This is another classic in the artform.
And it stops on 25. Then it stops on 23. On and on, all the way down, ad nauseum. Literally. At least after the first stop you can catch the eye of any newcomers, and nod at the first person to get on after you, as if to say Fetid monkey. Can you believe a woman could smell like that?
I need an Eleventh Commandment: Thou shalt not tag Velociman. Really. The hubris in the 'sphere is getting out of control. This time it is flynny, impudently crossing the line I drew in the Velocidirt.
I am in an expansive mood, however, so here goes:
Total number of films I own on DVD/video:
Maybe sixty. I don't buy that many films. I borrow and fail to return. Very efficient.
The last film I bought:
The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly Extended Version Collector's Set. Naturally. You can't just have one version of that. That would be like having one pair of underwear. Okay, maybe that was a stretch.
The last film I watched:
The Green Berets. I don't know why. I think I was just very horny for David Janssen that day.
Five films that I watch a lot or that mean a lot to me (in no particular order):
Master and Commander
The Honeymoon Killers
Yes, a very disturbing trend, I realize. Well, at least Master and Commander didn't have apochryphal, misogynistic, sadistic sex in it. I am redeemed.
Love to see them again, but something tells me I'm not springing $1059 for row K at the Ice Palace in Tampa. Nor am I going for the bargain basement tickies at $648 for row T. Fucking Bono can solve Third World debt all by himself, now, can't he?
If he's very good and behaves, though, I'll accept those backstage passes to give him a sense of cool. But it's gotta be the Miami show, and his plane fetches me.
Two days of mandatory leadership training. What a waste. I'd successfully avoided it for two years, but my boss tied my bonus to attendance this year, so I cannot escape.
It's like kindergarten, without the opportunities to peek up my facilitator's dress. Not that it would be any more appealing than the 200 pound Miss Gladys. But when you're five, hey. You gotta look.
And so I will subsume my boredom and irritability with this, and tell my boss that he possesses none of these wondrous leadership skills. Just in case the fucker was unaware of this fact.
Strangely enough, all nations, from democracy to totalitarian regime to Stalinist hellhole all have one thing in common. They all have Tombs of Unknown Soldiers. Those poor bastards who were blown apart, shot between the eyes, fucked in Life's great lottery, their remains even unknowable. Who are they? Their survivors, parents, spouses, get a telegram, a visit from an impeccably groomed officer, they are gone, missing, of the ages.
And somehow remains accrue, unaccountable, and they are buried with much pomp and circumstance. Unknown Soldiers. Monuments are wrought, penance paid.
That is what Memorial Day is to me. Yes, the uncle I lost in World War II, yes, the God-rotted poor bastards my uncle slew in the fields of Holland, the chilled mountains of Korea, the steaming jungles of Vietnam. But moreso, the unidentifiable corpses that never met solace with family, the poor toe-tagged corpses that never had hook-up, communion, with their beloveds.
Remember the uncollected, the unburied, the uninterred on Memorial Day. The horrible unidentifiable, war's cruel detritus.
And remember Afghanistan, and Iraq, and the brave children, for they are children, that fight those wars.
My grandparents were younger than I when they lost their son in World War II. That is a sobering thought. I bow my head tonight, and pray for the lads, the lasses, that enforce our politics.
I shaved today, simply because I had not shaved since Wednesday, and I was feeling like a gruff old boar hog. I even went into work Friday with a two-day stubble, which I have never done in my life, me a well-scraped, Ward Cleavered man. Slathered in Dolce & Gabbana, even my ears scrubbed with witch hazel. All I needed was a tin cup, a soup line hand pass, a Depression-era gimme, pissed in the britches hopelessness. Well, that's what a two-day stubble feels like to me.
And the girls were eyeballing me today, as if to say Look at Dad. He's positively rolling in it.
And so I cleaned up, eye-dropped the orbs, Seabreezed the complexion. I feel special now. The Bride, of course, has smoked me out as a pretender to Cleanliness is Next to Godliness, but we have had the conversations before.
Long story short, I shaved today.
I'm normally pretty cool with my sense of inflated ego, my petulant ass, my grim sense of entitlement, trussed up like God's Thanksgiving turkey, thank you very much. And, yes, we'll have the escargot.
And then I get a taste of what real people do, the abnegation of self, the surrendering of vanity to a greater cause, and it humbles me. Eventually, I may even learn from such things, although I think myself a bit too craven of late, and am not sanguine of my prospects.
Still and all, that is a life worth living. I am envious.
Someone linked this Old Stinky tonight, so here you go. I kinda liked my Olde Nostalgia dayes.
Is there anyone I have not pissed off in the last 48 hours? You! Sitting in the back! Stand up! What's your name?
Fleebus! What's your mother's name?
Alice is a cunt, Fleebus. You may sit down now.
You may sit down now, Fleebus. My work is done.
See how easy this is?
The Hispanics across the lake from me have a beautiful lawn. Toil, toil, toil, they do, like migrant workers. And the results are magnificent. I want to swim across the lake just to sink my piggies in that fertile, lush, fecund grass. And I do, from time to time, under cover of darkness.
They must be retired, because they spend three hours a day slaving over that lawn, every day.
So imagine my wonder when my next door neighbors told me they have witnessed the wife squatting and pissing in the grass, rather than go inside. And not behind a shrub, either. And not just once.
The Bride is a property manager, and was inspecting a house yesterday for rental. The carpeting had been ripped up, leaving plywood atop a concrete foundation.
When she entered the bedroom there was a huge greasy spot on the plywood, and a horrid smell that made her gag.
"Do you have a dog?" she asked.
"Oh, no," said he. "That's where my wife bled out. The cancer didn't get her."
Suicide? Mercy killing? One doesn't ask such questions. One does, however, explain that one cannot rent one's house with a puddle of viscera in the middle of the fucking floor. Ground rules, and all.
So I was sprawled in a lounge chair by the pool today, enjoying a libation with The Bride, and was trying to explain to her, patiently, for the Smite of the Lord impaired, that I was a Golden God, by virtue of both genetics, and my own self-absorption.
She flicked her cigarette into the shrubbery, exhaled slowly, and said "What the fuck ever."
I shall take that as independent verification, and change my business cards accordingly.
A truncated lizard:
By God, it's like Saving Private Ryan out here.
And yet they know not why they fight.
For the flag, boys. You fight for the flag.
I wish there were some way to put Stanley Elkins's The Living End to film. I would do it. It is impossible, of course. Ellerbee trapped in Hell, scampering amongst the piss and shit and blood rivulets, Quiz the groundskeeper fucking with the interred Ladelhaus, one simply could not pull it off. And yet I love this novel. It made me want to be a writer, more than Faulkner, Hemingway, Garcia Marquez. It is remarkably profane and sacriligeous, and yet suffused with humanity. Here a slice:
And for all the world she was the Virgin Mary, the capital letters and epithet like something scrawled in phone booths or spray painted in subways. The snide oxymorons repugnant to her. Virgin Mother, Immaculate Conception. Her story known throughout the world, carried by missionaries to hinterland, boondock, clearing, sticks; parsed by savages, riddled by New Guinea stone-agers, all the bare-breasted and loinclothed who stood for whatever she could not stand, almost the first thing they were told after the distribution of gifts, the shiny mirrors in which they could see their nakedness, their dark, rubbery genitalia, their snarled and matted wool, the fierce, ropy nipples flaring against the stained, gross coronas of breasts pickled as strawberries, almost the first thing they were told, her shame a story, her story a legend, her legend an apotheosis, told through translators or in the broken pidgins of a thousand tongues, or with actual hand signs...
