There's a fucking drug. I don't need it. I need a pill to keep the boy down. But this drug is so strong it apparently makes women spontaneously abort, or something. They're not allowed to even handle it, touch it. I admire that in a drug.
If they could create a drug where women immolated if they touched me, spontaneously combusted, why, you'd have something there. And I had a bitch about Saul of Tarsus, that faggot, but I'll let it ride for now.
Don Shula's 77 years old. His wife looks, like, 28. Not only does he have the perfect season record, he has an exemplary piece of split tail. I'm so down with this motherfucker.
We used to occasionally say "Gee, Dad, why don't you go to church with us?"
To which he would reply, stirring his first drink of a Sunday, "Why, the universe is my church, son. The fecund fields, the rising corn. This is my cathedral. I don't need a four square box to find my God. And when I die, I don't need a coffin. Just throw me out in the fields and let the buzzards pick me clean."
To which my mother would invariably reply, "No problem."
An Onion retrospective. I love this.
I believe Count Dracula, Vlad Tepes, Vlad the Impaler, killed more Muslims than any other human being. For that I thank him, posthumously. I wish he were around today, to help level the playing field.
I also understand he had a collection of 24,000 noses cut from his vanquished. That's pretty sick. Never been a nose guy. But in my own way, I salute that, too.
My replacement cell phone went tits up today. It had arrived with a small crack in the front screen, which I was willing to ignore. Stupid me. Then the thing went kablooey today. Nothing but a white screen.
Go to Asurion's website. The insurance whores. Go to Contact Us. Try to find a phone number. No way. You are an email away, friend. Which they won't reply to. And better jimmy up that $50 deductible again.
Filthy cocksuckers. If I could get my hands on one of them I'd slit their God damned throat. The perfect meeting of high return, low service scum. Fuck them. Very much.
That is all.
Boy, I feel that more and more.
This was an old Merle Haggard tune from 1967, but many a cool peep has covered it since then. Elvis:
This song speaks to me.
Never let it be said VMan aint got a little soft side to him.
Muslims, being the most intolerant cocksuckers on the face of the earth, constantly berate Jews as being the offspring of dogs and monkeys. It's disgusting shit. Well, lookee here:
That's a Muslim baby by the way. Truly related to apes, these Musselmen. Funny how only the Hindus find it to be godlike. While Muslims kill Hindus from Indonesia to Pakistan.
I think we've found our Darwinian chain of command. Stone that creature, you fucking Muzzies.
Courtesy of sweet Rosie, who knows I'm Pavlovian when it comes to this shit.
P.S. I realize this crap may be Photoshopped. But do I look like I care? Nyet!
I know I've written about this before, but who cares? I can't find it. Not that I looked. When I was in college my younger brother lusted after a Triumph TR-6 in British Racing Green. What kid with a driver's license wouldn't? It was a total pussy magnet.
The Senator had given him the equivalent of the old 'Fuck off, boyo' on several occasions, but my brother was, and is, a determined lad. He hammered at the Senator incessantly. Good for him. The Senator was unmoved.
One day at soccer practice (yes, we elites played futbol in Jawja in the mid seventies) my brother sees the Senator's white 1972 Lincoln Continental parked by the practice field. The Senator was a bit hammered, and was honking the horn sporadically, trying to get my brother's attention. My brother didn't know what he wanted, but he knew two things: 1) the Senator was hammered, and 2) he couldn't leave soccer practice to see what he wanted.
The Senator eventually drove off in disgust. When my brother got home from practice he asked the old man what he'd wanted.
"I wanted to buy you that Triumph, boy! But you ignored me."
"Let's do it tomorrow," my brother suggested.
But the moment had passed for the Senator. No TR-6 pussy magnet for Junior, done.
I must add my brother was driving my 1973 Celica (me being wheelless at school), which was a very hot car for the time. He wasn't hurting. Still. A Triumph. That fucking close. That far away.
The Senator was maddening like that.
My father used to get called out to weird scenes at night, sometimes, in his capacity as an attorney. Shootings, knifings, rapings, his talents were in demand.
He once had to attend a car crash at Ebenezer Church, for some reason. Effingham County was dry, so people would run across the county line to Cox's or Pop Edwards's to boost up.
