I'm normally a live and let live person, but will someone do me an extremely huge favor and stomp that self-aggrandizing, self-absorbed faggot name of Andy Dick? Please? I'd do it myself but it would be a probation violation.
I like this blogger.
His pix are sweet, too. Mine always come out looking like a clone of a clone of a clone. Pixilated mayhem. Why is that?
End of transmission.
Velocidaughter 1 finally got her driver's license yesterday, at 16.6 years of age, and so of course I slammed the last nail in the coffin of my youth by purchasing a car for her today. I am officially an Old Fart now.
Not a bad rig, though. A 1997 Mercury Mountaineer. All wheel drive, V8, tricked out, low miles, cherry condition, very good price. Owned by a neighborhood couple so anal-retentive I've often tried to convince them they are gay.
Now I know my readers, and while I wouldn't say some of you are opinionated, I would say you're assholes. So spare me the stories about the flaming exploding tire-blowing dog-killing negro-dragging rollover tendencies of the Mercury Mountaineer, of which I am sure you are quite familiar. I wanted some sheet metal around the girl, some visibility, low-torque. I wanted an M1A1 Abrams tank, but I didn't have 4.3 millie. Unfortunately, she will get the Abrams mileage.
I'm not sure what this person's gig is, but Intrepids will know we share a similar ethos in the urination department. I shall explore the site further, although the enlargement link intimidates me, having just had porn spam hell lifted from my shoulders.
This is a nice picture. My brother sent it to me yesterday, courtesy of my Uncle Sid, who snapped it way back when. I'd never seen it before. Deductive reasoning divines it is Baby Velociman, held tenderly by his Mommy. How cool. I saw that same look of unabashed love often as I grew up, and yet I know this was the height of our communion. I disappointed my mother so many times after that that she grew a perpetual frown that encompassed her entire visage. By the time I was twenty she looked like Gene Simmons.
Ah, well, such is the luck one draws. Her draw sucked, other than the fact my two brothers are wonderful people, and she was proud as hell of them. (I will not speak to the distaff side. Boys stay away from that scene). She just had high hopes for me, for some reason. I was successful in one respect: I disappoint well.
I also notice I look like Winston Churchill here, pining for a martini. What the hell is that all about?
I was reminescing, for some unknown reason, over my childhood, and I recalled a good shit in the woods, and the pyschic dysplasia that followed. Hark:
I must have been 12, my brother 10, my older cousin 9, his younger brother 6. We were walking the barren cornfields of the farm on an Indian summer afternoon, looking for God knows what. Just nice to be in the sweet air, I suppose. As luck would have it I needed to void, far from the madding toilet. I was almost an adult by then, meaning I did not climb a tree and watch my feces drop 20 feet for impact appreciation. Nor did I wipe my arse with Spanish moss, having learned the drawbacks of the insidious redbug.
Shit I did, however, on the edge of the field, cleansed with fresh oak leaves, the fallen of which I kicked over the foul pile.
I thought that was the end of it. And yet, within three minutes, my younger cousin had managed to step through the mini-Superfund site, and encase his new sneakers in my bowel movement. In an 80 acre field. Go figure.
As I did not want to explain to my mother or aunt that the little fucker was slathered in mine own crap I attempted to clean his sneakers off, a most egregious task. Human shit is far fouler than the shit of your average barnyard animal, although pigs are off the radar.
The net? It was like the pink stuff in The Cat In The Hat. The more you cleaned, the more it spread. As I recall we stripped down to biscuit buttocks at the back door, and threw the befouled clothing in a hamper, with cherubic faces of denial in attendance.
Why do I even bring this up?
Kerry is about to make his acceptance speech, of course. Just setting the tone.
68 Iraqis were killed by a car bomb in Iraq today as revanchist Baathists celebrated the impending nomination of John Kerry for President.
68 Iraqis is, technically speaking, a buttload of wogs. That's equal to, let's see, about 4 American soldiers, or 1 prancing evildoer with lacy step-ins on his head at Abu Ghraib.
Hey, don't blame me. I just compare the media coverage to the situation.
Many thanks to my amigo Eric for his hard work cleaning up the porn spam, however I must admit I had to reinstate the dread IP prefix 66, which seems to allow commenters who were previously inadvertently banned.
