February 28, 2006


I realize I have in the past signalled the appearance of fire on the sidebar could be construed as evidence of a disturbance in the Velociforce. This is not always the case, however.

Sometimes fire is, like a penis, just fire. Elisson hissownself is fireblogging, for instance.

I do feel some explanations are necessary, however. Herewith a primer on sidebar projection of the Velocisoul:

TUCO: everything is copacetic. For the time being. But it could blow at any seam.

THE MUTANT: things are okay, but there is an eerie quality to the vibe. Women and children are safe, but, again, it could blow at any seam.

ANGEL EYES: a quivering in the psyche. Expect mordant posts; perhaps a few days' disappearance. If there is a sudden reappearance, something like young crushes, or the Senator, will be involved.

FREAKISH MONKEYS: That usually just means I've been talking to my regenerate uncivilized genes again. No harm, no foul, other than the fact I'm probably masturbating a lot more than usual.

PIMP HAT: I have been prevailed upon to excoriate my lugubrious behavior for something a little less, ah, intemperate. I have a few friends who will request that. I generally comply, if I am not non compos mentis at the time.

FIRE: I'm an Ares. God of War. Some call it Aries, the Ram. Same fugga thing. The fire sign is the great extrapolator, ain't it? Could mean my brain was trying to process that shitty bituminous coal, instead of the sweet anthracite. Or it could mean a particular post you wrote pissed me off. I like to think of the fire sidebar pics as Jokers. You don't know what you getting. I like that. Now last time, it was just funning around. Next time, who knows?

And so, that's about it. Rules of the Road.

What this tells me is that I need new sidebar pictures to rotate through. The more to befuddle you.

I must run. I really need to find some more Angel Eyes pics.

Posted by Velociman at 11:05 PM | Comments (14)


I've been remiss again. I didn't plump the blogroll last Monday, and today is already Tuesday. Which means I shall select two peepa who link me for most vociferous opprobrium. Or calumny. Just depends on my mood.

First off: Libby, at Last One Speaks. An occasional commenter, always polite. Doesn't have me blogrolled under Swingers though, does Libby. I'm under Drunks and Poets. Well, which is it, baby?!? Drunk, or poet? Because where I come from, those words are interchangeable. Witness:

Row after row with stritc incontinecy
The headstombs yield their names to the Velamint,
The wind whirrs without passing Go, colletcing $200;
In the riven troughs ba splayed lips
Pile up, of nature the castratum sacrilege
To the seasonal eternity of deafnes;
Then driven by the fierce scrottum
Of heaving to their erection in the vast breath,
They sough th rumour of morbibity.

Nice, eh? And with all due respect to the memory of Allen Tate. Fugitive Poet. That's what I'm talking about. Thanks for the link, Libby. By the by: what it say on yer label, label, label? Jes curious.

Next? Sluggo Needs a Nap. Actually, Sluggo needs to recalibrate his fucking medication. Posting pictures of animal cocks on sale for dinner in a Peking restaurant. Why China will never rule the world. Eating animal slog is a definite step back in the evolutionary process. Although, given my fear that God looks like Master Po, I do dread arriving at the Pearly Gates and being given a plate of oxcox. Of course, Po God could send me to Hell, where the poor tortured souls are forced to eat Memphis barbecue at all times.

Okay. Slugoo gets a frigging break. Because he's into Zippo lighter tricks, and Lileks. But he better watch his step.

Question: are Muslims circumcised? I'm thinking NOT. Add it to the list.

P.S. Speaking of plumping like a hot dog, you know how you know you've truly become an old fart? When you get passed in traffic by the Oscar Mayer Weinermobile:

Happened the other day. Man, that's just sad. I must be ready for an assisted-care facility.

Posted by Velociman at 8:34 PM | Comments (13)

February 27, 2006


Here is the old courthouse in Dawson, Georgia:

This was taken a couple of months ago with my cellphone as I was passing through, and it caught my eye, so quality may be specious.

It's abandoned, and plywooded, but it appears to be rock solid nonetheless. I'm thinking get an Historic Preservation designation, some obligatory federal grants, and one has themselves a kinghell palace on the main square in Dawson.

But that's the problem, isn't it? One sobers up, and realizes they built their Xanadu in Dawson, Georgia. Right in the heart of that Godforsaken corner of Hell known as southwest Georgia. Now, I love peanuts and pecans as much as the next person, but I don't want to be surrounded by 10,000 square miles of them. Especially when they're still alive. That's creepy. I want my peanuts and pecans dead. Otherwise they might grow tentacles, or something. Eat me in my slumbers.

Plus, Dawson is only 20 miles from Plains. I don't think I could handle that kind of proximity to Jimmy Carter.

Although, if I could get a fancy title with that renovated Camelot, something beyond the grasp of state statute, or common law, I might consider it. Grand Vizier, perhaps? Pharoah? I'm soliciting titles. Something I can get Sonny Purdue to ramrod down the General Assembly's collective throats. "This heah Plenipotentiary is offen limits to the Law, boys! Leave him be."

Still, I'm in fuckin' Dawson.

So there's that.

You know? I'm convinced someday my biography will be written. Unfortunately, it will be a poorly-sketched, prison-variety comic book. In which case, it will likely be an autobiography.

Posted by Velociman at 8:32 PM | Comments (15)


But why anyone would want to look at my pimp hat when I had a perfectly good monk immolating himself is quite beyond me. I've always been impressed with how that fellow went from raw to charred in about 8 seconds, having seen the film footage. Totally skipped the basting stage. And they say there's no snuff flicks out there.

Posted by Velociman at 7:10 PM | Comments (6)

February 26, 2006


DEATH RUSH. Watch this whackjob goad hippos into charging him so he can shoot them in the face. Elephants too. That's not a safari. That's a fucking killing spree. Kind of cool in a deranged way, though.

Found at Samablog. Where else?

Posted by Velociman at 10:04 PM | Comments (12)


Check this out!

Here's a classic Civil Defense helmet on Ebay. That makes the ass pucker. It actually reminds me of the scene in The Time Machine, where the moon is disintegrating from overmining, or bomb tests, or some such, and huge chunks of Luna are raining down on London like meteorites. That air raid siren is blasting in the background, guys in civil defense gear are running around. Very scarring to a 7 year old, especially when coupled with flesh-eating Morlocks.

Here's a Soviet Civil Defense helmet.

So apparently they were afeered of us, too. Good to know, but I wish someone had fucking told me that when I was 7, dammit!

UPDATE: Elisson corrected my faulty recollections. Yet another reason to hate nuclear holocaust and remakes.

Posted by Velociman at 6:23 PM | Comments (4)

February 25, 2006


That's what we had in the olden days. Remember? Most of you will not. They were the old guys in the helmets. Hard hats. We don't see them anymore. I swear, it was hunker and drill in the old times. The commies were coming. And, sad fact, they were!

I miss the Civil Defense Days: bomb shelters in libraries, duck and cover drills. Even Democrats knew a fucking enemy then. That is all old school now. Thee who would slit your throat are an oppressed minority now, whose voice must be heard.

I say fuck all. Christianity is barely tolerable. Islam is for goats and dogs. I generally lay off the Jews, because they always get screwed. Fuckers can plump a kosher hot dog, though. Salut!

I think we should round up some Islamists, and cook them on spits. Declare the entire religion like Jim Jones's Peoples' Temple. Dogshit on the heel of a civilized man's boot. Just fucking outlaw it. Religion, as a rule, sucks anyway. They all do. And they get tax free status. Another reason to screw these fucks.

