Well, I may be the only one in Helen so far, but that does not mean the party has not commenced. I've been ribald, suggestive, grotesque, and disgusting. And that was just with Mark, the manager.
The Chattahoochee is cold, the Punch is lethal. Where the hell is everybody?
I finally created my What Would Tuco Do? bracelet, with cast off stuff from Michael's. Very cheap. As Tuco would want it.
Ever feel like you are trapped in an era you didn't choose? Sure you have. We all have.
For me it was when I was about 12 or 13. We'd had a nice seafood dinner on Hilton Head, it being adjacent to the summer cottage, and had decided (well, the rents did) to check out that new Sea Pines resort. We ended up at Harbour Town, and there was this exquisite yacht moored alongside. Not fancy by today's standards, but it was a classic 1920's 80 footer. All teak and brass and whitewashed sides and canvas sunscreens. Just fucking awesome.
And there was a jazz band playing on the fantail, and the singer was using a megaphone, like Rudy Vallee, to replicate the pre-microphone days.
Cocksucker! my small mind thought. This is sweet. A 20's era, Roaring 20's era, band playing on a boat of the same era. I'm quite certain it was just a small private gig, too.
How kool. I determined then to become a Rich White Man, so I could live that lifestyle.
Got derailed somewhere, apparently. Saw a fork in the road, and chose the Path Most Likely To Make You a Neckbone.
Who cares? Just standing on the dock, listening to that band, Dixieland they banged out, was incredible. Didn't cost a dime, either. Call me Nick Carraway. I likes a nice glomming, iffen I can get it.
I wish I could blog the body politic like Goldstein. Goddamighty.
I've taken quite a few extremely sophisticated psychological tests and profiles in my life. Hell, two weeks after I entered the Academy they put us through two farking days of psycho tests. Trying to find out if we were latent homos, arsonists, puppy diddlers, pudwhackers, nihilists. Seems I was three of those, but it took four to bilge you out. I will leave it to my Intrepids' delicate sensibilities to figure out which of those I was told I was.
All by way of saying I think I've been smoked out by a far more sophisticated test. Reading that was like reading a litany of my sins, excesses, and crimes. Like standing before the judge, and having the foreman pronounce "Guilty!" on all counts.
The only upside is you are all Guilty, too.
A call out. If Rankin' Rob doesn't at least show up Saturday for a sip o' the Punch, he shall here and forevermore be deemed a Pussy.
When I was a youngster I traveled light. I can remember hitchhiking to New Orleans on Highway 90 as a teenager, with nought but a toothbrush in my back pocket. I would crack a Budweiser, sling the other five beers through my belt, and stick out my thumb.
"I'm Basic Bob," I would tell my traveling companion. "All else will fall into place."
I was thinking of that as I was packing for Helen tonight. Bullwhip, Artillery Punch, half rubber gear, pimp hat, straw hat, rasta cap, doo rag, Lone Ranger mask, cymbal-bashing monkey... Christalmighty. I need props to go to a damned blogmeet. What the fuck happened to Basic Bob?
Screw it. I'm packing the Speedos and the pimp hat in case I get an invite to the hot tub, the likka, and everything else can just kiss my ass.
Shoe was casting about for a term for this rather loose-knit coterie of bloggers who gather quarterly, mostly, some in, some out this go around, because Jawja bloggers doesn't quite explain it anymore. Sure, that is the common nexus, but it has mutated.
Now, I recall a fairly disgusting film called C.H.U.D. The creatures in it were Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dwellers. Actually, I liked that movie.
Anyway, I was thinking of Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Bloggers. CHUBs.
"Hey, nice to meet you. Yup. I'm a fucking Chubbie, all right." Got a ring to it, don't it?
UPDATE: Perhaps I am dense, or just one of those rare geniuses who lack any modicum of common sense, but I have been informed that females actually eschew the moniker Chubbie. Who'da thunk it? Hell, I'll quit calling you that. It was a term of endearment. And may I recommend the rice cakes?
Rankin' Rob posts of the thin gruel that is commercial radio in the ATL. I can believe that. As I commented, however, I think I have him beat. By my last reckoning there were 2 or 3 stations in Jax that play All Skynyrd, All The Time! The worst part, of course, is on the three day weekends, when, instead of a Battle of The Rock Gods, they will have a Skynyrd battle. Instead of facing off 100 rock bands, and take votes and winnow it down by single elimination to the Greatest Rock Band Of All Time (!) they pick 100 Skynyrd songs, and square them off.
Hint: Free Bird ALWAYS wins. Although there is a rumor, urban legend, I'm sure, that Sweet Home Alabama knocked it off in the final round in 1989, however after the brandishing of a pistol, and an asscracking on the offending DJ's ass with a Confederate battle flag, the results were declared compromised, and Free Bird prevailed.
I cracked open the Chatham Artillery Punch tonight, to check things out. There are some interesting chemical reactions going on there, fo sho. It will be ready. Hell, it IS ready.
I tweaked the recipe from Jekyll, however. I used Rhine wine for the Jekyll batch, because I was stymied in my search for catawba wine hereabouts. I scored some pink catawba this time around, though, so the traditionalist in me is pleased.
I also went with fresh orange juice, but not fresh-squeezed from the oranges, which caused a most deplorable looking pulpy film on top of the punch last time. Very unappetizing, as if subhumans had been swimming in ones pool. So that problem is gone.
Finally, I went with dark brown sugar instead of light brown, not only because it is richer, but it tends to further the fact that dark brown sugar, unlike pulpy OJ, does not leave a film atop a body of liquid, as I had been told.
But here's the rub: a full batch of the brew fills a 5 gallon container, and so as I recall I slopped half into a second 5 gallon container at Jekyll, and added half a case of champagne to each. This was effective, but I must confess quite sloppy. Everyone cup-ladled from the containers, and things got pretty farking sticky, pretty farking quick.
I need a new plan. Now, I have a lot of stuff, but I don't have a punch bowl. What do I look like, Jim Williams? Don't answer that, arseholes. If anyone wants a less, ah, primitive method of sampling the stuff, I could really use a punchbowl. Then I could freshify each bowlful with champagne, and one could ladle it properly, without making such a damned mess. So if anyone is driving, and has room, and a punchbowl they don't mind finding shattered in the parking lot Sunday morning, why, I'm your boy. Bring it on. Or I could mix the whole batch up in Sam's bathtub. But we don't want that, do we? I said do we?
