Elisson warned me today I would be lumped with cat-bloggers and homeysexuals and anthrax-snorters if I left that gay-assed sunset picture up. You know, like the corner he's painted himself into.
So I found this pink ape in the trash, my daughter having decided to chuck it. I'd keep it, but it's pink. I might send it to Elisson, but the whole concept of a grown man sending another man a pink primate screams pinned in the corner at the bath house! to me...
Query: Should I keep the ape, and overlook its pinkitude? A monkey's a monkey's a monkey, you know. Or give it to Elisson, as more befitting his rather flamboyant gaucho lifestyle? In fact, perhaps we should let Elli May His Ownself weigh in first.
Here's a sunset over the dunes at Ponte Vedra Beach, corruptly taken with a cellphone, so quality is disgusting.
But I did take the puppy to the beach, because even though she is a spasmodified 25 pounds now, she is still a babe magnet, and the women like to give you a shot of ample cleavage as they lean over to stroke her belly. I am a huge fan of the breast enhancement, by the way. Beauty may only be skin deep, but I'm no cannibal.
I was originally going to call this post He Is Risen, because it looks like a funeral parlor fan one would see in a country church pew of an Easter Sunday, but the breast imagery overcame me. No nipplage in church, you know.
Like many of you, I'm sure you have certain things, bugaboos, that keep you awake at night. I'll cop to career, mortgage, a child in college, a 13 year old goth girl, a flesh eating ghoul of a puppy, exploding issues of all varieties.
But what really keeps me up at night, as I'm sure it does many a male on this continent, is the age-old question: who would win an Ultimate Fighting Championship between Ernest Borgnine and Moe Howard? In the Octagon?
Initial Vegas action would be on Borg-9. He was in the Wild Bunch, and Fat Cat in The Adventurers. A tough hombre. But wait! Moe is a dirty fighter, too. A poker of eyes, a kicker of nuts. He may be slight, but he fights dirty. A biter, too, I suspect. Look at the abuse he laid on Larry Fine.
And so I lay awake, turning over the possibilities in my mind. Borg or Moe? After several months of tossing and turning, I decided to turn it over to the Intrepids. I can't handicap this one. I will say this: whoever wins, it fucking rocks.
You know, the Velocisister's birthday was last Sunday. I thought about writing a post, since some of you met her in Helen. But women are funny about their ages, you know. They take umbrage when you tell everyone how old they are. But what's the fun writing about a birthday if you can't reveal the person's age?!?
So I decided to compromise: here's her age in Sanskrit:
Amazing, too! She doesn't look a day over चतुर् नवन् !!!!
Some of you (at least the ones with no life whatsoever) may recall my post about stepping on a cactus last year, and how the needles embedded in my foot. You will no doubt also recall how I complained and whinged like the damned little baby girl I am about it. How weeks later I was still whining.
Then the pain went away, and I thought I was okay. Until a few months ago, when it came back. I was sure that last embedded needle was working its inexorable way back out to freedom, anxious to join its brethren in what passes for needle park in my yard, the potting shed.
Well, pain being the bastard offspring of obduracy and pigheadedness, I finally went to the dermatologist yesterday to have the fiend removed. And was I embarrassed. You see, it wasn't an embedded needle at all, but a plantar wart. It seems injuries like the cactus, or stepping on broken glass, traumatize an area, and make it ripe for a plantar wart to develop. So I got it frozed off. Only it's big, and deep. Imagine one of those incense cones inverted, and jammed into your footie. About like that. So it will take three trips to burn and cut the thing out.
But: did I mention what a total hottie the PA was who worked on me? Good God. About 27, a cross between an angel and a stripper. Great sense of humor, too. We
traded witty bantacisms bantered witticisms about while she carved and frozed. Tickled my foot several times, too, the minx. And let's face it: what's more sexy than a wizened, middle-aged veteran of the drug wars, especially when he has his fetid dog in your nose, and you're having to carve some grotesquery out of it? It was like a dream date.
I've already made several more appointments. I'm finding all sorts of little oddities on my body that need looking at. Although I'm figuring next time I'll get the substitute PA for some strange reason. You know: Frau Sadismacher. Looks like Shirley Stoler and smells like dick cheese. But maybe not. That hottie probably got into this line of work for the interesting foot necrotics. Just like some people aspire to be rectum doctors.
Will I keep you in the loop? Of course.
Key Monroe had her tonsils removed today. That has to smart. Me? Never seen the innards of a hospital since they discharged me at 22" length, 7" height. I'm terrified of hospitals, and scapulae.
Please go visit my dear friend, and make sure you sign the guest book.
I'm seriously running out of Senator stories here. At least the ones that beg repeating. I love my old man enough I'll keep a few to myself. And even I am not accorded that dignity (a few to myself), having exposed myself in my most egregious states to bloggers, of all people. There's yer fucking discretion, Velociman. You numbnuts.
Anyway, the Senator and his law partner at the time, a great true friend, bought a boat called the Big Mama. A 26 foot convertible, suitable for partying or fishing. A big step up for the Senator, who'd been buying 17 footers to troll his children around in.
Now, the opportunity to do the right thing by the collective kids was huge with the Big Mama, but, alas, I only had one excursion on that bitch. And I was vomited upon by a 6-year-old. But that's an old story.
That thing became, instead, some nefarious floating ISSUE with the distaff side of the respective houses. Meaning, at some point, the Collective Wife, inured to false tales, had smoked out the fact that the Big Mama was a floating hootchie pad. Or somesuch.
I won't elaborate, other than to say, those were trying times for little souls. I just wanted a boat ride. But apparently the line was very long, and little souls queued up at the rear.
I figure, or surmise, complete whoredom. Insane drunken stenotypists swinging from the tiny little chandelier of the Big Mama, tits asway, cooters agape. But that's just my prurient self. I'm merely disappointed there was no bias to inoculate the little Velociboy against tarts by, say, indulging the little fart.
Ah. well. We're all mad at Dad for something, right?
Query: who's going to make it up to me? I've been wronged!
I love Little Richard.
He is my androgynous niggah.
Plenty of people tell you they invented rock and roll. Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, Bill Haley. None so vociferously as Little Richard. But I think, of all of them, he was right. Tutti-Frutti. Dat my boy.
Little Richard kicked the fucking ass. Lookah him with the Fabs:
They owned the world then, they were healing cripples, they were having insane sex with hot groupies, they could do no wrong, but they just wanted to be in a pic with Lil.
When they wanted to change the Georgia flag, I suggested a quadrant flag: one corner Little Richard, one corner James Brown, one quarter Otis Redding, one quarter Ray Charles. Fucking sweet, I say. I was, of course, shot down.
But that's my affirmative action. And those are my home boys.
I love Little Richard.
A whap baba luah, a whap bam boom!
I saw this over at You Bitch:
You know, I don't even visit my blogroll for entertainment anymore. It's just a fucking damage control thing.
Although I must admit he gave me some very hot titties. I wonder if my tongue can reach them. And what does the crotch spell? V. That's right.
I need some help, Gentle Enablers. I've been trying to draw a cartoon of Pope Benedict buggering Mohammed while smiting him with a six-foot cross of gold. Mohammed is wearing a gag-ball, by the way. But my drawing skills are weak. I can't get the gag-ball right. I would like to e-mail this to a few al-Qaeda websites. Stir up a little shit.
They say Descartes was the only person to ever draw a perfect circle freehand, you know, and he's dead. Or maybe it was some guy in Xenia, Ohio. I forget, but I remember seeing it in a Ripley's Believe It Or Not comic in 1968. So the circle for the gag-ball is an issue.
Perhaps I need models, the better to understand the flow of the human form whilst being reamed. That's where you come in. So to speak. Help me out here.
Here's a Senator story for you.
There is a game we always played called Bonanza, growing up. There is a newfangled version (dating back only 80 years or so) called Michigan Rummy. The idea is, you have a board, with certain things laid out as prizes. You have your Pot, and Kitty, of course, but you also have the Queen of Diamonds, the Ace of Spades, the Jack of Clubs, the ten of hearts, the King of Hearts, the King and Queen of Hearts, and: here me brethren and sistren, the 6-7-8 of ANY suit.
So one is dealt cards, and as they play out in canasta fashion one is rewarded with the ante in each individual pot.
Did I mention the 6-7-8 must be of the same suit? Yes. ANY suit, but the same suit. Therefore winning it was rare, and the pot within that egregious slice would grow, and grow, and grow. Until it was a veritable begum's fortune.
