As the non-existent visitors to this site must have gathered by now, I like to end my 6-pack chunks on some note or other; happy by preference but I’ll settle for whatever is going on at the moment. Today I decided to start on an optimistic-contemplative mode. Think of this illustration as a little piece of wishful thinking, a modest attempt at sympathetic magic. I neither live in a cave, nor do I have any need to invoke bison or fallow deer. If I want food all I have to do is walk down the shops. But my vestigial hunter’s soul still longs for the Big Game, it does, poor thing. It also longs for some justice, a modicum of groovy righteousness and merry retribution. But there’s none to be had; not here, not now, not by me, worse luck. So, it’s up to the Ineffable Black Goat of the Foggy Woods of My Mind to enact the reckoning. And for the Flowerettes to rejoice and celebrate Milady’s exploits. Cheers. Update 18/07/14 It never rains…etc. Here be the latest. The first is just a wee please-yourself exercise in tiling. No more no less. The secons shows a family scene: The Mice Queen, with her flaming heart of fire, travelling on her polydimensional vehicle, has come to exchange gifts with her mates the Mice. The Mice are staunch Republicans and the Queen is a devoted Anarchist, but they both like to play anachronistic games, what can I say? It does pass the time and sharpens the old acting skills. And last (BNL): Rejoice! Or weep, as you feel fit. It’s Adopt-A-Lost-Soul-Day again in the delta of the Urook. It comes once a month; it has to, in these unhappy, entropic days. The Flowerette on the right has decided to adopt the little Triangulated Thing, if only on temporary basis, as the LTT is already doing very well -he was last heard attempting to whistle The Internationale. The Flowerette on the left has opted for a “surgically stricken” Palestinian child. Always a plentiful option, alas…
For reasons unknown, lately I’ve been craving blues and its relations. Must be the Muse in a wobbly mood. Anyways, here are some. The first is a common or garden mandala, or an anti-mandala. The second is a snapshot of the Fuzzy Demonettes and their Shoggy chums in their beautiful night garden. From it they bring you the Fleurs du Mischief, as the TeddyBear Tree is not in season (it blooms later in the year). Put then on a vase; or make tea out of them (VERY good as an antidote to BBC vibes)…Or put them in your pipe and smoke them; and then wait for the pretty allucinations to beging (highly recomended). Update 09/06/14 It’s back to basic reds, apparently. Don’t ask. Here be The Fish Dancer. He dances fishes, he does. He doesn’t dance with them,or makes fish dance, he dances them. Once the fish have been danced they’re never the same again. Big juju, this being danced by the Fish Dancer. If I were you, I’d make sure you never meet him in a dark alley. Also, an improvised birthday card for the Fenian, born on the 4th of July. Honest. Update 10/06/14 I’m closing this segment on a s-tile-ihs note. Voilà.
Recently, I’ve come across a guy on Ipernity who uploads pictures of snails on his page. Also, occasional information on the mysterious workings of snail brains. I’ve concluded that he likes snails. So this is for him. As usual, that deep. Update 31/0514 Yesterday I got an email from Schiffer announcing that the 10 complimentary “author’s copies” of my deck are on their way to South Hackney, via Byakhee Express. (No, sorry, it’s FedEx. My mistake.) So, here’s the “poster” announcing the happy event. The Deck is now flesh & blood. Or ink & cardboard, really. Welcome to the family, oh wee bundle. And to round up a day of wonders, behold! young Olufemi’s got himself a girlfriend. Olay! Her name is Adebola; Bolita for short. She just wandered into one of our tactical briefing sessions, out of the deep dark forest, sashayed her way into our midst, batted her eyelids at poor Femi…and the rest is mythology, as they say. And here they be, the happy pair. Olufemi’s showing Bola the newly-minted book and he’s bragging a bit, saying: “I’m in it, don’t you know…” And she’s saying “Blimey! That’s nice.” And “So, who’s the blindfolded bint with the dog, the cat and the rat and the snakes on her bonce, then?” And so on. We’re all are really happy for Femi, who, we all think, works way too hard and has but few distractions. Bola will see to it that he doesn’t overdo it from now on. She’s awfully glamorous and very good-natured, but you can sense the iron claw beneath the velvet paw. (Atta girl!) Update 11/06/14 Waiting for what has to happen to actually happen (oy! am I getting restless…), I sit and meditate. Meditation’s a grand thing they tell me. The Turtlelettes are not quite so sure. Thank Bumba and his darling Mother for the good ol’ faithful, ever-vigilant WakeUp Croc, I say. (The Shoggies are having a laff…) Update 16/06/14 You know how it goes…You do a pic with a croc; someone says “what a nice croc!”; next thing, you’re doing a pic with nothing but crocs. Oh,… you don’t know? OK, only me then. In