Loyal Intrepids are in luck, as I'll be LIVEBLOGGING the debate tonight (your luck deriving from the fact you'll actually be watching the debate).
Update: Sip. Hmm...
Update: Kerry's not orange. That's a plus. And his fucking fingernails look great.
Update: Bush executed the word proliferate. That's a plus.
Update: Bush executed the word vociferous. This thing's over.
Update: Kerry brought up his combat experience on the 2nd question. I guessed he would wait until the fourth question. I'm down a six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon to my parakeet.
Update: Makeup is a wonderful thing, but not foolproof. Lehrer should have checked those bags at the door.
Update: a natural height advantage is a plus, but Bush looks like he's debating a necrotic butler from a '60's monster sit-com.
Update: that round went to Kerry. He's staying on message: do more and do it better. Bush response: shucks, folks, just let me go kill some more evildoers. Also: Kerry earlier mentioned a lack of body armor, and Bush didn't jump on the vote against the $87 billion... squandered a HUGE opportunity.
Update: Oops. Spoke too soon. Kerry had to admit to poor communication skills.
Update: Bush regroups. Scolds Kerry for dissing our true allies. Speaks of his constant discussions with world leaders. Smart. Mentioned the coerced and the bribed.
Update: K-Lo's right. Kerry's eye contact is all with Lehrer, never for the camera. What are we? Chopped liver? Nope. Pate.
Update: Lehrer tried to stab Bush in the heart with the body count question, but played in to Bush's strength: he was able to well up a tear, and go anecdotal with stories of personal grieving with widows, etc. Kerry could only bring up his combat service again.
Update: Kerry is certainly more polished, more senatorial, more stentorian, perhaps. He's holding his own from a debating skills and mien standpoint.
Update: Bush seems more anxious than Kerry, as opposed to a reserved, thoughtful Kerry. I'm not so sure that's a bad thing for Bush, however. He seems anxious to make his point, not anxious to hide the fact he cooked this whole fucking war up in Texas. You knew he did that, right?
Update: who gave them matching lapel pins the size of a post office flag? From here if you hit mute it looks like a Politburo debate over who's going to lose Gulag Musical Chairs the next week.
Update: this debate, hinging on foreign policy, makes the last five election cycle debates seem like high school debates on the pros and cons of the supersonic transport. It kicks ass.
Update: Cliff May's right: Kerry fucked up the Pottery Barn Rule. It's not If you break it, you fix it. It's If you break it, you own it. Even if it can never be fixed.
Update: Doh! Bush said Nukular (forgivable, it's expected by now) but he also called the mullahs the moolahs. Although it's beginning to grow on me.
Update: did Bush just say he wanted to put the leash on his daughters?!? I sympathize with the sentiment, if not the timing. At least he didn't say he wanted to take the tawse to them.
Update: Bush has been all over the place, effective in places, alarmingly bemused in others. He's the hare to Kerry's tortoise. Bush needs to finish strong. Get back on message.
Update: winding down. I'll ponder a bit, but initial reaction is Kerry won a split decision. Maybe even a TKO. But I still think he needed a blood-splattering KO for a bump in the polls. I may be wrong. If he picks up 2 to 3 points on this debate it's neck and neck again.
Update: Oh My God, Becky! Laura and Teresa were wearing almost identical pink suits! This debate is officially a draw!
Deb and Jay had their little miracle Sadie Rose yesterday. Go check out the pictures and wish them well.
And I swear, in that third picture, it looks like she's trying to make the V for Velociworld sign with her left (her left) hand. Yepper.
Sent The Bride to the liquor store and she returned with 32 D cells. Post Hurricane Stress Disorder, poor lass.
The good news is you can crack those puppies open and get a pretty decent, albeit short term, buzz off the acid. Pretty good stuff, too. That Ray-O-Vac shit we huffed in junior high was like Mexican, man.
Day 1,836 of not being mentioned in the Bleat. Day 456 of seeing Hewitt mentioned in the Bleat. Most egregiously, Day 92 of not having mentioned the Bleat in a drunken post-ironic take on the Bleat.
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands
The smith, a mighty man is he,
with large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Okay, so I took a few liberties with that Russ Meyer classic. I am infinitely more ashamed of having failed to deliver a proper eulogy upon his passing last week. But healing takes time, and I want to do the old lech right, so you'll have to wait for that particular eulogy, and fond remembrances of Beneath the Valley of the Ultra-Vixens. It is stacked up behind my replies to a most delicious interview, which I will sweat over tonight in true Sydney Carton manner.
Actually, and to the point, the post title refers to the left's insatiable desire to murder George W. Bush. I would elaborate on the many instances, however we've all read about them, and the estimable Victor Davis Hanson has delivered installment one of a four-parter on this caustic phenomenon. Please read.
The Kill W phenomenon is all the more striking because its most virulent proponents are self-styled Anti War Peaceniks. I can imagine not a few of them participating in the beheading of civilians, too, truth be known. These are truly disturbed creatures, and need a fucking serious stomping.
The Rabids like to counter with the Kill Bill hatred of Clinton, and I must confess I am no fan. However, at least as I see it, Clinton haters disliked the man for the disreputable personality traits he brought to the Presidency, and the manner in which he befouled and begrimed it. We didn't want Bill dead. We merely wanted him out. Given that success I, for one, would have had no problem going out beer-drinking and women-chasing with the damned cur. Let's face it: he does bring some rather unsavory talents to the table, talents of which I am, shall we say, tolerant. Kill? No way.
No comment on Hillary.
I would say there is a chasm between righteous indignation and homicidal fury, but the Trustafarian Taliban of the Left have closed that chasm to a hairline fracture.
I DO believe the next smug little whiner that brings it up should have a bounty placed on their head. I gots $100 right here to start the kitty. Given proximity and wherewithal I'll even bag 'em. These elitist, sheltered little shits have no concept of what they even suggest. They're just echo chambers who don't understand the repercussions of what they bleat.
I say show them.
By the by: that title word comes from my cousin, who was in the Navy and made a port of call in Dominica. The local talent kept asking him if he wanted any pussyclot. At least that is how he heard it. So he said he sat back, thought about it for a while, and said.... No.
It seems to me someone is attempting to set the preemptive tone, or at least go on record with his hetero bona fides, should the unconscionable occur at the impending Blogfest a fortnight hence in Deliverance country.
To which I say Relax, old boy. Them fellers don't want to hurt you. Them fellers want to love you.
It's too bad this Mirthful One disabled her comments. It's just not the same giving thankees for a kind word from afar. Perhaps we could organize a troll hunt.
Whenever pro-life advocates attempt to get specific legislation passed, such as the Partial Birth Abortion Ban, pro-abortion activists halloo like holy hell about the slippery slope the pro-lifers are intent upon riding abortion law down. And you know what? They're right, of course.
Likewise when gun-control advocates attempt to get specific legislation passed, such as the Assault Gun Ban, gun rights activists halloo like holy hell about the slippery slope the gun-banners are intent upon riding the Second Amendment down. And they're right, too.
So what? Why do these people act shocked? That is precisely what advocacy politics is all about: incremental warfare. You can't eat that pig all at once. You have to take it in bites. And if that's your bag, big fucking deal.
No, the difference I see is in the hypocrisy of the left. A right-winger will say "Sure, we're schussing down the abortion slope. After we get the PBA Ban passed, we're going after third-trimester abortions, then parental notification laws, all the way to apres-ski at the Roe v. Wade Bistro."
A left-winger will deny this shit forever. "NO! All we want is to get assault weapons off the street. All we want is to get Saturday Nite Specials out the hands of criminals. All we want is safety locks on handguns so children don't blow their widdle brains out." Bullshit. They want every gun in America melted down, and recast as sculptures to draft dodgers in Canada, or statues of Che Guevara. Whatever. And, again, the point is, if that's your bag, go be all you can be.
Just don't be a lying, cowardly pussy about what your true intentions are. What are you afraid of? That people will smoke out your agenda, and despise you for it? Deny you your ulterior goals?
Grow some nuts. State your case. Give it your best shot. But don't insult me with your bullshit "I only want to..." crap. Fucknuggets.
And that goes for smoking in public, fast food, .08 driving limits, and everything else you twats can think up to fuck with my world.
Don't believe me? Look at MADD. If these people really wanted to get serious about drunk driving they would have advocated for more cops, more road-blocks, and the like, to enforce the .10 and .12 state laws on the books. But no: they pushed for .08 with federal unfunded mandates backing it up, and merely managed to make an entire nation of Three Beer Bobs and Two Wine Sallies into a brand new criminal class. When statistics don't show a sufficent drop in DUI's it will be down to .06, then an honorary DUI for just walking out of a bar and putting your key in the ignition.
If I'm lying I'm, uh, them.
I'm sure this will piss off Anna to no end, however my defense is this is not a hurricane blog, it is a tropical storm blog, with all the rights and appurtenances attaching thereto, or whatever the language says on my internet Doctorate of Divinity goatskin. And she is also exalted for a most brilliant recap of her days in the dark cellars of Raisinworld. And, finally, I don't own any thumb screws, although I possess a magnificent pair of screw thumbs, although they don't get much of a workout these days.
Thus far: no real damage other than some ripping off of some eave cladding, which I recovered in my hedges. I was concerned about the zipper effect on my shingles as a result, but I plastered pictures of Erica Jong on the exposed parts, and all is well thus far. My next door neighbor lost an oak tree, however it fell to the other side, in R.'s yard, and we don't like her anyway. When she does deign spend time in her own abode it is to treat a revolving door of pin-dicked mutants who not only likely refuse to pay her obese ass for services rendered, but cart off durable goods on departure. I have property values to protect.
I'm hoping Savannah gets a stall-out. 22 inches of rain on everywhere but my brothers' places, because I pissed my pajamas at a Boy's Club sleepover on Derenne Avenue during the Kennedy Administration, and someone must pay for my humiliation.
