Velociman is always looking for a new word or two. That rare gem that has somehow escaped his rather monoglot purview. Especially one that caters to his perversions, either sexual or polysyllabic.
So I was excited when Jack Straw sent me this Onion editorial. I bow before those boys. They are genuises.
Frottage. Pronounced fruh-tahzh. Like massage. Naturally. The act of pressing one's erection against an unsuspecting female in a crowded place. Or male, too, I suppose. But for my purposes, and particular kinks, let us stick to females, shall we, Insipids?
The aficianado of frottage is of course the frotteur. Man, I like that. Kinda rolls right off the tongue, don't it? Therefore some claim frottage is itself somewhat archaic, and the correct term is now frotteurism.
Fuck them, I say. Frottage it is.
I can't say as I've ever pressed GV against an unsuspecting stranger. I don't recall, given my drinking habits and a few episodes of skullpop black out (but I can count them on two hands! Oh, and one little piggie. Forgot about that time). I've certainly wanted to now and then. But conventions, taboos, you know the drill. Plus, I don't partake of public transportation, so there's that. Kind of hard to pull off a frottage in the middle of a sparsely populated mall. Although I'm sure it can be done.
But this isn't about me, or my
cock idiosynchrasies. Unfortunately. I'm thinking it's about my faithful readers. When I read that article I had several bloggers pegged immediately as potential frotteurs. Nay, damned fucking likely frotteurs. I just don't think they have the balls to admit it.
Yeah, verily, laddies. I think it's time to fess up to your ways. We won't hold your dirty, filthy, disgusting perversion against you. Will we, ladies? No sir. Confession is good for the soul. And I know who you are. I can divine a corrupted soul that way. So come clean. Belay that. Fess up. We're waiting.
Things should just be getting warmed up at Eric's for his Hard-on-the-Heels-of-Helen blogmeet. In fact, they're so close together I've seen more distance between prison rape partners.
Anyway, I wish I didn't have parental duties this weekend. I was hoping to attend, and was looking forward to a good old fashioned Straight White Breakfast tomorrow morning:
My brother sent me this a few years ago. Smoking Sambo is his name, breaking down racial stereotypes is obviously not his game.
He is exactly what he appears to be: A stand-up cardboard cutout of a well-dressed minstrelly colored chap, with a hole in his mouth in which to place a cigarette.
"But to what purpose, Mr. Velociman?" you may well ask.
Well, I haven't ciphered that one out yet, Little Intrepid. He seems to serve no other purpose than to hold one's cigarette. Perhaps there were craven juke joints in the Dirty South of Yore with these on the tables, and one could have Sam hold his cigarette whilst one tripped the light funktastic to the strains of the Sons of the Pioneers on the
piccolo jukebox. Just a guess. Other than that I'm compleatly nonplussed.
But since it's Friday night, the eve before the Georgia-Florida game here in Freakville, I was feeling lonely with naught but a cup of coffee and a pack of Marlboros while everyone else was downtown partying. So I thought I'd dust off Sambo for company.
He don't say much, but he do have a certain je ne sais quois, n'est-ce pas? (That's like, Creole talk).
I think it's something in the eyes.
Better than ever.
Right, Insipids? Just like the drooling jerk-off said in the marketing meeting last week.
P.S. I said IF.
If I was going to pick a Something to go to blogdeath to this would have to be it:
Sorry. That is the refrain from Old Black Joe. A wonderful song about Negroes looking over our snuggly white asses back in the day. That song rocks. One day I must do a diatribe on Stephen Foster. He was like the Tin Pan Alley of his day. The guy kicked ass.
Anyway, I suppose you want a rehash of the Blogtoberfest. True Intrepids know I don't do that crap, however. Or memes. I figure if you were interested you came. If you weren't, who gives a fuck?
But for the leaden proles, here's a dark picture of my underwear, after I finally unpacked today, iffen you can't get enough VMan:
By God, I love plaids. You can leave skid marks from all manner of egregious foodstuffs in your drawers, and it disappears! It's like camo, for the civilian.
