and a mea culpa or two. I am quite reknowned as a person who neglects to provide proper pointage to the better writers I encounter, or, sadly, even those better writers who have linked me. Part of it is laziness, of course, but the vast lowering most of it is narcissism on my part. I am an insecure wretch, of course, and funnelling readers away from my backpatting is just very hard to do. You might not come back.
Now, having cravenly trumpeted my faux humility, I wish to lay some wreathes upon a few of the well-deserved. I feel like fucking Nero here! Except for the fact my empire consists of three bags of rubber soldiers I saved from 1965. GI's, Nazis, and Russkies. Sometimes I team up with the Germans against the Russkies, but I usually kick both of their totalitarian asses with flame throwers. Sometimes, in the dark night, when I wake up because the dogwood is beating against the window panes, I pull out my army men, and I am still a ten year old God. That's good shit, there.
I had a very nice link from Sondra K. I had no idea she read me. Perhaps she is the Googly search for "gladiator sex", which I pwn, dammit. Doubtful, of course. She is a beautiful writer, however, and one of the few bloggers for which I use the term "frenetic" as an endearment. Thank you, Sondra.
I should also mention Stacy McCain, not because he mentioned me, because he is not an initiator, being beholden to Rule 5, but because he has been scribing some incredible stuff lately. When you've had your fill of my perverse bile you really should visit Stacy to cleanse your palate. Metaphysically speaking, of course. Now you should spit.
Gerard always makes me feel like the infinity monkey, banging my pots and pans, producing much ado about nothing.
My homeys? Ellison and Kees Kennis and Joanie continue to flaunt my skills, and I am a sad, remiss clown for not acknowledging them more forthrightly. They are like the Mercury astronauts of blogging, good people all. In fact, I often refer to Joanie as "Gus". It's kind of a "Two astronauts, one cup" joke.
Friends! It's Reacharound Night!
Now, as to the mea culpa. Not mine, of course. Yours. For the life of me I do not understand men who posture and preen about their dislike of augmented breasts. Are you fucking crazy? Of course you're not. No, men who publicly aver a distaste for large, voluptuous, perfectly sculpted tiddays have wives or girlfriends with small breasts. And they don't have the sack to admit they lust after the humungous. That's the sad truth.
Me? I love a great rack. I revel in it. I'm the guy you see in those strange, grainy black and white pictures hugging a forty eight year old New Orleans stripper named Miss Thunderpussy's 44 triple ZZZ's.
Not that I have anything personally against small breasts. But I'll be damned if I'm going to castigate a woman for enhancing herself, because I don't know what personal issues drive it. Everyone likes to feel good about themselves. And I don't personally care to embrace someone who feels like a 13 year old boy. Unless I happen to be in the mood for a 13 year old boy. Which I'm not. Rarely. But: you ever have one of those dreams? The kind that make you reach for your Freud in the morning? There are two kinds of dreams: those you can't wait to tell everyone about, and those you will never confess to a fucking living soul. That was my gramma! And she was a hot 13 year old boy!
But back to breasts. Of course. Here's the thing: If it were as easy to enhance your penis as it is to enhance your breasts, every guy, especially the ones who knock knockage, would be walking around with criminally mutant mule cocks. They couldn't make surf jams long enough to hide the heads of these throbbers. And best of all, women probably wouldn't sit around computer screens, and zoom in on the pictures, and walk off, disgustedly, proclaiming It's fake. For one thing they wouldn't care. For another thing, they wouldn't fucking care. It's a mule dick, Kayetlyn!
So you tit "purists" should go fuck yourselves. I'm on the girls' side here.
Tomorrow: I get back in the game. Hard, thoughtful, excrutiatingly intense verbiage on why I believe Barack Obama is the Anti Allah. He wanted to buzz the Pentagon, too!
