Scorpion Brown Maddened By The Human Bombs

Occasionally rambling around old literature and art you run into these strange 'B' list legends that nobody's heard of, like Pyramus and Thisbe. Who the fuck; Pyramus? Thisbe?
I thought, well, fine, Pyramus and Thisbe. I'll have a look round the internet and see what falls out da calabash.

This is the first thing that popped up on the search, which I incidentally misspelled.
I have no idea what is going on here.
We have a nicely dressed young lady, wholly unaware of the tornado approaching from the upper right. She seems to have found a transvestite passed out next to her ugly fountain, which a flying baby roosts atop...fly, baby! fly! That thing sprays water out the top every five minutes and it's been four minutes already!
Meanwhile the lady is busy worrying about the transvestite. 'Oh crap' she thinks. 'Are we insured?'





Now this is a sad, little known episide from the life of Benny Hill. Seems he called the local Shriners Lodge to come and install a satellite dish and the poor man was struck by lightning, God evidently offended by the brevity of his tunic. Benny rushed outside in a dexadrine fueled frenzy and stuffed a breadknife through him. 'Manoona!! he shouted, slapping a little bald guy on the head.
I kind of like the pointy hat. But not even the pointy hat was enough to deter God's wrath.
It seldom is.





Ah hell, Thisbe.
You did it again, didn't you.
Your ear's stuck in the crack in the wall.
Dammit, how many times do we have to tell you; if the monkey tells you to do something, its probably not a good idea?











PIGPIIIIIIIIIIILE!



Ok. One tit is hanging out and BLOOD IS SHOOTING OUT OF HER CHEST. She is about to execute a full body block on what to all appearances is a dead guy...and we don't know how dead, either.
The next frame in this cartoon could be kinda gooey.

Time to consult Bullfinch.

All right, I'm back.
So apparently this is the ancient basis for the story of Romeo and Juliette. Shakespeares' version at least had the advantage of having been revised to frame a true story by a master; Bullfinch takes this poor defenseless legend and Victorians it all up till its just hard to read without urping up a little in your mouth. Here is the link. Use a basin. Make sure to wipe up if you splatter: http://www.syc.k12.pa.us/~sms/zart/mythology/bulfinch/fables/bull310.html
The thing that always bugged me about Romeo and Juliet is the same thing that bothered David Merrick...why in the hell didn't they take a couple seconds to MAKE SURE that the other one was dead instead of spazzing out and killing themselves like a couple of dipshits?




At least here Thisbe is giving it the old college try.
With one tit hanging out.*
Always do the stick test. If you poke it with a stick and it moves, it's not dead. But if it doesn't move, try an eye.

These things are important.



This is honestly called 'Pyramis and Thisbe II'. It is the winner of the coveted 'Plumb fucking eludes me' award.

'Jesus CHRIST, what kind of dog is that?'
'A mixed breed, effendi. Get it? It has two heads? Thats a little central asian joke.'
'Your humor arouses me. Let me satiate my uncircumcized lusts upon your heathen hindquarters.'


Here is a kid gooping around with a dead fish.
See? this is what it was like before they invented television. All we had were Legos and salmon. It was HARD.
Hey, it has as much to do with Pyramus and Thisbe as the dog picture did.







So what important lessons do we take away from 'Pyramus and Thisbe'?
1. Flying babies without diapers are a REALLY REALLY BAD IDEA.
2. God never did like Mary Quant
3. Monkeys will tell you stupid things
4. Always carry a pointy stick
5. Radioactive isotopes and dogs do not mix.

...Nope, I don't feel any smarter either.




*and and ugly fountain. and a flying baby.

blue blossoms

As far as garden perennials go, this spring has been practically ideal. The sky has been overcast to a greater or lesser degree and the air and soil temperature bathtub-warm. No wind to speak of, and the only rain has been gentle and brief. Walking outside is like entering a commercial greenhouse, full of the smell of growing plants.

The slugs are EVERYWHERE.

