In the HebeBook slammer again.

That jew cocksucker, Zuckerberg, busted my unrepentant ass again, for another 30 days.  “Wetback” isn’t allowed?  Why the fuck don’t the assholes list words you’re not supposed to use?  It’s not like I called them “fucking Mexicans.”  Fuck jews, mexicans, and niggers.


January 9, 1960 – My First Near-Death Experience

I was sworn into the Navy Reserves on May 30, 1959.  I attended the craziest boot camp, that has ever been seen, at Los Alamitos Naval Air Station, in southern California.  My mates and I were in the MISS UNIVERSE PAGEANT PARADE, in Long Beach, the last year it was held there.  I pushed MISS SWEDEN’s float in the parade.  Whatta butt she had.  We were also in the Huntington Beach 4th of July Parade, which had JAYNE MANSFIELD as the Grand Marshal.  I, personally, got within about 5 feet of her gargantuan TA-TAS.  Then I went to DISNEYLAND, and I was in BOOT CAMP.

After that remarkable experience, I started “drilling” with my squadron, VP-774, which flew P-2V Neptune anti-submarine patrol bombers.  We drilled one weekend a month.  We were called, by some, “Weekend Warriors.”  I attended an electronics class, all day Saturday, and half a day on Sunday.  Sunday afternoon I could do anything I wanted.  I gassed the planes, stood behind them when they started up on the line, and smelled the beautiful exhaust fumes from those R-3350 radial engines; the same engines that were on the B-29s and Super Constellations.  I found out that if you approached the pilot of a plane that was going on a flight, and asked if you could go on the flight, the pilot would always say yes.  THAT was my Disneyland.  The coolest seat, in the plane, was in the nose.  You sat in a very comfortable, padded seat, with padded armrests.  You had a panoramic view through the plexiglass nose, and you could put your feet up on a steel mounting bracket on which a Ma Deuce .50 caliber machine gun could be mounted.  Ray Ban Aviator sunglasses, and I was ready to rock.

I’d been on 3 or 4 flights and was HOOKED.  On this particular Saturday morning, just before muster, I found out that a particular pilot, with whom I had flown before, was making a NIGHT FLIGHT, a rarity.  I went up to the pilot, and asked him if I could go on the flight.  He told me that because we made so few night flights, that everybody wanted to go, and the crew was filled to capacity.  But then he told me that one of the regular members of his crew hadn’t been at the morning muster, he was a guy who never missed a “meeting,” and that if he didn’t show up, then I could go on the flight.  Hip-Ha and a Coup de Gras.  I went to class and, at the afternoon muster, he still wasn’t there.  I went up to the pilot and he told me that it was really strange, because this was the first time that his crewman had ever missed a meeting, and he knew there was going to be a night flight.  He added that if he wasn’t at the evening muster, I was on the flight.  Bitchin’.  He wasn’t at the evening muster, so the pilot told me to get some chow, check out some gear at the paraloft, and be ready to board the plane at a certain time.

I was in the ready room, ready to go, with all the other guys.  The pilot came in and asked me to accompany him to the counter, behind which were guys who handled the paperwork.  He asked for the manifest for his flight, which was on a clipboard, and the clerk handed it to him.  He took his pen, and crossed out a name near the top of the list, and inserted my name at the bottom.  I was now officially on that flight.  I went back and sat down in the ready room.  Some of the guys on the flight began to drift out, to walk down to the plane.  I was savoring the moment so much, I was suddenly alone.  A few minutes later, the pilot walked by the room, saw me and said, “Let’s go, Gearon, it’s time.”  “Yes, Sir.”  I walked out of the ready room, and the pilot held the door open for me to walk outside, onto the flight line.  As I started to walk through that door, the door at the other side of the building BANGED open, and both of us turned to see a guy standing there, out of breath, who said, “Am I too late to make the flight?”  The pilot said, “Where the hell have you been?”  The guy said, “I’ve been taking final exams all day, I’ve driven like a maniac to get here, speeding and running red lights, and am I too late to make the flight?” The pilot looked at his watch and said, “You’ve got 2 minutes to get your gear at the paraloft and be out at the plane.”  The pilot then walked up to where the clerk was and asked for the manifest again.  He crossed my name out and wrote his crewman’s name, HAROLD GRIMSLEY, under my crossed out name.   He said, to me, “I know how disappointed you are, but I promise you, you will be on the next night flight, even if someone else is the pilot.”  “Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir.”

I turned in my gear and headed for the Enlisted Men’s Club.  I was only 17 years old, so I just drank sodas.  I think there was a small band and dancing.  About 10 PM the word was passed that one of our planes was down in the ocean.  As far as I knew, there was only one plane flying out of Los Al, and it was the one I was supposed to be on.  We found out more about it the next morning.  One month later, at our next meeting, one of the crewmen who survived, Nunez, told me the whole story.  Meanwhile, two or three weeks after the ditching in the ocean, I attended a memorial service for the one man who went down with the plane, Harold Grimsley.  Three others, including the pilot, were killed by “exposure,” or hypothermia as it’s now called.

For just about 50 years, I knew most of the story, but then I found out Harold Grimsley’s name, a lot of new facts about the mishap, and a whole lot about 3rd Class Aviation Ordnanceman Grimsley’s personal life.

