Velociworld

Bleah!

That's what my dog said when I returned from Dat Dere Rattlesnake Roundup.

"You look like hammered dogshit," she said.

"Aye," said I. "And not just any old hammered dogshit, but what Elisson calls that old ball peen hammered dogshit."

"Irridentist ball peen hammered dogshit," she scolded.

"Aye, dat," said I. For I did look rough. Still do. But that's what these things are about. Me making an ass of myself. Taking one for the team, for blogfodder.

For I arrived in Savannah with a chip on my shoulder the size of a cypress stump. Don't know what that was all about, but there it were. All bruiseable ego and ardent apoplexy, I was. Culminating at dinner when, as the waitress kept dripping beer foam on me, I growled "It's like a goddamned porn movie around here!" Irascible behavior, I tell you.

So to Eric, Joe, Zonker, Elisson, Rick, Georgia, Denny: made you blink, heh heh.

There were some no shows, by the way. Yabu (because he's a pussy). Catfish (because he's a pussy). Sick? That don't cut it. Unless your skull is being trepanned, or your thorax is being cracked open for bypass surgery, I expect you to be there. And, actually, you really should be there if the trepanning thing is going down, just so we could poke your exposed cerebrum with chopsticks, and make you do grim involuntary things, like wet your drawers.

Zonker called for breakfast this morning, and Elisson rapped on the door like Wee Willie Winkie (which, incidentally, is an excellent nickname for him) but I was unmoved to eat, sitting, as I was, crosslegged and naked on the bed, contemplating my navel, and the utter and shameful flaccidity of Girth Vader. I was destroyed, and unfit company. I was so destroyed, in fact, that when I purchased ciggie butts and chewing gum at the convenience store pregnant women were spontaneously aborting their fetuses. It was gruesome. Mops were needed.

Anywhat it was a feast of snakes, and I had a royal time. Whatsbitofit I bermember.