December 31, 2005

HAPPY NEW YEAR

You bunch of damned hippies.

Posted by Velociman at 9:25 PM | Comments (20)

December 29, 2005

COCOANUT HEADS

When I was a young tittyboy, perhaps 5 or 6, the family returned from the annual sojourn in Florida with the usual bumps, bruises, and souvenirs. Only this time my older brother was in possession of a cocoanut head. And not any head, but a fearsome, freakish thing. Carved and manipulated to look like Queequeg from Moby Dick, or something. Skinned back head, bugged eyes, it was a fucking scary thing. Sat on his shelf for the next ten years, collecting dust and bad juju.

Very tough for a 12 year old boy to lock himself in his brother's room some years later and masturbate to posters of a semi-nude Bridget Bardot on a Harley and not feel the skeery heat of that cocoanut head burning in his back. Made me a man, though. Iffen it don't kill you, it makes you a fucking pervert. That is my philosophy.

And yet, in a bizarre twist of fate, I don't opine for the semi-nude Bardot, because we all know she became a sun-worshipping encrusted hag who went mental and castrated her neighbor's donkey. Sexy stuff, sure, but. BUT! The cocoanut head stayed with me.


Allow me to cut to the chase: I live in Florida, firmly ensconsed upon the Last Unholy Highway that purveys cheap-assed gimcracks and gewgaws, including, naturally, cocoanut heads.

These heads suck! They are friendly heads. Goofy heads. Silly heads. Clown heads.

No scary cocoanut heads out there. I so want to terrorize my beautiful children, and yet the product ain't out there.

I'm disappointed. I see a market-driven need for horrific heads. I feel the need. Am I wrong?? Does the market for godforsaken screwhead skinned back cocoanut heads exist? I think so, and therefore I'm looking for cocoanuts to mutilate. I'll just do it myself.

I'll give you the fact I could be, incredibly, wrong. But I doubt that.

Posted by Velociman at 10:22 PM | Comments (16)

December 22, 2005

A DIFFERENT WORLD

And so Velocidaughter 1 turned 18 Monday. That is a sobering experience for a dad. Took the family to lunch, and let her go wilding that night, which consisted of watching a movie with her boyfriend and his parents. Because she is a peach. A perfect specimen of young ladyhood. Her whole future she is mapping. And good sound decisions. Headed to Florida State next fall, intent on setting the world on fire. How can this be?

I sat her down, at one point, and explained to her that with the age of majority comes many responsibilities, but also rights and privileges heretofore denied her. Rights and privileges that carry great gravitas, that must be respected. And then I gave her $50, and asked her to go buy me two cartons of cigarettes.

"No way, old man!" she said.

Yep. We've somehow managed to raise a star.

Posted by Velociman at 8:59 PM | Comments (16)

December 21, 2005

BOB MARLEY TOLD ME TO STAND UP FOR MY RIGHTS

I wouldna, at risk of a lightning bolt for Blasphemy, cross this girl. Read on. She is a gifted writer. And not only one of my best friends, but one of the few people I know that can kick my ass. And will. When she reads this.

Posted by Velociman at 11:52 PM | Comments (5)

WHAT IT TASTE LIKE?

I wrote recently of the sense of Touch, and how the tactile sense is the most important of all, for it is pervasive, encompassing every fiber of our being. And I stand by that.

But what about the sense of Taste? I would submit that is the second most important sense. I would rather be blind or deaf than lose my sense of Taste. Think about it. Without a sense of taste they may as well spoon Soylent Green in you. Bland, grits-textured gruel. And the thing is, that seems to me the most likely of senses to be subjective in nature. I mean, with rods and cones and pupils and irises and corneas being what they are, we all see the exact same thing. Except for the colorblind, those poor pathetic bastards. Mauve is taupe to them, ecru is eggshell. Just fucking pitiful. There should be a UNICEF concert for the colorblind, to teach them the hazards of wearing turquoise whilst color benighted.

And hearing. Those hammers and anvils and stirrups and cochlea are all objective mass production. We hear what everyone else hears. Unless you are a Beastie Boys fan. Then you are what we call, statistically, an outlier.

But taste? If ever a sense had the opportunity to be subjective it would be taste. Consider the vagaries among taste buds. Doesn't it seem likely, even probable, that buds would differ among people? But nope. Nope. Watermelon, I gather, tastes like watermelon to everyone. Pecans taste like pecans throughout the species. Even shit, among those of that particular bent, probably tastes like shit the world over.

