It's been a busy two weeks. I'd say that's why your faithless scrivener has failed to provide fodder for you insolent curs, but the more likely reason is a bad case of ne'er-do-wellitis.
Where to begin? Yes! Got laid off, for starters. Sacked in the latest application of leeches to the body corporate. I made it difficult for them, though. They had to find me first. I'd actually been AWOL for three days. I'd disappeared with no notice to do some job interviews in Atlanta, such was my contempt for the bilious swine. They finally tracked me down, though. Laid me low with a tranquilizer dart.
I should say I was despondent over this, a 17-year relationship gone bad, but I wasn't. Their abhorrence for me was only matched by my disgust with them. Rudderless fools. I scored a nice severance package and bonus, however, so we parted on amicable terms. In fact, I had to forcibly prevent myself from clicking my heels on the way out the door. My greatest concern had been a job offer that forced me to resign without severance, so things worked out quite well. I'd almost volunteered for whacking when I heard layoffs were coming, but my naturally prudent nature made me pause, and remember: they hate you, dude. Be patient. Make them be the bad guy. Et voila!
So I packed up my shit two days later, and is now ensconced in a secure, undisclosed location somewhere northeast of Atlanta. It's a humble abode, but situated on 60 incredible acres of hardwoods and meadows. Plenty of space for the doggie to roam and chase deer. Perfect for
guzzling Ten High bourbon and howling at the moon finding another job. I already have some consulting work lined up, so things are actually pretty fucking rosy. No sense rocking the boat, either, and tempting the fates, so I probably won't start looking in earnest until the new year. And who knows? After a Ten High Holidays, I might just decide to become a permanent Straight White Sloth.
This could be fun. I'm already acclimating, you know. I have a fairly good supply of Cat Pills, and I've discovered I'm just like a workaholic. Only for drugs. And if I don't find a job in six months I'll just start selling off chapters of the novel. And maybe a kidney. Do I need a spleen? Do you? Can you sell organs on Ebay? I found a squeegee while I was packing. That could supplement the consulting. I can envision cleaning a windshield at a traffic light while murmuring "How's your supply chain hanging, baby?" to the hapless motorist. That's like, a win-win, ain't it?
Well, I have a hangover to create. Wish me luck, Insolents. As they say in the cartoons,
So I took my daughter to Mandarin Ale House tonight for dinner. Everything's kaopectate until the manager starts walking around, asking patrons if their meal is okay. He's a big boy, 275 or 3 hundy. Wearing a white polo shirt. Of very thin cotton. Almost translucent, it was. And he has a navel bulging out of it like a damned chubby.
Must have been a rupture, a hernia straight through the belly button, because it was enormous. Like a cock. Not a big cock, but here's some perspective: a three inch dick is small. A three inch outie is fucking huge. It made me want to puke. When he stopped at our table it was right at eye level, too. Inches from me and my repast. I think it wiggled at me. There's an appetite killer.
I pay taxes. I shouldn't have to be affronted like this. A normal person would want to pour kerosene on that disgusting specimen and set him afire. It was only my naturally sweet disposition that prevented me from doing that. Next time I might not be so nice, though.
I guess elementary school students today have filthy mouths, and lots of $20 words.
As is my wont, I cry bullshit.
The Senator decided in the late 1960's, after years of driving Cadillacs and Lincolns, that he wanted something sportier. He had had a 1957 T-Bird in the early '60's that had been souped up by the college kid he bought it from, but he sold it after a few speeding tickets in excess of 100 MPH. Liquor and 4-barrel carburetors make for an uneasy alliance, to be sure.
So he became enamored of Volkswagen Karmann Ghias. Sporty, underpowered, fun to drive.
The Senator had always liked German cars, especially Volkswagens, despite (or perhaps because) he'd fought those Kraut bastards. We had a microbus about 1965, the Senator blissfully unaware he was in the vanguard of the Flower Power movement.
His first Karmann Ghia was an older beige hardtop, which he gave to the Velocisister when she went to college. Then he ordered his dream car from Wolfsburg. A convertible Sunset Orange Ghia with (gasp!) air conditioning. AC was a rarefied thing on a vehicle even in 1969, but on a convertible? The Senator explained to the sales manager that the sun got hot when the roof was down. He needed air conditioning to keep his cocktail cool. Sold!
The Senator was dismayed when the car arrived two months later, and was turquoise. But he put his game face on, and loved that car. It looked just like this 1968:
To say he doted on that car is an understatement. I'm pretty sure the Ghia went to summer camp instead of me, the monies accrued for my brother's Little League team found themselves magically transformed into wire wheels for the Ghia. He installed an 8-track player in it so he could listen to Hank Snow, and the Sons of the Pioneers (cassettes were a very recent novelty, and no doubt a communist plot to microsize our listening devices).
