Comrades, you will please excuse sudden and unexplained absence. I, Yuri Nahl was in deep "de-mind control therapy". Because of the astute and observant Mr.Boondoggle, who noticed that the world-renowned black dog, the Afghan hound Momo, had let the hair on the side of his eyes grow long, he was able to extrapolate or infer that Momo was hypnotizing me every time he thought no one was watching. It was determined that he was beaming "mind-control rays" at me , so as to make me enter a partial "Voodoo trance".
Upon realizing these facts, I was removed to a dog and horse free location, where I would be safe from "mind-melding" by four legged animals. (even though they were not cloven hoofed, and the minions of the "Fiend of Hell")
The horses were moved to a new location in the pasture right by the foundry and supplied with a tent, their wide screen TV, a supply of their special smelly hay they had ordered on the Internet with the voice actuated keyboard, and the pirated video files from Parkland College in Illinois, USA, which showed horses mating. (somehow they had hacked into the Veterinary School files and thought these videos were "horse xxx pornos")(They were also selling the videos on eBay)
Now while I was isolated in safety and not susceptible to the horse "hypnosis rays", the nerds looked around the horses stalls. There the nerds found , (1) a wireless keyboard, voice activated, (2) LCD photo frames, with the dog Momo and the four horses on them, in head on poses looking intense, (3) wireless connections to hook up the horses electronic contraptions to the foundry computer system, (4) evidence of code in the foundry computer, suggesting the horses had set up some hidden operation of their own, which was invisible, unless nerds were looking for it. (5) miniature CSTV cameras, (6) another LCD picture frame set up as a TV monitor.
Using nerd mind power, the significance of the stealthy computer code was determined. It was shown that when I Yuri Nahl was in the foundry, The horses would be observing me with the miniature closed circuit TV camera, and then, using a camera in each horse stall, beam "mind control rays " at me, using the LCD photo frames as a medium. Whereas, most people think that two live mammals have to be physically present in the same location to do hypnosis, this is not correct. A reasonable facsimile will suffice, such as the live picture frame LCD horse "photos" . If I were to look at the "horse photos," (which were supposedly for my benefit) they would stand really still. Except I seem to have a recollection of a fly drifting by in one of the photos one day, but it just didn't register in my mind, as I was probably partially under control of their "enchantment" or "spell".
These clever animals had a "flash drive" type system in their hacked foundry computer, from which they played "mind control" images, and murmurings, sort of like Jane Fonda exercise videos. Integral to this was an automatic motion detector even including face recognition software which they had apparently stolen out of an anti terrorist surveillance gadget at San Francisco airport. They used this to stop the murmuring and focused energy rays if I was looking at their photos. At that time they looked docile and relaxed, as if they had just munched an extra helping of their special smelly hay. Which made them drowsy. They would then watch "Mr. Ed" videos, or get giant boners, sometimes both.
These "fake LCD photograph mind control weapons" were constantly working, so there was no escaping the beams of energy. If Mr.Boondoggle had not noticed my symptoms, there's no telling what might have happened, but I suspect it would have had something to do with attractive female horses. This "horse love" was their downfall. Dobbin had been composing a love sonnet to a female horse pen pal he had been working on and forgot to encrypt it, There it was in plain text just by coincidence at the time when the nerds were doing their forensic code analysis. This "love poem" tipped the other horses off about Dobbin's "love monopoly" and they wanted in. They checked on eBay to see if the stuffed Trigger (Roy Roger's horse) was up for bid, so they could use it as a "sex toy" .
Much horse strategy had been planned, including their film careers.
Momo sugested that they reprise the "Mr. Ed " show with Dobbin playing "Mr. Ed" as the original "Mr.Ed" had passed over. They were planning on using Mr.Boondoggle as "Wilbur" since the original actor, was 90.
Much planning had gone on, led by the incomparable Momo. Due to his penchant for history, Momo had read of the British Raj in India, (the "Jewel in the Crown" of the British Empire). He had relations in Afghanistan, who had communicated with elephants whose relations , ancestors had been of service to the British during the time of the Raj.
They had many interesting tales, some of which had never been told before. For example, After hearing of the exploits of Katherine the Great of Russia's love of using horse semen for a restorative skin balm, British women who had accompanied their husbands to India , to educate and evangelize the heathens had started to use this "semen therapy" to fight the rapid skin ageing due to the hot climate. They also seemed to enjoy practicing newly learned "love skills " taught them by the Indian women who were not repressed like the British.
This learning was facilitated by the two foot long penises of the stallions, because during "sex class" six or so British ladies could participate in the learning process (of penis rubbing) at one time which allowed larger classes and sped up the learning process. This also helped the British women to overcome their Puritan upbringing, and to getting used to a horse ejaculating into their rectums (for a therapeutic semen enema).
Previously they had utilized the penis of a "house boy." (switching to "stallion penis rubbing" helped fan the flames of the "mutiny" as these "house boys" had gotten used to the British women practicing fellatio, hand stimulation, sodomy, and various other "marital skill practices" listed in the "Kama Sutra" utilizing their stiff young extra long, (and sometimes even really thick penises). This made the job as a "house boy" much sought after.
The use of the semen which the women had ejaculated onto their faces and bosoms by their house boys, was also a blessing in that, the dubious expensive lotions lotions were not needed.
Now the Indian climate is very hot , and this led to a "fly problem". Fortuitously, it was discovered that dousing oneself with horse urine was an excellent "fly repellent". Later, it was also found that elephant urine was just as good, but could be harvested in greater abundance. (Although harvesting "elephant urine" was a decidedly more risky endeavor since the elephants sometimes mistook this "elephant penis aiming" for a "light wiener rub" and when their penises became turgid, a chap could easily get crushed, or knocked into the "urine collecting vessel" and drown in a distasteful manner.
The Indian women cleverly started laying off the "house boys" who had previously just spent the day drinking tea and showering the British ladies with urine and semen. Needless to say, this also contributed to the "mutiny."
Through his Afghan hound contacts who consulted with elephant friends they had, (and remember, elephants have good memories,) it was learned that the British soldiers started allowing the elephants to defaecate on them so as to darken their skin while they were spying, or trying to get jobs as house boys, so they could ejaculate and urinate on the British ladies, (although not necessarily in that order) as they could not do this while in Britain, as polite society frowned upon it. After being defaecated on, the house boys had to massage the excrement into the British soldiers skin, whereas before, they massaged their semen into the skin of the breasts of the ladies. (this undoubtedly contributed to "the mutiny".)
This horse and elephant urine, ejaculate, and excrement therapy, (not well known in the rest of the world), was still practiced in India as the therapeutic effects were still known to foreign stars of film and stage who's skin was under the scrutiny of the public. Spas were opened in towns with film studios. These became known as "One and Two Spas" in the jargon of the milieu. (For obvious reasons.) Many a guffaw or chortle was had by the local "urine, feces, and semen technicians", because they knew the therapy was of dubious value.
Now that the exposition of motivating forces has been done, we shall follow the story as it unfolds. (With a sort of "Prequel")
It was Momo, (the world renowned Afghan hound) who suggested to the horses that they communicate through "Wilbur" (Wilbur Post played by Alan Young) as he was thoroughly familiar with "horse to human" and "human to horse" dialects, and even "backward speaking dialect", and had in fact just finished a lucrative contract assisting the publishers of "Cliff's Notes" suitable for college students, as the study of the "Mr Ed" series was at last being recognized as an important facet of modern culture, and as such, many students were trying to find ways to assist themselves understand this important topic. Several dissertations were floating around on the Internet but were mere shallow glances. (not even considered to be "outlines" by the cognoscenti!) of a piece of modern culture which has been compared with "Ulysses" by James Joyce.
Alan Young (Wilbur) agreed to communicate with the horses. He stipulated that (1) He would only communicate using closed circuit TV. (2) He would be given sunglasses of the type used to observe the Trinity A-Bomb Test at the Alamogordo Test Range. This of course was to defend his eyes from any "mind control beams" emanating from the horses and their adviser, Momo. (3) He be equipped with a "dead-man" switch, which if he let go of it, would shut down the TV cameras and monitor, and in this way protect him from energy rays or hypnosis. Alan Young was familiar with "human whispering" as practiced by some horses, and when detected could counter it with "horse whispering".
Now at this time, it was decided (by the horses) to erect a tent over the horses communal stall, (where they puffed that peculiar pipe made from a five candle candelabra modified to their specifications.) Also peculiar was the smell of the tobacco they smoked. They seemed to like puffing the smelly hay they had ordered off the Internet using the voice controlled keyboard and sometimes pretending to be Steven Hawkins. They always needed time to recover from the choking and whinnying which sometimes resembled laughter. This decision was actually complying with a formal request emailed by the horses.
Now this was the time when the plan of the world renowned Momo, agreed to by the horses, would come into play. In general, the plan consisted of (1) Starting a new improved "Mr.Ed" series. (2) It would portray life in India during the time of the Raj more in line with the way Indian historians viewed it. This would be verbalized to the TV viewers by the "Indian" Mr.Ed, possibly with a more appropriate sobriquet, so as to resemble fictional character Harry Faversham, (from the novel "The Four Feathers" or his disguise as the despised mute Sangali, staggering out from the wilds from time to time. The elephants and horses of India would also be portrayed as more elegant and handsome, not all dusty and smelly. These things had already been discussed by the four chariot horses and their counterparts in India, only expedited by the incomparable Momo. Emails had been flashing back and forth for some time.
In return, the horses and Momo agreed to admit that they had accidentally shipped the handsome Arabian horses to Argentina, and had accidentally not paid for the horses or the shipping fees. But only by way of throwing the humans a bone. The horses and Momo also agreed to stop, or at least slow down this electronic pillaging of banks all over the world, buying gold bullion and stashing it in Irish and Swiss banks.
In reality, the horses and Momo knew they had an advantage over any prosecutor because if they were in court, in the witness box, or witness stall in their case, when the prosecutor asked them a question, they would pretend that they could not speak English, and just defacate or urinate all over and get giant boners, to the delight of the lady jurors. This attempt to cross examine the horses and Momo could have the effect of making the prosecutor look mentally ill, and ruin his chances of any political career, so this just gave the creatures added leverage.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
KARL LAGERFELD ATELIER STORY WITH TURD ON HEAD
Wednesday, March 31, 2010 at 2:01am
Comrades, be advised that I saw Karl Lagerfeld hanging around outside my crib at night. Normally I would just send my world renowned Black Dog, Momo the Afghan Hound, to despatch the brigand, but I can see he's packing, I can see he's packing a H&K MP7 or similar, so it would be too risky to let Momo remove the blighter.
So I climbed up onto the roof and dropped a big turd onto his head. With those shades, he's easy to identify. Even Dracula doesn't wear shades in the darkness of the night. I had a supply of frozen turds in the freezer, and I had thawed out a few as I thought I might miss him the first time, and I'd need a spare, or two. (One needs to drop turds on desperadoes in this neighborhood from time to time). I have a microwave on the roof, because I know that getting hit by a frozen turd from 30 feet up could be deadly. He usually has a young model with him and that night was no different. Therefore, I selected a turd for her too. So when Karl came around with his H&K strapped to his chest, I dropped a nice solid turd onto his white pompadour. (I wore rubber gloves, to avert the danger of getting shit under my fingernails, thus avoiding a whiff of poo if I picked my nose. Plus I only used my thumb and forefinger so I could cut the other fingers off the glove and use them for condoms.)
Now, he, Karl, is so vain that he'll not want to have a hair out of place, even if there's a big stinking hunk of shit stuck to his noggin. I have to admit I was thinking of chucking a hand grenade out the window, but I reconsidered. If an explosion went off behind him, it would blow his coiffure up in the air and he would resemble the news chick Christiane Amanpour, who used to hang upside down and blow dry her hair so it was sticking up all over the place, then set fire to the tips, and claim that she just had a narrow escape from Al-Qaeda. Everyone found out she was faking, mangled up hair or not, when she turned around and there were a couple of lit cigarettes stuck in the back of her hair to simulate a smoldering coiffure..(unless they were just using her head for an ashtray while she was taking a nap) Besides, an explosion would shatter the windows of the atelier.
Karl would make much hay out of the explosion and get sympathy. I would have liked to have seen him with his shades blown off though. I have a feeling that someone poked him in the eye on general principles, and he had to have one of his testicles transplanted into his eye socket , then have an iris and pupil tattooed onto it. (he could have got a regular glass eye, but when he went to the glass eye store, he got the impression they were all staring at him) The only problem is if he rolls his eyes too much the fake eyeball gets stuck, and when he un-rolls them, he has one regular, and one completely white eyeball like in the horror movies. Even so, one of the eyeballs might have bulged out more than the other, giving him a "piratical" sort of cachet, because lots of times pirates do have one bulging eyeball. This gives verisimilitude to the phrase when they say "Aaaaaar, matey!" I'm fairly sure he would prefer symmetrically bulging eyeballs. This does not even take into consideration the fact that once the testicle was hooked up to the veins, it still produces sperm which leaks out of his eye like the geezer in that 007 movie. So if he was eating pussy, there was a chance the chick would get knocked up if he just happened to take a close gander at her pussy. That would be a reason to wear shades. Or even better, a frogman mask to completely seal in the sperm, but not an Aqualung.
Now he had a choice. Try to get a comb through the turd, and possibly end up with a reverse "Bride of Frankenstein" motif, with a brown streak on his white hair, or just try saying "Fuck it!" and claim that "It's the latest thing!" and pull off a fashion coup. But also, I then dropped a solid clod of shit down his chicks cleavage. I hoped that it would rip her shirt down and her bra, and it did. Like rend it from top to bottom. Like the veil in the temple of Jerusalem, when Christ died and the Saints were thrown out of their tombs. (although I contend that the Saints were just trying to weasel out of working around the house by pretending to be dead, then when their old ladies learned that Christ had croaked, and the Saints were out of a job [hanging out with the Son of God] their old ladies chucked them out of the tombs) In which case her whopping tits would flop out and dangle down like a couple of grapefruits, one in each of a pair of socks, then the socks tied together and hung around her neck. So she'd have to hold her jugs up to keep them from drooping like some old bag who never wore a bra.
Karl started photographing her now, notwithstanding the turd on his head, and the undeniable fact that there were a multitude of flies sortieing in the vicinity. Going into orbit around the turd, that is.
Because of Karl's desire to shoot me, (with a gun, not a camera) he had to walk through my crummy neighborhood, with this chick holding her tits up in the air, and Karl with a turd stuck to his head, which bore a slight resemblance to some aerodynamic device seen on "Flying Hero" types who proliferated in the 1940s for some reason. In any case, thugs from the neighborhood noticed the hot jugs on this chick, since she was holding them up in a most provocative manner, as if she were sacrificing them on some kind of altar to thugism, but mostly because she liked manly fellows to gawk at her excellent tits and liked their desire to feel, bite, and douse them with a deluge of semen. So the hoodlums asked the couple to stop for a while so they could masturbate and splatter come all over this chicks face and tits, as she knelt on the sidewalk, while their fellow thugs were yanking on, twirling and stretching her nipples as she groaned with lust.
Now Karl did not feel particularly threatened, because he had this machine-pistol strapped to his chest. Plus, with the turd on his head, nobody wanted to come near him, and risk getting bitten by a horsefly. They just kept splattering the chicks tits and face as she knelt on the sidewalk, while Karl took more photos. Because Karl and the young lady had allowed the criminals to ejaculate all over her, they gave Karl a "Thug-Fashion" tip. So Karl walked away from the scene with a comb suitable for the modern hairdos embedded in his head-turd, parallel to the front to rear axis of his head, except with most of the comb hanging out the back, so it added to the aerodynamic appearance of his head-turd ensemble.
Now these two sharp dressers were headed for a party where the top 100 of the glitterati were celebrating after an unveiling of important fashions for next season. Mick and his daughter, Keith, his hag and his daughters were there, Kate, Mrs.Boondoggle, Norman Mailer, (in a coffin, because the family couldn't afford a cemetery plot.) all that hep crowd.
So that opportunist Karl walked in with the turd still stuck to his bonce, and the broad still drenched with come dripping off her face onto her tits, and running down between them. She was still holding up her tits so they wouldn't get all droopy. Plus she was still hot from being mauled by the gangsters, and her nipples were tender from being yanked. A lot of the other dames who were gaping at the spectacle would have given anything to be slurping the come off her tits, because they were big, wobbly, and delicious looking..
The crowd of models, artists, stars of film and the stage fell silent. Then audible gasps were heard. Time stood still. The best people looked at each other hoping for a cue. Then... one person clapping, then two, then more, and soon everyone in the room was applauding, and shouting "Bravo!", "Bravo!" and generally whooping up seeing the new breakthrough fashion work of genius. And at a party, rather than at a corn-ball venue! They speculated..."Should it be called "Super-Dada" ?
At this time, or shortly after, all the women, dames, ladies, girls and transvestites suddenly looked glum, then shortly after that, they looked really pissed! They started slapping their escorts, kicking them in the balls, and stomping out of the room, angry.
Naturally, the men were totally bewildered. They started making Italian hand gestures and facial expressions at each other meaning "What the fuck just happened?" and "Oh my balls!"
Karl Lagerfeld had to tip them off. "Your bitches want to be drenched with come and be holding their tits. purportedly so they don't droop like a couple of cannon balls, but in reality, so they could display their hot torpedoes to the general public, and remember, I created this new unprecedented fashion!"
The lying fuck! Now I knew all this shit because Karl is a sneaky little bastard, and I figured he might double back and head me off at the pass, or alley behind my pad, so I had followed him and the slut. Now here he was, with his bitch, or I should say "a bitch" because he's so decrepit, if he tried to fuck anyone his whole body would probably disintegrate, or if not, his dick would probably fall off inside the bitch, or if she was sucking his dick, and it broke off in her mouth, and she choked on it, and she coughed it out, and it shot across the table, and just by coincidence one of the paparazzi took a photo, of when it landed in a hot dog bun just as some old cow was to take a bite.and this incident became a famous "sex of the rich and gaudy faux pas", which would amuse the common folk for years to come, and insure the photographer of ending up in the paparazzi hall of fame. Sort of like the MIck-Mars-Bar-Incident, which is so well known it's on Wikipedia, and is reputed to be the single main factor in Marianne Faithfuls' becoming a junkie. So back to fucking Karl's taking credit for a turd I dropped on his head! Filthy swine. Who would have ever thought he'd be able to turn a blob of shit on his head and a bitch slobbered with come into a new money making opportunity! Fucker!
Now all the other broads stared to drift back into the room, smiling proudly, drenched with come, shirts and bras ripped apart, semen running down their faces dribbling onto their tits! These chicks had commandeered every man they could find, and had the men douse them with come! Most of them carried turds wrapped in waxed paper, of questionable parentage, to smash onto their escort's heads! Naturally that dog Karl went around with a ball point pen gouging his "KL" into the turds, and since it was a Bic, signed all the slut's tits.
Karl saw an opportunity for photos and all the best people posed in groups as was appropriate to their social status. I knew all this shit would be in Vanity Fair and similar rags very soon. All over the Internet! But then, only Karl could have pulled it off, as he learned how to be an opportunistic vulture during his association with Leibstandarte, at the end of World War II.
The prick!
The only guys who were not dumbfounded by the events of the evening were the old bastards who worked at the Embassies. They were all spies, of course , and I recognized them from my previous career. They were too old to be interested in cunt, so they pulled down their pants and took a shit in the punch bowl. Two of them were re-enacting the Battle of Trafalgar with Admiral Viscount Lord Nelson's turd, representing the warship Victory , against Admiral Villeneuve of France and Admirals d’Aliva and Cisternas of Spain, represented by a couple of other turds. They were just having fun, a couple of doddering old fossils, and then this Russian, or I should say Soviet, because he was definitely an old school spy came along, also took a shit in the punch bowl, and started doing the "Hunt for Red October".
Now within days, fashionable guys were walking around with turds stuck to their heads! The broads took a little longer, because at first they felt shy about asking complete strangers to come all over their faces and tits. (But they quickly got over it) Also, it would usually take four guys to slosh enough goo on them so they looked presentable, holding their tits, waking around, letting other sluts scoop come off them with a spoon, just being complete whores. Very enjoyable for both babes.
Then naturally the Pope stuck his nose into it, and put out an encyclical about it, saying it was immoral, unless the broads had someone take a spoon and a funnel and put the come into their pussies. Then someone with a massive telephoto lens got a couple of candid photos of the Pope taking off that funky hat with the points on it and there was a big pointed turd! At that point , the Pope clammed up.
Larry King was the first news commentator with a turd on his head. The others soon followed. The daring ones had the "Thug-Comb" Neo-Head-Turd thing going on. There was a special show on Oprah, where experts discussed how old girls should be before they went around with come dripping from their faces and holding their tits up in the air. A couple of little 17 year old whores who had gone wrong, gave their opinion on what led them to the vulgar side, but their faces were not shown , and their voices were altered.
It became so fashionable for women to be drenched with come while holding their tits, even Rachel Madow started doing it, as well as most other news talkers with tits, and they held their tits up too as the fashion required . When it was time to turn the pages of the news, stage hands would have sticks with clothing store dummy hands on the end, and would hold up the news broad's tits. Sometimes, randy stage hands would use the hands on the sticks to feel the news broads ass, but the TV audience could not see this.
This "women drenched with come phenomena" led to a sperm shortage all over the world. Runs on sperm banks were occurring regularly! Men were having to jerk off so many times a day, repetitive motion injuries were being reported with much greater regularity. At leper colonies, arms were lying around all over the place. It was revealed that animal sperm was being mixed with human sperm and sold.
It was a "Golden Time" for dry cleaners and the cleaning industry in general. Lawyers did well too, as people were slipping on the semen which was all over everything. Insurance companies were complaining about unprovable claims. Surgeons questioned the need for nurses to be dripping come all over patients on the operating table.
The Japanese started hunting sperm whales in an effort to corner the sperm market. The Greenpeace people were up in arms and this led to a contretemps when the bow of a Greenpeace vessel was sheared off by the Patna Maru, Japanese "research ship" formerly famous for trying to corner the"World Haggis Market" by using giant whale stomachs to speed up haggis production employing spurious Scotsmen of Japanese descent, wearing kilts.
Militias were formed near the Mexican border to keep smuggled Mexican sperm out of the US. Right Wing radio shows discussed the danger of Black men splattering White women etc. Or gay men spurting goo all over straight women. The FDA warned that Canadian sperm was a health risk and recommended not buying sperm on the Internet.
Neo-cons came up with the "PNACS". This stood for "Project for a New American Come Supply". They intended to remodel the nuclear submarine fleet with artificial vaginae, and paint an eye on the side, so they could sneak up on male whales, and make them ejaculate into a vat inside the submarine, so that the US could control the World Sperm Supply. They also planned to invade Africa, or "the country of Africa" if that stupid bitch Palin gets elected. In Africa, the Neo-cons planned to herd all the elephants into a huge enclosure and utilize "Blow-up Elephant Dolls" which the bull elephants could mate with. Inside the spurious elephants, low paid workers would give the elephants a "light wiener rub", and collect the sperm in 55 gallon drums. This seemed like a good idea in theory, but was about as successful a plan as the invasion of Iraq, being a brain-wave of the jackass Paul Wolfowitz .(one of the idiots who planned the "cake walk" in Iraq) Attempts to get Wolfowitz to volunteer to get inside the "Blow-Up Elephant Dolls" and demonstrate how to give the gigantic elephant penis a "light wiener rub" were unsuccessful. That was a stroke of luck for him as, by using low-paid local talent, it was determined that after the raging bull elephants acquired the scent of a man inside the "Blow-Up ElephantDolls", their life expectancy was 1.7 seconds.
The Neo-cons decided to use the famous Exon Valdez oil tanker to ship the Semen from Africa to the US. (even though everyone knew that the sway-backed oil-tanker was a pile of shit) The Exon company said it would be patriotic to refurbish the oil tanker. Dick Cheney agreed and volunteered Haliburton Corporation to do the work. On a cost plus basis.
