Wednesday, April 30, 2003


I cannot believe Dyke Van Dick is still alive. He's been on my Dead Pool for 5 years. I just don't like him.

war criminals who fostered a cannibal uprising in order to defeat independence for the Congolese in 1960 want to try Tommy Franks for war crimes. No one has the true numbers, but 1 million to 2 million dead as a result of the Belgians' actions is the usual estimate. Here's a wild-assed site that I won't vouch for but it certainly has more game than most I've seen on the BELGIAN ATROCITIES IN THE CONGO.

I also think people are wrong. The Belgians COULD carry Franks' jock strap, if only they would.

you're a linker or a thinker. Well, I haven't been linking lately, and my thinking is awry. Here's who I've been reading, however:

Acidman is on a jihad to bust his union. Not a fight he picked, I may add, but one I'm confident he will win.

Da Goddess has world domination in mind (domination is good, administered by the right hands).

Venomous Kate is on a mission to supplant the Blogfather as King Rat. One link at a time. There's glory for you.

Samablog is totally pissed with Blogger users (that would be me) and their dysfunctional archives and links (again, that would be me). But you'll have to scroll down. Samablog doesn't have a "link" link I can find, but you can Buy His Stuff! I'm getting the mug.

Jay Solo has pulled together some good advice on getting your blog noticed, unfortunately he didn't inform me how to quit getting de-linked.

Mr. Helpful has apparently whelped Peter Frampton. Good on ya, bro.

Moxie is waxing eloquent on circumcisions. I have a lot of kinks in my kit, but been there, healed that.

Coons has a new look, but he's still info intensive. He also has evidence John Kerry is the bastard offspring of Fred Gwynn.

Zombyboy has a strange and twisted tale of the BBC and a homunculus. Seriously.

BogieBlog has a link to something called the FiberFest. I was excited I could get some info on colonic regularity; unfortunately it was about something called fiber optics(!?!)

Lileks is at the Apple Store AGAIN with his pwecious widdle bibby bobby booby burby baby! She's a pwecocious widdle thing, she is! How did she get so smart at 2 and a half? I have no idea.

Tariq Aziz knows Scott Speicher has been dead since 1991 it follows he knows who killed him. It further follows that the individual(s) personally responsible for this deserve a war crimes trial. Aziz needs to come clean with some names or stand in the dock himself.

I can't help it. I'm off my meds. You know who I detest? The truly vile wankers? The cretins who say "Duh, uh, hey Lenny, Mary Ann or Ginger?"

What in the self-abusing name of all that is unholy (specifically Jim Backus) are you talking about, Rainman!? You're 32 years old. Take down the Avril posters and get a date. What really makes my skin crawl is the fact that they ALWAYS ANSWER MARY ANN, like they're being clever. Nipples who would ask this question in the first place will always answer Mary Ann because by definition they're screwheads, and afraid of a real, grown woman. Don't get me wrong. Dawn Wells was a cute girl, and actually still is. Having said that, let me give you The Secret Of My Success:

When confronted with the option of going for the Girl Next Door or the Sexually Accelerated Nymphomaniac Starlet I choose the latter as a rule. Let me explain, because you need some 'splaining to:

Mary Ann's gonna squeak and squeal the whole time, cry afterwards and lay some guilt trip on you, and then complain over dinner how she didn't have an orgasm. Ginger is going to open a train case full of whips, cuffs, unguents, emollients, and enema paraphernalia, go to work on you hammer and tongs, and then cradle your head in her ample breasts while you have a good cry. That's what I'm talking about. Sexually experienced? Ginger is in the Kama Sutra. She's a veteran of the casting couch, and has reduced warty sexually-dysfunctional Slavic studio moguls to curdled yaktose.

What were you thinking about, you puss? Your second choice after Mary Ann was probably the Professor.

And one more thing. You scrotes put this in beer commercials. BEER COMMERCIALS! How effete. When I was a kid a beer commercial was your next door neighbor opening a can of Schlitz with his teeth, chugging it, then flattening the can on his wife's forehead (steel cans, none of this aluminum shit). That's how you knew you wanted to drink beer when you grew up.

I should have known my little screed on cellphone driving would curse me. Left for work at 7:00 today and ran in to a logjam on I-95. A gravel truck turned sideways, blocking all three northbound lanes. Got to work at 8:15. I wuz, as they say, pissed. Because you know what slows it down the worst. Fucking rubberneckers.

Hey! Freak! Never seen a truck sideways before? Very interesting, isn't it? Tell you what, you want to rubberneck, why don't we go down to the morgue and check out the guy they pulled out of the Ribault River this morning. Then you can see what a grappling hook does to a man's face. And what crabs do to his pecker. Idiots.

Tuesday, April 29, 2003


Everyone has a screed or a bitch about cell phone usage in traffic, but gawdam. My traffic keeps getting worse and worse. When I first moved here six years ago I could get to work in 27 minutes, on a good day. 37 was a bad day. That's 25 miles. Now it's 50 precious minutes at the best.

Traffic HAS increased in my St. Johns County area, but, more importantly, what traffic there is moves like a fucking clap drip on a yeti. It's all Suburbans and Tahoes and Excursions with these big fat clueless ginches driving with a phone stuffed in their fat faces, screeching like a goddamed Cambodian in a Pol Pot torture dome whilst smiting runaway urchins who AREN'T strapped into their frigging carseats because they can't watch the ballsack Warner Brothers Designer Built Into The Cocksucking Headrest Video Fucking Toon. While Biggie Fry Mom is simultaneously attempting to paint her porcine meaty fungus-encrusted toenails in the process. I don't know where the Beautiful People live, but it ain't here.

The guys aren't much better. Pick their noses while they talk on THEIR phones in their farping Boxters. Hey, asshole, you were a bent dick when you drove a Ciera. You're still a bent dick.

I don't wanna pass a law, but these assholes are going to ruin it for everybody. When my boss calls me on my cell phone, I say: "You got 15 seconds. Make it quick." When The Bride calls, I ignore it. These things have VOICE MAIL. USE IT. I'm a fucking Ada good driver, I believe, and I can do a Starsky & Hutch with the best of 'em, but I can't talk on a cell phone and drive well. NOBODY can. If you think you can, you're the asshole in front of me. Except you have no clue. You think 15 MPH is the NORM. It's not, turd thistle. You've just made it that way.

And there's the rub. Used to be when the light turned green, people DROVE. Now they fuck around and try to download their e-mails from their pusswad Blackberrys while I'm sitting behind them going into hemorroidal overdrive. I swear, I keep my Commemorative Lester Maddox 14 inch pick axe handle in the car ONLY FOR EMERGENCIES, but you, prostate-bulge, are making it one.

on Scott Speicher. The vibe I'm getting is nobody really cares. Of the thousands of captives we have I believe I could get a little intel on this guy, for better or worse. Can you say genital cuff? I knew you could.

I expect Israel to respond with righteous indignation and nothing more to the latest terrorist attack in Tel Aviv. I DO NOT expect Israel to do what I would do, which is to round up the usual suspects and smoke their asses with blow torches and pliers. Build a frigging wall, boys.

I can't make the graduation from Vanderbilt because I have prior commitments to my own girls here in Cowford that day. However, I'm informed, I can catch it on an Officially Sanctioned Webcast. Excellent. Now, does this come with the English Major Girls Gone Wild video?

Monday, April 28, 2003


It must have crushed Agence France-Presse to report that celebrants in Baghdad dressed up a donkey as Saddam Hussein and fed it a shit-cake in a boisterous fete on the occasion of the Arabastard's 66th birthday.

Scourge And Retribution Smite, or Several Asian Riceboys Succumbed? Damned if I know. But I DO know the Influenza Pandemic of 1918 killed 40 million people in only a year, before the age of commercial air travel. SARS is a stubbed toe next to that. Q flag Toronto and Hong Kong for 4 weeks and this is likely a non-event. Unless it starts to really mutate.

So last week Drudge reports that Hillary's book is due this summer, but she had yet to put pixel to screen. Then news today the manuscript has been delivered. She really must be The Smartest Woman In The World. Either that or she has the fastest ghostwriter known to humankind. Speaking of ghostwriters, I read the other day that all famous people who write books as a second career, like Margaret Truman, use ghostwriters. Even multiple authors who pass it off as their own work.

I'm kind of glad to know that in a way, because that means there are some smart people out there who can't write for shit; as one who has fruitlessly attempted the Great American Novel over the years I can relate. I'd usually never get past the Obligatory Sex Scene, usually involving hydroencaphalitics and razorcocks, or some such. You know the scenes. Think of any one of several passages in Terry Southern's Candy. Like the one where Candy's trying to mount the hunchback's hump, or the scene at the end where she's penetrated by statuary during an earthquake. You know, sorta like that.

Sunday, April 27, 2003


trying to be a bubble-pricker here, but exactly why are we slaves to James Lileks' latest screed on his kid's shitty diaper, anyway? Don't get me wrong. I LOVE LILEKS. But shit, man. I'm tired of parsing the latest in Minneapolis bullshit for a bite of goodness. And James doesn't even know why we flock to him, anyway. I say shine him, for the moment. He'll appreciate it. Trust me.

lately how cool Phillip Coons is? We disagree on some issues, but Phill is a Viet Nam vet, and one cool sumbitch. He also burns major bandwidth posting hotties, which puts him in my Hall Of Fame right off the bat. Check him out. He has more shit up there than any reasonable person should think allowable. Phill Da Man.

