Harry has been feeling a little out of sorts. It appears that the time of year, as well as the thankless job of teaching ESL (English as a Second Language) to the suspicious and barbaric natives of Somerset, has taken the inevitable toll on his usual sunny disposition.
I fear he’s getting all suicidal; he’s even gone so far as to travel with the peasants on the National Express (for the nearest Yankee equivalent, think of a combination Greyhound bus / methadone clinic in Appalachia, but lacking all the charm).
“Bonhomie my ballocks.” He writes: “It’s a stinking world. Christmas is the time for bonhomie. New Year is a time to reflect how dismally mean and stupid one’s fellow countrymen are. I was on the National Express yesterday. You would not believe how ugly everyone was. So don't talk to me about bonhomie.”
Nonsense, my son! Don’t make me go all Dickensian upon your pasty English arse and send over the ghosts of New Year’s Eve Past, Present and Future!
New Year’s Eve is the time for stealing the wallets of perfect strangers, for drinking off other’s bar tabs, for puking into the open sun roof of parked luxury motors, for starting fights between yobs wearing differing footie club shirts.
Lacking bonhomie? Ballocks! Verily, New Year’s Eve is packed solid with bonhomie as the bowels of a nonagenarian on a cheese-only diet.
So be good sports and pop round his place to lift his spirits. He keeps the good stuff in the mahogany sideboard in his dining room, under the black velvet black light painting of the supple Germaine Greer.
UPDATE! When I said "lift his spirits", I meant "pinch his booze". He's obviously not using it to its proper effect.
“C’mon, Evil. Let’s go skiing” Irish Bob was itching for some slithery derring-do.
I was reluctant as I usually encounter rocks and the occasional illegally parked tree when I try to ski. I believe I may be the only person in the history of mankind to break an arm and a leg cross country skiing.
Long skinny skis are just the thing for going down an steep icy slope at exhilarating speeds; but they’re not so grand for turning. I did not get my deposit back when I returned the kindling to the ski rental counter.
I decided to politely decline.
“Piss off, you goat-bothering weasel.” I snarled. “We have work to do, and this is only my third game of Sudoku.”
“C’mon, Evil, the boss is away! Why not practice the skills of your ancestors?”
“My people were Irish, you wouldn’t have exactly seen them skiing down the fjords, bristling with harpoons and mukluks to hunt the mighty lemming.” I replied. “My ancestors preferred feats of endurance and dexterity, such as timed bar stool verticality.”
Truth be told, I’m not very good at it, but I do try. In fact I was practicing before Bob so rudely interrupted me.
“I’ve got whiiiiiskey!” Bob wheedled.
Damn my weakness. Honestly, it’s a good thing I’m not a super-villain.
So, up to the slopes we went. Although I hadn’t skied for years, I was amazed at how much I remembered. Like riding a bike, I suppose. I dashed down the mountain slope again and again. Finally, with the urging of John Jameson and Sons, (Ltd.) I decided to try a jump.
I pegged the jump, but the landing was a bit dicey. Bob skied over, freed my head from the bole of a fir and asked how many fingers he was holding up.
“Eh, Close enough.” He gathered up the kindling and we returned to the rental counter. Bob was effusive with praise.
“Evil, you were great!” He gushed. “Although, next time we’ll get you off the bunny slopes, eh?”
“Sod it, Bob.” I replied. “I’m training for the 100 hour barstool verticalness.”
Feed a fever, serve drinks to a concussion, after all.
This statement should invoke a cautious response along the lines of the warning “Achtung, Minen!” but for some reason, I keep missing the danger signs.
“No, honey, it’s your thighs’ termini that are largish.” In my defense, I like this feature, but the judge would not accept the explanation. Nor would she accept temporary insanity. I am temporarily evicted.
Well, it was too cold to stand around outside, so I took a handful of festively colored, unidentified pills and went to work.
I mean the going to work bit. Turns out we are having our regularly scheduled random insurance inspection and Irish Bob, who usually handles these sorts of things, called in sick. He wasn’t sick last night a four in the morning when he was yodeling outside of my window, but come to think of it the shot shell loaded with rock salt may have left him feeling a bit under the weather.
It turns out that the inspector was an affable fellow, but it is a bit hard to concentrate when circus poster writing is scrolling across his note pad. He took my attempt to read the script as interest in the inspection results.
“You really shouldn’t be smoking a cigar in a room full of open diethyl ether cans.” He explained. “You see, if there’s one thing I learned when I was a fireman, oh excuse me, fire-fighter; one can’t say ‘fireman’ any more; it’s that…” He continued for a few minutes, but I wasn’t listening. I was stunned by his brilliance.