Back to Civil Defense: I wish I had an old CD helmet. I could score large on Ebay.

Posted by Velociman at 2:11 AM | Comments (9)


I've been upset over how to reach a level of civility over the whole Dubai port issue. Which is, of course, a non-event. However, in order to bring some level of closure to this straitening issue, I proffer:

More Peppahs!

Are we cool now?

Posted by Velociman at 12:28 AM | Comments (6)

February 24, 2006


I'll never forget the last ass whipping my parents delivered unto me. Allow me to share the joy, Intrepids. And I say parents because it was the only time I got a twofer. Normally, if my sin was not too heinous, my mother would deliver the whipping. On those occasions when the crime was more calumniatory, she would merely sit, and smile at me, and say, every thirty seconds or so, "You just wait until your father gets home. You're going to get it!"

Understatement. Get it I would. And this time I got it from both.

Now, my parents were normally loving folks, but they definitely were of the Spare the Rod, Spoil the Little Miscreant sect. They were all about the whippings. And not just belt across the buttock. One had to drop their pants, and be subjected to the Tiger-toothed belt across the back of the legs. Now, that hurts. Ass cheeks were designed by our Heavenly Creator to absorb punishment. Hamstrings are not. Must have been some sort of Great Depression thing, because they were both total into the hamstring slashing.

I digress. My sin, you ask?

Well. It was October 1969. I was 12 years old. Went home with a friend, my trumpet in tow, because he played saxophone, and, despite being little hippie wannabes, we were closet fans of Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass. Herb seemed to be getting more leg than the hippie musicians, and we thought if we could cobble together some type of mariachi thing we'd have girls covering their naked bodies in whipped cream for us, too. A noble pursuit, I say.

Sweet, no? We wanted that. Of course, we wanted 12 year old girls naked except for whipped cream, our goals being modest, but we also knew if we made enough money from junior high dance gigs perhaps we could hire a lady of the evening, with real breasts, to submit to our Cool Whip fantasies. We were, in fact, total nerd dipshits. You've seen thousands of us.

At any rate, I forgot to tell my sister the address of this kid, so she could pick me up at 7. When I finally realized my ride wasn't coming, I called the house. Mom was apoplectic. My sister was smoldering, and had to drive all the way to Springfield to pick me up. When I got home Mom pulled the usual: Drop the britches, scamp, and take your oats.

Fair enough. I'd screwed up, in a way. Rise to a level of a beating? Nah. But it wasn't exactly Midnight Express.

Here's the pisser though: when my father got home, my mother inexplicably threw me under the bus. Now, the old man hated coming home. He knew that, before he could mix a cocktail, he would have to listen to a litany of transgressions committed by any number of his five children, and would be expected to administer punishment, should it have not been administered already. Suck ass duty, really. Of course, my sisters merely got grounded. My brothers and I rode the tiger-toothed belt.

And so the Senator heard the tale, and took me to my room, and administered his version of the ass whipping. It fucking hurt!

I would love to say I didn't cry, but, oh, cry I did. For one thing, whenever any of us took the whip the others would hunker in a room nearby, the better to hear the lashing, then, when the parents were gone, come in and hug and commiserate with the lashee. Kind of a "better thee than me thing", but still cool. And tears carry gravitas.

After the twofer I did the unthinkable. I went upstairs to my parents' bedroom, and tearfully averred how I not only didn't deserve an ass whipping, I certainly didn't deserve two in one day. I called them cruel, I think.

The Senator, having gotten his whippings out of the way, and majestically nursing a Canadian whisky, laughed like hell.

"Boy, I don't care if you deserved it or not! You get away with so much I should whip you every day, and I still wouldn't catch up!"

He had a point there, of course, but that was lawyerspeak to me. I proclaimed that if you get away with it, you're home free and clear. Think I called him a communist. After I was convinced he was in his cups and there was no threat of an additional ass whipping.

Ass whippings. Oh, how I wanted a boy! I surely would have carried on the tradition. After all, I possess the dread tiger-toothed belt. Of course, it is not gender specific. Wink. Nod.

Posted by Velociman at 9:15 PM | Comments (40)

February 23, 2006


Whoa! One of my blog heroes, Mike at Cold Fury, actually agrees with me on something. Namely, that the whole port Dubai port controversy is a load of crap. At, least, I think that is what Mike is concurring with.

I'm just amazed anyone would actually go public with agreeing with me.

There is just so much more to this story. You hear ignorant shit.

No one understands how a damned port operates. Any port operator, which merely handles the loading/unloading of vessels, and the outgate procedures before/after the fact, has U.S. Customs and the Coast Guard and the Food and Drug Administration, and the Immigration and Naturalization Service, or whatever they are called today, so far up their ass you can hear their sphincters whistling not only Dixie but Old Folks at Home through their pyloric valve.

Our ports are safe, insofar as one can detect neutrons, or decaying isotopes. Iffen a Bad Scene goes down, the fact that Dubai Ports World was the operator will mean nothing. I had an FDA inspector find a Mediterrean Fruit Fly on a ship in 1984. Medfly. The fucking entire Federal Government showed up. I had two Polish seamen, back in the Communist days, jump ship and proclaim Amnesty! The entire Federal government showed up. And the Media, of course.

Lookit: the UAE is a global entity. They know they are going to be under intense, nay, insane, scrutiny. I believe these smaller, private terminals will be the safest in the country.

Let us lay off the Islamic bigotry. After all, I thought I cornered that market. See, vis-a-vis, the Islamofuckist bombing of that Gold Mosque in Iraq.

Does this post make sense? Not really. Sue me.

Posted by Velociman at 10:25 PM | Comments (11)


The sidebar was getting stale. Personally, as much as I like to mock Islamofuckists with cartoon Mohammeds, even that grows stale, amazingly. And I missed my Fire. So I've put some fire up.

Fire is our friend. It cooks our foods, it incinerates our enemy's house. It cleanses needles of HIV. I, personally, always put the flame to a needle (don't use a pin! Not pure steel!) before lancing a wanton pus warhead on my slowly decaying body.

I've always liked the expression Trial By Fire. That sums it up. I'll bet American aborigines used to put people to the trial by fire. Fucking Ada! Stakes and such. Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down? Fuck that shit! Tie You Up, Set Your Ass On Fire!

Now we're getting somewhere. Unfortunately, there ain't no roadmap for this piece of gravel stretch. Let us wing it together.

I need fire stories. I must appease Prometheus. A bonfire, a marshmallow roast, the inadvertent setting aflame of a noxious vagrant. Share with me, please. You know I like to know.

Posted by Velociman at 9:53 PM | Comments (10)

February 22, 2006


Posted with no further comment, because Catfish is, as the Pope calls him, the Fucking Man:


I was watching Dr. 90210 last night and saw them undo a Hidden Penis. I never heard of such shit. This is when a dick goes up into the nut sack or back up into the belly, making it look like you don't have a dick. This man and his wife wanted to correct this problem. The doctor told them that the skin under the dick was very close to the nut sack and under the skin in the belly, the dick shaft was cut loose. Then when he laided or sat down, his peter would hide. The man could still get a hard on, but that hidden penis fucked his mind up. A few of my friends went to a Daytona bike week many years ago. One man, named Big Boy shared my room. Big Boy was six foot eight inches tall and weighed close to 300 pounds. Good name for his big ass. One morning our group was getting ready to hit the streets and most of them came into my room, Big Boy was still in the shower, he came out and walked across the room, to his bed, for some clean clothes. One of my friends looked at Big Boy and said, is that a dick or a pee-pee? I never noticed it before, but Big Boy did not have but a inch of peter. Man was he small, you think he had Hidden Penis? We did not know of that one before now. All of us ragged him and made fun of his little pee-pee. I could tell he was getting mad. My oldest friend came in, Bobby is his name, and looked at Big Boy and said, I thought I had a little dick, but yours is so damn small, you shouldn't even call it a DICK. The room got very still and quiet, Big Boy was more pissed, I poured everyone a big drink of liquor, to try and smooth things out. He did not talk to Bobby the rest of the trip. Could he have Hidden Penis or did he just have a very small peter? You be the judge.

