July 17, 2011

Zips in the Wire!

That's a Platoon quote. Anyway, the Japs beat us in the World Cup. That's okay. They still have bad breath. All Asian women have bad breath. It's a fish thing. Here in America the fish smell is supposed to remain, I don't know, down there.

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Safe Harbor

I don't know what her plans are, but Casey Anthony can stay with me. I haven't lived with a psycho bitch for a while. I rather miss it.

The sex is always incredible, you know. Although I don't care too much for the weeping afterwards. But that's what they make vodka for. Bonus: I've had a vasectomy, so there's no chance we could produce anything she could later strangle. Plus, I drive an SUV, so I don't even have a trunk.

I've already started her memoirs, because I deserve a bit of that righteous blood money:

It's been a tough three years. But as I was sucking the Velocicock this morning, I had an epiphany...

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July 15, 2011

The Fix Is In

The fix is always in. If you're not sure you're the mark, you're the mark.

Eric Cantor stood up to Obama, and basically said "Show me the money." His reward was to not only not be backed up by Boehner and McConnell, but to be marginalized by them. They apparently told him to shut the fuck up at the next meeting. We have a Grand Compromise in the offing. Boy. Jew boy.

The last time we had a Grand Compromise at this level, Missouri joined the Union as a fucking slave state.

McConnell will fold first, indicating to Boehner that anything coming up the pipes from the House better have some Grand Compromise bumper stickers on it.

As for Cantor? You don't think Obama raised $89 million in the first quarter to stave off primary challengers, do you? This is Dick Tuck character assassination money. There is a goodly portion set aside for Michele Bachmann, and Sarah "The Cunt" Palin if she attempts to enter the race, but leaves plenty left over for Eric Cantor.

He should have played golf with Wonder Boy. Or had his spine surgically removed like McConnell.

Repeat with me: Four! More! Years!

Godammit, put some gusto in that, ye dogs. And prepare for Quantitative Easing 3, higher taxes, and a shove in the kidneys in the grocery line at Publix. Because Sheila Jackson Lee thinks you might be a racist.

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July 9, 2011

The Bad Times

They are upon us. It is a great idea, but a notional fiction, that things always progress. They do not, necessarily. Think Egypt. Think Rome.

There is no belly in the West to fix what ails us. And what ails us is entitlement. Teat. And the numbers grow. I was born in 1957. 4 millions of us were born in the US in that year alone, and we're all getting a little long in the tooth.

Nah, at some point, say in 10 or 15 years, our children will look at us and see sea anchors. Old fuckers dragging down their limited prosperity with Medicare and Social Security demands.

That's when the first of us will begin to disappear. It won't be Soylent Green, because no one wants to process and eat our scaly old asses. We'll just start to disappear. Or be found inexplicably smothered in our smelly old beds. As Ian Malcolm said in Jurassic Park, life finds a way. And you, oldster, are jeopardizing my life.

We are very close to that point where our oversized demographic becomes a very real threat to the continuance of our childrens' civilization. At that point we will have to go.

It's all about survival. And, sadly, I never will have owned a 1967 Camaro. Which precisely informs the wants of my generation. The wants of the next generation? I don't want to pay for your requirements until you are 88, or 100. I have a nice peat bog nearby, however, which might suit all of our needs.

This, of course, is no indictment of my own children. They like Daddy fine. The kids next door? Well, then. I just don't know.

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Well, Derek Jeter got his 3,000th hit. I'm not a Yankees fan, and no big fan of Jeter's. But he earned it, and it would be churlish of me to not offer him accolades. Plus, he was already muddy in the third inning. He works.

I was at Camden Yards once, and he drove in the game winning run with a huge shot to right field to beat the Orioles. We all cursed him from the first base line, and he tipped his hat. It did not seem to be in defiance. I beleive it was in courtesy, and it was a nice gesture.

Of course, he had all the money and women. Even I could be courteous with that.

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The Beginning of the Beginning

As we say farewell to the shuttle program, I recall that in 1976 I was staying with a classmate at his parents' home in Auburn, Massachusetts. We were walking the local golf course, Pakachoag I believe, carrying perhaps five clubs between us, smacking a few balls in desultory fashion, when I saw the marker. The monument. Where Robert Goddard successfully launched the first liquid fuel rocket in history in 1926.

I immediately knew exactly what it was. I thought it had occurred next door in Worcester. My friends did not, and did not share my enthusiasm. But then, they hadn't run into 40 pine trees in a Mercury helmet. And they were trying to fashion a roach clip from a broken tee, and were not to be distracted by mission creep.