I must confess, also, that I am bejoyed when a typhoon hits Bangladesh, and sucks 23,000 hapless souls out to sea, never to be seen again. Intact, I should add. Body parts, of course, wash up all the time. But to me that is a signal of an Efficient God, and I learned from Production classes that Efficiency is Our Friend. I picture Jehovah in a white lab coat, like the Efficiency Experts in 1930's newsreels, strolling through Ford plants, smiting the malingerers, the grab assers, and the screwheads.
That's pretty much it. If I think of anything else I'll be sure to let you know.
P.S. That eave cladding that ripped away is of course on my uppermost gable, so I'll be out tomorrow, 30 feet up, with a hangover, in 25 knot winds, with my middle ear equilibrium bona fides as suspect as a Dan Rather smear piece, smacking my hammer within millimeters of my right hand screw thumb. Glad I'm left-handed.
of a different sort. I found this story in Allah's comments courtesy of reader adamagent. It is a story in the local alternative newspaper Folio Weekly that anti-Bush site Legitgov.org exerpted. I'll let the article speak for itself:
Fear of Flying: A Duval County Woman Says Nerves Ended W's National Guard Service In Texas -- by Susan Cooper Eastman
From Folio Weekly, Jacksonville, FL
Janet Linke has been thinking about George W. Bush a lot lately. Thirty-two years ago, her late husband Jan Peter Linke served briefly in the Texas Air National Guard's 111th Fighter Interceptor Squadron. Bush's service in the same squadron has gotten plenty of mention in an election year when what you did during the Vietnam War is suddenly a litmus test of character. But Linke claims she knows a part of the story that nobody has mentioned.
According to Linke, a Jacksonville resident and artist, Bush's flying career was permanently disabled by a crippling fear of flying.
Linke's husband was admitted to the Texas Guard in the summer of 1972 to replace Bush. President Bush has said that he stopped flying fighter jets because the Alabama Guard unit didn't have jets, and he wanted to transfer to Alabama in order to work on a political campaign. But Linke says she heard a different story from her husband and Bush's squad commander, the late Lt. Col. Jerry Killian. Shortly after her husband joined the Texas unit, Linke says, the couple discussed Bush's service with Killian at a social event.
Contrary to some news reports that suggest Killian admired Bush, Linke says the officer didn't have much use for the young Lieutenant. He mentioned that Bush appeared to have a drinking problem, she recalls, but he was most offended by another incapacity: his fear of flying. According to Linke, Killian said Bush was grounded in his fourth year of flying after he became incapable of flying or properly landing a plane.
"He was mucking up bad, Killian told us," Linke says. "He just became afraid to fly."
Killian has become a major figure in Bush's unfolding "Guardgate." CBS news anchor Dan Rather produced a memo signed by Killian saying he was pressured to sugarcoat Bush's service, among other things. A few days after the report, CBS backed off when other media questioned the veracity of the documents.
But flight logs released by the White House three weeks ago in response to a lawsuit by the Associated Press show a strange retraction of Bush's air time around that period. In February and March 1972, Bush switched from flying the F102A fighter jet, which the guard used to patrol U.S. borders, to a two-seat T-33 training jet. His superiors also returned him to flight simulator practice sessions.
But records suggest the extra training sessions didn't help. Logs show that in March and April 1972, Bush twice needed multiple tries to land the F102 fighter. Days later, on April 16, Bush piloted a plane for the Texas Air National Guard for the last time.
"He just couldn't cut it," says Linke. "I was let to believe he was kind of a coward." (Folio Weekly was able to reach two former Bush squadmates in Texas, but both declined to be interviewed.)
In May 1972, Bush left Texas. He headed to Alabama, where he requested assignment with the postal reserve unit. Bush's request was initially denied. Bu in August 1972, Killian stripped Bush of his flying duties for failing to take an annual physical. In September he was ordered to taken an administrative post with the Alabama Guard.
"[Killian] sent him to Alabama to fly desk," she recalls. "And then he never showed up." In Alabama, Bush's fellow guardsmen have said they don't remember ever seeing him.
For Linke, W's auxiliary service has become a very personal flashpoint. Linke's husband died while serving in the Texas Guard in 1973 after drinking at the officer's club. He nodded off at the wheel, drove into a lake and drowned. Linke was 27 years old with a 3-year-old son. She didn't know much about who W was then; his family was not on the national radar. "We were told his father was very wealthy Texan with CIA connections."
After Bush became President, to the swelling sounds of military music and war cries, Linke found herself unable to shake her memory of Bush's abrupt departure from military service. When she saw him swoop onto an aircraft carrier wearing a green flight suit, she thought about that 1972 conversation with Killian. But it wasn't until the Swift Boat Veterans for Truth [sic] advertisements questioning John Kerry's military service began airing in Jacksonville that she became incensed and decided to speak up. "At least Kerry served," she says. "Bush stepped aside. Anyone else who was AWOL like that would have been in Leavenworth, and here he is president of the United States."
Linke, who voted for George Bush's dad, insists she's not just anti-Bush or anti-Republican. But she's unhappy with W's presidency. After the passage of the Patriot Act, Linke and a girlfriend made T-shirts that said, "One Nation Under Surveillance." And in early September, after seeing a swift boat ad, she went to the Duval County Democratic Party headquarters to pick up Kerry-Edwards signs and chose to volunteer her story. Democratic Party officials contacted Folio Weekly the same day. Linke spoke to Folio Weekly before the White House released Bush's flight logs, which appear to substantiate her story.
Unlike his mom, Linke's son Chris supports President Bush. But he doesn't doubt her version of events. "Is she says it happened, that's good enough for me," he says. He notes that flying fighter jets is a dangerous job and "not everyone's got the mettle," so he doesn't doubt that Bush could have lost his nerve.
But Chris Linke's faith in the president remains unshaken. When he goes to the polls in November, he says, "I will be voting for him."
*editor's note: CLG does not recognize George W. Bush as president, as he was not elected in 2000.
Acidman and I were getting drunk one afternoon when he brought up the issue of comments. It seems he shares the same problem as me: namely, that you can put up a brilliant post, a freaking world-changer, and no one cares. Then you can put up a story about a canker boil abutting your nutsack and the comments go crazy.
Get the fuck outta here.
What causes that? I think we decided (and I'm not sure, we were drunk) that, basically, we reap what we sow. We CULTIVATED these people (meaning, YOU). And, so, all is good. And I thank you. I think.
I believe Joel Chandler Harris gets a bum rap. I find the tales of Br'er Rabbit, and Bear, and Fox, exquisite fables, worthy of Aesop, without the obligatory little Greek boy.
Harris is generally considered a racist, with his stereotypical depictions of coloured folk, as envisioned through woodland creatures. But I submit he was a sentimental realist, a cultural anthropologist, who was adamant in saving the oral histories of the rural blacks he encountered.
I will submit the Disney film Song of the South might be construed as racist, if you have that bent of mind, but I must tell you I like it, and whenever I hear Zipa-Dee-Doo-Dah I do the fucking Teaberry Shuffle down the sidewalk.
Harris was merely recording what he knew, and saw, because he was a journalist. Little known fact: Harris was a reporter for the Savannah Morning News, until he fled the city to avoid a yellow fever epidemic in 1879, and wrote his stories after that to pay the bills.
I think Harris got his bad rep over the Tar Baby story. I have to say, however, that just because the Tar Baby was black didn't make him Negro. Tar was an essential component of the rural South. It kept your roof on, it kept your walls on. It was ubiquitous, and cheap, and readily accessible to a conniving little fucker like Br'er Rabbit. THAT is why the Baby was made of Tar. It was an obvious construct.
Did you know Joel Chandler Harris was a bastard? That must have sucked in 1800's Georgia.
Finally: visit the Wrens' Nest in Atlanta, Harris' farmhouse, or the Uncle Remus Museum in Eatonton, Georgia, to get the true measure of the man.
There is a Category 3 hurricane making landfall in Florida, and the NOAA website has their 5 PM forecast up. It's piss poor enough they only update every 6 hours, but it's 11:43 by my reckoning, and they don't have their 11:00 PM update up yet. Twats.
Fortunately there are alternatives to government agencies. Sadly, they update their sites from the very government agencies that REFUSE TO PUT THEIR INFORMATION UP!!!
Fuck NOAA. Memo to self: when that Seychelles job craters in the early days of Bush II see if you can run the weather service, after passing a drug screening.
Here's a picture of the old man from the late fifties, with what appears to be a 1956 Cadillac Eldorado Convertible Biarritz, although it might be a pimped F-150. If I wasn't born yet his loins were already stirring with my desire to bust out, so to speak. He once made an old black woman wet herself in fear on the witness stand during cross-examination. It pleased him so much he tried to replicate the act for years, unsuccessfully. That's so shameful.
I had no idea growed up people play Kickball. What a sheltered life I have led. The next thing you know you'll be telling me they copulate, too.
Guy knows whereof he speaks. Time for some reeducation of right-fisted bastards.
I also have a standing offer, should Casino Gauche ever become reality, to offer free lap dances to all southpaws. However, just to show there are no hard feelings, I'll spring for some quality lap time for Acidman. I even have his babe picked out, and she's working on her tan:
Dasher's was one of those strange places you don't see anymore where I'm from. An enormous ramshackle catfish house built on stilts on the banks of the Ogeechee River. In the middle of nowhere, and yet on Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays it was packed. I think it was open on Sundays. A lot of places, like Williams' Seafood, were closed on Sundays in observance of the Sabbath.
People would drive from Savannah and Statesboro to eat at Dasher's. It was great, if you don't mind picking bones out of your mouthful of catfish.
Mammy's Kitchen on Highway 17 was also a great joint. Barbecue, smoked outside.
There was a good catfish house on 17 north of Mama's around the torrid environs of Silk Hope and Quacco Road. I once passed out in the backseat of my Volkswagen after an all-you-can-eat gizzard binge there. Even the two pounds of sugar I ingested with my iced tea couldn't revive me. I can't remember the name of it now. Acidman?
I'm obviously impatient for my pot roast to be done.
