- Today’s popular tunes are like elevator music raised to a high fart.
- Today’s music is sublime in its moment of discontinuance.
- Just saw a video about a ‘sexy car’. Does one drive that wearing a condom?
- I’m bringing out a new drug, called Pandora, to take when you have a mild headache. Side effects: strokes, heart failure and might possibly be infected with bubonic plague. Otherwise perfectly healthy. FDA approved!
- How would you cure a ukulele addiction?
- Grandad is up to his geriatricks again! 😀
- “Always look a gift horse in the mouth!” Trojan dictum.
- The chair just sat there, pretending to be a sofa and failing miserably.
Today I wanted to live in the moment. The first one was ok, the second one was better, the third one stank, as moments go. I tried to get back to the second one, but it was gone and then I got lost, so I decided to live yesterday all over again. It’s more predictable and the end was fun.
As I was taking my pooch for a walk this morning, I remarked to myself that he seemed to be getting entirely too blimpy for his own good and decided to let him off the lead (we were in the woods) and told him to go hunt for himself for his brunch. He barked an: “Aye, aye, Sir!” and sped off to the nearest tree and started sniffing and circling it, not realising that treat trees are out of season! (silly dog…) He finally got so disgusted with the tree’s reply to his en-‘treat’-y that he lifted his hind leg and pissed against it. “Serves him right!”, he barked. Next he stopped a rabbit and tried to threaten it into revealing the whereabouts of its eating bowl, but lucked out again, as the rabbit fell over stupefied.
He did get directions to the nearest supermarket from a passing turkey and took me there post haste. I lost sight of him as he was stalking a roast chicken, which had been waylaid by a fellow hunter, after he whispered to me, droolingly: “Hunt your own, manling!” (I guess in actuality he was stalking the hunter, but I won’t belabour the point) I found him again at the checkout, where he told me that apparently I had to pay a fee for his hunting permit. It was either that or leave half a leftover chicken behind for the scavengers. I was rather proud of my great big hunting dog and dutifully forked over the fee!
By Ralphie A Burcke:
Being an intrepid internaut, I took it upon myself to order the novel Skallagrigg by Whatshisface, from Amazon, so that my lovely wife could read it and hopefully enjoy it as much as I did. This was early January and, fool that I was, I intended to present my beloved with it a couple of weeks later, at the most. I mean, had I legged it from Nice to Calais, swum the channel and proceeded on foot to London and the same way back, it could not have taken me more than a month. What with our modern means of transportation, it should have been easy peasy, don’t you think!?
After only two days, I received an email stating that my order had been shipped by Royal Mail. As I am a distant relation of Her Britannic Majesty, via Adam and Eve, twice removed, I did not worry in the slightest, although what with travelling and the like, it did slip my mind. Imagine my discombobularity when at the end of February I received an email from Amazon enquiring about my satisfaction with the product and its delivery. When I regained consciousness, I sent a message to the sender informing them of the above-mentioned email and asked them if it would please be possible to take delivery of my order some time during 2015. They conveyed their condolences and were kind enough to send off a second copy of the book… albeit again by Royal Mail. I wrote my relative and asked her to keep a royal eye on the proceedings.
The second week of April (2015!) we went on a holiday to Belgium for a week and when we got back I found TWO ‘failed delivery’ slips from our postman, Pierre. The poor man must be overworked, because the slips were from two different post offices. Not, as you might be forgiven for presuming, from the nearest post office, which is but two streets away from our abode, but from postal infrastructures on the other end of town and as there were two slips, both offices were spaced apart, rather inconveniently for poor postman Pierre, I thought, by several miles.
I did notice however that both slips contained the same phone number for the customer harassment department of the French postal services. And true to form, when I called, Godzilla on the other end of the line told me I should have rung the same day as the failed delivery and further instructed me in the nicest possible way to bugger off. It took me half a day to circumnavigate postal strikers and such, but I did make it home with no less than two copies of Skallagrigg by Whatshisface. Today being April thirteenth, luckily of the same year of our Lord 2015.
At this point in time, I would like to state, for the record, that I consider it an incontrovertible certainty that, had the sender strapped the book to the back of an admittedly oversized snail, it would surely have made it here in half the time. Were the employees of the Royal Mail perhaps still waiting on the outcome of the battle of Waterloo, before daring to take it upon themselves to entrust my order to their snail-loving counterparts? Good Grief!
