HOLY SHIT! I'VE MOVED!

Time to bid adieu to my old buddies here at Blogger. You can catch the latest thrills and spills at www.velociworld.com!

I'M SHOCKED

I tell you, shocked, that Lee's resurrection of Buddy Lee hasn't managed to sell more jeans. It seemed like such a surefire bet. OF course, any jeans company that still proudly calls their product dungarees is surely not trolling the upscale demographic for customers.

DEUS EX CULINA

is Rob Sama's new site. It's great! I'm thinking VodkaMan should have tried this avenue before going off on a "How to Get Laid Through Pot Roast" tangent. For one thing, it doesn't seem like Stephen (the whoredogging, not the cooking. Whoredogging is best left to non-pretty-boys, like me and Acidman). For another, I miss Stephen's blogging.

TobaccoRoadFogie has game, simply because of his blog title. But he's a good blogger, to boot. I likes him. Picked him up via That Underrated Guy, Jay Solo.

I PROMISE MYSELF

that when the new site's up I'm turning over a new leaf (Oh! Miffy! Let's buy that little vineyard we saw and call our product Turning Leaf! Yes! It will be Wonderful, don't you think?)

Sorry. Let me restart. I was going to say the new site will be erudite, cosmopolitan, urbane, witty, and touch on all those topics we hold so dear. One problem: I explained this in a post I later regrettably deleted, but I do this for the release, the catharsis. I certainly don't do it for the respect. I get all the respect I want, need, or deserve from the other aspects of my life. I get my respect from the look in my kids' eyes. They buy into Dad or not. There's the true test. This is just ripping great fun. I love politics, and social issues, but other people blog these things better, and ad nauseum. If I wanted to do this as a vocation I would, I just can't handle the salary hit right now.

Woodward and Bernstein weren't superheroes, they were clowns. Deep Throat was a joke, a fiction, a Jayson Blair smoke with mirror. Invented to invest their hyperbole with authenticity. Nothing more. I do love to watch Redford and Hoffman run around like SAS commandos in that movie, though. It puts the seventies in perspective.

I digress again: 'Pundits' get paid for it. If you're not getting paid for it, don't call yourself one. Bloggers are merely the sodium pentothal of the media, that's it. And just as susceptible to the foibles of the compensated class. Even more so, in a way, because we are self-edited (which apparently makes you more accurate than a Howell Raines edited flack).

Perspective, folks.

HEY BOYS

How many wallets did you ruin between the ages of 14 and 16 carrying around that stupid frigging condom? The one you never used, that had turned into what molecular engineers now call Carbon Fiber? Ever pull that wallet out, with the tell-tale rubber ring embossed on it from your skinny ass, around your Mom? I thought so. Explaining to her that it would have shattered into a million crystallized pieces if you had attempted to use it carried no gravitas, or absolution, did it? No sir. It was time for A Talk. Followed by A Talk from your Father.

First conversation (with Mom): "Where have I gone wrong, son? Have you no respect for females?"

Second conversation (with Dad): "You stupid bastard. You let your Mother see that?"

Third conversation (between Mom and Dad): Mom: "He's going to be just like you, isn't he?" Dad: "No, I think he's going to be a slut, like your mother."

However that conversation resolved itself, a beating for you was inevitable.

SOPHIA

Seeing Possumblog's picture of Sophia Loren in a peasant top reminded me of the posters I used to have as a youngster. My older brother was in high school, and he got away with nekkid Jane Fonda on the beach (Barbarella era), Bridget Bardot coming out of the water naked (nips erect, naturellement), that sort of thing.

Me? I had Dennis Hopper from Easy Rider giving the rednecks the finger, Loren coming out of the water in a wet shirt from Boy On A Dolphin, Bridget in leather on a Hog, Hendrix.

Sophia was the babe, though.

It seems at some point those posters just disappeared. Apparently my mother (friend of Bishops and Orphans) had had enough, and trashed them. I still miss that Hopper poster.

TITTIE BARS

I've been meaning to wax poetic on this subject for a while, but I never get around to it. The bottom line:

Jacksonville has terrible strip clubs. They wear bikini bottoms. Please. The girls all look like waterheads, too. I'm glad my daughters are growing up in a city that discourages exotic dancing.

Memphis has great adult entertainment establishments. Lap dancing is a full body contact sport there. The ladies make up in enthusiasm what they lack in looks. An enthusiastic work ethic is very important. They wear G-strings, though.

Nashville has fantastic gentlemens' clubs, for two reasons: One, the girls are totally buck-assed naked, and they are fine. Two, Nashville ordinance prohibits the sale of alcohol where girls are buck-assed naked. But you can bring your own. That's what I'm talking about. Walk in with a liter of Absolut, buy a bottle of tonic water for 2 bucks, and save those other 98 Washingtons for disceet displays of gratitude. Music City has some extraordinary talent outside the recording studios.

Tampa is where exploded Musselmen go to collect their 72 virgins. I suspect, however, that these girls have been, shall we say, around the block. Hell, they've been all the way around Ground Zero. Sentimental extra: they get insulted when you don't spackle your trou. And they have lots of black lights to confirm the evidence.

New Jersey: Hah! Cankled trailer trash. Stay in your hotel room and diddle yourself to Skinemax. You'll respect yourself more in the morning.

Atlanta. What can you say? Here's an anecdote: About four years ago, about a year before the Feds unleashed holy hell on the Gold Club, I was at an industry function, and I was squiring around 4 customers. These pernicious heathens, true to form, insisted on going to the GC. As soon as we walked in, three huge black bouncers in microphone headsets and satin bowties whisked us into a private room. They were making a sales pitch faster than a Koufax fastball, but I did pick out the words "$1200 an hour for the room" and "$1000 an hour each for the girls". There were four girls, and it was tacitly explained that the bouncers would take you out back and beat you into a bloody fucking pulp if you even touched these girls. I demurred, and led the boys to the main bar, where I got a bottled beer and they ordered those test tubes of heliotrope hi-test.

