I finally rode a snowmobile in Whistler. I've always wanted to do that. We took them up to 6,000 feet at twilight, had hot chocolate at a cabin on Crystal Ridge, then rode them back down at night under extremely heavy snowfall. Very cool.
There were a couple of guys in our group who were problem children: one from Riga, Latvia (he was actually okay) and his buddy from Dickhead, Virginia. Dickhead kept standing up and doing other annoying things, causing the guide to have a word or two with him. My brother and I exchanged a few looks, knowing what happened next was inevitable: on the way down, not 10 minutes from the finish, Dickhead missed a rather sharp turn and launched himself into some trees. Fucked up his (their!) snowmobile, and was lucky he didn't kill himself. He told me he'd purchased the insurance. I hope he did. That guide was a pissed off hombre. These machines were his babies.
You can imagine my disappointment that the nutsack was unscathed (well, he said he was unhurt, but he sure was walking funny). I wanted to see an actual heli-lift of a skullcrack case. Damn my luck!
This post is disgusting, and would make Acidman proud. The coup de grace? Bill got kissed whilst he was still shitting himself. Godamighty, that is a stud hoss.
Personally, I'm still screwing up the courage to detail my mishap at The Tobacco Company in Richmond. Not that I'm ashamed or anything, I just can't hold anything down when I recollect it.
Yes. I'll pimp for you. It's what I'm all about. Remember that when it's bail bond time. Shall we cut to the chase?
You have just won one million dollars:
1. Who do you call first?
My brother, Jack Straw. For legal advice. And ATT. I want an unlisted number.
2. What is the first thing you buy for yourself?
A slave. No shit. Then I can free them, and feel good about myself.
3. What is the first thing you buy for someone else?
I would like to buy my mother-in-law a clue, but Bono has the clues locked up in a coal bin. Next, I would buy Dick Cheney a grin.
4. Do you give any away? If yes, to whom?
Hell, yes. I'll start a think tank of conservative thought. That is, after I'm comfortably nutted up. I am a greedhead conservative, after all. I'd also like to start a think tank dedicated to erasing poverty one scumbag at a time.
5. Do you invest any? If so, how?
Oh, yes. I give it all to Terry MacAuliffe for safekeeping, numnuts.
Here's the deal: One third in real estate (nothing less than a quadruplex), one third in blue chips, and one third in a mix of 90, 120, and 240 day money markets. But that's just me.
Did I tell you I have a securities dealers license? May I churn your funds? Just asking.
I believe Geoffrey is serious about hanging up the spurs, and that saddens me. There aren't too many twisted fucks out there like me, and I'm sure he'd deny that somewhat noxious connexion, but deep down he knows we share the same DNA.
Geoff has a new time-share blog going down, though, and I can only hope against hope he retains his form.
Good on ya, Geoffrey, and I look forward to your new incarnation.
When I entered 7th grade Effingham County built a new Junior High, right behind the High School. Which meant we strawberries got to share the same cafeteria with the Big Boys, so to speak. And every lunch hour was Fight Night.
These huge cracker farm boys had fistfights at lunchtime in the open air corridors every day. It was not only like clockwork, it was sanctioned, in that the Head Honcho, a principal named Ross "The Boss" Roundtree, a mean motherfucker in his own right, was conspicuously absent from the corridors during lunch. I believe his philosophy was "If They're Fighting, They're Not Fucking".
This was during the days of segregation, so there was no race aspect to the Fights. No, sir. This was just general pissedoffedness. These boys (and I use the term loosely; these hosses were men, as some were in their twenties) would put four senior rings on each hand, and proceed to wale the fucking tar out of each other. And us strawberries had to walk that gauntlet to get to the Junior High classrooms in back. And it was nothing for a 9th or 10th grader to get the bloodlust up, and want to beat the mortal shit out of a 7th grader, especially one like me, who'd skipped third grade, and was only 12.
Fights. These guys would walk away with one-inch strands of lip meat hanging off their faces. And they were the lucky ones, the winners. The losers were bloody pulps, their faces resembling your mama's recently canned jellies and jams. I remember a guy named Eric Heidt getting stomped for the mere presence of long hair. I understand he took a beating for about 10 days straight, but wouldn't cut his hair. The brutes eventually tired of that game, and began beating each other again.
This activity horrified me for about a month. After a savage beating or two from the inspired 10th graders, though, you just learned to skirt that shit, and take a paddling from Ross The Boss for being out of area. A virtual reward compared to getting enmeshed in the fights.
I went to private schools after that year, but I hear the racial fights weren't nearly as savage as what these fellows did to each other, their friends.
So when Acidman talks about his nice rustic bedroom community of Rincon I have to laugh.
That used to be the Killing Fields.
especially since I bagged the New Orleans Bunny reunion. What was I thinking?
