I screwed the pooch yesterday. As I was figuratively juggling three phone calls on the cell whilst wallowing in the cement pond I literally found myself juggling the cell, it having slipped my surly bonds. For one brief moment I thought I had it, my fingertips arching desperately.
But no. It was the Nestea Plunge for the old war horse. Was alcohol involved? Oh, hell yes.
But that's not the point. The point, other than the fact I am a certified spaz, is this pup will never power on again. There's a hundred phone numbers lost to the ages.
So if I had your number (and even if I didn't) please e-mail it to me, so I can replicate the inventory when my new phone arrives Tuesday.
I also accept nudes, tit shots, fingerings, tongue stylings, facials, and chained heat action. It's G Mail! The G stands for Give it to V Daddy. I'll take it all.
Update: I tried Paul's denatured alcohol cure, but all it did was make my room smell like the pediatrician's office when I was a boy. I kept expecting a hypodermic needle in my arse, and Dr. M. gratuitously hefting my ballsies again.
Checked him for hernia seven times, Mrs. C! He's all good!
Thank you, doctor!
Mingle2 - Online Dating
How sweet is that? It seems the words shit, sex, and bastard are frowned upon by the authorities.
Rotted cock is apparently okay, though.
It was with great dismay that I read Larry Munson, the fabled radio voice of the Georgia Bulldogs, is only able to handle home games this season. At 84 Larry is horribly afflicted with arthritis, and even making the stadium will apparently be a struggle. The Times-Onion speculated the away games would work him severely, hence the home game compromise.
I cannot explain what Munson means to Dawg fans. His gravelly voice and colloquialisms (anyone inside the red zone was 'Knockin' on the door!') has endeared him to three generations. He just fucking rocked.
I can't match Dax's eloquence (or his brutality), but I'll never forget turning down the TV and turning up Larry on the radio every game (okay, it was out of phase, and Larry always was two seconds before the TV), but Jesus. Lindsay Scott! Lindsay Scott! Lindsay Scott!
As my girlfriend Key Monroe said of Larry, "Some people should really be immortal".
I think that sums it up.
I'm suffering unto at least month four of the goddam Valtrex commercial wherein the guy says, with a grin, that he has genital herpes, and his girlfriend says, with a grin, she don't, and they want to keep it that way!
Well, no shit. So does her mom and dad, and the Centers for Disease Control, and the National Institutes of Health, and, above all, me.
Because that's a putrid commercial.
And that guy? I don't like him. He's a greaseball. Some kind of ethnic. Greek, or Bolivian, I think. Might be a Phoenician. They catch that shit all the time, the Phoenicians.
So my advice is: I hope she's not planning on sucking that Phoenician's cock anytime soon. Because my prostitute friends tell me once the genital herpes (Simplex II) migrates to your face, you're fucked for life. Not like getting a cold sore on your schvance. No sir.
But at least they're actors.
But every day, some real life idiot knowingly porks someone with raging herpes, and some guy barebacks an HIV cowboy in a bathhouse.
Kinda makes drunk driving look like bumper cars, don't it?
Or, rather, upon further reflection, I believe this is the greatest rock and roll song of all time:
This, of course, pushes the very definition of rock and roll beyond what most people would consider such. It's hootenany, or something.
And that guy buck dancing? That's me on the dance floor. Totally.
Yes, I'm in an introspective mood. And yes, you Gen X'ers need to shut the fuck up, sit down, and listen to your goddam Grampy, who slept in a Holiday Inn Express last night, and is therefore not only empowered but has a back out of whack.
What's your greatest rock and roll song, chirren? Something from Green Day? Fuck off. Cobain? Get out of my face.
You head bangers: if you even mention Stairway to Heaven I'll cut your fucking heart out and nibble on it. Don't go there. That was great screw music, is all. Dontcha memba? Go back to bed. And try not to wet it this time.
