After back to back tittie bar posts I'm not exactly ingratiating myself here on the homefront, so I should post something a little less, ah, controversial.
Of course, the damage is done. If I want sex tonight it will be with my Resusci Annie.
And, yes. I know I have no one to blame but myself.
Hey: to 2005. May we all have a glorious year, and sympatico relationships with our CPR dolls.
Okay. One more. I need to empty my cache, as I expect big things in the '05. I took a year off between college and law school, and worked at a friend of my father's electrical supply concern on Oglethorpe Street. It was next door to the Emerald Room, then the best tittie bar in Savannah.
Well, the electrical supply business burned down. I had a large hand in the wiring of the lighting fixtures department, so I'm surprised it didn't burn down earlier. At any rate, the owner decided to retire, but kept a handful of us on retainer to handle the backordered stock. He'd worked out a deal to store it in the upstairs of the Emerald Room until he could dispose of it.
My job consisted of sitting at the bar in the Emerald Room, drinking coffee and chatting with the girls, until a delivery truck would show up. Then I schlepped the stuff upstairs. I got to know the girls pretty well, on a conversational basis.
I got married a few weeks into this regimen. My brothers and new brother-in-law and I met at my older brother's for libations. Now, my older brother had returned from Turkey with three bottles of yeni raki, which is like Ouzo with date rape drugs dissolved in it. I drank my six-ounce bottle and was effectively slashed. As the night turned puny they wanted to break it up, however I had an inspiration, and demanded we all go to "see my friensh at the Emerraroom".
Being dutiful guys they complied. I don't recall too much after that, but their memories are quite sharp on the matter. I do recall climbing onto the bar to do the "bump" with the girls, and I recall stripping. At least my torso. I am told management took offense when I pulled my pants down, and I was summarily carried off like Ozzy from a mosh pit leap.
The moral of this story is don't drink yeni raki, of course. I believe there is a subliminal message about boys gone wild, as well, but I leave that for you to decide.
There. I feel better. Mostly because I'm not going to tell you the rest of the story. Sorry to disappoint. I will be more than happy to elaborate on Jekyll Island, but I must warn you The Bride is getting tired of hearing about it.
Something about the new year. I evacuate sordid memories in anticipation of collecting new sordid thoughts moving forward.
1993. I am moving to Memphis, so my lads take me out to a strip joint in a nasty section of North Charleston. The place is absolutely pestilent.
The dancer is about sixty, and her stretch marked breasts are criss-crossed with indigo arteries. An indignant and inebriated Velociman stands up and gets in her face and starts yelling "Whoop! They it is! Whoop! They it is!"
Cut to the parking lot. A bruised Velociman lifts himself from the ground, the imprint of shingletab freshly scored into his face. He turns, shakes his fist, and accompanies his lads to Outback for a nice hot steak that was, fortunately, less veiny than that horror of a stripper. And, yes, my lads were no help whatsoever. They told me later they wanted to kick my ass out. Ingrates. I treated them well.
When I built my house in Memphis there was a lot of construction going on in Bartlett, where I lived. I lived in a nice neighborhood, a three-wood shot to the first green of the golf course from my front yard. My builder was very good. Some builders were not so scrupulous, though.
One guy was busted for building himself a hidey-hole/crawl space over a couple's bathroom. He would let himself in with a master key, and
masturbate watch through a peephole as the wife bathed, dressed, defecated, whatever. When they busted him the hidey hole was littered with food wrappers, water bottles, and jars of piss.
The name of his company was B&E Construction. I always found that humorous. And if I hear from his attorneys I will say "He was convicted, correct?"
Why I am thinking about this on New Years Eve is incomprehensible to me, but I felt like getting it off my chest before I mosy down the street for fireworks and likka.
Jim at PRS has a post about maple syrup, and the faux varieties thereof. Catfish commented that he preferred cane syrup.
I hate to break ranks with Cat on this, but I grew up on cane syrup, and found it to be a sorry-assed substitute for maple syrup. I felt like poor white trash eating that stuff. Perhaps I chewed on too much sugar cane growing up. I just don't like the taste.
I have no taste for sweets now, anyway. I find the site of a plate of pancakes (or flapjacks, or johnnycakes, or whatever the fuck my northern cousins call them) nauseating. I still like Aunt Jemima, though.
That is all.
I'm republishing a post from 9/03, not because I have nothing new to say, but because no one answered the first time around. I want the rest of Tuco's crimes. That's what I'm about these days. Spackling in the ellipses of my life:
Yeah, I know I border on obsession with The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly on this site, but so what? At least I'm fixating on a film Kurosawa would have given both nuts to make. That means something, I think; and whoever mentions three guys in a three-way with their six-inchers in their hands is gonna be banned from here with extreme prejudice.
The question? Ah, yes. How many crimes was Tuco convicted of? Hard to say. The first hanging is pretty straightforward:
"Wanted in fourteen counties of this State, the condemned is found guilty of murder, armed robbery of citizens, state banks, and post offices; the theft of sacred objects, arson in a state prison, perjury, bigamy, deserting his wife and children, inciting prostitution, kidnapping, extortion, receiving stolen goods, selling stolen goods, passing counterfeit money, and contrary to the laws of this State the condemned is guilty of using marked cards and loaded dice..."
The next hanging is problematic because there are several conversations going on in the foreground; the litany of crimes is very indistinct in the background. What I hear?
"Wanted in fifteen counties, standing before us, ah, sitting before us, Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez, has been found guilty by the District Circuit Court of the following crimes: murder, assaulting a Justice of the Peace, raping a virgin of the white race, statutory rape of a minor of the black race, derailing a train in order to rob the passengers, ... robbery, highway robbery, robbing an unknown number of post offices, breaking out of a ..., counterfeiting and passing counterfeit money, and the accused... promoting prostitution ...high places of authority... illegal postal pick up... intention of selling black fugitive slaves... the sheriff in Sonora... hired himself out as guide on a wagon train, after receiving his payment in advance, he deserted the wagon train in the hunting grounds of the Sioux Indians... misrepresenting himself as a Mexican general in order to receive a salary and living allowance from the Union Army..."
That's all I can catch. The ellipses represent garbled crimes, but with Leone dead I'll have to find a script.
Or a life. The latter would be easier, eh what?
BTW: There will be multiple viewings of the film in my room at the Grovel in the Golden Isles, April 2005.
Hangman: "....wanted in fourteen counties of this state, the condemned is found guilty of crimes of murder, armed robbery of citizens, state banks and post offices; the theft of sacred objects, arson in a state prison, perjury, bigamy, deserting his wife and children, inciting prostitution, kidnapping, extortion, receiving stolen goods, selling stolen goods, passing counterfeit money and contrary to the laws of this state the condemned is guilty of using marked cards and loaded dice. Therefore, according to the powers vested in us, we sentence the accused before us, Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez and any other aliases he might have, to hang by the neck until dead....may god have mercy on his soul....proceed."
next Hangman: "....wanted in fifteen counties of this state, the condemned standing before us...sitting before us...Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez has been found guilty by the third district circuit court of the following crimes: Murder, assaulting a justice of the peace, raping a virgin of the white race, statuatory rape of a minor of the black race...derailing a train in order to rob the passengers, bank robbery, highway robbery, robbing an unknown number of Post Offices, breaking out of the state prison, using marked cards and loaded dice, promoting prostitution, blackmail, intention of selling fugitive slaves, and counterfeiting. Crimes against places of high authority include burning down the courthouse and sheriff's office in Sonora. The accused is also guilty of cattle rustling, horse thievery, supplying Indians with firearms...misrepresenting himself as a Mexican General, unlawfully drawing salarly and living allowances from the Union Army. For all these crimes the accused has made a full and spontaneous confession. Therefore we condemn him to be hung by the neck until dead....may the lord have mercy on his soul....proceed."
