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


Have You Not Seen A Naked Lady Before?

For the constant stream of folks from the EU looking for this ever so popular image:

Scroll-le-vous down SVP.

Scroll-en-zee down bitte.


What Global Warming?

Right-Click on the image and open in a new window.  The horror will be easier to read then.

For those who are not aware of the "Wind Chill" construct, it is a calculated value derived from the absolute temperature and the wind speed.  The algorithm implies that if the thermometer reads -21 C and there is a 40 kmh wind, it will 'feel' like it is -44 C.
Pray for me.


Where The Fuck Is Ireland?

The Customer:  "I'm here to pick up a Table Arrangement for "X"."

Me:  "Give me a second.  I'll find your order form.

The Customer:  "It could be under "Y" or perhaps "Z"."

Me:  "I can't find any of those names.  Were you the person who ordered it?

Or are you just picking it up?"

The Customer:  "Picking it up.  My grand-mother from British Columbia ordered it a few days ago."

Me:  "Are you sure she ordered it from us?  There are two other Florists in town, could she have ordered it from one of them?"

The Customer:  "I don't think so.  We always use your shop.  I got my wedding flowers here, last year."

Me:  "Can you call your grand-mother and find out if she ordered it here?  We have no record of it and it is unlikely we would have lost it.  We're pretty good at not doing that sort of thing."

The Customer calls her mother - not her grand-mother.

The Customer:  "You were right.  My grand-mother ordered it from "So-and-So Florists"."

Me:  "Well I feel better.  I would hate to think we could lose an order like that."

The Tutor remembers her and her wedding flowers.
She was one of a pair of recent high school grads, on their way to university, who suggested The Tutor should 'go on Jeopardy' because he knew that Ireland was an island - this was unknown to them.  And her wedding colours/flowers were just as stupid.  Humans depress me, a lot.


I just completed a very 'quick and dirty' poll with 27 customers over the last two hours.  All adults with at least high school matriculation.

The first question:  "Did you know that Ireland is an island?"

19 said "No".
8 said "Yes".

The second question:  "Can you point to Ireland on this map?"

18  refused or incorrectly located Ireland.  One chose an area in India.
5  were very close - circling the UK and Nordic countries.
4  correctly identified Ireland's location.

The third question:  "Did you know there are actually two Irelands?"

25 said "No".
2 said "Yes" and named them.


Casus Belli

The Tutor:  "You look a tad under the weather.  What's wrong?"

The Skank:  "There is something terribly wrong with me that has never been fully diagnosed. It flares up sometimes."

The Tutor:  "Research Hereditary Angioedema."

The Skank:  "Eek.  My feet swelled up horribly on a trans-Atlantic flight once.  And they had to give me an oxygen tank.(1)  That can be from anemia, though.  Which I have.  Explain my childhood spontaneous and violent nosebleeds and I'll be impressed.  And that weird thing that used to happen in Thailand when my fingers and feet would get all tingly and seize up and then I'd pass out."

The Tutor:  "Like Hereditary Angioedema, those symptoms you are describing are also typical of an autoimmune disorder.  Your body is at war with itself!"

The Skank:  "Can you blame it?"

The Tutor:  "No."

Me:  "Ha!  Where do I enlist?"

In the interests of veracity I feel I must mention that at this point in the overheard conversation The Tutor interrupted with, "They gave you an Oxygen tank?  You mean like across the back of your head to shut you up because your wining was upsetting the rest of the passengers?  Or perhaps for you to use to beat your own feet, which I doubt would have helped, but would have been amusing to watch.  What Airline was this?"  I left it out of the transcript because it was stupid.


L'Origine du monde

It seems half of France is using the French edition of Google Image Search to discover the various locations on the Internet of the image of performance artist Deborah de Robertis 'performing' while sitting under Gustave Courbet's, L'Origine du monde (Origin of the World) (1866) hanging in the Musée d'Orsay, Paris.  The French Google Image Search dumps the frogs off at my latest post and the cheese-eating surrender monkeys are either too thick, or too lazy, to scroll down through my blog to discover the post that contains the photograph for which they are searching - my 'Queer as Cunt' post, HERE.

See HERE for the artnet news story of June 5, 2014
Please to notice how the Yankee editors of artnet news censor the photograph, but not the painting.  Oh those Yanks, Puritan prudes toting guns! 

See HERE for why people are searching for the image now in February, 2016.

Then there are the large number of folks from Ukraine and South Korea being directed to my site by their particular Search Engines after querying the words, 'Woman Cunt'.


It seems the Krauts are doing it too!
Notice how the Google Image Search page is structured differently depending on whether you are German or French.  Go figure.  Innit?


Mens sibi conscia pudendus

Me:  "You have drawn and sketched me near on a thousand times, Bilious.
With this monomania you have finally succeeded in giving me the 'unworldly simplicity and purity of aspect' I most assuredly deserve.  Are we happy?"

The Tutor:  "Anything for you, Guggums!"


Confiteor VD Omnipotenti

The Tutor:  “VD, darling, how do you see me?  I mean, how would you describe me to another?

Me:  "You are an unholy cross, nay Satanic conflation, of Stephen Dedalus, Holden Caulfield and Scout Finch.  You have borrowed much from each in a vainglorious attempt to somewhat coalesce and buttress your artistic and brutally heterosexual credo."

The Tutor:  "Scout Finch?  Ha!  How mocking of you!  Boo Radley (1) more like!  Besides, I fancy myself a quirky conflation of the alliterative Howard Hughes and Humbert Humbert: with a dollop or two of Waugh's Sebastian Flyte and Trollope's Felix Carbury for good measure."

