Don't hate me because I am a cute Asian, hate me because I am a cunt. And what are you looking at anyway? I would like you to fuck off. I don't want people here. People who read blogs are cunts, or at best, arseholes. This is somewhere for me to record things, things I care about. Things like trephination and FGM and who feels the orgasm when the Hensel girl(s) masturbate. Also, Rolihlahla Mandela and Aung San Suu Kyi are cunts. I don't like Mother Teresa much either.
................................................I was once known as Aquarians Love To Fuck (ALT-F). I am now Vagina Dentata (VD)................................................
The Tutor was in the audience for all of these concerts. He was on acid so he has no memory of them, but he was there nonetheless. That is enviable. But! His friend saw Iron Butterfly live in LA in 1968. Now that is enviable.
50 cc Russian vodka 50 cc British 'London' gin 120 cc Tonic water 20 cc Lime juice Stir with someone's penis, no ice. I call it a: Kim Philby! Clever. Innit? If you use Plymouth gin, NOT London gin, with a dash of Angostura bitters. I call it a: Guy Burgess! Cleverer still. Innit?
Me: "Mes tres chers amis de mon coeur, or words to that effect, I have this message for The Tutor, 'You are nowt but an aged scapegrace'."
The Tutor: "Scapegrace? Well, let me just say this little Missy: I am sophisticated, soigné, sumptuously attired; rigorously cosmopolitan, regularly un peu distrait, relentlessly loaded, and I am above all things brutally heterosexual. For instance when a lady calls for my ministrations, regardless of the cause, I rush to her loins. A broken heart, a bouncing cheque or a circulatory system rife with Butyrophenone can all be eased by my warm and coddling embrace and a working knowledge of oral anti-psychotics. What price the frightfully jolly old ‘season of mists and mellow fruitfulness’, eh, VD? ‘Tis the time now for new posts. Innit? I would oft-times settle down with a steaming pot of Darjeeling and 120 milligrams of Pyridostigmine Bromide(1), the better to enjoy the reports of your rustic, rural rambles. Any chance of re-running at least your greatest works, with a dedication to our dear friend Griselda - The Fucking Scorpio? It will remind us of happier times, before Blogger fell to the juggernaut of Facebook and bang went the neighbourhood."
A copse of Elder leaves about your Fascinator to keep the flies at bay.
The wonderfully honest Travel Industry has coined many variants of the word Vacation in order to accommodate the disparate reasons why folks might want a specialised itinerary when on holiday. For instance; A Graycation is a package designed with the elderly traveller in mind. A vacationer content with an all inclusive tour package where nothing is left to chance and all the activities are pre-planned and designed to suit an older, slower lifestyle. A Raycation would be a package designed with the hedonistic sun-worshiper in mind. Beaches, tanning-beds, lounge chairs and endless sunshine; you get the picture. The Straycation was developed to accommodate the less-than-faithful folks who wish to, if not break at least bend, their vows. These packages allow the fidelity-challenged and randy singles and couples to partake of pleasant diversions with strangers outside the traditional relationship(s) they might have back home. The Gaycation is a special subset of vacation experience for a specific demographic. Packages include resorts and itineraries that are homosexual and/or lesbian friendly or themed. A big hit. That Siberian Soya-based twat, Griselda, - the 'Boadicea of Dupont Circle' - travels twice a year on Braycation with her pet donkey - the filthy, bestial cunt! And that rather dyslexic cunt: The Tutor, thinking he was registering for a Viking-themed Slaycation in ever-so pregnable Lindisfarne, inadvertently signed up for a Danegeld-themed Spaycation in Skegness instead. As a result, he is now a little light in the loafers. Ha! Danegeld - Spaycation - get it?
