Donnie is back. That is reason for celebration. Cinch the saddles, and linkum up.
Well, I could be cavalier and say attend one of my counseling sessions if you want to see one of those four stages, but that would be a lie, as I haven't attended one myself in months. Fuckers don't get it.
No, the Four Stages of Hell was a geek show at the Coastal Empire Fair as a child, when I would split off from the vomitous Bullet with my brother and climb under tentflaps to witness the bizarre, the disfigured, the queer. We were always on the prowl for burlesque, or at least a triple-nippled girl, being all of 9 or 10, but alas, those particular tents were apparently heavily guarded.
Praetorian Rotarian Guard, I think.
We could see geeks, though. In these waning days of the Callow South, a good freak could make a decent living. Not too many bearded ladies, but one could view a man with three thumbs, or someone afflicted with gigantism, or the fattest woman in the world, who would end up being a hippopotamus.
Back to the Four Stages. This was a Madame Tussaud's, or Potter's Wax Museum, type set up. A wax figure of some poor bastard, obviously shanghaied from a dive, who'd upset the pirate captain. And so he was encased in a coffin like box, separated into four sections: head, torso, important area, and feet. And ravenous fucking Norwegian wharf rats were enclosed in every section. Maybe four in each. To have their fiendish way.
Yes, I know it was only wax. But it was still an eye opener. To be nine years old, and to see this, and to think I've only been dipping her pigtails in the inkwell? I ain't been thinking outside the box! is an eye opener.
This concept applied to little brothers as well.
It translates well into adulthood, of course. If I were not now terrified of rats I could have an erstwhile boss or two lovingly encased in mine own Four Stages of Hell, which I have conveniently constructed in the backyard, lacking only the rats, which, as I have told you, I am terrified of.
Welcome Protein Wisdom readers. Unfortunately, you won't find much of recent vintage here to titillate you, however I've had my moments.
I would suggest a brief search for brown tsunamis, Shorty Lamb, Simone Griffeth, and sitting to piss posts. I'm pretty sure that will chase you off for good.
I was talking to my Rhode Island salesman the other night, because we like to talk shit of a cocktail in the even', and I then stuck my cellphone in my windsuit pocket. Oblivious, later, I decided to urinate, as I am wont after a drink, and I'll be fucking damned if my phone didn't slide out of my pocket and splash in the, ah, briny deep. I fished it out immediately, of course, and would have iffen that bowl had been clogged with the excreta of seven diarrheic Greyhound customers with Marburg virus, because that phone cost me $300, and was only 6 weeks old, and we had bonded after I'd pic'ed the black dwarf.
Long story short: I believe the leather case avoided lasting harm, however the phone is acting as funky as George Clinton at a Parliament concert.
Witness: it occasionally pretends it is being charged, battery bars extending, then it informs me Charging Complete. Not even plugged in. Very strange.
And, even more bizarre, the antenna won't retract. Keeps rising of its own accord. Velociwhizz. It most certainly AIN'T what's for dinner.
One other thought: Doesn't this make my case for Sit Piss blogging?
I can't even begin to elaborate on this. Cat is Cat. Flirt at your peril, ladies. Strange as it seems, I'm totally locked and loaded with everything except for the farts.
When I was in high school you could drive out to the end of White Bluff Road to Coffee Bluff, where the road ended at the river. The Forest River, I guess. Salt water, I know. It was raw nature back then. Now it is million dollar houses, and such, but back then it was a fish camp or two, some trailers, a forbidding gated Carmelite monastery populated by cloistered nuns, and, of course, Bob's.
Bob's was a black joint, as much of that area was at the time, and I seem to recall it was originally Bob's Confectionary. There's a word, like emporium, that you don't see used too much anymore.
Bob's was anything but a confectionary, though. It was a fucking funk dive, carved out of the woods. But you could buy alcohol there at 15, 16 years of age, so Bob's was the place. Miller ponies, Boone's Farm, Bob never sold us liquor or anything, but one imagines he assumed we couldn't handle the fermented stuff, and I guess he probably hoped we'd crash and die on White Bluff later, privileged little honkies that we were.
I'm fairly certain Bob didn't have a bookkeeper, much less an accountant. Nor did he pay taxes, or possess insurance. No way that booze was getting tracked back to him anyway. Here it are, white boys. I takes cash. Bob got me through many a drive-in feature of soft core bad bad bad R-rated flicks at the Weiss Auto Cinema. I owe Bob my first feel ups.
Later, when my younger brother was of the age, Bob went a bit more acceptable in private school circles. In fact, it was something of a dare for the girls in his class to table dance at Bob's, little rich white girls slumming and teasing the Negroes. Bob had mainstreamed.
In my day you locked the girls in the car when you entered Bob's for a bottle of 6 day old, or an 8 pack of ponies. It was rough. But Bob was a nascent marketer, and he followed the money like any good entrepeneur. I only regret never asking him how many times one of those Carmelite nuns jumped the fence for a bottle of the vino, and a nice evocative table dance. I'm thinking Bob also ran an abortion clinic in back. Never let it be said jungle fever bypassed the cloistered set.
I was cleaved from my mama's womb at 8:13 of a Monday morning, right on schedule. Extracted like the pit of a plum. Being the 4th of 5, uncalled for and unplanned for and medically heinous, and being what would now be called waste in an incinerator, or an inconvenient blob, I find the fact I made it at all pretty miraculous. In today's environment I would have been hoovered. My mother was all about home economics, and cost-cutting.
I sometimes think about the fact I never traveled the canals of Venice, so to speak. Does that make me like a cloned beast? Is there some ennobling, ensouling part of the birth process that only ignites one's being at the moment of breaching?
Am I the soul cousin of Dolly the Sheep? It would certainly account for my longing for her poor departed being, and yet...
I spent years worrying about the fact I was raised on the formulaes instead of the breast, and the lack of ensoulment in that particular situation. But The Bride convinced me formulaes separate us from the beasts of the field, and I concurred. Easy, because now I have the whole cloning thing to exercise my mind.
I'll sleep well. Yet again.
PS: I think I like the all caps headers. But that could be the soulless zombie in me.
I live in the freaking boonies, but civilization encroacheth, inexorably. I still have the Outback Crab Shack about ten miles down state road 13, however. That is still the boonies. Nestled alongside a creek off the St Johns River, it is an oasis of crudity in an otherwise uncivilized world.
The Shack is surrounded by nothingness, like a Camus novel, and yet folks are drawn there, like sandgnats to my tearducts. A lonely drive along the river road, passing nary a car, will deposit you into a Buford Pusser like world at the Shack. Great food (don't eat the fried, it sucks, get some oysters or crabs) ensconced in a huge ramshackle building. The crowd is eclectic: bikers, families, grandparents, teens. All come to revel in a lush environment more akin to a Tarzan movie than any notion of Florida. It is like happening upon a couple of huts in a clearing in Darkest Africa.
There are docks (well, queasy floating docks) in the creek, for many of the crowd are just off the river, and the sport of the day is spotting gators, for they sulk and brood among the hydrilla and water lilies that choke the creek. They are surprisingly not aggressive, given the foodstuffs tossed to them, however I suppose the equal number of rocks and stones heaved their way make them cautious.
If you sit outside raccoons approach your table for scraps, oppossum nose up out of curiosity to sniff one's ankles. It is actually like camping in a way, only the ferals are more fearless.
There is live music most days, not dancing music as a rule, but bikers will dance to anything, except blogmeet music.
(Nota bene: the next time I organize a blogmeet I'm going to hire a chamber orchestra, or Joe Savage, so the preening strummers will get off their hemorrhoid cushions and come party with the rest of us. Because there ain't no groupies at a blogmeet, and there sure as hell ain't no mosh pit at an acoustic set. However, if they insist on bringing geetars I shall place the pimp hat upside down at their feetses, and collect nickels and quarters and the errant dollar bill, which I shall then use to defray my room costs).
So the Shack kicks total ass. And in the grand scheme of blogmeets, since I brought them up, it would be the perfect dinner choice. Verdant , fecund locale, wild creatures not unlike ourselves (inquisitive, not toilet-trained), gators and snakes to covet the hides of, deck you can spit upon.
