To Pork or Not to Pork?

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.



The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (novel)

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (novel) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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!

Youngsters Suck Egg!

Nederlands: keldervondst: Oude Sunlight (zeep)...

Nederlands: keldervondst: Oude Sunlight (zeep) geproduceerd bij de Lever Brothers (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What with all the rules and regulations and safety features for kids nowadays, I wonder how I ever made it through childhood alive. When we used to climb trees, it was without a safety net, helmet or elbow and knee protectors. I guess you could say that we were a kind of little league SAS in them days. Our parents thought nothing of it. I toughened you up. If you got a cut or a bruise, somebody would slap on a band-aid, kiss it well and out you went again. Instead of going into observation for three days in the nearest hospital. Kids these days are wimps!

During school vacations we would hike through swamps and catch salamanders and maybe wrestle the odd crocodile…(just out of the egg ones, but still!) The municipal dump was out favourite playing ground, where we would drink toxic waste for elevenses. It gave all our gang three nipples, but who cares. We would bend metal bars with our toes back then. My Gran tought us to wrestle mature bulls to the ground, using only the one hand. Using two hands was for wusses.

When the lads and I passed a meadow with cows in it, we would go in and you might hear one mate tell the other: “Oy, pass me the udder, pal!” We’d eat mushrooms and wild flowers and we’d pee where we pleased. The local grizzlies were scared of us, cause we went armed with pocket knives. Many a fine day you’d catch us abseiling from cliffs or swinging across rivers on vines. And this even with a sore throat or a tummy ache.

In our teens we didn’t use conditioner, perfume or any of that carp. We smelled of honest, fresh sweat and afterwards of a good scrubbing with Sunlight soap. I won’t tell any of the young bucks that strut around now about the sex we had in them days, for it might give them permanent erectile dysfunction. Oral sex for young folks today is talking about it and I’ll bet they use lip-condoms for kissing. Nah, youngsters these days suck egg!

A War of Strange Worlds.

Gram negative cocci in pus from eye.

Gram negative cocci in pus from eye. (Photo credit: Nathan Reading)

From his platform on the endocrine gland Strepto, the King of Cocci, addresses his tribe:

“You all know that we had to leave our last habitat, due to overpopulation, after the arrival of those dastardly viruses. Finally, since our exodus from the Primal Crap…”

The crowd answers in unison: “All hail the Stinky One!”

And Strepto continues: “…we have found a rather microbe-friendly human, who has tolerable chemical levels and an over-ripe liver.” Cheers from everyone. “Let us sup and make merry!”

The party lasted all through the human’s sleep period, but then the scouts, under the command of general Bac Illus, came in with some appalling news. Apparently, their arch-enemies, the E-colli, had found this delicious morsel first and were headed their way in attack formation. Strepto addressed his people anew:

“Colli, mount your blood cells. The evil Colli have found out our bed of diseased joy. We’ll head them off at the aorta. bloody battle is at hand and possibly afoot aswell. General Illus, take the lead!”

Bac answered: “Aye, aye, Mire!” (=Title of honour amongst bacteria)

There ensued an epic battle, but sadly the Cocci were running out of oromones, the only effective defense against the dreaded Colli. (Note: Oromones are like ferromones, but made of gold. Much more effective and rarer.) They retreated and hid in the ventricular valve to hold their war council. General Illus reported that they were outnumbered fifty to one, but thankfully an exchange of fluids was in progress. Their only hope lay in escape.

The Colli were decimating their numbers and the Cocci made a hasty retreat through the Valley of Poop, all the while gorging themselves on manna, for Shit only knew where they would land next. Strepto shouted:

“General Illus, hold them off as best you can, while we head for the nearest exit. Our fate lies in your hands!” The old soldier was a dour Cocci, whose whole family had been lost, during an untimely dump. He swore to hold out as long as he possibly could.

The remaining Cocci population were holed up in the scrotum, awaiting transportation, when report came that the brave general’s troops had been overrun and their annihilation was imminent. Missus Strepto wailed:

“We can only pray for premature ejaculation to save the day!” And thank the Holy Crap that it did come timely and the Cocci tribe were consequently transported into a strange new womb, where none of their kind had ever gone before.

They lived to greet another day, thanks to the sacrifice of General Illus, who shall forever be remembered in the anus of the tribe, where they found a new home and lived shabbily ever after. Amen!

Fairy Tales… :-)

Queen (Snow White)

Queen (Snow White) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

– The princes in the region were so ugly that the princess took to tongue kissing frogs. To no avail, but it kept the frogs happy.

– Wicked Queen: Mirror, mirror on the wall, is there any fairer than me, as far as I can see? (She’s up in the tower)

Mirror: Well… there’s Beth, Mary, Cindy, Molly, Charisse(add +- 500). Oh, and the old lady we buried two months ago still looks marginally better than you do. Even that drag queen last week…

Wicked Queen: My stupid husband would have to buy me an unbreakable mirror!

– Cinderella broke the heel of her glass slipper(made in China), twisted her ankle, missed the coach and had to limp back home.

 The big, bad wolf said: I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll continue, after I’ve taken a Strepsils for my cough!

– Frodo to Gandalph, after being chased by wraith, stabbed, beaten and what have you: Go on a trip, you said. It’ll be fun, you said. Bollocks!


Hazzard County Deputy Cletus Hogg, played by R...

