because this convention does deserve a more serious vetting:
Arnold: A+++: just like Ralphie's dream fantasy about the Red Ryder BB gun essay. Why? Because he's Arnold.
The Twins: B-: because they were a little too giggly. I do believe the girls were stoned. Nothing wrong with that, except, despite all my personal issues, even I wouldn't do that to my dad, even at the state rep level. But, hey: only because I didn't have access to weed. I was eight years old.
Laura: A+: she rocked. Why? Not because she was erudite, or glib. No, the exact oppposite. Because she was sincere, and humble. Laura Bush did more to convince the American people that her husband is acting from the goodness of his heart, and from personal conviction, than any spinmeister could hope to do.
So. A straightforward assessment.
Now: who's bringing the Twins to Blogtoberfest? I know how these girls think. They just need a reason.
I want to marry Barbara Bush.
No, not the grandmother. Intrepids know I want Bar to merely be my love slave. We go back a ways, from a stalking standpoint.
I would, however, like to squire the young one around on my arm as my trophy bride. I'd need two bedrooms, though. Well, actually three. There is the current Mrs. Velociman to satisfy, or avoid, as the case demands.
This is getting complicated, and I haven't even thrown Laura into the mix.
I have 3 rooms left at the Comfort.
A challenge: Who will bring the Bush Twins to Helen?
More importantly, who will keep the United States Secret Service from savaging me like a stray dog over the next four years?
The Guvernator just hit it out of the park. A brilliant speech. Only Arnold could actually say Richard Nixon made him a Republican in 1968. That is, as I am wont to say, totally fucking insane.
Again, a brilliant speech. I want to know who wrote it, because the other speechwriters can take a hike. I'm also quite surprised at Arnold's delivery. I did not think the man could act. He was amazing.
I see a three point bump in the polls tomorrow. I'll link the transcript ASAP.
to plan one's demise. Acidman says he's staying to ride out Frances, regardless, should she blow his way. I'm good with that assessment. I expect some good blogging out of it.
Mine is a bit more complicated. I'm closer to the coast than he by half, and I have the river on the other side of me about 3/4 of a mile as the tree limb flies. Hemmed in, so to speak. Plus a spouse, dependents, other clingers-on.
I asked The Bride today why she was stocking up on foodstuffs again, and yet more batteries, when it is obvious to me if the winds are predicted to give butterflies the whoop-de-doo's she's hauling ass.
"You'll waste all that food," I said. Because once you leave you can't come back until some geek in Tallahassee says you can. National Guardsmen will assassinate you for attempting to return to your own abode. It takes approximately three days for government workers to field strip a neighborhood, so count on four days.
My own forced ranking on evacuate/don't evacuate:
Category 1: We stay. A good old fashioned glimpse at Mother Nature.
Category 2: We stay. A good old fashioned glimpse at Mother Nature, with sporadic moments of terror for the children. All kids need a few moments of that. So we stay, For The Children.
Category 3: The Bride hauls ass. I won't be able to stop it, nor do I care. She, the kids, and the cats can go to the Crown Plaza in Macon (oh, yes. I do have reservations. It's called a fall-back position. Executive level suite. Very nice. My cousin in Savannah has the suite next to mine, as he plans to evac as well). I'll stay here at the soon to be accurately named Velocihovel with the club-footed bird, to protect my property from looters, and stagger outside at the height of the storm with a headful of Cuervo. These opportunities are rare. One must take advantage.
Category 4, or 5: Even I'm not stupid enough to ride that out. There isn't a damned thing in my house Liberty Mutual cannot replace, except me. I'll take some Important Papers, and guns, and go play in the pool at the Crown Plaza.
The key is to plan this so you take all the food and liquor you bought for a Cat 2, so it doesn't spoil. I'll need to take two vehicles as well, probably both utes, just to mule all the clothes The Bride is already tagging for deployment.
It ain't much, but it's a plan.
But apparently everyone gets rubbed the wrong way by Kerry's pronunciation of "Jinjis" Khan. Sounds like pretentious horseshit to me. Hell, it almost lends a veneer of respectability to old Geengee.
This storm projection shows the slattern going, ah, right on top of my house. Tis not good. Here's a better graphic. Ocean Guy is also concerned. He, at least, manages to channel some Warren Oates out of it.
I still think getting pinpointed four days from landfall is a good sign. No hurricane behaves that predictably, I say as I whistle past the boneyard.
Eric wants to know what type of lederhosen I might wear at Blogtoberfest.
I would question his manhood, except for the fact he knows me too well.
To wit: I'm endeavouring to clash cultures by having my family tartan made into lederhosen:
Rendered into this:
I'll do it. You know damned well I'll do it. The question hovers, however: why would I want to?
Therefore I'm having these, these accoutrements, made in Eric's size.
That should put the end to this most peculiar story. Unless some Bavarians invade Edinburgh in outrage. One can only hope. I do so long to see two peoples fighting, and one side ain't Mohammedans. Of course, I don't go to Ireland much, either.
If we can get this guy released on his own recognizance we'd have a helluva story at Blogtoberfest:
MARIETTA, Ga.USA - A drunken driver hit a telephone pole support wire that decapitated his passenger, then drove 12 miles home and slept in his bloody clothes, leaving the headless body in his truck, police said.
A neighbor walking with his young daughter Sunday morning discovered Daniel Brohm's headless corpse in the truck in John Kemper Hutcherson's driveway and called authorities, said Cpl. Dana Pierce, county police spokesman.
Officers found Hutcherson asleep inside his home. He was visibly drunk and his clothes were bloody, authorities said. They later found Brohm's severed head at the crash site.
"It's hard for one to imagine that you would drive miles from a crash site to your home, turning in various directions, and yet not know what has happened to a passenger sitting next to you," Pierce said.
No, you haven't mistaken this blog for Gutrumbles, but stranger things have happened.
No, the pool pump is dead. It was working fine Saturday, and when I went out back Sunday I noticed an eerie calm. I checked everything, of course. Switch was on. Motor switch was also on. Breaker was not tripped. Even the pool light GFI was fine. Nope, this was a dead dog.
I believe lightning got it. I had a microburst Sunday afternoon, and one bolt hit INCREDIBLY close. Lost my cable for an hour. I'm not saying the lightning hit my house, but if lightning was horseshoes, this was a fucking leaner.
Now I get to have the Surfside boys come out and give me a royal rogering. I'd buy a freaking pump motor online and overnight it, but there is the nagging feeling there may be something less than replacement involved. Pure speculative horseshit, of course. That never happens to me.
I believe I shall begin a ritual: on the first and fifteenth of each month I shall scrape the reluctant excrement from my ass with a $500 bill, then deliver it to one of the roaming zombie service trades constantly milling about my front yard. I normally ignore them, but apparently I have offended the Trade Gods. And I've always wanted to do that to McKinley, for some reason.
I'm watching the latest projected path for Hurricane Frances, and I'm thinking what I usually think about things in general that people I don't know tell me:
That is not the projected path the meteorologists at NOAA, the National Weather Service, the National Hurricane Center, the Weather Channel, and NASA have tucked away in their briefcases. Their private projections show Carolinas, or Virginia, I'm sure.
But they can't say that. That would be irresponsible, like the corpulent mayor in Amity who wouldn't close the beach.
No, these folks are projecting the current path because they are trying to get folks in Florida to listen up and pay attention. Especially since those thimbleheads in Punta Gorda, while under a hurricane warning, decided Charley would hit Tampa, only 70 miles away. And so, did nothing, and took a beating.
Don't get me wrong: I don't think what these people is doing is wrong, but it ain't Meteorology. It's Civil Defense. You can mobilize Florida and south Georgia, and evacuate a few million people, and still have time to evacuate more people in the Carolinas over the next few days, once the storm turns.
