Sunday, March 30, 2003


Never heard of Betty Page? She was the original nudie pin-up girl from the fifties. Had the whole bondage thing going, too. WAAYYY ahead of her time.

Listen: A couple of years ago my favorite downtown lunch haunt had a nice dyke waitress who had a 10-inch tattoo of Betty on her forearm. In the dominatrix get-up with the little devil horns. Wow. You have to respect that kind of devotion. This diner was only two blocks away from Joanne's Chili Bordello, a dive where you cound get fifty types of chili in a western saloon ambience, with bad oil paintings of strippers on the walls from the forties and fifties. The waitresses were all over 50 and wore whorish bustiers, including Joanne, who was about 65. She'd always come over and give you some sugar, just in case the chili was edible that day. The kind of place my Dad would've loved.

Both these places closed in the last 2 years. I wonder why?

I also spent Saturday night locked in a sordid clickfest at that guy's pulp magazine site I found researching this week's Nostalgia.You ever unintentionally wander into a pr0n site that won't let you escape? It just keeps further embedding you into more disgusting and vile kink fetisho sites you wish you'd never seen? I haven't, of course, but I've heard of people who have. The pulp site was like that, only I was creating my own circular windows, just in case I missed something.

Anyway, it was very Betty Page.

Sorry for light blogging, but when the weekend's nice, ya gotta do the Hi & Lois thing in the yard (though my personal preference runs to Thursty McThurston sloth). Mowing, trimming, edging, cleaning out the flower beds of the dreck that I swear was lantana once upona, sawing off limbs from the front oaks, clean the pool, shock it, drain down the rainwater, bikini wax the oleanders down to the stumps, Clorox the window sill mildew, haul eight bags of grub-infested weeds and loam to the front, and that was just Saturday.

Today was buy that compound miter saw and put up the chair railing in the dining room day, and not mind that I watched the last day of The Players Championship on the tube in between coats of paint on the chair rail because that's the kind of husband I am. Actually, that's the kind of husband I am forced to be. No chair rail, no gag-ball leather mask spankings. And I need the spankings.

Friday, March 28, 2003


Did I tell you that Venomous Kate is on the Vodkaman's blogroll now? Oh, yeah. Strong work reaps its rewards. I have 2 issues, however:

Stephen still hasn't given Kate credit for Saddamalikes, and he put her into the "The Usual" bucket. Venomous is most assuredly in the "Top Shelf" category around here. Just sayin', ya know?

Update: Good grief. Breeding is everything, apparently. Please lay the kudos on Kate for the linky love desig:Emperor Misha . I am LOVING THIS. Love to see talent rewarded.

It's Friday, and you know what that means. Nostalgia! Let's get started.

COCONUT HEADS: I live in Florida so I see the current handiwork; it's all goofy or stupid like the link. When I was a chirren the heads were terrifying; bug-eyed pirate ghouls and the like. My older brother had one that scared me so bad I'm convinced it was the cause of an extended period of nocturnal urinations. Nobody goes for the fearsome any more.

TRUE WEST MAGAZINE: When I was little my grandparents lived in a moribund government tract house in Birmingham, Alabama. Even then they were crabby old farts, so visiting was a drag. My grandmother did, however, have a stack of old True West issues from the fifties, so I read these during visits. These things were full of stories like the old lady describing how she hid under the bed as a little girl while the Indians broke into her family's sod cabin on the prairie, and scalped and murdered her family while she watched. Or the family in the woods who all died from eating poison mushrooms. All, that is, except for the three year old, who didn't like mushrooms. She was found a couple of weeks later by the remote neighbors, having survived on yams and edible roots. And the twins girls who died playing with poisonous millipedes. Truly horrific shit to a kid who'd been reading the Golden Books version of Babes in Toyland. Sort of Little House on the Prairie meets The Evil Dead. Whew.

PRIVATE DETECTIVE MAGAZINE: Let's continue the magazine theme. Ever find pulp like this in your Dad's backseat? With busty blondes getting slapped around by cads who looked like, well, YOUR DAD!? Fuckin' Ada. Most of what I know about women I learned from these rags. And there's still a market for this stuff. Check out this guy's amazingly extensive collection of misogynistic shit. Now go wash your hands.

Super Ball! By God, the billions we spent on the Mercury/Gemini/Apollo programs had to bring Joy and Goodness to our lives, and I found it in Super Ball. Super dense rubber that would bounce to the heavens. The only problem with this toy? A 7 year old could bat it about 400 feet (i.e. 3 houses over). You hit this baby it's gone forever. Och.


Whoa! Slow down, my friends. The only reason I bring up Barbie is because I have two older sisters, and two daughters, and I understand this twisted scene. Oh, and because some emergency room physician wrote a book about the things he'd extricated from peoples' asses, and one of the stories was about a guy who had 6 Barbie heads removed from his colon. There's glory for you. This guy apparently had something to say about women, but I'm damned if I can figure it out.


These 3-speeds were tough stuff in the mid-sixties. My Dad gave me one in '66. (I believe it was a payoff on a bar bet, because it looked used). This was right before Spyder bikes with banana seats came out (my little brother got one of those, with the sparkle seat and the sissy bar), and right before 10-speeds hit the scene (1970 - my bro and I got German Kolkhoffs). A 3-speed shifter on the handlebars, and real cable brakes. Any color you wanted, as long as it was black. Natch. Angular lines. SWEET!


Who remembers that nasty blue glue that you dipped a tiny straw into and blew a bubble that hardened on contact with air? Not me! Because I suffered so much brain damage from that shit (Monsanto: Your Friend!) I can barely remember huffing that stuff.

More nostalgia once I clear my brame, uh, brain.


Syria's pulling their usual shit, smuggling night-vision goggles and such to Iraq. Rummy laid down the law today. I think when the current unpleasantness is finished we cascade some troops there. Send in Dell Webb. Sun City Damascus sounds good to me.

Someone linked to another blog that had a satire on what the war's really about, and I can't find it again. The gist of the story was that Skull & Bones wants the skull of Hammurabi, so the Trilateral Commission is assisting Bush in getting it. W, of course, will be assassinated afterward, being of no further use. If anybody knows who this was, I'd like to link to the whole thing.

Thursday, March 27, 2003


You guys be careful over there.

Here's an unvarnished portrait of Robert Mugabe by Doris Lessing. Link courtesy of the Instantman. Pretty chilling stuff. One has to feel for the peoples of Zimbabwe, robbed of the opportunity to become the greatest nation on the continent.

Jack Shafer fisks Johnny Apple and dimdick no-nothing war correspondents in general.

Just because.