The refuse collectors were 11 hours late today, it being the Christmas detritus day. They were in ebullient spirits, though, no doubt enjoying overtime.
I went to the gas station (you say convenience store, I say gas station. Let's agree to disagree) for batteries. One cretin womanning the register, the line was long. I realized my refuse guys were in front of me, so I said "You guys kicked butt today." He came alive, and said "We aren't finished yet. My first truck broke down, and I've had to make two extra trips to the dump, probably a third tonight, but we'll get it done."
A glum queue came alive at this. The guy in front of him said "You're the trash guy! You guys did a good job today." Conversation ensued, and it was alright hearing some banter about the asskicking the trash guys did on their busiest day of the year.
I don't relate this because I want anyone to think I fancy myself a Man of the People, or a person who pats himself on the back because he talks to the Garbage Man. I'll tell you this, though: when I lived on Memorial Drive in Atlanta I had a neighbor who was a Garbage Man, and he made a decent living at it, and he enjoyed it. "Don't worry about me," he said. "I do just fine."
That was 21 years ago, and I've always taken care of my refuse collectors, although the fifty I left taped in an envelope today seemed paltry after the gas station conversation.
I take care of my guys in other ways, though. I eschew Goodwill because they resell donations. They are a jobs program. I think the Salvation Army does a good job, but I drop in the bucket, when some ACLU screwhead or corporate lawyer isn't chasing them away. Target suffered this year from my wallet. QVC did quite nicely, unfortunately.
Back to my point: when I have an old computer, or furniture, or anything I have no more use for I always give it to my Garbage Men. They always figure out how to lash it onto the rig, at least until they can deposit it for later recovery. They appreciate it, and I know it goes to people I care about. Even if they resell it.
I like my crew. They know the drill, and keep an eye out. They are neighbors.
My fonts seem to be expanding and contracting on an hourly basis. Mostly expanding to nonegenarian 400+ spectacle levels.
Counterintuitive, I know. My templates look fine. But I see it, and my perception is the only one that counts around here.
Anyone else notice this? Or do you need to take the special blue pills?
This article distresses me. Actually, it irritates me. Actually, it pisses me off.
Thousands of dead bodies washed up by tidal waves in Phuket were posing a dilemma for authorities, with Western countries keen to preserve the remains of their nationals for identification and Thai health officials favouring quick disposal...
Officially, Bangkok has promised Western countries enough time for foreign medical experts to inspect the bodies.
"It is not true that Thailand has started to cremate or bury foreign tourists' corpses en masse," Foreign Minister Surakiart Sathirathai said.
"We will comply with their religious requirements. If we know the corpses are in advanced state of decomposition then we will keep them temporarily in body bags, caskets or containers," he told reporters.
At a meeting in Bangkok Wednesday, Thai Interior Minister Bhokin Bhalakula assured French Foreign Minister Michel Barnier that "no corpse will be cremated without DNA proof that it was a Thai national's," a French diplomat said...
On Thursday, Western medico-legal experts held talks with Thai authorities in Phuket on this very sensitive matter.
"Westerners favour cooperation and an international management of the bodies," one expert said.
A final decision is expected soon on transporting all bodies to one area, perhaps close to an airport, which is what Western experts wish, or to send foreign experts out to all the sites where bodies are stacked.
"I don't believe it is possible to put all the bodies in the same place," said one European diplomat, speaking on condition of anonymity.
Let me see. Europeans want to make Thai officials segregate bodies so that they can identify the remains and take them home for proper burial. What racist cocksuckers. It's okay for you Siamese and Tamils and Bengalis to mass bury or incinerate your family and neighbors, but please treat our victims with greater respect. It's also okay for us to force a massive epidemic from contagion in your backyard to assuage our sensibilities.
What filthy, virulent Eurotrash. I am reminded of the scene in Black Hawk Down when the soldier is told to reenter Mogadishu and he says "I can't. I've been shot." His captain snarls "We've all been shot!"
And that is it. Entire villages have been destroyed. This is carnage on a scale unimaginable save nuclear holocaust. To risk the abomination of mass disease because remains were not disposed of as quickly as possible is madness. We've all been shot.
I realize how callous this sounds, but we're talking about losing another fifty thousand souls to possibly preventable infection. Burn them. Burn them all.
Yes, I realize that I selfishly inquire despite (if not because of) news of world catastrophe, pilots seeing green, and hot dog sex being dispensed on a silver Tylenol sofa. Ah, but this is because I am a firm believer in the theory of Blogospheric Velocicentrism.
Therefore, I must explore this sixth sense biz.
Something seems monumentally awry here. I get intelligible communication endowment and a much loved conscience, and they get to retain their primordial tail, and are furthermore gifted with a powerfully intuitive defense mechanism against nature? Pfft.
While I prefer to resume possession of my communicative skills over ass decor, I would humbly sacrifice my pesky conscience for a bit of that sensory perception of the sixth kind. Hook me up.
Flynny of Divine Innerbitchin' corraled us into a BB King show (I, of course, am easily lassoed when it comes to BB) that was brilliant.
Hadn't seen BB in 9 or 10 years. The poor fellow had to do the whole show seated, and do you think that slowed him up? Nay. At 79 his voice is powerful, his fingerwork sublime. His showmanship nonpariel.
I hope this isn't his farewell tour.
"The thrill is gone."
What I think I actually heard: How did my Cocoa Puff ass land in this bowl full of Kix?
There was not a black person under 40 in the house. There were only about 12 black people there total. What a shame the lads cannot learn from the master. BB even threatened to carve up a couple of band members. It would have been quite the learning experience for the gangstas.
Thanks for the whaddup, Flynny. And the tickets, ha ha!
Show trials begin this afternoon, and since I am recording them for posterity I want everything just so. I shall cross every i, and dot every t.
I have a sinister cabal of villains, disguised as Bratz, Barbies, and Build-a-Bears before me. Enemies of the state all. It is unfortunate that these trials must take place, but repeated and robust interrogation has produced naught. They speak not their crimes.
Non-capital sentences will be served in the Gulag Velocipelago.
Who is this Work who keeps calling me? I'm too busy to talk right now!
By God, I feel rested and relaxed. Rejuvied, in fact. Nothing like a few days away from the pixelated world to get the manmeat up.
I've taken a few steps here to address some frustrating issues. I had some comment spam work done, and the results have been beyond excellent. Thanks, Paul.
I also had my Sitemeter corrected so that it catches all the site hits instead of just the mainpage hits (the Doh! Factor):
Much better. Now I can see who locates me through Roger Moore Triple Nipple web searches. Thanks, Kelley.
Content is still an issue, of course. I believe a precise, judicious recalibration of my medications will go far in correcting this, however (see post title).
As an aside I am completely flummoxed by the fact I am only the number two hit on Google for tsunami rectum. There is a sick individual out there, obviously. He should be neutralized immediately.
Speaking of tsunamis, I heard there was a big bastard somewhere. We didn't get television in lockdown, but I heard stories about Three Llankas, or something, from the radio reception from Leviticus's foil hat.
Blowflies, as well. Lots of blowflies. And an effeminate Swede. But that is redundant, eh what?
So: who's throwing the New Year's Eve Blogbash? I have some fancy new pills I'd like to share. And a story about the chafing effects of canvas straightjackets.
I am compelled to break from sabbatical to congratulate Mr. Helpful on a fascinating Final Chapter to Christina's blog novella. I knew the little fellow could pull it off. And I am not in the least upset by the public defenestration he subjected me to in the process. I earned it fair and square.
Well done, sir. You are the Master.
Choose from amongst the following:
We Atheists Just Like the Free Days Off From Work
We Sikhs Just Like the Johnny Walker Red
You Fucking Crusaders Don't Respect Ramadan, Do You?