It's sensible, if a shameful wasteful of resources.
I have no problem with this modus operandi, I just wish they didn't have to pretend it's their best professional estimate. I feel bad for these folks, having to bite their tongues, and privately e-mailing their private forecasts to each other for mutual appreciation.
Of course, the unspoken looms large. Which is that I'm full of shit, the 10% probability occurs, and that thing comes and slams me in the ass.
Hubris has brought low greater than I, after all.
Skeeter just watched the entire MTV Video Music Awards. Jesus. I didn't watch any of it, even to see if local boys Yellowcard won anything (I think they did, but why would I give a shit?). I heard it all, though, since she had the television cranked up so loud I couldn't even hear South Park, which is the pop culture filth I was trying to watch.
I then bought a John Derbyshire Pop Culture is Filth T shirt as penance for watching a proctologist stick his finger up Cartman's ass:
Random Nuclear Strikes has the down low on America's latest craze.
Something tells me there will be plenty of people doing the Lynndie at Blogtoberfest. Just remember: dog collars are fine, but don't paint faces around my nipples, or anything like that. And Whitaker is definitely off limits.
Found via The Brier Patch.
Our friend Jim at Smoke on the Water has been through a tough go here, and his father has been through worse, lately, but all seems good, from where I sit, and hear.
Meditate for Jim and his dad tonight. Bless them. Thank you.
The Bride was discussing after-death protocol tonight, which always sets the hairs up on the back of my neck.
She is a deep-earther, terrified of cremation, so she is allowed her say anyhow, as a gimme on my part.
She averred that she wants Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries played at her funeral. I can work with that. Innocuous enough. I don't think I'll be too embarrassed in my grief.
I, personally, want Iron Man played at my funeral. Not that I am a Black Sabbath, or Ozzie, fan. I just like the idea of making people uncomfortable. And, let's get the fucking dog on, it IS the last chance I'll have.
So: after I have The Bride immolated I'll play Iron Man whilst scattering her ashes over the Bacon Park Municipal Golf Course in Savannah. Then I'll go sip a Scotch and play Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries.
I see this as a 35% compliance level. That's pretty good for me. And lest you think I am cruel, think: I love her. Can you imagine what I would do if I were empowered to bury you?
Do you ever open your sliding glass door on a blistering August afternoon, then stand about six feet away and just feel the cold air blowing out of your house, seeking equilibrium? Then you run around to the side of your house to watch the electric meter spin like a roscoe machine? Exciting, isn't it?
Well, I confess, not to me either. But my kids apparently find it quite exciting. Which is why, although I love them dearly, I'm going to tether them with electronic shock devices. Love, like electricity, is a two-way street.
Does anyone know who makes a decent, affordable beginner guitar? Skeeter is 11, and desperate to learn guitar. My Epiphone dreadnaught is simply too big for her, however. I need something with a smaller box. Every "beginner", or small guitar I've found is for crap, though. Lousy action. She'll end up bleeding all over my new furniture, and get frustrated mastering bar chords. Just asking. Thanks.
I really don't know what the fuck this is, except it's a picture of one of John Kerry's buddies, which I swiped from the online edition of his notorious 1971 book The New Soldier.
Therefore it is possibly Rumsfeld's replacement in a Kerry Administration.
Either that or it's an early prototype of Michael Jackson.
I believe, due, unfortunately, to a youth wasted to hellish experiments with pharmacological substances, that we are all born with a homunculus. Which I define, in my personal dictionary, as a twin unborn. A calcified alter-ego residing in one's breast. Usually near the heart. Sometimes the scrotum, however.
I am not alone here. There is great wisdom espoused on homunculi by learned scientists, I'm told. I don't care about that too much, though, because I know I have one.
The great question is: is he a good homunculus, or a bad one? The answer to that question lies in ourselves, of course. For the good person will have a bad alter-ego, and the baddun a good. Naturally.
A tiny twin. That does not play Jiminy Cricket on you, but, instead, asks you to play Jiminy on yourself.
A bizarre concept, you may say.
I say Mr. Kerry: reconcile your past.
Brought to you by the State Department of the United States of America.
I just want to get this straight, because I am easily confused. Mookie Sadr, a purported Muslim imam, a verifiable psychotic and murderer, whose minions have killed American soldiers and Marines in heated battles since April, was allowed a pass? A gimmee? His boys and he were allowed to lay down their weapons and exit peacefully from the "Holiest Shrine In Shia Islam" compound they had turned into a trench warfare hellhole because al-Sistani arrived to broker a settlement?
What the fuck am I missing here?
Here's an alternate scenario for you: Jerry Falwell decides he doesn't like Bush's, or the Supreme Court's, take on partial-birth abortions. So he holes himself up in St. Patrick's Cathedral (he's not Catholic, but it doesn't matter to him, because as a Christian he feels he has the keys to any Christian kingdom), laden with weaponry. He kills 14 police officers and National Guardsmen who try to flush him out.
Query: does Jerry get a pass to leave unmolested, and regroup in Wyoming, where the next cache of weapons are?
We should have killed Sadr, and dragged him behind a Humvee like Hector. That is the only thing these people understand, and, more importantly, appreciate.
And don't start with your James Byrd shit. That man was guilty of nothing, except being black. Apples and oranges, Intrepids. Apples and oranges. Sometimes a GUILTY fucker NEEDS to be dragged behind a Toyota Land Cruiser to get the message out: this behaviour will not be tolerated.
UPDATE: we are in luck, people. Billy Graham is off his sickbed, and has issued a call to arms for all God-fearing Christians to take up arms against the unholy infidels that lay their mugs on rugs. He personally e-mailed me to make sure I not only torch that fucking 7-11 that Ibrahim is running, but that I enslave his "bitches".
Bill's words. Not mine. And the point still obtains: how does a man of the cloth, so to speak, a religious icon, like Sadr, manage to amass an army, a fucking ARMY, and not one western media site questions that? Billy Graham wants to know.
I don't watch much television. I keep it on, usually, as white noise, but only on blather. A History Channel 8 hour miniseries on battleships. An A&E expose on whether Kaiser Wilhelm II was syphylitic. A biopic on Charlie Starkweather.
That's about it. I catch a bit of Fox News in the a.m., but only to give me the opportunity to spew my coffee when they say "Fair and Balanced". Don't get me wrong: I'm glad there is a Fox News, to counterbalance the Winston Smith shit I'm spoon fed from a hundred other media outlets, but please respect my intelligence here.
Which leads me to my point: I haven't watched a sitcom or drama in years, because I was a diaper-shitter in the early-sixties (and will be again in about 2030, no doubt). I disdain the term "classic", however let me say a few words: Barney Fife. Milburn Drysdale. Granny Clampett. Gomez Addams. Jethro Bodine. Thurston Howell III (Moxie's dad). Jane Hathaway.
What do these characters have in common, other than the fact they were totally fucking insane? Character development, and magic.
In a way a post-ironic industry could never accomplish now, the character actors who embodied these people wrought amazing work. In their manic, over-the-top portrayals they evoked, from thin vapour, some incredible icons. I don't care if you like the characters, or care for the shows. That is not my point. I don't watch Nick at Nite (is that still around? I have no idea). I just mean the serendipitous confluence of talent and writing that allowed this sort of madness to flourish.
Now, I understand there were shit bombs in the sixties. This was NOT the Golden Age of Television (remember The Mothers In Law, with Kay Ballard and Eve Arden? How about It's About Time, with Imogene Coca? Lord, there was certainly shit to watch).
