My Favorite Question Is Why.

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It’s true, over the course of this blog’s existence I’ve tried different things for a while, wrote about certain things a bit, and even tried to get the community of followers to participate on occasion, but I can’t ever seen to keep focused on the new things or the introductions I might make. However, I was just going through my email for this blog and I’ve noticed a trend once again. There are people in and out of The Scorpion Army who are still sending me stories, still sending me pictures of themselves in various stages of undress, and still sending me fucked up shit that they found that they would like to see posted here. It appears that I have been slacking on my promise of posting whatever I want because I have my own set of rules, policies, and conditions. Is everyone right? Kinda. I don’t go for a certain demographic, age group, or political alignment, I shotgun blast my posts. If you like it then okay, if you don’t like it, then that’s okay as well.

So, maybe it’s time to start sharing once again the things that get shared with me, especially from members of The Scorpion Army, because they have already taken that one step of requirement, by simply following my blog. I have quite a backlog of stories, pictures, and oddities from around the world. So, it’s time, just fuck it, now we see how dicey things can really get. Normally I would ask if we are all fucking ready, but as it turns out, you just need to buckle up and enjoy the damn ride. I thought I would start by sharing the newest member of The Scorpion Army.

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An Impression Worth A Fuck

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Your business card is your first and sometimes only fucking opportunity to make a good, honest impression.  Not having a fucking business card at all is no longer an option. In a world of endless networking opportunities, we need to have a fucking seamless way to exchange information.

More than anything, you want your fucking business card to reflect who you fucking are and what you fucking represent. Your business card should be a direct reflection of your own fucking personality and leave a good first impression with all the fucking people you give it to.

Many times, your fucking business card can be what they use to remember you. Less can be more when designing a fucking business card. Clean lines, neutral color schemes and straight to the point informational text is what works for most fucking people. This style is fucking great for individuals wanting to exemplify professionalism and fucking simplicity. These fucking people are looking for a simple, yet effective way to make fucking lifelong contacts and build fucking reliable relationships.

Now, I must admit, I re-wrote what I’m sure was a great blast e-mail advertising scheme, but I had no choice, I had to do it. But, wait, as y’all can see above, I already have a great fucking business card! However, those of y’all with no sense of humor may have missed my point so I will give it to y’all simple, people don’t want fluff and bullshit, they want you to keep it fucking real. Sometimes simplicity is the best answer.

Can you tell I tire easily of fucking spam e-mail, the unsolicited barrage of shit that nobody gives a fuck about? But, by all means, if you and your business rely on business cards, do it right and make sure you’re not selling a cart of bullshit.

Don’t Speculate On The Intent Of Emails

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After the last few posts done here the emails and spammy comments have really been stacking up. First of all, I appreciate the fucking efforts y’all took to write to me and letting me know your opinions. Y’all may not know this, but it’s really hard to convey emotions in an email, but y’all sure in the hell fucking try. Now, first I would like to say that I received a fair amount of positive emails, some of which were from complete fucking strangers to me. I don’t try to post allot of touchy feely emotional bullshit stuff because many times its too fucking depressing to write much less to read. Which is why I veered away from telling the bartender stories for a while. But what is life without ups and downs, it’s called death, morons.

It’s good to hear that there are so many motherfucking psychology scholars in my reading audience who have a grasp on my personal reality (or lack of) and think that my past is getting in the way of my future. Are they fucking right? Can they know me best by what I leave out when I write. According to the scholars I am living my life in fear because I don’t want to relive my past. Pause. I find it hard to think I’m fearing something that I can’t fucking ever change. The truth is, I don’t want my past changed, the past happened for a reason, it helps me figure out who I want to be. And no, I’m not living in denial when I say I don’t have mental issues, I’ve just seen some shit that really fucking freaked me out. We’ve all got a past, we all have demons, and we all do what we must do to make it through another day. Every day I have the opportunity to wake up I am fucking thankful to have one more chance to tick one more day off the calendar. I think that’s more than allot of people around me can say, all I fucking hear is how people hate their fucking lives. Okay then, hate your fucking life, but can you leave my life out of it please?