So, instead of watching Gangs of New York yet again, let's play some virtual strip poker.
Damn! That hand sucked. You win. I'll be removing my pants now. That's better. Your deal.
The Britney tickets arrived yesterday. The girls are ecstatic. I am a God. And all this time I'd been trying to reach out to them through attention, and love, and example. What a wanker I am. This is much easier.
It's been quite a while since I bored everyone shitless with a trip down the badger hole of my youth for a little nostalgia. Humor me, or buy me no-load funds. I is flexible.
Goofy hats: these were incredibly asinine, and popular around 1969. Some kind of 4-panel cloth hats that resembled a bell, and you actually wore the damned things to proudly proclaim you would never get laid in your beaten-meat sad, sad life. One doomed oneself to Spasticus Autisticus status at the age of 11 or 12. Paisley was the motif de rigeur. What triggered this memory? I actually saw a kid driving a four-wheel mud-bogger in Savannah a couple of months ago. He was wearing a Confederate flag goofy hat (where'd he get it?!?), had the back window adorned in a Confederate flag piece of tint, and had a bumper sticker that said "I Have A Dream", and showed the Confederate flag flying over the White House. Precisely the potential voter Howard Dean wants to woo and suck to the polls.
Beatlemania! My older sisters had Beatle everything, from lunch boxes to wallpaper. Just the sort of thing a 13 year old girl would use to titillate her budding libido. And these were my sisters, so I can carry that thought no farther. I was seven when the Fabs hit America, but it was a real deal. You felt it, especially coming three months after the vicarious thrill of Presidential Assassination. And was I the only seven-year-old who found national mayhem exciting? I was hoping more people would get whacked. Seeing adults piss themselves is pretty rare for a young one, and I liked that feeling.
Kentucky Fried Chicken: the Holy Grail. The only fast food I was to see for years. The boxes were pink and white then, not red and white. My dad used to make us go inside to buy it, and if the "colored folks" didn't serve us promptly The Senator would barge inside and go into Perry Mason closing arguments mode, although I don't recall Perry using "nappy-headed fuckers" in any episode I watched. Yes. Drop by sometime and let me show you my closet full of Issues. About once a month I pull one out and exorcise it.
I think that's all the nostalgia I can handle for one Friday. And perhaps I shall rename this weekly excursion "Catharsis".
I'm batching it this weekend and didn't even realize it until this morning. What the hell? I'm sure The Bride told me she and the girls were going to dance competition in Orlando, but my internal filter treats 90% of what I'm told like F-15 decoy chaff.
I coulda planned. I coulda done something. Oh, I can strop the old straight razor, but where am I going to find any barely teen Malaysians at this late date? They're not exactly a dime a dozen around here, although that price fits my budget square on.
Maybe I'll dust off the wedding album and shine up the pictures. Or go dog-hunting. There's a particularly nasty brute down the street, half Rottie, half jackal, that's begging for an offing.
Kelley was the schoolmarm (her words, not mine). I had a hot sexy schoolmarm like her once, too. Decorum prohibits flashbacks, unfortunately. Do schoolmarms wear bustiers? If not, why not?
Anna was the saloon owner. That just seemed right, given my sense she could be the ultimate lover or bouncer, given the proper situation. Although in retrospect she possibly could have been Robot, had I espoused a Lost In Space scenario.
Dax was Black Bart, and how fitting. Off panning for fool's gold when the sweetness was in his lap. Putz.
Acidman was the existential drifter. Of course. I don't know what his readers are smoking, but he was 101
proof percent for me.
My favorite Marine, in cavalry guise, was Eric. Bless the lad, he was up to his asshole and came through, while I shined him with my crapulent Canadian internet connexion.
So there. And a question: can pixels echo?
Via LeeAnn, I've come across (well, come upon) Commissar's Ten Rules of Blogging. Well said. However, like any back seat macaque monkey, I'm going to adjust them to my particular viewpoint:
1) Do not apologize for light blogging. Why would I do that? My hits skyrocket when I shut the fuck up. It's Pavlovian, I reckon.
2) Do not link every word in sentence. Okay, Comrade. Fair enough. But what if I'm linking, say, morphodites? That's different, right? Don't that get a pass? And, by the way, welcome to Club Tranny, Cumrade.
3) One topic per post. Well, that fucks me all up. You see, my whole gig is based upon the bait and switch. I generally start with a post on, say, origami, and the next thing you know Angel Eyes is dead in a grave. But that's my trademark. Your point is, I suppose, well taken by the short bus crowd. Most bloggers need that sort of guidance.
4) Keep it short. Amen, brother. Er, comrade. I've been known to shave three times during one Den Beste post. I figure if you don't have the reader hooked by the second sentence you're the fucking triangle player in the E Street Band. Lend some support to us virtuosos, hammerhead.
