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


Frequent Flyer Tip # 4

How to get a free upgrade to First Class.
Wear clothing you know is awash with nitro and look shifty, avoiding eye contact, while at the Check-In counter.  Being rude to the Check-In person will also help.  This behaviour will ensure your Boarding Pass will include the pre-printed initialism, S S S S.  If you have not been rude or shifty enough to earn the pre-printed initialsim, write, S S S S on your Boarding Pass in cursive with a blue ink pen.  Before joining the long queue at the Security Screening area, play dumb and ask a nearby Security Officer if this is the queue for you – show him/her your Boarding Pass.  He/She will notice, hopefully, the S S S S and you will be immediately taken through security and subjected to the ‘Swab’.
They will, of course, discover the nitro and take you to a holding cell.  You can rely on the fact Security/DHS will not tell you why they are doing what they are doing.  This is good – you need not explain anything and can continue to play dumb.  Just before they attempt the body-cavity search, assuming you do not wish to have this done, you present your ‘paperwork’ explaining why you would be soaked in nitro and that you were not aware it was so evident.  Feign embarrassment and all will be forgiven.
You have by this time missed your flight.
Remember, the arrogance of the DHS Officers will prevent them from asking any questions that would have solved this problem at an earlier stage when you could have made your flight.  They will place you on the next flight to your destination – in First Class!  And if the next flight is the next day, you'll get a nice Hotel stay and a generous per diem for food and incidentals!

1,2,3-trinitroxypropane is not only a potent heavy, colourless and oily explosive, it is also a potent heavy, colourless and oily vasodilator.  Carry a mess of sublingual tablets with you.

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.


I Am Charming. Innit?

At the front desk of the Royal Hotel, Bangkok; December 13, 2012.

Front Staff Lady #1: " Why you have in your ear? You not hear when motorbike come."

Me: Taking out pricey, but effective, foam earplugs: "I forgot to take them out when I left work."  In truth I wear them as Bangkok is a VERY loud city!

Front Staff Lady #2: "You work in factory with machine?"

Me: "No, I am in a neonatal unit with, maybe, 20 screaming babies - wah, wah, wah."

FSL #1: "I do not understand."

Me: "I am doctor in hospital for new babies."

FSL #2: "You take babies out?"

Me: "And I put babies in!"

FSL #1: "How you put babies in?"

Me: "I put babies in 9 months before I take babies out."

FSL #1 and FSL #2 think a little and converse with each other in Thai.

FSL #1: As she playfully hits me on the arm while laughing hysterically and turning bright red: "You are funny man."

FSL #1 explains, in Thai, to FSL #2 . Both are quite red and laughing at this point.

Four hours later:
The three of us are in my room engaging in acts preparatory to fornication.*

*The last line is not true, but it could have been! I am an honourable man and will not trifle with the affections of any fewer than three Thai ladies at any given time. Four hours later I was drinking Singha in my room, alone, and watching "Star Wars - Episode III." Believe it or not, I had never seen it before. Now I only have five more in the series to see.

Frozen Reason

The Tutor:  "A few days ago I broke a chair on my head (freak accident) and last night I was standing on a paint can trying to reach something on a top shelf of a bookcase and the can tipped and the whole shelf of books and a large tripod crashed down on my face. I have a bump on my head and a shiner, and the bridge of my nose is prizefighter swollen and one eyelid is bruised."

Me:  ""and the can tipped"? Imbuing agency to inanimate objects again are we?"

The Tutor:  "I put ice on my eye and kept it there all night.  And it is more swollen now than before."

Me:  "Are you mental?  Ice is meant to be used for only 15 minutes or so, immediately after the accident to reduce potential swelling.  Having your eye refrigerated all night will probably blind you."

The Tutor:  "Can I take an Aleve or will that cause more swelling?"

Me:   "Well, as long as you take the Aleve with water, orally, and don't shove it into your eye socket, I see no problem."

The Tutor:  "This bedside manner of yours is why you work in a fleur shoppe."

Me:   "I know."


It has been brought to my attention that this post makes no fucking sense at all.  Fair enough.  A little background on The Tutor's challenged status when it comes to medical issues might help.
The Tutor is of the school of thought which believes that if two aspirins can reduce the pain of a headache, an entire bottle can cure it.  The Tutor is notorious for believing in the efficacy of folkloric remedies, OTC "Snake Oil" panaceas and especially any pseudo-medicinal "sounding" crap sold over the Internet.


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.