This is all concomitant with the fact I will be baching it this weekend, and I always need a place to go to ponder the next meet. I think I will liveblog from the Shack Saturday, and maybe post a pic or two.
It was a dark and stormy night. No shit. It really was.
Restart. I was home for the weekend from grad school with The Bride and two buddies, and I decided to treat them to a campout on Wassaw Island, a wild and primitive barrier island perfectly suited to our nefarious purposes. We laded my father's 19-foot center console with all manner of useless shit, and set out for the island, only a few miles out Wassaw Sound from my parents' dock.
I took my friends to the beach first. The ocean side of Wassaw was magnificent, and I wanted them to witness it. Miles of primeval beach. Old, petrified, fallen oaks:
littering the beach like God's own Omaha Beach hedgehogs:
My Labrador Prudence chased sandsharks through the shallows offshore as they in turn fed on schoolfish, and we smoked prodigious amounts of reefer and drank beer, exultant in the ardor of youth. It was a searing hot July day, and our backs burned pink and mottled red.
Now, as twilight beckoned we knew we couldn't stay on the beach side, as Wassaw was a National Wildlife Refuge, and there was no camping, no overnighting upon pain of some undetermined fine I could not possibly afford. I could only afford incarceration back then, and that was also out of the question. So we headed to a cove on the sound side of the island, a secluded one with a stretch of beach, and set camp as poachers. It had been a glorious day, but it pretty much went to hell from there.
I anchored the boat fore and aft in the shallows, and we were set for an evening of communion with nature. But... but!
Did I mention the lysergic acid? Oh, yes. We had about a dozen hits, and had caucused and decided we would take them all, pro rata. Dancing bears, as I recall. Not to worry, however. We weren't driving. Mother Nature, however, was driving like a fucking fiend.
As sun set, a monstrous storm blew up. Lashing rains, lightning bolts like Thor's hammer, cracking electricity in the air. We considered making a break for it, and heading for home, but the lightning was fearsome and dangerous, the sound was roiling with four foot whitecapped swells, and, most importantly, the bears were dancing a mad, mad jig.
We determined to Ride It Out. Which would have been fine, except for the fact that the lowlands we had pitched tents on were now in effect wetlands. Well, no, in fact they were underwater. Our gear was sodden, our clothing soaked, my dog a miserable bitch.
You can pause now, and mock my watercraft and woodcraft, but those skills were intact. My hallucinocraft was rusty, however. I made the decision to stay up all night and tend the boat, lest an anchor line part. My Yankee friends Jimmy Beach, a Jones Beach lifeguard, and Stu Brown (his Chattahoochee tubing nom de guerre), the son of a Philadelphia racketeer, were gibbering idiots, hunkered in a collapsed tent in two feet of water, attempting to shotgun beers without weeping.
All was well until about four of the morn, when the bow line broke, and the damned bow beached. Did I mention the Perfect Storm of Confluence here? Yes: full moon, spring tide, high tide, and torrents of rain.
I spent the night wrestling the boat and the dancing bears, trying to get the bow turned, pointed to sea, to keep the waves from breaching the stern. It was hopeless. The macaque monkeys that were formerly my friends were of no use, The Bride and Prudence were hunkered in our own collapsed tent, cursing me in what sounded like ancient, dead languages.
When dawn broke the dancing bears were gone, but I'd lost. I could never turn the bow. Unfortunately, the next high tide was not nearly prodigious enough to float the beast. Sand merely formed around the bow, creating a pitiful boatwreck. Water was in the boat, the electrical system was shorted. My friends could not help me turn her at this point. Hopeless.
A ranger came by, saw our plight, and radioed the Coast Guard for help. As it turned out he knew my father, and was quite genial until he saw the farking Paul Bunyan axe next to my tent. "What that fo, boy?!? What that fo?"
"Deadwood," says I.
"You cain't chop no trees heah, boy! What that fo?!?"
"Deadwood," says I. But he knew I was full of shit, and would have felled anything I could have kindled, could I have kindled in that tempest.
He was quite the standoffish bitch thereafter, until the Coast Guard arrived. A 92 footer, we hads ta swim out to it. Prudence arrived first, and she received a far warmer reception than the rest of us. The Coasties returned us to my parents' dock like a cop returning a runaway 13 year old girl, all atwitter, in other words. It was a humiliating and degrading experience, as the neighbors stared from their docks, then guffawed at the fucking rubes. "Damn stupid boy forgot to bring his boat back."
As luck would have it by the time we returned to tow off the boat, a shrimper (Bad Samaritans of the Sea, Bucka-fucking-neers) had stolen it, and towed it all the way to Richmond Hill. I know this because the insurance investigator found it, but my father declined the boat, already sniffing the exotic parfum of a freshly minted draft upon a Charlotte exchequer.
And so that is how I lost the boat, my good graces with the Senator, my home game with my neighbors, and any number of other lingering ignominies.
Fucking spring tides and dancing bears. A terrible combination.
I was given a button in Jekyll that informed me that today, April 25, is Red Hat Society Day. Which I can only surmise means we may let the pogroms and ethnic cleansings begin!
Ears and noses are the trophies of the day. And the hats, of course.
1964 Disney classic. Always loved watching that. I'll tell you what else I'd love: some sexual role-playing in that get up. Maybe wear the pimp hat, though.
Somehow I overlooked this in my inbox.
That's a hell of a church newsletter, too. Sample:
By the time Pastor arrived, the rabbits had already had their lovely pelts ripped from their fornicating bodies with pairs of pliers and been dipped in gasoline. Some bunnies died in the earmuff-fur extraction process; some drowned in the Rubbermaid containers holding the Amoco unleaded; "but a few were still hopping about," said Pastor. "No doubt, obsessed with grabbing another piece of moist, furry rabbit crotch, as those licentious creatures are wont to do."
You are a realist
You are innovative and active, but don't have a strong sense of family, nor do you remember dates
You are emotional and naive, they care little for details and are a risk-taker
Secure, stubborn, and stick to their ideals
The size of the ears indicates how good a listener you are.
The bigger the better. You drew large ears, you are a great listener!
The length of the tail indicates the quality of your sex life.
And again more is better! You drew large tail, WOW!
And, yes, maybe I did exaggerate a bit on the length of that tail.
Ask and ye shall receive. I asked Catfish to wax eloquent on snappin' pussy, and he delivered, of course. Please read. His heart and soul are in this one. I'm so smitten I'm thinking of opening an emporium, or something.
Goddam, Cat, you are my hero.
I hate a damned mule. As Faulkner said, and I paraphrase loosely, they will toil for you unceasingly for years for the opportunity to kick you in the knees once. Something like that.
Mules are bastard animals. The criminal offspring of horses and donkeys. They are sterile as a result, and I thought they were always male, but we had one named Myrtle. She was a lazy, shiftless beast, whose only passion was for my mother's Chesterfield cigarettes. I spent many an afternoon feeding those pups to Myrtle. That mule could eat some fucking cigarettes.
Mules are stupid, too. They are created for the purposes of plowing, and draying folks in wagons, which we all know don't exist anymore, but the mule doesn't know that. But they act stupid anyhoo.
I never got that mule to do a damned thing. Work, tricks, hossy rides, that mule was worthless. She disappeared one day, and I'm pretty confident she became suppah. I ate stange meat back then, although I am convinced our white German Shepherd Rex never attained the menu. Even the Senator wouldn't go there.
But he cold bloodedly killed the errant goats, assassinated them, and Myrtle disappeared. So you never know. I may have even eaten that recalcitrant fucktard Shetland pony name of Spooky.
Make spaghetti, he would always say. I think I know why.
I'm going to shut up about the Wreckyll, because if you were there you know, if you weren't you don't care. But insofar as strange conversations go, my favorite was when Donna asked Catfish about his views on snappin' pussy.
"God damn!" he said. "Nothing better in the world than snappin' pussy! I gotta fuckin' blodge about that!"
And so, Cat, the keys are extended, the baton passed, because I have no idea how to even begin that topic, and keep any current relationships intact. Even my siblings don't want me going there.
