American Fez

The Devil Will Find Work...

Surely it must be about time that someone wrote a book about the intriguingly obscure female lighthouse keeper, Virginia Woolf.
She has been dead for over three hundred years and still we know nothing about the life of this triple-crowned water-skiing champion. Not only did she and her tribe defeat the Ancient Romans at the Battle of the Boyne by throwing moose testicles at them, she later married Bonnie Prince Charlie and became Queen of the Belgians for two whole months. Unfortunately, her affair with Luke Skywalker is the only real shread of evidence we have that Virginia even owned a parrot called Mozart that could play the piano from behind the Iron Curtain.
And what of her famous circle of friends, the immortal Bloomsbury Football Team? Without the efforts of these wonderful people there would be no cure for French Acne! Surely they are worth the odd coffee table album of never before seen aquatint photographs retailing for $89.99 and available at all good bookshops?
But what do we get instead ... Harry Potter and the Grisly Aftermath of the Children's Crusade!
What is the book trade coming to?

The Poet's Garden

Here lies one whose name is writ in compost

As soon as I can evict these worthless doddering old people who are currently occupying important space on my land, I can begin creating a "Poet's Garden" theme park in my backyard. I shall begin by burning all the wisteria that those decrepit idiots have planted during the years that they have been driving down the property values with their poor taste and incoherent, drool-dripping babble.
I have already made a handy list of all the elements that a proper "Poet's Garden" will require: a Grecian urn, obviously; a small, weed-infested stream suitable for virginal maidens to drown themselves in;and there should be a collection of stones piled up to resemble castle walls that the splendor can fall on (must remember to order some splendor!); an enormous hedge artfully trimmed into the shape of a huge albatross; and, of course, an ivy clad "Tomb of my Youth"; and oh, the list is endless ...
A poet's work is never done, as they say. We're not just pretty faces in frilly shirts, you know. Poetry involves a lot of manual labor and big muscles.

Varieties of Political Experience

You would have to be an extremely sterile and unimaginative personality to describe yourself as a "neo-conservative." Safety in numbers, herd instinct, and the self-assuring baby blanket of consensus opinion, one assumes, are the reasons why a human mind, once so unique and proud, would wish to align itself with the dull drone of daisy-chain unanimity as dictated by The National Review's Easy To Follow Five-Step Instructions:
1. Write something condescending about that Sheehan woman.
2. Be very rude and sneering about Maureen O'Dowd.
3. Be very, very solemn and sanctimonious about the War on Iraq.
4. Rewrite it all over again tomorrow and be sure to link to as many people as you possibly can who are writing exactly the same thing as you are.
5. Remember that sweaty-armpits and overweight bland monotony is the neo-conservative way.

"Liberal," meanwhile, is like the word "gay": a word that used to mean something else. I have absolutely no idea what it means now and neither, it seems, do the self proclaimed liberals. I believe it might have something to do with untrimmed pubic hair, but I'm not absolutely certain about that.
Where oh where is Buenaventura Durruti when you need him? (although I guess he is persona-non-grata with the Anarcho-Capitalists these days. Sorry but I can't find a link to any of their writings at the moment.)

The Washing of the Spears (via email)

Dear Friends,

I am Mrs. Deborah de Milliterry-Coup, one of the twenty-three wives of the late President Laurent de Milliterry-Coup of the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), formerly Belgian Chocolat Land.
Consequent upon the assassination of my husband, beheaded by a World Music Compilation CD shot from specially adapted authentic Congolese catapult, I am now in possession of $58,000,000 (Fifty Eight Million Albanian Dollars), which are funds that my late presidential husband embezzled from foreign aid to our country. These monies were originally used to increase my shoe collection and to provide my late presidential husband with a bullet-proof hairpiece which he wore on ceremonial occasions only. These funsd have subsequently been deposited with a fraudulent security company in the West African country of Togotoppo (formerly French Runowayoland), where I am residing now with Late President De Milliterry-Coup's seventy thousand bereaved children.
My plan is to live in United States and open a 24 Hour Spear Washing Service in New York area while I wait for my money to be sent via postal order from Togotoppo. Until this happy time I need friends in United States to send me their Visa number and cell phone number so that I can purchase shoes to look nice when wearing during the opening ceremonies of the Spear Washing Service Flagship Store on Fifth Avenue. Meanwhile ....
(continues for another sixty paragraphs or until email is deleted)

Old and Grizzled

My friend Adam informs me that the politically correct term for white trash people is "Appalachian American."
This relatively off-the-cuff remark caused me great merriment for some considerable period of time. I have always thought the music of Aaron Copland belonged on a trailer park jukebox.

