Neuf a la Banc!

It was a beautiful June night at the Casino Lisboa, with temperatives in the lower 70's. There was a chance of rain later in the evening as an occluded front moved across the area, but right then it was only partially overcast. A southerly breeze brought the sweet smell of the South China Sea, although at a cost of increased humidity. It had been a particulary wet spring for the area, and the gardens and shrubbery of the casino were looking magnificent.

All this, however, was lost on the occupants of the Aston Martin DB4 Zagato that pulled up to the entrance of the casino. A most glamorous couple emerged from the vehicle. HE was dressed in a Louis Vuitton Single Button Notch Lapel black tuxedo, with top hat. SHE looked pretty good too, in a Gustave Tassell pink silk outfit, with matching wrap and long dress gloves. They were in fine spirits.

"I say, Lady M, if I live to be 100 I'll never have such a daring and exciting adventure as when we escaped from General Tang and his gang of CHICOMS," said Lord Woodpecker-Smythe as he nonchalantly tossed the Aston Martin's keys to the casino valet. Lady Marzipan replied, "That's just what I was thinking, Woody. I thought we were goners for sure, but your plan really saved our bacon. It would make a great story."

As they walked up the Grand Stairway at the entrance to the building W-S was still a bit confused. "I say, Lady M, I'm still a bit confused. Tell me again why we needed to come to this casino?" Lady M bristled, just ever so slightly, "Let me explain it to you AGAIN then. Are you sure you're not drunk? Anyhoo, since the commies destroyed the Q-Device, thereby stranding us in in 1966, we need to find-slash-build a new one. And there's a gentleman here that I believe can help us. His name is Scaramanga, and he deals in high tech villainy in a similar style and nature to myself."

She continued as they entered the Grand Salon, "Our plan is simple. You will use your considerable gambling skills to amass the small fortune we'll need to procure the material for another Q-Device, while I use my even more considerable feminine charms to gain access to Scaramanga's laboratory facilities so we can put the device together."

"Consider it done, my dear," said W-S.

The two then parted company. SHE made a bee-line for Scaramanga, adjusting her decolletage for its most deadly effect. HE headed for the baccarat table, by way of the bar.

Burma Dayz

June 29, 1892

Shinigal, Burma

Dear Brother Ambrose,

I'm writing to tell you about the dreadful time I'm having here in Victorian era Burma. I know your friend Turnips has the ability to travel in time. I'm wondering if you could use that somehow to bring me some better gin to the European Club here in Shinigal. As you know I came here to Burma to bring improvement to the lives of the savages. Not just to make them into copy-cat mimics of Europeans, but real progressive improvement. So I came with my copy of Das Kapital cleverly hidden in my copy of the Kipling Reader and Tom Brown's Schooldays. It was always my intention to get these dusky-hewed primitives to liberate themselves from the yoke of their European oppression. I also wanted to come to British India to learn more about the noble Eastern spirituality which seems so much more in tune with the rhythms of the world than our stuffy C. of E. taught to us by Vicar Callaway back home.

Its just that its so hard. For one thing none of the single European gentlemen will leave me alone as the prospects of finding a memsahib in British India are pretty slim unless one of the officer wives's is widowed. For the same reason the European wives are very protective of me and are always trying to fix me up with the right sort of man. I was recently chaperoned on a date with a Reginald Maxwell the leader of the local constabulary and forrest rangers. He was a wonderful sort of chap and all that, but really not the sort you grow close too. A young lady needs to be mindful that it takes more than a bushy mustache to make a man and she can't just go marrying anyone.

I'll add as an aside that it was extremely shocking when Maxwell was cut to pieces with dahs by the relatives of a man Maxwell had to shoot for poaching on Mr. McGreavy's tea plantation. I have to say the club was outraged by this incident. Not because anyone enjoyed Maxwell's company. He was just a "good bloke" to most of the men here but it was because a European--a white person had been killed by the Burmese natives.

Another thing that is hard is the other wives keep a sharp eye on everything I do. In class recently, I was about to explain to the local girls that they should receive equal pay for equal work and the right to vote so as to increase suffrage when Mrs. Hawthorn, the wife of Colonel Hawthorn the district commander, came into my classroom and I had to go back to discussing the finer points of Ivanhoe and the importance of the code of medieval chivalry, as directed by the syllabus. Furthermore, it seems the dirty buggers have no conception whatsoever of an industrial proletariat.

As the months have rolled on I have found myself having to keep up appearances so much that I seem to have very few opportunities to teach the way I came out here from our estate to do. The lack of decent gin is troubling although we manage.