Hazzard County Deputy Cletus Hogg, played by Rick Hurst (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Following a visit from social services, Mister Jim-Bob Hogg, spokes-redneck for the Hogg family, made the following statement to the authorities:

“My brother Carl is not a relative, he’s irrelevant. The verdict on my sister Caroline is still out. My niece is still in the experimental phase and for cousin Cletus we’ve declared a miss-trial.

No comments shall be forthcoming about other specimens of the family and this for legal reasons. But for the record, where my stepsister May-Belle is concerned, I plead the fifth!”

Replacing the F-Word?

English: Single sleeve of "F**k You!"...

English: Single sleeve of “F**k You!” by Cee Lo Green (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Might not the English language be served well by a selection of phrases to replace the oh so overused “Fuck you!” or “Fuck off!”? I have nothing whatsoever against the act that the verb implies, or rather states so forcefully, but I do not see the need to pepper every sentence with it. Why not try to come up with some utterances that show a trifle more sophistication, a tad more panache, for I for one do so dislike the ordinary. Let us re-educate our sailors, prostitutes and other less savoury individuals, such as lawyers(my apologies to the ladies of the night, btw).

Something along the lines of a friendly:

“I fear you would not have made it out of Gomorrah, my dear chap!” or a gentle

“May the good Lord bless you with a cortex sometime soon!” for the blissfully obtuse.

Should not the “Silence of the Mutton” prevail over the shrieks of blondes? Could you all please help me compile a list of understated phrases for asking people to kindly make themselves scarce? Would the following examples not be more pleasing to the ears?:

“Please step outside and see if I’m there!”

“I’ll get back to you when I can’t!”

“Please come and see me when I’m out!”

“A good listener would have left by now!”

I shall avidly await your linguistic concoctions and fornicatory salutations to you all!

P.S.: More dislocution coming soon…


A Job-huntin’!

Chicken Huntin'

Chicken Huntin’ (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

After eight years of bummin’ around, I think it time to put my nose to the grindstone again, but not too close, ’cause I don’t want to get it ground off completely. I’m planning to get back into the mainstream of life. Maybe not exactly in the middle, but close enough to it to avoid getting muck on my shoes. Ralphie is looking for a job. I did some serious reading and listening to catch up on the latest trends, for I gots to be able to talk the talk and walk the walk, if I wants to get in with a fighting chance.

A notice in the window of a job agency caught my eye.

Wanted(That’s me!): Sales person for a leather store.

Telling myself that this was a piece of cake, I sauntered in, nonchalant-like and presented myself. I told the nice lady behind the desk I could sell that store in no time, just so long as it met with the three L’s of real estate: the location triplets. The nice lady disabused me of this notion and went on to tell me that they were actually looking for someone to sell leather bags and clothes and such. I said that I had done some serious networking and that among my many contacts I counted no less than three, count them: three, presidents of biker clubs. They would surely take that crap off their hands easy-like, if’n the price was right. She told me to vamoose on the horse I rode in on.

I think I don’t like that bitch… I crossed that particular agency off my list of people to do business with. Their loss, I’m sure! Should there be any companies out there that could benefit from my years of experience as an alcohol researcher, please don’t hesitate to contact me. Recycling shit is another one of my fortes. Don’t yawl call around the same time though and may the best outfit win. Who said this wasn’t easy!???

Book Report: The Old Man and the Sea – Ernest WhatsHisName.

English Lit

English Lit (Photo credit: Mark Turner)

In all fairness, I should start by saying that it’s been a while since I read this book, but I’m fairly certain that I remember the gist of it.

Once around thee time there was a man, who sailed just the one sea his whole career and caught nothing but little iddy biddy fishes. He was probably related to the captain, which explains why nobody booted his arse into the drink for being such an awful sailor. His life’s dream was to catch a really big fish, just the once, but he didn’t, cause he stank at his job and they finally pensioned him off at a ripe old age.

He went on to buy a dingy with his life’s savings and took it out to sea every day, catching not a lot(as usual), until one fine morning he caught the biggun. However, he was too decrepid to hoist it aboard and when he towed it back to port the sharks ate it. Which goes to show that to pursue one’s life’s ambition is a complete and utter waste of time.

That’s the book in a nutshell. Feel free to use this book report for school, if you can’t be bothered to read it. (I wouldn’t! Read it, that is. It sucks.) Did I mention that I have a Ph.D. in English literature from the open university down the road here? Straight A student I was. I graduated Summat Come Later, but nevertheless…

Giving Up The Drink!

English: Everyone take a drink

English: Everyone take a drink (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Something I dug up from a while ago:

In my idiostupidification I was convinced that giving up the drink would automatically get me a job. Somebody was certain to come along and say: “Hello there, Mister Reformed Bum, since you have magnanimously forsworn the Lord Bacchus, I have come bearing you the gift of a fine new job, which pays three thousand Euros a month. I shall now take you to your new penthouse, butler included. Please follow me…”

I was rather flummoxed when this did not magically appear. I said to myself: “I am going through all this bother of becoming a non-practicing alcoholic and what do I get for it? Bugger all! This will not do!” My post liquification process was not going according to plan. I sulked for quite a while, let me tell you: “… Bastards, What does a well marinated body have to do to get some recognition these days?”

Later on, my pointless intentions sharpened, I entered a prize that sported a vacancy. However, there was a slight problem: there was a queue the size of a small country ahead of me, all unemployed. When my turn finally came, the Human Redundancy guy asked me why he should hire me and not someone else. I answered, truthfully, that I had given up something, which was very dear to me, namely alcohol, for the express purpose of being reinstated to my former glory. And would he please show me to my new office, my bouncy and willing secretary and hand over the keys to my very own bog.

