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Goodbyeeeeee 2019

Push Back 2020 Hello 2020. Personally I haven’t the smallest, faintest shred of an anaemic hope that it’ll be better than 2919, let alone a happy one. Still. We must Becket it, mustn’t we?
Have the best possible 2020 you can get, folks. Stay stubborn.

More or Less Happy Returns

Solstice2019. aka Cthulhu Says…The Story so Far. Having perversely failed once more to vote Cthulhu (or, better still, the ineffable Shub-Niggurath), we’ve ended up whisking to power something that makes Azathoth look like a love child of Gandhi and a CERN particle physicist.
And he’s gon’ be there for the next 5 years. If we’re lucky. If we’re not he’ll go on forever, even unto and beyond the demise of his earthly carcass, for he’ll be kept “alive” by a series of outlandish HerbertWestian procedures and some very effective hexes devised by don Dominic.
And soon the Last Darkness will engulf all, and all seas will empty themselves into the cosmic Maelstrom and the Red Death will hold sway and… But I digress.
Have the happiest, grooviest, most impervious Solstice you can manage.
“They could be made to accept the most flagrant violations of reality, because they never fully grasped the enormity of what was demanded of them, and were not sufficiently interested in public events to notice what was happening.” –  George Orwell
And what would a festive season be without un po’ di mu’? You’re welcome.

Dearly Departed, Dear Departures

Worm Wisdom. (Ash Memorial Year 7) In the soothing, imperturbable shadow of Yggdrasil, the Níðhöggr and a couple of mates of his debate the endorsing of a possibly desirable early date for Ragnarok.
This might well be the last public memorial I’ll upload -for a variety of mostly good reasons. But here goes anyways. I know Ash would have liked this doodle.
Ash, me old china, we miss you more than ever but perhaps it was a good thing you went when you did. At least you’ve been spared this latest, the most Hideous Horror Show of all the recent whorish politics of this wretched country. More power to your particles, toots!

Blackest of Fridays

Basic Grammar for ClipArt Monsters. Friday 13th, eh? It’s got to be the un-funniest joke ever since Tony Blair took us to Iraq. I give that ersatz moratorium on fracking 6 months.

Santi Marginali

Farfallin2. Meet the promised peripheral Italian saint: Santa Farfallina di Sestri Levante. She hops and hovers atop the mountains of Liguria preaching permanent dissent, infinite patience, stubborn endurance and selective schadenfreude. “Hear ye, hear ye!” she cries. “Do not tolerate the intolerable! Take comfort in the modest fact that you are not Dominic Cummings. Live your lives as if the R-Evolution was possible. Resist and bite.” And so on. So far she hasn’t converted many people, but the Floaters and the mountain Trotters absolutely love her. She subsists on offerings from the local Shoggoths and the odd contribution from the Shub-Niggurath, who has a secret hidey-hole under the Lanterna in Genoa. The santina herself has a pintsized pied-a-terre in Piazza Campetto, where she throws occasional small parties for a selected crown of mad poets, avant-garde dancers and notorious cat chroniclers. Her feast day is a movable feast, naturally.  NB. This is mostly for don Attilio “El Caffarenito”, who will get all the in-jokes.

Sharp Monsters

ClipArt Monsters’ Dirge. Here’s a small token of my contempt for that ghastliest of all our ex-prime ministers, Tony “Liar-Liar-Pants-On-Fire” Blair, who keeps on resurfacing, like a particularly malicious revenant.
Also, a special, tailor-made ad hominem attack and a curse upon his obnoxious head: May the Harpies foul your table and rot the very food in your mendacious mouth. And may the Undying Worm eat your eyeballs from the inside. And may the Night Mare send her brood to plague your unpleasant dreams -and the dreams of the MSM indentured pundits that still maintain that you were a “pretty regular guy”- to the ends of the viable universe and beyond. There
Coming soon: Peripheral Italian saints.
PS. There are many good reasons for my obsession with this kind of GM (Graphically Modified) clipart creatures wot come free with some apps. One is that some are too cute not to do things to and with -we seem to be made for each other. Another is that I feel very sorry for them. Why, most of them will end up decorating someone’s god-awful selfie, or the snaps of him getting pissed and puking in Magaluf, or, Bumba forfend!, the pics of her latest breast implants. Frankly, the poor wee things are better off working for me, dontyouthinkso?

Carry On Revolting

Joke: A guy walks into a bar, left foot forward, and offers to buy everybody a drink. He gets shot. A rosary-clenching, Bible-wielding lunatic walks into the same bar and says that from now on everybody’s gonna have to pay for the very air they breathe. He gets feted sky high and proclaimed Saviour of Mankind. Meanwhile, back outside, the planet is going to pot. The end.


