Friday 28 December 2018

Smells of Doom

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to experience the worst smell ever? Of course, there are many runner-ups in this category. Many years ago, there was a chappie in the department I worked with excruciating BO. I’m not talking about the faint miasma which surrounds manual workers after a hard day’s work. I’m talking about an intense stench apparent first thing in the morning. This individual who shall remain anonymous (stinky Eric) was completely oblivious to his predicament even after unsubtle and pointed comments from colleagues berated by this barrage of intense olfactory insult. Luckily, I worked on the floor above and therefore spared from this particular work hazard. However, on occasion, I had the mishap to tread the hallowed halls below. And indeed, the stench was particularly nauseating and not just confined to his office but seemed to permeate (nay insinuate) throughout the corridors of academic excellence. Inevitably the perpetrator was interviewed by the boss (Prof. Mugumbo) and told to go home for extensive hygienic intervention. Now you might think, due to the severity/intensity of the problem, that this individual was slighted by a bizarre metabolic condition. But in that regard, your thought processes would be awry. For miraculously and subsequently, the stench was no more and respectable folk could go about their business without having their teeth enamel seared clean orrrf. Needless to say, ‘Ol noisome’ lived alone. True story.

Laboratories are the scene for a herd of unpleasant chemical smells. Luckily, facilities are fitted with ‘fume cupboards’ which filter and scrub the air of unpleasantness. However, there are a handful of chemicals oblivious to filtering intervention. By their very nature, they can be detected by the human nose in extremely low doses and the odour released is gut-wrenchingly nauseating. The chemical in question goes under the name of mercaptoethanol. As a snot-nosed postgrad, it was my unenviable duty to extract RNA from cells, various. Part of the process dictated the use of this offensive chemical. Although I took meticulous care to contain/constrain the resultant mephitic niff, invariably molecules would permeate the whole lab. Scientists and students alike would scatter like a fart in a colander. How can I describe the smell? Tis a mixture of decaying flesh/rotten eggs/gypos/cat piss/stinky Eric with a tincture of rotten sprouts. Even after the chemical had been placed, neatly and securely in a chemical hazard bin, the smell would linger for hours. Technicians and scientists of today are saved this olfactory bombast due to a modification in the RNA extraction protocol. However, I became reacquainted with a similar smell a couple of years ago when I was developing a sperm DNA ‘unravelling’ protocol which used an analogue of mercaptoethanol. The name of the chemical escapes me, and frankly, I can’t be arsed to look it up. Again, just like mercaptoethanol, the smell was extremely unpleasant and persistent. Both these chemicals contain a thiol moiety which is perhaps responsible for the singular dank/rank, stench.

Enough reminiscing meanderings, for now, the Flaxen haired one is off to a local winery to sample the fruit of the vine in an escalation of bacchanalian excess. Wibble buttocks, akimbo

Tuesday 25 December 2018

Flaxen’s Anal Christmas Address 2018

Ho, bloody, ho

Another year has passed and disintegrated into a stinking heap of assorted detritus of no common denominator. Flaxen’s fortunes have waxed and waned in tune with his throbbing ingrowing toe nail. Wondrous times you might say tinged with a fearful patina of moribund and dread. Yet amongst the rumours of war, we can all take heart with the promise of a bright tomorrow full of hope and stagnation.

It is my fervent aspiration, that this year, I won’t be abducted by anal probing aliens of obscure providence/provenance. Tis a feature correlated with bouts of heavy drinking all too prevalent at this time of year. But correlation does not equal causation, and for this, we should be eminently thankful. Indeed, I am of stout countenance, full of incontinence and thrusting vigour. Aliens beware! Flaxen will be mindful and imbued with extreme cognisance. This will prove fruitful in combatting any itinerant, painful and largely unwarranted alien induced proctology.

Enough of dwelling on my painful and unsolicited alien abductions. I would like to concentrate my thoughts and dedication on promoting world peace at this inauspicious time of year. A time of great bounty and fortitude. A time that will reverberate down the hallowed corridors of extreme profusion. No doubt there will be naysayers there will always be folk of that ilk. But gentle readers, be not nonplussed or imbued with impending inconsequence. For there will rise, from the depths of extreme fortitude, a hope never stifled and unsullied by dedicated insouciance.  Nay, may vigilance be on the forethought of your nested and strangely everted moral landscape. May the watchword ‘Awake’ be emitted/submitted from your succulent, moist and delightfully pursed lips.

