I generally handle the trickle of e-mail I receive in a reflective and thoughtful manner. The timely stuff, that is. The e-mails from posts over three weeks old I recently outsourced to the Mutant, with mixed results.
Imagine my chagrin when I recently audited his correspondence, and found, in response to an e-mail from an ancient MaryAnn versus Ginger post:
MaryAnn? Fuck that! So remind me again, exactly what parts of Ginger's body and sexual appetite repulsed you, you fugging homo???
I really, really need to get him into some diversity counseling.
If I could catch him. He's faster than a skunk ape.
Sadie points us to a brilliant take on Marmaduke by Kilgore. Now celebrating 50 years of flaying a one-joke gig.
May I add a few strips to the list of mediocrity? Family Circus. Hi and Lois. Garfield. Fucking Heathcliff. Marvin.
Andy Capp is a god, of course, but the way he channels Velociman is scary. I cannot bear to read him.
I would like to see an adult version of Steve Canyon. Maybe Stephanie Canyon, Underground Film Actress. And I am reminded of the great MAD Magazine take from the early days, when they had people like Mickey Spillane write Nancy ("Catch a ride, baby. Me and Aunt Tootsie here have business").
Stetson Kennedy lives less than a mile up Roberts Road from me, in a cabin on Lake Beluthahatchie. He became famous, or infamous, for his post World War II infiltration of the Ku Klux Klan, documented in his seminal 1954 work The Klan Unmasked.
I've written of Stetson before, and his great courage, and the fact that after publication of his work his good friend Woody Guthrie had to travel here to Fruit Cove to help Stetson stand armed guard against the Klansmen who hunted him.
Well, it seems they are making a film of Unmasked, and although Stetson is in his 80's now, I'm glad he lived to see this through. Details to follow, as developing.
Because girls can be girls. And Jonathan Demme can be Jonathan Demme. And, well, who can pass up a John Cale soundtrack?
A Florida woman had an encounter with an infamous skunk ape the other day down to Lakeland. By all accounts a normal, sane, upscale suburbanite housewife. The sort of person one would refuse to doubt.
She was driving down a lonely stretch of rural road, and saw it in a ditch. They made eye contact. It stank of holy hell.
Now, despite being a conspiracy theorist, I keep a heavy rucksack of skepticism on me for sightings like this. The only cryptozoological creature I am aware of that needs the old Linnaeus taxonomy laid on it is the Mutant, but he refuses. He is a Phylum elitist in this regard. No pigeonholing.
So may I posit an alternate scenario? Miss Coiff comes home from a sordid encounter with a roofer, and as she passes by hubby he says, "That's a funny smell."
Quick: reaction. "Yes, honey. I encountered a skunk ape in the ditch on Old Jessup Road. The details are vague, and yet his spoor clung to me like a cheap Fashion Bug suit." And there you have it. Hubby calls Channel 4, and the rest, as they say...
No, I will not link the numerous digital versions of this story. I don't want to have hubby on my ass. Of course, they'll probably find this anyway, as a touch of local celebrity brings out the eponymous Google whore in all of us.
That's okay, though. I need a good asskicking about once a year, and it would actually be pretty cool to get it from a guy for a change.
The other possibility? Some good ole boy with a surplus monkey suit and a bag of swine shit and an available ditch decided to fuck with somebody.
Nor may I discount the third possibility: she and the skunk ape saw a roofer in a ditch over by Lover's Lane.
I SO did not want to go here. But BeeBee tried to take me to school with a vintage old Boston pencil sharpener. Ah. Yes. A venerable old tool. I applaud it. Well, lookit what they put out lately:
Tintype trash. I spit upon it. My Berol Giant mocks it. It's not about reservoir space, BeeBee. In fact, we purists think excess reservoir space is wasted. No grip. It's about firmness, and stability. The ability to get the job done. Sure, your old vintage dog can do it, but three times in a row? With not only a box of Mirados, but a couple of boxes of Eberhard Fabers thrown into the mix?
UPDATE: Rube triangulates the sharpdown , in true Tuco fashion.
UPDATE: Another satisfied Berol Giant fan. I am, uh, what exactly do you call that when you thrust your thumbs under your armpits, spread out your fingers like a rooster comb, and strut around? Hydroencephalytic?
I also question the upside down mounting, but I suppose the Kama Sharpena allows such obviously perverse positions.
UPDATE: Harvey at Bad Example has weighed in with a, a, Yikes! And I thought Rube's Staedtler was channeling H R Pufinstuf. This is clearly turning in to a battle of the traditionalists versus the heretics. I may have to join sides with BeeBee in this battle. Who knew the grim power of the humble sharpener? Or the grim sexual tension they evoke?
Mit Sauerkraut, Araber. Rube is feasting on reindeer, and I am so jealous.
I'd never thought about this before. Which is amazing in and of itself.
Here is a file photograph of my pencil sharpener of choice, the Berol Giant:
Look at the lines on this thing! It's like a stallion! Perhaps the most beautiful amalgam of function and form since the 1966 GTO.
I don't use sharpened pencils anymore, of course. I use mechanical Pentels, as softer graphite and ink tend to stain the hand of a lefty, and even I don't want to pull out a sharpener in a meeting, and grind away. Those people have no reverence for the well-machined cutter, or the firm snap of a properly engineered reservoir.
I don't use pencils, but I would love to pull out my Giant right now and sharpen a box of Mirado No. 2's to exquisite points with the beast.
Let me interject: I don't want to disparage the venerable Boston sharpener. It is a fine workhorse of a sharpener, but the tin-stamp look just leaves me cold. I need aesthetics in my school tools. And yes, I allow the children to use the Giant. To deny them would be criminal.
And I see nothing occult about spending Saturday night amidst the glorious fragrance of freshly-mutilated cedar. But that's me.
So I found myself in a rather seedy sports bar in Mandarin tonight, because I have some buddies who had a gig there, and no sports being afoot of a Friday night, they were the gladiators of choice. This is a filthy Gator bar, recall, and therefore the place positively reeked of the Great Unwashed.
That is the only drawback to my existence in my own little slice of heaven, by the way. It is, after all, the Belly of the Beast, but the fact I wore my Georgia Bulldogs cap had more to do with the fact I have not bathed in two days to the more common issue of taking it to The Man, and beggaring a fistfight.
I was with my neighbors, also, who are Gator fans as well, however I had liberally misted them with Dolce & Gabbana before entering, proximity being an issue, and they were pleasant enough to be around.
It gets interesting: at the second song, and it is only ten of the clock, a couple forces aside some bar tables, and creates an impromptu dance floor. They then proceed to perform a, a, thing I cannot call a dance. It was more akin to a pornographic skit, thankfully with denim prophylactic. I promise, at one point this man's entire left hand had disappeared into the crack of her Levi'd ass.
Allow me to describe the couple in question: he was wearing a Gator T shirt and a visor, said visor being worn not only backwards, but upside down as well. Machismo takes on a whole new meaning down here, as does chivalry, and deodorant. The girl was slathered in more ink than Gutenberg, angry barbed wired stuff, in inappropriate places, too. I was compelled at one point to cut in, but The Bride forbade it. There was a post there, I argued, to no avail.
It gets more interesting: another fellow DID cut in, and they made a perverse version of a turkey sandwich, with hellish spasms. Then, of course, the entire social compact broke down, and The Bride and her cohorts were all dancing with the cretins, and everyone else.
High point: when the band played Desperado, the visored man pulled out his lighter. Encore! I must confess this is where I depart from my buddies' playlist, because I think the Eagles blow syphilitic peccaries. Unless, of course, someone is splaying out an eightball in front of me, at which point I am pretty much engaged with whatever they want to play. This was not the case tonight, however, and so I sat bemused, befuddled, and befuckedup, the last being a term of recent coinage, but ancient lineage.
