31 January 2006

Die, you gravy sucking pigs!
















Well, I've had it with being bugged to "mow the damn lawn" just because I'm willing to put it off for a few months. I'm also sick of getting stung by bees when I do finally get around to it.

So, I figured out a way to mow the lawn, clear the brush and dice the frigging bees, all at the same time.



Genius, no?

30 January 2006

Aw, CRAP! You took the some of the blue pills, didn't you?


Sorry, folks. I don't think Doc Scientist will be posting today. He was on about his plan to bet heavilly on the Seahawks after placing some very potent laxatives in the Steeler's Gatorade™, saying something about "I'll get their running game going, never fear!"

Then he took a handful of the blue pills.

Sorry about the inconvenience, but I have to go. He's naked and climbing a church steeple.

Cheers,

Randy Bumguard,
Assistant Head Goon,
Evil Genius Enterprises, Inc.
(A subsidiary of Halliburton)

28 January 2006

Tagged!


After recovering consciousness, I plucked the empty tranquilizer dart of from my ample posterior and struggled to my feet. The newly attached radio collar chafes my neck and for some reason, my ear hurts.

I’ve been meme tagged.

Damn you, Arlington.

But at least, the 50ml of Telazol explains yesterday’s post.

In any event; here is the damn "7x7" meme:

Seven movies that I like (In no particular order)

Groundhog Day. (Andie McDowell. Grooooowl!)
Kind Hearts and Coronets
Lawrence of Arabia
Waking Ned Devine
Unforgiven
Hope and Glory
The Dish
Office Space
Groundhog Day. (Andie McDowell. Grooooowl!)
Kind Hearts and Coronets
Lawrence of Arabia
Waking Ned Devine
Unforgiven
Hope and Glory
The Dish
Office Space
Groundhog Day. (Andie McDowell. Grooooowl!)
Kind Hearts and Coronets
Lawrence of Arabia
Waking Ned Devine
Unforgiven
Hope and Glory
The Dish
Office Space


Seven books that I like (In no particular order)

“The Papers of A.J. Wentworth, BA”, H.F. Ellis, The private papers of a self important public school teacher maths master in pre-war Britain. Hilarious.

“Three Men in a Boat (Not to Mention the Dog)”, Jerome K. Jerome, The story of my young adulthood, written seventy years before I was born (Note to self, bring a can opener for the pineapple).

“The Polish Officer”, Alan Furst, Dark, grim, beautifully written.

“Mayhem:” J. Robert Janes, Bludgeony fun in occupied France.

“The Chronicles of Amber” Roger Zelazney. Actually a series bound in one volume. The tale of a magical wonderland; Detroit. May require you to drop mushrooms to fully comprehend. Not a bad idea, actually.

The Hornblower Saga, C.S. Forester. Yahhhhrgh!

“A Talent for War” Jack McDevitt

Seven Things I say.

“Yar”,
“Shiver me timbers”,
“Eeexcellent”,
“I didn’t do it, M’lud”,
“Goons, thrash him!”,
“I want my mummy”,
“Say, have you ever been in a Turkish prison?”

Seven things that attract me to the City.

Gravity,
Electromagnetism,
Strong force,
Weak force,
Three to be named later. Maybe (Insert Heisenberg joke here)

Seven things to do before I die

Listen, are we done yet? This is getting really tedious.

Seven things I can’t do.

Put my elbow in my ear. Moving on…


Seven people to tag.

Attila the Hun
Genghis Khan
Emir Timur
Saladin
Some Viking. (No, not that one, the bearded one with the axe. )
The CEO of Halliburton
Either Queen Victoria, or RuPaul. I haven’t decided yet.



UPDATE!

Genghis Khan writes:

“How dare you tag me? My hordes shall sweep across your lands, bringing devastation, famine, pestilence, unwanted pregnancies to your women folk and painful rectal penetration to your menfolk!

I shall ride across your domains on roads paved with your skulls! Saddles shall be made from your flayed skin! I shall have yurts made from your intestines while you yet breathe!

Oh, BTW, You liked the Chronicles of Amber?!?! WTF dude! I found it to be quite tedious. But I’m with you on Andie McDowell in GHD. Rowr!!!”

UPDATE # 2!!

If you haven't seen "The Dish", rent or buy it. Seriously, it's funny.

27 January 2006

I really have no idea what the title of this should be.

Right.

I’m pissed off right now. It seems that the realtor lied when they said my house was built on an Indian burial mound. That I could live with. I mean, how cool is it to have an ominously bound trap-door in your basement, inscribed with eldritch runes and decorated with the empty skull of Richard Simmons?

“Stop jumping up and down on it kids!” I frequently have to scold. “I don’t want you taunting the demons.”

