................................................I was once known as Aquarians Love To Fuck (ALT-F). I am now Vagina Dentata (VD)................................................


Friday

LSD eh?





Please to note that all of the dancers in this video are at
least 65 years old now - assuming they are still alive.
The singer isn't, he croaked January 25, 2015.





One of these things is not like the other.......









Monday

Splice The Mainbrace



IN
MEMORY OF
"SIMON"
SERVED IN
H.M.S. AMETHYST
MAY 1948 — NOVEMBER 1949
AWARDED DICKIN MEDAL
AUGUST 1949
DIED 28TH NOVEMBER 1949.
THROUGHOUT THE YANGTZE INCIDENT
HIS BEHAVIOUR WAS OF THE HIGHEST ORDER


Oh, and Mend and make clothes too!

Thursday

......................for old men

Recently, The Tutor has taken to donning my ever-so stylish Anton Chigurh Page-Boy wig and wandering about the neighbourhood brandishing his shiny, new Husqvarna Captive Bolt device.
I should be concerned, but curiously, I am not.

Friday

For Whom The Bell Tolls

Me: "For whom does the bell toll, Bilious?"


The Tutor: "I told you not to ask after that, are ya thick or sommat? You ain't gonna like the answer."


Me: "I'm sure of it, but nevertheless, I must know."


The Tutor: "Fair enough then, yins bin warned. It's not, 'For whom the bell tolls' as most folks think, but actually, 'In whom the bell tolls' - and it's often more than one bell tolling too! It has long been advised that one should 'ask not in whom the bell tolls.' Why, you should ask? It is because, as it is in our case, the bells toll in thee little missy! Think back to when we first met - remember those halcyon days? Those bells had meaning to toll in thee then. And toll they did; deep in your Asian libido. Not in the slow, maudlin peal of a liturgical dirge either, oh no my poppet, but in a wonderfully mad Quasimodo frenzy of flailing phallo-claxons in yielding vulvic-domes."


Me: "Well. maybe, but 'Glory in the flower', 'Splendour in the grass' - you know, that sort of thing - those carillonneurs have been slipping on those ropes of late and the only thing Quasimodo about us these days is the hunched-over countenance you're beginning to express in that not-very-gracefully blooming dotage of yours."


The Tutor: "I told you you wouldn't like the answer. And query: 'blooming dotage'? That's an oxymoron, Innit?"


Me: "In your case, yes, but I was intending ironic sarcasm. It's 'blomin' nonage' in my case"


The Tutor: "Fuck off it is."

Fifty Shades Of Gay

Well Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo(1) me from behind with fifty shades of solemn, po-faced mommy pr0n(1), the old woman - 40ish - beside me at the other computer here in the local Public Library is downloading erotically rife eBooks!

I's back for a few hours today.



(1)  There appears to be a Wordfilter at play in this Library computer system.  There is a Profanity Filter - duh.  But, as you will soon see, no much-needed Lameness Filter.

GAY, gay, GAY:  GAY;  GAYERLY GAYNESS IS GREATLY gay with GAYOSITY and gayishly gay GAYISHNESS.

NYUCK the FYooCH-NYUCK

Smart Enough!

The Tutor:  "Why are you telling me this now?
You knew I wanted to be informed the very minute that happened."

Me:  "No I did not.  I was unaware you were monitoring that situation.  I was not born with this information.  You need to tell me things."

The Tutor:  "Blah....blah....blah....you're smart enough to know...blah....blah....blah....!!!!"

Me:  "Smart enough to know?  Indeed I am."

The Tutor:  "I hate you!"

Caesar and CERN

What is all this shite about Higgs Bosons and God Particles and assorted particulate crap coming out of that Large Hadrian Collider they have at CERN.
I just don't get it; large collider?  I've seen many statues of the deified Antinoös and in nary a one is the future inspiration for Michaelangelo's David represented as having been even remotely well endowed in the collider department.
I just don't get it.


WTF?

Gibberish. Right?
Wrong!

If you know what CERN is

and
If you know what the LHC is
and
If you know who Hadrian is
and
If you know who Antinoös is
and
If you know what a double entendre is
and
If you know what a near-homophonic pun is.....


This post will be understood.  Perhaps even considered clever, but admittedly, probably not perceived as actually funny.  Nevertheless, if by publishing it I was able to bring just a little mirth into someone's day, and as a result, one fewer puppy was kicked, I will have succeeded.


Eloise and Abelard
Juliet and Romeo
Delilah and Samson
Lakshmi and Vishnu
Banu and Jahan
Bennet and Darcy

Great lovers of times past.  Why is it that we never see Hadrian and Antinoös or Gertrude and Alice in these lists?  Speaking of the 'rose is a rose is a rose' lady, people bitch about the fact that the epitaph of Alice B. Toklas is inscribed on the back of Gertrude Stein's memorial plinth.  They maintain it is derisive and demeaning.  I don't think it is at all.

