November 26, 2008

Giving Thanks

I shall fry no turkeys tommorrow, the Thanksgiving repast being provided by Key's mama. There are several good things about spending the holiday at the farm, too: the food will be bountiful and cockamighty fantastic, I'll have a captive audience to listen to my painfully abrasive braying, and Key's pop will bring something violent and thunderous home from the gunshop for manpleasure. I've requested his ever popular Browning M1919 .30 caliber machine gun:

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Of course, I always do. From the second story back deck of the cabin we can essentially devastate anything within an acre. It already looks like the Ardennes Forest back there from our previous love letters. Moonshine of shady provenance (hey, Chester!) will be provided by me. Hey: I've got sources, buddy.

Enjoy your Thanksgiving, ya'll. And don't forget to bring the smallpox blankets when you go to the Indian casinos, Genotrepids.

P.S. It helps if you wear a construction paper headdress, and offer to barter for some maize.

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Adapt, Improvise, Overcome...KILL!

It seems an eight-year-old boy has been charged with murder in Arizona for shooting his father and another man. The little tyke was brought into court for a hearing in handcuffs, too, drawing tears and outrage from everyone from the courtroom audience to the chattering pontifiklatura.

Is this child old enough to be tried for murder? Even as a juvenile?

Fuck if I know. Rumor has it the father was a beastly abuser, and the kid put the kibosh to it.

So I'm torn: either this kid is a cold-blooded pint-sized sociopathic demon, who was borneded without a soul, in which case we should execute him immediately so we can explore his brain with sharp instruments, or he is an intrepid diminutive Rambo. He learned to adapt, improvise, and overcome a hostile environment. In which case we should make him a Marine when he turns 17. In the meantime, I suggest a thorough grounding in small arms and tactics, with a focus on sharpshooting. This kid could be a hell of a sniper.

Who says I can't see both sides of an issue?

H/T my main man Skippy, who knows all of the cool bro handshakes.

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November 25, 2008

The Honeymoon's Over

By regurgitating so many wearisome and vapid Clintonites, Obama risks the political equivalent of showing the new bride his button mushroom manhood the first night in Niagara. He and Hillary are like Ray Fernandez and Martha Beck, contriving to piss off quite a few foam-flecked fans, for sure. Except for Chris Matthews, who will hail his choice of Manuel Noriega as TSA Czar as "inspired, and thrilling. And inspired". Obama is Ray Fernandez, man:


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And while I'm at it, I've scoured the Constitution, and there ain't no such goddam thing as The Office of the President-Elect. He just fucking made that shit up!

Obama reminds me of those potentates and despots who laurel themselves with self-aggrandizing appellations in order to counteract their self-doubt. Before this is over he'll be Barack Hussein Obama, President of the United States, Lord Protector of the Commonwealth, King of the Soetoros, Emperor of the Hebrides, Righteous Shaman of the Luo Tribe, and the Lion of Judah. A Haile Suspect Selassie.

Not even Ray had them kind of issues. And, yes. I'm on something of a Shirley Stoler jag. Kinks within kinks, I suppose.

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November 21, 2008

Dream Girls

Hell, I almost got bogged down in a fucking Ginger versus Mary Ann thing over in Ace's comments. Perish that thought. After all, every word I write is like gold heavy-duty aluminum foil. Practically worth its weight in empty pork and bean cans. Time for a retrograde movement to my safe harbor.

Lookit: my biggest bitches with the whole Bailey was hotter than Loni/Mary Ann was hotter than Ginger paradigm is that:

1) it is presumptively juvenile/fag, and

2) every hammerhead that ever goes there thinks he's the first person to ever utter that unique! thought.

If I'm actually forced to go down that path (and this is why I go binge drinking with women instead of men, so I don't have to) I'm going with the large-breasted, fine-assed nymphomaniac, who hopefully has a substance abuse problem, and will call me Big Daddy. Or Mr. Daddy. The girl who knows her way around a cock. That would be Ginger. Or Loni.

Sorry. Time is a commodity, and I have none to spare to break in a bitch.

Besides, any true Intrepid knows my number one gal is Shirley Stoler. The Commandant.


stoler.jpg


Outlaw!

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Hedda Gobbler

Your vitriolic Velocihost didn't know whether to laugh or cry when he saw the infamous video of Sarah Palin giving an interview with turkeys being bled out in the background. So I did what I normally do when viewing Palin video, and flogged the bishop with Asperger asperity.