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July 8, 2011

Puddyhead and the Poxmarked Prostitute

Pud and I tend to sit around and relive the old days. We know all of each others' stories, but once in a while we get surprised. This story I did not know.

Apparently, between wives, Puddy had run across an old friend, who promised him a prostitute of incredible talents. Pud, like most guys, bit.

This girl showed up, but with issues. As Pud undressed her realized she was covered in pox marks. Perhaps smallpox, which is frowned upon in these parts because of its lethal nature, and generally considered obsolete. Perhaps cowpox, a less lethal infection.

Pud stripped her down. Her body was covered in tiny red rings with pustules around the rims. Pusty fucking things around the red rims. On the front of her body. On the back. Jesus Christ.

I'm not a doctor, and I don't play one on TV, but I wouldn't have gone near this girl.

Pud? He tapped it. Rings and all.

I'm not sure about the heuristic algorithms here, but all Pud said was Done and Done.

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The Last Blast

I'm pretty sad about NASA's last foray into space with Atlantis. A great part of my childhood, hopes, and dreams resided with NASA. Mercury, Gemini, Apollo! I'm probably the only geek left who remembers the importance and travails of the Gemini missions. We need to spacewalk. We need to facefuck another space capsule. Gemini was the interim program that taught the Apollo guys how to do their jobs.

When I was 5 years old in 1962 my mother bought me a defective Mercury program helmet from Webster's Department Store. I say defective because I couldn't see anything from it. It was over-tinted. I kept running into pine trees for weeks until the Senator finally took pity on me, and banished the thing. I still kept it on my shelf.

Well, it's all gone now. Or, at least, it's subbed out to the lowest bidder. Don't think Branson is going to keep doing this for X Prize money. At some point, he'll have a price tag.

And we'll continue to lose 5% of our astronauts. Why? Because it's risky business. Nobody complains when we lose 12% of our test pilots. Why do they complain when we lose 5% of our astronauts?

They'll complain even less when the dead astronauts' paychecks are signed by Virgin Airways.

Welcome to the new world.

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July 7, 2011

The Grand Old Puritans

What the hell is wrong with the Republicans? Obama is easy pickings. I've had text messages from several turkey vultures who told me they are circling, biding their time to get at his sweetbreads.

And the GOP has a field consisting of two Mormons, two hot chicks I would like to pork but whom I definitely would never be married to (stridency on the distaff side don't fit into VMan's world) and three pencil-necked geeks?

Here's the dealio, ye Tea Partying long-sufferers: it's Romney in a landslide, then that empty suit gets obliterated in the general. Four more years of high taxes and mortally insane spending.

I'd run, but no one has bankrolled me, and there is the issue of weed and cocainum in my college years that might render me unfit for duty. Or, at the very least, ruin your fucking day.

As my psychotic hero LBJ said, "I shall not seek, and I will not accept, the nomination of my party for another term as your president."

Take that one to the bank.

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The Best Thing About Wetbacks...

...is they conduct electricity so well.

Actually, and unfortunately, lethal injection in this case. I do love it when Old Sparky misfires, and the hood gets to smoking.

This bag of shit raped and killed a 16 year old girl. And Obama attempted to come to his rescue.

Fortunately, it was Texas. Obama lost. Obama loses everything he tries to do. It is graven in stone at this point. How much political capital does he have left? And why does he expend it on shit like this? What a moron. We should enroll him in the Atlanta Public Schools. So we can fix his grades when he does retarded shit like this.

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Casey Anthony

My only comment on this whole sordid affair, which I commented at Skippy's:

Here's what really creeps me out: the little kids crying over the verdict. How could they possibly have any informed opinion or interest in this case unless their momma had filled their waxy little heads full of shit?

Well, I also second Skippy's comment that this case consumed too many intelligent peoples' brain cells because Casey Anthony, and her womb-produced victim, was a slutty cute white girl with relatively big tits.

Posted by Velociman at 6:53 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack


Atlanta Public School students are actually retarded. Or so in need of getting the fix in on test scores that their retarded teachers cheat for them so that these retarded children can move on to bigger and better things. Like being an Atlanta Public Schools teacher.

Ever been inside an Atlanta Public School? I have. Within the last two years. Many times. I had people transport special needs children to schools in Atlanta so the fucking morons running the asylum could cash their vouchers to supposedly educate these kids.

And I should not classify the run-of-the-mill students in Atlanta as retards. That's very unkind.

