The Cheese Stands Alone and I have some goin' round to do.
First, I'm called a linkwhore.
Then, she mentions lemurs. The Bride was showing property last week in one of too many new neighborhoods going up here in the boonies and saw a lemur in a tree. The family with her saw it, too. Coincidence? There ARE no coincidences. Must have escaped from LeeAnn's, or something.
Then, finally, a cat named Chickenhead. Now, chickenhead means two things around here: number one, the black chicks who wear their hair up in fancy pointed coxcombs on their heads, and wear bedroom slippers to the grocery store are chickenheads. Second, speed addict chicks whose heads bob like a chicken from withdrawal symptoms are chickenheads. Come to think of it, it only means one thing.
We certainly agree on one thing: Smells like ass, let it pass. But I am weak. I've eaten ass, and dug it.
I got some interesting comments here, so I thought I'd carry it a bit further. Rankin' Rob comments
"Why do people insist on naming their children for subdivisions; "Hampton", "Peyton". I even heard an East Cobb toddler being called "Churchill" from across the McD's playground. Yes. Fortitude, courage, WWII and all that. But what about when little Churchill is getting chased home from school, dodging pine cones every day because his fellow 4th graders don't dig the historical allusion? Repeat after me new moms and dads--"It's not about me" "It's not about me"
UPDATE: And by the way, what mother would name her son Combustible Boy?
for a linkwhore. That's right. LeeAnn of the Smelly Feet or Cheese-Eating Monkey Boy, or whatever it's called, has actually accused me of profligate, whorish linkage.
Now, everyone knows I'm the world's worst at reciprocating and acknowledging the efforts of my True Fans to send people my way. And I occasionally indulge in a spate of linking when in a guilty red-liquor funk.
Will ANYONE out there who feels I have been a True and Reciprocating Friend speak out?
I thought not. See, LeeAnn, it's not that I'm OPPOSED to linkage, I'm just a very shitty penpal.
so of course I ignored my family and went straight to the computer. Well, The Bride wanted to talk about the MRI on her back, Skeeter wanted to talk about the paper due tomorrow I'd promised to help her with, HEY! It's ten o'clock! I'm tired! And want to blog some. See me at eleven.
At any rate, this was a service review with a Very Important Customer. Whom we have been screwing service-wise along with the others. So imagine my consternation when I walked up to their new offices and there was a sign by the front door: Deliver All Goods in the Rear. Well! I knew these folks were friendly. Didn't know they were kinky, too. So I got it in the rear, but not too bad. I could still technically pass as a virgin, I think. At least to the Prison Crowd.
When The Bride and I named our elder daughter Emily in 1987 we were looking for a nice, old-fashioned name. Nothing trendy, no last name as first name (although we had toyed with the idea of calling her by her middle name, Kendrick, The Bride's maiden name. I killed that). I didn't want my girl to have a trendy name. Or a yuppie-assed, pretentious name. Just a nice, normal, but not obsolete name (Maude, anyone?)
So imagine my disgust when I visited a Census website that proclaims Emily has been the Number 1 most popular name for girls since 1996. EVERY YEAR. That's eight years in a row. How could I have known? Emily was off the radar screen when she was born. The 24th most popular name in the 80's.
Now the poor dear is in danger of having an entire Stepford phalanx of Emilys, all ten years younger than she, marching across the landscape like the dutiful broomsticks with the buckets of water in The Sorcerer's Apprentice.
I didn't wish this on her. I did not want her to become one of a legion of Jennifers (sorry!) or Brittany Nicoles (sorry!) dotting the landscape. I wanted to differentiate her without being a vainglorious boomer shit. Apparently I failed.
Of course, The Bride wanted to name her Kimberleigh, after me. After patiently explaining how I'd fought like a cornered badger my whole life to prove mine was a masculine name, and this would be a capitulation, she relented.
Now I wonder if she was right.
Is this 1964 Monkey Division helmet worth 27 bucks on Ebay? I would attest it's a bargain at twice the price. Can I wear it? No. Can my daughter Caroline wear it? Sure! The value of that to me? Priceless.
In 1981 The Bride and I were in the Zesto's in Little Five Points in Atlanta getting lunch on a Saturday, as my crack house of a first home was about a mile from the Point (in the wrong direction). I believe Jack Straw and Rankin' Rob were with us. We were Seriously Hung Over, having been clubbing the night before. I think it was the Drastics and the Suburban Longs at 688, but I may be mistaken.
At any rate, as our order came up I noticed a man in the line behind us. He was wearing the Midas Muffler uniform of the franchise across the street, and he had no ears. Nada. Zilch. He had two small holes in his head, one of which was oozing some kind of treacle. I have no idea if he could even hear.
Am I having gratuitous sport with this man's affliction? Nope. But whenever I start feeling sorry for myself I think about that poor bastard in Zesto's, and what he had to endure for the previous 40 or 50 years, and I'm ashamed of myself.
I want to make Acidman's Misty Mountain Hop but I may be tied up. I have customers down to the company fish camp in Welaka the 27th to the 30th, and might be committed for an extra day. A real shame if I can't make the scene.
The camp isn't too bad, though. It's actually a two-story corporate lodge on the St. John's River about fifteen miles south of Palatka. We have fishing guides who take you out for the bass. It's about a ten-minute boat ride to the locks that take you into the Rodman Reservoir, the bass capital of the world. The tree-huggers want to tear down the dam that creates the reservoir and restore the natural flow of the river, but that would turn the area from a multi-miilion dollar fishing mecca back into the blighted neckbone swamp it was before they built the dam. Tough call, but I think I'd leave the dam.
My biggest bass there was a lousy five pounder, but I've had customers in my boat pull in a fourteen pounder. THAT is a fish. I once had an alligator breach like a sub on emergency blow ten feet from my boat. He had a bass, about an eight-pounder, in his mouth. Bit it through the middle, snapped left to get the head portion, snapped right to get the tail portion, then hit the water on descent. Scared hell out of me. He was about twelve feet long. A mean beast.
We used to have a fishing lodge in Boca Grande as well, with a 32-foot Blackfin and some inshore boats. Boca's where the Bush fellows wet a hook every year. Some coworker asshats burned it down about three years ago whilst cooking breakfast at midnight while drunk. Bastards. This is tarpon country, but I never went in May when the tarps were running. I did bust 32 drum and snapper once, though, in a single day.
The Boca lodge was beautiful. It had a four star kitchen with a Greenbrier chef on call. The manager had the best job in the world. He'd run the Boca lodge from January to May, then take a month off, then run our Grand Teton Lodge in Jackson Hole, Wyoming from July to November. After the Boca lodge burned we sold it off for condos, then sold the Grand Teton to the Vail Company. Shit.
So I'll be doing some fishing and drinking and ass-kissing, but with luck I can peel out and head north to the mountains. THAT'S where you want to be at the end of October.
Laura is still in England. I hope she's having a good time. I wonder what she got me? If she's stumped for ideas, here's my family tartan:
I believe Harrods carries it. Scarf, kilt, boxers, or codpiece. I'm easy.
has hit the 400,000 hit mark. Go help him reach half a millie.
How many times have you read or heard or seen a story about horrendous events that includes the phrase "...had stopped taking their medication..."?
Just asking. I seem to hear it a lot these days. Along with the phrase "...became pregnant again..."
In my experience, one does not "become" pregnant. One "gets" pregnant. Active versus transitive.
I am the God of Hellfire! KNEEL before your Master, Stumpjumper! Show me flesh, you brazen blogdom strumpets! Behave, and you may be my sex slaves! Until I bleed you out!
Oh, blood will flow, and I will Rule you weak people! I will slather the stage with the foul blood of the pretender Marilyn Manson. I have pieces of dogflesh in my beard! My breath is the necrotic stench of ripped rat flesh and kippers!
Kneel before the Master, and I may spare your carcass my full wrath. I may even make you the victim of honor in my next video, a snuff-film I call Resurrection Song of the Vampires!
Bow, fools, and Worship the Master.
Here's an uplifting story from this morning's Times-Union:
An 18-year old Mandarin woman was arrested Sunday on a charge of resisting an officer without violence after she refused to give him the radio-controlled model car she was driving through traffic in the 4300 block of Sunbeam Road, police said.
Police said a passing officer saw the woman piloting the remote-control car in and out of traffic on Sunbeam Road and Genna Trace at 11:56 a.m. and got on his public address system to tell her to stop. The woman waved assent as the officer drove off, but a quick look in his rearview mirror saw the toy car back between traffic. The officer went back and told the woman to hand over the toy car, but she refused and tried to walk away with it, police said. When the officer grabbed the remote control, the woman pushed him away and started cursing and threatening him. The officer called for backup, and the woman was arrested. The toy car was confiscated, police said.
I'm watching an A&E special on Paul McCartney playing Russia for the first time ever back in May. Red Square. Some interesting background interviews with citizens, talking about how important the Beatles were to them in the dark days of Brezhnev. Paul has the same line up I saw in Lauderdale last year. And I have to say, having been a Lennon fan for almost 40 years, I love Paul. Sure, he squandered his talents on occasion. No, he was never a Genius, or Serious Artist. And yes, he glommed onto the Eastman Westchester WASP scene with vigor, but underneath it all he's still a great songwriter, a fantastic singer, and a true fucking rock and roller.
And watching Sir Paul play Red Square instead of watching that fat fucking loser Billy Joel playing Back In The USSR ten years ago was a thrill.
(Here's the part where V-Man loses it and goes off on a tangent - Ed.)
Billy Joel. Never has a dime traveled so far, or returned such investment to its serendipitous holder. I got thrown out of the bar at the Polynesian Hotel in Disney World in 1978 for heckling the performer because he wouldn't play anything but Billy Joel. I'm not proud of it. Performing is hard work, and you're hanging your hide on the line, and you don't need that shit from anybody. Bu the fact remains after several requests from me that cocksucker still wouldn't play anything but Billy Joel.
Fuck Billy Joel. Cause I said so.
I've been typing RIP a lot this month. Donald was great. I'm not a big song and dance kind of guy, but Donald and Fred and Gene and Gregory are studs in my book. And Nureyev, Barishnikov, and Godunov. Cosmo Brown dead. Damn.
I finally got the shoe-moulding cut and nailed around the bathroom tile job last night. Today, after some brutal yard work I counter-set the nails and caulked the seams. Tomorrow: I paint it and I'm done. It's always the little finishing parts of a job that drag it out.
This bathroom is going to be so elegant I may have to wheel in a teacart with crumpets and the London Times in the mornings when I'm dropping kids off in the pool. And with the carpeting gone I have great acoustics. I can bestride the throne and do LBJ imitations. Waltuh, take a memo...
Or I can get on with my life and tile the damned kitchen.
The misanthropic Ambrose Bierce finally published his entire Dictionary in 1911, after 20 years of occasional newspaper entries. Then, in his seventies, he went off to ride with Pancho Villa. He did in the twilight of his career what Hunter S. Thompson did in the beginning of his: sought out the most dangerous outlaws in the West and hung out with them. When the Hell's Angels got tired of Thompson they stomped him; when the banditos got tired of Bierce they shot him.