Sac à dépêches

Opposite the Novotel Siam Square Bangkok Hotel, one will find the unfortunately-named 
Miss Puke Thai Massage Establishment.

Miss Puke, the overly emotive damsel in the red blouse and white (1), and her fellow masseuses react, not altogether unexpectedly, when, in their doorway, The Tutor shifts his Sac à dépêches and exposes all.  He then asked if  with his paraphernalia whether he would need to pay them, or would they need to pay him, for the 'Happy Ending'?

(1)  A side note for those into Fashion

The way these things are labelled

Doris Day in pedal pushers?

The Monegasque Consort, Grace Kelly Princess of Monaco in Capris Pants?

Laking of Blood Mountaining of Skulls

Monument 6 from the Classic Mayan site of Tortuguero

The highlighted section of the inscription on the stone 

A Transcription and Translation

alay U:xlaju:n Hix, Wuklaju:n Muwa:n;
On the date 13 Ix 17 Muan (December 23, 649 AD)

hayi:y uto:k’ [u]pakal 
They were destroyed, the soldiers and weapons (of)

U:x Bahlam, Joy Chan Ajaw;
"Three Jaguar"(name) holy lord of Joy Chan(Comalcalco).

nahbaj ch’ich’, witzaj jol;
The volume of blood spilled formed a lake and the number of skulls taken formed a mountain

bolon ipnaj usak ba:k [y]ik’il
9 (many) times his 'soul-stuff' was increased by these killings.

The Holy Lord of Tortuguero was able to greatly increase his 'Life Force' by engaging in war and killing many of the warriors of 'Three Jaguar' Holy Lord of the nearby site of Comalcalco (Joy Chan).

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"


The Birthday Girl

That's salmon roe spelling, "Scorpios Love To Fuck"  The oyster is her, well, you know.
Leslie is:

Héloïse to The Tutor's Abelard
Leda to The Tutor's Zeus
Mumtaz Mahal to The Tutor's Shah Jahan
Antinoös to The Tutor's Hadrian
Nancy to The Tutor's Sid

And me?  What am I?  Nowt now.  Cast aside like yesterday's news or last night's condom.


The Learned One:  "We are not all the same. Can science and medicine one day grasp this simple concept? It seems unlikely” 

Me:  " Science agrees with you, but, politically, it does not bode well for social harmony if it becomes socially acceptable to differentiate ‘types’ of humans. It’s a slippery slope to the Übermensch and the elimination of those who do not measure up. We all have to pretend we are all equal."

The Learned One:  "Equal is not the same as identical."

Me:  "I agree.  Equal is not the same as identical– and this fact is not lost on the “U” ( as opposed to “non-U”) segment of society. The Papists, of course, would say, "Equal in dignity, not necessarily equal in god’s endowments."  We are all different on the outside but, I have it on good authority we are all very much the same on the inside. This has been amply demonstrated by The Tutor for he has spent years ‘examining’ all manner of Caucasoids, Mongoloids and Negroids with his penis."


कर्म संसार

The Tutor oft' relates stories of his childhood - it's an interesting window into the early years of a now mature psychopath.
His latest......

"When I was in the first grade, when we had a test or some such, we were required to print our first name on the top of the test paper when we had finished the test.  Now me, being the precocious little twerp that I was/am, decided to 'write' my name - in cursive script - instead of 'print' it.  My father taught me how to write my name a few days earlier.  I was quite proud of myself.  No one else in the class could 'write' their names.  At least not to my knowledge.  The papers were collected and I thought nothing more of it.
The very next day I was called to the teacher's desk at the end of class and severely berated for having 'written' my name instead of 'printing' it.  I was not supposed to know how to write cursive script - I had not been 'officially' taught how to do it yet.  For all future tests and 'work', I was instructed to 'print' my name only.

I swear I was just a normal kid prior to that dressing-down.  I suspect this was when the seeds of 'hate' were planted and began to grow.
And grow well they did!

Twenty or so years later.........

In the middle of a particularly gruelling 24 hour shift in Emerge at the local Health Care Warehouse, a 50-ish woman presented and was admitted with what looked to be a moderate stroke (CVA) - scoring perhaps '10' on the NIH Stroke Scale.
Right-side spastic hemiparasis with pronounced limb ataxia was quite evident.
I recognised her, but she did not recognise me.
It was my vile first grade teacher!
Through a cunning series of Hippocratic-Oath-violating actions, utterly non-traceable to your's truly of course, I 'patched' her up.  She was eventually discharged two days later - sans the ability to use her right hand to write - or print!

