For Shame. For Gaza. Again…for the Nth bloody time! (No pun intended.) How many more innocent Palestinians will have to be murdered in cold blood before the tide of gutless subservience to Israel’s genocidal mania turns in earnest and people start taking real, effective action against the psychopaths in power? How much longer will this scruffy tail be allowed to wag that flea-ridden scrawny mad dog? How much longer will the Palestinians have to inhabit this gruesome insult-to-injury situation of being blamed for what’s absolutely not their fault? Has the meaning of the word “empathy”, let alone “solidarity”, been expunged from our common dictionaries? Answers on a postcard from the edge, please.
I know that the tide has been -very gradually and hideously slowly- turning, to the point that this time even the Guardian (but not the BBC, please note) has dared go against the pre-ordered, pre-fab grain and almost call a spade a spade. Blimey! Even the Tory mafia in 10 Downing Street have been tepidly critical of this latest criminal raid, or as the IDF calls it, a spot of “mowing the lawn”.
Anyways, if true love and real happiness are in short supply, these days, shame seems to be making it to the top the list of Seriously Endangered Species. So it’s up to us, the Monsters and the Shoggoths and the Worms and the Frazzled Squiggly Things and the Penguins and the Little Fishis to blush ourselves radioactive on mankind’s behalf. Somebody’s got to do it, don’t you know.
PS. I was going to dedicate this here doodle to the dreary subject of the abysmal nomination of the unspeakable crypto-Nazi Quim Torra to the throne of the Virtual Bananas Republic of Greater Catalonia but compared to what’s happening in Gaza right now, the eventual fate of a bunch of prats who have decided to allow this farce to continue and lately settle into this current dangerous circus, seems truly insignificant. After all the Catalans have a choice, if they want to wield it. They can get up, and out into the streets en masse, and get rid of all that fascist cabal, if only they can summon the collons to do it. The Palestinians can’t. If they do as much as squeak a dissent they get murdered, also en masse … and then some, as the Americans say. Which is not to say I have given up on the Catalan caper. I’ve only reorganized my priorities.
Have a nice weekend. And have some links to keep you up to date:
Cosa Nostra. Traditions are like everything else, some are good (National Shoggothood Day is lovely) and some are crap (nationalisms of any and all colours are a mug’s game). And some, like female genital mutilation, are downright revolting, to say the least. But here is a nice little family custom: Zorro the Wonderdog, absent from these pages for far too long, has come back to us to fulfill the specific task of inducting his great-granddaughter Morgana into the ineffable and infinitely fun art of Worm Charming. Everybody benefits from this practice; the young wunderkind pooches learn the art of extreme persuasion and the wee worms get charmed into a symbiotic partnership with the spiffing canines. The perritos must have someone to cherish and protect at all times, as it’s in their nature to care for and guard the weak and the helpless, and the gusanitos are forever shielded from all harm, as their vulnerable nature requires. I love happy shindigs, don’t you?
PS. This is a bit of a spoonful of sugar to pre-coat the palate for what is to come. With the autocratic designation (NOT democratic election, I must emphasize!) of the neo-Nazi* Quim Torra to the presidency of the Catalan Generalitat, I can feel the rage and the bile and the fire and the fury raising once more in my belly. Expect vicious ad hominem attacks soon and avert your “sensitive” eyes in good time.
Birthday Jungle. Ever since I turned 60 I’ve been pleasantly astonished by each subsequent birthday. I consider as something short of a miracle that they keep on happening. But there you have it; they do. And they keep on finding me, so far, pretty impenitent, frivolous and defiant. May this trend last for a bit longer, even if I know that I’ll never see the downfall of Crapitalism. But no so long that I may have to witness the complete overwhelming of all that is beautiful and good and right and groovy by that ultimate, Azathoth-like expression of it unleashed upon this lovely planet. Cheers.
Just Passing Through. You know, some folks just can’t take a bit of style and a touch of class. The Badlands are riddled with this sad types, what can I say. To make up for that there are creatures like the Foxioid who know what is what. I’ll drink to them!
Party Girls.(May 1968/May 2018) The slogan “If you can’t beat them, join them” is pure cringing Slavethink. How much more keen and spirited is “If you can’t beat them, bite them”! Which is what we always say in my neck of the woods. And here, to practice what we preach, are these two hardy perennial unrepentant party girls, the beautiful Gorgo-Mormo and the ineffable Shub-Niggurath, sharing a shindig and drinks and gossip and plans for The Revolution That Might Never Come. And fuck you, too, Warren Buffet! 🙂
Rapists to the Wall!This is for everyone involved in the hideous affair of la Manada. Either as an expression of solidarity for the victim and her supporters, or as a fervent curse to the judges who passed a sentence on the offenders that is tantamount of an endorsement of murderous misogynistic violence (with a special mention to the dissenting magistrate who wanted to let the criminals go free), to the imbecile and corrupt defence of said psychopaths, and to anyone who supported them and, as usual, made the victim out to be at fault if not actually lying. And naturally, my best and most ferocious curses to the five premier league sick bastards who did the horrid deed. Call yourself a pack? You insult pack animals, you gruesome assholes. Animals don’t do what you did to that poor girl. May you all rot in Hell and may your stupid dicks fall off and be eaten by itinerant piranhas. The motto in the placard means, loosely and Gorgonicall speaking: Little raping males to the grinder! NB. In Spanish the term “machito”, little male, is, always, intentionally and deeply offensive. As it should be.
Gordita. Her name is Blossom. I don’t know what she does. When asked, she replies she does “Ninja stuff”. That’s good enough for me. She laughs a lot, sings beautifully and cooks a mean tortilla de patatas. She and her delicious companions are welcome to stay for as long as they like. The Shoggies, always great admirers of sheer bulk, are much taken with her and they sing this to her all day long:
And this is for the Dread Mayhem Queen, just for the Hell of it (and because I love Jimmy Cliff). May her despicable teeth someday adorn some wall of shame or other like a cautionary inlaid pattern, pour encourager les autres.
Poppet. Protests and petitions no longer work. Lobbies are all corrupt and on the side of the demons(the real ones, not the designated “diable du jour”). More energetic forms of opposition are increasingly criminalized and punished with venomous vigour. And I’ve never been any good at violence, anyway. So, in case it might work, like Heisenberg was fond of saying about horseshoes, and as a public service to the community, I offer you Poppy, the Generic Voodoo Dolly for you to try your hand at surgically targeting sorcery. She’s very easy and cheap to run (the usual muffins and vodka usually do the trick, although she won’t turn her nose at Austrian chocolate). Her little technowizard companion quite likes pork scratchings, would you believe it. He’s not very refined, I fear. He is French and his motto is “Touchez pas, salauds!” Anyway, he’s reliable. Good luck and have fun.
Here, to inspire you in your conjuring endeavours:
Fuzzy Miss.Here’s another tall girl, to go with the last one. She fights the Grid, that’s her job. And very good she is at it, too. Likewise she has a side-line in spells to banish the ghastly miasmas that mainstream media leaves in your electromagnetic field, not to mention your brain. She does that for free but she’ll never say no to a gift of flowers or a small bottle of genuine Russian vodka. Her companion tadpoles & wee worm love chocolate.