30 September 2005


Dear readers,

I'm back after a travel time of only 48 hours, again, sans luggage. It may arrive sometime the next decade, but I am not holding my breath.

I hope you are all well. I am fire hydrant.



27 September 2005

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Registan

It was a tight connection in Rome, but I plowed through the crowds; an American bowling ball to the European pins. With minutes to spare, I triumphantly presented my ticket to the gate clerk.

“May I have an aisle seat? I’d like to stretch out.” Truth be told, I just wanted access to their bar cart.

“This is no good.” He replied, pushing it back into my hands. “We no longer have an agreement with the issuing carrier.”

“You did when I left the States yesterday.”

“Ah, but not today. If you would like to buy a new one-way ticket for only $750, I can get you on the plane.”

“But I already have a ticket!” I protested. “And a well thought out and neatly copied itinerary. See?” I waved my “Evil Scientist’s Union” notebook under his prodigious nose.

He didn’t seem impressed. “This is sooo not my problem.” His body language screamed.

Sniff. “Well then, your US carrier will call here soon with their solution. In the mean time I must leave. These ladies will take the call.” He waved airily in a vague backward direction and fled. When I turned to talk to another stranded passenger, the two women used my inattention to escape.

“After all,” They must have thought. “With a few meters head start, the fat man will be unlikely to catch us.”

So, I had to return to the original carrier. They were actually very helpful. They booked me on a flight the next day and arranged for a hotel room in the city.

“Would you like access to your check through baggage to get a change of clothing?” Asked the customer service representative. Yes. My stench was stunning flies that passed too close. Yes, I would indeed like a change of clothing.

Alas, my baggage was no longer in Rome. The second airline, it seemed, was willing to make a compromise and sent my baggage, if not me, on to its final destination. I hoped that it proved to be the same as mine; but in the interim, it meant that my clothing option was limited to the sweat soaked garments that were currently stuck to me like cling-film. Loverly.

I made my way to the hotel, washed my skivvies and socks in the sink, then hung them out to dry on the balcony clothes line. Now it was time for sustenance. It was a beautiful day and the only cloud in the sky was a distant black spot. I decided to walk.

Now, Rome is a civilized city and watering holes line the Via Aurelia so that one may walk into the heart of town and never suffer from the slightest thirst. In fact, in three hours, I had made a grand total of three thirst-free blocks. It was at this time that I noticed that it had become ominously dark. I muzzily wondered if a thunderstorm was upon us, when: “ka-RACK!”I heard the sound of a hundred Italian taxi drivers meeting at an intersection. Huge drops splattered the sidewalk, and the wind whipped trash around in strange, frenetic paths.

I dashed back to the Hotel, but it was too late. My shorts, vexed to nightmare by the howling storm, had caught the wind and were flapping their way towards the Holy See like a great, malevolent, albino bat.

Would the Italian Air force shoot them down? Would the Pope experience a Macbethian “By the pricking of my thumbs” moment? Would I be able to stand an eight hour flight to Central Asia wearing naught under wet woolen trousers?

The only question that really bothered me was the last; I have sensitive skin and the potential Italian replacement skivvies were little more than crotch floss with a pair of tiny triangular grabby bits.

I admitted defeat and purchased adult diapers from a pharmacy. They proved comfortable as could be, absorbent (eight hour flight, window seat; you do the math)and had the added benefit of halting a strip search before the cavity portion could get started.

But that’s a story for another day.

Spo'koinoi 'nochi, y’all. I’m having a grand time, and I’ll be back this weekend.

21 September 2005


I’m off for a week to a portion (one of the “Stans”) of the former Soviet Union where there is, for the most part, no internet access. I hope this will not inconvenience either of my readers.

I’m actually looking forward to this trip and have been studying useful Russian phrases such as:

“No, I have nothing to declare.”
“Don’t shoot, I am not a Chechen.”
“Don’t shoot, I am a Chechen.”
“How much for the mutton-less Plov?”
“Do you have any Mexican food?”
“Say, I bet those machine guns aren’t real!”
“Honestly, Officer. The shop keeper told me this was a novelty cigarette lighter. How was I supposed to know that it was really a SS-18?”
“Yes, of course I agree with you. You are heavily armed.”

"It's my round? Look! Behind you! It's Donald Rumsfeld!"
“May I call the Embassy?”

“May I call a priest?”
“So this is a Russian prison?”
"I want my mummy."
"Wait a mo, where is the women's section? I've seen those movies..."

That, and a thick wad of hard currency should see me through.

20 September 2005

Junk mail

Ivan Hager, ostensibly of Optonline mortgage writes:

Dear Home Owner,

After satisfying the analysis we are overjoyed to make available to you this espousal...