Some of my favorite Dictionary entries:
A gastronome of the old school who preserves the simple tastes and adheres to the natural diet of the pre-pork period.
A place where horses, ponies and elephants are permitted to see men, women and children acting the fool.
One who has so earnestly pursued pleasure that he has had the misfortune to overtake it.
The raw material out of which theology created the future state.
An agreeable sensation arising from contemplating the misery of another.
A nigger that votes our way.
ARAB STREET, THE, n.
The cab driver who took your correspondent from Amman airport to the Hilton Hotel.
Husband, wife, lover, mistress, catamite, or "participating" pet.
I was thinking about Jimson weed yesterday, and how kids ate the seeds in the mid-seventies, and damned if kids aren't still doing it!
While highly hallucinogenic, these things are also very toxic, to the point of fatality. These kids are on life support. My cousin and some of his classmates at Christ School in Asheville ate some in 1975, and he said it was the scariest ride of his life. He woke up in a trashcan.
I always found it interesting that Benjy in The Sound and The Fury was always chewing on Jimson weed. A tale told by an idiot, indeed.
Link via Juan Gato.
if you'll kindly shut the fuck up. JT has a post up about a fast-food experience, and it reminded me of a peeve. I can't stand pulling up to a drive through and being solicited for a combo or other special before I can say a word. It immediately puts me in the position of having to say NO I DON'T before I can order. That's negative marketing. If I want a value meal or a combo I'll tell you. All you have to do is shut your pie hole and listen. DON'T put me in the position of having to answer your stupid question. Now, I may want that special. Then again, I may not. You are NOT going to persuade me to get that special. Why? Because my mind was already made up when I got to the speaker. I KNOW what I want. Don't try to TELL me what I want. And don't make me have to refuse it.
And I realize these people are just doing what they're told. It still pisses me off.
The Baby Jesus Buttplug. Conspicuous Consumption ain't what it used to be.
Found in the Comments section of Wizbang. Of course.
UPDATE: I tracked down Fritz, who linked it. He deserves a place of honor on the blogroll.
I have not done a hallucinogen of any type in 22 years. This is a good thing. I do not react well to LSD, or even the lesser natural mind benders such as mescaline, mushrooms, or peyote. I don't need that shit, and I don't miss it. At all. And yet, whenever I hear Tomorrow Never Knows I have a gut instinct to CALL SOMEONE. And SCORE SOMETHING. I have no idea why. I don't know anyone that would even know anyone who might know where such things could be procured.
It's a knee-jerk reaction, I guess. Why? Again, I have no idea. Maybe it's an Aldous Huxley thing. Mortality's bitter coil. Middle age is the point in life when you SEE the end of the rainbow, and wonder why you wanted to see that in the first place. There lies Styx, and Charon, and the Netherworld. Bony fingers demanding the coins from your eyes for passage.
Seeing your children grow up, and mature, and become cooler than you. That's a bitter nut. So maybe there's a jones for a little journey back to hipness. I don't know.
I DO know I'm glad my kids don't read the Velociblog. The archives will be my record, my gift to them. Like the Phantom Chronicles, non? And I can revisit them at whim.
Maybe not. That's kind of scary.
The Grouchy Old Cripple is leaving tomorrow for his scuba trip in Bonaire, the Dive Capital of the World. Go tell him to
piss off and die have a good time, and don't pork any native wimmen get the bends.
Enjoy your trip, Denny. You earned it.
My cousin died a few weeks ago. I wasn't going to say anything about it, because 1) I hadn't seen him since I was a kid, and 2) it just didn't seem right in this milieu.
But since all but one of his own siblings didn't even show up for his graveside service I thought I'd try to do him some justice. Nota Bene: my sister Belinda and cousins Alicia and Bobbie did go to the service. Good on 'em, because they were it.
I didn't know Pete because, out of thirty something first cousins on my mother's side of the family he was, I believe, the oldest. And I was near the younger end of the trail. He was probably fifteen years older than me, and had left home while I was still crapping my diapers.
Pete had a rough go, I think. All I really know is he ended up being a CIA operative. A black ops specialist. A mercenary. He was indicted by Lawrence Walsh during the Iran-Contra mess for "training right-wing death squads" in Nicaragua. How do I know this? I read it in Newsweek. I like to think he was training Freedom Fighters to overthrow the Sandinista despots.
He walked on the charges, though, and stopped by to visit my mother not long after that. At some point his liver got shot through with Hepatitis C. People like Pete sit on waiting lists for transplants for years. His transplant never came up, but his number did.
RIP, Pete. See you on the other side.
Tom Feeney and Stephen Moore have penned a great article on the rebuilding of Iraq, and how 50% of the oil revenue should go to the U.S. to repay our war debts. Of course, the price in blood can never be repaid, but here's hoping the Iraqis spend the next fifty years kissing our asses and trying to repay it.
There is no reason for the American taxpayer to absorb the cost of this liberation without some recompense. Iraq will have the second largest proven reserves of oil on full pipeline. Payback time.
Feeney and Moore also resurrect the Doctrine of Odious Debt. This was first espoused by Alexander Sack in 1927. The gist? Debts incurred in the process of doing business with a despot are the sole province of the despot, not his nation. And those debts perish with the despot. In other words, France, Russia, and Germany are owed between $100 billion and $150 billion by Iraq. Correction: by Saddam. They chose to do business with a dictator. They funded this cruel tyrant's mad schemes. Now they should get in the back of the line. When America has recouped her costs of liberation, and the Iraqi people are solvent and prosperous, then perhaps we can give these countries a dime on the dollar, or something.
Only one entry tonight: Jonny Quest. Check this picture out:
Dr. Quest cooks up some Ecstasy while the troops look on. And from the looks on their faces this isn't the first batch. Even Bandit looks a little toasty to me.
Little known Jonny Quest facts:
The show debuted only four years after The Flintstones. Damn. Hanna and Barbera had found the stash, apparently.
Tim Matheson did the voice for Jonny. That's right. Otter Stratton.
"Race" Bannon's real first name was Roger. They called him "Race" because of his penchant for miscegenation. And not just Hadji. Watch "Race" interact around Nubian princesses sometime. Bill Hanna and Joe Barbera were a lot of things. Uncool was NOT one of them.
No, I mean literally. In addition to my other lawn woes (which are healing nicely) I have a scabby-assed mole working his way down my driveway edge.
I've given my twenty-two pound cat three days to take out the kufr. He has returned with two baby water moccasins. Which makes me think: why the hell are the cottonmouths so small this time of year? Are they having two litters a season?
It is not to be helped. The cat is off the job. He had his chance. Now it's up to me and my six inch Buck knife, with blood groove. All it takes is a little patience. You can actually see the dirt mound move when a mole gets frisky. Then, ooohhh...unnngh. Remember the German pushing the knife in in Saving Private Ryan? Sssshh, I say. Sssshh.
The only down side is he's under the dirt, and you can't see the look in his beady little rodent eyes when he buys the farm.
Fuck moles. And fuck Tony Randall.
Ever check THIS hotel out? Wow. Seven stars. In Dubai, where infidels get the red-carpet treatment (it was a white carpet, but they stoned some apostates, just for you).
Nekkid women, liquor, all in the heart of Dar-al-Islam. I say we get a blogger party together and go befoul it.
Boy, I hate that concept. Your best friends and family huddle in a room and decide the best thing for your sorry ass is for them to intervene, and save you from yourself. Because you are a menace. To whom? Yourself, of course. Kind of like the Platform of the Democratic Party.
Having said THAT, will someone intervene, and have Acidman fix that bold face error on his site? All the more so because this particular post is excellent. And Rob understands Twain's use of nigger in Huckleberry Finn is not a sin, it's a liberation in the annals of American literature.
Or he could change the whole site to bold face. I actually kind of like it. I don't have to use my cheaters to read it.
UPDATE: That's better. Thanks, Rob.
I should have added C is for Cookie dough. I have 36 pounds of the shit in my freezer. It's apparently the fundraiser item du jour. Three pound buckets of the slag for $11. Twenty flavors. My daughter was WAY too successful selling it, now she has to deliver it.
I like this stuff as much as the next person, but we all know we eat it straight out of the tub. And that just screams Fecal Impaction to me.
Kate has the Letter of the Day kicked off. I'm game:
C is for Coons. And Crosswise, as in Phillip has switched his mug again. It's also for Catherine Zeta-Jones, his Hottie of the Day.
C is for CaughtintheXfire. 'Nuff said.
C is for Clueless. As in, where's my frigging remote?
C is for Caught a break. Not to worry. They'll stone her eventually for eating Pop Rocks when our backs are turned.
C is for Cute. As in Matthew.
C is for Can't Open Lileks. What the fuck?
C is for Can't open Sugarmama. What the fuck?
C is for Cookies. As in, why does my white ass have to pay more for cookies?
C is for Colonials. As in, Laura is a Colonial in Great Britain, and she's Claustrophobic about Crossing the street.
C is for Crap. . And wreaking havoc. And Cussin'.
C is for Caustic wit.
C is for Consternation. Allah is not amused.
C is for Cross-eyed. THAT is freaky shit.
And for the bonus round, unlinked C's: Cossacks Castrate Crazed Chechens' Cocks and Cast their Carcasses into the Caspian. The Russians don't do too many things right, but they deal with Islamofucks pretty well.
The Ten Commandments of Blogging
1. Thou shalt have no life before blogging, except to provide material for thy blog.
2. Thou shalt not make thy blog like any other, either in appearance or style, for the blogging gods are jealous of their godliness. (exception granted for the denizens of Blog*Spot, for they shall be taught the error of their ways).
3. Thou shalt not take the names of more popular bloggers in vain, else they will not link to thee.
4. Keep no day away from thy blog, for that will be the day that a more popular blogger will view thy site and find thy content stale, and all of thy work toward getting a link from them or being added to their blogroll will have been wasted.
5. Honor those more popular who link to thee. Reciprocate their link to thee and populate their comments and/or email with paeans of honor, lest they find thee unworthy and cast thee into outer darkness.
6. Thou shalt not delink one more popular than thee.
7. Neither shall thou link to those that they have delinked.
8. Neither shalt thou post material not thine own without a link to the source.
9. Neither shalt thou take sides in a blog war against one who links to thee.
10. Neither shalt thou covet the traffic of one more popular, nor a place on their blogroll, nor a graphic on their site.
And, as is usually the case with Ten Commandment lists, there is an Eleventh Commandment:
11. Fix thy permalinks and keep them in the best of repair always, for they are the path to traffic (and heaven).
Dean Esmay has a great post on the plight of the Kulaks under Soviet Communism. Massacre on an unbelievable scale. Don't neglect to link to the Soviet Dictionary definition of a Kulak, courtesy of The CounterRevolutionary.
Actor Tony Randall has a fantasy. He dies, and when George Bush and Dick Cheney show up for the funeral they are turned away because the family knows Tony didn't like them.
Not surprisingly, I have a fantasy about Tony Randall's funeral as well. I show up to the wake early, piss in his casket, and leave a bad Thai meal shit on his chest.
Fifty bucks says W doesn't even know who this fucking fart is, or if he does, it's as an anal-retentive teabagger in a shitty TV show.