any case, voilà. Have more crocs. Next time: piggies! (Unless it’s mice, of course.) Update 17/06/14 The story so far. HanuPiggy, riding his chariot of clouds, clad in his best ceremonial dress and carrying his sublime two-headed truncheon, has come to have tea with Calpurnia and meet her babies, who were born a few years ago. The monkeypig is a very busy creature and couldn’t find the time until now but all the same everybody’s awfully glad to see him. The friendship between the Rats and HanuPiggy goes back a long, long way, even to the times when HanuPiggy was an ordinary pig called Tarquin who meditated a little too long on Hanuman, the Hindu monkey avatar, and strange transactional shit happened as a result. And if you want to know why he didn’t get a monkey’s tail as part of the deal, the answer is that who needs a tail when you’ve got twelve pseudopods? (You can only see six in the picture; the other six are hidden behind his enormous bloomers.) Update 21/06/14 Come greet the return of Darkness with the Solstice Wasp-Demonette! Dance around her bonfires. Drink the heady wine of Decline. Sacrifice to her a Warren Buffett or two (if you can catch any); or even an Obama or a Cameron, she’s not fussy. But on no account will she take Nigel Farrages. Even a fiend has got standards, what!
I did say there’d be another Odessa massacre, didn’t I? Let’s hope it doesn’t get any worse. Meanwhile, gather your Potemkins, folks. We’re going to need them. Update 07/05/14 It is indeed a day of woe for a narcisist when even his own reflection starts taking the piss. Update 11/05/14 Happy 67th birthday to me. So far the only one that has remebered the date (other than The Fenian) has been the automated system at the Nightmare Network. Don’t you love computers? To celebrate all the lovely death and decay I see all around me, I’ve decided to upload the heartwarming story of how the Shoggoths ambushed the Fatty Orphan in a remote corner of the Gardens of the Twilight Zone. Instantly spotting her as “one of us” and much taken by both her size and her substance, and just for a lark, they offered to worship her as a goddess. The bulky miss was a bit uncertain to begin with, but soon entered into the spirit of game and has actually decided to stay in the TZ as a resident tutelary presence. The Shoggies ara making arrangements to introduce her to Milady of Willendorf (with whom they are in excellent terms) and Milady can then introduce the Sugar Dumplin’ to her chum, the Shub-Niggurath (to whom the Shoggies most definitely don’t talk). At which point, and if I keep going the way I’m going, I think we can legitimately get the Really Big Girl’s Club going in earnest. Size Os of the universe, tremble & quake in your silly Jimmy Choos! Hai! Hai! Update 15/05/14 This is for the two lovely Medialens Davids and their merry variety of Buddhism. The events that inspired it are too long-winded and convoluted to detail here. Soko ni! Update 19/05/14 I swear to Bumba! The Shoggies are getting SO excentric, lately. Here they be, strongest creatures in the hood, and they insist on being carried, and on getting piggy-backs. Honestly… Perhaps it’s an excess of Smarties beginning to affect their electromagnetic fields and they’re becoming like children? Or, as probably rightly I suspect, they just take the piss? I lean towards the second hypothesis. Update 23/05/14 To end on an exemplary note -which makes a change from a happy one, here’s the story of the Pulcinio Polemico, a mini documentary sponsored by Nu-Clear Causic Soap Inc. Bringing Cheap, Cheerful and Efficient Satitazing Devices to Disadvantaged Parts of the World Since 1963. The story so far: The Polemic Pulin -a Genoese variety of high-octane baby chicken- has come to the Dismal Plains charged with the task of introducing the Doodlely Dudes to the raptures of the Dialectic Method. The Dudes, who are unadulterated innocents and prodigiously ignorant to boot and have never heard of Marx, let alone Hegel, are therefore not understanding a single solitary word of the passionate diatribe delivered by the fiery chickie. But thinking it a sort of groovy alien music, and being very musical themselves, they respond in kind. Observe that even the little Triangulated Creature, who never sings or even ever makes a sound, is suddenly attempting a timid tune. Xeno-Zoology Footnote. The Triangulated Creature is a profoundly unhappy being, for it is not in its nature to be triangulated. Triangular yes, but not triangulated. It was forcibly thus moulded by the evil spells of a wicked Third Way warlock who caught it off guard one evening as it was coming home from the George and Orange. Taking advantage of its small size, limited brainpower and high level of ethylic intoxication, he inveigled the poor wee thing into experimenting with fashionable ideologies. Bozhe moi…! A sad case if I ever heard one. But now, perhaps under the influence of the vivid coloratura of the Pulin’s rant, we might see the beginning of a slow recovery, who knows? Hope springs eternal.
