I apologize for my delay in replying to my new fans, most of whom appear to want to create an even mightier Velociman through judicious application of electroshock therapy. I'm sorry to say I was caught out of town without my laptop, whilst a myriad of Percy Grimms were banging their pots for my brains. Yea, verily, even the capitalist swine who operate the Sheraton gulag of conspicuously mediocre hospitality were averse to allowing me access to my obviously profane blog.
Now that most of you have finished flinging your pink pabulum at me, allow me to reintroduce some lucidity into your raging cacophony of whinging indignation:
Firstly, I am an insignificant blogger with a readership of approximately 20 consistent visitors. The other 90% of my hits come from Ft. Detrick, Maryland, where a phalanx of macaque monkeys pound away endlessly at keyboards, fueled by Red Bull and cocainum pellets, in a Bush cabal plot to hammer out a more fundamentalist Bible.
Secondly, anyone willing to spend a few minutes scrolling my archives will see that I not only beat the English language like a pimp on a prostie, I use hyperbole and satire to make a point, more often than not.
Thirdly, despite the fact that I am a far better writer than Wolcott or Sullivan on their very bestus of days, of which they have fewer and fewer, I don't do this for a living. I do not opine for money, but for mirth. Wolcott, who hides behind a firewall so dense I cannot fathom his email address for a remonstration, is Burr to my Hamilton. Poor Sully, lying prostrate upon the fainting sofa with smelling salts wafted under his nose, is Salieri to my Mozart.
Let us cut to the chase. Or the Ned Beatty thrill up the leg, as Sully so many of you fantasize about. I write for fun, and I like to occasionally thrust hatpins into the hemorrhoids of the humorless. One must have an avocation, after all, to be a compleat man. Am I over the top? Absolutely. Do I use race as a joke instead of a grievance now and then? Most certainly. It is in my nature to puncture the Portuguese men o' war that float upon the racial sea, ever ready to release a toxic cloud of false shame and rancor for a moment of self-congratulation.
Allow me to guide you through the maze of Velociworld: my cock isn't as gigantic as I claim (it's merely pleasingly awesome). The Senator wasn't quite the character I portray him to be. He was twice that man. That's pretty much all you need to know.
Now, let me say this about your hysterical comments, and I say this with utmost gravity:
You are a bunch of fucking retards. You've licked the windows of the special needs bus so much it has glazed your perception of reality. Do I take back anything I said about Barack Obama? Absolutely not. If anything, I misunderestimate the man. I do wish I'd found a more appropriate comparison than Pol Pot, though. Perhaps that other ridiculously glorified icon of the Left, Ernesto We're Making Omelettes Here, Pal! Guevara. Do I really believe Obama is equal to Stalin? Of course not. Obama hasn't even begun to kill. Hellfire and pass the strychnine, his body count may end up in the paltry dozens for all I know. I don't presume to read the sheep entrails around here. And I don't drink tea.
If my opinion enrages you then you need to not read my opinion. That's a very simple fix, cretins. Of course, under Obama's socialized medicine, I'll be forced to bill the fuck out of the taxpayers now, and withhold that advice from you for six months, should I be inclined to help you in the future.
Why my opinion so vexes you is worrisome. Listen, fuckfaces: 50% of America disagrees with you. Bill Ayers only had plans to exterminate 25 million in the southwest after the Revolution, and that was, in my contemplative opinion, probably a bit of a stretch. Logistics are the curse of the revolutionary, ain't they?
I didn't expect to be slammed with so much hate mail from so many unintelligible morons, swarming like fruit flies from the vulvae of les doyennes Sullicott. But so be it. It proved my point. If you poor benighted fools realized how convulsed with laughter I was as I penned that post... and the tears of merriment continue to flow unabated.
At any rate, beat your Joe Christmas piñatas with vexation tonight, you miserable cunts. I've been away from home for a week, and Girth Vader is absolutely turgid with anticipation for a bit of slap and tickle (because whenever I remember all sex is patriarchal rape it gets me fucking hot). See you around the blog o' flatearth. I'll be wandering like Lena Grove, swollen, trying to find the fucking busybody who impregnated me with 7 pounds, 8 ounces of hope and change. Being pro-life, I won't abort it. I'll just stick its fingers in boiling water from time to time and tell it how bad its daddy is.
Posted by Velociman at October 30, 2008 6:52 PM