Velociworld

BIG MAMA

I'm seriously running out of Senator stories here. At least the ones that beg repeating. I love my old man enough I'll keep a few to myself. And even I am not accorded that dignity (a few to myself), having exposed myself in my most egregious states to bloggers, of all people. There's yer fucking discretion, Velociman. You numbnuts.

Anyway, the Senator and his law partner at the time, a great true friend, bought a boat called the Big Mama. A 26 foot convertible, suitable for partying or fishing. A big step up for the Senator, who'd been buying 17 footers to troll his children around in.

Now, the opportunity to do the right thing by the collective kids was huge with the Big Mama, but, alas, I only had one excursion on that bitch. And I was vomited upon by a 6-year-old. But that's an old story.

That thing became, instead, some nefarious floating ISSUE with the distaff side of the respective houses. Meaning, at some point, the Collective Wife, inured to false tales, had smoked out the fact that the Big Mama was a floating hootchie pad. Or somesuch.

I won't elaborate, other than to say, those were trying times for little souls. I just wanted a boat ride. But apparently the line was very long, and little souls queued up at the rear.

I figure, or surmise, complete whoredom. Insane drunken stenotypists swinging from the tiny little chandelier of the Big Mama, tits asway, cooters agape. But that's just my prurient self. I'm merely disappointed there was no bias to inoculate the little Velociboy against tarts by, say, indulging the little fart.

Ah. well. We're all mad at Dad for something, right?

Query: who's going to make it up to me? I've been wronged!