October 31, 2008

A Point, and a Plea

A sure sign that one is in thrall to a mass movement cult of personality:

Insult his exalted inamorato and he will attack you like a honey badger protecting her brood. Call him a cunt, however, and he'll whistle past the graveyard. Funny how that works. High marks for consistency, though.

Many thanks to the peerless Jeff Goldstein at Protein Wisdom for his links and support. Jeff is a brilliant voice against the traducers of classical liberalism, and a personal hero. He's also having a fundraiser to support his indispensable work. Go forth, and show the imperial purse snatchers how the wealth is morally spread: by gifts for good works, offered beyond the extortion of the state. It is the worthiest of causes.

Posted by Velociman at 6:09 PM | Comments (7) | TrackBack

October 30, 2008

Light in August October

I apologize for my delay in replying to my new fans, most of whom appear to want to create an even mightier Velociman through judicious application of electroshock therapy. I'm sorry to say I was caught out of town without my laptop, whilst a myriad of Percy Grimms were banging their pots for my brains. Yea, verily, even the capitalist swine who operate the Sheraton gulag of conspicuously mediocre hospitality were averse to allowing me access to my obviously profane blog.

Now that most of you have finished flinging your pink pabulum at me, allow me to reintroduce some lucidity into your raging cacophony of whinging indignation:

Firstly, I am an insignificant blogger with a readership of approximately 20 consistent visitors. The other 90% of my hits come from Ft. Detrick, Maryland, where a phalanx of macaque monkeys pound away endlessly at keyboards, fueled by Red Bull and cocainum pellets, in a Bush cabal plot to hammer out a more fundamentalist Bible.

Secondly, anyone willing to spend a few minutes scrolling my archives will see that I not only beat the English language like a pimp on a prostie, I use hyperbole and satire to make a point, more often than not.

Thirdly, despite the fact that I am a far better writer than Wolcott or Sullivan on their very bestus of days, of which they have fewer and fewer, I don't do this for a living. I do not opine for money, but for mirth. Wolcott, who hides behind a firewall so dense I cannot fathom his email address for a remonstration, is Burr to my Hamilton. Poor Sully, lying prostrate upon the fainting sofa with smelling salts wafted under his nose, is Salieri to my Mozart.

Let us cut to the chase. Or the Ned Beatty thrill up the leg, as Sully so many of you fantasize about. I write for fun, and I like to occasionally thrust hatpins into the hemorrhoids of the humorless. One must have an avocation, after all, to be a compleat man. Am I over the top? Absolutely. Do I use race as a joke instead of a grievance now and then? Most certainly. It is in my nature to puncture the Portuguese men o' war that float upon the racial sea, ever ready to release a toxic cloud of false shame and rancor for a moment of self-congratulation.

Allow me to guide you through the maze of Velociworld: my cock isn't as gigantic as I claim (it's merely pleasingly awesome). The Senator wasn't quite the character I portray him to be. He was twice that man. That's pretty much all you need to know.

Now, let me say this about your hysterical comments, and I say this with utmost gravity:

You are a bunch of fucking retards. You've licked the windows of the special needs bus so much it has glazed your perception of reality. Do I take back anything I said about Barack Obama? Absolutely not. If anything, I misunderestimate the man. I do wish I'd found a more appropriate comparison than Pol Pot, though. Perhaps that other ridiculously glorified icon of the Left, Ernesto We're Making Omelettes Here, Pal! Guevara. Do I really believe Obama is equal to Stalin? Of course not. Obama hasn't even begun to kill. Hellfire and pass the strychnine, his body count may end up in the paltry dozens for all I know. I don't presume to read the sheep entrails around here. And I don't drink tea.

If my opinion enrages you then you need to not read my opinion. That's a very simple fix, cretins. Of course, under Obama's socialized medicine, I'll be forced to bill the fuck out of the taxpayers now, and withhold that advice from you for six months, should I be inclined to help you in the future.

Why my opinion so vexes you is worrisome. Listen, fuckfaces: 50% of America disagrees with you. Bill Ayers only had plans to exterminate 25 million in the southwest after the Revolution, and that was, in my contemplative opinion, probably a bit of a stretch. Logistics are the curse of the revolutionary, ain't they?

I didn't expect to be slammed with so much hate mail from so many unintelligible morons, swarming like fruit flies from the vulvae of les doyennes Sullicott. But so be it. It proved my point. If you poor benighted fools realized how convulsed with laughter I was as I penned that post... and the tears of merriment continue to flow unabated.

