In the unlikely event of a water landing, your seat cushion may be used as a toilet.
A year or so ago, I used one of those discount online travel agencies to book a flight to Frankfurt. The low bidder by a considerable margin was Pakistani Airways. I had to forgo this option as I had yet to remove the “I ♥ Gitmo” tattoo that had appeared mysteriously on my right hand the same night as a particularly insightful tour of the Mexican correctional system. Thank you ever
so much, José Cuervo.
The next cheapest was LuftBavaria. I’d never heard of it, and they didn’t seem to have a web site. In fact, the only reference I could find was a German consumer report that only stated: ”Lieber eine Arsch voll der Nägel als eine Minute auf LuftBavaria.”
Since I am not fond of storing pointy fastening hardware in my bung, I must say that I didn’t much like the sound of that, but when one is strapped for cash, and has been banned from as many airlines as I have, one must make do.
My heart sank when I saw the aircraft. It was covered with dents and patches. Buddy Holly would have had second thoughts getting on board. The pilots appeared to be a bit too jovial, and the stewardess was a powerfully built woman who would not have looked out of place on the back of Skeletor’s Harley. She quickly made an ordnung.
“My name is Gretchen. This Plane is going to Frankfurt. SIT DOWN!”
I sat. Perhaps, if I did not make eye-contact, she would not talk to me. No such luck. She had read the passenger manifest.
“Herr Doktor Scientist, are you related to the Von Scientists?” She asked, with bosoms presented at eye levels like twin mallets of doom. Digression being the better part of valour, I lied.
“Ja” I replied. “Grandfather was brought to the US after the war as part of the anti-Soviet: ‘Our
German scientists are better than your
German scientists!’ program.”
“Gutt. TheVon Scientists are wealthy, no?” She asked with a calculating smirk, and sat down next to me. “Hasselnuβschnaps?” It was more of an order than a question.
I obeyed out of fear.
“Gretchen, bring us a drink. We’re thirsty” Yelled the pilots.
“Get them yourselves. I am talking to my boyfriend” She yelled back.
” I thought, before shrieking like a little girl as the plane went into a steep dive. The drinks cart crashed into the cockpit.
“Sorry about the turbulence!” The pilot shouted as he started to climb, sending the drink cark rolling back, lighter by one bottle. Gretchen deftly made it a more symmetrical two as the cart rolled past us.
It was obvious that the Atlantic was very stormy that day. I proposed to Gretchen over the Azores. One of the pilots married us by the time we cleared the Portuguese coast. There were four or five more turbulent events over Spain and France, but soon we were near our destination.
“We see two runways” The pilot exclaimed. “Lucky for you we also see two planes. We shall attempt to land each plane on the appropriate runway.”
CRASH! We rolled to a stop, and I reluctantly disengaged myself from Gretchen’s cleavage.
“Welcome to Köln. The local time is .. er, night time” The pilot seemed vaguely confused. “Um, is there any more of the schnapps back there?”
Did we land or were we shot down? I’ll never know for sure. What I am sure of, is that the consumer website had unfairly maligned LuftBavaria. I highly recommend that you give them a try.
Just keep your filthy mitts off my Gretchen
We put the "Ho" in Hotel
It must be hard to get good help these days. Last night I stayed at a hotel that I shall refer to, for the sake of avoiding a painful litigatory process, as the “Governmentally sanctioned non-weekend day-off
I wasn’t on Holiday
, mind you, but I thought it a safer place to stay than the "Running from the Police Inn" across the road. The coppers seem to hang out there, for some reason.
“Do you have a reservation?” Asked the night clerk.
“No. I have no reservations about staying at the Governmentally sanctioned non-weekend day-off even though I am not on Holiday Inn.” I replied. “I’m sure it’s almost as nice as the Motel 6".
“Very funny, um” She replied while squinting at my credit card. “Mrs. Beatrice Yamaguchi…”
“Please, call me Betty” I replied breezily. It’s always better to be on a first name basis with the help. They may just give you a heads-up when the police drop on by.