There were these eight black guys who had packed into a car, and bought some liquor across the line. They got hammered, as people will do, and unfortunately ran into the brick pillars of the Ebenezer Church Cemetery. Said pillars having cannonballs atop them. So these cannonballs shot through the windshield, wreaking unimaginable havoc within.
When the Senator showed up he said it was nothing but body parts, and the horrible smell of blood and liquor, mixed together in a revolting cocktail of the senses.
I know this because he was stirring a drink as he told us when he got home. Then, being the Senator, he channeled his inner Erskine Caldwell when we asked what exactly happened.
"A nigger'll die," he said. That was supposed to explain everthing.
And, in a way, it did.
That means a short trip, for the regular readers. Cut short. I often wonder if the word don't come from the fact illusionists saw women's trunks in half. Probably not. There's etymology, the proper study of linguistics, then there's the shit I just make up on the fly. Velocimology?
Anyway, my long suffering sister will deny it, but she'd forgotten that in addition to my beautiful daughter I was also bringing the hellhound. She was great, though, my sister. Treated the pooch like something closely resembling something from this planet. Which the dog ain't.
So Wednesday I was given libbo, and went a mere block away to meet my hinky tights. Kelley made it! Nice to see our friend. Ellison, Richard, Zonker, Denny, Key.
And new blood.: John Cox. Great guy. A bit opinionated, and we navel gazers hate that, but I think he'll fit in nicely. After he breaks left once or twicet.
Now for the concert with my daughter: I really don't want to place that in the same post as my aforementioned reprobates. I'll post later.
Sorry, folks. It's a daddy thing.
I'll be in the ATL tomorrow, and plan to imbibe alcohol and break bread with Elisson, Zonker, Denny, Key, and hopefully Kelley and Dax. The Mellow Mushroom in Brookhaven. How safe is that for Atlanta? It's almost gangsta proof.
Pretty sure I'll be the biggest threat there.
I'm also having a biggest hoo hoo contest. Well, that one just occurred to me, but I like it. But looking in the mirror, I think I've already won.
My dog has been surreptitiously sneaking the girls' dance trophies from the Bat Cave and placing them by the bedroom door to the lanai. Then she chews pine cones over them to make a compleat mess. I know what she's up to. She'll eat them in the morning, top to bottom, but she wants to be by the back door because they'll pass through her like a convenience store burrito.
There used to be fifty trophies in that room. Only about thirty left.
The problem is I'm driving to Atlanta tomorrow, so I can't have her voiding plastic all over the back seat. Better put these things away, and shut that door. She already smells like vomit, so I have to bath her tonight. God knows what she got into. Some kind of dead animal, for sure.
My brother texted me today, and wanted to know if my ancient post about shit mummies was true. You know, people who slather themselves in excrement, then wrap themselves in toilet tissue, and have sex. Not sure why he wanted to know, other than the fact he's been disturbed about it for four years.
I thought my brother-in-law Billy Ten High told me about this, but he said hell, no, Vman. You're out on your own branch now. Never heard of that crazy shit.
So I'm clueless. A Google search filled with fear and trepidation merely returned my own site. I know I heard of this somewhere. I have some pretty insane dreams at times, so it may have been a fevered nightmare, but I don't think so. I mean, even my most torrid dream is nothing more than getting my ass fingered by a dominatrix. No shit mummies there.
This must be an apocryphal thing. Something I saw in an Ethiopian porn mag, or something.
Tis a puzzlement.
There was actually a time when Sean Connery wasn't cool. That time was
Jean came up to visit me from Daytona Beach a few months ago. Hep me bleed my brakes. Really! Well, after the brakes was bled, I was feeling a little bad. Hungover from the night before, and a little squirrely from that day's Budweisers.
So I asked Jean if she minded if I took a little power nap. She was gracious, of course, and sat out back having a cigarette or two whilst I enjoyed my golden slumbers.
Here's the funny part: I'd bought a new pair of flops, and apparently the black dye just leaked right into my skin, so when I woke up, I looked at the soles of my feet, and they were as black as a nigra baby's ass. I'm sure Jean saw them, but she never said a word. Probably thought I was a Tiger Ridger, or something.
