Spent a goodly part of the afternoon expending retail and milsurp ammunition. Mostly retail, unfortunately. I finally broke in the Mosin-Nagant, if "broke in" is the right term for a weapon that probably shot its last previous round in 1945 Berlin. Certainly glad I had the aforesight to put a butt pad on it. The recoil wasn't bad, and by the second magazine I was pretty damned consistent. My distance? None of your business. It certainly wasn't 100 yards with iron sights. I could probably Atticus Finch your dog, though.
The Winchester 94 is what made me the wiser. I really need a recoil pad for that if I'm going to target practice with it. It's not bad recoil per se, but walnut and chromed steel on flesh that had already experienced 50 rounds of the Mosin was a bit painful to a delicate flower such as your humble scrivener. My shoulder's like a stuck street light: red all day today, green all day tomorrow.
My jerry-rigged rifle rest performed excellently. These things are ridiculously costly, so I'd purchased an inexpensive but sturdy camera tripod. I cut down and deburred a steel deck post tie, wrapped it in closed-cell insulating foam, and wrapped the entire thing in camo tape before attaching it to the extra tripod shoe. The net result, at a whopping $23, was this:
Not as steady as the torso of a fallen enemy (or as existentially debilitating, thank God), but serviceable.
Pistolas were also in play, of course. My .45, my .357, and my host's 9mm Sig Sauer 226. A nice little plinker, that Sig, but the 20-round double-stack magazine kept jamming. Actually flipping a round upside down halfway through the clip. Three times. Two different mags. I find that sort of thing unnerving, and intolerable. He did too, and was abashed. I felt bad, and blamed it on his Remington ammo. That way he only felt like a fool for buying $20 of bad ammo as opposed to $700 of bad gun. I'm a giver like that.
I should have spent the pistol time with my Airweight, because, let's face it, the concealed weapon is the only one you ever really need to hit a target with. But that means less accuracy, more ammunition, less pleasure. It's like work. Work that needs to be done, of course, but that's for the range on a rainy day, I inevitably convince myself. On a beautiful day, and when your mate's Sig is hanging up like Charlie Brown's kite, I immediately go to the .45 1911, because it performs like a stripper with a $100 tip in her sweet ass crack. Or drugs in her snout.
Aside: It is unfortunately my ancient but considered opinion that a woman will do far more, ah, exotic things for drugs than she will for money. But I reckon that's true for a lot of folks. It's just that the stripper demographic plays to my readership better. I blame you, for that unfortunate aside.
Hark: here is where your beloved correspondent admits to a rare bit of casuistry. Or, more accurately, an admission of mendacity. My earlier post, wherein I scoffed at upgrading a perfectly good 1911, is so much sophistry. As well as the machine performs, I must confess to a bit of angst over the trigger weight. To be honest, it's like fingering a hippopotamus. Or, to paraphrase Dr. Johnson, and dogs walking upon their hind legs: it's not that you're doing it well, it's that it takes five and a half pounds of pressure to do it at all.
A trigger job is in my future. At the gunsmith's, or the Platinum Plus Gentleman's Club. Either way, I'm getting a fucking trigger job.
Lastly, as to the .357. I have sorely neglected this workhorse. I probably haven't put 50 rounds through this beast. I certainly haven't put 50 rounds of magnum through it, ever. I should not be surprised that I placed 12 shots with great precision 10 inches below the headshot. And it is all pure stupidity on my part. The front sight is the approximate height of the Seattle Space Needle. I'm not used to that. Fortunately, I always carry a set of precision hollow-ground screwdrivers with me. Sometimes for beneficient effect, but usually to gain access to things that do not yet belong to me. In this case, a considerable adjustment to the rear sight of my 66 had me not only tack-driving the broad side of the barn, but the disgusting little MinPin the next yard over as well.
I'd pat myself on the back for this, but the pain in my shoulder from my tiny bit of sandbox fun renders me effectively (and legally) inoperative.
The bottom line? If I were honest with myself? I have fair gun skills. And I'm lazy. I'll never shoot Lee van Cleef's hat in the air three times, for sure. But I figure if I shoot at you 5 times and only hit you 3 times, why, I'm having a good day. And you're having a very bad one. Perspective.
Tomorrow: Selling that fudge over the internet. Who packs it? A moral and ethical quandary.
I'll never forget the time in 1981 when a crew of black shammers pulled up next to me at a redlight in an Electra Deuce-and-a-quarter, playing the same Kraftwerk tune I was listening to. We raised our respective blunts to each other in mutual admiration, and went our separate ways.
I never understood why the pre-hip-hop black community took to that particular slice of electronica in the day, but that scenario replayed itself several times over the next year. The brothers couldn't get enough Kraftwerk.
I wish our racial issues were as easily resolved today. Kindred enjoyment of the rather creepy stylings of the androgynous offspring of Nazis. Now, sadly, we'd be more apt to finger our respective gats at the red light, and be mutually mollified neither of us got hinky and took a shot at the other.
So I deployed a couple of those motion-activated air fresheners around the place. Nice in theory, but every time I pass one it makes a strange mewling cry like a strangling kitten, and emits a short volcanic burst of deodorizer, as if chastising me for aromas most foul.
Yes, I realize it is the motion, not the scent, that awakens the little Glade Kraken, but I still find it disturbing, and somehow humiliating. Lately I've taken to skirting the walls of the rooms with a dispenser of Tuck's Pads clutched under my arm, in the event I am rebuked again by the thing, and must hie to the bathroom to scour my malodorous self.
Plus this antecedent bit:
And now you know what those But. But! references in my posts are all about.
I decided to customize my venerable 1911 .45 auto. And by that I mean I decided to forgo buying the custom magwell, the beavertail grip safety, the full-length guide rod, the heavy duty recoil spring, the tactical grips, the match-grade hammer and sear, the ambidextrous thumb safety, the Swiss cheese trigger, the shok-buffs, the tritium night sights, the Speed-chute mainspring housing, the extended magazine, the LED weapon light, the integrated laser, or the Bullet Proof extractor.
What I will have when I am finished, in fact, is that rarest of 1911's. I believe they call it a "stock" weapon, or something similarly arcane. I don't think there is another one like it, which makes it custom in my book. And it always cycles and shoots, and never gets pissy.
In fact, it is so unique I might put it up for auction on GunBroker, where everything is worth 160% of its actual value. Might make a killin.
Remember when I complained about bloggers posting music videos that no one liked, or listened to, because they were gay little time capsules of the poster's life, and no one else gave a shit? Well, I don't either, because I have long term memory loss. Which is probably due to decades of substance abuse, but which, God and The Wise Latina Sotomayor willing, will be an awesome preexisting condition for which I am sure you will willingly pony up. Well, somebody voted this ne'er-do-well into office. Let's tweak the carburetor, shall we? (Excuse that dangling participle, or whatever it was. My fly was open.)
And, no: my short-term memory is fine. For instance, I recall your comment from yesterday, and I know who you are, you little fucker.
So I'm going to give you a little JL, because there was always at least one good song on every album, even the ones where Yoko's head is a mountain range. Never understood that. At least the horrid yellow peril had big flopsters, with distended nipples. They should have been the mountain range. I mean, after Two Virgins, it's not like there was a shyness quotient at play.
I was not consulted on this cover art, obviously.
I'm not sure if David Spinozza ever laid down another solo, but he gets a drunkard's pass for this one.
There seems to be some controversy over the pictures of Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman. As if the media were cherry picking the pictures to conform to a narrative. Allow me to correct that misperception. Here:
That's better. Fixed it for ya.
Update: Van der Lanche! Thanks!
And blow jobs. Well, scrub that last one. If one is going to put one's hide on the line and attempt to impeach a sitting president, ixnay on the fucking owblay objays. Or however you say it. I eat pig. I act pig. I don't necessarily speak pig.
I remember the heady days of 98, 99. The GOP was going to impeach Bill Clinton over a goddam blow job. I remember thinking boyz, boyz. This guy sold guidance systems for intercontinental ballistic missiles to the Red Chinese for campaign cash, and you're going after the hummer?
Anyway, I'm disappointed that there isn't more outrage over this hot mic Medvedev thing. Obama told the fucking president of our greatest nation-state enemy "Cover my ass, and I'll fold for you when I win."
I'm sure glad Trayvon Martin isn't alive to see this wretched display of Richelieuism. When I was 15 years old, mudding sheetrock on a summer job, a wise old alcoholic told me a contractor was a man who would hold his grandmother down and let a bulldog fuck her.
How you feeling, Gram Gram?
All politicians fold, spindle, and mutilate the truth, and their constituents' wishes. I understand that. If that were not true the two political parties in the United States would be the My Little Ponies and the Hello Kitties. Which, now that I think about it, are basically asses and pussies, which is our current state of affairs.
Now, it wouldn't surprise me if Richard Nixon had sidled up to Chou En-Lai in 1972 Peking with a flute of champagne in hand and said You know, if you leave my little Formosan friends alone I'll look the other way if you decide to invade and punish your Vietnamese enemies to the south. Because, Lord knows, those bastards are giving me hell. That's the way the game is played on the Talleyrand/Metternich scale of things.
What you don't do, because you are a fucking rube, is hot mic that shit. And what you don't do is sell out your own people while selling out your proxies. I feel bad for the Poles and the rest of the eastern Europeans over this sell out, but I feel worse for me.
And here's what really sucks. What truly and decidedly makes Barack Obama the most callow, self-serving, disgusting piece of shit on earth: he didn't proffer this to
Medvedev Putin for a likeways geopolitical concession of significance. He gave this up because he was begging his enemy to help re-elect him.
I would have thunk a constitutional scholar, as Obama professes to be, would know a little Latin. Like quid pro quo. You sell out your most loyal allies, you should get something in return. Like Raoul Castro's head in an iced-down Playmate cooler, or a necklace of Sudanese and Chechen warlords' ears, or Sandra Fluke's uterus in a Mason jar of George Dickel sour mash. Something.
Something other than his own damned self-aggrandizement.
I suppose when you're a Chicago machine boy all you covet is the next guy's block. Obama could have demanded ten billion barrels of Priobskoye Crude. It still would have been a horrid, immoral, realpolitik sellout of our closest allies. But all he wants is to keep his block, and perhaps get the Korean greengrocer's pinky finger as a souvenir.
I'd holler to impeach this bastard for high crimes and misdemeanors, but he'll be gone soon enough.
A Hispanic man shoots and kills a 17-year-old black kid. Self defense? Cold-blooded vigilantism? Who knows? Not me, at this point. Not you.
There are conflicting accounts of what happened here. Self-described neighborhood watchman Zimmerman says Martin attacked him. Other evidence, specifically Zimmerman's own 911 call, suggests he exited his SUV and hunted the youth down. The only things we do know as fact are:
1. Al Sharpton is on the scene, therefore cooler rhetoric and heads will prevail;
2. Jesse Jackson has weighed in, and believes guns should be outlawed;
3. The New Black Panther Party has put a $10,000 bounty on Zimmerman's head for his "capture";
4. Thousands of protesters attended a Million Hoodie March in Philadelphia to show solidarity for gangsta couture;
5. The media keep referring to Zimmerman as a "white Hispanic." And he is, in the same way Barack Obama is white: they both have an Anglo parent;
6. Obama believes we should all be doing "some soul searching" because if he had a son, "he'd look like Trayvon." Meaning, presumably, he could not pass for white unlike, say, George Zimmerman.
As surely as the tide ebbs and flows and the scorpion stings the frog, Barack Obama's gut instincts invariably force him to play the race card, even if it ultimately turns out Zimmerman did not act stupidly. There's a lot of agitation out there, and enough history of "guilty of being black" to fuel baser passions. One would hope Obama would understand this, and at least attempt to assuage these passions, but he is incapable of such a noble response. He has, sadly and predictably, only one card in his leadership deck, and it ain't the queen of hearts.
Regardless of how this investigation plays out, it is unnerving that a group of brigands can issue a bounty on a man's head with impunity, having learned that Eric Holder will never bring them to task, nor will Obama speak to such perfidy. Hell, even Jackson's approach, i.e. the police better do their job and charge Zimmerman so that "bounty work" will not be "required" is more nuanced than Obama's.
Not sure how this will play out, but my gut instinct is Zimmerman will have some more 'splainin' to do. It's hard to envision a scenario where the "Stand Your Ground" statute would apply here. If you proactively exit your vehicle, armed, and accost a stranger because your Trixx cardboard sheriff's badge tells you he's a threat, I'm not sure you get to kill that person just because he then decides to kick the shit out of you. Not saying that's what happened here. That just seems to be the more likely scenario as this sad affair unfolds. And I don't think I need to tell George Zimmerman to look over his shoulder, because there are a slew of people who want to fuck him up for free. The ten grand is just a convenient down payment on the Escalade.
The unspoken concern by many, of course, is that vigilantism is a far greater threat to second amendment rights than run of the mill street crime. Of course criminals misuse handguns. But if the supposedly law-abiding misuse them as well, then I guess nobody should have them, should they?
Why would anyone want statehood for Puerto Rico? Other than Puerto Ricans and Democratic politicians? It is a shithole of welfare grubbers. Santorum certainly put his foot in his mouth demanding they teach English on the cusp of a primary, of course, but I'm not here to parse the stupidity of Rick Santorum. That's his full time job, and I find his skill set in that area examplary. If there was a fucktard box on his performance review, as his boss I would check it. Twicet.
But that's not really the issue with Puerto Rico.
Well, in a partial sense, it is. The thing is, there is no sense of connectivity, of American exceptionalism, when it comes to Puerto Rico. It is a colony we absorbed after the Spanish-American War, and like Cuba and the Philippines we should have set them free. They don't get it. They don't get us. They are a sordid crew of free-wheeling slackers, and slovenly graspers, even by Latin American standards.
There is also great precedent to denying this statehood: to wit, Alaska and Hawaii. (by the by, Hawaii: go fuck your apostrophe, and your glottal stoppages. There ain't no apostrophe in my 1958 World Book Encyclopedia, so take your Welsh-Basque-Cornish-Gaelic-Polynesian hurt feelings to the Butthurt Ward. They'll fi'x yo'u u'p).
So: why did we give Alaska and Hawaii statehood in the first place? Those were mistakes in my opinion, but why?
It sure and hell wasn't Manifest Destiny. That idea had peaked by the first shot on Fort Sumter. We'd rassled most of the southwest from Mexico already, and folks were feeling a bit sheepish about land-grabbing, especially if it meant expanding the cruel realms of African servitude. But. But!
What was happening around 1959? Oh, yes. The Cold War. Little Nikita. This was a year before he banged his shoe on the lectern at the UN. Five years after his first thermonuclear detonation. Alaska, of course, was former Russian territory. They'd been forced to sell it due to cash-flow problems. Interesting aside: the Russians loved Alaska. They'd spent much time and money on it. After we bought it we neglected the hell out of it for 70 years, administering it out of a tiny office in Seattle. At the moment of statehood there were certainly ancient Eskimeaux who remembered their Russkie overlords with fondness. So we knew the Russians still harbored deep desires for Alaska, and especially its newly-exploitable fossil fuel resources and dog-sled races.
And here's a thing: Alaskans like to pretend they're a bunch of roughneck individualists, but they are all on the Oil Drip Drug. Every fucking citizen gets a welfare check from Big Oil, from the government, actually, from the Permanent Fund, every year. Every man, woman, and child. Their government tit-nibbling is even more institutionalized than Puerto Rico's. Just because you look and smell like Grizzly Adams and sleep with your feral dogs doesn't mean you ain't a grasper.