At any rate, beat your Joe Christmas piñatas with vexation tonight, you miserable cunts. I've been away from home for a week, and Girth Vader is absolutely turgid with anticipation for a bit of slap and tickle (because whenever I remember all sex is patriarchal rape it gets me fucking hot). See you around the blog o' flatearth. I'll be wandering like Lena Grove, swollen, trying to find the fucking busybody who impregnated me with 7 pounds, 8 ounces of hope and change. Being pro-life, I won't abort it. I'll just stick its fingers in boiling water from time to time and tell it how bad its daddy is.

Posted by Velociman at 6:52 PM | Comments (62) | TrackBack

October 28, 2008

Missed The Party

Hi, Key here.

Vdaddy, ever the lover of liberal lashing, is out of town on biz and unable to bask in the love until Thursday. Meaning, he has only peripherally caught whiff of the daisy chain that threw him over a mil in sitemeter.

In the mean time, I believe I will recognize excerpts of the love notes that rolled in last night. (Some of them, I must say, are a little up close and personal, so it's a good thing I'm not the jealous type.) Here's the top ten:

10. Wow... insanity is in now.

9. This is the best-written piece of absolute crankery I've read in years and years.

8. You write too well to not get some [mental] help for that anger.

7. Wow. You are a freak.

6. Is it just me or does anyone else here imagine that the author of this bilge looks exactly like Comic Book Guy?

5. Kudos to your diseased mind.

4. There's a force at work here and it may not be entirely human.

3. I don't know about you, but I found this kinda sexy in a behind-a-strip-mall-near-a-dumspter kinda way.

2. Bongwater. We are all Bongwater.

And the number one reason it feels good to be linked by Andrew Sullivan:

1. I have my genitals in my hand right now. And I, like Obama, loathe your kind. I loathe you so hard. So very hard and, umm, yeah, baby, yeah, oh...ohh oh so...so fugging hard, baby,...so...so..sooooooo haaaarrrrrdddd!

[In this guy's defense. I feel it too. That was hot writing.]

A few more shout-outs:

Honorable mention goes out to two commenters, Alyndra for her lengthy settlement statement, dividing the two parties in unamicable divorce. (Hey, it doesn't support Vdaddy's unity plan, but mucho creative, n'est-ce pas?) And the second mention goes to Jebediah Bertrand for longest comment in the thread, at 738 words (which is twice the length of this post).

Thank you all for playing. (And for those of you who are dying to know Vdaddy's reply to the many "projection" accusations, it was pretty simple....a bemused remark about recognition of gifted prose and superior hyperbole, I believe.)

[Oh, and...almost forgot: many thanks to Og and Joan of Argghh for their fearless plunge into the lanche.]

Posted by Velociman at 8:10 PM | Comments (9) | TrackBack

October 25, 2008

The Plague

I should not have mocked the Jehovabama in such cavalier fashion. For He has visited upon me a plague of Biblical proportions. Witnesseth the Plague of ACORNS:


Now, these don't look like much. But you have to realize I've been sweeping the back deck of two thousand acorns every cursed day. For two weeks any small gust of wind or squirrel jump has rained a hell of acorns upon me. The yard is littered with millions of the things.

And these are not the little live oak acorns I'm used to, but huge white oak acorns the size of my thumb. And they rain down at a velocity roughly equal to a rifle shot. Knock the snot out of both nostrils, they will. I've taken to wearing my Indiana Jones hat outside just to have a damn cigarette, and I think the dents in my skull are permanent.

I don't begrudge the Obamulatto his plague, however. I earned it. I'm just glad he didn't visit something more parlable upon me. Like boils. The last time I had a warhead on my taint (due to an ill-advised shaving of my nether regions for purposes of gratuitous sexual satisfaction) I thought I was going to have to visit the emergency room, before I eventually worked out a solution via X-acto knife and a sliver of wood between my teeth. Don't want to go there again.

So I took my acorns to the skull, but I've turned the tables. I shelled a bunch, boiled them, soaked them overnight, and used them like chopped pecans in a recipe. Can't do that with a boil, eh what?

Next: I chocolate-fry locusts, fricassee blow flies, and hope like hell my stream doesn't turn to blood, or the sky rains frogs.

I will also understand if you start subscribing to Kathleen Parker's newsletter, and disavow even a passing acquaintance with me.

P.S. I realize parlable isn't a word. But this is Velociworld. I make up my own fucking words here. And you know you knew what it meant.