Yes, I’m aware of what PTSD is and how people choose to live there life around it. Sure, I could go to the VA headshrinker and beg and fucking plea so they would medicate me so I would go away, but I don’t see the point personally. What I’ve seen or done in the world over the years is not what my fucking problem is, my problem is with the people who want to label, medicate, and discard people who really want and or need help. I merely had moments where I decided that certain shit wasn’t for me any longer, I made choices, and I took actions to change what I didn’t like. All joking aside, there are people with real mental problems who need real mental help to foster their care and improve their life as well as their well-being. People aren’t looking for an armchair psychologist who read a book once or saw some shit like this on Oprah, these are real people, not after ratings or fame. So fuck off.

Specifically, let’s talk about how we act in the real fucking world. I can sit here and say honestly that I’m much more of an asshole in person. However, I’m quiet, collecting information, surveying my surroundings, watching people’s body language, and picking apart the bullshit I’m listening to. Typically, my mouth remains closed unless your bullshit starts to get on me. I’m a very tolerant person (I really hate that fucking word, tolerant) and it takes a great deal to provoke me, but when you finally cross over that fucking line just be ready because I go straight for the throat every single fucking time. I try not to “people” too much any more in my life because everyone is offended by something. Well, fuckheads, it offends me that you’re offended. Here on my blog I get the emails all the time that tell me they are one and done because I have offended them. So fucking what, here’s a tampon, now move the fuck on. People pretend to be so pretentious and proper and politically correct. Boo hoo bitches I’m not like that. If everyone forgot about my blog, never looked at my blog, unfollowed my blog, and never looked here ever again, I’d be just fucking fine with each of those decisions. But what really amuses me the most are the self righteous premadonna fucktards who want to tell me what’s either best for me or best for my blogs, y’all crack me the fuck up, daily, multiple times a day, I’m not kidding.

Where does this leave us now? The same, we remain the fucking same, you and I, no changes. I figured out something a very fucking long time ago and it’s something some of y’all need to get through your thick little skulls, I’m not seeking your fucking approval. The only approval I need is from me. Yes, I share my posts on different social media sites updating whoever’s interested that something new has been posted. I’m thinking on quitting that bad habit altogether since 99% of the time that is all I post, just blog updates. Trust me, I have decided to quit fucking blogging on more than one occasion as well, simply because I get tired of the grief, the spam, and the fucktard version of psychoanalisms. I don’t blame y’all for be smarter than me, better spellers than me (thank you autocorrect), being better people than me, you are who you are, welcome to Earth motherfuckers. Whatever, right? Right. I’ve mentioned in the past (readers get it, skimmers miss it) that I just come here to write a little and post a little, I’m not looking for fame or fortune or even respect, I’m just here.

I would think that the fact that my blog makes you feel like you’ve shaved your twat with coarse fucking sandpaper that you just might realize we are different in many ways and we are the same in many ways. Remember, opinions are the assholes we wish to only peak at, because if we took a nice long look we’d realize that we don’t have the prettiest asshole to look at. Some of y’all will get that, for the rest of y’all I have provided Crayons and a coloring book. Of course, I’ve removed the black, white, brown, yellow, peach, red, and blue Crayons so you sensitive bitches don’t get offended and color in peace. I’m fucking nice like that, I cater to all the haters.

In closing, let me remind y’all I read my comments, social media posts, and emails everyday of the fucking week, sometimes I even respond, so your words are not being written in vain, well actually, your negative shit is in vain but it makes me smile. Not the fucking answers you were looking for? Oh well, write a nice formal complaint, fold it up real tiny like, and shove that motherfucker straight up your ass. I will be giving no further assistance or instructions on what to do. For you loyal readers, the ones who don’t feel abused or violated, welcome back and I have left some fucking snacks out for y’all. Anyway, I lost where I was actually going with this post entirely, I guess I just wanted to remind everyone that I’m okay, thanks for the wellwishes, and I too am glad to have woken up yet another day. Yay US!

