And I believe that gives me a pass, of sorts. Ecclesiastical, revelatory, laic, I have no idea. Suffice it to say I shall take the ripped end of Lent and turn it to mine own purposes. As a Crumpled Anglican I can do no less.
I do consider religion circumscribed pageantry, but, as I've said before, there is something breathtakingly beautiful in a civilization that forces immutable laws upon itself, conscious of the fact it would emend them willy-nilly at the first shake of a goat's tail, if said goat's tail were enticing enough.
Birthday on Easter carries deep weight, however. One's thoughts turn to resurrection, and rebirth, and the chasing down by pickup truck jihadists of those who would conflate their personal reborning with Goddamighty's Son.
Resurrection can cover many things, though. Perhaps I'll resurrect my blog, for instance. Or my sex life. Or my childhood fascination with rocketry.
That's it. I shall launch a small Estes on my birthday. It will be a simulacrum of my blog, my love life, and rocketry.
Did you know I'm Jocko's Streamliner? And all this time I thought I was Streamo's Jockliner.
I feel better now. I think.
Since my good friend Rankin' Rob is returning to the game for the first time since that bullshit strike season:
If Roger Maris had to have an asterisk by his 61 homers for all those years, because he played more games than Ruth, shouldn't they put asterisks by McGuire's, and Sosa's, and Bonds' home run records? These fuckwads were full of steroids! Pumped up like Angus (Angi?) before the slaughter.
Better yet: put an icon of their tiny, twisted penises next to their records. Show the impressionables what steroids really do to a man, other than make him rich.
I'll wager Maris, at 165 pounds, had more hanging between his legs than that supposed stud (and avowed asshole) Bonds.
I hesitated for a few days to write this eulogy, because I'm always aware of the potential for flippancy, or at least lack of gravitas, when I broach sensitive subjects on this site. It is, after all, a catch-basin for my emotions, and the output runs the range from manic to depressive, from sacred to profane. But I reckon it will be taken in the emotion it was intended.
Cooper, Jack and Michelle's dog, died last week, mauled by a pit bull. Attacked while spending a day of intended play at the doggie day care. Some screwhead put the pit bull in his pen by mistake, and cruelly incompetent veterinarian care compounded the tragedy. A bitter loss for those of us who loved the boy.
I've known sweet pets in my life, and owned some of the best, but Coop was beyond the pale. The kindest, gentlest fellow you'd ever meet. Never a mean bone in his body.
Cooper reached his zenith, I believe, when he caught a burglar one night. Even his mellow demeanor could sniff out evil, and do his great part in apprehending the malfeasor.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Pit bulls, and their mutant ilk, must be outlawed. Not exterminated, although this particular brute is wheat for the animal control thresher, but allowed to die out as the bastard genetic freaks they are. They aren't a naturally occurring breed (no breed is), however they were genetically twisted to fuel the sadistic appetites of those who would fight dogs against each other for bloodsport.
States should pass laws making the breeding of killer dogs a felony, and after three years any of the Frankenhounds determined to be over that age should be shot.
Don't e-mail me about how sweet your pit bull is. I don't give a damn. He just hasn't had the urge to kill yet. But he is genetically-encoded to do it, so remember that when you let your little daughter roam the backyard with him.
This wasn't meant to be a rant, but a eulogy. The preacher went astray.
So here's to Cooper, a wonderful companion, a missed spirit.
So I'm standing at the bar in the clubhouse of the King and Bear golf course at World Golf Village a little after six or so Sunday evening. Because I'd spent the afternoon playing a round after a morning at The Players' Championship, sipping a well earned scotch after an exquisite round? Oh no.
No, my elder daughter's dance team was having their awards banquet at the club house. ONLY girly girls would schedule an awards banquet during the closing hours of the local PGA tournament event.
So, as the year-in-review video was playing, and the girls were shrieking in delight at the pictures of each other, I and another dad are watching 23-year-old Adam Scott try to protect a two-shot lead and win "The Fifth Major" on the TV behind the bar. Now, I doubt the TPC will ever achieve major status, but with the top players in the world, and a $1.44 milion paycheck to the winner, can you say screw the PGA Championship? I know what I'd rather win.
So Scott hits the green on the island hole at 17, the most infamous hole in professional golf, and has a good drive on 18. The problem came when he hit his second shot. Missed the green, and put it in the water. In the freaking water!
That is when I yelped "Shitfuck!" Or "Fuckshit!" I forget, exactly. A burble, really, not an actual shout, but people, it resonated. Thirty parents' eyes, including Mine own Bride's, spooled around to stare at me. It was not unlike the cartoon I had imagined, but had not been able to execute, to March of the Swivelheads.
Fortunately, the girls were too busy squealing to hear me, but the parents pulled out their notepads, and placed another black mark against Velocidad, scourge of upright, tightassed dance parents. The bartender, damn him, sniggered into his diet soda like a coach in a Porky's movie.
Oh, the outcome? Scott had to go up and down in two from the rough off the green to win, and avoid a playoff. His chip put him ten feet from the hole, and he drained it like a frigging twelve-year pro. His caddy was ecstatic, naturally.
Derailed, I was. Disabled by mine own webhost for the crime of possessing overly frisky cgi scripts. Treated like a commom criminal, tossed into the sponging-house.
I am now a proud member of the Verve Hosting family, and wish to thank Kevin at Wizbang for doing all the heavy lifting involved with my migration. He is The Man. I'd also like to thank King of Fools for Zen support, and Eric for pointing me to these guys and giving me an emphatic shove in the ass.
I apologize to anyone who had issues with my comments, and anyone who was outraged over having that damned dump dream post incessantly shoved in their face. That was NOT the post to go out on. It could have been worse, I suppose. It could have been the Shit Mummies post. Then again, I saved that particular opprobrious piece of trash for someone else's blog. Heh.
So I'm back. Ridicule at will.
I've been having essentially the same dream off and on for the last three months.
I am at an off-site location, business-related, with 40 or so of my coworkers. I am alone in the room, everyone else being outside, when I find I absolutely must take a shit. The seat of ease, of course, is fully exposed against the wall. As I relieve myself of my burdens, everyone returns inside.
For some reason, my slumbering mind reckons I can disguise this problem by sitting very still, as if I am in a chair. Then the olfactory problem kicks in, and I realize I must Wrap It Up. The tensest part of the dream is figuring out how to scrape off, so to speak, with everyone gathering around me for casual conversation.
I've had this dream 5 or 6 times, and I've never solved the wiping dilemma. I've always awakened with the cold sweats before that.
Do I have internalized issues? NAWWW. Does this have anything to do with my waking workaday, or that haircut I took today? Absolutely not, I'm certain.
My new duties necessitate a new wardrobe, and appurtenances. Given the level of capability I've obviously been identified with, I stopped off after work at Wal-Mart and purchased some safety scissors to replace those pointy ones in my drawer. I also took the opportunity to buy some latex surgical gloves, lest I catch anything contagious from my new Spongebob keyboard. I do hope I can safely navigate the scissors with the gloves.
Those silk sportcoats and blazers I just updated my wardrobe with? Banished in favor of a nice air-chambered life preserver. My Countess Mara ties represent a choking hazard, so I'll just use clip-on bowties for now, until I can locate something safer, like the tissue paper the barber wrapped around my throat as a youngster. The Johnston & Murphys are treed and boxed in lieu of the Red Wing steel-toed boots I saved from my days running a terminal.
Safety goggles, to deflect the errant paperclip? Check. Bicycle helmet, should I fall off my chair? Check. I really wish I could find some small pillows to strap to the soles of my safety boots, in case the wayward pebble finds its way underfoot.
Do you know how hard it is to find rubber underwear in Big Boy sizes?