I just mean there was a certain freedom to allow some magnificent character actors to flourish. The writers had it dicked. One could milk "Double-naught spy" for several episodes without fear of staleness, for instance. There was no money-grubbing antic Milburn Drysdale was incapable of, for another. But, ultimately, it was about freedom. The freedom for an Irene Ryan to be a fucking animal with a jug o' shine cradled in her arms. The freedom for a Don Knotts to engender the term flopsweat while fumbling for a solitary bullet.
I am savagely pissed when Hollywood tries to trade off these quite fortunate wormholes in entertainment history, and ejaculates infertile spume like that Hillbillies movie, or the inevitable Gilligan feature length (starring Jim Carrey as the dysplasic bitch Gilligan to Ving Rhames' gripless but horny Skipper, no doubt).
Anyhoo. Not meant to be a generational thang, here. I just find certain entertainment models catch my eye, others don't.
Sometimes MT Blacklist targets my own sordid comments, and that of my confreres, for expunging, and I execute the whacking before I realize what's happened. That tends to screw up the comment narrative. So if you see people babbling about issues not arisen, trust me. They were arisen.
It would be so much easier to find the wankers generating the comment spam and shoot them like the impotent dogs they are.
I'm sick and tired of hearing about the Grand Ayatollah al-Sistani. I'm tired of hearing about the holy city of Najaf.
al-Sistani is about as "Grand" as a fucking Grandy's chicken hole. He is yet another bearded, hollow-eyed fanatic who happens to appear sane next to the freak Mookie Sadr.
Najaf ain't holy. It has a holy mosque, to be sure, but the city isn't holy. It has whores and pickpockets and thieves just like every other city in the world.
Someone (Jonah Goldberg?) made just this point: the media keep calling Najaf a "holy city" to create consternation in us because we are killing "insurgents" in a "holy city". There will be blowback! The Arab Street won't like this! The craven idiot Bush is slaughtering insurgents in a Holy City!
I say fuck Najaf, and Mookie Sadr. Let the Marines do their job, and send that preening peckerhead to hell.
Najaf is a hellhole. It's about as holy as Algiers, Louisiana. And now that al-Sistani is back in town I think we should acquaint the chap with our newfound use for depleted uranium.
Skippy does it again. What would it take to get him to Blogtoberfest? I'm scared to ask.
I'm watching the Best Ranger Competition on OLN, an annual ritual for me. These guys make triatheletes look like sugar-tit sucking mama's boys. I especially like the fact so many of the competitors are officers. I'll bet these officers won't be bailing after 4 months with
wasp bites questionable wounds.
I also like the fact Best Ranger is held in Dahlonega, Georgia, on the property that used to be my old 4-H camp, Wasega. Rangers own it now.
A thought: it's only about a half an hour from Helen. Maybe a day trip to see some daily training. We'll have enough femmes fatale to get visitor passes, I think.
It was inevitable. Between Geoffrey's recent confessional of britches-browning and Acidman's classic tale of waste-woe, I no longer have an excuse to hide my own sordid tale of spontaneous evacuation. I've ominously alluded to this story over the last year; it is time to come clean, as it were. Let me set the story:
I have two customers in Norfolk and one in Richmond, so it naturally makes sense to visit all in the same trip. My boss, my salesman and I therefore flew to Norfolk to see Customers A and B (the Jews and the Frogs). We then drove to Richmond to see Customer C (the Nips). After a tendentious meeting we went to Shockoe Slip for dinner at the Tobacco Company.
I like the Tobacco Company. It's Old Richmond, a restaurant in a two-story tobacco warehouse turned into a quite decent chophouse. This being Virginia, a lot of old curmudgeons dine here to smoke enormous cigars, gnaw red meat, and swill Scotch. As I said, my kind of place.
Now, my kids had just overcome one of those nasty twenty-four stomach viruses the previous weekend, and I was having trepidations about making the trip. I always come down with these things last. I cast aside my reservations and made the trip. All during dinner, however, I noticed my stomach, pyloric valve, whatever, was making some ghastly rumblings. Twice I excused myself from this three-hour repast to visit the gentleman's room. False alarms. Bear in mind we were upstairs, in a private dining room the size of a telephone booth. It was rude to keep getting up, but discretion is the better part of vapor.
As we were ordering coffee and dessert I received the third SEWER (Shit Early Warning Emergency Response) alert. I excused myself yet again, and went downstairs. Yet another false alarm, so I decided to step outside and have a cigarette (yes, I could have smoked inside, but I eschew that sort of behaviour).
And then: just as I inhaled my first puff of nicotine laxative, I experienced a sensation only to be described as Vesuvian. I flipped the smoke in the street, and bolted inside for the head. I literally shoved an old woman aside in a classic OJ Heisman stiffarm, and blasted into the men's room. This bathroom was pretty small for such a large establishment, and only had one stall. The bathroom was empty, and I slid into the stall, door a-banging, and barely, just barely, managed to clear my trou before I erupted.
Let me take a pause to inform you Intrepids that I don't travel well from a digestive point of view. Whether it is a mental block having to do with strange toilets, latent anxiety, or some other issue, I tend to be constipated when I travel. I only bring this up to inform you that I had a full three days worth of excrement residing in me. Feel better? I thought so.
And so: you have been patient; let me cut to the chase: as I say, I had barely cleared my drawers when I exploded in a manner reminescent of
Genghis Khan Glamorous Glennis. A shock-wave inducing blast proceeded to spray the toilet, the stall walls, the floor in a disgusting mixture of all three states of matter, but where gas turned to liquid turned to solid I could not say with any degree of accuracy. I believe I even expunged the amorphous form of matter that quicksilver embodies, but believe me when I say I did not try to pick any up with my fingertips.
Did I say I had cleared trou? Well, not exactly. For while it is true there was a clear shot between my rectum and the toilet bowl, this detonation followed its own laws of physics, and motion. There was blowback, people, and drip, and tears in the fabric of the universe. This shit went everywhere. So not only was the stall completely destroyed, covered in a layer of filth, I looked down and saw the repugnant stuff had blasted my drawers, and caressed my pants.
Another aside: I'm a pretty savvy business traveler, but for some reason I was wearing my Jos. Bank oyster-colored slacks, with blazer. Bad choice, in retrospect.
I now had to take off my shoes, hang my blazer and trousers on the door hook, throw my underwear in the trashcan, and begin the mortifying process of cleaning myself up at the sink. This took a while, me being a thorough fellow, and about a dozen old men wandered in and out to urinate while I was at my task. They would look at me, naked from the waist down, cleaning my buttocks and splattered pants with wetted paper towels, look at the befouled stall (it had a one-foot gap at the bottom, of course), victim of a shit-grenade, and leave.
I would LOVE to say this is the end of the story, but fret not. I now had to go meet my customers and coworkers, bid my customers good evening, and drive an hour back to Norfolk. I was quite certain this episode was not over, too. So as we drove away I told my coworkers "I have Issues". Now, my salesman is a great guy, but he drives like Miss Daisy, if Miss Daisy was allowed to drive. He was doing 53 down the interstate when I told him time was most certainly of the essence. "Faster," I said. "You have to drive faster." "I can't," he said. "I have precious cargo on board." At which point I leaned over and said "Mike, if you don't put the hammer down now I'm going to drop my pants and shit some precious cargo on your neck." He sped up to 59, but it was no use. I made them pull over at the next exit, jumped out at the gas station and ran next door to the McDonald's. There I proceeded to deliver Stage Two.
This was not Krakatoa, like the first stage, but it was certainly Pelee. The miasma did not circle the earth three times, but it certainly circled that McDonald's once. In fact, after 15 minutes the Pimple Boy running the place banged on the door and said I had to leave, as they were closing up. As I was exiting the store I heard him walk into the bathroom pushing a mop pail and say "Jesus Christ!"
I made it to the gas station for a final void, then crashed on the back seat for the next forty-five minutes, with mocha-misted oyster britches on, no underwear, and a half a roll of toilet paper wedged up my ass for leakage, and accidents.
