*You got the tangerine peel out of the slop bucket to photograph it, Clicky? …/looks aghast…*
*What a good idea, Clicky… /pats snout…*
The dark October morning was filled with urgent lights – red ones, amber ones, blue ones that flashed – and urgent shouts, pounding footsteps and screams. Lance Parrish took in the chaotic scene around him in quiet disbelief, until he caught sight of the remains of his bicycle – his new Genesis Skyline bicycle – crushed beneath the filthy wheels of a gargantuan waste removal lorry.
He bunched his hands into fists and shook with rage. In all the years Lance had commuted to work by bicycle, he had witnessed plenty of traffic chaos, but none of it had ever directly involved him. Until today.
He stalked round to the front of the vehicle and craned his neck up to catch sight of the driver, but the cab was empty. Desperate to see the face of the menace that had mangled his bike and nearly killed him, Lance scanned the faces of the gathering crowd, looking for an expression of guilt. “Where’s the driver?” he shouted hoarsely. “Which of you is the driver of this death trap?”
Nobody replied, the crowd’s rapt attention was firmly fixed on the activity around the front wheel of the truck. Several bystanders had their phones out, capturing the scene. Lance was torn between feeling contempt and gratitude toward the ghouls; he would need all the evidence he could get when he sued the waste company for all it was worth. “Do any of you know who the driver is?” he called out again.
And then Lance spotted him, or rather the logo of the waste company emblazoned on the back of a hi-viz jacket. The driver stood away from the crowd, yabbering into a mobile phone. He looked burly and mean – not the type to mess with – but Lance didn’t care. Filled with furious indignation, he strode over to front it out with the man. “Hey you! I want a word with you!”
“No, it’s-“ the driver spoke into his phone, rubbing his meaty hand across his furrowed brow, “-it’s not good.”
“Hey! Are you the driver of the truck?”
“Yeah. Emergency Services are here.”
Lance reached the driver. “I want to talk to you.”
The driver continued his conversation. “Of course. You’d better let the site know. I think I’m gonna be stuck here for some time.”
“You cretinous oaf. Don’t ignore me!” Lance bellowed in frustration.
“Yeah okay.” The driver smiled ruefully, “Okay, okay yeah. Will do. I’ll let you know. Bye.” He ended the call and started scrolling through the contact numbers of his phone.
“Excuse me!” Lance said pointedly but the driver continued to ignore him. “I’m the person you very nearly killed. You know, the one on the bike that you’ve utterly destroyed.”
The driver lifted the phone back up to his face. “Hello Kath? It’s me. Don’t worry, love, but I’ve been involved in an accident. Nah, nah I’m okay…”
Lance was incandescent with rage. Not only was the truck driver completely ignoring him, but he was calling people up to brag about coming through it all unscathed. Lance could scarcely believe the obtuseness of the man. Unless…“Oh my god!” Lance howled with righteous scorn. “I just bet you voted for Brexit!”
The driver turned and walked away toward the doorway of a nearby shop, continuing his telephone conversation, and leaving Lance in his wake. “A cyclist undertook me as I was turning left…”
Lance was gobsmacked to hear the lies pouring from the man’s lips. “What do you mean, I undertook you?” He followed after the driver, who was now slouched against the shop window, looking back out at the truck and the crowds. “You didn’t bloody well indicate, you moron! What’s your name? I’m going to have you for hazardous driving.”
“I didn’t see him, Kath.” The driver’s face seemed to suddenly crumple. “Believe me, there was nothing I could do.” The driver’s eyes brimmed over with tears. He sniffed back a wet sob. “Nah…”
Lance had heard quite enough and squared up to the brute. “Now look here. I insist you put the phone away and talk to me.”
“… he didn’t make it.” The driver’s chest heaved once before a stream of hot vomit landed where Lance was standing.
“Ugh! You’re disgusting!” Lance jumped back. “You’re a complete disgrace!”
“He didn’t hit you, you know,” a voice said from behind Lance. It had the timbre of a box of gravel.
“What?” Lance asked, furiously shaking his feet. “What do you mean he didn’t hit me?”
“Well yes, yes he did hit you. Earlier. But not just now, not with his breakfast. Look.”
Miraculously, Lance’s trainers were free of vomit. Not a splash of what looked like it had once been a full English fry-up, adorned either his shoes or legs.