Ojos chicos de mi cuerpo y grandes de mi caballo. And so on. Them wot know their Lorca will know what I’m talking about. This vexed Ukraine shindig is beginning to give me another bad case of rabiosa silentia. I’m sure it’ll pass, though; they generally do. Meanwhile, have a post Easter feline and his mates. They speak for me. Now more than ever. Update 23/04/14 And just in case I wasn’t making myself clear… This is for each and every child whose life and limb and childhood has been destroyed, when not obliterated, by some underpaid and overindoctrinated slave with half a brain operating a video game machine in in some godforsaken underground basement somewhere deep down under the Nevada desert. The little Spook Dancer has come to the Elysian Fields of Defiled Childhood to bring loads of Celestial Icecream to the poor wee wretched wraiths who inhabit them, in an attempt to assuage their alienation. NB. I’m not sentimental about children, but I do feel incredibly sorry for them. Especially those who died, and still die, everyday, in agony and terror because the pshychopaths du jour in power think that’s expedient to kill as many peasants as possible, as quickly as possible and to the least cost to their filthy pockets. A pox on them all. Update 03/05/14 Too knackered for anything else, here be a few New-Improved versions. 1. An homage to beloved and much missed Iain Banks. 2. The new-look Story of Edwina. These last three I dedicate to my good compadrito, Don Attilio “El Caffarenito”, bearer of wild flowers to a dead red, red Rosa. Cheers, mate.
I don’t know why I’m so incensed with the latest Ukraine-Crimea-Russia v USA-&-Sundry-Slave-Minions shenanigans. I should be totally immune to this sort of crap by now. But obviously I’m not. And I am furious. I can’t even listen to the beeb’s stomach-turning headlines without bursting into a torrent of abuse at media whores, craven countries, US hypocrisy, etc. Oh, well… There’s always the Beasties to help me express what I think of the above-insulted ghastly cunts. Oh, Ash, wherefore are thou, my friend? And now, you will excuse me. I must go and buy a few bottles of real Russian vodka before “they” ban it. (Shame I can get some frozen Russian assets. I love frozen stuff…) PS. I don’t even like vodka, but it’s the thought that counts, I’m told. Oy gevalt! Update 30/03/14 ‘Been waiting all my life to do one of those. Now, I’m off to read bits of Ecclesiastes, or Thomas Ligotti… Giggle. PS. I think it’s a crying shame that nobody does Vanitas anymore. The more fools they. Update 11/04/14 Behold! the latest of SpiderGirl’s sprogs has fallen madly in love with BoomBoom (and who would blame her?) and can be seen here trying to mesmerize her bulky beau into loving her back. BoomBoom is enormously amused by the creature’s antics but thinks that, ultimately, he’ll have to dissapoint the youg lady, as his heart belongs to Art & Smarties only. Exo-Zoology note from the Scribe: Miscegenation, or cross-species interbreeding, is quite common in the Dreamlands (which explains why it’s such a weird and wonderful place), so nothing unusual here. The brat herself is the producto of a HyperSpider and a Werewolf. Coming next: I never “do” Easter but this year I’ll make an exception. But I’ll be buggered if I upload a Bunny… See you next week. Update 13/04/14 I said NO bunnies, didn’t I? Happy Alternative Easter, folks. Behold a thoughtful Japanese Demon, come to bring us the Eastern Egg containing the Cyclopean Chicken Prodigy. She thinks that in a world where two-eyed people can be so very blind (not to mention stupid), a single-orbed creature may fare better and shed some light upon this wretched planet. Milady claims to be vaguely related to the Onibaba, the demon hag, but I suspect her from being of the Shikome (the wild women of Izanami), travelling in mufti. With Japanese demons it’s hard to tell, you know. She has not, as yet, revealed her name, not even to the Shoggoths, who absolutely adored her on sight. Update 16/04/14 And to end on a happy note…more about the vexed “Ukranian Question”! Here’s a couple of Kiev felines wondering where the fuck is all the fish gone (not to mention all the flowers) and that plus ça change… from Blackwater to Greystone. Oh, dear… Medlers, don’t you love to hate them? Pah!