Well, it turns out the whole thing is a fake, with the exception of Richard Simmons’ skull. I am quite sure of the provenance of that, since I placed it there myself.

In reality, the house is built on the roosting grounds of the North American hamster. Every year, millions of hamsters migrate from the deep south to do the nasty on my 10 acre plot. It’s rather like that bit of Baja for the Monarch butterfly, Patagonia for the Great Auk or coastal Thailand for the Brits.

After spawning, they lay their eggs and die. It would all be a fascinating glimpse into the majestic pole dance of life, except they’ve taken to scrogging in the floor joists and walls of my house; then the females want to talk. When they do go to sleep, they steal the covers, causing the males to grumble all night long, until they die in the wee hours.

As you can imagine, the stench is incredible and my siding is getting damaged as all of the neighborhood weasels have taken to licking it with their long, raspy, forked tongues.

Honestly, I could deal with all of this with good humor, if a pair of hamsters hadn’t crawled into my five gallon bucket of lard (I keep that much in case an emergency keeps me from the store; something like a blizzard say, or a nuclear exchange with Peoria) to get a little hamster action.

Imagine the sight, when opening up the can for breakfast you were to find an enthusiastically fertilized hamster egg sack. Fairly put me off my breakfast, it did.

So that’s why I was standing in my boxers on the front porch screaming at the weasels. Richard Simmons, or someone that looked very much like him told me to calm down, eat right, get some exercise, or I’d have a heart attack.

So I bashed him skull wise with a shovel. Well, one thing led to another, and the neighborhood busybodies called the police. I barely had time to pull his pants down before they showed up.

“I had to, officer!” I explained indignantly. “He was exposing himself to the kids.”

They were very nice about it, and even let me keep his head to put on the fake-trap door.

Now, if you put your ear against it, you can hear the groaning of tortured souls, all to the beat of “Sweating to the Oldies!”

True story!

26 January 2006

Well, POO!



(Double click image and maximize window to enlarge)

25 January 2006

Hate Mail and Annonopussies.

Well, except for a clown related hate mail from the berk down the road, I've not had a single hate mail or troll comment. This situation must change immediately, so I've taken it upon myself to expound my views and provide some of my background history.

1. I invented "Clippy"











2. I also invented the "Teletubbies"













3. I am the one that changed Newcastle from the charming bucolic paradise of yesteryear to the mutagenic hell hole of Geordie chavism that it is today (Look, I said I was sorry, OK? Christ, you’d think that re-arranging peoples DNA without their consent was a crime or something).

4. Ditto Newark, but Porcu-doed, fake-tanned, bling wearing, fake Armani suit clad "guidos" rather than chavscum.

5. I am the "Karl Rove" of the Absolute Monarchist party ("Vote for me, and you'll never have to go through the hastle of voting again!"™)

6. I've a larger arse than Ted Kennedy, but my car floats.

7. I believe that there is no job that can be performed with a hand tool, that cannot be performed better with a power tool.

8. My idea of of a power tool:













9. My ideal woman is a cross between Dame Thatcher and Condi Rice, with a little bit of the non-bitchy side of Hillary Clinton tossed in, but in the body of Halle Berry.

Oh, yes, it wouldn't hurt if she were a nymphomaniac and had a baldness fetish.

10. I look like Michael Moore, all rolled into one.

Well, there you have it. If that doesn't generate some hate mail, I don't know what will.

24 January 2006

I just got back from Newark and boy, are my lungs tired.

Well, actually, I got back on Sunday, but I slipped on the ice Monday morning and cracked my noggin on the sidewalk; resulting in a lovely, woozy headache that has lasted 36 hours. It was just the thing to have when showing around important visitors that simply. would. not. leave. until after midnight. Alcohol helped, but now I’m back at work where binge drinking is frowned upon, forcing me to resort to smoking opium.

Where was I? Oh, yes, Newark. Truth be told, Newark isn’t so bad; they’ve cleaned it up considerably over the last twenty years, making it perfectly fit for habitation by post-apocalyptic, radioactive, mutant freaks as long as they already have brain tumors.

I’ve been buying up land for my retirement dream home.

Besides, it’s just a stone’s throw away from Manhattan, if you have a carbide cannon; which I do. Just ask the Port Authority police; they are holding it for me in their evidence locker.

Anyway; Newark. Convenient location, toxic smog, large carnivorous swamp rats; what’s not to love?

So it was with heavy heart and massive hangover that I returned to bucolic splendor of central Pennsyltucky, with its’ broad sweeping vistas, and gentle delicately scented pig manure breezes. We were within forty or so miles from home, when we saw the first sign of spring, Pennsylvania’s state flower; the road construction sign.

So there we sat for fifteen minutes, in front of a flagman with an index finger two knuckles deep into his left nostril. In fact, the only indication that he was alive was the obscene writhing of his nose. If it weren’t for the nasal floor show, he could have been replaced with a bucket of sand, and twice as efficiently.