Me:  "At times I see you going to great pains to clumsily emulate the rakish mannerisms of Waugh's Sebastian Flyte.  And at other times, you seem to favour the nastier undertones of Trollope's Felix Carbury.  Do you actually believe these hopeless contrivances could possibly affect my affections, or more importantly, my affectations of and/or for you?  At least you do not insult me with disingenuous thespian portrayals of the milquetoasts to be found in Austen or Brontë.  For this I am grateful.  Let's be frank, however, Bilious, if anyone 'round here is mad, bad and dangerous to know, it's me.  Innit?"

The Tutor:  "Damn you VD, and the horse in on which you rode."

Me:  "Nonsense!  I am the rainbow in the storms of life.  The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray.
You worship the ground upon which I tread."

The Tutor:  "That, indeed, I most assuredly do little missy, however, it is not that I worship the ground upon which you tread less, but that I worship the ground upon which you do not tread more."

Me:  "I hate you!"

The Tutor:  "I know."

(1)  On account of we both love the smell of Napalm in the morning.  How's that for an obscure juxtaposition of film references?


Lasciva est nobis pagina, vita proba

I do not love thee Mr. Spock
The reason why I do not grok
But this I know on wood to knock
I do not love thee Mr. Spock 

With the indulgence of: Star Trek, Heinlein and Martial

Sordid In A Rakish Way

I will now regale you with tales of such cosmopolitan loucheness, such mindless consumption, that you will be without doubt that I am horribly clever.

Treatise On Drinking
My preferred tipple is a White Russian which I consume with relish through a transparent straw.  A White Russian is a woefully cheerful concoction of Vodka, Kahlua - or Tia Maria if you have access to the sideboard of an elderly relative.  They will have bought a bottle in 1971, and it will be there and potable still - and cream – or milk if you've got ‘Bad’ cholesterol issues.  Ice, if you like.
I drink it because I believe it to be very nutritious, and it saves time - you know, sitting down, eating, experiencing the horrors of digestion, that sorta thing.
The transparent straw is by my own special arrangement; some men find it mesmerizing.

Beauty is all very well and good, but one becomes rather bored after it's been in the house for three days.  Innit?


The VD's Yes.

The Tutor:  "Fancy a leg-over?"

Me:  "Well, darling, 'Yes', I answered you last night;  'No', this morning, sir, I say.  Colours seen by candle-light  Will not look the same by day."

The Tutor:  "What?  Are you serious?  Of all people, her?"

Me:  "Yes, though I fear Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech, go on."

The Tutor:  "Rank tongue?  Ha!  Let me count the ways you'll pay dearly for that one, little Missy.  And you're channeling both of them now too?  Fine then.  You know quite well I've no colours about which one might speak that could be seen by anyone by any kind of light;  For frequent tears have run  The colours from my life.  So weeping, how a mystic shape did move Behind you, and drew you backward by the hair  And a voice said in mastery while you strove....  'Guess now who holds thee?'"

Me:  "Not Love, but Death.  Unhand me sir."

The Tutor:  "Escape me?  Never -  Beloved!"

Later, at the Deposition........

Me:  "Your Honour, First time he kissed me, he but only kissed  The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;  And, ever since, it grew more clean and white.  Now, granted, I have come to terms with the heartbreaking knowledge that a subsequent culturing in a Petri dish has proved that my fingers were not in fact 'growing more clean' at all - to the contrary, actually - but the 'growing more white' bit, well, that has proved to be horribly accurate and hence quite disconcerting, you know, with me being Asian and all."

Fifty shades of Grey?  Ha!  Fifty Shades of Brown(ing) more like!

Nevertheless, profuse apologies to the Brownings for what we've done to them here.

Death's Sharp Sting

The Tutor:  "Sweet rose, fair flower,
Untimely pluck’d, soon vaded,
Pluck’d in the bud, and vaded in the spring!
Bright orient pearl, alack! too timely shaded;
Fair creature, kill’d too soon by death’s sharp sting!
Like a green plum that hangs upon a tree,
And falls, through wind, before the fall should be."

Me:  "If you think passionate poetry will loosen my resolve, you are mistaken.

Especially that one, it's a lament for having been left nothing but 'discontent' in the distribution of assets in the Will of this poor 'untimely pluck'd' flower.  
Are you for real?
The Passionate Pilgrim, XII is far better than X!

Youth is full of sport,
Age's breath is short;
Youth is nimble, Age is lame;
Youth is hot and bold,
Age is weak and cold;
Youth is wild, and Age is tame.
Age, I do abhor thee;
Youth, I do adore thee;"

The Tutor:  "It had the phrase, 'orient pearl' in it.  
I thought it might work for something.  In a short time you, yourself, shall be 'Untimely fuck'd, soon jaded'.

And no mistake.  AND you can also expect nowt but 'discontent' from the devolution and disposition of my assets when I cark it, especially after that poetic insult little missy."

Me:  "Crabbed age and youth cannot live together indeed."

Death Be Not Proud

Phonetic Spelling: k'a-yi U SAK NICH IK'-li

Transcription into Yucatec: k'ay u sak nich ik'il
Transcription into Cholan: ch'ay u sak nich ich'il
Thompson Numbers: (T76:575 1:179.1082:82v)

Translation (1): "Her/His white flowery breath 'got' diminished."
Translation (2): "It terminates, his/her resplendent soul."

For the phonetic spelling: Syllabograms are in lower case. Logograms in upper case.

Is this language not beautiful, both in it's script and it's euphemisms?
Tomorrow, we will discuss "birth" glyphs - "She/He has touched the Earth" - and the wonderfully demonstrative glyph for a "pulque enema"


Hampshire Sun or Yorkshire Gloom?