Fuck Tony Randall.
I had no idea Warren Farrell was running for Governor of Kahleevorneeuh until I read this on NRO. Farrell is the author of The Myth of Male Power, which Jack Straw turned me onto.
A former NOW chapter president, Farrell is no reactionary misogynist. He is a realist, however, and in a series of books has chronicled the evisceration of males, and details how men have always borne the brunt of the shit end of the stick. Hazardous jobs? 99% men. Combat casualties? You betcha. Fucked over in divorces, screwed in child custody cases, beaten up for alimony, cursed with abbreviated lifespans, victims of stress-related illnesses and fatalities, presumptively guilty in rape and molestation cases, the litany is endless.
Read that book. And if you live in California, vote for the guy. Or Gary Coleman. It really doesn't matter who wins that race anyway, no one can fix that abomination, and the Democrats deserve to handle the shitball to the end. So register a vote of conscience.
Visitors from Pathetic Earthlings, and the Carnival. Yes, you were intrigued. Now, you're pissed/disgusted/enthralled. Try the Back button. Or the Archives link. Or E-mail me. I'm very lonely right now. Although I did manage to spirit Ted Williams' head out of the cryo lab, and we're discussing which Arquette sister is
Damn. Lileks lost an entire 1500 word article. A piece of PAID work. And I was bitching about not being able to find a blog about Personal Urination Habits that actually exists on my hard drive somewhere, albeit under a cryptic name like zenscuppernongbite.doc. I'm way too clever for myself when I try to Hide Stuff. And I had Jay, who had me backed up.
Poor James. I wonder what novel Anthony Burgess had to rewrite? Do you suppose A Clockwork Orange was actually about a mill on the floss, and Alex was originally a Marseilles prostitute wearing a crucifix with Sartre nailed to the cross in a twisted post-Anglican mockery of Socialist-Papism?
We'll never know, will we?
That's a picture of one of my personal heroes, Joe Kittinger. Colonel Joe set the altitude jump record in 1960 when he piloted his balloon, The Excelsior III, to 102,800 feet and bailed out. That's almost twenty miles high. Joe broke the speed of sound on the way down. He free fell for four minutes, thirty six seconds.
Still the jump record. What a fucking hoss.
So I figure my rhesus monkey will look like this when he separates from the capsule, only smaller, and at 25,000 feet. Hopefully intact. I like a challenge.
Rocket Jones has great rocketry stuff, obviously. I'm jealous. The only rockets I ever torched were the little Estes bastards as a kid. Although I did run across the site of Robert Goddard's first rocket launch (1926) on a golf course in Auburn, Massachusetts in 1975 while looking for a stray tee shot. Totally serendipitous. THAT was cool.
At any rate, I'm going to re-engage in model rocketry. But I want to make the leap from model rocketry to Mid-Power or High-Power Rocketry.
Yes, I have a goal: before this decade is out, I plan to launch a rhesus monkey into a nice parabolic arc, and bring him down in fewer than four parts.
I'm pretty close to the Cape. I figure a good "O" rocket, a parachute, and a Boston Whaler off New Smyrna Beach and I can conceivably retrieve all of that monkey.
All on a commercial budget. No government funds. It ain't the X-Prize, but it's a start.
I'M pissed. Lucianne.com had an article posted earlier about the dangers of ice cube enemas. Seems a lot of gays are using them to revive their mates from GHB overdoses. Giving them heart attacks in the process.
Now, a story like that has my name all over it. The link is gone, however. Damned Link Nazis. And a quick google took me places I'd rather avoid. First time I've ever been solicited for an ice cube enema.
It got to thinking, though. The night is young, and The Bride is on her third cocktail. Perhaps I'll report, and you can decide.
John Ashcroft spoke today across the street at the Omni. It was part of his Patriot Act Monsters of Suppression World Tour 2003. It was closed to the public, naturally, but I went over anyway. Guess what? No tour jackets. Damn.
I like old John, I think he gets a bum rap from pussies who are too scared to take on a REAL Taliban, but what's with the barbershop quartet bullshit? Hard to trust a man who'll croon Sweet Adeline in a striped jacket with three other men.
UPDATE: You know, I was going to leave it at that, but the more I think of the scurrilous bullshit heaped on this man the more pissed I get. I'm not an Ashcroft fanatic, and I think he's probably a tight ass, but I'll guarantee my old man made him look like John Phillips in the fatherhood department.
In the Baltimore debates John Kerry said
"I see before me people of every creed, every color, every belief, every religion. This is indeed John Ashcroft's worst nightmare here."
Is it just me, or is Laura Ingraham the self-same LARRY Ingraham we used to pop in the ass with towels when he'd talk about "a new conservative paradigm"? Unfortunately, it only dawned on me after a sordid night in Annapolis, Maryland with Ms. Ingraham and a bottle of Cabo Wabo.
It's a coaster ride, I tell ya. This one happened in 1971, when I was a freshman in high school. An explosion at a Thiokol trip flare plant in Woodbine, Georgia killed 34 people. 150 people were seriously injured by flaming magnesium. A HUGE explosion. This was a Very Big Deal at the time. Another Georgia community rocked. But by God there was a war on.
Today sucked, of course, because it was a work day. But it was a stroll in the park compared to Monday. Here's a typical Monday:
8:00 - Special meeting. Got in early. Delayed till 8:30. Nobody told anybody. Somebody owes me 30 minutes of my life.
9:30-10:30 - International Staff Meeting. I'm the impresario for this one. Fire up the troops. LET's GET THE BOOKIES! (what's THAT from?)
11:00-12:15 - Commercial sales call/meeting. I daydream through most of this one. I'm only the impresario during influenza pandemics.
3:45-4:45 - Advanced anti-trust training. Almost as exciting as basic anti-trust training was. I realize it's important, but it's drier than Bea Arthur at a Chippendale's show.
So I start my weeks on Tuesdays, a day behind, and significantly more than a dollar short.
NPR (of course) had a bacteriologist on today who had conducted a study exploring how people in different cities compared in the area of public hygiene.
Here's the drill: she (and her cohorts) would hang out in the restrooms at airports and observe the handwashing behavior of the patrons. AND: you didn't get credit for cleanliness unless you scrubbed your hands for a FULL FIFTEEN SECONDS. How did she time you, if she was "acting discreet" in a public restroom? Why, she recited her ABC's under her breath.
I was going to be nice about this, but FUCK THAT LOSER. AND her gnarly grasp on my tax dollars. AND her perverted public restroom stalking games. Did it ever occur to her that some people find the washing facilities themselves unclean?
I always wash my hands after I whizz. I've been known to pour caustic soda or lye on my hands after a particularly ferocious dump. But when I use a public facility of unknown infectious quality I'll take my chances.
In other words, I'll unzip, piss in the general direction of the toilet, keep my hands dry, and stay the hell away from the sink, the soap dispenser, the towel dispenser, the air dryer, and ESPECIALLY that endless roll of handcloth in the endless cycle of smallpox, Ebola Zaire, Marburg, fecal coliform, AIDS, SARS, Hepatitis A, B, and C, gonhorrea, syphilis, tuberculosis, cholera, diphtheria, chalmydia, scarlet fever, yellow fever, dengue fever, disco fever, well, you get the picture.
It's an AIRPORT TOILET. You're going to follow the folks from that flight from Kinshasa into the stall? God knows what kind of foul, fucked up diseases inhabit the fixtures and accoutrements. I'll take my chances with a couple of trouser tracks, myself.
The scary part? Fully 80% of women and 70% of men met this scientist's criteria for full hand-washing. I'll never shake hands with anyone again.
The coaster ratchets back up:
Weeki Wachee is staying open! At least for now. Faced with severe tourist erosion and a serious need for remodeling, the mermaid attraction has been under duress.
I took the girls there about three years ago. My older daughter had wanted to go since she saw The Little Mermaid as a toddler (why do you think my dog was named Flounder? You think I did that?!?)
They had a pretty good show, actually. I'm a sucker for Old Forida, pre-Disney attractions. Taking your kids to Silver Springs or Cypress Gardens (also on the block) or Marineland is not only different, it's got the whole nostalgia thing going for which I am
My big blunder? The girls posed for a pic with one of the mermaids. Fine, except when I developed the pictures the tops of their heads were cut off because I'd centered the frame on Miss Mermaid's Double D's. Oh, well.
My sisters used to cry to go to Weeki Wachee in the sixties when we took our Annual Pilgrimage to Indian Rocks. I don't think we ever stopped. So it was a thrill for me, too. Unfortunately, to make money the previous owners took the outskirts of the natural spring and made a cheesy water slide park out of it. Clear-cutting the trees made the water warmer. And made it harder for me to believe in those mermaids, especially at my advanced age.
Hey, two of the original mermaids from the inaugural 1947 opening season still come to the annual veterans' celebration and do some mermaid stunts. They're in their seventies. That's cool.
That last post got me to thinking about a train derailment in Meldrim, Georgia on July 29, 1959. A Seaboard Coast Line (yeah, I know, shut up) train derailed at the trestle over the Ogeechee River at a very popular swimming hole. Two cars of butane ruptured, covering the water and the swimmers. When it ignited... well, here's a version from trainweb.org:
The Ogeechee River trestle on the SAL's Savannah-Montgomery Division mainline between Effingham County and Bryan County got its infamy in 1959 when two butane gas filled tank cars on a Savannah bound freight derailed just before making it across this trestle. The cars fell to the river bed, the second puncturing the first.
This spot on the Ogeechee was a popular swimming hole due to the shallow waters around the trestle, and a large number of people were there on this day. After witnessing the derailment, people began to leave the area... but not soon enough. The blue vaporous butane gas, leaking from the punctured tank car, slowly spread out across the water until something ingited it.
"It was like looking into an open oven." said one of the survivors.
The death toll rose to 22 before it was over.
Only one of the train's caboose-crew survived.
( The caboose was coupled very close behind where the tank cars had been )
The wreck made WORLD news.
The I.C.C. (now known as the D.O.T.) determined the cause of the derailment to be the excessive summer heat and the passing of the train causing the ties on the trestle to expand, thus causing the wheels of the tank cars to drop between the rails, and eventually bounce off the trestle.
The SAL was not satisfied with the I.C.C.'s findings.
To this day, sheets of metal can be found near the trestle under the sand in the river bed... remnants of the derailed, burnt cars.
Five children were killed up the road in Coffee County, Georgia when the ATV they were riding on was hit by a car. And two of the kids belonged to the volunteer firefighter who responded to the call.
Good God. I'd like to put the parents of the 14-year-old girl who was driving out of their misery. Sure, the car crossed the centerline. But there were FIVE kids on an all-terrain-vehicle made for one adult. On a Highway. Illegally. At night. With no helmets. What the fuck?
This happened near Douglas. I know this area. My Mom was born in Baxley, and later lived in Douglas and Waycross. Shit. A tragedy like this can wipe out a small community.
What were the parents thinking? Did they even know? It was a birthday party, after all.