Quite frankly, I’m sick of having to come up with a PC version of policeman, mailman, milkman, et al., Removing the "man" and adding “fighter” to the end sorts the PC thingy, and makes it sound all dangerous so you can pay them less.
Well, maybe not the “policefighters”. After all, we already have yobbos, but for the others, let’s face it, the mail looks like it has been assaulted when I get it, and if my lactose intolerant spouse is not fighting with milk, then I am not sure from where all of those pungent chemical weapons are emanating.
Although, I suspect from somewhere within her large thigh termini.
Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house Not a creature was stirring; thank God not my spouse. Head pounding so badly, not a word was a-spoken, (my wife was with family in darkest Hoboken).
Empty bottles confirmed my most horrible fear; A case of tequila was consumed, last night, here. Net stockings were draped on a lamp without care; an unconscious prostitute sprawled on my chair.
The details, once fuzzy, came more and more clear, Just about noon we had forsaken beer. Then said Bob (the Cirrhotic, faux-Irish Pixie), ”Let’s go to a strip club; I’m buying the whiskey!”
"Lap Dasher! Pole Dancer!” My groin, how it tingles! (by five I had spent several hundred in singles) The DJ then played something that Bob quite detested. Shot glasses were flung; he got us arrested
It turned out not badly, the whole arrest thing, in our cell was a ho from the latest vice sting. "Now, Honey" said Bob, “This shouldn’t be hard” "We’ll pay for your bail with our corporate card!"
But the hooker exclaimed she had nowhere to go. "It’s freezing out there, and it’s blowing with snow!” "We’ll head on to Evil’s, promise we won’t feel ya”, "We’ll drink all of Evil’s expensive tequila!"
So I wasn’t unfaithful, as it turned after all, and I spent the night passed out in the entry hall. As for Bob, after puking all over my deck, he and Honey both turned my house to a wreck. Then the phone rang and with it my spirit was broken, my wife was returning early from Hoboken. So I scurried and scrubbed, on my hands and my knees, even spritzed up the hooker with squirts of Fabreeze™!
In a thrice I had poured the drunk whore in a cab, and gave her a hundred, so she wouldn’t blab. But I heard her exclaim, with expression most dour, "You owe me two grand, Bub, I charge by the hour!"
People of other faiths, please translate my well wishes for you onto the festive holiday of your choosing.
For myself, I will be celibrating the birth of Jesus (conveniently relocated to the nearest pagan feast day) in the traditional manner of my Irish ancestors by invoking St. Cirhosis of Liver to bless this slanty shanty and to get into arguments with my relatives that must be resolved by the Police (the lot with guns, not the pseudo-hippy 80's band. "Da-doo-doo-dah", my large pasty, pimply, white, redneck left arse cheek!).
I will not be following the practices of my more remote ancestors, as their customs involved dancing naked in the forest, human sacrifice, canibalism and voting Tory; all of which I've sworn off for Lent.
UPDATE! I've just been informed that Lent was over around Easter. Apparently I've wasted the last few months on a futile gesture.
UPDATE NUMBER 2!!! I did not mean to racially disparage in any way, my my large, pimply, black, redneck right arse cheek, it's just that the pimples show up better against the pasty white one.
UPDATE NUMBER 3!!!! Sod it, you bastards! I know, it's not Christmas yet, but, I plan on being incoherent in an hours time, and recover conciousness some time next year. Do you want me to be posting then? I didn't think so.
Dr. Maroon was right. I did procure a little Plutonium last month. It’s just the thing for jump starting the truck on cold days and for building small home defense tactical nukes… (“New from Ronco! Neighborhood Nuclear Superiority! It attaches to your garden hose!”)
Plutonium is not all that hard to get a hold of, one must merely travel to the nearest congregation of desperate and wild-eyed hard-men; (in my case, Ottawa) fork over some greenbacks, and walk away with any military hardware one’s heart desires.
I know a lot of us peace loving Yankees are very nervous about living next door to such a nation of slathering warmongers, but even the most troubled of us must admit that Canadian arms bazaars, Tim Horton’s and Canadian whisky rocks.
Canadian Club. It’s not just for Seals anymore!
However, it turns out that transporting Plutonium without a license across the border is illegal. It has something to do with the radioactive wasteland that is Detroit, apparently. Long story short, it seems that a lot of alphabet agencies were a tad bit miffed, and not just about my building code violations. If I didn’t want to spent the next fifty years showering with soap on a rope, I’d have to go on the lam.
Luckily, thanks to a tragic accident, I found the perfect place. It seems that Joe Bob, the corn dog maker at the carnival that one of my cousins works for, slipped and fell in the fryer. The screams and the smell of burning tattoos were horrible and apparent for miles, but in the end there was an opening in the exciting Carny career field. (In his end, as a touching carny tribute was a stick).
