Velociworld

Coitus Interruptus...

Damn. Geoff informs that Eric's blog broke on us just as he was about to take me to school on how to properly guest post for a fellow blogger, right after Acidman's primer on the same. That's a shame.

Lookit: I am not blind to the fact my guest blogging generally results in disgust, disdain, or indifference. However I think most people who ask me to guestblog understand I will always open with a full broadside of 24-pounders. That's the fun part. I generally settle down, though, and attempt to favour my patron with some quality work (which by the by engenders the same reactions). Unfortunately, Eric's readers will apparently have to settle for the initial salvos, and will not be graced by my sensitive musings on The Chicken-Footed Lady, or the hurl impulse one gets when a raccoon gut is accidently popped.

Personally, I think Acidman janked it in order to have the last word.

Prom Night

Isn't Velocigirl One beautiful? I carry powerful genes. And virtually no sense of shame posting this after that earlier, um, epiphany.

Black Panthers

Yes, there are black panthers in Georgia. I mean, besides H. Rap Brown. If anyone tells you differently they are mistaken. I saw one at Griffin Lakes some 35 years ago, and I have a friend who saw one in Screven County last year. I trust my own child's eyes on that long ago day, but I have far more respect for B-'s sighting, as he is a teetotalling professional hunter who shot a lowering coyote not long ago. Another acquaintance claims to have seen one on the Jimmy DeLoach Parkway, of all places.

Most zoologists claim the "black panther" sightings are cryptids, or cryptozoological beasts, like Bigfoot. Cases of mistaken identity. I beg to differ.

There are several theories as to what these sightings are, as they are most definitely not close kin of the bobcat, lynx rufus. Some theorize they are black cousins to the Florida panther, and migrated north over the years. Others believe they are jaguarundi, Felis yagouaroundi, 30 to 60 pound big cats that roam from Central America as far north as Texas. According to my linked source a population was imported into Florida in the 1940's (why, I wonder?). I'm skeptical of the jaguarundi theory, however, as these cats are generally dark gray to blond in color, and what I and others have seen are coal black. My belief, and that of others, is that the Georgia panther is a merging of the two subspecies Felis concolor coryi (Florida panther) and Felis concolor cougar (Eastern Cougar, which once ranged from Texas to Maine).

Experts can be wrong, I suppose. They claim, for instance, that the endangered Florida panther is confined to Southwest Florida in meagre in-bred numbers, and yet there are numerous accounts of sightings as recently as last year in Volusia County, perhaps sixty miles south of me. No pics, of course.

Now, I'm no Sasquatch speedfreak. I don't believe in apeman creatures or uneecorns or any other wild thing without an identifiable Family or Genus. I respect Linnaeus. Nor do I roam the woods looking for faeries and elves. I just like the idea that our sophisticated selves have perhaps not yet fully crosshatched the entire biological matrix yet. There may be a surprise or two out there yet.

An Epiphany

Regular Intrepids know I have a thing about sitting to pee. I have been a very slow convert. However, it occurred to me today that whilst squatting to squirt I can actually hold my head in my trembling hands, shake it in dismay, and ask myself how in the hell did I ever arrive at this station in life???

THAT is multi-tasking, friends, which I am told is a good thing. I feel better already.

I Could Use a Good Yak

And so:

I find myself sitting alone on the lanai, the party having pooped, the other combatants writhing in silent agony in various cubbyholes of the Velocihovel.

I truly love my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, but they are 10 years younger than me, and better equipped to weather these storms. My diet over the last 72 hours has consisted of chuck steak burgers, vodka, Ballpark franks, vodka, Fritos, vodka. My aged sweetmeats cannot process such disgusting swill with any manner of efficiency, and yet I am the Last Man Standing. Hah.

I knew to take a vacay day today, Monday, I say. Recuperative necessity.

About that vodka: the Ketel One was osmosed by Friday night, then we reverted to foul breeds of unknown lineage. I don't think grain or potato played in the mix. I suspect it was something more along the lines of essence of Norwegian wharf rat.

Bonus: as we had the Velocigirls' dance recital Saturday night (for which we were clean, sober, and respectable) The Bride's parents were in town. They smoked out the game early on, however, and took a room at the local hostelry. A good thing, however I am somewhat chagrined that they were not around to hear one of my forty or fifty screaming renditions of "Mr. Gorbachev, Tear Down This Wall!"

I'm also a bit smoked that my brother, Shelley, and Puddyhead are in Antigua, and did not invite me. It wouldn't have worked anyhow. I meant to tell him to find Clapton's house, and break in and grab some axes, Clapton being in Texas for that 60 guitarist shindig of his. Wouldn't want a Peter Tosh thing going down over a simple B&E.; Sinful? Oh, yes. Criminal? Absolutely. But somehow I think Eric would overlook it, he being such a fan of the blog.

I almost forgot to mention the bullwhip injuries. Ah. Yes. We had the leather working last night, stupefied as we were. I got by with a small chunk of flesh excised from my left ankle. My brother-in-law was less fortunate. He managed to crack the thing around his upper arm, right where the barbed wire tattoo was going to go. He doesn't need the tattoo now, as the scar tissue will provide a reasonable facsimile thereof. Ouch. Some of my tears of mirth were actually tinged with sorrow.

I must close. There is one more lichen-encrusted Ballpark left, and it is calling my name.

I am a Busy Bee...

Too much company to blog, however I have committed to a guestblogging stint at this fine fellow's, so perhaps you can catch me there. It will not be pretty, I assure you...

