The Senator, me old father, used to use that expression when he was pissed at us kids, even unto our twenties or thirties. It meant, loosely, that he was angered that we'd perhaps shown a bit less deference than he required at the moment, and he was punishing us by denying us a rather specious, fictitious party he supposedly had in the offing. At times, in our teens, he would aver that he had been going to buy us fancy sports cars, too, but for the fact we had just recently disillusioned him.
We knew, and he knew, and we knew that he knew, that no such bash was ever contemplated, but it was a convenient fiction for him, and we acquisesced to that fiction. Because. Why? Because the next time he might actually be tight enough to score that TR-6.
What sucks? Well, I suck. But the fact that my posts will never again be scrutinized, parsed, vilified by Acidman sucks worse. I always wrote with a bit of the old What Would Acidman Think? Like pleasing your big brother. Rob was always very generous with an e-mail about that was a good post, that one sucked. Usually, ha ha, it was I wish I could write like you VMan! And I would say I wish I could get a posse of insane women drooling over my every written word, dog. I'm jealous.
That I will miss. Now I'm spluttering into an echo chamber. No check, no balance. No late night e-mail from Rob that was headered "You Have To Be Fucking Kidding Me..."
But that's how friends are. Their own worst critics. Wait until I discuss the memorial service. Psycho ain't in it, as they say.
I see Rob's brother David has announced there will be a memorial service for Robbie at Fox & Weeks in Savannah at 4 PM on Thursday. I plan to attend. If anyone needs a ride, or a place to stay in Savannah, I am at your service.
I had originally planned to sponsor some fellowship at the Exchange Tavern after the service, that establishment being a favorite for me and Rob, and where I first met him. However, David has graciously offered a celebration at the family home, at 1505 Buckingham Way. That sounds perfect. The ancestral stomping grounds.
And as David's tolerance goes, so go we. I may still host an after-celebration celebration at the Exchange, to give the Smith family some respite. Acid Tales do tend to run long, and Mother Truth finds herself, if not ravaged, then certainly egregiously fondled.
But that is a mere potentiality. If anyone plans to attend Rob's service, and needs assistance, please e-mail me.
Please indulge me in a rare moment of solemnity to mourn the passing of Acidman. I found Rob over at Instapundit's in 2002, and thought he was the craziest son of a bitch I'd ever read. Then, as I read more, certain locations from his past led me to realize we shared the same stomping grounds growing up, and had somehow never met. We exchanged e-mails, I was getting a blogspot site up about then, and it was great reading someone who really hung their hide over the line.
And hang it the boy did. Whether he was blistering his ex-wife or giving a repugnantly candid account of injecting his cock with a needle for a hard on, it was hard not to read. I used to tell him he was an erudite bloody car crash, and we ghoulish rubberneckers. Just too hard not to look, to read. No topic was off-limits to Robbie. Mulatto whore in Costa Rica? Here's her pic. Bionic Roscoe? Lookee here how they're gonna install that mother fucker. Shit my pants? Grab a beer. I'm going to tell you all about it.
It would be craven to say those of us who blog, and read Rob, were not influenced to creep out of the shrubbery, and have the courage to write the things we often do. The personal stuff one would never have thought oneself capable of publicizing were it not for the fact that, well, hell, Robbie just wrote about a fucking whore date. What's a carbunkle on my ass compared to that? Gut Rumbles was very liberating that way, and certainly played a significant role in dropping the demure veneer for me.
Rob had his issues. He was a stubborn mule-headed bastard at times, and took a savage perverse satisfaction in hurting his friends, especially while befucked of John Barleycorn. He could be positively maddening that way. And I never shied away, because he relished the scrap. We certainly had our ups, and we had our downs, but it wasn't a touchy-feely metro friendship. Too much testosterone. But believe me, if we were fighting we were having fun.
I'm going to miss the ornery little pissant. At least you knew what you saw was what you got. You may not like it, but Rob would be the first to tell you to Kiss His Cracker Ass. And I admired that. I laugh about Catfish having no filters, but I think Rob introduced the blogosphere to mainstream non-filtered bullet-dodging seat-of-your-pants writing. At the risk of sounding trite he did push the envelope, and knock down a few walls. If he went overboard (N-Word!) he would eventually be almost apologetic about it. But you knew deep down he didn't give a shit. He was warts and all. And I admired that, too.
To Robbie. My friend. RIP.
But twice as filling, if you catch my drift. Not Rorke's Drift, because those Zulus were probably a lot more filling than me. Spear shafts ain't in it. Just, I am in danger of the dread blank page, so perhaps a bit of whimsy is in order. Take this comment from acerbic visitor Jay Gatsby (damn that name rings a bell...) to my ancient post entitled, appropriately enough, Poor People Suck:
you my friend, are a fucking retard. Who the hell are you to call anyone poor? because anyone who works for fucking bell south making $40,000 a year is fucking poor. My car costs double your yearly income. How much a person makes doesnt make them better or worse. its class. 50 cent and paris hilton and those little bitches are piles of shit, as are you. but they are no different then the poor drug running piles of shit in the inner city. bad people suck, poor and rich.
