Screwing Between Sketchy Avian Fallout

Me and Kimba got reacquainted with each other yesterday afternoon and came to realise the mutual benefit of each others’ company: Her’s was reminding me she takes it up the shitter as long as poppers and KY Jelly are on hand, and mine was giving her a place to say and ears to take in her whacky shit.

We went to bed on good terms and she proceeded to ride me bareback for a good hour or so. This morning she freaked out thinking she’d get pregnant (I was more worried about the clap, with her history), but I told her not to worry. I told her that I reckoned that if my sperms were as lazy as I was then it’d take them years to fertilize her scabey ovum.

So buying this logic (she’s a rudimentary grasp of human biology at even the basic levels) she saw no rush to get to the chemist for the morning after pill, and so we proceeded to take a slow breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast with some tomato juice providing refreshments.

Afterward she brought me into the bedroom and took from under the bed a small marble box. She brought it to me and opened it. Inside was a miniature wooden bird lying on its back with its eyes painted milky white and carved in bits in its side to represent its wings all tucked in (radius of a 5p piece).... to look like it were dead.

What is it? I asked her.

A hex, she told me.

What sort? I queried.

I don’t know the name of it, but it’s the beginning of a very vicious hex.

God Save Ireland! I attempted.

The Mistress got the same sort of hex years ago. A girlfriend left her after years of mental abuse, leaving behind a similar little marble box telling her not to open it. But The Mistress, being her, did. A matter of hours later birds started flying head first into the side of the house. It went on for hours. Afterward Mistress went out and collected up 58 of them.

That seems freaky, but doesn’t seem like much of a hex.

That was only the beginning – she got cancer of the ovaries afterward and had to have them removed.

And after that?

And after that, nothing. Her run of bad luck finished. But there was loads of awful things in between too, like.

Well so she can’t have kids, I logic-ed. If this witch woman knew anything about her it’d be that The Mistress isn’t exactly the mothering type. She may as well have made it so’s every baby carrier ever manufactured wouldn’t fit her, such is the impact it would have on her womb-barren life....

....Well anyway, I don’t think you want birds flying into the side of your house. By the sounds of Mad Otis he might want to use their bodies as bait for that pregnant Rottweiler outside, so’s he can capture it.

I reasoned that this was fair and that were Otis to ever catch that pregnant Rottweiler and do her harm it might cause terrible trouble which may in a roundabout way impact on me.

So I told her we should go and have a lie down and a think about how we’ll stop this hex becoming real.

In bed lying in the spoons position I started getting frisky and began to do the V fingers round the outside of her minge through her skin tight, knickerless white denim hotpants. I put this Herbie Hancock track on Youtube to get her seepy and eventually, it now fully engorged, I twisted that bean of hers like a miniature joystick bringing her to a quivering, squirting climax.

It took her a good 5-10 minutes (probably 7) till she were still again, and with a cinematic coincidence the song ended then too.

Moving To Montana Soon

This is the way I felt when I went to bed last night. So my bones were creaky, I’d a pain in my liver, my spine felt rusty in the middle and most worrying of all I’d very limited capacity in my vision and everything looked blurry even when I squinted and focused. I noted that it made everything look like a Renoir print, but so worried about this rapid and sudden physiological deterioration was I that I could take no pleasure in this – like imagining I was tripping and/or that I’d fallen through some vortex into Renoir’s imagination, a la Bring John Malcovich.

As mentioned in a previous post I am replacing the Venetians because they are caked in mould. I have now reached the conclusion that there are mould spores in the air also, invisible to the naked eye, but there nonetheless, and something which is, above smoking, the major cause of lung cancer. And seeing I smoke too, I reckon I’m doubly fucked.

I entertained the idea of moving out, packing my stuff and going, not forgetting to change banks or maybe keep all my cash under the bed from here on in to avoid the landlord chasing me up for rent.