As time went by, the trend dissipated a little. Markets had to be created. The Traditional Set, always slow of the upbeat, were hard to sell to. Then a clever chap from the plastics industry found a way to cast "hood ornaments" made of shit so that the non-avant garde would buy a shit formed product. So soon people were seen walking down the street with the Pontiac "Indian" or the Oldsmobile "Rocket", hood ornaments, or even the Rolls Royce "Winged Lady" and Mercedes "Three Pointed Star" seen on the radiators of marques,were soon on the heads of car lovers. All of these ploys were used to avoid a glut of shit on the Commodity Exchange. (warehousing shit has always been problematic as just the fly-paper costs alone are staggering))
Even the dog clothing industry was used to sell turd products to pet owners. These were often "Plastic turds" as dogs shaking their heads when they think there's a turd on it would have caused a "Dog Turd Meteorite Shower" not gaining dog popularity, except in France. The "curly" style plastic dog turd is probably the best seller.
A world renowned sculptor was commissioned by the " George W. Bush Presidential Library " committee to sculpt a statue of the ex-president, as shit seemed an appropriate material for the president's likeness. The sculptor was seen on "A&E" wearing an Aqualung, working on the statue.
Now, after a while, styles go out of fashion especially when the "squares" or "non-hep" portion of the population start to acquire that which was previously the realm of only the rich, decadent, young, beautiful,and those who liked being sodomized regularly, while hanging from a cross, but not necessarily wearing a crown of thorns. Old geezers were on Oprah, recounting the times they had been embarrassed when their head turd had fallen into their soup because they were bald and didn't have any hair for the chunk of shit to stick to. Matronly type old ladies admitted that they had paid exorbitant tips to the swarthy type of young hombres they preferred, to squirt long luxurious blasts of semen all over them.
Congress started holding "House Select Committee Hearings on the Semen Dousing of White American Anglo-Saxon Protestant Women" to determine whether or not being slobbered with come was Un-American. And, if it was American, was it "Possibly Un-American" if the semen had been imported from Communist China, North Korea, or Cuba. Or what about the former "Warsaw Pact" nations which "might have left over spies from the former Soviet Union" And if it "Were possible", what would prevent the ''potentially corrupting possible influence'' from convincing "White American Teenagers" from being led down the garden path to a sordid life of having "large or even extra-large, (and even really thick) brown, and dark brown , Communist penises thrust vigorously into previously tight, "White American Teenage Anuses, (both male and female)'' turning them into noticeably reamed out or prolapsed "White American Anuses", with a veritable River Nile of (possibly) Communist semen dribbling out of them , and running down their nylons. As anticipated, a "Prohibition" was incorporated into the Constitution. Also included was a 10 minute "Prayer in School" provision, in which the students begged God to protect their tight White American anuses from being ravaged by a large ,or even extra large , or even really thick Brown, or dark Brown penis, (especially if it was throbbing, and had a big knob on the end) as well as other normal requests.
"Whereas, for their own good, American women will be scanned (by a specially trained dog) at airports for their own good morals, to see it they need to go to a "De-sperming facility, at Gitmo, without any resort to counsel, because of a "possible bad influence from 'previously Warsaw Pact, or countries with "Brownish, or even "Dark Brown" people inhabiting them", who have " large or even extra large (and even really thick) penises'' which "May tend to influence 'White American Women (and even men) " to bend over and have "a large or even extra-large (and even really thick)" Pro-Communist or even 'Left-Leaning' penis thrust vigorously into their bowels, 'Possibly causing them to have an unanticipated, or premature bowel movement' , and doctors say these massive foreign penises could stretch out the rectum leading to "potentially gigantic stools resembling a loaf of Vienna Bread, instead of proper 'Christian, God-fearing normal sized stools' which don't block up the plumbing. (and if used as a head turd, won't cause disk or whiplash problems) ( and if used as a door stop, won't be mistaken for a bowling ball) This amendment made all statues "which had a stream of semen emanating from a penis, (or any other organ or belly button) is hereby prohibited. Naturally this included Hot-Tubs filled with Semen. (unless of course, it is in the Republican House on C street, for study purposes) Included in the legislation was a provision..."any White Man, found to have a large or even extra large (or even really thick) penis will be compelled to have surgery to reduce it in size to a normal White God-fearing sized penis, or be forced to move to France or another heathen country which reputedly likes s-x, and allows dog excrement to pile up so high, that during World War II, the French Partisans built tank traps and bunkers from it.. Amen
Comrades, be advised that I saw Karl Lagerfeld hanging around outside my crib at night. Normally I would just send my world renowned Black Dog, Momo the Afghan Hound, to despatch the brigand, but I can see he's packing, I can see he's packing a H&K MP7 or similar, so it would be too risky to let Momo remove the blighter.
So I climbed up onto the roof and dropped a big turd onto his head. With those shades, he's easy to identify. Even Dracula doesn't wear shades in the darkness of the night. I had a supply of frozen turds in the freezer, and I had thawed out a few as I thought I might miss him the first time, and I'd need a spare, or two. (One needs to drop turds on desperadoes in this neighborhood from time to time). I have a microwave on the roof, because I know that getting hit by a frozen turd from 30 feet up could be deadly. He usually has a young model with him and that night was no different. Therefore, I selected a turd for her too. So when Karl came around with his H&K strapped to his chest, I dropped a nice solid turd onto his white pompadour. (I wore rubber gloves, to avert the danger of getting shit under my fingernails, thus avoiding a whiff of poo if I picked my nose. Plus I only used my thumb and forefinger so I could cut the other fingers off the glove and use them for condoms.)
Now, he, Karl, is so vain that he'll not want to have a hair out of place, even if there's a big stinking hunk of shit stuck to his noggin. I have to admit I was thinking of chucking a hand grenade out the window, but I reconsidered. If an explosion went off behind him, it would blow his coiffure up in the air and he would resemble the news chick Christiane Amanpour, who used to hang upside down and blow dry her hair so it was sticking up all over the place, then set fire to the tips, and claim that she just had a narrow escape from Al-Qaeda. Everyone found out she was faking, mangled up hair or not, when she turned around and there were a couple of lit cigarettes stuck in the back of her hair to simulate a smoldering coiffure..(unless they were just using her head for an ashtray while she was taking a nap) Besides, an explosion would shatter the windows of the atelier.
Karl would make much hay out of the explosion and get sympathy. I would have liked to have seen him with his shades blown off though. I have a feeling that someone poked him in the eye on general principles, and he had to have one of his testicles transplanted into his eye socket , then have an iris and pupil tattooed onto it. (he could have got a regular glass eye, but when he went to the glass eye store, he got the impression they were all staring at him) The only problem is if he rolls his eyes too much the fake eyeball gets stuck, and when he un-rolls them, he has one regular, and one completely white eyeball like in the horror movies. Even so, one of the eyeballs might have bulged out more than the other, giving him a "piratical" sort of cachet, because lots of times pirates do have one bulging eyeball. This gives verisimilitude to the phrase when they say "Aaaaaar, matey!" I'm fairly sure he would prefer symmetrically bulging eyeballs. This does not even take into consideration the fact that once the testicle was hooked up to the veins, it still produces sperm which leaks out of his eye like the geezer in that 007 movie. So if he was eating pussy, there was a chance the chick would get knocked up if he just happened to take a close gander at her pussy. That would be a reason to wear shades. Or even better, a frogman mask to completely seal in the sperm, but not an Aqualung.
Now he had a choice. Try to get a comb through the turd, and possibly end up with a reverse "Bride of Frankenstein" motif, with a brown streak on his white hair, or just try saying "Fuck it!" and claim that "It's the latest thing!" and pull off a fashion coup. But also, I then dropped a solid clod of shit down his chicks cleavage. I hoped that it would rip her shirt down and her bra, and it did. Like rend it from top to bottom. Like the veil in the temple of Jerusalem, when Christ died and the Saints were thrown out of their tombs. (although I contend that the Saints were just trying to weasel out of working around the house by pretending to be dead, then when their old ladies learned that Christ had croaked, and the Saints were out of a job [hanging out with the Son of God] their old ladies chucked them out of the tombs) In which case her whopping tits would flop out and dangle down like a couple of grapefruits, one in each of a pair of socks, then the socks tied together and hung around her neck. So she'd have to hold her jugs up to keep them from drooping like some old bag who never wore a bra.
Karl started photographing her now, notwithstanding the turd on his head, and the undeniable fact that there were a multitude of flies sortieing in the vicinity. Going into orbit around the turd, that is.
Because of Karl's desire to shoot me, (with a gun, not a camera) he had to walk through my crummy neighborhood, with this chick holding her tits up in the air, and Karl with a turd stuck to his head, which bore a slight resemblance to some aerodynamic device seen on "Flying Hero" types who proliferated in the 1940s for some reason. In any case, thugs from the neighborhood noticed the hot jugs on this chick, since she was holding them up in a most provocative manner, as if she were sacrificing them on some kind of altar to thugism, but mostly because she liked manly fellows to gawk at her excellent tits and liked their desire to feel, bite, and douse them with a deluge of semen. So the hoodlums asked the couple to stop for a while so they could masturbate and splatter come all over this chicks face and tits, as she knelt on the sidewalk, while their fellow thugs were yanking on, twirling and stretching her nipples as she groaned with lust.
Now Karl did not feel particularly threatened, because he had this machine-pistol strapped to his chest. Plus, with the turd on his head, nobody wanted to come near him, and risk getting bitten by a horsefly. They just kept splattering the chicks tits and face as she knelt on the sidewalk, while Karl took more photos. Because Karl and the young lady had allowed the criminals to ejaculate all over her, they gave Karl a "Thug-Fashion" tip. So Karl walked away from the scene with a comb suitable for the modern hairdos embedded in his head-turd, parallel to the front to rear axis of his head, except with most of the comb hanging out the back, so it added to the aerodynamic appearance of his head-turd ensemble.
Now these two sharp dressers were headed for a party where the top 100 of the glitterati were celebrating after an unveiling of important fashions for next season. Mick and his daughter, Keith, his hag and his daughters were there, Kate, Mrs.Boondoggle, Norman Mailer, (in a coffin, because the family couldn't afford a cemetery plot.) all that hep crowd.
So that opportunist Karl walked in with the turd still stuck to his bonce, and the broad still drenched with come dripping off her face onto her tits, and running down between them. She was still holding up her tits so they wouldn't get all droopy. Plus she was still hot from being mauled by the gangsters, and her nipples were tender from being yanked. A lot of the other dames who were gaping at the spectacle would have given anything to be slurping the come off her tits, because they were big, wobbly, and delicious looking..
The crowd of models, artists, stars of film and the stage fell silent. Then audible gasps were heard. Time stood still. The best people looked at each other hoping for a cue. Then... one person clapping, then two, then more, and soon everyone in the room was applauding, and shouting "Bravo!", "Bravo!" and generally whooping up seeing the new breakthrough fashion work of genius. And at a party, rather than at a corn-ball venue! They speculated..."Should it be called "Super-Dada" ?
At this time, or shortly after, all the women, dames, ladies, girls and transvestites suddenly looked glum, then shortly after that, they looked really pissed! They started slapping their escorts, kicking them in the balls, and stomping out of the room, angry.
Naturally, the men were totally bewildered. They started making Italian hand gestures and facial expressions at each other meaning "What the fuck just happened?" and "Oh my balls!"
Karl Lagerfeld had to tip them off. "Your bitches want to be drenched with come and be holding their tits. purportedly so they don't droop like a couple of cannon balls, but in reality, so they could display their hot torpedoes to the general public, and remember, I created this new unprecedented fashion!"
The lying fuck! Now I knew all this shit because Karl is a sneaky little bastard, and I figured he might double back and head me off at the pass, or alley behind my pad, so I had followed him and the slut. Now here he was, with his bitch, or I should say "a bitch" because he's so decrepit, if he tried to fuck anyone his whole body would probably disintegrate, or if not, his dick would probably fall off inside the bitch, or if she was sucking his dick, and it broke off in her mouth, and she choked on it, and she coughed it out, and it shot across the table, and just by coincidence one of the paparazzi took a photo, of when it landed in a hot dog bun just as some old cow was to take a bite.and this incident became a famous "sex of the rich and gaudy faux pas", which would amuse the common folk for years to come, and insure the photographer of ending up in the paparazzi hall of fame. Sort of like the MIck-Mars-Bar-Incident, which is so well known it's on Wikipedia, and is reputed to be the single main factor in Marianne Faithfuls' becoming a junkie. So back to fucking Karl's taking credit for a turd I dropped on his head! Filthy swine. Who would have ever thought he'd be able to turn a blob of shit on his head and a bitch slobbered with come into a new money making opportunity! Fucker!
Now all the other broads stared to drift back into the room, smiling proudly, drenched with come, shirts and bras ripped apart, semen running down their faces dribbling onto their tits! These chicks had commandeered every man they could find, and had the men douse them with come! Most of them carried turds wrapped in waxed paper, of questionable parentage, to smash onto their escort's heads! Naturally that dog Karl went around with a ball point pen gouging his "KL" into the turds, and since it was a Bic, signed all the slut's tits.
Karl saw an opportunity for photos and all the best people posed in groups as was appropriate to their social status. I knew all this shit would be in Vanity Fair and similar rags very soon. All over the Internet! But then, only Karl could have pulled it off, as he learned how to be an opportunistic vulture during his association with Leibstandarte, at the end of World War II.
The prick!
The only guys who were not dumbfounded by the events of the evening were the old bastards who worked at the Embassies. They were all spies, of course , and I recognized them from my previous career. They were too old to be interested in cunt, so they pulled down their pants and took a shit in the punch bowl. Two of them were re-enacting the Battle of Trafalgar with Admiral Viscount Lord Nelson's turd, representing the warship Victory , against Admiral Villeneuve of France and Admirals d’Aliva and Cisternas of Spain, represented by a couple of other turds. They were just having fun, a couple of doddering old fossils, and then this Russian, or I should say Soviet, because he was definitely an old school spy came along, also took a shit in the punch bowl, and started doing the "Hunt for Red October".
Now within days, fashionable guys were walking around with turds stuck to their heads! The broads took a little longer, because at first they felt shy about asking complete strangers to come all over their faces and tits. (But they quickly got over it) Also, it would usually take four guys to slosh enough goo on them so they looked presentable, holding their tits, waking around, letting other sluts scoop come off them with a spoon, just being complete whores. Very enjoyable for both babes.
Then naturally the Pope stuck his nose into it, and put out an encyclical about it, saying it was immoral, unless the broads had someone take a spoon and a funnel and put the come into their pussies. Then someone with a massive telephoto lens got a couple of candid photos of the Pope taking off that funky hat with the points on it and there was a big pointed turd! At that point , the Pope clammed up.
Larry King was the first news commentator with a turd on his head. The others soon followed. The daring ones had the "Thug-Comb" Neo-Head-Turd thing going on. There was a special show on Oprah, where experts discussed how old girls should be before they went around with come dripping from their faces and holding their tits up in the air. A couple of little 17 year old whores who had gone wrong, gave their opinion on what led them to the vulgar side, but their faces were not shown , and their voices were altered.
It became so fashionable for women to be drenched with come while holding their tits, even Rachel Madow started doing it, as well as most other news talkers with tits, and they held their tits up too as the fashion required . When it was time to turn the pages of the news, stage hands would have sticks with clothing store dummy hands on the end, and would hold up the news broad's tits. Sometimes, randy stage hands would use the hands on the sticks to feel the news broads ass, but the TV audience could not see this.
This "women drenched with come phenomena" led to a sperm shortage all over the world. Runs on sperm banks were occurring regularly! Men were having to jerk off so many times a day, repetitive motion injuries were being reported with much greater regularity. At leper colonies, arms were lying around all over the place. It was revealed that animal sperm was being mixed with human sperm and sold.
It was a "Golden Time" for dry cleaners and the cleaning industry in general. Lawyers did well too, as people were slipping on the semen which was all over everything. Insurance companies were complaining about unprovable claims. Surgeons questioned the need for nurses to be dripping come all over patients on the operating table.
The Japanese started hunting sperm whales in an effort to corner the sperm market. The Greenpeace people were up in arms and this led to a contretemps when the bow of a Greenpeace vessel was sheared off by the Patna Maru, Japanese "research ship" formerly famous for trying to corner the"World Haggis Market" by using giant whale stomachs to speed up haggis production employing spurious Scotsmen of Japanese descent, wearing kilts.
Militias were formed near the Mexican border to keep smuggled Mexican sperm out of the US. Right Wing radio shows discussed the danger of Black men splattering White women etc. Or gay men spurting goo all over straight women. The FDA warned that Canadian sperm was a health risk and recommended not buying sperm on the Internet.
Neo-cons came up with the "PNACS". This stood for "Project for a New American Come Supply". They intended to remodel the nuclear submarine fleet with artificial vaginae, and paint an eye on the side, so they could sneak up on male whales, and make them ejaculate into a vat inside the submarine, so that the US could control the World Sperm Supply. They also planned to invade Africa, or "the country of Africa" if that stupid bitch Palin gets elected. In Africa, the Neo-cons planned to herd all the elephants into a huge enclosure and utilize "Blow-up Elephant Dolls" which the bull elephants could mate with. Inside the spurious elephants, low paid workers would give the elephants a "light wiener rub", and collect the sperm in 55 gallon drums. This seemed like a good idea in theory, but was about as successful a plan as the invasion of Iraq, being a brain-wave of the jackass Paul Wolfowitz .(one of the idiots who planned the "cake walk" in Iraq) Attempts to get Wolfowitz to volunteer to get inside the "Blow-Up Elephant Dolls" and demonstrate how to give the gigantic elephant penis a "light wiener rub" were unsuccessful. That was a stroke of luck for him as, by using low-paid local talent, it was determined that after the raging bull elephants acquired the scent of a man inside the "Blow-Up ElephantDolls", their life expectancy was 1.7 seconds.
The Neo-cons decided to use the famous Exon Valdez oil tanker to ship the Semen from Africa to the US. (even though everyone knew that the sway-backed oil-tanker was a pile of shit) The Exon company said it would be patriotic to refurbish the oil tanker. Dick Cheney agreed and volunteered Haliburton Corporation to do the work. On a cost plus basis.
As time went by, the trend dissipated a little. Markets had to be created. The Traditional Set, always slow of the upbeat, were hard to sell to. Then a clever chap from the plastics industry found a way to cast "hood ornaments" made of shit so that the non-avant garde would buy a shit formed product. So soon people were seen walking down the street with the Pontiac "Indian" or the Oldsmobile "Rocket", hood ornaments, or even the Rolls Royce "Winged Lady" and Mercedes "Three Pointed Star" seen on the radiators of marques,were soon on the heads of car lovers. All of these ploys were used to avoid a glut of shit on the Commodity Exchange. (warehousing shit has always been problematic as just the fly-paper costs alone are staggering))
Even the dog clothing industry was used to sell turd products to pet owners. These were often "Plastic turds" as dogs shaking their heads when they think there's a turd on it would have caused a "Dog Turd Meteorite Shower" not gaining dog popularity, except in France. The "curly" style plastic dog turd is probably the best seller.
A world renowned sculptor was commissioned by the " George W. Bush Presidential Library " committee to sculpt a statue of the ex-president, as shit seemed an appropriate material for the president's likeness. The sculptor was seen on "A&E" wearing an Aqualung, working on the statue.
Now, after a while, styles go out of fashion especially when the "squares" or "non-hep" portion of the population start to acquire that which was previously the realm of only the rich, decadent, young, beautiful,and those who liked being sodomized regularly, while hanging from a cross, but not necessarily wearing a crown of thorns. Old geezers were on Oprah, recounting the times they had been embarrassed when their head turd had fallen into their soup because they were bald and didn't have any hair for the chunk of shit to stick to. Matronly type old ladies admitted that they had paid exorbitant tips to the swarthy type of young hombres they preferred, to squirt long luxurious blasts of semen all over them.
Congress started holding "House Select Committee Hearings on the Semen Dousing of White American Anglo-Saxon Protestant Women" to determine whether or not being slobbered with come was Un-American. And, if it was American, was it "Possibly Un-American" if the semen had been imported from Communist China, North Korea, or Cuba. Or what about the former "Warsaw Pact" nations which "might have left over spies from the former Soviet Union" And if it "Were possible", what would prevent the ''potentially corrupting possible influence'' from convincing "White American Teenagers" from being led down the garden path to a sordid life of having "large or even extra-large, (and even really thick) brown, and dark brown , Communist penises thrust vigorously into previously tight, "White American Teenage Anuses, (both male and female)'' turning them into noticeably reamed out or prolapsed "White American Anuses", with a veritable River Nile of (possibly) Communist semen dribbling out of them , and running down their nylons. As anticipated, a "Prohibition" was incorporated into the Constitution. Also included was a 10 minute "Prayer in School" provision, in which the students begged God to protect their tight White American anuses from being ravaged by a large ,or even extra large , or even really thick Brown, or dark Brown penis, (especially if it was throbbing, and had a big knob on the end) as well as other normal requests.
"Whereas, for their own good, American women will be scanned (by a specially trained dog) at airports for their own good morals, to see it they need to go to a "De-sperming facility, at Gitmo, without any resort to counsel, because of a "possible bad influence from 'previously Warsaw Pact, or countries with "Brownish, or even "Dark Brown" people inhabiting them", who have " large or even extra large (and even really thick) penises'' which "May tend to influence 'White American Women (and even men) " to bend over and have "a large or even extra-large (and even really thick)" Pro-Communist or even 'Left-Leaning' penis thrust vigorously into their bowels, 'Possibly causing them to have an unanticipated, or premature bowel movement' , and doctors say these massive foreign penises could stretch out the rectum leading to "potentially gigantic stools resembling a loaf of Vienna Bread, instead of proper 'Christian, God-fearing normal sized stools' which don't block up the plumbing. (and if used as a head turd, won't cause disk or whiplash problems) ( and if used as a door stop, won't be mistaken for a bowling ball) This amendment made all statues "which had a stream of semen emanating from a penis, (or any other organ or belly button) is hereby prohibited. Naturally this included Hot-Tubs filled with Semen. (unless of course, it is in the Republican House on C street, for study purposes) Included in the legislation was a provision..."any White Man, found to have a large or even extra large (or even really thick) penis will be compelled to have surgery to reduce it in size to a normal White God-fearing sized penis, or be forced to move to France or another heathen country which reputedly likes s-x, and allows dog excrement to pile up so high, that during World War II, the French Partisans built tank traps and bunkers from it.. Amen
HOW TO BE ROMANTIC AND WOO CHICKS SO THEY DIG YOU LESSON ONE THE LOVE LETTER
Honey, sometimes especially in the morning, I have to help Momo switch from a lying on his side position, on my bed, to a standing position, on the floor. Because, even though he’s world renowned, (people know of his exploits on 4 continents) he’s an old duffer. So I put my hands under his belly and help him get up. This action puts pressure on his bladder and he kind of goes wiz on my hand a bit. So with this information in my head, I could take him into the back yard and with my hands just in front of his wiener, I sort of him lift up and his tail goes up like a pump handle and he takes a pee. Lots of times pee gets on my hand, I thought it was because I usually aim his wiener down for him so he doesn’t get pee all over himself, although he usually manages to anyway. And he usually manages to get pee on my hand too. I do this so I can empty him out a bit so he doesn’t get so much pee all over the house.
