Jumping Jesus, this appeals to the criminally lethargic in me. A floating device whereby I can, by use of remote control and propellers, float a beer over to my child in the pool, and then retrieve the beast so as to replenish my hot, flat brew.
40 year old technology, sure, but writ large to appeal to me, the lazy. I really like this. My pool cries out for it. My pool also cries out for chlorine, and other necessities that prevent it becoming a cesspool, but first things first. I want that pool caddy.
A turtle has flippers. A tortoise has feet. Now there's a hell of a species differentiation test. And I for one would like any prospective amour to be able to pass that test. Hands, or feet, down. Iffen I slip off a pump I want to see digits. But then, I am a bit of an elitist.
A close friend once dated a girl with webbed feet. Would that make her a tortle? Or just a common garden variety slut? I don't know the answer to that. I do know I would never have sexual relations with her in the surf. If you pissed her off she would be in her element, and have the upper hand. Another friend of mine once had his Labrador Blackberry drowded in the Moon River by an otter. Imagine that. A strapping assed dog drownded by an otter. I think it would be much of the same thing with the web-footed girl. She could get the weather-gauge on you, and drownd you. No sir. I should not partake of that particular slice of plum pudding. I don't like the odds.
I am told the blogosphere is restive. Unsettled. Costive. You know how in those Tarzan movies Bwana Don hovers over the campfire, cradling his elephant gun, and mutters "It's quiet." And Sahib says "Yeah. Too quiet."
Same thing in a western. The colonel hovers over the campfire, and says "It's quiet. Too quiet."
Because, you know, if you aren't hearing drums, or ululations, or espying smoke signals, then that means the fucking savages are about to attack, right? They don't play fair. That's why they're savages. They want to sneak in in the middle of the night with their stone aged spears and arrows and remove your entrails, your superior firepower notwithstanding. Rumour insists they eat them, too.
That's the vibe I feel. Why? I have no idea. I would like to think something is going down. But I wouldn't know. Because I don't even read blogs anymore. Why?
Because it's quiet. Too quiet. Because I would rather pound my little toe with a ball peen hammer, that's why. I had to take intravenous Thorazine just to post this. On the brighter side my date with the Colonoscoper, aka Torquemada, has been pushed back to June 13th. So there's that.
Disgruntled reader Sheryl comments:
I am Vice Queen of a Red Hat Group here in Manassas, VA. We have a great time, enjoy each others company, listen and sympathize with each others problems. Go out for Tea, raise money for needy organizations and just have fun. Yes we wear silly hats and purple clothes. We don't harm or bother anyone. Just because YOU think it is a stupid idea, doesn't mean you are right. Don't rag on something you don't understand. Get a life.
I've been busy. Down in Orlando, immersed in Orientation, reckoning how much of my sumptuous take home pay will accrue to the State of Florida in tuitions and irregulars over the next four years, beginning June 23. Because I never plan ahead. Not my style. Planners are pussies. Anal retentives. OCD faggots. We hate them. Then of a sudden you have an 18 year old and it's a what the fuck moment.
Show me your wallet, child. $14? That ain't gonna cut it. We need cash. 18 years old? Never mind. A fleeting thought. That's all.
Waall. I regrouped, and ran some game theory programs, and it appears that I can probably get 12.7768 percentum of Velociworld readers to chip in a dime, or even a case quarter, towards higher education. At my readership levels the child will be lording it over an Arby's Beef N' Cheddar oncet a month, and licking her fingers in satisfaction. Sweet!
But of course I jest. I sees the people put up the Paypal buttons. Stroke me! Not because they need to educate a child, but because they need a new laptop. That's fucking creepy.
Anyway, I'll figure it out. I have some humble stock options maturing in early June. I was going to treat myself to a trip to
Barbados Cocoa Beach, but I suppose not. Oh, the pain of forebearance. It's like holy water to a vampire. It hurts so bad, master.
To the point: I always have a point. The point is my loyal readership generally does not get the point. Within most of my posts is an embedded reference, or double entendre, that I expect some feedback on. And yet, and yet. Sigh.
