Archive for the ‘Vic Weatherman’ Category

I was born in a cross-fire hurricane

– Mic Jagger and the Rolling Stones, Jumpin’ Jack Flash

Many have inquiried about the recent silence of yours truly, Victor Ulysses Neverman, in a time of utmost turmoil: political conventions, 9/11 anniversary, the chaotic arrival of Arab Winter…

I am here, diligently building upon the masterpiece in-the-making that will one day be known as “Cyrus Lee Hancock’s Ultimate Hurricane Survival Guide”. As a means to satiate the appetite of you, dear reader, I shall present to you presently an exerpt of the book in-process. Please enjoy at your own risk:

Chapter 42: Delivering a Baby While Trapped in an Elevator

There is a scenario, and it is such:

You’ve done your Doom-Prep research, yet you lack the finances, real estate or resolve to build yourself an indestructible hurricane bunker the ghosts of Hannibal’s elephants would shirk from. Out of Africa stirs a storm and within a week they name her Jane. Heading through the Caribbean, Hurricane Jane is forecasted to come straight for your coastal home. As she nears, the local authorities insist upon an evacuation. You grab what few things you hold near and dear and head towards higher ground.

You hunker down at a hotel somewhere inland, a tower of hospitality that is now almost entirely occupied with fellow hurricane refugees. You watch the cable-televised weather divining with great fascination as Hurricane Jane’s path diverges into a detour. The new forecast shows Jane’s disinterest in your coastal home – she has turned straight towards your current location. Hurricane Jane seems to be following you like a heat-seeking meteorological missile with a sniff for your warm nether regions regardless of how much ice you pack into your knickers to reduce the swelling after the frantic romp session of doom-sex* that took place while the hotel flat screen belched out the latest storm forecasts. But I transgress… digress…

*doom-sex is a symptom of apocalyptic hysteria. When a cataclysmic event is on the doorstep, many will resort to gluttony, inebriation or carnal pleasures to ensure one last hurrah before the end. A doom-baby is a child conceived as a result of said hysteria.

The hotel was prepared for the influx of calamity tourism and promptly summoned forth dozens of pizzas to help feed the families and their pets nervously awaiting the passing of the sizable storm. With the changing winds, however, there is a sense of panic in the staff as they realize Hurricane Jane’s impact is en route and imminent. The hotel personnel begin prioritizing their frantic calls back home to ensure their own vested interests are cared for, plunging the interests of the hotel inhabitants down the fire pole of insufficient priority. There is an eventual evident lack of centralized control as the landlord’s staff’s nerve is lost within the garbage-disposal whirlpool discharge of their collective irritable bowels. Soon the refugees become rowdy as tension mounts and the brunt force of the Cat Five hurricane nears. Alas, there is a beacon of light in this storm: YOU and the Cyrus Lee Hancock Hurricane Survival app on your smart phone. You rise amongst the chaos. The desperation and sexual depravation of this tribe of refugees bring them to the precipice of deity worship for YOU and your messianic promise of survival. Empowered, you now begin the true preparations. All inhabitants will wait out the storm in the sizable lobby. The sliding glass door entranceway will be refortified with folding tables, lumber and a shit load of duct tape. Bath tubs will be filled to provide a future drinking source. This is your moment, you are a surthrivalist**, this is your time to shine.

**A “surthrivalist” is one who not only survives in the face of cataclysm, but thrives in such scenarios.

As straits become most dire, a panicked man comes to you with an astounding revelation arousing your sense of duty to the species that is homoist of sapien:  his pregnant wife is upstairs and requiring a descent to safety. He does not want to disobey your order, one in which you’ve forbidden use of elevators in the immediate vacuum preceding Hurricane Jane’s feast upon this tower. “Should I…” the panic-stricken progenitor inquires. “Just roll her down the stairs? She refuses to walk down the seven flights and I certainly cannot carry her weight.” You consult your Cyrus Lee Hancock Hurricane Survival app. “No.” You learn that rolling a pregnant woman downstairs is not a good idea. You seek out a wheelbarrow, but the maintenance man is in a drunken stupor and he is the only one aware of where such a vehicle might be located.