Here's a fine example of imprinting, from mine own back yard:
These goslings were lucky. There was no Rod Serling in sight. Nor was there a bottle of Gosling's Black Seal rum around. That would even be the same genus, so they would be naturally attracted, right?
I did see some Black Seal last night at the marina, though, but only long enough to slide it down my gullet as I listened to a local power trio play bad heavy metal. I live a hauntingly beautiful existence.
Dash treats us to a video of some homeboys attempting to land a mako shark that had been feasting on a 200 pound tarpon. That is total Hemingway and Black Seal rum dumb. And infinitely cooler than piercing a mammal's heart while wearing deer piss.
Apparently every hetero boy between here and Brad Pitt's nutsack wants a piece of my pimp hat, which the gorgeous Key bestowed upon me as a birthday gift. Have at it lads. I never should have left the beast as I took the ladies for a hot tub adventure. My bad.
New role for the pimphat:
I only blog in the pimphat now. It is what it is. I be bad now. Girth Vader, and such. I think I said long ago, Fuck with me at your peril. Obey me, my bitches.
I have a five foot fountain in my back yard, just behind the pool. Atop this fountain is a girl bestride a sea turtle. She is riding it. The water spews out of the turtle's mouth. It is at once sweet, venal, virginal, corrupt. I don't know what to make of it still, but when I first laid eyes on it I knew I had to have it.
I've always been fascinated by the concept of imprinting. The fact that when a baby duck hatches the first thing it sees it imprints on. That thing becomes its mama, its guidon bearer. It will follow it anywhere.
I have a theory. I believe when I was born the first thing I saw was Rod Serling on a hospital television set in a Twilight Zone episode. A few holes in this theory, but it explains more than it does not.
Dax Montana has Chapter One of the Blog Western up. Sin? Gluttony. Gee, how Dax get pinned with that one? I'm glad there are five other writers between me and him, because, frankly, I don't know what the fuck he's talking about. Disco Devil, or something. I'll have to reread it.
Seriously, though. Great job, Old Boy. This is going to be interesting...
I forgot until he blodged about it that Catfish and I drank a damned bottle of Gosling's Black Seal rum for breakfast Saturday before the half rubber game.
If the owner of that bottle will step forward I will attempt to redress your grievance. I love the Black Seal. Had to turn Cat on to it. I couldn't help myself.
I occasionally partake in adult activities that leave my eyes looking like two piss holes in a snowbank. And in order to maintain my Kate Moss supermodel good looks I am forced to splash some drops in my eyes to whiten them back up.
In the beginning there was Murine. This was developed to ease eyes burned by days in an over-chlorinated public pool. It didn't prevent the polio you'd catch in a pool like that, but your eyes would feel great as you tried to swing one hellishly gnarled leg in front of the other.
Then Visine came along. This was a big hit in the '70's because it contained the mysterious ingredient tetrahydrozoline, guraranteed to GET THE RED OUT! This was brilliant target marketing to stoners worldwide, as well as the three-martini lunch crowd.
I have to tell you, though. Visine doesn't do shit for me. I think gonhorreal discharge would get the red out of my eyes faster than Visine. How do they get away with that? The shit doesn't work! Or does one develop an immunity to it?
My drops of choice are Clear Eyes. They work as well as can be expected (sometimes you cross a line that nothing but a bloodletting will cure). Sometimes I'll get really crazy and go for the Clear Eyes ACR allergy and cold relief version, but that fucking stuff is hard core, even for me. It can make you think a D & C was just performed on your corneas. That is for mornings of three hours sleep or less. I'm convinced it literally draws the juices out of my eyeballs, and if I overuse it they will eventually collapse in upon themselves, like brittle, rotted ping pong balls.
So it's Clear Eyes regular for me. I had to share.
I received a package from the Jekyll Daze Inn today. It was a box of Frango Mint Chocolates from the Omnibus Driver. She was unable to attend at the last minute, so it was very gracious of her to send them.
She also instructed me to share with my blogmates, but unfortunately I think the staff misplaced the package, so now it's here. I won't be able to share, alas, unless...
MINI-MEET!!! That's the ticket. It would have to be on short notice, though, as I don't know what the shelf life on these puppies is. Hell, I don't what the shelf life on me is if I keep attending blogmeets. I'll refrain from the chocolates as long as I can.
Thanks, O.D. And you'd better make the next one.
I'm a pretty iconoclastic bastard, in case you haven't noticed. I buck the trend, dislike the quotidian. I have issues making friends. Most friends are really acquaintances, buddies by virtue of geography, or work. Therefore as a rule I really don't have much in common from the get go, and it deteriorates from there.
Bloggers are different. Don't ask me how. I posted once on the fact that I used to have friends in high school I would trust with my life. That tight. A bit of that in college, too. But it ends after that. Every friend you make after that is partially on the hustle. To some extent or form. Not that they aren't great, but would you trust them with the rope?
I've met folks through the blogdingnagian world that challenge that presumption, however. Total tights. Peeps I would hang my hide over the edge with, that I would trust my life with. How queer is that? Not too, I think.
After postings, and comments, and offline e-mails, you take the measure of a person. You sniff them out, so to speak. I have been blessed to hunker down with a great crowd. I truly believe the people I hung with in Jekyll, bar none, would have my back in a tight. That is amazing.
I ain't the weepy type, of course, but I think my homeys kick the fucking ass. I would go to the ends of the earth with anyone I met at Jekyll. Even the knuckleheads. Blogworld is a truly screwy place.
Now. About my honorarium... don't give me that fake fancy Tin Man heart...
If Sammy had bathed I probably could have fit everyone into this picture nicely.
I don't have a very fancy camera, but I did manage to slip in and snap this of
Snuffy Rob exhibiting his gracious good winner personality:
I think Barbie took it. Catfish unleashing an exquisite half rubber pitch. That is sportsmanship. That is game. I believe I whiffed on this pitch, as I recall, but Eric couldn't catch any better than the rest of us, so I had plenty of opportunities.
You can blow up pictures and mural your wall. This would be kickass in the Batcave. He looks like Koufax. He looks like Drysdale. No! He looks like Catfish Hunter!
I stopped by the Publix after work, and they were collecting ballots to rename my greasy spot. Bartram, St Johns, River Cove, River Oaks. Screw that.
I tore up a few ballots and pronounced the situation gravely perverted, then huffed off with my pet food. I can still use Fruit Cove and get my mail. But then I thought: as long as the ZIP Code is intact, I can give my address as Velociworld, Florida.
That pleases me greatly. I shall mail myself something tomorrow and test this theory.
I thought my monkey Robbie needed some more appropriate attire after Key painted his toenails red, so I dressed him in the Red Hat Society Grey Goose clothing Zonker gave me. Now he is, well, very pretty:
I also had his gibberish translated. Loosely, he's screeching
"I won the poker game! Greep! Greep! Greep!"
I live in Fruit Cove, Florida. St Johns County. This area has been Fruit Cove since the 1850's. Right down the road is Switzerland, Florida. We are greasy spots in the road. We don't rise to the level of a post office, and so our mailing address is Jacksonville, although we don't even live in Duval County.
And so some meddlesome little man, some little cunt, comes along and decides to rename the area of 22,000 homes and hoss farms. Learned you could petition for a new post office and name. Cool, so far. But this nipple claims since you can technically use Fruit Cove or Switzerland anyway they can't be on the ballot. Options? Bartram (this is Bartram Trail, after the naturalist who explored the river), River Oaks (nice. Name it after a subdivision), River Cove (bastardization), and some other fag name.
Fuck this lame shit. I live where I live. The local polls showed the overwhelming favorite (34%) was Fruit Cove, and it ain't on the ballot! We shall fight this. The cove refers to the coves that finger in from the St Johns River, the fruit to the fact this used to be a huge orange orchard area until 5 year freezes killed off the citrus in the 1890's.
Me? I fucking live in Fruit Cove.
Well, perhaps not saints. But objects of beatification within our own little sordid world. That was Jekyll.
Where to begin? This post will require massive linkage, and I am by nature a lazy mumfuck. Could take a while.
