Velociworld

Having Lost the Weather Gauge...

I'm not an alarmist person by nature. In fact, I believe my innate entropy is the source of much frustration from many in my circle. I'll even wager my parents cyclone in their twinset sarcophagi over whether I'll finally give a shit, and do something!

Which is my take on politics, as I irritatingly remind you. My jaundiced eye hand always sullenly pulls the lever for the lesser of two evils, while I remark to total strangers It'd be a lot easier if we just shot the other cocksucker.

Except for Reagan, of course. I strode out of the booth declaiming "I just voted for the fucking MAN!" both times, to the bemused stares of bussed-in vagrants. Small, but gratifying moments.

I say this to insist the following is not Chicken Little, but Foghorn Leghorn. Look: McCain is just going through the motions. Even he knows he's hammered dogshit. Christ, I've had ghosts sitting next to me in the ride at Disney's Haunted Mansion that had more corporeal substance than this guy. Bob, for one.

So get used to AbomiObamanation.

Democracy is a device that insures we shall be governed no better than we deserve, demurred George Bernard Shaw, that crusty old Marxist cunt.

Maybe so, maybe so. But that doesn't mean we deserve to be governed by people elected via endemic voter fraud, in cahoots with criminal tongs supported by taxpayers. Or people cossetted into office by a self-indulgent media whose blatant abrogation of their civic responsibilities would gladden the heart of the most craven Pravda apparatchik. I, personally, think we deserve a little better than that.

Here's the Foghorn Leghorn part: President Obama will have a compliant Congress, and a filibuster-proof Senate. His first 20 days will be busied rewarding his criminal co-conspirators in the voter fraud community organizing racket with federal largesse that would make a Sandfly whore blush. $700 billion bailout? That sum seems about right to "balance things out" for the disenfranchised. You'll hear words like "justice" and "equity" and "fairness" from the Man from Capone. But that's nothing.

The rest of the first 100 days will revolve around this mischievous Nowhere Man instructing Congress to pass omnibus hate crimes legislation. Which they will gladly do. The purpose will be the crushing of dissent. Every fucking thing you say against the regime nouveau will be characterized as racist. And he won't need a compliant press any more, although they'll happily continue to carry the water like the corrupt spavined burros they are.

Make no mistake: your dissent WILL be crushed. One newspaper columnist, one blogger, one querulous student at a time.

The economy, you ask? Barack Obama doesn't give a fuck about the economy. Hell, his naysaying and greedy pocketstuffing from the culprits helped engineer this shitstorm. Anyone remember the economy being an issue at the conventions a few weeks ago? Didn't think so. It wasn't. There's your October surprise, my fellow Blindsideses.

I hate to be a downer, dogs. In fact, tin foil makes me look fat. But my crystal ball (the one with the flying monkeys in it) says 7 years of bad luck. Plus one. The only upside is being one of the 300 Barack targets for the inaugural reeducation program. That's okay. I haven't seen Gitmo since 1976, and I kind of miss it. Plus, I'm just a lone nut. A Ted Kaczynski recluse sitting here not even with pajamas on, but nude from the waist down, whacking the keyboard, admiring my goddam awesome but temporarily flaccid cock. I blame the wine Obama.

P.S. Anyone know where I can get my hands on a functional artillery piece? I might need to rake the hillside leading up to the house, oh, sometime around April 2009. A sweet little 8 pound brass napoleon loaded with screw heads and nails would be cool, but I'll settle for a shizzled bronze of circumspect accuracy and provenance.

Reflections in a Golden Shower

I don't know why everyone insists on calling it "Mystery Meat" in school, from time immemorial.

It's dog, dumbasses.

Babylon's Falling

Anyone remember brush arbor revivals? Back in the day, folks would build an arbor by felling saplings, then erecting four poles out of them. They'd lattice smaller saplings across the top, then cover the roof in brush, creating respite from the heat and rain while they held week or two week revivals in the country. In the depiction above they're wrestling with serpents under the arbor, which may or may not have occurred during your typical brush arbor revival.

I remember seeing a few brush arbors as a kid, but I'm reasonably certain my mother never took us to a revival at one. Although she would, at times, lay aside her primmity proper and drag our heathen Episcopal asses to a revival for an hour or two. Later, she would secretly nibble on a pig's foot. Fortunately the Senator ascribed to the theory that the only good snake was a dead one, so there weren't any handlings and rasslings involved in these rare revival moments.

All of which to say, having watched the rage virus permeating the economy, I think I should build a brush arbor in the woods behind the house. Maybe some hard core preaching might make a difference.