They're more just like very stupid, and extremely ill-served by the people most entrusted to brighten 'em up a bit. But that's No Child Left Behind for you. Dumb down to the least common denominator, force teachers (and those vile serpents, the administrators) to cheat to force the square peg into the round retard's hole. Then high-five and give yourself raises.

Trust me: this is far more pervasive than Atlanta. And it is far more pervasive than Georgia. And billions of dollars are involved.

George W. Bush, in his effort to be a "compassionate conservative", created a brand new criminal class. That kind of money is like heroin or sex to a certain cohort of society, and by that I mean public sector employees with little in the way of merit reward or positive reinforcement. And when it is trolled in front of their noses, and there is punishment and negative reinforcement for not going along to get along, you get...

Well, you get Barack Obama as president.

Plenty of villians here. And plenty of victims.

And one of the villains is Laura Bush. This was all her idea, that daffy broad. And why is my right eye leaking a pussy fluid? That might be a separate issue. W gets a pass on that one.

Posted by Velociman at 6:29 PM | Comments (5) | TrackBack

A Dichotomy

Obama and Holder: This whole ATF Fast and Furious Gunrunner scandal is all on the head of that brigand Kenneth Melson at the ATF. Crank up the bus.

Kenneth Melson: Not so fast. Although if I listen closely I think I heard him say Not so fast, boys.

Posted by Velociman at 5:13 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

July 6, 2011


Jacobsen: Racists!

I consider Professor Jacobsen to be a stand up guy, and full of spunk. A man well-heeled, and one of the few voices of reason and vitality. I also do not link too many people because I am certifiably insane, and not many folk like this imprimatur. Therefore I should not have linked him now. But what he says has courage. Read on. And when he denies me like Peter, that's okay. We all have our mouths to feed.

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July 5, 2011

Coal is King

I used to work for a railroad. You know those doublestacked trains full of overseas containers full of electronics? 2 bucks profit after you factor out all the costs.

A load of coal pulling out of West Virginia or Kentucky? 40 bucks. And transit times are immaterial. Best Buy needs their TV's tomorrow. That dammed electrical plant in Milledgeville, Georgia doesn't need coal for another week. Take your time. Save your fuel.

Coal is King. Play with the other stuff, the so-called world economy. Fine. Quit kissing the Chineses's ass, though. They don't care. They're cranking out product, not goodwill. You aren't going to hurt their feelings. If this month's delivery of wide screens doesn't make it to the Best Buy distribution center, why, you are only creating want, and need. Which the Chinese covet.

The Chinese covet much, but shitty US dollars are no longer among their wants. I suspect cheap, undervalued, upside down real estate is their next move. Two years ago the US dollar was the gold standard upon which all nations traded. Now it is a piece of shit, next to a Euro, which even the Greeks will not honor. If they had the courage to honor anything, which they do not. How many times can Obama blame this on Bush?

This is basic shit. I don't think Obama and his crew understand these small things. Or they do and resent it. We are governed by peoples with enormous credentials (Harvard, Yale) who wouldn't know how to piss in a bucket unless someone was holding their pecker.

Posted by Velociman at 11:38 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack


You know the thing about electric trimmers? They're like a drug.

All I was going to do was clean up my privates and my pits and thin my chest, and now I'm completely hairless.

I'm scared to go outside because I might be sedated and taken in for an alien autopsy.

It grows back, yeah, but would you want to bathe in the Ogeechee River next to Latin Americans looking like this?

I didn't think so.

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Perfecting the Perfect Body

The good news is my regimen of watery soups and Evan Williams 90 proof bourbon has reduced my weight to 202. I am only 13 pounds away from my target. I don't know what that is in stones.

The bad news is I am constiptated, and have anal fissures. I might have to reintoduce proteins and carbos into the diet. I might have to eat some fucking chicken wings, actually.

Having said that, duty delays. I have a job or three, then I will be off on the corn-harvesting, chicken-plucking circuit. Thursday at the latest. I took the liberty of shaving my body today, lest I catch something from the Mexicans. Thought I was slimming down, but I look like Bobby Hill now.

I'd show a picture, but I'd have to charge a dollar.

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Okay, I brought up Hamilton and I will go down this path. It's Fourth of July. I love Thomas Jefferson, but he was all fucked up. Wanted to succor the French as they were beheading people apace. The more blood that was spilled, the harder Jefferson's cock got.

You can't do that. You can't do that, dammit.

Comes Hamilton. Yes, he argued for a strong national government. Yes, he argued for a strong national army. Yes, he argued for a strong central bank.

And he was right. He gave the United States government CREDIT, and a position in the world.