I arrived Thursday afternoon, ahead of the game. Wandered around the island, partook of suppah and cocktailage at Blackbeard's, then moseyed down to the Day's. I accosted Mr. Helpful, all the way in from Seattle, one of the nicest probationers I've ever met, and we went to Recondo32 and Georgia's for tall tales and sippage. I sampled my Chatham Artillery Punch, because it is a well known fact that blinding sometimes takes 24 hours where wood alcohol is involved. All was well. Recondo and Georgia are my bloods, great peeps. I am going to Melbourne this weekend to party with them at a Vietnam Veteran's Convention. I will play the part of the underage protester they beat senseless like a pinata. The pay is lousy, but I have fucking excellent insurance. They are gold.
Zonker joined us about 11pm. Ever the
Thunderpussy Thundergod, he is a true blue purveyor. Zonk is the fucking King Rat of blogmeets. He brings cases of beer, bottles of fine liquor, cartons of smokes, you name it. He's the guy you see in prisoner of war movies who is fat and happy, trading solitary eggs to starving fellow prisoners for their prized watch. He bribes guards, then steals the goodies back. He is King Rat.
Relatively early night for me, as I was on best behaviour. My coccyx is sore, you see, and sitting is painful. More on that later.
Friday broke cold and blustery, and I had to drive back to Jax to retrieve The Bride, D the Demure. That's the only problem with The Bride, special as she is. She just won't say what's on her mind. Gotta work on that. When I returned at 2:00 it was Full Swing. It gets a little hazy chronologically from here, so we will do Snippets.
This waste was obviously going to be in Acidman's room, because he's the only person who will tolerate that much fetid smoke in the air, that much piss in the carpeting, and that much shit in the bowl. I bow to him. Although he was actually a gracious host this time around, a rare trait in my esteemed blogbrother. I love Robbie, despite what the court papers say. I never touched him. There, anyway.
Catfish was there, of course. My hero. I am often accused of getting away with too much on the site. I always say, go read Cat. Whether he is waxing eloquent on the buttfucking of Jimmy Buffett or giving his impersonation of himself as a porn star, eyes rolled back, there is only one Cat. I'm visitng him in his new crib soon. I fucking cannot wait to meet Mrs. Cat. Presidential Medal of Freedom there.
As I was gartin woozy about then, some slice of life:
Sammy and Barbie. Too good. Too kind. Great voice on her, great soul in him. They must be corrupted. Soon. That is a ukase. Sammy my bitchin bro.
My very tight homey Straight White Guy and the Lovely Fiona. Something about me and Eric and blogmeets, or even funerals. If we don't get into at least one dust up it ain't no fun. To fuck with Mr. Sensitive is a joy. No blows this time, although I do have an interesting finger bruise on my bicep, but I think he was just holding me down to pour Scotch down my throat. Eric: love ya baby. Word up: counseling.
Dax Montana. Dax is so gay when he visited Judy Garland's crypt her corpse grew sideburns. But, honestly, he is a big, burly, powerful bastard, a great writer, and when you see him blow sticky bubbles around the room you are reminded of, well, just how gay he really is.
Kelley. Kel is my truest of true hinky tights. She is Da Bomb. She is the Czar Bomba, if chicks could be thermonuclear devices (and they can!). She is a great singer, although I must confess I am not a great fan of the Blog Hootenany, as it too closely resembles the Blog Shindig. But as Johnny Mathis told us, It's not for me to say... have your fun boys. I'll be out back with the girls. Back to Kel. She Hottage. And superlative. She also gets a gold star for not beating my ass. I give those out, you know. Get in line.
Key Monroe. Here is my sweet lass, always effervescent, always endowed. A beautiful creature, especially because she gifted me with a "bitching pimp hat" for my birthday, to many guffaws. I notice from the pictures floating around that all those guys calling me a polesmoker for wearing that hat (so macho the label reads: Official Red Hat Society Wear) are seen in numerous pictures wearing it whilst I was away. Closet cakeboys. We know who you are.
Now I love Key to death, but I will also say that when a woman tells you how studly you look in a hat with a purple plume they might, just might, be having sport with you. "Nuff said. Key can mock me to the ends of the earth, however. I am her Silly Putty.
Parkway Rest Stop. Jimbo is so fucking cool we had to put the paddles on him a coupla times. Resurrects nicely, though, and plays a mean gitfiddle. All the guys played well, actually, including Rob's brother Dave, who also has a great voice. But Jimbo has a certain, shall we say? spasmodo quality that draws the ladies like flies to a slice of bologna exiting a Doberman's ass. And that is high praise, indeed. Long may ye flail, Jimbo. I'll be up to see you in Copland.
Christina. Here is a displaced Georgia Peach, despite her Cajun upbringing and Tejas residence. Chrissy is what we call down here a Control Freak, which isn't a bad thing, unless cuffs are involved. And I think she has a few pairs. I think Xty (her text name) thought I was a misogynistic, iconoclastic bastard when she first met me. Once I confessed I was we got along famously. She will go far, but I regret not asking her what her experience was with drug cases, should I get busted the next time I'm burning one on the grassy knoll in Dallas. Chrissy is a damned peach. She is always welcome in any group that will have me, and many that will not. Did I mention her bodyguard Susan is a killah?
Sadie and Irish Lad. Nice peeps. To come all the way from the Land o' Shirley Jones in Buckskin speaks volumes to their commitment to a good time. I believe I was the first blogger she recognized when she peeked in Rob's room, and Catfish was rearranging his manhood into a pretzel and Recondo was picking his ear with a bent syringe. Not an auspicious beginning, but I think they had marvs of a good time. Blessed to have friends travel so far to see such sloth.
Grouchy Old Cripple. Denny is the Fucking Man. I just can't figure out what he's fucking. I can attest it has whiskers, because I saw it scamper away. Monkeyrat? Mebbe. I love this guy. He is a "kazoo" blowing, guitar playing madman. Great voice, too. Of course, that monkeyrat sex gets the testosterone levels up, so there you go. You left too early Sunday, D. I wanted to fuck wit you one mo time.
Michele and Kevin. To travel from Ohio to get begrimed with us is an honor, I tell you. Although having normal folk around gets we more paranoid types to think Infiltration! Spies! But they can't talk if we cut their... never mind. Gooduns, like every Jawja blogmeet needs. Gracious and fun guys. Leveling influences, as I would say to my parole officer. They taught me to drink and purl at the same time, sir.
Rube and Anne. Very, very cool couple. You know, at every blogmeet I've attended there is always someone I've looked forward to meeting who scratches their head and says to themself What the fuck is up with this Velocicocksucker? I heard he was cool. This guy sucks! And so, Eric, you have that privileged role. Please note I worked mightly so that I could displease you. Anne was more gracious, although I could sense her revulsion as well. Continentals just disguise it better. Glad to be there for you, man!
Ward and Moogie. They tag teamed us, just like the wrestlers of olde did. He showed up first, very gracious, very sophisticated, a hoot. And afterwards we counted silverware, and realized we'd been had. Ward is what used to be known as a second story man. Although he left goodwill, and tall tales, and in my opinion that is worth the price of dismission. Moogie showed up in, ah, rare form. Not rare for me, as I am a spree drinker, but rare for a civilized person. I had planned to gift her with a bolt gun, but apparently she owns one, and uses it like Cat pops pills. A great gal.
Flynny. I saved Michele till last, because she is an old buddy of mine, and this was her first blogmeet to meet the bizarro world I had introduced her to. Wish she could have come earlier, but duties beckoned. I sincerely believe she had a great time, other than the smoke I had to cut in Rob's room with my Gerber, the eternal Catfish piss stains, the indiscriminate drug abuse, and the Straight White Velocifight (hon, you haven't really seen one of those yet. They was no bloods). You were a smash, girl. We loved having you, and cannot wait for you to spring for the next one, as we are eternally tight of the cash. We have expensive tastes, however. As do you.
BTW, will the person who hoisted Chele-girl's MacCallan's return it? Ward gets a pass, since it was Moogie's night when it disappeared.
Other random notes:
My coccyx still hurts. Think it's either a bicycle issue or posture at the computer issue. Or a nascent tailbone tumor that will erupt at any moment. I can swear on a Holy Bible no buttsex was involved.