I'm set, I think, although a few surgical masks and boat fenders would be nice. And I'm having a specialist quote a price on converting the office into a Boy in the Plastic Bubble rig. Of course, the risk management folks are very leery about allowing me to work in a pure oxygen environment.
Tomorrow, I shall ride the short bus to work.
A heavy two days, indeed. Not as bloody as I'd imagined, but some real shockers, and unbelievable bullshit. Lost some good friends. I particularly resented the wanton murder of my ego. The wallet is untouched, however I believe my new responsibilities are properly categorized as "giving little Jimmy something to do so the damned mongoloid doesn't hurt the cat again."
Mark Steyn is, in my prejudicial opinion, the most brilliant political pundit on the Scene. I'm not saying he is the most Intellectual, and I doubt he would agree; nonetheless I love his ability to cut to the chase, and do so in manner both humorous and trenchant.
Steyn has been writing the endpage of National Review for the last some issues, called happy warrior. I hate to say it, but it has been a rather subdued disappointment. Perhaps it is Mark's determination not to nurture the viturperation of the great William F, or perhaps he is merely writing for a different audience, but I'm sad he is not flowering, full, in the slot I consider the pinnacle of punditry.
His latest, in the April 5 issue, is much of the same. Very good, but my sides were not cracking. I like my sides cracked when mine enemies are flayed. Perhaps that is a peculiar taste I should savor in private.
The gist of the article, called the Spanish Disposition, details the reasons behind Spain's ousting of Aznar in favor of that Zamboni fellow 72 hours after the train bombings. Steyn sums up nicely, and I quote purely extemporaneously, without benefit of the nuance of his entire piece:
...And the tragedy for the Continent is that this time it's their core identity at stake. If you think the Spanish election result is a disgrace, look down the road two or three years, to the next election cycle, in France, Belgium, the Netherlands. In the U.S., psephologists speculate on the impact of Ralph Nader's 2 or 3 percent. Think about an election where 20 percent of the voters are a culturally unassimilated bloc. If Washington has a hard time getting any useful contribution to the war from Europe now, you do the math in five years hence.
I used to call it spam, too, but now I call it spoot. I'd eat spam if I were hungry enough. Spoot, however? As my Robert E. Lee Civil War General software game cries at me when I attempt to mis-maneuver my cavalry, "NO, SUH!"
Have you been getting spam that seems to have penetrated your blog and randomly selected obscure words, crammed them together into some bizarre compost of a title (like oyster urine - that has to be from my site), and attempted to sell you a shitload of Cialis, cheap? I've told these people before: gimme something to keep it down!
The point, if there is one, is that the bastards always seem to get a little more sophisticated in their attempts to seduce me into opening their sales pitch.
Here's a little advice:
HOT CUM FACIALS 69FUCK always worked pretty well for me. Can't we go back to the Olde Days?
I believe quite a few of us are waiting for Eric to show us his scar picture.
A heavy bill to fill, sure, but he's pegged us for the fetishists we are.
Tell you what, laddie: if you get that pic up soon enough, I'll score you that Popeye episode where Bluto tries to brand Olive Oyl's ass with that big red B poker (Romeo Rodeo). We fetishists must stick together.
And we were not, but Rankin' Rob has his Thinker posted...
When I was like 10 my mother, bless her, having studied Rodin, told me The Thinker was naught but Rodin's take on the wisdom that comes with a dump. One does their best thinking on the throne. And, as usual, I think she was right. In fact, I often strike that classic pose, when flagrante expulsio.
My particular friend Rankin' Rob brings up a good point (while throwing me under the bus in the process, the wanker, but the toss was deserved, I suppose):
Where is everyone? I sense a congealing of the blogosphere. A prediliction to cosset the close and comfortable. Not much seeking and searching, anymore. More of a return to the sites that affirm one's worldview. We Free Thinkers are supposed to be beyond that. We, after all, can go to a Democraticunderground (no link, fuck you), for instance, and, while not being overly polite, can throw a Thought or Two out there, instead of a Hatespew.
Which is why I applaud Geoffrey's new approach. A nice mix 'em up. Well done. And why I've always liked Acidman. The quotidian is absent from Rob's. There's always a sense of the Whatthefuck in the air, and that's okay by me.
I think, ultimately, I miss the female bloggers. Or their swarming comments, at any rate. Perhaps they're circling the Conestogas. Or, worse, they're out there, just shunning me, due to my torpor. I can buy that, I reckon.
Well, a little introspection goes a long way, and even a good bullwhipping will not solve that.
I suppose I must renounce my nuanced approach, and return to my Girls Gone Wild persona. It's a traffic thing.
Post script: I am quite prepared for the comments averring that "Well, it's because you're so damned BORING now. I liked you better when you mixed your medications."
Truth be told, I liked me better then, too.
I have to be honest here. That bullwhipping post didn't generate a lot of feedback, other than the predictable pushing away from the monitor, and some screwed up facial expressions. I really liked it better when you folks shared my sense of humor.
Not to worry. This was merely along the lines of the decapitation episode in Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas. An addlepate run amok.
You'll be glad to know you can take the hands away from the kiddies' eyes. The only use of a bullwhip in the Velocihovel will be in Mapplethorpe style. Feel better now? Good.
Praise Allah, my hooptie has been selected for Pimp My Ride. I shall be shamming on the BLVD in two weeks.
Timing is everything, they say, and my squad has the timing of a metronome with a sproinged spring.
The Bride is laid up with a torn knee ligament, identity witheld pending notification of MRI, Elder Child has had a recurrence of the Dread Kidneystones. Skeeter is healthy so far, but I expect her to come up with something esoteric like whooping cough, and I shall succumb to hives (I've noticed abnormal striations).
Because I don't need this shit this week, of all weeks, and The Creator takes great pleasure in my discomfiture, as payback for earlier oaths, ill-considered. Of course, I'm not the one in pain here, yet, so I'm being the good Reginald VelJohnson, and chauffering my injured lambs to the
I'm also expecting my houseguest, a week overdue, but that will materialize when it does.
Am I turning into a Grumpy Old Man? Perish the thought. I've been a grumpy old man since I was eight years old.
This would be HBO's new series. The first episode was thin gruel, indeed. A lot of fuckin' this and fuckin' that, and cocksucker this and cocksucker that. I believe the thought process was to remind us that cowpokes and prospektirs cussed just as bad as Chris Rock, therefore they are kindred souls, in case you didn't get enough blasphemy from your hour of Sopranos.
The plot was thin as onion paper, the characters vapid. This is what you get when you have five producers, I suppose. Profanity by committee. Although all the producers seemed especially fond of cocksucker, which if nothing else speaks volumes about them.
The Wild Bill Hickock character was supposed to be Ominous, I suspect. And he was, in a Bronson Pinchot kind of way. The Calamity Jane character had potential, but she was being used merely to prove the point a sista could hold mastery over barnyard epithets just as well as the boys.
Weak, weak, weak. I saw nary a dwarf, nor were the prostitutes visibly pox-ridden. I would have had a lot more fun with this.
Hal and Analog Man brought me round quite rightly on my lack of a cigar with my relaxation yesterday, so I corrected the matter today, enjoying one of my last Cuban Montecristos with a tumbler of Dalmore and a few chapters of O'Brian, poolside in glorious weather.
Yes, I break ranks with the Government Boys on the enjoyment of Cuban tobaccoes; this makes me a scofflaw, sure, but so does extracting a splinter from my daughter's finger without board certification. I am not in accord with our Cuba Policy, anyhow. If we can truck with the Forcible Abortionists in Peking we should wallow in equal equanimity with the Hackers in Havana. And who knows? Some good may come of it. Commerce does wonderful things for freedom, at times.