There are the level one folk, who take the immediate bait, like a barracuda, or a dumbed flounder. "Lawnmowers? Shit! I knows that!"
Then the level two folk, who think "Well, then, Mr. Smart Ass is talking about lawnmowers, he must be talking about pistons, and stroke. Oh yeah. It's all about the stroke."
Okay. There it is. Stroke. And did you know the poor black folk pay as much into Social Security as the white folk? But the white folk live longer, because of the Stroke, and so relatively poor blacks end up supporting relatively rich whites? That's a damned fact. It's racist, I tell you.
There's your fucking homework. Find the third level. Don't comment if you don't have anything pertinent to say.
I believe I can mention powder burns here, and get all manner of feedback. The pistola backfired. The cordite hung thick. It is said a full broadside from a man of war would actually stun the air with the report and smoke, sails going limp, vessels falling off the wind. We shot 200 rounds and our hands were cordially powderburned.
Aye. The old burn of gunpowder. Gunpowder is ancient. Goes back to the Chinee some 1,100 years ago. I suppose many a young Chinaman had his fingers powderburned tetching off the dragon for the lunar new year.
Then there is land battle. Waterloo. Pickett's Charge. The Somme. Stalingrad. I would reckon many many a man has awakened with that smell in his nostrils. I was powder burned, I was. That's how close I was, sonny.
But I would submit another cruel powder burn exists. Not gunpowder, but face powder. The stunning blow of being attracted like a stag to jarred piss, only to be blown away, rejected. Now THAT'S a strange and unusual smell. The smell of defeat in a 12 or 13 year old boy's nostrils.
We are experiments, lads. Cultures in petri dishes, grown for the amusement of the fair sex. The good news is most of us figure it out at about the age of 13 or 14, and learn to play along, lest we miss out on the occasional Hump the Petri Dish Moment. And I must say Kiss the Petri Dish is nice as well. But the thought of all that agar in my mouth is rather revolting. Sets the stage for spoot though, don't it?
But I was actually speaking of the youngster era, when a girl could really hurt a boy. Just with powder burns. The rest was just speculation anyhow. Nothing hurt more than a mere rejection of a handholding, right? Hell, I would suffer a dozen rejections in my twenties for flaccidity than to suffer one handholding rejection at 12.
Of course, this is all surmise on my part. I merely speak for my generation. I've never experienced the powder burn of a young girl, have I? No. I did not. We shall not speak of latter day flaccidity, either. That was an antibiotic reaction, damn it.
And so, in the interest of this post, and the topic, I was forced to sniff my fingers before I hit PUBLISH!
Smelled like powder burns. And by the way, as coincidence, gunpowder was invented in the Tang Dynasty. Wheels within wheels, eh?
Well, it's not actual shit, I'll give you that much.
Use your imaginations, howsomever perverse they be, and place your answers in the Comments. But just remember, this is a Family Blog. As in "Manson Family," Ace.
Now, excuse me whilst I go to set the Steam Hose on the bellowing Monkey-Rabble. Their jabbering threatens to make difficult my night's escape into Blessèd Oblivion.
[Nota bene - The ten cent piece (yes, it is a silver dime) is there solely to establish scale. And I already said that the Mystery Substance is not shit. Pay attention!]
This was bound to happen. I will aver, posit, state, declaim, proclaim, screech, ululate, bellow, harrumph, that I will remain a solid Son of the South even as I
(insert verb) my hatred of the foul moonpie.
The moonpie, and the R oh C Cocola, of course, were staples of southern cuisine. Well, actually, of poor white trash Depression-era cuisine. Even though Coke was ubiquitous, pervasive, the hemoglobin of our gutted Southern psyche, one was allowed to drink the godforsaken RC Cola if one had a moonpie in hand. It was like a Get Out Of Jail Free Card from God. And Fanta soda comes to mind, but that is another post entirely. I must remain focused.
So I'm here to say I hate the fucking moonpie. Sue me. Farking nasty marshmallow of extremely questionable origin, graham cracker that seems to be the toe cheese of a fungus infected troll, chocolate that ain't chocolate. We loved it, of course, because it bespoke a certain in your face thing. In retrospect it was nasty. Still is. My kids love them of course. And I shan't destroy that.
