Just in case you're not, like, getting laid or anything right now.
for public consumption. Because it's Sunday night, and I live in the Bible Belt.
Spring Guttercrawl 2005, inspired by Acidman.
In related news, the Georgia General Assembly renamed Jekyll Island Hyde Island after a notorious convention of bloggers savaged a couple from Ohio during a half-rubber tournament on the beach wherein goats were barbe...
Flynny is feeling the rage, and that is always a beautiful thing. She even saved a tawsing at the end for that insufferable prick Cronkite.
I never liked Walt's moustache, myself. And I have it on good authority Paley made him wear it to hide the stretch marks.
Slow night for me. I've been making the Subservient Chicken do pushups until he's exhausted. After some serious booty dancing. Well, hell, he was sleeping behind the sofa when I woke him up.
I need a freaking life.
Here is the Premiere Motel in Fort Lauderdale. The perfect little postwar 20 roomer. I'd like to buy the Premiere and retire down there, but I'd look a little ridiculous with a dot on my forehead. I do look quite studly in the turban, though. Like Tyrone Power.
The Premiere at night. Sweet!
Here is the Birch Tower condominiums. I don't know what you call this architecture other than Post Deco Seafoam Green. Great letters.
I believe I must have accidentally swallowed some of those ACME earthquake pills Kelley slipped me in Helen.
Add to that the humiliation of realizing I was dirty dancing at a rooftop bar with Gator girls, and the ignominy deepens.
Do not forget that these girls had electronic vibrators in their purses. At one point I overheard them discussing the possibility of inserting one in the Velocikeister.
I'm going to soak my feet some more in this pan of pork and beans, and scroll through some recently developed pictures of Fort Lauderdale postwar beach lodging. Maybe I'll post a picture of the Premiere Motel later.
I am utterly destroyed. After watching Georgia beat Florida in Gator country I went dancing, and partying. With my Gator friends. They hate my guts. Fuck them. The women went next door at half time and bought dildos and interactive penises. Fuck them, too. No one asked Velociman for HIS input. They will undoubtedly hunker together tonight and get off without me. Too bad.
In my case I will say at one brief moment the score was 24-13 Georgia. Just saying.
Time to go play with the Gator fans. If I get beat up I promise to post pictures.
Instapundit is likening himself to Douglas MacArthur. No, wait. He's posturing himself as superior to MacArthur.
Jeebus. I thought I had an ego.
Kelley says it best.
In the great realm of goatfucker disses, she is da bomb.
Aye, it's October, and it's time for bucolic Jacksonville to be inundated by one hundred thousand drunkards, spewers, leg humpers, cow tippers, crimps, spungs, feebs, butanol huffers, titty twisters, crack sellers, grifters, swindlers, penis piercers, corpse defilers, date rapers, barn burners, entrail ensorcelers, worm farmers, puppy fingerers, colon stuffers, asscrack sniffers, and pus collectors. And that's just the Florida fans. We Georgia fans are much worse.
Yo, it's time for the Georgia-Florida game. The world's largest outdoor cocktail party. Hell, the world's largest collective beer fart.
So a hundred thousand will fit inside
Alltel Stadium the Gator Bowl, and a hundred thousand will mill around outside, or in dozens of bars around the city.
Shirts will be stripped and lost, hymens savaged. It's like Caligula, with drunk driving.
I will not attend the game this year. I've been to the Game 10 times in the last twenty years, and the Dawgs were a collective 1-9 at those games. Call it the Curse of the Velocibino. No, I will go to the local sports bar, and watch the game amid a crowd of belligerent Gators fans, who will be, if true to form, complete cocksuckers to me.
The Gator fan is a sight to behold. They all have summer teeth (summer here, summer there), and what few teeth they have resemble shoe peg corn. The corn the worms got to. They are housepainters and Roto-Rooters, balljacks and skip tracers. A most foul crowd to watch a game with.
I'm going to have a blast, too.
Oh: Georgia 24, Florida 13.
I don't want the Dawgs to win too big. Florida will then be forced to pony up $12 million, and rehire Satan's Bloodclot, Steve Spurrier. My blood pressure canna handle that.
Because I feel very special in my Carmen Miranda outfit, and don't mess with the freaking coconuts. The chirren:
Praise Allah Xena awakened me from my narcoleptic slumbers to wish Jim Flynn at Parkway Rest Stop Happy Birthday, although I believe I've missed it by 5 minutes. SSSokay. I'm on Memphibian time for the purposes of this post.
Jim, your gift is in the mail. It's an invoice. Straight from my heart, man. Because I (and the Almighty God) did not think you would actually share a room with your bodyguard. This is the Deep South, man. Christ. Don't rub our noses in it.
Anyway, Happy Birthday, you ginned up bastard. And I loved that drum post. (Hey, I have to position me as the "good" guy).
Here's the poster art I keep seeing for the new Ray Charles flick. You know what I like about it? The signature. Ray. It's very nice. Do you suppose that's Ray Charles's actual signature? Do you think that poor blind man could actually write? Do you think he could write in such elegant cursive?
Or do you think the more likely scenario is some publicity humper at Universal Pictures, and about a thousand other people, are too damned stupid to see the fucking irony in what they've created?
However, we at Velociworld are thorough, if nothing else. I live about 20 minutes from Ray's alma mater, the Florida School for the Deaf and Blind. I may just drove over this weekend and scope things out. Maybe Ray left his signature on a bathroom stall, or something. Right next to the cane rack.
Cal Thomas is a Sexy Beast. In a Recently Disinterred John Carradine sort of way.
Which brings me right to my point: who is the most boring pundit out there? Who sets the Sominex bar?
I submit Robert Samuelson, Bruce Bartlett, and, of course, Cocksman Cal.
Caught a bit of a Robertson rave party on the Satanic Channel whilst surfing during a game break. Piece of work, is Paddy.
Now, people who know me know what I think about the Clintons, but how much harder was my work when Pat was waxing psychotic?