Update: Welcome, Stacy McCain readers. Unfortunately I don't have a tip jar, however if you leave some pharmaceuticals in the potted hosta in front of The Grill in Athens, Georgia, the unkempt black fellow who appears to be sleeping in front of the place will make sure I get it. We're like this.
And poor Denny. I didn't mean to slight him. Why, a link from Grouchy Old Cripple actually generates ten times the hits a link from that scurrilous old queer Wolcott brings.
Vanity Fair. I piss upon them.
Actually, I love it when I'm right. That level of vainglory is even more intoxicating than when the other guy is Wrong. Although, all frissons being equal, the other guy being wrong is indubitably awesome. Ain't it?
I speak, of course, of my recent prediction that, despite the stake the administration would drive through the
Heartbeat of America entity formerly known as General Motors, they would ensure the United Auto Workers, loyalists to the marrow, would reap some benefit from the carrion.
What is going on in this country? The government is about to take over GM in a plan that completely screws private bondholders and favors the unions. Get this: The GM bondholders own $27 billion and they’re getting 10 percent of the common stock in an expected exchange. And the UAW owns $10 billion of the bonds and they’re getting 40 percent of the stock. Huh? Did I miss something here? And Uncle Sam will have a controlling share of the stock with something close to 50 percent ownership. And no bankruptcy judge. So this is a political restructuring run by the White House, not a rule-of-law bankruptcy-court reorganization.
The United Auto Workers union’s retiree health-care fund will own 55 percent of Chrysler LLC in exchange for cutting in half the automaker’s $10.6 billion cash obligation to the trust, people familiar with the matter said.
That's all that's left from Burn Day. I had brush piles eight feet high and twelve feet across. For perspective that fire ring is over eight feet in diameter. I burned limbs, branches, leaves, blackberry brambles, saplings, and eventually an old chicken coop I'd knocked down last summer. Hell, I even performed suttee on two and a half assassinated squirrels. I say half because a varmint tore one carcass apart, leaving naught but the tail and hind legs. I hope it's a fox. Iffen it's a coyote I have problems viz. the pets and the prospect of accosting the interloper. Perhaps I could leave a goat on a rope, like in Jurassic Park.
I burned for seven hours. Hot work, too. It was almost ninety, too hot to burn, really, but I had a burn permit for the day, and the wind was down. Plus, this stuff was piled close enough to the house it was really more dangerous to leave it, and the word is out the state's banning burn permits effective May 1st. So it was burn, baby, burn. The Senator would have been proud.
Speaking of proud, I'm not too proud of that small pile of remainders. Especially since I had a sweet ember bed going near the end:
I'm not sure why that picture is so out of focus.
Key I must have been dronk when it was taken. Which leads of course to the reason I had to douse it, eventually. By 10 pm I was nodding into my wine glass, having been scorched, seared, braised, overworked, sweated like a bee, and deep into the vino.
Sadly, I could go to the other side of the property next week and accumulate the same amount of tinder. This place is a five to six year project, for sure. But this was plenty for now. And I'm glad I had the burn permit. I have no problem with the authorities knowing I'm burning several tons of kindling smack dab in the middle of a piece of old growth forest. I've been to firefighting school. I have a deep respect for fire. Even my old grammy told me, before I ventured out into the big bad world, never to turn my back on a prostitute or a fire. Words to live by. I really need a controlled burn of this property, but even if I could cut a firebreak with a Bobcat I'd need a dozen firefighters to help me keep it under control. Insurance is so much easier.
I won't even dwell on the fact I fell off a seven foot ladder today, because my beautiful assistant, the person my safety-conscious ass put in charge of ladder stabilization, wandered off, distracted by a pretty flutterby or fairie or somesuch. Perhaps a puff of pixie dust, or a bumbly bee. I was abandoned, I tell ya.
There are many ways to fall off a ladder. Actually, there's only one way to fall off a ladder. There are many ways to hit the ground. All but one of them very bad. So either my cat-like reflexes saved me, or I was extremely lucky. I'm going with Door Number 2, Monty. No severed femoral artery, no broked bones, no spinal injury. Just a Jabba-like splat.
