30 August 2005

Just Sit Right Back and You'll hear a Tale, a Tale of a Fateful Trip,

I am going to deviate from the normal outrageously fallacious format of this blog, and tell a true story. I recently received an e-mail from a good friend of mine, who we shall refer to as "Flash". Flash wrote:

Had a really fun trip down from Martha's Vineyard over the weekend. The most fun was at 2am on Sunday morning when I, completely exhausted, sent Alex below to wake the other watch. A few seconds after he went below I hear Bill yell "Ohhh @%%@#%#$^#$!!!! We're SINKING!!!!". I won't go into the long detailed story but we came very close to ending up in the liferaft 50 miles off the coast of New Jersey at 2:30 am on a rough and windy night. That was really something to contemplate...

So, one of the lessons learned from the experience was the value of a bilge high water alarm. These things are quite cheap and worth every penny. Perhaps you should consider one for your boat too. It sounds much nicer to me to learn that there's a problem from an alarm going off instead of having the captain get up to go on watch and have his feet splash in the water. Then he goes and opens the door to the engine room to find the main engine halfway under in 6 feet of swirling black water. Bill said at that point it was on the tip of his tongue to tell me to take the ditch kit to the cockpit. It wouldn't have taken too much more water to get to the batteries and then we would have been in really deep you-know-what. As it was it took over two hours for the two high capacity bilge pumps plus us on the manual emergency pump to mostly dewater the boat...

Flash and I frequently visit a mutual friend of ours in Alaska. We shall refer to him as "Putz". (Putz owns a 28 foot twin screw diesel which we'll call it the "Minnow"). The three of us are pictured below on our last trip. I (“Soapy” for the duration of this narrative) am the good looking one in the blue jacket.

The three stooges and their first day's catch, before cleaning. The bottom feeders fed well that day.

In years past, we were not so skilled. Had we then encountered an emergency such as Flash’s, we would surely have had to ditch. Then we would have proceeded to sink the life raft in a manner that would sound highly amusing to those not in it at the time.

Call me Soapy. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. Luckily, I had friends to mooch from. Friends with more money than sense. Friends that recently bought a boat. Alcoholic friends, with excellent taste in liquor.

Gooooood friends.

We set forth from Aurora harbour with the left and right tanks empty, and the centre tank a quarter full. Shouldn’t we take on diesel? The decision was no. After all, the Master and Owner (Putz) proclaimed we had enough for eight hours cruising. Besides, we were just going around Douglas Island, and would troll back. An hour out, we were past Icy Point. There was a stiff onshore breeze and three foot swells. We set the downriggers, and settled down to a nice afternoon of salmon murdering.

Which ended fifteen minutes later. Apparently, the diesels proved thirstier than anticipated and we had half the fuel we had started with. Putz ordered the downriggers in and brought the Minnow about. That was when we noticed the eerie silence . Putz had killed the other diesel. We sat for a while enjoying the view of the rocks that we seemed to bet getting rather close to.

“DROP THE #@$%ING ANCHOR!” Putz screamed. We were used to Putz screaming, but we’ve never hear him scream like a three year old girl with a skinned knee. We dropped the anchor, fifty feet of chain, and a lot of cable.

“Soapy” Said Flash. “It occurs to me that Putz may not have made the bitter end fast. Would you be so kind as to go below and check?” Flash, whose exposure to Putz has been longer than mine, proved to be prophetic. I tied a panic knot, just as the anchor bit at the full length of the line. It seemed that we stopped inches from the rocks.

We would not have to hike across brown bear infested Douglas Island after all, thank God. My mind harkened back to the advice the crusty old-timers at the bar had given us.

“Don’t try to out run a brown bear” said Crusty Old-Timer number one. “You can’t, they can run a speeds up to 35 MPH.”

“We don’t have to out run the bear,” Said Flash and Putz simultaneously. “We just have to out run Soapy.” I ignored the smug bastards.

“Well, what should I do?” I asked.

“First of all” Replied Crusty old timer #2.”Never surprise a brown bear. Wear bells on your back pack, to let them know your whereabouts, and you can carry some pepper spray, if they should get too close. You should also know how to tell the difference between black and brown bear scat; in order to determine in what sort of bear’s territory you are in.”

“Okay, then, what’s the difference?”

“Well, the dung of the harmless black bear is about an inch in diameter, has twigs in it and smells musty.” He took a long pull on his beer.

“And that of the brown bear?” I prodded.

‘Two inches in diameter, has bells in it and smells peppery.”

To Hell with Douglas island, then. I decided that if we sank, I’d swim straight back to Juneau.

Death off Icy Point, the GPS log (click on image to enlarge).


Putz finally managed to fire up the engines. In his haste, he had forgotten to start in neutral.

“Bring up the anchor!” He yelled. Flash wound the cable about the winch and yelled back to start the winch. Nothing…. Flash hauled up all 200 feet of cable and chain plus anchor by hand, while I stowed it in the cable locker and Putz laughed at us. This sort of thing is how mutinies happen.

When we got back to the fueling dock, we managed to back over a stern line, fouling both props, stalling the engines and almost tearing the cleat from its mount.

We tried to free the line from the surface with no success. Someone was going to have to gear up and try from below. They both looked at me.

“Oh no…You’re not pinning this one on me! Both of you are divers too.”

“But Soapy, you’re a technical instructor and a great one at that!” Said Flash.

Oh that’s it. Appeal to my arrogance. They know me far too well. It would have worked immediately if I hadn’t overheard Putz muttering “He’s more buoyant to boot.”

Eventually, they wheedled me into the drink. I tucked my fins between the hull and shafts, grabbed the stern line and was promptly smacked in the face with a trim tab. My mask filled with icy salt water. I surfaced for murder, but was placated by a sheepish looking Putz.

“Sorry, I hopped on board to get a shot of Jameson’s 1780.”

I descended muttering. I freed the line, replaced the zincs and.. WHAM! caught another trim tab across my noggin. I surfaced to curse at Putz.

“I poured you a triple!” He declared triumphantly.

Well, he does have a good side, after all.

The years have passed, and now we are the grizzled experienced old timers.

We sit at the bar, and cadge drinks from wide eyed youngsters.

“Arrrgh…” We say as we knock the wattle from our pipes. “The brown bear is a nasty piece of work, but what ye really have to look out fer is the ocean–going wolverine.”


Me (blue jacket) with dog (no jacket). We brought the dog along to protect us from bears. Sadly, she proved more interested in rolling around on rotting salmon and chasing seagulls. Come to think of it, we were never attacked by seagulls or rotten salmon, so maybe she was not a total loss.

Comment Spam

Sorry everyone, but as I have no interest to looking at "many stuffs about pogramy" (or programy), I've instituted that annoying anti-spambot fill-in-the-box thingie. Seems that there are more and more spambots every day.

Maybe I should just move to Haloscan, or some such. Any suggestions?



"Mommy, what are those Spambots doing?"

29 August 2005

Heart of Dorkness. A Goat Related Interlude

Or, as Bob Hughes calls it; "Goaterlude"
I am sorry, Fatima, but I simply can not envision myself living this life style.

