................................................I was once known as Aquarians Love To Fuck (ALT-F). I am now Vagina Dentata (VD)................................................


Wednesday

NGRAM Viewer

I blame the birth of The Tutor for the ever-increasing use of the word that best describes me. Either that or the birth of Rock and Roll.(1)
I am at pains to explain the sudden decrease in the use of the word around 1979 or so.  Surely it is not connected to the immaculate inception and ambrosial parturition of the one and only, me?  With the likes of me now in the world, I reckon the use of the word would be considered superfluous.  Innit?
Coincidentally, of course, the rate of usage resumed its inexorable climb in 1985 with the horrid inception and decidedly inelegant parturition of that dreadful Wham! featuring George Michael.
And rightly so.

Please to notice the concomitant juxtaposition of the terminus of the plot line, the searched word and my lovely chiropteran avatar.



(1) The latter over the former, I reckon.

Friday

Kiss Kiss?




I think there is some Spice Girls in that tune as well.

Super Star for Baby Boomers


The most important person of the 20th century.  Iniit?
In ten seconds his actions initiated a chain of events which culminated in the deaths of 80 million people.

Monday

Egyptians!

The customer:  "Does youse have roses?"

Me:  "Yes, wese does has roses"

The customer:  "Can I gets a dozen red roses?"

Me, yelling to the florist minions in the back:  "Twelve reds, BB and greens - with pics."  Then, turning to the customer, "It'll just be a few minutes.  Feel free to wander about and shoplift"

The customer:  "Tanks."

An eternity of one minute transpires as the customer meanders about in front of the cash register.  The floral minions are deathly slow so I decide to pass the time in conversation.

Me:  "I notice you're wearing pricey-looking athletic footwear.  The word 'Osiris' is emblazoned on the uppers of both shoes.  Is it a brand?  I've not heard of them."

The customer:  "Day's special shoes fer skateboardin'."

Me:  "Oh.  Really?  Unfortunate name though don't you think?  I mean if you recall your Egyptian mythology that is.  Osiris, a god, married to his sister, Isis, a goddess, was killed by their brother Seth, also a god.  Seth then dismembered Osiris and scattered his various parts throughout Upper and Lower Egypt.  Isis, his sister/wife, upon hearing of this, proceeded to search the land and collect the disparate parts with the intent of putting him back together.  She was able to find all the parts except for his divine penis.  She put him together anyway and brought him back to life.

So, by wearing 'Osiris' brand footwear, are you not advertising to the world that you have no penis and you fancy your own sister?"

The customer:  "Ermmmmm.....  Ahhhhh....."

Me, taking pity on the dolt:  "Now if in the extremely unlikely event in the future someone might bring this little mythological fact to your attention, may I suggest the following riposte:  'The reason why Isis couldn't find his penis was because I have it!  I HAVE THE PENIS OF A GOD!!!!  And I have no sister.'"

The customer:  "Yer weird"

Me:  "Indeed.  That'll be $56.50 please."

Thursday

Oblivion

An Anglo version of Vagina Dentata

The fair Isabel

The Tutor Issues forth in the usual way from his pied-à-terre in Montmartre:
"Paris", he rhapsodises with impeccable banality, "is magic."
With the kitten-cute gamine Isabel on the one arm and the vamping courtesan VD on t'other, the trio of faux-bohemians set out through the haphazard array of Parisian arondissements.  Past battered cafés and not-so-fragrant Frenchmen they demur not in their pursuit of the ever elusive "la fée verte" of absinthe.  Seeking perfectibility. Yearning for that perfect moment - that peace that comes only from oblivion.

Tuesday

Yankee Ignorance

What?
Females do not touch Buddhist Monks and Buddhist Monks do not touch females.

Friday

From Contented Kine

"And the kine took the straight way to the way of Bethshemesh, and went along the highway, lowing as they went, and turned not aside to the right hand or to the left; and the lords of the Philistines went after them unto the border of Bethshemesh."
1 Samuel 6:12
King James Version (Cambridge Edition)

People talk about kine 'lowing' and 'mooing', or 'ammuu-ing' if they are Finnish cows, all the time.
Yeah, I know, I don't know why they do either, but nonetheless, that's the truth of it.
I'm very perplexed about the dialectic of it all.
The usefulness of these expressly neutral terms is all very well indeed when one is conversing of such things in the rarefied realm of the abstract, but what is it, exactly, that is occurring in de facto objective reality?  If you stop and actually listen to these beasties -  and I mean really listen - it sounds more like moaning and groaning to me.

 Aaaaaahhhhhh fuck..........I'm a coooowwww........ A goddddddd dammmmnnn coooowwww......

Usually this is a shocking revelation to the poor things because they are not really too bright.


So about all this 'contented cow' bollocks?

Ha!
Contentment my arse, it's the lowing wails and keening lamentations of thoroughly despondent and despairing kine I tell you.  And no mistake!

LSD eh?





Please to note that all of the dancers in this video are at
least 65 years old now - assuming they are still alive.
The singer isn't, he croaked January 25, 2015.