Jane Austen: fortitude, witty repartee, white muslin gowns, walks in the country, comic situations, amiable suitors, handsome gentlemen and ladies.

Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë: dark halls, childhood torments, unholy clergymen, madmen, passion, storms.

The Brontë sisters construct action, based on the profound and primitive energies of passion, love and hate.  At once highly imaginative with elements of brutality in the characters and resplendent of the stormy Yorkshire moors.

As Emily relates, "One may guess the power of the north wind blowing over the edge, by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun."

Charlotte writes to William Smith Williams on the 12th of April, 1850:

"She (Jane Austen) does her business of delineating people seriously well; there is a Chinese fidelity , a miniature delicacy in the painting: she ruffles her reader by nothing vehement, disturbs him by nothing profound: the Passions are perfectly unknown to her; she rejects even a speaking acquaintance with that stormy Sisterhood; even to the Feelings she vouchsafes no more than an occasionally graceful but distant recognition; too frequent converse with them would ruffle the smooth elegance of her progress.  Her business is not half so much with the human heart as with the human eyes, mouth, hands and feet; what sees keenly, speaks aptly, moves flexibly, it suits her to study, but what throbs fast and full, though hidden, what the blood rushes through, what is the unseen seat of Life and the sentient target of Death - this Miss Austen ignores; she no more, with her mind’s eye, beholds the heart of her race than each man, with bodily vision sees the heart in his heaving breast.  Jane Austen was a complete and most sensible lady, but a very incomplete, and rather insensible (not senseless) woman; if this is heresy- I cannot help it.  If I said it to some people (Lewes for instance) they would directly accuse me of advocating exaggerated heroics, but I am not afraid of your falling into any such vulgar error."

So Charlotte, you don't like her then?
Oh dear, a tad harsh Charlotte.  I would very much enjoy a trip in a Time Machine wherein I bring the maligned Jane to meet Charlotte armed with the coruscating invective of a wonderful paraphrasing of Catullus, Carmina 16:

Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo(1),
Aureli pathice et cinaede Furi,...
..........male me marem putatis?
pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo.

Though knowing Jane and Charlotte as I think I do; coupled with the fact that both are daughters of Clergymen, I reckon Matthew 5:44 would be the preferred riposte:

ἐγὼ δὲ λέγω ὑμῖν, ἀγαπᾶτε τοὺς ἐχθροὺς ὑμῶν καὶ προσεύχεσθε ὑπὲρ τῶν διωκόντων ὑμᾶς,

I suspect it isn't difficult to imagine which of the four; Jane, Charlotte, Emily and Anne, The Tutor would wish to 'entertain' in spite of all this.(2)

I recommend an Austen/Brontë Fight Club, “Texas Death Match” Tag-Team edition between our heroes Darcy and Rochester – united in brotherhood for this one occasion – versus Waugh’s “Brideshead Revisited”, Lord Sebastian Flyte and Wilde’s “An Ideal Husband”, Lord Arthur Goring (Or perhaps Trollope’s “The Way We Live Now”, Sir Felix Carbury)?  With Dicken’s “Great Expectations”, Philip Pirrip as the ring announcer and Miss Havisham as the bikini-clad damsel who regularly sashays through the ring displaying a card upon which is written the round number?

(1)  There is extant on the Internet a Yankee scholar's translation of 'irrumabo' as "Clintonise".
I thought that quite funny.

(2)  The Tutor ripostes:  "Jane is butt-ugly, so are the rest.  I prefer Maria, the eldest of the Brontë sisters."  To which I interject with horror:  "Maria died of consumption at age 12!  Are you channeling that vile Nabokovian scum, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson and his beloved Alice Liddel, again?"  The Tutor whimpers,  "Maybe."


Todd Beamer versus an Aircraft Carrier Battle Group

The Tutor was commissioned to write some crap to commemorate the first anniversary of the events of September 11, 2001.  With the mawkish touch of an Erich Segal, but with 50% less of the maudlin, he composed the following dross.

The events of that sunny September morning succeeded only in revealing America’s strengths.  Those strengths were never really absent, only latent.  The events of that day, especially the drama in Pennsylvania, precipitated a crystallization of the American spirit.
Todd Beamer, and the brave, intrepid, but ultimately doomed, of United 93, did more to stiffen the spiritual resolve of America than a flotilla of Aircraft Carrier Battle Groups could ever hope to.  Those two score heroes single-handedly forged the iron of America’s soul into steel.  They turned terror into a force that ennobled human beings rather than making them cower in fear.  And now, on the first anniversary, how silly the terrorists have been.  They have allowed America to become not only angry, but bored.  America is never really dangerous until it is bored.

Americans have a remarkable ability to metabolize any event, even one of the magnitude of September 11, 2001; they make the Great American Apocalypse part of the Great American Story.

As dusk descends on the well-guarded grand mansions cozily nestled behind stone walls on Long Island Sound and in the leafy backcountry, the band begins to play the Star-Spangled Banner and hundreds of pairs of privileged and misty eyes gaze up through the sweltering heat at the fireworks exploding again and again above them - as if to give proof through the night that the American spirit is still there - and sing along.


The Church of the Perpetually Impecunious VD

The other day I was walking down the High Street on my way to the Blacksmith's:

The Nice Man: "Excuse me Mam, would you like a free Personality Test?"

Me: "Thank you.  Very kind of you, but alas, I have no personality.  I'm boring as fuck."

TNM: "There's no need to be rude."

Me: "You're right there is no need, but it wasn't a question of need, it was more a question of want."

TNM: "What?"

Me: "Never mind.  This is Scientology, right?   And you are a salesman....... ermmmmm.......not-at-all-brainwashed proselytising adherent.  Yes?"
Pointing to the Scientology sign above the store front adjacent to where the two of us stood on the side walk.