My cousin assured me that with my rat-like features and unibrow, I could fit right in if I got some prison tattoos and lost enough weight to get that psycho drifter look.
“Have you tried the black-tar heroin diet?” He asked. I assured him that a week of carnival food would get my weight down (intestinal parasites and what-not) or turn me into the bearded fat lady. Either way, sorted.
So that’s were I’ve been the last few weeks; wandering the country, feeding the carnival customers barely edible food and simultaneously getting rid of the tell tale radioactive waste. As a hobby, I've been rigging the rides to hurl the rider's projectile vomitus as far as possible. Personal best is 45 meters on the “Tilt-a-Whirl”, but just wait until I get my hands on the “Zipper”!
That’s when y’all better park in the cheap lot, well out of range.
UPDATE!!!! It's not our neighbors to the north that are the slathering warmongers, it's our neighbors to the south; the Texans. Personally, I never trusted Texans since they consistently beat me in drinking contests.
I apologise for any inconvenience that I've caused Mr. Martin's government, but would like to add that his lot are still probably to blame for Detroit. I've got my eyes on you, bub. Watch it!
Events have conspired against my natural propensity for sloth; and no I am not referring to the flying monkey-men this time. That incident shall not occur again, since I bought the new shotgun, and more importantly, no longer make tossed salads with mescaline.
Muscalin, mescaline; who knew there was such a difference? Honestly, the mescaline salad was perkier, but there is that whole nekkid dancing/nunnery/restraining order thingy to contend with.
Safer to stick with the greens.
Anyhoo, what was I talking about? Ah yes; sloth. Demands have been building up to a feverish crescendo, forcing me to actually work! I am simply not accustomed to this, and it has taken it’s toll on my creative abilities like blogging and playing Doom.
So now my days are spent writing procedural documents and the nights blatantly violating building inspection codes.
Sorry, all. Things are getting a mite crazy here, what with the missing fissionables missing and monkeys escaping and holding the vulture capitalists hostage.
Not that that bit is a bad thing mind, but the commonwealth of Pennsyltucky's dept. of Deadly Radiation will be inspecting tomorrow, and we're trying to convince one of the less clever human resources types to eat a few pounds of unregulated isotopes and pass his corpse off as containing the missing plutonium.
He wants to know what the catch is. If I have to triple-dog-dare him to get him to tuck in, I shall be one unhappy camper.
To make matters more interesting, we are getting a visit from potential buyers. The boss is of two minds whether to have me included in the meetings, since I can lie like a politicial, or whether I will just scare them.
The Duke of Normandy went to England, and all I got was this lousy tee shirt, which is now festooned with his internal organs.
This one comes from Tony T and is far too amusing/grotesque to not post for you to read while eating. That sort of restraint would be indicative of a man with far more class than I shall ever possess.
William the conqueror blimped out quite a bit in the end. You see, after the hard work of hacking up Harold and his army, selling the Saxon gentry into slavery and instituting a truly modern tax system, all that was left was to make fun of the Northerner’s broad vowels by hacking Geordies to death (a tradition that still lives on with today’s Royals) porking out on bangeurs et mashe, and hitting the Boddington’s rather heavily. So when he snuffed it on that scorching August of 1087, he was blessed with prodigious girth and his gut was packed with all sorts of goodies for his intestinal fauna to nibble on..
When the clergy tried to stuff him in his sarcophagus, they determined that one side does not fit all.
They tried pushing and shoehorning, oiling and tamping, but, alas; in their carelessness they popped chubby Bill and he detonated. This pretty much cleared the chapel of mourners.
These days, you wouldn’t get to enjoy such a scene. Going out with a bang and showering one’s mourning subjects with gobbets of used King is just the sort of panache that the Royal Family now so sadly lacks.
I mean, just imagine what Di could have done to those paparazzi.
“We’re all gonna die.” Said Wheezing Fred. “And that just sucks.”
Fred fancies himself a philosopher, and in fact was surrounded by a bevy of young ladies earlier this evening. He is better looking than I, and I despise him for it.
I went to the commode.
“Blessed are the red heads…” I heard him exclaim as I was walking away.
I have been experiencing a mild form of food poisoning, exacerbated by the fact that the local grocery store is run by an ex that I have treated poorly. I retreated to a stall.
I could hear Wheezing Fred through the thin bog walls. He was espousing universal sisterhood.
This approach is more successful than one might expect, due to his bald pate, prodigious girth and orange robes. People rub the bastard’s belly for good luck.
I’m restrained from emerging for a bit and eventually, the giggles and loud proclamations subside. When I emerged, he had vanished, and I was presented with the bar tab of Fred and his feminine entourage.
