Is Beating Children Really Illegal, Or Just Frowned Upon?


And if it IS Illegal, is it a felony or just a misdemeanor?
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I Must Be Free

Lou FCDI was on the verge of infinity when I said that,
And the eyes of a passionate woman who I loved very much
filled with the tears of a broken heart.


Muscle Relaxers

Are a wonderful thing…

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A Hardee’s Christmas

Typical night, by Chuckumentary @ Flickr‘Twas the night before Christmas,
And all through the store,
Not a creature was stirring,
Not even a whore.

The crew was all gone,
All snug in their beds,
While visions of Hardee’s
Danced in their heads.

And Missy on vacation,
And I closing out,
Had just settled down,
To whimper and pout.

When out in lobby,
There arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my office chair,
To see what was the matter.

Away to the counter,
I flew like a flash,
Kicked Mark in the ankle,
And Cecelia in the ass.

The shine of the polish,
On the freshly waxed floor,
Gleamed like a mirror,
Or the chrome on the door.

When what to my wondering,
Eyes should appear,
But a drunken truck driver,
Who’d had too much cheer.

That little truck driver,
Was so lively and quick,
I held onto my wallet,
I knew he was slick.

He had a little red mouth,
His breath smelled like brandy,
And stuck to his chin,
Was a red piece of candy.

His droll little mouth,
Was drawn up in a bow,
And his teeth were the color,
Of dog-peed-on snow.

His eyes, how they swelled,
His stagger how merry,
His cheeks were like sand paper,
His nose like a cherry.

He had a cute hat,
With sleigh bells and red,
But his clothes were all missing,
We had something to dread.

He went straight to his order,
He ordered roast beef,
And fries and a beer,
And tea with a leaf.

Then sticking his finger,
Inside of his nose,
He farted and belched,
And bent over – we froze.

Then up on the counter,
The driver he came,
And he whistled and shouted,
And called us by name.

“Now Missy, now Janie,
Now ‘Celia, and Mark,
On Lucy, on Johnny,
Why is it so dark?

To the cab of the truck,
To the last parking spot,”
Then he ran through the door,
And passed out in the lot.


This was based on an actual incident.

Just so y’know.

From whence came the art:

That photograph is titled Vlog Santa: Typical night, by Chuckumentary.

And Again, The Muse

Lou FCDI hear no voice but hers.
She calls me silently.
It is dead of night,
but still I come.
Out of bed to answer her midnight summons.
Bleary eyes and tired bones,
Awaken reluctantly to bend to her service.
A mistress cruelly kind,
ever in need
to be heard.
Her soft whisper
a lover’s request
silent in my ear,
Her gentle caress
but a passing breeze
across my bare shoulders.
Infrequently at best,
does she darken my door,
or rap upon my window.
But when she appears,
when she graces my heart
with her rapturous presence,
I cannot
I will not
I desire not
to continue whatever I was previously at.
And I stop.
Time and Space,
Matter and Energy,
And I make my way
to my keyboard,
And I write what my ephemeral lover tells me.


I am a Thief

Lou FCDYou said no,
I haven’t done so,
You say I never will.
But you wouldn’t bet me,
I didn’t fail to notice.
I only smiled inwardly,
I am a thief,
one you’re just beginning to know.
The whisper in your ear at night,
The warmth in your dreaming heart,
The gentle breeze across your breast,
is me.
I am a thief,
one you’re just beginning to know,
and I am stealing your heart.


My Religion

Lou FCD(Entropic Myopia)

After much thought,
much consideration,
not for naught,
my deliberation,

Twenty eight years,
of life on Earth,
pain and tears,
laughter, mirth,

Watching sorrow,
hatred, war,
every morrow,
only more,

Joy with this,
my religion,
I’ve decided.

Monday is my
day to be,
a follower of,

Tuesday comes,
and quickly too,
so I choose,
to use voodoo.

On Wednesday morn,
I turn agnostic,
by Thursday noon,
of course I’m Gnostic.

Friday’s fluid,
I think I’ll say,
I’ll be a Druid,
(and on Arbor Day).

On Saturday,
I won’t be chicken,
and on the Sabbaths,
I’ll be Wiccan.

On Sundays I’ll be
Irish Catholic,
Because they have such
cool churches and stuff.

(Yeah, well YOU make the damned thing rhyme!)


The Muse

Lou FCDI am drained,
My brain is a deserted street,
Empty but for the billowing scraps of paper.
The Muse has left,
And there are no more words to write.
Exhausted am I.
She is a ghostly mistress,
Coming like lighning,
Escaping like the wind,
Leaving only dust.



Lou FCDOn the windward side
of the Horsehead Nebula,
Beyond the great red giant star,
Within reach of a comet’s tail,
Beside a stunning gaseous planet,
with water clear as crystal,

Alongside a station,
where strange new people live,
Close aboard a ship of light,
A day away from nowhere known,
Is where I’ll find my home.


Complete Works of L.

Lou FCDI was thinking about Kristine’s poetry thread.

Back in the mid ’90s I wrote a crap-load of poetry. Most of it was bad, looking back, but some of it may have had some literary merit.
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Thanks for the Tweak

Lou FCDMatt, from Pooflingers, just sent me the tweak to remove the “Read the rest of my thought” link from posts that don’t actually have a “rest of my thought”.

Just wanted to thank him. It had been a minor nusance at UDoJ for quite some time.

An Essay on Freedom

The Laptop Battery

Lou FCDhas pretty much given up the ghost. That’s a bad thing for me.

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Here’s Something Interesting

Lou FCDBefore I can even get this blog set up…

Did you know I was mentioned in Nature? Well, sort of.

I was looking at the numbers for UDoJ a few minutes ago, and noticed a bit of a spike on November 3rd. So, just curious as to which posts in particular caused that spike, I discovered that we had been bookmarked by Declan Butler, Senior Reporter for Nature. How did this happen, you ask? I’ll take you through it.

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About This Blog

Lou FCDSometimes there are things I want to address, but outside the context of UDoJ. I’ve been thinking about setting up a separate blog for that.

Here it is.
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