That is beautiful stuff. I wish I could write like that. And I would give his widow a healthy slice of the gross (never take the net! There is no fucking net!) of whatever humble scrapings that film would accrue.
Pipe dream. Unimaginably unable to engineer. Still...
I understand the distaste with which some people view the whole BC/AD thing. It is after all rather presumptuous to enforce the timeline of earth around a Christian calendar. Even the more appropriate BCE (Before Common Era) designation is somehow cheesy. That is why I am now nomenclaturing everything as BJ/AJ. Before Jude, after Jude. That's what it boils down to, really. One is either of the Before Hey, Jude world, or after it.
When I was 11 years old we could get a school bus rocking to Na, na na na na na na. It was a beautiful thing. Now it is an artifact. One knows the song in its glory, or as an afterthought, a button on Time's shirt.
Let it out? Or let it in.
Pammy has the sixth chapter of the Blog Western up, and it is a fine piece of writing. I am also fucking roundly rogered. The chapter I had been carefully crafting for two weeks is in the dustbin, and I must start afresh.
I could have the Gunslinger deliver a Hamletesque soliloquy, I suppose, as there are no fucking protagonists left to speak of. Or I could make Chapter Six a dream sequence, like on Dallas. What was the name of the girl who had that dream sequence? Oh, yes. Pammy.
Well, I guess it played in Peoria.
Back when I was a youngster, between gigs as they say, I was a cabinet maker. On Wilmington Island, where I lived. Very nice custom stuff, and I was proud of my handicraft, but I worked with some bizarro fuckers: Fat Jack, Red, Randy Jack, Li'l Chris, Nigger Boy, Biggun. Good guys, but sordid bastards, if that makes sense. They were known, collectively by everyone, as Back Island Trash. I was one for a while.
We would work from 7 AM until 3PM, and then toss horseshoes on the playing field at May Howard Elementary, and drink red liquor, always Crown Royal, for three or four hours. It worked beautifully for me, as The Bride was working the 3 to 11 at the Sheraton Savannah Inn and Country Club, and so I had this, this time to kill. Which I dids.
Fisticuffs would break out on occasion, because there were disputes over leaners, and such. Even though we all wore tape measures like I wear a cell phone now. We needed micrometers, apparently. But all good fights end in comraderie, and another drink, right?
Some background: Li'l Chris walked into the C&S bank branch on Wilmington Island when he was 19 years old, wearing a ski mask and brandishing a shotgun, and demanded ALL the money they possessed. "Sure, Chris," they said, and gave him a thousand dollars. He was quite pleased, and rode his bicycle home, all four blocks. He was picked up in 20 minutes, and served three years. Lucky boy. This was before mandatory sentencing.
Fat Jack had a decent house, actually, and threw an oyster roast every Saturday, when in season. As I would at times. We were the community pillars of the Back Island Trash coterie, and the others seemed to look up to us, when not planning to gut us.
Nigger Boy: David wasn't actually black, but I swear in the five years I knew him no one ever called him by his real name. I suspect this had something to do with the fact he had lost his license so badly after so many DUI's the Georgia General Assembly likely passed a Nigger Boy Law, wherein he would never drive again, ever, lifetime revocation, and so he bicycled around the island, and only made it to the mainland if he could cop a ride. A sad case.
Randy Jack looked like the bass player from ZZ Top, only with lice. Good guy, actually, except for the fact he could not control his brother, Biggun.
Biggun: he was the Primal Force here. At about 300 hundred pounds he was a liquor swilling fiend. Story: we once went camping at Bloody Point, on Daufuskie Island, before they developed it, and only Gullahs lived there. Biggun was hammered, of course, wearing the Crown, and the dogs Alanon and Ragashack had ridden roughshod over our food, so we were pissed anyway, and this kid named Michael had decided to talk some sense into Biggun. Bad, bad move. After about 20 minutes of hectoring, Biggun picked Michael up by the throat and proceeded to lay a most egregious pummeling on him. It was horrible. Especially since, after he was finished, no one had the balls to fire up a boat and take this guy for medical treatment, some one hour away. I had no boat myself, and so stood in the shadows and observed. The consensus was Michael should have kept his mouth shut in the first place. You didn't poke an enraged Biggun. It was Darwinian, is all. What a fucking beat down.
I almost forgot Bucky. He was such a damned derelict he couldn't even get a job sweeping the floors at the cabinet shop. He was also a bicycle case, having lost his driver's license at, like, 16, through multiple DUI's. His claim to fame was to have pissed off some hard cases so badly one night that they not only took a knife to his face, but they carved verticle slits in his eyebrows, so that, even after the wounds healed, he had a continual expression of surprise on his face, like a freaking clown. Scarred for life? That be Bucky.
I think about these guys from time to time. Never miss them, but I think it would be hoss to throw a game of shoes with them, for old time's sake. I hear Biggun got sober, and lost 100 pounds, and found Jesus. I hope so. As for the rest of them? Who knows? More importantly, who cares?
Wheels within wheels. Who said that?
Here is a picture I've been meaning to post for some time:
That is me and my brothers and the old man with, by my count, 49 king mackerel, an estimable day's catch by any standard.
A bit of background: in July of '69 the Senator took the family to Titusville to visit my aunt, and to watch the first moon launch. The Apollo 11 shot was quite memorable, what with the newshounds, cameramen, celebrities, politicos, and hangers on milling in abundance. We, of course, had ensconced ourselves at Smitty's Motel for the viewing, so there were no starlets nuzzling the Velocitot in unbridled lust, but still. It was a memorable thang anyway.
The next day the boys took off for Islamorada for two days of fishing. Full disclosure: I am the geek on the far left, in plaid long trou and Beatle boots (picture quality too poor to see). As I recall we had been almost skunked the day before with Captain Brown, saved only by a red snapper the Senator caught. I caught an excellent case of sunburn of the thighs, however, hence the long pants. The Beatle boots? Who knows. I probably had an excellent pair of Keds somewhere, but insisted on wearing the bootlets. I was into the White Album at the time.
And so we landed the kingfish as fast as that poor bastard of a mate could rebait and recast for two hours. What a fucking school of fish.
Then we scrambled back up to Bluffton to watch Armstrong take his historic steps on the moon.
My kids will have no such memories, unless they consider their old man sloshing his drink whilst yelling at the television that CBS News is full of crimps, spungs, and feebs a fond memory.
But perhaps, after all, that is enough.
Sulphur is a maligned thing, I posit. Connotations of evil there. Fire, brimstone. Great mouldering pits of the stuff in Hell, eh, reprobates? We don't want to end up inhaling those acrid fumes, do we? Of all of the elements in the periodic table, is none so vilified as sulphur?
