I’ve been meaning to do something with dodos ever since I started signing myself UndeadDodo on some sites. So here they are, the darling extinct creatures having a good philosophical bitch about life. Or lack thereof, poor things.
What with the current so-called reality unravelling and illusions beginning to collapse right, left and centre, the peerless Grumpy, in semi-formal office regalia, has taken himself and his off-the-cuff ADCs, the BearThing and her new cub, down to the shores of Samsara to wait for the tide to turn and thus be ready to welcome the new ship of fools to their rightful inheritance. Mrs B has her money on the rats and, hedging her bets, the cockroaches. The baby is wondering if there’s half a chance of persuading the Teddy to play with him, as all this waiting is beginning to get on his wick.
Update 02/11/15 This is the picture of the muriel I mentioned a while back depicting the Tiny Totem and his mother. Here she can be seen shooing away and saying “Not today, thank you.” to the slightly irritating HyperFruityFly, who, as usual, is trying to flog something or other to madamina, in this case some apples it has nicked from the orchard of the Hesperides. Milady doesn’t disapprove of the purloining itself -nor do the Hesperides, who are cheerfully aware that they have got more apples than they can dispose of comfortably- but most certainly she objects to paying for what she can get for free any day of the week or, at a pinch, through a mutually acceptable bartering, as the Hesperides are very fond of apple juice laced with some of the stardust that emanates twice a day from madamina’s Willendorfian bosoms. The HyperFruityFly, impenitently annoying creature that it is, knows the score full well, still, it tries. Too much time on its hands, I think. It needs a job, or a hobby. Perhaps we can persuade it to enroll on some evening course on, say, art appreciation, or four-dimensional origami. Anything that’ll keep it off the streets and our backs, really.
It’s also the young bijou Totem’s birthday. He is 1,000 years old and he’s just been given his first Sacred Crickitt Bat and Garrote Florido (Flowering Club). And is he chuffed or what. He feels so grown up, he does. Educational gossip courtesy of Zippy Stardust of the South Vermont Underground Mi-Go Settlement.
A good friend of mine on Ipernity, the delightful Yasser, aka NGC300, has been summarily censored for uploading an excellent political cartoon, very critical of America and its murderous, two-faced policies. This so grated on the sensibilities of an American user, who couldn’t understand why everybody hates America (and, incidentally, didn’t seem to know the difference between plain good old sarcasm and a hyperbole) that she flagged the post and had it removed. This is not the first time my mate has been so abominably used by the Iperatchiks. And by no means the only user. This whole sorry-ass incident reminded me , once more, of what Henry Ford said about his cars: You can have them in any colour you like as long as it’s black. Also reminds me of the old Francoist slogan of my distant yuff: Libertad si, pero dentro de un orden. Pah! Mealy-mouthed self-righteousness. So toxic. May they all get leprosy of the brain.
So, to cleanse the chakras of such malevolent bilge, I did the Kittens4U poster and, rummaging in my hard drive for some soothing balm for bruised souls, I found one of the pictures Rosie took of those wondrous muriels she found in the underground space-time caves of Uluru. Note. The mini demiurge has a Mother, as it’s only fitting and proper. Presently I’ll be publishing a picture of both; a sort of Maternitá with a twist, don’t you know.
Quantum’d Kitties. Meet Bubbles, the Long Lost Shoggoth. She vanished into thin air aeons ago, during the second Gallant Shoggoth Uprising, nobody knows how, or why or where, and has now reappeared equally abruptly. She seems to be in perfect physical nick, if a bit dazzled and quite unable to tell where she’s been all this time or what she’s been up to. No worries. She’s been made welcome, given tons of Smarties, assigned to the female tribe and “twinned” with Grumpy, to offset her exceptionally cheerful temperament and somewhat temper Grump’s cantankerousness. Entangling entities seems to be Bubbles idea of match-making and a favourite hobby of hers. Oh, well…
Update 13/10/15 1. It’s National ShoggothHood Week (or two weeks, if the fancy takes us), proclaimed to celebrate the Return of the Native (Bubbles), and all things Shoggothic. Here’s an invite to the first of the many shindigs that will take place in and around my garden for the next seven days -or twenty, if the spirit grabs us. There’ll be food and drink and interesting substances and music and song and dance and beautifully staged tableux vivants -and even tableaux mourants, look you! amongst which not only the now universally acclaimed The Defenestration of Ben Bernanke but the never before seen in public The Spontaneous Combustion of Henry Kissinger. Everybody’s most welcome, except for politicians, banksters, lawyers, transnational CEOs, Bildebergians and other people of that ilk. Come join us and raise a cup or two to groovy protoplasm in particular and hackers, pirates, whistle-blowers, System Irritants and other awkward creatures in general.
