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aka A Frivolous Rehashing of/Homage to Boudou sauvé des eaux. The kindly Red Vermicelli have rescued a peculiar little creature from the riotous waters of the stream that crosses their garden. Ignoring what the beastie might be or where it may come from, they have decided to adopt it on a finders keepers basis. But the well-meaning worms don’t know that the creature, whose name is Rory Sharptail McDuffie, is the spirit guide and bodyguard of a very rare species of moth that lives in the wilds of Northern Scotland; he ended up in the river of the garden of the Vermicelli owing to a freak accidental encounter between the prevailing winds in that neck of the woods and a stray singularity. The moth will be appearing in a doddle of her own, with her very own heroic tale, soon-soon, inshallah.

Things impossible to forgive and hideously dangerous to forget. The tradition of the oppressed teaches us that the “state of emergency” in which we live is no the exception but the rule. Walter Benjamin Have a spiffing week, do.

The Mutated Magic Mushrooms of the woodland fringes sprang up as one and invoked the begetting powers of natural redress for to bring forth a furry avenger. And, lo!, another Warrior Bunny appeared. Ain’t that nice? Let’s face it, a vindicating paladin is much needed in these grisly days of godawful idiocracy and doctrinaire subjugation. For, as the man said: There must be outlet or there will be explosion- … Or the mentally freezing, or dying, will tighten their prohibitions, and the chill of their censorships will contract, to extinction, our lives, which, without sin, represent matter deprived of motion. Their ideal is Death, or approximate death, warmed over occasionally only enough to fringe with uniform, decorous icicles -from which there will be no escape Charles Fort. New Lands Helpful disclaimer. The chronicler of this here happy event is not a Fortean by any stretch of the imagination, but one gets one’s groovy lines where one can gets them, innit?

Bosom pals of the girl who’s not pretty and not nice and doesn’t give a toss, the also not pretty and not nice but deliriously bright Gemini Sisters have come to their Orchard of Delights to pick up a few novelty items to further brighten their days. The garden has been exceptionally imaginative, lately, and it has presented the twins with a truly bizarre, but exceedingly cuddly variety of Fish-In-A-Bubble thingummybob. Clever Orchard! Lucky twins! Sometimes life is so sweet…

And here is where we go when things get ghastly beyond endurance. Here are to be found, always, suns and moons and whispering trees and chubby hybrid bunny rabbits and drunken stars. Balm for aching souls.

Indeed utter destruction, unutterable grief and mentally retarded madness have become the norm. States of affairs, frighteningly uniform and totally insane, prevail and the New Subnormal reigns supreme. May Bumba have mercy upon our poxy souls. I hear hurricanes a-blowing I know the end is coming soon I fear rivers overflowing I hear the voice of rage and ruin www.youtube.com/watch?v=wkqfPuQhW9I

This is sort of a sympathetic exorcism, for to banish some of the bile that has been accumulating for the past 12 months. There’s only so much bitterness a poor Gorgon can take before she blows a fuse...or worse, dontyouknow. See how easy can be to win the heart of an alien flowerette? A little ice cream, a small well-read captive balloon and a large dose of sheep’s eyes. Piece of cake! Would that the psychotic imbeciles that rule the world would take a leaf of the wraith-like alien’s tactics... As the old Jamaica proverb says: you catch no flies with vinegar.

Palestinian Mass Extermination, 1 Year On. I repeat: things are so unspeakably awful that words fail to describe just how abominable they have become and the kind of nightmare into which they are likely to degenerate. So here’s Marisol, the Educated Piggy, a defector from Dr. Moreau’s Island, with her assessment of the whole disgraceful shenanigans. Please note that she also is at a loss for words and she has had to resort to a single, sharp, short and to the point utterance. Her latest piglet, Federico, keeps his own counsel. Have a sponditious week…if you dare.

