I saw in a flyer today where Walgreen's is selling a personal defibrillator for
$1,495. Please. My coinhabitants of this hovel can't even put their dirty socks in the hamper. And I'm going to let them put the paddles to my heart? I don't fucking think so.
I am a fan of 911. Call it. Let the professionals revive me. You? Stay the fuck away from me, with those paddles.
That's what the Senator used to call those perilous establishments. Places like Junior's Supper Club, somewhere on the backroads to Atlanta, around Metter, I guess.
I'm not talking biker bars. Bikers may look intimidating, but they are by and large great peeps. Only about 5% of bikers are outlaw bikers. Just like the rest of the population.
No, I mean knife and gun clubs. Where the locals go to furiously fuck with each other, to rectify grievances, establish turf, avow the ownership of a particular piece of pussy.
My old man used to like these places, as I recall. I can remember him telling my brother and I to Stay in the fucking car! while he went inside for a while. I think he was having a few pops, and waiting for a knifing. He was printing money in the late '60's, and mostly, I think, because of the grievances that arose from knife and gun clubs. It was easier money than murder trials. You had so many witnesses!
Cox's. Pop Edwards'. Junior's. Lawyers today don't proactively seek out the easy money. They don't have the nuts. The Senator prolly started a few of those fights, just to slip his card in their bloody shirt pockets afterwards.
I tip my hat to the old man. A true afianado of the knife and gun club.
Any kid who's ever been fishing with their old man will appreciate this story. Of course, Skeeter still has a captive crawdaddy in her critter keeper, so I'm not exactly a role model for catch and release.
V Man is napping, so I want to get something off my chest.
For all you guys who claim to dislike breast enhancements: What's your frigging problem, nancy boys?
Oh, I know you'll give me all sorts of reasons, but they'll all look effete and ridiculous once you re-read them. I know the real reason you hate enhanced tits:
You're all faggots.
Guys who disdain augmentations are the same guys who pick Maryann over Ginger. You're just scared you couldn't satisfy a nympho like Ginger. (I did. I'm mutated everywhere.)
Saying you don't like the breasts you're glomming onto because they're too big is like saying you don't like your hot wings because they're too hot, or your buttplug is too big. Why'd you want 'em in the first place, ya damned nipple?
Haven't you ever delivered a pearl necklace between a sweet pair of manmades? That fucking rocks! What's the matter with you pussies?
V Man's stirring. I gotta go.
UPDATE: I never said I disliked small breasts. Just that I had a great appreciation of the bodacious. This guy doesn't, which, by definition, makes him a homo. A pindicked homo. A cake boy. And for some reason he thinks V Man wrote this post.
I wish my company would offer another buyout. I'd pounce on that year's severance, and haul ass. Spend three or four months in an RV, crisscrossing this great nation (which Woodie Guthrie thought belonged to the peasants, but it don't, do it? They just get to toil on it).
I would travel the backroads, and do nothing but take pictures of scarecrows in cornfields. That would make a hell of a coffee table book.
Because the scarecrow is a metaphor for Stay off my property, you fucking tresspasser! You interloper! Quit shitting on my corn!
Yeah, the scarecrow is an American icon. It speaks to me. I sure would like that buyout.
Remember George Kennedy in Cool Hand Luke? Dragline, they called him. Now that's a hell of a nickname. I wish somebody would call me Dragline.
Ever seen a dragline? They're like a crane, only monstrous. The size of a six-story building. If you've ever seen the horrid, denuded, moonscape effect of strip mining for coal, draglines did that. They just reach out and rip the face off the earth.
And if you don't like that look, I suggest you don't live there. Because Coal is King, just like cotton used to be. In a country where nuclear energy is pariah, coal creates the energy. So every time I turn on a light switch I think Coal is fucking King.
Call me Dragline.
My company is 185 years old. We built a shitload of infrastructure with slave labor and convicts. And I have to admit, you look at those old balance sheets and income statements, that kind of labor is pretty impressive to the bottom line.
