October 24, 2012

The N Word and The M Word

I've always found it jocose when blacks feign faux outrage over the use of the N Word. It is identical to the faux outrage Muslims pretend to when Mohammed is somehow blasphemed in a cartoon. They are identical examples of piss ant bullying against White Western Guilt.

I sat next to a shamming young black man at a lengthy red light the other day who was blaring a rap screed whose only lyrics were apparently "Buck Ni***r. It seemed to be a paean to his self-identification as such.

That word doesn't bother black people. They are running the world's greatest con by pretending it does. They want this: something they can do that a white person cannot. Plain and simple. You been gamed, cracker.

Likewise, Muslims blaspheme Mohammed all the time. Most of the the victims of their bloodlust are fellow Muslims. Cartoon, videos, Satanic Verses, they're all bullshit. Drawing a picture of Mohammed doesn't bother Muslims. They are running the world's second greatest con by pretending it does. You been gamed, cracker.

I don't use the N Word because 1) I have my own small vulgarisms I am more comfortable with, and 2) I don't want my house burned down. The same reason I don't publish cartoons of Mohammed fucking a raccoon.

We all, I think, strive for decency with our fellow man. No one I know would intentionally insult another human being. But do not think you are not being gamed, sapsucker. Your pigtails are in the inkwell. When words, letters, pictures, even, are verboten, we are fucking Eloi.

If you don't know who the mark is, you're probably the mark.

Posted by Velociman at 9:07 PM | Comments (29) | TrackBack

October 19, 2012

Pink Flamingoes

It dawned on me the other day that it is the 40th anniversary of Pink Flamingoes, John Waters' ultimate statement. 40? Really? I confess I didn't see the film until 1979, when I was a grasping Emory law student, looking for Value. I found value, for sure. Just not quantifiable.

The fact is my sister had never seen these vile things, had no idea who John Waters is, or was. She is a cocooned Mormon soul. So I had a screening, as they say.

I was rather pleased that she picked up on 2 or 3 inside jokes that had completely escaped me over the years. I probably should not tell her about the other films. I might create a monster.

Posted by Velociman at 9:21 PM | Comments (13) | TrackBack

October 18, 2012

Pig on a Spit

I have a suspicion Obama is going to take a beating of Biblical proportions on November the 6th. Almost like, I don't know, a runaway slave, to use a handy simile. The preference cascade tumbles forward, and even the skewed polls have Romney ahead. I'm the minority in my neighborhood, so this should be interesting. I expect no trouble, despite Drudge's ominous warnings. Life will go on, the economy will improve, CFOs' sphincters will release, as will their purse strings. We might even see a few new jobs.

In the meantime, even us poor folk can rally around a bed of coals, and enjoy a roasting carcass. And maybe a quart of buttermilk. To wash down the schadenfreude.


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October 16, 2012

The Dive

Looking at the last post it seems apparent I haven't posted in a week. Well, that will change tonight. Besides, I've been busy leaving worrisome, troubling comments on peoples' Facebook accounts, and tweeting hit-and-run attacks on the unsuspecting.

I held off on commenting about Felix Baumgartner's successful spacedive because I wanted to see some confirmation of the sound barrier breakage. It appears he made it. 800 mph plus.

Old time readers know I have been wanting to see Joe Kittinger's record broken for a long time. Felix not only put the 84-year-old Kittinger on his team, he made him the Capcom, the one guy in communication with Baumgartner during his ascent and descent. This, to me, was an incredible example of homage and humility. No one else ever attempting to break this record ever thought to bring Joe into the mix. And Joe is a hoss. After setting his spacedive altitude record he shot down an enemy plane in Vietnam, was himself shot down, and was a POW for 11 months. Another of those heroes we seldom hear about.