Sensing a VERY bad vibe, I feigned shellfish poisoning from dinner, got a cab, and went back to the hotel. The next morning these fellows had managed to piece together 19 thousand dollars worth of credit card receipts between them. They'd been roofied. Date raped, so to speak. These were not yahoos. They were experienced, seasoned party animals. Sucked into the Gold Club vortex (thank me for not using the Black Hole metaphor). Drugged like damned lab rats and fleeced like Himalayan goats. The Gold Club. The most beautiful women in the world, the most dangerous game.

SIGNS

I saw in St. Augustine today:

1. Outside the Stumble Inn: Come in a Neighbor, Leave A Friend.

2. On a billboard for Southern Crematory: When People Ask for a Simple Cremation, We Understand.

As to the first sign, you don't want to be these folks' Friend. Trust me.

As to the second sign, I assume they mean as opposed to a Noble, Georgia cremation, where your body is tossed into the woods behind the furnace. Nice of them to understand, though.

BONO

is such a pretentious shit I can't stand it, but by God, the hammerhead can sing. Not a Lennon voice, or a McCartney voice, but he can take the jagged edges of his voice and make them work. I have to respect that. All the more reason to say Fuck You, Bono. I want to recoup Third World Debt, too, I just want to take it from the bastards who stole it in the first place. If Bono could at least name one name who should recompense the United States or the United Nations for the millions they've ripped us off for, I'd feel a lot better about him. Until then he's just another nipple with a great voice and an issue.

I'D COME RIGHT OUT

and explain to Venomous that her skew on Huffington is wrong, but I should dig deep before I completely exonerate myself. My simple point was that Arianna just needs a good bullwhipping to beat the stupid out of her, and yet... I do have a hang-up of sorts (if you scroll the archives) that tends to the corporal punishment motif. Witness my infatuation with acquiring that episode of The Big Valley where Victoria Barkley gets the tawse, as they say, or my compulsion vis-a-vis the branding of Olive Oyl. I'm a victim, I say, and yet a connoisseur.

EUTHANASIA

now, Euthanasia tomorrow, Euthanasia forever! At least when it comes to Susan Estrich. She's a grim piece of work, for sure, and I'm tired of listening to her.

I'M STILL BUSY!

but I have to break to say I'm watching Sid Blumenthal on FOX and he's not only the ultimate shameless Clinton apologist and the ultimate party whore, I still can't believe he sued Drudge over the wife-beating allegation. Beat his boyfriend, maybe.

Which reminds me. Why is the Democratic Party attacking Mark Foley in Florida (he's a GOP after Graham's seat) as a homo? I thought the Dems were the party of inclusion. I thought they grooved on a man putting his penis in another man's mouth or ass. It's in their national platform, for crying out loud. But if a Senate seat is at stake they'll play the fag card, apparently, to work up what they believe is the silent majority of homophobes. Foley denies the allegations, by the way.

I'm just asking, ya know?

I'M WORKING

on the new site, so be patient. Hopefully my next post here will be a redirect with a Kiss My Ass to my host buddies. I might even get a Nostalgia up on the new site.

I MUST CONFESS

I don't feel so bad about being Mr. Nine Hundred and Fifty Fucking Loser on the Ecosystem when this is number 35. I'm obviously moving in the wrong crowd. Darn! It's The Jews! Why didn't I see that before?

IF YOU

don't do another damned thing in your life, please read this. All will be revealed.

THANKFULLY

I entered The Grouchy Man's latest with an Aqualung, because coming up for air was not in the entrails.

ACIDMAN

is parsing my memory cells, admittedly suspect. The liquor store was Newton's Corner. I recall the owner as Ralph Newton, because my old man would send me to "Ralph's" to get him a taste. At which point I would add on my desired beverage. Now, A-Man remembers a "Ralph Noglin" or a "Frank Noglin", whatever. Ralph Newton to me! The important thing was, my dad figured out pretty early on that he could open his own liquor store in Montgomery (basically a T in the road) a couple of hundred yards from the house and not only save himself or me the drive, the magic of WHOLESALE! kicked in. As for me, the magic of BREAKAGE! kicked in. Hey, every ex-State Senator should have his own liquor store, right? Looks good on the resume if a Supreme Court vacancy opens up.

UPDATE: Acidman is so much older than me of course he'll remember the minutae of the old days. He wins. He can call that liquor store whatever he wants to. And cut me some slack: when I was 16 and driving through the drive-thru window with a 14 year old girl in the car I confess I didn't demand to see the fine print on the liquor license. Common usage called it Newton's Corner. And that was the name of the intersection as well, but how many singular locales can you have in a greasy spot in the road called Sandfly? Eh? As for the girl: ach. Debbie S. Little sister of my best friend at the time, Mark S. They're both KIA. Neither one made 25 years old. Don't be sad, though. Darwin ordained it.

I JUST FINISHED

listening to Weasels Ripped My Flesh, which I'd burned a couple of years ago and never listened to all the way through. The best I can say is, Zappa cannot be described as a "consistently accessible" artist.

WHOA

Rob Sama watches Mighty Mouse. Damned fine cartoon. Even the Bakshi pyschedelic version. Ages 3 to 5 were the formative years for me: Mighty Mouse, Popeye, and Moe Howard smacking the shit out of his buddies. Of utmost importance: my kids understand this, and respect me accordingly.

THUS SPAKE ME

At least Jay Solo finds me quotable. Of course, The Bride finds me extremely quotable after a night of spree drinking. Seems I confess to an awful lot. Thank God I don't DO an awful lot.

STRAY JUSTICE

Phillip Coons has a link to a story about Clarence Thomas, and his rise from poverty to the Supreme Court. The story's been told, I know, but I like it. When I was in high school I lived in Beaulieu, a hamlet about two 3-woods from Pinpoint, where Thomas grew up. We bought our Boone's Farm wine from Ralph Newton's liquor store in Sandfly. Great names, eh? Pinpoint is STILL like it was when Clarence left: a fenced in enclave of shanties with dirt yards and little tin sheds with goats standing on them. Why do goats stand on top of whatever they can? Must be the mountain goat genes coming out. But I digress.