When I was a kid I used to love to go riding around the countryside with my father. Mostly because it was a somewhat rare occurrence. If he said he was going "boodling down Tar Road" you knew that meant mischief of some sort, and you wouldn't be allowed to go.
I don't recall all the places we went that were the ostensible reason for the trip. Maybe to Roger B's to discuss Roger bringing over his bulldozer to fell some timber (I believe the old man was laying the pipe to Roger's enormously buttocked wife, Cuba, but I'm not sure. Cuba also had incredibly massive breasts, so in all fairness she was what is termed a "balanced package"). Maybe to Cordell Bazemore's to decide when Cordell would combine the corn crop. These were boring aspects of the journey, because the real reason for an outing, the mission, was to hit the closest liquor store, Effingham County being dry.
Sometimes we'd go to Pop Edwards' Lounge (the old Pop's on the west side of 21, formerly Cox's). It was barely in Chatham County. Sometimes we'd go to the liquor store in Blitchton, just over the county line in Bryan County. I used to like going because the old man would let you sit at the bar with him, and would buy you a six and a half ounce bottle of Coke and a bag of salted peanuts to put inside the Coke. Dad would usually try to get me or my brother to chat up some floozy in these places, telling us we would likely get a "date", whatever that was.
Then, of course, there was Ray's Playhouse, between Guyton and Tusculum. Ray's was a Colonial Oil gas station with a hoochie bar in back. Actually, it was a full-blown casino and juke joint, operating with absolute disregard for the law in a dry county. We didn't go there much, because I don't believe there was anything in the way of bonded liquor there, just moonshine, and dad was an aficionado of Canadian whiskey. And we were never allowed in the back of Ray's. We had to stay out front in the gas station office. Ray's was straight out of Walking Tall, although I don't recall ever seeing anyone carved up on a pool table there.
Speaking of knifings, though, in the old days before I-16 was finished you used to have to take the back roads to Atlanta. Somewhere around Metter, I think, in the middle of nowhere, was a dive called Junior's Supper Club. My father once represented two brothers who got in an argument with another fellow in Junior's, stuck knives in him, and "walked all the way around him". The guy didn't die, but the brothers were tried for it. The old man got them off on a self-defense plea. I'm not sure how justice was meted out in that corner of Hell's Half Acre, but I imagine graft was involved. Whores, too, most likely. It kept us fed, though.
When I think back, I truly had a blessed childhood. And I mean that.
I've had some fun with Bryan, courtesy of our mutual affection for Eric (a preemptive Shut The Fuck Up, Acidman), but I only just realized he has his own site. Link him, praise him, whip him if necessary. He's one of the good guys. Although I must say his site has a hunky dory studmuffin up front in an ad who I thought might be Bryan. Careful, son.
Actually, the bastard was so good looking I thought it was Andy. The blogosphere is fun, Bryan. Be careful out there.
I wanted to show The Bride the powerpoint presentation on a relationship breakup over at Dax's, but when I clicked on the link I was assaulted by a man pulling his asshole 8 inches wide.
What is worse? That that is Dax, or that it isn't?
Dude, give a hat tip the next time you rip somebody off.
A scarier thought: didn't that link come from Boortz? Is that HIS asshole? Sweet Jesus. I just lost any interest in going Libertarian.
Although we all know John Kerry is suffering from a gender gap unheard of for a Democratic candidate, I find his appearance in Peoria today ill-advised:
Am I the only person who gets tired of the way the Big Three (well, Big Two and the Nazis) try to out country and out redneck their audience? A pickup truck is a damned fine piece of machinery, whether you live in the country or not. Last time I looked there were quite a few urban items you need a truck to tote. Fucking bales of hay. Gimme a break. If they weren't so damned stupid they could sell even more trucks to even more urbanites if they thought outside the crewcab.
To hell with the Eddie Bauer edition. I'm waiting for one of these companies to wise up and come out (ha!) with a Queer Eye edition. I would submit the Lariat would be a good model to start with. Put some antiques in the bed. Put a giant phallus sculpture in the bed. No! A black and white entwined phalli sculpture. Or a bobo couple unloading a Fisher and Paykel at the curb of their brownstone. Damn! I really should be in the ad business.
is obviously powerful, given it is only the size of an encapsulated fart.
I just saw two at my still-deployed feeders. Bizarre. It's almost October. They usually migrate south to Ipanema by the end of July, to void their dewy shit on hot Latina babes in thongs. I've never seen one later than the first week of August.
They know what's up, however. They know the waters between here and there are raging with storms, and unsafe at any speed.
The only question I have is, how do they ride one out here? I suppose a tree, however abused, is better than the open sea.
The clash of the Lefties versus the right-handed Slow Leakers continues, below.
And we shall see how well Robbed hits a left-handed half-rubber pitch. Bring your cameras, and tissues for the lad.
As in, under. This is starting to chap my ass.
Something is fragged with my comments. I don't know what. Can't pull them up. The site was down for a while as well, so perhaps this is a temporary setback. That's good, because the only tools I bring to the table when it comes to these things is a Stanley ball peen hammer and a 1944 M3 trench knife. They make access easy, but closure problematic.
I have not given a thin dime to the GOP, the RNC, or the Bush campaign this election cycle. The reason is quite simple: after all the drachmas I funnelled into that cause in 2000, they completely ignored my specific demand, via unsecured e-mail, for the ambassadorship to the Seychelle Islands. They even ignored my tertiary interest in the Drug Czar job (which I was going to rename the Czar Bomba Gig).
It seems there is an "outer" who claims California Republican congressman Dreier is, indeed, gay.
Damn. Who'd a thunk? I've always liked Dreier, and thought he spun the GOP talking points as well as anyone since Racicot was demolishing Al Gore's 2000 blubberfest.
Personally, I don't care what Dreier is in the bedroom. MY concern is that I've always found him to be a very dashing, handsome man, and now I'm scouring my own blood sample under my TASCO electron microscope, looking for hiccoughs in my fucking Y chromosomes.
Whoever invented the loom in ancient times must have been a radical bastard. Or a free thinker. Or a free radical, for you chemistry geeks. There being no patent office, or concept of specie, I'm sure he also died in poverty of infection from a boar tusk to the testicles. Or, if the inventor was a woman, from giving birth to Siamese triplets. (An aside: did prehistoric midwives perform episiotomies? If so, with what? A jagged piece of flint? Or was it just Tear and Bear?)
But thinkit: to go from foul, smelly, vermin-infested, poorly tanned pelts and hides from yesterday's luncheon entree to raiments of cotton, and wool, and silk! Those Chinese bastards! must have been incredibly liberating. And the quality ramped up quickly, as evidenced by those cave drawings of Stone Age men sporting all those shimmering toiles.
Gandhi was a fan of the loom, of course. Those were his two great joys in life: drinking his own piss and working the loom. Now that's a spectacular level of civilized development by anyone's reckoning, I would think.
The loom: what a complex machine for the unibrow set to create. I'm impressed. By God, I am.
One more question: where did the Indians get all those cool blankets? Did they bring the genius of the loom across the Bering Land Strait 13,000 years ago? Or did they purchase their blankets from crusty general store mercantilers, who charged them double, then spit tobacco juice on them to "whiten 'em up a bit"? I need to look into that.
My penmanship absolutely sucks. It is so bad when I write I generally print, and in all caps, LIKE AN ASSHOLE E-MAILER!! My penmanship sucks not because I lack dexterity, or diligence. It is simply due to the fact I am left-handed. There is no way to make script flow writing with a left hand.
Lefties are the last true victims of discrimination. Everything is designed for a right-handed world. Even as a child, by the time I got my mother off her ass to buy me some left-handed scissors I'd already learned to use regular ones. Just as I learned to do a lot of things right handed, like hit a baseball, or a golf ball, or strum a guitar, or use a can opener. That's right. Fucking can openers are right handed.
Even the automobile is designed for a rightie, except for those crazy Limeys. Shifting, control knobs, fingering a little poontang are all designed for the right-handed majority (the Vile Oppressors, I call them). Although I did learn the poontang thing with my right hand pretty quickly. I'm not bitching about that.
Skeeter is a leftie, and her penmanship is as poor as mine. I explained to her that Leonardo Da Vinci was a southpaw, and he retaliated by writing all of his journals and diaries in backwards script, right to left. You have to hold them to a mirror to read them. Or, in my case, you'd have to learn Italian, or Latin, as well. She was unimpressed. I believe the child is a confirmed slob at 11.
Being left-handed sucks the bone, and I'm not through whining yet, so shut the hell up.
I'm also a Certified Dual Victim, as well. Rumour has it I have Indian blood in me. Could be. My face turns red in the sun, but that might be the result of Ten High bourbon abuse, rather than melanin issues. And, in fact, that's my Indian name: Billy Ten High. I bestowed that moniker on my brother-in-law, but he didn't like it for some insane reason, so I ungifted his ass of such a fine sobriquet.
Now I want the State of Georgia to bequeath me 15 or 20 acres in North Georgia, preferably adjacent to the town of Young Harris. There I will erect a splendid casino. I'll skim 10% off the top, pay the staff with 15%, give the blackhearted bastards at the Georgia Department of Revenue their bloodsucking 30%, and spread the rest around to members of my tribe. The tribe will consist of anyone who can authenticate their Indianness by reciting a cool Indian name, like Vomits With Aplomb, or Breaks Like the Wind, or Two Dogs Fucking. "Mingo" is unacceptable. "Seasons With Afterbirth" is acceptable.
There. My sense of entitlement is temporarily sated. I'm going to Ebay, as I'm going to need a whole shitload of poker chips.
Update: Some northpaws are apparently intimidated by the gauche among us, and lash out in fear, and terror. Having suckled at the Right World Teat all their lives they are unwilling to admit how easy they've had it. Pussies.
Sorry, Intrepids. I find James Carville to be one of the coolest motherfuckers around. Can't stand the bastard, but he would feel the same about me. I reckon.
