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Rated ’S’ for SICK (parental advisory)

Thuck Norris (Unofficial Biography)

You’ve all heard of consummate pleasure? This is about consonant leisure or lazy tongue (and other) deformities of speech. It’s like when two, unacquainted, half-wit hair-lips meet and each thinks the other is mimicking-mocking him. And this misunderstanding begins a fight. But in the case of Thuck Norris, it also has to do with Asians cannot distinguish the R and the L or other consonants when speaking English and this often offends his sense of supremacy, because he cannot distinguish between this phenomena and the hair-lip pronunciation, and Norris believes he’s being mocked by the entire world.

It all began in middle school martial arts class, when Thuck had caught roundhouse kick to the side of his head. The sound of his opponent’s foot to Thuck’s ear, on impact, sounded like a sickening ‘thuck.’ Similar to the ugly sound of an over-ripe watermelon cracking open when given too solid a slap.

Lying on the mat, suddenly, permanently stupid, consequent hearing problem with attending brain damage had indelibly imprinted Thuck’s memory, and this had a most unfortunate result; because a concerned Asian kid in his class had shouted “Chuck!” as the martial arts instructor, almost, but not quite simultaneously, had shouted “Norris!” and Thuck Norris thought the Asian kid had shouted “Fuck Norris!” Going forward, because of the resultant hearing problem with attending brain damage, forever after his name always sounded like ‘Thuck Norris!’

And so it was Thuck came to believe every Asian on this planet (except for certain Evangelicals, South Koreans particularly) was deliberately saying “Fuck Norris!” but was unable to get the pronunciation right. Thus Thuck had been indelibly cast into that category of people ‘too stupid to understand they are stupid’, as it seemed to him the larger world had adopted this moniker, which actually exists only in Thuck’s brain damaged understanding. This nevertheless inspired his crusade to beat the living shit out of every gook on the planet and conquer the beliefs of Lao Tzu, Confucius, and the Buddha, all on behalf of ‘The Lord.’

And because the roundhouse kick’s impact had also regurgitated subliminal Sunday school stories and lodged them firmly in Thuck’s frontal cortex, together with Cecil B DeMille cinema scenes, Thuck came to believe he is, at different odd and intermixed moments, Goliath, Samson, and very strangely, for reasons no one understands (not least the Cherokee Nation) Thuck has frequent visions of Virginia Dare in her Native alter-ego: Dancing Water Moccasin.

Thuck, it would seem, has serious life issues.

Thuck joined the Air Force but could not get into the Academy because he believed Angela Jolie’s bra was the definition of Algebra. Thuck ‘wasn’t asked and didn’t tell’ but because of his jealous rage over a certain ex-boyfriend…

…Thuck became a military policeman who nobody could take seriously:

Air Force Airman-sports reporter Hunter Thompson subsequently penned this article on Norris:

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EGLIN AFB, FLORIDA (November 8)— PFC Thuck Norris, a novice Air Policeman, was severely injured here today when a wine bottle exploded against his head at the Air Police gatehouse at the west entrance to the base. Norris largely was incoherent for several hours after the incident, but managed to make a statement which indicated he believed the bottle was hurled from a speeding chariot which approached the gatehouse on the wrong side of the road, coming from the general direction of the SEPARATION CENTER.

Investigators revealed only minutes before the incident at the gatehouse, a reportedly “fanatical” airman had received his separation papers and was rumored to have set out in the direction of the gatehouse at high speed in what Norris described as a Ben Hur style vehicle, powered with stolen horses. An immediate search was begun for Hunter S. Thompson, erstwhile sports editor of the base newspaper and well-known “morale problem.” Thompson was known to have a sometimes overpowering affinity for mocking religious fanatics and had been described by Air Policeman Norris (presently confined to the base sanatorium) as “just the type of bastard who would do a thing like that.”

Meanwhile, PFC Norris will be evaluated in the neuropsychological ward at base hospital, with suspected head injury induced, PTSD delusions he is the Biblical Samson. The ward nurse states the condition of the patient is “Literally guarded.”