A base element. Atomic number 16, should ye be keeping score. No one professes to like it, and yet it probably carries more gravitas in the pantheon of naturally-occurring elements than any other. Satan smokes sulphur, or at least wafts it to his nostrils for a head rush. Matchsticks and gunpowder contain the thing, it is the bastard element of all elements. Egg farts and Florida water reek of sulphur. See?
In some twisted sense of supposed decency the American scientists now refer to it as sulfer. Okay, boys. Million dollar grant justified.
As to my personal involvement with the stuff, my mother had what was then known as a home made remedy, now considered I suppose homeopathic, that included a heavy dose of yellow sulphur pills at the onset of summer. The idea was the sulphur would force the vile acne humours out of one's pores, and one would have a zit-free adolescence.
That was a shit of a theory. Our faces would blister up like the Red Death all summer, constant eruptions, pores inflamed, grim treacle leaking from said pores like pox victims. And my mother would nod approvingly, and announce us cured of future acne outbreaks.
Which was I suppose technically correct, because when one's face has been horribly disfigured by sulphur contamination a mere zit would be a non-event, right?
And yet I ended up a beautiful specimen of a human, even after the acne that of course manifested itself anyhoo. (Nod approvingly here).
Which I can only suppose to mean I owe Satan a Big One, and will have to intake the inhuman sulphur not through my post-life epidermis, but instead by dancing upon its blistering embers for some measure of eternity.
I'm pretty sure I have this one figured out. Other opinions will certainly be entertained.
Here's a basic primer on training organ grinder monkeys. First you break their spirit, of course.
Nothing about cymbal banging, unfortunately.
The Straight White Guy has Chapter Five of the Blog Western up. Man, this story has more turns than Paris Hilton in a Kingston slum. Nice work, young feller.
Well, Marlin Perkins is dead and dust, that suave fucker, but he would have enjoyed my back yard. I've spoken before of the plethora of lizards around here, but that is too innocuous a term. I am plagued by these vermin. It is as if a mighty god smote me with them, for some imagined slight at the sacrificial altar of luck-fucked ovines. They are everywhere.
These are not the chameleons, either. These little knotheads stay brown, and have ridges down their backs like miniature dragons. Horrid little bastards. I wouldn't care, really, but my cat has forced the issue.
She used to toy with them, and play with them, and pop off their tails. Of the 800 or so lizards I can espy on any given day I would estimate 80% have no tails. They are the lucky ones. Because she has apparently developed a taste for the little fiends, and has been devouring them like a crack whore on an expense account.
Hates the heads, though, just like any good female. She will only eat the body, and leaves the disembodied heads lying around. She often brings them inside for consumption, and so today I counted, between the den and the lanai, 14 lizard heads. Fuckamighty, that's a lot of lizard heads. She also yaks the bodies, of course, so there's THAT to deal with.
It was carnage I surveyed today, as if the Golden Horde had cut a swath through my homestead, with a hard on for tiny reptiles.
Jurassic Park. Velocikingdom. There has to be a market for these heads. I need to turn a dime. Prolly some obscure religious sect of Asians with a taste for the things. Is a dollar a piece too much, do you think? I have no market data here.
Confederate Jasmine: Out of control!
Mimosa: Out of control!
I plant this stuff, but then I am not a faithful steward of my bounty, as it were, and so it goes feral on me, untamed. The jasmine I can trim back after it blossoms, the mimosa has become a savage creature with a life of its own. I'll have to saw it off at the base, drill a hole in the stump, fill it with Roundup, and start afresh. After it finishes blossoming, of course. Mimosas actually smell pretty good, like honeysuckle. They don't waylay you from ten feet away like the jasmine, but still pretty nice. I'll hate killing it, but it is a beast, and will be in my neighbor's yard, grasping for his child, if I don't take it out.
I grew up hearing the term pinstrokes all the time. Meaning, not full blown apoplexy, but minor strokes. As in "Hiram's face droops onna lef side cuz he had a series of pinstrokes last year during the dry season." See? Not disabled, or debilitated, but certainly affected. The idea was one could spend a lifetime suffering pinstrokes, and would merely deteriorate a little bit at the time.
At any rate, someone called me out on that term, so I googled, and lo! the word does not exist, except in my imagination, apparently. No such term.
And so I would take my dose of humility, and move on, except that someone else told me the other day during a phone conversation that I sounded like I'd suffered a pinstroke. Hey! That word doesn't exist. I think they were having sport with me, and yet... I had a few Grey Gooses in me at the time, I'll fess to that. But a pinstroke? Damn. That's harsh!
And so I found myself poolside tonight, in a very pissy mood, listening to Lou Reed's Sex With Your Parents, and it occurred to me to bleat
Mom! I'm glad you never heard this song. Because, well, there is that.
I love gardenias, and not just that Vincent guy, either. They blossom early, and I have perhaps 30 blossoms ready for the pruning. I'll place them in water bowls, crush them in potpourri bowls, all that. Why? Because I'm a fag, I guess.
Some Significance to the gardenias, however. When I was first dating The Bride my mother had a magnificent gardenia bush, and I would swing by her house and harvest a few blossoms for The Future Bride to wear in her hair, behind her ear, before a date. Even a robust bush like that could not hide the fact of what I was doing, however, and I was smoked out, and chastised. My mother was covetous of her gardenia blossoms, for good reason.
If I ever gift you with a gardenia (and I am of course not allowed to do so) there is Significance there, and beware. Once the heady aroma of gardenia wafts into my nostrils I am completely out of control. Hence the reason I am not allowed to gift them. But, still. If you ever get one from me, watch out.
Rankin' Rob has the down low on hi skool hijinx. Been there, more times than I would prefer to confess to. Quite memorable is a '73 Toyota Celica, some mud pits on Skidaway Island, two cases of beer, a bag of shitty Mexican reefer, a Good Samaritan with a winch on his Jeep.
I have a bone to pick with flynny. She not only had a huge birthday, she chose to strap another man against her nether regions for the plunge from that aeroplane.
I'd a done that for her, had she asked. Not that I am a Professional, but WTF?!? And so I have sulked for two weeks in anticipation of a come back, a bit of reciprocity. But nay! Ain't gonna happen. That's the problem with bloggers. It's all about them.
The next fucking idiot that calls the attempt by the Senate majority leaders to force a vote on judicial nominees, as opposed to a real filibuster, the Nuclear Option is going to take a fucking Beat Down from me.
I don't care for the faux filibuster, however I also abhor the faux paradigm, the screwhead works.
Me, personally? Ready to kill someone. Especially if they say "Nuclear Option".
If you aren't a U2 fan you can pass on this post. If you are, here we are. Blinding light, indeed.
I have a few chinks in the armor, I'll admit, but don't be the asshole that brings them to my attention. I don't handle criticism well, as I am not only imbued with an outrageous sense of entitlement, but I also am imbued with a finely honed sense of you suck. I was born this way. There is certainly government monies out there to fund, or cure, this, but I like it the way it is.
I am told at times I am this, or that. Legitimate grievances, for I am not the perfect homo sapiens I convinced myself I was at 10 years of age. And I argue, bitch, carp, canavel, remonstrate, protest, connive, lie that I am not that way.
