There’s an interesting article in the Journal of the American Academy of Psychiatry and the Law, “The ‘Pseudocommando’ Mass Murderer: Part I, The Psychology of Revenge and Obliteration” that has some relevance to the events of the last several days. Here’s a bit from the abstract:
The pseudocommando is a type of mass murderer who kills in public during the daytime, plans his offense well in advance, and comes prepared with a powerful arsenal of weapons. He has no escape planned and expects to be killed during the incident. Research suggests that the pseudocommando is driven by strong feelings of anger and resentment, flowing from beliefs about being persecuted or grossly mistreated. He views himself as carrying out a highly personal agenda of payback. Some mass murderers take special steps to send a final communication to the public or news media; these communications, to date, have received little detailed analysis.
It’s been said that each age has a characteristic psychological malady. So, in the Middle Ages that malady was hysteria and in the 19th century depression. If we have a psychological malady that characterizes our own age, it may well be narcissism, the disorder that contributes to “pseudocommando” mass murderers.
I’ll have to think about upping my house insurance to $250,000.
What? I like business.
Or , as we say down here, biness.
My typing still sucks.
Are you having fun, yet?
That’s what I want for you.
And what I want matters.
So there.
Republicans, get off the dime.
How they get so stupid?
I love my country.
Time to rattle some cages.
Y’all alive?
Merry Christmas.
Do you understand?
Well then, that is my Joyce for today.
Good luck.
That pub crawl in Dublin was a lot of fun.
That pub crawl in Dublin was a lot of fun,
Actors did it, and did recitations on the spot.
I know how to rehearse.
Shutleff, 1978, Walker and Publishing
“Shurtleff.” I’m still a lousy typist.
Not nearly as good as Velma, in the Mike Hammer series.
Y’all all “Annunciated.”
Whatever that means.
I just ride the road.
I live a few blocks off the eastern fork of El Camino Real.
Giddyap, Suger!
Those Ariats are real nice. You don’t have to spend a fortune. The Noconas are good too, but they don’t fit as closely.
Sometimes a girl got to put her boots on.
I ain’t no “Lonesome Dove.”
Snotwads.
Do you hear me, Sunoco?
I thought you did.
Panty-chasers.
I have come. Better get over it, fast.
Or not. But your future is in your own hands, then. Too bad.
I mean business. We talking flames.
I can send you to hell, and I will. I don’t have to forgive you.
I’m not strictly Chrisitian.
Take or leave it. I took my choice.
I’m your girl, Mr. Dave.
It doesn’t make us necessarily happy, but we can be firm.
Get it?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yN4Uu0OlmTg
I told you he was a Beatles fan.
But you know, you have free will.
I can be a bitch.
I’m not some withering rose. So get on your standards.
I’m ready to play hell.
And he told me I couldn’t play chess.
What a joker.
Of course, you’re in doubt. I’ll happily show how that works out.
Want to see?
Bambi meets Godzilla.
I will crush you.
Surprising, isn’t it?
Did me.
So that’s your hand. Deal it.
Or I’ll come from the back room.
Don’t cross an angry God. Or Goddess as may be.
Come up to snuff, Republicans. I remember Evereret Dirkson.
Well, yeah, maybe not.
But he had a modicum of decency, like Lloyd Bentson.
George H.W. and his son had SOME, too.
Ryan, not so much. I’m absolutely not dynastic, but I damned sure would like to see a serious Republican, agsin.
Son of a bitch, I’m such a lousy typist.
Create some laurels. I have one just to left of the patio door.
It takes time.
I don’t like orange men. They look too much like Auburn.
” It’s a long, long way to Tipperary, but it’s the road that leads me home …”
“Through hills and dales, and lake and swales, My woodlands, my cornfields, my country, my home.”
Irish enough for you?
We came with William the Conqueror.
We do blood.
French.
How y’all like that?
Tracing …
American whites are all the same.
Get it?
American blacks are not. They were imported to do our labor while we lounged around designing BIG houses.
The athletes in Rowlett, TX, are building houses that would put Linda Baron to shame.
She’s Fred Baron’s wife. He financed that fiasco with John Edwards.
We’re talking a lot of money.
And what does that get you?
Bunny Mellon’s daughter (she’s worth at least a hundred mil) had a daughter who was nearly killed in an auto accident. She kept her in her fine Virginia plantation, and nursed her until she died.
Mellon was a jerk. But the woman was and is good. Did she die ? She was 104, or something, last time I looked in.
She did Jackie O’s rose garden.
Gorgeous gardens.
Yikes. I’m speaking in tongues. Voltaire’s Dr. Pangloss.
A liberal arts education is not for everyone, I repeat.
How’s that, Mr. Dave?
I worked under the Red Horse. Mobil’s ‘Pegasus ‘ building.
After that, I worked at at the old National Repulbic bank building.
One day, I ‘ll take the City if New Orleans to see your great city.
http://youtu.be/BEe9DF_mUEI
James, please don’t blame me.
You wanna be a big brother? Once you get past five it’s “hrair.”
Maybe four.
It’s a fact. Joyce did go on and on.
Walker Percy could get there with fewer words:
http://www.amazon.com/Thanatos-Syndrome-Novel-Walker-Percy/dp/0312243324
Ain’t that right, TB?
You don’t think I came here for my health, do you? Damn skeeters are as big as dragonflies down heah.
Just a little intellectual humor.
TAR AND FEATHERS. NOW!
Course now, the other disease is running our mouths.
Shut up, Janis.
Does 23 and me run a special at Christmas? I just signed up for $99. It had been $299.