An aside: when my mother was an 11 or 12 year old girl in the hellish parched boiled dominion that was south Georgia during the Depression two little black kids, 13 and 14 I think killed an old white man because he had tired of playing his fiddle on his front porch. Seems the lads had taken a liking to the fiddle playing, and when the old man got tired and decided to go to bed, they remonstrated, and, well, a beatdown occurred. I personally think the story is bullshit, but what ever happened the death penalties certainly weren't bullshit.
I'm told that niceties such as appeals, and due process, being in short supply in south Georgia during the Depression, Justice was Swift, and Terrible.
Mom said they paraded those boys around town before their execution on the tailgate of a pickup truck, and the poor kids were laughing. "They goan pop our necks!" they laughed, and surely they were. And so, to wind this issue down, their Last Meal was a Moonpie, and an RC Cola.
Necks were popped, Fucking Ada. And RC Cola was swilled, and Moonpies had probably worked their way about a third of the way through those boys' colons before the fucking whip came down.
My mom always told that story not out of a sense of rage at social injustice, which I am sure it was, but out of a sense of wonderment. Bemusement, Bewilderment. SHE knew their necks were about to get popped. THEY knew. Why would you want a fucking moonpie at that particular point in your life? I don't think we ever came up with the answer.
Oh. And yes. I hate moonpies.
The graduation is over, the verloverly relatives have been sent packing with suitcase between their legs. The daughter is gradee'ated. And none too soon. Of course, now the cost of a child rises exponentially. In the olden days they turned 18, you slapped them on the ass (can't do that any more, of course) and said Be All You Can Be. Now we coddle them until they are wizened tenured academes, finally moving out of the house when they have their first grandchild.
So what. My girls are smart, actually. They have no desire to hang around me. I have created the Perfect Storm of See You Later. It's a gift, I concede. You're either born with it, or you ain't. At any rate, I'm very proud of my girl, and I know she, and her sister, will set the freaking world on fire.
Comments are back, thanks to my hinky tight Kelley. She my girl. And so you can pour forth the old dusty comments you've been saving. Of course, if you're like me, a comment is like an orgasm. You can't just put it aside, to be used later. It has to be busted at the fell moment, right? Right? You wouldn't foist an old peach on someone, would you? So get some fresh comment. And thanks, Kelley.
I've been working like a damned spavined mule around the Velocihovel, when I haven't been sneaking off for the Pause That Refreshes. And you know what I mean.
Velocidaughter One graduates high school Saturday, and since I am so gushed upon by my family, and in-laws and out-laws, everybody wanted to come see me!
Wait. I've been checked. Okay, so everyone is coming to see Emily! Well, I knew they were coming to see someone, at any rate.
Ouch. Does this graduation make my face look old, my ass look droopy? You bet.
But 20 relatives are on their way, and so the most basic of necessities must be accomplished. I think the hovel looks pretty good. And I think my daughter is an amazing young lady.
The simplest answer is usually the correct answer. And so I thought I'd figured out the dead comment problem: Why, Elisson had screwed everything up when he posted here! Made perfect sense. Stumbling around my templates in a drunken stupor with a Sazerac in hand, having sport with the deluded Christer, sabotaging the Works. Oh, yes.
Then I realized, Hellfire, them comments went tits up the post before. The one I put up in which I, somehow errant from the mission at hand, decided to threaten would-be mockers. Comment bashers. It really sucks letting E off the hook, but I apparently have no choice. That's okay. He's a walking catastrophe. I'll get him next time.
But. But. Hmm. Hmm. What do Occam say now? I would submit the simplest answer is this: the very might, the power, the force field of my threats caused my comments to clam up. It's the only thing that makes sense. Because I explored my template code. I seemed to remember having a fairly good handle on that stuff a while back. But to tell you the truth, I'd sooner translate cuneiform, or runes, than the bug splatters I was looking at. It doesn't help that I've had a few folk insert some boutique code in there, either, to assist me in my spam wars. And you never knock an ally, but my templates have taken on a Rube Goldberg aspect. I see baling wire. And Band Aids. Chewing gum.