“But that’s incredible.” Lance marvelled at the lack of spew on him. “Hey! Where are you going?” he called to the driver, who having wiped his mouth, lit a cigarette and was now walking quickly away. “Don’t run away from me now. I order you to stop!”
Lance started after the retreating driver but the voice from behind halted him in his tracks. “Lancelot Graham Parrish, let him go.”
Everything stopped. The driver, a cloud of cigarette smoke shrouding his head, froze in mid step. Traffic in the distance stood still and the noisy din of the hectic morning was suddenly replaced by cacophonous silence.
“Turn around and face me,” the gravelly voice entreated.
Lance didn’t move, standing agog at the morning’s turn of events. He didn’t know what the hell was happening but he was quite certain that he did not want to turn around.
“NOW!” The voice commanded and then sighed, like a shifting sand dune. “If you would be so kind.”
With shuffling steps, Lance slowly inched around. Everything appeared frozen in time. He could see the offensive waste removal lorry and the crowd held in suspended animation around it. There was no movement, no sound and no owner of the voice; Lance was perplexed.
Lance lowered his gaze until they alighted on a black-robed figure that stood barely tall enough to make eye contact with his hips. “Who are you?”
“Who’d you think?” the robed figure said, producing a spinning scythe from thin air.
Lance jumped back, a reflexive action due to the sharp proximity of the flashing blade to his groin. “I thought you’d be taller.”
The scythe ceased spinning, the wicked blade pointed directly at Lance. “Did you just assume my height?” the robed figure asked coolly.
“No!” Lance blurted out, intensely aware of the crackle of electricity that coursed along the edge of the scythe blade. “You sound taller. Look, I’ve never been in a situation like this before. This is all very new to me…”
The robed figure watched on passively as Lance tried desperately to collect up the scattered rags of his thoughts.
“Am I dead?”
“Well, let’s see shall we?” The robed figure quickly turned and suddenly the world was animated once more. The crowd in front of the waste removal truck parted to reveal two men hauling a body out from beneath it. Lance heard the shrieks and groans of the onlookers, as the body being carried out broke in half, falling to the ground with sickening thumps. Several witnessing bystanders duly followed suit.
“So I’m dead?” Lance was slightly perturbed as his own lack of squeamishness. “I’m dead, so that makes you Death.”
“Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner!” Death cackled good naturedly. “Welcome to the other side, Lance. May I call you Lance?”
“Sure,” Lance replied numbly. His attention returned to the antics of his so called ‘rescuers’, who were slipping about in his remains, even as they attempted to scoop them up from the road.
“Good, good. And your preferred personal pronouns are ‘he, him, his’?”
“I’m sorry, what?” Lance replied, tearing his gaze away from the scene of his death to look down at the small black robed figure of Death, who was unsheathing an electronic organiser from its leather case.
“Well, you look more like a ‘xe, xem, xyr’, but I don’t like to make assumptions.” Death switched on the organiser and started tapping on the keyboard. “Sorry, formalities. You are Lancelot Graham Parrish. Date of birth 29th February 1972. Date of death 31st October 2018…”
“Aren’t you meant to use an hourglass for that sort of thing?”
Death gave the electronic organiser a shake. “This is an upgrade.”
Lance bent down to get a better look at the gadget held in Death’s bony grasp. “But, but that’s a Psion!”
“They’re so old fashioned.”
“And an hourglass isn’t?” Death paused for Lance to reply but was met by embarrassed silence. “Psionic, from Psi, 23rd letter of the Greek alphabet, pertaining to psyche. Spirit, soul, you know. You may think the portable tech of 2018 is all singing and dancing, but believe you me, it would be nothing without the introduction of these babies.”
“Psion organisers?” Lance asked incredulously.
“Psions were made specifically for use on this side.”
Lance shook his head in disbelief. “Then how come my father was able to buy one from Dixons in the High Street in 1984?”
Death visibly stiffened. “God knows. We don’t like to talk about it.” The electronic contraption disappeared back into the folds of Death’s robe. “Come on, Lance, we’ve got to move you on.”
Lance watched Death glide away in the same direction that his Brexit-voting killer had taken. He took one last look back at the scene of carnage where he’d met his grisly end, before following the tiny figure, robed in black. “So tell me, Death,” Lance asked, picking up the pace, “you said ‘God knows’. I take it then that there a god?”