Yes, we boomers are narcissistic assholes. But look at the bright side: We're dropping like flies. We're not fat like you X'ers, but time takes its toll anyhoo. But until your atherosclerosis drops your chunky little ass like a bluebottle fly on a piece of rotted labradoodle meat, you are consigned to suffer unto us boomers' horrid whims. It sucks, I know. Tough titty.
And I will caveat this: if I'd ever had sex with a blonde midget while Sympathy for the Devil was playing, well, hell's bells, that would be my favorite song. But that didn't happen. Dammit.
Oh. The Song? You hunny bunnys are so clueless:
P.S. That banjo song from Deliverance might actually be the most powerful song of my generation. For all the wrong reasons.
Why this isn't the theme song of Jawja Bloggers escapes me. The editing is a bit cheesy, but compared to, say, a Black Eyed Pea video, this is pretty cock hard:
Baby Dax is one year old today:
Go visit Dax and share the love.
But notice the eerie resemblance between that sweet child and this guy :
Now, I'm not trying to start any shit, but Jesus!
I have absolutely no experience in cinema, but I'm pretty sure I could make a great film about the Soviet takedown of Berlin in 1945. It would be kind of a cross between Cross of Iron and Killing Private Ryan and Stalingrad, only with more gratuitous rape sex.
Block by block, it took weeks for them Russkies to take the city, because they were so busy torturing the men and despoiling the women, while Hitler was
getting married blowing his brains out and Goebbels was poisoning his own children.
The Russians wouldn't clear a building of civilians: they'd stick a tank gun in there and blow the poor bastards out the other side. Take that, Germanskis!
Payback! is already taken, isn't it? I could still call it Razorcock!, though.
So anyway, I should put up a tipjar. I hear films cost money. This would probably be in the $200-$300 million range, depending on my personal graft desires and CGI stuff. When a little boy has a grenade shoved down his throat, that outcome should be realistic, I think. For the sake of the art.
Oh, and the casting couch has already been fluffed. Gonna be a lot of despoiled Teutonic girls, and I want to make sure I hire just the right 200 women for those roles.
I really don't want to, you know. Because, as Tuco said, "My belly's full!" And that fact should carry the day.
But I have leftovers. How to deal with them, without scalding my soul?
Initial reaction, from my neighbor, Vilma:
The angel hair pasta is the Feminine We. Obviously. Fragile, delicate, broken irretrievably when slashed by the Metal Fork: (He).
The red sauce is obviously Male, aswimming in unreconstructed Meat. They never have an address, do they? Just raw meat, all over your petite asses without asking By Your Leave.
Because that's what it's about: the red manmeat stuff smothers the delicate white thin stuff, Patriarchal, Inhuman, Brutal.
Sisters, protect My Hump!
Then, of course, it slithers into your little pasta bowels, that red meat, that sauce. Without any permission (Time Magazine said it was okay in that discraceful 1974 We Love Italian! cover story. Luce holdovers. Cretins!)
So that red, red sauce (He!) drips between her angel hair, she helpless, disgraced. And then he twirls his "fork". Which we know is merely a construct for a four pronged penis. Mixes his disgusting meat, slathered with manmeatjuice, all over the delicate pasta (She!).
I vomit. Mandela!
Then sucks the She pasta into his never-satiated Maw, licking his fascist lips as he slurrups the final vestiges of the poor angel hair from what is obviously her exposed, bloodied, vagina.
And don't we own Red, sisters? We bleed it every month. And they are so F***king White Bread! F*** Them!
We shall reinvent the Spaghetti. With our African-American sisters. Pasta is Red. Meat (that disgusting, smirking Meat) is White. Unlike their Souls. Which are Black! And, um, only the authentic sisters can be Black!
Anyway, I passed about three pounds of excrement after that. Felt pretty good, too. Loves me some spaghetti. And sorry, Vilma. We'll get it together one of these days. Promise.
My friend Marianne sent me this today. Said it reminded her of me.
Well, of course it does! I am, after all, a sophisticate, a person attuned to levels of nuance, and gradation. And, upon occasion, degradation. Why, this is merely diversity of sexual attenuation.