Ten or so yeas later.......

I heard that she still couldn't write with her right hand and had not learned to use her left - and she drooled a lot.

Six or so years later.......

She died."

The morale of the story?  If you happen to go back in time, don't fuck with the young Tutor.

कर्म  संसार  =  Karmic Saṃsāra

How To Respond To Nasty Folks

I shall take the moderate course as one is wont to do in these circumstances.  In my response I will carefully navigate betwixt the Scylla of lofty scorn(1) and the Charybdis of pungent scurrility(2).

(1)  Lofty Scorn:
".....'sdeath!  You are a sybaritic scybalum.  And no mistake!"

(2)   Pungent Scurrility:
"Fuck you.  You Thalidomide stump sucking, thrush-festooned and prolapsed cunt!"

"Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo!"


Severed Reproductive Organs

It seems I have become quite the flower arranger. My inherent sense of Euclidean/Cartesian spatial composition and my congenital acumen in ascetic colour distribution will bode well for a future career in flower arranging(1).

Notice the vertical, horizontal and colour balance. Although symmetrical, I need not have arranged them that way. Notice also the predominance and gentle spatially 'phallic bend' of the three white Lilies. Notice, still further, the adroit removal of the stamens from the Lilies, a form of emasculation as it were - the yellow 'male' pollen stains the petals.
Ain't that the truth. "Just don't get it in my hair!"

Compare my perfection to this hideous atrocity. White Carns? A single stem of: "Bells of Ireland"? A fucking toad stool ornament? And a caterpillar? Fuck me from behind with a Jackson Pollock 'cover' of a Georgia O'Keeffe. Flower Girl sucks at this.
In her defense, the tasteless cretins that exist in this quaint little corner of the Global Cloaca, prefer her work over mine, infinity to one. She has her demographics and market pegged. I am forever condemned to wallow in the bliss of anonymity and artistic misunderstanding. To suffer for my art amongst the gomerel and Ostrogoths.
Though the young and fit ones do fall for all my Big-City lines:
She: "Do you love me, Bilious?"
Me: "I fuck ya, don't I?"
She: "Oh you're my bestest boyfriend ever!"
Me: "I know"

Oh Ashley, I've always loved you.

(1) Not in this shite-hole of a town though. My arrangement eventually rotted in the refrigerator and was summarily, without ceremony, composted. The above photograph is all that remains of my 'objet d'art'.
I am not bitter.


Foreign Chicken Shit

Back in February, while in Bangkok, I saw a cunt Falang Khee Nok sporting a brown "Hard Rock Cafe - Niagara Falls - Canada" T-shirt.
Fuck me from behind with The Maid of the Mist, what a shite ripped-anus of a town that place is. One large Theme Park rife with fat tourists, ugly newlyweds and over-priced comestibles.

I do not have much experience with bars, but I once witnessed a Japanese 'businessman' exit a reasonable facsimile of a Hard Rock Cafe in Mumbai, India just in time to empty the contents of his stomach onto the pavement. No sooner had these 'contents' exited his Asian oesophagus, when two young girls, clad only in ragged T-shirts, neither of which mentioned a Hard Rock Cafe, pounced upon the almost fresh looking 'food' and devoured most of the solid 'chunks'. Nature: red of tooth and claw it is.

I've never experienced the extreme joy of wandering into a Hard Rock Cafe, or Planet Hollywood for that matter.

I once went to the 'Apocalypse Now Bar' in HCMC though. What a waste of my precious Adenosine Triphosphate that night out was. And to think my Cytochrome 'C' Cascade, or my Electron Transfer Chain in layman's terms, was hard pressed to keep up with me. Being that it was fueled entirely on Pho and the questionably refrigerated pate to be found on the much lauded 'Saigon Sub'. That un-refrigerated pate was to provide me with a very valuable lesson in what you can and can not eat from the vendibles provided on the street in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam.

The Apocalypse Now Bar was dark and dingy, populated by, and filled up to the condom rib with; Australian backpacker types, Gary Glitter wannabes and a bevy of 20,000 Dong hookers. (At the time, 10,000 Dong = 1 USD) I am sure there will be a reader who will provide you cream o' cunts with a droll 'dong' joke so I'll refrain.  Pricy too!  One beer cost me what my hotel was costing me for a night.  In short?  Hated it!