I believe I will take a few days off and regroup this site. I am very unhappy with it. The minor problem is the generic look. The major problem is the content.
At some point I allowed my alter egos to hijack the site. I'm not sure how. Suffice it to say I now post to fulfill some mechanism of humor I don't care for anymore.
I'm not having fun anymore. I'm grinding out what I sense to be garbage, for cheap thrills.
I may change my mind tomorrow, but I don't think so. This site has somehow made me a prisoner, and, trust me, I have enough gaolkeeps.
I'm going to rethink this in the morn, but I don't feel the need to crank out the quotidian anymore. Humour yourselves elsewhere, please. And this is not a PISS OFF! post. This is an I'M TIRED post.
Why, to throw under the bus, of course. I've burned more bridges than a Zarqawi minion on khat with a tribal cousin at the local oilfield.
And so: I received this e-mail from a friend last night:
I just ogt hme and I'd drunk off my ass.
If fo some reason I on't show up in the morning...you have to cover for me.
Call me in the morning to mak sure I'm uop!
Shameful diction, and let us not even discuss the spelling. And yet it was an endearing thought, and the presentation was wonderful. So, did I cover? Did I call? Hell, no! I was already down for the count.
And yet this friend gifted me with 12 year old Macallan today for Christmas.
The point? My peeps are far cooler than me, and will eventually drop me like a bullturd at a teddy bear tea party. But that is a discussion for another day.
Sorry, hon. Catch me on the flip side, or whatever they said on Starsky & Hutch.
1963 Remco Monkey Division Helicopter. Suitable for assaulting all manner of evildoers. Proffered at Ebay. Just in case you were still looking for the ultimate Velocigift.
Update: I will also take a Visible Woman:
Repeatedly, if necessary. Something about exposed circulatory systems and internal organs just drives me crazy.
I wonder about the people marketing that Clash greatest hits on Fox News. I mean, I'm a fan of both, but I will be the first to admit I occupy a very peculiar demographic.
A friend who would probably appreciate anonymity on this one forwarded a quite disturbing video. I can't figure out if the man is trying to pork the burro, or the burro is trying to screw the man. But I often get confused in matters of the heart. I will submit that the man's trousers are down, however the burro is sporting serious wood while he chases the man.
I think this is a case of a bad idea run amok. I think an amorous advance on the man's part uncovered a gay donkey with mischief on his mind. And it appears at the end of the video the score is Burro 1, Man 0.
When I was sixteen I developed a night sport I dubbed "Follow That Rat". It consisted of me and a buddy getting smoked up, drinking Miller ponies, and selecting a random victim in traffic. The idea was to get behind them, flash the high beams once or twice to signal our presence, then follow them wherever they went. If they didn't seem sufficiently concerned another high beam shot, with fishtailing, was deemed necessary. They ususally got the hint about then.
The beauty of this game was the extraordinary lengths people would go to to shake you. There were the two girls, for instance, who meandered through Windsor Forest for forty-five minutes of cutbacks and U-turns in an effort to shake us. The poor driver finally leaned out of her car and sobbed for us to leave her alone. Okay. I felt a little bad about that one.
There was also the elderly couple who finally resorted to shooting an intersection at a red light to escape us, causing two cars to lock down, but no impacts. I saluted that old hoss with a fresh pony, I tell you. That took guts.
Did I mention we wore sunglasses and black hats? This was pre-Blues Brothers, so it was a fashion statement of sorts, but more conceived to hide our identities.
After maybe thirty of these excursions, and a few tense getaways when the prey found a cop, we tired of the game, and went back to the quest for quim.
Now I know you're thinking Hell, Velocifucker, that's just plain old stalking. I beg to differ. Stalking is a solo, furtive act rooted in incomprehensible obsession. It is a sad preoccupation that often ends in frightening violence. This was more recreational terrorism, random and easily as dangerous for the hunter as the hunted. Of course, quarry selection was important to cull the probable packers from the indefensible. Other than that I thought it was a fair match.
This is an interesting post. I sense conflict in Key, as the message is mixed. Reluctantly supports abortion at any stage, and simultaneously finds it a "disgusting, bloody, crying shame".
To hell with Social Security. The A-bomb is my particular third rail. I prefer not to touch it, other than to confess that I have funded it. However I would like to see some comment over there, as I find the topic a bellwether of the health and direction of our society.
And what I find to be a disgusting, bloody, crying shame is that there are now two more Muslims in the world. But I am an unfair, hateful person at times. I'm working on it.
I purchased a Gerber Gator clip point for myself today:
I was a good boy, and wrapped it and tossed it under the tree. Well, actually, I wrapped the box and tossed it under the tree. The blade is in my pocket.
Now, as I was strongly urging Queenie to buy switchblades for her children for Christmas, I thought to myself: what would make good trophies of the day? Bill the Butcher said ears and noses, but we are a more civilized lot, I believe. And while for a wee fellow in school bra straps and pigtails would suffice, I feel the urge for bigger game.
Thus far I have come up with:
A policeman's whistle
A tongue stud
A back pocket Skoal can
A biker wallet (chained to the belt, of course)
All of these trophies are fraught with peril, of course. Especially that whistle. For instance, have you ever been standing behind a police officer in a MacDonald's or somewhere, and reached up and gently bumped his handgun, as if you were jostled? Man, those guys are jumpy! I don't pursue that hobby anymore, as the rush just isn't worth the downside.
Back to trophies. I could use some ideas. What is the fun in having a knife if you don't use it?
I'm thinking Eric may have some ideas, because he seems to be on perpetual safari, and I don't think ears and noses are off his list, either. And since I didn't purchase Cold Steel he may already be honing up.
My eyeballs are still smoking from this rant.
Way to go, Stevie!
Wolfe and Herbie, separated at birth?
Why does the term effeminate fop come to mind?
Sorry for no Queenie posts yesterday. The good news? I'm apparently boring her now, given my low endocrine levels. I would imagine she will cut my surly bonds and return home soon. I had fun, although the parting "Here's a Bounty. Clean yourself up." was a bit insensitive, in my humble.
Post scriptum: Thanks for the genital cuff, hon. I learned a thing or three.
In the Martha Stewart Chronicles.
Memo to self: The Florida Lotto is only $6 million for tomorrow's drawing, but that will get the Fanjul Brothers off my ass for a few weeks. With perhaps a little nest egg left over.
Some of you may recall my post about the Thunderbird Motel in St. Petersburg, and how beautifully it had been restored, and the eclectic fates of the various Thunderbirds. Well, I received this comment today from one David:
I recently purchased the Thunderbird Inn in Savannah. It has a neon sign that will put all others to shame! The property is currently in the middle of a $600,000 renovation/restoration. When it is completed in the Spring of 2005, the Thunderbird will be better than new! All of the original 1964 details are being restored - including the 35' multi-color neon sign. So, when in Savannah, stop by the new "hip hotel" - a flop house no more!
I've done some pernicious things in my time: chipping in on a buddy's girlfriend's abortion like it was a freaking poker ante, consorting with prostitutes in Lisbon, breaking into my English teacher's house to steal his Christmas turkey and liquor, "purchasing" my gasoline with an
Arkansas credit card siphon hose, pursuing the blown eye even though I knew No! meant Maybe! Or even Yes! For another 150 escudos, of course.
But I was a teenager then, rambunctious and devoid of a moral compass. I am wiser now, and eschew those baser compulsions. Or so I thought. I just dropped a shitbomb on Mr. Helpful the size of a propane tank with Chapter 5. A shitbomb with a mile of string fused with the corn, that will take some very special unraveling.
I feel bad about it now. I really do. But like that blown eye, it just seemed like the thing to do at the time.