I had just settled in, and was watching an anatomically unambiguous yoga video, when in walked an elderly lady. She treated the scene with classical aplomb and when apprised of the fact that she had been booked in a room already occupied, promised to tell the night clerks not to let my room out to anyone else.
Fine and dandy! I started another tape, played a vigorous game of “Pump the Professor” and fell asleep.
An hour or so later, a cheerily inebriated long haul trucker staggered in.
I flipped on the light. He shrieked like a three year old girl with a skinned knee.
“Be gentle,” he whimpered before his eyes rolled up and he sank to the floor.
Crap. I pilfered his wallet, called the front desk to have him removed. Once again, I asked them if they’d stop letting out my room. “This is the second time.” I reminded them.
“It was never twice!” She protested.
I was stunned. “I’m an evil su-su-scientist!” I sputtered.. “I’ve been rigorously trained for years to be able to count to two!”
Besides, I’d used a calculator
She eventually conceded the point.
“Well, did you have a reservation?” She asked snotilly. Obviously, not making a reservation means that you have to sleep with every Tom, Dick and Hairy that breezes in after midnight.
Damn. I’d already used my only reservation joke, so I weakly asked her how many people did they expect me to sleep with that night. Weak or not, she conceded the amount ought to be zero, (based on my looks) and vowed that I would have no more interruptions.
She was also kind enough to send down room service with a decent amount of Cognac, which mollified me, but I can’t stop thinking of that the poor sod who walked in on me at 1:00AM:
Scarred for life he is.
Cheese it, it's the fuzz!
I shall be spending the rest of the day avoiding the clutches of the long arms of one Mr. John Law.
Don't wait up.
What are you doing to prepare for the coming Zombie invasion?
Sure, you’ve watched all the George Romero films, but that’s like trying to learn about drugs by reading a school anti-drugs pamphlet. The only way to learn about drugs and Zombies is by taking a personal, hands-on approach. As the public service portion of my parole agreement, I'd like to supply some advice.
First off, you need the tools. Guns, guns and more guns. Flamethrowers, gobs of HE, pointy thingies and yes, even clubs. If anyone wants to know why you’re packing more weaponry than your average drug lord, they’re probably zombies. Demonstrate what you have learned here.
Secondly. Practice, practice, practice. Stopped in gridlock? We need fewer drivers. Bored at work? Replace the break room coffee with decaf. Whacking practice may then commence at about 11AM. Try not to hit any of the payroll people. Yes, they’re zombies, but we need them if we are to support our binge drinking habits.
Finally, know thy enemy. It’s easy to recognize a zombie if he’s staggering around saying “Brrrraaaaiinnsss!” or is a politician, but what about the border-line cases? Let’s try some exercises:
Keith Richards? Definitely. He died of a heroin overdose in 1970. Amazingly, he looks better as a zombie. Too torpid to fuss about. No need to club.
Keanu Reeves? Not a zombie, but brain likely eaten by one. Reader’s choice as to whether to club or not.
Tom Cruise, John Travolta and the rest of those whacky Scientologists? No, but let’s club them anyway.
Scientists? Leave them alone. Scientists are your friends, and would never hurt a fly.
The road to Hell is paved with empty soft drink cups.
Jesus spent a couple of days in Hell once. I can relate. I’ve been to New York City.
A few years back I flew out of JFK to the dusty far-off. I started out from central Pennsyltucky with an apple and a 44 ounce soft drink.
“Why would anyone purchase a 44oz soft-drink?” You might ask. “Who could possibly drink it all?” Well, the answer to those questions are “It was on sale” and “me” respectively. By the time I made it to the George Washington bridge, the soft-drink was asking, nay, demanding to be let out.
“Only twenty miles as the crow flies”. I thought. No problem. I cruised past the last public toilet for fifty miles, without a care in the world
An hour later I was one hundred yards further.
“No worries” I thought. “Plan B.” I could surreptitiously position the empty cup and bail.
Tourists in adjacent vehicles, who had previously ignored me, now witnessed my discomfit and came to the conclusion that I was a local.