Anyway, the comments are fucked, and from a karma standpoint you brought it on yourselves. My aura apparently melted the wiring.
To those of you who have sent comments via e-mail, and I mean the females, thank you very much! I've never tried that, X, but I measured today, and I think it will fit/work. I may keep the comments inactive for a while, actually.
So I was in Sanford Stadium in Athens Saturday, to see my nephew Tyler graduate, smegma cum laude, from the University of Georgia. Jesus went to school there, you know. Here he:
I have better pics, but I respect the lad's privacy. Plus, he's been a faithful reader, although a poor commenter. But I do suspect him of using friends' computers to leave some of the more prurient comments of late. We share genetic code. He's too much like me not to do it.
But a tip of the hat, or mortarboard, to my homey. Now you're in the Club, too, dude. We get to tell you how much it sucks out here. You had it sweet. Nevermore, quoth the Raven. Nevermore.
They're hosed, aren't they? Don't answer that. Why? Because you fucking CAN'T, that's why, ha ha!
I've been busy, trying to freshify the Velocihovel for Big E's graduation Saturday. Many peeps come, hopefully they all leave. Let me look into this shit. I need my feedback like the blossom needs the sunlight, the junkie needs his smack.
I was in an Excremential Humour again last night - as I so often am these days - and I figgered that I could once again post a one-sentence gripe and thereby attract a passel of commentary whilst barely lifting a finger.
Amazing how this works, innit?
I am not enamored with the Troy-Bilt weed trimmer. Of course you knew that going into this exercise because you're a clever little fuck, aren't you? Sit there and flog the bishop and second guess Velociman, and when you finally pop that third beer you're brave enough to revile me in my comments section, eh what?
That's okay. I have a weather eye on you, little man. Which reminds me: I got hopelessly lost in "urban" Macon today because the signs to I-16 were fucked up. And I ended up in a spade neighborhood, and this street was called, swear to God, Little Short Street. Cool as shit, n'est-ce pas?? I wanted to stop and take a pic, but that would have invoked Little Short Life, know what I mean? Incredibly, your humble servant had NO fucking game in this hood. The invocation of Tuco merely made their brows furrow. Dat Macon, though. Tell me: did they renovate the Coliseum or tear the old one down? Looked like a tear down to me. And it's still a fucking ghetto there.
Anyway, the Troy-Bilt is a fucking nightmare. I can string the fucker, but the string pops incessantly. WHY?
Because both strings are spooled on the same fucking groove!!! Now, I realize clockwise is the way things work here in the Northern Hemisphere, and as the thing spins, so must the line feed. But any simple notion of statics and strengths will tell you they cannot feed properly from the same spool. They must feed poorly, but vicariously, from separate spools both aclockwise. But on the same spool? Fuck that. Doesn't work. One string will always go the other way, mumchance.
And so another trip tomorrow, another return.
And here's where you come in, Intrepids! Other than the part where I was excoriating you, of course. Not that I will not continue that, but at least you get to provide feedback this time. To wit: I need to know what the best weed trimmer in the World is. Money is no problem. If you start fucking with me, though, like saying I need to hire somebody, or I ain't shopping at the right places, THAT'S a problem.
Don't fuck with me. If you don't have anything positive to say shut the fuck up. I WILL burn your house down. Sic syphilitic dumpster dwellers upon your daughters. Finger fuck your wife with your finger, recently severed. Let us not speak more of this.
Never thought I'd beg for a whacker, but here I am. Humour me please.
I was in a really shitty mood last night, but I'm thinking nobody noticed.
Commenter Quilly Mammoth left the following comment on my previous post In Re the Ryobi:
Lessee...you bought a discount motor operated piece of hardware at a low dollar, high volume Big Box that has bankrupted thousands of small hardware stores where you used to get real advice and now you're pissed. Is that what I'm reading here?