Then Kimba called and told me The Mistress had kicked her out due to some unspecified sexual problem on Kimba’s part. So I could think of nothing else to tell her other than to come round.

When she arrived she walked right in on past me and put Frank Zappa on the turntable then started dancing like an imbecile dropping down and rolling her head right down between her knees like it’d suddenly become a ton’s weight and she couldn’t hold it up.

When she settled down she took a seat in my granny’s nice big rocking chair and I told her how Aloysius had been in touch to tell me about the fact finding mission he’d been on in Peru and how he’d somehow got wind of the US Airforce’s mapping of human thoughts.

Kimba told me she wasn’t interested and that she’d a story to tell me about The Mistress that I wouldn’t believe.

She told me I would regret taking her in as The Mistress had powers beyond the constraints of time and space and that she could get me in my bed even though she were miles away.

I told her about my physical ailments and that I suspected that in an act of suprahuman prescience The Mistress had foreseen Kimba seeking sanctuary with me and hexed me accordingly.

Kimba spent the rest of the night being restrained, moody and quiet. When she went to bed I put the Over-Nite Sensation back on, and unlike Zappa, realised that moving to Montana wasn’t even a maybe for me.

Backstage Between Curtain Calls

Today’s Porn-a-Like is Dick Cheney. Dick Cheney is a terrible evil shitehawk who is renowned for his underhand dealings and his duplicitous and mercenary manoeuvrings on Capitol Hill. Some of this is demonstrated in this quote in which he makes reference to his presidency of the Council On Foreign Relations.



And in this testimony by Cathy O’Brien of how uncle ‘Dick’ raped her with a butcher knife.

Plus of course he was one of the principal architects in the illegal imperialistic war in Iraq that killed millions of, (what’s now apparent), was more or less passersby, intentionally, as highlighted this last couple of weeks by wikileaks among others.



But to you who might balk at the idea of Gordon Brown being a paedophile, or Tony Blair being a protector of nonces, (or even a paedophile himself), or even Boy Bush: The Mass Murderer, consider that the whole lot of them and many others too, a Garasene battalion with a very particular strain of treacherous venality exclusive to their nature alone, launched a war on known false pretences and produced this with the slings and arrows of their DU (Depleted Uranium) tipped munitions, as well as, day after day, continually aspiring to the numbers of Pol Pot or Hitler or Kissinger with their amorphous statistical tabulations totting up their murderous and satanic intent.



So here is Dick Cheney, today’s porn-a-like. He is here captured on a hidden DGSE surveillance tape preparing to strangle an unsuspecting teenage call girl, or what the DGSE called ‘tenderising the quarry’ in their field report.

Dick Cheney is a bestial sadist, specialising in the defacement of both the body and the soul. See here for the testimony of those he and his ilk have left in their wake:



Today I witnessed Mad Otis’s favourite pregnant Rottweiler waddle around the courtyard out the back with big foamy soap suds dripping out its hole.

I suspect Mad Otis has laced the its food with detergent or some other soap based product in order to induce a miscarriage in the dog, which is (as mentioned in previous post) Otis’s most long held, most ideal ‘spectacle I want to see before I die’ thing, he tells me.

As I have already witnessed a dog having a miscarriage I am in no hurry to see another one.

I think my ‘spectacle I want to see before I die’ would be both a spectacular miracle set against a gentle pastoral backdrop, AND, more specifically, the adepts’ occult revealing of esoteric secrets buried deep in the everyday and, just for me on my request, teased forth by complicated and musical rites chanted in breathy mantras (in the fog) that incrementally drew the veil back on the true nature of things. A glimpse backstage between curtain calls, so to speak.

At the sink earlier doing the washing up I heard a man out the back loudly say he was gonna ‘kick his head to a cinder’ him that poisoned his dog. I’d tell him it was Mad Otis but in the interests of self preservation I will not.

