March 29, 2007

Spreading the Word

You know, Easter is fast approaching, which means we shall all be subjected yet again to those news stories about those crazy-assed Filipinos who crucify themselves in a weird bit of hommage to the Passion:


So I was thinking, Been there. Quotidian. Hows about, instead, we crucify some Muslims? Call it Interfaith Dialogue. Why do they hate us? Because they don't understand us!

I'm thinking a little nailing of a few Musselmen upon the timbers would satisfy everyone's craving for multicultural understanding. We all get it now, don't we? You have jihad, we have... this! Now let us break bread together.

Of course, it would be remiss not to share another's faith system as we share ours. So we could mutilate their genitals at the same time. Cover all the bases.

I'm sensitive to other cultures like that.

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Bleary Eyed


A rather pitiful specimen of Labradorous Insanianum, eh? The only reason I post it is because her bloodshot, woeful eyes belie the spastic fiend she were earlier today.

Took the creature to the vet for her last round of shots this morning, including her rabies. She slipped her collar getting out of the truck, and ran like a fucking Kenyan chasing his first Boston Marathon win after that. Hid under a pickup truck, begreasing herself, and took an enormous evacuation in the parking lot before I coaxed her inside with promises of kittens, thus far unmolested.

She bounced off the walls liked a biphetamine junkie until we got her in the examination room, then she ramped up the energy level.

I had to strap her to the scales. 58.7 pounds of consternable retardation. Took her shots like a big girl because I was letting her gnaw my wrist into bloodpulp. But it took the three of us (me, vet, tech) to pin her down to clip her nails. Her eyes were rolling in her head like Catfish scoring pornable stripper pussy, I tell you. When we finally let her up there was a puddle of drool the size of the ever-receding Aral Sea on the floor. Again, just like Catfish.

She needed the shots, though. I'm taking her to the mountains for a bit of vacation Friday, and while chasing squirrels she will undoubtedly find the only rabid opossum in North Georgia (the only rabid opossum in South Georgia being Pogo, of course, in the Okefenokee Swamp). Because there is no way she will grace me, and run away, or get lost. No, Bella will find some rancid dead coon and drag it back. And feast. And snarl and snap should I try to drag it away with branch or limb. It is her nature.

I'd rather not board her, though, because that = $$$ I am unwilling to commit. Plus, the sidelong glances I received today at the vet told me NYET! We take Moose and Squirrel, no Crazy Bella, comrade. Plus I'll need divertissement as I work on the Great American Novel. It being so taxing a responsibility. So far it's a roman à clef. Faulkner is thinly disguised as the Archie character, Hemingway is Moose, and Fitzgerald is Jughead. I'm Mr. Weatherbee, for some reason. Perhaps for the gratuitous paddlings I get to administer to the aforementioned.

I refuse to say who the Betty and Veronica characters are, but you're probably reading this, and I post naked these days. So, as the French say, et voilà! (well, that's what those Frank hotties told me in St. Martin last summer, when they brought me mimosas at breakfast to ease my rheumy eyeballs). Personal follow up e-mails coming. With shameful, but unbelievable, pix. Yes. I really did that. Twicet.

Yes, this has the makings of a disaster. But I'm game. Hell, I'm fucking Weatherbee! Bow before me.

Did I mention I'll be about 15 miles from the rape scene in Deliverance? Why I'm taking the dog. Not for protection, of course. For bait.

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March 21, 2007

Afghan Whigs

This is depressing. de Borchgrave is prone to hyperbole, but he has solid sources.

On the upside, heroin should be relatively cheap for the next few years.

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March 20, 2007

Tuco. Indeed.


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Tuco. Heh.


Posted by Velociman at 9:04 PM | Comments (6) | TrackBack

Heh. Tuco.


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March 19, 2007

Brake Left!

I finally replaced the brake pads on the Velociblazer today. Front and back. I figured 160,000 miles on the originals was a bit of a stretch even for me.

Did it myself, of course, because every time I took it in to a brake shop they wanted $900 to replace the discs. And you know what? Checked 'em. Those discs are still sweet.

As thin as a Presbyterian's wafer, but sweet.