Well, it was Father's Day, and I was treated exquisitely by my jaded little darlings. But not to put a stopper on it I insisted on tallying the score for them, a reckoning, to wit:
From The Bride: the new Chili Peppers CD (double!) and a card. Nice.
From Velocidaughter One: A car visor CD holder, and a card. Nice!
From Velocidaughter Two: A glower, and mutterings about never getting paid an allowance. She is too proud to ask for anything.
On my end? I was feted at a Mexican establishment for lunch (my treat). And I was mellow enough not to demand green cards, zee papers, as I normally would. It was a drama free event.
Wal-Mart: a flat screen TV and mini-fridge for the college-bound one. Although she did return her other TV and paid me, so the telly a wash.
Dinner? On me.
Of course I don't say this as a nasty thing. I'm just, as the Dutch call me, a contumelious bastard, and I take wicked humour in telling my offspring how deeply their bestowals grind upon my wallet. Not that they care. They know Dad is a contumelious bastard. I do, in fact, think the sweethearts revel in it.
At any rate, it was a wonderful day. Excuse me while I pop in some Peppahs.
Back to back gay posts. That's a bit unusual here. But not really.
Here's the rub: there is a huge national convocation of my church in Cleveland. The Episcopal Church USA. And there are attendees from the mother church, the Anglican Communion, UK, with a weather eye on the situation.
Why? Because New Hampshire ordained a gay bishop a year or so ago. And it threatens schism within the church. Even as I write dioceses in Florida are peeling off, in indignation. But no one wants this. We want a happy church. Which makes me severely pissed that the gay bishop, Gene Robinson, had the nads to stand up and say he is not an abomination, the dislove of him is.
Fuck this screaming anarchy. I don't give a flip fuck who Gene Robinson screws. But by God you don't screw another man in open public, and then be christened bishop. Love the sinner, hate the sin. And you, sir, sin like a motherfucker.
Iffen I had the impulse to touch children I would not act upon it, partake of my ordination as bishop, and then flaunt your face in it. Nay, this faggot needs to shut the fuck up and step down. His cruel selfish preening is driving the entire church apart.
Who has balls that big? Who the fuck does he think he is to do this? To cause this? Preening self worship. He doesn't care if he rends the entire church asunder. It's all about him.
Fucking cunt. Going to make me a damned atheist. Or a Papist. No. Wait. They have serious man-boy issues, too. Don't want to go there. Maybe I go Church of Tree Hugger. I've fondled some sweet oak in my time. I might like that.
I'm obviously living a life deteriorated. As evidence I point you to my friend Andy.
All these gays do is eat, sleep, work out at the gym, and fuck! I, for one, am envious. I want this lifestyle. Except for the poopshoot thing. But I want to be informed, buff, and getting the fuck laid. Don't we all?
In the Patrick O'Brian novels of Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin, as Aubrey, captain in the Royal Navy, battles Napoleonic forces he is at one point awarded a diamond encrusted pin to wear on his naval hat. A chelengk. A reward from the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire for driving the French off the west coast of Greece, so that the Musselmen can continue their rapacious subjugation of the Greeks. This adornment also had hidden clockwork, so that the diamond strands shimmered in the sun. Very nice, eh?
Being inquisitive, I checked into this. Chelengk being a strange word. And Lo! It seems the famous Lord Nelson was gifted with a chelengk by the selfsame Sultan of Turkey for his great victory at the Battle of the Nile, wherein he routed the French Navy in 1798, and saved the Ottoman Empire from Napoleon's grave influences.
Here the Chelengk:
By God that's fancy, ain't it? I picture it on the Pimp Hat, and I will then swear I'm the Cock of the Walk.
Of course, the real chelengk of Nelson was stolen by a cat burgler in 1951, who prized the fucking diamond stones out of it for easy fencing. Bastard. So this is a crude facsimile. But still! It warms the heart to know that less than 200 years ago a gotdam Muslim was able to show a bit of appreciation for having his ass saved from the French.
Kee-rist. I finally worked my way entirely through my blogroll for the first time in months, and it's Bedlam out there. And I mean Bedlam. The Bethlem Royal Hospital in London, home to the world's nutjobs since AD 1247.
Where did you people learn to write? And how did the crayons react to the straightjacket? Did you eat them? Did you pass them?