And so it was one night, when my parents were playing Bonanza on the fantail of a party boat. All is good, the liquor is flowing like the tides. And the Senator has been muttering.
Loses at cards, wins at love! he would bark. I know this, because he inculcated that in me over the years. Loses at cards wins at love, he told me. Meaning he couldn't play poker worth a shit, but was sanguine of his romantic prospects, I reckon.
At any rate, they had been playing on the fantail of this boat with good friends, and the Senator drew a 6-7-8, and his chops were glistening. See, he had won $3,000 in a poker game during World War II, and had sent it back to his momma, and had sworn never to play cards again, but he was breaking Lady Luck's hymen here, and pressing on. And yet. Just. Just. Just as he was about to play his 6-7-8, and reap that glorious fortune, Reesie Seig played a 6-7-8, and scalloped all that money unto herself. Literally scraped the damned board clean of all that filthy lucre right under his nose, just as he was about to play his 6-7-8 in all its glory. A begum's fortune, indeed.
The Senator, of course, did what any red-blooded American male would do. He took the entire playboard, and poker chips, and playing cards, and cocktails, and waiter, I suspect, and threw them over the fantail. Into the briny deep. And cursed them with words I would be embarrassed to reveal, although I understand he called the dealer a peccant bastard, and demanded justice, being only denied by the fact there was no dealer, just two couples playing cards.
Funny the things you remember as a child. I should be ashamed of the old man for that, and yet. And yet. And yet. THERE GO I!!!
I love it when a crop comes full circle. Or a circle comes full crop.
It seems Shoe and Dash are concerned that some mo-rons think there is a secret cabal that discreetly sets oil prices in order to sway national elections. That's nuts! And I laud their astute observations. However, I would be remiss without answering the following questions Dash poses:
I have a few questions.
How do they replace their members who die or go to jail, e.g. Ken Lay?
Is there a waiting list to join the fraternity?
Does it have to be limited to 10 members?
Do they have a secret handshake and hold ritualistic meetings where they chant esoteric mantras?
I think I'm starting to get the picture. It's kinda like a mini-cult.
What if somebody like Ross Perot or T. Boone Pickens wants to join and they get snubbed?
Are there any members of OPEC involved?
Do they have an "English only" rule when conducting important business or do they hire interpreters and swear them to secrecy?
Why hasn't the NYT blown this wide open?
Does Bill Clinton know about this?
Did these guys have anything to do with the destruction of the World Trade Center? (You know that was an inside job, right?)
Is Dick Cheney the Imperial Grand Dragon and Donald Rumsfeld Sergeant-at-Arms?
Are these the same guys who are responsible for global warming?
Do Dan Rather and Bill Maher know about this? Etc, etc.
Inquiring minds want to know.
1. Ken Lay was our patsy. He wasn't really in the club, we just used him to place a shitload of SOX consultants. Then we snuffed him.
2. No waiting list. We pick replacements at Skull and Bones covens over the polished cranium of Aaron Burr.
3. There are in fact only seven of us, with three floaters in the punchbowl, one of whom is Mr. Hanky.
4. No secret handshake, but we can all wiggle our ears and dicks. As to ritualistic meetings, see #2. The only mantra we chant is the lyrics to Inna-Gadda-Da-Mammon.
5. Ross Perot and T. Boone Pickens are, in fact, the same person, code named Janus. And yes, he is on the Committee.
6. We don't have any OPEC members per se, but we do make Prince Abdullah stand naked in the cloakroom during meetings, wearing nipple clamps and singing Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport.
7. We have an English Only policy, however we prefer to call it American Only.
8. The NYT hasn't blown this wide open because they are too busy blowing Valerie Plame wide open.
9. Yes, Bill Clinton is aware of this. After we told him we spooted on his blue dress to swear him to secrecy.
10. Did something happen to the World Trade Center? Sorry, been too busy counting in the counting house, and baking blackbirds into pies.
11. Dick Cheney is actually the Grand Cyclops (a cock reference); Rumsfeld is known as the White Kamelia (another cock reference).
12. Responsible for global warming? Heh. You should see Condi breakdance to It's Getting Hot in Here.
13. Who are Dan Rather and Bill Maher? A comedy team?
Hope this clears things up, Dash. And by the way, do you have a spare Mexican to start your car tomorrow morning?
Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez calling our noble president, Alky McHalliHitler, the Devil, and saying he still smelled the sulphur in the UN, reminded me of this post.
I am a constant source of amusement to myself. Why, just the other day I put up a terribly craven post. For 39 comments. I've dug low for comments before, but even I was almost ashamed of that one. But, as I say, it amused me, and at the end of the day, Hey! What the fuck.
Like little lemmings our Religion of Peace confreres are, plunging over the cliff. They only lack explosive belts, and targets, at times. Oh, and cries of Allahu Akhbar! (God is Acid!)
Only lemmings don't do that. Walt Disney did that.
Legend had it, you see, that lemmings plunged over cliffs to their sad deaths, apparently distraught over their Bank Americard balances, and the fact that Eisenhower's heart attacks didn't kill him, even as his Mephistopheles, Allen Dulles, was lacing Allen Ginsberg's rope with strychnine. But life imitates art.
And so, as Disney producers were filming the 1958 Leni Riefenstahl classic White Wilderness, they were nonplussed that the acussed lemmings behaved like ordinary rodents, i.e. milling around and fucking each other at random. But legend, again, had it that lemmings were crazed beasts during mating season, and followed each other over cliffs unto their doom in orgiastic frenzy. And this behavior would be filmed for posterity; to prove to the godless Soviets that we weren't decadent, goddam it, and found such wanton stuff beneath our apple pie slices from Woolworth's. So the producers intentionally herded the little scoundrels over the cliff. They whacked them apurpose. And they exploited little Eskimo children in the process as well, making the little pagan blubber eaters round up the lemmings, no doubt telling them it was a mere lemming Red Rover tournament.
And so Uncle Walt, that tireless Jew-baiter, not only killed Bambi's mom, he also had his minions mass-murder helpless lemmings. And the crew probably feasted upon their smashed entrails; but that is pure conjecture on my part, I must confess.
I, for one, was scarred by this slight of hand bullshit. I saw this supposed documentary in the 1960's and took it as Gospel, and subsequently attempted to herd my dogs off the bluff of our river cottage. To no avail. Even a mangy hound knows better than to cleave unto Disney propaganda, or 11 year old boys' screwbound misunderstandings.
All of this is apropos of nothing, of course, except for the fact that I read the comment thread on my last post today, and although I had no intention of posting, this story immediately sprang to mind. I thought I would share it, for what it's worth.
I think it is fitting that I sign off with a novel title from he whom I adore and alternately hate, that damned Garcia Marquez bastard.
I can't find any friction here. I can't think of anything I would like to do here, and haven't already. I've been deep hot buttered soul and fucking jackanape, and it all comes down to seriously disturbed entertainment. Nothing more, nothing less.
I sigh, and wonder how few people actually got what I was doing. Everything was on the second level. Jack Straw got it, at times, Rankin' Rob did, a few of you others. But the freakshow, the disturbed baby, the disgusting THING I threw out there was just the homunculus, just the trip wire to make you think as your legs were being blown off by a bouncing betty.
And as I read my comments, I realized nobody got it. I was too obfuscatory, too diffused. 20 years with me and you might get it. Otherwise, I was barking into the wind. Not your fault. Mine.
Go read Lileks, or somebody. Honestly. I'm not your cup of tea. I apologize for pretending I was.
You ever have one of those dreams where you whacked someone, because they so obviously deserved it, it was a kindness to humankind to do it, then, as the dream plays out, it seems you were a little less than, ah, justified, in doing it? At the beginning of the dream he is a thug, a criminal, intent upon violent assault. But as the dream progresses, it seems he was merely a misbegotten homeless person who was bringing your little lost child home until you caved his skull in with a vicious shovel blow. Then shot him in the chest six times to make sure he didn't get back up.
And the DA and the detectives are pricks, and they're hot on your trail, even as you cash out what little money you have, and keep misspelling unextradictable nations in Google as you attempt to go on the lam?
And the blood. It's everywhere. The more you wash your hands the worse it gets.
You never have that dream? No shit? Man, I've had that one every other night for six years.