I'm beside myself with stopping power, though. Just no fun not being able to put metal to metal and power slide up to the crossing guard in the mornings, she ashielding the little bike tots with one arm, and giving me the shahtsungoo with the other. Stoppage actually sucks. It's like coloring within the lines. Just boring stuff.

I miss the sparks, too.

I suppose I'll eventually acclimatize to this newfound safety measure, but I sure as hell won't like it.

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March 18, 2007

Tuco's Back

And you know what that means. Brrr. Skeers even me.

It's very gratifying to me, actually, when Tuco and the Mutant are on the sidebar together. Whatever the vivisection version of feng shui is, that's it.

To celebrate this occasion, then, allow me to share Tuco's crimes yet again. Humor me. This sort of thing makes me happy, and Dr. Thorensen told me it's okay to be happy. Says them prosties like duct tape. I tend to agree. Anywhats:

The First Hanging:

"Wanted in fourteen counties of this State, the condemned is found guilty of murder, armed robbery of citizens, state banks, and post offices; the theft of sacred objects, arson in a state prison, perjury, bigamy, deserting his wife and children, inciting prostitution, kidnapping, extortion, receiving stolen goods, selling stolen goods, passing counterfeit money, and contrary to the laws of this State the condemned is guilty of using marked cards and loaded dice..."

The Second Hanging:

"Wanted in fifteen counties, standing before us, ah, sitting before us, Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez, has been found guilty by the District Circuit Court of the following crimes: murder, assaulting a Justice of the Peace, raping a virgin of the white race, statutory rape of a minor of the black race, derailing a train in order to rob the passengers, ... robbery, highway robbery, robbing an unknown number of post offices, breaking out of a ..., counterfeiting and passing counterfeit money, and the accused... promoting prostitution ...high places of authority... illegal postal pick up... intention of selling black fugitive slaves... the sheriff in Sonora... hired himself out as guide on a wagon train, after receiving his payment in advance, he deserted the wagon train in the hunting grounds of the Sioux Indians... misrepresenting himself as a Mexican general in order to receive a salary and living allowance from the Union Army..."

It's like archaeology, you know. Sometimes you just dig up a bone splinter, or a jawbone, and have to reconstruct the rest. So it is with Tuco's crimes.

Yes, I'm tired, and I'm recycling. So what? It's Leone, damn it. Deal with it. And help me fill in those blanks.

Posted by Velociman at 11:48 PM | Comments (6) | TrackBack

March 16, 2007

Iron Lung Logic

No, that's not the name of a metal band, but it should be. Those of us of a certain age remember the iron lung, though, and the terror appertaining thereto:


Believe it or not, the iron lung was not the last baleful residence of the chainsmoker, but a negative pressure ventilator more commonly used for polio patients, whose diaphragms had been irrevocably bloked by the 'litis.

But to us kids it was brandished as a screed against smoking, and we drank that particular Kool-Ade. And why not? The iron lung bespoke the iron mask, and the iron maiden. It was another torture device, only one that one sentenced oneself to, through Weaknesses and Vice. Every person my age had a friend when they were 9 or 10 who had a relative entrapped in one of those beasts. Usually a grandparent, or a queer old aunt.

Iron lung! Christ! Make it go away!

But this isn't really about the old iron lung. It's really about poor choices, and redemption. For redemption can be had, for a price. And that price is never the redemptee's, either. Therein lie da sweetness.

I'm not a lawyer, see, but I play one on the internet. And should you suffer from one of the following illnesses or ailments:

Agent Orange
Black lung disease
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
Wettage of the beddage
Lung cancer
Lead paint dimwittage
Gulf War Syndrome
PCB exposure
High red blood cell count
High white blood cell count
Thinning of the eggs
Hardening of the eggs
Evaporation and/or glandularization of the eggs
Pindick syndrome
Dioxin poisoning, or
Love Canalage

well, I can't exactly represent you in court, but I do believe I can raise enough Holy Hell in the Court of Public Opinion to exact an out of court settlement, just to avoid publicity, and that ain't shabby stuff, as they say on Skid Row.

How does $250,000, bifurcated twixt you and me, sound? I thought so. And a little left over for Queer Aunt Sally? You will be forever an official Hero/Heroin in your family. Think about that.

I'm here to help. So help Me help You.

It's for Sally, you know. And the children. You know: them Thalidomides.

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March 11, 2007


That's what my dog said when I returned from Dat Dere Rattlesnake Roundup.

"You look like hammered dogshit," she said.

"Aye," said I. "And not just any old hammered dogshit, but what Elisson calls that old ball peen hammered dogshit."

"Irridentist ball peen hammered dogshit," she scolded.

"Aye, dat," said I. For I did look rough. Still do. But that's what these things are about. Me making an ass of myself. Taking one for the team, for blogfodder.

For I arrived in Savannah with a chip on my shoulder the size of a cypress stump. Don't know what that was all about, but there it were. All bruiseable ego and ardent apoplexy, I was. Culminating at dinner when, as the waitress kept dripping beer foam on me, I growled "It's like a goddamned porn movie around here!" Irascible behavior, I tell you.

So to Eric, Joe, Zonker, Elisson, Rick, Georgia, Denny: made you blink, heh heh.

There were some no shows, by the way. Yabu (because he's a pussy). Catfish (because he's a pussy). Sick? That don't cut it. Unless your skull is being trepanned, or your thorax is being cracked open for bypass surgery, I expect you to be there. And, actually, you really should be there if the trepanning thing is going down, just so we could poke your exposed cerebrum with chopsticks, and make you do grim involuntary things, like wet your drawers.

Zonker called for breakfast this morning, and Elisson rapped on the door like Wee Willie Winkie (which, incidentally, is an excellent nickname for him) but I was unmoved to eat, sitting, as I was, crosslegged and naked on the bed, contemplating my navel, and the utter and shameful flaccidity of Girth Vader. I was destroyed, and unfit company. I was so destroyed, in fact, that when I purchased ciggie butts and chewing gum at the convenience store pregnant women were spontaneously aborting their fetuses. It was gruesome. Mops were needed.

Anywhat it was a feast of snakes, and I had a royal time. Whatsbitofit I bermember.

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March 3, 2007

Very Specieal


See how the dog must touch the cat when she sleeps? The cat hates it, but likes it. Very inter-species stuff, if you ask me. And it's $5 for an 8 x 10 of that hot action.

And is that my field-stripped mattress they lie upon? Shamefully, yes. Call it a ménage à trois. Which is actually better than the ménage à un I've been experiencing lately.

Somebody come give VMan some love. Preferably the wet kind.

Posted by Velociman at 2:10 PM | Comments (28) | TrackBack

Just Damn

It's a hell of a thing, moving your own god-borned children out of your house. Ensconcing them in new digs, telling them 'This is all for the best'.

And they dally for weeks, days, supposing that day won't happen, too. And when it does they have to move anyway, and so they finally scallop up their most precious things, and put on the bravado for you.

'Done!' they cry. But they aren't. Gots their toothbrushes, and 30-odd pound of make-up, bodywash, lotions, and other requisites. The clothes were already moved. But they leave behind a ton of shit. That means nothing to them, apparently, but plenty to you. Gimcracks and gewgaws? Got 'em aplenty. They didn't want to keep them, though.

So afterwards you go through their rooms, and they are explosions of trash. The garbage they leave behind is what you thought would have held their hearts. Maybe once, but it's garbage now. The stickman with the tiny potbelly labelled Dad? Neh. That scribble of you from pre-K she taped to her closet door forever? Don't need that, either. The 156 bottles of shampoo, conditioners, straighteners, curlers, frizzers, de-frizzers, coalgulators, decoagulators, stiffeners, destiffeners, and relaxers for the hair? Mine, now. Should I need them.

The things they leave behind speak far more to me than what they take.

And so you clean that room out, and the next. And at some point you sit in the middle of the floor, surrounded by the detritus of your childrens' lives, amongst the shit you liked but they left behind, often things you gave them, with tears streaming down your cheeks, and wonder. Just a little bit.

What the hell just happened?

Sucks to be me, apparently.

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