'tis Wicker Man happy hour, heathens, find yourself some bald mountain & get bare, if sexfully inclined. If you're me, it's a bare mountain whilst bald(ing).*
*Don't be correcting me with minutiae, no time. Stuff ain't gonna burn itself.**
**I'm kidding. No matches, rain left every stick soaked & I ran out of vino.***
***Hey look, a pyramid. Merci, extraterrestrials.****
****That's a right triangle, you idiot.*****
*****[speaks in tongues]******
******[raspberries, to fellow oldsters, now kids virtual bird]*******
*******The Earl needs a battlement.********
********Third-personing is the first sign of you-know-what, next, a hexentanz over the corpse of one's enemies to smite-in-the-bud any potential blood vengeance, such a tale soon adapted into epic verse, then a saucy puppet show, then a period piece that can do nothing but lose money except in certain overseas markets like Latvia.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, George Lucas gave Miss Prunella Vulgaris, Duchess of Hammer-on-Dulcimer & Juan, the Earl of Valdez, their eight bucks back. Cursed by the indifferent cosmos with this sudden influx of spendables & joined by Bear, bait & lovable ursine scamp, they foolishly wandered beyond the Cyclopean brutalism of their foetid asylum, beyond legend-haunted
Aegypt MLK Boulevard, beyond even the brooding monoliths that rend the heavens, over hill & dale, pothole & orange barrel, into an eldritch place named only within the hushed whispers of the wisest of sages --
--La serre du parc Rockefeller.
A strange house, full of stranger aeons, & horrified gazes --
-- for here there be vegetal horrors shewing as victuals. Oh, misery.
The crumbling remains of the Marquis of Twain, long thought lost in the fiery tributary of the Callahooga tribe, a warning to trespassers.
Turtle, how thou doth mock my writing desk.
Every man-eating vegetation has its thorn.
What unnameable alien flora deigns usurp sanity with such palpable strength?
Egads! Dread Cthulhu! Peonage, you must needs run!
No! Bear's infected by the Old One's cosmic goo how can that be?
Sadly, he must be left to his nameless fate.
His blasted eyes are everywhere! Cthulhu's, not Bear's, just so we're clear.
Freedom, horrible freedom & the knowledge it brings!
If this sea creature will not proffer a blackmail-worthy photo for either hero, then perhaps it can reveal safe passage --
-- to Cleveland, always classy &, most importantly, spawn of the stars-free.
That's nice, if you partake of human sacrifice & what cultist doesn't.
"We're going back to the asylum, aren't we," inquires the Earl.
"Duty bound is the Peonage," replies the Duchess."Plus, no slimy tendrils."
Such an underworld expedition mayhap be cliché, but at least it didn't cost anything. Eight bucks'll buy a whole gallon of petroleum distillate.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Love at first squeal
"Guess who likes you."
When fishy dives are served with chip(pie)s, well fucking Tartarus on a pitch, damn kids. Thank Cthulhu for Messi, that second spiked the bullshit in the nu -- wo!
Card this keyboard, ref! I never transpose letters, O my beautiful face, etc.
Hey, is that Paul Krugman?
Busts are for ladies & mantles
"I still get paid even if I'm a bum, right?"
"Randal does, why shouldn't you?"
Please do not draft
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
"If you don't like your job, you don't strike. You just go in every day and do it really half-assed. That's the German Way."
Rock chalk JaySchalke & their olé! so-called, could-have-landed-a-fleet-of-helicopters-in-the-gaps, I'm-on-coffee-break defense was U-G-L-Y sans alibi, as is the fact that I'm reduced to, barring intervention by the indifferent cosmos, rooting for the least devilish of the über-spenders, Barcelona.
So here's some pretty from the backyard of yours truly.
Something nicked that doe, though at least it wasn't (presumably) a bullet, the faintest of shockers in a suburb flush with crackerrific yahooery.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
The front page of today's PD:
Stoute barristers of the fote-ball, correck thine traveystie! A former bench-warmer's water-burden i' fatall combat with yon roge who once baiteth the mutt & tast'd the gruel of the gaol? O Thieveland, ye suff'ring the Lord's miserie to-day, thou graspeth at any mocke strawe of goodlie fortune to-morrow! Now, thro' the kynge's musick, I shall doeth th'equal but i' matters of heavenly import to the brain & soule physick of yr humblest servant.