When that Women's Lib Diva, Gloria What's-Her-Name, Steinem?, finally carks it, let it be known that I, Bilious C. Pudenda, wrote the best obituary title of all time:



I'm not at all concerned with the potential that the Terrorists might blow us up. I'm concerned about horrid cannibalism. They eat people it seems. They always have, it's in the Holy Book. It's part of their rich and vibrant culture. You all know that I'd be the last person to judge them, and let's face it, it's no more than we probably deserve. Especially in light of our current and past foreign policy, but we have to admit it to ourselves that they are coming to kill, eviscerate, cook and slice us up into little bits of yummy flesh-ke-bobs and gobble us all up.

Chomp chomp chomp!

This important issue is, of course, entirely ignored by the vicious right-wing extremist state-controlled media like PBS, NPR, the BBC, The Economist and that ultimate yellow rag, the New York Times. They are in on this conspiracy, trust me, I know of which I speak. They are in league with the Terrorists. They will certainly be the death of us all unless we repent of our crimes against nature and apologise to the world.

Pharmakon Nepenthes

ἔνθ᾽ αὖτ᾽ ἄλλ᾽ ἐνόησ᾽ Ἑλένη Διὸς ἐκγεγαυῖα:
αὐτίκ᾽ ἄρ᾽ εἰς οἶνον βάλε φάρμακον, ἔνθεν ἔπινον,
νηπενθές τ᾽ ἄχολόν τε, κακῶν ἐπίληθον ἁπάντων.

Then Helen, spawn of Zeus, thought otherwise,
she slipped a drug into the wine they drank,
one that masks pain and sorrow and causes forgetfulness.
Odyssey, Book 4, v. 219–221

φάρμακον - "a spell giving potion - a drug".     Pronounced: "pharmakon".
νηπενθές - "that which chases away sorrow".     Pronounced: "nepenthes".

Whoever tasted this Nepenthe mixed with wine would shed no tears that day.
Oftentimes, when I was a wee girl in Mandalay, I would dream of the Roman Goddess Levana and then lay awake hoping that soon her bestowed gifts would come to fruition.
Alas, it was not to be.  This was, as is quite obvious I suspect, my harsh schooling impinging upon me.  I am quite certain my school-room 'lessons' would have totally destroyed a lesser woman - made her shifty and withdrawn perhaps - but not me!  You see dear reader, by then I had developed my strategy of survival to help me not just cope, but thrive:

Drink and cunning!

My φάρμακον νηπενθές, or remedy (nay my truly omnipotent panacea) was and still is, strong drink - and the lovely 'teachers' taught me the cunning.
By virtue of my clever deployment of what might be correctly described as the "Turn cat in pan" gambit, several revelations have come to light;  it turns out I am not to blame for The Tutor's recent idiocy.  I am to be sent to complete that which weaker women could only begin.  

Victory Is Snatched From The Jaws Of Defeat.

The Tutor once almost lost "a battle of wits" with a group of third graders.
At a crucial point in the battle, the interjection, "You're smelly!" gleefully arose from the ranks of the enemy.  Followed by much tittering.

How was The Tutor to refute such a laconic utterance?  I mean, he couldn't even say, "Well you're smelly times a million"; the children had yet to learn multiplication and the efficacy of that riposte would be entirely lost on them.
When it comes to battling wits with the intellectually challenged, one's tenancy of intelligence is of little value.  In fact, it is a liability.
The Tutor successfully rebutted the children's taunt by wringing the neck of the class bunny - slowly and in plain view - and then telling the little feckers that their mothers were lying when they said that they loved them.

Alone Again, Naturally

A reader writes:
"Regarding your latest word salads herein posted: either you are supremely confident in the universal validity of your dross, or you are quite indifferent as to the prospect of ever actually being read.  Your profound belief that you are a melancholic wraith set inextricably apart from others, and that that is the prime source of what you seem to think is the power of your works, is laughable.
You give the impression of having written for yourself alone."

I respond:  "The latter.  Now fuck off.

Pedicabo Ergo Sum

The Tutor:  "I am an unwell man.  I am a wicked man.  An unattractive man.  I think my liver hurts."

Me:  "So it's come to this has it?  Channelling dead Russians now are we?

The Tutor:  "You are familiar with "Notes From The Underground"?"

Me:  "Is not everyone?  Well at least the smart ones?"

The Tutor:  "Intelligence is a knave, but stupidity is honest and straightforward."

Me:  "I am a base, immoral and unprincipled person - very devious.  I guess that explains why I know stuff."



Give It Here!