Now all the faithful need is a host with a post. And hope the continued banning of the foul IP prefix 69 keeps the porn hounds at bay.
I find it difficult to watch the Politburo gathering in Boston there is so much madness recrudescing, so I'm going to limit my observations to one point, even as there are so many more pressing issues to discuss:
John Edwards is a cute little fellow, but his wife is a big chunky bitch. Not that I wouldn't deploy resources after 5 Budweisers, but, hell, that's not saying anything. There are mudpuddles around my house that quiver in fear when I drive by.
Can't comment? Blame Eric. Can't get an erection? Why, blame Eric. Wife left you for a roofer? Blame Eric. Another bout of incontinence? I say blame Eric.
Man, it sure gets easy blaming someone who did you a favor.
I bet W feels that way sometimes.
And for that we are, obviously, grateful. I ran a blog not so long past requesting your most embarrassing moments. The turnout was thin gruel, indeed, until today. Mandy came to the rescue. Made the rest of you Velocimites look weak. But she says it better than me: take it away, Mandy:
I was preparing to sing in a concert this one evening and I was not at all looking forward to it. considering I felt like I had no clothes on, wearing only a low cut top with no bra, that left my boobs completely exposed and hanging out for everyone to see and one really short mini skirt that was so short my vagina was nearly showing along with half my butt cheeks. Well as I entered the stage I realized I forgot to go pee before my concert started. I was standing there in front of thousands with my legs crossed and squeezed together as tightly as they could go. The concert finally started and I was so nervous that I nearly lost control and almost had a peeing accident, but I managed to hold it back long enough to start my first song. Well as I was in my first verse, I felt my skirt beginning to slip off and I couldn't do anything about it. Then to make matters worse, I now had to pee so badly that I accidently let out a LOUD FART!!!. That's when my skirt went sliding off, falling to the floor. As if I wasn't embarrassed enough at this point standing up there half naked with my vagina and butt crack on full display. I turned so red as I squatted down to try and pull my skirt up, and as I did....I squatted too far too fast and I just lost it as pee went gushing out of my vagina, squirting all over my legs and feet and completely soaking the stage floor. I was peeing so fast that I simply couldn't control it. I stood there peeing all over myself while I was half naked on stage in front of thousands for more than 3 minutes straight. Oh my gosh it was so embarrassing. I will never forget that day. I haven't sang since, because I'm afraid the same incident will repeat itself again. Talk about humiliating.
I find this story refreshing, and, I must admit, it gets the rise up. I decide, you report. Thank you, Mandy.
Armstrong won yet another stage today. His fifth of this Tour de France. Used to be Lance would let other riders win a stage he didn't need to win, out of courtesy, respect, and tradition for the race. No more. The hateful Eurotrash press attempting to link him to doping has apparently infuriated the man. This has become, I reckon, a Spite Tour. I don't think Armstrong will compete next year. He has made his history, and bloodied the proper noses. He is the greatest cyclist of all time. This is his Kiss My Ass Tour.
I fucking love this guy.
And Dorothy, if you're into Judy Garland. The Straight White Guy cleaned up my comment spam mess while I've been incapacitated (too much Worldview. It's debilitating). I WAS sorely tempted to check out the horse sex link, but then I thought, hell, they're probably filming ME.
Anyway, thanks, brother. I owes you Big Time (that reminds me: want a Cheney bobble-head?).
Other than the Tour de France there are other sporting events going on. Take the Greater Jacksonville Kingfish Tournament. The world's greatest King Mackerel Tournament. Here's a pic from yesterday. That's a 45.45 pounder:
How provincial is this town? The last weigh-in was almost 8 hours ago, and the local fishwrapper's website has no info on the winner. All I know is there were 9 kings over 40 pounds yesterday.
I need about 150 thousand to rig me up a kingfish boat. That would also get me into the Gulfstream for billfish. That's the trade-off. We are so far from the Stream here you can't go diesel. You have to have two or three gas guzzlers to fly you out to the mess-up. I need a Paypal button. And a patron saint of lotteries.