Ever leave the television on when you fell asleep, only to wake up to a Pat infomercial, wherein he was hawking videotapes, and describing, in loving Christian tones, how Bill Clinton had taken Vince Foster out into Fort Marcy Park, and busted a cap in his brain pan with a Walther PPK that the Chinese Communists had included in the package along with his $5 million in illegal campaign contributions in exchange for the missile guidance technology from Loral that in four short years had little yellow bastards orbiting the fucking Earth, seeing if surplus 1944 Norden bombsites could actually target Los Angeles?
Because Clinton HAD to do it because Hillary, although a dyke, was carrying Vince's hydroencephaletic lovechild, although Foster was a polesmoking fag, and the untidy ends had to be cleaned up?
I've had that moment. More than once.
Or was that Falwell? They're the same guy, right? Right?
I will confess the Loral tech swap was impeachable. I've always said so. That was infinitely more impeachable than a fucking rimjob.
I don't suppose so. And I WANT them to win. Of course, I'm from the South. We grew up thinking the Curse of the Bambino was that nasty bout of gonorrhea called the "Stomach Ache Heard Round the World".
I salute the Sox. They won despite the fact their MVP is a little known center fielder name of Charlie Manson. 8 games in a row. Wow. Enough to make one scrawl DEATH TO THE PIGS in human blood on the walls of the LaBianca house. Or something.
Who won the World Series? Who cares? The Yankees lost.
To the highest bidder. I prefer Swiss francs. Oops. That would be Euros. Make that Haitian gourdes. More stable.
And yet: let me sum up the candidates:
George W. Bush has freed 40 million peoples from the yoke of Islamist totalitarianism. That would include murder, torture, rape, infanticide, beatings, and mutilation. That would include the stoning of women for the improper turn of an ankle, the execution of babies to terrorize their parents.
John Kerry has freed exactly one person from bondage: his hair stylist, from an unnatural color highlights ritual.
I'm going to need a whole shitload of gourdes to flip this vote.
It seems I will be guestblogging over at Straight White Guy November 8th through the 20th with the brilliant and incredible Mirthful Sadie while Eric and the Wonderful Bride are on vacation in Scotland. Whoah. I can already feel the electricity burning.
Nothing personal, E-Man, but could you perhaps leave a few days early?
These are important times, and I can only remind you that Rumsfeld personally oversaw atrocities at Abu Ghraib, while shaking Hebrew National hot dogs at the condemned. But as Johnny Mathis exhorts us: It's Not For Me To Say...
I must confess I'm not really up on my GLBT hierarchy, or herarchy, but isn't it true that in the Land of the Morphodites the Transgendered Creature is Quing?
Every good partisan likes an October Surprise, if it skews for them. I know I do. As I watch the Democrats pull every sleazy Dick Tuck in the book, and the olliphonts sit back and seemingly take it, I grow dispirited.
And yet: if the best the Democrats can come up with this late in the game is some errant uber-gunpowder, I take heart. And let's face it: Bush has been splayed and quartered for 5 years. I honestly think that's all the arrows they have in their quivers.
On the other hand, there is a lot of subterranean mumbling about Kerry's discharge status. Mumbling he could have easily disposed of months ago with a full form 180 disclosure. One thing I do know, about candidates, and people in general: if they don't want to share, they want to hide.
So I'm figuring Karl "The Truth" Rove is sitting by some gas logs in a nice Georgetown brownstone, single malt at hand, and examining a copy of a general discharge for one reserve officer John Kerry, and pursing his lips. He will also have a corroborating letter from a Navy Captain explaining why Mr. Kerry received a general discharge instead of an honorable one, and references to certain Viet Cong "diplomats".
Then Karl will drain his Scotch, and call for his best boy Gaspar. Washington Times and USA Today. Monday morning. Make it happen or I'll ship your ass back to Guayaquil on the next fucking Air America flight.
Karl has a plan. That is my conjecture.
The Man Mining his Nostril
c/o the Green Explorer
Please be advised just because you are sitting in an automobile doesn't mean no one can see you, or what you are doing. That is a window, not a fucking cloaking device. Do you realize how disgusting your actions are? Have you no shame, sir?
The only reason I did not run you off the road is because your endeavors did not yield anything you deemed edible during our brief encounter.
Limo tint is our friend, my nauseating fellow traveler. I promise a heavy dose of road rage next time.
Oh, the agony of being silenced! I am truly pained. Homeless. Again.
I thought about going to door to door in Blogworld, demanding shelter, because I have none, and I'm not feeling motivated to finance or create a new one...
I don't have something. You do. Let's even the score. Makes sense, right?
Of course it does.
Actually, I did it the way it should be done...bum off of those who offer to take you in. This way whining is contained, and no one else has to worry about my bum ass. (Privatized charity.)
Okay, enough of that. I'm shitty at playing the part of a lib anyway. I feel dirty.
I have something else to say...Geoffrey, you were captured. Hon, you didn't dodge as well as ya thought, so there goes your "plausible deniability." It may be crappy, with Eric in front of you and a moonshine angel behind you, but you were definitely captured...
Lileks is patting himself on the back for his "Most Original" Washington Post blog contest win. And good on him.
I, however, have birthed more original shit than a Chinese goose in a
Macao chop shop. I stand repulsed, and ready for next year. You know, it wouldn't hurt if my Intrepids actually SPOKE UP for a fucking change. I pay for this. Work with me.
Have you ever noticed how Bono reaches around at the end of a song and caresses his right ass cheek? That's my move, man. From one old man to another, back off, Hewson. Indira Gandhi busted that move for me at the Concert for Bangladesh, as a dis to Shankar. And a poke in the eye to that little emaciated Bengal boy.
I'm not instituting legal proceedings yet, because my peeps is talking to his peeps, but Fucking Ada. Steal my crap? Not my style.
I think this little faker can get out any time he wants to. Problem is, he doesn't want to.
Found at Altered Perceptions. Of course. Thankee, Dawn.
My good friend and serial commenter jmflynny is stint blogging over at Bryan's. This is like Buford Pusser meeting Xena, Warrior Princess in the Ultimate Fighting octagon. Who wins that scrap?
And speaking of stint blogging, how many of those things does Dick Cheney have in his ticker, anyway?
If I'm ever stranded in Coprophagia I'm ordering the pig's knuckles, if available.
The Village Voice, at your service:
Bush as a vampire, sucking blood from the Statue of Liberty's neck. Hmm.