Around 2010, wanting to find out more about the incident and the name of the man who died in my place, I went online and started to search.  There’s a website,, that pretty much covers everything about Navy patrol squadrons, the “P” in VP-774, stands for patrol.  They had never heard of the incident, nobody had ever heard of the incident, and people must have thought I was a whack-job, because their extensive files didn’t have an incident as I described it.  I checked one or two other websites and still no luck.  Meanwhile, at just about exactly the same time as I was seeking information on this ditching, Harold Grimsley’s grandson was seeking to find out more information about his grandfather’s death.  He knew that he had gone down in a P-2V, off Dana Point, in Orange County, but he sought more information.  The grandson had seen a TV documentary, on the Discovery Channel I believe, about a group of people finding a WW1 German U-Boat which was sunk off the coast of California.  He contacted, which found and photographed the boat, UB 88.  The founder of that group told the grandson that he would try to find out something for him.  He contacted, and was told they didn’t have any information, but that another person, me, had asked about the same incident, and was given my email address.  I was contacted, and so began an odyssey that nobody could have predicted.

The following is an amalgam of Nunez’s eyewitness account, the official U.S. Navy Accident Report, and my own experiences with the asshole who MURDERED Harold Grimsley:

The crew chief/plane captain was a Chief Petty Officer named Manuel, whom I believe was probably Portuguese.  He was a flaming alcoholic, but one who maintained his composure very well, indeed.  It used to take 3 guys, all working together, to take off in a Neptune.  The pilot had things to do, the co-pilot had things to do, and the plane captain/crew chief had things to do.  The latter individual sat on a canvas “seat,” that was stretched across the opening to the cockpit, and manipulated the fuel switches, transferring fuel around and feeding it to the engines.  During the flight, he would also monitor the fuel situation, along with the pilot.  The asshole, as I will now call him, shut off pumping fuel from one tank, but didn’t tell the pilot.  He swore, under oath, that he told the pilot that he had stopped pumping from that tank, and told him that it still had lots of fuel still in it.  He was lying through his fucking teeth, but the pilot was dead, so he was believed.

To get from the main part of the plane, the flight deck, to the nose, there is a hatch in the floor, which I have never seen closed, unless someone was sitting on it for take-off, landing, or ditching, which allows you to drop down into a narrow tunnel, which leads you forward, as you crawl on your hands and knees.  There is a device which locks the hatch in the open position.

It was a dark and stormy night.  It had been raining for most of the flight, and everyone was probably bummed out, because the big thing about night flights was seeing the lights of Los Angeles.  At one point, the pilot called for a practice ditching drill.  It was discovered that the hatch was down, and stuck; it could not be opened.  The pilot secured from the drill and directed that everyone get that hatch opened.  There is a rather large fire axe on the bulkhead, and that had to be used to pry the hatch open.  The pilot then expressly ordered that the hatch was to remain open, so that the bow observer, Harold Grimsley, could get out of the nose, if they really had to ditch.  Otherwise, he would be a goner.  The asshole testified that he had originally closed the hatch because a cold wind was blowing out of it.

Ten minutes later, both engines quit running at the same time, and the pilot looked down and saw that one tank was turned off and assumed it was empty.  Had he known there was still a lot of fuel in it, he could have gotten an air-start, and they never would have had to ditch the plane in the ocean.  He called for ditching stations, and the hatch had been closed again, so Harold couldn’t get out.  For 50 years I considered that to be 2nd degree murder, on the part of the asshole.  Then I read his testimony in the accident report.  He lied again, stating that he didn’t close it the second time, and he didn’t know who did.  I expected that, but then he testified that he SAT ON TOP of the hatch, as they were going into the ocean.  The motherfucker didn’t want anyone else to hear or feel Harold trying to kick the hatch open.  That, by God, Makes it FIRST DEGREE MURDER.  His seat, at his radar scope, was his primary take off/landing/ditching station, because it had shoulder straps, as well as the lap belt, so he could go in facing forward.  Much more comfortable and SAFER than sitting on the cold steel deck, facing backwards.  And that was HAROLD’s ditching station.  Eventually, a new crew was made up, that I was assigned to, along with the asshole.  I had to fly with that fucker many times, and that was just one reason I decided to go on active duty when I did.  I didn’t want him to kill me.  Wouldn’t you know, just before my active duty came around, I was assigned to a different crew.  That pilot damned near killed me (near-death experience #2), but the enlisted crew chief was really cool, and was the only person to have ever thanked me for saving their life.

I’ve got side-scanning sonar pictures (courtesy of of the tail of the plane, which rests on the flat sandy bottom, at 1,080 feet down.  Harold Grimsley’s remains are probably still in the nose/fuselage section, which isn’t visible, and is probably hidden in a gnarly, narrow, steep and deep canyon, just a little N-W of the tail.





The dumbest, most exhilarating, most death-defying experience I’ve ever had. (Near-death experience #3)

My squadron, VA-56, flew from Lemoore Naval Air Station, on the West Coast, to Norfolk, Virginia, where I actually saw a couple of the infamous signs, posted in people’s front yards, which read, “Sailors and Dogs Keep Off The Grass,” a nice welcome to our brave lads.  We boarded the U.S.S. Constellation (CVA-64) and prepared to get underway to SOUTH AMERICA!!