I have filter rules. I want them on my sliding doors and car windows. I don't want them on my Catfish. Right?

Posted by Velociman at 9:21 PM | Comments (14)


Here is Key's crossword puzzle, solved. I wondered where I'd mislocated it:


1. Has an accident with Daddy's car
7. Paunchy, bald actor Reynolds, often whispered to be HIV positive
11. Nice words said only after one dies. Never before
12. Vile mucus your nose manufactures
13. What one should do when standing to urinate
14. Nashville Airport code. No one knows why
16. Herbie from Rudolf The Red Nosed Reindeer is one of these
17. Have sex in the Biblical sense
19. Dastardly, debased
21. That guy over thar
23. 12-______ Program (rehab)
24. Compel; place a burden on; otherwise fuck with
28. She was ________ 13, officer?? No shit??
29. " I had him whacked for 15 ________. Worth every penny of it."
30. School group where parents vent their anger
31. Stool pigeon; squealer
32. Acronym meaning "heads up". Boreasses begin emails with it
34. Join together. This word is not in the Democratic lexicon
36. Initials meaning "step off, bitch." We've all used it
37. Author Ferber no one reads, but a crossword staple
38. Chick with glasses on "WKRP" sitcom. Hotter than Loni, but smaller breasts

1. Pussified; not strong
2. Destroy, annihilate, Afghanistaninate
3. Muppet with tickle fetish
4. Military officer in charge of a base, often alcoholic
5. Old Soviet spy agency; enablers of the Evil Empire
6. 'N _______: talentless boy band we'd all rather forget
7. Undergraduate degree; also, what comes out of a bovine's ass
8. Not exciting, boring. Ref my blogroll
9. Way to spice up your sex life while getting to wear a cop uniform
10. Girly acronym meaning "See you later"
15. ____ poetica (Hey! I work with what I'm given)
18. What helicopter rotors do if they are working properly
20. Over; above. Think missionary position
22. Edie wants one, in a John Waters film. Hint: she's in a playpen
25. Lacking taste, mild. See my blogroll
26. Language of the pagan Roman Empire. It's daid now
27. Finless fish, looka like a snake. Asians eat this shit with relish
31. Regret. What one enjoyed, but hated getting caught at
33. Frigid, knee-locked. See ibid 5th year of marriage
35. Part of 10 Down. Figure it out
36. Fee-___-Fo-Fum! I smell the blood of Elmer Fudd!

Certainly prettier than mine. But we all know how lazy I am.

Posted by Velociman at 2:04 PM | Comments (3)

February 21, 2006


I was talking to my next door neighbor tonight as I was dragging half a steer out of my truck. Well, actually, it was my briefcase, but my arms are spindly these days, and it felt like a damned slab of beef. At any rate, I glanced over at my other neighbor's driveway, and saw my little girl cat, Phoebe, lazing in their driveway. Well, the running over of a pet is cause for great disconsolation in the Velocihovel. Daughters weep, Dad has to break out the shelva for burial detail, all in all something one avoids at all costs. So I walked over, thinking this little firecracker ass will run like hell, feral little shit she is.

And yet she pliantly allowed me to pick her up, and take her indoors. That's strange, I thought. Mayhaps the gorging upon real pet food instead of skinks and lizardies has tamed her ass. I plopped her on the floor, where she nuzzled her big brother, Fosse Maximus, then wandered off.

I had the back door open, by the way, this being Florida, but I gave it no further thought. But an hour later I was going out the front door to help the Bride with some groceries. Phoebe was by the front door, but when I opened it: Lo! this clone was there! Staring at us. Apparently the selfsame cat I had brung inside before. Not my cat, but a compleat replication. I should have known I was duped before. That cat I brought inside was much less skittish and temperamental than Phoebe, that feral bitch.

But I am told on good authority that clones lack certain enzymes, and amino acids, that render them docile. Stupid, even. So that may be the situation. But I'd rather have the stupid clone, as long as it doesn't yak da fucking lizards in my bed.

Which brings me to familiars. From, like, the accursed witch world. An attendant spirit, often taking animal form.

So mebbe I have a damned familiar problem. This thing is too much the clone. Kinda scares me. First it gets into the pet bowl, then it's rifling through the credit cards. Know what I mean? I should just take it out. Tie stones to its carcass and throw it in the lake.

I could be wrong, of course. Could be a neighbor's beloved pet. But I say why take a chance?

Posted by Velociman at 11:33 PM | Comments (11)


I wish everyone would shut the fuck up about P&O selling their 6 U.S. port facilities to a United Arab Emirates holding company, already. My company sold off our world class ports facilities in Hong Kong, China, Germany, Venezuela, and elswhere to the same DP World two years ago. Big deal.

They're a holding company. The facilities will be run by 95% Americans, ILA labor and longshoremen. Doubt you'll see an Ayrab anywhere around. The few times Arabs embrace a capitalist model that doesn't involve oil and everyone wants to crucify stone them.

Here's the deal: don't worry about the security at the port of discharge. You need to worry about the security at the port of loading. I don't care if Uncle Sam or Paul Bunyan or Clint Eastwood owns Port Newark Terminal. That's not going to stop a dirty bomb loaded in a container in Abu Dhabi. Think about it.

Posted by Velociman at 9:24 PM | Comments (7)

February 20, 2006


Yo-yo sleep patterns. I can't go back to bed. I recall, though, about 8 years ago, working for an earnest type guy. We were on a sales call in Charleston , sitting at the bar at Henry's, slamming top shelf liquor and birddogging beaver.

"You know," he says to me. "I'm not comfortable abusing the corporate expense account, and racking up these huge bar bills. We do the corporation a great disservice when we do this."

"Dude!" I said. "Are you fucking whack? Christ! Under the circumstances, I'm not comfortable working with you any more."

Fortunately, he left the organization about a month later. Whew. That was a close call!

Posted by Velociman at 2:06 AM | Comments (7)


My friends just dropped a millie cash on a beach house at Ponte Vedra, to go with their condo up the road. Fucking Overachievers. So I drove over to celebrate, and the Grey Goose came out. That's where I'm an overachiever. Damned near killed myself.

Just woke up. Looked around, yeah, this is my place. Parked in the right driveway. So I'm going back to bed.

Posted by Velociman at 1:20 AM | Comments (2)

February 18, 2006


Look at my tongue:

Shit! I have a lot of tongue. I have way too much. I can barely pronounce words with this chunk of meat lolling around my mouth.

Do they do tongue reductions? I need one. I am genetically cursed. All I really need is the tip of it. That's where the taste buds are, right? They could carve a lot of the excess away, and I would sound more erudite.

It's a pretty tongue though, no? That's because I scrub it with Crest Whitening Expressions Extreme Herbal Mint every day.

Still, it's embarassing when I accidentally let this thing flip out of my mouth.

I've stuck this thing at steer and watched them weep. The butcher at Publix offered me $400 for it. I hate it. I want a little tongue. Anyone want to give me a little tongue?

Posted by Velociman at 6:55 PM | Comments (32)


After my repast of prime rib last night at Cobblestones At The Creek (good, but not even close to the prime rib at Highland Tap), I retired to the gentlemen's room to pass some Velociprocessed Grey Goose. Upon my return I was greeted with a literal pallette of desserts; various puddings and cheesecakes and struesels in double sized shot glasses, set in holes in a black ten-holed pallette.

Now, I figured these were samples. Because there were spoons with it. So I proceeded to taste each one, determined to find the most delectable dessert. When my attentive homosexual waiter returned, he blanched. "You ate all of them!"

"Well, I just tasted them all. Think I'll have the chocolate cheesecake."

"But," he sputtered, "these are the desserts! You were supposed to pick one!"

"No shit?" I said. "Well those are pretty skimpy desserts." I then took my spoon and smoothed over the top of each one. "There," I said. "Now you can re-serve them."

"Never mind," he said as he hurried off with the pallette. "I'll only charge you for one." No shit, I think, because I know he's going to re-serve them. They were all tasty, by the way.

Where was the Bride while all this was going down? Smugly watching me make an ass of myself. It's what she does. Now that I think about it, it's all she does. It's a full time job.

Posted by Velociman at 5:12 PM | Comments (8)


Elisson accuses me of practicing Mongo Santeria. Guilty as charged. And I really like that phrase. Think I'll use it for my next talentless punk band, my former bandmates having legally estopped me from the usage of the name Mucus Plugs.

Posted by Velociman at 4:48 PM | Comments (2)

February 17, 2006


Is near. Dax is having the Antichrist. Well, technically, his bride is. Still, that is a milestone, for sure. A child borned 6/6/6.

Personal note to Dax, hereinafter referred to as Mephistopheles, Arbiter of our Fate:

I was always a good friend, right? Don't make me suffer the Tribulation. I'll sear the Mark of the Beast in hogtied victims, inject unseemly drugs in their veins, if need be. I'll be your Useful Idiot. Just don't make me take the three-splined tapir cock I've been told The Dark Master deploys.

BTW, is there no birth control where you live, dude? Fucking Ada!

Posted by Velociman at 11:47 PM | Comments (7)


Oh. I'm sorry. Lest you think I was discussing my apres dinner, no. I've been nodding to Olympic coverage.

Posted by Velociman at 11:18 PM | Comments (1)


I'll be celebrating my anniversary tonight. Substance abuse issues may keep me from posting until Sunday. And I usually take Sundays off from the blog. And Monday's a holiday.

On another note, I just realized February 7th was my 3 year blog anniversary. I may have to take the whole of next week off to celebrate that one. Three whole years and I haven't killed this bitch yet.

Posted by Velociman at 6:54 PM | Comments (9)

February 16, 2006


I received a crossword puzzle via email from Key today, so maybe somebody was paying attention.

Of course, the gist of the email was to disabuse me of my skill sets. Like Mozart to Salieri, she was saying Not bad for a rookie, but this is how it's done. She was mocking the crude nature of the puzzle spewed out by that cheap, free, autistic software I used. She did hers by hand.

"Well," I replied, "that's a pretty fancy crossword there. How's about you let me write the clues? Being as, you know, you took me to school on making crossword puzzles, maybe I can show you how to write a clue."

Not my finest moment. The reply was terse, but she committed to the endeavor. And so, this:


1. Has an accident with Daddy's car
7. Paunchy, bald actor Reynolds, often whispered to be HIV positive
11. Nice words said only after one dies. Never before
12. Vile mucus your nose manufactures
13. What one should do when standing to urinate
14. Nashville Airport code. No one knows why
16. Herbie from Rudolf The Red Nosed Reindeer is one of these
17. Have sex in the Biblical sense
19. Dastardly, debased
21. That guy over thar
23. 12-______ Program (rehab)
24. Compel; place a burden on; otherwise fuck with
28. She was ________ 13, officer?? No shit??
29. " I had him whacked for 15 ________. Worth every penny of it."
30. School group where parents vent their anger
31. Stool pigeon; squealer
32. Acronym meaning "heads up". Boreasses begin emails with it
34. Join together. This word is not in the Democratic lexicon
36. Initials meaning "step off, bitch." We've all used it
37. Author Ferber no one reads, but a crossword staple
38. Chick with glasses on "WKRP" sitcom. Hotter than Loni, but smaller breasts

1. Pussified; not strong
2. Destroy, annihilate, Afghanistaninate
3. Muppet with tickle fetish
4. Military officer in charge of a base, often alcoholic
5. Old Soviet spy agency; enablers of the Evil Empire
6. 'N _______: talentless boy band we'd all rather forget
7. Undergraduate degree; also, what comes out of a bovine's ass
8. Not exciting, boring. Ref my blogroll
9. Way to spice up your sex life while getting to wear a cop uniform
10. Girly acronym meaning "See you later"
15. ____ poetica (Hey! I work with what I'm given)
18. What helicopter rotors do if they are working properly
20. Over; above. Think missionary position
22. Edie wants one, in a John Waters film. Hint: she's in a playpen
25. Lacking taste, mild. See my blogroll
26. Language of the pagan Roman Empire. It's daid now
27. Finless fish, looka like a snake. Asians eat this shit with relish
31. Regret. What one enjoyed, but hated getting caught at
33. Frigid, knee-locked. See ibid 5th year of marriage
35. Part of 10 Down. Figure it out
36. Fee-___-Fo-Fum! I smell the blood of Elmer Fudd!

Have fun.

UPDATE: The minx outfoxed me! Or the fox outminxed me. Whatever. A Blogger Crossword! Wish I'da thunka that.

Posted by Velociman at 7:12 PM | Comments (5)


Here is the Politically Incorrect crossword puzzle, solved:

Many thanks to Agent Bedhead for inserting some decent lettering.

Of course, most of you people didn't find my clever sabotage of a venerable MSM mainstay with my own political agenda interesting at all. Hell, no. You went right to the titty fucking post. Well, that post was meant to shame you. I hope it did, too, you reprobates.

Posted by Velociman at 6:54 PM | Comments (1)

February 15, 2006


Caught another mutant monkey. This one was in the garage, abusing himself with the wet-dry vac.

Posted by Velociman at 11:22 PM | Comments (9)


I was talking to someone the other day, and he brought this topic up. "Wait a minute," I said. "Have you actually done this, and if so, why?"

My point being at what point does a sexual partner become so cumbersome, so boring, so in need of degradation and humiliation that you have to copulate her cleavage? I mean, what the fuck.

I'll cop to never having done this. I don't think I could have kept a straight face doing it. Or a non-crimsoned one. I certainly could not have looked my partner in the eye. Sexual banter? "Lookee me, baby. I gots my filthy ass on your stomach, and I'm screwing yer titties. I all man, ain't I?"

Maybe I just have an aperture fetish. Maybe I'm just an Orifice Elitist. But for the life of me, I can't see any upside to wasting precious pillow time on such an obviously contumelious pasttime.

And I haven't even mentioned the truly obvious: aren't you supposed to, like, at least pretend to be attempting to get your partner off? Titty fuck her. Yeah, boys. That'll do it fer sure.

But hey. I could be wrong. For all I know I'll get female feedback demanding to know why I've denied such pleasures to my partner. Life's fucked up like that.

Posted by Velociman at 9:01 PM | Comments (62)


This site is pretty cool. Create your own crossword puzzle.

I decided to create the first Politically Incorrect crossword:

Oh, I'm going to have some fun with this fucker. I'll publish the solved puzzle tomorrow, but as it's the first one, I thought I'd keep it simple. Now I just have to figure out how to capture the image without printing and scanning it. Any ideas?

