Reputations. Here, have a little peek at what the wee creatures think of the whole pantomime. This is a casual, tangential ad hominem attack on that hideous clown in No.10, once more trying to impersonate that other repulsive clown (and pimp) that one long time ago, had nothing to offer the country but blood, sweat, tears and a few gassed “natives”, to keep the populace happy. A pox on them all.
Passengers. Have a heart. For the homeless, the landless, the forcibly deracinated, the viciously pushed around, the thoughtlessly bulldozed, the despised, the lonely and the ignored. For all the declared non-persons in cold blood by the bullies of the global playground, just because they can. And for the Palestinians, for the First (soon to be Last) Australians, and the Chagossians, dying of broken hearts in some begrudged shanty corner east of Madagascar.
This is, again, for Zoraida aka Arsaytoma. I miss you and your drawings, girl.
Minotaur Mutations. A strange character has appeared out of the blue in the Chromatic Shifting Sands. Nobody can tell what it is since it refuses to reveal its name or even its rank and serial number. We conjecture that it may be vaguely related to Arachne but for the fact that it has too many limbs, and we think it might be female because as soon as she(?) appeared she(?) started giving birth to what she(?) claims is the ultimate alternative Minotaur under the watchful eye of the Permanently Amazed Palm Tree. It, the Alt-Mino, will undo all the wrongs that the original Minotaur did and, as a bonus, will haunt the dreams of Mike Pompeo from now on until the end of time and beyond. She(?) says. The Shoggoths are exceedingly curious about these shenanigans and are keeping a discrete eye on the proceedings. In spite of the perplexity surrounding this affair, we all wish the new mother(?) great fortune, outstanding prosperity and endless grooviness.
Identity Politics. When the I is king uncivil war looms.
By all means, divide yourselves like common amoebas; fragment the already fragile structure that could have backed up the R-Evolution; turn your righteous causes into ideological minced meat. Accuse, censor, de-platform, wave fingers, assault, assail, persecute, cancel, make some poor bugger’s life a misery. My heroes are better than your heroes. I’m a real victim; you’re just kvetching. Me too! Mee too! Go for it. Boost the inner child and reinforce your self-esteem. Feel wonderful, worthy, virtuous and “it”.
Meanwhile, back at the whorehouse, the Meat Puppets and their Robocop Masters of the Universe handlers (some of which are funding your beautiful, virtuous movements, don’tyouknow), are licking their inhuman chops and having a laugh at your expense, thinking how well their mass manipulation techniques are working, and how effective, cheap and effort-saving they are. Why harass openly and directly the populace, which is very bad PR, when it can do it itself to itself so economically? And in between insane giggles, they are sharpening the machetes and polishing the button that will push the lever that will drop the pill that will make the gas.
Have a nice life.
And instead of un po’di mu’, one of my favourite Monty Python sketches:
Wilbur Whateley. Aka The Agonies of a Young Scholar. The budding sorcerer’s apprentice seems to have misplaced his grandad’s most precious grimoire. For his life, he can’t remember where he left it last time he used it to summon Auntie Shubby to an impromptu tea party involving a brace of Alderneys, a stray tax collector and a couple of nosy newspaper hacks. He’d better find the book soon, before Gramps notices its absence and administers the youngster a hiding he will not soon forget. Not to mention pissing off Dad into a frenzy of stroppy retaliation. Yog-Sothoth is notoriously unforgiving with youthful scatter-brainlessness and rabidly intolerant of slipshod practices. Mummy can no longer help; she’s been in the well for several years, poor thing, and by now she’s even on the far side of organic matter soup.
New Virus. And here comes Doña Pupitas, second cousin dimensionally thrice removed of Doña Alegría, the Flying Hyper-Snake from Tindalos Parva, to introduce the latest mutation of one of those virus that so puzzle everybody, particularly those scientists that go ‘round pontification about microorganisms although they really know and/or understand shit about them. This new chappie is even vainer than the last one. There you have it: size doesn’t matter when it comes to either deadliness or conceit. Stay groovy and mind the incoming storm.
Hey There Cthulhu. Let’s face it, in these crappy End-Days one can never have too many Cthulhus, so, as part public service part charity work, I’m donating yet another Cthulhu. Complete with dancing cultists and compère voodoo poppet to warn us all of his imminent arrival.
Personal Note. My deal with Cthulhu. Well, on a good day I think that his dominion couldn’t possibly be worse that what we have now running this dread circus. On a not-so-good day I think that he (and the rest of the ineffable trans-dimensional Final Void crew) will never deign touch this mess with the proverbial. On a really bad day I panic and I tend to believe that They are here already and, yes, as predicted by some, working for the CIA, the NSA, the Mossad, Jeff Bezos and Bill Gates.
To round things up in style and consistency, have un po’ di dedicated mu’.
(This is a piss-taking of a real song called Hey there Delilah. I think the send up is heaps & heaps better that the original. I hope you like it, too)
Have a splendiferous weekend.
Maiden With Shawl. Here be another of those noli me tangere lasses that erupt in my graphic world with comforting regularity. This one is particularly not to be messed with. You can debate with her, though. If your disputation is good & proper she’ll be well pleased and she’ll treat you to Belgian chocolates and one of the little wandering stars that dwell inside her cloak. On the other hand, if your arguing is of the “Russia done it because the Guardian says so”, variety… well, good luck to your sorry ass, that’s all I can say; her hounds are relentless -they are terriers and nebulously related to the Cagnolitos of Tindalos, don’t you know.
Please note that she’s not the kind of girl who shaves that which should not be shaved, but to make up for such defiant shamelessness (not to mention the fashion heresy) she has nothing else to hide, except for what she has in her hands, which she keeps well under wraps. A girl must have a secret or two, innit?
Colombianas. No man may be a hero to his valet but to the Colombian hippos* (Hippopotamus escobarius) gambolling and expanding all along the beautiful Magdalena river, Pablo Escobar certainly is. Me I’m all for hippos anywhere. I’d like to see them in Vicky Park, I would.
A short digression on Pepe Marchena and his delicious invention, the Colombiana. English Flamenco pundits,who like to pontificate on something pretty remote from their emotional frame of reference, are given to demean Marchena and aver, without room for doubt or argument, that he cannot be considered a “Flamenco” and that his creation is not even a genuine “palo”, a “canción de ida y vuelta” (yes, look it up by all means). I like to assert, with great glee: To Hell with English Flamenco pundits. A pox on them all.
And here’s your po’ di mu’ for the day and wiki entry about the chubby darlings themselves: (*NB. I know nothing about the reliability of this site but al least it doesn’t demonize the poor wee beasties. There. That deep.)
Migrants. aka Navy Blues. She’d been relatively quiet, lately, but it was only a matter of time before she said and did something utterly outrageous -not to say revolting and probably illegal. But there you have it. You can’t keep a bad woman down. Especially when she has powerful friends watching her back and heaps of mundane right-wingers cheering her along. And you know what’s the “irony”? That if push came to shove her powerful friends and her backers down below wouldn’t move a finger to save her from the ethnic purge.
Have a lovely week, my darlings, heatwave permitting. And never, ever forget: Today is “them”. Tomorrow … it could be YOU. It’s has happened before.
Have un po’ di mu’, to remind you of the dangers of calling up “that which you cannot put down”.