Hey, Dr. Jones, no time for love!

Busy erasing stenciled pencil glosses & inchoate in flagrante delicto info, pulling sticky tabs, brushing Dorito-dusted keyboards, unfolding folded corners, dressing wounds, scrubbing blood & vomit stains in preparation for National Library Week & that's only the stuff that can be mentioned in a public forum.

It's not all hair buns n' tweed, jack.

Aw, hell-diddly-ding-dong-crap! Can't you morons do anything right?

[Surgeon General's Warning: prolonged exposure to poorly composed meatworld Mad Libs masquerading as actual creative acts of versification will lead to heart palpitations, chronic fatigue and readership-destroying sports blogging.]

Go dunk yourself.

Ping pong balls ja! Wins nein!

Verily, the bellyaching joy of this court matters little, for, i' faith, is not Kyrie Irving a jester as bland as the last drab bolt gifted by the heartless Duke?

L'Éducation sentimentale

My sentiments exactly 

are what I do/whilst watching Chelsea-Man U.

Still, rhyme or no, cranial goo competitively turned to ooze sure beats sniffing the glue that helps the damned shuffle in, through & out la bibliothèque. Translate-O-Matic: I'm using vacation time (remember: all that glue), so, so long, suckers (soon) on day two & next week, too & both these teams can fuck off.

Rock chalk JaySchalke

As an impartial neutral, I can only hope the recent Inter-esting stench continues apace -- not that the "Germans" (Raúl!) played Katy-bar-the-door; 7-5 either way with more pointy pin passes. Sure, a good chess match's enjoyable as a fine wine, but blitzkrieg bopping with wild hooch ain't, like hell, a bad place to be.



P.S. No, I didn't forget about tiki-taka & Soviet breadbaskets. See: Tottenham.

The old grey test whistles past the graveyard

Hey Dave, I lip sync on my blog, too!

A strategy, an act, but dive! dive! dive! never lands 'em in red cards. Swirly guts under lock & key guard, but it's for the best as I can't sew nor own a wheelbarrow to haul the goo to local l'hôpital -- does its close proximity lure down the left hand path? -- nor am charge of the light brigade brave d-m-b.

Spring cleaning, even the local public transportationista brigade, new, lemon-fresh schedule today. Any changes? *click click click* No. Never. We're fine. We're all fine here now, thank you. How are you?

P.S. I had a bunch of other junk, but you can read & I've got to get the lunatic offspring off to Springfield Elementary & High, respectively. Enjoy the riffing.

Crusaders & camels & infidel crocs, oh my!

Don't be fooled, darkthroning in the city is dangerous. 

Today's pro tip: neo-cracker soundtrack jazz on endless loop -- think 'outdistances Voyager 2' -- promotes thoughts of murder/suicide.

I should have lifted that Tyson statue.

"That's loodicwus!"

Here's a new post, no foolin'

Humbug. Every day should blissfully surrender to the traveling freakshow fragrance of this holiest of high holy days in the Church of Loki's calendar, especially while at work & with plenty of metal.



P.S. Hey, Shankly, won't get fooled again.

Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental, a play in three acts.

Act the first

Lord Boomer, Viscount of Foxglove: Bob Dylan remains The Finest Exemplar of the Cosmic Greatness*, whilst John Lennon is his worthy apprentice who in some learned circles, surpasses the master, & the Lady Yoko is a vastly underrated reservoir of non-migraine songcraft.

"What about me, I stung like a bee, chump."

Miss Prunella Vulgaris, The Duchess of Hammer-on-Dulcimer, esteemed member of the Peonage: /yawn/

Juan, the Earl of Valdez, less esteemed member of the Peonage: /Olafian metal face/

Lord Boomer, Viscount of Foxglove: Well, I never! /stomps/


Act the second

Baron Bald of Aquarius: Access to the Sacred Wisdom of Our Age will reveal to the universe how to be saved, love & peace, man, I saw Hair back in the day. I have a big house. My taxes are too high.