Another headache is that the locals never seem to want to do what you pay them to do. My housekeeper Daw Mya even had the gaul to ask me for an increase of her wages because her father had been arrested in the sweep of troublemakers following Maxwell's death. I showed that ingrate Daw Mya the door just as fast as you can say Jack Robinson. She begged and pleaded with me to keep her on. "No, please Miss Rossaroni, if you fire me I get set on fire" It was all so dreadful. Finally just to shut the poor woman up, I hired her back, but I cut her wages just to let her know who was boss. You can't let these people run roughshod over you or you'll never hear the end of it. Mrs. Hawthorn had the same problem but she actually did fire her housegirl. Funny enough the locals did set fire to that girl so I guess Daw Mya wasn't lying about that. She seems to lie about so much else though that dirty savage.

Anyway, send your love and your finest gin,

Yours always,

Nells,

Miss Nellie Grace Rossaroni

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR

Dear Sirs,

Recently I have begun wearing a stoat over my upper-lip. May I join the Handle-bar Mustache Club?

Respectfully,
Madame Pompadour
Lanzarote, The Canary Islands, Spain


Dear Madame Pompadour,

I’m afraid not. You see the Handle-bar Moustache Club is not open to residents of the Canary Islands. However, your stoat may seek membership if he can prove he is descended from English stoats. Please refer to “The Wind in the Willows” if you have further questions.

Regretfully,
The editors


Dear Guv’nah,

What ever happened wif all ‘em murders on that train?

‘fanks,
Grimey


Dear Grimey,

Which train? The 806 out of Birmingham, the 922 out of Cornwall or the 1266 out of Lancaster? Or was it that one with the Girl Guides?

Sincerely,
The editors


Dear Guv’nah,

It was da one wif ‘em Girl Guides and a Rakshasa hunter onitt.

‘fanks again,
Grimey


Dear Grimey,

Thanks for clearing things up. With so many awful accidents these days many of British Rail’s customers automatically assume “murder most foul.” That is not the case, however, as the incidents on the Caliban with the Girl Guides and Dr. Mixo were clearly a series of awful mishaps. I’m sure it shall all be cleared up soon.

Best regards,
The editors


Dear Editors,
Oh, ‘fanks. Me and me missus was worried.

Best wishes,

Grimey

Dear Grimey,

Please go away now.

The editors



Dear Editors,

When is that lazy-bones, son-of-a-jackal, Commodore Thorton-Pickle going to write a column? I’ve been waiting and waiting.

Regards,
The Brigadier


Dear Brigadier,

We expect something soon. When it arrives we are certain that it will be a third rate effort similar to most of his work at Cambridge.

Sincerely,
The editors


Dear Editors,

What do you think frumpy shoes say about a man?

Respectfully,
Commodore Thornton-Pickle

PS I saw what the Brigadier wrote by the way.



Dear Commodore,

We think you are displaying a bit too much cheek, thank you very much. Please stop insinuating the Brigadier wears frumpy shoes.

Sincerely,
The editors


Dear Editors,

I didn’t insinuate that. It was one of Turnips.

Regards,
Commodore T-P

Dear Editors,
Oh no, it wasn’t. It was one of Woodpecker-Smythe’s

Cheerio,
Turnips

Nottinger's Noteworthy Notables of Note and Guide to Peers of the Empire. 8th ed.

Lady Lyme-Weoghe
The Early Years ~ Lady Lyme-Weoghe is the only daughter of celebrated acrostic poet and crony of Midlands industrialists, Barlowe Coghill Cholmondley (Lord Lyme-Weoghe) and his wife Margaret "Pippa" Puncknowles, a prominent Suffragist and Lady-Adventurer.
Early education under her parents' tutelage included the Agrippan method, horse handicapping and modern letters. After a brief stint at Miss Primrose Perchance's Academy For Promising Young Ladies, Lyme-Weoghe read Advanced Needlework, Home Economics and Numerical Analysis at Cambridge where she took top honors in examination, but was, of course, denied a degree because of her gender. It was at Cambridge that she became acquainted, but did not get along with fellow Barrister’s Keepe members Thornton-Pickle, the Brigadier, Lord Turnips and Lord Woodpecker-Smythe along with Lady Marzipan, due mainly to their support of, and indulgence in street music, particularly that of organ grinders and tub thumpers, which she despised. She assumed the title of Lady Lyme-Weoghe after the deaths of both her parents in an encounter with a brood wyvern on the peak of Snaefellsjokull where her mother sought the legendary entrance to the interior kingdoms of the earth.

Later years ~ After leaving Cambridge, encouraged by tub thumping school chum Lady Marzipan, the socially sought-after Lyme-Woeghe acquired financing from abroad to develop a Ratiocinative Engine, purported to make possible the calculations necessary to create a time travel device. Many believe she was successful but there is no proof that such an engine exists.