 On this propitious Christmas day, I would like to dispel heartfelt ruminations of felicitous apprehension and foreboding. Let the spirit of the season infuse/imbue, concentrate and ultimately relinquish any thoughts not in tune with harmonious abode/abide. May the furies which assail your very being, abate, at least for a small span, enabling a deep and abiding fortitude not normally witnessed by this benighted generation. For myself, I will take time to reflect and ruminate on felicitous fortune; sometime fickle, but always capricious. Surely, there is some comfort in that?

Enough for now, gentle souls. Remember to keep yourself clean, well-watered and as always, keep taking your prescribed dose of medication as indicated by a syndicated and mostly competent medical professional. And if the voices in your head are insistent and dedicated upon the burning of sundry abodes of scant acquaintance, be mindful, reflect on the resultant sequelae. Or at least remain unsullied by the acquaintance with undiscriminating law enforcing authorities. Take heed or render despair as your nemesis! ARSE.

                                  Merry Yuletide         


Thursday 20 December 2018

Have a merry Yule

The real meaning of Christmas?
Tis nearly Christmas and Christians throughout the world will celebrate Jesus’ birthday on the 25th December. For many in the Western nations, the date is a secular holiday without religious devotional overtones and this trend appears to be gathering apace with the passage of time. What many folk, religious or not, don’t realise is that the date of Jesus’ birth is unknown and is almost certainly not the 25th December. Some scholars attest that Jesus was a fictitious character invented by the early Christians. The argument is based on the lack of corroboratory written evidence outside the Bible for Jesus’ existence together with a remarkable concordance of the ‘Jesus story’ with pagan mythical figures such as Horus and Heracles. To be honest I don’t find this thesis particularly compelling and find it difficult to believe that the seed of Christianity took root divorced from a true historical figure. 
From internal biblical evidence, the consensus amongst scholars is that Jesus’ birth took place in the spring of 7BC to 2 BC. To be fair the real birthdate of Jesus is now unobtainable especially as early Christians seemed more concerned with ‘Jesus the Divine’ and appeared blissfully/blithefully uninterested in the contemplation of the man as flesh and blood. So that being the case why do we celebrate the 25th December as Jesus’ birthdate? For this answer, we need to contemplate the reinvigorated Christian Church of the 4th century AD. 
Christianity’s prospects became exceedingly favourable following adoption of the faith by the Roman Emperor, Constantine, in 312 AD. But the early Christians faced a problem. While the Empire’s inhabitants seemed happy to embrace Christianity, over time, they seemed reluctant to relinquish their pagan festivals. And so, as a matter of expediency, the Church supplanted the pagan ‘Birthday of the Sun Festival’ with a made-up date for Jesus’ birthday. Once the Church took hold in the northern Teutonic lands it faced a similar problem. For the heathen celebrated the 'Mid-Winter Festival of Yule’. Twas a time of feasting and a celebration of the coming spring. It was also a time when the Teutonic god, Woden, (Odin in Norse) came forth with his hunting host of Elves and other supernatural entities to ride the ‘Wild Hunt’.
The vestige of pagan belief can still be seen in the celebration of modern Christmas where a fusion of heathen symbols exists with Christian veneration. Both the giving of gifts and the Christmas tree are symbols of the pagan base for Christianity. Although indoor trees only became popular about 500 years ago.
Of course, this was not the only pagan festival overridden by the Christians. Consider good old Easter, the supposed festival of Jesus’ death and resurrection. As a digression, it is worthy to note, that coming back to life after biological death is an absolute impossibility as it violates the Law of Entropy- enough said, for now; more in a subsequent post. The early Christians, for pragmatic reasons, added the Christian festival to the pagan celebration of spring, a time of bounty and renewal. The name ‘Easter’ is a derivation from Eostre, a Teutonic fertility goddess. And this is why we associate Easter with eggs and the obvious fertility symbol, rabbits.
Christmas means many things to many people. For some, it is simply an excuse for excess. For others tis a rest from work’s labour. And let us not forget the folk who genuinely celebrate the birth of their Saviour. For me, it will be a rare time when our family comes together. I would like to say: ‘together in harmony’ but to be realistic, this is unlikely to be the case. 

The real meaning of Christmas?