Picture courtesy of the fine folks at Stripgen. Thanks guys.
To the rest of you idle buggers out there, why not stop by and play with their comic strip generator? It certainly beats working!

28 August 2005

Why They Hate Us

Portions of this post have been previously published in the comments section of HarryThe SlasherHutton’s blog. I’m republishing here for two reasons. 1). I feel this will generate a good bit of hate mail, which is always good, and 2). I’m far too hung-over & lazy to come up with anything new today..

Well, Why do they hate us?

There are the obvious reasons; David Hasslehoff taking valuable camera time away from Pamela Anderson’s boobies, and lite beer. There are of course, the reasons the hippies come up with; imperialism, globalism, barber-ism… ("Dude, get away from my dreads with those fascist dog clippers"). However, there is a third, and I think, more compelling answer.

Hasslehoff and Lite Beer

For the first reasons, I can only say guilty as charged. Hasslehoff should must be banished to a recording studio (a concession to the Germans who would otherwise not join the Coalition nations) on Alcatraz where he will be fed only tofu and lite beer. Baywatch will then consist only of shots of Pamela Anderson’s upper torso as she jogs up the beach in slow motion.

Well, that’s the easy one sorted.

Yankee Yellow-Running-Dog Imperialism!

I must admit that I am getting rather tired of people slagging Yankee imperialism.

British imperialism was fine, but genteel garden parties and floggings are sooo fin de siècle.

It took Yanks to drag imperialism into the 21st century, and just look what we’ve done with it!

We’ve added comfortable leather bucket seats with arse warmers, power steering, air conditioning and cup holders! YES! CUP HOLDERS!! BIG ONES TO HOLD THOSE MASSIVE FOUNTAIN BEVERAGES!!!

We’ve thrown in some graceful melodic tunage like Rob Zombie, Insane Clown Posse and Rage Against my Allowance, and there you have a perfectly pimpaliscious ride that can be used to go around the world, dropping McDonald’s restaurants on campesinos, simultaneously scrumping their sweet, sweet, crude oil and forcing their orphans to work in sweat shops (honestly, who would have thought there was a market for sweat? Entrepreneurs amaze me with their foresight).

Now, I ask you; what would you have if those Russkies had their way?

Borscht stands dropped on the Oiligarch bourgeoisie from the back of Trabbies, that's what! (Yes, Steve, I know they have Stoly, but that's for the party Apparatchiks, or those with hard currency).

I, for one, would rather have the deep fried bacon and arteriosclerosis sammich and so should the rest of the world. And that pretty much puts paid to the Hippie argument.

The Real Reason While They Hate Us

Let’s face it, our nation was conceived in gigglery and dedicated to the proposition that we should be as irritating as possible to all. As King George III himself said:

”You Colonists aren’t nearly as funny as you think you are!”

To which we, along with the kid who was destined to become Australia, erupted in a gale of poorly concealed snickers.

Right. Now I’ve stoked your ire! “Evil, you great, bulbous rectal wart!” You must be saying to yourselves. “It was about liberty; about unfair taxation!”

To which I say bollocks! A two penny tax on a pound of tea? Hell, I believe that it speaks volumes of our current tax codes that one must pay a sales tax on condoms, yet hemorrhoidal suppositories are tax free. It’s as if the IRS is saying: “We won’t tax this; we’ve already taxed the poo out of your bunghole, and you're going to need some relief.”

I speak for everyone who truly understands the unidirectional nature of the sphincter, when I say that I’d really rather spend a bit more for tea.

No, I think the founding fathers got a little drunk one night and decided to play a trick on King George. They sent an atrociously spelt letter (the letter “s” often replaced with “f”, “aluminium” spelt without the final “i” and a quite rude limerick, where the final “u” was dropped from “noxious anal vapour”) in which they expressed their displeasure.

When the Royal Navy came to investigate, the founding fathers then claimed that they were Philipinos, and that the R.N. must have made a terrible navigational error. Thew founding fathers went on to order a gross of pizzas to be delivered to the court of St. James.
Eventually, Great Britain decided on the “Don’t respond, you’ll only encourage them” strategy and the founding fathers were forced to find new playmates.

“Let’s try France!” They decided. “We’ll repeat everything they say!”

“We are the Greatest Nation on Earth!” Declared the son of the son of the Sun King.

“We are the Greatest Nation on Earth!”

"No, WE are!" Said Louis XVI.

"No, WE are!"

“Stop repeating what We say!” Shouted Louis, with specks of foamy spittle forming at the corners of his mouth.

“Stop repeating what We say!”

“KNOCK IT OFF!”


“KNOCK IT OFF!”

It got to the point that when the American delegation presence was announced to Marie Antoinette, she responded “Let them eat caca!” A hard-of-hearing peasant gardener overheard, and the rest is history.

There was a boring period when France ignored us too, but that soon passed.

When Monroe’s administration explained the Monroe doctrine to the French, he included the passage “Hey, isn’t that Robespierre standing behind you?
HA! Made you look!”

Even, in the late 19th century after France had given us the Statue of Liberty, it was fashionable to taunt the French with such phrases as:

“Hey! We invented deep fat frying!” To which Escoffier gave his famous reply:

"Je le sais bien que je suis sans habillement; je veux simplement savoir comment rentrer à l'hôtel" (“No you didn’t, you fat, ignorant Americans. It was the Ancient Greeks.”)

Since then, we’ve gone on to bother other countries, such as our mocking the Russians (“Our German scientists are better than your German scientists!”), however, we still hold a special place in our hearts for the French.

This propensity for nation irritation has become the central theme in our foreign policy; and I, for one, heartily approve.

Honestly, if you custom built a country for me, you couldn’t do better than the States. As I used to say in my childhood days:

“I'm not touching you!

“I'm not touching you!

“I'm not touching you!

“I'm not touching you!

“I'm not touching you!

“I'm not touching you!

“I'm not touching you!"

25 August 2005

The Heart of Dorkness, Part 3.

Crystal desert dawn, my great, fat, sweaty arse. It was dusty, far too bright and my mouth tasted precisely like what I expect an equine rectum might taste, complete with little bits of gritty straw. To make matters even more pleasant, the caravan swayed sickeningly.

Furthermore, my arm was asleep. There was a largish person resting upon it, gazing lovingly into my eyes. As I slowly became sober, her visage became more and more hideous; soon it was if I had awaken next to a mirror.

“My love...” Cooed Fatima. “You have consummated our marriage with great vigour, but now you must attend to our goats.”

God, what a dilemma! I might live through the flaying should I bring an extra wife home to Gretchen, but goats? Her wrath would assuredly mark my demise. What should I do? What would be the shameful, and what would be the honourable path?

Of course, I did the honourable thing; I waited until Mustafa’s back was turned and ran like hell, accompanied by Bob and Evan. Both of which had committed similar shameless acts of depraved drunken sex, or so our hosts had gleefully informed us.

