To the tune of Paul McCartney's "I Will"
God knows you do deserve it
And I have had my fill
While I might not have to kill you
If you fuck with me, I will
The last time that I saw you
I didn't place the blame
But it doesn't really matter
I will nail you just the same
I'll rid the world of you forever
When your sad carcass dies
Oh the world will be so much better
When there's death in your eyes
And when I finally snag you
Your blood will fill the air
Scream out loud so I can hear you
Let me laugh while I besmear you
For the things you do
Endear you to me
Oh, you know I will.
I will.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
That telltale strain in the step....
Gustafson tried to look busy & important as he walked down the hall, but I could tell from his watergait that he was just goin' to the john.
Respect for the dead....
While most of the ants carried grains of wheat or sugar, some were returning the corpses of fallen comrades, for those were delicious, too.
Monday, January 30, 2012
"No" a close second.
Reuters - Linguistics researchers prove most difficult phrase to parse is "You're wrong."
Sunday, January 29, 2012
The new online censorship strikes!!
This content is not available in your area. Please go somewhere else.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Wicked thoughts....
The candle dimmed as its wax began to wane.
Bonus feature for readers of this blog only:
The candle flame flickered wickedly.
Bonus feature for readers of this blog only:
The candle flame flickered wickedly.
Is that what the riding crop was for.....?
Martha should have listened more carefully when her son said he was going out whore spank riding.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Whether 'tis bubblier in the tub....
To bathe: to steep. To steep, perchance to clean. Aïe, there's the rubber ducky!!
Make up your mind, on or off?
God is fed up with switches going on and off and has frozen them where they stand. You had your choice, now get used to it.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Skim *that* off your pond and eat it!
Many people consider "fleur de sel" to be the King of Seldom, and thus use it only on special occasions.
A well bread client wouldn't have to ask....
"Well sir," said the waiter impatiently, "we don't serve biscuits with this dish because they're not kneaded, that's all."
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
He does it on purpose you know....
The plastic was tangled up in some impenetrable way so each time I tried to grab one it fell back in. I could hear God laughin' his ass off.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
I wonder what the fig meant, or was it my imagination?
"I care not a fig for Newton's law!" the walrus informed us as he vaulted over the handrail and disappeared.
They're both free and abundant!
I have just built myself a little Parisian pied-à-terre for almost nothing using a wattle made from dogshit and pigeon feathers.
Bonus feature for readers of this blog only: Get more bang for your bird! Use the whole pigeon instead of just feathers!!
Bonus feature for readers of this blog only: Get more bang for your bird! Use the whole pigeon instead of just feathers!!
Some Ozwizardly Delights!
Follow the sociopath. Follow the sociopath. Follow follow follow follow, follow the sociopath!
We're off to peel a lizard, the loveliest lizard of Lodz.
"We're off to be a blizzard," chanted the snowflakes in their chirpy, French-accented voices, "the Blustery Blizzard of Blois!"
We're off to peel a lizard, the loveliest lizard of Lodz.
"We're off to be a blizzard," chanted the snowflakes in their chirpy, French-accented voices, "the Blustery Blizzard of Blois!"
Monday, January 23, 2012
Modesto
I just found out yesterday his name was Modesto. Even though it's a story I've been retelling to myself for almost 30 years. Strange to have a new element pop out after all this time.
I almost didn't find out. There was no internet back then. So after things settled down, the story eventually got lost in the back issues of local newspapers. But a journalist dug it up again 5 years ago and wrote a little article about it, that had the name and some other details I didn't know about. I found the article on the internet. Apparently the case is still unsolved.
Modesto was murdered. He worked in the coffee shop at the center. I've never remembered his face really, not even in the beginning, but I'm sure he served me coffee many times there. Two guys waited until closing time and hit him or cut him on the back of his head. Security found him on the floor at 4 in the morning, bleeding to death. Everybody was really shocked and upset about it at the center. There was even an official remembrance ceremony a day or two after it happened.
So why do I keep digging it up again? Why did I retell the story to myself again just last night as I was walking home from work? It always goes the same way, taking it step by step, talking it through in my head as if I'm telling somebody else the story. Maybe I think that by going over it one more time I'll find something I missed, a reason or an excuse, something that will let me off the hook a little bit. The thing is, I saw Modesto's murderers a few days after it happened, but I didn't do anything about it. I think that's why I've never been able to let it go.
The police sketches were posted all over, especially at the center, but around town too. Those two guys' faces were pretty well burned into my brain. It was an odd looking pair. One sort of a bushy-haired, Peter Lorre type, the other one taller and thinner. And then one day maybe a week after, I'm in the shopping mall, and there they are. Exactly like in the police drawings. I'm no undercover cop or anything, so they knew right away I'd seen them and started heading for one of the exits.