Judging by the dangerous looking transitory cast of characters that pass through his very well kept flat, I imagine Mad Otis would have reach outside his prison cell and beyond where he ever to be found out of dog poisoning and given a stretch inside. And there is no doubt, as I was the only one, I think, who he ever let into his dog miscarriage fantasy, that he would know who grassed him up and afterward devise a very suiting revenge in accordance with my betrayal of him.

And knowing Mad Otis this revenge would be horrible, but it would also be, more than anything...in its completion, it would smell absolutely un-Godly!

Slightly All The Time

I have finally decided today to put up some curtains, as the Venetian Blinds that I have up now have become encrusted with mould over the three years I’ve been living here. Cigarette smoke, ripe BO usually allowed to cultivate over a five day soap & water free period, generally, - this funky swirling miasma of filthy air and debris that circulates continually in this little little bell jar home of mine has to be met head on, and so I am doing a gradual clearout and environmental detox – starting with the first step, the replacement of the Venetian blinds with curtains.

So I decided to go downstairs to ask Mad Otis his advice.

He opened the door wide and motioned for me to come in by cocking his head in a backward direction, like he’d got a quick whiff of shite and recoiled instinctively. He doesn’t usually do this, either open his door more than a peep, and only once has he asked me in. I will do most things Otis tells me, including going into his house with him on a slow afternoon when there is no one about......and no witnesses (therefore good for his psychopathic self).



He brought me into his kitchen and walked to the window above his sink (where there was frog spawn) and looked out at a pregnant Rottweiler. He said, “Danny, I’ve been feeling quite philosophical this last week or so. It’s like, most people wanna see the Northern Lights or a UFO, at this juncture in MY life though, all I want to see is a dog have a miscarriage.

When I told him I was not only witness to my own dog having a miscarriage, but was also privy to a story involving ANOTHER dog miscarriage – which I told him: My old French teacher lost his marbles and moved into his father’s chicken factory when he witnessed said father and his son being wiped out by an Iceland truck – a terrible tragedy also witnessed by the pregnant family dog which lay down and had a miscarriage on teacher’s well kept frosty December lawn a week or so before X-mas.



Mad Otis was most impressed with my retelling of this story. He was wide eyed but there was something of a personal incredulity moving behind his eyes as perhaps a way to keep his berserk imagination in check.

So I stood with him a while and looked out at the massively pregnant Rottweiler waddling around in the courtyard out the back and I forgot about asking him advice on curtains and instead concentrated on pinpointing the exact time when it would good to leave (while having 'Slightly All The Time' in my head for some reason).

Bosco The Anti-Christ

‘...No, if there’s some vestige of self-knowledge I’ve gained from these last few awful years its that I’m too great a coward to successfully masquerade as the anti-christ while REALLY intending to bring TRUE harmony to the world, all right under the nose of the Annunaki channelled through our NWO masters. I’m too much of a coward to do that.’

This was Bosco talking in Botanic Park. We’re sitting on a bench (cos I can’t get up if I lay out on the grass too long like the trendies (who’re really only hoping to get their bake on the tele in UTV Live’s light-hearted ‘Here’s The Summer Comin’’ non-report they do when it gets a bit warm)) and taking in the sun.

Through his investigations into the Scientologists he has come to realise they are but a facet of a terrible, genocidal, diabolical world autocracy that’s soon to emerge.

And as is Bosco’s way he feels he has to do something about it, like masquerade as the anti-christ, while being in reality one of the goodies.

‘But,’ I said to him, ‘what happens when the real anti-christ turns up then? He’ll kick your hippy ass. And the other side of the coin is what happens if you thwart his attack, rule the world in harmony for a year or two, and then Jesus, or (wouldn’t that be a turnip for the books) L.Ron Hubbard descends in a spaceship piloted by
John Travolta, and gets jealous of your achievements. ‘You might end up turning a good man bad through envy (in the case of Jesus anyway).’

Bosco said he’d go away and think about scaling back his plans. I advised guerrilla warfare.

