Velociworld

HOW ABOUT A LITTLE NOSTALGIA?

Been a while. And I HAVE been thinking about why a grown man feels the need to knife wound his Friday nights by devolving to his childhood for images both sacred and profane. The only thing I can come up with is: it's minimally better than laying naked in one's closet, curled in the fetal position and slathered in cocoa butter, clutching Mao's Little Red Book and a double locket with one's grandmother's and Edith Piaff's pictures in it against one's breast. But only by a little bit. Excited now? Good. Let's get started.

Rabbits' Feet: A downer to start with, sorry. But consider: where did this ritual come from? The carrying of a severed mammal's foot- nay, the flaunting of said animal's foot- for good luck? They dyed them! Pik yur krazie kulur! Was some Austrian chef so bored with the constant whisking away of the detritus of his hasenfeffer egregia that he finally hit on a marketing scheme to make marks off the surplus? And what happened to the equally useless bunny heads? I have a theory (I always do). Bunny slippers. You thought those nighttime fuzzies were cotton, didn't you? Nope. Expertly filleted and taxidermied bunny heads, they were. Airfreighted to Malaysia where they were crafted onto bedroom shoes. Oh, the humanity.

Cigarette TV ads: Yeah, sorry. This Nostalgia's going to run a bit sordid for a while. Here be monsters. Despair hope all ye who enter here. Sorry. These are the only forebodings I know. Back off bitch was after my time. Back to ciggies:

Us Tarleton Smokers Would Rather Fight Than Switch. And the girl had a black eye. See how far that little gimmick gets you on Mad Ave today. She looked like she'd spent a round in the ring with Cassius Clay, or a honeymoon with Tyson. A Lisa Left-Eye Lopez schtick packaged in a Richmond, Virginia wrapper. I found it erotic at 10. I still find it erotic. Don't tell.

Winston Tastes Good Like a Cigarette Should. No shit, Hemlock. THAT'S why I'm buying your product. Move on.

Cigars, Cigarettes, Tiparillos? Hell, yes. Nightclubs used to have Playboy Bunny types walking around with wooden shelves strapped to their magnificently sculpted backs, full of tobacco product. Right to your table. Lung dart, monsieur? Shore! Thankee, baby!

I'd Walk A Mile For A Camel: Dude, you look like you'd walk 8 miles for a blow job from a toothless gack freak. Just sayin', ya know?

Enough tobacconeria. How about...

Sid and Marty Krofft? HR Pufnstuf? Banana Splits? No. I knew you wouldn't want to go there, either. I still have dreams of Witchie Poo in a bustier, dammit. I need release.