So. There. I feel better getting this off my mind. I have nothing left to hide. I also realize I have in all likelihood created the first topic of conversation for Blogtoberfest.
I also realize Geoffrey can't say no to attending now, either. A band of brothers, indeed.
Is there something I don't see in these blog ads? Because I do have the mind of an idiot manchild chewing Jimson weed on a Mississippi fairway, which is roughly equivalent to the mind of a third grader (or, in my school district, a kindergartener). Is this a joke? I've been shotgunning Virginia's best in my kids' faces for years, and they keep outperforming the third quartile.
I don't get it.
Blog ads. Fuck that shit. Here's a blog ad for you:
Put a Condom on Me. I Don't Want to Catch What You Have.
This Swiftvetpartisansfortruth shit is going to blow up in W's face.
Listen: I don't care if they're right. I don't care if Kerry scratched himself and pled shrapnel. You can't win this game.
Why? Because Americans don't like hearing someone they had anointed with laurels and medals is a charlatan. It makes them (us) feel like duped fools, and that doesn't play in the red states. That doesn't play anywhere.
Let me put it this way: if Mr. Jaggers says your wife is a whore, and has 254 guys who can attest to it, but can't prove it, who are you going to vote for in the School Board race? Your wife? Or this cocksucker Jaggers' candidate?
There is no reward for lifting the scales from one's eyes. That is a damned fact.
Kerry's record as a traitorous antiwar activist is fair game. The fact he showed callow expediency by abandoning his "band of brothers" after four months on a technical Out with three Purple Hearts is fair game. If he'd lost a leg like Bob Kerrey, sure. But this craven fucker can't even show a scar. That's fair game.
He abandoned his men. That is huge fodder. Use it, if you will.
Lay off the war record, though. That is bad juju.
John Kerry has the Fog of War working for him here. W has the Fog of National Guard records working for him. It doesn't compute, as they say.
There are too many ways to gig John Kerry. Why sink one's teeth in this?
Let's talk about the Winter Soldier testimony. Or that apparently nonexistent 20 year senatorial voting record. Fine. I'm there. But when you make the local Vinny at the American Legion feel like shit because you've exposed a medal winner as a fraud, why, you haven't gained his vote. You've lost it. Vinny ain't gonna vote now. Not for you, the whistleblower.
Thanks for nothing.
I gave up playing Whack-A-Mole in the blogosphere a long time ago. Good thing, too. Here's a newborn we must bring into the fold, though. Seems like a nice guy. Erudite, sane, accommodating.
That will change, sir. Soon you will be blaspheming me faster than you can say hot water bottle where's the hose? but for now we are compadres, eh? Welcome to the sordid side of the 'sphere wherein the dispossessed lurk.
A word of advice, which I'm sure Jim gave you: don't lend Acidman anything you will want to use again. Even latex can't be entirely sanitized. My grammy taught me that.
And raise you a harrumph. I believe this fellow's post is a backhanded bitchslap at me for my last post. Listen, brother: John Wayne was a god, but he was a shitty Mongol.
No, I prefer Wayne in The Cowboys. The Searchers. The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. Those roles where he wasn't exactly a murdering hordesman, but was a decidedly compromised individual. And never kid yourself about his acting abilities. Wayne subsumed the role, not the other way around. You went to see him. The plot, the character were often, but not always peripheral (see: Hellfighters).
I DO like Hatari, even so.
So there you go, chunkheads.
John Wayne as Genghis Khan in The Conqueror.
What the hell were these people drinking? Of course, if you think about it, John Wayne did play a Green Beret in The Green Berets. And as John Kerry has informed us, those guys were razing villages in a manner reminescent of Genghis
Formal Wear Khan. So maybe Kerry saw them filming the movie, and had a flashback to The Conqueror, and just thought he saw Genghis Khan.
No, the timeline doesn't fit. When Wayne was filming Berets in '68 Kerry was deployed in a criminal action in Cambodia, nervously whistling The Dreidel Song to himself on Christmas Eve while dodging Khmer Rouge bullets.
Just think. Pol Pot killed two milllion people, and somehow missed this guy. Tis a pity.
I love red meat. Beefsteak, hamburger, bring it on. And yet my body is starting to reject red meat. And pork (the Other Colonic Carcinogen). The digestive processes are all screwed up these days.
So I have begun a new diet: yoghurt and bee pollen. This will last about a week, but bear with me:
There are ethnics in Russia, or what used to be part of the Soviet Union, Uzbekis, or whatever, that's all they eat. Yoghurt and bee pollen. Why? Because that's all they fucking have, that's why. They harvest yoghurt from milk, and pollen from all the bees they own. These bastards live to, like, a hundred and eleven.
A hundred and eleven. I like the sound of that. So I've reached out to the local bee pimps for some pollen. They're locked and loaded on the honey scene. Pollen is byproduct to these people, so they're accommodating. I get my first round ton Wednesday.
I forgot to mention the downside of pollen scoring: you have to work in industrial sized units. Not to worry: I have an enormous vat of surplus yoghurt out back, which I figure I can swap for more bee pollen, if necessary.
Bon appetit, Intrepids. I'll let you know how healthy this diet is in, about, 20 years.
I have 7 rooms at the verminous Chalet Kristy in Helen for the 15th and 16th of October for the Blogtoberfest. 5 are spoken for. That leaves 2. I also still retain the 7 rooms at the Comfort Inn around the corner (Mission Statement: You Didn't Catch That Here).
If you have any interest in attending this hog rut please e-mail me and stake your claim. I'd also like to know if you want both nights, or just the 16th.
Jesus. I feel like an assistant principal on the public address system. Excuse me while I go huff some mimeograph ink.
A corporate logo is supposed to engender something positive about the company, or product, right? So what in the hell is positive about the logo above? Nothing! When I was little there was a Sherwin-Williams store in the the neighborhood which my mother frequented regularly. When I was five years old that logo absolutely terrified me. I envisioned a twenty-mile high glacier of red paint scouring the earth. Probably already in North Carolina, heading south. What were these people thinking?!? Cover the Earth, indeed! Were they fucking crazy!?!
It didn't help matters that right across the street from the paint store was a giant 100-foot-tall globe, painted like Earth, that was a natural gas reservoir (it's still there, by the way). My father would say if that thing ever blew up it would "take out half the southside".
Now this was also the same year as the Cuban Missile Crisis, which I didn't understand other than the fact a belligerent sadist named Khruschev was growling harsh threats in Russian on the television. I didn't speak Russian, but my father patiently explained that he was promising to rain nuclear Armageddon upon us. I wondered if the fallout would look like a giant glacier of red paint.
I'll bet those Sherwin-Williams bastards were Communists. Hey, it's Red paint, right? A layer of red, covering the globe, just like that raving psychotic Khruschev was promising.
Fuck that, and fuck Sherwin-Williams. It's no wonder I'm so screwed up now. And it's nothing but Dutch Boy for me.
Jax was awarded the nascent ACC Championship Game for its first two years, beginning next year when Miami and Boston College join the ACC. Yet another reason to love my adopted hometown. I'll always love Savannah as my place of birth and home for 35 of my, ah, advanced years, but this town kicks ass.
In the next 12 months we will have, from a football perspective: A Super Bowl. A full season of the Jaguars. My beloved Georgia-Florida game. The Gator Bowl (still scrapping to be included in the BCS; it may happen). The ACC championship game. This is a football town, Intrepids. I realize you know me as a Tour de France dillettante, and a cycling enthusiast, but I never said I don't like football. And as an aficianado of college ball this has to be Nirvana.
Now all we need is a major league baseball club. I'd settle for triple-A.
End of testorerone rant. Now I'm spent, and need some cuddling, like all men do after a hard five minutes of exertion.
