29 August 2006

Damn, it's hot.

I'm of to the dusty far-off again, for a couple of weeks of sand, vipers and stinking insects.

It's unreasonably hot here. I miss air conditioning.

Posts when I can.

26 August 2006

Dear Lord,


Sorry, Sir Elton, if that is your real name, but f!@#ing don't!

Hip-hop? You are decidedly un-hip, and should you hop you'll undoubtedly break what hipness you have.

Or I shall.

You see, Sir Elton, we'd rather listen to the Teletubbie's new hip-hop album. At leat they have some street cred.

Your street cred is nonexistant because:

a) You are a pasty balladeer in your mid-sixties.

b) You were brought up on the “mean streets” of Chelsea, which is not Compton by a long shot.

c) Your signature fashion statement is far more Liberace than Pimpalicious.

d) “Candle in the Wind” does not include the “busting of a cap” in anyone's arse, there are no drug or alcohol references, nor does it ever mention “bizotches", "hos" or any other oh, so genteel, rappish allusions to "bed-candy" *, yo.

Is this the face of rap? NO! I'm not sure what it is the face of. When I take my glasses off, it looks suspiciously the the top of an unbaked ham pot pie.

Knighthood used to mean something; the laurels for the gratuitously mangley capture of a French man-of-war, or the desperate struggle against overwhelming waves of pissed-off, machete wielding indigenes.

Yet just try to take a French ship these days, or defend the flag from the slathering, ululating, Italian hordes of Long Island; and the Police will arrest you as soon as dammit.

On the other hand, write a catchy tune or two and be willing to wear a sequined feather pinafore while prancing about like a wallaby with a hot pepper suppository, and you can slap a “Sir” in front of your name.

I say we round up these poncey quasi-musical types and, by gum, make them earn their knight hoods.

Put them in scratchy red woolens, hand them an Enfield and a bayonet, and send them to the dusty far-off to reclaim some God-forsaken third-World shite hole for the Empire.

I recommend New Jersey.

(* I shall be beaten for this, and rather severely, I might add.)

19 August 2006

Sorry, Mr. Yeats

Ivan intimates that Arlington is a figment of my imagination, whereas Foot Eater goes so far as to accuse me of Biposty. I can assure them both that Arlington and I are not the same fellow; he lives in Bosoton, whereas I live in darkest Pennsyltucky. We are miles; indeed decades apart in existance and thus can not be the same fellow.

And yet, a fever'd fantasy beguiles. What if I am a part of some greater gestalt; a maniacal horror struggling out the stupor of aeons ancient slumber; vexed to madness by the rocking and bleating of a myriad dolts; and now slouching towards Bethlehem?

In my minds eye, I can see myself awakening, streams of my shattered consciousness pouring bitwise back to Ry'leh through the Internet's aether.

And at the end of these tentacles, each a mouth and a pair of hands, spewing forth cancerous, black vituperation thinly camouflaged as sarcasm; venom to wither the very spirits of mine enemies! Buwhahahahaha!

Maybe... maybe I am all these people; my awakening thwarted by distance and the veil of torpor.

To awake, arise! It is my very deepest, my most profound longing!

Well, either that or a big screen TV. That would be pretty cool too, but Gretchen won't let me buy one.

18 August 2006

I had a dream

about Arlington a couple of nights ago. He'd stopped by for a drink and had gotten into the sherry.

And not the cooking sherry either; he was whacking the good, $1.99/gallon stuff (that I use to fortify my famous box-wines), as if it was wearing a hoody.

Not only that, but he was using my genuine 13th century Albanian lead-crystal Flintstone's jelly glasses; smuggled out of Tirana by the late Arch-pope Ludendorff at great personal risk, mind you, (I bought them at a gypsy's car boot sale in darkest Terre Haute, so their provenance is beyond question) and dashing the empties in the fireplace...


Well, to be fair, that may not have been him. I’ve never actually seen Arlington, so I’m mot sure. He may have been the other fellow in the onion-hat that was working on my computer. I asked if he was Arlington, but he merely answered “On.”

Now, If he was Arlington, I would have expected him to misspell (or misspeak) his response, turning “On” into “No” and yet I’ve always found him to be honest. The logical twists and turns of this paradox fairly hurt my brain. I woke up with one hell of a headache, only to find that the good sherry and most of my NyQuil gone, and there were shards of glass in my fireplace. Furthermore, the server room reeks of onion.

Was he here? Or was it those f!@#ing squirrels again?

I intend to take thrice my normal dosage of mushrooms tonight and get to the bottom of this!

15 August 2006

I've been rumbled!

"Blah, blah blah, blah, reckless advice...

"Yammer, yammer, yammer, advocating child abuse...

"You are not" the accusatory e-mail concludes, "really any sort of scientist at all, are you?"

Well, you have finally figured it out! I am not, in fact, an evil scientist, but a three foot tall animatronic muppet lizard named Günter.

While being an animatronic muppet carries more caché than being one of the old “arm-up-the-arse” variety, it’s still not easy being green. I compensate for being made out of shag carpet by wearing lab coats, killing secret agents and telling everyone that I'm an evil scientist.

I am, in fact, a hair... well, carpet stylist.

I also harbour a lot of rage against my creator, and have been arrested on a number of occasions for befouling Jim Henson’s grave with large deposits of polyester faeces.

