I may have been premature on the whole Nole thing. As I was already metaphysically barrelling down that godforsaken stretch of interstate called I-10 towards Tallahassee to deliver my daughter unto the tender ministrations of the FSU faculty, she pulled a Starsky & Hutch on me. Reached over and yanked the pyschic emergency brake, while snatching the wheel to the left. I must admit it was a perfectly executed 180.
So it is off to Orlando tomorrow to visit University of Central Florida, "just in case". It is a nice school. All the buildings are new, it is a smaller, more close-knit community. Excellent programs. Plus, I can find better bars in Orlando than Tallahassee on parents weekends.
I'm at the whatever stage. Find some place she is comfortable with soaking dad for an education in beer, pizza, and unmentionable extracurriculars.
Did I mention attitude? This was no request, this Starsky & Hutch. It was a demand. To be performed in no uncertain terms. I did remind her that she is 18 now, and legally I'm done. Can kick her to the curb without a moment's notice. Rank hath its privileges. Rank children hath no privileges.
My kids have inherited a lot of qualities from me, most I think positive. Unfortunately, that frigging overblown sense of entitlement they could have done without.
Acidman has been able to watch his son's basketball games lately, and that is a cool thing. I'm glad for Robbie. I won't ever have any boys to share my jock experiences, but my girls dance competitively, and it is much the same thing.
When The Show starts, all you can do as a parent is cross your fingers, and gnaw your knuckles, and whisper to yourself Please God don't fuck up. Of course we all did, and they will, but that's okay. The important thing is that sense of exhiliration, and gut-stomping anxiety, you feel when your child is called upon to perform, and there isn't a damned thing you can do to help them. They are on their own. That's what being a parent is all about.
I found this post poignant. I've been there when my kid screwed the pooch, so to speak. Totally forgot their routine. Just brain-cramped up, and walked off the stage with flushed, tearing face, crushed soul. That experience demolishes a parent. You can offer solace, empathy, it doesn't matter. That child is damaged. Until they are able to redeem themselves. And they do. Because we raise our kids, I hope, and think, to be resilient. To overcome. And when they do succeed, the past is prologue, the future is bright.
Kids. It must suck to not have them.
You live in LA, but think the people there are fucking creeps.
You don't wear a shirt on stage.
You only have three square inches of uninked flesh on your body.
You are so lazy you copulate sprawled on your back.
Which Chili Peppers song are you?
See? I don't hate quizzes from an aesthetic point of view. I just like to make up my own.
Am I nuts? Either half of Gibtown has discovered my Lobster Boy post, or I am being hoaxed on a grand scale. Either way, those comments are priceless.
Lee Marvin: "You eat guts."
Gene Hackman: "Yeah. I like 'em."
Prime Cut, 1972.
You know, sometimes a plateful of guts is just a plateful of guts.
With the vapors. It is of course a commonplace that Southerners are reknowned for having at least one crazy-assed relative. Only we don't call them what they are, which is deranged. We use euphemisms, such as tetched, and dyspeptic. We generally humor them. In the old days we made them stay in the attic, and would trot them out for holidays and special occasions, if they promised to behave.
With social services being what they are nowadays, though, these tetched individuals are able to live fully functional lives without our largesse. Which is a good thing, I'm sure.
Which brings me to my Aunt Merle.
I haven't seen her in 25 years, for obvious reasons. Whenever a relative dies, we always forget to call Merle, because she will show up and forge chaos from firmament. I was calculating today. She must be 87! And still getting around. Not bad for a psychotic binge drinker. Although I believe she gave up the habits that bring to mind the words blowsy and floozy some years back.
Here's an anecdote: when the Bride and I were first dating, we decided to visit Disney World, still a relatively new attraction. Merle found out, and insisted we stay with her in Titusville. Now, I hadn't seen Merle since I was about 5, when my siblings and I were forced to stay in her apartment in Waycross one evening while my parents and Merle went out for dinner. Skeery place, and the fact JFK was on the cover of TIME apparently suffering a major migraine (Cuban Missile Crisis?) scared me even further. 5 year olds who can read don't need to see their Commander-in-Chief in crisis.
Anyway, I had some MDA, aka The Love Drug, so the Bride and I got whacked out of our skulls and went to Merle's. She had an apartment decorated entirely in pink overlooking the Indian River. She was dating a marine contractor named Floyd, who looked like a bizarre genetic union of Cary Grant and Jerry Clower. Being Old School (she was probably early 60's then) she made Floyd keep his own apartment in the complex, which she had decorated exactly like hers, down to the identical seashells over the commode, only in powder blue.
I didn't know what to expect, until Merle immediately made screwdrivers upon our arrival, then four more rounds. The Bride and I were tore down on the Mad Dog (MDA), but we kept our game faces on. Merle and Floyd eventually took us to a cheesy steak joint for dinner. Cheesy because it had a dance floor, and the slashed Merle made me dance with her over and over. When the slow number came on, however, I beat a hasty retreat to the table. She had the glazed look of needing a pelvic grind, a dry hump, in her rheumy eyes. I warn't having any of that shit.
The next day we left them to their own devices, and went to Disney World. When we returned Merle and Floyd were ripped. We had a few drinks, then escaped to Floyd's Blue Dolphin, as I had christened his apartment. "I winna tell ennabobby youse sleppin togethas!" averred Merle, for which solemn vow I thanked her.
The next morning we came down for coffee. Floyd had apparently passed out on the sofa, because he had just roused, still wearing his ubiquitous coveralls, scratched his codsack, and remarked "Well, yesterday was a waste". Indeed, thought I.
Anyhoo, just a snippet from the life of a special relative. We all have 'em. And they are all crazy. And I can't conclude this post without putting up a picture of the Great Love of Merle's life. The one that got away. The young man she dated when she first moved to Waycross in her twenties, and was almost betrothed to, as she tells it. Pernell Roberts, from Bonanza. AKA Trapper John, MD. Nooooo shit. Gee. Wonder what scared him off?
I wrote a post way back when about Grady Stiles, the Lobster Boy, and his untimely murder in Gibsonton (Gibtown), Florida. Victim of circumstances only a carny environment could create. Sideshow geekdom.
At any rate I received a comment on that post today from a lady calls herself The Bearded Lady. Claims she worked with Lobster Boy. Now, I don't vet my comments. I can be hoaxed as quickly as the next person. But I'll post the comment, and let you decide:
The Grady's are show peoples from my home town of Gibtown USA. I gest had a say that yall don't no how meen Grady was. Hed beet the wife and kids like an egg. i aint sayin he deserved to be gunned done by killers but i say it is the dummy who took money fur it and did it. We all laughed here and said 'boy I'd like to have a barrel of butter and that carcus...its just well know we are a buch of lower educated peoples here in Gibtown and most of us are pretty dirty and nasty. We were not wanted by social. I say this here...id little Missey is so worried her cousin aint know his granny passed she ought to jump in her piece of shit car and ride on to prision and tell him. Now I aint the most educated person, but can't she send him a letter in the mail telling him sides being on line gripping about it? Can't he get mail? Send me his number and address and I will white him and tell him his Granny done passed on! Does anyone here think he give a rat behind his Granny is done and gone? I doubt it. Sides he got bigger thing on his mind like hiding his bung hole from his cell mate who I am sore alredy made him his piece. That is proper justice. I agree with death punilty, but it better punshment if he is there putting kool aid on his face like make up and prancing around his cell playing house wife to a huge black mon and being traded for smokes and pieces of candy. He went there yong and sweet, so I am sure he was butt raped day one. I think that is fitting punishmant for him. I bet he cannot even hole his guts in after so much butt loving. HAHA Well his family still around Gibtown. Grady Stiles the 4th is here and his sister.They live on social security and food stamps. They are a poor sight so dirty and greasy hair and dirty trailers. They are nasty outcast even in a town where I am normal. I shave daily to escape the label of a freak. They stroll around town dirty and nasty with rotten teeth and dirty fingernails and bad skin. There yards look like a junk pule. They have kids and they are bad and have foul mouths. The Mother who paid to have lobster boy killed is still around. She ran off with a midget but they broke it off. She is suppusodley "normal", but she married the lobster boy 2 times and ran away with a midget! Normal? I dunno abut this. Another crazy around here is Rusty Rock~daughter of 1/2 woman and the giant. They ran Giant's Camp. She has bragged and bragged for years her Mom was 1/2 lady and she has tried to make money off it but mostly she is just a looney women. Crazy crazy! If ever down this way do not eat at Giants Camp it is dirty. Back to the Lobster boy and his family...who would have sex with these guys? Oh my God the biy has just toes growning from his waist...imagine that naked and on top of you rolling around. Plus he is so dirty and has all rotten teeth in his head. I dont even no how he do it with a women. Sick, sick, sick. Listen all I have to do is shave...he has toes coming out of his waist and then his gentels. I think that is gross and bringing in child to this world knowing it might have sever deformities is wrong. I also think it was well said and feel the killer should rott like the Grad's teeth in jail!