I really thought it time to call the pillocks-in-charge over at the Ligne d’Azur, the public transport net in Nice, about their exercise plan for obese and non-obese would-be (pfff, yeah right!) passengers. I asked the disgruntled lady of customer service (LOL!) to speak to someone in charge in their control tower, concerning flights over or anywhere near Mont Boron, where we live. She replied that they ran a bus service. I said: “Really, Madam!!? Opinions are divided on that subject. Did you know that it is impossible to actually see a number thirty bus, because the human eye is incapable of discerning it. The only way to know or rather to presume that one has passed in the vicinity is by the sonic boom that one may hear reverberating through the valley at irregular intervals.”
She interjected that surely it could not be that bad… To which I continued: “Madam, the only time I have actually seen a number thirty bus was two months ago, when one was revving its engines at a bus stop in town, just as my wife and I rounded the corner. We proceeded to sprint for dear life to catch it, only to watch the pilot advance his charge by exactly one foot, thereby indicating that he had left the terminal. We pleaded with him on our bare knees to let us board. He merely shook his be-goggled head wearily and pointed at a nearby hotel. Did you know that the Spanish have initiated negotiations with the locals about starting up a burro service around here, which would at the very least enable us to get from A to B, without having to leg it, and this for the price of a few carrots?”
At this point the lady excused herself, nowhere near profusely, saying that it was time for her lunch break and to please call back sometime tomorrow, to amuse her further. I should not forget to ask for Monique! I quiver in anger and despair at this airline.
I came from visiting my Mom in the retirement home Sunday, when the bus stopped in a for me unfamiliar place, as it is being rerouted because of roadworks. I thought I knew more or less where I was and made the momentous decision to try a shortcut… I saw this strange-looking undersized rabbit-warren lookalike of a tunnel under the railroad and decided to go exploring. It was all bricks, dank and musty, just the way I like ’em! But for some strange reason it had apparently been built to allow access to dwarves. I had to traverse it bent over double. Maybe I would find Doctor Livingstone on the other side? I never did find the source of the Nile and after walking several miles, I had to admit to myself that I was losing my bearings(sic). I couldn’t find North, because it was a cloudy day, you see! Do you? I didn’t!
When I inquired about the way to the Ghent city center, a passing stranger had the audacity to tell me that I was going in the wrong direction. Surely he was jesting! I continued on the way I was going, but when I spotted the Eiffel tower, I thought it time to turn around. I took a bus marked Ghent city center and it actually got me there. But I digress! What I wanted was an ATM, cause I was low on cash and hungry. It is my custom of a Sunday to have chips and meatballs in tomato sauce in the Chinese chip shop that I frequent. Aren’t I a cosmopolitan? After walking another mile, I finally arrived at the only cash dispenser that is anywhere near my place and found it to be empty of dosh.
I gave up! I went home half sobbing and had a dry crust of bread and a glass of tap water and went to bed. Cause I was exhausted from all the exploring, you see? Do you? I don’t!
I woke up this morning after a wonderful night and paid my dues to Mother Nature, as per our arrangement. First her and then everybody else.
I had been warned about such things by my dear departed father, that women can get very cruel, when scorned, and I had heeded his counsel.
After paying my respects to the lady, I had a lovely breakfast, two mugs of coffee and then I decided to go for a stroll about town. When I was in the middle of nowhere, so to speak(actually the middle of somewhere, but never mind…), she announced her presence again. Without so much as a by your leave!
I informed her that this was an inopportune moment and could I have a rain-check!? She wouldn’t have it. Very impolite lady, she is. I entreated her that this was not the time nor the place for her to come calling a second time and did she not remember that I had already vociferously said hello to her a mere hour earlier.
She replied that if I did not let her in, she would tear the door down. Now, I ask you, is this any way for a lady to behave? And there’s another thing! You can not pay your respects to her just anywhere. This is not the kind you take home to Mamma, if you catch my drift. The local authorities also have something against her!
At it happens, there was an establishment where in exchange for a small fee, they allowed me to see the bitch and let her do her dirty business with me. She’s a drag. I shall write a letter to my M.P.!
Syllochism: a seductive form of reasoning, consisting of a major promise and a minor trifling one, which ends up getting you sod all. Also leads to a general feeling of confusion on the part of the uninitiated. Favourite pass time of politicians and great thunkers, such as myself, Platato, thunker of messy thoughts.