Thursday 13 December 2018

Otherkin and Other Bollocks

Like real cats, cat-man did not work

Behold the magisterial folk who believe they are the incarnation of an animal or a mythical beast. Now not all these folks are delusional or completely deranged, for there appears to be a gradation of belief, a spectrum from normal to sad gamer to fully certified bona fide twat. 
There are those that use an animal persona for their online incarnation. Tis easy to slip into another’s clothes/fur online and portray yourself as something or someone else. Mostly this is achieved with a sense of humour and all who can read can see the mild and unconvincing deception. Many engage in this soft escapism and as long as no nefarious intent is forthcoming all is well. There are gamers who take the concept to the next level and totally wallow in an animal persona. Generally, this masquerade is to cover over deep insecurities and mental and physical infirmities. Online, no one can tell that you are a fat 40-year-old unemployed virgin living in your parent’s basement and it is enticingly easy to slip into wolf’s clothing. Note, the animals chosen are those associated with noble and physically vigorous attributes. There be lots of wolves, lions, tigers and dragons, but for some reason, no one wants to be a slug.
And so, to the next level. These folk contend that they have a spiritual affinity with a chosen animal. Regard the bores at parties who brow beat listeners with tales of the 'rape of mother earth' and how things would we be perfect if we stopped using plastic bags and became more ‘in tune’ with nature. All superficially profound but condensed silly hippy pronouncement all the same. Of similar ilk are those who take to expressing that there is something about them that is part animal, not on a physical level but on a psychic plane. Tis is all very ethereal and unsubstantiated and the ravings of a disordered uneducated mind; contemplate the fools who delude themselves but rarely beguile others. Here be a quote from a believer: “In pagan religions of the past, it wasn't uncommon to believe that humans would be reborn as animals, so the idea that I was, in a past life, a lion, is not as far-fetched as some would think." I’ll not bother to unpack this blathering nonsense. Just to say that several logical fallacies have been committed and therefore I’ll not trouble my formidable intellect to dissect this statement further.
 Some may entice with body modification, an attempt to force the body to take on the form of their chosen totem. They ingratiate themselves with a sanitised form of animism or elder primitive culture. An affinity with so-called native American beliefs is exceedingly common. In rare cases, extensive modification surgery is undertaken. The ‘cat man’ is a tragic and extreme example of this form of hallucination. If we take a step back, we can identify a less severe exposition. Teenage girls of a certain type are prone to affecting superficial appendages of their chosen beast. Thus, tails are sown on, headgear is worn and the odd howl may occasionally be vocalised. They hang about with other disenfranchised and socially marginalised souls and frequent local malls attracting derision and merriment from their peers. This is just a phase and most will outgrow foolish things to partially integrate/ingratiate into mainstream society.  
It is time to enter the land of ‘pseudologica fantastica’. A small subset of the ‘otherkin’ community avers that they are able to physically transform into the animal of their choice. They state that their DNA is entwined/twinned with animal DNA. As an ex-professional Geneticist, in a previous incarnation, this particular pseudo-bollox makes me want to weep, or howl perhaps.  This is known a P shifting. If we are to consider ourselves as rational beings, this form of fallacious rendering is the babbling of a charlatan or more seriously the ravings of an individual with a severe mental illness such as schizophrenia.
It may come as no surprise that adherents to this sub-culture are prone to partake in other irrational beliefs such as the supernatural, ghosts and extreme conspiracy theories. It would seem, from reading otherkin message boards, that a significant percentage of otherkin are also transgender. Delusions,  like wolves, come in packs.
I’m an advocate for freedom of expression and speech. However, that said, this should not be confused with a willingness to take on board any expressed beliefs before examining their rational basis and in this respect and case, they have been found wanting. Watch out for the legitimisation of this sub-culture by the liberal intelligentsia. Just like so-called gender fluidity, the strident few will invent a new category of hate crime – ‘specism’. I hope you have noticed - this is not a real word. Arse. 

O Lordy, Lordy

Thursday 6 December 2018

Blast From the Past

Dragons live here

Politics has always been a calculated mix of bluster, bluff and rhetoric; at least in the democratic world. On occasion there is an admixture of comic absurdity. The astute politician knows well to cultivate the former three qualities and steer clear of the last. Few politicians can maintain this delicate balance throughout their career unless they are particularly blessed, extremely wealthy, or well connected. Being of a cynical bent of mind I suspect that being particularly blessed, extremely wealthy and well connected are not unconnected.  The politician possessed of all of these attributes can truly walk on water. Present British politicians tend to flounder in the shallowest of puddles. But this post is not about British politics.   

A student of British politics would see much that is familiar in New Zealand politics. Very much the same political parties saying much the same thing; except in a silly accent. No offense to the West Midland parliamentarians.  There is one particular aspect of New Zealand politics which is totally alien to British observers and that is the subject of ‘Maori Politics’. Think of a time, somewhere in the distant dark past when our ancestors were unread, barbaric and extremely stupid; a time before the renaissance and scientific revolution. Welcome to the wonderful world of Maori politics!