Posted by Velociman at 4:07 PM | Comments (9)

February 14, 2006


We'll call this one the Very Special Hallmark Edition, in light of today being Valentine's Day, and all. I haven't posted a Fisty in a very long time, because the visual was created for me by Anna, and I sorely miss her. She's a wraith. Pops up now and again, but it just never seemed right to put up a Fisty if she wasn't around.

Thar he:

And who is the noble recipient of today's Fisty? Eric the Red. For tagging me, and several of my friends, with not one, but THREE memes. Fat chance, slick.

I don't know. I may actually respond to them. And you know, Eric? I know you are colorblind. You would gladly accept either Fisty in the nether regions. But I plan to give you both. Sort of a Chocolate and Vanilla Extravapalooza. Two for the price of one. Like the Clinton presidency. Only more painful, if that is possible.

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


I never knew I was hanging with such heavyweights. But the heavyweights at National Review Online obviously think so.

NRO is not only a daily read for me, I hit it probably 15 times a day. The elite of conservative writers and thinkers. William F. Buckley was one of my heroes growing up. Even as a snot-nosed brat in the late '60's I knew I was a latent conservative, despite my desire to grow my hair to my nipples and smoke whatever the fuck Dennis Hopper was smoking in Easy Rider. And so I used to watch Buckley on his television debate show Firing Line when I was 10, 11, 12. Admire his urbane, intellectual dismissal of moonbats like Paul Krassner and Allen Ginsburg.

So National Review, which my brother gifted me with years ago, and which I still read voraciously, is gospel in my house, and their online site is superb.

So much for background. Imagine my delight when Kathryn Jean Lopez, K-Lo, in their collective blog The Corner, linked my soul man Denny for last year's posting of the Ten Ways Dick Cheney Can Kill. Unfortunately, I can't find any Corner archives. Never have been able to. Memo to self: write blistering but obsequious e-mail to K-Lo, tell her I needs the damn archives! For many reasons, including a post I think John Derbyshire put up a year or so ago about how when Liberian Charles Taylor pulled a coup d'etat on President Dictator Samuel Doe in 1990 his henchman Prince Johnson not only tortured, mutilated, and killed Doe, he cut off his cock and ate it, to transfer the ju ju to Johnson. Johnson eats Johnson. No shit. And he VIDEOTAPED IT! That is brass balls.

Man, I'm all over the place here.

So, Delight Number Two: NRO ran a symposium today, female writers writing about men they love, male writers writing about women they love. Or admire, you see. Symposiums be rather wide open. And there's Blackfive! That dog! Writing a very nice piece on the fine organization Soldiers' Angels.

There is hope for the humble blogger, even the lowly cur like me, I think. I don't possess Denny or Matty's fine talents, but perhaps a monthly gig for Screw Online. I think Goldstein would like my work. An advice column? If it blista, hope you mista?

At any rate, congrats to Denny and Matt. Hope they Sitemetahs been spinning like a roscoe machine.

Posted by Velociman at 8:03 PM | Comments (2)

February 13, 2006


Today is Monday. That means it is time to Plump the Roll, wherein I shall blogroll someone who has rolled me, in a clinched-jaw effort at being more sociable.

Och! Today we have Deborah at My Little Corner Of The World. Deborah moved up in ranking, so the poster of affirmations I was going to crucify gets a reprieve.

Busy site, this! Everbody having a fucking birthday! From her hubby to Abe Lincoln to Tina! Very exciting. No one tells me when they're having a birthday. Afraid of some off-color prank, I suppose. Though I guess I should know my spouse's birthday, and Lincoln's. One's in August, August the something, and the other's in February, February the something.

Deborah is not only a Fair Taxer, which I admire, she has also put up a most excellent post on the origins of the various types of snowskiing, going back some 6,000 years. In honor of the Turin Olympics. I like that post, as I crave, lust after esoteric knowledge.

I think we should all go over to that post, visit Deborah, say halloo! Be polite. I don't want to see any shitblogging over there. I'm warning you. No crap blogging, do you hear me? I don't want to read about any excrement, or farts in midgets' faces over there. Okay? Good. I believe we are in concurrence, then (!).

Welcome to the blogroll, Deborah. Long may ye waiver.

Posted by Velociman at 8:51 PM | Comments (10)


Today is the one year anniversary of my daughter's wreck. Let us revisit:

Just Damn!

Walked away from that with nasty cuts on her upper arm. That is all. The scars are still visible, but they recede. Now she starts college in four months, and drives like Miss Daisy. She's not gun shy anymore, but she's damned careful.

My younger daughter almost lost a cornea to Pacman amoebae six months before the wreck. That was a crazy year.

Children will put your ticker in hyperdrive. That is a fact. Now, finally, I'm ready to move on.

Posted by Velociman at 8:00 PM | Comments (6)

February 12, 2006


I was going to take the high road. No shameless self promotion. No go VOTE FOR ME.

But Acidman fancies himself the King of Crap, and is whoring hisself, and no doubt voting for hisself, over at Elisson's.

That's cool. That's fine. Rob IS the original crap blogger, by virtue of his I SHIT MY PANTS post. I am a mere dabbler in the dark arts of shitblogging. Although I will aver my Brown Tsunami post is the fucking pinnacle of excrement blogging. But from a quantity standpoint, I don't hold a candle.

So please go vote for Og.

Posted by Velociman at 9:49 PM | Comments (17)


I got a wild hair and made salmon croquettes for dinner. That is honest to God Southern soul food. Nothing fancy there. Pick out the bones and skin, mix with cracker meal, fry in canola. Serve with lavish helpings of grits, and either atherosclerotic corned beef hash, or similarly dangerous crinkle cut fries. I had both.

My family was excited about a new meal until they tasted it. Now, the Bride was raised on croquettes, just like I was, but she cannot abide them now. A good friend told me you smell like what you eat, and that is why so many females won't eat fish. I don't know if that theory holds water, but I can attest that my armpits smell suspiciously of Black Angus and swine, so perhaps it is true.

Back to the croquettes. I don't like the term Comfort Food, because that implies there is Discomfort Food. But come to think of it, a bad Thai meal that has passed its room temperature shelf life definitely falls in the latter category.

Salmon croquettes are what your mama made because she had too many young 'uns, but had enough dignity not to buy jack mackerel.

I thought they were excellent. And because the family immediately went to default mode (Edy's) I was able to gorge myself on the soul food of my youth. Sure am glad my mother never fed me chitlins or tripe. I might be hooked on that shit now. Although I have my dander up now, and will probably come home with a shitload of collard greens tomorrow.

Posted by Velociman at 9:12 PM | Comments (26)


You know how, when you're considering purchasing an animal, you lift their lip and examine their gums for potential health issues? Not as effective as examining their excrement, but decidedly less distasteful.

Ever do that to a prospective date when you were single? I never did, but it crossed my mind a couple of times.

Posted by Velociman at 5:09 PM | Comments (8)


So Dick "Big Swinging" Cheney accidentally shot a 78-year-old man while quail hunting in Texas. Peppered his ass with birdshot. Didn't do much damage, though.

I'm thinking Dick was merely adding a punctuation mark to reauthorization of the Patriot Act. And that he stapled an 8x10 glossy of Hillary to the man's forehead afterward, then jerked off his enormous member. Just thinking.

Posted by Velociman at 4:02 PM | Comments (5)


Yep. My newspaper's ombudsman's column today explained why they will not be running the cartoons of Mohammed (Piss Be Upon Him). They don't want to offend Muslim sensibilities.

Well, I say fuck their sensibilities. There really should be some ground rules, least common denominator type threshold, before you can call something a religion. I could be a paedophile, and get together with three like-minded individuals, and call it a religion. At the most basic level, I would submit that abhorrence of murder should be a ground rule. Not hearing much of that from the Islamic community.

I think these pissants should be outlawed. If you find someone running a secret mosque, hell, stone their asses. They should be able to appreciate that. Find a copy of the Koran? Perform an honor killing. They should be able to appreciate that.

Fucking savages.

Posted by Velociman at 3:35 PM | Comments (4)

February 10, 2006


All newspapers have ombudsmen now, to investigate and mediate complaints. As if to prove to the world that the mainstream media IS truly engaged in providing fair and accurate reporting, and are sensitive to the concerns of their customers.

What a crock of shit. The ombudsmen I read are the most craven corporate shills of all. They have Sycophantic Cocksucker tattooed right on their foreheads.

Oh, sure, they pretend to give on the little things:

We were probably incorrect to publish that letter to the editor calling us cowards for not posting the cartoons of Mohammed. That letter was likely to enflame delicate Musselman sensibilities in the community. And for that we apologize.

Then they throw up a brick wall:

We feel we were well within our rights as good corporate citizens, and purveyors of the sacred truth, to publish the picture of that rape victim having her vagina forensically scraped for evidence. We stand by the fact we must report the unpleasant, and at times the offensive, for to do otherwise would compromise our commitment to First Amendment principles.

Fucking ombudsmen. I just think my job sucks. Can you imagine being the public face of apologia for the MSM? There have always been people doing the same work, but we had a different, less fancy name for them: hoors.

Posted by Velociman at 7:26 PM | Comments (3)


Maybe I was a bit hasty in decrying the updating of classic stories to fit a new paradigm. This treatment of a childhood fable is pretty good.

Posted by Velociman at 6:55 PM | Comments (3)

February 9, 2006


From Rankin Rob, in my comments:

U2 records are like buying a jar of Jiff Peanut butter. You know what to expect. Bono and his mates make very good peanut butter if that's what you like.

Well, no shit! ALL artists create what you expect. That's why you like, or dislike them. No artist has an unlimited pallette. Unless you want to be like Beck, or Zappa, and try to reinvent yourself on every goddam song you write, so you can make yourself, and everyone else, by extension, immediately irrelevant.

And then you become completely inaccessible, because only you get the inside joke, the elitist giggle. No one else even gets you anymore.

Kinda like Velociworld.

Still like that U2 album. And anyone who ever got laid to Beck can still smell the girl's armpits.

That is all.

Posted by Velociman at 10:29 PM | Comments (5)


We all know the story of how Henry Stanley, Civil War veteran and newspaper reporter, was outfitted at the behest of the publisher of the New York Herald to lead an expedition to find famed explorer David Livingstone in Darkest Africa in 1871, said Livingstone having vanished in the bowels of the Dark Continent some 7 years earlier, and presumed dead. I'm sorry. I think we are not allowed to say Dark Continent anymore. It is now known as the Land of a Thousand Mugabes.

At any rate, Stanley led an expedition of 2,000 porters, et al (2,000! That a fuckload of biscuits) into the Heart of Darkness in a seven month search for Livingstone, whom he finally found in the remote village of Ujiji.

So that is an incredible story. Has a film ever been made about that? I don't recall one. That would have made a superlative epic 1957 classic.

If the film were made today, though, I'm sure it would be debauched. Rosie O'Donnell would lead an expedition of Doctors Without Borders into the Ugandan jungle to find the makeshift, thatchpatch AIDS clinic Ann Heche was operating on a shoestring, the hundreds of millions of dollars Chimpy McBushitler had earmarked for AIDS relief having been intentionally diverted by the administration to corrupt warlords so that Halliburton could screw some Hottentots out of their fucking oils.

But all would eventually be right, because Hollywood needs red state disposable income. And so Dr. Ann would be moved by the primordial nature of Africa to renounce her lesbianism, and embrace the man of her dreams.

Hey. Maybe a bit of artistic license. Not what I'd make. But pretty sure I'd drop $9 at the matinee to watch it.

Posted by Velociman at 9:41 PM | Comments (7)


I couldn't look at that damn Brokeback pic anymore. I was getting nauseated.

Posted by Velociman at 6:26 PM | Comments (5)

February 8, 2006


I hear it's a fucking gas to win one. Wouldn't know. What I do know is U2 won album of the year at the Grammys against a field of popular and exciting whores and thugs. And for a piece of work that is astounding in that it is the peak of their game, whatever you rate that game. And a work riven with Catholic, Christian, imagery. Go figure. No Piss Christ, no Islamist beheadings, no bullwhips up the ass to sell this piece of art.

Figure, though: when one puts out their best work at 47 instead of 27 years of age that is pause for consideration, at least in the rock and roll world.

My hat is off to the Irish poseurs. And, yeah, I fucking love that album, my internalized rage at Bono for stealing the Velocivibe notwithstanding.

Posted by Velociman at 11:29 PM | Comments (10)


My slightly akilter sense of humor leaves most people thinking I'm a complete nimrod. When in actuality I am a teddy bear. Ask anyone who knows me. A dangerously under/over medicated teddy bear, with a hand cranked razorcock in his trunk, but technically just that. Hirsute. Malodorous. See?

Take poor Cythen. I'd put her on the blogroll a while back, because she's a faithful and frequent commenter, unlike some I will not name, but you know who you are. The hairs are rising on the nape of your neck as I mutter Moldavian curses under my breath.

Anyway, Cythen didn't realize she'd been on the roll because she was looking for her website name when in fact I'd linked her as Cythen. And apparently my blogroll was as boring to her as an actuarial table.

Anyway, now she's a bit concerned I will yank her pigtails, or somehow degrade her with my rapier cudgel-like wit. Pshaw. I only pick on the females when I have a real sweetgum ball up my ass, which ain't too often. Though it has been known to happen. I prefer the sharp crack of the verbal towel in the cyber locker room. I like to make big boys cry in shame. Something obviously fucked up in my gender-molding youth.

Rest easy, Cythen. The Big Bad Velociboogieman isn't coming after you. Hell, you're my first official blogchild, especially since Acidman didn't claim paternity when we were bandied about as donors. And this is the first time anyone has ever claimed to have started blogging because of me. 76 have quit, but that is an honorific I don't play up too much.

Posted by Velociman at 8:25 PM | Comments (12)

February 7, 2006


Bonding is in the air. The glorious day approacheth, and I am all steamed up.

Valentine's Day? NO! Now is the time I was hoping Rankin' Rob would call me, and tell me he has sweet-assed tickets to the Daytona 500. Then he would crash at the Velocihovel the night before, we would swap war stories, engage in spree drinking, and attend the Big Race. Then relive the Race in all its glory for the benefit of my couldn't care less family the next day. That's what swinging dicks do.

I know you have tickets, Rob. You are a personality. A celebrity. AND a grifter. Liquor and strippers are on me. I'll buy you a tattoo! Everyone needs Sterling Marlin's number emblazoned upon the back of their skull.

Hey: they're just family! They'll be there when you get back! Time to step up to the plate, swamee.

Posted by Velociman at 9:22 PM | Comments (15)


Just because. As I was scrolling through The Corner at National Review Online, seeking scholarly, erudite enlightenment, those chumbuckets linked to something I had forgotten for years. Something I had hoped to never hear again. The Bastard Offspring of All Brainworms. Mahna Mahna. Share my pain!

UPDATE: Serendipity, Ye are Legend. When my daughter arrived home from work at Walgreen's I played the link for her, to see if it registered. "Velocidad," she said, "we have fuzzy animals with antennae at work that play this song! I get four or five going at once."

"Really?" said I, draining my goblet. Then, unfortunately, I went into Sean Connery mode. "Fetch me one of these creatures, Moneypenny, so that I may take it the next blogmeet. It appears more egregious than a cymbal-banging monkay... I shall insert the Brain Worm in their heads. And then I shall conduct missile drills!"

"Cool, old man. Whatever." Not bad for a song from a 30-year-old Muppets episode, I thought. Still gots traction.

Posted by Velociman at 8:02 PM | Comments (15)

February 6, 2006


For those of you not familiar with Pecari tajacu here is a picture of one:

And here is a picture of one trying to approximate the circumference of Girth Vader:

Would that his jaw could unhinge, and give a more accurate representation.

Posted by Velociman at 11:49 PM | Comments (7)


I used the Draw a Pig software to draw my own image of Mohammed, lest I be ungraced by a fatwah. Please understand that although the forbidden alcohol was involved, and I was sucking on pig remnants at the time, the real culprit here is a sticky mouse. It don't flow. I'm a much better artist than this crude facsimile.

I gave him goat eyes. Do you like the goat eyes?

Posted by Velociman at 9:10 PM | Comments (7)


I'm an antisocial bastid. Nay, an asocial one. I don't link other bloggers much, and my blogroll is a withered mess. But I'm trying to be more user friendly (meaning if you are friendly to me I'll likely use you) and so I decided to add some critters to the blogroll.

Being asocial, I only visit the Ecosystem about twice a year, and that's just to see how far I've fallen. A perverse pleasure, that. Today, for the first time in probably two years, I actually looked at the people who link me. That's odd. I don't know a lot of those blogs. But it's nice to be considered roll worthy, so I decided to step out of character and be a nice guy for a change.

I think I'll start a weekly thing where I link one of these blogs I was unaware of, and offer pithy and piquant commentary on their websites. If they're good, hey. Great. If they blow, well, I'll do my best to detail exactly why I think they blow. Peccaries may be involved.

Of course, that's not precisely nice guy, is it? I knew I couldn't pull this off. Ach. Well. Here we go anyway. And I'll link these blogs by their respective Ecosystem rankings, so by the time I get to about number 6,000 in the food chain things could get pretty interesting.

First up is a bit of a letdown in the Velociman is a Shitheel department, because I actually like this guy, so no unsubstantiated arrogance on my part this go 'round.

SlagleRock's Slaughterhouse. Milblogger. Memorializes fallen comrades. Noble stuff. I realize some of you are quite familiar with him. I confess I was not. But I don't get around much. Welcome to the ghetto, SlagleRock. And I will understand if you demand I remove the link.

See? This has been a positive and uplifting thing. Wait till next week, though. Some chick who posts prayers and platitudes. Affirmations. I'm going to fucking crucify her ass.

Posted by Velociman at 7:36 PM | Comments (7)

February 5, 2006


Like a Chesterfield cigarette. Catfish's Saturday post:


Yes I did, it was short and sweet. Even though Jason was in the next room, we still got it on. Before we staterted fucking, I got the duct tape out, I put two layers over her mouth, just to make sure she would not hollow or scream, it worked. We both could not sleep last night, so we just fucked ourselfves to sleep, it worked, woke up this morning and feel like shit, I must have used muscles that I have not used in weeks? My friend Chuck is coming down for food and drinks with a little gun shotting throwed in. We will watch the super bowl tomorrow and eat smoked pork shoulder. Man what a life, have a great weekend and be safe, Cat

HA HA HA!!! That's what I'm talking about. And I'm all about the hollow. I should drive up to Cat's and watch the Super Bowl. He's the Man.

Posted by Velociman at 4:55 PM | Comments (12)


The featured blog on Technorati today was some place called Cruising for Dicks. Looked to be a forum for barebacking, gloryholing, reacharounds, and other assorted methods of anonymous brutish man-on-man fucking action. And when I tried to visit a few unrelated blogs I couldn't. Goddam server was jammed.

What, I ask, is this world coming to? Or coming on? I'm guessing that featured blog thing is a random ping, a cyber reacharound. Not sure Cruising for Dicks was exactly what they were trying to highlight. Just a guess.

Posted by Velociman at 4:30 PM | Comments (1)

February 4, 2006


That is the case I want to be the first case Samuel Alito hears on the Supreme Court. Invariably, when I am presumptious enough to inquire, women tell me they wad their toilet paper when scraping off, as opposed to folding it. Are you kidding me???

Wadding seems a very messy enterprise. Count me out. Of course, they probably have clean break offs, being females. I have malingerers, detritus. I need folding. It's an engineering thing, I guess. It's all about the coefficient of friction. Eight squares, perfectly folded. Twicet at times, thricet at times.

Wadding. Jumping Jesus. That's just not efficient. Justice Alito: your opinion, sir? And don't listen to any of that swing vote bullshit, either, please.

Posted by Velociman at 8:49 PM | Comments (35)


I felt an irrational need today to find my baby Krugerrands, and fondle them. Official outlawed currency of apartheid South Africa. And yet how can one not covet, and love, gold coins with antelopes on them? I should put a couple of the babies (1/10th ounce) in some penny loafers. I could be the AntiBono.

So I was rummaging through an ancient purple Crown Royal bag, fingers itching to fondle bullion, when I ran across a tiny piece of paper with a dolphin stamped on it.

Holy shit. This thing may date from the Carter presidency, I surmise. No idea of the half-life of hallucinogens. But I did some quick calculations, realized I didn't have to be anywhere for 36 hours, and my family has essentially zero expectations of me lately, and popped the bitch.

I am Curious George now. I doubt this antediluvian dose has any mule left in it, but I downloaded some music, just in case.

And thank Sweet Jesus it wasn't a dancing bear. Never could handle the dancing bears. Posting may be sporadic, absent, or totally incoherent.

UPDATE: Found the babies! And do they feel fucking sweet. Flatline on El Cid, though. Think I just had paper for dinner.

UPDATE ON THE UPDATE: Nothing. Remember that scene from Rudolph, where Yukon Cornelius tosses his pick, then sniffs it, and says "NOTHIN'"! After he's licked it? Kinda like that. Silver and Gold.

Posted by Velociman at 6:43 PM | Comments (6)


I took the familial units, GLTB, Mystikal One, and Satiric Lass, up to Gilmer County this Friday, a mere stone's throw from Atlantabama, for what we at the 'gogue call flavavel, or the Day of Kosher Pork. The locals were having a barbecue contest, you see, and we were eager to participate as it coincided with our day of flavavel. Pig. Yum!

Here was the menu, and I helped prepare it:

JADE MOUNTAIN Syrah Mount Veeder Paras Vineyard 2002. A very nice breakfast wine, if one is wearing the proper fedora.

Braised Lamb Tomato-Thyme Risotto, properly sacrificed, of course.

Potatoes from Groton. Although I'm not sure why Connecticut potatoes are that special.

Sogliola alla fiorentina. I don't speak Italian, but I'm told it is a fish entree made from something found floating in a Florentine sewer. Very delectable!

Vacqueyras Clos Montirius 2003. A fantastic lunchtime wine. Loamy, yet accessible. Four stars!

KFC coleslaw. The master chefs attempt to replicate it, but eventually throw their hands in the air in despair. It simply cannot be replicated.

Did I mention this is also the week of schlavivel? A week of atonement. Alcohol is allowed.