Left with no other option, you take the pregnant woman’s panicked man’s hotel key and rush up the seven flights of stairs to find the lady and the distended signs of the spawn she incubates. You accompany her to the elevator and quickly hit the lobby button. The doors close behind you and as if on cue, Hurricane Jane lashes out a gust of wind topping 150 miles an hour that sends an ice cream truck into the nearby power generator. Electricity is knocked out and the elevator comes to a quick halt. Lights are out, you tell the screaming woman to calm. The back-up generator kicks on and a dim lamp provides light overhead, yet the elevator car does not budge. You are trapped. The pregnant woman’s hysteria induces labor. This baby is going to be, has to be born. Fortunately, you have the Cyrus Lee Hancock Hurricane Survival app.

Assess the situation! There may be a “call” button in this elevator, but there is unlikely to be any voice on the other end of the line as sufficient as your own. You must take matters into your own capable hands. Make notice of your surroundings. Identify the woman – check! Discover where her privates might be kept – check! If you have a magic marker handy, you may want to draw a red circle around her vagina so you know where to look for the child upon excretion (note: the woman may have lipstick, this would be a reasonable alternative to the magic marker). This is a woman, so she is likely to have a purse. Dump the purse’s contents onto the floor to see what materials you have to work with. Based on empirical evidence, the purse is likely to have:

  • Tampons
  • Make-up
  • Cell phone
  • Baby book and other paraphernalia
  • Old receipts
  • Mirror
  • Pen
  • An old expired condom
  • Bottle of water
  • Nail polish
  • Spare underwear
  • Tweezers and a nail file
  • Keys
  • Snacks, Gum
  • Earrings
  • Safety pin

Given your level of preparedness, you can add to the contents on the floor by providing your:

  • Belt
  • Shoelaces
  • Compass
  • Utility knife
  • Ketchup packet
  • Flashlight
  • First aid kit
  • Matches and/or flint rock
  • Iodine tablets (for prevention radiation poisoning)
  • Antacids
  • Lubricant
  • Dental floss
  • Flask of whiskey
  • Cyrus Lee Hancock Hurricane Survival app

When consulted on the matter of delivering a baby while trapped in an elevator, uncertified physician Doc Kelly recommended a mid-wife. For our scenario, we will assume no such mid-wife is available.

Looking at the contents on the floor, you may be tempted to use the tampons as a means of “blocking” the birthing passageway. Be wary of this strategy because if it fails, you will be without the resources used and tampons are an excellent absorption agent that would prove useful post-birthing.

Try to have the pregnant woman not push. Maybe if she holds her breath, crosses her legs or something. At some point there will be a water breaking. If the baby insists on coming out, the mother should have her legs spread for this process. If she decides to squat it out, you may use her empty purse as a catching apparatus. If she would prefer lay on her back, you can lift her ankles and use your shoulders as stirrups (you should be facing her, not away from her, in this scenario in order to better assist with the process). At this point, she may begin pushing. If you see toes emerge from the designated birthing area, push the foot back inside and hope the head of the baby “crowns” next. If the toes continue to show instead of a head, you will have to use your own hands, or hers if she feels so obliged, to go inside the birthing place and rummage around after the spawn. You will want to turn the baby around, being careful that the thing doesn’t get tangled in cords or knock its head against a hip or something. Once it is head down, guide it out into the purse. Whatever your inclination, do not zip up the purse at this point. Find the new person’s buttocks and smack here until the mucus gumming up its nostrils is dislodged so it may breathe. NOTE: this is not a piñata, a light smacking will do.

During this process, there will likely be blood, shit and mystery fluids. Prepare yourself emotionally for such things.

There is an umbilical cord which connects the new person to the after-birth. Tie off the cord using shoe laces or dental floss then cut this cord using your utility knife after disinfecting said knife with your whiskey. Take the baby out of the purse and wrap it in a shirt or the spare underwear. Give the baby to the mother to hold. Use the purse to collect and stow the miscellaneous substances that will continue to come out of the whole birthing region, including the previously mentioned after-birth.