Jacksonville, Florida; Port of Spain, Trinidad; one of the greatest ass-whippings in history, when 3,000 Polliwogs were “initiated” into the mysteries of the deep by having their butts pounded with rock-hard canvas paddles; Rio de Janeiro, Brazil; then CAPE HORN.

When we were on the Constellation (Summer of ’62 [Dead of Winter in the Southern Hemisphere]), she was the second biggest ship in the world, and the number one biggest conventionally-powered ship in the world.  We were second only to the nuclear-powered Enterprise (CVA-65) which was, it was alleged, just ONE FOOT longer than the Connie. Notwithstanding that, she was a monster.  Over 1,000 feet long, over 250 feet wide, 85 feet from the water-line to the flight deck, and displacing  a cool 75,000 tons.  For several days, right at the bottom of South America, we were treated like an inflatable raft by Mother Nature.  60 to 100 foot waves, a 100 mph wind coming straight down the flight deck, with snow being blown horizontally, while the air temperature varied between minus 30 degrees F. and minus 40 degrees F., making the Wind-chill Factor about 130 degrees below zero.

We could go out onto the fantail anytime we pleased, but there wasn’t much to be seen.  As we were heading directly into the wind and waves, there wasn’t any wind, spray, or snow, back there.  What was back there, was just a mountain of battleship gray water, going up and down.  Up and down.  Back in the OLD Disneyland days, it wouldn’t have rated even an “A” coupon.  Frankly, it sucked.  I have two really big beefs with the assholes who could have made that voyage even more memorable than it was.

Beef #1:  No one, except those on duty in the island, were allowed to go up into the island. Beef #2:   Nobody showed us the Southern Sky.

Both of these travesties could have been ameliorated by the use of our extensive CCTV network.  All the dicks had to do, in Beef #1, was to point one stinking camera out a forward-facing window, and let everybody see the fucking ocean, breaking over the bow of the ship and, indeed, taking green water over the FLIGHT DECK.  That would have been thrilling to watch.

Beef #2 could have been dealt with by some officers with celestial-navigation experience, who could have given the blue-jackets a tutorial on the Southern Sky.  Then, they could have allowed hundreds of guys up on the flight deck, in nice weather, of course, and let us see what we had learned on the TV.  What a wasted opportunity.

Every crew’s berthing space had a big TV and a ship’s radio, which played different music on different stations.  Damned good thing I had a couple of the latest Playboy magazines to read.  I got to thinking; which is a good way to get into trouble.  I decided that, shit, here I was, on a 75,000 ton aircraft carrier, in monster seas, and I couldn’t see any of it.  I decided that I was going up there, and “Hang Ten” on the forward edge of the flight deck. SURFING AN AIRCRAFT CARRIER, YEAH.  

It took me about two days to find six fools to accompany me up there.  I named a time and place to meet, and we were set to go.  We rendezvoused and discussed our clothing.  All but one guy had 7 layers of clothes on; the odd man had but 6 layers, and he reported, later, that he felt cold, but it wasn’t life-threatening, like our mere presence up there WAS.  The rest of us were toasty warm.  We all had watch caps, hoodies, and flight deck helmets on, with goggles to protect our eyes.  We opened a water-tight door, and stepped out into a wind chill of 130 degrees below zero.  We were a few days past the actual Horn, so the waves had gone down to 30 or 40 feet, but the wind and snow was still coming straight down the deck at 100 mph.

With that much wind, we had to lean way forward, at close to a 45 degree angle, with our arms spread in the “stable position” of a sky-diver.  That was so much fun, and I was looking forward to hanging ten.  Nobody had thought about the absolute certainty that someone, in the island, would spot us, and were disappointed when the PA system announced, “You people get back down below.”  We all waved at the disembodied voice and turned around, intending to walk back to where we had come out.  With the wind now at our backs, we were pushed forward, toward the aft part of the ship, at what, at first, was an exhilarating pace.  WE WERE FLYING.  In just a few steps, we were taking 20 foot strides, touching down, with 1 foot, and going another 20 feet before the other foot touched down.  All of us, at virtually the same time, discovered that we couldn’t stop, or even slow down.  If this continued, we would all take a flying leap off the aft end of the flight deck, falling 85 feet to a certain death.  There is no way that we could have been rescued, even if we survived the fall.  Death in 5 minutes, from the frigid water.  One guy yelled, “I can’t stop.”  Another guy yelled, “I can’t either.”  I yelled, “Hit the deck and grab a pad-eye.”  A pad-eye is an indentation in the steel deck, with a steel bar affixed stoutly thereto.  Tie-down chains are hooked to a plane and the other end of the chain is hooked on the pad-eye.  There are hundreds of pad-eyes on both the flight and hangar decks.  We all belly-flopped in unison.  We were now sliding on our bellies, going at least 20 mph.  If we hadn’t grabbed the bar, in a pad-eye, we would have flown over the edge of the deck, flying like Superman.  As I was the instigator of this caper, I felt that it was my responsibility to make sure that all of my shipmates were OK before I tried to save myself. If just one guy had gone overboard, I would have intentionally followed him, and that’s no shit.  I looked left and right, seeing a couple of guys had already gotten stopped and a couple more had tried to stop, but their momentum had jerked their hands away from their grip on the bar.  I saw that my “order” to flop-and-grab was working, and turned my attention to my buddy to my immediate right.  He had “frozen,” and hadn’t even tried to grab a pad-eye.  I yelled at him, “Get ready, there’s a pad-eye coming up, one foot to your right, 20 feet, grab it.”  By this time, the two of us were only about 50 feet from the rear edge of the deck.  He became alert and grabbed the bar, but he lost his grip when his weight pulled on his hand.  Me, “There’s another one coming up, one foot to your right, 20 feet, grab that motherfucker in a death grip.”  He did, and he stopped, getting jerked around so that he was facing forward.  Now it was my turn to try to stop, and I was getting closer to the edge of the deck.  I grabbed a bar, and the sucker was pulled out of my hand, not slowing me down a whit.  I saw another, and grabbed it as if my life depended on it, which it most certainly did.  I was jerked around, almost dislocating my shoulder.  We were all OK, and I discovered that there was only one more pad-eye between me and certain death and, if I hadn’t caught the one I did, I wouldn’t have been able to even try for that last one.  I had stopped less than 20 feet from the edge of the deck.  More evidence of predestination.