Accusations of theft were bandied, rumors flew, and friendships ended but after the smoke cleared, it was Lyme-Woeghe who was left in disgrace, with no place to lodge during Boat Race Week. It was during this bleak period that she became reacquainted with Lord Woodpecker-Smythe whom she had known at Cambridge. The occasion was the staging of his play Lawks! Is 'E 'Avin' a Laugh? at the Cock Pit Yard Theatre in Liverpool. As it appeared that he had given up his obsession with street music she consented to his attentions and the two became close friends, often seen together in attendance at readings held by the Royal Society For The Continuation and Dissemination of Acrostic Poetry , of which Lyme-Weoghe is a patron. Despite the public humiliation over the Ratiocination Engine (or lack of, rather) Lyme-Weoghe was honored with an invitation to join the British Association's Society of Probability and Totalization Theorists. An amateur artist, she has also gained some recognition as illustrator of a charming series of books for young gentlemen called The Snotty-nosed Little Urchin and His Cousins, the Guttersnipes, Get Their Comeuppances featuring dirty, but lovable ragamuffins Erven, Slouch, and Grimey as they go about experiencing heartwarming adventure and comeuppance throughout the empire.

Advantage .... Scaramanga!

Scaramanga turned to the young Captain Turnips.

"What are your thoughts on all-you-can-eat prime rib buffets?" Scaramanga asked disarmingly.

Somewhat surprised, Captain Turnips took a moment to gather his wits and replied, "That depends on 'the where' Monsieur Scaramanga."

"I sincerely hope you aren't trying to trick me" Turnips added for good measure.

"Ahh, of course not," Scaramanga answered silkily, "Its in Macau, at the Casino Lisboa."

Turnips touched forefinger to chin thoughtfully, "Excellent, Dutch-treat then?"

Scaramanga countered with another proposal.

"What about a little wager instead?"

Choose Your Adventure!!!

Choose a path for the future narrative of the Stuart Turnips-rescues-his-crew storyline (and Yes I know this is exactly what they did at the end of Wayne's World):

• A. Stuart rescues his crew but finds that they have been brainwashed al la Manchurian candidate and now view him as a class enemy with hilarious results. Perhaps this brainwashing has gone awry with one member of the crew and that person believes he/or believes Stuart is Eartha Kitt.

B. Stuart stumbles across the dead bodies of his crew in a Cambodia-like killing fields and there is enormous pathos as he reunites with his father, who has come to collect him, to the tune of John Lennon's Imagine. (Lets call that the downer ending)

C. Stuart, and Scaramanga are about to rescue the crew but decide to side track to Macau for some baccarat because they heard that there is a fantastic free prime rib buffet at the casino. As it turns out Lady Marzipan, et. al. are also at the casino at that moment for the exact same purpose.

I, SIXGUNS

by Johnny Sixguns


Forward by Kurt Vonnegut

Mr. Sixguns is a fascinating character.

Rather than blood, he has ice nine pumping through his veins. Curiously, his bloodline is directly descended from Anti-Pope Sixgunns (1443-1448) who enacted the infamous Edict of Uberschnitzen. This edict banned the practice of target knife hurling during religious services.

Quite ironically, Johnny Sixguns is an adept knife-hurler and is often seen brandishing a variety of cutlery. Sixguns frequents the worst neighborhoods and kudzu infested swamps with equal ease. Snakes sing the praises of kudzu but that doesn’t bother Sixguns. He returns to the swamp; he returns to the dusty street in the dismal western town ready for vengeance, sometimes with the gun and sometimes with knife, sometimes in another superstring universe.

Sixguns favorite food is the bacon-wrapped bacon taco. Sixguns was a member of the elite Black Light Brigade where he teamed with Commodore Thornton-Pickle and the Brigadier during a disastrous eleven-day mission in the Crimea. Sixgun’s sign is Libra and he enjoys warm spring days. Sixgun’s favorite Sunday afternoon is spent hurling knives and drinking Sonoran tequila until he hallucinates that he is a large grizzly bear catching salmon in a pristine Alaskan stream. The cycle repeats.

He sees every moment in his life. He seeks his allies.

His friends are Nemo and Marzipan and the Nanny.

His foes have bushy mustaches - they know who they are.



The Authorized Biography

Sonoran prison stink.

It was all over me after a five year stretch.

Courtesy of that Cambridge blue blood snot, Thornton-Pickle and his pea-brained pal, Woodpecker-Smythe.

Thanks Pickle – I’m out now - I've had plenty time to think.

I traveled across the Mojave last year when I got this message, if you can call it that – it was carved as big as you please across a cliff face outside of some no-name town in Northwestern Arizona – USA.

That message was from someone, code name of “Marzipan.”

"Marzipan" wanted Johnny Sixguns to travel to the Amboy Crater and stand in the crater center at precisely 11:55PM the next day for a meet up – bring the tequila and the lime too.

Like hell I was. Johnny Sixguns momma didn’t raise no fool. Johnny Sixguns doesn’t fall for that sorta shenangin. That’s miles away from any kinda stage line or pony express route.