Only one problem. I can't figure out if I'm a slave, or a convict. And is there an Underground Railroad to get away from the Overground one?
I knew damned well I had a nine hour business meeting today, on Saturday, fer chrissakes, and yet I pounded the gin and juice at the company ballgame extravaganza last night (saw a grand slam! A fucking double-A grand slam! See where I'm coming from?) and headed home at a reasonable hour, and yet felt compelled to carry the party on.
I felt like hammered dogshit today. Ensconced myself between two of my sales buddies, who had torn it up even worse than me. We would elbow each other in the ribs every 15 minutes to wake each other up. Nobody yakked, thank god, but there was a moment or two...
I so needed a power nap when I got home, but the pool had turned yellow algae on me, and all those girls showing up, I had to clean it. Then I had a hair o the dog, and, well, here I am. Ignoring those glistening things in the pool. In the Batcave. Where I belong. Reaching out to my Intrepids.
I don't have a tip jar, but I expect $20 from all of you. For the Grey Goose.
Hey, Moondoggies! It's Beach Blanket Bingo at the Velocihovel! All the hot girls are here! I'm so excited I'm going to load the surfboards on the roof of the woody and drive on down to the beach for a luau!
I hope Annette and Frankie are there. Annette taught me the value of suntan lotion after dark.
And, hey! Maybe later we'll put on a play, to save the old theater! Who's in?
I deal with a lot of people on a day to day basis. Some are honorable, some are goat-roping assholes. And that's okay. You are what you are. I can smoke you out pretty soon, anyway, and will treat you accordingly.
Here's my issue: every time someone tries to really screw me, I mean really pole me, I realize they are avid churchgoers. Sunday School teachers, deacons, and such.
What the fuck is that all about? I am not casting a wide net here, I am not denigrating churchgoers as a cohort, I am merely proclaiming that every time someone tries to fuck me they are good churchfolk, and are extremely active in their churches.
Now me, I am a lapsed Espicopalian. Still a member, but I'm a C&E (Christmas and Easter) communicant. And the next person who calls me Catholic Lite will be bent over my knee, receiving a warm but heatfelt ass whupping. Catholic, not Roman, is what you will be screaming. Or murmuring. Depends on the efficacy of my spanking. And not that I have anything against Roman Catholics. They sponsored the Inquisition, and the Child Molestations, right? Yo. We almost brothers.
I digress. Anyhoo, I despise a churchgoer who is a backstabbing cunt at the business table. I'm not casting aspersions on churchgoers, go do your thing. I'm casting aspersions on those fuckers who hide behind their religiosity whilst attempting to fuck somebody.
Velociman's Rule Of Thumb: you go to church regularly? I cast a slightly jaundiced eye at you. You a Sunday School teacher? Radar is up. Beacons are on. You a deacon, a member of the vestry, or some other official capacity? I don't fucking trust you. Sorry. I play the odds, and I've been burnt by more of your type than I care to know.
The rest of you Bible thumpers can rest easy. I ain't on your case. Just don't attempt to do business with me.
Maybe that is a wide net. I don't care. I'm just tired of hypocrites attempting to fuck with me. Go fuck with your buddies at the revival. If they aren't too busy fucking someone else.
My daughter is captain of her high school dance team, and as such is expected by tradition to have all the girls over for a kickoff sleepover/pool party. That would mean 20 nubile young ladies between the ages of 16 and 18, in skimpy bikinis, cavorting about my pool tomorrow. Followed, no doubt, by pillow fights.
I know what you preverts are thinking. I'm only disappointed The Bride isn't thinking the same thing. I detest estrogen, and SO wanted to be banned to Atlanta for the weekend. If I didn't have an 8 to 5 business meeting on Saturday I probably could have made the case.
As it is I will no doubt be beggared for 20 pizzas and 37 liters of diet soda, and have lye thrown in my eyes, lest I inadvertently espy the girls cavorting.
Actually, if I left that meeting at 5, I could be in the ATL by 1030 Saturday night. Anybody want to party?
