‘Morning Run’ – An Underdog Anthology Tale

Dear Reader, the next volume of the Underdog Anthology – Treeskull Stories – is on track to be published for Halloween…

UA3 cover

This time I have contributed one story and the Afterword, as well as providing copy editing services to Leggy. This is a pleasure, not a chore, as I get to read the fabulous contributions from the other authors first. And for free…

*Clicky, that’s free knot three…*

*/rolls eyes…*

In anticipation of publication, I thought I’d share one of my stories from Anthology 2 with you, Dear Reader. So here is ‘Morning Run’ for your entertainment… Enjoy! 😀

*******

MORNING RUN

By Roo B. Doo

Gasping with pain, Marcus pulled the graffiti daubed door open and peered into the murk inside. The hinges squealed their resistance in the spring morning that should have been filled with birdsong but was disquietingly absent. He sniffed in disgust at the dank gloominess but the room appeared empty, and Marcus was more than happy about that – the thought of defecating anywhere other than his own bathroom filled him with dread but he doubted he would be able to sprint back home in time. As if in agreement, his stomach growled noisily.

Usually Marcus picked up the pace when he ran past the public toilets on his early morning jog through the park. The low, stone structure, vividly tagged in garish painted symbols, sat at the far point of his circuit. Set back from the path and surrounded by shady trees, it had an air of quiet menace in its seedy isolation, a haven for druggies and vandals, pervs too no doubt. Today, however, a crunching gut spasm had assailed Marcus as he approached the building. He’d pulled up sharply, clutching his stomach at the sudden crippling pain.

Marcus swore at himself for thinking he could just run off the sluggishness he’d felt at the previous night’s overindulgence at the local curry house. And the beery one at the pub beforehand. For months he’d been on a strict diet regime in training for the London Marathon. It was just rotten timing that his best friend Craig had chosen Easter, the weekend before, to get married. As Best Man there was no way Marcus could miss the stag night, and a stag is a stag – there’s no point going if you didn’t stagger a bit as a result. It would be his only blow out and, besides, he’d have a whole week to recover before the big race.

Although his guts were wildly churning, Marcus remained reluctant to go inside. He was okay pissing in public toilets but shitting was another matter. He couldn’t stand the thought of exposing his backside to where other naked backsides had rubbed or smeared, nor the thought of anyone listening in, passively participating and passing judgement on the size of his bowel.

He briefly squatted down in the doorway to scan for the feet of hidden stall occupants, and instantly regretted it. The pressure inside him moved and there was an audible glug! Marcus tensed his arsehole; it felt like a splenetic Vesuvius ready to blow its top. With a final nervous glance behind to make sure nobody was about to follow him in, Marcus stepped inside.

The gloom deepened as the main door swung closed behind him with a creaking thump. Now the eerie silence was broken by a leaking tap’s plink, plink, plink from the wash basin to his left, accompanied by the continued rumble from his guts. There were three toilet stalls in front of him and he made for the nearest, dodging the dirty puddles strewn with litter, tugging urgently at the drawstring on his shorts. Marcus was determined to spend as little time in the place as possible.

The cubicle door swung open at his touch, revealing a filthy, shit filled toilet. A worn and dirty trainer, half submerged among the turds, listed near the top of the bowl. He moved on to the next but that too was blocked. Fresh beads of sweat prickled Marcus’ brow, his dread intensified – if the last one was in as bad a condition he didn’t know what he would do. However, the last stall at least looked relatively clean and it had a lock on the door. Bonus! Marcus thought as he whipped down his shorts, sank onto the toilet seat with a resounding thump and let go.

He braced his hands against the cubicle walls to hold himself up as he felt the world cascading out of his arse, before splashing back to soak his crack and balls. Both relief at the release and cold revulsion washed through Marcus, as his breath rasped with every squeeze.

“Arghhh!” he screamed aloud as his gut achingly contracted again, but by now Marcus cared little if anyone was there to hear him; he just had to get it all out.

He closed his eyes and swore again at his stupidity. He just had to play the big man, didn’t he? Buying another round of beers, choosing the hottest and spiciest dishes on the menu, followed by shots, lots of shots. True, it had been a hell of a fun evening but, by God, he was regretting his decisions now. Not to mention Craig’s wedding was later that day; he only hoped he would have sufficient time to recover before then. With a grimace, Marcus resolved to take a double dose of imodium and have a shower as soon as he got home.

