Acidman is going to Austin for the Blown-eyed Blodger meet, he is. And he has threatened bodily harm if the following words are used:
Fahr enuff, as they say in West Virginia. Creating words is important stuff. I do it all the time. But there has to be a lyrical quality to it, it has to bespeak something on another level that gives it sense. Most of those words up there are just the result of plain fucking stupidity. Except for "gender". That is a bullshit feminist construct. "Dickled" and "Dickless" has served the same purpose for centuries.
My mother-in-law makes up words like that. Horness. Flustrated. Suskeptical. Pure iggernance, I say.
Now, to the rub: not only is made-up words a teeth grinder, so are overused, hackneyed, banal phrases. Especially when they show up again and again.
I think someone in Austin should set up a Mason jar with a slot in the lid, and everytime Acidman uses the following phrases (or posts them) he must put a dollar in the jar. At the end of the weekend buy an inflatable doll with the proceeds, and mail it to me. Right now I'm hankering for a North Carolina Central University stripper, but that could spin on a dime. Here are the verboten phrases:
WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!
I'm an English Major, I don't do math.
Dragged off and shot.
That's not a bad list. Very pithy, actually. I still think it will elicit enough funds to garner me a very special Frederick's of Hollywood Typhany Jones Ho Strippa doll. Just the thing for a Saturday night.
Keeskennis has done his homework, I see. I am either being cruelly mocked, or blatantly sycophantized. Either way, it appears a journey to the Dark Continent is in order. This thing must be smoked out one way or the other. Uluguru, Tanzania. That's a safe country, right? It's not like Darfur, or Rwanda, or the Democratic Republic of the Congo is it, Keesie? I'm not expected to buy yellowcake, am I? By the way, I am deathly afraid of machetes wielded with malice.
We shoot each other over here. It is far more civilized.
Yes, I realize many people have responded to my old post about black panthers, and have commented on their own sitings of the elusive beast throughout the states. Howsomever no one has bespoke it so eloquently as Brenda:
I live in west virginia. and I have seen a Black Panther, ever night, It comes close to our house and our dog chasses it up the train track , and the the panther chasses the dog back home. She is solid Black and has a strong body. She hasn;t every attacked me or my family. But at night time she can scream alful loud. Brenda Ksahola West Virginia
I was passed in traffic by this fiend today:
Fortunately a few moments later a quick break left kept Barney Rubble from overtaking my ass. $3 a gallon for this humiliation? Think I'll hang a cardboard car deodorizer around my neck and take the bus.
I was dismayed to hear that uber-test pilot Scott Crossfield died in a small aircraft incident over Ellijay, Georgia (serendipitously the last place I spent the night in jail, owing to an ill-advised kidney shot to a corpulent cop. How many kidneys do I have? Only two, but it felt like four were beaten. And I highly recommend the nightstick over the curled fist any day).
To Scott: Down in an airplane at 84 years of age. I fucking envy him! Just as I'm sure he would have wanted to go. This guy flew the most fearsome experimental aircraft ever conceived. The first man to fly the fabled X-15, the greatest rocket ship of all time, and the only vehicle to fly into space and land again on its own. The first man to break Mach 2. The first man to break Mach 3.
The only chink in Scott's armor? The gummint wanted him to fly the Bell X-1, and be the first person to break the sound barrier, in 1947. He said it was dangerous, never been done, plane might explode. Wanted $100,000 in 1947 dollars because he was a civilian, and could ask that. They went with Chuck Yeager, who did it for his captain's pay. I don't begrudge Crossfield for asking, though. And he went on to a brilliant career.
The pioneers of space fall before our eyes. In ten years they will all be gone, likely.
To Scotty Crossfield. He's slipped the surly bonds, and touched the face of God, I hope. He had the Right Stuff.
I can tell when the seasons change, because Anna posts. Although I'm pretty sure that's last year's Passion of the Bunny pic. But I left a cryptic reference to Badger Bag in her comments, then realized no one knows who the fuck that is. Ofttimes what I consider tantalizingly obscure most people consider offendingly obtuse.
And so, as expiation, 'cause 'tis the season (and I find proffering a chunk o' my soul infinitely less distressing than a chunk o' my bonus, me not being much of an XMas guy, or a giver, by nature), I will explain:
When nautical types cross the Equator there is a bit of hazing for the First Timers. I believe this tradition started in the Royal Navy, so of course Rum, Sodomy, and the Lash were likely involved. And yet the tradition has continued. Pubic shaving, paddling, there ain't no fucking rum on board anymore, but the rest has obviously obtained.