Finally, it dawned on Baby Einstein that there was no traffic coming in the other direction, so he flipped the sign from “Stop” to “Slow”. We proceeded down the single open lane only to encounter a long string of traffic coming the other direction.

You guessed it; Jethro Clampett’s identical twin was working the other side, with a broken radio.

Some day, if they keep screwing up badly enough, we may elect them to a high public office, but until that glorious day, they must keep struggling down the path of self improvement, with fingers firmly planted in nostrils.


UPDATE!!!

FatMammyCat writes:


"Welcome back Evil, sorry to hear of you slip, I trust operation 'Blow up Stuff, or BS, is back on track. The new phenobarb syringes arrived, I stored them in the cistern in bubble wrap.

Oh and the Gov'ner of Alabama has been on, something about a glow in the dark hog on his pappy's ranch and some missle head with a barcode that was allegedly traced back to some lair you used to rent from a French guy called Claude von killalott, two Ts.

Anyhoo I smoothed thing over with him as PR are wont to do, but his wife/sister is expecting you to use the new mesh chemical peel on her neck Wednesday. I told her about the side effects but she said an extra tit was the least of her worries.

Ta, Fatmammycat."


Grand job, FMC, but I have to wonder, what is the rest of my management team doing, hmmm?

UPDATE #2!

Vaporise Barney reports in:

And who was left to answer that scurrilous cartoon of the great one,posted by an imposter alluding to your lack of sexual success ?

Surely everyone knows by now that not only do you have the world at your feet,but also most of the female population on their knees before you.P.S.,along with my 15%, I'll be happy with any crumbs that may fall from your table,a few ugly gummy ones will do me.

Bow, scrape, scrape...

Well, I'm waiting, Dr. Maroon. Where's my new SCRAM-jet bomber?

21 January 2006

This weak end

Friday morning started as Friday mornings shall; with a restraining order. I had to nip down to the magistrate right quick to head it off.

“Your Honor” I pled “Please don’t cut me off from my dear, sweet, beloved. I am a reformed man!” Eventually he relented.

“Fine” He said. “You may maintain access to the kegerator, but you still must sleep on the couch.”

“And the bathroom?” One must hammer these details out immediately, or place oneself in legal peril.

I mean, without the nod from the plod, I could get arrested for simply peeing in my own bathroom. The only alternative would be whizzing on the neighbors’ hydrangeas, poodle, or into the open windows of their Volvo station wagon. And one can get arrested doing that as well. Believe me.

The judge nodded.

So all that was left was to placate my wife. I gathered all my imaginary friends on the porch. Now, this was more difficult than one might expect, as the Doctors have gotten my anti-psychotic mix almost perfect. Only three of the strongest voices in my head showed up, as well as Pregnant Pam, who is not so much imaginary as she is inflatable.

“Gentlemen, ... and lady” I nodded to Pam. “Do you have any placatory suggestions?”

Silence from the voices. The bastards were more interested in quaffing my beer.

PHREEEEEeeeeen!” Said Pam. One of these days, I simply must invest in a patch kit, although dunking her in the water barrel to find the leak is fraught with peril as the neighbors will no doubt say “He’s trying to drown someone again!” and call the police.

Honestly, that only happened once, and I'm fairly sure the fellow was James Bond, so he had it coming.


Sure, he claimed he was a Jehovah’s Witness, but MI-6 types lie all the time. One simply cannot take the risk.

Anyhoo, long story short, I decided to take her for a romantic weekend in Newark. If the enchanting scenery and toxic sea breezes do not rekindle the flames of passion, I’m not sure anything can.

Wish me luck!

20 January 2006

Flogging a dead hearse

Well the title makes no sense, but I've been taking flu medication with whiskey, so that should explain it.

I'm all out of sorts so I won't be posting anything amusing today.

Instead of reading my usual drivel, why don't you take a gander at
this?

It's a cartoon starring all the verminous, drug addled, filthy, neuro-syphillitic pervos that usually post here. Since we have no native artistic talents, we've scanned pictures of ourselves (mine is from my corporate ID card) to use as the basis for strips.

Kim Ayres and El Barbudo are the two head blog bastards, so contact them if you want to join up.

Are you listening, Arlington?














Me. Am I not the very essence of hawtness, ladies?





















A relative from the old country. I can't cut through his Corkish brogue with a chainsaw; but as you can clearly see, his heart is in the right place.

And no, El Barbudo, that's a cosh in his hand. The purple pool is Barney's life blood, not dinosaur jizm, you sick bastard.

19 January 2006

Ginger ail

“There's nothing wrong with fantasizing about shagging nuns - if God hadn't wanted us to do that he wouldn't have given them such sexy uniforms.