My next door neighbor walked over last night, and gave me the NEW Bob Seger CD, which he had industriously burned for me. 24 hours later I'm still looking at it. Afeered to put it on. Why? Because Bob Seger sucks worse than anybody. I absolutey loathe the motherfucker, and anything out of Detroit, other than MoTown. That is blue collar rock, and I am a beatified sweet thing. I don't slum for rock and roll, and, just to prove my point, I went through 300 albums, CDs, and cassettes to find the worst music. I could not. Basic Fact Number 1: Bob Seger is a suck ass piece of shit.
Now I'll be the first to admit my neighbor burned this CD because he was sick and damned tired of hearing my Chili Peppers CD. Fair enough. I'm an OCD fucker, and will play a fave-oh CD unto its goddam death. Then eschew it forever after. I know I annoyed him. But Seger? Fuck that shit!
For the record I am not averse to blue collar, redneck rock. Witness my adoration of Foreigner, a true trash band. But a band with a healthy dose of knowledge of their own stupidity. Oh, they suck. But I love Urgent. That song rocks. It sucks bad anal shit, but there is your sax solo, Seger, you goddam pussy. I also love Dirty White Boy because that is me, and as much shit as heavy metal bands put out, I admire the fact that these guys pissed on the 3 chord heavy metal loser groupthink and went with an entire song that was ONE CHORD! Fucking brilliant, that.
I'm still looking at that Seger CD, but I can't listen to it. That would be so irridentist, so malformed, that I would puke.
Did I mention my favorite redneck song is Molly Hatchet's Flirtin' With Disaster? Oh, how I love that piece of shit. I absolutely love that song. Go figure.
Catfish needs a talk show. Lookee here:
Yes sportfans, I was thinking about getting me some pussy last night. I went to bed a little early for a change, around one oclock, I started playing around and talking sweet things to my bride. I really wanted some pussy last night, I had her worked up and ready to go, but my dick was dead as a doorknob. A few years ago, I was gased at work, with sukfur dixiode, and carried to the ER. My heart beat was up to 220 beats per minute, they gave me shots to bring it down, did not work. They actually gave me a shot, to kill me and then restart my heart a few minutes later, it worked, but then it started racing again. It took them three times to get me under control. While I was in ICU, the doctors put me on beta-blockers to get my heart rate back in the normal range. The next day, my lung doctor came in to see me. He was very young and told me that the beta-blockers along with my heart pills would make my dick drop and he saidthat I would have to say goodbye to my sex life. I laughed at his ass and when my doctor friend, he grew up in my old neigborhood came to see me, I asked him about those pills. He said they could fuck up my dick most of the time. When I finally came home, the first thing I wanted to do was to fuck and fuck hard. It was still hard as korean math. I laughed at those doctors and told myself that they were crazy, my dick was good as old.Months went bye and sure enough, those doctors were telling the truth, my dick was dead most of the time. It was trying to shoot pool with a rope, very hard to do. Now days, I have to be in the mood very much and want pussy very badly to fuck, sometimes my dick is okay, other times it is dead. I have come to my attention that there is more to life than pussy, not much, but there is. Back to my fucking last night, pussy won the battle last night, but I have not given up. I take seven pills in the morning and four pills at night plus all of my pain meds all during the day. Those patches are helping with a few perocets in between. Now all I do is think about and talk pussy all the time, those were the days, I enjoy a lot of other things nowdays. For a man that has loved pussy all of his life it is a strange change in my life. I hope none of my male friends ever have to take these beta-blockers. The next time my dick gets hard no matter when I am and what I am doing, I will drop everything and fuck. Man, what a life, Cat
I think phrenology gets short shrift. I do. I like the idea of gauging a person's behavior by the shape of their cranium. Haven't you ever seen a person with a misshapen head and thought that screwhead's trouble? Of course you have. And pretending skullnuts are just like the rest of us is just more multiculti diversity bullshit. I always size me up a person's noggin. One would be a fool not to.
For instance, and I beg your curiosity here: suppose this sidles up to you at the JC Penney urinal?
You're going to say That ain't fucking right! Gotta keep the weather eye on him.
And you would be totally justified. That ain't right.
See where I'm going here? We may scoff from our minarets, but we all know head shape is the fucking bomb of discrimination. I just don't like peoples with fucked up heads. If that makes me a bigot, so be it. But I say fuck those freaks. Know what I mean?