Okay. I made up canavel. But see? It's part of a pattern. The bullshit artist that tries to convince you the sky is heliotrope, just to bend you to my will. Share my lie, please.
I have hurt some fine people of late, and the caveat that Hey, you knew going into this is is rather lame.
Unless, of course, I can convince you that canavel is not only a noun, but a verb. And that you need to pick up the pace of the fucking canavel. Please.
What Is Your Animal Personality?
brought to you by Quizilla
Found at Key Monroe's, who found it at my Bloguncle's. And that is the fucking extent of my genealogical hat tipping. I am far too lazy to go to the source.
And, oh yes. That nails me to a tee. Although I've never called it a beak.
The cause of last week's multi-car pileup on I-95 near Brunswick, GA. has not been determined. Crack, however, is suspected. Crack can kill.
Good thing this didn't occur during the Wreckyll. And, yes, I realize this is becoming something of a theme around here.
Synthstuff has a backhanded ode to the 40th birthday of Super 8 film posted. I won't comment on the nature of that dispute, as technology knows no birthdays to me, but I WILL say you youngsters who grew up on the camcorder have no idea how fucking hellish it could be to travel to your local developer, and pick up your Very Special Rolls of Super 8 film.
Nothing worse than a severly acned child saying "Dude! Your dog was sniffing your ass during that! Didn't you know that?!?"
Special circle in Hell for boomers, for sure.
Never stopped me, of course. And that kid, after scoring a few copies, thought I kicked ass.
Rob and Pawpaw got to thinking about moonshine, which rips me, and more importantly, brandy. I think A-Man should make some brandy from those blackberries. At the very least it would cork the ass whilst delivering a potent buzz. All I ask, ever.
All by way of saying I love brandy, but seldom drink it. It is a great aperitif, and I dearly love a snifter at the Greenbrier, but it's a bit rich for the blood. For, you know, spree drinking.
Then I remembered I had some left over from the Artillery Punch. A quart of regular brandy was required, then a half-pint of Benedictine. And so I found the left-over Benedictine, and hads me a sniftah as my One And Done. It was wonderful.
My humble opinion? The greatest contribution of the Catholic Church was Bennies, labouring furiously over their brandies. Fuck, that is good stuff. In the Olde Days, when my company was printing monies, we used to finish every business dinner with Remy Martin, at something like $125 a glass. One finger. Those fucking days are gone. Now it's an esspresso, and I won't pay for your dry cleaning when you slop it upon yourself. Hey. We're all about extracting value now. If I'M healthy, YOU'RE healthy. My job is like a sex-ed film now.
Back to the brandy. Never had blackberry brandy, but I'm figuring Rob can pull it off. He a bootlegger, a stiller, at heart. That blood runs deep. Next meet. I want to drink some. After feeding some to the obligatory lab rat for vision testing.
Nothing personal. It's an OSHA thing, man.
I'd love to take one of those yuppie adventure tour deals you see in Outside Magazine. You know: Horsebacking Through India, Trekking The Caucasus, Safari Through Masailand, Mongolian Stir Fry in the Gobi Desert.
Despite the roughing it nature of these trips, the accommodations are supposedly very nice. Hell, I even think the tents are air-conditioned, and the dining is exquisite.
One exception, however: I would like for the other adventurers to carry me around on one of those sedan chairs. This one looks comfy:
I tend to get blisters on long walks, and I don't want to be a bother to my fellow adventurers, bitching about the lack of fucking Epsom Salts. You know, I like to sightsee, view the vistas as much as the next person, but they used to have a name for this type of enforced hiking: Bataan Death March, the Trail of Tears, the Long March.
I think seeing the high plateaus of Nepal in a palanquin, toted by overstressed stockbrokers and attorneys, would fucking rock. But that's just me.
I wonder if the TSA allows bullwhips on aeroplanes...
I now have four garbage bags of clothes in the back of the truck for deposit at Salvation Army. I'll never wear that shit again. That was my Fat Elvis period, minus of course the gold records, the capes, the massive fortune, and the penchant for watching my monkey flog his cock while nubile teens writhed on my bed.
On the other hand I have a bitching pimp hat I never saw the equal of at Graceland, so there's that.
Am I the ony person who wants to beat the piss out of Blue Man Group?
I'm thinking Catfish should have a sex advice column in a magazine of some sort, in order to dispense his wisdom in a more orderly fashion. Maybe here, for instance.
Update: Bane wants to know why "blown eye". Because of this, man.
When I was in college my buddies and I would have the Feast of Zeus once a month, or so. The Feast was prepared by scouring the dorm, the dayrooms, any empty room, and stealing whatever food we could lay our hands upon. Then we would pile it all on a table in our own dayroom in a vile mess, make Jovian toasts, and feast.
The food was certainly eclectic. Half eaten pizzas, leftover sub sandwiches, jars of peanuts, potato chips. Occasionally one would score a bucket of fried chicken or other delicacy, foolishly left unguarded upon a desk for a piss run, but as I recall it was usually pretty nasty stuff. Leftover spaghetti from a refrigerator, scummy on top, moldy loaves of bread, butter and jelly, an old dried up pork chop. There were no floors on what one brought to the Feast.
You had to have a cast iron belly to eat some of that shit, and food poisoning was not uncommon, but as long as there was alcohol it was all good. We used to steal quarts of milk from the wardroom kitchen, too, as the Jovian toasts consisted of milk chugging. That's how I learned I had developed lactose intolerance. I thought those screaming shits were food poisoning, perhaps from a half cooked piece of barnyard pimp, but twarn't so.
Come to think of it, the Feast of Zeus was pretty disgusting.
I don't remember a whole hell of a lot about this guy, and it hurts me to throw his name around blogworld, because I'm sure he Googles himself, as we all do, but what a scene.
Mark was a pitcher for the Braves. A closer. A heater. This fucking guy could throw the fucking smoke. You couldn't hit it. You'd fan out, and scratch your cup.
But life went awry for this kid. I can't recall, but either his wife dumped him for another guy, or a piece of pussy. Very bad scene either way. I so felt for him.
After this, he lost it. He couldn't hit the side of a fucking barn. He was throwing at his usual 98 MPH, but it was aimed at someone in the stands. I recall Leo Mazzone kicking dirt, and wondering what the fuck?
I hope that fella turned out alright. In a way. Gratuitous slam at someone, I know, but I actually liked this guy.
UPDATE: Here is a Mark Wohlers Obsession Page. And I thought I needed a life.
for sale on Ebay. $6. Just in case, if you are like me, you have no fucking life.
I apparently stubbed my toe last night outside, not so's it hurt, but enough to abrase the skin. It was dark out there, I didn't notice anything.
This morning, however, when I went out back for a cup of coffee and the newspaper, there was blood everywhere. It looked like someone had been quartering hogs. I still didn't realize it was me, and figured either something had killed one of the cats, or the cats had found an impossibly huge rat, and shredded it.
I scratched my head, and went inside. During my shower I realized I'd scraped my piggie, but it was only the size of a pinhead. And yet I bled out like an Ebola case.