"Men, this stuff that some sources sling around about America wanting out of this war, not wanting to fight, is a crock of bullshit. Americans love to fight, traditionally. All real Americans love the sting and clash of battle. You are here today for three reasons. First, because you are here to defend your homes and your loved ones. Second, you are here for your own self respect, because you would not want to be anywhere else. Third, you are here because you are real men and all real men like to fight. When you, here, everyone of you, were kids, you all admired the champion marble player, the fastest runner, the toughest boxer, the big league ball players, and the All-American football players. Americans love a winner. Americans will not tolerate a loser. Americans despise cowards. Americans play to win all of the time. I wouldn't give a hoot in hell for a man who lost and laughed. That's why Americans have never lost nor will ever lose a war; for the very idea of losing is hateful to an American.
"You are not all going to die. Only two percent of you right here today would die in a major battle. Death must not be feared. Death, in time, comes to all men. Yes, every man is scared in his first battle. If he says he's not, he's a liar. Some men are cowards but they fight the same as the brave men or they get the hell slammed out of them watching men fight who are just as scared as they are. The real hero is the man who fights even though he is scared. Some men get over their fright in a minute under fire. For some, it takes an hour. For some, it takes days. But a real man will never let his fear of death overpower his honor, his sense of duty to his country, and his innate manhood. Battle is the most magnificent competition in which a human being can indulge. It brings out all that is best and it removes all that is base. Americans pride themselves on being He Men and they ARE He Men. Remember that the enemy is just as frightened as you are, and probably more so. They are not supermen.
"All through your Army careers, you men have bitched about what you call "chicken shit drilling". That, like everything else in this Army, has a definite purpose. That purpose is alertness. Alertness must be bred into every soldier. I don't give a fuck for a man who's not always on his toes. You men are veterans or you wouldn't be here. You are ready for what's to come. A man must be alert at all times if he expects to stay alive. If you're not alert, sometime, a German son-of-an-asshole-bitch is going to sneak up behind you and beat you to death with a sockful of shit!
"There are four hundred neatly marked graves somewhere in Sicily. All because one man went to sleep on the job. But they are German graves, because we caught the bastard asleep before they did. An Army is a team. It lives, sleeps, eats, and fights as a team. This individual heroic stuff is pure horse shit. The bilious bastards who write that kind of stuff for the Saturday Evening Post don't know any more about real fighting under fire than they know about fucking!
"We have the finest food, the finest equipment, the best spirit, and the best men in the world. Why, by God, I actually pity those poor sons-of-bitches we're going up against. By God, I do.
"My men don't surrender. I don't want to hear of any soldier under my command being captured unless he has been hit. Even if you are hit, you can still fight back. That's not just bull shit either. The kind of man that I want in my command is just like the lieutenant in Libya, who, with a Luger against his chest, jerked off his helmet, swept the gun aside with one hand, and busted the hell out of the Kraut with his helmet. Then he jumped on the gun and went out and killed another German before they knew what the hell was coming off. And, all of that time, this man had a bullet through a lung. There was a real man!
"All of the real heroes are not storybook combat fighters, either. Every single man in this Army plays a vital role. Don't ever let up. Don't ever think that your job is unimportant. Every man has a job to do and he must do it. Every man is a vital link in the great chain. What if every truck driver suddenly decided that he didn't like the whine of those shells overhead, turned yellow, and jumped headlong into a ditch? The cowardly bastard could say, "Hell, they won't miss me, just one man in thousands". But, what if every man thought that way? Where in the hell would we be now? What would our country, our loved ones, our homes, even the world, be like? No, Goddamnit, Americans don't think like that. Every man does his job. Every man serves the whole. Every department, every unit, is important in the vast scheme of this war. The ordnance men are needed to supply the guns and machinery of war to keep us rolling. The Quartermaster is needed to bring up food and clothes because where we are going there isn't a hell of a lot to steal. Every last man on K.P. has a job to do, even the one who heats our water to keep us from getting the 'G.I. Shits'.
"Each man must not think only of himself, but also of his buddy fighting beside him. We don't want yellow cowards in this Army. They should be killed off like rats. If not, they will go home after this war and breed more cowards. The brave men will breed more brave men. Kill off the Goddamned cowards and we will have a nation of brave men. One of the bravest men that I ever saw was a fellow on top of a telegraph pole in the midst of a furious fire fight in Tunisia. I stopped and asked what the hell he was doing up there at a time like that. He answered, "Fixing the wire, Sir". I asked, "Isn't that a little unhealthy right about now?" He answered, "Yes Sir, but the Goddamned wire has to be fixed". I asked, "Don't those planes strafing the road bother you?" And he answered, "No, Sir, but you sure as hell do!" Now, there was a real man. A real soldier. There was a man who devoted all he had to his duty, no matter how seemingly insignificant his duty might appear at the time, no matter how great the odds. And you should have seen those trucks on the rode to Tunisia. Those drivers were magnificent. All day and all night they rolled over those son-of-a-bitching roads, never stopping, never faltering from their course, with shells bursting all around them all of the time. We got through on good old American guts. Many of those men drove for over forty consecutive hours. These men weren't combat men, but they were soldiers with a job to do. They did it, and in one hell of a way they did it. They were part of a team. Without team effort, without them, the fight would have been lost. All of the links in the chain pulled together and the chain became unbreakable.
"Don't forget, you men don't know that I'm here. No mention of that fact is to be made in any letters. The world is not supposed to know what the hell happened to me. I'm not supposed to be commanding this Army. I'm not even supposed to be here in England. Let the first bastards to find out be the Goddamned Germans. Some day I want to see them raise up on their piss-soaked hind legs and howl, 'Jesus Christ, it's the Goddamned Third Army again and that son-of-a-fucking-bitch Patton'.
"We want to get the hell over there. The quicker we clean up this Goddamned mess, the quicker we can take a little jaunt against the purple pissing Japs and clean out their nest, too. Before the Goddamned Marines get all of the credit.
"Sure, we want to go home. We want this war over with. The quickest way to get it over with is to go get the bastards who started it. The quicker they are whipped, the quicker we can go home. The shortest way home is through Berlin and Tokyo. And when we get to Berlin I am personally going to shoot that paper hanging son-of-a-bitch Hitler. Just like I'd shoot a snake!
"When a man is lying in a shell hole, if he just stays there all day, a German will get to him eventually. The hell with that idea. The hell with taking it. My men don't dig foxholes. I don't want them to. Foxholes only slow up an offensive. Keep moving. And don't give the enemy time to dig one either. We'll win this war, but we'll win it only by fighting and by showing the Germans that we've got more guts than they have; or ever will have. We're not going to just shoot the sons-of-bitches, we're going to rip out their living Goddamned guts and use them to grease the treads of our tanks. We're going to murder those lousy Hun cocksuckers by the bushel-fucking-basket. War is a bloody, killing business. You've got to spill their blood, or they will spill yours. Rip them up the belly. Shoot them in the guts. When shells are hitting all around you and you wipe the dirt off your face and realize that instead of dirt it's the blood and guts of what once was your best friend beside you, you'll know what to do!
"I don't want to get any messages saying, "I am holding my position." We are not holding a Goddamned thing. Let the Germans do that. We are advancing constantly and we are not interested in holding onto anything, except the enemy's balls. We are going to twist his balls and kick the living shit out of him all of the time. Our basic plan of operation is to advance and to keep on advancing regardless of whether we have to go over, under, or through the enemy. We are going to go through him like crap through a goose; like shit through a tin horn!
"From time to time there will be some complaints that we are pushing our people too hard. I don't give a good Goddamn about such complaints. I believe in the old and sound rule that an ounce of sweat will save a gallon of blood. The harder WE push, the more Germans we will kill. The more Germans we kill, the fewer of our men will be killed. Pushing means fewer casualties. I want you all to remember that.
"There is one great thing that you men will all be able to say after this war is over and you are home once again. You may be thankful that twenty years from now when you are sitting by the fireplace with your grandson on your knee and he asks you what you did in the great World War II, you WON'T have to cough, shift him to the other knee and say, "Well, your Granddaddy shoveled shit in Louisiana." No, Sir, you can look him straight in the eye and say, "Son, your Granddaddy rode with the Great Third Army and a Son-of-a-Goddamned-Bitch named Georgie Patton!


With opening day just around the corner it's appropriate that Colby Cosh has a post on Grant Smith's baseball artwork. I especially like the Josh Gibson one, It's All In Your Mind. And my birthday's in 2 weeks!

I am heartened by the belief that US, UK, and Aussie Special Ops units have apparently managed to protect dams, oil wells, and infrastructure, deter biochem attacks, pinpoint targets, and identify leadership locations, all without the help of embedded journalists. As not a few folks have said, we don't know what the hell is really going on over there, and won't for a long, long time. Den Beste has the best take on it, natch.

So much mixed news today, it's depressing. To paraphrase Blazing Saddles, "I shore would take it kindly if someone was to take a gun and shoot that Saddam dead."

So Richard Perle has resigned as chairman of the Defense Policy Board because of ethics issues. Seems he was retained by Global Crossing to help broker a sale of most of Global's assets to Hutchison Telecommunications. Jumping Jesus. This company is a subsidiary of Hutchison Group, a wholly owned subsidiary of the People's Liberation Army of China. Our military uses Global's fiber-optic networks. Hutchison also owns Hutchison Wampoa, a port terminal operator that currently holds leases on Crisotbal and Colon, the two ports on either end of the Panama Canal. The Chicoms control both ends of the Ditch, and Perle was gonna broker Global's network to 'em? I hate it when the good guys also turn out to be craven whores.

Check this story out. Murder, felony murder, kidnapping, illegal weapons possession, and aggravated sexual battery charges against a 10-year-old.

Reuters is not only claiming Iraqi militia have coalition forces pinned down in southern Iraq, they insist on calling the allied forces "invaders". For balance, they quote Iraqi civilians bashing our troops:

"We live in fear at night," said Om Talal, 40, her youngest child at her feet in the southern town of Al-Zubayr. "Already two of our houses have been destroyed. Why must they fire on our houses and kill civilians?"



Jed Babbin over at NRO says Al JeersYa has provided videotape to Egyptian TV that actually shows the assassination of US POW's. They're apparently showing it over and over. I was against the hacking of the English-version Al Jazeera website because they're an independent news agency, regardless of their bias. However, if they're going to provide snuff films of American soldiers to feed the hate frenzy of the Arab masses I hope their site stays crashed. Fuckers.

India is pissed at Amnesty International for ignoring the recent massacre of 24 Hindus in Kashmir by Paki-backed terrorists. I say give AI a break; they're busy denouncing the American atrocity committed when the Iraqi TV station was knocked out for a few hours.

Brit troops in Iraq are resorting to wearing Iraqi boots because their own are disintegrating in the fierce heat. they also claim they're lighter and more comfortable. The UK soldiers have suffered supply shortages since deployment. Don't we have any we can give them?

Kanan Makiya, an Iraqi dissident, has a good war diary at The New Republic. Kanan claims Washington is turning a deaf ear on pleas to insert dissidents into Baghdad to help convince the civilian populace to turn on the Baathists. Sounds pretty reliable to me.

Limbaugh has a picture of Michael Jackson playing "Doctor/Soldier" with an Iraqi boy.

Why are NPR's logo colors Red, Black, and Blue? Just asking.

Wednesday, March 26, 2003


Michael Medved finally files his take on the Oscars. Although I didn't watch them, the feeling I get from what I've read is that the scene was akin to being at the 1944 Oscars with people still bitching about the Spanish Civil War.

You open the Billy Jack can 'o' worms, you'd better be ready to finish it off. Where to begin? One of the worst films I can recall, but riveting in its asininity and ideals. Billy Jack is the hippie's ideal. A peacenik that can kick your redneck ass, man. A War hero who turned his back on violence, man, because he loves children and other living creatures, man. And did I tell you he can kick your redneck ass, man?