I'll need a circuit preacher, I suppose. Do they still ride mules? I hope so. And some local layfolk recently smitten by the Spirit, who'll be champing at the bit for an audience to bellow and cry at. Lemonade would be the drink of the day, with corn liquor down by the creekbed.

I thought about the brush arbor revivals as I watched the gods of Mammon wrestle with the serpents of their own creation these last few days. I don't know whether a government bailout is necessary. Hellfire, I can't even balance my own checkbook. But I do know that for every expert that says we'll be standing in line for moldy bread and selling apples on the streetcorner if we don't pass it, there's another expert who says doing something stupid isn't necessarily better than doing nothing at all.

I see the Treasury Department on the one hand wanting the liberty to buy and sell defaulting assets with zero oversight. Pay what they think is fair, sell when they think it's reasonable. On the other hand you have a Democratic Congressional leadership wanting to siphon off all the revenue from these sales and funnel them to their same old thieving, corrupt, piss-swilling compadres in the community organizing yakuzas. And thirdly, because we have three hands here, you have Republican Congressmen shitting their pants because their constituents are telling them 100-1 that they're tired of bailing out these elite cocksuckers on Wall Street.

Then there's the market itself. These screwheads were so certain they were going to be bailed out they threw a firesale tantrum yesterday. I don't blame them. It's the same sort of pissy reaction I'd have if my best friend promised to buy me lapdances at the Mons Venus, then reneged by way of trying to give me a reacharound in the bathroom of the Marathon station.

Today they decided what the fuck. A reacharound ain't so bad. At least you come.

I guess the best option would be some sort of Resolution Trust setup. Arm's length from the Treasury, just give them the revenues. Oversight from Congress without them earmarking the fucking pelf before it ever sees Treasury. And a sop to the GOP, who can go home and crow Lookee here what I did for you!

Eh, fuck it. I've been on a cash basis for two years anyway. I like it that way. All I miss is waking up and trying to figure out what the hell I put on my credit card drunkbaying the night before.

Two words: Gold. Booze. Bullets. Okay, three words. Better stock up on all three, too.

Because when the revival gets fired up, and I've got the Pentacostals spinning like whirling dervishes in the back yard, there may not be any more reservations in the Circle of Jesus. You'll be outside the talcum powder Ring of Faith, and you'll be needing that gold and them bullets and some sweet sweet booze as coping mechanisms for the Sawbuck Tribulation that's coming.

Not a threat. Nor a prediction. Just a humble opinion from a guy who can't even balance his own fucking checkbook.

High Tide

That was ugly.

Alabama bitch slapped Georgia with the fuck stick tonight. The Dawgs got beat like a pecker in a peepshow.

Oh, well. USC and Florida got beaten by chumps. There's no shame in losing to a Top 10 team. Plus, with any luck Georgia can meet Bama in the SEC championship and get payback beaten by the Alabama Fuck Stick again.

Cracker Ball. It ain't for the faint of heart.

Although I have to wonder how long Richt will put up with the goddam retarded playcalling of Mike Bobo. What a douche. I have a $5 bet with Key that Bobo loses his playcalling privileges this week. He'll get to draw up cartoon plays and sech the rest of the year, but he's going to be barking "What'll ya have?" at The Varsity next year. And I'll be right in line, repeating what I yelled at him from 30 feet away at Ole Miss in '96 when he was hobbling on crutches with an obviously broken leg: Walk it off, you pussy. Walk it off.

Next: How I Finally Unstopped My Colon And Found Inner Peace: A Personal Journey (I'm Nonetheless Going To Share).

Here's Another Creepy Thing...

Hank Fonda.

Jane Fonda.

Kee-rist. Jane's looking just like the old man these days. Except for, you know, the big ole tittays.

Although those hoots are probably a good approximation of Hank's ass circa Golden Pond.

Now go fantasize about boinkin' Jane and see if she doesn't morph into Henry about two minutes in. Go on. I dare you.

House Jumps the Shark

House was wearing a replica of Peter Fonda's leather jacket from Easy Rider in a scene tonight. Now, I've been known to grasp for my youth upon occasion, but that was just fucking pathetic.

By the by, why do they say the abysmal Happy Days went tits up when Fonzie jumped the shark on water skis? Didn't it actually go tits up when Robin Williams showed up as Mork from Fucking Ork? I don't remember the early '60's too well, but I don't remember no fucking cokeblow needledicks dressed up as hirsute aliens. Anal probes? Yes. Red spandex and Tourette's Syndrome? No way. You could say the suspension of my disbelief was actually, ah, unsuspended after that episode.

And, yes, I realize how pathetic it is that I recognized that jacket right away.