5) No free Trackback posts. Got me there. I literally don't know what a Trackback is. I get my links the old fashioned way. I pay for 'em.
6) No false updating. People do that? Why? Is it like putting a potato in your Speedos, or something?
7) Identify your sex. What the fuck for? So you can hit on me? Does my gender have anyfuckingthing to do with my intellect, or writing? By the way, my name's Kim. Fly Me.
8) Give us more than...(the basics..). Well, that will cost you extra. VelociPremium will give you full details on my genital statistics, as well as medical updates on my string warts and halitosis. Annual colonoscopy videos included.
9) No quizzes. Yeah, verily. See this.
10) Set Site Meter to "Ignore Own Visits". Well intentioned, comrade, but how else would I be the Big Dog I Am? How about I set my Site Meter to "Ignore Latvians"?
Kudos to Commissar for watching me despoil his hard work. Hopefully he'll take it in good humor. The hermaphrodite.
I missed the passing of Bob Keeshan while I was out of pocket, but here's my take on the good Captain from a ways back. Yes, yes, I know he was a decorated WWII Marine veteran, but I still think he was pushing mixers to downtrodden housewives (not that there's anything wrong with that. Look at Eric). And I still think Mr. Hempjeans was supplying Bobby with some superlative shit. Check out the first season.
Attaboy has an interesting post on bureaucracy versus beach sanitation. Or so I see it. My friend Rogers weighed in against ocean pollution, which I also agree with, which led me to my current conundrum:
A good conservative will beat the hell out of a litterbug, and yet a good conservative will also beat the hell out of Lady Bird Johnson. Of course, in my case, she might take me.
Remember my daughter's trip to the emergency room for kidney stones? Well, up yours, pretend you do, go with the flow.
The bills came in while I was away, and witness:
St. Luke's Hospital incidentals: $4,615.05
Mayo Clinic emergency services: $397.00
MRI complex imaging: $868.00
Grand Total: $5,880.05
That's right. Almost 6 grand to take a pic of a kid and say "Drink lots of water". My insurance company negotiated the total down to $3,895.58. My out-of-pocket nut appears to be $479.56. And I have the Maserati of insurance policies.
Almost $500 after paying all those premiums. Could have been worse, I guess. Just think if they'd had to DO something. Or I could have been a Canadian, whereupon we'd still be waiting for an MRI appointment six months after the stones passed.
I won't spend much time recapping my vacation, because 1) it's bad form, and 2) it's boring to everyone else.
I will say that particular corner of the earth is utterly unparalleled in beauty and style. From Vancouver to the old Britannia Mines to Whistler Mountain I've never seen the like. Mountains rising in haste from blue-black fjords, mighty firs sagged but unbroken from the weight of constant snowfall, waterfalls and streams of remarkable clarity, ungodly scenic marina towns like Horseshoe Bay. It's enough to make a man open a brewery.
As for Whistler and Blackcomb, I can see why the Winter Olympics will be here in six years. The Coast Ranges aren't the highest mountains around, but hark:
It's all about the vertical rise. What can you ski? Blackcomb has a vertical rise of 5,280 feet, compared to Vail's 3,450, Tahoe's 3,500, Breckinridge's 3,398.
Over 200 trails on the two mountains, and in excess of 7,000 acres of slopes. The only downside was the 50/50 mix of snowboarders. The stories are true. Those little bastards are rude shits, and have no respect for the rest of the crowd. I hope they all get genital herpes.
Development is extremely limited, and almost complete. Whistler Village is replete with all the amenities one could desire, but it's never crowded. It hasn't been Aspenized. When you look at the mountains, you see mountains, not condos. Lessons have been learned.
I hate to say it, but it was nice having virtually no Americans around. Most of the tourists there are Australian, British, Chinese. The only person I saw I could identify as an American was, alas, a fucked-up Gator fan. Go figure. At least the locals treated him with the amiable respect one accords a leper. I could never be so kind.
I'm no young buck, although I certainly wished I was. Therefore the apres consisted of the four of us relaxing in Shell Girl's hot tub, with a triple Crown Royal, a fine Cuban cigar, a bit of the bud. Not a bad substitute for chasing taut-breasted sheilas, if I may Bobbit the situation.
And that's all I'm going to say. I've bored you enough. I may post a pic or two later, but to be honest I didn't take too many for the simple reason we were enshrouded in snow mist the whole time. If you want an idea of the view, stare intently at a sheet of Georgia-Pacific's finest copier quality 8 x 11.
And so, who wants to start planning next year's Blackcomb Blogger Bash???
But I see the guest-bloggers have been playing, a good sign. Thank you for tending the Velocihovel in my absence, raising the standard with your clever bon mots, and dropping me two notchs in the Ecosystem. I am now a Specialneeds Spermatazoa, and wear the honorific proudly.
Interesting feedback at Anna's poll, as well. All will be revealed when I remember who was who in that westrin.