The point obtains that that is cruel stuff. NO ONE in their right mind plays that card.
And yet: I've heard a rumour, that in the full length pic Bush has Lady Liberty's robes up, and is savaging her in the turd slicer with a razorcock.
Maybe Daily Kos can comment on that.
Jim Flynn scored the hot pic for me, and I owe him huge.
By the by, if you want to see some totally hot Nip babes go to Daily Cos.com. I mention it only in passing.
Here's Betty Page, trussed like a pig:
Who is your fucking daddy?
Have you visited the Martha Stewart Chronicles lately? Shame, shame.
I've always wanted to taste this most English of comestibles. A yeast byproduct, I believe, and something one either loves or hates. Like grits. Or scrapple.
Well, the lovely Christina is bringing some back for the V-hovel from England. Bless her.
I'm going to have a tasting, if anyone is interested. Of the Marmite, fools.
I'm thinking a consistency somewhere between peanut butter and apple butter, with the flavor of a well-worn tie-rod end. If I'm lucky.
Key is stirring the hornets' nest of racial sensitivities, and her point is well taken. I was yanked out of public schools in junior high when desegregation went down for good in the Hell's Half Acre of Georgia I lived in, but I watched the repercussions closely. There were a lot of knife fights, beatings, and incendiary bullshit on both sides. And, eventually, the kids learned thay had some things in common, some things they didn't, and things eventually went from internal segregation within a "desegregated" school to some modicum of mutual grudging respect, and acceptance. That took about twenty years.
Now I see schools getting more segregated both internally and geographically, and it all comes back to the first situation:
A bunch of adults trying to force an extremely combustible sea-change in social construct on children. I am not saying separate but equal was right. It was not. And, yes, the South dragged their feet between 1954 and 1970. But I was also in South Boston in 1975 when the mobs were foaming with the bloodlust. Good people do bad things. Forced busing was a bad idea for a noble purpose. Mixing up entire school districts in one fell swoop was a bad idea.
I wish I knew what the better solution would have been. I just saw the downside.
Bill at INDC Journal, Jeff at Protein Wisdom, Powerline, Ace and others are titillating us with rumours of a breaking Washington Times (motto: You May Kiss the Bride. All Two Thousand of You) story slated for Monday that is apparently negative for Kerry on his foreign policy pronouncements. Meaning great outrage in the blogosphere and a hemorrhoid twitch for Dan Rather, soon forgotten after an intimate moment with a Tuck's pad.
Glad to see this, though, because Sundays are generally suckwind in the 'sphere. I myself, after some strenuous yardwork, have only managed to sift through my rather voluminous collection of Marlin Perkins nudes, with the occasional huff from my Sterno Especial Vintage Reserve 1974.
Thanks for the hard work, guys. You've all really been heavy lifters this entire election cycle. I feel your ethic.
I must say I'm getting a bit sleepy, but I believe those Dogsnot boys have been in their sleeper pajamas for some hours now.
Of course one of them will probably post something at, like, 5 AM, like they've been up all night, when we all know they've merely been kicked out of the bed by their significant other to go walk the dog. Dumpblogging. Feh.
I went down to my neighbor's tonight for a completely unnecessary, but wonderfully refreshing, cocktail. As we were sitting on the back porch her cat began a stalking game with a field rat. Actually, it was a field mouse, but any rodent over five inches long is a rat to me, because I saw Ernest Borgnine get savaged by the filthy things at a tender age.
This was a classic hunt, wherein the cat toyed with the poor victim in sadistic glee. Twice I took the cat inside, and twice these idiots managed to let him back out. At that point I was having a Snopes Monkey Trial moment, and let nature take its course.
Says my neighbor: "I think they're just playing."
Says I: "You got that right, but this will end bloody."
It was rather strange, because this whole cat and mouse played out on the dead zone where the above ground pool had been, so there was an arena, sort of, and a distinct gladiator feel to it. The rat was stupid, and kept running back into the arena, instead of high tailing it into the tall grass.
It of course ended poorly for the rodent. Terrible swift sword, wrath of God stuff.
That was a nasty Dance of Death.
Some drunkard in the check out line at Ace Hardware told me I looked like Bob Graham, my Satanic Senator. Are you shitting me? Bob Graham looks like Al Gore with that Jabba the Hut fluid retention shit Jerry Lewis has going on.
This is getting out of hand. I'd rather look like Granny Clampett (but with larger hoo-hoos).
Because I've missed the little bastard. The Mutant, of course, goes nowhere.
I have serious copyright issues.
I have an unrequited sense of entitlement, and no one appears willing to step up to the plate and feed that monster.
In happier news, I actually got 20.3 miles per gallon off my last tank of gas. So I've got that going for me.
Went to the Bush gig today. He was pretty good. Air Force One buzzed the stadium. Pics tomorrow.
My daughter slept in until 10:30, then grabbed a frappachino out of the fridge and climbed into her SUV to go to the tanning salon, still wearing pajamas.
Sorry, but I don't remember life being so easy when I was her age.
I had to get up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday, scrape together some roaches from some shitty Mexican, slip on my Birdwells, then take my brother in my Celica to the Burnside Island Yacht Club to go water skiing with our cousin all day.
Times were tougher back then.
If one more person tells me I look like Al Gore I'm going to kick their ass.
I bought that speculum. Well, I bought a speculum. I believe that sick bastard has more than one. One would think he was a medical supply salesman or something.
Hey. I couldn't afford not to buy it. That's 100% surgical stainless steel, peeps. Now the burning question of my time is: will I ever get to use it? I got a resounding nyet from the War Department.
I tell you, though, I may just set up an unlicensed OB/GYN clinic right here in the Velocihovel. Well, on second thought, scratch that obstetrics part. I don't know nothin' about birthin' no babies. The rest is second nature, however.
Who's your daddy? Who wants a Pappy smear?
You know, this could actually be pretty lucrative, and... oh. I love that word. In fact, I believe I'm going to drop my current hip hop persona, Illiterit, and go with Lukrativ.
Dr. Lukrativ is now accepting patients. And he craves some spinning rims to pimp his ride.
I've always been a fan of the blue whale. The most enormous beast extant, if any are actually alive. Understand they have 16 foot penises, too. Just Damn! (says Dax).