“Look daddy, it’s snarling” A child shrieked gleefully. “A Noo Yawka!”
“Hey buddy, how do we get to Times Square?” Asked another tourist.
“GET OUT OF MY WAY, YOU FUCKING RETARDS!” I roared. A Japanese family stood next to my car while Papa-San took their picture.
“I'LL EAT YOUR FUCKING LIVERS!” I added. They smiled at each other. This, they thought to themselves, was why they came here; an authentic New York experience.
With no outlet, the hedgehog in my bladder grew. The next two hours passed in a painful blur. I vaguely recall calling an elderly Italian gentleman “Grand-mama Pus-nuts” as I cut him off at the airport off-ramp. I also may have run over a nun or two.
I parked in the most remote corner of the parking lot and pretended to be fascinated with paint work of a convenient panel van.
A nice Hindu family mistook my appearance of total bliss for enlightenment and parked next to me. “Excuse me Sir” The father started “Could you tell me…”
The echinoderm in my bladder spasmed as I clenched off the flow.
Now I am become Shiva, destroyer of worlds
The poor man quickly evacuated his family to a friendlier locale; (I’m guessing Mexico) and I returned to the task in hand.
I later recounted this story to a colleague. He shook his head sadly.
“Evil, you’re a moron.” He said. “Keep a rain coat in the car. When you’re stuck in traffic, don it and pop the bonnet. Lean over the engine and pretend to inspect it whilst you whiz away.”
Genius! I’ve since tried this method, and it works well. Just watch out for moving belts.
Trust me on this one.
Man, this cough syrup is goood stuff...
“Don’t effing post pictures of your sodding cats.” Harry
sagely advises neophyte bloggers. “Nobody gives a rats arse.”
Well, obviously; with the possible exception of the rat who ultimately must sacrifice its’ derriere to prove Harry wrong. Well, dulce et decorum est, and all that.
In the last week I have been inundated with imaginary e-mails from non-existant people all wanting to know how Sooty became part of the Scientist household. Well, since I can think of nothing else to write about. I’ll tell you.
I found Sooty abandoned in the National Gallery when I was doing some late night art acquisition.
“UNCLEAN!” Announced the Bob the parrot when I came home. (I had once gone through a pirate phase; long story). Well, Bob would know better than me. I’m a slob. I bunged Sooty into the sink.
“UNCLEAN!” Squawked Bob. Hmm Sooty looked fine to me, but…
“UNCLEAN!” Christ. I was bleeding profusely by this time, and I was getting the feeling that Sooty wasn’t enjoying the baths either. Maybe I should have taught Bob another word.
“UNCLEAN!” The camel’s back broke.
Parrots taste like chicken.
Sooty enjoying his "welcome" baths.
What Sooty Likes.
Making awful-goddammits and not covering them up.
What Sooty does not like.
The dryer “fluff Cycle”
Sooty’s Dim Sum of all Fears.
(Pictures scrumped from dailyhaha.com)
I'm sick, but you knew that already.
Gack. This cold virus has handed me my arse. Literally. It came up to me and said “Excuse me Sir, are these you buttocks?”
“Gnnf, sknifff, chang-GOOO!
” I replied. “Gsnnff”. I am the snot monster.
“Riiiight, I’ll just put them over here then”. It picked up a magazine and flopped down on the couch. It seemed in no hurry to leave.
I asked my MD what I should do to get rid of the cold virus, and he suggested that I drink plenty of juice and clear liquids.
Vodka is a clear liquid.
I took the Doc’s advice and after 3 hours the cold virus is still here, but it’s far less annoying.
“Hey, did I tellsh you about the tchime I was in Pamela Andershon’s chest?” It asked in a cheerily conspiratorial tone.
“Chngfff!” I replied encouragingly. Chngfff, indeed.Update:
ALL HAIL ETHANOL! While the cold virus hasn't left yet, it is
still unconcious. When it does wake up, I expect lots of wincing and moaning. Lightweight.
It appears that Hungbunny
has been having a problem with comment spam and could use some input.