TNM: "Ahhhhhh.....Yes?"

Me: "L. Ron Hubbard. Right?"

TNM: "Yes.  You've heard of him?  He is our Founder and Spiritual Guide."

Me: "Heard of him?  Are you mad?  That L. Ron guy changed my life!"

TNM: "That's wonderful."  His eyes lit up.   "How so?  Have you read any of Mr. Hubbard's works?  Did you visit our Website?  Facebook Page?"

Me: "Stalk Tom Cruise's Twitter Feed?   No, but I have been meaning to do all of that for some time now.  It's just I can't seem to find the proper-strength Over-The-Counter anti-emetic that I'll be sure to need.   Know what I mean?"

TNM: "Anti-emetic?"

Me: "Never mind.  About 5 years ago I listened to an old radio interview with Mr. Hubbard.  I happened upon it while researching Excremental Philosophies on the Internet for a seminar at which I was required to present a paper.  The man was well spoken and very insightful.  From this terrific, spell-binding interview, one particular declarative was epiphanous and hit me like a wooden-crate containing 200 kilos worth of unsold Dianetics paperbacks."

TNM: "We don't sell Dianetics.  We give it away for free.  What was it he said that changed your life?"

Me: "Well, and I quote from memory, 'If you want to get rich, start a Religion.'  I took his advice.  A wise man indeed."

TNM: "What?"

Me: "Would you like to come over to my place when you get off work for a free Personality Test and colonic irrigation with 18 molar H2SO4?  I have cookies!  Oh, and bring all your cash, and that of your relatives - and any loose change."

TNM: "Irri-what?  What kind of cookies?"

Me: "Oatmeal Raisin, but never mind.  You seem like a nice man, I would like to apologize for my rude words earlier, I've really no legitimate excuse.   I'd've(1) apologized earlier, but I'm cranky today.  You see, while watching television last night, I was browsing through the channels and came upon the FSM channel(2) - which was in the middle of streaming Battlefield Earth in HD.  I inadvertently tossed 'arf a brick at the screen and as a consequence that cluster of Body Thetans surrounding me got a tad perturbed.  It's like the Harrying of the North on my torso today - I'm so itchy.  I really loved that television too.  So I'm a little upset."

TNM: "What?"

Me: "Never mi.... ahhh... forget it.  I must dash now.   I've an initiation ritual for the latest batch of The Congregation For The Fiscal Preservation Of The Divine VD neophytes at the weekend and I still haven't purchased the new branding irons yet. Toodles!"

TNM: "Irons?"

(1) I'd've   I just love that double contraction.  I've no idea about its legitimacy, vis à vis The Queen's English, but I don't care, I love it.  And I just fucking adore adverbs, superlatives and the subjunctive case AND showing my readers, the cream of cunts that they are, how clever I am.

(2) Fucking-Shite-Movie channel.  The hyphens indicate that the compound adjective fucking shit is modifying the noun movie, not the noun channel.
The Channel is only fulfilling its mandate.  I can't fault it.


It has been brought to my attention - by The Tutor, of course - that this missive is only remotely funny, and to discern what little levity there is, requires in the reader a certain level of knowledge concerning the dogma of The Church of Scientology.  Fair enough, he's right, but I pixellate with the express understanding that my readership possesses this level of knowledge and cognition.  If a reader does not and is upset that I do not provide hyper-links for words and phrases I would suspect would require them if I was communicating with readers of that calibre - like as if I would deign to pixellate word-salads for people with that level of cognition and knowledge in the first place - they can fuck off.
Nothing personal.  You understand.

I Just Fucking Adore Global Warming!

Is there anthropogenic global warming?  I don't know and I don't fucking care.(1)  What I do know is that the combustion of ever-increasing quantities of Fossil Fuels - oil, gas and coal - generates tonnes of killer air pollution.  The kind of air pollution that causes much respiratory distress among those who out of insipid ignorance insist on engaging in respiratory gas-exchange leading to the oxidative phosphorylation necessary to generate their precious ATP - the fucking bourgeois organic-chemistry-lovin'-cunts.  As a wily psychopath, I am quite pleased with this air pollution thing.
Is it an encumbrance?  No it is not!
It is a weapon!
It is not unreasonable for me to believe that my singular use of fossil fuels over the years I've been resident in The Canadas, the use for much of which was for no good reason, has contributed directly to the premature deaths of several people; and I imagine them all to be white people too.
I'm a murderer!
Mea fucking culpa!  Of course, many would argue it is only involuntary manslaughter, not murder.
Fair enough, but I would remind these Libruls I have malice of intent, mens rea, there are no mitigating factors and there was a fuck of a lot of pre-planning involved; It's depraved-heart murder, and no mistake.   I am no different than that Dzhokhar character from the Boston Marathon bombing - my method just takes a lot longer to wreak its intended havoc.

Well, I'm such a killer
I got lyric fillers
And I'm hated everywhere I go...(Sounds like me)
I waste a lot of oil and I waste a lot of gas
At ten thousand gallons a go...(Right)
I do all kinds of spills that give me all kind of thrills
But the thrill I've never known
Is the thrill that'll gitcha when you get your pitcha
On the cover of the Rollin' Stone.

An arsehole

(1) Though truth be told, which it often isn't, I hope there is Global Warming and I hope that it speeds the fuck up!  It is -23 Celsius, that's -9 fucking Yankee degrees by the way, as I pixellate this and I am just fucking tired of the cold.

Apologies to Shel Silverstein and Dr. Hook et al. for doing that to your magnum opus.


Life is Great!

