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


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.
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."


It seems a Jane Austen-esque riposte is best,

"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.


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?"


The Management Telephone call:


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."


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?


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.
Where the fuck is Kelly and Old Blue Eyes?

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?


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?"



VD Angst Part I

Me:  "I was tested for autism as a child because I would not speak to anyone except my mother, my older brother and occasionally to one of my cats.
I could sit somewhere for hours and say nothing.
I miss those days."

The Tutor:  "I don't see why you miss that since blogging, especially your blogging, is also you just 'sitting somewhere for hours saying nothing'.
Just saying."

Plica Palpebronasalis

Me:  "You're just jealous!  Asians are superior to you white folk.  Do you require proof of our superior status?  How's this:  we of the  Mongoloid Race have three copies of our 21st and you of the Caucasoid and Negroid Races have but a measly two!

The Tutor:  "'Mongoloidism', a now pejorative term, was used to label those folks who sported either partial or complete trisomy of the 21st chromosome.
This was NOT something one would want to possess, much less brandish."

Me:  "Oh dear.  You're not too swift are you?

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.

The Wanderings of Vagina Dentata

Some time ago, I spent a few blissful weeks one summer in Drumcliff, County Sligo, Republic of Ireland.  Ahhhhh......... the wonderfully halcyon days of one's misspent youth.  Innit?
On one particular warm and dewy night, while meandering about in a drunken haze after imbibing too many "Marmite Shots" enwrought with whiskey - not whisky - at my local, I happened upon the restful graveyard of St. Columba's.
Memories of my recent tryst in the loo with a "mad, bad and dangerous to know" Republican rapscallion raced through my veins and mind.  Feeling a bit flushed, I took off my clothing and lay upon a nearby bed of cool, river-washed pebbles and fell fast asleep.
Upon awakening hours later, in the shadow of a grey monolith, I found myself surrounded by a group of Yankee tourists staring in pity upon my nubile yet gravelly form.

"Cast a cold Eye
On Life, on Death,
On pebbled Flesh.
Horseman, pass by!"

Is all I said.  

King of Jerusalem

His Majesty The King Juan Carlos I of Spain has abdicated in favour of his son, Crown Prince Felipe.  I hope he soon enters politics, 'cause I'd sure vote for him!
I remember the 2007 Ibero-American Summit in Santiago, Chile wherein a watershed moment in International Diplomacy was enacted.  When the now dead Venezuelan President Hugo Chávez repeatedly interrupted the speech of the then Prime Minister of Spain, José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero, His Majesty the King interjected:

¿Por qué no te callas?

I just love that man!
Did you know that His Majesty The King's many titles and honours includes that of King of Jerusalem (As successors to the royal family of Naples).
That's cool.
I wonder if anyone has bothered to inform the Israelis, Palestinians and other interested parties in that benighted area of the world that they have a King?



I can't help but think this would be a perfect solution to the troubles in the Middle East.
Reconstitute the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem over which will reign its rightful titular head; The Monarchy of Spain.  And as an extra bonus, the Spanish Monarchy has links to:

- Her Majesty Victoria, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland Queen, Defender of the Faith, Empress of India.

- The Hapsburg Dynasty through Emperor Charles V of the Holy Roman Empire.

- The House of Bourbon through Louis Quatorze, Le Roi Soleil of France.

- The Carpetian Dynasty and the royal family of Poland.

At the very least, the Tapas Bars that spring up all over the place would be a welcome respite from the vile Falafel dumps they have now.  How could the various factions continue to kill each other when plenty of cheap chopitos and boquerones are to be found on every corner?  The serving of tapas is designed to encourage conversation because people will not be so focused upon eating an entire meal, quickly, before once again filling the streets to resume killing each other. Tapas consumption is known to elicit quiet dialogue and camaraderie.

Another solution to the troubles in the Middle East would be to turn the entire fucking place into a self-lighting and glass-bottomed parking lot with nukes.
Drastic, but effective.
Of course, those currently living there would be escorted out prior to the deluge.  I can hear the hue and cry now, from both Palestinian and Jew alike, in unison and in English, "Shite!  Here we go again!"

~Bilious C. Pudenda~ 

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.


Dance Me To The Wall

Is it me or has 2016 been a very bad year for death?