I didn't mention it earlier, The Samaman has a culinary site you should check out. I think it's going to get even better.

I see the Dixie Chicks getting worked by Ving Rhames while prairie chickens are being beheaded I'll give a shit. Until then, keep it to yourself.

Saturday, April 26, 2003


Wow. My daughter's boyfriend insisted on preparing dinner for us tonight. Hey, I'm game. The kid's just turned 16, and he prepares a feast of pan-seared chicken breast in a lemon-juice and herb sautee, with angel hair pasta and a marinara sauce that was delicately laced with mild yellow and pink peppers. Accompanied by French bread meshed with a homemade garlic and cheese spread that was unbelievable. He's hired.

The Bride tells me the First Boyfriend sets the bar. This is true, I think, and my daughter's future boyfriends are going to have a tough row to hoe, because this kid is intelligent, thoughtful, kind, respectful, a great cook for his age, and, well, everything I was not at his age. His father is retired 10th Mountain Division, too. I wish she had met him when she's 22.

Friday, April 25, 2003


still suck, of course, because Natalie's mea culpa was weak, dishonest, dissembling, and self-promoting. They do get credit for stripping to the fuzzies, however. Which means I can play them on Fridays.

This will be piecemeal, as I'm just back from tha airport and trying to grill some chops for my young legatees because The Bride disappeared down the street to her home gals' after I got home (what's THAT all about?!) but bear with me. Check in periodically and drive up my site count.

This should keep you busy for a while anyway. The prettiful future pin-up Kate turned me onto this. I really shouldn't have exposed you to this site all at once, because there's so much for me to mine here I could have populated Nostalgia for months off this place alone. But it's too damned good, and I like to share.

Everything from Wonderbread to Spidey to vintage girlie mags to Betty Page (my true weakness, along with Chained Heat II), to Emma Peel, this is the mother lode (or brother lode, for my alternative lifestyle fans). Tough stuff, indeed.

And... A MAD Look At Old Movies. If you've read it, you know. If you haven't, buy it. Too Much Information to deconstruct here.

And... how about some bummer Nostalgia, because life's a roller coaster, right? Speaking of coasters, when I was a kid we'd go to the fair every year in November (brr..). The Coastal Empire Fair. Now, in the early sixties there were still kids who'd been stricken by polio. My best friend in 4th grade was in leg braces. At the fair, though, you'd see the Okies who were too damned lazy to even get the minimum medical care for their children. They'd pull them around in wagons. Fucking 20-year-old Radio Flyers. My older brother was a wit. As I was gawking in horror at these poor crips he'd explain to me that they'd been fine, but had been thrown out of The Bullet the week before, and their parents were bringing them back to the fair to sue the owners. And that The Bullet was the best ride ever, and we were going on it now! Then he'd make me ride it with him, and when The Bullet was stopped at the top, swinging, and you were upside down, nauseous, he'd explain how this was when the thing had sprung its latch and the kid had plummeted to his maiming. Then he'd make it rock. Bro, you out there? Fuck you, man.

J----- FUTCH: (Caveat: The names have been unchanged to preserve authenticity): This poor feral shit never had a chance. In Effingham in the mid-sixties there was one school bus that roamed the north part of the county to collect kids for all schools: elementary, junior high, and high school. A '30's model Bluebird, not unlike Furthur, the Ken Kesey International from Acid Test. No AC, the thing rattled like a bastard from decades of traversing rutted dirt roads. The Futch kids were picked up in Egypt, the greasy spot in the road before our greasy spot. Although there were 5 stops to go before the first school, the bus was always crowded already. Except for THE SEAT. All seats would have 3 kids on them except for one. It would be EMPTY. So you'd dash for it, only to see J----- laying on it, with a pool of vomit on the floor. Poor bastard got carsick, every day. And those Tobacco Road parents of his apparently only fed them cooked cabbage. Day in, day out. Nasty, I say. My mother got him motion-sickness pills (she was the Florence Nightingale, CPA, and Clara Barton of the upper county) but his parents were too damned lazy to give him the pills. So poor J----- wallowed in his puke every day.

J----- was lucky. His brother B----- was cross-eyed. Mom made the county nurse get him corrective glasses. And she gave their older sister shoes. My Mom grew up in South Georgia during the Depression, and understood the plight of the dispossessed. I'll always remember how she took care of those unfortunates around us. Gee, next: tuberculosis, friend or foe?

AND... I wasn't going to go here, but this is pissy Nostalgia night, so here we go.

I grew up in the "Deep" South. Born in 1957. My siblings and I had a maid growing up. Or, rather, a series of them. Suffice it to say by the time I (4th of 5 kids) was of cognitive age my parents had settled on A MAID. Etta. Black, of course. Etta looked like Mammy from Gone With The Wind. But Etta wasn't Mammy. She was Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holliday and Bull Connor rolled into one. She was the kind of maid who could keep your parents happy, keep the house tidy, AND whip your ass. Although I mostly remember climbing on top of the refrigerator because she couldn't reach me with the broom there. And for all her goodness we treated her pretty shabbily, as kids will do any authority figure, especially a custodial one. And she was a custodial figure to us. Our play pretty. I'm pretty sure Etta was paid decently, and got juiced by my mother with nice fabrics and foodstuffs and such, because she stayed for a long time, despite abuses I'm not prepared to divulge at this time, only because they were not of my making and pretty innocuous as pranks go. But about the time we did the Green Acres thing in 1966 and moved to the "plantation" in the country that whole world was unraveling anyway, for the better. Another year and we could've been Nat Turnered.


don't like the O' Brother Where Art Thou? CD. My little one especially. "O Death" grims her out. Hadn't listened to it in a while, but a post on brain worms by my Blog Uncle got me inspired, so it's blaring from the pooter now.

Comments have corrected themselves in my absence, links are screwed againnnnnnnn. I have to republish early and often, but it won't let me. Hell, it won't even let me administer my own damned archives. Could also use some help setting up my new site, as I'm rumdumb when it comes to Moveable Type/PERL.

from Chicago. Token Ring issues on the laptop so I've been out of commission. Working on Nostalgia, though.

Wednesday, April 23, 2003


It seems the media were guilty of a little looting of Iraqi treasures. That must be why the museum looting occurred. While coalition troops were returning fire the embeds were boosting artwork.

Ten bucks says if the one media type busted so far hadn't been a Fox News employee this story would still be legless.

Yasser Arafat and his stooge Prime Minister Mahmoud Abbas, have ended their ridiculous charade bitter dispute over the appointment of a new cabal of murderers cabinet. I can see the headlines now: "Abbas His Own Man", "Arafat Shows Commitment to Power-Sharing With Choice of Abbas", "New Cabinet Promises to be Legitimate Partner for Peace". Blah, blah, blah. And blah.

but I've seen prairie dogs with higher profiles than Hillary Clinton lately. She voted for the war then went to ground. She probably has some Arthur Bremer type locked in a caged cellar in Hot Springs. She'll release him about the time of the New Hampshire primaries to do Bush. That's why all these little girls have been disappearing. She has to keep her mutant entertained until his date with destiny.

used drugs!? Next thing FOX will be telling me is Pete Rose bet on baseball.

I'm seeing breaking headlines around that the Iraqi intelligence chief has surrendered to U.S. forces, but no underlying text other than he knows where the spies in the U.S. are. Good. Maybe he'll rat out John Doe Number 2, and we can pin OK City on these people (the Clintons) as well.

Tuesday, April 22, 2003


something someone said a long time ago, this gentleman laid his heart on the railroad tracks today, and the train, out of sheer respect, ground to a halt.

feedback on the popped coon gut. In fact, other than this strange man no feedback at all. I guess that tells me something.

Man, being on the Venomous One's Daily Bites is heady stuff indeed. THAT is rarefied air. And we spacediving fans thrive on rarefied air.

The court did rule that the annual Velociworld Billy Jack Peyote Tripping Open Invitational could be held this June, however. Dennis Hopper will be hosting.

fuck-faced opportunists like Vicente Fox realize they are dealing with an American President who doesn't play their version of Wet Willie? These idiots (here's another one) think they can stake out a position for domestic political gain, poke Bush in the eye in the process, then kiss and make up afterwards. Bullshit. W's already told Karl Rove he wants these guys' peckers in his pocket, and Bush is the kind of guy who will forego a second term just to get even with pricks like this. I honestly don't think he cares that much. After the shit his first term laid on him, why would he even want a second term, unless he lusted after the ability to seriously fuck with the people he felt had wronged him? I believe they seriously misunderestimate this guy.

The Onion strikes again.

800 suicide vests constitute weapons of mass destruction? They had ball bearings in them.

A man down in Winter Haven nearly lost his arm after trying to play Crocodile Hunter with a seven-foot alligator in an attempt to save it from highway traffic. Ironically, the beast had to be destoyed after biting this nimrod. Good news: the folks at MTV want to talk to him about an upcoming episode.