And I understand the limitations. One melon tastes different than another, and God only knows the variance in turds. But to take a specific specimen, a particular sample of a particular key lime pie, for instance, that slice would taste the same to everyone. That's freaky, man.

Or take, like, oh, I don't know, vaginas. Lot of vagaries there. For sho. Now there is a common thread of taste there, the experts will tell you. And some people will eat most anything on that level of the food pyramid. Good on 'em, I say.

Me? That, I reckon, is where the sense of taste might get a little more subjective. That netherworld is an area of chemical balancing more delicate than an atomic clock, more finely tuned than an Italian engine. In fact, I would go so far as to say that menu for me is more rarified than a Westchester County croquet club. As data rich as a null set. Not much between my brackets.

But hey. That's just me. When it's good, it's great. When it's not? Have I showed you my null set? Just allow me my prejudices. I prefer aloe over albacore.

The sense of Taste. Ah, yes. Kind of makes you glad you can't Smell this site, doesn't it?

Posted by Velociman at 8:38 PM | Comments (11)

December 17, 2005

THAR HE

When I think back on the murder of Emmitt Till, the young black boy who was killed for supposedly whistling at a white woman in 1954 Mississippi, a couple of things come to mind. Number one: that was the real catalyst for the civil rights movement, not Rosa Parks plopping her butt on a bus seat.

Two: the sheriff was a compleat neckbone. When the district attorney told him, man, you have to behave, the whole world is watching: journalists from Ebony and Jet are here. Behave! The sheriff walked in every morning, doffed his hat at the table of black journalists, and said "Mornin', Niggers!" And he thought he was being polite.

But third: when the uncle was forced to point to the man who had showed up at his doorstep, and demanded Emmitt, he had to point a shaky finger in the courtroom, at the perp, and say "Thar He." A huge, huge step of courage.

Sometimes I wonder why I don't do better in my corporate environment, then I remember that boardroom meeting, when I had to identify the speaker of a particular line, and I point, and say "Thar He."

I couldn't help it. That line is a fucking classic. Tell me I can't use it? You may as well bay at the moon.

Posted by Velociman at 11:55 PM | Comments (22)

THE HILLS ARE ALIVE

Been watching The Sound of Music tonight. I love that flick. I'm always a sucker for two good peoples with holes in their hearts hooking up. And defeating Nazism in the process.

I'm also a fan of Julie Andrews' pert little nipples, struggling to escape the dreadful clothing she was forced to wear.

But that's just me. The Bride, she wets herself over Christopher Plummer. That's just gross. He's always played a Bad Guy since then. Tried to kill the President in Dreamscape. That bastard. And not just any President. An Eddie Albert President. The fucking nerve.

Posted by Velociman at 10:55 PM | Comments (13)

CLIPPER SHIPS

I've sailed on square-rigged vessels before, to Europe and back and up and down the New England coast. But I would love to spend time on a clipper ship. Those speedy vessels built roughly between 1833 and 1858, skinned down for more speed and less cargo, that could maintain 18 knots on a trip around the Horn. Very popular taking folks to Frisco during the Gold Rush.

We know the names, they are legend: Cutty Sark, Sea Witch, Flying Cloud. In the heady days of clippers, every voyage was a potential record breaker, and those master mariners knew how to wring a few more knots out of a ship. They were the Craig Breedloves of their day, plying the seven seas instead of the Bonneville Salt Flats.

I've plodded along in a Hitler built sailing vessel, playing endless rounds of tack, tack, tack. Loop the loops all the way across the Atlantic. Would rather have been setting speed records. Clipper ship with sheets taut, slashing through the waves. From Boston to San Francisco so fast you couldn't even spell scurvy.

That would be cool. I should have played the Lotto today. Could have built one had I won.

Posted by Velociman at 10:20 PM | Comments (5)

WORDS TO LIVE BY

When I was a child we occasionally watched professional wrestling on the old B & W. This was before the days of buff superfreaks, and elaborate choreography. These guys had hairy backs and beer guts, and wore home-made masks.

There was a tag team once, and one of the team members was called the Masked Marvel, and I recall one of the opponents ripping off the Marvel's mask during a bout.

The old man's drinking buddy, Shorty, was watching, and he looked at my father and said "If that son of a bitch had done that to me, I'd kick him in the nuts so hard it'd be too rainy to fish."

I found that sentiment very worldly at the time. Sagacious, and profound. I still do.

