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Been trying to keep busy today – working on a laptop for a customer, hanging up laundry when possible, cooking dinner, upgrading the kernels on the two remaining Linux boxes I have online, that sort of thing.

But it’s been at the back of my mind constantly today, and it just now slapped me in the face full force.

Father’s Day.  And yet another one without my son.

Fuck you, Stephanie Dawn Stewart.

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(This one will stay on top all day.  Look below for new posts – today only.

And HDD – I don’t wanna hear it, okay?  I already know what you think of all this.  This is more for me than for anyone else.)

(ED. NOTE:  The following originally appeared in this space a couple of years ago.  (Don’t bother clicking the link – it’s not there anymore, thanks to Internet America and their piss-poor bookkeeping.)  I’m reprinting it now, with appropriate tweaks.

And Skip – my son, you may not understand this now, but the reason I’m writing this has absolutely nothing to do with you, and everything to do with why you not only don’t get to ever spend any time with me, but also why you (probably) haven’t received a birthday or Christmas present since 2003, thanks to your mother and your grandparents. (More on that later.)

And thanks to what they’re probably telling you about me, you might not even believe any of this – but it’s true, and I have the documentation to prove it.

I do love you, son.  I realize your mother and grandparents will try mightily to persuade you that I don’t – but I do, very much.  Someday – hopefully – I’ll get to tell you to your face.)

Aw, come on! Is that all you got?! >

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Out of the fire…back into the frying pan.

Wylie East 70, Sulphur Springs 33

#12 Oklahoma 50, at West Virginia 49

at #14 Nebraska 38, UMinnesota 14

at Wisconsin 14, Ohio State 21

Liberty 33, at VMI 14

at Dallas 23, Cleveland 20 (OT)

Aw, come on! Is that all you got?! >

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(This one will stay on top all day.  Look below for new posts – today only.

And HDD – I don’t wanna hear it, okay?  I already know what you think of all this.  This is more for me than for anyone else.)

(ED. NOTE:  The following originally appeared in this space a couple of years ago.  (Don’t bother clicking the link – it’s not there anymore, thanks to Internet America and their piss-poor bookkeeping.)  I’m reprinting it now, with appropriate tweaks.

And Skip – my son, you may not understand this now, but the reason I’m writing this has absolutely nothing to do with you, and everything to do with why you not only don’t get to ever spend any time with me, but also why you (probably) haven’t received a birthday or Christmas present since 2003, thanks to your mother and your grandparents. (More on that later.)

And thanks to what they’re probably telling you about me, you might not even believe any of this – but it’s true, and I have the documentation to prove it.

I do love you, son.  I realize your mother and grandparents will try mightily to persuade you that I don’t – but I do, very much.  Someday – hopefully – I’ll get to tell you to your face.)

Aw, come on! Is that all you got?! >

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Front & center, Steffi.

Skip’s present is on its way.  It’s been sent to your attention.  Might be a day or two late, but it’ll get there.

Do all of us a favor and let him actually have  this one, mkay?

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Stephanie Dawn Stewart?  Front & center.

Skip’s present is on its way.  It’s a bike.  Not a bad one, either, for his age.

Be a decent human being for once and let him have this present, will you?

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I hate today.

Abso-fuckin’-lutely hate it.

Those of you who’ve been with me all these years…you know bloody well why.

Those of you who are the Uninitiated™…sorry, but I don’t feel like going into it.

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Denizens, as you probably know (seeing, of course, as you guys aren’t  the Uninitiated™), today is my son’s ninth birthday.

Now, last year, I held off on posting my usual anti-Skip’s-mother rant, in hopes that they’d actually let him have the birthday present I sent to him.  And, if memory serves, they actually let him have it…well, we assume  so, anyway (it was a gift card to WalMart, so I have no idea if they spent it on him or not).

This year, I sent him something other  than that, and have received no notification that they refused it, so we’ll see.

Anyway, happy birthday, Skip!  Dad loves you!

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Well, Denizens, she’s done it again.  Or rather, she and her fat-assed pussy of an excuse-for-a-father have done it again.

Stephanie Dawn Stewart (she long ago forfeited any right she ever had to wear the Crager name) refused to allow my son to have the Christmas present I got for him.  Or more to the point, they were too cowardly to even answer the door so that FedEx© could give it to them.

Even when I followed her suggestion and put it in the form of a gift card, well, they’re above  all that.  Can’t have his father  giving him a Chirstmas present, y’know.

And it’s not as if you can’t say you weren’t home.  FedEx, after, all, tried three times  and left three door cards  to let you know there was something for Skip.

But none of that matters to you, does it?  Long as you can stick it to me and deny me any  contact with my son – well, that just makes you cream your granny panties, doesn’t it?