Billy was a madman. Nowadays when ones thinks of an "impresario" one thinks of the leeches that skulk around the soundrooms of the Mouseketeer Show in Orlando, ready to find the next 11 year old girl whose parents are ready to prostitute their daughters for a shot at the big time. It did not used to be that way. Girls were at least 16, back then.
Graham was a new breed, though, when he put on his first show in 1965. An in your face asshole, he brought off innumerable rock and roll shows. Made the Fillmore East and West. Made questionable talents heroes, and burned some bridges.
There was nothing cooler to me at the time than to sit in a theatre as a young teenage punk in 1973 and watch a rockumentary wherein Bill cursed, cajoled, threatened, and blasphemed agents, publicists, rock stars, and the like.
He was a prick, but he virtually ran rock and roll for years.
The Man You Loved To Hate. A worthy goal. Well, actually the Mouseketeer gig is the one you want.
Someone is selling a speculum on Ebay.
Buy It Now at $17.95 ain't bad, though. And I am in the market.
I'm not even going to get into the 4 extra rooms boning I received at the Comfort Inn, because that fucking Bengali and I are still negotiating.
No, boned on the W visit this Saturday. My friend Michele gave me the down low on the tickets, because she's tight with the local oliphonts, being a wired activist, so I raced over and scored 4.
The deal was about a thousand tickets for a W stemwinder at the Landing, in an "in the round" setting with the Faithful.
Today that became a frigging 50,000 ticket event at Alltel Stadium (nee the Gator Bowl) replete with a country & western act. Doors open at 10:30, your President will arrive at 4pm.
Now, I say fuck that. I don't wait 5 and a half hours for anybody. Not to see them on the Jumbotron because they are half a mile away. Nor do I care to listen to any C&W Saturday, because my dog is already dead, my heart is already broke, and I have plenty of whisky.
I am repulsed, and I am only a Politburo member (yes: I know I said I did not give any money to the reelection campaign, and I did not. That is like taking dollar bills to Fort Knox, or smuggling spliff into Jamaica. I DO pay my Politburo dues, however. How do you think I scored this sweet dacha?).
So imagine the rage of someone like Michele, who will burn vacation days to drum up voters, poll watch on election day, canvass neighborhoods, and be a generally huge asset to the Central Committee. She's cheesed. She can hang in the nosebleed section with the back island trash and her opera glasses for 5 hours of Cornfed Husker Du. It is a fucking travesty, a betrayal of the Loyals.
I'm pissed, too. I'm voting for the Libertarian whackjob. I don't remember his name, but they're all whackjobs. Right? Just like the whackjob the local GOP dished out today.
I hate it when a wicked viral disease erupts, then dies away without a trace. Especially something generally nonlethal like the monkeypox. I thought that thing had legs.
Those bastards at CDC keep the hemorrhagic fevers under control, and I suppose I should thank them for that, but you have to admit it's pretty fucking wild when Ebola blows through a village and it's bleedout time. One plane trip away. Puts Islamofascists in perspective, for sure.
Well, maybe SARS will erupt again. That had promise. My boss is on his way to Asia now. I could use a little regime change courtesy of the Wrath of God.
... don't laugh, you retards... this is a true story....
... I was outside having a smoke a few hours ago.... and, as I was leaning back against the wall, I noticed a ladybug drowning in a filthy little puddle... flailing her tiny legs for all she was worth... at that very moment, it all struck me as quite unnecessary.... so, in a moment of karmic reconciliation for my many crimes against junebugs as a child, I saved the poor dear... I offered her a twig, and after she climbed aboard... then, I deposited her on the edge of the sidewalk...
... I just went out to check on her.... and, children, what a depressing sight.... fireants had ripped her into 37 pieces, and were busy wagon-training her broken ass back to their mound... fuck..
... what is the moral of this wee life-tale?... I really don't know... but, one thing is for sure... when Momma Nature has you in her sights, you're going down....
Note: Guestposted by Eric... because my fucking site is broken....
Yankees lose. Robert E. Lee meat puppet comes to life; bitches about those "negro soldiers" in the Boston uniforms. Claims he's been "Denzeled".
You people like baseball? There's a ball game on.
A huge ball game.
I wanted to wax eloquent tonight, I really did. Pithy phrases and jolly bon mots have been lolling around my tongue all day, but they were amorphous things. No coagulation. No jellin. Blame Helen.
My Muse has left me for the time being. And so: I must go to my backup Muse, Ren Hoek:
Ren suggested a Meat is Murder theme, and so I give you:
The Cash Special Captive Bolt Gun:
Sweet, n'est-ce pas?
Here is the Cash in action (note the resigned look on the part of Red Eye Elsie, the Glue Babe):
That Ren. He certainly gets my creative juices flowing.
Brain matter. The other white meat.
I wonder if this dude would swap livers with me? I mean, he has a 12-year-old-girl liver, or something. Sweet. Truth be told, I'd even consider his old one.
Do you ever get Blodwyn Pig's Squirrelin' Must Go On stuck in your head, when you really wanted to hear See My Way?
No shit, man.
You don't know how thrilled I am that Jesse Jackson came to town yesterday to explain to us unreconstructed Klansmen how we were keeping the black folks down by not creating extra polling stations along Piss Stain Alley and Crack Whore Lane. I'm surprised he didn't mention the three Mandingos we skinned alive in Hemming Plaza at our Monday morning prayer breakfast.
On a more positive note I scored some tickets to see W at the Landing this Saturday. Martinis at Koja at noon. W comes on at 1:00, however we won't light the cross until 2:00.
3:00 if we can find some more Mandingos.
in high dudgeon. Well done, Geoff. I know Gordon helped you, because he put so many Gordon pictures in there.
Man, seeing that picture of me made my urethra hurt all over again.
By the by, Boston has won the last two games, so we must have given Geoff some decent joss.
Do you believe in miracles? Hell, yes. It's the curses that drag me down.
My Official Version of the Jawja Blogtoberfest 2004 (Yellin' in Helen). Any variations on this theme will be disavowed by me and my attorneys, Folsom, Folsom & Leavenworth:
Every large get together has its own theme, a culture that organically develops as the deal plays out. I've been thinking about this one, and, other than Satyricon, the closest I can come, the vibe that percolated from the slippery Georgia clay queasily, La Brea-like, was Latent Homosexuality.