Anyway, we had dinner at the Outback Crab Shack, and she went home. I kept wanting to ask her if she'd seen my black feet, but I knew she had, and was being polite.
My friend Joan said that to me, in describing the Florida beach life. Now, I'm a pretty handy fellow with words, and a pithy feller, but those two words so encapsulate the lifestyle we were discussing I am in awe.
Take your bow, Joanie.
When I was about five years old my mother took me on an errand, to see an old seamstress in downtown Savannah. She was at least eighty. A tenement on the west side, three floors up. This was before the Negroes moved in, and old white single women still lived downtown.
I don't know exactly what this woman was doing for my mother, I just remember the smell of the place. That old people smell. Death, decay, rot. The cologne of the Grim Reaper. It wasn't too bad of an apartment. No air conditioning, so the windows were open. But that didn't waft away the smell of death.
I squirmed for twenty minutes until we left. I remember walking back down the three flights of stairs thinking That old lady's gonna be dead in six months. Maybe she was, maybe not. Not too long after that, for sure.
Ever catch that vague aroma of fatality? Hugging your grammy, say? It's a creepy thing, that's for sure. Time to wash my bed linens.
Not a bad view, but I'm ready to flip this beast. Move to the beach.
I envision a low slung bungalow a block off the beach. Tourquoise shutters, a stone seahorse on the wall, pink flamingoes. A short beach bike ride to Pete's Bar, thongs, flip flops, rum. Forget the AC and let the breeze blow through the open windows.
Have I left anything out?
Sorry. It's canine training day at the Velocihovel. I think she's got this one, By George!
I always post on Bastille Day, because it was my parents' collective birthdays. 1925 and 1927. They'd be, ah, um, old now. I don't have my abacus handy. 80 somethings. Actually, 80 for mama this year. That was pretty easy. Seven carry the seven.
Who knew the storming of the Bastille would lead to mass beheadings, the Reign of Terror, Robespierre? The fucking French. From that Revolution came secret police, thought police, informing on your neighbors. Blood lust on an unimaginable scale.
Also my uncle's birthday. We call him Killer, for our own, personal reasons. My mom was one of 8 kids. 6 girls, 2 boys. And the only two still alive are the boys. How weird is that? Especially when one is called Killer! And Jerry Lee Lewis he ain't. I don't think.
Happy Bloodletting Day, peeps. Aren't you glad we didn't behead King George III? Who would have fed his hounds?
That last post got to thinking how much I miss this guy. I really have to watch Road Warrior again today. It brings out the Feral Kid in me.
It seems some Native Americans are circulating a petition to have Yale's Skull and Bones Society return the skull of Geronimo to them. Legend has it W's grandfather, Prescott Bush, dug up the remains at Fort Sill, Oklahoma in 1918 and rendered the skull unto his brethren. Good luck with that one.
A handful of flea-bitten, indolent, alcoholic peasants against the most powerful secret society in North America? Anybody check the Vegas board on that one?
Other skulls rumored to sit in jewelled armoires on the New Haven campus:
That guy with the Mohawk from The Road Warrior
Margaret Thatcher (site prepped)
The "Oh! the Humanity!" announcer from the Hindenburg crash
Jackie Robinson (separate case)
Ernest Hemingway (hole in back)
Whose skull do you think is on display in the bowels of that place?
And why do you think those elites calls rowing sculling anyway?
That's a hell of a chastity belt he's wearing, otherwise I'm hep to his style.
Capital One keeps asking, so I went looking. Found this:
I think I bought it in Underground Atlanta in 1973.
And I do believe the heat is starting to desiccate my youthful good looks.
As I scroll through my blogroll I am reminded of Casey Stengel's famous and decidedly apocryphal quote about his 1962 Mets...
Time to bring in some free agents.
Well, I see where Lady Bird Johnson has died at the tender age of
She wasn't in my dead pool but then that's because I thought she'd morphed into a dog on King of the Hill years ago:
Actually, I admire anyone who could live with a mean old cuss like LBJ. Can you imagine getting porked by that guy? And I'll always treasure her for her Keep America Beautiful program while First Lady. See, back in the bad old days when I was a child when the family ate a bag of burgers on the road, why, you just threw the trash out the window. No shit! Think the old man was gonna let you soil up his Buick with that nasty shit?