For Some People, Work Is Romance

Not for me of course, but from what I understand, many romances have there beginning in the workplace. I’m not a particular fan of the whole “selfie”, however I do see the humor in it all because we all know what is on our cell phones is safe and secure. We also all know that our emails only go to the intended recipient. In the end, we put our faith, no, our trust in the powers that be, that anything we do with devices which replicate and record will not be shared maliciously with the rest of the world. Okay, y’all see thru my veil of sarcasm, you got me. But how often is this kind of shit on the news? After a little research I found that only 1% of 1% of these instances are actually reported, which leaves a whole lot of untold yet equally entertaining stories that are told as rumors and little secrets in dark places. I mean let’s look at this a moment, then I will get the story which was submitted to me to tell here, unfortunately I can’t copy and paste this one, it is really scattered around, so I was asked if I would do it as a first person teller. Many put their lives out there for the world to see. Perhaps one should scan Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Tumblr, people’s blogs, and so forth. Yea, I post shit here and on Facebook, but go back and look at those posts, nothing about my sex life, or drug habit if I had one, or any other intimate details that are nobody’s fucking business. With that, lets explore how an office “crush” turned into office “stalking” and a mess that could not be cleaned up. As a reminder, all the names and places have been changed, which is good because I don’t think any of the people in this story read my blog and if they did they would just blow it off as a coincidence or something.

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This all began with Stacy and her new job now that she has graduated from a major university up north. She moved back close to home to be somewhat close to home, close enough to visit regularly but far enough away that people have to call first to make sure she is home. After getting settled into her apartment she begins her job hunting. She immediately gets a few interviews and a few of those led to offers and she takes the one at a large company pretty far down on the food chain. College degree plus no experience equals earning a better position later. Not her dream job, but it will pay the bills and let her live a life without ramen noodles. Stacy left a serious relationship up north, one she had invested 3+ years into. Unfortunately, when they graduated she wasn’t ready to get married, settle down, have kids, and do the whole white picket fence thing, so she broke it off by just leaving like a thief in the middle of the night. Once she got into her new place she called to patch it up and things looked like they just might work out for the two of them after all.

One night she was working late on a project and got an idea of how to get her long time beau to remain interested in only her. After making sure the area was clear she went to the copier and entered his email address. This was right before she stripped of her skirt and sat on the copier, this was going to be a quick reminder to him of what he was missing now. However, apparently as she climbed up on the copier to get a good copy of her ass her hand hit the cancel button without her paying attention, so when she pushed the send button it was on the selection of “send to all recipients”, meaning she just found out she sent a picture of her ass and more to everyone in the entire company. At first she was horrified but the realized that the email was sent from the copier with the copier’s email address so no one could possibly know its her ass in the picture. Plus, she wasn’t at her floors copier because it was not working properly, so she was two floors up doing her dirty little deed. Also, she knew that there were 50 plus other women who were still working, so she was confident she will get away with it. She went home, had a hot bath, a few shots of ol Jack, and spent a few hours talking with the boyfriend, never bringing up what has happened.

On Monday she went back to her office, made way to her cubicle, and when she opened the desk drawer to put her purse away she sees a plain white envelope. When she opened it she finds her picture with a note that read “I know this is your fine little ass, you need to let me get balls deep in you or I share your secret”. At first she is confused as hell, should she be flattered or afraid. At the bottom there were instructions, she was to take a post-it note and put a smilely face on it and put it a plain view area that everyone could see if she wished to be compliant. If not then she was to do nothing. Yes, her first thought was sexual, she wondered ” balls deep” where exactly and it might be ok if he’s now hung like John Holmes. But she didn’t want to complicate her new job by having sex with someone from the office, there had to be another way, there had to be a way to turn this whole thing around. After some deep thought she decided to play the game and put the smilely face up for whoever to see. When it was time to go she was disappointed because nothing happened, all the cloak and dagger bullshit and nothing happened.