Ryobi, Honda, Husquevarna and Echo are all good brands provided you go to a place that sells the real equipment to the wetbacks that now mow most of America. That shit lasts forever and isn't all that expensive. With what Jose' and Roberto get paid they aren't going to spend much more than you did but need something that will cut ten or fifeteen yards a day. For years.
That's what you get for being cheap. Go to a real yard equipment store and get someone...they are usually called a salesperson...to show you some **String Trimmers** and demo them for you. You'll probably pay $50.00 to $75.00 more than at Lowes or HD but think of the great rant you'll get from dealing with them.
I had to replace my weedtrimmer yesterday, having rebuilt the old Ryobi twice, and figuring after a decent 9 nine year run it was time to foist it on the garbage men, and get something a little more razical.
I'm not particularly enamored of Ryobis. They're okay, I guess. Pretty reliable. But I did have an investment in blower and hedge trimmer attachments to consider, so I figured I'd seek same. Now, I knew Lowe's had dropped Ryobi a year of so ago for John Deere products, so I went to Lowe's to see what they sold. I wasn't that blowed up about the attachments, after all. Give me a trimmer with a built in DVD player and some porn video, I'm prolly all over it. Well, well. It seems Nothing Runs That's a Deere, at least as far as Lowe's is concerned. They'd dumped the Deere line in favor of Troy-Bilt. Seem like good products, but I'm always leery of a company that insists on running 10 minute infomercials instead of 30 second commercials, and interminably delaying my riveting History Channel biopic on the Scourge of Venereal Disease in Medieval Europe.
But I eyeballed the Troy-Bilts, then went to Home Depot, a considerum farther trek, but I was doing my due diligence. And Lo! and Behold! Home Depot carried the full line of Ryobi. Again, I'm not enamored of the shit, but I really don't need professional grade, and there were the attachments the Scrooge in me hated to cast adrift. But really, a weed whacker is a weed whacker, and an especially handy thing to have, in the event I run into an Hispanic or Greek girl who strikes my fancy, and I would covet a closer look at their pudendum.
So I bought the Next Generation Ryobi, brought it home, and began the task of edging my pool. After 5 minutes the string popped off the eyelets, however, and I was forced to restring. Here it gets interesting. One of the few benefits of the rather blase Ryobi was the ability to stick the tips of the string in the proper orifices, and screw the string home, it winding the string itself. A pretty automatic function, and one that I liked.
The new and improved version was all manual, however, and I spent 45 minutes struggling to get the string wound around the thingamajig, only to have the lock down screw, which was free floating inside its housing, refuse to grab. Again. And again. And again.
Now, I confess my doctor has shined me, and I've been 7 days without my meds, and so I was a fractious little bitch at this point. Which is a nice way of saying I eventually flung the fucking sodomite device against my fence, then drained the precious oils from it, and returned it to Home Depot today.
"I want to return this for a refund."
"What's wrong with it?"
"It's a fucking piece of garbage, ma'am. Can't string 'er."
"You're off your meds, aren't you, sir?"
"Fucking Ada, honey. My circulatory system is coursing with iodine, and rage. If I had a crawl space at my house I would be digging shallow graves to implant buggered Ryobi engineers."
"Let me process that for you, sir."
I was a little too shaken to actually go get the Troy-Bilt at this point, because I might see what Craftsman and Echo and Husquevarna have on the market. Actually, at this point, I'm considering hiring some wetbacks to take care of my yard. I take no pleasure in it anymore, and with any luck they'll have younger sisters who need their pudendums ah, trimmed.
But Fuck a Ryobi. Up-engineering resulted in a spastic product that caused me to level blasphemies the entire neighborhood could hear, and make my children ask Mommy if Daddy was in the Dark Place again. It's Pearl Harbor all over again with these fucking Nip products, I tell you. And I don't have a crawl space, but I have a lake, and weights. So if you work in the design department of Ryobi, come on over. Let's talk shop.
...and not at my site. Here it is, now that I'm back home and have retrieved the Sacred Keys.
So: what'll it be? Should V-Man post the front end of his Magnum Opus...or roll it into a thin tube and use it to tickle Mr. 'Roid?