Lotus Blossoms and Screwdrivers

Endless evenings of take out combination Chinese dinners have left the marks of Eastern inscrutability upon him, and perched behind his ancient counter on his rickety rickshaw of a swivel chair he has gradually grown more obese than the most butterball fatboy Buddha that you have ever seen. And he is wise, too, although his wisdom is dispensed through the side of his mouth in staccato shots of shorthand rhetoric. Cheap cigar smoke curls where you might expect a cartwheeling vapor trail of ancestor honoring incense.
"I'd like to have a key made." You say. And this fat fellow extends his palm to collect your offering: so much like a Bhudda is the greasy guy at my local Hardware Store.

Found on the Searchblog

While leisurely perusing the site called Bixblog,as I scrolled down through an interesting entry about decorative female headgear, I discovered a link to another site devoted to that cinematic vamping maven Louise Brooks, she of the famous inky black bobbed hairstyle: I hadn't thought about <i>her</i> in a long time. When I was in college, almost everyone I knew dreamed of escorting a Louise Brooks look-a-like about town, even the other girls it sometimes seemed. And in this freshman reverie, as an extra tantalizing ingredient of collegiate fantasy, this thoroughly latter day Louise would possess all the Velvet Underground's albums stored in a room of her own beside an espresso maker, fully stocked wine rack, and an unlimited supply of exotic cheeses. For some reason, that was very important at the time. However, I don't recall that hats were much of an issue, at least not with me.

Bespoke

My new brain arrived on Monday and has taken several days to unwrap: why do they make the package so hard to open? On the steps outside my house, the Federal Express delivery man said: "This is bloody heavy. What have you got in here? The kitchen sink?"
I told him, I said "No." I said "It's my new brain and it comes with many optional extras such as remote control, power steering, sun roof, and a fancy leather carrying case, and the communications module has a thousand ring tones with call waiting and call forwarding and a built-in digital camera. That's how come it weighs so much. So what do you think about that Mr. Jumped-Up Overnight Postman?"
"Are batteries included?" was all he said. So I slammed the door in his face.
It's the Deluxe Roman Emperor Model Brain (the Nero SX) and I'm really excited about thinking up some major league weird Pagan madness with it. You know, the kind of egregiously louche activity that will make episodes from The Satyricon seem like chapters in an etiquette book.
Frankly, I've always thought would have made an excellent Roman Emperor because I look exceptionally handsome wearing laurel leaf crowns. My priorities as Emperor would be to have my bust sculpted in black marble, and then ensure that my face (left profile) was stamped on all the coins. Then I would build a big long wall to keep the hooligans out. The next step would be choosing my concubine and aslo employing someone to make sure all the seeds had been removed from my grapes. Of course, I would require several concubines because one by one they would get very tired after holding the grapes over my mouth for hours on end.
Here are some things I would never do as Roman Emperor:
1. Go outside in March.
2. Trust the Senate.
3. Return Cleopatra's phone calls
4. Return Hannibal's phone calls.
5. Invade Gaul.
6. Purchase a fiddle.
7. Wear those smelly sandals.
8. Wear a filthy toga.
9. Miss the local Gladiatorial Deathly Combat show.

