Marigot didn't cut the grits with the chirren, BTW, so she's Bella. Should be called Bitah, though. My forearms look like roadkill. Believe she could gnaw through concrete. She's buck-assed wild. She also developed 4 nasty lesions on her back a week after I brought her home, which the vet treated with aggressive injections of velocicoin, spit, and shoe polish. All is well now.
And, yes, she does look rather forelorn. You would, too, if I was your master. And please consider that an open invitation.
Apparently my readers have mistaken me for some sort of pervert, or at the very least a purveyor of perverted information. Witness this request from James Hooker, who calls himself, by the way, the Nipple Whisperer. As if I'M the damned prevert here:
Do you take requests? I have one for you. An essay on the word "cornhole". Just askin'.
Well, now. I don't set myself up as any kind of expert on the issue of cornholing, of course, but I've been privy to the inelegance of the thing, as they say.
First of all, definitions are in order. My understanding of cornholing is man on man ass sex. Bones up the butt. Not to be confused with hedgehogging, which is the penetration of the fair sex's rectum. A totally different enterprise. I believe the outcome, like the in-go, is much the same, but the social repercussions are vastly different. And so, as I read James's request, he is singularly interested in mano a mano buttfucking. Why? No idea. But I get so few direct requests, I thought I'd hep the fellow out.
Ground rules: I've never had anal sex with another man, so anything I say is
suppository supposition, and ejaculation conjectulation. Locker room stories, barroom scaries.
My understanding is gay men like to poke each other in the keister, neither possessing a pussy, and mouths being boring after a while. I saw Ned Beatty get ass-raped in Deliverance, and that was a powerful experience, if by powerful I mean no fucking way! But my gay friends aver they enjoy having their starfish reamed by other men. Some of them say any man. There appears to be a subset of gays who prefer the cornholio (as differentiated from the cornholiee) to be anonymous, in fact. Shudder. But that's cool, I guess. It's not like there are any potentially fatal diseases roaming around out there between ass cheeks, right? All's fair in love and whore.
Brief aside: Girth Vader would split anyone's asshole, man, woman, beast, apart. Lest anyone take my friendly take on the subject as an invitation to solicit me, I am off-limits. Unless you want to wear Depends the rest of your life, and belch your farts, lest you shit yourself. I hate having to post that disclaimer, but, well, there it is.
I believe cornholing is the "missionary" position within the gay community. Far more painful, sure, and yielding far fewer babies. And forget the rhythm method. Don't obtain, as they say.
I almost forgot: Astroglide is the emollient/lubricant of choice for cornholage. Waterproof, discreetly hidden in the back pocket.
Come (heh) to think of it, I know a hell of a lot more about man on man ass fucking than I would like to. But I guess that is a byproduct of the information age. Can't be holped.
I hope this helped, James. And I hope your questioning soul finds the answers it craves. Although, ah, you don't appear to be no spring chicken, and I would hate for you to embark upon a journey you regret, but find yourself too enfeebled to escape from. They lock guys like you up in cages, you know. Call you roosters. Have their way at their leisure. But perhaps, indeed, that is what you seek, after all.
God Bless, and Good Luck, sir.
Number One Google hit for tapir penis. But you knew that.
Who are the fucking screwheads that name their daughter after the last name of a president? It was a joke, you idiots! From Splash! She named herself from a street sign, and now you goddam morons name your daughters after her!
I thought we Boomers were ridiculous with our Joshuas and Katelynne/Caitline/Kaitlyn/Catelyn/Kateline, but you fuckers take the proverbial cake.
Madison ain't a girl's name, you fucking codswollops. Sally is a girl's name. You oh-so-clever shitheads make me puke. Madison. I wouldn't name my dog Madison. And now your child is in school, and every time the teacher calls "Madison!" 15 heads turn around. Very original. Very fucking original.
Of course, at least it ain't the '80's, when every girl born was Brittany Nicole. What the fuck was THAT? I blame the crack epidemic.
Let me give you some normal names. John. Mary. Jesus (for the reconquistas among us). Nice. Simple. No Meghhans allowed. And what's with Megan? That's an Irish name. You Irish? No? Then shut the fuck up with the Megan!
Me? If I ever have a boy, he will be Ramses. A very simple name, if you want your child to be an Egyptian Pharoah, or the imprint on a very fine rubber. See how easy that is? I'm working with you. Work with me.