I carry a rose shears with me everytime I do my rounds and I halve them where they lay. Disgusting icky nasty slugs, DIE! DIE! As far as I can tell thats the only service they provide; is supplying me with a safe and socially sanctioned method of playing out my revenge fantasies about GW. I used to stab a stick through them and heave them over the fence, but sometimes there's a back spray, and thats kinda ill. I've also thrown them out on the sidewalk, but that's kinda ill for passers-by. Plus they re-hydrate in the rain and lay there like wrinkled, blackened, severed fingers oozing guck. Stylish!

Throwing them out on the street works, unless you hit a car accidentally and it slows down and you have to duck down until they speed up again and hope they didn't see you. To the driver of the green Aerostar on South Pass road; I'm sorry. You were supposed to run over it, not collide with it.

I have a rosa floribunda chinensis by my front door that is so covered with perfect, perfect tiny blossoms that the wands are laying over like a willow. I had to wire it back to the porch railing and the perfume cloud that operation stirred up almost made up for being savaged by the thorns. But unlike former years of damp springs, this year the leaves are absolutely clean. The only blemishes are hail spots; unavoidable. I was dreading powdery mildew but thankfully no such thing has happened! Soapy water clears that up, but you have to drench the entire surface of the plant and the ground beneath it; and I swear that rosebush reaches out and GRABS for you.

My easter lilly is as tall as me. 5ft 5in. No lie.

I have a ceanothus 'Victoria' by my front room window that finally finished blooming. Every year I look at it and consider cutting it down because it is not the most attractive plant in the world....not the ugliest either, but all it does is sit there and have leaves most of the year. I like a little more pizzaz. Oh, but in the spring it comes covered with small cones of Prussian blue, and the baby bumblebees come to it in their hundreds.

I love bumblebees. We have about three or four different types here, and they are all funny. First thing in the spring the queen bumbles emerge from the dirt, full of fat and baby bees, and helicopter around looking for food. In another couple of weeks the baby bumbles emerge and start working. Just a tiny wee ball of fluff dozily rambling around the flowers. Sometimes they pack themselves so full of pollen they can't fly off. Sometimes they have takeoff collisions and they run into each other. They'll stop to repack their little saddlebags and all the while the other little bee is picking up the fragments and packing her self up as tight as she can, and they go around in a circle robbing each other and dropping pollen, but all at a very lazy rate.

I think thats what I like best about bumbles...they aren't full of frantic scrabbly itchy activity like most insects. They arent spiny and poky, but fuzzy and round, and they hum. If you annoy them, a bumble will not attack you, but it will fly around and around your head like a grumpy bird. If you happen to jostle one, it will lay on its side and stick its leg out, like 'whoa, dude, mellow out. It's cool.'

In the morning you find sleeping bumbles in the cups of large flowers, blanketed by petals and dotted with jewels of dew. They are so greedy that the evening catches them unaware and they fall asleep in the midst of their banquet. You can roll them out into your hand and warm them up, and they will fly away in a tiny mist of water, dew from their bodies sprayed away by their buzzing wings.

I love to watch them get lost in a papaver orientale. The center of the blossom is a maribou stole of pollen bearing structures, velvety black and opulent. The bumbles evidently find quite a bounty of nectar in the blossom, and they roam around and around, dipping and drinking and tripping and falling, rolling in the pollen, sliding down the velvet petals and roistering around inside this ridiculously luxurious, decadent Art Nouveau setting like fat puppies in a drawing room.

Thats why I keep the ceanothus. If my bumbles like it, then I like it.

The Death Beast Helmet Crab Rouge Pays A Visit!

