% in fun. This was written to address a friend's tall tales about a blackbelt Übermensch barfighter who could beat any human being alive regardless of circumstance and also came off as a facepunching lunatic and was intended to rile him.  /end pussy ass disclaimer- Will)




Years ago, in the little town of Fremont, Nebraska, where the pleasant aroma of the hog-rendering plant blankets the city in it’s sweet perfume, and the wind doesn’t blow, it sucks, lived the greatest warrior the world has ever seen. His Christian name was Jango Stevens. 

Nine feet tall he was, with biceps like kegs of Pabst Blue Ribbon and legs so powerful he could tip cows two at a time. During the daylight hours, majestic in his flannel shirt and Peterbuilt hat, he spent his days at the meat packing plant, stunning cows not with an air hammer, but with the power of his glare alone.

But when the day ended and the moon was high in the sky, Jango Stevens would comb back his mullet just so, slip on his biggest, shiniest belt buckle, and drive down to Scooters pub. There, he was the drinkenist, fightenist man the town ever seen.

He’d fight men six at a time, they say, until the wee hours, when he would retire to his glorious doublewide with the waitress of his choice, and celebrate his victory until dawn. Such was his life... until one fateful night.

Almost! (And why I've been busy today.)

Book is at the formatter and when it comes back it's ready to proof and print. Keeping it brief because I'm working on some SOPA shit.

If you want my opinion on it, fuck SOPA/PIPA. These bills need to die forever and never come back.

I won't say anything else about it, cause I'm a soldier, not a general.

But I will DO something about it.

Hope to see you in the foxholes.

-Will.

Looking like Monday.

Draft done, doing final prep for formatter tomorrow. Book drops Monday.

More tomorrow after I get the draft sent off. A LOT happening.

-Will