Medication … Sorry, Election Time.
Tadpoles of Tindalos. Considerably less known and even more poorly understood than their compadres, the notorious Hounds, the Tadpoles of Tindalos are some of the most enigmatic denizens of that most inscrutable of meta-dimensional layers. Like their canine counterparts they are keen on angles, but unlike the Cagnolitos they have a certain elastic tolerance of curves. This flexibility makes them rather more mobile and therefore much more dangerous.- Here they can be seen contemplating the alluring possibility of an American-Influence-Free planet. The little Flamenco-Singing Creetchah is belting out an inspirational Alegría, accompanied on the hyper guitar by her chum, Gamal of the Egyptians, elder Hyper Rat. The little F.S.C. learned her trade personally and directly from the wandering spirit of La Niña de los Peines, so she’s damned good, she is.- And here’s a spiffingly clever practical application for these admirable creatures: bribe them with a few juicy angles and run any of them as a candidate in the impending US election.- Wake up, America! Why persist in riding this hideously entropic downward spiral engendered by decades of voting for the lesser evil? Why not have the moxie to go the whole hog and vote for a bona fide monstrosity? Forget Donald, the Dumper plastic duck. Renounce the Hilarious Hellary harpy. Never mind Noam Chomsky’s advice -what the fuck does he know about real horror, after all? Go on. Be bold. Be radical. L’audace! Toujours l’audace! Throw wishy-washy caution to the howling night winds and embrace a genuine nightmare. If you can’t bring yourselves to vote for groovy Great Cthulhu or the ineffable Shub-Niggurath, consider the equally deadly option: vote for a Tadpole of Tindalos and be completely and unambiguously damned! And give the rest of this wretched planet a break, there’s a dear.- Let it never be said I didn’t try to give wise counsel :-)- Note for my good crony Mr. D.C. alias “the Dude”. It’s too late for us, your Especial Limeyous Friends across the Pond. We’re so far gone down the Sickly Yellow Freak Road to Crapitalist Perdition, moronified beyond reclamation or redemption by decade upon decade of successive Thatcheright Crap, New Laboured Bollocks, Putty-Faced Tory Crud and sundry Talentless Assholes Regimes, that we could no longer tell real evil from a sinkhole in the subsoil if it were slapping us in the face with a wet mercury-riddled mutant kipper and singing a Dies Irae. Thus we strain the periphrases, lionize the hyperballs, ratchet up the hysteria and mix our metaphors until we’re so befuddled that we hallucinate with every breath and imagine that George Galloway is the last of the red hot reddies and not the self-serving toxic git that aligned himself with Nigel Farage, be it only for a fleeting opportunistic moment, to campaign for an entirely futile Brexit. ‘ere, ‘ave a B&W version and some music: