What the hell happened to Goldie Hawn? Other than being in her sixties, I mean.
The scariest thing about that picture is the realization that at some point in the distant future even I could, just possibly, lose my ravishing good looks.
We take totally different approaches to naming dogs versus cats, don't we? Dogs get regal names (Rex! King! Fido! [an accounting term, I believe. First In, Dick's Out; something like that]). And that is because dogs are inherently retarded beasts, and we must imbue them with dignity. Lookit ole King lick hisself, you might say. Regal behavior, I tell ya.
Cats, on the other hand, are fair game in the moniker department. Any time you own a creature that you know would claw through your abdominal wall should you droppit dead, just to eat the partially digested Rice-A-Roni in your alimentary canal, well, that deserves a mocking name. For instance, here is a partial list of my past and current cats' names:
See? You can abuse a cat by name. Can't really do that to a dog. Can you, Rex?
No, I've had dogs named Brutus, and Cleopatra. Had a Rex! The more Mongoloid the dog, the more noble the name must be. Although I did have a crazy Lab named Prudence, who belied her name, the damned hussy. But she was an outlier. She would have savaged my alimentary canal, too, given the chance.
So I'm collecting cat names. I know you Intrepids give your pets gay-assed names. It ain't just a Velocithing. Share, so that my little savages understand it's not just me, and will actually wait until I am deceased before they devour me. One grain of rice at time.
There seems to be a misunderstanding, so I'm going to do this one more time:
You know how the media types have canned obits, ready to roll out at a moment's notice should a Big Dog succumb on short notice? Sometimes the wires get crossed, too, and some faintly remembered octegenarian will stare at the television and mindlessly fondle his shriveled ballsack while NBC mistakenly proclaims he is Deceased. Hey. It happens.
Why I decided I should nip that sort of thing in the bud, and write my own obituary should I ever become, shall we say, notorious. So far I've come up with this:
Velociman led what many consider a wasted, profligate life, his potential unrealized, until he distinguished himself in the Monkey Pox Wars of 2011-2014, although his fealty to the Imperial Dugong in that era resurrected the conventional wisdom that his supposed libertarian streak was in fact a thinly-veiled fascism, a charge he pointedly refused to disavow. In fact, his manifesto, Mein Manatee, written while he was incarcerated in the Florida State Penitentiary at Starke, seemed to confirm his ambiguous nature.
All I have so far. But it's easy to get ahead of oneself, non?
I read today where Ernest Borg-9 turns 90 on Wednesday. Then I went to IMDb and saw where he was borned in 1915. My math's a little rusty, but wouldn't that make him 92?
Either way, it's totally fucking insane. At 45 he looked like his heart was ready to implode. Borgfarction, we called him. Not really. But we could have.
We should mix up some Chatham Artillery Punch and go party with the old bastard. He's the Man.
History is a harsh mistress. She never remembers the fence sitters, the pole sitters, the babysitters, the nags, the scolds, the morbidly indignant. She remembers things like War. War is Big Stuff. Ghastly stuff. Synchronized depravity, often on a hellish, global scale. War sells; that's why History is so fond of it. Fourth, fifth, sixth reprints. One of the reasons men wage it. To be remembered by History. Because they're not gonna be remembered for a farging poem, you know.
Take this current war. It goes by many names, but it's the war of Islam versus the Infidels. A robust, cruel, expansive, fecund, medieval cult hewing to a Stone Age superstition versus a generally agnostic patchwork of societies that can barely recall their own belief sets, which they seem to remember involved peace, and getalongedness, said infidels having learned from their own cruel ages that conversion by the sword is a bloody futile tail chase. Or so they thought.
