Has Gearhart Chevrolet Discovered Doug Bulna's Sabotage Yet? (1-year!)

[franksolich]

That cheap bastage probably tries to steal and hide the 3D glasses at a movie theater.
Then demands a 50% discount.

I'm still wondering how much, over the years of his employment, toilet paper, pens, paper-clips, rubber bands, remote controls, &c., &c., &c., walrus-face stole from the office.  And perhaps even some mechanic's tools, nuts and bolts, screws, cans of motor oil, grease cartridges, &c., &c., &c.

Not to mention all his posting on Skins's island while on the time-clock.

He's a primitive, after all; it's in his nature to steal, even when buying something's simpler and easier.

This after all is a guy who admitted to reading Car and Driver and Road and Track for sale at the neighborhoood convenience store, rather than buying the magazines, as if the convenience store is a public library.  To top it off, all his fingering of those publications probably smeared the pages--they don't make ink like they used to--making the magazines unsaleable to someone else.

[Skul]

I'm still wondering how much, over the years of his employment, toilet paper, pens, paper-clips, rubber bands, remote controls, &c., &c., &c., walrus-face stole from the office.  And perhaps even some mechanic's tools, nuts and bolts, screws, cans of motor oil, grease cartridges, &c., &c., &c.
Not to mention all his posting on Skins's island while on the time-clock.

He's a primitive, after all; it's in his nature to steal, even when buying something's simpler and easier.

This after all is a guy who admitted to reading Car and Driver and Road and Track for sale at the neighborhoood convenience store, rather than buying the magazines, as if the convenience store is a public library.  To top it off, all his fingering of those publications probably smeared the pages--they don't make ink like they used to--making the magazines unsaleable to someone else.

I doubt Doug Bulna has the knowledge or skill to use any of the emboldened items.
He is a DUmmie, therefore, merely the act of "sticking it to the man", is reason enough.

[franksolich]

I doubt Doug Bulna has the knowledge or skill to use any of the emboldened items.
He is a DUmmie, therefore, merely the act of "sticking it to the man", is reason enough.

Oh, I'm sure just taking things was a habit of his, just taking things he didn't need or could use, so as to get back at his employer.

<<<has seen it happen, among the primitive classes.

[Skul]

Oh, I'm sure just taking things was a habit of his, just taking things he didn't need or could use, so as to get back at his employer.

<<<has seen it happen, among the primitive classes.

That part is seems to be a major part of a liberal/democRatTick life style, not just Doug Bulna's.

[GOBUCKS]

I'm still wondering how much, over the years of his employment, toilet paper, pens, paper-clips, rubber bands, remote controls, &c., &c., &c., walrus-face stole from the office.  And perhaps even some mechanic's tools, nuts and bolts, screws, cans of motor oil, grease cartridges, &c., &c., &c.

If you pick up his trail on eBay you'll probably see alternators, transmission parts, water pumps, master cylinders, airbag assemblies, and all manner of parts for Government Motors cars being auctioned off.

He probably couldn't safely trundle home with fenders or engine blocks, but anything smaller most likely has shown up in his auctions.

And it's been going on for years.

[Skul]

If you pick up his trail on eBay you'll probably see alternators, transmission parts, water pumps, master cylinders, airbag assemblies, and all manner of parts for Government Motors cars being auctioned off.

He probably couldn't safely trundle home with fenders or engine blocks, but anything smaller most likely has shown up in his auctions.

And it's been going on for years.

I hope he stashed some spare parts in the rafters at home.
He's gonna need them.

[franksolich]

I hope he stashed some spare parts in the rafters at home.

He's gonna need them.

You know, I'm wondering if the Jehovah's Witnesses could help the brain-damaged primitive.

When I was in high school, the head janitor was some guy, Sam.  "Sam" was his first name, but I don't remember his last name.  (We kids didn't call him "Sam," of course, but rather "Mr." whatever his last name was.)  He was a Jehovah's Witness.

I talked with him a few times. but never got to know him well, given the difficulties in communicating (difficulties in communicating with me, not any problems from his end).  The longest conversation I ever had with him was something over five minutes, when I was late leaving school one day.