Forgot to tell The Bride, so I received an hysterical phone call at 8:10, wondering who'd killed the cats. You cannot believe how much blood was out there.
I had to clean that shit up tonight. Now I know what women go through.
My father lied about his age, and joined the Army on his 17th birthday, to fight the cruel Hun, the savage Nip, in 1942.
His first gig was an assignment to an intelligence unit supposedly based out of Gander, Newfoundland. What they actually did was parachute into Greenland, seek out German radio huts guiding U-boats. They would toss grenades in the windows, then kick the door down and execute any survivors. Damned vicious work for a teenager. No prisoners. No accommodation for POW's. Kill them. To this day there is no record of what they did. A Freedom Of Information Act would likely release the records, but nobody gives enough of a shit to do it.
The first time the Senator saw a German was when he was on patrol, and came over a hillock. There was a Kraut, teenager like him. They both came up with the commendable idea that they hadn't seen each other, and both began backing up. This moment never happened.
Then the Senator's sergeant came over the hillock, and popped the Kraut. Head shot.
This is the only story my father ever told me about the big WWII. It haunted him mightily, I think.
They ate K rations marked 1917. Their sled dogs ate beef. So they would shoot polar bears, and feed the bear to the dogs, so they could eat the dog food.
All of this by way of saying I really crave some dogfood. I used to eat Milk Bone dog biscuits at my grandmother's, and got hooked. Good stuff. I want some Alpo, if I can get the beefy veggie mix.
Nothing, in my opinion, was more earth-shattering, paradigm shifting, than the invention of the sippy cup for children. The greatest inversion in child-rearing since Dr. Spock (whom, in my tender years, I mistakenly conflated with Mr. Spock, and Richard Speck, slaughterer of nurses, but that is a therapy session for a later date).
I will confess I put my kids on the sippy cup, because it was spill proof, a parent's greatest boon. But I will tell you: From breast to Binky to sippy cup, a child doesn't get properly weaned. They are still suckling at 5, 6 years of age.
No wonder there is so much Nipple Anxiety amongst our youth. This is just a theory, of course. I shall flesh it out, and report my findings. Looking for weaning theorists, by the way. 36 DD works very nicely for me.
The Fresh Makah!
Somewhere, some pimply surfer dude is pulling down thrice my salary for coming up with that bullshit slogan.
Life is a fucker, I tell ya.
I really, really owe Sadie the responses to my interview questions, and I work diligently as I type, but I am so far behind the curve I couldn't tell you how many deer are in the headlights as I haven't turned them on yet.
Fer instance: I get paid once a month, on the 1st, and I always sit down and pay all my bills then. It is now the middle of the month, and my bills accrue mould in my briefcase, ignored and slighted. I am forced to field phone calls from sinister thugs on work release programs, demanding immediate payment of my Comcast bill, lest they castrate me. I call them Sir, and insist the check be in the mail.
I did manage to pay my mortgage via telephone at 29,000 feet on the flight back from Norfolk in between Bacardi Twizzlers, but I was rebuked by the
air whore flight attendant for using a cellular phone during flight. I'm still amazed it worked, but the fact remains I still have a dozen bills to pay.
I just can't get a hard on for my creditors lately. I fucking hate them. Can't they understand that, and accommodate me?
I just heard a commercial on the radio pimping the newest night club in town, and it came with the caveat that "appropriate club attire" was required. Now, I haven't been in a disco in over 20 years, because I don't want to be tarred with the whole Don Henley jailbait thing, therefore I have no fucking idea what "appropriate club attire" is, other than the fact I am certain I don't own any.
Now, I know what "appropriate club attire" circa 1978 consisted of, and I never owned any of that, either, but I had a clue.
Now? I would assume overblown, oversized shirts, plenty of bling bling, Air Force Ones. Just a guess.
Somebody eddicate me. I may want to go trolling for some jailbait, and must look the part of a faux negro with no portfolio.
I used to think Acidman was Da Bomb, a great writer, a raconteur. Lately, and I mean over the last year, he has become something of a pussy, a crybaby. Oh, oh, oh, look at my sad world.
Well, I'm going to use some bandwidth, and call him out. Here it are, Rob: show me the wonderful gifts that made me blog in the first place, my blog uncle, or shut the fuck up.
I'm hoping you choose the former. Your call. Just quit being a fucking crybaby. You are a great guy. Believe in yourself for once.
Vultures have been circling the Velocihovel all day. And I don't mean metaphorically. I mean real live turkey buzzards. Something is dead around here.
I've tried to locate the deceased, perhaps send a card. Can't find it. This is disconcerting shit.
Are vultures harbingers of something? I dunno. I just know I am used to osprey, and these filthy scavengers have me all a fucking twitter. They are, after all, circling not my neighborhood, but my house. As I said, fucking disconcerting. I even climbed upon the roof, had a look see. Nothing there.
Do souls have a shelf life? I never considered it, but I'll be damned if I know what these bastards are after. I'm thinking me, but what do I know?
I've lost thirty five pounds in the last nine months, and not that I didn't need to, but it was inadvertent. Stress diet. Grey Goose diet, wherein you substitute vodka for pork chops for suppah. Very effective.
At any rate, I noticed today I'd gained ten of those pounds back in my week of travels. Not hard to do, eating like a fucking Mongolian at a village rape and slaughter. But I just replaced my entire wardrobe. No sense getting out of sorts now, right? Don't want to be a tweener on the britches, eh?
I obviously didn't have time to drive down to Cassadaga for a reading, so I called my palmist for an interview. She predicted, quote unquote, "A massive dump of Biblical proportions" within the next 24 hours.
So I'm feeling better now already. I'm sure you are, too, Intrepids. And now you know why I named you thusly.
Legend has it when you plant a weeping willow someone will die. Why that is, I have no idea, but I sorely wanted to plant a couple by water's edge, and so I did five years ago, and named them after my mother and the Velocibride's uncle, who had perished a few weeks before my mother.
I was being proactive, gaming the cosmology, because my planet spins around the Velocirules, not the other way around. Or so I convince myself. I don't believe in superstition anyhoo, but you never know, do you? There are bizarro thingies at work out there, and it could be that in the Grand Scheme I have the intelligence equivalence of the cockroach scurrying across the floor at the String Theory convention in Palo Alto, so it is always best to hedge one's bets.
Back to weeping willows. I planted them, right at the water's edge, so they could suckle upon glorious H2O, and sink tap root. There is nothing cooler than sitting under a willow tree, with laptop or sketchpad. I feel like Lord Fucking Byron when I do that. All that is missing is a rowboat, a parasol for my lovely lass, a straw boater for me.
I won't do that, of course. I'm not that fucking gay. But I love the willows anyway. They handle breeze with aplomb, gale with rectitude. Although, and this goes back to String Theory, which the East Coast Posse calls the Unified Field Theory, I could do without the packmule herd of fire ants that find the crack of my ass so delicious on these bucolic occasions. A minor quibble, sure, but no one likes to see an ass with pus welts on it. Even Lord Byron.
This Cajun fish-boil sounds like a hell of a good time. When are we going to get Og to a blogmeet? I want to see him dance like a fucktard, for one thing. Just to make sure I'm not the only one.
