Re: Old Friends: I Love You


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Posted by Fingers on January 16, 2006 at 06:26:10:

In Reply to: Old Friends: I Love You posted by Arkodog on January 16, 2006 at 05:13:46:

Hi Arkodog - nice to hear from you!

Yes - you left enough hints that I know it's really you, although since you don't post on a regular basis the imposters are long gone.

You were in New Orleans when we were and didn't say hi? You may have met us anyway without knowing it. My sources tell me that the biker bar in the quarter (Velvet Dog) is permanently closed (and Tricou House may be as well). We are heading back this year in spite of (or maybe because of) Katrina. We are making certain that we are staying in a locally owned hotel so as much of our money goes back into the economy of this morally wounded city that we have grown to love as is possible.

Hope all is well with you - although I gather you were quite impaired when you wrote the message below. Even so, I recognize a few Arko-isms that still filtered through, and you certainly remembered enough key bits of information about me to let me know it really is you.

Write again about your jouneys. Surely you made it to Daytona or Gulfport in the past few seasons, tell us about your adventures!

Oh - and if I can get the link to work right I've attached one of YOUR photos above so that everyone else can see YOUR really good work!

Till next time,

Fingers and Frau Solitaire

: Howdy, hi... long time no see... kisses to anybody who wants them!

: This message is coming from Arkodog, who greets Cocco-robo-do... and the honorable Pixel X, and of course, Herr Fingers. I offer these greetings with a typically Arko-esque mixture of bon mot, manic-depression, megalomania, monomania, assaultative fury, and fatalism. And schnapps... plenty of schnapps...

: Here are my authentication codes:

: Meatballs to dearest Cocco... with home-made sauce and big tits to look at as you wolf my good shit down.

: I think I'm going to send you titty pictures of her, because they're nice and also, because I do love you. And you wouldn't ride with no helmet, Cocco, because you want to live. And I almost got fired for riding off from work with no leave, but that's okay: they try to fire me once a week, and I've beaten them for years. And I don't care if they kill me or not. What have I got to lose?

: But Cokie, remember: I only flirt with such as this because it spices all else. My meat, that is, the shit I ride around in through life (now aging) will NOT let me get away with any experiment that's guaranteed to cause my meat to decompose. So don't worry, Torontie-Blondie, because I am not really in control here, or you never would have heard of me in the first place.

: Sensei had more of a grasp with just his little finger than I have with my whole grasping hand. But that's okay. He was just ahead of me in line.

: And I still train, and so do you. We are kindred, Cokie. And never mind who figures out what, as I babble clues about we two. I have stood tall, without anonymity, and that's the only way... my dear friend.

: Seriously: you have honored me. You have not forgotten me. And I will never forget you.

: Hey Fingers: never did meet anything musical that I didn't like. Sagen sie auf wiedersehen zur diener Frau (sorry about the bad grammar, too).

: Hey Pixel X: a .bmp is a bloated sow. Photoshop cures it.

: Hey listen, kids, and trip out on THIS:

: One time on this BBS, Pictureman made the prediction that he would one day meet me. He's affiliated with an entirely different set of hooligans than I am, and so I shuddered at the thought. He's all black and white, and I am all red and white... and our respective camps truly HATE each other! However. P-Man and I DID meet each other, and what a trip THAT was!

: His woman was due to arrive at an airport close to a biker bash that we were both attending. I have to go low at this particular run (though most of my photos were taken there!), since the dudes who throw it HATE my affiliates and would probably kill me for being their supporter, except (maybe) that I have done a few favors for these locals who hate we of the red and white, favoring instead black and white, or crimson and gold...

: Jesus! My life is HAIRY!

: It is. I am not stating this out of machismo. You only need to piss your pants once, while looking down the barrels of three guns, to understand that no matter who or what you are, you AIN'T SHIT!

: Even worse, P-Man (who is a a genuine living saint, and far more wise than I might have guessed before having met this graceful, most kindly gentleman/sage/pain-in-the-fucking-neck in his most rancid flesh) was aware of all of this, and put me deeply in his debt for having decided that it didn't matter...

: So thanks, Pic Man. I could have become a nice, stringy gumbo had things flopped differently.

: Anyway, this dude pitched a tent next to mine. I was bombed out of my skull, and probably tripping-- or something-- when the man walked right up and asked me if I had a skid lid for him to borrow. Cocco won't ride without one.