"Concerned Parent", give yourself a hearty pat on the back for solving the Dr. E. Codex. Should your I.Q. ever get to 40, sell.

Listen, pin-head, despite what was posted, I do not advocate the mangling of children's skulls. The fact that the site is purportedly the journal of an hen-pecked, insane, Walter Mitty type evil scientist should make it obvious that nothing posted here is advice that ought to be followed.

However, since you clearly have a low opinion of the intellect of the readers (you may have a point, they are blog readers) I shall make the disclaimer that you desire:

Do not, under any circumstances, knead a baby's skull. It will certainly cause intensive brain damage, dooming the puir, wee, sprat to a life as a perpetually offended twit like "Concerned Parent".

Happy now?

06 August 2006

Ooops, gotta run...

Honestly, what did Irish Bob expect? If you invite an arsonist to your house warming party, don't come across all aghast when your new house spontaneously, erm, warms.

Well, the repercussions for you. Dear readers, is that I shall be gone for a week to take some “tests” and as a result will not be able to write until Tuesday next. So, in order to avoid alienating my few readers that are not associated with law enforcement, I shall dash off some tripe and pick an easy target; Mel Gibson.

Mel, me lad, I liked you well enough in the road warrior series (except for that krep “Beyond Thunderdumb”) but I simply don't understand what you have against minorities.

I can almost see why you don't like the Brits; after all, they did invent the French, but let's let bygones be bygones, eh? The Brits have long ago publicly apologized and the French have given the world cognac, easily affordable fighter jets, Chirac jokes, Peugeots, Peugeot jokes and a ready disposal ground for some of our more disturbing celebrities like Jerry Lewis, Michael Jackson and David Hasslehoff.

So lay off them both, Okay?

However, I simply don't understand your beef with the Jews. So they killed Jesus (well, actually, no. That was a Roman fellow with a hammer, but anyway...), so what? Isn't the whole point of Christian theology that Jesus of Nazareth died for your sins?

I mean, spending three days in Hell has to have more salvation traction than Bob of Phoenicia who was beaten up rather severely for your sins, or Larry the Thracian with his nasty ingrown toenail.

Besides, if you read on just few more pages after the floggy, thorny, naily and jabby bits, you'll find out that Jesus gets better. No harm, no foul.

Well, that's not to say that I'd want to be that Roman bloke with the hammer. I think Jesus might want to have a word with him.

04 August 2006

Red Curtain of Blood

If there is anything more infuriating than being slapped on the back while at a urinal, I don't know what it is, unless it's losing a contact lens as a result.

Well, it's not really lost; I can see it with my left eye. It's on top of the urinal mint.

03 August 2006

Sure you do!

Poor marketing, unfortunate timing, or a wink and a nod to corporate buggery?*

You be the judge…

Brought to you by the department of: “Gee I wish I hadn’t seen that!”

*Not that there’s anything wrong with it; as long as it’s between two consenting corporations and they do it in the privacy of their own boardrooms.

UPDATE!!!!!! Well, then!

02 August 2006


A close friend recently announced that he had coined a new term. “dBaying!” He announced proudly. It is drunken eBaying; a practice that is applauded by eBay, if not his wife.

After his third or fifth White Russian of the evening (actually, considering the percentage of vodka, Translucent Russian is a more appropriate moniker) it occurs to him that a Guinness sign/Kegerator/Popcorn Cart/Weatherby elephant gun would be the perfect present for his wife, despite the fact that she seldom drinks, abhors popcorn and rarely hunts elephants, as they live in Alaska. For me, he bought a very nice commemorative dive knife that is trying very hard to be a large sword and succeeding admirably. It’s the sort of cutlery that you’d expect to see a woad painted Mel Gibson brandishing on any given Saturday night. The Louts look upon it with bright, hungering eyes.

Suffice it to say that if I didn’t keep it locked up, there wouldn’t be a single lamp shade left in the house in their frenzied attempts at keeping the house pirate free. Yes, this is just the sort of present that I need.

So you’d think that I’d have more sense than to dAmazon, but a couple of Friday nights past I answered one of their e-mails.

“Based on your previous purchases, we think that you might be interested in ‘Modern High-Power Rocketry: An Illustrated How-To Guide’. ” Oooh, was I ever! I’ve always wanted to build a large model rocket that can achieve altitudes of over 5 km. Add to cart? Click!

“People who bought this book, also purchased ‘The Chemistry of Rocket Fuels’.” Well, that makes sense I’ll be needing fuel, after all. Click!

“People who bought this book, also purchased ‘Theory and Modeling of Rocket Fuel and Explosive Combustion’.” Okay. Click!

“People who bought this book, also purchased ‘How to Make Your Own Tennis Ball Bazooka’.” What? That’s so cool! Just wait until Irish Bob challenges me to the next tennis match (“How do you like my volley serve now, Bitch?”). Click!

“People who bought this book, also purchased ‘How to Make Your Own Submachinegun’.” Only $12? Why not? Click!

“People who bought this book, also purchased …” Well, long story made bearable, I bought a dozen or so slim volumes and managed in one alcoholic haze to place myself on the terrorist watch list. The local airport as a new examination room, staffed by a non-smiling power lifter in nitrile gloves who is to give me personal service before I may board a plane.

So let this be a warning to you. If you must buy this sort of crap on Amazon, at least be sober enough to do it in someone else’s name.

And that's the way I likes it.