He shifted his position as the stinging flow turned into a trickle, releasing a waft of putridity that made him recoil and hold his nose. Reaching for the toilet roll he found the holder sheathed only with an empty cardboard tube. He slapped at it angrily and looked around but there was nothing else to clean himself up with. Sighing loudly, Marcus pulled off his outer vest top, balled it up and started to wipe his backside. It was one of his favourites but he would have to leave it – there was no way he was carrying it back home.

Feeling drained, Marcus stood up and pulled hard on the toilet chain, eager to flush the contents of his bowels away, but the only thing it made was an empty clank. He pulled again and again. Nothing. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Marcus peered into the toilet bowl as he pulled up his shorts. Shit splattered the inside and dribbled down into a dark brown pool of his slurry. He had to get out there fast before anyone else came by. Flinging the balled vest top to the floor he turned to leave.

The lock on the door refused to budge. Marcus rattled it hard but it was stuck fast. He tried ramming the door open with his shoulder before remembering that it swung inwards. He kicked at it in frustration but the door remained firmly closed.

“What the fuck?!”

Plop… The sound came from behind him. Plop… plop.

Marcus turned around slowly to see movement in the bowl. The shit pool bubbled and burst like the hot mud springs he’d seen once before whilst on holiday in New Zealand. He stood there transfixed as more and more bubbles broke through the surface. Plop pop plop…

A slimy brown finger poked up suddenly, followed by another. Marcus flattened himself against the door, staring aghast as a hand emerged from the mess, fingertips feeling out, looking for purchase on the porcelain. A second hand shot up and gripped the edge of the toilet seat, pulling, heaving first a shoulder and then an oozing head up and out of the bowl.

Eyes wide with horror and disbelief, Marcus turned and hammered at the door, frantically grabbing at the lock. “LET ME OUT!”

A horrendous sucking sound caused Marcus to turn around again and he screamed to see the abomination now had a torso, rippling turds for muscles. A fat, pink worm poked out of the head, like an obscene tongue, tasting the air. Reaching out with dripping hands, the detestation gave Marcus a shit-eating grin before emitting a thunderous burp, sending a foul spray of ordure with a stench like an eyeful of needles.

Marcus screamed again and dropped to the filthy, wet floor, squirming in a frenetic attempt to escape from under the door. He kicked out as slimy hands grabbed at his legs and he felt a squelching slap on the back of his thigh. With an almighty heave, he pulled himself free of the gap and out.

Howling in terror, Marcus picked himself up and ran.

*******

Dogma Shit Demon

*Alright! Sheesh… I’m new to this writing lark, Clicky, let alone horror fiction…*

*Well, let’s hope so, eh?*

So, if you’re in need of a book of short stories for toilet reading this Halloween, Dear Reader, I highly recommend you try ‘Underdog Anthology III’ from Leg Iron Books

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Pounds. Shilling. Portents.

Dear Reader, this post was going to be about steam…

steam (v.)Old English stiemenstymen“emit vapor, emit a scent or odor,” from the root of steam (n.). Meaning “go by steam power” is from 1831. Transitive sense from 1660s, “to emit as steam;” meaning “to treat with steam” is from 1798. Slang steam up (transitive) “make (someone) angry” is from 1922.

Related: Steamedsteaming.

steam (n.) Old English steam “vapor, fume, water in a gaseous state,” from Proto-Germanic *staumaz (source also of Dutch stoom “steam”), of unknown origin. Meaning “vapor of boiling water used to drive an engine” is from 1690s, hence steam age (1828) and many figurative uses, such as let off steam (1831, literal), blow off steam (1857, figurative),full-steam (1878), get up steam (1887, figurative). Steam heat is from 1820s in thermodynamics; as a method of temperature control from 1904.

We have given her six months to consider the matter, and in this steam age of the world, no woman ought to require a longer time to make up her mind. [Sarah Josepha Hale, “Sketches of American Character,” 1828]

…Thoughtful Man suggested it to me yesterday evening after first reading Leggy’s review of Poundland’s E-cig, yesterday morning…

*/flicks lighter… A good review that I’m happy to share, Clicky, but vaping? …/lights up… Fuck off – they’re just Tobacco Control Lite… /drags… If I want to inhale steam, I’ll boil a kettle…*

…And then during the course of yesterday, Thoughtful Man learnt that Poundland is also branching out into other steamy areas…

*/thinks and smokes… Nooky… No. Oky… No. OK Y?… Nukey… New key… Newgate’s Knocker!… /smokes some more…*

Something else happened though yesterday, Dear Reader. Something unsettling. Yesterday morning, whilst Thoughtful Man read Leg Iron’s post, I was reading an overnight posting by Red Frank, in the Red Universe

Merovee Gateways.png

A bit of a sleb in the Synchrosphere had paid MEROVEE a visit and left a comment. ‘Goro’ is a name that has been spoken of somewhat reverently by a few of the regulars there during the 5 years I’ve visited the site. And I’ve seen the name mentioned in Dispatches elsewhere. A bit of coup for Frank, you’d think…

coup

*I dunno, Clicky, it could be one of those…/stubs out fag…*

Goro had popped by and, BOY, was he STEAMED with Frank and MJ!