But you coveted a ginger. That is a crime against humanity and you will burn for it.”

Writes the HungBunny.

Well, yes, undoubtedly, but in due course.

I don’t expect a bolt of lightning to strike me down this instant; that mostly happens on golf courses, which I try to avoid (I take our Japanese visitors to strip clubs rather than golfing. They seem to enjoy it more, the pervos. I just go because I am obligated to entertain our clients. All the other times were just to insure quality control).

Now, I am not sure why God doesn’t like golfers, they seem like decent enough fellows. Maybe it’s the Argyle sweater vests, jodhpurs and pastel shirts, which in my mind are a worse crime against fashion and humanity than me lusting after gingers, Nuns or no.

Gingers are all freckly, giving the appearance of a “Magic Eye” puzzle. The trick is that you defocus your eyes a wee bit and then you can see the naughty bits.

I find that a quite charming diversion during long, boring conference calls.

Besides, as long as I ground my tin foil hat, I should be quite safe.

Sure, God could drop a meteorite on me, rather like he did the dinosaurs; but then he’d run the risk the only human survivor being a annoyingly happy purple-furred gayer with an attraction to the children of the next ascendant species.

18 January 2006

Or, Nun of the above

I stood behind the nun in the check out line. She wasn’t a desiccated, sour old harridan; no indeedy! She was a tasty young thing with (I’m guessing here) significant breasticular enhancement and red hair.

It was just about this time when a voice inside my head said “Dude, she’s a ‘Bride of Christ’! You’re drooling on one of God's old ladies!”

Normally I ignore the voices in my head. What have they gotten me, other than a cross armed sports jacket and some lovely Thorazine? however, this time, the voices had a point.


Things could get quite serious as he knows when you are sleeping, eh knows whe you're aw.... no, that’s that bloke that brings me lumps of anthracite for my coal fire. The creator of the universe knows everything, including what I’m thinking.

Pissing off the creator of the universe is a bit more serious than irking Santy Claus; after all, he turned water into wine, so just think of what nastiness he could do to my whiskey.

It wouldn’t take much of a miracle either; I frequently turn whiskey into urine, and I’m not particularly gifted in the miracle department, so I figure I’d best apologize right quick.

“Sorry about oogling one of your wives.” I pray. “But it’s not like you don’t have a few hundred thousand of them. I mean, if I were to so much as marry one more, I’d end up in the clink. And while I’m on the subject, one of your birds; remember Sister Spirella with the hairy cheek mole and the ruler? She’s a right bitch.


"Sorry. I’m just saying, that’s all.” I rubbed the back of my hand in memory.

The voices shook their virtual heads. “Now you’re definitely going to Hell, Moron!”

“Probably. But I’m taking you lot with me.” I replied to them.

“Eh, can’t be worse than the time you were trapped for three days in Newark airport broom closet with Barbara Striesand.”

Thanks for reminding me, you bastards. Now I’ve got to go back for more therapy.

17 January 2006

WTF?!?

Chavs?

Or clowans?

Or chav clowns?

You be the judge.

All I know is that I had an infestation of these pests in my neighborhood, I’d be doing some aerial spraying with a very strong insecticide.

UPDATE! It seems that these chav/clowns enjoy clubbing. Well, why didn’t they say so? We can certainly take care of the clubbing bit for them.*


UPDATE#2! It seems that these chav/clowns are native to New York and New Jersey and have thus developed immunities to all insecticides and industrial toxins. It shall have to be clubbing. Or gratuitious ordnance. I'm easy.

*It may be nontraditional, but I quite like the melodic sound that an aluminium bat makes when laid upside a noggin. Somewhat reminiscent of Handel's Royal Skull Thumping music performed on a harpsichordist.

16 January 2006

The Pre-Game Show

A roundish stood in the snack food aisle, shopping cart akimbo to cover the maximum passageway.

I cleared my throat.

Nothing.

Her brow was furrowed in concentration. Should she get the Deep Fried LardBits™ or the Lite Deep Fried LardBits™ (30% Fewer calories but still enough fuel to put a satellite in orbit) with the Suet dipping sauce.

“Excuse me” She flinched and turned towards the sound. I was examined and determined to be inedible. She turned back to her lardish pondering.

Excuse me, Jabba the Hut, but your shopping trolley is blocking the aisle. I’d move it myself, but it is too heavy to shift as it contains enough trans-fatty acids to satisfy the cravings of sub-Saharan Africa for a year.”

“There is no need to be rude!” She responded.

Au contraire. Kick-off was fast approaching and if I was delayed any further, I would surely miss part of the game.

I let loose with an invective laced explanation the would have shocked, SHOCKED! the Foreign Office should such wording have been leveled at foreign dignitary that was not Chirac.