It is awkward, it is messy and sticky and he can definitely do it so much better himself. I am beginning to think it is not that much different from attempting a piece of conceptual art for the benefit of Tracy Emin or alternatively and haphazardly trying to prepare a 'four minute egg' in the kitchen of Emily Watkinsor committing random and casual acts of wonton violence in front of Boots, my step-mother's cat. The tension is thick, and it is as if he is just about to, at any moment, engage in that behavior that exasperated neat freak OCDs do when their boyfriends, or girlfriends, half-arsedly try to iron something: “Give it here, I’ll do it myself!”

As it is with food, so should it be with the penis: if you are not at all willing to place it in your mouth, why are you fiddling with it in the first place?

I have heard that by sitting on your hand until it goes numb, or using your left hand if you are right-handed, and then having a go at yourself makes it feel like it's someone else doing it for you.

VD is right!

Girls just can't do it, try as they might. They either treat it as if it is an automobile gear-shift, ramming it into gear without the benefit of a clutch, or alternatively, treating it like a delicate Calla Lily causing its 'owner' no end of consternation as the troops die of old age waiting for the order to 'go over the top'.
Bilious C. Pudenda aka:The Tutor

BCT/TT and VD would like to apologize for the distinct lack of sweariness in the above prose. Cunts!

Penta Pudendae

The Tutor:  "Until recently, I had considered your abject cuntery to be a result of familial compliance coupled with some minor cultural influences.  You were an obvious predictive consequence of social determinism.  Imagine my surprise, however, when it was revealed that your affliction was hereditary rather than habitual?  You and your ilk do indeed possess 'cuntish tendencies'.  And in retrospect, it is evident that you are quite obviously, 'born cunts'.  You are quite simply a product of biological determinism.
How could I have possibly missed that?
Dictates of social engineering require that your movements and whereabouts be monitored through a system of compulsory registration and travel permits."

Me:  "So I am to be considered 'degenerate' and 'unfit' now am I?  Am I to expect the eventual segregation or institutionalization of my kith and kin?  Does the future foresee forced sterilizations and euthanasia also?"

The Tutor:  "Well, it won't be nearly that bad.  You will become a useful and well trodden underclass in your own right.  You'll have a social stratum to call your very own."

Me:  "You've been reading that cousin of Charles Darwin again, haven't you?"

The Tutor:  "He invented the 'Quincunx'!  And that, my little cuntrel, is highly correlative - statistically speaking."

Me:  "Droll"


I am aware that the title of this post, "Penta Pudendae", is a mixture of Greek and Latin, and accordingly, nothing good can possibly come of it.
So what?
So is the word "television" and that has proven to be very enlightening over the years, yes?


Punishing The Tutor

The Tutor:  "Punish me by any other means provoked authority can invent; condemn me to pass the whole remainder of my days in lonely solitude; shut me from all society, or banish me where only lions and tigers dwell.  Fate cannot possibly reach me in any shape so horrid as the embraces of you this ill-fragrant afternoon."

Me:  "Oh come on!  I had one garlic and bean burrito for lunch.  It can't be all that bad."

The 'Gang Of Four' Meme

Tagged by XXXXXXXXX, a Professor friend from the Canadas. In spite of the fact he is a Brit, he isn't a bad guy.  He's a bastard now though as he knows I hate these things.
Nevertheless, in the interests of harmony and in the spirit of The Commonwealth and because I must oblige all meme requests as a condition of my parole, I proffer the following for your great joy and enlightenment.

4 Jobs I’ve had:
1) Brake
2) Steve
3) Sadly not blow
4) Always been self-employed. In the Game

4 Films I could watch over and over:
1) DVD is busted.
2) Don't watch the surfaces of custards
3) Groundhog Day
4) Beneath The Planet of the Groundhog Day

4 Places I have lived:
1) La Vida Loca
2) Dangerously
3) In sin
4) To rue the day the meme was invented

4 Favourite TV shows:
1) Television? A mixture
2) of Greek and Latin.
3) Nothing good can
4) come of it.

4 Favourite Foods:
1) Phad Thai
2) 6 Year Old Cheddar
3) Macadamia nuts
4) Music

4 Websites I visit everyday:
1) Mine
2) Mine
3) Mine
4) Cats in Sinks

4 Places I would love to be:
1) Agra, India
2) First
3) My bed
4) Indelicate

4 Favourite Colours:
1) Pretty
2) Indelicate
3) Coccineous
4) LSD

4 Names I love but would/could not use for my children:
1) Burst Pipe
2) Tsunami
3) Bastard Face
4) George

Fashion Tip

Dispose of all your clothing and buy a monk’s habit. That is exactly what I'm going to do. I can no longer be bothered with proper clothes and washing, drying and ironing anymore. I was just loading up my carry-on and I thought to myself: "What a pain in the arse it all is". Actually, because I used quotation marks there, I suppose I said it out loud. In future, I’m going to travel with nothing but the oufit I'm wearing, that is a monk’s habit, a toothbrush, and something to read. All else is vanity and vexation of spirit. Also, I'm sure never to be mugged if I am dressed like Friar Tuck.