We all have them. They may be skewed, jovial, shriveled, offputting. What one person finds funny, others may not. There are generally funny things, of course, safe courses of action. In the Golden Era of television, for instance, that would have been Milton Berle. Believe it or not he was the greatest ratings grabber of all time. 99% of TVs (in the days when only 1 house in 20 had one) were tuned to Berle.
Now, me? I've seen some of that old footage. I don't think Milton Berle was funny worth a fuck. I admire him for 1) cross-dressing on TV during the anal-retentive Fifties, and 2) having the anecdotally largest cock in show business. And don't think he could have gotten away with 1) had it not been for 2). But as a comedian? Bullshit.
The point I am making is humor is certainly in the eye of the beholder. So when I tell you I hate you that just means I love you.
It's kind of like wife-beating. It's for your own good. And at least I don't make you go hide out in a safe house, and wear clothing donated from strangers, and make your traumatized children play with used dolls with the eyes popped out.
See? I'm thinking about you, and not just as a sparring partner, but with true affection.
New word. I have to cobble them together because everyone else is too lazy to make them up for me.
This is the phenomenon of something that makes you turn your head and yak a little of the partial digested.
Like Quizzes. The only Quiz I ever liked was a groundskeeper in Stanley Elkin's The Living End, who carried on a hateful discussion with a hooligan who'd been buried under his high school stadium turf.
So I experience the phenomenauseum when I see too many quizzes in the bloggrok. And the same ones.
* Ten instances where I insert my name where earth, or balloons, or scrotum should be.
* I am a car.
* My mother is a fish.
I have a quiz for you:
Ten Reasons Why My Blog Sucks (Hint: answer number one: I post too many fucking quizzes).
You need Content? Brain matter? A Muse?
Contact me. My rates are steep, but I'm very, very good.
When I was doing hard time at one of Uncle Sam's finer military academies I learned very early on that all officers were expected to graduate as engineers. Functional Individual was the operative term.
As a person who in their teens was by nature a dopesmoker and daydreamer, a loller in fields of grass with bottle of wine, and obscure poetry, and hopefully someone to neck upon, I cannot begin to describe how this information dismayed me. I was bolt-gun stunned.
See, I thought I would be allowed to pick my major. I wasn't sure Lolling was a bona fide major, but I figured I could find something similar. But in between brutal physical training and barking drill instruction I was soon disabused of my thoughts upon the matter.
Which brings me to Krasner. I was, to put it mildly, an indifferent student in the three semesters of calculus, two semesters of chemistry, and three semesters of physics that were forced upon me. Not that they aren't noble pursuits; they just weren't my field of play. Interestingly, I now find quantum mechanics fascinating, and will one day force myself to learn it properly on my own. I may even tackle string theory.
But back to Krasner. The worst part of these courses was the fact they were taught by officers for the most part. Masters degrees, to be sure, with a sprinkling of PhDs, but these gentlemen were more concerned with wringing the pantywaistage, the insolence, the lackadaisium from our recalcitrant asses.
And so I entered Physics III with a D in Physics I, and a D in Physics II. The only D's of my life. As luck would have it my professor for Physics III was a civilian, Dr. Krasner, a jovial little man with a biting accent. Think Grandpa Munster with a crewcut.
I loved old Krasner. He would crack jokes, and I would banter back with insults. I was merciless. It was a great relationship, and the only one I ever had like that in college with a professor. Until finals rolled around, and I knew I was headed for another D.
I went in his office the week before finals, and said "Saul, I have a problem. My GPA's fucked up, and I just can't do this fucking physics. My parents are apoplectic with these D's. I really need a C."
"You want to get a C from me, you damned swab?" says Krasner. "You gotta want it. Prove it."
That made sense. Then I thought of the buttons. Did I mention the buttons? Of course I didn't. Saul always wore two buttons on his white lab coat. One was day-glo green, and it was a drawing of Einstein's face. The other one was day-glo orange, and it said E=MC2. I'd always loved those buttons. I have no idea why. At that point I generally coveted things like pot stones, and Beatles bootleg 8mm film. But covet I did.
"Here's the deal, Saul," says I. "I'll bust my ass studying, and if I get a C I want those buttons."
"Deal," he says.
And so I studied my ass off. and when I walked out of that final I knew I'd flunked it. D would be a gift from God.