Now, I suppose, is where Rankin' Rob is going to tell me stock car racers are the greatest athletes in the world. Maybe not. Maybe he was going to say stock car racing is infinitely more exciting than bicycle racing. And he would have a point. Nonetheless, I'm actually looking forward to Armstrong's retirement, so that the playing field is leveled again, and the Eurotrash can fight amongst themselves, as they have for 11 centuries.
Lance took his third stage in a row today. His fourth of the Tour. Now, one can win no stages and win the Tour de France. I don't think one can win 4 stages and NOT win the tour.
Les Americains. Humiliation, non?
Back from Dallas. A forced march of a trip, the results good and bad. Mostly good. The bad was the confirmation of Acanthamoeba kerititis in Skeeter's eye (which we knew anyway), and the continued existence of three cysts. The good news: they are the tiny remnants of a former host of invading Pacmen intent on devouring her cornea. These last three are the last outpost, the left behinds, and will be gone in 3 weeks or so.
The bitch with these things is they understand, even as one-celled organisms, that they are under attack, and turn into cysts, like foxholes, to wait out the toxins to revive another day. Think the 101st Airborne in Bastogne. So you have to hit hard, then back off. Let them show their faces, and attack again. Superlative treatment, outstanding results by her specialists.
My main regret was not meeting up with the great du Toits. I was e-mail-less, and missed Kim's last missive with his phone number. Alack and alas, but we'll be back. I like Tejas too much, and I lost my sunglasses on the top of the Reunion Tower somehow, so I must go back to lift a pair off someone to level the karma. Sorry, folks. I'll make it up to you.
I DID take Skeeter to the Grassy Knoll, of course, and the Sixth Floor Museum, as promised. We had to drag her out after 3 hours. Jeez. She was starting to fixate on the David Ferrie picture in the New Orleans Connection section, muttering It all makes sense now. She is her Daddy's girl.
No Charlene Tilton, unfortunately.
David Gergen, triple-chinned turncoat non-event, has burbled that the Berger absconding of secret documents was just "sloppiness". "I think it's more innocent than it looks," said Gergen.
Now, I won't argue with Gergen on one point. The man's bolt to the Clinton White House from the Republican Party exemplifies sloppiness. He should know it in and out. Gergen's move spake of opportunism writ large, and naked young interns, and complete disavowal of principles, and, worst of all, no game plan. No back door. Gergen bolted like a filly in heat to the land of power and soundbites.
I understand opportunism, especially in DC, but Gergen didn't have a clue. In contrast Dick Morris is an opportunist extraordinaire. He is a classic whore for hire. But he brings something to the table: to wit, the ability to peel back your opponent's weaknesses, and figure out how to win. I can appreciate that, even as I disagree with Morris's takes on issues. He was, after all, not right all the time.
Gergen, I think, thought he was going to be the Policy Wonk ordained as Roman Senator. Fed grapes and young females, while he blathered nonsense.
That foolish man never brought beans to the table. He is as clueless as a tuna.
On to Sandy Berger: National Security Advisor is an incredibly important job. Ask Condi Rice. She has a lynch mob circling her daily. Also, I read Tom Clancy novels. If Jack Ryan was NSA at one point then by God it must be an important job.
Seriously, though, what Berger did, as the professional pol he is, and he is a politician, you are always ultimately a politician at that level, is so incredibly stupid, or desperate, that one can only shake their head at this point and ask "What the Hell?"
Stupid Stupid Stupid. Or: Desperate Desperate Desperate.
I'm Sandy Berger there would have to be a big gun at the back of my head to make me do something that fucking dumb. Or a little gun. Guns is guns where my medulla oblongata is concerned.
Other than that I have no idea.
My boy, my hero, hung back today and let 5 breaks pass him by, then, 9th of 10 in the lead group with 1 km to go, he put the whipping on the Eurotrash at the top of the mountain. Lance wears the maillot jaune, and will not relinquish it.
Ullrich is toast. Basso is still a threat a minute and a half back (that's him in back), but Armstong saved a lot of energy today. He saved himself to deliver a serious ass stomping on the L'Alpe d'Huez time trial tomorrow. It will look like a fucking Stalin show trial with all those casualties. But in a good way.
I've always said an American, especially a Texan, with one nut can beat a Frenchman with two. Or five, for that matter.