I told you I needed an ass-beating.
"52% Want Rumsfeld to Quit" says USA Today. Do you believe that? I don't. I think it is unadulterated horseshit, fabricated from whole cloth. The leftists need a new bogeyman now that Ashcroft has stepped down, that Pentacostal tit sheather.
I believe the vast majority of Americans either 1) think Rumsfeld is doing a fair to decent job, or 2) don't give a shit one way or the other. To peddle the lie that there is some groundswell of outrage and indignation among the populace is laughable, and despicable. This isn't Bob McNamara.
I'm not going to defend Rummy. I don't have to. My only concern is that he isn't killing enough evildoers. But what do I know? No one will give me any goddam kill reports. I expect this false crisis will pass, but not until they find another bogeyman.
I want to share this Chapter 5 with you, the culmination of Christina's hard work. I followed some serious talent, therefore I was reluctant to go here, but I felt if Mr. Helpful was game for Chapter Six I would go the distance.
And me. Chapter Five:
James exhaled slowly, deliberately, and examined the letter again through the azure haze of a twenty dollar Cohiba.
The National Book Foundation is pleased to inform you that you have been selected as this year's National Book Award winner in the Fiction category for your novel Up From Nothing. The Foundation has an honored tradition of selecting only those works that best represent the fiction art form with...
...at the New York Marriott Marquis Hotel on November 15th.
James placed the cigar in an ashtray and looked at his bookshelf: there were his two novels (his! what a joke) that he had had embedded in Lucite. A Fraud and a Triumph. Bookends. His nadir and his zenith. Appository beacons of his dual nature. Shame and glory. Twin tendrils, he thought.
His cell phone rang. It was Griffith. "We're going to New York next week, boy! We're going to be the toast of the town! Listen, Jimmy, don't get your hopes up, but I'm hearing Pulitzer. You have the press. It's all political bullshit, but you hit the nerve. The "Sensitive Soldier" they're calling you! Ha!"
"I'm a Marine, Tate. Not a soldier." James rubbed his eyes. He did not want to continue this conversation.
"Who gives a damn what they call you? You're laid, is what you are!" And possibly you, too, you corpulent bastard, James thought.
"I'm flying up Tuesday, Tate. I'll give the reading, nod graciously, then I'm gone. Goodbye."
I shouldn't be so tough on Griffith, James thought. He did save my life, after all. Saved me so that I could face myself every day. But he doesn't know that.
For it was Griffith who had shown up and found James passed out on the cool tile in Costa Rica, his face mired in a puddle of vomit. Griffith wasn't a fool. He knew James was in very bad shape, and the luncheon meeting had confirmed his worst fears: that James hadn't written a damned word. It was not benevolence on Griffith's part. It was money, and more importantly, his reputation. And so he had shown up with a muscular Norwegian named Trygvie, and deposited James like so much baggage on a flight back to the states.
James had resisted when he'd awakened, sobered and choleric, but Trygvie knew his business, and would grasp a piece of James' neck between two powerful fingers and twist cruelly. It was effective, if crude, and James was subdued the remainder of the trip.
Rehab was another story. The first two weeks had been pure denial. He had cursed, pouted, raged, and sulked. He was alternately sullen and blasphemous in group therapy, and sarcastic and elusive in private sessions. He was a furious creature, malignant and bitter.
Yet things changed on the sixteenth day. Not an epiphany, or realization, or even a simple drunkard's gut check. It was a hunger. A raw appetite that craved satiation. For Griffin. For his lost leg. For the expiation of the fear he'd carried since that battle-weary day.
We aren't heroes. Action is fear. Inaction is insanity. It's like D Day. If you stay on the beach you're going to fucking DIE. Action presents the probability of escape. The opportunity to get out of this alive. That is all. Boiled down to a shameful acknowledgement that loose bowels save lives.
And so James immersed himself in writing. To forget about John Barleycorn, to forget about Thach, to forget about Griffin. Furious hours scribbling, rewriting, self-editing. He was withdrawn and incurious during group and private therapy, to the chagrin of his counselor, but he worked out twice a day, forced himself into the prosthesis, and wrote and wrote and wrote.
By the time James checked out he had Up From Nothing in passable form, and delivered it to Griffith. Tate was ecstatic. A narrative of life in the battle zone, delivered with grace, humility, and bathos. And despite his more saturnine proclivities Griffith was a great salesman. He had Up sold in two weeks, and his reputation restored. By the time James recieved the letter from the Foundation Up From Nothing was in its fourth printing, and the critical acclaim was stunning.
James was tormented, of course. The success of his novel made the success of The Road to Dogwood all the more egregious, and disgusting. He despised himself.
No, I am a purloiner. A purveyor of lies. I traffic in the torment of others' souls, the sweat of their brow. And yet, I read the letters. The many letters that tell me I've made a difference. I've been relevatory; I am witness to lo these many people. I am catharsis. And so: does the end justify the means?
Sometimes. Perhaps often, he mused.
[Magnolia, Arkansas: 1975]
A decayed Chevrolet Caprice glides down the boulevard. A young Asian boy skateboards along the sidewalk on a contraption made of a one by eight piece of plywood and a rusty pair of roller skate wheels.
A Jehovah's Witness stops at the streetcorner and mops his beaded face with a sour, soiled kerchief. His pamphlets are damp, his spirit ebullient. He needs a haircut, and a new suit, but he left home freshly scrubbed, and the oppressive heat of the day and the contaminating fumes of automobile traffic do not impinge upon his optimism. There will be a witness today. There is always an opportunity to witness.
The man spots the Asian youth and waves. The boy returns the wave and demonstrates a stunt maneuver on the makeshift skateboard. The man claps in hearty approval, then crosses the street with his wetted pamphlets.
A sprinkler arcs triumphantly across the manicured yard of a savings and loan. The water smells sulphurous, obviously pumped from a shallow water well. The side of the savings and loan is stained a sad orange from the iron in the water, however the grass is green and lush. The savings and loan customers count their wealth in crumpled bills and insignificant specie, but they are the more possessive because of that fact.
A large, pleasant woman purchases a frozen chicken and canned pork and beans at the IGA. She will prepare a humble repast later for the sweating prosyletizer and the Asian child. Then they will spend the evening in prayer. Somewhere in southeast Asia victor conquers vanquished, and retribution is terrible and swift. That affects not the denizens of Magnolia, Arkansas, for the most part.
A young boy recalls his brother, however, and wonders if he still exists. They had a pact: if we get separated we will meet in New York City. I'll find you! Silly children. Life obtains in Magnolia, however, and the pact is never completed.
[New York City: 2005]
James straightens his bowtie, and flattens his tuxedo. He looks superb. He also recalls he has been back to Costa Rica. He left things there, precious things.
He also has a metal tin popcorn canister on his desk. He opens the tin, and gently pulls Maria's head out, and places it lovingly on the desktop. She is beautiful. But she looks askance! Her poor dessicated head looks confused! He sprays some perfume on her to soften the smell, then extracts the tortoise shell comb, and strokes her hair. She isn't askance. She just never saw New York City before. She'll be fine. She is a beautiful girl. Look here. A wet bar. Perhaps one vodka won't skew the mix. I'll have one. And one for my Maria.
A knock at the door. Tate? James staggers over, but keeps an eye on Maria, lest she wander. He opens the door to a shadowed figure, outlined in ebony, no characteristic apparent.
"What do you want?" says James.
"I want my goddamed novel back".
Remember those elves that rode the Norelco razor down the ski slope? Those little dudes rocked.
Why doesn't Norelco still run that commercial at Christmas? Their fucking razor technology is of the same vintage.
So what did Wonderboy bring me for Christmas tonight? The Grateful Dead Winterland DVD (closing of). 1978. The same tour I took the soon to be bride to see at the Fox for the Dead's annual Christmas show in Atlanta.