I haven’t had a problem with comment spam (or, indeed, comments in general) since someone started a silly rumour about me removing spammers’ kidneys and selling them on eBay.
I know, I know!
How ridiculous! Everyone knows that one may not sell human organs on eBay.
I had to flog them from a pushcart in Manhattan.
Anyhoo, the police asked me what I was doing with a bag of human kidneys, and I told them I was a performance artist.
It seems they see this sort of thing all the time. They introduced me to a Soho gallery owner, and now my bag of kidneys is hanging in the foyer of one of Trump’s buildings.
Project GirlBot update
It’s amazing really. A week on the market and sales of my new GirlBot (“All of the woman. None of the annoying pepper spray”™), have far exceeded expectations.
I must attribute a large part of this success to the positive reviews in Nerd Magazine, where they praised my innovative oral vacuum/blower push-pull design, (loosely based on the 5 gallon, Wet-n-Dry ShopVac). You can even use your GirlBot to clean out your car, if you’re into that sort of thing. Most of my customers; hailing from Silicon valley; I suspect are not.
I was also awarded a trophy for “Best.Product.Ever” at this years COMDEX convention, while a chubby fellow in a stained penguin t-shirt belted out a love song to his GirlBot:
“Did you ever know that you’re my hero?
You’re everything I hoped that you would be.
Even while driving in my Pinto,
You are the wind beneath my things.”
It was very touching; in a creepy “sequined white glove” sort of way.
I found this news snippet
to be very informative. It seems that a Cricket match was truncated to allow for the regularly scheduled appearance of a Simpsons rerun.
Now, a Cricket match is long enough to show several Simpsons episodes during the inevitable bathroom / hashish / ”time-outs .as the Australian mascot eats yet another hapless spectator” breaks,* but the State Department demands that the Simpsons be shown at its’ regularly scheduled time, come Hell, high water, or Ashes.
This has been a cornerstone of American foreign policy since the Clinton administration, and such is our commitment to it, that we are willing to alienate our two most important allies in the war in Iran, Iraq, or whatever the hell the name is.
In the dusty far-off, people toss around consonants like peas in a shell game. It would make it much easier for us to bomb the correct country if they minded their p’s and q’s; or n’s and q’s in this case.
Let’s face it, we may have sophisticated satellite imagery, but our grasp of geography is somewhat poor, since our maps are based on McDonald’s™ tray liners.
While I made a fortune supplying these maps to the government, there have been some other geopolitical repercussions. (Notably, whenever a CIA analyst notices that the Hamburglar™ has made off with one of Mayor McCheese’s™ freedom fries, China is in dire peril of losing another embassy.)
In an attempt to ameliorate this problem, I have composed a little musical mnemonic to help out our government officials:
“Iran, Iran, Iran,
Over your stupid little, ankle-biting yap dog.
I rock, I rock, I rock”
The State Department has yet to adopt it formally, but I’ve been playing it non-stop over their Tannoy system to familiarize them with it, while simultaneously informing the Paxton-Smythes that their Pomeranian, “Fluffy”, is in a better place now; the ditch.
(*Christ, don’t you Australians have any animals that aren’t spiky/toothy/poisonous/Paul Hogan? I'd be terrified to leave the house. Remind me to never piss-off your lot )
These things I believe...
I had a chat this morning with my earnest young parole officer (EYPO).
“Evil,” He said.
” I replied frostily. One must nip such impertinent familiarity in the bud, or the EYPOs will start having all sorts of unreasonable demands like “Don’t build any more death-rays” and “Stop trying to devalue the Euro”. Wankers.
“Sorry, Doctor. What I started to say was that I can’t get a handle on you. What motivates you? What characteristics will help you walk the straight-and-narrow? What do you believe
He leaned towards me to make good Earnest Young Parole Officer eye contact and handed me a form to fill out.
“Christ,” I thought. “Another woolly brained prat who read in sociology and graduated Summa Cum Swallower from some fancy woman’s university.” Still, I suppose it’s better than the old sort that would as soon club you as look at you.; after all, that sort of thing is my
I gingerly accepted the form from him. Just the thing to scrape the bird poo from my truck.