This story rocks. A man in India has a distended belly that makes him look 9 months pregnant. When, at the age of 36, he is admitted to the hospital in excruciating pain, the doctors operate, thinking it's a giant tumor.
But it's not! It's a mutant baby, his absorbed twin. Limbs, jaw, genitalia... He has a fucking homunculus in him! Body parts living parasitically off him all his life. Even I couldn't make this shit up.
Be sure to watch the video. You don't want to miss the removal of the body parts. Now excuse me while I throw up.
I'll cop right to the nut of the matter: I haven't read that Dickens novel. But the title speaks to me. I know, without Charlie D's blessing, what a bleak house is. Am I a normally ebullient character, brought occasionally low by wicked circumstances, ready to bounce back when the thundercloud has passed?
Nay. I would venture to say I'm psychologically like that Iranian president. Ready for the End Times. Holocaust, apocalypse appeal to me of late.
Face it: the world is on tenterhooks. Someone, somewhere, probably the fucking Persians, will ignite Hell. Nuke Israel. Then retaliation. Then we droppa cuppa. Sucks, but it beats the ennui I've been experiencing. And Lord, how the aurora borealis will flare up! Time for one of those Alaska cruises.
Let us welcome Kelley's newest addition to the blogweir, young Christopher Lee Blight:
He's a handsome fellow, and we shall all love him, but he do seem to exhibit a bit of 'Tude. I did an astrological work up for the little guy via astral projection, and found:
Turn ons: buxom womens, blood in claret glasses, pretty hoo-hoos
Turn-offs: stakes brandished through the heart, garlic, crucifixes
I don't know about you, but I think I'm going to like the little Saruman Dooku. Seems a bit mature for his age, but he has that certain je ne c'est quoi. Non?
And I must say that's one hell of a bassinet.
The strangest thing about the river cottage we had in Bluffton. The front door, which was technically the back door because it faced away from the river, but was the front door, because when guests arrived, that was the door you knocked on, presented the guest unto the shitter. Yes, as the host opened the door, you were greeted by toilet to the right, shower stall to the left, and only after one had traversed the bathroom did one enter the kitchen and den area.
I believe the person who built this little cinderblock monstrosity had envisioned that entrance to function as a pool bath. After exiting the river one could enter the bathroom and dry off without stressing the rest of the house. But it was the fucking front door!
Here's a rich Senator story. Legend amongst us, never spoken of here. My Cousin A---- used to spend summers with us, to escape her rather nosy mom, and she being of an age with my sisters. Quite normal, actually, and we loved having her. We'd have to reintroduce her to the Senator's idiosyncrasies each summer, however. Fer innance:
A--- awakened in the Bluffton cottage one night in desperate need of a pee. As the little place only had one bathroom (front door), nestled between the only two bedrooms, she ventured out of the bedroom she shared with my sisters to pee. She was probably 15, I add as background.
Now, the Senator loved himself a good piss when he was in the throes of Canadian whisky, so much so that he would ensconce himself upon the terlit (he sat to pee. How weird is that?) and have a good little nap, Marlboro butt a smoking in his limp fingers. This wasn't his normal state of nature, of course, he being a rather formidable and erect, stiff-backed sort of man as a rule, but of a weekend he could let the hair down, if a crewcut can do that sort of thing.
He could let the hair down. And so poor A--- left the bedroom for a much-needed whiz when she was beaten to the draw by the Senator, who was two steps ahead of her into the pissoir. She cursed her luck, but figured the boxer-clad uncle would do his business and leave anon, so she waited. And waited. Then peered into the bathroom, because the old man had no compunction about doors, or their purposes, when he was befuddled, and there he were, agently asnoozing upon the seat of ease.
She cursed her luck again, and lay back down, figuring if she could catch 40 winks she could pee in privacy.
And yet... and yet, I say, when she awakened an hour later and headed for the bathroom, she was greeted by the sight of the Senator stepping into the bathroom two steps ahead of her again, oblivious, Marlboro dangling from his lips, a dreamstate expression upon his face that could only mean I sleep well here.
Well, there you go. Poor A--- pissed in the yard, even as afeared of possums and critters as she was. Which is what I would have done in the first place. But nobody woke me up. I'd'a told them.