Some people find pee all over the house dismaying. I feel that these instances are what allow me to tell such accurate depictions in my essays. I hope you wanted to know these things since I just told you. I just hope nobody gets a video of me aiming his wiener down, or they might convene a grand jury. I’m sure that if I pointed out that a “wiener aiming ” is not the same as a “light wiener rub” it wouldn’t make a speck of difference. The prosecutor would like his (or her) all over the evening news with the “First Conviction for Wiener Aiming”. (that way he (or she) could run for mayor,)( like Rudy) I may have to bolt to Switzerland, because I don’t think they extradite for “wiener aiming cases”. (although they might for “light wiener rub” cases). oox
Some people find pee all over the house dismaying. I feel that these instances are what allow me to tell such accurate depictions in my essays. I hope you wanted to know these things since I just told you. I just hope nobody gets a video of me aiming his wiener down, or they might convene a grand jury. I’m sure that if I pointed out that a “wiener aiming ” is not the same as a “light wiener rub” it wouldn’t make a speck of difference. The prosecutor would like his (or her) all over the evening news with the “First Conviction for Wiener Aiming”. (that way he (or she) could run for mayor,)( like Rudy) I may have to bolt to Switzerland, because I don’t think they extradite for “wiener aiming cases”. (although they might for “light wiener rub” cases). oox
Thursday, May 27, 2010
KARL LAGERFELD WEARING SHADES IN A GERMAN FASHION MAGAZINE WITH A "NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD" OF RACCOONS
I knew it! Someone yelled "Sieg Heil"! And look what happened. I told someone "I think he was outside my crib, trying to conceal a machine pistol" but they wouldn't believe me! Just because I said he looked like the archetype of the "Night of the Living Dead" characters. I mean, if you look outside the window of your crib and you see a bunch of raccoons coming towards your pad in a manner that is "inexorable" (sort of like the Red Army T-34s for their appointment with the Fuhrer) and you say "My God! Is it a 'Night of the Living Dead' of raccoons?" Then in a moment of transcendent insight you think "I'm hallucinating again. Mama must have put a few hits of acid in my night time milk I have , in order to drive me crazy, so I kill myself and she inherits Papas' fortune, which he left to me because she was such a slut , she would turn tricks for free!" Then in an integral part of the experience, the mist is forming and lit by the glow of the raccoons eyes (because they have that reflective eye membrane thing going) your heart trembles and out there you see the white haired ghost! (not the one in "The Da Vinci Code) The only white haired ghost in the world who wears sun-glasses in the middle of the night ostensibly because if the police come and see him leading a pack of criminally inclined raccoons, he can say "I'm blind. That's why I'm wearing these sunglasses. " Then when the police say "What are you doing with all these raccoons?" He could say "I'm like the 'Pied Piper, except I pipe on raccoons." Then when the police say "Well you are not headed out of town!" He can say "Well I'm blind! How was I to know?" "Know?" you might say. That's like knowing why in these old movies, why the heroin chick is always taking such a deep breath and her knockers are bulging out of her shirt , and you're waiting for them to burst free and dangle out for your viewing pleasure, but they don't.
At times like these, you have to get a grip on yourself and after you gulp down some port to bolster your will, you look out the window again, and only see one raccoon, and no white ghost wearing sunglasses, a Knights' Cross (with swords and oak leaves), a Josef Goebbels hand brace, and there's only one raccoon. So you send your world renowned black Afghan dog, Momo to chase off interlopers, but he knows the raccoon and they just talk about times gone past.
In the morning ,you go outside and everything is back to normal, till you notice a Walther P-38 lying on the ground with a sort of stylized skeleton key engraved on it, and the word "Leibstandarte." It's an unsettling thing, and you hope the gardener left it there, after all he does carry a riding crop, wear jodhpurs all the time and a monocle , or "sun-monocle" on sunny days.
MARCH 27 OR SO 2010
At times like these, you have to get a grip on yourself and after you gulp down some port to bolster your will, you look out the window again, and only see one raccoon, and no white ghost wearing sunglasses, a Knights' Cross (with swords and oak leaves), a Josef Goebbels hand brace, and there's only one raccoon. So you send your world renowned black Afghan dog, Momo to chase off interlopers, but he knows the raccoon and they just talk about times gone past.
In the morning ,you go outside and everything is back to normal, till you notice a Walther P-38 lying on the ground with a sort of stylized skeleton key engraved on it, and the word "Leibstandarte." It's an unsettling thing, and you hope the gardener left it there, after all he does carry a riding crop, wear jodhpurs all the time and a monocle , or "sun-monocle" on sunny days.
MARCH 27 OR SO 2010
MY FIRST POSTS ON PEOPLE OF THE EARTH BLOG
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 15, 2010 at 5:53 am
As a douchbag, and an old douchebag to boot, I vehemently protest the publication of this blasphemous article. As a douchebag, and with no redeeming qualities (such as a wheel barrow) ( a wheel barrow full of Krugerrands, that is) to mitigate my irredeemable worthlessness, there is almost no possibility of getting any hot babes, dames or lusty young harlots, or even a hot tran-sexual. As a last attempt at getting some fabulousness to offset my overwhelming douchbagness, I acquired (at great expense) a complete Commander Whitehead replica ensemble, but people thought I was a waiter, or a perishing zombie who had died, and been embalmed , but because a passing voodoo practitioner had been mumbling some incantation as he walked by my coffin, I had popped back to life, well un-life, as the voodoo cognoscenti say. So this is my last attempt to score a hot babe, dame, or lusty young harlot. I have become spy, Russian spy. Being spy has cachet which I hope transcends douchebag milieu which seems to follow me as if it were a shadow. Perhaps filthy CIA will assassinate me, ending career as Fashion consultant, spy, and personal adviser to persons of great wealth, before I am able to prong a single babe, dame, lusty harlot, or reasonable facsimile.
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Paul Nicholas Boylan Says:
February 15, 2010 at 8:09 am
yuri – Thank you for your in-depth comment. You raise an important point: although hot chicks are often seem with douchebags, not all douchebags get the hot chicks.
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 15, 2010 at 9:19 am
Comrade, this is very kind of you to clarify subtle prongs of dilemma. This is like quandary so skillfuly presented in Giuseppe Verdi aria referring to “cross and ecstasy” in La Traviata, also can be experienced after alighting bicycle which desperado has stolen seat from. I have vowed with great sincerity to change grooming habits to comply with specifications desired by hot young babes, concubines etc. I have appointment at Keith Richards Grooming Spa & Re-hab Emporium for a make over. I shall acquire Louis Vuiton luggage there also. This has reached a point where I must discard my former accoutrement and achieve my goal of pronging many a swell freak to use the nomenclature of the modern masher or bon vivant, as you youngsters say. You will please excuse my awkward English and bad spelling as personal assistant is on holiday. I will keep you informed of my success in the world of debauched nightlife.
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Greybeard Says:
February 15, 2010 at 9:32 am
That is one douchebag who will die a virgin. Sorry (channels Chekov) … Die a wirgin.
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Paul Nicholas Boylan Says:
February 15, 2010 at 4:28 pm
Yuri – I haven’t been called Comrad since my short time as a spook back in the late 1970′s, but I welcome it as an honorific. Comrad, I must point out that, if you are even so much as aware of any opera written by Guiseppi Verdi (whom I lovingly refer to as Joe Green) then you cannot be a douchebag. Rather, you appear to be a creepy old man who, as my Comrad Greybeard points out, is likely to die a virgin.
Nevertheless, welcome. I look forward to your tales of debauched nightlife.
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 15, 2010 at 6:37 pm
Comrades, I have decided I must return to peace loving former Soviet Union for pilgrimage to memorial of G. Rasputin as attempt to imbue self with “soul vibrations” of adviser to Czarina, and female members of court. I have read of technique used by Holy Monk for checking breathing for correct form by holding ladies’ breasts firmly. This information will help me cure those exposed to air pollution by restoring damaged lungs. Must go now, diplomatic swine desire punctuality. I shall put on my Soviet suit, with moth balls in pocket, so as to not be accused of falling for Capitalist siren song singing. Smiling, beguiling. (have learned new vocabulary for attracting exquisite honeys) So until my return from barricades, I bid you adieu. Yuri Nahl, spy, man about town.
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Greybeard Says:
February 15, 2010 at 8:31 pm
I hate to sound suspicious, but I suspect Comrade Yuri_Nahl of taking the piss. I’m sure I’ve seen him with a Frenchman of ill repute – one Jacques Bidet.
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 15, 2010 at 8:57 pm
Comrade Greybeard, I believe you are thinking of Jaques Le Bangue, hairdresser with premises at Keith Richard’s Styling and Re-hab Emporium. When he worked in Glasgow, he went by “Jock” . That is only Frenchman I know. His fame rose when his “coiffure by hand grenade” concept was adorning the hair of Nick Nolte (famous Hollywood person) and of course Keith. Fame fell when bringing hand grenades through customs became hard due to orange alert on TV screens. As we know, this has recently caused security forces at airport to deploy body scanners after informant notified filthy CIA of exploding “butt plugs” detonating during trial run, using bus as substitute for aircraft. Do not mention this information to anyone as my credibility as peace loving Russian spy may be compromised, and will have to come in from cold.
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 16, 2010 at 8:45 am
Comrade Greybeard, Please forgive me for asking such highly esteemed person such as yourself, but in peace loving former Soviet Union we do not have this “Taking Piss”. So that I do not put foot in mouth, I would be in your debt if you would kindly clarify this point of idiomatic patois. If this “Taking Piss” is like “Golden Shower” , I must show you poem written by humble self for sending to female pen pal. …(in poem, I am taking part of Dr. Morel) This is just one of a few “Fuhrer poems” I have written so that the babes will dig me.
. Comrades, From Doctor Morel we acquired another poem about the Fuhrer’s condition. ……
Dr. Morel’s Fuhrer Poem
With the Fuhrer’s weakening bladder sphincter,
He really couldn’t take a chance,
Of wearing a light colored summer uniform,
And getting a wet spot on the front of his pants.
The End
#
Greybeard Says:
February 16, 2010 at 11:24 am
Yuri, me old china, I do not doubt your background in espionage, if not intelligence. How else could you have known the high esteem in which I am held? I should clarify that “china” is ancient Australian rhyming slang for friend – china plate = mate – not to be confused with porcelain, as in “pointing Percy at the porcelain” which refers to the use of a urinal.
Alas, “taking the piss” refers not to the rather gross perversion to which your mind has, rather interestingly, leaped, but to making fun of another. As to your poem, I have made inquiries as to whether a poetic license can be suspended or canceled. Also alas the only thing that babes of my acquaintance would dig you is a shallow grave.
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paulboylan Says:
February 16, 2010 at 9:16 pm
Greybeard – I haven’t yet decided who or what our new China – I do love Australian slang’s Cockney street criminal roots (china -> china plate -> mate, yes?) is, but I like him or her.
I can’t explain why, but I suspect Yuri is the “fundi” who calls him/herself “Ted” and has left comments to other posts.
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 16, 2010 at 9:30 pm
My Dear Comrade and Old Chap, as you can see, I am quickly learning Capitalist argot. Are you in Australia? But then,you are using idiomatic rhyming slang peculiar to neighborhood in London. This I like , even as Communist spy. (adviser to those of great wealth business has declined with economy). Yes I was confused because while working as spy from Soviet Consulate on Green St. in San Francisco, was short trip to Castro neighborhood where I learned of this “Golden Shower” pastime. Silly me, I thought in “Golden State” they had “Golden Showers”! Many fine fashions were available on Market St. Also a swinging fellow I met there invited me to his pad, and this was something I had not seen before even in peace loving former Soviet Union. He had a urinal installed in living room wall! At first, I thought it was example of decadent Capitalist Dada art, but no, my new acquaintance invited me to have a urination in it. It was convenient to not interrupt flow of conversation to go to bathroom. Then in that time period, he showed me neighborhood “South of Market” This was within walking distance of where comrades of truck driving industry had battle with police during “Wobbly” attempt to cast off chains of ruling class oppression. But, in this “SOMA” as cognoscenti call it, during day, it was old small industry , warehouse, loft neighborhood, ordinary. At night , was cowboy clubs , Probably for popular western music, since many fellows wore leather uniforms of American cowboy types so I assume this. Although, once inside these “Joints” (to use ‘Hep-cat’ lingo) cowboys underwent metamorphosis beyond understanding of myself to explain. But in any case, these ‘joints’ were fun and I met many friendly fellows and sluts. These young ladies allowed me to practice my therapeutic massage techniques on their chests. I must admit to telling a little fib. That poem, I did not write it. My old beloved father was archivist traveling with army General Vasily Chuikov liberating Berlin from grip of fascists. Within Fuhrer Bunker were poems by Adolph Hitler written to wile away hours between destroying various countries. I will show one of these so you won’t think I am only crude Communist chap
“Lost Fuhrer Poem” which probably got stolen from the archives by a NKVD commissar. This is called “Un-numbered Fuhrer Poem (dated 1936 and in Fuhrer’s own handwriting)” This has surfaced and is to be auctioned at Christies sometime in November pending authentication. ….
Fuhrer Poem
If I hadn’t become the Fuhrer,
But had remained a suave young man,
I’d have thrown these unfashionable jodhpurs,
Into the nearest garbage can.
The End
(Don’t pay attention to first part, probably ploy to increase value)
Since that is short one, I will include another, if I can find, in messy drawers.
Please excuse my crude attempts at writing English. My personal assistant has day off. So I will show Fuhrer Poem Number Five for your enjoyment. ….(from time Fuhrer was attending art school)….
Fuhrer Poem Number Five
I became an artist’s model,
I was hoping chicks would dig me,
But I had to resign my commission,
They had an aversion to my wearing a fig leaf.
Comrades, Fuhrer was so short of money he reconsidered his decision….Fuhrer Poem Number Six….
Fuhrer Poem Number Six
They offered me a very small fig leaf,
I said “Well let me look at it!”
“Something that small might conceal a sardine,
But it certainly wouldn’t cover my haddock.
The End
So Comrade , you can see if fascist dog had kept up his art career , world would have been different now.
This is last one I could find as I must organize my files.
Lost Fuhrer Poem 1939
After I became the Fuhrer,
To Lead the German masses,
I realized my jodhpurs,
Would retain my flatulent gasses….
Upon my gaining this knowledge,
I had to give up smoking,
Because by dropping a burning ember,
I might possibly cause an explosion.
The End
I must go Comrade , there is much strain in being Capitalist man of letters.
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Greybeard Says:
February 16, 2010 at 9:33 pm
He is an amusing chap and to produce poetry that bad takes real talent but I can never forgive “Yurinahl”. I have perpetrated the odd dodgy pun myself but surely there must be a place in hell for this evil creature.
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 16, 2010 at 10:00 pm
Dear Comrade Old Man, you will please excuse my unforgivable curiosity, such an unimportant fellow as myself , for having bad manners enough to impudently ask what continent you reside in, as time stamp on much honored post by you seems to indicate somewhere in Atlantic ocean. I am spying in GULag of Midwest United States at moment. This should explain the suicidal tendency you probably infer from my poor attempts at the letter writing art. Many nuclear labs are near here and I spend many an hour trying to chivy secrets from same. Also have to hang out with juvenile delinquents to learn subtle art of computer hackers, so as to be able to learn more fun facts. This means having to listen to hideous thrasher music giving almost irresistible urge to hammer chopsticks into ears. (don’t mention this to anyone, as filthy CIA may send me back to beloved Motherland in disgrace.) Please notify me of your desire to learn secrets of Fuhrer mesmerizing German populace with poems of Fatherland, if such there be.
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Greybeard Says:
February 16, 2010 at 10:27 pm
Dear Yuri, I could never consider you unimportant! As a devout and dedicated Filthy Capitalist Pig, all such fetid relics of the despised USSR as yourself are absolute anathema to me. I will never rest until you have all been captured and “redacted” to a suitable middle-eastern resort where you can peacefully while* away your declining years with water sports and electro-therapy.
*(“Nor do I beg this slender inch, to while The time away, or falsely to beguile My thoughts with joy”.)
As you have cleverly discerned, I am indeed sailing upon the Atlantic at present. Some trifling tax irregularities have rendered it prudent for me to remain “offshore” – like so many of my assets – for the time being.
I am utterly beguiled by your charming correspondence. If you would be so kind as to supply an address, I would consider it an honour to forward you a set of my personal ivory chopsticks (hand-carved from the budding tusks of a pre-pubescent elephant by Royal Maidens). I will even include one of the small silver mallets which I use for crushing ice, toffee and dissent.
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 16, 2010 at 10:55 pm
I say, Old Capitalist chum, that line of poetry was so exquisite, I must
know the name of the author. Since I am a newcomer to the English language I
feel as if what I say is a mere compilation of what others with a thorough
grasp of the language have said before, although probably everything has
been said before! I often thought how lovely being in the Atlantic would be
,in Jamaica for example. It would be precious fun to go native and adopt
the singular hairdos of the Rastas, and their heathen based life religion.
As heathen myself, I still can perceive their life, permeated with this
groundedness with the Mother Earth is something different. A fellow comrade
of mine went there and spoke in gushing love for the place. I am still
looking for more of the Fuhrer’s poetry. As time passes, I will post more
onto this blog.I only hope that an ex-Nazi female comrade sees them and gets
caught up in the spirit of the Ex-Nazi-Communist thrall and sends me a photo
of her chest to practice diagnosing any symptoms. Them I would be able to
prescribe a suitable treatment plan, which I could then administer. Yours
truly, must go , kettle boiling.
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paulboylan Says:
February 17, 2010 at 1:03 am
I swear to God, if I didn’t know better, I would swear this guy is me.
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Greybeard Says:
February 17, 2010 at 1:16 am
I did have a momentary suspicion.
Hey Bathroom_Fitting. I can’t type Cyrillic here but what I’m thinking sounds like “seen sukie”. If you are a genuine old-time Tovarich, I’m sure you’ll know what that means? Dasvidanya Gospodine Nahl.
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 17, 2010 at 1:26 am
My Dear Capitalist Comrade, I have come to like you and your fine associate, even if you are Capitalist oppressors of the proletariat. I have faith (as much as it is possible for a heathen to have faith) that when the Capitalist gods, the Huge Banks, and the Military Industrial Complex (which General Eisenhower warned about, but nobody listened!) I will be able to help you fellows adjust into the new, resurgent, Soviet Union, and we will all live happily ever after in splendor of “Workers Paradise” until then, however, I still have ambition to become Doctor of Chestology. After perusing teachings of His Holiness G. Rasputin, I could say, there is slight possibility I could find religion. This probably would be in direct proportion to number of chests I had administered therapeutic massage to. I must away, have appointment with destiny at library! Yours Yuri
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 17, 2010 at 5:32 pm
Most Esteemed Capitalist Comrades, I am unfamiliar with this dialect which you have asked me to translate. In my humble opinion, two possibilities (1) is verbal repost , implying mother of person is related to Rin-Tin-Tin, and by logical inference , so is person, (very funny, I laugh!), (2) Is last words uttered by self proclaimed “Soul Brother Number One” before passing over into great abyss of afterlife, causing new star to appear in Hubble telescope field of vision. Please correct me if I am wrong, as I seek knowledge required to break free of any limitations imposed on me by myself or God. (you will notice please, I used “G” word again. I am fast becoming filthy Capitalist!
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Greybeard Says:
February 17, 2010 at 9:21 pm
Whale oil beef hooked! You win Yuri, I dips me lid to you. You can stuff me with burgers and call me an Imperialist Lackey.
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Paul Nicholas Boylan Says:
February 17, 2010 at 10:29 pm
This is the best discussion I have ever read. It can’t be over yet. It can’t be.
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 17, 2010 at 10:57 pm
Comrade Greybeard, I am sure you know that it’s always a pleasure.
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Greybeard Says:
February 17, 2010 at 10:58 pm
Well I did consider firing back one of our freedom-loving Aussie poems to counter those of the Fuhrer(?)
There was a young man from Australia
Who painted his arse like a dahlia
The shape was fine,
and the colours divine
But the smell, on the whole, was a fahlia
Sadly, I doubt that one such as Yuri, intellectually stunted and abandoned by the mendacious and monolithic monster that was Soviet education, could possibly descry the multiple levels of meaning and subtext in this subtle and poignant piece of poesy.
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 17, 2010 at 11:14 pm
Comrades, I must away and walk my Afghan dog Momo. I acquired him when peace loving former Soviet Union was trying to bring democracy to forlorn divided Afghan political disaster. This was thwarted by plan of Zbigniev Bresinski, for acquisition of undeserved natural resources. This clever plan led to present situation in Afghanistan. I shall return and post a special “Fuhrer poem” to delight your ears.
Your Reliable Communist,
Yuri Nahl
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 20, 2010 at 9:36 pm
mr homorable greybeard have stiff neck from typing with pencil in mouth. when im better from burned hands will rebuke felatious statement by you re- soviet education. will counter your poem with one about fuhrer for which i recieved standing ovulation at beatnic gathering. many miles davis records wer in great abundancs, bongo drums, beret. even filthy cia didguised as adict . only when super glue bottle was noticed was fellow discerned. as he was glueing mosquitos to arms to simulate mosquitos landing on arm, and getting off so tey couldn’t fly away. obvious ploy often seen in ghetto to convince customers of quality product. yours yuri
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Greybeard Says:
February 21, 2010 at 3:57 am
Dear Yuri,
Having read the above, and your earlier effusions, I can only conclude that your burned hands are the product of furious and prolonged self-abuse. I shudder to imagine the state of your living quarters. They must be even more squalid than my worst imaginings.
As I have no vices whatsoever, I cannot advise you from personal experience. My knowledge of physics and biology (both subjects which I have had the pleasure of teaching) leads me to suggest that:
(a) You change hands more frequently.
(b) that you keep a bowl of cold water nearby, in which you may rest the hand that is not currently occupied by your filthy, sinful perversion.
As to the “standing ovulation” which you received – Beware! This is NOT a safe position. A couple of my acquaintance once proudly displayed a new daughter who had apparently been conceived in the shower, thanks to a standing ovulation. I feel it my duty to warn you, less for your own sake than from the fear that you might actually breed.
I remain Sir, Yours sincerely, Lord Greybeard (Hereditary Jarl of Lower Orkney, in direct line from Harald Blåtand Gormsen, the inventor of short-range RF communication.)
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 21, 2010 at 4:38 am
my dear capitalist lord greybeard. as apolite communist you must inform me how you should be adressed. such as ‘your highness’ or apropriate title. ‘so sorry, opiates are diminishing ability’ am awaiting voice activated typing software.
in diminished memory somehow using hand cleaner with pumice on beloved pinis rings bell.
now i must hope you recall burned hans and penis responsible of crummy tape recorder courtesy of freelancing spy job because of disolution of former soviet union. less spying budget you see. cheap machine self destruct in 3 seconds not 5.
be a sport and see if any good used spy contraptions are in boxes of rf com gear, as i do not wish to be imolated while accepting job of spying.
i notice you have caught on to my squalid accomodations. this is famous spy ploy only known to practitioners of spy craft purpose of keeping away guests. even better is renowned technique of being stuck to decrepit couch with seminal fluid, and announcing authorship of pornographic novels. some extra income can be had ising this ploy of stealth. am telling you these facts in case you are desiring employment as agent in my network.
am getting stiff neck. must sign off. will write again. have to get asbestos gloves for cheap tape recorder.
yours yuri
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 21, 2010 at 9:18 am
comrade greybeard. important memory breakthrough has occured. finaly i have someone to ask for answer to question which has been beyond my uneducated ability to answer. ok here is problem. using property called ‘conservation of angular momentum’ when ice on polar caps melts, water goes to equator. does earth rotation slow down? that has been beyond my ability to answer since question formed in my mind due to some peculiar elixir. most spy friends have not the answer. now you must answer, as i depend on your educated brain. also in theme similar to ‘it is small world isn’t it’, my friend mr.boondoggle had ancestor ‘ mad eric blue hair mcboondoggle who fled scotland after ‘killing dog of an englishman’ then changed name to Verrückt Eric der Blaue Haare Freiherr von Boondoggle. i knew i had it somewhere. so this blue-tooth contraption may have ancestory in a friend i have as well as your grandpa.
now i must defer to renowned english revolutionary and devotee of use of sin as path to holy enlightenment. mr. oscar wilde who spake these concept ‘ in order to overcome temptation, one must yield to same.’ very wise. i have practiced these teaching before even reading of same.
though mr. wilde had impressive wardrobe, as spy, it does not behoov one to dress ostentatiously. also in order to conserve water, one must conclude the inflated importance given to bathing, in corrupt capitalist propoganda. together with excessive electricity used for vacuuming house. just open window on windy day, dust gets blown out other side. these are just tips so you may have happy home with beloved family after oil goes away.
must soon stop writing . neck is sore. cannot return to hospital, because in ‘land of free’ it is not free ‘exclamation point’ found this out with smouldering trousers after cheap tape recorder incident, hands blazing. will give poem after which you will say’touchet’
Comrades, my beloved auntie, Doctor Ivana Nahlinskia, was brought to Doctor Theodor Morell’s, the Fuhrer’s private physician’s residence to view the doctor’s private diaries before they were taken to GRU (military intelligence ) archive. In the diary was found “Lost Fuhrer Poem (regarding medical issues)”. I will publish it here for the first time for your reading pleasure. ….