With apologies to Jim Carroll, a list of things that have died on me recently:
House AC compressor
Ute AC compressor
Okay, the range didn't exactly die, it became a trooper in the Legion of the Undead. Skeeter warmed some chicken fingers last night, and dutifully turned off the range. When I awoke at 6 a.m. this morning I damned near burned my william johnson off when I leaned against it to grab the coffee beans. It was still on. Burning like a bastard. I threw the circuit breaker, and now I'm looking at yet another extracurricular drain on my already specious finances. And to top it all off, my refrigerator is making that ominous REDRUM sound again. Fucking Skynet is doing this. I may have to go shoot that bastard designer.
I'd rob a liquor store to pay for all this crap, but they don't make a mask good enough for that job ("Here's all my money, and a bottle of Jameson, Mr C. I mean Mr. Nixon. You drive safe now"). And yet the club-footed parakeet lives on like the Ener-fucking-gizer Bunny.
One of my favorite cyclists, Tyler Hamilton, is being investigated for blood doping. For shame, Ty. Doping is, of course, agin the rules.
Why should performance enhancing drugs be against the rules of sport? If athletes don't respect their bodies, why should I? Furthermore, professional athletes are the carnival freaks of our day. They're bread and circuses, come to entertain us. Why shouldn't we be entertained by the very best?
Are drugs banned in order to keep the players "pure"? What for, so we can then despoil their pure natures by betting on them? I say let 'er rip.
Case in point: look at Barry Bonds, an obvious case of a steroid abuser amok. He's also an asshole of the first degree, but people don't go to the ballpark to see a grinning fool. They go to see a mutated monster beat the piss out of a baseball. Why not see what the market will bear? If everyone started doping you'd see some real freaks. Very well paid freaks. Worth the price of destoying their bodies. Look at those old football players from the fifties and sixties. Knees shot, crippled at 40. Couldn't exercise, got fat and died young of heart attacks and booze. What the difference?
So why not take it a step farther? Modern science is a wonderful thing, and it's a Brave New World out there. Think: why would anyone want to go see a guy try to beat the long jump record of 29 feet 4 inches by a quarter of an inch when he could go watch a muto with kangaroo legs grafted onto his torso try to beat last week's record of 52 feet by 2 feet? I'd pay plenty to see that.
It'd be, like, totally fucking insane!
Can you imagine what a person with an orangutang arm could do with a javelin, or a fastball?
I'm also betting the dude with the blowhole and flippers kicks ass in the swimming portion of the triathalon.
It's up to the docs at this point, because we all know there are crazy bastards willing to be the first basketball player with a prehensile tail to hang from the hoops after a particularly vicious slamdunk. And if scientists will do boring things like clone sheep, you know they'll be all over this Doctor Moreau shit like blowflies on a turd.
I'd love to be at the premiere game of the Memphis Mutoids versus the Frankfort Frankenfiends, myself.
John McCain is running for President in 2008. Against Hillary. Do you not think the media types that anoint McCain as their Beloved NOW won't turn on him like a snake?
Oh, he'll be the Loose Cannon. The Crazy Bastard who got caught up in the Keating Five bullshit and atoned for his sins with McCain-Feingold.
That poor bastard will be destroyed. Vietnam will be brought up for the last time ever, to prove he is, at worst, a ticking time bomb. At best, a Manchurian Candidate. The media that slavered over this man for the last five years will fucking destroy him.
Which is why I voted for W in the first place. Poor John. He plays with lightning.
from last night's dream:
Fargo, Georgia: Dan Rather, Mary Mapes, and Andrew Heyward are escorted by an armed pajamahadeen to a gulag somewhere in the Okefenokee Swamp for journalism ethics reeducation.
I believe this dream was osmosed into my sleeping noggin by Ratherbiased. But who's complaining?
Gruntwork. Painting. Well, actually, painting, drinking, and watching football (you're blogging about watching a football game? I don't get it! - Ed.)
Anyway, The Bride decided a few weeks back (and, yes, I egged it on) that our taupe/putty walls were disgustingly depressing, and, yes, disgusting. And so I've been repainting the entirety of the interior of the Velocihovel.
We picked a nice yellow, or, what the Queer Eye guys tell me, is a saucy dijon with some mayonnaise whipped in for calming effect. Maybe. All I know is since I've painted I've mellowed, and put the razorcock back in its storage bag.
To date I've painted:
The master bedroom. The master bath. The water closet. The kitchen. The butler pantry. The breakfast area. The den. The living room. The dining room.
All I have left is:
The hallway. The pool bath. The walk-in closet. The laundry room. And, yes, the Batcave.
And, just maybe, the razorcock. I blame this post on paint fumes, and the fact that mayonnaise must have been in the sun too long.
Nicknames often puzzle me. How does one come by a nickname? Some are obvious: Trey, Red, Scumbob. Others are not. For instance, I have known several Spankys over the years. How the fuck does one acquire the nickname Spanky? Did it come to your parents in the waiting room of the methadone clinic?
I also hate nicknames that the bearer obviously gave themselves: Jet. Flash.
I've never had a nickname, other than a brief period in college when my friends called me Kimical, but that was the result of ill-advised lifestyle choices.
How about you? Got a nickname? How'd you get it? Do you like it? How come?
This story just gets sleazier by the day. I won't be able to get out of my pajamas (pyjamas, to the Sikhs in the audience) at this rate. Allah, Goldstein, and Ace, among others, have the baton.
Just one question: didn't Billy Burkett play Glenda the Good Witch in The Wizard of Oz? Nice hoo-hoos, Billy, if a tad long in the draw.
It has a nice ring to it, non? At any rate, that's what my T-shirt will read.
I'm writing better than Lileks right now, and I'm in Grey Goose therapy over my tawdry snippets of Life on the Edge (of the Suburbs).
Now, I realize that's a self-aggrandizing position, but I play my ace: go read today's Bleat.
I rest my case, as Perry Mason said. Actually, Perry always said "YOU were there with a convenient weapon, and YOU had the motive, and the most to gain, and YOU were trying to hide your homosexuality, like me, but, um, YOU shot the sheriff, didn't you?"
Okay: maybe Lileks has the edge on me right now, given that bit. But the point obtains.
James needs to step it up, or co-sign his checks to me. He's a professional, after all.
It's an unpleasant task, but at least it's front desk work, and not changing linens.
I have 16 rooms reserved in Helen for the Blogtoberfest, aka The 2004 Annual Jawjah Blogfest, aka someone come up with a better name, please, like the Bavarian Blowout, or Rapine with the Notorious Riff Raff. Please also state if you are, indeed, Sweet Polly Purebred.
So: below is a list of attendees. Please note the NUMERAL beside your name. That is the number of nights I believe you are attending. Some of us will arrive the 15th of October, but Devil's Night is October 16th (What? No superscript? Screw Perl). If the NUMERAL is wrong, please advise. Some are swags. If you are planning on staying with someone else, and will thereby free up a room, please advise. I apologize if I sound like I'm talking down to you. I'm not. I talking up to me.
ME - 2
Kelley of Suburban Blight/Key of Key Issues - 1
Eric of Straight White Guy - 2
Acidman of Gut Rumbles - 2
Geoffrey of Dogsnot Diaries -
Gordon of Dogsnot Diaries - 1
Dax Montana - 2
Adam of Single Southern Guy - 2
Denny of Grouchy Old Cripple - 2
Mamamontezz - 1
Jim Flynn of Parkway Rest Stop - 2
Jim's Usual Suspect - 2
Aubrey of Evilwhiteguy - 2
Kenny Brown (Rob's date) - 2
Eric's Pool Buddies - 2
Fortunately the Skilsaw accident only took three fingers, so I am able to count to 15 with confidence. That leaves one room, which is actually unfortunate, as I am sure I've forgotten at least 3 people. Now is your chance to take the cane to me.
If, indeed, I have captured everyone, though, we could always chip in and keep that last room for whatever nefarious purpose comes to mind. Like, for instance, running up the road and kidnapping He Who Must Not Be Named, and holding him in squalor for ransom. Gee, how much do you think Frank J would pay for him? Just a thought.
I have no doubt we'll use all these rooms, I'm just concerned I have the number of days correct, so I can release rooms to Babu and Vijay as necessary.
Post Scriptum: Daytrippers are certainly welcome. I expect Rankin' Rob from Rankinblog and Dave from Red Georgia Clay to make an appearance.
I'm actually heading in the 14th for reconnaissance. I'll attempt to find an amenable locale for a couple of dozen drunken braggarts. I'll post that info from wherever I can find a WiFi zone. If unsuccessful, the fallback position is the Beer Hall. That will be me in the lederhosen, singing the Horst Wessel song.
Update: It looks like Zonker at Thunder and Roses is in...
I'm of mixed minds about Ann Coulter. While I think she is intelligent, and quick witted, and obviously of a similar political stripe as me, I also find her grating, and bombastic, and given to over-the-top generalizations.
Her syndicated column comes out on Thursdays, and appears in my paper on Fridays, opposite the Kelp Creature Molly Ivins. They actually started them off with Coulter's column on the, ah, right of the page, and Molly Pitcher (or Catcher, I suppose) on the left, but the obviousness of this was too much even for the local unwashed, so they reversed it.
To get to my point, should you decide to accept the fact I have one, I read Coulter's column on line last night, wherein, in an effort to expand on the Rather/CBS meme that If I Say It's True I Don't Have To Prove It, You Have To Disprove It, she went off on a tangent about Kitty Kelley having syphylis. And not the tertiary stuff, Advanced Stage Syphylis.
Suffice it to say that particular section was edited out of this morning's paper. I don't think there will be any blowback on Coulter for saying it, either. And while I thought it was funny, and the point was well taken, Jesus Christos. How does she get a pass on stuff like that? Maybe Colmes will ask her the next time she's on the Hannity & The Other Guy Show.
I believe we should stick to the facts, like how John Kerry shot a teenaged loincloth-clad yellow heathen with a .50 caliber round through his leg in the back, and won a Silver Star for it. But maybe I'm being a stickler here.