Tourist Advice

Hey tourist types, why do you insist on paying twenty dollars per person to stagger exhaustedly around the New England Aquarium gawping at the suicidal penguins when you can tour the seafood section of a Chinese supermarket for free. My God, the shopkeepers keep some weird and fearsome fish floating about in these places. Luminous and bulbous eyed creatures of legend patrolling the murkey depths of bubbling plastic tanks like submarine servants of Neptune, their flashing scales stained with exotic and tropical colors. These are the sorts of spiky-finned monsters of the deep who, if scooped up by nets from their watery home and transplanted into some secret underground lair, might play a prominently carnivorous role in some bizarre method of execution devised by Fu Manchu. They blunder into each other, stare menacingly at the customers, and you can even buy them and take them home should you yourself nurse ambitions in the Fu Manchu line of super-villainy. So why not scare your kids this weekend? Purchase some Chinese fish: "Hey kids, guess what's coming to dinner?"

Bitter Harvest

An inquisitive soul recently enquired of me what the most disappointing experience of my life has been.
".... So far." he added with an insolent smirk.
While pondering upon this melancholy matter for several seconds or so, I realized that the answer did not lay in the drama of my third divorce, nor within the shaming moments of my expulsion from the Temple, when I was drummed out of the Freemasons with my shirt collar ripped open and ceremonial apron in tatters. Oh no, in actual fact the most disappointing experience of my life (so far), I concluded, was undoubtedly getting to see The Bedsitting Room after so many, many frustrating attempts to discover a reasonably watchable print of this seminal movie. For years and years I had waited for such an opportunity, aeons and aeons it seemed, until fortune finally fell in my favor in the form of a small London Art Theater hosting a retrospective of Richard Lester's work while I was visiting my uncle who lived in that fabled city. Considering the superlatively talented personalities involved in its production, the film should have been playing on a constant loop at the Pantheon of Demonstatably Brilliant Cinema, or so I had always believed. For within this ninety minutes of forgotten celluloid mastery, my imagination had always maintained, slumbered the secret of great comedy and the epitome of everything I considered to be worthwhile entertainment. It was my Mecca, if you will. I would watch, learn, and leave enriched. My creative juices would overflow, brimful of ideas and inspiration. This film would, I was certain, change my life.
Alas, the truth, well, you know how the truth is - bloody disappointing as always.

The Fall of Man

I've been kicked out of a fair few Garden's of Eden in my time: yes sir: didn't just eat the apple: no, ma'am: I was making super strong cider out of that stinking apple: you know what I'm saying? Go, they said. Just get out. So I slung my hook and stalked off to the Parking Lot of Eden. Just sat their in my truck revving the engine: palm of my hand stuck on the horn: listening to my music real loud: drank some beers. I was madder than Hell. Then I don't remember, rightly. Guess I just slammed my foot on the gas and high-tailed it out of there fast as I could. Must have been about a hundred miles outside of Eden before I realized that I had forgotten to bring Eve with me. Shit: squeal of brakes. Got to turn around and go back and get the bitch.

The Digital Domain

"Digital", obviously, is the modern Jargonese phrase meaning "more convenient". Lazy scholarship and inadequate translation skills, however, mean that the word is far too often rendered as "good technology" in many sub-standard consumer guide books. Misinformed members of the public, for instance, frequently labor under the fallacious impression that digital cameras procure superior pictorial results than those photographic devices which employ old fashioned light-sensitive "film" science. Such poor deluded fools as these may even believe that the "digital zoom" feature on their new camera provides advantageous imaging options compared to its clunky, angle-altering, picture plane distorting optical equivalents. Ah well. The truth, of course, as it invariably turns out to be, is very different. Digital technology is rarely better than the old alternatives. Even music recorded in an analog manner reproduces itself more pleasingly than the same sounds processed and played back on digital discs, assuming that reasonably decent equipment is used. Analog - let's make it the new Latin.

Cash Cache

Despite whatever the pinstriped moneymen and ticker taped Wall Street analysts may report - and they generally waffle away in an impenetrable amalgamation of jargon and hogwash - I personally believe that the economy is neither healthy nor frail but that it is actually manic-depressive. This quarter it’s shaking its cleavage around city hot spots like Busty Betty the Boom Town Babe, but then next quarter it’s crying itself into drunken stupor on the floor of a cheap motel room like it’s Flat-Chested Fanny the Fiscal Flophouse Floozie. If you ask me, the dollar should be on the couch twice a week with a financial Freud, a wealth wizard who should knock some sense into the cents. After all, what are credit cards, investments and treasury bonds if they are not the id, ego, and super ego of affluence.