Anyone who's ever seen Pinpoint and doesn't marvel at what Clarence Thomas achieved is a willful fool or an ass. Thomas isn't the most cerebral jurist to ever grace the bench, and yeah, he got some affirmative action assistance along the way. But why do his detractors, who normally praise AA to the high heavens, allude to it as a reason to castigate this man because he left the Democratic plantation after he left the Pinpoint one? The blacks in Savannah won't even let him speak at the Beach Institute, and refuse to acknowledge him as the greatest black man to ever come out of the city. I swear I think they'd rather see him boiled in water like Kenny Norton in Mandingo than adjudicate as a conservative. Sheesh.

WHAM!

Double freight train crash in Arizona today. Two trains passing in opposite directions, one car derailed and hit the passing train, and kablooie. Remember what I was saying about derailments the other day? They happen all the time, what matters is when and where. Oh, and whose. In this case, the other guys.

ACIDMAN

politely explains how victims of occupation eventually turn the tables on their aggressors: with style, class, and noblesse oblige, that's how. And lynchings. He forgot that part.

Of course, I believe Indiana led all states in lynchings in the 20th century. Should call 'em Noosiers, not Hoosiers.

I HATE

to continuously bitch about allowing the Iranians to foment terror without remonstration by allowing the gamut of terrorist organs to operate within their borders with impunity, but it chaps my ass. The Persians should pay a very dear price for this. Ayatollahs and imams, I hasten to say. The Iranian peoples themselves will hail us even more quickly than the Iraqis (and the Iraqis do love us, it's just the Persian ayatollahs' provacateurs that stir the shit in Iraq). I still believe our State Department favors an environment of frisson over order. It allows them to be the good guys while casting asperions at the D of D for usurping what they feel is the mandate they should have been handed after the cessation of any hostilities. Georgetown pussies, I aver. I want my Occupied Territory slavemasters to have USMA, USNA, USAFA, or even USCGA credentials. Unless it's the Gardner guy, of course.

I FORGOT

to mewl about this earlier, but they closed the dog track next to my house. Well, they didn't close it. They turned it into a huge betting parlor with 32 large screens running horse and dog races from around the country with insta-betting. Pretty cool, actually. Any race going down you want to see or bet on. Booze, food, ubiquitous Florida tramp girls, action, by God I do like it. But fuck me, I'm not betting on a race in California that the BETTING PARLOR is feeding me "live". I sold my turnip truck. Plus, I can go across the river to Orange Park in 15 minutes to see real dogs run. They have tramp girls, too.

GIVEN

a bullwhip, Arianna Huffington, and enough time, I believe the truth would out.

NOW

that Snow's done to the dollar what he did to my stock I feel a little, well, levelled out.

WHY

does Amber Frey need Gloria Allred as her attorney? Why does she need an attorney, period? Nobody's after her; they have their mutt locked up. Unless, of course, it was a team job. But hey, they'll never convict him without better evidence. She's a walkaway.

HORTICULTURE HELL

I gots citrus problems. My satsuma mandarin orange tree (they're like a big tangerine) is small, but the little bastid put out 50 sweet softball sized oranges last year. I have about 4 on there this year. I shouldn't complain. I basically just took a year off, too. My bigger problem is my valencia. It put out one huge O as a baby, then it got weird. I pruned it wrong. Citrus trees are all grafted onto wild lemon rootballs. I pruned the withered good stalk and let the wild lemon grow. Hell, I didn't know. Now it's 13 feet tall and full of hypodermic thorns, but no fruit. It's not an orange tree anymore. It's a frigging wild lemon. Assassin of pool floats. I have to cut it down and dig it up. I've been living in a fool's paradise for 3 years, waiting for this bitch to bear fruit.

My key lime's doing good after last year's frost, though. I'll have enough limes for about 2 key lime pies and 85 Cuba Libres. My little lemon's berserk as well, I tell ya. I'll have enough for 360 vodka tonics or 992 MacCallan's with a twist. Microsoft Project tells me I should pre-register by July for the liver transplant should this crop come to, uh, fruition.

THE HAMPSTERS ARE FRISKY

in the blogspot servers so I'll try to re-engage tonight. Actually I think the Tim Blair link knocked me into an elliptical orbit. The good news is, while I was sulking I remembered I guy I knew who blew his face off and lived, and a man with no legs I stepped on in Lisbon. I felt better then.

I FIGURE

Blogger's like a woman. When they start acting up if you ignore 'em for a few days they'll start acting right.

CAVEAT 1: They'll backslide. They always do.

CAVEAT 2: Unlike a woman, I have no intention of rogering Blogger.

THE MAN

or Possum, as the case may be, who quotes Erskine Caldwell on his home blog is a man worthy indeed of a link and a how're'ya. I of course have Beehive Press copies of God's Little Acre, Trouble In July, and Tobacco Road signed by Erskine to me. I read
Dan Miller's biography of Erskine recently, and he was a prick, to be sure. But what glorious writing. Caldwell has the burden of creating the tobacco road white trash creature that was easily lampooned, but few scholars ever looked through the castigation and found the heart in Caldwell. And that's too damned bad. All of us, ultimately, have a Jeter Lester in our heritage, the issue is how do you deal with that?

Welcome to the roll, Possumblog.

HEY, BOYS

It sure would be neato to be able to access my blog site. IF you're not too busy harvesting the carcasses of the unborn from Planned Parenthood dumpsters for your Satanic rituals.

SINCE

I didn't do a Nostalgia, I'll do the Friday Five:

1. What drinking water do you prefer -- tap, bottle, purifier, etc.?

Anything but this Florida drinking water. I'll take Mexican creekbed unfiltered over this stuff.

2. What are your favorite flavor of chips?

Buffalo. Lightly salted.

3. Of all the things you can cook, what dish do you like the most?

Smack. Finger-popping only, though.

4. How do you have your eggs?

Squatting, like the rest of you.

5. Who was the last person who cooked you a meal? How did it turn out?

The Bride. How did it turn out? I'll be passing it in the morning. Update at seven.

FERRETS AND POLISH WRITERS

My little girl is hitting me up for a ferret again. I don't know. Not only do I have a club-footed parakeet with the apparent lifespan of a loggerhead turtle and the vocal stylings of Al Jolson, I have a blind diabetic incontinent terrier in urgent need of a knock on the head with my shovel, and two cats who think my sofas came from Shredware.