Dialectic: in the vernacular.
Club: group of lay-abouts with nuthin better to do.
1.”To stay or not to stay? Methinks I’ll bugger orf!” -> major promise
2. “I’d stay if you arsed me!” -> minor promise
3. Conclusion: the old fart is still here!
Anybody brave enough to join the club? I ‘promise’ not to call your bluff…😉
You can also join us on Facebook:
From Spirit of Old:
Ralphie: “I’ll be fifty-two next June and the bastard still hasn’t been!”
After viewing the below video, I realised that I am missing something vital, of great import in society: a Christmas jumper! Does this mean that I have no social identity? Could I wear a tag to make up for it. Is there a self-help group that could help me with this issue?
The issue has been resolved: I called my Mum and explained the dichotomy and she answered me that ‘us social non-entities'(without a Christmas sweater, that is) may very well be lucky to be ignored by those, who have been identified. In fact, she went on, if looking like a complete moron is what it takes to be socially identified, we’re better off without it(the identification and the sweater, of course).
She will send me some Christmas sock though. She’s such a dear! Anyways, happy holidays to all of you from Ralphie and the gang over here at Ralphie’s Portal.
From Word Porn:
I disagree with this very notion! How can this be, when beauty is in the eye of the beholder? Probably another case of conforming to the norm. I piss on the norm! (Sorry, Norm…no offense!)
My place of birth, my abode, my pride and joy has fallen victim to malicious slander. I intend to Sue and cousins Ann and Mary also. Legions of my forebears have been raised on this lovely mountain top, where the knowledge of physics(= working out) and quantumobility have been passed on from cousin to son and so on for ages. You all knows me, do I look thick to you?
Brief explanation of quantumobility:
Little tiny super-guys called Bat Photon, Spider Proton and Hulk Quark(who’s a bit cheesy), who all have superpowers(they can be in two places at the same time, for example) and drive really fast and light vehicles, wiz by there regularly, stopping off to enjoy our Moonshine. Don’t you tell me I know nuttin about cheese!
In short, I ain’t havin’ it!
From I fucking love science:
Ralphie’s Portal’s virtual conquest of the planet is gathering speed, I’m happy to say. Never fear, I shall be a benign Lord!
One of the three inhabitants of Greenland, Mister Yugglefrugly, has seen fit to pay nominal tribute to us, which is only fitting. What took you so long? Mister Ping Pong, tableperson (they’re funny that way) of Pong’s Republic of China has graced us with a visit. Maybe he’s afeared of the might of the Wacky Dodo!? Admiral Togo isn’t, for he’s been around. Even the last remaining British Virgin has taken a blushing peek from her Islands. So that’s where you hid her, lads!
No news from the North Pole though, methinks the bears have gone on strike. And those stuffed shirts from Antarctica have been strangely silent aswell. No, not a quack from the Penguins! Could somebody wake up the inhabitants from middle Africa, please and instruct them to log into our portal, even if only for a laugh. I was going to complain about the middle of Canada not wanting to know us, but then I realised they’re lakes and apparently aqua-internet is not a fashion yet. (why not, pray?)
What are those islands on top of Norway, does anybody know? If they haven’t been claimed yet, I’ll be happy to oblige. Or is it a secret? In which case I apologise to the NSA… What’s the US doing in the middle of the Pacific Ocean? I was glad when I saw that, what I thought was Micronesia had joined us, but WordPress told me it’s America aswell. You do get around, don’t you! Listen, I’m not a great puzzler, but couldn’t we fit Iceland in those lakes in the middle of Canada? Might be slightly warmer over there for them. Right, my bad, global warming will probably turn it into a tropical paradise.
Toodeloo, I mean Bye, not that I have to go to… from the Wacky Dodo.
What I have long feared has come to pass! We who take the internet as scripture, must guard against it being inaccurate. Anything written down in these hallowed halls should be set in stone, so to speak. To state the bleedin’ obvious: I’ve found a mistake on the internet and in the most unlikely of places, namely Wikipedia. I’ve contacted them, but they adamantly refuse to correct it! I’m wondering if I should start a petition? Could you join me in bringing it to everyone’s awareness, please?
Here’s the link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mistake
They’re actually blatant about it!