Posted by Velociman at 9:09 PM | Comments (8)

A FOND MEMORY

There was a solar eclipse in 1968. I was 11 years old. I had a telescope, and bought a cheap camera that would attach to the telescope so that I could film the eclipse. The Senator told me if I looked at the eclipse I would go blind, then he would beat my ass for letting myself get blinded.

It was overcast that day. I got no pictures, nor did I get blinded.

Posted by Velociman at 8:40 PM | Comments (4)

December 16, 2005

THE STATE OF THE 'SPHERE

I don't want to piss on anyone's parade, but I've been having the sinking feeling, for some time now, that the vaunted Blogosphere is a sickly puppy, the runt of the litter with rickets, and scabies.

Hear me out: when the World was relatively small, there was much interaction. Give, take, everyone knew everyone. Maybe didn't like everyone, but knew them. Now there are Pajama parties with huge fucking budgets, one is In or Out, it is a fucking abortion of a thing.

All of this, I think, is driven by two things: number one: some people think there is money to be made here. Okay. Maybe for a few lucky enough to have enough traffic to generate ad monies. Have at it, folks.

Number two: many bloggers tend to forget they are amateurs. A little traffic, we are Dickens. Bullshit. We are fucking amateurs. This is the minor leagues. Worse. Pony League. No salaries at all here.

The comraderie is nice, but with comraderie comes acceptance of faults.

Let me cut to the chase: I am tired of reading sorry-assed bullshit blogs. Most of you people suck! Your writing is quotidian, your topics banal, your worldview retarded. Rob was right about den Beste being right. Quit forcing your God damned garbage down my throat. If you want to post and engage me? Cool. Fuck your recipes. I have many, most better. Quizzes? Shove them up your ass. Pet pictures? I want to see a Korean chef preparing them.

Quit fucking boring me people.

Now, you Kool Kids know I don't mean You. It's those other assholes. You know you're In The Club, because you got my e-mail.

Just kidding. My site is the fucking worst piece of junk out there. I am embarrassed to visit it. Have to do a shot of tequila just to visit the comments. I am a major part of The Problem.

The Blogosphere is a right wing melt down. It blows manatees. Pretty much tired of being in the bush leagues, knowing I ain't getting the nod from Tommy Lasorda.

Sorry my site has sucked so bad. REALLY REALLY sorry yours has.

Posted by Velociman at 10:59 PM | Comments (46)

YOU ARE RASPUTIN


You are Grigory Rasputin, an occult mystic who can cleverly pretend to cure hemophiliac Romanovs. Women find you irresistible, even when you haven't bathed in two months. You are such a stud you have to be poisoned, stabbed, and shot before you will die by drowning. Which Mad Monk are you?

Posted by Velociman at 7:03 PM | Comments (8)

December 15, 2005

PISS. AND VINEGAR.

My Blog Uncle seems to be back, and in rare form.

I can almost smell the spittle from here. The foam-flecked ravings I've missed.

Good to have you back, Robbie.

Posted by Velociman at 8:10 PM | Comments (8)

BALM

A few of my friends are complaining about the cold in north Georgia. One word, folks: WINTER.

You were expecting sunny climes? Of course, here in the Sunshine State, I enjoyed a comfy 75 degrees, and cloudless skies. That will change when Chimpy McHitler finishes savaging the Statue of Liberty, of course. Rising sea levels will put the Velocihovel under 8 feet of oil soaked dreck. We will develop gills to accommodate the fact we are living under water six months of the year. Better than morphing into Inuits, though. I, personally, loathe anyone who develops a taste for blubber, and lives in velocigloos. Sick.

Posted by Velociman at 7:45 PM | Comments (11)

A BRIEF CONVERSATION WITH GOD


I'm pretty sure this happened, but narcophilia could have played a part. Day is Night, Night is Dog, etc... Plus, I've been taking some leftover Catpills.

I was beckoned to Heaven, for a Reckoning. Laugh, assholes. It wasn't my idea. I always knew those Asians were smart, so I wasn't too upset when I realized God looked just like Keye Luke. Still felt a bit queasy, though, being suborned with racist genes, and all, and having jested about sideways pussy upon occasion.

Did you know in Heaven you sit at the left hand of God? Sure. Because the right hand side is occupied, of course. Jesus called shotgun on that primo slot some millennia back. Speaking of which, Jesus didn't say anything during this convo. He was preoccupied, apparently trying to get a video iPod to work. From where I sat it looked it didn't have any batteries in it, but I said nothing. Humblage, and all.