And yet two weeks later I found an envelope in my mailbox, and inside were the buttons, and a note from Krasner. "Congratulations swab! You got a C."
And so I moved on to my junior year, but I know in my heart of hearts I screwed that test to hell and back. Saul took pity on my swabbo ass, and gifted me that C.
I still have those buttons somewhere. I run across them now and then, pull them out, put them on, and laugh at that crazy bastard. He was the best.
I heard through the Twilight Bark at work today that my name had been put In Play for something at a top secret conclave of Good Ole Boys. A job, or some such. Now, the only thing worse than being In Play is Not Being In Play, but I've learned a few things after a few cascades off the back of the turnip truck.
Number One: if they want me to do this job, it must be opprobrious. No one wants their name attached to it, but they need someone who can fucking execute. Smells like Velociman to me. I, after all, have been cavorting with Mephistopheles of late, and those sort of midnight black arts convocations are always witnessed by someone, damn it. So I may have been smoked out in a dark woodlands gloaming as just the right guy for this thing, whatever it is.
Number Two: I have a track record for performing the distasteful, although I also have the downside of requesting a bonus outside the provenance of the original deal, so foul did the job become. I figure the usual haggling will ensue, and I'll take the brokered 50%.
Number Three: Serious expense account abuse will be involved. They always tell you No Big, but I hates a fucking paper trail. Memo to self: hold out for 75% negotiation on the overage, just in case I need to fly to a non-extraditable.
I'd better get some rest. Someone, somewhere, is going to get a screwing of their corporate bank account, and I need my beauty sleep.
Number Four: this will totally be non-Sarbanes-Oxley.
As I converse with Mephistopheles tonight on the ultimate residence of my corrupted soul, I am still confused: is it staved, or stove? I use both, as the mood strikes me. You?
At any rate, when your heart is punctured, as opposed to your garage door, I would go with staved. Just my thought on the matter.
The number one Google hit for Rorer 714. I'm not sure that's a good thing, but if one is of a certain age it carries a bit of weight. And I'm contacting Guinness. Not for the record book. I need beer.
Or at least need to winnow out the fucking poseurs. I put up a post about, say, preferring percolated coffee to that drip sludge shit, and I hear from people, some my good friends, hoisting their noses in the air, and sadly shaking their heads as they patiently explain to me I need a French press, or a vacuum style.
Fuck you people! I want a cup of damned coffee that wasn't dripped through a filter of specious grinds, not a goddam work of art.
It's all about the octane. I like my coffee at 93.5. I want a kick in my ass, and percolated coffee tastes better than dripshit to me.
You fru fru fuckers would never cut it as cowboys, unless you were of the Brokeback variety.
Damn. You're all fired. Then I'm going to YOUR fucking blog and tell you what a dweeb YOU are, because, invariably, your last post will have SUCKED!!! Because they all do.
That is all. I feel better now. And I'm buying a fucking percolater tomorrow.
I'm driving up to Savannah tomorrow for my brother-in-law's birthday party. Well, Bloomingdale, to be precise. If past is indicator it should be a momentous event. 50 or 60 people will congregate in the back yard, tents will be pitched, hog will be smoked, likker will be drunked. The guitars will come out at some point, and a Grateful Dead hootenany will ensue.
My brother-in-law wasn't raised a neckbone. He decided to become one in his early twenties. Which is fine. I always have a good time. Unfortunately, I always have too good of a time. The morning after, everyone who stayed over (I always have the master bedroom, because I'm Me) will pack the den, and drink Pabst Blue Ribbon and watch the videotape of Velocisot making an ass of himself.
In my defense I will say there is some level of amusement in my spastic antics. And I generally get tits shown to me (you have to know who to ask. I do).
But I think I shall take the low-key approach this year. No setting things afire. No stripping of my shirt. No biting off a chunk of meat from the pig while it is still a-spit. I still hope to see some tits though.
That's where my shit's gonna be one day. I losted all my blogroll when I switched to Blogrolling. Because when I was attempting to save it I was too polluted to remember to save it. Something like that. Woo. I remember that night.
Anyway, I askited nicely to email if you were leffen off. Got no responses. No thing there. Gave you a shot. But now and then I see a name on the Sitemeter, and add them. When I am not basking in the glory that is me.
I still have major reconstruction issues, but I am so fucking lazy I make a Jamaican spliffroller look like Dick Cheney (D runs the whole war from his undisclosed bunker, you know. Word up from Ace's comments is his cock is huge).