Would it surprise you, if I told you that, in the several decades that I have roamed the Earth, I known quite a number of people and that among those people, there were a significant number of women? Some of these women I have known for thirty or forty years and I have noticed a peculiarity amongst them! I’ve known some wild women and really spirited ones at that, but when they get to a certain age, they seem to throw a switch and decide that the long hair has to go, a mini-skirt is no longer permissible and so on.
I was sitting on a terrace with a lady of my acquaintance, called Zita(formerly wild Zita), who is now middle-aged and still looks a million bucks, but she has calmed down a tad, since her younger years. Just a tad, mind you, for she still behaves like an angry rhinoceros on steroids at times. I just so happened that three ladies with a purple perm, grey stockings and the whole shebang passed by. I had known these ladies three decades earlier, when they used to dance on tables and do things that would make their granddaughters blush.
I remarked on this and asked Zita, when and why women throw the switch to go from man-eater to old biddy!? I went on in a jocular manner to say that I could see Zita in twenty years time in galoshes, a scarf on her head, corset on… and that’s when the lights went out! When I came to, Zita was holding an ice bag to my eye. I was seeing rather blurry and stammered:”Gran?”… and that’s when the lights went out a second time.
I woke up practically blind, but had the foresight, this time, to keep my gob shut until I had regained what remained of my senses and then asked what had happened. She did not elaborate, but I have a fair idea of what happened. Ladies seem to be touchy on this particular subject. It is for this reason that I venture to ask it online, where I feel reasonably safe: when and why do you throw the switch, ladies? I mean, look at Tina Turner! She must be getting on a bit and she does not have any intention of throwing said switch.
To return to the subject of dear Zita, I have a wicked plan!!! I intend to emigrate back down south, to the really deep south sometime in the not so near future. After I have settled all my affairs over here, on the very last day and at the very last minute, I shall go hang a bag of treats at Zita’s door. In this bag I shall leave some knitting, purple hair dye, grey stockings, a corset, galoshes and a walking stick for good measure. I shall have a driver standing by with a getaway car and ring the bell of dear Zita’s door. Then I shall vamoose, never to be heard of again. I think it might be safer to change my identity while I’m at it, for dearest Zita has a long memory and an even meaner uppercut.
Hurray! Hurrah, here’s my chance to ask you all to please remember my dear departed relative, Mister Blobby Burcke (picture included!). As the last remaining specimen of this elusive species Blobulus Burckulus, I have a vested interest in him not being forgotten. Although yours truly has evolved slightly since Mister Blobby’s untimely departure, I still proudly carry his jeans or was it genes? (either will do)
I’m still working on the procreation bit, but I could use some help! Hint, hint… Anyways, here’s to all animals and Mister Blobby in particular. Have an animal-loving day now, you all!
Lord, I want a lot,
a whole lotta cocoa,
to dump in the Milky Way, Lord!
Could you stir it, Lord? Please…
And a very long straw,
one that reaches till my bed, Lord,
so as I can slurp and slurp
and burp and slurp some more, Lord,
uhmmmm…until I snore, please, Lord!
My Grandmother Mimi and my grandfather Alfred, who were both a large part of my life for thirty and forty years respectively, or so I thought, have proven to be a figment of the imagination of quite a number of people. The same goes for my Mum Diane, whom I swore I saw only yesterday, but doesn’t exist. And come to think of it, until recent years I seem to have been a figment of my own imagination. Strange how some things one takes for granted can later on prove to be utter lies.
The truth about these misappropriated and constructed identities was revealed to me only today by two truly enlightened twelve-year-olds. They finally taught me how to distinguish fact from fabrication and trivial rumour mongering. They explained to me the first rule of contemporary proof of existence, which is an article of faith amongst all youngsters;
“Absolutely nothing is real, until it has been posted on Facebook and/or has been tweeted, period!”
At the same time I discovered the secret to everlasting life. Please!, should anyone learn (informally) of my demise in the near or far future, DON’T post it on FB or Twitter, that way the non-confirmation of my offline (and irrelevant) continuance or lack thereof can keep you all in suspense forever.
Baldric is smart, just like a weed that knows how to grow: upwards!
No, I won’t sell Baldric short. There are no buyers.
I mean, Baldric is smart, like a dog that instinctively knows how to bark, or lie down for that matter.
He is like a cell that, when faced with a decision, will automatically divide.
Baldric’s intellect is like a sun that went supernova, long ago.