Last night the curtains in the kitchen fell down. Someone (a yummy biker, bold and true) was kind enough to gather them aside in a neat bunch and place them out of the way so that the expert(read: the only person who cares about how things look past simply being clean and presentable) could re-hang them. So, after drinking a couple of cups of coffee I got up on a chair with a hammer and pliers and proceeded to discover that the curtains had been replaced on the rod backwards and cattywompus. Of course I made this discovery once the bracket had been nailed in place. Of course.
And standing up there juggling with the sections of expandable rod and the curtain rings and the curtain itself and random bug carcasses and oh look, there's a big skanky cobweb up here behind the freezer, I had a sudden, sweeping seizure of red RAGE.
Oh goody! I'm premenstrual. I'm standing on a chair, I'm using hand tools and I'm premenstrual.
DEEEEEEEP breath.
When I was younger and my pineal was in charge, this wasn't such a big gory deal. Yeah, sometimes I got moodier than usual (and to be honest, 'usual' was pretty fucking moody) but sometimes I didn't. Total crapshoot. I never got greasy or zitty and I never blobbed out full of water like SpongeBob. Now, thanks to the miracle of HRT, I experience all three, plus the requisite five days of, um, yeah. Like clockwork.
A Clockwork Orange, to be precise.
What the fuck is the point of menopause? Speaking in terms of evolution, that is.
I am a 46 year old woman. Childbearing time is over. (yay!) so fine. The faucet turns off and I get grey hair. So why should that take going on five fricken years? Puberty only took one. Tops. Boobs (woomp! poomp!) then the rest of it. (ewwwww.)
You have to realize here that without HRT I would be 3/4 bald by now and probably dead, because everyone in town would have come up to the house some years back carrying torches and pulled me screaming from the bosom of my family, tied me to the flagpole in front of city hall and set me on FIRE. I am a very very unpleasant woman INDEED, running under my own steam, left to the whims of natural physical processes.
Now, I am not altogether joking when I say this: could this have been what sparked the witch hunts? Really. Say there was a few good harvests in there...Moderate weather, not too many wars, no real pestilence to speak of...And you get all these spare older women living somewhat past the usual span of years, making everyone's' life a living hell, running around, setting shit on fire, digging holes, knitting, screaming at passers by from their porches, throwing bottles full of pee at the horses and smacking people? Because quite honestly that's what I'd be doing.
Can you imagine the kind of killing machine an army of healthy, buff menopausal women would be?
Damn.
Hundreds upon hundreds of women lining the hilltops.
Gunning the engines of their sedans, astride their Harleys, armed with Molotov cocktails, good insurance, German potato salad, napalm, and HK mp5's?
Imagine them hovering overhead in helicopters, arguing at the top of their lungs about who gets to drive, weeping, screaming, dropping pro-life republicans and plastic milkjugs full of botulism on the enemy?
Imagine the charge of the vanguard, several thousand naked crying women painted blue, tits a' flappin, hurtling down the hillside firing UN Barrett Light 50's fitted with supercooled sustained-repeating systems? (the antimateriel armament of the discriminating middle aged woman)
Imagine the rearguard action, women with their false teeth buried in the throats of the fallen, taking scalps, bashing the dying repeatedly with baseball bats, Maltese and chihuahuas and shih tzus all tearing at the dead and yapping in unspeakable cacophony?
Imagine them dragging the officers back to camp for interrogation...The greasy polaroids...The family dog nobody can remember the name of...The red eyes... The recounting of obscure relationships between people you never heard of and don't care about over and over and over again until the blood runs from their eyes and ears and they writhe on the ground and spill their guts no no no please I can't hear about how Carmel and Nadine fouled up Maria's wedding dress again just please MAKE IT STOP! GODPLEASEMAKEITSTOOOOOOOOP!
Deep breath.
This, my friends, is why god created tequila. Lets all go have some RIGHT NOW.