I mentioned Jennifer Carroll yesterday, and her win in a state house race last week as a black Republican. Two other black Republicans also won seats on the City Council here. This is a trend I'd like to see more of. We have a prosperous African-American community here, and they are revolting against the plantation mentality that's been hammered into them for decades. I also love the name of one of the Councilwomen: Glorious Johnson. That's a name made for campaigning.

has asked the town of Hamburg, NY to change its name to Veggieburg. I can't make this stuff up. Hamburg claims to be the birthplace of the hamburger, and PETA says it will donate $15,000 worth of non-meat patties to area schools. No word on whether PETA has requested the city of Hamburg, Germany to change its name to Weaseltown.

UPDATE: They could change the name to Velociburg and I would not object.

Monday, April 21, 2003


Gotta confess I watched a couple of hours of Franco Zeffirelli's 1977 Jesus Of Nazareth yesterday. I normally don't watch this sort of thing, and didn't catch it in its original TV miniseries venue. I like my ancient desert sagas with gladiators! and lions! and effeminate Roman senators! In fact, I'd never heard of it before.

But I like Robert Powell. He was great in the remake of The Thirty Nine Steps the following year. But I'm old school. I don't like my Hay-Sooses with that dreamy, sexy, come-hither look in their eyes. It's unnerving, damn it. I want my Jesus casting out moneychangers, and squaring off with Satan in the desert.

Here's a Jesus for you. Talk about come hither. He looks like Dan Fogleberg. Or you can opt for Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter or Cowboy Jesus. Enough. I want to see Mohammed, Bitch Slave 4 U, or Zoroaster, Pimping Da Ho's.
Bigwig has a belated Easter message, but very timely in its conflation of the 14th and 21st centuries.

Apparently if I republish on an hourly basis my links will work, WHEN this scumsite lets me do that. I have a new site, but my limited skills force me to take a few days to obtain maximum tweakage. Suffer the children and the fools, my friends.

this is NOT NOSTALGIA! It's trenchant commentary, triggered by The Venomous One's torching of Sandy Duncan. But you'll see the connexion, I trust.

When I was in 5th grade there were 2 girls in my class, identical twins, named L----- and B------. I could never tell them apart, so mitochondrial was their DNA. They were tiny little things, too, maybe 60 pounds, with tiny heads the size of yellow squash. I also had 15 year old boys in my class (5th grade! Socially promoted 4 times!), who would fast pitch softballs so brutally I KNEW they would kill one of these girls if they beaned them. What happened instead, though, was their Slingblade older brother got angered and threw a rabbit ears antenna at one of them, and put her eye out. Since this was the cuntry, and these folks were on relief (not new-fangled Great Society relief, but old-fashioned FDR New Deal relief), she got an oversized glass eyeball (probably courtesy of the Civilian Conservation Corps). You could certainly tell them apart now; my problem was, though, I could never remember if L---- or B---- got her eye put out!

Quandary of quandaries.

About a year after this mayhap Slingblade drove his car off the causeway by the spillway into Lake Number 3. A few of his peers debated letting him drown, then finally saved him in hopes of getting a reward from their parents or his. Neither was forthcoming.

Nostalgia was supposed to be a Friday evening divertissement, but I've let it encroach on daily blogging. Most people really don't give a shit about what spackles the holes in my childhood soul, and my daily numbers prove it. So I'm going to force myself to stay relevant and current, although I don't consider opining on something like, say, 2000 Maniacs! to be nostalgia, because I saw it as an adult, I think it's still interesting, and although my mother took me to see some pretty raw horror films as a child, this was beyond her pale.

Jennifer Carroll is getting some national exposure. She's very sharp, and as a black Republican, more evidence of how Florida continues to outpace the rest of the south in successfully running these candidates for state and national seats. A retired Navy Lieutenant Commander, Carroll ran against the unstoppable, corrupt Corrine Brown in the 2000 election to the U.S. House. With a few years in Tallahassee Carroll could be a statewide force to be reckoned with.

did the same shitweasels who were totally prepared to give Hans Blix YEARS to find WMD's if necessary only give Bush one day after entering Baghdad? Just, you know, asking.

should be good news for me. Currently dealing with both roads on Mexican service. I see sin-uh-gee, as they say down here.

Woo hoo! Things are bright in the Velociworld.

FIRST: My niece graduates May 9th from Vanderbilt University with a B.S. in Cognitive Neuroscience, cum laude. I'm not sure what that is, to be honest, except that my graduation present is to will her the Velocibrain for her heinous experiments at a hopefully much later date. She's a beautiful, brilliant young lady with an incredibly sweet disposition. She's also a red-head like my little one, so there's that, too. I'd say the smart genes skip a generation, but her Mom's pretty brilliant as well. It must just skip the males.

SECOND: Officially got my new job today. Director of International Business Development. Riding herd over a $600 million line of business. My customers are in New York, Chicago, LA, San Francisco. The sales people are deployed, so travel is generally discretionary (when I want to). I foresee gratinee de coquilles St Jacques, scaloppini e piselli, Rosemount Mountain Blue Shiraz 1999, McCallan's on the rocks with a twist, blogging from the laptop... oh, and I'd better solicit some damned freight while I'm at it. Because when you take away the twenty years experience from steamship lines to trucking to rail, the MBA, the various work in operations, sales and marketing, and finance, I am, ultimately, a freight whore.

Sunday, April 20, 2003


Twin Peaks really thirteen years ago? I'm getting old. The Log Lady and that damned dancing midget. Must See DVD.

Neil Armstrong was an X-15 pilot before joining NASA? Oh, yeah. X-15 jockeys were the first astronauts. Mercury astronauts were way cool, but when lusting after space helmets in Webster's as a child the X-15 helmets were the hot item. They were just cooler.

apparently spent Easter with Broward County inmates. That's an Easter egg hunt I'd rather forgo.

I've always liked Ernest Borgnine. Despite crap like the Poseidon Adventure he had his Oscar for Marty, so he can be absolved for making some easy cash. Between his roles as Dutch in The Wild Bunch and Fat Cat in The Adventurers that's a pretty good career.

Marty was a Paddy Chayefsky screenplay, just like Network and The Americanization of Emily. That puts Paddy all over the map. Not a bad place to be.

Saturday, April 19, 2003


I still love this album, listening to it now, and I'm not even coming down singing "Candyman" with my buddies. Thank God for that.

The latest still has Frenchman Michel Fournier attempting to break Army Colonel Joe Kittinger's 1960 space diving altitude record of 102,800 feet in May of this year. This time the diver will theoretically break the sound barrier after bailing out at 130,000 feet (25 miles up). This stuff blows me away. I'd love to have those testes. THAT is a ride. If the G's don't kill him he'll probably black out and crash land, or his blood will pool in his toes, and who knows what that does to you. At least he has state of the art gear. Kittinger did it with a 1960 model flight suit and Army issue gear. Wow.

All that talk at IMAO thanks to a Jay Solo link I found at Venomous Kate's about blendering small creatures reminded me of a story my brother-in-law told me.
He's a hunter, bags a few deer a year. Lately he's been using a 44 Magnum revolver with scope and a black powder musket. Good on him. More power and all. But I'm not into hunting. Fishing, hell, yes. Not hunting. My father took me hunting with him on a doe day when I was ten and I saw some drunken frustrated good old boys open up on a fawn that had just lost its spots and empty five 12-gauge rounds into it. That did it for me. I'll go out and hang with the boys, but I don't shoot. I have a couple of nice shotguns, too. And a Winchester 30-30. But I respect and admire hunters, because they are our great conservationists, and will do more for our environment and management of woodland creatures than any of those tree-dwelling, fur-coat-defiling fucktards.The main reason I don't hunt is because I don't eat venison, squirrel, elk, or possum. Shit's too greasy and stringy for me. I like my meat well-marbled and grain fed. And felled with a stun bolt to the head. Nice and clean. Not chased throught the woods for an hour, then dragged back to the ATV in the fucking dirt, for a tick-infested blood-letting and field dressing. But I digress.

So my bro-in-law bagged a deer a couple of years ago, and he and his confreres decided to smoke it. Fearful it would be too dry, they went out and shot a raccoon so that they could hang the carcass over the deer and let the drippings moisten the deer. I'm not making this up. Anyway, as a friend was cleaning the raccoon he inadvertently busted its gut with his knife (if you don't know what I'm talking about, never mind). My B.I.L. was impressed. "KC," he said, "he popped that gut, the smell hit him, he turned to one side and yakked, then turned back and finished cleaning that coon."

How, oh how, did a simple story of Instantman Osterizing a puppy lead me down this sentimental journey of slaughter and vivisection? I have no idea.

Blodwyn Pig was a great band. Sort of Tull meets the Doors, if such a thing is possible. Which makes sense in a way, because founder Mick Abrahams left Tull in 1969 to form the Pig. Haven't heard their stuff in years and years. Must. Find. Pig.

I believe I'll celebrate Easter tomorrow by taking the tribe to the beach. Ponte Vedra is closer, but I'll probably take the extra 15 minutes to go to St. Augustine, just because you can drive on the beach there. No schlepping. And there's something very rat-shack, low-rent, red-neck, and pre-Disney about being able to drive on the beach that appeals to me. It makes it easy to remember before they built the superspeedway in Daytona they used to race on the beach, often with spectacular (and unintended) results.