Then again, I was in a bind. I knew the law dawgs weren’t far behind so I made up my mind. Plus, tequila was thrown into the mix, a big plus in my book. I was going and that’s how I got here.

Marzipan has the key.

My New Favorite Website: The Handlebar Club

Do you have a Handlebar Moustache? Then the Handlebar Club is the club for you!

They are based at the "Windsor Castle" pub in London, England, and are an international club for men with handlebar moustaches. Founded in 1947 and still going strong, the Handlebar Club currently has members from many different countries.

The qualification for membership is: "a hirsute appendage of the upper lip, with graspable extremities" and in addition, they specify that beards are not allowed.

PLEASE check out the attached link!

P.S. - Honorable mention also goes to the "World Beard and Moustache Championship" website.

Lord Turnip Townshend - The Authorized Biography

Lord "Turnip" Townshend, the second viscount Townshend, was born in 1674AD (in the normal manner of human children in the 17th c.) and may have died in 1263BC while riding in the chariot of Ramesses II when it was swept into the sea. At the time he was extolling the virtues of turnip horticulture to the Pharoh who, while very keen to chase the Hebrews, was also keen to bring his massive acres of Nile delta soil under cultivation with such marvelously productive vegetable crops.

Completely unstuck in time as suits the narrative, Lord Turnips as he is known is reputed to have sired at least one human child by the end or near the beginning of the 21st century. This child, Stuart Turnips was reputed to be a pirate of enormous ego and bravery who captained the dreaded Blue Side of American.

While many scholars and contemporaries describe Lord Townshend as a bore and an object of some fun in proper society, Townshend carried on many agricultural experiments at his Raynham estate, and for these he became known as "Turnip" Townshend. His agricultural reforms were, found to be quite helpful. Poet Alexander Pope mentions him in his work: Imitations of Horace, Epistle II, as a turnip obsessed person and says, in a note, that "that kind of rural improvement which arises from turnips" was Townshend's favorite conversational topic.

Despite his sometimes overenthusiastic prattling about agriculture, Lord Turnips had quite a number of friends. Many of these friends enjoyed his charity as he was rumored to be quite wealthy. This wealth allowed him to be a patron of the arts and letters. He was particularly fond of the letter "U" which he favored for its combination of structural symetry and its use as a vowel.

Later, as he began travelling through time with the use of the magical portal he developed interests in Cricket and would obsess endlessly over his favorite team from Raynham which, although struggling for many decades, had recently enjoyed a mild rise from the ashes.

Politically, Lord Turnips was once considered a stalwart Tory when he took his seat in the House of Lords, but his views changed, and he began to take an active part in politics as a Whig. For a few years after the accession of Queen Anne he remained without office, but in November 1708 he was appointed Captain of the Yeomen of the Guard, having in the previous year been summoned to the Privy Council. He was ambassador extraordinary and plenipotentiary to the Dutch States-General from 1709 to 1711, taking part during these years in the negotiations which preceded the conclusion of the Treaty of Utrecht. His poltical manners have been styled "course, rustic, and seemingly brutal" but these defects were not visible in his domestic life. Never did minister leave office with cleaner hands. He did not add one acre to his estate, nor leave larger tracts to his children. Mind that rumors speculate that he posessed a very large bag of holding which allowed for stashing of enormous sums of wealth.

After several years out of power, in 1721 after the mass resignations caused by the so-called South Sea Bubble crisis, Townshend returned to Her Majesty's Government to restore some sense of decorum to the cabinet. His main focus in these years was the search for some ground nut to combine with his recently invented marshmallow to form a sandwhich known as the "fluffernutter".

Lord Turnips was educated at Eton and King's College, Cambridge. It was at Cambridge that he knew, but did not get along with, fellow Barrister’s Keepe members, Thornton-Pickle, the Brigadier and Lord Woodpecker-Smythe along with Lady Lyme Weoghe and Lady Marzipan. During this time he attempted to make a living as a standup philospher where he claimed:

"I take the collasence of daily life and produce anectdotes that have synonymous meaning with various people."

He met Lady Turnips, the former Norma Jean Baker-Pratt-Nichole-Smith in the distant future as he travelled across the boiling plain of Tralfamador looking for the Agricultural College of the State of Michigan which as it turns out is located in the 19th, 20th and 21st century United States province of Michigan. He brought her largely against her wishes back to 18th century England to sire him strong and gregarious children.

Woodpecker Smythe - the Authorised Biography

A man of prodigious talents, and a fiery hell-raiser, Lord Woodpecker-Smythe was raised in Shrewsbury, West Midlands, England, the son of a cut-purse and notorious bookie. As a boy he decided to become an even more successful cut-purse, beginning by studying the improved uncanny dodge techniques of the Arch Thief, MacAngus. Although he succeeded in sneaking and lurking, he was abruptly orphaned at the age of 12. A mere six months later, he discovered by the theatrical booking agent, Lord Albert Woodpecker-Smythe and his wife, Popper, at an impromptu presentation of Gilbert and Sullivan’s “The Yeoman of the Guard” at the West Midlands Orphanage (See photo above).

