Home » Author: Dolores

Shall We Dance?

Defy & Dance. So life is mostly shit and the future looks increasingly bleak, both at the personal and the planetary level; and the bedlam, mayhem and wanton destruction continue apace; and anytime now Priti Patel will take over the country and then we’ll be really & truly fucked; and the journey up the cypresses’ path creeps closer and closer with each passing day. But the spirit of Mehitabel is still alive, look you! We dance naked in our minds (out in the garden is far too cold and besides it would upset the foxes), we drink home-made lemonade and we make as much merry as we possibly can get away with.

Have un po’ di mu’ to gladden the old earholes and the weary soul:

Trolling Along

Fuzzy DingDong. In this wretched universe there are sad, sad folks whose lives seem to be so mindless and so hollow that the only way they can feel good about themselves is by insulting people gratuitously and, apparently, at random. By and large they are clumsy and dull in their approach; they also seem to be totally devoid of any sense of humour, irony and anything reassembling subtlety. Douglas Adams came out with Wowbagger The Infinitely Prolonged as an approximation to what I’m talking about. (see: http://hhgproject.org/entries/wowbagger.html ) Only Wowbagger had a certain grandeur, since he was the man-with-a-mission type of geezer. The one in the picture isn’t; ergo, hasn’t. He’s just pathetic. He jumps abruptly upon travellers along the Gran Via Gloriosa and gives them an unsolicited piece of his fatuous mind. To their credit, most the thus assailed passers by either totally ignore the poor blighter or they give him a good what for in return. He (the poor blighter) has a small captive balloon (globo cautivo in Spanish) that wishes to hell it had a digestive system so it could eat so it could defecate and therefore be able to shit on it’s captor’s silly head from a great, great height.

This here doodle is dedicated to You Know Who.

Stay sane. Stay cracking. Have a resplendent weekend.

Carping On

Prickly Peer. Meet Beatrix Baldovina Ermengarde Benicia Leonora Endorina de Stroopp Dampmantel-Grouchevsky, Betty Boo! to her friends and Batty Betty to her foes.

She’s a peer of the realm of Grumpinghastia and seventy-third in line to the Most Exalted Cranky Seat. Her chances of ever ascending the Eleven Razor Steps leading to the highest office in the land are, consequently, well beyond slim. And that’s fine with her; her comparatively low position leaves her with all the time in the world to devote to her favourite pastime, namely ranting, railing and haranguing. Her best friend and current monarch, queen Manuelita Theodora II the Unexpected, never tires of telling her how flipping lucky she is not to have to be queen and having to go to formal zombie parties and meet doddering ambassadors and attend public inaugurations of state-funded orphanages and give interviews to brainless society columnists from Hello! Magazine and the utterly insufferable life-style gurus of The Guardian.

Betty believes every word Manu has to say on the subject of augmented responsibility. She and Manu grew up together as children and together they survived school, uni, polishing seminary and boot camp. As unattached, wild, bright young things they used to have heaps of fun, getting up to no end of no good and into many and varied scrapes, not to mention all sorts of soups. Nowadays they’re lucky if they can meet once a month for a sneak greasy kebab and a cuppa.

Betty has suggested once or twice that Manu should abdicate in favour of her idiot cousin, Clarence Elmer Duffy Hefty-Plankett and Manu is seriously tempted by the notion. After all, she muses, it’d be high time Grumpinghastia had a king. Just because the female of the Grumpinghastian political species is cleverer and more capable than the male, it should not follow that the girls have to carry the burden of administration most of the time. Then…she thinks of her cousin, she sighs deeply, shakes her crowned bonce slowly and says: “I can’t. I simply haven’t the heart to inflict Clarence on the wretched country…” and she soldiers on with her tarsome royal duties. And so it’s left to Betty to carp for the both of them. There, that’s a true friend for you.

The whole point of this quasi-shaggy-dog story is that Betty-the-Raver is so skilful and so keen that she’s willing to do anybody and everybody else’s ranting for them. So, if you’re too tired, or despondent, or lazy to do your own a-bitching and a- bickering, just ask her and she will produce the goods, tailor made, satisfaction guaranteed or your money back. Stay well, stay groovy, stay sane.