This lad is savvy. He works me like a viola, and I like it.
Excuse me. It's time for the fucking drum solo. Long may Wonderboy reign.
Emily turned 17 today. At the risk of thrashing an overwrought theme, where did the time go?
It seems like two weeks ago that I was burping her colicky self, and smelling the wonderful smell of a newborn child.
She was a beautiful baby. Exquisite, even. A China doll. She only became more beautiful as she grew. Now she is a stunning young lady.
She's out to dinner in St. Augustine with Wonderboy, but we'll share the love and festivities later.
I don't do too many things right, but I do raise beautiful, kind girls. And that is a legacy even a curmudgeonly old fool like myself can appreciate.
Happy Birthday, girl.
I sure enjoyed my trip to Whistler last January. Just saying. That condo rocked. That hot tub rocked. Those Cuban cigars rocked. Sure would be nice to go back. Just saying. Yeah, Whistler was nice. Blackcomb, too.
I sure like to ski. I liked Whistler.
Did I mention McGehee moved? Check out the new digs.
I was able to get together with my friend Puddyhead at my brother's wedding, and it was great to see him again.
And, yes, I realize Velociman and Puddyhead sounds like a bad buddy cop TV pilot that didn't get picked up.
Which is too bad, because I really liked the pilot, wherein Puddy and I infiltrated a gay bar in New Orleans during Mardi Gras in order to bust an ecstasy ring:
I believe that "doctor" who created eHarmony.com is actually a pervert who browses the personal info for late night whack sessions.
I also believe he singles out the fatties for torrid phone sex.
To everyone I spoke to last night: please understand my raccoon speak is a little rusty. Let me just add:
Ktgifh fiquvsm tlcvuif "bjirkl" vbs "mqpzx"(!)
There. I had to get that off my chest. I feel better now.
What the hell is around the world?? I've heard the expression my whole life, and have winked and nodded knowingly, but what the hey? How does this differ from 69, or upsy-deucy, or whatever?
I realize I am a neophyte in these areas, being a mere Velocichild, but around the world? Am I going to find a nice Thai meal in your buttcrack? A Cuban cigar in your nether regions? A Polish concentration camp guard in your honeyhole?
Just curious. And feel free to send your comments offline.
Update: Here is an explanation:
Around the world is all three holes. Three cums, as the girls say, one in each hole.
Well, thanks, Og. You are the man. I'm still uncertain about the third hole, however.
The word of the day is magma. Number One, because I like it. Number Two, because it's like a combination of magnum and smegma. But I don't want to go there. Not today.
I find I have little use for my fellow humans. Other than the fact some of the women have nice bodies I don't have much use for them. I cannot believe I even share genetic code with these creatures. They are as a rule adipose, hideous, and barely ambulatory slugs.
And, yes, I went shopping at the mall the Saturday before Christmas, so perhaps there is a statistical anomaly in my present viewpoint.
Rob, my asshole hurts just thinking about it. But I have known many women that loves it. You can tell that a lady really enjoys it, when you fuck her in the blown eye and you keep falling out of her ass, they are the ones that love it, there assholes are bigger than there pussy.. My ass is still hurting, Cat.
Neck has a list I can relate to, however I would add a red-dotted Anna Nicole Smith to the list.
Update: Thanks, 'Neck.
Every time I hear that Aaron Carter sing I Want Candy I think to myself "Young feller, you is candy."
Now, this bothers me to no end, but I take solace in the fact that I remain flaccid until the thought passes.
If Amy Madigan can continue to get steady work in Hollywood I should be King of the Fucking World. Or at least the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere.
And can you imagine how hot Cameron Diaz would be if she were as talented and beautiful as she thinks she is? Yowza.
I once visited Blanchard Springs Caverns in Bumfuck, Arkansas. And played strip poker there, against those peoples' wishes.
Perhaps some context is in order. Unfortunately, you won't find it here.
I broke my toe again, yesterday morning. I say again because, although I have ten of the digits, I always break the same one. Middle toe on left foot, for the Library Sciences majors in the audience.
How? I arose at 5 am for a nice simple urination. My daughter had dragged a chair into the master bathroom for Harlot Mascara Lessons from The Bride, though, apparently, and had left the beast there.
I had planned to piss in the dark, at that ungodly hour, and, yes: sitting down. Even I don't like to step in my own dried mishaps. And so I kicked that fucking chair in full stride about three feet. I really had to go, you see.
Two options: throw the chair through the window, or cry like a baby. It hurt that badly. Well, there was option three, which was to awaken my child at five of the ayem and beat her mercilessly. But that wasn't really an option, was it?
And so I cried like a baby.
Because I figured it was just stubbed, and by six am I was in Johnston & Murphys heading to the airport. I wore those damned shoes until 11:45 that night, with the toe throbbing more intensely by the hour. By the time I was able to shred my shoe and stocking it was a red, purple, heliotrope mess. Because there was no time to deal with it earlier. Fly into Norfolk, go visit the Frogs for a four hour meeting, stop by the Israelis for a nice chitchat, then catch the late flight to Newark. Dinner in Rutherford, and a very short soaking of the puppy in question at midnight.
I awoke at 5:00 (again) and, after a 7am breakfast, drove into the City for a four hour asswhipping at the hands of my Sicilian Masters. Meanwhile my puppydog is crying out for lack of attention, the poor bastard.
I skeezed the last standby seat on a 3:15 today, however, and now I am indulging my damaged and neglected, swollen and importuned, toesie with an Epsom bath, and cooing in his ear.
Tomorrow, balance and pain notwithstanding, I shall beat that child, and burn that chair.
One of the joys of the Vast Wasteland is the Holiday Season, because the shows are, well, special. Today in TV Guide I saw the upcoming:
Bobby loses his virginity, and awakens with a Skoal ring around his penis from a bi-curious Neimann-Marcus elf on a very special King of the Hill.
A malodorous, quicksilvery yeast infection rampages through the neighborhood on a very special Desperate Housewives.
Larry the Cable Guy gets an ass lift, a rhinestone baseball cap, and some adorable bell sleeves sewn on his shirts on a very special Queer Eye for the Straight Guy Meets Bluecollar TV.
Mark Harmon plays a tender and loving husband and Stephen Collins resists all manner of temptation from a scarlet strumpet on a very special Lifetime TV's 100 greatest Moments.
Okay, I made that last one up. Harmon whacks the bitch, and Collins gives his wife syphilis.
I can't wait to watch the others, however. And executive produce the last one.
I received a comment today on my old Zip and Pip post from someone called mustanggirl:
They are from Hartwell, Georgia and i am related to them; they are my great great aunts.
So of course I reached out to mustanggirl, curious to see if there was a family resemblance, but the e-mail address was a dud.
Perhaps she will read this and respond.
Update: mustanggirl comes through! And she has a brother!
I generally find people named Futch and Mungen to be unreliable sorts, given to alcohol abuse, sloth, and wife-beating.
But then, I haven't met everyone that goes by those names.
Went to a business-related cocktail party tonight in Vilano Beach, and wouldn't you know they had it at the fancy place across the street, and not at the Magic Beach Motel, which has a truly bitching enormous neon sign of bunnies jumping out of a top hat. What a brilliant sign. It conflates the preternatural with the fecund, which everyone finds a metaphysically pleasing mix. Although, in my case, fecundity is not on the mind of late, as the ritual cauterization of my hawsers preclude such mishaps.
The Magic Beach Motel would be the perfect place for a blogmeet. I'm going back for pictures.
In totally unrelated news, I have an early flight to New York tomorrow, and I intend to buy dinner and drinks down in Rutherford for this farooking guy. So if Velociworld is dormant, your fervent wishes that lightning strike my blasphemous ass has not occurred just yet. But I do tempt the heavens on a daily basis, so pay attention.