I feel I can say this because I'm reasonably certain I did not kiss any men while drunk, nor did I awaken Sunday morning with my face painted up like a street tart. If anyone has pictures to the contrary, please reference the clause in paragraph A.
So, you know, I gots that going for me. And! I proffer:
Two grown men, macho men, had their toenails painted. And showed them off with great grinning pride, coyness not being a trait in much evidence thereabouts.
Women slept with women.
Men slept with men.
There was bullwhipping.
Hell, there was even some rough trade: men biting men. Men punching men.
Did I say Latent? Given one more day I'm sure the Greco-Roman nude oil wrestling would have occurred.
By God, it was great. I enjoyed every minute of it. I would like to suggest next year we move it to Frisco, and have it in the Castro District.
As to my Fellow Festers:
Eric is a hoss. A slightly insane hoss. My kind of friend. I salute you, you crazy bastard. And thanks for stroking my hair. That stirred my loins, I tell you. And your bride is a Scottish Peach, my man. If you stroke her hair half as nice as you did me she is a lucky lady, indeed. Thanks for the swords and shirt, buttercup.
Dax is a great guy. The real deal. I never tasted a Red Headed Slut, however the cup of apple kerosene he gave me that burned its way to China via my rectum more than made up for it. My urologist's bill will be in the mail, dude.
Acidman was a cipher, of course. One minute he's quiet and unassuming, the next minute he's banging out a song, or using the corridor as a runway to show off Sally Hansen's finest. There is sick, and then there is certifiable. I hope you left the polish on for court day, Slick.
Rick and Georgia: The Bride and I absolutely love these folks. Why they hang around a venal reprobate like Rob is beyond me, but I think I see the word pity forming in my Alpha-Bits. Georgia is a damned hoot. She reminds me of a female Velociman, only with an underlying sense of decency. She needs a blog. Recondo32, thanks for the pad and shirt. Above and beyond.
Catfish is another friend of Rob's, and a fine fellow. I WILL travel to Harris Neck for barbecue with this man. And that's a hell of a lot closer than Helen.
Then there were Kenny and Barbara, wonderful people. How does Rob keep these friends? Extortion?
To the exquisite Kelley: My dear, that plant frond was in your room from our role-playing of Land Before Time. Don't you remember, Cera? I was Littlefoot? Never mind. Kelley, of course, needs no paeans from me, although I'm happy to lavish them on her. She is a legend in her own time, and properly so. Would that I had met her last year.
To the lovely Key: When I say I'm not drunk, that doesn't mean I'm not drunk. That just means I'm still able to converse in a language other than Raccoon, and that I haven't passed out yet. Although to be honest that wasn't English I was speaking, and in some cultures I believe standing erect with only the
whites reds of your eyes showing is considered, technically, passed out.
Jim from Parkway Rest Stop. This guy is a fucking maniac. All I could think of partying with him was the sideshow geeks in Freaks chanting We accept you! We accept you! One of us! One of us! I think everyone will agree that Jim, and his bodyguard, the Anal-rententive Cruise Director, are honorary Crackers. And to show I mean it, I'm bringing the branding iron to Jersey next week. One of us, indeed.
Grouchy Old Cripple. Denny, you are an animal. And I mean that. A base animal. You packed in more fun in one day than certain folks did in two. And for that you get a Velosalute, which is my highest form of compliment, short of cash. By the way, I told Eric not to put that Seconal in your vodka. Then I told him not to put the second one in. Should have told you.
Geoffrey and Gordon, the Dogsnotters. Great guys! Just great! Everything they were cracked up to be and more! Or so I'm told. They hibernated a lot, fattening up for winter I suppose. Either that or they recalled something Neil Young once said about screaming, and bullwhips cracking. That must have been a nightmare for you, fellows. If it makes you feel any better the only person I popped with the whip was myself. In the face. Georgia was a far better Cracker than me. I'll bet she would have laid it to you, too, if you'd only asked.
Evil White Guy. Aubrey was a pleasant surprise. In the way that a rip-roaring fart leaves your unmentionables intact. A great person. Really. I wouldn't make this shit up. He'd better come to the next blogmeet, too. He's a strong dude. I've never seen anyone break a one-inch half-rubber bat on a rubber ball. I'll bet he could have Rob pinned in the Greco-Roman tournament in 2 minutes.
Mamamontezz: a shy lass. Even when blinded by unbondable corn liquor she wouldn't let me past first base. Of course, she was probably upset after her travails in reaching Helen, after a certain somebody shined her. I'm not naming names, you know, it's just that some people can smell a fucking German bier from 85 miles away, and lose their senses. Mama, next time I'lll come fetch you myself.
Zonker from Thunder and Roses. Another pleasant surprise. Although I'm afraid the poor lad didn't speak Macaque Gibberish, therefore he was having a hard time understanding us. Glad you made it, bro. And I apologize for the spittle. I find when I drink it's important to emphasize my words, and that takes some corollary expectoration, I'm afraid. Same time, next year?
Special shout outs to Sam from the Brier Patch for the corn squeeze and cigars. I'm afraid I ate my cigar. For some reason I thought it would make my breath smell better than smoking it. Tasty, though. Also Bryan from Redneck Ramblings, for the coozies. Sweet, mon. You didn't have to do that. And I insist you bill Eric for them. Also Laughing Wolf for his drive by.
I cannot close without discussing the half rubbers. A supposed expert or two were not UP for the game, however my homeskillets literally stepped up to the plate. Eric, Aubrey, Dax, et al are quick learners, and we had some fun. We were put to shame, however, when Ms Monroe stepped in the batter's box. In four inch platforms. It was stunning. It was like an episode of Battle of the Network Stars. She was like Susan Anton. I was, like, Squiggy. I don't know who the other guys were, as my eyes were off the ball, so to speak.
Thanks, Key. For showing us up, and for giving me something to reminesce about as I knead yet another round of Flexall into my sore, aching body.