Posted by Velociman at 6:42 PM | Comments (25) | TrackBack

October 23, 2008

The Man in the Lavender Automobile

There is a scene in Flannery O'Connor's 1960 novel The Violent Bear It Away, wherein the protagonist, a 14-year-old boy, is picked up hitchhiking by a man in a lavender automobile. The man plies the boy, Francis Tarwater, with whiskey and reefer. When the boy wakes up he's lying in a field with his pants around his ankles, and his asshole burning. I won't get into the Catholic allegory in that story, or the implication that the man in the lavender automobile is Satan, or Tarwater's own inexorable slide into fundamentalist prophecy. I will aver, however, that I find the story relevant. Hold that thought.

There have been any variety of temperaments and personalities to hold the office of President. They range from heroes to rapscallions. I fervently believe, however, that not one person to hold that office has ever hated his opposition. There have been the churlish and disdainful, for sure. Carter presumed a moral vanity against his foes, which grievance he nurtures to this day. Nixon was consumed by paranoia and fear, to the point of ridiculous capers in the cause of an aforetold landslide victory.

I mention this because I firmly believe Barack Obama absolutely loathes my kind. This man will not be content to win the presidency. He will spend his waking hours thereafter not pursuing the legitimate goals of state, but punishing those who would dare to oppose him. The man is devoid of humility, or any sense of humor. He cannot humbly accept his incredibly lucky break in the crapshoot of American politics. The absolute lack of any pushback or intercessions on the part of the journalist class has rendered him peckish and intolerant of any dissention, if indeed he was not born that way.

This man truly hates. As only someone who is quite aware of his great shortcomings can hate. And like the second monkey he can hear, or tolerate, no evil.

The inevitability of Barack Obama has rendered the sane lycanthropic, the skeptical bemused, the disputatious fearful. It is no coincidence that formerly reliable conservative pundits are jumping the McCain ship like bilge rats in a galley fire. Most people attribute this craven capitulation to elitism. Noonan, Frum, Chris Buckley, that dithering Converse finishing school twit Kathleen Parker, they're elitists! No, they're not. Or that's not what is compelling them. They are fucking afraid. Afraid to be the last dissenting voice in the face of the Hope and Change juggernaut. The Chinese kid versus the tanks in Tiannamen they are not. They are elitists, but they are cowards first and foremost. We don't need them. And, unfortunately for them, Obama doesn't need them. Therefore I will speak their names no more.

An aside, for which I invoke the demigod of artistic license:

I had a dream, a goal, by the way: After living on some nice wooded property in the North Georgia foothills I've abrogated my lifelong desire to retire on a yawl or passagemaker in Florida. (Actually living in Florida for ten years helped me here. I became claustrophobic on the tiny footprint I could afford in Florida and still be within a bike ride of the ocean. And if you are not within a bike ride of the ocean in Florida you're basically in a scrub oak hell zone of sinkholes, funky water, and low rent Yankee pensioners). Thus my dream: to retire on a barking loud stream in the North Georgia mountains, there to develop a sustainable existence.

I still have this dream, I merely mention it because I do not have the luxury of a five year timeline anymore. I am not a reactionary person by nature, but trust me when I say the first 100 days of a Barack Obama presidency will bring holy hell upon those who adhere to a classical liberal philosophy. This man is a radical of the first stripe, and he has left no stone unturned in his quest. He has not committed voter fraud in the good old fashioned way. He has a vast network of ACORN operatives stealing votes through fraudulent means by the hundreds of thousands. This man has not committed campaign finance fraud in the good old fashioned way, squirrelling away Chinese monies like Bill Clinton. This cocksucker actually disabled his credit card verification system to allow tens of millions of illegal dollars to flow into his coffers from any number of enemies of the state. The droid army of the legacy press is aware of this, of course, but who wants to be the whistleblower once this man assumes power? No one. No fucking body. Wouldn't be prudent at this fucking juncture, as 41 might say.

Did I mention this man hates me? You and me? Yes he does. Why? Because he can. Yes He Can. Beneath that cool persona is a megalomaniac. Cool? Like Stalin after a purge, emotionally and sexually spent. Like Saddam after a torture session, dozing in his chair with someone's genitals curled in his fist. Like Pol Pot after a petit mal seizure, mumbling a litany of the dead. Cool that way.

So I will cast my pathetic vote, and ramp up my relocation to the mountains. Reduce my footprint. Carbon? That will be a nice byproduct, but I mean my personal footprint. My credit footprint. My interface with authority footprint. I'm researching micro-hydro water turbines for that stream, windmills for water, a half-acre patch for vegetables, a few goats, and a bison. Just because I want a fucking bison. My address? Fifty rounds up that gravel road.