500 little babies.

Some people think that all I’ve done is kick ass and take names.  Wrong.  I studied, on my own, comparative religions, psychology, and wrote poetry, starting in Junior High School.  Just about my favorite activity, outside of coitus with the opposite sex, is taking care of little babies.  When I was 4 years old, my grandmother, who raised me, became a foster mother to Los Angeles County Adoption Agency babies.  LACAA was probably the strictest adoption agency in the world.  Strict rules were strictly enforced.  A couple, who wished to adopt a baby, waited 4 years between submitting an application and getting a baby.  A foster mother could opt for 1 or 2 babies, with an additional baby, if it was an emergency, and there was no other place to put the baby.  My grandmother opted for 2, full time, with an extra baby, if required.  One rule, which was strictly enforced, was that there were to be no more than 2 babies, full time.  That rule was tossed out the window, when the Agency discovered how well Grandma and I took care of those wee tots.  Of course, they had no idea that a 4 year old kid was changing diapers and preparing formula and whole milk, on the stove, then feeding and burping the babies.  It only took about a year, and we had 3 babies, full time.  Every single baby, that left our home, was fat, happy, and well-behaved.  The only times they cried were when they were hungry or needed a diaper change.  Speaking of diapers, those were the old cotton ones that had to be affixed with two very large safety pins.  There were very sharp points on the pins, because they had to go through 4 or more  layers of cloth.  I am very proud to say that I never poked a single baby with a pin, while I observed 2 mothers poke their own babies, because they weren’t paying attention to what they were doing.  The poor babies would squeal like a Banshee, although there wasn’t any lasting harm.  I couldn’t FOLD the diapers worth a damn, but managed to keep everything inside of them, as intended.  I only drew the line at one point, and that was rinsing the dirty diapers in the toilet.  Changing them, no problem, rinsing them, no way.  I would leave the dirty diapers, that I changed, folded up by the toilet, for my grandmother to rinse out.

We both gave all of the babies as much love as they could handle.  Each baby only stayed with us for about 2 weeks, before being adopted.  A lady would arrive, one day, with a new baby, to exchange for one which she was taking to some lucky couple.  As we took care of what we called “county babies,” for a solid 5 years, I figure we took care of about 500 of them.  One day, she sat me down and told me what was going to happen the next day.  The county was bringing us a “problem baby,” which had already been in about 3 different foster homes.  This baby was way under-weight, cried 24/7, and kicked his heels on the wooden slats of his crib, rendering both heels a bloody mess.  He had been examined by several doctors, and nothing physically wrong had been found.  Oh, and one more thing, he had extra fingers and toes on both hands and both feet, which the county had promised to have surgically removed, when he turned 2 years old, at county expense.  She told me, “I know how much you love the babies, but don’t go near him until I [she] get him straightened out.”  I was hurt, because I wanted to help the baby, too, but I demurred to her expertise.  When he arrived, the next day, my grandmother let me see him, in his crib.  Sure enough, he screamed, non-stop, and kicked his heels on the wooden slat.  She let me examine his bloody heels and the extra digits, which numbered about 10.  The extra fingers and toes were normal sized, perfectly formed, and grew out of the tops of his hands and feet.  They weren’t, in any sense, grotesque.  Just about exactly 36 hours later, that baby had completely stopped crying and kicking his heels on the slat, started eating like a Russian weightlifter, and became one of the happiest babies I’d ever seen.  Nobody had ever shown any love for or to that baby.  That’s all it took.  In just a day or two, you didn’t even pay any attention to the extra digits.  Something that had never happened, with any other baby, was a lady from the county brought a nice-looking couple to look over the baby.  I sat in a chair, in the living room, while the couple and the lady from the county, sat on the couch.  Grandma brought the baby out, and handed him to the wife.  She and her husband looked over the smiling baby for a few minutes, and handed him back.  They didn’t adopt him, the assholes.  A week or two later, we went through the same routine, with another couple, who also didn’t adopt him.  About 2 weeks after that, a third couple adopted him, sight unseen, except for a picture.  They got an exceptionally beautiful baby.  I’ve long forgotten his name, but I’m sure Grandma remembered it, for the rest of her life.

