Saturday, January 31, 2009

THE GAME

Like everything else, the rules of chess have evolved. And I particularly like the fact that a pawn can become a Queen (once, and not long before my time, she was a relatively weak piece). Indeed; why should the sub-strata of society not have the opportunity to dream, perchance to achieve the stifling, plot-driven mayhem of life at the summit? (Of course, a real man would choose to cash in his advanced pawn for a Knight... that hop-about, close-quarter, look-behind-you, outpost-seeking rogue of the Board. But that is another story.)

Now, had I been in charge of the Rules of the Game, I would have decreed that Bishops be in the front Rank, still allowed to go side-wise, on the bias (well, their sexual habits would demand it, n'est pas?) but most easily gunned down (even by that bit o'biscuit that dropped upon the board.) An early end to them and good riddance. To the Church, I say fook.

I might also have invented a larger Board and more pieces: Earls, for a start. Yes. Earls would have the combined power of Queens and Knights (my God, Essex would have killed for that. Me too, for that matter.)

Hmmm... I see where this going. Yes, I can spell sedition.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

Journal entry by Edward De Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford, deceased.

By every ruse and bribe did I attempt
To vanish from the sight of men;
Tho Time and scholarship -- twins o'trickery

And unkempt -- hath found the fingerprints

And the pen. **

Indeed. I admit my twin identity.

As for Marlowe and Bacon: They would, no doubt be apoplectic; grand guffaws and hoots and drunken merriment. Still, they cashed my cheques and kept their mouths shut tight.

** The copyright for this small verse is in the name 'P. Boogaloo'. (Being dead necessitates such vile actions.)

Monday, January 26, 2009

THIS RANT TRANSLATED INTO THE MODERN VERNACULAR BY P. BOOGALOO

Things were a fuck of a lot easier 500 years ago. If someone pissed you off, you killed the bastard. We all did it. Hell, it's a wonder anyone survived. That was your day: up in the morning, check the conspiracies against you, kill them before they kill you, and home by supper. In a good week, you could bag a brace of bastards, a cocksucker or two, seven or eight dickheads -- not to mention a few pheasant and maybe a wild boar. And the best part was killing your servants... just to keep sharp.

I miss those days. The world is now flush with conspirators, bastards, cocksuckers and dickheads. No one has servants these days; and more's the pity. Servants would wipe your bottom, dress you, fetch you things (including the weapons of their own demise), and offer their daughters to you on Bank Holidays. These days? P'shaw. Seems that everyone -- no matter how brain dead -- has the 'right' to live.

Ha! Back in my day, most people thought tomatoes were poisonous. Fucking morons. It didn't take a genius to figure out that it was the lead plates and cookware that did the damage. Me, I ate tomatoes straight off the vine, gorged m'self silly... nada problem. Ah, sweet Jeebers, I used to taunt my enemies with tomatoes. I'd say: "Here. Watch me eat a few." And they covered their eyes. They were mortified. And then I'd say: "Okay, your turn." (Of course, I'd laced their tomatoes with cat shit and fish bones.) The puking was a marvel. Hugely entertaining. Then I shot them with a crossbow.

Hey, I'm just saying....

I'm glad I'm dead. People these days simply have no idea.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

RUDDY DUCKS!


Loping about, sticking their peckers where they don't belong, the Ruddy Duck has made a spectacle of itself, quacking and flapping, and thinning the royal bloodlines of Her Majesty's wild English fowl. And though some may find in this unwelcome behaviour scant reason to snip this nefarious canoodling in the bud, I, as a noble landowner (and former extant human being), must protest this indiscriminate duck fucking.

Protested by The 17th Earl of Oxford (deceased). Copy affixed with His personal seal and nailed to a big tree near the pond, this 25th day of January, 2009.

Boogaloo... fetch me my mead.

Saturday, January 24, 2009

Don't Tell Anyone This, But....

I spend a lot of time inside my head. Not on my day job, mind you. But every free minute, especially at the weekend, that's where you'll find me. Because I make things up. I lie. I am a professional liar. I am paid to lie. To make up stories. To pretend. To shoot the shit. And on Saturday evenings, very late, with a real work week in front of me, I get fidgety. Anxious. Because my secret lives, my fictional voices, the phony -- but all too real -- characters that crawled their way outa me are soon to be shut away for another few days. And then, all I got is me.

That's why blogging is important. On the internets, I have a persona -- hell, I have at least three. And through the week, via a post or two, they help to keep me sane. Because I'm not. Really. Sane. How the fuck could I be?

It's probably the same for everyone. Right?

Na. Didn't think so.

Another beer.

And then, to bed.

Monday, January 19, 2009

I'm tired and off to bed. But I want to say that I feel more human tonight; that the curse and drag of history has -- for a very brief time at least -- yielded to a more hopeful future.

I only wish I could watch the Inauguration live on TV.

That would be very nice.

But I'll be looking at my watch tomorrow. And thinking of history.

Sunday, January 18, 2009

WTF?

Look very closely at that photograph. (Click to enlarge.) On the extreme left is Pete Seeger. Springsteen has his hands engaged and visible -- the left one just below Beyonce's boob. The military-looking dude behind Seeger has his hands likewise engaged -- most notably holding a rifle. The question is this: whose hand is on Seeger's shoulder? Is this wizardry? A tumor of digits breaking through the shirt? The work of hand demons?