Apparently, the flight of the groom on the morning-after is a common Turkmeni tradition, for after a brief bout of ceremonial ululation, they vaulted onto their steppe ponies with practiced grace; brandishing wicked, long and very sharp kukri-looking blades. As an interesting side note, Frommer’s guide to the central Asian republics points out that Turkmenis are the principal suppliers of castrati to the Italian operatic circuit.

We ran faster.

“Bob,….Evan…” I panted. “I’m very…. Very… disappointed… in your… behavior.”

Nothing but glares in response. Hmmmph, kids.

“Nevertheless,….” I continued. “I shall… make the… ultimate… sacrifice… on your… behalf…”

I flung my precious centrefold collection into the sky. The pursuing Turkmen reined up and gazed in wonder at the glittering pornucopia pouring forth from the heavens. Truly, this must be holy ground.

But for myself and the Aureegunis, we left the place with tears in our eyes and lumps in our throats. I vowed to God that I would never drink a drop of alcohol, again.

And this time, I meant it.

We staggered over broken lava, past sage brush and junipers; through waddis and washes until close to nightfall, when we spied a tiny shack. I pounded at the door but received no answer. I opened the door cautiously.

“Hello?” It appeared to be an abandoned moonshiner’s shack, and they’d left their whiskey. Sorry, God. Bob and Evan dropped their backpacks outside, and we proceeded to the task at hand.

I lay, that night, on an old army cot, covered with a horse blanket. The shack spun about at a pleasant rate, but soon hydraulic pressure insured that I had to visit the outhouse. Unfortunately, I could not reach it without support. I stepped over the two snoring light-weights; they would be no help tonight, and stepped out into the moon light. The outhouse beckoned in the distance; it's siren like call promising relief from the considerable pain. With one hand against the shack wall for balance, I staggered towards the privy.

Unfortunately, the privy proved not to be attached to the wall, so as I rounded the corner, it vanished from sight.

Grimly, I pressed on. After three more corners, there it was again. I staggered along the wall towards it, when WHAM! I fell face first into the dust. Some IDIOTS had left lumpy things on the ground. I picked myself up and soldiered on. The vicious circumnavigation cycle repeated again. WHAM! And again. WHAM!

To hell with chasing the damned elusive privy. It was likely full of spiders and scorpions in any event. I let loose on the offending lumps. Bliss! I returned to my cot.

Bob and Even, being the young bucks that they were, staggered outside at dawn to catch breakfast lizards, or some-such.

“Gahhh!” They shouted in unison. “Someone pissed all over our backpacks!”

“Mine’s dry!” I thought as I snuggled up in my blanket. They glared at me suspiciously, but could prove nothing. I exude the very essence of innocence.

However, their thirst for vengeance was soon quenched, for the dawn illuminated a glorious sight. Below us lay the waddi Ben-Dah! We ventured forth into the first tavern that would allow my urinarily odiferous companions access to ethanol. After all, the rehearsal wasn’t until 3:00PM.

At two minute of three, I left said oasis and staggered towards the church.

“Evil, where the Hell have you been?” Demanded my sister in law. “You are going to be late for the rehearsal! Get your tuxedo on”

I got.

“Where are Bob and Evan?” She asked.

“Who?” Oh, I am a witty one.

“Your nephews, MY SONS! You great pillock!”

“Oh, yeah, them. Erm, they’re at the Laundromat. They got very drunk last night, and one of them pissed all over their luggage” Cool one, I thought… “YEOW!

Grandmother, not believing a word of it, expressed her displeasure by attaching the boutonniere directly to my rib cage.

“You will fucking behave for the next two days, or I will eat your liver!” She hissed past lizard lidded eyes.

See? You might think that being evil is a lifestyle choice; I have compelling evidence that it’s genetic.

End of Part 3.

Next up, the Wedding! (Finally… )

24 August 2005

Oh crud.

First, I would like to apologize to anyone who has sent me an e-mail to the address listed below the “About me” part.

The e-mail filter is a bit over-enthusiastic, and I have been guilt of mass deletions without going through the lists first. Mea culpa.

If anyone has sent me an e-mail to which I haven’t responded (especially hate mail; good hate mail is hard to come by), please resend it.


Secondly, has anyone else tried to comment on Hungbunny’s blog recently, only to have the literary gems dashed to dust with the message “Make sure the numbers entered match what you see”? I bloody well did. I can't blame all of the nonposts on acid flashbacks.

These lost masterpieces are at least as heavy a blow to western civilization as the burning of the Alexandrian library.

Well, the burning of the porn library of Bubba Tenderpalms from Alexandria, VA.


Finally, a question for Hungbunny, and Hungbunny alone*. Do you prefer Hypno beam#1, or Hypno beam#2? I'm leaning towards number two.


*Don't do it. I'm warning you. Bad things will happen if you are not Hungbunny. I can't say what; just trust me.

Alright, listen, if you really must click on those links, don’t say I didn’t warn you, if you happen to turn into a drooling zombie. Hungbunny can handle it; he’s a professional.

The Heart of Dorkness, Part 2.

Continued…
We bounced around a hair pin bend and were suddenly surrounded by a group of hard looking men. Luckily, they were not Duks. Tonight, our blood would not thicken the dust.

As it turned out, they were Turkmeni carpet merchants. Their leader, a magnificently mustachioed gentleman named Mustapha, wanted to know where we were bound.

“We are headed to the Ben-Dah oasis in the high desert.” I said.

“We are bound for the shores of mighty Aral to join the great Khan as he rides the mud flats in search of sea cucumbers.” Mustapha returned.

“Ah... I believe you may be a bit off track” I said as diplomatically as possible. “The Aral sea is one or two continents, that way.”

“I told you to ask for directions at that petrol station in Bhukara, didn’t I?” Scolded a woman that could only be Mustapha’s wife. “Men!”

Bemused, we followed them towards the camp site, where we met the rest of the Turkmen. Accompanying them were two natives; a Duk named Evan, and a shifty looking Yewdub, who remained mute.

“Come, sleep by our fire. We have mutton and Arrak. We have made fine plov.” Mustapha beckoned us into the circle of wagons.

“It is customary for guests to contribute to the meal.” Evan announced, with frosty eyes set upon Bob. “I have given ‘shrooms.”

“Then I too, shall add a gift of ‘shrooms!” Replied Bob, proffering a large baggie. He glared at Evan who returned hatred hot enough to burn through the walls of reality. The Yewdub merely smirked.

“There shall be no blood shed in our camp” Announced Mustapha firmly. “You may settle your differences by peaceful means, or leave.”

“Hakkii Sak?” Said Bob through clenched teeth. “Yes” Replied Evan. The rest of us settled down to the plov and jugs of Arrak.

It soon became apparent that these Aureeguni mushrooms bore very different chemical properties from those available at your average local grocers. Stars became meteors, the rain a thousand tiny masseuses and the very darkness breathed. I ate more of the tasty mushroom flavoured Plov.