I know what you're thinking: when, if ever, are you going to say That Is All, Vman?
Usually when I mention things of a percolating nature I'm either talking about my rage percolating just below the surface, ready to erupt on some unsuspecting soul, or I'm talking about conversation with a civil engineer as we kick cinders walking the grounds of a new construction site, he discussing having to drive pipes into the ground to percolate the moisture out, me nodding knowingly, wondering what the hell he's talking about.
But all this talk of percolation has driven me to a nostalgia moment, whereby I miss my coffee percolator. Everyone knows drip coffee sucks, and yet we all drink it. But you can shove your espressos, and cappuccino makers, I want another percolator.
As a wee lad I would anxiously watch my mother's percolator blub blub blub, the mixture cascading upon itself again and again, enriching the fuel. Oh, yeah. I wasn't allowed to drink coffee at five years of age, but I knew I wanted to, just as if I'd been watching a Turkman prepare a hookah I'd be craving the hashish (well, that happened anyway, Turkman be damned).
In a patented around my elbow to get to my ass post, I beseech: anyone know where to get a great percolator? I can find plenty of spleevy upscale Give me your riches Pottery Barn whore stick my Williams up your Sonoma fancy assed percolators, but I'd like some real world feedback. I haven't owned one since my elder daughter was a lass.
Who makes a kick ass perc? I'd prefer a stove top style, but I need a plug-in so that I can use a timer, me being a man of blank stare and unsteady gait in the morning. I need my high test ready to go when I rouse.
A little help? I've given you so much over the years. You have returned so little. Help me here, and all is forgiven.
Well, the daughter will be attending Florida State in the fall. This is a blessing, because for one brief scary period she had evinced a desire to be a damnable Gator. I like the Seminoles, because I liked the way Bowden used to beat Steve Spurrier's ass. A certain cachet there.
Of course I would have liked to see her go to Georgia, but one doesn't pay out of state tuition for any state college, except for perhaps Chapel Hill. Which has gone downhill, by the way.
Ivy Leagues were out of the question. One does not pay $50k a year to send their children to al Quaeda indoctrination camps. I was keen on Sewanee, but Em apparently was not the rabid Anglican I thought I'd raised. Plus, no bloodsports. Girls like the bloodsports.
I'll take Nole. At least it's not fricking Gator.
If you were to ask me what I do for a living I could honestly say, "I have no fucking idea." Because if it is winter, it is time for another reorganization. Which means consultants are brought in, and human resources facilitates, and after 40 meetings and $500,000 they come up with the same game plan they always do: they write everyone's name on a piece of paper and toss it into the air, like confetti on VJ day, and let it settle upon a Twister board that has job titles Scotch-taped on it.
And trust me: the job titles that say things like Big Fucking Overcompensated Stud Hoss are not on that board. Secretary is, though.
So what do I do? I don't know. Actually, I do. I twiddle my thumbs and work sudoku puzzles, in limbo, like everyone else. Productivity quotient? Zilcha.
I guess by the end of the week I may know what I do for a living, besides fellate the corporate peccary. Until then I don't know. Although I have had all my customers call the Big Boys and tell them I am the Czar Bomba. Knight him!
In the meantime I am locked in sudokus, and convinced my weekly deposits in the suggestion box to make Velociman Director of Grift will go unheeded, as usual.
My elder daughter was in an horrific accident one year ago this February 13th. I posted pix of the mayhem. Her SUV rolled twicet, yada yada. She would have been killed in a lesser vehicle.
Anyhow, the driver and his passenger wife of the vehicle that hit her were very cool, very sweet. Wanted to know how she was at the accident scene, then they called her and sent her letters, wanted to make sure she was okay. Very upstate.
Now, a year later, he is suing for $110,000. Claims the accident aggravated an injury he sustained in 1984. That's cool. I'm down with milking an insurance company, I guess. And the fact that I'm only insured up to $100k scares me not. $10k exposure? Bring it on.
No, I was merely interested in how my insurance company responded. Their attorney offered them $4 thousand to fuck off and die.
I love my insurance company now. They have balls of steel. We shall play this little play out, but my feeling is my company won't cave. My adjuster called me, and from 500 miles away I could smell the brimstone burning in his loins. He wants these fuckers. Nasty smell, BTW.
We shall see what happens. I'm thinking a whole lot of nothing. Although I did turn my neck severely when I saw my daughter's car upside down, and now I have pains. Perhaps I should be recompensed.
