Gone Voynich. 1

Gone Voynich 1 First of a mini-series based on some of the illustrations found in the mysterious Voynich Manuscript. The fact that to this day it has not been determined whether it is the real Macoy (i.e., genuine), or its date, let alone its authorship, is irrelevant to my purpose, which is to have enormous fun “doing things” to some of the plates. There will be more. Have a grand weekend.

Repetitions & Reiterations

Mixed Blessings. aka Por mucho pan nunca mal año. This 2023 is likely to be so crappy that this greetings double-bubble amounts to a sort of sympathetic, or rather, propitiatory magic. Keep it sweet, laud it even before it gets going (Like Obama’s Nobel Peace Prize…). Say what a wonderful, big year it’s going to be, how full of joy and prosperity for all, how peaceful and war-free…and so on; see if it sinks. Or in the words of the immortal Forges, “Si cuela , cuela…” Party on, dudes!


Y Uno De Propina.

Brief Encounter 9.1. Breaking the tradition of starting the year (or trying to…) on a cheery note, I hereby present you with the First Rant of 2023! Ta da! It”s a nice, all-purpose generic rant. A sort of DIY Rant-O-Meter. Have fun. Love and anchovy salad. The sneaky quotation is from Eric Fromm’s On Disobedience. (Highly recommended reading.)

Happy (?) Days…

As it says on the tin. Have the best possible one. Dissent. Annoy. Irritate. Indict. Denounce. Be loud. Refuse. Etc. You know the drill by now. And have a sponditious 2023 in spite of It All and to spite Henry Kissinger, as ever. Love and shortbread (Scottish ilk).


Political Tapas

Up Up Up!. Here’s a little something, a sort of political tapas to keep us entertained until the new year, which won’t be so new after all, more like a dreary continuation, the Chapter 3,273 of the same old shit we’ve been getting from our beloved leaders and attached retinue of leeches, social psychologists, tame scientists, Guardian analysts and so on.
Up the R-Evolution! Give ‘em hell! Kick Them where it hurts. Kill all the Dead Myths!
The tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living.
Karl Marx. The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte. Karl Marx 1852


Winter Warmers

Amazing Grace. Have a sponditious Solstice, do. I agree, there are hardly any reasons to be cheerful. It’s perishing cold and utterly miserable out there, what with the political Pestilence, and the Russki-Hysteria and the BBC anti-strikes propaganda and all… But it’s the thought that counts, dontyouknow. Stay warm, stubborn and, if at all possible, awkward. Love and Blobs. PS. And don’t forget to thank the Sun for its kind indifference to our welfare and, therefore, returning to us just because that’s what the Sun does. (Me, in it’s place, I would have given up and gone nova a long while ago. Roughly at the time the Nobel mafia gave the Peace Prize to Henry Kissinger…)


Seasonal Cheer

Amorphiae. Here’s a little pre-Solstice something. Cheer up young Gorgon. Soooon come!

Befuddling Without Tears, Part 3

Mazed Bunny. Drink 8 glasses of water a day! Do not drink 8 glasses of water a day! Eat your greens! Eat nothing but red meat! Be an individual! Do as you’re told! Question everything! Never ask inconvenient questions! Be free! Slavery’s great! Have sex! Do not have sex. Be a rebel! Comply!… And thus ad infinitum and ad nauseam. No wonder the world is in such a pickle. And the worst of all this wholesale crap is that this confusion-spreading carnival is totally, consciously, socially engineered in supreme bad faith. And if you don’t believe me…have another, deeper look around you. Have a magnificent life. (Only joking. This has now been declared virtually impossible. But, once more, it’s the thought that counts.)

Alien Social Life

Larvae2. Here’s a cosy, heart-warming little family scene. The Lesser Crested Worms are having a nice social with their bulky mates, the Defector Larvae, formerly of the Final Void, Rudolph and Imogen. Because it’s a private function I’m not allowed to repeat or report any bits of the conversation, which is a shame, for it was a most succulent, crisp and carping exchange of views, mostly on the subject of human so-called politics, with particular emphasis on Imperial Shenanigans. Still, those of you fortunate enough to be even slightly acquainted with either the Larvae of the Worms, can easily imagine the general tone of the conversation. The tea was a first-rate exotic brew supplied, as is often the case, by the groovy Moon Beast of Leng, bless their pugnacious socks.

Tittle-Tattle

Gossip2. The levels of idiocy, incompetence and bad faith are reaching heights never seen before. It’s like the world is run by a small but very vocal (shrill, more like it) bunch of utterly demented morons who can’t think of anything better to spew than absurdities that an infant in its cradle wouldn’t believe -but “adults” do, worse luck. And that’s what the small Wormy Birds are expressing to their mates, the Floating Spinning Roulettes. The FSRs totally agree. Keep warm, keep sane, compete with the cows and fart your way into happiness.