I like to set up my surf rods right in the middle of the surfers. It pisses them off, but hey! They draw sharks. I always keep the big Penn rigged for smaller sharks. The other one I rig for whiting and hope for flounder. I also think I'll take a broomstick, ball and knife for half rubber. The trouble with having girls is you cannot hope to get them involved in a game like that. They won't even throw a Frisbee for fear they'll break a nail. There WILL be teenage boys hanging around trying to impress my older girl, however. I'll let them exhibit their prowess by teaching them half rubber.

It's scary. The only difference between my fifteen year old and a Victoria's Secret model is my daughter doesn't have to throw up to stay slim. 16 hours a week of dancing takes care of that. As I say, it's scary. I used to be a teenage boy. I know what these hammerheads are all about. But I can scare boys like that. They will FEAR me. Until I pull a hammie playing half rubber and have to limp back to my surf rods and Budweisers, that is.

Actually the Rumbler is giving me some good ideas for next week's Nostalgia, although they may all be local in nature:

Horrible Movies on WJCL Saturday nights.

Shopping for clothes at the Yockum and Yockum fire sale.

Birthdays at the skating rink on Bee Road (Krystal's was next door for grease fixes)

Joe's Drive-Ins (Victory Drive and the Traffic Circle).

Shorty Lamb's Garage on Highway 80 in Garden City (wait a minute - NOBODY remembers that place).

How about this then? Jimmy Hale's garage on White Bluff behind Chatham Plaza. Legend had it Jimmy kept a pair of sheep shears to clean up wayward hippies.

Lester Maddox riding his bicycle backwards in front of President Nixon's motorcade.

Acidman brain wormed me with the Cap'n Sandy theme. The local weather guy in Savannah from about 1960 to 1980. I think the first one died in the late '60's. The next guy lasted quite awhile.

Two things I remember about the show: Calamity Clam had the next day's forecast on a card inside his treacherous maw. The brave Cap'n would have to snatch it out like Kwai Chang Caine grabbing those pebbles or he'd get his finger taken off. Once when I was about 5 the Clam got him, and Sandy turned to the camera with a big fake rubber sore thumb on. I thought it was real, and watched evert day for 2 years to see it happen again. Never did. The other thing: the theme song mentioned "counties". As a little runt I didn't know what a county was. I thought it was something like a frigging balrog or ogre. I was terrified a county was going to show up at my door one night and get me. Actually, that did happen years later, but it was a county mountie.

Acidman, if the Clam gave the forecast, what did Wilbur deliver? The extended forecast???

UPDATE: Acidman remembers. The Clam gave the tide tables. Wilbur delivered the next day's forecast. And he informs me the original Cap'n didn't die, he was fired for showing up drunk too often. Only his career died.

I've written about my 1967 trip to New Orleans with my dad and sister, and how impressed I was with my father's key to the NOLA Playboy Club. A real bunny logo steel key. What a stud hoss the old man was. So in the interest of future Nostalgias I've been googling the place. Here's what I've found:

This is a message board for former bunnies who worked at the Club. Apparently 1966-1968 were the glory years. I'm not sure when they closed it.

Here's the offical Playboy take on the club. The building now houses a Gold Club, but Playboy reminds us it housed the Original Mardi Gras Playboy Club.

This Playboy site informs us the first Club opened in Chicago in 1960. The last U.S. Club closed in Lansing, Michigan in 1988.

The Cottontail Paradise.

A website devoted to the early sixties days of the New Orleans Club, for no earthly reason I can discern.

Yeah, baby.

Friday, April 18, 2003


When you see an update on Blogger titled "crappy fucking fuck..." I don't know about you, but I have to go there. Nor was I disappointed. Example: "me play everquest all day. me tired. me need sleep. sandman commeth". This is the kind of stuff Acidman runs across (and shares with us). The prior post is pure bore blog, with a touch of suicidal mayhem thrown in. I'm blogrolling this guy.

Phillip Coons had personal issues today.

Scott Peterson has been arrested in San Diego for the murder of his wife, as her body has been positively identified. Perhaps with some luck Scott will meet Mr. Hillbilly Rapist Motherfucker in prison. And he will then be a long fucking way from alright.

I go to Moxie to read the articles. And that's the truth.

I'm starting a new recurring item. Comedians who are not funny. Premiere case in point: Joey Bishop.

This guy sucks bad. Always did. I'm trying to figure out how he ever got a reputation as a funny man in the first place. I suppose Sinatra lifted Bishop's head off his pecker and said "Hey, boys. Get a load of this guy. He's funny, eh?"

Exhibit A: Texas Across the River. Bishop plays Kronk, an Indian medicine man. His whole schtick revolves around riding his horse, engrossed in his chanting (Hey un un un hey un un un...) until he hits his head on a tree branch. Racist, stereotypical, trite, and sooo not funny.

Exhibit B: Joey finally gets his own talk show in 1969. His sidekick is a young Regis Philbin. Carson has the boozer thing going with McMahon, so Joey comes up with a recurring joke about Regis being gay. Regis finally gets so pissed off he quits the show. One season. One and done. Now THAT'S a funny guy.

I'd give you Exhibits C through Z but the fact is, this no-talent fuck face hasn't done 26 things in his life. A rat-pack ball-sack.
Fuck Joey Bishop.

Next week: Bronson Pinchot.

I fixed that link problem. Just needed to republish my archives. So feel free to spread good vibe. Or treat me like Enoch Emery with a miniature mummy, as the case may be. Read your Flannery O'Connor if that one breezed by you.

UPDATE: I thought I'd fixed the link problem. I think the issue resides with Blogger right now. And the Colonel Klink family assures us spungs the comment problem will be fixed shortly. That assurance was posted April 3rd.

I'm convinced the world is divided into two camps: those who think Creedence Clearwater Revival was a great rock and roll band, and everybody else. Everybody else being defined as people who shave their body hair in the bathroom mirror while whispering Morrissey lyrics to themselves.

Forget the Friday Five. I've got my own traditions to uphold. So humor me or go away.

Whop Boards: Now they call them skimmers, and surfboard manufacturers make nice expensive fiberglass ones. But back when it was called whopping (wopping? wapping?) and you made your own out of a piece of plywood. A nice 30 inch circle of half inch board did the trick. Throw it across a receding wave (about half an inch of water was perfect) and glide or bust your butt. A nice swaled yard after a storm did nicely, too. The trick to the home made ones was the frayed edge of plywood. Often as not it would crab on the sand and pitch you ass over elbow. A Kabuki theater of the absurd.

Half Rubber: This game just goes with whopping, but I suffered from premature Nostalgia earlier this week, so go here for the word.

How about some medical Nostalgia?

Polio Sugar Cubes: Line up, boys and girls. Nurse Ratched has your cube with the suspicious red drop on it. Who knew avoidance of crippling infantile paralysis could taste so good? And don't bother to go to your doctor for this. We'll let the underpaid gummint worker give it to you. Hell, you're already six. If we gave a shit about you we would have given you this when you were an infant. Congratulations. You beat the odds. IF that wasn't lysergic acid on the cube.

Tuberculosis Prick: Right on the fleshy part of your forearm. Nurse would warn you that if it turned red and swelled you would be dead in a year, a hideous little consumptive Doc Holliday, hocking lungers into a spitoon. What they DIDN'T tell you was that they ALL turned red and puffy. They meant REALLY red and puffy. So you'd hide your arm from your parents for a week, too scared to confess that you were a defective node on the family tree, and would likely cost them a pretty penny in burial costs and new dresses for your sisters. You got these at the Community Health Center, which was really a VD clinic.

BOOSTER SHOTS: Remember Nurse telling you that nine inch hypodermic wasn't a shot, it was just a booster? Right. And that puddle of urine on your floor is really just melted sunshine!

Had enough medical Nostalgia? I haven't even gotten to the rectal thermometer!

Red Skelton: When you're seven you think this guy is hilarious. Genius! By the time you're ten you realize what a fucking loser he is. And you'd been missing Rod Serling scripts on Playhouse 90 watching this turd pretend he was a seagull. And that sand has passed through the hourglass, never to return.

So we've captured Samir Abd al-Aziz al-Najim, former Oil Minister for the Iraqi Reich. We should torture this guy. I'll bet he knows where all the oil's hidden.

About fifteen years ago John Mellencamp was shooting a video on River Street. I was standing by his tour bus having a cigarette and a Budweiser for lunch when the door opened and he hopped out. Man, that little fucker should be an honorary member of the Lollipop Guild. I thought he was the Feral Kid from The Road Warrior.

Speaking of Oz, Meinhardt Raabe, the Munchkin Coroner, lives down the road at Penney Farms, a retirement home. About a mile from him lives Slim Whitman (not a Little People). It's a crazy world.

They're training the first wave of airline pilots in handgun use up in Brunswick at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center. I understand they're teaching them to shoot over their shoulders. Now there's a skill I need to learn. I keep a 14 inch Lester Maddox Commemorative miniature pick axe handle in my truck, and I'll pretty much take on anybody with that. If somebody's a big enough bad-ass to make me break down on them, though, I'll probably be hedging my bets and simultaneously hoofing it in the opposite direction.