I wander. Anyway, there is a several hundreds year olde tradition that when the Equator is crossed someone dressed as King Neptune appears on the deck, generally accompanied by his helper, Badger Bag. Whether King Neptune is the entity applying the scourge is lost to me, however I am sure it was a most solemn role. I have no idea what Badger Bag looked like, or looks like (I'll bet there was plenty of sodomy and the lash just the windward side of the Falklands, for instance). But if I were captain of a squared rigged vessel, and crossed the Line, I would want my Badger Bag to look like this:
Nota bene: I have never crossed the Equator. I have crossed the North Atlantic in a square rigger, but no Badger Bag for me. I still fart in high sweet tones, rather like an oboe. Beware he of the bassoon tone. There is evil at work there. And I'm not charging for that bit of info, by the way.
Please forgive the lack of posts here of late, Intrepids: I have been occupied with the care and feeding of my new Anthracitic Son, the birth of whom I lovingly described in my post of Friday last.
The Rock is a happy, healthy young man, gurgling contentedly as I hold him to my Manly Breast. You do want to be careful where you position yourself, however, lest you find yourself in the path of a Toxic Eructation. Belch, that is.
Rocky - see, he has a nickname already! - learns fast. He has already learned to avoid the Monkey-Pit, after that regrettable incident in which Nadine Fuckmonkey mistook him for one of her own By-Products (as it were) and flung him at the neighbor's wee ones.
I hold him close to me as I stride the length and breadth of the Velocihovel. The St. Augustine grass, the defunct washer by the curb, the Monkey-Pit. Someday, my son, all this shall be yours!
Aye, it was the grippe I had. Devastating. Debilitating. Finally, on Wednesday evening, after five days of reverse bidet, I gave birth to a tiny chunk of igneous matter, which I named The Rock. The son I never had. I am so proud. And so I am almost erect now, knuckles only scraping ground on the third lope or so.
In other news, Leo Mazzone is spanking a callgirl in a Baltimore Inner Harbor penthouse suite, saying "Who's the bitch, Johnny? Eh? Eh?"
It is the prudent reader who looks at the bottom of a post to see who actually posted it. Me? I've been spending my week off, and indeed my birthday today, waging battle against insidious intestinal parasites who have been causing me great discomfort for four days. They must be legion. And I'll bet they are all waving little Mexican flags. Got my Montezuma's Revenge.
As to the topic d'Elisson? No gratuitous pics of my nips. This is a free site. Besides, my nipples have been plastered all over the internet, viz. here and here. Uh, click the link So did he.
I was somewhat impressed with Eric's and Elisson's, however, sadly, their aureolae are rather oyster shaped. Did I tell you I moonlight at Lee & Cates cutting windowpanes with my nipples? I thought so.
And despite my previous feeble attempts at creating something original in Bloggy-World having come up short, I smell the Evanescent Aroma of Opportunity. Lookee:
Carnival of the Undrapèd Torso!
Yes, Intrepids, it's time to send in links to your posts that feature Undraped Torsos. I'll assemble 'em and we can all have a Merry Festival of Link-Whorage right here. All y'all wimmins is heartily - nay, mightily encouraged to participate...because if I have to look at some old gink's midriff yet again, I just may have to empty the Velocigut.
[N.B. - This is what happens when you don’t post to your own blog often enough. Eventually, the squatters move in, trash the living room furniture, fill up the toilets with unflushed shit, and smear cream cheese on the walls. Yeef!]
I walked out of the office building Thursday morning at 8:15, for my first smoke of the day. And what did I see on the granite breezeway? A bird's head, cleanly severed. Blood still trickling from the neck. A most unnerving sight.
I confess I could not identify the bird. A songbird, sure, maybe a wren, or warbler of some sort. I paced the area, and found its body about fifteen feet away. Very odd indeed.
No sign of death by window crashing, or hit by the bus. And I did see a deranged hawk repeatedly slam into the glass windows a few days before, enraged at its own reflection. 20 minutes that hawk attacked its reflection. Bam! Bam! Bam! That hawk hated itself, what it perceived to be its enemy. Very strange times.
Back to the wren. That was a queer thing. The sever was too clean. Knifelike. Even the Greyhound bums could not be suspected of this, because they would have roasted the frail, bony thing over a drum.
I was thinking there might be jihadist birds out there. Can't stand a songbird. Decapitate it to bring the vision of the Caliphate closer. I shudder at the idea, and it seems foolhardy, but I'm casting a weather eye on the bluejays. I don't trust those cocksuckers. Never have. Someone has blood on his hands, and it sure and hell isn't the cardinals.
P.S. I made the Korean butt sweeper bury that head and torso in the viburnum. Then said a requiem.