I must confess I don't get the joke, though. Me? I'm with the guy on the left. I'm thinking he's less likely to catch an interspecies venereal disease.
Not that I would know anything about that sort of thing.
Because guys always have to compensate, don't they?
And because Velociman always has to step up to the plate and compensate for you poor pindicks, don't he?
I said, Don't he?
Fun Facts, from Wikipedia:
The North American X-15 rocket plane was part of the USAF/NASA/USN X-series of experimental aircraft, including also the Bell X-1. The X-15 set numerous speed and altitude records in the early 1960s, reaching the edge of space and bringing back valuable data that was used in the design of later aircraft and spacecraft. It could be considered the first manned suborbital spacecraft ever constructed by the United States.
During the X-15 program, 13 flights (by eight pilots) met the USAF's criteria for a spaceflight by passing an altitude of 50 miles (80 km) and the pilots were accordingly awarded astronaut status by the USAF. Two X-15s pilots also qualified to receive NASA astronaut wings.
Some respected aerospace researchers have placed the threshold of space at lower altitudes than the USAF and NASA, so many X-15 pilots could also be considered as astronauts. The "aeropause" region, where space-equivalent conditions are first encountered, starts at an altitude of 19 miles (30 km) above the Earth. Many X-15 pilots traveled through, and far above, the aeropause.
Out of all the X-15 missions, two flights (by the same pilot) also qualified for the international FAI definition of a spaceflight by passing the 62.1 mile (100 km) mark.
Maximum speed: Mach 6.85 (4,520 mph / 7,274 km/h)
Range: 280 miles (450 km)
Service ceiling: 67 miles (354,330 ft / 108 km)
Rate of climb: 60,000 ft/min (18,000 m/min)
Wing loading: 170 lb/ft² (829 kg/m²)
There's something Girthian about that plane, I tell ya. Especially the thrust to weight ratio. NASA tested me at 2.35, as I recall. Of course, I was younger then.
Fuzzy? Sure. That slut took off like the proverbial scalded dog, and no CyberShot was gonna catch that clean.
Balls, too, to losing it. I returned to the scene of the crime Sunday and looked again, but it's a goner. What the hell. It's not like I have to travel to North American Aviation for a replacement. I'll have another one grasped in my sweaty palm Saturday, courtesy of the Bentonville Mafia.
And at least it didn't have a little miniature screaming test pilot in it when it went down.
Here's the space shuttle lifting off Friday evening from the vantage of my front porch.
It's a mighty fine thing, sitting on one's front porch with a cuba libre, watching some complete morons ride a gazillion pounds of thrust with a horrible track record into outer space. I salute them! Hic!
In a more depressing aside, I've now lost more X-15's than NASA and the Air Force combined. They built three, and only lost one to a crash. I took Skeeter out Saturday to fire the second of my X-15's, the first having been lost in the woods several weeks back. But these C6-3 engines pop that puppy about 1,500 feet up, so even in a 6 acre field it drifts off on landing. I lost this one on the second shot. Damn. Tore my shins up combing the woods, too. I need to find a desert or something.
I am a redundant cog. Of course, the ex has been telling me that for years, but it's true! At least where I grasp my filthy, soiled, ACH'd paycheck.
I put up a good front, like everyone does, but I tell you: I put Spanky the Monkey in my office chair for two days, and monitored the phone calls, and Spanky actually did a better job. By his silence. By not caving on pricing.
I've written a treatise, to be delivered to my organization upon my departure, on how useless I am, thanks to them. But it was inevitable anyway. The old slap on the back relationship with customers has been replaced by software driven decision making. And that's fine. As it should be.
But I'm out here in the cold. My org is convinced I'm vital, I guess, by the same specious logic that convinces them they're vital.