I started to follow them to where the bus stops were, but the problem was the packages. I had great big packages in either hand that I was carrying in these shopping bags with handles. I kept wishing I didn't have them, but I couldn't just leave them lying in the middle of a big shopping center like that. Then the next thing I knew they'd gotten onto one of the buses.
I thought about getting on too, but I was so loaded down that just manoeuvering onto the bus and digging the fare out of my pocket and everything wasn't obvious. I also had no idea where that bus was going, or what I would do about the situation if I did get on. There was another problem too. I was in a foreign country where I didn't speak the language. So I couldn't really tell anybody what was going on in a coherent way. And I was scared. These guys were murderers after all.
So I didn't get on. I noted the bus number and its direction and decided to call the police. Unfortunately, though, I didn't know how to use a pay phone in that country, or what number I'd have to call. How could I get an operator? What would I say to one if I did?
I have an image in my mind of me walking with my big shopping bags to a counter where a man was selling perfume or something like that. I would have tried to explain to him that I had to make a telephone call, that it was an emergency and that I needed the police. Only I guess he didn't understand and he gave me the brushoff, and I was probably too shy and didn't insist enough on it. So I decided I'd go to the center instead. There would be people there who spoke English and could contact the authorities.
The next part of the story always feels kind of Kafka-like. Here I am bursting to tell the police I've just seen murderers, but I walk to the other bus stops at the front of the building and spend about 45 minutes on a bus to the center first? I think that's where the guilt comes from. Had I at that point already decided, maybe subconsciously, not to do anything, to just let the whole thing pass?
As I went over it again in my head, I tried for the hundredth time to fathom how I could have let the whole thing dissolve like that when so much was at stake. Thirty years later, the case still unsolved. I blamed it on those packages. The way I'd always told the story, they were snow chains for my car. All of a sudden I realized something that had escaped me for 30 years. If I didn't yet speak the local language, it must have been early on in my stay at the center, but if I was buying snow chains that day, I must have already had my car and started using it to drive up to the mountains, and therefore had it with me that day at the mall. I wouldn't have lugged packages like that home on the bus, I'd have driven. Suddenly those 45 minutes became 5.
At the center, I couldn't find anybody at first. It was Saturday. Finally I found Bill and I told him what happened. What he said surprised me. Well, he said, those two are surely gone by now. What could you tell the police? Why, they're probably not even on that bus anymore. Bill had been at the center for years, and I trusted him, so I took his advice. I didn't do anything. And I tried to forget about it, but obviously that hasn't worked.
After last night, though, I'm at least little bit off the hook as compared to before. Now I know I didn't waste time taking any bus, I drove my car. I got to a place where I could get help as fast as I could, and I asked someone I trusted what to do and I did that. At least I'd tried.
In the end, though, I still didn't do anything. And I still feel guilty. Maybe after talking it through again in my head for another 10 or 20 years one day I'll discover something else I forgot and get a little more off the hook. Or maybe one day I'll meet Modesto himself, and I'll ask him in person if he's ready to forgive me.
I almost didn't find out. There was no internet back then. So after things settled down, the story eventually got lost in the back issues of local newspapers. But a journalist dug it up again 5 years ago and wrote a little article about it, that had the name and some other details I didn't know about. I found the article on the internet. Apparently the case is still unsolved.
Modesto was murdered. He worked in the coffee shop at the center. I've never remembered his face really, not even in the beginning, but I'm sure he served me coffee many times there. Two guys waited until closing time and hit him or cut him on the back of his head. Security found him on the floor at 4 in the morning, bleeding to death. Everybody was really shocked and upset about it at the center. There was even an official remembrance ceremony a day or two after it happened.
So why do I keep digging it up again? Why did I retell the story to myself again just last night as I was walking home from work? It always goes the same way, taking it step by step, talking it through in my head as if I'm telling somebody else the story. Maybe I think that by going over it one more time I'll find something I missed, a reason or an excuse, something that will let me off the hook a little bit. The thing is, I saw Modesto's murderers a few days after it happened, but I didn't do anything about it. I think that's why I've never been able to let it go.
The police sketches were posted all over, especially at the center, but around town too. Those two guys' faces were pretty well burned into my brain. It was an odd looking pair. One sort of a bushy-haired, Peter Lorre type, the other one taller and thinner. And then one day maybe a week after, I'm in the shopping mall, and there they are. Exactly like in the police drawings. I'm no undercover cop or anything, so they knew right away I'd seen them and started heading for one of the exits.
