Thursday, February 23, 2017

Betrays a wispy insubstantiality

A short way into Gribble's The Love Affairs of Lord Byron and I reluctantly acknowledge that 18th (17th, 19th?) poetic satire was something done in lieu of Tweeting. That's a hard bone or bitter pill to swallow, but I've had to come to terms with it.

Gribble wrote a bunch of other The Love Affairs of ... biographies, which I have yet to devour. The internet doesn't seem to have much time for him. He's hit and miss funny, sardonic, but passionate, and he has an I see through your shit eye for, well, bullshit. That's a quality I lack, and a-little-bit envy.

Let's find out about this turn of the (last) century biographer.

Judged solely on this portrait from The National Gallery, London (the only one that matters) I'd be compelled to call this man dashing - in his day, if not on the day of the portrait. He is, at least, very much awake. The mustache is initially impressive, but I have some suspicion that it is like a dark, large cloud that, as it approaches, betrays a wispy insubstantiality. Ha!

Let's take a closer look at the cloud. Oh gods, no. The magnification and isolation of the feature speaks more of the pubic region than I would permit on this hallowed blog.

No, I would be glad to call this man my uncle, and hear tales of the reprobates and ne'erdowells he biographized. Fuck it, I'm too lazy to explore this scholar any further. The internet is reticent on his natural habits, and I cannot be bothered to penetrate the egg shell only to find blood inside.

To Byron we turn, but too many have, so I will take a different tack and set sail on the waves of song. Ugh, scratch that. Just some Romanian alt band Byron named so because of the singer. Screw you, world, screw you.

"This record broke on its own"

Jeez, I have absolutely no idea to keep this blog going. And when I search Blooger (typo, and it stays) for typical blogs, all I find is people apologizing that it's been so long since I last posted, but I promise ... etc.

Luckily, you have a deep, primordial faith in me, from my devilish bowels to my angelic lips.

Accidentally, do you realize G-d made Lucifer kneel before Adam? And - I give him props, he goes hard - Lucifer told G-d where he could stick that shit. Anyhoo ...


Friday, February 17, 2017

The day I poisoned everybody in the office

Taking a nude erection, let's zoom into the offices in which we white collar chumps earn our crusts.
          NO PEOPLE WERE HARMED IN THE CREATION OF THIS POST. YOU WILL NEVER CATCH ME. JUST TRY. THANK YOU.                                     
So here's how I prepared myself to eradicate all workplace competition If I did It (thanks, O.J.)

Right off the bat, I hit a wall of decency. This happens to me a lot. The Google search afterfarts of 'poison everybody in office' are mainly articles of the '7 Signs You're ...' variety. And that kind of stuff you search for when you are bored and dismayed with your enviable lot in life.

However, I did learn that the National Capital Poison Center is nearby. (That's a useful clue is useful to lazy government agents trying to locate me after my little Jonestown. Satire, satire! Jeez, guys ... Wait, now I think about it, that wouldn't be necessary. They'd need to identify the culprit, not find the victims. Satire, plz!)

I ought to note here that one of the National Capital Poison Center's offerings (see poison.org) is this charming jingle, complete with sheet music.

"...two two___ Poison is the kind of thing ... Old prescriptions, cleaning stuff___ or ... you swallowed something bad ..."
Reading this boosted my morale. Someone must know this jingle off by heart, so maybe the fallout wouldn't be too bad. I decided to perform this acapella amidst the projectile vomiting bodies of my fallen comrades, sort of like a cry for help. If a cry for help can come after the fact.

I sense my readers' eyes wandering to the mail order brides ads, so I'll wrap up with some pictures of a poison victim. Here's a nice one:

"Don't be scared. I've done this before. Show me your teeth." - Lady GaGa

Here's an extremely graphic one of two (or possibly three) Poison victims:

"This record broke on it's own." - Scarling.

Good night, sweeties.

Thursday, February 16, 2017

Peshawar, Pakistan - too interesting for this blog

God in Heaven it's been a while. But it's important to create a blog, post thrice, then abandon it. And that's how I got started.

Damn tho, today we are taking a long, soft-to-firm look at Peshawar, Pakistan. May Shiva have mercy on our Seouls ...

So, is Peshawar a big metropolis? It's in India, so I'm going to hazard a YES.

Fuck. I thought I could just get away with Google Street View, but there were no streets highlighted.

Really? In a country with the population density of a sardine can? But how the miracles-of-Jesus could I let y'all down? I wouldn't. Like a fucking pro, I zoomed out, then dropped the little yellow guy into the middle of the map to see what happened.

This happened, and it humbled me:


Aww, crap. This picture is actually too interesting. This is clearly ... ah, forget it.

Maybe I can find somewhere less interesting tomorrow. I mean, really, who cares about interesting places? Ugh.

Why should you go to Pentagon City Mall when you could just live it right here on omghvi?

The Pentagon has a city, and that city has a mall, but it's called the Fashion Center At Pentagon City. Oh wait, they spell it 'centre' because that's the Queen's English and they are traitors to America.

Like any diligent bloggeur, I went straight to the official website for an unbiased introduction. What I found was disturbing. What I found was this:



Heck, what am I saying? Count me in! This hive of commerce has just become a pulsing hive of fetish mayhem. I indicated the culprit finger in the snap above, but the eyebrow should've given me a clue. Alas, I didn't hit minimize in time to shield my tender soul.

So, off the top of my head, from previous visits, they have a glass elevator, an indoor pine palm tree, a direct connection to Pentagon City metro, delusions of grandeur, an indoor food court frequented by birds, and shit is pretty expensive, considering. There's just about every store you'd expect, Macy's won't validate your parking without proof of purchase, and there are hot ATTRACTIVE adolescents milling around on weekends. There's a Body Shop (for human bodies) and fuck, who really cares.

There's not much to hate, but there's plenty of people on the internet who hate everything, so let's see what they have to say.

"The stairs in the side stairwells are suicide stairs."

Isn't that more like a useful feature? Eh, give me The Exorcist Steps any day. Brace yourselves, the next one is kind of drawn out.

"Bunch of idiots.... the detail shop within the parking garage doesn't speak english and can't answer your questions. I spent an hour of my time driving around trying to find them because of the incorrect directions they gave me multiple times."

I know exactly what happened here. This douche pissed them off, so they sent him off on the wild goose chase. I bet they were cackling to each other every time he set off again. Bless them, I love a dysfunctional car park.

Ok, that's enough. See you again in some other wretched situation.