This war, currently bogged down in a bad neighborhood, where the infidels were distracted trying to fix broken windows faster than the Neanderthals could rebreak them, will be like the others: there will be a winner, and there will be a loser. If the West prevails, no one will read about the political wrangling and grab ass going on backstage. They'll read about the battles, the setbacks, the wins, the losses. Nobody hears about the isolationists in America prior to WWII, unless it's a snippet from a Lindbergh speech about what a swell that Hitler was. The truly deluded, like Chamberlain, are reviled by all sides. Whoever was stomping their feet and gnashing their teeth about that belligerent Churchill in the House of Commons is mostly lost to the average person. White noise, distracting from the Big Stuff.
So if the West prevails George W Bush, whatever he may be considered now, will be considered an aggressive warrior who began the great drive to push back the forces of ignorance, brutality, intolerance, and cruelty. The man who made it safe for a homosexual to walk by a stone wall without having it pushed over on him, for a woman to keep her genitals intact.
No amount of invective, vitriol, hate, posturing, or fist shaking in the current days will prevent History from regurgitating that fact. That's why I don't pay much attention to politics on either side of the aisle today. It's white fucking noise.
Of course, if Islam wins, by turning the Middle East into the ultimate killing fields, and using the French and Russian thermonuclears they acquired by simple demography and the ballot box, well, Bush probably won't be remembered so fondly. After his seed and progeny have been expunged from the rollcall of humanity, bad videotapes will no doubt abound, narrated by men so sure of their cause, so ennobled and honored by their might and right, that they continue to hide their faces from the sunlight behind baggy black sackcloth. That will be a Brave New World.
And not that I'm hedging my bets, but I've already learned how to spell
الله أكبر !
That's Allahu Akhbar! to you Great Satanists.
Not that I'm pessimistic, but it's pretty fucking sad when we can't even agree that the people trying to behead us are the Bad Guys. And when Bush is drawn as a chimp, well, that's just that clever cartoonist's inner Muslim saying Bush is really a Jew. Yet another reason to kill him.
We really need to get in step on the big things, like apocalypse.
Now excuse me while I go crank my SUV and pour some more petrodollars into the jihadis' pockets.
I have arrived. For I am linked at Queer Dewd's. Only as a lowly Jax Blogger, though. Not as a Conservative Twit.
Baby steps, I tell myself. Baby steps.
Of the several Jack Bauer Kill Count sites out there this is my favorite.
Breakdown by season, identity of the victim, video/snapshot, and method of death. Interesting to see the trusty Sig 228 replaced in later seasons by the HK USP Compact, but we all know the truly great kills are the various gut knifings, throat slittings, and neck brokings. My personal favorites: Death by Punch to the Heart and Death by Treo.
And, of course, last night's Death by Vampire Bite. Kicked ass, that one.
Not sure if the execution of Ryan Chappelle ranks as a great kill, but it was the coldbloodedest thing he ever did.
UPDATE: ACH! He shot XXXXXX! (Redacted - Spoiler). Fucking Jack kills more of his own people than the terrorists do.
UPDATE 2: Um... maybe not...
It's a crazy thing, but the last time I checked James Brown hasn't been buried yet. He lies in state in his house. Apparently there is a disconnect amongst the various Brown factions as to where he should be interred.
That's why I'm going to be burned. Like a Viking. My ashes sown in Wassaw Sound. Look: I'm at my ultimate beauty now, as pitiful as that may be. Age will only detract from that beauty, and death will most certainly diminish my better features. As Black Panther Huey Newton exhorted, Burn, Baby Burn!
So I would like my blogfriends to step up to the plate, and guarantee my immolation. At the very least my rotted skeleton won't therefore be clawing at your window late at night, after an interment gone awry.
Especially your bathroom window.
It's like insurance. Only I don't make you cough up every month.
That is all.
My clean buddy Eric the Blade posted on knives the other day. It was a poignant post, and generated many comments. Even Elisson weighed in, and I had him figured for an ice pick guy long ago.
Now, Eric and I go back a ways in regards to knives. To wit I consider him utterly fucking insane when he drinks and wields them, and I can recall him dragging me over a table in a motel room after Acidman's mom's funeral, and me stealing his Cold Steel and brandishing it against him, all after we had been seriously spree drinking at a, a, Houlihan's? I don't recall. An Establishment With Copious Liquors.