Yar, the shuttle fleet be grounded agin. Why? That pesky foam flying off at liftoff, damaging the orbiter, and all.
Let's back up. Why is the foam flying off? Because the original application method involved the use of Freon, that bastard gas, and the environmentalists pissed their trou over it. And so they took Freon out of the application process, and we ended up with seven incinerated astronauts over Tejas. And now we have another crew pissing their respective trou over their reentry.
Fucking madness. The introduction of Freon to the space program is miniscule. Bullshit. But we will slaughter astronauts like fatted calves, to appease the environmentalists.
On the other hand, true boys with the Right Stuff love it when the odds are skewed agin them. Anyone seen the odds on reentry at Tunica?
My end of day usually involves me arriving home from work to an empty house, chirren off to play with friends or boyfriends, spouse working late, and EVERY FUCKING TELEVISION IN THE HOUSE ON. All on VH1.
My children think of electricity as a God-given right, an asset to be squandered as Paris Hilton squanders her vagina. I cannot make them turn off a fucking TV if they leave the room, much less the house.
And VH1! Fucking Ada. That channel blows mules. It is 24/7, incessant, ad nauseum celebrity dish. The very thing that makes the veins throb on the Velocibrow. The cuntish self-congratulatory horseshit that ennervates me.
Losers, crimps, spungs, feebs, all being dished by some fat no-name queers that VH1 has found in a bath house, passed out with cum on their lips.
The Insignificant, weighing in on the Insignificant.
It is a nightmare. And on five televisions, playing at a Velocihovel near you.
Not to make excuses for my behavior, but can you blame me for walking in, snatching the fucking cord out of every TV, and mixing myself a stiff one every day? Then retiring to the pool, where I attempt to find that very wicked spot where the jet pulses my cock?
I am being chill, as far as I am concerned. No one's died yet.
I was somewhere around Jackson Square when the tequila kicked in. I was shopping for shirts for my offspringus, moths swirling about my head, when I decided I needed to be a gangsta, white folk being in short supply thereabouts. My ever-patient shopping companion purchased a bandana for me, obviously to shut me up, as I'd begun barking like a seal for no reason, and doo'd me. I had an immediate craving for bitches and ho's, but lacked the wherewithal to purchase any. Nonetheless I proceeded at a list around the corner to a sweaty, fetid bar, where some girl was performing performance art fellatio on some cripple. Found my ho.
Strange town. Bone reading was the order of the day, apparently, but neither this guy nor this guy wanted to read my bone, which says, in chartreuse ink, Bonedaddy@velociworld.com, Jacksonville, Florida, United States of America. Of course, in my current state it merely read "Bo".
Having somehow managed to spend a weekend in the Big Greasy without much contact with my patroness and soulmate, I decided to skeeze out in order to sample the debauchery of Bourbon Street, in the company of fellow debauchees. Now, my flavo flav band from the previous evening was AWOL at the Sea Port, and I was therefore deprived of seeing my hinky tight have her index finger come like two badgers fucking like it did the previous night when the guitarist played B.B. King with the nail. I did, however, play brass pole for her later. Got me all the way to "Boneda..." it did.
Somewhere I picked up a straw cowboy hat in a bodega, I have no idea why. It certainly looked better on my swaying barmate, Suzie Q, than me. And then, of course, there was Barbarella capturing my insanity on digititis. I can't wait to burn her fucking house down if she posts those things. Did I say that?
Where was my traveling companion? I saw this fuckweasel on the plane there, and the way back. Breakfast, too. And bloody marys. But he was Vlad the Impaler come nightfall, obviously skulking about the filthy streets of the Quarter in search of the passed out slut, or the inebriated rat. Blood is blood to those types, they say.
I thought I had a date for Saturday night, but I'm used to no shows. These things happen. These things being, in this case, repulsion. What can I say? She has good taste.
This is all the hypnotist can get me to recall, other than a visit with some aliens, and a cruel, cold titanium anal probe. You should have seen the look on that alien's face when I crammed it in.