I was texting my dear friend Kelley tonight about her first ultrasound, because I am a concerned and engaged friend, the horribly maligned Velociman being misconstrued as an uncaring soul at times. Well, baby talk aside, we moved into uncharted territory, and she wanted to know if I was going to get some bling fo my teef. A grille.
Sure, I said, but I need scrill fo dat bling! Could get expensive. Then I remembered my daughter's college fund. She graduates in a few months, but I figure between scholarships and her working the graveyard shift at Waffle House I could spring for some nice inserts. I want to alternate gold with diamond, just because hiphoppers jerk their heads back and forth anyway, might as well give 'em a reason.
So no harm, no foul if my beloved daughter has to work so pappy git snappy.
I could rectify the situation by finding another source of income, however. So I'm thinking pimp. I could find a few willing souls to splay their wares so that V looks skinking while the D gets a diploma.
Any takers? I'll be a kindler, gentler pimp, I swear. No beatings on Sunday, you can breast feed your accidents. No drugs. That you don't share. We'll have some fun. I'll even kick you back 30%.
Anyway, I'm figuring at this point I probably need some serious legal counsel to explain to me why solicitation to pandering on one's internet site is probably a bad, bad, thing. Meanwhile my e-mail address is in the corner.
I'm never up to speed on my cultural references anymore, as I am officially in "middle age". But isn't Halle Bopp that mocha actress who won an Oscar when a suicide cult mistook her vagina for Heaven's Gate, and attempted to enter it via alien spacecraft? And was Michael Cimino involved?
I always thought those gold teeth the authentic urban rappers sported were real. Shit. The Bride informs me they are slip-ons, known as grilles.
As disgusted as I am at the hypocrytical nature of my nigz, I want to know where I can purchase a set.
In 1588 the Spanish sent a great armada north to decimate the English. So great was the fear amongst the English populace that the great philosopher Thomas Hobbes was born prematurely due to the great stress, imprinting him with his lifelong obsession with the nature of fear, and stress, upon the soul.
As we know the Spanish suffered defeat at Gravelines, though not badly; most losses were inflicted by storm on the return to Spain.
The story brings to mind Iran, however, and the mullings of the mad mullahs. They consider us a paper tiger, a faux armada. They foment insurgents in Iraq, in Lebanon, in Syria, in Egypt. Hezbollah is their offspring.
Now they build the bomb. All options at this point are shitty. But if we don't unleash Hell on these crazed fuckers we will eventually lose a city. And it will only take one truck nuke to destroy Israel. The land will be uninhabitable for thousands of years, but these fucked bastards don't want the land. They want to kill Jews, and us.
Yep. We have to strike. And their nuclear facilities are spread everywhere, so carpet bombing will be necessary.
The World will condemn us. Who cares? It is a shitty option, many civilian casualties, but we have to whack those fuckers. There is no other option. They won't heed our warnings. They are fucking insane with Islamicism.
How many Persians does it take to screw in a light bulb? Three. One to screw it in and two to drive a goddam dirty bomb into Manhattan. We have to obliterate these people, sad as that is.
And so I'm chipper tonight. Sleep tight, Intrepids!
Key Monroe asked me why I hadn't made good on my promise, or threat, to write an epitaph for her comatose blogsite. Because, I said, I didn't consider it dead. Just neglected. I was merely attempting to mortify her into writing something once in a while, so that we didna have to send out the death-smeller bloodhounds.
But a threat is a threat, and where I come from you'd better make good on your threats if you want to keep your game, so I penned one.
Now, I always feel death should be treated as a humorous affair, in order to lessen the deep anguish of the affected. That's why I always go to a viewing or wake and crack wise. Always have a joke or two. As in
I'm very sorry about the loss of your beloved Khaitlyn to crib death. But did you hear the one about the Eskimo and Sasquatch?!?
Slays 'em. No pun intended. And so I decided to forgo the normal epitaph, and devise a limerick instead, they being fun, and ribald by nature.
For Key Issues:
Here lyeth the corpus of Key
A site we once liked to see
If she doesn't post soon
I will act the buffoon
And guest blog 'bout sitting to pee!
Desperate times, desperate measures. Of course, my place is on life support, in need of a critical transfusion, but the designated hemoglobins and platelets absolutely refuse to be injected. They apparently have a union.
As a person who speaks only Geechee-besplattered English, I am envious of the multilingual. I know some French, because, believe it or not, that was once upona a language reknowned for its seductive, sexy nature. Women don't find Cowardice sexy these days, however, and so I use the French words as more of an exercise in tomfoolery.
