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.

Tuesday 6 November 2018

Funny/Underwhelming Headlines in Local Newspaper: The Revenge.

This is my second post concerning underwhelming and frankly, bizarre news headlines scoured from provisional newspapers. Read and be amazed, or at least mildly amused at the crass inanity and banality of 'major' news stories. Wibble bollocks, arse biscuit 

Tis not quite the silly season, yet. A time of year when good news stories are scarce. That said, with all the doom and gloom in the world and rumours of war you would think there would be something more newsworthy than, 'cat stuck up a tree'.

Even the birds are critics. Judging by the usual televisual mixture of reality shows, game shows and other assorted dross said seagull may have a point.

Continuing with the seagully theme, we can see that total war has broken out between the good burghers of Tipton and the gulls as related by the 'Tipton Argus, incorporating Dudley South, Brierly Hill and assorted environs'. Students unite! C'mon, you are the future leaders and scientists of this great principality, surely collectively you can come up with a solution. Personally, I'd shoot the buggers with a high powered air rifle- I'm talking about the seagulls! As for the students: first, they will organise a meeting to consider the seagull agenda and perspective. Someone will suggest that the 'will' of the seagulls demands legitimate expression. Someone will raise the issue of lesbian and transgender seagulls and how they are being oppressed by white, seagullist male rapists. To be honest, at this stage I'm going to swap the air rifle for my trusty Lee-Enfield Mark IV 303 rifle and place a few well-aimed rounds into any fat, ugly lessers who come within my sights. Enuff said.  

You sure it wasn't one of those pesky seagulls? From personal experience, I'm well aware that seagulls are very partial to crisps especially seabird flavour. If they can turn the tele off then breaking into a refreshment hut is a piece of cake.

Can't blame the seagulls for this one. Everyone knows that seagulls lack opposable thumbs so the correct manipulation of an adjustable spanner would not be possible. Need to call in Inspector Mugumbo of 'The Yard', head of the elite 'spanner squad' to sort out this vexed incident of grand larceny.  

Is this not John Inman? I thought 'Big John' had exited this mortal coil to exist in a continual etherial loop of: 'Are you being serviced'. Mayhap his usual non-corporeal form has become manifest to explain the statistical implausibility of receiving five identical cards on his birthday- how quaint.

This reminds me of the classic scene from 'Pulp Fiction' where Christopher Walken is extolling the virtues of anal cavity storage solutions. Storing your valuables up the arse on the second shelf is clearly a means of protecting your heirlooms in a reliable and consistent manner. But why every Friday?

As an ex-health and safety officer, I can relate somewhat to this headline. But how on earth an editor could consider a 3 day out of date pasty to be newsworthy? Thousands of children in the Third World district of Tipton would be more than grateful for an ‘old pasty’ even more so if it was accompanied with a glass of fizzy blue pop.

Obviously, solid news stories on this dreary Monday are in short supply in this sleepy town. If migrating felines is the best headline that can be salvaged from the proceedings I truly despair of the newspaper's editorial judgement. In comparison, 'cat up a tree' is mildly compelling and slightly riveting. ARSE.

Shit on a stick. Just one kitten? Surely a whole cattery resides under those greasy folds. Or mayhap a migrating gypsy encampment replete with lurchers and stolen local finery lives there? A complete self-contained ecosystem complete with a myriad of mutualistic species could exist in fat fold number three. Sadly the kitten didn't make it and was dead on arrival at the veterinary centre- no shit. Err, if you look at the photo carefully you can see that the 'woman' couldn't quite hold her excitement.

And for my final offering. Behold!

Well doesn't everyone's shed explode, eventually? I've managed to get through three sheds in my hectic life due to ill-judged chemical shenanigans. The recursive scars on my shin and temple are frank testament to my rank stupidity. I would like to say most of this folly was accomplished in my shallow youth. Not so, sadly the last two sheds burnt down in the last two years- there is no fool like an old fool. Anyway, I've uncharacteristically, digressed. Of course, the acclaimed Irish playwright must have had a shed at some time. But as he died in 1946, surely the shed belongs to someone else? Is there not a statute of limitations on this sort of thing. Anyway, Bernard, as he liked to be known was a fervent advocate of eugenics. So on that score alone, he gets my vote.