The night flowed past us on greased rails. The firewood popped and groaned, sending fountains of sparks spiraling into the heavens, cloaking Bob and Evan in smoke and cinders as they leapt through the flames in ever more intricate Hakkii Sak dances, set to the throbbing Turkmeni drums. Ancestral and other ancient spirits prowled the darkness just outside of the firelight’s reach. I drank more Arrak; ate more plov.

Sometime, late into the night, I consumed a sheep’s eyeball, to the roaring delight of the assembled Turkmen. Apparently, this meant that I was betrothed to Mustapha’s daughter, Fatima. Bob and Evan, blackened by soot, gleaming with sweat and mellow from the cathartic release of their ritual, congratulated us, and announced that they would put their tribal differences aside and make common cause for the rest of the journey to Ben-Dah.

This unexpected alliance thrilled me, as it would make the rest of the journey vastly easier. However, the Yewdub, seeing the united Aureegunis, sprinted for our Land Rover, pausing only to plaster a “My other car is also stolen” sticker on the rear bumper. Bob and I watched dumbly as our transport vanished down the rutted path.

“So, my husband of my daughter.” Said Mustapha. “You are now without provisions and conveyance to the Waddi Ben-Dah?”

I could only nod.

“Then we shall see that you get there. “ More Arrak flowed, and we consumed the last of the plov.

The caravan pulsed with the preparations of the Turkmen; their smoky predawn silhouettes vexed to nightmare by the last wave of mushroom insanity. Thus composed of the tattered shreds of reality, the caravan bore us over the mountains, towards the crystal desert dawn.

End of part two.

To come….
When Grannies attack! (Night of the boutonnière pins).
The caterer, although reborn in the crucible of pain, makes one final, stupid mistake.
The Wedding and General Matumbo.
The horror. The horror!.

23 August 2005

The Heart of Dorkness, Part 1.

The portents were ominous.

“Good afternoon from the flight deck. We just wanted to warn you that we will have to turn off the plane to reset one of our computers. It’s acting strangely”

Well, if one must “turn off” the plane, I suppose that the ground is the place to do it as it drastically reduces the possibility of plummeting to a fiery death. So we sat. And sat. And sat on the sweltering tarmac. I was sweating alcohol at an alarming rate and soon was in grave danger of sobering up.

“Ladies and gentlemen, just an update. We successfully restarted the computer, however one of the starboard flap sensors is indicating that the flaps are up, when in fact, they are down. We would like to have a mechanic look at it.”

Indeed. Good call. Buoyed full of confidence by the steel trap reasoning skills of our pilot, I was equally impressed when the mechanic, who must have been at least fifteen years of age, sauntered over to the flap, poked it a few times with a twig, then gave the pilot the thumbs up. We were off.

I would mention the name of the air carrier, but in this litigious day and age, I feel that discretion is the better part of penurious settlement avoidance. I shall merely state that it was an American Airline.

(Legal disclaimer: Dr. E. Scientist is only joking. Besides, he lives in a rat infested cardboard box near the railroad yard. Dr. E. Scientist has no assets, with the possible exception of an impressive collection of intestinal parasites. Nothing to sue here, please move along.)

Hours later, we landed in darkest Aureegun, welcomed by blast furnace heat, and our native guide, Bob.

“Come.” Bob beckoned to the Land Rover. “This place is crawling with Duks. We must leave, or risk attack.”

Aureegun is in the middle of a long civil war between the two principal tribal groups; the Duks and the Beevoes. Bob, a young Beevo warrior, was wearing traditional Uareegun dress, tie dyed tee shirt, shorts and sandals. He also sported garish orange and black face paint, and was attracting hostile glares from several similarly clad, but differently painted Duks.

“In our war paint,” Explained Bob. “we blend in seamlessly with the road construction cones that bloom prolifically in Aureegun’s long summer months.”

“I see.” I replied. “And what does the green and yellow markings of the Duks allow them to blend in with?”

Banana slugs.” Bob replied tersely. Charming.

We sat in silence as the Land Rover began to wend its way through the mountain roads towards the high desert. The rain forest nightfall soon spread its ominous cloak over us. We could smell cook fires and hear the natives drumming. Duks? Beevoes? Bob wasn’t sure.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alone.

End of part one.

In the next installment….
Evil and Bob share a meal of Plov with a very lost band of Turkmen gypsies.
When Grannies attack! (Night of the boutonnière pins).
The Wedding and General Matumbo.

18 August 2005

Passport, check. Tickets, check. Ankle bracelet attached to cow, check

I shall be flying to the dusty far-off in order to attend a niece’s wedding and participate in the violent overthrow of a third-world government. I shall be back on Monday evening.

In the meantime, here’s some homework.

There shall be a quiz on Tuesday.

An open letter to the biggest idiot I have seen in a long time.

First of all, you purchased a vehicle that can only be ridden by assuming the posture of someone actively buggering a groundhog. While most people would find this to be intensely embarrassing, you revel in the fact that the earsplitting shriek of the two stroke motor (again, reminiscent of a groundhog in mid-bugger) draws attention to your apparent proclivity for animal, erm, husbandry.

Yes, you are indeed “kewl”. After all, Shriners ride those things in parades, and they are only an evolutionary step or two above mimes.

Secondly, you declined to wear a helmet, as you felt it would mess up your porcu-doo. Nice one, Sonic the Hedgehog.

Finally, you thought it might be fun to tear through the loading area of a an engineering firm. I guess you didn’t see the fork lift tines. Too bad about your minimoto and the nasty road rash you ended up with.

I would like to repeat my words of consolation, in case you were too shaken up at the time to recall them:

“BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

By the way, you left some blood on my pavement. If you’d be so kind as to come back and clean it up, I’d be happy to paint your scratches with iodine.


From Advert: “A 39cc two-stroke engine gives you the feel and throb of a real power.” NO! It bloody does not! My chain saw has a larger motor and I seldom get a feel or a throb from it. Next time, stay at home and two stroke something else, retard.

17 August 2005

Poll results.

The Poll results are in!

The results are just what I expected.

Perverts

Pork Lift

We humans stand upon the pointy end of the food chain. Our ancestors ended up eating, wearing or making ‘brollie stands out of any creature that would dare stand in our path.

After millennia of such a robust culinary attitude, we’ve tamed to the point where our food comes pre-packaged, and our only natural enemies are loud people with mobiles that inconsiderately block access to said plastic coated goodness.

In order to maintain my keen predatory edge, I gathered up my “Mallet of Silence” and headed to the grocery store.

“Hello, hello, hello! What’s all this then?” Why, ‘tis Officer O’Grady of the local constabulary blocking my access to the grocers. He’s seen every episode of Monty Python, and fancies himself a comedian. In reality, it’s compensation for a small pecker. I pity him, more than anything.

“That weapon, it’s a clear violation of your parole agreement” He continued. What a berk.

“This mallet…” I sputtered. “You’re saying my mallet is a weapon?” I think of it more as a motivational tool.

“What are you going to do with it then?” He smirked. “Put up a circus tent?”

His idea has its merits. Lure a bunch of clowns in, then… WHAM, WHAM, WHAMITTY, WHAM, WHAM!