Og's comment on my last post got me to thinking. Ever have red-eye gravy? That's the thin gruel you make from cooking ham in the skillet, and tossing some flour in as an afterthought. Not as thick or savory as brown gravy, but a treasure nonetheless. Greasy fucking stuff, but I love it.
Red-eye gravy also reminds me of an exclamatory the Senator used to bellow, with great humour. I never understood his proclamations, they seeming to be some kind of Tourette's Syndrome of the habitually enured, but it was
Scram gravy ain't wavy!!!
Now, what does that mean? I have no idea. But it seemed to cover a plethora of situations, and issues, to the old man. Covered, I say. Not cured. The issue was still there. You just had to deal with it compounded by the fact the Senator had invoked scram gravy. Problematic, I say.
Still would like some red-eye gravy. Does Cracker Barrel make that shit?
I suppose I'm of an old school. When I was a young one my mother used to sing up a storm in the kitchen. Usually a softspoken singing, and generally of the hymnal variety. Rock of Ages. Were You There? Amazing Grace. Everyone's mommies used to sing in the kitchen. Muttered under inhalation.
I can remember paddling around, snot pure adripping from my nose, in whatever the Latin for comfort is, a happy little fellow. Chicken be fried, dumplings be rolled, and good sweet Christian music would be hummed under my mother's breath.
She was no Puritan, of course. We had an intercom system in the house, and Top 40 was piped in. For the record, the week I was born, Elvis was top of the charts with Don't Be Cruel. And my mom would sing Elvis. She loved Elvis. She loved rock and roll. It was all about the singing.
But the obtaining point: all southern women sang in the kitchen. And it is a lost art. Forget the hymnals. There ain't even a decent excuse of a rap song in the offing. My poor mom would sing Rock of Ages in a low, sweet lilt, wth an unfiltered Chesterfield on the sink. That is balls. And comfort. My mom died before she could teach my girls, and my wife's tone? Deafcon 1. No way the kids can know now.
Who's mama sings in the kitchen? I want to know. Because I'll come over and sop some gravy with you, for a piece of that. I truly miss it. And it will never, ever, return.
I bought this for my 13 year old daughter, because she has been diligent in practice with my old Epiphone Texan acoustic, and her lessons. And she truly wants to be a head banging rock and roller, and who am I to deny my offspring their heart's desire?
I weighed options, and based on feedback from Acidreflux, and conversations with his pal Willy, I went with this Washburn. I cannot say I am disappointed. In fact, I'm elated. It's a fine bang for the buck. Well crafted, great sound, a solid piece of work. Extremely well designed and executed. My only concern is keeping the child from seeing Hendrix and Townsend videos, and thinking she can set the thing ablaze, or punch it into a Marshall amp. She's impulsive like that. Gee. I wonder where she gets that??
Willy's daughter was kind enough to meet me at Avenues Mall and drop it off today, too, as she was in Jax. And not to dish Willy, but he threw in a gig bag, and had the beast strung and tuned, and gave me a very sweet price. And when I called him tonight to thank him, he was in Ohio, attending his father's funeral.
I had no idea. And yet he put his personal travails aside to take care of me.
That's a hoss. That is a righteous man. How these people are attracted to Rob baffles me, ha ha!
But thanks to Willy for his help, and to Rob for his guidance. My girl is happy. And banging her head as we speak, as I taught her the opening riff to Black Sabbath's Paranoid.
Life ain't so bad, I reckon.
Good Christ. I remember in the mid 80's when those Yield Sign window adornments became popular. Baby On Board, indeed. May I ask a simple question? What the fuck does that mean!?!?!
Idea the first: I have a child in my
minivan breeder box, and I don't want you to ram me. Because, fucking Ada, I was looking for someone to ram with my Chevy Caprice! But once I saw you had a Baby On Board! sign I backed off. I'll find another victim. Maybe the octegenarians with the oxygen tanks. Don't want to play demolition derby if a Baby is on Board!