I'm also interested in the happenings at Acidman's in my absence (fucking snowboarders hogged the internet cafe, the corpse-rutters). Seems like the pod replacement ain't to the peeps' liking. Well, blow my Kevin McCarthy. Lose a tire off a collapsed shoulder berm and everybody wants to get in bed in Amsterdam and sing Give Rehab a Chance. Intervention Number 9, Number 9, Number 9.
More on the magnificence of British Columbia tomorrow. What a fucking place. Meantime I need to catch up. Who DID win the New Hampshire primary? I've been watching the Weather Network, which is Canada's version of the Weather Channel, so I don't know ( I DO know I was getting 25 centimeters of powder on a 2 meter base, ha ha!) I've also been reading Jean Chretien's opus to ego, following the Canucks, and pretending to be a French Canadian (les Americains! Tres degout! Mais, leur insertion de leur penis dans mon derriere! Oui!)
And yet: 3,000 miles, 14 hours... me sleep now...
"Sitting beside the road, watching the wagon mount the hill toward her, Lena thinks, "I have come from Alabama: a fur piece. All the way from Alabama a-walking. A fur piece'."
A Light in August, William Faulkner
Pete and I were sitting on the sofa having cocktails this evening and recalling the events of the day. Somehow we wandered onto Faulkner's Fur Piece, and we giggled about how that phrase must sound to someone who is not a native speaker of English. Some Japanese guy or Hindu lady, sitting there reading "...a fur piece", and thinking, what is this fur piece of which she speaks? Googling "fur piece" perhaps, or even looking in an old-fashioned dictionary. Fur, a pelt or hairlike object. Piece, a part of a whole, an item. A fur-item road? Is the road somehow lined with fur, or is it metaphor? The road was so stressful that the traveler's hair falls out? What?
All night I've had this mental picture of this poor Japanese chick (my Ganguro Girl, actually), sitting on her bed, trying to make heads or tails of the fur-item road. She looks up at me with her big huge Speed-Racer eyes, snifs tearfully, and announces, bosom heaving:
"Engrish is so hard!"
I'm sorry about that episode with the inflatable doll in the hallway. Man, when I found that vibrating button in the back, I was a goner. I also understand why she was missing one tit. I stole the other one last night.
You should be ashamed of yourself for having such perverted, facinating and time-consuming toys just laying all over the place. I'm suppposed to be minding your house, but right now I just started looking for wherever I left my pants. I haven't even STARTED looking for the likker cabinet yet.
I think I'm gonna like it here.
The key worked and I'm inside. So far, everything looks normal: pictures of the wife and child on the mantle, a giant rat munhching a bag of Doritos in the corner, a blow-up sex doll with one deflated titty in the hallway and one of those got-dam feminine, fluffy toilet lid covers that won't allow the lid to stand up by itself.
Well after years with pissing with roscoe in one hand and the toilet lid cover in the other, I just threw in the towel. If your toilet lid won't stand up by itself. fuck it. I'm going to piss all over the cover and blame my "accident" on prostate cancer.
I'm not finished yet. That bowl of day-glow condoms by the bed is looking fairly interesting, too. I wonder if you mix a blue with yellow one, do you get green?
I'm going to go check his medicine cabinet now. If he's got some KY gel. I may want to wrestle with the mono-titted doll in the hallway.
I need a woman's perspective on a problem that's been vexing me of late...
I'm meeting my cyber-angel at a local hotel in two weeks. I'm very excited. We've been trading e-mails for more than a month now and clearly the time is right for a tryst.
During our cyber courtship, I might have casually mentioned that my dick is 12 inches long, with the circumference of a Pringles can. I felt like that was a pretty good estimate at the time.
Well, yesterday, I dug some measuring tape out of my girlfriend's sewing machine. (It's one of those old Singer jobs with the wrought iron treadle. My girlfriend claims she's gonna strip it, refinish it, and do the treadle in gold leaf. Couldn't you just vomit? Like this apartment needs some more cutesy Laura Ashley crap.)
Anyway, according to the measuring tape, some of my earlier estimates may have been a wee bit optimistic. Do you think I should shoot her an e-mail in advance or just try my luck at the ole Marriott?
I brought this up with my girlfriend over dinner last night (purely as a hypothetical, of course), but she didn't seem to have a strong opinion one way or another. Instead, she just kept talking about our waiter and how he had the same kind of eyebrows as her first boyfriend. (The things women remember!) He had that verdant Peter Gallagher growth that threatens to eclipse the forehead. And then she gets all dreamy and starts down this horrible stream of consciousness nostalgia path...eighth grade...Sadie Hawkins dance...wrist corsage...strapless...tulle...Tina Appling let some guy feel her up...awkward kiss...Steve Miller Band......the mean lady in charge of the cheerleading squad... rigorous diet plan...blah blah blah.
