dolores666's photos with the keyword: Friends

‘ppy No-Year everyone! Here be a small vignette of home life, love and angst in the Marginal Outer Limits. This is for the Red Baron and the Ferret. May your hovercraft be forever full of eels, as my mate the Beast of Balfron Tower used to say many, many centuries a-gone.

It’s a little known fact that teddy bears like to have a baby just as much as babies like to have a teddy bear. On the whole, though, teddies tend to look after their babies better than the other way around. This one here, a keen Byakhee watcher, has taken his young miss out to The Edges on an Anomaly Reconnaissance Expedition for the first time. Baby is duly impressed. Her own teddy cannot believe its cute glass- button eyes; it thinks the world a mighty strange place. Useful note for users of Transport for London and/or British rail “services”. Byakhees are plug-ugly and none too clever, to be sure, but they are very comfy, pretty reliable and easy to summon and make them do your bidding, if you know the right spells. I recommend them as an alternative to what Mr. Khan has to offer the common or garden travelling peon. As for their proverbial infamous smell, I daresay it cannot be worse than the fragrances that emanate from any London Tube burrow on any given day. You’re welcome.

For Ash 6.0 I know the anniversary proper is not for another couple of weeks yet but, as I also say, ad nauseam, I must concede, opportunity is as opportunity does. Who knows what state I’ll be in come the day? So, carpe doodle, deep sigh, big Oh Well… and on with life. Here’s looking at your subatomic particles, kiddo. We still miss you.

For me lovely mate Rhishiart, who brings reds and sends hot-beverage kits. May your cellar never run dry, toots! Look-see! The return of the Stolen Goodies. Some more of that nonsense forged from borrowed & reprocessed clipart I’m becoming so fond of. Here we can see Mistah MuchaVista, the ocular sharpshooter, preaching to the wildlife that populates the delta of the mighty Urook. He’s cast his sharp eye around the p’litical scene and now dispenses an equally sharp brand of rough-rough-and-ready wisdom to whosoever wants to listen. Or to the fresh air, if nobody wants to listen, it’s all the same to him. His real name is Chindasvinto Malatesta Jones. Of decidedly mixed ancestry, he hails from Reus, of all places. The wonders of uncontrolled migration, I dare say. Long may it live! -be it only to aggravate the likes of Nigel Farrago and the Trumper* -or Agent Orange, as my other good pal David calls him. The verses quoted by Chindy are from Martin Fierro. And because I can’t be arsed to give a good translation, you’ll have to make do with this: Don’t tell me your woes because I live in grief myself. And don’t get cocky even if your foot is on the stirrup. The best of riders often finds himself with his ass flat on the ground. *To trump. v.intr. Games: To get the better of (an adversary or competitor, for example) by using a crucial, often hidden resource. In this Trumper’s case Homer Simpson and his tribe; a crucial, often hidden, vastly ignored, regularly abused by the soi-disant liberal elites, and definitely neglected resource. Think twice before you engage in ritual humiliation, folks. It tends to backfire spectacularly. Think Germany and Versailles and what came 20 years later. Hell, think Israel, if you feel like living dangerously. :-)

Is that time of the year again. Darkness drifts gently away and the days get longer by and by. Not physically noticeable, but the blood and the imagination know it’s happening and that’s good enough for me. This year the honour of leading the celebratory shindig falls to Ding and Dong, the Bomber Harriers. Dong takes away the gloom and the bad taste of the Scottish debacle and the moronic Brexit that lingers between my clenched teeth. Ding brings light and merriment and frippery and large doses of persiflage. Something tells me this coming year large doses of persiflage are going to be much needed. Overseeing the ritual is Manolito, the Hardy Perennial Alien, wielding his astral chums and wearing his rude T-shirt, assisted by my favourite alter ego, Spikky, the Spaniard in Your Works and her bosom pal Emiliano “The Mexican”, the Problematic Penguin. And behold! Even the timid and antisocial Repulsive Moon Beasts of the Plateau of Leng have emerged from their quarrelsome seclusion to bid farewell and greet the darkness and the light respectively. All is fluffy. Happy Transition, folks! PS. I’m truly amazed that I’ve actually managed to finish this here thingy in time, what with the crappy health scene and the high levels of New Computer Neurosis and all. And it will have to double as both solstice card and the Ashok Chandra Patel Memorial Service. Ash left me bereft, bored and bewildered 4 years ago come Friday. I buggeringly miss him so... :-(

The Tunnel. aka La ley del embudo. (The Law of the Funnel. See link) Here's a little something for a dear friend's birthday: his very own space craft, the good starship Persiflage. May it help him navigate the hideously dicey times that will follow the enthronement of the Hellary Harpy, that fast friend of everything that's wrong and vile and stupid and illegal and underhand and ............... (enter your atrocity of choice here). If you thought the Obama regime had narrowed the funnel's neck beyond the practicable, let alone the tolerable, wait and see what she'll do to the world. Mothers of America and its little British minion, start packing the wargames kit of your children, soon to be sent to the Baltic, or the Med, or to Syria, to fight the Red Putin Devil and shed their expendable blood in yet another fraudulent conflict with an imaginary enemy. Oi, are we fucked... es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ley_del_embudo It can roughly translate as “One law for the rich and one for the poor”. Or as the ineffable gaucho Martín Fierro had it: La ley es tela de araña, y en mi ignorancia lo explico, no la tema el hombre rico, no la tema el que mande, pues la rompe el bicho grande y sólo enrieda a los chicos.