joanierules.bloggermax.com
8.10.05—To The Asshole Who Calls Himself “Run DMV”
Thanks so much for the nasty-ass and poorly spelled email this morning, asshole. Who doesn’t want to wake up to something called “Dear Kuntdrip, fuckyu Frog bitch” (That’s a quote, ladies and gentlemen!). Listen, there is a lot going on in my life right now that I don’t necessarily feel like sharing with every idiot who managed to get a free AOL CD in the mail and figure out his way onto the Internet. If you want to argue continental politics or eschatology with me, I suggest that you waddle down to the local recruiting station and get your worthless ANONYMOUS COWARD hide shipped out here. Your typing fingers versus the avenging sword of Christ, what do you say? NO??? Didn’t THINK SO! Kiss my once and future virgin ass! You cannot hide from the sight of The Lord!
9.10.05—Beautiful
Few things are as beautiful as sunset over a city in flames. Here is a pic, and another one and one with Jacques.
PS: I love European men, especially the ones who bathe as often Americans.
12.10.05—Feets Don’t Fail Me Now!!
I’m updating this on the run…literally! Paul and Andres managed to jury-rig one of those kiosks where you can check your email into working, and I’m sending this out to Alex_The_Seal and asking him to put it up on the blog:
I fear that things have taken a turn for the worse. We’ve yet to meet defeat, but the countryside is difficult to hold. With so much empty space between towns, miles can be gained and lost almost instantly. The PM has also decided that he’s rather reign in hell than serve in heaven, and has begun to firebomb my positions; “Better a Britain without life, than one with Joan!” said The Daily Mirror today. Churchill, he is not, for this time he is the evil, attempting to hold back the tides of righteousness.
Today I woke up and did not feel His presence, though I know He remains with me, as I have always been true to Him. This must be a test. I’m sure it’s a test of my faith and my spirit, but I find myself wondering if God the Father can truly sanction all this death.
14.10.05—I am a poor girl. I do not know how to ride or fight.
An angel of the lord appeared before me this morning and led me away from camp and to an old chapel on the side of a small tor. Where the choir of voices said it would be, in a small cellar room beneath the altar, I found an ancient and blessed bazooka and a number of shells.
With it on my shoulder, I picked my way through the craters and smoking ruins of the countryside, my weary troops inspired and took to their feet. I presented myself to the front, where I told the local colonel in no uncertain terms that he should withdraw his troops, return to London and convince his leaders to surrender. He claimed to know nothing of any campaign against France, and even said that he’d never been to Orleans, except for once on a holiday. A long weekend. The righteous bazooka showed his immediate underlings the error of his ways.