But this was no time for getting lost in such an endearing fantasy.

“Haven’t you ever heard of thumping melons to check for freshness, O’Grady?” Oh, innocence, thy name is Evil.

“I am NOT about to let you wander about the store walloping people skull-ways with a mallet!” He shouted. “Give it over.” I gave.

Oh poo.

Wouldn’t you know it, a few minutes later, some short, balding, chubby bastard was stopped, shopping trolly a-kimbo across the Pork aisle; blocking my access to all the piggy goodness.

“…AND THEN THE DOCTOR SAID I’D HAVE TO KEEP MY ANAL FISTULA CLEANER, IF I DIDN’T WANT IT TO CONNECT TO MY COLON….”

Oh, you and your mobile phone must die! I cast about for a club, bare wiring, a carelessly discarded nail-gun. Nothing!

The grocers, it seems, have learned their lesson. Plan B. I threw my arms around him, giving his arse a good squeeze. Out came his wallet, in went a pork tenderloin. I’m goooood.

“OH MY GAWD!” I shrieked. “IT’S DAVID HASSLEHOFF!”

I have to go now, I think I’m about to be raped.” He whispered into his mobile. See, pillock, it is possible to talk at an SPL of less than 120dB.

“Sing to me in German, my little knockwurst!” I burbled in his ear. He tore himself from my grasp and pelted out of the store. I followed.

“Hey O’Grady!” I yelled. “That guy’s trying to shoplift PORK!”

O’Grady dropped my mallet and gave chase.

I recovered it and returned to purchase my own pig parts, funds courtesy of one Mr. John Hackford.

I’d like to think that my distant ancestors looked down from the Happy Hunting Grounds and nodded approvingly.

Evil Scientist; master shopper of the Serengeti.

16 August 2005

Managment draining seminar

Morning all. Sorry I’m late. I wanted to get up in time to post something, but I was up late drinking Sissy Fruit Drinks (SFDs-one actually can not taste the alcohol. Scary!) at St. Gazonga’s Home for the Breasticularly Enhanced, trying to max my corporate credit card.

For those of you unfamiliar with Dallas/Fort Worth region, the land is a crazy patchwork of dry and semidry communities (beer and wine only) with the occasional life giving oasis of liquor selling communities. Addison is one such.

With the influx of liquor money, some of the female natives have developed a quaint custom of chest enhancement. As an enthusiastic amateur anthropologist (and safely away from adult supervision) I felt that it was my duty to examine and record this cultural phenomenon.

So it was off to St. Gazonga’s Home for the Breasticularly Enhanced (the sign says SOHO’s Fine Food and Jazz should any other anthropologists wish to go). The food ain’t bad, the piano player is irritating, the SFDs were SFDs, but oh, the science!

I cursed myself for not bringing a camera; I’m convinced I’d have had a National Geographic article there.

After the third SFD, the piano player got better, and even the women that would not have looked out of place on the cover of ”Crack Whore!” magazine, had acquired that aura of film noir sophistication. It was about that time when a table of dispirited gentlemen was seated next to me and blocked my view. Normally I would have been annoyed, but I was willing to concede at this point that the SFD’s may have a little ethanol in them, and I wanted more. (Hell, the SFDs had enough alcohol in them to launch a V2).

To make a long story short, the gentlemen did not even glance at the scenery. With each passing SFD, I was convinced that something strange was going on. Were they in fact robots? Aliens? Robot aliens? Test subjects for some eeeeevil plan?

As it turns out, they were upper level managers from my own company.

“Why the long faces?” I asked them.

“We borrowed the CEO’s Classic 1972 Avanti and wrecked it.”

“Oooh, have you told him yet?” I replied with an almost believable look of concern.

“No, we haven’t even called the cops yet. We'd had a couple of drinks and wanted to wait a bit.” Apparently, the Avanti is an automobile that go very fast in a straight line, yet mysteriously can not steer around an illegally parked aramdillo, launching said vehicle into a dairy farm’s manure tank. Anyway, that was their explanation. I’m sure it had nothing to do with alcohol; they hadn't had that much to drink. Yet.

“Well, before you talk to the police, have a meal to absorb the booze, and wash it down with some of these non-alcoholic sissy fruit drinks.” I told them conspiratorially. “Now, where did this accident happen?”

The morons actually told me.

“For Christ’s sake, sober up!” I whispered after ordering them another round of SFDs. “Listen, pay my bill and I’ll go take care of everything.” They nodded gratefully.

I left them, found the wreck, and doused the interior with bourbon. After a few anonymous phone calls to the police, I went back to the hotel.

This morning, at about 10, the phone rang. It was the CEO.

“Do you have a minute, Evil?” He asked.

“Well, I’m in the middle of a tricky repair of the ancillary robot arm of our Zeta tool…” I replied while stretching luxuriously in bed. If we ever move to video phones I’m screwed.

“What’s up? Are any of the tools at home base down?” I asked innocently.

“Noooo, but we are in a bit of a spot. Some of our managers have had to leave us unexpectedly. Can you take over down there?”

I padded towards the commode and sat, in preparation to download last night’s steak.

Can do, Boss!” I replied enthusiastically. “I’m on it!” Literally.

“Great!” He replied. “This is a big promotion, Evil! God, I wish I had a dozen just like you!”

Nah, one’s enough. Eleven more and he might catch on. I thanked him and hung up, pleading a pressing engagement.

After the management draining seminar was completed, it turned to my next tasks.

My docket is loaded with important jobs like drinking, eating and porn surfing.

Busy, busy, busy is the life of a successful business exec.

15 August 2005

Saved by the grace of his tender noodle.

Mr. Henderson explains "Intelligent Design".

Mr. Allen explains "De-evolution".

Brilliance! Truly, they shall share the Nobel prize in Biology.

Update!
Mr. Major explains "Karmic credit accounts".

13 August 2005

Sticks and stones may break your bones, which I will try next.

I am still not getting enough decent hate mail, so I am forced to respond to SpankyClown’s indignant retort to my previous insulting post . I know it’s like shooting fish in a barrel, but until I get some more intelligent people furious with me, I must pick on the sub-normal posters by default.
SpankyClown writes:

“dude I’n not john and u r still not funny. y don’t u use you’re real name chicken!”

Well, “SpankyClown”, I would use my real name, but it’s an ancient tantric sex mantra. While the vast majority of people are sufficiently grounded in reality to oppose the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, (not to mention the whips, chains and Great Danes of B&D/S&M); the average opossum molesting misanthrope (that’d be you) upon hearing my name would be reduced to prancing naked around their place of employment, crotch-flossing themselves with a feather boa whilst moaning in vast, shuddering paroxysms of ecstasy. I simply could not give my name in good conscience, knowing how dangerously dehydrated you would become.


No need to thank me; I’m a philanthropist.

You do, however, bring up a good point. It simply isn’t fair that I have a cool posting name, and that yours is the internet equivalent of a chancre.
I have given this great thought, (for at least 20 seconds), and I’ve come up with a few less suck-filled names that I think would suit you well.