Sic Transit Gloria Honeyblossom

The Tutor:  "Heavenly Hiraani Tiger Lily Hutchence Geldof is almost dead!  First her Aussie pa orfs himself* with a bit of snake-skin on November 22, 1997, just after she was born.  Her mam then goes and orfs herself* with an opiate on September 17, 2000, when she was four.  And then, her fruity step-sister orfs herself* with sommat on April 6, 2014, when she was 17.  I'm thinking there might be a genetic predisposition for this sort of behaviour amongst these folks.  Nature of course, certainly not nurture!  Yes?"

Me:  "I'm fucking thinking you should learn to speak fucking English you creepy old man.  The present continuous tense should only be used to describe continuous actions which are taking place at that very moment, and should only be used with continuous verbs. Non-continuous verbs should never be used with the present continuous tense; one should use the simple present.

You with your 'I'm thinking there might be...' and Ronald with his 'I'm loving it' can all be fucking off."

The Tutor:  "You're just jealous your parents didn't name you Fifi Trixibelle."

Me:  "I'm thinking Astala Dylan Willow Phaedra Bloom Forever is exotic enough."

* According to some folks, they weren't suicides, but a result of "foolish and incautious" behaviour.

Fair enough.



The Tutor:  "Care for a shag?"

Me:  'It is not convenient."

The Tutor:  "You mean proper?"

Me:  "Proper?  No.  Convenient."

You would not believe how many times I have used that line since I saw "The Russia House" way back in 1990.  You know, when both Connery(1) and Pfeiffer were sexy.


(1)  Of course Sean is still sexy, but as we  all know, the sexiest man alive, or dead, is still - and will always be - Paul Newman.


Nephew not a Fag

This is my new nephew, Des or Baz or Jez, or something. Or Peregrine.

He’s five days old already. They do grow up fast, don’t they? It seems like only yesterday that he was four days old.

No sign of him being a fag yet, thank God.

To protect the infant's privacy, I have replaced his photo with a photo of Paul Hogan, the well-known heterosexual.

Fucking With Neo-Nazis

Dear Neo-Nazi Defence Cohort League,
I have noticed that your collective spokesmen have been, over the last decades or so, 'silenced' in one way or another when they decry that the Holocaust did not occur.  I think it regrettable that upstanding christian white-folks like yourselves cannot deny the Holocaust if it should suit them to do so.
It's just, like, totally unfair.  These politically correct times are a real pain in the a**.  I think I might have a solution though.  If one cannot deny the Holocaust, perhaps one can deny the world conflagration within which the Holocaust occurred?  If one denies that World War II actually took place, one is de facto denying the Holocaust took place.  Smart, right?
I've checked with a Lawyer, a Jew as it happens, and she tells me this will work!


Bilious C. Pudenda

Dear Bilious C. Pudenda,
Thank you for your email and your suggestion.  We think it unlikely that people would believe that World War II did not happen.  We ourselves are certain World War II took place.  We respect Herr Hitler and his supreme philosophies and he is rather connected to World War II.  It certainly took place. We are quite certain that people, even White Christian folk, would think us to be idiots if we took this position.
Thank you again for your email and suggestion.  Do keep in touch.


Neo-Nazi Defense Cohort League

Dear Awesome White-Boys,
I understand how denying that World War II in its entirety took place might be problematical, but one must weigh one's priorities.  If denying the Holocaust is of pre-eminent importance, sacrifices will be needed.  And as far as your belief that folks will consider you to be idiots for denying WWII, I would not worry.  As it is now, the vast majority of Humanity consider y'all to be idiotically imbecilic and inbred morons already and taking this position could not possibly besmirch your well earned reputation for totally fuct learned exposition.
Just sayin' is all.


Bilious C. Pudenda

No Response



  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?



Me:  "Mes tres chers amis de mon coeur, or words to that effect, I have this message for The Tutor, 'You are nowt but an aged scapegrace'."

The Tutor:  "Scapegrace?  Well, let me just say this little Missy: I am sophisticated, soigné, sumptuously attired; rigorously cosmopolitan, regularly un peu distrait, relentlessly loaded, and I am above all things brutally heterosexual.  For instance when a lady calls for my ministrations, regardless of the cause, I rush to her loins.  A broken heart, a bouncing cheque or a circulatory system rife with Butyrophenone can all be eased by my warm and coddling embrace and a working knowledge of oral anti-psychotics.  What price the frightfully jolly old ‘season of mists and mellow fruitfulness’, eh, VD?
‘Tis the time now for new posts.  Innit?  I would oft-times settle down with a steaming pot of Darjeeling and 120 milligrams of Pyridostigmine Bromide(1), the better to enjoy the reports of your rustic, rural rambles.  Any chance of re-running at least your greatest works, with a dedication to our dear friend Griselda - The Fucking Scorpio?  It will remind us of happier times, before Blogger fell to the juggernaut of Facebook and bang went the neighbourhood."