He told me that their branch in Antarctica was looking for someone with just my qualifications and would I please go annoy them for a spell. The nerve of some people… I have a good mind to go have a stiff drink!

A Joking Brunette?

Brunette Combing Her Hair

Brunette Combing Her Hair (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The lengths that some people will go to in order to exercise their right to be silly is astounding. A blonde with a twist was spotted in a Murcia shopping street, but the lady in question was actually a brunette, who had paradoxically dyed the hair on her head blonde! It was her tiny mustache and her eyebrows that gave her away. No other tufts were in evidence, which was perhaps fortunate for her and the general public.

Obviously some members of the female populace no longer wish to be appreciated for their brains only, or maybe they think that they´ll have more fun this way. Have they forgotten that having more indiscriminate fun stems from an incapacity to comprehend the basic rule of cause and effect and a whimsical approach to the consequences?

Are they perhaps jealous over the lack of brunette jokes? It may also be that they feel left out, when they notice the increasing obtuseness displayed on the internet and wish to at least appear slightly dimmer than they really are. An insufficient exchange of bodily fluids with members of either sex is probably at the root of this remarkable display. One can only wish for them to get lucky very soon, before more mischief is perpetrated.

The author wishes to point out that he himself was actually blonde as a boy, but he hastens to add that his hair got progressively darker with age. He hopes that any occasional relapse, past, present or future, be overlooked and is eternally grateful that he has finally turned gray.

Those Happy Pills.

English: Happy Pills!!! (Tho I don't know what...

English: Happy Pills!!! (Tho I don’t know what are you able to get there) – Barcelona (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Earlier today I was feeling depressed over some depressing stuff, amazingly. I hardly ever get depressed over good things that happen to me, which is fortunate, therapy costing what it does. You may have guessed that my finances are in a slump and as a result so am I. My ears perked when I heard on TV that they are selling pills now that are absolutely guaranteed to cure any symptoms of depression and as an added bonus they are quite affordable.

I was just reaching for my cell to order this miracle drug, when I stayed my hand to listen to some minor side effects, which could accompany this medication. Apparently, they would render me blues-free and I would hardly care about my hair falling out and the cramps in my lower regions. That is, if I did not slip into a coma entirely or actually died, which would provide a more permanent solution to all my problems.

These miraculous tablets had not been tested on any poor animals, but a large group of inmates from a correctional facility had kindly volunteered for testing. Those that had survived had started a knitting society and were rather pleased with the treatment they had received and thankful for the wigs that the pharmaceutical company had graciously provided them.

That settles it. I’m ordering now, but I insist on my complimentary wig.

A Non-event!?

Sugar Mountain

Sugar Mountain (Photo credit: BlueRidgeKitties)

A dear friend is planning to leave his den, that comfortable haven where his cortex is safely connected to the web, to venture into the netherworld. I knew I had some weird friends, but this one absconded with the whole cooky jar. He plans to disconnect himself, temporarily one hopes, from our virtual reality and wander unknown planes, ipadless, cell-less and… (there’s worse!) cameraless. I told him with wringing hands: “But my dear chap, this does not compute!” He responded that this was the point (calamity and blasphemy). Dear Readers, my friend has obviously taken leave of his keyboard. He’s gone and planned a non-event and, one is ashamed to say, one that is not even sponsored.

We shall sadly never know the sound of his one hand clapping, as the sound-byte soft and hardware will be absent, a common mistake in the olden days and the reason why most of Man’s history is largely deemed irrelevant, as belonging to those fabled lands of imagiality and realination. He plans to go where no self-respecting cyborg has gone before, to a place of rumours only, estranged from the grid, to a parallel universe of undocumented unreality, at best found in a very few forgotten comments on some Unix platform of a tenebrous yester-millenium.

Why did He-who-must-not-be-named (because his name is protected by copyright)come from the Sugar Mountain, bringing us the tabloids of the Book of Many Faces, if not to warn us that such behaviour is unvirtual in the extreme and just not on! He would turn over in his archive, should he hear of unwarranted SPAM-less wanderings, uninterrupted by a commercial break. One despairs at the thought that the fool might actually be doddering along without a sufficient popcorn supply, possibly even wienerless!

We, who are well-linked persons and shall therefore not go missing, know that to leave the safety of one’s net is to invite disaster. One might very well bump (and quite harshly at that) into remnants, who are relics of that pre-existence period from before the Cinderella, brought to us by our Fathers from the Holy Wood (this is even pre-Oscar time, folks!) These mutated remnants may turn my delirious friend into a heathen, forcing him to read actual paper cartoon editions or turn him into a worshipper of the anti-Cyborg… *shudders*

One wonders, shall he forget our proud ancestry, shared and liked by millions, our illustrious forebears: the first, the one and only Fred and his mate Wilma? *sobs* I fear for his immortal matrix, forever out of GPS-reach, unmonitored by even one solitary cctv. Yes, if the unfiltered air does not do him in, the withdrawal symptoms surely will. And now, over to the studio!

About Gravity and Density.

Gravity well plot

Gravity well plot (Photo credit: Wikipedia) You see, it’s a plot!

I’m at present reading a novel in which is explained the mathematical and geometrical proof of gravity. At least, I assume it is!