My Chatham Artillery Punch. True Believers? Catfish, who drank that fucking poison in a large iced tea glass all day, defying all science, and Zonker, who hung till 5 am drinking it. I admit to partaking of a glass or two Saturday night, and my bladder was still functioning the next day. Sporadically. Very sporadically.
My cymbal-banging, screeching monkey. Key painted his toenails red, as the brown ones were scaring my chirren. It wasn't her doing Acidman's toenails at Helen from a purely freaking voyeuristic standpoint, but it was hot, nonetheless.
The frat kids next door. We got those whelps tore down. Rookies. If we had their bulletproof bodies and our hubris we would be either locked in the nuclear waste vault at Savannah River Plant or Olympian gods.
Half rubber. I was leading 3-0-0 over Cat and Eric until I threw Eric a goober and he smacked it for a grand slam. Final score 4-3-0 Eric. Although Catfish took the floor ex honors with his tumbling routines, scoring a 9.2 from Kelley, a 9.4 from Recondo, and a perfect 10.0 from Key. He also broke two ribs, which we fixed with some Chicklets and an Ace bandage, the Chicklets being in lieu of a stick in his mouth as we reset the ribs.
Kenny and Barbara's beachside nuptials. What the fucking hell was that all about? Don't ever pull me out of lunch and take me to a beachside wedding without my cigs and at least a modicum of booze. It was beautiful, nonetheless. In an Outer Limits kind of way.
The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Yup. Brought a brand new DVD player and both versions. I'm a fugging naif. Sit this crowd down for three hours and ask them to be quiet? May as well reverse the fucking tides.
The Broken Toilet. Someone not only broke Rob's toilet, they beat it to hell. Looked like The Hulk was there. He blamed it on Key. Right. I'm buying that. I think Cat was looking for something to pick his teeth with, and snapped off the inside handle. Just a theory.
Think that's it. If I forgot anything I'll hack Acidman's site and put it up there.
Whip? Packed. Punch? Packed. Psychotic monkey? Packed. Clothes? Got a few. Don't plan on wearing many, but the Weather Channel proclaims we are fucked. Highs in the low 60's.
I'll blow into town Thursday afternoon, find the Few True Reprobates.
Need a ride from the airport? Too bad. You're fucked as far as I'm concerned. Ever hear of hitchhiking? I survived for years on it. Of course, I was 15-18, and had a six pack of Bud lashed to my belt, and some bud to share.
Perhaps you should think about that. Want to find me? I'll be right there. Open your eyes.
I think I've convinced myself I'm in fine fettle for a blogmeet.
What the fuck is up with John Bolton's mustache? He looks like a damned bull walrus, flopping around in search of those little feminine Third World oysters to slurp up. Or Wilford Brimley, if he could tighten up his blood sugar long enough to give mustache rides at the Quaverside Nursing Home.
I, for one, admire Bolton's jaundiced eye vis-a vis the United Nations, even as he becomes our UN ambassador, but does he really have to look like the fucking capitalist walrus with appétit gros while he's at it?
Bait and switch, dammit. Bait and switch. That is why I make such a great salesman. That and a childhood wherein I was mesmerized by carnival barkers, geeks, and hucksters.
I seem to have dredged up some sonorous contemplation with the phrase hinky tight. James Old Guy seems to think it is prison slang for ass fucking, and from his particular ouevre I can see where he would. We all paint from our own limited pallette, after all. Queenie doesn't know if it is given, or received. Do it be man, or beast, or condition.
Perhaps it is time for a definition contest (ZZZZZ!!!!! went the party favors).
What is, or constitutes, a hinky tight?
As the creator of the term I reserve all rights over bestowing or denying status on any given definition, by the way.
So what it is? I'll come clean when I'm ready. And let me add one thing: as I referenced Acidman as my hinky tight in my catblog, it is, at least in my definition, most definitely not buttsex in the penitentiary laundry. I want to be particularly fucking clear about that. Except for James Old Guy. It can be that to him.
Now it is done. The Artillery Punch is finished, and a hellish concoction it is. Compleat, of course, except for the case of champagne, which must be added just before serving, in a sort of strange Black Mass Eucharist.
And I have a full five gallon mud bucket of stock already, which means I need another mud bucket for the layering of the bubbly, a split decision. One buckie for Friday, one for Saturday, should anyone be left alive.
I love it when a plan comes together, and a chaste course of action is simultaneously split asunder.
Panties are optional, of course.
Yes, there will be smoking at Jekyll, unfortunately for the slight of lungage who find themselves crammed into Straight White Guy's room.
But hey: we all know smoking is very glamorous. Very sophisticated. Why, I took these pictures of Acidman and Catfish at the Athens mini-meet, and I swear to god I have never seen more dashing individuals:
Astaire got nothin' on us.
I bought a new pair of flops the other day, and the dye is turning the bottoms of my feet black. Now, I pay $4.99 for a pair of flops I expect some damned rigid quality control in the coloring process. Especially when they're made in China.
Filthy Chicom bastards. They are deliberately trying to make me look like a Tiger Ridger.
How did I spend my birthday? Easy. I called in sick to work, then stayed home with the Velocidaughters, because one was actually recovering from illness, and the younger proffered to stay home and minister to her sis.
We piled on the sofas and watched a Harry Potter, then I tried to get them intertested in Elisabeth. But the opening scene where the people are burned alive turned them off. They went to watch VH1 in the Batcave.
Then I bought all my alcohols for the Chatham Artillery Punch, which I will make tonight, and went for a bike ride.
Not a bad day, actually, considering I had a hangover for the ages.
Oh. And my cousin called. She wished me happy birthday, then told me I was stranger than rooster pussy, with which sentiment I had to, reluctantly, agree.
My mother in law is crazy as a bedbug. I smoked out her bullshit game from day one, almost thirty years ago, and we have performed a queasy Kabuki dance since then. She pretends she is the be all and end all, and I allow her that fiction as I demonstrate otherwise. Very odd.
She also uses weird words. She will say "flustrated", which is a conflation of "frustrated" and "flustered", and I don't say anything. She says "horness" instead of "harness", and "spectical" instead of "susceptible". She takes the Geechee dialect and twists it into something even I cannot understand.
I haven't mentioned the guilt. Not my bag. But she can have my children crying over the guilt with a phone call. No prob. It is what she does. I jump her shit, she jumps mine. But I am sane. She is fucking insane.
My mother in law is crazy as a bedbug.
Flynny turned me on to this place. A dive in San Marco, of all places, so upscale, and yet there is Jim's, nested near a parking lot, a cinderblock two-story, painted a disgusting, queer yellow.
But: the best fried chicken in the universe, and iced tea? Packed ice chips in a huge styrofoam cup, so sweet you slap your grandmama down.
Our dirty secret. I could do Jim's every damned day. And I'm looking for my missing thirty pounds. But even a soulless person sech as I must exercise restraint. There is nothing better than Jim's chicken grease on your face. Even sex, I swear to Allah.
I think I've posted on this before, but why do corporations, such as Royal Carribbean, insist on using Iggy Pop's Lust For Life as a marketing device? It's a song about fucking heroin addiction, for chrissakes.
Not that it ain't a great song. But, you know...
I have spoken to about six bloggers on the phone today, and I'm pretty certain most of them were even more fucked up than I. I don't know if that is a good harbinger of Jekyll, or a bad one. I'm not much of a conversationalist, but Jesus, people. I talk Raccoon. Learn the language if you want to talk to me.
Since Acidman is my hinky tight, whether he admits it or not, I think he would feel privileged that I would dedicate this post to him.
Here is Fosse, 22 pound ass beater of poodles and schnauzers. He is the god of the block, although I notice he hasn't kerfuffled with Doctor Bob's Weimeraner. That Kraut dog would eat his ass alive:
Here is Phoebe, the tiny girl. She is the only animal I have seen put the whup ass on Fosse, but he generally pins her down with a meat paw, and has his savage way with her:
It cheers my callous heart to know that if I die alone these fiends would consume my corpse one nasty bite at a time. Circle of life, bitch. Deal with it.
Queenie exhorts us to lay into Flynny's Command Post theme, and the topic du week is the War on Drugs.