2. National ShoggothHood Week seems to be prospering and expanding. Here we can see Bubbles being taken to meet the Celestial Tadpole in her beautiful Peripatetic Cluster, or Cloud 10, as it’s know amongst the discriminating space jet-setters.
Me, I’m taking a small break from all these wonderful excesses to meditate. There’s no bliss more blissful than contemplation of the Great Mother of the Six-Petal Wibbles. Here’s how you do it. Find a quiet spot and bunch of friendly Sneakes (that’s right, Sneakes; very sneaky snakes) to act as cushion for your fat ass and custodians to your fragile vile body. Invoke the Holy Optik Chaos. Drain your mind of all mundane stuff…and watch the pretty Wibbles float out of the dimensional hole produced by the combination of your propitious set up and your great need to forget, be it only for a short time, the horrors of the incoming American election, the ineluctable TTIP and the fact that the Xmas frenzy has already started. Happy dribbling!
I do this without much faith but still, it’s has to be done. The poor chap’s going to need as much help, from any quarter, even the airy-fairy, ethereal, I-wish-pigs-would-fly, sympathetic magic kind as he can possibly get. Here’s to you and your socks & sandals, old comrade. I don’t think you’ll last (think Greece…) but still you did irritate the fuck out of “them” , didn’t you? Good luck mate!
Update 19/09/15 I’d really like to tell you what this was all about but the Shoggies have sworn me to secrecy so I can’t, although I was lucky enough to be allowed to take pictures. Oh, well…
Update 22/09/15. Aftermath. Now, the point here is not that I’d like to tell but I’m not allowed, so much as that we’d all very much like to know what’s going on. The Bears came, transacted their (allegedly) dodgy business and decamped. All went smoothly, according to some arcane plan and without a hitch. However, the moment they left this strange creature and her totemic companion, or bodyguard, or bosom pal that it may be, materialized out of nowhere and they have now taken residency in the clearing. Nobody knows where she comes from or why she is here or what the fuck she’s up to, if anything (she just sits there, blowing stardust bubbles and disconcerting the night sky); or why does she travel in tandem with a non-descript quadruped with a monkey’s tail. Not the Moon, nor the young Keeper of the Woods, not even the saintly spiders who dwell in the old dryads, nobody has the foggiest, either, of who, never mind what she is. Is she a spontaneous manifestation? A by-product of the ursine transactions or a mere electromagnetic fluke? Could she be radioactive (she does glow, after all) or is she merely enlightened? Is she a deva? Is she an asura? What does the funky beasty eat for breakfast? Have I been reading too much Iain M Banks? Am I losing the plot? Answers on the customary postcard, please.
I was seized by a most inexplicable urge to do something linear and squarish and, possibly not at all beautiful; certainly not pretty, let alone cute. For cute there’s always the Shoggies and the rest of the fattybomboms. So, I came up with this here thing on the left which, as well as being linear and squarish and not pretty is also a little bit nasty, as are all institutions wot claim to act as bridges between us peasants and the divine, or The Source or whatever. A pox on them all. Naturally, no sooner I had finished it that I had the twin itch to do its counterpoint. So here she is, on the right, looking at a relative ease but by no means pious or complacent. Do vote if you feel like it.
Update 17/09/15 Faith Floats. Septimus Wyndbagg-fffoulkes, aka The Floating Reverend, has drifted into the vaporous heartland of the Frequent Mutation Tribes (United). Coming across the Accidental Tortosnails and their companions, the Symbiotic Birds, he has launched into a most eloquent and passionate delivery of his special kind of scriptural dribble. The fortuitous molluscoids and the birdies are natural atheists, congenitally communist, circumstantially communitarians, temperamentally anarchists, hermaphrodite, parthenogenetic and of a sunny disposition, therefore they are totally bemused by the discourse, which they regards as a curious mixture of absolute twaddle and coals to Newcastle, but are impressed by the son et lumière display that accompanies the babble. They are also very polite and hospitable to a fault; therefore they will listen patiently to Septimus’ cheery prattle, nod wisely, give him lunch and send him on his way with many wishes of health and good fortune.