Well, they finally found the hidden backpack/jihad bomb yesterday. I know because I broke for lunch from a training session and security had that whole side of the building ribboned off. Bomb squad on the way. But no announcement! No evacuation! Well, except for a little something special I left for the janitors in the mens' room.
I was pissed. Kind of threw the whole post below into a bit of a Chicken Little thing. And I didn't have to tell you this, either, but I'm a stand up guy.
What did I do? I walked over to the security guards, and said 'I saw that yesterday. I was going to tell you about it, but it stopped ticking. For a little while.'
Now, irony ain't high on the attributes they look for in a security guard. I'll just leave it at that. But I think they brought out the skidmark sniffing dog from the K-9 unit instead of the explosives sniffer, because he turned around and gave them that baleful, defeated look that said Yes. Bum shit drawers. May I have my fucking treat now, you sick cocksuckers?
The ranching of the chinchilla rodent still goes on, of course, as there is always the demand for pets, and pelt. But some of you will remember the insane fad nature of chinchy ranching in the late '60's and early '70's.
This was back in the days before PETA paintgunned models, when people still recognized the fact that humans had been been wearing animal fur since they had risen erect from the primordial swamp known as Nancy Pelosi, and the wearing of such still had some panache.
But mink coats were expensive back then, and Joe Smirnoff was torn between buying that Chevelle SuperSport, or that mink coat for his harridan wife. Rabbit fur was popular, and soft, but it was extremely fluffed up, making women look retentive of the local waters.
Enter the humble rat, the chinchilla. Touted as having the softest of all furs, and being modestly priced, it was a potential gold mine for the crapulent, dissolute, capital constrained get-rich-quicker white trash. See, they figured all they needed, since they were sitting upon a bit of barren, loess-less dirt, was a few dozen of these rats, which would breed promiscuously. Then all they had to do was knock them on the head, skin them, and sell the pelts to scurrilous wholesalers driving beat to shit 1967 Olds Vista Cruisers.
This was all the rage back then, I swear. Like the ostrich/emu thing a few years back. But fur fell out of favor, farm subsidies proved more lucrative, ranchers felt the pet raising model more conducive to their inner self. But for about 8 years, eveyone was raising and clubbing those velvety little rodents.
Not that the Senator would let me. I thought he was missing a golden thing, too. But chinchilla skinners were not the sort of people he wanted around his girls, I guess. He could be such an elitist like that.
I was downstairs this morning, outside the Tower of Babel, puffing a smeengie in true drugstore cowboy fashion, when I noticed a backpack hidden in the viburnum in the bed next to me. Right next to a load-bearing wall, I might add, of a 30 story building. Now, I knew what this was: vagrant booty, ensconced in the shrubbery for safety while the owner did a little free-form panhandling. Shit-streaked underdrawers, sweat stained shirts, fetid, corrupt socks. And yet, Orange Alert Velociman saw the security guard rounding the corner, and a malevolent thought crept into my head.
You see, if a security guard is shown something like that, why, she is duty bound to report it to the fuzz. And then there are SWAT teams, bomb squads, the place is encircled with fire engines, the bloodmobile curbside is dragged by heavy chain to the Omni parking lot, 2,000 workers are evacuated.
I finished that cigarette, and then lit a second one. This was a rare opportunity. I could execute a terror-threat meltdown by showing the guard this thing. Which, of course, they never would have seen. It was extremely well hidden. I only saw it because since I've owned a camera phone I'm always on the look out for a piss-sodden, or hopefully dead, vagabond curled up in the bushes. Because I love you people, and want to share with you. And, of course, get on the six o'clock news.
"Yeah, I knew he was dead, because of the way his tongue was swallered back in his haid. Happened to my Aunt Cecelia. What concerned me though, miss, was whether he'd defecated hisself afterwards, which is why security found me in the viburnia, removin his britches."
Now, yes. This story has velocopprobrium writ large on it, but as I ground out the second butt, I thought nah. As much as I'd love to cause general and dyspeptic panic among my fellow tower dwellers and coworkers, while I had already safely removed to the Omni bar for an absinthe, part of me, the safety-trained part of me, thought the price of a grim chuckle too high. People DO panic in these situations, and some peoples may have been forced down 20, 30 flights of stairs to escape, leaving them cardiacally challenged, or trodden under foot like a Who concert.