Goeth, brigand, I say, goeth! fower I am stille rapt in thynkynge.
[note to self: half-assed ye olde English doesn't convey seriousness]
[self to self: try being serious for once]
[note to self: pfffffffffbbbbbbbbbbbbbbt]
Friday, April 22, 2011
Hey man, is that Ragnarok? Yeah man! Well turn it up, man!
Yestereve I see a vision of my village in need of its own patron saint, others do, why can't we join in, too, comical coming from a cultist of Cthulhu, no? No, we don't wear togas or pointy hats except when the local chapter of the Esoteric Order of Dagon puts on its annual Christmas pageant, the centerpiece of which is Animal House set for stage. Thus, up from some unnumbered circle of hell, where pagans of distinction dwell; where Ivar the Boneless holds court; where apologies are the ex-consort of inside jokery (I'm working on that epic swashbuckler, swear), not really, but gentlemanly 'tis I, floats on a noxious cloud of pestilence (aka the local industrial pit), the holy prestidigitator -- well, we haven't decided on whom just yet.
As chosen by a select panel of experts, the finalists:
"Dear Councilman Cimperman, may you overdose on kielbasa."
St. Anthony the Abbott, hogs.
"Wasting your time, Greg."
St. Gregory Thaumaturgus, lost causes.
If only your humble host was that pretty. At least I don't have a gallstone.
St. Drogo, gallstones, coffeehouse keepers & unattractive people.
Flying high again.
St. Joseph of Cupertino, "astronauts," dude.
Due to extended acid trip, forgets that brigands usually come armed.
St. Leonard ("Lenny") of Noblac, against robbers, robbery, brigands, or brigandage.
Works on a sex farm. Don't we all.
St. Hubbins, quality footwear.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Combining the two under pale grey sky & inside twelve-note combos (finish him!) only leads to whitewater tributaries, urchin-drenched corollaries & makeshift
fortune cookie aphorisms cranial graffiti worthy of the stall Dantean verse compounding the latent voltage of those that should be slumbering in their hearse but whose genetic drive to self-resurrect resurrects because I keep gifting them electricity. Yes, that that, that that that I never mention & with reason never fantastically splendiferous as failures of assassination that (not that that) leave me alive for them to kill me dead. Figuratively; ghosts can't type. Or can they, crooked eyebrow? Check your local listings.
I did pick up a few things for myself & the lunatic offspring at CPL's annual
let's get rid of our shit gently-used tome disposal, a mild shocker given the mounds of monthly flavors both various & boring, so it wasn't a total loss of interior control. It was (nearly) worth it for the wait alone.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
First I was like this
& all was right with the world 'cause accidents of birth didn't land me in a pee-pee soaked heck hole with nothin' to lose but a few quid to fuel permanent hypnosis of the self kind doo doo doo doo.....DOO.
Then I was like this
& I quit Barbarella cosplay cold turkey.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
Miss Prunella Vulgaris, The Duchess of Hammer-on-Dulcimer, esteemed member of the Peonage
Juan, The Earl of Valdez, less esteemed member of the Peonage
Zardoz, freshly served serf
Noman, background scenery
Master Baytes of Tampa, dread piratical buccaneer
Bear, bait and loveable ursine scamp
Library, interior, nighttime. the misty asbestos glow of artificial lighting is broken by MASTER BAYTES' glaring retort deigning to glare at the glare of ZARDOZ THE SERF, a field recording recorded twixt bewilderment and astonishment by MISS PRUNELLA VULGARIS.
MASTER BAYTES: I am here to walk me plank! Ye can try an' psychology me!
ZARDOZ: Ho ho, look at the wank!
NOMAN: Hee hee! What rhymes with sank? Sock!
MASTER BAYTES: Mock me, ye scurvy dogs? I'll run ye through!
DUCHESS: O, what filthy swine. Silence, the whole lot of you!
MASTER BAYES: Arr! Find pleasure in me scowl!