Not that I have anything against the mentally challenged. Why, I love that scene in Coppola's Dracula where the guy is wearing the steel barred cage on his face so the psychotics don't eat his nose off. And if I'm not mistaken, I believe Dr. Seward actually worked in Bedlam. So that would be what the elitists call cinema verite.
Not much in the way of nuthouses around here. The state home for the criminally insane is right up the road in Maclenny, though. Children are told they will send they momma to Maclenny if they don't behave, just as I was sure my mother would get pencil erasers stuck on her teeth so as not to hurt herself in Milledgeville, Georgia, should I not cop the proper conduct, and drive her insane.
I believe I have written about this before, but the best fucking nuthouse in the country is in Bolivar, Tennessee. Just looks like a damned creephouse, all whitewashed upon the hill, well-manicured lawn rolling down to the highway. You can smell the Thorazine all the way from Shiloh.
Eh. A Cuckoo's Nest moment, brought to me by my fellow scribblers. Maybe it is all the politics. I can't stand reading that shit anymore. The world is post-political class, now. The only thing for it is to kill evildoers, and roll back taxes. The rest is bullshit.
Have you noticed the nasty intrusion of Hispanic names into the litany of hurricane names? Al-fucking-berto, indeed. I already have to dial 1 for English to report to State Farm that my farking roof blowed off. Do I need the ignominy of saying it twere a wetback that done it?
I was talking to my daughter this evening about how much better it would be if hurricanes were named after rappers. At first this seemed to possess merit: Pascagoula wracked by Hurricane Tupac. Wilmington torn asunder by Hurricane Biggie Smalls. Then reality encroached. Who wants their home destroyed by Hurricane P Diddy? Or choleric flooding from Tropical Storm Nellie? Roof caved in by Hurricane 50 Cent?
I'm thinking it isn't the 'cane, it's the fact that most hip hop artists these days have really pussy names. Gay, even.
I think we should name hurricanes after Russian field marshals. Destruction by Hurricane Mikhail Illarionovich Golenishchev-Kutuzov has some frigging cachet, don't it? Even better, I want to see Jim Cantore pronounce it thusly: князь Михаи́л Илларио́новичt Голени́щев-Куту́зов. New Orleans could raise its head high if it had been rapined by Hurricane Prince Ivan Semyonovich Prozorovsky, I reckon.
Who does one write to to press such an issue? I think I shall go mad with another season of Hurricanes Estefan, and Isadore, and little Jesus.
What is it in a dog, or cat, that gives them such a sense of direction, wherein they can activate their internal GPS and find their way home? I'm sure wild animalia can do that, too, but the last time I tried to examine this trait in a bobcat I was clawed most cruelly.
I was thinking of my old mutt Brutus. We had him in Savannah, then we moved to the farm when I was nine. Probably 45 or 50 miles as the tobacco juice ejects from the vent window. Remember vent windows? Cars don't have those anymore, unless you're driving a '69 VW. Perfect for smoking, and flicking the butt out, and starting forest fires.
Anyway, after a year or so at the farm our resident gimp, Shorty Lamb, decided Brutus was killing his chickens. Maybe so. But Brutus was a gimp himself, with a bad leg like Shorty, and the Lamb place was a mile away, and Brutus was a lazy fucker. The fact that Shorty owned two retarded Boxers with cast eyes like Jack Elam, and necrotic cases of mange, did not enter into the equation of the murder of barnyard pimps, though. Shorty was convinced it was Brutus. He threatened a bit, and snarled, but we ignored him, we providing a lifeline of crapulous sidework for the crusty little diesel mechanic.
So to make a long story fatally insipid, Brutus disappeared one day. We figured Shorty had taken him into the woods, and shot him. My brothers and I were calculating the precise amount of gasoline it would take to burn down Shorty's double-wide, without of course killing his 500 pound sex slave Sadie, or his two daughters.
Then we received a call from our old next door neighbor in Savannah, Tommy, who said old Brutus was hanging around his yard, forelorn. The best we could determine Shorty had dropped Brutus on the side of the road near his diesel garage in the industrial blight of Garden City, and the gimp had found his way the last 15 or 20 miles back to suburbia without getting road clacked.
Like a homing pigeon, dammit!
An aside: at D Day many of the soldiers were given homing pigeons, which they secreted in their tunics, so as to send word back to England of progress on the ground. As I recall there was a 100% failure rate on the homing pigeon programme. Most of them drowned, or suffocated. The few that wended their way back to mother soil merely had notes that said Fucking Help!
So it's rather strange to contemplate a dog or cat can find his way 40 miles home, while those most intelligent of mammals, the porpoises, continually ground themselves upon the beach to die, their internal GPS befouled by ear parasites, like that Wrath of Khan Star Trek movie. And I can't even find the ears on a porpoise.