Oh, where is The Bride? Hell, I left her there. She wasn't done, and I never interfere with a woman's right to choose. Besides, I had to memorialize this special moment. Hey. She had a ride.
I am blessed with truly unique friends.
..."set the nation free" by allowing "buggary" to be "used thro' all the land" indeed.
Liz says my site is eutrophic. Which to the best of my knowledge means I am like a giant algae growth that sucks all the oxygen out of the water, and causes massive fishkills.
So that would be a compliment, non?
I really need to give the blogroll a Brazilian wax. I'm getting carpal tunnel scrolling down to Rube. I don't think some of those people are even alive anymore. But you know, I warned them that Guatemalan death squads hate bloggers, so one has to bear that in mind when one travels.
I would take nominations, too, but 1) I never got laid in junior high, those people were so cliquish; you people would be too cruel, I fear, and 2) I don't want my comments box filling up with a bunch of "Feel free to drop me, dickhead."
I like Porter Goss just fine, but is it really wise to have as the head of the CIA a man who is the willing stooge of Pepe and Alfy Fanjul and the Cuban sugar cane cartel?
I wouldn't be surprised to see sanctioned hits on the beet sugar growers as Big Cane attempts to take back the lucrative Coca-Cola business.
Or even worse, sanctioned hits on indolent bloggers who don't know when to keep their mouths shut.
I've always been fascinated by the image of the cornucopia. Horn of plenty, indeed. The Harvest House restaurant had one on the billboard out front, and it always puzzled me. What the hell kind of horn is that?
As Google is our friend, I went a-hunting. It seems the horn is actually a goat horn, filled with food, fruits, and flowers to signify, of course, abundance.
One question: where do they grow goats that big? We owned goats, delinquent, restive ones, and I have detailed their tragic demise at the business end of my dad's shotgun along those runaway boy railroad tracks, but I don't recall any with horns big enough to encase a shoulder roast. Damn. Somewhere, someone is growing monster goats, severing their horns from their skulls, and feeding us a line about the fruits of the field. I believe it is time to boycott the cornucopia as a symbol of the Good Life. Even I find this sort of thing repulsive.
Why do I get the uneasy feeling there will be pictures of quim at Acidman's site in the next, oh, 48 hours?
There are actually veterinarians who specialize in the surgical removal of the stinksacks of skunks, so that people can make pets of them (the skunks, not the vets). Or so I'm told.
I just realized I had 666 unread e-mails. That is seriously bad juju, so I had to open a Cialis e-mail to get to 665. What the hell is erectile dysfunction!?!
I am going to fry a 13 pound turkey formerly named Benny today, and pretend to enjoy football for hire. A partial list of things I am thankful for:
In Fallujah, 1,600 insurgents met Allah, who turned out to be an Hasidic Jew with a chip on his shoulder
The glorious fact that liquor stores are open on Sundays in Florida
The absence of the designated hitter in the National League
The eventual prison rape of Scott Peterson
The Snuggles fabric softener bear
Aloe-engorged toilet paper
The seven second delay
The dichotomous nature of Batman
I could go on, but the point is taken.
The beauty of the Administration's neglect of cross-border security is that maquiladoras needn't be located south of the border any more. As we speak I have four Mexicans churning out Bush Lied, Insurgents Died T shirts in my garage. The pay? Shameful. Just shameful. But then, piecework is as American as apple pie. It's almost in the Constitution.
From Ticketmaster: Don't Miss Yanni!
Well, hell no, I won't. I just need to get the scope sighted in.
Our Agriculture division's new slogan. Don't ask. Don't even go there.
As I again rip open my mental trenchcoat and expose my squalid gray matter, the question persists: is there anything Uncle Waldo won't share with you?
On the specious hope that Islam can privatize its cruel and outrageous value system, by Spengler. Worth a read.
Anna is on hiatus, which destroys me personally, just because I care so deeply about her.
Anna has Been to the Mountain, and has some needs of her own to fulfill, love her.
Take your time, dear. Think, wish, help, heal. We will always be here for you. When you feel the desire to reengage, if you ever do, we are here. If not, you have given us a great gift, which will not be squandered.
That I can promise you.
I don't give blood. I don't like it, I don't think it is a healthy avocation. It is filthy work.
Allow me to expand on this theme. I tried to give blood when I was a Coast Guard Cadet. Herded into line, actually. When I finally reached the clipboarders they discovered I was only 17, and told me I could not give blood because I was a minor. I attempted to explain I was in a United States military academy, and had sworn my allegiance to the USA, and had my anus probed, and was eligible for courts martial, but they would not let me donate blood.
That pissed me the fuck off.
I carry that grudge to this day. So here's the rub:
My company is like any other company: they find a photogenic bitch, and saddle her with the United Way gig, and the Blood Drive gig. And I use the term "bitch" delicately. The Old Boys always find a female to saddle with this additional work. I'm not going down this path tonight, but they do. It is fucking shameful.
So the "bitch" has to go around with a clipboard and sign people up not only for the United Way but for Blood Drives. No way. I don't play that shit.
LISTEN: I will never open a vein to a stranger in a fucking van temporarily parked on the curb. Call me modest. Call me an asswipe. Fuck that.
And I don't like the "bitch" corralling me by the water cooler, where I am waxing eloquent on the death rate of space diving, and demanding when I am signing up for the bloodletting.
Lookit: you have your job, I have mine. This is personal. Sticking a needle in your body and draining it of life-giving, precious fluids is PERSONAL. As is AIDS.
A friend of mine was badgered so much he finally had to scream "I caught malaria in Viet Nam! Leave me the fuck alone!"
My sentiments exactly. Take your Blood Wagon and get out of my face. I'm A Negative anyway. It is dogshit plasma. My Bride and one of my daughters are O positive. They are universal donors. Hit them up. I will give blood prior to a serious operation, to reinfuse myself, in case that Paki doctor fucks me up.
I feel much better now.
Temporarily while Doktor Kelley performs a spamoscoptomy on the site. It's a little painful, but I have some oxycodone.
You are not banned. If you were banned I'd send you a personal love letter, straight from my heart, detailing why.
UPDATE: Back to normal, we believe. If anyone thinks this site is normal.
Have you ever run away from home? I mean, really? And I don't mean running away at 15 to shack up with that meth dealer from the Jiffy-Lube, I mean an honestly innocent child's version, at 6 or 8 or 10.
I ran away at 10. Unfortunately, we had moved to a farm the previous year, so while it is easy to want to escape from Bumfuck, Georgia, Bumfuck, Georgia is a long ways from anywhere.
I was not feeling the love, as Four of Five, and my eldest sister had just been graced with a convertible 1966 Mustang, and my older brother had a fancy electric guitar, and I was still angling for that trumpet, but I didn't have any game with the rents.
I swear I actually packed some clothes in a towel, wrapped it on the end of a broomstick, and started walking. We had a long private dirt road up the the White Gate, then you had to take a right turn and walk about another mile up a county maintained dirt road to reach Georgia 17. I made it to the highway, and hunkered down by the Central of Georgia railroad tracks that parallelled it, contemplating my options.
To the south was seven miles of bad road just to get through Tusculum to Guyton. Another 35 or so to Savannah, where I actually knew people who didn't sleep with barnyard animals. To the north was Egypt, then Oliver, then another stretch of bad road just to reach Statesboro, and I didn't know anybody there.
It was pretty cold, so I snuggled down with my towel and clothes to brainstorm the situation next to the tracks, and fell asleep. I don't know how long I lay there. Could have been five hours, could have been thirty minutes. But my mother eventually found me, and brought me home, and fed me Sealtest ice cream. Doted on me a bit, too, if I may brag.
Why do I mention this now? I have no idea, other than the fact the three girls in my life are screaming in the next room over the ending of a dance competition solo, phone calls to dance instructors with recriminations and threats are being made, there ain't no supper, one of the cats puked in the carpeting, I have siding issues on my house, and laying by the side of a railroad track with a pillow of my favorite clothes sounds positively Kerouac to me right now.