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Thuck, with a consequent ‘Brain damaged’ but ‘Loves Jesus’ discharge from the Air Force, went on to become a cultural consultant, physical educator and trainer to the stars; here with Donny & Marie Osmond at his Wimp Thuck Lo (TM)  School of Martial Arts, where Marie Osmond becomes infatuated with Thuck, resulting in Donny Osmond has an uncontrollable fit of jealousy and is savagely beaten:

Old age hasn’t made mental state for our B movie hero any better…

Thuck’s Vision

It was the Year of Our Lord 1605. Thuck was tied to a post in the camp of the Apache Winnitou:

Norris_Winnitou

Virgina Dare, now grown and known as Dancing Water Moccasin, was present to ‘save’ Norris:

Indian_Princess

The Indians called a council to discuss the matter, as there was important information to be gained. Lawyer-Chief Broke Medicine Ego, the injured party, following interrogation, made a case for Norris release, based on the rationale Norris was incapable of grasping the gravity of the White Race’s criminal health:

Medicine Ego: “What is this white pus I acquired from Dancing Water Moccasin?”

Norris: “You got White puss?”

Medicine Ego: “It’s white pus.”

Norris: “She’s White puss.”

Medicine Ego: “I’m saying she gave me this white pus.”

Norris: “What’d you expect? She’s White puss.

Medicine Ego: “Everyone has this pus where you came from?”

Norris: “We all get White puss.”

The Indians misunderstanding Norris’ slang, combined with Thuck’s hearing related brain damage altogether missing ‘pus’ in the line of questioning, the Indians concluded White puss and white pus were synonyms. If all were this way, the Whites could not understand and be held accountable.

And so it is, via visionary experience, Thuck consequently believes in White puss salvation, and has become obsessed with commercial fantasies of Michele Bachmann:

Bachmann_Doll

 Thuck’s obsession ^ (link to easy listening commercial theme)

And finally, Thuck has become altogether mad, over a late 2006 soccer game at Albuquerque, New Mexico, between Air Force Academy and the New Mexico Lobos, when a New Mexico fan shouted to the Air Force goalie “You play like the women you rape at the academy!” and New Mexico consequently scored against a flipped out Air Force. The now thoroughly insane Thuck Norris consequently became ‘Christian Dominionism’s’ most ardent defender of the United States military’s Christian extremist elements generally, and at the Air Force Academy particularly.

In the after life, when ‘almighty god’ (that is, Thuck Norris) beheld the immortal lampoonist Ronald Thomas West hauled in front of him on Judgement Day, Ronald stated:

“Don’t try to stare ME down, old Thuck. I’ve looked many a better man than you in the eye. Save your speech for some other false conviction, because if I am a monster, you are a fiend, for I have merely satirized a handful of morons, while more good men have been slaughtered by the beliefs expressed in your Dominionist jawbone than Samson slew with the jawbone of that other historic ass!”

And so there it is folks, the story of the man who inspired innumerable Boy Scouts chanting ‘How much wood would a Woodthuck thuck, if a Woodthuck could thuck wood’ .. to goad old Norris into flipping out in his patently juvenile persuasion…

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Disclaimer: Although it was Chuck Norris attacking the Military Religious Freedom Foundation inspired this satire, I did not ask permission of the Military Religious Freedom Foundation, whom I support strongly, for permission to write and post this. If I’d asked permission, they might have said ‘no’ and I would have felt compelled to honor the foundation’s wishes. That said, now that it is up, it’s not coming down, no matter who might make any request. I have as much right to exercise my First Amendment ugliness as any Christian Dominionist. Suck on that Thuck.

The Satires

Ok, so this is a gross story. But I’m in the habit of putting nearly everything out there (except for what is between my ears and had never put through or even spoken about in presence of any electronic device), if only so the NSA cannot claim they have anything ‘secret’ on me. It sort of balances things when the public can know what the spies think only they should know. Want my entire sex history? Check my (free online) book ‘Queer Chicken Dinner.’ The NSA has read it. It’s worth a read just to discover the evil joke on Jack Kerouac couched in the title. Too bad the iconic pedophile worshipped by millions drank himself to death rather than lived to read my rebuttal to his ‘On the Road.’

Over this past year I’ve been on hiatus from Berlin, a city of spies and assassins where any moment can be a hairs breath from encounter with a poison pellet for someone like myself. Gee, I must have seriously pissed some evil and powerful people off, prurient examples one, two, three, four & five. Or, if you want the facts rather than the comedy, check my “America’s Deep State” series of articles. This story is tame when compared to the gross closet habits of the ‘deep state’ elite in America’s leadership. Sort of a switch here, the public free to know what the NSA could only wish the public would never discover and perhaps Snowden’s revelations will be the nitro added to my glycerin.