No, I do dearly love my diabolical pleasures, but I prefer to keep them limited to 1, 2, 3 targeted assholes. 2,000 is a stretch even by my megalomaniacal standards. Plus, there are three or four hotties in that building I would have felt real remorse over, should they have been stompid.
Still, it would have been splendid. Did I mention the possibility that really could have been a bomb? No. But I still strapped on my homemade hi-rise parachute, just in case, being on the 27th floor. I know for a fact it safely drops a neighbor's cat from 30 feet, but I'm not into the beta-testing phase yet. Can't get my boss to cooperate, that pussy.
And you know what to do. No, put down the whip. It's Leslie's birthday, so go wish her well. I hear she's showing her cupcakes, by the way.
I am mocked. Or paeaned, as the case may be. I retort, you deride, as they say. I'll survive. Bigger. Stronger. Way stupider.
Perhaps my fascist soul creeps unto nostalia at times, or I've suffered yet another debilitating pinstroke, but I swear I miss the good old days, when we had a string of amenable dictators around the world, protecting our interests. It was expensive, sure, but not as expensive as this clusterfuck in Iraq, where we won't do the necessary thing to win, i.e. punish them mercilessly.
Yes, I long for the days of the Shah of Iran, Somoza in Nicaragua, Pinochet in Chile, Napoleon Duarte in El Salvador. And yes, I know they were strong arm thugs. But who cares? I really don't care how many thumbs the Shah's SAVAK broke. Not my problem. As John Hiatt said,
There's only two things in life. I forget what they are.
Well, I remember. They are
1. Nobody's fucking with ME.
2. Nobody's fucking with ME.
And I cleave unto that philosophy (He may be a bastard, but he's OUR bastard). Everything else is just sophistry, and you know it. Don't like Persian jail cells? Don't piss off the regime, emigrate to America, and hew to the American Dream. And those other dictators? The non-amenable ones? Franco, Castro, Mao? Why, they were by definition evildoers because they didn't participate in the Dream. Moral equivalence? Maybe. I prefer to call it easy math.
The Shah may have been a right bastard, but you didn't have embassies sacked, hostages taken, Revolutionary Guards firing missiles into Israel, Shia insurgencies in Iraq, worldwide terror funding, under Pahlavi. Plus he kept the oil tankers full of light sweet crude at cheap rates. My kind of guy.
I'll tell you something else. Saddam was our boy once. We just fucked up and didn't tell him Kuwait was off limits. He thought he had the green light. He was killing Islamofascists by the thousands before that! I don't care how many mass graves he had.
1. Nobody was fucking with ME.
2. Nobody was fucking with ME.
At least, nobody Iraqi.
And finally, as if I have not been cynical enough, why haven't we hunkered down with the Chinese? They have a standing army of 400 million people or so, whose lifes are worth zip fucking kadiddle there. Our soldiers, on the other hand, are precious. We could cut the Chinee loose in a great Mongol-like swath, with caveats (leave the Tibetans and Israelis alone. Survivors get a Chevy Impala) that scoured south Asia of all vestiges of Islamonazis. The Chinees' thirst for oil would have to be slaked, of course, but I figure Iran would make a nice new territory for the Sinoregime. They might even gobble up North Korea if we let them.
Either I am an omniscient world power broker, or I should have laid off the LSD during those RISK marathons. Either way, at least I have a plan.
My sister tells me eBay is planning to auction some of Ted Kaczynski's stuff to raise money for the $15 million the mad bomber owes his victims.
Now, part of me finds that repellent. That would be the 1% part of me. But Sweet Bumping Baby Jesus! The opportunity to own the Unabomber's toenail clippers might just force me into a bidding war. Although I don't think he ever clipped his toenails, so it may lose a bit of its cachet on the cocktail circuit, there being no jam in the creases.
I always get the South American statues of Christ of the Andes:
which is on the Chile/Argentine border, confused with the statue of Christ the Redeemer:
which overlooks Rio de Janeiro. Pretty fucking silly, I give ya. But I like them both. Not that I'm a Papist, or glom to the Inquisition, but the fact that they still exist at least puts the Islamonazis to rest. The Taliban would have blowed them up by now.
Imagine being an Amerindian, though. In North America you are forced into reservations, wherein you succumb to alcoholism and loserism. In South America you just walk around glum, and pissed, and antisocial. Because those Christo's tower over you. Your ancestors pretended to love the X thing to avoid the methodical removal of their eyeballs, and noses, and ears, by sweet Toledo steel. But 500 years later you're still screwed.