Let me introduce the taniwha. It will serve my purpose and make my point well. The taniwha, in Maori mythology, is a supernatural creature of watery dens or caves. The shape of this creature can change and sometimes it is depicted as a large shark. There is nothing wrong with folk story and myth. Most cultures can relate to the rich stories of their ancient folk. We tell them to our children on our knee. The stories thrill us when young and fill our naïve hearts with wonder. Then we grow up. If wise we pass them on to our grandchildren.

Now here is the silly bit. If I told you that in our day objections have been raised to a motorway link because it disturbed the lair of a resident monster, you may be spurred to comment. Perhaps you may laugh and think that the 1st of April had come early. If I say that this matter has been an item raised on the ‘Auckland City Council’ you may start to titter. However, this is a serious practical matter that affects people’s lives. If it doesn’t bother you then it should at least rouse the good burghers of Auckland. Perhaps they have heard it all before. Of course, the main stream press of New Zealand does not spell out this absurdity. It is a brave journalist indeed who voices a sensible opinion on the matter.  There is a pandering to Maoris and Maori sensibilities in the press, and in official government releases, that is positively sickening. This reverence to blatant nonsense has no place in any modern free society and surely reflects ill on Maoris in general. A European voicing similar sentiments in open parliamentary debate would be subject to derision and quite rightly so. Replace the speaker with a Maori member of parliament and you wouldn’t hear a pin drop. Double standards I hear you cry. Well, tears roll down my face. Whether from risible mirth or from palpable frustration I will leave you to judge. On another occasion a highway up grade in the Waikato region was halted after objections from the local Iwi (tribal council). They argued that the up grade would cut through the den of the local taniwha. This one eyed monster lives in a swamp for half of the year then takes up residence in the Waikato River for the remaining six months. Surely swamp living can’t be healthy, especially if you only have one eye. The solution of course was simple. A high bank was erected next to his lair and drainage channels inserted. The extra cost to the tax payer was a modest $20,000. In this instance no direct ‘compensation’ was paid to the local Iwi. There have been other occasions where the taniwha was mysteriously placated when large sums of tax payers money was directed to the Maori. I respectfully request that, in future, all taniwha compensation should be in cheque form. The cheques would then be placed in a water tight bag and deposited in the deepest part of the lake. Taniwhas could then wait in line, like the rest of us, and cash their cheque at the local bank. But I can see that you have already seen a problem with my cunning plan; taniwhas don’t have opposable thumbs. Consequently picking the cheque up from the lake bed would be impossible; silly me. I just thought of another solution. Perhaps the New Zealand citizenry should rise up and hunt down these irascible monsters and shoot them. After all, large invisible water creatures shouldn’t be that hard to find. The Maoris have no problem locating them, when it suits.

What are we to make of this matter when New Zealand’s leader of the opposition is on record as saying that he believes in the existence of taniwhas. It is my fervent hope that he never becomes Prime Minister. The day that this happens is the day I fuck off to Australia. David Shearer is a well educated and supposedly intelligent man and should know better. The electorate of New Zealand deserve better and will assuredly treat him with the contempt he ultimately deserves. There is a special place in hell reserved for ingratiating twats like David Shearer; the man leaves behind a slime trail. It is stuff like this that leaves the decent majority of New Zealanders in quiet despair.      

Let me be blunt. Supernatural entities have no place in politics or in any other serious practical pursuit. Believers in gods, angels and devils should take note.  Maori politicians using taniwhas to leverage political gain, and most importantly money, are cynically playing on the guilt felt by the left wing, hand wringing socialists and other peddlers of associated PC shite. But what has all this have to say about Maori society? There is no doubt that in European society, at all levels, it simply reinforces commonly held prejudices: Maoris are primitive, childlike and stupid. They are not to be judged by our superior European mores and standards. If Maoris are not offended by my comments then they should. If they would like to be treated with respect then they need to grow up. Maoris may well have serious concerns and political issues that need to be addressed. Welcome to the real world. In this world they would be well advised to enter the arena of rational debate with well thought out arguments and be prepared to leave their taniwhas at the bottom of New Zealand’s murky lakes, where they belong.     