All I can recall for now. Another session Friday. Maybe I'll remember what happened to my Astro Glide.
Here's a good batch of NOLA pics. And for the record, Yabu, he ain't right.
That's never a good thing at Velociworld. On the other hand, my fingernails are a pink, rich hue. Which means I must be getting my RDA of gelatin.
I love Skippy. I swear I do. The only blogger more twisted than me. But I see he's glommed onto the burning Buddhist monk pic, the bellwether of my nadir in the bipolar world I inhabit.
And Skippy: if you spell Celibacy correctly, you just may score some librarian pussy. Just trying to help, dude.
Key scolded me for not posting the voodoo chile. So here it are:
I could prolly fuck with Don King real good with this thing. And as for the love/hate mission of this particular doll? They're pretty much the same thing, non?
I watched the shuttle blast off from the driveway today with Skeeter, a tradition we haven't been able to enjoy for a couple of years.
Yeah, I know it's just the shuttle, the astrophysical equivalent of the Gator Cab Company, but I reckon it's better than nothing if you're into horsepower. I would much rather we were gifting interstellar civilizations with Ebola and diphtheria, but that's not gonna happen, is it? So I'll have to settle for delivering Oreos and picking up bags of excrement from the space station. The noble pursuit of knowledge, and all.
I used to just watch shuttle launches for the imagery, but nowadays there is a heightened sense of impending disaster. Kind of like watching NASCAR. So there's that.
The lovely Key bought me a voodoo doll in New Orleans. I'm not sure why, but I think she sensed a disturbance in The Force, and figgered a preoccupied Velociman was a tame, autistic Velociman, who would leave everyone else alone.
She was right, of course. I have plumbed the depths with this no-go mojo toy. Whisk broomed my supervisor's desk for dandrum, hoovered the terlit for his pubes. Something personal must be stapled, or glued, onto this voodoo chile.
I hate this fucker with a passion, and would find great solace were I to destroy him (as background). I just need some kinghell needles.
I am a simple man, not given to superstition, or hoo-doo, but I swear I feel I can make him feel the fucking burn with this doll.
Perhaps I am naive, but lookit: I'm having a great time, no harm, no foul. And maybe a venal bout of kidney stones will occur, and I can rest on my laurels.
I haven't had a homer in a while. It is very important I rest on my laurels. At least for a bloody ureter moment. I keep lonely counsel on the laurels.
Gratuitous tit shot
Swedish sodomy phrases
Film on the water
Sorry. Just back from the Big Easy. A much needed shower, and these words fell out of my ear as I shook the water out.
UPDATE: Dash reminds me I forgot Bone Reader. I am so ashamed.
I have been accused of throwing shit against the wall to see if it sticks. Balls. I maintain that can opener post was a monograph on the deteriorating work ethic of the average American suburbanite, and as such found common cause amongst my readership. Struck a chord.
When I start posting about 40 year old Gunsmoke episodes every day, feel free to cast all the stones ye shall, Intrepids.
And I see my boy shamefully co-opted my can opener theme (you know, the shit against the wall) to garner some comments of his own. I don't know why Acidman doesn't just copy and paste my posts to his blog every day. It would save us all a lot of energy.
Actor James Doohan just died. All I have to say about that is, the first wag who says "Scotty got beamed up" is going to get a swift kick in the ass from me. That is a fucking promise. I abhor the obvious, masquerading as the comedic.
No, it's not what you think. I was referring to can openers, and, more specifically, the electric can opener. Yet another magical product of the sixties, to relieve the burdens of the common housewife, who can now open her cans magically, automatically, whilst her dishes wash themselves.
What a joke. Using an electric can opener is, to be polite, the highth of fucking laziness. Damn. Too lazy to crank your wrist 8 times to open a can of pork and beans? You suck. You belong in a damned crack house, curled up in a corner, sucking your sugar tit, waiting for The Man.
I can't believe they still sell them. I thought there was more pride out there. Williams-Sonoma's is $50. Cuisinart's is $80. What kind of clueless jackanape pays $80 for a fucking can opener?