I promised rabbits, didn’t I? Well, I’d hate to be forsworn… There you go. Rabbit No. 1. Unconsciously inspired by my Flick’r pal, the splendid Matthew Watkins. Cheers, mate! Update 10/02/14 The Young Prophet has come out to spread the Groovy News and to teach the Eight-fold Path to happiness! Rejoice! He started with the Shoggoths, to whom all this is so much coals to Newcastle, but the Prophet didn’t know that. He’s young and inexperienced. Anyway, the Shoggies liked his enthusiasm and his merry disposition, so they gave him some tea and send him the way of the Uncouth Larvae, whom as we all know, are in much greater need of encouragement and hope. NB. The young one is an unexpected love-child of the Flutterby. The lady herself, pig-headed as it’s her wont, refuses to name the father, contending that “who gives a toss who the sodding father is as long as the child is healthy, strong and wild?” Quite. Update 14/02/14 Here’s the imcomparable Boom-Boom, disguised as Shogzilla, wishing you all a wonderful Anti-Valentine’s day, folks. And may all my dreams come true… Update 23/02/14 Meet the Siamese Demonettes. They sprang fully formed and equipped from a recent dream of the delicious Bumba. They travel the universes in their sailing bubble, with their Macchine Diaboliche and their pals, the Angelic Sardinettes (offsprings of the Celestial Sardine), in quest of true horrors and the mission of neutralizing them. (I can’t wait till they get to Ben Bernanke and Henry Kissinger… ) The Sardinettes are called Snip and Snap and they just lurrrrve to push the buttons. Update 19/03/14 Mistery solved. Here’s what happened to flight MH370. Celestial blobs are patient creatures but you can push them (and shove them, and bully them and invade and pollute their territory) only so far, I dare say. (Actually, originally I got the idea from a short story by A. Connan Doyle, whom I’ve been reading for the very first time in my misspent life.) Update 27/03/14 Just for the hell of it. Too long since I did anything with Shoggoths. Hai!
2013 is nearly over. There were one or two good things in it, but on balance it was a pretty crappy year; what, with all the political shenanigans, and the mass-snoopping on us, poor chilangos. And Old Chthulhu (my older computer) died for good, and my eyes are playing up. To round up the shit, this computer, my last surviving one, is giving worrying sings of wanting to follow its companion to the cold computer common grave. Oi!… So, in case this happens (if it happens) before the year is out, here comes Blott, the Badlands Golem and his fearsome bodyguards, Pearl and Lisette, the UltraChickens. They bring us the Cup of Mixed Blessings, full to the brim with a powerful brew of severe bloodymindedness and sarcasm laced with a generous dose of disbelief of ANYTHING the BBC and/or The Guardian says. Salut i força al canut, as the Catalans would have it. Update 01/01/14 Happy New Year & All That. (Sounds cruel, doesn’t it? And it probably is. Sardonic, at the very least…). Have a good one, anyways. Or as good as you can make it; or circumstances will allow; or………………..(enter your option here)………………………….. Stay awake. Stay stubborn. And semper adversis, naturally. Update 14/01/14 We was having a drink, us girls, and the Shub-Niggurath was bitching non-stop about her all-too-numerous and exceedingly badly behaved Young, as usual, when the delicious GorgoMormo had a splendid idea: Instead of wallopping and scolding them all the time, why not give them a treat? Then I remenbered that once, back when and up to the 9thC. AD, there used to be a flourishing cult of the Ineffable One in Sicily. Why not revive it, to cheer everybody up? So we did. And the Young were so taken with the whole enterprise that they even volunteered to learn the Tarantella Siciliana and stage a demo for Mother’s benefit. And would you know, it went swimmingly! The Young ones behaved almost well and danced even better -with the odd exceptions here & there, of course. (They are monsters after all…). So a couple of them did a Sevillana instead of a Tarantella. And one of them insisted that maracas was essential to the soundtrack. So what? We all had a marvellous time, even Milady, who never once smiled, or stopped grumbling or fessed up to having a grand time. See here the snapshot of the shindig at its peak. The “solid”refreshments have been left out of the picture so as not to offend the sensibilities of they who think bankers, politicians and transnational CEOs are nice people and should not be eaten by bulky transdimentional creatures. And here be a link to one of the inspiring tarantelle. Salute! Tarantella siciliana – Marranzanu – Scacciapensieri Update 22/01.14 Right now all that stands between me and a Blues the size of the Taj Mahal is my graphics. So whatever little real, usable Time&Space the pain, or the shortness of breath, or the general impaired vision will allow me goes into them. Shoot me now… The first one today is one of those for-tablets-crappy-free-tool/Flash crossbreeds. The second, a tribute to those two Caledonian past-masters of chaos and aural dissonance, the glorious Cthulhu Brothers. (See link to their site.Do.) It’s been inspired by the … things that grace their site. Cheers, lads! NB. In due course, my two … things, will move. See if they don’t! Ha. Update 29/01/14 To end on a happy note…a bit of bad poetry and a couple of girls that most definitely don’t shave their armpits. May their fuzz grow long and their contrariness prosper. Next post: Rabbits!