Well, not at Velociworld, but that's not my point. I received some correspondence in the post today. They're turning the Bilmar into condos! Those greasy bastards. Where am I going to stay in St. Pete now? I suppose I could stay next door at the Thunderbird, but damn. The Bilmar is my baby.
It was bad enough when they condoed Indian Rocks Beach, but now they're after Treasure Island.
You know, on second thought, maybe I could swing one of these puppies. Then I could retire at the Bilmar! They'd better keep the Sloppy Joe's, though. I have been known to work up a powerful thirst upon occasion.
To 'Neck for correctly smoking out yesterday's Trash Blog Theme. And for those of you who think every day is Trash Blog Day at Velociworld, rink me (and what's that from?).
A new video game allows players to simulate the assassination of John Kennedy.
I have no comment on this, other than to say I think the Mario Brothers are totally fucking gay.
And I would credit my source, however I think she is already reconsidering her decision to forward this little tidbit of info. Not that there's anything wrong with being a Super Mario Brother.
Dean Martin was such a hoss. Yes, I'm sitting by the pool in 70 degree weather in Florida, and I'm listening to Christmas Cocktails with two logs on the outdoor fireplace. Because it is now officially the Christmas Season, the frigging Joyous Season, and so I listen to Dean. And Julie. And Nat. I was a Deep Purple Head, a Humble Pie fan, in high school. I deserve this now.
Did I tell you about my encounter with Dino in the lobby of the Royal Orleans in New Orleans in 1967 when I was ten? Sure I did. It's in the archives somewhere. We bonded that day. I need more Dean. And perhaps a nice 1950 Hammond B3 organ.
So there I was, standing over a grill in flambe, my spare ribs in death throes from licking flames due to gross inattention. I had a glass of water in my hand, and was dipping three fingers into the water and slinging it onto the flames to squelch the fire. And for some bizarre reason every time I did it I would yell "The power of Christ compels you!!!"
Then I turned around and saw my 11-year-old looking at me like, ah, life could be pretty sweet in an orphanage.
Thankfully they are bringing back Cabbage Patch Kids this year. I may have an opportunity to shore up some father-daughter issues after all.
While enjoying Zonker's picture of a typical British soccer hooligan I was reminded of something. When West German Mathias Rust landed his plane in Red Square, he was charged with hooliganism. What a wonderful criminal status! Something north of a scofflaw, but south of a felon. I can think of several instances in my youth when I could have been charged with hooliganism with equal parts precision and successful prosecution.
That's how I eat Krispy Kremes. And I manage to keep my girlish figure in the process.
Geoffrey has the unedited audio from the Apollo 11 landing.
I wish someone would unearth the real audio from Apollo 13. I'll wager that language got a little salty.
Because that would be, like, redundant.
Witness the lyrics to "Blue Tail Fly":
When I was young I use' to wait
On massa an' hand him his plate
An' pass de bottle when he got dry
An' brush away de blue-tail fly
Jimmie crack corn an' I don't care
Jimmie crack corn an' I don't care
Jimmie crack corn an' I don't care
Ol' Massa's gone away
One day he ride aroun' de farm
De flies so num'rous they did swarm
One chanced to bite him on de thigh
De devil take de blue-tail fly!
Jimmie crack corn an' I don't care
Jimmie crack corn an' I don't care
Jimmie crack corn an' I don't care
Ol' Massa's gone away
De pony run, he jump he pitch
He threw my Massa in de ditch
He died an' de jury wondered why
De verdict was de blue-tail fly
Jimmie crack corn an' I don't care
Jimmie crack corn an' I don't care
Jimmie crack corn an' I don't care
Ol' Massa's gone away
They lay him under a simmon tree His epitaph is there to
"Beneath this stone I'm forced to lie --
Victim of de blue-tail fly."
Jimmie crack corn an' I don't care
Jimmie crack corn an' I don't care
Ol' Massa's gone away
I know, I know. Give it up. But I find so few sources of mirth in my life I just have to go here:
Lawyers to challenge election in Ohio-Cleveland Plain Dealer
Columbus - A trio of activist lawyers armed with mysteriously wrong exit polls and hundreds of voter horror stories announced plans Friday to contest Ohio's presidential election as soon as the vote is official.
Their challenge could lead to widespread reconsideration of dozens of alleged election irregularities around the state - from reported computerized voting glitches to provisional-ballot mishaps to unusual incidents involving voter rolls, poll workers and machine technicians.
But it is unclear whether the complaint will ever get that far.
Iraq was on Bush's "to do" list back in 1999. (Media buries scoop).
Between the end of the Republican National Convention and Election Day, the Houston Chronicle spent roughly 50,000 words on President George W. Bush and his campaign for re-election. Perhaps most impressive, one of its own columnists had major news to break on the race.
He just didn't, umm, break it to the Chronicle.
According to Baker's report, Herskowitz said that Bush felt frustrated with his image as an "underachiever" compared to his father, that he had "failed" to complete his National Guard requirement during the Vietnam War and that his private business efforts had been "floundering."
Perhaps most consequential: Herskowitz said that Bush had Iraq on his "to do" list as early as 1999. "(Bush) said, 'If I have a chance to invade... if I had that much capital, I'm not going to waste it,' " Baker writes, adding later that the ellipses were for a pause and not words omitted.
An exclusive -- possibly explosive -- set of claims from a trusted Bush source? Surely one of the major news outlets from the often-sneered-at "liberal media elite" would jump at the chance to gore Bush. But not one would bite, says Baker. He wound up posting it on October 27 on the Guerrilla News Network Web site.
Sorry, fellows. W told me back in '92 he was going to "get that Saddam fucker". It was a personal mission. We even discussed using the Mafia to kill Hussein with a codfish wrapped in newspaper, but eventually decided we couldn't trust our agent, one Sammy "The Bull" Gravano. Good thing, too.
By the way, guys: the tears are streaming down my face.
I was released from the doghouse for ten minutes, however the choke collar remains. I may only post on nasturtiums, and Winter Solstice CD's, and that Peter Pan guy.
I foresee a great dip in the Sitemeter hits. From, like nothing to nothing.
By the way, did you get a look at those hot nipply buds on the nasturtiums at the Garden Club exhibition? Whoah.
Coming over here involves something of a crossing over. I'm feeling a bit strange and not yet completely formed.
Understanding the need to have a drink before being able to fully acclimate within Velociworld, I just sauntered over to my handy dandy wet bar to see what's left after being hit by hurricane Football Season.
Here's what I got:
Trave Classic Amaretto Liqueur
Creme de Cacao
Smirnoff Cirtrus Twist
Dekuyper Melon Liqueur
Monte Alban Tequila with Agave worm
Seagram's Extra Dry Gin
No merlot...No wine at all for that matter. Damn.
How about a decent chocolate martini recipe? Haven't found one yet that I can stomach.
So there I was, trying to explain to Sadie Mirth that a Little Smokie sausage really is eight inches long, according to the International Bureau of Weights and Measures formulae, when she gave me this look:
Well, I tried. And at least I didn't have to go into the whole "bun-size" debate, nor explain exactly what two centimeters is.
Here is a picture of some denuded trees in Africa:
Disgusting, isn't it? Flaunting their naked knotholes like their exploited village counterparts in National Geographic, limbs akimbo? They are calling it "drought", but we know it's florexhibitionism, don't we?
I am repulsed, and yet fascinated.
Just as Schussnigg strutted in the heady days after the Anschluss, waiting for Herr Shickelgruber to pin an Iron Cross on him, so I bestride Velociworld. And, yes, I realize that makes no sense, but my simile bag is empty, other than a reference to a parrot with big lips, and the Schussnigg thing.