And then she gets that far-away look in her eye that means a woman is comparing you with an old boyfriend and the scales aren't tipping in your direction. You can't win one of those, fellas. So she completely forgot about my question. She can be very selfish sometimes.
I could definitely use some advice. Don't let it consume your waking hours or anything. I've already got an out. I can always claim I had penile reduction surgery cause the weight was starting to hurt my back. That's been my best idea so far.
But I'm open to any suggestions that make me look good. Thanks in advance
...while Velociman is spending some time on the slopes, I thought I'd throw a little of my bandwidth his direction....what is it?...well, just a little bubblegum for your mind....Frank, Dean, and Sammy dicking around with some song lyrics...the reason I'm putting it up here?....ahhh...well, Kim likes'em...and they mention a few of my favorite things...women without bras being one of them...so, feel free to enjoy the drunken ramblings of the Rat Pack...
Also...Velocidude mentioned the "Wild West Theme" before he left....Primal Purge has got a poll up to guess which one she is....so far, "The existential drifter" is winning...go over and vote....anyway, her poll got me thinking...anyone have any guesses about who the other characters are?...c'mon people, spill it....your options are:
Very hot, tough but tender Schoolmarm
Exotic, sexy, been there and burned your ass Saloon Owner
Surprise guest blogger to pop in now and then in the role of the U.S. Cavalry
so...all of you who have been asked to Guest Blog...come forward and confess...who's who, dammit?
It's a lazy Saturday afternoon. I'm watching the Michigan/Ohio State game and talking on the phone to an old college buddy. We both agree that John Cooper is much pussy.
I hear Sara approaching from the hall and she announces, "You know what? I'm gonna spend the rest of the day pampering myself. I deserve it. I'm gonna put on a mud mask, light all the candles around the tub, maybe pour myself some wine. I'm gonna fill that tub up with bubbles, grab a good book and just disappear for a couple of hours. Whaddaya think, baby? Want to join me?"
"Hey," I say, "I'm on the fucking phone here."
Yeah, like that's what I wanna do...spend a couple hours in a scalding bath staring at that Zulu mud mask while she scrubs at her feet with weird burnishing stones. Of course, Sara shoots me one of those wounded looks (hey, I WAS on the phone) and slams the bathroom door.
I'll have to kiss her ass when she gets out, but for now I got two solid hours of football without interruption. That's two solid hours of bone-breaking violence without having to listen to Sara drone on about "sublimated homoeroticism." Oh yeah, like Woody Hayes was a fag or something. Jesus.
Why is it chicks can stare at two hours of Elsa Klensch and runway models from Milan and it's not sublimated lesbianism? At least there's a final score in football. Now if the models hit each other and there was a final score of like Karl Lagerfeld: 24, Donatella Versace: 17, I'd be into it. How about Vera Wang versus Anna Sui in some kinda chick mud wrestling?
Or maybe a tag team affair for the Unified Shoe title...say Joan and David versus Ferragamo and Charles Jourdan. And the winners would get a big, tacky belt that didn't match their shoes. That's pay-per-view gold, in my opinion.
I hear Sara sloshing around in the bathtub when this Buckeye gets hit weird and falls down all paralyzed. Well, the crowd gets all quiet and the announcer says, "this really puts things into perspective." Well, NO, it doesn't. It just ruins the rhythm of the game. Put the guy on a respirator and let's play ball!
But instead they gotta stop the game for 20 minutes and put a cervical collar on the guy (Hey, it's a little LATE for that, guys). And the whole time I'm wondering if this guy will get to keep his scholarship. I mean, his limbs don't work anymore. He couldn't even play for Northwestern in that condition.
So my buddy asks me if I think the paralyzed guy's dick will still work? And I say, "not without a complicated series of pumps and pulleys it won't." And then we're thinking about this guy's girlfriend up in the stands and how she'll have to go the hospital and tell him that maybe they "rushed into things" and how she needs "some time on her own just to think things through." And he'll be blinking like a madman, trying to make her feel guilty and stuff. I give her about a week before she's banging some guy in the Poli Sci department.
Okay, what was I talking about? Oh that's right, Sara and her bubble bath.
To be continued....
Lord have mercy, but I feel like the Queen of Sheba here, all slung up in Velociheaven. Kim axed me if I would come by and do some guest-blogging while he's off conquering the mountain, and since he accompanied the request with a lid of that good shit Rob brought back from Jamaica in his shorts, I was only too happy to comply.
I'm just the teensiest bit nervous, I must admit. Kim is one of my favorites, and I want to be worthy of the honor, I just don't think I have enough original stories of my fucked-up and Faulknerianly twisted Deep-South upbringing prepared to do this thang justice. Although...