PS:--- When you type in NWO it automatically rearranges the letters to NOW. New World Order NOW! That Microsoft – I knew Bill Gates was a bad’un...look down here where he says (from 2.20 onwards) how he wants to wipe out billions using his “new vaccines” all to stem the (fraudulent) dangers of CO2. Who said nerds were gentle softies at heart?

Porn Monster

While on the hunt for today’s porn-a-like I came across this monstrosity:

and I am really at a loss to identify what in fucks name it is.

Of course, as sods law would have it, the link was broken, so I’ll never know what type of strange coital perversion is occurring. These porn weary eyes of mine have never seen the like.

Anyway, on to the main attraction.

Today’s porn-a-like is Aaron Carter:


After years of singing tween-friendly pop ditties the blonde balladeer Aaron Carter decides to assert his manhood – by enhancing his manhood - and putting the snaps all round Times Square for all his fans to see. No longer will young girls cry every time he opens his mouth to sing. Now they’ll cry every time he opens his flies to swing...

Nothing Is Worth Too Much Sacrifice/Life Is Nice/Put Me On

I am still marooned on my ma's Lipstick Pink PVC sofa with my foot in plaster. Earlier I though I was getting deep vein thrombosis in my calf muscle. That head-the-ball nurse with all the flappy handed excitement-at-nothing has wrapped the plaster too tight. I’d to hop over to mother’s toolbox, which she keeps under the sink, to get a good heavy pair of scissors out and split the fucker up the back, freeing my fat calf, which burst forth like the multiple collapsible backs of an obese woman being unzipped from a cat suit.

After giving myself a good scratch – one of those ones you start at one end of your leg and chase it up yourself to your head – I rummaged around in the toolbox to see what she had in there (I was looking for glue) and found a tiny spiral notepad with the words ‘MY ENEMIES’ printed on it in the A-Team font.



Inside were the names of people I knew and people I didn’t. Also included in the list where groups and abstract things. The Holy Ghost was one. The Government another. Lee Marvin and The Directors of the Films of Lee Marvin made for a perturbing entry.

I took the book back to my perch on the Lipstick Pink sofa and flicked through it. I was surprised by some of the entries. There was one, this harmless twisty faced old cripple, who you see most days walking up and down the main road on this high tech chrome Zimmer frame. Its like its spring loaded. Beside his name, which is Steeky McGrath, she has written the reason for why he is her enemy.

‘A few years back’ she writes, ‘I was meant to meet McGrath in the car park of the local Crazy Prices to buy some weed of him. He turned up half-an-hour late and when he did he threw the bag of weed at my feet and spat on it. --- How To Get Him Back (in red): I don’t think he’s really crippled. I am going to follow him some afternoon. I bet he is moonlighting as a window cleaner. I will tell the brew and he’ll be done.’

I ruminated on this for a bit. I remembered seeing McGrath around the place where ma lived. I remembered him always jerking about and spasming. One time I saw both his arms shoot out either side of him and his shoulders go. He looked like a spastic doing the robot. A little bit like this:


A number of years ago he was charged with manslaughter and criminal damage to a petrol station. He was walking past the garage smoking a fag and the hand that held the fag shot out and he tossed the fag right at the feet of a local blowhard Orangeman who was filling his car up. The petrol ignited, blew up the tank, the car, and blew the blowhard Orangeman to bits.

He was found not guilty, but not before ma took the stand pretending to be a witness to the whole thing, saying she witnessed Steeky McGrath standing aiming the fag at the blowhard Orangeman like a dart player does just before he’s about to throw his dart.

But the judge didn’t believe her, the court psychiatrist thought she was a fantasist, and as she were the key witness they threw it out of court, and McGrath was let off on diminished responsibility due to his being a spastic.

Here is how I’ve been feeling today (1st song – When The Chips Are Down by Paul Siebel. Who's better than Bob Dylan imo):