So the highways were strewn with trash. Llike a Last Man on Earth zombie movie. But the cars were clean!
So I want to thank Lady Bird for making me guilty enough to keep my car looking like a dumpster, while everyone else still throws their crap out the window. I know they do. Those convicts and Civitan club members and Boy Scouts aren't prowling the ditches looking for nickels, now, are they?
The only thing one is still allowed to throw out of a car window is, of course, a beer bottle. At a sign. Even little old ladies do that. Even Lady Bird, I suspect, on particularly drunken nights coming home from the fish house.
And I'd also like to thank Lady Bird for giving us the Litter Bug:
Jesus, that thing's creepy. Like all things Johnson. Somebody should throw a beer bottle at it, or something.
I dont plan to see Michael's Moore's SiCKO, for the same reason I've never watched any of his propaganda, or Leni Riefenstahl's, for that matter. They're all fascists. Although Key's stepdad has some very sweet Natzee ceremonial daggers in his antique store. Not sure where he got 'em, but I want one. I think every American male of a certain age has a fantasy of strapping on a skull head Nazi dagger to his naked form in the privacy of his bathroom, and strutting around pretending he's an evil SS officer. Actually, we all want to be Albert Speer, because he was evil incarnate but he built things! All is forgiven there with the architecture thing. Look at them pyramid builders. Unknown atrocities!
Back to Moore. He's touting the fact that the World Health Organization ranked the US 37th in quality of medical care. Right above number 38 Slovenia.
Simple question: your appendix has burst. Perontinitis is setting in. Who do you want operating on you? Dr. Levine at the Mayo Clinc or Dr. Drnovsek in Ljubljana? The one opening dogfood cans with his scalpel? I know who I want operating on Michael Moore.
My health care plan kicks pussy. It's the Bentley of plans, and relatively cheap. I can get in to see my doctor on a day's notice, and she is ten years younger than me, and offers a glass of Merlot before she checks my prostate. Aromotherapy candles up the co-pay from $15 to $20 for that particular procedure, though. Still a bargain at twice the price!
All the nurses and physician's assistants have apparently had breast augmentations, and unbotton the top four buttons on their uniforms to show off their buttery Florida tans.
My only problem is I keep going in to change meds, which is just a pretext to see the buttery breasts. But they've started an holistic section, so I'm just going in for meditation sessions now. Way mo bettah.
Fuck Moore. The only way I see him properly addressed is being flensed while cabled to a Japanese whaling ship, his larded ass rolling over and over as those vicious Nips peel his blubber off like a bloomin' onion.
Me? I'm sticking with what I got. And fortunately I'm now of an age I can get all the cheap sigmoidostomies I can handle.Which I'm cutting back to once a month.
UPDATE: Forgot to hyperlink the death's head shiv antique store! Thanks for the head up, Key.
My boy Puddyhead called me tonight. It seems his almost estranged wife had locked her keys in her car all the way out at Landings Marina. He had to go jimmy the lock, and so he was very pissed, and wanted her to give him a $55 blow job, which was the price the locksmith would have charged. Then he told me he was still so mad he wasn't going to wash his filthy ass before the blow job, he having recently taken an egregious, nasty dump.
I totally admire Puddyhead. He's the fucking man.
I don't normally link to someone who has been kindly to me, or my work, but sometimes someone takes the merest snot trail of an idea I lazily throw out there, and does something amazing with it. Embarrasses me with real thought instead of my throw away, disposable garbage.
Read Skippy on Richard Russell, and the Conservative Democrats. And he's Canadian. Should put us to shame that he understands our heritage better than we do. It did me.
Bella says that as an honorary member of the Chocolate City she didn't appreciate my last post. I had to remind her that not only does she only have the equivalent of a third grade education I do, in fact, own her. If she doesn't behave I shall rename her Prissy, or something.
Nobody wants to discuss the fun topics anymore. Like race relations! I'm a firm believer that bringing up the subject of race will liven any party.