I started to follow them to where the bus stops were, but the problem was the packages. I had great big packages in either hand that I was carrying in these shopping bags with handles. I kept wishing I didn't have them, but I couldn't just leave them lying in the middle of a big shopping center like that. Then the next thing I knew they'd gotten onto one of the buses.
I thought about getting on too, but I was so loaded down that just manoeuvering onto the bus and digging the fare out of my pocket and everything wasn't obvious. I also had no idea where that bus was going, or what I would do about the situation if I did get on. There was another problem too. I was in a foreign country where I didn't speak the language. So I couldn't really tell anybody what was going on in a coherent way. And I was scared. These guys were murderers after all.
So I didn't get on. I noted the bus number and its direction and decided to call the police. Unfortunately, though, I didn't know how to use a pay phone in that country, or what number I'd have to call. How could I get an operator? What would I say to one if I did?
I have an image in my mind of me walking with my big shopping bags to a counter where a man was selling perfume or something like that. I would have tried to explain to him that I had to make a telephone call, that it was an emergency and that I needed the police. Only I guess he didn't understand and he gave me the brushoff, and I was probably too shy and didn't insist enough on it. So I decided I'd go to the center instead. There would be people there who spoke English and could contact the authorities.
The next part of the story always feels kind of Kafka-like. Here I am bursting to tell the police I've just seen murderers, but I walk to the other bus stops at the front of the building and spend about 45 minutes on a bus to the center first? I think that's where the guilt comes from. Had I at that point already decided, maybe subconsciously, not to do anything, to just let the whole thing pass?
As I went over it again in my head, I tried for the hundredth time to fathom how I could have let the whole thing dissolve like that when so much was at stake. Thirty years later, the case still unsolved. I blamed it on those packages. The way I'd always told the story, they were snow chains for my car. All of a sudden I realized something that had escaped me for 30 years. If I didn't yet speak the local language, it must have been early on in my stay at the center, but if I was buying snow chains that day, I must have already had my car and started using it to drive up to the mountains, and therefore had it with me that day at the mall. I wouldn't have lugged packages like that home on the bus, I'd have driven. Suddenly those 45 minutes became 5.
At the center, I couldn't find anybody at first. It was Saturday. Finally I found Bill and I told him what happened. What he said surprised me. Well, he said, those two are surely gone by now. What could you tell the police? Why, they're probably not even on that bus anymore. Bill had been at the center for years, and I trusted him, so I took his advice. I didn't do anything. And I tried to forget about it, but obviously that hasn't worked.
After last night, though, I'm at least little bit off the hook as compared to before. Now I know I didn't waste time taking any bus, I drove my car. I got to a place where I could get help as fast as I could, and I asked someone I trusted what to do and I did that. At least I'd tried.
In the end, though, I still didn't do anything. And I still feel guilty. Maybe after talking it through again in my head for another 10 or 20 years one day I'll discover something else I forgot and get a little more off the hook. Or maybe one day I'll meet Modesto himself, and I'll ask him in person if he's ready to forgive me.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Huxley Redux
Creative thoughts are those that get kicked out the doors of perception but come back in through the windows.
We have only one lord and master....
"As it is commanded, Earless Feeder," intoned Vincent van Gogh's parakeet mechanically.
Digital tableware....
With the advent of the wireless fork, man no longer had to be tethered to an available USB port each time he wanted to have a meal or snack.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Can I get my money back?
Tony's disappointment was immediate when he realized the Linguistics course he'd signed up for was not about cooking pasta.
RIP YinYang
Reuters: Schroedinger's cat YinYang died today at 93 of a collapsed wavefunction. He is survived by infinite copycats in parallel universes.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
There were niblets everywhere....
NewsLineLA - Charlie's Angels in custody after savage attack on Green Giant. "Something set them off when he said ho-ho-ho," related a witness.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
A limestone cowboy?
Reuters - Interior Department approves installation of limestone cowboy next to colossal Indian statue at Crazy Horse National Monument, SD.
Just the germ of an idea....
"Mmmm, agar-agar," sighed the microbe luxuriously, "the food so nice they named it twice!"
Monday, January 16, 2012
Kind o' guy you'd want on your team....
Just looking at him you could see he was a man capable of enormous restraint.
Let's try that again, you Tarzan, me....no...
Turns out that monkey that died recently wasn't really Cheetah. Which means he actually was. A self-fulfilling chimpanzee!
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Four extra commandments found!!
11) Bring equality to your pogo stick by re-varnishing the mousetraps of your limbic system.
12) Calumniate dishwashers by hydrogen bonding to their incisors.
