... seeing as Our Hero is absent recently, I feel the need to pull up some of his old posts.... lest he be
dead ded, of course.... and so, here is one of my all-time favorites....
"My Kingdom For a Muse" ... originally posted on November 14th, 2003 at 11:15PM.....
Thalmia is obviously making sex romp videos with Shannon's ex. Calliope moved to Starke, where she is cruelly toying with anti-death penalty activists. Erato has been jerking my chain for years. Feels good, but there's little output, if you know what I mean. Clio, Euterpe, Terpsichore, and Polyhymnia are banned from Velociworld for personal reasons, although Clio gets a pass on Nostalgia nights. Urania is an air-head.
That leaves Melpomene, my great go-to gal, and she's in a worse funk than me.
... beautiful, no?.... but hey, a funk is a funk is a funk.... all that is left?... get funky, kemosabee.... otherwise, you best delete my keys... and to quote Mr. Helpful, "heh heh heh".....
I don't know about you people, but when I'm online shopping for serious herniated gut support, should that eventuality befall me, I want to see how it fits with the packie.
This... thing, is an abomination. I can't tell squat. What the hell is it? Working title is pagina. The Bride's calling it the Rick Flair. The rest is up to you.
Apparently the cursive form of writing is dwindling. I can't say I'll miss it. I've been writing in block print for 25 years, mainly because I'm left handed, and my cursive always sucked anyway. It's hard to break right on your handwriting when you're left-handed. Plus, cursive's kinda gay. Show me a guy with pretty penmanship and I'll call him Felch.
Via that Instafellow.
I'd pay fitty dollars to feel that hobnail boot on my thorax.
Needs a riding crop, though.
Well, that mother-in-law post didn't go over swimmingly, as they say.
I was reading a den Beste post today, and Ghagdad Bob, about cargo cults, and how the Democrats have become such cultists, due to their lack of grounding in reality, and reliance upon superstition and wishful thinking to make their end game work.
Cargo cults, you will recall, are the broad term used to describe primitive (or neurotic) cultures that don't understand cause and effect, and so rely on effect to enable cause.
The most famous cargo cult was the people of New Guinea in World War II. It seems the allies had showed up and built runways and landing strips to bring in cargo planes full of materiel. Said materiel, including foodstuffs and clothing, as well as the heavy equipment necessary to fight a global war, accruing in kind to our hospitable hosts as necessary.
Then the war ended, and the white men went away, and the planes stopped coming. And so the poor natives built bamboo landing strips, and twigsaw towers, and carved headsets out of wood, and built tables to sit around and stare solemnly at each other. In other words, they acted just like the white people, so that the cargo planes would come back, bearing bounty. Effect, meet cause.
They never came back, of course.
And yet I see the same thing at work. As anyone who's worked in a corporate environment has. These environments work on supposition, happenstance, and, yes, superstition. Also paranoia and neurosis. The true drivers of real-time events. It's funny, in a way. As long as the analysts on Wall Street don't smell the cargo cult, and shortsell your ass, ha ha! I need a strong stock price, actually. And therefore I feed the cult.
Which is why I've been carving an air traffic control headset from a piece of river cypress for the last three days. Could be worse, of course. There are twenty coworkers building a bamboo landing strip over at Duval Yard. We expect the planes bearing Spam and dungarees any day now. And maybe a nice backhauler.
Today, in history, Columbus infected the New World. But, hey. It was easier than brain-bashing, which we eventually had to resort to, the pox being less than efficient, eh?
And yet a few of them live. I consider it a testament to our decency.
Chou touched upon it better than me. Of course, I think I have the short side here.
James Hooker had asked me, after I'd intellectually stroked his peurile interest in cornholing, to speak upon the issue of felching. I recalled this because I visited him today, as the above street sign attests. He lives at the tail end of the street, of course.
Felching, the enlightened perple will remember, is the act of inserting pipe of a not-too-tearing variety up the anus of the man, foreto insert humble rodents, usually gerbils, into the shit canal, for the pleasures derived from said "pet" as he burrows his way to sunlight. Or death, as direction is critically important here.
We most of us know the felching thing is urban legend, maliciously visited upon Richard Gere, and expanded to the gay community in general. I imagine it was some fellow with too much time on his hands, a hoaxer, who came up with what he considered an insult, a fable, so far over the top, and so incredibly disgusting, that all would revel in his merriment, and get the joke, even as they cringed that he'd gone a little too far.
And then I suspect that a not insignificant few of the gay community read about it, and stroked their chins, and said Hmmm...
Because life imitates hoax, and I reckon once one has assigned their colon to be the primary target of sexual endeavor and satisfaction, one would only, naturally, fall prey to the logarithmic increase and expansion of finding the next best thing!
I don't judge here, by the way. I leave that to others. I merely mock. But I have to wonder about old James. Do I really exude incipient knowledge of such sexcraft? Is James gay, questioning, or a fucking hoaxer unto himself, taking advantage of Velociman's good nature and pandemic knowledge to paint me as a freak?