Chrissy is trying to get from Houston to Lake Charles to check on her madre. Any knowledge of road conditions and/or gas availability would be greatly appreciated. Send me an e-mail. Thanks.
The contrast between the evacuation of Houston and the evacuation of New Orleans reminds me of the great contrast between the Antarctic teams led by British naval officer Robert Falcon ("Con") Scott, and Norwegian explorer Roald Amundsen.
Deciding to be the first person to reach the South Pole, Scott led an expedition in 1911. While supplying in Australia he was informed by Amundsen in a telegraph that Amundsen had already set out for the Pole. Knowing he raced against time, and an adversary, the courageous but inexperienced Scott set out with Siberian ponies to pull the sledges. He disapproved of the normal tactic of killing sled dogs for food as they weakened, but had no problem eating horseflesh. (Hell, Amundsen killed three dozen dogs in preparation for his return trip from the Pole. No sensitivity issues there).
The ponies were a bust, dying off to one mishap after another, and Scott's team ended up having to drag their own sledges most of the way. Poor preparation led to frostbite and scurvy, and by the time he reached the South Pole in January 1912 he found a tent, a Norwegian flag, and a note from Amundsen informing him he'd beaten Scott by a month.
The Scott expedition set out to return to home base, but blizzards hindered their return. Frostbite and scurvy had them so weakened they could barely pull the sledges. They had cached scant supplies in depots on the way, and were forced to dig up pony corpses to make blood stew. They desperately needed to reach a major depot, called One Ton, but a blizzard stopped them for a week 11 miles short of it. They ultimately perished there, and were discovered the following spring.
Amundsen, on the other hand ran an incredibly tight and efficient expedition. It was almost boring in its lack of adversity. His remaining dogs actually gained weight on the return trip.
Little known fact: Amundsen was incredibly frustrated by the fact Peary had barely beaten him to the North Pole, hence his ambition to be first to the South Pole. Some years later, in 1929, he wanted to be the first person to fly over the North Pole, in a dirigible, but Byrd beat him to that by a few days.
Planning. Execution. What it's all about. Sure, Houston had hiccups with the traffic. You'll always have that trying to evacuate 5 million people (5 times what Louisiana attempted). But hell, these two events weren't even close. Poor Con. Poor Blanco. Poor Nagin. It's a helluva thing, being a screwhead.
That's what General Honore of the Louisiana National Guard told those crybaby journalists, correct? I shamelessly swiped this pic from Sadie:
This is not a racist thing. This is a STOOPID thing. This guy is the bumfuck of all bumfucks.
"Fuck! You're drowning! Leave!"
"You should have left. I should have told you."
"Come back! Life is grand!"
Leave! Another hurricane!"
"It's flooding again! I told you to leave! Right after I said return!"
I'm figuring I can reduce this dumb bastard in a crucible, with appropriate precipitates, and maybe smoke, or snort, his political remains, and possibly, just possibly, be as stupid as this fucking asshole has made himself out to be. With no help from me, by the way. By the way: you won't see it on CNN, but right next to his name? (D).
Your parents ever bring home a junkyard dog? A feral cat? A fearsome beast they expected you to bond with, and cuddle with?
Oh, hell yes. Not unknown for the Senator to come late of a night, slightly blistered, short of legal fees, but having in his possession some damned cur that had been foisted upon him in lieu of proper remuneration.
"Kimothy Sam! The Biscuit Man!" (his sobriquet for me): "Here's you a dog, son. Treat him special." And I would be staring at something that was obviously out of its element without being surrounded by a dogfighting arena, and cursing, beer swilling Guevaras. A panting fiend, ready for something, anything, to tear into and fill its gullet, which had been on a steady diet of gunpowder and sodium for three months.
They'd last a day or two, and my mother or my maid Etta would have Freddie the truck driver or someone take it for a ride. Wasn't always that bad, but mostly.
My uncle gifted me with a freakish Cocker Spaniel, name of Sandyman, that was a compleat freak. My uncle knew this dog was Not Right, and foisted it on me as a birthday present, whereupon it bit my ankles, chewed my clothing, and pissed upon anything remotely associated with a human being. One fucked up dog, that.
Or Cleopatra, the bird dog that would place her front paws upon the shoulders of a 6 year old in a bathing suit, and then rip her claws down one's chest, being especially cruel around the nipples. Her way of saying "I hungry".
Some dogs I never knew their names. Fang? Wolverine? That's what I called them.
At any rate, I digress. The point of this diatribe is to compare how one disposed of an unruly mutt in the olden days, versus today. Now we take them to a Shelter, where several dozen people inspect them over the course of a week, snub their noses, and then the unholy are euthanized as unsuitable pests. Not bad, really. There is a reason they are called Humane Societies.
In the dark times you would coax that hellhound into the back of the Ranchero with some raw chuck, or a pork chop, and then ditch them on a lonely stretch of highway, deep in No Man's Land. Very efficient, and clean, from the human perspective, but you know those poor bastards skulked along the roadways for weeks, killing the errant chicken, eating (shudder) roadkill. If God were in a merciful mood he would have a tractor trailer crush them whilst they were gulping oppossum carrion. Often they probably starved to death, or were shot by indignant Negroes who were tired of their fucking chickens getting scarfed.
At any rate, as unwholesome and cruel as the roadside ditch was, it was an unmitigated success amongst the Couldn't Be Bothered Less crowd. No one considered taking a recalcitrant, snarling dog to the Animal Shelter. You took that crazed sumbitch to highway 16 and dumped his ass. End of tale.
Kind of like litter. Until Lady Bird Johnson shamed us, we used to just throw entire bags of refuse out of the car window. See that filth? Not me! I'm doing 65, fuckas! You youngsters have no idea. It was de rigeur to throw pounds of garbage out of the car window, because it was important to keep the car clean. Environment? We didn't give a shit. That was Ellijay's, or Thomaston's problem.
And so it was with errant pets. Damn.
You know, being the humanitarian I am, the soft soul, I have benightedly focused on the human factor of Hurricane Rita. Jack Straw brings it home, though, in my comments.