A copse of Elder leaves about your Fascinator to keep the flies at bay.

(1)   Pyridostigmine to off-label treat POTS

The Cunt-cation

The wonderfully honest Travel Industry has coined many variants of the word Vacation in order to accommodate the disparate reasons why folks might want a specialised itinerary when on holiday.
For instance;
A Graycation is a package designed with the elderly traveller in mind.  A vacationer content with an all inclusive tour package where nothing is left to chance and all the activities are pre-planned and designed to suit an older, slower lifestyle.
A Raycation would be a package designed with the hedonistic sun-worshiper in mind.   Beaches, tanning-beds, lounge chairs and endless sunshine; you get the picture.
The Straycation was developed to accommodate the less-than-faithful folks who wish to, if not break at least bend, their vows.  These packages allow the fidelity-challenged and randy singles and couples to partake of pleasant diversions with strangers outside the traditional relationship(s) they might have back home.
The Gaycation is a special subset of vacation experience for a specific demographic.  Packages include resorts and itineraries that are homosexual and/or lesbian friendly or themed. A big hit.
That Siberian Soya-based twat, Griselda, - the 'Boadicea of Dupont Circle' - travels twice a year on Braycation with her pet donkey - the filthy, bestial cunt!
And that rather dyslexic cunt: The Tutor, thinking he was registering for a Viking-themed Slaycation in ever-so pregnable Lindisfarne, inadvertently signed up for a Danegeld-themed Spaycation in Skegness instead.  As a result, he is now a little light in the loafers.

Ha!  Danegeld - Spaycation - get it?

The Scrying Cunt

Some girls tell me that when they are with a man they use them for ecstasy.  I cannot comment on that, but what I can say is that using men for extispicy is not without its Cassandral benefits. 

Mea Maxima Culpa

It appears I have inadvertently tweaked the clitoris of the resident Alpha female; who, as we speak, is attempting to re-assert her dominance.  The non-denouncing of me by the Alpha male has forced her to hang about.  It seems I am considered a rival.
Nonsense, of course, but heh, de-feminised Yankee wimmen know no other way; so indoctrinated by the horrid Yankee Patriarchy as they are.(1)
I am not a threat Ms. Alpha female.
I am utterly besotted by that antipodean Kiwi cunt.  I mean, would  the otherwise awesome, and eminently effable, Alpha perform an exquisite Haka before ravaging his intended?
I think not.
And let's face it girls, nowt, and I mean NOWT, naturally lubricates the organs of matrimonial necessity quite like a Ka Mate Haka!
Thy tongue deviseth mischiefs; (Psalms 52:2, KJV)

As much as I enjoy yins and this Internet cloaca of yours, Alpha, I fear your toadies are too vociferous in their dullardic(2) protestations of my presence to render any further visits of yours truly comfortably tenable.  If only they possessed the matrix and efficacy of a delightful nuero-synaptic transmission network such as do we.  Unclouded as it must be by ego and that horrid clique/tribe/pack mentality they's all has in your wank-circle.

(1) Having been born into the Ruling Class of a decidedly non-Western Matriarchal culture in the country formerly known as Burma, I know of what I speak.  Did you know that in my native tongue, we do not have a word for Feminism?  We do have, as you might surmise, a word for Masculinism.
Funny that.
Despite the totalitarian nature of our socio-economic political system, we's quite enlightened; we even tolerate Masculinazi writers.
I mean we haven't burned all the copies of our most infamous Masulinazi pop-up books.
The Male EunuchThe Masculine Mystique and even The Penis Monologues can all be had after presentation of the right paperwork.  We've even managed to convince our males to cherish their virginity and adopt its concept as something which they should be proud to maintain - at least until they are sold into indentured servitude by their mothers that is.
Can you believe it?

(2) My neologism.  It certainly isn't listed in the OED.

The Vulvanator!