Tuesday 4 December 2018

The Argument From Design

This post has been inspired by a chance encounter with a young ‘Jehovah Witness’ a scant four months ago. We had just moved to our present property, but not a week, when we received a visit from the delightful JWs. As I grew up in a JW household I am familiar with JW doctrine and teaching. Needless to say, I rebelled against the ‘truth’ from an early age and consequently suffered much physical and psychological trauma that could only be mustered and inflicted by an evil cult. This is not the topic of discussion, today, or for that matter, any day for reasons I’m sure you can discern.
I am well aware of the JW opening gambit to the exclamation: “I am an atheist”. The term atheist triggers an automatic response and the recipient immediately launches into a well-rehearsed argument for the existence of ‘God’ based on the argument from design. This argument comes in several flavours and is highly popular with Christian apologists and theologians. In its most sophisticated form, the argument can become quite technical, but we need not enter this particular tepid/fetid pool of sophistry. For our purposes, I’ll consider the simple manifestation of this approach as proposed by the JW brethren. Indeed, this argument was expounded by the 19th century (1802) English cleric, William Paley. However, Paley was not the originator of the argument and it is derived from Cicero in the 1st century BC. Paley’s version, perhaps a pale version, is detailed below and in his own words:        
…….” suppose I had found a watch upon the ground, and it should be inquired how the watch happened to be in that place; I should hardly think of the answer I had before given, that for anything I knew, the watch might have always been there. ... There must have existed, at some time, and at some place or other, an artificer or artificers, who formed [the watch] for the purpose which we find it actually to answer; who comprehended its construction, and designed its use. ... Every indication of contrivance, every manifestation of design, which existed in the watch, exists in the works of nature; with the difference, on the side of nature, of being greater or more, and that in a degree which exceeds all computation.”

— William Paley, Natural Theology (1802)
The implication, of course, is that ‘the artificer’ is God and not just any god, but the God of Christianity. Paley is clearly aware that even if his argument was proved sound it does not rule out the possibility of a host of deities and is not exclusively in accord with the monotheistic Abrahamic God. 
The ‘proof’ is reliant upon analogy and assumes that if two items are alike in one respect then it follows that they are alike in another respect. In this case: watch is complex, watch has a designer; life/universe is complex, life/universe has a designer i.e. God.  However, there is no logical basis for such a fusion of concepts. Also, the argument fails due to its inherent assumption: order and complexity can only arise by intelligent design. But this is clearly not the case. For instance, consider evolution by natural selection. Evolution results in complexity by mutation and genetic variation shaped by environmental factors. In the case of evolution, there is no conscious designer but complexity exists nonetheless.
There is also the problem of the ‘self-refuting fallacy’. In this respect, the conclusion denies the premises. Surely, God should be envisaged as complex and therefore following on from Paley’s thesis, God must have a designer……….. This could be extended to an infinite sequence, each God being created by another God, ad infinitum. Most Christians would not be particularly happy with this conclusion for reasons obvious even unto a dullard (Ard).     
The above refutations are based on an appeal to logic and reason, however, we don’t have to rely on irrefutable logic in order to give the design notion a thorough and concise kicking.
My final illustration is an argument from ‘perfect form’. If we envisage God as perfect then it follows that all that he creates must be perfect. For how can a perfect deity produce faulty goods? It is clearly the case that, from an engineering perspective, perfection does not abide in God’s creations. The way out of this perverse conundrum, for the theist at least, is to argue that ‘god’ is not perfect and therefore his craftsmanship is often shonky. There are many examples that I could posit here. Consider inherent design defects in the human body such as the presence of vestigial organs and the ill-considered placement of organs. How about birth defects and perverse and life-destroying genetic maladies? I’ve discussed this aspect of ‘design’ in a previous post: check it out here
So, there you have it. Are you convinced by my refutation? If not, I suggest you visit your local JWs (how's that for a novelty?), for they have some good news which they would like to share with you. Good luck. 


Wednesday 28 November 2018

Valuable Research Elucidated- Once Again

Dr Kidkill in repose

Forget the furore and controversy concerning the moot topics of global warming and globalisation. Instead, contemplate the subject investigated and published in the ‘The Journal of Pediatrics and Child Health’. A paper of grave import and concern for the future of humankind. This valued study recruited 6 paediatricians in an effort to discover transit times of a swallowed Lego toy. 
Although research has been previously conducted looking at transit times of coins, of various denominations, traversing the gastrointestinal tract, there has been no prior work with regard to the ingestion of plastic toys. As a baseline, our intrepid explorers of the unknown first established their regular bowel habits, or Stool Hardness and Transit (SHAT) score before ingesting a plastic Lego head. The transit time was then recorded and translated into a Found and Retrieved Time (FART) score

The conclusion: on average, it took 1.71 days for the researchers to retrieve the LEGO toys from stools. It is to be noted, however, that in one instance the Lego head was not retrieved and is assumed to remain supine and lodged in a crevice in the large intestine - perhaps on the second shelf; no shit. It is sincerely hoped that the poor subject is not the future recipient of a colonoscopy. The discovery of a head staring back at the proctologist might elicit feelings of doom and despondency in both parties. 
There are, I fear, certain limitations of the study which need to be brought to the attention of the astute reader. For instance, the study was limited in size and scope. The experiment was based on the paltry observation from five subjects. The intestinal length of a child’s intestinal tract is markedly different from an adult and this factor will undoubtedly affect the FART score. Furthermore, it would be of interest to track Lego items of different sizes and morphologies. 