Following her regular routine in the morning she opened her bottom drawer to put her purse away and there was another envelope. This one was instructions, this one described what was going to happen next. She was to go to the motel listed, using the address provided, check in as Mrs. Smith, go to the room, totally undress, and lay on the bed waiting for him. She thought at first she would just turn this over to the police but really feared the investigation would expose her as well. She went to the motel three hours earlier than instructed to scope the place out. She wasn’t impressed. She went up to the counter to check in and do decided to do a little digging on her mystery date. The girl at the counter was more than happy to help Stacy after she was told this fantastic sex game was about to go down. He registered as James Smith but paid with his personal credit card. After a quick internet search she finds out Mr. Smith is married with two small girls. Stacy asked for the credit card number and information because she didn’t have her card on her and it was given to her. Stacy contacts a male escort service, pays the $1200.00 with his card. Her one request is that he be bisexual because there was going to be a threesome. When he arrives they have a quick meeting and he agreed to the entire plan.

Shortly after getting set up in the room Mr. Smith let’s himself in. In the shadows he could see a naked ass purched in the air as he hears Stacy’s voice telling him he only gets to fuck her ass. Acknowledging that was perfectly fine he strips and begins to go to work. Surprise! The lights come on and a fully dressed Stacy stands as she takes a few pictures of her own. He has the stunned deer look on his face as she explained that she knew who he was, his wife was, his kids, their cell phone numbers, and where they lived. What now he asks? She informs him that her new friend there on the bed that he is poking in the ass is going to repay the favor now. She films the whole thing, being sure to get a close up of the male escort pulling out just in time to make a nice mess on Mr. Smith’s face. She decided to leave, but not before delivering her own message which was if he ever mentions her picture again or ever sees it anywhere she will hand deliver this video and pictures to his wife.

She never actually had seen this guy at work in the past, she still didn’t know who he was, but she has yet to ever see or hear anything ever still to this day.

I Hate To Say It, But Here We Go Again

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Once again I find myself looking for a job in a sea of opportunity which I don’t have the qualifications for. But then again I don’t have the skills that “most” companies are actually looking for. There are plenty of jobs out in the greater Houston area for $10 per hour and over an hour away, but I can’t afford to take those jobs. So, I have been busy once again over the last three weeks looking for new opportunities. I won’t bore y’all with my resume here, but, if you are in the Houston area (north/ northeast) and looking to hire a disabled veteran and you would like to view my resume, I will gladly email it to you as soon as you send me an email. I don’t know what else to say, this feels awkward in so many ways, like I’m pimping myself out on the street or something. This is probably because I’m not very good at networking with people, when in reality that’s what I should be doing every day all day long. So, if y’all know something and wish to pass it on please email me. I’m return, I will send you my resume, it will come from my personal email and not the email you send your email to. Confused? My email is thestingofthescorpion@gmail.com and hopefully we can connect soon.

Girls Just Wanna Have Jack

Speaking of Jack, I had a good friend email me asking why I have done a couple different glamour tributes here on the blog but NEVER to the Jack Daniel’s girls. She has taken it upon herself to send me a small portion of her personal favorites and asks of me to please post them for her. So, I plan on doing just that, but before we begin, I want you to read my favorite part of her message to me.

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“Seriously, I’ve been bartending for several years and I wanna smack the piss out of every fucking girl who has me make them a fucking amaretto sour or a damn melon ball (etc.). I actually blew an otherwise successful job because I refused to let this wack job girl order a fuzzy navel. What a waste of time and money to drink fruity concoctions, have it straight up and have Jack. I believe if you are going to drink, drink with purpose and with pride. A girl that can handle Jack straight is to be held above others. I’d be damn proud to sit down and drink with you. So here’s to you “Jack Daniels drinking chick!”, you have my respect.”

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