Oh no you bloody don't, Ivan. I've heard about you Russians.

19 September 2005


So, once again, I’m heading to the dusty far-off. Apparently, there’s a slight risk of Ebola/Yellow Fever/ Malaria/Dengue fever/Decapitation at my destination. The Centre for Disease Control recommends a series of painful jabs, a steel cup and some good running shoes.

“No prob,” Says I as I dial up the Doc’s office. We’ve been diving together before, and his wife despises me. He’d be happy to work me into his schedule, if only to piss-off the old battleaxe.

As it turns out, he’s flown the coop and I am without Doctor. The only one who is taking patients is one Doctor Xiang-Dau Yu. She is fresh out of med school, weighs about 90lbs (42kg) and looks to be all of about twelve years old. Needless to say, this fat, bald yet hairy red neck is a tad bit uncomfortable about the visit; especially as a new patient, she is insisting upon a full physical.

However, Irish Bob put it in perspective for me.

“Think about it, Evil.” He says. “She’s a small Asian lady. Surely that’s the smallest index finger you’ve ever felt, and she’s unlikely to be wearing a class ring.”

Indeed. But I’m still worried about her Rolex Swatch (just read the comments).

Update!: YEOUCH! Nope. It was a Rolex Submariner after all.

Yaaar, me hearties!

Today be "Talk like a Pirate" day! Irritate your cow-workers!

Take the
bloody quiz. And no, ye can't be the Cap'n; I'm the bloody Cap'n.

18 September 2005

Wooden Ships and Nylon Men

(Prologue: Some years ago, when I still had hair in most of the right places, I allowed myself to be persuaded to help crew a small boat from Ocean City to the Vineyard. Flash used highly unethical tactics to do so; sea stories and alcohol.
“I almost felt sorry for you.” He later confessed, “But you are a right bastard, and I made an extra hundred bucks by dragging you along, so it all worked out for the best”.)

“You have,” I said, “got to be kidding me.”

The boat, lovingly described the previous night as a seaworthy 36 foot yawl with lovely weathering capabilities, bucked and shuddered at the wharf, in seeming terror of the angry sea that was battering the other side of the breakwater.

“Get on board, fat boy,” The ocean seemed to say, “and you’re mine!

Flash nodded happily.

“A beaut, ain’t she? And a fine fresh day for sailing.” He sighed contentedly. “Come on, and I’ll introduce you to Captain Bill”

Captain William looked me over like I was a piece of spoiled salt cod in his fruit cup.

“Do you vouch for him, Flash?” He snarled. I was beginning to suspect that this trip was a bad idea. There were parrot droppings on his shoulder, for God’s sake.

“Hell, NO!” Replied Flash. “You asked for a strong back and a weak mind. This cirrhotic, spavined, sorry excuse for a syphilitic wharf-rat will have to do.”

Capt. Bill merely grunted.

“Show him where to stow his crap and get back up in deck.” This was going to be a hell of a trip, I thought. Stuck between a manic giant, who’s bent on paying me back for a decade of indignities and the biggest sourpuss I’ve ever seen. Thank God for rum rations.

Flash took me below and showed me my rack; it would have made a fine coffin for a malnourished pygmy. Unbidden, the phrase “Ten pounds bullshit, five pound bag” sprang to mind.

“It’s not so bad, Soapy.” Flash said sympathetically. "With your lee cloth in place, you can pooch out considerably into the cabin."

I cursed him; no doubt he was laughing at me. (N.B. I checked with Flash years later. Indeed he was.)

We got underway, and I spent most of the day in an accelerated training session. I ended up sore in places I was not aware that humans had muscles, but eventually Captain Ahab either accepted that I was unlikely to kill them, or resigned himself to a watery grave.

In any event, he no longer referred to me as “Buoy boy” or the “Great White Whale”. Now I was “dipshit”.

I belonged.

We enjoyed a meal of burnt corned beef hash and bad coffee and I rigged my lee cloth. Now a lee cloth is nothing more than a canvas barrier to keep you in your rack. If the boat is on a tack that would put you on the high side, you end up sleeping half in your rack and half in a sort of hammock made by the lee cloth. It’s not as uncomfortable as it sounds.

Now, a smart fellow would have made his lee cloth fast with some care, but I thought that should the boat go down, I would like to get out quickly, so I tied it off with a slip knot, climbed in and fell asleep.

I was awakened for my watch.

“Coffee” I moaned, sleepily pulling on the lanyard. As it turned out, I really didn’t need any caffeine. Bouncing off the bulkhead and landing on one’s skull has exactly the same effect as a steaming cup of black coffee, with a side order of stitches and skull x-rays.