“Fuhrer Poem Regarding Medical Issues”.
When I became the Fuhrer ,
To lead the Fascist nation, I had to give up these barbiturates,
Because they gave me constipation.
The End.
since that one was short ‘like japenese ‘haiku’, will include another…
Comrades, my auntie also found a poem by Doctor Morell who tried to emulate the Fuhrer in certain ways because he was like the obsequious Uria Heap but kept this poem secret because it showed the Fuhrer in a rather dim light…So for your edification this is “Doctor Morell Secret Poem Regarding the Fuhrer”…
As the Fuhrer got older,
And his bladder sphincter became weak,
He tucked his jodphurs into his riding boots,
But got urine on his feet.
The End.
comrades, my neck is too stiff . must stop giving away secrets of soviet poet lauriate.
your communist friend, yuri
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Greybeard Says:
February 21, 2010 at 10:34 am
Dear Yuri,
Yes.
Yrs etc., Lord Greybeard Grattskoggson
yuri_nahl Says:
February 15, 2010 at 5:53 am
As a douchbag, and an old douchebag to boot, I vehemently protest the publication of this blasphemous article. As a douchebag, and with no redeeming qualities (such as a wheel barrow) ( a wheel barrow full of Krugerrands, that is) to mitigate my irredeemable worthlessness, there is almost no possibility of getting any hot babes, dames or lusty young harlots, or even a hot tran-sexual. As a last attempt at getting some fabulousness to offset my overwhelming douchbagness, I acquired (at great expense) a complete Commander Whitehead replica ensemble, but people thought I was a waiter, or a perishing zombie who had died, and been embalmed , but because a passing voodoo practitioner had been mumbling some incantation as he walked by my coffin, I had popped back to life, well un-life, as the voodoo cognoscenti say. So this is my last attempt to score a hot babe, dame, or lusty young harlot. I have become spy, Russian spy. Being spy has cachet which I hope transcends douchebag milieu which seems to follow me as if it were a shadow. Perhaps filthy CIA will assassinate me, ending career as Fashion consultant, spy, and personal adviser to persons of great wealth, before I am able to prong a single babe, dame, lusty harlot, or reasonable facsimile.
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Paul Nicholas Boylan Says:
February 15, 2010 at 8:09 am
yuri – Thank you for your in-depth comment. You raise an important point: although hot chicks are often seem with douchebags, not all douchebags get the hot chicks.
#
yuri_nahl Says:
February 15, 2010 at 9:19 am
Comrade, this is very kind of you to clarify subtle prongs of dilemma. This is like quandary so skillfuly presented in Giuseppe Verdi aria referring to “cross and ecstasy” in La Traviata, also can be experienced after alighting bicycle which desperado has stolen seat from. I have vowed with great sincerity to change grooming habits to comply with specifications desired by hot young babes, concubines etc. I have appointment at Keith Richards Grooming Spa & Re-hab Emporium for a make over. I shall acquire Louis Vuiton luggage there also. This has reached a point where I must discard my former accoutrement and achieve my goal of pronging many a swell freak to use the nomenclature of the modern masher or bon vivant, as you youngsters say. You will please excuse my awkward English and bad spelling as personal assistant is on holiday. I will keep you informed of my success in the world of debauched nightlife.
#
Greybeard Says:
February 15, 2010 at 9:32 am
That is one douchebag who will die a virgin. Sorry (channels Chekov) … Die a wirgin.
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Paul Nicholas Boylan Says:
February 15, 2010 at 4:28 pm
Yuri – I haven’t been called Comrad since my short time as a spook back in the late 1970′s, but I welcome it as an honorific. Comrad, I must point out that, if you are even so much as aware of any opera written by Guiseppi Verdi (whom I lovingly refer to as Joe Green) then you cannot be a douchebag. Rather, you appear to be a creepy old man who, as my Comrad Greybeard points out, is likely to die a virgin.
Nevertheless, welcome. I look forward to your tales of debauched nightlife.
#
yuri_nahl Says:
February 15, 2010 at 6:37 pm
Comrades, I have decided I must return to peace loving former Soviet Union for pilgrimage to memorial of G. Rasputin as attempt to imbue self with “soul vibrations” of adviser to Czarina, and female members of court. I have read of technique used by Holy Monk for checking breathing for correct form by holding ladies’ breasts firmly. This information will help me cure those exposed to air pollution by restoring damaged lungs. Must go now, diplomatic swine desire punctuality. I shall put on my Soviet suit, with moth balls in pocket, so as to not be accused of falling for Capitalist siren song singing. Smiling, beguiling. (have learned new vocabulary for attracting exquisite honeys) So until my return from barricades, I bid you adieu. Yuri Nahl, spy, man about town.
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Greybeard Says:
February 15, 2010 at 8:31 pm
I hate to sound suspicious, but I suspect Comrade Yuri_Nahl of taking the piss. I’m sure I’ve seen him with a Frenchman of ill repute – one Jacques Bidet.
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 15, 2010 at 8:57 pm
Comrade Greybeard, I believe you are thinking of Jaques Le Bangue, hairdresser with premises at Keith Richard’s Styling and Re-hab Emporium. When he worked in Glasgow, he went by “Jock” . That is only Frenchman I know. His fame rose when his “coiffure by hand grenade” concept was adorning the hair of Nick Nolte (famous Hollywood person) and of course Keith. Fame fell when bringing hand grenades through customs became hard due to orange alert on TV screens. As we know, this has recently caused security forces at airport to deploy body scanners after informant notified filthy CIA of exploding “butt plugs” detonating during trial run, using bus as substitute for aircraft. Do not mention this information to anyone as my credibility as peace loving Russian spy may be compromised, and will have to come in from cold.
#
yuri_nahl Says:
February 16, 2010 at 8:45 am
Comrade Greybeard, Please forgive me for asking such highly esteemed person such as yourself, but in peace loving former Soviet Union we do not have this “Taking Piss”. So that I do not put foot in mouth, I would be in your debt if you would kindly clarify this point of idiomatic patois. If this “Taking Piss” is like “Golden Shower” , I must show you poem written by humble self for sending to female pen pal. …(in poem, I am taking part of Dr. Morel) This is just one of a few “Fuhrer poems” I have written so that the babes will dig me.
. Comrades, From Doctor Morel we acquired another poem about the Fuhrer’s condition. ……
Dr. Morel’s Fuhrer Poem
With the Fuhrer’s weakening bladder sphincter,
He really couldn’t take a chance,
Of wearing a light colored summer uniform,
And getting a wet spot on the front of his pants.
The End
#
Greybeard Says:
February 16, 2010 at 11:24 am
Yuri, me old china, I do not doubt your background in espionage, if not intelligence. How else could you have known the high esteem in which I am held? I should clarify that “china” is ancient Australian rhyming slang for friend – china plate = mate – not to be confused with porcelain, as in “pointing Percy at the porcelain” which refers to the use of a urinal.
Alas, “taking the piss” refers not to the rather gross perversion to which your mind has, rather interestingly, leaped, but to making fun of another. As to your poem, I have made inquiries as to whether a poetic license can be suspended or canceled. Also alas the only thing that babes of my acquaintance would dig you is a shallow grave.
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paulboylan Says:
February 16, 2010 at 9:16 pm
Greybeard – I haven’t yet decided who or what our new China – I do love Australian slang’s Cockney street criminal roots (china -> china plate -> mate, yes?) is, but I like him or her.
I can’t explain why, but I suspect Yuri is the “fundi” who calls him/herself “Ted” and has left comments to other posts.
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 16, 2010 at 9:30 pm
My Dear Comrade and Old Chap, as you can see, I am quickly learning Capitalist argot. Are you in Australia? But then,you are using idiomatic rhyming slang peculiar to neighborhood in London. This I like , even as Communist spy. (adviser to those of great wealth business has declined with economy). Yes I was confused because while working as spy from Soviet Consulate on Green St. in San Francisco, was short trip to Castro neighborhood where I learned of this “Golden Shower” pastime. Silly me, I thought in “Golden State” they had “Golden Showers”! Many fine fashions were available on Market St. Also a swinging fellow I met there invited me to his pad, and this was something I had not seen before even in peace loving former Soviet Union. He had a urinal installed in living room wall! At first, I thought it was example of decadent Capitalist Dada art, but no, my new acquaintance invited me to have a urination in it. It was convenient to not interrupt flow of conversation to go to bathroom. Then in that time period, he showed me neighborhood “South of Market” This was within walking distance of where comrades of truck driving industry had battle with police during “Wobbly” attempt to cast off chains of ruling class oppression. But, in this “SOMA” as cognoscenti call it, during day, it was old small industry , warehouse, loft neighborhood, ordinary. At night , was cowboy clubs , Probably for popular western music, since many fellows wore leather uniforms of American cowboy types so I assume this. Although, once inside these “Joints” (to use ‘Hep-cat’ lingo) cowboys underwent metamorphosis beyond understanding of myself to explain. But in any case, these ‘joints’ were fun and I met many friendly fellows and sluts. These young ladies allowed me to practice my therapeutic massage techniques on their chests. I must admit to telling a little fib. That poem, I did not write it. My old beloved father was archivist traveling with army General Vasily Chuikov liberating Berlin from grip of fascists. Within Fuhrer Bunker were poems by Adolph Hitler written to wile away hours between destroying various countries. I will show one of these so you won’t think I am only crude Communist chap
“Lost Fuhrer Poem” which probably got stolen from the archives by a NKVD commissar. This is called “Un-numbered Fuhrer Poem (dated 1936 and in Fuhrer’s own handwriting)” This has surfaced and is to be auctioned at Christies sometime in November pending authentication. ….
Fuhrer Poem
If I hadn’t become the Fuhrer,
But had remained a suave young man,
I’d have thrown these unfashionable jodhpurs,
Into the nearest garbage can.
The End
(Don’t pay attention to first part, probably ploy to increase value)
Since that is short one, I will include another, if I can find, in messy drawers.
Please excuse my crude attempts at writing English. My personal assistant has day off. So I will show Fuhrer Poem Number Five for your enjoyment. ….(from time Fuhrer was attending art school)….
Fuhrer Poem Number Five
I became an artist’s model,
I was hoping chicks would dig me,
But I had to resign my commission,
They had an aversion to my wearing a fig leaf.
Comrades, Fuhrer was so short of money he reconsidered his decision….Fuhrer Poem Number Six….
Fuhrer Poem Number Six
They offered me a very small fig leaf,
I said “Well let me look at it!”
“Something that small might conceal a sardine,
But it certainly wouldn’t cover my haddock.
The End
So Comrade , you can see if fascist dog had kept up his art career , world would have been different now.
This is last one I could find as I must organize my files.
Lost Fuhrer Poem 1939
After I became the Fuhrer,
To Lead the German masses,
I realized my jodhpurs,
Would retain my flatulent gasses….
Upon my gaining this knowledge,
I had to give up smoking,
Because by dropping a burning ember,
I might possibly cause an explosion.
The End
I must go Comrade , there is much strain in being Capitalist man of letters.
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Greybeard Says:
February 16, 2010 at 9:33 pm
He is an amusing chap and to produce poetry that bad takes real talent but I can never forgive “Yurinahl”. I have perpetrated the odd dodgy pun myself but surely there must be a place in hell for this evil creature.
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 16, 2010 at 10:00 pm
Dear Comrade Old Man, you will please excuse my unforgivable curiosity, such an unimportant fellow as myself , for having bad manners enough to impudently ask what continent you reside in, as time stamp on much honored post by you seems to indicate somewhere in Atlantic ocean. I am spying in GULag of Midwest United States at moment. This should explain the suicidal tendency you probably infer from my poor attempts at the letter writing art. Many nuclear labs are near here and I spend many an hour trying to chivy secrets from same. Also have to hang out with juvenile delinquents to learn subtle art of computer hackers, so as to be able to learn more fun facts. This means having to listen to hideous thrasher music giving almost irresistible urge to hammer chopsticks into ears. (don’t mention this to anyone, as filthy CIA may send me back to beloved Motherland in disgrace.) Please notify me of your desire to learn secrets of Fuhrer mesmerizing German populace with poems of Fatherland, if such there be.
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Greybeard Says:
February 16, 2010 at 10:27 pm
Dear Yuri, I could never consider you unimportant! As a devout and dedicated Filthy Capitalist Pig, all such fetid relics of the despised USSR as yourself are absolute anathema to me. I will never rest until you have all been captured and “redacted” to a suitable middle-eastern resort where you can peacefully while* away your declining years with water sports and electro-therapy.
*(“Nor do I beg this slender inch, to while The time away, or falsely to beguile My thoughts with joy”.)
As you have cleverly discerned, I am indeed sailing upon the Atlantic at present. Some trifling tax irregularities have rendered it prudent for me to remain “offshore” – like so many of my assets – for the time being.
I am utterly beguiled by your charming correspondence. If you would be so kind as to supply an address, I would consider it an honour to forward you a set of my personal ivory chopsticks (hand-carved from the budding tusks of a pre-pubescent elephant by Royal Maidens). I will even include one of the small silver mallets which I use for crushing ice, toffee and dissent.
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 16, 2010 at 10:55 pm
I say, Old Capitalist chum, that line of poetry was so exquisite, I must
know the name of the author. Since I am a newcomer to the English language I
feel as if what I say is a mere compilation of what others with a thorough
grasp of the language have said before, although probably everything has
been said before! I often thought how lovely being in the Atlantic would be
,in Jamaica for example. It would be precious fun to go native and adopt
the singular hairdos of the Rastas, and their heathen based life religion.
As heathen myself, I still can perceive their life, permeated with this
groundedness with the Mother Earth is something different. A fellow comrade
of mine went there and spoke in gushing love for the place. I am still
looking for more of the Fuhrer’s poetry. As time passes, I will post more
onto this blog.I only hope that an ex-Nazi female comrade sees them and gets
caught up in the spirit of the Ex-Nazi-Communist thrall and sends me a photo
of her chest to practice diagnosing any symptoms. Them I would be able to
prescribe a suitable treatment plan, which I could then administer. Yours
truly, must go , kettle boiling.
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paulboylan Says:
February 17, 2010 at 1:03 am
I swear to God, if I didn’t know better, I would swear this guy is me.
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Greybeard Says:
February 17, 2010 at 1:16 am
I did have a momentary suspicion.
Hey Bathroom_Fitting. I can’t type Cyrillic here but what I’m thinking sounds like “seen sukie”. If you are a genuine old-time Tovarich, I’m sure you’ll know what that means? Dasvidanya Gospodine Nahl.
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 17, 2010 at 1:26 am
My Dear Capitalist Comrade, I have come to like you and your fine associate, even if you are Capitalist oppressors of the proletariat. I have faith (as much as it is possible for a heathen to have faith) that when the Capitalist gods, the Huge Banks, and the Military Industrial Complex (which General Eisenhower warned about, but nobody listened!) I will be able to help you fellows adjust into the new, resurgent, Soviet Union, and we will all live happily ever after in splendor of “Workers Paradise” until then, however, I still have ambition to become Doctor of Chestology. After perusing teachings of His Holiness G. Rasputin, I could say, there is slight possibility I could find religion. This probably would be in direct proportion to number of chests I had administered therapeutic massage to. I must away, have appointment with destiny at library! Yours Yuri
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 17, 2010 at 5:32 pm
Most Esteemed Capitalist Comrades, I am unfamiliar with this dialect which you have asked me to translate. In my humble opinion, two possibilities (1) is verbal repost , implying mother of person is related to Rin-Tin-Tin, and by logical inference , so is person, (very funny, I laugh!), (2) Is last words uttered by self proclaimed “Soul Brother Number One” before passing over into great abyss of afterlife, causing new star to appear in Hubble telescope field of vision. Please correct me if I am wrong, as I seek knowledge required to break free of any limitations imposed on me by myself or God. (you will notice please, I used “G” word again. I am fast becoming filthy Capitalist!
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Greybeard Says:
February 17, 2010 at 9:21 pm
Whale oil beef hooked! You win Yuri, I dips me lid to you. You can stuff me with burgers and call me an Imperialist Lackey.
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Paul Nicholas Boylan Says:
February 17, 2010 at 10:29 pm
This is the best discussion I have ever read. It can’t be over yet. It can’t be.
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 17, 2010 at 10:57 pm
Comrade Greybeard, I am sure you know that it’s always a pleasure.
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Greybeard Says:
February 17, 2010 at 10:58 pm
Well I did consider firing back one of our freedom-loving Aussie poems to counter those of the Fuhrer(?)
There was a young man from Australia
Who painted his arse like a dahlia
The shape was fine,
and the colours divine
But the smell, on the whole, was a fahlia
Sadly, I doubt that one such as Yuri, intellectually stunted and abandoned by the mendacious and monolithic monster that was Soviet education, could possibly descry the multiple levels of meaning and subtext in this subtle and poignant piece of poesy.
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 17, 2010 at 11:14 pm
Comrades, I must away and walk my Afghan dog Momo. I acquired him when peace loving former Soviet Union was trying to bring democracy to forlorn divided Afghan political disaster. This was thwarted by plan of Zbigniev Bresinski, for acquisition of undeserved natural resources. This clever plan led to present situation in Afghanistan. I shall return and post a special “Fuhrer poem” to delight your ears.
Your Reliable Communist,
Yuri Nahl
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 20, 2010 at 9:36 pm
mr homorable greybeard have stiff neck from typing with pencil in mouth. when im better from burned hands will rebuke felatious statement by you re- soviet education. will counter your poem with one about fuhrer for which i recieved standing ovulation at beatnic gathering. many miles davis records wer in great abundancs, bongo drums, beret. even filthy cia didguised as adict . only when super glue bottle was noticed was fellow discerned. as he was glueing mosquitos to arms to simulate mosquitos landing on arm, and getting off so tey couldn’t fly away. obvious ploy often seen in ghetto to convince customers of quality product. yours yuri
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Greybeard Says:
February 21, 2010 at 3:57 am
Dear Yuri,
Having read the above, and your earlier effusions, I can only conclude that your burned hands are the product of furious and prolonged self-abuse. I shudder to imagine the state of your living quarters. They must be even more squalid than my worst imaginings.
As I have no vices whatsoever, I cannot advise you from personal experience. My knowledge of physics and biology (both subjects which I have had the pleasure of teaching) leads me to suggest that:
(a) You change hands more frequently.
(b) that you keep a bowl of cold water nearby, in which you may rest the hand that is not currently occupied by your filthy, sinful perversion.
As to the “standing ovulation” which you received – Beware! This is NOT a safe position. A couple of my acquaintance once proudly displayed a new daughter who had apparently been conceived in the shower, thanks to a standing ovulation. I feel it my duty to warn you, less for your own sake than from the fear that you might actually breed.
I remain Sir, Yours sincerely, Lord Greybeard (Hereditary Jarl of Lower Orkney, in direct line from Harald Blåtand Gormsen, the inventor of short-range RF communication.)
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 21, 2010 at 4:38 am
my dear capitalist lord greybeard. as apolite communist you must inform me how you should be adressed. such as ‘your highness’ or apropriate title. ‘so sorry, opiates are diminishing ability’ am awaiting voice activated typing software.
in diminished memory somehow using hand cleaner with pumice on beloved pinis rings bell.
now i must hope you recall burned hans and penis responsible of crummy tape recorder courtesy of freelancing spy job because of disolution of former soviet union. less spying budget you see. cheap machine self destruct in 3 seconds not 5.
be a sport and see if any good used spy contraptions are in boxes of rf com gear, as i do not wish to be imolated while accepting job of spying.
i notice you have caught on to my squalid accomodations. this is famous spy ploy only known to practitioners of spy craft purpose of keeping away guests. even better is renowned technique of being stuck to decrepit couch with seminal fluid, and announcing authorship of pornographic novels. some extra income can be had ising this ploy of stealth. am telling you these facts in case you are desiring employment as agent in my network.
am getting stiff neck. must sign off. will write again. have to get asbestos gloves for cheap tape recorder.
yours yuri
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yuri_nahl Says:
February 21, 2010 at 9:18 am
comrade greybeard. important memory breakthrough has occured. finaly i have someone to ask for answer to question which has been beyond my uneducated ability to answer. ok here is problem. using property called ‘conservation of angular momentum’ when ice on polar caps melts, water goes to equator. does earth rotation slow down? that has been beyond my ability to answer since question formed in my mind due to some peculiar elixir. most spy friends have not the answer. now you must answer, as i depend on your educated brain. also in theme similar to ‘it is small world isn’t it’, my friend mr.boondoggle had ancestor ‘ mad eric blue hair mcboondoggle who fled scotland after ‘killing dog of an englishman’ then changed name to Verrückt Eric der Blaue Haare Freiherr von Boondoggle. i knew i had it somewhere. so this blue-tooth contraption may have ancestory in a friend i have as well as your grandpa.
now i must defer to renowned english revolutionary and devotee of use of sin as path to holy enlightenment. mr. oscar wilde who spake these concept ‘ in order to overcome temptation, one must yield to same.’ very wise. i have practiced these teaching before even reading of same.
though mr. wilde had impressive wardrobe, as spy, it does not behoov one to dress ostentatiously. also in order to conserve water, one must conclude the inflated importance given to bathing, in corrupt capitalist propoganda. together with excessive electricity used for vacuuming house. just open window on windy day, dust gets blown out other side. these are just tips so you may have happy home with beloved family after oil goes away.
must soon stop writing . neck is sore. cannot return to hospital, because in ‘land of free’ it is not free ‘exclamation point’ found this out with smouldering trousers after cheap tape recorder incident, hands blazing. will give poem after which you will say’touchet’
Comrades, my beloved auntie, Doctor Ivana Nahlinskia, was brought to Doctor Theodor Morell’s, the Fuhrer’s private physician’s residence to view the doctor’s private diaries before they were taken to GRU (military intelligence ) archive. In the diary was found “Lost Fuhrer Poem (regarding medical issues)”. I will publish it here for the first time for your reading pleasure. ….
“Fuhrer Poem Regarding Medical Issues”.
When I became the Fuhrer ,
To lead the Fascist nation, I had to give up these barbiturates,
Because they gave me constipation.
The End.
since that one was short ‘like japenese ‘haiku’, will include another…
Comrades, my auntie also found a poem by Doctor Morell who tried to emulate the Fuhrer in certain ways because he was like the obsequious Uria Heap but kept this poem secret because it showed the Fuhrer in a rather dim light…So for your edification this is “Doctor Morell Secret Poem Regarding the Fuhrer”…
As the Fuhrer got older,
And his bladder sphincter became weak,
He tucked his jodphurs into his riding boots,
But got urine on his feet.
The End.
comrades, my neck is too stiff . must stop giving away secrets of soviet poet lauriate.
your communist friend, yuri
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Greybeard Says:
February 21, 2010 at 10:34 am
Dear Yuri,
Yes.