Tons o' pork. Pulled, sliced, sauteed in Famous Ellijay Apple Brandy. My friends are jealous. No flavavel for them!

For dessert? Cheesecake with currant jelly, lightly dusted with crushed cockroach.

We listened to my favorite, yet random, music, courtesy of my iPod. A hint:

Well I woke up this morning
With the cold water
With the cold water
With the cold water
Woke up this morning
With the cold water
With the cold water
With the cold

Speaks to me. Does it speak to you?

A truly delightful Friday. Now I must go online, and apologize to my friends, who I have so grievously offended. Mazel tov!

UPDATE: Oops! Make that GLBT. My Hierarchy of Queerdom is a little rusty.

Posted by Velociman at 12:12 AM | Comments (13)

February 3, 2006


I'm figuring about 1,200 Muslims drownded in that ferry sinking in the Red Sea. Returning from that psychotic circle jerk known as the Hajj. I love a vengeful God. Why I believe in Him.

Of course, if my personal blasphemies should ever make His morning security briefing, I might be screwed, too. Until then, I shall wallow in the fact that there are 1.1 billion minus 1,200 Islamotards on the planet. Fucking cult.

Allahu Akbar!

Posted by Velociman at 11:22 PM | Comments (6)


Now, I'll be the first person to admit I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer. But I will also aver that knives were made to puncture soft underaged flesh. And so, a really sharp knife could actually detract from the pleasure of the pursuit, eh what? A little resistance could be a good thing. And I mention this from a purely theoretical standpoint. In fact, I actually majored in the study of the criminal mind. That makes me a Professional. I can talk up vivisection with utter abandon, and sip merlot and smoke Cohibas whilst doing so. Take that.

I'm rambling again, like a rat in a maze. Where's that fucking cocaine pellet?

So anyhoo, I've been hearing the word Emo bandied about for the longest time. Being a male, and genetically hardwired to refuse to acknowledge ignorance, I've merely nodded knowingly upon its usage, and pondered what the hell I didn't get. Who, or what the hell was Emo? That guy who produced the Talking Heads albums? That accursed Muppet with the tickle kink? I was flummoxed, as I'd given up on keeping pace with vernacular around the time Fukingruven passed its shelf life.

So I finally broke down (I did NOT broke back, vile rumors notwithstanding) and asked my eldest. Emotional, she said, as if I'd asked her what a nipple was. Rolled her eyes, too, knowing I wouldn't slap her silly. Want to piss me off? Roll them damn eyes.

Well, shit, thinks I. I know Emo. Go watch the fistfuck scene in Blue Velvet. There's Emo for you, in spades. Watch Caligula thrust his ring-blinged arm up his praetorian's ass. More Emo.

I got Emo. For me personally it is curling up and whimpering after a particularly exhausting sexual encounter (I did NOT broke back!). Setting up a stuffed shirt at work for failure, and relishing his flame out? A distant second in my Emoworld. Third place is watching lesser creatures copulate.

What emotivates you?? The filthier, the more lurid, the more I grimace in disgust, the better. But of course, you already knows the rules.

Posted by Velociman at 9:52 PM | Comments (11)

February 2, 2006


I've been watching the Weather Channel, as we climate junkies do, and apparently I'm about to get slammed by the Mother of All Storms. I say bring it on. An excellent reason to play hooky tomorrow.

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


For those of you Gen X, Y, Z, and VD'ers, a Silver Certificate was a dollar bill issued by the gummint that was backed by a dollar of actual silver bullion. They were first issued in 1873 to indicate that bill was backed by silver, and not gold, like other bills.

Around 1963 the gummint decided not to back currency with bullion of any sort any more. Look at the top of a bill. It doesn't say Silver Certificate. It says Federal Reserve Note. Meaning it is backed by the full faith and credit of the United States Government. Essentially, by the cobwebbed innards of that empty Social Security lockbox. Trust us, Uncle Sam said. We're better than bullion.

Now, the Senator being a complex mixture of brilliant jurist and tin foil hat John Bircher, he hated those Federal Reserve Notes when they first came out. He thought they were as valuable as Confederate scrip. And so he would collect all his currencies, and fish out the Reserve Notes, because Silver Certificates were amazingly durable, and were still in circulation in the late '60's. Then he would go to the bank, and demand they redeem the Reserve Notes for Silver Certificates. He was convinced that he might need to take those bills, as some folks did, and demand his $1 in silver, which you could actually do.

That may seem arcane, and laughable, and archaic now, but at the time it wasn't. When after almost 200 years your government decides to forgo backing its currency with bullion a year after the Cuban Missile Crisis, pay attention.

I'm also convinced the Senator buried tens of thousands of dollars in Silver Certificates somewhere on the farm, but never told us because he couldn't remember where he buried them after he sobered up. I think this because the hoard vanished around 1969, and were never spoken of again. Of course, he may have spent them on suspect pursuits, and fancy automobiles. Some fucking sort of specie was certainly lavished in that direction.

Anyway, although they are long disintegrated, I still of habit look at the top of dollar bills, seeking the elusive Silver Certificate.

Posted by Velociman at 9:44 PM | Comments (11)


Regular readers know how my thin-skinned ass hates to be mocked. Not that I'm overly sensitive, it's just that when I am mocked it belies the fiction I have studiously created that I am Untouchable. And yet Elisson, my erstwhile friend, has mocked me. And other bloggers.

Well, perhaps mocked is a rather strong term. He gave us a treatment. And we should be flattered to be vanitized by his evil pixelated fingers.

Rather tough slogging to know one is so predictable, though. Now, Eric and Rob, yeah. I can see that. But me??

Posted by Velociman at 8:41 PM | Comments (7)


Green is the color of envy. And I know my Intrepids will be envious of me now. That's why you're seeing green. Either that or you're having a myocardial infarction. Better chew an aspirin, just in case.

I received the above in the mail today from Eric. American Sideshow. A lavish compendium of sideshow freaks. Rawk. Eric knows my fetish for the freakish, the deformed, the pitiful genetic misfire, the hideously malfigured. Hell, anyone who reads this blog knows that. It is one of the few ways I am able to remind myself of my innate superiority.

Although I've often wondered about the size of the Elephant Man's schvance. Just from a technical, glance at the guy at the urinal next to you sort of way, of course.

Actually, I was brokebacked of that habit a few years ago, when, as I was copping a wizz at the corporate porcelain, a shadow fell across the bathroom. Hell, thinks I. How can you have a solar eclipse in the shitter? But, as I glanced over, it turned out a coworker had a cock that would put a tapir to shame. That guy was fucking deformed. He could put that thing in a girl and barely touch her nipples with his fingertips. Damned freak. I'm surprised he isn't in this book as Ellroy the Tapir Cocked Halfbreed. I've hated that bastard ever since.

Anyway, I have great friends from blogworld. I don't deserve them. The bad thing is, though, they deserve me. I think they were evildoers in a previous life, and must suffer penance in this life through association with me.

Suck it up, peeps. Suck it up. I'm not going anywhere.

Posted by Velociman at 8:01 PM | Comments (4)

February 1, 2006


Dead On Arrival. We brought him in, workda his ass, but he was daid!

I love that term, and I love a good acronym, iffen that what they are called. I forget the proper Anglais. Some more I like?




I am stupid and lazy. I need a get rich quick scheme. You know a good acronym? Let me know. I'm thinking there is a book there. Nothing serious. Something to read on the shitter.

Of course, I could submit the thing, and it would be DOA. Publisher might even tell me to STFU.

Risk, reward.

Posted by Velociman at 11:33 PM | Comments (31)