I bemoan dead languages, however. Like Latin, which certain freaks still speak, but only to themselves in the mirror, when they are ordaining themselves in the High Church of the Holy Bishopflog.
As an efficient conservative I should laud the conversion of the planet to English as a universal communication. Latin had its day, French had its. Now is the day of English. Makes the world go round. Except for America, of course. We have to put Spanish on every sign and banner and bin in the Home Depot lest a guest worker not be able to find a fucking hammer! (Martillo!)
Eh, but English is a screwed up language. Too damned many homonyms, and homophones, and don't get me started on the homophobes. It's a bizarre stew of syntax exceptions, spelling pass-me-bys, and words that are often antonym to they own selves.
I ramble. I abhor the fact people do not speak Latin, or Aramaic, or Sanskrit anymore. I'm glad scholars and linguists go to the effort of recording and glossarizing endangered languages for posterity. If, for no other reason, to be able to tell the aboriginals who speak it "This, my faithful chaffeur, is why your people do not Rule The Fucking Earth!" In a nice Geechee accent, of course.
Here's where I slow down so that the least common denominators amongst the readership are allowed to catch up, and win their especial social promotion diplomas.
I've caught a fair amount of shit for this line:
I love the troops. I just don't fucking want them to win!!
Please don't make me beat you fuckers senseless with the irony bat. I was just channeling the moonbats, who proclaim to love the troops, but would like nothing better than that we fail in Iraq.
In fact, although I paraphrased, I do believe I stolded that line from someone else. Coulter? Somebody. I would credit them but I don't recall who it was. It just struck me as spot on.
So quit busting my balls. They're too big for you anyway.
What the hell is a necropolis, anyway? I mean, I understand they are ancient burial sites, like cemeteries, only bigger, I think. Like city-sized, maybe. Cities of the Dead, literally. Thebes had what was apparently a spectacular necropolis in ancient Egypt.
But the question is: could one make one? The reason I ask is because I have become right testy in my advancing years. People who merely pissed me off in the past now downright infuriate me. I wouldn't mind whacking a few, to be honest with you. That way they never piss you off again. I figure I could buy, say, 15 acres down around Spuds, Florida, cheap, and create my very own necropolis. I'd even be nice enough to give them headstones and such. Not with their real names, but nicknames, like Wanker Willie and Cutmeoffintraffic!
Of course I would never do this. I firmly foreswear murder in any way shape or form. Still, an intriguing concept. But here is why I know I could never harm another human being: Ever have one of those dreams where you killed someone? Maybe they were attacking you, or something, and it all seemed very reasonable at the time, until John Law showed up? Then your reasons seemed a bit spurious? Questionable, even? And so you're shitting your pantaloons trying to convince the man it was jus-jus-justifiable homicide, or se-se-self-defense?
I hate those dreams. Not because they didn't deserve it, but because even in a drug-addled sleep torpor life imprisonment is not appealing in the least. Caged and raped is no way to go through life.
I'm still intrigued by the necropolis idea, though. Maybe I could buy the land, and when the Great Spirit takes these screwheads on his own timetable I could secretly exhume them, and re-inter them in the Velocinecropolis. I could buy a woodburning kit and make a sign by the front gates: Hear Lye Mine Inimies!
I think I would like that.
I used to have a truck driver that worked for me, called himself Aggravator. That was his handle. And he was an aggravating sumbitch, too. A black guy, he was convinced The Man was out to get him. His CB banter was a nonstop stream of bitter invective against the System, and his perceived sense of being Wronged.
Nobody could work with Aggravator. Everyone hated him, and his ginned up charges of discrimination, and being wronged. But I liked him. Why?
Aggravator always got the job done. He was always on time, never had a service failure with him. And with owner-operators, I have to tell you, that is rare. Truck drivers that are independent contractors are generally that because they are fucking malcontents. Not only don't play well with others, will likely knife them in the process. They are what they are because no one else will have shit to do with their disgruntled asses.
Aggravator was much of this ilk, but he always got the job done. I could count on him. Hell, high water. I like that in a person. So I always gave him the best jobs, tightened his wallet up. And he would sit in my office and tell me how The Man was fucking him, and I would laugh. "Aggravator," I would say, "I don't have any secret handshakes. I'm not part of any Good Ole Boy network.I haven't been invited to any secret circle jerks in the woods. I get screwed just like you. That's just the way it is."