Septimus is the nogoodnik second son of a wastrel second son of an impoverished aristocratic family. With not two pennies to rub together, nor a square inch of land to call his own, he was, therefore, destined for the ministry, as he was too small and even-tempered for the army. He was lucky enough to find a sponsor who paid for a few years at the University of Dylath-Leen whence he emerged with a lower third in Theology, a First-Plus in Rhetoric and a Past-Master-With- Knobs-On in Performing Arts & Showmanship. So he’s not much cop as preacher as such, but he’s awfully sweet-natured, highly imaginative, very funny, extremely laid-back and so scatter-brained that he can start preaching the delights of renunciation and end up with a fiery vindication of profligacy. He also has panache, chutzpah (hence the totally bogus extra small f in his surname) and bottle aplenty. He has not, to date, converted a single soul to anything -in part because it’s nigh impossible to figure out what he is on about half the time, but he’s made a name for himself with the flâneur fraternity and he’s frequently asked to lunches, dinners, suppers, poker games and garden parties. So his life ain’t half as bad as his wobbly origins might have anticipated. I like happy endings, don’t you?
That is, of them who see things for what they are. Mostly pie in the sky, I know, given that the world now functions according to the diktats and decrees of the psychopaths who run it, the Carl Roves and Henry Kissingers and that kind of freakish fauna, but one keeps on knocking on that door, one does. As one must.
Update 31/08/15. The Amphibious Vermicelli have been at it again. This time they’ve managed to inveigle the poor Blubber BumBum, who’s a little simple-minded and very easily led, into one of their dodgy experiments. The generously buttock’d creature has great psychic aptitudes and is a marvellous conduit of and for electromagnetic whatsits, so the wicked annelids have persuaded him to connect a human brain with whatever passes for the mind of a Repulsive Moon-Beasts of Leng, just to see what happens. Given that the brain belongs to someone in the current Tory cabinet (it has been ingeniously “borrowed” whist in her sleep), I’m not sure who is going to get the greater shock. Personally I’m inclined to pity the poor Moon-Beast. Update. I can now reveal that the brain “borrowed” was Theresa May’s, who never even noticed its absence the morning after (the experiment dragged on a bit). The wretched Moon-Beast is still in A&E but it’s expected to make a full recovery. Tough cookies they are, these beasties. Fortunately for them…
Update 04/09/15. Another day down in the Beautiful South, another black kid gratuitously murdered by the “Law & Order”. Is anybody keeping count? I used to, but I lost it a while back, there have been so many in the past year. Here’s what some recent eye-witnesses have to say on the subject: Mr BlackBlob and his young son Squiddy, just back from a transatlantic visit to distant relatives, are telling their friend Mrs MicroDragon –a third cousin dimensionally twice removed of Mrs Worm’s, how pigs will fly before they set foot again upon a land where harmless creatures are being wantonly bumped off, in public and with total impunity, by demented yahoos in blue armed to the teeth, according to a selectively colour-coded yardstick (or rather taserstick).
Back in 05/03/15 I threatened some more of those ad hominem attacks. Somehow I forgot to fulfill my promise (possibly because I uploaded them on the other site). Well, I hate to be forsworn so here they are.
And here be some more. Por mucho pan and all that, you know.
And some more-more and that’s it, I swear.
This is yet another experiment, this time in the layout department.
I’m totally fed up with this clunky, chunky, graceless old format of text, text, text and then a block of thumbnails. It’s boring and messy and diabolically time-wasting if you want to correlate a text entry with its image. It’d seem so much more logical and rational to have one discrete paragraph per picture and to separate one image from the next by aligning them right/left and pairing them each with its companion text. If any, of course; some of the images are “sin comentario“. So here we are with two lovely old jokes out of very old Punches.
The one about the polar bear must be one of my Top Ten Desert Island jokes of all times. I must try to find some more of those old Punchers. Also, I’ve just “discovered” that justifying the text is vastly more aesthetically pleasing and massively easier on the ojo, look you!