It appears I have inadvertently tweaked the clitoris of the resident Alpha female; who, as we speak, is attempting to re-assert her dominance. The non-denouncing of me by the Alpha male has forced her to hang about. It seems I am considered a rival. Nonsense, of course, but heh, de-feminised Yankee wimmen know no other way; so indoctrinated by the horrid Yankee Patriarchy as they are.(1) I am not a threat Ms. Alpha female. NOT AT ALL! I am utterly besotted by that antipodean Kiwi cunt. I mean, would the otherwise awesome, and eminently effable, Alpha perform an exquisite Haka before ravaging his intended? I think not. And let's face it girls, nowt, and I mean NOWT, naturally lubricates the organs of matrimonial necessity quite like a Ka Mate Haka! Thy tongue deviseth mischiefs; (Psalms 52:2, KJV) As much as I enjoy yins and this Internet cloaca of yours, Alpha, I fear your toadies are too vociferous in their dullardic(2) protestations of my presence to render any further visits of yours truly comfortably tenable. If only they possessed the matrix and efficacy of a delightful nuero-synaptic transmission network such as do we. Unclouded as it must be by ego and that horrid clique/tribe/pack mentality they's all has in your wank-circle. (1) Having been born into the Ruling Class of a decidedly non-Western Matriarchal culture in the country formerly known as Burma, I know of what I speak. Did you know that in my native tongue, we do not have a word for Feminism? We do have, as you might surmise, a word for Masculinism. Funny that. Despite the totalitarian nature of our socio-economic political system, we's quite enlightened; we even tolerate Masculinazi writers. I mean we haven't burned all the copies of our most infamous Masulinazi pop-up books. The Male Eunuch, The Masculine Mystique and even The Penis Monologues can all be had after presentation of the right paperwork. We've even managed to convince our males to cherish their virginity and adopt its concept as something which they should be proud to maintain - at least until they are sold into indentured servitude by their mothers that is. Can you believe it? (2) My neologism. It certainly isn't listed in the OED.
I now know what my costume will be for the soon-to-be upcoming First Annual Fancy Dress Debauched Bacchanal. Last year I wore nowt but a white camisole upon which was written in multiple instances the words, Ego, Id and Superego in black cursive script.
I imagine the above toadying dullards had to research the
word, among countless others no doubt, 'quixotically'.
And I too can employ baseball metaphors: "A very
thought provoking and entertaining article from right field thank you."
Unfortunately, even in the interests of mocking the less intellectually
endowed, I cannot bring myself to use punctuation happy faces. Apologies.
Speaking of Quixote, The Tutor wrote some pretty poetry for
me, entitled Erotica Dulcinea. I found it quite humourous, but The Tutor
maintains that women by the score cannot wait to drop their drawers for him
when he reads it to them. Go figure. White women! Meh!
Actually, sweet child, I didn't need to research - and I'm
sure Kath didn't either. You do very well (for one so young) in using big
grown-up words - and giving the impression that you understand them. No mean
achievement for a youngster!
There is however, more to being a polemicist (I suggest you
Google it) than stamping your little foot, metaphorically sticking your tongue
out at the grown-ups, and generally shouting "Hey! Everybody! Lookit me!
Nevertheless, a promising - if somewhat unsophisticated -
Sterculian Rhetoric 14
December 2015 at 04:18
"......There is however, more to being a polemicist.........."
You're telling me! I thought it would be easy to do, but on
my first attempt at the Hercules(No Handed Chopper) move, I slipped and got rug
burn on the old Mons Veneris.
I don't deal in metaphor. I live in simile. Like for
instance, my Performance Art Sheela Na Gig gets all the attention from
grown-ups I can possibly stand.
Person #1 14 December 2015 at 05:17
Perhaps they (the grown-ups, that is) are wondering if you
were placed above a door or a window, you would successfully ward off evil
If you could, you could be invaluable in the weeks prior to
Sterculian Rhetoric 14
December 2015 at 11:08
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above a chamber door?
Perched? Alas! A fucking bore.
Quoth the VD, "Nevermore."
Person # 2 15 December 2015
SR is, by her own admission, an Asian woman. Could be young,
could be old, there's no telling from her English-as-a-foreign-language
gibberings, facile and pointless as they are. She also calls herself VD, which,
with unconcious irony is not referring to a disease, but a toothed vagina.
Unfortunately like so many trolls, her witterings are
turning up on lots of good sites, which are not improved by the comments she
Please go away and grow up, or grow old, learn proper
English and then attempt to make intelligent comments which add to the points
under discussion, rather than debasing them. Thank you.
Sterculian Rhetoric 15
December 2015 at 10:18
I also call myself:
Aquarians Love To Fuck
Pudenda Non Grata -
Do you, Ed P have the authority to make this request of me
on the blog of another? And even if that Saxon cunt were to grant you such, why
would I have to both go away AND grow up, or grow old? I should think simply
going away would suit your sensitivities, why would you care what happens next?
And would you be so kind as to enlighten me regarding how it
is, exactly, I am not rendering the Queen's English properly?