Personally I'm insulted by this "half-brother-captured" bullshit. I want FULL brother incarceration. Or incineration. I'm flexible here.

Once upon a time I was visiting my aunts/uncles/cousins in Birmingham, Alabama. My uncle belonged to a country club and took us there. He showed me how to strike a golf ball off the tee, then chased me back to the pool. That golf course was beautiful; the fairway seemed to go to heaven. I only got to see the first tee. It was 1966. All the radios at the pool were playing "Yellow Submarine." Then they had an egg-toss contest (only teenagers were allowed). I was 9 years old. For some reason this scene has embedded itself in my psyche for almost 40 years.

a beaut. I'm calling it the "Brit Hume".

Thursday, April 17, 2003


Holla backs ain't showing up. Blogsplat indeed. I have 3 days off and I've already mowed with the soon to be submerged tractor. Time for a migration to a host of quality. Hosting recommendations are hereby solicited.

We should settle the score with our erstwhile allies while everything's fresh in our minds:

CANADA: Owes us $2 billion for foisting For Better Or Worse on us.

GERMANY: Owes us $3.6 million for introducing lederhosen into our consciousness, and our gay bars.

FRANCE: Owes us $11.9 billion for Louis LeBeau.

RUSSIA: Owes us $6.1 million for making The Russians Are Coming! The Russians Are Coming! even peripherally humorous.

There. I feel better now.

Michael Jordan retired for the third time and I'm supposed to give a shit? I just want to know if he ever paid the debt that got his old man whacked.

The French want the abuse to stop. That just means they want more, right?

Doesn't Tommy Franks remind you of the first zombie in Night Of The Living Dead? Yet another reason to like him.

Kumal Mustafah Abdullah is the Queen of Hearts in the Deck Of The Dead. How ignominious is that, anyway? I'd rather be the deuce of clubs.

Let's deconstruct Ellen Goodman's latest. Now, I realize Ellen is old school; her salad days fist-pumping for Da Sisterhood are behind her. She doe command exalted status at the Boston Globe, however, and enjoys a respectable syndication, so she's fair game. Her topic today? Eason Jordan's mea culpa, or, more precisely, how it pales in comparison to what else we're not seeing in this war. But let's let Ellen tell it:

"It isn't every day that a journalist kicks up a furor over the stories that he didn't report.
That's what happened when Eason Jordan, CNN's top news executive, celebrated the fall of Baghdad by telling prewar tales that had never made it on the air. There was an Iraqi cameraman who'd been abducted and tortured. There was an aide to Saddam's son whose front teeth were ripped out with pliers."

Stop. Right. There. Ellen would have you believe these abuses, cruel as they are, are the totality of the repercussions occasioned by Jordan's shameful silence. At least they're the only ones she mentions in her article. I remember more. Take it away, Eason:

"The secret police terrorized Iraqis working for international press services who were courageous enough to try to provide accurate reporting. Some vanished, never to be heard from again...Saddam Hussein's eldest son, Uday, told me in 1995 that he intended to assassinate two of his brothers-in-law who had defected and also the man giving them asylum, King Hussein of Jordan...I felt I had a moral obligation to warn Jordan's monarch, and I did so the next day. King Hussein dismissed the threat as a madman's rant. A few months later Uday lured the brothers-in-law back to Baghdad; they were soon killed...A 31-year-old Kuwaiti woman, Asrar Qabandi, was captured by Iraqi secret police occupying her country in 1990 for "crimes," one of which included speaking with CNN on the phone. They beat her daily for two months, forcing her father to watch. In January 1991, on the eve of the American-led offensive, they smashed her skull and tore her body apart limb by limb. A plastic bag containing her body parts was left on the doorstep of her family's home."

Good God Almighty, Ellen. Nobody wants their teeth pulled out, but Eason was complicit in multiple counts of savage murder. Limb by limb, he said. Of an innocent woman. One of the oppressed womyn, Ellen! A sister! Personally, I would have included this in my recounting of the story. But let's continue:

"I understand Jordan's conflict. But watching this controversy, I found myself wondering more about the Iraq War stories that are now going unreported or, perhaps, underreported."

Two questions: 1) Under what penumbra of objectivity do you "understand Jordan's conflict", Ellen? Cold-blooded murder doesn't move you either? 2) Why, exactly, after reading of these atrocities, and Jordan's complicity in them, did you immediately find yourself wondering about war stories that are, perhaps, underreported? Not being an embed yourself, and under fire, and all? I'll leave that one for you to answer, but it looks and smells like a desperate casting about to divert attention off the subject to me. But what do I know? Carry on, oh blindered one:

"Just a week before Jordan released ''these stories bottled up inside me,'' someone asked a CNN spokeswoman why the network rarely showed injuries or blood or soldiers killed. She replied, ''It's a news judgment where we would of course be mindful of the sensibilities of our viewers.

Isn't this also a deal with the devil, a decision to edit the hell out of war? Aren't we also jeopardizing lives by not telling the essence of war itself?''

Now, call me a fool. You won't be the first. But how exactly are you connecting dots between the cold-blooded murder of civilians to battlefield injuries and deaths? Are you equating the two? Soldiers die in war, and most rational people understand this. Most people do not, however, conflate field casualties with the sadistic torture and murder of women and family members. Can you not discern between the two, Ellen? Are they really the same thing to you? Also, please explain how not showing dead soldiers jeopardizes lives. I'm struggling with that particular nexus. Carry on:

"This surely has been the most covered war in history, with 600 reporters embedded with troops and 24/7 coverage filling cable channels. Journalists have taken great risks and suffered losses relatively higher than the troops they've covered.

Yet by and large, the central narrative of this war has come home as heroes and happy endings; the iconic images have been the rescue of Jessica Lynch and the toppling of the statue of Saddam Hussein. Only rarely have we seen blood, like the blood running across a BBC camera lens recording the friendly fire death of 18 people. Only rarely do we read about a soldier who failed to save a buddy from drowning under a Humvee. Only occasionally do we see the image of an armless child."

Ellen, I will agree with you that we needed to see some more blood and carnage. However, it should have been that of Iraqi soldiers, Fedayeen, and terrorists. I think the American people were ready for that. Because that IS what happened, you know. We lost a few score brave soldiers, some to friendly fire, and the enemy was slaughtered, literally, by the thousands. That's the truth. That's the facts. We should have seen that. By the way, I never saw the "central narrative" of this war as heroes and happy endings; I saw it, and I think most people did, as the toppling of an immoral dictatorship, the routing of his minions, and the liberation of a great peoples. You didn't see that? Where the fuck were you?!?! Finally, I saw the image of an armless child a hell of a lot more than "occasionally". By the way, girl, who do think is the proximate cause of that particular atrocity? Dr. Phil? Proceed:

"I am not suggesting Al Jazeera as my journalistic role model, feeding only civilian victims to their viewers. At times during this war, that network had as much credibility as the Iraqi information minister promising victory the day before he fled.

For that matter, I understand the ''sensibility'' that keeps the wounded and the dead a respectful distance from the lens. But the difficulty of showing pain and the reluctance to show death inevitably produces its own terrible bias".

Come again? "It's own terrible bias?" There's no bias in not showing casualties from both sides. That's merely a decision of dignity. By the way, Ellen, bias, if it exists, is inanimate. It isn't terrible, anymore than it's wonderful. And there's not a damned thing inevitable about it. Rethink that sentence and get back to me. Conclude, please:

"It is possible to both share satisfaction at the end of Saddam's regime and remain deeply wary of triumphalism. I am not a pacifist. I share Hedges' view: ''The poison that is war does not free us from the ethics of responsibility. There are times when we must take this poison - just as a person with cancer accepts chemotherapy to live.''

But how do we know, really know, that war is a poison rather than a tasty elixir of patriotism and pride and triumph? The question is left behind on all battlefields by the stories that aren't told."

Please ask a veteran of this conflict in which pocket he's carrying his "triumphalism". Then ask him where he left his "ethics of responsibility" when he made room for that triumphalism. On the side of the road in Najab? Then ask him or her how tasty that elixir of patriotism and pride and triumph was. Trust me, Ellen, they know the difference between the poison of war and that elixir of which you speak, even if you do not.


Several nations have had a pucker or two over the overwhelming success of the Iraq Campaign. China, North Korea, and Iran come to mind. I believe the greatest shock was in the Russian General Staff, however. American mastery of intelligence, air power, ground forces, and psychological operations had to have flabberghasted the men who would refight Afghanistan 1985. I think Russia was confidently expecting serious resistance, and a Stalingrad in Baghdad.

Baghdad wasn't Stalingrad. Grozny was Stalingrad. Twice. In 1995 and 2000 Russian forces pulverized the Chechen capital in a concerted effort to subdue the breakaway Islamists. After savage street fighting, massive artillery barrages, and countless atrocities, Grozny, only a tenth the size of Baghdad, is now a ruin, and Chechnya is still untamed. Interestingly, Grozny and Stalingrad (Volgograd) are less than 400 miles apart, with similar populations at the time of their respective sieges.