So, fine, Steffi.  Have it your way.

You’ve whined in the past about how I keep saying “some aweful things” (no kidding, Denizens, that’s how an elementary school teacher  spells it) about you in the past, even though I’ve pretty much documented things.

But you can’t keep him under your cowardly thumb forever.  At some point, I’m going to get to tell Skip my  side of the story.

And when I do, the things I’ve  said about you will pale in comparison.

Bank on it, you miserable little shrew.

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For those of you who’ve paid any  amount of attention since 2002, today is my son’s eighth birthday.  And normally, I’d post the yearly screed about the events leading to where we are today, i.e. me not being able to see him.

This year, however, I’m going to refrain.  For now, anyway.  How things transpire going forward will determine if I continue to hold off.

For the moment, though – Happy Birthday, son! I love you!

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The package is on its way.  And it’s what you requested, although I wish it could’ve been more.

It’d be nice if you’d at least let me know if he enjoyed it (the email link on the sidebar does  work), but that’s your call, not mine.

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Stephanie Dawn Stewart – front & center.

I have ordered Skip’s Christmas present for this year.  It’s something I think he’ll like, and I can promise you it’s something you’d never think to get him.

Do us all a favor this year, and let him have this one, okay?

ThatIsAll™.

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Denizens, you’re well aware of my personal opinion of a certain doublewide redheaded bimboid about 120 miles east of here.

That said, I would still come to her defense were I to see her becoming a victim of this.  This is just…wrong.

It was tough being a red head recently for students at a middle school in Calabasas, Calif., where dozens of students attacked their red-headed classmates — apparently inspired by an episode of the television show “South Park,” and a Facebook group.

The attacks happened on “Kick a Ginger Day” at the school, apparently inspired by a “South Park” episode titled “Ginger Kids,” which used red-heads as a satire on racism. That apparently led to the Facebook group “Natioinal Kick A Ginger Day,” which includes message encouraging attacks on red heads.

And another thing:  If you haven’t recently, take another gander at that pic of my son down there on the sidebar.

See the hair?

I’d damn well best never see shit like this being done to my son.  Bastards who do that will be well  ventilated by the time all is said & done.

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(This one will stay on top all day.  Look below for new posts – today only.

And HDD – I don’t wanna hear it, okay?  I already know what you think of all this.  This is more for me than for anyone else.)

(ED. NOTE:  The following originally appeared in this space a couple of years ago.  I’m reprinting it now, with appropriate tweaks.

And Skip – my son, you may not understand this now, but the reason I’m writing this has absolutely nothing to do with you, and everything to do with why you not only don’t get to ever spend any time with me, but also why you (probably) haven’t received a birthday or Christmas present since 2003, thanks to your mother and your grandparents. (More on that later.)

And thanks to what they’re probably telling you about me, you might not even believe any of this – but it’s true, and I have the documentation to prove it.

I do love you, son.  I realize your mother and grandparents will try mightily to persuade you that I don’t – but I do, very much.  Someday – hopefully – I’ll get to tell you to your face.)

Aw, come on! Is that all you got?! >

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[Scene:  aboard Pegasus.  Lord Darth Venomous is in his luxurious command chair...]

KORRIOTH:  Ahem.

[...uh, Captain Korrioth's luxurious command chair...?]

KORRIOTH:  Well, technically, it is my  ship.

[...uh, Admiral?]

VENOMOUS:  Yes, Allan-a…uh, Al.  It’s his ship.  Which reminds me, Captain – isn’t K’tinghe finished with my flagship yet???

KORRIOTH:  Two more weeks, m’Lord.  He’s having trouble with the new particle disruptors – they keep blowing things up.

VENOMOUS:  Send him a subspace message telling him playtime’s over.  He can go blow things up on his own time.

KORRIOTH:  Yes, my lord.

VENOMOUS:  And speaking of subspace messages – anything yet, McManx?

T-BONE MCMANX:  Still no word from Eastern Intelligence, sir.  I’d imagine they’ve had long enough to notify us, but that’s just me.

VENOMOUS:  (nods) Very well, McManx, you may put that project on the back burner for now.

T-BONE MCMANX:  Yes, m’lord.

Denizens, it’s not out of the realm (no pun intended) of possibility that my presents to Prince Spatula II got thrown away upon receipt – but unlike previous years, they were not  returned.

Therefore, against my better judgement (at least, when dealing with these  people), I’m going to believe the best and give Steffi the Doublewide the benefit of the doubt, and believe that she allowed him to have my Christmas presents to him this year.

Thank you, Stephanie.  I trust he’s enjoying them.

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