...I reckon I could tell y'all about the time that my great-aunt Helen pretended that her only son Dougie was mentally retarded, in order to outdo her sister's family, who had just lost their breadwinner. But that would necessitate explaining the Outdo and the Outsick, the byzantine Potlatch of pain that my mom's side of the family indulges in for fun and kicks, and that'd be one long post. Poor Dougie; Helen's been dead these many years and half of eastern North Carolina still thinks he's a retard. Life's a bitch.
I guess it doesn't have to be a family story; I suppose some UGA stuff would do as well...did I ever tell you about the time that I got banned from the campus of Young Harris college? No? Well, too bad; I just remembered that my lawyer told me not to talk about that. Ummm....ooh, have I told you the one about dancing naked down Main Street of Crawfordville, Georgia back in '93, high as a kite and singing Patsy Cline at the top of my lungs?
Shit, I can't tell you about that either, because of the restraining order...hmm. I must admit, I'm stumped. Well, it's time for plan B. A cleavage picture should do the trick.
That's cleavage, all right.
What? I didn't say it was going to be my cleavage...!
Bob Keeshan died today. He was 76. He was also Captain Kangaroo. You will be missed, Bro. Too bad that ole Green Jeans popped his clogs a few years ago, you two made a great pair.
I'm headed to the bar tonight, and I'm gonna throw back a few for ya, and remember the good times. Damn it, another good WWII vet, and Jarhead, gone into oblivion. Mister Rogers couldn't hold a candle to you, Bob. I've never looked at a ping pong ball in quite the same way since I first watched your show. I mean that. Requiescat In Pace.
After finally getting The Bride to take a couple of Tylenol PM's at midnight (fear of flying), I realized bedtime was not to be. I have to leave for the airport at 5:15, and it's 2:00. I don't like to date-rape my REM cycles. I'd be groggy, pissy, and disoriented all day.
No, better to pack the Blazer, get showered and shaved, and brew some Blue Mountain. I have a 2 hour flight to Memphis, which will make for a good nap, then a nearly 5 hour flight to Seattle, allowing me to strap on my disposable drool cup (patent pending) and snore to my heart's content after power shooting two Bloody Marys.
Yepper, that's the game plan.
Why SeaTac instead of Vancouver? $234 tickets, for one thing, and a beautiful drive up the west coast of Washington, for another. Also: one doesn't see Bigfoot if they fly into Vancouver. Actually, one doesn't see Bigfoot at all, unless one has access to Testor's Number 7 airplane glue. Which reminds me: I won't need those Bloody Mary's, after all.
What the hell just happened to me? I'm winding down, about to go visit the Sandman, and my daughter informs me she has to have a Britney ticket. Correction. 2 Britney tickets, so she can take her girlfriend. At which point The Bride intervenes, and avers they must take number 2 daughter if they're going. Then The Bride tries to convince me SHE should go, too, as a chaperone, but I not only didn't fall off that particular turnip truck, I siphoned the gas out the heap onceupona. No, sir.
And yet: 3 minutes. 3 tickets. $204.55 I just got holed out of. THAT was the fastest I've ever been skinned in my life.
Thank god the good seats were already gone. But I expect a leather bustier or something as a prize. These girls need to learn how to take care of their Velocidaddy.
What the hell happened to Sharpton's conk? That was a thing of beauty, and a tribute to the polytechnic miracle of straighteners. Now he's all respectable looking. Shit, he looks just like Charlie Rangel. Another brother who amuses me. I like Charlie and Al despite myself. They're witty and entertaining guys. I disagree with everything they say after the initial inhale, but they're funny.
Charlie, of course, is a Korean War vet. Al saw some firefights, too, significantly the one he instigated at Freddie's Fashion Mart. They both have blood on their hands, but at least the blood on Charlie's hands is from godless communist peasants, and not some poor schlub who was trying to earn an honest living in New York City.
I hope Al gets some matching federal funds, so he can stroll down to the har emporium in his lent suit and see if they can't coax that conk back out.
If not, at this rate he'll be using Bump No More on his shaving zone.
My flight leaves in ten hours, then it's a week on the slopes (no, I'm not going to a Thai brothel. It's Laotian). Not to worry, however, as I've passed out keys to a few of my closest velocibuddies, who will no doubt keep you far more entertained than my feeble efforts of late.
In fact, in keeping with my theme, it appears I have the makings of a classic western unfolding in my absence. Let's see, there's the very hot, tough but tender schoolmarm (for discipline!), the exotic, sexy, been there and burned your ass saloon owner, Black Bart (to receive discipline!), and an existential drifter. Also, I believe, a surprise guest blogger to pop in now and then in the role of the U.S. Cavalry. Those are the players, the plot is theirs.
Iffen I get my shit packed in time, and the rare worthwhile thought oozes down my homo habilis hairline, I'll splay it out. Otherwise, I'll be thinking about you,
craven rubberneckers faithful readers.