RR

Bloodletting as Sexual Metaphor

Everyone is aware of the sexual dynamic ascribed to vampire bites, correct? So when a male vampire bites a male victim that's disgusting shit. Male vampire bites female victim, I'm liable to get some wood. Male vampire bites male victim, I'm liable to hurl. That's why you seldom see the latter in film. It often happens, but it is seldom shown.

Don't even get me started on those plots wherein the master vampire will only allow the slave vampire to feed on rodents, and cats, and such. That sort of abomination is never actually shown on film, and we are the better for it.

My apologies. This has been bugging me all morning. I had to get it off my chest.

Character Counts

I am a big fan of character actors. The heavy lifters of the cinema business. From Jack Elam to Eli Wallach I appreciate a person who puts in a hard day's work, takes home a decent paycheck, and doesn't become a headcase, while the elitist fucktards he works with melt down under their self-induced visions of grandeur.

To that end I believe I shall profile a character actor occasionally, to pay tribute to the baling wire and kite string that holds our entertainment-industrial complex together.

Tonight: GD Spradlin.

GD is the consummate sumbitch. From Senator Geary in Godfather: Part II to Coach B. A. Strothers in North Dallas Forty to the General in Apocalyse Now to General Durrell in The Lords of Discipline GD has consistently been an A Number One Asshole. He plays senator, general, and coach with equal despicability. A craven man is he. As an aside GD was also Dr. Tristler in that bullshit Heston movie Number One I lacerated recently.

Bonus points: GD is a dead ringer for my asswipe high school football coach, right down to the accent. Another reason to love/hate him. Here's to GD. An infinitely pleasing SOB.



Next week: J.T. Walsh.

Paint it Black

One of the great things about working downtown is the odd cultural ping you get now and then. In the gift shop of the Bellsouth Tower is a sculpture of the Last Supper. Only all the characters are Negroes. There is certainly some hair straightener at work, but they are definitely Negroes.

What's up with that shit? I mean, I've seen Black Jesus often, but never the Holy Baker's Dozen in ebony. I've seen black Santas, and black Cleopatras. What's up, I say?

Is this an attempt to more closely connect with Christian and Western ideals, dieties and icons? Or is it an attempt to co-opt these ideals, and claim everyone of any import was really black, only the fucking Man rewrote history to hide that fact? It's bad enough when Jesus is portrayed as a blue-eyed surfer dude, but from an historical perspective I believe it is pretty well established that he was Jewish. Santa was some kind of Scando Eurotrash, but Black Santa is food for another post.

My take is there is a great feeling of inferiority amongst a handful of blacks because they never had any of the good action figures of history. My advice: don't push it. You'll be sorry. Eventually there will be Black Stalins, Black Genghis Khans, Black Typhoid Marys. Hell, eventually someone will come out with a Black OJ. Trust me. You don't want this.

I Got Blisters on my Fingers

It seems my CD/DVD player is on the fritz (sorry, Nazis, that's life), and will only accept certain CDs without a good puke. I was marveling, therefore, at Everybody's Got Something To Hide Except for Me and My Monkey, because the White Album is the only CD the fucker will munch on now. A Lennon song, of course, and yet Ringo is framming that fucking cowbell like, I don't know, an SNL skit. I can only picture McCartney in the background.

"It's for your own good, Ring. I'm blowing the band, and you'll need some audition material. It's only Johnny's song, anyhoo."

More cowbell.

My New Plate Scraper

So the piece of shit dishwasher they installed in this house crapped out two days ago, and with yet another round of out-laws coming to town this weekend I figured I'd better replace it. It was a toss-up between the KitchenAid and the Bosch. Both are superior products, with essentially the same features, but after some thought I came to the healthy conclusion that those Nazi bastards could kiss my ass. I bought the KitchenAid.

Yes, I know the Bosch dishwashers are made in New Bern, North Carolina, but still: those profits go back to Deutsche Bank at the expense of the tobacco proles who work that plant. Bilderbergs roll naked in those profits in Bavarian hideaways. Nope. It's the KitchenAid for me, made in Amerikkka.

Why, I'm sure you're asking, does a virile, studly man like you care about a kitchen appliance, anyway? Well, shutthefuckup and I'll tell you. I live in a house with three females. I do all of the outside work and half of the inside work. I love them, but my slags barely get their shitpaper in the rim, much less tidy up. And they have a maid! I'd fire her, but she is a Czech hottie who wears buttercutters that say "SEXY" across the ass as she's leaning over my bathtub for a good scrubbing. You men will understand. She's a keeper.

Back to my tale: so I don't give a good damned halloo who does my laundry or dishes, because it will not be me. Most of my clothes I dry clean anyway. Personally, I don't care if the dishes are licked clean, and the clothes are washed on a washboard in a number 8 tub out by the cement pond. In fact, from a purely emotional standpoint, I think that is the only way the bacon strips should be cleansed from my drawers.

I am attenuated to the ululations of the chore-laden, however, and I desire my peace. So out with the GE, and in with the KitchenAid. I must confess there is some thrill in a beast like this. I cannot wait to slosh some single malt around while I kick the tires in front of my father-in-law.

"Yup. Here's the bitch. Got yer stainless steel innards, yer five jet levels, this here would scrub Jesse Jackson almost clean. It's a bastid, I tell ya. Hums like a hoor. Too bad you ain't got one."

Which, of course, is the point. My in-laws crave whatever I have. They must have it immediately. Which is why I will laud my rectal stringwarts this weekend. Buy yourself some of those! I'll finance!

Anyhow, I have a new plate scraper. I figure the slags will break it in six months or so.