Still, you could be Yanomami, natives. Anyone who has taken Anthropology 101 knows Yanomamo: the Fierce People." Oh, yes. Blowing ebene up each others' noses, getting fucked to the gills, and beating each others' skulls in with stone axes. Rousseau's elegant State of Nature, that misguided fuckface. I personally think these pindicks were better off fending away smallpox from Spanish Inquisitories (wtf? new word) than getting their brainpans bashed by their neighbors. Because there were like, 4 Yanomami tribes. Once a year 2 would have a treaty with each other, and attack a 3rd. Whilst fucked up on ebeni. Very sweet. Like rushing a frat.
Reminds me: I cannot fathom why Islamos are such furious haters without alcohol abuse being involved. That kind of putrid hate generally has a chemical background. I chalk it up to grisled little peckers, I do. No manhood. No other way to explain it.
Oh. And by the way: I don't see any whips, or scourges, or severed heads in the Nazarene's hand. Just saying.
And may my Israeli friends kill many. Many.
Sorry for the poor picture quality, but it was a Break Left Moment, if you know what I mean. That license plate says 4 SKYNRD, as post-apocalyptic an expression as one can find in Freakville, which is what Lex & Terry dubbed my domicile long ago.
That's why I don't go to sports bars, even for a Main Event. Because there is always some braying jackass of a Gator fan, swaying to an imaginary breeze, longneck in hand, foam-flecked spittle upon his crusted lips, screaming Lynyrd Skynyrd best fuck rock roll band WORLD!
Yea, verily, sonny. Now gimme three steps so I don't beat you senseless. Or, better yet, give me a Saturday Night Special so I can drill you between the eyes. Because you would look wonderful bleeding out on this peanut husk encrusted floor. You fucking screwhead.
Georgia roots run long and deep. And if you don't believe me, why, I'll whip it out and show you.
I was boring The Bride with yet another monologue on the inscrutability of the Marthambles ailment when she reminded me of the Miseries. Yes. When we were children, black folk always complained about it. "I have the miseries in my back. I have the miseries in my laig. I gots the miseries in my groins."
Beautiful stuff, that. Cuts to the fucking chase. A white person will befuddle a doctor for hours on end with gussied up symptoms, and phantom neuroses. But a black person could just say I gots the miseries and doc would understand, and set it aright.
Perhaps not as exotic as hearing Gullah for the first time, that honored patois. If you needed ice or cigarettes on Daufuskie Island in the olden days, and went to the only confectionary shack near Bloody Point, you'd better, even at 7 or 8 years old, have a smattering of Gullah in your lingua franca. Geechee would work as a crutch, both languages being a sort of Bantu speak your maid spoke. And your maid was the godhead. You spoke her dialect if you wanted anything. (Or you would be ignored. Britches-pissing is universal, however. That transcends all languages.) Gullah was Carolina, Geechee was Georgia. But they understood one enough to clabber together a damned Nat Turner moment, so watch out.
The Miseries. What an elegant term. I love it. In fact, I suffer from it. Please call me. I'll tell you all about it.
Saw this tee shirt in Philipsburg. It spoke to me on an incredibly visceral level. Shudda bought it.
When I re-read the Aubrey-Maturin series of novels I was continually perplexed by Maturin's use of the term "the marthambles" as a malady he was only partially successful in curing. Apparently it could be quite fatal. O'Brian would only say that it "was known as the marthambles at sea and griping of the guts by land".
Griping of the guts? Lord, I'm pretty sure I'm afflicted with that, although I didn't know it could be fatal. The term escapes all known lexicography, although this is a good explanation of sorts. And I don't think bark and steel, as successful as it was with other diseases, cured the marthambles.
In wine, truth. When one is drunk they speak their truth. I've always hated that conundrum. It is at least two millenia old, but it is the falsest, the most bullshit of truisms. I recoil at the mention of the phrase.
And, yes, I will speak of Mel Gibson, and his anti-Semitic diatribe against his arresting officer. I didn't want to. Swore I wouldn't.
I like Mel. Think he makes good cartoons that pass for movies. But I have no truck with his statements upon being arrested for DUI, and his subsequent anti-Jew statements to his arresting officer. But let us explore what he really did.
