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As we launch this pre-holiday edition of the Perfect Football Weekend™, Denizens, I find myself having lost all respect for one Adrian Peterson of the Minne-haha ViQueens.

No, not because he drew a tiny dollop of blood when he spanked his son a little too hard with a switch.  (As an aside…Steffi Dawn Stewart, I trust you’re not taking it easy on our son when it comes to discipline.  I would hate to think he turned out…well, like you.)

No, I’ve lost respect for the man because he caved in to the NFL and promised “never to use a switch as discipline on any of his children again”.

“I won’t ever use a switch again,” Peterson told USA Today Sports in his first extensive public remarks since being indicted for reckless or negligent injury to a child. “There’s different situations where a child needs to be disciplined as far as timeout, taking their toys away, making them take a nap. There’s so many different ways to discipline your kids.”

[...]

Commissioner Roger Goodell, in a statement announcing Peterson’s suspension, was critical of the star running back, saying, “You have shown no meaningful remorse for your conduct.”

And what the ever-loving fuck  do you  know about “discipline”, Roger Goodfella?  Hell – you  thought it was okay to only suspend Ray Rice two fucking games!!!

Bastard.

As for you, Peterson – thanks for letting us know your kids are now gonna grow up to be just like the doucherifles over there in Ferguson, MO.

See, Denizens, this is what I rail about when I scream bloody murder about the pussification of America.  Peterson’s kid probably had a spanking coming, but because a droplet of blood emanated from his butt-ocks (a little Forrest Gump lingo, there), the metrosexual pansy-assed dickless wonders that make up the Low-Information Lunatic Lickspittles™ of our society clutch their pearls, acquire Teh Vapors™ and decry what, fifty to sixty years ago, this society would have roundly cheered.

And then we wonder how we could have elected an illegal Kenyan bastard to the White House – twice – and then just sit, whine & kvetch when he goes and blatantly violates the Constitution instead of manning up, getting off our asses and going and doing  something about it.

Thanks, A.P.

Dumbass.

Let’s get on with the football.  My Arlington Heights Yellow Jackets have a chance to do what no Fort Worth “hah skrewl” (a little Rush lingo, there) team has done in nearly 15 years:  Win an area football playoff game.

They have Wichita Falls Rider tonight at 7:30 in Mineral Wells.  Rider & Heights look to be pretty evenly matched – they beat White Settlement Brewer by more than did Heights, but didn’t beat Grapevine by as many as Heights did.  They’re capable of putting up points, but they can also give them up, too.  Should be a good game.

Sunday, Andy Dalton’s Cincinnati Bengals come to the Southern Command™ to take on Supreme General Rayegun’s Texans.  If they can keep J.J. Watt out of the endzone (either offensively or defensively), they might have a shot.  Vegas has the Texans as a two-point home favorite, which translates to a toss-up.  I guess it’ll depend on whether Ryan FitzPatrick takes the field.

TCU is off this week, so we’ll have four wildcard games: Rock Chalk to go into Norman and give #21 Oklahoma a scare (and if Kansas does  pull off the upset, they’ll be calling for Bob Stoops’ head before the night’s out), #25 UMinnesota to have a letdown game against #23 Nebraska (and believe me, I’d love for Jerry Kill’s bunch to go in and upset Bo Pelini’s kids, but I just don’t see it happening), eighth-ranked Ole Miss to give Ar-kansas a shellacking in Fayetteville (I will never pick the Hogs for anything, ever), and Liberty U. to get their asses whipped at Coastal Carolina.  (Sorry, Turner – I was gonna pick you…but then I saw whom you were playing, and you couldn’t beat ‘em at home last year, so…(shrug))

We’re back Monday for the recap.  (And it will  be Monday, too – tune into this channel tomorrow to learn why.  (Hint:  This is as close to a countdown  as you guys are gonna get this year.  One.))

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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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Story for you guys from nearly 15 years ago.

I had just proposed to Her Doublewideness not too long previous, and in preparation for the Wedding To End All Weddings™, I had moved into a nice little one-bedroom apartment in the Sleepy Little Town™ of Rockwall, TX.  (Steffi, of course, had a key.  That’s foreshadowing.  Remember it.)

At the time, I was working two jobs – an eight-to-fiver in an office, and a dispatching job on the weekends for the courier company I’d worked days for previously.

As fate would have it, my graveyard relief at the dispatching job this one Sunday night phoned in sick.  And, as fate would also have it, no replacement was available.  Ergo, I would have to work a double shift.  And also ergo (grin), I would be forced to work my eight-to-fiver on zero sleep.

Not a lot of fun.

Anyway, I phoned my then-fiancee, let her know the situation, and kindly asked her if she could come from Sulphur Springs, grab a change of clothes out of the apartment, and come to dispatch to drop them off.  (At the time, I was in a t-shirt & jeans, my apartment was thirty minutes away, and an hour to my eight-to-fiver from there.  No way could I have made it there and back – hence, the call for help to the fiancee. This is also foreshadowing. Remember it.)