So, I returned to Berlin on one of my madcap journeys intended to strike deeper fear into the informed but cowardly politicians who sit on my story like using a trash can filled with nitro-glycerin for a stool they fear to get off of. I  accomplished what I’d set out to do as they remained paralyzed on the lid of the explosive perch. It would never occur to a politician that if you’d like to defuse an explosive circumstance created by criminals, there is this thing called courage and meeting the problem head on. By now my strategy is to shame them into courageous action, all else having failed. And then, having returned my little village, oh fuck. Here where intelligence agencies dare not tread, actually cannot tread without 200 noses pressed against glass at the sight of any stranger, nature nailed me.

I woke up feeling as though I’d been shot in the left of my abdomen, had to crap and after that began vomiting .. all the while the pain of what seemed a gunshot to my kidney. The projectile that hit me was more than subsonic, as a small calcium pellet had departed the kidney chamber and found its trajectory via the ureter, the barrel of the gun that’d shot me.

So, passing a kidney stone should be straightforward enough, but of course my online medical certification in the subject was only beginning and I made some mistakes, one of them pretty bad. Dehydrated from puking and feeling as though I’d been both, put through the wringer AND run over by a truck, I did not eat and only sipped water for two days, when I should have been both eating and pouring water down like an open ended drain. And then I sorely fucked up by deciding applesauce would be gentle on my belly when reintroducing food. I ate LOTS of applesauce. Pectin. In other words, an organic, epoxy plug. Having survived the stone, now I’d shut down my intestinal tract with a REALLY BINDING constipation.

I turned down an offer of synthetic morphine from an acquaintance because morphine is constipating, I did not need google search to know this and by now I thought the worst of my pain was behind me. Of course it is the meta-data in all of this the National Security Agency finds most valuable, using google-search is like having the NSA read your mind. Natural laxatives, none have worked to now, mint tea, oatmeal, peanut butter (the 100% ground peanuts, no sugar, salt or hydrogenation), nectarines, none of these is working to dissolve the pectin epoxy plug. The NSA having known this much of my experience to now, will have to be disappointed, my having not googled ‘synthetic morphine’ together with ‘constipation’ .. discovering after the fact when reading here, I cannot be busted for an illegal Rush Limbaugh style Oxy-Contin habit.

On day five of my steadily backing up natural sewer, I marvel at the wonder of human creation, by now I’ve reviewed my disbelief in god and find it is quite ok on account of the human inventions, no, rather make that human stupidities associated with the very idea and nothing has changed. Of course science is only equal. What’s missing here? It appears I’ll work that out in some other lifetime.

One cup of olive oil chased by a liter of orange juice and nothing happens. Same again, some hours later and manage an encouraging sign, there is a feeling the pectin plug has budged ¼ inch and I managed to expel a pellet about the diameter of a euro cent. But DON’T DARE push hard on account of the unrepaired hernia that threatens me with holding a fistful of my gut expelled just beneath my right ribcage about six inches from my sternum. In the event that happened, I suppose I could get some tattoo art adding a scrotum, pubic hair and the moniker ‘NSA DICK’ to enhance my hernias appearance and sell myself to a homo-erotic freak show in Paris.

Hospital is not an option, into that sort of data-base with my American Express Platinum emergency medical insurance and the NSA shares it with all of the security services and the CIA’s Dr Mengele would be paying me a visit in short order. Or a concerned Rabbi from MOSSAD. Or perhaps a MI6 ‘doughnut dolly’ wanting to draw a curtain around my bed for an intimate inspection of my anus and insertion of a cyanide suppository.

Oh, a suppository. Well, duh, let’s google that for the NSA’s sake. Homemade? Well, according to google, you are supposed to have thought this out first and had a bar of pure glycerin soap on hand. But, let’s suppose Yankee ingenuity can come up with something. THINK! Do you suppose if one were quick enough, a cold, hard chunk of butter up the anus (before it can melt) might do the trick?

‘Go get the butter’ is probably the worst line in ‘The Last Tango in Paris’ and fucked in the ass is not happening to me now, NOT EVER. Anal sex is just not my thing. But it might titillate the French DGSE:

^ The NSA (him) & the world (her)

As I close this essay together with polishing off a liter of ‘bio-primo pflaumenkur’ (a German prune juice based, internal cleansing concoction), we’ll all find out if it works, that is whether I live to create another essay and post it here… so if you don’t see another, well, it’s been an amazing adventure…

Ron Drawing

Epitaph ‘he tried’

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The Satires

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