You know that top step of the ladder? The one that says NOT A STEP? I was on it. What's your fucking point? To label what is clearly a step not a step is very Kafkaesque, in my opinion. My iconoclastic self was drawn to it like the fly to the turd, like the carny to the mark. If I'm sore tomorrow I may sue anyway, just so I can attend my trial dressed as a massive dung beetle. With a neck brace on. That'll show 'em.
So General Motors and Chrysler are dead. Bankrupt. Despite any navel-gazing Obama engages in via his Romper Room Magic Mirror, those corporations as we know them are deceased.
And so why did the taxpayers pump tens of billions of dollars into these moribund entities over the last seven months? What was the reasoning? To save them? Every gambler looks for the tell in his opponent. Hard work, that. In this case the work was easy. The tell was when these companies were asked how much it ultimately would take to save them and they said We don't know. That's not a tell. It's a fucking suicide note.
Well, the Paperbag President assures us he stands behind these companies, and will make good on their warranties. I plan to hold him to that. Although, as Dodge was advertising Basic Bob pickup trucks on the radio for $11,000, I visited my local Ford dealer for an F-150.
$41,000. Granted, that was a crew cab, but I can buy two houses for that around here. $41,000? For a fucking pickup truck? I believe I'll just drive the Blazer until the wheels fall off, hopefully near one of those side-of-the-interstate strip joints. Now that guy is a genius. Wish I'd thought of that. Strip clubs for transient truckers. Dumb asses can't even drink. Just slip the Washingtons.
So who benefited from those seemingly lackadaisical billions, thrust into the crotches of GM and Chrysler like them Washingtons? The unions, of course. Specifically, the retired and wheezing old fucks who milked the goddam tits off Elsie the Cowperation. Those UAW chits came due, and no one gets out the vote like a fucking retarded auto worker, so palms were greased, and we, the taxpayers, got the thick finger of Astro Glide up the bummocks. But of course Obama explained it all when he said "I won." So I guess I should shut the fuck up.
By God, the Senator hated unions. In theory, of course. He liked their money. Which is why I found myself in 1967, at the tender age of 10, roaming the urine-beguttered streets of the French Quarter, with my 16-year-old sister in
tow the lead. The Senator was not only representing the Switchmens' Union in Federal Court, he was also the only man I knew in my entire life who not only had a subscription to Playboy delivered to his house in classic mid-sixties brown wrapper, he belonged to The Clubs.
It's a proud boy who watches his poppa adjust the bowtie on his tuxedo in the mirror of a suite at the Royal Orleans, then states "I'm going to the Playboy Club now. Don't you two wait up on me. For the drinks only, of course, but here's a crisp one hundred dollar bill for you two, lest you upset your mama and inadvertently mention this."
At least, I think that's how the deal went down, however I may misremember, and only ascertained the facts after I found the huge, chrome-plated bunnyhead key that fell out of his pocket after he passed out upon his return. Or they both happened. There's your Occam's Razor Shave. The strip clubs I scampered into were real, though. This I will swear to Saint Peter, should I be graced to be in his presence upon a time.
But back to those unions, and the crippling debt propping them up will require. For never, ever, think that the belly ups of the automakers are the end of it. Oh, no. The UAW retirees have a quality of life issue we must fix. Be ye never so foolish as to think we will not be subsidizing these contract guarantees as taxpayers. We OWE them, we will be told. They never signed up for a deal wherein they would be cast aside upon reaching the sweet golden apples of their collective bargaining agreements, did they? How dare us? How dare you?
Don't believe me? Just wait, fool.