Ex-Green Beret half-Indian returns to his hometown to protect the experimental school for aggrieved poetesses and weed-huffers, run by the godsmack ugly enlightened schoolmarm, whom Billy has a thang for. The local yokels, of course, hate this, and blah, blah, blah. The whole concept boils down to the scene where the young Indian girl is humiliated in the general store by the neckbones, who pour flour all over her to whiten her up a little bit. Billy intervenes, naturellement, and gives the Speech of Moral Outrage. "How could you do this to her? She, who is so sweet and innocent her people call her Wilting Fawn," or some such shit. I paraphrase, of necessity. Then Billy kicks their asses.

Billy Jack is the prototype of the genre that spawned Kwai Chang Caine in Kung Fu. Half-breed martial arts expert pacifists that you can bully and yee-haw for about ten minutes before they drive your spleen into your pancreas. The viewer gets social consciousness with a well-deserved ass-kicking. Rambo tried this format, but the moment was gone. And when you're a half-breed, it'd better be Chinese, Indian, or Black, because half-Mongoloid doesn't cut it.

Did I mention Billy has the obligatory Moment In The Mountains where he peyotes his brains out, handles rattlesnakes, and channels his Ghost Dancing ancestors? Oh, yeah.

A colleague at work tried to work me by giving me a brain worm. You know, a song you can't get out of your head all day. She laid Copacabana on me, but I countered with Seasons In The Sun (like chess, there are several obvious opening moves in brain worming. Seasons is one of 'em). Battle was joined. She then tried Tell Me Something Good, by Chaka Kahn and Rufus. Hah. Fool's ploy. I LOVE that song. Hell, at this point I had her on the ropes, so I went for the jugular: Billy, Don't Be A Hero. That generally drops them to their knees, but she was a worthy adversary. She bent, but didn't break (what's that from?) She Helen Reddy'd me, and I staggered, but then I twofered her: yup, Bless The Beasts And The Children, and then I sneaked in One Tin Soldier. I Billy Jacked her ass! Even I was ashamed after that. Game over. You'd better know somebody extremely well before you do that. Cruel. I should change my name to Uday. He's dead, he doesn't need it anymore, right?

I certainly don't begrudge Jan Hooks any money she can come by, given her skill sets. But these 10-10-220 commercials, in which she plays a blowsy, subliminally drunken slutwhore, can't be enhancing her reputation, can they? I mean, where do you go from there?

Moynihan is dead. He was one of a handful of pols that could make me stand up and cheer one minute, and blaspheme like a sailor the next. They don't make Democrats like that anymore. You know, ones with a brain.

Acidman has a new friend. I know he'd like for you to meet him.

The Beatus knows his stuff. Lesbian Russian rock hotties. I'd heard of Tatu, but I was thinking Indigo Girls, you know? NYET. If he keeps this up Coons may lose his mainpage status. This link is courtesy of the Samablog. Three times a day. That's more often than I EAT.

Looks like our UK buddies have attacked the 100 vehicle convoy trying to sneak out of Basra. Now if we'll follow up with the 1,000 vehicle ant-trail of Republican Guards leaving Baghdad that will be quite a day's work. I keep hearing the experts say this is an assault on coalition troops to turn the tide of battle, and take pressure off Baghdad. Maybe. My personal opinion is they're trying to use the sandstorm to escape, and have no earthly idea what they're heading into.

The Bride likes the pronunciation of the Iraqi city of Nasiriyah. Kind of a cross between nausea and diarrhea. I expect the exact symptoms the Huggie-heads there have been feeling for the last 48 hours or so.

Do you ever have the urge to have someone kick you in the nuts but can't find an obliger handy? No? Strange... Anyway, I was in one of those moods on the way home, so I did the next best thing and turned on NPR. It was the tail end of Talk of the Nation, and some old codswollop called in to complain about the war. A veteran peace protest organizer, he thought the war sucked because he has a grandson in Iraq in the 101st Airborne who might get, like, hurt. He was an outraged old troll who whined and moaned while the host responded gleefully. Folks, this retarded old ninnyhammer was so fundamentally wrong on so many points I'm not just going to fisk him; I'm going to fist him. With the truth. All the way up his polyp-encrusted foul canal.

First: If you want to protest the war, you old jackass, be my guest. Apparently no one's been stopping you, as you mentioned organizing and attending quite a few of these foofaraws over the last few months. You just resent being called unpatriotic. Fine. But once the fighting started, aren't you in the least bit ashamed of your actions? Aren't you worried that your participation in these didoes might embolden the very enemies your grandson is about to battle? Or does your loyalty to your sacred cause transcend this lad's flesh and bones and soul? Have you no shame, after all, you self-righteous ballsack? I appreciate my First Amendment Rights, too, Che, but actions have repercussions; cause leads to effect. Show a little restraint in order to protect a loved one who's obviously a more selfless and better man than you'll ever be. Webster defines treason as the betrayal of a trust. So maybe you are unpatriotic.

Second: Let's talk about that grandson of yours. You claim he joined the Army to get an education. Somehow I think his motives were a bit nobler than that, but if this is true, he must have inherited your dumbfuck genes. You don't join the Army to get an education. That's like joining the Klan to get linen. You join the Army to serve your country and fellow man. The education is a fringe benefit. Besides, if this poor kid had to enlist to get a college education, why didn't you spend less time cavorting with your fellow lotus-eaters and get a job at Wal-Mart to help fund his education? That would have been infinitely more valuable to him than seeing you soil your Depends at the local levantamiento.

Finally: Your grandson didn't just wake up in Iraq one day in the 101. This ain't Kafka, and it ain't the Gulag. He volunteered, you damned nipple. Then he volunteered for the 101st. This is one of the hardest hitting divisions in the whole freaking Army. They're front-line airborne assault. One of the most storied units in our military history. I'm sure the boy knew this. If he didn't want the glory, he could have written for Stars and Stripes instead. Now. Go sit in your corner and shut the fuck up.

Tuesday, March 25, 2003


Being a good Tory I always had Tony Blair pegged as a vapid triangulator. I was wrong. Let me tell you: that man has coconuts. Question Time in the House of Commons is Torquemada time. There is no deference to the PM, especially when his own party reviles him. Tony Blair is on the "A" list with Maggie and Winston. A true friend of America, he has put his career and his balls on the line for us.

Iraqi TV just ceased to exist. About time. I hope some producers were inside.

If my Trotskyite masters would let me I'd redo my office thus: photographic murals on each wall. Feng Shui being important, I would proceed in this order: North wall: Self-immolated monk, Saigon, 1963. West wall: Nguyen Ngoc Loan assassinating a Viet Cong POW, 1968. East wall: Shari Lewis and Lambchop, 1962. South wall: that's my 27th floor river view; perhaps a little ivy. If nothing else, I'll wager the Girl Scout cookie hoors would leave me alone.

Larry Fine was a frigging genius. I'm so tired of hearing about how hard it is to be the straight man. "Oh, but Lou Abbott was brilliant! Dean Martin was timing incarnate!" Bullshit, kiss my ass. Try being the middle man for a while. Wanna talk lack of respect? Underappreciation of talent? Fine was a monster, man. Curly fans are arrested development whack jobs. I have a little more respect for the rare Moe Howard fan, when I find one. But Larry? He ruled. God, Yahweh, and Ikhnaton.

Don't slap me on Moe or Dino, though. I loved those guys too. I saw Moe Howard on the Michael Douglas show in about 1972 and he was a pisser. Very old, but very mean. I was in awe. I saw Dino in person in 1967 when I was 10 years old and my Dad took my sister and me to New Orleans while he tried a case in federal court. We stayed in the Royal Orleans, and Dino appeared in the lobby, bloodshot, tanned, and very cool. Rode the elevator with Pat Boone there, too. No Larry Fine, though.


Fox reporting large explosions in Baghdad. Can we take the gloves off, please?

I do believe, in order to rest my uneasy mind, that I'm going to infiltrate the mosques in this burg with a tape recorder, and see what they're preaching. I hope it's in English. My MEMRI dues are, like, due. I could pass for a Moslem, I think. I'll need to bone up on my ululations and flagellations, but I'm just curious. Is it only the big cities or does this bile permeate every facet of the Islamic culture? I'd hate to think that an Anabaptist church in Saudi Arabia (I'm hallucinating, I know, it would be burned down and its members disemboweled) was practicing the overthrow of their host country. It's pretty bad when a libertarian-minded person like me thinks it's time to reenact the Alien and Sedition Acts because we don't have the intestinal fortitude to deal with avowed anarchists.

No refugees fleeing into Jordan, Kuwait, Turkey, or the future United State of Arabia. Not sure about Syria or Iran, but why would you do that in the first place? I've read a few theories on why; my guess is we've cherry-picked Saddam's pleasure domes and C and C structures so precisely there is little fear in the cities of collateral injury; this kind of skinny travels to the hinterlands quickly via the twilight bark (what's that from?). The other theory holds that we so thoroughly rogered rebellious Iraqis in '91 that they don't trust us, YET. In GWI they fled to tent cities only to be savaged upon their return. They'll stay put until the Hershey bar and Aquafina wagons come through.

Downed Apache pilot Ronald Young's father works for my company. Not that I needed it, but I now have additional reason to pray for the safe return of these pilots, as well as our other POW's.