And here's the deal: the cutter gets gunked up. All kinds of shit cruds up on a can opener. But you can't throw your Cuisinart in the dishwasher, can you? Hell, no. You have to clean that precious piece of appliance by hand. Which means, in the long run, you're probably spending more effort using that fancy cocksucker than if you just cranked the damned Farberware like the rest of us.
I swear, I love the godlike dishwasher, the studly microwave, the life's blood refrigerator. I ain't a damned Luddite.
But electric can openers? You have to be kidding me.
An interesting thread on my post below in re my troll, and my POOR PEOPLE SUCK post from last month.
I've been broke. Lord Goddamighty I've been broke. When I was in grad school I was so broke I lived in a $19,000 house in the ghetto. And I don't mean the "ghetto" in the shabby chic declasse urban gentrification meaning of the term. I mean the ghetto. My address was on Memorial Drive in Atlanta, for God's sake. Ask Rankin' Rob. He was there. But only long enough to cast a jaundiced eye, look at his watch, and say "When the fuck can we leave???"
Broke enough to hand roll my cigarettes, reuse my coffee grinds broke. So broke when I rubbed my last nickel I would pinch the Indian so hard it made the buffalo shit.
I was so broke I even applied for food stamps. My pride refused to allow me in the store, though. Pride being somewhat fungible, however, I did trade them to my next door neighbor, one Alton, aka "Peanut", for some marihuana.
Aye, I've been broke. Recycled newspaper for money. Delivered pizzas. Scraped together enough money not for a bottle of rotgut, but for some week old moonshine from Peanut.
So broke I tried to shake down the black kids I caught freebasing in my crawl space for vigorish.
I've been broke.
But I've never been poor.
Sex mit animals? Nein, fraulein!
Skippy cuts to the chase on "gateway pets".
He also makes a poignant point about making homosexual sex illegal: We will punish you for having sex with another man, and send you to prison, where, well, you'll learn several new positions on that particular crime. Briar patch, and all.
For those of you who still have my Comcast e-mail address in your files, please be advised I took Ms. Noncomcast out to a cornfield, shot her in the back of the head, and buried her in a shallow grave, even as she begged to lower my rates.
I am now having a rather unsatisfactory affair with Ma Bell. She won't come, I can't bring it up.
I would advise you to use the Gmail address conveniently located on the sidebar to contact me, especially if you are the person hoarding all of those Nigerian millions. My car payment is due.
Alert (and poor) reader Scythe writes, in regards to my POOR PEOPLE SUCK post:
How dare the poor inconvenience the king!
You must have a tremendous unjustified ego. You sound like a self-centered ass. I'm poor, and if you were in front of me I'd beat you like a rug.
You are scum. And in case you didn't know, scum is much worse than being poor.
Karma will come back and kick your ass. I know this for a fact. Wait and see you mentally retarded trash.
I almost forgot. Here is a pink flamingo made out of pig iron. I may have to go back to the Magic tonight and boost this sweet bastard.
The only real question is: front yard or back? Front yard would give me tremendous cachet with the neighbors. Back yard, though, and I could sit out back, or lounge in the pool, and enjoy this masterpiece up close and personal on a more regular basis.
Tough call. If I pull it off, it may be time to rent a crane and flatbed and go fetch this bad boy.
Like any aged harlot, the harsh light of the day reveals a seedy look on the Magic:
In this metaphor neon plays the role of both cosmetics and alcohol, and the gullible are then hopelessly attracted to the garish hoor by night, flaunting her bodacious bunnies:
The Magic has a sentinel flamingo, too, guarding the beach:
Who morphs into a shocking pink strumpet by night:
The Magic is a creepy place, though. I can't believe WB filmed a TV series here. It's more like the set of a David Lynch film. I kept rousing, expecting to see a Kandy-Kolored Klown sitting on the foot of the bed, with a bloody butcher knife in hand. Nothing definable, just creepy in a Norman Bates kind of way.