Gibson is an alcoholic. No issue there. He'll brag about it as he has an AA meeting on set. What he told that cop was not anti-Semiticism to me, though. It was drunkard anger. I know this horrible thing. I've been in my cups, and you may have been too, when you were in a situation where you knew you were fucked, and you reached for the biggest shit bat you could find to hurt the person fucking your world. Been there.
Oh, I've been there. It is a defense mechanism. What will hurt them most? In this case Gibson had a Jewish arresting officer. So he played the Jew card. If the officer had been Turkish he may have played the Armenian card.
But, the fact remains, Mel was raised by a psycho fringe Papist dad who filled his head full of crazy shit about Jews. Fair enough. Not Mel's problem, though.
Mel's problem is alcohol, and how drunken people hurt each other with it. My point?
There isn't Truth In Alcohol. Cocksucking bullshit. Look: we all have a bit of nastiness in us which we let fly when we are drunk. Phrases, words, designed to hurt. I'm guilty. Way fucking guilty. But it is only the evil part of us. Not our essential soul that makes us cool 99% of the time.
I went to school at Virginia Heard Elementary, Savannah Country Day, and Emory Law School with unbelievably cool Jewish peeps, so that is not, has never been, my bugaboo. I love the Jewish people. But I can get drunk and tee off on anyone else. You ain't protected. Not because I hate your Moroccan, or black, ass, but because as I am drunk I take the path of least resistance, and slide the stiletto between your ribs.
That's all. Nothing personal. Just something incredibly shameful.
I've seen this evil in me. I've been guilty of it. As for Mel Gibson, I could give a flip shit. Just saying, there ain't no truth in alcohol. But there can be plenty of hate. For a love drug, there can be plenty of hate.
Gibson took the path of least resistance, unfortunately. Sucks, too. What sucks more is the fact that I've been there. I struggle with it, and think I tend to be a nice guy, but who knows? Ultimately it is my friends' call, not mine. What kind of man am I, indeed?
A quick poll to determine the most common name usage for the thingy shown above. Comments are also welcome. Humor me.
I didn't tell you what happened to The Bride upon our arrival in St. Maarten, did I? Well! She proceeded, as we were progressing to Immigration, to trip upon herself, her luggage, and so lay waste to her kneecaps. In a word or two, they were bloody, skinned, denuded. They were ugly. They looked, I must tell you, like a most egregious case of rugburn of the knees.
I must confess I forgot about the poor girl's malady until I started receiving some very attentive work from the French waitstaff. Now, I'll confess to being no fucking Lothario this trip, being content to rub my belly and exclaim "Ain't it grand?!?" ever so often, but those Frenchies thought I was obviously a sexual daemon.
The waiters would deliver my wine with a sly whispered "Les rotules, extraordinaire!". The females would put a little extra "Voila!" in my "Voila!".
Hey. I took whippings when I didn't deserve them. I'll certainly take credit for a damned case extraordinare of the rugburn of the knee. Why, I was the cock of the walk to them folks.
The Guavaberry Man is the cockstud of Sint Maarten. As prevalent as Lenin, as dispostive as Mao. The Guavaberry Man rules the island. All meals end with a salutory shot of guavaberry rum. His visage peers at you from the airport customs room to the shitter in a lolo to your bathroom sink.
The Guavaberry Man sees all. He is at once mentor, captor, shaman.
All hail him, lest he suck your soul dry.
I'd mentioned Peter and Floyd in my last post, as irredeemable screwheads, but never really elaborated on that theme. Now, I say, as I cox my comb, I will. Screwheads they were, but certainly likeable fellows. Floyd was even gentle, in his way. Peter? No. But he had his qualities.
I am reminded of a time when the Senator decided he needed to haul some bales of hay, or somesuch, and had Peter and Floyd, his itinerant, on-again-off-again employees, endeavor the task. It was pretty simple stuff, involving nothing more that hitching a little flatbed trailer to the Ranchero. And yet Floyd fucked it up. Managed to drop the pistle, if that is what you call it, on his brother's foot. Looked painful, too. Peter was hallooing, and cursing Floyd something fierce. It were an event. We were just goggle-eyed, being too little to lift the pistle off Peter's foot, and help out, so we just watched the events unfold. Floyd eventually got the pistle off Peter's foot, and Peter put his switchblade away. First time I ever saw a Negro brandish a blade. Not my last.