One of these things is not like the other.......









Monday

Splice The Mainbrace



IN
MEMORY OF
"SIMON"
SERVED IN
H.M.S. AMETHYST
MAY 1948 — NOVEMBER 1949
AWARDED DICKIN MEDAL
AUGUST 1949
DIED 28TH NOVEMBER 1949.
THROUGHOUT THE YANGTZE INCIDENT
HIS BEHAVIOUR WAS OF THE HIGHEST ORDER


Oh, and Mend and make clothes too!

Thursday

......................for old men

Recently, The Tutor has taken to donning my ever-so stylish Anton Chigurh Page-Boy wig and wandering about the neighbourhood brandishing his shiny, new Husqvarna Captive Bolt device.
I should be concerned, but curiously, I am not.

Friday

For Whom The Bell Tolls

Me: "For whom does the bell toll, Bilious?"


The Tutor: "I told you not to ask after that, are ya thick or sommat? You ain't gonna like the answer."


Me: "I'm sure of it, but nevertheless, I must know."


The Tutor: "Fair enough then, yins bin warned. It's not, 'For whom the bell tolls' as most folks think, but actually, 'In whom the bell tolls' - and it's often more than one bell tolling too! It has long been advised that one should 'ask not in whom the bell tolls.' Why, you should ask? It is because, as it is in our case, the bells toll in thee little missy! Think back to when we first met - remember those halcyon days? Those bells had meaning to toll in thee then. And toll they did; deep in your Asian libido. Not in the slow, maudlin peal of a liturgical dirge either, oh no my poppet, but in a wonderfully mad Quasimodo frenzy of flailing phallo-claxons in yielding vulvic-domes."


Me: "Well. maybe, but 'Glory in the flower', 'Splendour in the grass' - you know, that sort of thing - those carillonneurs have been slipping on those ropes of late and the only thing Quasimodo about us these days is the hunched-over countenance you're beginning to express in that not-very-gracefully blooming dotage of yours."


The Tutor: "I told you you wouldn't like the answer. And query: 'blooming dotage'? That's an oxymoron, Innit?"


Me: "In your case, yes, but I was intending ironic sarcasm. It's 'blomin' nonage' in my case"


The Tutor: "Fuck off it is."

Fifty Shades Of Gay

Well Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo(1) me from behind with fifty shades of solemn, po-faced mommy pr0n(1), the old woman - 40ish - beside me at the other computer here in the local Public Library is downloading erotically rife eBooks!

I's back for a few hours today.



(1)  There appears to be a Wordfilter at play in this Library computer system.  There is a Profanity Filter - duh.  But, as you will soon see, no much-needed Lameness Filter.

GAY, gay, GAY:  GAY;  GAYERLY GAYNESS IS GREATLY gay with GAYOSITY and gayishly gay GAYISHNESS.

NYUCK the FYooCH-NYUCK

Smart Enough!

The Tutor:  "Why are you telling me this now?
You knew I wanted to be informed the very minute that happened."

Me:  "No I did not.  I was unaware you were monitoring that situation.  I was not born with this information.  You need to tell me things."

The Tutor:  "Blah....blah....blah....you're smart enough to know...blah....blah....blah....!!!!"

Me:  "Smart enough to know?  Indeed I am."

The Tutor:  "I hate you!"

Caesar and CERN

What is all this shite about Higgs Bosons and God Particles and assorted particulate crap coming out of that Large Hadrian Collider they have at CERN.
I just don't get it; large collider?  I've seen many statues of the deified Antinoös and in nary a one is the future inspiration for Michaelangelo's David represented as having been even remotely well endowed in the collider department.
I just don't get it.


WTF?

Gibberish. Right?
Wrong!

If you know what CERN is

and
If you know what the LHC is
and
If you know who Hadrian is
and
If you know who Antinoös is
and
If you know what a double entendre is
and
If you know what a near-homophonic pun is.....


This post will be understood.  Perhaps even considered clever, but admittedly, probably not perceived as actually funny.  Nevertheless, if by publishing it I was able to bring just a little mirth into someone's day, and as a result, one fewer puppy was kicked, I will have succeeded.


Eloise and Abelard
Juliet and Romeo
Delilah and Samson
Lakshmi and Vishnu
Banu and Jahan
Bennet and Darcy

Great lovers of times past.  Why is it that we never see Hadrian and Antinoös or Gertrude and Alice in these lists?  Speaking of the 'rose is a rose is a rose' lady, people bitch about the fact that the epitaph of Alice B. Toklas is inscribed on the back of Gertrude Stein's memorial plinth.  They maintain it is derisive and demeaning.  I don't think it is at all.

It's rather apropos, actually.  Alice is behind Gertrude in death for eternity - just as she was in life.  In life, of course, she brandished a strap-on when in that posterior position.  So why not in death?  Then again, who knows what delicious evil lurks under the carefully manicured lawns of Père Lachaise Cemetery?
Innit?