It's rather apropos, actually.  Alice is behind Gertrude in death for eternity - just as she was in life.  In life, of course, she brandished a strap-on when in that posterior position.  So why not in death?  Then again, who knows what delicious evil lurks under the carefully manicured lawns of Père Lachaise Cemetery?
Innit?

Wednesday

Fucking With Rude People

Just the other day, I was gleefully bantering with a wonderful person in the Handy Comments Facility of the Blog of another equally wonderful person.

Me:  "You, sir, are a dullard.  I know it.  And you know it.
And no mistake"

His response:  "Eat shit, VD!"

How rude!  Goodness gracious, does this person eat with that same mouth?  I was flabbergasted.  Truly dumbfounded and gobsmacked.  What was I to do?
When the initial shock abated, I knew I had to consider my eventual response.  How, on earth, was I to respond to such a wonderfully intelligent and decidedly laconic riposte like that?
Am I expected to understand the command, "Eat shit" as if only an idiom?  Much like "Go to hell you Thalidomide stump sucker"?  A euphemism?  A cacophemism even?  By 'idiom', I think I mean, I am not actually supposed to follow the suggestion literally or figuratively, but to infer from the phrase that I have somehow evoked this man's displeasure?
Should I back off as well as cease and desist any further pixellational activity directed his way?
No response expected or required?

If I do reply, do I just quip:  "No!"?
Should I retort with a similarly vicious grade-school bon mot like, I don't know, maybe,  "Oh yeah?  Well my dad can beat up your dad!"?  Or perhaps, "Whatevs"?
Or conceivably I could quote a phrase from a response by a famous Literary Critic when he was informed that the British public had adjudged J.R.R.Tolkien's, Lord of the Rings as the greatest work of English literature in the 20th Century,
"Dear oh dear.  Dear oh dear oh dear.  It just goes to show the folly of teaching people how to read and write."

Perhaps I am expected to infer specificity and take this man at his word and proceed to eat shit?
I think this is what he meant.
I responded......

"Eat shit?  How did you know I was a coprophile?  That's uncanny, it is.  I'd be more than glad to abide your command.
Query?
May I inquire after how this "shit" I am requested to consume would score on the Bristol Stool Chart?  I mean, if it can be classified as a Type 5, 6 or 7, I'll have no problem, but if it clocks in at a Type 1 or 2, I wonder if I could possibly have a beverage in accompaniment?  I'd be grateful."


UPDATE

It seems a Jane Austen-esque riposte is best,

Stern........
"Damn you!  Damn you and damn everyone who won't put a candle in the window and stay up all night damning you!"

Sterner still......
"Fuck you!  Fuck you and fuck everyone who won't put a candle in their window and stay up all night fucking you!"

Oh wait, that's not right.
Never mind, you know what I mean.

Ouch

Regarding your sign:  "Eat The Rich"

Eat The Rich?
Are you mad?
Eating the rich is hardly a healthy food choice.  Not only are they empty Calories, toxic in even moderate portions, but there is absolutely no fibre content! - you'll be 'tossing a caber' the density of a neutron star after partaking of something as apparently innocuous as, say, Trump tartar or Hilton skin taco.  Think of your sphincter!
Besides, you are what you eat, right?

As to the anti-circumcision folks, my friend/mentor/English tutor/but, alas, not yet lover opines:
"I can't remember the pain of mine, but I do know that I couldn't walk or talk for almost a year afterward."

Pre-K children chanting: “STOP!  BEING!  GREEDY!” ?!?!.  Oh dear the irony here is positively ferrous, if not ferric in scale!
Pre-K children of my acquaintance are all: "I want what I want when I want it"  Or as my Engerland friends would say: "Pot?  Kettle?"


Sho-sho-la-TAY

The Management Telephone call:

Ring......Ring......Ring......

Me:  "So-and-so's So and So Shoppe.  May I help you?"

The Management: "Who am I speaking to?"

Me: "Pardon?  I don't understand."

The Management:  "What is your name?"

Me:  "Oh, I understand now, you meant, 'To whom am I speaking?'  Right?  I keep forgetting how badly you Canadians butcher The Queen's.  It is as if you're speaking Greek to me sometimes.  I have to translate in my head.  Chocolate, my name is Chocolate(1)."

The conversation went down hill from there.



(1) Chocolate.  Pronounced, 'Sho-sho-la-TAY'.

Rich Bitch's Reality

The Tutor: "Why do you continue to work? We've more than enough now. What is it that drives you to continue in vile gainful yeomanry? Who are you now? Sometimes I feel I do not know you at all."