Groggily, I made my way above. We were enjoying a following sea, so all I had to do was maintain the heading, watch the radar, rub my head and try to avoid larger landmasses and the Exxon Valdez. It proved doable.

Before long, dawn reinvented itself with its fiery palette. Occasionally foam would spray past the wheel. Nobody else would get to see this exact scene. (Oh sure, many others have witnessed similar, Hell, almost identical dawns, but this exact memory, from that particular pilot house is mine and mine alone. When I’m gone, it’s gone. Magical.)

The next day passed much like the first. Flash was merrily working off years of pay-backs, Cap’n Bill glowered, and I tried to not do anything excessively stupid. We ate bad food and worse coffee. I broke the head’s macerator. Flash got to fix it. (One point back to me).

It quickly became a comfortable routine, and before long, we arrived at Martha’s Vineyard.. We set the mooring lines to Bill’s satisfaction and hooked up to shore facilities. Some swabbing, stowing and general clean-up and we were done.

“Damn good job.” He growled. “Here’s your pay. You ever want to do this again, you just let me know”

“Hell, yes!” I said. What?!! Had I gone mad? Madder?

“Great!” He replied. He didn’t look great; he looked like a constipated basset hound. I honestly thought his facial skin would split if he smiled.

“Drink?” He said, brandishing a bottle.

.”Uh, sure…”

“Say, do you play poker?”

I nodded

Captain Bill smiled for the first time; and I wish he hadn’t; freaking shark teeth. I took a step back.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you, Soapy? Bill’s a lawyer.” Flash announced innocently. “Cut the cards?”

Damn. Karma’s a bitch, ain’t it?

16 September 2005

Home again, home again, jiggedy jig.

“That went swimmingly! ” Declared the Boss loudly as he weaved in and out of the thick New Jersey traffic. “Swimmingly” is one of his favorite phrases. He actually described a recent trip to New Orleans as having gone swimmingly. He is also immune to shocked stares.

Irish Bob, concealed in the back seat under his suit coat, moaned plaintively, perhaps in agreement. More likely, in protest of the odiferous breakfast-sausage sandwich that I had bought for him, (ostensibly for him to eat, but in reality so that I could wave it under his nose every 10 minutes). Don’t disturb my sleep.

And that’s pretty much the way the rest of the four hour trip went. Mario Andretti weaved through traffic while burbling happily, Irish Bob moaned, and I amused myself by trying to get Bob to yack again. Alas, he proved an empty vessel.

When we arrived home, Bob suddenly expressed the urge to use the facilities.

“I could take a leak myself.” I confessed.

“No,” Replied Bob unsteadly.” It’s not that.”

“Ah, the ‘Morning-after-the-night-before’ alcohol poop.” I gave him a companionable pat on the back. “You’ll feel 100% better when you get the remaining toxins out of your system.”

He smiled weakly and headed for the bathroom with the paper.

I wondered; did he remember the Vietnamese restaurant last night? Did Bob recall any of the conversation he had with the ancient, wizened proprietor in which Bob insisted on ordering the hottest of all possible sauces? Or the look of pure psychotic glee on the old man’s face as he nodded?

The Guinness and liquor would insure that the Bob byproduct would be almost liquid; maximizing the surface area of sensitive rectal tissue exposed to capsaicin.

I ran to get my guitar out of my office. I don’t get to play it much, but times like this make up for the hassle. I tuned while giggling, which attracted a lot of cubicle prairie dog attention.

“Come with me, my pretties!” I led them Pied Piper like to the hallway outside the Men’s room.

Wait for it, Evil,…. Wait for it….


I started strumming, and did a very credible Johnny Cash:

“I fell in to a burning ring of fire
I went down, down, down
and the flames went higher.
And it burns, burns, burns
the ring of fire
the ring of fire.”

“Fuck you, Evil!” Retorted an almost sobbing Bob. After a few high fives, some cackling and plenty of self congratulation, we left him in peace.

That’s the last we saw of Irish Bob. Some say that he passed on, and on stormy nights you can still hear him moan. Others say he spontaneously combusted and the smell of burnt pork is not from the BBQ joint down the street, but the very essence of Bob.

Me? I think he’d better get the hell out of the bathroom; he’s been in there three hours now, and I need to use it. Any longer and I’ll use his office.

Besides, it’s his turn to buy the beer.

15 September 2005

The Devil and Irish Bob

The troubles started when Irish Bob got a little boisterous and sloshed his Guinness on a passing group of dour business elites, whilst drawing a curvaceous outline in the air. Now, Irish Bob isn’t Irish; his people were Italian and Dutch, but he likes to pretend otherwise; “…because, you see, the Italians and Dutch didn’t have anything so lovely as Whiskey”.

Well, he does have a point.

“Fine!” He bellowed as we were being escorted out. “I’m proud to be declared Persona Non-Grandma from such an eshtablishment of Aunt Nancys”

He pulled himself up to his full height (about 5’8”) spun on his heel and strode directly into a parked NYPD squad car. While one of New York’s finest decided whether to run him in, Bob lay giggling on the pavement.

“Top of the morning, Officer O’Grady!” Brilliant, Bob. Just the thing to say to one Corporal Sanchez. I hauled Bob to his feet and pushed him towards the hotel.

“Sorry about that, Corporal. I’ll see that he gets to his room” Corporal Sanchez didn’t respond, but followed us with a cold stare as we staggered down 59th street. Every time Bob started to sing or talk to a passerby, I threatened him with bloody murder. It seemed to work.

We got back to the hotel, and I shoved him into his room.

“Kiss me, I’m Irish!” He laughed uproariously. Not while there are still goats on this world, Roberto.

I fell asleep shortly, but was awakened a scant hour later by a pounding on the door.

“Room service!” Declared a falsetto voice.

“Fuck off, Guido.” I snarled.

“That’s not a very nice thing to say to a fellow Irish American.” He chastised. “Get up, we’re going drinking!”

I put the pillow over my head.

“I’m not leaving until you get your arse up, me boyo.” He started singing “Thousands are sailing”. Murdering Pogue’s songs should be a flogging offense, but I suppose that Shane McGowan set the precedent. I got my clothes on.

“Fine.” I growled. “But I’m buying.” Bob cheerily agreed and switched to “Whiskey in the jar”. Pillock.

Somehow, we avoided the police and found a bar.

“What’ll you have?”

“Well,” I replied past a dung eating grin.” I’ll have a Jameson’s, and that singing ijit over there, he'll have a triple dry-vermouth, up and piss warm.”

I presented the vile slurry to Bob.

“What is it?” He asked dubiously.

“Why, ‘tis but the finest Langer liquor from county Cork!” I replied in my most atrocious “always after me luck charms” brogue. His eyes lit up, and he slugged it back.

A puzzled look came over his face. His eyes teared up and his cheeks puffed out. Irish Bob dashed, well, staggered quickly, outside.

Erin go braaaaaaaaaaach.

Someone pinched my camera, so I couldn’t take a picture of Irish Bob. Here is an artist’s rendition of the wanker in full spew.

Irish Bob isn't really a bad fellow, he's just enthusiastic and a lightweight.

He also thinks he looks good shirtless and fancies himself a tapdancer. In short, just another tick on the long list of Michael Flately's crimes against humanity.

14 September 2005

A tougher man than I

This fellow sustained a three inch gash in his willy, had the team Doctor stitch it up and went back in to finish the game.

If I had so much as a small bruise on my willy, I'd be curled up on the ground, trying to kiss it better.

Well, perhaps I should rephrase that...

13 September 2005

This sort of Flattery I can do without.

I was almost splattered by a Budweiser delivery truck today. This makes it three times (not counting cirrhosis) that agents of Annhauser-Busch, Inc. have tried to do me in.

Ironically, I have never been remotely threatened by a whiskey delivery vehicle. In fact, I’ve never even seen a Jameson’s delivery vehicle, yet somehow they perform their tasks safely and efficiently. No gaudy vehicles double parked in front of fire hydrants; no mediocre swill masquerading as booze, and most importantly no flattened corpses formerly belonging to yours truly. Nothing but consistent, impeccable service.

There’s a life lesson in there somewhere.

A Day Late and a Dullard Short.

I promised myself I wouldn’t write about politics, as no good can come of it. Especially with something so emotionally charged as the Katrina recovery efforts. But here I am, days after the fact, foaming at the mouth.

Yesterday, I had the misfortune to listen to two obscenely paid, supposedly intelligent people (well, patent attorneys, actually) bicker about state, local and federal blame allocation for the better part of an hour. To hear them speak, shocking incompetence at all governmental levels is a 21st century innovation

Nonsense! Consider literary works of the nineteenth century; for example, “The Village Idiot; or Mayor”:

“Under the spreading chestnut tree,
The village half-wit sat.
Amusing himself,
By abusing himself;
And catching it in his hat”

Wordsworth’s immortal words echo down the ages. Politicians, due to their extra chromosome, are only fit to work in the fast-food industry (as long as one keeps them away from the fryers), or better yet, the padded, hallowed realms of City Hall, Congress and the White House; where there are responsible people to insure that they don’t run with scissors or bang their heads against the wall too many times.