During the merry years that followed, W-S, Jr., as he came to be called, enjoyed the finest education and worldly experiences his step-parents could provide. He was educated at Eton where he excelled at talking about Cricket, Rugby and World Affairs. He later made his official stage debut at 17, playing Sir Horace Pumpernickle, in “The Lokarian Chamberpot Merchant of Venice (See photo above).” Subsequently, he earned top marks, taking A-levels in Far Eastern Languages & Cinema, Method Acting, Arithmetic and Typesetting. Upon graduation, W-S entered Cambridge and met fellow Barrister’s Keepe members, Thornton-Pickle, the Brigadier and Lord Turnips along with Lady Lyme Weoghe and Lady Marzipan. At the time, none got along due to allergies and papal doctrine. While at Cambridge, W-S took a first in Dialectical Mathematics and Swains in Literature His 10 years at Cambridge ingrained in him a life-long love of learning, fine ales and snobbery.

Following graduation, He served briefly as chief morale and laundry officer aboard the HMS Buttered Toast, a Royal Navy minesweeper. Woodpecker-Smythe left the Navy upon the sudden death of his parents in a still-unexplained ballooning accident in the Alps on the estate of The Fiendish Mustache of Ubergruppenfuhrer von Ortel’s estate. But, as tradition had it, he was elevated to the Barony of Woodpecker on Shrewsbury, a very real sounding British title of nobility (see photo above).

Not to give in to tragedy, Woodpecker-Smythe, spent the next 10 years traveling about the world, making observations of the varied birds and drawing highly accurate representations in his notebooks. Along the way, he has encountered the following: fearsome hyenas, wyverns, swamps, Rakshasah hunters, Girl Guides ™, western gunslingers, discos, squash racquets and courts, Q-Devices, ruby tipped wands and egomanical pirates and submarine captains.

As a result of these and equally fascinating encounters, Woodpecker-Smythe has completed numerous one, two and three act plays, some of which have been presented at the Old Vic (sometimes with an audience). These include, “Face to Face with a Wyvern” and “The Murder of the Viking.”

Woodpecker-Smythe is as of yet unmarried and childless but hopes to remedy that in the near future provided that some nice birds are available.

His friends include: Lady Lyme Weoghe, Lord Turnips, The Brigadier and Commodore Thorton-Pickle

His Nemeses include: Prince Otto, Johnny Sixguns, Lady Marzipan, The Fiendish Mustache of Ubergruppenfuhrer Von Ortel

Falderal, Stuff and Nonsense!

The Aquafina’s crew occupied themselves with dinner in the commodious, oak-paneled wardroom. Mushballs, the cook, had prepared wiener schnitzel & spatzle with a morel sauce, one of Commodore Thornton-Pickle’s favorites.

The now haggard Pickle needed this yummy meal to forget the falderal locating Sixguns & Lady M in 1986. He’d find Nemo and head to the South China Sea – that would make things better. Maybe he’d even run into Woodpecker-Smythe. That chap was absolutely hilarious.

But, out of nowhere, one of Pickles typically impudent crew, Rodrigo launched into another of his patented, completely irrelevant anecdotes. As usual he sought affirmation from his captain and crew mates regarding his various socio-political-economic viewpoints.

“Did you hear the Lord Mayor of London is planning on building an observation skyway on the London Bridge?” he stated confidently, mouth still full of food.

Unfortunately Rodrigo followed this observation up with “Oh yes, and it will be dreadfully tacky – he’s just trying to bring in more tourist dollars.”

His tablemates tried to ignore him but he went on at a painfully loud volume.

“And, I think sailors shouldn’t have to pay income tax and did I mention that I just went to the Royal Navy Surgeon General to seek another 25% disability for my peg-leg?”

Another crusty crewman replied – fed up by the prattle. “Rodrigo, most of us sailors 'as already gots a peg-leg or ‘ook arm or somefin like ‘at already and we ain’t getting’ no dis-bilty, no sir.”

Rodrigo attempted to reply but Commodore Thornton-Pickle raised his hand, palm forward.

“Rodrigo” said Pickle patiently.

“Yes sir” Rodrigo replied, dutifully but an uncomfortably high volume for the circumstances.

Pickle continued, eyes narrowed and head nodding up and down ever so slightly in that superior sort of manner, “Are you wearing black shoes with a brown belt?”

Rodrigo looked down, “Uh yes.”

“Imbecile” Pickle muttered under his breath.

Scaramanga's Dating Advice

Chapter 7: This Difficult Transition

Scaramanga sat down to his IBM Selectric typewriter. Little known in the international crime circles in which he operated was that he also wrote dating advice for single guys published in the Hearst Magazine family (e.g., Cosmopolitan, Redbook, Seventeen, Town and County) under the nom de plum "Molly."