A woman! I work with has a first name! that ends in an exclamation point! I cannot decide if that is very cool!, very weird!, or both.
I received a cellphone call today from davidmsc, my Montana blogbuddy. Right out of the blue, as I was imbedded in Trafficjam Hell. How cool is that? Kelley read me the fricking riot act for posting my cellphone number, and, humbled, I took it down. But the more industrious writ it down early, and now they can mercilessly funk with me.
Good hearing from you, David. You still the Man.
Acidman has a good post up on the Peterson death penalty verdict. I agree with him.
I have major issues with the deliverance of the death penalty in cases based merely on reasonable doubt. You may know in your heart of hearts that filthy cocksucker committed the crime, but if you can't prove it then you have no business engaging in state-sanctioned murder.
Lookit: I believe in the death penalty. But the only way to protect it, and, yes, even fertilize it, is to only administer it in those cases where forensic evidence or incorruptible multiple eyewitness testimony confirms it. The concept of "I know he did it" is crap. You don't know shit. Only in an environment where the condemned are irrefutably guilty can you take solace in the ultimate act of state: the taking of a human being's life.
Have innocents ever been put to death? Probably. I would submit that the "innocent" was probably guilty of another death penalty crime for which they were never caught, but that is irrelevant to our discussion.
Duty on Death Row will, in macabre fashion, spare Scott Peterson's life for a while. He will live longer in solitude than he would as a mere lifer. He will, of course, be gutted eventually, but until that time he is, ironically, de-sanctioned by the state.
And apologia to Clement Clarke Moore, I give you this poem from Key.
I so wanted to be Donder, the Thrill Hammer of the Gods.
Eric directs us to a post by Beerbrains on a most reprehensible bathroom incident. He was endeavoring to recall the term for literally defecating one's innards out of one's turd slicer. I regret to say I do not know the term he seeks, although dinner at the Tobacco Company comes to mind. Junebugg, however, commented that the term "scours" came to her mind.
I could have gone the rest of my life without remembering that term. We raised cattle, you see, during the Great Green Acres Farm Debacle when I was a lad. Not many, just enough to occasionally truck one over to Sweatt's Abbatoir for a savage dismembering to stock the freezer. Sweatt didn't use a boltgun, either. He was purist. He had a huge bald grotesque who wielded a short handled five pound sledge. We never actually saw him smite the steer, as we had given them names like Moffitt and Pettigrew (we were Rat Patrol fans), and losing them was bitter enough without watching the deal go down. But you could tell by the fantastical impact patterns of blood on the grotesque's apron that he was a mighty man, and a one blow aficianado.
I digress, of course. The Scours. This is calf diarrhea, and a most disgusting example of bovine health gone awry. It generally occurs in bottle babies (yes, we fed the calves formulae from a giant bottle, with a nipple on it like Anna Nicole Smith's). And it is disgusting. Allow me to quote from JeffersLivestock.com:
The discharge can be white, yellow, grey or blood-stained, and is often foul-smelling.
The Super Bowl will be here in a few weeks, and my company has 100 tickets, which only cost us a million dollars. And do you think a couple of tickets might waft my way? Fuck no!
And yet, who the hell would want to actually attend the Super Bowl, and miss all those commercials?
Yesterday I paid $17 in Charleston parking tickets and $64 in Daytona Beach parking tickets, and I don't even remember being in either of those towns recently.
This would explain the unusual mileage on my vehicle of late, however, and the inexplicable Cheet-oh wrappers I keep finding on the floorboards.
When I was six years old the Only Child boy across the street, who was eight, awakened on Christmas morning to his mother explaining that his father was dead. Sometime between the tuck down to sugar plum faeries and the awakening to the glorious morn dad had had a fatal heart gripper, and expired in his sleep.
We gazed out of the windows at six a.m. as the Fields & Sons ambulance pulled away. My four siblings and I were informed by our parents that all festivities would be held indoors. If we so much as snuck outside and hallooed over a gimcrack there would be Hell To Pay.
I felt badly for Georgie, but I also had received a Varoom motor for my bicycle from Santy Claus, and was ready to fire it up. It was a curious and telling moment in my development.
All of my presents were outside presents that year. Balls, bats, kites. Nothing one could play with indoors. My older brother had been blessed with a slot car outfit that he and my father spent the morning setting up. Add despondency to the mix, because the slot car set up inadvertently had my name on it. Mom was bad about that. I believe my name was on the Vac-U-Form intended for my brother as well. My sisters' unmentionables had my brothers' names on them. And mother didn't drink.
I pouted a bit, and mulled about it, and rent my garments. Then my mother, who was not oblivious to my selfish mulings, took me aside and explained the terrible fate that had befallen our neighbors in words I could take to heart. She laid the worst guilt trip on me I have ever had in my life, and I deserved every bit of it. I also awakened that day to the sensitivity of others. I learned empathy that day, and sympathy. Not that these emotions have necessarily held fast and consistent over the years.
The next morning I took my new kickball over to Georgie's, and asked him to play, and it was popped on the third kick by the pyracantha bush, the Charlie Brown kite-eating tree of kickballers all over Savannah, the pyracantha being much beloved of sadistic parents thereabouts. But it was good.
I wasn't going to say anything else about Athens, but it is a damned discomfiting thing to watch Catfish, slouched in a chair, take a long, slow pull from a Maxwell House jar full of moonshine, then laser tag your forehead with his 9 millimeter.
Or was that just part of a feverish nightmare?
It seemed so real at the time...
Getting started early for 2005:
Six months from now Scott Peterson's farts will sound like Al Gore's debate sighs.
As I was entering the building a moment ago a guy approached me. White, thirtyish. "C'mere!" he says. "Can you spare some change?"
"Nope", says I. "I'm the cigarette guy."
"Well, I can!" he says, and tries to stuff a fistful of coins into my shirt pocket.
I pushed him away, accompanied by my patented "Beat it, you crazy fuck."
And off he went, glowering at me over his shoulder.
I also met Two Tooth today, explanation for sobriquet unnecessary. She was lucky in that she had the perfect gap between those two bottom teeth, and wedged the cigarette between them as she ambled off.
I live a blessed life.
Six handguns, four knives, several hundred doses of dangerous controlled substances, fourteen bottles of various and abused liquors, a thousand lies, slurs, slanders, and criminal accusations.
I love Athens.
There are still 2 days to vote for Best Humor Blog in that Weblog Awards thingy. As Protein Wisdom is within striking distance of winning I strongly urge you to go vote for Jeff, as a vote for me at this point would be the equivalent of kissing your sister. Or whatever you sick pups do to your sisters. Frankly, I don't want to know.
One of the upsides to smoking in the back of the building is I get to interact with my street peeps, smoke bummers all. They aren't all homeless, but they are all dispossessed of their faculties of reason. The Black Dwarf, the Bearded Lady, Cackling Man, they're all crazy.
The Dwarf, who actually has a job of some sort somewhere, bums a cigarette in most ingratiating fashion, then turns his back and refuses to converse, the arrogant bastard. I have taken to putting a crimp in his free smoke of late. Just my way of saying Up Yours.
The Bearded Lady is so absolutely repulsive I am ashamed to share the same species platform with her, the dissipated vulgarian. It is akin to discovering you share a common grandmother with a mandrill. She needs to be put down lest someone discover she is Mitochondrial Eve. She makes me sick to my stomach, she is such a disgusting example of humankind, and yet I tolerate her, and give up the smoke.
Cackling Man is a street preacher of sorts, although he only has one sermon: Moses is a maniac. With a decent stand up routine. It's not the message, though. It's the messenger, with cackling. He likes to get in your face and bark a lot. I like him for his fresh approach to performance art.