Yet again, I am confirmed in my unshakable belief that I am completely and utterly thick, because I understood jack shit about it, not one solitary iota, bupkes, zilch.

First I thought I would ask someone to explain it to me in laymen’s terms, but then I realised that this would not do. Look at the term laymen, it has the verb ‘to lay’ in it, which means ‘to put down’.

No, Sir! I beg to differ. The degree of my stupidity is such that, if you were to try to make me understand, you would not have to put me down, but instead you would have to treat me as someone who has been deceased for quite some time!

Thus, the only ones to bring me any measure of enlightenment in the matter would be either Jesus H. Christ or God the Father Himself. As I am very much in doubt as to whether they will take the time to resurrect my mentos defunctos, I shall stick to my comfortable theory that gravity has everything to do with superglue.

It’s either that or await the Second Coming, but I think I’ll be gone by then!

Yo Romeo, You Online? – LOL

From Fanpop

From Fanpop


Then: O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name; Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.

Now: Yo , Romeo, you online? Your Daddy’s a rat, unfriend him, heck block the s.o.b.! And if you won’t, you can cuss all you like, but I ain’t having no more Capuchinos with you!


Then: [Aside] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

Now: [Asks a friend] Should I sign off, or should I talk to the bitch?


Then: ‘Tis but thy name that is my enemy: Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What’s Montague?

Now: You call your sorry self The Man? Move out already! You ain’t no man. Where can I find myself a Man?

Then: It is nor hand nor foot, Nor arm nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. O be some other name!

Now: You had to put your foot in it again, didn’t you!? Don’t be such a pussy!

Then: What’s in a name? That which we call a rose By any other word would smell as sweet;

Now: What’s your handle now? Rosy, roflmao!? You can use all the deodorant you want, but you still gotta take a shower!

Then: So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d, Retain that dear perfection which he owes Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, and for thy name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself.

Now: Rosy(LOL), my ass, you get rid of that handle, you hear! Keep my acne heart… danged autocorrect &%$@#%!! … aching heart, but not with that handle, cause I got an image to keep up and so do you. Do it and you can have me, honey! *poke*


A Moment of Doubt!

English: Arriving at Prospect Halt No doubt th...

English: Arriving at Prospect Halt No doubt the Reading Society of Model Engineers have a different name for their only station. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’m gob-smacked! I’ve done it now.  I’ve Burcked myself.

I gaze in impotence at the sight of the ineptitude before me.


This pitiful drivel down lanes of dreary drudgery,

Would perhaps look good in kindergarten, but surely not up here!


I’m stumped, I tell you, at my wit’s end. They’ve left me all alone,

To fight and wrestle with words and imagery that is far beyond me.


There they are: my peers and learned colleagues,

Who can shake out of their endless sleeves,

Poems of wit, filled to the brim with understanding.


And all this just at the drop of a hat, t’ must be magical.

Lend me that hat, if you please? There’s a good chap.

Could I have a peek down your sleeve?


Search for a drop of inspiration, perhaps?

If you would be so kind, I would! I swear I would.


Maybe if I meditate, I could pick up the thread

Of life’s great mysteries and leave it there at that.

True Story: An Outrage!

Outrage! (game)

Outrage! (game) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I am finally calm enough to lift up my pen and put it to paper, after the outrageous incident, which just befell me. There I was, sitting on the Rambla in Alicante begging, when two ladies came by, with one of those candy-assed white mutts with a pink bow to keep its hair out of its eyes. You know the ones, they look like a mop, but without the handle.

Mutters comes up to me and I thought he wanted me to pet him, but instead he lifts up his hind paw and pisses in my hat! The one I use to beg with and that I wear, by the way. I pushed him away, but too late. The dirty deed was done. My jaw on the floor, I looked up a the lady, who had cramps in her face from stifling her giggles. I was speechless, ladies and gentlemen!

And then the woman just walks away, without an apology, the farty-arsed canine vandal in tow. His tail in the air, proud as a peacock. The lady’s shoulders were shaking from all the giggling and sniggering. I called after her: “Yes, you can laugh, but I can’t!”, which made her snigger even louder.

You know that dogs go to pee, where they smell the pee of other dogs. So now my hat is the main attraction for all Alicantean dogs to come and piss in. Lovely! I can’t wear it anymore, of course. Luckily, I have a spare woolly one I can put on. I shall have to ask someone to put the peed-on one in the washing machine and cook it, to get all the smell of mutter’s piss out of it.

I shall probably end up with a two-inch hat, because of all the shrinkage. I’ll have to use a hat pin, but… second handicap… I have no more hair, I shaved it all off. Therefore, I shall have to attach my two-inch hat to my scalp. I shall look a mess!

I thought about sueing, but I’d get laughed out of court. A dog pissed in my hat. What do you think about that?

Bloody Hell!

Traffic lights can have several additional lig...

Traffic lights can have several additional lights for filter turns or bus lanes. This one in Warrington, United Kingdom, also shows the red + amber combination seen in a number of European countries. It also shows the backing board and white border used to increase the target value of the signal head. Improved visibility of the signal head is achieved during the night by using the retro-reflective white border. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I had just crossed the street, when I saw a three-year-old boy come running full speed in my direction, towards the traffic lights, which were now on red for the pedestrians, followed by his frantic mother, who shouted at me: “Stop him!”

I swooped down and picked him up, but the little fellar didn’t like that, so he put on of his little, but surprisingly hard, fists right in my kisser, causing blood to flow everywhere, on him and on me.