And so God teed off. Recited in detail my horrific sins. One by one. Starting with a particularly nasty shit as a tot. My fault. Should have held it.

And so the litany went on. Most of these things I didn't even remember, so it was nice to have the sordid past dredged up, like a corpse from a lake.

You know how dreams seem to last three hours, then some Expert tells you that it was only 3.9 seconds of your REM? Well, fuck them.

So I were getting sponged. God is like, a special prosecutor. He holds all the evidence, all the cards. May I say, in this thing that lasted either 3 seconds, or 3 days, that He was furious with me? No sense of humor whatsoever. He was especially sour on the whole Blasphemy thing.

For instance, when I said "Gosh," He thundered that that was a corruption of His sacred name. "Say "fuck" if you must," quothe He, "but lay off the nicknames."

And so I was rebuked, and sent back home to Repent. "Straighten up and fly right," said the Big One.

Me? No pressure whatsoever. Me? Whistling past the graveyard? Never.

Did I mention I didn't see no Mohammed up there? I asked. "He's in the stinky place," said God. As if I knew what that meant.

Posted by Velociman at 2:57 PM | Comments (8)

December 14, 2005

HERE'S A THOUGHT

I met the Velocibride at the local Comedy Zone/Ramada Inn for her company Christmas party tonight. The concept? Drinks at the martini bar, dinner, then enjoying the crazee stylings of an XXX-rated hypnotist as the comedy act. Very audience interactive, etc. etc.

Again, I ask: where is the fucking turnip truck?

Parts the I and II appealed to me. In fact, I drank like a satyr, ate like a feral dog. But when it was time to enter the auditorium I begged no mas. Are you shitting me?

Now, I am quite the Skeptic. Ghosts, Yeti, Bigfoot, Roswell aliens, hypnotics & mesmerizing, seancing, ensorcelling, entrail-divining, palm reading, ballsack-sniffing, casting of majikal spelles, skrying, none of that shit means anything to me. Prove it, assholes.

And yet: the idea of being forced upon a stage, to be perhaps hypnotized (ensorcelled!) in front of The Bride and her coworkers, and divulge particularly (legally actionable) particulars? That ain't gonna fucking happen. I'm a hale fellow, well-met, but take your fucking skrying down the road, Jack.

What happens in Velociworld STAYS in Velociworld. Unless, of course, I get too toasty, and accidentally share it with you. Then it's my bad.

Posted by Velociman at 9:43 PM | Comments (21)

December 13, 2005

...

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...


I asked Eric if I could borrow an ellipsis or two. He said sure... ... ... ... ...
I got a couple to spare... ... ...

Posted by Velociman at 8:14 PM | Comments (18)

December 12, 2005

BURN, BABY, BURN

The streets of Los Angeles, notably South Central LA, will ignite in flames tomorrow upon the demise of one T. Williams. It is as inexorable as the sunrise which will backdrop it, as inevitable as the confiscations of shopping carts in which the loot will be hauled. Homeless souls will be thrust aside, their ragpickings dumped into the filthy streets, a finer, nobler cause having been found for that available cart: to wit, dead common thievery.

Honkys will be stomped, if they draw nigh; black innocents will be beaten; Christmas comes early to the City of Angles.

I thank a foresighted God for the three hour time differential. I'll have three cups of coffee in me when I ensconce myself in my recliner, and watch the Deal go down.

Tomorrow LA burns. Album of the day? Ten Years After. Watt. Buy two. Then you have Watts.

UPDATE: It appears the reaction in the LA area to Tookie's ride on the spike has been, shall we say, muted. And I should say I am grateful to be proven wrong, but I'm not. Hell, I like good urban bonfires and the wanton terrorizing of Korean greengrocers as much as the next person. But I'll live. Unlike Tookie.

Posted by Velociman at 9:47 PM | Comments (11)

CAPTION CONTEST


Caveat: any entry containing the word Velociman will be deleted, and you WILL be banned.

UPDATE: Mr. Abernathy had to be taken to school. Next time? The woodshed.

Posted by Velociman at 6:47 PM | Comments (41)

December 10, 2005

AURORAPHOBIA

That would be the fear of the Northern Lights. The Aurora Borealis. I, personally, do not fear that. I actually have craved seeing the Lights for decades. Nonetheless, you really must visit this place. There are more fears out there than I could have ever imagined. Me? I suffer from Apotemnophobia. Quotidian? Yes. And yet I still feel the skeer.