Every week the Greyhound Station disgorges the vagabond, the displaced, the lost souls. A small percentage take a shining to the climate, the pickings, the shrubbery, and stay.
Somehow they all find me.
That Somnambulist in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari is one bitching slave. I may be forced to upgrade.
I see everyone got the memo, because everyone e-mailed back. Everyone except this guy. That's because he didn't get the memo.
I folllowed a trackback ping from Monica from Prague, and I don't think she's a real blogger, as she claims. Unless a site plastered with naked teen pix qualifies as a blog. The content was excellent, but there wasn't a comments function!
I'll be glad to discuss this further via e-mail, Monica.
Protomutant hip-hop artist Publik Opinion, aka ProteinScrappleJ, beats the fucking snot out of Velociman in the Weblog Awards Rumble in the Pajungle.
That's okay, though. There's something liberating in a properly administered stomping. And I finally get to channel Cool Hand Luke in that fight with Dragline.
The object of today's ire? Mary Frances Berry, ex Chairman of the U.S. Human Rights Commission. Berry's term as a member of the Commission ended at midnight on December 5th, however she refuses to step down until January 21st, citing her own flawed rationales as to why her term is not over.
As fellow Commission member Peter Kirsanow explains:
Her claim is nonsense. Her primary commission documents, signed by President Bill Clinton when he appointed her to her now-expired term, show that her term ended on December 5, 2004. If that alone wasn't enough, the Congressional Research Service issued an opinion to the House Oversight Committee to the same effect. Finally, the decision of the U.S. Court of Appeals in U.S. ex rel. Kirsanow v. Wilson involving the specific issue of commissioner terms, uncontrovertibly instructs that her term ended Sunday.
Unimpressed, Berry clings to the seat she's held for almost 25 years, the last 12 as chairman. She's summarily cancelled this coming Friday's commission meeting in violation of federal regulations and over the strenuous objections of Republican commissioners. The action deflects a face-to-face confrontation between Berry and the newly appointed commissioners — at least momentarily.
None of this is particularly surprising to anyone who's followed the commission over the last dozen years. A culture of unaccountability has become an entrenched feature of the commission's administrative character. Numerous governmental reviews of the commission have concluded that the agency is wholly dysfunctional.
In 1997, a Government Accountability Office report noted that management is in disarray, projects are poorly managed and take years to complete, spending data isn't maintained by office, program, or function and the agency's policies and procedures are unclear. GAO couldn't even verify project spending because of the commission's indecipherable record keeping.
The Office of Personnel Management conducted two reviews of the commission in the 1990s. Yet despite evidence of pervasive management problems, the civil-rights commission failed to implement five of six substantive OPM recommendations.
The GAO's 2003 review of the commission showed that the commission had also failed to comply with the Government Performance and Results Act of 1993. The civil-rights commission has not updated its strategic plan since 1997.
Moreover, the commission has not had a full independent audit in at least 12 years. The House Judiciary Subcommittee on the Constitution is currently investigating the commission's finances, management, and contracting practices. Good luck. Many commissioners have found the agency to be financially inscrutable.
The commission that was once known as "the conscience of the nation" has become a theater of the absurd. Anyone reading a transcript of a commission meeting might well believe it was authored by Lewis G. Carroll. Berry habitually releases to the public statements, reports, and press releases (usually critical of Republicans or at least consistent with her positions) that have been voted down previously by the commission as a whole.
Here is the Christmas list of one Skeeter, aged 12, submitted this morning for my immediate action:
Secret Date Jade (Bratz)
Playstation 2 with Tony Hawk Underground 2
Elf on DVD
Avril Lavigne CD: Under my Skin
Maroon 5 CD: Songs about Jane
Lindsay Lohan CD: Speak
Alicia Keys CD: Diary of Alicia Keys
Pretty nail polish
Clue (Haunted Mansion version)
Fish with pretty aquarium
Hamster with a car wheel
Stockings for Cats
Doorknob Dangler- PetSmart
2 Bags of toys
Nice Hot Cocoa Kit
Gingerbread House Kit
Long Sleeved shirts
Flannel PJ pants
Not bad, eh? I do believe we'll be sticking to the Pampering/Comforting and Clothing categories, however.
When I was 12, and was feeling the primeval stirrings in my little loins, I became a Peeping Tom. I so yearned to see a naked female body I would clamor up the side of a two story house like a spider monkey to catch a glimpse of a babysitter brushing her hair, or a bride admiring her lingeried figure. I knew it was wrong, of course, I just didn't realize it was illegal. Scamper and clamor I did however, in anticipation of the spontaneous ejaculation. Never happened, but I persevered. I had game, and stamina then.
Bathroom windows. Bedroom windows. Neighbors, strangers, visitors, onceuponahappenstances. I had no rules, no guidelines. I was in quest of the naked female form. Or the scantily clad. Or the fully dressed. My motives were base, my thresholds low.
I realized at 13 such things were profane, and quit in an avalanche of Episcopalian guilt. An oxymoron, to be sure, but it was all I had in the way of expiation.
I must confess, however, that to this day, I would rather catch a glimpse of a thrusting breast against querulous shirt buttons, or a tidy slice of cleavage, than see a fully formed wardrobe malfunction. The thrill of the hunt, and all that.
To my counsel: I'm clean here, right? Right?
I have an insolent oppossum who has been invading my backyard of late, no doubt drawn to the clean pool water as opposed to the fetid malarial sludge of the lake. He used to visit once a fortnight or so, but now he appears every three days, or thereabouts. A smallish squirt for a possum, when I do see him I fetch the .38, only to find him vanished.
The idea, of course, is to deliver a Romanov-style execution, one clean shot, then toss him into the lagoon, to drift downstream to decay on someone else's bank.
I have nothing against possums, although I do not see them listed on the Atkins program. The issue is the feral contamination of my habitat, and the fact that one of my daughters' cats will eventually engage the brute. Then there will be hell, and veterinary bills, to pay. Possibly a funeral, with dirges. I wish to avoid this.
And so he must go. The gunshot will excite the neighbors, no doubt. This is exurbia, the nascent winnowing of the forest primordial to create bedroom communities. Not Boonesboro, in Caintuck. The folks will be excited, sure.
But a whacking is in order.
I believe I touched on this once, but it could have been in the defunct Blogspot days, and my current archives are good for naught but collecting comment spam. At some point there will be nothing for it but to play Texas Hold 'Em buck naked with a circulatory system full of Cialas while Barely Legal Teens force Cheap Tabs down my throat while Refinancing the Velocihovel at Exxxtremely Low Rates. Think Doc Holliday in Tombstone.
In the meantime, a story. My mother once confessed to me that she had always thought the word misled, the past tense of mislead, was instead the past tense of the verb misle. As in to cheat someone. Think of it: it has miserliness, lying, misleading. It is the perfect word to describe any number of screwheads I encounter daily.
She needn't have worried. My brother and I had thought the same thing. Must be a genome
thing. Yes, that bastard misled me, then I stuck him with the fillet knife.
This really should be a word. I hereby proclaim it. And, so, in Velocitongue, it shall remain forever more.
There's an odd tradition that seems to have gone the way of the snail darter. I was congratulating Kelley on her birthday today via text, when the olde tradition crossed my mind, and a rictus-like smile spread across my face for some reason.
Of course, I've never had a spanking. I used to get whippings. Far more serious stuff. Spankings involve the hand, and there can be any number of emotions involved there. Whippings involve tiger-tooth belts, and britches around the ankles, and there is definitely an extremely tight cohort of emotions involved.
My father was often too busy to whip me at the appropriate moment of infraction, so he would save them up. For my birthday. I only had one birthday party as a child. I was four. I don't remember it, but I've seen the pictures, so, like anything you read on the Internet, it must be true.