Poor wee thing, faced with choices that who knows where they may lead. Ah, evolution… Such a tricky thing, innit. One may evolve into, say, a beautiful, fierce polecat ferret like Sredni Vashatar or, heaven forfend!, Yoav Galant. Yikes! :-(

aka Repulsive Revenants. Just when you thought that things couldn’t get any worse they go and fucking do. There you are, pacing the room, feeling your piss boil and wondering how much lower in the gradient of moral degeneration, sadistic inhumanity and demented arrogance could the Ziofascists possibly sink into, when they go and surpass themselves by plunging into what looks a point of no return. (As BoomBoom says, if you page the Abyss, the flaming thing will page you back; nothing to do with Karma or divine retribution or any of that mystical poop, just pure and simple causality.) And does anybody say boo? Do they bollocks! Not those who could make a difference, anyway. Perhaps the current Zionazi regime, aided and abated by that other deranged heap-a-caca, the Christian Zionists, really intend to bring about Armageddon, who knows… At this junction on this insane narrative nothing would surprise me any more. Marx was right when he said that “the tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living”. See here a hideous living example of what comes from absorbing, and thus preserving, the political theory, strategy and tactics of an ideology that should have been strangled at birth or killed soon after and promptly buried for ever and for good under several prophylactic stacks of ethical concrete. Ze’ev Jabotinsky, may you forever burn in a custom-made Gehenna after an aeon-long, despair-inducing spell in Sheol. PS. For the benefit of them who don’t know what the two furious chappies in the pic are talking about, here’s two useful info-links, that, since they are from the Holy Encyclopedia Britannica, simply must be unimpeachable. (And they are. If you don’t believe me ask any reputable, historian.) www.britannica.com/topic/Irgun-Zvai-Leumi www.britannica.com/topic/Stern-Gang PPS. Actually, I am surprised that nobody, as yet, has tried to blame Vladimir Putin for this latest Mossad&Friends outrage. The PR Industrial Complex and its minions, the Media Cathouse, must be having a very bad hair day. Grateful for small mercies? Have a spiffing weekend and don’t worry too much; there’s precious little you and I can do, other than, as don Manolito (Vázquez Montalbán) said: No hay verdades únicas, ni luchas finales, pero aún es posible orientarnos mediante las verdades posibles contra las no verdades evidentes y luchar contra ellas. (There are no unique truths, nor final struggles, but it is still possible to orient ourselves through possible truths against obvious non-truths and fight against them.)

With some final bits of sound advice, useful reminders and health instructions, Geminina, the merry genus Janus demonette, is sending two of her grandchildren (adopted) out into the big bad world for to do battle against the forces of idiot mendacity, brain-numbing banality and advanced intellectual degradation. The two intrepid youngsters, Blimp and Blossom, are about to board the part-non-Euclidean foxes, Fiddle and Fuddle, who will swifty transport them to the ghastly, perilous domains of mainstream politics, media whorehouses and genocidal killing fields. At a pinch the foxes can act as enforcing muscle were anything/body threaten the welfare of the fledgling nemeses. Also as strategy advisors, beauticians and storytellers. The affiliated tadpoles are still very young and not above a good yarn before bed time. We wish them a totally spiffing time, best of luck and devastating success. Go give Them Hell, kids!

Floaters & Things. aka Leviticus 19.14. The Bible is a funny old thing. Sometimes it makes me think of it as the YouTube of olden days (as well as current times, of course): you can find just about anything and everything in it, from the deepest, most clear-sighted wisdom to the most flagrant lot of crappy excuses to discriminate, oppress, enslave and even exterminate (or smite as the KJV so euphemistically puts it) your enemies, whether real, perceived or merely designated. You’ll find exquisite poetry and crushingly boring lists of dos and don'ts (a good deal of them arbitrary beyond reason or imagination), soul-stirring subtlety and mind-stifling banality. Not to mention utterly deranged visions. Personally I’m pretty much an Ecclesiastes girl. I love that book. (I wish I could go back in time and have tea and a nice long rambling chat with the bloke that wrote it.) Recently, though, I’ve been having a go at Leviticus. It is mostly an unreadable bore wrapped around true gems, like the one quoted by DandyBat. Milton extrapolated beautifully from it when he said They who have put out the people's eyes reproach them of their blindness. DandyBat is very fond of this most epigrammatic reflection, too. DandyBat may be an obsessive sharp dresser and an opinionated so-and-so but he does know his philosophical onions, he does. We like DandyBat and we always invite him to the best parties and salons and celebratory whathaveyous, in part because of his mordant wit and in part because he always shows up with a retinue of chubby, fluffy and totally cuddly beasties.