Monday, March 24, 2003


I've been out country but, crikey, I'd think FOX would've said something in the last few days. He's such a schmuck, but he's great at this sort of thing. I'll assume he's embedded with some Iraqi collaberateur; say, Christiane Amanpour.

When did belt-fed machine guns become chain guns? I don't know, but I like it. Maybe it's just a FOX thing.

When did MOSLEM become MUSLIM? When did the Koran become the Q'ran? I think about the same time Peking morphed into Pieping morphed into Beijing. And Mao Tse Tung morphed into Mao Zedong. I picture an ant farm of bespectacled linguists hunched over their tomes parsing the meaning of pronunciation. The old translations were possibly colonial, inperialistic translations. Better change them. Asiabonics, I call it. I still prefer Musselman. As in "the followers of that mad warrior, er, prophet, M'hamid, are Musselmen."

Think about it. We're going to RULE (well, Administer) Babylon! Assyria! Mesopotamia! We'll be, like, Ninevehians. Which brings me more quickly than usual to my point: Why do the psychotics get the good names? Don't get me wrong, I love the Screaming Eagles, but the Iraqi Republican Guard has a Hammurabi Division AND a Nebuchadnezzar Division. There's glory for you. And those pricks with ears don't deserve such names. I submit we take the oil fields and the names. I don't think Saddam's reign of torture has anything to do with the Code of Law, anyway. We'll call ourselves Assyrian-Americans.

We here in the Bold New City Of The South, AKA the First And Last City To Be Under Federal Desegregation Court Order think the Battle of Iraq is worth it if we can just get the lowdown on our Native Son. If Scott's alive, and I believe he is, he's probably not a Bill Clinton fan. On to Baghdad.

Kate calls them Saddamalikes. Those poor bastards that have to be body-doubles for Satan's Buttplug. If you've ever read the Fidelisto Gabriel Garcia Marquez you know that being a dictator's stand-in can include having your testicles smashed and your leg gimped just to complete the effect. Which brings me to my point: how will we identify the real Saddam's body? I submit that we flense the bodies of Uday and Qusay in order to obtain the requisite DNA samples. I understand the penis provides excellent tissue sample. Then, we flense the bastard who created the pop-up ad.

Richard Chamberlain, butt-pirate. Say it ain't so. Then again, if you ever caught his Octavius in 1970's Julius Caesar, flagellating his crotch with that, that FLAGELLUM, well, it kind of all comes together, don't it? Still a hell of an Anjin-san. Although I wouldn't link to that King Solomon's Mines travesty with Michael Moore's weenus.

Phillip's giving my ex-boss a gentle fisking over his Golden Parachute. I think some of that filthy lucre should have osmosed MY WAY. Or at least bequeath the Augusta National membership to a true believer.

Kate's new skin is quite venomous. Kudos to Joni. I really gotta join the Pepcid Generation and groove my site.

Acidman is going through a Weight Of the World moment, which I can certainly relate to. And when it hits you, it hits hard. I hope his admirers and visitors who touch down here at times (and he IS my Blog Uncle) drop him a comment of good cheer. He has more friends than he can possibly know.

I believe the poor lad's capitulated. He's busily grooming Fred Thompson's hind quarters right now. Being a Democrat these days must be like being a Republican with David Duke as Party Chairman. No where to run, or hide.

In response to my Harley Earl screed, and the well-considered opinion that I am a Know Nothing, I bring you The King. Loewy's alway been a favorite of mine. As a product designer he introduced streamlining (taking the humble locomotive from 1800's steam smokestack to 1930's sleek diesel), and model changes (redesigning refrigerators evey model year, in effect creating built-in obsolescence). He also designed the Lucky Strike logo, the slender Coke bottle, and the Shell Oil logo (current 1967 version). Simply brilliant. He'd probably be stoned to death were he introducing such commercial heresy in, say, an East Village loft.

Ah, well. The Saracens screwed around and let the Air Force destroy the Apache helicopter on the ground where it crash landed. Gloids. Any decent Chinese paramilitary would have stripped that baby like a '79 Caprice in East Memphis. Any Somali skinny worth his weight (oops, bad analogy) worth his diaper would have spent three hours pogoing on the rotors to approving Al Jazeera video crews. What's wrong with these people? Carpe diem, dickwads.

You know the type. Jolly, never met a stranger, always ready with a clever repartee. I used to be like that, until I was like, ten. But I like these type of folks, and admire them. And THAT is what's wrong with the pro-Saddamites, anti-warriors, peaceniks, Francophiles, Anglophobes, relativists, nudeniks, bloodforoilers, cryptofascists, and other crimps, spungs, and feebs. They are miserable wretches. They loathe themselves so much that they absolutely cannot stand any one with an ounce of conviction or self-assuredness that is not the product of collective guilt. That's why these soulless picts thrive on hatred. They cannot allow an alternative universe to coexist with their wrist-slashing angst. It's why so many of them and their forebears turn a blind eye to Stalin and Castro and their respective atrocities. Omelettes my ass. Those weren't broken eggs. They were skulls.

Which reminds me of two things, because my thought streams are necessarily tangential: One, this Moslem whack-off that fragged his CO in Kuwait was born with the middle name of FIDEL. And two, good old John Mohammed, AKA the DC sniper Batman to John Malvo's Robin, fragged HIS fellow soldiers in the first Gulf War. A modest proposal: cashier soldiers named FIDEL, and don't let Moslem soldiers play with grenades of any kind. Give them a more appropriate job, like cleaning the porcine shit from the latrines. I've come to the sad conclusion that there are 800 million People's Templars out there, and I for one am tired of their foam-flecked fanaticism.

Sunday, March 23, 2003


ADVENTURES IN BUREAUCRACY is touting some sort of NEW VODKA, which I'm all for; I just like STOLY, because it pours into the glass with a shimmer like kerosene, or heat on a Georgia highway. The clean clear stuff seems a little wuss to me. Pour a glass of wodsky and see what I'm talking about.

I must confess it was hard work keeping the kids' eyes on the ball, but I found it imperative to do so in order to ruin their vacation. I confess. I hate cruises. Abhor the concept of being herded onto a vessel with 2500 of my least favorite friends, jack-holed into shore trips I wouldn't touch with Phil Donahue's tuber. However, one perserveres. The Caymans were great, if gulping saline extract in the form of two foot waves is your gig, having native guides thrusting 20 pound manta rays onto your breast in some sort of bestial bonding ritual lights you up. Pictures at ten.

Cozumel was slightly better, only in that the natives (and I use that term colloquially) are ready to wheel and deal.

No FOX News, no CNN. MSNBC was the packie. Brian is Jennings Lite. So sad. Enough about me.
This ship was rigged for patriotism. The menu read "Freedom Fries", and the waitstaff marched around the dining hall singing "God Bless America" and "Yankee Doodle Dandy" every evening, with great gusto and reminders about the Freedom Fries. I was a bit ashamed at first, it was so proto-patriotic (who's buttering your bread?) however we all became overcome with emotion later, and wept a bit. My assistant server was a Musselman from Indonesia, and carried the American flag with great spirit, I may add. Even my jaded corpuscles were tetched.

May I speak of the crew? Two very beautiful Lithuanian girls tending bar, along with an Estonian girl of equal game. Turkish men, Slovaks and Czechs, Filipinos, Indonesians, Brits, Aussies, Kiwis, just what you'd expect. Except these folks for the most part had lived under the Iron Curtain until they were 10 or 12, and loved the US for their own reasons. No one had to pipe Roast Beef of Old England to get their dander up. Tomorrow: a belated Nostalgia and the origins of the Rat Patrol Club.

Saturday, March 22, 2003


I await the Oscars this year for the same year I do every year. I will not be watching, only commenting with my trademark rage and calumny. For I equate the ceremony with all that is rank and pustulent with the habitués of La-La Land.

WITNESS: William Faulkner's Golden Land, wherein a newcomer-cum-success opens his morning paper to read his under-age daughter's front-page exposé of vice and sexual deviancy in the community (in which she has voraciously participated), only to have that humiliation trumped by a late-night rap on the door, where he finds his teen-age son trundled on the door step, unconscious and naked except for a pair of ladies' step-ins snugged around his hips. The Coen Brothers' W. P. Mayhew was humorous, but ultimately failed to grasp the fact that it was not a corrupted Faulkner that couldn't fathom Hollywood, but a corrupt Hollywood that couldn't even fool a dissipated Faulkner. War later.

So the warblog must of necessity begin:

Shock and awe, indeed. These vermin pineappled the 101st. Nothing more than wounded at this point, thankfully. Frig how they breached the perimeter, this is the equivalent of Cook getting speared with 32 cannon offshore. I realize we're saving the Screamin' Eagles for Baghdad, but let's get 'em out of the foxholes and let them be all they can be.

UPDATE: Turns out to be a fellow soldier fragging a superior officer. First reports claimed it was because the officer wouldn't let him go to the front. Then it turns out he was a Muslim angered about the war. Yup. Just like the Muslim FBI agent who wouldn't interrogate a fellow Muslim. Just shoot these bastards.


