Year 74. The actual shindig was on Tuesday but I haven’t felt like celebrating all that much (courtesy of the IDF and the Butcher of Beirut) so here’s the related doodle, a wee bit late. The party was OK if a bit low key, in the spirit of the past year, when most flags have been flying at half mast if truth be told. Still, there were the usual highlights. A very stern-but-nice insectoid lady manifested early in the morning bringing a bagful of the most precious of commodities in these godawful days. A couple of freshly evolved Shoggothic … things also attended and were introduced to the rest of the company by the merry Voodoo Poppets. And while nobody was paying much attention, having been diverted by the music, the food and the ineffable drugs, a couple of hybrid Cagnolitos of…fuckknowswhere, really (the Tindalos High Commission denies any kinship with or even knowledge of the nonconformist beasties), infiltrated the festivities and proceeded to do a rain dance in the kitchen. No, I don’t know why, either. Cagnolitos, of Tindalos or Elsewhere, are laws onto themselves and they are seldom willing, or even able, to give coherent explanations for their behaviour. Me, I think “The more, the merrier”. Have a good weekend, when it comes, if it comes.
A Close Shave. As promised here is the first account of the solo adventures of the two absconded proto-thingies from the down-under cave. They floated merrily in their peregrine bubble, hither and thither, and suddenly they were confronted by a particularly disturbing instance of the Perpetual Struggle Against Iniquity. Having listened to both the urban legend and the Sondheim opera in toto they concluded that, whilst having some very valid evidence to justify his desire for retaliation ad expiation, nevertheless Mr. Todd’s methods were a tad extreme. As for Mrs. Lovett, the creatures reluctantly and grudgingly gave her some credit for her entrepreneurial, if mercenary, spirit. On the count of Judge Turpin and the Beadle, they inclined towards agreement with Todd: they deserved to die, although they would not have touched any pie made from such noxious beings. Why, it may very well have given them the runs, if not worse! Then they departed the scene and went on to their next experience as fast as the bubble would carry them.
Have a splendid week and un po’ di suitable mu’
Young Lamia. There she goes, the bright fledgling monster, out into the big bad world, a-hunting for delusional men and silly poets, for to lead them up the garden path and drive them up the wall. She will take some time out along her way to give wise counsel to credulous young women and ill-informed young girls who believe that being a Disney princess is “the” thing to be. She travels in semi state and great style with her Teddypoles (the discerning demon’s equivalent of teddy bears) and her shining pentagrams, which, at a pinch, can be used as shuriken (aka ninja throwing stars). Her vehicle is a Perennial Swirl escorted by a couple of Wandering Flowerettes. Two Fluffy Flutterbies (a Final Void variety of butterfly, what else?) wiggle and frolic around her head to pass the time and for the sheer joy of it. We are thoroughly delighted and wish the pretty budding anomaly lots of luck, fun, love, laughter and the company of as many wolves as she can get her mitts on.
Exobiology Note. Teddypoles, when they grow up, they become Unboilable Frogs. The kind of radical amphibian that can never-ever-not-on-your-nelly be persuaded that “almost certainly” means “for sure” or “beyond the shadow of a doubt” or any other such governmental confidence tricks.
Cave Dancers. The week begins with good news, look you! Deep in an underground cavern not far from Uluru a new kid is beginning to manifest on the protection racket block: a brand new custodian, tutelary entity, cosmic avenger, whathaveyou. He be Flaming Dingo, known amongst some heretic Norse peoples as Angel Wolf. He be fiery and fierce and immense fun to be with. The little proto-creatures witnessing the slow materialization of their new companion and caretaker are overjoyed, not to say greatly relieved. They are still at an embryonic stage and thus highly vulnerable to ruthless prospectors, uncouth social workers and the ever-creeping tourist trade. The Shoggies, conscientious detectors & reporters of all groovy events, observe and record for posterity. We dance with the incipient organisms and drink their health and that of the new Wild Thing come into our midst. Glory be and double whoopee!
PS/Warning. A couple of the wee dancing thingummies have since absconded and gone travelling independently. We’ll report on their adventures, discoveries, encounters and whatnots later on, as news of their Odyssey emerge (via the Mi-Go, who, as everybody knows, are a bunch of congenital nosy Parkers and always, but always! know what everybody’s doing to everybody else, how and where they are doing it and even why they are doing it. What’s more, the Mi-Go are absolutely accurate and reliable, unlike the BBC or TV3 (the Catalan autocratic regime channel).