If a foster mother wanted to take any time off, from taking care of the babies, she had to hire a LICENSED (by the county) babysitter, who had to be at least 12 years old, attend classes, and pass both written and performance tests.  Any deviation from this rule was grounds for immediate termination of the employment contract with the foster mother.  Starting when I was around 7 years old, my grandmother would leave me in charge of 3 babies, while she went shopping for around 3 hours.  She was absolutely not being reckless or negligent, as she knew I would stay in the house and watch them, without her even having to tell me to do it.  If anything happened, that I couldn’t handle by myself, all I had to do was step out the front door, bellow “HELP,” and 3 grandmothers would be there, to help me, in a flash; Mrs. Whitley, from directly across the street, Mrs. Scranton, on one side of our house, and Mrs. Harkey, on the other side of our house.  She left me with the babies, about once a week, for 2 years.  I still love babies.





A Tale of Two Seagulls.

I think this lengthy reply to a comment deserves its own post.


Submitted On
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@vikinglifeblog The absolute worst assholes that my shift, in general, and myself, in particular, had to deal with, on a continuing basis, was a white-trash couple who came in every fucking night, for about three months, and “seagulled” the whole casino. Seagulling is looking for money on the floor and in slot trays. These two cunts (one was a male) were so brazen, they would crawl under a 21 table, while people were sitting there, playing Blackjack, looking for chips. We’d thrown the assholes out dozens of times, but they’d be back the next day. One night, I came close to beating the motherfucking male to death, and we never saw them again.

I was standing just inside the far northern end of Pit 5, when I saw another security officer pulling a large metal cart, on wheels, past the pit. It was full of empty drop-boxes, which are exchanged for the ones on the tables, that are full of money. The cart is about 6 feet tall, 10 feet long and, most important at that point in time, 4 feet wide (deep). The distance between the customers, sitting at the tables, and the outer walls of two restrooms, behind them, was only 6 feet, leaving just a foot on each side, for clearance. I saw the scrungy-looking mo-fo, on the far side of the cart, pushing the cart towards the pit. He was walking along, trying to push the cart into the people who were sitting there gambling. The SO pulling the cart didn’t know the asshole was pushing it to the side. I left the pit and prepared to have some words with the SOB. I walked behind the cart, as it was moving. The fuck was giving it one last push, with his hand at face level, when the clumsy motherfucker’s hand slipped off the back of the moving cart, and slapped me in the face. I closed my eyes when I saw his hand coming, but his fingers pushed against my closed eye-lids and pushed both of my old-style hard contact lenses up on top of my eyeballs. I went fucking nuts. The asshole could have ripped both of my fucking corneas out of my head. I grabbed the front of his clothes, with one hand, and slammed his ass into the sharp edge of a steel door frame, going nose-to-nose with him. He kept repeating, over and over, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” while I stared him in the face and screamed, “You fucking asshole,” at him.  I knew that, if I started kicking his ass, which I had every right to do, I probably wouldn’t stop until I had killed him. Finally, I said, “Get the fuck out of here,” and he ran to the nearest exit, and I never saw him or his skanky girlfriend ever again.

My first encounter with Hell’s Angels.

There were four large  hotel/casinos on Nevada’s South Shore of Lake Tahoe.  The other three had long-ago 86’d ALL bikers, not just the Angels, for various anti-social activities.  Harrah’s was the LAST place that allowed them entrance and, man, did they appreciate it. They couldn’t wear their “colors,” but we knew who they were, as they still had the tattoos and other accoutrements of the outlaw-biker world.  They were on their “best behavior,” when they were guests of Harrah’s; no fighting, no riding their motorcycles in the casino, no things like that.   We were polite to them and they, in turn, were polite to us.

I’d only worked there about a month, when I got into my first rugby scrum with someone who did not wish to be handcuffed.  He was a 19 year-old, blond-haired, surfer-dude, with shoulder-length hair (important later).  Ted Koorganoff, you remember him, he’s the one who bled all over the security office, after being sucker-punched by a negro.  He had been called to a pit to check this fucker’s ID and, while conversing with him, was sucker-punched by the punk.  He got only a small cut (no blood) at the bridge of his nose, but broke his fucking thumb in the fight which followed.  (He walked, quite proudly, through the casino, for the next two weeks, giving one and all, the “Thumbs Up.”  By the time I arrived, in response to the Double-X which had been called, Ted had been joined by four other security officers, and all of them were struggling to cuff this guy.  I joined up with my comrades, trying to take the fucker to the floor.  One security dude was trying to choke surfer-boy out, but he wasn’t having any luck.  Suddenly, we were all in a pile on the floor, with surfer-dude on his belly, facing me, with his mouth snugged-up against my crotch.  I’m not an overly religious person, but I was praying, “Please, God, don’t let him bite my wienie.”  We were in that position, for what seemed like several minutes, as I tried to choke him out, quite unsuccessfully.  Ted finally got him cuffed, we stood him up, and we were all treated to Ted’s famous, “Fuck with me, and you lose your hair, motherfucker,” game of pay-back.  With one hand on the cuff-chain, and the dude bent over at the waist, Ted used his other hand to pull blond hair out of the guy’s head, and discard it onto the casino floor.  It was a short frog-walk to the security office and, when we got there, Ted continued pulling hair, until the kid was fucking BALD.