P.S. I almost forgot: the Super Bowl teams this year need practice fields. One site will be the University of North Florida. The other site will be Bartram Trail High School, Velocidaughter One's school, a mile from my house. Why? 1) the school is only four years old, and has excellent facilities, including a state-of-the-art weight-training room. 2) we're in the country here, and the school is surrounded by woods. One way in, one way out. Security, in other words. No spying.
The beauty is the NFL came in this summer and replaced the turf with professional-grade sod. Their lawn experts will be on site all year, too, to baby it. The high school boys will have the best turf in the state to play on, free, and, ultimately, the stench of NFL players to scrub out of their locker room next summer.
I don't mind birthdays, especially if the errant soul remembers it, and buys me something, like shots of tequila, or a smocked pinafore. What I do mind is the inexorable creep towards 50, that beastly age when you cross that Rubicon of Innocence, and must submit to the butter bullet, followed immediately by the All-Seeing Eye, aka a television camera skewered up the keister.
I can take paying taxes once a year, or renewing my annual subscriptions to National Review and Blackhead Ass magazines, but the idea of an ongoing relationship with a sadistic assmaster searching for polyp farms is disconcerting.
I've had two bad experiences with my doppleganger, Mr. P, in my lifetime. The first was when I was in eleventh grade. I woke up one Saturday morning after an evening of huffing Miller ponies and pissed a jet of blood. "Not good," I surmised, and woke my dad.
"Ever pee blood, Dad?" I asked. He got that look.
"Who wants to know, boy?"
After a bit of communication (the longest conversation I think I ever had with him, clocked in at 4 or 5 minutes, excluding hand signs) he seemed relieved, in a way, and took me to the doctor for a stiff round of Keflex. Prostate infection. Problem solved.
The second time was a year later. I had to have a physical before my Academy appointment. First I drove over to Parris Island to see a Marine psychiatrist, who would determine if I had any Issues.
"Do you hate your mother?" he asked. "No," said I.
"Do you masturbate?" he asked. "Yes," said I.
He gave me an A+++ and sent me on my way. There were three Marine recruits in the waiting room, all with twitches, spasms, and jerks. I gave them the thumbs up, and a big smile. I think they wanted to kill me.
I then drove over to the Naval Air Station hospital in Beaufort. A doctor who looked exactly like Harry Reems looked in my ears and eyes, listened to my chest, and then slipped on a glove and rammed a knockwurst-sized forefinger up my hidey-hole. Get my attention? You betcha. Especially when he did a sort of pinball flipper torque thing. You youngsters may not know what a pinball flipper move is; you older guys will understand. Okay: it was like a desperation foos-ball shot. Felt like that.
Afterward he tossed me a paper towel and suggested I clean myself up. Which I did, because that was good advice, and I felt like a greased pig had just bolted from my bummy. Then the bastard walked out whistling. Whistling. That bastard. He enjoyed that.
Since that day I have protected my Whitaker Street (one-way) with something akin to fervor. It's a mutual thing. The one time I tried to use a suppository it was ejected like a paintball shot. Me and Whitaker are of a mind.
So I have a few years to go until my doc Vickie tells me it's Time. She won't do it. I've asked. I'll have to go to Mayo. Mayo. How appropriate.
Here endeth my epistle. Sleep tight, kiddies.
For the life of me I've been trying to figure out who John Kerry reminds me of. Not Lurch, not Martina Navratilova, but close. Close.
I finally figured it out: Graveyard Zombie in Night of the Living Dead:
Now: put your tin foil hats on: Graveyard Zombie helped eat Barbara, with the help of another zombie named John. Very X-Files, if you ask me. If I'm a Bush daughter I'm hoping my name is Jenna. If I'm a Bush mother I'm hoping my name is Nancy, or Lady Bird.
I'm all over the place. I meant in the previous post to get to that paragon of virtue, Jimmy Carter, via a religious incursion. To wit: what a fraud. What a shameless self-aggrandizing putz. I'm with Jay Nordlinger at National Review on this one: the man is a venal, self-serving poseur who hides behind a cornpone grin and a reputation as a human rights champion (my words, not Jay's).
I've known about this gripdick for a long time. His gubernatorial signature was on my learner's permit and my first driver's license. My father served with the preening prick in the Georgia General Assembly in the sixties when Jimmy was elected to the State Senate in 1962 and my father had moved from the Senate to the House. I knew Jimmy back when it was still uncool to know Jimmy.
My two big beefs with Carter?
One: He's a former President: instead of promoting himself for a Nobel Prize (which his harridan wife will eventually clunk him over the head with, she being an even bigger bastard than he) and attacking the current administration, he should keep his gaping maw shut. We pride ourselves in the South on producing gentlemen. Jimmy Carter is no gentleman. He is, in local vernacular, a peckerhead.
Two: Carter prides himself on being Mr. Human Rights. Fine. Let's look at the record: under Mr. Human Rights' watch Nicaraugua fell under the Soviet sphere via the Sandinistas. Angola became a bloodbath populated by Cuban mercenaries. Afghanistan was invaded by the Soviets (albeit to overthrow a totally fucking insane local communist regime with a more placable Moscow-centered one, but hey! as they say about Iraq, an invasion is an invasion). Poland felt the scourge on its back. The Stasi in East Germany cracked the whip. The Khmer Rouge slathered the Cambodian fields in blood, just like their neighbors in Ho Chi Minh Hellhole. That's a hell of a human rights record. I'm fucking impressed.
Reagan and the Bushes liberated tens (hundreds) of millions of human beings from serfdom. Why aren't THEY the Human Rights Guys? Why is this charlatan who sits through the most criminal election frauds in history as an International Elections Advisor Mr. Human Rights? I posit Jimmy Carter has more innocent blood on his hands than any non-communist or non-fascist in history. He is the Ultimate Useful Idiot.
I have to drive by Plains, Georgia when I visit my sister in Columbus. It's a beautiful drive once you get off I-75, but I always get a chill when I drive by Plains. I'm always reminded of another Useful Idiot, a fellow who worked on our farm for a while in the sixties, until my mother got him into one of those Retarded Boy Training Programs in Plains. I can't remember his name. It was either Wayne, or Newton. I just remember a connection with Wayne Newton. Maybe he looked like Wayne Newton? At any rate, he played a little too roughhouse with my little brother in Lake Number Three, and my mother was scared he'd drown the lad in his Baby Huey enthusiasm (Huey Newton? It's there, somewhere, damn it).
That's who Jimmy Carter reminds me of. A big fucking retard who thinks he's a genius because he's just finished making a perfect broom, or mop. And, yes, no one has the guts, or the decency, to say "Hey. It's just a fucking mop".
I've been trading some friendly banter about religion in public venues with my good friend David at Better Living Through Blogging (that is the next blogmeet I want to make: Montana). We disagree on a few things, but I think our essential skepticism about the invocation of Christian themes in government-sponsored areas is the same. My problem is probably more rooted in irony: I find it repulsive that a Supreme Court can sit silently through an invocation to God Almighty, then rule against little children hearing a prayer in school, or saying "under God" in the Pledge. Hypocritical bastards.
I don't see much harm in religion, at least since the auto-de-fes of the Inquisition, anyway. Nor do I see the bogeyman of the "Religious Right" in the GOP or this Administration. Bush is a religious guy, just like Jimmy Carter, but it seems to be a very private issue with the man. Does it direct his decision making? I'm sure it does. So what? I don't see any references to God and Baptists in No Child Left Behind, or the farm subsidy bill, or steel tariffs, or tax cuts. I'll grant you there may be a little Blue Light in the War on Terror, but we didn't pick that fight. I essentially cleave unto the Descartes principle: Believing is not a problem if God turns out to be false. Not Believing is a real problem if God turns out to be for real. Sort of like pari-mutuel betting, without the porkpie hat, and the tatters of my mortgage payment laying in shreds on the grounds of Los Alamitos.