Only arseholes go to the mall. All those years I spent buying “shirts." I cannot believe what a sucker I’ve been. The fashion industry; that is a racket run by French woofters, has brainwashed everyone. That’s the only reason people want “shirts”. Well I’m not going to take it any more.

Seriously, wear a monk’s habit. If you think about it, it really makes sense. When you consider all the advantages, it is eccentric not to wear a monk’s habit.
Bilious C. Pudenda

Poor Bilious is trying to navigate the wilderness of fashion. Like many of us he is woefully perplexed. I could have given him the answer if he had only asked!
Vagina Dentata

Lyrical Odyssey

Me:  "The daily routines of blogging, Wikipedia research, responding to one's adoring commenters and the like are quiet and undramatic.  Breathing air and drinking water are quiet too: it is only when we run short of them that things become dramatic.  This is where I believe we must find our happiness - in the daily routines and ordinary realities of life - in the quotidian, not in the extraordinary."

The Tutor:  "ALT-F, this is neither the time nor place for your contrivance of such soft phrases.  Your incessant weaving of whimsical verbal tapestries into trite, lyrical odysseys through the landscape and fabric of your philosophies begins to chafe.  These unfolding nomadic narratives, rife as they might be with the cadence of Asian poetry, are rude and boring."

Me:  "You've been reading Truman Capote again, haven't you?  Together with Douglas Adams?"

The Tutor:  "Hang on.  I'm not done.  I need to work-in the words warp and weft."

Internet Salvation

The Tutor:  “We will never know the extent of the damage the Internet has wrought and is continuing to inflict upon us.”

Me:  “Nonsense!  The Internet is your only salvation; providing, as it does, sufficient distraction from your constant, cursory awareness of passing time and diminishing opportunities.”

Invasion Of Privacy

With Twitter and Facebook?
Since the invention of Facebook and Twitter, that term, 'Invasion of Privacy', now hopelessly un-tethered from any perceived serious social dangers - like loss of liberty - has become quite elastic in the service of  avarice, surveillance and the so-called 'prevention of terror'.


Excessive Solicitude

The Tutor:  "How 'bout this then:  'When you sponsor a girl like VD, you’ll be doing more than just putting food on her table and a roof over her head.  If just one in every four Americans gave only one single dollar once a week - that's less than the cost of a single cup of so-so coffee from a third-rate non-branded coffee outlet per week - to folks like VD a lot could be accomplished.  No one, least of all VD, should ever have to go to bed hungry.'  What do you think?"

Me:  "That would guarantee me and my kinfolk a weekly income of about 80 million dollars - that's a little in excess of 4 billion dollars a year.  That kind of money buys a lot in my home village you know.  Enough dog haunch and cassava tubers to stretch from here to the planet Neptune."

The Tutor:  "Yeah, that does seem a bit excessive doesn't it?"

Carry On Fucking

The Tutor:  "Tradiola, little missy, is the new sex."

Me:  "Really?  What happened to the old sex?"

The Tutor:  "It went the way of the Dodo I'm afraid."

Me:  "Why was I not informed of this?"

The Tutor:  "To spare your feelings."

Me:  "I think that motivation unlikely.  You know people have feelings and that's exactly why you try to hurt them.  To spare someone's feelings is just not in you."

The Tutor:  "You're right.  You were not told in order to spare my feelings.
Once you adapted your behaviour to accommodate the new paradigm, my options would be severely restricted."

Making Dinner Plans

Me:  "I've been despondent of late, keening in the elevator at work and hugging my knees in the shower."

The Tutor:  "Do you know why?  Is there anything I can do?"

Me:  "No, I'll be fine."

The Tutor:  "I'll tell you what, let's go out to dinner.  That Thai place you like.
My treat."

Me:  "Thanks, I guess I could do that."

The Tutor:  "It's settled then."

Two hours later after an expensive meal.......

The Tutor:  "Wait a minute.  You don't have an elevator at work!"

