To paraphrase Drew at Ace, it's apparently funny to call Sarah Palin a cunt, as Bill Maher did, but seriously unfunny to call Obama a dick, as Halperin did.
Not to disagree with Drew, but I'm going halfway with the media on this. It is singularly not funny to call the President a dick. Because that would actually masculate him (which I am guessing is the opposite of emasculate). That is actually putting sycamores in his sack.
No, I think calling Obama a cunt is the proper way to go.
Yes, posting is sporadic. I have better things to do with my time. For instance, I've just started yet another book. STANK: A Gentleman's Guide to the Ladies.
I'm pretty sure this one's the popper that puts me over the top.
Attitude, Temerity, & Tautology. Yes, I have AT&T internet service. And yes, yes, yes, I know they sucketh like Romulus and Remus at the nipples of the she-wolf in the customer service arena.
But I don't do land line anymore, my cable is legally bootlegged off another domicile on the premises, and $19.95 seemed pretty sweet for the opportunity to berate you at my leisure.
Still, I was unprepared for the extreme nature of AT&T's dysfunction. After 6 months of being charged twice the agreed upon rate, numerous phone calls to rectumfy the situation, further dysfunction in my billing, and the worrisome harbingers of nervous exhaustion on my part, I was finally able to resolve this conflict today via a most emanable customer service representative named Marcus. Black guy. Very professional. Although I do not believe he was actually empowered by AT&T to resolve an issue, the man took it upon himself. He was like Woody fucking Strode in Spartacus. Only I didn't have to kill him.
From the Retention department to the Promotions department to the Billing department back to the Retentions department. I've had daisy chains on psylocibin mushrooms with better communications and resolution than that.
What a fucked up organization. No transparency between departments, not even an ability to transfer a call. No empowerment to resolve an issue. The Mighty Ma Bell reduced to the role of the sniveling, jimson-weed-chewing idiot manchild of 21st century telecommunications.
At any rate, I suggested to Marcus he fly thither to Verizon or Apple or even Comcast, so that his skills might be more appreciated. And I have his cell phone number. Do I have contacts? No. Did it give him hope? Yes.
All by way of saying I was so enjoyed to be rid of this issue that I am now breaking a longstanding rule, and surfing some porn as a bit of self-congratulatory backslap.
And not the nice stuff, either.
I just watched a documentary on the massive buildings at Chaco Canyon, New Mexico. Very detailed on the presumed astronomical phenomenae embedded in the architecture, etc, etc. Then they puzzled over why the Anasazi simply up and moved away after over four hundred years. They couldn't think of anything, except possibly a drought.
Well, hell, that's because they never mentioned the cannibalism! Hell, I thought everybody knew that.
Of course, it was narrated by Robert Redford, and contained interviews with quite a few Pueblo "historians," "paleontologists," "oral traditionalists," and other hucksters, so I knew they wouldn't go there. More evidence of those beastly barbecues than the purported cosmology they were gushing over, however. And it's not like they were able to prop up Kenniwick Man's remains and pipe the narration through his jawbone.
UPDATE: Og's comment reminded me I neglected to add my normal postscript for such an entry:
The thing I hate about getting a bank card with a new expiration date is I have to remember to change the info on all the bills I pay online. And I pay ALL my bills online. Haven't written a check in four years.
So I thought I'd changed them all, and I did. All except stupid Velociworld. And I hadn't checked that email account in a week, either. Missed the dire warning.
All back and regularly retarded now.
I'm taking Santiva to win at 14-1. He just looks like a mudder. And I'm taking Master of Hounds at 11-2 as the horse Puddy most likely want will to stump break.
UPDATE: Puddy says Prime Cut is today's stump breaker. "Just has a glisten on the flanks I like," says he.
UPDATE 2: Way too much mud on this track. Something dire. Ride to win, or ride to save your horse. Something will snap.