Lance can still falter, and lose. It happens. He's been extremely lucky crash-wise, and there are plenty of folks who would assist that event. But my take is the Euros love a champion, even an American one, and a six time Tour winner is the ultimate God of Sport. Lance will be unmolested. He will take his 6th.
P.S. Fuck Greg Lemond for casting aspersions on Lance about the doping. Pure jealousy. Lance Armstrong is the most drug-tested athlete in history, and has never failed a drug test. He trains in France, the Robben Island prison of drug-testing, and is always the "random" selection at the end of every stage. Now the naysayers are claiming his chemo made him stronger. Got that? His chemotherapy made him stronger.
THAT is pathetic. Ride strong, my man. Ride strong.
As I have been in a foul mood for weeks I figure I should finish the scene off by traveling somewhere I can get a rickshaw ride. Totally humiliate a human being by making him tote my carcass around for a day in a hand drawn phaeton, of sorts.
Unfortunately, most countries have banned the rickshaw lately, as inhumane. Singapore still has them, I think, as does Malaysia.
The funny thing is these poor blighters like the work, and are forced out of business. So sad. They WANT to tote me. I think they should be allowed to.
But that's just me.
I always liked the Frito Bandito as a youngster. Probably because I like Fritos. Salty, filthy things, but I crave them.
At some point in the 70's or 80's Frito-Lay put the Bandito to bed. Too politically incorrect. A fat Mexican with a song in his heart. Too shameful. Well, fuck it. I LIKED the Bandito, and his song, which, as I recall, we co-opted as a rugby song in the 70's, replete with gonorrhea verbiage, but forget that.
Somehow I think Avery Schreiber was connected to the Bandito, but it may be projection. I CAN remember getting Bandito pencil erasers in bags of Fritos. Way cool.
You want to know something else? The Frito Bandito was created by Tex Avery, the fucking GOD of animation. The man who also created the whistling date rape wolf, but forget that, too. Tex also created hotties with massive breasts decades before Ralph Bakshi made a name for himself with Fritz the Cat.
The Bandito rocked.
I often dream of horrific situations wherein my eyes are blinded by incredible light, and I cannot react to anything because I am blind. Monsters, beasts, vampires, zombies, children with knives attached to their foreheads, it doesn't matter, because I'm blind.
You have that dream too, don't you? Trust me. It's just a mindgame. Your brain is fucking with you.
Thank you. Please deposit $300 on your way out, and consider yourself cured.
I take Paypal.
I like Key West. I do. There is no place like it. I get the Pull the Plug pangs whenever I'm there. Cash out and move down.
I won't do that, of course. I can't do that. For starters, the school system blows. For furthers, there are very few opportunities for gainful employment. That scenario would devolve into my girls sporting more ink than Rod Steiger in The Illustrated Man out of sheer ennui. No, Key West is a pipe dream, or, more correctly, a place in time for the dispossessed, and the prepossessed. A place for single people. Gay or straight. Hard drinking beach bum and flaming faggot alike can find a home, a niche, there. Not for kids, though. The only couples that seem to thrive are the gays with a decent B&B with a loyal clientele, and that, at least, civilizes the place, marginalizes the street-pissers.
Here is an example: there is a fellow that juggles knives on Mallory Square of an evening at sunset. Has a low wire act as well. This man has been at this for thirty years. I have pictures of him juggling the same knives from my honeymoon in 1979. For you girls from Attapulgus that's twenty-five years. That is a career, people. A long, hard career of hats full of dollar bills. He told me he's hanging up the knives in a couple of years. His footwork on the wire is getting suspect. He has no prospects after that. That's what I'm talking about.
There are thriving businesses in KW, of course, besides the B&B's, but it is mostly a closed shop. Even my knife juggler only gets 3 days a week on the pier. Too much competition. Key West is a well-marketed concept, with built-in vagrants. I suspect not a few of them are placed on church steps by some girl with the Tourist Bureau. One must get one's money's worth, of course.
The deep-sea fishing was great. The dolphin were reluctant, and I did not land a world-class blue marlin, but the season wanes, and there is something fantastic about being thirty miles out in the Florida Straits, a third of the way to Cuba, with the ballyhoo bait skipping on the surface, the flying fish skimming above it, a cold beer in hand.