The response was a serious sniff. “You are so sleeping on the couch tonight, Evil.”

“I don’t care, just move it.” I replied. “Oh, and throw in a bag of Cheese Puffs, would you, Honey?”

14 January 2006

A few notes on the Appalachian tongue.

The natives of darkest Pennsyltucky speak a curious dialect, no doubt affected by the fact that each little mining community, often separated by a few kilometers were populated by different ethnic groups that generally despised each other..

“Don’t marry a dirty, stinking Irishman!” A pole might say.

“Ghlad frokdha clanny radish!” * The Irishman would reply hotly and the fur would fly.

In the interest of preventing ethnic violence, the department of education mandated different drinking establishments for German, Polish and Irish immigrants, to be spaced every 100 feet. Eventually, when ethnic tensions declined, this massive grid of bars was merged under single management, becoming the massive boozer that we know of today as the Pennsylvania State University.

The non-cirrhotic legacy of this dynamic system is the rich language of central Pennsyltucky. For example:

In the Queens English, if one were addressing a group, one would simply say “You” and the plurality would be assumed. A vulgarian might say “You lot” or “Y’all” but being the grammar Nazi that I am, I would beat them rump-wise with a steel rod, unless they were larger than I am. Then I merely make a snide comment behind there backs and blame it on a random pedestrian should they turn around. This works quite well as long as you can fake a air if righteous indignation.

In Appalachia, when addressing a group, plurality may be expressed in two ways; through the gaping maw of a double barreled 12 gauge shotgun loaded with buckshot, or the more polite “You ‘uns” (pronounced “Yins”).

Confusingly, “Yins” is also used in the singular, probably as a result years of drinking water from lead plumbing.

Another peculiarity is that the infinitive “to be” has vanished from the vernacular, viz:

“Your truck needs worshed.”
“Your kid needs beat.”
“Your ass needs liposuctioned.”

Furthermore, an Appalachian sentence is not ended with a full stop (period), exclamation point or question mark, it is usually ended with a “buddy”.

For example: “Yins commin’ to the bar with me Buddy?”

So, there you have it. Yins could now survive if stranded in central PA. Yins might find our diet of scrapple, paunhaus pudding, chicken and waffles, ham pot pie and funnel cake a bit strange, but wash it down with a few IC lites, and yins are good to go, buddy.

Gotta go. Bladder needs emptied.


*
No, I’m not going to translate this. It’s really quite offensive to Norwegians. Feel free to use the Babelfish translator on the side-bar if you really must know.

13 January 2006

¡El Guapo!

Go here now!

He has a plethora of piñatas.

Boarder Control

Now that I have finished the front porch and have finally achieved my childhood dream of having nuclear weapons (actually they are just large fireworks left over from New Years, but I’ve painted them menacingly and plan to feature them in a May day parade with Action Man™ figures so that the CIA and MI-6 can photograph them from space), it is time to close the borders of my realm and kick out the undesirables.

“What’s the name of your new realm, Evil?” Asked wheezing Fred.

“You could call it Stanstan.” Said Stanley brightly. The bastard irritates me immensely, but he’s a wizard when it comes to mudding drywall.

“I’m not calling my new front porch ‘Stanstan’, you pillock” I replied testily. “That would translate as ‘Stan’s place’.”

“Oh, aye.” He replied, unperturbed. “And Stan’s place is wherever there is booze.”

He helped himself to more of my beer.

Bob snorted agreement from the floor, or maybe it was a snore.

“Well, back to your first point, what do you mean about undesirables? Hippies? Tax collectors? That moron with the FlowMasters on his Ford Fiesta that guns his motor as he goes up the hill?” asked Fred from the kegerator.

“You lot, you stinking bastards. You’ve drunk all my beer and it’s three in the morning. Piss off and go home.”

11 January 2006

iTunes

“Looooving me, is easy ‘cause I’m beautifu-u-ul,
Do un-do un-do ah- diooooo
<near ultrasonic shriek> AH, AH, AH, AH, AH, AH! </near ultrasonic shriek>”


Off key, of course, and rather loud.

Irish Bob has an ear for music like Godzilla has an eye for Japanese architecture.*

But that was not why he was butchering the Captain and Tennille (an appealing thought, come to think of it). We were serenading the Human Resources director.

You see, it all started Monday, when we were summoned into the CEO’s office.

He was twitching.

“Gentlemen” He says. “We have important visitors for the next few days. Visitors that may buy us. Since you two will be interacting with them a good deal, I need you to be on your best behavior.”

I gave him a look of confused innocence. After all, we always behave in a sober and professional manner. The boss deflated some more.

“Guys, please! No exploding toilets; no electrified chairs. Get rid of the liquor bottles and Evil...”

Yeees?” I wasn’t sure if I was going to like this bit.