*Perfect choice of Song, Clicky! …/pats snout… It turned into a screaming match… /lights up…*

I suggest you go read it for yourself, Dear Reader. It involves an accusation of plagiarism

*plak- (1)also *plāk-, Proto-Indo-European root meaning “to be flat;” extension of root *pele- (2) “flat; to spread.”

It forms all or part of: flag (n.2) “flat stone for paving;” flagstoneflake (n.) “thin flat piece,; flawfloefluke (n.3) “flatfish;” placentaplagalplagiarismplagio-planchetplank.

It is the hypothetical source of/evidence for its existence is provided by: Greek plakoeis“flat,”plax“level surface, anything flat;” Lettish plakt “to become flat;” Old Norse flaga “layer of earth,” Norwegian flag “open sea,” Old English floh “piece of stone, fragment,” Old High German fluoh “cliff.”

… Which was weird ‘cos MJ had put up a Flat Earth post the evening before yesterday at her site…

Start here – it was the very first comment! I won’t link to Soro’s site; he brought his own links to Frank’s place. I paid a brief visit there, having not ventured there before. I don’t think I’ll be going back… You’ve gotta pay to be a member!

*/sniffs… I don’t care for his tone either, Clicky… /drags… *

In other news, Dear Reader, I had a bit of coup (second meaning) myself this week, having my Afterword accepted for the Underdog Anthology III by Leg Iron Books. This time round each of the stories gets an illustration and so will the famous poem that I stole… to mutilate and use for my own ends at the end of the book. Thank you Emma ‘Dead Rising’ Lazarus!

Leggy has just sent through its illustration, hot and steaming off his virtual press…

The Nuke Allows US

*Oh, Clicky, that looks great! …/grins… Quick, go fetch that Song we like… /claps hands…*

That’s quite enough for one post, Dear Reader. Until next time at the LoL… Have a Song ❤

 

 

 

Missive From ‘Merica: Write On!

I hope you’re enjoying your Sunday, Dear Reader. Fortunately the world didn’t end yesterday, as predicted

Thank fuck for that, ‘cos I have had a Harry story accepted for the Underdog Anthology III

… And I still haven’t mutilated a poem for the Afterword yet…

Whilst I get on with doing that, feel free to dive into the latest missive, deep and inviting, from Cade the Okie Devil, below. Enjoy! 😀

*******

!!!Let's Doo Sum SnewZ!!!

I’ve decided to give Bing News a shot today…

…but I have a feeling…

…this might be a little…

…lopsided….

…assuming that Bing routes most of it’s shit through MSN.

^Cliff Richard ~ Devil Woman 1976 Disco Purrfection Version^

On with the snooze…

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Texas asks court to allow its ban on ‘sanctuary cities’

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Marilyn Manson: ‘Columbine Destroyed My Entire Career’

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Magnitude 5.7 earthquake hits off northern California -USGS

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North Korean leader Kim called Trump a what? A ‘dotard’

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What Does Mexico’s Earthquake Mean for California? A Caltech Seismologist Explains
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Elderly deaths: Call for generators in Florida nursing homes
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Trix with artificial flavors is coming back after customer complaints
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France threatens to skip 2018 Winter Olympics in South Korea over security concerns
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NASA SPACECRAFT OSIRIS-REX TO SLINGSHOT AROUND EARTH ON ITS WAY TO ASTEROID BENNU

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HOLLYWOOD ACTRESS TELLS ALL: “I FELT BLOATED, TIRED, AND UNHEALTHY… NOW I KNOW WHY”

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Death Wish Coffee recalls its Nitro Cold Brew over risk of deadly botulin toxin

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‘Game Plan to Survive.’ Teen Gets Locked in Cave for 60 Hours With No Cellphone Signal

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Now…I know what you are thinking.

You are thinking…

DUDE!!! I ALREADY READ ALL THAT SHIT!!!

Well I hadn’t.

Go fuck yourself.
^Three Dog Night – Never Been To Spain^

I saw an advertisement on that last story, that talked about “why doctors will no longer prescribe Metformin”…and the advertisement went on to say…that the ad…was selected…for me.

Q: What in the FUCK is Metformin, and why did it select me?