And so: all living Presidents were at the Grand Opening of the Clinton Library except for the doddering Ford. And we can give him a piece of slack, eh? Mr. Warren Commission has an eternal pass in my book, because it is important that he continue to shut the fuck up about Mr. Second Gunman.
It rained today. God whizzed on the Clinton crowd in an exemplary episode of God Hate. When it rains on conservatives, of course, that is Mother Nature punishing the Kyoto-killers. When it rains on Clinton it is God's Beautiful Work. See where I'm going here?
So God hates Clinton, but do you think the Main Stream Media cared that Bush 41 & 43 took time out of their days to give Bill Clinton a bit of love, and humour, and dignity? No fucking way!
My point? Yes, I have one. U2 played the Beatles' Rain because God was pissing on the Anointed. And it reminded me: I saw U2 at Alltel, and everyone stayed away because of insipient rain, but it didn't rain after all, until the end of the show, and U2 played Rain then, too, and it was sweet.
Fucking Bono. He so wants to be me.
Queenie fills that bill. As does Anna. But I'm saving myself for the Dalai Lama and his next tour, because I have it on great advice he smellls of lotus, and a primitive version of Old Spice made from stump mosses. Tooth decay is an issue, but I'm fairly psyched we will reach an accord. I also am a firm believer in the totally wired impresaria, insofar as these things go.
And yet, no word from the Administration on that Seychelles post. Condi's busy, I understand, and Colin hates my guts.
You've heard of First Responders? Well, I am a Third Responder at work. In other words, I won't respond to my customers' e-mails until the third request. I figure they're desperate by then, and deserving of my attention. If I could only figure out a way to reconfigure Outlook to automatically delete the first two requests I'd be a Golden God.
I also cleared my desk today. I am caught up. Of course, I had to throw a two inch stack of e-mail print-outs into the trashcan to do it, but I still feel liberated. There were no third responses in there, so I'm clean.
See, I've noticed that the CEO and Executive VP's have immaculate shining desks (because they don't do a lick of work), and I'm striving for that look. People with work piled up on their desks are fucked. So I threw it all away, and meandered down the corridor to find some Pledge, and buffed up the desk to a high gloss. Then I stood outside my office with my hands on my hips, and glowered at my corporate brethren. It was a beautiful thing, if you are a fan of the crack rock.
And so I find myself reflecting on how I find myself in this position. A few short years ago I was running my own fiefdom in the field, like a fucking Chinese warlord in a far-flung province, with 60 peasants keeping the Johnston & Murphys honed to a mirror-like sheen. I was Kurtz, without the heads on pikes. What happened?
Oh, yes. I remember. They told me it was a Promotion.
I keep a set of handcuffs in my desk drawer. I wouldn't lie about this. They are, I confess, a trick pair, with a secret quick-release, but you wouldn't know that to heft them.
I seldom pull them out, but in a tight they are an excellent negotiating artifice. Slap them on the desk in the midst of an impasse and you generally get a concession.
I once clasped them on the Warrior Princess on a dare, behind her back, in front of god and country, without her knowledge of the quick-release, and she had shed them in 3.5 seconds. Not your ideal date, fellows. More like your ultimate date, as I believe had she chosen I would have been Cinch-Sacked in those cuffs in another 3.5 seconds, had she not taken pity on me.
And the lads are whimpering. I may call in sick tomorrow. I am doomed.
Never heard of them. What, you say? They're on my blogroll?
Well, fuck me, there's a fine example of asymmetrical warfare.
I was supposed to have drinks after work with the Warrior Princess (not you, Neck, your guest blogger), and it totally slipped my mind. It is not in my ethos to miss cocktails with beautiful, voluptuous women, and so I am certain I must be in the early stages of senile dementia. Couple that with the fact that I will surely have the lads driven high into my abdomen tomorrow with a well-aimed Nine West, and things are looking bleak for siring any more blogbabies.
I'm not saying my town is reactionary, but even the mayor has a Poor People Suck bumper sticker on his car.
I was anointed Blogdaddy to this vituperous and sexy woman today, and my immediate reaction was to send her ass over elbows over the hedgerow, all Christopher Reeve and Bonnie Blue like, because she demanded a pony. Also known as a hog with a mane. Sorry, dear. I was cursed with a vicious Shetland Pony as a child, named Spooky, who had the temperament of a gunpowder-fed pitbull, and the bucking quotient of a Satanic rodeo bull.
I am often misunderstood, but I believe in this instance I was the symbol of clarity.
Amends have been made, apparently, because my foster child Queenie has graced me with a post dedication only a Velocidaddy could love.
Unleash yourself from my opinions, and enjoy the unbridled Queenie.
Now, everyone knows I don't do clothes dryer posts, right? But please allow me to share the fact that the mechanical moisture-removing device I've nicknamed Decameron, after my great affection for Boccaccio, just seared my boxers dry in 28 minutes.
For Driver's license, Louisiana boys must register for draft
ALEXANDRIA (AP) - When Larry Chevalier took his son to get his first driver's license, he was floored to discover that to get it, the boy had to preregister for a nonexistent military draft.
''I just can't believe it,'' said Chevalier, whose 16-year-old son, Nathan, did fill out the form to register with the Selective Service so he could get his license.
''They wouldn't let him get it otherwise,'' Chevalier said Saturday.
Even a 15-year-old boy who wants a learner's permit in Louisiana must provide information to be forwarded, when he turns 18, to the Selective Service System, which would run a military draft if one is set up again.
I watched a black woman bring her daughter into the building with her to pay her phone bill today. The girl was about fifteen, and was wearing a sandwich board sign. Poster board in front and back, and on both sides was written in large black marker:
I have been WAY NAUGHTY!!!
I've been suspended from school and my mother is VERY UNHAPPY with me!!! From this day forward I will obey all rules my teacher and mother tell me.
I am sorry.
All sculptors pale in comparison to Michelangelo, and yet I confess a soft spot for Rodín, merely because of his twisted nature. Witness The Thinker:
Here is a man either tormented by esoteric thoughts, or suffering from an execrable case of the piles. Or, unfortunately in my case, both.
Or The Burghers of Calais:
These fellows look to be up to no good; no doubt repossessing a hayrick, or burning the errant monster at the stake. They exist on the taxes they wheedle from the peasants. They are magistrates with an unholy church behind them.
My favorite: The Prodigal Son:
This reminds me of me at the Blogfest. Only this chap is skinnier than me, and his woeful manhood is rather embarrassing. Rodín was infamous for insignificant penises (witness the tiny gerkhin on Fugitive Love! Not like Michelangelo, who really knew how to hang the manmeat on a sculpture, he being a particular aficianado of the johnson, you know. And having apparently seen quite a few in vigoro.)
Yet another reason to guffaw at Rodín's work.
Hey: I have my faves, get yours.
As I so patiently explained to Mr. Smart Ass Jackanape:
That was not a post about fixing a dryer, you twit. That was a musing upon the eternal arrogance of man, and his infinite capacity to self-destruct due to hubris.
Why do I visit Ace? Because he has the straight line to the Peter Pan Man, man. Where else can I get this level of entertainment? H/T to Demure Thoughts, and to flynny for reminding me this is the sort of Bizarro World stuff I'm usually all over (no offense meant, Peter). Like pepper on flyshit.
If I don't get Peter to the next Jawjuh blogmeet I will hate myself forever.
Was he killed in Fallujah? Hell, he's lazier than me, and that's a stretch.
I had my own Mamamontezz Moment of Moronity today. It is truly humiliating to realize what an utter fool I am.
The construct: I need to replace the heating element in my clothes dryer. This assuredly has nothing to do with the fact The Bride enjoys cramming forty pounds of wet towels in the bastard, after stuffing a washcloth in the vent. It's a ritual with her, like the Eucharist, or the Sacred Swallowing of the Strychnine in our more, ah, robust places of worship.