To my guests, do what you will. I can't stop you anyway. And at least one of you owes me some serious payback.
As father Adam first was fool'd,
(A case that's still too common,)
Here lies man a woman ruled,
The devil ruled the woman.
Re: my Red Hat Society post
Well, woo-hoo to you and your mother Michelle Lynn! What is the big deal? Are you afraid you are missing something that these ladies have?
They are not hurting anyone, they are not bitter, unhappy, and some aren't divorced. So why criticize them? Maybe that "unconditional love" you get from your family isn't enough! Life doesn't owe anyone fun. It's up to us to find and make our own fun and happiness. And if these ladies find fun and happiness in the RHS, I say go for it! Maybe if you would come down off of your high horse and put on a red hat, you wouldn't be so uptight, angry and bitter! Get over yourself!
Have a nice day!
So tell me, Lizzie: do you have big tits? I just want to know. Are they veiny? I like that. Send pix!!!
I always thought Howard
Beale Dean's "I'm Mad As Hell And I'm Not Going To Take It Anymore!" routine was just schtick, his attempt to energize a naive fan base with faux rage and indignation. Then I saw that performance Monday night, when what should have been a concession speech after an ass-whupping turned into a celebration of psychotic hysteria. I'm surprised he didn't piss himself right there on stage.
Does this man have syphilis? He really is mad as the fucking hatter.
Yarrrrrrrrrrrghhh! What the hell was that? And I so wanted to see his name in lights at the Donkey Show next summer.
One more thing: when this lunatic read off his litany of states where he was going to kick some ass he hit every other candidate's state (Massachusetts! North Carolina! Missouri! Arkansas! Connecticut! New York! Ohio!)
Only I don't think he was talking about Wes Clark and Sugarbear Sharpton when he mentioned Arkansas and New York. No, he was thinking about Bill and Hillary, the two people who did the most to fuck him up the last two weeks. Of course, when you're working with that kind of material, it's a crime to pass it up.
I said watch Edwards back in the fall, and I still say that. If he comes in second in New Hampshire, he'll be on a freaking tear. Kerry will fail in the South. He ain't got no manners. Edwards won't fail. He holds doors open for little old ladies, and probably wears his Webelos badge in the courtroom.
Of course, this prognosis omits the ass-reaming Bill and Hill have in store for these two. Expect some really nasty shit on Kerry soon. Maybe a war-crime atrocity like Bob Kerrey's. For Edwards they'll find a mulatto 6-year-old in High Point the night before the South Carolina primary.
I'm often astounded at which posts elicit the most responses. It seems to defy reason. To this day I get comments on my old Rorer 714 Quaalude post. This entry, as I recall, alluded to the nasty fallout of methaqualone in the 1970's, and yet most of the comments are nostalgic trips down memory lane. Perhaps I was too ambiguous, eh?
I also get a continuous stream of comments on my rather ill-tempered take on the Red Hat Society. These comments generally take me to task for my insensitivity and overall ignorance of the Society. Points well taken. I do, however, answer each of these comments with a nice e-mail explaining the satirical nature of this site, and my fervent wish that my communicants enjoy their post-menopausal role-playing.
Why? Because you never know when you might get lucky with a questioning blue-hair, that's why. Fruit of the forbidden tree, dog.
(You know, it's only truly forbidden if you've personally forbidden it yourself, a priori. That's where the excitement comes in - Ed.)
And yet only two comments (from two known fans) on my Stanley Elkin post, which I thought would at least generate some conversation on this brilliant writer.
It's a crazy world.
Well, ha ha, I wish, but it was 15 degrees Fahrfugnugen when I woke up in Nashville this morning, so technically I'm correct. Why did I go there? Damned if I know, but somebody signed me up to go give a presentation to the midwest operations managers, so I unfolded my patented line of bullshit about how ball-kicking we'll do in 2004, how we'll slay the fucking competition like infected sentinel chickens, how we're going to get a bonus for a change this year, godamit! AKA my Pollyanna speech.
They bought it, even though I'm a sales puke, because I used to be one of them in a prior incarnation. So they trust me, and don't realize how badly the home office has warped me. I would have loved to have stayed and reminesced, but I bolted at lunch, and grabbed a standby flight home. Too cold for a working trip. I'm a puss.
What? Oh, that? Gone. Done. A victim of my backwoods surgery. In fact, I'm a little disappointed in my erstwhile adversary for its lack of staying power, although it hurt me a hell of a lot more than I hurt it.
And so. I figured I wouldn't feel so bad about not blogging if I chased you all off, but now I am firmly convinced there is absolutely nothing I can write about that will run off my more intrepid readers. Huzzah! So there's no point in even bringing up my uncle's rectal cluster warts. Although I may share that story in the future in my new premium subscription section.