Unfortunately, it turns out that due to a budget glitch, we have not been paying the minders since Kennedy’s administration, and the lot has walked off the job. We have been oblivious to this fact for over forty years.

This is why we ended up with bureaucratic monstrosities that could not, in fact,would not, coordinate with each other, even when this was the big lesson we supposedly learned almost four years ago to the date.

The sad fact is that we are the absent minders, and we are now reaping the bureaucratic nightmare. Under the best of circumstances and coordination, it would have been days for basic relief to get to some of the worst hit areas. Obviously, this was far from the best of circumstances. It’s time for us to get involved again.

We citizens also have to be able to fend for ourselves through out the first few weeks after a disaster and be prepared to provide aid and comfort to those in need.

If we, the people, continue to sit on our thumbs in such emergencies;, expecting any level of government to immediately swoop in and kiss everything better, we’d also better start being extra, extra good.

Santa Claus is watching, you know.

11 September 2005

Sargasso Spleen

I am overcome with a curious malaise, leaving me unable to vent my spleen of its usual caustic venom. I even briefly toyed with a fantasy involving the non-voluntary spleen ventilation of others; but this is generally a messy process with which both the spleentilated and judiciary seem to disapprove.

I can not even take pleasure in washing down a handful of peyote buttons with absinthe and shooting at the hallucinations; as this would leave me nothing to do at work.

Instead, I am forced to sit in the sunshine with a beer in hand and enjoy the late summer afternoon.

Perhaps someone could send me some hate mail. A death threat? Arrest warrant? Some Jehovah’s witnesses? (Scratch that last bit; I’m in the Jehovah’s Witness Protection Program). Some relatives? Hell, I’d even take Fran Dresher right now.

God, is this what it’s like to be a normal, decent human being? This is really boring. Luckily, I have to spend the week in New York. Nothing recharges my reservoirs of rage as well as being surrounded by a huge number of people that are almost as obnoxious as I.

08 September 2005

Forgit those who trespass against us

Forget law enforcement agencies and secret agents , the biggest problem facing the modern hillbilly evil scientist is trespassers.

Just this morning, I woke up in a clearing. I was without pants, as is the custom after imbibing Tequila. But what the hell; if a man’s home is his Castle, surely a man’s land is his fiefdom and any serf that would view my bottomly bareness can deal with the resulting emotional trauma after they got my crops in.

A generation or so, this would be understood by all. Most people would react immediately and viscerally to the command "Git, you wretched patchouli reeking hippy!" by fleeing in uriny panic, (especially when the message was punctuated by flecks of spittle and some well placed gratuitious ordnance). These days, I get greeted by indignant stares. I lay the blame at the feet of our sorry school systems, as well the lead in our water.

Here in central Pennsyltucky, the Hippies seem to believe that since there are trees here, this has to be a public land, and therefore, I must be the bumbling park ranger looking for stolen pic-a-nick baskets, Boo-Boo.

Honestly, when have they ever seen evil mind control beam machines, a bloated ‘backy chewing, semi nekkid park rangers and illegal distilleries in a state park? This isn’t Norway, you know.

In any event, is imperative to get Hippies away from your land as soon as you see them. They breed like flies and their camps attract other vermin like clowns. As a public service, I have decided to reveal a list of helpful tips, to keep your land free from infestation.

  • You can smell a Hippy long before he can see you. Train your hounds to run them up a tree. You may then shoot rock salt loads at them at a leisurely pace.

  • Let them know that they have purty mouths.

  • Tell them that it’s “hound bathin” day, and by gawd they’re getting in the barrel too. Brandish a nasty looking used toilet brush…

  • Wear a wife beater tee-shirt emblazoned with the slogan “My daddy went to Kent State and all I got was this lousy t-shirt. And four ears on this here necklace.”

  • Or one that says “They can have my guns when they pry them out from your cold, dead arse.”

  • Hold the shotgun in your shooting hand, the liquor bottle and corn cob pipe in your other. Gesticulate wildly with all.

  • Go pants-less, and keep a bleating sheep tied up nearby. Even hippies can do that math.

  • Point to a non-existent “No Trespassing!” sign and ask them “Caint you read?” While their backs are turned to look at the "sign", discharge your firearm over their heads. When they spin back around, say “Ooops!” and giggle disturbingly .

  • Have tape recordings of your giggling play back from different parts of your property, so that the hippy thinks you’ve got Uncle Dad with you.

If all this fails, throw some pot seeds on State Prison lands. Let the hippies know, and then alert the authorities. It'll keep both groups from bothering you, leaving you to survey your domain in all your pants-less glory.

UPDATE! Hungbunny suggests that if you really want to get rid of the hippies, offer them a job. God, it's so simple and elegant....