I'm not a huge consumer of bananas, but I like them. And of course we all know the banana we all consume is the Cavendish. That classic, perfect shape, the consistent taste. But that is because all Cavendish bananas world-wide are clones, genetically identical everywhere. And now the Cavendish is headed for extinction.
From the 1920's to about 1960 we all consumed the Gros Michel, or Big Mike, banana. But fungus wiped out the Gros Michel, and Big Banana, not to be outdone by Big Oil or Big Dick Cheney when it came to foisting their product on the world markets, wreaked the smaller and less tasty Cavendish upon us. Warhol stylized it a few years later (although a bit bruised and rotten, like Nico), and being slaves to tradition, the western world has supported the Cavendish ever since.
A new fungus has threatened the Cavendish since 1992, and the prospects of its survival are bleak. I'm sure Big Banana (Chiquita Comitatus and its evil ally Del Monte Negroponte) will force feed us another variety, which in turn will succumb to disease due to the very nature of its success as a genetically unvaried produce.
What might the Banana Barons gives us? I'm partial to plaintains myself, but they are very inconsistent, and Dole spawn Snap, Crackle, and Pop have been known to get sclerotic if the slices of banana ain't just so. And the Kellogg Rooster? Fucking Ada, he is a Gauloise smoking existentialist, so count him out.
Here's a pic of some Ochitos, or baby bananas, also known as Hugo Chavez Smallcox nanners. We don't want them in our cereal, though, do we? No!
Plantains: very colorful, they is, but a little too We Are The World for me, especially the green martian one. Call me old fashioned, but I'm just not ready to slide something 8 inches and brown down my gullet yet. Not crossing that Rubicon at this juncture. Then again, I haven't needed prison protection, either. So never say never.
I'm told by an eminent biologist from Berkeley that this is the new Pink. The new Banana.
Being the enlightened creature I am, I shall withhold judgment, vis-a-vis that prison protection post. I must say my breath be bated, however. And for the iggernant that means chum-free.
I said I wouldn't post again. But if you know me, you know I am an inveterate liar, bullshitter, and all around Person Who Cannot Be Trusted. I ain't the guy who knocks up your daughter, of course. I'm not THAT untrustworthy, plus I look like Walter Brennan lately, being no spring chicken. But I AM a free range chicken, if you catch my drift. Just don't catch me and eat me. Or maybe do. There. I've confused myself. Thanks, assholes.
Helen: it rocked, it wept, it urinated. Go read everyone else. I don't do travelogue. It is beneath me. I saw tits, I'll tell you that. Unfortunately they were mine. But I cut glass with them. Nipples? I'm there.
My decrepit fingers cannot link everyone, plus, uh, I'm menstruating. There's a first! Gotta have that checked out. Of course, I don't trust doctors. They lie, too, like me. Probably say something stupid, like you aren't menstruating, your prostate exploded, dude!
Which we know is bullshit. Otherwise why would I be wearing the Carmen Miranda hat? Dummies. I'm bleeding out here, and they want to play Tail Gunner Joe McCarthy with me. Savages.
And where's my fucking methadone? I pay good money for this coverage.
I must remonstrate. Someone point me to a forum. Thankee.
In one day! And nary a word about Helen. Queer, those 5 posts. Kinda reminds me of when I wrote 87 pages of gibberish coming off a methadone high, and I couldn't make my briefs quit bunching up in the crack of my ass.
It won't happen again. I'm taking the rest of the month off. I'm fucking drained.
This is a graphite fishing rod made by Shakespeare, called the Ugly Stik. It has two uses:
1) catching fish
2) swatting homely women across the buttocks
Because, as a caring individual, when I tell a beauty-challenged woman she was beat by the ugly stick, I want to be able to back it up. I'm cool like that.
For some reason today's date keeps nagging at me. I can't figure out why. Maybe it's time for the annual changing of the bed linens. And the weirdest part is, for some godforsaken reason, I want to gut someone named Ali. Go figure.
My brother got bitten by a Brown Recluse spider (scientific name: Blown Rectum Spidum). This is very nasty. It reminds me of a little something I picked up in a Malaga brothel when I was 18. Only the spider bite don't seem to be weeping as much serumdiddum as my, ah, discomfiture. The spidum bit a little lower than that girl, too.
I wish I had a tongue like this.
Maybe I can get the surgeon to snip a couple of inches off of mine. I'm tired of women calling me "Gibtown". As in, "Give it to me, Gibtown! You fucking rock!"