Well. Now. I know a little something about that.
The War on Drugs is an abysmal failure. It has cost more money, and lives, than any misguided venture short of actual warfare. We have an entire prison erection and maintenance industry to incarcerate people for nonviolent drug crimes. What a fucking joke.
I have done every drug known to humankind short of riding the skag spike, and I wouldn't recommend a damned one of them. But I think everyone should have their chance to explore, experience. Prohibition should have taught us you cannot outlaw the need for release. We live in a complex, often sinister world, and intoxication by whatever means is genetically encoded in most of us. Even as children we play Airplane, and spin in mindless circles, for the brief, cheap rush of disorientation. So it shall ever be.
No, I say regulate it, tax it, legalize it. When good drugs are available on the cheap there will be no desire for crack, or meth. And where there is, fine. Suicide by Bad Drug cleanses the gene pool.
We have created empires of vast wealth and great moral depravity in Medellin, Cali, Bolivia, Peru. We have sentenced to death, through our archaic drug laws, thousands of Colombian judges, and politicians, and law enforcement officers.
We have thousands of citizens imprisoned for the gimlet offense of selling weed. Good God Almighty. The resources allocated to the Drug War alone boggle the mind. Again, what a fucking joke.
This is just my opinion, of course. But I sense the callow cowardice of the run of the mill elected official will never permit us to take the leap of faith, and belay our Puritanical reaction to narcotics, even as we clink our martini glasses.
So: what's next week's topic? I'm on a roll.
I awakened this morning to find spaghetti sauce on my t shirt, on my pajama bottoms, encrusted in my fingernails. I even found some between my toes.
I don't recall having a full-contact supper last night, but apparently I did. Hey Sammy, we talked. Did I seem okay?
My next door neighbor's poodle, who I am fond of, made the mistake of entering my house through the open back door, we being sunbathing by the pool.
My 22 pound cat Fosse jumped on his ass and delivered a savage mauling, a vicious ass beating. So bad I had to use a sheet to separate them. Kicked his fucking ass.
A shame, really. I like Pepper. Don't think I'll be seeing him for a while, though.
I had no idea Burt Reynolds was in the 1969 western 100 Rifles. Go figure. That makes the film even worse, somehow. If such is possible. I'm going to watch Bandelero! now, with Dino. And nap.
I hope everyone has, in their possession, an afghan made by their grandmother. That is a special piece of comfort. Sick? Ill? Just want to nurture yourself for a few hours? Grandma's afghan is the benevolent slake for your soul.
Other covers would do, but somehow one can smell, sense, the love, the patience, the abiding that goes into a granny made afghan. There is pleasance there, generational cool.
I have only one. I have four siblings. I had to trade off to get this one.
There was a great disconnect, somehow, before my mom died. Geography. I wanted my girls to learn how to sew, to knit, to crochet, to whip up an afghan. From my mom. I have my mother's kick-ass Singer, in a disappearing cabinet that is a piece of art.
But I can't generate any interest here. Nada. I shall give it to my sister, who covets it greatly, because she grew up with it, and will use it, and her daughter will use it. You can't let a 1964 classic like that go unused in a corner.
Velociman. Waxing ineloquent on the sewing circle. Who'd a thunk?
I cannot deny it, though. I want to see someone use that sewing machine. I want to see someone crochet an afghan with
knitting needles hooks. I miss the distaff side of my life.
A Big PS: The Bride's grandmother was a master seamstress, or a Mistress Seamstress, and made some little cover blankets for the girls when they were born. Extremely cool. Very soft they are now, very comforting. You can pull those out and feel close to God.
With Bill Clinton, that is. What a fucking narcissistic cunt.
I didn't follow much of JP2's funeral, because I had, ah, work to attend to, and so was unaware of the hubris of the cocksucker Clinton.
Fortunately Rankin' Rob sums it up nicely.
That is the NASA buzzphrase. I am excited. Sometime in May, I think (I would be more specific, but NASA has redesigned their website, and it is a fucking mess. Committee work. You can't even find the launch schedule. But it's very Buzz Lightyear) the shuttle Discovery will blast off, and visit the International Space Station. I'm sure the occupants will be glad to see them, as they have likely been huffing oxygen from tiny canisters, too scared to take that damned Soyuz pod with the rusting bolts and baling wire back to Earth.
Don't get me wrong. I'll enjoy a space shot. Any space shot. I can sit on my front porch with a gin and tonic and watch the shuttle arc skyward, with a huge vapor trail, and even from my fur distance, see the solid rocket boosters separate, and the shuttle accelerate upwards into the heavens. Bliss for me.
But shuttle is shit. I tell you, I was 9 miles from Apollo 11 when Armstrong and Company lifted off for the Moon, and the force of a Saturn V rocket, even from 9 miles, is a fearsome and awesome thing. That is fucking firepower. That will curl your toenails. From my distance, as close as civilians were allowed, it felt like those films of human guinea pigs watching atomic blasts at Alamogordo in the fifties. Righteous.
So I will figger out the new NASA clusterfuck website, and watch that shuttle launch, because it was a regular pasttime for me for years, and since I can't be a little boy anymore, and hero worship Pete Conrad, and Wally Shirra, and Ed White, I'll take this. What NASA is calling "Return To Flight".
Queenie has been peaked of late due to the pollens. I can certainly relate. The pollens come earlier here than in Sylacauga, but the effect is the same. I was suffering from acute bronchitis during the yellow dustings, which made it all the more special. I feel for Queenie, and hope she be mo bettah.
I don't know what makes me susceptible to shit like this, but I have that chink in the armour. By the time I'm finished mowing my lawn I have strings of snot stretching from my nostrils to my collarbones. I am too lazy, or proud, to take drugs for this. Drugs are sacred to me. Other than the antibiotics I just completed, I refuse to take a drug that does not get me high. And, yes, that is my nose, lying in that mud puddle, spiting the velocimug.
And so, in email to Queenie, I had mentioned that I call this season, so resplendent in so many other ways, the Festival of Pulmonary Embolism. It seems fitting, and as I think May Day is a fucking Bolshevik ritual, I need my own spring rites.
I've been trying for years to figure out how to incorporate the, you know, fecundity aspect of spring into the equation, but Snot As Metaphor is as far as I got.
I must get my shit in one sock. Chatham Artillery Punch must be concocted. Sheep must be shorn. The bullwhip must be packed.
I am attempting to get 30 to 60 minutes of hard core aerobic exercise every day, as my spontaneous hacking phlegm voice is not pleasant, and my spittle flecks may contain bacterium. I also fear I'll need stamina, as my confreres tend to burn candles from many ends. There is only one porch, and one must be a big enough dog to hang on it.
I've also been giving myself B-12 shots. Well, actually, that's not true. It's watered down skag, but I never said I was a fanatic, did I?
I have some half rubber balls, but in my present delirium I'm not sure they are regulation size. It would be not only nice, but a sizeable bonus if my Bloguncle brought a few from Chu's to ensure the pristine nature of the game, especially since Opening Day has been marred by the sordid steroid scandal (Babe Ruth's drug of choice was vodka. That's leveling the playing field).
I've also learned a lesson, from sporting with these reprobates in the past. The fact that I don't bring a camera, because I eschew the gratuitous posting of pictures of peoples when they are under the weather, stinking drunk, or in vigoro, doesn't work. That merely means I'm the only one with no ammo. So let the word go out, ye worshippers of the fatted calf: I will be armed, and I will photograph your insolent, intoxicated, bisexual asses. And post it all. Also: if you behave, I will Photoshop you having sexual congress with a marsupial anyway.
Housekeeping: Vickie wants to know if we need the conference room. I intend to tell her no tomorrow, unless there is a Mazola party planned I was not informed of. Pick your rooms when you arrive, because I already have the best one saved for me.
Air travelers: I-95 north. Follow the signs. It's easy. They are designed for fucktards. That's your language.
Have I forgotten anything? Not from my standpoint, I reckon. Oh. Jimmy Carter wanted to make it, but then he confessed he hasn't made it in 23 years.
Think I'm done. If you need additional assistance, e-mail Catfish. Sorry, Cat, but it's time to balance the e-mail accounts.