I let out an involuntary “Bloody hell!” The mother indignantly told me not to use such language in front of her little angel. The little angel swapped arms, but did NOT smack his mum in the gob!  I beat a hasty and bloody retreat.

Afterwards, people were staring at me, giving me The Look, probably thinking that I’d been in a bar fight. And all this for preventing what was possibly Mike Tyson‘s progeny, from getting run over. I think I’ll indoors from now on, until I die from natural causes. Yup! Ouch!!

The Old Ralphie Is Back!

stick insect

stick insect (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As you all know, I’m a bit skinny like a stick insect, because of this crisis business, malnutrition and what have you. But Ralphie has been eating more of late and now I have more energy. I feel I should  do some physical exercise, like lifting something heavy to strengthen my torso and my arms.

I thought of chopping wood first with a big axe, but knowing myself I would probably chop off my foot in a moment of absent-mindedness. Therefore, I would have to be the lifting. I could try lifting a log for half an hour every day. On second thought, maybe a stick or a small branch. No, I shall start lifting a twig for half an hour every day from now on. Then I’ll move up to a branch until I eventually make it to the bog, sorry the log.

In no time I’ll be lifting redwoods and a little while later I’ll be twirling them like batons. People will start calling me the Incredible Rulcke. Yup. that’s me in about two weeks, three weeks tops! You might wonna watch the news, people. Luvs you all to bits. Toodeloo and hugs from me.

Safety Tips for the Suicidal.

The Way Out, or Suicidal Ideation: George Grie...

The Way Out, or Suicidal Ideation: George Grie, 2007. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

1. If you want to hang yourself, DON´T use an elastic!

2. Whatever you do, DON´T take an overdose of laxatives, for that is NOT a happy way to GO!

3. DON´T use laughing gas for suicide purposes, for this may have the reverse effect!

4. If you want to get run over by a train, DON´T wear a red fluorescent jacket! (I can just imagine the train stopping and the driver coming over to ask, if he can help you with something!)

5. DON´T eat a lot of beans, before attempting to drown yourself!

6. If you want to jump off a really high building, make sure the elevators are in working order!

7. DON´T try to shoot yourself, if you have Alzheimers!

8. If you are absent-minded, don´t forget to leave a not to remind yourself of your decision!

9. If you´re going to leave a suicide note, write LEGIBLY and please date and sign it using your OWN name!

10. Bi-polar people should time their suicide properly!

11. If you want to blow yourself up, DON´T use a timer “Made in Taiwan”!

12. If you have a time machine, leave your parents a large supply of condoms and save yourself the bother! (but again NOT “Made in Taiwan”!)

Great Expectations!

Image representing Smashwords as depicted in C...

Image via CrunchBase

Something momentous happened yesterday, which may not mean a lot to you. I sold the very first copy of my first publication “Tittbits” on, my fledgling creation, my first-born baby has finally been acknowledged by another human being. After eight long months of lying on the internet shelves, someone was kind enough to take one copy home to read in peace and have a chuckle with. It can not be stroked, caressed or smelled like you can a paper book, but nevertheless a little piece of my psyche is now in someone else´s hands, to have and to hold and to cherish for all eternity(or a trifle less).


Will he or she like it or sneer at it in disdain? Oh dear, don´t tell me, for the agony, the heartbreak might be my undoing! Let me continue in my belief that my child has found a loving foster parent. In fact, in would now like to entreat all my readers NOT to buy a copy, because the suspense of waiting for a sign of your approval or utter loathing would turn me into a nervous wreck, prematurely grey and weak of heart and limb… How can other authors stand this torture?


I can hear my old pal Dermott in Fuengirola saying: “Ralphie, old bean, I think you´ve gone overboard, your train has derailed and your marbles have yet again been scattered to the four corners of the globe(can a globe has corners, by the way?) Snap out of it! It´s only a friggin´book.” Dermott really doesn´t have a clue, does he?


Anyways, the book costs 8.99$ and six of those are ALL mine! But Smashwordsonly pays every trimester. I am therefore giddy with anticipation about this enormous wealth about to come my way at the end of the month of September of the beginning of October. My literary oeuvre is bearing fruit at last. I´ve already ordered the yacht, by the way! Toodeloo, gang, hugs from Ralphie.


Kilroy Was Probably Here!

After loud outcries from the blind community about violations of their right to know, certain governmental bodies have relented in certain parts of the globe and are now allowing graffiti for the blind. At long last the visually impaired will also get to know where Kilroy has been! Apparently they do not subscribe to the following point of view: “Man’s ambition must be small, to write his name on a shithouse wall!”

Said graffiti are created with the aid of a contraption that transcribes any text message into Braille, on sticky tape. But soon after Braille graffiti were up, some prankster decided to play a peevish joke by making the readable side sticky aswell. One hopes that future practical jokers will abstain from resorting to “smelly” pranks. A friendly warning to our Braille graffiti readers: sniff them first! Although, come to think of it, inoffensive smells could be added and guide dogs for the blind trained to sniff them out…

Some of these transcribing contraptions have already been installed in some toilets in Australia. If ever you see a dotted and spotted lavatory door over there, you will know that some dirty old blind Aussie was there. Or should I say some unsanitary Australian of indiscriminate age, who happened to be visually impaired?

The possibility is being explored of putting miniaturised sound machines in public conveniences, which would allow philanthropical-minded  visitors to read the graffiti out loud into the microphone, for the benefit of their blind brethren. Although in this instance fair warning should be given to occupants of other cubicles! And the question begs to be asked, if this would then not be unfair to the hearing-impaired, who might miss certain nuances of unsavoury jokes or witty addenda by the narrator?

