Velociworld

...And All The Sinners, Saints...

Well, perhaps not saints. But objects of beatification within our own little sordid world. That was Jekyll.

Where to begin? This post will require massive linkage, and I am by nature a lazy mumfuck. Could take a while.

I arrived Thursday afternoon, ahead of the game. Wandered around the island, partook of suppah and cocktailage at Blackbeard's, then moseyed down to the Day's. I accosted Mr. Helpful, all the way in from Seattle, one of the nicest probationers I've ever met, and we went to Recondo32 and Georgia's for tall tales and sippage. I sampled my Chatham Artillery Punch, because it is a well known fact that blinding sometimes takes 24 hours where wood alcohol is involved. All was well. Recondo and Georgia are my bloods, great peeps. I am going to Melbourne this weekend to party with them at a Vietnam Veteran's Convention. I will play the part of the underage protester they beat senseless like a pinata. The pay is lousy, but I have fucking excellent insurance. They are gold.

Zonker joined us about 11pm. Ever the Thunderpussy Thundergod, he is a true blue purveyor. Zonk is the fucking King Rat of blogmeets. He brings cases of beer, bottles of fine liquor, cartons of smokes, you name it. He's the guy you see in prisoner of war movies who is fat and happy, trading solitary eggs to starving fellow prisoners for their prized watch. He bribes guards, then steals the goodies back. He is King Rat.

Relatively early night for me, as I was on best behaviour. My coccyx is sore, you see, and sitting is painful. More on that later.

Friday broke cold and blustery, and I had to drive back to Jax to retrieve The Bride, D the Demure. That's the only problem with The Bride, special as she is. She just won't say what's on her mind. Gotta work on that. When I returned at 2:00 it was Full Swing. It gets a little hazy chronologically from here, so we will do Snippets.

This waste was obviously going to be in Acidman's room, because he's the only person who will tolerate that much fetid smoke in the air, that much piss in the carpeting, and that much shit in the bowl. I bow to him. Although he was actually a gracious host this time around, a rare trait in my esteemed blogbrother. I love Robbie, despite what the court papers say. I never touched him. There, anyway.

Catfish was there, of course. My hero. I am often accused of getting away with too much on the site. I always say, go read Cat. Whether he is waxing eloquent on the buttfucking of Jimmy Buffett or giving his impersonation of himself as a porn star, eyes rolled back, there is only one Cat. I'm visitng him in his new crib soon. I fucking cannot wait to meet Mrs. Cat. Presidential Medal of Freedom there.

As I was gartin woozy about then, some slice of life:

Sammy and Barbie. Too good. Too kind. Great voice on her, great soul in him. They must be corrupted. Soon. That is a ukase. Sammy my bitchin bro.

My very tight homey Straight White Guy and the Lovely Fiona. Something about me and Eric and blogmeets, or even funerals. If we don't get into at least one dust up it ain't no fun. To fuck with Mr. Sensitive is a joy. No blows this time, although I do have an interesting finger bruise on my bicep, but I think he was just holding me down to pour Scotch down my throat. Eric: love ya baby. Word up: counseling.

Dax Montana. Dax is so gay when he visited Judy Garland's crypt her corpse grew sideburns. But, honestly, he is a big, burly, powerful bastard, a great writer, and when you see him blow sticky bubbles around the room you are reminded of, well, just how gay he really is.

Kelley. Kel is my truest of true hinky tights. She is Da Bomb. She is the Czar Bomba, if chicks could be thermonuclear devices (and they can!). She is a great singer, although I must confess I am not a great fan of the Blog Hootenany, as it too closely resembles the Blog Shindig. But as Johnny Mathis told us, It's not for me to say... have your fun boys. I'll be out back with the girls. Back to Kel. She Hottage. And superlative. She also gets a gold star for not beating my ass. I give those out, you know. Get in line.

Key Monroe. Here is my sweet lass, always effervescent, always endowed. A beautiful creature, especially because she gifted me with a "bitching pimp hat" for my birthday, to many guffaws. I notice from the pictures floating around that all those guys calling me a polesmoker for wearing that hat (so macho the label reads: Official Red Hat Society Wear) are seen in numerous pictures wearing it whilst I was away. Closet cakeboys. We know who you are.

Now I love Key to death, but I will also say that when a woman tells you how studly you look in a hat with a purple plume they might, just might, be having sport with you. "Nuff said. Key can mock me to the ends of the earth, however. I am her Silly Putty.

Parkway Rest Stop. Jimbo is so fucking cool we had to put the paddles on him a coupla times. Resurrects nicely, though, and plays a mean gitfiddle. All the guys played well, actually, including Rob's brother Dave, who also has a great voice. But Jimbo has a certain, shall we say? spasmodo quality that draws the ladies like flies to a slice of bologna exiting a Doberman's ass. And that is high praise, indeed. Long may ye flail, Jimbo. I'll be up to see you in Copland.

Christina. Here is a displaced Georgia Peach, despite her Cajun upbringing and Tejas residence. Chrissy is what we call down here a Control Freak, which isn't a bad thing, unless cuffs are involved. And I think she has a few pairs. I think Xty (her text name) thought I was a misogynistic, iconoclastic bastard when she first met me. Once I confessed I was we got along famously. She will go far, but I regret not asking her what her experience was with drug cases, should I get busted the next time I'm burning one on the grassy knoll in Dallas. Chrissy is a damned peach. She is always welcome in any group that will have me, and many that will not. Did I mention her bodyguard Susan is a killah?