I call the Toothless Ones, and they have the part. Over in Orange Park, known of late as Beelzebub's Parking Lot. And when I exit the perimeter I head south instead of north. It was really a coin flip, because I am far too proud to ask for a fucking direction. I've got a divining rod the good lord give me, it should get me anywhere I need, right? I figured it would dowse me right to the site.
I needed to find 2502 Blanding Boulevard. The first block produced 45 Blanding. Not bad, thinks I. I'll be there in no time. Forty five minutes of beep & creep later I'm twenty miles south in frigging Middleburg, looking forlornly at 2500 Blanding, and 2550 right next door. NOW I call. The Toothless Ones are having great sport with me, because they know I think they're morons, and they have me pegged as the number one arrogant prick I truly am (we have enjoyed commercial transactions in the past, but they moved). "Well, you're forty-five minutes away, hoss. And we close in five minutes". Putz. You damned putz. Too proud to ask for directions, weren't you, you peckerwood?
The worst part is I'll have to fetch the farging thing tomorrow, to muffled sniggers from a couple of reprobates who make Zed look like Freddie Rogers.
Balls. I am a freaking moron.
Apparently we killed so many scumbobs in Fallujah they had to stack them up like cordwood. How sweet is that? Very sweet. Because these assholes won't get it until they have a fucking wake up call. An attitude adjustment. This was the pocket of hatred that needed lancing.
And sorry, but Patton is on AMC. I'll be back in 4 hours. Use their guts to grease our tank treads, indeed.
The Jaguars beat the Detroit Lions 23-17 in an overtime nailbiter today. I had to listen to the game on the radio due to yet another television blackout. A 6-3 team that consistently fails to sell out.
This is supposed to be a hell of a football town. Georgia-Florida, the Gator Bowl, the ACC Championship, the Jaguars. But on Any Given Sunday the game is blacked out. Why? The second smallest market in the NFL, the second largest stadium, exorbitant ticket prices. This stadium was built for the Georgia-Florida game. That was the deal. So while most cities have to sell 55,000 to 60,000 tickets, the Jags have to sell 72,000.
And no, I'm not buying season tickets, because no one else in this house gives a flip fuck about watching a pro football game, and I'm not dropping large coin to take a deadbeat neighbor. I'm more of a college fan anyway, although an NFL game does have its moments (please see this post).
Besides, if I went to the game who would help the Velocibride find that farging Christmas tree? The one I can now compare to the two already in the attic?
Well, at least Apocalypse! Now is on this afternoon. It is indeed a Hobbesian world. Short, brutal, and violent. Just like an NFL game.
David at Better living Through Blogging and Craig at mtpolitics are highlighted in an article in the Bozeman Daily Chronicle.
David has been one of my most loyal supporters over the last two years, a debt I cannot repay. Nice to see these Montanans get some coverage. Way to go, boys!
Jim and Margi have more.
I must go buy yet another Christmas tree. One with fiber optic lighting. Sigh. What ever happened to the ones that could burn your house down? I can't even put my bubble lights on this one. Although I WILL sneak my Three Stooges and Popeye ornaments on the back side, in a brazen show of rebellion.
In 1978, or thereabouts, Capitol Records decided to cash in on the Beatles. Yet again. It wasn't enough that they'd fucked them with truncated releases. Oh, no. They released an album of Greatest Hits, and spearheaded it with a re-release of "Got To Get You Into My Life". The unsung Beatles hit. What craven bullshit. It went nowhere, thankfully.
And no, the beddy bye didn't take. The drink of the day is Bacardi and Diet Coke. With a slice of my key lime.
The Mutant is putting me to sleep. I want to stay up, having slept away the 6pm to midnight shift, but he is adamant. And he is being gentle, not forceful, like the last time. What the hey? I will go gently into that good night. Sandburg told me it would be sweet, and I still haven't finished the Lincoln biography, so there's that.
I do have the Douglas Southall Freeman biography of Bobby Lee (version 1936), however, courtesy of my brother. So I am torn. And splintered. And awakened, dammit.
"I never said a guy who wears glasses is a queer. A guy who wears glasses is a Four-Eyes. A guy who's a fag is a queer."
Pretty much sums up my stilted worldview.
It's official. I'm finally out of ideas. So from here on out I'll merely be subtexting Goethe. In the epistolary meaning, if you catch my drift (i.e. madchen, that Wagner is so fucking gay).
I must have passed out from the Pabst. I'm awake now, though. With a flashback from Emory Law School. My intramural football team was sponsored by the Limelight disco, hence we were the Slimelights. Another team was called the Slawdawgs, and their t-shirts had a picture of a girl getting her crotch licked by a German Shepherd with the slogan "Home is Where the Heart Is". How
cool retarded is that?
My Dawgs are getting their asses handed to them, as I predicted. Auburn is tough. I, personally, will be rooting for Auburn for a championship game, that "Cornell" fucker notwithstanding. Keep the loyalties close to home. Those filthy cocksuckers.
I ship 7 million cans of Coors Light from the brewery in Memphis to Jacksonville, for eventual carriage to San Juan, Puerto Rico, every two weeks. 7 million cans! That's like, a six-pack for every soul on the island, every fortnight!
Bejus, those little wogs can drink some brew. And they have a thing for Coors Light. If I'm Peter Coors I'm showing up in San Juan wearing nothing but a loincloth and laurel wreaths. He is a fucking god there.
My key limes are ready. Hanging like pendulous little Mexican breasts on the branch.
I made a half dozen pies last year, and still have leftover frozen juice. I never got it quite right, however. If anyone has a kickass recipe I'm willing to give it a go. I'm ashamed I can't get this right.
You huff oxygen from the tank. You cut off mens' ears. You fistfuck compromised women. You drive a 1969 Dodge Charger. Your often Well-Dressed ass hangs out with a transsexual named Ben. You are Frank Booth.
What Blue Velvet character are you?
Brought to you by Girthzilla.
Just in case you're, uh, bored here don't forget I'm guestblogging with the ever evocative Mirthful Sadie at the Straight White Guy's. And it ain't pretty. I just sent Acidman the keys, too. Could get downright blasphemous.
I have a bad feeling Georgia is going to get their collective asses handed to them on a silver salver by Auburn today. Pollack gets double teamed, and that "Cornell" fucker runs over Georgia like Jesus on water. 34-14 Auburn.
The one surefire winner today? Me! Because I'm going to make chili for the game (yes, I have no respect for my pyloric valve) and drink a 12-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
Heineken? Fuck that shit!
Do I prefer the lithe, lissome Renee Zellweiger of Chicago, or the 30 pounds heavier Renee of Bridget Jones? I think Bridget Jones. Sometimes Daddy likes a little junk in the trunk.
Now that I've resolved that dilemma, perhaps I can get around to replacing the flashing that hurricane ripped off my house. The neighbors are calling the Velocihovel 1313 Mockingbird Lane, and that is a bad thing, I'm told.
The beautiful Kelley performed a wicked dilation and curettage on my site, and I feel wonderful! No viruses, either. Except for that nagging thing on my lip.
I return from my travels, and I have a virus of some sorts. A pop-up that tells me I must notify Microsoft of the problem they gave me. That's all.
DO NOT COMMENT.
This appears insidious. Spybot and Adaware are wimpering in their cribs. I may have to literally throw this hardware in the trash and start over. How did it happen? No idea. But I DO have 2 daughters who surreptitiously visit filesharing sites when I'm absent.
Hopefully THE MAN will throw them in jail. No bail moneys from me, either. This totally sucks.
Scott Peterson going to ass-rape school
forever until they execute him.
Georgia beats Florida.
Things are breaking my way. I hate when that happens, because of the dream I had in 6th grade, when the Almighty mistakenly called me Job, then quickly tried to retract it. Cat out of the bag? I don't think so. He doesn't make mistakes.
Something wicked this way comes. Hopefully it will be relatively tame. Shingles, perhaps?
Another food post. This will go a long way towards explaining why I was so damned puny last night at dinner, however, so there's that, wrapped up in a mea culpa to boot.