Molly's Dating Advice for Single Guys

Nice shoes make a nice statement about the man

Frumpy shoes make a different statement about the man

This is a shout out to all the highly dateable men in the world who make the single worst mistake you can with a woman on a date: wearing bad shoes.
Consider your date like a souffle. Once it falls, nothing can save it.
Perhaps you've been tap dancing around a gorgeous brunette for weeks
and finally she says yes to a date. You fatten your wallet and make plans to impress her with an obscure French country bistro tucked away in a secret urban garden. The sommelier gives you a discreet nod of respect in regard to your wine choice. Your date is smiling. She leans in closer. She seems interested. Only she's not. Not anymore. When you sat down to dinner, your pant legs lifted and exposed your yellow-balled socks When you sat down to dinner, your pant legs lifted and exposed your yellow-balled socks tucked inside your "slightly cracked" black dress shoes with laces that droop over the sides like baby basset hound ears. Before you even ordered, the souffle fell. . . .

Scaramanga turned to Captain Stuart Turnips, the semi-captive son of Lord Charles "Turnip" Townshend of the 2nd Viscount Townshend,

"Its a hobby but it pays for my air fares. I find that inane writing about absolutely nothing can be a great way to relieve stress as well. "

"Yeah but these columns are horrible." Stuart leafed through a stack of magazines. "How much could they possibly pay you to write this dreck?"

"Well, you would be surprised. As our readership grew we started to get advertising offers. I remember the salad days when we had as few as 1860 subscribers according to the Bravenet circulation service."

Captain Stuart cleared his throat and changed the subject: "Look old boy. I appreciate all you have done for me rescuing me from the communists and all but I really need to figure out how to rescue my crew. I'm willing to forgive and forget all about the debt you owe HMG's government." "

Scaramanga's face lit up at the mention of the Queen. "Are you sure? All could be forgiven? Say no more. We can rescue your crew. I've got just the plan."

You're Next!

Johnny Sixguns arose amidst wisps of dry ice style smoke - a power cord still tangled about his legs like a lariat around a calf at a poor-man's rodeo.

Hell.

More thought.

What is the chance Lady M is going to influence the distribution network...we all saw what happened in Nairobi in '58 and know what happens when this sort of temporal echo-train takes place. Again, only a perspective, but then again I tripped on an ankle high power cord and totally eff'd the distribution architecture folks...who knows where they are right now...poor slobs.

Maybe Nemo can help me.

Gotta find him first though - then again it was his pal Thornton-Pickle who gave me the five year vacation in that stinkin' Sonoran prison.

I think I'll rip his mustache hairs out one by one, he thought, slowly bringing a hand-rolled cigarillo to his lips.

Pickle, yeah, Pickle


Thornton-Pickle avec Moustache

I am Rolled Through a Pasta Machine

I remained shackled to the “recliner” in Lady M’s living room for the better part of the afternoon, a small “tee-vee tray” parked in front of me. I was forced to nourish myself with only a Morey Amsterdam sandwich, cheese tray, chocolate cake, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, a vegetable plate and tea for lunch. (See photo - notice how thin I have become!)

Presently, I was distracted from my repast by the arrival of Mr. Johnny Sixguns or “J6G” as he had most recently begun referring to himself. Johnny Sixguns was in his usual disagreeable mood but was caught up in some type of self-examination which consumed his entire attention.

“Sixguns .. Sixguns .. Johnny SIXGUNS” Lady M repeated, “I need you in the kitchen, I think I’ve tracked down the spatial-temporal coordinates of the Ur-Gin in China … Oh good grief, is that a bacon necklace you’re wearing?”

I groaned, as I am not a fan of the food of the chinaman; and bacon, though delicious, gives me wind.

Sixguns interrupted, “Isn’t the Arabic word for ‘lamb’ the same as the Persian word for ‘lamb”

Of course, the Persian (pronounced “Per-zee-an) vocabulary is quite different from Arabic even though both are spoken widely in jolly old arab land. Additionally, Persian is spoken with a refined British accent where as Arabic is not. (Having taken A levels in classical history at Cambridge, I was aware of this critical piece of knowledge that neither of these two Yankees could hope to know.)

Lady M responded derisively as only she could “How in Hades should I know? Now, I need you to pay close attention.”

By now Mr. Sixguns had returned to his previous activity and announced that he had ‘a bat in the cave’ - whatever that meant. I strongly suspected it was another one of Sixgun’s foul habits.

Indeed, I was about to find out as Sixguns strode out of the kitchen and began menacing me with the product of his industry, the proverbial “bat” from the “cave.”

“Heh, heh” chortled Sixguns, threatening me with his filthy index finger, “How ‘bout I stick this one on you, Woodpecker-Snot!”