Education and its Discontents

I used to be a school bully and must admit that I view those distant days with a certain degree of roseate hued nostalgia. Oh how we taught the despicable, underachieving oiks a lesson when they sullied our good name with their disreputable behavior. And I am absolutely convinced that those deficient personalities I punished all improved considerably after experiencing the enormous benefits engendered by my righteous and chastising intimidationary technique. I have always left every institution I have been expelled from better than when I found it.
Which is why I am highly concerned about the proliferation of automatic weapons in our schools and colleges these days. I mean, what budding bullying Flashman will risk tossing some loser's book bag into the school incinerator when there is a distinct possibility that the nerd in question might turn around and fire six slugs into the young Flashman's forehead?
Something needs to be done. After all, who will teach the losers a lesson if the self-actualized among us are afraid to bully them?

For Your Consideration

WGBH radio here in Boston will be airing a series of pieces by British composer Constant Lambert this morning, and some more next Tuesday
As you know, Lambert was the model for Moreland in Anthoy Powell's A Dance to the Music of Time, and his son Kit was the manager of rock band The Who.
Rio Grande, a choral work, is well worth listening to.
And also, should you happen to find yourself in Brighton, England, don't forget the Rex Whistler exhibition that I advertised in this space back in April

How We Lose the Magic

I’ve just spent several profitable hours commanding spirits of the air to transfer all my love potions, poisons, and truth serums from the locked room in the attic to their new home in the carousel section of the easy-to-assemble drinks cabinet I purchased online from Ikea. There’s even cabinet space in the bottom offering convenient access to my assortment of screaming skulls and blaspheming Jew livers, and also a sliding drawer for that groovy “hand of glory” combination bottle opener and corkscrew I was telling you about last Beltane. Nice.
Preferred customers like myself are presented with a choice of luxury finishes: antique oak, black lacquer, or withered toad skin. Naturally, I simply couldn’t resist the latter. It’s part of Ikea’s brand new "White Stains" Aleister Crowley Signature Collection, which includes recessed shelving for forbidden tome storage, adjustable crystal ball stand, and a charming foldaway sacrificial altar featuring a decorative virgin's blood motif.
All this for only $199.99 inc. shipping and handling. Now that’s what I call an enchanting deal!

Grand Guignol

As the one act drama of that poor woman protesting outside President Bush's house is swiftly and ignominiously transformed into full-blown musical media extravaganza worthy of Oscar Hammerstein, it is truly awful to observe how the press - in the footlight hogging role of hysterical chorus girl - greedily lick the end of their pencils while tallying up the number of American dead in their notebooks and then belt out the result as if it were their own showstopper.
Equally disturbing was the almost gleeful response of the right wing press to the bombings in London. How chuffed they were to have reason for quoting Henry V and waffling away about stiff upper lips and the blitz. It is an easy thing to speak of "resolve" when you live in the backwoods of Maine and fax your Shakespeare-stuffed copy to the city.
Personally, I don't bother with the news anymore. I'd rather read the complete works of Pirandello

Jack Sprat Update

Apparently one man's meat, as the saying goes, is about to become another man's clone. Does this mean that steaks will no longer be sold by the pound but by the petrie dish instead, and that sausages links will be packaged in family-sized test tubes? And at your local Chinese restaurant, will DNA fried-rice and Hot and Sour Amino Acid Soup suddenly appear upon the menu? General Gau's Tissue Engineered Duck In Single Cell Sauce? What the Hell will they put in black puddings?

Are You Sitting Comfortably?