The Russians now know beyond doubt that they cannot compete with the U.S. at any level. Their troops are unpaid, disgruntled conscripts, their weaponry obsolete. Even their small inventory of smart weapons are highly dubious in accuracy and performance. The Russians can't even begin to attempt to war game us, nor could they hope to defeat us in non-conventional tactics. Our mastery of asymetrical warfare was overpowering. The Russians still have nukes, of course, but ICBM's require seriously expensive maintenance. I doubt a tenth of their ballistic missiles could get airborne. Guidance systems, fuel systems, and targeting and detonation software are all suspect. There is no balance of power in the nuclear theater, either.

I'm reminded of Khrushchev's visit to America in 1959. After much bluster about the Ukrainian bread basket and the great wheat harvests he saw Iowa. Those endless shocks of wheat, combined with Nebraska and the rest of the Midwestern Plains, were a brutal shovel blow to that sadistic skull. It must have been something like that in the Kremlin last week.

Wednesday, April 16, 2003


a Tommy Franks statue in downtown Baghdad be declassé?

Acidman has a talent for finding, well, see for yourself.

If Bill Clinton isn't the most classless prick in the world I'll drink Drano.

We just didn't realize the oil was in Molotov cocktails hurled by leftists at policemen.

So I buy a riding lawnmower last week to make my meaningless existence even more vacuous. The fancy OBH model (One Beer Holder). MSRP of a 1971 Maverick. Delivery is scheduled for today between 2 and 4.

I take the afternoon off from work to be home at 1:45 just in case they're early (shut up). At 4:00 I call them to see what's up. Senora "I Can Barely Speak Your Fucking Language" assures me "Si, si you're next on the leest!"

At 4:50 I call again, because weird shit starts happening to delivery drivers at 5 o'clock. Namely you go outside and find a live crated emu and 3 broken malt liquor bottles in your driveway, along with a delivery receipt that reeks of something obscenely familiar. Senora's visaless cousin informs me the tractor was already delivered. No. Don't even go there. That I would know. After some checking she informs me it never made the truck. "It was broke or sumtink so dey dinn load it." After delivering a blistering indictment on their stupidity and general wretchedness as humans I am assured of a follow up call, which I currently await.

Query: what do I hold out for? What will make me whole? I'm not sure, although I'll bluff all the way up to actually telling them to stick the damned thing up their asses, and dropping extra coin for the John Deere at the local retailer.

I'm not going to say who this merchandiser is, but in the '70's their mail-order catalogue had a man with his cock hanging out of his underwear. There's quality assurance for you. I believe someone made a country & western song out of that, too. Who says country's all about whisky, women, and dogs? Nashville was into homoerotica way back when.

UPDATE: It gets better, of course. When the CSR called back I told her to have her supervisor call me. Ms. Supervisor called about 15 minutes later. She'd obviously had Training To Deal With Irate and Psychotic Bottom Feeders With Attitude. After confirming they'd screwed the pooch we agreed on a delivery charge waiver and rescheduled for tomorrow morning. NOT afternoon. I have meetings tomorrow afternoon. Morning. Check.

Fifteen minutes later I received the automatic delivery call announcing delivery tomorrow afternoon. Call Highly Trained Supervisor:

Me: We agreed on tomorrow morning.

HTS: Yes.

Me: But the confirmation call said tomorrow afternoon.

HTS: Yes.

Me: WHY???

HTS: Tomorrow morning's filled up already.

Me: But you were looking at the schedule when we set the appointment.

HTS: Yes.

Me: Well why didn't you tell me tomorrow morning was already filled up!?!?!?

HTS: I thought I could push it through.

Me: You couldn't?

HTS: No.

Me: You realize tomorrow afternoon won't work for me. I told you that.

HTS: Yes.

Me: But you went ahead and scheduled tomorrow afternoon anyway?

HTS: Yes.

Me: Fuck a duck.

UPDATE: I took the afternoon appointment. I'll have The Bride take delivery. Which means I may come home to a crated emu. Nevertheless, I have a plan. I'd spent $300 on a bumper-to-bumper warranty on this thing. I don't normally buy these, but it covers EVERYTHING. NO QUESTIONS ASKED. Just like a Craftsman tool, or a pair of boxers that allow your dick to hang out of the bottom. After I mow the lawn the first time, I'm going to drive it into my lake. Total immersion, just like an Anabaptist. Leave it overnight, then pull it out with the Blazer. Call 'em up, and have them bring me a brand new one. Don't tread on me.

a Roshomon moment for you:

"Daughters of Hijack Victim Want to Spit in Abu Abbas' Face" - Fox News

"Abu Abbas's Wife Prays for His Release" - Reuters

I know which version of events I'm down with.

Mr. Helpful has an alternative to the IRS.

"Kansas Receives Permission To Talk To Self"

Apparently they won't let them bring their shopping cart full of aluminum cans and rags, however.

Growing up in Savannah half rubber was the only game in town. Acidman will remember this. It was played just like stick ball or first bounce, but you played with a solid rubber ball, standard size, cut in half. Simple rules. Hit it and you had a man on. Hit it over the outfielder: home run. Miss it and the catcher catches it successfully, you're out. Tip it and the catcher catches it, he gets an extra out when it's his turn at bat.

As hard as it was to hit half a ball thrown at fast pitch speed, flat spinning with a bitch of a curve on it, throwing one properly took greater skill. A really good pitcher could lay it down the pipe with no curve, giving the batter at least a chance. It was played anywhere, but the beach was best because the sea breeze increased the curve.

Half rubber died out sometime in the '70's as I recall, though I played a few games in the early '80's. I don't recall seeing it anywhere else, although I remember Myrtle Beach laying claim to it in the mid-eighties. Bullshit. If the game was played there at all it was by Savannah boys on vacation, who needed some recreation after boinking the local skeezes. If anybody can remember playing it elsewhere I'd like to know.

I think I need to get these neighborhood kids off their pussified skateboards, scooters, and rollerblades and teach them a man's sport.

Silflay deconstructs the Nazi vs. Commie as ultimate evildoer from an aesthetic standpoint. Bottom line: Nazi couture is more iconic, and conveys much more in an instant that its Eurasian counterparts. A compelling argument, really. Read it all.

Tuesday, April 15, 2003


Moxie's back? So what are you waiting for? Ditch me and get your butt over there.

Much has been written about the wave of looting in Iraq after liberation. I only want to say: put it in context. Sure some old furniture got boosted along with some antiquities going back to the time of Ur (which some sources say were snatched by Saddamites prior to the fall). Dresden got firestormed to the ground. That's the horror of war. That's loss of antiquities. Not this East L.A. wannabe crap.

What is Tim Robbins doing? Holding forth at the National Press Club to shriek about his inability to speak out under the current fascist regime? He exercises his First Amendment right to lament his loss of his First Amendment right? And apparently a cinema patron has no right to vote with his feet? Has Robbins, at long last, lost his fucking mind?

Here's a fascinating article in the London Times written by one Richard Lloyd Parry, in which he claims the rescue of Jessica Lynch was a staged event, there were no hostile forces at the hospital, and Spec Op forces bitch slapped doctors and terrorized patients for no reason. Parry's sole quote is from a 24-year-old doctor-in-residence, Harith al-Houssona, who incidentally claimed to have saved Lynch's life. Money quote:

"There are two faces to Americans," Dr Harith said. "One is freedom and democracy, and giving kids sweets. The other is killing and hating my people. So I am very confused. I feel sad because I will never see Jessica again, and I feel happy because she is happy and has gone back to her life. If I could speak to her I would say: 'Congratulations!'"

This story stinks to the high heavens. Somebody needs to fact-check this guy's ass. This IS the Times, for chrissakes.

Rodney King broke his pelvis in a 100 MPH car crash. Why can't those bastards leave this guy alone?

Venomous Kate commented that if she'd known Friday was my birthday she'd have sent me a cake, but that by the time it got to Florida from Hawai'i it would rock hard and moldy. Which got me to thinking: yep. "Velociblog: Rock Hard and Moldy".

Steven Den Beste thinks the 4th Infantry Division got shafted arriving in Iraq the day CENTCOM declared major combat was finished. Of course, Velociman theory has always held that it's better to come too soon than too late for a variety of reasons, all selfish.

Goddess of War Jennifer Eccleston reporting on FOX that Achille Lauro hijacker Abu Abbas has been captured outside Baghdad. I say let the Klinghoffer family have him. Tell me again why this war is immoral?

This wanker wants us to thank Bill Clinton for the great military he left us. Uh, thanks, Bill. The issue to me was never that Clinton had dismantled the military so much as he misused it so badly. I'll give him Kosovo, although Europe should have tackled their own latest genocide. Speaking of which, how come the press never howled about Karadzic and Mladic never getting captured? Hell, they killed more people than OBL.

UPDATE: Robert Sentry performs a credible fisking of the Miller tripe over at FrontPage magazine.

Turbo Tax 2002 doesn't have the reparations deduction. The software's flawed. You have to put it down as a miscellaneous expense on Schedule C, Line 48.

Rob Sama's moved the Samablog. Here's the new link. Go now.

Monday, April 14, 2003


here in Jax tomorrow. Bastard primaries they are, yes, yes. No party afffiliations, just pull the lever on yer candidate. Winners go to the big dance in May. These are city elections, and I live in St. Johns County, so I don't vote on these, but I have to endure the commercials and spin. Strange town here. Even the Democrats swear they're pro-life pro-war tax-slashing champions of the military bases. Except when they advertise on the smooth jazz and hip-hop stations, which I listen to when I'm talk radioed out. Then you hear the white-bread politicians saying things like "It's all good, old school," and the black politicians saying "We're gonna have a rally for the REAL people tonight," meaning no whites need attend.

Funny thing, politics. There's a thread of recombinant DNA that runs through all people seeking office for gain. I believe it has genetic origins in the quest by baser creatures to evolve into beings that don't piss themselves. And my ten year old told me today that I've sparked her interest in politics, and she wants to be President. And she's smart enough to do it. Lord help us. The Velociman as Miss Lillian.

A body washes up in San Francisco Bay and they think it's Lacy Peterson? Because it's wearing maternity clothes? Sorry. I know the water's cold there, but she's been missing since Christmas Eve. That poor girl won't be found. Her family needs to do the justice on that. If a gelatinous blob shows up, that's different. Call me. I'll do him myself.

Eagleburger's taking back his declaration of last week that Bush should be impeached if he goes into Syria because, well, those inconvenient facts are getting in the way. My take? No way we can roll into Syria right now. That would be an incredible abuse of the American peoples' trust. NO ONE signed up for that. I think it's a good idea, myself, but I'm a whack job. No, Bush needs either a Congressional vote based on lots of dirty evidence (which the Dems won't give him based on his success in Iraq to date), or, better, a scare tactic that will reduce Bashar Assad to whimpering putty. I personally think we can convert Syria to a team player without firing a shot at Syrian regulars, but that will entail an exit strategy or regent's role for Assad, the ability to attack Hezbollah and Hamas partisans in Syria under guise of hot pursuit, and the introduction of "friendly forces" in Lebanon under the banner of mutual assistance in the Bekaa Valley. A thoroughly dangerous gambit, but one I believe can succeed. Which explains why I'm force fed my meds, by the way.

Like everyone I was tremulous with joy when I learned our POW's had been rescued. It was especially sweet to me that Apache pilot Ron Young, Jr. was rescued, because his Dad Ron Sr. works for my company. I was also heartened by the fact Iranian POW's from the 80's have been freed; that gives me hope homeboy Scott Speicher will be found safe and sound.

Now that the monkey-boy President-Select has totally destroyed the New World Order, alienated our strategic allies, enraged the Arab Street, and driven millions of God-fearing Muslims to jihad to destroy our imperialist hegemonistic designs, perhaps we should recount the state of affairs:

1) The criminal terrorist patron Hussein is redeployed to the Elysian Fields, and his people are developing an embryonic free nation;

2) North Korea, ignored by Bush, shut off from Chinese oil as a warning, talking multilateral peace talks and standing down;

3) The thug regime in Damascus soiling their trousers, on notice that Hezbollah is headed the way of Al-Qaeda, Lebanon will shortly be a free nation again, and the Golan Heights are lost forever;

4) Sharon for the first time agreeing to pull back the settlements in Judea if the intifada ceases;

5) Arafat's yes-man prime minister fucking with the boss by appointing a reform cabinet;

6) Germany and Russia scampering to distance themselves from the Axis of Weasels;

7) FM de Villepin acknowledging France's role in post-war Iraq will be something less than Chirac has been predicting;

8) Kofi Annan shutting the fuck up for a change.

Jeez. I'm taking my chances with The Regime Kerry Cannot Change.

First my cousin in town last week. Then my brother-in-law with his tribe this weekend. That would be The Bride's brother, his wife, and two boys, aged 3 and 5. I was surprised. The kids only broke a couple of things. I'm convinced after this weekend that boys are just little men, waiting to grow up. They spin spin spin to get intoxicated, then stagger around. They love to strip down for no reason and walk around naked. And they're so uncoordinated they can stub their toe without moving. I swear, after thirty minutes by the pool, these kids were walking around with bloody stumps instead of big toes. I did feel bad for the little one. He must have forgotten his unfortunate encounter with my big cat last year, because we heard 1) the cat in distress, and 2) bloody murder. Fosse didn't scratch him this time. He bit him on the nose. Shock and awe, indeed. Unless the kid had a chunk of tuna up his nose I have to assume he fucked with him. I'm a big fan of cause and effect, however. This was a good old-fashioned primer in crime and punishment. I don't think his folks felt that way, although I assured them this was a positive experience, worth three months in a Sylvan Learning Indoctrination Camp (motto: Pheel the Phonics).

As to the adults, all went well. I was chagrined when they came in with a bottle of Grey Goose. After a vitriolic rant on the perfidy of the French I insisted they put it in the liquor cabinet next to my scarcely touched Stoly. MY motto: one day we won't be at odds with these screwheads. GREAT NEWS: Tanqueray makes a fine Coalition of the Willing Vodka. No hangover, disinfects feline nose-gouges. I had been drinking single malt, in fine Anglo-Saxon style, but Scotch isn't a social drink for me. Single-malt Scotch is for Patrick O'Brian novels, nursing perceived grievances, and fisking trustafarian rat bastards. If I drink Scotch in a social environment it's when I'm in a condescending pompous asshole mood (datafind: 26.3% of my waking time), and these folks were too nice for that. So it was grain vodka, baby back ribs on Saturday, and my extra special Frogmore Stew on Sunday: red potatoes, corn on the cob, Kielbasa sausage (a half-pound of Andouille for me), and jumbo Atlantic white shrimp, 21 count if possible, boiled in a stock pot with Old Savannah Seafood Boil. Village idiots and the pretentious call it Low Country Boil now, but Franc White the Southern Sportsman taught me it was Frogmore Stew, although true stew doesn't have the red potatoes. A great weekend.

If I see one more picture of an Iraqi man kissing an American soldier I'm liable to go buy an issue of Brotherlode magazine.

Saturday, April 12, 2003


or, my alternate universe:

President Gore affirmed today that the explosion in the Oakland Bay-Bridge Tunnel was not the work of the terrorists alleged to have committed the September 11, 2001 attacks. Although the horrific explosion, in which 674 commuters lost their lives, was reminiscent of the 9/11 attacks in that apparent Saudi nationals were seen breaching a security gate and screaming "Allahu Akhbar!" moments before the detonation of what experts call 'a rude but powerful fertilizer device', President Gore insisted the latest attack on major U.S. infrastructure was the work of "discontented right-wing extremists who haven't gotten over the election of 2000. Like the Norfolk dirty bomb of last October, and we mourn the wonderful 13,200 great Americans who lost their lives in that mishap, this despicable act is obviously the work of my political enemies. Their use of deluded Arab nationals is proof positive of their insidious methods."

The President further stipulated that he would "delight" in capturing the renegade alleged terrorist Osama Bin Laden "if I could get him out of Afghanistan. The political repercussions of entering a sovereign nation to kidnap a legitimate citizen of a third party nation flies in the face of international accords." The President defended his decision to slash the proposed congressional budget of $387 billion in anti-terrorist funding. "I've promised our long-standing friends in France, Germany, Russia, and China that I would stand by the Kyoto Protocols", said Gore. "The $1.3 trillion my budget has earmarked over the next three years to curb carbon dioxide emissions will undoubtedly convince our friends in China and India to reciprocate with similar Earth-saving measures. Speaking from the bottom of my heart, I would dearly love to hunt down and destroy those perfidious demons who would attack our way of life. Given our critical priorities, however, I believe the American people will agree that without clean, viable air the hunt for fervent religious fundamentalists is moot. We'll all be dead anyway." In other news, the Dow Jones Industrial Average posted its 62nd consecutive weekly loss.

to Yoko, apparently. Read Mickey Kaus. He 'splains better than I could how the usual suspects are down in Habana to give El Caballo political fellatio just when he's ramping up the killings and persecutions. And ponder why I feel the need to use an asterisk to quote a frigging John & Yoko song, anyway. It's a search engine thing.

Is this for real? It's the Telegraph. And the story is all over the net. Russia supplied Saddam with intel on Blair? Putin just went from favored honcho at the Crawford ranch to smegma. He's beginning to look more and more like a greasy genetic splicing of Gollum and Dobby. Which certainly belies this weekend's meeting between Putin and his butt buddies Chirac and Schroeder in the eyes of the blinking world (the rest of us knew better). That was nothing more than a damage control assessment. It also explains Chirac's conciliatory tone over the last two days. Because they've known the cat was out of the bag that long, at least.

Huzzah for CNN. They've managed to make us cast a jaundiced eye on anything spewing out of the media pipeline. WHAT DID THEY KNOW AND WHEN DID THEY KNOW IT? That question used to be directed to the power brokers. Now we direct it to the mainstream media. To the powerbrokers we say: What did you give Saddam, and when?

Silver lining in this cloud of bilious vapor? Tony Blair's fencesitting over his desire to protect the Atlantic Partnership versus his desire to congeal the European Union will be decided by one of the most ham-handed amateurish intelligence fuck-ups of the post world war environment. Russia and France have managed to roger the balance of power in such a boorish fashion that any future references to their respective diplomatic sophistication will be greeted by howls of derision by virtually anyone in the western world that didin't carry a sign that said, "It's All About Oil". Those fucking naifs will rally round the Gallo-Teutons till the wood chipper grabs their toes. But they don't count anyway, do they?