Go visit everyone else. They have all the good pix.
So, as the previous post noted, I was in Valdosta this weekend, to savor the experience of bone-crushing, jerry-rigged, cretin-manned, imbecile-engineered roller coasters. And to take my daughter to a concert there, at Wild Adventures, the heartthrobs du jour being Plain White T's. Why? Because I'm a spendthrift, obviously. Who else would throw away perfectly good drinking money on a concert for their kid?
So's, anyhow, the opening act (who shall remain nameless, pending litigation) put on an admirable show. Obviously been sniffing Bono's bum bum since they were trying to conjure pubes in the heady days of 6th grade, but they had some game.
Afterwards, between acts, the openers were signing tee's at a table set up. I bow before no man in my admiration of the ability of a marginal artiste to exercise opportunistic capitalism, and so Key and I were in line. Well, she was. Getting the girls shirts to be signed. I was skulking, smoking my next to the last cigarette and fretting over the fact that God-poxed theme park hadn't see fit to sell tobacco products.
And to what do my wondering eyes should appear? No, no miniature sleigh. No reindeer. But the lead singer, wearing one of the classic red tee's, with the huge yellow hammer and sickle on the front, underscored with the obligatory CCCP. I stubbed out the cigarette with my toe and wandered over. The setting? About 40 or 50 people. Some older teens, mostly parents with younger teens getting tee's autographed for their kids.
"Speaking of T shirts," I yelled at the guy, jabbing a forefinger at his chest from across the table, "I'm hoping that's supposed to be ironic."
"Ooh," I heard from the crowd. "Ugh," I heard from the crowd.
Because, while this was Valdosta, Georgia, and while these people may have agreed with me philosophically, at this point all I represented to them was a Fucking Troublemaker, who might just turn this likeable friendly pop dude sour, and send him scurrying to his tour bus for a blunt and a pull of Jack Daniels', and the masses be damned. And then their little pwecious Cornpone Princesses wouldn't get their signed T shirts. It was as if Mephistopheles himself had bared his barbed cock at them.
"You might as well wear a swastiker!" I offered helpfully, to the stony glare of Key, and the general opprobrium of the audience.
"Shit!" I heard someone in the crowd mutter. The worm was definitely turning, and I was the bait. I sensed a bums rush by a couple of the burlier dads, with a kidney punching in a dark corner should little Celeste not get her fucking shiny tee shirt.
So when the little punk bitch gave me a sullen "The Cold War's over, man," I swallowed my impulse to retort, "Yeah, well, so are the 60 million lives that fucking sickle mowed down," and walked off in search of a 14 year old girl who would be too scared to deny a crusty old fart a cigarette.
All in all, I would say, a rather refreshing interlude. And I have to admit, that hammer and sickle tee was pretty damn cool. Wish I had one.
Red Pig, Blue Pig
I espied this fearsome statuary outside an all you can eat buffet in Valdosta, Georgia this morning. This toque-belidded oinker had a nasty vibe. Smirking, with a jaundiced eye. As if he's sharpening the cleaver behind his back in preparation for a repast of braised rib of hominid, served with thinly sliced shallot and garlic.
I'm thinking in his world Cracker Barrel has an entirely different meaning than ours.
I couldn't stare him down, so I crossed myself, spat three times, and hastened to the car. Like the good Gypsy I am.
I was conversing with my hinky tights at the Chalet Kristy today, and it seems the
mongrel wench illegal alien who was supposed to release Cabin 3 from my inventory failed to do so. That situation has been rectumfied, however that means the cabin is available for now.
So if anyone wants it, better move fast. I have no freaking idea what the rate would be at this point, but I'll bet one could find someone to split the costs. I'm sure there'll be a towtruck driver named Cornfed hanging around the beer hall, for instance. There usually is.
I really go the extra mile for you people.