Some have derided Palin's lack of "situational awareness" in holding an impromptu with such a ghastly background. Fuck that: I remonstrate. She seemed perfectly aware of the bloodletting behind her. The charnal chillbilly just didn't appreciate the nauseating negativity it induced, nor did she appreciate her jarring juxtaposition with that Klondike Cletus doing the wet work. It was positively Pythonesque.

Perhaps she really is a cloying clodhopper, but I shall give her the benefit of the doubt, and presume the permafrost parvenu actually doesn't give a damn what we think. The Yukon yokels are her constituency, and she's probably just fine with that. And like the original Hedda, she is simultaneously fey feminist, and villainous victim. Puts a little fire in a fellow's furnace, it does. But what do I know? I'm obviously a complete alliterate.

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November 19, 2008

This Will Likely Not Stand!

Apparently Al Qaeda number 2 (assuming number 1 still respires "air" in the oxygen-deprived altitudes of Waziristan, and still has kidneys functionally filtering at a level somewhat north of a thrice-used coffee filter) Ayman "Popeye" al-Zawahri has used a "racial epithet" in describing Senator Obama as a "house Negro."

I shall decline to address my stupefaction at the universal outrage in the western world that such a term is cast as a pejorative. When I was a child my house Negroes, Etta and Freddie, would have been delighted had I so addressed them. The term Negro was considered bad form around the plantation, however, the more flexible and flavorful "cullid" being much in vogue at the time.

An aside: I believe I have mentioned this before: when I was about four my older sister told me cullid turds were white, and my poor maid must have thunk me twisted beyond redemption, as I always immediately bolted into the bathroom, and stuck my inquisitive face into the toilet bowl whenever she relieved herself. Now, this fact in and of itself is a mere trifle. What is far more interesting is the mileage I've wrung from this misperception over the years. Try that line on a progressive type girl in a bar, and let slide a solitary tear as you murmur, with slight chest heave, "I was so abused...."

That will get your dumb cracker ass laid about 70% of the time, by my guestimucus. Yes, Intrepids, I am living proof that discussing a fat black woman's shit can reap a fellow highly emotional, if unstable, sex.

I'm sorry. We were speaking of al-Zawahri. Well. I am outraged at this condescending slur. I, for one, have every intention of being quite parsimonious in referring to my president as Chicken George. It just ain't befitting. Once or twice a year, at most. I am a fastidious slave to decorum, I am.

I'm so upset with al-Zawahri I recommend we do something drastic, as a nation. Hunting him down and exterminating him like a rabies-afflicted marmot, perhaps. Is a marmot like a woodchuck? A rabies-afflicted woodchuck, then. That bastard.

Say what? Bush tried that? Well, then. We shan't be replicating any of those ideas, shall we? Too Tom Mixish.

Perhaps a white-liveried Mr. Obama can serve Mr. al-Zawahri some lemonade poolside then, and show his disdain by spilling a few drops on the ill-spoken ruffian's apparel. He might also check to see if those Arab bedsheets they wear have little eyeholed hoodies in the back. I'll bet Chicken George would.

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November 18, 2008

Moving On...

Okay. Judging by the response I can tell you pantywaists aren't into Billy Mays vs. The ShamWow Kid in the Octagon.

You probably aren't into bargain footwear, either, so I'll just put these white alligator skin loafers off to the side, for my personal use.

On a brighter note, the chill in the air has really smothered the stench from the chicken houses up the road. As have the coyotes.

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November 16, 2008

Punching Above One's Weight Class

In my position I'm sometimes lucky enough to be privy to delicate, private forums. In this case it was celebrity shill boxing, in a barn outside Smut Eye, Alabama. I think this picture accurately depicts the ultimate outcome:


boxing.jpg


You know, it took four Shamwows to sop up all that blood from that beat down.

Got that, camera guy?

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November 15, 2008

The Catarrh

I have a bad case of the scours today, and I'm not sure why. Nor is that your problem. Not a technical case, of course, but in the discarnate sense. Northerly gusts have been denuding the trees of their color, as if mocking my forever thinning forescalp, so perhaps that's it. In any case, this is my season, so I should shrug off the foreboding and enjoy it. Like many, I do prefer the death of fall to the rebirth of spring.

Now you may say Why, Velociman, that's because your innate sense of iconoclasm is merely corkscrewing the evidence of decay around you into a sense of relief because Nature is again applying airbrakes to her frightening fecundity. Not that you would ever say that, because I intuit that you might be imbeciles, but if you did, you might be correct. I prefer to believe, however, it harkens back to my childhood, and fall is the season when one returns to school, and is able to see if that selfsame fecundity has enlarged the breasts of one's classmates. So it's probably just a nostalgia thing.