To which I invariably answer, "Yes. I do".
My prep school had the usual gamut of teachers; some good, some bad, a few truly excellent ones. In 10th grade I had a very half-assed teacher for Geometry, Mrs. X. She was out sick quite often, I suspect because she was adamant and hysterical about proving her middle-aged liberal credentials, and was determined to stick our noses in her Progressivism, we snot-nosed silver-spooned white bread senators' sons and daughters. Meaning I think she regularly came down with syphilis and gonhorrea from notching her creds in shanty town with dusky bucks. But who am I to say? I'm sure she had a fucking great time. My hat is off to her, and her progressive spirit.
The down side, if there was one, was the fact that the substitute teacher when she was out a getting dosed for the crud was a gentleman named Colonel Desilee. The Colonel was one of those old fashioned harumphing farts, retired from the military, who took it as duty to teach young whelps in his retirement. He really appeared to be retired from Her Majesty's Service, actually,with his affected airs and pencil thin mustache. And one of those accents that was almost Southern, almost British. We call these people poseurs now.
Like my history teacher. Little fuck wore a beret and drove an old Mercedes, and had a British accent, and if you asked him where he went to college, he would sniff, and say Oxford, of course. Which was true, technically. Except he left out the fact he went to the Emory University campus in Oxford, Georgia, having grown up in Augusta. But who's keeping count, right? I'm sure that campus was fine. The main one was better, I can attest to that.
So, Colonel Desilee. Queer thing: he always wore turquoise bolo ties. And he always cinched his voluminous britches over his enormous abdomen, so high, titty-high, in fact, that his whole scrotum, nay, his entire guts, were on display through those tweed trousers. Just gross fucking stuff.
I hated Geometry anyway. Any discipline that requires me to prove what I just showed you? The fucking nerve. Where's the leap of faith here, huh? My word is my bond, take it to the bank. This is Velociman you're talking to. I don't play Gotcha! But, anyway, as Colonel Desilee would wrap up an interminable theorem, and pronounce, theatrically, Q! E! D! I would think Man, that is one huge hunk of shit poking out of his pants. HAS to be all scrotum. It ain't like there's a well-defined pole or anything... just a mass of flesh. Like an unattended hernia. Or a hidden lamb, freshly killed.
At any rate, the Colonel destroyed bolo ties for me. I'll never wear one. Nor tweed britches. Nor cinch my belt under my oyster-shaped old man nipples.
I just refuse.
Now, the dunce cap is a strange thing. Something ubiquitous in the American conscience, but subliminal in that not many people have actually seen one. Oh, we've seen pictures:
But those are just pictures. I think the last institutionalized use of a dunce cap in education was in the 1950's. Now they are almost Rockwellian in nature, a silly look at what was considered stern discipline in the olden, pre-self-esteem days.
Also, I don't think dunce caps were used merely to mock stupidity in a child; rather, they were used as punishment for aberrant behavior: you put little Cordell in the corner in a dunce cap to teach him he was stupid for being buck wild in class, and dipping girls' pigtails in the inkwell. You didn't put little Cordell in the cap because he was struggling with his multiplication tables.
Of course, the Communist Chinese took the dunce cap to a whole new level, especially during the 1966-1976 Cultural Revolution. As Mao took his Great Leap Forward Redux and purged his cult of apostates, heretics, and, most of all, the innocent passersby (if that is what you call a lifelong Commie rat bastard technocrat who has fallen into disfavor) the dunce cap was much relished. Grown men, yesterday high and mighty Politburo overlords, were consigned to roam the streets of Peking in dunce caps, so that even small children knew they were ripe targets for rotten vegetables, and wicked old crones could slap their shinbones with kindling sticks. Why, even the mighty Deng Xiaoping was trotted through the streets by the Red Guards in a dunce cap.
I believe they even made commemorative ceramics of the event.
The sign says "Down with the Foul Intellectual", naturally.
I don't have much use for Commies, but they do know how to throw down on somebody.
I bring this up because my boss has taken to placing a stool in a coworker's office, the better to sit next to the poor fellow and micromanage him. Every time I see him perched upon that chair, I think You know what? I need a fucking dunce cap for that frigging yahoo. And maybe some kindling sticks.