Scare a Panda Day. Yes folks, it’s that crappy time of the year wot comes every couple of months or thereabouts: it’s pick on China/Russia/Iran/Cuba/Venezuela, or any other country that refuses to obey the diktats of the Saviour of the World. And I woz finkin’ to meself Dodo, me old mucker, it’s far too long since you’ve had a rant, big or small, on this vex subject. And lo! whilst browsing the free stickers storehouse that came with my latest toy app, I came across a clip-art panda that was screaming “Rescue me!”. So I did. (Thinking back, I remembered that I do have a tradition of sorts of using pandas -clip-art or otherwise- in this “aren’t politicians ghastly?” context.) So here’s the young beastie. Not so much scared as utterly bored and more than a little irritated. Pandas are placid creatures. They like peace & quiet, the good life, bamboo forests, lazing in the sun, falling off logs gracefully and making more pandas. As for the Chinese themselves, it’ll be a cold day in hell before they are frightened by the bully-boy tactics of the Deluded Hegemon but I’m sure that they are as bored as the pandas. As for me (myself and my 371 alter egos), my poor old tits can hardly bear the weight that crushes them any time I check the indentured meeja on this subject. Yes, I know, I should keep away from the Guardian and El País et al. But…but… an efficient survivor needs to keep pace with how the enemy thinks, innit? Anyway, alegría, alegría, the weekend is near. Have a spiffing one and stay as sane as circumstances will permit. Love and bamboo shots.
Sliders. Fed up to the far side of the back teeth with Mr. & Mrs. Happy-Happy’s banal doctrines and pious platitudes, and their clunky attempts to make her feel like the last creepy-crawly on Earth, she’s decided to join the true annelids and to Hell with social status, political hysteria and the cult of bad art. Donning her snug wormy jumpsuit, designed by herself drawing on both Chanel and Ming the Merciless for inspiration, she’s made for the Invertebrate Borderlands with her trusty Ever-Smouldering Gauloise and a clip-art piggy for all company. The Worms have received her kindly if with some circumspection, for they’re not entirely sold on the eternally combusting snout. The Piggy, on the other hand, is being an unmitigated success, as we can tell by the mesmerized look-of-luuuurve on the Oscur’ Wermicello’s eye.
The caption is a quote from Tom Lehrer.
And seeing that Spring is making valiant attempts at breaking, here’s some more of the delicious Tom on the topic:
Discontinuities. By all means divide, conquer and then rule with an iron fist and a cattle prod. Befuddle the wretched of the earth, tell them one thing and then, in the next breath, tell them its opposite. Then assert (without blushing) that both propositions are self-evident, inalienable truths and that if they don’t “get it” is their fault and what they need is more of the same plus, perhaps, an anti-pessimism vaccine or a happiness pill or CBT. Corrupt the language and destroy the institutions that made life endurable. Persuade the we-the-people that their kin is their foe and them that would be their natural allies are their mortal enemies. And so on, until brother will be unable to recognize sister and mothers their own children and lovers will look upon the face of the beloved and see only the warts and the deviation and the blemishes. And friend will look upon friend and say: Who the fuck are you? At which point they, the baah-baah sheep (both black and white, ewe and ram, mutton and lamb), will fight your battles and win the war for you without you having to move a finger. They will eliminate all the heretics and the divergent. And when they’re done with the aberrant, the fiends, the error 404s, they’ll turn on each other and get rid of the superfluous; you know, the old and the infirm and the less than Hollywood-perfect and all wot don’t consume as prescribed and toe the line. Thus until you have turned the world into mincemeat. Then, and then only, yours will be the Earth and everything that’s in it, And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
Have a nice life.
Fierce Damsels. Voila, two fiery lasses for the price of one. A special après–Pâques offer. To be used, as usual, as an All-Purpose Gripe Indicator. State your beef(s) and the girls will make the most of it. They’ll go to town, in fact. Here are some of my own:
-Ms Patel’s latest mind abortion, the Police, Crime, Sentencing and Courts Bill 2021
-Ms Patel’s mug.
–American psychosis latest incubus, the Quadrilateral Security Dialogue. (Dialogue indeed!!!)
-Joe Biden’s mug.
-The Happiness Industrial Complex in its godawful entirety, from Norman Vincent Peel to the Morality Pill.
-Dominic Raab’s mug
There. Stay angry, stay sane and have a sponditious week.
Sun, Son & Blobs. Look-see! a very old sun has got himself an offspring and he has come to show it off to the Space Blobs. The Blobs are gobsmacked and nobody has the foggiest how or where or even why he got it. But it’s a very pretty young thing and we all think it’ll do very well in due course.
Have a smashing Easter and go easy on the mint sauce.
Fetch. I agree, it’s pretty unsettling to come face to face with your dead ringer (they do have such a bad press, poor things), but I’m sure that the experience is equally uncomfortable for the fetch itself. Think about it and spare a thought for these much maligned entities. Have a sponditious week. And a snippet of gloriously goofy comedy and un po’ di high energy mu’,
Memo to myself: I must remember to send the silly comedy link to my very own darling Cthulhu Brothers. I’m sure that’d make them giggle.