“Take your inflatable sheep home.”

“Listen” He added quickly before I could protest. “If they buy us, you’ll at least have jobs. Sure, your salaries will be frozen at their current levels for the first year, but, blah, blah blah blah blah…”

Frozen salaries? But we both had plans for more money. I swear that Bob and I had the same thought: Get to the HR director’s records. We caught each other’s eyes and nodded.

We think alike to the point that sometimes I believe he is my long lost twin.

A long lost retarded twin, to be sure; but a psychic link none-the-less.

So, we showed up the next day in our suits, immaculately groomed. Bob took the first turn with our visitors; I carried a stack of papers past the HR office.

”The dream police they’re coming to duress me, oh no!” I sang. I could see the HR director cringe. He hates it when people get lyrics wrong; in fact he’s been banned from many a karaoke lounge.

Soon it was my turn with our guests. I took them through manufacturing whilst Bob belted out “When I think about you I touch an elf”. We tag-teamed HR all day.

About quitting time, he was livid. He cornered us.

“Dammit: ‘Loving you is easy ‘cause you're beautiful’, ‘When I think about you I touch myself’ and ‘The dream police are coming to arrest me’!” He sputtered, then spun on his heel and stormed away.

“What the Hell was that all about?” Asked our VIP.

“Oh, that’s our HR director. A bit high strung, but we admire his brave, yet futile struggle against the ravages of schizophrenia and substance abuse.” I replied in a sad tone.

“He’s also the Boss’ nephew!” Added Bob helpfully.

Or visitor just shook his head. “We can’t have a mad man running about. He could be violent.”

“Well, he did blow up a commode once…”

The VIP turned to me. “Evil, you’re the Director of Engineering. You know all the staff. Could you take over Human Resources until we get a new director?”

“Hmmm. It’s a lot of extra work, but for the good of the company … Sure.”


UPDATE! "You never close your eyes, anymore when you kiss my hips"

*Thank you, whomever I stole this simile from.

10 January 2006

Closing in on a milestone.

Well, who’d a thunk it? I’m within spitting distance of having 10,000 unique hits.

No, I’m not talking about LSD, although sometimes this blog may look like it.

I am, in fact, referring to unique blog hits. Multiple page loads from a single computer don’t count, unless they are spaced 30 minutes from the previous viewing.

Now, this is small potatoes for the big fish who can afford ad agencies, real coffee and talented writers, but for a small blog like this; well, let’s just say that I’m proudly looking forward to it.

Especially, since this milestone (spanking Pamela Anderson) was achieved (hot red headed women) without any (Keeley from Bromley) underhanded (mango chutney flavoured sex jelly) and sleazy (lockable ostrich feather tickle-thong) Google search engine manipulation.

(Inflatable sheep).

Of course, this does raise the question, what the heck are you all doing at work? You can’t all have incriminating photos of your employers like I do (boss porn)….

UPDATE ! (女の子の行為の熱い女の子)

09 January 2006

No, No, NO! A Thousand times NO!

Who in blue blazes would buy this for their children? I mean, what sort of message does this give to kids; it’s okay to reach into a clown’s drawers?

And where are his hands?

"Hi Kiddies" He seems to be saying. "I'm making a balloon animal for you. It's a snake!"


This. Is. Wrong.
(Thanks for the pic, Emily M.)

Scientific Progress Rolls On!

I have come to terms with the fact that I am unlikely to ever win a Nobel Prize. I’m simply not the type of scientist that makes a single profound discovery; rather one that makes a series of lesser findings for the benefit of mankind. Unfortunately, the Nobel committee doesn’t have a "most prolific", or "He has pictures of us, erm enjoying the company of animals" category.

Too bad, really. I could use the money to pay off my bail bondsman.

So I’ve decided to write about my latest work to give them a wee prod. Not Earth shaking, mind, but all clearly boons to humankind. Here’s a list of last week’s discoveries.

1) If you wish to maintain the monochromatic character of your rump, never turn your back on a child with an electric paint sprayer (the paint will go right through jeans and inject itself into the skin. The effect is permanent, and … startling.)


2) Alcohol and power tools don’t mix. Sorry, Brad. After the pain goes away, you’ll be able to appreciate the ironic fact that the tool is known as a “Brad Nailer”. In the mean time, drive a car with an automatic transmission, and restrict your onanistic activities to the hand without the protruding steel spike.

3) When the policeman asks you “Do you know why I pulled you over?” Do not answer “Because I’m cute and you’re lonely?”

4) The boss probably doesn't want to hear your rendition of "When I think about you I touch myself" when he is showing the facilities to potential buyers.

5) Diving onto the bed whilst bellowing “WONDER QUIM POWERS ACTIVATE!" is not considered foreplay by most women.