I was traveling down a lonely road at a speed that while not technically legal was safely within the 15MPH buffer allowed by most Pennsylvania State Troopers.
Ahead was a geezer in a dump truck, waiting to turn onto the road. Our eyes met. He would yield right of way, I thought. I thought wrong. With a rooster tail of gravel, he fishtailed onto the road and promptly slowed to a stately 20MPH. Apparently, his truck is like a cheetah and can only handle short bursts of speed while chasing down a gazelle, or cutting-off oncoming traffic.
Also apparent, is that fact that by waiting the additional five seconds to let me past, he would have been late to the dump; a social faux pas on the order of loudly proclaiming one’s virginity in the Kennedy compound.
Dump truck drivers have been turned into pumpkins for less.
So I got to enjoy an hour long sluggish trip through darkest Bucolia, bounded by a double yellow line to my left, ditch to my right and an open truck in front whose odor hinted at its past duties hauling fish guts, porcine manure and Carnival ride vomitus (now, with corn-dog bits!). One of these days, I really must get my window fixed.
Long story made bearable, when we finally got to a passing zone, the driver miraculously discovered what the skinny pedal was for.
And that, Your Honor, was why I had to borrow that manure spreader and fill his bedroom.
Amazingly, I still have all my fingers, toes and other important appendages.
I’m still trying to beat the snow and get the porch enclosed beforeworse weather blows in. Today we are expecting an inch and a half; which isn’t too bad, but tomorrow we are slated to get quite a bit more.
So, last night I was up until 11 finishing the sub floor. Now, you may find this hard to believe, but even though I am an evil scientist, my balance, especially after a few nips to ward off the cold; is not exactly Cirque de Soleil quality.
So while balancing on the icy floor joists, while carrying a sheet of 3/4 in plywood that was acting as a fine spinnaker, one foot slid on each side of the beam. Had I been on the uphill side of the house, my feet would have hit the ground first, but Murphy being the rat-bastard that he is, insured that the first point of contact was Mr. Happy and the Wonder Twins.
A beam in the bollocks. Nature’s way of telling you to pack it in for the night.
She does that every so often. Her other two children are actually achievers of the type that she can brag about, but as a mother, what can you say about your Evil Scientist offspring?
“Well, he hasn’t been arrested recently. That I am aware of, anyway; and it’s been days since he was in the asylum” is about the only thing I can come up with.
So she pops round once in a while to look for things she can tell her friends about. I showed her my latest orbital mutagenetic beam.
“I’m going to test it on Senators.” I said, suspecting that she wasn’t listening.
“That’s nice dear.”
“I’m going to give Frist radioactive breath and scaly armored skin, Barbara Boxer Claws and some sort of Fran Driescher shriek weapon and wings. I’ll grow them both to 30 meters or so, then they can battle it out on Pay-Per-View. I’ll make millions!”
Well I would! Don’t try to tell me that you wouldn’t pay to watch that.
“Uh-huh. Listen dear, after you take over the world, what are you going to do?”
Well, I suppose, build a palace or two, and demand tribute and pressies from the admiring masses, but...
What do you get a man who has everything?
Well, a course of antibiotics and a stern lecture about avoiding cheap prostitutes, I suppose, but that was not really what she was on about. Fact is, I haven’t really thought it through.
Hmmm. Bond’s new job will be hand cleaning a particularly messy equatorial sewer and there’ll be an annual “Make Fun of a Random Country (Chosen by Lottery, that France will Mysteriously Keep Winning)” day but other than that, I’m stumped.
LOOK WHAT I WON! It's the prestigious El Barbudo Beard tug award for Bog Blogging! I am so better than the rest of you. (As far as bog blogging, that is.)
Email me. Or not. I don't really care. After all, nobody ever really e-mails unless they want to complain. FOR THE LAST TIME, GIRLBOTS ARE NOT WATERPROOF! STOP TAKING THEM INTO THE SHOWER, YOU PERVS! Erm. Sorry about the spittle. Anyhoo: pmoran (at) pennswoods (dot) net
May end up sleeping by himself permenantly if he doesn't start lying to get sex. Actually, he lies quite a bit to get sex. Well done. Oh, come on, people. Don't look disgusted. You know damn well we all do it.
Evil Yank blogs. Not very evil, but they drive large vehicles on the wrong side of the road, just like those continental thugs. They also pronounce "Schedule" with a "K" sound. Honestly, didn't they learn anything in sshool?.
"The details of my life are quite inconsequential.... very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds- pretty standard really. At the age of twelve I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking- I highly suggest you try it. ", Dr. Julius Evil, January 21, 2000