13) Outfox merovingians by pandering to their most rhomboidal insurgencies.
14) Mitigate complacency in vampires with birdbath hysteresis.
12) Calumniate dishwashers by hydrogen bonding to their incisors.
13) Outfox merovingians by pandering to their most rhomboidal insurgencies.
14) Mitigate complacency in vampires with birdbath hysteresis.
Is that blood, or barbecue sauce?
Next thing I know he sticks a knife in my ribs, so I wasted him, 'cause nobody touches my food.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Every job has its own tool.
You cannot just cut people's heads off with impunity. You need a good, sharp axe or a machete for that.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Too much publicity I guess.....
Reuters - Scientists with tunneling electron microscope find Schroedinger cat asleep next to sign saying "Talk to the Paw".
At least she went quietly...sort of...
Marsha gave out a Phobos grunt as space debris came through her roof and crushed her in her sleep.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Monday, January 9, 2012
The naked truth....
Suddenly Kaplan threw his hands in front of the screen & blocked the view inside the massive particle detector. The boson had no clothes on!
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Bonding, James Bonding.
Bond slipped the key into his trouser pocket, fiddling with a cufflink as he pushed the door inward with his elbow. Off to the right there was the slightest movement, perhaps a shadow that didn't seem right. As he pitched forward, the deafening report discharged behind his right ear and a silver flash illuminated the room. Three new blasts shot kapok fountains from the white leather sofa as Bond rolled over it and onto the floor.
The Brazilian agent Deray leapfrogged the moroccan footstool and put a knee down for balance. As he raised his arms to take a bead, a star-shaped glass ashtray the size of a hubcap hit him across the chin and ricocheted onto a wall. The shot went wild, ending up somewhere in the kitchen wall. In an instant Bond was upon him, disarming the counter-agent and snapping the bones in his right wrist in a single movement.
Deray pivoted, trapping Bond's head between his knees and flipping him onto his back against the parquet. The automatic skidded over an oriental rug and came to rest under a cabinet.
As Bond scrambled to his feet he found the Brazilian standing before him holding a switchblade in his left hand, his damaged right dangling uselessly at his side. The knife flipped into the air. Deray caught it by it's point and send it hurtling towards 007's solar plexus.
There was no time to dodge. Bond whipped his hands together in front of him, catching the steely projectile between his palms mere centimeters from his heart.
Deray charged, slamming the hulking British spymaster against the rattan wall covering and pinning him there. A knee delivered to Bond's groin made him crumple slightly, giving the Brazilian the advantage he needed to bring the double-0 down and wedge him into a corner. Twisting Bond's left arm backwards and using it as an anchor, Deray began carefully breaking Her Majesty's agent's ribs one by one with his knee.
Bond flailed with his right hand, found purchase on a toaster that had tumbled from the kitchen counter, and swung it at his attacker. The Brazilian ducked. The appliance rebounded harmlessly off the wall behind him as its ragged-ended power cord arced and buzzed on the floor next to Bond's face, filling the air with an exotic mixture of ozone and after-shave.
Bond contorted in pain as his adversary continued his bone-crunching count. Tearing the toaster's cord from its socket he whirled it towards the Brazilian's head, where the massive mains plug wound itself around his tanned, delicate neck like a diabaolo around a leaping gazelle. Yanking his prey down to his own level, Bond twisted the wire into a garotte and drew Deray's face into his own.
As they lay trapped in their embrace, Bond inched Deray closer, placed his lips over the agent's, and kissed him. The Brazilian balked, nipping Bond's lower lip with an incisor and drawing blood. Bond twisted the snare and brought their lips together once again, this time snaking his tongue into Deray's mouth and holding it firmly against the roof of his mouth.
His face livid, Deray tried to withdraw, thrashing about with his good hand and somehow discovering the switchblade beneath his hip. Applying it to Bond's midsection, he transformed an elegant Italian leather ceinture into a useless strip of cowhide with a single flick of his hand. Shifting his entire weight behind Bond's shoulder, Deray flipped him onto his stomach as he used his knife hand and heels to force the Englishman's gabardines and blue silk briefs down to his ankles.
Suddenly Bond whipped Deray's head against the floor by its wiry noose. Clambering atop him, he pinned the stunned Brazilian in place and lashed his hands behind his back with the loose end of the cable. Yanking down Deray's pants with his left hand, he grabbed a pot of apricot jam from atop the counter the other, smacked the lid off against an exposed corner of the wall, and deposited its contents onto the agent's fragile derrière. Deray sucked his breath in suddenly and held it as Bond penetrated him.