6) Muttering “Form of a bitch!” in a surly tone after being evicted to the couch for said faux-pas, is a really bad idea.


Well, there you have it. Pure genius the lot, that really ought to be rewarded with a fancy meal, gold medal and hefty cash award. Call your members of Parliament, Congress critters, Politburo members, Slathering Despot or what have you, and rail against this injustice!

Oh, yes. Does anyone have a spare room to let? It gets damnably cold sleeping out here on the porch.
.

06 January 2006

Book him, Danno.

I didn’t think too much of it at first, after all, I get hits from all sorts of eeeevil places; Mary-Kaye Cosmetics, Halliburton and yes, sometimes even from the dizzying pinnacle of Evil itself, Norway.*

So I really didn’t think much about it when I started getting hits from Random House in Manhattan. Just another bloke on work-avoidance mode, thinks I, on the few moments when I was sober enough.

Then I got an e-mail.

”I’ve been reading your site with some interest recently, and am prepared to offer a book deal…” It says.

Pull the other one, mate. It has bells on.


But it is from Random House Publishing. I must admit I was intrigued and wrote back:

“Well, what are we talking about here, money wise?”

It’s okay to be this blunt with publishers. They’re used to dealing with writers and English Lit majors; rich money grubbers to the last woman and man, else they would not be in the business.

"It will be somewhere between fifteen and twenty a month…" He replied.

Hmmm, I’d be a house contract writer! I could do this, you know. I’d make enough lolly to be able to afford a much larger extinct volcano for the back yard and then Bond shall be well and truly screwed. Bwahahahahahahaha!

“All right, I’m in!” I wrote. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. What exactly is the deal?”

“Great!” He says. “You get four books free, and then we send you one a month. You only have to buy one more in the next year.”




Oh, yuk it up, laughing boy. Next time I’m in Manhattan, I’m going to piss in your beer.



*Norway is not in fact evil per se, but it is infested with Lemmings. Dear God, how I fear them. If you lot were smart, you would too.

04 January 2006

When sheep fly.

Lindy writes vis-à-vis my inflatable companion comment:
” At least it wasn't an inflatable sheep... we hope...

We gave a "buddy" one of those once...”

I had an inflatable, erm, doll, once. It was bought as a lark. We dressed as a Penn-State cheerleader and filled it with helium, trying to use it to mark the location of our tailgate party. Alas, the clothes, skimpy as they were, made it too heavy to float. So we disrobed her.

Shortly thereafter, campus security stopped by and confiscated it. Parents were complaining, they explained. Nonsense! They just wanted a date.

I'd like an inflatable sheep, Lindy. I'd send it aloft to mark the location of future tailgate parties, painted with the opposing team’s colours.

"Where are you?" people would ask from their mobiles.

"Under the sign of the shaggable sheep." I'd answer. And they'd know right where to go; I can pretty much quaranty that it'd be the only one. Not many tailgaters can rival me when it comes to class.

And there would be nothing parents could say about it, without opening up a huge can of worms.

Don’t think it would deter campus security, though; the pervs.




UPDATE!

“I don't see any problem, as long as you don't get an ugly one.” Writes VaporizeBarney.

Funny he should mention that, as it reminds me of a local legend.

Towards the end of the 18th century, this region was settled by an iron smelter who set up three villages, centered about his furnaces. He named these after his daughters, Martha’s Furnace, Port Matilda (no water in Port Matilda; the fellow was a bit barmy) and Tyrone.

They had problems marrying Tyrone off; in fact she never did tie the knot, but eventually she found her way in life; becoming a popular professional wrestler and an early advocate for comfortable shoes for women.

Well, the iron master’s daughters were the only ladies in these wild parts, so the workers had to resort to bringing in sheep.

All except for one lad, with a pure heart, noble bearing and classic chiseled features that vowed to win over Tyrone. A bit dim, he was; somehow passing his genes down to the locals of this generation.

Well, our lad struggled on for a couple of years, before finally admitting defeat. So he gritted his teeth, went to the paddock behind the tavern and chose the prettiest sheep he could.

He bathed and brushed her, put a blue ribbon in ther wool, sprayed her with lilac water, and took her into the Tavern to meet up with his friends and their “dates”.

Legend has it that a shocked hush fell over the room when he entered and our lad lost it.

“You’re a bunch of hypocrites!” he shouted “You all have been shagging sheep for years!”

Finally, a stunned voice answered:


“Yeah, but you’re with the Sheriff’s gal!”

Pennies From Heaven.

This one comes from Jim Manydaughters. A few days before Christmas, festive preparations were well underway at the Manydaughters’ household when a strange hacking cough charged their parental instincts like nettles under a Scotsman’s kilt.