As it is known that taggers tend to place their signatures in the most inaccessible places, we should implore Braille readers not to start climbing bridges or go wandering along railway tracks in search of them, for this would surely constitute a safety hazard. Guided tours might be an option!

And what about regions where graffiti for the blind have not yet been legalised? Will law enforcement officers now have to learn Braille in order to be able to ascertain whether a certain message should be considered inappropriate and/or illegal? After penitentiary facilities everywhere have filled up with blind people, should these institutions then be adapted to their special needs? Will non-blind tax-payers agree to the prohibitive cost of said adaptations with their tax dollars? Methinks that Kilroy has a lot to answer for!

Unexpected rumblings of discontent from the seeing community have surfaced, after reports of instances of gatherings by blind people, who were laughing their tits off and refused to divulge the reason for their hilarity to unfortunate seeing onlookers, who mistakenly thought that they might be the butt of some joke. Some incidents of fisticuffs took place, which in turn placed the blind at a disadvantage. People from both parties were remanded to the courts, which will have to disentangle this case of unusual discrimination.

Whereas urban legal departments have taken the lead in allowing these practices, the pastoral communities are still lagging behind. One farmer was sued, for not putting up a notice in Braille about the danger of electrified wires surrounding his cattle field, by an unfortunate blind person who had answered a call of nature there and ended up in the emergency ward of the nearest hospital. Frankly, he really needed to know!


For Whom The Bell Is A Friggin’ Nuisance!

Italiano: campanile English: bell tower

Italiano: campanile English: bell tower (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I heard an Imam calling the faithful to prayers at five o’clock this morning. I thought that was a bit early or late, depending on your point of view, but then that is the custom here in Morocco. I was transported back to some decennia ago, when I used to live right next to a church.

Now, when I say right next to a church, I mean that my bedroom was about fifty yards away from the bell tower. And these were not iddy biddy tiny bells, these were humongous bastards that fairly shook the life out of you, if they caught you unawares. And if you think that they were wont to ring every hour on the hour, you would only be partially right. They rang every fifteen minutes, day and night for every day of the catholic year and that’s a bloody long year, let me tell you!

I’m quite good with languages and I cursed those bells in just about every language I could think of and then some. I had nightmares about them, luckily short ones, for those blasted bells would save me from them with their annoying clanging every fifteen minutes, remember? BIG brass bells whose reverberations would rattle your very bones and marrow… I looked like a parent with triplets, I looked a mess and I wasn’t even married! Every morning some frightful red-eyed monster would scare the living daylights out of me, when I looked in the mirror… not a pretty sight!

Every year around Christmas I would beg Santa on bended knees to please bring me a bazooka, but he never did. He must have been in cahoots with them, methinks! I thought that this was a bit petty of him. Was this really too much to ask for! I did not ask for a tank… only one little bazooka and he denied me it. *sob!* He thereby deprived me of the joy and privilege of refurbishing the bell-tower of this church to my very own specifications, which is to say bell-LESS!

One day I’d had enough. I started looking in the papers for a flat to let, somewhere as far away from my home town as possible. Anything to get away from those horrible bells. Most of them were too expensive for my humble means, but finally I spotted one that looked right up my, hopefully bell-less, alley. I arranged for a meeting with the estate agent and we soon met up.

Imagine my dismay when the flat in question turned out to be right next to a cathedral, a BIG one. Just when the estate agent showed up, the bells started ringing. I cringed and hunched up one shoulder and I moaned: „The bells, the bells!!!“ This made the man slightly nervous, but he soothed my soul and saved my day by saying that the bells were shut off from 10 pm till 10 am, out of consideration for the neighbours. I was so deliriously happy that I hugged and kissed him. He turned red as a beet and for some inexplicable reason I never got the appartement…

As soon as I got back, I started a petition to copy this very sensible practice of the shutting-off-of-the-bells-at-night, but the deacon turned a deaf ear towards it, probably because of the bells!? I swore then and there to Saint Peter that when my time comes and the bell tolls for me, I ain’t comin’! If he notifies me with some quiet flute music or a nice guitar fandango, I’ll follow as quietly as a lamb, but not for those beastly bells!

Tornado Cause Debunked!

Whacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man

Whacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man (Photo credit: RedHerring1up)

I just glanced over an article, which stated that tornadoes are apparently caused by wind turbine farms. Said article(1) was probably written by a gentleman, who dabbles in science and the proof of his scientific conclusion was almost certainly arrived at by statistical means. It is a well-known fact that a good statistician can prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Earth is actually flat.

I do not subscribe to either point of view. In my humble opinion tornadoes are caused by the wave. The very wave that is perpetrated in sports stadia all over the world, where all the spectators jump up unexpectedly and collectively wave their arms about, somewhat like children welcoming the arrival of Santa!

I shall prove my hypothesis by showing you an incontrovertible correlation between two disturbing facts. If you look at the years where particularly nasty tornadoes occurred, then you will see(and I defy anyone to dispute this fact) that in ALL those very same years, there was a Superbowl on, where the wave is a common as popcorn. What further proof do you need than this? I rest my solved case! Should any doubting Thomases require it, I shall obtain further statistical proof.