I so don't want to come back from vacation to a war blog that I must ask:

WHO THE FUCK IS HARLEY EARL? I mean, from the commercials he was a great car designer for Buick in the what, 40's? 50's? Is he the Roadmaster guy? Don't know the name. He ain't Pininfarina, for godsake. That's as sad as sad can be. Buick is saying, We not only can't design a classic car anymore, we're going to try to fool you spungs into thinking we can by pretending to resurrect our best designer from the wormbed, who's been dead since dirt was new, and hire a dicktoid to play him in commercials, in the hope you'll buy into the joke and purchase a new.... CENTURY! Well, suck my pee hole. I is ashamed. We are at war and showing Harley Earl commercials. We make great weaponry and pick 'em up trucks, we can annihilate nations with aplomb, but we can't make a decent fucking sedan. But we make great commercials!

Monday, March 17, 2003


I'm off to the Caymans and Cozumel. I tried to link to my good friends who've stuck with me but Blogger got irritable. So sorry. Keep the faith. I shall return.

Sunday, March 16, 2003


My mea culpa. Listen: WAR sucks, and it's a natural thing. We all know it's going to happen now. I'm a middle-aged guy. Not my war, so to speak. My friends have kids in the military, though. People are going to be hurt, and killed, and I hate that. But the parents I speak to are okay with it. It's their kids we're talking about here. They are the only people who have a dog in this fight. My fear? Iraq goes biological on Israel, they reciprocate with a nuke, and China fires off a nuke on Taiwan for no fucking reason other than opportunity. Pretty damned far-fetched. But I think this is a world full of far-fetched shit.

Sorry for light blogging recently, but I've been busy. Shopping for the chirren (YOU shop for two girls and the Bride for a vacation), haircut, liquor, MY clothing needs, digital cameras, hair coloring for two blondes who are NEVER satisfied with their sheen, Cripus. I also have to download about eight new hip-hop songs for the elder daughter (told you about her navel-piercing, right?) Time's scarce. And explaining to my daughters how I pierced my ear with a starfish in 1975 just ain't gonna cut it. We were responsible with our piercings, dammit! Och, aye, as the Irish say.

Here's what I ate for Eat An Animal For Peta Day:

Pork spare ribs. Prepared with a nice smattering of salt, fresh ground black pepper, garlic powder, my special dry rub, and a touch of cumin. Smoked over a low flame for 3 hours. Basted with barbecue sauce the while (I used to be a Johnny Harris aficionado, now I've discovered Stubbs, which I can toy with). Serve with dental floss.

Why do I read Maureen Dowd's screeds? For the same reason I pick at a scab, I guess. Creating a place that needs a scratch is better than having no itch at all.

Saturday, March 15, 2003


I just remembered. When I was 8 my little brother and I chased down a goat and hog-tied him. And I fear he liked it.

UPDATE: When I say "he liked it" I was referring to the goat, not my brother. My brother loved it.

The birds are returning (I'm getting absolutely Emily Dickinsonian here). What I get on my pond:

Raptors: The occasional bald eagle, lots of osprey, one territorial owl and a yellow hawk that sits in a pine tree and stalks my cat. He's never made a move, which is good. It would be his last great mistake. Fosse is 20 pounds of adolescent ass-kick. Sometimes I'll get as many as six osprey circling, drafting, diving at the same time. Bitching.

Wading birds: You name it. Blue heron, white heron, great egrets, snowy egrets, wood storks (nesting pair). No flamingoes, dammit.

Waterfowl: Ducks, coots, cormorants. When the house was first finished 3 mallards showed up and spent the summer together. The next year there were 4. Now there are 5. They must be wintering in Key West.

Song birds and such: A pair of nesting cardinals, sparrows, bluebirds, no bluejays, and grackles. Grackles are ugly ass birds, crow-sized, with olive feathers, black feet and beak, and a taste for beetle. Most annoying.

Hummingbirds: They're due any day. I have 4 feeders out by the lanai and they love them. Incredibly territorial, though. I've identified six who come back year after year. They engage in dogfights that the Air Force should study. Wayyyy cool.

So that's my spring.


Spring is finally here, and I need it. I needs miles on the bike to shed 7 pounds of winter fattage. My normal loop is nice. Head out on the Florida back roads for ten miles past the horse farms. Then back along the St. Johns River. The water laps right up to the road in places where the cyprus trees encroach. Hand built docks, places on stilts, old cemeteries. A nice 20 mile loop. I also ride past the Shands Bridge in case I'm up for an aerobic sprint. I usually stay away from the Shands because the homeys fish it, the bail out lane is ony 18 inches wide, and when you're going down the backside at 30 miles per hour, you don't want to dodge fishhooks, old bait, broken bottles, and loose tackle. It does make the ride more interesting, though.

Every other week I try to do the northern circuit. Start from just north of the Mayport ferry, where you can see the antennae of the John F Kennedy. Leave from Hugenot Park, where the windsurfers work the bay, north through Little Talbot Island State Park, through Big Talbot Island State Park, then the road opens up and the Nassau Sound Bridge is in front of you. A mile and a half. At the top the wind comes straight off the ocean, you're very high up, and you sometimes get blown over about three inches. When your legs are that weak and your feet are locked into the pedals that's a rush. If you screw the pooch you're ass over tea kettle, and your only hope is your riding partner can pull the cell phone out of your jersey and call 911. I haven't wrecked in years, but I carry the arthritis and the scars.

After the Sound you can cruise through Amelia Island Plantation and refill your water bottle at the Ritz Carlton, just to piss 'em up a little bit. Cruise American Beach, the last African-American Beach I know of, where the old timers hold out against development, and you're back over the bridge and into the beach breeze again. If there's a more beautiful ride in the world, I haven't found it.
I find it interesting that, among all the musicians and celebrities spouting off against the liberation of Iraq, I haven't noticed a single hip-hop or rap artist. I may have overlooked it, but it seems to me the gangstas are more patriotic than one would imagine.

Steven Den Beste thinks the war will start tomorrow, with Bush and Blair making a joint announcement from the Azores summit. Sounds about right. Timing is everything, and mine usually sucks. I'll be leaving on a cruise Monday, which means I'll spend the war watching some kind of bullshit CNN International and trying to get on-line in the internet cafe. Probably $10 a minute, too, which could curtail my gambling. If we're lucky we won't get Norwalked by some disgruntled Indonesian Musselman preparing our food with his shit under his fingernails. Come to think of it, the entire damned crew will be foreigners. That's about 800 opportunities for E. coli and fecal coliform poisoning. But I'll be damned if I'm not going. I'll drink my liquor neat and only eat well-done meat. I'm a solutions kind of guy.

Friday, March 14, 2003


I link to the Samablog for several reasons. Number One: We started this twisted scene about the same time, and have been mutually supportive, which is great. Number Two: He posts shit where I don't even know WHAT THE FUCK he's talking about - bonus points. Number Three: He does this. It doesn't get any better. Russian lesbian hotties? I stand affirmed. Samablog is on the A-list.

Auto Zone has been running radio commercials with a series of different theme songs. For a while they puzzled me, because they seemed familiar, and yet remote. Then it dawned on me. They're ripping BIG STAR! The seminal proto-new-wave band from 1974. Alex Chilton had the Box Tops before Big Star, then cut 2 albums with Big Star. Sort of Mott the Hoople meets U2. The connection? Memphis. Auto Zone and Alex Chilton are both Memphibians. Listen and decide.

I don't always agree with Phillip Coons, but that's okay, because he's a reasonable guy, and opinions differ. I also believe he's a fine fellow, and runs what I think is the best weblog out there, because he packs more stuff into a user-friendly format than anyone else. Great pics, lots of updates, I think we all aspire to this. He's my new main page.

From 1955 to 1960 Gordon Scott made six Tarzan movies, including Tarzan's Greatest Adventure and Tarzan the Magnificent. Scott was the ultimate Lord of the Jungle. After the Weissmullers and the Lex Barkers Scott brought gravitas to the role. The plots were dark, the scenery forbidding. When the natives were chasing Tarzan down the spoor trails it was terrifying stuff. And Scott was a brooding misanthrope of a Tarzan. He made Batman look like Barney. After these movies Scott went to Italy and made a lot of pretty good C grade Hercules/Goliath/Sampson movies, many of which I saw at Saturday matinees. In Italian flicks the three heroes are interchangeable. I suspect they chose the name based on the fluidity of the voice-dubbing.

After Gordon Scott Tarzan was pussified again, especially by Ron Ely on TV. Jai, anyone? The reprehensible Tarzan show is also responsible for its hell spawn Maya.

Sordid encounters with Happy Dan.

1969 Playboy tan lines.

Poll Parrot shoes.

PF Flyers and the jet-pack man.


Friday's Nostalgia Nite at Velociblog, so without further ado...

FUNNY FACE: Pillsbury put this drink out in 1965 to take market share from Kool-Aid. The first batch of characters included Injun Orange and Chinese Cherry, definitely the coolest two of the group. Bowing to pressure from activists, however, Pillsbury soon replaced them with Jolly Olly Orange and Choo-Choo Cherry. The mental illness advocates must not have been up to speed then, because nobody complained about Goofy Grape, and he's obviously a fucking retard. And check out the site I linked. Somebody has wayyyy too much time on their hands. I'm jealous.

SEGO: All the hep mommas in Kensington Park drank SEGO diet drink from Pet Milk back when. It was the perfect chaser for the cucumber sandwiches, martinis, and unfiltered Chesterfields they scarfed at their bridge parties. Alfred Hitchcock discovered Tippi Hedren in a SEGO commercial. Shit tasted like Nutrament with a Feenamint chaser.

BOSCO Bear: He was the mascot for the chocolate syrup. When I was about 3 I knocked over an entire corner display of glass Bosco Bears (filled with syrup, natch) at the supermarket while grasping for one from the confines of the shopping cart. My mother made me watch them clean the whole mess up. Nasty.

Funny how when you're a kid the brands your mother buys are the only correct product. For us it was Blue Plate Mayonnaise, Sealtest Ice Cream, BOSCO SYRUP. I'd spend the day with a friend and his mother would use Miracle Whip on the sammies and it was all I could do to gag down what was obviously boil squeezings.

STYROFOAM HOT DOG AIRPLANES: Sorry folks, I couldn't verify this for love nor money. I do remember a series of styrofoam gliders in the shape of various animals, food products and such. Hopefully this link to some Guillow's Balsa Gliders will make up for it.

G.E. Wildcat: This was a close'n'play phonograph for teenagers. Two (count 'em, 2!) 3 inch speakers for that stare-oh sound. My older siblings each had one. We butchered many a Beatle 45 and LP on those grinders.

Romper Room: I did the week stint. When it was my turn to be leader in Follow The Leader I chose a turtle to emulate. A lot of girls ruined a lot of pretty dresses crawling around that filthy studio floor after me. My mother had to brandish a flaming Zippo in the courtesy booth to fend off the other pissed moms.

THRILLER: Karloff, scary stories, and a toddler. I rest my case, Your Honor.

Enough. If I revert any further I'll be soiling myself.

Thursday, March 13, 2003


"Mama, don't let your babies grow up to be STUPID NAIVE SHITWADS WHO HIRE PSYCHOTIC BARKING HOMELESS MEN TO WORK ON THEIR HOUSE WITH TWO YOUNG GIRLS AT HOME.... let 'em grow up to be doctors and lawyers and sech..."

My bad. But it had to be said.

It's been a Bitter Bitch world for a while at the Bitchgirls site. A little balance is always appreciated (see Ohaus reference below).

What the hey? I think I'll include the Triple Beams in the Friday Nostalgia. We all remember those!

We need some balance. De Villepin spit in the eye of Great Britain today. The Brits were making a last ditch effort to rephrase the wording of the latest resolution to meet whatever criteria the French and Germans could accept. This was a HUGE concession on the part of the "Coalition of the Willing", and the Chirac regime stated that no matter what was proposed, they would exercise the veto.

This is end of game. I personally think the IDIOT COWBOY Bush and his POODLE Blair maneuvered this situation in an effort to draw the debate out over the weekend, at which time Bush will declare the resolution off the table Sunday night and, by the way, the B-2's left Diego Garcia two hours ago. The only way to re-achieve the element of surprise, at the expense of the French, and a face-saver for Blair as well.

What chaps my ass is this: Bush has a legitimate concern about Iraq. He MAY BE WRONG, but so what? What is the real downside to nullifying Saddam? I believe that ultimately less Iraqi civilians will die from collateral damage than would die under the bootheel of Satan's Buttplug over the next year, and less U.S. troops will die than die in any recent peacetime year from drunk driving and youthful hijinx. Full alert deployment in dry countries has a net benefit of keeping the boys out of trouble, if nothing else. The potential downside of continued appeasement is so much greater than the potential loss of life in military action as to be a no-brainer. Nobody wants to put a human life into a cost-benefit equation, but life itself is an actuarial table, and with 80 suitcase nukes missing from Russia we're all on one somewhere.

Madman's Boobs for Troops project is so successful it's, well, humbling. Such brilliant beauty in such a great cause.

What the hell is going on at the Air Force Academy? This rape scandal makes the West Point cheating scandal of '75 and the Naval Academy cheating scandal of '92 pale in comparison. This just sucks from the top to the bottom, and speaks to a culture of power and control that I don't even want to contemplate.

Full disclosure: The summer of 1976 I was a cadre (upper classman) at one of the service academies training the first ever group of incoming females at the academies. And while we were sceptical of certain issues like physical stamina and agendas, I can only recall a culture of respect, and, shall I say it? protectiveness. In the sense that you always protect the striplings under you. I honestly think sexual assault would have been unthinkable to any of my classmates. Did it occur? I can't say. It may have, but I doubt it. I can only recall one case of consensual sex, and this fellow was gone in 2 months from peer alienation. I was gone, too, for reasons of my own. But I think the brass hats need to take a very hard look at commingling living quarters, and gender-norming concepts that place women at risk.

I drive fifty miles round trip to work every day because I like living in St. Johns County. The primary reason is the school system, which I believe is among the best in the nation. I'm sure this is one of the few districts in the country where the faculty parking lot is full of SUV's with Bush-Cheney bumper stickers on them. My ninth-grader's book assignment the first semester wasn't Maya Angelou, it was Ayn Rand. Most mornings before I go to work I sit on my front porch and listen to my fourth-grader's school sing patriotic songs from across the street. There are fantastic private and parochial schools in Duval County, but I also like the rural flavor here (WARNING! Cue bedroom community sprawl music, also known as the JAWS theme).

The reason I mention this is because our excellent Superintendent of Schools is retiring this year, and none of the local semi-finalists to replace him made the final cut. A couple of these people I know personally, and either would have been an excellent choice. My concern is disruption in vision and policy from without. On a positive note, however, the finalists are from Overland Park, KS; Orlando, FL; Lancaster, OH; Ballentine, SC; and Pleasant Hill, MO. Not exactly hotbeds of Stalinism. Interviews are obviously in private, and Board sentiment is appropriately discreet. I wait with bated breath.

For some reason when I watch a Rumsfeld press conference I'm prone to believe he's channeling Il Cattivo.

Allah be damned. Even this Dixie Chick is attacking Bush. Where does it end with these people? At least she's honest enough to admit it's about Bush, not about the immorality of deposing a sadistic tyrant.

At the rate I'm boycotting artistes I'm going to be able to afford that Cadillac EXT I've been craving. I don't even want to go off-road in it. I just want to crush the heads of innocent Iraqi children and use the bed to haul all the money I've stolen from Palestinian refugees to the Zionist bank to fund further atrocities in Jenin. You'll recognize it. It'll be the EXT painted red with the blood of Arab old folks. I'm planning on trimming the seats in the tattooed skins of nubile war protester coeds. Ted Rall's skull will be my hood ornament, and I'll have a large Masonic symbol on the tailgate, etched with the pancreatic fluid of innocent Belgian bureaucrats. The least a war-monger can do is live up to expectations.

Wednesday, March 12, 2003


A couple of years ago a fellow here in Jax got a knife jammed into his skull. One of the tabloid TV shows highlighted the story, including showing this X-ray. The guy, who recovered, sued the producers because he hadn't given permission, blah, blah, blah. People, if that was ME, and I'd RECOVERED, I'd have that picture plastered everywhere. Especially on my blog. Them's bragging rights.

About a thousand yards down the road from my house is a swampy little pond called Lake Beluthahatchie. Among the houses is a handbuilt log cabin inhabited by Stetson Kennedy. Stetson gained fame and notoriety in the late 1940's by infiltrating the Klan and exposing their inner sanctum in books like Southern Exposure and The Klan Unmasked. Stetson had balls. Woody Guthrie was Stetson's good friend, and visited here numerous times in the late '40's and early '50's. Woody worked on his memoirs at Stetson's place (a trailer then), and wrote some ballads, including an homage to Stetson, Beluthahatchie Bill. They and some friends also practiced shotgun drills in case the Klan attacked them (this was the boonies then). The Times-Union ran some good pictures of Woody sitting on a log by the lake, strumming a guitar. Pretty cool.

Stetson's 82 now. I need to go down there and pick his brain. I wonder if he could handle a couple of shots of Ten High?

Apparently these two nimrods met in an anger-management class. No word on the chicken's prior mindset.

A big day today on the Velocimeter. In addition to my visitors from the Carnival, I blogmelded with Phillip Coons (a busy fella! Good on ya, Phillip), and a shout out from Electric Venom, although unfortunately Venomous Kate has sworn a blood oath of revenge on me for ingraining an unfortunate visual on her cerebral cortex. As nobody's got my back, I figures I better nip this in the bud. Kate, I have two fine kidneys, I only need one. If you can find a suitable purveyor of fresh organs with unmarked American dollars perhaps we can settle up.

A Wiccan War Welcome to visitors from The Daily Rant's sponsoring of the Carnival of the Vanities. And for those of you who got locked up I apologize, and promise to get off my cheap ass and spring for some bandwidth. Jay and Jane run a great site full of excellent stuff, and did a marvelous job with the Carnival. My doo rag's off to 'em.

Here you'll find something I hope will aggravate, repulse, bemuse, enrage, or even delight you. If not, go here. My Bloguncle will accommodate your needs. Not much warblogging around here until D-Day, as I and everyone else has pretty much said it all, although truly outrageous jackassery will be duly fisked. Scroll down, and feel free to curse me out. I ain't afraid. (What's that from?)