Boyo, the Senator hated unions, and the entire mindset. To his mind, who grew up during the Depression, and put himself through college, and passed the bar, and scrapped for every piece of lawyering that came his way, a unionist was a fucking failure. He had no grievance against someone who joined a union as a youngster, and worked his way up. But to him it was about working one's way into management. Not announcing to the world you were a fucking lifetime wrench turner, who aspired to nothing more than the turning of the wrench, and yet aspired to the better things in life, and felt one should be rewarded with a portion of the owners' profits, so that one could live in a diminutive version of the robber barons, despite never having taken the risk, and the leap, to attain it. To turn the wrench, and be rewarded like a fucking king.
Leveling. WE ARE ALL GAWD'S CREATURES. Well, fuck that nonsense. I stand alone.
Part of me wishes the Senator was alive to see this abominable situation. The other part of me lets him rest in peace. He wouldn't understand. He would stand for office now, and be done in with an ill-advised tirade on the dangers of flouride in the toothpaste, and the incipient threat of communist stomach cancers engendered therein. I'd be his campaign manager, though. And stand tall. Because he would follow up that tirade with a recitation of Thanatopsis, and a stemwinder about how National Review had edited his article without permission, and used that African-American term, which he didn't much care for, there being more pithy terms available.
Is there anything more offensive, or disheartening, than a woman who does not understand her own body chemistry, or the subtle art of allure? I speak, of course, of women who do not understand how to properly use eau de parfum, and its lesser, bastard offspring, toilet water and cologne. I am routinely pelted by odors most egregious from distances that would take an artilleryman's knowledge to gauge.
A bit of housekeeping: Little old ladies who smell like lavender get a pass, because all little old ladies are supposed to smell like lavender. Otherwise you might make yourself vomit if you smelled a sexy aroma and turned around to see your decidedly unfecund Aunt Clara.
Also: I am not referring at this time to men, and their crude slatherings. That is for another day. I will just say that it is better that most men anoint themselves with some manner of malodorous bilgewater than not, because otherwise we would be subjected, ad hoc, to the smell of their unwashed armpits and unsanitary, shit-begrimed ass cheeks. In the instance I would prefer the dizzying redolence of a NASCAR-themed body splash, given my druthers. If that is what that smell in fact is. Of course, as a youngster in the late sixties the scents of the day were Old Spice for the old men, and English Leather or Hai Karate! for the younger swingers. Bouquets for the masses. That rancid Polo in the '70's was no better. But, as I said, this philippic is about the fairer sex, and the unseemly olfactory pummelling they insist on delivering. Some thoughts on the matter:
First: a woman should know her body. Only an Ellie May Bensey from Tobacco Road does not understand that essences interact differently with each person's body chemistry. Just because Midnight in Bedford-Stuyvestant smells great on your girlfriend does not mean it will interact similarly to your pheremones, or emanations. Chemicals are complex things. You could be producing Raid using that brand. And spritzing eight samples on your wrists at Saks will not provide a proper laboratory for testing. One scent at a time. Wait twenty minutes. And get an outside opinion, for Christ's sake.
Second: Minimalism! The proper penumbra for a scent is 12 to 18 inches. Anything over 24 inches and you are not subtly enticing a lover. You are chumming for sharks. With the equivalent of a rotting pork shoulder dangling from your neck. There is no reason for me or anyone else to smell you from halfway down the supermarket aisle, unless you are a whore. Allure is finespun, and insinuated. Perfumes are for the man who will be kissing your neck, or nibbling your earlobe. The faint wisp of your fragrance is entirely appropriate and appreciated in close settings, such as the office place, or a dinner with friends, but try not to permeate the entire waiting room of the local Grease Monkey franchise, unless you are into retarded and persistent suitors who call their coveralls fuck suits. Of course, if you are, that's totally fucking okay, and bon appetit!
Perhaps I am a bit too old school, but I'm tired of being gassed like a trenchfooted doughboy at every turn, by disgustingly cheap colognes. The powdery, medicated perfumes that make you turn your head and wonder if someone in the room has athlete's foot. If one cannot differentiate between your scent and Gold Bond perhaps you should reconsider your choice in smellivalescence.