Idea the second: I am being an accommodating American, and I thought I would let you, the carjacker/kidnapper, know that I have a tiny baby, ripe for plucking, in my vehicle. Also, if ye be a child rapist, here's my billboard. Baby on Board! And I'm in the Dollar Store, smelling incense! My yellow placard says I have a victim for you, though. Put it in my window! See?
Idea the last: The sign stands as an advertisement. The callow boulevardier sees the sign, and axes himself: did that parent really leave a child in the back of that sweltering Durango, there to cop the dirt nap because the temperature reached a healthy 115 degrees Fahrenheit? Man, says he, I have to peer in the window! Is there a suffocated baby in there? Forgotten, neglected, by a crack mama? My favorite concept.
Baby on Board. Fuck You! And your sign. Because, all of the previous being known, you gave birth to fucking Garfield window grabbers, and the fake legs and animal tails hanging out of trunk lids. Should have told the Soviets you were Romanovs passing as Crackers, goddamit.
Gulag. Or Death.
I wasn't there, but I'm reckoning it looked like this:
Personally, I'd put some Bactine on that.
Damn. This is reminescent of one of my old Friday Nostalgia posts. I'd completely forgotten this shit existed, and had subconsciously relegated it to the trashbin of history, there to moulder with the likes of Phisohex, and Barbasol.
But my daughter showed me her Bactine spray today, and told me how she used it to keep her navel piercing cleansed. ARRGH!
For, you see, Bactine was the catchall antiseptic of my wittle childhood. Get a boo-boo on your knee? Mommy would spray Bactine on it. And it didn't burn like the evil Mercurochrome! Or Merthiolate. (What the fuck IS the difference between those two poisons anyway?).
Bactine was our friend. Slash a three-inch gash in your forehead in a bike accident? Mom, or in my case probably my maid Etta, would spray the gaping wound with Bactine, and send you on your way. Sever a fingertip? Bactine. First degree sunburn? Bactine. Malaria from hurricane-borne mosquitos? Bactine, and quinine tablets.
Who of my age does not remember showing their father a particularly egregious wound, supperating and full of pus, who was not told, with a wall-eyed look, Well did you spray some Bactine onnit, peckerhead? Why I buy that shit!
Ah, Bactine. A Bayer product, you know. I always assumed as a tyke Bayer was a red white and blue American company, too. I didn't know they were Germans. And we took them over after Hitler lost the number of his mess, and I suppose gave it back to them, since it was in West Germany. Too complicated for me. I was too busy trying to figure out why the Russkies wanted to nuke me from Cuba.
To Bactine. I'm pretty sure it will fix everything but anything. Guess I'll try it out on those fissures.
I've been toying with the idea of posting portions of the forceps-induced birth of a bit of fiction I've been working on. Not to generate traffic, or to rub the populace's nose in my unseemly but formidable talents, but because if I don't, well, I have no idea if I'm on the road to Nirvana or just a tired hack with undeserved anal fissures (the result of a bout of the yellow jack).
I'm of two minds here. Now, the posting of the first part of a chapter could invigorate the olde blog, and force me to finish the damned thing. Pride, and all. Hang the hide over the line. Put up or shut up.
But then the other side of me says Don't be an idiot, you silly billy! Make them pay for the whole enchilda! Or, in my case, the haggis. Mexican food being at the moment banned in the Velocihovel until a "guest worker" looking like a young Elizabeth Pena marches in the streets of East LA with a banner declaring her desire to be naturalized by Velociman. And I mean that in the Biblical way. Sodom ain't the half of it.
It's a conundrum. Inviting feedback not only invites the positive stuff, there is the negative blowback to deal with, from the Salieris of the world. And the fact that I've given of myself for free, to an extent. For an old whore that's a pretty huge leap of faith.
Eh. Tough call. Feed you juicy tidbits, so you can leave comments that I am an overblown, over considered egojunky? Or tantalize with mere snippets that make you crave more?
I need a Dax Montana quiz here. Unfortunately, I can't find the link. Nor my underwear. Been a tough week. I've always been a fan of the show of hands concept, however. So howsummit?