I'm pretty sure if I'd lived 200 years ago I would have owned a bunch of black people. They were like the baseball cards, the Pokemon, of their day. Status, squared. Couldn't have enough. I'm also sure that came with a pretty horrible price. I'm thinking owning human beings was like mainlining heroin. Sure, it's an exotic rush, but you know the payback is going to be brutal. You check your soul at the door there, man. And there ain't no rainchecks.
I prolly still would have bought a few. Keep up with the Joneses. I wouldn't have known any better.
I was reminded, during correspondence with my man Skippy (who will not marry my daughter), that we used to watch films all the time in elementary school. The Grand State of Georgia made these films, which were on anything from the Beatle's trip to India to the mesmerizing persona of George Wallace. The film quality was terrible, full of skips and splices, but they all started out with a rousing rendition of DIXIE!
Huzzah for the Lost Cause! Watch the sullen Negro janitor in the back of the cafeteria sweep up that red sawdust with Ivy Morris's puke in it while that song is playing.
Our teachers made us stand up for Dixie. We could sit for the Pledge of Allegiance. Which was basically abolitionist tripe anyway. Stand for Dixie, little crackers!
I never sat in for any films when my kids were in elementary school, but I'm guessing they didn't open with Dixie. The schools are still pretty segregated, though. Why the housing prices are so high here. Every class gets one token Black, who is immediately elected class president to assuage whitey guilt.
No Dixie, though.
I just booked 2 cabins and 4 rooms at the Chalet Kristy in Helen. Mark is on board, and will supply visqueen and condoms. Half rubber is optional. October 12 and 13. If you're interested, email me. If not, piss off! I'll be there, with Chatham Artillery Punch and a Speedo for the river.
Well, I might forgo the Speedo iffen it's gonna chase anyone off.
That's like a confession, only without bothering to strain out the chunky parts.
I've been a bitch lately. A crabby little piss ant. I blame the meds, because that's much simpler than examining my genetic code for latent defects. Those pills were supposed to chill me out, but they made me a horrid cunt.
I'm firing the pill-pushers and starting a purist regimen. Nothing but double bonded whiskey and salt water taffy for me!
Grrr. I feel better all ready.
It's a hell of a thing, having your only companion a totally retarded dog. She's just over a year old, so she has at least one more year of stupid in her.
Could be worse, I guess. She does have a very sweet disposition. I think of my mom's cousins, Gene and Joe. They were totally retarded, too, but all they wanted to do was sit around in their 40's and 50's and jerk off to Lone Ranger episodes on TV. That's not a sweet disposition!
And I fret: Did I inherit Gene's genes?
I think I'm pretty normal.
But I do like to masturbate.
So there's that worrisome fact.
Apparently the cabal of 45 doctor jihadists in London were planning on exporting a little domestic terrorism to Jax. The idea was to blow up the aircraft carrier John F. Kennedy, as well as the strip clubs surrounding the naval base.
Now, I really don't care if they blow up Big John. It was decommissioned in March anyway. But the titty bars? Those fiends! Those ghouls. Proof positive there ain't no civilization amongst these savages.
I think they're all gay. Why they smell funny.
I don't have many heroes. This guy is one of them. Happy Independence Day.
No content today! No sir. Federal holiday, and all.
But here's an interesting montage on a classic. If you don't like it I suggest you go fuck yourself, and hit Drudge.
Well, I figure since I'm bipolar, if I'm going to share the B Side I may as well share the A Side.
God protects the feeble, lame, and retarded, so I figure I'm in good shape. Better than youse guys, anyway.
I'll admit I live a pretty blowsy existence these days. I leave the back door open 24/7 for the dog, so she doesn't binge crap on the carpeting, that sort of thing. But I'm always intrigued when I see one of these:
A damned frog, climbing my walls. Don't they know the dog will eat them? Oh, verily, she'll climb six feet of vertical granite to eat something. So the frog will die. But in that death, we feel something, don't we? I said don't we? Sure we do. Dead frog, for one thing.
I'm as much a fan of old American music as the next person. And so I bequeath you:
Turkey in the Straw
Can't get enough of that song. Which is good, because for those of you on psilocybin, it's a continous loop. You'll still be hearing it Sunday!