Now there are many reasons for little kids to cough; illness, smoking, elder siblings chocking the living crap out of them, and the attempted swallowing of objects that ought not to be swallowed.

This was the later.

Well, the moppet was breathing; if a bit tearfully, and when questioned about what it was she swallowed, replied “money”.

Jim recalled seeing a penny on the floor. It was no longer to be found.

So off to the Docs for x-rays and the like. The verdict? Check the poo for a couple of weeks. If no penny in fourteen days, they’d have to operate.

Jim ended up with the inspection job. It involved zip-lock baggies, rubber gloves and a cigar to mask the aroma. “What does this child eat?” he would wonder aloud “Surely her diet is heavy in sauerkraut, limburger and eggs. Rotten eggs.”

After Christmas, I asked him whether that penny had dropped.

“Yes,” he answered “First poo of the New Year!”

Happy New Year, Jim.





And take that penny out of your mouth, kid. For all you know, it could have been up someone’s …

03 January 2006

The coffee here stinks.

It's awful. The Finns, of all people, have the best coffee on the planet, throwing in adjuncts such as eggshells and vodka. T's wonnerfulll!

Good coffee, explosives, and Sweden, have kept them safe from marauding Norwegian lemmings.

But that's bloody cold comfort here in the land of Folger's dishwater.

So I drink tea. And not just any tea, genuine British tea; Ahmad tea.


Don't laugh at the name, they came over with William I. Genuine English Frogs, that family.

















What could be more British than this? Just look at the picture; the Red-Coats are playing cricket, or, conkers, or whooping Napoleon's crack quiche corps whilst hoop skirted British ladies look on.

I've even got a fine tea mug to drink it out of!
















Look what I got after my last confinement!

They gave it to me after my release as a "You're cleared! Sorry about the cavity searches!" present.


Not sure what brought this all on. I think it might be all those martinins.

Three martinin lucnch

Just got back from a three martini linch and a brief stint explaining myself to the police.

I'd left the bog and noticed that the restaurant's breaker box was on the opposite wall and open.

Flippy,
flippy,
flippy,
flippy,
flippy.

Well, what the hell would you have done?

Love is Blind, but Lust Uses Bat-Like Sonar.

And warming massage lube. You see, last night, we… no, I’d best not got there. At this moment, my European readers are having lunch and the mental image of two sweaty, bulbous Americans, slathered in butter flavoured Crisco™ grunting and grappling on a twister board, lit only by the moon and a disco ball, would surely put them off.

Especially if they heard the thumping soundtrack of cheesy disco music that was playing whilst we were getting our groove on; so I shan’t bring it up.

You’re welcome.

So instead, I shall be discussing mucous.


Crimeny, I’m a snot factory today, producing a veritable plethora of green and yellow booger ropes. I’d call off work, except that as sick as I am, I desperately need the rest.

Plus, I get to spread the plague to my hateful coworkers.

02 January 2006

Glue's clues.

About five this morning, mounting internal pressure let me rip out one of those early morning, fifteen second, melodious farts that we men are so fond of. I chose the opening bars of John Philip Sousa’s Black Horse March, as it lends a certain grandeur to woodwinds and brass.

Yes, I am talented. But I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing such a thing in bed; and I certainly wouldn’t have dared to fluff the covers and hold them above spousal head-level. I’d as soon give a puma a Tabasco enema whilst wearing a mackerel cod-piece. I’d be more likely to retain use of my genetalia.

No, I was on the couch, and could be as foul and manly as I wished. And I wished to rattle the windows and scare away the cats that had taken to using me as a heat source, while giving them a taste of what their foul cat-box smells like.

“You want some of this?” I said gleefully, pinning them under the blanket. “There’s plenty more where that came from!”

Actually, they were unimpressed. They stretched and fell back asleep as close to my rump as they could get.

Never let anyone tell you that cats are too effete to be proper companions for gentlemen. Disgusting little creatures they are, making a perfect match.

In any event, my couch exile was self-imposed. Last evening, I had been laying linoleum on the new porch. I managed to get the glue in places that I thought glue could not possibly get; to whit: In my beard, on my fore-arms and in unmentionable dark personal places. Suffice it to say that all of these locations are well endowed with hair.

Mineral spirits did nothing to dissolve the sticky mass, nor did acetone or diethyl ether. I even went as far as trying the mysterious, corrosive powers of cheap tequila (con gusano!) to no avail.

It was then announced (gleefully, I might add) that I was not coming to bed all gummy and sticky, and the fur stripping began. In a past life, She must have worked for Torquemada.

Well, what would you have done? I fled to the couch to find surcease of pain and gain proximity to the keggerator. Normally I wouldn’t drink beer so late in the evening as it makes me gassy, but since I was already a refugee...

Hmmm. I might just have to start doing more home improvement projects. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty...


And that's the way I likes it.