As 007 rolled the two men onto their sides, he grasped the Brazilian's olive-hued member in his hand and nestled the filligreed edge of his insignia ring against the underside of his glans.
The Brazilian agent Deray leapfrogged the moroccan footstool and put a knee down for balance. As he raised his arms to take a bead, a star-shaped glass ashtray the size of a hubcap hit him across the chin and ricocheted onto a wall. The shot went wild, ending up somewhere in the kitchen wall. In an instant Bond was upon him, disarming the counter-agent and snapping the bones in his right wrist in a single movement.
Deray pivoted, trapping Bond's head between his knees and flipping him onto his back against the parquet. The automatic skidded over an oriental rug and came to rest under a cabinet.
As Bond scrambled to his feet he found the Brazilian standing before him holding a switchblade in his left hand, his damaged right dangling uselessly at his side. The knife flipped into the air. Deray caught it by it's point and send it hurtling towards 007's solar plexus.
There was no time to dodge. Bond whipped his hands together in front of him, catching the steely projectile between his palms mere centimeters from his heart.
Deray charged, slamming the hulking British spymaster against the rattan wall covering and pinning him there. A knee delivered to Bond's groin made him crumple slightly, giving the Brazilian the advantage he needed to bring the double-0 down and wedge him into a corner. Twisting Bond's left arm backwards and using it as an anchor, Deray began carefully breaking Her Majesty's agent's ribs one by one with his knee.
Bond flailed with his right hand, found purchase on a toaster that had tumbled from the kitchen counter, and swung it at his attacker. The Brazilian ducked. The appliance rebounded harmlessly off the wall behind him as its ragged-ended power cord arced and buzzed on the floor next to Bond's face, filling the air with an exotic mixture of ozone and after-shave.
Bond contorted in pain as his adversary continued his bone-crunching count. Tearing the toaster's cord from its socket he whirled it towards the Brazilian's head, where the massive mains plug wound itself around his tanned, delicate neck like a diabaolo around a leaping gazelle. Yanking his prey down to his own level, Bond twisted the wire into a garotte and drew Deray's face into his own.
As they lay trapped in their embrace, Bond inched Deray closer, placed his lips over the agent's, and kissed him. The Brazilian balked, nipping Bond's lower lip with an incisor and drawing blood. Bond twisted the snare and brought their lips together once again, this time snaking his tongue into Deray's mouth and holding it firmly against the roof of his mouth.
His face livid, Deray tried to withdraw, thrashing about with his good hand and somehow discovering the switchblade beneath his hip. Applying it to Bond's midsection, he transformed an elegant Italian leather ceinture into a useless strip of cowhide with a single flick of his hand. Shifting his entire weight behind Bond's shoulder, Deray flipped him onto his stomach as he used his knife hand and heels to force the Englishman's gabardines and blue silk briefs down to his ankles.
Suddenly Bond whipped Deray's head against the floor by its wiry noose. Clambering atop him, he pinned the stunned Brazilian in place and lashed his hands behind his back with the loose end of the cable. Yanking down Deray's pants with his left hand, he grabbed a pot of apricot jam from atop the counter the other, smacked the lid off against an exposed corner of the wall, and deposited its contents onto the agent's fragile derrière. Deray sucked his breath in suddenly and held it as Bond penetrated him.
As 007 rolled the two men onto their sides, he grasped the Brazilian's olive-hued member in his hand and nestled the filligreed edge of his insignia ring against the underside of his glans.
A Ghost-Post from Word Slut!!
Jerry adored vegetables, but for shooting pool, he found the queue cumbersome how inappropriate.
Smoke that in your pip and....er...
Though poets guile with rhyme and trope / Their currency is love and hope.
Where's me earplugs?
As the sun went down and the valley was plunged into darkness, ol' William clicked out a whingey, sorrowful tune on his misericordian. #lqw
That'll teach 'em...
Mr. O' Fallacy had a surefire cure for leprechauns: they each had to swear on a Bible that they didn't exist or they'd get nothing to drink.
But alas....
I checked my mail one more time, to see if some faint glimmer of happiness hadn't tunneled its way into my inbox in the intervening seconds.
Clever gal....
Annie slicked down the floor and skated figures while drinking cocoa. Her brilliantine ovals were surpassed only by her ovaltine brilliance.
TAKE THAT!
Soon after the invention of the caps-lock pistol, it became the weapon of choice for meting out capital punishment.
Now don't get bent outta shape....
I've seen people who can stick their elbow into their ear but this is the first time I've heard of someone who's irascible.
Oh yeah?! We'll see about that!!
Reuters - Sarkozy passes law making it a crime to criticize the law making it a crime to deny the Armenian genocide.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