But that's just how boys play.
I loved that post of Eric's, but I kept thinking... some guys love knives because they are sharp, and deadly, and they take them in the woods, and kill and skin creatures with them, etc etc. Rites of Passage, Grandfather and Son, oh it is beautiful tear-jerking stuff.
They play Mumblypeg sumtimes, too.
That's all well and fine. But Velocitheory holds that the highest and best use of a knife is for the sensual removal of feminine undergarments. The cutting off of underwear, if you will.
Hear me out, and here they are, my blades:
By the way, two caveats:
1) please practice this with a willing partner, and
2) never cry when wielding a knife. It totally freaks your partner.
Knife 1 is the Senator's WWII era Camillus M3 trench knife. Very useful if you are blind drunk, and happen upon a 70ish blowsy old broad who remembers when a real man could stick it to you! and then upchucks on your feet. That's a stretched out old brassiere, by the way, and I commend you for not slitting her throat after that. Because you ARE very ashamed. Hell, I'm ashamed for you.
Knife 2 is my Buck 6 inch fixed blade. It's for redneck hillbilly girls. Folding blades don't impress them. They need something formidable slitting their unmentionables as you coo the words they long to hear: Possum's Up! Sexually these are huge, I don't need to remind you. I've witnessed spontaneous ovulations from these. Unfortunately it's usually a sheep they are enwombed with. So we Move On.
Knife 3: my Gerber Gator. That is a sweet sweet piece of hardware. The girl who says Cut It Off With The Gator, Daddy, is a damned Florida fan, of course. But that's cool. It's why we like them. And where we like to forward those cellphone pics to Gator Father.
Not that I've ever done that. Yet.
Knife 4 is my standard Swiss Army knife. That's a boring, quotidian blade. We only use it for the mundane. Cousins, for instance. That's routine work, often, but I can attest the payoffs can be extreme. Totally. Talk to Mom after THAT one.
Knife 5? The little tiny thing? That's for Tinkerbell. I'm saving it for her. I haven't exactly worked out the thing, but I know she would be incredibly hot with her bra straps severed, while I whispered dirty shit in her little tiny ears. You know it too.
Have I neglected panties? Sorry. They yield as well, and the mewling is even better. Even better. But the brassiere, well, you really have something there. Ephemeral. Naughty. Totally fucking hot.
I really need a Paypal button for a legal defense, don't I? Please send monies to LEGALAGE.com. Attn: Dominatrix.
Nothing hotter than a bit of lingerie removal under role-playing duress. Barbie sez Cutting my bra off is hot!
Well, at least in my fevered world. And I like it here.
There are two types of collegiate football played in America, Neck.
1) Southeastern Conference Football, and
2) that weasily dandified transvestite version they play everywhere else. Most notably, apparently, there in your beloved Rust Belt.
As a diehard Bulldog fan since 1964 it does aggrieve me in many ways to toot that Gator horn. But we Southerners stick together. "Why are you fighting?" they asked us. "Because we live here," we replied. I will root for the SEC until God calls me home. We do that here. Would you root for Michigan in a Championship Game? I thought not. No local pride.
Tim Tebow? Local talent. Lives down the street. You are very lucky we didn't unleash him the entire game. But we're extracting his mojo one syringe at a time as part of the big Iraq Surge. Don't want to wear him out.
I feel your pain, Neck. My only regret is I didn't inflict it personally.
And hey: I love you man. As long as you're on bottom, of course.
Rosie lost her best buddy Aegis. He was five years old. It's a hell of a thing, losing a beloved pet.
If you really want your heart wrenched (and who doesn't? I'm a firm believer that Commiseration is what dignifies us as sentient creatures; assuaging another's grief is our noblest capacity) go read How To Dig A Hole. It's beautiful writing, too.