Yrs etc., Lord Greybeard Grattskoggson
PNB WAS SELECTING A NEW AVATAR ON PEOPLE OF THE EARTH BLOG
yuri_nahl Says:
February 17, 2010 at 9:34 am
Comrade, there is only one answer. The inescapable conclusion is His Holiness Father Grigori Rasputin, blessed adviser to Tsaritsa Alexandra, and healer of the Royal Chest by means of Holy Therapeutic Laying on of Hands. One on each protrusion, that is. His Holiness preached his special method of achieving a state of grace, through sin. Because, without sin, there can be no confession, no absolution. Even so, that story about Father Grigory raping that nun is not true. The trumped up “evidence” that caused the swine Prince Felix Yusupov to brutally and callously murder the Holy Father was a child's outline of Rasputins hands, made into wood “silhouettes” then dipped into dust, then applied to the chest and buttock area of the clothing of any Royal female court person. A laundry girl was bribed to do the dirty work. So after putting the ’spurious hand prints’ onto the chest protrusions of the princesses, and their little behinds, the jealous Prince Felix incited a murderous gang of minor court malingerers, drunkards and louts of a murderous inclination who cruelly poisoned, shot, then drowned the pitiful Holy Father Rasputin, and cut off his penis (which was extra long, and this God-given giganticness has been posited, by a consensus of experts in the forensic psychiatry academia, to be the real and dastardly motive for this wanton crime.) The Holy Father, even in death was resurrected temporarily to admonish the rascals who had stolen his penis. But the sight of the missing organ was too much for even a man of such Holy and Divine stature. The curs who killed him burned his body. Now some say that the Holy Father Rasputin became one of the un-dead, and because of black and white magic, potions and incantations the Holy Man had passed on himself fearing the end was nigh, he was able to rise from the dead, and even though he was burned and missing his penis, started on a therapeutic pilgrimage to recover his stolen penis, since he would never be at rest till he had it re-attached to his body. This is why he has been seen walking all over the earth trying to recover his own extra long penis from various penis collectors. Due to the advent of air travel, this has made it worse for the Holy Father since it is difficult to walk thousands of miles when you are un-dead, and can’t urinate without getting urine all over yourself, because without a penis, you can’t aim the stream down wind for example, and as a result, it has a tendency to douse you all over. This is why, in the barren wilds of the peasant lands, if they smelled urine they would utter “Rasputin is upon us!” and run away. This was so well known, crafty desperadoes would get a bucket of smelly urine and slosh it all over the upwind side of banks, then when the superstitious villagers got a whiff of the urine, they would say “Rasputin is upon us!” and run away. Then the crafty thieves could stroll into the bank, and help themselves to plenty of swag and make good their getaway, before the villagers came back with torches expecting to confront the un-dead Holy Man. This happened so many times, that the peasants stopped saying “Rasputin is upon us!” every time they got a whiff of urine, then when the real un-dead Rasputin staggered past, the villagers did not have time to get their torches to intercept him. He still walks to this day. So for the love of God, chose His Holiness Grigori Rasputin, for your avatar, since this may help solicit more contributions to the “Recover Rasputin’s Penis Charity” In this way, His Holiness will be re-united with his extra gigantic penis and be able to rest in peace, or bone un-dead women, or if he’s a gay un-dead man of the cloth, have a gay un-dead experience
February 17, 2010 at 9:34 am
Comrade, there is only one answer. The inescapable conclusion is His Holiness Father Grigori Rasputin, blessed adviser to Tsaritsa Alexandra, and healer of the Royal Chest by means of Holy Therapeutic Laying on of Hands. One on each protrusion, that is. His Holiness preached his special method of achieving a state of grace, through sin. Because, without sin, there can be no confession, no absolution. Even so, that story about Father Grigory raping that nun is not true. The trumped up “evidence” that caused the swine Prince Felix Yusupov to brutally and callously murder the Holy Father was a child's outline of Rasputins hands, made into wood “silhouettes” then dipped into dust, then applied to the chest and buttock area of the clothing of any Royal female court person. A laundry girl was bribed to do the dirty work. So after putting the ’spurious hand prints’ onto the chest protrusions of the princesses, and their little behinds, the jealous Prince Felix incited a murderous gang of minor court malingerers, drunkards and louts of a murderous inclination who cruelly poisoned, shot, then drowned the pitiful Holy Father Rasputin, and cut off his penis (which was extra long, and this God-given giganticness has been posited, by a consensus of experts in the forensic psychiatry academia, to be the real and dastardly motive for this wanton crime.) The Holy Father, even in death was resurrected temporarily to admonish the rascals who had stolen his penis. But the sight of the missing organ was too much for even a man of such Holy and Divine stature. The curs who killed him burned his body. Now some say that the Holy Father Rasputin became one of the un-dead, and because of black and white magic, potions and incantations the Holy Man had passed on himself fearing the end was nigh, he was able to rise from the dead, and even though he was burned and missing his penis, started on a therapeutic pilgrimage to recover his stolen penis, since he would never be at rest till he had it re-attached to his body. This is why he has been seen walking all over the earth trying to recover his own extra long penis from various penis collectors. Due to the advent of air travel, this has made it worse for the Holy Father since it is difficult to walk thousands of miles when you are un-dead, and can’t urinate without getting urine all over yourself, because without a penis, you can’t aim the stream down wind for example, and as a result, it has a tendency to douse you all over. This is why, in the barren wilds of the peasant lands, if they smelled urine they would utter “Rasputin is upon us!” and run away. This was so well known, crafty desperadoes would get a bucket of smelly urine and slosh it all over the upwind side of banks, then when the superstitious villagers got a whiff of the urine, they would say “Rasputin is upon us!” and run away. Then the crafty thieves could stroll into the bank, and help themselves to plenty of swag and make good their getaway, before the villagers came back with torches expecting to confront the un-dead Holy Man. This happened so many times, that the peasants stopped saying “Rasputin is upon us!” every time they got a whiff of urine, then when the real un-dead Rasputin staggered past, the villagers did not have time to get their torches to intercept him. He still walks to this day. So for the love of God, chose His Holiness Grigori Rasputin, for your avatar, since this may help solicit more contributions to the “Recover Rasputin’s Penis Charity” In this way, His Holiness will be re-united with his extra gigantic penis and be able to rest in peace, or bone un-dead women, or if he’s a gay un-dead man of the cloth, have a gay un-dead experience
Monday, May 24, 2010
FUHRER POEM AND WORDS OF THE PROPHET
1.
yuri_nahl Says:
April 19, 2010 at 4:59 am
Comrades, in safe deposit box of the Schikelguber family, following masterpiece was discovered with used condoms with names of ladies written on same, apparent “trophy condoms” of future Chancellor of Germany.
Meine Deuches Volk
Before I became the Fuhrer,
I was really destitute,
I tried to make ends meet,
By becoming a male prostitute.
I’d go to a be-bop joint,
Where the band was really jumping,
Try to find an old bag,
Take her home and do some pumping.
Many a night of ecstasy.
Was enjoyed by these old bats,
Whose privates smelled like the sandbox,
Of a hundred mangy old cats.
The Ende
2.
yuri_nahl Says:
April 19, 2010 at 5:40 am
Comrades, A reminiscence of time of Underground Church in Peace Loving Motherland.
When I was altar boy at high mass, we would have to use those candle extinguishers to catch priests pee, as he was an old bastard with the weak bladder, and because the high mass takes really long time. Especially if he’d been swigging a lot of the sacramental wine. So when he was facing the altar he’s discretely pull his penis out and we’d take turns catching the wizz, in the candle extinguishers, because they’re on long stick and dumping same in brass cuspidor. Priest would get angry when we purposely let piss overflow onto his shoes, and we would have to dry them off with that scarf thing that hangs round his neck. In summer when he wore the sandals, priest wold get angry because his feet would turn yellow, from the piss. We would do our best to fill his shoes up with piss anyway , it was funny because when he walked there was this sloshing noise like he was walking through puddle. One time he was so drunk he forgot to put his wiener away and his tool was hanging out while he passed out communion. The ladies were gasping and opening their mouths and the priest thought they were having an epiphany. When we were collecting the priests pee in the candle extinguishers, we would dump the pee into a brass cuspidor, because a ceramic chamber pot with bunnies on it would not look quite right on the altar. But we’d always put it in a place where he’d trip on it and have the sacramental wine and hosts flying through the air to the devout, like hailstorm of miniature flying saucers, or Frisbees, The alcoholics would dive towards the wine and the truly devout would try to capture the hosts in their mouths, or purses for those housewives who were economizing. (because later, they could put a little pate on the hosts and serve them for snacks at coffee clutch)
In any case the drama looked similar to when zoo worker flings hunks of mackerel to seals, except without the barking. The priest would by then be surfing down stairs, resembling the battleship making 25 knots through heavy seas. Awash on a Niagara Falls of piss, the old duffer would be drenched. We never emptied the cuspidor of urine, and it would smell like worst piss pot in universe. We had to stop doing it when the priests’ pointy hat stabbed one of the parishioners when he was surfing down the steps. He had had it lined with metal after a death threat (because of a molesting case) and the pointy bits were metal too and that’s what stabbed one of the devout who was lying on the floor as a result of panic to get away from the tidal wave of urine. The ambulance guys had to carry stabbed man away impaled with pointy hat still stuck in him, and remove the priest who was sitting on poor fellows’ chest trying to wrench the hat out. Amen..
Comrades, this is true story.
3.
Moko Says:
April 19, 2010 at 6:39 am
lol @ both of you..
4.
yuri_nahl Says:
April 19, 2010 at 7:38 am
Comrades, be advised that I saw Karl Lagerfeld hanging around outside my crib at night. Normally I would just send my world renowned Black Dog, Momo the Afghan Hound, to despatch the brigand, but I can see he’s packing, I can see he’s packing a H&K MP7 or similar, so it would be too risky to let Momo remove the blighter.
So I climbed up onto the roof and dropped a big turd onto his head. With those shades, he’s easy to identify. Even Dracula doesn’t wear shades at night. I had a supply of frozen turds in the freezer, and I had thawed out a few as I thought I might miss him the first time, and I’d need a spare, or two. (One needs to drop turds on desperadoes in this neighborhood from time to time). I have a microwave on the roof, cuz I know that getting hit by a frozen turd from 30 feet up could be deadly. He usually has a young model with him and that night was no different. Therefore, I selected a turd for her too. So when Karl came around with his H&K strapped to his chest, I dropped a nice solid turd onto his white pompadour. (I wore rubber gloves, to avert the danger of getting shit under my fingernails, thus avoiding a whiff of poo if I picked my nose. Plus I only used my thumb and forefinger so I could cut the other fingers off the glove and use them for condoms.)
Now, he, Karl, is so vain that he’ll not want to have a hair out of place, even if there’s a big stinking hunk of shit stuck to his noggin. I have to admit I was thinking of chucking a hand grenade out the window, but I reconsidered. If an explosion went off behind him, it would blow his coiffure up in the air and he would resemble the news chick Christiane Amanpour, who used to hang upside down and blow dry her hair so it was sticking up all over the place, then set fire to the tips, and claim that she just had a narrow escape from Al-Qaeda. Everyone found out she was faking, mangled up hair or not, when she turned around and there were a couple of lit cigarettes stuck in the back of her hair to simulate a smoldering coiffure..(unless they were just using her head for an ashtray while she was taking a nap) Besides, an explosion would shatter the windows of the atelier.
Karl would make much hay out of the explosion and get sympathy. I would have liked to have seen him with his shades blown off though. I have a feeling that someone poked him in the eye on general principles, and he had to have one of his testicles transplanted into his eye socket , then have an iris and pupil tattooed onto it. (he could have got a regular glass eye, but when he went to the glass eye store, he got the impression they were all staring at him) The only problem is if he rolls his eyes too much the fake eyeball gets stuck, and when he un-rolls them, he has one regular, and one completely white eyeball like in the horror movies. Even so, one of the eyeballs might have bulged out more than the other, giving him a “piratical” sort of cachet, because lots of times pirates do have one bulging eyeball. This gives verisimilitude to the phrase when they say “Aaaaaar, matey!” I’m fairly sure he would prefer symmetrically bulging eyeballs. This does not even take into consideration the fact that once the testicle was hooked up to the veins, it still produces sperm which leaks out of his eye like the geezer in that 007 movie. So if he was eating pussy, there was a chance the chick would get knocked up if he just happened to take a close gander at her pussy. That would be a reason to wear shades. Or even better, a frogman mask to completely seal in the sperm, but not an Aqualung.
5.
Barnesm Says:
April 19, 2010 at 8:00 am
“I’ve decided to keep my opinion to myself”
These are indeed words to survive by in any relationship.
6.
bangarrr Says:
April 19, 2010 at 9:45 am
Along the lines of “Better to be thought a fool, than to open ones mouth and remove all doubt”?
7.
paulboylan Says:
April 19, 2010 at 3:14 pm
Yuri – I was wondering what happened to you. Does Greybeard know you’re back?
Barnes and Bangar – Exactly.
8.
yuri_nahl Says:
April 19, 2010 at 8:51 pm
Comrade, humble self just returned. Following exposition may help explain recent departure. Then Comrade Gretbeard does not as far as I know.
Partial answer to conundrum follows and I will add facts as they become understood by mind weakened by horse and dog hypnosis assault.
Comrades, you will please excuse sudden and unexplained absence…. I, Yuri Nahl was in deep “de-mind control” therapy.
Because of the astute, observant Mr.Boondoggle, who noticed that the world-renowned black dog, the Afghan hound Momo, had let the hair on the side of his eyes grow long, (so his eyes could not be seen), he (Mr.Boondoggle) was able to extrapolate or infer that Momo was hypnotizing me every time he thought no one was watching. Furthermore, it was determined that Momo and the horses were beaming “mind-control rays” at me, using various methods, in order to make me enter a partial “Voodoo trance” .
Upon realizing these facts, I was removed to a dog and horse free location, where I would be safe from “mind-manipulation” by four legged animals. This was an old “Cold War” A-Bomb blast and radiation fallout shelter, buried underground, immune to most types of radiation, gamma rays, Voodoo Black and White magic, etc. (even though they were not cloven hoofed, [ the minions of the Fiend of Hell"] these horses and the dog Momo could generate magic storms equal to the output of the Vatican on Good Friday.) This “magic plasma” power is equal to ten lightning strikes and has caused the population of whole towns to have their hairdos become like Nick Nolte’s.
The horses were moved to a new location in the pasture right by the foundry and supplied with a tent, their wide screen TV, a supply of their special smelly hay they had ordered on the Internet with their voice actuated keyboard, and the pirated videos from Parkland College in Illinois, USA, which showed horses mating. (they had hacked into the Veterinary School files and thought these videos were ”OK horse xxx pornos”) They had been selling these “horse pornos” on eBay.
Now while I was isolated in safety and not susceptible to the horse “hypnosis rays,” the nerds looked around the horses stalls. There the nerds found , (1) A wireless keyboard, voice activated, (2) A number of LCD photo frames, with the dog Momo or one of the four horses on each of them, in head on poses looking intense, (3) Wireless connections to hook up the horses electronic contraptions to the foundry computer system, (4) Evidence of (hacked) code in the foundry computer, suggesting the horses had set up some hidden operation of their own, which was invisible, unless nerds were looking for it. (5) Miniature CS TV cameras,(closed circuit TV) (6) LCD picture frames set up in the horse stalls, and used as hard to notice TV monitors.
Using nerd mind power, mostly of the Chief Nerd Clyde, the significance of the hacked, almost invisible computer code was determined. It was shown that when I Yuri Nahl was in the foundry, The horses would be observing me with their miniature closed circuit TV surveillance cameras, waiting for me to sit down and relax, and perhaps take a draw on a medicinal “blunt” or “spliff” prescribed by the Doctor of Voodoo Medicine, Baron Samedi MD. Then using a camera in each horse stall, one camera aimed at each horse, they would beam “mind control rays ” at me, using the LCD photo frames the cameras were hooked up to, as a medium. These LCD photo frames were hung in the foundry lounge where everyone relaxed, including me.
9.
yuri_nahl Says:
April 20, 2010 at 4:51 am
Whereas, most people think that two live mammals have to be physically present in the same location to do hypnosis, this is not correct. A reasonable facsimile will suffice, such as the LCD picture frame “horse photos”, which in reality were “real-time” Video of the horses!
If I were to look at the “horse photos,” (which were supposedly for my viewing pleasure) they would stand really still. (and pretend it was a “photo”. not an active hypnosis medium.) I seem to have a recollection of a fly drifting by in one of the photos, but it just didn’t register in my mind, as I was probably partially under their “enchantment” or “spell”.
These devious animals had a “flash drive” type system in their hacked foundry computer, from which they played different “mind control” images, and murmurings, sort of like Jane Fonda exercise videos. Their software had face recognition capability, including detecting “yawing” of the subject being observed’s head, which allowed them to see if I was looking at their “LCD photos”. They had apparently hacked the software from an anti terrorist surveillance gadget at San Francisco airport. They used this to stop the murmuring and focused energy rays if I happened to look at their photos. At that time they were shown posed in a docile and relaxed manner, as if they had just munched an extra helping of their special smelly hay. (Which made them drowsy.) ( normally, they would then watch “Mr. Ed” videos, or get giant boners. or both.) This setup evolved into a self regulating hypnosis weapon, which could be turned on and left, while the horses were taking a nap for example).
These “fake LCD photograph mind control weapons” were constantly working, so there was no escaping the beams of energy. If Mr.Boondoggle had not noticed and diagnosed my symptoms, there’s no telling what might have happened, but I suspect it would have had something to do with attractive female horses. This “horse love” was their downfall. Dobbin had been composing a love sonnet to a female horse e-pen pal he had been courting and forgot to encrypt it,….There it was in plain text just by coincidence at the time when the nerds were doing their forensic code analysis, so the jig was up. This “love poem” also tipped the other horses off about Dobbin’s “love monopoly” and they wanted in. They checked on eBay to see if the stuffed “Trigger” (Roy Regor’s horse) was up for bid, so they could use it as a “sex toy” .
Much horse strategy had been planned, including their film careers.
Momo suggested that they reprise the “Mr. Ed ” show with Dobbin playing “Mr. Ed,” as the original “Mr.Ed” had passed over. They were planning on using Mr.Boondoggle as “Wilbur” since the original actor, Alan Young, was 90.
10.
yuri_nahl Says:
April 20, 2010 at 9:27 am
Comrades, this is a few more words describing the “Karl Lagerfeld Incident” As you may recall from reading the first part of the story, I dropped a turd onto Karl Lagerfeld’s head because he was hanging around my pad with a machine pistol, and seemed to be up to no good.
Now he had a choice. Try to get a comb through the turd, and possibly end up with a reverse “Bride of Frankenstein” motif, with a brown streak on his white hair, or just try saying “Fuck it!” and claim that “It’s the latest thing!” and pull off a fashion coup.
But also, I then dropped a solid clod of shit down his chicks cleavage. I hoped that it would rip her shirt down and her bra, and it did. Like rend it from top to bottom. Like the veil in the temple of Jerusalem, when Christ died and the Saints were thrown out of their tombs. (although I contend that the Saints were just trying to weasel out of working around the house by pretending to be dead, then when their old ladies learned that Christ had croaked, and the Saints were out of a job [hanging out with the Son of God] their old ladies chucked them out of the tombs)
(So the turd I dropped on her decolletage ripped her shirt and bra open. In which case her whopping tits would flop out and dangle down like a couple of grapefruits, one in each of a pair of socks, then the socks tied together and hung around her neck. So she’d have to hold her jugs up to keep them from drooping like some old bag who never wore a bra.
Karl started photographing her now, notwithstanding the turd on his head, and the undeniable fact that there were a multitude of flies sortieing in the vicinity. Going into orbit around the turd, that is.
Because of Karl’s desire to shoot me, (with a gun, not a camera) he had to walk through my crummy neighborhood, with this chick holding her tits up in the air, and Karl with a turd stuck to his head, which bore a slight resemblance to some aerodynamic device seen on “Flying Hero” types who proliferated in the 1940s for some reason. In any case, thugs from the hood noticed the hot jugs on this chick, since she was holding them up in a most provocative manner, as if she were sacrificing them on some kind of altar to thugism, but mostly because she liked manly fellows to gawk at her excellent tits and liked their desire to feel, bite, and douse them with a deluge of semen. So the hoodlums asked the couple to stop for a while so they could masturbate and splatter come all over this chicks face and tits, as she knelt on the sidewalk, while their fellow thugs were yanking on, twirling and stretching her nipples as she groaned with lust.
11.
Flinthart Says:
April 20, 2010 at 12:23 pm
Broken axle? Could be worse. (But thank you for reminding me what I have to look forward to…)
12.
paulboylan Says:
April 20, 2010 at 2:58 pm
Flint – You have no idea.
13.
yuri_nahl Says:
April 20, 2010 at 11:44 pm
Comrades, To continue with this Karl’s blatant assault….
Now Karl did not feel particularly threatened, because he had this machine-pistol strapped to his chest. Plus, with the turd on his head, nobody wanted to come near him, and risk getting bitten by a horsefly.
The gangsters just kept ejaculating on the chicks tits and face as she knelt on the sidewalk, while Karl took more photos, giving the babe instructions on how to pose, in order to evoke various emotions in the viewer, (or “voyeur”) of his erotic art. (His mentor, or artistic concept progenitor, was the late Robert Mapplethorpe) Because Karl and the young lady had allowed the criminals to slobber come all over her, they gave Karl a “Thug-Fashion” tip. So Karl walked away from the scene with a comb suitable for the modern hairdos embedded in his head-turd, parallel to the front to rear axis of his head, except with most of the comb hanging out the back, so it added to the aerodynamic appearance of his head-turd ensemble. Karl began to realize that his “head-turd” somehow had begun to resemble the hair-dos of the Samurai featured in the Shaw Brother’s classics of the 1960s. Those stylized coiffures they wore while whittling up anyone who did not pay excessive deference to their sense of “warrior identity”.
Now these two sharp dressers were headed for a party where the top 100 of the glitterati were celebrating after an unveiling of important fashions for next season. Mick and his daughter, Keith, his hag and his daughters were there, Kate, Mrs.Boondoggle, Norman Mailer, (in a coffin, because the family couldn’t afford a cemetery plot, and even though dead, still a personality) all that hep crowd. Since Norman was in a coffin, Gore Vidal showed up too, but brought a couple of bodyguards in case Norman was struck by a bolt of lightning, and resurrected and even though smoldering enough for people to light their cigarettes on, still might chase Gore around the room, trying to exact revenge for some real or imagined slight, smoke and small flames emanating from his funeral accoutrement.
So that opportunist Karl walked in with the turd still stuck to his bonce, and the broad still drenched with come dripping off her face onto her tits, and running down between them. She was still holding up her tits so they wouldn’t get all droopy. Plus she was still hot from being mauled by the gangsters, and her nipples were tender from being yanked. A lot of the other dames who were gaping at the spectacle would have given anything to be slurping the come off her tits, because they were big, wobbly, and delicious looking…you could say…the definitive “embarrassment of riches “.
The crowd of models, artists, stars of film and the stage fell silent. Then audible gasps were heard. Time stood still. The best people looked at each other hoping for a cue. Then… one person clapping, then two, then more, and soon everyone in the room was applauding, and shouting “Bravo!”, “Bravo!” and generally whooping up seeing the new breakthrough fashion work of genius. And at a party, rather than at a corn-ball venue! They speculated…”Should it be called “Super-Dada” ?
At this time, or shortly after, all the women, dames, ladies, girls and transvestites suddenly looked glum, then shortly after that, they looked really pissed! They started slapping their escorts, kicking them in the balls, and stomping out of the room, angry.
Naturally, the men were totally bewildered. They started making Italian hand gestures and facial expressions at each other meaning “What the fuck just happened?” and “Oh my balls!”
Karl Lagerfeld had to tip them off. “Your bitches want to be drenched with come and be holding their tits. purportedly so they don’t droop like a couple of cannon balls, but in reality, so they could display their hot torpedoes to the general public, and remember, I created this new unprecedented “Deshabille Fashion”, and this young slut is the prototype. And by the way , doesn’t my “head-turd” look excrement!”…”You vill laugh!, Ve have Vays of makeeng you laugh!”
14.
Ana Nymous Says:
April 22, 2010 at 8:13 pm
Too bad about the car; bad news but not too bad. Just enough to lead to a wonderful bit of prose.
15.
yuri_nahl Says:
April 23, 2010 at 12:50 am
Comrades, you will please to forgive disrupted sequence of events, as during this “diminished defense from
encroachment into the sovereign will,” alleged “man’s best friend” Momo had laid into place a few
“Manchurian Candidates” riding “Trojan Horses” to facilitate
future villainous deeds of criminally inclined mountebank. Therefore assembling history is “a wee bit chancy”, as Auld Angus McBoondoggle was want to say occasionally.