Me: "Ultimately, I am nowt but a north Mandalay Burmese who has read a bit of history and biology. That means I know this: having been born seventy-nine percent of the way through the century that witnessed the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian, Ottoman, British and Soviet empires, reversal of fortune, and now wrinkles, are this rich bitch's reality. One might as well keep working and have one's Vuittons packed and at the ready."



The Tutor: "Resorting to your faux self-confessional tone? That is very unlike you. Regarding your confession, I pray it does not prove too prophetic, 'cause, like, you know, we's only gots YSL dunnage."

Monday

Shock Value

You say my posts are designed for ‘shock value’, that I seek ‘attention’ and I ‘lack decorum’. AND you claim I’ve a ‘lack of command’ of the English language.
Shock value? Yes.
Attention? Yes.
You are indeed also correct about my lack of decorum. I am a sordid, seedy and untoward Asian girl - I've no control of it!

Lack of command of the Queen's English?
Oh dear.


I do not, however, seek to haphazardly ejaculate raillery, Onan like, with the intent of maximising the number of minds my wit might bespatter. Instead I wish but to slake the thirst of, and provide a grin or alternatively a girn or two for, the truly intellectually parched. My bon mots will forever remain opaque to those weak and untrained minds indentured as they are to uncompromising dullardry.

The Tutor's Success

The Tutor tells me that to truly understand one's life one must dedicate it to the serious study of Science, History, Philosophy and Economics.  And as much of the Arts as you can possibly tolerate.
That's it!
To accumulate the vast fortune one will need to allow one's self to devote the amount of time required to accomplish this simple prescription, one need only study the lives of three individuals.
For it is in these three lives will be found the sage truisms and advice one will find necessary.


Paul Joseph Goebbels (1897 – 1945)
To learn how to manipulate the deeply stupid masses.
Phineas Taylor Barnum (1810 – 1891)
To learn how to manipulate the deeply stupid individual.
Adam Smith (1723 – 1790)
To learn how to separate the stupids from their money.

Moral Turpitude

The White-Slave Traffic Act, better known as the Mann Act, is a United States federal law, passed June 25, 1910. In its original form, to engage in interstate or foreign commerce transport of "any woman or girl for the purpose of prostitution or debauchery, or for any other immoral purpose" was made a felony. It was amended by Congress in 1978 and again in 1986 to apply to transport for the purpose of prostitution or illegal sexual acts.

The English poet George Barker was charged with offences under the Mann Act for crossing a state border with his lover Elizabeth Smart.


The American Brian David Mitchell was convicted of offences under the Mann Act for crossing a state border with his lover Elizabeth Smart.


Sheesh, Elizabeth Smart sure gets transported for immoral purposes a lot.  For those of my readers who might sport the surname Smart, don't be stupid by naming your girl-child Elizabeth.


The Tutor is constantly in violation of the Mann Act as he unlawfully transports me from my normal irresistible state of grace to a noisome state of morally debauched turpitude.  And I must find my own way back to beatification - the filthy brute.

And when I seek legal remedy, the Courts invoke,
In pari delicto, followed quickly by, Nemo auditur propriam turpitudinem allegans - in pari causa turpitudinis cessat repetitio.
What's a missela landica to do?

Friday

La - the fuck - La Land?

So, the folks would have us believe that that new motion picture from Hollywood: "La La Land" is one fancy, must-see new Musical.
Ha!
Where the fuck is Kelly and Old Blue Eyes?

Innit?
Or better yet!
Ha! (1)
Take that Gosling and Stone!




(1)  Yes, I know it was Marni Nixon - another star we all lost in 2016.



The Tutor:  VD, I'm in love with you.

Vagina Golightly:  So what?

The Tutor:  So what? So plenty! I love you. You belong to me.

Vagina Golightly:  No. People don't belong to people.

The Tutor:  Of course they do.

Vagina Golightly:  I'm not going to let anyone put me in a cage.

The Tutor:  I don't want to put you in a cage. I want to love you.

Vagina Golightly:  It's the same thing.

The Tutor:  No it's not. VD....

Vagina Golightly:  I'm not VD. I'm not Lula Mae, either. I don't know who I am! I'm like cat here, a couple of no-name slobs. We belong to nobody and nobody belongs to us. We don't even belong to each other.

The Tutor:  Who the fuck is Lula Mae?

Wednesday

Oh dear!

Me:  "When I walk through the door, every man in that room knows he's gotta have me.  And no mistake.  Innit?"

The Tutor:  "See the glazed eyes.  Touch the dead skin.  Feel the cold lips and know the word of the hip death goddess.  Innit?"

Tuesday