But he did plant a seed. What do
I believe in? Well:
I believe that pants and underwear are optional.
I believe that I have every right to perform random cavity searches on members of the general public.
I believe that the CIA has implanted a computer in my teeth.
I believe that the CIA should upgrade that computer so that I can download porn more efficiently.
I believe that there is nothing wrong with trading the Boss’ car for drugs.
I believe that it was a mistake to answer “Because you’re lonely and looking for a good time?” when the policeman asked me if I knew why he pulled me over.
I believe that I really ought to have fled the scene when he answered “Yes”.
I believe that children are our future.
I believe that our future is grim, dark, hopeless, and as soon as I turn my back on the little bastards, one of them will jab me in the rump with a pencil.
Send in the clowns, oh please....
Last Saturday I noticed a throng of young children hiding in my back yard. I went out back and asked them what was wrong. Little Timmy, my neighbor’s young son answered:
“We wath at my birthday party, and then a clown shown up. Clowns are scawy!”
“Timmy,” I gently chided, “You shouldn’t be afraid of clowns. Clowns are filled with delicious candy, much like a piñata.” I handed each child a bat.
“Shouldn’t we have blindfolds?” Timmy asked suspiciously. Say what you'd like about him, the little bugger is smart. It’s going to get him into a lot of trouble some day.
“No Timmy. Clowns are much faster than piñatas. In fact, I’d have a go at his knees first, slow him down, you know, then bust him open.”
I retired to my hammock, to await the sweet sounds that were to waft softly through the summer air. As it turned out, there was nothing soft about the sounds, but they faded quickly, and soon the kids returned.
“He wasn’t filled with candy,” said little Timmy indignantly. “He was filled with blood and gookey stuff!”
“Oh dear,” I replied sadly. “I guess he wasn’t a very good clown, was he?”
They all nodded sagely.
“Tell you what, kids, keep the bats. There’ll be other birthday parties soon, and maybe there’ll be some better clowns!”
You should have seen their little faces light up! God, I love passing knowledge and wisdom on to the younger generation.
In fact, I’d be a teacher, if the school board hadn’t obtained that damned restraining order.
Come to think of it, school board members are also filled with candy. Hey kids!
Legal Disclaimer: My counsel has advised me to point out that this is a humour site, and that I in no way advocate acts of violence towards humans, animals, or even plant life.
Clowns, of course, fit into none of these categories, and therfore may still be beaten with impunity.
Hey sailor, wanna have a good time?
I installed a site counter the other day and sat back to watch the hits role in. Well, after four days, I had accumulated exactly two hits; one of which was from a confused elderly Japanese lady looking for a recipe for sea cucumber and radish jelly; the other was from a fundamentalist Christian internet pornography watchdog.
While I did get some great links from the porno watchdog, clearly, drastic action was required.
I decided to become a link whore.
This, however, presented a problem as I have spread of late into a goodly bulk. Where could I find fish net stockings in XXX-Lard sizes? In desperation, I dispatched minions to Gloucester to pinch a pair of seine nets. While I waited for their return I posted several entries with a myriad of key phrases such as “ginormous boobies”, “power sander eroticism”, “Mr. Blobby” and “Furby Modification”. I then comment spammed the entire blogosphere and sat back to let the magical search engine spiders do their work.
Alas, after a week, googling those phrases and even “spastic rabid ferret-like fellatio”, Barry Hutton still tops the list, and I am not even mentioned. The very nerve!
For those of you not in the know, Barry is one of Harry’s less savory schizophrenetic manifestations. The voices in my head had him over as a fourth for Whist, and the bastard got drunk, violated my ceramic frog collection, left an upper decker
and ran over the cat when he left.
I don’t much care for Barry. None of Harry’s other personalities has ever been so rude as to run over the cat.
No matter, my minions have returned with the nets. Now, where did I put my stiletto heeled pumps?
I'll take Manhattan
Some humourless people in dark suits have just dropped by. Apparently, I was not
legally authorized to sell the mineral rights of Manhattan.