Miss Prunella Vulgaris, The Duchess of Hammer-on-Dulcimer, esteemed member of the Peonage: /rolls eyes like that young chick in the Exorcist, was there pea soup, who can say, not I, your humble playwright/

Juan, the Earl of Valdez, less esteemed member of the Peonage: Oh, do tell!


Act the third

"The World devolves into chaos, oil & water ever vanishing,
yet when the last Arbiter of Things by a Demon ravishing
boils in its own bloody red,
Authority now lies dead
& the survivors survive on glorious Power Chording --
-- & processed food, how ironically ironic!"

fin.

Something wicked this way comes

Get ready for the newest volume of Choose Your Own Death, Jack Russell's Inferno or We Built This City On Dead Eardrums don't bore me with fussy details like no Slick or you'll ruin the joke, jerk. Speaking of the apocalypse, check out the Hi Super Nintendo Chalmers I'm Learnding! available where Hussein X speechified El Destructo the other night:

Does not require embiggen clearance, Lester.

Difficult to choose, but my current favorite might be the Power, Ideology and Legitimacy course that mentions Al-Qaeda, communism, fascism and "other utopian ideologies." Insert own punchline here.

It was a dark and stormy blend*

The horror that is reality begins at 1:25.

*we'll see if this Gothick-style Kynge's Brew is worthie of thy Crown.

SIP

Verily, yum!

Let us sit poor Mr. Rensenbrink & what he crystallizes aside for a moment. The mighty Agalloch was indeed, flesh vibrating on bone, spinal shivers of darkthroning in the Northwestern woods, earthquake heart, & epic kudos to the teenageristic dude who didn't check his iPhone LOL LEET NOOB OMG TXT once, air clawing guitaring from the first chord to the last. Metal blood flows in your veins, son. Sniff.

Now, what is life but a crucible of hitting the post**, perpetually reborn into one more inevitably mishit strike such as Don Anderson dealing with broken strings not once, not twice, but thrice, thus we cling to this illusory salve, musical (& sporting) over the political if you're not megalomaniacal. Aside: what then of Mario Kempes & Argentina, the ever-elusive victory? The other, necessary half lest toes curl & eyelids flake off in a gibbering madness that can do nothing but wait, grinning, for the red giant to stride over the earth.

**for those not in the know, if the Dutch had scored in the 90th minute, the odds are decent that they would have won the World Cup, their reward fractured skulls oozing bloody pulp via agents of the military junta wielding that shiny trophy. Or not, but it makes for compelling storytelling.  

Mr. Ligotti's right, but I'm going to enjoy the deception as long as I can.

Roll d6 for damage

"Wanna see something really scary?"

"Yawn."

"Nooooooooo!"

1. So any of you angsty rural cracker meth heads cooking up names for venting the non-sequential, four-suit hand you've nelsonmuntzly been dealt via the time-honored & fiscally-lucrative grindcore tradition, remember where you first saw Tranny Fisticuffs.

I'm looking at you, Proto-Bros. (Hey, that's a good one, too.)

2. This is what tags & tracks us peonage:

If The Man's local HR rampaging technobot minions had the biggest Bon Scotts of them all, this is what should tag & track us peonage:

Harder to slack from a sack of Olympian stomach acid, n'est-ce pas?

3. Storm of the Yeti!

4. Look man complete stranger patron client customer client, when the staff is Juan Valdezing over bunga bunga, Son of Qa/Kha/Gha-daf(f)i artwork & Cleveland hitman (woman, in this case) folklore, how about you might as well not jump in with tales of there being neither hitmen nor La Cosa Nostra only FBI operatives. As the Peonage has long been aware of the likes of Beatrix the Bilderberger & her Masonic Illuminati operatives, you're redundantly simply being redundant. 

 

 





5. Reader's choice! Throw those child's bones! Everyone's a wiener!*




6. One day till catharsis woo! 

*hey, I gave your ass an out before more metal. Taisez-vous, connard.