Had a few birthday whippings, though. Recall every one of those.
But I digress. The point is I believe the birthday spanking should be resurrected. It provides both gravity and levity to a festive occasion, and what's wrong with that? Those of you who still practice this ritual are free to share your happy memories, of course. And if anyone can explain the origins of the expression "And one to grow on!!!" I would appreciate it, as dad was quite the believer in the bonus round.
And sorry, Kelley, that's about as sweet of a birthday greeting as I am able to muster, due to a mistaken mixing of the medications, but Happy Birthday anyhoo!
I used to work with a guy who thought one of our salesmen looked like Sherman:
He didn't, but that's neither here nor there. The point is, this guy kept calling him "Peabody". I tried to tell him Peabody was the fricking dog. See?
I'd tell him, and he'd agree, then he'd turn around and say "Peabody! Order us another drink!"
Some people couldn't get a clue if you beat it into them with a tire iron.
Radio Shack charged me $56 for a little camcorder battery today, the filthy brigands. I'm in the wrong business. Tomorrow I start mining the backyard for lithium.
I like having dog tracks around here. I generally make good money betting on greyhounds. I hate the abuse the animals take, though, and would like to adopt a castaway, but I'm done with dogs after I put Master Po down. Too much responsibility. Too little bladder control on their part, too little patience on mine.
Running dogs is a pretty mean sport, mean meaning ignoble, base. It is about halfway between racing thoroughbred horses and racing rats in a fucking stalag. But I like it. And oh, the joy of watching a lean dog chase a plastic rabbit. Quickens the pulse, it does, especially with three dollars riding on it.
I'm a cheap thrill, and proud of it.
By God I've been there. More and more of late, it seems. And no sorrel jokes, please.
UPDATE: "Been there" was a reference to falling asleep during sex, not having sexual congress with a barnyard animal. Shit, people.
Can Auburn have a shot at a national championship game? That was a damned tough Tennessee team they beat tonight. Fuck USC. And Oklahoma. USC plays in the Cinderella conference. The Okies are playing the Buffies using Tom Joad's old jockstrap.
It's all about market share, and gate sales. And the unbelievable hoo-hoos on those USC cheerleaders.
When I pull the funny I get all hot. I like to pull the funny watching Lone Ranger. Master beats me, but not tooooo bad. He pulls his funny too. He says I'm a bad monkey, but he pats my head. He makes me clean up after I pull the funny...
It is time for the traditional hanging of the Stooges ornaments on the happy yule tree:
I will perform the rite at halftime of the SEC championship game. I will be the only person in attendance, as uteri do not recognize the genius of the Lads. But the occasion will be solemn. Full of gravitas. I will likely get weepy-eyed.
Such is the power of the Stooges.
Christina has Chapter One here. Eric has Chapter Two here. Acidman has weighed in with Chapter Three. With these plot twists when it's time for me to scribe Chapter Five I believe I'll just post a picture of the Zigzag man.
I must Griswold the Velocihovel today, to ritualize the birth of the little baby Jesus. The results will be quite joyous, I'm sure.
And, speaking of rituals, I will, as per custom, down four shots of red liquor before climbing onto the roof. Think of it as the Velociworld version of Fear Factor. Scampering around up there is so much more challenging with middle ear disturbance.
Behold the 1976 AMC Matador:
The ultimate statement in personal taste. This car is at once redneck, punk, retro, goth, new wave, declassé. It says "I don't give a fuck. That's why I'm so cool."
Ultraman would have driven a Matador.
I need one of these. In white or black. I really need a Paypal account on this site, too, to fund my more exotic habits.
Key has a math equation that would make John Derbyshire blush. A sexual frustration quotient. And I know why you have to add 1 to the denominator, at least in my case: something about not being divisible by zero.
And where is Key's score?
There were four dead squirrels on Roberts Road today. Victory is within our grasp, troops. Now is not the time to go wobbly.
I just saw this in my toilet bowl, as I was squatting for a girlie pee:
I'm a pretty sane guy, and I think I keep the Mutant on a pretty tight leash, but Jesus!
A coworker of The Bride showed up today with red eyeballs. He admitted he'd taken a Viagra the night before, and his blood vessels engorged so much all of the vessels in his eyeballs ruptured. He looked like a vampire, or a Michoacán roadie. Horrible.
The upside? If they ever do invent the pill I need, the one to keep it down, it may just clear up my chronically bloodshot eyes.
Received yesterday from Eric, every stud hoss's delight. The Curious George lunchbox gift set, from Dean & Deluca:
I am a strapping lad now. And the real beauty? My boss, who, for want of a better phrase, is a damnable cunt, has set our weekly staff meetings for noon on Mondays. He not only never shows up for his own staff meetings, he doesn't supply lunch for a luncheon meeting.
Henceforth I shall purloin one of my daughters' Hi-C juice boxes on Mondays, purchase a deli sandwich across the street, secrete them in my Curious George lunchbox, and ostentatiously relish my repast in exhibitionist manner during these accursed circle jerks.
And, yes, yet another reason for the factotums to scribble marginalized next to my name on their magenta notepads.
Thanks, Eric. You are, as they say, The Manchild.
The Mutant has what I would call a tin ear, but his Danny Boy still brings tears to my eyes.
Our new CEO is a peculiar fellow. After a few speeches on the Ennobling Nature of Empowerment, and his conviction that Everyone is an Impact Player, he stratified the company into the Princelings (the VP's), and the Peasants (well, you know who). Think I'm kidding? He bought a variety of shirts that the Princelings must wear at major functions to differentiate themselves from the greasy plebians. Then, yesterday, all the Princelings received poinsettias from him (flora! From one grown man to another!).
What a queer man. He won't last long. But then, I've had 5 CEO's in the last 6 years, so change is the norm.
44 hits from the mystical 100,000. Which is like saying Dad raised the training wheels a quarter inch today, and yet: a Blue Velvet DVD to the lucky winner of the rollover hit.
UPDATE: The winner of the 100,00th hit is: blockedReferrer, whoever that is. Of course, if God were a Good, the Bad, and the Ugly fan, as all mere mortals are, the winner would have been the ubiquitous Unknown.
That's an Arch Stanton joke, for the benighted.
I meander. The actual winner is Aubrey, the Evilwhiteguy. And don't think I don't suspect he's hacked my site. That was a clean kill, though.
I didn't realize I was a finalist for Best Humor Blog at Wizbang's 2004 Weblog Awards until after I'd voted for that fucker Goldstein!
Oh, well. Just so I break into a single digit in percentiles, so the children don't cry. Go help me put Jeff over the top. He's the funniest, most creative writer in Blogdom, and that way I can get that asskicking I so desperately need.
UPDATE: Sorry, Jeff, you're going to have to fend for yourself: I just checked the rankings, and coming in third to last is a good asskicking, which I aspire to. Coming in dead last is a vicious chain beating in a shingletab parking lot by the Spokane chapter of the Bandidos.
Disregard my prior advice. Vote for me!
I've puzzled for years over the precise difference between aluminum and aluminium. Too embarrassed to ask, too lazy to research.
I finally got off the dime tonight, and lo! it seems they are the same thing. Apparently certain snobbish Brits use the term aluminium as a sort of affectation.
So the fact I mixed batch shipments of these seemingly identical elements should not compromise the structural integrity of the tiger cage I am constructing.
Tough call tonight. The Nick and Jessica Family Christmas special, or Ranchero versus El Camino drag race on the History Channel.
Aye, I was in a conundrum, too, Intrepids. As it turns out, Nick and Jessica got their tongues stuck on a frozen lamp post (cute!), but, more importantly, that El Camino kicked fucking ass.