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

#

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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.)
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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.
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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