Oh, and one other thing: IXNAY on the red toenails, boys. I respect the hell out of you, but some things aren't meant to be seen. That was the psychological equivalent of seeing John Wayne in a French maid's outfit with a footlong ballpark frank sticking out of his anus. Jesus, guys.
Of the Blogmeet, and my wonderful fellow bloggers, the salt of the freaking earth, let me just say this:
There. In other matters let me say that I thoroughly enjoyed playing the half rubbers with The Straight and the Evil White Guys, and others. Pappy was not up to the challenge.
By the way, those who know me can attest I am not exactly in ripcord shape. I awoke this morning after the game and my whole body hurts. I feel like those boys beat me with the half rubber bats. Then I had to drive 420 miles home. By the time I got here I had to be shoehorned out of the car.
Bush: There's that Velociguy. Major league asshole.
Cheney: Big time.
Bush: Heard he had a good time at Blogtoberfest, though. Heard he was tore right down.
Cheney: Big time.
The Czech maid is bent over the bathtub, wearing her "Sexy" Hooters shorts. I believe it's time I got the hell out of Dodge before my compadres see the new, neutered Velociman.
See you hammerheads in Helen.
Is that a word? Unfortunately, I reckon it is. So I go on record as a thrashed individual. I've been brought up short.
And yet: fuck that. We have a monstrous volcano, winking at us, at Mt. St. Helen. I wish her well.
I just spoke to Patel at the Comfort. I forgot to call him this morning for a reassuring pat on the shoulder, and he was shitting his britches. Seems he tried to call me, but The Bride left the phone on fax and he couldn't reach us (oh, yes. Southern gentleman or no, I will lay the fucking blame where it belongs).
All is well. In fact, the Comfort seems to be the crib of choice, as Patel has blocked out 7 adjacent rooms, an entire wing, for us. Praise Vishnu, this will be the honey hole of accommodations. Poor Patel said he was getting thousands of calls for those rooms. I believe he exaggerates, however when you come from a land of 900 million peoples, what's a thousand here or there?
Speaking of the Comfort, and I don't want to denigrate the evils perpetuated by the Imperial Japanese Army on the Koreans, but are there going to be any Comfort Women at the Comfort? If so, I'm moving. The Kristy can kiss my ass.
I'll check out the debate, but I'm trying to pack for Blogtoberfest (read: I'm washing The Bride's unmentionables and scrounging around for cutlery and gunpowder).
If you want to enjoy a great liveblog, visit the Master, Mr. Helpful. I shall pop in as expediency dictates for a trenchant observation or two.
I figured I'd catch some grief for putting up my cellphone number, but Jesus. It's just a cellphone number. Which no one uses. Even now. I can handle the errant troll. And my company pays for it, so if it gets too abusive I'll just throw it in the fucking river.
And, by the way, have you seen my Sitemeter stats recently? It's not like I posted it in a public forum, or anything.
Besides, I'd like to get some calls from some Red Hatters. I'm certain I can out-abuse any of them. There was a group of about 30 outside my building for lunch last week, by the way. I tried for quite a while to come up with a word to describe their collective selves. All I could come up with was dry.
UPDATE: In deference to Kelley, I've blocked two of the numbers on my cell phone. That leaves, what, 100 permutations? Fine. If you want to reach me by Friday night, I suggest you start dialing now.
Michele has a groovy post on ghost stories and urban legends we remember as children.
The scariest ghost story for me was the Chicken-Footed Lady. I'll save that for Halloween night.
The next scariest for me was The Girl Who Ended Up Having A Penis! Yarrrgghhh!
Oh, wait. That may have been a true story. Let me reconfigure the memory banks. I might have to retract that one, and file under Unfortunately True.
David Caruso. Shit, man, I have skid marks in my boxers with more talent than this putz. They smell better, too. What an overblown piece of shit.
Witness the man's curriculum vitae:
After journeyman work he got his big break on NYPD Blue. Immediately left on a contract dispute (read: shakedown) for his big movie career. Made the bullshit Kiss of Death, then tried a career resurrection with Proof of Life, wherein he tried to out-macho Russell Crowe. Yepper. Currently starring in one of those semen-scraper network shows. A little red-headed prick with about as much game as the 80-pound queer Crip John Leguizamo. Meaning he's played Lucky Pierre before, and will likely do it again. I'll bet he deploys one of those little baby carrots when he's in the clutch. Even Bugs had a real carrot.
Fuck David Caruso.
Received a call today from Vijay, I mean Marque, the happy camper who runs the Kristy. He wanted to confirm the rooms because there is a low but persistent bellowing amongst the grazers and cud-chewers in the hinterlands for rooms. Never fear. We are set.
I will find a pub Thursday for Saturday. Friday is catch-all. Call me when you arrive if you wish on my cell (904.254.X36X). I plan nothing at this point but anarchy. I really want to find some large-breasted Teuton girls who want to "get down", however The Hausfrau has informed me any threesome will involve a Prussian weightlifter named Gunter. Strangely enough, I believe she already knows the person in question.
I've been trying to worm some new words into my lexicon, specifically epithets. Just cursing out a person doesn't do it for me any more. So I'm incorporating putdowns like popinjay, martinet, and jackanape into my verbiage. It livens the game.
Of course, you don't have to be a complete puss when you use these words. It's okay to leaven the conversation with some saltier language. Lookit:
So I told that fucking popinjay, what does it feel like to have seven inches of man meat between your ass cheeks, 'cause thats gotta hurt, ya know?
See? Erudition and machismo. Hey. If you're not setting yourself new goals you're dying, people.
Because I always like having the good old love-hate with Lennon, and because his mutant killer is encapsulated again, it just dawned on me: today, October 9, is JL's 64th birthday, had he actually, you know, survived.
Vera, Chuck, and Dave approve this message.
I put this post up yesterday, then put it back in draft mode because I'd used the dread N-word. After careful reflection, however, I still don't consider it an insult at all (nor was it meant to be, except for the Crackers I was skewering), and my opinion, and sentiments, have not changed. As Florence King would say, STET, dammit!
I told Eric I drove over to St. Augustine at halftime to the Florida School for the Deaf and Blind to see if their team had not kidnapped the Bulldogs, and taken their place on the field of battle.