Tuesday, March 11, 2003


I am a victim with a plan. I'm sick and tired of senile citizens getting discounts on everything from meals to theater tickets because of their age. What the hell did I ever do to any of these businesses to warrant paying extra for their goods or services? Nothing, dammit. I'm a victim of age discrimination, nothing less. Works on the other end, too. My younger daughter gets a discount at Disney World and she enjoys the place boatloads more than I do.

Old people aren't poor. They are richer as a demographic than any other segment of American society. They just pretend they're poor to get the discounts; they have lots of cash, but instead of bequeathing it to their kids or paying their fair share they spend it on RV's and pornography. Show me a Holiday Rambler heading southbound 95 and I'll show you a trove of filth inside that would make Al Goldstein blush like a Mayberry bride. This isn't your ordinary pornography these geezers crave, either. I've been inside these rolling Satyricons. Foot fetishists, barnyard animal aficionados, urinists, shit mummies, you name it. Disgusting. Into the Heart of Darkness, indeed.

But I digress. I'm going to start demanding the same price as the Depends crowd. Threaten lawsuits, parking lot beatings, pet defenestrations, I don't care. I will get my java at 20% off.

First, this spootwad assaulted a little 8-year-old African-American boy in 2000 for admiring his car. Now he claims the American Jewish Conspiracy is driving the war effort. This sac of placenta is a racist, anti-Semitic bigot. Of course, I think those are mandatory check-offs on the Democrat registration form.

Back in the mid-70's National Lampoon had a mock-up ad inside the back cover that was a take-off on comics ads. Only this one was for a bronzed statuette of your favorite actor's johnson, actual size. They listed about 50 popular actors of the time you could choose from, and showed one. Now, this was the perfect set up to slam some poor bastard. And who did they select? Jack Palance.

Gentle Readers, this was a grim and grisly bit of jerky, most notable due to the underside view. Gnarled, veined, bent, and miniscule. Just like the rest of Jack. I wish I still had that edition here in the days of Photoshop. My revenge on a select number of screwheads would be murderous and complete.

Monday, March 10, 2003


When I start hallucinating about Jackson County Jail I know war's in the air. While not technically a "Womens' Prison Movie" (see Jonah Goldberg for that), it's certainly a "woman trapped in a Georgia prison movie", and deconstruction is loose at Velociblog. This gem not only has the evocative Yvette Mimeux, it also has Tommy Lee Jones in his first role that I recall, as a Manson-with-a heart-of-gold character. He next appeared in Rolling Thunder. Having said that, it's only a matter of days till Full Metal Asswhup. My horoscope told me so. I, of course, will be out of the country on D-Day. More on THAT unfortunate turn of events later.

Ever seen a woman breast-feed in public? I have. Did you ever see such a thing as a child? I thought not. Now, I'm rather famous amongst my few acquaintances for a great appreciation of the feminine body, in all its wondrous forms. Especially hoo-hoos. But let me tell you, I don't like public breast feeding. Not at the mall, not at the Jiffy-Lube.

A word of advice to practitioners of said offense: SUCKLE YOUR DAMNED WHELP IN PRIVACY. Even Jiffy Lube has a restroom. Is it clean? I don't know. I've never been in one. Tell me about it when you return. I'll be the guy reading Motor Trend on the plastic chair in the corner, sipping a cup of incredibly bad Vietnamese robusta. You'll recognize me. I'll be the guy whose eyeballs are not rolling back in his head because he had to watch an intimate parasitic act, one which the host initiated. If I want to see that I'll rent Alien.

Now, my wife doesn't like breast-feeding at all. She thinks formula-feeding is what separates us from the baser creatures. And my kids are quite well adjusted, thanks for asking.

I'm not going to go that far. I don't care if you go naturel or hook your sprite up to a Jack Daniel IV. Just don't do it in front of me. I suspect many of these women are La Lechers; you know, the women who had to form a secret society to share their guilty pleasure because their next-door neighbor was repulsed when they explained how, well, I really want to wean five-year-old Joshua from the breast, but I don't want to give up the bonding. Word up sister. Get Joshua a football, shave your armpits, and go have sex with a real man. Your husband.

I'll tell you something else. For everyone who thinks this is the natural way to go, wait till these Bantu refugees from Somalia hit American shores and get their first gander of Enfamil. They'll think they died and went to heaven.

But then again, I could be wrong.

Come to think of it, I ought to set up that blind hussy with Acidman. There's not enough sorrow in the world without I go create some more.

SOMEONE has been BRAZEN enough to suggest I highlight my LINKS in bold due to their OBVIOUSLY FAILING EYESITE. I'll try this for a while, even though this involves an EXTRA TWO CLICKS for me, and I am bygod LAZY. But if I like it I'll keep doing it. Meanwhile, perhaps GRANDMA would enjoy this TORRID short story based on me entitled THRILL HAMMER.

Sunday, March 09, 2003


JoniElectric has a great website. She and Roberto cover a lot of ground. This link is to her cats' site. In addition to a plethora of other good stuff there's excellent advice on animal rights. If you've ever cared about a pet, read it. Live it.

I'm very disappointed British soldiers forced surrendering Iraqi soldiers to return across the border from Kuwait. The poor bastards thought the war had already started after hearing live-fire exercises by the Brits, so the dirty dozen crossed the border to surrender. Their condition, according to the commanding officer, was horrid. So now that the story's out, guess who'll be the next victims of the Saddam torture machine?

Surely the British could have taken them into custody on humanitarian grounds. Think of the PR coup it would have been as well. Leaflets showing these blighters getting medical attention and their first decent meal in God knows how long might have created a stampede.

After 5 days of constant rain here in the Sunshine State the wet stuff stopped long enough yesterday for me to mow my lawn, steamclean the carpet with a fair chance it would dry out, and clean the pool of an inch of tannin-stained muck I've been eyeing nervously for two weeks (my automatic pool cleaner sucks. The only reason I keep it near the pump is so I can kick it as a proxy for the scrote who sold it to me).

Today was to be the day I tamed the mutant viburnum and laid down some weed & feed and critter poison. Thanks to the Dursban ban the mole crickets down here have batting averages. It started raining again about 5:00 am and we're socked in until Monday morning. Oh, well. I guess I'll secure myself here in the Bat Cave, catch up on some bloggers, and watch a double feature of Tarzan the Magnificent and Caged Heat 2.

He Who is Heading to Key West needs our help. To arms!

Nuclear rogues Iraq and North Korea are getting some competition from Iran, according to Time. They are far more advanced in their uranium enrichment program than previously suspected.

Imagine being Bush: inherit an ebolic economy, suffer 9/11, have to smoke out al-Qaeda terrorists holed up in the cesspools and caverns of Afghanistan so they don't buttfuck you again, get shat upon by your European chums as you attempt to avoid potential nuclear confrontation with a sadistic mongrel in Iraq, keep a weather eye on a suicidal psychotic ferret in North Korea who can't decide whether he wants to sell his 2 nukes to terrorists for enough money to feed his army for a month or just fucking light 'em up to see if that will get him food for his army for three years. Now the mad mullahs in Iran, assholes puckering over democracy-mad revolutionaries, have ramped up their Weapons of Global Annihilation program to warp speed in order to stay in the game and buy some leverage.

That's the front burner. On the back burners you have Pakistan, the world's only fully nuclear capable Islamic nation staying in line only through the fitful exertions of an iron-fisted military dictator; India, the world's largest fully nuclear capable democracy, who is terrified of Pakistan and wants to kick its ass in a very preemptive manner; China, who will thwart American interests at every possible juncture, and who forced down our surveillance plane and stripped it to the bone like the Bumpus dogs on a porterhouse steak. Well, you get the picture. A border to the south streaming with illegal aliens. A border to the north streaming with hateful vitriol. An elitist self-serving media establishment horse-whipping you over every utterance to a slavering worldwide audience.

Why the hell would you even get up in the morning?

Think about that when you hoist your Bush = Hitler poster, torch a few one-hits, and head to the peace rally tomorrow.

Saturday, March 08, 2003


It would be remiss of me to mention Harry Crews today and neglect to send a shout out to the late, lamented Frederick Exley. Fred died in 1992, victim in the end to his savage alcoholism and manic depressive self-loathing. He gave us A Fan's Notes, though, and that was enough. The fictional memoir of Fred's torrid battles against the bottle, middle class life in the fifties, and most of all Frank Gifford is heavy stuff indeed. Woven throughout Exley's narratives of life in Watertown as English teacher at a nearby school are his musings and fanatical devotion to Gifford.

Jealous and resentful of Gifford while a fellow student at USC, where Frank was the golden All-American boy with the beautiful girl and Exley the pasty outcast, the long distance admiration becomes a sub rosa devotion. Exley lives and breathes Gifford's every play, every statistic. Gifford becomes Exley's personification of success in America, in stark contrast to Exley's failures in life and relationships. He worships Gifford, resents him for it, cannot cope with Gifford's injury. And, of course, Fred gets horribly hammered the whole time. The only book I've read I had to turn my head sideways at times for fear of reading on.

As twisted as it gets. Moth to a flame stuff. Read it.

I've read a lot lately about cats versus dogs as pets. I like 'em both, and have both. Here's why:

I want my pet to reflect my mood. Neither dogs nor cats can fill that role entirely. When I'm in a good mood, I want my dog around. He's old, blind, and diabetic, needs two insulin shots a day, and has the bladder control of a Parisian in the Reichstag, but he's still glad when I come home. He seeks me out for affection. Likewise when I'm depressed, my dog will sense that and commiserate. That's what a dog does. They're mirrors of the soul, and perfect companions for that.