Good news, too: my local wine and spirits merchant has semi-permanently reduced his prices on Dalmore 12-year-old to $30 a 750, and on Maccallan's 12-year-old to $40 a 750. Brings me joy. Actually, the prices are $29.99 and $39.99, respectively. Why do I mention this? Because I think the creator of the one cent off discount should be flogged. Flogged, I say, for assuming I would 1) be sucked in by a one cent discount, thinking it was a dollar discount, and 2) thinking I would give a shit about a dollar discount in the first place.
Speaking of flogging, and I am, that is an interesting concept. I've never actually whipped a human being. Spankings, oh lord yes, but that's mere foreplay, tit for tat, and all that. But to actually uncork on a person with a cat o' nine or bull, hey.
It's not like shooting a person, a mechanical function at best, and one that might actually kill said participant. It goes without saying that is a suboptimal outcome. But I fear there might be some satisfaction to be found in unleashing a bullwhipping on a soul, especially if they were not particularly amenable from the outset. And, of course, form and style come into play, and body english and all. How does one break a move in a whipping? Baseball pitchers could be a serious source of fact here.
Sorry. That last paragraph was an introspective wandering, not fit for public consumption and certainly improperly put to page. Please put out of mind any thoughts of whippings, or spankings, or corporal discipline of any kind.
It appears Tiger has reached a point of mutual exclusion between his blog and his run for County Attorney. A shame. His was a good blog, and I selfishly hope he loses and returns to blogging, as I don't think he'll be the same writer if he resumes after winning.
Here's an intelligent-looking fellow. Mouth agape with nothing of consequence to say, no doubt.
I'm confused on the "Bush Lied" thing. I thought he was guilty of using faulty intelligence. The slippery slope was damned quick on this one. From being a dupe to outright lying took about 4 days.
Similarly, everyone knows Bush never said "imminent". He said "if we wait until the threat is imminent it will be too late". Everyone knows this, of course, but they insist on lying about it. They lie! More slippery slopism.
Here's a thought: when Second Amendment supporters claim a particular gun control law will lead us down the slippery slope to outright banning, they are called nuts. However, abortion rights activists use the same slippery slope argument to claim a ban on partial birth abortion will lead to the repeal of Roe, and are applauded for their insight.
Slippier than I thought, this slope.
And that kid in the picture? I doubt he could debate anything on the merits. A litany of ill thoughts that he thinks might get him laid, or cornholed, have osmosed into his skull. Now he gibbers them back like a macaw. Bush Lied. Shit. Give me an argument, you simpering moron.
A lull between storms, if you will. The Bloodletting has either been pushed back from next Monday until Thursday, or the following Monday, or the following Tuesday, or the original Monday. Who knows? I think they just want to keep the guesswork up, and therefore keep the handguns at a minimum.
It matters not a whit in the grand scheme. I took my leave from work today, with spring pregnant in the air, and ensconsed myself poolside, with the sun beating on my legs like an old friend, and read two chapters of The Wine Dark Sea, with three fingers of 12-year-old Dalmore at my fingertips. A sublime single malt, and bless Eric for the heads up on this nectar.
Job, no job, we persevere. Always.
Okay, that's a reference to Leiningen Versus the Ants, a 1938 Esquire short story by Carl Stephenson, wherein an Amazonian plantation owner faces a swarm of army ants ten miles long and two miles wide, stripping buffaloes to bones on their inexorable march to Leiningen's place. Standard reading fare for an 11-year-old boy, in other words.
I must insert these explanatories, because I find my culture references are getting a little too obscure lately. Making pun on the name of a girl in my fourth grade class may slay me, but you're not getting anything out of it, are you?
So: to fire ants. Viscious beasts, formed into a philogynist society where a select handful of males are sperm donors, the vast remainder are eunuchs. Extremely hard working eunuchs. Red fire ants arrived in the Port of Mobile in the 1930's from South America, in the soil used as ballast in cargo ships. Since then they have spread as far east and north as North Carolina, as far west as Texas.
For these tiny creatures that is the same as if you or I were to walk to the moon and back twice. Roughly. Actually, I just made that comparison up, but the enormity of the venture attends.
So I get these anthills, step in them occasionally, and marvel at the pus blisters on my feet. I treat with Amdro, which normally works, the eunuch taking the Godiva Chocolate of Pesticides to his Queen, for her joy. My problem, I believe, is I am infested with bisexual ant colonies. I get Rosie, but I don't get Kelli. I get LaVerne, but I don't get Shirley. I get Thelma... never mind. The point is taken.
Winter neglect created two vast subterranean colonies I'd missed. First treatment killed off half of each colony, but I had to treat again to get the Hechean remnants.
I'll be glad to give you an update in a week or so, if you're interested. Or not.
I really don't give a flip shit. What I DO care about is my inability to remember why the Left was against the war prior to October. It seems to me there were reasons the Culmination of the Iraq War of 1991 was a Bad Thing that had nothing to do with WMD's. But once no WMD's materialized, the cucarachas locked onto that as their raison d'etre.
Never mind everyone believed Saddam had them. He certainly ACTED like he did. And he certainly owned them at one point, because he fucking USED THEM! Let us not forget the fact we gave him six months to hide/dispose/bury them, also.
They may show up yet. I don't care. The fact is, we have been at war with Iraq for 13 years. As has France. As has Germany. That 1991 cease-fire was not a peace treaty, and Saddam's continuous abrogations of that cease-fire kept him in noncompliance. The daily shooting of antiaircraft weapons at U.S. warplanes in the no-fly zones alone made Saddam an international criminal. And, as France and Germany were in the original coalition, they are, by International Law, still at war with Iraq.
It was time to wrap it up, and stop Saddam's cavalier, wanton daily murder of his serfs.
One more point: where were these outraged protesters when Clinton invaded Haiti, bombed Kosovo, took out the fucking Chinese Embassy there (faulty CIA intelligence is a pass for Clinton, a crime for Bush), bombed Afghanistan, bombed Iraq? ALL without so much as a fleck of spit of approval from the UN? Bush had Resolution 1441. Remember that little piece of work? The UN GAVE Bush the right to cinch up that ongoing abortion.
Finally, why do we care what France, Germany, and the UN think? The facts are UN bureaucrats, French politicians, and German politicians were all engaged in corrupt deals with Saddam, getting kickbacks from the Oil-For-Food program even as Iraqi children were being starved and murdered. This isn't tinfoil hat, Art Bell delusion. These facts have been gleaned from our study of the papers we garnered in Baghdad. THAT is the pure simple reason these people opposed us.
So why can't we just Move On?
I missed another St. Patrick's Day Parade in Savannah, but that means nothing to me. I was weaned on them, marched in the school bands in them, played a clown in them, puked Mickey's Widemouth Malts in them. There's just nothing to draw me there anymore. I can find a local construction site with a malodorous sump of a Port-A-Let on it, slosh my feet in the muck, and achieve the same effect.
Don't get sidewise with me, though. There's a place for the 180 thousandth Savannah St. Paddy's Day Parade, it just doesn't include me. It's fun as a youngster to watch the local Irish prove every stereotype about themselves, getting polluted and doing a fuckoff on work for the day, and raising money for IRA terrorists, and pissing in the streets. I, myself, have indulged in most of these behaviors, childkiller fundraising never having made my personal cut.
But the Scot in me won't allow me to let my daughters watch such filthy behavior. Instead, we stay home, and I school in them in the history of how the Irish stayed too drunk to grow a fucking potato, and how that Cromwell fellow had a thing going once.
I save all my energy for the 5th of November, Guy Fawkes Night.
Anyone caught this show on Sci-Fi? It's Ralph Bakshi meets Monsters, Inc. meets Screw Magazine. I love it. And the hoo-hoos, especially.