Ideally, there will be whiskey leftover for you to disinfect your soul and overcome this most unpleasant trauma. Congratulations, you have delivered a baby. When she asks, accept the baby being named in your honor even if the sex of the offspring is different from your own. Chances are your name is better than what she was going to name the thing anyway.


Democracy is four wolves and a lamb voting on what to have for lunch.

― Ambrose Bierce

Bayou Saint Basil, one hour from Tampa, FL (depending on traffic)

The acreage I am surrounded by is pure jungle and gator-infested swamp. The air is alive with the screeching of insectual horde, crickets or locusts or some other exoskeletal shit-eater, all of whom found the same cacophonic pitch right at dusk and have been screaming away ever since. This is home. This is real Florida.

I have been residing in this bayou bungalow ever since the Governor’s voter purge threatened to take away my voter rights for having travelled to three or more communist countries (of which, I will admit Vietnam and Cuba qualify – but Canada?). Rather than suffer the possible purge of Rick Scott (who also appears to be coaching the Miami Dolphin football team), I came here to conserve what rights I have left.

“Who wants shrimp!?!” Nixon, perhaps at the ’72 Ice Gala

Very near Bayou St Bas is Tampa, Florida, where the Republican National Conventioneers are preparing for the greatest GOP party since Nixon’s Shrimp Cocktail on Ice Gala of ‘72, an event so scandalous the press nicknamed it Watergate-Gate. Despite the eager anticipation of the upcoming convention in Tampa, there is an underlying anxiety. Even as the shrimp and strippers are bussed in by the tonnage, there is an uneasy anticipation of the threats creeping along the dark and murky waters of the Gulf of Mexico: the impending path of Hurricane Isaac and the lurking Soviet Akula-class nuclear submarine.

Sure, all of the cable news networks are talking about Isaac and the threat it poses to overflow Tampa’s Bay, but there are few, if any, murmurs on television about Ivan and the Russian sailors refueling at the sunken Deepwater Horizon. According to “reports”, Russian Premier Vlad “the paler” Putin has had one of his nuke-killer submarines patrolling Gulf of Mexican shores for most of this summer – all without being detected by the US Navy’s satellites, anti-sub patrols and laser-equipped dolphins. The Akula class submarines were built to silently hunt and sink American subs, qualifying it for all sorts of devious tasks along our domestic shoreline. This story may have not reached mass-media, but it has definitely floated to the surface in the hallways of RNC HQ in Tampa.

Akula class submarine… perhaps off the coast of Sarasota?

Texas Republican Senator John Cornyn has written a letter to the Chief of Naval Operations demanding an explanation, mentioning in his letter that such events are especially troubling given the military cutbacks of President Obama. The Navy, last I checked, never bothered responding. In fact, many are ignoring the reports, possibly because they came from the Washington Free Beacon (not to be confused with Washington Free Bacon, which does not exist regardless of what the lobbyist is telling you), a blog-site specializing in propagandizing hawkish budgets. When the Houston Chronicle asked Pentagon spokes-sailor, Lt Commander John Fage, he didn’t grant the Free Beacon any credibility, “We are aware of the reporting but we see nothing to indicate it is true.”

Could all this be a carefully orchestrated ruse meant to humiliate the US Navy and Obama’s budget cut proposals? Yes, according to my blog source for all things Lesbian, Lez Get Real. Lisa Carbonell finished her blog with an interesting remark, “We are left with dumb, stupid question of the week about this: if the sub went undetected by our Navy for two whole months, how did the Free Beacon find out about it?”

Vlad “the Paler” Putin on a Horse

Of course, there is the possibility that the Russian thug, Putin, is mocking the RNC safety exercises put into motion last spring by sending one of his stealthy subs to wink it’s periscope at the vulnerable bitch that is Tampa Bay. If this is possibly the case, should we even be worried? Chicago Tribune blogger Steve Chapman notes the inferiority of the Russian Navy – we out number their ships 2,384 to 233.

