Mongolian Variant. Aka The Return of Genghis Khan. And here they are again, our old friends the CV19 viruses! This lot are the latest soooon-come variety and they come all the way from far, far Mongolia, riding their shaggy yaks and singing their wild viral songs. Funny thing, these “variants: the South African, the Brazilian, the Indian, the Nigerian (and, of course, the super-evil Chinese) and so on. All of them from that dreadful “abroad” place, except a UK variant that is hardly ever mentioned. I surmise that the next variety will be from Yorkshire and that also will be classed as “foreign” for it’s well know that amongst the “Real English”, anything or anybody not from the Home Counties and the Cotswolds, counts as a foreigner (frequently called bloody foreigner). Oh, well. Have a lovely weekend.
Pissed Off. The ultimate APGI. Good for any-&-all moans, groans, quibbles, bitches and invectives. Personally, today, I’d like to direct its malevolence to the Infernal Powers of The Other Site. As would my good friend the Red Baron, no doubt; so this is, in part, for him.
Notice how Rosie is trying to still the choppy waters, reminding us that anger may be very cathartic and useful but it’s also very bad for your ulcers in the long run. Also, please know that the AK47 is a plastic one. We would never allow the real thing in the house, but is the though that counts…:-)
Year 74. The actual shindig was on Tuesday but I haven’t felt like celebrating all that much (courtesy of the IDF and the Butcher of Beirut) so here’s the related doodle, a wee bit late. The party was OK if a bit low key, in the spirit of the past year, when most flags have been flying at half mast if truth be told. Still, there were the usual highlights. A very stern-but-nice insectoid lady manifested early in the morning bringing a bagful of the most precious of commodities in these godawful days. A couple of freshly evolved Shoggothic … things also attended and were introduced to the rest of the company by the merry Voodoo Poppets. And while nobody was paying much attention, having been diverted by the music, the food and the ineffable drugs, a couple of hybrid Cagnolitos of…fuckknowswhere, really (the Tindalos High Commission denies any kinship with or even knowledge of the nonconformist beasties), infiltrated the festivities and proceeded to do a rain dance in the kitchen. No, I don’t know why, either. Cagnolitos, of Tindalos or Elsewhere, are laws onto themselves and they are seldom willing, or even able, to give coherent explanations for their behaviour. Me, I think “The more, the merrier”. Have a good weekend, when it comes, if it comes.
A Close Shave. As promised here is the first account of the solo adventures of the two absconded proto-thingies from the down-under cave. They floated merrily in their peregrine bubble, hither and thither, and suddenly they were confronted by a particularly disturbing instance of the Perpetual Struggle Against Iniquity. Having listened to both the urban legend and the Sondheim opera in toto they concluded that, whilst having some very valid evidence to justify his desire for retaliation ad expiation, nevertheless Mr. Todd’s methods were a tad extreme. As for Mrs. Lovett, the creatures reluctantly and grudgingly gave her some credit for her entrepreneurial, if mercenary, spirit. On the count of Judge Turpin and the Beadle, they inclined towards agreement with Todd: they deserved to die, although they would not have touched any pie made from such noxious beings. Why, it may very well have given them the runs, if not worse! Then they departed the scene and went on to their next experience as fast as the bubble would carry them.
Have a splendid week and un po’ di suitable mu’
Young Lamia. There she goes, the bright fledgling monster, out into the big bad world, a-hunting for delusional men and silly poets, for to lead them up the garden path and drive them up the wall. She will take some time out along her way to give wise counsel to credulous young women and ill-informed young girls who believe that being a Disney princess is “the” thing to be. She travels in semi state and great style with her Teddypoles (the discerning demon’s equivalent of teddy bears) and her shining pentagrams, which, at a pinch, can be used as shuriken (aka ninja throwing stars). Her vehicle is a Perennial Swirl escorted by a couple of Wandering Flowerettes. Two Fluffy Flutterbies (a Final Void variety of butterfly, what else?) wiggle and frolic around her head to pass the time and for the sheer joy of it. We are thoroughly delighted and wish the pretty budding anomaly lots of luck, fun, love, laughter and the company of as many wolves as she can get her mitts on.
Exobiology Note. Teddypoles, when they grow up, they become Unboilable Frogs. The kind of radical amphibian that can never-ever-not-on-your-nelly be persuaded that “almost certainly” means “for sure” or “beyond the shadow of a doubt” or any other such governmental confidence tricks.