I was really excited to see that Charles Taylor had been arrested last week in Nigeria, for attempting to flee to Cameroon. From his semi-safe haven. Not that that means anything to you, but it does to me. Charles Taylor is a war criminal, you see.
Backup: Liberia. The nation founded on the African continent to harbor ex-slaves. Capital? Monrovia. Sweet. Named after James Monroe. At any rate a nation succumbed to greed and avarice, as most are wont to do. Enter Samuel Doe. Sergeant Sambo pulled off a coup in 1980, murdering president William Tolbert, and seizing power. Then, some years later, ex-buddy Charles Taylor decided Sam must go. And so he empowered his psychotic minion Prince Johnson to pull off the coup.
Prince went a little too crazy though, and videotaped the torture/murder of Doe, including Prince swallowing the severed penis of Doe, then serving up lesser organs to his peeps. All about the ju ju, right?
So Taylor and Johnson had a bit of a falling out, but Taylor became dictator, until a few years ago, when he was forced to flee.
Now he is forced to stand trial. Ain't it all wonderful? But where is Prince? Inquiring minds want to know. This stuff fascinates me.
What the fuck is it with losers these days, that they must attempt to cram their bullshit down our throats?
Take The Pledge. Everyone has a pledge they want you to sign online, as if that will make The World A Better Place.
If you go here you can sign a pledge that says you are in accordance with the Department of Human Rights in the city of St. Paul, Minnesota that Prejudice Isn't Welcome!
If you go here you can take a pledge that you will do my part to save energy and help protect our environment by changing a light in my home to an ENERGY STAR qualified one!
If you go here you can take a pledge to never commit, condone, or remain silent about domestic violence!
If you go here you can promise to drive safely, courteously and defensively at all times, and wear my Highways or Dieways lapel pin one or more days per week as a symbol of my personal commitment to safer roads in South Carolina!.
(Key Monroe got me started on this issue when she emailed this gay-assed link in the first place).
The list goes on. I will not bore you with it. What the fuck have we become, that people think idiots will actually go online and sign these things, and then feel good about themselves? And do people actually do it? This is the most gay, fucked up thing I've ever seen.
But, then, maybe I'll put up a Pledge:
I promise to be kind to Velociman, to stroke his ego when necessary, to provide sexual favours as required, or if a man to pay for said services, and in all respects treat him as the marginal deity his inflamed brain presumes himself to be.
Yes. Sweet. Take The Pledge! Don't you feel better about yourself now? And drive safely in South Carolina, goddamit.
Everyone is peachy about the release of freelance reporter Jill Carroll from terrorist hands in Iraq. Ain't it glorious. And Jill herself, ex-Ann Arbor, ex-UMass, daddy lives in Chapel Hill (where is the Berkeley connection, bitch? Git with it!) is positively pissing herself over the wonderful treatment her kidnappers gave her:
Carroll entered the Iraqi Islamic Party offices in western Baghdad around midday Thursday and handed office personnel a letter, thought to be from her kidnappers, asking for help, a party official said.
Shortly afterward, Carroll told Baghdad Television -- which the Sunni party owns -- that she was "treated very well" while being held captive.
"They never said they would hit me. They never threatened me in any way," she told an interviewer.
Wearing glasses and a hijab scarf, she said, "They allowed me once to see TV. They also allowed me once to read the paper, but it wasn't enough to know what's going on in the outside world."
Existential Angst and Ennui? I got 'em, in spades.
I put on the Red Helmet with the flashy Pimp-Feather, but it does not satisfy.
I rant about Castro and the Nouvelle-Taliban, but my soul is as hard and shrivelled as a peach-pit.
The steamroller is in the garage, cobwebbed. No gas in the tank. I cannot take it out on the public thoroughfare, there to squash random slow-moving toddlers and puppies, and that grieves me sorely.
The Monkey-Horde trembles and shrieks when I approach. Perhaps they remember my last visit, when I unleashed the Steam-Hose upon them. Deserved it, the bastards did. One of the chimps had caught me unawares with a corn-studded log betwixt the shoulder blades; therefore, I punished the whole hairy lot of 'em. The Legislator would have approved.
My mood is foul, vengeful. An evil must be unleashed upon the world. Something so heinous, so unsufferable, that decent men everywhere will heap calumny upon my name unto the third and fourth generations. They will salt the ground where my shadow fell.
I hate the damnable Castro regime. And so I get dragged back into blogging. By Caltechgirl. A total keeper.
One Abdul Rahman is imprisoned in Afghanistan, under sentence of death for converting to Christianity. Hell's Fucking Bells. Is this what we shed sacred blood for? For a kindler, gentler Taliban, who would execute a man for apostasy while allowing a woman to turn an ankle in public? Bush says he is "deeply troubled". Karzai dithers. Our State Department wrings its hands.
Fucking bullshit. We have several thousand soldiers and Marines in Afghanistan. We should march upon the prison and free Mr. Rahman. Shoot anyone who resists. Then we should take the judge who has sworn to have Mr. Rahman beheaded to the center of that infamous soccer stadium in Kabul and shoot him in the back of his warped fucking head. Then shred the Sharia constitution we allowed these fuckwads to adopt, and force the constitution we gave the Japanese up their miserable asses.
Then shoot a few clerics, to bring home the point. We expect a little tolerance, and gratitude, you mother fuckers.
For your delectation and amusement, I present herewith a Composite Portrait of some old friends.
They have been well behaved of late. Mostly. Except the big one on the lower right will, on occasion, lob a Feces-Chunk the size of a Volkswagen Beetle. Scatters the Wal-Marters like so many ten-pins.
I could put a stop to it with a simple adjustment to his medicaments, but I choose not to, in view of the amusement it affords me.
Sometimes, when the Muse o' Inspiration is off sucking on an exhaust pipe somewhere, I find it helpful to visit the site of the Great Unfiltered One his ownself, the estimable Catfish. Looky:
Back when I was married to my first wife, Nancy, we moved into a nice house on the southside of town. We had two great friends and neighbors next to us. Bumpy and Linda were very close to us. We shared a lot of things and went everywhere as a group. Bumpy and me use to go out drinking and golf while the girls went shopping and to movies. They were very good people. After knowing them for about three years, one night we were drinking black jack and getting pretty damn drunk. Bumpy told me that he wanted to fuck my wife, I then turned to him and said that I was thinking the same thing about Linda. We kept on drinking and talking, the next thing we were outside fist fighting each other. It was a bad fight, both of us had bloody noses and cuts all over out body. The girls came out and broke us up a few times and then we started fighting again. We both pasted out on the grass and when we wore the next morning, both of us could hardly move, he had blood all over his face and his hands were all cut up. He told me that I got the better part of him. The girls washed us up and asked what ever made us fight? We did not tell them. I think he wanted to screw my wife, but I was just teasing him about Linda. We stayed friends for about another six months and then I purchased a new home about three miles away. We lost our friends and I never missed them after that. Pussy can drive a man crazy, if you let it, CatI've taken the liberty of quoting this gentle little piece in its entirety, but you should, of course, read the original with that honkin' beautiful Feeyish looking down upon you from the masthead.
What I love about this post is not just the story itself - although a classic of the Drunken Fistfight genre - but the title, a title only Catfish would lay on it with a perfectly straight face.
"A Funny Story."
And yas, yas, indeed it is. Fuckin' hilarious...
Because Bug-Eyed Guy just ain't doing it for me any more.
Here are a few:
What say, Intrepids? Or is that Red-Hatted Muthafucka more to y'all's taste?
No, Intrepids, the Velociwastrel is not dead; neither is he defunct or moribund.
He is not singing with the Choir Eternal. He has not shuffled off this Mortal Coil.
He is not an Ex-Velociman.
He has merely been gathering material for his forthcoming Magnum Opus: The Great Southern-Fried American Novel.
It will be an epic such as the publishing world - nay, the world at large! - has never seen. It will be a story told as only a Velociraconteur could tell it, packed with adventure, pathos, bathos, pestilence, purulence, sediment, sentiment, excrement, and Post-Prandial Halitosis. It will also have many Big Words.
The Novel - as yet untitled - will feature vignettes from Velociman's unassuming youth, his prepossessing puberty, his acne-ridden adolescence, leading to his taking on the mantle of Full-Fledged Adulthood in all of its perverse glory.
A rich panoply of characters awaits you in the pages of the Novel. There is the paterfamilias, that most recondite Legislator. There is Jack Squat, the Adoring Sibling. And let us not give short shrift to Pastor McPostern, who could scare the Debbil out of Chatham County with a single whack of the Testament!
There will be the requisite Puke Scene.
There will be Hot-Tubbing.
There will be Sternutation, followed by Explosive Diarrhea.
And if y'all peeps can stay with it, there may even be a little Fancy Fuckin'.
Meanwhile, fear not. The Monkey-Horde has been fed, watered, and hosed down with a 10-percentum solution of isopropanol, the better to restrain their Feces-Flinging Tendencies. And the Veloci-Dude will be back to grace these fine electroni-pages.