The Tutor:  "It seems I drink as if there is not only no tomorrow, but hardly anything left of today.  Should I be worried?"

Me:  "That line, so reflective of the time-is-of-the-essence school of inebriation, is a thing of beauty, unbridled clarity, and one that I fully embraced.
Fortunately for my liver these days I don't do it very often.  Perhaps this new-found restraint explains my current state of nagging optimism that seems to cloud my general view of mankind and "Life" in general."

Big Cats

Friends of mine recently went on safari.  It is not so much them going which annoys me, after all, I didn't even know they had gone, but how they acted when they came back.
If I went to the zoo and returned I would say I had seen some mad bears, a few sad elephants and a couple of depressed rhinos or something.  If you have been on fucking safari though, you come back saying that you saw elephant, giraffe and lion.
Y’all know The Queen’s is not my mother tongue, but I am pretty fucking sure the plural of lion is lions. Not if you have been on safari it isn't. It is necessary to let people know you have been on safari by referring to all the animals in the singular even if there were fucking big herds of the cunts.
People say "Lions are big cats" and they are right. That is exactly what they are. You would not catch me flying all the way to Nigeria and paying a fortune to sleep rough and look at large cats. Lion? Fuck off.  I am still not entirely convinced that the plural of sheep isn't sheeps.
Safaris are for cunts.

Nice Manolo Blahniks

In a previous lifetime, I half-arsedly attempted a relationship with a man who was very good at anecdotes. They would always begin with him taking a deep breath and rolling his eyes up until the whites showed, before launching into a stream of exaggerations, embellishments and lies. He used to change the endings on occasion: all is fair, in love and the pub.  For many years after, I'd seek out and become violently attached to a series of laconic men whose idea of a good chat was to stare into space, occasionally making an observation about someone's shoes. These men are like a chemistry set: the joy is in seeing what makes them react.
I am missing the anecdotes of The Tutor, but he has promised to write all his in a Word document, then copy and paste them into every email in order to recreate the repetition and enforced familiarity that I'd get over a normal weekend if he was home.



No facility in any other Western Nation, while actively under attack, would post this on their facebook page.

Those cowardly Euro-Trash cunts would just say 'RUN!!!!'

How can you not love America?


Dysfunctional Relationships

Don't fuck with me Bilious

Don't fuck with me Little Missy


I have just been informed - through a dubiously appropriate diplomatic channel - I have been awarded le privilége du blanc.
Go figure?
This is a privilege heretofore only rightfully extended to queens of a most important Rex Catholicissimus.
Go figure some more?
His Holiness Benedict XVI, Supreme Pontiff Emeritus seems to think I am regnant in my own right of a Most Catholic Majesty.
Alzheimer's is a terrible, terrible affliction.  Innit?

Right click on the image and open in a new window to experience the full effect.

If you want to hang out, you've gotta take her out, cockaigne.
If you want to get down, get down on the ground, cockaigne.
She don't lie, she don't lie, she don't lie, Cockaigne.



A reader asks:  "Were you a Bowie Fan?" 

Me:  "No, but then I am not a 'fan' of any particular artist, though neither am I a detractor. I like what I like and dislike what I dislike: and I've no conscious control over it. My level of enjoyment of a piece is based solely on the content of that piece regardless of the artist who created or delivered it. I do not decide if I like - or dislike - a piece based on who did it or how 'tortured' or 'clever' the artist is. It is a purely visceral decision, unencumbered by snobbery (and shrubbery in the case of my distaste of Python crap).
I do enjoy most of the songs from his CHANGESONEBOWIE album released before I was born. I've no idea what he's done since I've been alive.
I do not seek out music or art, I consume it passively. If it comes to me and I enjoy it, great. If it doesn't, well you can't miss that which you don't know exists. Innit?"


The Words Of The Prophets

This is the third time this has happened to my house. And always in pink too!
This is all I need today.
My fat-arsed housewife neighbour, upon learning of my young age, told the mailman: "Poor thing hasn't even had her Saturn return yet: snicker snicker boy is she in for a treat!"
Women can be so cruel!


Fuck Me or Fuck Them. Your Choice!

Guest post from The Tutor regarding his most recent trip to Cambodia.  Right-click on each photograph and open in a new window for an incredibly vivid in-depth view.

This is Ms. sambo Hol, aged 18(I hope).  Yes that's right, sambo.  She is blissfully unaware of the connotations her name has in Western culture.  I did not enlighten her.

This is the lovely Ms. sambo Hol with her mother and grandmother as they prepare the day's meal.  It was quite tasty and filling, I must say.

These are Ms. sambo Hol's friends, being fed to whom was the fate that awaited me if I was to have spurned her amorous advances without having a note from a physician.
I obtained the note in the nick of time.
I have maintained my chastity.

Cool Guyish Type Thing

For sale, really, and I mean really, cool guyish-type thing, I really like it still, a lot, and will probably cry when you come to pick it up, but my new girlfriend said that if I do not get rid of it, ostensibly to prove my love for her, she will leave me, and I don't fancy my chances of getting another one, girlfriend that is. This very cool thing is just completely irreplaceable. I used to be alright at picking up girls, but then I gained a few pounds and lost a bit of hair and subsequently I lost my confidence, you know how it is. Although it might be the way she is always yelling at me for no apparent reason: like that time I was two minutes late for that movie show after she smashed my watch that morning for asking her the time...

Blogging The Void At The Flower Store

5:30 pm

Blow nose twice. Viewing from my desk through the window, wisps of thin high cloud are visible above the buildings across the street and the parking lot. The sky is otherwise blue.

5:32 pm

A girl walks north to south along the sidewalk outside my window, speaking into her cell phone. She is quite unattractive. I cannot quite decide why she is not pretty, because on paper, she ought to be.