That's a pretty good roller coaster. Why do I bring it up? Well, scroll down. A picture of an executed murderer followed by some cheesecake pics. Can you say bipolar? I need to get on an even keel, or stay off the fucking coaster. You have to be THIS SANE to ride this ride, bubba (picture a Rorschach inkblot posted at the entrance to the ride that looks exactly like a five-foot Sigmund Freud with Grey Poupon spewing out of his nose, holding a 14 inch dildo with a Lance Hendriksen head on it. NOW you see what I mean?)
For instance, have you ever forgotten to pay your old balance due on your corporate AMEX, then try to pay for your motel, and whoops! Damn. I meant to e-pay that bitch Friday. No problem, really. I just used my personal AMEX. But forgetting sucks. Plus, in about three weeks some pasty-faced Waffen SS goblin from Audit will show up and try to Tourquemada some information out of me.
Just like they did the time I charged a set of tires on the corporate AMEX. Hey, it's not like I tried to expense the damned things. I just figured since my upside-down options aren't even good asswipe I at least deserved 600 Rewards Points. Sheesh.
So, The Hulk. Roller Coaster. Bipolar. Actually, The Hulk is the perfect name for a roller coaster. Hulk being, you know, bipolar and all.
I took this down to clean it up a little, then forgot and went out of town yesterday. Saved it in a word doc actually, and lost it. It should have STAYED lost, but since Jay linked to it I found it on his site. I should put it back up... although his link is screwed now. And there was no cleaning this up. It is what it is:
SITTING TO PEE
Dudes! Ever sit down for a good wizz? No? You're missing out, my friends. Trust me on this one. I Stood To Pee for over 30 years. Now I realize the vanity and insanity in that meme. Consider:
UPSIDE OF SITTING:
No splatter: anywhere. Or, in my case, everywhere.
No "lid left up": your significant other won't have to chew you out over this, ever again.
No handprints on the wall: if you're like me, you tend to LEAN on shit, or over shit. Done with that.
You can doze: ever try that in the upright? Doesn't work, does it? Try sitting for a pee. Dudes, you can spend the NIGHT in there.
Clean feet: I don't even need to go there, do I?
DOWNSIDE OF SITTING:
If you have a little pecker (which none of us do) you can actually piss though the gap between the lid and the bowl and soil yourself. This has never happened to Velociman, of course. Recently. Reference: "You can doze".
Sit down, boys. Take a pee. Relax. Enjoy that pee. Who cares if you look like a girl while you're doing it?
P.S. If you want the original comments, you can see them here. Thanks, Jay.
Sometimes a headline just screams "Read Me!"
Acidman on bionic dicks, busting a jism-free nut, and dog-style sex. In other words, the tender side of Rob, which we don't see enough of.
Watching Sonic Youth with Wilco on Soundstage. Not bad stuff. Sometimes insomnia is our friend.
Yes! I have issues. And obsessions. Aren't you jealous? You should be. See, I DREAM about Jayne. All the time. As a gentleman I will not discuss nocturnal emissions, except to admit they occur.
Jayne was so misplaced. She was ten years ahead of her time. No way she could compete with Marilyn, and Warhol could have made her the greatest star of all time. Yowzuh. And yowzuh again.
I've been watching this show recently. As a kid in 1969 it seemed very cutting edge, very avant garde, etc etc. Bullshit. It is crap. Every lame sixties cliche is represented. Even Leo Kern as a Laughing Jackass. Walking down a cave tunnel lined with jukeboxes all playing "All You Need Is Love". Jabbering monks. Hysteria. Channel One's idea of Revolution Number 9. Fuck it. This show blows. Blew. Blown. Whatever. Even the Capturing Bubble is lame.
I swear I went down this path before, but a desultory scan of my archives turns up nothing, so here we go:
In that world that was 1979-1980 Atlanta, the Limelight was THE PLACE TO BE. The hottest discoteque on the East Coast. When Studio 54 was shut down over tax issues the glitterati jet-setted to Atlanta to party at the Slimelight. Even the parking lot was twisted. Peolple fucking left and right, popper capsules littered the ground.
I had a pretty good "in" there. A few mates and I had them sponsor our law school intramural football team. Got fancy T-shirts and everything. On Fridays they let us in for free. The cover charge back then was about $12, which was huge. They had a pulsating dance floor with a shark underneath it in a tank. They originally had a tiger, but the ASPCA raised holy hell over the noise, and they replaced it with the shark. They had coke rooms with mirrored tables, and huge speakers you could climb upon and dance. The stairways were lined with alcoves with live models in ski wear and beach wear. Think about that: live models. Paid to affect a pose for 8 hours.
Every Friday we'd show up and claim we'd won our game and they would let us in for free (one can never have too many law students on retainer). One night a fat guy fell off the speakers and crashed through the dance floor. Missed the shark tank by two feet.
Those were crazy days. Punk rock, bulletproof alibis, cocainum. Used to go in there whacked on acid and do lines to straighten up! We used to carry dildoes in our back pockets. Why? I don't know! Can't believe I got out of there alive. Every month or so I scrub extra well in the shower for good measure, and shake my head.
in the pirate thing: I jolly rogered you, didn't I? Well, this guy triggered it. There. A Scapegoat.
Georgia gave away a shot at the national championship today with a lethargic performance against a tough LSU team. Three missed field goals from the normally rock-solid Billy Bennett, 8 dropped (and I mean dropped) passes, a dropped interception on LSU's 15, fuck a duck. I had to lay that sod today, but with Florida-Tennessee on, then the Dawgs, I didn't lay that shit till 7 PM. It's all withered now. Like my Dawg Pride.
Peoria Pundit has a pic up that damn near shattered my corneas.
If there IS a heaven, for me it will consist of a Coastal Empire Fair midway set-up, where I get to throw kiwis at Gallagher, Carrot Top, and that Buster Poindexter fucker. From four feet away.
One post will generally lead into another, right? That last one got me to thinking about Grady Stiles, Jr: Lobster Boy. Fourth-generation circus mutant who was a Very Mean Fucker. Finally gunned down in his home in Gibsonton ("Gibbtown") in 1992. That is the freak area near Sarasota I was talking about. A Great Story.
Have you ever been to a small circus? Most of us have been to the Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey extravanganza, but I mean a little one. Like Allen C Hill's. One ring in a sawdust parking lot.
I love these things. The talent is generally questionable; trained dogs and albino pythons are the norm. But where else in America can you find such unadulterated entertainment? A troupe of 20 or so people, living on the fringes of society, carnies, really, with all the baggage that carries with it, doing 60 or 80 shows a year to please your kids. One bounced Rotarian check away from insolvency. No Sarasota winter digs where you at least find a family within your own tawdry inner circle. Just a loose-knit band of fellow travelers with an aversion to the 9 to 5, and a talent of some sort bordering on the freakish.
Imagine running the refreshments concession for one of these circuses. A rusted out soda pop machine, some weevilly candy, a popcorn machine that hasn't had the old lard scrubbed out of it in two years. Clearing, what? 20 grand a year? Who knows? I doubt these folks are tight with the Treasury Department.
Yea, verily, I think these people are the real urban cowboys. Not truckers or bikers. Driven by the urge to entertain that is as old, and as crass, as civilization itself. No safety net. No insurance. You and an audience that has a thousand better things to do with their money than spend it on your crapshoot.
Old Sparky misfired a bit when Allen Lee Davis was executed here in 1999. One of the reasons I prefer electrocution to lethal injection. And lest you think I'm being gratuitously violent, I DIDN'T show the pic when the juice is flowing, his face is purple, and the blood is shooting out of his nose. THAT one came with a Stern Warning About Linking from the Supreme Court of Florida.
indeed! Allah is back in the house! And this kufr is ashamed for questioning Allah's pecuniary motives. As we all know, Islam condemns usury.
You know, Velociman looks far and wide for interesting (and titillating) Stuff for his Beloved Readers. And you would think the Russ Meyer ouvre would supply a fecund wealth of pics. But, surprisingly, the well is pretty dry in this respect. Any pics I find of Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! (1966), Mudhoney (1965), and Supervixens (1975) are pretty cheesy.
But take heart. Here's a tidbit: Mr. Liberal Touchy-Feely Critic Guy Roger Ebert co-wrote the screenplays to Up! and Beneath The Valley of The Ultra-Vixens! That's great perv. My hat's off to the guy. And all is not lost. Here is a pic for you, my (mostly female) fans:
Love slaves for sale, indeed. This ain't Russ Meyer, but this is the sort of thing my Dad gave me when I was like 7 so that I didn't grow up to be a cake boy. And I sacrifice my bandwidth for you guys like a little goat on a bloody slab of granite.
Uppity-Negro has the pirate meme working, including a reprise of Pussy, King of the Pirates. Check it out, as they say.
I just realized my friend Stevie is a MuNu. And I wasn't even invited to the pinning ceremony.
A Nostalgia entry. What the Hell happened to slot cars? They were big deals when I was a kid. At one point they had slot car hangouts, like pool halls, where you could go run your cars on huge layouts.
My guess is Hot Wheels killed off slot cars in the late sixties. They were cheaper, and would do whorish tricks like loops without having to deal with transformers and wires. Plus they had great vehicles. Hot Wheels. Those bastards!
I have a model train set (naturally) that I set up once and boxed away. Takes up too much space. Plus, if you can't derail them, blow them up, and otherwise destroy them like Gomez Addams what's the point?
Update: Apparently slot cars are still around. The fans are now in their late forties and still live with Mother.
Did you ever catch the full story of Donut Girl at Jay Solo's? Now you can. Wasn't she on Twins Peaks?
Kevin at Wizbang has his Weekend Caption Contest up. It's a bleeding ear-penis theme this week!
Sugarmama explores unusual names for newborns. I liked Jaxon, as in our team mascot Jaxon De Ville. Of course, I generally stay the fuck out of first name ridicule discussions.
Rocket Jones gives some background on Wizbang's Med-Dick-Sa plate.
Serenity has a post on a rather accessible puppy that made me long for my Invisible Woman model. God, I used to love to fondle her kidneys and lower GI tract.
Single Southern Guy recaps the Arkansas-Texas game. I just want to know where I can get one of those latex wearable Razorback heads smoking the cigar.
Gooberbug is scaring me again. Like, why can't I exit her site? It's like a porn site! Or that Chainsaw Massacre house! Gotcha now, Velociman!
I wasn't going to say a thing about Talk Like A Pirate Day, but this is too damned funny...
Here's a pic of My Main Man Randian the Human Torso, from Freaks:
Am I mocking this man? No way. Randian could not only roll his own cigarettes with his tongue, lacking limbs, he sired five children. No doubt a result of his abilities with that tongue.
One can persevere. One can overcome. This man belies the bullshit that one is constrained by one's circumstances. For every black person (sorry, I don't do hyphens) that feels the need for a reparations check I ask you: are you better off than this man?
I worship Randian.
Been meaning to add this guy....
He Rags, He Rants, he's full of shit. Perfect. He'll get on the next roll.
My earlier post reminded me of my post-grad days at Emory. The Bride and our friends used to eat lunch at the cafeteria at the Centers For Disease Control. Why? They had a good chicken salad, and since The Bride was a radiologist at the dental school next door it was convenient. Plus, it was pretty shaky having lunch in a place where you knew they had Legionnaire's Disease, smallpox, polio, several bizarre strains of venereal disease, cholera, scabies, the 1918 La Grippe, Bubonic Plague, and diphtheria mutating under little petri dishes. Of course, if I had known at the time they were trying to identify a strange virus that was decimating the gay community but couldn't get a handle on I probably would have eaten at Jaggers Pizza.