I'm tired of hanging my hide over the line (SO TO SPEAK!) to satisfy prurient perversalove. I'm a damned artist! Read my Blogger profile!
Took the Velocipup to obedience training at Petsmart today, as if that's going to be beneful. She's so damned buck wild it's embarrassing. Two other dogs in the class, a Weimaraner and a MinPin. They were incredibly well-behaved. Nice doggies. Bella, on the other hand, was a fugging knothead.
Did I mention she'd managed to get into a butter tub of apple-dipping caramel this morning? Ate the whole thing, and licked it clean. Skorfed it all. She then proceeded to shit the entire tub upon the Petsmart floor in livid Technicolor. Actually, that was the only cool thing she did the entire hour.
I'm gonna have to start taking her to class in a short bus. She whined, and whinged, and barked, and bellowed. Never paid attention. A complete spaz, she was. Pretty, though. And after I got her home she was ashamed, remorseful, and abashed. Blinked her eyes, and begged forgiveness, which is in short supply around me, but I gave it, being the puss I am. Damn dog.
I have a question, and I hope I don't offend too many people when I ask it.
Actually, I don't give a damn, ha ha! So: What's with the beer bellies and chunk rolls on women these days? Really. In the olden days, when I was growing up, when women put on weight, they may get a little belly, but most of it was tits and ass. Front meat and back meat. A woman could be thirty pounds overweight and still look good, because there was proportion in the enviable zones. Tits too big? No prob. That's never a problem, actually. Ass too big? Let's take a look. No. Your ass is cool. Big, but cool. Let me spank it.
Now, when I see overweight women, it is invariably a huge disgusting beer belly. And chunk rolls.
What the fuck is this all about?? Genetics? Physiognomy? I'm serious here, by the way. Maybe diet? Don't think so. The sliding scale of protein, carbs, and fat hasn't changed much.
I am, as they say, completely nonplussed here. Any thoughts? I was thinking rabies, but probably not.
Everyone has their pet peeves. Their crotchets, their bugbears. Things that drive them crazy. Things that bring inexplicable indignation rising like coarse fresh bile in their throat. To me, it's pinwheels.
Yes, the innocuous pinwheel, or, as it is more properly known, a horizontal-axis active wind collector. Why? I have no idea. Wasn't fondled by a pinwheel as a child. Never had an argument with one. In fact, I applaud their collective reticence. Nor do I have class issues with cheap plastic. No, I think the issue lies deeper. Subterranean.
I believe it has to do with masculinity, and false machismo. Everything, actually, to do with the fact that I recollect being 4, 5, 6 years old, and seeing pinwheels in my neighbors' yards, and being fascinated by them. Hell, to a guy that's not much different than recollecting being fascinated by seeing a grown man's penis at the age of 5. It ain't right!
I really wasn't going to share this pinwheel abhorrence with you, but I'm a stand up guy. Meaning I share my neuroses with you in the hope that you'll share yours with me. But please use the email address, femmes. And address it to Pindaddy1, if you would. Thank you.
I see Nick Shulz used the Ex-Foleyate phrase at NRO's The Corner today.
Now, I'm not suggesting my coinage was particularly unique or clever, just that, well, I smell a conspiracle. The wheels on the bus, indeed.
Found this story over at The Bleat. Mr. Illustrated Man here teaches public speaking at the University of New Mexico. Strikes me as the shy, retiring type. I'm surprised he can even speak in public.
I can only feel for his kids. "What does your Daddy do?" "Pretends he's a fugging Maori, mostly."
I wonder if he has
I'm confused. But then again, I stay confused. Let me see if I have this right:
A GOP congressman has to resign in disgrace because he instant messaged someone. And, once that someone was of legal age, he got frisky with him via that selfsame instant messaging. From 1,000 miles away. And it seems the lad and his chums were just playing sport with the poor old gay fool anyway.
One career ruined. Control of the entire Congress now hangs in the balance. What the fuck???
This guy Foley's an idiot, of course, just on a discretion level, and good riddance to bad rubbish. We have hardcore guntotin' congressmen up here in North Florida, but still. This whole thing reeks of a fucking Kafka setpiece.
Democrats, who thought it perfectly jolly when Gerry Studds rogered a 17 year old male page, are AGHAST!
Foley should have fucked the guy, given the chance. At least then he could have some fond memories just before he blows his brains out in disgrace. Or, alternatively, appears in a South Beach drag show as
Bet He Betty Page.
At least we know the rules now: Democrat cornholes a 17 year old boy under guise of authority: he is feted, glorified, returned for multiple terms. Republican doesn't fuck anybody, he's disgraced, and, oh, by the way, do you mind if we take your entire power structure down as well? Crass opportunistic shitheels. I'd be really pissed if it wasn't Denny Hastert in the gunsites. That sonabitch has been asleep at the wheel for years.
I tell you the funny thing: Democrats have the most shameless remorselessness about playing the gay card. LOVE gay scoutmasters, but want to shoot Foley and Klinghoffer him over the side of the ship. The Dems are showing more goddam homophobia than I can remember since Andy Dufresne tried to keep those prison cocks out of his peace pipe.