The situation is beginning to gel, like the swimming fat in a pot roast gone cold. Or something like that. I now have a similar book of rooms at the
dilapidated exquisite Chalet Kristy, on the banks of the Chattahoochee in downtown Helen. Beat down the wogs to $139.50, too, which, come to think of it, was the exact towing bill for my vehicle after my unfortunate encounter with Officer McCumber when I was 19. Handcuffed by a female cop. I've never been the same: no, I've been far, far better for that encounter.
Anyhow, perhaps a bit of response from the usual suspects would be in order. That would be Kelley, Rankin' Rob, Key, Sugarmama, Dax, and everyone else in striking distance. I can't promise too much in the way of entertainment, despite my impresario credentials. I'm no Bill Graham, but I have a tentative billet with Eric and Rob in a Greco-Roman wrestling match on the banks of said river. Nude, of course, like the original Olympics. And by tentative I mean they are hearing of this for the first time here. My contribution will be a Number 8 washtub, to serve as a portable vomitorium.
Appealing enough? I really don't want to oversell this.
And it's name is Blogtoberfest! Yea, verily, what better way to wile away a weekend than in the North Georgia mountains with fellow cretins?
After some bandying about with Acidman and Straight White Guy I could see this thing was devolving upon me for a gameplan. Because they've already partied together, and could give a shit, to be frank.
I always was a Do Bee, not a Don't Bee, though, so after some thought on a situs I arrived at: Oktobfest, Helen, Georgia. I figure if you're going to meet up with some bloggers no better place than one that actually encourages spree drinking, spontaneous guitar-playing, and has some modicum of indulgence for public urination, within reason.
For those unfamiliar with Helen, it was a sleepy mountain hamlet in need of a tourist hook in the sixties, and remade itself into an Alpine Village. They have the best Oktoberfest in the Western Hemisphere. A genuine beer hall, a babbling brook through the center of town, oompah bands, bratwurst, a great scene. Combined with proximity to Anna Ruby Falls, Brasstown Bald, etc, etc, all during leaf season.
And how, my Intrepids may ask, did you find accommodations at this late date?
Well, kiddies, there's the rub. What I have is 7 rooms at the Comfort Inn the nights of the 15th and 16th of Oktober. That's a Friday and Saturday for you girls from Attapulgus. Oktoberfest starts the 16th, by the way, so we would also be Trailblazers. I'll pass out merit badges.
The Comfort is on Eidelweiss, which is a 10 minute walk from the Alpine Village, 15 if you take into account watering the roses, so to speak, and fistfights.
That's my Fail-Safe. I'm looking for a faux-castle or faux-chalet venue, or something, in the meanwhiles, but I do have rooms secured. I figure I can accommodate The Bride and four other females, maybe five, in my room. The rest of you can sort yourselves out. The best I could do was $143 per, on AAA, for what that's worth. I mention that as a full-disclosure impresario.
So that is the nascent start of it. Leaf-speckled mountains with some civilization at hand, plenty of shopping in oh-too-cute boutiques, for those so inclined, conspicuous drinking required (by me).
Did I mention we can go shooting in the woods? Hell, they let you stockpile corpses in the woods up there, iffen you have a mortician's license, or run a crematorium. Pistol popping is considered damned near effete.
Go turn on Russell Simmons' Def Poetry gig on HBO. Hurry! Watch fifteen minutes. Now go start reading Gibbon's The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Or, even better, The Confessions of Nat Turner.
That's all. Thank you.
Reason #86 why I love St. Johns County schools (#1 being some of the best test scores in the nation): Skeeter is a middle schooler now. Thursday she brought home a geography test. A map of the Middle East. She had to study the country names for a test Friday.
The first thing I noticed? No Palestine. This wasn't even one of those maps with the diagonal lines through the West Bank and Gaza called "The Occupied Territories", or "Occupied Palestine". Nope. Those rump portions of Jordan and Egypt did not exist. They were part of Israel.
I love this, personally. Who knew the Baptist Crackers in these parts were actually Zionist Fiends? Hell, they don't even have hooked noses, or beady eyes. Now, I'll grant you, the Red Bull these teachers and administrators bolt may very well taste like the blood of baby Arabs, but I don't believe the neurological jolt these people get from their Red Bulls is attributable to Infidel Extermination. I think it's because they lace Red Bulls with lead-based paint.
At any rate, this is a very un-PC neck of the woods. The kids read Ayn Rand, not Rachel Carson. I believe Jacksonville is the only urban area in the South that consistently votes Republican from mayor up to President. We don't dangle chads here, unlike those miscreants to the south. Our barbecue is better than theirs, too.
Why, I wouldn't be surprised if the good folk in these parts didn't profile Middle Easterners at the gates of the upcoming Super Bowl. We're crazy like that here.
I like Cantore, but I suppose you have to be a Weather Channel freak to know who I'm talking about.
I think most people like Jim. He gets in the eye of the storm, and is obviously pissed when the deployment goes south, i.e. the storm takes a wrong turn.
How bad does it suck to be in Myrtle Beach when the hurricanum hits Cape Fear instead? These are eventualties the normal talking head doesn't have to deal with. When their Evildoer gets shot outside the bank he generally stays shot, and on site. It takes a real person to get marginalized on a moment's notice, they say.
This hurricane has so disrupted Northeast Florida that my Saturday paper has already arrived, 3 hours early. The headline? I'm no printer, but I think this is 16 point type, bigger than 9/12:
The three subheads?
CHARLEY A CATEGORY 4
FIRST COAST READY
MAJOR DISASTER AREA
Not to worry. These newspaper guys are professionals.
For me, anyway. I cannot speak for the damage wrought by Charley in Port Charlotte, or Orlando, or Daytona, but certainly a bust for me.
And by bust I mean a bust for The Bride. She so looks forward to tragedy and mayhem, and prepares exquisitely for it, so when it does not occur she goes into deep funk. I do no believe she will awaken until Sunday.
I have a theory, or rather a set of theories, on hurricanes:
1) Jax is nearly bulletproof. The eastern seaboard carves so deeply westward at Jax that it resides in a virtual womb of protection. The Gulf Stream is 60 miles away, at least. This place is a hidey hole from cyclonic storms.
2) The northwest pressure: northwesterlies always push Gulf storms east. So much so the meteorologists were predicting a Florida landfall when the storm was crossing Jamaica heading northwest.
3) My juju. I, by dint of will, forced Floyd offshore in '99, and Bonnie to the west 3 days ago. No tropical occurrence has ever had the guff to take me on. Actually, I beg them on, but they know better. They back off, and think Wilmington. It's a gift.
Seriously, though, I feel for The Bride. When the barometer plummets she goes into action mode: foodstuffs, bottled water, batteries, first aid kits. Not to mention a constant barrage of cell phone calls and dire predictions to me: leave work now! Get firewood! Slay a beefalo!
I do what I can, but at this point pickings are slim. No D cells will be found, at any price, and they only sell ground chuck at Winn Dixie.
My secret? No secret, just hunch: I figure we won't be hit. But if we are, I have it covered: see, I hide from my kids. Iffen I buy 10 D cell batteries and leave them exposed, or in a public flashlight, my girls will turn on the flashlight, and throw the thing into a closet, and close the door. Think I'm kidding? No. They will then open most of the cans of food I'd stockpiled, taken a bite, and left them for ruin. They will use my distilled water to float a beta fish already belly up, slosh precious freshwater on their heads for pre-storm shampooings.