5:37 pm

A man sporting an overcoat walks by in the road from south to north, leaning forward, facing into the wind and girning in an horrid manner.

5:38 pm

Blow nose.

5:40 pm

“Normally you, the bride, would only need one garter for your intended to throw at the wedding reception.”
“What if I lose it before the wedding?”
“Yes, yes... One so often does have that problem. Better purchase two then.”

5:43 pm

Blow nose. Damn it!

5:44 pm

Clouds over trees and buildings have shifted. Much thinner now.

5:46 pm

The not-quite-attractive girl drives by from north to south in a white Toyota Prius "hybrid". Probably an Evangeline Walton and John Grisham fan. Still whelping into her cell phone.

5:48 pm

Somebody's telephone is ringing.

5:49 pm

It was mine, apparently. They can ring me again, if it was that important.

5:51 pm

Nine minutes left.

Eight minutes and forty-one seconds.

Eight minutes and thirty seconds.

5:53 pm

Several small birds fly over the buildings from south to north.

Six minutes and twenty-four seconds.

Reads like Salinger, innit?


For my super powers I chose:
Flight like a bird
Super running speed
X-Ray vision.
None of these powers will help me escape though.
I should have chosen Infertility


Fucking Wasteful

The sun fuses 4.25 x 1012 grammes of hydrogen into helium every second.
When you fuse hydrogen it is effectively eliminated because, as I understand it, it is easy to go towards the middle of the nuclear binding energy curve but a real pain in the arse to get back to the ends.  Helium is an inert gas so it is basically useless crap and there is a finite amount of hydrogen in the solar neighbourhood.
Accordingly, the sun is simply pissing away a non-renewable resource for no good purpose at all.
It's just wasting it!
And if that wasn't bad enough, the waste heat from the sun is believed to affect the Earth's climate!

This issue needs to be addressed by the appropriate transnational body.  We need an action plan and a timetable and we need it now, not later.  Oversight, planning and accountability!

Solar output is 385 Yottawatt  =  3.85 x 1026 Watt
Earth absorption is 89 Petawatt  =  8.9 x 1016 Watt

99.9999999957 per cent of the sun's energy output is completely wasted.  It should be turned off at night!  All I can say is that if the sun made more effective use of solar panels it could do away with the vile and potentially harmful nuclear power altogether.

Caucasoids Are Losers!

I've been wallowing in the bliss of despondency recently - crying into my ginger chai - wondering why yins have been so beastly to me of late.  Calling me a "bitch" and lamenting my non-habitation of the kitchen.  A kitchen wherein I was to be bare-foot, up-the-duff and preparing "sammiches".  I am surprised that my genetically predetermined female lower-centre-of-gravity, making me the ideal gender to carry laundry and groceries, wasn't also mentioned.
Then it dawned on me.
An epiphany.
A 6.5 mm epiphany even.
I must admit, it wasn't exactly a crimson-crowned Zapruder moment, but very enlightening indeed.
Y'all are just jealous!
So jealz!
Yins are quite simply covetous of my race.
Genetic envy I reckon.

It's 'cause we Mongoloids have three copies of our 21st and you Caucasoids and Negroids only have a measly two!


Personally, I am envious of the Negroids.  They have no Neanderthal DNA polluting their unadulterated genomes - they are pure Homo Sapiens sapiens!
They are the true Master Race!
We Mongoloids are infected with from 1 to 2 percent Neanderthal DNA.  This concerns me greatly, but I cope with frequent elective whole-blood transfusions and much strong drink.  I feel quite sorry for the Caucasoids though, those melanin-challenged Gweilo lilies have from 2 to 4 percent Neanderthal DNA coursing through their more often than not visible veins - the Hammond Road Atlas cunts.  The utter shame of it!  Right?
This little nugget of Neanderthal knowledge, by the way, sure explains the last 4,500 years of Western history though.  Innit?


Paradise Eternal

When the time comes, I shall ask to be buried next to Stevie Nicks*

According to the New York Times, funeral directors are having to turn themselves into party planners as boomers start dropping off their perch.

Actually, I quite like the idea of levity at funerals, although my mom still isn't speaking to me since I turned up to my dad's funeral in handcuffs and accompanied by two of my cronies dressed as prison guards. She didn't see the funny side at all.

I shall definitely have ice cream and balloons at my funeral. Black ice cream. Black balloons. And maybe see if I can arrange for Pere Ubu or Aqua to perform selected passages from Stockhausen's greatest hits as the pallbearers lower the transparent coffin containing my feculent form, hands gnarled and deformed by years of onanistic self-abuse, face in a permanent rictal girn, into the welcoming embrace of a tank of German beer. Paradise eternal.

Next week's good for me. Anyone else?

*Assuming she's still alive.


Born Free

We are gonna take it.
Yes! We're sure gonna take it.
We are gonna take it, evermore!

The Tutor and I watched this nature programme last night on the television.  It was about the current plight of the large fauna in sub-Saharan Africa - particularly the Big Cats.
The future doesn't look good for the lions, cheetahs and leopards it seems.  I reckon the jackal and hyena won't fair well either, but the Western sentiment - read: Disney sentiment - regarding these beasts is negative so who cares, right?  Anyway, The Tutor and I decided to apply our considerable cognitive abilities to devise a solution to the plight of these cute beasties.  The loss of habitat, the ever-encroaching presence of humans, and poaching seem to be the major problems.  We came up with several solutions though some are more palatable to Western sensibilities than others I should think.

To wit:

Solution One
Cull the humans.  This could be done on a random basis or perhaps with eugenics in mind, you know, for a bit of genetic engineering.