Enjoy, dope fiends.
My capacity for ignorance knows no bounds, however I do retain certain pieces of information far past their shelf life. For instance, as I was traveling through Winder on Sunday I thought Wasn't the great Georgia Senator Richard Russell from Winder? Why, sho now. For a few miles later I saw this roadside sign:
So his father built this house, and he lived in it after his mama died until his death in 1971. And, uncanny as it seems, the house was right there!
Nothing fancy, but nice. Looks even better up close:
The story doesn't end there, of course, because in back was the family boneyard:
The obelisk is his father's. Richard's is the slanted edifice to the right. A closer view:
I would submit Richard Russell was the most accomplished Georgian, ever. Look at that curriculum vitae:
Governor of Georgia 1931-1933
United States Senator 1933-1971
President Pro Tempore of the Senate 1969-1971
They don't make 'em like that anymore. Imagine being a Senator for 38 years. Through the Great Depression, World War II, Korea, Vietnam. Damn!
Of course, for all his personal gentility Russell was a bit of a supremacist. LBJ never could get him on board with the Civil Rights Acts of 1958 and 1964. Given Russell's constituency, that wasn't going to happen. And Russell probably felt like if everyone practiced his personal philosophy of kindness, courtliness, and noblesse oblige, why, the darkies would be just fine. We scoff at that mindset now, but I'm not going to stamp my current viewpoint on him. He was by all accounts a gentleman, a brilliant legislator, a true Son of Georgia. Of course, as he never married, he could have been a rump ranger, too, for all I know. But who cares?
Here he is going nose to nose with LBJ three weeks after the Kennedy assassination:
A couple of stubborn old boys, there. Personally, I liked the old coot, and it was thrilling to see his crib.
I'd also like to thank my photographer, who humors me, and tolerates my childish scamperings around esoteric bullshit like this.
Only because it is comforting, when one is passing through Ludowici, to know I can take that cracker bastard...
When I'm traveling by highway I generally eschew the interstate for side roads when possible. Interstates are Beelzebub's Byways, forcing you to place speed over essence, homogeny over diversity. Those rumble strips in the emergency lane? That's the Devil beating his wife. Across the ass. With a barbed wire paddle. See?
No, I'd rather take my time, and be late if necessary. Especially going through Georgia. Take today, for instance. As I was driving through Milledgeville I says, V-Man? You need to make two stops here. Absorb some local culture like Marburg virus through compromised alveoli.
The first stop? Andalusia, of course. Flannery O'Connor's farm. The house was open, but the caretaker was nowhere to be found. It was deserted. The only sign of life was a baleful donkey in a pen, looking as if he'd been abandoned thirty years ago, and nobody remembered to come fetch him later. My dog wanted to play with him in the worst way, but I kept her on the proper side of the fence. I did toss the donkey a cigarette, and he dutifully ate it, rolling it around in his mouth to savor the terbaccy goodness. Then Bella left her signature double swirl defecation on the front lawn (still feel bad about that) and we were off. Here it is:
Peacocks? I didn't see none of them 100 peacocks! They must be long gone. Too bad, too. My pimp hat needs a new feather, and a peacock tail feather would have been extremely cool. Damned peacocks.
The next stop was the nuthouse, of course:
Central State Hospital. Formerly known as Milledgeville State Hospital, Georgia Lunatic Asylum, and/or the State Asylum for the Insane. And by God, she's a beauty. I could visualize the screams, the shock treatments, the savage abuse in the shadows, the clubbings, the lobotomies (Those make zombies, Eric).
One of these days I'll get off my ass and create the perfect coffee table book: Insane Asylums of America. Capture all the sweet madness, melancholia, and mania of the 19th century, encapsulated in vigorous, Gothic architecture. One day.
Anyway, my mama used to say I was sending her to Milledgeville I was so bad. ALL kids' mamas told them that. We were thinking Go! We'll have the run of the place! Daddy will be tied up in court for years either trying to get you out or permanentizing the commitment. But one dasn't say that to their mama.
So: A baleful donkey and a creepy asylum. Not a bad detour on the Velocipath of life. Wish I could've heard some screams, though. Guess they keep 'em all Thorazined up now.