Orthodontia is one of the great success stories, and equalizers, of the postwar years. Prior to that one growed up with the teeth they had, like it or not. But starting in the fifties tin grins became reasonably affordable; then pretty much every Daddy's Muffin could have a movie star smile.
Something about the whole orthodontics thing strikes me as fake, though. Assembly line, Stepford. Now everyone has beautiful smiling faces, and as a result I believe a lot of individual character has been lost.
Take that girl above. A beautiful smile, but isn't it a bit fake? Cookie cutter? Throw in cosmetic surgery and soon we less than perfect types will be eugenicized out of existence.
Haven't you ever been smitten by someone not because of their perfection, but because of those tiny imperfections that give them uniqueness? A slightly crooked nose. A less than stellar smile. That little twist at the corner of their mouth that makes that person one in a million, and infinitely adorable as a result.
I, for one, have grown to abhor the plasticine perfection we are inundated with, that nigh impossible ideal against which we are all measured. Some of us will aways fall a yardstick short. Well, imperfection can be perfection to some. I don't need that million dollar nonpariel. I can find the beauty in the flawed.
Lookit. Exhibit A:
Now, isn't that better? No fakery there. That's the real deal.
And hell, I'd feel like Adonis making out with that set of chompers. It's all about personal taste, really. Or the lack thereof.
From beautiful Seoul, South Korea.
Yeah, that last post was a bit much, even for me. Although I've never seen Yabu so fetching. But even I have a puke threshold. And I was reloading that frontpage more than anyone else, you know? Besides, just look what it did to my monkey:
Stone cold blind.
Yabu samples the chili. Looks like the boy finally broke left. At least it was with girth-challenged playmates. He should be able to walk tomorrow.
Most people are aware of the fact that the overweening narcissist in me just hates to be behind the curve on the Next Big Thing. So when I read about these celebrity types adopting African children I said to myself "Velociman, old boy, you need you one of these!" Yea, verily, nothing quite says Look At Me! like spiriting a wee child from the Dark Continent in order to give oneself a charming yet bathetic topic of conversation at those stuffy dinner parties.
I found little Mbotu in a Ugandan village that had been wiped out by Ebola. Luckily for Mbotu he'd been stuck in the cesspool for two days and avoided infection. Had him showered up, and he arrives Tuesday via Fedex.
Not having any sons of my own I can't wait to do those father-son things I've missed out on. Teaching Mbotu to mow the lawn, for instance, and wash my car, and clean the gutters. It's all about the bonding.
I won't scrimp on education, either. It's free, after all. I had Mbotu tested, and he has an IQ of 160. So after high school it's straight to MIT for him, where hopefully he can learn how to make me one of those fancy gyrocopters I've been craving.
I can't wait to get Mbotu. We're going to have such fun. I just wish everyone in America would adopt a Mbotu. We'd eliminate poverty in Africa that way, and then we could all tell Bono and Geldolf to kiss our asses.
I hope the workers remember to send the matching dashikis I requested with Mbotu. Small and extra large. With leopard spots. Me and my kid, we'll be stylin', damn it!
With all due respect to my Yankee and Canuck friends I hate the annual influx of the so-called Snow Birds. I say so-called because I generally call them what they really are: infernal trespassers. They're like Irish Travellers. You welcome them like you would an itinerant grifter, or a moonstruck street preacher. And, yes, most keep moving on to south Florida, but not before they drive through the guts of my city, and help ensnarl southbound 95 rush hour traffic every day.
Can't drive worth a shit. Only stop in Freakville to gas up or deposit their mephitic tocsins in the Cracker Barrel lavatory.
We get so many damned Snow Birds I petitioned the Department of the Interior to classify the Mercury Grand Marquis as a migratory species.
And what's worse is that they've become like fucking Canadian Geese, the Tourette's Macoutes of waterfowl. The geese have realized they like it down here, so now they stay. Don't even bother to migrate back north. It's damfuk cold up there! Even in the summer! So they loll around all year now, the execrable vermin. Same thing with Snow Birds.
They do creepy things, too, these fiends. They line dance:
They play bingo:
But worst of all they pop Viagra and rut like senile old goats and give each other sexually transmitted diseases.
Fuck! It's a crazy world down here.
The Switzerland, Florida Chapter is having a jamboree. Of sorts. Behind the Publix.
the girls called me in college. Of course, that could have something to do with the fact I had almost as much coming out the rear end as the front end during les affaires du coeur, but there's no such thing as bad attention, even gastrointestinally.
That guy on the right looks like he's firing from both ends, for instance.
Which brings me to the real Bazooka Joe. Or I should say the old Bazooka Joe. Look how he's changed over the years:
That's bullshit! What's even worse is what they've done to poor Mort:
He looks like a fucking alien now.