Now as far as my witterings(sic) are concerned, you are
indeed quite correct, they are both pointless and facile. Regarding these 'lots
of good sites' upon which I am reputed to be 'turning up', I can imagine how
the content of the comments I express would not 'improve' them, but am I meant
This sentence fragment of yours,
"......her witterings(sic) are turning up on lots of
Is this an example of proper English you request that I
should learn? Since when has a phrasal verb, 'turning up' been considered
proper English(1)? And wouldn't the phrase 'lots of good sites' be more
properly formatted as, 'many good sites'? Is the word 'witterings' actually a
word? It does not appear in my OED. Perhaps it is a vulgar vernacular heard
only within earshot of Bow Bells? Informal dialect? Argot reflective of your
I would like to take the liberty to rewrite your sentence
.......her vile word salads are appearing on many good
Reads much better, Innit?
And as for the 'troll' epithet?
What do Ibsen, Grieg and Gynt have to do with anything?
I do not troll, my voice is terrible. I do not trawl either,
at least not here or at the fine establishment of one, Dioclese. Both of these
cunts have known me for two or more years. At what point do I cease becoming a
Trawl and become one in the 'Community'?
(1) In fact, it is a phrasal verb which ends in a
preposition. Now we all know that ending a sentence, or anything for that
matter, in a preposition is something up with which Sir Winston and I will not
Don't fuck with me little man, I'll eviscerate you. Ask
Saxon about that which I am capable.
Sterculian Rhetoric 15
December 2015 at 10:57
Please to notice I did not 're-arsehole you with a claw
hammer' as Dioclese would say regarding your curious spelling of the word
'unconscious' and your use of the wonderfully creative neologism 'gibberings'.
Regarding the latter, I am aware how one can change a verb (gibber) into a noun
by the addition of the suffix '-ing' (gibbering). In this particular case, I am
not altogether sure you can now pluralize this resultant noun with the further
suffixing of an 's'. Or is the word, gibberings to be treated now as a noun
which takes a singular agreement like the words 'checkers' or 'billiards'? Has
the suffixing of the 's' to the noun 'gibbering' lost its plural connotation
altogether and is now to be understood like the words, 'preggers' or 'starkers'
I would like some help on this from you, an obvious native
speaker of The Queen's English.
The Tutor oft' relates stories of his childhood - it's an interesting window into the early years of a now mature psychopath. His latest...... "When I was in the first grade, when we had a test or some such, we were required to print our first name on the top of the test paper when we had finished the test. Now me, being the precocious little twerp that I was/am, decided to 'write' my name - in cursive script - instead of 'print' it. My father taught me how to write my name a few days earlier. I was quite proud of myself. No one else in the class could 'write' their names. At least not to my knowledge. The papers were collected and I thought nothing more of it. The very next day I was called to the teacher's desk at the end of class and severely berated for having 'written' my name instead of 'printing' it. I was not supposed to know how to write cursive script - I had not been 'officially' taught how to do it yet. For all future tests and 'work', I was instructed to 'print' my name only. I swear I was just a normal kid prior to that dressing-down. I suspect this was when the seeds of 'hate' were planted and began to grow. And grow well they did! Twenty or so years later......... In the middle of a particularly gruelling 24 hour shift in Emerge at the local Health Care Warehouse, a 50-ish woman presented and was admitted with what looked to be a moderate stroke (CVA) - scoring perhaps '10' on the NIH Stroke Scale. Right-side spastic hemiparasis with pronounced limb ataxia was quite evident. I recognised her, but she did not recognise me. It was my vile first grade teacher! Ha! Payback! Through a cunning series of Hippocratic-Oath-violating actions, utterly non-traceable to your's truly of course, I 'patched' her up. She was eventually discharged two days later - sans the ability to use her right hand to write - or print! Ten or so yeas later....... I heard that she still couldn't write with her right hand and had not learned to use her left - and she drooled a lot. Six or so years later....... She died." The morale of the story? If you happen to go back in time, don't fuck with the young Tutor. कर्म संसार = Karmic Saṃsāra
If you wanna hang out you've got to take him out; Bourdain. If you wanna get down, down on the ground; Bourdain. He don't lie, he don't lie, he bake pie; Bourdain.