1) “The Sheik of Dementia”

Not regal enough? How about:

2)“His Royal Anus; the Clown Prince of Imbicilistan”?

Or, if you’d like a more religious nick:

3)“His Arse-Holiness, the Polyp”.

Not into religion? You are a bit of a Hippie/mama’s basement dwelling Star Trek fan-boy, aren’t you? How about:

4) “His Vulgar Putrescence; Defender of the Filth, Bane of the Armies of Hy-Giene, Abhorrer of Soap”?

Feel free to use any of these, and keep those e-mails coming!

12 August 2005

Shut up!............... please?

Ow, ow, ow. Damn, the sun is loud. If everyone would please be extremely quiet today, I’d appreciate it greatly.

Actually, if you could all do me a favour and vote for me as supreme glorious world ruler (no, not the Chia dictator; I think he goes by "Mr. Happy Fun Time Glorious Leader") I’d also appreciate that. I really don’t feel up to world domination today.

While we’re on the subject of favours, does anyone know why I have this “Dance into the light” CD?

And maybe y’all could clue me in on the whereabouts of my pants.

Oh Whiskey, you’re the Devil…

Why the Hell do I insist on drinking hotel bars dry of their Irish whiskey stock? I know damn well that no good can come from it.

It got so out of hand tonight that I was out on the dance floor, (bathroom, lobby, parking lot, etc.), getting my groove on to the mad stylin’s of Phil Collins.

Oh God, I feel so dirty.

On the up side, I did find a likely candidate for an open goon position. One can’t have enough hired goons, you know, and this one really fit the bill; shaved bullet head, dour semi-confused expression and an impressive array of weaponry.

I probably oversold the position, and I shouldn’t have insisted that he try on the uniform in the parking lot, but I happen to think that the old school two-tone hooded Lycra body suits, with wrap around sun glasses are the dog’s balls when it comes to minion clothing.

In any event, he remained interested enough to write down his contact information on the back of the “Indecent exposure” citation that he issued me.

Yeah, everyone’s a freaking dance critic. I’m an artist, dammit, and it was hot out there.

Besides, I’d like to see him do better with only Phil Collins to work with.

11 August 2005

Ooops, she did it again.

Poo. Of course, since all of our other tools happen to be located in regions that I enjoy visiting, those are the ones that operate flawlessly.

The one that breaks frequently is located in Fishkill, New York; a hamlet with every bit as much charm as the name implies.

"What the hell is your on-site engineer doing?" You might ask. God knows I have, and here are a few answers that I have come up with:

1. She's possessed by demons, and my Karmic mortgage is months in arrears.

2. She was curious about what happens if you do push the Big Red Button.

3. She enjoys messing with my tiny, diseased little mind.

4. The investors are coming and the boss wanted me out of the office.

5. The tool is a poorly designed, shoddily built piece of crap. Hey! That's not possible I designed and built it. It's obviously all her fault, um , because, er...

Oh well, at least I'll get a pleasant drive out of the mess, where I can enjoy viewing eight hours of plumber's cleavage courtesy of Pennsylvania Dept. of Transportation road crews.

Seriously people, if you can't afford a belt, at least wear a shirt with a long tail. Crack kills.

09 August 2005

Röttænfisks wake

“Bjørgen Röttænfisk has been killed by wild lemmings.” Announced Gretchen “We must go to the traditional Norwegian wake.”

I agreed. I’m all for wakes. I vaguely remember some of the family wakes that I’ve been to in the last week, and what little I can recollect seemed like a good time.

The widow met us at the door. She was carrying a tumbler of thick yellow liquor.

“Come, we shall feast on pickled herring, lutefisk, lignonberries and akvavit.” She said.

I was familiar with pickled herring, but the others were new to me. How bad can they be, I thought. This was a wake after all.

Lutefisk, as it turns out, is dried cod that has been soaked in sodium hydroxide, then boiled. The finished lutefisk has the consistency of gelatin; three-days-in-the-sun fishy lye flavoured gelatin at that. It tastes as almost as good as it smells, and it smells like someone left a chili-cheese omlette in a gym shoe for a month.

Lignonberries are small, bitter as hell and will stain the inside of an automobile a brilliant vermillion, when mixed with stomach acid and ethanol, then applied under high pressure. More on that later.

Akvavit is Norwegian for “Water of Death” and is about 70% ethanol, the rest being a mixture of methanol, ether and petroleum jelly. It is flavoured with caraway seeds, and upon very special occasions, linseed oil, turpentine and flannel lint. Apparently, Bjørgen’s death is just such a special occasion.

I fought to keep the disgust from my face. Amazingly, the foods complement each other, and the Akvavit cuts the astringency of the lutefisk nicely. Cunning folk, these Norwegians. I poured myself another glass, and got some more “food” to wash the liquor down. The stuff grows on you like necrotizing fasciitis.

After round three, I was dancing with the widow. I don’t dance. Ever.

After round four, I was dancing with the corpse. Gretchen ruled out round five, but by then I had found the pizza and beer that the Norwegians had hidden from us.

“We don’t eat that traditional stuff.” They admitted sheepishly. “We feed that crap to the gringos.” Lemming molesters.

We celebrated Bjørgen’s life through the last of the alcohol and three noise citations. Eventually, the police ordered us to leave and called a string of none too happy cabbies.

“Jesus Christ, another bunch of drunken foreigners” Growled our surly driver. We ignored him, but the muttering grew increasingly persistent and annoying. There’s only so much an evil scientist can take.

“Hey friend, do you have room up there for a six pack of beer, a pizza, a bottle of Akvavit and some lutefisk?” I asked innocently.

“Yeah….” He replied, not sure where this was going. Too late.

Ah well, I needed the exercise, and the fresh air did me a world of good. In fact, the whole evening was a blast. I am really looking forward to the next lemming related fatality.

I just need to remember to avoid the fishy smelling taxi with the red upholstery.

08 August 2005

Taking one's leave.

The abominable Russell Allen brings up an insidious employment application question: “What three-word phrase describes you?”

The usual suspects came up with some excellent suggestions for those applicants wishing to remain gainfully unemployed (“Man with gun” and “Off my meds” respectively).

Truly brilliant, but unemployment benefits eventually expire, forcing one back into slavery to the Man. It takes special effort to wrangle unearned paid leave in these circumstances. Consider the scene last week.

My manager walked in while I was in full protective gear; lab coat, goggles and gloves. I was “struggling” to open a can of di-ethyl ether.

“Hey massa, give us a hand would you?” He took the can, opened it with contemptuous ease and handed it back.

“Ta” I said. “Um, have you given any thought as to who you are going to send to COMDEX this year?”

“Well, it’s certainly not going to be you” He replied. “You spent our annual research budget on hookers, gambling and booze the last time you went.” He rudely spun about and left me alone with the ether can.

Wouldn’t you know it, but someone violated safety protocols be leaving a very similar can in the lab, with the cap off. The fumes were so strong that anyone wandering into the area would be overcome in a matter of minutes. I even splashed some outside the door to make the smell noticeable to everyone in the building.