While Putin can puff out his chest for the camera, doing so by swimming his subs off of Clearwater would be no more than the act of an underwhelming/overmatched bully. Pick on someone your own size, Vlad, like chick punk rockers.

Perhaps, then, we can dispel with the rumors of one antagonist along the Gulf Coast and focus on the remainder: Hurricane Isaac. Fortunately for me, and for you for that matter, I am a professional hurricane preparedness specialist. I may not have any particular training beyond a rescue diver certification and years of pizza delivery experience in monsoonal climates, but I do intend to make money off of my skills, thus I am a professional. Which… kinda sounds valid.

Hurricane Isaac, the uninvited guest to the RNC

But enough of the small talk! My right-wing conspiracy theorist partner-in-crime, Cyrus Lee Hancock and I will be travelling middle Florida this weekend in anticipation of Isaac and the convention goers. We will be encouraging the peopled streets to hunker down with lots of snacks. We will be interviewing the gaggles of prostitutes gathered for the RNC to determine their overall storm preparedness. We will be preaching virtues of post-cataclysm survivalness, like being able to cook a rabid raccoon, finding clean sources of water and polygamy. (Wait… what? I swear this note is not in my hand-writing). And, damn it, we might just save a life or three in the process.

Once the storm passes, we (“we” being Cyrus Lee, your humble navigator Vic Neverman and the lady conspiracy cadet Bo Lynn Belle) are heading west to the Rocky Mountains for Labor Day revelry of such unnecessary and unnatural dimension something of its like has not been seen since, ironically, the Nixon Shrimp Cocktail on Ice Gala of ’72.

Normally, I would not advertise a future endeavor when the idea is still in ‘frozen burrito’ mode, choosing instead to hide the cold brick of beef, bean & genius away in a lockbox under a Christmas sweater in the back of the closet. This case is different, however. This idea, this, this aspiration is so downright… goddamn necessary I do not fear early disclosure to you, the public. Call my off-the-cuff brazen refusal to conceal my intentions as arrogant, but the truth, as you will see in the next few decades (as it may take as long in order for the microwaved burrito of this concept to fully be digested through the intestinal tract of your psyche), is this endeavor is too important to let lie dormant in a freezer-burnt nihilist purgatory (I mean, if the nihilists believed in freezer-burn, that is).

For those of you dear readers who did not notice the title to my blog post, you might be asking, ‘what is this momentous meme meandering somewhere betwixt Vic’s earholes?’ For those of you readers who did note my blog title, you may have already gathered my endeavor is to write the most thorough, authoritative, controversial and sexiest Hurricane Preparation Guide. Ever.


Every artist has his muse, every fool his ruse, every conspirator his fuse.

– Vic Neverman, in this blog, 2012

My muse was one of survival. I was surviving, even if barely, in the outmost outpost of centralist Floridian suburb. When the book idea occurred to me, I was on the expansive, yet claustrophobically bamboo-forested estate of Cyrus Lee Hancock who was busy eradicating a squirrel infestation as I sipped upon a self-mixed concoction of rum and the gingerest of ale. I’ve always said a paranoid is led by his gut and the NeverMum has always said ginger is good for the gut, so perhaps it is no surprise that as I lay there upon leisure furniture (sipping a drink ironically called a “Dark ‘n’ Stormy”) I begat this idea. The idea sprang forth in response to what was seemingly a rhetorical question, “how can I use the survivalist determination of Cyrus Lee Hancock and his Doomsday Preparation Boys Club to better humanity?” The responding idea, quixotic notion it may be, was to write the ultimate hurricane preparation manual.

Hurricane Tracks: why limiting your scope can be a good thing when graphing (or “is this what the Maya forecasted?”)

Cyrus Lee Hancock, for the uninitiated, is an expert marksman, strategist, survivalist and founding father of OASIS (Oviedo Army of Surveillance, Intelligence and Survival… although, one of those S’es might be for Secrecy or Security or Shit-Storm now that I think about it), which is at the forefront of doomsday preparation groups in Florida. If you fear the world is to derail soon, you better hope to have a neighbor like Cyrus Lee and you better equip him with occasional apple pies until that ‘end of the world as we know it’ moment. Most importantly, at least for the sake of this blog, Cyrus Lee has agreed to help me construct this, the greatest authority on hurricane preparedness. Ever.