And so, as these annual off-site meetings are wont to do, I was forced to engage in a break-out session today, despite the fact that I was feeling a bit peaked due to the fact I'd rassled the Grey Goose the night afore with my homeys, and only gotten 5 hours sleep. But that's just a cost of doing business, and so I was there in the corporeal sense, if not in spirit.
The mission was to find new ways to advertise our services, non-traditional ways. Now, since I consider any mission that is not about feeding me, fucking me, or fluffing my pillow to by definition involve Mission Creep I was less than enthusiastic.
I played the game though. And since it was your classic brainstorming session there were NO BAD IDEAS. Some good ideas came out. Television, which my industry normally eschews, radio, billboards, hell, these folks were really thinking outside the box. So at my turn I suggested planes flying over the beach trailing banners, and blimps. Blimps! And these idiots hallooed a bit, and added it to the flipchart! Fuck, thinks I. And so the next time around I suggested coasters with our website in titty bars. That one didn't make the flipchart, and in fact I was excoriated by the females in the room. Pussies.
Well, at some point internet ads came up, and the facilitator said What about blogs? I don't know anything about them, but they're supposed to be the hot thing. Whaddaya think?
At this point I roused from my torpor, opened my slitted eyelids, and said Hell, I knows about blogs! I know some sweet blogs with high traffic. Get us lotta eyeballs, they, if the price be right.
And so, yes. They put it on the flipchart, and the marketing budget can handle it. And evil thing I am, I just might, in the near future, be hosting a banner ad from mine own organization, and getting paid for it, and those cretins won't even realize that the company this Velocifucker bashes on a regular basis is, in fact, theyselves!
Now that is Irony with a hard-on I. Of a sudden, I've begun to take interest in my job again. Fucking Ada!
Gracious reader Amy sent me her cocoanut monkey, although how she could bear to part with it is beyond me:
I like his hat. I think I'll paint it red. So far he's getting along with Robbie the cymbal banger, so we'll keep our fingers crossed. His most endearing trait? He Speaketh No Evil.
I've named him Esteban, but he will answer to Stephen. And he is in the tribe.
Spree drinking with my friends. The out-of-towners. Vomit was involved. And yet, somehow, it was sexy. I'll have to elaborate on that point tomorrow.
R. The Fucking I. P. Daid of a stroke at 45. I always loved Kirby. He was the Willie Mays of his generation in that he brought such bouyant enthusiasm to the game, with great skills. Not Willie's skills, but still.
It was almost tolerable losing the 1991 World Series to those faggie Homer Hankies in Minnesota, because Kirby brought such aplomb to the game. And it was such a hard fought battle, that that Game 7 was for the ages.
And I felt for Kirby when glaucoma benched him. Lost the sight in one eye. Was dismayed when the wife beating sitcheeashun came out. But hey. She probably wouldn't listen, right?
At least we know Kirby wasn't a steroid freak, the chubby bastard. No ripped and cut there, huh? But I'll miss him.
That's as kind and benevolent as an obit I've ever posted. And with my generation reaching said demographic, I should probably hone those skills a bit more.
A drink to Kirby.
I haven't been online. Traveling, work. Don't know if anyone saw this, and I don't see anything at Snopes.com to see if it's true. But fucking OW!
This guy apparently got caught in the sack with the housekeeper, so his wife gave him a haircut with what the email called a wood axe, but it looks like a maddock to me. He survived. They always do.
Hell, even if it's Photoshopped, I don't care. It rocks.
I remember playing Hot Potato as a child. Whatever the object was, it was tossed from hand to hand. Too hot to handle.
And so it was tonight, when Zonker called me from Christina's. That cell phone was a fucking Hot Potato. Sadie! Talk to Vman! Xtina! Talk to Vman! Dash! Talk to Vman!
I'm figuring by the time I'd boreassed Dash to death with my learned disposition on LBJ, and San Marco, and other things he knew far more intimately than I ever will know, the others were pointing at him. Laughing.
That's okay. They are a killah group of people. I'm jealous I'm not there with them. They? Mopping their brows in thanks. THAT, Intrepids, is a crew. Of beautiful people.
Post Scriptum: this is really as nice as I get. Wallow in it.
I finally found a new look for the sidebar. After my partner in crime Cythen confirmed my suspicions that Dax's machismo posturings were merely a symptom of his obvious Queerness. And I'm really sorry I had to drag Recondo 32 into this mess.
Set that on fire, dude. Just Damn!
I hate Vietnam movies. Except for The Deer Hunter. Why? Because they always talk about this enemy, or that objective, or, most likely, my next beer call, being a click away! Or two clicks.