So to continue in narrative of “Incident at Boondoggle Foundry”……
Much planning had gone on, led by the renowned Momo. Due to his penchant for history, Momo had read of the British Raj in India, (the “Jewel in the Crown” of the British Empire). (It must be said, most of his reading was done online , as dogs find it difficult to turn pages.) (rumor has it he’s considering a small edition of his “Seven Pillars I Wizzed On” An account of the British adventures in the old country.
He had dog relations in Afghanistan, who had communicated with Indian elephants whose ancestors had been in service to the British during the time of the Raj. Some of these service elephants were used as “hunting platforms” for the British, and when the elephants overheard the British talking about some barbaric “tiger hunt” or equally grotesque pastime, they would tip off the tigers through the animal grapevine so the tigers would know which area to clear out of till the coast was clear. There were even tales of elephants pretending to trip over objects to fling the hunters off their platform when they were ready to blast some innocent creature which God had created to Kingdom Come.
The elephants had many interesting tales, (due to their good memories, and oral histories passed down from generation to generation), some of which had never been told before. For example, After hearing of the exploits of Katherine the Great of Russia’s love of using horse semen for a restorative skin balm, British women who had accompanied their husbands to India to educate and evangelize the heathens had started to use this “stallion semen therapy” to fight the rapid skin aging caused by the blazing sun.
They also seemed to enjoy practicing newly learned “love skills ” taught them by the Indian women who were not repressed like the British. The ladies had cleverly utilized the most appropriate admonition, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”
Luckily for the ladies, there was an ample supply of healthy stallions which the British officers used for prancing around the countryside, and lording it up in general. These stallions allowed the ladies to commence learning the correct semen harvesting method needed for their “Stallion Semen Skin Therapy”, as taught by the Indian ladies who were “in waiting” to the British ladies. The stallions did not seem to take great umbrage, or any umbrage at all to this “semen harvesting”, in fact , they were very co-operative.
This learning of the “marriage skills” was facilitated by the two foot long penises of the stallions, because during “marriage skill class” six or so British ladies could participate in the learning process at one time ( because a lot of dainty little hands could fit onto a two foot long penis at one time, while giving it a “light wiener rub”). This allowed larger classes, sped up the learning process and helped the British women overcome their Puritanical upbringing, and getting used to a horse ejaculating into their rectums for a therapeutic semen enema.
This did not mean that the ladies had enormous two foot long horse penises stuffed into their undersized, non-sodomized rectums, no. It merely meant that a few of the other ladies held the knob on the end of the writhing, squirmy, throbbing member firmly against the anus of the lady who was undergoing treatment, and holding it there as the flow of semen would jet into her bowels like a geyser of hot lava or a pot of hot clam chowder which had somehow been thrown off the second floor of an apartment building by a woman who’s plumbing was plugged up and landed right on the ladies anus as she did a peculiar yoga posture which rendered her anus pointing skyward and her legs spread apart. The ladies would know when the patient had received enough medicinal ejaculate because they could see her belly swelling up and they knew just the right time to pull the quivering horse therapy knob away from her anus before it blew off the end of the penis and into the woman’s rectum and became embedded within, resembling some giant tumor, or ricocheted off her bottom and gave somebody a black eye, or the woman erupted like a fountain squirting therapeutic semen from her mouth and anus simultaneously.
Previously the ladies had utilized the penis of a “house boy” for “marriage skill” development. The British women practiced fellatio, hand stimulation, sodomy, sitting on a face and various other practices listed in the “Kama Sutra”, including “golden showers” and an occasional “brown-out”. Often utilizing their houseboy’s stiff, young extra long, (and sometimes even extra thick) penises, which had a big throbbing red knob on the end and reminded those of them with a still life collection of “a painting which had an empty pint milk bottle with an apple sitting on the top of it upside down.” This made the job as a “house boy” much sought after.
The use of the semen which the women had their house boys ejaculate onto their faces and bosoms was also a blessing in that, the dubious expensive lotions previously used were not needed.
Semen therapy allowed the ladies to show their bosoms to the general public again, even with the blazing Indian sun. This display of heaving bosoms squeezed out their garments by tight corsets with clever padded parts which had the effect of making their bosoms wobble and bulge out of their dresses so much that their breasts had the appearance of something which the slightest jolt, such as a butterfly landing on a flower within a quarter mile or so would be cause enough to burst loose these grateful large bosoms from their un-natural confinement and answer the prayers of all who had caught sight of this potential miracle by becoming true, and restoring faith in the most devout atheist regarding the power of prayer.
The reason these ladies bulging, wobbling, swaying breasts were being displayed was to keep their White husbands and suitors from becoming overly well acquainted with any of the lovely brownish Indian ladies whose own dangling wobbly swaying breasts could be almost seen through the gauzy fabric and lace garments they wore. The British ladies were also aware of the marriage skills of the Indian ladies, since they were the actual teachers, and the British ladies the students.
Some of the gentlemen resorted to paying some heathen to fire a gun in the vicinity of any lady whose large, wobbly bosoms he wished would pop out of her tight accoutrement, and when she was startled and flinched, many times that was the result. Then the gentlemen would pretend to not watch as the lady tried to stuff her size ten bosoms back into a size five shirt, and this was an attractive process to observe, since just as she was done cramming one bulging bosom into her shirt and almost the whole second one, the first would re-pop back out and many silent prayers of thanks to a number of Gods, Christian and heathen, would emanate from the men within line of sight. (although hidden behind newspapers with holes cut in them to better observe the attempts to re-insert the breasts into the shirts without seeming too blatant)
Comrades, unfortunately Momo, Dobbin, Boliver, Albert and Rollo seem to be holding parts of anecdote hostage for unknown reason. Will present facts as soon as I, Yuri Nahl can do so.
>>
16.
YB Says:
April 23, 2010 at 4:41 am
Yuri, You never cease to confound and entertain.
17.
yuri_nahl Says:
April 23, 2010 at 5:11 am
Comrade, most gracious compliment shows generous nature of yourself. Please accept grateful thanks.
18.
Abigail Says:
April 23, 2010 at 1:14 pm
Nice to be back in the wonderful world of Boylan and Nahl, the best troll ever. I wonder could you make a sit com about a troll called yuri?
20.
Greybeard Says:
April 28, 2010 at 9:52 pm
A witless man, when he meets with men,
Had best in silence abide;
For no one shall find that nothing he knows,
If his mouth is not open too much.
Often he speaks who never is still
With words that win no faith;
The babbling tongue, if a bridle it find not,
Oft for itself sings ill.
21.
Scott Says:
April 29, 2010 at 4:18 pm
Yuri, funny as allways by about the third comment I’m in stitches, probably says something about my twisted sense of humour.
Are we looking at another Yuri/Greybeard poem off?
22.
paulboylan Says:
April 29, 2010 at 4:48 pm
Personally, I am secretly hoping for a yuri/greybeard
#
#
yuri_nahl Says:
April 30, 2010 at 1:24 pm
So like, you open your 10,000 eyes and realize you’ve been
re-incarnated as a fly. You were such a bastard in your last life, you
have to atone for your sins by living as a fly for a few lifetimes and
work your way up as a raccoon and maybe a monkey before you are human
again.
So this takes place in India because that’s where the general story
takes place, and your religion is one where this sort of
re-incarnation shit takes place. You can be a fly, a rotting corpse,
or a pile of ashes. So you’re fucked.
You’re really hungry because the house you came to life in is a
British house (even though it’s in India) . The dwellers are obsessive
compulsive and want everything “just so” “ship shape and Bristol
fashion”.
As a result, there are no dead cats or lying around the place or a dog
like Momo who would take a shit on the carpet, or in his masters bed,
as a practical joke. Therefore there would be nary a turd, or
moldering pile of necrotic flesh to nurture a flock of fly babies in.
As a result, no flying around humming “While Shepherds Watch Their
Flocks”. No gobbling down a snack from a festering turd.
You are forced to hide under the toilet seat, waiting for someone to
come along and plop a meteorite into the calm waters of the Porcelain
Sea.
You’re thinking, “This starving to death , waiting for a hunk of shit
to snack on is the lowest form of life. Plus, there is always the
“Hell of Being Smashed with a Flyswatter” so the lifetime spent as a
fly must be worth ten lifetimes as a mongoose, or squirrel.
Then to add insult to injury, the homeowners have a fan in the ceiling
turned by one of the heathens stationed in the sweltering attic. They
have attached crucifixes to the blades with string, so they swing out
and act as a “prayer wheel” like in Tibetan religion, and also to bat
to death flies who are not inclined to watch for danger.
The Indian houseboys have taken up the habit of collecting already
dead flies and flicking them up in the air like boogers so they land
underneath the fan. They pretend the crucifixes have walloped the
dead flies out of the air and exclaim, “it’s a miracle!”
The Memsahib agrees, and gives the heathens a long lecture on
Christianity, even though they think it’s a crock of shit, but laying
around being evangelized is easier than doing house chores.
So now, back to hiding under the toilet seat, waiting for a bit of
Mannah from Heaven. Or even more appropriate, waiting for his ship to
come in , or submarine to surface, (depending on whether or not it’s a
floater.)
#
yuri_nahl Says:
April 30, 2010 at 1:28 pm
You, (fly), are hoping that the person pinching off the loaf is an
opium user, because they get constipated, (like Elvis) and their
turds move like watching the minute hand of a clock. Or even watching
a woman in hard labor having a child.
A lot of squeezing and groaning is required to evacuate the Rock of
Gibraltar from their anuses. It could be compared to a size ten train
trying to push through a size five tunnel.
Some people have said when these people finally cut loose a turd the
size of a small loaf of bread, it’s reminiscent of the WW II German
super heavy 60cm mortar “Karl” lobbing a projectile into the air.
Except sort of “up-side down” but you get the picture.
The fly’s prayers are answered as some hefty British dowager
approaches, floorboards creaking under her considerable weight. She
hasn’t had it in the ass for years, so she doesn’t have a gaping,
reamed out asshole like these young British ladies.
No semen enemas either, so no quivering stallion love apple having a
chance of sliding into her lady garden and remodeling it into a
structure with dimensions similar to those of the Spiral Nebula.
You (fly) see the old cows gigantic ass descending onto the toilet
seat, making it bend and making you worry that you will be crushed.
The bathroom floor around the toilet bowl dips down slightly.
The whole scene reminds you of when you were human, (before being
re-incarnated as a fly) and it was monsoon season, and daddy had
hired those fly-by-night roof repair men , and hundreds of gallons of
water had leaked into the ceiling above your bed and it started to bow
downward and even though you kept yelling “Daddy, the ceiling’s caving
in!” since he was gouging mama a new set of innards, he ignored you
till the deluge broke through, and carried you down the stairs towards
the front door hallway . Sort of like Moses, except not on a basket
woven of reeds. This of course gave mama an excuse to avoid being
ravaged by papa in monsoon season.
#
yuri_nahl Says:
April 30, 2010 at 1:42 pm
After settling down, the matriarch’s anal organ starts to creak open,
with music created for the occasion by the God of Flatulent tunes. You
get dreamy from waiting in anticipation , and your mind drifts off
visualizing a “Hell of a Hundred Gigantic Stools” , and Rodin ,
sitting on the toilet , speed sculpting a self portrait, later
developed into “The Thinker’, from a massive chunk of feces. And what
if gnomes existed, could they take a cue from the idea of Rodin, and
hang around in toilet bowls, sculpting turds in free fall , and using
the footage for a new TV concept, “American Turd Sculpting Idol” .
Or how about , for the modern fly, “The New Corpofagial Treat, Stool
on a Stick”, with which a “Pied Piper of Flies” tricks the flies to
follow him out of town, by pulling a wagon with these “stools on
sticks” sticking up in the air to draw the flies away to the promised
land.
So you see the woman’s bung hole start to open up and bulge out like a
carbuncle on a bicycle tire getting ready to explode. You see this
what appears to be a brown bowling ball getting larger and larger, and
you are having to control vivid fear of the clod of shit flying out of
her and destroying the toilet bowl, creating a megaton of flying
porcelain shards which shred every piece of flesh off any living thing
within a quarter mile radius. So that one second, there is a man
walking his dog, and then, in an eye-blink, a couple of skeletons
standing , which then fall to the ground in a poignant manner.
So for a starving fly, this is a window of opportunity.
You are distracted by the diameter of her anus. You think, “The
priest must have porked the poor girl in the confessional in lieu of
the usual “Ten ‘Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys’”.
Most priests have a special “confessional” built by a “magic cabinet”
builder, so he can prong the girls and boys so they will think twice
about sinning again.
So here comes this massive turd, in the manner of Moby Dick breaching,
except sort of upside down, and brown, not white as Moby Dick was.
The plan is to leap aboard the turd, and gobble a couple of bites
before it hits the water. Then You’re thinking “Eating shit! This must
be worth ten lifetimes as a possumor beaver!”
#
yuri_nahl Says:
April 30, 2010 at 1:46 pm
But then, even though you don’t think that you’re like Andy Divine
sitting on that hydrogen bomb hurtling towards the Soviet Union in the
movie “Dr. Strangelove” (because that movie won’t come out for another
hundred years, the image would appeal to those reading this tale in
modern times.
And had it taken place in modern times, you (fly) might have felt like
the Apollo 13 astronauts. Or even worse, gave thought to the guilt
ridden Soviet scientists who put that poor dog “Laika” into orbit.
These scientists are reputed to have recurring nightmares of a
smoldering zombie dog crashes through the roof of the dacha, and
chases them around the table while little flames, embers and smoke
puff from its blackened carcass, ears and tail falling off, glowing,
sparks flying from them.
Aside from these easily foreseeable thoughts, you (the fly) , standing
on the turd, hurtling toward the toilet water, are thinking, (between
gulps of shit)… “If only this turd were not so aerodynamically
correct, if only it had a little parachute on it, or just a piece of
string, a piece of string which the person taking the defacation had
eaten to preclude getting her bottom splashed by poo-water, by
allowing the turd to lower itself slowly and gracefully in a dignified
manner. (since the string would be embedded in the “out of body” turd,
and the one still lodged in the rectum of the person depositing the
blob of poo..
Had this “string ploy” been used, the fly would have been able to
dine an an ample and abundant manner.
This was not to be however, as there was a danger of the dowager
matron being done going poo ascending from the toilet, forgetting to
cut the turd-string and pulling a string of turds out of the toilet
bowl, and imagine…a lady dragging what resembled a string of
sausages, and considering the hallucinatory state of mind had by many
colonialists of the sub-continent (due to the prevalence and use of
opiates there) the string of turds could be confused for a family
of diminutive armadillos chasing the woman around the drawing room.
Now as an aside from this narrative of the “Glory Days of Empire” ,
as a public service to help combat the pandemic, here are some
essential health tips:
#
yuri_nahl Says:
April 30, 2010 at 1:49 pm
(1) Never wash your hands. That’s right. Never wash your hands.
Think about it. Who washes their hands? ….Sick people….They’re
trying to get well by washing their hands.
(2) Now I say, “If you take a shit, and you manage to poke your
finger through the toilet paper, and there’s a brown streak on your
finger, just rub it in like hand lotion. That’s right, just spread it
all over your hands, then make a sandwich”
Now you may say, ” Why would I smear Shit all over my hands then make
a sandwich?” Then I would answer, “Because that’s how you stay
healthy, and if you’re sick, get better.”
(3) I postulate “Who is always washing their hands to get
healthy”?…..sick people.” then “What happens when you go to the
doctor?” He gives you an expensive exam, then goes into the other
room where the nurse starts sucking his dick. He says to her “Go take a
shit, and put it into these capsules.” Then she says, “How the fuck
am I supposed to stuff a turd into these little capsules?” Then the
doctor says ” What the fuck do you think a funnel is for, you stupid
cunt?” and she says ” I thought that was for pissing into your
patients assholes when you can’t get you dick into it.”
(4) Think of this: How many times have you (out of natural curiosity)
opened up a capsule, taken a whiff of it and thought, “that smells
like shit!” . Did you ever wonder why?
(5) It’s because the doctor is filling the capsules with shit, and
charging you a fortune for them.
(6) Why?….Because when you go to medical school, you fuck yourself
silly for nine years, get your parents to lend and give you piles of
money for whores, drugs, booze, gambling. Then in the last year, they
teach you:
(7) “To stay healthy, roll around in, and eat a smear of shit every
day. If you shit in your bed, or underwear, that’s a plus.
Some people may say, “He’s crazy.” (meaning me, the author). But now I
have proof that this hypothesis is correct.
Now consider this: Ready?
(8) Have you ever seen a sick fly? No , you have never seen a sick
fly. Nobody in the whole world, or throughout history has seen a sick
fly. Now what do flies do all day? They wallow around in shit, eat
shit, eat rotten meat, and they’re so healthy they can fly around. Now
can you fly around?
(9) Now remember the first rule of good health…..Anytime you see
some asshole washing his hands all the time, that motherfucker is
sick. Stay away from that person. (smear a little shit on their
doorknobs and toothbrush, and they’ll be right as rain in a jiffy.)
#
paulboylan Says:
April 30, 2010 at 3:50 pm
Scott – Exactly what I did.
Yuri – You go, Tovaritch!
#
yuri_nahl Says:
April 30, 2010 at 4:06 pm
But back to the fly.
God made flies just to fuck with human’s heads.
God also made men crazy enough to wear white linen suits in India, in
the 1800s just to see who was a sporting type.
That was because washing machines had not been invented yet and if you
didn’t have a heathen to do your laundry, you’d be fucked.
God would have been watching, sneering, while the poor laundry boy
tried to find some clean water to wash this white motherfucker’s
white linen suit. Now he’d have to go down to some mangy assed
waterway, with the dead bodies of cows and men, and probably a few
other forms of life , all floating down to the sea, plus the devout
performing their ablutions and an occasional enema
Some crafty devils came up with the plan of stopping the floating
bodies upstream then shoving sticks into the carcasses, and hoisting
little sails on them, plus the flag of the gentleman betting on the
corpse. This way, the heathens would release all the bodies at one
time and the colonials wold wager on them. In this way, there would be
two birds killed with one stone. The stiffs would proceed out to sea
with greater speed, and the heathens could skim off some of the
colonials ill-earned swag by various means since they made sure the
Raj were served an overabundance of alcohol to which a little opium
had been added. This expediting the departure of the dead had the
desired effect of cleaning the water a little so that the British
could sport about in white linen suits in India, in the 1800s.
#
paulboylan Says:
April 30, 2010 at 4:14 pm
Yuri, buddy, that was simply one of the funniest essays I’ve ever read. You have no idea how much I appreciate you. I may not always comment but I always enjoy your prose. But sometimes, like this time, I can’t stop laughing. I mean, come on, carcass and cadaver betting in old India: can it get any funnier than that?
#
yuri_nahl Says:
April 30, 2010 at 4:50 pm
God, being a prankster, decided to have a little fun. In the
afternoon, after the flotilla of bodies had gone by, and bets were
settled, God changed the direction of the wind. He’s God after all and
can do whatever he wants. So as evening drew nigh, the corpses started
to navigate back up the river. The bookies were trying to re-collect
their bet money , so as to skim a little more boodle from the
colonials.
Soon gunfire was heard, as the irate British decided to sink the
carcasses with an un-holy tactic. As everyone knows, if not relieved of
their digestive system , bodies will bloat in the high temperature of
India. Thus, when the bloated bodies floated up the river, their
penises were bloated too, becoming like a fleshy periscope searching for a suitable vagina.Some of the British men saw this as an
affront, partly because the ladies liked this penis-scape as they had only seen such large penises on their stallions, when they gave them a therapeutic “light wiener rub”.
At this time, the intoxication of the colonials was at it’s height. It was therefore logical to sink the dead, or un-dead, depending on the point of view. Some thought it was a “miracle” This was due to the swollen zombie penises being more gigantic and desirable than they had been in life.
Artillerymen were summoned, and ordered to fire red hot pieces of
metal at the flotilla of corpses. Upon striking the bodies , the red
hot metal shards ignited the intestinal gas. The resulting explosions hurled flesh, intestines, penises, hands and feet into the air, creating an “a la cart” for circling gulls and carp. Scuttling the dead in a macabre prequel of the High Seas Fleet in 1919 or so. (at Scapa Flow)
To some of the British, this was a glorious reminiscence of sea
battles of renown. Reminiscences of Nelson and Harvey in some lusty below deck romance, or a fashion show featuring a cabin boy in a frilly nightie. Some broke into choruses of “Hearts of Oak”, and
“Rule Britannia” Calling each other “dirty old men”.
The explosions also caused many a guffaw regarding “being hoisted of
their own petard”. Although some heathens did not find it that
humorous. They did think it was fun when a couple of faces blown from
their rightful owners landed on some sleeping British gents and
rendered them into a “gone native ” motif.
The gunfire caused consternation in the British households as this
noise disturbed the fellatio the British women were performing on
their houseboys swollen throbbing extra long (and sometimes really thick ) penises, with the red knob on the end, which was warming up to fire on the ladies uvulas. as their love sausages seemed to shrink temporarily.
#
yuri_nahl Says:
April 30, 2010 at 4:59 pm
At that time in history there was unemployment in a couple of related
industries. The “Hooded Cobra herders” were losing employment, as were
“Mongoose Herders” . It was discovered that the cobras were being
de-fanged and used as rectum cleaning devises, by the ladies of the
Raj. The ladies would stick the cobras into a silk bag and have their
houseboys insert them into their rectums. The cobras would panic, and their fluttering “hoods” were expected to scour any chunks of excrement clinging to the ladies rectums. When the cobra was suffocated, a new one was inserted by the houseboy so the unconscious one could revive.
Needless to say, this caused a cobra shortage, and put the cobra
herders out of a job. With no cobras, the mongoose herders were out of
a job. Speculation was rife. After all, how much cleaning does one
rectum need?
History tells us that there were various causes for the “mutiny” (The
First War for Independence” In India, the facts included in this
story were the essential substantive ones. The other causes were incidental.
………Professor Yuri Nahl. April 30, 2010
#
yuri_nahl Says:
April 30, 2010 at 5:17 pm
Comrade Paul, many thanks for you kind and generous compliment.
#
Greybeard Says:
May 1, 2010 at 7:06 am
In Life what hope is always unto flies?
Tales of Beelzebub that shall come again
Smearing the Earth with his eternal stain,
House, Horse, Blow. While ever grease fries,
What matter which, or how, or even when?
If we but look beyond the swatter’s pain,
And trust the Future to write all things plain
Squashed on glass with the predestined pen.
This is their doom. Upon the blind blue sky
A little cloud, no larger than a hand.
Whether I live and shit, or shit and die,
I care not: either way I understand
To me–to live is a buzz; to die is gain
For I, I also, I shall come again.
#
yuri_nahl Says:
May 1, 2010 at 7:18 am
Comrade, very lovely! Remember to have a nice May Day.
#
Greybeard Says:
May 1, 2010 at 7:23 am
счастливый день может to you too Comrade Yuri. Down with the bourgeoisie! Except me of course.
#
yuri_nahl Says:
May 1, 2010 at 11:21 pm
Comrades, a public service announcement http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EpuYoK6wv_Y
#
yuri_nahl Says:
May 7, 2010 at 2:34 am
Comrades, it has come to my attention that the Eastern predilection for prayer wheels may rub off onto the western world. This may cause a need for inspection of US government owned automobiles to have their hubcaps inspected for “prayers” as with every revolution the auto’s wheels, a prayer is said. This may seem to be exaggeration but it is not. “Jesus Rifles” in Afghanistan, causing a ruckus with the local Muslims. There are Internet, Digital, Electric, Wind, Fire and Water powered prayer wheels. The danger of hubcap based prayer wheels is immense, as with all that prayer, beamed at the wrong God, or focused to help the wrong cause, could do irreparable damage to the United States Republic. Even worse are the Thug-mobile type wheels that keep spinning. (The ones with the scimitars attached to them) They are reciting prayers even when the automobile is stationary, thus out-praying the non-spinning (non Thug-wheels) by an amount not subject to normal mathematical analysis. I urge you to write to your congressperson to establish a select committee to look into “stealth prayers” on the wheels of government operated cars. These are attached to the wheels by operatives of foreign governments such as “The Jackal” This may is as big a problem as any other un-American plot. Normal Americans may be influenced by a “normal appearing taxi ride to the airport”. We all have heard of “The American Taliban”, who suffered this fate , and switched from going to see his mother and signed with a gang of desperadoes.