: He wanted it for his old lady. I handed my lice-and-scabies ridden lid without hesitation. He brodied off, and came back with said choice morsel. Yum!

: She had NICE BIG TITS! YEOW!

: We yakked after that, and by now I was truly drunk and no more tripping. I beat those alkaloids into the dust with good old ethanol, and yeow again! Somehow, we figured out that he was Pic Man and I was Arkodog, and that we knew each other...

: And I wept. For real.

: I clung to the skinny bole of a pine tree, trying not to swoon, but Pic was shrugging and (annoyingly) telling me, "I TOLD you we'd meet sooner or later, you mutt! And thanks for lending me your helmet!"

: So that makes THREE of you Coccozellians I have met so far, and hey Fingers und Frau: you two are not in my sights (since I can't see) but I do pray very hard that the accident will. I do.

: I LOVE YOU, FINGERS! You're too good to ALL of us!

: Cocco: the blonde bimbo with big boobs is still the very vexation of my most peculiar life. I just kicked her out of here about an hour ago for being too uphill for me to handle tonight. But she still loves me, and we still live together, and it's still as weird as ever. But that didn't stop me from telling her to hit the road, okay?

: Fingers: I wanted to tango with her. I am NOT an imposter, damn it! I AM ME!

: You know what's weird, GP? To find that no matter where I blog, post, rant, rave, or puke, there's always somebody who wants to try and pretend that they are me, and that I am not. It weirds me out. I'd like to hand them a grenade, with written instructions as to how to arm it and shove it up their ass just before it goes off. Why the hell would anybody want to be ME? Even I don't want to be me! I'm just stuck with it is all...

: Look for somebody named Clamberto among your customers, dear Phalanges. You'll find out that it's one and the same as me. And why wouldn't I pay you? You owe me nothing, and I want to contribute. So never mind my username and password, dude. It's for YOU TWO!

: Smooches, Solitaire! Ya ya, on de street we be. And FUCK Katrina!

: Quit eyeing me like that, Pixel Dust. Love you anyway, dude. Would one (or ALL) of you PLEASE FUCK MY GIRLFRIEND? She is a pain in the neck, and I need a break!

: Again, I told her to hit the road about an hour ago, and she left. She loves it when I reject her, because she knows that this just primes me to pump her like New Orleans after a flood about two days later.

: She has HUGE TITS!

: Arkodog Update:

: Smashed two cars. Been bouncing at the Boot Hill Saloon and Froggy's on Main Street for the last two years, but really want to quit (sick of fighting, though I am paid very well). One gun and three knives pulled on me in the last couple of, won all three conflicts hands down.

: Had the cops furious because I let the gunner go after just breaking his nose and chasing him about a half mile down Halifax Avenue (before suddenly screeching to a halt for realizing that it takes an idiot without a weapon to chase a man with a gun) and then motherfucked the cops after they gave me verbal abuse for not having called them way sooner. And guess what? The very next day, a chick who wasn't my beloved, but whom I loved, was shot to death by the very same motherfucker. Nothing makes sense to me any more.

: I wanted to be Ward Cleaver, except that June wouldn't show her tits and my girlfriend does...

: Still: I've never been so wrong before, my friends...

: RIP, Wolfie-Girl. SO SORRY, BABY! I swear, I wish it would have been me instead...

: KILL ME, PLEASE!

: Still and all: God is good to me.

: Whereas He, She, or It (or all three at once) usually just paper cut everybody else, the Big One never fails to stomp my ass totally into the ground. I come back up more beat than ever before, cursing Nietsche for spewing such macho-sounding platitudes as "That which does not kill me only makes me stronger"

: Yeah, right... like having your legs cut off by a fucking streetcar leaves you better off than ever before. And don't TELL me about the spirit. You can have all the spirit you want, and STILL lose. Remember Monty Python and the paraplegic knight. Nothing, when pushed to the ultimate, remains true. It always flip-flops on your ass, like a trained monkey driving a truck full of aged nitroglycerine.

:
: Not that I am bitching... I mean, at least it's all MEMORABLE. I could have been a republican instead (lower case lettering intentional; I am a libertarian, politically speaking-- and I despise the bicameral effort and instead support chaos since it is so much more honest and true to nature).