Bane is a deeply disturbed individual. And a frequent commenter. So that's like, a twofer.
I'm just hoping there is a choke collar attached to his throat, should I ever piss him off.
Flynny directed me to this Dogsnot link (I don't go there everyday anymore, I believe those guys hate my guts after Helen. What can I say? They have good taste. Not that I did anything to them, the pussies).
Biting each others' ring fingers off at the wedding ceremony. Is fuck a duck a cliche? Sure. Well, fuck a damned duck.
Here's my problem: that guy looks suspiciously like Skippy Stalin. I also notice his Days Without Sex sidebar went from, like, 354 kajillion to 6.
You do the math. And the suturing.
How do you follow up a tapeworm post? Goiters, of course. I saw my first goiter when I was about ten. I followed this black man around the old Bargain Corner grocery store downtown for twenty minutes reveling in that softball sized protrusion on his neck. It rocked, I tell you. I was attracted, and yet repulsed. Like so very many things in my life.
Iodized salt has made the goiter pretty rare now, but every once in a while you'll see one.
Today as I was exhorting the smoke demons outside, I was approached by a smokebummer who had a lemon sized goiter growing out his forehead. Wicked looking motherfucker. But then I realized, hey. A goiter is an enlarged thyroid gland. You can't have a goiter growing out of your forehead. That was a tumor! A HUGE tumor. A fucking Elephant Man tumor.
I wonder if that guy knows he has that thing? He really should have that looked at, because you could hang a coat on it, and it looked like it already had half his brain mass inside of it.
And, no, I didn't ask if I could rub it for good luck. Damn, I love the bus station, and the gifts it bestows upon me on a daily basis.
Having grown up, and having subsided, on pretty healthy foodstuffs my entire life, I really don't know anything about the tapeworm, other than it is of a nonce with things like pellagra, and rickets, and all those other ailments generally adorned upon Southerners during the Great Depression. It was like a big experiment: let's cut off the vitamins and see what happens. I'm surprised scurvy didn't rear its ugly head, but at least we had citrus trees.
Nonetheless, I cry bullshit on this story:
A coworker of my brother, a Cajun boy, claimed to have killed a tapeworm. This fellow wrestled gators on the weekends for beer money, so let that be writ upon the ledger.
This guy claimed he went through a two week period where, every time he defecated, he felt something suck back up his ass. When he'd swipe there was nothing there. But being the intrepid soul he was, he says he finally mustered the bravery to reach up at the critical moment, and grab a parasite. Claims it snapped off, and he had three feet of tapeworm in his hand. Said the doctor gave him a scrip that allowed him to pass the other, dead, three feet of this Loch Ness Tapeworm upon his next shit.
Now, I live in an area where turnip trucks abound. They also carry broccoli, and cauliflower, and potatoes, and carrots. But I'll be damned if I believe this story.
If you, Intrepids, know more about tapeworms than I, feel free to correct me. I still say bullshit.
Ever have a tapeworm reside in your bowels? If so, I'll stand corrected, and I really, really, really want to know, too. I'l pay $37 for that story, if corroborated.
I'll be very honest here. I don't remember flipflopfuck about elementary school. Well, at least grades one through four. I suppose I learned my three R's, but the only things I really remember are:
SRA: an "advance at your own pace reading program". Color-coded, packaged in professional-looking plastic boxes, in retrospect this was a program designed to weed out the 'tards. Very avant-garde, cutting edge, for 1964. I finished the six month program in three weeks. That's when they said "Velocitot, you don't need third grade. We'll advance you to fourth grade, where the girls are more mature, and can whip your ass."
The white pasty glue: I still wake up from time to time with a strange taste in my mouth, an unusual scent in my nostrils. The white paste glue, with the scooping stick on the bottom of the lid. God, my first addiction. Forever fond of the stuff.
The Christmas Rings: you would make long chains of loops, rings, connected, for the Advent. Stretch them across the ceiling of the classroom. Pull off a ring every day in December. An Everychild's Advent Calendar. I'll beat dollars to fucking Krispy Kremes they don't make THOSE in school anymore.
Savings Bonds Stamps: every few weeks the sixth grade girls (those buxom hotties!) would come around, and you could buy stamps to fill up your savings bond booklet. I think red stamps were a nickel, blue were a dime. But, then, I cannot recall what I had for dinner Sunday. When the booklet was full you got a savings bond for $5, $10. Imagine: enticing little children into funding the Vietnam War. We were patriots!
Pilot Life Insurance: you got this paperwork the first day of class, and you'd better take it home to dad. I think for $5 a year you were covered at school, for $10 you were covered 24/7. I believe the deductible was $1. I'm pretty sure it was the only insurance my parents ever carried on us. Tort reform was a distant issue.
The Suspect Quarter: lunch was a quarter back then. Nobody brownbagged. I remember the first time I inspected a quarter with a strange layer in the middle of it. Copper! Overnight the specie had been devalued, reduced to common scrip, and no one had told me. I didn't understand currency valuations, or the Federal Reserve, I just knew I was getting a fucking bum quarter, courtesy of JFK, or LBJ (I tell you: my memories are hazy).
The 1964 Election: every kid in the Solid South wore a styrofoam All The Way With LBJ styrofoam boater. Except for me and my siblings, of course. We wore AuH2O buttons. The Senator wasn't brave enough to run for office as a Republican, but he would certainly exhibit his intention to vote for Goldwater on his children's lapels.
I think that's it. Except for the queer smell of institutional bread in the cafeteria, that's all I remember from those halcyon days. Long may they live.
I'll feel like the prison chicken on Ned Beatty Day at the State Penitentiary in Reidsville. I'll walk around work like I have a combination of the piles and my missing Maglite up the keister. My legs will be weak, my stomach muscles sore.
And I asked for it. I begged for it. Went out of my way to make sure it would happen. My taint meat will hate my guts on the morrow.
Okay, so I'm a whiny bitch the first ride of bike season. I only rode 12 miles, but I have a sensitive nether region, and it must be broken in with care, calloused with patience. I'll ride sore for three days, then the only pain will be in my charcoaled lungs, courtesy of Philip Morris. By Saturday I will be breathing like a regular human again, after leaving 20 mile trails of phlegm along State Road 13.
Well, that's the plan.
The wet fart is an abomination unto mankind. It is like an assassin, or sniper. It sneaks up on you under guise of humble air, and bursts upon the scene with irreversible consequences.
The wet fart is a Trojan Horse, a spy guised in his enemy's uniform. It is an unfair foe. There are no gastrointestinal warnings of a liquified defecation, no frightening murmurings of the colon. And, just when one thinks one is about to vent a nice, pleasant left cheek sneak, mayhem.
I despise the wet fart. But only from a philosophical standpoint, because I, of course, have never experienced one. But it is an avocation of mine to interview people about their wet farts, and take copious notes.
Well, it's a hobby, actually. A very disturbing hobby.
Ya'll sleep tight. And put a cork in it.
Alert reader Dee comments:
Ran across this by accident in a search and had to comment: "Just don't parade around like a gaggle of Blanche DuBoises on Muscatel"
If you are referring to the Golden Girls it is
Blanche Devareau, not DuBoise.
What is up your craw about the RHS and some women having fun? Jealous because it is not you? Many of these women DO what you suggested and then some so get a life of your own. They are not hurting anyone.
Hi Sophie, I saw Sue Ellen on the cover of Costco and I am feeling used by Sue Ellen at
this time also. Some ladies don't mind paying
to for tricketts but her profiting off a 72 y/o
womans poem does bug me. What will I do? I will
ensure that women I meet will know that one does NOT need buy RHS things, they can make their own if they like, they do not have to pay dues to open a chapter of be in a club, and if Sue Ellen one days decides she will copyright the name they can just hang out with other ladies like they used to in the olden days and call it a Ladies
Club ! Thanks for the link for the poem btw. I wonder if that author can sue Sue Ellen for part of the profits since Sue Ellen plagerized her work? ;)
Sophie: Doesn't anyone else find it hilarious that these women so determined to have fun and not be exploited choose a for-profit merchandising scam as their crusade? Fun's great, I love fun, and Queen Mother Sue Ellen Cooper's one smart merchant, but I'll take my fun someplace where I'm not expected to wear a uniform, pay dues or buy junk.