I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to French mining giant Avera. I hope that you have not strip mined too much. I would also like to remind you of my "no refunds" policy.
The sister hood.
Before a life of crime provided me with the wherewithal to afford such luxuries, I desperately wanted a telescope.
No, you pervs, not
to spy on Betty-Sue Wankfodder’s boudoir; I was only interested in astronomy, and if the telescope was ever pointed in that direction, it was purely by accident. (Well, I am
a tad bit accident prone).
Since I could not buy a telescope, I bought some mirror blanks and set to polishing them myself. I fashioned a slurry polisher from an ancient fan motor, some cams and gears, and housed the unholy contraption in a length of 3 inch diameter PVC pipe. The thing bucked and jerked like an epileptic weasel while throwing sparks and smoke like a crack addicted roman candle. Amazingly, the hideous thing worked well.
You can imagine my surprise when it was stolen. When I questioned my sister about it, she replied:
“Sure. I sold it as a sex toy to one of the more vapid sorority girls for $50. She calls it Mjolnir.”
“ I said incredulously. “Um, wouldn’t that make her Thor?”
“Yeth, I thuppose tho, but she hathn’t complained yet.”
Today, some inconsiderate sod rang my doorbell at 11 in the morning. Now, as a successful independent villain I get up at the crack of noon, so this fellow really
got up my nose.
He claimed he was selling Amway, but even without a cuppa, I could tell he was an MI6 agent. Long story short, I bunged him into the neighbor’s trash bin. Let those bastards explain a corpse to the Coppers for a change.
I did pretty well on the deal; coming away with a 1974 Pinto and about 20 gallon bottles of multi purpose sinus cavity exfoliant / industrial detergent that I’ll use as a high pressure lower GI track lavage for the next SOB that disturbs my sleep.
Naturally, this put me in a good mood as I went about my morning ablutions. I should have known that black thunderheads hovered on the horizon. The phone rings. It’s my sister.
It’s not that Sis is eeevil
, per se, but she does get bored easily, and these times usually end up as valuable if painful, life lessons.
When we were much younger, she would assuage her boredom by arranging my elder brother to commit GBH on my tender carcass.
“Evil”, she said, “Go tell your brother that he’s a twirly whirly girly”
“Get knotted” I replied. “He’ll pound me”
“Not if he can’t find you. Call him a twirly whirly girly, and hide under my bed. He’ll never find you there”
Now, this was before I consumed all of those brain enhancing lead paint chips, so I simply wasn’t the sharpest knife in the multiple stab-wounded corpse.
“Okay” says I. I called him that, and dashed under her bed.
“Where’s that little bugger?” My much larger brother roared.
“Under my bed” Sis replied demurely.
I heard her voice today and panicked.
“Evil, I know you're there. I can hear your breathing” She said. “Evil, I’m so
I am frozen to the floor. There is no escape.
There is no escape, but the tomb.
Boxers or Briefs?
I really didn't want a cat, but Ernst Blofeldt made it so damn fashionable. I ended up with a black one, (Sooty), as I thought it fitting, what with all the path-crossing possibilites.
Alas, the lazy, fat little sod spends all of his time sleeping and showing generally poor judgement.
His last lapse of judgement was to fall asleep nestled in a pile of dirty lab coats.
Apparently, Sooty was not aware exactly how much bleach it takes to get blood and chemical stains out of white clothing, but I think he has a fair idea now.
"Sooty", being irritated for some reason, would like some "Alone time"
All the Good Henchpeople are Taken
The going is tough for the independent Evil Genius. Most of the best henchmen, erm, henchpeople (strong union) are taken by corporate villains with better dental plans.
Things were running smoothly. Agents of good being lowered into vats of boiling acid, gold being pilfered from Fort Knox, commode lids being left down; you know, the usual.
Then, sure as eating Cheetos and surfing for pornography mysteriously turns one’s “Daddy parts” orange, the New York robot busts a gasket and shoves an arm through a wall. Of course the henchineer in charge of service can’t restrain it by herself. GAHH!