This hurricane is not only going to hit the well-denizened coast of Texas, it's going to hit us right in the petrochemical solar plexus!!!
I hate to sound like an ass (well, maybe I don't) but in the grand scheme of things, those refineries are worth more than, oh, 20,000 human lives.
Especially lives of the quality that inevitably get snuffed in such circumstances. Because I know my friends were smart enough to evacuate.
Don't believe me? Do the fucking math.
Despite the remonstrances of some readers, I am not a ghoul. I have, however, remarked upon the vagaries of nature with some rather ill-scrubbed humor.
Make no mistake. Rita is a monster. The latest predictions I saw put the storm surge as far as 50 miles inland, unto the eastern suburbs of Houston. Fuck!
I fully understand that Jack Straw and Rankin' Rob will be somnolently appreciative should a certain two KFCs in Galveston be wiped from the face of the earth, however my biggest concern is for my buddy Jim, who has had to abandon his boat, his home, in Galveston to seek higher ground with his cats. I fear for the Sloop Dawn. Too often one sees the aftermath of killer storms, and sailboats stacked upon themselves like pick 'em up sticks.
Here's to Jim, and Bee Bee, and any other folk in the path of this nightmare.
So I was sitting in a parking lot today, in my car, savoring the sweet smell of actually being unavailable, nibbling my lunch. Listening to the unpalatable Diane Rehm Show on PBS, because I had no flea bites to scratch. Diane actually has a decent show when she is off politics, and this was a discussion with some wanker attuned to William Golding's Lord of the Flies. Perhaps he had written a bio of Golding. Dunno. Came in late.
Anyhoo, Flies is bitching, of course, and yet they kept talking about how Bad Things Happen when there is lack of supervision, and they kept referencing Abu Ghraib (sp? don't give a fuck). Now, I was screaming at my radio I think the lack of supervision was more apparent when Daniel Pearl was laid upon the turf, and his throat slit, you cunts! Alas, my radio is a receiver. No transmitter. Those callow whores. Those callow whores.
Flies is an apt metaphor for our time, of course, but not because of Gitmo, or Abu Ghraib. The sinister message of Flies is that, given lack of governance, man reverts to his beastlike state.
Fucking A! I don't smell Gitmo. I smell the Superdome, the looters, that fucking damnable fundraiser in Madison Square Garden last night. There are screwheads on the loose, all right, but they aren't National Guardsmen under FEMA watch. They are card-toting whores of the Democratic party. The race baiters, the apologists, the scumsuckers. Fuck them. FUCK THEM! And give me Piggy's glasses back, you vermin.
Surely there are undeserving souls in Texas: knaves, blackguards, scoundrels, rotters, villains, miscreants, reprobates, and malefactors, for whom this storm is payback on a motherfucker of a scale. About time these defaulters were scoured from the soil.
Of course, they've probably already evacuated, and only the foolish, the impudent, the fucking dumbasses are left. Oh, well. Still and all, you reap what you can, and mayhaps evolution will take a tiny step forward here.
One can only hope.
Look at that thing. It looks like Satan's sphincter.
My elder daughter lost a friend to suicide this weekend. Always the most senseless of losses. Good kid. Three days younger than her, the obit informs me. Dropped out of high school three months ago to join the Army.
She ran into him Friday, he just out of boot camp, and she was alarmed he was so odd of character. Stiff. Distant. Weird. Took his life that night by gunshot.
A lot of underlying issues here, but it is so sad when a child cannot see the glory, the opportunities of life.
What a shame.
My girls have no domestic skill sets. They can't cook, sew, wash clothes without destroying them, pick up after themselves, dig a latrine.
The Bride has never bothered to teach them any of these things.
Okay, I'm jesting about the latrine, but it isn't a bad skill to have.
And so I have determined to take the bull by the horns, and teach these girls some, ah, home economics. Which is a bullshit term, of course. I call them survival skills.
I can cook. Quite well, in fact. I can sew. Darn, mend. I've been washing my own clothes since I was 15, because no one fucks with my Levis.
I dunno. I've had my mother's 1963 Singer for 6 years, residing in its mahogany cabinet, since her passing. My eldest sister coveted it, because she, and my mom, and her daughter, had spent 40 years collectively bonding with that machine. Butterick and Simplicity patterns, all hell's simple shifts and dresses.
While I was hallooing like an Injun around the yard they were crafting clothes, and learning valuable lessons about mother-daughter relationships, and how these things are developed. One damned shift at a time.
But I wanted the sewing machine, because I thought it would be a great opportunity to witness the bonding thing. I've never been able to get any of my crew to touch it, though, and so I will take it to my sister this Thanksgiving, in lieu of a bird.
My littler one is interested in sewing, but she wants the $5,000 computerized model. Shit. Trial and error is not in this generation's vocabulary. Nor is deftness, skill, art.
Survival skills. If you can push a needle through fabric you can push it through flesh, suture a wound. If you can cook you can scrounge a meal. Don't get me started if you can't keep your damned underdrawers clean.
I don't see any evidence of domestic skills around the Hovel. Quite sad.
I suppose I'll have to take matters into my own hands. But don't expect me to do any smocking. Even a metro like me has to draw the fucking line somewhere.
Kelley has broken yet another arm. I think she's run out of arms to break, most of us having only the two, and so I suggested to her tonight she invest in some bubble wrap attire.
And notice how cleverly Karl Lagerfeld disguises the bubble wrap in his Fall 2005 Safety Series:
Except for those two little thingies on her chest you'd never know it was bubble wrap.
I consider myself a patient man. Meaning I will generally honk twice at the red light before I lean out of the window and scream at you to cram that cellphone up your fucking ass, and move it!
And so it is with my blogmates. Although some are trying my soul of late. Vexing me, as I am fond of saying. Remember that thing, my soul? The withered, beef jerky-like specimen I keep in the closet in a Mason jar?
And so some, who profess to be my friends, deign to mock me.
Still others take it a step further. After wantonly preening on their homepage wearing my pimp hat (obviously because they don't make pimp hats in camouflage), which hat is an especial gift, they unwisely deploy their grim, special-needs level Photoshop skills in an attempt to lower me to their pathetic levels.