I do hate to sound Randy Weaverish. But this is the fundament of my world view right now.

Speaking of fundaments, remember that guy in the lavender automobile?

Precisely. The whiskey of Hope. The jokesmoke of Change. I am Tarwater. We are all Tarwater.

Posted by Velociman at 6:36 PM | Comments (286) | TrackBack

October 14, 2008

A Near and Dear Topic

I've only written a few pages of Myself: A Hagiography, and I can already tell I'm going to love this book. The protagonist is fucking amazing! I'll be tied up with this one for two or three years, but in the meantime the beautiful Key has a lovely Helen montage.

Posted by Velociman at 7:40 PM | Comments (12) | TrackBack

October 9, 2008

Having Lost the Weather Gauge...

I'm not an alarmist person by nature. In fact, I believe my innate entropy is the source of much frustration from many in my circle. I'll even wager my parents cyclone in their twinset sarcophagi over whether I'll finally give a shit, and do something!

Which is my take on politics, as I irritatingly remind you. My jaundiced eye hand always sullenly pulls the lever for the lesser of two evils, while I remark to total strangers It'd be a lot easier if we just shot the other cocksucker.

Except for Reagan, of course. I strode out of the booth declaiming "I just voted for the fucking MAN!" both times, to the bemused stares of bussed-in vagrants. Small, but gratifying moments.

I say this to insist the following is not Chicken Little, but Foghorn Leghorn. Look: McCain is just going through the motions. Even he knows he's hammered dogshit. Christ, I've had ghosts sitting next to me in the ride at Disney's Haunted Mansion that had more corporeal substance than this guy. Bob, for one.

So get used to AbomiObamanation.

Democracy is a device that insures we shall be governed no better than we deserve, demurred George Bernard Shaw, that crusty old Marxist cunt.

Maybe so, maybe so. But that doesn't mean we deserve to be governed by people elected via endemic voter fraud, in cahoots with criminal tongs supported by taxpayers. Or people cossetted into office by a self-indulgent media whose blatant abrogation of their civic responsibilities would gladden the heart of the most craven Pravda apparatchik. I, personally, think we deserve a little better than that.

Here's the Foghorn Leghorn part: President Obama will have a compliant Congress, and a filibuster-proof Senate. His first 20 days will be busied rewarding his criminal co-conspirators in the voter fraud community organizing racket with federal largesse that would make a Sandfly whore blush. $700 billion bailout? That sum seems about right to "balance things out" for the disenfranchised. You'll hear words like "justice" and "equity" and "fairness" from the Man from Capone. But that's nothing.

The rest of the first 100 days will revolve around this mischievous Nowhere Man instructing Congress to pass omnibus hate crimes legislation. Which they will gladly do. The purpose will be the crushing of dissent. Every fucking thing you say against the regime nouveau will be characterized as racist. And he won't need a compliant press any more, although they'll happily continue to carry the water like the corrupt spavined burros they are.

Make no mistake: your dissent WILL be crushed. One newspaper columnist, one blogger, one querulous student at a time.

The economy, you ask? Barack Obama doesn't give a fuck about the economy. Hell, his naysaying and greedy pocketstuffing from the culprits helped engineer this shitstorm. Anyone remember the economy being an issue at the conventions a few weeks ago? Didn't think so. It wasn't. There's your October surprise, my fellow Blindsideses.

I hate to be a downer, dogs. In fact, tin foil makes me look fat. But my crystal ball (the one with the flying monkeys in it) says 7 years of bad luck. Plus one. The only upside is being one of the 300 Barack targets for the inaugural reeducation program. That's okay. I haven't seen Gitmo since 1976, and I kind of miss it. Plus, I'm just a lone nut. A Ted Kaczynski recluse sitting here not even with pajamas on, but nude from the waist down, whacking the keyboard, admiring my goddam awesome but temporarily flaccid cock. I blame the wine Obama.

P.S. Anyone know where I can get my hands on a functional artillery piece? I might need to rake the hillside leading up to the house, oh, sometime around April 2009. A sweet little 8 pound brass napoleon loaded with screw heads and nails would be cool, but I'll settle for a shizzled bronze of circumspect accuracy and provenance.

Posted by Velociman at 10:33 PM | Comments (15) | TrackBack

Reflections in a Golden Shower

I don't know why everyone insists on calling it "Mystery Meat" in school, from time immemorial.

It's dog, dumbasses.

Posted by Velociman at 8:47 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack