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Through A Glass Darkly

Nastiness. For Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Again. And again. Today and forever. Lest we forget. Please feel free to write your own complementary set of curses along an imaginary dotted line. As imaginary as the “reasons” given 73 years ago by the grisly Truman creature, and all the other Meat Puppets who came after him, for dropping the bombs that killed, all said and done (and this a very conservative estimate), well over 200,000 civilians at one stroke. Well, two strokes, if you want to be fussy. Not to mention the ones who died, slowly and agonizingly, of radiation burns and poisoning.
I know I repeat myself but…A pox on “Them” all!
“Ahab is forever Ahab, man.  This whole act’s immutably decreed.  ‘Twas rehearsed by thee and me billion years before this ocean rolled.  Fool!  I am the Fates’ lieutenant; I act under orders.” Herman Melville, Moby Dick 
“The greatest evil is not now done in those sordid ‘dens of crime’ that Dickens loved to paint…But it is conceived and ordered (moved, seconded, carried, and minuted) in clean, carpeted, warmed, and well-lighted offices, by quiet men with white collars and cut fingernails and smooth-shaven cheeks who do not need to raise their voice.” – C. S. Lewis, author’s preface, 1962, The Screwtape Letters

Dog Days

Marine Biology. Due to this brain-scorching weather, it took me a little time to find again the chronicles of this latest “Russia done it!” lark but here they are, both versions, in the interest of balance and impartiality. 🙂
Really, I’m almost persuaded to join in the fun and blame Putin for this bloody awful heat-wave wot is nearly paralyzing me and has already killed three Spaniards. I’m sure Putin could have easily contrived an invasion, or swarming, of some malevolent North African migrant wind. Unless this unwelcome sirocco is a punishment from the Mother of Bumba, for our sins of intellectual laziness and/or gullibility and for believing in what El País calls “la injerencia rusa” (which gives me  fits of the giggles something chronic, although I don’t know why).
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t for a moment believe that Putin is a saint who never sticks his fingers in anybody else’s pies, far from it. But nowhere does he interfere nearly as often and as lethally as you-know-who. Not by a very long shot. And in any case, I’d really like to see more (much more! as it’d be only just, not to say truthful) of, say, America’s interventions (both physical and psychological), or George Soros’ crass meddling, or, more to the point, Lockheed Martin’s criminal involvements. There. Take it easy. Drink lots. Have a nice weekend.

Bonus Bollocks! Pals. Here. A wee bit of vacuous frivolity. All glorious colourful form, hardly any substance and practically no politics. It’s too dammed hot for depths.

Graphic Games

Bogus Heraldry aka Shoggy Apotheosis II. To call this a coat of arms would be inaccurate, not to say pretentious. But it amuses the Shoggies to play with specific terminologies and so they have cooked a mock-heraldic description for my modest (and inadequate, to be sure) attempt to capture their wondrous essence.
Argent and sable with a touch of gules in a fur of bedlam on an inverted chief ordinary of Mountains of Madness and Mother Chaos. Two lazy semi-rampant Argentinian jaguars (La Aguada culture) frame the motto: One Is All and All Are One.
Linguistic appeal. Any Latinists willing to correct the motto welcome. It’s straight out of some online translator or other (I forget which one) and I don’t trust online translators. Thank you kindly.

Water Music

Merman. He fights his own battles but if he likes you and if he likes your battle he’ll chip in with his fishy minions and his trusty double-headed double-edged … whatever. I’ve asked him what on earth-and-ocean is the terminal-looking contraption he wields so skilfully; who made it?, did he make it himself?, can I get one on e-Bay?, and so on. He just smiled sweetly, gave me a slightly commiserative look and said that some things are better kept where they are: in the dark. Oh, well… I recommend him as an ally, however. He’s very good and he tells glorious fish jokes.

Travelling LIght

Rat Pack. They are big, bold and beautiful. They travel fast and they travel light. But they always have time and space for bona fide chubby orphaned blobs and their companion ghosts. Their names are Minnie “the Moocher”, Vinnie “the Don” and Bongo.

Nasty Visitations

Ugly 3. Goodbye and good riddance, mister full-of-hot-air blob! Your mere presence spreads foul miasmas and the wrong sort of chaos. And folks, do remember the Uglies’ (1, 2 and 3) injunction: be of good cheer! No matter how ill-favoured you may be you’ll never be quite as hideous as this clown, who thinks he can intimidate the world into submission. Or the sad fuckers who let him bully them into complying, of course.
Stay stubborn. Be difficult. Have a lovely week.