Let me tell you something. This isn't the Blondie you've seen. I can't find the pic. But she was one hot piece of ass in her day. The intertubes frustrate me. P.S. I still call my cock Dagwood, just because.
Here's the deal: I want to nurse on Blondie's nipples. I want to roll my tongue around them. Her tits are fucking awesome, thank you Chester Gould. This makes me sick, right?
Love Camp 7, 1969, is a good women behind bars film, a very under-appreciated genre. If you're into such things. Which I am. Which I totally am. I highly recommend it. Pretty sure you can watch it on Hulu.
Go get your rub out on.
When I was 13 or 14 the Senator gave me a deck of French playing cards. They weren't actually made in France, but that's what you called a deck of cards with naked women on them.
He also gave me a grainy picture of an infant in a crib with an enormous erection. "That was me as a boy," he said gruffly. I forget what they called photo tampering before Photoshop, but this was reasonably well done for the 1940's, which I presume is the era it emanated from.
It only recently dawned on me the Senator was not giving me these things as some twisted right of passage. I think my mother had been rifling his drawers for more sinister evidence, and he figured he'd dump this detritus on me just to be rid of it. If my mother had discovered it in my possession he probably would have whipped me, too.
Whop! Maintain the fiction, boy! Whop!
I don't know what happened to the French playing cards, and don't care. But I really liked the grainy black and white photo of the baby with an erection. I sadly do not remember what happened to it. Just as well, I suppose. That thing is probably good for 5 to 10 in Reidsville as child porn now.
Perhaps a benificent God misplaced it for me, that I might blog about it 40 years later.
I just left a comment at Og's, pertaining to his dreams, and it struck me: why do I always dream about past jobs, and that thing where I'm not completing my master's but instead running around naked?
I never dream about the incredible sex I've been blessed to partake of, over the years. Not that there was much of it, but what I had beat the hell out of colleges and jobs.
Why can't I dream about that? Huh?
The mind is a crazy thing. I'll probably dream I had sexual congress with an ocelot, or something.
The only upside is, when I dream I have sex with you, you'll be getting that email the next day. And you will be defenseless, because it was not of my volition. Couldn't help myself. Asleep. Happened to pork you in my sleep. Still friends?
My only problem is my dreams won't fucking cooperate.
Man, as a boy of 10 or so I really liked this. Cher was a popping piece of ass in the day. My parents' house had a wired intercom system. Very funkadelic for its day, and I could listen to this in my bedroom all day long by manipulating the central radio in the kitchen. Pretty sure where I caught my first minimal erection.
I still get movement watching this.
Because, ultimately, the beat does go on. With or without you, the beat goes on.
I had to ban the troll predalien today. I'm pretty thick-skinned, and if you want to curse me or trash me I really don't care. And I believe in open forums.
When you get nasty on my children, however, I am of a mind to track you down and bust a .357 hollow point in your noggin. And predalien just isn't worth the shit that would bring down on me emotionally, even if I got away with it.
I actually like the concept of banishment, and would love to find a nice deserted island with no indigenous foodstuffs wherein I could banish predalien, but that sounds expensive. Hollow points? A buck.
Anyway, I'll see if he's just a lazy troll, or if he returns under a different IP.
It is cheaper for me to fly to New Orleans than to take the train, or, more exotically, the Greyhound bus. How is this possible? I mean, I understand economies of scale, subsidies, and fuel surcharges, but Good God.
Do you realize you cannot even take the Sunset Limited train directly from Jacksonville to New Orleans anymore? They route you through Washington, DC. THAT kind of screwhead logic is why Amtrak will always lose money. They should restaff those fucking government routers with chimpanzees on keyboards. At least eventually, in a billion years, one of them might pop out the Bible.
This also explains why all airlines will be out of business in 10 years, and we'll have to resort to alcoholic bush pilots to get us to Cincinnati. At least the bus guys are trying to make a dollar.