About a 1/2-hour later, the graveyard security shift-supervisor came on duty, and I was in the office with him.  I said, “Man, you should have seen it; Koorganoff pulled every hair out of that kid’s head.  He was BALD, when he went to jail.”  The supervisor, who hadn’t seen the kid, was going, “Yeah, right,” thinking that I was grossly embellishing the story.  I said, “You think I’m bullshitting you?  Look at this,” as I picked up the two plastic trash cans, each of which was 1/2-full of blond surfer-hair, and showed the contents to him.  “And this doesn’t count what’s still out in the casino.”  Ted had to go to Barton Memorial Hospital and Medical Malpractice Center, to have his hand X-rayed and bound-up, with his thumb sticking up, which he proudly displayed for two weeks.

Now, the the Hell’s Angels connection:  During one of those fights, as I quickly found out, you’re not aware of anything about your surroundings, not even the identity of your fellow security officers; you’re zoomed in on the scofflaw, and the sanctity of your private parts.  Therefore, I was completely unaware of the fact that about six feet away from the scrum, a biker chick was yelling, “Kill security, fuck those assholes, kill those motherfuckers.”  As soon as we got surfer-boy to the office, an announcement was made, “Double-X to South Valet Parking, Double-X to South Valet Parking.”  I wish I would have responded to that Double-X, because it was a classic.  As about ten security officers arrived at the valet parking area, they observed a huge biker, beating the shit out of a biker chick, and saying, “You dumb bitch, you could get us kicked out of THIS casino; the last one that lets us in.”  He was punching the shit out of her face.  Biker dude saw all those security officers arrive and stopped pounding on the chick.  The SOs indicated that they were pleased to see the ass-kicking and urged him to continue, which he did, while they watched.  Such was the “bond” we had with outlaw bikers, including the infamous Hell’s Angels, from Oakland and Frisco.


“You chicken-shit assholes.”

As a Harrah’s security officer, I was fearless, as I figured if I got really fucked up, Harrah’s would have to pay my hospital bills.  With an outlook like that, I got into a number of beefs that might be considered to be “sketchy.”  I was usually the first to arrive at any “Double-X” that was broadcast on the PA system.  A Double-X meant drop pretty much anything you were doing, unless it involved money, and haul-ass to where the action was.  On one particular Double-X, I was the last to arrive at Pit 5, our top-dollar pit, to see eleven security officers, in a shoulder-to-shoulder half-circle around one of the tables.  I glanced at the table, and saw a 325 pound, 6’5″ Hell’s Angel, who had his head on his arms, on the table, and appeared to be sound asleep.  The 21 dealer was backed away from the table, and two pit bosses were standing there beside her, looking at the drunk, but harmless, biker. I was looking at the situation, and had figured out what was up, but asked the two 70 year old geezers, who could barely walk without a walker, whom I was standing back of, and between, “What’s up?”  “You see that guy over there?”  “Yeah.”  “He’s so drunk he’s just throwing his money away and making stupid bets.  They want him backed off and asked to leave, so he can’t come back later and accuse Harrah’s of cheating him.”  “Has anybody asked the man to leave?”  “Are you kidding?  Look at that guy; he’s a monster.  We’re waiting for the supervisor, with a gun, to get here.”  I said, as I forced my way between those two idiots, who both would be gone in a week, and almost knocking them both down, “Get the fuck out of my way.”

I walked up on the guy’s left side, leaned over, and said, softly, into his ear, “Excuse me, sir, but I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve had a lot to drink.  Maybe you should consider going back to your motel room and taking a little nap.  Take a shower, get something to eat.  Come back later, and we’ll be happy to see you.”  About 2 seconds later, he exploded up from his chair, where he stood about one foot in front of me.  I was quite startled, and thought, “Oh, shit, I’m going to have to fight this motherfucker,” as I slipped my right hand into my pocket, to try to get my brass knuckles into action before he reduced me to protoplasm.  I just about had my knuckles on my fist, which I could then pull out of my pocket, ready to punch someone, when he said to me, and this is a quote, “Can you direct me to the nearest exit?”  I GULPED, for the first and only time in my life, just like in a cartoon, and said, “Why, yes, sir, it’s right over there,” pointing with my right index finger, after I had dropped the knucks and pulled my empty hand out of my pocket.  He extended his right hand, and said, “Thank you.”  I said, “You’re welcome, and thank YOU, sir.”  We shook hands, and he turned around and staggered out of the casino.  I said, to his back. “Have a nice day, sir,” for only the 3rd time, in my LIFE, that I’ve ever said that to anyone.  (At least until I was around 65 years old, when I said it to a 4th person.)  [As nearly as I can remember, I’ve said that to only 5 people, and one of them was a “mistake.”]