I have just this minute finished adding the final colorful touches to my brand new children's picture book. It's an updated version of those adorable pop-up books of yesteryear that introduced very young readers to the many diverse types of cheerful shopkeepers that they might have encountered in the high street on a sunny afternoon when out shopping with their mothers, and also all the different varieties of merchandise each jolly retailer sold beneath his charming store front awning: here is the grocer with his string of green beans, and here the baker and his sunburnt breads, over there is the butcher and her gleaming sausage links, and nextdoor is the fishmonger with his fillets of cod and pots of caviar. Naturally, in my twenty-first century high street these rosy-cheeked characters of bygone days have been superceded by present day vendors: a surly Starbucks clerk pouring a bitter cup of coffee, for instance, and a spotty cell phone salesman with his rows of malfunctioning Motorolas. There is also a disgruntled Walgreens employee brandishing a union card, and a crack addict slumped in a doorway. Isn't modern life wonderful, children?

Donald Trump Will Live Forever

Ars longa, vita brevis ... but for how much longer? Advances in medical technology and a decline in art appreciation since the days of Hippocrates and Horace mean that lampooned people's physical bodies will probably survive the caricatures and satires made of them. Today's general public much prefer ephemeral and disposable celebrity-based pop culture to anything painted by some ancient master that might be considered timeless and venerable. After all, actual talent is elitist and boring when conpared to the instant tawdry glamor of democratic plug-in-and-play media manufactured for the people by the people.

Shuttered and Shamed

In honor of the fact that a certain "gourmet" grocery store in Boston has recently had its wrist slapped by the Board of Health, the prophetic Stephenesque re-posts the following piece of writing that he originally scribbled down some many moons ago:

Boston's Museum of Food:

When in Boston you absolutely must visit the Museum Of Food on quaint and cobbled Charles Street. The naive tourist can easily confuse the building with a normal grocery store because they look so similar, but fortunately the tell-tale stench of decomposition means you won't confuse the two: "just follow the fruit flies on the fungus trail" as the locals say.
Besides rotten meats and vegetables, the museum possesses the world's largest collection of milks from bygone eras, all authentically curdled and encased in leaky cartons that have made a mess of the antique refrigeration unit. Other popular sights include a fine selection of stale breads featuring different gaily-colored molds, rusted cans of soup with the labels missing, and a vintage box of smashed up and unidentifiable crackers from the turn of the century. My personal favorite is the greenish-looking chocolate that has melted out of the package and oozed all over the dusty shelving; and apples so bruised they appear to have been beaten up by a gang of bitter and vicious melons.
Don't complain if the cases in the Deli wing of the museum are occasionally empty, this is due to the chicken and beef exhibits being temporarily removed for repair and restoration work.
The most interesting fact about the Museum Of Food is that their entire collection is apparently available for purchase. It might seem that this adventurous policy would eventually deplete the Museum's stock, but luckily most customers who buy an exhibit usually return it within a few days so others can view it later.

Why Not Being A Nerd Matters

What scenes of repentance inducing and self-flagellation inspiring horror could Albrecht Durer’s reproving artfulness contrive to present us with in our twenty-first century? The Four Horseman of the Apocalypse, for instance, his old standby, no longer herald much stampeding terror for Western man: Pestilence he has vanquished with a phalanx of well-ordered aspirin; Famine is crushed with a ceaseless volley of TV dinners; War is humbled by the awesome majesty of the United Nations (and its rolling pin wielding mom); and as for Death? Well, I’m hoping that those lazy bum scientists of ours have perfected cryogenic freezing methods at least by the time I drop off the hooks. So anyway, on the whole, Albrecht Durer should be irrevocably starved of subject matter in the current day and age ...except, of course, for one hideously scabrous figure who stalks our blighted lands in this terrible modern hour - I speak of none other than that wretched spawn of hell The Nerd.
Since absolutely everything on Earth these days is completely administered and powered by computer programs and web software these days, and only Nerds know how to make it work, Nerds not only control the means of production, but also of distribution. This means that the soul-withering, non-distinctive, anti-renaissance and pro-consensus worldwide Nerd Interests can dictate whatever they like to the rest of us. This is why everywhere you look you are confronted with advertisements for worthless technology featuring geeky oafs with messy hair, goatee beards, thick-framed glasses, bowling shoes, and Radiohead soundtracks ... Radiohead, for heaven’s sake, it sounds like someone playing Barry Manilow in a basement toilet; even my aged Dad thinks it’s boring music.
The Nerd is everywhere. He knows the file size of everything but the true value of nothing. He is like a locust. He devours art, passion and beauty and then spits them out again as tan colored, one-dimensional processed and homogenized data stored inside a plastic cover.