Seeing Amish folk depicted as hard-working, rugged individualists who eschew modern tools and conveniences for the bowsaw and the buggy makes me laugh. Sure, they drive their buggies down the side of the road, and thresh with scythes and sickles and kaiser blades and such (Ungh. Name's Carl). It's part of the schtick.
I've spent a little time in Pennsylvania Dutch country, however, during a pilgrimage to Gettysburg, and let me tell you. Visit one of their souvenir shops. Those hypocrites know allll about the electronic cash register. I was just looking at the distelfink over my door, and as I recall they shortchange, too.
But humorous, nonetheless, because I received it through Pud.
It seems Puddy had an employee with a Bad Marriage, and a Hankering. Both issues were of this fellow's own making, but I don't want to distract from the story, so I will not proselytize.
So our story boy hooked up with a certain local female cop. I won't even say what her hair color is, but I will proffer the following ditty:
I'd rather be dead, like the bump on a log
Than red on the head, like the dick on a dog.
So our protagonist (I cannot use the sobriquet hero) is pumping away with this she-cop, her on top, when, well, let me use his words, as passed on to me by Puddyhead:
Puddy, everything's going great, she's getting off, then I feel sompin warm and wet on my stomach. I figgered she was just getting off heavy, ya know? I had that happen before, when I get a girl wet. But then she got off and I looked down, and Puddyhead, she done shit all over me!
(Cue the indignation of the Indiana Jones moment: We... Are... Going... To... Die!)
Then, apparently, she went into the bathroom and cleaned herself up, and left. No comment, no disavowal, no rationale, no excuse. Apparently she just felt like this guy deserved whatever he got. She had closed a chapter in an unholy book. And, by the by, this was apparently not a dry turd, but a gelatinous steamer, indicative of deeper issues.
This sort of thing bothers me. Don't ask me why. I guess I'm just old-fashioned.
New neighbors moving in across the street. I took the day off from work to watch them unload.
Actually, I took the day off because there was an Outer Limits marathon on Sci-Fi Channel. With GOOD episodes, like Mutant, with Warren Oates:
Nonetheless, I was excited about getting some new neighbors. After the lumpen prole who'd lived there before, I was ready for some better eye candy. It was so unfair. The hubby was a studly Navy flyboy jock. His wife was missing an ox yoke.
But damn the inventor of the wardrobe box. I couldn't get a handle on the new missy's proportions. They stayed inside, whilst the moving men did the heavy lifting.
I don't ask for much. Maybe a size 8 with a fetish for doing lawn work in butter cutters. If I can only look, I want the look to be worth my while. I find this infinitely reasonable. Differing opinions are, of course,
All inventions are not equal, of course. Some are good, some are bad.
In the "good" category I include the windshield wiper, peanut butter, the drive through liquor store. Perhaps even the light bulb, given my expansive good humor today.
I often lump the personal computer in the "bad" realm, for the simple reason it has deprived me of the opportunity to have a secretary to take dictation, something I assumed would be my God Given growing up. The previous generations had a sweet thing there. Hell, my father always had two legal secretaries. An ugly one to do all the work, a good-looking one for fucking. The scoundrel. I'm jealous. Of course, Mother set that shit to rights eventually, assuming both roles (of course, I believe she had already been fulfilling one of those roles, on what you and I would call a continuous and reiterative basis).
But the upshot is: now we must perform our own administrative functions.
How I long to have a leggy sylph glide into my office at the command "Honey, take a letter". I could then render a missive of eloquence and persuasion, intended not only to force the recipient into spasms of fear, but to convince my secretary that that reach-around I intended to receive from her that night was not energy, wasted. Oh, to dicate something along the lines of:
To the Editor:
In Re: your Editorial of Friday Last
Sir: I was shocked and repelled by your editorial endorsing the mayor's Beautification Initiative. Trees and Flowering Shrubs, indeed. Crape myrtles and oleander lining the boulevards of our city. Oak and maple consorting together on the off-ramps of the socialist interstate highway system, you favored.
A city does not prosper by the application of botanical harlotry. The peoples look at a city for its prosperity, not its garish cosmetics. Industry seeks the tell-tales of growth to be induced to locate here. The slag-heap, the carefully cordoned waste site, the eternal flame of refuse fires. These visions bring with them jobs, and dollars, not the insipid sweetsmell of azalea and gardenia.
Do not let me catch you endorsing such nonsense in the future, sir, or I will be compelled to bring you to rights, and burn your fucking house down, if necessary.
I've often threatened to put up a Puddyhead story, but felt shabby about having sport with a friend's travails. I'm over that, now that I realize Pud would enjoy the notoriety, and the trips down memory lane he may not recollect on his own.
I've known Puddyhead for 30 years. The Bride has known him longer, having gone to elementary school with him. He has suffered great tragedy in his life, losing a father as a toddler, a brother in Vietnam when he was ten, his mother in his twenties, and his sister to suicide in the weeks after his mother's passing. But he remains a hale fellow, well met, and I cherish his friendship. But enough blubbering. Let's hear a Puddyhead story.
I don't mind telling this one, because Pud was actually between wives at the time. He was mid-thirties, I reckon, and had landed the object of his affections, a 19 year old barmaid at his local watering hole. It was January, and freezing, but they went out to her car for a bit o' honey. Just when they were en flagrante delicto, which is Latin, or French, for buck-assed naked and horny and wet, Puddy, being of his own account drunk, determined he must urinate.
Most men understand the glory of a pee boner. 'tis an eternal erection, and allows one the opportunity to play Johnny The Wad for as long as one's amour chooses to make love. After satisfaction of the lady in question, a man may delicately excuse himself for a moment, piss furiously after a minute or two of leadening, and return to the fray, and his own eventual orgasm.
Not Puddyhead. He wanted his now.
So after recusing himself to the bitter winter night outside the car, our protaganist begins his urinary void, only to have the car door slam shut and lock with his finger in the crease.
The tables have turned. Puddy is now buckled in pain, naked, exposed to God and Man and Sheriff and the Rubbernecker, begging the girl to open the door. She, however, is bobble-heading to an old Duran Duran tune in the car, smoking a fag, oblivious to the Pud's plight.
Between the Arctic air, and the numbing pain, when the world is finally made right, Pud's pud is kaput.
The only girl to ever get naked with Puddyhead and not be Puddified, to hear him tell it. He also spoke of the Pain, which anyone who has ever had their finger slammed in the door understands. Hell, it was a Right of Passage in my childhood.
I take allowance for exaggeration, and boast, in a tale. But this one rings true, for the simple fact that I would never admit I had it in my grasp, and let it slip away.
Which I've just started the 16th volume of Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey-Maturin opus. And make no mistake, this is not a 20 volume set, it is one magnificent work of fiction. Each volume is identical in quality, timbre, and tone. Over 30 years O'Brian never once succumbed to changes in style, or current fashion.
I started reading the books after hearing an interview with O'Brian on NPR shortly before his death in 2000. I quit reading at number 12 about a year ago, knowing there were only eight left, then no more. I recently resumed after the Straw Man started devouring them, passed me at volume 14, and threatened to spill the beans at the end.
The continuity in the last eight or nine volumes keeps one primed for the next, because by that time O'Brian had eschewed tying up major plots at the end of each novel. I believe he was getting old, and knew his endgame already, and merely broke the narrative at the convenience of his publisher; to keep a few coins flowing through the Norton House.
I shall have to read a few of the ancillary books on the series. An entire cottage industry has arisen around various attempts to assist one in understanding much of the archaic terminology. I sailed on a square-rigger for three summers, and much of the argot is foreign to me.
Then I can reread the series a few times, hopefully gleaning an additional nugget or two each time.
Rankin' Rob's reference at Kelley's to Flannery O'Connor's Andalusia in Milledgeville jiggered loose one of those few random memory particles ponging around my brain bucket.
I believe most children were told by their parents that, if they did not cease and desist a particular activity, it would drive Mama to the nuthouse. Or, in my parents' case, they would threaten to send ME there for a little discipline at the hand of The Negroes in White Uniforms, who would surely lock me in a cell first, with The Man Who Ripped Apart Kittens, for a little softening up.
Growing up in Savannah the asylum was in Milledgeville. Around Jacksonville I'm told the local asylum was in Macclenny.
Once when I was driving from Memphis to Shiloh for a little reminescing I passed a magnificent lunatic asylum in Bolivar. It was a huge, stately institution set atop a hill with rolling lawns and grave, melancholy oaks. I believe every asylum ever depicted in cinema was based on the West Tennessee Hospital for the Insane. One could practically see the escaped mental patients wandering the grounds in their nightgowns after slaughtering and devouring the guards, and feel the thump of Michael Myers on the roof of the car.
So: where was your childhood nuthouse? Where were you driving your poor mother with your incessant whining, pleading, bedwetting, smoking, drinking, drugging, cavorting with carnival workers, or whatever you did to put Mom over the edge?
As I said at the time, the Spanish train bombings were a simple case of murder for the sake of politics. Now that the Socialists have ousted the Conservatives in today's elections, anyone interested in starting a pool to see who can get closest to the pullout of Spanish troops from Iraq?
April 17 seems about right to me.
I mentioned Lebanon in that last post, and it continues to chap my ass. Lebanon was basically a Christian nation from 1920 until 1978. Syria moved troops in to help "quell" civil war, a war begun by displaced Palestinians from the 1973 war, then the Syrians assassinated Christian President Bashir Gameyel in 1982, and consolidated power. Syria has controlled Lebanon ever since, and Beirut, once the Paris of the Mediterranean, has been reduced to rubble.
Bush could make Syria evacuate Lebanon with a phone call. Syria is a tiny paper tiger compared to Iraq. Lebanon could be a viable democracy, with a government consisting of Muslims and Christians working together, just as they once did.
That's what Iraq was all about, right? WMD was bullshit. We wanted a launching pad in the heart of the Middle East. Now we have it. Lebanon would be the second domino.
If we can spend $87 billion on Iraq, we can spend $10 billion on rebuilding Beirut. Personally, I hear the beaches are bitching. How about a Hedonism resort in old Phoenicia?
I need a little scrolling space to separate my initial siteview from that last picture, s'il vous plait. Even I have limits.
So, query: why do the Saudis get a pass from Bush on human rights? W is tougher on the hostage state of Lebanon than he is on the birthplace and savings and loan of Wahhabism. Curious. Or infuriating. I'm not saying the Saudis have W's pecker in their pocket, I'm just suggesting Laura has to drive over to Georgetown and borrow it from Prince Bandar if she wants some manmeat.
Why is Arafat still alive? As a diplomatic measure, how can Israel be any worse off if they were to whack him? What are the Pali's going to do? Start an intifada?
Upside: new Pali leadership, with a modicum of willingness to negotiate. Perhaps even a recognition that their strategy of the last 3 years has been, not only wantonly murderous, but unproductive to boot.
Is it just me, or does Iraqi-bred, Iranian-born Persian ayatollah Sistani look just like Khomeini, He Who Was Slathered in Clarified Butter, and dropped in the dirt like a piece of porkflesh at his funeral? I think Sean Connery could play either of these guys, with the proper hairpiece.
There. That should give me some breathing space.
Okay, children: what is this?
And is it edible?
UPDATE: Interesting guesses. It's a human bladder, pulled through a hernia incision for whimsical inspection. Don't ask how I ran across it. NOT the surgery I was looking for. So to answer the question: yes, technically, in some societies, it is edible.
Here's a nice Monkey Division set-up I found at Timewarptoys:
Note the Molotov Cocktail! In case you can't read it, it sez "Molotov Cocktail" on the label. Fucking Ada. For the boy with Bolshevik leanings. A very sweet rig here.
The Tribe is in Orlando for dance competition, which I shall attend tomorrow. In the meantime I'm trapped, with cats slithering about the ankles. I don't mind them, especially, but you know my fear: that I will succumb to stroke or infarction or carbon monoxide, to be found Sunday, with the beasts having feasted upon my particular internal organs. I believe their incessant rubbing against my leg is but the feline equivalent of cheese sampling at the local greengrocer.
I almost forgot to link this story I saw on Drudge, wherein a group of British birdwatchers, or "twitchers" (hey, I'm just reading from the script like you), excitedly setting up cameras to film a rare American robin, were stunned when a sparrowhawk pounced on it for a snack.
THAT'S the kind of thing that makes a day a bonus for me.
I don't want to sound cruel here, just insensitive. I like this town, but By God there are a lot of cripples here. I swear I see at least two a day. Not clubbers with a cane or walker, either, but full blown arms-a-flailing, legs-a-whirling sideshow freaks. Some of them look like they're shooting the cuffs of their trousers instead of their coats.
Something in the water here? Are ortheopedic surgeons considered practitioners of some obscene voodoo? Where were these people's mamas and daddies when they were growing up?
A lot of these afflicteds look like they could ambulate admirably with a leg brace and a cane. There are some pretty advanced walkers on the market as well. But these folks insist on gyrating and flopping around like a blood sample in an off-balance centrifuge.
Fuck that, I say. Fuck that. It's unseemly to bring that much attention to yourself.
Also, it invariably brings to mind the old Redd Foxx joke about the man having an epilectic fit at the carnival: "Everybody thought it was a new ride, and hopped on. I got thrown off twice."
No, there are often fixes for these maladies, and I give up a sizeable chunk of my paycheck to ensure their ability to get it fixed for free. I shall pray to St. Vitus tonight to give these people the wisdom to seek some help. I'm tired of walking around like I'm stuck in a damned David Lynch film.
That's the only expression I could put to the shameful performance Todd Bertuzzi gave in a desperate bid to save his career. He was a pussy with a story. Lest you are uninformed, Bertuzzi, a Vancouver Canuck, is looking at serious penalties for his vicious stomping of Steve Moore in a hockey game. Bertuzzi whimpered like a fucking baby in defence of himself. I don't know what made me want to puke more. The savage cheap shot stomping of Moore, which, by the way, broke Moore's neck, and probably destroyed his career, or the pussy-assed mea culpa Bertuzzi proffered today. He was crying! Sobbing like a little bitch. Fuck that thug. He should have been putting a Sig Sauer in his left ear, and giving the Moore family something to be thankful for.
My brother and his Vancouver Babe are huge Canuck fans, rightfully, and they got me interested in the sport. But, as much as I appreciate that, I cannot condone this mayhem. Perhaps they can weigh in and offer an alternate opinion. I would hate to think such a screed could go unanswered. However, the "payback" defense will not wash here. Even Breshnev understood measured response.
Today started with bad karma, and don't they all.
Terrorism struck Madrid to the tune of nearly 200 dead souls, and the fiends turned out to be not Basque separatists, but, surprise, Qaeda terrorists. But of course. Presidential elections in Spain are Sunday, and Aznar, as a champion in the War on Terror, must be defeated. What better way than to blow up some trains, and human flesh? And, yes, blowing up trains is particularly heinous to me. I'm sure the bobble-head Eurotrash protesting the War have the same talking points as the Qaeda, though, and will blame Aznar.
Listen up: Spaniards are in this because they look at Moorish architecture and ruins every day, at some point. Most of that country was under the boot heel of Islam for over 700 years. And the Moors want it back, apparently. This was coldly calculated political murder, make no doubt. And do not think it can't happen in New York City a few days prior to the Republican convention. The great leveling effect, to me, is the fact that Islamists are terrified shitless of United States Marines. One company of Marines deployed in New York is worth two years of supplication at the knees of Kofi Annan. That is our best defence.
The second bad vibe was entering the parking garage at work. A woman stepped right in front of me as I was negotiating the turn on level 2. Dumb thing. She never even looked my way. I locked down, then had to suffer through her Stare, as she froze in place, in my right-of-way, and muttered some nonsensical bullshit at me. I have no idea what she was saying, Joe Strummer was screaming something about London calling in my ear, but she had the definite attitude of a Person Aggrieved. Friends, up hers. She was Wrong. I hope she read lips, because I was blistering her for the obvious floor scrap she was.
The third bad vibe was work. Doomsday, aka the Great Layoff, is the week of the 22nd. That much has been deduced despite the Cone of Silence that traps my boss, and his peers. Given the fact that is the week of The Players Championship, I reason the bloodletting will occur the 22nd or 23rd. No Big Swinging Johnson wants blood on his trou at the Tournament from Wednesday on. One must be tidy. I care not. I've spent my potential severance several times over, and I think that this town is ready for a real strip club, with responsible management.
Comes the night, and it gets worse. A schoolmate of my elder daughter struck, and killed, a pedestrian last night. I found out tonight. This woman was walking down Racetrack Road, jabbering on her cell phone, and was not paying attention to what she was really doing, and therefore walked into the path of a high school girl driving home. She thought she was walking down the street, trying to keep her ass within grasping weight, no doubt, when she was actually walking down a County Road, that has seen belligerent growth over the last 5 years. That cell phone not only killed her, it killed the soul of a teenage girl who will have to live with the horror of smashing another human being, and grinding her into lumpmeat, for the rest of her life.
I don't ask for much: I DO ask for women to put down the cellphone, and pay attention. Behind the wheel or before the mast.
The fourth bad vibe? I can't even go there. The ears have walls, as they say. That particular cold sore will manifest itself here soon enough.
I'm not saying Andrew Napolitano is ugly, but I am considering passing the hat to purchase the fellow a forehead. And with Diane Fossey hacked to death, who's protecting his habitat?
My dawg Sama has skizzled us to the meaning(s) of the urban argot fo' shizzle my nizzle. Conventional wisdom points the finger at the Gap Band and Double Dutch Bus. Who knew? And, more importantly, when did Bush know it?
A lot of serious behavioral research has been done over the last two decades in an effort to prove that canines have evolved into animals who exhibit those traits and characteristics that will most endear them to their masters in exchange for what the animal wants, which is food, water, and comfort.
Pleasure at one's arrival, the mastery of tricks, obedience to orders, all point to the conclusion that dogs have become that rarest of things: a species of animal that has achieved the ultimate in parasitic relationship with another species. No other parasite actually brings pleasure to the host.
I personally found this theory repugnant at first, but the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. I don't think dogs herd sheep, for instance, because they dig it. They do it because it makes master happy, and fills their belly.
So my thought is: if this theory is true, then isn't the whole Pavlov's Dog thing bullshit?
Maybe Pavlov's dog wasn't drooling because the bell had been rung, and therefore he knew dinner was coming. Maybe the dog was drooling because he knew Master wanted him to drool, and that way he could end the mind-numbing experiments and get what he wanted: food, water, and comfort.
In other words, Pavlov, being a slave to his own expectations, had become the trained, and mighty Rex had become the Master.
This theory works for me, but then I also believe I am the descendant of aliens and mountain gorillas.
You know what I'm talking about. I've spoken of them before. Those lonely chimneys standing by the side of the road, like Easter Island god heads, mute testament to some long forgotten tragedy.
I don't see them anymore, although I don't drive the backroads of Georgia like I once did, calling on customers in Attapulgus, Bainbridge, Cairo, and Albany. Rob just made a South Georgia trek; maybe he saw some.
They piqued my curiosity as a child: what the hell happened there, way back when? Of course, living on the swath Sherman cut through Georgia during the Great Howl, I figured at nine or ten years of age that Sherman's Mongol Horde had torched the places, after butchering the livestocks, pillaging the hope chests, and deflowering the magnolia blossoms that later grew into our matriarchs.
Now I understand, of course, that the causes were more recent and quotidian than that. A kitchen grease fire gone exponential, an inauspicious confluence of corn liquor drinking and smoking cigarettes in bed. The occasional Depression-Era version of no-fault divorce.
Speaking of Easter Island, those things are deteriorating rapidly. Great efforts are being made to stabilise them, but the prospect is bleak. Between 1000 and 1600 AD the islanders made about 900 of them. A few hundred they managed to erect as lookouts, as sentinels, the remainder were strewn around the quarry or abandoned in transit. Tragedy of monumental proportion struck there, too, only no one knows why.
As for the chimneys, perhaps it's just that brick and mortar crumbles, too, only sixty years later.
I'm going looking for some sentinel chimneys this weekend. I'll let you know if any of them speak to me.
That last post reminded me to search the Florida Department of Law Enforcement website to locate sexual predators in my area. I will occasionally post these scumbags' pictures on my site, along with their crime. I also print their pictures and show them to my girls. Not to scare them. To terrify them. In a manner of speaking. Last time there were three within 4 miles of me.
Today there were none in my entire Zip Code. That's good news for me and my neighbors, possibly bad news for someone else. These creatures are a pretty transient bunch, prone to moving on when their neighbors find out exactly what they are. But I can't look out for everybody.
They finally caught the satanic bastard who raped a 9-year-old girl in 1996 at a Palm Valley, Florida development site. DNA busted him. He was in prison in California for sex crimes, having been allowed to walk for like crimes in Ohio. The Ohio crimes happened after he committed his foul deeds here in Florida, but he had a history of sex crimes an arm's length long before he ever showed up here.
I moved to Jacksonville a couple of weeks after this crime. Rented an apartment in Ponte Vedra Beach while I looked for a home. We found a beautiful, perfect neighborhood, where they were just breaking soil, but when The Bride found out the crime that had happened there, she insisted we move to the other side of St. Johns County.
Too bad, because those houses, two minutes from the beach, have tripled in value. But I understand why she couldn't live there. Bad joss.
But he is caught. Finally. People in Palm Valley have had fences and security systems on high alert for 7 years on account of this bastard, and he's been jailed, off and on, far away, for a like amount of time.
But he's been released repeatedly, and he's raped children repeatedly for the last 7 years.
What the fuck is that all about?
The Bride opened her Target bill today, and noticed a $35 late fee. A rather glaring charge, to be honest, considering the low balance on the account. I won't belabour the outcome, other than to allow she chewed their asses and had it removed. She'd made an electronic payment on 3/3, and the payment was due 3/29.
Here's my bitch: I catch these bogus charges about 4 times a year, on various accounts. They always say it was a "billing error". Let me tell you something:
These people are fucking liars. Oh, not the poor customer service hack in Chittagong, but the company, the enterprise. Overbillings and extracurricular charges and bullshit fees come from the top. That shit is systemic to the billing software. This is racketeering on a massive, but under the radar scale.
There is an entire cadre of low-rent, ratshack cocksuckers who've modeled themselves on the Enrons, and Worldcoms, and Arthur Andersens of the world, who are lining their pockets with the oversights of you and me. When you catch them, they plead error. When you don't catch them, they line their pockets. Never do they pay the price of their knavery.
They are highwaymen, pure and simple, only they lack the balls of a real highwayman, preferring to steal from you from the convenience of their hot tubs, and their outsourced billing departments in the State of Uttar Pradesh.
Well, I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore.