Has this position of Treasury Secrectary been corrupted? Certainly. But that is not to cast aspersions on Hamilton. He was a fucking genius. There would be no United States without him. I'm not even Catholic and I give novenas to him. This Creole illegitimate bastard, along with Madison, gave us the Federalist Papers. It's the greatest show on Earth.

So it's the 4th. And I'm throwing down with Alexander Hamilton. Look for him on the $20.

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Independence Day

We love those words. I'd actually post something a little more meaningful, perhaps even the Declaraction, but I'm a great big bag of fucking gas. The sad fact of being a clown is, when you don't want to be a clown anymore, the face is not lifted.

I still like the Declaration, and all issues aside, I like Jefferson. He ain't Hamilton, but he's way big.

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July 4, 2011


Why do I watch Bill Maher? I suppose because I can't find my hammer to smack my little toe in repeated fashion, given anything better to do.

What a goddam dumbass. I don't mind the set ups, and the cheap shots his idiotic writers come up with. That is to be expected. But this repeated and unceasing use of "teabaggers" to insult conservatives? Does not Maher understand he is trafficking in a trope, a stereotype, that is insulting to gays as well as conservatives? Is it worth it?

I have gay friends. Whether they choose to dip their ballsacks in each others' mouths is immaterial to me, because it never comes up in conversation. And I could care less, and they could care less that I am privy to this information.

Why does Maher think it is appropriate to insult conservatives with this term that, if you used it upon a gay person, would insult them? I suppose faggots are disposable fodder in Maher's war. He can righteously insult them in order to blemish conservatives.

And I don't pretend to speak for gays here. For all I know they relish the term. But the gays I know don't shove their sexual mores in my face. We're live and let live, and they protect and cherish their sexual proclivities as much as I protect and cherish mine.

And yet Maher continues, and continues, and continues, to use this term, to make this point.

Fucking douchebag. When you are able, in one word, to insult the entire political spectrum, that is a gift, that. If he wasn't only 4'11" I'd punch that teabagger cocksucker in the face.

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Battle Cry

It's 1:45 AM and I'm watching color footage of the Eastern Front 1943. Russkis versus Nazis. There are no good guys, but you almost feel sorry for the bad guys. They are beating the shit out of each other. Brutal. And I have a cold beer. Only in America.

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DSK and Perp Walking

I don't really care about the fate of Dominique Strauss-Kahn. Seems this maid was a whore. Seems this could have been a consentual act gone awry. Fine. Don't fuck whores, and you probably won't have these problems.

I'm still pissed about Manuel Noriega. I don't care how much drugs the guy may have been dealing. You don't adventure into a sovereign nation and kidnap their president. Then put him in a Soviet-style show trial, then imprison his sad ass for 18 years. Then turn him over to the French for another seven year stint. That's fucked up.

Does anyone remember the evidence against Noriega? I don't. Seems to me the evidence was: you're handcuffed. And I've killed your crew and pumped rock and roll into your palace.

Can you imagine the Russians kidnapping Bill Clinton over the Kosovo affair? They were very unhappy with our involvement, you know. Putting him in prison for 18 years? Show trial?

Anyway, I don't know if DSK is guilty of rape, or prostitution, or just bad timing. But this perp-walking showboating shit needs to stop. Innocent until proven guilty. Even if you're wearing the victim's maidenhead as some sort of Hannibal Lecter mask.

Okay, maybe then you're guilty first.

You know who's bad about this? Patrick Fitzgerald, United States Attorney in Chicago. Ask Blago. And, yes, I expect a tax audit any day. Because the one person on the face of the earth you should be able to trust is a United States Attorney. And that's the last fucker you better trust. He has an agenda, and trust me rube, you aren't part of it.

People like show trials, though. People will show up for a fucking hanging before they show up for a christening. Ask Skippy. As sober peoples (which I am not) we need to nip the sensationalism from our more foul episodes of jurisprudence. Take that Gacy down with opprobrium, but a little dignity. Not his dignity.


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July 3, 2011


I don't think Guy is very happy about the nipple references. In fact, he wants to beat my ass. So I cut a deal: we are going to Evander Holyfield's house in Atlanta. And not for an autograph. No suh. For a punch in the chops. Gonna make Evander beat the pus out of us. If I'm going to pick blueberries I want a nice cut on my face. It's like that scene in Dirty Harry: Everything gonna be alright, boy. Just one nice pop from Evander. Cut me good. Yessir.

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Day Two

I think I crossed an International Date Line. Now it's Day Two. Not sure about Puddyhead. I've beaten him severly, and he seems complacent, but I don't trust the little fucker. He still wants my nipples, I reckon. I'll report from the blueberry patch in Alma.