07 September 2005

More Nigerian 419 Scam mail

Well, it's a busy week, so I'm trotting out some older 419 scam response letters. If any of you Dear Readers get any interesting scam letters, please forward them my way. I enjoy responding to them.

Dear Friend,
I am Lagutin Yuriy and I represent Mr. Mikhail Khordokovsky the former C.E.O of Yukos Oil Company in Russia. I have a very sensitive and confidential brief from this top (Oligarch) to ask for your partnership in re-profiling funds over US$450 million. I will give the details, but in summary, the funds are coming via Bank Menatep.
This is a legitimate transaction. You will be paid 4% for your "Management Fees".Write back by email and provide me with your confidential telephone number, fax number and email address and I will provide further details and instructions. Please keep this confidential; we can’t afford more political problems. Finally, please note that this must be concluded within two weeks. Please write back promptly.
Write me back. I look forward to it.
Lagutin Yuriy.

I was thinking of answering as “Joe McCarthy, Communist” but then I thought, “Who better to rescue Mr. Khordokovsky from the clutches of the sinister Vladimir Putin than the A-TEAM!

Dear Lagutin,

Boy, have you ever made the right decision by contacting us, the A-Team! I’ve heard about the unjust imprisonment of your boss, Mr. Khordokovsky, and believe me, we sympathize. You see, at the end of the Viet Nam war, we were also framed for a crime we didn’t commit and sent to a military prison. We busted out, and now my associates (Col. John "Hannibal" Smith, Lt. Templeton "Faceman" Peck, Sgt. "B.A." Baracus) and myself travel the world, righting wrongs for modest rewards; always staying one step ahead of the vindictive JAG authorities.

Just a little bit about ourselves; Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith is a master of disguises. B.A. Baracas is a mechanical genius, and Templeton "Face Man" Peck, is so good looking that he can charm anyone into giving them what they need, although now he’s getting a little long in the tooth. Myself, I can fly anything, and with BA’s help, can manufacture any needed tool, chemical or explosive. In fact, we do a far better job of this than that smug bastard McGyver, despite his claims to the contrary. (Sheesh, you can’t believe a word he says, he’s a frigging NeoNazi, for God’s sake! Or at least Canadian. Well, he plays hockey; and that’s just creepy.)

Anyway, I feel that we are just the people to spring Mr. Khordokovsky, and crack the bank in which his funds are being kept unlawfully, (and do so to a catchy theme song). Also, I can’t lie, we are getting old, and 4% of $450 million would make a nice retirement fund.

Along this line (and I’m embarrassed to bring it up), but I am no longer spry enough to be able to use the old step ladder to leave my, um, accommodations. I did see a fine new folding ladder that is long enough to do the trick (advertised on late night TV), and I was wondering if you would be kind enough to front me $100 so that I can go ahead and order it. In fact, if you would like my old step ladder as a memento, I would be happy to sell it to you for an additional $50.

Please contact me soon.

Best regards,

Capt. H.M. Murdock
Capt. T.P. Dromedary memorial VA Hospital, Room #316
1500 Colostomy Blvd.
Dribble Falls, PA 16801 (USA)

No reply..... But I did get this little gem:

I am Barrister kamal Huruna (Esq), the Personal Attorney to a Foreign Contractor,who worked with a Multi-National Oil Firm in Nigeria. On the 22nd of may 2001, my client,AN AMERICA National, late Engineer R.Worley an oil Merchant Contractor with the Federal Government of Nigeria,died in a ghastly motor accident with his wife and three kids along sagamu express way All occupants of the vehicle unfortunately lost their lives. Since then
I have made several inquiries to Several Embassies to locate any of my clients extended relatives, this has also proved unsuccessful. After these several unsuccessful attempts, I decided to trace his relatives over the Internet, to locate any member of his family but of no avail. Then I have to contact you to assist me in repatriating the money left behind by my client before they get confiscated or declared unserviceable by the Bank where this huge deposits were lodged.Particularly, the Bank where the deceased had an account valued at about US$20 Million has issued me a notice to provide the next of kin,relatives so that the fund left will be transferred orhave the account confiscated within the next twenty official working days.
Since I have been unsuccessful in locating the relatives for over 3 years now I seek your consent to present you as the next of kin to the deceased so that the proceeds of this account valued at US$20Million can be paid to you and then you and I can share this money. 60 to me and 35% to you,while 5% should be for expenses or tax as your Government may require.
All I require is your honest and co-operation to enable us see this deal through. I guarantee that this will be executed under a legitimate arrangement that will protect you from any breach of the law. I will want you to send to me on your return email the following information for the transfer in your favour
1, Your full Name2, Your contact Address3, Your private phone/Fax
I await your kind response,Please reply to my private email

Well, I'd better not make it too easy on him, or come across as a nutcase. So...