That's hard work, too. There are more captains than boats, more boats than boatslips. The cappy I had works Costa Rica half the year, then ping-pongs three vessels in the Keys. Such is life. Mates, of course, good mates, are always in demand. It is unsavory hard work, and the current lot are drifters with little skill. There was a time a good striker was a man of determinate grit and perserverance, and would stay a decade with a skipper. Mine was great. He is of the old ways, though. Now any drunk proclaims himself a mate, until he is fired in a trip or two for incompetence.
One final note on the West: Hemingway Days is coming up, and all the fat Kenny Rogers looking Ernest wannabes will be angling (hah!) for the Lookalike Trophy. Listen, shitheads: Hemingway left Key West and moved to Cuba in 1939. He was in his early forties. Had dark hair and a moustache. He didn't grow the beard until he moved to Ketchum, Idaho in the fifties. Snow country. So when you knuckleheads parade around in your snowski resort turtleneck cableknit sweaters in 98 degree weather, with a face full of fur, sweating your everloving asses off, think: do I have any fucking idea what I'm supposed to be imitating?
My great dear friend Rankin' Rob has lost his Mother. I've been there, but no one is ever really there until their own moment of loss.
This site is on hiatus, half mast, for now.
God Bless you, Rob. Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Here is a picture of some pretty butterflies:
I feel better in my safe space. No one can hurt me here.
My Bloguncle hit the Million Man Mark tonight. Get on the bus!
Actually, the Million Person Mark. I would also like to add that I and our mutual friend Hotkumfacials are responsible for not a few of those visits.
Well done, Rob. Well done.
The King used to call his mother Gladys Satnin. Not sure why. Kind of a cross between satin and lightnin', maybe. I understand he was a real tittie boy about his mama.
Am I the last person to know about the reality show Surreal World? Where the Hall of Fame of Has-Beens lives together, I suppose, and performs sporadic charitable works, I gather? I really wasn't paying much attention. Tammy Faye Bakker, Vanilla Ice, Ron Jeremy, Erik Estrada, Gary Coleman, etc?
That's totally fucking insane. Something I would have come up with at 3:00 am on the crapper after a meal of spoilt squid.
I suggest, for future episodes: Former UN ambassador Jeanne Kirkpatrick, Long Dong Silver, the midget from Twins Peaks and Carnivale, that guy in Germany who ate the dude he met on the internet, Marjoe Gortner.
Some of these people may be dead. I'm really not up on current events of the celebrity kind.
Point at which a foodstuff used as a sexual aid becomes unstable: 65 butterbeans Celsius.
is a good thing, they say. Which is why I've altered my vacation plans slightly. I have relented and will be taking Velociboy to Key West with us (hell, Shannon's around here enough he deserves a Velocimoniker). This keeps Emmy happy, gives me someone to talk guy stuff with (except SEX. There will be no talk of that sort, unless he wants to go smoke out a strip club with me), and it cuts the estrogen level I will be suffering under.
The bad news is the sleeping arrangements must of necessity be changed. I have a two room suite, so it looks like me and VB will be bunkmates. I better take it easy on the rum. Not only will my chainsaw snoring scare the lad, I'm liable to press something hard into his back while in a confused state of amorous slumber. Well, at least I'm a good kisser.
As Intrepids will know, my younger daughter has been suffering from a bizarre amoebic eye infection. After four months of treatment we will go to Dallas and get the down low on response. Our prospects are sanguine, thanks to the treatment regimen of Dr. B: Frank Bowden, MD, FACS.
Did I tell you Dr. B is Black? No? I never felt the need to. He's merely Dr. B to me, the man who saved my child's eyesight, and probably her eyeball.
Am I making a point here? Sure. I rant at times about rap culture, and I even blaspheme the sainted Cosby. But it is all for good measure. I have faith. I believe Americans Who Happen To Be Black can achieve the greatest of life's rewards.
I entrusted my daughter's vision, her eye, to Dr. Bowden. He is the fucking Man. He is a corneal transplant surgeon, and the best his peers believe exist.