Fiancee hemmed & hawed, but eventually agreed that yes, she could do this for the guy she was ultimately going to spend the rest of her life with.  This was 1430 hours.

Fast forward to 1800 hours.  I received a call from Fiancee Unit™, ostensibly apologetic, whereupon she said that she had to go to “church”, and couldn’t come down.

Long story short, I subsequently had to call my eight-to-fiver, report in “sick”, and went home after work to sleep until afternoon.  Didn’t hurt my standing there, but Mondays were a hellaciously busy day at that particular company, and it didn’t help my cause any.

Now, at the time of Doublewide Fiancee’s refusal, I figured “okay, one-off, no biggie, not a hill I want to die on”, and ignored the sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach.  Had I realized at the time that this was a Huge Honkin’ Red Flag O’ Doom™ as to her general dependability, I’d have never married the bitch.  I’d have told her the minute she failed to come through for me, “Okay, sweetie, just drop off the key next time you see me, and have a nice life”.

Should’ve taught me not to ignore the sickening feeling.  But hell – what do I know, hm?

I tell you this story, Denizens, to compare & contrast something that happened to me in San Diego last year at the mum-in-law’s funeral.  Friday was the day of the service, and we started off for the chapel not having had time for a proper breakfast.  So we grabbed a couple hot dogs each on the way.

After the funeral was the reception, whereupon there was fried chicken, pizza, mac ‘n cheese, Chinese, etc, etc, ad infinitum, ad nauseam.  Particular emphasis on the ad nauseam – I posted a pic that I’m sure a couple of you saw.  (Yes, that’s exactly how I was feeling at the time.)

Get back to our lodging for the week, and I’m…well, let’s just say I’ve had better days, mkay?

So here I am in the can.  Doubled over in pain, and without going into TMI mode, Pepto’s not going to be of any help.

I’m still in my Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, and I’m overheating.  I need to get into a t-shirt & shorts pretty quickly, but I’m not in any condition to venture out from the can at that moment in time.  So I send a text to Mrs. Venomous – “Honey, I need you to get me a t-shirt & my shorts, okay?”

Five minutes go by.  Ten.  Fifteen.

I’m starting to wonder just where the hell she is, when a thought from the Lord (and He’s the only one who could have put this thought there at the time) comes, unbidden, into my head.

“Have faith in your wife”.

Not three seconds later comes a knock on the door – “Honey???”

She slides the clothing under the door, I’m in t-shirt & shorts not too long thereafter, and all turns out well; the day is officially saved.

The point of all this:  I have a pretty damned hellacious wife.  She’s got my back.

JUST LIKE YOU SHOULD HAVE ALL THOSE YEARS AGO, STEFFI, YOU STUPID-ASSED BIMBO!

Mrs. Venomous – I love you.

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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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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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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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(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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Denizens, it’s now been 10 long years since I made what is probably the Mistake Of My Life™ and married that doublewide fatassed trollop in East Texas.

But this post isn’t for you guys, it’s for her.  Therefore, feel free to bypass this and go straight to the PFW post below.

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

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Speaking of Her Doublewideness™, today happens to be her birthday.

Two words come to mind:  Old maid.

Eh.  Whatever. 

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(For reasons which are mine & mine alone, I’m removing this post.

No, I haven’t been threatened, either physically (ha!) or legally.  I have my reasons for taking this post down, they’re good ones – damned  good ones, in fact – and I’m keeping them to myself for now.

ThatIsAll™.)

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Stephanie Dawn Stewart Crager, front & center.

I’ve just finished sending Skip’s present to him, care of you and that fat-assed son-of-a-bitch you call a father.

Try not to be complete asses this time and let my son have his present, okay?

Thatisall™.

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Well, it looks like Steffi the Doublewide Fat-Assed Bitch Supreme™ has once again prevented my son from receiving Christmas presents sent to him by yours truly.

(And this time I know for a fact it was you personally, Steffi, you miserable little shrew.  Here’s a hint:  try lying about your identity BEFORE you admit to being you next time, hm?)

And Steffi, just so you know what it is you kept our  son from having this year, have a gander:

A Lightning McQueen (from the Disney movie Cars) interactive car.  Skip probably would’ve had fun with the thing all year – and it cost you nothing.

Oh, and I also sent along one of those goofy-assed little Teddy Snowflake™ bears you love so much, just so you wouldn’t have to buy him one.  And as unbelieveable as it might sound, Steffi, you dumbass – I actually do that to honor you  in a small (very small) way.  Hell – do you think I want  him to be caught dead with a stupid-assed bear that would be more at home swishing about in Oak Lawn?

So congratulations on playing the role of Grinch™ yet again, bitch.  That’s four Christmases now you’ve denied him – and me.

I just hope you have a good explanation ready for God when you die.  I guran-damn-tee you – you’re gonna need it.

Stupid trollop.

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