Death stopped, nonchalantly spinning the scythe, waiting for Lance to catch up. “I don’t know. Why don’t we go and ask her?”
*Come on, Clicky… /lights up… Let’s go and what Cade and Leggy are up to…*
*Bloody ‘ell, Clicky. That’s a blast from the past…*
*/lights up… Okay, Clicky, I see your ‘Ocean’ connection there… /drags... But the Billy Ocean Song was from ‘Jewel of the Nile’, not romancing El Corazón… /streams smoke… And Albert Finney appeared in neither flick, Click… *
*Whoa, that’s deep, Clicky… /stubs butt…*
*Haha… /pats snout… Get a Song…*
*Cade… /squints… You must know, Clicky…*
*Oh, you were pulling my Leg…*
You have read the previous two sentences, and are now reading this.
My kids went to a Superbowl party yesterday. Just asked my youngest who won, and he said…
”The Patriots. No wait, the…um…no, yeah, the Patriots.”
I’m guessing that one of the two teams had a fair shot at being the victor, and I guess someone, the game’s MVP, is going to Disneyland. Speaking of that, a certain someone passed along a link to a YT video where the Superbowl is being declared as…a Satanic Ritual!!!
Now, I don’t mean to get off on a rant here, but this sounds vaguely…familiar. Lots of people I’ve bumped into over the past few years have talked about the ritualistic nature of events, and especially, sporting events. Not going to mention any names, but yeah, there seems to be a fascination in certain realms with those who have a fascination with events. Almost sounds like watchers watching watchers kind of thing.
Digress to the realm of digrestishness.
Dial 911, and I come running. The video is below, and if you take the time to read the description, you’ll notice that it uses enough catchy vernaculars to choke a horse. That immediately makes me personally…skeptical.
Skeptical about the content.
Yes, I actually watched this video all the way through. It pretty much contains the same old crap of manufacturing synchronicities and/or syncs or whatever, and they do this by taking images and juxtaposing them to suit the video creator’s needs. Not saying that stuff like this isn’t sometimes shocking or jarring, because it is. But that’s kinda the deal with seeing things for the first time. Meaning: we wonder as to the meaning; we stand (or sit) with mouth agape, and wonder as to the purpose.
The short answer is, because you were looking for it. The long answer is, well, that’s your own path.
You'll find it....whatever it is.
“The Blood of Jesus” is very important in this video. So are shapes and symbolism, and how Satanists uses symbolism to achieve their purposes or whatever. Ironic that the creators of this video also use symbolism to forward their own agendas. Not only that, they use the very same symbolism. Makes we wonder which side you are really on. But while watching the video, and listen to their “Christian” blah blah blah, all I could think about, was…
“…but Jesus went to the Mount of Olives. Early in the morning he came again to the temple. All the people came to him, and he sat down and taught them. The scribes and the Pharisees brought a woman who had been caught in adultery, and placing her in the midst they said to him, “Teacher, this woman has been caught in the act of adultery. Now in the Law, Moses commanded us to stone such women. So what do you say?” This they said to test him, that they might have some charge to bring against him. Jesus bent down and wrote with his finger on the ground. And as they continued to ask him, he stood up and said to them, “Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her.” And once more he bent down and wrote on the ground. But when they heard it, they went away one by one, beginning with the older ones, and Jesus was left alone with the woman standing before him.
John 8: v 1-9 (ESV)
You gonna accuse Jesus of being Satanic for scribbling in the dirt?
Yeah, I didn't think so.
Anyway, here’s the video if you have 13 minutes and 57 seconds to waste.
As Roob has stated in her previous article, me and her watched Lord Of The Rings over the weekend. Yeah, all three of the fuckers.
The extended versions.
What a journey that must have been. No…not the viewing by us over the weekend…the movie making process itself. I have no idea how long the process was, but it must have been long. Prolly a lot of people thrown together who had never met each other, possibly some long-term and lasting friendships created.
Prolly has something to do with YouTube auditing and pruning views from click-farms or other nefarious revenue-generating streams. What’s that? You weren’t aware there was such a thing as click farms?
You may also not have known that YT and other providers audit stats, but they do. What does YT video views/auditing, people meeting on a movie set, and click farms have to do with me and Roob watching the LOTR trilogy over the weekend?