I was surprised to see a Benz, a Lexus, and a Caddy in the parking lot, but that feeling subsided when I went to the pool. The crowd there made the folks at the T-Bird look like the fucking Tudor dynasty. It was like a cross between a Hee Haw episode and the Texas Chain Saw Massacre, with Junior Samples as Leatherface.
The things I do for you people.
And so, after engorging, delicately, a repast of grilled red snapper, I was sitting by the decaying pool at the Magic Beach Motel, admiring the neon, smoking a cigarillo, enthralled with life's limited possibilities.
And then I felt a distant yet familiar tinge in my left leg. A discomfiting feeling I knew, and had forgotten. The onset of Restless Leg Syndrome. Have you ever had this, Intrepids? The sensation of godalmighty St. Vitus's Dance in your legs as you lay to slumber? Upper body fine, mellow, ready for the Sandman. The lower half aquiver, legs twisting, spasming in jerks and fits, with no rhyme or reason.
I've experienced Restless Leg Syndrome over the years, but it only came in incessant waves for about two years. That was six years ago.
I fear it is back, with a vengeance. And anyone who tells you it is physic as opposed to emotional in nature is not a sufferer.
Then again, with any luck, this is just a side effect of the mercury I consumed with that snapper. See? I really am an optimist.
Here's a link to the Vilano Beach Motel, aka the Magic Beach Motel, one of only three or so lodgings in Vilano Beach, which is a barrier island not much bigger than a peanut.
The Magic has some serious art deco neon which the pictures don't do justice to. Rabbits jumping out of a magician's top hat, you get the idea.
It's only about 20 miles from the Hovel, so I'm going to head over tomorrow and burn up the rest of my vacation. I'll try to get some good shots of the Magic. That's neon heaven.
The shuttle was going up Sunday, and that's a good vantage point short of being in Cocoa, but I think they scrubbed it again. Hell, NASA can't even get their damned website to launch properly. Otherwise I'd stay at the Magic. Cavort with the bunnies.
Sammy used to live in Vilano Beach. I'm betting he cavorted with the bunnies, too. After his trick cashed out.
It was my parents' birthday today. The Senator would have been 80, my mother 78. Good thing they had me in their 50's.
It is not only a twisted thing to have your parents borned on Bastille Day, it is a twisted thing for them to have the same birthday anyhow.
Of course, when I was about six I thought all kids' parents had the same birthday. Otherwise you were like an illegitimate bastard, or something. And, of course, that made all my playmates illegitimate bastards, as I would explain to them, and a point I was eventually disinclined of after several healthy assbeatings. Usually by the mothers, who thought I may have some inside knowledge of their dalliance with the Starland Dairy milkman.
My grandparents had their milk delivered in Morningside by Annette's Dairy by horse! How cool is that?
I resented the hell out of the Starland's boring van driver plying his trade on my street in his internal combustion contraption, but for infintitely different reasons than the men in the neighborhood. That shithead had a guardian angel.
Oh. And for the record. I look just like my daddy.
This blog has been a pain in my ass for some time now. Turned into a job, and I'm already trying to shake one of those for more pleasurable past times, like perfecting the art of buck dancing. But every time I try to kill it, well, it's like if you put a pillow over somebody's face, or pinch a baby's nostrils shut? See how they squirm?
So squirms Velociworld when I cut off intellectual stimuli. It's really rather exciting.
And so I will amuse myself for a while with the smothering and the pinching. Light posting, heavy posting! Keep this blog all fucked up for my personal gratification. Think of it as interval training for the clinically insane.
I love staying at your fancy cribs. The Breakers, the Ritz-Carlton, any spa in Palm Springs that will suffer me. But I likes the slumming, too. Why I am at the Thunderbird. A beautifully renovated postwar motel. Tile, tiki hut, martini bar on the Gulf. Reminds me of my childhood vacations in similar establishments.
This place is great. And the clientele are all Florida and Georgia Cracker white trash. More ink here than a Bic plant. The womens' idea of a beauty mark is a motorcycle muffler burn scar. I would much rather sit at the Ikki Woo Woo Tiki Bar and swap bullshit stories with a guy who is bragging about his 30 unit trailer park than talk to some stuffed shirt cocksucker at the Breakers about his currency speculation coup. And the difference is that Mr. Trailer Park will pull the last $20 out of his shirt pocket and buy me a drink.
Into every dream some piss must fall, though, eh? I didn't mention the red tide? Oh, hell, yes. I LOVE to go on vacation and have the Dread Fucking Red Tide harsh my scene. Thought Dennis would drag it north, but no. The air a miasma, burning the throat, making snot pour out of our collective noses like Johnny the Wad Holmes delivering a money shot.
The upside? I don't have to surf fish, because I can collect all the fish I want, washed up daid on the beach. Iffen you don't mind your puffer fish bloated, your mullets with blowflies crawling out of their empty eye sockets, your horseshoe crabs watering your eyes with their fetid stench.
I just might haul ass and run over to Palm Beach. Get away from the fucking Gulf, and its fucking red tide. Then again, the Senator used to always sayI'm snakebit, goddammit! when things didn't go his way, and since I am taking a little trip down memory lane perhaps I should respect that. Nay, revel in it.
Hurricanes, Christmas, Tax Season. Very similar really. Next time I have triplets (or hemorrhoids), those shall be their names.
But I certainly enjoyed them, in their heyday. Lookit: the Dead used to do two nights every year at the Fox in Atlanta. Magical shit, peeps. You would score massive LSD in the little boys room, and enjoy the show.
And so I saw them in '78, December 17-18, and then they closed Bill Graham's Winterland in San Francisco on New Years's, and my brother in law gave me the DVD.
Nothing cooler than a Dead show. Toasted. Toasted. You weren't there? Sucks to be you.
I'm spending the next week in St. Pete, and the beauty of that, of course, is the proximity to Tampa, and their swell strip joints.
I'm not really an aficionado of skin clubs, finding such things degrading to women, and yet I don't recall turning down a turn, as it were.
Tampa has the Mons Venus, very hot, and I have a bit of a reputation there from the burn thing. Cannot discuss on advice of counsel.
Stripping is disgusting. Drugs are usually involved. Leave me out. Shameful.
I'll be at the Mons, when the sun gets too hot.
Somehow, at some level, I'm almost ashamed of myself.
I haven't been to Lili's in a while, to my chagrine, but when I do go I am always rewarded with excellent erotica. What I'm all about.
As that idiot O'Reilly says, what say you?
Lest people think I am dead, and the fire ants carrying my bloated corpse away one tiny morsel at a time in bee-line fashion, I am merely on hiatus. Heading to St. Pete for a week of surf fishing, and ogling of fine specimens of womanhood.
And only one thing could break my silence: this e-mail from one Bryce, who inveighed on a year old post on pupgullion, an exotic dish fashioned from the beaten placenta and foeta of dogs. Enjoy:
My grandfather was born in Missouri in 1879. He was white with dark
hair. He and his family had a kind of dark, tan skin and some had
blue-black straight hair. Strictly white they were, but they were
dark-complexioned. My grandfather suggested there was a Pennyslvania
Dutch (German) lineage in our background, and a small portion of
Indian as well. Also, he recalled as a young boy seeing older family
members visiting and noticing that the men wore "large earrings."
I bring all this up to relate this: In my grandfather's older years he
liked to try and one-up our neighbor across the street. One day he
hurriedly threw together some kind of conoction in our kitchen and
rushed across the street with a bowl and fork in hand. "Try it," he
told the man. "What is it?" he asked. "Pupgullion," my grandfather
said, explaining that it was some kind of food fare common in his
family. I had never heard him mention it before or afterwards. I felt
it was a name he made up on the spot, or a corrupted name of a real
food dish he couldn't exactly recall. Anyway, I never forgot it:
"Pupgullion, they called it."