Most fragrances are shit, of course. From the earliest days, when intrepid seamen drilled holes in harpooned cetaceans' heads to scoop out the precious ambergris, to today's compleatly synthetic aromas produced in black ops labs on New Jersey's Chemical Coast, the mass-marketed fragrances suck. To my senses there is still nothing as soft, enticing, and captivating as Chanel No. 5, a damned near ninety-year-old product. Or even 1977's Opium. Most things today reek of puppy farts and Masengil. It's a cruel shame.
Oh. Me? I prefer to go au naturel. If I do wear a scent it is Dolce & Gabbana, or Armani's Acqua di Giò. Delicately and parsimoniously administered, of course. Otherwise, I just might smell like Skidmark of the Loom. Or Ass Jockey. As I Twittered today (ha ha) my washing machine needs a Pot Scrubber setting for my underwears.
So in my case it's just a pity thing for my fellowpeeps.
When one is met with insuperable aggression one is allowed in certain circumstances to raise one's hands to God in supplication, and invoke His Judgment. Tea Parties notwithstanding, I'm rather certain the only escape for us believers in these heady days of brute belligerence by the Demigod is a rain of plagues. Biblical stuff.
I honestly do not normally wish any ill upon my fellow man, even the most intolerable and intolerant of them. And they are legion. However of late I've been indulging in the fantasy of a plague of boils, to torment those who would act against my best and highest needs and wants. Frog, hail, pestilence nor locust are as diabolically beautiful as a hearty case of the incurable boils, I always say. One may hide from the external plagues. Boils, like de Beers products, are forever.
I certainly believe a thriving case of the pustulence upon the current administration would at the very least distract them from their mission of destruction of our capitalist way of life. Respite is my only cry.
Boils it is. I foresee it. And when the Commandeer-in-Chief has "several small lesions" removed from his face at Bethesda, small news indeed to the unknowing, know ye what that portends.
And lest you consider me blasphemous for requesting this selfish personal curse, rest assured I am not.
I'm demanding it.
Of course, sometimes these things backfire. So I'll be examining my naked self in the shower for the next few weeks in case of an unexpected outbreak of hubris furunculus. And unlike the furtive, clandestine denizens of 1600, I'll post pictures of my findings.
I write this in the middle of a brutal and annoying hailstorm with threatening tornadoes which is wreaking havoc upon my wee small newbie vegetables, therefore I may seem a bit disliberate. But right here be a video interview of Larry Fine (also known as the "Shy Beatle") from the Motion Picture Country Home (also known as The Place They Go To Die):
A strange, but compelling video clip. The embed is disabled.
It's ten minutes, so unless you have a true hard on for the Stooges, frankly I'd pass. But it is fascinating in the way only pinstroked and probably drunk old men can be (see, viz. my archives).
Now, I bow before no man in my admiration for Larry Fine (also known as Brian Jones, the tragic Stone). But to hear the old fellow recreate his first meeting with the Howard brothers, wherein he posits that, You know, I really didn't think the little fuckers were up to my game, why, he fucking turned the worm. He Pete Best'd the boys.
That is fucking awesome.
And, since that embed was disabled, I give you my favorite archived pic of all time. Yes, even better than me in Jamaica in the root suit (Rob Sama owns that pic, btw. I call it his Burn Notice). Finage:
Everyone's having birthdays lately, it seems. This week it's Tweety:
Next week it's me. Fortunately, I freshify my cuttlebone more often than Tweety.
Here's an example of insufficient control data when testing a theory.
I would consider this null hypothesis rejected, unless of course H0:Vest will fail.
This is another reason I am an elitist when it comes to going Dark Corner. Do you really think I wouldn't be supporting imbeciles like that? I couldn't even survive the gauze bills.
Video link courtesy of Cody.