The next time I get billed a bogus charge, and they try to blow me off with a "billing mistake" excuse, I'm going to call their sorry asses on the carpet. Call them the thieves they are, and demand compensation. Because they are fucking thieves. I'm going to demand I be repaid by a like sum, doubled. Should they balk, I will consume myself with fucking with their world. Crime is down in this town. The snot-nosed Legal Aid and ACLU types are withering on the vine here, no ostensible cases of Injustice blowing their way.
I'll put them to work. It only takes a few buzzwords: multinational assholes, jobs shipped overseas, non-union environment, for instance. I'll find a few minorities with similar grievances, then we'll RICO their asses. I will unleash Holy Hell on the next Motherfucker who misbills me.
I've kept my old statements, too. I know who these assholes are. And I hate to say it, but when names of formerly outstanding corporations like TARGET start showing up, you know it's an endemic situation.
It's time to ramp up the prison rape on the Suits.
Suburban Blight is one year old today. It's been a hoot for me; Kelley's been a great blogger, cyber friend and reciprocal guest host, among other things.
No mention of spankings ordered, requested, demanded, or denied. Just for the record.
This poor bastard got the shit end of the stick when a crane dropped an ocean container on him. Funny how you never see women suffer on-the-job accidents like this, but men are the great oppressors.
Thanks (I think) to Michele for the pics. And, yes, there was worse.
Which Horror Movie Villain are you?
Sorry. This isn't a real internet quiz. I just wanted to be the Abominable Doctor Phibes for a little while.
Easter is right around the corner. The kids want to go to Islands of Adventure, but I'm thinking outside the straightjacket.
What do you think about a trek to the Philippines to witness some dudes crucifying themselves? It's a real crowd-pleaser, not unlike the fire-eaters at Mallory Pier in Key West.
I think that would be totally cool.
Spring is in the air, fellow apostates, and that means yard work, and sweaty hours hunkered over recalcitrant weed-whackers and lawnmowers. New blasphemies coined for the latest domestic problem. And I am ready? Hark:
Last year's growing season was a bust for Velociman. I was in a blue funk, suffering from some twisted confluence of depression, and clinical fuckall. I let my yard go to seed, and allowed it be be devoured by webworms, and moles. I've always had beautiful lawns, and taken pride in my skills, but I went underground last year, and pouted about issues unresolved.
I wish I could say that bout of depression was consigned to my yardwork, but it was a deeper, more challenging problem. Verily, folks, I could barely lift spoon to mouth. A cursory scroll through the Archives will bear witness to my, for want of a better word, miasma.
Regardez: I just felt like taking the Big Sleep, and saw nothing gainsayed by toiling in the bullshit known as my yard. I figured fuck it, it's repititous crap, unworthy of my attention.
I'd love to assign a Name, or Symptom, to my ennui. I wasn't bipolar, because there was no Mania to my Depression. I was seriously disturbed, however, by any estimation. Blogging like a fool, and shuttering the metaphorical plantation blinds on the Real World simultaneously.
Now I feel much better. I have no idea why. Perhaps my morning cuppa is more congruous to my needs, perhaps I see more value in my career, esp. as an emollient to making my children Whole.
Who knows? I was offered medication by my doc, way back when, and tried it, but that was no answer.
I'm tight with my doctor, though, and that's critical. She's wonderful. A tough, hard-nosed gal, my age, who will look me in the eye and say: what is your problem, asshat? She'll cup my balls in her hand, make me cough, and search my eyes for Issues. That is not only fair in a physician, it's de rigeur, in my opinion.
She couldn't answer for my blues, however. They were just There.
I'm excited about the new spring, though. I feel this is the season of rebirth, and huge stuff.
I've already had my Chemicals Guy dose the yard, and I mowed it very close. Actually, I shaved it. Like a porn star's privates. It's nice. My azaleas are blooming early, which my mother would have loved, and I've dressed up the plot where Flounder is buried.
It's going to be a great year.
Back from Kingsport without mishap, or loss of any fingers. And, joy, I found a new adult entertainment establishment, to wit, the Mouse's Ear. A sad, seedy establishment, but perfect for the cohort I was squiring around.
Now, my Kind Readers know Velociman doesn't condone this sort of behavior, but I do tolerate it in others, namely customers. But this place wins the prize that is my heart.
It was denizened by mountain girls with zero boobs and huge asses. Augmentation is an unpractised science in the Tri-Cities area, apparently, but that's not neccessarily a bad thing. However, I do believe I detected several diseases I thought had been dealt with during the New Deal, such as scurvy, rickets, and pellagra. I thought those fancy antiscorbutics of the nineteenth century had obliterated those maladies. Foolish me.
But these girls had heart. It was painful, really. I was actually thankful they tended to avoid our group, because although we had the majority of the coin in the realm in our trou, they knew we were flatlanders, and that drunk local humper in the corner with his Skoal goatee would be back tomorrow, and the next week, and the next, spending most of his takehome.
I'm not trying to be uppity here. I'm not trying to denigrate these lasses, I was just disappointed they didn't make a better effort to be attractive.
By God, strip dancing is no different than sales, other than it's a more honest profession. My point is, if I have to put on my game face when I'm at work, they should, too.
I used to eschew the Friday Five, because I did a Nostalgia thing on Fridays, and it was a bit time consuming finding pictures of Monkey Division POW torture implements, and such.
However, now that I realize I have no more memories of childhood I haven't shared (at least ones I can recall, the Recollection Quadrant of my noggin having been subjected to hellish pharmaceutical experiments over the years (and a singularly Bad Move, I may add) I don't mind doing a Fiver now and then.
For your edification:
1. ...your first grade teacher's name?
Mrs. Schunamann. A hard-core white haired harpy. All business, no pleasure with her palm. Her son the barber was cripped, I'd heard from a skiing accident, but I think he was born cripped, myself. Three barbers, your chances of getting him for a flattop were 33.3%. He was an okay barber, flattops being pretty much fuckup proof, but crips on crutches freak kids out. On the positive side Saturdays were haircut day, and sometimes you could catch the mercurial Sandy Koufax or Don Drysdale pitching on the game of the week. Not a bad trade off to suffer the ministrations of an untouchable .
2. ...your favorite Saturday morning cartoon?
Space Ghost, man. And now that he's returned as a paunchy Adam West holograph I like him even more. Early eary? Beanie and Cecil. Existential? That Alfred Hitchcock alligator. I don't remember his name, and I'm too lazy to look it up. But he was a sick fiend, and no doubt homosexual.
3. ...the name of your very first best friend?
Andy Hooten. HE was a crip, too, with leg braces and everything. I used to footrace him. How cruel. But I was his only friend, and even a six year old jackanape like me needed to leaven his Good Works with a little bastardy. And he was a good guy. His father was a minister, and after Andy and I went our separate ways in 1966 his father became a big anti-war, Ban-The-Bomb activist. Andy was cool. His dad was a pompous asshole.
4. ...your favorite breakfast cereal?
Fortified Oak Flakes. The greatest cereal ever. Discontinued about 1972, and apparently banned on five continents now for making little boys too regular in their colonic functions.
5. ...your favorite thing to do after school?
Beat off. Hey, don't ask if you can't handle the truth.
Ever respond to those ubiquitous ads for Classmates? The ones that seem to defy every known blocker known to man? Yeah, me neither. My theory is this site was created by the Uber-Cunt, the ultimate let's stay in touch girl from your graduation class who choreographed every high school reunion ever. The one who couldn't let go of seventeen. I avoid those people like scabies, gonorreah, and elephantiasis.
I don't want my ex-classmates to know where I am, or what I'm doing. I'm not hiding, I just don't think it's any of their damned business. Here's a thought: send me $450 each, bearer bonds acceptable, and I'll give you a few clues. Sort of a scavenger hunt for the perversely inquisitive. All hobbies have their price, after all.