I'm actually glad, in my way. Just like I'm glad those mercenary jihadists wafted into Iraq for the date with the devil. Better an enemy in front of you, n'est pas, Jacques?

for light blogging again. It's my birthday and The Bride has insisted on spending Quality Time with me. You know Quality Time, right? That's where your faults are carefully splayed on the examination table, poked, contorted, and dissected for signs of improvement. Just kidding.

Friday, April 11, 2003


I thought Simone might smoke out the Gut Rumbler.

Acidman reminds me it's Nostalgia night. A theme, a theme...

How about games?

Hit the Beach: Establish beachheads! Pulverize dug in sniper Japanese fuckers! Semper Fi!

Dogfight: Bursts, loops, and barrell rolls. You too could kill Germans at 10,000 feet.

WHY: A Hitchcock game! I honestly don't remember playing, but I remember it being, well, around.

3M Bookshelf Games: Facts In Five, High Bid, Oh-Wah-Ree; my brothers were serious Acquire addicts until, like, last week.

The Nancy Drew Mystery Game: being by definition wussies my sisters played this when they could have been destroying the enemies of freedom with Milton-Bradley. Sigh.

You know what's really scary? This guy has ALL the old games. Hell, I think he even has an Uncle Wiggly in there somewhere.

The great puzzler to me is the failure to discover substantive stocks of biological or chemical weapons or materials. Where is this stuff? Where are the scientists and soldiers that can point the finger in the right direction?

Which beggars the question: If Saddam really did destroy his WMD's, why did he bring this rain of shit on his head by dragging his feet and acting guilty? That's infinitely more psychotic behavior than hiding the stuff.

Anybody remember Simone Griffeth in Swamp Girl? No? Too bad.

Esquire's take on a Rumsfeld sex column. Sample:
Dear Secretary Rumsfeld: My husband has a problem with premature ejaculation. Is there something I could do to make him last longer? —Ellen Shapiro, Knoxville, Tennessee

Secretary Rumsfeld: I'm just going to say this once. There is no such thing as premature ejaculation. There is ejaculation, and there is non-ejaculation. If your husband is ejaculating, then count your blessings. Congratulations, you just had sex. That's what men do—they ejaculate. All this business about, "Oh, henny penny, my husband is a premature ejaculator!" is just a lot of twaddle and claptrap. You say it enough and pretty soon, believe me, he won't be ejaculating at all.
Read it all. Link found via Mike.

Thursday, April 10, 2003


I'm going to have to forgo one of my favorite annual rituals, because I refuse to watch the Masters with ceaseless coverage of the Burk Jihad interspersed throughout. I refuse. This is harrassment, pure and simple (remember THAT word, Martha?) What Augusta National does is LAWFUL and LEGAL. There are lots of womens' only environments (Smith College?) which are discriminatory on the basis of sex, but they accept federal funds, and are therefore illegal by any interpretation of federal law, but they get the pass. Listen, my company has too much game at Augusta for me to wax eloquent about my true feelings here. I WILL say I think Augusta National has a reclusive mentality, and I can't conceive of any woman who could afford the tariff who would ENJOY it. I don't think I would, and I'm a GOOD OLD BOY! It's an acquired taste. It's their clubhouse. Leave 'em alone. They're not hurting you. Trust me, you'd HATE belonging. You don't want to enjoy whatever it is they have to offer, which from what I understand is probably pretty nice, but no Streisand concert. The problem, as I see it? You just want to ruin their game. Shame.

If Bush and Cheney's Houston oil cronies were supposed to get big wood in anticipation of getting their hands on Iraqi oil, how come Exxon Mobil was only up a half a percent today, and Chevron Texaco was down? One day, sure, but look at the trends. For a commodity, refined petroleum is amazingly inelastic in this country. Even when price is high, demand is relatively static. Which means that domestic oil companies profit when prices are high; turn on the Iraqi spigots and the price per barrel will plummet, shattering profits. Sure, the domestics are leveraged with overseas oil, but they're also leveraged with huge domestic investments (see: Houston real estate), and their employees are extremely leveraged in the local economies.

Remember what happened in the mid '80's when PPB plummeted? Houston went into a death spiral. Many a responsible businessman lost his ass. W was one of them, and he remembers. He wasn't a bad businessman. The oil glut screwed him along with a lot of other people. Remember that: The "oil boys" stand to take a bath on this war. Even if Russia and France are shut out of Iraq and the domestics get the lucrative contracts, in the short term there's going to be a major beating in petro companies. For the record, this is an economic forecast, and they're always allowed to be off by, about, 180 degrees.

A lot of talk about the difficulties democratizing Iraq due to traditional tribal fealties. What's not being factored into the equation is the huge number of Iraqi exiles who've been living and educating themselves in America over the last twenty-odd years. They're going back, with a lot of ideas about the future of their nation. Tribe equals gang to these people. They're not going to tolerate too much of it, and they're bringing independent wealth back to Iraq. Real capital, not coalition alms. We'll see who rides this camel.

NPR was actually balanced this evening. A letter to the editor excoriating Daniel Schorr's shameless nut kick to the Administration from yesterday, a spot on the seamless teamwork of the Kurdish peshmerga and coalition forces at Kirkuk, and interviews with Iraqis whose siblings disappeared into the maw of the Baath Gulag twenty years ago. My only gripe was Ann Garrels' use of the term "Iraqi fedayeen", when most intel concurs they're foreign nationals at this point. Even then she identified some as Algerians and Syrians. A minor quibble.

our heart and minds in the long run, I wonder. It seems clear from an objective standpoint that the overthrow of the Baathist National Socialist Party is a pretty damned good thing. But history belongs to the historians, or something like that. The Forces of Freedom may win the Battle of Baghdad and lose the War of Words. How will historical texts view the War on Terror, specifically the Iraq Campaign? There are certainly nests of revisionists firmly ensconced in academia today, plenty in the boomer generation, and these are the historians poised to write the stories of this war over the next ten to fifteen years.

Many of these people are the strident deluded, who think the liberation of a subjugated peoples is on its face a bad thing, merely because the liberator is of a different political party than they are; they will infuse their writings with rhetorical excess, both bald and discreet, out of pure parochial party politics. Meanwhile they will deride the parochial isolationist xenophobic mindset of the Bubbas executing this most universal of endeavors. This fact is ineluctable when your consider the hoary old canards that accompany the perorations of the pedantic elite:

Bush refused to sign the Kyoto Protocols, exposing the entire world to our adulterated spewings. Actually, no. Clinton's the guy you're thinking of who didn't sign the Protocols, because he had caved on the inclusion of mega-polluters like China and India, fatally flawing the treaty. Congress is the entity that refused to ratify it, 95 to 0. Other nations continue to balk. Bush is just the guy who said "There's something dead and stinking on the desk of my new digs. I'm gonna throw it in the garbage."

Bush refused to join the International Criminal Court. To paraphrase, that scrum of Torquemadas isn't international, or a court. It's pretty damned criminal, though. The ICC is nothing more than an EU construct, peopled by unelected, self-aggrandizing bureaucrats who want nothing more than a forum to engage in a series of Stalinesque show trials with the goal of imprisoning those who dare to gore their spavined ox. Oh, they'll include a few minions of carefully selected third world despots whose peckers are in their pockets for the purpose of erecting a façade internationale, but this is the Brussels crowd, have no doubt. I don't see Robert Mugabe or Fidel Castro on their docket yet, so priorities seem a bit skewed at present.

Bush unilaterally pulled out of the ABM Treaty, and he's gonna cause nu-ku-lar holocaust. Again, wrong. The Soviet Union unilaterally pulled out of the ABM when they imploded. Look, I only got a C in contract law, but I seem to remember something about one party to a contract dying, and if there is no assignment clause, the contract is null and void. I've never studied treaties, but I doubt Brezhnev insisted on an assignment clause, unless it was to assign treaty obligations on the People's Republic of Ameristan. Putin was the one with no treaty obligations. Given the wherewithal he could have violated ABM with impunity and a shrug of the shoulders.

So the pedants are cautiously outraged at the events in Iraq, with a weather eye on "international" opinion, waiting for an opening. Time is on their side, and the victim is the history they will sanctimoniously distort, given the opportunity.

a mobile biochem weapons lab found? We'll see. There will be lots more false reports over the next few days and weeks, as inspectors gingerly explore a countryside befouled by everything from petrochemical waste products to industrial pollution sites to, dare I say? NBC materiel.

The alleged underground nuclear weapons facility discovered at Al Taraitha sounds like nasty business, indeed. It seems the detectors spike off the charts a few hundred meters outside the compound, and the secret facility is below ground. Yeah, I know Blix looked at this place before, which makes a case for deriding his ability to find his own ass with both hands, but hey. Blix is a lot of things, but I don't think suicidal falls in the bucket. It appears Saddamites may have crammed all of their nuclear materials, including waste, into one site in the last desperate days before defeat. Follow the trail of melting Iraqi flesh.

I've been meaning to link to this guy for a while. Check him out. Good stuff.