My Rhode Island salesman and I travel together a lot. He is a great guy, and an aficianado of greasy spoons. He's turned me on to all-night diners and breakfast joints from Baltimore to Boston. I seldom eat breakfast unless I'm on the road. I enjoy it, but it tends to awaken the whatthefuck in my belly.
As we were leaving Atlanta on our way to Charlotte Wednesday, and I passed the North Avenue exit of 75/85, I had an inspiration. "Ever eaten at the Varsity?" says I. "Huh?" says he.
And so: lunch at the Varsity. He was amazed at the size, and the setup. I forewarned him: there are only two phrases you will hear from the staff: "Whuyaha'?" and "Heeuhitih", loosely translated as "What will you have?" and "Here it is."
He was floored. I had the chili dog and chili cheeseburger combo with the frosted orange. He had the same. Then had another. Then topped it off with another chili dog. Atkins freaks can eat some fucking grub.
I must admit it had been some years since I'd eaten there, and it was rather strange to be in the Varsity with the sun still up. The V was always more of a place to regroup after a Peter Tosh concert at the Agora, or the Dead at the Fox, when I would try to fingerpaint lysergic on the table top with my chili. Just to remember where I was.
So yes, I impressed him mightily, and the net result was I had serious digestive problems for two days. $35.50 filet mignon? Sorry. Can't handle it. That $2 chili dog fucked me up good. But please put it in a sack for my corpulent client here. The one gnawing the brontosaurus ribs. With the blood streaming down his chin.
I'm thinking vegan. At least for a year or two. I've been abusing the cornucopia of the bolt gun for too long, I suspect.
I just had dinner with some customers at the Palm Restaurant in Charlotte, spinoff of the famous Palm. I was feeling puny, but duty must be done. I ordered the small filet, which was the size of a softball when it arrived. I carved off about six bites, and left the vast majority. The customer next to me ordered the prime rib. It looked like a slab of brontosaurus rib. Four inches thick and the size of a catcher's mitt. Bloody as hell. Could have been a partial birth abortion for all I know. It was a disgusting thing, watching this guy eat it.
Desserts were proffered, and I swear the slices of cake were eight inches high, and were actually full quarters of whole cakes. I ate three bites of key lime pie and felt bloated just watching everyone else eat.
I have as robust an appetite as anyone when I'm up to snuff, but fucking Ada. These weren't repasts, they were got-dam army messes. You could have fed a Biafran village for a week off that prime rib. The only thing more disgusting than conspicuous consumption is conspicuous presumption. Who would presume anyone in their right mind wants a meal that takes three doggie bags in a shopping sack to haul off? Blech.
I'm going to miss John Ashcroft. Really. We had little in common: he a teetotalling fundamentalist, me a Wet ready to start an ashram at the drop of a brassiere. He a barbershop quartet singer, me singularly repulsed by the genre.
I'm not crazy about the Patriot Act, either. The name alone gives me the fucking willies. Too Newspeak to me. I much prefer turning a blind eye to the occasional neutering of a suspected terrorist than the institutionalization of such.
But no one has attacked us in 3 years. Someone is doing something right. If thousands of psychotic suicidals can pour into Iraq how come a dozen can't waltz over the Rio Grande border and strike us?
Ashcroft did his job. Well. I don't want him as my jury foreman, but you get the picture. Perhaps we can make him the skip tracer who hunts down John Fastow and slays him. I'd pay for that.
Dax knows. That is a great story.
We had a similar swing at the summer cottage in Bluffton, in the next door neighbor's territory, but they were elderly, and often absentee owners, so we abused the privilege, so to speak.
The platform was so high up that magnificent live oak it usually took ten or fifteen tosses of the two by four seat for the rider to capture it. Then it took another fifteen minutes to gun up the nuts to ride it down. It was like a parachute drop. Twenty feet of free fall, then the rope would catch, and you soared upwards like a firework. The tree was certainly old. The rope was ancient. This was the late '60's, and I figure the rope was from the '50's. I simply cannot believe we never killed ourselves. We had a similar rope swing on our own property, and you could climb on the abandoned dog kennel and leap, and my little brother had the stuffing knocked out of him when that rope broke. The terror of having the breath knocked out of oneself is palpable, and interminable. I thought we'd killed the lad.
A few years later, when I discovered reefah, I always related those initial rushes to that rope swing. That sense of euphoria, and loss of control, and dropping endlessly, were compelling.
Rope swings. The childhood version of, of, what? To be honest, I think what we really seek in stimulants are actually adult versions of the rope swing.
Here's a University of Georgia graduate who has it going on. In my mind's eye, at any rate. And no, I could not find a Singapore caning frame on Ebay. I DID find some caning sticks, however. Buy It Now at $22.95? Don't even go there. You know I've already done it.
Such a legacy I shall leave my children.
I transpose a lot of letters when I type. A Lot of letters. A Fuckload of letters. I just can't figure out if it's due to poor typing habits, insipient brain necrosis, or lysdexsia.
Oops. Inadvertent Irony.
"The election results reflect the decision of the right wing to cultivate and exploit ignorance in the citizenry," writes Jane Smiley, a woman who couldn't catch a clue if you used one as a pestle and her brain pan as the mortar.
Go read it all.
NPR covered an anti-Bush rally today:
"What do we want?"
When do we want it?"
And I immediately had a flashback to my childhood: Doctor Smith was clutching the
appetizers children to his chest, Robot was flailing his arms madly, Guy Williams and Mark Goddard were wrestling over the Zorro outfit, June Lockhart was blowing Ian Gillan behind the Jupiter 2 while Lassie sniffed her nether regions, and, of course, Marta Kristen was whispering Velociman! to the camera.
What can I say? I had a sordid childhood. Or imagination.
Because if you grind the peyote buttons in a peppercorn mill, the evil shaman humours are released, and you are left with only the gentle humours, like that little Sunshine girl. And then I won't have to kick your ass.
Puddyhead and I were reminescing over a lapdance the other night, as we seldom get to see each other. He reminded me of his ten year high school reunion. As Puddy mischief goes it's fairly tame, though picaresque.
Pud went to Benedictine, the all-boy Catholic school, and his wife went to St. Vincent's, the all-girl Catholic school. As BC and St. Vincent's hold their reunions together, it was a special moment for both of them.
Except for the fact Puddyhead got slammed beforehand. He was also suffering from an execrable case of chicken pox he had contracted from his children. His face was covered in horrid scabs and pustules, and puffy from any variety of reasons. Did I say he was corked? Aye.
When the band took a break Puddy took advantage of the lull, and the open mike, climbed onto the stage, and proceeded to deliver a blistering, slurred harangue to his classmates.
"I hate you people! I didn't like you then, and I sure as hell don't like you now!" etc. etc. This went on for a few minutes, then, when Puddyhead thrust his arms skyward in his moment of triumph, he fell over backwards into the drumkit. He was then forcibly tossed into the parking lot.
When I asked his wife at the time what she had done, she gave me a look that chilled the marrow in my bones.
Is this Puddy's Finest Hour? Oh, no. More like the Raid on Dieppe. But worth sharing, at any rate. When I asked him if I could post the story, he nodded, and seemed pleased. One brick at a time. We'll get to the hard core stuff one of these days.
And so the Battle of Fallujah goes down. Six thousand maniacs holed up like rats. This is going to be a bloodbath. For them. It could have gone down in April, and that silly election cost us a few lives.
I am CARE packaging virgins as we speak, but the vetting process is totally fucking insane.
How was my brother's wedding? Stupor duper. The reception was well-lubricated by an ample supply of Chatham Artillery Punch. So much so that I booty-danced with Puddyhead whilst we both wore bird masquerade masks. More on that another day.
Yes, my brother was wise enough to whip up a couple of gallons of my mother's signature Artillery Punch recipe. This stuff tastes like Kool-Ade, and humbles mere moonshine in neuron destruction.
