Velociworld

FLESHING OUT THE TRUTH...

My Official Version of the Jawja Blogtoberfest 2004 (Yellin' in Helen). Any variations on this theme will be disavowed by me and my attorneys, Folsom, Folsom & Leavenworth:

Every large get together has its own theme, a culture that organically develops as the deal plays out. I've been thinking about this one, and, other than Satyricon, the closest I can come, the vibe that percolated from the slippery Georgia clay queasily, La Brea-like, was Latent Homosexuality.

I feel I can say this because I'm reasonably certain I did not kiss any men while drunk, nor did I awaken Sunday morning with my face painted up like a street tart. If anyone has pictures to the contrary, please reference the clause in paragraph A.

So, you know, I gots that going for me. And! I proffer:

Two grown men, macho men, had their toenails painted. And showed them off with great grinning pride, coyness not being a trait in much evidence thereabouts.

Women slept with women.

Men slept with men.

There was bullwhipping.

Hell, there was even some rough trade: men biting men. Men punching men.

Did I say Latent? Given one more day I'm sure the Greco-Roman nude oil wrestling would have occurred.

By God, it was great. I enjoyed every minute of it. I would like to suggest next year we move it to Frisco, and have it in the Castro District.

As to my Fellow Festers:

Eric is a hoss. A slightly insane hoss. My kind of friend. I salute you, you crazy bastard. And thanks for stroking my hair. That stirred my loins, I tell you. And your bride is a Scottish Peach, my man. If you stroke her hair half as nice as you did me she is a lucky lady, indeed. Thanks for the swords and shirt, buttercup.

Dax is a great guy. The real deal. I never tasted a Red Headed Slut, however the cup of apple kerosene he gave me that burned its way to China via my rectum more than made up for it. My urologist's bill will be in the mail, dude.

Acidman was a cipher, of course. One minute he's quiet and unassuming, the next minute he's banging out a song, or using the corridor as a runway to show off Sally Hansen's finest. There is sick, and then there is certifiable. I hope you left the polish on for court day, Slick.

Rick and Georgia: The Bride and I absolutely love these folks. Why they hang around a venal reprobate like Rob is beyond me, but I think I see the word pity forming in my Alpha-Bits. Georgia is a damned hoot. She reminds me of a female Velociman, only with an underlying sense of decency. She needs a blog. Recondo32, thanks for the pad and shirt. Above and beyond.

Catfish is another friend of Rob's, and a fine fellow. I WILL travel to Harris Neck for barbecue with this man. And that's a hell of a lot closer than Helen.

Then there were Kenny and Barbara, wonderful people. How does Rob keep these friends? Extortion?

To the exquisite Kelley: My dear, that plant frond was in your room from our role-playing of Land Before Time. Don't you remember, Cera? I was Littlefoot? Never mind. Kelley, of course, needs no paeans from me, although I'm happy to lavish them on her. She is a legend in her own time, and properly so. Would that I had met her last year.

To the lovely Key: When I say I'm not drunk, that doesn't mean I'm not drunk. That just means I'm still able to converse in a language other than Raccoon, and that I haven't passed out yet. Although to be honest that wasn't English I was speaking, and in some cultures I believe standing erect with only the whites reds of your eyes showing is considered, technically, passed out.

Jim from Parkway Rest Stop. This guy is a fucking maniac. All I could think of partying with him was the sideshow geeks in Freaks chanting We accept you! We accept you! One of us! One of us! I think everyone will agree that Jim, and his bodyguard, the Anal-rententive Cruise Director, are honorary Crackers. And to show I mean it, I'm bringing the branding iron to Jersey next week. One of us, indeed.

Grouchy Old Cripple. Denny, you are an animal. And I mean that. A base animal. You packed in more fun in one day than certain folks did in two. And for that you get a Velosalute, which is my highest form of compliment, short of cash. By the way, I told Eric not to put that Seconal in your vodka. Then I told him not to put the second one in. Should have told you.

Geoffrey and Gordon, the Dogsnotters. Great guys! Just great! Everything they were cracked up to be and more! Or so I'm told. They hibernated a lot, fattening up for winter I suppose. Either that or they recalled something Neil Young once said about screaming, and bullwhips cracking. That must have been a nightmare for you, fellows. If it makes you feel any better the only person I popped with the whip was myself. In the face. Georgia was a far better Cracker than me. I'll bet she would have laid it to you, too, if you'd only asked.

Evil White Guy. Aubrey was a pleasant surprise. In the way that a rip-roaring fart leaves your unmentionables intact. A great person. Really. I wouldn't make this shit up. He'd better come to the next blogmeet, too. He's a strong dude. I've never seen anyone break a one-inch half-rubber bat on a rubber ball. I'll bet he could have Rob pinned in the Greco-Roman tournament in 2 minutes.

Mamamontezz: a shy lass. Even when blinded by unbondable corn liquor she wouldn't let me past first base. Of course, she was probably upset after her travails in reaching Helen, after a certain somebody shined her. I'm not naming names, you know, it's just that some people can smell a fucking German bier from 85 miles away, and lose their senses. Mama, next time I'lll come fetch you myself.

Zonker from Thunder and Roses. Another pleasant surprise. Although I'm afraid the poor lad didn't speak Macaque Gibberish, therefore he was having a hard time understanding us. Glad you made it, bro. And I apologize for the spittle. I find when I drink it's important to emphasize my words, and that takes some corollary expectoration, I'm afraid. Same time, next year?

Special shout outs to Sam from the Brier Patch for the corn squeeze and cigars. I'm afraid I ate my cigar. For some reason I thought it would make my breath smell better than smoking it. Tasty, though. Also Bryan from Redneck Ramblings, for the coozies. Sweet, mon. You didn't have to do that. And I insist you bill Eric for them. Also Laughing Wolf for his drive by.

I cannot close without discussing the half rubbers. A supposed expert or two were not UP for the game, however my homeskillets literally stepped up to the plate. Eric, Aubrey, Dax, et al are quick learners, and we had some fun. We were put to shame, however, when Ms Monroe stepped in the batter's box. In four inch platforms. It was stunning. It was like an episode of Battle of the Network Stars. She was like Susan Anton. I was, like, Squiggy. I don't know who the other guys were, as my eyes were off the ball, so to speak.


Thanks, Key. For showing us up, and for giving me something to reminesce about as I knead yet another round of Flexall into my sore, aching body.

Oh, and one other thing: IXNAY on the red toenails, boys. I respect the hell out of you, but some things aren't meant to be seen. That was the psychological equivalent of seeing John Wayne in a French maid's outfit with a footlong ballpark frank sticking out of his anus. Jesus, guys.