The Monster Blue Bulldog's On A Rampage

Well, the results are in.
-Dyson vacuum: This issue aroused passions similar to those seen in mating pirahnna. The Dyson is either a gift from a loving god or the very tool of satan. Connoisseurs of carpet cleanliness spoke out with equal vehemence from either side of the issue. An impasse was reached. Thanks. Meanwhile, my Hoover dies by slow degrees, howling like one of those howling things that howls really loudly and is annoying and makes the neibors dogs bark.
-Opera-length fist fucking: only one person was actually rat enough to come out with a solid answer on this one. Unfortunately photographic evidence reveals his opinion to be nothing more that the wistful wish of a man in search of a country; a country of greasy buff guys in sweatpants.*
-Silos: Grain storage.
-Boobs: Wherever you want. Go ahead and get all crazy with 'em.
-Donny Rumbelow: Made up.
And finally:
-Do your insides turn into an undifferentiated bag of sloshing offal from repeated indulgence in the practice of opera-length fist fucking?: Nobody knows (or will admit to it, anyway.)
I say yes. I think that after a certain number of years you have to be really careful of what you eat because you could get gas, and be trying to impress your buddies by belching really loud and end up wearing several loops of pulsing gut on your chest. Or even worse, that same could come shooting out the opposite end after a few bowls of chili, and wouldn't that look nice poking out your trouser leg in the elevator at work?
So be careful. Don't go spelunking up past the wrist. Its just unnecessary.
_______________________________________________

The playboy of the western world has decided to sell his house and move into assisted living!
Hooray!
You never saw a bunch of fat people move so damn quick. Man, we sprang into action like the Fantastic four. I was the really stretchy guy. I thought I would have to make the real estate arrangements, but it turns out the estate administrator has had an agent waiting in the wings...And he's a good one too; known around town and quite successful. Given the current strong real estate market and the great location and excellent condition of my father in laws' house, this could turn out ot be relatively painless! Lord, I sure hope so.

This latest hospital visit of his was necessitated by a trip down the basement stairs to do the laundry.
That's all it took. Nothing bad happened, thank God, but the man very nearly didn't make it back UP the stairs. In the meantime he blew out a bunch of capillaries in his lungs and landed in the emergency room. It was only luck that made a friend drop in for a visit just then and FORCE him to go to the hospital.

He had a caregiver for housekeeping and personal assistance. She was hired to do the laundry. She offered to do the laundry. She BEGGED to do the laundry. (Everyone offers to do the laundry for my father in law when they come to visit; it's like part of the greeting: Hi, Willie, need any laundry?') But no. Apparently all he allowed the caregiver to do was light housekeeping. We all expected that. So in choosing to prove, ONCE AGAIN, that he really didn't need any help, he almost killed himself.

Now, if this were a recent state of affairs, these efforts to retain self- sufficiency could be seen as heartbreaking and brave.
It isn't. They aren't
It's been going on for TEN SOLID YEARS. Without improvement. Quite the opposite.
You bet I'm pissed off.

I have sworn to my daughter that I will not do this to her. Now, it's somewhat easier for me to make this statement than it would be for a lot of people; I've had health issues all my life so I'm used to accepting the inevitable. Anyway, I have resolved that, when I get to the point where I am not able to do for myself I am going to RECOGNIZE THAT FACT and pretend to accept it gracefully with all my might. Because this fight for independence crap, after a certain point it doesn't impress anyone; it doesn't inspire admiration; it only creates dread.
Age doesn't go backwards. If there's one damn thing I've learned from all this, that's the one thing.
So remember. Nobody gets out of here alive.
And no fisting past the wrist.



* I understand he is shortly to be made supreme leader of such a country and is accepting applications for Royal Cabana boy, Imperial tanning emollient applicator and Executive in Charge of wearing a net thong.

questions

note: the urgent appeal that appeared here but a few moments ago has magically become a non-issue.! and speaking of rectification, see the following below.
*ahem* as it were.