Today we discuss the difference between clamber and clamor. To wit:
Clamber: To climb with difficulty, especially on all fours; scramble.
Clamor: A loud outcry; a hubbub. A vehement expression of discontent or protest.
Here's an example of usage:
I had to clamber out of that bordello window when the vice cops came in the front door. I had to clamor for more effective counsel from my attorney when the back up unit pinched me at the bottom of the window.
Got it? Good. I must go. The Bride is clamoring for me to cook the damned Delmonicos I purchased, even as I wish to clamber out the back window and head to the nearest watering hole.
I've generally cast a jaundiced eye upon the entire immigration debate, because it is clothed in politics, lies, and posturing. First of all, anyone who willfully refuses to differentiate between legal and illegal immigration is a scurvy, pox-ridden son of a bitch. I don't believe I've ever met a soul who resented legal immigration, so the whole racism slander is disgusting.
Now, to the meat of the matter: I would love to say I dutifully line up behind the locksteppers who claim AMNESTY! rewards lawbreakers, and we are a nation of laws, and you cannot reward illegal behavior, blah blah blah. I certainly believe that to a large extent, but reality encroaches.
Lookit: when I was a lad I'd have cops pull up next to me at a red light. See me smoking weed. Looked the other way. Didn't want to bring a kid down for a joint. And that has been our policy on illegal immigration since at least the 1986 amnesty. Look the other way. Refuse to fund the Border Patrol, build incarceration centers, bust employers of illegals. Wink and a nod. Tacit approval. And that tacit approval encouraged the 3 million amnestees in 1986 to bring the famblies on over, swelling the ranks to 12 million. We did this to ourselves. We winked, nodded. Hired. Ensconsed. Legitimized.
So what now? Activate the National Guards, and roust every wetback out of every meatpacking plant, berry farm, construction site, barrio? Until we find our 12 million? Never gonna fucking happen. On this watch or anybody's watch. No politician has the belly for that, and the nation would find the whole activity repugnant, even as they knew the illegals didn't belong here.
Me? I like the idea of telling the illegals to get thee hither to the nearest international airport, and bring your fucking back taxes with you. We're going to retinal scan your asses, and make you a goddamned taxpayer. What's done is done, past is past. You can't unfix that shit. But we can sure as hell get the wetbacks on the freaking taxrolls. And you know what? They'd probably love it.
Oh. Then we should shoot Vicente Fox, that elitist bastard, and redeploy troops from Iraq to Michoacan. I would love to see a 51st star on the flag, although I have no idea where you'd put it.
P.S. Just because you get a green card and a Social Security number doesn't mean I'm going to tolerate a raise in the criminally sweet rates I've been enjoying on my lawn care service. I know some Hondurans living in the woods who will undercut your ass, thank you very much.
I kinda feel sorry for Acidman, because he couldn't be man enough to rise to the level of rooting for a Southern team. Traitor. And so the Gators beat the snot out of the west coast gayblades. And beat their asses soundly. Yes, this hurts me too:
That's the way it works, though. Except if their coach was Spurrier. Then I would set them on fire.
Okay. I'll give you Jill Carroll's comments were actually extracted at gunpoint.
Fine. Now she is free. Where are the words of kindness for John Ghazi from Ms. Carroll? When I see those I will eat worms. I still think she is full of shit. Just my opinion, and you should see my day old boxers.
A good edict, a nice bit of advice. I've had neighbors I would have loved to love.
Anyway, not the point. I'm engaging in that rarity, Vman watching basketball. I hate the frigging sport. Consider it beneath contempt. But I do get a bit caught up in March Madness, and I do like the heart collegians take into any sports match. I'm a sucker for Kids with Heart. So, wiping my nose on my sleeve, I find myself watching Florida taking the paddle to George Mason in the semi-finals. And I'm not rooting for Mason, the underdog, although I like the school. I'm rooting for the Gators. SEC. Keep it home. Then I'll root for LSU in game 2.
Hey! Where's the fucking ACC? I thought they ruled college hoops. I thought the SEC was a foo-ball conference. Perhaps my wires were crossed.
Rooting for Florida. Shit. The Senator would have understood. He used to root for Bama when they played Yankees, and Catholics, for the national championship in football. He was a bit parochial in that respect.
Love thy neighbor. Even if they are filthy, stinking Gators. They're your Gators, dammit.
Apparently another student has succumbed to death by sexual asphyxia, otherwise known as hanging oneself accidentally for a righteous orgasm.
I don't know what's wrong with these people. My sexual satisfaction is always heightened by choking my partner, not myself. Preferably with a Countess Mara necktie. But that's just me. And hey: you don't see my obit plastering the papers after a session gone awry.
Found at Ace's. Natch.