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”.
Hiroshima 75. Here be my favourite Kokeshi doll and the Perpetually Incensed Sprite with a quick reminder of the depths human cruelty can sink to when nobody dares say “Boo!” to the bullies. Now, who was it that said that for evil to succeed all is needed is for good people to keep shtum? Or something to that effect. Obviously not enough god people are saying boo to the geese of war, seeing what’s going on in the world right now. Not to mention the enduring ignorance (wilful or otherwise), the lies and myths and the rubbish “history” that still surround that most ignominious episode. Joseph Goebbels must be in seventh heaven in his little corner of hell, he must: Repeat a lie often enough and loud enough and, hey presto! it will become the truth. One can see that his political children and grandchildren have learnt his lessons well and even improved on them. (China next?) Thank you indentured MSM. You’re doing a grand job. And thank you Edward Sodding Bernays. May you rot in a specially nasty hell for ever and ever and them a bit more.
Good Advice. From atop the Subsidiary Mountains of Madness the Palmy Tadpoles are launching a young spore into the big bad world. She’ll travel in great comfort and safety on her sentient Nautilus shell, which will also act as her bodyguard. The young sphere’s grandmother is refreshing her last minute advice on how to navigate the choppy, dicey waters of Late-Days so-called reality. The avatar of all the murdered Palestinian children officiates as chief launcher and well-wisher to the youngster. We wish her all the luck in the world. She’ll need it.