Here's the other thing: Baumgartner broke the records for highest balloon ascent, highest altitude dive, fastest dive, and being the first human to break the speed of sound with body alone. The one record he did not break? Kittinger's record for longest freefall, 4 minutes and 36 seconds. Felix pulled the cord at 4 minutes and 20 seconds. I'm not sure he was cognizant of the minutes and seconds involved before deploying his chute, having just survived a flat spin, but I like to think he pulled the cord a few seconds early. He left Joe a record. That's how guys in that rarefied world of achievement act. If so, it was an even more decent gesture than having Kittinger actively participate.

That's class. That's a winner. Ten years I've waited for this moment, and I was able to watch it livestreaming. What a marvelous, modern world we live in.

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October 11, 2012

Hey Joe

For what it's worth, I think Ryan won the debate tonight. It was no knockout punch. Between that filthy bint of a moderator incessantly interrupting Ryan while Biden was also doing so, I call a close win in a very hostile environment. It is truly a shame, however, when the moderator not only can't shut one side up from interrupting the other side repeatedly, but actively engages in that behavior themselves. But we expected no less. Welcome to AmeriKKKa.

This is for Biden, who gamely did not go full-blown retard as I was worried the administration was wont to make him do.

Posted by Velociman at 11:17 PM | Comments (9) | TrackBack

October 8, 2012

Dark Corner

There is a place about 15 or 20 miles from here, where Highway 78 intersects Highway 53, called Dark Corner. You won't see that name on any map, but it has been called that for generations. I know it's a real name, because the local fire house has a wooden sign: Oconee County Fire Station #8: Dark Corner. That is the only official acknowledgement. It isn't a hamlet, it isn't a village. It is a greasy spot in the road.

The cell signal certainly sucks there, but the name precedes wireless telephony by years, so that's not it. I've asked the locals the origin of the name, but they speaketh not. They are as inscrutable as Chinee in an opium den.

Dark Corner. There's a story there, and I intend to get to the bottom of it.

Posted by Velociman at 11:10 PM | Comments (20) | TrackBack

Losing My Religion, Part III

Okay, folks. Here is the true Genesis of the Transformer post. Just to provide a bit of background, and so one does not think I awaken every morning, behead a chicken, and start hatin' on people.

My current work environment is approximately 50% black, 50% white. Approximately. I leave the actual numbers to the Human Resources folks. You know them: they provide no resources, and despise talking to actual humans. Every day I am accosted by one of the numerous coworkers of the other persuasion who hits me up for something. Something small. A stick of gum. A cigarette. A dollah. I happily oblige. I keep a drawer full of gum. I always arrive for work with a decent amount of lung darts, although that is a problematic issue for another post. If I have one dollar in my pocket that's okay. I can get another one or fifty at the bank.

What is infuriating is the fact that, not only is no reciprocity ever given, but if I happen to not have a smoke or a dollah they will walk away muttering under their breath. I hear the words. I shall not repeat them. But they are racist and insulting. It isn't the fact that I didn't give them a piece of gum. It is the fact that they couldn't take me for something. It could be a loose button that had fallen off my shirt, or the fucking lint in my pocket. Something. I have to get something off that cracker, is the mindset.

I'm rather proud of my 30-year history of hiring and promoting minorities in the corporate world. Never at anyone else's expense, but I always sought out talent, and tried to nurture it. I still do. I mentor, I coach, I do whatever I can to help my organization. I am colorblind when it comes to aspiration, and desire.

It didn't used to be this way. And this isn't an Obama thing. I've seen this ridiculous sense of entitlement, and getting over on the Man, for 10 or 15 years. I suppose since the first generation of welfare grandmothers who raised these whelps and their whelps began to die off. The grandmothers appreciated the hand up, I think. This current lot does not. There is no Thank You anymore. And no church.

This is a very distressing thing. It is a complete breakdown in the social compact. I don't mind a stick of gum! I'd help with your utility bill. That's what we do as neighbors, as Americans, as citizens. But quit fucking playing me. And quit muttering under your goddam breath, cursing me, when I don't happen to have an extra 2 dollah.

