Small Wisdom

Minimalist Mice. Listen to the tiny rodent’s advice. Life is too short to waste on, say, identity politics, or blaming Putin for the heat wave, or discussing the relative merits of Grossly-Richy Sunak v Lizz Trussed-In-Knots. Have a fab weekend and un po’ di tangentially relevant and endearingly frivolous mu’ from my dearly departed.


Gemini2. Sometimes more is more. Two chubby chappies for the price of one. Lovely. Two Snakes of Tindalos. Groovy! Two Bulky Ancestors… Well, that’s beyond spiffingness, innit. Have a grand week.

For The Asking

Questions, Questions. It’s as the cat says. No point. Waste of time. No matter how right your question is if it doesn’t suit Them and their servile media to answer it, or, more to the point, answer it truthfully, then They won’t. And there’s little point in seeking answers elsewhere (and there are plenty of trustworthy “wheres” out there, believe me). You’ll only end up with a lot of righteously groovy answers and … nowhere to go with them. Have a sponditious week.


Mystical Communications.

Message. (New Series: Bottled Messages. No.1.) I have always dreamed of finding a message in a bottle. Two days ago I found one. In the rain water bucket outside my garden door. It came in a double bottle, look you. And a very good message it was, too. Unfortunately I can’t share it with you because a postscript informed me that it was creature-specific and extremely classified, very hush-hush. Too bad. So I’m posting a picture of the vessels and of Bubbles and BoomBoom in enraptured contemplation of the containers. You may say hello to Bubbles and BoomBoom. They always welcome cheery words and so on. You may also send them Smarties. They’d like that VERY much. Have a grand weekend, stay in the shade, drink lots of water and don’t waste any worrying energy on the impending Tory leadership “election”. Just assume we’ll end up with someone even worse that Bojo. Remember: A cada bugada es perd un llençol…

Fat Magic

Fat Totem.
This fat little beastie totemic
Merry, subtle and polemic
Has witchings and jujus aplenty
Because of his modus vivendi:
Batty, gainly and ecumenic.

This plump little creature sublime,
A totem who’s now in his prime,
Has magic and purges galore
That will thrill and shake your core
And rid you of all mental grime.

(This chubby organism totemic
Is trying to start a pandemic
Of sweet rebel anarchism
Even if that means a schism
With some pompous academic.)

Sharp Tools

Making a Point. Pick a point. Any point. Make it a good one, though; one with brass knobs on and attendant dancing fireflies. Argue it clearly, cogently and free of jargon. Back your evidence with forensic precision and solid, easily provable facts. Put some passion into your delivery but don’t drift into messianic hysteria. There. You’ll have been wasting your time and breath.
For if your argument runs contrary to the mainstream doctrine, the prevailing Group-Thought of the moment, it could be delivered by God himself, on an all-channels prime-time TV stunt and still it wouldn’t cut any ice with either Joe Public or with the Masters of the Universe (aka Them).
Because if the Good Shepherds say that Covid-19 was worse than all the plages of Egypt put together, or that Putin, personally, poisoned the Skripals and invaded Ukraine just for the Hell of it, or that we live in a democracy, then that’s what the WeThePeople will believe and bleat back at you and to anyone else foolish enough to back you up.
And you’ll be called all sort of unpleasant names into the bargain. And in some cases burnt at the stake on the local Common. Now you know.
Have a spiffing life.

Cosmic Law

Stardust. or How We All Go Back to the Same Place Sooner or Latter. Which is indeed better than a slap in the face with the proverbial wet kipper. Also, vastly unfair, seen from the perspective of this here & now perishable flesh. I mean, is it seemly than Henry Kissinger ’s subatomic particles should have the same fate as my own? No, not really. Fortunately Nature and the laws of physics know nothing (and care even less) about fairness, or decorum or such petty human matters. There. Have a splendiferous week. (And stay sane, for Bumba’s sake. The psychopathy levels are on the rise and rise and rise.)

Clock’s Ticking

Time’s Up. No rant necessary. The Tadpoles and the GMCA racoon have got it spot on. However, sometimes there’s news out there that can still raise a smile…of despair. Look!:
(Do it before the Antarctic shelves collapse totally and with them the penguins.)
The world in Their hands. Dear, oh dear… Never mind. Up Mehitabel! Keep on smiling, resisting, biting, irritating and making like difficult for Them. Beware of money business and have sponditious week, do. Love and lemon frappé.

More Brief Encounters

Brief Encounter 9. aka. Happy Escapes. Two of the creatures from one of my recent doodles have forsaken the smuggling and promotion of mystic inebriating substances and gone their separate ways, off into the big bad world to have experiences and adventures of their own. They haven’t seen each other for a while but now they have met at a very good garden party thrown by the Shoggies and are exchanging news and gossip. The square peg seems to have brought forth an offspring, which is quite odd as he is unquestionably male; but we don’t ask the whys and wherefores. Who cares, anyway; the little one is as cute as lace pants and she’s is most welcome and much liked by all, as she seems to have philosophical proclivities and she’s forever quoting W. B. Yates. Also, he has acquired a tag-along most flirtatious flowerette of uncertain but vague Austral origins. (Again, who knows and who cares…) The wormy squiggle, on the other had, has also produced a brood, or a clutch, or whatever, all by herself -but that’s no surprise to anybody because she’s parthenogenetic. Weekend sooooon come. Have a good one.

Why should not old men be mad?
Some have known a likely lad
That had a sound fly-fisher’s wrist
Turn to a drunken journalist;
A girl that knew all Dante once
Live to bear children to a dunce;
A Helen of social welfare dream,
Climb on a wagonette to scream.
Some think it a matter of course that chance
Should starve good men and bad advance,
That if their neighbours figured plain,
As though upon a lighted screen,
No single story would they find
Of an unbroken happy mind,
A finish worthy of the start.
Young men know nothing of this sort,
Observant old men know it well;
And when they know what old books tell
And that no better can be had,
Know why an old man should be mad.

Why Should Not Old Men Be Mad? by William Butler Yeats

Ailments Great & Small

Plead the Headaches. Or at least this is how I rationalize my half (or, rather, half-arsed) absence from … all sort of things, places and positions (or should it be postures, which seems to be the overwhelmingly dominant modus operandi in, out and around the agora?)

The other side of the coin, of course, is that is hardly worth my time and effort to express my thoughts, as they seem to be more out of step than ever with the mainstream groupthink of said public sphere.

Interesting to note that one of the definitions of modus operandi, according to the Merriam-Webster is:

A distinct pattern or method of operation that indicates or suggests the work of a single criminal in more than one crime.

In other words, the technique(s) of a serial killer? 🙂

Have a splendid weekend.