Ah, that Ghia. But all was not well in the Senator's world. That car could not stayed aligned. He chewed through sets of tires like I chewed through Dubble Bubble. He'd take it to the mechanic again and again, and stand, transfixed, in the driveway. Looking at those front tires. First this way, then that.
"They look straight to me, Peggy, what do you think?" And my mother would shake her head, and pretend to eyeball the tires. "Look straight to me, too", she'd say, then go get five children fed, bathed, and ready for school the next day, while the Senator stood, drink in hand, staring at those tires.
That Ghia only lasted about a year. I think it may have been the car he ran up under a tractor trailer in a "fog bank". I've had a few of those, myself. Fog banks, that is.
He bought the Cutlass Rallye 350 after that, on my advice, which he also eventually gifted to my sister, the spoilt thang. She drove like the Senator, too. Hammer time. Fuck the pigs!
I'd love to get me an old Ghia, and I know the Velocisister would, too. Not for nostalgic reasons. Just because they're great to drive, easy to work on, and quite abusable. Like a retarded spouse, or something.
Spider Girl. The living incarnation of Vishnu. A child borned with 8 appendages. It's truly a crazy world. And born in India on the very day the locals celebrate the 4-armed goddess Vishnu. Kind of like Catholics seeing a vision of the Virgin Mary. Only as an octopus.
Appears to be a legitimate phenomenon, if such can be called legitimate.
Unfortunately, they have to remove 4 of the useless arms and legs, her parasitic twin having grafted itself upside down on her at the pelvis. Parasites tend to be like that. All me, me, me.
Enjoy. I did. Especially since the fairs don't have a geek alley anymore.
Sorry, Redneck. That's about the only picture of a Blue Angel I could get with a point and click Sony, no proper zoom lens, and a spastic shutter finger. I have some excellent pix of clear blue skies, however, once the planes had flown by. Nary a cloud. Perhaps I'll make a jigsaw puzzle out of one. I can't lead a 400 mile per hour plane for shit. Hell, I can't even lead a bird with a shotgun. When I hunt I'm so far behind I'm lucky if I hit the next season's ducks.
Anyway, the Boys kicked ass, as usual.
Key's coming in tonight so we can catch the air show tomorrow. I always prefer it when they have it at the beach, because the view is spectacular and the Marines storm the beach from their hovercraft.
Who else will be there besides the Blue Angels? F-18's, F-15's, F-16's, F-4's, even some F-104 Starfighters. And lots of stunt flyers. As killer as the Angels are, the stunt pilots generate the most crowd enthusiasm. Helluva lot of fun watching those nuts with 300,000 of your closest friends.
Maybe pictures tomorrow night, if the bearded lady don't kidnap me at the fair afterwards.
I can't view your indelicate video from Helen. It's just a blank screen. I know it's exciting stuff to build your own blogsite out of spit, sorghum, and baling wire. But Jesus Christ, man. It must be readable. (This goes for you, too, Redneck).
I'm sure your grandpappy felt the same way when he returned home from the Good War and built his very own ham radio out of surplus batteries, stolen copper wiring, and acorns. But as you will recall he had a hella time reaching that nymphomaniac in Micronesia at midnight, I don't care how often he twisted his dial. Heh.
There are very nice pre-built sites out there, hombre. Try one.
I knew I'd have trouble finding a publisher for my novel. What I wasn't prepared for was being unable to even find a fucking agent. That's become a risk averse business, there.
Here's why: nobody reads books anymore. 20% of readers are sci-fi. The other 80% are soccer moms looking for predictable beach reading plots. Mystery, thrillers, romance. It doesn't matter how shitty a writer you are. They have junior editors to fix all that shit for you. They just want the predictable plot. Fuck them.
I'm sitting on a brilliant piece of work here, but you'd think I was mailing them black market placentas. Here's the other thing: 75% of agents and editors are women. They all cater to that soccer mom crowd. I believe I disgust them.
Of course, I do have escaped lunatics, bestiality, and gratuitous homosexuality in this thing. So maybe, just maybe, I'm an acquired taste. But these women all have Victorian Era romance dildos up their collective asses. Hell, I thought this book would turn their stymied libidos on. It certainly turned me on. Of course, a nice, smooth shit will do that, so I might be a subjective demographic.
To hell with them all. I'm rewriting it as a screenplay. Then I'm going to make an indie film and pimp it at the festivals. The fact I have no goddamn idea how to make a film I consider a plus. Look at the professionals: they're losing their balls at the box office. So I'm thinking a fresh approach just might be the ticket to
Don't be surprised if you see a Paypal button or tipjar up soon. I'll need seed money. Even authentic escaped lunatics want to be fed 2 or 3 times a day. I understand they crave liquor, too.
I'll probably just shoot it in black & white 16mm, like a good old fashioned porn flick.
P.S., Insipids. They are a few hetero porn scenes here, and I'm looking for an enthusiastic unknown. What we call in the business a Generic Gulper. Consider the casting couch open for bidness.