Some really smart people are in agreement that Baldric is very probably alive.(still)
The way he gets things is uncanny, like when he couldn’t teach his pet turnip to sit up and beg, he correctly surmised that it wasn’t hungry.
Did you know that Baldric’s pet turnip, Harry, is inconceivably courageous? One day it so passed that Harry was faced with a roaring lion and he did not flinch! Baldric told me so.
And there’s an added bonus: Harry doesn’t get jealous of other turnips, not even of an orange. Harry is one fine turnip and so is Baldric.
Whenever I had spied Miss Kitty, which was not often, she was always clad in a colourful veil, which led me to believe that, either she had a terminal case of shyness, or maybe it was a religious thing. But when I ran into her today, she was al fresco, so to speak. Imagine my surprise, when I deduced, from the absence of eyes…, that the poor thing was blind.
I feigned innocence and politely introduced myself, to which she wrinkled her nose at me. Not one to be easily riled, I told her a story I’d seen in a Mickey Mouse cartoon, thinking that this might be of interest to someone of the feline persuasion. She did seem to lick her lips, but still remained mute. I sincerely prayed that she was not twice challenged, but when I heard a slight ‘Pfff…’ I was reassured and at the same time somewhat put out. Apparently, my story had failed to entertain her.
She did have quite a funny hairdo, but I complemented her on it anyway. It was then that she ambushed me and gave me a wet, slobbery kiss, which tasted of fig leaves, honey and of all things mysterious and sweet. I thanked her profusely, but explained to her that I was quite happy in a relationship and promptly took my leave.
Next I bumped into my girlfriend, who was all smiles. She gave me a big, slobbery kiss aswell and for no particular reason. Women? Pussies? I don’t get them!
My ancestor Mister Blobby Burcke is at this minute turning around in his grave, after hearing this heart-breaking news. That his charming, noble and delicate features could be described as ugly had never ocurred to him, nor to his many devoted fans. I leave it to you, the reader, to decide for yourselves what you think about what these hoodlums of National Geographic say about him!
From National Geographic:
A mountain and a valley were having an argument.
When the mountain felt that he could not win the argument, he told the valley to ‘kiss his side’.
The valley answered: “But, Mountain, I do…” That shut him up!
I would like to be extremely famous and do great deeds. Such great deeds that world citizens would erect statues of Ralphie the Great everywhere, to be used as toilets by the pigeons.
I would perform these outrageously valient deeds not so much for the sake of mankind, but to be of assistance to the pigeons. You must agree that a good public loo is hard to come by.
After having written the first blog post with this name (https://ralphiesportal.me/2013/09/01/intelligence-discovered-down-under/), I decided to word it more scientifically and I sent it off by email to the following universities: Oxford, Camebridge, Harvard, Yale, Sydney and melbourne. None of them have responded yet, which is kinda sad. Here’s the email I sent:
Dear Messrs Somebody-or-other in Charge of the Biology Department,
It is with considerable jubilation that I address myself, Ralphie A Burcke, a relative unknown, to your venerable body of scientists. I have momentous news about the human anatomy, mine in particular, but it would perhaps also be advisable at some stage to involve your colleagues of the Psychology Department.
My discovery began with a banal occurrence of flatulence, but, as you will soon realise, this had some astounding consequences as I extrapolated some extraordinary conclusions. Dear fellow scientists, imagine my colon filled rather exhaustively with fecal matter and a certain amount of methane gas. Due to my digestion, an excess of downward pressure resulted in the release of part of the methane gas, which in and of itself is not an uncommon incident, had it not been for the fact that the fecal matter was pressing down with an equal and simultaneous urgency. The momenticity of the experience will show itself, when I explain that I extrapolated that my rectum had, with no aid from my brain whatsoever, differentiated which matter to expel.
I have since held the experiment repeatedly, both under laboratory conditions and in the field, and the end result was always the same, except for that one unfortunate accident, which I blame on the over-zealousness of my scientific endeavours. Yes, esteemed colleagues, I am the proud owner of the first ever discovered and recorded conscious rectum! I am working on discovering a way to communicate with it, but to date the results have been poor.
The main reason for this communiqué is to unequivocably lay claim to the first intelligent asshole in human history, but there is a second, more circumspect, reason. During my lifetime it has on numerous occasions come to my attention that my penis sometimes has a mind of its own. To ascertain whether this constitutes a second member of my anatomy to develop intelligence, I would have to hold exhaustive tests.