People in the Public Pilliory

So-called “creative anachronism” only occurs in an artless and intellectually defunct society when an immature and puerile sense of the romantic is unwisely blended with an uncomprimisingly deficient lack of imagination. For instance, while strolling through the Public Gardens quite some time ago - although obviously not as long ago as they would have wished - I happened upon a motley and anachronistic congregation of human advertisements promoting some ghastly velveteen and patchouli-drenched sideshow called King Richard’s “Renaissance” Revels; an epoch apparently chosen for their festivities despite the rather glaring fact that all the characters seemed irretrievably sunk in a cartoon caricature of the mead-guzzling, hail-fellow-well-met, buffoonish Middle Ages; these gormless and hairy losers represented a renaissance that would have lobotomized Leonardo; the sort of creatures who would ram Galileo’s telescope up each other’s rectums. One of them, an espeically overweight and oafish example of his kind, introduced himself, in a ludicrous imitation of amateur theatrical courtliness, as “Lord Wolfgang de Pendragon of the Lowlands”: undoubtedly the most pathetically preposterous nom-de-plume I have ever heard uttered without comical intent to create considerable mirth.
Anyway ... I was reminded of this ragbag assortment of maniacs when I had the aneurysm-inducing misfortune of viewing an ultra modern version of Thomas Middleton’s “Revenger’s Tragedy” – already pretty grim without the post-apocalyptic frills – on video this past weekend. For some reason the director had set the play in futuristic wasteland Liverpool, so all the actors talked like the Beatles in a really bad mood. And, as is always the case with such self-indulgent creative endeavors, all the characters, even if they were bums or tramps, wore shiny black leather punk rock outfits with crazily colored spiky hairstyles.
Understandable if the film was made in 1972, but it’s only a few years old. Most miserable scene of all was Sir Derek Jacobi in purple lipstick, Versace sunglasses and snowy-white ponytail. Come back Cadfael, all is forgiven.

Dead Men's Chest

What worthless "Intelligence" department booby at the Pentagon couldn't figure out that during the Cold War all we needed to irrevocably vanquish the Russian Navy was a couple of old moldy fishing nets? We could have saved a fortune on all that expensive nuclear technology we bought back in the seventies and eighties. Never mind, at least we're not trapped in the Priz with those poor bastards. Mind you, you'd have to be an absolute certified drooling Rasputinesque madman to sign up for Russian submariner duties these days. Crewing one of these notoriously malfunctioning ex-Soviet submersibles as it trundles precariously across the sea bed at full-fathom-five is rather like agreeing to be encased in concrete and thrown off the end of a rickety pier in the middle of the night with only one teeney, leaky air valve for company and zero safety lines to the surface while everybody who knows you're down there immediately gets their memory erased and then flies off to the other side of the Earth for the rest of their lives.

Analog-Osama-Along

Should you require incontrovertible proof that Osama Bin Liner and his equally absurdly bearded cronies will undoutedly drag the peoples of the Earth back into the primitive chaos of the Stone Age nightmare, then surely the fact that they STILL record their ludicrous statements on analog "tape" should give you some indication that uncomprimising technological regression is a part of their evil plans. Surely, any self-respecting politico of the modern age should be recording their important messages on hip and modern formats such as WAV file or MP3; you know, something we can listen to on our i-Pods.
Along with everything else, it seems that we are fighting these people to preserve our precious digital and random access futures!

