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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

THE CANADIAN AND AMERICAN BAILOUT PACKAGES: WHAT'S IN IT FOR YOU?

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.

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.