A cat, on the other hand, is an aloof shit that couldn't care less what kind of mood you're in, so long as you feed them. And when I'm in a pissy mood, that's exactly the kind of animal I want around. Why get the dog upset? Cats confirm your shitty mood; they don't care how much you paid for that sofa, they're gonna sharpen their claws on it. Allergic to cat hair? Tough titty, pal. I'm shedding like a stripper. Just feed me. I'll find my own water if necessary. Cats also take care of their own defecation needs. I like that in something that's sharing my house. My male cat's the best. He just jumps over the fence and shits in my neighbor's yard. Good cat. A model of efficiency.

So that's it. One renders affirmation, the other's a bile-o-meter. Perfect.

This story has always fascinated me. For over 200 years a series of treasure hunters and syndicates have attempted to recover what is presumably pirate's treasure from a pit on Oak Island off the coast of Nova Scotia. Whoever devised the pit had access to remarkable engineering skills, because the pit is not only covered by a series of oaken barriers at various depths, it is also booby-trapped with tunnels linked to the sea that flood the pit at those depths. Even the cove sites where the flood tunnels originate are engineering marvels, consisting of sophisticated drain systems covered by an artificial beach to facilitate the flooding.

Read the whole thing. Maybe one day someone will crack the secret.

If you've never read anything by this guy I recommend you do so. Harry Crews is the literary equivalent of a back-alley pugilist. He doesn't so much write the story as slug it out against the odds. His A Childhood: The Biography of a Place is both chilling and pathetic. Crews had a childhood no one should have, growing up abandoned and poor in Bacon County, Georgia. Other Crews novels include Car, the story of a junk yard scion trying to eat a Ford Pinto one small bite at a time, and A Feast of Snakes, about a rattlesnake roundup in Mystic, Georgia.

Crews taught writing at the University of Florida for years, but spends most of his time these days trying to figure out where he got his tattoos, legacies of the days when he was, in his words, "bad to drink". Check him out.

Comments are down! Retreat!

One thing about a link from Acidman. You aren't lonely.

I had to stay up to watch the new Bill Maher show on HBO. Good goddamighty. A 4-way fuckhead fest, including TED RALL. Each of these gashes is trying to outdo each other bashing Bush with a planted audience. I don't know who the other two dickheads are, but there's certainly no tension amongst panelists. Rall just said "During Vietnam George W. Bush ran off like a pussy for the whole fucking war." I think that's an accurate quote. Maher replied with "Well, he's certainly as big a draft dodger as Bill Clinton."

As if flying F-101's in the Air National Guard is the same as protesting against your government at Oxford and Moscow. Say what? This circus of psychosis will be cancelled in about 3 or 4 weeks, then we'll hear Maher scream about censorship. But nobody will watch this tripe. It's not funny. It's not even controversial. If one quarter of tonight's audience tunes back in I'll be surprised. Face it, Bill: You are one lame-assed pus pocket, and nobody wants to watch you except a couple of hedgehoggers at HBO who've been huffing the yellow airplane glue for too long. I normally don't even rant about feebs like this, but as a marketer I'm gleeful that their Nielsens will be lower than J-Lo snurfing blow out of one of P-Diddy's left-over Air Force Ones.

Exhibit A: there's a hot lesbian 69 scene happening on Skinemax at THIS VERY MOMENT. Very hot. Top that, Maher.

Friday, March 07, 2003


Not to pique your curiosity, just to jog mine:

Styrofoam hot dog airplanes
Funny Face (only the racist ones)
My mother's nylons

Mostly a food theme. NB: Monkey Division is sacred, as habitués here know. It is deconstructed individually.

It's rained for 6 straight days here in the Sunshine State. My yard is trashed. It went from dormant brown to Mekong Delta overnight. My viburnum are as wild as a crack whore's crotch (Don't ask. I just KNOW). If I don't see some sunshine tomorrow I'm going to have to, well, PAY somebody to mow this shit.

What the hell. One more nostalgia hit.

Friday night's nostalgia night at Velociblog. Herewith a sampling:

VAROOM!: This was a battery operated motor you attached to your bicycle. It made a loud grinding noise, which allowed you to get in touch with your inner Sonny Barger. From Mattel, natch. Got mine about '62 or '63. It lasted about 3 weeks, as I recall, but it was king hell in its day.

SIX FINGER: "Six Finger, Six Finger, man alive! How'd I ever get along with five?" Scroll down for the pic. A toy spy gun that looked like a finger for surprising your enemies. This may have been a spin off from a Maxwell Smart weapon. I really don't remember.

VAC-U-FORM: This was a primitive forerunner to Mattel's ground-breaking Fighting Men, which evolved, of course, into Thingmaker and Creepy-Crawler. They didn't have the ease of use and safety down in the original Vac-U-Form, though. A kid could immolate his house rather quickly with that beast of a toy.

MAD MAGAZINE RECORDS: The original floppy disks. MAD inserted these into the magazine as a free giveaway. I only remember two: "It's A Gas", which apparently was released as a regular 45 later, and "Mama Look a Boo Boo Day", which I didn't realize at the time was a Harry Belafonte Calypso song. I thought the accent was just a goof.

Enough nostalgia for tonight.

LONG ODDS has 150 to 1 odds Saddam Hussein will be dead by June 30th. Of course, if longer odds get your blood racing, they also have odds of 15,000 to 1 he'll join the Backstreet Boys and tour with Elton John by that date. Even odds he'll still be in power. Guess which action I'm taking?


It's reassuring to think if the war went ultimately awry, we'd assuredly prevail. While Great Britain could spank France in two weeks, our nukes should stay Russia's and China's nuclear hands. We'd have a spot of bother neutralizing Germany, as most of our troops would be out of theater, but they have no real army. That leaves the Aussies to take out a dysfunctional Russian army. China? India would haver to make that happen. The PLA is enormous, but they have limited mobility. Most of our troops would be in place to protect India's back door vis-a-vis the Pakistanis.

Which leaves North Korea. They'd have to be nuked Day One. Which puts that "should" up there on thin ice. Too many itchy fingers out there. I'd wager no more than 5 to 10 percent of Russia's ICBM's are functional. Guidance systems, targeting software, this stuff takes money and maintenance. I don't know if the Russians could get more than 5% off the ground. But that's still a hell of a lot. I wish we had missile defense in place.

At any rate, we'd all be mutant toads, but we'd prevail! Sleep tight!


I like the Fox female anchors as much as the next guy. Hell, hotties are a Murdoch trademark. But Google one. Man, there are a lot of pimply proto-stalkers out there with fansites. I wonder if their mommies know they're caulking the tile to Heather Nauert? The best one is devoted to female anchors who smoke. Seems Kiran Chetry is a chain-huffer.

My Catherine Herridge dominatrix site should be up soon.


Acidman waxes eloquent on breasts, both the pendulous and the pert.


Ramesh Ponnuru links to an NRO story from last June by Mark Levin in which Levin claims whistle blower Coleen Rowley only blew the whistle because she knew a memo she wrote would eventually surface. In the memo she cavalierly declined to seek a warrant to search Moussaoui's computer because she thought the U.S. Attorney's Office would have too high of a standard. In other words, she was too damned lazy to make the effort. So to cover her ugly ass she sent a memo, eight months after 9/11, to Mueller and two Senators! And the memo was leaked!

It appears to me that she was just another in a vast group of FBI employees who turned on each other like jackals to cover up their own failings. It reminds me of Charles Grodin and Dyan Cannon turning on each other in Heaven Can Wait. Only this isn't funny, nor do I get to see James Mason in action.

Thursday, March 06, 2003


Here's a little something from someone who's trying to parse the concept of "honor killings." They apparently know it's wrong, but this is a "root cause" examination. This, folks, is why Bush feels the reluctant call of a benevolent God. If not us, who? If not now, when? I pity the man his challenge, I swear I do.


I'm obviously on a Fox News tear at the moment, but I have to say Greta's running the most fair and balanced news show on TV. She's surprised me over the last few months. I'm still not joining the Scientologists. I'll leave that to Gergen.


When John Walsh gets the goatee going, it's time to find a new look. 75% of the men I work with now have the goat and, if they're not shaving their heads bald, they have it on a 1 on the trimmer. If I want to hang around guys who look like that I need to rob a liquor store then turn myself in.


I don't think Alan Colmes believes half of what he utters on TV. I think he's one of those incredibly rare liberals with a true conscience, but he's paid to argue the case. I know I prostitute myself on occasion (in staff meetings: You're certainly right on THAT ONE, Big Guy), but shit. My fellow graduates don't have to see me do that on a daily basis on worldwide television. Which makes it better, right?


Forgot to mention this yesterday, but I KNEW Sean Hannity would wear his ashes on his show yesterday. That's quite the statement. He moved up a few notches in my book. Freaked his opponents out, too. In re Sharpton: he's probably the only Democratic presidential candidate who wouldn't mock that in the green room.


Al Sharpton is a goddam fool and a fraud, and you know what? I like him. For all his faults, he's the only Democrat in the race who's willing to discuss the issues. He got game.