Bites back, more like!

I now know what my costume will be for the soon-to-be upcoming First Annual Fancy Dress Debauched Bacchanal.  Last year I wore nowt but a white camisole upon which was written in multiple instances the words, Ego, Id and Superego in black cursive script.
Get it?



Sterculian Rhetoric 13 December 2015 at 15:31
I imagine the above toadying dullards had to research the word, among countless others no doubt, 'quixotically'.
And I too can employ baseball metaphors: "A very thought provoking and entertaining article from right field thank you." Unfortunately, even in the interests of mocking the less intellectually endowed, I cannot bring myself to use punctuation happy faces. Apologies.
Speaking of Quixote, The Tutor wrote some pretty poetry for me, entitled Erotica Dulcinea. I found it quite humourous, but The Tutor maintains that women by the score cannot wait to drop their drawers for him when he reads it to them. Go figure. White women! Meh!

Person #1 14 December 2015 at 03:53
Actually, sweet child, I didn't need to research - and I'm sure Kath didn't either. You do very well (for one so young) in using big grown-up words - and giving the impression that you understand them. No mean achievement for a youngster!
There is however, more to being a polemicist (I suggest you Google it) than stamping your little foot, metaphorically sticking your tongue out at the grown-ups, and generally shouting "Hey! Everybody! Lookit me! Lookit me!".
Nevertheless, a promising - if somewhat unsophisticated - start.

Sterculian Rhetoric 14 December 2015 at 04:18
"......There is however, more to being a polemicist.........."
You're telling me! I thought it would be easy to do, but on my first attempt at the Hercules(No Handed Chopper) move, I slipped and got rug burn on the old Mons Veneris.
I don't deal in metaphor. I live in simile. Like for instance, my Performance Art Sheela Na Gig gets all the attention from grown-ups I can possibly stand.

Person #1 14 December 2015 at 05:17
Perhaps they (the grown-ups, that is) are wondering if you were placed above a door or a window, you would successfully ward off evil spirits.
If you could, you could be invaluable in the weeks prior to an election...

Sterculian Rhetoric 14 December 2015 at 11:08
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above a chamber door?
Perched? Alas! A fucking bore.
Quoth the VD, "Nevermore."

Person # 2 15 December 2015 at 09:06
SR is, by her own admission, an Asian woman. Could be young, could be old, there's no telling from her English-as-a-foreign-language gibberings, facile and pointless as they are. She also calls herself VD, which, with unconcious irony is not referring to a disease, but a toothed vagina.
Unfortunately like so many trolls, her witterings are turning up on lots of good sites, which are not improved by the comments she expresses.
Please go away and grow up, or grow old, learn proper English and then attempt to make intelligent comments which add to the points under discussion, rather than debasing them. Thank you.

Sterculian Rhetoric 15 December 2015 at 10:18
I also call myself:
Aquarians Love To Fuck - ALT-F
Pudenda Non Grata - PNG
Do you, Ed P have the authority to make this request of me on the blog of another? And even if that Saxon cunt were to grant you such, why would I have to both go away AND grow up, or grow old? I should think simply going away would suit your sensitivities, why would you care what happens next?
And would you be so kind as to enlighten me regarding how it is, exactly, I am not rendering the Queen's English properly?
Now as far as my witterings(sic) are concerned, you are indeed quite correct, they are both pointless and facile. Regarding these 'lots of good sites' upon which I am reputed to be 'turning up', I can imagine how the content of the comments I express would not 'improve' them, but am I meant to?
This sentence fragment of yours,
"......her witterings(sic) are turning up on lots of good sites...."
Is this an example of proper English you request that I should learn? Since when has a phrasal verb, 'turning up' been considered proper English(1)? And wouldn't the phrase 'lots of good sites' be more properly formatted as, 'many good sites'? Is the word 'witterings' actually a word? It does not appear in my OED. Perhaps it is a vulgar vernacular heard only within earshot of Bow Bells? Informal dialect? Argot reflective of your Class?
I would like to take the liberty to rewrite your sentence fragment.
To wit:
.......her vile word salads are appearing on many good sites....
Reads much better, Innit?
And as for the 'troll' epithet?
What do Ibsen, Grieg and Gynt have to do with anything?
I do not troll, my voice is terrible. I do not trawl either, at least not here or at the fine establishment of one, Dioclese. Both of these cunts have known me for two or more years. At what point do I cease becoming a Trawl and become one in the 'Community'?
(1) In fact, it is a phrasal verb which ends in a preposition. Now we all know that ending a sentence, or anything for that matter, in a preposition is something up with which Sir Winston and I will not put. Innit?
Don't fuck with me little man, I'll eviscerate you. Ask Saxon about that which I am capable.