Kickball was the national sport when I was a child, insofar as the nation I was a citizen of consisted of my neighborhood. It was, after all, the only world I really knew. Beyond that be monsters.
Kickball is, in essence, superior to any sport played. The skill of soccer, the symmetry of baseball, the bull crudity of football, the innocence of no professional sport.
The trouble with kickball lay in the stunted landscape architecture of the postwar South. My yard, and all of my neighbors' yards, consisted of hideous landscape malevolently designed to destroy the kickball. As Charlie Brown had his kite eating tree, so every yard in my realm had at least one pyracantha bush, usually growing against a chimney, with hypodermic-like thorns, and red berries, good only for the crushing.
Every yard was also graced with a plethora of Spanish Bayonets, those venal succulents that were so unforgiving of the errant ball, or child. I remember oak trees, and Spanish moss, as a child, but I'll be damned if I remember them in my particular yard. This was the postwar house. Sububububurbia.
And so we would begin the game of a Saturday, rich as Croesus if we had two kickballs, but usually only one was in evidence. A dollar kickball was a treasure one guarded with great covetousness; you would always use the other guy's ball if at all possible.
And they would eventually hit a Spanish Bayonet prong on a scudding kick, or a pyracantha from a true foul shot. Never, in my stilted memory, do I remember a kickball game actually finishing. In fact, I'm not sure the game had an end game, the loss of the ball being in the unofficial rule book as End Of Game.
All of this nostalgic bastardy is, of course, by way of saying there is no puncture-proof world. By god how I wish there were. I wax eloquent, or base, if you will, on my outrageous sense of entitlement at times, and the leavening focus of a beat down. That is healthy stuff. But there are other aspects of life: one's friends, beloveds, where the beat down is egregious, inappropriate. And that is off the table, too. It is, after all, only by the grace of Newtonian physics that we are all not slung off the earth like so many cockroaches.
Life is a fucking pyracantha bush. You are attracted, enamored, of the beautiful red berries, mindful of their toxic nature, heedless of their barbs. But you will ultimately be deflated, humbled. No matter your size, your strength. The ball deflates, the raison d'etre evaporates into a mass of rubberized plastic. And I love this. Why?
Because we always buy another ball.
Hard to catch up when the participants are ahead of the game. Kelley's Chapter 4 is brilliant, and has added at least one new iconic term to the Velocipatois.
In Norfolk today, home of the world's largest naval base. Motto: Congratulations. You are standing on Ground Zero.
In unhappier news my "boss" called me at 6 AM, interrupting me from a splendid dream in which I was having torrid sex in beautiful Carib waters with dolphins and manta rays swimming about.
Remind me to burn down his house when I get back.
Ah, there's nothing like going to bed at midnight with a 3:50 wake up staring you in the face. I never was much of a planner. Add to that a greasy omelet for breakfast and a half-raw hamburger for lunch, and I do believe I'm ready for something imaginative from the Purgative Families.
But not before I run up to Rutherford and have a well-marbled steak, aswim in blood, and slam a few back with this fellow reprobate.
Will be on the road the rest of the week, New York, New Jersey, and Norfolk, as it is time for my regularly scheduled rectum-reaming from the Italians, the Chinee, the Nipponese, the Israelis. Pick a nationality, they think I suck. Or, more accurately, my sorry-assed organization sucks. I am just the proxy for the cornholing.
I'll dine well, of course, and drink expensive wines, and belch appreciatively at the appropriate moments. And a good ass rogering is just business, after all. Doesn't bother me. I think my company sucks, too.
This poem made me weep. In rage, but still, I wept.
It took me an hour and fifteen minutes to get home because of this shit. I'm all about me, and my convenience, and this woman ruined my drive home.
Hostage standoff ends in death on I-95
A man is dead and a woman is in custody after police said the female motorist shot her passenger during a hostage standoff on Interstate 95.
The situation had both directions of travel shut down on the interstate earlier this afternoon and southbound traffic remained congested at rush hour. Police said they planned to reopen southbound traffic about 5:30 p.m.
A Florida Highway Patrol trooper first pulled over a green convertible Camaro with Tennessee plates on Interstate 10 at Lane Avenue. The driver fled after giving the trooper her driver's license, then pulled over again at the Cassat Avenue exit, according to police. There, she began pointing a pistol at a passenger and got back on the road, police said.
The woman continued to I-95 southbound, where she again pulled off onto the shoulder. As police negotiated with her over a loudspeaker, she pointed the gun at herself at one point and at troopers at another point and then shot the passenger in the head in front of police.
She then laid down on the highway and waited for police to take her into custody.
Now, obviously, there is more to this story than the initial report indicates. I can't wait to find out the real deal, if for no other reason than I can savor the story in my mind the next time I'm stuck in beep and creep.
What does one do of a Mother's Day when one's Mom is peat, of the ages? Reminesce, drink, reminesce. Take no small measure of joy in watching one's daughters minister to their mommy. There is certainly luxury in that.
And yet I find myself inconsolable at times on Mother's Day. Whatever humanity, and compassion, my boorish frame possesses I owe to my mother. She was a gem, a brilliant and remarkable woman. Loving to fault, kind and generous of nature. Our house was always filled with kids, because everyone loved my mother. She had the knack of making every child feel welcome, and beloved. No small gift, that.
My siblings will tell you that my mother always kept a special place in her heart for me. They resented it. I don't know that that is true, perhaps she felt some measure of remorse for so hideously naming me. I personally think she was incapable of playing favorites.
My mother struggled mightily to find her way. She was blessed with a nice home and hearth after a brutish Depression-era childhood in South Georgia, and always reached out, strived. College courses into her seventies, painting and sculpture when I was a boy, hula lessons, calligraphy. And always the kind and heartfelt compassion for you, for your spouse, for your children. Never a mean bone in that body.
As my mother lay on her deathbed, incapable of speech, she smirked at me, and wagged her finger at me. She was saying You are better than you act. I love you. Be a man. Straighten up. She did everything but call me a little rapscallion, a little pissant. But I knew what she meant. It cut me to the quick. It broke my heart.
But, then, that was the point, wasn't it?
I miss my mommy, dammit.
When I was 13 years old I talked the Senator into buying a brand new 1970 Oldsmobile Cutlass Rallye 350, the fucking pimpest ride in town. Here one now:
Limited edition, available only in Sebring Yellow, it was the hoss of the street, even cooler than its cousin, the Pontiac GTO Judge. Being an automatic, I'll grant that it was not the muscle car a Hemi 'Cuda, or Charger, or Super Bee was. But it had fucking eyeball power.
I was a manipulative little bastard, and had extracted a convenant from the Senator, to wit: my oldest sister would drive the Cutlass for 3 years, then it would be mine, all mine. Wheels were placed in motion, gears meshed, emollients slathered. I was a happy lad.
So imagine my chagrin when, after my sister's 3rd speeding ticket, the Senator drove that Cutlass Rallye 350 back to Fuller Oldsmobile, and returned with a Vista Cruiser station wagon. The gods urinated mightily upon Velociman that day.
Now the Vista Cruiser would haul ass, but you know, it just wasn't the same, right?