MSM, baby. Networking.
If you want to watch people walk great distances in slow-motion, all while rehashing the same old arguments over and over, then LOTR is for you.
Stereotypes and archetypes.
Holding on to the same old grudges, and doing the right thing anyway. The films definitely give you a lot of time to ponder the concepts addressed. That is, if you can stand the constant drone of the music trying to guide and direct your emotions. And the music in these films certainly does that. Almost as if the music is added simply to let you know how you should be feeling about a particular scene or set of events or whatever. It almost follows that soft-loud-soft principle that has become such a feature in contemporary/modern pop music.
You think that certain people in certain groups/streams or whatever would use certain principles of warfare in an otherwise unrelated field or venue? Maybe even use musical principles as a tool of warfare? Prolly a stretch to think that someone would violate the sanctity and purity of something so wonderful as music, but to be fair, not everyone likes music. Lots of war, wars, battle/combat in this movie. Maybe music and warfare go together like bread and butter. Gollum hated bread for some reason tho.
Weird little fucker.
Ever feel a weird pinch when moving a certain way? Like, just under the skin. You remove a heavy dish from the oven, and suddenly, there is this weird burning/tearing kind of feeling in the skin of your fingers and/or hand because of how you are holding the dish?
How often do you remove heavy food-laden dishes from an oven? Your main concerns are not getting burned while simultaneously not dropping the dish. Suddenly, there’s this weird pain that threatens you with both. Not to mention, you are left puzzled as to exactly what this pain was, and what was causing it. You get dismissive. You were holding the dish wrong. It was your fault. Ignore it, and make a note to hold dishes differently in the future when removing them from the oven.
That’s how easy mistakes are to make. You spot a minor irritation, and you make corrective action(s) that allow you to keep finding more and more ways to do things wrong. I’m not damning your ability to overcome obstacles, I’m simply trying to illustrate where things sometimes maybe start to go wrong. You’ll wind up down the road with some mobility threatening disability, and you will start to wonder where it all started.
You’ll look for “the big stuff” first. “Major” injures and traumas. Slips, falls, accidents of any kind that you can attribute to the disability so that insurance can get their socialistic heads wrapped around where to collate you and your ailment. They ain’t gonna pay for it otherwise.
Not that I’ve been down that road or anything, and not that I still travel it now. Just trying to maybe pass along, that yeah, I’m still working on it, and maybe you can help me out by making some mental notes about the things that you normally might think of as being dismissible and/or negligible. Especially those things that you move to the “welp, that’s just part of getting old” pile of excuses.
Sorry, that's not good enough for me.
I’m supposed to be writing a postcard. Limeys hate postcards, and they hate German postcards even more. So let’s us see what an Okie can come up with for Limeys to hate on.
Where should I start? I KNOW!!! Don’t postcards have like a standard? Like, postcards have to be of a certain exact set of dimensions in order to be qualified as a postcard?
AH AH!!!!!! There’s mention of “Old British Postcard Sizes” on that article. THAT’S where this hate comes from!!! Goddamn Limeys think they have a monopoly on postcards. Buncha uppity fucks. Let’s see if we can find what the history is.
Them’s some strong words coming from 1921. Wasn’t the war well over by then? Weren’t England and Germany supposed to be making nice? Being friends? I guess victory is sometimes as bitter a pill as defeat. I know it sure seems to be that way with Brexit. But what’s that bit about German women being plain? I’ve known a few German women, and they sure as shit didn’t seem “plain” to me. So what in the fuck are these knuckleheads talking about?
It seems to be the job of Limeys to be grumpy and/or have a generally bad disposition. Germans tend to be be similarly classified. So what in the fuck is going on with this almost 100 year old battle over the postal systems and their products and services?
Ah. Basically, this is some kind of North Sea nonsense as to what is/is not, shit. I would imagine that the principle argument that Limeys have would be any subjective annotations that are made on the postcards themselves. Like, a picture postcard of Buckingham Palace, where the accompanying description says something like
“This is the building where the King and/or Queen of England do most of their fucking and shitting.”
Not that anyone would ever do such a thing.
Speaking of the post and postal systems, me and Roob watched this film called Going Postal the other day.