We were clean out of woad, but a blue whiteboard marker will work in a pinch. Armed with a table cloth for a kilt and an outrageous brogue, I burst out of the development lab.

“Ye can kill oos, be ye can’t take away oor free donuts!” I shouted.

“Hey Evil, nice skirt!” Chortled one of my cow-workers.

“It’s a kilt, ye pillock!” I spat back.

“Are you regimental?” Asked another. Well, do you think they’d take my word for it? I showed them all as I worked my way through the office area towards the boss pens.

There is a pillar outside of the manager’s office door. I decided to give him a free pole dance.

“I don’ wan any boody else,” I crooned; “When I think aboocha, I tooch meself!”

Rage and nausea battled for supremacy of his complexion. “STOP THAT!” He howled.

“S’cuse me, I’ve got teh straighten me sporran!” I put me hans doon me kilt (it’s hard to stop broguing, once one starts) and let the table cloth slip away. Apoplexy reinforced rage and together they swept the forces of nausea from the field.

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!” He bellowed.

I graciously acquiesced.

When I returned the next day, the boss met me with a self-satisfied glower.

“There’s going to be an accounting for yesterday’s outrageous behavior. I’m sending a full incident report to corporate HQ.” He grinned, showing of his crocodilian dental work.

“That’s GREAT!” I replied enthusiastically. “The police lifted the miscreant’s prints from the ether can. They were all over it! All we need to do now is to take everyone’s finger prints and we’ve got our soon-to-be ex employee!”

I spent the next five seconds watching the penny drop. It was rather like a pachinko ball.

Chinka-tink-chig-tinak-tink-KA-CHUNNNGKA-KANG-KA-KA-KA! Ah, a multi ball pay-off.

Realization and sick dread filled his eyes. “You didn’t….”

“Oh sure. I droped it off on the way home. Amazing, isn’t it? Even though I was high, (due to the criminal negligence of others, mind you), I had the clarity of thought to realize that if a report was filed there would be an OSHA audit, and we’d need to determine the culprit.”

I let the uncomfortable silence last until I could hear the sweat dripping from his forehead.

“Oh, by the way, have you given any thought as to who you are going to send to COMDEX this year?” I purred.

I luuurve my job.

Update! Apparently it wasn't Tony that said it, but some other fellow that happens to be smarter and better looking. I would be happy to give that person credit, but that would require me to actually do some work, and actually look it up. So, as far as the link is concerned, Tony still said it.

06 August 2005

Not that I intend to listen to you, but...

Now that the number of devoted total readers has catapulted into the high single digits and the money from the banner adds is pouring in, it appears that I must give some thought as to the blog content, unless I want the bank to repossess my Trabant.

So, what do you lot want to read about? I’ve narrowed it down to a few topics

Evil Science
Choosing hide-out locations. Building stink bombs. Vapourizing secret agents. All the stuff they never taught you during all the years that you spent in the juvenile reformatory.

Twisted Sister
More humiliating hijinks of the eeeevil sister.

Clown & MimeAbuse
Well, who wouldn’t want this?

GirlBot on GirlBot action
I’ve almost got the firmware worked out on this one. Give me a day or two and some Cheetos.

The Lemming Threat
All patriotic Brits should know why they all charge into the North Sea. They're after that sweet, sweet Brent crude. It's all part of a sinister Norwegian plot.

The Boss’ Porn Collection
The boss has a ginormous collection of movies that he has “hidden” in the accounting sub-folders for FY2003. Links to files like “PA_SALES_TAX_REMMITTANCE.wmv” and “Travel_Expenses.mpeg” As I am already using the accounting server as my porn server, and have capped everyone elses access to the T3, I’ve got plenty of bandwidth for you pervos.

Update!Some anonymous bloke has cottoned on to the fact that I'm counting all non-porn related votes towards the porn related ones. It's a fair cop. In order to avoid having Jimmy Carter oversee the next poll, I'm leaning towards porn with a side category of GirlBots with strap-ons molesting mimes. (In France, no one can hear you scream. Unless you're a bad mime.)












What should be the focus of this blog?
Evil science tips
Abuse from the Ferror sex.
Clown/Mime abuse.
Hot GirlBot on GirlBot action!
The Lemming Peril
Porn, porn, pornity porn


  

Free polls from Pollhost.com

04 August 2005

Hate Mail

I’m simply not getting enough of it, so I have decided to embark on a campaign of hurling demeaning epithets at three minority groups per week. Offended respondents are requested to limit their invective to one reply per customer. This week's winners:

People who feel the need to rapidly pull out in front of me, then slow down to 25MPH, especially when there are no vehicles behind me.
Really brilliant. Put your life in the hands of a speeding psychopath. The only reason I don’t crush you like a bug, is that I don’t want gibbets of your fat, bloated carcass rotting in my air-conditioning duct. If your IQ should ever get as high as your speed, sell.

Spam respondents.
What the hell is wrong with you idiots? Do you honestly think that you’ll be offered a 0% loan that will also make your cock larger? You people are too stupid to be allowed to breed. Report to Nurse Bobbit for corrective surgery.

Morons that stop five abreast in shopping centre entrances, gazing about in drooling wonder at the panoply of cheaply made Chinese crap
Christ, it’s a bazillion degrees out here in the parking lot. If you inbred booger-picking-morons don’t get the hell out of my way, I will rip off your gonads myself!

There you have it for this week. Please submit your comments or suggestions for new minorities to degrade in the box below.

Liar, Liar, truck on fire...

There is something that quickens one’s pulse when one comes home and is greeted by the sight of a crowd of police and firemen surrounding one’s domicile.

Usually, this means one of three things.

1. There’s a “Village People” tribute-band convention in town.
2. Someone is filming a gay porn video.
3. Something went very, very wrong in my laboratory.

As it turns out, it was none of these. I was greeted by the sight of our rotund police chief climbing out of his monstrous truck. Honestly, this fellow is the reason our community is known as the “City of the Extra Chromosome”.

“Dock-tore Evil…” He sneered. We know each other professionally.

“Chief Lard.” I replied cordially. “Would you mind removing your truck from my garden?”

LAIRD!” He spittled in response. “And no, I can’t. If I park on the street, the fire trucks might hit it” He stopped to admire the expensive monstrosity. He’d had it jacked up a manly six feet, so that he could pursue miscreant deer through the dense Pennsylvanian jungle. I often wondered how he got into it; a chain hoist, perhaps?

‘Why are the fire trucks here, Chef Layered?” I asked.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but they are performing a controlled burn on the abandoned house next to yours, for training purposes.” He replied.

Well, well, well. Our fire department is brilliant; they have yet to lose a foundation, although it has been touch and go a few times .

“Cha-CHING!” I thought to myself. My house is insured for far more than it’s worth.

“After all,” Said the insurance appraiser. “Your house is unique. For example, one of the corners of your kitchen ranges from 87 to 94 degrees. The floor tilts in multiple directions. Your house has character. Replacing the structure to its’ original form would require skills that few modern contractors have.” He added as he greedily calculated his commission.