Solution Two
Establish large Game Preserves for the fauna. Fenced to keep the locals out more so than to keep the animals in.  Oh, and an army of well-armed Park Wardens to dissuade any poachers or peasants seeking land on which to grow life-giving food.

Solution Three
The West, the Arab World(the oil-rich bits) and the Chinese could relinquish all the land they control in Sub-Saharan Africa and give it back to the autochthones.  Of course, this will mean the Caucasoids in Europe and Arabia and the Mongoloids in China won't get their plentiful supply of inexpensive vegetables and fruits all year round.  And they won't get their current lion's share of the mineral wealth for which Africa is famous.
If the Africans could benefit from all the wealth of their continent the extant wildlife would have nothing to fear.  A wealthy Africa would soon reach a stable population, start to decrease even, and huge tracts of land could be set aside for the indigenous flora and fauna. Harmony!
Of course, if this were to happen, the absolute and relative wealth of the West, Arabia and China would decrease so precipitously that concern for the welfare of the fauna in Africa would disappear from the collective consciousness of these folks and the once popular Nature programmes would be replaced with Soup Kitchen Reality shows.

Solution Four
The Tutor and I have just registered a Not-For-Profit organisation named: "Save The African Big Cats Before They're Fuct".  The purpose of our little project is to collect donations from guilt-ridden Caucasoids in the West so that they might feel better about themselves and assuage the emotional turmoil of their inherent hypocrisy.(1)  According to our Prospectus, a massive 15 percent of all tax-deductible donations collected will be transferred directly - no graft, no middle-men - to our vast network of compatriots in Africa.  Our dedicated indigenous agents, after buying the necessary cases of "Tusker" and the latest in Safari fashions and cell-phones, will spend every remaining cent to help Elsa and her cubs. The remaining paltry 85 percent of the donations collected from the very generous Western folks will be retained by The Tutor and me to cover unavoidable administration expenses and our salaries.
Win, and fucking, Win!

(1)  The Arabians and the Chinese don't feel guilty, yet, so it wouldn't work on them.

The Tutor tells me that the folks in the West have been inundated with a constant stream of news items about the seemingly never-ending and incessant plagues, pestilence, wars and genocide(s) that have befallen the Dark Continent for as long as he can remember.
No other continent has had cause to endure such heinous visitations from the god of Abraham like poor Africa has.  It is hard to believe there are any people, much less fauna, still alive there.  Imagine our surprise when we discovered that over the past 30 years or so, the human population of Africa has increased, on a percentage basis, more so than any other continent.  How could that be?  Either the Africans have an incredible birth rate, or the calamities befalling Africa are nowhere near as destructive as we are lead to believe.


I Fucking Love Drone-Strikes!

The Peshawar High Court in Pakistan has ruled that US drone-strikes are illegal, inhumane, violate the UN charter on human rights and surely constitute a war crime.  Successive American administrations disagree, stating that these 'arbitrary' and 'extrajudicial executions' of enemy non-combatants do not violate international law, and that the method of attack is precise and effective.
The Obama administration proffered this explanation on drone-strike policy in April 2012, concluding that it was "legal, ethical, and wise".
Those who are being targeted by drones in a foreign country are not protected under the general human right to life - it's war!  Targeted killing under the law of self-defence is not an action constitutive of "law enforcement" either so law enforcement standards of jurisprudence are not applicable.  The United States has every 'Right-by-Might' to fly its drones into any foreign country, especially one with which it is not already at war, and kill any person, or persons, it deems an 'enemy'.

So committed to the efficacy and legality of this sort of anti-terrorism engagement, I would think the great U S of A would have had absolutely no problem at all with the Royal Air Force and/or MI6 (MI5?) commissioning, in the 1980s and 1990s, the then extant versions of the Reaper or Predator drones to strike those Yankee Catholic fuckers in Boston and environs who supplied the fucking IRA cunts with treasure and succor during 'The Troubles'.
Legal, ethical and wise indeed.
And as far as some Librul feckers in the Revolted Colonies hueing, crying and whingeing on about the inevitable civilian casualties, I doubt that would manifest at all in earnest.  Not even in Boston itself.  Everybody, and I mean everybody - the Yanks especially - knows that if one finds one's self drone-striking IRA Terrorists in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, that any, hopefully massive, "collateral damage" could possibly only involve fucking Massholes.  Accordingly, if I might paraphrase Major General James Wolfe's assertion during the Battle of the Plains of Abraham regarding his Scottish soldiers, "they(Massholes) are hardy, intrepid, accustomed to a rough country, and no great mischief if they fall".

I'm not sure if that is Boston in the photograph since I've never been to Boston.  I can't be arsed to get my shots, which are free by the way up here in the Canadas, so I would not hazard to venture there.  Besides, it's in America - I might catch obesity and there's no pharmacological prophylaxis for that.


The Stiffening of Resolve

It is a mystery as old as time; for that which once worked well, alas, no longer does.  The Tutor now claims to harbour in earnest a fascination with the derivative I Dream Of Jeannie look: Annette Funicello hair, ruched chiffon bodice and a yashmak. The whole thing is frightfully beyond all reason.
Last year’s black leather bunny-ears by Benoit Missolin just don’t seem to stiffen his resolve anymore.


Subversive Literature

A must read. Unlikely to be found at Amazon.com.
Get the second edition in which Inga 'adjusts' her very anti-male rhetoric a tad.
CUNT: A Declaration of Independence
2002 Inga Muscio
Seal Press www.sealpress.com
ISBN 1-58005-075-1

Inga's Site:


Genealogies Are Stupid

Me:  "How's this for an opening line for my new novel:  'To voice her contempt, Mehitable places the gerbil on the table and there it hums and caracoles, through the bottles and glasses; reckless what dangerous breakage and spilth it may occasion.'  What do you think?"