Georgia sucked today. Tennessee showed great heart, in both their freshman quarterback(s) and in their stingy defense. I salute the Vols. A well-fought game.
Now I shall tee off on the Bulldogs. Green did not show up with his A game. I give him slack week in and out because I pity a fellow who makes the inbred mutant Peyton Manning resemble a runway model, but goddam. DJ Shockley came in on the 3rd possession and scored a touchdown, therefore he was immediately benched for that infraction. DJ was treated like a nigger, and that infuriates me.
I confess to a bit of partiality, because I befriended a city cop on my tall ships/gun-buying/bachelor weekend, and this cop is DJ's uncle and godfather, but that is the extent of my mea culpa. DJ is getting screwed.
Richt should have sent Green to the showers, no harm no foul, and let DJ be The Man. Richt also squandered 19 seconds before calling a time-out in the last minutes of the game.
Richt is building a reputation as a coach who makes numb-nutted calls in the heartbreak moments of a game. And I LIKE the guy. But Jeebus.
End of rant.
I must confess a failure. I cannot find a standard rubber ball to make half-rubbers from. Nevermind the fact the rubber ball is not only the absolute generic toy of the last hundred years, it is also the most basic of all sporting goods. So good luck finding one.
I've hit Wal-Mart, K-Mart, Target, Sports Authority, Sports Mania, Play It Again Sports, Walgreens, Eckerds, Toys 'R' Us, every gas station within ten miles, all to no avail. I found nerf balls, sponge balls, plastic balls, lacrosse balls, balls that glow in the dark. No rubber balls.
Well, I did find some 3/4 size rubber balls at Walgreens, and I've been practicing with them, but they aren't the same. For one thing, they have red paint on them. The true half-rubber ball is the colour and texture of a pencil eraser. For another thing, these are so small you can't hit them. And their lighter weight makes them tend to sail on you at about foot 13 of a pitch.
The call is out. Acidman or Tybee Mike might have better luck in Savannah finding these critical tools. Try the Chinaman, I would suggest. He used to cut them for you, as I recall.
We need balls, gentlemen. Big, rubber ones.
I recall a post about my shameful, filthy week as a participant on Romper Room in about, oh, 1963. I can't find it, however, so it may have perished with my blogspot site. My only television appearance other than high school quiz bowl, and an interview on the 11:00 o'clock news about merchant vessels from the Indian subcontinent, lost forever.
Too bad. That misanthropic misadventure was truly a prism through which prescient sociologists could have forseen my failures as an adult, had they been inquisitive enough. They likely would have neutered me at six to prevent the procreation of equally foul progeny.
I wish they still had Romper Room, and maybe they do somewhere. I'd like to start a local show called Rumpus Room, wherein the kiddies are fed Everclear and Slim Jims instead of milk and cookies. Instead of Miss Nancy or Miss Margaret you could have Miss Kitty, a craven old whore in a sequin-shedding red and black lace bustier. Instead of Sunbeam powdered donuts they could get a pack of Marlboros. Magic Mirror? Give them a regular mirror and a psilocybin mushroom.
That would be totally fucking insane.
Clark Howard mentioned poorhouses today, and I thought "Never seen one of those". We all know about them, but who has actually seen a real one? They pretty much went the way of the buggy whip after the advent of Social Security, whereby even the most penniless old farts had at least enough income for a single-wide, and some Alpo.
I'll bet poorhouses sucked very badly. Horrid accommodations, sadistic staff, weevily food. Hell, if I keep this up I may convince the gummint to grant the Velocihovel a place on the National Register of Historic Places.
Count me out. I'd rather be a hobo with a withered-titty old hen of a wife, living off tin can scrapings, than be manacled to a gulag of a poorhouse farm.
Here's a nice postcard of the Chatham County poorhouse (a postcard! Having a ball! Wish you were here!)
My recollections as to accommodations for Blogtoberfest, as influenced by the electromagnetic vagaries occasioned by the still-burning Van Allen Belt, is thuserly:
At the Kristy:
Acidman/Kenny Brown/Rick&Georgia/The Green Bay Packers
At the Comfort:
Jim's Usual Suspect
Eric's Pool Buddies
Close enough for me, anyway. I have everyone down for the 15th and 16th except for lion tamers Kelley and Key, who are only in for the 16th, shamefully.
The point of this post? I'm leaving the rooms on my credit card. Please make your own arrangements for payment upon check-in. So that's like a five grand exposure on my part, so if you shine me I'll be forced to hunt you down and bleed you out like a fucking rat on a storm-tossed ship with no victuals. And I mean that in the kindest sense of the phrase. Do not bone me.
And welcome to Blogtoberfest.
I'll be liveblogging the presidential debate tonight over at Mr. Helpful's. I hope W stands for Wussy doesn't make another appearance. Rove needs to adjust the controls on the implant.
Don't expect much. I got way hammered with my sales people at the beach last night, and I'm still urinating Jagermeister cut with Tecate.
P.S. Check out the liveblog at National Review's The Corner as well. Watch us put the Big Cosmo's to shame.
A very strange blonde-bristled brush appeared on my bathroom counter several weeks ago. As the lone male in the Velocihovel I knew better than to inquire as to its function. Curiosity finally bettering me, however, I polled my fellow mutants tonight for input.
It seems my daughter has been brushing her hair with it, The Bride has been exfoliating her body with it, and I have been shining my Johnston & Murphy captoes with it. That's what I call a multitasker of a tool, although pride of ownership has yet to emerge.
If Velociworld begins to take on the stench of a redfish massacre on a Tupelo afternoon in August, I commend your olfactory discrimination. The fact remains, however, duty calls.
For the next five days or so I'll be sporadically guestblogging at the incisive and brilliant Jeff Goldstein's Protein Wisdom, although considering my fellow guests will be Allah, Michele, Bill, Stephen, Moxie, Steve, Kate, Andy, Charles, John, and Zombyboy (aka the Algonquin Bilderbergs of the Blogosphere) I may be forced to scoop up my marbles and go tortoise. Such talent amassed is enshriveling. I stand on the insteps of giants. This should be totally fucking insane.