I know ferrets are supposed to be playful interactive weasel things, but my view of them comes from a Jerzy Kosinski story, in which a sidewalk geek in Paris places two sewer rats and a ferret in his pants, then squats while all hell breaks loose. When the blood starts dripping the audience gratefully tenders coin. People think I'm sick? Non. I'm Freddie Rogers compared to Kosinski. Read The Painted Bird sometime. IF you like your autobiographical novels to contain vignettes of cats playing with freshly plucked human eyeballs, or Kalmuk horsemen raping each other after tiring of despoiling a Polish village during The Great Patriotic War. Kosinski definitely belongs in the Acquired Taste subfolder. Jerzy eventually put a plastic bag over his head and floated in his bathtub, or something equally incongruous. But not before he put the Fear of Ferrets in me.

I'M WHIPPED

and stinketh from a long, long day in the sun. So no Nostalgia, but in keeping with the Universal cartoon theme, what does it say about the essential Chic Young that he would create Blondie, wherein the ultimate geek dead-ender has a wife built like a stripper? I mean, Young really went out of his way to give Blondie huge knockers and a tight ass. I'll bet he just enjoyed drawing her. As does his son, apparently. THERE'S a franchise to inherit.

Speaking of beautifully drawn babes, nobody could draw nekkid chicks like Alberto Vargas. They weren't buff so much as incredibly voluptuous. Go here and enjoy, and buy yourself a limited edition print or three. I know I am. My old man had it all wrong. Marlin Perkins didn't have the greatest job in the world, Vargas did. And I'll bet he never broke a bone doing it, either.

NOTES ON ISLANDS OF ADVENTURE

The Hulk coaster: rocked.

Dueling Dragons coasters: rocked.

Spiderman: pretty good combination of a 3-D experience (think T2) and a simulator ride (Star Wars or Back to the Future) and a traditional track-based ride.

Dudley Do-Right: a good water ride, better than Splash Mountain, but why the Dudley theme? He's boring and lame. Although the repeated visuals and animatronics of Snidley Whiplash threatening a hog-tied Nell Fenwick were actually pretty erotic (ref my take on Bluto's attempted branding of Olive Oyl). I'd have rather seen a Bullwinkle theme. Hell, I'd have rather seen a Sherman and Peabody theme.

Jurassic Park: no idea. The attractions looked weak, so I doubled down on the Dragons coaster.

Popeye and Bluto Wharf Rat Barge ( or whatever it's called): the gods of Fleischer will strike me down, but I blew it off. The wait was too long and they weren't issuing Express passes for some reason. I tried to make up for it by letting my daughter get Swee' Pea and Jeep crush dolls.

Final word: not a bad theme park. Needs more shade and smoking areas. Most disgusting sight: a 275 pound Yankee wearing nothing but a pair of short-shorts that looked like a black jockstrap, white socks, and those slip-on black sneakers that look like water shoes. Had a good, big, tan though.

YOU REALIZE

of course, the economy will not get better until we whack some more Arabs. Or Persians. The market is resilient that way. I hate to stipulate that, but I think it's true. Do you know anyone who works on Wall Street? I do. The ones I know are fucking pyschos, and they want more dead Arabs. I'm not saying it's right or wrong, I'm just saying. The ease of the Iraq Campaign worked against the economy. Tension drives the market. As long as you're upside. It's not politics, or religion. It's cost-benefit, and expectation.

I HATE COLORED MONEY

just like I hate colored, well, opinions. But I do like the NEW colored money because it has my ex-boss's signature on it. Call it keepsake money. Of course, the only time I was around John Snow he said "You a fine young man, yeah, yeah, you good boys" while he was looking for his chauffeur and his trip the fuck out of town.

AND... I'm sitting on 3,000 stock options, of which I can convert 500 of this year, however the strike price is $42, and we closed at $32 today. I'm papering my water closet with them as they expire.

JUST WHEN

you thought America was getting a little, well, pussified, you run into Dax Montana. I think Dax is truly in touch with his inner female.

LUNAR GOODIES

I'm going outside with my blankets and sleeping bags to watch the lunar eclipse with my 10 year old. She loves astronomy. Wait! Wait! Cloud cover. God, I'm warnin' ya.

UPDATE: God called. On the private line. He's blaming it all on Mother Nature. And yet he scrubbed the sky of clouds, like a Berol eraser on a blackboard, only there's no eclipse happening. Perhaps NASA called this one.

UPDATE: Perfect lunar eclipse. I also see a bright star over my house. I think God wants me to bang my blind crippled dog on the head so he'll quit trashing my carpet and come back as a Saviour. Ya think?

ROBERT STACK

died. Bummer. He looked better at 84 than I look now. Of course, he'd had so many eye jobs his lips were attached to his ears, but still. A cool guy. Remember The Name of the Game? 1968? An anthology of sorts, with Tony Fransciosa, Gene Barry, and Stack rotating stories every week? I liked that show. Of course, I was 11 when it began, and was developing my own version of The Playboy Philosophy, thanks to my discreet access to my Dad's voluminous collection of Playboy issues. Did your Dad have every issue of a 12 year subscription stashed away? No? Your poor bastard.

PLAYING HOOKY

tomorrow. Going with my little one on a field trip to Islands of Adventure (see: earlier blog). Rollercoasters. Vomit comets. Yes.

EVER GIVE YOURSELF

a street name, or a nickname? I liked "Special K". Everyone else liked "Fuckface." Vox Populi, man.

I MISS ALL THE FUN

I left the bar at 8:45 last night when the shots started. I'm not that stupid. I had a 25 mile drive. I had a few Bud drafts and left and still felt buzzy when I logged on last night. Before I left, though, some youngers with our company had sidled over and were shamelessly fawning over us. Trolling for jobs. I'm cool with that, done it myself. Plus the girls had serious breastage, so who's going to spurn that attention?