You were four years old and we were hiking in the Smokey Mountains when you turned around and told me there was a storm approaching. There was nothing but blue sky at the time… Oh no, no I didn’t think it creepy. I was just so, so excited you actually knew how to speak.

– NeverMum talking about Vic’s first words

There’s nary a bastard more qualified for writing a complete guide to hurricane preparation than I, Vic Neverman. I’ve been hunkered down against the storm since time amoral immortal. Yet, we needed something more. We needed my uncle.

Summer 2004 Re-Imagined: a doctored imaged showing the hurricaniest season ever for Florida

Earlier this year, I was seeing a therapist. She would frequently ask me, “With whom am I speaking to? Is it Vic Neverman? Or am I talking to Chachee? Or is this Bucky Swoon, who are you right now?” I would try to explain to her I had different identities, but ultimately, they were all the same personality. The name didn’t matter as much as the context. She would nod and sip the wine I had just filled her glass with (I wasn’t seeing her ‘professionally’, though I certainly paid for it). She would continue her inquisition, “Tell me about this estranged uncle. Why do you refer to him as ‘estranged’?”

My uncle, Captain Dick Neverman, keeps a sign above his bar “Only Captain Dick Knows And He Ain’t Talkin’.” Captain Dick, like your narrator Vic Neverman, grew up on the same paranoid mosquito key on the Gulf Coast of Florida before wandering forth into the dark mist of what lied beyond the mangroves. Captain Dick, a cunning bi-linguist whose lived throughout Latin America, was just as paranoid your narrator, perhaps more so. Our disagreement came when he insisted I devote my conspiracy theorist energies into the FEMA concentration camp conspiracy I did not have any traction on. I refused and he accused, insisting I was one of Them. Them! Can you imagine? So we found our paths parting…

Hurricanicopia: Vic was here in 2004 for the 3 landfalls across Central Florida

Until this most recent of weekends when I returned to the mangrove jungles of the fatherland and un-estranged my estranged uncle. We broke bread (metaphorically, we actually did more ashing of cigars) and I won him over to my cause to create the goddamnedest, gobsmackest, guts-and-gloriest Hurricane manual ever devised. With Captain Dick Neverman on board, I was certain this project could not fail.

Captain Dick’s experience would be useful in a variety of scattershat ways. For one, he has spent a few years of his life in Colombia where he participated in the illegal export of crispy, crunchy, heavenly white seashells to Florida. Ha! Yeah, bet you weren’t expecting that. Yes, all of the blue-haired tourists in Florida gobble up so many seashells that capitalist shell mongers must import reinforcements from the southern shores of the Caribbean. That is where Captain Dick made his fortune. My uncle also smuggled a bunch of real estate developers in-and-out of Cuba long before I was able to visit using my scientific visa with the University of Havana. Needless to say, Captain Dick would be needed for this Ultimate Hurricane Encyclopedia.

Of course, to appease Captain Dick, I did agree to have a chapter devoted to the potential FEMA Camps and another to the age-old question: if man fornicates with mermaid, what would result? Whenever faced with such a disturbing physiological quandary, I take it to Doc Kelly.

“Wait, so what’s your question?” Doc Kelly, my off-the-grid physician inquired. I sat across from him at my new favorite dive bar, an impressive draft emporium we shall just call the Red-lit Bunker, and I rehashed my idea for a literary project of disaster miscellany devised to assist hurricane survival. I wasn’t ready to broach the mermaid fornication topic, so I started small. “If there’s a woman about to give birth and the hurricane has knocked out the power and there is no more running water, what should you do?” After brief pause, Doc Kelly nodded confidently and responded, “Get a mid-wife.”

Ahha, a mid-wife.

Yes, my Hurricane survival manual is coming together quite nicely. A conspiracy theorist, a doomsday survivalist, a seashell smuggler and a self-prescribed doctor walk into bar… what’s the worst that could happen?