Perhaps I have distemper. Checked my shot records. Never had one for the distempers, because humans don't contract it (they tell you). I'm pretty sure it doesn't jump species, but that's what they said about AIDS, while they were chopping up breakfast ape. There's a conundrum: I refuse to even take flu shots, and yet I am convinced pathogens play random games of Duck, Duck, Goose.

I've never had influenza in any variety, and I intend to keep it that way. I believe if I ever partake of an innoculation against this year's strain, my body will become an amenable receptacle for the following years' varieties, forever. Disprove me.

This, too, like an accidentally swallowed peach pit, will pass. And not pleasantly, neither. But that's life. In the meanwhiles, I just realized there is an extra satellite dish on the roof, from a prior purveyor of wireless television, and I suppose it's as good a time as any to muscle a ladder against the wall, and rassle that thing down in a galeforce wind. After drinking heavily, so as to soften the pain should I perchance fall off the roof.

Also: I truly abhor the commercial where the pasty-faced buffoon orgiastically tells you how he's just purchased stock online from Hong Kong. "That's China!!!"

Don't remind me, pus puss. The Olde Country gave up their sweet outpost just like we gave up our Canal. And you know what? I recently purchased a $1.29 bag of plastic forks. That's China, too!!! So color me unimpressed with your lousy stock purchase. And by the way: I'm pretty sure you've already lost at least 65% of the value of that purchase, whereas my plastic forks are still holding up nicely.

So, you know, there.

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November 13, 2008

Requiem for a Lightweight; a Prologue

Not to beat a dead horse (unless one is tenderizing it for a traditional vagrants' repast with one's newfound acquaintances in the dark acres of the railyard. Times are tough indeed in Crackerboro, a topsy-turvy madhouse wherein the formerly oppressed minorities are stickin' it to the erstlords by grinning at them delightedly with fine white choppers), but I daresay we have not heard the last of Sarah Palin. The Hillbilly Harlequin will be back to take the measure of us.

I was aghast when I learned she was considering a Senate run. Why the fuck, Intrepids, would one want to be in a gangrenous club like the Senate when one could be chief executive and Grand Vizier of over 600,000 square miles of astonishingly awesome wilderness? Why, the orgasms from the "first shot" courtesies that accrue to the Boss on a Kodiak bear hunt alone would make this a dream job. Additionally, you get to hire and fire significant personages. Firing miscreants with six-figure salaries equals additional orgasms, with the occasional two-fingered fillip.

The Senate? A stodgy enclave of self-satisfied jobbers, whose famed collegiality is the precise cause of their inertia and circular jerkism. Do you know what a Senator can do? He can vote. Big fucking deal. Oh, he/she can also chair, and preside, and strut, and preen, and actually even have their cock-swapping lobbyists craft legislation for them. But at the end of Gaia's axel the only power they truly wield is the laughingly impotent vote. One vote of 100. Hell, I can garner more clout than that in a Daytona Beach Harley bar wearing bicycle pants.

This is why Senators make such horrid presidents. They have been so cloistered and pampered by their membership in this elite club that they are deluded into believing, despite all evidence to the contrary, that they are numinous übermen. They irrationally think they can fuck inappropriate people, saddle soap their wallets with ill-gotten gains, and still stand above reckoning. No Senator ever has to rise alone, naked but for his principles, and take a stand. (Well, the last Senator to do that was Joe McCarthy, and you see what that got him. And personally, I resent the implication that a drunkard is de facto incapable of making a meritorious decision. Why, some of my finest moments have ocurred whilst in the deepest of cups. Although I will admit that sliding down a half-scaled palm tree while buck-fucking-naked is not one of those moments. There are others, however, which I shall assay to recomember).

And so back to Palin. And, by reference, Mr. Obama. For the sheen will wear thin upon our new godhead directly, even as the flock is sheared. The soft bigotry of low expectations has been supplanted by the exuberance of irrational expectations. And as sand in the buttocks follows tide, Senator Obama will be found lacking by a multitude of former enamorati. (Of course, he will keep his hard-core loyal followers ad infinitum, who will forever insist that the idea of Obama is more important than the success of Obama, just as there are those who declaim to this day that Dr. King deserved some side pussy for all those good works, and Bill Clinton deserved those ejaculations into the maw of an emotionally stunted naïf).

Thus: I believe M. Obama will be found lacking in numerous areas eventually, including critical analysis and appropriate response mechanisms. At which point enter Palin.