Things are going swimmingly at the Velocihovel. I haven't actually touched a tile yet, but I have rearranged the sawhorses holding my mantel so that I can park the Blazer in the garage again. That is progress, of a sort.
Not really, though. I must confess a certain lassitude of late. I just can't get dick done. I don't know why. Perhaps because I understand the sun will eventually burn away, and our species will disintegrate, and so what's the point of a mantel? You have to look at the Big Picture, folks.
No, the only solution to this lethargy is to book some vacation time, which I have done. To accomplish these tasks? Hell, no. I'm going skiing. When the going gets tough, Velociman hauls ass.
Whistler. British Columbia. Thanks to my bro Jack Straw and his significant, Shell-Girl. (Well, thanks to Shell-Girl. It's her condo. Holla!) A week in the Coast Ranges. Ah, bliss.
I won't ski every day, however. I plan to do some snowboarding, some snowmobiling, and, yes! dogsledding. They have that. I'll channel my inner Susan Butcher and mush my boys to the Iditarod finish line.
I normally think of warm weather this time of year, but hellfire, I wore shorts today. Plus the four of us were in Negril in July. No, it's time for some snow.
Warning: the following is disgusting.
I need to get rid of this freaking warhead on my inner thigh, though. After reading this story, which Margi turned me on to, I felt I should share the fact that I have a bomber-marble sized whateverthefuck about two inches from my sack. I get them occasionally from bike riding, but not like this cowboy. Ingrown hair or something.
So this fucker is titanic, tight, and tender. I lanced it with a spare insulin syringe of Flounder's four times today. Did I get relief? Hell, no. The punctures are obviously too small. Hurts like a bastard, too. So I gingerly grasped the pustule between two fingers and squeezed it until my eyes crossed, sweat-beads popped, and I nearly blacked out from the pain. Result? Nothing. None of that glorious Ruby Red grapefruit colored excreta we all secretly get off on. No twisted inch long hair sproinging out of the top of the volcano. Just pain. Shit. I might just get Jack Danieled tonight, put a piece of wood between my teeth, and break out the Swiss Army Knife. If that punk Hanks can take out a bad tooth with an ice skate this should be a piece of cake. Chocolate cake.
Warheads. I say we ban 'em.
I need to take some time off from my pus-blogging for a while. The reasons have to do with work, my kids, a host of undone shit around the hovel. Like any hobby, time management is important, and I have been lax in this regard. There was no "snit" involved, I don't need a cast iron ass, I'm not crying or pissing in my beer, I'm not eating worms. Nobody hurt my feelings but myself, because of my sometimes frivolous misuse of my precious time. Those who know me, in fact, will attest I have no feelings to assuage. I get along quite well with everyone I've ever come in contact with in the blogosphere (except, of course, that cunt who keeps trying to sell me phentermine). No, I don't give a flip fuck if you like me, detest me, read me, spam me,
jerk-off fingerbang yourself to Lee Van Cleef's picture, send me pictures of your bare titties to teach me a lesson.
I'm sure I'll come back when I catch up. Again, the only bone I have to pick is with myself, for what I perceive to be occasionally shitty writing, a cardinal sin when time is the scarcest of commodities. That's my fucking prerogative, too. I'm a harsh critic, see.
So I'll see you when I'm back. I have a half-hewn fireplace mantel in the garage that requires attention, and 400 square feet of kitchen tile to lay. There's glory for you.
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry when Steve Spurrier quit as the Redskins coach (you owe me, Jack Straw).
What a prick. A real bully. Don't think so? Ask Terry Dean. The kid was a natural, a Heisman candidate. Got cross-wise with Spurrier. Got his career fucked.
Steve made a career out of platooning quarterbacks at Florida. Scared the shit out of those boys. It worked, but at what price? I wondered at the time if that scenario would play out in the pros. Turns out not. You cannot bully millionaires.
They don't give a shit. You, Spurrier, are just another putz. THAT is the NFL.
Fuck Steve Spurrier.
So I clipped my fingernails today, put the clippings in film canisters, and gave them to my daughters as Kwanzaa presents. Said "Now you're the proud owners of a piece of the White Man".
So the girls aren't speaking to me, and The Bride wants to commit me. Where's the sense of humor, people?!? It's not like they were toenails, for crissakes. Those are wrapped in a nice little box with a yellow bow, under The Bride's pillow. Right where they belong.
I spent New Year's Eve with some neighbors. There were folks from Brooklyn, Staten Island, Puerto Rico, Nashville, British Virgin Islands, and St. Croix. A most unusual mix. They were all very nice for people I suspect to be Bush Haters. I do not think they cared for my opinions.
That was their problem, however. Once I get my lip hung in a jug, my compadres' job is to shut up and listen to me expound my worldview. I believe they intuitively understood this, and were quite gracious about the whole thing. I'm having them all over this weekend to reciprocate.