DUCHESS: Bloody wanker. Wait, a plan deviously foul!
BEAR greedily devours MASTER BAYTES, ZARDOZ and NOMAN
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Like seat number 001, C. Montgomery Burns, I'm no fanatic of our life giver (though thanks for goosing amino acid sequences & preparing future [& current, a whole other metaphor] red giantism), but it's good for purty picture taking, one of the few creative arts along with caffeine-fueled snark actually enjoyable with a home slice or pal or whatever's the whipper snapper slang, but since synaptic pathways forgot that a certain ethnic comrade is shifting graveyard earth today & it's no fun poking fun at the un-fun free stamp or halls of power bunga bunga by one's lonesome, I could cry. Oh, the melodrama's a hoax, relax, I'll be happy processing periodicals.
Here's an oldie (not really) but a baddie (the shot, not the fuzzy & feathery little animals, though a middle finger to the other two squirrels that scampered out of shot just as I clicked don't make me hide your acorns, you li'l bastards):
Here's an oldie (really) but a goodie:
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
As I get older, my chuckle gland is more easily amused than it used to be.
Click to eugenically embiggen.
"At Chelsea for doing nothing with their first half possession?"
Arrested development? Never saw the show, but if I'm serious here, I'm serious everywhere in every where & that leads to itchy skin, dry heaves & voting.
There was just now nearly a texting-LOL-crash-boom. Damn peripheral vision.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
In honor of this glorious occasion -- party demands to know what you're doing to celebrate -- the NAALP present:
Starring Soviet Ronald Reagan, Soviet Macaulay Culkin, Soviet Virginia Madsen. With special guest star, Soviet Groucho Marx.
Careful viewers take note of Soviet Trailer Park & In-Russia-Bike-Pedal-You. [ed. note: bastards better watch the whole thing. We did, in lieu of working, to put this post together for you, Damien, it's all for you! Fucking ingrate(s).]
Farmville of the Damned
Enver Hoxha's (you can't keep a good corpse down) purple bromance With Stalin says that this worker's paradise was the man of steel's favorite. Decadent, bourgeois Amerikanskis scoff as they count their capital.
It was love at first potato.
Li'l Bunker was right! La bibliothèque's never this dramatic. Swoon.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Losing drawing winning game no. 3745 of computer chess last evening to a chorus of ever-evaporating mid-priced vino slosh & the above sludge aficionados hazily summoned lazy summers that were still desperate to be youthful, the last time(!) I played the kynge's pastyme (not lawn darts, as I later discovered much to my chagrin) till the shiny new adding machine chez Randal & being a pop to a two-year old Doodily, standardized college testing as I type. If she bombs, I blame myself for not having her replicate my test eve experience of a Sammy Hagar Weekend inhaling doobie aroma* at a rock and/or roll show.
*recall, the definition's been recently updated, phone home
A hoop jump to be sure & she knows it, such realism offsetting my dismal failure to inculcate the cold, calculating murderessness of loud, sweaty, life-affirming power chords. SLAYER! SLAYER! just doesn't fire the synapses of either lunatic offspring, but as long as the system is used to bump up bill-paying skills -- folks gotta not desiccate -- in her career (nein!) field (non!) personal interest (oui!) of choice, I'm proud papa. Try & find a happy gig, kids, unless you get tingly designing weapons-grade pieces-parts, then may an industrial accident befall you in the nether regions.
Since I'm a selfish bastard, am I happy at my gig? What is my gig? This?
I remember those idealistic days. I also remember not lying. This?
Not mine, don't sue, thanks. I'm so old school I rhyme.
Anyway, in lieu of a frank & not that fascinating discussion of how our already subsumed if not outright ax-murdered-by-our-own-idle-hand-under-orders (ten bucks says the Germans already have a word for this) self-definition wicked witches when in direct contact with a vengeance neither swift nor entertaining, meted out over decades, so that we will wonder if the misery in our life is manifest, the machinations of Leonardo Leonardo, or... some third thing, tonight's program sublime. Told you. Would I lie? Cheers.
A Cold War bunker just outside of Tirana, Albania.
The world leaders descend a dust-strewn, crumbling staircase.