The history: in colonial days the Chatham Artillery would have balls, as people with fancy uniforms are wont to do. The women would serve up punch, and the men would surreptitiously tipple their flasks into the punchbowl; hence the variegated nature of the Punch. Six liquors, wine, fruit, especial ingredients. Steeped for six weeks minimum, and served with champagne, freshly added.
My mother had an old recipe which she had tweaked a bit. Being a quite modest drinker, she had no reason to question the potency of the concoction. So every year at her Christmas party she would serve up the Punch. Her social circle basically consisted of Episcopalian movers and shakers, and it was always a pleasure to watch the old hens and jurists attempt to maneuver their stoles and suitcoats and land yachts as they struggled to figure out what mule had kicked them in the head.
From a tort point of view it was dangerous stuff, but we certainly enjoyed it. I personally nearly broke my neck performing an unintended almost one and a half gainer off my mother's deck after 3 cups of the poison. I have seen single women kiss my priest in front of his wife, old men stick their tongues down The Bride's throat, insane grab-ass on an unparallelled scale (often by me) at my mother's parties after this Punch was deployed. All with great Anglican harumphing. My poor mother knew not what she wrought.
And so I was pleased, and infused with great nostalgia, when my brother went out of his way to produce the prime brew for his own wedding. From the original recipe. What a bro. He pleases me. My younger brother was pleased as well. He loves to watch me drink this stuff. Lookee: I ended up in an all-black daquiri bar at 1:30am with my niece and nephew after the reception, trying to purchase a Denny's Slam. Grist for the mill.
And so: I will mix the greatest batch of Chatham Artillery Punch ever for the Spring Blogfest. Let us compare the effect to good old corn liquor. I am a prescient person. I predict a bit of mayhem. And I'll be the guy dressed as an Anglican priest.
I just want you to know that I attended my first Red Hat gathering today and had a marvelous time! And I am not 50 yet, I am a "junior" member so I wear a pink hat and lavender outfit. Shame on you who are narrow-minded and have nothing better to do than put down other people's interests. "Hats off" to all Red (and Pink) Hatters out there!!! You Go Girls!!!!!
I take a couple of days off and I and my noisome friends have been outed again. At least no one is doing the Lynndie. Although I do have dinner with Damocles tonight.
Off to Savannah for my brother's wedding. Yes, my siblings acknowledge me:
I come bearing gifts.
Keep an eye on Fallujah for me.
and I intend to spend it. That's my style.
Quothe Grendel W Bush.
I like it. Think it has legs.
Posted by guestblogger Beowulf
What's the deal with Arafat? Is he dead or alive? For peace or for intifada? Unrepentant terrorist or unrepentant terrorist?
And if they are harvesting his organs I gots dibs on the pineal gland. My Intrepids know how I crave a pineal gland, even for ceremonial purposes.
Posted at Democratic Underground this afternoon:
First of all, this election was definitely rigged. I have no doubt about it. It's a statistical impossibility that Bush got 8 million more votes than he got last time. In 2000, he got 15 million votes from right-wing Christians, and there are approximately 19 million of them in the country. They were eager to get the other 4 million. That was pretty much Karl Rove's strategy to get Bush elected.
But given Bush's low popularity ratings and the enormous number of new voters -- who skewed Democratic -- there is no way in the world that Bush got 8 million more votes this time. I think it had a lot to do with the electronic voting machines. Those machines are completely untrustworthy, and that's why the Republicans use them. Then there's the fact that the immediate claim of Ohio was not contested by the news media -- when Andrew Card came out and claimed the state, not only were the votes in Ohio not counted, they weren't even all cast. I would have to hear a much stronger argument for the authenticity, or I should say the veracity, of this popular vote for Bush before I'm willing to believe it. If someone can prove to me that it happened, that Bush somehow pulled 8 million magic votes out of a hat, OK, I'll accept it. I'm an independent, not a Democrat, and I'm not living in denial.
I actually got invited to a Kerry fundraiser so I could talk to him about it. I raised the issue directly with him and with Teresa. Teresa was really indignant and really concerned, but Kerry just looked down at me -- he's about 9 feet tall -- and I could tell it just didn't register. It set off all his conspiracy-theory alarms and he just wasn't listening.
Why does this shit crack me up so much? The tears are streaming down my face.
I understand a multi-front war is not a good idea, but I figure a light mech division of Wal-Mart greeters could take out the Opthalmologist Minaret
next door in Syria, if we can work out the rubber underwear logistics. Then all those Phoenicians in Lebanon will be ours. All ours. We could "outsource" the administration to the Phalangists.
Just a thought.
Now that the election is over I imagine the complete and utter incineration of Fallujah is only hours away. And that will take care of that. Lame duck flambé. Yes, those smouldering corpses are disgusting, my fellow Americans. But I've got four more years! Life is good.
On a side note, I realize Bush is gaga over open borders, but that Iraqi one is a fucking nightmare. These "insurgents" aren't popping up out of outhouses and internet cafes.
Asshat Red Hat files:
I am 63 and still kickin' ass. I work fulltime;having raised my children; have a wonderful, supportive husband who encourages me to have fun with my red hatters. Too bad you don't understand what it's all about. I hope that you GET a full and active life thereby eliminating the time you must have on your hands to make such asinine comments.
For those of you who keep pointing me to red state/blue state maps and telling me Bush won Hawaii: the "big island" you keep directing me to is fucking Alaska! They just put it next to Hawaii for purposes of convenience!
I will admit the Aleutian Islands did go Bush.
"Look at the big red island" indeed.
Posted at Democratic Underground at 1:59 am EST (sure, I'll give the nipples a link):
The Kerry Campaign says they think they won Ohio. John Kerry isn't conceding. Neither am I. And neither should you.
This is Florida 2000 all over again. But they're not going to steal it this time. No fucking way.
CNN says there are 600,000 ballots still to be counted in Ohio. Ohio Secretary of State Ken Blackwell says it could take 11 days to count them. The entire political and media establishment is going to Ohio.
This is it, people. The moment of truth. This time, I am not going to sit here in my comfy house and watch this on TV. This time, I'm not going to sit back and watch a bunch of Republican congressional staffers in button-down shirts and loafers shut down the process. Fuck that.
I have a tent. I've got my health. I've got a car. Now that the campaign is over, I've got a shitload of free time. I have a website that gets tens of thousands of people every day.
I am going to Ohio.
Who is with me?
George W. Bush
President of the United States of America
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue
Congratulations on a splendid victory. You should be very proud of the rousing mandate the American people have given you. Please give Laura and the children my best. And tell Dick to have Mary give me a call. This Jack the Lad is known as something of a "turner" in these parts. Perhaps I can be of assistance. Please give my regards to Karl as well, and tell him the Osama tape was brilliant. I swear, Ahmet looked just like the old goat! Karl is a maniac. But you know that.
Now, to the chase. About that ambassadorship to the Seychelles Islands. I accept your explanation that my original missive of December 19, 2000, was inadvertently misplaced. Hey. These things happen. Look at those WMD's, ha ha! Nonetheless, my pursuit continues.
I am the perfect choice for this highly sensitive posting, as I tan easily, love island beverages, and can easily master the local Creole patois, as I grew up speaking both Geechee and Gullah. I also understand the native Seychellois are quite friendly little wogs, so we should get along famously, so long as the wingtips stay shined. Know what I mean?
As to my duties. I realize protocol stipulates a certain amount of official state entertaining is required, and I'm fine with that. Please remember, however, this is the Indian Ocean, and I intend to spend a considerable amount of time away from the War Department (she says hello as well), ensconced in a jade hut on the beach in the Amirantes with several Malabar native girls. I will have my cellphone, however. Did you know stress is the number one killer of State Department officials at a certain level of, shall we say, maturity? It is, my good man. And we can't have that.