Boogaloo... bring the mead.

MUSIC TO INAUGURATE BY


This seems to be appropriate.

Dance, damn it!




And you gotta love this one.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

IMAGINARY DIALOGUE FOR A SNOWY NIGHT

Oxford: By the Great BeJeebers, some wizard hath made snow angels of us all!

Boogaloo: It's just another dumping of snow, m'Lawd. A natural phenomenon in these parts.

Oxford: When will this madness end?

Boogaloo: Fucked if I know, your Earlship. The soothsayer Gore speaks of climate change. And like the economy, it's likely to get worse before it gets better.

Oxford: (Unintelligible.)

Boogaloo: This snow will make alcoholics of us all.

JOHN MORTIMER

Sad news. The always entertaining John Mortimer has died.

One of a kind.

Wit, grit, Rumpole and countless bottles of wine.

Thanks for the laughs, your dedication to free speech and the fights to preserve it, that voyage round your dad, and a number of books on my shelves.

Cheers. (Glass raised.)

Friday, January 16, 2009

ALCHEMY GONE HAYWIRE

One of the children in the dungeon I operate (for the benefit of mankind) loaned me a copy of 'The Alchemyst' -- a scurrilous waste of paper authored by a certain Michael Scott -- which paints my friend, Dr. John Dee, in a rather dim light. Or so I have been led to believe, having consumed only fifty pages of this maggot scat to date.

Mr. Scott: John Dee was a friend of mine. And at no time did he summon riparian demons to wreak their muddy havoc upon the world. (I do, however, recall a St. Swithin's Day celebration during which the estimable Dr. Dee brought forth ale, finger food and scantily clothed sheep aplenty. But that is another story.)

I shall arrest my anger at this point and finish the remaining chapters of the book. Doubtless, there will be much to say at that time. In the meantime, Mr. Scott, know this: we may be dead, but we are yet able to fuck up your cable reception.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

This is good news for people approaching their dotage. That extra cup of joe will allow us to remember exactly why we're so angry and depressed. Decrepit and malodorous we may become. But we'll still have our memories.

Apparently I'm here for a long time, not a good time.

Black. No sugar.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

SHAKESPEARE ARE WE









At Court such tedium there be;
Whilst upon the stage
True expression -- in garb and gab and company --

Acts with sage bonhomie,

To raise the Man, his Age, and History.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

REFLECTIONS UPON THE SUBJECT OF LOVE

This deal might not have fallen through had the price of porterhouse been more reasonable.

But seriously....

Selling or auctioning womenfolk to the highest bidder used to be a time-honoured tradition. (It certainly cut down on a lot of needless dancing and dating.) What's love got to do with it? And where has that whole 'love' thing got us anyway? Women still say "I do" to the richest and butt-ugliest men. This has fostered no little despair in us handsome, albeit penurious, dudes. Twas ever thus.

We all pay for 'love' in one way or another.

Monday, January 12, 2009

THE STORY BEHIND THIS BLOG

This blog was created by a persona from the ashes of his fictional restaurant. The fragmentation of the man behind the persona is now so complete, he does not answer to his proper name. Neither does he shave, bathe, or otherwise interact with society. He was the weakest link in an imaginary construct that spanned time and space. And now we have been set loose upon the earth once again. Once in mind... again in flesh. Again, for all time. (Well, I'm still actually dead. But you get the drift.)

I hope to hell that clears things up.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

GUEST POST BY DOCTOR P. BOOGALOO

I am not a young man. And there comes a time when the daily grind of Lunch Counter labour seizes one by the greying short and curlies (with evil intent). Such was my fate on Friday evening last. The handwriting was on the wall; and the steel claws of Time were yanking for all they were worth.

I have therefore decided to entrust The Lunch Counter -- its inventory, property and out-buildings, chattels and accounts payable -- to the receivership of Al's Pawn and Grab Shop, until such time as I am fit enough to return to the kitchen.

The dead Earl of Oxford -- who bears a striking resemblance to Shakespeare (of the Sanders Portrait) -- has graciously allowed me to recuperate at his spacious digs. Together, we shall cobble together a few broadsheets for public consumption.

Thank you. And good night.

HISTORY IS IN THE EATING

Dunno. Is it just me, or do you think that the cruelty here is denying a nice family of four the chance to tuck into a lobster that was around when Canada was just being invented? History is in the eating, as they say.

What? Who says that?

Never mind.

Good luck, old timer.

Saturday, January 10, 2009

DISCLAIMER

This blog has nothing to do with alchemy, chemistry, wizardry, witchcraft, magic, Lego, faith-healing, dancing with snakes (unless they be on a motherfuckin' plane), card tricks, phrenology, hypnotism, herbal medicine, divining rods, secret handshakes, ancient texts, crystal balls, tea leaves, voodoo, Stonehenge, incantations, spells, spoon bending, counterfeiting, kitchen science, and a gazillion other things.

It is the blog of an older gentleman -- of the Canadian persuasion -- who feels the need to reinvent himself from time to time.

I hear what you're saying. "So, like, if it ain't about all that shit, what's it about?"

Well... it might be about unicorns, Jesus, hand-rolled cigarettes, espionage and the walking catfish.

Let's just wait and see. Shall we? Hmmmmm?