My first introduction to both Terry Pratchet and his Discworld universe. Yeah, Roob quotes him all the time, and I can kinda follow because it’s usually a contextual reference to whatever is being talked about, but I’ve never read any of his stuff before. It was an interesting tale to be sure.
A fun watch.
Pretty straightforward, with just enough weirdness to make the tale pretty goddamn strange, and leaves a lot to the imagination as to who these players really are. The acting was great, and, it had Charles Dance in it. Did you know that there is a famous TV fisherman over here in the USA called Bill Dance? And yes, we here in the US actually have outdoor shows where we watch people out hunting and fishing.
A certain someone just passed this along.
On a related note, a week or so ago, someone I talk to on Twitter passed this along to me…
I went through the whole thing, and the best that I could come up with, was they basically called me a queer. Not completely mind you. It said I was about 9/10ths nelly fag, and the remaining 1/10th was, and I quote…
”not completely homo, but still pretty fucking gay”
OK, so, no, it called me none of that. BUT!!! It did say that I was overwhelmingly feminine. I registered like “8” out of 10 on the gaydar. I guess I might take offense to that if I was “a man’s man” or “macho dude” or whatever, but I’m not. Yes, I like to hunt and fish, but I also like to camp…
*No, Clicky, he means with tents and things…*
*/facepalm… Never mind…*
That means I like the whole process. I don’t want to simply catch the fish, I want to clean it, cook it, eat some myself, and maybe have a person or two or more around the table with me. That means I want to make my own coleslaw and hushpuppies…
*Not a typo, Clicky…/shrugs… I thought hushpuppies were shoes…*
I want to do the dishes afterwards. Dunno why being good in the kitchen makes me queer, but whatever. I can eat well under the right circumstances, and do so with little to no assistance. Prolly will do an entire blog post over at my own place on these astrology results. Might be fun.
Sure is a shitload of data to contemplate.
There was something else I was wanting to talk about, but I can’t recall what it was. Anyway, I’ve already got four posts sitting in my drafts folder over at my own blog, so I guess I’ll go work on those. Hope your week is a good one, and keep an eye on that negligible shit…k? Just be mindful of it. Your body is speaking to you…
The conversation, is what it is. I guess “that” is, whatever you make of it. And no, I’m not trying to ambiguous, evasive, cryptic or mysterious. Just trying to relate that maybe sometimes the most confusing and incomprehensible of conversations are those that ultimately have the most meaning.
We know, when we know, and not before.
To relate, do you know what it would sound like if I asked you 100 questions at the same time? And yeah, I mean, 100 different and independent questions, and asked them all at the same time. Would you be able to answer them all in a single answer? Would that single answer encompass 100 independent, specific and succinct answers to my 100 questions?
K, now think about what you are asking of your body at a given time. Like that little pinch we talked about earlier. You wanna know why it is happening? You want answers? Welp, you basically are going to be asking a whole lot of questions of that pinch and your body, and you’re going to do it all at once. The nature of nesting and embedding, and the nature of time and times. Of course, you could just ask for a miracle and be done with it. But whatever you do, that’s your choice.
*Well yeah, of course there are Hush Puppy boots, Clicky, but that’s not what Cade meant, either… /shakes head… And get a Song…*
‘In an unusual warning, doctors have reported the case of a man who injected cocaine into his urethra to heighten sexual pleasure and then, through ”extravagant complications,” suffered gangrene that led to the loss of both legs, nine fingers and his penis.‘
*I know! …/plays with lighter… Hugo brought the Max Headroom Doctor Who incident to my attention ages ago…*
*And the other one, Clicky…*
‘As is obvious from Moist’s nickname for her, “Spike”, she isn’t that adorable, nor is she a ‘dearheart’.’
*/winces… Okay, okay I’ll get on with it. Sheesh…*
‘According to the Chinese Horoscope theory, Female Earth is connected to the farmland. Pig mainly contains Male Water with Male Wood. Male Water is river and Male Wood is tall tree or wooden boat. The sign of 2019 Female Earth Pig year is a river flows over the farmland. It might cause flooding.’
*Underdog Anthology VIII: Mo’ Biomass Strip will be out in the spring, Clicky… /stubs butt… I suppose I could write a story about a diamond pig…*
*You win, Clicky… /rolls eyes…*
*Oh good choice, Clicky… /lights up… I love that Song…*
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