Bullshit. My monkey did a better job. Why? Productivity is better handled by machines. Take the human element out of the equation, because it's biased. I hate it, but it's true. Hell, I have a hundred Indians screwed to laptops on the 24th floor, calling me to tell me my decisions don't fit their algorithms. Can't I see? Well, no, boys. It was a judgment call. Won't be more of those, apparently. And they're good guys. Subcontinental quants, is all. They'll be let go too, next month. Time to bring in fresh ragheaded folk.
I should be outsourced. In fact, I need the severance pay. But I show up, and huff and puff, and it's a fucking travesty.
I need a long walk on the beach, and a candlelight dinner, and sweet consensual sex. Paid for by a lonely administrative assistant, who doesn't realize she's next. Because we all work for meat processors. I just figured that out.
P.S. She's at the end of the bar. Don't say anything.
And you know what? The hellish thing about fiction is the editing. Every time I think I'm on a streak, the Huck Finn kicks in. As in, you ain't going on any middle school reading listing writing that shit, hoss. Not that I'm going on one anyway. But no sense shooting oneself in the foot, eh what? I just cut the following:
Jack finally reached a highway, his sneakers and jeans dusty up to the knee, his backpack suffering worse from having been dragged the length of an entire soybean field out of sheer weariness. He sat on the side of the road and waited for a car. He figured he was pointed in the right direction. He’d consulted his map, and appeared to be on Georgia 17, which would take him to Millen. He’d figure it out from there. He noticed a battered, pistolshot sign across the highway. EGPYT, it read. After several cars had passed he finally thumbed down a pickup truck. Inside were two obese boys of about eighteen or nineteen. “Where you goin’, boy?” asked the driver.
“Millen,” said Jack. “Trying to get to Eatonton.” He looked more closely at the youths, and saw that they were filthy as well as fat. Both wore overalls, and had greasy hair, long for the area, slicked back behind their ears. Both wore pervasive scars of egregious acne, fresh as well as ancient. The boy on the passenger side grinned, showing hellish dental neglect. “We going to Scarboro, but we’ll run you the next fifteen miles to Millen if the price are right.” He grinned again, then jumped out of the passenger door. “Hop in,” he said. Jack hesitated for a moment, then remembered Bazemore, realized he probably had a Senator-led posse on his trail, and started to climb in the cabin, then paused.
“I really like to sit by the window,” he said. “I get car sick sometimes. Don’t want to throw up in your truck.”
“That’s okay,” said the passenger rider. “Lamar there is a great driver. Smooth and easy. Jump on in.” Jack hesitated, then complied. He needed a ride if he was going to elude whatever resources his father would throw at him.
Lamar pulled back onto the highway with a fishtailing spray of gravel, and the passenger guffawed loudly. “I’m Quentin Futch,” he said. “That there’s my brother Lamar.” Lamar grinned at him, and fishtailed the truck a bit. “Quentin’s a queer. You know what a queer is, boy?”
“I ain’t a queer!” yelled Quentin. “Lamar’s the one likes buttholes. Dontcha, boy?” He reached over Jack and punched Lamar in the shoulder, with his middle finger knuckle extended. “Frog!” he cried, and Lamar fishtailed the truck again. He glowered at Quentin. “I’ll get you for that, you damn queer.” Quentin laughed, and dangled his right arm out of the open window, beating his hand on the door panel in syncopation with the country music fading in and out on the radio. “Queers,” he mumbled to himself.
Jack was anxious sitting between the two brothers, and experienced waves of nausea as Lamar periodically fishtailed the truck for no apparent reason. After several miles Quentin reached over and slammed his hand on Jack’s knee, pinching it hard. “Corn!” he shouted, then released his grip. That hurt like hell, Jack thought, massaging his knee. I hope this crazy bastard doesn’t do that again. Quentin had obviously enjoyed it, however, for a mile down the road he grabbed Jack’s knee again. “Corn!” he cried, and laughed.
“Cut it out,” said Lamar, with a desultory fishtail. “You’ll scare him.” Jack figured Lamar was the older of the two, and hoped Quentin would obey. “What’s your name, boy?” Lamar asked. “Jackson,” he replied.