The Tutor:  "Caracoles?  Spilth?  Mehitable?"

Me:  "Too 18th Century British Academia you reckon?"

The Tutor:  "Well it is certainly 'too' something.
From where did you get the name Mehitable?"

Me:  "Why the genealogy written in your Family Bible, of course.  One of your ancestors was named Mehitable - she died after slipping in a spilth of afterbirth when attending the calving of the family cow."

The Tutor:  "It says all that in the Bible?"

Me:  "Well, I embellished a tad.  It actually says nothing about her other than her name, birth and death dates and that she was a hexadecaroon.  Did you know that."

The Tutor:  "Sho'nuff!"


Global Warming

When intellectuals and Environmentalists gripe about the high temperatures of Global Warming, that implies they somehow know the right temperature for the Globe. What conceit. This somewhat elusive concept seems to mean a temperature structure that will not quite impoverish the heretofore warmer climes as it gets warmer and the inhabitants must pay more for A/C, and will leave upscale Northerners - by virtue of lower heating bills - with discretionary cash to donate to Greenpeace and travel to Europe and Cuba. Filthy Libruls!

Fucking With OCD Cunts!

If you are an OCD cunt, I will not fuck you.
I am not that fussy when I recruit sexual partners.
I am not like some women who possess such complicated criteria it is amazing the filthy whores ever get laid:  "He must be tall, and have great teeth, and not wear certain kinds of underwear, and if there is any body hair other than a trimmed triangle surmounting his pee pee and a not-too-hirsute patch between his nipples, then I'm out of there.  Oh, and he must be rich, and unattached, blah blah blah......"  Miserable tight-arsed bitches.  I consider myself an equal opportunities type person when it comes to choosing a 'pleasant diversion'.
There is a certain quality about the men/boys I enjoy.  Generally, they are quite naughty and well hung.  That last bit, really, is the most important thing I should think.  I’ll overlook a bit of butt hair, in return for glorious girth.

I have turned down a free ride only twice in my life.
The first time was when the intended, who was otherwise very 'gifted', but a bit of a wimp, said,
"I've got something to tell you.  This is my first time and I am afraid."  I couldn't cope with the unwarranted responsibility and utter incompetence of it all, so I got dressed and let myself out.  The second was when the betrothed actually stopped during the proceedings - mid foreplay that is -  to fold up all of his clothes!  Just as it appeared things were going well, he hurled himself out of bed and started folding each of his garments before placing them, one at a time, on a fucking chair - neatly!
Even his socks!  It made me feel cheap, honestly.  I thought to myself, “Fuck me, am I that unexciting that this arsehole is thinking about folding his dirty clothes instead of tearing off my panties with his imperfect teeth?”.  So I picked up my clothes, which were scattered, hither and thither, in a desperately passionate path from the bed to the front porch, dressed and said, “I will not fuck a man who would rather tidy his clothing than do me two times to Tuesday.  That is just plain fucking rude, and quite weird like OCD.”  He said I was a bitch, can you believe it?  I think I was wise to have made a run for it when I did.

ALT-F is right!

I dated a girl who not only insisted on folding all her clothes, but also had to remove all her make-up before we went to the couch to do it. What a bore she was, she wouldn't even let me come on her teats, the selfish cow.
The Tutor


The Bread Of Life

I found this in an English translation of a Junior School textbook in current use in India.
"When god was making bread for the first time, he was afraid he would burn the loaves, so he took them out too early, these were Americans - uncooked and bland.  At this point god put in another batch but this time he waited far too long and burnt the dough, thus came the Africans - dark and hard.  And then, god, now having an estimate of the timing and the experience of two failed bakes, baked the perfect bread with the perfect colour - brown South East Asians."

In keeping with this half-baked bread metaphor, an old German proverb says, "Schwarzbrot macht Wangen rot, Weissbrot macht Leute tot," which means, "Dark bread makes cheeks red, white bread makes people dead."

I don't know about you, but this seems logical.


1984 and All That

"Should Orwell have been stripped of his citizenship in the 1930's on his return from Spain after fighting for a Communist brigade?"

Yes, but not for his ill-fated choice of comrades or cause, but for having the utter conceit of allowing himself to be shot in his very British of necks.

Orwell was shot because he was considerably taller than the swarthy Spanish fighters and his head protruded out of the trench.  You would have thought the man could have crouched a bit; those British national values of the 'Stiff Upper Lip' and 'Keep Calm and Carry On' will get ya every time!
Now, 'Hygge', the national value of Denmark, is a much better fundamental aspect of culture to embrace if one should find one's self fighting Fascists with a bunch of pygmies.  It is often translated as "cosiness", but that is only part of its meaning.  Its essence embodies more: "a sense of cosy, friendly contentment producing eudaimonia".

'Stiff Upper Eye-lid' and 'Keep Down and Cosy On'.

And eudaimonia?  Who wouldn't want a shite-load of that I ask you?

And if that wasn't bad enough, he deserves a thorough gibbeting and vigorous re-arseholing with a claw hammer for inflicting upon The Queen's such lexical twaddle as 'Thoughtpolice', 'Big Brother', 'Doublethink' and 'Room 101′.  Despite his connection to my homeland, Myanmar, the man's a filthy Imperialist tosser!

"It is not worth the while to go round the world to count the cats in Zanzibar." 

– Henry David Thoreau

Well, Mr. Thoreau may have been a tad premature in this declaration.  If the cats in question are the 'elusive' Zanzibar Leopard (Panthera pardus adersi), I reckon a handsome reward awaits the person who counts even one of these.