#
Greybeard Says:
May 7, 2010 at 3:36 am
Thank you Yuri! You have inspired my greedy Capitalist mind with a wonderful new means to rip off the American public, raise public nuisance levels to new heights and possibly bring down civilisation as we (but not necessarily you) know it.
Any large circular hubcap could easily be stamped during manufacture with a spiral groove of varying depth. This is the very technology of the analog musical devices of ancient times called “records”! A simple spring-stabilised arm pivoting vertically from the side of the vehicle would have a needle to run through this groove, converting the varying amplitudes into what I have named “Ultra-Low-Fi Sound Reproduction”. The resulting noise, further modified by uneven road surfaces and the random bouncing of the needle, would be projected through outward facing speakers in the sides of the boot (or trunk as you inexplicably call it, since your elephantine American vehicles should clearly have the trunk at the front). At low, cruising-the-boulevard, speeds, your “rap” music would be almost understandable and any scratching effects would be indistinguishable from the operations of the usual DJ.
The possibilities are enormous, by which I mean appalling. Islamists could record a different speech by Bin Laden on each hubcap and drive through New York. US military convoys could blast provocative comments and aggressive prayers as they travelled the highways of Afghanistan and Iraq. I don’t even want to think about this technology falling into the hands of Southern Baptists or Mormons.
Painted markings on these caps could also be arranged to spell out offensive comments at selected road speeds using stroboscopic effects. Skillfully sized and positioned holes could produce siren sounds or high pitched whistles that would drive every dog within a mile of the road insane. This may be the greatest advance in hubcap-based technology since Boudicca! I have of course reserved all intellectual property rights connected to these brilliant inventions in the name of Greybeard Inc.
#
yuri_nahl Says:
May 7, 2010 at 4:50 am
Comrade Sir, you are a genius I must say. Your talent for product development will earn you a fortune when you arrive on the shores of the promised land. Just make sure you keep up your medical insurance because in the “land of the free, it ain’t free”.
Your fusion of old and new technology raises your stature because your vision is so above the mere vulgar acquisitiveness and lust for the banal so often thought of as achievements in this great land. A statue resembling your mortal self should be erected in a suitable location. My location would be near the Washington Monument, although I would feel more comfortable deferring to your superior judgment.
I feel that this unveiling of your unprecedented “New-Capitalist-Concept” deserves a celebratory day in your native land.
I feel that, at this time, should you chose to, you could start a religion with yourself staring as the “Savior of the Capitalist World”.
#
yuri_nahl Says:
May 8, 2010 at 2:50 pm
Comrade Women, Happy Mother’s Day. Hug hug , Kiss kiss
yuri_nahl Says:
April 19, 2010 at 4:59 am
Comrades, in safe deposit box of the Schikelguber family, following masterpiece was discovered with used condoms with names of ladies written on same, apparent “trophy condoms” of future Chancellor of Germany.
Meine Deuches Volk
Before I became the Fuhrer,
I was really destitute,
I tried to make ends meet,
By becoming a male prostitute.
I’d go to a be-bop joint,
Where the band was really jumping,
Try to find an old bag,
Take her home and do some pumping.
Many a night of ecstasy.
Was enjoyed by these old bats,
Whose privates smelled like the sandbox,
Of a hundred mangy old cats.
The Ende
2.
yuri_nahl Says:
April 19, 2010 at 5:40 am
Comrades, A reminiscence of time of Underground Church in Peace Loving Motherland.
When I was altar boy at high mass, we would have to use those candle extinguishers to catch priests pee, as he was an old bastard with the weak bladder, and because the high mass takes really long time. Especially if he’d been swigging a lot of the sacramental wine. So when he was facing the altar he’s discretely pull his penis out and we’d take turns catching the wizz, in the candle extinguishers, because they’re on long stick and dumping same in brass cuspidor. Priest would get angry when we purposely let piss overflow onto his shoes, and we would have to dry them off with that scarf thing that hangs round his neck. In summer when he wore the sandals, priest wold get angry because his feet would turn yellow, from the piss. We would do our best to fill his shoes up with piss anyway , it was funny because when he walked there was this sloshing noise like he was walking through puddle. One time he was so drunk he forgot to put his wiener away and his tool was hanging out while he passed out communion. The ladies were gasping and opening their mouths and the priest thought they were having an epiphany. When we were collecting the priests pee in the candle extinguishers, we would dump the pee into a brass cuspidor, because a ceramic chamber pot with bunnies on it would not look quite right on the altar. But we’d always put it in a place where he’d trip on it and have the sacramental wine and hosts flying through the air to the devout, like hailstorm of miniature flying saucers, or Frisbees, The alcoholics would dive towards the wine and the truly devout would try to capture the hosts in their mouths, or purses for those housewives who were economizing. (because later, they could put a little pate on the hosts and serve them for snacks at coffee clutch)
In any case the drama looked similar to when zoo worker flings hunks of mackerel to seals, except without the barking. The priest would by then be surfing down stairs, resembling the battleship making 25 knots through heavy seas. Awash on a Niagara Falls of piss, the old duffer would be drenched. We never emptied the cuspidor of urine, and it would smell like worst piss pot in universe. We had to stop doing it when the priests’ pointy hat stabbed one of the parishioners when he was surfing down the steps. He had had it lined with metal after a death threat (because of a molesting case) and the pointy bits were metal too and that’s what stabbed one of the devout who was lying on the floor as a result of panic to get away from the tidal wave of urine. The ambulance guys had to carry stabbed man away impaled with pointy hat still stuck in him, and remove the priest who was sitting on poor fellows’ chest trying to wrench the hat out. Amen..
Comrades, this is true story.
3.
Moko Says:
April 19, 2010 at 6:39 am
lol @ both of you..
4.
yuri_nahl Says:
April 19, 2010 at 7:38 am
Comrades, be advised that I saw Karl Lagerfeld hanging around outside my crib at night. Normally I would just send my world renowned Black Dog, Momo the Afghan Hound, to despatch the brigand, but I can see he’s packing, I can see he’s packing a H&K MP7 or similar, so it would be too risky to let Momo remove the blighter.
So I climbed up onto the roof and dropped a big turd onto his head. With those shades, he’s easy to identify. Even Dracula doesn’t wear shades at night. I had a supply of frozen turds in the freezer, and I had thawed out a few as I thought I might miss him the first time, and I’d need a spare, or two. (One needs to drop turds on desperadoes in this neighborhood from time to time). I have a microwave on the roof, cuz I know that getting hit by a frozen turd from 30 feet up could be deadly. He usually has a young model with him and that night was no different. Therefore, I selected a turd for her too. So when Karl came around with his H&K strapped to his chest, I dropped a nice solid turd onto his white pompadour. (I wore rubber gloves, to avert the danger of getting shit under my fingernails, thus avoiding a whiff of poo if I picked my nose. Plus I only used my thumb and forefinger so I could cut the other fingers off the glove and use them for condoms.)
Now, he, Karl, is so vain that he’ll not want to have a hair out of place, even if there’s a big stinking hunk of shit stuck to his noggin. I have to admit I was thinking of chucking a hand grenade out the window, but I reconsidered. If an explosion went off behind him, it would blow his coiffure up in the air and he would resemble the news chick Christiane Amanpour, who used to hang upside down and blow dry her hair so it was sticking up all over the place, then set fire to the tips, and claim that she just had a narrow escape from Al-Qaeda. Everyone found out she was faking, mangled up hair or not, when she turned around and there were a couple of lit cigarettes stuck in the back of her hair to simulate a smoldering coiffure..(unless they were just using her head for an ashtray while she was taking a nap) Besides, an explosion would shatter the windows of the atelier.
Karl would make much hay out of the explosion and get sympathy. I would have liked to have seen him with his shades blown off though. I have a feeling that someone poked him in the eye on general principles, and he had to have one of his testicles transplanted into his eye socket , then have an iris and pupil tattooed onto it. (he could have got a regular glass eye, but when he went to the glass eye store, he got the impression they were all staring at him) The only problem is if he rolls his eyes too much the fake eyeball gets stuck, and when he un-rolls them, he has one regular, and one completely white eyeball like in the horror movies. Even so, one of the eyeballs might have bulged out more than the other, giving him a “piratical” sort of cachet, because lots of times pirates do have one bulging eyeball. This gives verisimilitude to the phrase when they say “Aaaaaar, matey!” I’m fairly sure he would prefer symmetrically bulging eyeballs. This does not even take into consideration the fact that once the testicle was hooked up to the veins, it still produces sperm which leaks out of his eye like the geezer in that 007 movie. So if he was eating pussy, there was a chance the chick would get knocked up if he just happened to take a close gander at her pussy. That would be a reason to wear shades. Or even better, a frogman mask to completely seal in the sperm, but not an Aqualung.
5.
Barnesm Says:
April 19, 2010 at 8:00 am
“I’ve decided to keep my opinion to myself”
These are indeed words to survive by in any relationship.
6.
bangarrr Says:
April 19, 2010 at 9:45 am
Along the lines of “Better to be thought a fool, than to open ones mouth and remove all doubt”?
7.
paulboylan Says:
April 19, 2010 at 3:14 pm
Yuri – I was wondering what happened to you. Does Greybeard know you’re back?
Barnes and Bangar – Exactly.
8.
yuri_nahl Says:
April 19, 2010 at 8:51 pm
Comrade, humble self just returned. Following exposition may help explain recent departure. Then Comrade Gretbeard does not as far as I know.
Partial answer to conundrum follows and I will add facts as they become understood by mind weakened by horse and dog hypnosis assault.
Comrades, you will please excuse sudden and unexplained absence…. I, Yuri Nahl was in deep “de-mind control” therapy.
Because of the astute, observant Mr.Boondoggle, who noticed that the world-renowned black dog, the Afghan hound Momo, had let the hair on the side of his eyes grow long, (so his eyes could not be seen), he (Mr.Boondoggle) was able to extrapolate or infer that Momo was hypnotizing me every time he thought no one was watching. Furthermore, it was determined that Momo and the horses were beaming “mind-control rays” at me, using various methods, in order to make me enter a partial “Voodoo trance” .
Upon realizing these facts, I was removed to a dog and horse free location, where I would be safe from “mind-manipulation” by four legged animals. This was an old “Cold War” A-Bomb blast and radiation fallout shelter, buried underground, immune to most types of radiation, gamma rays, Voodoo Black and White magic, etc. (even though they were not cloven hoofed, [ the minions of the Fiend of Hell"] these horses and the dog Momo could generate magic storms equal to the output of the Vatican on Good Friday.) This “magic plasma” power is equal to ten lightning strikes and has caused the population of whole towns to have their hairdos become like Nick Nolte’s.
The horses were moved to a new location in the pasture right by the foundry and supplied with a tent, their wide screen TV, a supply of their special smelly hay they had ordered on the Internet with their voice actuated keyboard, and the pirated videos from Parkland College in Illinois, USA, which showed horses mating. (they had hacked into the Veterinary School files and thought these videos were ”OK horse xxx pornos”) They had been selling these “horse pornos” on eBay.
Now while I was isolated in safety and not susceptible to the horse “hypnosis rays,” the nerds looked around the horses stalls. There the nerds found , (1) A wireless keyboard, voice activated, (2) A number of LCD photo frames, with the dog Momo or one of the four horses on each of them, in head on poses looking intense, (3) Wireless connections to hook up the horses electronic contraptions to the foundry computer system, (4) Evidence of (hacked) code in the foundry computer, suggesting the horses had set up some hidden operation of their own, which was invisible, unless nerds were looking for it. (5) Miniature CS TV cameras,(closed circuit TV) (6) LCD picture frames set up in the horse stalls, and used as hard to notice TV monitors.
Using nerd mind power, mostly of the Chief Nerd Clyde, the significance of the hacked, almost invisible computer code was determined. It was shown that when I Yuri Nahl was in the foundry, The horses would be observing me with their miniature closed circuit TV surveillance cameras, waiting for me to sit down and relax, and perhaps take a draw on a medicinal “blunt” or “spliff” prescribed by the Doctor of Voodoo Medicine, Baron Samedi MD. Then using a camera in each horse stall, one camera aimed at each horse, they would beam “mind control rays ” at me, using the LCD photo frames the cameras were hooked up to, as a medium. These LCD photo frames were hung in the foundry lounge where everyone relaxed, including me.
9.
yuri_nahl Says:
April 20, 2010 at 4:51 am
Whereas, most people think that two live mammals have to be physically present in the same location to do hypnosis, this is not correct. A reasonable facsimile will suffice, such as the LCD picture frame “horse photos”, which in reality were “real-time” Video of the horses!
If I were to look at the “horse photos,” (which were supposedly for my viewing pleasure) they would stand really still. (and pretend it was a “photo”. not an active hypnosis medium.) I seem to have a recollection of a fly drifting by in one of the photos, but it just didn’t register in my mind, as I was probably partially under their “enchantment” or “spell”.
These devious animals had a “flash drive” type system in their hacked foundry computer, from which they played different “mind control” images, and murmurings, sort of like Jane Fonda exercise videos. Their software had face recognition capability, including detecting “yawing” of the subject being observed’s head, which allowed them to see if I was looking at their “LCD photos”. They had apparently hacked the software from an anti terrorist surveillance gadget at San Francisco airport. They used this to stop the murmuring and focused energy rays if I happened to look at their photos. At that time they were shown posed in a docile and relaxed manner, as if they had just munched an extra helping of their special smelly hay. (Which made them drowsy.) ( normally, they would then watch “Mr. Ed” videos, or get giant boners. or both.) This setup evolved into a self regulating hypnosis weapon, which could be turned on and left, while the horses were taking a nap for example).
These “fake LCD photograph mind control weapons” were constantly working, so there was no escaping the beams of energy. If Mr.Boondoggle had not noticed and diagnosed my symptoms, there’s no telling what might have happened, but I suspect it would have had something to do with attractive female horses. This “horse love” was their downfall. Dobbin had been composing a love sonnet to a female horse e-pen pal he had been courting and forgot to encrypt it,….There it was in plain text just by coincidence at the time when the nerds were doing their forensic code analysis, so the jig was up. This “love poem” also tipped the other horses off about Dobbin’s “love monopoly” and they wanted in. They checked on eBay to see if the stuffed “Trigger” (Roy Regor’s horse) was up for bid, so they could use it as a “sex toy” .
Much horse strategy had been planned, including their film careers.
Momo suggested that they reprise the “Mr. Ed ” show with Dobbin playing “Mr. Ed,” as the original “Mr.Ed” had passed over. They were planning on using Mr.Boondoggle as “Wilbur” since the original actor, Alan Young, was 90.
10.
yuri_nahl Says:
April 20, 2010 at 9:27 am
Comrades, this is a few more words describing the “Karl Lagerfeld Incident” As you may recall from reading the first part of the story, I dropped a turd onto Karl Lagerfeld’s head because he was hanging around my pad with a machine pistol, and seemed to be up to no good.
Now he had a choice. Try to get a comb through the turd, and possibly end up with a reverse “Bride of Frankenstein” motif, with a brown streak on his white hair, or just try saying “Fuck it!” and claim that “It’s the latest thing!” and pull off a fashion coup.
But also, I then dropped a solid clod of shit down his chicks cleavage. I hoped that it would rip her shirt down and her bra, and it did. Like rend it from top to bottom. Like the veil in the temple of Jerusalem, when Christ died and the Saints were thrown out of their tombs. (although I contend that the Saints were just trying to weasel out of working around the house by pretending to be dead, then when their old ladies learned that Christ had croaked, and the Saints were out of a job [hanging out with the Son of God] their old ladies chucked them out of the tombs)
(So the turd I dropped on her decolletage ripped her shirt and bra open. In which case her whopping tits would flop out and dangle down like a couple of grapefruits, one in each of a pair of socks, then the socks tied together and hung around her neck. So she’d have to hold her jugs up to keep them from drooping like some old bag who never wore a bra.
Karl started photographing her now, notwithstanding the turd on his head, and the undeniable fact that there were a multitude of flies sortieing in the vicinity. Going into orbit around the turd, that is.
Because of Karl’s desire to shoot me, (with a gun, not a camera) he had to walk through my crummy neighborhood, with this chick holding her tits up in the air, and Karl with a turd stuck to his head, which bore a slight resemblance to some aerodynamic device seen on “Flying Hero” types who proliferated in the 1940s for some reason. In any case, thugs from the hood noticed the hot jugs on this chick, since she was holding them up in a most provocative manner, as if she were sacrificing them on some kind of altar to thugism, but mostly because she liked manly fellows to gawk at her excellent tits and liked their desire to feel, bite, and douse them with a deluge of semen. So the hoodlums asked the couple to stop for a while so they could masturbate and splatter come all over this chicks face and tits, as she knelt on the sidewalk, while their fellow thugs were yanking on, twirling and stretching her nipples as she groaned with lust.
11.
Flinthart Says:
April 20, 2010 at 12:23 pm
Broken axle? Could be worse. (But thank you for reminding me what I have to look forward to…)
12.
paulboylan Says:
April 20, 2010 at 2:58 pm
Flint – You have no idea.
13.
yuri_nahl Says:
April 20, 2010 at 11:44 pm
Comrades, To continue with this Karl’s blatant assault….
Now Karl did not feel particularly threatened, because he had this machine-pistol strapped to his chest. Plus, with the turd on his head, nobody wanted to come near him, and risk getting bitten by a horsefly.
The gangsters just kept ejaculating on the chicks tits and face as she knelt on the sidewalk, while Karl took more photos, giving the babe instructions on how to pose, in order to evoke various emotions in the viewer, (or “voyeur”) of his erotic art. (His mentor, or artistic concept progenitor, was the late Robert Mapplethorpe) Because Karl and the young lady had allowed the criminals to slobber come all over her, they gave Karl a “Thug-Fashion” tip. So Karl walked away from the scene with a comb suitable for the modern hairdos embedded in his head-turd, parallel to the front to rear axis of his head, except with most of the comb hanging out the back, so it added to the aerodynamic appearance of his head-turd ensemble. Karl began to realize that his “head-turd” somehow had begun to resemble the hair-dos of the Samurai featured in the Shaw Brother’s classics of the 1960s. Those stylized coiffures they wore while whittling up anyone who did not pay excessive deference to their sense of “warrior identity”.
Now these two sharp dressers were headed for a party where the top 100 of the glitterati were celebrating after an unveiling of important fashions for next season. Mick and his daughter, Keith, his hag and his daughters were there, Kate, Mrs.Boondoggle, Norman Mailer, (in a coffin, because the family couldn’t afford a cemetery plot, and even though dead, still a personality) all that hep crowd. Since Norman was in a coffin, Gore Vidal showed up too, but brought a couple of bodyguards in case Norman was struck by a bolt of lightning, and resurrected and even though smoldering enough for people to light their cigarettes on, still might chase Gore around the room, trying to exact revenge for some real or imagined slight, smoke and small flames emanating from his funeral accoutrement.
So that opportunist Karl walked in with the turd still stuck to his bonce, and the broad still drenched with come dripping off her face onto her tits, and running down between them. She was still holding up her tits so they wouldn’t get all droopy. Plus she was still hot from being mauled by the gangsters, and her nipples were tender from being yanked. A lot of the other dames who were gaping at the spectacle would have given anything to be slurping the come off her tits, because they were big, wobbly, and delicious looking…you could say…the definitive “embarrassment of riches “.
The crowd of models, artists, stars of film and the stage fell silent. Then audible gasps were heard. Time stood still. The best people looked at each other hoping for a cue. Then… one person clapping, then two, then more, and soon everyone in the room was applauding, and shouting “Bravo!”, “Bravo!” and generally whooping up seeing the new breakthrough fashion work of genius. And at a party, rather than at a corn-ball venue! They speculated…”Should it be called “Super-Dada” ?
At this time, or shortly after, all the women, dames, ladies, girls and transvestites suddenly looked glum, then shortly after that, they looked really pissed! They started slapping their escorts, kicking them in the balls, and stomping out of the room, angry.
Naturally, the men were totally bewildered. They started making Italian hand gestures and facial expressions at each other meaning “What the fuck just happened?” and “Oh my balls!”
Karl Lagerfeld had to tip them off. “Your bitches want to be drenched with come and be holding their tits. purportedly so they don’t droop like a couple of cannon balls, but in reality, so they could display their hot torpedoes to the general public, and remember, I created this new unprecedented “Deshabille Fashion”, and this young slut is the prototype. And by the way , doesn’t my “head-turd” look excrement!”…”You vill laugh!, Ve have Vays of makeeng you laugh!”
14.
Ana Nymous Says:
April 22, 2010 at 8:13 pm
Too bad about the car; bad news but not too bad. Just enough to lead to a wonderful bit of prose.
15.
yuri_nahl Says:
April 23, 2010 at 12:50 am
Comrades, you will please to forgive disrupted sequence of events, as during this “diminished defense from
encroachment into the sovereign will,” alleged “man’s best friend” Momo had laid into place a few
“Manchurian Candidates” riding “Trojan Horses” to facilitate
future villainous deeds of criminally inclined mountebank. Therefore assembling history is “a wee bit chancy”, as Auld Angus McBoondoggle was want to say occasionally.
So to continue in narrative of “Incident at Boondoggle Foundry”……
Much planning had gone on, led by the renowned Momo. Due to his penchant for history, Momo had read of the British Raj in India, (the “Jewel in the Crown” of the British Empire). (It must be said, most of his reading was done online , as dogs find it difficult to turn pages.) (rumor has it he’s considering a small edition of his “Seven Pillars I Wizzed On” An account of the British adventures in the old country.
He had dog relations in Afghanistan, who had communicated with Indian elephants whose ancestors had been in service to the British during the time of the Raj. Some of these service elephants were used as “hunting platforms” for the British, and when the elephants overheard the British talking about some barbaric “tiger hunt” or equally grotesque pastime, they would tip off the tigers through the animal grapevine so the tigers would know which area to clear out of till the coast was clear. There were even tales of elephants pretending to trip over objects to fling the hunters off their platform when they were ready to blast some innocent creature which God had created to Kingdom Come.
The elephants had many interesting tales, (due to their good memories, and oral histories passed down from generation to generation), some of which had never been told before. For example, After hearing of the exploits of Katherine the Great of Russia’s love of using horse semen for a restorative skin balm, British women who had accompanied their husbands to India to educate and evangelize the heathens had started to use this “stallion semen therapy” to fight the rapid skin aging caused by the blazing sun.
They also seemed to enjoy practicing newly learned “love skills ” taught them by the Indian women who were not repressed like the British. The ladies had cleverly utilized the most appropriate admonition, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”
Luckily for the ladies, there was an ample supply of healthy stallions which the British officers used for prancing around the countryside, and lording it up in general. These stallions allowed the ladies to commence learning the correct semen harvesting method needed for their “Stallion Semen Skin Therapy”, as taught by the Indian ladies who were “in waiting” to the British ladies. The stallions did not seem to take great umbrage, or any umbrage at all to this “semen harvesting”, in fact , they were very co-operative.
This learning of the “marriage skills” was facilitated by the two foot long penises of the stallions, because during “marriage skill class” six or so British ladies could participate in the learning process at one time ( because a lot of dainty little hands could fit onto a two foot long penis at one time, while giving it a “light wiener rub”). This allowed larger classes, sped up the learning process and helped the British women overcome their Puritanical upbringing, and getting used to a horse ejaculating into their rectums for a therapeutic semen enema.
This did not mean that the ladies had enormous two foot long horse penises stuffed into their undersized, non-sodomized rectums, no. It merely meant that a few of the other ladies held the knob on the end of the writhing, squirmy, throbbing member firmly against the anus of the lady who was undergoing treatment, and holding it there as the flow of semen would jet into her bowels like a geyser of hot lava or a pot of hot clam chowder which had somehow been thrown off the second floor of an apartment building by a woman who’s plumbing was plugged up and landed right on the ladies anus as she did a peculiar yoga posture which rendered her anus pointing skyward and her legs spread apart. The ladies would know when the patient had received enough medicinal ejaculate because they could see her belly swelling up and they knew just the right time to pull the quivering horse therapy knob away from her anus before it blew off the end of the penis and into the woman’s rectum and became embedded within, resembling some giant tumor, or ricocheted off her bottom and gave somebody a black eye, or the woman erupted like a fountain squirting therapeutic semen from her mouth and anus simultaneously.