"Sam" was a short, middle-aged, guy, neat and trim, and I suppose women found him attractive; a regular all-around nice guy, although he talked only when spoken to.

It was during our longest conversation that he revealed that he was once a bad person, his ego running rampant, his pride swollen, his hypocrisy gone amok, lying and cheating and stealing and voting Democrat, an arrogant loud-mouth who didn't listen to what other people said, thinking of himself as smarter and better than everybody and anybody else.

Then one day he told a lie about his boss, and got fired.

He'd had a good job and a good income too, his job dealing with Sandhills real-estate.

This being a small place, word got around, and he couldn't get a job similar with what he once had.

Hitting bottom, he joined the Jehovah's Witnesses, where he learned humility, modesty, good manners, and how to win friends and infuence people.  Whereas before, he'd been an angry and pissy person, always feeling sorry for himself, now he was content and happy.

"Sam" died about twenty years after I left town, but I later learned that neither the mortuary nor the local Jehovah's Witnesses temple was large enough to accommodate a memorial service for him, and so it had to be held at the high school football field instead (it was the summer).....and the bleachers were crowded, people coming from counties around to mourn him, and his maligned former boss delivering an awesome eulogy praising his virtues.  

[franksolich]

Wow.

This past night, the memory went into overdrive, bringing up reminiscences of people who were (it's safe to assume they're dead now, given that these things happened years and years ago) very much like the brain-damaged primitive, but who later changed and became successful in life.

I wonder if there's a Salvation Army in urban northern New Jersey, and if so, walrus-face should attend their meetings.

I remembered an experience from when I was seven years old, and with my parents in Denver, Colorado.  They were there for some sort of hospital convention, and I assume I was along because there was a physician who wanted to examine me (which happened often), who was going to be there at the same time.

Well, a hospital convention can be utterly boring for a kid, especially a deaf one, and the parents recruited two sons of another convention-attender, to babysit me while they were at the meetings.  They were both boys, 15 and 16 years old, and from Wilmette, near Chicago, Illinois.  That's all I remember of them.

I wanted to see trains, and so they took me to Union Station.

In case one's not aware, Union Station in Denver is located in what was once a red-light district, but now which is slums.

We watched the trains for a while, and then the older boys decided it was time to walk back to the hotel.

While we were walking, we came upon a troupe of Salvation Army musicians giving a concert on a street corner.  The phenomenon was new to us, and so we stopped to watch.

I was most entranced by some bald wizened little guy who had an eye that didn't seem to move, as he sang along and rattled a round thing (later described to me as a tambourine).  I kept staring at him, open-mouthed; his other eye moved all over the place, but this eye stayed dead center.

When the musicians took a break, I dashed over to him.  The two older boys had to follow, not only because I was just seven years old, but also being deaf, there were communication problems in which other people had to stand in for me.

The guy explained that it was a glass eye, and took it out, offering it to me to inspect.

I pulled back; I didn't want to touch anything that'd been inside someone's body orifice (in this case, the hole where an eye'd be, if he had an eye).

There was however a certain joy about him, though; this was a man very happy to be in this world.

He explained to me (through the intermediary of the two babysitters with me) that he'd once been mean, grasping, evil, selfish, greedy.  He'd had a wife, Katherine, who loved him to pieces, but whom he beat and abused anyway.  He had a little daughter whom he'd neglected.  He'd had a good job and made lots of money.

But as he didn't get along with other people, when times got tough, he was the first let go.

Because of his appearance and his negative personality, he couldn't get another job anything like what he'd had before.  And he was doing drugs, lots and lots of drugs.

One night, he was beat up by a guy who was angry because he wasn't listening to him, paying attention to him, and ended up in the charity ward of the hospital. 

People from the Salvation Army came around, and convinced him he had to change his life, becoming a better person.  He got clean and sober, and into a job, but really preferred to be with the caring, loving, giving blue-suited soldierettes of the Salvation Army, and gave up that job to join them.

He said it was the best thing that ever happened to him, and that he thanked God every day for it.

One wonders what musical instrument the brain-damaged primitive plays.

[franksolich]

Whoa.

I'm impressed; it looks as if the Salvation Army could do walrus-face a lot of good; they all look like such nice, caring, giving, compassionate people, and maybe some of what they have, can rub off on him.