Sadie and Irish Lad. Nice peeps. To come all the way from the Land o' Shirley Jones in Buckskin speaks volumes to their commitment to a good time. I believe I was the first blogger she recognized when she peeked in Rob's room, and Catfish was rearranging his manhood into a pretzel and Recondo was picking his ear with a bent syringe. Not an auspicious beginning, but I think they had marvs of a good time. Blessed to have friends travel so far to see such sloth.

Grouchy Old Cripple. Denny is the Fucking Man. I just can't figure out what he's fucking. I can attest it has whiskers, because I saw it scamper away. Monkeyrat? Mebbe. I love this guy. He is a "kazoo" blowing, guitar playing madman. Great voice, too. Of course, that monkeyrat sex gets the testosterone levels up, so there you go. You left too early Sunday, D. I wanted to fuck wit you one mo time.

Michele and Kevin. To travel from Ohio to get begrimed with us is an honor, I tell you. Although having normal folk around gets we more paranoid types to think Infiltration! Spies! But they can't talk if we cut their... never mind. Gooduns, like every Jawja blogmeet needs. Gracious and fun guys. Leveling influences, as I would say to my parole officer. They taught me to drink and purl at the same time, sir.

Rube and Anne. Very, very cool couple. You know, at every blogmeet I've attended there is always someone I've looked forward to meeting who scratches their head and says to themself What the fuck is up with this Velocicocksucker? I heard he was cool. This guy sucks! And so, Eric, you have that privileged role. Please note I worked mightly so that I could displease you. Anne was more gracious, although I could sense her revulsion as well. Continentals just disguise it better. Glad to be there for you, man!

Ward and Moogie. They tag teamed us, just like the wrestlers of olde did. He showed up first, very gracious, very sophisticated, a hoot. And afterwards we counted silverware, and realized we'd been had. Ward is what used to be known as a second story man. Although he left goodwill, and tall tales, and in my opinion that is worth the price of dismission. Moogie showed up in, ah, rare form. Not rare for me, as I am a spree drinker, but rare for a civilized person. I had planned to gift her with a bolt gun, but apparently she owns one, and uses it like Cat pops pills. A great gal.

Flynny. I saved Michele till last, because she is an old buddy of mine, and this was her first blogmeet to meet the bizarro world I had introduced her to. Wish she could have come earlier, but duties beckoned. I sincerely believe she had a great time, other than the smoke I had to cut in Rob's room with my Gerber, the eternal Catfish piss stains, the indiscriminate drug abuse, and the Straight White Velocifight (hon, you haven't really seen one of those yet. They was no bloods). You were a smash, girl. We loved having you, and cannot wait for you to spring for the next one, as we are eternally tight of the cash. We have expensive tastes, however. As do you.

BTW, will the person who hoisted Chele-girl's MacCallan's return it? Ward gets a pass, since it was Moogie's night when it disappeared.

Other random notes:

My coccyx still hurts. Think it's either a bicycle issue or posture at the computer issue. Or a nascent tailbone tumor that will erupt at any moment. I can swear on a Holy Bible no buttsex was involved.

My Chatham Artillery Punch. True Believers? Catfish, who drank that fucking poison in a large iced tea glass all day, defying all science, and Zonker, who hung till 5 am drinking it. I admit to partaking of a glass or two Saturday night, and my bladder was still functioning the next day. Sporadically. Very sporadically.

My cymbal-banging, screeching monkey. Key painted his toenails red, as the brown ones were scaring my chirren. It wasn't her doing Acidman's toenails at Helen from a purely freaking voyeuristic standpoint, but it was hot, nonetheless.

The frat kids next door. We got those whelps tore down. Rookies. If we had their bulletproof bodies and our hubris we would be either locked in the nuclear waste vault at Savannah River Plant or Olympian gods.

Half rubber. I was leading 3-0-0 over Cat and Eric until I threw Eric a goober and he smacked it for a grand slam. Final score 4-3-0 Eric. Although Catfish took the floor ex honors with his tumbling routines, scoring a 9.2 from Kelley, a 9.4 from Recondo, and a perfect 10.0 from Key. He also broke two ribs, which we fixed with some Chicklets and an Ace bandage, the Chicklets being in lieu of a stick in his mouth as we reset the ribs.

Kenny and Barbara's beachside nuptials. What the fucking hell was that all about? Don't ever pull me out of lunch and take me to a beachside wedding without my cigs and at least a modicum of booze. It was beautiful, nonetheless. In an Outer Limits kind of way.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Yup. Brought a brand new DVD player and both versions. I'm a fugging naif. Sit this crowd down for three hours and ask them to be quiet? May as well reverse the fucking tides.

The Broken Toilet. Someone not only broke Rob's toilet, they beat it to hell. Looked like The Hulk was there. He blamed it on Key. Right. I'm buying that. I think Cat was looking for something to pick his teeth with, and snapped off the inside handle. Just a theory.

Think that's it. If I forgot anything I'll hack Acidman's site and put it up there.