The funny part: One of my sales guys dragged in at 9:00 this morning and explained how he was invited to one of the male younger's apartment about midnight (no dinner! bad move!). A couple of the girl youngers were going too. Seems when they got there the girls got into a kissfest with each other, then stripped and jumped into bed. They were apparently tattooed like Maori warriors, and linked up their nipple rings. As the going got heavy the apartment guy was standing over the bed yelling "Do your parents know you fuck?" repeatedly. My man did get a ride back to the Omni out of the deal, though. A seasoned warrior in his own right, he was disturbed. The only outstanding issue is, how do I create jobs for these folks?

I'M TIRED

and I've been Spree Drinking with my sales people. So I will just say check out my faves:

This Sick Fuck

The Big She

The Love Of My Life

My Total Mug Buddy

The Most Underrated Blog Out There

The Main Man

UPDATE: Interesting how femmes react, or fail to. All the boys checked in. Perhaps the words "Big" and "Love" mean a little more in the distaff world. Don't take it too personally, ladies! They's jest words.

THE GOODYEAR BLIMP

flew over my house this evening. I fear it was the one with the listening devices and high optics. Bastards. They've even gotten to Goodyear.

I'M WITH

Zombyboy on the Saudi bombing thing. Downplaying this is not good.

Do you know what I think works? Kill some more Arab Muslim fundamentalists. It's effective, relatively cheap, and cathartic.

YOU KNOW,

I could get a lot more blogging done if the wife and kids weren't constantly annoying me. "I'm hungry!" "I need help with my algebra!" "I thought you were going to get my brakes fixed while I hung out by the pool and drank martinis and ate cucumber sandwiches!"

I left for work at 6:15 for a 7:00 meeting that lasted till 2 PM. There were 5 cop cars with lights flashing in front of my younger's elementary school as I left the neighborhood. I wanted to stop to see whassup, but I had a MEETING to get to. I figured it was a kitten trapped in a paper bag, or a crate with 20 pounds of Semtex in it. Something along those lines. I checked with The Bride later, and it seems there was a suspicious object in front of the school, which turned out to be one of those critter catchers. Welcome to my world.

I got home at 6:30 after grabbing the kids from dance, then I mowed the lawn and rifled through the mail (I'm waiting on that check from Nigeria). Put away some laundry. I'm hungry, indeed. What's the matter? Those toenails didn't fill you up?

Anyway, I think I've resolved the problem. I've managed to mount a blade sharpener on the side of my monitor. It's heavy, though, so I had to counter-balance it by filling the skull of a macaque monkey with cement, and mounting that on the other side of the monitor. Not too wobbly, and I can sharpen my hatchet while writing now. I thinks I'm going to get some REAL work done tonight.

I'M WATCHING

a Florida State Senator on Hannity & Colmes bitching because kids in Florida can't pass the FCAT's to graduate. She just thinks it's unfair that kids can't get a diploma when they turn 18. Fuck whether they can rede or rite. Such a damned fool apologist for the soft bigotry of low expectations I haven't seen in some time. We'se two stoopid to maik the graede. Frederica Wilson, D-Liteful. She's also wearing a very fancy black sequined cowboy hat on national television. I took her seriously immediately.

My father was a Georgia State Senator, and I truly believe that was his proudest achievement among many. Including spawning the Velociman, if you can believe it. I look at the accursed fucktards holding these positions now and I'm glad he's not here to see it. By the way, Hannity brought up the fact that these kids have 5 (five!) opportunities to pass the FCAT, and a score of 40 is considered passing. She acted like he was out of his fucking mind for bringing it up.

POLLS CLOSE

here in half an hour for mayor. The choices? Nat Glover (D), 60, sheriff for the last 8 years, and John Peyton (R), 38, scion of a local oil distributor made good. I like the Peyton dad's story. Came to Jax as a young man, made good in local petroleum and gas stations. As a "newbie" the good old boys wouldn't let him join Ponte Vedra Inn & Club, so when he got enough money he bought it. Then fucked with them. Made his son rise through the ranks, managing one station, then a few, then headed up operations, and so on. Made the kid get grease under his nails, and spend enough time out with the rank and file.

Tonyya Weathersbee, local columnist and our version of Cynthia Tucker, wrote an op-ed on Glover the other day in which she lamented that Glover was as "mainstream" as any African-American pol could get, and that if he wasn't elected mayor then this city was, in effect, too redneck and racist to ever elect a black man mayor. Well.

Let's talk about Glover. In his 8 years as Sheriff (this is a consolidated city & county, so the Sheriff is the Chief of Police; the Sheriff's Department are the police) 3 officers just went to prison for robbing and murdering a cab driver. Several others were imprisoned on extortion charges. A few years ago a tourist was murdered in the parking lot of her motel. The two cops who showed up first found the first kid they could find, a 15-year-old black kid, and beat a confession out of him. Get that. That beat a fucking murder confession out of a 15 year-old-boy. Fortunately the kid was acquitted in 15 minutes at trial. They made an HBO film about it. One of the 2 cops who did this was Glover's son. Dad put in the fix, the thin blue line held, and there was no indictment.

I'm not saying Glover is personally corrupt, and I may have put the fix in for my boy. You don't send your cop son to prison to die. But if you ask any cop in this town he'll tell you the Department is corrupt at the top. The officer's association endorsed Peyton, not their boss. And this guy is "mainstream"? I'm in St. Johns, not Duval County, so I can't vote. I just want the man who represents the city I call home to be someone I can be proud of.

UPDATE: At 8:30 it was Peyton 59%, Glover 41%.

UPDATE: Glover concedes at 9:20.

NOW THAT'S A WOODIE

Jonah Goldberg over at The Corner links to this site on the worst comic book covers of all time. Jonah finds the Rifleman cover disturbing. No shit. But does Jonah even know about Chuck Connors' gay porn film past, when he was a professional ball player? This cover goes from disturbing to predatory. Of course, I found the Reform School Girl cover the best, although I prefer my reform school girls under 35. And I don't understand why they included this fine artwork on this list.

HAVE YOU HEARD

the radio commercials for one of those upscale bread company/deli's where the girl talks about how the place is really a mad scientist place at night? How else could they make all that delicious bread? Or some such shit. It's so completely cloying I spit at my radio the other day. Then I realized it has to be a send up of those NPR slice-of-life audio tapes they play. You know the ones. She (it's usually a female, although it can be a Slovakian cake boy, for instance) is always a "free-lance writer", usually living in New Hampshire. There's an archetype: the unemployed freelancer with the Mount Holyoke American lit degree, hanging out in rural New Hampshire with visions of thrill-fucking J.D. Salinger.