In Palin I see not so much a diamond in the rough versus a hopelessly gauche muleskinner's daughter as a replay of Ronald Reagan, circa 1976. Reagan was of course anathema to the gin-blossomed Rockefeller Republicans that year. These Newport stickpins were disgusted by the temerity of the man, who deigned challenge the incumbent standard bearer Ford, he a Magic Bullet member of the praetorian Establishment. (And, no, I am not one of those. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I'm just curious why no one bothered to ask the Russians why one of their purposefully agitated agents assassinated our president. Or was the question unseemly?).

Reagan was an interloper, a second-tier hack with a disturbing knack for working up the masses. And who the fuck needs that shit? As if Gerald Ford represented anything ennobling or true to the cause. But tarred Reagan was, even as he came mightily close to stealing that nomination from the insipid incumbent.

Fast forward four years: 1980, and Reagan is still anathema to the cognoscenti, and the party in particular, until he begins to pound dirty delta silt up the collective arses of George Bush, Howard Baker, John Anderson, and John Connally (ask that feller about Magic Bullets). Even as Reagan eschews the "cattle call" GOP joint appearances designed to prop up the establishment Bush and hammer Reagan as a voodoo economics member of the Tontons Macoute.

The GOP has always been nearly as tone deaf as the Dissipating Media, and the RNC will likely throw massive amounts of monies against any national moves Sarah Palin takes in the next 18 months. Even as those monies flowed in mostly because of her candidacy.

If there is a moral, and I am no moralizer, it is to misunderestimate Palin at your peril. She's no Bush scion. And while she may not possess the intellectual chops of Reagan (ah, yes, he was a prolific thinker and writer, but you were not allowed to know that until he was safely interred), she does possess his innate instinct to impassion the indignant, to give voice to the electorally dispossessed, and the morally what-the-fucked. She is likewise intelligent enough to delegate roles properly, the mightiest skill any executive wields. And unlike the similarly talented but duplicitous Huey Long, she won't promise to give you anything, she'll merely promise not to take anything away.

In idiomatic parlance, Palin = Papillon, Obama = Louis Dega.

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November 11, 2008

What is Old Becomes New Again

Bush Anger: Obama Aides Leak Chat Details.

That boy is one class act.

Lest we forget, George Bush inherited the White House from a tail-snapping pack of feral Ozark hillbillies, who vandalized the executive offices on their way back to the horsetrack rails of Hot Springs. Bush handled it with aplomb and grace. Now he's forced to hand the sacred keys over to yet another truculent pack of guttersniping jackals, whose seraphic seigneur defecates upon the most basic of gentlemanly decencies, even as he relocates the metaphysical center of the presidency straight back to Tobacco Road.

When I was in elementary school and they told me anybody could grow up to be President I thought that was a fucking figure of speech!

Ach, well. The loss is Obama's. If I were Bush I'd withhold all manner of privileged sweetbreads and guts. Like Area 51, and Jimmy Hoffa's toes. The secret cabinet in the Oval Office holding Marilyn Monroe's polished skull. I'd take the Secret Service agent with the killer supra-isotopic X back to Crawford, and disband the snapping pussy executive call girl ring.

Then I'd pop all the W keys off the nuclear codes.

But then I'm a vindictive little fuck.

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November 9, 2008

The Harbinger

The Mutant's back on the sidebar. Just thought I'd warn you.


Apocalypto!

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The Topeka Capital-Journal reports that plans are underway for a national holiday commemorating Barack Obama. Precisely what this dilettante has done to deserve a national holiday other than show up and vote present quite escapes me.

If anyone deserves a holiday in honor of this "historic" moment it is the 52% of the eligible, ineligible, and fictitious cohort that voted for him. Maybe they deserve that attaboy. So 1 in 10 graveyard headstones will have a holiday from inexorable deterioration.

I voted for the other guy (you know, the second worst option, who is currently pissing upon his reputation of "honor" by allowing his former aides to defenestrate his running mate in a wretchedly callow and calumniatory manner). Therefore I'll decline to participate in this particular holiday. Partly because someone has to keep up the productivity levels to pay for these free mortgages, but mostly because I already take January 21st off every year in order to drink Rebel Yell, inadvertently lacerate myself in ceremonial bullwhipping sessions, and celebrate the birth of Thomas J. Jackson. It's my personal version of a Stonewall Riot.

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November 8, 2008

Let the Games Begin...

Okay, I promised I wasn't going to stoop to the level of my opponents. But 1) I'm a pathological liar, and 2) why should they have all the fun?


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November 6, 2008

Got Milk?

No cause too great, no fee too high.

Here's a very poor image from an Atlanta Journal clipping, remarkable only in the fact that the Senator's co-counsel in this case was Bobby Lee Cook (Jim Williams' attorney, and the inspiration for Matlock).


