A Fishy Story

You Will Have To Forgive Me Here

For I am re-reading my "Invincible" collection and one of the Guardians Of The Globe was Aquarus, who was <redacted> by <redacted>, and in his place Mark - actually Markus Sebastian Greyson - has to carry out the trial-by-combat, followed by <redacted> in front of the entire Assembly!

     This may give the sleazier and seedier of you some idea of what was redacted

     Here an aside.  It is very difficult indeed to find a proper rendition of Beethoven's "Ode To Joy" on Spotify, I've spent several minutes searching and there are Brazilian instrumental versions, and choirs singing the lyrics in English, and only now have I found a link to the entire 12:36  version.  Conrad supposes that, once Brexit is a thing, he'll have to stop listening to the European Anthem.  Except who's going to police that as an issue, hmmmmmm?

     Anyway, back to fish.  

Not. That. Fish.

     Here Your Humble Scribe would like to inform you about the Asiatic Carp, which I acknowledge is a pretty rubbish name for a super-villain, because it's actually an invasive fish species over there in South Canada.  The 'how' and 'why' of a fish from Asia becoming a threat to native species in South Canada is a bit beyond the blog's remit <insert long and persuasive scientific explanation> thanks to The Doctor and Ace.

     How do you prevent such an <ahem> Evil Alien Invader from gaining a purchase on your shores?  Why you build an enormous electrical apparatus dubbed the "Chicago Electric Dispersal Barrier", which is - well - enormous and electrical.  Yes yes yes, it might well appear in pulp science-fiction magazines of the Thirties under the moniker of Leigh Brackett or George Hamilton, except REALITY.  Art?

     The idea is that incessant electrical shocks will deter any unwanted alien fish from entering or leaving the Great Lakes, lest it risk become sushi.  The thing about the CEDB is - well, there is that "incessant" bit about the submarine electrocution activity, meaning if you happen to fall in, nobody is going to try to rescue your sorry bottom.  They will wait until whatever scorched, stinking, shattered ragged remnant of your reeking remains are found under a bridge.  There are warning signs to this effect.

     

     Excuse me whilst we go electrode-fishing with the Motley.  They are being the anode (but will have dibs on fish over 12oz in size!)

"No Jail For Thought" By Lev Kopelev

If you want some background, Lev was a Jewish tank officer in the armies of That Little S*** With The Moustache (a.k.a. Josef Stalin), whom had done deeds of derring-do yet whom had still fallen foul of the system.  Probably because of the Jewish thing, Ol' Jo not liking religious minorities, and especially those with access to guns.

     

     Lev in jail. Conrad remembers that gulag environments were so ghastly that the camp regime had to accommodate the inmates somewhat, or everyone would have died.  Your Humble Scribe also remembers when an American bulldozer arrived in camp as part of Lend-Lease; the Ruffian inmates were immensely impressed at how efficient it was.  Point bulldozer at tree; tree is knocked down; repeat one hundred times.  A Sinister bulldozer would have taken a break every 7.225 minutes in order to attain a 0.99997% usefulness ratio -

     The camp inmates ate the bulldozer's axle-grease.  As if it were custard.  

Dinner is served

          This has a couple of things as a resultant.  One, you can digest South Canadian axle-grease as a foodstuff in desperate circumstance.  Two, tree's grees*. 

     

A Tissue Of Lies

Let us not beat about the shrubbery; that First Unpleasantness 'memoir' "The Reluctant Tommy" is fiction from Page one.  It is supposedly the recounts of a soldier from the First Unpleasantness, published long after his demise by his descendants, and thereby hangs a tale, or two.  These descendants published his multiferous notebooks in good faith, which is where things start to go astray.  Art!

     There are long allusions in the text about how Our Hero managed to amend, alter and obfuscate readings in order to thwart his gun's correct firing on the enemy - which, as smarter members on The Great War Forum point out, would have been spotted in hours if not minutes.  He undertook same to avoid cutting Teuton fingernails, or toenails, or - well, something.

     Here enters Nancy Ward, great-grand-daughter of a candidate slandered by the author.  She is not happy at this.  Not happy AT ALL.  She diligently collects information from TGWF by asking lots of pertinent questions, and then presents it to the Imperial War Museum, who then and afterwards confess that the author - whom I have very cleverly managed to avoid naming - wrote a work of complete fiction.

An Eight-Inch surprise someone is about to experience.

     Your Humble Scribe came across the whole story in retrospect when appealing for help on TGWF, as I had no idea what the "danger angle" was as regards artillery.  Now I know, and if I'm feeling generous I shall share that knowledge with you**.

Finally -

Not being even nearly at the Logical Sensible end of things, which is also known as the Compositional Ton, let us instead look at the furthest end of - LITHIUM WAFER BATT - actually let's not.  Ah!  I know - Art? - 

     You are looking at Days Five and Six of my Beer Advent Calendar.  These two were easier to get out of the box than previous cans because they are 440 millilitres - call it a pint - rather than the fiddly 330 m cans, which are a trial for anyone with sausage fingers to extract from the box.  Said Conrad, who is all sausage and no links.

And with that, Vulnavia, we are so very very done!

*  Ah, Lev.  Sorry that you ever had to be morally lowered enough to meet BOOJUM!

**  Or not.  I'm horrid that way.