Anyway, they tape their smarmy little vignettes that are so cute and clever and didn't I turn that phrase nicely? and did you catch the ironic reference to Emerson? and I'm really a clever girl aren't I? and maybe somebody will notice me from this vapid little tale of my vegetable garden! Winter squash in New Hampshire! I have an herb garden! I invited the nice fellow from the library over and there was TOO MUCH CILANTRO in my salad! Tee-hee! He tinkled, you know, SAFFRON for two days! Please NPR help me get out of New Hampshire because I still haven't seen J.D. and I'm going fucking insane!

I think it was a send up of those.

I STILL CAN'T BELIEVE

I missed the O'Reilly vs. Boortz confrontation. The two greatest egos in the public domain (Geraldo doesn't count. He's in the pubic domain). I side with Boortz on this one. Yes, it's shameful kids in South Georgia feel the need to hold a private whites-only prom. But they were making a raw political statement, which is legal, you know. And freedom of association isn't just an Amendment. It's the FIRST Amendment. Find it distasteful? Too fucking bad. Get over it. It's not about you. If you can have blacks-only functions you should be able to have whites-only functions as well. It's a goose and gander position. Shameful you have to have either one. But who incubated and hatched this foul shitbird in the first place?

Boortz needs to stick to radio, though. He struggles with the video format, the ugly bastard. Can't get his thoughts together. Kind of like Ken Hamblin. You listen to him and think okay, then you see him go Army psycho experiment on the tube and it's cringe-worthy.

O'Reilly was giving Jacksonville kudos the other day for being his number one market. His greatest market share in the country. Prediction: those days are gone. This pompous fuckface picks the wrong battles all the time (remember the Saudis?). But to lose it because of Boortz? As the Emperor said in Amadeus: "Well. There it is."

GUESS WHO'S

sipping a single malt from his Samablog mug? That's right. But only one to season the ceramic. This baby is my new MEETING AND CONFERENCE CALL MUG. If I'm going to have to sit through umpteen of these reach-arounds a week I'm going to be loaded for bear. This does mean I'll have to start taking my own coffee to work. Can't put that Indochinese robusta shit in the Samamug. I'll take my small grinder and set up a coffee shop in my office. Grind some weapons-grade Columbian arabica for the morning jumpstart.

THIS

is a love letter straight from the heart. A bit venomous, but hey. Walk the walk. Mothers Day and Fathers Day don't carry too much traction around the Velocisylum, though. Too much mutual failure to celebrate. We just wait till our anniversary and reenact scenes from Days Of Wine And Roses. Lee Remick again. I'm channeling something.

FREAK

I have 2 sego palms in front of my front porch, one on either side of the walkway. For years they've both grown at the same rate, alternating new sprouts. Starting last summer the one on the right kept sprouting new growth, but the one on the left lagged. Now the slow one has erupted some hideous phallic growth out of the center instead of new sprouts. It's the same size and shape of a regulation NFL football, only covered in sharp nodules. It looks like Satan's Thrill Hammer. I'm scared to touch it. If it explodes I'm calling the cops. It must be acting up because it's the one on the left.

I SCREWED UP AGAIN

I'm tired of typing mea culpa. Not only did Venomous Kate graciously offer to help me get the phantom new site up, she had to suffer the indignity of my misuse of the word "desultory" in describing her site. I think I meant "sultry". Not sure. I was being pinned to the mat by Barleycorn about then. My most humble apologies.

I usually have a good command of the language. If I don't know a word I'll look it up. But sometimes I go years misusing words. I thought desultory meant slow and sultry. I don't know why! I also spent years misusing fulsome and feckless. I thought they were good things.

Speaking of this, my mother and brother (independently, I may add) didn't realize for years that "misled" was the past tense of "mislead". They thought it was the past tense of an imaginary verb "misle". Which presumably meant to surreptitiously screw someone over. I love it. Misle is a great word, and should be in the language. I use it all the time now.

AMERICA

is the land of second chances, so until I can get my shit in one sock I'm using Blogger. I was locked up with this wenises for several hours Friday night; by the time I could get back in I was locked in an oily nude wrestling contest with John Barleycorn, which I lost badly. I was pissed at Blogger, but more pissed at myself for not getting a grip on my new site so I can get it up and functioning in a semblance of order. I walked away from blogging for the weekend because I had what else? a dance competition over both days. It was 15 minutes away at World Golf Village, which was good, but WGV is a strange place.

St. Johns County opened it in 1998 as a tourist draw, but nobody came. It's got two great golf courses, The Slammer and the Squire, "designed" by Snead and Sarazen, and The King and the Bear, designed by, you know, those guys. Nobody came. It's got the World Golf Hall of Fame, an Imax theater, a time share resort, a Renaissance resort, a convention center, Bill Murray's Caddyshack restaurant, and nobody came. It also has a residential area, where I'd love to live simply because the place is surrounded by great cycling roads, nothing but cows and palms and blacktop for miles and miles. I wanted to take a break today and see Shackleton at the Imax, but the only showing today was 7 PM. My peculiar brand of luck holds.

SHUT-IN RADIO

Is there anything more pathetic than A Prairie Home Companion? Well, yes, actually. My breakdancing, for instance. But my groove is not A Glorious Slice of Americana, and I am not a National Treasure. Yet. The point is PHC is pretty terrible. No where but the public sector could such consistent mediocrity be rewarded with three decades of continuous support.

The only thing scarier than Companion is the maniacally loyal audience. Keillor could lob dog turds at a cardboard cutout of Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. and the crowd would clap lustily and nod approvingly (I infer the nods, but you know they're there). There is apparently a robust demographic of Great North Prairie geeks who spend their weekends nestled in their log cabins, listening to acceptable jazz (ragtime, ja, fusion, nein) waiting for Garrison to come on, making raccoon mint jelly from the Foxfire series.