Ethnic Fun & Games

Rumbeta de l’entropia. Per mi, per tu, per als meus, per als nostres, per als de casa i els de fora de casa. Per el Peret i per l’Espriu. Per tots els pobres malaurats que no tenen res, literalment, ni tan sols una terra on caure morts i que acaben morint ofegats al Mediterrani perquè els que si tenen un país no els volen a casa, capficats com estan dissenyant nous canals per desviar el patrimoni comú a llurs butxaques eternament famèliques, o embrancats en elucubracions fútils i bizantines sobre el futur improbable de fronteres imaginàries mentre el país s’en va a la merda. Per als malastrucs desheretats, per als escanyats, per als tristos i per qui plora per ells.
En una platja llevantina qualsevol, en una nit sense gens d’importància, l’Àziz de cals Egipcis, que és molt bon músic i millor amfitrió, ha organitzat un gaudeamus satíric, una mena de xirigota autòctona d’estar per casa, per presentar al respectable la seva darrera parida, la Rumbeta de l’Entropia. Les Santes Llagostes Il·luminades estan tan encisades amb l’espectacle que han fet la dansa ritual per fer baixar la lluna. I àdhuc la pruna, fixeu-vos! Les Llagostes Xiquetes, que són totes de Calella i Palafrugell, com les havaneres, ballen la rumbeta com si ballessin la conga perquè si, perquè són molt seves. La Daina Hipercrítica, amiga de tota la vida del Aziz, no podria estar més d’acord amb I’mpecable i concís anàlisi del seu compadrito sobre la situació regional. Les famoses partícules subatòmiques Smith i Jones, que no es perden una festa ni per casualitat, ponderen el valor intoxicant del Valdepeñas, que irriga la juerga a dojo com un bé de Bumba baixat del cel. Els Shoggoths fan guàrdia, que no se sap mai…
Si poseu molta atenció, podreu fins i tot sentir l’oloret de l’escalivada que es cou a poc a poc fora de la imatge. I l’única “estelada” que veureu aquí, és la Via Làctia, que cobreix un cel tan negre i tan lluent com els ulls d’un cavall en un poema de Lorca.
Now, put this lot through Google Translate and have a giggle. Or, alternatively, learn Catalan. 🙂

Health Advice

Siamese Fan Birds. One is naïve. Her twin is shrewd and knows what’s what. And a good thing, too, otherwise the naïve one would have poisoned herself long ago. Today I dedicate this here doodle to the latest wave of Russophobe opportunist paranoia. Oh, this convenient bundle of nervous gas/hot air! … It will run, and run, and run, I can tell. And here’s a little po’m for to gladden your heart on this hot summer day.
In Praise of Crookedness
Novichok, Novichok
How I love you Novichok.
So elusive
Massive panic at a stroke!
I went down
To Porton Down
To have a little shufti
But they wouldn’t let me in
Nerves were frayed and patience thin
And the labs a little fusty.
Go away from here, young Gorgon,
Grinn’d the sicario with glee.
There’s really nothing for to see
Unless you want to see my gun.
So I promptly did take off
With a discreet little cough
And in a bit of mild shock.
May you prosper, Mr Spock,
Let us all go for pot luck.
Oh, I love you Novichok!
Novichok, Novichok, Novichok.

Mystical Zoology

Bubbles B&W. Meet the Celestial Squid –aka Cosmic Calamari. They live here, in this beautiful, fluffy and unstable bundle of bubbles. They swim and sing and dance all day long … when they’re not plotting the downfall of Crapitalism. They eat seaweed and sundry debris. And Smarties, whenever the Shoggoths send them some. Sometimes they sell their babies into slavery as a means of infiltrating the enemy lines. A rather harsh but highly effective reconnoitring tactic.


Cow Girls. They are chubby and happy with it. They love cattle, crappy jokes and the wines of Valdepeñas. They worship no one and they have no master. (Or mistress, for that matter.) But they are on excellent terms with a demi-Viking demiurge who is distantly related to the Morrigan (who knows a thing or two about livestock). They have horns and will travel. They are NOT meek. Stop Press. In view of the latest shenanigans regarding that bunch of assholes known as La Manada (they’re out, set free by some ghastly judicial brainless bastard – look it up, I can’t be bothered with links and things), I dedicate this family pic to them. May they know, someday, somewhere, somehow, what being chased with intent and ravaged by a bunch of rabid freaks feels like. And may they rot in Hell, of course. Always.