Bane

The singular Bane has passed away. He was probably the only blogger I was a little bit afraid to meet. Which made him a keeper. I always wanted to go meet him, and peel that onion back. Alas, 3,000 miles, I never did.

Go pay your respects, Intrepids, for a true gentleman. I'd say RIP, but his ethereal spirit would probably go looking for some miscreant's heart to rip out. Bane was like that. Yes, he was.

I shall miss him much.

You Are Where You Live

There are some strange-assed roads where I work. I can't fathom where these names come from. I suppose these peoples were somebodies once upon a time. Lookit:

See what I mean? The best I can figure make up out of thin air is, Rat Kinney was the mayor once. He married Pickle Simon, so named because of her promiscuous use of Massengil's.

As for Chicken Lyle, wasn't he the house slave in Roots? Or was that Chicken Mel? Perhaps Chicken Lyle toiled for the Kinney-Simons, who rewarded him with a road name after years of faithful service. Along with posthumous emancipation.

Crazy, this place. There's also a Punkin Junction Road, and a Cronictown Road. I swear. I'm agoing to Cronictown tomorrow, and see whaddup. Might even get some insight into this.

Who know?

Fables of the Reconstruction

To coin a phrase. Barring the full hell carnage of the Civil War, is there any era of American history more tumultuous than Reconstruction? Or more studiously ignored by historians? I doubt it. Fourteen years, Insipids. Fourteen years.

Martial law, brutally administered.

Occupying forces from distant lands enforcing whim at the end of a bayonet, ensconced in quarters of their choosing in violation of the Third Amendment.

Racist vigilantes, shrouded in white, terrorizing the landscape, murdering by caprice.

Chattel slaves freed with a promise of 40 acres and a mule, horribly neglected and ignored by their ostensible saviors.

Yeomen, peasants really, disenfranchised and punished for the sins of their elites.

Rapage and pillage.

Good times, good times.

I've wanted to write about this for a long time. And it really needs to be properly explored from the historical perspective. But I'll probably go the fiction route.

I know me. My good and just instincts will be corrupted eventually by the bad me anyway. How can you start this voyage and not eventually devolve into bareback chocolate and vanilla scenarios? Bring me the Mandingo? String 'em up, boys?

I'll have to follow my heart, in other words.

It's a black thing, to be sure, my heart. But this topic cries for poetic license, and abuse. This is of course going to get pretty depraved before it gets better.

En passant: The whiskey of choice for the excrutiating task of writing will have to be Rebel Yell. Half of this will be written while I'm in my cups. The word nigger will probably get used more than you're accustomed to. Mulatto babies with French names like Charles Etienne de St. Valery Bon might crop up now and then. There will be good guys and bad guys of all pigmelanization. Every female will have awesome pert tits with nipples symbolically pointing heavenward (unless God forfend the Rebel Yell run dry).

Also, there will NOT be a Numinous Negro, like Whoopi in Ghost, that big black guy in The Green Mile, Morgan Freeman in Driving Miss Shawshank Almighty, Bagger Vance, Scatman Crothers in The Shining... you know: magical golly-gee nigras with extree-special powers who only exist to help whitey out, created by guilt-besoaked white liberal Hollywood screenwriters who've never actually had a conversation with a black person to expiate their guilt that they never had a soul-releasing, sexually explosive relationship with a black person, like their sister did at Stanford.

Because whores, of course, don't count.

I'm pretty sure I have a raw template to work with here.

Wish me luck.

Hellspike! Curlew! Hither!

The hamlet of Hoschton, down the road, is having their annual fall festival in two weeks. With a twist.

They're having a Scarecrow Stampede. (!) Yes (!) They want to set a Guiness world record for the most scarecrows in an area. In this case, ZIP code 30548. They want to have 4,000, but by anecdotal observation I predict it will be somewhere in the neighborhood of a girthzillion. Here's the Publix supermarket by the house:

Creepy shit, that. They're like zombies, Eric. Only they move so slow you'll never even see them sneak up on you. Like the topiary in The Shining. Every time you turn around in these parts zombiecrows are everywhere. Riding broncos, sitting on toilets, performing Deliverance-style buttfucking scenarios. Okay, that last one may be made up. I haven't made my scarecrows yet.

Anyway, I figure I'll have to make this festival. The Canon Rebel digital, a liter of George Dickel No. 12 sour mash (motto, as always: "Put a Little Dick in Your Mouth!"), the .45 automatic, perhaps the bullwhip. Sort this damned thing out. I will, of course, be wearing my favorite scarecrow outfit:

Lest they think I'm a poseur, or anti-McGoohan, or something. Perhaps some of the Atlanta bloggers will join me. As honorary bailbondsmen.

Hellspike, Curlew, damn it!