I agreed. Few carpenters these days are demented neuro-syphilitic cross-eyed spastics with no sense of perspective and serious dementia. If only some sparks were to land on my oily rag collection, the house would be a write–off and I could afford to acquire a larger extinct volcano.

I casually piled the rags next to the propane cylinder and a five gallon jug of petrol to which the cap had been lost.

Careless, Evil, bloody careless. I resolved to be more safety-conscious with the next jerry can I purchased with the insurance money.

GOTCHA!” Bellowed Laird . “That’s arson evidence, that is!”
He directed his men to remove the pile and place it in his truck for safe keeping.

“I’ve got you now!” He chortled.

Really… sometimes it’s just too easy. I killed a few minutes bringing up Miranda warnings, search and seizure rules, personal hygiene; all concepts that made his eyes glaze over with confusion. Meanwhile, the sparks drifted overhead.

FWOOOOMP!

MY TRUCK!” It was the piercing agonized scream of one who has just lost a loved one. Too bad about the “evidence” then.

“Damn, I hope you had it insured.” I said in a conciliatory tone.

“Yeah.” He said as his sobs subsided “With Allstate; and for a lot more than I paid for it.”

“Well, that at least is good. Tell you what, I’ll go get you a beer” I said magnanimously.

“Maybe you’re not so bad, Evil” He sniffled.

I got the beers, only pausing to call the Allstate insurance fraud line.

“Hello? Yes, this is referring to a fire damage claim that will soon be made be one Mr. John Laird. Check the vehicle purchase price and for the presence of accelerants. I also understand there is some sort of financial reward for reporting fraud…”

Sometimes you have to work to make your dreams come true, sometimes it's as easy as a phone call.

03 August 2005

PIGS…IN….SPAAACE!

I am not making this up! The Chinese are launching pig sperm into space to, ehem, “Test the effects of space on semen”.

I’m calling bullshit on this one. Why would anyone care about the effects of space on pig semen? Last I checked there weren’t all that many pig farms up there.

Oh sure, they may be concerned about human semen, but then why not launch some of that? Don’t try to tell me there’s a shortage of man chowder in China; the population figures show otherwise.

No, I believe that the Chinese government is sending a discrete message to any Islamic terrorist that may be eying Chinese targets with interest:

“Fuck with us, and we’ll rain hot pig jizz on your heads from orbit.”

Brilliant! I’m not a Muslim, and it still gives me pause.

Okay lads, the Chinese job is off.

02 August 2005

A mown of agony.

Twenty Major had issues with a fly running into his wang. I believe I can top that.

Lately, the fact that temerature and humidity is dangerously high, has forced me to seek the refuge of premises that have, through a strange quirk of fate, beer to sell. Naturally, this means that I have had no time to mow the lawn this summer.

"No problem", I thought. I'll buy some goats to crop the grass.

Alas, Gretchen, being the fussy @#%!* that she is, placed me under embargo until the lawn was mowed.

I cursed, moped, and made every excuse I could. I didn’t want to mow the lawn tonight. It was too late, and our elderly neighbors; the Kauffmans (the ones with the immaculate yard) were sitting on their porch, and would watch me. I hate people watching me work. No way was I going to do it tonight.

So there I was, mowing the yard at dusk. In order to annoy the neighbors, I wore a tight baby doll t-shirt and shorts with enough crack to have some serious street value.

I’d barely started when some little bastard shot me in the ass with a BB gun. Then in the left thigh. I prepared to throttle.

That was about the time I saw the cloud of hornets. I no longer wanted to strangle some little shit. I wanted to run.

It was just about that time when one of the hornets found that special place, known as the “ ‘taint”.

I could almost hear the Kauffmans:
“He dances pretty good for a fat boy doesn’t he, Papa?”
“Ya, Pretty good runner too, but he’d go faster if he stopped yelling all them French words!”

I made it inside just ahead of the cloud of stingy things.

“Why don’t I hear the lawnmower?” Gretchen asked.

“I dunno; maybe because it’s allergic to wasps, and is in anaphylactic shock?”

We had two cans of Über Toxic Bug Death™, and I grabbed them both.

“You know, they can develop immunity to that stuff if you keep using it”

“Well can they develop immunity to that stuff, and FIVE GALLONS OF BURNING GASOLINE?”



She didn’t think so either.

There was no negotiated peace; I got the little fuckers. The back yard is now an EPA Superfund site, and there is a large scorch mark on the retaining wall that is still burning fitfully. The lawn remains unmowed, and I remain under embargo.

And if the hornets do develop immunity to burning gasoline, we’ll sell the place cheap and move far, far away.

Side note: For first aid, Gretchen gave me, and I am not making this up; Adolph's Meat Tenderizer to put on the stings. First of all, nothing with "Adolph" on it is going to be applied down there, and secondly "Meat Tenderizer" sounds too much like anti-Viagra.

In any event, the swelling went down reasonably quickly and as far as that particular sting goes; it only hurt when I breed.

Speed Demon

Wheeeee!

Speeding is still fun in the revolted colonies. It may be difficult for many readers to understand just how much empty space there is between cities. Unfortunately, most people tend to obey the speed limits despite the lack of repercussions. To me, this irritating sense of propriety is a red cape and only encourages me to drive like a complete and utter idiot.

“Jesus is coming to take us home!” I imagine my law abiding brethren saying as I come up from behind them at warp 90, with headlights set on "vapourize".

"Apparently, Jesus drives a Maroon step side 2004 Dodge Ram 1500 pick-up with a 5.7L Hemi and is rather lead footed.” They might add to themselves if their background in theological mechanics is rigorous enough to identify the chariot of the Lord.

When I pass them, I can also imagine them saying: “Thank goodness. We Live! Jesus is after the devil worshiping fucktard in the Ford Tempo in front of us. Never Liked Fords; tools of the Satan, they are.”

Either way, they move to the right and let me pass.

Obviously, in the battle betwixt good and evil, I am small potatoes. But I’ll take any advantage that gets me home before the beer warms up.

01 August 2005

Updates, e-mails and deep thoughts.

Link Whoring:

1). I am now number one on a Google search for “Spastic rabid weasel like fallatio”. Bite me, Barry.

Reader E-mails:

SpankyClown, offended by the anti clown agit-prop writes: “WTF?! uncool, d00d . i am going to clown college and clowns r bettr than what u do. u r just a lamo tard. I now were u live fucker!’

Indeed, Spanky, or should I say; JohnG of 212 N. High St? Ride your motorbike across my back yard one more time, you hippie freak, and I’ll have a “Burning Man” festival of my own. It will be the most fun I’ve had since a bet my brother he couldn’t piss from here to the electric fence. LOLOMGWTFBBQ!

Arse-clown.

Deep Thoughts:

If, when you sleep with someone, you sleep with everyone that they have slept with, and everyone that they have ever slept with, and so on; then why am I still horny?

You think I’d be worn out and severly dehydrated after a couple of hookers.


And that's the way I likes it.