“First of all my name is not “Snot” its Woodpecker- SMYTHE and I’m certain Lady Marzipan will not let you get away with this!” I announced loudly, hoping to draw my host’s attention.

Again, I cried out for help, “Lady Marzipan, help, this rogue is about to besmirch my fine traveling jacket with some nasty bit of goo.”

As luck would have it Sixguns tripped over a rather large cable between the kitchen and my recliner. As he did so I heard a familiar sound, the spinning down of a pot lid as the power to the Q-Device was interrupted in mid-stream.

The scene of the living room oscillated in and out of focus about me. I felt the familiar queasiness as if my body was being extruded through a high quality Italian pasta maker.

I knew it was a bad idea to connect the Q-Device to that flimsy extension cord!

General Tang's Chicken

General Wango Tang, Commander of the People's Liberation Army's 41st Army Group had his court of yes men and lickspitles roaring with laughter as he told a series of quips and witticisms.

Members of people's delegation from Hunan province come to see Chairman Mao, they come, they talk to Mao, and then they go, heading off down the corridors of Forbidden Palace. Chairman Mao starts looking for smoking pipe. He can't find. He calls in Deng Xiaoping, the dreaded head of his secret police. "Go after delegation, and find out which one took my pipe," he say. Deng scuttles off down corridor. Five minute later Mao find pipe under pile of papers. He calls Deng—"Look, I've found my pipe." "It's too late," Deng says, "half the delegation admitted they took your pipe, and the other half died during questioning."

With that the assembled group of lackeys roared with laughter except for two people sitting to his side. One, an obviously bored Englishwoman in a red silk dress holding an extremely long cigarette holder with an unlit cigarette; the other an elaborately foppishly dressed English gentleman was too engrossed in his copy of Voltaire to notice what was happening around him.

BBC America Presents: Britain's Worst Teeth

Premieres June 15th at 10pm et/pt. Part of BBC America Reveals.

Every Sunday night at 10pm for the next 14 years, BBC America presents a 728 part series of all-new documentaries that take an in-depth, honest, and often surprising look at the state of dental hygene in the UK. Britain’s Worst Teeth follows four twenty-somethings with some of the worst teeth in Britain, and that's saying something. Their teeth are so bad they affect every aspect of their miserable little lives. They are in pain and are embarrassed to go out to the pub more than 7 or 8 times a week. They find eating fish and chips and speaking about how they hate America difficult, and not surprisingly, they find it difficult to attract partners anywhere other than Lambeth or Margate. There is an epidemic of poor teeth in Britain. 17 in 18 people never visit the dentist. 7 in 10 is terrified of the dentist chair. Sugar consumption, eating disorders, and bad diet make Britain’s global reputation for being a nation of terrible teeth completely justified. All might not be lost. Britain's three dentists have agreed to take on these four cases and see if they can do anything to save their terrible teeth.

ZZ Top Tribute Band to Play for Central Committee

The ZZ Top Tribute Band "Sharp Dressed Men" will play at the gala openning of the plenary session of the Central Committee. Sharp Dressed Men is a hot ensemble that recreates the Texas boogie and hard rockin blues sound of that phenomenally popular band from Texas USA - ZZ Top. To make the show complete, they include the funny proletarian antics of Billy and Dusty, and the famous in-concert moves that make seeing the Rock and Roll legends so memorable. That means that you will see a great show anytime you see Sharp Dressed Men. The group are also all long time communist party members and are very active with local party activities.

Opening for the group is the Los Lobos tribute band "The Bamba."

Strengthen the union of the army and the people, be ready to annihilate aggressors at any time

The following article is reprinted from the June 2, 1966 edition of the Guangdong Red Guard Student's Daily:



Two imperialistic oppressor spies were apprehended in southern Guangdong province, after mysteriously appearing in flash of light in middle of crowded auditorium during Red Guards lecture entitled "Sloganeering: Which slogans best represent our feelings towards Chairman Mao."

Upon appearing, the man and woman looked about in confusion, as did most audience members. The woman then began shouting unintelligently in English. Her words were later translated as instructions to Counter-Revolutionary elements that were apparently in attendence at lecture. As precaution, entire audience has been detained for re-education. This is important example of need for eternal vigilance. The enemy lurks even in midst of our beloved Red Guards, apparently.

While the woman was issuing her Counter-Revolutionary instructions, the male, who was evidently taught Chinese in his spy school, began asking the crowd if they knew where the Guangdong British Bingo Society was, as he had a 3:30 appointment with Rear Admiral Sir Dudley Compton, and then started crying "Oh God, I need a drink."

They were both led away to 41st Army Group Headquarters for interrogation.

The most surprising Red Wings fan ever

Guess who comes from Detroit and happens to have a Chris Chelios Jersey in his closet?

this guy

HURRAY FOR THE RED WINGS!!!!!!!!