He didn't believe me, but that was okay. I didn't care if he believed me. All I cared about was that he was at Home Depot at 8 am, or Nike at 6. And he always was. That was a working hoss.
I wonder what that crazy bastard is up to. I miss him.
I love the troops. I just don't fucking want them to win!!
Gee. Used to be this was the time of year my brother Jack Straw would invite me to Whistler for skiiing and sech. No more. I suppose I am out of favor. But at the very least I can, as a good sibling do, dole out a nickname:
I like it. Don't you?
For Rob and Livey: Somebody pull a curtain before I throw up.
Now, don't get me wrong. I love Steve H. But what the fuck is with the tool blogging? Shit, he had me to the point I put the laser leveler to Girth Vader, and by god, I think my whacker is a bit crooked. Huge, but crooked. Then I put a chromium socket shaft up the ureter to straighten it out, and I'm all fucked up.
Think I'll go back to blogging about retards, and dwarfs, and poor white trash. Less painful.
Some folks call it fat lighter, but they are faggots. Faggots, you see, being Old English for logs of wood. Never mind. I call it lighter knot.
The heart of pine sappy impregnated with nitrotoluene shit. What they make gunpowder out of in Woodbine. When they're not blowing themselves up in the process. At any rate, a most conflagraceous material.
So we had an actual Deep Freeze last night in Florida. Meaning 28 degrees, by my nipple erection reckoning. The Velocibride makes me buy firewood (yes, I actually have a fireplace) so that we can warm our boogers. Fine. Now here is the rub:
She wants to start the fire with a chemical log. I got nothing against chem logs. All you need here 354 days of the year. Pretty, burn up clean, would that I could have cleaned up that horrid whore slaying in so clean a fashion. But.
There is always a but.
Chemical logs are a pussy way to build a fire. I like taking a tiny strip of lighter knot and coaxing a fire. It's a testosterone thing.
Like when I was at Cat's the other day. Sitting around the fire, and Georgia and Miss Even Keel are trying to stoke the fire. They're mashing green logs on top of the embers, creating a smoky mess, and generally being nuisances about it. And none of the men exhibited any machismo, and fix it, which I thought was strange, fire being a manhoss thing.
So I bitched a little bit, and rebuilt the logs so that it caught fire. Because, as I mumbled under my breath, fires are all about levels. And updraft. You have to build layers of wood so the updraft makes the wood catch. Why do you think high rises full of retirees burn so sweet? Levels!
So I get the fucking thing burning, then Acidman walks over and drops a log on top of my pyre, then hooks his thumbs under his armpits and brags about his firebuilding prowess. Damned pudknocker.
Anyway, I like lighter knot. And when I'm in an old house, and see paneling made of heart of pine, I think to myself you poor bastards are going to roast when this thing catches fire. Why don't you just panel your house in gasoline?
That's about it. Besides, I'm getting tired of giving away this free content. I should be eking brain droplets out of my ear into glass vials and selling it like crack. You'd buy it. I know you would. Pathetic velocijunkies.
Czolgoz is off his meds again. And desperately craving bone marrow.
Not because of the Satanic nature of my homunculus, but because everyone knows I wear silk boxers, right?
Is okay, Phin. You couldn't have known. You most assuredly couldn't have known.
Query: Can the shameless even be insulted?
I would submit, in this brand new year of the Papist calendar we must cleave unto, that that is a sick construct. Imagine: herding small children together. Then forcing them to, under blindfolded duress startlingly akin to waterboarding and Bushtorture, cram a damned pushpin into a burro's ass. Or eyeball. Who knows? The little buggers are blindfolded, after all. Sick shit.
I am aggrieved. Most especially because I am a Full Disclosure site, and must share my suffering, despite the fact you don't give fuck all. Lookit:
My little brother had birthday parties all the time. Every year. He was the Paris Hilton of his era, basking in birthday party gooditude. Me? I had one birthday party. At, like, six. And had to have it next door, at my neighbor's, who was born on the same day. And may I add that her parents were so offended their child was born on the same day as me that they took out classified ads purporting that their child was actually borned at 11:59:59 on the day before? Bastards.
But: pin the tail on the fucking donkey. I horned in on my little brother's birthday party one year, and, not being blindfolded, pinned the tail, pinned the tail, on that frigging donkey, several times, and scoffed at the little heathens. Took the wind outta their sails. What an asshole thing to do.
And yet I would do it again today.
Why? Attention, man. And the all important Why Not? Powerful forces.