I am at http:bryceisright.blogspot.com
The Brycian Chronicles
The U.S. Census Bureau reports that my county, St Johns, is the 9th fastest growing county in the nation.
Yeah, you can't buck progress, but you can call it an ass.
I liked the bucolic nature of this area, and the tater farms, and retards. Now monolithic developers are buying the spudders out, and building thousands of homes on postage stamp lots. All with no infrastructure. The roads here are two lane blacktop, county maintained shit. It can't support these Godzilla developments.
As long as I have the tire iron out, and potentially bloodied, perhaps a few county commissioners should feel my wrath. Those dickless bastards. Throw some money around, and they are base whores.
On the other hand, I'm building equity. And I'll need it, because I'm about to haul ass. Move to Putnam County, open a bordello or something.
$99 Tire Iron Special. I'll beat the john for you afterwards, and you can rifle his wallet. Prolly won't get too much return trade, but it's all about striking while the Iron is hot. Right?
I thought I had the comment spam thing licked, but I just got 1079 in one hour. Think I have them all blocked and deleted, but as long as I have that tire iron out...
My daughter works in a drugstore. A man came in today wearing some type of skintight transparent shorts, with no underwear. His whole fucking package was staring at her. She was so stunned, so flummoxed, she let him walk out without even paying for his purchase.
That motherfucker. Guys like that know exactly what they are doing, and I'll warrant that wanker has several unreported molestations to his credit.
Try consentual adult sex, you scumbag. It's very healthy.
I wish I'd been in the store at the time. I would have fetched my tire iron from the truck, and beaten that motherfucker senseless in the parking lot. I would have broken every bone in his body.
I instructed my daughter to get his license plate number when he returns (and he WILL return. They always return). Then I'm going to beat that cocksucker so savagely in his driveway that Rottweilers would look away in shame. I'm going to beat him like a fucking rented mule with a death wish.
Then I'm going to return the next day and burn his fucking house down.
He'll be lucky to swallow pabulum once a day when I'm finished. That fucker is on my Shit List. And you don't want to be on my Shit List.
Red and white, blue suede shoes
I'm Uncle Sam, how do you do
Gimme five, still alive
Ain't no luck, I learned to duck
Check my pulse, it don't change
Stay seventy two, come shine or rain
Wave the flag, pop the bag
Rock the boat, skin the goat
Wave that flag, wave it wide and high
Summertime done come and gone, my oh my
I'm Uncle Sam, that's who I am
Been hiding out, in a rock and roll band
Shake the hand that shook the hand
Of P. T. Barnum and Charlie Chan
Shine your shoes, light your fuse
Can you use them old U.S. Blues
I'll drink your health, share your wealth
Run your life, steal your wife
Back to back, chicken shack
Son of a gun, better change your act
We're all confused, what's to lose
You can call this song the United States Blues
The Grateful Dead, 1974
And, as Stephen Crane said, apropos of nothing.
I'm throwing a party for myself, because I am the Fucking Man. And I can't hear that enough, even if it comes from myself.
Fer instance: I was shaving this morning, and I paused, pointed my razor at my reflection, and said Velociman, you are the Fucking Man. Then I grinned.
And so I an throwing myself a bash, to celebrate, among other things, my brilliant parenting abilities, my prodigious lovemaking skills, and the blessed fact I do not possess webbed feet.
The featured repast is Frogmore Stew. I wanted a pig on a spit, with poi maybe, but I couldn't catch nary one of the bastards, and taro root is difficult to find. The stew will do fine.
Wish me well. I am the Fucking Man.
Emmy brought home a crawfish she found in the parking lot. She gave it to Skeeter, who is now raising it in one of the ubiquitous critter keepers we have laying about.
I like the little fucker. I wanted to name him Mitch, but The Bride insisted he be Benny. Okay. As we speak he is alternately dry humping and eating a bread ball.
People often say, it must have been tough growing up with a first name like Kim. I say that was no fucking problem. Being Crawdaddy was the problem.
Hopefully Benny will put those demons to rest.