I realize most of you don't care about the cactus needle embedded in my foot, and are, in fact, likely repulsed by the ongoing saga. I also realize there is a morbid subset, which I will call Control Group Y, who are fascinated by personal tribulations like this. And so: an update.
Home surgery being a non-starter, I had determined to have my GP carve it out. However, after consultation with my local Pharm-D, I am now on a regimen of Ichthammol. Yes, Og, Black Drawing Salve.
It seems to be working, too. What was tolerable is now painful, as the site pusses up and tries to erupt. Or supperate. I don't know the terms. I'm no physician. I DO know, however, that this bodes well. I'll give it until Monday. Then I'll have Doctor Vickie wield scalpel, and get down to business, if necessary. That will cripple me for a few days, but I promise to take pictures, and to share them. For Control Group Y. You guys have been very loyal throughout this ordeal. You rock.
Anyhoo, bear with me. I hope to have good news for you.
Well, I sleep (and blog) in this (although this fellow doesn't do me justice):
File under TMI.
Since my brother outed me, so to speak, on that Voter Intimidation post in the comments, I will confess: the "local bad boy" who paid Charlie Fields to drive those ambulances through the black neighborhoods was my old man. I would like to add that was Democratic Party money that paid for it, too. I will say he was not up for reelection in '62, so perhaps it was done out of magnaminity, or solidarity.
And I never knew the story about the alligators. But that sounds like Calhoun, all right. I also believe The Senator shot it down not out of indignation, but out of logistical concerns.
I accidentally typed in Michelemalkin-dot-com at work today, and it was an online gambling site. Now, either Michelle is working a little side action for the minuscule Conservative But Illiterate crowd, or the cardsharps are clever. I think I'll see if I can register MoXXXie, and run a casino op out of it. Or, obviously, triple X delights.
I'm excited. After Coalition Forces found the remains of three Arabs decapitated, the Evildoers released a Turkish prisoner. I'm putzing my drawers, I'm so excited.
And, to be honest, I'm looking for Muslims to abuse. And just so we don't conflate my Mohamet-hate with 9/11, I gave it three years. I asked you scumbags to repent. You failed me, disappointed me.
I won't blow myself up, though. Please take heart in that. I'll only blow YOU up. Fear me.
P.S. I expect the visit from the titty boys from State, or TSA, or whoever is charged with beating my ass. No big. Bring your best.
W: you promised me a Get Out of Jail Card. I'll be needing that right about now.
Here's a nice article on voter intimidation, via People For The American Way. Yes. We rightists will be beheading chickens and burning crosses in our endless pursuit of denying The Black Man the Vote.
And Bedding His Wimmenfolk, to create a soldierly race of Mulatto Killer-Soldiers, with black thighs like Herschel Walker, and white minds like, well, that Slingblade Feller.
I scoff at this race-baiting (add the obligatory DUH!). And I'll do you one better. I'll tell you how Intimidating the Vote really works:
In the early sixties you didn't have local government funded EMS where I lived. You had private ambulance services. In my town it was XXXX's Ambulance.
So: on election day, the local bad boys would pay the ambulance company to drive around the black neighborhoods with sirens screaming and lights flashing. Just to suggest there was mayhem, and killing, going on at the polling places. Shameful? You betcha. Effective? You betcha.
THAT is Disenfranchisement. Disenfranchisement is NOT being so damned stupid you can't figure out a ballot someone willingly placed in your hands you can't execute because you can't read.
Self stupidity is the real disenfranchisement, you numb nuts. A totally different animal than Jim Crow. I suggest you disenfranchised learn to read. Just a small modicum of advice. Other than that, fuck off.
I understand, through 24-hour news osmosis, that the NHL owners are going to lock out the hockey players. Sometime. Soon.
I haven't been this upset since the Ceylonese rubber plantation owners locked out the Tamil slave labour in 1953 over their protests in re the fecal coliform content in their water buckets.
Workers of the world, unite.
When Fidelity Investments runs commercials playing Ram Jam's Black Betty, do you ever get the uncomfortable feeling there are some really self-absorbed, unaccountable, immature, methed-up juveniles with a 2001 Wharton degree fucking with your Magellan portfolio whilst spanking junior-college whores?
I know I do.
I wish I had something relevant, or even pertinent, to add to the CBS/Rather/ Memogate thing, except to note the ubiquitous mainstreaming of the term MSM. And I think Goldberg beat me to that.
CBS has chosen a most ill-advised strategy of stiff-upper stiff-arm, which maybe isn't so stupid, given the fallout a true mea culpa would entail. They believe this will just go away. Like Trent Lott thought. And it just might.
A suggestion: we know you won't reveal your source. We know you will trot out a continuous stream of "experts" to validate this fraud. That is pissing in the wind, however.
Why don't you just produce the original documents, and let an independent panel selected by, oh, I don't know, Brit Hume, or Antonin Scalia, vet them? See how easy that was? No revealing of sources, so stonewalling charges, no disputes over 15th generation copy degradation.
Thanks, boys. I do take AMEX, and my rewards program needs a shot.
is, unfortunately, not very mobile. I always liked that town, too. I should drive over this weekend and drink a beer and salute the tattered remnants.
Mobile is truly a Southern city, or used to be. I spent a few weeks in introductory flight training there once, flying helicopters and Albatrosses and such, and those girls were sweet. Zippered, so to speak, but sweet. When a girl whispers in your ear and asks if you'd like another homemade prah-line, that's sweet. When she cooks you up a mess of what she calls okrie, that's sweet, too.
Those girls made me feel like a damned Tatar.
Maybe I'll pile up a mess of generators in the truck and go see if I can't hep those people out, at $900 per. Now that would be sweet.
Blue Cross & Blue Shield now promote themselves as "BLUE". Hell, I thought American Express already had the lock on that colour, but what do I know? UPS is BROWN. Screw that. What can BROWN do for me? Exit properly every morning, with no dingleberries, preferably.
I predict in one year the whole BROWN marketing theme will be history. Too much exposure to shit jokes. And, yes, BROWN is my biggest customer, however I've never called them that. Shitheads, yes. BROWN, no.
New colour memes:
PINK: any professional female volleyball player.
BLACK: any professional athlete with a rape record.
WHITE: Nobody would take this colour.
RED: A Kerry delegate.
GREEN: A Nader delegate. Beaten to death by a RED delegate in a Sebring, Florida motel parking lot.
YELLOW: A member of the Bush White House with one or more draft deferments between 1965 and 1973.
PURPLE: a CBS producer spinmeistering Dan's Misadventure. Purples can be either the creators of lurid prose denying Dan's culpability, or the editors grasping their chests in the final moments of myocardial infarction in the men's room.
INDIGO: A lesbian musician, preferably in plaid, and plaits.
ORANGE: A retired astronaut with a taste for Tang. Think Garrett Breedlove.
Sorry. Even though I normally check into seedy motels as Roy G. Biv, I've run out of colours. I'm not touching VIOLET, the secret love interest of Peppermint Pattie, to Marcie's everloving shame.
It's like Dickensian, only more querulous. What Lileks will show up today? The indignant fighter against queasy accommodation to the forces of evil, or the man who takes his beloved Mosquito to a block party, replete with Andre the Giant substitute, and gushes over a well-splayed poppy? If I were this uneven I'd be scoffed off the blogosphere (well, actually I was. Got a note from Sitemeter: Fuck Off, you're sucking my bandwidth).
Nonetheless, I expect a little brine in my coffee at the Bleat. Saccharine eventually gives one rodent tumours, and shrivels the testicles. I believe the Jekyll Island/Hyde Park treatment is a precursor to the Money Bleat, actually. You want me on 24-7? Open the pennybags, addicts...
In this vein I've decided I shall only charge James a mere $10 per weekum for a taste of Velociworld, because I like him.
Dan will come clean soon
Victim! of a cad (he paid)
Regardez: the Fool
Kelley has no idea how in for it she is. These women will persecute her for years for her callow indifference to their plastic bubble approach to nut allergies.
For me, air travel sucks since they did away with peanuts, and replaced them with pretzels, and that sawdust and talc concoction known as snack mix. I carry my own peanuts when I fly, and shake the remnant particles into the vents when I'm finished. I figure a severe peanut dust reaction will turn coach into a freaking M.A.S.H. unit, and just might throw potential evildoers off their game. The needs of the many, my poor swelling flightmate.
Take heart, Kelley. At least you're not the sole target of the Red Hat Society. I'll never see a strange woman over 50 naked again. Or even for the first time.
And what happened to the 60 comments of bile on that post? They're all gone! Must have been whacked during a spring cleaning of pr0n spam.
Ever use these bad boys for nipple clamps?
Yeah, me, too. It took several weeks to work up to the big ones, but I tell you, it certainly gives me a sense of smug superiority to sport of couple of these fellas under the old Arrow in a boardroom meeting.
Keeps me awake, too.
I don't know why people get so surprised that presidential elections turn on the fact that approximately half the citizenry opt for party A, and half opt for party B. As long as half the people pay all the taxes, and half pay none, that's the dichotomy we will be stuck with. Half of us are graspers, and the other half have their wallets out.
I think everyone should pay taxes, even if it's only 5 or 10 dollars a year. That way everyone buys into the process, and has a stake in the outcome. I don't have much use for the IRS, but as long as we're stuck with them they should be put to use rifling the pockets of the
dispossessed bums wallowing in the park next to the Greyhound station for the errant urine-soaked sawbuck. Just so long as they pin a calling card on the poor bastard's trou that says "I was rolled by the IRS to support my drug habit", or something equally pithy, lest they think Julio lifted it for squeeze.
Or, in the obverse, force the nonpayers to hostle the rest of us around in rickshaws for our lunch dates. I resent the hell out of paying 35 cents each way to ride the Skyway to the Seminole Club for a Cobb salad, personally. And I think some good honest manual labor for the Chronically Unemployed would return their dignity, and, more importantly, bolster mine.