Sterculian Rhetoric 15 December 2015 at 10:57
Please to notice I did not 're-arsehole you with a claw hammer' as Dioclese would say regarding your curious spelling of the word 'unconscious' and your use of the wonderfully creative neologism 'gibberings'. Regarding the latter, I am aware how one can change a verb (gibber) into a noun by the addition of the suffix '-ing' (gibbering). In this particular case, I am not altogether sure you can now pluralize this resultant noun with the further suffixing of an 's'. Or is the word, gibberings to be treated now as a noun which takes a singular agreement like the words 'checkers' or 'billiards'? Has the suffixing of the 's' to the noun 'gibbering' lost its plural connotation altogether and is now to be understood like the words, 'preggers' or 'starkers' or 'bonkers'?
I would like some help on this from you, an obvious native speaker of The Queen's English.



How Many Miles High?

You choose!

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



According to some, one of these two statesmen was not born in the USA

Please pray for His Majesty The King Rama IX


Great Shit!

By popular request I proffer the following;


And, of course...........

I'm a girl, okay?  Give me a break.


Oliver Wendell Douglas

Some obviously young Yankee snotter on The New Yorker website has taken it upon himself to compare and contrast the films, The Longest Day (1962) and Saving Private Ryan (not 1962).
Typically, The Longest Day does not fare as well as The Tutor thought it should.  I read the Yankee's piece, and I thought it was well balanced.
I do, however, agree with The Tutor's comment regarding the Yankee's interpretation of the beach scene between Robert Mitchum and Eddie Albert.

The Yankee writes,
"......the American officers are plainspoken(sic) and casual; they wear comfortable, ugly uniforms.
Their judgement is virtually flawless and always aggressive. (The one officer who advises retreat amid the slaughter on Omaha Beach, played by Eddie Albert, quickly dies.)  In the field, they change plans, improvise, go for broke......"

The Tutor's comment,
"I am not so sure of this interpretation.  Reviewing the scene, Eddie Albert quickly smiles when he is told by Robert Mitchum that there will be no retreat.
I reckon Mr. Albert's entreaties for retreat to Mr. Mitchum were rhetorical and meant by him (Mr. Albert) to be refused by Mr. Mitchum's character - and he was obviously happy they were.  Eddie was a true fightin' man!  His subsequent death was not punishment for not being aggresive enough, au contraire, it was but (a) foreshadowing of his impending professional demise.
He will, a few years later, be married to a Gabor sister and be constantly upstaged by Arnold Ziffel"

The Tutor is funny.  Innit?

Why would he kill me? Bullets cost money!

I just watched "The Magnificent Seven - 2016".
Well, It has Denzel, which is cool, but alas, it doesn't have:
Yul Brynner
Steve McQueen
Charles Bronson
Eli Wallach
Horst Bucholz
Napoleon Solo
James Coburn(1)

And it certainly doesn't have:

By the way, James is one of the three who escape in The Great Escape.  Now if some fucker like Antoine Fuqua for instance,  decides to remake that film, well there will be blood my friend, lots and lots of vile Yankee blood.


America Hates Learning!

Speaking of non sequiturs that are not only blatantly not causative they are not even correlative, I proffer the following:

James Garfield, the 20th President of the United States of America, devised his own novel proof of the Pythagorean Theorem – something not often done since, well, Pythagoras. He was also fully ambidextrous. It was said that if you asked him a question he could write the answer in Latin with one hand and in Greek with the other – simultaneously!

And they shot him for this!!??!!??!!

America’s hatred for learning goes way back.

To wit:

J. Danforth Quayle, the 44th Vice President of the United States of America, is quoted as saying:

"I was recently on a tour of Latin America, and the only regret I have was that I didn't study Latin harder in school so I could converse with those people."

The American Education System, over the last 60 years, has gone from teaching Latin and Greek in high school to being forced to teach remedial English in college – and to her sons and daughters for whom English is vernacular!
This is why the 21st Century will belong to us Mongoloids, not you damn Librul Caucasoids – we value learning, even above personal liberty.
Scientia Potens Est
Knowledge Is Power!



Drop some acid and then watch this in 20 minutes,

I Want To Break Free

Mission control in Darmstadt, Germany, was able to confirm the impact had occurred at 11:19 GMT (12:19 BST; 13:19 CEST),when radio contact to the ageing spacecraft was lost abruptly.
The assumption is that the probe would have been damaged beyond use.

Of course, Rosetta was listening to Queen, so it weren't too bad.

When Rosetta hit 67P, I cried.


Unrealised Expectations

Me:  "Before we met I would think of you as a Roman-nosed, elegantly coiffed, Caucasoid god, pawing through your naugahyde bound library of classics whilst disdainfully inhaling a plash of Douro Valley port imprisoned in an immense Orreffors crystal snifter. I supposed you could also, if the occasion required, lift your leg over your shoulder and lick your own testicles - easily."

The Tutor:  "Before we met, I envisioned you delicately sniffing the portofino cuff of your 2,000 dollar silk bishop-sleeved  poet blouse for the scent of the 3,000 dollar perfume you apply to mask the horrid pong of having to actually write to the likes of me."

"We must not let in daylight upon magic" 
~Walter Bagehot

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."

Oh dear, a tad harsh Charlotte.  So you don't like her then?  I would very much enjoy a trip in a Time Machine wherein I bring the fairly maligned Jane to meet angsty 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 "Clintonize".
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."


An Unfamiliar Mode of Consumption

The Tutor has graciously volunteered to hold the bag and tube for me as I partake of my sacred Baalche in the traditional fashion.


Oppa Pudendam Style

It appears Lilibeth was either the diversion he as the psychopath he is, needed; or the diversion he as the psychopath he is, deserved.
Either way, the man is sated for the time being.

Following, as he normally would, the legal concept of 'res nullius' - since this fallen seraph was not at the moment the object of rights of any other specific subject - he availed himself of her charms.  He even went so far as to invoke 'terra nullius' on specific parts of her ample anatomy.  Though there may have been many 'indigenous' gentleman callers 'residing' in this newly discovered 'land', it is the well respected legal right of the more civilized interloping gentleman caller to 'take' this 'land' and put it to good use.

He ate, drank and performed well.  And the fair, fey and fay Griselda will, without doubt, never be loved like that again.  Here's hoping?  Nevertheless and notwithstanding, better her than me.

He regaled the rich, curvaceously fleshy cherub, as he is often wont to do, with his readily evident and sublimely resplendent, ‘Dress Classy, Fook Klassy and Despoil Lassie' aesthetic.

His “Pudendam Style” is known far afield and its essence is not only well reflected in the laudatory folkloric narratives found among those who were unluckily anointed with it, but it also forms the basis of the expansive and grisly detail one finds in the intricately conjectured cautionary tales of those who were luckily eschewed.

The Tutor:  "See this Man Purse and matching Carry-On?  They're Hermes 'Caleche-express' valises. A '12h Document Holder' - CA $7,095.00 and a matching 'Petite Cabine Suitcase' - CA $7,425.00.  I believe that travelling, like all things, is just another opportunity to strike a pose.  After all what better way to commemorate time spent out-of-town, be it for vacation or because of an intractable psychopathic compulsion, than with fabulous Pudendam Style?  My on-the-go accessories are constitutive of my essence and must always be on-point(1).  All that remains is to pack these luxurious travel companions with equally dapper ensembles.
Do you know where I got the money for them?"

Me:  "Where?"

The Tutor:  "Man-whoring!  Did you see my new Tesla Roadster?  Do you know where I got the money for it?"

Me:  "Man-whoring?"

The Tutor:  "Stock Market, but I got the money for the Stock Market from man-whoring."

Me:  "You're gay."

The Tutor:  "So jealz!  You know what I'm sayin', Oppa is Pudendam style!  Eh! Sexy Lady, Oppa is Pudendam style!"

(1)  Some would have this phrase spelt, "en pointe".  I, personally, have always found the use of Ballet metaphor to be pointeless

The included photographs are, of course, an artist's impression of Lilibeth Griselda in Dupont.  Although quite an accurate representation, after two and a half decades of wielding such weaponry, the armaments have suffered a slight inconvenience of gravity to be sure.