Therefore I have a System. I hide it all. I have fresh D cells in my sock drawer for the Maglite and other flashlights. I have potable water in half-litre size stored under the workbench. I have canned food in the toolchest. I have a battery powered Sony TV under a cloth on the workbench.
I still have to go through the spasms, of course. Every storm threat means I will have to go through the same ritual.
I just make sure I have the fruit of the loins of the God Propane, and some ice. Propane is a true gift: did you know you can freeze off planar warts with judicious blasts of propane? Or shoo a homeless person out of your crawlspace with nothing more than a rubber hose addition? I didn't think so.
I'll miss Charley, the '80's designer perfume of hurricanes. Why can't they name one Marley, or Tosh? I suppose they do, but how often do we get to the M's in a season, much less the T's?
I had a friend going through a bad divorce ten or twelve years ago, and was helping him move to a new place. Sound familiar? Good. Does this? As I was pulling the drawers out of his dresser to lighten the load an envelope fell onto the ground. As it was neither sealed, nor even folded over at the tab, I glanced into it as I picked it up. Inside was a goodly amount of pubic hair.
"What's this!?!" says I.
"Give me that!" says he. Now, I know the term "wistful" can be overused, but trust me here. "We shaved each other one night, and this is all I have to remember her by."
"Okay," says I. "Where do you want this dresser?"
Had I known then about cloning what I know now, there could very well be forty Girls From Peru reaching puberty any day now, ready to destroy the lives of another two score young men in a decade or so.
Says I, wistfully.
I finally succeeded in banning myself from commenting here. Oh, the shame I felt. Flushed cheeks, quivering chin... Hell, I almost feel sorry for you Banned Ones. So I released the hounds, again, and if I don't post much, it's because I'm hitting every damned one of those comment spams on barnyardsex. See if I can improve my technique.
On August 21, 1944, two B-24 bombers in a training squadron out of Pueblo, Colorado, crashed over the southern Colorado town of Model. Eighteen crewmen perished, including my uncle, Malcolm Robin Crawford.
Next week, on the 60th anniversary of the crash, a bronze plaque will be erected on the Model roadside. This memorial is due to the good efforts of the Santa Fe Trail Scenic and Historic Byway, the Trinidad Historical Society, and a gentleman named Larry Carpenter of Estes Park, Colorado.
Bob was my father's older brother, and his idol. At the time of Bob's death my father was in an Army Intelligence unit, supposedly based in Gander, Newfoundland, but conducting forays against German radio installations in Greenland. My uncle was 21. My father was 19.
Bob and Dad's younger brother is making the trip out for the dedication. I believe my brother is going as well. This is great stuff, and I wish my father was alive to see this fine acknowledgment rendered.
I think back to 1944, and the uncle I never met, and it jars me to realize my grandparents, at the relatively tender ages of 41 and 42, were burying their eldest son, had another in a war theater they knew not where, and a four year old running around. That is sacrifice I'll never know.
At any rate, I wish I could make the dedication, however I will make the trip to see the plaque as soon as possible. I'll also stop by Estes Park and shake the hand of Larry Carpenter, who was the true driving force behind this memorial.
Hear Ye, Fucking Hear Ye: Until I can figure out a way to send these comments spammers to Hell I have no choice but to ban IP prefixes, my autistic solution to a problem that obviously requires a more elegant solution.
If you are banned, then you obviously run with a bad IP prefix crowd, and should reexamine your goals in life. Barring that, send me an e-mail and I'll post the comment myself. Except for Rob. I may ban him anyway for the crime of Pure Dickwittery, second degree.
The first rain band from Charley is beginning to pelt the Velocihovel. I still need to submerge the patio furniture in the pool. It looks like this hoss is turning east, though, and will exit land south of me, somewhere around Marineland.
I'm prepared, anyway, having stocked up on staples earlier: rum (it is a tropical storm), frankfurters, propane, ice. Some fresh batteries for my 12 inch Maglite goblin knocker. All I need.
Should be a good hurricane party. Not like that bad hurricane party they're having in Cape Coral right about now.
I hate the name Futch. I have known Futches throughout my life, and they have been without exception white trash, and thoroughly worthless.
Now, I don't intend this to be a screed, and please don't burn any Futch houses down, because this is only a peculiar quirk of mine.
I also distaste the formal name Jeffcoat. What, no Billcoats were handy? Fuck you!
I also take secret disgusting displeasure in loathing the name Funderburke. I've never actually had a conversation with a Funderburke, but let me tell you: I already hate you. For no good reason.
Thorough hate for no good reason. I don't get it, but I cannot change my stripes. Some things just set me off.
I have a nice deal worked out with the kid next door. He uses my riding lawnmower to mow his own lawn, and does mine in the process. He wins, I win. I can loll in my Sunday morning filth while he gets to mow in comfort, instead of pushing a beast around.
I love the barter system, wherein one gets to screw the gummint out of tax dollars, and exercise market efficiencies at the same time. God, excuse me. I'm almost ready to punt.
Anyway, I was thinking of other ways to barter, however, as a man in legal contract to my Bride, I choose not to implicate myself in these ideas, but to implicate another instead.
So, how would my conveniently umarried proxy Acidman barter?
He would mow the lawn of his neighbor for sex. He would likely trim her hedges if she let him go Back Door.
He would trade 40 green bananas for an oil change on his truck.
He would clean a litter box for a tit shot.
He would hand wash Andy Dick's thong for a thousand dollars worth of Maurice Bessinger's Piggy Park Barbecue Sauce.
He would carve an ice sculpture of Pamela Anderson's Assets for a strong mole cricket treatment.
He would trade Andy Dick's severed head for a six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
I could go on and on, but let's face it: this isn't Acidman's world, it's mine. I just need some distance between me and the Divorce Attorney. I don't want my seperation papers to headline: In re Mr. Crawford's Ass sex infatuation, and the Psychological Problems the Fambly has Suffered As a Result!
Also because I feel bad about taking my Buttsex post down, but that was a survival move, Intrepids. That was not an advised move on my part.
I took The Bride out tonight because it were her birthday. Which I knew that, but had to be prompted to do it.
We went to Lava Grille, of course, because it is open air over the waters, and the music is live, of a sort. The band did their dutiful duty, and played United States Blues by the Dead for the old hen.
I call her that, of course, because we are reaching that disgusting stage wherein she appears much younger than me. I hate that shit, and insist on hearing the oldies as a psychic bitchslap. She sees though it, but who cares?
From Protein Wisdom, via Allah, via Michele, a disgusting trope from the vile Atrios (no link for you). It seems Glenn Reynolds is on safari for Negroes and Queers because he wore a T shirt with handguns on them. That, as they say, is quite a stretch. Hell, what about Jews?!? Glenn hates Jews! Hates them so much he converts his Hebrew National hot dogs to Christianity before consumption.
I hate the Us versus Them mentality, but these knuckleheads have created that environment with silly horseshit like this. I can't begin to count the times I've tried to engage a leftist in a discussion on the War on Terror that immediately devolved into a spittle-flecked rant on their part.
This is beyond the pale, however. Say what you will about Professor Reynolds, he's a big boy and I'm sure he will gladly defend his positions, but to harbour the conceit the man is a racist, no, a murderous racist and homophobe, is simply unforgivable.
Acidman and I seem to be on some sort of similar tack. First I went to Negril, then he went to Negril. Then he went to Key West, and I ended up in Key West. I went to Seattle on my way to Whistler, now he's in (or was in) Seattle.
All gratuitous coincidence, and yet it reminds me of the Star Trek episode with the parallel universe. In this case, of course, Rob would be the evil scarred Sulu threatening date rape on Uhura. How I envied that little yellow man as a child!