The Kerry Campaign contacted me about an overhaul of a, shall we say, weary brand. They wanted a new look. I suggested they try honesty for a change, a little Truth in Advertising, and, lacking any other ideas of merit, they accepted. Hence the new campaign logo, based on Keery's eerie resemblance to one Ringo Fonebone, aka
Colonel Kurtz Captain Klutz:
This is the current face of the Kerry Implosion, to my mind's eye. I figure you may as well wrap up the Fool Vote forthwith, especially if you want to win Florida. This meltdown is painful for me to observe, and I absolutely loathe the poseur. But I believe in a healthy two-party system, and this fuckwit does the process no good at all, mainly because his whole career has been marked by his proclivity to be a lying liar boastful lying jerk. Howard Dean is beginning to look like a color within the lines sort of psychotic next to Kerry, unmasked.
And humblest apologies to Don Martin.
The only thing I have to say about today is "Does anyone have a rough headcount of how many evildoers we've killed?"
That's the only statistic I'm interested in at present. My guess is it's about a tenth of the number we should have killed.
He also waxes his back, nonetheless this is a great post.
I would only like to say Lester Maddox was not the ghoul most people consider him to be. It's a sad fact that in the South, even as late as 1966, one had to play the race card to get elected. You couldn't be perceived to be "soft on niggers". Shameful, but true. Most people forget Bo Callaway, a Republican, won the plurality of votes in that three-way election. The Georgia General Assembly crowned Lester governor. I met Lester. A bit of a jester, to be sure. He employed a lot of black folks, and treated them with great dignity, and respect. He also passed out pick axe handles to beat black folks. Go figure. Full disclosure: I have a 17-inch mini-pick axe handle, a commemorative, Lester passed out during an abortive attempt to retake the governor's mansion, I think. Or made by some segregationist fans, I don't know. Nor do I have any idea how I acquired it, but it knows no race or creed. I'll beat anyone with it.
My dad was a friend of Lester's, but he and my mother voted for Bo Callaway. That was a strange election. It seems everybody who voted for Lester said later they wished they'd voted for Callaway. The Callaway voters univerally proclaimed they wished they'd voted for Lester.
My only real beef with Lester was when he rode his bicycle backwards in front of President Nixon's limo during a parade. Ex-governors aren't supposed to do that sort of thing.
This hurricane fear sucks. It took me two hours to get home, and I left early. Why? Because fat-assed soccer moms are queueing into the streets for gasoline in their behemoth vehicles. Because some bit of rumour floated that Florida was going under a state of fuel rationing.
Let me tell you: these bitches would have been there, anyway. I saw hundreds of women stuck in self-created gas lines, screeching at their hubbies on their cellphones, because the well was running dry. Listen: four of your Excursions or Suburbans will drain a fucking BP station dry. Turn off the phone, quit putting each other into apoplexic anxiety, and go give your old man a good fucking. Or at least a rim job. He probably doesn't want to see what became of your ass, anyway.
Which leads to another bitch session. Why am I surrounded by Mothers With Huge Asses? Where the Hell did you get the idea you had a Get Out Of Jail Free Card when it came to your enormous buttocks? This goes for potbellied men as well. But I have to tell you: in the last ten years I have seen a slimming of the mature American male, to a degree, but the women keep getting fatter and fatter and fatter. Mostly in the ASS.
Let me throw out an idea: if you're going to let your ass get so big, let me in there! It just might level the discussion.
But no: you are stuck in traffic, panicking, talking on your cell phones to your fellow reprobates, wondering why THERE AIN'T NO GAS!
Fucking Soccer Moms. They suck.
Yes, a hurricane is coming. Fifty years ago, some of you might even die. You won't this time. So do me a favor and GET OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY.
P.S. Why are you women driving the SUVs, and Dad is driving the Civic with the rust spots? I don't have much of an SUV myself, but I thought MEN drove off-road vehicles, but they are apparently pussified around here. I shall flesh this out later.
P.P.S. I understand the tribulations of childbirth, however I don't recall any children being borned OUT OF YOUR ASS.
It's Eric's first blogiversary today, and me and my bullwhip are several hundred miles away. What say we hold this thought, SWG, and I'll also deliver one to grow on in Helen.
Christ. That whole paragraph reeked of fetid homoerotic undertones, and all I really wanted to do was Abu Ghraib him.
Let me restart:
Go over to Eric's, and wish him well. Just don't say you heard about it here.
I mentioned Tiger Ridgers in an earlier comment, and since I haven't spoken of them in probably a year you may not know of whom I speak.
In north Effingham County, as opposed to the more civilized south portion, lived the Tiger Ridgers. On what was a dirt road between Shawnee and Clyo. No Man's Land, really. They were a cluster of 8 or 10 families, interbred for years, who lived dirt-poor existences in clapboard shacks (they couldn't afford the tarpaper to qualify for that designation). Suffering from dwarfism from inbreeding, they shunned contact with the outside. We used to ride down that dirt road in the Ranchero, my brother driving, me (11?) and my other brother hallooing at the Tiger Ridgers. They shot rock salt at us. A perfectly amenable relationship on everyone's part. Like a damned tradition, you might say.
My oldest sister graduated in 1969 with J.T. Rivers, the first Tiger Ridger to finish high school, it was said. He was a fucking retard, a paean to the early days of Social Promotion. All the Tiger Ridgers attended, in freshly pressed overalls, and white starched Sunday-Go-To-Snake-Handling shirts. It was impressive, by God. And no one was cut, the Ridgers being on best behaviour.
I need to drive up there again. It's a paved road, I'm told, and the Ridgers have spread the gene pool around a bit. I'd hate to see it gone forever, though. I'd pay a dollar to get one rock salt peppering, even a symbolic one.
I found my little female cat torturing a baby mouse in my backyard tonight. I picked her up by the scruff o' the neck and threw her inside, then launched the mouse into the No Fire Zone with my flip-flop.
Regular readers know I have no love of rodents. But the cat would have tortured this creature for an hour before killing it, eating it, and vomiting it on my new bedspread. Fuck that.
The mindless brutality, coupled with insane curiosity, of a cat reminds of Islamofucks. This was like a mini-Beslan. The only difference is the cat didn't make the mouse drink its own urine.
Because I know you conga line of grinning hyenas want to know, must have your pound of flesh:
Last night was a bust. There is a fine line one can cross when using the shotgun approach to anesthesia , i.e. liquor. Too little, and your hand is not steady, your nerve not steeled, your impulse to flinch a little too jiggy. Too much, and you lose eye focus, and technique. I crossed the Maginot (French for Maggot) Line last night, and didn't dig in. It's a hell of a reach at best, anyway, a contortion, and I didn't feel the gruve.
Tonight I did. The results, alas, were a disappointment. I vectored in from eight or nine different angles with the insulin needle, with quarter-inch probes.
No blood, no pain.
No, no blood. Pretty amazing. No pain, either, which surprised me. I realize I have calloused feet, and they are the most inured parts of the body to pain, but I expected something.
Nothing. Not even a hint of knowledge as to where the bastard lieth. I did give it several exit paths, though. I hope to see some progress tomorrow.
Sorry to disappoint you ghouls. I did what I could. I also noticed my Dremel Rotary Tool has a Carbunkle Remover that looks promising. I may pick that up tomorrow, and re-engage. If not, I'll re-post my Boil Near The Teabag post.
I've been in pain for two weeks now, and I've had it. It is time for that most specious, and unknowable, of endeavors, Home Surgery.
Allow me to flesh out some background here (ever notice how I never indent my paragraphs? It is an affectation of sorts, caused mainly by the fact I'm too lazy to hit the space bar five times. Also because when I hit my tab key the fucking cursor disappears. And, yes, I have plenty of time to look into that).
At any rate: a couple of weeks ago, as you will recall, or not, my AC compressor motor died. Gave up the ghost. Or, if you are not religious, attempted to achieve eternal wormdom in that Junkyard in the Sky known as Newark. As the compressor is situated in the flower bed in back The Velocigirls had claimed as their personal gardening fiefdom, I had work to do. Said English garden had deteriorated into a morass of brambles, weeds, foot high St. Augustine grass, mushrooms, wild hemp, anemic juniper, and an assortment of potted plants devolved into specia unknown. Most important in this tale is a two foot cactus that had developed errant arms, which were growing down and out, not straight up, like they were taught in cactus college.
I could not let my HVAC Guy see this abomination. Pride, for one thing. The fact he wouldn't be able to reach the compressor, for another. So I set about weeding, pulling, edging, trimming, and, finally, fetching my machete to deal with the mutated cactus. A simple task really. Two quick swipes, the mutant arms were gone, and I threw them into the weed heap.
Now I fuck up.
I do yard work in my bare feet, because I am an unreconstructed piece of white trash. It's in my genes. I don't mow in barefeet, as I am normally safety conscious, but I do everything else barefooted. It's the homo erectus, the back island trash in me.
An aside, to make my point: there used to be a cluster of farmhouses on Bloomingdale Road inhabited by dwarfed farmers, cousins, no doubt, to Effingham County Tiger Ridgers. They plowed and farmed and mowed barefooted, and were so proud of themselves they called their hamlet Blackankle. They even erected a brick sign proclaiming their epithet: Blackankle, it said in bold letters. I am, at least in heart, of their hardy stock. I relate.
Back to my tale: after disposing of the cacti clumps I continued weeding, until I stepped back and inadvertently stepped on the discarded cactus arms.
You think I'm profane on this site? Do you find me blasphemous? You have no idea the plethora of curses I can conjure when hit with the kind of acute pain I received that moment. I made the horns on Michelangelo's Moses melt. I made the Christo at Rio grow horns. I howled.
I also limped over to the lanai, and used tweezers to extract about 12 of the nasty barbs, then went back to work. But something wasn't right. There was still pain. What I discovered was: one of the barbs had embedded in my foot, like an ABC reporter in Nasariah. It was as if the devil minions of a satanic Bob Vila had held me down and used an evil Craftsman tool to countersink this cactus barb about a quarter of an inch into my footpad, in anticipation of a good dollop of foot spackling to fill it in.
I know the drill on this: it's like a splinter (or sliver, to you yankees). Give it a few days, and it will pus up and beg to erupt from your epidermis. Only it's been two weeks, and it's developing a nice pustule sac, and getting more tender by the day, but it simply will not get close enough to the surface to allow me to pick it open with a surplus doggie diabetes needle. The affected area is about the size of a pencil head, which is way too big to determine the precise location of the cactus needle. And, yet, after two weeks of limping, I'm fed up. I've reached critical mass. I know what will happen: I will puncture my foot about eight times, won't find the barb, will bleed profusely. I don't care. It will worm its way out anyway, after that.
Say a curse for me. I'm going in tonight.
Good God. Just because I ask for sordid tales doesn't mean I can handle them. In re deformities in lovers, Mamamontezz delivered a disgusting tale of madness, and rupture-denial. Read:
Well, I can't remember his name, but he was a paranoid schizophrenic. His primary delusion was that Angels were stealing his cock, one little bit at a time, from the middle. He called me up one night in near hysterics (and vapors) because while lying on his couch watching HBO they had come again and had taken a big piece out of the middle, leaving only the end.
Well, now I'm intrigued. So I tell him I'll pick him up and we'll "talk" about it.
To make a "long" story "short" I enticed him into a situation which made an examination of said member possible under the guise of, er, well, anyway I got to see it. I'm amazed he could get it far enough out of the fly of his jeans to piss.
Sure, to a person with his paranoia and on the meds he was on, I'm sure the "Angels stole my Cock" story more than explained what was happening to Mr. Happy. I never could convince him to seen a surgeon. He had a hernia that essentially had swallowed up the entire shaft, internalizing all but the button head. Looked like a 'shroom.
Lest you be confused, the question is: What Would Pogo Do?
Walt Kelly, the creator of Pogo, was a genius. He imbued his characters with heart, and, shall I say it?
An opossum in the Okeefenokee Swamp, engendered with a political compass one just might die for.
Kelly skewered the fools of the day. There was no partisanship. He hated them all, and yet found a way to be kind, in his own way.
I like Pogo. Especially compared to the preening cocksucker Opus/Breathed, or the Fag of the Day Trudeau trots out.
But that's me. You might like Trudeau's shit. Same as the old shit, really. But it ain't Pogo. Pogo was the best work since Nast, I say. But what do I know?
70,000 households without electricity in the greater Jax area. The wind still howling. And yet I was only down for a few hours. I know there were huge sections of the City without power, but I saw six cherry-pickers hidden from view when I took V-daughter 1 to work this morning. Assets, hidden, to do our bidding, here in the sweet zone, of St Johns County. I swear, I almost feel bad about that.
I will not deny the storm was fierce. It was. Hell, it IS! I thought I was going to lose a roof. I still may. It rages. But I have my power back. The Negroes, of course, are fucked again. Not because they are Black. They just pulled the wrong lever again.
Sweet Jesus. Although I've only been without power for five hours or so, it felt like an eternity. I had to speak, and talk, interact with my family. How bizarre. Or so they thought.
Four tornado warnings later, and still expecting to lose my juice again any moment, I can only say praise Allah, for only could such a wretch of a god have put such a hurt on me. The wind still tugs. The storm, she ain't passed, yet.
I was waiting to see if an old local would take advantage of the unspoken, pregnant pause in the post on wop boards to mention that other distinctive Savannah past time: half-rubber.
Mike the Tybee Bum came through in fine form. It also got me to thinking: we should have a half-rubber game at the blogfest. I'll supply the half-rubbers and broomsticks. And that, besides beer, is all that is required. Well, actually, real working muscles and sinew not atrophied by years of neglect are a bonus, but this could also be a chance to see me come up game when I pull a hammy. At least there's no running in half-rubber. It's like Home Run Derby for the spavined.
What do you say, Acidman? Shall we teach the uninitiated the glorious summer past time of the severed ball?
Getting about the worst of Frances now, but I still have power. Getting some 50+ gusts right now due to a tornado cell passing through. Mostly limb debris, and me stupid enough to go driving in it. I drove down oak-canopied State Road 13 to Shannon's a few minutes ago, unaware of the tornado warning in the area. They announced it when I was half-way there. That was skeery! Just missed a falling tree limb of about 500 pounds or so. Just crashed in the middle of the road in front of me. Downed trees all over the place, with sheriff's deputies chain-sawing them to clear the road. Anyone in this area will tell you the stretch of 13 between Fruit Cove and Orangedale is about the worst road to travel in a storm you could imagine. It's a cathredal of ancient oaks laden with enormous killer branches, all of which are about 50 years past their drop date. But no one has ever accused me of having a lick of sense.
No more driving for me, though. I'll just wait it out inside.
That's right, Intrepids. It's time for a Fisty.
Wherein I skewer the lame, the afflicted, the assholes of society. Today: the Germans. The Krauts. The Jerrys. The Fritzs. The fucking Huns.
Have you ever read Gunter Grass's The Tin Drum? Brilliant work. Have you ever seen the 1979 film? Devastating stuff. Now, I despise Gunter Grass for his Communist sympathies. He is a Fellow Traveler. But he is also a brilliant novelist, worthy of his 1999 Nobel Prize. And his depiction of Nazis is dead on.
But our task is to loathe the current crop of blue-eyed Aryan cocksuckers, ain't it? Gerhard Schroder, and his ilk. The fiends. Thick as thieves with a murderous bastard like Saddam, corrupting the Oil-For-Food program to line their pockets with filthy lucre, then posturing as Moral Beings in fighting our cleansing of that Arab cesspool, like they were innocent. Filthy bastards.
My father fought Nazis. Killed a few. Unfortunately Schroder slipped through the cracks. Of course, he was only six months old when his father was killed in battle against the Forces of Decency, but that's not my problem. He would have grown up in Argentina, had his old man lived. Could have helped Mengele clone the Boys from Brazil. You can't trust a Kraut.
Think about this: the Nazis killed Gypsies with great fervor. What is a Gypsy, you ask? Not a Hungarian, a Magyar. They loathe Gypsies, too. No, Gypsies are actually the descendants of fierce warriors from India, sent to do battle against Islamists way back when. The fact they are pickpockets and baby-snatchers now should not tarnish our consideration of them. It certainly should not lead to gas chambers. And yet the Germans sought them out and exterminated them. Even the ones who were not faggots. Shameful.
I wander, though: here's a Fisty: To The Germans.
[Disclaimer: the term Fisty is a consensus nomenclature derived from prior common usage. The figurine is the sole work of Anna at Primal Purge, although licensing agreements disavow her of any claim intentional, or unintentional. The usage of this image, for any purpose, either homosexual or dispositive, is strictly forbidden.]
I hate the information we have from satellites, and aeroplanes. Especially when it comes to Cape Verde hurricanes. The sonsabitches take 10 or 12 days to make landfall, everyone is in Chicken Little mode, millions are discombobulated in the wake of mass evacuations, chaos reigns.
I prefer the old days. A Category 5 meatpopper blows in from nowhere, sucks 1% of the population back out to sea, life goes on. Neat, swift, merciless. As Nature intended it to be. Nowadays hurricanes are measured by Billions of Dollars Lost, as calculated by FEMA and the insurance industry. In the olden days they were measured by Thousands of Lives Lost, a far more interesting statistic.
Sometimes the herd must be culled. Otherwise you end up with trailer parks.
I'm used to bizarro spam mail headers, but this one got me: gonad 3 bonbon. That is target marketing. I couldn't resist. Unfortunately, they only wanted to sell me a fake passport, and erotica sausage (which I know a little something about). Still, worth the visit.
The latest update showed Frances wobbling to the west again, so I believe I'm destined for a mere 12 to 20 inches of rain. Just enough to wash the scum off the streets. And since I now have six hours to wait until the next update, I'd like to engage in one of my favorite pasttimes.
I have an acquaintance who once had a short-lived flame whom he not-so-affectionately referred to as Frances the Talking Mule. She had webbed feet. Not pretty to look at, I'm told, but she could swim like a frigging otter.
So tell me: what is the grossest deformity you've ever experienced in a lover? Tell me. You know I want to know. And I have some time to kill. Amputee? Spina Bifida? Liposuction hole? Uneven number of digits? Triple nipple? Smallcox?
What? Me? Oh, no. You know my rules to this game. I've been burned too many times in the past with a heartfelt confession, followed by a certain quiet. No, tell me about yours, THEN I'll tell you about mine. I can tell you it won't be pretty.
That earlier post got me to thinking about Billy Jack again. I first met Venomous Kate over a Billy Jack thread. BJ was a liberal's dream: a minority pacifist given to New Age pagan mysticism, but with street cred, because he was a Vietnam War Hero. By God, Billy Jack was the John Fucking Kerry of his day.
The Kerry campaign needs a new vision. Perhaps someone should suggest Kerry start channeling Billy Jack. Hell, he could claim he served with Billy Jack. Billy Jack could have been on that swift boat with Kerry and Jinjiss Khan in Cambodia on Christmas Eve 1968 (Day of the Eagle's Mourning, to Billy Jack. Rape Day, to Jinjiss). Someone tell Kerry's campaign manager. He does still have a campaign manager, doesn't he?
As I pore over conflicting forecasts, and try to determine if Hurricane Frances is going to spank my buns, I recall the only other storms I've ever encountered. They were within a couple of weeks of each other.
In August 1964, when I was a wee sprig, Hurricane Cleo made landfall in Savannah. Actually she was a tropical storm by then, but the excitement level was not diminished. I remember during the lull of the eye my brothers and I tumbled outside to go whopping. A whop board, or skimmer, is a circular piece of plywood about three feet in diameter. You toss it, and hop on for a ride. They work best in about an inch of receding wave on a flat stretch of beach, but we found some swales in a neighbor's yard and whopped until the storm restarted. The spelling of whop board is only a guess, by the way. Could be wop, or wap. The term is colloquial Savannah vernacular. I think I'm the only person to ever attempt to put it to print.