It is a fact well known to those who take an interest in such matters, that gods -when not downright insane- are a fickle and therefore unpredictable bunch of chancers. Often they seem to behave like spoilt children and now and again like sadistic prats. Occasionally, though, they come out with good ideas that translate into moderately corking events. Here we can see the Mother-Father of all Iberians giving birth to a race that whatever its faults might have been, produced some of the grooviest art in history. The Attendants, midwives of sorts, have mixed feelings about this act of creation: Does S/He really know what S/He’s doing? Will the newly minted race live up to expectations? Will they end up evolving into a bunch of yahoos that vote Se acabó la fiesta? Is there life before death? Should there be at all?

What is this all about? Don’t ask us. We were just rolling past a particularly dense spot of the Converging Lines Wilderness when we caught a glimpse of this little scene. We have our theories and conjectures and speculations, of course, but whatever the truth was, it was blurred and made fuzzy by the light of the three silvery moons that were also trundling along right before us. However, we strongly suspect that the tiny spider is closely related to the spider that taught Robert the Bruce patience, persistence and industrious perversity.

Here's to the girl who's not pretty and not nice and she knows it. She's not fashionable, nor does she ever intend to be. She's not on Instagram and she hasn't got 35,672 friends on FaceFuckingBook. She doesn't buy stuff from Amazon. She thinks influencers are a mug's game. She likes to defy the odds. She doesn't give a toss about mainstream rules and regulations and she laughs at social status. She's brazen and jovial and light. So she dons her bowler, grabs her captive balloon and off she goes a strolling and a wandering in the Submerged Secret Woods. Little odd fishes come out of their snug hidey-holes to stare and gape and gossip and giggle. And to toast her shamelessness. N.B. The captive balloon is a freely and willing captive balloon. In part because, being a sociable beastie, it likes the companionship and in part because untethered it's apt to float away and get hopelessly lost. Style is knowing who you are, what you want to say, and not giving a damn. Gore Vidal PS. I so feel like taking a wee break after this here doodle. I’m indescribably tired, in semi-constant pain and utterly disgusted with the medical racketeers at large. Perhaps I’ll join the brassy damsel and her chubby balloon and we’ll go for lovely imaginary strolls in places congenial and have phantom picnics in deep forests and quiet deserts.

aka Absent Friends. This is a generic, all-purpose memorial for all the people I’ve lost in the past few years. Life goes on, indeed, but in a somewhat diminished way. Here’s to you all, me old chinas.

By the shores of the beautiful Chromatic Lake, in the Valley of Glee, two rambling giant Worms have come across a small (but perfectly formed) haranguing creature, the Radiant Raving Goddess of Righteous Wrath. She haunts the region and its fringes ranting like it’s going out of fashion about this, that and anything else that catches her mood. Occasionally she also does custom diatribes. If you ask her nicely and you suggest a topic she’d really like to sink her teeth in, off she’ll go on a rabbity, rampant tirade that will make your eyeballs itch and peel the skin off your nose. She's lovely, she is. The giant Worms are thinking of starting up a fan club. If they do, I’ll be its first member, I will. PS. This here doodle is for Ash, a master ranter if ever there was one. Here’s looking at you, kid!

There once was an old lady who fell asleep on a peregrine asteroid. She was very, very tired and the transient boulder seemed very genial and very snug, so she squeezed her teddy bear tight, asked her floating minders to keep watch and she drifted into a blissful slumber. And lo! the Mother of All Wise Onions appeared to her in dreams and revealed to her the secrets of how to survive the all-pervading and exponentially increasing mental retardation that has been swamping and drowning world-wide politics ever since, oh, I don’t know… the Bronze Age?, or even before. I can’t wait for the groovy wandering rock to float my way so I, too, can have a mystic amaryllian dream.