Another aside: my old neighbor Tommy was taken prisoner of war at the Battle of the Bulge. Stuck in a damned stalag, browbeat by Nazis. Never bitched about it, though. Nicest guy you'd ever meet. Had an Airedale named Walter. Although I cannot speak to Walter's internal GPS, because all he ever did was jump up on the five foot brick fence between our yards, and patrol. For Nazi vermin, no doubt.
I was talking to Sloop Jim yesterday, chewing the fat, as they say, and he suggested we get together. I haven't been much of a blogmeeter of late, having been a drunken fool at my last two, fit company for no one except the cur by the dumpster, but I've given up these bad habits. Purged my body of paizzens! as they say. Not that I won't backslide for a price, but my number be steep.
Anyhoo, I was caressing the Mapquest, and settled on Mobile.
I like this town. Spent two weeks in flight school there in 1976, and learnt the girls call pralines praaaaaalines. Okra is okry. Those girls were hot. Dumb sexy large-tittied hotties with sweet breath and antsy britches. Not that I was the right ant, but still. And I respect them still.
And, since Bear Bryant is dead, if you have to be in Alabama, it may as well be Mobile.
Sometime in September? Works for me. Helen may or may not happen, but I'm thinking after Oktoberfest. Those people don't like me too much.
Mobile: 7 hours for Jim, 6 hours from Jax, 6 hours from Atlanta. We could stand on the deck of the USS Alabama and scream Tora! Tora! Tora! Fucking Nips.
I would not call this the Nestea Plunge, because there is little to be refreshing, but I say what the fuck? At the very least you can see me bullwhip Jim, then we all go home.
Oh. And Jim said he would bring Marcus, so I won't have to drive down to Gibbtown and purchase any circus freaks, much as we love them.
I normally don't do Public Service Announcement things, being a selfish immoveable bastard, and sullen and costive by nature, but Key is trying to
dump her dog find a suitable home for her German Shepherd, Kira. And I like dogs, and would hate to see this creature go to the gas chamber, or whatever they do when they put these beasts down.
Key claims it is an allergy issue, which I accept at face value, except for the fact the dog e-mailed me, and said it was really a personality clash. But what are you gonna do? Lacking opposable thumbs the dog knows she's history. You can't fight City Hall, or Masters of Destruction.
Someone please take in this poor pooch. I would, but my cat would lacerate the thing until it finally bit the cat's head off. We don't want that. It makes the children cry.
Going once, twicet. Somebody take this
hellhound lovable doggie under their wing. So that I don't have to.
Oh. Post Scriptum: Do she bite? I am told she do not bite. Licks a lot though, so I'm sure there a few bloggers who are thinking peanut butter and Shepherd. Ye have been culled from the list, you fucking perverts. That is all.
I was reading a Kathleen Parker editorial this morning, in which she was lamenting the tendency of designer baby parents to abort foetuses with minor birth defects, such as a clubbed foot. By example she mentioned Lord Byron, a clubfoot, who once swam the Hellespont (Dardenelles Strait) to prove his virility, and vigor.
I'd never known Byron had done that, and thought it an interesting morsel of information.
Then, as I was reading Patrick O'Brian's Treason's Harbour in the pool, I ran across a scene in which Jack Aubrey was talking to a Turkish dragoman, who claimed to have been present when Byron climbed, dripping, from the Hellespont. Now that is a hell of a coincidence. It also confirms my belief that I live a much more boring existence than most people.
Byron swimming the Hellespont is my harmonic convergence? What the fuck?
That's what the Sitemeter read today. I hadn't realized I was coming up on a milestone like that, or I would have bestowed a sugar wafer, or a piece of Pez, upon the lucky visitor. Nor do I care to backtrack to ascertain said visitor. Most likely someone in dire need of information on anal cluster warts, and they found me.
Ach. Well. At this rate I'll have another milestone in three more years. And that Pez nugget should be pretty well cured by then. I have it hanging in the smokehouse.
I've been chastised on the sly by a few peoples for not setting this site to leave the last 4 or so posts up, so that when one goes underground there is at least some verbiage upon the screen, that will stay there until one posts again. Window dressing, as it were. A fiction of content.
I don't care for that. If I don't have fresh stuff, why would I leave the stale, the Olde Stinkye as my nephew called his constipated bowelwork at five years of age, up there? Because it makes the neglected site look normal? It's still viable, doctor. We just have to put the paddles to the pump.
Fuck all that. Iffen my well runs dry, or I am consumed by more pressing issues, I want my readers to see the tabula rasa. The blank fucking slate. That is where I am at the moment. And, as a general proposition, as a nihilist concept, that Big Void is probably more interesting than the tripe I've put up lately. And look:
Pretty sweet, eh? I, personally, was riveted, drawn, to the open space. It speaketh Truth. Of course, I have been known to get a bit self-absorbed at times, too.