Posted by Velociman at 9:42 PM | Comments (6)

December 9, 2005

TAKE ME TO THE RIVER

Do I look like there is a turnip truck attached to my back? Never mind. There is something exotic about being smacked down by a fellow blogger. I enjoy that take down. And so I share with you, secure in my hipness, the beat down I received in the mail today, courtesy of Key Monroe:



For the record, these "ornaments" now reside, securely, upon that abortion I call a Christmas Tree. At least I have my other Beat Down ornaments there, and My Three Stooges in Tuxedo. Life ain't that bad. Especially since I never used the Unholy words "Red", or "Hat". Suffer ye, my children, my idiosynchrasies.

Posted by Velociman at 10:40 PM | Comments (4)

I Miss Atlanta

Back when I lived in Atlanta, which would be circa 1979 to 1982 by the Papist Christian calendar we are all forced to lick upon, one could still, even as a law student, beat a fucking yuppie senseless with a riding crop in a public venue. Heady days, those. But even as you delivered the firm tang of punishment upon a wholly deserving BMW jockey you knew the times were a-changing, and naught for good.

Regardez: three insulated, and completely unrelated, but cosmically fused incidents. Which changed the face of the ATL forever. And, for no logical reason, yuppies blossomed like cowturd mushrooms in the aftermath. Something to do with power vacuums. But I am the dead, reckoning.

Firstly: the cold-blooded murder of PB. I won't use her name, because her family may Google her upon occasion, and running across Velociworld would be cruel beyond mine own imaginings. But she was a legal secretary, with perhaps the most powerful law firm in Atlanta, and as she strolled outside for lunch one day a lunatic, literally just released from the asylum, busted a cap in her head, just to see her die. Random victim on a downtown street. Psychotic fucker. Put the Grate Feare of Gawd in the Entire Populace, it did. Lunatics Walk Amongst Us? With handguns? Now was not the time to go wobbly, however. Fuck gun control. Let us put some bipolar psychos to death, goddamit. And I wholeheartedly concurred.

Secondly: The Foot Stomper. AKA George Mitchell. This screwhead would find women wearing high heels, and viciously stomp their insteps. Now this might seem like an innocuous habit to some, but these women were crippled for life. Fuck! John Waters incorporated the foot stomper in one of his films, and at the time I laughed, but in retrospect I can only wonder I did not vomit every time I watched a Waters flick. Edie Wants An Egg. If that phrase doesn't make the bile rise in your throat you are fortunate, indeed, to have missed the Waters ouvre.

Thirdly, and finally, the Atlanta Child Murderer. Wayne Williams does the time for the 23-odd murders of young black boys, but I'm pretty certain that was a sweep under the old parlor rug. I figure Wayne only did 7 or 8 (and he was only convicted of 3, or 4). Regardless, at the time I was living in a house I'd bought in an all-black neighborhood, being poorer than anemia, and one of the victims, Lubie Jeeter, mowed my grass. Try convincing your black neighbors, who at the time were swilling the pimp juice that it was racist Roscoe Rules white cops in search of tight male ten-year-old black tail that you were not part of the conspiracy, and one can sense my discomfiture.

By the way: I have to be the only blogger on earth who can claim a prior address that includes the words "Memorial Drive" in it. Racist? Not moi.

So where does this take us? I have no idea, other than should I be trapped in a Kafkaesque trial, it would be hard to dispute the fact that after I left town the sidewalk assassinations, foot-stompings, and child murders ceased. And somewhere there is a lawyer filing an appeal on behalf of some fuckwit, averring that Velociman did it! With the fucking spoon. In the lavatory.

Posted by Velociman at 8:52 PM | Comments (6)

December 3, 2005

SPEAKING OF CRYING...

Georgia is beating LSU like rented mules tonight. Sent their much ballyhooed quarterback to the showers in the second half to change his tampon.

Meanwhile, locally, the first inaugural ACC Championship is knotted downtown 3-3. Florida State and Virginia Tech. But who gives a fuck about the ACC? I couldn't get a strumpet license to peddle any flesh down there, so I stayed home.

Speaking of pain, though, and the crying, I was edging my driveway today, in anticipation of Skeeter's birthday party, when the weed-whacker kicked up a sizeable rock. Right into my face. Felt like a 22-year-old Cassius Clay had divined the sweet spot, and went for the kill.

