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One-Line Bio

I'm an unlettered, unwashed churl with strong opinions.



My name's Dave, and I'm "Mr. Wrong". I'm the guy your mother warned you about. You heard me! Move over, Jesse James! I'm such badass outlaw that on some days, I don't even shave! Grrrr! That's right, baby! Get too close, and you'll experience the full force of my stubble! I've developed a whole school of martial arts based upon jabbin' you inna eye with my whiskers!

I'm the kind of asshole who'd pose in a T-shirt mocking the gub'mint, while holding a Winchester 94 in one hand and a beer in the other!

I am a force of nature! I am "Bender" in an NRA baseball cap! I'm also laying this crap on rather thickly, am I not? After all, Molly Ringwald never gave me an earring. Just a crummy ol' restraining order.

Let's see... Where to start?

Somewhere around January of 1967, my folks apparently got bored. My guess is that there wasn't all that much to do in La Plata, MD, during January of 1967, and -- well, you get the picture. Now stop looking at it, you sicko! Those are my parents you're ogling in your mind's glassy, bloodshot eye! At any rate, nine months later, I occurred.

Maybe that's starting just a tad early.

OK, at present, I'm 39 years of age. I've lived in quite a few places over the course of my misspent life, owing to my Dad's line of work and the influence of the voices in my head:
MD; Arlington, VA; Carlisle, PA; Nuernberg, Germany, Karlsruhe, Germany; Heidelberg, Germany, Columbia (Ft. Jackson), SC; Roswell, Ga; Athens, GA, and Chamblee, GA. I've also traveled to fifteen or so countries, and one of my multiple personalities is now a xenophobe as a result of having done so.

In my own mind, I'm the best looking, most brilliant guy on earth. The nice people who poke me with needles and change this coat with the long, long sleeves always smile, pat me on the head and agree with me whenever I make both assertions, ergo I must be onto something. Or on something. Whatever.

In the minds of others, I'm an opinionated, redneck "a-hole" with "issues". Whereas I'll gladly take their position into consideration, I'll also cordially invite them to snort the "skidmarks" out of my Fruit of the Looms. Yeah, I know. "How immature!"

Great, ain't it?

The only reason I'm blogging is because I have a sneaking suspicion that Barry Eisler and another buddy of mine can beat me up pretty badly. They're the ones who requested that I start blogging in the first place. Blame them, not me! I'm a victim, I tell you! A victim!

What else should I mention? I prefer briefs to boxers, and prefer boxers to poodles. I prefer painting myself blue and running around "nekkid" to boxers, briefs, boxers, or poodles. My dog is half Doberman and half whippet, and loathes boxers and poodles equally. I tried painting her blue once, and was badly bitten for my efforts. She and Ayn Rand have the same birthday, and I have the same birthday as Frank O'Connor. Both facts are utterly irrelevant, so why did you waste your time reading that bit of non-information?

Sprinkling her (the dog, not Ayn Rand) with kizami nori and watching the subsequent feeding-frenzy amuses me to no end. Your dog, on the other hand, is probably imbecilic and flatulent. Paint it yellow, sprinkle it with flea powder and keep it away from the pot.

OK, gotta go now. As an unrepentant "turriss" and "eebadooa", I must needs flee to Alabamastan, where the NASCAR fundamentalist regime (a.k.a. the "Tali-Waqqirs") will give me aid and comfort. At that point, we'll force all women to wear halter-tops and cutoffs in public, and outlaw all music except Hank Williams, Grandpa Jones, and Johnny Horton. After flying a remote-controlled Cox model airplane into that awful water tower in Gaffney, SC (unless Zachary "Moose" Howell -- "the twentieth barfly" -- is so plastered that he hits a passing semi instead) we'll be joined by a renegade North Dakota Yankee named John "Skeeter" Lindstrom, who'll barf up a gutful of bourbon in sheikh Omar Mullen's pickup truck and "moon" an image of Pat Robertson. The subsequent invasion will force us to take refuge in a certain bar in Pensacola, Florida, from which we'll release insulting video tapes every now and then. Y'all really don't want to see those.

Just trust me.


Gardening, reading, tinkering, shooting, things that go "boom", camping, cooking, food preservation, music, chop-socky movies, martial arts, things that go "boom", eating paint chips, petit mal seizures, flicking toe-jam at the "talking heads" on TV, things that go "boom", languages, history, phrenology, hebephrenia, mocking authority figures, politics, things that go "boom", frottage, cynicism, skepticism, wearing dark glasses and selling pencils, things that go "boom", cats, dogs and things that go "boom".