: By the way, I caught that scoundrel Meth_Hed, and executed him relatively slowly, and without mercy, by dipping him head first into a sizzling vat of bubbling, fuming hydriotoc acid, and I didn't pull him back out until his toes stopped wiggling. But now, confound it, I am haunted by his ghost. The fucker is sitting right next to me, right now, and if he wasn't some specter, I think I would have already shot him twice... right in the head...

: And I miss the lagomorph, you guys. Makes me cry whenever I think of it... and they wonder why I avoid thinking whenever possible...

: And he had a cat named Bart... and I miss him intensely. He almost got his silly ass (and mine) killed during Bike Week, somewhere back there... I had to get nasty with a boy over the deal. Fucking Rabbit!

: MISS HIM, but know that what had to be had to be. I trust all of you, and the love is because not a ONE of you ever motherfucked me about another one, even when the shit was still really raw. And I forget nothing, kids... and neither do you. We know what is what. Sorry...

: But I love you. Isn't that good enough?

: Let us celebrate the fact of our association, no matter how loose or tenuous. Let us share love.

: Cocco, I'm a big fat bug, just like a mantis. I am as voracious, and thrice as crazy. But I do NOT forget, and I ask that you forgive that I am not more regular in my issuance of communiques. You've shown me the honor, my friends, and I wish there were two more of me, so that I could send two bastards just like me your way, to serve as your slaves. No shit.

: Yes, I know I am crazy. But didn't you know that all along? But kids: congratulate me now. I've been with the same woman for 23 years... the bitch!

: I HAVE NEVER HATED A WOMAN SO MUCH, NOR HAVE I EVER VENERATED ANOTHER WITH SUCH FERVOR!

: She sucks. I would rather fuck young prostitues, except that they are nowhere nearly so SEXY as this aging BITCH of mine. I worship her, and mot painful to me is this fact:

: She knows it.

: Lipobuddy either vanished, or re-created himself. He, She, or It (or all three, perhaps) stopped associating with me after I told Him, Her, or It a weird-but-true tale involving an old dude, his sexually molested dachshund, and one very nasty Spider Lady (and a bar called The Question, on A1A) that was sure to make anybody with any sense at all puke like a Roman...

: I puked like hell while composing that memorable letter. Jesus! THE SHIT I HAVE SEEN!

: God, it all goes back...

: Somebody named something or another... and yes, I admit to having forgotten the name, despite my crowing about my infallible memory (see above) was corresponding meaningfully about Sixties counterculture when my marriage collapsed. I went bonkers, and haven't been the same since. I was a regular contributor before that, and I even sent shots of my very own exhibitionist wife doing her naughty thing whenever possible.

: I sure do love this shit. I sure do love this site. But whom among you will dare to kill me? I beg of you to try but warn you: I kill right back! One false move, and you, too, can become a resident of some stump pond in Central Florida!

: You haven't seen the last of me. I've done my time, stopped drinking (kind of, but not really), stopped fighting for a living (for the moment, at least), and I'm still with that saucy, big-titty, bleach blonde know-it-all from hell, who swears that she doesn't care whom I fuck, but who also insists that she will kill the first woman besides her whom I truly love, who is not she...

: I'm married, it seems. But at least she can't sue me for alimony, and if she fucks with me too much, I will let her mom see the big-titty Bourbon Street jackoff thing (Dream Girls at Mardi Gras, 1995) where she was fondled in Oz and LOVED IT.

: Dig this: my beloved let some SLUT go down on her in public, while a bunch of bi-dudes played with her tits. The sadistic bitch actually made me jack off to this flick while she sat around watching me and grinning... whoa...

: And they wonder why I love her...

: And there is no normal life... to crib from the Kurt Russel flick, there is no normal life, just life...

: And I have loved mine!

: Oh, the things I have seen!

: Robo-Wan: I got caught up in the gangs, and miraculously, got spit back out alive. It helps to be tough as a nut, and to refuse to tell the cops what your fucking name really is even though they know you already since you were once one of them. But I keep having nightmares, but that's okay... it's better than boredom.

: And thorazine is better than boredom too. Oh, the dreams!

: Yeah, I am crazy. Sorry.

: Really... sorry!

: I'm sorry I missed you in Orlando, my friend. I wanted to cook for you all over again, but I just so happened to be in jail at the time. They lock me down about once a year, or so. I keep punching people out, but I swear to you that I try to run first. But nobody wants me to get away. They want me down, and they want something to complain about. I hate it, too. I never wanted to fire in the first place (Why would I? Who is paying me to do this?) but then again, you know me. You stay better than me, my friend, and apply your science to the peaceful part of your life. All roads lead to the same place, dude, but then again, some are more scenic than others.