Then there is Hawaii. A Polynesian outpost most famous for bashing James Cook's brains in, and, admittedly cooler, inventing surfing. Hawaiians, when you can actually find a pure-blooded one, hate America, and Americans. All haoles, really. All they care from is being a tit-nibbler like the Alaskans. They are possibly the most racist people on Earth. And you know what they are infected with? Chinee. In their bloodstreams. It informs their prejudices, and drives them insane because of their inability to rectify it.
The Hawaiians tried to pass a law creating a pure-blood Hawaiian government. No honkies or negroes or mixed-race folks need apply. I believe it was cosponsored by Rep. Kamehameha Goebbels (D-HI). They don't even like to teach American history on the islands, preferring instead the narrative of how pox-riddled white men outwitted the noble but obviously retarded King Kamuckamuckamucka and, subsequently, Queen Leniriefenstahl, out of Heaven on Earth. Like it was our fault they found more value in conch shells than gold.
But. But! In the mind of Congress Hawaii was full of Chinee, and Chinee half-bloods, who no doubt all secretly worshipped Chairman Mao when they were not eating poi and forcing cabana boys to steal jewelry from haole tourists from their positions as entrusted concierges. Better to give the heathens statehood, because Mao lusted after it like Formosa sporting a thong and a Brazilian wax and a come-hither look.
The point is, we granted those pissholes statehood to geopolitically checkmate the Commies, when in fact Alaska should merely be a pleasure playground administered by the Atlantic Richfield Company while they mercilessly extract sweet crude from beneath the tundra, and Hawaii should be a sportfisherman's paradise overseen by a Zombie Ted Williams wearing a khaki billfish cap.
We screwed up twice, granting statehood to provinces with no concept of American exceptionalism. We should not make the same mistake with Puerto Rico. Those people?
They ain't like us.
I'm certainly no fan of most public school districts, but home-schooling must cut a very wide swath of intents, actions, and outcomes. The quantitative outputs of tests are generally good, I read, but what are the socialization outcomes?
I'd like to do a regression analysis of home-schooled children and average age of weaning from the nipple. My finger in the wind, reading of the sheep entrails, wild-assed guess is that a lot of moms with special issues just couldn't cut potential kindergartener Caitlynne or Joshua away from the tit at five years of age.
I understand that's a disgusting presupposition, but it also makes for a hell of a prom night I'd like to chaperone.
Many people know I'm no fan of Tim Tebow. And it's not his overt Christianity. I don't care if a person prays to a barking iguana. It's the first-hand knowledge that he is in fact a hypocritical, arrogant asshole, hiding behind the robes of the Nazarene.
Still, it has to suck to be tossed to the curb by the arrival of a mutant like Peyton Manning, who has more mitochondrial issues than Goldblum in The Fly. Although I believe Manning is probably a likeable enough guy, but I attribute that to the fact he has a working vocabulary of 80 words, half of which consist of conjugations of the verb "to be." Once he works his way through is, are, ain't, and waddn't, I imagine the playbook absorbs the rest of those 80.
I'd like to see Jacksonville get Tebow. He'd do well back around
Gomez and Morticia Mom and Dad, and it's not like he can do much damage to a franchise that gets pushed around in scrimmage by Bolles. They're probably still scratching heads about that Coughlin feller.
Anyway, the baby Jesus weeps, but all will be right for Timmeh. He'll land on his feet. Just like those feline satanic familiars do.
Firstamundo (for my Chicano friends), the "terrifying" Friday night Executive Order on National Defense Resources Preparedness that Obama excruded like frog gland poison. Eh. I tend to take Gabriel Malor's position on this one. Presidents have been tweaking this hoary nugget of an EO since Eisenhower. A man's gotta have some emergency powers, after all. I don't think this is a big deal. When the Congenital Liar acts on it in an unconstitutional manner, or when (as he is a cowardly sort) his cabinet secretaries act on it in an unconstitutional manner, it is a very fucking big deal. I want to slap this guy around for the repellent behaviors he actually commits. They are manifest, and legion. I ain't chasing gremlins and will 'o' the wisps. Nor birth certificates, nor circumcisions. After all, it's the white Christian half of this guy I don't like (most).
Second, and I know it's almost 12 hours stale, but amusing: Bristol's Palin's letter to Obama, wondering when he is going to call her, and come to her defense against the likes of Maher and Letterman? A beautiful piece of moral skewering, that. Bristol Palin apparently has more sack than the commander-in-chief, who is likely cowering behind the rather voluminous, billowing skirts of his zaftig wife right now. Begging his spinmeisters to fix this. Yes, the same spinmeisters who were too clever by half, and ensnared this idiot in this situation in the first place.
As a completely metaphorical aside, I wonder what penalty a person would pay, what legal price, if they were to walk up to Bill Maher and beat the vile, vile pus right out of him? If it were me, which it ain't, I would hire Robert Shapiro to defend me as an anquished soul who was merely righting a hate crime against our sisters of the distaff side. I know you would all chip in. Or at least buy a will on Legal Zoom. Then again, are there twelve potential jurors in Los Angeles County who would really give a shit about one white guy stomping the bloviescence out of another white guy? I doubt it. Beating white guys is a sacrament there. Pretty sure they even drink the blood, taste the flesh. At least Reginald Denny's.
And forget about a jury of my peers. (Not that it's me. This is a completely metatarsal conversation). Besides, I have no peers. At least not in that county. But: where does Jason Statham live these days? Maybe one peer, okay. We'll never know, of course. This is a strictly metamucil discussion.
Finally: the Washington Post finally, what, a year later? realizes Obama scuttled the Grand Compromise with Boehner by upping the ante at the last minute during the negotiations. Hell, most sentient creatures were aware of that the moment it happened. Even those of us without compound eyes. And I few like me who have them. You know, when you carry water for a girly-girl like Obama, eventually her water's going to break again, and you're a fucking one-armed paperhanger for the next news cycle.
So, to recap: in our three-card Monte scenario, Obama actually beat his first mark, Spanky, with a lucky throw, because it was early in the game, and Spanky didn't realize he was being conned. He lost badly to Alfalfa, who smoked out the Mexican turnover, and he lost to Froggy because Obama is ultimately a spaz, an uncoordinated geek, who can't execute the drop move your sister learned in Brownies.
Below, our Il Duce, Axlerod, and Plouffe discuss the Cloward-Piven strategy they intend to pursue at the Republican National Convention in Tampa:
"I wish I had a monkey." Keep rubbing those lamps, boys.
Has our Afghan misadventure always been such a deplorable mess? It seems to me at one point we were winning. I do think our current Screwhead-In-Chief erred terribly when he announced a firm withdrawal date. But I think this thing was doomed from the start.
Ten years in. And now we negotiate with the Taliban. I don't know body counts, because American media only report our fatalities, but I would reckon we have killed tens of thousands of these goat-humping fucktards. How are there any left to negotiate with?
Now we have a soldier who killed a passel of civilians. Nasty, brutal stuff. I don't like it, but that's how wars go, especially a ten year war. Do you think the Germans and Russians were the only soldiers raping women during the Great Patriotic War? Hardly. Killing people makes beasts of men, sometimes. As I understand it this soldier was about to be deployed for his what, fourth tour of duty? This guy had already suffered head trauma and lost part of a foot in Iraq. And he was being deployed yet again?
Christ of the Andes, we have guys who were 9 years old when this clusterfuck started who should be making this tour. Not a man who suffered head trauma. What could possibly go wrong with sending this guy back into the meat chute?
I feel badly for the victims. But Peggy U sent me a link, and this butcher's bill doesn't come close to the bill of all the American soldiers who have been shot in the back of the head by their supposed Afghan allies.
These fuckers are not our allies. They're not our friends. They never have been. We should poison their wells and kill their livestock. We should put chastity belts on their nephews' rectums, and pull our troops out. Then, once a month or so, we should send in a couple of hunter-killer Reaper drones like Skynet would, and bomb their shit indiscriminately. Although I prefer mosques, which is where they extol the butt-buggery in the first place.
A man that will lie down with a goat will shoot you in the back of the head. Trust me on this one. And, by the by, on our way out we should drag that duplicitous, backstabbing cocksucker Karzai into the streets and castrate him. And then issue karakuls to all the lads at West Point. For Friday drill.
Bring the boys home, so that they can share in the misery of this Obama economy, while regaling us with tales of the evildoers they shot.
I'm pretty sure John Lennon knew Imagine was a tossaway. He'd written scores of them. It meant nothing to him. And his worst tossaways a songwriter would die for. Hell, I'd probably whack my neighbor for Bungalow Bill. Imagine was a dreamscape he thought up over a morning joint and had recorded in the basement studio bag by noon, I reckon. But the marketing. Lord, how the labels love to sell you.
While I'm waiting for the admin dump (and here's a thought: perhaps we should make federal civil servants take a small dose of castor oil at lunchtime of a Friday to loosen the FOIA bowels a bit) I thought I would address an issue that flummoxed me as a lad.
How is it, that in the early sixties, the networks could simultaneously run television shows that both expounded the glories of small town life (The Andy Griffith Show) while simultaneously depicting rural life as a redoubt of hayseeds and bumpkins (Green Acres)? Well, the answer, as I learned, is that flyover country is of course an admixture of both Mayberry and Hooterville. [And, yes. I realize Petticoat Junction was the original profferature of Hooterville, but I wasn't really attracted to beautiful, large-breasted women with their cooties and sech at 6 years of age on a TV show. I was a vastly more mature 7 years of age before I became enthralled with beautiful, large-breasted women with their cooters and sech. So don't try to distract me here, fucker.]
Anywhats, of course the first glimpse one gets of small-town life is the Sheriff Without a Gun, the affable town drunk, the omniscient telephone operator, the semi-retarded (but lovable!) grease monkey. The reality behind the tattered calico curtains is more Hooterville.
As you know, for I have belabored the issue from time to time, the same year Green Acres debuted my father moved us from Savannah to a farm in Effingham County. Or Fuckingham County. It was a dry county, so they had to use the Effing parsinomial. Is parsinomial even a word? No, apparently not. But it should be. When one is parsing a fucking nomial, one should be able to say parsinomial. Webster. I'm looking at you. Why am I the only person trying to expand this tired-assed vocabulary?
And so you've distracted me again. But: Yeah, verily, sonny, our move to the farm was just as that of Oliver Wendell Douglass. A big-shot city lawyer takes his reluctant well-heeled wife to the country, there to rid them of the evils of the grimy metropolis, and absorb nature's bounty. Except the Senator took 5 kids in tow, the better to document his misfeasances.
We had a Mr. Haney, an Ebb, a semi-retarded county extension agent, a likeable but daft pharmacist, we had everything Hooterville had. Except, upon reflection, beautiful large-breasted women. Which Oliver Douglass didn't have, either. Actually, I think we did have them. But they were colored, and we weren't allowed into that part of town.
The point is the brilliant attorney gets continually come-upped (up-comed? There's a comeuppance here, I just haven't figured out the verb) by the supposed yokels.
See: Green Acres wasn't a sitcom to my siblings and me. It was a fucking reality show.
My sainted mother once told me, some years after the Agrarian Experiment had sundered, and we had returned to civilization like some broken, haunted Conrad characters, I really liked living in the country. But I couldn't fucking stand living in a small town.
The only time I can remember her sainted self delivering the F bomb to me, but it was classic. And, in retrospect, why, she fucking parsinomialed me! Before I even knew what it was, or had even created it.
Yeah, the flyover country is both saint and sinner, just like the burbs, and just like the cities. There are good folks, and very bad people, most everywhere. We pretty much learn that by the the time we have our first nutty buddy experience with the rheumy-eyed ice cream man. Okay. That wasn't me. That was that kid. But the point obtains.
Find solace and comfort where ye dwell, find the good in people, excoriate the bad in them, with a bullwhip if necessary, protect your children, say your damn prayers at night, and buy another handgun.
P.S. I'm pretty sure profferature isn't a word, either. But I'll sell it to you for forty dollars. And a couple of bumps. Just leave 'em on the end of the table.
Did you think I was all bluff, no huff? No, just waiting for the administration's weekly document dump, wherein all the malfeasance and skullduggery is swept under Chris Matthews' fat ass. Everything else is old news, hashed and rehashed. There will certainly be something unsavory to be sandbagged over the weekend.
You know what's really risible? For the first time ever, we are the Evil Empire.
P.S. If I were in prison with Matthews I would make him my bitch. And call him Cornbread. But only to rent him out to the brothers. Because I'd have to stay cool with the Nation of Islam, given the swastika the AB would undoubtedly brand on my scalp.
When I posted The Man In The Lavender Automobile a few days before the 2008 election, it was, in my mind, equal parts horrible possibility and jocular hyperbole. When my friend Goldstein linked it and the animals came out to feed upon my sweetbreads I was at a loss as to why. My response to the hate was certainly not of the shrinking-violet type, but I still puzzled over the animus.
No more. I had no idea how prescient Lavender would be. Had my inklings, but Jesus.
The sad fact is, I retreated after that. Not because of the post, or the blowback, or the hate. Just because of the outcome of the election. I had no belly to wage a four year war against these nutjobs with their fingers on the nuclear trigger. And you see what I just did there.
Did I have some personal relationship issues at the time? Indeedy. Did I have a couple of unemployment scrapes in the last three years? You betchum. Did my ticker go wham? So says my cardiologist.
All that is excuse, and apologia. The true sad fact is, I simply lost my mojo.
Part of it was alcohol. Or the lack thereof. I was blistered or half-so for most of the first six years of Velociworld. That's just what made the words come. Case in point: Lavender? Drunk. And it was good. A Trip of Goats? Sober. And it kinda sucked.
Of course, sometimes I would get too drunk, and wake up at 4 AM and fumble to delete a post that might have cast aspersions upon the Arab populace, or dropped the N-bomb. Well.
Anyway, I'm over all that mope-a-dope. Now that I realize that the only relationship I covet involves a simple pecuniary transaction (dinner/happy ending) and that I will basically do anything for a paycheck, well, that's pretty fucking liberating.
And you know what? That Barack Obama is a dissembling, evil little cocksucker. I'm calling him out. From now until he packs his baggage in November every time he lies, every time he plays the race card, every time he uses class envy to pit American versus American, every time he steals your tax dollars to pay off his capitalist cronies in the green industry, I'm calling him out.
I let you, and Breitbart, do what I should have been doing. You carried my water. You was those mules Anse Bundren let drownd in the swollen river.
The bad news is I let it happen. The good news is I'm older, fatter, grayer, and balder. And that alone makes me very, very angry.
Some dumb bint at Georgetown law school wants my tax dollars to pay for her contraception? Her mouth seemed to work wonderfully well at that congressional hearing. I think I have this issue resolved, and still have a fin in my pocket. And kind of cute, too, in a spoiled, rich bitch, put that Velocicock up my ass kind of way. Which, unsurprisingly, is the vibe I get from all women. Hey: don't get pissed at me. Those aren't my pheromones swirling about my head. I just read the tea leaves. Or indulge the pheromones, as it were.
And, not that this happened here, but is there anything more putrid than a fucking legislator hectoring a witness under threat of "Contempt of Congress?" I don't care if it's Joe McCarthy or Ted Kennedy at Clarence Thomas's hearing. No public servant should ever be able to threaten a citizen with anything other than a poor shoe shine.
Fuck these people. All of them. And that includes Rick
Speculum Santorum. These assholes need to get with the program. My program. Which includes, among other things, a goddam fine shoe shine from my congressman. Twice a year.
And: to steal a joke: you know when lack of contraceptives was a problem? Nine months before predalein was born.