Me:  "Took you long enough."

The Tutor:  "I hate you!"

Me:  "Nonsense!  You adore my exotic, Asian legerdemain."

The Tutor:  "Is that what you call it?  I call it a civil tort at common law and an indictable offence in this legal jurisdiction."

Me:  "I hate you!"


Silver-studded Sabre-toothed Dream

The Tutor says they just don't make music like this anymore.  Half of me says, "Thank god", the other half says, "Pity that".

Gritty sexy sultry sweaty angst

Not Any More!


Rules Of Engagement

Serious sport has nowt to do with 'fair play'.  The playing fields of Eton are continually awash in hatred, jealousy, boastfulness, disregard of all rules and sadistic pleasure in witnessing violence and brutality:  in other words sport is war minus the shooting.

Rules of war?  What the fuck?  Are you mad?  What good is knowing you've fought the good fight - had a good innings - if you lose the war?  Inhabiting the moral high ground because you followed 'the rules' and didn't 'become like them' won't protect your women from rape or your children from enslavement if you lose.  It's war, ya moron, you have to win - and at all costs.

War is sport plus the shooting.



  50 cc  Russian vodka
  50 cc  British 'London' gin
120 cc  Tonic water
  20 cc  Lime juice

Stir with someone's penis, no ice.

I call it a:  Kim Philby!

Clever.  Innit?

If you use Plymouth gin, NOT London gin, with a dash of Angostura bitters. 

I call it a:  Guy Burgess!

Cleverer still.  Innit?


The Great VD

The Tutor:  "VD is a run-of-the-mill product of our mass-media consumptive democracy - and no mistake.  With no discernible and distinctive contribution to make to the history of her species, she is quite satisfied to simply accumulate money and seduce men.  She is content to thrive "el flagrante" as a degenerate child of Eros - and constantly mistake appearance for reality - like Jay Gatsby.  Female but not womanly and living on threadbare ideas.  She is without beauty, without virtue, without even the slightest independence of spirit."

Me:  "I don't care.  I don't have to.  I'm VD."

And Your Point?

I've read the book 20 times and I'm a big beardy, bawdy, burly drinker of stout, who loves football, scratching me arse, picking me nose and buying/selling crap on eBay for a hideously small savings/profit....

But when Elizabeth says, "My feelings are quite the opposite" when Darcy re-proposes at the end.....
I blub every time!
And I don't care...
Bear that.

The Tuor


Conspiracies of Truth

The Tutor:  "It's rather obvious to me President Bush and the CIA were behind the 911 attacks.  Science proves that jet fuel does not burn hot enough to have melted/deformed the steel girders which scientists say was the cause of the collapse of the Twin Towers.  The collapse was orchestrated with demolition charges installed prior to the attack.  End of."

Me:  "Are you mental?  The two aircraft that hit the Twin Towers were originally destined for the west coast; they were transcontinental flights!

ALL commercial and Government transcontinental flights are fitted with huge tanks of BZ(1) for the creation of 'crop-dusting' chemtrails for the purposes of continental mind-control.  Who knows at what temperature those chemicals burn?  For instance, both Xanax and Zoloft each burn at twice the temperature of jet fuel - more than enough to perturb the structural integrity of even the most tensile of girder steel.  It seems pretty obvious to me President Bush and the CIA were not involved in the way you profess."

The Tutor:  "You're on to something there!"

Me:  "Ha!  Using one conspiracy theory to negate t'other.  Then again, when one considers that the majority of those who worked in the twin towers were Yankees and that ALL Yankees are medicated courtesy of America's major pharmaceutical companies, it is not unreasonable to speculate that the quantity of Xanax, Zoloft and BZ(1) needed to melt the girders was already in place in the purses, pockets and blood-streams of the workers and in the desks, cabinets, hutches and credenzas of every office."

The Tutor:  "Maybe President Bush and the CIA really are to blame after all.

Perhaps the way they ran their powerfully free fiefdom traumatized the majority of the American serfs requiring them to medicate in order to cope AND also irked Mr. Atta and his rump-rogering bum-buddies to the point they felt they needed to act?"

Me:  "You hate our Freedom, don't you?"

The Tutor:  "Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to loose."

Me:  "Didn't I make you feel like you were the only man - yeah!