Now, you are all thinking “I didn’t see anything on the tube about a robot amok in New York” That’s because ROBOTS DON’T RUN AMOK IN NEW YORK, YOU DOLTS! THAT'S TOKYO!
Jesus wept! Listen, if New Yorkers wanted to see a cityscape flattened by berserk robots with radioactive breath and toxic waste spray action, they’d bloody well cross the Hudson to Newark.
No, New York robots are boring things that perform menial tasks like selling crack at kindergartens, shaking down prostitutes and serving in the US Senate.
Long story short, I fixed the robot myself and am now adding the finishing touches to my new GirlBots. I figure I can sell one to each geek out there that knows what a chromatic dragon is.
That’s right, YOU, you dateless freak. I’ll be ready to ship tomorrow, so drop me an e-mail with all of your credit card numbers.
All I need to do is to add the finishing touches, and procure some Cheetos.
The Name game
You may not think that volunteering for the Cub scouts does not fit the image of an Evil Genius bent on World domination, but what the hell do you know? Do you have a Platinum Preferred Premium Plus membership in the Hall of Villainy™, hmm?
No? Then shut the hell up.
The first rule of getting henchmen is to hook them when they’re young. In the Scouts, we teach them how to set fires*, urinate on public lands, cook and consume high caloric and carcinogenic “food stuffs”, and how to sing the most irritating song on the planet; the one that will make their parents long for the peace of a lonely shallow grave.
I am, of course, referring to “The Name Game” (Copyright 1970 by Shirley Ellis, a wholly owned subsidiary of Pure Evil, Inc.). Regardez:
“Come on everybody!
I say now let's play a game
I betcha I can make a rhyme out of anybody's name
The first letter of the name, I treat it like it wasn't there
But a B or an F or an M will appear
And then I say bo add a B then I say the name
and Bonana fanna and a fo
And then I say the name again with an F very plain
and a fee fy and a mo
And then I say the name again with an M this time
and there isn't any name that I can't rhyme
Arnold, Arnold bo Barnold Bonana fanna fo Farnold
Fee fy mo Marnold Arnold! "
And so on.
Inevitably some fat, bloated hydrocephalic idiot will bring up the name Chuck, shocking the Victorian sensibilities of all parents in earshot, teaching the kiddies a new word that will get them a whoopin’ when they get home, and generally ruining the moment for everyone.
Which, I suppose, is why I keep doing it.
(* Great slogan, Smokey: ”Only you can stop forest fires.” Sort of implies that only God can start forest fires, dunnit? I quickly disproved this blatant lie to my Cub Scout Troop, believe you me).
So I’m an asshat, am I?
Interesting turn of phrase, that. I intend to steal it, substitute the more poetic word “arse”, then lob you screaming into the volcano while I dispassionately finish my cuppa. Well, I’ll do the last bit as soon as I get out of this infernal straight jacket.
I’ve lived in the States for thirty odd years now, and have been exposed to a goodly number of boozy arse-hats.
I still have an accent, and one can actually hear their handful of synapses firing when they hear me talk. Since I don’t fit their preconceived notions of the overly sensitive/effeminate Hugh Grant type, and am obviously not James Bond, they have all come to the conclusion that I am an evil genius, bent on world domination through the use of an overly large weather machine that I‘ve concealed in the extinct volcano behind the shed.
Which only goes to show you that these Yankee arse-hats are remarkably perceptive.
For God’s sake, shut up. My Head hurts
I used to live by the maxim that while alcohol does kill brain cells, it only kills the weak ones. In my youth, this process of natural selection worked well, making me the most intellectually feared client of the trans-Atlantic mental health system. Now, years later, I am paying the price.
The few remaining synapses, weakened by cold and hunger, are brutally forced to yield the pitifully inadequate sanctuary of sleep, and totter unsteadily on their ganglia to the pain mines of the Hangover Gulag.
I feel for them, I really do. Innocent victims in the war on sobriety, they suffer through no fault of their own.
But rules are rules, and my liver has been naughty.
It must be punished.
And that's the way I likes it.