I turned, and observed eleven worthless cocksuckers, who would not have helped me if a fight had started, standing there with their mouths open and weird looks on their faces, and said, in a loud voice, “You chickenshit assholes.”  One of them, a guy I’d never seen before and never saw again, walked up to me saying, “Wow, man, tell me what you told that guy, so I can use it in the future.”  I said, “I didn’t tell him anything, I just asked him to leave.”  I was PISSED, and walked away from those assholes.  I encountered our supervisor, with two more security officers, walking briskly towards where I’d just left.  I motioned for them to slow down and said, “I took care of it.”  He said, “OK.”




Niggas in an Uproar Over Evil White Racist Cops’ Arrest of Violent, Resisting Sheboon

Tar Baby on June 28, 2016 at 10:40 am said:
Biting? Spitting? She needed at least a couple of face-plants into the curb. Guaranteed life-changing event. I have been there, and I have done that. I don’t care if it’s a white middle-aged woman or a mafia dude (Whom I face-planted into the hood and trunk lid of a Crown Vic.) in a thousand-dollar Eye-talian silk suit; if they piss me off, I’m going to open a can of “fuck-you-up.” (I don’t, to this day, know if that guy lived through that little “tune-up.”) [I doubt it.]

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protest genele laird

Genele Laird resisted arrest after threatening a Taco Bell employee with a knife.

The police used appropriate force to get her under control and carted off to jail.

The (((media))) and blacks are screaming white racism and police brutality.

Apparently, everyone except race realists thinks it’s OK to threaten people and suffer no consequences. If you’re black and female.

This is the top of the page story at today’s Daily Mail.

Daily Mail

A shocking video of two Wisconsin police officers body slamming an 18-year-old girl to the ground, kicking and punching her and then tasering her while she screams in agony has provoked angry protests

The video filmed at a mall in Madison last week shows the two unnamed officers holding Genele Laird’s hands behind her back after detaining her at a mall where she was allegedly threatening…

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How to piss off a jew.

Yesterday I watched a video of muzzie atrocities in Germany, which I like to do, to fuel my hatred for those child-/livestock-raping fuckers.  I posted a comment, which included the words “motherfucker,” and “goat-fucker,” and included a suggestion for Germans to begin playing a game called “Stick-a-shank-in-a-muzzie,” with the rules for scoring.

AFTER I posted it, I discovered that I was NOT on a friendly blog, but was, in fact, on shariaunveiled, an anti-muzz but pro hebe website.  Oh, shit, I was already being closely watched, I’m sure, because of a previous comment about “jooz,” which the owner/moderator had gotten all butt-hurt about.  That one was also a mistake about where I was.  I’ve managed to sneak a lot of “antisemitic” shit onto that blog, however, and have gotten a few people to start questioning the motives of those hook-nosed cocksuckers.  But, crikey, I have to word my posts very delicately, as you would well imagine.  So, I was concerned that my access to this site was soon going to be terminated.

Imagine my surprise, then, when Ms. Owner/Modulator gives me an “lol,” and says “that’s the funniest damned thing I’ve ever seen.  SHALOM”



“Don’t shoot the Sergeant,don’t shoot the Sergeant.”

All but two of my twelve printed submissions, in Combat Handguns magazine, just bore my initials (R.G.) and the city I was in.  In the other two, I got a full by-line.  The first of these was in the sister publication, Guns and Weapons for Law Enforcement, where they printed three of my stories, as one “Street Smarts” article, paid me $450 (Harry Kane knew I was homeless and needed the money), and put my name at the top.  The first story was the first one that they had published, this time with “I don’t give a fuck if you live at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, in the White House, get the fuck out of my parking lot,” left in it, as Harry knew, by that time, that everything I wrote was true.  I can’t remember what the middle one was, but #3 was my newest one, a very long piece which was a three-fer (3 stories in one submission).  #3, in #3, was about how I came very close to blowing a Compton (yes, that Compton) police Sergeant, in plain clothes, away.  Harry PCd out, by failing to print the name of the city.  He probably thought that there was a racial aspect to the story, but everybody was white.

Sunday afternoon, 4:30 pm, ADT’s Long Beach substation (station/car 9), the start of my shift.  10 minutes later, my moron supervisor calls me on our direct phone line to tell me to roll on an ultrasonic alarm, in the lay-a-way department, at the north end of the Compton Sears store, on Long Beach Blvd.  He FAILS to tell me two very important things:  (1)  It’s about the 6th alarm we’ve received, that day, from that same alarm, meaning it’s probably another false alarm and,  (2)  There’s a fucking plain-clothes dick in the store, on a fucking stakeout.  That’s right; Walter Cranse, my shit-for-brains supervisor, did not tell me there was an armed LEO on the premises.