Reports(2) have also reached my desk of Mid Westerners in the US of A, who are being excessively liberal with their driver-to-driver waves and this for saluting purposes, which might also add to the air-disturbance already being caused in sports arenas. I would hereby like to admonish the aforementioned wavers to NOT go about their unholy business with open car windows! Wave not, want not, as the tornado victims would say.

Now has come the time for me to vociferously disclaim any vicious rumours about earth-quakes being caused by belly shaking laughter. This slanderous drivel has been spread by people suffering from SHDS(Sense of Humor Deficiency Syndrome, a horrible affliction!) The public can rest assured that we are in possession of stacks of reports, which offer oodles of statistical proof that categorically disprove such ridiculous allegations. My case is no longer resting, it has expired and has been ground into dust. The case is dead, long live the case!

Ladies and gentlemen, I really have to leave you now, for I have just spotted a butterfly on my window sill. I shall rush outside and tell it to sit very still and not move, We would not want it to cause another tsunami for those poor people in Japan, now would we!?? Oh dear, a terrifying thought has just struck my head. Already I dread the return of the humming birds! What havoc will they wreak?



Hahah! Special Notification From The Archangel Gabriel!

Would you believe it, there I was, right in the middle of concocting another one of my brilliant Tittbits, when the archangel Gabriel had the audacity, the unmitigating nerve to disturb yours truly for some piddling notification! Now I know Gabby, whom I visit on occasion, when I’m in one of my loftier moods, but I have given him fair warning time and again not to disturb me when I’m writing.

This time he came with some utter poppycock about the imminent end of the world. I uttered a dry: „And…“ He answered: „What do mean: and… Are you not in and of this world? Does this not concern you?“ I retorted: „Well, maybe in an oblique sort of way, but that is neither here nor there. You know very well that I shall continue to write my Tittbits for the amusement of my legions of fans, whether they be earthbound or in spirit form. How dare you interrupt a serious author in the midst of his comical endeavours? (Or maybe vice versa?) Now go and annoy somebody else and leave me to my duties!“ He answered: „Alright, Mister Smarty Pants, but don’t say I didn’t warn you!“ and he left in a huff and a puff.

I forthwith re-Christened him Gabby with the Big Gob! And I was not kidding, ladies and gentlemen, when I told Gabby with the Big Gob that I would continue to amuse you with my zany stories even until after the end of time. What are trifling matters such as Armageddon or Apocalypse to a writer, who is in the very serious business of perpetrating comedy, hey? I assure you that I can go on waffling till…

BOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM!!!!! (= very loud noise)

T (he End)+ a bit -> Ralphie in spirit form: „Oy, I suppose you thought that was funny, hey!!??“

You see, dear readers, Ralphie always has to have the last word and not even the End of the World can stop him from having that!

Ralphie shows up at the Pearly Gates and says to Gabriel: „Right, Mister Celestial Comedian, which way do I go?“ He points at an extremely long queue and says: „Over there!“ I ask: „What are they?“ He answers: „That is the queue for formerly starving freelance writers!“

Even in Heaven we have to wait for our dues! Now I ask you? Maybe he did get the last word in after all. I wonder if they have internet up here. And.. what about my royalties?

Some Doubtful Certainties.

Doubtful Hope, oil painting by British artist ...

Doubtful Hope, oil painting by British artist Frank Holl (1875) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

  • The naughty nature of my early years was exhausting, but well worth the effort!
  • My formative years were largely a waste of time. I’m trying to forget them!
  • Rules and regulations: the obstruction of the natural flow of life, to the enjoyment of none, for the benefit of the few!
  • Law: that necessary stuff to keep the poor in check!
  • Hypocrisy: that unstoppable urge to tell others not to imitate oneself.
  • Righteousness: that blissful certainty that others are always in the wrong.
  • Doubt: that happy time before you take the wrong decision.
  • Envy: when you have a good thing, but wish that others should have nothing!
  • Irony: that glorious satisfaction you get, when a good plan comes together.
  • Hope: happy memories of the future.
  • Sarcasm: another way of saying “I told you so!”
  • Idleness: should be well planned out and preferably witnessed by others, who are extremely busy!
  • Diplomacy: that blablah before an inevitable brawl!
  • Chess: an intellectual’s attempt at machismo.
  • A nincompoop: anyone who thinks their doodoohs are funny.
  • Advice: to want to deny others the pleasure of making their own mistakes!
  • I did not say it – You can quote me on that!

Debunking The “Sport” of Cricket.

Brett Lee bowling at Lords against Pakistan. I...

Brett Lee bowling at Lords against Pakistan. ICC Champions Trophy 2004, warm up game, 4th September 2004. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

After months of intensive research on the internet, Ralphie has finally been able to piece together the rules to this game, which are incomprehensible to anyone who is not British or Indian(and maybe one or two others). Imagine my surprise, ladies and gentlemen, when I found out that this sport of Cricket has in actuality nothing to do with Jimeny and only very little with his fiddle!

It involves a ball that is almost always thrown by a man(they’re a bit sexist) in the general direction of some sticks. These sticks symbolise a ship and the object is to sink the ship of the opposing team. You may be wondering why they don’t play this game on water, well that is because this game is so long-winded that thousands of years ago, when the game was first invented, most of the team-players drowned and so they moved it to a field! You see, one game can go on for centuries!! Balls and paddles are usually passed on from father to son.