Sowing in the morning, sowing seeds of kindness,
 Sowing in the noontide and the dewy eve;
Waiting for the harvest, and the time of reaping,
 We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.

Refrain: Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves,
 We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves,
Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves,
 We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.

Sowing in the sunshine, sowing in the shadows,
 Fearing neither clouds nor winter’s chilling breeze;
By and by the harvest, and the labor ended,
 We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.

Refrain:

Going forth with weeping, sowing for the Master,
 Though the loss sustained our spirit often grieves;
When our weeping’s over, He will bid us welcome,
 We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.

Refrain:

It doesn't take a whole lot of imagination, to see the brain-damaged primitive in a nifty uniform and hat, beating on a big drum in front of his paunch, and lustily singing along.

[vesta111]

Say Guys and gals, it just occurred to me that we all need to be very careful about casting accusations of past, present or future behavior of anyone by name.

To even suggest a behavior of someone of something that we can not prove could have repercussions we never thought of.   We are not messing with a public person one open to criticism, this could become very costly to us in the long run.

Could we find ourselves in a bated bear trap---yup. The more speculation on someone by name the closer to libel and conspiracy to destroy their lives and ability to make a living we become.   

Just saying as some posts are making me nervous and become a stepping stone for someone to cause changes in the law.   

Example,   people use screen names for a reason.  To track down the identity of a screen name is in a way an invasion of privacy.  Then contacting their employer about a PRANK they pulled, nothing stolen just relocated in the offices, then to wonder if they are a thief, you see where I am going ????

 

[Skul]

you see where I am going ????

No.

[obumazombie]

No.

Double no.

[franksolich]

 

[franksolich]

Well, damn.

While puttering around the house--I'm laid low with a really bad cold and a rather unstable cardiac organ--I thought of another possibility for the brain-damaged primitive to turn his life around.

I wonder if somewhere in urban northern New Jersey, there's a store-front gospel chuch.

Back when I was young and in college--this was the early 1980s--one time I went to North Omaha with a roommate of mine, to visit his grandmother.  In case one's not aware, at the time, thirty years ago, North Omaha was pretty much an all-black ghetto (although with free-standing houses and lawns rather than tall brick tentaments).

I was probably the only white person in a five-mile radius.

When we were leaving, and walking back to my car, there was an old black gentleman standing on the sidewalk.  He wasn't a wino or a bum or anything, being too-well dressed for that part, and a clerical collar besides.

He hailed me and chatted with me, but because I'm deaf, I didn't catch most of what he said, other than an invitation to attend his church.  He also called me "brother," and insisted he knew that God had a special plan for me. 

Well, I wasn't going to be in North Omaha that following Sunday, but always enthusiastic about supporting worthy religious causes, gave him ten bucks to put in the collection-plate for me.

On the drive back to Lincoln, my roommate mentioned I'd just met someone who'd once been the biggest drug-dealer in Omaha, but who'd turned his life around, becoming a better man.  He wasn't caught selling drugs; he was caught cheating on his income taxes. 

The Internal Revenue Service hounded him better than any cops could.

Destitute and broke, he had a "come to Jesus" moment, and started a church, "The Most Holy and Sanctified Church of Our Lord Jesus Christ and His Sheep Faithful to the Gospel," which for a strip-mall church was actually doing pretty good.  The former drug-dealer and income-tax-evader however insisted upon living in a small sparse room in the back, giving away all donations to those truly in need.

One wonders what walrus-face would look like, in a clerical collar.

[landofconfusion80]

Don't you have to have an actual neck to wear a clerical collar?

[franksolich]

Don't you have to have an actual neck to wear a clerical collar?

Good point.

If our colleague BattleHymn has the time and inclination, I think we'd all like to see walrus-face in both a Salvation Army uniform, and as a minister of the Gospel. 

[landofconfusion80]

Good point.

If our colleague BattleHymn has the time and inclination, I think we'd all like to see walrus-face in both a Salvation Army uniform, and as a minister of the Gospel. 

If you're refering to a chop, I might be able to pencil something in this evening.

[Dori]

Good point.

If our colleague BattleHymn has the time and inclination, I think we'd all like to see walrus-face in both a Salvation Army uniform, and as a minister of the Gospel. 