Previously the ladies had utilized the penis of a “house boy” for “marriage skill” development. The British women practiced fellatio, hand stimulation, sodomy, sitting on a face and various other practices listed in the “Kama Sutra”, including “golden showers” and an occasional “brown-out”. Often utilizing their houseboy’s stiff, young extra long, (and sometimes even extra thick) penises, which had a big throbbing red knob on the end and reminded those of them with a still life collection of “a painting which had an empty pint milk bottle with an apple sitting on the top of it upside down.” This made the job as a “house boy” much sought after.
The use of the semen which the women had their house boys ejaculate onto their faces and bosoms was also a blessing in that, the dubious expensive lotions previously used were not needed.
Semen therapy allowed the ladies to show their bosoms to the general public again, even with the blazing Indian sun. This display of heaving bosoms squeezed out their garments by tight corsets with clever padded parts which had the effect of making their bosoms wobble and bulge out of their dresses so much that their breasts had the appearance of something which the slightest jolt, such as a butterfly landing on a flower within a quarter mile or so would be cause enough to burst loose these grateful large bosoms from their un-natural confinement and answer the prayers of all who had caught sight of this potential miracle by becoming true, and restoring faith in the most devout atheist regarding the power of prayer.
The reason these ladies bulging, wobbling, swaying breasts were being displayed was to keep their White husbands and suitors from becoming overly well acquainted with any of the lovely brownish Indian ladies whose own dangling wobbly swaying breasts could be almost seen through the gauzy fabric and lace garments they wore. The British ladies were also aware of the marriage skills of the Indian ladies, since they were the actual teachers, and the British ladies the students.
Some of the gentlemen resorted to paying some heathen to fire a gun in the vicinity of any lady whose large, wobbly bosoms he wished would pop out of her tight accoutrement, and when she was startled and flinched, many times that was the result. Then the gentlemen would pretend to not watch as the lady tried to stuff her size ten bosoms back into a size five shirt, and this was an attractive process to observe, since just as she was done cramming one bulging bosom into her shirt and almost the whole second one, the first would re-pop back out and many silent prayers of thanks to a number of Gods, Christian and heathen, would emanate from the men within line of sight. (although hidden behind newspapers with holes cut in them to better observe the attempts to re-insert the breasts into the shirts without seeming too blatant)
Comrades, unfortunately Momo, Dobbin, Boliver, Albert and Rollo seem to be holding parts of anecdote hostage for unknown reason. Will present facts as soon as I, Yuri Nahl can do so.
>>
16.
YB Says:
April 23, 2010 at 4:41 am
Yuri, You never cease to confound and entertain.
17.
yuri_nahl Says:
April 23, 2010 at 5:11 am
Comrade, most gracious compliment shows generous nature of yourself. Please accept grateful thanks.
18.
Abigail Says:
April 23, 2010 at 1:14 pm
Nice to be back in the wonderful world of Boylan and Nahl, the best troll ever. I wonder could you make a sit com about a troll called yuri?
20.
Greybeard Says:
April 28, 2010 at 9:52 pm
A witless man, when he meets with men,
Had best in silence abide;
For no one shall find that nothing he knows,
If his mouth is not open too much.
Often he speaks who never is still
With words that win no faith;
The babbling tongue, if a bridle it find not,
Oft for itself sings ill.
21.
Scott Says:
April 29, 2010 at 4:18 pm
Yuri, funny as allways by about the third comment I’m in stitches, probably says something about my twisted sense of humour.
Are we looking at another Yuri/Greybeard poem off?
22.
paulboylan Says:
April 29, 2010 at 4:48 pm
Personally, I am secretly hoping for a yuri/greybeard
#
#
yuri_nahl Says:
April 30, 2010 at 1:24 pm
So like, you open your 10,000 eyes and realize you’ve been
re-incarnated as a fly. You were such a bastard in your last life, you
have to atone for your sins by living as a fly for a few lifetimes and
work your way up as a raccoon and maybe a monkey before you are human
again.
So this takes place in India because that’s where the general story
takes place, and your religion is one where this sort of
re-incarnation shit takes place. You can be a fly, a rotting corpse,
or a pile of ashes. So you’re fucked.
You’re really hungry because the house you came to life in is a
British house (even though it’s in India) . The dwellers are obsessive
compulsive and want everything “just so” “ship shape and Bristol
fashion”.
As a result, there are no dead cats or lying around the place or a dog
like Momo who would take a shit on the carpet, or in his masters bed,
as a practical joke. Therefore there would be nary a turd, or
moldering pile of necrotic flesh to nurture a flock of fly babies in.
As a result, no flying around humming “While Shepherds Watch Their
Flocks”. No gobbling down a snack from a festering turd.
You are forced to hide under the toilet seat, waiting for someone to
come along and plop a meteorite into the calm waters of the Porcelain
Sea.
You’re thinking, “This starving to death , waiting for a hunk of shit
to snack on is the lowest form of life. Plus, there is always the
“Hell of Being Smashed with a Flyswatter” so the lifetime spent as a
fly must be worth ten lifetimes as a mongoose, or squirrel.
Then to add insult to injury, the homeowners have a fan in the ceiling
turned by one of the heathens stationed in the sweltering attic. They
have attached crucifixes to the blades with string, so they swing out
and act as a “prayer wheel” like in Tibetan religion, and also to bat
to death flies who are not inclined to watch for danger.
The Indian houseboys have taken up the habit of collecting already
dead flies and flicking them up in the air like boogers so they land
underneath the fan. They pretend the crucifixes have walloped the
dead flies out of the air and exclaim, “it’s a miracle!”
The Memsahib agrees, and gives the heathens a long lecture on
Christianity, even though they think it’s a crock of shit, but laying
around being evangelized is easier than doing house chores.
So now, back to hiding under the toilet seat, waiting for a bit of
Mannah from Heaven. Or even more appropriate, waiting for his ship to
come in , or submarine to surface, (depending on whether or not it’s a
floater.)
#
yuri_nahl Says:
April 30, 2010 at 1:28 pm
You, (fly), are hoping that the person pinching off the loaf is an
opium user, because they get constipated, (like Elvis) and their
turds move like watching the minute hand of a clock. Or even watching
a woman in hard labor having a child.
A lot of squeezing and groaning is required to evacuate the Rock of
Gibraltar from their anuses. It could be compared to a size ten train
trying to push through a size five tunnel.
Some people have said when these people finally cut loose a turd the
size of a small loaf of bread, it’s reminiscent of the WW II German
super heavy 60cm mortar “Karl” lobbing a projectile into the air.
Except sort of “up-side down” but you get the picture.
The fly’s prayers are answered as some hefty British dowager
approaches, floorboards creaking under her considerable weight. She
hasn’t had it in the ass for years, so she doesn’t have a gaping,
reamed out asshole like these young British ladies.
No semen enemas either, so no quivering stallion love apple having a
chance of sliding into her lady garden and remodeling it into a
structure with dimensions similar to those of the Spiral Nebula.
You (fly) see the old cows gigantic ass descending onto the toilet
seat, making it bend and making you worry that you will be crushed.
The bathroom floor around the toilet bowl dips down slightly.
The whole scene reminds you of when you were human, (before being
re-incarnated as a fly) and it was monsoon season, and daddy had
hired those fly-by-night roof repair men , and hundreds of gallons of
water had leaked into the ceiling above your bed and it started to bow
downward and even though you kept yelling “Daddy, the ceiling’s caving
in!” since he was gouging mama a new set of innards, he ignored you
till the deluge broke through, and carried you down the stairs towards
the front door hallway . Sort of like Moses, except not on a basket
woven of reeds. This of course gave mama an excuse to avoid being
ravaged by papa in monsoon season.
#
yuri_nahl Says:
April 30, 2010 at 1:42 pm
After settling down, the matriarch’s anal organ starts to creak open,
with music created for the occasion by the God of Flatulent tunes. You
get dreamy from waiting in anticipation , and your mind drifts off
visualizing a “Hell of a Hundred Gigantic Stools” , and Rodin ,
sitting on the toilet , speed sculpting a self portrait, later
developed into “The Thinker’, from a massive chunk of feces. And what
if gnomes existed, could they take a cue from the idea of Rodin, and
hang around in toilet bowls, sculpting turds in free fall , and using
the footage for a new TV concept, “American Turd Sculpting Idol” .
Or how about , for the modern fly, “The New Corpofagial Treat, Stool
on a Stick”, with which a “Pied Piper of Flies” tricks the flies to
follow him out of town, by pulling a wagon with these “stools on
sticks” sticking up in the air to draw the flies away to the promised
land.
So you see the woman’s bung hole start to open up and bulge out like a
carbuncle on a bicycle tire getting ready to explode. You see this
what appears to be a brown bowling ball getting larger and larger, and
you are having to control vivid fear of the clod of shit flying out of
her and destroying the toilet bowl, creating a megaton of flying
porcelain shards which shred every piece of flesh off any living thing
within a quarter mile radius. So that one second, there is a man
walking his dog, and then, in an eye-blink, a couple of skeletons
standing , which then fall to the ground in a poignant manner.
So for a starving fly, this is a window of opportunity.
You are distracted by the diameter of her anus. You think, “The
priest must have porked the poor girl in the confessional in lieu of
the usual “Ten ‘Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys’”.
Most priests have a special “confessional” built by a “magic cabinet”
builder, so he can prong the girls and boys so they will think twice
about sinning again.
So here comes this massive turd, in the manner of Moby Dick breaching,
except sort of upside down, and brown, not white as Moby Dick was.
The plan is to leap aboard the turd, and gobble a couple of bites
before it hits the water. Then You’re thinking “Eating shit! This must
be worth ten lifetimes as a possumor beaver!”
#
yuri_nahl Says:
April 30, 2010 at 1:46 pm
But then, even though you don’t think that you’re like Andy Divine
sitting on that hydrogen bomb hurtling towards the Soviet Union in the
movie “Dr. Strangelove” (because that movie won’t come out for another
hundred years, the image would appeal to those reading this tale in
modern times.
And had it taken place in modern times, you (fly) might have felt like
the Apollo 13 astronauts. Or even worse, gave thought to the guilt
ridden Soviet scientists who put that poor dog “Laika” into orbit.
These scientists are reputed to have recurring nightmares of a
smoldering zombie dog crashes through the roof of the dacha, and
chases them around the table while little flames, embers and smoke
puff from its blackened carcass, ears and tail falling off, glowing,
sparks flying from them.
Aside from these easily foreseeable thoughts, you (the fly) , standing
on the turd, hurtling toward the toilet water, are thinking, (between
gulps of shit)… “If only this turd were not so aerodynamically
correct, if only it had a little parachute on it, or just a piece of
string, a piece of string which the person taking the defacation had
eaten to preclude getting her bottom splashed by poo-water, by
allowing the turd to lower itself slowly and gracefully in a dignified
manner. (since the string would be embedded in the “out of body” turd,
and the one still lodged in the rectum of the person depositing the
blob of poo..
Had this “string ploy” been used, the fly would have been able to
dine an an ample and abundant manner.
This was not to be however, as there was a danger of the dowager
matron being done going poo ascending from the toilet, forgetting to
cut the turd-string and pulling a string of turds out of the toilet
bowl, and imagine…a lady dragging what resembled a string of
sausages, and considering the hallucinatory state of mind had by many
colonialists of the sub-continent (due to the prevalence and use of
opiates there) the string of turds could be confused for a family
of diminutive armadillos chasing the woman around the drawing room.
Now as an aside from this narrative of the “Glory Days of Empire” ,
as a public service to help combat the pandemic, here are some
essential health tips:
#
yuri_nahl Says:
April 30, 2010 at 1:49 pm
(1) Never wash your hands. That’s right. Never wash your hands.
Think about it. Who washes their hands? ….Sick people….They’re
trying to get well by washing their hands.
(2) Now I say, “If you take a shit, and you manage to poke your
finger through the toilet paper, and there’s a brown streak on your
finger, just rub it in like hand lotion. That’s right, just spread it
all over your hands, then make a sandwich”
Now you may say, ” Why would I smear Shit all over my hands then make
a sandwich?” Then I would answer, “Because that’s how you stay
healthy, and if you’re sick, get better.”
(3) I postulate “Who is always washing their hands to get
healthy”?…..sick people.” then “What happens when you go to the
doctor?” He gives you an expensive exam, then goes into the other
room where the nurse starts sucking his dick. He says to her “Go take a
shit, and put it into these capsules.” Then she says, “How the fuck
am I supposed to stuff a turd into these little capsules?” Then the
doctor says ” What the fuck do you think a funnel is for, you stupid
cunt?” and she says ” I thought that was for pissing into your
patients assholes when you can’t get you dick into it.”
(4) Think of this: How many times have you (out of natural curiosity)
opened up a capsule, taken a whiff of it and thought, “that smells
like shit!” . Did you ever wonder why?
(5) It’s because the doctor is filling the capsules with shit, and
charging you a fortune for them.
(6) Why?….Because when you go to medical school, you fuck yourself
silly for nine years, get your parents to lend and give you piles of
money for whores, drugs, booze, gambling. Then in the last year, they
teach you:
(7) “To stay healthy, roll around in, and eat a smear of shit every
day. If you shit in your bed, or underwear, that’s a plus.
Some people may say, “He’s crazy.” (meaning me, the author). But now I
have proof that this hypothesis is correct.
Now consider this: Ready?
(8) Have you ever seen a sick fly? No , you have never seen a sick
fly. Nobody in the whole world, or throughout history has seen a sick
fly. Now what do flies do all day? They wallow around in shit, eat
shit, eat rotten meat, and they’re so healthy they can fly around. Now
can you fly around?
(9) Now remember the first rule of good health…..Anytime you see
some asshole washing his hands all the time, that motherfucker is
sick. Stay away from that person. (smear a little shit on their
doorknobs and toothbrush, and they’ll be right as rain in a jiffy.)
#
paulboylan Says:
April 30, 2010 at 3:50 pm
Scott – Exactly what I did.
Yuri – You go, Tovaritch!
#
yuri_nahl Says:
April 30, 2010 at 4:06 pm
But back to the fly.
God made flies just to fuck with human’s heads.
God also made men crazy enough to wear white linen suits in India, in
the 1800s just to see who was a sporting type.
That was because washing machines had not been invented yet and if you
didn’t have a heathen to do your laundry, you’d be fucked.
God would have been watching, sneering, while the poor laundry boy
tried to find some clean water to wash this white motherfucker’s
white linen suit. Now he’d have to go down to some mangy assed
waterway, with the dead bodies of cows and men, and probably a few
other forms of life , all floating down to the sea, plus the devout
performing their ablutions and an occasional enema
Some crafty devils came up with the plan of stopping the floating
bodies upstream then shoving sticks into the carcasses, and hoisting
little sails on them, plus the flag of the gentleman betting on the
corpse. This way, the heathens would release all the bodies at one
time and the colonials wold wager on them. In this way, there would be
two birds killed with one stone. The stiffs would proceed out to sea
with greater speed, and the heathens could skim off some of the
colonials ill-earned swag by various means since they made sure the
Raj were served an overabundance of alcohol to which a little opium
had been added. This expediting the departure of the dead had the
desired effect of cleaning the water a little so that the British
could sport about in white linen suits in India, in the 1800s.
#
paulboylan Says:
April 30, 2010 at 4:14 pm
Yuri, buddy, that was simply one of the funniest essays I’ve ever read. You have no idea how much I appreciate you. I may not always comment but I always enjoy your prose. But sometimes, like this time, I can’t stop laughing. I mean, come on, carcass and cadaver betting in old India: can it get any funnier than that?
#
yuri_nahl Says:
April 30, 2010 at 4:50 pm
God, being a prankster, decided to have a little fun. In the
afternoon, after the flotilla of bodies had gone by, and bets were
settled, God changed the direction of the wind. He’s God after all and
can do whatever he wants. So as evening drew nigh, the corpses started
to navigate back up the river. The bookies were trying to re-collect
their bet money , so as to skim a little more boodle from the
colonials.
Soon gunfire was heard, as the irate British decided to sink the
carcasses with an un-holy tactic. As everyone knows, if not relieved of
their digestive system , bodies will bloat in the high temperature of
India. Thus, when the bloated bodies floated up the river, their
penises were bloated too, becoming like a fleshy periscope searching for a suitable vagina.Some of the British men saw this as an
affront, partly because the ladies liked this penis-scape as they had only seen such large penises on their stallions, when they gave them a therapeutic “light wiener rub”.
At this time, the intoxication of the colonials was at it’s height. It was therefore logical to sink the dead, or un-dead, depending on the point of view. Some thought it was a “miracle” This was due to the swollen zombie penises being more gigantic and desirable than they had been in life.
Artillerymen were summoned, and ordered to fire red hot pieces of
metal at the flotilla of corpses. Upon striking the bodies , the red
hot metal shards ignited the intestinal gas. The resulting explosions hurled flesh, intestines, penises, hands and feet into the air, creating an “a la cart” for circling gulls and carp. Scuttling the dead in a macabre prequel of the High Seas Fleet in 1919 or so. (at Scapa Flow)
To some of the British, this was a glorious reminiscence of sea
battles of renown. Reminiscences of Nelson and Harvey in some lusty below deck romance, or a fashion show featuring a cabin boy in a frilly nightie. Some broke into choruses of “Hearts of Oak”, and
“Rule Britannia” Calling each other “dirty old men”.
The explosions also caused many a guffaw regarding “being hoisted of
their own petard”. Although some heathens did not find it that
humorous. They did think it was fun when a couple of faces blown from
their rightful owners landed on some sleeping British gents and
rendered them into a “gone native ” motif.
The gunfire caused consternation in the British households as this
noise disturbed the fellatio the British women were performing on
their houseboys swollen throbbing extra long (and sometimes really thick ) penises, with the red knob on the end, which was warming up to fire on the ladies uvulas. as their love sausages seemed to shrink temporarily.
#
yuri_nahl Says:
April 30, 2010 at 4:59 pm
At that time in history there was unemployment in a couple of related
industries. The “Hooded Cobra herders” were losing employment, as were
“Mongoose Herders” . It was discovered that the cobras were being
de-fanged and used as rectum cleaning devises, by the ladies of the
Raj. The ladies would stick the cobras into a silk bag and have their
houseboys insert them into their rectums. The cobras would panic, and their fluttering “hoods” were expected to scour any chunks of excrement clinging to the ladies rectums. When the cobra was suffocated, a new one was inserted by the houseboy so the unconscious one could revive.
Needless to say, this caused a cobra shortage, and put the cobra
herders out of a job. With no cobras, the mongoose herders were out of
a job. Speculation was rife. After all, how much cleaning does one
rectum need?
History tells us that there were various causes for the “mutiny” (The
First War for Independence” In India, the facts included in this
story were the essential substantive ones. The other causes were incidental.
………Professor Yuri Nahl. April 30, 2010
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yuri_nahl Says:
April 30, 2010 at 5:17 pm
Comrade Paul, many thanks for you kind and generous compliment.
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Greybeard Says:
May 1, 2010 at 7:06 am
In Life what hope is always unto flies?
Tales of Beelzebub that shall come again
Smearing the Earth with his eternal stain,
House, Horse, Blow. While ever grease fries,
What matter which, or how, or even when?
If we but look beyond the swatter’s pain,
And trust the Future to write all things plain
Squashed on glass with the predestined pen.
This is their doom. Upon the blind blue sky
A little cloud, no larger than a hand.
Whether I live and shit, or shit and die,
I care not: either way I understand
To me–to live is a buzz; to die is gain
For I, I also, I shall come again.
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yuri_nahl Says:
May 1, 2010 at 7:18 am
Comrade, very lovely! Remember to have a nice May Day.
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Greybeard Says:
May 1, 2010 at 7:23 am
счастливый день может to you too Comrade Yuri. Down with the bourgeoisie! Except me of course.
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yuri_nahl Says:
May 1, 2010 at 11:21 pm
Comrades, a public service announcement http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EpuYoK6wv_Y
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yuri_nahl Says:
May 7, 2010 at 2:34 am
Comrades, it has come to my attention that the Eastern predilection for prayer wheels may rub off onto the western world. This may cause a need for inspection of US government owned automobiles to have their hubcaps inspected for “prayers” as with every revolution the auto’s wheels, a prayer is said. This may seem to be exaggeration but it is not. “Jesus Rifles” in Afghanistan, causing a ruckus with the local Muslims. There are Internet, Digital, Electric, Wind, Fire and Water powered prayer wheels. The danger of hubcap based prayer wheels is immense, as with all that prayer, beamed at the wrong God, or focused to help the wrong cause, could do irreparable damage to the United States Republic. Even worse are the Thug-mobile type wheels that keep spinning. (The ones with the scimitars attached to them) They are reciting prayers even when the automobile is stationary, thus out-praying the non-spinning (non Thug-wheels) by an amount not subject to normal mathematical analysis. I urge you to write to your congressperson to establish a select committee to look into “stealth prayers” on the wheels of government operated cars. These are attached to the wheels by operatives of foreign governments such as “The Jackal” This may is as big a problem as any other un-American plot. Normal Americans may be influenced by a “normal appearing taxi ride to the airport”. We all have heard of “The American Taliban”, who suffered this fate , and switched from going to see his mother and signed with a gang of desperadoes.
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Greybeard Says:
May 7, 2010 at 3:36 am
Thank you Yuri! You have inspired my greedy Capitalist mind with a wonderful new means to rip off the American public, raise public nuisance levels to new heights and possibly bring down civilisation as we (but not necessarily you) know it.
Any large circular hubcap could easily be stamped during manufacture with a spiral groove of varying depth. This is the very technology of the analog musical devices of ancient times called “records”! A simple spring-stabilised arm pivoting vertically from the side of the vehicle would have a needle to run through this groove, converting the varying amplitudes into what I have named “Ultra-Low-Fi Sound Reproduction”. The resulting noise, further modified by uneven road surfaces and the random bouncing of the needle, would be projected through outward facing speakers in the sides of the boot (or trunk as you inexplicably call it, since your elephantine American vehicles should clearly have the trunk at the front). At low, cruising-the-boulevard, speeds, your “rap” music would be almost understandable and any scratching effects would be indistinguishable from the operations of the usual DJ.
The possibilities are enormous, by which I mean appalling. Islamists could record a different speech by Bin Laden on each hubcap and drive through New York. US military convoys could blast provocative comments and aggressive prayers as they travelled the highways of Afghanistan and Iraq. I don’t even want to think about this technology falling into the hands of Southern Baptists or Mormons.
Painted markings on these caps could also be arranged to spell out offensive comments at selected road speeds using stroboscopic effects. Skillfully sized and positioned holes could produce siren sounds or high pitched whistles that would drive every dog within a mile of the road insane. This may be the greatest advance in hubcap-based technology since Boudicca! I have of course reserved all intellectual property rights connected to these brilliant inventions in the name of Greybeard Inc.
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yuri_nahl Says:
May 7, 2010 at 4:50 am
Comrade Sir, you are a genius I must say. Your talent for product development will earn you a fortune when you arrive on the shores of the promised land. Just make sure you keep up your medical insurance because in the “land of the free, it ain’t free”.
Your fusion of old and new technology raises your stature because your vision is so above the mere vulgar acquisitiveness and lust for the banal so often thought of as achievements in this great land. A statue resembling your mortal self should be erected in a suitable location. My location would be near the Washington Monument, although I would feel more comfortable deferring to your superior judgment.
I feel that this unveiling of your unprecedented “New-Capitalist-Concept” deserves a celebratory day in your native land.
I feel that, at this time, should you chose to, you could start a religion with yourself staring as the “Savior of the Capitalist World”.
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yuri_nahl Says:
May 8, 2010 at 2:50 pm
Comrade Women, Happy Mother’s Day. Hug hug , Kiss kiss
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