There are probably 1,200 professional black athletes, of all genres of sport. There are probably 400,000 black lawyers, 200,000 black doctors, 300,000 black architects out there. Likely more. Much more. I say look at the numbers. Where does your destiny lie?
Dr. B grew up in a middle class home, I'm sure. His daddy probably whipped him, like all good daddies whip their boys to teach them Right from Wrong, and he brought home straight A's.
Do those homes exist in the black community any more? Sure they do. I just don't see the pressure, the desire, for blacks to make their children achieve, and over-achieve, anymore. There is opportunity out there, of unbelievable proportions. I see a culture that once fought against all odds against racism capitulating, for no good reason. It stuns me, and saddens me.
How do we get back to where we were 50 years ago? I don't know. I get paid to think about more mundane things. I worry, though. I worry.
Rogue Planet has issues with me, but, hell, who doesn't? I try to be the sharp stick your mama told your eye to avoid.
I like his site, too, even the "White People Suck" disclaimer. Of course we do. And, sometimes, we suck black tail. But that is a generalization. I, personally, am engaged to The Bride. She do not let me roam.
This is a good site, though, when you cut through the hate. Plus, bonus, he picked up Andymatic through me, and that is an excellent thing. Andy deserves a grand audience. He rocks.
Final sweetness? He has me and my fellow asylum escapee Acidman on his blogroll. I must, I must, reciprocate. This is going to be fun.
I received this comment from one Timothy Clarke from an older, sallow post of mine, and I wish to share it with you:
In 1991 during the desert storm thing, I was going around referring to all middle easterners as towelheads (or worse). I later wondered why I was full of hate for an entire race that had no influence or effect on my life at all. I eventually realized that I had (along with the majority of Americans) been brainwashed to mistrust and hate Arabs. The media slanted all of its reporting to make it seem as though all the worlds problems were the fault of Islamic fundamentalists. That was then. Today the government is waging an all out propaganda war on the Arab Islamic world in order to justify taking over oil rich countries that happen to be Islamic. The true tragedy is the gullibility of the average American (myself included) to believe that a couple dozen Arab nutcases represent the entire Muslim community. We have been systematically brainwashed by our government through the media that is apparently controlled by it, to support any kind of action against Arab Islamist countries in spite of the logical fact that the majority of them are not nutcases.
The situation is exactly like that of 1940 Germany when an entire innocent German population was convinced by their lying government that Jews were the cause of all of their problems. The result, then, was that German people stood by and watched as millions of innocent Jews were interred, and ultimately murdered.
I remember the German population with some disdain for their lack of action in the 40's.
At least inform yourselves of the facts before you sign your name to a very similar holocost in your lifetime, and with your consent, lest history remember you with the same disdain.
My brother sent me this pic of a Master and Commander sextant for sale on Ebay:
Currently at $56.99. It actually looks like decent craftsmanship. When I sailed Eagle to Europe I actually became quite expert with celestial navigation. The sextant, the tide tables, the tidal current tables. Find me three stars on a semi-clear night and I could triangulate myself to within a ten square mile plot of Atlantic Ocean. That is thrilling stuff, believe it or not, and I cannot imagine the days of Columbus, when you had a concept of latitude, but longitude kicked your ass.
I might get that sextant. In a world where Loran is ancient technology, and golf carts have GPS rangefinders, I still cleave unto the old ways. Ten square miles ain't so bad.
Do you ever find something particularly funky on your hands, and you don't know what the hell it is? Then you wash your hands in the bathroom sink and dry your hands on your Beloved's towel? Oh, hell, yes. I do that, too.
I have to start stowing gear three days before my departure to Key West, because my schedule over the next 72 hours will be akin to one of those torture sessions in a ChiCom Red Room. I've already decided to leave my toothbrush, as voodoo against the fact that I WILL forget something. May as well be a two dollar item, I figure.
So far I have:
.38 caliber revolver. No explanation necessary, although it does remind me the children have never seen a standoff with State Troopers on the shoulder of the Florida Turnpike.
A half gallon of rum, a liter of Scotch, a half gallon of vodka. Tequila. Too bad the kids will be in the car. I'm leaving at 4 am, which is a good time to crack the rum and pour some paint thinner in the air conditioning intake. Just for headlight tracer purposes, of course. More an experiment than an essential.