Rankin' Rob has an interesting post up on house names. My mother was big on naming our places. The farm was called, I think, Timberlake. Our river cottage in Bluffton was Vagabond Villa. The big river house on Wilmington Island was called Liberty Hall for the simple reason there was a wrought-iron plaque of that name on the fence when my parents bought it. I think it may have originally been army barracks or something. That would be back when you couldn't give away riverfront property because of the mosquitoes, so the Army squatted along the banks. Malathion changed all that.
Rob's place is the Kat Farm (don't ask - I was hoping for the Khat Farm). My place is, familiarly, the Velocihovel. More properly it is called Crawl Space (yes, Rob, home is a place).
Got a name for your place? Well, don't tell me. My comments are screwed up. Go tell Rob, because that's where I'll be doing some squatting of my own.
I just deployed Velocidaughter 1 to the Mall with instructions to buy The Bride some Opium for her birthday. The first solo errand ever. I believe there are benefits to this driving thing.
Too bad she's not old enough to go fetch me some liquor.
The Rational Mind in me eschews luck, fate, karma. In a universe of randomly colliding molecules it is primitive maundering that leads one to states of Belief, and Omnipotent Beings, much less Aggrieved Gods. And yet. And yet. Witness:
The AC compressor on my car found its 72 virgins, and the dollars ran deep. Put it this way: iffen I were an Arcadian fur trader in 18th century Canada it would have taken an entire sled full of sable pelts to satisfy the repulsive appetite of the grease-nailed vendor in question. In fact, I believe I saw the tumescent beginnings of an erection in the Dickey trou of the accursed as my credit card sang Bingo Is His Name.
No problem. Timing, age, a confluence of borrowed luck, come home to roost. But: then my homestead air conditioning went tits up the next day. That would be yesterday. My HVAC skillets are nothing if not timely, and despite the current heat wave they arrived today in the form of a bleached blond Reprobate, who seemed dismayed that the subjects of the many child pictures in evidence were not lolling languidly by the pool.
So: a bad compressor motor, which I had diagnosed myself straightaway, but Reprobate did not have the wherewithall to repair it. He did, however, have a stop-gap motor in his van, which he rigged up to give us blessed comfort until the Appropriately Priced machine arrives Tuesday. The stop-gap motor sounds like a fucking steam hammer, and is about as unbalanced as Teresa Heinz Kerry, but whatthefuck. My beloved family, and, more importantly, me, are cool, for now.
So it gets more interesting. As Reprobate was departing I noticed a significant puddle of water extruding from my refrigerator. Not mere moisture, but a pool one could launch a paper boat upon. I slid out the fidder-fadder (my Father's euphemism for anything more modern than an icebox) and espied a length of environment-shattered water hose. I tried to carve out the bad spot(s), but it was no use. I'll have to replace the hose tomorrow, and the ice in the tray will have to get me through a sordid Friday night.
Did I mention I have two sprinkler heads gone awry? Shooting precious H2O into the streets? That's a new thing I also noticed today. As is the fact my main cordless phone is dead due to hellish abandonment by the aforementioned beautiful children.
I almost forgot: the voltmeter in the Blazer is drawing down like an Egyptian whore at a Knights of Columbus confab. The Dickey trou brigade told me the new compressor would fix that, but, apparently, they were wrong.
Nay, I am beset not by God, but daemons, small imps with tiny pitchforks intent upon harrying me. Foul devils with foul hearts. Little bastards with my discomfiture on their timecards. Father Merrin don't know the half of it.
I once overheard my father and his brother fantasize about running away from their families. I was repulsed and shocked at the time, but I'm beginning to understand a few things in my dotage.
I'll vote for W in November, only because I'm a bias for action kind of person. I'd feel better about it if he could delineate a gameplan, however.
I've never been 100% behind the Iraq gambit. It's a great tactical move, sure, because it gives us a base of operations in the heart of the Middle East, but other than that?
I'm glad those poor Iraqis aren't being raped and killed anymore, but I wish I could say the same for the other victims around the globe. Me, I like to think strategically. I feel sorry for the Iraqi wogs, but I'd much rather see a targeted assassination on that Syrian dentist, and I would perforce dance in the streets if the administration would slay some terror mullahs in Persia. And, as I am feeling expansive, one in North Korea.
Perhaps that is W's eventual goal, but I'd prefer to hear Dick Cheney expound on this theory here in the Batcave over Ketel One martinis. Hey: they're begging ME for money, not the obverse. I want personal assurances.
I vote for Syria next. I'll bet those WMD's are there, and Assad is a weakling with no real control over his army, which is actually in Lebanon as we speak. We could have a Sandals resort in Beirut by spring. A Victoria's Secret in Damascus by Memorial Day.
Who says I don't think strategically?
Unfortunately. The more I see of Lynndy England the more I'm convinced she's a nasty little troll who needs some serious prison time to ponder her foul ways.
I, personally, do not give a flip fuck what happened to the prisoners at Abu Ghraib. That prison was reserved for Serious Evildoers, not the gape-mouthed fist-shakers corralled in a weekend mop up of a recalcitrant Baghdad neighborhood. I believe, hope, that those swept up in such actions are treated humanely, processed, released. Tommy Franks promised me this is the rule of order.
Back to England: I've seen this type before. In 1976 I was a cadre, a trainer upperclassman, to the first women ever admitted to United States service academies. I figure I was one of about three or four hundred young men to ever have to perform this duty at a service academy in America. Break them in, train them, build them into fine specimens of American youth. I felt I performed that job well, given the utter lack of guidance I received in my particular situation from my superior officers.
The hard part was discerning the wildly varying situations amongst the women (and they were really girls: 17, 18, sometimes 19 years old). Some were forced into the situation because Daddy was an Admiral. Some were lesbians. Some were thrill-seekers. Some were just scared young ladies determined to strike out on their own and make a mark for themselves. Some were street tough. Most were good girls trying to break down a barrier and make a difference. And I did everything I could to help them achieve that goal, that dream, while instilling some traditional values in them.
There were 2 or 3 Englands among them. Troubling and troublesome pieces of trash. You do your best, or your worst, depending on the situation. And these were officer candidates. I don't begrudge fuckin' with a few hardcase Iraqis. I DO begrudge having the American fighter's character impugned, and the lapsers taking pictures of said foolishness.
I hope this vile piece of work does hard time. I really do. She embarrassed us all, as did her comrades.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Mr. Savage, Rocker Extraordinaire. I'm thinking documentary. A real one, not like Michael Riefenstahl Moore.
When are you coming to Jacksonville, Joe?
I had to put The Mutant picture back up to assuage Mr. Helpful, as The Mutant is my alter ego. Then with Zip and Pip right underneath him looking so come hither, and the hand lotion so convenient...
Damn. I have debauched myself again.
I published a
drunken whimsical post on Joe Savage about a year ago. Such is Joe's fame and following that I continue to get a comment or so a week on that post, most regaling a Savage concert somewhere in the American heartland.
Imagine my surprise when I received comments Sunday and again today from Joe himself. I believe he was truly touched by the fans' outpouring here. He was probably less impressed by the original post.
Allow me to correct a couple of errors: "a" child was not attacked by Joe's manx. His own daughter was (I believe the daughter who also commented on this post). I'm sure she recovered fully. The attack did not happen in Savannah, as I recalled, but in Vegas, per Joe. I suppose I conflated that with the Savannah authorities' decision to ban Joe from performing in Savannah with the cat in tow.
At any rate, the fact remains Joe is well and still in Vegas, and the man did put on one hell of a show. Go read the comments. Beautiful stuff.
I've had to ban the dread 66 and 69 IP's again, so inevitably some of you will be locked out of the comments. Until I can figure out a way to avoid 1,200 unique IP porn pimping spams every three days without banning each one via MT Blacklist I am at a loss.
P.S. If you have any ideas, or simply must converse with me, try the shamefully ignored e-mail link on the left.