Rove

rove1 /roʊv/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[rohv] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation, verb, roved, rov·ing, noun
–verb (used without object)

1. to wander about without definite destination; move hither and thither at random, esp. over a wide area.

What Is Rove?

There I no answer to this. As there is fun poked at me by good old Quero Madre or whatever his name is, I must request that we continue to use real words. I must comment within his poetic post.

Indeed, the Vociferous Eel is back! I've taken some time off, mostly to write do witty things on my Facebook page (being good funny takes time, after all).

I've been concerned about the world the last few days. All of this global warming has led to 14 inches of snow in my nearly vertical driveway. In December. In New England. I think the sky is falling (please note my sarcasm). Shoveling, instead of writing has become my pastime.

I just had a nice bacon, cheese, and egg sandwich. My wife started an exercise class this week. Man, that bacon was good.

Rangoons and Grog

There once was a Greek from The Grove
From Jersey to Amherst he drove
He started this blog
Over rangoons and grog
But since then he's done nothing but rove

Fiction... For Realz

Ok... No more G-Eel handle. I am officially Pinche Quedito moving forward.

In my absence I've been pondering the reason why this blog was created. Ultimately, T-Eel and I had decided that we needed a vehicle to vomit our self-important thoughts and views upon. Unlike T, I do not roll with a posse of "classically" creative peeps. I used to - but not no more.

Now, deep inside what is left of my soul (the part that has not been sold to the highest bidder) lies a virtual critter that is in need of satiation. We will call this critter "Yahweh"... better yet, "The Divine ShitSpinner (TDSS)". TDSS lives in all of us. I suppose Metros (present company included) spend a bit more time petting and nurturing the critter to see what it is truly capable of offering the world. While, on the other side of things, Men's Men poke at it with sticks and force it to tell colorful stories that revolve around a 30 pack of Schlitz Lite and a set of twins from Romania.

Rambling aside, this is the canvas that I will use to set my ShitSpinner free and I publically prod T-Eel to do the same. Now I can surely find plenty of creative ways to bust T-Eel's balls as he is abundantly ripe with faults to criticize and belittle, and I will be sure to address these on occasion, but I feel I'm in need of a more structured exercise.

So today I am going to cast out a digital tarpaulin (as everyone knows tarpaulin is one of those words one can never overuse) to cradle our literary embryo. This writ-child of T's and mine is sure to mature into the greatest "Great American Novel"... no the greatest "Great Greek/French/American Novel" of our time. You, as the reader, are simply required to sit back in awe and wail at the beauty of our words. Here we go.

Kendra pondered the stickiness beneath her limbs. "Of all the places to collapse", she thought to herself. A slide show of images spilled through her consciousness as she tried to imagine the origin. Discarded Cola? Bodily fluids? She was fully aware that the answer was immaterial, that this was simply an exercise to keep herself awake.

Somewhere an amateurish version of Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D Major was being played. It echoed off walls and railroad cars until only a shell of its intended form reached her ears. She thought it somewhat strange that she could actually discern the tonal layers of concrete and steel that shaped it as it made its way about. Kendra lifted her cheek an inch off the floor in an attempt to spy the source of the music but it was no use.

Ok T-Eel, take it from here

G-Eel is Now Pinche Quedito

No more confusion. I am me and he is he.

sk8er boi ( for inspiration )

I've been lazy about this blogging s##t

Mr. One-End-Of-The-Eel has been complaining about the lack of posting by the Enlightened-End-Of-The-Eel (me) and I say screw it, that's not right. And I just don't post, because how are you going to post when you don't have time? Rhetorically, I'm asking is all. So here I am after a very busy weekend of successful art-selling, which was nice, let me tell you, and I'm seeing people and art and its all snowy outside in beautiful Amherst, MA, and I feel this pressure - pressure! - to write something witty and snappy like I'm wont to do. That's how I roll.

Oh, I'm sure there will be some measure of saber-rattling between me and the OEOTE, there always is. It'll be the same way it always ends up, with one of us crying; like me losing at darts - which always happens, or chess - and him at wiffle ball (which he might be better at if he didn't try to toss those dumb trick pitches that are never ANYWHERE near the strike zone).

OEOTE, how is your back? Hurting? The W. must have loved what you wrote about her. Best way to your woman's heart, huh?

By the way, it's cold where I'm at. I'm cheap and I don't want to turn up the heat, except here in the blogosphere where I'll be kicking OEOTE's ass and taking names.

Satan's Egg (The Great Green Olive)

I am one end of the vociferous eel but not sure which. I should create my own screen name so that you can tell one brilliant mind from the other but I am too fucking stupid to figure out the blog settings. So... since I don't know any of you anyway nor do I care very much for that matter, you can all waste your time figuring out who is whom or whom is who.

Update -- For all those concerned, my wife did survive the massive, self-induced annihilation of her gray matter. However, the depth of her humiliation led to the baseless declaration that I tried to assassinate her by way of my potent potables. And to think I lied to the kids and said she had a stomach virus to protect her. Thankless woman.

Funny, if it were the other way around and I was the one drooling on the bedroom floor and speaking in tongues through breath laced with the fragrance of olives I would have been deemed an immature asshole. For this to happen to her though - foul play SURELY must have been involved. Unbelievable, you say? You'd think.

I must go now and get some relief from this double hernia.
TIP: Please remember this... the next time you try to help someone close to you... "passed-out-weight" is just as heavy as "dead-weight"!

The Other End should be gracing you all shortly.

My son felt up my wife/his mother

That's all kinds of strange and pride inducing that title above. I really can't figure out my feelings on this. Shauneen is still out. Cold.

Our wives have just had too much vodka and we're starting a blog

Greg just asked: "Where's Nora?"

She's downstairs, I think. And has been for at least 5 minutes. I would worry, but we're starting this blog.

"Dude, I'm serious. I have never not been able to pick up my wife. If I got married now, I fucking wouldn't be able to carry her over the threshold." He said more. But I can't write that now. It would be really not nice.

We're here. Wilberville, USA. Drinking. Our kids - 4 of them, 3 and 7 each (figure it out, ok) - are doing whatever. We don't really care.

My wife reappears. She's alive. Good. She makes more money.

**************

So, my wife is in bed, pleading that I apologize on her behalf for drinking six-too-many 'tinis. Sinead blares through the old time wrestling of two generations of Marouli and one of my own. Nora, poor Nora, is trying to figure out the most acceptable way to say "Get me the fuck out of here" and I have two children that think that vodka, Green Day and phrases like "What the hell is wrong with your mother?" are acceptable. I fear that our grand scheme of a night of unbridled partying is about to come to a crashing halt. Stay tuned to learn the sad details of how two thirty-something couples spent the remainder of their first Saturday evening together in eons.