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July 2, 2011

Go Day

I wanted to start the game today. And I aint't happy that Puddy incessantly stroked my nipples. In fact I'm very upset. I try to keep that shit on the sidebar. But it is what it is. I unfortunately exposed myself, and I was taken advantage of. It's a fucked up world.

Anywhats, I'm going to pick some corn and polebeans Monday, then get down to some blueberries and taters Tuesday and Wednesday. Gotta get some adult diapers for Pud so he quit stroking my nipples, though.

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Wimbledon Weekend

Well, the stringy lesbian Russian chick beat the smoking hot tight-assed Russian chick for the championship. I'm okay with that, because the smoking hot tight-assed Russian had the Monica Seles grunt thing going. I find those grunts to be annoying as hell. They are only appropriate when VMan is bottoming out in her uterus.

I wanted the winner to pin her down, though. That would have been hot.

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Day One: Help!

Well, I haven't actually begun this sojourn, but I thought it prudent to test the Help! button. It seems to work. I haven't given you my Paypal account, either. Trust me, I will. I have $4.95 in Trip of Goats revenue there, so I'm a fucking keeper. They love my ass.

Soap. I keep thinking of soap. I like to smell nice. But beware! I am allergic to most soaps. My mother slathered me in Phisohex in 1966 and damned near killed me. Ivory works, but I prefer Dove. I can actually rub one out on Dove. It's pure like Ivory, but has a little giddyup, if you know what I mean.

I also like Degree anti-perspirant (invisible stick!) if you're too cheap to send cash. Eight weeks in the fields. I be smelling like a goat.

Fortunately I've had a vasectomy. So no rubbers are required. Even if I run across a Mexican-can-can I am immune from the coarser outputs from that encounter. Even Jesus appreciates that.

Okay. Soap. Anti-perspirant. Puddy will need adult diapers at some point. Toilet paper. Paypal. Get off your asses. Do I have to do this all by myself? Fuck it. This is getting hard. If you send me something I'll give you a bar code, which is the code of the crop I did not shit on, Fair as I can get.

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The Worst Idea In The World

I come up with ideas now and again. This one is the worst, therefore I feel compelled to furve it out.

It's migrant time in Florida. Crops are coming due. So I've talked Puddyhead into traveling to the meat of the state, thereun to ply our trade as fruit pickers. Do the jobs Guatemalans won't do because Mexicans won't do because Negroes won't do. Live in the goddam SUV and tent. Bath with the regularity of a medieval grunt. Pack plenty of pistolas. Cock fight now and then because the hombres expect you to.

I'm going to take on the supposedly worst job in America: migrant fruit picker. And I bet I make some goddam money at it.

I figure eight weeks and we're done. Either dead from bullets or dehydration or the yellow jack. But I'll find out why these Negroes and Mexicants won't work, and whether you are at risk from e coli because we have no choice but to shit in the fields.

It's going to be an adventure. A hot, nasty adventure. I haven't even mentioned to Puddyhead we're going to have to groom each other's anuses for ticks. He'll figure that out eventually. Or propose to me.

The jobs Americans won't do. Fuck you. There is no job an American won't do. And I'm going to prove it.

As John Steinbeck said, after winning the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1962, "I'm really glad Faulkner won this 13 years before me. He's a much better writer. However, this Crawford kid is going to pick some fruit in 2011, and I defer to that."

Pretty sure how that went down.

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July 1, 2011


I was up in an attic today in an ancient house downtown, unclogging an air conditioning drain. It was so fucking hot the sweat beads dripping off my forehead coalesced, in Terminator 2 fashion, into a small Pamela Anderson figure, finger-fucking herself.

Or at least that's what the paramedics said I was babbling as they mainlined Pedialite into my arteries.

I'm pretty sure going forward I'll subcontract this sort of thing out. Preferably to those poor Mexicans who can't get cartel credentials or Negroes I import from Barbados. I only have one ticker, and it's still going thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.

As an added bonus I stopped off at McDonough's afterwards for a well-deserved beer, and ran into the most beautiful hot young lady I've ever met. About my daughters' age. And I could immediately tell by the way she was gazing into my eyes that she was moments away from texting all her friends that she'd met one of those sweaty, grizzled, smelly old lecherous creeps the town is so famous for. Yes, I am what $25,000 a year in tuition gets you at the Savannah College of Art and Design. She wouldn't even look at my sweat puddles, one of which resembled a young Brad Pitt. Finger-fucking himself.

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