Now, fuck this bullshit. What is a click, anyway? I'm assuming it was Namspeak for a kilometer. But I'd never know, for sure, because I only hear this term when gay Hollywood screenwiters use it. And they use it because some homeless vet they milked for info for a sixpack used it.
Not being a smartass here. I really don't know. I'm sure some of my veteran friends can enlighten me.
Please, sir. May I have another? What the fuck is a click?
It seems Dax is moving this weekend unto a brand new cardboard box, and has asked a few reprobates, including your humble correspondent, to mind the store. Now, Dax is wily. Pretends to have a bad back while he makes his pregnant wife move an entire household, but, hey. Not my problem.
What IS my problem is I have keys to the site of the man who made me the Brokeback Blogger, and I don't own Photoshop. So someone either needs to feed me pirated software, which of course would be illegal and immoral, not to mention hard work for me, or to use their coveted software and licensing agreement to work my will upon this monument to hubris.
I've been trying to carve out a little niche in the blogworld, some area I can find my little place in the sun. But every time I try one, and throw out a few samples, the Experts ride into town like gunslingers, and co-opt the damned enterprise. And so I cast about for something unique, differentiated. Well, hell, not even that. Something so incredibly boring and vapid that people would look at it, turn to the side and spit, and think "Man, you can run with that one."
Now, the vapid is not as easy to find as one might think. But after some strenuous alpha wave activity I came up with! Colander Blogging.
Lookit: my first post:
Wow! That there is a 1947 Wearever aluminum colander. Don't leave! There is a story behind this particular piece of metal.
When my parents were first married they set up house in Albany, Georgia, where the Not Yet Senator was opening a branch office of my grandfather's business. 1947. Life was tough, postwar, pennies were tight. But young couples are bouyed with optimism, the Nazi Huns had been smashed, and one could smell the sweet smell of an affordable Chevrolet in the air, if one worked their righteous knuckles to the bone. My father made $30 a week, and was damned glad to get it.
Not long after they were ensconced in Albany my mother went shopping. For basic staples, and a piece of cookware. She needed a colander. Now, my mom was notorious for frugality. In later years she fed a family of seven for three shiny nickels a day, I think. But on this trip something happened. Somewhere, somehow, she ran across this colander. A fancy aluminum Wearever. Price tag? $30. There was some money in the bank account, presumably start-up funds for the new business enterprise. My mother bought that colander. An entire week's worth of pay on a frivolity, basically.
Legend has it my father went ballistic, and who could blame him? That would be the equivalent of the Bride walking in tomorrow and informing me she'd spent 2 grand on a saucepan. But I think the legend was hyperbole. After my mother passed away my sister found, and shared with me, love notes my father had written my mother a few years later, when he was a JAG officer in Tokyo during the Korean War. He was quite smitten with her. Kind, attentive, loving. A painfully obvious True Love affair. I'm sure he was angry at the time, but I can't see it as that big of a deal. I think my mother told me the story when I was in my twenties because she still felt remorse, and shame, for such an uncharacteristic act on her part.
I will say, though, that we ate a lot of spaghetti growing up, it filling many bellies quite cheaply, and that colander was deployed a lot. But for the life of me I can never remember my father ever, ever eating spaghetti. When we had it, he would pull a steak from the freezer, and pan fry it, and eat in solitude. Just a recollection.
I have several colanders, but this is my favorite. I always use it, and every time I do I feel like that was probably the best $30 ever spent on anything, ever.
And so, the gauntlet is thrown.
Colander Blogging. Are you fucking man enough?
Somewhere, in the dark, shadowed crevasses of my being, a nice guy lives. He was a Boy Scout. Walked enfeebled old gentlewomen across the street, carried their grocery bags with every manner of fiber, roughage, and muesli up those three echoing flights. Volunteered for paint chipping, pillow fluffing, baseboard scrubbing. Writer of essays for the Daughters of the Confederacy, not for the $10 prize, but for the tears the ancient ladies let at my inspired paeans to Alexander Stephens, my youthful invoking of the Marshes of Glynn in homage to Sidney Lanier. Player of trumpets, so to make my mother proud in parades, reluctant engager of 4-H club summer camps, despite my deathly fear of beef tongue.
I was a Good Boy. A Son of the South. High Expectations.