Why am I obsessing on this? I'm not sure, but it may have something to do with the fact my 30th high school reunion approaches this June. 30 years, you ask?!? I asked myself the same thing. Hellfire, I'm only 46, and I feel like a spring chicken, or shall I say rooster, full of pecking and pecker. I feel like a 16 year old lad. Whatfor I subsume myself to something so psychically debilitating as a 30th reunion?
I graduated 6 weeks after turning 17, went to Coast Guard Academy, and never looked back (well, I did try a 3 or 4 month stint with my parents when I was 19, suffering from that dread disease myfundsalow, but it didn't take). The Bride has a cousin who's about to turn 30 who lives with his momma, and hasn't worked in 5 years. Just stays home and jacks off, until she gives him a couple of grand to go to Disney World so he can buy Cat In The Hat headgear, and $200 sports jerseys. He's a six foot four, 280 pound blivet, convinced his momma will take care of him until he dies. Would that magic beans existed, so that fearless Jack could scale that beanstalk and slay this morbid fool.
Where the Hell was I? Yes. High school, and reunions. Here's the skinny: I graduated from an elite private school in Savannah with 25 guys and 25 girls. Divided, for all intents and purposes, into two camps: the Made Jews, and the Blue Bloods. I'd gone to public elementary school with most of these people once, but my Dad went and bought that farm, and we moved, so when, in 9th grade, I returned to Savannah, to private school, in order to be shielded from sharing a lunch table with a nigger, these people acted like they'd never seen me. Pretended I was an Effingham redneck, because my father cut his political teeth on their corrupt daddy's back. That didn't bother me too much. Politics is a hellish sport. But the real rub was the fact that my parents were only second generation Savannahians, and that wouldn't do. It was usually small things: the snub to a party, the parents' refusal to let you date their daughter. Petty, mean stuff.
I tell you, of the two groups, I got along much better with the Jews, because I'd gone to elementary school with them, Heard being 2/3rds Kensington Park and 1/3rd Sylvan Terrace (Little Jerusalem), and they were mostly without guile, having been screwed out of a few social circles, too. Wonderful folk. But as a goyim, I couldn't date those girls, either. Although they would skinny dip, and the Jewesses had the best titties, anyway, so there you are.
Back to my point: I know there's a reunion coming up, but I could give a shit. These fuckers were preppies without a clue, and I and the couple of friends I had were considered hippie dope smoking fuckers for our long hair and, uh, dope smoking, when I'll wager I was more conservative, politically, than any of them.
But what is high school for, what is 15 or 16 or 17 for, if you can't grow your hair to your ass, get smoked down, and have some fun? Fuck them.
Here's an incomplete rundown of the colleges and universities my classmates attended, lest you think I'm pulling your chain:
University of Georgia: 12
UNC Chapel Hill: 5
US Naval Academy: 2
Brenau (finishing school): 2
Converse (finishing school): 2
Georgia Tech: 2
Washington and Lee: 1
US Coast Guard Academy: 1
I have no fucking idea where the other 9 went.
I do correspond occasionally with one fellow graduate (every five years or so). He'll probably try to drag me to Savannah. I will refuse.
That day I will have an open house, and any fucker from Savannah Country Day '74 who wants to come pay homage at the Velocihovel, and kiss my ring, is welcome. If they bring some single malt, and some Jamaican bud, I might even let them in the front door.
One last note: skipping 3rd grade hurt during high school, when you were always a year younger than your classmates, especially during those formative pubescent years, but hey: now, if I choose to go to a reunion, I'll ALWAYS be younger than those asshats. There's something to be said for that, from a mindfuck point of view.
Having eschewed carbohydrates for the most part in our household, which is tough stuff, indeed, for a southern fellow, one turns, necessarily, to the available meats. Grazing foodstuffs, after all, do not a diet make.
I'm cursed here. There are only so many ways to prepare beef, and pork, and chicken. The Bride does not like fish, and so the girls do not like fish (don't ask. It's a cultural, embedded thing).
I like fish. I figure, if I can get a nice slice of something that's been swimming in the great salty blue sea, the last vestige of unpolluted earth, I'm good. Don't talk to me about catfish. Fuck that. If you have to skin it with pliers, you don't want to ingest it. Trust me. And don't get me started on farm-raised catfish, either. A farm-raised catfish is just a bottomfeeder denied the opportunity to eat its own shit. It's eating what you feed it, but it still craves its own feces. And I refuse to even discuss salt-water catfish, because I'm white.
So I still take pride in making my children fresh food for meals, and I'm larding them up with good meatstock, like lasagna, and chicken marsala, and making The Bride a low-cal version of the same. But I can't go the route of The Meat That Rots As You Watch, more and more.
I like broiling a nice red snapper fillet, or grouper cut, because the more I think about eating animals that stand in their own shit, the sicker I become.
I grew up watching my dad try to raise pigs, for crissakes. I can't believe it took this long.
So Acidman colored his hair and shaved his goatee. Luckily I have a pic of the new Rob:
Scary stuff, eh?
I hate that Direct TV commercial. The one where self-absorbed thespians, dressed in black, with their little stool and water glass props, read letters from customers glorifying their satellite service.
Fuck that nonsense, and the assholes in the commercials.
Look at the actors they chose:
Danny DeVito: a little asshole.
John Goodman: a big fat fucking blowhard asshole. That morbidly obese bitch needs to have his stomach stapled, or about 20 feet of his rancid colon removed.
Lawrence Fishburne: he's okay, I guess. He hasn't pissed me off lately.
Andy Garcia: I actually like Garcia, because he's anti-Castro. But he's hanging with some assholes here.
Joan Cusack: dumb twat. I heard her on an NPR interview a year or so ago. She's a dumb twat.
Actually, if they hadn't put that fat fuck Goodman in these things, I probably would have ignored them. Even though the whole premise, that these simpering, preening, self-absorbed cocksuckers lend gravitas to humble subscribers' testimonials, blows.
I've hated Goodman ever since his serial appearances on SNL denigrating Linda Tripp, whose only crimes were to be born as ugly as my dead dog's dick, and to tape some phone conversations lest the Hot Springs Mafia use her body parts for chum.
Other than that, I guess I'm okay with Direct TV, considering I don't have it.
P.S. It IS a Direct TV commercial, right? I never pay much attention to the actual product in advertisements. If you're not using sex to sell your goods, I generally don't have a fucking clue as to what you're hawking.
When I was in high school I used to go flounder gigging with my buddies Ken and Mark. You could wade out on the sand shoals off the south end of Tybee Island at low tide of a night and pop two or three flounder. Now, if we hadn't been such miserable misanthropes we would have had dates, but that is for another post. Gigging flounder isn't too bad. The refraction effect makes for a well-considered strike, but in water that shallow, with a good flashlight, it's pretty much turkey shooting.
One night Mark, who lived on La Vida golf course, suggested we gig some bullfrogs. They swarmed like fiends after a good rain, he said.
Years ago I used to see huge bullfrogs. The size of little dogs. I don't see them anymore, probably a result of pesticides and such, but back then there were monsters.
So we went out on the wap-board sheets of water, and cornered our prey. Friends, gigging a huge bulltoad is nothing like gigging a flounder. A flounder squirms and surrenders to the inevitable. A frog tries to make a break for it. Those bastards are all muscle, too, and you have to wrestle the fuckers down. By the time you've subdued him you're ready to puke.
We cut those legs off and cooked them at Mark's, because his parents were going through a divorce and trying to outdrink and outfuck each other, so there was a bit of leeway, so to speak, in his household.
I've never eaten froglegs again. They tasted okay, but that was a nasty hunt. I'll eat gator, I'll eat rattlesnake, but I won't eat four things: possum, squirrel, coon, and froglegs.
That was a disgusting shit of an operation.