Word, my bitch boys: it cannot be done.
Furthermore, there is a term for what you do: Heresy. The punishment is swift, and terrible. Smiting may or may not be involved. So as you skate blithely across Lake Velocijibe, remember the ice can be thin, and treacherous, the consequences dire.
Simone Griffeth's sister left a comment at my Simone post. Wheels within wheels, people. No reply yet as to my inquiries on Simone's dating status. Would assume for the sake of argument her husband is agin.
Watching Coppola's Dracula. Like that film. And when Dracula turns into a werewolf, and is dryfucking that red-headed slut on top of the sarcophagus?
Sorry. Total works for me.
I gots no limes.
I have four citrus trees: a Satsuma Mandarin orange, a Valencia orange, a lemon, and a key lime. Every year one of these blokes goes fruitless.
Now I'll be the first to admit I don't know a damned thing about horticulture, other than you plant, you reap. And, given the opportunity, your mother will make you crawl on your hands and knees with a Maxwell House jar and collect potato bugs.
Last year the Valencia failed to bear fruit. This year, despite prodigious growth, the key lime is fruitless.
It bore wonderful blossoms in the spring, harbingers of great fruits, and yet nothing actually grew.
I'm thinking it's the bees. I think I have lazy, slothful bees. I believe they have been Africanized. Killer bees. Instead of flying from plant to plant, shrub to shrub, spreading the fecund bounty of pollen collected against their shins like goat leggings, they are ensconsed in the hive, watching cockfights on pirated cable. Just a theory.
And I am sure my commenters, my Downs Intrepids, will weigh in with all sorts of reasons why I am an idiot, and here is how you solve this. You know who you are. Between licking the windows of the short bus and urinating yourselves you somehow manage to point out my shortcomings. Well, have at it. Please tell me why I will not have copious fruits to make key lime pie with. Then go back to exploring your genitalia. Thank you. That is all.
I replaced the dryer with a right-sized model today, therefore I (well, THEY) can wash clothes, and dishs with impunity. My handyman tasks are done.
I'm going to lounge in the pool with the Georgia game on the outside speakers. Listen to Larry Munson.
It's nice to have the battalions of Vesta off one's ass. Home and hearth, indeed.
Okay. The project from hell is done. What started as the simple replacement of an $8 strainer cup on my sink mutated into a new sink, new faucet, new disposall, the works. An $8 dollar job managed to squeeze $500 out of me. Talk about mission creep.
But it is done, and rather smart looking, if I may say so. And I may. Because it's my blog, you rasty pudknockers.
Bonus: while in Lowe's I learned that they carry the very dryer I purchased, but .5 cubic feet smaller. A flatback. It will fit in nicely when I swap them out tomorrow.
Thought I was getting wankered at the Hovel, didn't you, ye of little faith?
I came of age in the 1970's. Oft ridiculed as an ersatz, post counterculture decade, devoid of merit, music, heft.
Mebbe so, but I'll stack the '70's up against the '80's any day. And, yes, I meant you Duran Duran fans, lest ye thought I was taking the Boy George crowd to the woodshed. Not I. For any reason.
At any rate, the '70's did suck for any number of reasons. Consider the Bumps. There were two of them. Actually, three.
The first Bump was the bumps my black friends in college got from ingrown beard hairs. They could get the occasional wicked rash from that. And so they used a product called Bump Free, which helped ameliorate it. They would also get a medical exemption at the Academy from shaving, which made me jealous, and so I would apply for a shaving exemption, only to have the corpsman tell me to fuck off. Lucky bastards.
The second Bump was of course cocaine. I must have used the word 4,000 times in the latter half of the decade: Dude, leave me a bump on the table. Hey, baby, here's your bump. Get your own fucking bump. If I give you a bump, can we bump?
All legitimate uses of the term. I am just thankful my septa are still separated.
Which brings us to Bump number 3. The most ignominious of all Bumps. The Bump dance. Wherein a couple would engage in the usual discotheque burlesque, but would bump the sides of their hips together. Totally fucking uncool by any standard.
It gets worse, of course. In those heady days of flexible knees, and hamstrings that did not grip up on you, a couple would actually squat, and bump whilst hunkered down like Nigerians taking a shit over a stove-in termite hill.
The shame, the shame. The worst dance of all time, including the Funky Chicken, and the Macarena.
And so I want you youngsters to ask your fave-o boomer elders if they ever did The Bump. Uncle Kyle will demur, Aunt Lisa will deny. They are fucking liars. We all did it. We went in the bathroom, did a Bump of the devil's dandruff, cringed at the black guy popping his shaving Bumps in the mirror, and went back out there and Bumped our asses off.
Now, let's talk about something else. Anything else.
Gene and Joe, Part II
My sister also included a picture of Gene, the original Mutant, looking to be about four years of age (mebbe 1931?):
He looks pretty normal to me here. Maybe that whole Hit by a Buick/operant conditioning thing is true, after all.
I received a package from my sister today, including a letter I wrote to Santa Christmas 1969, from my mother's belongings. I was 12. I vaguely remember the letter, and that I wrote it under duress from my mother because my little brother was still a believer, and I was assisting in the enabling, as it were.
Speaking of believers, we all know Geoffrey is a Doubting Thomas, and cannot believe even the most mundane matters of my existence are apparently more exotic than anything in his sclerotic life, and so I scanned the document, for proof. I realize the quality will be poor, and so, engaging soul that I am, I have addended a translation below it. Here it are:
How 'bout it, Fats?
I need some stuff for Christmas, 'cause I'm broke. Somewhere along the line I wanted a Boeing 707, but I can't pay for the fuel (my monopolies in Texas and Arabia done gone bankrupt). Anyhow, how about Palomar Observatory? Cape Kennedy? Seattle? Okay, I'll settle for Professor of Mental and Physical Sicknesses at Harvard (my two brothers will make perfect topics). I want a turquoise AMX, a bronze Javelin, and a mint green Jaguar. (Gas included). I need a telescope powerful enough to witness an eclipse of Pluto, and an almanac containing such things as the number of tableclothes printed a year, the average thickness of spectacles, the number of lightbulbs in the US., etc.
If I think of anything else I'll write.