Option 1: Velociman posts half a chapter, and puts his money where his mouth is, and you eagerly purchase the second half.
Option 2: Velociman posts nothing, putting your money where his mouth is, and exposing him as a fucking fraud.
Option 3: Velociman posts nothing, and lays upon his California King, flagellating hisself, wondering why you thought he had any game to begin with, because he told you up front you was had.
Just throwing ideas out there.
All this foam-flecked fanaticism today, both from the unrepentant foolfuck Chicanos and the understandably outraged citizens of this republic has amused me of late. Goddam mestizos so fucking stupid they think they can bend us to their will, and us so stupid we'll probably let them.
Let us riot on May 1. There's a fucking smart move. Let's march our criminal asses in the streets by the tens of thousands and demand the impossible, namely, that the entire cohort of 280 millions American citizens will say Hey! I like that Mexican flag. I like the national anthem in Espanfuckingol. I like the fact that these insane shitweasels think they can STICK IT IN MY FACE! And on the very day the Soviets used to parade their troops, and missiles, and tanks, by the reviewing stand in Red Square, by the Kremlin, in blatant attempts to make the world cower.
Hey, greaseballs: sing the Internationale in Spanish, please. Not my anthem.
There was real sympathy for wetbacks before these demonstrations, I tell ya. Nobody gave a shit, we all looked the other way. Trim my hedges, put my roof on. But it's like the gays. I think most people for the last 15 or 20 years were pretty much ambivalent about gays, tolerant as it were. You do your thing, I'll do mine. But then they started the whole Gay Pride Parades, and taking over Disney World, and insisting their agenda be mainstreamed into elementary schools, and a lot of people say you know what? I was wrong about you. Thought you could be a good neighbor. Mind your own business. Now you're sticking it in my face, and, pardon the expression, shoving it down my throat. And words like faggot rose again within the national dialogue. Not to mention rump ranger, queer, cocksucker, and polesmoker. Why? Because the gay community could not take their victory of tolerance and go home and play nice. They pushed the envelope, way too fucking hard, and the backlash is palpable. A real shame.
So it is now with the wetbacks. What was totally off the radar two months ago now has normally docile Americans ready to lynch a damned person who can't produce a temporary visa. And all this talk of Aztlan. Lookit, my little brown brethren: California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, that shit is not reverting to you. Ever. You have, in your attempts to sway the discussion, managed to infuriate 75% of the populace here. I, for one, won't buy a Subway sandwich a fucking mestizo makes without they shows a green card. We let you in here, we tolerated you, now you have pissed us the fuck off. Real bad. Again, a real shame. But you must understand the average American is a working stiff themself, and struggling to make ends meet. Why should you get a pass on paying income taxes, whilst leeching our welfare state? And all the while sending your filthy lucre back to Little Mexico? Fuck you!
Oh, shit!!!! This was supposed to be about May Poles. Man, I got real diverted there. Thank God I have more bloodlines running through me than a Josef Mengele experiment run amok.
May Poles. As a wee lad we used to have the May Pole at elementary school, with a May Queen and all the fixings. I can only assume it was on May Day. So while the brutal Russians, who had their own evil Mongoloid bloodlines coursing through their veins, were brandishing thermonuclear intercontinental ballistic missles, and goose stepping in Red Square in shows of force designed to make us quail in our Converses, the Mighty Integral vanquishing us Inevitable, we were enjoying little Druid rituals, dancing around a pole with ribbons (ribbons! But only the girls could traipse with the ribbons!) basically braiding a rump telephone pole. Very strange. Very colorful, too. I always liked it. There was no CNN. I didn't know what was traipsing through Red Square at that moment.
And yet, the May Pole is a strange thing. Actually not Druid, or Norman, even, but it arose from the Teutonic ritual, and we all know in that case it was a phallic symbol. The Germanics were huge on that sort of thing. Why you see so many 60 year old Frenchmen with blond hair, blue eyes, and names like Blofeld.
I originally had a wisp of a thought. That I could do justice to the May Pole, and my innocent cavorting about them as a child. It just goes to show you. Life? It ain't linear. Well, mine isn't.