As ye sow, so shall ye reap. I don't think that's from the Bible, but I gussied it up to give it that imprimatur. And perhaps it is. Never finished the Good Book. But I understand there are a few takeaways. Love thy neighbor comes to mind. I ain't feeling no love, and I'm not sure there is anything we can do about this. Other than bifurcate our cultures. And that will be the beginning of the end of all of us.

Posted by Velociman at 9:51 PM | Comments (11) | TrackBack

The Uncle Joe Show

I am undecided on how the Biden-Ryan debate will unfold. I do not hew to the line that Biden is a doddering old fool who will be destroyed by Darth Ryan. For one thing, Biden, despite, or in fact because of, his gaffe-prone nature, nonetheless comes off as a likable fellow. It's hard to hate on Old Joe. In between his Tourette's outbursts he is amiable and engaging. And always upbeat. Perhaps misguided politically, but a good guy. He might show up for Christmas dinner with his pants on backwards, but he'll have presents for the kids.

Ryan is to me the far superior intellect. But he is wonkish by nature. A Powerpoint numbers guy. Tossing off a glib one-liner and flashing a great smile is not in his nature. And he will come into this debate fully cognizant of those shortcomings, and will strive mightily to overcome them, but he might still come off as Ming the Merciless. Beating up on poor Uncle Joe. That don't play in Peoria. Biden has a natural affinity edge here. Hell, I'll go drink a beer with Joe Biden anytime. He's a stand-up American.

Here's where I have trouble handicapping this thing: The Obama campaign was bitterly stung last week, and the Benadryl hasn't much reduced the swelling. They want a quick turnaround, and I have the sickening feeling they are pressuring Biden to deliver it. To make up for Obama's failure. I believe they will force Joe to come out swinging, to go for the jugular with every turn. Biden isn't bad at that occasionally, but I think there is going to be so much pressure on him to hit a homer with every response that he will be far outside his comfort zone. We are liable to see a campaign-orchestrated effort to force Biden so far off his game he goes full-blown retard. And it won't be his fault.

Biden, like everyone else, has strengths and weaknesses. But my gut tells me he is going to be forced into single combat as an assault weapon, with the sole intention of atoning for Obama, rather than playing to his strengths. If so, it will be a double-down disaster.

If they let Joe play his game, I think this will be a pretty close debate. But I fear they have already been feeding him gunpowder in his oatmeal, and Ecstasy in his nightcap. Poor Joe.

Posted by Velociman at 8:45 PM | Comments (20) | TrackBack

October 6, 2012


Update:I accidentally posted this last night prior to editing. I blame Mr. Sandman, and Old Mr. Boston. The point I had not arrived at yet was the fact that entitlement fervor has nothing to do with skin color, and everything to do with tribalism. As a son of the South I realize my Scots-Irish ancestry has been communed with Choctaw, Jewish, and very likely African blood. And I embrace it all. It is who I am.

My issue is with self-identifying "minorities" who have been spoon-fed the rancid pablum of grievance their entire life. Tribalism may work well in the Middle East, but that is not who we are as a nation. Everyone in this country has a shot at the brass ring. We do not need tribes, and resentment, and hatred. And as we intermingle, we all become some singular variant of mocha. Melanin has nothing to do with anything. Unless you are a racist.

In retrospect, I don't think the post needed much editing. It is standard Velociman piss rant. Although I did remove the paragraph that had Hillary lynched on the gibbet. That was a bit over the top, and my inner editor would have dele'd that on the first pass.

Original post:

When Barack Obama ran for the presidency he promised to "fundamentally transform" America. Many of us thought into what? And why would you want to fundamentally transform the greatest experiment in civilized society ever? Through copious pools of blood (quite predominantly white) we had conquered our original sin of slavery and racism.

About 300,000 white guys died defeating slavery. Another 300,000 died defending their invaded territory. Where are the reparations for their families? Do you want my opinion on reparations? FUCK YOU. Those 600,000 souls would have been far more productive inventing machines and companies and farm implements than dying on a bloody goddam battlefield for a tribe who has yet to say thank you. Who, indeed, 140 years later, still insist on sticking their lazy hand out for a freebie from massah.

Fundamental transformation. What does that mean? It means gasoline went from $1.85 to $4.00. But we were promised that by Obama and Stephen Chu. So Win Obama. We were promised energy prices would skyrocket by Barack Obama. So Win Obama. Obama promised to give everyone earning under $250,000 a tax break. He did not. HE LIED. He promised us that his healthcare reformation, the nationalization of 10% of our economy, would reduce costs, and allow us to keep our doctors, and keep our plans. HE LIED.

Let us delve into foreign policy. From the groveling Cairo speech to the misspelled RESET button to a Russian gangster thug to ignoring the true uprising in Persia to embracing an Arab Spring replete with Islamist fundamentalists, I am unimpressed. I could teach K-5s that the little shit next to them stole from them, and will again.

Foreign policy is relatively easy. You sit in closed quarters with your counterpart, show them evidence of your terrible swift sword, and ask how your two nations can live in peace. Or, like Teddy Roosevelt, you send your brand new Great White Fleet sailing around the world for a year, inisisting on dockage in troublesome ports. No dock available? Then I shall anchor in your harbor until one reveals itself. You third world dickhead.

Fundamental transformation. What does that mean? It means politicizing your federal reserve. It means printing money to give to your crony corporatist clients. The case can be made for the stimulus, although economic facts indicate the recession had already ended. Patching potholes, replacing bridges, opening federal lands to energy exploration are actually shovel-ready jobs. But the money went to grease the wheels of phony, vapor "green energy" companies that existed merely to pretend to create a product, while they funnelled money to Barack H. Obama, after which they conveniently bankrupted themselves. Those activities, ladies and gentlemen, are crimes of the highest order.

The current administration ignored the cries for help from Chris Stevens. He needed security. His portfolio was in upheaval. Libya was rife with al Qaeda. Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton blew him the fuck off. They were too busy partying. They intentionally fucked that guy.

The soft, growling underbelly of America is about to speak, however. We don't need stocks and gibbets. And we are often pretty kind to the bastards who betray us. I wish them well on the cocktail circuit, should they be successfully ousted. And may the Republic prosper.

Posted by Velociman at 8:02 PM | Comments (35) | TrackBack

October 5, 2012

The Boy in the Plastic Bubble

That last post? Just fuckin' with ya. Having a perverse sense of humor provides me with great tumbling tears of mirth when I write something like that, or Lavender Automobile. The downside is few people like, or trust me. The problem with that observation is I don't know if they liked me or trusted me in the first place. So, no control group? No reliable observation.

Ah, well. Ipse ego ludo, ergo sum.

How about that Obama fellow? It seems his fans, who have always projected what they felt about themselves onto him, are now projecting their fear upon him, and by osmosis into him. All Cool comes with an expiration date, of course, and I fear the dude has run his course. Look at it this way: James Dean was Mr. Fucking Cool Icon based on 2 erratic film performances, and one great one. That was his entire career. Can you imagine a 35-year-old James Dean trying to pull off an Oscar-worthy performance with one of those angsty little crybaby jags? Dean was all flash, no substance. Like another overgrown adolescent I am familiar with.

Here, now. Thirty minutes into that debate I was wincing for Obama more than he was for himself. That's my damn President. I don't want the world to see our leader so rudderless and grasping. It gives them ideas. Like perhaps that Benghazi situation did. Certainly, I find Obama to be a hollow suit, a crashing bore, a bit of a pecksniff. Even when he is attempting to convince certain ethnic groups that he is a street-struttin' brotha. But the national security hairs on the back of my neck rise in alarum when I see him perform so listlessly. I would say Romney beat him like a runaway slave, but that would be entirely inappropriate. So I'll settle for rented mule.

The au pairs in the leftist camp are doing their best to protect their charge, of course. Altitude change. Turkish-Syrian gunfire. His anniversary. The leftist press is to me nothing more than a doting Mr. French, protecting little Buffy-Jodie from the depradations of 1969 Central Park with his umbrella. They treat Obama like the Boy in the Plastic Bubble, and that in itself is insulting as hell. And racist. As if he couldn't succeed on his own. It's the soft bigotry of low expectations. They are so terrified he will fuck up (as all humans do) that they create a false amniotic environment for him that leads him into a sense of false security. Guaranteeing he will fuck up. And we all fuck up, at some point.

Obama is the political equivalent of that 28-year-old kid you've let live in your basement and smoke choom all day. His buddies think he's awesome. His Facebook has tons of friends. The girls swoon over him. But he is a shiftless dick. Because you, Dad, Mr. Mainstream Media, never made him pay his dues, never looked in his sock drawer for weed, never made him sing for his supper.

Ultimately you are vindicated, however, because Your Prince Charmin agrees with you: It's not his fault. It's your fault.

Portrait of the Media as a gentleman's gentleman turned overly protective nanny:


Posted by Velociman at 7:43 PM | Comments (18) | TrackBack

October 1, 2012

The Soapbox Preacher


When I was a child there were a couple of soapbox preachers plying their trade in downtown Savannah. They would literally plop down a soapbox at the corner of Bull and Broughton and proceed to excoriate the passersby. I recall a white one, and a black one. Both were mad as hatters, for insanity is an unprejudiced mistress. What they were preaching may not have been mad, but their lack of self-awareness was certainly mad. Soiled trousers and hectoring do not a vicar make.

I suppose we were condemned to the fire because mommy had bought us some big-boy britches at the department store. Or perhaps it was the bottles of Coke we slurped on. The Devil's Draught. I will say this: those fellows had staying power. I remember one of them still plying his trade when I was in high school.

My point here is not to knock the benighted or mock the unhinged. It is to place that self-awareness I mentioned earlier in context.

I visit a few websites I disagree with politically. I'd stick my head in a whorehouse window if I could get away with it. Curiosity. See what the other side is blathering on about. I don't comment, however. And I certainly do not argue. It is as ineffective as screaming into the face of a hurricane. I am intelligent enough to know that I will never convince them that my version of crazy is superior to theirs. Plus, I don't even like most of them. Leaving contrarian, angry comments merely debases myself into a conversation of sorts. Piss upon that.

So: there is that plain old curiosity that killed the cat, and then there is trolling. That compulsion to return again and again to visit upon someone you do not agree with excoriation after excoriation, as if this is the Oxford Union.

This is not the Debate Club. This is where I regurgitate my collected bile, so that I may wipe my sleeve on my arm and go about my day a bit less weighted by vitriol. It is a purgative.

I certainly don't mind open and honest debate. Those who bring an intelligent and fact-based argument (and you know who you are) are of course welcome. Those who come here screaming "Leave Britney Alone!" (and you know who you are) are screaming into Hurricane V. So, why? I believe it is the compunction among progressives to show a complete intolerance to any heterodoxy. If you cannot silence someone, you intimidate them (Mr. Bacile). If you cannot intimidate them you throw them into a gulag, eventually. That's where it always leads when you cannot disagree with someone without tarring them with malicious intent, and vile motive.

My mother at least taught me manners. Even if she did subject me to the occasional piss-stained soapbox preacher. I got a heartful of batshit demagogues by the time I was 10. I won't allow myself to be hectored by a new generation of them. I'll reverse-gulag you, and not allow you into my pleasant little asylum anymore.

I don't begrudge you your ignorance, because sometimes a horse will mulishly refuse to drink from the pool of knowledge. But he better not kick me. In other words, this is my soapbox. The difference is it is a voluntary place. I'm not placing it in anyone's living room, or anyone's streetcorner. And hellfire, even those two crazed preachers in Savannah had enough sense to set up their respective soapboxes catercorner to each other at Bull and Broughton, and respect each others' turf.

Posted by Velociman at 8:13 PM | Comments (9) | TrackBack