An' didn't I give you nearly everything that a woman possibly can ?
Honey, you know I did!
And each time I tell myself that I, well I think I've had enough,
But I'm gonna show you, baby, that a woman can be tough.
I want you to come on, come on, come on, come on and take it,
Take it!
Take another little piece of my heart now, baby!
Oh, oh, break it!
Break another little bit of my heart now, darling, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Oh, oh, have a!
Have another little piece of my heart now, baby,
You know you got it if it makes you feel good,
Oh, yes indeed."

(1)  3-Quinuclidinyl benzilate (QNB, BZ, EA-2277), IUPAC name 1-azabicyclo[2.2.2]oct-3-yl 2-hydroxy-2,2-diphenylacetate, is an odourless mind incapacitating agent.  Its NATO code is BZ.

My Pharmaceuticals Have Arrived!

I can't remember. Is it black for Zoloft and white for Xanax?
Or is it the other way round?
Sheesh, I'm such a silly bunny.


Stress Inducing

Do you think I actually enjoy possessing these vast intellectual powers I cannot possibly control or even effectively mobilise?  Believe you me, I would much rather be as incredibly stupid as are you.
O! The bliss of it!
And don't think I am beggaring you with this statement either.

People tell me I’m not only stubborn when it comes to change, but also terribly closed-minded.  Nonsense I say.  There's nothing closed-minded about rejecting new ideas that might cause me stress and make me uncomfortable.
Now is there?
No there is not.

In Defence Of The Realm


To commemorate the recently-passed 949th anniversary of the Battle of Hastings, I've decided to reveal to the civilized world the fruits of my painstaking decades-long research into discovering, and verifying, the last words of Harold Godwinson (Harold II), King of England as he defended his country against an invasion of a disgusting array of horrid Norman-French cunts.

To wit:

"Dolor! Heu faecem! Nunc futui sum!"

For those properly schooled in Latin, the above monstrosity was composed specifically such that when "sent to" Google Translateas most of my dear readers will need to do, the appropriate English translation is revealed. 

Google Translate is not cooperating.  It is translating "Nunc futui sum" as "Now I poked".  Translate the word "futui" alone for the real reading.  Though apropos, the word 'poked' was not used by our man the King.

The Man I Love

The Tutor professes he's a feminine kind of guy.
He thinks highly feminine is better than masculine anyway.  That's why all his clients are women.  And all his girlfriends are women too.

Speaking of the man I love:

Maybe Tuesday will be my good news day.
He'll build a little home,
Just meant for two.
From which I'll never roam,
Who would - would you?

Who in their right fucking mind would do that to that wonderful music?  Who would?  Would you?
As a lyricist Ira sucked.



Kate Bush did a cover of that tune!
Can you believe it?

Out on the wiley, windy moors
We'd roll and fall in green.
You had a temper, like my jealousy.
Too hot.  Too greedy.
How could you leave me
When I needed to possess you?
I hated you.  I loved you too.

When the mellow moon begins to beam
Ev'ry night I dream a little dream.
And of course Prince Charming is the theme,
The he for me.

There is no god!


Suzie Wong

Prior to the hand-over of The Pearl of the Orient to mainland China in July, 1997, The Tutor, whenever he found himself there, would frequent the not-so-famous-these-days Wanchai bar at the Luk Kwok Hotel.  The very same hotel where the legend of Suzie Wong was born.

A Bar Girl:  "May I help you sir?"

The Tutor:  "How much would it cost to go upstairs?"

A Bar Girl:  "200 sir."

The Tutor:  "How much unaccompanied?"

The Tutor, always a class act.
Reminds me of the time The Tutor and I found ourselves sidling up to the Long Bar at Raffles in Singapore.

Me:  "Nu?  What are ya havin'?"(1)

The Tutor:  "I think I'll have a diet ginger ale."

Me:  "Seriously?"

The Tutor:  "Well yeah, I am getting a little chubby.  I can't afford the calories."

(1)  This, obviously, was a rhetorical question, not meant to be answered.  The answer is horridly self evident.  It's Raffles for fuck's sake.


The Tutor:  "The thing about sexiness is you can't be sexy without it."

Me:  "What?  That's just lame."

The Tutor:  "Think about it."

Me:  "Oh I get it.  It has metaphysical, even existential connotations.  Right?"

The Tutor:  "Maybe." 

a native English suffix of adjectives meaning “characterized by or inclined to” the 
substance or action of the word or stem to which the suffix is attached. Sometimes used  to mean “allowing, fostering, or bringing about” the specified action.


a native English suffix attached to adjectives and participles, forming abstract nouns denoting quality and state (and often, by extension,something exemplifying a quality or state)