Great....then he could minister to LFR and the other homeless DUmmies. 

[franksolich]

Okay, while I was in the big city early this afternoon, I thought of another possible inspiration for the brain-damaged primitive so as to get him motivated to improve himself and his life.

Yashoda, the cook of Japanese derivation who's the head chef at the country club, and whose specialty is Germanic cuisine.  The femme insists his grumbeersupp un quetschekuche, some sort of potato-and-plum soup, is worth dying for.

Yashoda's a short little guy, maybe in his early 40s.  He wears a pince-nez, and bows completely at the waist when greeting someone.

He substitutes for cooks in small-town bars and restaurants when their regular cooks are away for some reason; he says he doesn't have much of a social life, and as long as he's got nothing else to do, he might as well be earning money the nights he's not cheffing at the country club.

When he works at the bar in this town, he also wears rubber golashes, unbuckled, because the floor's concrete, and he says the boots are better for his feet.

Yashoda was born in Japan, and at the age of 16, he apprenticed as a cook on a Japanese fishing boat.  He was pretty good at that, but alas at the same time he developed a liking for the bottle.  When he was 19 and the boat was in the Mediterranean, he got super drunk one night and assaulted the captain.

He was fired on the spot, and put ashore on Malta.

After he got over his hangover, unlike the convenience store primitive, instead of looking around for social services to support him, he looked for a job, so as to pay his own way.  While pounding the pavements of the narrow winding cobblestoned streets of Valletta, he saw a sign advertising a culinary school.  In exchange for washing dishes, he got his tuition paid, and as for a place to live, he slept in the attic, doubling as the night watchman for the school.

He graduated with honors, but he didn't want to stick around; he was homesick for Japan, and so decided to work his way home.  He crossed the Atlantic, paying his fare by washing dishes, and reaching New York City, began his trek across America.  He planned on getting to Seattle, and then working his fare across the Pacific, to back home.

He cooked here-and-there, and about ten years ago, ended up here, on the eastern edge of the Sandhills of Nebraska.  Upon seeing his diploma from the culinary school in, of all places, Malta, the country club hired him to be head chef, and he's been there since. 

I think he's given up on going back to Japan, as he seems content here.

Now, I'm not suggesting walrus-face enroll in cooking school and then come out here to work--no way--but what I am suggesting is that the brain-damaged primitive follow his example, and take advantage of adversity, rather than sitting around feeling sorry for himself.

[obumazombie]

Be careful when suggesting to a lib a job that seems too much like work.

[Bad Dog]

Be careful when suggesting to a lib a job that seems too much like work.

And even more importantly, one that involves handling food.

[obumazombie]

And even more importantly, one that involves handling food.

One would be well advised to exercise prudent caution when feeding Bad Dogs, and Big Dogs !

[GOBUCKS]

Now, I'm not suggesting walrus-face enroll in cooking school and then come out here to work

No way!

Doug is clearly hygiene-challenged.

He could cook in New Jersey, or even better in Massachusetts, but no place to the west or south.

He'd make the cook in Beetle Bailey look clean.

[franksolich]

Well, well.

Another night passed into history, and no sign of the brain-damaged primitive, other than that he's been here to read the latest additions to this thread.

I regret to report however that somebody's indulging in some monkeyjinks here.

Below are the latest results of a google search; please notice the first of the two--the second's just included because I always post both versions of the name.





In the first one, this particular thread's dropped to second place, after having been on the top since, well, forever.

One wonders if walrus-face is trying to bury it.

However, the brain-damaged primitive could've avoided all this as long ago as the day after Labor Day--and here it is, nearly Thanksgiving--if he'd, as I'd advised and counseled on the first page of this thread so very long ago, showed up on Skins's island and explained things to his fellow primitives, and apologized to them for being such a rectal aperture.

If he'd done that, this thread by now would probably be on page 6,379 or something, of a google search.

It seems to me someone should've listened to franksolich.

[Skul]

Doug Bulna hasn't been listed as an employee of Gearhart Chevrolet, for quite some time.
I think Gearhart may have taken exception to his over the top political stunt of forcing the other employees and customers to watch overtly socialist news on TV.