Although the study under current discussion is not without intrinsic merit, there is much follow up work to be done.    
I refer to the conclusion reached by our undaunted researchers and subjects.
“This will reassure parents, and the authors advocate that no parent should be expected to search through their child’s faeces to prove object retrieval.” 
In the light of my scathing, nay damning criticism, I conclude that this assertion is rather premature. I suspect that parents will be ploughing through their kiddie’s waste to reveal foreign artefacts for quite a while, yet. 

For the next study, mayhap?

Tuesday 20 November 2018

Social Justice Warriors, Awake!

As my friends and family will no doubt readily attest I’m a progressive kind of chappie: kind, generous, accepting and socially encompassing. I would rather burn down an orphanage than see a fellow human go without their Sky tele. I would be the first to allow a passing troupe of gypos to make camp on my estate and take part in my rich bounty. I would be more than happy to converse with this vibrant, culturally endearing and picturesque folk. They would engage me with daring do tales of thievery, illiteracy and casual violence. I, in turn, would remove their rotting mounds of shit and detritus with a song in my heart and refrain from a natural desire to practice my musketry on their unkempt, noisy brats. Some would say (?Mr Mugumbo) I’m the archetypal social justice warrior endowed with liberal, forward-looking views on feminism, multiculturalism, civil rights and gender assignment.  There are those who espouse that the term ‘Social Justice Warrior’ has attracted negative connotations of late. How can the ‘voice of reason and compassion’ ever be associated with error? Let us force our ‘vision’ of the world on the undiscerning and uncomprehending so that they too can wallow in self-righteousness and smug validity. In support of my thesis, I present the following excellent examples from fellow SJWs, gleaned from various sources of social media. No doubt you will be convinced and join the happy ranks of the professional SJW and be imbued with unctuous, strident and self-aggrandising vainglory.     

Here begineth the lesson. Take heed and revel in sanctimonious wisdom………  

How true. How dare a white professor do his job and correct submitted papers for spelling and grammar from our dusky brethren. If folk are too fucking dumb to use a spell checker (spear chucker) then they demand to be treated by piss poor standards not available to all. I hope the professor is sacked or at the very least undergoes a lengthy period of re-education in order to realise that certain 'groups' have to be treated by less stringent criteria than white people. Makes perfect sense, doesn't it?  

      What wise words from the 'goddess'. Aeons of evolution are clearly wrong. Women should eschew sexual relations with men and exclusively indulge in sapphism for the edification of future generations.

Moving on

How could a loving husband refuse a spouse's request for genital mutilation? Any self-respecting woman cum man is justified in going to her/his room and packing their bags if their husband says nay. In the case of Mrs/Mr S, this might take a while as this particular gender fluid individual has clothes distributed in every room of the house.  Nuff said.

Wibble bollocks

Seems perfectly okay to demand that someone remove a post for the heinous hate crime of fatism or fatphobia. If this 'thinist' women had taken the necessary step of forcing down large numbers of pies she would legitimately be able to wear this costume with aplomb. How utterly selfish of her. 
Arse crinkles

Fart rape raises its ugly head from under the duvet. Please be mindful when you fart gentlemen. Moderate/modulate the volume of your flatus by the power of anal sphincter control. Or perhaps you should encourage the love of your life to insert an amplifier up their arse (arse, big loud arse) to facilitate great booming sounds on the release of gas. You know it makes sense and stops you becoming a rapist.
Nut sausage  

  I am genuinely educated by this amazing piece of perspicacity. Clearly, an individual without the requisite number of legs is not ambulatory impaired, but just unable to walk anywhere. There is no limit in movement because mobility is another social construct imposed by an uncaring, insensitive, white masculine gender restrictive paradigm. 

Fairy muncher
There you have it. Being morbidly obese is not a problem. Tis a fundamental expression of adaptive evolution. Presumably being 'adipose embellished' is an adaptation to a calorifically enhanced environment. Simply remove excess nutrition and the violition to ingest excessively and watch the corrective power of evolution fashion a thin person from a fat person. Evolution acts like that.

After such an extensive education session I'm going to have a lie down in order to fully digest the accumulated sagacity. Afterward, I may endulge in a little light incendary activity as is my wont. 

Sunday 18 November 2018

O, those Russians.......