After lunch we would go to the Yerkes Primate Center because a good friend had a part-time job feeding the monkeys. That place was straight up research, but they had a few rooms NOBODY went into without a National Security Agency pass. Strange shit going on there. They had an amazing number of species of primates there, though. Chimps, gorillas, orangs, bonomos, capuchins, macaques, Gibraltars, you name it. They Had Apes.
They all acted like Democrats. Shit in your own space, pick it up, and throw it at someone else.
Much rejoicing over Berke Breathed's return to cartooning. Better hold up, though. He's not bringing back Bloom County. He's not even bringing back Outland. He's bringing back Opus the Penguin, your left shoulder Conscience. Period. Which tells me something. He's not doing this to be Relevant, or Provide Serious Commentary. Hell, no. He's bringing back his Franchise. His Bread and Butter. His Meat and Potatoes. HIS FUCKING MERCHANDISING TOOL. That's all.
If Berke were serious about this he'd bring back a Bill the Cat cartoon. (Ack!)
Here's the way I parse it: Fast and Furious Syndication, followed by Major Money. Lots of people say Bloom County was not derivative of Doonesbury. Bullshit and smell my taint meat. Of course it was derivative. Garry Trudeau can kiss my cracker ass, but he created and perfected that genre, and has nurtured it and kept it alive for over 30 years. Everything Breathed did ripped him off.
So Breathed got Rich Quick, and Invested Heavily. Retired, and watched his money. Then, being heavily invested in tech stocks, he took a beating in the late nineties with everyone else. Now his Good Life is catching up to him, so he's resurrecting his Cash Cow. Don't get your hopes up. Most of this shit has probably been written for two years, so don't expect relevance.
Allah rejoices in making the Zionist rag The Hill.
Kate waxes eloquent on "power sausage" (hey, you have to read it!)
Kelley is glad the Japanese are helping us in Iraq, as am I. My only caveat? Don't take them up on their offer to operate "Guantanamo II" on the Bataan Peninsula.
Acidman is crafting an Appalachian Satyricon. Hmm, that's right in Kelley's backyard, almost.
The Grouchy Old Cripple has devised the Ultimate Pay-Per-View in a blog for the ages. I would like to see Jimmuh strapped to Yasser, though.
Sama's guest blogger is almost as big of a dickhead guest blogger as me! I like him!
Zombyboy tells us something I've been waiting over thirty years for...
Possumblog is flirting... and using RIBS! That's not fair. Use Spanish Fly or something, man. Ribs are below the belt.
Dax spent his day off... reading blogs. Never done that!
Joanie explains emus and flight. Which reminds me. I signed a contract on a house here when I first moved. The day before closing I realized the farm behind me was an emu farm, and my new next-door neighbor had recently retired from my company and wanted to know ALL the gossip. Walking away from that was the best grand I ever lost.
Margi is slutting for her 20,000th hit. Go Help Her. Now!
Dawn has a pleasant story of "protein" bars. THAT is why I'm a carnivore.
Backstage picks Argghhh! as his new blog in the Showcase. Lots of pre-Oscar buzz for Argghhh!
David has solved "The Wesley Problem" once and for all, I believe.
McGeehee has a Kevin roundup. How fucking elitist is that?!? Pretty clever, though. And you left off Kevin Arnold, dude!
Bogie has added a random updated site feature. She's going to regret that when the Shitmummy.com traffic starts heading her way!
It's always good to see Phillip buck his party at the border. Velociman approves of Free Thinkers. And Free Linkers. And Free Drinkers.
Dizzy-girl has issues with an e-mail prankster. All I'm going to say is, Atrios did it.
Geoffrey jumped right into that school lunch brou-ha-ha. Good for him. As for me, I'm sitting this one out. I'm no pussy, I just haven't made up my mind. I pay for my kids' lunches, but after the hundreds of dollars in shake-downs the schools put me through maybe those assholes SHOULD be feeding my kids. I'm leaning towards giving the free lunches away, but making the kids that get them wear a piece of lettuce pinned to their shirts were the yellow star would go.
Mr. du Toit peels the onion back on his Shit Hits The Fan Bag. Always exciting stuff to me.
Dean Esmay weighs in on Ashcroft and the Patriot Act in fine form. For more on the psychotic over-inflated sense of self-worth of the Library Sciences crowd check out The Corner.
My buddy Janice has the round up on Hurricane Blogging. A fine PSA, if I say so myself.
Mr. Helpful Radio is here! Fucking Ada. Just when I was about to write off the human race. We also get treated to his review of Matchstick Men. Be forewarned.
Laura at Oysters and Pearls explains how cool it is to have a Conservative Daughter. My 10-year-old is so enamored of W she's plotted out her undergraduate degree, law school, and her first Congressional race. Huzzah!
Primal Purge has the goods on Miss Wisconsin 2003. And yet I still want to party with Miss Cello.
Ack! I've left a few off, but I have 20 steaming pieces of sod in the Blazer looking for a home. Must. Do. Real. Work.
By now you're probably familiar with the study at the Yerkes Primate Center at Emory. To wit,
The team taught brown capuchin monkeys (Cebus apella) to swap tokens for food. Normally, capuchins were happy to exchange their tokens for cucumber. But if they saw their partner getting a grape - which is more coveted by capuchins - they took offence.
Some refused to play, others took the cucumber but refused to eat it. The animal's umbrage was even greater if the other monkey was rewarded for doing nothing. They did more than sulk, sometimes throwing the food out of their cage.
The idea of fair play and justice was probably invented by monkeys 40 million years ago...
And that's why monkeys and union activists share a common trait - both are prepared to go on strike for equal pay.
In the first experimental demonstration of its kind, scientists have shown how capuchin monkeys get annoyed when they fail to get a fair deal, and will down tools if they see another capuchin get paid more for the same job.
Researchers have long recognised the sense of fairness within the human species, and a propensity to go on strike.
But this is the first study to confirm this trait in non-human primates - brown capuchin monkeys - and the first to show animals are capable of recognising unfairness...
These emotional reactions are akin to those which underpin economics. "The sense of fairness underpins co-operation and other economic decisions in humans," she said.
Tony reviews the new 6.3 megapixel Canon EOS Digital Rebel, a true digital SLR for a street price under a grand. Very nice.
Sorry. AGAIN I regress. But I exist to touch those festering topics no sane person would touch in my stead. Consider me the wet leprosy of the blogosphere.
Remember Joe Savage? Probably not. He had a touring band that played the South, and Lord knows where else, in the early eighties. His schtick? He looked like a 35-year-old Telly Savalas in Sophia Loren's make up. His wife played with him, and she was a leather-clad hot thing.
Joe's gig was to play a bar, and after passing around a bottle of Jack Daniels', pouring it into the crowd's gaping maws while singing "Free Booze", he would then pull out a chain saw and CUT YOUR TABLE IN HALF. Literally. That was fun, especially if you were with people who'd never seen it.
Joe had a limited repertoire, with highlights being Neil Diamond's America and the aforementioned Free Booze.
Joe had a feline that was half manx and half bobcat. It mauled a little girl in Savannah about 1984 and Joe was banned from the city forever.
Joe Savage. Why do I remember shit like this? Allah must be punishing me.
See this film:
I'm ashamed. As a dedicated feminist enabler I cannot believe I haven't seen the ultimate Chick Revenge Flick. Things just always got in the way, I suppose. I'm going to rectumfy that this weekend. Scout's Honor.
Kevin at Wizbang has some excellent advice on how to get a post from Glenn. I think it's spot on. Of course, never having had one, my thoughts are pretty cheap here.
I also tend to eschew linkage of this sort because I'll never be satisfied with the quality of my work, so why advertise that fact?
Then again, blended puppies and sech get linked there, so what the hey.
I really need to get topical on this site if I'm going to retain my handful of Loyal Visitors. Lay off the Old Stuff and Nostalgia.
SO: in 50 words or less, how exactly does General Wesley Clark remind you of Angel Eyes?
Have you been to Carnival #52? It's the First Anniversary! And Bigwig at Silflay Hraka, the Carnival's creator, hosted. Wheels within wheels! Go visit.
Revel, as well, in the fact that, although I don't participate often, this is the first time my entry has driven my site numbers DOWN. I suppose I should enter that post in Kevin's Bonfire Of the Vanities. It obviously sucked.
Funny thing about the Blogosphere. You throw something up that makes you weep with mirth, you're so pleased with yourself and your clever wit, and it's greeted with, at best stunned silence, at worst calumny and rage. Then you throw up a bullshit piece of tripe about, oh, Humpty Hump, and months later you're still getting comments from Mongols and Uzbeks.
Yeah, I know I border on obsession with The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly on this site, but so what? At least I'm fixating on a film Kurosawa would have given both nuts to make. That means something, I think; and whoever mentions three guys in a three-way with their six-inchers in their hands is gonna be banned from here with extreme prejudice.
The question? Ah, yes. How many crimes was Tuco convicted of? Hard to say. The first hanging is pretty straightforward:
"Wanted in fourteen counties of this State, the condemned is found guilty of murder, armed robbery of citizens, state banks, and post offices; the theft of sacred objects, arson in a state prison, perjury, bigamy, deserting his wife and children, inciting prostitution, kidnapping, extortion, receiving stolen goods, selling stolen goods, passing counterfeit money, and contrary to the laws of this State the condemned is guilty of using marked cards and loaded dice..."
"Wanted in fifteen counties, standing before us, ah, sitting before us, Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez, has been found guilty by the District Circuit Court of the following crimes: murder, assaulting a Justice of the Peace, raping a virgin of the white race, statutory rape of a minor of the black race, derailing a train in order to rob the passengers, ... robbery, highway robbery, robbing an unknown number of post offices, breaking out of a ..., counterfeiting and passing counterfeit money, and the accused... promoting prostitution ...high places of authority... illegal postal pick up... intention of selling black fugitive slaves... the sheriff in Sonora... hired himself out as guide on a wagon train, after receiving his payment in advance, he deserted the wagon train in the hunting grounds of the Sioux Indians... misrepresenting himself as a Mexican general in order to receive a salary and living allowance from the Union Army..."
and names former Congressman Gary Condit as murderer.
The Chandra X-Ray Observatory has actually heard a black hole speak.
The orbiting observatory, named for slain Congressional intern Chandra Levy, picked up the faint signals from a black hole located in Rock Creek Park in suburban Washington, D.C. The same black hole, in fact, that the intern's body was discovered in.
NASA engineers had to computer-enhance the message, which was garbled by a layer of hot air hovering over the capital, but finally released a transcript today.
Said Weems Stovall, a spokesman for the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena, California, the message read:
"Gary did it. That cocksucker."
Here's an interesting take on Rolling Stone, c. 2003. I couldn't agree more except for the fact I quit reading it in 1982. That, and the fact that Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen are America's Favorite Fantasy. Well, Don Henley's and Roman Polanski's, anyway. Of course, they're a little long in the tooth for those fellows now.
