Yes, gentle readers, today it was Your Humble Scribe's appointment at the Health Centre in Royton, for one of those things where elderly overweight diabetics have to attend or risk having their jam ration stopped. Or something. Art?
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| DUCK, PEOPLE, THEY'RE FIRING A LASER! |
Alright, half a pint.
Four ounces? Alright, alright: two ounces. Far too much, regardless. Conrad, being a big fat coward when it comes to being poked with sharp things, spent the session closely regarding the ceiling tiles.
Forewarned, I had a shower before beginning work in the morning, because one of the ticklish tasks the practice nurse has to undertake is poking your naked feet with a metal probe, just to establish
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| My scars concealed |
Allow me to diverge at a tangent here, since I clicked on Spotify's 'Discover New Music' and what do you know, the first song is one about vulcanology - Art!
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| By that well-known vulcanologist Johnny Cash, apparently |
My morning adventure wasn't quite complete. I spotted a bus at the bus stop after relieving the Co-Op of some remaindered food products, and clambered aboard after a hasty plod.
Oooops.
It was the 408, which goes east to Shaw, not the 409 that goes north to Rochdale, so I had to get off when it turned at the Puckersley Inn. My step count had been 4,000 when I got on the bus, as I made a point of examining it; by the time I reached The Mansion it had reached 5,500.
O well. I have been quoting Nietzsche this week so it can apply to me, too: "That which does not kill us, makes us stronger.*"
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| Freddy: Man Mounting Monster Moustache |
Meanwhile, Back At Boggy Creek -
For Lo! we are about to poke more fun at lazy horror film directors and scriptwriters, who, frankly, need a rocket up the bum about all the cliches they cram into their films. Then again, if they weren't so lazy and unimaginative the blog would have less material. Let the scourging satire commence!
<We are in the Deep South, at a roadside convenience store as a sleek black pickup pulls in and a couple of handy-looking guys get out>
CAMO-SUITED GUY: 'The Boggy Crick Local", eh? You go in and get some snacks and soda. It's been a long drive.
SUNGLASSES GUY: Sure thing. <addresses a cluster of local rednecks> Hi, guys.
CLETUS <spits out a wad of tobacco>: Yankees.
AMBROSE: Damn Yankees.
MARVIN: Yeah, damn Yankee Yankees!
CLETUS: I s'pose you come a-hunting the Boggy Creek Monster?
CAMO-SUITED GUY: Yup.
AMBROSE: <sneering>: Hope you made yer will.
MARVIN: Yeah, yer damn Yankee will!
CAMO-SUITED GUY: We're not that worried.
SUNGLASSES GUY <returns laden with cans and packets>: I think we ought to do a final field test, before heading into the swamp. Like you say, it's been a long trip.
CLETUS: Ain't none of yew monstah-huntahs evah come back from hunting the Boggy Creek Monster.
AMBROSE: <snickering> 'Cept in bits.
MARVIN: Yeah, in -
CAMO-SUITED GUY <interrupting>: In Yankee bits, right?
<Marvin shuts his mouth and looks sulky>
SUNGLASSES GUY: Guys, you may want to cover your ears. And your eyes.
CLETUS: Ha! As if anything you pantywaists HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!
<A Dillon minigun on a pedestal has risen smoothly from the back of the pickup, opening fire on the swamp opposite and laying flat an acre of undergrowth in seconds>
AMBROSE: My ears -
MARVIN: What?
SUNGLASSES GUY: I'm going to test-fire the Barrett.
<putting on ear-protectors, he produces an enormous rifle from the pickup, aims at a tree half a mile away and fire. The tree explodes>
| "Ha! Take that, tree!" |
CLETUS <in a rather wavery tone>: What - where - who -
AMBROSE: What?
MARVIN: My ears -
CAMO-SUITED GUY: I'm bringing the drone in to check systems.
<a huge unmanned aircraft bristling with bombs and rockets shrieks overhead>
SUNGLASSES GUY: I think we'll leave the flamethrowers until after we're out of here. Bit too close to property <looks at the quivering rednecks> and people.
CLETUS: Flamethrowers!
<Ambrose and Marvin are fleeing>
CAMO-SUITED GUY: Be seeing you.
<The pickup drives off. Cletus, looking shifty, sneaks round the back of the store, uncovers a rubber monster suit from a hidey-hole and chucks it into the store's dumpster>
| The terrifying truth |
Happy The Bloke With Artichoke
Conrad has been banging on about artichokes for the past few weeks, as it tickles his sense of humour to reference a vegetable replacement for his old pash about the mangosteen. Besides, there is a reasonable chance of obtaining artichokes in the UK; practically none for the noble mangosteen <weeps silently in bucket of gin>. Art!
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| Ripped from their bloody carcasses ...** |
Pricey item, too: £2.60 for a smallish tin, and of the 400 g (sorry for the hideous metric measurement) only 240 g are actually artichoke and the rest brine.
Now I have to find a recipe that uses the edible thistle.
TANK You
I think you've escaped having a bit of TANK for way too long. Let us combine TANK with that subculture you never knew existed before BOOJUM! paraded it in front of your eyes: Victorian Brass Faucet Grommets Lego. Art?
The builder here claimed that the Sinister tanks on the starboard side of the table here were all prototype or experimental vehicles.
NO! WRONG! WRONG I SAY!
Check out that monstrous assemblage just starboard of bottom centre. It may strike a chord or two, because we've seen it put forward as a real tank before, when it was never anything more than a Photoshopped chimera. You won't find it present in any work on TANK in the Sinister Union. Let's dig up a fake picture of it. Art!
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| This was probably what started it |
A Tea For Me
Kind of almost. If you know anything about Conrad by now WHICH IS THE ONLY THING THAT WILL SAVE YOU WHEN MY STARSHIP INVASION FLEET GETS HERE then you should be aware he is a tea-belly of the first water, as well as a tea-snob who looks down upon the hoi polloi whom make their tea with <shudders> tea bags.
Thus it was with some interest that I beheld an advert on Facebook. Art?
You can imagine the marketing chaps sitting and brainstorming about this one, can't you?
"How can we make it unarguably British?"
My response would have been A Bicycling Bowler-hatted Badger Biting A Brown Barm Bacon Butty, but perhaps that's just me. The response "Spitfires!" is not really one you'd expect from a company promoting tea, though the elliptically-winged beauty is without doubt very, very British, and such a good design that it looks speedy whilst sitting still on the tarmac.
So, one supposes that they have got an image that projects This Sceptred Isle in no uncertain manner. Mind you, they've probably lost the Teuton market ...***
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| O Noes! Badger bicycle thief! |
Finally -
O I am so happy happy happy!
You are right to be alarmed, as Conrad clapping his hands with glee generally means some hapless individual has fallen into the sausage mincer, or down a manhole, or has provided dinner for a cruising Carcharias Carcharodon.
Today's schadenfreudfest is down to the ballfoot game recommencing across This Sceptred Isle. Not that Your Humble Scribe is interested in the game itself, which he regards the watching of as something akin to Cruel And Unusual Punishment. No - Conrad is rubbing his hands at the BBC's sports website opening up the Comments pages and allowing thousands of bumbletucks with months of pent-up rage and venom to hold forth.
Why look at this - an article on The City Of Manchester versus the
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| Conrad is HAPPY! |
* There are a lot of holes in an aphorism like this, although in the interests of good taste I will avoid going into my Amputation Surgery Analogy
** This is SFW, thanks, as it refers to gallons of gore and is not a swear
*** Though they probably drink coffee anyway. Continentals.
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