MEMORY FAILS, BUT

THE PULSE BEATS STRONG

and the heart rings true.

I may have posted this link before; and if I have:

hard cheese

go there again and absorb some fellow feelings. You know, boy/girl stuff and the 3F syndrome*.

(Actually, 4F but the relevant three are the Fickle Finger of Fate.)

And what hurts about this one is the lady is a ringer for someone I loved a loooong time ago …

Moi, big

OH MY GAWWWWD—

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I ADMIT IT,

I CONFESS…

I enjoyed furry tails when I was a pup.

Now tonight, this—

down-there

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Ye gods. All those years and I never knew! I beg forgiveness on behalf of my long-dead School Marms and Sirs—they knew not wot they had done.

But soft … what light through yonder window breaks, could it be PC itself now going through the Discretion Gate to storm the Insanity Barrier? ‘Tis a consummation devoutly to be witched—and shall we discover that the broomstick is but an allegorical penis too, and the riding thereof some form of metaphorical orgasm? Sheesh!

“Mr Argus … Sir?”

“Yes, little Ollivia?”

“Sir … you forgot to mention Noddy?”

“The little nodding man? The one who sleeps with Big Ears? In the house that looks like a demented sex-maniac’s idea of a phallic symbo—”

“That’s it, Sir—but no-one, really, lives in a mushroom or toadstool.”

“So? I knew that.”

“His ‘nodding‘, Sir?”

“Wot? … … … … … … … … … … … … oh!”

“They bestrew our paths with pitfalls, Sir. Thank God for the PC, no?”

“Er … are you allowed to misuse The Lord’s name in so insouciant a manner?”

“Don’t fret, Sir. He and I have reached an accommodation; He explained about Adam and Eve too. It seems that their snake was actually another literary device for copulatory orga—”

“Desist, Child! You’ll be getting me banned!”

“I thought WordPress folks were all grown-ups, Sir?”

“And I thought Noddy and company were but innocent kid-lit too, Child …”

Moi, smaller

OKAAAAAYYY …

AS A CYNICAL OLD

POOP

(a bit sour-puss too, and a broad-spectrum curmudgeon) I’m not meant to fall wildly in love with ten-year-old girls. Now before you sue me, throw dead ducks or pelt me with rotten eggs, have a wee viewing of this—

—and if you don’t likewise—

you have absolutely no soul!

 

(Yep, even us atheists have souls) (some of we—so there!).

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Don’t even think of sayin’ it!

 

.

I WAS STRUCK BY A SIMILARITY

when looking through some web-images of the ‘Gloriavale’ religious commune in New Zealand. One image thrown up* triggered a wee memory.

This image—

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triggered this memory—

ARROW DOWN

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—of an illustration in one of my Khayyam’s Rubaiyats (most of my copies are much more Fitzgerald than Khayyam, but let’s not quibble). Without you looking up the verse—what does the image above suggest, to you?

Is it art?

And the upper pic, what is that all about?

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* Reading about Gloriavale, and watching movie snippets makes me want to throw up. To each his/her own, but why inflict it on their kids?

PROPAGANDA OR

Screen Shot 2020-06-19 at 16.43.28ARTISTIC LICENCE?

The photo below shows the packed beach at Bournemouth in England. It certainly makes its point—

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—or does it? Those human sardines could have been metres apart when the photo was taken … yet someone making a point could easily ‘stage’ the crowding simply by standing back a bit and using a telephoto lens.

So, is the shot above honest reporting (the camera doesn’t lie, no?) or has the point been helped along a bit?*

dodo me        dodo me         dodo medodo me                                      dodo meline, turquoise thin

* Clue: honesty generally doesn’t sell well … perhaps half or more of ‘news’ reporting is actually theatre.

HOW BOORISH

NEED ONE BE

to qualify?