After mulling it, I still think I'll do Greyhound. You can't beat the fellow passengers. Sure, the train has meth-infected Hispanics and old men with strange stains in their crotches, but the bus gives you that cohort of white trash and criminally insane drifters you don't see on an aeroplane, or iron horse. The sort of folk whose company I crave.
Why am I going to New Orleans? Not really sure. Except one time I hitchhiked there from Mobile, and caught a ride with a sexy but obviously tertiary syphilitic Gypsy driving a beat-to-fuck 1962 Cadillac, and I tried to score with her while her boyfriend slept and farted in the back seat, and I've always wanted to recreate that.
In other words, the same reason I always go to New Orleans.
And also: I have little money, no job, and my urine has developed a peculiar saffron color I can't explain. Road trip.
My brother in law Scott nicknamed her Little C when she was a child. I still use it, and love it.
Little C and me, pic from family. I'm pretty sure my hair was farging Photoshopped out of this, however.
That's okay. I have lawyers, too,
Puddyhead and I were watching the Preakness the other day, like all inveterate gamblers do, me to find a small trifecta, he to find the holy roller.
Gambling is gambling. Horse racing is horse racing. No one cares.
And yet here's the rub:
As they were bringing the horses to post Guy began waxing eloquent on the glistening hindquarters of these thoroughbreds, which I admit are rather impressive.
"Look at the asses on these beasts," he tells me. "Look at the sweat. The shine. It's like they came from a Clairol bottle."
I was ignoring him, looking at a few horses to bet. Then Pud said:
"Look at that fucker! VMan, I want to stump break that horse, son. And the one next to it."
Guy has never read my novel. He doesn't know Futch sex from anyone else's. But he was ready to stump break a horse. And even I am not sure what exactly stump breaking entails. I mean, I'm from south Georgia, and he's from Long Island, and he wants to learn me?
"You realize," says I, "That is a colt, right? He has testicles. Male. Might stump break you."
"I don't care," says Pud. That's a beautiful ass. I want to stump break it. It shines."
There you go. I don't create my world. I adapt to it. I become adept at it. And eventually I adopt it.
It surely is a crazy world.
Here's a nice pic from my younger's high school graduation yesterday. She's posing with two of her cousins.
And so, Big E out of college last month, to be hitched in October, and now Little C out of high school, and off to college.
At some point I'm going to have to stop acting like I'm still in 9th grade.
I'm pretty abject these days. It doesn't take much to put me in a funk. But there's this: Anthony Weiner accidently sent a picture of his cock to 45,000 people. And only Ace will cover the story. He's doing the yeoman's work, and needs some support.
I'd weigh in on this issue, but I actually sent a picture of my manhood to my ex-girlfriend. It was magnificent. At least to my limited ouvre. At that particular moment. It was also sent during a long distance phone call, and only received 3 hours later after a fight had ensued, 30 minutes before the tryst was supposed to begin. It was not accepted with full blown magnolias and smoke blowed up my ass. Timing.
It was also way out of bounds in retrospect, since she's not exactly returning my calls these days.
Hall pass to Weiner. I had my underwear off. He was a piker.
I like to watch Wanted! presented on the public access channel by the metro police. All the latest perps. It brings me a bit of solace, and some closure. Calming, as they say.
The latest count was 24 blacks, 5 Hispanics, and 3 whites. Forgeries, assaults, thefts by taking. One murder, but that's an outlier. Bitch just fucked her dude up. No problemo.
The sad fact is I know a few of those blacks. Guy knows several more. We went to school with those guys. Well, Guy did. Blacks weren't allowed at my school until I was a senior. Then we allowed one solitary fellow, poor bastid. But I know these guys from around. I've worked with several from time to time. Good peeps. There is no sense in this shit.
These are not bad people. But they are fucking up large time.
Let me take that back. They are bad people because they do bad things. They victimize their neighbors. No sense in that. They pass bad checks on their community friends. No sense in that. Anyway, I still feel sorry for them. Not sure why that makes me do that, other than pity.
But I can't find a job in this economy. Not sure what motivates them, either.