(cause you got the money)
I was going to give you an update, but the condition is too bleak.
So when I was 11, the Senator had this picture of a...
Oh, what the hell. You've been this far. Let me share...
All going according to plan with the sink. Boughrt new stuff; sink, faucet, strainers, the works. Had a stiff drink, and rolled up the sleeves. Yanked out the old sink, and threw it in the backyard. Started assembling the new sink, and I'll be damned if the fancy faucet with the
clitoris stimulator detachable head was missing not one of four bags of hardware, but two!
I would say I'm snakebit, but this is business as usual. I don't care if a product is made in China, Malaysia, or Southhaven, Mississippi. There is no such thing as quality control anymore. Fully half of all the crap I buy is missing something.
To hell with it. I kind of like having The Bride apoplectic. Payback for not letting me return the oversized dryer. She read my post about knocking out the wall, and she thought I was serious!
"Knock that got-dam wall down, Velociman. I like that there dryer."
Well, pardonnez-moi, dear, but I'm not so sure that will ensure victory here. I could end up with a dryer that still won't fit. And a huge hole in my sheetrock.
This is going to take some pondering, and drinking.
Ask, Geoffrey, and ye shall receive:
Day 4. Still no takers. At this rate, considering this may be the last dryer on earth to fit in that shoebox of a laundry room, I may have to fix it.
And, in my venal world, certainly not sweet little girls in miniskirts with umbrellas, either.
10:45: time for my shower, and one last jaundiced comment at some unsuspecting blogger's site on a post they really should have thought through before subjecting me to it, and Wham.
My dishwasher is running (late, yes, I know) and the sinks begin to fill up. Then the threading on the right sink collapses, and foul shit starts spewing all around the sink cabinets. The detritus of a good dishwasher full of greasy saucepans.
I had no idea the corner of the threading had stove in, and so was under the sink, trying to rescrew the PVC, getting drenched in this dreck.
Fucka me running. So I have a dryer that won't fit into its preordained location, and a mopped up mess, with no kitchen sink until I can procure same tomorrow (no doubt with some type of outrageously expensive faucet (Moen: German for Fuck You Amerikaner!).
Dunno. That may be Dutch. But I guarantee I'm paying for this date.
Just washed the pig lard offen me. I can still smell it though.
When it rains, little Morton's Salt Girl, it pours. I advise you not to go on any Dutch dates with me. I am temporarily irascible.
I read the other day about a man who went berserk upon hearing certain words. I believe "New Jersey" was one of the terms, although this is no poke at the Garden State. This insane bastard had an entire litany of words that sent him on homicidal rampages.
By way of saying I would think that is nuts, however I must confess a dark secret: the word marshmallow triggers similar blind rage in me.
Perhaps it is because I can't stand the things. Look:
Main Entry: marsh·mal·low
Pronunciation: 'märsh-"me-lO, -"ma-
1 : a pink-flowered European perennial herb (Althaea officinalis) of the mallow family that is naturalized in the eastern U.S. and has a mucilaginous root sometimes used in confectionery and in medicine
2 : a confection formerly made from the root of the marshmallow but now usually made from corn syrup, sugar, albumen, and gelatin beaten to a light spongy consistency; also : a piece of partially dried marshmallow
See? There really is such a thing as a marshmallow. From Europe (naturally). Pink (naturally). Mucilaginous (naturally).
Well, I don't care for them. Gooey, sugary crap a scoutmaster gives you to place on the end of a stick, and they enflame! Then you're supposed to eat that charred shit, it alternately burning your upper palate and dribbling sinuously down your chin. And the worst part? They tell you afterwards that's dinner. Eight marshmallows, boy, and be happy to get them.
Fuck the marshmallow. Even if it is pronounced marshmellow. They call it that to lull you into a false sense of security. It's a fucking mallow, all right. Don't buy the spin.
Full disclosure: I was raised on Jet Puffed marshmallows, not that Stay-Puft shit. So there is no fear of giant mallowmonsters corrupting my thought processes.
At any rate, the mere sight of the word marshmallow, or the vision of one, makes me grind my teeth, and scratch my armpits.
Next week: S'Mores: Lucifer's Campside Treat?
I dragged that old dryer out for the garbage men last night, knowing they don't pick up that stuff, but counting on their unbridled greed to find a way to lash it to their rig, like they did my washer.
Well, thar she sits, in my front yard, in all her unresplendent glory. I must now wait for appliance day. I have no idea if that is once a week, or once a month. I don't care. That bastard can rust into iron atoms before I wrench my back again moving it back to the garage.
No Christmas envelopes for the boyz this year. I can't wait to mow around it.
Maybe I'm showing my age, but I've seen Apollo capsule heat shields with less damage than the Superdome roof. Damn. Next time: Titanium!
I was a-smokin' outside today, enjoying beautiful weather, when a scrawny bearded white guy stumbled by, guitar case in one hand, cane in the other. There was a black security guard from my building behind him, obviously hastening his removal from the premises.
He made a turn towards me, as if to engage me for a cig, or assistance with his tormentor, and she yelled "UH-UH-UH! You keep moving, straight where you came from!"
"Where do you want me to go?!?" he yelled at her. "I cain't go back to New Orleans!"
"New Orleans?" she said. "Kiss my ass."
He ambled off, and she sat down next to me. "Every damn bum outta that bus station claims they're from New Orleans now. Assholes."
I could do naught but agree.
The belt popped on my dryer again, today, and I realize it is because I need to replace the front bearings. Well, screw that. Time for a new machine. I shall give the refuse lads an early Christmas present in the morning.
One good thing about a dryer. They are easy to shop for, because they have a very simple, singular function. They don't press, they don't fold, they don't mend, they don't embroider, they don't even put your clothes away. They fucking dry.
Sure, you can get plenty of fancy Delicate features, and Automatic Drying, etc. etc. All dryers have them. They are generally bullshit. They fucking dry.
And so, $317 for the Whirlpool during halftime and I'm home. Now, here's the rub: the insane jackal that designed the Hovel made the laundry room tight in exchange for more closet space in the master bedroom. And I mean tight. I have to shoehorn the appliance in to get the door to the garage to shut. Well, do you see turnip leaves on me? No, you don't. See, The Bride wanted a super capacity dryer, she being as slothful as me, and will wait until the children are wrapping themselves in toilet paper for underwear before clothes are washed.