One other thing: could you post Tiffani-Amber Thiessen to the ambassadorship across the straits in Madagascar? I'm just crazy about that girl!
By the way, do you remember that $50,000 campaign contribution from "Anonymous"? Got your back, bro.
Please advise as soon as possible. Hopefully before inauguration. Do you get two of those, or does the first one cover the entire eight years? At any rate, I need to know as quickly as possible because I have a package coming from those "farmers" in Afghanistan we discussed, and I don't know if this stuff will keep forever.
Again, a stunning victory, and I remain your (hopeful) Plenipotentiary, and Defender of the Realm,
I thought John Kerry's concession speech was dignified, sincere, heartfelt, and healing.
I also realize I can afford to feel magnanimous right now, too.
I wonder how many of those 55 million Democrats are nursing their Kerry hangovers today and asking themselves "What the fuck, precisely, did we hate so much about Dicky Gephart? Remind me again."
Like a Clown in Chinatown. And Brit Hume is laying the death toll on him. Tuppence, layed over the eyelids. This will more than make up for the fact I have to be up in five hours...
is a stud hoss. I take his word to the bank. And he is currently pissing his drawers over Ohio.
It all comes down, again, to Cuyahoga County. I don't want to talk about CHEATERS, but if it comes down to Cuyahoga County, bet on it. Dead men will vote. For John Kerry.
It all gets down to the shorthairs here. It's midnight, and no one is calling Ohio.
Of course, since the Democrats are involved, I'm reminded of a few things. It's not "How many votes do we have?"
It's "How many votes do we need?" Because the machine WILL create them.
Fuck. I dig the trend, but I want OHIO!!!!
I still cannot believe I didn't have Fox News during the 2000 fiasco. CNN sucked so bad. Not that Fox was without warts that election cycle, but CNN? Fuck. The revamped Tass is cleaner than that.
Jim Geraghty, at NRO's Kerry Spot, tonight. He's wired into the Big Dogs at the RNC, and is getting some sweet skinny.
Geraghty has been the hoss of this election.
Do they have blog Pulitzers? Why not?
And no, I'm not talking about exercising that franchise, although it's been in the family for generations, and we fellows are right proud of the genes.
I attempted to vote at 6:50am, but there was a car crash at the entrance to the little church where I vote, and traffic was snarled. Two of St. Johns County's Finest, no entrance or egress to the parking lot, a freaking disaster. It took me 30 minutes to weave through it just to get to work.
So I left the ballcrush mit paycheck at 3:00 and went to my stylist for my prearranged appointment. I love this girl. A Bush fan, a discreet single chair salon in the back of a tanning salon full of hot Florida babes, a surreptitious pitcher of martinis for the discriminating client. Sweetness. Although 45 minutes for a trim is a bit excessive, I take my rubba-rubbas where I find them.
Then back to the polling station, where there was no wait. Just nice sincere little old Republican ladies. And a parking lot full of the selfsame SJC Finest, obviously disappointed there were no moveon.org types around to administer a howling baton-beating upon.
Neck-a-neck right now, as the Northeast just came in, but we olla pumped for the great midwest/southwest romp. If such exists.
I'm going to
move out of the country! act like an adult and accept the fact a majority of Americans found my candidate lacking, not act like a mewling, over-indulged, hysterical little Hollywood cumdump, rending my garments like a fucking retard.
That doesn't mean I'm going to like it, however.
Only one ballot was cast for the President, unfortunately. I did my part to kill last year's bullshit high-speed rail amendment among other things. Unfortunately there was no amendment to kill last year's pregnant pigpen amendment.
That's right. The morons in this state passed a constitutional amendment to regulate the size of breeding pens for pregnant pigs. So they could turn around. They put that in the fucking state constitution! Is nothing sacred?
I was so hoping there would be an amendment to kill the so-called Reacharound Amendment.
Between Eric and Sadie, and the erstwhile pic at 'Neck's, who had prettified me as a nice Hindu lady, and hopeful owner of the Premiere Motel, I've been outed.
I should probably rethink that consultant post, but that is in reality my legal defense. I is apparently insane.
Update: Et tu, Sam? Have you no shame?
Normally, when I read a story that begins
When I was in college, I became friends with one of my professors...
I'm ready for either a Penthouse Forum column or a long slow night on the divan with lots of crying, and no sex for Velocidaddy.
Fortunately this story has a far more interesting ending. Although banging occurred.
Kelley predicts a 70% voter turnout based on the fact that the entire voting populace is energized, and polarized.
Acidman disagrees, owing to his essential belief in the inherent laziness of the typical American voter.
I will split the difference: I predict a 70% turnout, but only by 55% of the voters. Because the Democrats are going to CHEAT! CHEAT! CHEAT! CHEAT! CHEAT! They are lying fucking liars! They lie! They are Lying Liars, those lying fucks!!!
Thank you, Larry O'Donnell, for helping me find my voice.
Nothing is more fucked up in a corporate environment than the return of the consultants. Although not quite an annual event, it is quite regular. As the beetle returns to his dunghill, the bat to his guano heap, they keep coming back. They have to. Companies pay like roofied sailors in a Tijuana donkey show, and the consultants love the smell of that rag.
I've been through five reengineerings/rightsizings/downsizings/rectum fingerings in 13 years in my own little world. Why so many? Because we fuck it up so badly each time. And it is not the consultants' fault. It is the Process. And I've seen the Process in a dozen organizations.
The Process starts when a gripless CEO finds his tit in a wringer due to his own fucking incompetence, and over-reliance on the Good Ole Boy party posse he's surrounded himself with. Only two things capture the attention of a CEO: Wall Street analysts, and his Board of Directors. The latter is generally bought off, anyway, because they are fellow Good Ole Boys, but the former can cause serious problems for an underperforming screwhead.
Enter the consultants. Because the CEO is panicking now, shitting his step-ins, worried his extravagant lifestyle and egregious perks are going down the crapper. The only thing that will save his ass now is change. And I mean Big Change! Outside the fucking coffin change. Para-fucking-digm shift Change. So he lays down his goblet of Merlot, pushs aside the grapebowls and nubile palm fanners, and cries for the consultants to save his perfidious ass.
So one of the Big Five (or however many are left: love you Arthur Andersen, you ignoble shitheels) are called in, and a $20 million check is dangled, and the Process continues. How does this happen? Because when Caligula cries "Change!" everyone, from senior executive vice presidents on down, lines up like the whores they are. Because the Inner Sanctum, the Good Ole Boys, know they will circle the wagons, and be protected, even though they are the decision makers who screwed the pooch in the first place. There are plenty of potential victims extant to still make this thing work.
The consultants: snot-nosers, fresh out of B-school, with no industry knowledge. Just a litany of buzzwords. Lots of skill sets, no meat on the bone. And they are given carte blanche. They mean well, and work their asses off, because they want to be one of the five or ten percent that will make partner at 28, because of the cut of their jib, and never work again. I've never seen a partner lift a finger. The associates do all the work, and are mentally lashed like a 24/7 burro who doesn't have a sufficient work ethic back there in Tijuana. But the sad fact is they don't have a clue. They're newbies. This is their first job, oftentimes.
So bizzaro themes gestate, and are birthed, and the GOB's smile and nod. What the fuck? Better than any idea they've come up with in the last ten years. Then the Process proceeds apace, and the next thing you know you have a wet-eared consultant standing beside you in the urinal, Sarbanes-Oxleying your lizard leakage. Too many shakes. The Process says only three.
The ultimate outcome is a subverted organization, embedded resentment, institutionalized sabotage and bumfuckery.
But hey. That's just my opinion, and I embedded myself in my particular organization, and I generally come up on the sweeter side of these deals. Always got a raise in the process of a massacre.
I'm just saying there has to be a better way to run an organization. I hate to see good old fashioned capitalism corrupted by venal fucks. And my stock options are totally upside down, godammit!