GFI (Gorgon’s Film Institute)

In The Forest. Here goes yet another chapter of that old caper, the Crappy Movies Rehabilitated series, Brief Encounter sub-section. Like all the previous incarnations, this is a small mystery tale. Why is the mother flower in such a hurry that she has no time to exchange a bit of tittle-tattle with the local fauna? Is she fleeing from a cloak-and-dagger menace? Is she in a foul mood and feeling highly antisocial? Is she rushing to catch the 3.10 to Yuma? Are the jumbo worms all they seem to be? Do psychic leeches lurk in the tall grass? Is the painted backcloth sky going to turn an abrupt somersault and reveal its other side? Is there life before death? Questions, questions… and hardly any answers. What a bummer. Well, never mind. Have a glorious weekend and stay out of trouble and, to be on the safe side, out of the tall grass

Micro-Wisdom

Going Viral. Here they are again our old friends the viruses with a few opinions on the latest governmental “policies” (to used a charitable word for them) and snippets of virus-wisdom. Have a lovely weekend.

Sob Story

Tears. Here be a melancholy variant of the ever-useful All-Purpose-Gripe-Indicators for those not so much bilious as plain doleful moods. You know, the sort of drab, sombre days, when you feel your heart is being shredded to bits by almost anything you see around? Yes, those kind of days. Enjoy. Stay sane and have a nice week.

Crawly Wisdom

Sage Worms. Behold the peerless, delicious, perspicacious Sage Worms (no relation to Bozo’s SAGE) freely voicing their considerate, if bemused, opinion of the latest Bogus Silver Bullet devised by our dear leaders. This here pic can be used as the latest APGI (All Purpose Gripe Indicator) as well. Just enter the beef of your choice in the text box, sit back and have a nice life. Remember, a good moan is as good as a rest!

Riotous Assembly

Drunk & Disorderly. In these godawful times of heightened pretentious nonsense and language distorted, when not downright corrupted, there’s a new kid on the pompous linguistic block: elevate. A perfectly ordinary, useful and sensible word is being tossed all over the place, in the most absurd of contexts, whether appropriate or not. In protest to this kind of balderdash, the young Webbies have decided to “elevate” mischief to new heights and, having broken into the private cellars of the Shub-Niggurath, have gotten gloriously plastered. They can be seen here re-enacting a regular session in our very own House of Commons -who seem to be getting commoner by the day.

This inglorious conduct has caused much shock and awe amongst their relatives and their governess, the Slender Butterfly Man. We, personally, are very much inclined to join in the fun. As I said, times are really crappy and any break from the unquestioned official piffle is most welcome. Even the Shubby has looked upon the misdemeanour with a nebulous shade of indulgence. After all she doesn’t drink, really. She only keeps a cellar to annoy the Final Void branch of the Temperance League, dontyouknow.

Today, instead of the usual un po’di mu’, I offer a snippet of wisdom found in, of all places, a P. G. Woodhouse novel. I dedicate it to Jeff Bezos, Bill Gates and Warren Buffet. Enjoy.

“He was suffering from that form of paranoia which makes men multimillionaires. Nobody would be foolish enough to become a multimillionaire if it were not for the desire to prove himself irresistible.”

Greenery

Budding Gardener. Times being so very lousy, it almost feels mean-spirited to have an Anti-Valentine. Why, even the BIC (Brainwashing Industrial Complex) seem to have toned down the mawkishness and the ersatz sentiment, poor dears! (Giggle, giggle.)

On the other hand it’s good to keep up some traditions, especially those that promote insubordination, so as a sort of via media, we have dispensed with our customary annual riotous shindig and taken ourselves to a quiet garden party thrown by Bella, the young novice gardener. She’s doing very well; what she lacks in expertise she more than makes up for in passion and taste. Behold the birdies a-fluttering and the tiny floating wraiths praising her efforts and the flowers (which BoomBoom calls “flehs”) thriving even before spring has had a chance to consider waking up!

The food served was scrumptious and the drinks pure nectar (what else?). We all had a grand time as well as miniature potted Japanese peonies as a souvenir.

Have a lovely weekend!

Cryptic Communication

Floating Messengers. A couple of glamorous floating thingummybobs and their wriggly retinue materialized last nigh in our living-room. They appeared to be some sort of couriers bearing some kind of message or news or something The problem is that they communicate in a language nobody here understands, not even the Shoggies, who are outstanding linguists. So we are completely puzzled and frustrated. For all we know they may be trying to tell us that Priti Patel has spontaneously combusted, owing to her internal circuits having melted; or that the Bozo has found God and buggered off to a Trappist monastery, there never to utter another word ever again. On the other hand they might be trying to warn us that “They” intend to summarily execute anyone who refuses to get vaccinated, who knows. We have sent for the Shub-Niggurath who is an even better polyglot that the Shoggies. Meanwhile we wait, we eat, we drink and we are merry. Have a splendid weekend.