I am also forced Thursday and Friday to the Sea Turtle Inn at Atlantic Beach for annual sales meetings (replete with autistic teambuilding exercises in the Blair Wiccan forests of Ponte Vedra Beach) although I shall rebound with a group liveblog on the Friday night debate with Mr. Helpful et al. I must say, however, that had it not been for Mr. Helpful in the first debate that groupblog I was attempting would have resembled my recrudescent attempts at group sex, i.e. a solo flogging of the blogging.
Tuesday off to the Big MacIntosh for a customer meeting. I'm supposed to fly from there to LA for a reception aboard a customer's mega-cargo vessel on her maiden voyage, but that would entail a redeye flight back Thursday morning in order to perform recon in Helen for Blogtoberfest. The very idea of being sealed in an aluminum cylinder for six hours with sleepers (read: flatulists) appalls me, therefore I shall probably blow off La La Land, pending Cheney's assurances of a clean sweep of the aeroplane.
Now for the worst of it: in anticipation of my sales meetings I had my stylist give me some highlights. Well, lowlights, as it turns out. What I'd intended as sleek metrosexual became, instead, well, METROPLEXUAL. Yea, verily, instead of resembling a Calvin Fitch model I look more like the victim of a hellish Texan hazing experiment. Is Cracker Gay a valid ouvre? It is NOW.
What the hell. I only see my peers once or twice a year. Yahweh forbid I don't give them some ammunition. Plus, I e-mailed perfectly fucking devastating putdowns of each and every one of these hammerheads to my Blackberry, so let us joust.
Either I'm in the tertiary stage of elephantiasis, or I'm just a late bloomer.
(With apologies to Jeff.)
I must travel to State "X" tomorrow, to deliver a presentation to their officials. Sordid ain't the word for it. I shall not only dress up my Organization (The Sow's Ear, Inc. [NYSE: SOO-E]) as a silk purse, I shall adorn said creature with Pretentious Exaggerations, Blatant Lies, a Really Big Push-up Bra, and perhaps a Sunbonnet.
Then I will put the bite on them for $5 million in subsidies for physical plant upgrades, which they will politely decline over the iced tea. It's craven theatre, for sure, but lunch should be excellent.
Downside? My new "supervisor" is going. He's very excited to find out what this business is all about, the last five months apparently having been a fucking teddy-bear tea-party to him. And me with no microdot.
I believe I've hit the political season wall. Witness my abstention from Rathergate, Swiftgate, Debategate. I'm actually ready for a good old-fashioned Latin American election, wherein the outcome is decided by the sheer brute force of the partisans' thuggees. Machetes delineate the gerrymandering, castration the Conventional Wisdom. Those banana republic elections do have a certain finality, if not cachet, to them.
We win, because we beat your pollwatchers and streetcorner rabblerousers and prostitutes bloody senseless. And we just burned your plantation down.
And MY side has the military on it, so there's that going for it.
And, yet, I regret not posting more on this most opprobrious of seasons, because I doubt I'll see this level of vitriol spewed again for awhile, and be able to wallow in it. Unless Jeb returns my phone calls, that is.
And speaking of Latin America, the best political battles weren't Latin at all, but native. I understand the Yanomami were the Fierce People because they braced for the local referenda by chewing the pineal glands of Gran Chaco owl monkeys, their local chickle having been denied them by the fucking Yanqui Gum Barons. Ebeni, and pineal gland. A most volatile combination. And if that apocryphal story isn't true, it should be, damn it.
I wish I'd written this. It's like me, but with sacks of beer-shit.
When I eat ice cream I just eat the stuff. The Bride stays up later than me, as a rule, and I'll be damned if I know what she does with it.
Witness: I awoke at 8:00 this morning to find chocolate ice cream stains on the sofa in the Batcave, on the floor in the butler pantry and kitchen, on the counter tops, and all over her side of the sheets.
It was as if the Manson family had broken in and slaughtered a family of chocolate Easter bunnies. It was horrible. The absence of crime scene tape only lent to the immediacy of the thing, that sense of dread that it could happen again at any moment.
There were two (two!) mugs with ice cream residue in them, and a telltale fudgesicle stick in the ashtray. I almost puked.
What the hell is going on around here?
Tweezered it out of my footpad this afternoon from a hole that had opened up from much syringe probing and pestering. That only took, what, four or five weeks?
Patience, perserverance, persistence.
Now, of course, I am a bit depressed, and suffering from post-extraction malaise, for I have nothing to excise from my body anymore.
Because it is the opinion of the editors of Velociworld that everyone, occasionally, should pay tribute to the Crazy World of Arthur Brown.
This is for Liz. File under: It Pays To Increase Your Wordpower.
Rankin' Rob had lunch with ex-Braves second baseman Mark Lemke the other day, and chatted about World Series baseball. Now I am jealous as all hell.
Rankinblog Delenda Est!
Just kidding, Rob. Be reminded, however, that I have examined my inner Chief Brody, and I'm pretty sure I suffer from all of the Seven Deadly Sins.
In sports news, Georgia whomped LSU. Beat them like a hooker with a herpes confession (slowly, but with great determination).
As they say, revenge is a dish best served piping hot. Like Nick Saban's ears.
Blackfive advises that criminal liquor fiend Jack Daniels is watering down Old No. 7 from 86 proof down to 80 proof. Bastards! If this wussy-assed trend continues we're liable to see Wild Turkey 98 proof, or Captain Morgan 12 proof ere long.
Just when I thought I'd heard it all, it seems John Fatwah Kerry is descended from Mohammed.
Looks like he's wrapped up that critical Tunisian vote, too.
Fucking Kerry. What can you say?
I used to worship this man in 1969. Then I learned he was an asshole.
I am an asshole, too, apparently.
No, this is not another Rorer Quaalude post. I got too damned many nutcases commenting from that one a year ago. Still do, as a matter of fact.
No, that's 714 spam comments from my friend Bob and his minion Top since midnight. And although I can clean this crap up rather quickly with Blacklist it still takes 45 minutes to root out all the singular troll stuff.
On line poker indeed. I have a poker. It is blunt, hefty, and soot-covered. The only thing wrong with it is it is not driven into Bob's thorax. This would please me to no end. I'd Helsing Top too, but we all know they're the same beast, and I don't want consecutive life sentences.