I ask for the Nth time -and for the Nth time I expect no rational answer: why is it that this kind of pre-fab, CIA-backed ghastly self-appointed “Good Guys” can just walk in, clenching rosaries and wielding bibles, behave like Yahoos and proclaim themselves Saviours of the Nation and nobody says boo? A socialist-leaning government sweeps into power, carried by a tide of popular pissedofness with the Usual Crapitalist Suspects, and the first mistake he makes the world and his CIA-brainwashed missus screams “Fraud! Fraud!”

Hypocrisy, cruelty, idiocy, bad faith, moral cowardice, intellectual laziness, greed and wilful ignorance remain as endless as ever.

Oy, are we fucked…

Plotting’s Good For You

ClipArt Master Plan. The one drawback I can see of not being religious at all is that you can’t believe in an afterlife and therefore a heaven or a hell, or even in a post corporeal reckoning of some description, not even reincarnation as a tapeworm. Which is a shame when it comes to fantasizing about the many possible unpleasant hereafter fates of Ms Patel, our gruesome current Home Secretary. I mean she makes Michael Howard look like a boy scout, she does.  Oh well, there you have it. We keep on allowing clowns and psychos into 10 Downing St. and that’s what happens. I daresay than come December 12th we will even vote them in. Again. This time with a proper “mandate” (whatever that is when it’s at home…)
And this is for the travellers she so hates. Today it’s them. Tomorrow…it could be you.
Let’s hear it with Ojos de Brujo:
La mochila que llevamos
Va cargaita de piedras
Del abismo ya nos viene
Esta mala condición
Sólo nos queda la rumba
Y una buena bulería
Un bailecito por tangos
Y el cante del Camarón


Persistent Poppycock

Poppycock 2019. I’ve had a spiffing idea: this year you do the Memorial Rant. I’m tired of banging on about a subject on which practically everything has already been said and fat good it does, too. Not that I haven’t got anything to say that I haven’t said before but I simply can’t be arsed. There. The small monster’s text is from Leonard Cohen Story of Isaac.

Excellent Exhumations

Cat & Bull. aka Funereal Jollities. It’s done! Alegría, alegría, alegría!
Here’s a little jubilation for something I never thought it’d happen in my lifetime. Or anybody else’s for that matter. Not that I’m too impressed, really. It’s a purely symbolic act and as such of little practical value. But sometimes a symbol may, just about, mark a transition in consciousness. People might start to believe that other seemingly impossible things are actually possible. Who knows?
So, off they go -out of the obscene mausoleum he had slave labour build to the poxy glory of his own gruesome ego- the pestilent leftovers of a man that almost single-handedly stopped Spain from joining the 20th century and damaged the national psyche to a degree from which it still hasn’t recovered; not really, as demonstrated by the jack-in-the-box emergence of foul parties like Vox.
Now the old bastard’s grubby scraps will rest in a fairly conventional burial ground, if in similarly unfortunate company: Fulgencio Batista, Ante Pavelic, Rafael Trujillo and Marcos Pérez Jiménez. How lovely, they can all be dead tyrants together.
I know what I say ad nauseam about good news: few, far between, small, etc. Still, let us celebrate this one, puny though it is.
Next stop: pension the monarchy? 🙂
As for the ghastly shrine itself, I’m all for razing the whole grisly thing to the ground and turning it into a sanctuary for orphaned badgers, lynxes, wolves, tigers, lions and bears, oh my!  The Shoggies have kindly offered to rip to shreds the little horror themselves, gratis, for free, por la cara, as they say. Alternatively, they suggest that we temporarily wake up Great Cthulhu and remind him that he might want to take a leak and have a quick snack. Either will do, I think. Salud camaradas!
And here’s a couple of jokes, kindly translated from the Spanish by the Shub-Niggurath. 1) is for the old goat himself and 2) for his chum and heir-apparent, who fortunately never was, Admiral Luis Carrero Blanco.
Franco, Hitler and Mussolini are boasting of their respective operatic achievements. Hitler says: “In Bayreuth, we’ve just had a performance of The Ring with one thousand German extras!”
“Bah!” says Mussolini. “In Naples we have performed Aída, ten times, with ten thousand Italian extras.”
“That’s peanuts” says Franco. “In Spain we do Les Misérables, every day of the year, with thirty million Spanish extras.”
Of all his ascents, the last one was the fastest.
Sic semper tyrannis, my friends. Have a spiffing weekend.