Bobby%20Lee.jpg


The men sandwiched between them are the Von Waldner brothers, owners of a dairy farm, under investigation during "Milk hearings". What the fuck are milk hearings? I once funneled dollar bills with great velocity to a lactating stripper, but we didn't hold hearings. A few smellings, and a touchings or two. No hearings.

The charges against the Von Waldner brothers? Well, they were milk law violations, of course. High bacteria content. Excessive water in the milk product. Fecal coliform. Illegally high butterfat content. You know, the usual. Apparently the Von Waldner brothers were the Fanjul brothers of the dairy industry.

But look at those boys' faces. They are positively cherubic. Surely these innocent lads did no wrong. And I do regret the Senator didn't commission Charles Addams to do the courtroom sketches. The brother on the left looks as if he had bailiff braaains for luncheon.

Ah, alas. I have no idea if Bobby Lee and the Senator won that case. But they all look mighty piss-pleased in the photo after winning a delay. Nor do I know if they ever handled another case together. But what the fuck could measure up to the flesh-ripping Von Waldner Brothers, who were no doubt jacking off into the milk supply, and forcing Negro employees to shit in the goddam buttermilk? If I remember correctly, and I was only a tiny tot myself, this was about the time the Senator started complaining of "lactose intolerance", and switching to a steady diet of Canadian whiskey.

I would also like to think they won that case, and the Senator brought his little Velocibubby a play pretty home, purchased with fee monies.

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November 5, 2008

Hail To The Chief

It's no grand secret that I have issues with our President-elect. I am talking about his worldview, his elitism, his embarrassing lack of bona fides for the position. I will rage, and I will bloviate, as appropriate.

I will also say this: like every president, he is but a placeholder for the office. It is, after all, the office itself that we, as Americans, cherish.

Therefore, should any person, foreign or domestic, deign to impugn the holder of that office, he must answer to me, and a fuckload of other peoples of this nation.

We have a President-elect. Let us, as one, support this man. My jaw may pop often in indignation as he irritates me, as he will, I am sure. My eyes will likely roll back in my head like a porn star, as Catfish would say. And I will fight every wrongheaded issue he brings forth, with righteous anger, by God.

But he is the President of the United States. That still means something to me.

You fuck with him, you fuck with me.


P.S. In no way should this depress my Raffle. I'll throw this motherfucker right under the bus should that be the case. Just saying.

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I'm Down

There's always been the little nattery nuggins things about the Cult of Obama that's rubbed me the wrong way. Nattery in that I felt some draw to it. I recalled the very meat of it today.

I was smitten, yes. But in my defense I was only 6 years old when the Beatlemania hit. My sisters were 9 and 13 respectively, however. And there is no more thrilling confluence of hormonia and excitability than young girls, lifted unto a higher plane, as the Senator fretfully knew.



I see the same vacuous, unintelligent gushing in that film clip that I saw at any number of Obama rallies.

I'm Down, sonnies.


UPDATE: I still don't get little kids dancing over an Obama speech. The only black man who got me out of my seat and buck dancing when I was 6 years old was James Fucking Brown. But I have a discriminating palate like that. I'm sorry for the inordinate number of addenda, but 1) I just learned how to convert antifreeze to grain alcohol, and 2) I'm not very good at it.

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The Next Big Thing

When I was in 11th grade I had a physical education class designed to teach us ungainly monkeys the finer points of gymnastics. The teacher was a squat former college gymnast with the center of gravity of an armadillo. The lesson, as I recall, was backsprings, and the coach was positioned to spot us as we "kipped", or committed our mass over an imaginary point into the backspring. That point of no return where you throw yourself backwards.

We were spastic in both thought and coordination, however, and most of us intentionally peaked too quickly or too late, the better to exasperate and enrage our coach.

"You're kipping too soon!" he would howl, and force us to repeat the exercise. Again and again. "You're kipping too, soon, goddamit!" We would stare at him as if befuddled, then proceed to pull jockstraps and play grab ass, in order to explain to him our disinterest in his project.

I mention this in order to provide an example of my attention deficit disorder. My topic was the Next Big Thing. I've pondered this issue, and decided it is me. Of course, I 've held this immutable opinion since I was two years old, and bit my infant brother for no earthly reason. The fucking interloper. And yes, I realize this is a rather dissonant position. After all, my salad days are but a hazy memory. My future? Fucking Ada, Intrepids, I had enough love affairs with controlled substances and booze to be convinced my liver would struggle to filter even archangel perspiration. Well, perhaps not love affairs. But there was some heavy fucking petting and stinkfinger going on. Mostly when I was alone.

Someone has to be the Next Big Thing. I always tell myself that while lying in the hammock, creating string figures (my Jacob's Ladder is passable. My Jack in the Pulpit is fucking mesmerizing. Cup and Saucer? Fag. Don't do it). The public is always hot for something, anything, other than what it saw five minutes ago. That's why the Sex Pistols were awesome until they actually recorded something. After that? Fuck 'em. The god-rotting sell-outs.

Follow me here. Pacific Coast Highway, 2 too many martinis, you're doing fine.

Because Barack Obama kipped too soon. One thing about Messiahs: you go promising the holy goods, you'd better fucking deliver. The last person who promised this much milk and honey and didn't deliver was named Joseph Smith, and he had an unwanted love affair with five lead balls in Carthage, Illinois. I'm not sure if stinkfinger was involved.

Not that that is Mr. Obama's fate, of course. But political flame-outs are equally painful, I would imagine. And final.

The point is, anything the man delivers will be less than that which his formerly mesmerized apostles expected. He cannot win anything other than that presidency at this point. He will find governance, real honest to God governance, very tough and lonely. No longer will he have senatorial colleagues to share blame with. The buck stops There. I honestly don't wish the job on anyone.

All to say: you might as well invest your time in me. I'm the Next Big Thing. And I hope to not only wring 15 minutes of fame out of that, but $298,453. US dollars, that is. It's an arbitrary number, but I like the way it looks.

Tip Jar? Are you fucking kidding me? Email me. We'll work something out. I'm always willing to be molested feted and paid handsomely for it in Bermuda or the Caymans.

As the Man said: Help me help me. Or something like that.

UPDATE: I believe I've been overthinking this thing. Perhaps a Velociraffle is in order. If I can get 300 people to throw in $1,000 each.... no, wait. If I can get 300,000 people to throw in one lousy dollar each (that puts the refrigerator box inhabitant cohort in play) the winner can shave my body. Head to toe. Stem to stern. That includes a Brazilian wax.

I'll consider an anal bleaching as well, but the raffle winner must be female, and wear a nippleless leather bra. And I'll need references. Lots of references. And pix. Lots of pix.

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November 4, 2008

Dancing with the Devil

Enough politics. The beach ball is nicely balanced upon the barking seal's nose, and we shall see which way it ultimately topples. I, for one, intend to drink heavily regardless.

Here's a Senator story for you. Now, several readers have commented over the years that the Senator wasn't real. A figgie-ment of my imagination, or overwrought brain. The suspension of disbelief was too great, the fabric of the narrative was a bit too frayed to elicit more than a wink and a nod. Sure, Velociman. Pecos Bill incarnate, and the stuff of Paul Bunyan you're spinning here.

Would that that were true. Here's a picture of the Senator at his desk, taken the year of my birth:


The_Official_Senator.jpg


That would be the Georgia Capitol in the background. Inside the capitol is a bust of the Senator's erstwhile great-great-great uncle, which bust the Senator most assuredly claimed as his own ancestor, said alleged ancestor having run for President once upon a time, only to come in third in a four way race, having had a massive stroke upon the floor of the United States Senate whilst pressing his case for election. He lost to John Quincy Adams, and Andrew Jackson. But he beat that pussy third-way politican Henry Clay, even stroke addled, with saliva streams dripping and eyeballs a rolling. At any rate, I'm sure it never harmed the Senator to rub the pate of that bust every day when the General Assembly was in session.

But to the story, far better than a stroke. This is a young Senator story, too.

After having won a battlefield commission kncoking out Nazi radio shacks in Greenland with an intelligence company, the Senator graduated from Officer Candidate School in Fort Benning, Georgia, in February 1945. Not quite 20, he and a buddy took four days of leave to visit my grandparents in Savannah on his way to his first command, at a German POW camp in Alabama. Being exuberant young men, his buddy rolled their jeep in Savannah, said accident crushing the Senator's ankle. He lay in the hospital for seven months. Through the fall of Germany, and the nuking of Japan. He was ultimately given two years of inactive duty, after which he could resign his commission.

Two years later, after having married, opened a store for his father, and passed the bar, he was informed by letter from the Surgeon General that his X-rays had been re-examined, and the Surgeon General felt he owed the United States Army two more years of active duty.

The Senator, now 22 and feeling his oats, fired off a letter to his Senator, Walter F. George, who along with Richard Russell was one of the old lions of the Senate from Georgia. In this letter he complained bitterly of getting a "raw deal", soldierspeak for a good fucking, and lambasted the Surgeon General as an incompetent ass, and a paper-pushing dolt. He came just shy of calling him a faggot.