The title of this post is a misquotation of the English title of Luis Buñuel’s biography, With My Last Breath. Things are not quite so drastic with me, these days, but they are pretty crappy all the same. I seem to be loosing sight at a rate of knots and I feel permanently as weak as a kitten. Etc. Ah, life… It’s just as the Spaniards say: like a chicken coop’s ladder: short and full of shit. Still, it goes on. And the Shoggoths keep on coming. Here be the latest crop. One is this year’s YuleTide card and needs no explanation. The other is a take on an old visual icon. Just like the justly famous “Odesa steps” scene in the wonderful Battleship Potemkin, lots of folks have done a take on it. The Shoggies, bless them, decided to carry the concept one step further. They have taken over a deserted rock just off the coast of Magaluf and hoisted their flag (the only flag I can tolerate, along with the Jolly Roger). They’re still there, hurling scathing insults at the holiday makers and singing them rude songs all night long. You gotta love them (the Shoggies, that is, not the vacationing cattle rabble). Update 15/12/13 In my pursuit of all things Ligottian, I came across (in the delicious Lovecraft e-Zine) a most promissing lead. A woman called Nicole Cushing, whose short story, A Catechism for Aspiring Amnesiacs, featured in a recent issue. Said story totally bowled me over. So much so that, trowing caution to the howling winds, I wrote to her saying how much I’d liked it and where could I get some more of her stuff. Some exchange of emails ensued and, to cut this sory short, she send me a wee chapbook containing some of her earlier produce. I loved it and, for reasons that we don’t need to know here & now, it elicited the two following pics. The minimalist one is a small “thank you note” for her. The second is a more baroque elaboration on the first. And it’s true, anyway. The Larvae have been restless, lately. They miss Imogen and Rudolph awfully. They miss the soireés and the Bach recitals on Hideous Flutes and cracked spinets and the bankster’s balls canapes, poor Things. So, Edwina, always ready & willing to soothe troubled spirits whereever they may be found (when she’s not stirring trouble in all the right places), grabbed her trusty guitar, donned her kick-ass boots, enlisted the aid of the Wee Fishis and an obliging Deep One (Defected) and dropped in on the wretched maggots with her Songs of Soothing Anarchy and old Spanish Republican melodies. The Larvae have somewhat calmed down. There. Don’t you love happy endigs? I do. They’re so very rare… Finally, thank you Mike for that great issue of your mag and thank you Nicole for your stories. Please keep them coming! PS. I may try to find a good link to the Catechism… and if Nicole permits it, I may put a link to her site, Laughing at the Abyss. Just for the name is worth a visit, wouldn’t you say? Update 21/12/13 At last, the Solstice. The light will soon return. By all means, sacrifice a Ben Bernanke or two to the airborne BearThing Clones, si le coeur vous en dit. And on sacrifices and tributes, here’s at last a tribute to that landmark of my adolescence, he who contributed to the basisc weirdness of my soul, MR James, master of hairy creepiness. Here’s to you Monty!
A time for silly posts, obviously. Here’s the threatened second version of The Shoggoth in Splendour. I’d quite like to produce a third. Perhaps a resplendent B&W one. On the more serious side, the deck (plus companion booklet) has entered the pre-production phase. We’re talking size of the cards, boxing, cover design, etc. End of news bulletin. Enjoy the pub sign. Come in, have a pint or two. Sing a merry song of destruction and waste. Toast Mother Entropy. Don’t worry, be loopy. Update 24/09/13 Threatened with the Nth. rerun of The Deer Hunter, a film I’ve never been able to watch for more that 20 minutes without falling asleep, I decided to bring back the Rehab Lab and do my own new, improved version. The three geezers had been picking e-dust in my hard drive for years so I gave them an outing. Too bad that on their way back from the late night shops and to a right riotous binge, they were ambushed by Lavinia (who had been practicing saying ‘and them over, sunshine! for weeks) and her gang of merry monsters and mugged on the spot, poor mites. NB. The Repulsive MoonBeast was going to push the getaway trolley but got fabulously drunk while waiting for the action so the Shoggies had to push it instead. Oh dear… Update 08/10/13 Another Primitive Device/Flash hybrid. Meet the Rain-Bearing Spider. A nicer monster you’ll not meet anywhere this side of Andromeda, but she’s hardly ever welcome because she, well, brings rain. And what rain! Pure star quality rain. But still, folks shout at her and call her names. Ungrteful wretches one and all. Update 15/10/13 Did I mention I’ve got a new toy? A tablet. A Samsung Galaxy. NOT an iPad. Anyway…I’ve been experimenting with some of the (mostly crappy) free drawing tools one can download from the dreaded google store. Here be the second product. The Plot: The Flutterby and SpiderGirl have been fighting. Nobody remembers what about. This is odd because generally they are the best of friends. In any case, the ding-dong got so bad, and so got on folks’ tits, that finally they were indicted and made to appear before the Supreme Court/Grand Jury. The Honourable Oops ibn Niggurath was awfully stern (also very odd, very out of character) and threatened them with exile to Magaluf if they didn’t patch their quarrel and behave like the sentient creatures they are supposed to be. That scared them all right. They shook feelers and went off to have Compromise Therapy with Zippy, who runs a free, open-to-all service (as well as her beauty consultancy). Last reports indicate they are getting along nicely again. I like a happy ending… Update 21/10/13 The story so far. The Strop-Shubbubah, a cousin four times and two dimensions removed from the Shub-Niggurath, has recently fallen out with her ineffable relative over a small trifle about who whould take over the country once -and if, Catalonia became independent from Spain. Silly, really. The chances of the region becoming a proper state in her own right are not only non-existent (Rajoy will send in the marines) but also impractical, since Catalonia has no industry to speak of other than “services”, whorehouses and clip joints. Still, the two august lassies have entered a bitter morass of dirty politics and dirtier tricks to enlist followers, simpatizers and fellow-travellers. Here you can see the BubbahBaby trying to seduce two wandering Shoggoths into joining her camp. She has inveigled the poor Ball Flowers, who are congenitally naive, too good natured for their own good and terribly hedonistic to boot, into conducting a campaign of recruitment on her behalf with lavish promises of endless whoopy and sponditious parties with brass knobs and bells and whistles an’ all. The Shoggies, who weren’t born yesterday, are not buying it, obviously. Besides, they’ve got Edwina in tow providing the soundtrack with her vast repertoire of old Republican songs. My money is on the Shoggies counter-persuading the globular lovelies into absconding with them, and making a bid for liberating the Enslaved Larva into the bargain. Easy task, I thik. Most of the Flowers (especially the Flowerettes) are already half in love with the bulky beasties and Edwina is much taken with the poor Larva. Up the Revolution, chaps! Next chapter: A Propaganda Poster saying “!Catalunya per la Shub-Niggurath!” to be used in my forthcoming visit to my birthplace. My li’l bro and I intend to stage a demo, up & down the Ramblas, brandishing said placard and solemnly reciting, over and over: Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’ngal fhtagn. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Update 29/10/13 Here is the promised poster. Behold, how the Smith Orphans are pissing themselves at the pathetic, deluded antics of the nationaliotic zombies. They want Milady’s power for themselves. They think they can bribe her with botifarra amb mongetes. Ha! Ïa, Ïa, Shub-Niggurath! I hope she eats them all.