Pleasant Morrow upon thee, Brother Barrister.

I am saddened, yet not unduly surprised at the demise of the Worley family at the demonic hands of a petroleum burning conveyance. As thou may not realize, any automata built from technology developed post 1780 are inspired by Infernal forces, and thus must be considered unclean. This simple truth has been passed down to those of us in the Amish faith, while ye heathen insist on imperiling thy immortal souls by riding within. Repent!

Thou mentioned that in a bank thou hast huge deposits, and I can but sympathize. My Clydesdales also make huge deposits, often along the banks of our stream. It is a heavy burden for my wife to remove.

We may well be next of kin of the poor family, for within our family tree there are many Kepharts; an name that sometimes is mispronounced by outsiders as “Worley”. (Although I feel that it is very unlikely that any of my relatives begat but three children).

In any road, I am happy to help thee in thy Godly task, but I have not a bank account, as the elders of my faith have proclaimed them to be tools of the devil. Instead, we bury our spare cash under the flagstones of our root cellars. As I judge thee to be a Godly man, I would be happy to deposit your monies along side mine in God’s good Earth.

Please correspond to me only within hours of the late eve, after prayers, as this is the only that I may hitch my team to the power shaft of the Babbige Difference Engine Computator. It is only at this time that we may receive mails through the Aether.

I should encourage you to purchase one of these blessed contraptions. My brother Effriam is a clever cabinet maker, and can build one for thee, (with the help of Elias Slocum, our water-clock builder) for only $500.

Please let me know where I may pick up thy cash. Is Nigeria somewhere within Lancaster County? I shall have to stay with relatives overnight if it is too much farther afoot.

Ephriam Weaver

Again, no reply. How am I supposed to scam these people, if ther refuse to write back? Bastards!

06 September 2005

Rule Brittania!

This explains a lot on both sides of the Atlantic.

The only difference is that the Brits have cooler museums.

05 September 2005

Bees in our time.

OK, now I’ve had it. The yellow jackets stung me and I took out their nest. We’re even, right? Noooo, the little bastards had to bring in hornets. It’s one thing to be stung in the arm, or leg, or head, or even the taint, but I absolutely draw the line when they sting me on the starboard man-boob. I do not look good lopsided.

Appeasement can be an option no longer; this is war.

Know Thine Enemy.

The Axis of Weevil. Well, they’re obviously not weevils, but that’s what rhymes. In fact, wasps are classified in the phylum Arthropoda, class Insecta, order Hymenoptera. Quit giggling, you lot…

These may not be the finest exemplars of the wasp family, as they have been slightly damaged in shipping. Oh Hell, I admit it. I stomped on them. What do you want? I hate the fuckers. (The sting from the little ground dwelling turd-burglar on the left hurt the worst and caused the most swelling).

The Weapons:

Better killing through technology; the modern anti-wasp arsenal. Swatter? We don't need no steenking swatter!

1). Über Toxic Bug Death. Obviously, I’m not above a little chemical warfare, but this stuff is, after all, a nerve agent. I decided to stop after using a case or so, since I still need to live here.

2). Napalm. Its use is banned near the house, but can be used on burrowing wasps in the yard. Not entirely successful, but very, very satisfying.

3). Pressure washer. Nothing ruins a wasp’s day more than being squished by a 2000 psi jet of watery doom. The downside is that nothing ruins my day more than being stung by as wasp that objects to having his home skooshed. Also the thing isn’t very portable.

4). Baseball cap. This is a last ditch weapon but surprisingly effective nonetheless. Swat them as they fly about to stun them; then as they stagger about the ground, the last thing that goes through their heads is my size eleven boot (13UK; 76 or some outrageous number on the Continent. Honestly, who ever heard of metric feet? Do it right, or go shoeless, ya godless sandal wearing Euro hippies.)

5). Welding gloves. Why not just grab handfuls and crush the life out of the bastards? I'll tell you why; unless you tape the glove openings to your sleeves, they'll just fly up into the gloves.

6). WD-40 and cigarette lighter (not shown). Also highly satisfying, yet immediately confiscated. Poo.

The Campaign

I’ll not bore you with the details; suffice it to say there was a lot of high pitched shrieking and running in circles until the neighbors took their hose to me. Also, several visits from our very concerned fire department.

At the end of the day, Centre county animal control tranq-darted me; but not before I’d wiped out the yellow peril. Victory, sweet victory!