Little known Velocifact: I once went to a Halloween party dressed as Mort. Easy costume, too. A little hair gel, a $10 red turtleneck pulled up around the nose, et voila! Did anyone know who I was supposed to be? Hell, no. A few people asked if I was a hot dog. I said No, I'm a bazooka, blowing at both ends. No! Wait! I'm Mort! I believe they made the tippling motion behind my back, the bastards. Who invited Velocisot?
Anyway, somebody needs to go to Topps, Inc. and kick them in the balls. Making Mort an alien. That's like giving Jesus a nipple ring. Some things you just don't do.
Greater minds than mine have said it: "If you’re too lazy to write actual content, put up a Blog-Quiz."
Lazy or preoccupied with the Serious Bidnis of Daily Life, it matters not. Content has been rather thin on the ground here of late. A little like the bedpan of someone on a Food-Free Diet...although when the V-man bestirs himself to
crimp off a length compose a Blog-Post, it's almost always a good 'un.
Enough prattle! I have a useless Blog-Quiz to share with my Intrepids! Read it and weep!
|What American accent do you have?|
Your Result: Savannah-Man
Judging by how you talk, you are probably from Savannah, Tybee Island, Jeckyll Island, or Nawthen Florida. Chances are, if you are from Savannah (and not those other places) people would probably tell you that you sound like Kevin Spacey in that stupid Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil movie.
|What American accent do you have? Take More Quizzes|
Hmmm. No surprises here. Perhaps I shall go and apply this examination unto the Monkey-Horde...
Velociman being Velociman, one would expect him to be intimately acquainted with either (1) bicycles, or (2) speed. Velocity, that is.
Velociman is also a Man of Extremes. No moderate, he. Something worth doing is not just worth doing well; it's worth kicking the ever-loving shit out of it until it bleeds from the mouth and anus.
And so it is in this matter of Velocity.
I figure that the first person who figures out how to exceed the Speed of Light has gotta be Velociman. Perhaps then he will be able to go back in time and suss out how to Unfuck his Big Brain. And that will make me sad, for the move towards normalcy is pernicious unto the Funny.
Assume he does manage that Faster-than-Light trick. Some problems will present themselves, thanks to Old Mr. Einstein, who reckoned that if you went fast enough, your mass would increase and you would become shorter in the direction of motion. Lookee:
A young man of Novorossisk
Had a mating procedure so brisk,
With such super-speed action
The Lorentz contraction
Foreshortened his prick to a disk.
Whatzit mean? Means Velociman better watch his velocity, lest he end up with one Disc Vader. Ya think?
Ever see one of these on the back window of a
breeder box minivan?
How fucking precious are these? You have the whole little tribe there. The Happy Kieslow Fambly. With Little Austin! And Little Kailyn! And Little Meagan! And Binks!
Excuse me my vomitus indignatiens. Look: if I wanted to know what your family looked like I'd execute a home invasion on your smarmy asses. Really get to know you. Would you be shocked to discover no one gives a fuck what your nuclear family looks like?
I parked next to a minivan the other day with one of these pretentious decals on it. Of course when the family exited they looked more like this:
Okies aspiring to be Yuppies. What's the world coming to? Personally, I've always admired the integrity in a poor white trash family that knew exactly what they were, and were proud of it. No social climbing there. My granddaddy was a dirt clod farmer, I is a dirt clod farmer, and the good Lord willing, my grandchildren will be dirt clod farmers. Pride, I say.
In a related note it seems members of the untouchables caste in India are converting to Buddhism and Christianity in order to erase their Dalit untouchable stigma. Of course, there are laws against that sort of thing in India. Some countries still respect the illegality of rising above one's station. Just because shit floats doesn't mean it should be allowed to rise to the top.
Somebody tell the Kieslows to get with the fucking program.
My Intrepids know that I am sometimes vulnerable to being importuned in an Evil Cause. By which I am referring to James Hooker's practice of asking me to expound on selected Nasty Practices. Not that the Velocigod is personally acquainted with said Nasty Practices, no, no - but as it is the business of Gods to be omniscient, I must therefore snatch the burning brand from Olympus and whack some heads with it.
Damn, that metaphor was so compiscated, it even got me cornfrused.
Rather than explain this Execrable Act in so many words, I have it on good counsel that a picture is worth a thousand of them, and so, below the fold, I present unto you an actual photograph of a Cleveland Steamer. Warning: The squeamish need not apply.
November 3 is National Cliché Day. You down with that? As if. I'd participate, but been there, done that. Then again, this story has legs. Everybody's a winner today. There are no losers. It's also the first day of the rest of your life. Learn it, live it.