1. Who and or what is Donny Rumbelow? And why does CrustyBaker think he/she/looks like a villain from the year 2000? This is messing with me. I looked all over the Web and I can't find it/ him/they anywhere.
2. Fist fucking: how is it humanly possible for one average-sized male to accept another average male's clenched fist and forearm ALL THE WAY UP TO THE ELBOW? (give me your email and I will sidebar you the site.*) Normal physiology would seem to preclude this, yet there it is. And it doesn't seem to be photoshopped either. I can't help but think' if that guy had a coronary right now, he could receive cardiac massage internally'. At least thats how it looks.
3. Does anyone have a Dyson vaccuum cleaner? If so, how are you liking it? Are there issues with things getting pulled past the collection chamber and getting stuck in the fan?
4.What exactly were silos used to store? grain? hay? sileage? sea monkeys? It looks like a pretty inefficient way to store plant material; seems like it would turn into a big pillar of seeping ick. Although most of the ones I see anymore are no longer in use...didn't you always think, when you were a kid, 'that would make an excellent house!'
5. Gay women and chubby bears: when you are slow dancing, and you are the same height as your partner, where do the boobs go? Do you sort of dovetail them(which makes you face a funny direction and gets uncomfortably hot...also a certain danger of someone getting a nipple tweaked in a sticky armpit-ew) or dance tit to tit (which makes you hold each other at arms length depending on the amount of boobage) or do you just wait out the slow ones? Or mosh to every song and to hell with it?
6. Ok. Now, using a flat chair, a tape measure I dug out of my purse and the questing spirit of the early scientific pioneers, I determined that the distance from my *ahem* solemn mystical egress to the center of my sternum is 14 inches, subtracting 2 inches from the total for compressed butt flub. From the inside of my elbow to the top of my curled fist is 11 1/2 inches, flub included. The human heart varies anywhere from three to five inches in length. Any way you look at it, there's a whole new insight into the figure of speech 'warming the cockles of my heart'.
Presuming this ('opera length' fist fucking) really happens, then, wouldn't your insides eventually come unmoored?

I had to have suspension piercing explained to me a number of times before I got it, too.


these are real questions. if you don't believe me, just visit the stainless steel amazon and ask her (link from: neurotica). she'll be mortified.



*unless i have reason to believe that you are underage. then i will laugh! and I will say in your face 'Ha ha! you bad faker person who has tried to trick me into giving you the address to a naughty bottom sex site! go ask your mother!'

rule brittania!!!!

Have I told you lately that I love you?
Well darlings, I'm telling you now.
When I started doing this I have no idea that I would end up with readers, nor that most of my readers would be flying the Union Jack. How this happened I have no idea. But I am not complaining! Not in the least!
Y'all folks are NUTS.
Unlike many Americans, I am not a slavering Anglophile. I mean, I like Angles, I just didn't particularly phile you any more wildly than I phile any other bunch; thus not stimulating my salivary glands to excess and causing me to go through a lot of t-shirts.
You do have some cool things, though... I like Stonehenge, thats excellent...and I like all the cool king and queen stuff with the swords and velvet and farthingales and beheadings and whatnot, right up until Queen 'Wet Blanket' Victoria. Boy, she really took all the fun out of being royal, didn't she?
I also like Led Zeppelin quite a bit.
MONTY PYTHON.
I like that we are mainly in the same climate zone so I can follow British gardening guides without wanting to set something on fire. You folks are some gardening geniuses. Be PROUD! Stand TALL!
Marmalade.
Led Zeppelin.
You make the Triumph and the Norton, both of which are badass.
Rolls Royce; also pretty wicked.
Chuck Windsor, for all his sans-trousers tomfoolery. He is a powerful advocate of organic agriculture, and I liked his book on the project at Highgate quite a bit. I don't know about over there, but over here he's made a difference, believe it or not.
Rowan Atkinson
John Cleese (He will be mine. I will bear his children.)
The language. It's a good language, as languages go. I try and use some every day.
Led Zeppelin.

Now, this means all you in the U.K., and all you transplants too, like my top coon NoShit Sherlock. And I'm counting all you Canadians. Now ok, Canookies, before you get all peeved and start heaving cheese, YOU HAVE NEIL YOUNG.
Neil Young is GOD ALMIGHTY.
Did I say that about anyone in Britain? No. So just calm yer shit down.


Actually, I love you all. All of you. Everywhere. Even in Wisconsin. Even if you are not British. (That just means you have to try a little harder.)
Now quit asking me for money.