My sister has coin in the bank. I think she should look high and low, scour the land, and find a cherry Rallye 350, and gift me. I deserve it. It's the least she could do, the lead-footed wench.
I really love high heels on women. They definitely accentuate a well turned ankle, a taut calf. But I must confess to a deep and abiding fear of them, as well. Here's why:
When I was about six I watched a film on television, which name I cannot recall now, if I ever knew it. In the beginning, Carroll Baker is depressed and distraught, so much so that she is about to commit suicide by leaping off the Golden Gate Bridge. A Good Samaritan pulls over, and talks her down. As she has no place to go, he offers to let her stay in his cramped crib, an attic somewhere as I recall. Kind of an aerial crawl space.
Well, to make a long story longer, our Samaritan proceeds to get hellishly intoxicated, and attempts an act of rapine. Our heroine, in defense of her honor, bludgeons him in the face with her stiletto, puncturing his eyeball in the process. He ends up a repentant would be rapist, she nurtures him (and herself in the process) back to a satisfactory level of mental hygiene. All in all a happy ending.
But what about me? I was scarred, fucking devastated, by that film. And to this day, whenever I see stilettos, I can admire them, but I also have an impending sense of dread, and my left eye twitchs uncontrollably.
What a bitch!
I really should have mowed my lawn today instead of cracking open a bottle and watching Master & Commander four times in a row today, however, I have an excuse. It's somewhere, in one of these pockets. Let me get back to you.
Also known as Shotgun Night around here. I love Wonder Boy to death, but we shall have an obligatory talk about Drinking & Driving, and the Apple Of My Eye, and my curious litany of Expectations.
This is after I've scarfed down about six glasses of wine at his McMansion. I prioritize, like any good dad.
Three o' the clock curfew. Can I hang? I'm taking no bets, as I am already half toasted.
Pulled the "speed bump" pecker. Even I have standards, however loosey goosey they may be.
As Reader Marea says:
Erika, O My God, I couldn't have said it any better. I'm 43 and also embarassed by these women. The mentality of these women are just unbelievable! So many of our great women leaders and scientist etc. started to do worthy accomlishments in their 50's. My mother-in-law is one of these selfish women. If my own mother was to wear purple boa's, red hats, etc.(where are the fashion police when you need them?) I would be ashamed. Like you said women have suffered and worked so hard to get RESPECT and this organization is tearing down and destroying it all. They are falling right into the sterotype men have cast us as. Ninny, No-Brains, Not as intelligent as they are, PMS B***H's,menopausal loonies. I hope if any of these women are married, their husbands leave them and go find a real woman who if dignified, intellegent, classy and someone he and his children can be proud of!
I'd love to wax eloquent on this topic, but it IS Friday night, which means, well, I ain't well. And Ace always has my six anyway.
Plus, I think I know his mom, and we don't want to go there. Not Ace's mom, BTW.
When I was on the Eagle in the Mediterranean, we returned from liberty one night hammered from a day of binge drinking at the beach at Torremolinos. But wait, that's not the story. That's dog bites man.
The Eagle was not known for its sublime accommodations. In fact, all you got were a locker the size of a breadbox and a hammock to sleep in. So, in order to give our rancid uniforms some semblance of crispness there was an industrial steam press in the crew quarters. Like this, but much bigger. About four feet long on a steel frame.
A friend, whom I shall call Darwin, decided to parlay his liquid bravado into some easy drinking money by betting he could hold his arm under the steam press. Just for a second. I wasn't close friends with Darwin, nor did I wager a bet one way or the other, but I stood there, glassy-eyed, to see what would happen.
Darwin took his shirt off and placed his arm on the press bed. A crazy sadist named McElroy pulled the top press down, and SSSSSSSS!!!!!!! The press locked into place. It apparently had a seven second timer, which no one recalled at the time, and so we were blessed with the shrieking agony of one Darwin, pinned to the press, subjected to God knows how many degrees of steam vapor. Never heard a guy scream like that before. It was kind of unsettling.
Seven seconds may not seem like a long time, but watch your second hand and imagine spending that time having your arm parboiled.
When the press finally released Darwin collapsed onto the deck. That boy's arm looked bad, bad, bad. Or so I thought then. A friend led him off to find the corpsman, he no longer screaming but crying like a baby, and the rest of us smoked cigarettes and talked about how fucking cool that was for another two hours. Darwin's arm looked infinitely worse a few days later, once the blisters ruptured and suppurated. The last time I saw him a year later it was still scarred miserably.
What an idiot.
I celebrated by torching the barrio down the road:
I still have the trailer park to deal with that houses the two molesters. Fourth of July, maybe.
Because I'm too lazy to write tonight, and you really don't want to see the rectal string warts picture I found.
Sadie wanted to interview me live at the Wreckyll, but I insisted on editing authority, given my penchant for blathering, and naming names inadvertently whilst under the influence. I also pointed out I had the editing authority for my Playboy interview, and that, of course, went swimmingly.
And so she was gracious, and forwarded a list of questions I can only call inspired. I don't do these things willingly as a rule, being a misanthropic fuckface, but I found the scope and detail irresistible. I shall bare much more than I normally would, and we will flesh out the details over the horn, just like the Playboy thing. Although I still take umbrage at Playboy's mandatory interview buttplug. Gotta talk to Eastwood about that one. Explains the grimace, I suppose. Stay tuned, as they used to say in the analog days.
I hates the wen. You know whereof I speak, right? That ghastly protuberance on a face, that disfiguring lump that cannot be ignored?
I so wanted to post a picture of one, but do you realize how many Chinese doctors show up on Google when you input wen facial, or wen dermatology?
And yet I persist. A search for wen disfigurement reaped:
An indolent, encysted tumor of the skin; especially, a sebaceous cyst.
Mo bettah. Shall we proceed?
Okay. I couldn't find a picture of a wen. Too many Chinese doctors out there. I did, however, find a very nice picture of gangrenous fingers:
Don't know about you, but I'll sleep well tonight. My work is done.
I really don't like pets as a rule, although I tolerate them pretty well. I do have, however, a veritable zoo of irks, crotchets, and peeves swarming about my ankles at any given time, and so they are my unsolicited pets. Here's one:
People who leave their phone numbers like a fucking meth freak. I am driving down the byways, atraveling, and check my voicemails. Someone will leave a longwinded, gasbag story I have no use for, full of background and nuance, all for the answer to a simple question. Byways are dangerous at 90, especially when I'm steering with my left knee whilst I attempt to scribble a message on the back of some vendor's business card with a cellphone cradled to my ear. And, no, cell phones are not ergonomically designed for the cradling. Better to just jam it in your ear.
And so, after a lazy, blithering story, this asshole will leave their number in some kind of speedfreak staccato machine gun burst that lasts all of .7 seconds. 7045712331!!!! Hang up.
Well, you fucking asshole. I now have to listen to the message again, after scrolling through the previous 15 messages to get to it, because you couldn't slow down your fucking pie hole. You were drawling like the nigras wuz cummin' in from da fields while you were sippin' a mint julep for an interminable length of time, then you went all tobacco auctioneer on me at the critical moment.
Heed me: if you want a return call from me, slow the fuck down, and ENUNCIATE! Repeating the number, at casual speed, might even seal the deal. That's what I do, but what do I know.
I learned this shit in kindergarten. What is these numbnuts' problem?
I've had this situation happen a couple of times before, but only once did I actually fess up to the deed.
Have you ever begun a comment at someone's post, innocuous at first, and then the muse kicks in and you find yourself framming out your best stuff? And then you say Hey! Fuck that! That's a post!
And of course you can then just go post it, and hope no one catches the fact you are regifting your own words to yourself. But: I once actually asked someone to pull a comment, as I had reconsidered, and felt it was far more worthy than their comment section, and deserved its own little showcase.
Every time I recall that, I think Man, you are such an asshole.
This is a very well told story from my young blogbrother, long may he be unarmed. And even if his Dad did work for Brand X. Impressive.
Whomsoever hits that 200,000th hit tonight will win my most prized possession ever, and I am tortured to let it go:
Aye. My Popeye handpuppet. You may have him, treasure him, put your fingers up his skirt and fondle his hidey holes, but you may never ever wash him. Those stains are history, enigma. I will also require a fully executed power-of-attorney, which I will persuasively explain my need for in an offline e-mail.
Now ya'll stop hammering on your keyboards in furious envy, okay?
UPDATE: Looks like I have a winner in my narcissistic little circle jerk. James of Old and Evil. I'm happy for James, sad for Popeye. Because he'll no doubt become some kind of pussy proxy for James, getting his head filled with old and evil stuff.
Send me your address, James. But please use a post office box. I really don't want to know exactly where you live.
I finally figured out why my traffic, my readership sucks. It seems the average blog reader is dumber than a fucking bag of marbles. They don't get it. So pat yourselves on the collective back, Intrepids. You are apparently somehow slightly above that average. Say, a bag of Mary Janes. Something to be proud of, to be sure. Go, run, tell the children.
I see someone finally had the balls, the nerve, the audacity to tag me with a meme, knowing I don't play well with others, that I prefer to take my own sorry counsel, as unwise as that often is. But I had sport with Aubrey last night, so by way of showing I meant no harm I shall attempt this fuckfest of a ditty test.
The concept? Create a short poem of several stanzas in the following form:
Turd in a punchbowl,
Have no fear,
Turd in a punchbowl,
Write your own line here. And so:
Turd in a punchbowl,
Have no fear,
Turd in a punchbowl,
Chewy like Fleer
Turd in a punchbowl,
Pass me a cup,
Turd in a punchbowl,
Drink 'um all up
Turd in a punchbowl,
Turd in a punchbowl,
Blogdom and me
Turd in a punchbowl,
Changes the taste,
Turd in a punchbowl,
None went to waste
There. That wasn't so hard. The hard part is tagging three other people, like some kind of voodoo chain letter. And so, in the spirit of the chain letter, I tag Bane, Dash, and Redneck. And remember, guys, if you don't follow through you will suffer terrible reversals of fortune, genital warts, and that toe fungus that takes like two years to kill off.
Update: I should have hat tipped the owner of this fetid meme, the ever twisted Elisson.
I'm up until two o' the fucking AM on this, and I cry bullshit. We've been attempting to assist Key with a nice 100,000 hit partay, because we all crave the faux testicle, but Sitemeter is either fucked up, or donkeys are flying out of my ass, with Finnish birch rods flailing their backsides to enhance the sauna experience.
Sitemeter is fucked up. Kelley has not had a hit recorded in two hours, despite prodigous efforts, I only get one of three recorded.
Damaged, compromised recording mechanism, is all I can say.
I capitulate. This this, this abomination is all Kelley's. I just want to be invited to the awards ceremony.
UPDATE: And Evil White Guy is full of shit. This did not happen. Here is a guy who can't even take the fucking snow off his site in summertime. Dick. I would wrap that testicle in shitmummy attire (formal, of course, it is an evening ceremony).
24 hits to go at Key's to reach 100,000, and some "lucky" person wins the faux testicle. I am whipped, and need to go to get some sleep, and have two perfectly fine lads who will not resort to such stress-relief punishment under any circumstance short of torture for PIN codes, but someone win that thing so I can go to bed.
An aside: I will hit 200,000 tomorrow, I discover. I cannot promise anything as exotic as a testicle as a prize, faux or otherwise, but I'll come up with something... and if you think it will be the pimp hat you're fucking crazy. Maybe the monkey's pimp hat...
I'm whipped. I drove to Atlanta for a Braves game Saturday and returned Sunday. No big, but...
I flew to Mobile this morning for a meeting which I knew would be an abortion, and it was. Six hours getting there via Delta to get tossed on our ears after an especially brilliant presentation by me. It was genius, but it wasn't what they wanted to hear. I could have told them that on the telephone. But they are the Largest Corporation in the World, so we had to go get tossed like midgets in a mudpit.
I had a great idea, though, and suggested to my colleagues we drive back to Jax. Delta had us booked through Cincinnati (!) on the way back, putting us home around midnight, and it looked like we were going to miss that flight, so I asked Avis how far from Mobile Airport to Jax International. "343 miles," she said.
"Fuckin' Ada!" I told the boys. "I drove more than that Saturday and Sunday. I'll drive. Have us home in no time."
It turned out to be 420 miles, fueled by Red Bull and Slim Jims, plus the 40 more home. That's like 1,200 miles in three days. My spine is like one of those Catfish cherry stems, my hemorrhoids like jalapeno poppers. I'm getting too old for this kind of marathon driving.
Did I mention my amiable roadside chat with a Florida State trooper? We disagreed, amicably of course, on my precise velocity at the moment he tagged with me with a most unsportsmanlike single ping of the radar. I smoothied my way into a Warning. Still. All that driving at 90+ miles per hour for three days, and he wanted to bust my balls for a respectable 85? There's nerve for you. I was Driving Miss Daisy, I was.
I'm farking whipped.
Well, actually, I don't. But I've been informed I certainly need to spring for one, so it is much the same thing, non?
As the Velocidaughters have been hammering me for surfing lessons I suppose I can converge the harmony and make it a surfing vacation. Of course, I haven't touched a surfboard since Don Henley was fucking 12 year old girls, but I'm game.
I'll need to pick a venue. Possibly Cocoa Beach, for several reasons. It's ratshack enough for my tastes, the surf schools there are good, the waves consistent and moderate for the beginner, and there aren't a lot of expensive theme distractions nearby should the kids' minds wander. If they want surfing, they're going to get it. And that's all they're going to get. Except for the kool g I'll drop in Ron-Jon's, no doubt. Oh, and I can wander Kennedy Space Center with a hip flask, and purchase the odd Gemini commemorative pin while looking at that Saturn V rocket on display and think, that is a pocket rocket worthy of a god.
The greatest downside to this, of course, is the fact that my 12 and 17 year old daughters would actually be taking surf lessons, from some cheesy stoner who will undoubtedly look just like Don Henley. I'll have to remind him of the precise nature of the term GROUP lesson, should his dope-addled brain attempt to get outside of my groove.
I'll need my water proof hip flask and my diving knife if I'm going to pull this off.