I can’t imagine why I never though of any of this before. After all it’s fucking basic and simple and not brain surgery. Perhaps I am lazy. Or going gaga. Or something not very nice in any case. But there you are, I have now. Better late than never, innit?
Update. Having found out how easy it’s to use this more airy layout, I’ve started doing the same to older posts. It’s a bit of hard work so I’m going about it the shuia-shuia way, but in time I might manage a few back pages.
23/08/15. I’m going to experiment with a new posting policy. One, two pics max. per post. If I don’t like it I will amalgamate posts and bundle them into 6-8-packs, as per usual. So here’s the first of the solo posts.
Roll up! Roll up! Come see a most wonderful Fly-By-Night Circus!
BigNose McGurk and His Children. A Sob Story with a Happy Ending. For the Silver Bunny and Rose Macaulay.
This is the story of Leo(pold) “BigNose” McGurk, a serial single father.
Soft of heart and chronically naive, he got himself mixed up, time and again, with a string of heedlessly unscrupulous misses who soon after giving birth to a strapping lassie or lad, left him literally holding the baby.
By the time he had collected a dozen of such semi-orphans finances were getting strained and things were getting a trifle out of hand and Leo acknowledged that drastic action was needed to provide for such an extensive family. Unwilling to betray his proclivity for unsuitable females or sell the babies into slavery, he decided to set up a nomadic entertainment troupe. And because all his children are very pretty, indecently healthy, bright as lights and possessed of a keen sense of fun, Leo’s Poly-Dimensional Flying Circus prospered rapidly and acquired great renown all over the Badlands, from the marshes of !Ting to the underground canals of Crapston Parva.
Such was its fame that it soon reached the ever-vigilant ears of the Shoggoths, who punctually despatched Rosie to lend a hand with the after-hours babysitting and the running of the finances. The delightful Imogen, Lapsed Larva once of the Final Void, offered her services as acting part-time* usherette and ice-cream & maracas girl.
The travelling jamboree has since been renamed The BigNose & Rosie Itinerant Flying Circus, in recognition of Rosie’s invaluable contribution to the concern and to underplay the poli-dimensional element of the spectacle so as to preserve the mystery and the element of surprise. Leo may well be non-female-savvy and a hopeless administrator but he has three priceless talents: a gift for parenthood, an unerring aesthetic flair and a past-master’s technique in the matter/energy/dimensions manipulation department.
See him here, making some of his niños appear out of nowhere in particular and cascade through the Loopy Singing Hoops. Behold! even Roderick, one of the defecting Lloigor (full-time blasé creatures as they are), is impressed and utterly charmed.
The circus has so thrived that the two eldest children are now at the University of Upper Leng doing PhDs in classic quantum mechanics and funky biochemistry respectively. Three of the deserting mothers have made pacific overtures with a view to obtaining access to their forsaken offspring. Rosie is dealing with their appeals.
Alien anthropology -word to the wise. The females of Leo’s species (Probuscicus Levitans) are universally notorious, as much for their beauty, glamour and social graces as for their mindboggling fickleness. You’ve been warned.
*Imogen has not given up her post as Chairlarva of the Spartacist League 2.0
Please note there are two versions. I dearly love the blue one (I would, wouldn’t I?) but it displays kind of too dark on certain browsers (looks spot on on the tablet, where it was made). Again, feel free to vote if you can be arsed.
16/08/15 Voyagers. Still in full view of the spires of Snoopton-on-Scree and not two steps into the Mountains of Uncertainty, Magdalena the Martial Teddy, Emiliano “The Mexican” and their guest, a young Flowerette on her first Grand Tour, are set upon by a posse of Plug-Ugly beasts. Oh, dearie me. These chaps… do they ever learn? The Flowerette is called Incy and she’s just decided Grand Tours live up to their riotous reputation. Note. I’ve uploaded an alternative, very, very slightly different version. In time I may decide which one I like best. Feel free to vote.
Update 19/08/15 The Grief Custodian. Bring him your tears, your grief and your deepest sorrows. In his cavernous belly, where stars germinate and suns are hatched, he’ll keep your heartaches and your gripes fresh and crisp until you need them again. Or until the galaxies grow weary of their merry spinning dance, whichever comes first.