The 'big fella' in his heyday'
Grigori Rasputin’s story and life are reminiscent of a mad man’s dream (my dreams?): torrid, lurid, with a few hot gypsy dancers thrown in as a side salad (hola!).  What is known historically about this man is remarkable enough, what has entered folklore is fantastic, surreal and almost certainly untrue.

Rasputin was born in Siberia, in 1869, to poor peasant stock. He married a local woman at 19 and about this time underwent a religious conversion of sorts. Although, never ordained he acquired the epithet of the ‘Mad Monk’ and remained illiterate to the end of his days. 
He apparently travelled widely including sojourns to Athens and Jerusalem. In 1904 he gravitated to the Russian capital of Petrograd (modern day St Petersburg) and within a few scant years managed to inveigle his way into the affections of the Tsar and Tsarina. The Tsar’s son, Alexei, suffered from haemophilia, a bleeding disorder which he had inherited from his mother. Due to his condition, the Tsarevich was often ill and on several occasions nearly expired due to prolonged bleeding episodes. Apparently, perhaps by the sheer weight of his charisma and personality, Rasputin was able to exert a positive effect on Alexei’s health. On a practical level, his curative powers may have been due to his insistence that all medicines prescribed by Alexei’s doctors be discontinued. As part of the medical regime, aspirin was a likely addition. Aspirin, although effective in certain instances, is known to thin the blood. Not the best medicine for someone with a bleeding disorder. Whatever the reason for Rasputin’s successful medical intervention, the upshot was that his ministrations endeared him to the Tsarina and Rasputin soon became a favourite in court where he exercised significant influence on domestic politics. To the Tsar and Tsarina, Rasputin remained a simple, devout holy man with unique spiritual powers. For all his assumed piety, Rasputin enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh and engaged in numerous affairs with women from all strata of society. His behaviour has become a byword for extravagant licentiousness and debauchery- he certainly seemed a wow at any party.

Regardless, of his standing with the Tsar and Tsarina, Rasputin did not endear himself to the ruling elite who viewed his ascendancy in court as baleful, especially as he seemed able to exercise real political power mediated through the autocratic Tsar.  If the life of this man seems remarkable enough, his death has become etched into ‘history’ as fantastic and scarcely credible.

The beginning and end of Rasputin are well founded. Tis the middle bits that lend to controversy and dispute. On the evening of 29th December 1916, Rasputin was invited to Prince Felix Yusupov’s palace in Petrograd on the pretext of a party. On entering the basement, Rasputin was given wine and fancy pasties laced with cyanide. It is said that the cyanide had little effect on the man and Felix (for it is no other) and his co-conspirators continued to feed Rasputin larger and larger amounts of the poison but to no avail. Prince Yusupov aghast at Rasputin’s rather robust constitution decided to shoot the ‘monk’ through the heart. Rasputin seemed mildly discombobulated at this turn of events and was moved to throttle the startled prince. The redoubtable Felix managed to break free and his colleague administered a few more bullets, one for good measure, entered Rasputin’s forehead. Assured of his destruction, the goodly prince and his cohorts placed Rasputin’s body in the nearby frigid river. The corpse was recovered from the river several days later. At autopsy, it was determined that water was present in Rasputin’s lungs indicating that he had drowned. What a death, what a man! But is any of this true?

The story, as related, was recounted in the good Prince’s memoirs written in 1927. The veracity of the account has been questioned as it seems too good to be true and panders to Rasputin’s reputation for stamina, vitality and extreme hardiness and has all the hallmarks of legend. Indeed, scientists have rallied around this account to proffer explanations for Rasputin’s apparent immunity to cyanide. Cyanide is a very potent poison as it interferes with cellular respiration. It has been stated that Rasputin may have suffered from a condition called achlorhydria, mayhap due to alcohol excess, which results in a lack of stomach acid. In this instance, the cyanide in the stomach would not produce the deadly hydro-cyanide gas.  I can’t say I’m overly impressed with this explanation. If prince Yusupov is to be believed, the amount of cyanide administered was prodigious; enough to kill a thousand turbulent priest with dyspepsia. Also, there was no evidence of poison in Rasputin’s system at autopsy. It is highly unlikely that a competent physician would miss the characteristic signs of cyanide poisoning, especially at the high doses administered.