Take that, you cracker bastard!

I saw stars, and them tweetie birds that circle your head upon a knockout blow. It splayed my left nostril open in two places. Blood gushed (some blood pours, most times blood gushes. That is an obligatory verb). I look like, well, the last time I lost a bar fight. Mauled, I am.

Now that I'm clotted and cauterized I believe I'll go to church tomorrow. Maybe with a hip flask protruding from my coat pocket, so that I look like I went straight from the saloon parking lot brawl to eucharist. Unfortunately I was wearing my impact resistant riding glasses, which the rock skipped off. A shiner would look really swell.

Oh, yes. I almost forgot. I cried. Couldn't help it. A smack in the nose will make you cry whether you want to or not. Snot, the works.

That fucking hurt.

Posted by Velociman at 9:27 PM | Comments (9)

OSCAR

Once upon a time, many many moons ago, when I was a young cur, I rented a house in midtown Savannah. It was a nice neighborhood, but the house was a delapidated piece of shit. Being a renter, I of course did nothing to improve the curb appeal.

Next door lived a 17-year-old boy named Oscar, being guardianed by his grandmother. Oscar suffered from Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, his mama having possessed a voracious appetite for the bottle, which was apparently exacerbated 17 years prior by the unfortunate and unwanted incubation of said Oscar.

Oscar did very little, by which I mean he did nothing, except to walk around the perimeter of his yard with military precision, with a ghetto blaster perched upon his shoulder, which played the J. Giels Band's Freeze Frame! over, and over, and over. Oscar had a perpetual scowl, too. He was on a mission to nowhere fast. His mein positively screamed dead prostitute in the trunk.

Now Oscar lived with his grandmother, as I said, his mama having succumbed to the petrification of her liver and other bilious humours. Grandmama had no clue how to deal with the eccentric Oscar, and so he stalked the perimeter of the yard, scowling to Freeze Frame! Freeze Frame! with utter abandon.

At some point my cousin moved in for a couple of months, with a kitten in tow. No idea why he had this cat. I suspect a girlfriend had departed in sufficient haste to neglect to take her kitty, escape being more important than pettage. Oscar liked the kitten, and would chase it around the yard when sentinel duty did not beckon. Life went on.

And yet one Sunday morning I awoke after a night of drunken gladiator sex, and went outside to fetch the paper. And there, under my bedroom window, I found the throttled, strangulated corpse of my cousin's kitten.

Oscar! thinks I, sagely. That fucking voyeur! Probably ejaculated simultaneously with me, only me to the soft mewling of a blonde dental hygienist with a sunburned nose, he to the soft mewling of a strangulated feline.

I moved shortly thereafter. Call me old-fashioned, but that Oscar, he just creeped me out.

Freeze Frame! indeed.

Posted by Velociman at 4:13 PM | Comments (13)

HARVEST HOME

Anyone know what to do with 52 softball-sized lemons?

I could pull out the juicer, but when life hands you lemons, what do you make?

Vodka and tonics, of course.

Posted by Velociman at 3:15 PM | Comments (11)

December 2, 2005

A MORDANT QUESTION

Here's one for the machismo-burdened men amongst the readership:

Do you ever cry at movies, boys? Man, I do. I'll admit to being tetched upon occasion by a pull at the old heart valves, sclerotic as they may be. I am affected by the poignant. Piqued by the piquant. I can't help that.

You know why I cry when some criminally manipulative director tugs them valves? Because I have a fucking soul, man. I'm hardwired to find the tear ducts when the moment presents itself.

Strangely, I am hard-assed as a Turkish prison guard in real world situations, but the proper amount of pathos or sorrow in a make believe story can have me weeping like a baby with the piles.

The only time I couldn't cry at a proper moment was when I was on the Prozacs a few years ago. Baby got kilt in a housefire? It's all good, man. Star-crossed lovers finally get together and one of them has terminal pancreatic cancer? Chillin. That's why I quit taking that shit. Well, that and the fact I could get a magnificent erection, and couldn't do anything with it. Come to think of it, I did cry, then.

Hell, I think I'll put on Love Story. That's a damned weeper. Mainly because Ryan O'Neal was a studly hoss, and fell in love with a palomino of a chick. THAT is sad. I wanted him to fuck his way across Boston. I live vicariously like that.

How about it, lads? Anybody got the swinging sack to cop to this admission?

Posted by Velociman at 9:13 PM | Comments (45)