What happened? It is perhaps more demographic than dispositive. The Sixties. Anger. Rebellion. The fact is the Greatest Generation was unprepared to unleash lethal hell on their spoilt offspring, and I, for one, took the advantage, having been a prebuscent channeler of Sun Tzu. But to do such at 11? Ach, no. At 14, yes. I did. Due to debilitating illness to the Senator. From crew cut to flat top to Caesar bangs to a bit of a part on the side to don't let it touch your ears to down my back. I cannot believe how shallow and vapid boys were in the '60's, and early '70's. Able young men eschewing military service because of their hair. How fucking vain! But that hair was somehow important. Now that hair is all falled out, and the selfsame shave their heads lest people know they are balding. Me? A Filipino barber shorn me like a sheep in 1974. I was just turned 17. I honestly didn't miss that hair. I missed the girls it drew, though. Which shows how shallow the distaff side of the equation was, too.
Glower. Boomers glowered a lot. Where's mine? A dark unhealthy coveting, a distasteful sense of entitlement. I stand accused. I was raised to think the world was my oyster. But who had my fucking oyster? Glower.
A rapprochement in later years. Parents old. Not that old, but you've broken them. They look old. We did that to them. Wore them the hell out. They never complained. I suppose they should have. Should have lined our entitled asses up and shot us. Should have lined me up, anyway, up against the wall for a nice Czarist shooting. I could have been the hemophiliac Alexis. Except for the part where Rasputin fondled me in his ministrations.
80 degrees today. Beautiful. All the more reason for alarum. I believe my Gen took the baton, and sold it off for filthy lucre, and expediency. You Gen X, Y, Z, D, and VD'ers scoff. I think, though, you'd have done the same. One gets one shot. Human Nature insists we debase that opportunity.
Here's a pedestrian post for you. One of those boring-assed, quotidian posts about a slice-of-life event you could give a popcorned fart about.
But it starched my ass, so let me see if I can at least make it mildly entertaining. So there is your Fair Warning. If you don't want to read it, fine. I'm sure there's a damn kitty pic up somewhere you can flog the bishop to.
So I fired my dry cleaners about three years ago. Nice place, had the very sweet covered drive thru, which as a lazy bastard repulsed by rain I am attracted to. Run by Greeks. But they kept screwing up my orders. Usually concerning the amount of starch in my shirts. Greco shits. I hate starch. I think I'm allergic to it. Back in the day when we had to wear suits to work I'd get a nasty breakout ring around my neck. So: to be upfront: starch sucks.
But it is a necessary evil, if one wants to look at least semi-crisp by midafternoon, especially in the sweltering south.
But these screwheads never put any starch in my shirts. I'd put on a fresh shirt, and it looked like I'd slept in it. So I fired their miserable asses, and switched to a dry cleaners up the street, who also had a drive thru, but not covered. I could cope. But they went out of business a couple of weeks ago. And so I, with great trepidation and reluctance, returned to Brand X.
First drop off order: medium starch. Got home that evening, no starch. No fucking starch!
Second drop off today: heavy starch. When he hung them in the back seat this evening I pulled a cuff out. No fucking starch!
I decided it was time for some gentle moral suasion. "Hey, man. What the fuck is wrong with you people? I ask for starch two times in a row, I get nothing. It's why I fired you before. What's your problem?"
"Oh. I'm sorry. What kind of starch you want?"
"The kind you put in my fucking clothes!" Now, see, I realize I have a bit of latitude with the salty language. I throw curse and invective in with the understanding it is some of the little English they understand, because they have the look of corrupted, inveterate porn addicts. It's also a male bonding thing. Plus these guys have the wary, skittish look of hardened old Hellenes who had burst their eardrums four or five times sponge diving in Tarpon Springs.
"I fucking sorry!" he said. "You come back next time, all shirts free! Must be in the computer wrong!"
"That is why you fuck it up, Pericles. You think you can keep a simple order in your head long enough to punch it into the computer. If you wrote it down on the fucking piece of paper in your hand, you probably bat .800."
"Bat .800?" He looked bemused.
"Never mind, Plato. It's a cricket term. Next time free. Write it down, so you can put it in the computer without screwing the pooch."
He appeared to dutifully comply, and I'm going to fire him again after next time anyway, but I'll give the freebie a go. Everyone at work already thinks I sleep in my car at this rate anyway.
Now, dry cleaning ain't rocket science. Or maybe it is. Maybe Oppenheimer and Teller became nuclear physicists because they flunked out of dry cleaning school. But somehow I doubt that.
Anyhow, two weeks of wilted shirts, then a huge gamble on a freebie. Fucking Greeks. They screw up everything. Can't even wrestle without trying to bone each other in the ass.
Was this trenchant? Did you enjoy? Do I have way too much on my plate to worry about little shit like this? I can answer the last one. Oh, yeah. But sometimes, these little moments are the most satisfying in a long, sordid day.