Peter and Floyd were totally fucking insane as employees, mostly because of Floyd's retarded nature. Funny thing, though. After Peter went up the river for slicing someone open I ended up working with Floyd, between college and law school. The Senator's best friend had an electrical supply shop, and I worked there for a few months. And there was Floyd! Still stupid as a brickbat. Our job (for Floyd was my assistant) was to sell lighting fixtures to heavily bosomed Savannah matrons as they restored downtown brownstones at thrice the most egregious of retail rates. And the women lined up. Loved to spend that money. $1,200 ceiling fans in 1979 dollars for half-assed product. Jesus Christo. I also installed them, and would take Floyd to be my ladder guy. Tried to pimp him a few times to the bosomy matrons out of pure fuckaround, but never got the bite I wanted. For Floyd, although stupid as dogshit, was a fine specimen of a man, good-looking, cut like a damned weight lifter. Thought there might be some juice for us there. He smelled repellent, though. Maybe that was it. Or perhaps it was his accursed habit of answering every statement with "Dog Diggity!" Floyd was not the moneymaker I thought he'd be. Too bad, too. He'd a been a king hell porn star, given the right mixture of medication, not available at that juncture.
Still, I miss those guys. Peter, not so much. After his prison stint he didn't come around too much. I suspect he is a Muslim, converted by some Elijah Muhammed Lite. Floyd because, well, I really don't know what the fuck happened to him. I smell a road trip, though. Who's in?
Or... wherein I fuck up again. Listen, though:
Before we moved to the farm we owned the farm. The old man had originally bought it, and sold it to my mother, as a weekend getaway type thing. And she, in her gloried naivete, swallowed that hook. At first the Senator built a tar paper shack. Well, a little better than that, but not much. It had corrugated asbestos sides, and I remember helping lay cheap shitty tile with what was apparently black tar for adhesive. The place reeked of the decayed, and it leaked vile insects. Earwigs, scorpions, cockroaches. Which stuff boys love, of course. Who wouldn't love a house that bled disgusting creatures that made your sisters wet their panties? It was glorious stuff.
The old man had also let Shorty place his trailer next to our house, so that we would have neighbors, however arboreal and knuckle-dragging and sinfully retarded they may be. It was a 1930's twenty foot pull behind trailer, in faded flamingo pink, scallop-shaped in what passed for white trash art deco in 1935. It possessed rats in addition to our insect creatures. The floor was decorated in mouse traps; a nice touch, I might add.
Anywelter, one fine day, I figure it must have been the fourth of July, because I was sweating like a tampered hog, and there were flags, we set off for the farm. The Senator stopped at a roadside gig, manned by inbreds, for a watermelon. The physician and writer Ferrol Sams from Forsythe, Georgia claims blacks called them wallermillions. And that is true. We had two black fellows, brothers, Peter and Floyd, who called them that. Iffen you would buy them one. Floyd was stupid as a dirt clod, and would wreak havoc on any enterprise the two lit into. Peter was smarter, with a grasping cunning, which landed him in the state penitientiary at Reidsville a few years later. That always saddened me, for Floyd was bereft without Peter. Sad, sad.
But back to wallermillions. The old man pulled up, and told me to get out. As 4th of 5 every now and then mom would nudge the goat to ENGAGE! And so I had to help him select the melon. The Senator liked to thump melons for freshness. He also liked to thump heads. He'd pop your head and say "Sounds empty, boy! Don't want a melon like that!" And of course you'd say "No sir! Don't want a melon like that! Like my head!" But ritual bonding aside, we found the perfect melon, and took it to the farm.
Now it gets good: as my father told me to fetch the melon, I did. And as I brought it out, to the wondering eyes of all around, I dropped it. It exploded. Fuck! It was heavy! You could have heard a pin drop. Everyone expected a huge beating of the Velociboy. I'd screwed the pooch, after all, and as I recall, although the retrospection may be fuzzy, the Senator's eyes were blazing like two red hot coals.
I deserved a whup, but I didn't get one. Maybe a glare from my mother, maybe the old man remembering a dropped melon from his past. We toasted marshmallows. And sweet they were. Even with Shorty's tribe there, barely refraining from licking the goddamed spatulas. But trash is like that. What you gonna do? Anyhoo, it worked out alright, but I knew my butt was beat.