And keep Rosie in your thoughts.
Rankin' Rob suggests Claxton's Rattlesnake Roundup March 10-11, instead of the Whigham thing. That's fine with me. It's actually closer for me, and much closer for the Atlanter crowd, should anyone feel compelled to go a-slumming with me.
Of course, basing out of Savannah doesn't have the same cachet as a vermin-infested crib in Cairo or Attapulgus, but one must sacrifice for the common good.
The big Q: how will I ever wait until March? I better swing by Whigham anyway. Just for a test run.
Whatever happened to the Senator?
Well, that's what they call a conundrum.
It was a feet thing.
Around 1971, when the old man was 46 or so, he went on one of his mystical fishing trips. Lefils Fish Camp, outside of Titusville, Florida, it was. As always. Trout fishing.
These were apparently bacchanals of some nature, Lefils being a Potemkin Village for his nefarious antics. Cover, if you will. I think it was how my father Blew Off Steam. I can recall vacationing with my aunt while the Senator had his brother, her husband, on one of these events, and the phone calls and crying jags were legendary. She was sure the old man was corrupting that most corruptible of peoples. Ah. Well. Bacchanals, they were, I sense. I won't speculate beyond that.
As I recall, and my memory buds are hazy on this, incredibly, the Senator returned from this particular fishing trip with blistered toes. Whether this was due to external or internal causes I likewise claim amnesia. I don't think the cause was ever actually explained to us kids. It just was.
The blistering did not improve, and the old man found himself hospitalized, the situation grave. I do recall the conversation where it was said the feet would most likely have to be removed, as the toes had become grangenous. I believe this was due to poor circulation from a heart condition, pre-onset adult diabetes, and formidable binge drinking. Yus, they were going to lop those feet off.
Then, as part of some diagnostic ritual, the old man was given a nerve block. I think it was to alleviate pain, however the adminstration was fucked up, and the actual situation involved massive internal bleeding and unimaginable pain. Which the Senator bulled through stoically until my mother realized his ashen demeanor and profuse sweating belied incredible suffering.
The nerve block was removed, and at some point the amputations were avoided, and the old man went home. I can only surmise that my inability to recollect much of this has to do with the fact I was 14, and sick and tired of the old man. We were at loggerheads. Also, my insane fear of hospitals meant I spent as little time there as possible. I probably missed a few family councils.
The upshot was the Senator came home, but he'd lost about a hundred pounds, and gone from a robust, ruddy titan to a hollowed out old man. At 46 he looked 66. A very weak 66. And his powerful personality was snuffed. Days of excrutiating pain coupled with delirium tremens had sapped his will to live.
Insult to injury? His doctor recommended he retire. Which he did. And so what would have kept him engaged and functioning he willingly stripped himself of. And sank, inexorably, into the comfort of the bottle.
The next years were a slow descent. Into a maelstrom, both for him and we few still left at home. The Senator had morphed into The Husk. Very sad stuff.
I don't share this as maudlin entertainment, or justification. It just was. I never got along with my father. I think we loved each other, but that conversation never took place, so I can't be sure, really.
Here's something, though: I asked the Senator to be the best man at my wedding. And he did. He was sober, and lucid, and imperious, and wonderful, but the fact is he was a thousand miles away at the time. His brain was for the ages by then.
He never said it was an honor, he never said it was a travail. He just did it because I asked him to. As close as I ever got to him. I will say he was sober, and I will say he was sober the last few years of his life after that. So I have that.
I think, in retrospect, we shared a hell of a lot of stubbornness. I also think, should the Senator be alive today, he'd want to go a rattlesnaking with me.
He was crazy like that.
What began as a joke has become a compulsion in the fever swamp of my brain. I think I will, nay, I must, travel to Whigham on the 27th to partake of the Rattlesnake Roundup. Armed with nothing but a jockstrap and a bottle of Early Times (tourniquet and disinfectant, respectively).