I don't see anyone else participating. I thought everybody was on board with this. Where's the buy in? Oh well. You win a few, you lose a few.
There's a northeaster blowing in tonight, by the way. Probably won't be fit for man nor beast. Probably rain cats and dogs before it's over with. And you can take that to the bank.
Life is funny like that. One day you're reaching for the brass ring. You're on top of the world. You can do no wrong. Then you're yesterday's news. But that's just my opinion. The 50,000 foot view. People look like ants from up there.
People think I'm crazy. But I wouldn't hurt a fly. My bark is worse than my bite. Except when I'm starving. Then I have a lean and hungry look. And I tear into my food like a pack of wild dogs. I don't have the patience of a buzzard like some folks.
Now that my car is paid for I have two options: drive it till the wheels fall off, or buy a new one. I can get a new car for below dealer invoice. They'll even show me the real sticker price. Bad credit no problem. I'll just get last year's model on closeout.
Kids: they're probably the same everywhere. And they say the darndest things. They also know more than I did at their age. Probably because I had to walk to school in the snow. Uphill both ways. And kids mature faster now. Girls start their periods three years earlier than you did. We just seemed more mature when we were that age.
So what to do about Iraq? Stay the course? Cut and run? It's a quagmire. It's like Vietnam. Thankfully we have the greatest fighting force the world has ever known. Sunni insurgents. Sunni Baathists. Shiite militias. Death squads. Bush = Hitler. Bush is a chimp. Saddam was secular. The Iranian people hate the mullahs. Bush is a fascist.
Sorry for the overkill. A little of that goes a long way. I overplayed my hand. Three's a crowd anyway. Maryann was hotter than Ginger. The professor was gay. It's a ball of confusion in here. Thankfully I'm still as sharp as a tack. That's why I'm light years ahead of you. It's not what you say, after all, it's how you say it.
I think I'll watch the high school football game tonight. High school ball is a religion around here. One team will dominate the line of scrimmage, and establish their running game. Pound it up the middle playing smash-mouth football. If they can't open up their passing lanes. The other team will show the blitz. Win the game in the trenches making shoestring tackles. Because they're tough in the red zone.
Sick of this? Because there's plenty more where that came from.
Eric put up the below post the other day, but I was compelled to take it down temporarily. Eric, you see, had trespassed, and so I had to punish him. I was in the mood to fuck with someone anyway, truth be told, and I could fuck with Eric without hoisting my slothful ass out of bed. A 14-calorie Beat Down. Also, he knows I don't like people who suffer from epillipsis seizures contaminating my site.
I don't suffer well the abuse of guest keys. Ask Elisson. His password is still taped up in a shoe box on a tadpole diet. Look, there are only two commandments in Velociworld:
I. Thou Shalt Not Insult Velociman's Delicate Sensibilities; and
II. Thou Shalt Not Trespass Upon Velociman's Magikal Realm
Actually, there is a third: Thou Shalt Feel Free to Show Velociman Thine Tits; but this is merely a distaff commandment. I have no desire to see GuyK's tits.
The blank page makes a statement too, you know. In this case it was the fact I had seen Queen Latifah's bare naked ass, and my corneas had milked over as a result. Indeed, it was only by adhering to a strict regimen of staring at my own firm buttocks in the mirror that I was able to cure myself.
Here's something: I often cut through an old neighborhood on the way home to avoid the plague of Mandarin traffic. It's one of those old '50's/'60's neighborhoods of ratshack ranch homes, where the developer was a redneck with some pastureland, and all the roofs only slope in one direction in 1950's Frank Lloyd Wrong fashion. These are the neighborhoods where the developer names the streets after his kids. You've seen them: Jimmy Street, Karen Street, Jert Street. Only this one named the streets after colors. The first one is Azure Street. Nice. I actually like that. The next street is Cerise Street. Very nice! How cleverly exotic. But then the next two streets are Tan and Beige. That's right. Tan Street. Beige Street. What the bloody fucking hell is that all about?!? How bizarre. Why didn't he just name them HoHum Alley and SlitMyFuckingWrists Way? What an asshole.
Is anyone participating in National Novel Writing Month? Yessiree, Bob. The goal is to write a 175-page novel (50,000 words) between November 1 and November 30. Pure unedited, unadulterated crap.
Shit Stream of Consciousness-on-a-shingle. I figured, hey. Vomiting bilious unfiltered tripe upon the screen is, like, my strong suit. I imagine I can do that. If I proceed I'll share some excerpts. Although, unlike Senate candidate James Webb, my protagonist won't be dangling his 4-year-old son upside down in front of him and placing the kid's penis in his mouth. That's what ancillary characters are for, right?