Link courtesy of Jim Treacher.
That's prison lingo for chicken. At least in the South. Just thought you'd want to know. No charge for this lesson in Correctional Argot.
I like Neil Cavuto. For a wussy-looking fellow he can get down and dirty in the trenches with the rest of 'em. And I like his take on this ruling by that kangaroo-court of an appellate panel of the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals:
The ACLU and other sympathetic left-wing groups won. But the trouble is, I didn't see the ACLU protesting these chads a year ago, when Governor Davis won his second term.
There were no cries then of foul play, no shouts then of social injustice and no protests then over punched ballots.
Hanging chads didn't make a difference then. Even though they made up more than half the ballots. No one said a peep then. But, suddenly they make a difference now.
Voters were just as likely disenfranchised then. It matters that they're potentially disenfranchised now?
Ballots were thrown out then. Suddenly it matters if ballots are thrown out now?
I thought Joni had finally posted her pic on her site. Turned out to be a Charlize Theron skin. That's okay, though. It's still Joni to me.
The Honeymoon Killers is out on DVD! A fine piece of cinema, starring Tony Lo Bianco and Shirley Stoler. 1969. Black & white. Soundtrack is all Gustav Mahler. A Cult Classic, if you consider my family to be a cult. Although he's more reknowned for new movies, I should send a copy to Mr. Helpful for a full-blown review.
I don't like the new ad picture, however. I like the old one.
UPDATE: Who says I don't take care of my readers? Da Goddess wanted quality pop-ups instead of my cheesy pics, so there ya go.
I normally don't discuss politics here too much for the same reason I don't discuss abortion: because 1) I'm not going to change anyone's mind anyway, and 2) opinions are like the proverbial assholes, and mine stink more than most.
However, I really thought the "Peace Process" was actually moving forward when the Israelis openly discussed not only exiling Arafat, but, indeed, killing him. Now THAT'S progress. This stump-toothed fuck has never paid the price for the Munich Olympic Massacres, to start with, and he has the blood of hundreds of more innocent victims on his hands. He is an unrepentant murderer. Period.
Of course, the
Palestinians Jordanians acted like the 8-year-olds they always do when they poured out en masse to PROTECT THEIR FEARLESS LEADER! Like the Israelis were going to pick him up that day. These people are seriously retarded. A culture of date-harvesters and goat-fuckers. Scared to death of their own women, so they stone them and honor-kill them. And convince them to be suicide assassins. Nice going, boys. At least send them over here. I could get a pretty good stable of "exotics" working for me. I'd even give them health insurance.
Israel should give the West Bank back to Jordan. Make them deal with these loose cannons. That's where they came from in the first place.
And kill that necrotic bastard Arafat.
I'm done now.
I was going to fisk Molly Ivins' latest screed, just because it was a classic study in diversion, dissembling, and demagoguery. But how could I possibly dissect it better than the Grouchy Old Cripple?
Now the tired old middle-aged slut Madonna is writing children's books. And of course, being in her faux English stage, she's trying to rip off Prince Charles and Sara Ferguson in style and form. Who pays attention to this skank? Who buys her books? (Uh, sorry Joe-Boy; I know you bought at least two copies of Sex).
Is there an ever-renewable demographic of 13 and 14 year old girls buying into her Bad Scene for a full generation and then some? My daughters are hip; they would never buy into Madonna's smelly old game. Of course, don't ask me about what they DO listen to. It mostly involves gyrating, ho-mama stud-hoss ganstas, but that's okay, because it ISN'T MADONNA!
I hear she practically had to hold the Glock to Britney and Christina's heads to make them tongue her at the MTV awards. Desperate, oh so desperate for relevance. So sad.
At least she kept her clothes on for this book. I don't need to be reminded her carpet doesn't match her drapes.
Kelley has 115 links in her Cul-de-Sac this week. Good Lord. THAT is a fine woman with steel fingers and a Mission. I'll be up till two AM reading all these! Or I can save a few for tomorrow. Sweet. Her CdS's are like stumbling across the Money Pit.
This poster by the name of, um, fuckface left this comment today on a post about Humpty-Hump from, well, way back when in July:
fuck humpty hump, he is, was-no wait he wasnt cuz he never wuz NOTHIN. PIECE of shit big shilok nose havin stupid mothafucka. and fuck yall cocksuckazzzzzzzzzzzzz. im out, paaaaace!
Looks like Isabel will miss me, but you never know. Gee, I think Wilmington is due for another hurricane. They're supposed to get two a year, by my reckoning.
In-laws leaving tomorrow, been here since Friday morning. I have been an absolute DEAR! An angel, even. I didn't curse at either one of them this go 'round, didn't get polluted and expound on my worldview (look: I have a 27 year relationship with these people; since I was a teenager dating their daughter. It's Kabuki Theater, to be sure, but it's also Tradition at this point).
Folks, I even played with their little snot-nosed Yorkie. Hell, I babysat her for two days while everyone else went shopping. They left her penned in, and she yipped and yapped and screeched and whined until I took her out and played with her.
I've been a damned saint. Of course, finishing the tile job took a lot of the pain off. Grouted yesterday, clean-wiped today, I'll be sealing and shoe-molding tomorrow. And such an excellent job. I'm really proud of this shit. I usually cut a corner or two. Not this time. By the book. Better than professional grade, because I clean up after myself.
Must be the new meds.
Acidman is dealing with a troll or trolls with his usual class and wit. Bringing Ms Elva into it was beyond contemptible. I'm ready to stomp the living shit out of someone, and I have the time and wherewithal to do it.
By Zeus, this show sucked. Everything about this show sucked. Why do I hate it so? Ask my shrink, Dr. Bacardi. I don't know. Perhaps it was Gabe Kaplan's horrid Groucho Marx imitations. Perhaps it was Gabe's lame-assed attempts at young hip relevance. Perhaps it was Washington's pseudo-urban cool. Perhaps it was the weak writing, and one-dimensional characters.
Actually, I think it was the theme song. John Sebastian is the anti-cool, right? Didn't he narc on his bandmates? The ultimate sin.
Couple that with the fact it's an A-One pussy song, and he's an A-One pussy dude, and you get:
A syndication franchise.
When I was about 6 my father bought about 300 acres up in north Effingham County at a place called Griffin Lakes. Or Griffin's Lakes. Depended on how much hooch that particular sign painter had slammed at the time. He built a weekend cottage up there. Three years later (1966) he expanded the cottage into a full blown two story house, and off we went. To the country.
Griffin Lakes was a strange place. It was actually three lakes. The first lake was apparently natural, a bog of stumps and snakes. Perfect bass haven. And I suppose at some point someone got the idea of taking advantage of the natural gradient of the land to cascade this lake into two more, water flowing downhill. So this entrepeneur (Mr. Griffin?) dug out a second lake and dug a ditch to drain Lake Number One into Number Two. This was probably the thirties or forties, maybe early fifties. This lake sucked as well. Never got all the stumps out. When you cut off trees at ground level the stumps eventually rot, and pop up.
Hence Lake Number Three. This one was done right, in its own manner. No stumps, a spillway fed it from Lake Number Two, and it was big enough I actually learned to water ski in it. But you always got out of that water with a brown algae film on you. Nasty. But poor white trash would actually vacation there. Pull up their campers and spend the week. Take a bar of soap into the lake and warsh up.
Old Man Butler built a little convenience store on the shore of Lake Number Three. He also had an old bus that was a rolling grocery. Very Okie. I bought my first pack of cigarettes at Butler's when I was ten. No, I didn't smoke them. I fed them to our mule Myrtle (my MOM'S mule Myrtle. My Dad was very generous when it came to gifts. He gave my mom a tractor for Christmas that year). The cigs were Lucky Strikes. Myrtle loved tobacco, but hated filters.
People actually built houses around the lakes and lived there. Still do. That must have seemed like Aspen to these people. On the far side of Lake Number Three the land dropped off a bit. That was the garbage dump. Got that? A fucking garbage dump, with rats and vermin and shit. We dumped our garbage there twice a week. Just kicked it down the slope. Fuckin' A.
Where was Griffin Lakes? Why, halfway between Tusculum and Egypt. Just down the Hogpen Road. Everybody knew that. And in its time, Griffin Lakes was the Curacao of the Cornfed. The Tahiti of the Tetched. A strange, strange place, from a long time ago.
I don't know anything abou this shit, but someone once told me if you have injection molding expertise, and the physical plant to produce it, the world is your oyster. Makes sense. Everything within reach of me right now is made by injection molding. If it's plastic, it's IM. China must be full of these factories, spewing out everything from monitor shells to plastic cups to telephones to Mickey D toys. And hey: they have their own trade publication.
Here's a pic of the X-15. The greatest rocket plane ever created. When you were an 8-year-old like me in 1965 you had Mercury/Gemini fever, but you also knew the REAL studs were flying this bastard into outer space and LANDING IT. With that stickie thing between their legs. No splashdowns for these guys. Neil Armstrong was picked to be the first human on the moon because he was such a cool agent flying the X-15. These pilots flew with hydrogen-peroxide thrusters, full compression suits, basically the same thrust as the Redstone rocket. These hosses took the X-15 INTO OUTER SPACE, then TOUCHED DOWN on a runway and WALKED AWAY from those flights, and fired up a Camel. So cool.
Do ANY of the Democratic candidates for President have an alternate gameplan for the War on Terror? More importantly, do any of them even LOOK YOU IN THE EYE when they're talking? I just watched Gephart and Dean on different channels, and these guys mouth platitudes, but they don't have an alternative! ANY alternative. Just mouth the opinion that W ain't doing it right. And they Don't Look You In The Eye. The cardinal sin for a politician, once upon a. They look off in the distance, wistfully. Fuck that crap. If you can't look me in the eye (or the camera, moron) I have to assume you're bullshitting me. You ARE bullshitting me, right?
So all I had to do to finish the tile job was the water closet. Pretty much all straight cuts once I'd worked the doorway. But while disconnecting the shitter the PVC pipe broke off IN THE WALL! What the hell?!? So I had to knock a bit of wall out to assess the damage, then went to the local hardware boys for replacement parts. I wanted to buy the purple pipe glue because it's always done me right, but this hammerhead insisted I needed the Orange variety. For HOT water, he said. I was thinking ain't no hot water in my toilet, but bought it anyway. Fixed everything, and gave that Orange glue 3 hours to set. Now, the purple shit sets in 15 seconds. When I rework my irrigatrion system I KNOW to get it right the first time because this shit sets like Moses' tablets.
Three hours later I tried to connect the toilet hose and it BROKE! Another gusher. Frig me. The Orange glue did not take. Went with the Purple this time and it set like Al Franken in a free-lap-dance tittie bar. Finally. New tile, and I can whiz in there. Although there is a bit of water underneath the tiles, so the WC is off limits till tomorrow.
All this over a one inch piece of PVC. I'm cursed that way.