Whopping during the eye of a storm will incense your mother. My mother was convinced we would catch worms playing barefooted in storm water. So she studiously examined our next few defecations for parasites. Only a mother would do that.
A few weeks later Hurricane Dora hit Jacksonville, then did a U-turn in the panhandle, and passed over Savannah from the west. No eye with this tropical storm, just rain, rain, rain. No whopping, or pinworms, either. We had been chastened.
In all my preparations for Frances it never occurred to me to buy a whop board. Some surfshops carry skimmers, fancy fiberglass ones. I always liked the plywood ones, though. As the edges splintered the likelihood of catching a crab and busting your ass increased exponentially. Part of the fun, of course. Maybe I'll find a piece of plywood and craft one this afternoon.
Rankin' Rob has a picture of Joe Don Baker on his home page. That got me to reminescing. As a young teen the cinema heroes weren't Rambo and Arnold. They were Buford Pusser and Billy Jack. And bad filmmakers.
I drove through McNairy County on my way to Shiloh once, and you could feel the shit kicking vibe. See, Buford wasn't the hero come to save the day like the film suggested. He was the bad ass who was elected to keep the graft sluice pouring back into McNairy County, not siphoned off to the thugs in Nashville. The backwoods equivalent of a mob turf war.
I think I'll rent those two movies today. Educate the children.
Zell Miller devoured the Democratic Party, metaphorically, with mayo:
I'm sure Zell felt remorse. Metaphorically. Elephants cheer, nonetheless.
Damn, that was a sordid scene. I'm trying to listen to my President (elected, not selected, you crybabies), and my site goes into a spinzone, minus the somewhat balding Factor yankee. Seems I was punctured in the rectum by a nasty piece of malware I could not locate. Ad-Aware and Spybot were of no service. My friends were equally nonplussed, if not malevolent.
I finally smoked out the evildoer, but not without casualties, friendship-wise.
I'm a nasty piece of work, when backed in a corner. I don't deny it. I'm also a loveable teddy bear, when stroked. Trouble is, I'm never stroked. I have one of those personalities that either enrages, or bores. Such is life.
To all my friends who assisted with the "I" problem, I salute you.
Damn. I didn't realize Bush was going to Speak. I thought he was going to show up in a toga, have laurel wreathes placed on his head, and accept his sceptre with much grace, and humility. But he started blathering, and I suppose Karl said it was okay.
See, I hate it when W speaks, because he starts talking about all the money he's going to spend, and I grip my wallet.
He is saying he's going to kill some more evildoers, however, and that tends to mollify me. Soma to my scepticism.
I must confess I appreciate a man who will stand up and praise our soldiers, praise our true allies, and promise to kill more evildoers. I'll give this an A-, with credentials, if he doesn't spend any more of my money before he begs off for a glass of water. I'm a generous guy.
The first tragedy is that I have a virus or malware of some sort that is preventing commenting. Eric has dug deep for the worm, and has reported the culprit is the letter "i". Well, there you go. Fucking indies. The good news is I have unearthed and destroyed 64 pieces of spyware in my hidey hole. I just may be clean now. Try me.
The second tragedy is the fact that, despite my repeated requests for assistance, apparently my readership has tried to respond by comment, instead of e-mail.
Draw your own conclusions, because, ultimately, I wear the hat.
I have commenters being denied posting due to "questionable content". I don't know if this is a Blacklist ban, or a setting error. Hell, I don't even think I have any filters to invoke.
In my best Cleavon Little, "Hep me! Hep me! Somebody hep me!"
Do you know what chaps my ass? Unnecessary modifiers on words. Modifiers that sometimes don't even make any sense, but have become ubiquitous through misuse. Consider:
All my life I've had black people ask me for a "case quarter". When I've asked what they meant, they said an intact quarter. A twenty-five cent piece. Now, I've tried to explain that two dimes and a nickel, or a score and quarter pennies, were certainly twenty-five cents, but they weren't a quarter. If you want a two-bit piece from me, the simple "quarter" will suffice. "Case quarter" is bullshit.
Likewise, I grew up
pestering assisting Cracker tradesmen build (or destroy) things around our house, or the farm. They invariably said "Boy, fetch me that cold chisel". Never once did they ask for a chisel. When I would ask what they meant by a "cold chisel" they would say "Boy, fetch me that !@#$% cold chisel right now. Don't make me tell you again".
I never saw a hot chisel. I think this must be a blacksmithy term, most everything else around a forge being hotter than holy hell.
In the interest of Rodney King's plea, I give you a term abused by all races and creeds: the venerable hot water heater. This one chaps The Bride's ass to no end. It's a water heater. Or, if you insist, a cold water heater. If you are heating hot water you are a fucknut. Or secretly employed by my nemesis JEA, determined to drive my roscoe machine spinning to ever greater speeds.
[A parenthetical aside to Mr. King]: I don't buy your Why Can't We All Get Along? plaint. Listen, Rod: think back to that video. It seems to me that everybody in that video, with the notable exception of you, were getting along just fine. Almost like choreography. Likewise, those thugs pummeling Reginald Denny in the head with foot and brick were all getting along just fine, with the notable exception of Mr. Denny. My point? Maybe, sometimes, everybody all getting along can be a bad thing. Ja?
is gonna lose a trailer. That is a given. Look at the outer bands on this puppy:
The local newsvixen just reported the three hot items being purchased locally were water, batteries, and beer. I don't doubt that, but I'd like to add live chickens to that list. You can't find one anywhere. I need to perform some storm-repulsing ju-ju tonight, and I'm afraid pulling the gizzard and liver bag out of a frozen fryer isn't going to cut it.
The estimable Jay Nordlinger, as usual, is more eloquent than I on Zell. Or at least more temperate:
He came out firing, not even waiting for applause to stop — not waiting for it even to subside! In the course of his speech, he seemed unwilling to accept Republican applause. It was almost as though he had resolved to say his piece, then get out of there. He tore the bark off Kerry — as no Republican would have been quite allowed to do, strangely. He will probably prove the most potent anti-Kerry speaker of the convention.
And that's it, entirely: he didn't want that applause. For all I know Zell felt like he was in a pit of vipers. He was delivering a message, and not to the congregants. A sordid job, but one he felt he had to deliver if he ever wanted a good night's sleep again. He doesn't want to be a Republican: he wants his party back. It ain't gonna happen, but not because he didn't try.
When I watch Dick Cheney speak I picture him opening and closing a stiletto switchblade in his pocket, like Mitchum did in Night of the Hunter. And trust me, I mean that as a compliment. And as a professional, of course he doesn't have L O V E and H A T E tattooed on his finger joints. They're on his toes. Only Lynn gets to caress that ink.
Cheney's a bad ass. Although I wish my tax refund had had some freaking Halliburton stock in it.
This is a "Give 'Em Hell, Harry" speech. It's obvious he's uncomfortable in the belly of the beast, but he's trying to save his party by shaming them into responsibility. A singularly bizarre, and disquieting moment, at least for me. I know this guy will be shunned by his party for the next two years, until he retires. He'll never change these people. He knows it. But he doesn't give a shit.
He's ripping John Fucking Kerry like Jack on a whore in Whitechapel.
It's really a shame he has to do this. I'm ashamed we have to applaud this man for being the only person in his party to step before the opposition, the nation, and the world, and call in an airstrike asswhipping on his brethren.
As I said, a disquieting moment.
Post scriptum: it's only 29 miles from Helen to Young Harris. Maybe we should get the e-buzz going and hop over to Zell's home during Blogtoberfest. We could have a candlelight appreciation vigil, like his party tends to do, or shoot the hell out of some firearms into the air, like those crazy Arabs do. Or streak.
There was a restaurant in Waycross, Georgia when I was a child called the Green Frog. We always ate there when we went to Waycross to visit the Okeefenokee Swamp, or to visit my crazy aunt in the smelly apartment.
Man, that place smelled funny. Like a crazy middle-aged woman without a man 1962 apartment is supposed to smell.
I wrote about this once, but in 1962 my siblings and I were imprisoned in this apartment one night while my parents and crazy aunt went out, probably drinking. I recall seeing a magazine with a caricature of President Kennedy on the cover holding his head to his hands, as if in great pain or frustration. Next to him, the cause of this grief, was Alfred E. Newman, saying "What, Me Worry?" I have no idea what this was supposed to represent, because I was only five. I did recognize JFK, however, and I did recognize Alfred E. Newman. Was Alfred Khruschev? The Economy? Republicans? I have no idea. Perhaps this wasn't even Time, or Newsweek. Perhaps my aunt had used some primitive type of Photoshop to create this herself, the amalgams of her perfect man, as yet unmet. It could explain the smell. I didn't look inside the magazine, because the cover scared the shit out of me.
Back to the Frog. So I remember the Frog distinctly, and while it wasn't a fancy place, it was known as the best restaurant in town. It gives you some sense of Waycross that a place that served frog legs was the best restaurant in town. And it was essentially a luncheonette.
I opened my newspaper this morning, and there was an article on the Green Frog, closed now over 20 years. It seems one Bill Darden opened the Frog in 1938 at the age of 19. He hired a young fellow named Joe Lee as a cook. Lee still runs Darden Restaurants. It's still a going concern because, although the Frog is closed, Darden opened his first Red Lobster in 1968, then went on to found the Olive Garden chain. Darden Restaurants owns 1,300 restaurants, and employs 140,000 people.
Damn. I never knew that story. All that from froglegs, and a boy selling fish sandwiches on the side of the road. Arnold could have talked about Bill Darden last night.
When Gaston dumped those 14 inces of rain in Richmond it caused a 10 foot wall of water to blow through Shockoe Bottom, wreaking devastation in the historic restaurant/warehouse district. I checked with my customer in Richmond today to see if the Tobacco Company was saved. It was, being actually a little uphill from the Bottom, on the Slip.
Whew. For a minute there I thought an indignant God had summoned his own tidal wave to cleanse the bathroom wrecked by the Brown Tsunami.