If you got bad news, you wanna kick them blues; Bourdain. When your day is done and you wanna run; Bourdain. He don't lie, he don't lie, he bake pie; Bourdain. If your thing is gone and you wanna ride on; Bourdain. Don't forget this fact, you can't get it back; Bourdain. He don't lie, he don't lie, he bake pie; Bourdain. He don't lie, he get high, he bake pie; Bourdain. Apologies to J. J. Cale
Some obviously young Yankee snotter on The New Yorker website has taken it upon himself to compare and contrast the films, The Longest Day (1962) and Saving Private Ryan (not 1962). Typically, The Longest Day does not fare as well as The Tutor thought it should. I read the Yankee's piece, and I thought it was well balanced. I do, however, agree with The Tutor's comment regarding the Yankee's interpretation of the beach scene between Robert Mitchum and Eddie Albert. The Yankee writes, "......the American officers are plainspoken(sic) and casual; they wear comfortable, ugly uniforms. Their judgement is virtually flawless and always aggressive. (The one officer who advises retreat amid the slaughter on Omaha Beach, played by Eddie Albert, quickly dies.) In the field, they change plans, improvise, go for broke......" The Tutor's comment, "I am not so sure of this interpretation. Reviewing the scene, Eddie Albert quickly smiles when he is told by Robert Mitchum that there will be no retreat. I reckon Mr. Albert's entreaties for retreat to Mr. Mitchum were rhetorical and meant by him (Mr. Albert) to be refused by Mr. Mitchum's character - and he was obviously happy they were. Eddie was a true fightin' man! His subsequent death was not punishment for not being aggresive enough, au contraire, it was but (a) foreshadowing of his impending professional demise. He will, a few years later, be married to a Gabor sister and be constantly upstaged by Arnold Ziffel"
I just watched "The Magnificent Seven - 2016". Well, It has Denzel, which is cool, but alas, it doesn't have: Yul Brynner Steve McQueen Charles Bronson Eli Wallach Horst Bucholz Napoleon Solo and James Coburn(1) And it certainly doesn't have:
By the way, James is one of the three who escape in The Great Escape. Now if some fucker like Antoine Fuqua for instance, decides to remake that film, well there will be blood my friend, lots and lots of vile Yankee blood.
Speaking of non sequiturs that are not only blatantly not causative they are not even correlative, I proffer the following:
James Garfield, the 20th President of the United States of America, devised his own novel proof of the Pythagorean Theorem – something not often done since, well, Pythagoras. He was also fully ambidextrous. It was said that if you asked him a question he could write the answer in Latin with one hand and in Greek with the other – simultaneously!
And they shot him for this!!??!!??!!
America’s hatred for learning goes way back.
J. Danforth Quayle, the 44th Vice President of the United States of America, is quoted as saying:
"I was recently on a tour of Latin America, and the only regret I have was that I didn't study Latin harder in school so I could converse with those people."
The American Education System, over the last 60 years, has gone from teaching Latin and Greek in high school to being forced to teach remedial English in college – and to her sons and daughters for whom English is vernacular!
This is why the 21st Century will belong to us Mongoloids, not you damn Librul Caucasoids – we value learning, even above personal liberty.
Scientia Potens Est
Knowledge Is Power!
Once, while stumbling along on the Clapham High Street, London, England at 3 AM, after imbibing a few cans of White Ace - 59p at Tescos - I noticed I was being followed by a questionable-looking miscreant. I slowed and then stopped quickly, wheeling around to confront him with my best intimidating stance. Slowly noticing I was now standing not far from him, he brought himself to a swaying stop and managed to bawl and yelp, "Oi Chink(1), come over ‘ere and suck me cock." I covered myself in sick. I reckon he was altogether put off with the idea of irrumating me after that and staggered away like he had just shit himself. And he probably had. A few months later, in Boston, Massachusetts, US of A, I found myself negotiating the bank of the Charles after one-too-many Pabst Blue Ribbon Tall Boys - $1 at Sidebar on Bromfield Street - I espied a slimy Masshole following me, apparently. I stopped and turned to face the Yankee fucker. He stopped as well and mangling the Queen’s with that vile, atrocious accent of theirs, grunted, "Hey pretty girl, come ovah heah and suck my cock." Now that's nice, 'pretty girl'? What girl doesn't like being called pretty? I, of course, smiled and proceeded to oblige. He covered himself in sick. What’s not to love about America? The cunts can’t hold their liquor, but at least they sure know how to treat a lady! (1) I am not Chinese. I am Burmese.