Pious Bollocks. No. 3,703 Don’t Speak Ill of the Dead

Obituary. Old news, small news and a somewhat late celebration But it’s the thought that counts. I’m looking forward to the next hagiographiotic* obituary we’ll be assaulted with. Why, it might even be that of Henry Kissinger (one lives in hope) and we’ll be told what a nice man he was and how he brought lasting peace and prosperity to the Chilean people and so forth.
*Yes. A hybrid of hagiographic and idiotic. Lovely language, English, innit?
(One of the many articles reminding us we’re not mad, bad or dangerous to know…:-) )

Options & Variations

Evolution II. Change is not always everybody’s’ cup of tea. As Douglas Adams pointed out, somewhere in the HHGTTG, some people think that it was a very bad idea to come down from the trees; and some even go as far as claiming that crawling out of the sea and developing legs was a seriously bad move. Still, evolution happens, whether we like it or not. Although, sometimes, listening to Theresa May babble her incomprehensible rubbish, or Donald the Orange Duck foam at the mouth about…well, anything, really, I have an urge to join the reactionary camp and cry “Let’s go back to the Primeval Soup, for Bumba’s sake!” Sometimes I also have this itch to run out into the street shouting “Cry havoc and let slip the perritos de la guerra!”All things considered, I much prefer that last urge, even though the body will not allow the putting it into practice, by any stretch of the imagination. Again, small mercies…

Further Travels in Hypereality

Travellers. Aka Now Voyager 2.0 I don’t know what’s with me and tadpoles. And wee fishes. Nor do I care. I like them and as I never tire of saying, I’d rather have a tadpole in 10 Downing Street that the monster that skulks around there at the moment. And it could be worse. It could be the BojoBozo Creature, Bumba forfend! Grateful for small mercies? (Some bloody mercies…:-( )

Question Mark. For Ash 6.0  I know the anniversary proper is not for another couple of weeks yet but, as I also say, ad nauseam, I must concede, opportunity is as opportunity does. Who knows what state I’ll be in come the day? So, carpe doodle, deep sigh, big Oh Well… and on with life. Here’s looking at your subatomic particles, kiddo. We still miss you.

Mysterious Bonds

Egypt2S. aka Bonding with ‘Bots. Owing to her links with shady creatures of dubious reputation sporting animal heads and such like irregularities, she’s not exactly Miss Popularity around the Delta. But the feral robots love her. No, I don’t know why, either. Feral robots are peculiar at best and highly volatile if pestered with trivial inquisitions.

Empires of Tears

Angry Alien. It’s not nice to send your children to be slaughtered in some distant land to defend your avaricious dreams of empire, then wrap them in the flag and commemorate their loss with great displays of ersatz sentiment and buckets of crocodile tears. And almost immediately after send a new batch of cannon fodder to fight your next imbecile imperialist gamble!
Something new:
Not a fan of Kipling by any stretch of the imagination but in this case he got it so right:
If any question why we died,
Tell them, because our fathers lied.
Something old:
Malditas sean las guerras y los canallas que las apoyan.
Julio Anguita

Seasonal Sadness

Splatter Bugs. Shock. Horror. Misery, gloom and doom. I’ve got a touch of the dooms… The clocks go back today. Tomorrow, by 5pm it’ll be as dark and murky as Henry Kissinger’s soul. So, to keep the spirits up I invoked whichever jolly entity might be nearest me to come and correct my dejection and lo! the SplatterBugs appeared. I’m a lucky bleeder, I am.
On the subject of this summertime saver caper… I hope the EU gets rid of it before we leave it. It’s total piffle, saves nothing at all and just upsets my rhythms and the imaginary little ones, who can be awfully sensitive.
As for that Brexit Ultra-Nonsense… Oh, don’t get me started.
Have a nice dark-time season, folks.


Shoggy Evolution. The Shoggoths are ten years old this autumn. They burst into my life at the end of a particularly interesting October in 2008, evolved from a Japanese frog that then became my third Cthulhu. But the Great Old Dreamer subsequently acquired a more traditional shape, with tentacles and claws and wings and all things properly Cthulhian.
The Shoggies were in them very brief early days cast in the role of minions of the catnapper of R’lyeh, but almost immediately became self-regulating and took a life of their own, which event delighted me no end. Mind you, it helped that I had re-read At the Mountains of Madness again and finally made up my mind that the Shoggoths had had such a bad press, up to that moment, because H.P. Lovecraft was barking up the wrong tree, the silly old xenophobic bugger.
To cut a long story short, the Shoggoths were re-cast in the part of heroes. My kind of heroes: freedom fighters, rebel slaves, free radicals; a regular bunch of protoplasmic Maroons one and all.
They’ve come a long way since then. They have established their uniquely personal world and taken over mine. They have made art and music, written poetry, developed the Shoggy Brotherhood Tango and invented their own highly unorthodox version of Sumo wrestling. They have morphed into ill-behaved sub-atomic particles, starred in remakes and alternative versions of several movies, including Battleship Potemkin and Spartacus and posed for famous paintings like Velazquez’s Las Meninas and Goya’s Los fusilamientos del 3 de Mayo. Rosie has even written a sequel to Lenin’s What Is to Be Done?
They also triggered a stampede of Lovecraftian spoofy pastiches (collectively renamed Myffos), so that not only Shoggies emerged but also Cthulhus, Shub-Nigguraths, Old Ones, Deep Ones, Yithians, a Mother Hydra, a GorgoMormo and a Yog-Sothoth or two. They have been the best compost my mind’s garden has ever known. They continue to grow and multiply, with no signs of exhaustion in sight.
Happy birthday, my rubbery darlings.
Scribe’s Note. As well as the customary birthday card, I break my own rule of never posting anything longer than the mini rants that often attend my doodles and I’m posting a link to the rejuvenated version of an uplifting, stirring account of how the beloved monsters came into my life, all those ages ago, in another time and another place and when the wench I then was is now not exactly dead but certainly closer to the grave that she’s ever been. Sic transit gloria Gorgon. 🙂
The story so far.
The full graphic version.