Let this quote be its own comment—

In a July 2005 column for National Review, Steyn criticized Andrew Jaspan, then the editor of The Age, an Australian newspaper. Jaspan was offended by Douglas Wood, an Australian kidnapped and held hostage in Iraq, who after his rescue referred to his captors as “arseholes.” Jaspan claimed that “the issue is really largely, speaking as I understand it, he was treated well there. He says he was fed every day, and as such to turn around and use that kind of language I think is just insensitive.” Steyn argued that there is nothing at all wrong with insensitivity toward murderous captors, and that it was Jaspan, not Wood, who suffered from Stockholm syndrome. He said further, “A blindfolded Mr. Wood had to listen to his captors murder two of his colleagues a few inches away, but how crude and boorish would one have to be to hold that against one’s hosts?”[20]

From:  CLICK HERE

—and make of it what you will.

My own thoughts on this lot? A single word—

kiwi 2

—indeed!

Being further insensitive I looked up the word, lest I be goofing again:

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dodo me

A RE-POST,

AFTER LAST NIGHTS ROUGH SLEEPING

Yep. With nothing on my conscience (ever as clean as the proverbial, as pure as the driven snow) I still sent such tidal waves across our waterbed that The Spouse got up quietly and sneaked off to the sofa. Took the teddy bear too, dammit …

So?

So here’s a repost, taken from my more light-hearted site. Make of it what you will, and if any offended religious folks feel moved enough to challenge — come get me, Tiger!

 

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GODS MOVE IN MYSTERIOUS WAYS

DISCLAIMER

No gods, goddesses, or long skinny mysterious ethereal things were harmed in the process of writing this tale. No offence is intended to anyone, alive or half-dead. Just enjoy (if your religion will allow).

=  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =

 

In the beginning all was void

and without form. Then after a very busy few days and nights God created Man, in His own image.

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(Ooops … bugger!) (Rewind, try again)—

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That being the gospel truth, must then mean there’s a feminine variant of God …

Now flash forward some years (about six thousand by some counts, about 14,000,000,000 by others) to ME in the here and right now:

Knock knock!

“Who’s there?” Damn. I’m busy, delegate—

“Toots?”

“Eep?”

“Can you get that, please?”

Mutter mutter mutter … click, followed by indistinct voices.

Door closes, two lots of footsteps.

Uh oh. A visitor, and me up to my elbows in old-fashioned pen and pages—blasted power cut. Damn again … curiosity:

“Who is it, Toots?”

“No-one you know — it’s Mrs God. She says she’s calling in person to see you after your recent blog posts. Who’ve you cranked up this time?”

Bugger.

“What’s she want?”

“Just a chat. Says she knows you’re busy and will be until you finish that commentary on polar bears — I didn’t know you wrote about polar bears?”

Poop. Other than me no-one does, I’ve just started it. Oh! Mrs God, of course.

“Tell her I’ll be right out—”

“In about twelve minutes, She says. I’d offer Her a coffee but the power’s still off — oh, not a problem, She’s got the jug going.”

“It’s still off in here.”

“And here — it’s only on at the jug. Weird.”

“Whom did you say it was?”

“Mrs God … … … … … … oh!

That might explain something.

“Can you get Her to—” My computer boots into life.

“—thanks. Appreciated.”

Again I marvel at my own ability to accept the unacceptable at a moment’s notice. Okay, miracles sometimes do take a little longer, no problem. Now, polar bears, something important in the great scheme of things … aaaah.

Still marvelling I shift from pen to keyboard, momentarily resenting that She hadn’t called earlier. Honestly, some People …

“She says She’s sorry about that! A minor miracle was needed at short notice in Afghanistan to stop some more Buddha statues being blown up. Took a bit longer than She expected. Bloody heathens.”

Oh.

A thought—

“Couldn’t Hubby have done it?”

“She’s not speaking to Him right now. Something to do with His ‘holier-than-thou’ attitude, She says.”

Coffee noises float in through my doorway, followed by a heavenly scent. Blue Mountain, my favourite, how did She know? Oops, dumb questi—

“Omniscience, She says. It can be a bit of a pain too, sometimes.”

Wait—

“Buddhas? I’d have thought She’d be happy the competition was being blown up?”

A loud appreciative slurp is followed by Spouse’s voice, tinged with deepest appreciation (think orgasmic, only more so).