It seems to be an effective model, I suppose. How long has Michael Feldman been doing the acceptable jazz/witty banter schlock now? Of course he's from Wisconsin, Minnesota's sister state of smug progressiveness.
I only tune in about every three years or so. That's all it takes. Same tired stories, same almost clever repartee. Keillor was talking about the shame of being a bad Little Leaguer this week. He keeps breaking new ground like that we're going to have to order an Environmental Impact Statement on his ass.

What bugs me the most is the stuck in 1974 political undertones. GK and his writers have that superior haughtiness than only comes from not knowing what the fuck you're talking about. These arbiters of The Right Way are showing us the correct rural life, with bobsleds and apple cider and pike fishing, not the rectum-searing, Negro-lynching, sister-porking dystopia that the South represents to them in their feverish nightmares. Lemme tell you something, Garr. The only difference between us is the snow covers up your discarded tires and plowblades.

SELECTED, NOT ELECTED

Since I'm having issues (when do I not?) I'm going to go public with my nominations for the Sluterians in the hope that it will engender some feedback for the Cause. Of course, my latest missive against the "l"ibertarians might get me booted. My selections:


"I nominate Acidman for Executions, Phill Coons for Veterans & Extra-Marital Affairs, Jay Solo for Re-education, Rob Sama for Energy & Caffeine, Joni for Interior Decorating, Stephen Green for Commerce & Money Grubbing, Misha for Justice for All, Zombyboy for Agriculture and Grow Your Own, and myself, I kinda like the sound of LAbor and Flogging Laborers! I'll nominate the other positions after some thought."

SOMETHING COOL

We invite guests from the parent company across the street to our Big Meetings at times. Today I met a young kid last name of Gagarin. Manager of a new market we're moving into. Great guy. I had to ask: kin to Yuri? Oh, yeah. Yuri Gagarin is the greatest hot shot the world has ever seen. If you don't know why, you don't read me very often. I think he liked the fact someone knew.

IF I HAD

Kate's energy, and apparent desultory attitude towards real work, I could be, like the President. But then we wouldn't have the skinny on the Russka crash, would we? Long live the Viper.

Update: I don't coorect my screw ups once they're in the public domain, but "desultory" was not what I was looking for. Mock me now, you screwheads. I just might be right the next time.

A LITTLE LIGHT NOSTALGIA TO KICK OFF

Trusses: No, not the bridge supports, the viscera supports. These supported hernias. Or, as they called them then, ruptures. Rrrrrrupture is one of those great examples of onomatopoeia. One can almost hear the rrrrripping of the abdominal wall. Ouch. You saw rather a lot of these things as a kid, especially in the back of pulp magazines. I suppose hernia surgery wasn't as commonplace then, or surgery techniques required these for longer healing periods. Some folks didn't bother with either. A fellow that owned a gas station in Guyton carried his entire thorax and lower abdomen around in his drawers. For some reason I always had the seat in the very back of the station wagon that was by the gas cap. THAT was a scary thing to watch for four minutes. That seat of doom brought you into contact with all manner of freakishness. In Waycross I once watched a guy pump gas who had a double thumb. It's a crazy world.

Mercurochrome versus Merthiolate: What's the difference? I don't know. I think they were both a combination of tincture of iodine and mercury. There's your healthy choice for your kiddies. They both burned like hellfire on a wound, and I'll probably develop a series of extra nipples in the shape of a skull and crossbones on my back by the time I'm fifty, but that was cool stuff. Your friends KNEW you'd been damaged, and you had the faux bloodstain to prove it. Disturbing: my googles of both brought up a death metal band and an "I like to be hurt" sex site. That's injury for ya.

One more thing about medical arcana and we shall progress: I'm starting to think that turn you head and cough drill was bullshit. It doesn't seem like a proper way to determine if a person has a hernia. And what 13 year kid would have one? I think these pedia-rasts just wanted to heft our balllsies. Probably lurked the alleys disguised as Jesuits on their off days.

Enough. Let's move on to Sidekicks. Robert Vaughn was Napoleon Solo, the star of The Man From U.N.C.L.E. It wasn't called the Men from U.N.C.L.E., was it? But all the kids liked Illya Kuryakin. James Drury was The Virginian, but the kids loved Doug McClure. Peter Breck was the star of The Big Valley, but the kids liked Lee Majors as Heath. I detect a pattern. It's alllll about Mary Ann, ain't it?

I've blogged on this before, but have you ever seen the Big Valley episode where Barbara Stanwyck gets bullwhipped? It rocks.

SETTING ONE'S FEES

I just got home from my daughter's school team dance recital. It was very nice. I saw a mother of one of the dancers there I hadn't seen since the cruise. I don't like this woman. At dinner one night she was telling us how her friend's husband was doing very well as an entrepeneur of some sort (I believe he owned a few convenience stores). Said she

"I'm amazed at how well some of our friends are doing whose husbands are entrepeneurs. Their standard of living is better than those of us who married lawyers and accountants."

I was dumbstruck. I couldn't believe she'd just admitted to being a prostitute. She couldn't even share in her buddy's good fortune without the harridan of envy creeping out. I could only paraphrase Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade: "You," I said, "chose poorly." You know what? Her husband chose poorly, too.

I'D LOVE

to answer all these e-mails and comments, but I have five (count 'em, 5!) meetings tomorrow with an assortment of screwheads who couldn't find their gentilalia with MY hands. As Jules Winnfield said, I'm tryin', I'm tryin' REAL HARD. I have 12:55 to 1:00 and 2:55 to 3:00 penciled in as free time. I'll pee during one of these free times, and have a smoke during the other one.

SPEAKING OF FETISHISTS

apparently I'm the only Lee Remick one out here. In the Velocicanyon.

AND ANOTHER THING

The libertarians' great shot at World Domination and a Seat at the Table and Derek Flint on Retainer was Ross Perot's Reform Party in 1992. And you see what that episode in gracious living devolved into in one short election cycle:

A veritable cesspool of the dispossessed: Agrarians, rastafarians, contrarians, flat-taxers, flat-earthers, mystics, seers, Chopralites, conspiracy-theorists, lunacists, windmill-pimps, Trilateral-foamers, teabaggers, skip tracers, High Colonics, gruel-sniffers, Foster-fetishists, entrail diviners, ensorcelors, necromancers, New Dealers, crystal freaks, speed freaks, Forbesians, Buchananites, biospherians, toad lickers, and cud collectors.