Zinc oxide. I resent being called Rudolph due to sun and spirits abuse. My old man killed Rudolphs in the Big War. Fritzes as well.
The bullwhip. I figure I'll take it to a gay bar and let the boys borrow it for a while. I shall take copious notes, as I am sure they will have a far greater mastery of the thing than I.
Epiphone FT-145 Texan six-string. Just in case the vodka doesn't sufficiently hammer me, and the Velocigirls want to hear a bawdy version of Bimini Bay. This falls somewhere between no and not likely, but you never know. I am famous for improvised humour on family vacations.
Habanero pepper sauce. The traditional Mexican way to purge the body of bilious humours, and tequila, of a morn.
Douglas titanium 20-speed road bike. Far more efficient than saunas as a purgative of vile internal poisons. See: habanero pepper sauce.
Two tank tops, two pairs of shorts, sandals. I can't go around buck naked, can I? Well, I can, but where would I secrete the pistole?
Tucks Medicated Pads. See: habanero pepper sauce.
Hashish. This one is still a bit iffy, as I don't actually know anyone with any hashish. Plus, my politically correct antennae will sniff out and refuse any Hezbollah Lebanese Blond. No, what I need is some United States Government certified, thoroughly vetted and rehabilitated Afghanistan Black. Although in a pinch I suppose I could make do with some Phalangist Lebanese, or even Druze. But how do you tell? Better to stick with the Black. Turkmen make that, too, and I think they are allies, of a sort.
What am I forgetting? Plenty, I'm sure, but I have a couple of days to pull it together. Oh, yes. Gasoline.
This is great, but gee, it's almost like I'm planning two vacations. One for me, and one for those other three people. Well, if they haven't figured out yet it's all about Dad, this is a good time for some summer school. And I should make a note to stick that Precious Cargo on Board sign in the rear window.
Well, okay, that was my bloodshot eyes. But the fireworks were magnificent. My only issue is the melted flesh on my thumbs from fuze burn. I'd have some skin grafted from my ass onto them, but we all know where that might lead.
A glorious Fourth. I'm even feeling kindly towards Dr. Cosby right about now.
Some Islamofucks are claiming to have killed a U.S. Marine hostage. Perhaps.
Gosh, this guy is/was a Moslem, so if I'm a Moslem I'm all over these guys. They're killing my own! How exciting! I can't wait until it's MY turn! What do I have to do? Wear my burkha inside out? Spit on the wrong side of the street?
Love your psycho boys, you stupid Muslim pukes. These fuckheads hate YOU worse than they hate ME.
I spent $323 on fireworks today. All high yield mortar rounds. And, yes, I know you could have purchased the exact same fireworks for $214, but humour me.
On the classic 1 to 10 scale of Stupid Velociman Moves this is about a 4. You should see some of my 7's and 8's. Donkeys were involved in some of those ill-considered mishaps.
Nonetheless, this was pretty stupid. However, when I conjoin with the Peoples of Geographic Proximity tomorrow, I will have big swinging ones. Our rough estimate today was two grand worth of explosives between us. Not bad. The chirren will certainly enjoy it.
All welcome, of course. Bring Your Own Body.
I'm told I've been a bit too vehement, a bit too misanthropic, a bit too saturnine, of late. This is probably true.
It was certainly true of Churchill. Only he had a manservant to feed him gin. I do not.
Hitler, of course, eschewed alcohol. And there you have it. Please allow me to share a picture:
I don't know where I found this thing, or why, but at least now I can purge it from the Velocipic files.
CosmicBuddha has a problem with a stray cat, taken in, with a burst eyeball. I'm not sure my advice was the best, although I tried. This is serious, people. Help the man out.
at the trusting nature of people. Lookit: the fabulous Key is in Seagrove on vacation, and turned the Keys to her site over to some most opprobrious characters, including myself. Poor naif. She'll learn. She'll learn. The hard way, unfortunately.
August 18 looks like the date we will go to Dallas to have Skeeter's cornea probed by the electron microscope for residual signs of the acanthamoeba microbes. She has responded wonderfully to the triple antibiotics regimen. Much better than the other poor souls Doc is treating.