I don't think the concept of rooms for hire has reached that hamlet yet, however I'm sure there are rooms two miles away in Cairo (that's pronounced Kay-ro, to differentiate it from the Egyptian city of heathen cutthroats).
Then again, how much fun would it be to approach the most mutated individual you could find at the snake pens and ask Can I spend the night wif you? Plenty fun, I'm thinking.
Added bonus: the Thigpen Trail and Old Magnolia Road are only ten miles away in Thomasville. The Thigpen Trail was an old Indian trail the British upgraded in 1703 from North Carolina to Florida in order to wage war on the Spanish Papists, those bastards. The Old Magnolia Road was, well, something akin to that. So there's a venue to drink what Early Times isn't poured over the snakebites.
I'd liveblog it, but I reckon the only signal I'll get there is a smoke signal, announcing my grievous scalping. How many puffs declare He cried like a baby? Better bone up on my smoke signals.
When I first brought Bella home many people suggested I read Marley and Me, the humorous real-life travails of a couple with the Labrador From Hell. And as luck would have it Jack Straw gave my daughter said tome for Christmas.
The freaking dog can chew. With Irony. Although she does have flashes of remorse for her errant ways.
I keep reminding myself I'm the Master here. I am, of course. Aren't I?
I'm thinking this opposable thumbs thing is way overrated, though.
I walked into my office the Thursday before Christmas to find the above pinkish thing on my desk. Eh, what? says I to myself, nonplussed. Someone has misplaced Fido's cock warmer. How shall I ever find the rightful owner?
The suspicious bulges inside piqued my curiosity, however. Surely this is a canine cock warmer, thinks I. Why, that gold chain be the ballstrap. But what of those tiny appendages?
Aye, these thoughts coursed through my mind as I massaged the tiny lumps out of the top of the pinkish thing, and beheld the penny candy you see above, along with the business card of my CEO. This was no johnny charger, you see; this was my Christmas present from my intrepid leader.
My first thought, of course, was that this was his way of saying I've beheld your bustling activity, Velociman, but I have also detected your condescending attitude toward your inferiors. You run a bullshit con game, son, and I've smoked you out.
I was wrong, however. My bullshit con game remains intact, for as I visited my colleagues' offices I saw that they, too, had been gifted with tiny little Christmas tree sweater ornaments with rancid confectionery products lodged in their bellies. This was, in fact, the true measure of the man, beautifully encapsulated in small, hideously cheap gimcracks.
An $8 billion corporation, and my CEO head of a billion dollar subsidiary, and he showed his appreciation to the 75 people at corporate with this mawkish crap.
This wasn't my bonus, of course. My compensation package was not impacted. This was, rather, the personal evidence of gratitude to the troops for a Job Well Done. Well done, indeed. As my present indicates.
I knew this corporate work would eventually sour me on capitalism. One (I struggle with the delicate turn of phrase to describe this man, but believe I will settle upon craven little cocksucker) craven little cocksucker can spoil the rhubarbs for all the other capitalist pigs, you know, and when the peasants begin slitting throats some eggs do invariably get broked.
I believe I shall go to war against laissez-faire shitheelism, and emblazon my battleflag with a pinkish sweater ornament. I envision it feared and worshipped as I lay scourge to the Gewgaw Tribe, the bestowers of insipid, insulting, humiliating trinkets no doubt expensed, for the million dollar man obviously wouldn't willingly peel $80 or so from his personal coffers to so richly reward us.
I envision Al Qaeda in the Sunshine State, or Sendero Luminoso (Sunshining Path), striking terror in executive washrooms. Perhaps by posting pictures of the bastards' enshrivelled penii. Uniform? Maybe the Che Guevara tees, with the Mutant wearing that beret.
I have a game plan, now. I feel much better. Saboteur. Velocagent provocateur. An aggrieved little man with his feelings hurt, slitting jugulars. Yes.
And I think I'll use that sweater ornament as an itsy-bitsy prayer rug, now that I think about it.