You may return to the blog now

A Little Touch of Scaramanga in the Night

Chapter 5: Escape from an un-Peasant Purgatory

Captain Stuart Turnips walked out into the courtyard which was lined with what he thought might be Metasequoia glyptostroboides or maybe Cryptomeria japonica. The metasequoia, or Dawn Redwoods, he knew to be local to southern China. The Cyptomeria seemed to have journeyed fairly far south from their native Japan. Perhaps some industrious Japanese officer had them planted on Tunga Island he mused.

In either case the local flora was not the most significant thing to behold. In the courtyard were several dozen oriental gentlemen wearing a kind of white pajama. They were all practicing ka-rate moves like the ones he learned about in the book he had borrowed from the Shelby Municipal library. "Holy late fees!" he thought to himself. The prospect of having to pay the lost book charge to Old lady McGillicuddy was not one that enthused. That book was surely lost to the sea or to the CHICOM Navy along with the Blue Side of American. Just as he was thinking this he heard a voice behind him.

"You probably should send this back to the library by mail to avoid the late fees"

Captain Stuart turned and there was a striking gentleman in casual resort wear (blue silk short-sleeve shirt, white linen slacks, rattan slippers). This man must surely be Scaramanga, whom his father Lord Turnips had sent him to kill or capture for Her Majesty's Government in order to pay off a gambling debt to Princess Margaret. In his hands he held the book on Ka-rate that he had brought on the journey.

Captain Stuart remained as cool as he could under the circumstances. "Scaramanga, I presume?"


"You presume correctly, lad" Scaramanga said in an almost glass cut Oxford/BBC accent. "I suppose you are wondering why I had you brought here and didn't have you fileted or left you to the tender mercies of our dear friends the Chinese."



"Naturally, the thought had crossed my mind."

Scaramanga smiled and motioned for him to join him as he walked into a covered courtyard. Not able to think of any other option, Stuart obliged.

As they walked into the covered courtyard the same white pajama-clad figures he had seen outside in the tree-lined patio were engaged, not in ka-rate moves but in a series of fine-art endeavors. Here Stuart saw a group engaged in painting water color pictures of John Wayne. There Stuart saw a group discussing the finer parts of the latest motion pictures. Next to that he saw a group engaged in a discussion on poetry.



Stuart glance at the paintings. Some were pretty decent. One in particular captured John Wayne's stirring western cowboy visage nicely.



(Really captures the majesty of the Western Cowboy Hero, doesn't it?)









(Meh, its kinda impressionistic)






Scaramanga brought him over to the group discussing motion pictures and, interupting a discussion of the movie: Alfie and the relative merits of Michael Caine in that role, he introduced Stuart to the group. "Chop-xin, Lin Ye Tan, Fang Chi, and Timothy, I introduce Captain Stuart Townshend, the future Lord Turnips. "

The one that Scaramanga identified as Fang Chi waved and greeted Stuart. "Hi, we were just discussing the director's use of the fourth wall as a particularly ground breaking way of keeping the Alfie character sympathetic to the audience despite his patentedly unlikeable personality." The one Scaramanga identified as Chop-xin interupted. "Nonsense, Michael Caine's personality made Alfie. This fourth wall nonsense you keep talking about is just a gimmick."

Scaramanga raised his hand "Gentlemen, I must continue my introductions, please forgive us."

Scaramanga led Stuart over to the group engaged in the discussion of poetry. Scaramanga and Stuart walked up right in the middle of a passionate reading:

"Turning and turning in the widening drain
The Sloan Valve man cannot hear the Sloan Valve failure;
plumbing falls apart; the centre cannot
hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the septic system,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity. "

"Utter crap, Bao-Dang!" Interupted one of the poet appreciating martial artists. "Try mine: "

I met a Sloan Valve Man from an antique land Who said: Two vast and
trunkless legs of porcelin Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, Half
sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold
commandTell that its sculptor well those passions readWhich yet survive, stamp'd
on these lifeless things,The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.And on
the pedestal these words appear:"My name is Ozymandias, plumber of kings:Look on my valve works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

"Horrible, just horrible" the rest of the group all groaned.

With that Scaramanga led Stuart out into patio. "Stuart, I hope you appreciate what we have here on this island. I understand that this might be hard to grasp but I have endeavored to provide a haven for these artists within the cliche' of an Army-of-martial-artists-engaged-in-nefarious-black arts-for-the-evil Communists. I have been doing some small odd jobs for the Chinese government in exchange for their looking the other way while I provide a haven from the troubles occurring on the mainland for these Chinese artists."

"Hopefully you will join our artist colony and bring us the benefit of your fine breeding and education."

Clearly, Captain Stuart had some thinking to do. As he considered that, one of the oriental artists ran up excitedly. "Oooh, Scaramanga you just must have him answer the Proust Questionaire! Its always the most delicious game!"