Being the 11-year-old budding politico she is, I shall treat her to Dealy Plaza, the school book depository-cum-museum, and the grassy knoll. Time permitting we can do a tour of Parkland General. Sometimes from misfortune arises opportunity.
I haven't banned anyone from the comments in quite a while. In fact, I don't think I've ever banned anyone.
I believe I'm going to ban Jack Straw, though. He hasn't had a constructive comment in some time, and, frankly, he's starting to piss me off. He'll probably come back as Bottle Boy, however. I must be diligent.
No one wears the monocle anymore. I would wonder why, but it seems self-evident to me. It takes a very rare combination of arrogance, condescension, and egoism to pull it off. Not too many people are capable of that, especially since the fall of the Third Reich.
From a practicality standpoint, I imagine one lens would suffice for reading purposes. Place it in the power eye and off you go. How does one stand having such a thing skewered into their eyesocket, though? What a pain in the ass. Don't the eyelashes contact it? Too weird for me.
Anyway, this has been bothering me for a couple of days. Thanks for letting me get it off my chest. To show my gratitude here's a picture of my favorite Nazi:
Deb and Jay seem to be doing great in anticipation of Sadie Rose's debut October 3rd. Although I must say I'm still disappointed they didn't choose my
girl unisex name for the dear child. No, not Velocigod. The other name. Although I do like the former. In fact, I may have the velocisectomy reversed just so I can name a child Velocigod. Then he/she can curse me like I cursed my dad. One must keep family traditions alive, after all.
Loves to slam my homeys. I don't want to be an asshole (well, actually, I do) but where the fuck has Bill Cosby been since 1965? He has reaped the pecuniary rewards of a loveable black man in the white man's world for 40 years, and only NOW does he tee off on the pathogens destroying the black community.
Fuck him. Why didn't he have Theo father an out of wedlock child, then abandon it, so that Grandfather Huxtable could give the boy a lesson in fatherhood, and responsibility? Cosby produced, owned that show. He could have done anything he wanted. Where is the episode where Lisa Bonet has a child out of wedlock because she's strung out on crack, selling her hide, until Father Heathcliff rescues her, and explains the error of her ways, and the bad example she gives the black community? For that matter, where is the episode where Fat Albert stomps Mushmouth for bitchslapping his ho?
Seems to me the Cos must have had a condo to sell, or a clause in his co-op lease, that precluded him from Speaking Out earlier. His wallet needed freshening, and he kept his mouth shut and played the game.
Now the Cos feels financially secure, and feels he can lash out to atone for his years of shameful silence. Or maybe he just feels like dressing like Ray Charles, and needs the attention.
Either way, fuck Bill Cosby. And his grandstanding. What a fucking fraud.
I put up what I considered a pretty straightforward post the other day about getting inconvenienced having routine maintenance performed on my Blazer. Now, I am either too damned obscure in my writing, or there is a virulent strain of head-smacking pantie-pissing autism running throught the readership here.
Of 21 comments only about 5 dealt with the issue: they had my vehicle for two full days for some routine maintenance. The other comments deal with how I did/didn't/most certainly got fucked by the repair bill. Listen: was I bitching that I was hosed paying for the work? I DID mention I was billed for the caliper, but that argument could have gone either way. I got an estimate before having the work done. I knew what I was going to pay going in. Even with the caliper charge the bill was less than the quote.
Jumping Jesus. I've said before my grease monkey days are over. I change my own oil when that is the only maintenance required, and I'll do a brake job. But that's about it. My leisure time is simply too valuable to me to waste on vehicle maintenance. I don't mind paying for the work to be done. I can afford it. I don't mind paying for the convenience of not doing it myself, and that was the freaking point. I was inconvenienced.
I've spent less than a grand in just under 5 years on that Blazer, all preventive maintenance. $200 a year. Call it insurance. Call it rudimentary common sense. Why would I neglect to take care of something I'd paid a damned good bit of money on? Seems one would have to be a moron not to do so. And, no, I'm not going to say what I paid for the Blazer, because everyone will start banging their fucking pots again and the nurse will have to sedate you all.
Stay on target. Stick to the script. Get off my ass about my maintenance routine. Better yet, go get your car serviced. I'll wager it's about 30,000 miles overdue.