Anyway, as a longstanding fan of the Hoax, the Prank, in all its permutations, it's always funny to see one blow up, and see who gets hit by the shit.
Dax put up this kick ass post, with mushroom clouds, and Richard Wagner. Which got me to thinking about 100 Suns, and Elisson, who gifted me with the Suns. Which in turn got me to thinking about Wagner's Ring Cycle, which...
Take a breath. Well. Okay. Which got me to thinking rings are round, like wheels, and it's all wheels within wheels, people! So I'm not crazy, we reckon. Do you think it's happenstance that the first song they ever teach you is The Wheels on the Bus go Round and Round? Fuck no! That's called the Set Up. Or the Inoculation. Or the Jimmy.
I don't have all the answers. But I have a few. Lookit:
Fuck Iraq. Tap the oil, move on. I don't believe in Nation Building. I believe in carpet bombing into the Stone Age to disable a threat, and moving on. Airdrop leaflets of the Code of Hammurabi on the screwheads. Look familiar? It should! You scumbobs have been toying with Law and Order for 3,000 years. Not my problem anymore. You're neutered, I'm happy.
So what do the mullahs in Iran need? Selective assassination. Pop off a few of the misogynist cocksuckers. And family. Leave notes. Like: It's Hard Being Green. But your dead wife is looking that raw, baby. You really should sew her nose up now.
Anyway, I could go on all night like this, but my ideas are like habanero peppers. Take a tiny bite, or a sniff, and back the fuck off. The rest ain't as good as that first nip.
Actually, in my case, the first nip sucks, too.
I can't access your e-mail. Because I'm autistic, for one thing, and because your POP server is gay as a fucking parade, for the other. But I said this, anyhoo:
Damn! Finally got Yippe-Ki-yay on the blogroll. My sincere bad, my friend. That was a fucking oversight. Just been so much easier to hit your site through Mark Foley's site. But hey! Nothing wrong with that. I guess. I promise to make it up to you, though. You've been a damned good faithful reader and commenter for years. I appreciate that. You rocka mon.
I enjoy taking backroads when I travel, as I suspect many of you do, when time is no constraint. And ofttimes getting from point A to point B offers no alternative, either. I celebrate those moments, again as I suspect many of you do.
I found myself in this situation today, returning home from my aunt's funeral in Columbus, Georgia. An unbelievably sweet lady, by the way, and my mother's doppleganger. She lived a wonderful 85 years, though, and may she rest peacefully. So rewarding to see her husband, too. My Uncle John. Sweet John, we call him. A mighty man. 101st Airborne Ranger. Retired a Sergeant-Major. Veteran of the Battle of the Bulge, Korea, two acknowledged tours in Vietnam, two tours for The Company unacknowledged by the government, performing that which needed to be done. My hero. I love these people, my family.
So, I was returning to Jax via US of A Highway 82, and I passed through Sasser, Georgia. And pulled into Mark's Melon Patch.
I love a damned side of the road vegetable stand, especially one like Mark's. A 25-year staple, he has hundreds of home-growed punkins, and wallermillions, 100 varieties of personally canned jams, jellies, relishes, okras, veggies. Haybales, scarecrows, gourdeses, squashums, maizes, cotton bale centerpieces (!).
He even has a giant inflatable jack o'lantern to lure in the kiddies, and bathrooms to lure in the incontinent.
Now, I'm not saying Mark's is one of those high-toned, artsy-fartsy patches like Burt's, drawing in the cognescenti of Atlanty with their high-falootin' hayrides and field trips and such, as certain elements have lamented to me, who knew Burt's in the way back of when good old days 10, 12 years back, and still enjoy Burt's, but it's not the same. Mark, though, is in Sasser, Fucking, Georgia! And has to trade up to the post office in Dawson. He won't be corrupted for at least three more years, by my reckoning.
I prefer to think of Mark's as Burt's Before The Fall. Before a nice roadside veggie stand and punkin patch could be corrupted by the goddamed daytrippers out of Atlanta. Where you can still stand in the cornfield and take a damned pee.
Nothing wrong with Burt's, of course. If matching gingham and calico ensembles on your trustafarian kids blows up your paisley skirt, while you fret over how many gourd centerpieces you can fit into the back of the Navigator.
I digress, though, class envy oozing out of my pores. I have the class, you see. They have the money. And the pores.
The main point, though, the central theme, Mrs. Harper, is that I extract enormous pleasure from the simple autumnal exercises. A nice respite on the side of the road. Thumping a melon, hefting a pumpkin, smiling as two small children wrestle with a Hallowe'en scarecrow. Sampling relishes and jams, blackberry preserves. The divertissements of my youth. Innocence is palpable in the air on the side of the road, fullfillment realized by dint of a maize doll purchased for a few mere dollars for an appreciative child.
The sweltering, torrid summer is over, folks. The air is crisp, the variegated leaves denude, lithe youths play football in the biting air,
and Mark Foley wants to fuck them , and Velociman, channelling his little tiny inner hobgoblin, seeks his receding childhood.