“Jackson?” Lamar said. “Like Andrew Jackson?”
“More like Stonewall Jackson,” he replied. “My dad’s a Civil War nut.”
“Alright, Stonewall,” Lamar replied. “You ever had cow meat?”
“You mean like steaks?”
“No!” Lamar shouted. “Like cow meat! You ain’t never had cow pussy?” Jack gave him a blank gaze, not sure if his leg was being pulled. “Quentin!” said Lamar. “Find me one.” They drove on for several miles, then Quentin said “There! Over yonder. By those trees.” Jack peered out the window and saw a cow in a pasture, grazing contentedly near a copse of trees. “Pull over.”
Lamar pulled the truck to the shoulder of the road, and killed the engine. He looked at the cow. “Black Angus,” he said, and winked at Jack. “That’s sweet meat there, Stonewall.” He climbed out of the truck, Quentin emerging simultaneously from the other door. “C’mon,” he said to Jack. “This is funnier than hell.” The boys hopped the pasture fence, and Jack reluctantly followed. When they were about thirty feet from the cow, who was now giving them a curious but unalarmed stare, Quentin put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Wait here,” he whis-pered. “Don’t wanna spook her.” Jack stood rock still, and watched as the boys eased up behind the cow. Lamar unhooked his overalls, and let the drop to his knees. Quentin laid down flat on his stomach behind the cow, and Lamar stood in the small of his back. He dropped his soiled, saggy briefs and placed one hand on the cow’s back while the other hand manipulated his penis into erection. When he was sufficiently aroused he eased his member into the cow, slowly. The cow gave an initial twitch, then stood still. Jack couldn’t believe the thing was stand-ing there letting this happen. Lamar pumped his flabby hips, both hands now on the cow’s rump. Quentin was grunting on the ground from the weight, obviously short of breath. “Are you gittin’ some?” he whispered hoarsely. “Are you gittin’ some, Lamar?” “Yeah,” said Lamar. “Yeah.”
Jack turned away. The sheer audacity of what the boys were doing had mesmerized him for a moment, but now he was sick to his stomach. He started walking back to the truck, when he heard Lamar give a savage grunt. He turned around in time to see Quentin roll over, toppling Lamar into a heap on top of him. The cow bolted a few feet in panic, and both boys started howling in fits of laughter. They stood up, brushing grass from themselves, as Lamar hitched up his overalls. They were still laughing as they joined Jack. Quentin slapped him hard on the back after they’d climbed the fence. “What’d you think, man? That cool shit or what?” Jack didn’t answer. He climbed back into the truck and sat very still. The boys both climbed in, and Lamar started the truck and eased back onto the road, this time without fishtailing.
They drove in silence for a while, occasionally interrupted by Quentin’s coarse barking laugh. “Cow meat! God damn! Ain’t that some shit!” he said be-tween laughs. “Lamar loves his ass some cow meat!” Jack was numb with shock, and not a small amount of fear. He sneaked a few sidelong glances at Lamar, but Lamar was very quiet, staring straight ahead with a vacant expression, his lips slightly parted. He didn’t fishtail the truck once the rest of the way to Scarboro.
When they arrived Lamar edged the vehicle into a parking space on the town square, and slumped a bit against the steering wheel. “Here’s where we go,” said Quentin. “Need some tools from the hardware store and some seed. You comin’ with us?” He looked intensely at Jack, with a lopsided leer on his face. “No,” said Jack. "I need to get to Eatonton.”
“Suit yourself,” said Quentin. “C’mon, Lamar. You need to go wash your dick.”
Full frontal punnery intended.
See, I'm thinking the butt-romping whores thinly disguised as "single women" I was seeking to satisfy my craven, abnormal sexual fetishes simply don't exist in the so-called "mainstream online dating services". Apparently my sensual use of the Rack doesn't fall under these naifs' notions of "Romance". Fools!
On to Plan B. But to remain perfectly legal, I like to think of it as barter. I trade you some soily greenish papery things for, well, use your imagination. I certainly do.