In front of the ship stands a sailor, who was supposed to row the ship out of harms way, but these days he just waves a paddle about. Actually, the sailor is supposed to block the ball from hitting the ship with his body, but most are too scared and don’t bother. There are more men on the field and these are called extras. Most of the time they just ogle the chicks in the audience, but once in a great while they go for a jog to keep their muscles from cramping up.

The extras have lodged a complaint with the league of sailors and ball-throwers for not allowing them to bring tents and sleeping bags to the field, but the league is adamant in their denial. I ask myself, why ever not? They could at least provide them with some chairs and let them enjoy a pint of lager, while they’re sitting around there twiddling their thumbs! Or at the very least some parasols.

Nobody seems to remember these days what constitutes a win. The last time the captain of one ship thought he’d won, the umpire had slipped into a coma several days before, without anyone noticing and the captain was so angry he burned the sticks. England and India have been fighting over the ashes of this vessel ever since.

I read a curious report about Mister Jan Botha,, South Africa’s former prime minister, having captained England’s team. How in the blazes he managed that, I will never know! And there’s more! While he was captain he lost against Mozes Gandhi, who captained the India team, because Mr.Gandhi refused to play by the then rules… but beat them anyways.

There are also people, who actually come and watch these games. The spectator’s object is to see how long he can stay awake and their friends place bets on this. It’s no use betting on the game, because it never seems to end! Some pharmaceutical companies have bid on the rights to televise the game as a sure-fire cure against insomnia. Strange sport, isn’t it? So far this exiting report from Ralphie. Frankly, I’d rather spend a riveting evening watching a group of elderly ladies crochet…


What is This Mask I’m Wearing?

Oscar Wilde, three-quarter length portrait, fa...

Oscar Wilde, three-quarter length portrait, facing front, seated, leaning forward, left elbow resting on knee, hand to chin, holding walking stick in right hand, wearing coat. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Something inexplicable is happening to me. Inside I feel like a young man, who could daintily hop from mountaintop to mountaintop, who is agile in the extreme and above all young at heart. But when I wake up, everything goes „Auch“ and when I look in the mirror some old git stares back at me. Who is this stranger? If this is carnival, why can I not take off my mask? And let us not forget the grotesque suit, which looks bedraggled in the extreme. How could this happen, when inside I still feel like a young and strong Adonis?

Was I perhaps abducted by aliens, who instead of my wholesome, healthy and handsome body, took some cruel pleasure in returning a decrepid replica? Or did the late Oscar Wilde put a reverse curse on me, by forcing me to go through life looking like shite, when some picture of the real and beautiful me hangs on the wall of one of his indifferent progeny? Oscar, wait till I get my hands on you!

Only a couple of years ago, I met this enchanting young women and we got on like a house on fire. It actually clicked and this is a situation that does not occur often. It all went pear-shaped when the young lady came out with the silly notion that she would go or me, but that I was too old! Who? A young spritely filly like me? This is what I wondered, until that accursed mirror brought me back to this insipid reality.

I can not for the life of me understand why some days I feel the weight of several centuries on my shoulders and on other days I feel the wonder of an infant at the sight of what seems mundane to others. I can only hope that I am in the middle of some foul nightmare and that I am bound to wake up very soon. Or else that more people take the trouble to look into my eyes and witness the youth of my soul! Cheerio, folks…

P.S.: For my next reincarnation, I’ve decided that I want to come back as an old man and then progressively grow younger. Question of really going out(or should I say “in”) with a bang!

Dear Kimmy Versus Dalai Lama!


2nd Dalai Lama

2nd Dalai Lama (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Yesterday I took the liberty of reblogging that post about the Dalai Lama. I don’t know if you saw it. Now why would I do such a thing? Apparently, this man went visiting somewhere, very probably met some people and said some things… Personally, I am not interested in what he ate and in the state of his bowel movements, but… whenever this guy opens his mouth pearls of wisdom seem to tumble forth and for this I respect him immensely.

Back to „Dear Kimmy“, what pearls of wisdom stagger forth from her gob then? Am I missing something of interest here, folks? Has Miss Kardashian reached Nirvana and is she going to enlighten us on the shortcut that she discovered through painful(for her anyway!) meditation? Did she, after years of meticulous scientific study, invent a cure for cancer?

I wouldn’t know, because Ralphie has been too busy procrastinating and still can’t be asked to Google the Earth-shattering breakthroughs that Miss K. has on her curriculum. Could some kind-hearted reader of this blog bring this wisdom to my door, in a comment to this blog post, please?

Why do millions of people spend hard-earned money and time and effort on finding out what this bimbo is up to? Did she go discoing and get shit faced and make a spectacle of herself? So what? Billions of individuals do that every week. I know, ’cause I used to be one of them! Then why did the farterazzis not take trillions of pictures of me, when I was licking out assorted gutters all over Europe? Why did Jay Leno not invite me on his show after one of these feats? Jay, explain yourself, mate!

Or did „poor“ Kimmy have her nipples replaced by five carat diamond studs? Alright, I won’t go that far in order to reach celeb status! What is it with this broad and why do you all read about her? Tell me!!! Ralphie’s flabbergasted and flummoxed mind wants and needs to know!

A-ny-way, it is time for an update on Ralphie’s night and morning! I did pass a troubled night, because of my cold. I had coffee and cake for breakfast and for some inexplicable reason, I have not been to the bathroom yet. Details about the progress of my morning will have to wait till I can be arsed to convey said information to my gazillions of fans everywhere. Please refrain from pestering me with emails and such, because I might be in the middle of something important, like a nap! Toodeloo(!?) gang…