The indifferent cosmos ain't so much after all

'tis the only plausible explanation for this so-called serendipitous return of winter in light of the impending holy service to be held this Saturday evening.

Oh, a bunch of crazy crap happened yesterday & is likely happening now. I'm sure someone somewhere is raging about it & I'd wager some of them are right on. For those about to type, we salute you.



Two days till catharsis woo!

Speaking of death, bah & humbug. Sure, the library's "vault" is a not-that-underground, asbestos-infested rathole, but I'm not that blind, so yours truly wins the dystopia, triumphant hardee har har.

One Seventeen Bourbon(s), One Twenty-Three Scotch(es) and One Six Cases of Beer

Whew! I can finally wipe off the dust & put that to good use.

On a more less not-all-that serious note, folks bag on goopers as being smart as a sack of really dumb rocks, but this is ingeniously supervillain, for booze, like porn, is coated with a year's supply of Recession Wax. I'm not saying the loot won't ooze to the usual suspects 'cause duh, thus my fellow Ohioans, please join me in a soon-to-be more expensive drink, not like you weren't gonna get blotto anyway 'cause you can't afford hookers n' blow like said usuals especially after hearing from fellow peonage about the technocracy's local HR bot layering red cake razzmatape (shorter: don't you or your future-winning children even *think* about getting really x 3 sick who do you think you are

"First, your shorter isn't very short. Second, everyone already knows this."

You again.



expendable worm, a said usual? [ed. note: deathly ill? Non, though it would be handy to have some basement junk to hawk on the Legitimate Businessman's Market, mayhap I'll become a pretzeldent]) at yesterday's staff meeting that I never attend & now I wish I had 'cause I rather enjoy a zesty snifter of angry blood ritual & a chortle chaser, this calls for some metal facing.  



Three days till catharsis woo!

Gov. Kasich & the Booze Czar (do we have one?) explain the finer points of scamola to a filthy rube. (h/t Charles)

When Zesta Met Enzyte*

Copulate, midlife crises, copulate a lot, pop & slop that help to ahhh
are we still freedomizing Libya here? Dropping Lockheed? Drop lite beer!

& that's my informed comment on crap I'm much uninformed on 'cause weekends are hermetically sealed to keep sanity fresh & delicious. Mmmm, brains.

*apologies if you came here for greying naughtiness. Not now, I've a headache.

Why board games are better than real life

A crawling, tentacled horror of bulbous slime from the beyond the stars or an Armani-clad huckster, I know which one I'd fire upon. Au moins the former only wants to eat you.

Hole in the sky cosmic ceiling of consciousness & my wallet but not my heart well maybe just a little one

Man, it's hot.

Sweet merciful crap yesterday was unseasonably sweaty, Right Guard aplenty, that rhymes & you know that rhymes don't hang me for my crimes such as this café sunburn darkthroning in the woods with his chicken dinner a mere seventh of a fortnight earlier.

Man, it's not.

OMC*WHOATEALLTHESNOW!?!?!?!?

*Oh My Cthulhu



I did have a lovely dream last night as lovely goes for moi parce qu'I never dream about naked chicken dinners it's not fair, though, after coolly sloughing off the shock of sting from a giant psychedelic wasp, I watched Cryuff's miracle flight pock noted thespian Stan Stamenkovic into the great beyond blood & bone splattered across the continental drift, man, I loathed loathed that diving bastard. Kai Haaskivi motherfucker.

Cleveland has now decided, after years & years of low-key thee green boozeroony, to party for their right to fight.

 



Dear Moneyed Jerks of America,

For the low low cost of one-half of a quarter of a bomb (this is going to go well -- for the usual suspects, that is, chortle), you too can buy one gently-used Baltimore Poe House & Museum. You'll be the envy of all your friends at the next passive-aggressive charity gala. Don't make Li'l Edgar cry.

Ever your slacker,

Employee 78911265-B-27Q