And so I measured carefully. Old machine? 26 inches. New machine? 26 inches. Poifect! And yet after I wired it, replaced the duct hose, and shoehorned it into place, it was sticking out 2 inches too far. Farking fark! There was a bulge in the back of the machine, an unholy protusion, that wouldn't let the thing fit.
And so I can't close the door to the garage. But I had mine own huge wet pile of clothes on the floor, my unmentionables, every last damned one of them, so I dried them, and decided to move the outlet up about 5 inches tomorrow, and re-shoehorn.
If that doesn't work I'll knock the fucking wall down, and have a laundry room in my closet. That's not haste. That's expediting.
There was the crisp bite of autumn in the air today. Just a teaser, sure, for I'll see another month of Indian Summer. But it was wonderful.
Fall, not spring, has always been the season of rebirth to me. I don't know why. Maybe it goes back to childhood, and the beginning of another school year; the return of college football; pennant races; the end of blistering days in the sweltering South.
And so when I contemplated 9/11 today, it was to quietly applaud the rebirth of backbone in our nation; the rebirth of pride in our terrible swift sword response. Not death, or decay. Except for our enemies. And they are legion, yes, but far, far fewer than they were. And fewer still tomorrow.
You know what those are, right? The vestigial claws on animals that serve no purpose other than to make you think your pet may be evolving opposable thumbs, and will take over the manse?
I wander. Anyway, few things really rub me the wrong way worse than a redneck pronunciation of dewclaw. Before he went to the Great Squirrel Chase in the Sky I used to have my doggie groomed, and the fellow who owned the grooming salon, while a very nice fellow, had an atrocious Southern accent.
Every time I would pick up the beast he would say "I trimmed his claws, too. Even those deeeee-youuuuu claaaaws. Man, that was like fingernails on a blackboard to me.
I almost drownded the damned dog just so I wouldn't have to hear that again.
So if you ever hang with me, and you just have to mention a dog or cat's vestigial digits, call them opposable claws, or something.
And, yes. In case you were wondering. I am insane.
I tuned into Limbaugh at lunch today, as I often do. Yes, the same way I channel porn when required. Walk in my shoes, bitch.
At any rate, he had this 55 year old black woman call in, and bitchslap the dispossessed nigras in Nawlins, and proclaim she'd been off the Plantation for years, and chewed the Democrats a big new asshole for making African-Americans slaves on a new plantation.
All of which I agreed with, by the way. Nothing kills a soul faster than "I'll take care of you, cradle to grave. Don't worry."
But then she laid the bon mots: "Those buses didn't get used! They could have evacuated thousands of people! I'll bet they ran on election day!"
Oh, yes, darlin. I'm sure they did. Beautiful. I almost came with that line.
I'm sure they did run on election day. But I'm calling Limbaugh out on this one. He pretended to back off on the comment, somewhat agree, wah wah wah.
That was a fucking plant. Too perfect. I don't buy this caller's bona fides.
Rush: disguise your bullshit better. You are telegraphing your shit. Even a morphine fiend like me smoked you out.
Fucking shameful. I saw more integrity from the 9/11 commission.
I just noticed I popped 300,000 hits today. Don't know who the poor bastard was, don't care. No fucking booby prize from me. Although if a singularly skillful rimjob were involved, I could ask for proof. My male cat, he ain't had none in a while.
My favorite knife-wielding, Scotch-drinking, poetry-spouting neckbone's blog is turning two. Always an immediate visit when I am of the browsing mode, I recommend, nay, I command, you to go givvums some birfday love.
Because, like a guided missile, Eric is very focused, but you know there's going to be an ugly impact somewhere.
Bumper sticker: Straight White Guy: Rising my Bile since 2003.
Here's one from the Mouldy Archives Formerly Known As My Brain (MAFKAMB, to you androgynous Twin Citiers):
The Senator owned a few single engine planes when I was little, and engaged in some recreational flying. Around 1961 or so he flew one to Texas, I believe to eyeball a 1957 Thunderbird he later bought from a cash-strapped college boy (he was never one to fail to take advantage of another's misfortune. He would have rocked in the Superdome).
Not wanting to be bored on the flight he took his good friend, whom I shall call Josef K. They experienced some turbulence around the Alabama-Mississippi border, serious turbulence, and damned if Josef K didn't actually shit his trousers.
Now, the old man didn't really care what happened in those trou, however the stench became unbearable in such a confined space, and so the Senator was forced to land in Tupelo, Mississippi, so that K could buy new britches, and dad could hose out the plane.
And obviously thence and forevermore Josef K became The Tupelo Kid, of course. A brazen beat down by the old man, comparing this feces-besodden fellow to Elvis. And knowing the old man I'm sure the story got plenty of mileage across the land.
The story actually continues, apace. Two years later the Senator was running for what became his last political contest, this for the Georgia General Assembly, he having hung the Senate spurs a coupla terms back. He put the Tupelo Kid in charge of his campaign finances, as a goodwill gesture.
My grandmother died during this election cycle, though, and dad, disconsolate, took my mother on a Mediterranean cruise, refusing even to campaign (and, yes, that's how I like to purge my disconsolation, too).
When he returned he got whupped, of course, but glory of glories: every fucking dime of that campaign warchest had been spent. Somehow. Somwhere.
There was never a reckoning that I was aware of, but I think, over the course of a few bourbons, that a peace pipe was smoked, and Josef K was never again referred to in polite company as the Tupelo Kid.
I was talking to Flynny today, and we were discussing the infamous $2,000 debit cards the dispossessed will have, to spend on bread, bologna, crack, hoors. How to prevent fraud, though? We both agreed we despise the whole concept of the Mark of the Beast type labelling, especially after I suggested they implant them in their hands, to discourage fraud, and yet...
Maybe that's not such a bad idea. It's not like it would be permanent. It could be removed after the 2 grandie was burned. But how about this???:
Video implants in all welfare recipients' foreheads. Kind of a Livecam/Webcam thing.
After the weather or riot holocaust you could harvest these things, and make training films, what I like to call personal responsibility short features.