Rolling 60 mph up a deserted Long Beach Blvd. (I wasn’t in a hurry), it still took me about 20 minutes to get there.  When I arrived at the rear employee entrance, there was a Compton police car parked near the door.  As I was getting the keys, to open the door, out of the trunk of my car, the uniformed ROOKIE cop was pissing and moaning about how this was the 3rd time, in 2 hours, that he’d had to pour out his coffee, at Winchell’s Donuts,  stuff his donut in his mouth, and drive down to this false alarm.  I commiserated with him, assuring him that I didn’t like false alarms either, but the fucker kept sniveling about his coffee, the donut, and the false alarm.  He kept this up for the next 2 minutes, as I unlocked the door, we stepped inside, I closed and locked the door, did NOT flip the common/everyday light switch, on the wall, which would have turned on every frigging light in the store.  It was late afternoon, the sun was low, I knew it would be fairly dark in the store, but neither one of us took our flashlights with us and we had no lights, but we did have enough light to make our way down some stairs, into the basement, walk across the basement, up some stairs, and start walking down a large main aisle, towards the lay-a-way area.  I had just finished telling the cop to give it a rest, as I was getting annoyed, when I spotted a dude, in civvies, standing at the far side of the aisle, about 20 feet away.  Lickety-split, my S&W Model 27, 5″.357 Magnum was cocked and pointed at the dude’s heart, with my finger on that 2-pound trigger.  I said, in a VERY low voice, which was almost a whisper, “Move, and you’re dead.”  Officer numb-nuts was right beside me and grabbed my right arm, with both of his hands, and forced my arm straight up, so that my gun was pointed at the ceiling.  I never took my eyes off the “burglar,” but tried to get my arm back down.

My arm was waving around, but pointed at the ceiling, and I was saying, “Let go of my fucking arm, you idiot, there’s a burglar over there, who may be armed.”  All this time, my finger was on that “hair trigger,” but I have superlative muscle control.  During this time, das rookie was mumbling, “Bub, bub, bub, bub,” like a PCP aficionado.  As I said, my attention was on the “burglar” and, if he would have blinked, I would have dropped the hammer, after turning my head and closing my eyes, to unleash a sheet of flame, two FEET long, out the muzzle, and two sheets of flame, one foot long, out the respective sides of my gat, from the cylinder gap.  That’s what I had observed, somewhere in the middle of the Mohave Desert, after the sun had gone down.  I can bet you the farm, that with that pyrotechnic display going off in his face, he would have let go of my arm, allowing me to throw down on my perceived adversary.  When the wanker finally found his voice, he kept repeating, over, and over, and…, “Don’t shoot the Sergeant, don’t shoot the Sergeant.”  It took but a fraction of a second for me to discern the reason for his seeming, from out of nowhere, previous break with reality, in not recognizing what, to me, seemed a potentially deadly threat.  I stopped trying to get out of his grasp, and said, “Everything is cool; you can let go of my arm.”  He released my arm, I lowered it and, while I’m certain that I could have lowered the hammer, on a live round, with one hand, I chose to use both hands, because who needs an accidental discharge (AD) at ANY time?

We walked over to where the Sergeant was still standing, in the same position, when I first threw down on him.  He hadn’t moved even one cell in his body, during my fight with the coptard.  The Sergeant said, in a voice filled with a yearning for a plausible explanation for why he was almost shot, “What the fuck is going on here?”  I said, “Sergeant, this stupid son of a bitch didn’t tell me you were in here, and I came close to blowing your ass away.”  The Sergeant exploded on the rookie, “You stupid asshole, this man almost shot me, because you didn’t tell him that I was in here.”  Rook:  “Well, Sergeant, I assumed…”  Sgt.:  “Stand at attention, when I’m talking to you.”  The rook stood at rigid West Point-like attention, for the next five minutes, as timed on my Rolex Submariner Superlative Chronometer.  THAT was the most thorough ass-chewing that I’ve ever witnessed; the asshole was almost crying, especially when, near the end of this historic verbal assault, the Sergeant said, “Tomorrow, at 9 A.M., I’ll be in the Chief’s office and if, at 9 oh 5, you still have a job with this police department, you’ll be one lucky SOB, because I’m going to tell the Chief to fire your ass.”

The Sergeant had absolutely no beef with me, and eagerly got close to me when I called my supervisor, in Huntington Park.  “Shit, man, we’re in a world of trouble.”  “Why, what’s wrong, Rick?”  “You know that Sergeant that’s in here, the one you forgot to tell me about?”  “Damn, I knew there was something I forgot to tell you.”  “Well, shit, man, I don’t know how to say this.”  “What’s wrong?”  “Well, the uniformed cop I came in here with, also didn’t tell me the Sergeant was in here, and, oh shit, I blasted him; he’s lying on the floor in a pool of blood.”  “Oh, my God; what will Jim [the manager of our office] say?”  At this point, I held the receiver about one foot in front of my mouth, and YELLED into it,  “I don’t give a fuck what Jim says, you asshole.  Now, listen up, Walter Cranse, this is the SECOND time that you’ve done this to me; sent me where there was an authorized person, who you didn’t tell me about, and I threw down on them.  And I didn’t shoot the Sergeant, but I came real close to blowing his ass away.  If you EVER do this to me again, the first thing I’m going to do, win, lose, or draw, out here on the street, I’m coming to Huntington Park, and blow YOUR FUCKING ASS AWAY,” and slammed the phone down on the cradle.  The Sergeant:  “Right on, right on, right on, that’s telling that son of a bitch.”