Several weeks later the Senator received a letter from Senator George (which letter I possess), stating that he wasn't competent to intercede in the matter, and was therefore forwarding the letter and file to the Surgeon General.

Game, set, match, bitch.

George had thrown him under the bus, and backed over him several times. The Surgeon General gleefuly followed up with triumphant reiteration, and orders soon followed for the Senator to report for duty.

The old man sidestepped the issue by co-founding an Air National Guard squadron, which led him in short order to Tokyo for the duration of the Korean War as a JAG officer. Not exactly summers in Paris, but far from the Chosin Few.

What did the Senator derive from this object lesson? Never trust a fucking politician, even should you become one. Make your own destiny. And drive the goddam jeep yourself.

I need to get that letter framed. It languishes in a folder file. It would be a wonderful reminder, every last day of my life, to beware those who would offer their gratuitous assistance, and to entrust my well-being to no one.

Posted by Velociman at 7:33 PM | Comments (7) | TrackBack

VOTE!

Or the guy gets i.........oops!


VC%5B1%5D.jpg

Posted by Velociman at 6:30 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack

November 3, 2008

Smoke and Mirrors

Every so often Barack Obama tosses some truly insane shit-grenades into the foxhole of the American psyche. Exhibit A would be his call for a Civilian National Security Force. I believe that term translates into its native German as Shutzstaffel. I'm not sure why Obama would need a Waffen-SS military or paramilitary elite organization operating alongside the armed forces, or even if they would report to a reichsführer or the Secretary of Defense.

Exhibit B would be Obama's promise to cut the defense budget by 25%. Twenty-five percent. That's $129 billion dollars. He coos seductively about selectively cutting "missile defense systems that don't work" (personally, I can't remember a missile defense test in the last five years that hasn't worked, but, then, neither can Vladimir Putin). I consulted my abacus to confirm my hunches, and $129 billion is some real fucking money. This isn't just systems cutbacks; this represents a major drawdown in conventional forces (read: people) in the middle of a multi-front global war. Maintenance, support, training. Incredible.

These examples are not meant to represent everything this frenetic fraud says. Frankly, much of what Mr. Obama utters is complete fucking gibberish: attacking Pakistan, causing residential and commercial energy prices to skyrocket, having tea and goddam crumpets with dithyrambic theocrats, unilaterally taking the nuclear trump card off the felt. I don't for a moment think even Obama can believe that bilious tripe. Like his dirt road sport Joe Bidet nattering on about girl-boys and boy-girls, however, Obama just frequently has neurocognitive failures, a victim of a political Tourette's Syndrome wherein he finds himself incapable of zippering his own fucking mouth.

I don't worry about these synapse failures. I worry about Exibit A and B, and C through F. A President Obama will, with the assistance of his Uruk-hai in Congress, unleash a tsunami of legislation that will make FDR's 100 days seem like milk bumps on a baby's ass. The GOP minority will only be able to deal with the most egregious legislation, the aforementioned Exhibits. Likewise the American people will only be able to absorb and be outraged by the red herrings, the 25% cut and the Waffen-SS stuff.


Hence that general is skilful in attack whose opponent does not know what to defend; and he is skilful in defense whose opponent does not know what to attack.


------Sun Tzu



The Republicans will be slaying ephemeral dragons. Meanwhile, Obama's real goals (universal health care, cap and trade on coal, increased capital gains and income taxes, gun control, the Fairness Doctrine) will sail through Congress, and the citizenry will shrug because, well shit, compared to the bad craziness that was defeated, these faits accompli are downright fucking reasonable! Half of the GOP caucus in the Senate will likely strut like vainly plumed peacocks because that 10% cut in the defense budget beat the hell out the 25% that smug little bantam wanted (high-five).

Anyhoos, that's my theory, and I'm sticking to it. Partially because I believe it, but mostly because I made it up. If I can't own my money I may as well own the snot-nosed little hooligan thoughts that erupt from my head like, oh, I don't know, political Tourette's Syndrome, or something. Cock hell! Sun Tzu! Piss damn! If you know what I mean.

Well, Intrepids, with any luck and the creek don't rise this will be my last utterance about Mr. Obama. On the other hand, this could just be prelude to several years of unhinged umbrage. Either way, I'll be drinking heavily tomorrow night.