Johnny was one cool sumbitch. One of the great singers and songwriters of all time. Ring Of Fire works on just about any level you want it to. I never liked Boy Named Sue that much, though, because as a kid when it would come on the radio in the car my Dad would start laughing his ass off and say "That's you, ain't it, boy?" And I would think to myself, No shit, peckerhead. Thanks for the name, and do you mind if I cut off a piece of your ear?
But I never held this against Johnny.
THIS is a bad-assed storm. Cat 5 now. We usually avoid hurricanes here because the coast curves in, away from the Gulf Stream. But I need to refresh my batteries anyway, because one never knows. Hell, even Tomorrow Never Knows.
Water? Check. Battery-operated TV/radio? Check. Propane? Check. Canned Beanie-Weenies? Unfortunately, check. High-powered firearms? Check.
Liquid lye to throw in the face of marauding fiends? Oh, hell yes, check.
But batteries. They go bad, don't they? Must get more batteries.
I've never seen Titanic. Hell, I didn't see E.T. until 1995. It wasn't that great. What's the big deal? The ship sinks, right? I already knew that.
is Yemen has arrested six Saudi members of al-Qaida. The bad news is they're deporting them to Saudi Arabia, where they will no doubt be given the keys to Mecca, a huge cash stipend, and a stern warning to "straighten up and fly right".
Only about 12 pieces of tile in the water closet and this 120 square foot task is done. Then I can blog again. I'm waiting to do these because I have to pull out the toilet, and with the The Bride's parents coming in town tomorrow I want to make sure I have access to this commode.
A beautiful job, if I say so myself, although laying on the diagonal created some serious cutting issues around the doorways. I have a neighbor who swears he makes a hundred grand a year laying tile. He can have that fucking job.
Never forget we're winning this thing.
but the remake of Texas Chain Saw Massacre seems to have potential. R. Lee Ermey plays the Sheriff. 'Nuff said. Well, it also stars Jessica Biel. NOW 'nuff said.
Of course, Herschell Gordon Lewis remade Blood Feast, didn't he? And where did that get us, eh? Why didn't he remake Two Thousand Maniacs? Huh?
Personally, I hate Splatter Gore, and truly loathe teen slasher flicks. What kind of grown man spends several million dollars filming nubile young women getting carved up? But Lewis was blazing new territory in 1963, and as the first of his kind he gets a pass. And TCSM had little gore, mostly suspense, like The Town That Dreaded Sundown. That's different, somehow.
I have a basic Rule Of Thumb when it comes to these things: 1) Do she get naked? 2) Do she get killed? I can handle 1). I don't care for 2). Unless it's P.J. Soles. She was born to die.
I'm ordering that "30 classics" CD set of bluegrass gospel. Not only will I enjoy it, I'll be able to piss off The Bride without saying a word. Given her reaction to "O' Brother Where Art Thou" and the ass-kicking CD from the Oxford American I can only believe I'll be fuck-with-me-free in the Bat Cave for some time. There is a down side to this, of course. I'll be a sex-starved homunculus.
Homunculus: A kind of tiny human; some people believe unformed twins reside in some peoples' bodies as calcified little homunculi. Usage: In 2000 Joe Lieberman transformed from the Conscience Of The Senate into Al Gore's Homunculus.
Heuristic: Nobody really knows what this word means; however it's a powerful word to use when you're in a management meeting and you need to bullshit your way out of a corner. Usage: "I used a heuristic model to explain our chronic inability to deliver for our customers, and the results were enlightening".
Homophobia: This means I don't wake up fearful there's a gay man in bed with me; I wake up fearful I'm a gay man. And there's another gay man in bed with me. Usage: "Homophobia is a mental illness, Father. Now may I have my $300,000?"
Houris: These are the slut ho's the Koran mentions. They are alternately voluptuous, and virginal. Like Britney before The Kiss. They live in Paradise, which means they get back-waxes on a weekly basis. Usage: Atta is not allowed houris.
Hellspike: He was one of the masked freedom riders in Disney's Scarecrow of Romney Marsh. Looked like a dog. The other cool masked one was Curlew. Usage: None, apparently.
That's MY H.
Rob Sama has a great idea aborning: A Barbie Drop over the pindicks in "Saudi" Arabia who think Barbie is a Zionist Strumpet. I'm down with this. If I can get my main man Wolfowitz to let me borrow a C-5 Galaxy (payload: 270,000 pounds) or even a C-141 Starlifter (payload: 68,725 pounds) it would be sweet. Give Rob some feedback on this.
Larry Hovis died yesterday. You'll remember Larry as Sergeant Carter on Hogan's Heroes, but he was also a regular on Gomer Pyle and a writer for Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In. This is a shame, because I always liked Larry. Amiable and affable, he was always willing to subliminate himself to the Masters, like Bob Crane and Frank Sutton.
Let's peel the onion back, however. Did you notice where Hovis had been teaching for the last 12 years? Texas State University-San Marcos. Formerly Texas State Teachers' College at San Marcos. That's right. The alma mater of none other than Lyndon Baines Johnson. And who had the most to gain from the assassination of Jack Kennedy? And whose home state did the deal go down in? Look what else I found:
That's a picture of Hovis taken by a hidden camera in the Cuban Embassy in Mexico City in July of 1963. A sinister Hovis, claiming to be "Lee Oswald" of the New Orleans chapter of Fair Trade For Cuba, demanded to be allowed to defect to Cuba. He later left when he couldn't fill out the paperwork. Meanwhile the real Oswald was at his job in the Big Easy!
Now, I'm no conspiracy theorist, but if that doesn't scream Hovis = Grassy Knoll Gunman you're just being willfully blind! It's as plain as the nose on your face.
Hell, Rowan was probably the fucking bagman. Why else would you have a 10 year stint as a Vegas lounge act with a sadistic headcase like Dick Martin unless you were establishing a heavy-duty legend? Do you think Dan was chain-smoking those Pall Malls with the Cutty Sark shakes because he had the hots for Joanne Whorley? Sure, he was poking her. But he was poking Alan Sues, too. And the CIA knew it, and didn't care. It was part of his legend.
No, Dan was scared David Ferrie and Clay Shaw were coming after him, and for all he knew that "Uncle Al" ditty Sues kept singing was the trigger for a Manchurian Candidate assassin to take him out right there on stage.
The only thing I haven't figured out yet is where Edward Teller fit into all this. He was probably the sex bait for Ruby's bimbos.
So now that I've cleared that up, how about a tip of the hat to Larry "Magic Bullet" Hovis.
B.B. be going through pain. B.B. be checkin' his blood sugah.
Spare me, B.B. That's more blues than I need.
There will be no "reminiscing" on 9/11 this year on this site. No weepy recollections, no "Remember Rescorla". I will probably indulge in some selfish liquor drinking, then devolve into a series of disjointed tirades against Islamists in general, and individual War-On-Terror Aversionists in particular. That's how I deal with things. No poems per se, but I might come up with a limerick or two that involve jihadists and their fear of women, or should I say their inability to satisfy their women. I am still convinced their rage stems from their tiny little dicks, and the pathetic job they do with them.
1. Finish up my Six Sigma projects at work. My real job has been getting in the way, and I have to put these pups to bed. There's also a Five G bonus involved, and my kids want computers for Christmas. Pikachu decals from Dollar Tree and Hello Kitty sippy cups ain't gonna cut it this year, especially since my 15-year-old daughter really wants a BMW convertible, and my 10-year-old daughter really wants to spend Christmas at the Pyramids. I figure Dells are a frigging deal.
2. Get some posts up on AfricaBlog. I have three fleshed out, I just need a little time to edit. If I don't Zombyboy's gonna cut me a new one. It's called honoring your commitments.
3. Pull my ephemeral shit together and put a linky-love out there worthy of the Cul-de-Sac. It's the least I can do (and, unfortunately, probably the MOST I can do).
4. Get a haircut.
5. Trim my nether regions. Hey, kiss my ass. I have to look at me in the mirror every day.
Kate has brought us the letter of the day: "D". I think I'll participate:
D is for Death Cult: That's Al Qu'ida's new website, although it's being hacked mercilessly, because the only thing these people do worse than deploy their penises properly is safeguard their hatesites.
D is for Douchebag: That would be John Kerry. Hey! I heard a rumor this guy served in Vietnam. Still a douchebag. And he looks vaguely French.
D is for Dingleberry: Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you John Edwards. Remember about a month ago I predicted he was the up and comer when Dean imploded? Well, I was wrong. My parakeet has more gravitas than this wanker.
D is for Dean: Looks like Joe Biden. Of course, as Biden is a reknowned plagiarist, perhaps he stole Dean's face.
D is for Diesel, Vin: Never mind. I'll wait till "M" and put him under Mutant.
D is for Depilatory Cream: Well? What?
D is for Dain Bramage: AKA Carol Mostly-Brawn. She's a biggun. I think she could take Sharpton in a slapdown, but I'm not giving odds.
D is for Dharma: An underrated babe, although more gratuitous nudity would be appreciated.
Is anyone watching the Democratic debate? Pretty thin gruel, if you ask me. The common message? Retreat. Capitulate. Retrench. Spend that money on the voting dispossessed. They only differ in the haste and manner of retreat.
And Al Sharpton? Hilarious, as always. Big Al may be a vicious race pimp, but he's a funny guy, and the only real human being on that stage. I like him despite myself. At least he gets it, "it" being the fact they are all jokes.
Hillary will have to file for the primaries within about 45 days. SHE'LL straighten out this muddled field. She's merely waiting to see if Gore makes a move. If he does, she'll take him out with extreme prejudice. If not, she'll wait until the last day to see if she has a polling chance. If not, she'll bide her time until 2008.
I think so. I also think both of these boys' eggshells were thinned from too much DDT.
I read today somewhere that the only good thing to come out of the East Timor situation was the term "Jordanian War Bride" as a euphemism for a goat. Now that's funny, but where did it come from? I need to thank the author.
Phillip Coons comments on the arson of a third Madison County covered bridge. What the bloody hell is this arsonist thinking? These are great bridges! Set fire to Robert James Waller instead, and be done with it!
I've always thought the idea of a story about a woman who cheats on her husband, and her children later romanticize the fact, is a bit fucking twisted. Switch the genders of the adulterer and the victim, let HIM screw around on HER, and see how many publishers knock your door down.
Bullshit. Torch him.
I will watch this new History Channel show on one condition: Hunter Ellis slits Gilbert Gottfreid's throat in the first episode with a rusty pig gutter. That's an obnoxious little shit.
Hell, I figure I'll start putting titles in Rocky and Bullwinkle mode. Which always confused me. The two titles never related. They were always "Next Week: Klondike Gold Rush, or, Bullwinkle Uber Alles!" or some such shit.
But I'm not Jay Ward, so I'll tie my titles together: since the Wrenching but Necessary euthanasia of Master Po I've had to rip out the carpeting in my master bathroom and tile it. The room was not fit for man or beast. No mean feat, this. 120 square feet, and I was ambitious enough to lay it on the diagonal, which means I've been wet-sawing corners for two nights. My thighs hurt, my knees are blood blisters, my 'rroids are prairie-dogging out my ass.
I was gonna give Acidman a run for his money in the bare nekkid butt competition, but the pics I took last night looked like a baboon's ass after a discipline session with a Singapore caner.
I should just put the studded collar on and go with the flow.
The Salam Pax story, in his own words, or, why do I STILL think this guy is pulling our puds?
I signed up for a Karras negotiation seminar October 30th and 31st in Miami last month. Now, I've taken some serious negotiating courses in my time, both in grad school and in the open market, and I know most of the movers and shakers in that business, and this Karras course will be 101 bullshit. All the PhD's I've studied under claim Chester's courses are bullshit, and even my analysts were unimpressed when they took the Basics course. And of course Karras won't let you take a more advanced seminar without taking the basic ones. Prick.
But I need continuing education as part of my performance management goals, and it's Halloween in South Beach! Bad craziness! On the company dime! So imagine my delight when I heard this morning the Fox and Friends crew will be broadcasting from SOUTH BEACH on HALLOWEEN!
It was obviously meant to be. A harmonic convergence of sorts. All I need is the ultimate costume. In everyday street clothes I'm a clown, so I need something different. Menacing, perhaps. I need INPUT, people. And don't tell me to wear the chef's apron with the 10 inch penis underneath. I can't sell myself that short in front of E.D.
Check this picture out:
Whoah! Jesus as rock star. As seventies hottie! Dig the blown back Breck hair, the neatly trimmed beard, the come hither look in those Caucasian blue eyes. What The Fuck!?!
I'm not the most PIOUS person in the world, as anyone who knows me would affirm, but I at least respect the next person's closely held beliefs. Who the Hell in Hollywood came up with THIS concept? Caveat: haven't seen the movie. Won't see the movie. Only Max Von Sydow can play Jesus, anyway. Everybody knows that. But the LOOK! ON THIS GUY'S FACE! HAHAHAHAHA!
What's next? Mohammed, starring John Leguizamo as the Master Prophet himself? In a Carmen Miranda outfit?
This could well become a Lee Van Cleef Weekend. I'm in that kind of mood. And while Angel Eyes was the Ultimate Sadistic Villain Of All Time, don't forget Lee's classic turn as Colonel Douglas Mortimer in For A Few Dollars More, a brutally underappreciated piece of cinema:
And, hey, if you look real close during the three-way gunfight in The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, you'll notice the tip of Lee's middle finger is missing. Talk about a Method Actor...
Acidman is giving us a sneak peek at the first two months of the Boston Archdiocese pin up calendar for 2004...
All right. Got the little man interred out back. I realize its only noon, but I really really need a drink. A toast, as it were, to a tough guy.
I've owned houses since 1981. My first was a tiny two-bedroom on Memorial Drive in Atlanta that was a crack house five years later. So much for gentrification. And I've always had great yards. Centipede, Bermuda, Zoysia, St. Augustine. It didn't matter. I could grow grass, man.
The formula is pretty simple. Fertilize, water, and put some shit down for bugs. So imagine my dismay when I realized my lawn is being eaten alive. With all the traveling I've done lately I apparently missed the Warning Signs. So when this noxious shit finally manifested itself my grass was in deep trouble. Sod webworms and chinch bugs, the bastards. Laying waste to my lawn.
So I sucked it up and called in a professional. Oh, the ignominy. But it had to be done. And I didn't call in a Yellow Pages guy, either. No, I called in a Mexican Bandit, a Renegade with Extremely Dangerous Chemicals in his truck. His vehicle was a damned Superfund site all by itself. And he put down 30 gallons of vile shit guaranteed to destroy all life forms that come in contact with it. Birds fell out of the sky in the No Fly Zone. It may not kill the bugs, but their little bug peckers will be so mutated the next generation will look like James Carville.
So I hope. A little new sod, a little faith. It may come back yet.
Why am I up at 2:00AM? Because I'm putting my doggie down tomorrow. Flounder. I call him Master Po, because he's been blind for over a year. But he's Floundie Boy to me. This is a Long Time Coming, I know, and I should be enured, but it sucks, still.
It was sweet; poignant; cutting edge; I swear, this post solved the Middle East Crisis. I lost it, somewhere. The only parts I can remember are "Fannie Mae", "Bosco Bear", and "Disco". Where's Dax when I need him?
UPDATE: I hear from Jay Solo from time to time, and I like that, because he's a brilliant guy, and I like his take on things. So what do you think about this comment:
"Let me guess: You neglected to do your writing offline and something crashed, taking your world-changing post with it. Right?"
I, personally, took umbrage. C'mon, Jay. You do get irony, right?
Am I the only person who thinks the Republican Senators are the most compromised whores in the history of representative democracy? Christ! NOW Orrin Hatch is on TV complaining about Miguel Estrada. Where the fuck was Orrin when Miguel was sitting in the bucket for 22 months? The Senate GOP could have forced a REAL filibuster but, being the prostitutes they are, they figured they might be in the same situation in 2004 if the GOP loses a slot. Whores. Fuck Orrin Hatch. And his buddies. I'm a House kinda guy. Show me the psychos.
Ever heard of Daufuskie Island? It's in South Carolina, across Calibogue Sound from Hilton Head Island. You can only get there by boat. We used to go there a lot when I was a kid when we had a summer house in Bluffton. The island was inhabited by blacks, descendants of slaves, who spoke a patois called Gullah. Around Savannah they speak a similar dialect to this day called Geechee. Pat Conroy wrote a novel about his days teaching on Daufuskie called The Water Is Wide. It was made into the movie Conrack. Now the island is full of golf courses and million dollar houses, and the old Gullahs have been driven out.
But this blog is not about that. I leave colonialism and it's sordid aftermath to others. I'm just serving up atmosphere.
The tip of Daufuskie is called Bloody Point, after a Revolutionary War battle. A free wide open slice of heaven, where people camp, party, sunbathe, wah, wah, wah, and have for generations.
I digress, don't I? So once I went camping on Bloody Point with some seriously fucked-up back-island trash (this would be about 1982). I had reservations, of course, but they were purported friends of friends, so off I went. I took a pup tent, a carton of Marlboro Reds, a bottle of Wild Turkey, and a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. For a weekend. Seemed pretty solid.
I pitched my tent off aways, being the James Dickey-trained man I am, and watched the homeboys get drunk on 22 cases of beer and 8 half-gallons of Crown Royal. Around midnight they started bitch-slapping each other. Around the campfire. It was good-natured beating at first, but turned ugly, as these things always do. At one point a boy got his face burned with an embered log. I burrowed down. Then the shit hit. There was the smell of man-rape in the air. More burrowing down. Then, ALAS! while I snuck out to the woods for a leak some bastard's Labradors went into my tent and ATE MY KFC! Bones and all, as they say. I'll never forget those dogs. Their names were Alanon and Ragashak. The only time I've ever wanted to kill Labradors.
I spent three days hiding in the woods, eating cherry clams and minnows while these guys recreated an adult version of Lord of the Flies.
I think about those boys from time to time, and kinda miss 'em.
You know Barry? No? He's a good old boy. A columnist, radio host, and all around good raconteur. A little too nice for my tastes, actually, but then I said that about Dahmer. Barry's writing on Newsmax these days, but I remember him when he was a late night fuzzy-AM talk-show host. Even better, I remember Barry's VOICE, when he was hawking RONCO products, and probably Greyhound Racing and Roller Derby. A perfect voice. Barry has a deflection that is OfF BEaT,,, wITh emPhaSIS Onthe WrONG WoordS. Very unique. If you've ever heard Barry wax eloquent on that Ronco device that makes RRRadish RRRoses you know exactly what I'm talking about. If you haven't you've already clicked over to Blackbutt.com. But you were going there, anyway, weren't you?
Where do I see them? At work, all the time. And what is their common demographic? THEY'RE ALL WOMEN!!!
Listen up. Before you sic Kate Michelman on me (hey, for a middle-aged les, I think I might do Kate) hear me out:
I work around a LOT of women. Smart, intelligent, dedicated women, for the most part. Some have graduate degrees, some are GED's. Young, old. The whole distaff demographic. So why are they stupid? Because they spend all of their productive hours fighting each other. Undermining each other. Bitching about each other. Fucking each other over. NOT PLAYING WELL WITH OTHERS. This is kindergarten training they're lacking. They are their own worst enemies. It blows my mind. It honestly blows my fucking mind. I see women self-destruct on a regular and consistent basis. And not just at this job. I've seen it for twenty years. Why?
Well, if I could bottle that, and throw in a piece of pickled okra and a couple of hot peppers I'd have something, wouldn't I? Well, I don't. But I do have some observations, or theories, to the scientific-method inclined.
Women simply don't know how to behave in adult company. Everything is still high school or middle school to them. Only now it's not boys, it's job, or game. How else do you explain why they don't rally 'round the sisterhood and Attempt To Advance in the Corporate World? It's insane. We currently have two females at levels above middle management in my division. Want to know their secret? Simple. They show up for work, perform their job professionally, keep their mouths shut if they don't have anything pertinent to say, and stay the hell out of the gossip rings. Surprise: That's how men advance as well. And, yes, men certainly perform these functions with wildly fluctuating levels of success as well. There are guys who are complete fucktards, and always will be. But not 90% of them!
Now, before the Sisters of Sappho disembowel me, remember: I'm on your side. I want women to succeed. These are smart people I'm talking about. Many with brilliant ideas and great work ethic. But they get derailed cat-fighting and fucking each other over. It drives me crazy.
I had a theory, once : women think there are only a few jobs that The Man is going to allow females to take, and then only for quota's sake. And that may be true. It is, in fact, most certainly true. Well, let me tell you two things: Number One: there are only a few jobs cracker-assed motherfuckers like me can get, too. I'm no corporate officer, although I play one in the shower. Number Two: remember the two women I said DID have Senior Management jobs? Remember what I said their work ethic was? Do The Job. Show Respect to Your Coworkers. And for God's sake shut the fuck up about how it's too hot or too cold in here! Step away from the thermostat, bitch! You should have sweat burning your eyeballs before you EVER EVER admit to a man that it's 1.5% degrees Fahrenheit off your optimal comfy zone. Don't you get it? Nobody wants to hear that shit. Shut The Fuck Up!
Which reminds me: lay off the e-mails about how you're going to Clean The Refrigerator Out On Friday. We Don't Care! Guys don't leave their putrid leftovers in the fridge, anyway. The only purpose a fridge at work serves is to put a bottle of vodka in the freezer, and they've taken that away! Quit trying to doily the work environment. I don't want to have an ice-cream social on Friday. I don't want a Jeans Day on Friday. Quit soliciting money off me. And quit telling me about how the other girl doesn't do her job, because you know what? YOU DON'T EITHER! And when it's Bloody Friday I'm going to keep the poor slacker who didn't throw their coworker under the bus and shitcan your devious ass. Get a clue.
You women are smart. Start acting like it.
I hope not. See, I'm using the back door key. Because shit, when it comes down to it, blogging is just like work, or, dare I say? marriage. Sometimes you have to just disappear for a week and let the shit in your life settle.
Of course, the only time I tried that in the latter two instances the outcome was, uh, sub-optimal. But of the two I will say finding a new job was not that bad. On the second count I'm supposed to get out of the doghouse sometime in 2016.
I wish I remembered that week, but it's been a long, long time ago.
I'll bet I had some fun.