It is my humble plea that you would help me with the funding of this enterprise. Surely we owe this to humankind as a whole!? And if you would suggest which scientific publications best to send my claim and findings to, I would be much obliged. Please, respond asap, as myself and my respective parts are anxiously awaiting your reply;
Ralphie A burcke.
Should they reply at a later date, I shall of course publish it here for you all to marvel at!
It is said that goldfish have a memory-span of three seconds. But who says this?
I mean, has anyone ever tried to play chess with one?
Mountains have ever been envious of valleys and vice versa, which seems incongruous, seeing that they’re basically one and the same.
What is a valley, but an inverted mountain of air, with at its deepest point the tops of mountains!?
A million years to a mountain is just enough time to take a quick nap.
A mountain never rests.
It is always busy
being a mountain.
Disclaimer: Deeply religious people should probably not indulge… ->?
There are groups of people, who are forbidden to partake of pork, because their Good Book tells them so. It would be interesting to follow this law to its origin and to look at the historical consequences of it.
Apparently, about three thousand years ago, The Almighty changed a bunch of brothers into pigs, for treating their sibling shabbily, but when they repented He changed them back, minus one brother, who either was misplaced or got away.
Disliking the practice of cannibalism, these groups of people decided to abstain altogether, so as not to even remotely run the risk of accidentally gobbling up their great-etcetera-grandfather, which was very humane of them. They continue to do so till this day, but what could conceivably have happened after the unlucky brother was misplaced?
Is it likely, if he had even one ounce of God-fearing faith left in him, that he would bang other sows of a previously non-human nature? And if he was a horny sod, who did manage to procreate, what is the probability, considering the yumminess of bacon, that he or his progeny would have survived till today? Not being a mathematician, I leave the outcome to this statistical question to my more learned brethren. However, awaiting this outcome, I think it a fair assumption that it be reasonably safe to eat pork in this day and age, without actually becoming a cannibal.
It must be acknowledged that certain individuals, whom we shall charitably call humans, do exhibit traits befitting pigs, especially around feeding time. Could it have transpired that the naughty brothers only feigned repentance, but in reality were not? Is this the reason why their descendents produce this behaviour? Or did the missing pig find The Lord on his own merit, for being a good little piggy and did The Almighty change him back, without bothering to tell the rest of us? But once in a while he and his kin still revert to their piggish shenanigans?
Whatever the case may be, we are lucky that these porky individuals of dubitable human appearance, do not in the least look appetising and that no-one in their right mind would take a bite out of their hind quarters. But to be on the safe side, it would perhaps be advisable to eat a hotdog instead, where one can be absolutely certain that these contain not one ounce of meat. I shall rest my debatable case for the time being.
I am currently re-reading Douglas Adam’s The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, a humoristic classic of the sci-fi genre. When I came to the passage where the Imperial Trans-galactic Council was imperial in name only, because the Emperor was in stasis and had been for quite some time, my fantasy started to run amok and I embroidered the following sequence to go with it:
The Imperial Trans-galactic Council, after having concocted whichever hair-brained scheme that turned their fancy, would come to His Imperial Majesty (in stasis) to ask for his approval, on the understanding that silence meant agreement. They could therefore effectively issue any Imperial Edict they chose, except for that one instance 33,741 light years ago, when the council had asked the Emperor for his approval for discontinuing the universal practice of intergalactic citizens of having cream with their coffee and this for the excellent reason that cows had by then become extinct. But His Highness had mysteriously, but distinctly broken wind.
They were forced to admit that on the face of it, or rather the ass of it, this could be construed as disapproval. Furthermore, the Imperial Fart had been the opposite from silent and thus approval had been withheld. An alternative was adopted in the form of sheep’s milk to go with galactic coffee everywhere. This fateful occurrence had led to the creation of a brand new branch of science, namely that of fartology, which endeavoured to fathom the true meaning of the Imperial Fart. Whole libraries have by now been filled with thick tomes on the subject.
The council have wisely kept the debate of whether or not to keep taking sugar with ones coffee far from the Emperor’s discerning presence, for fear of more rectal disapproval.
End of embroidery. There you have it, dear readers, just when you were practically sure that yours truly had put his anal phase behind him, he manages to surprise you yet again!