Look at 'er go! She held onto that branch for thirty minutes! But see, children? Evacuate. Spike would tell you to Hop On The Bus. Only we ain't going to the Million Man March. Although lemonade will be served.
Eh. Maybe not.
And I may be. Haven't had a chest X-ray in four years.
I don't care for marketing this site. I don't link much, probably because I tend to read a lot of shit that isn't worth pimping, and I don't comment much, unless a truly despicable insult rises to mind.
I can market ice to the proverbial Eskimo, crack to Sean Penn, oil to a Bush.
Which means I am equally capable of demarketing. And I do demarket this site. What one might construe controversial here is not designed to engender outraged comments, or links from huffer puffers. They are actually designed to chase the rubberneckers away.
And hits are bullshit. At least 60% of my hits are from people who came across me through some misguided search engine fiasco, who lave their filthy hands and flush their impugned eyes with Murine.
There are those who claim everyone craves the hits. To which I say, well, maybe you do.
I had me an Uncle Fester's Mystery Light Bulb as a kid. You could put a small piece of foil in your mouth to make the electrical connection to the battery, and make that dog glow, just like Fester.
When I was 11 or so I went to a summer camp in Dahlonega, and took my new toy on that long bus ride. I was the bee's knees with that thing. And girls, being girls, all wanted to try it out.
And as those girls put that bulb in their mouths, and it glowed, a similar bulb, albeit invisible, went off over my head.
Well, now. No one had ever told me girls liked to put sech objects in their mouths, much less make them glow. But I am a determined cuss, and once I've learned a lesson, it is seldom forgotten.
However, having said that, I'm not sure what it is, other than a wonderful conversation piece. And if one were to use it as a dildo, I would recommend copious amounts of Astroglide. And sutures.
My Grouchy Old Cripple friend wants me to make some Chatham Artillery Punch for Helen. Hadn't considered it, but I figure I have a 50-50 chance of being in gaol on manslaughter charges at that time due to a particular cunt within my organization who is too stupid to realize who the fuck he is dealing with.
He vexes me like a crab louse. And I'm normally able to separate the personal from the professional. But, then, I've never had lice.
Ah, screw it. I'll make the punch, and kill that cocksucker for Hallowe'en. Long term goals.
Sorry, Intrepids. I've been out of pocket. I'm ashamed to say, with all the freebies available for grubby fingers, I caved, and dashed across the Panhandle to participate in the fun.
I'm not a complete reprobate, however. I'm not about taking from the poor for my own personal gain. I'm about sticking it to The Man! Dat right. To the Establishment.
And so I looted Ray Nagin's home, while he was blaming Theodore Roosevelt for fin de siecle levee failures. Hizzonah! Now my pilfered bitch.
Lookee here what I bagged:
One Budweiser cooler, filled with ice, and bootleg insulin.
One feather mask, strangely pristine.
One crutch, sorely needed.
A handful of pills, mostly biphetamine and methaqualone.
Some Fredericks of Hollywood stockings, with the cooter part attached.
A Latrell Sprewell Headliner statuette.
One Playboy (Daryl Hannah, Nude!)
One bottle Grand Marnier (now empty).
One Diva Starz doll.
One M teen magazine (Jessica Simpson. Very hot).
Leather gloves, index fingers well-Vaselined.
A small bust that can only be a, what? Albino Michael Jordan?
I told you I fucking scored! Cop helped me load it up, too.
Ever seen that movie? Vincent Price is the last man living who hasn't morphed into a vampire/zombie. He spends his days roving the city in a station wagon, pulling vampires from darkened cellars, driving stakes through their hearts, then burning them in a giant pit. At night they beat on his door, and throw whisky bottles at it, because they know him, you see. They want to punk his ass. Just the sort of film my mother would take me to see at the drive-in at the tender age of six.
And you wonder why my worldview is so scarred? I AM A VICTIM!
At any rate, that's how I see New Orleans for the next year. The fucking zombies are there, the wasteland is defined. Bit by bit, neighborhood by neighborhood, it will be reclaimed.
I envision Hell, though. A bloody war. Ain't gonna be pretty. The drifters will return first, the dispossessed. Rebuilding houses will be almost impossible because of theft, and vandalism. A corrupt state will have no merciful response. They are mired in their own stasis.
I'll go back next July, though. I'll swig whisky in those sullied streets, bare my sorry nipples for beads, throw my puny largesse about.
Who's with me?
Of all of the Deadly Sins, Sloth is my fave, and I practice it with calculated deliberation.
Take today: a blustery, rainy washout, I spent the day lolling in my bed like a maggot, swilling four of Father Anheiser's finest, still in my pajamas at five PM.
Too fucking lazy to take out the trash, I gnawed on leftover spare ribs. Smoked a pack of cigarettes. Watched some bitches fight on Judge Joe Brown.
Finally brushed my teeth at 3 o'clock. Stood in the shower and washed the funk offen me.
See? Sloth. Mighty fine of a holiday.
And so my elder daughter informed me she was going clubbing tonight, with friends. To a nightclub I know ALL about, although I should not, given my advanced age.
This place is in a seedy part of town, and full of disgusting personages who wear hairnets on their conks, and shit.
She was shocked when I said nyet. First of all, she is only 17, and so the 18 and older law was broken. Do I look like a dipshit? Thank you. Clubbing with thugs. What was she thinking?
Actually, I think she was glad I took the peer pressure off her. I'll report back from Plush later. I hear there are hotties there.
Whew. A solemn vow. I am never fucking with opiates again. Well, maybe one more time, if the opportunity is ripe. But I like my willie working, if you know what I mean. And it is a hell of a thing to only be able to find your daughter's sarong for clothing, and only have a Best of Deep Purple CD at your disposal. And to discover that, sadly, you are a Strange Kind of Woman.
Which brings me to another point: when Skeeter was a wee lass, being a redhead, when we fed her carrots her nose, fingers, and toes would turn orange from the what? Beta carotin? Whatever. But she's almost 13 now, and she ate a bag of baby carrots yesterday, and her feet turned orange. Not the sort of thing a man in the depths of a morphine binge needs to see.
Oh, shut up. Don't call DFACS just yet. I was coherent enough to drive to the liquor store.