It is likely that the prince embellished the story in his memoirs for his own aggrandisement. A man of such prodigious appetites and animal magnetism requires a heroic end, no doubt. How could it be that this ‘monster’ was laid low with just a single shot to the head? Surely, a commonplace and simple end to this indefatigable man requires nay demands, embellishment. A man who even to this day provokes the stuff of legends.   
Rasputin having a bad hair day

So, lets us not spoil a rollicking good story with unremarkable, prosaic truth. Arse……Take it away, Bony M


Saturday 10 November 2018

11th hour, 11th day, 11th month

They created a wasteland and called it peace

It has not gone unnoticed by the flaxen haired one that today represents a special day in the annals of history. For today, 100 years ago, an armistice was signed between the Allied powers and Germany. The Great War had come to an end after 4 years and nearly 4 months of conflict.
The cost in human lives can never be accurately attained. Official estimates say, 12,000,000 lives, but this is almost certainly too low a figure.
During the war, great statesmen feared that Western civilisation would be fractured and cease to be. Indeed, thoughtful folk, after the war, averred that this had occurred. What they couldn’t know was that it would take a hundred years for it to come to fruition. All civilisations have inertia and therefore it takes a while for them to fully wind down and unravel.    
Returning soldier of the Great War contemplating the joy of the ending of war that would end all wars

Thursday 8 November 2018

Bloody Mossies!

Dat gotta itch
Bloody mossies! I do confess that Kiwi mossies are the most rapacious insects known to man with the possible exception of the Australian variety. Currently, I’m nursing a cascade of fulminating welts; some in their infancy, some fully mature, some in their dotage and on the wane. One thing they share in common though is that they itch abominably. I counted 32 bites on my left foot alone and more on the right. O mossies, where is thy sting!
Tis all my own fault. The large ‘south field’ has been left fallow and to be honest, it is too large to receive the ministrations from our ageing/ailing ride on. Not really a problem, just an observation. Anyway, I was approached by our farmer neighbour the other day, a grizzled old cove with a wonky eye. He suggested that I allow his herd of bullocks to roam free on our pasture to partake of its natural rich, meaty goodness. A mutualistic arrangement you might think. The farmer feeds his stock for nowt and I get my ‘lawn’ cut. I'm only required to fill up the three large water vessels, placed strategically in the field, with water, twice a day. On the first day, I dutifully arrived at 5pm, suitably attired in standard Kiwi summer uniform: flip-flops, string vest and shorts and spent 20 minutes idly hosing the containers.
I quickly became the main focus for my bovine guests and within a thrice was surrounded by the herd. They regarded me with dull dark eyes and when I turned away, they tugged at my inconsequential vest with their long lascivious, rasping tongues. I toiled away oblivious to the fact that I had become the target and victim for a host of malicious mosquitoes. Unaware of their ministrations I continued with my task as if in a drunken reverie. This was probably of no surprise as I’d been steadily quaffing ‘Ole Brain Blaster Ale’ for the best part of the afternoon.  
My task spent, I negotiated the numerous cow pats and returned to my abode to sleep off my afternoon excess. Later I awoke with a thousand furies assailing my feet, legs and hands. It was if a host of mini-gypos had taken roost and unleashed a myriad of small, sharp but finely-honed homemade pegs to pierce and lacerate my manly, well-preserved body. 
The Solution
Luckily, I had had the presence of mind to place two large cannisters of DDT in the shipping container when I emigrated to NZ. As my previous garden was relatively small and unassuming, I’d had little opportunity to use the chemical extensively, to date. Thus, I thoroughly sowed the field with DDT and for good measure, I placed a goodly amount in the water containers. To be on the safe side I decided to drench strategic parts of the property including the Alpaca area and the chuck pen. Although not a permanent solution, I’m hoping that it will keep the virulent little bastards at bay even if it be for but a short time.
In celebration of my fine achievement and sheer joy of ridding my land of these ‘thorns in my flesh’, I was moved sufficiently to pen an ode. A celebration to the miracle that is DDT. I hope you enjoy my acclamation to this truly wondrous compound.          


O' Typhus where is thy sting,
As mediated through the lice vector, Pediculis humanus.
You can no longer stalk humanity as you did,
Except in certain parts of the Southern United States and Asia.
Was it not DDT that saved the Eyeties from certain doom in 1943,
Was not the minions of death laid low and beaten unto dust.
All insects smited and crushed under foot,
And spread as a chitinous carpet of impotent, crunchy, pestilence.

Although it cannot be denied that DDT is a bit indiscriminate,
It still has charms to still the beating wings of death.
Bloody shame about the honey bees,
But what ya gonna do?

O' fickle man, O' capricious man,
Although I did good work, how do you repay my toil,
You placed a ban on my dust and pandered mightily to hippy twats.
I can only spread my pall of death in lands covered in shit,
No longer can my mist envelop the vale of civilisation.

Except the Flaxen haired one did manage to smuggle a 56lb drum into Nuzzyland,
Where it stands proud and garaged ready to be used as a sword upon the crawly foes.
There it can be seen striking the humble aphid and the mighty cockroach alike,
Arse, big fat arse.