UPDATE: Rob Sama points out the 25% number is Barney Frank's which is correct now that I think about it. So the 25% number only comes up when Obama unzips his fly and Barney's head pops out. I'm not sure this negates my point, but it does make the fucking gibberish stuff move to Exhibit status.

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November 1, 2008

Double Barrel

I'm not a racist. Why? Because I'm a fan of Dave & Ansell Collins:



And, no, Insipids. That's not a real video. Just a picture. Which mistake I almost made when I was going to post the video with the 45 RPM record going round and round. That would represent wheels within wheels, crackers.

I'm not sure Dave or Ansell is still alive, but I believe I could use my ska homeys covering my back, iffen they could forgive me for neglecting to pay them for that pound of Blue Mountain smoke back in '74. I was a high schooler, boys! Hadn't taken accounting yet.

Posted by Velociman at 9:46 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack

Ein Volk...

I was watching the Obama Channel tonight, and boy is that guy a sweet talker. I captured a screenshot for you:


obama_hitler.jpg


The Dish connection was rather shitty, and I couldn't hear everything he said, but he kept gesticulating at a map of the Red States.


What the fuck is "Lebensraum"?

Posted by Velociman at 8:18 PM | Comments (7) | TrackBack

The Puppet Master

Just as Erica Jong fears blood will run in the streets if Obama is not elected, so I fear He is conspiring to provide Florida a win over Georgia today. And why would Obajahweh do such a thing? Why, to put a righteous wind at the back of a critical swing state, that's why. If you doubt me, just read Chapter 12 from Saul Alinsky's seminal Rules for Radicals:


Where possible, create a sense of inevitability and victory in established liberal areas; simultaneously, deny those cracker-assed bastards in hillbilly country any sense of pride in place, or community.


There is no denying Georgia is Neanderland; even manipulating the polls cannot create a victory for the Neo-Nazarene in that Heart of Darkness. In fact, I have it on excellent authority that the Stone Mountain election night laser show at that heinous redoubt of Klan orgies will have the giant carving of the Confederate generals riding off into the sunset, dragging James Byrd behind their horses.

Florida, on the other hand, well, let me just say it's no coincidence that Goldberg alluded to the fact that Hanging Chad is just codespeak for gay autoerotic asphyxiation. Which brings me to my evidence that the outcome of the game is preordained:

We all know that referees and umpires are all closeted homosexuals, inveterate jocksniffers who love nothing more than to rub against sweaty studs. So when those egregious pass interference and "holding" and "offsides" calls start piling up against the Dawgs, just remember that the Florida team is nearly entirely gay, and the Rainbow Refs are engaging in some home cooking for their buttboyz.

And one cannot overlook the fact that the Georgia offensive coordinator is named Bobo. His spurious play-calling this year confirms my deeply held suspicion that he is a plant, a spy. That and the fact no one willingly hires anyone named Bobo for anything other than birthday clown. Bobos get all their jobs through family connections, which we know as bobotism.

And Tim Tebow: he was home-schooled. You know what that means. You may as well hang a Manchurian Candidate sign around his neck. Why, the guy doesn't even have a high school yearbook. Allowing him to play college football is as insane as letting some character run for President of the United States who can't even manage to produce a birth certificate, college transcripts, state legislature records, or even a buddy who can bear witness to a vomit session after a night of spree drinking at a frat party. That insane.

I'm firmly convinced that should the obviously inferior team beat Georgia today, it will be the result of sinister machinations by Barack Obama, so that he can swoop into Florida Sunday or Monday, and strike a jutjawed pose, eyes cast heavenward, hands upon hips. But with his thumbs thrust forward, like the nelly bitch he be.

Ah, well. I'm used to these setbacks. And I do get to nurse my grievances every morning when I get on my knees and thank the baby Jesus for two things: that George W. Bush was able to steal the 2000 election by nefariously counting all the votes in Florida, four times, and that the Central Intelligence Agency created crack cocaine in order to wreak havoc in the African-American community. Because I know it's a good thing to have to dodge machine gun spray every time I go to Shantytown to cop a fucking nickel bag.


UPDATE: The ghost of Pop Warner just stopped by to tell me how disappointed he was in Georgia. Said he never knew grown men could be such fucking pussies. The ghost of Vince Lombardi also stopped by, and kicked me in the balls, because, as he said, Every time a bell gets rung, Obama gets another set of wings. Meanwhile, I'm stripped naked on the bed, listening to In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, part 2, and spreading coffee cake on my torso. I'll open the window shortly, and let the turkey vultures eat my sweetbreads, even though the only fire I ever provided was to an underage girl attempting to smoke a Marlboro Red slathered in hash oil. And nice work on the referees, President Obama.

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