Maybe it's just me, but I'd rather spread that kind of power out a little bit.

HOW COME

all the people who swear to swear to swear to DOG they're NOT conservatives, they're Libertarians!!! Sorry! With a little freaking "l"! Conservatives play Twister with Rightwing christian fundamentalist snakehandler strychnine-drinking godswipe moralists! I'm not one of those!

Sorry. Where was I? Right. How come if there are so many of you NON-conservatives out there you can't get any L(l)ibertarians elected? Forget the thumpers. They're harmless enough. Do you really think we're going to see a Pentacostal theocracy in this country anytime soon?

Look: I don't think there's any harm in believing our inalienable rights come from a higher power. In fact, I like that position because it keeps relativists from fucking with those rights. Believing in our freedoms for the simple reason that you don't believe the gummint has any business messing with them, or you, is to me an inherently weak kick-off point. Negotiate through strength, I say. Take those freedom cards off the table. They're non-negotiable. Now let's discuss the rest of it.

Quit dipping your toe in the waters of liberty. Come on over to the Dark Side. Besides, you still get to play with guns over here.

SWEET DREAMS

The Timucua Indians peopled this area when Ponce De Leon arrived in 1513. A disparate collection of warrior tribes, they had been battling each other for centuries. They were fierce. After scalping their enemies, they amputated their limbs and hung them on poles, then they shoved an arrow up their keisters. This site has an image of an early Spanish engraving depicting precisely this practice, which the Timucuanas called "fisking".

The reason I bring this up is because my 10-year-old daughter has been scared that the ghost of a little girl has been haunting our house. Knowing her love of history, I showed her this site and explained to her that our house was likely built on an ancient Timucua burial mound. We weren't haunted by a little girl at all. It was probably just the ghosts of some of these guys, looking for back taxes.

FROM THE "NO DUH" FILES

Man Arrested With Severed Head Says He Was Provoked. Ya think?

BERLIN (Reuters) - A man arrested after walking through town swinging the severed head of his sister-in-law by the hair told police she had provoked him, German prosecutors said on Wednesday.

The 24-year-old man admitted stabbing the woman to death and cutting off her head with a 12-inch kitchen knife after a row, a spokesman at the prosecutors' office in the western city of Aachen said. "The man said he had been provoked before the deed," the spokesman said, but gave no details.

Shocked passers-by had alerted police after seeing the wild-eyed man, carrying the head in one hand and a blood-stained knife in the other, walking through the streets of Uebach-Palenberg, a small town near Aachen.

One witness told the newspaper Bild: "He kept swinging the head by the hair, holding it up like a trophy and showing it to people. His eyes were wide open as though he was on drugs."

Sisters-in-law. They just don't listen.

SEEN A FEW OF THESE

Man Prefers Prison To Wife.

A SHITLOAD

of doctors walked off the job here in Jax yesterday. Surgeons. The Reason? Skyrocketing malpractice insurance rates due to outrageous jury verdicts. Can't afford to do business here anymore. Gonna find a job in another state. Well.

Who's to blame? The trial lawyers, for rampant litigation? The juries, for throwing millions at insurance companies out of economic ignorance? The insurance companies, for creating a fictitious crisis while reaping record profits? The doctors, for blackmailing the situation in the midst of legislative efforts at tort reform?

A bit of all of it, I suspect. The current legislative effort is to cap punitive awards at $250,000. And that may be a solution. But I believe real tort reform is more complex than limiting punitive awards. The most intense investigative reports I've read thus far don't begin to address all of the issues. I've seen no real work on insurance profit histories over the last five years, no efforts by the insurance companies to isolate the bad apples and pass the costs on to them, no attempts by litigators on either side to raise the percentage of out-of-court settlements. The wild card is the jury, after all. Taking them out of the mix is a start. In the meantime, don't get sick in Florida in the foreseeable future.

AN "AHA" MOMENT

Emperor Misha links to this article, which proves beyond the proverbial shadow of a doubt that Molly Ivins is Rogert Ebert in drag.

Kim Du Toit

isn't crazy about gambling. Nor are a lot of people I've been reading post-Bennett. I'm the same way. I have my kinks, but gambling is not one of them. The odds are with the house in Vegas or Atlantic City or Tunica so the longer you play, the more likely you are to get fucked. What money I make I prefer to spend on sure things (no, not 12-year-old Thai prostitutes. Everybody knows they're not a sure thing anymore). I mean something solid, where when the money changes hands there's not a probability of X that the vendor isn't going to pocket the money, laugh, and tell you to go piss yourself. That's gambling.

Poker? I trust my friends even less than the ballbreakers running the casinos. At least they have a license.

I LIKE

this apron. Baghdad Bob's pic and the phrase "God will roast their stomachs in Hell!" Courtesy of The Grille.

MY MAN

next door has a problem. He keeps seeing a water moccasin slither up into his house wall where the garage door trim meets the brick. He's scared to seal the hole up because he fears there's a nest of cottonmouths in there and he doesn't want a bunch of dead snakes stinking up his house. I tried to explain to him not to worry about that, they'd probably find a way out inside his house. Probably the bedroom. This excited him (not good excite, bad excite).

I hate water moccasins. I kill 2 or 3 a summer around the house because of the water. A rattlesnake will slither away from you or coil if cornered (and give you plenty of warning). I can respect that. A cottonmouth will come after you if threatened. They're like The Terminator. He'll come after you forever. It's what he does. It's ALL he does! Kate, if I'm talking about your relatives here, I apologize. But have a talk with them, please.

FANTASY BEASTS

There was a thread running recently on The Corner discussing the tendency of modern scholars to mock the ancients and medievals for believing in dragons. The idea the NROniks were positing was: if you're one of these ancient people with no scientific concept of the age of the Earth and you encounter the partial remains of a pterydactyl or a T Rex and you DON'T believe it's a dragon you're a damned fool. I like that. Similarly, if I walked up to you with a narwhal horn back when and told you it came from a unicorn you'd be a damned fool not to believe that, either.