The laugh's on you, ladies.
BTW-the Red Hat site says they can't print Jenny Joseph's poem, only sell it, but it's online, free, at
Flynny has a post up about living together before marriage, and Queenie has responded in kind.
My take? How do you know if you want that GTO unless you've been around the block a few times? How would you like to "save" yourself for marriage, only to find your lover had a three inch penis, or a gash that smelled like Jones Beach at low tide?
Here's how I handled it: The Bride took an apartment at The Chatham, where her grandmother lived, an ex-nursing dorm attached to the old Candler Hospital, and full of nasty mean old people. People get mean as snakes when they get old. Their bowels are fucked up, their tickers skip pace.
Anyway, her grandmother got me an apartment there, too. 12th floor. The Bride's grandmother was cool as hell, and knew what we were up to, but we kept the fiction alive, so it was all good. We stayed there for a few months after we were married, until I went to grad school. Those old biddies hated our guts. There were only 3 young couples in the building, and it was a bitch to walk into the lobby with a bag full of booze from Johnny Ganem's, and have those old twats give you the shit while they perched, like fucking harpies, in the lobby.
Worked for me, though, ultimately. Knew what I was getting into. Just didn't know what it would become. THAT is a totally different question.
I always get the Bering Sea and the Barents Sea confused. I know there's no reason for it, really. But since Trebek has banned me from Jeopardy! for calling him a poseur, and a pantywaist, I guess it really doesn't matter, does it?
One more shameful confession: I cannot remember if the atomic number of Californium is 98 or 99. I know the atomic weight is 251, of course, you sillybillys, but my periodic table knowledge is fading. Fast.
When I was very small my parents used to buy books from American Heritage via a mail order program. Really fantastic stuff, much of which inhabits my library to this day.
One book, though, was eerie. It was called INDIANS, and it traced the history of Indians throughout the Western Hemisphere from Columbus to Wounded Knee. All the great artwork of the noble savage was there, and prodigious factual text.
There was one picture that freaked me out, though. It was a 16th century engraving, and it depicted Spanish conquistadores methodically taking naked Indians, and lopping off their hands on a butcher's block, carving out their eyeballs, and feeding their bleeding blind asses to wild dogs. It was very panoramic. A very busy picture, you might say.
Running across that at 5 or 6 years old will scar a child. About every six months I would pull the book down and study that picture. Fucking savagery.
I think I may have that book, but I can't bear to look at that picture anymore. You should have seen the dogs chasing down those Indians. It was actually pretty awesome.
UPDATE: Found it. Scanned it. Here you go, can't speak for quality:
I have been down and out today, having caught a 24-hour virus from Skeeter, the same bug that felled The Bride last night. I didn't get out of bed until 2:30 this afternoon except to fire fore and aft torpedo tubes until I ran out of ammo.
Quite grisly, I must say. Washed out, chills, I finally got some soup in me at 5:00. Now I'm going to grill a ribeye and see if it is accepted or rejected. Reload the tubes.
And, yes, I know how much you appreciate my sharing. It's just the way I am.
Even as we speak the life drains out of the Pope. He won't see the morn, I suspect.
Karol Wojtyla is his name. He is a fucking hoss. I am not a Papist, nor actually am I a regular communicant of mine own church, the Anglican Communion. But I've always loved this guy. He was the first Polish Pope, and when he visited Poland early in his See the crowds went wild. That visit, and that visit alone, spurred the Solidarity Movement. The rest is history.
Reagan and Thatcher could not have survived their gambit without this Pope, and so he goes down in the books as a hero.
Strange for me to wax eloquent on a "zealot", but this dude kicked ass. We all, of any creed or color, owe him. John Paul II stood athwart history, and cried bullshit.
Quake before me, and ignore my Commandments at your own peril. For the sake of convenience I summarize below:
1. Thou shalt have no other gods before me...
Note my judicious use of the lower case "g" here. That is because I have a certain aversion, if you will, to lightning bolts, pestilence, boils, and the plague. No, I speak here of demigods, such as Bono, Lance Armstrong, and Oprah. Ye worship them at your own risk.
2. Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image...
The sole exception here being Velocigod, of course. And if you must sculpt your own graven image of me I suggest using Michelangelo's David as a model, although he's a little skinny on the manmeat. It's the closest thing I've seen to the real deal. No, I mean no figures of Baal, or golden calves, even the kind with the convenient orifices. I will melt them down, and make you drink it.
3. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy Velocigod in vain...
This would include such phrases as "VMan, you gonna pick up that check?" and "I need a kidney, Velocigod, and they say you're a perfect match." I am easily insulted, for I am a vengeful and jealous Velocigod. Buy my liquor and get on dialysis and we shall get along famously.
4. Remember the sabbath day, and to keep it holy...
Actually, we have two sabbath days a week in Velociworld: Wednesday and Saturday. These are colloquially known as "Lotto Day". When the collection plate comes your way, please feel free to use your favorite numbers, your birthday, or even a random quick pick. I also enjoy Fantasy Five. And, please: no cursing on Lotto Day.
5. Honor thy father and thy mother...
This goes without saying. They sacrificed to raise your worthless hide, you addlepated dope fiend. Show some damned respect. Lookit how Velocigod treats the Senator, and let that be your spiritual guide.
6. Thou shalt not kill...
Velocigod's buzz, comment thread, or sense of humor. Also: other people, and the beautiful woodland creatures. Except the tasty ones. That excludes raccoons, squirrels, and opossums, by the way. The Velocipalate is not that sophisticated.
7. Thou shalt not commit adultery...
Because that would be Wrong, and Bad. You may, however, pleasure yourself to pictures of Velocigod, if you must. I believe Vatican II actually condoned this behavior. As information, the limited edition autographed glossies are $29.95. Available only through e-mail.
8. Thou shalt not steal...
Velocigod's thunder, ideas, or... well, see Commandment 7. The monkeys are off limits, as well. And the Mutant. Tuco is, unfortunately, in the public domain.
9. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor...
They are hard-working immigrants, not cum-crazed Asian slurp-sluts. You can be sued for such slander. Velocigod wants everyone to Just Get Along. I don't wield lightning bolts, but I have a pretty cool Taser, and I have no compunction against using it.
10. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife...
Let's just say Velocigod has to be proactive in one area of these admonishments. Mind your P's and Q's. I'll handle this one myself.
See? It's really not so hard being in a cult. I even let you speak to other family members, especially if they will send monies for the essential Lotto tickets, the emollient that makes the Velociwheel go 'round.
Next week: the Velocieucharist. Hint: I eschew wine for more formidable potables.
Thank God Terri Schiavo is dead. You know, her very existence chapped my ass. The fact that a veghead would suck oxygen out of an already depleted atmosphere was egregious, really.
And I am so glad there were so many people who came out of their somnolent existences, and put their papier-mache puppet heads aside, to ensure she died.
Fuck! Her very existence emboldened those fucking right-to-lifers, those damnable Christians. Count me among the people who just went berserk when I saw those parents attempting to nourish their child with ice chips to her lips. I wouldn't do that. Would you? Didn't think so.
And so: there are a bunch of fucking Mongoloids out there that make me uncomfortable. They look weird. They drool. They have a fucking shitty quality of life. Let's whack 'em.
Don't get me started on gays.
I can't believe I've neglected to mention I met Dizzy-Girl at Miss Elva's visitation.
Actually, Key smoked her out in the parking lot as she was entering, recognized her, and facilitated the introductions. What a sweet girl. Especially after Rob was, well, Rob to her.
She was really excited to meet Key, and Eric, and Rob. And, bless her, she actually shook Velociman's hand, although I sensed the fact she would rather have gripped the paw of a road-kill deer, or a wet leprosy victim. So she gets extra shout-outs for bravery.
Her superlative hubby was reluctant to meet us, as he was sporting some repurcussions from the ultimately successful stomping of a perp, but it's all good. He seemed like a good dude.
Good on ya, DG. Sorry I didn't post this earlier.