“She says that it’s Mr God who’s the jealous one, she’s more the live-and-let-live type Herself. Anyway, competition is healthy, lowers the costs, so the believer benefits all round.”

Ye gods. A capitalistic free-thinking God? Goddess?

A thought.

“What’s She look like?”

“She says just get on with your writing — and to stop hammering anthropogenic as being too man-made, it’s a lost subtlety.”

Gone. Just like that, a whole morning’s scratchings.

Rip. Shred, tear, rip. Control A + delete. Start again.

“Does She have any suggestions?”

“Argie, She’s gorgeous! And says to use your own free will, She’s not going to write it for you … eh? What? … Oh! (Okay, I’ll tell him) … but your article on revamping NZ politics sure stirred ‘em up!”

“I haven’t written one!”

“Next week — She apologised for mixing the dates up, says being in next week as well as here and now can sometimes get confusing.”

NZ politics? Now there’s a thought.

“Should I come out there?” I know the Spouse, her idea of gorgeous means absolutely divine. Oops.

“No point, She says. You have to believe first. Disbelievers can never see Her.”

Bugger.

I watch in disbelief as a coffee floats in through the doorway and parks itself neatly between keyboard and mouse. Coffee at least is real. My hair fluffles to an unseen soft touch and I feel a light kiss on the back of my neck. Instant goosebumps.

“So you believe in God, Toots? I never knew that.”

“Not in God, no. Mrs God, yes — it’s a girlie thing, you wouldn’t understand.”

Witch. Thanks for the coffee, anyway. A thousand questions flood my mind. At last, a chance for some answers.

“Argie! She’s grabbed her stuff and is heading for the door—”

Damn! So close, yet so far.

“—She says that if you’re going to get all metaphysical on Her She’s out of here—what have you done?”

Me? Nothing. Yet. Eek.

My keyboard explodes into life and this post finishes writing itself before my eyes in mere milliseconds. I lean forward and obediently sip from the coffee floating in front of my lips while the keys rattle on. Cute.

The script switches to bold italics — goody, I like italics — and this post finishes itself just as the front door closes with a gentle, final, and perfectly omnipotent CLICK.

=  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =

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THE SPOUSE IN LOCKDOWN

IN ALL OTHER RESPECTS

is exemplary. No complaints. Hell, I’d even go to sea with her, and having swallowed the blasted anchor that is really saying something. But—

(there’s always a but, but?)

—but she’s taken to watching repeats of Doc Quin (Miss Seymour) Medicine Person about the time I slither out of bed (actually, fall out—it’s a huge waterbed and without her almost ineffective weight I get surges unless careful).

And when I’m gobbling breakfast she is watching the lovely Miss Seymour (nice) and all the infinitely unending never ceasing completely unoriginal blasted endless infinite cliched plots. Not nice. So? Live and let live, hey?

MAYBE

those plots weren’t cliches when Miss Seymour filmed them …

The plots alone I might survive, if only … if only it weren’t for that endlessly unending never ceasing eternal constant

‘LA LA LA LA LAAA LAAAAAAA’

of the blasted French horn. Non stop, all through.

Comme ca— down-there

—it’s just the first wee sample on this wee snippet. (I didn’t bother with the rest, you can go off French horns) …

Furthermore:

Oogle phleep!

 

GRIN & BEAR IT

BARE IT?

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Naaaahhhh … not in this weather.

Brrrr. Here’s your quote—

“Coming to a window near you, if they are not already there, are the teddy bears of the Covid-19 pandemic. Look around next time you and your bubble escape the confines of home for a safe stroll around the block you will probably not have to go far without seeing a teddy propped up on an inside window ledge, smiling or waving as you pass by.”

And I have no idea if it’s just an NZ thing or a universal, in which case it is most likely imported from America.

But I love it!

Forgive me if I’ve posted this before (I do a lot of corresponding) but here’s someone taking it seriously—

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—snapped as we were hoofing all the way down to the graveyard (no, silly person … not to check in but to see if they had any mushies growing there this year.)(Precious few, it turned out …)

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