In the Picture

A lady photographer of my acquaintance recently enquired if I might possibly contemplate the notion of modelling a pair of rubberized boxer briefs for the benefit of her latest fashion spread. I was hesitant to agree at first, not only because I distrust the capricious whims of womankind - especially artsy-craftsy womankind - but also because I usually just wear conventional, loose-fitting boxer shorts made of pure cotton and imprinted with interesting designs. The last time I wore plain black rubber was when my sister ran over my hand with her bike.
However, disregarding my misgivings, my friend still implored me to pose for her: "You'll be wonderful! Just perfect!" she gushed. "Very natural."
So, whatever, I eventually succumbed to her expert flattery and agreed to take a pair home and try them on: "I'll get back to you tomorrow with my decision."
Anyway, back at my house, after decanting my lower half into an especially shiny sample of this avant-garde underwear in the seclusion of my own private dressing room and scrutinizing the result in a full-length looking-glass, despite the disturbing fact that the garment prominently exposes the secret contents of one's personal fruit basket for all to see, I concluded that I looked "Pretty good: I can pull these off in front of the camera" - not literally, of course: I'm selling sexy boxer-briefs here, not my own bodily charms (Adonis-buttocked and considerable though they may be). So I strode confidently back into the woman's studio the next day, very willing to give my permission for principal photography to commence, only to be informed that she'd found someone else and already done the shot.
International fashion, eh: it's a cruel, ego-destroying business.

Invitation To A Beheading

If I were officially offered the opportunity to squeeze myself inbetween two of those heartless and hideously wizened old crones who knit at the foot of guillotines while jeering at the condemned, as soon as the blade fell I would leap to my righteous feet, shaking my fist in the air, and confront the inhuman cutthroat mob swarming around me with the accusatory words: "Thus is the Angel of Compassion beheaded to reveal the bloody stump of justice!"
Unless, of course, the decapitated victim was Peter M. of Br------; a self-confessed blackguard who deserves everything that's coming to him. Viva le Revolution!

Adam Lay Y Bounden

When God casts an omniscient eye back over His exceedingly long and – let’s not beat about the bush here – rather checkered career, he will undoubtedly be forced to admit to His divine self that creating Adam and Eve as fully-grown adults was a disastrous mistake. Having not only deprived the original pair of their childhoods, but also abandoned them to wander around unclothed and unsupervised in a volatile and potentially hazardous environment – talk about a deadbeat dad! - God can count Himself extremely lucky that there was merely an evil serpent in Paradise, and not a squad of overbearing and officious busybodies from the Garden of Eden Social Services Department. God would have some extremely embarrassing question to answer in a court of law, that’s for sure.
Let’s face it, hurled into existence as instant adults, Adam and Eve had absolutely no chance to grow and develop into a natural maturity. They were given no time to learn from their mistakes. It is hardly surprising that Eve, like many an innocent woman after her, found herself easily seduced by the first smooth-talking entity to show any real interest in her.
The Fall, then, was all God’s fault, the product of his mismanagement, and I personally think He ought to come clean about His own errors before casting aspersions on other people’s suitability for eternal bliss in Heaven. Instead, he sends his poor “son” down to Earth to do all the dirty work. Why can’t Jehovah get off his own ass for a change, that’s what I want to know.

Coming Soon To A Bookstore Near You

World's Most Depressing Female Erotica 2005
Her stomach heaving, Ethel glared distastefully at Herbert, that sweaty shrimp-colored mass of flabby flesh and coarse hair that sprawled expectantly on the couch. She sighed and her breasts sagged miserably in the moonlight. Inexpertly, he attempted to bite her nipples but only succeeded in wiping his nose on her armpit. Ethel decided to make the best of a bad job.
“I want it in my mouth.” She whispered hoarsely.
“You’ll be disappointed.” Herbert replied. “It’s very small.”
Slowly Ethel bent her head towards his crotch, but accidentally knocked her head against the couch his knee and sank unconscious to the floor.
Herbert grunted, stepping over her prostrate body on his way to the bathroom to take a dump. He'd get his pleasures one way or another.

Galaxy’s Worst Gay Erotica, Stardate 2161
Panzee and Ozkar were both brimming with gay desires and homosexual lusts, but unfortunately they were also just both a pair of brains in glass jars attached to electrodes and so there were nothing they could do about it.