But at a cost. Wasps, as it turns out, can sting through jeans, especially if the denim is stretched taut.
Trophies. I shall make a necklace out of them, to warn off other wasps. Yes, damn it, it does make me feel like a real man to kill small creatures. You see, I have issues with my father. When I was a child I could never please him, and… oh, the hell with this touchy-feely crap. All you hippies can kiss my swollen left arse cheek.

03 September 2005


Hate 'em. It's bad enough that the bastards got me on my arms, but one of them stung me on top of my head.

Normally, the aerial view of my noggin looks like a hairy toilet seat. Now, it looks like a hairy toilet seat worn by a pin head.


I wish I'd written this. I might have gotten something accomplished today if I hadn't had hordes of coffee drinking people hanging out in my doorway.

02 September 2005

In parking lots the potties blow, beside the cars parked row on row

They stand on a windswept hilltop, plastic cenotaphs, bearing mute witness to an event that happened many years ago. They memorialize a horrible karmic realignment; a drunken fouling; a tragic arse-bluing.

To the uninformed, they are simply Porta-Potties, Job Johnnies; portable construction site outhouses. They are placed in strategic locations about the parking lot of a large football stadium. To the ignorant throngs, they are nothing more than a temple of relief. Pumped dry after every game, they are then partial filled with a deep blue disinfectant. Unless needed, the vulgar masses will ignore them on passing, shedding not a single tear for what they signify.

To those of us present that fateful day, they are a memorial.

Many years ago, so many that the statute of limitations has long since expired, Putz, his fiancé du jour, Flash and I went to a game at said stadium. We grilled, we drank, we chavved. At one point we managed to set fire to Putz’s SUV. After the game, we decided to allow the parking lot to empty while we tailgated some more.

Before long we were approached a large lummoxy fellow and a short skinny bloke who looked at us with apprehension. The combination reminded us of an excessively greasy organ grinder with his monkey.

“I schallenge you guys to a shugging contest!” Said the lummox.

“Eeep eeep eeep!” Echoed his monkey.

Putz accepted, and Flash and I looked on with amusement. Putz had never lost a chugging contest. Until that day.

The lummox, as it turned out, was a mutant beer absorbing tub, well insulated by a thick layer of human blubber. He accepted his winnings in beer.

“Where, (belch) can I go to pick up chicks around here?” He asked boozily. “Chicks dig my blue eyes.”

“Sure,” we thought. “They’re equally attracted to your prodigious girth.” However we kept our opinions to ourselves and directed him to the nearest Maison du Skanque Hoe.

It was about this time when the Lummox noticed Putz’s fiancé.

“Who’s she?” He demanded. Putz told him.

“Women don’t belong at football games” Pomposticated the Lummox. “I didn’t bring my wife here, so that I an go pick up women. Chicks dig my blue eyes, you know!”


“You may also want to try Chumley’s” Putz replied thoughtfully. “I’m sure you’ll get lucky there.” Putz gave the Lummox directions which he wrote down greedilly. After all, he was insured to get lucky there, with such deep blue, blue eyes.

Now Chumley’s is not your ordinary bar. It’s not even your ordinary gay bar. It’s a Charlie Manson / Ex-con Harley biker gay bar. Skeletor would sit in the corner of such a bar, covering his bungalow with a steel plate, while sweating in fear.

Yeah, the Lummox could get laid there.

Unable to restrain my laughter, I claimed that I had to relieve myself. I walked to the nearest Job Johnnie and gingerly opened the door. The smell was incredible. Human byproduct filled the reservoir to within inches of the top. I was grateful that I didn’t need to sit.

When I was done, a still chuckling Flash did the same. He finished up and we started back to the SUV.

“’Scuse me!” Lummox growled while shoving past us. “I gotta take a PUTZ!

The lummox had his pants about his ankles before he closed the door. Charming.

His friend apologized profusely whilst Lummox slathered and grunted. Apparently, the Lummox had crossed the line, and thrown a beer bottle at Putz who then told him to leave. We accepted monkey's apology just as Putz drove up.

“Get in” He demanded. “We need to leave before I shoot the S.O.B.” Putz put the bumper up against the Porta-Potty’s reservoir, gunned the motor and popped the clutch.

Now, you must remember that Porta-Pottys are made of flexible polyethylene.


The door burst open and out popped a screaming blue lummox. He was cheerily festooned with used bog paper and unidentified lumps. Screaming pure hatred, he charged at us, but as his pants remained about his ankles, his upper torso moved considerably faster than his feet. He quickly became a supine screaming blue lummox.

The remaining traffic parted like the Red Sea as we made our exit. I don’t know what may have happened later as I read nothing about the incident in the next day’s newspaper.

I only hope that the Chumley’s regulars dug his blue arse.

And that's the way I likes it.