: May you forever know peace. Please don't forget me!

: "Hell is Other People", or so says Sartre. And so now I am about to dig Jean Paul up, just because I want his skull around, to talk to me when I am lonely at night. I promise to paint it most decoratively!

: Yes, I am drunk. But Meth_Hed is DEAD. He made it through rehab, by jingo, and now he's onward and upward (mainly because I killed his ass, and he gets into heaven by default for not being evil enough to actually go to hell... that dystopic misanthrope, titty-paint hating jackass!)

: Please forgive me, but I beg most especially of die Frau. Sollie, I just got out of control, as usual. But I was wise enough not to go down for good. Yet.

: Yeow! I scream like a wounded jaguar.

: Seen a lot, done a lot.

: I've been accosted by people who practiced Aikido, lent my shellmet to a man whose friends would kill me just because I was friends with those whom they hated. Somebody named Fingers spoke to me kindly, I lost two long ears and Bart the Cat, and Pixel continues to remind me that my scans truly suck. I get older and older, and time goes faster and faster, and I stick my neck out farther and farther.

: I ran the run, did the weird, and surf with the smurfs. I believe in nothing and everything, all at once, and God beats me with banana stalks each morning for loving anything other than He, She, or It (or all three).

: I tell God this:

: If there was anything better than soldiering, fighting, or tits, then You surely kept it to yourself. I thank You for making my life so extraordinary, and for making me such a shameless megalomaniac, and lately, a supremely misanthropic hulk. Thank you for confounding the FBI whenever they tried to bust me, and for making the VCSO cops decide not to bust me because I was at least honest in my rouge-like comportment. They almost shot me again, just three nights ago...

: Thank you for letting me drink almost a half of a 750 ml bottle of vodka before I even got a slight buzz, and thank you for never letting me be busted for a Federal offense (yet) or for coke or meth. Thank You for making me the one of the most devout heretics ever, and thank you for disabling my fear module and making me really crazy instead.

: Thank you for all of it.

: And if I die before I wake... I beg the Lord my soul to SHAKE!

: Oh boy...

: He's gonna slap me around for sure after that last bit!

: It never fails...

: BUT, and NONETHELESS:

: I offer warmth and a lopsided grin to Cocco-Wan, she who rules in a way...

: I offer a beefy smack on the shoulder to Pixel Dust, who came into his own on this very site. A .bmp is truly a bloated sow, Pix. You need to come see me. We'll drink ourselves to DEATH!

: To his Fingerness I say this: I was in the sacred City of New Orleans every time you were, but I didn't look for you. I do pray that the accident will. But if not, then it's okay and here's why: we managed to touch anyway.

: And to GP: your photography remains the very best I have ever seen, bar none. I am a very great fan of yours! Thank you for the exquisite joy of having known you!

: To the solo player of cards, beloved of GP: thank you ever so much for forgiving me for being me. It's so much more than I could have ever accomplished. I wish I had something to offer you, other than my affection and deepest respect. Lord, woman: how I wish you had a VOICE!

: To the Lagomorph: miss you, you rotten... you... (splutter/gag)... you PERSON like me. I love you. I hope you see this, though I'm half-sure you won't...

: Damn it!

: I scream like a wounded child. My pain is only equal to my rage. And my rage is only equal to my perception... and my appreciation of how good it is when things go so fucking wrong... DAMN IT!

: P-Man: sorry that your brothers were the sworn-enemies of my own brothers. I didn't want to love 81 instead of 15. It's just that they were THERE for me.

: I wish we could all live in PEACE! But then I also wish that every porn star in the universe knocked at my door nightly, begging me to take and defile them... I'd get so weird, that Freud would be reincarnated to re-explain all this sex and death shit... and where's Freud when you need him? Dead, I suppose...

: ROFLMAO

: To all others I offer only this:

: Live in peace. Too soon old, and too late smart. And never turn down anything good, unless the tripwires are so obvious that only a retard or a suicide candidate could ever trip across them.

: But hey: even if there was a grenade wired to it, it WAS better than boredom.

: Any day!

: Disown me, or don't!

: I do remain a dedicated friend (you poor bastards).

: I am
: YOUR ARKODOG




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