But those orange feet were gnarly.
Your faithful corresponent regrets to inform you he is fucked up as firewater. I have no idea what happened. One minute I was sunning, the next minute I was tore down.
But the Bride and I did determine the greatest rock lyrics of all time, despite my, ah, handicap. Here it are:
"I SAID JESUS CHRIST, WHERE'D YOU GET THAT CADILLAC????" The Clash.
"I'M COMING DOWN FAST, BUT I'M MILES ABOVE YOU" The Beatles.
Everything gets hazy after that. Still got some morphine in me, I reckon. Fuck!
My trackbacks are totally fragged. I'd fix the code, but it doesn't even exist anymore, apparently spirited away by daemonic forces.
If anyone can help me I'll give you a week's vacation in exotic Gulfport, Mississippi (Motto: We Put the "Holler" in Cholera).
And lest anyone think I am being insensitive to the victims of that hurricane, just remember, my refugee peeps: I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing with you.
And so I was chased off the beach today when Zeus started hurling thunderbolts at me, obviously pissed that I had mocked him for having to resort to taking women under the guise of swans, and barnyard animals (and what self-respecting woman takes a swan cock?).
Upon reconnoitering the Velocihovel I discovered some powder someone gave me recently, I know not why. I believe it was morphine. It certainly tasted like morphine. It was obviously not injectable quality, and I'm not about the spike anyhow, you know, so I snorted half, and smoked half.
Then I sprawled on a lounge chair by the pool and listened to Scar Tissue by the Chili Peppers. And I thought to myself, VMan, you bitch a lot, but life is actually pretty good.
When all was said and done I was still standing, though, and The Bride captured the moment for posterity, albeit poorly:
Don't you wish you were me? Sure you do.
I forgot to mention one thing in the recounting of Gene and Joe. Aunt May was not always a destitute Okie Cracker. In fact, she and her husband were quite well to do during the Roaring Twenties. They supposedly spent a debauched summer in Mexico with Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, and Scott had given her his Underwood typewriter.
When Mr. Aunt May divorced her and moved on, he left her two idiot manchildren and a million dollars worth of Piggly Wiggly stock.
A subsequent Lothario absconded with the stock, however, leaving her the idiot manchildren and some calico dresses.
I returned to her hovel after that funeral, and tore up floorboards and kicked over chiffer robes looking for that Underwood, alternately possessed with the ideas of owning the machine that had perhaps scripted The Great Gatsby, and wondering what the fucker would fetch on Ebay.
I couldn't find sech a beast. Maybe it was folklore, maybe a more enterprising relative had scored it earlier, maybe Aunt May had pawned it in 1969 to pay for some dogfood for dinner. Who knows?
Relatives. They never give me shit.
I had a whole slew of half-formed words in my greasy-lipped, Joe McCarthyesque mouth, to describe the hellhole that is NOLA, but why read me when you can read Protein Wisdom? I won't even remark on the obvious ibogaine rush Jeff is suffering from.
When I was in my twenties I was having a business dinner with some Japanese clients. Steamship executives. Now, back in the '80's peeps used to drink a lot more than they do now at business functions. And so we started the evening off doing some shots.
As a round of shots would arrive someone would toast one of the Japanese ports. As in
"Ooooooosaka!" Down shot.
"Shimizu!" Down shot.
"Kooooooobe!" Down shot.
When it was my turn for some inexplicable reason I said
To make matters worse, at dinner I was pretty blistered from the shots, and when the waiter brought our salads I plucked a mushroom from mine, stood it on end on the table, and said, well, I can't spell it, but the net effect was "Booooooom!"
Not cool either.
All of this by way of saying I have a job interview with this company in two weeks. I certainly hope they've had some churn in the old traffic department in the last 20 years.
I realize this is a rather indelicate subject, but I have a warhead the size of a fucking bomber marble on my taint meat. Woke up widdit.
Now, one of two things will happen: 1) this thing will subside overnight, and all is peachy in Velociworld. 2) it is even more robust tomorrow, and Dr. V must operate.
I pray for the former. The contortions alone involved in the latter make me shudder. Although the payoff would be oh so very sweet.
I found the following comment in my old Jim Cantore post:
I Love you so much, your so hot. I was so worried when you were in that hurricane! I asked everyone at school who there favorite weather guy was and everyone said you. I think you should try to act in movies. Are you married? MY favorite team is the yankees too. I was also in the hurricane Katrina. I am a triplet, Do you have a son near the age of 13. I live in Prairieville and were going to be wacthing u on tv everyday! And we wacth storm stories every night!
luv u so much
HAley, courtney, brittney
To which I can only add: Send me pix in 5 years! Triplets, Max! (What's that from?)
I topped off the tank at $2.98 today, and considered myself a lucky man. It was fucking Amoco, man. The God of Gas.
I'll be refilling at $4 next week, fo sho. But the $6 they're popping them for in Georgia? Screw that. I'd just filler up with Popov vodka. A shot for me, a shot for Bessie.
Then I would go to the Texaco station, and drag Patel out into the parking lot, and beat his thieving ass senseless. Then cross the street to the BP and pull out Patel and beat him senseless. And so on down the streets, stomping Patels.
I can respect a looter. I can't respect a motherfucker who wants you to come back next week for the same assfucking. And when the crisis is over, display his impeccable British manners, courtesy of the Raj, and expect business as usual.
Because I'm all out of fireworks. Anna has posted. And she wants to ensure her hurricane relief check reaches a certain, ah, destination.
Me? I want my relief dollars to go to the looters. They're showing more proactive get-up-and-go than any state official I've seen, especially that weepy-assed gubernor.
I figure if a guy can float four plasma TV's on an inflatable mattress through six miles of moccasin infested waters, and secrete them in a high and dry hidey hole, he is deserving of some hep. He's worked harder than any VP in my fucking organization this week, that's for damned sure.
As for the Superdome, I've already sketched out the teleplay, Hell and High Water.
See! Anguished men leap to their death! See! Women and children get raped in the darkened caverns as National Guardsmen chase pistol-firing drug addicts! See! Babies sleeping in human waste while their mothers lactate formic acid!
Pitching it to UPN and the WB next week. Proceeds to go to charity, of course.
To the looters.