A: ?!?!?

The link to the story was 500 fucking miles long, so I skipped it, and just went and looked up Metformin on Google.

Metformin

I don’t have diabetes…type 2 or otherwise. WTF?!?!?

Polycystic Ovary Syndrome
Endocrine Disease
Obstructive Sleep Apnea
Epstein–Barr Virus
Dermatomyositis
Heliotrope (Color)
Heliotrope
Adaptive Immune System (Redirected from Adaptive immunity)
Passive Immunity-Naturally Acquired
Passive Immunity
Systemic Lupus Erythematosus
United States Bullion Depository
Viral Tegument

Is everything designed to kill us? Something is not adding up.

Yeah…it’s adding up…but to what?

For whom?

^Alanis Morissette – King of Pain^

Q: How much gold is in Fort Knox

A: According to the U.S. Mint, there are currently 147.3 million ounces of gold in Fort Knox, KY. At a current price of about $1,776 per ounce, this is worth 261.6 billion dollars.

147,300,000 ounces / 16 ounces = 9,206,250 pounds.

9,206,250 / 2,000 = 4,603.125 tons.

$261,600,000,000 dollars / 323,100,000 citizens = $809.66

I’d like mine in cash please. Hell, that ain’t even 1/2 an ounce of gold.

I knew I wasn't worth a fuck

…but damn…that’s some hardcore, cold-blooded shit right there.

^Rafa Barrios – Palabras (Original Mix)^

HOLD THE PHONE!!!

Has the Federal Reserve Sold the Gold at Fort Knox?

This article says…that The U.S. Treasury actually has 8,134 tons in total. So I guess only about half of that is in Kentucky.

8,134 tons = 16,268,000 lbs = 260,288,000 ounces = $462,271,488,000 @ $1,776 per ounce.

$462,271,488,000 / 323,100,000 citizens = $1,430.74

Considering that the year that I made the most money – I made right at $120,000 that year – I paid over $40,000 in taxes, and averaged working about 70 hours per week…um…yeah.

I gotta regroup here.
^Frida – I Know There’s Something Going On (ABBA) (1982) HD 0815007^

WOAH NELLY!!!

SOME LIMEY JUST KICKED ME IN THE BALLS!!!

AND I LIKE IT!!!

Getting metaphysical

😐

I am dissapoint (sic)

j/k

I got a question about your view of “not being able to see time”…

Q: Would you know it, if you saw it?

To relate…let’s think about drag racing, since an interest in both time and trains should certainly be easily relatable to drag racing, from both the participant and spectator positions.

There was a video that I posted sometime back, that showed a guy getting a ride-along in a drag car. There was an in-car video camera, and at the end of the ride, the passenger commented…

“That seemed like a LOT longer time from inside the car!”

The drag car in question, was about an 11/12 second car. Meaning it took about 11/12 seconds to cover the 1/4 mile, which is 1,320 feet.

Find a clock that has a second hand…now watch it click off 11 seconds.

Keep in mind, that a drag car never stops accelerating.

So for the entire time, of that 11 seconds, you are going faster and faster, the whole time.

If you were traveling at the speed of light…186,282 miles per second…you just covered 2,048,882 miles.

BUT!!! What if…you started @ a relative “0-speed” and accelerated from 0 to 186,282 miles per second within that 11 seconds?

^The Sweet – The Ballroom Blitz 1973^

Q: What did you encounter during that 11 seconds?

Q: What encountered you?

So yeah…spin. All kinds of spin and spins. I’m not trying to sell anyone on anything…just trying to describe what I see. I don’t think I’m alone in what I see…just…yeah…alone-ish or something.

😐

Anyway…what is really cool to me, relativistically…is when there is a proximate particle or mass, that appears to be not moving at all. Yet relative to some distant particle or mass…it may be moving at some fucking RIDICULOUS speeds.

Pert near Ludicrous Speed. 😛

Especially if those particles/masses are entangled.

Shit gets really funky from there.

^Sweet – Love is like Oxygen^

For example, if two masses are entangled at great distance…they may swap places, and your never ever know it, save for a change in the mass that you are observing. You don’t actually know that it’s a different mass…you just know that a change has taken place.

We make assumptions that these actions/reactions are local or even localized…but that’s not always the case. By the time out new mass moves in, and replaces the old one, the new one may have been traveling at ridiculous speeds over great distances. The old one and new one, transfer energy/energies and momentum(s), and the old one hauls ass elsewhere.

Further…the old one may transfer it’s entanglement many times as it heads out wherever it is going. Like tumblers handshaking here and there and everywhere. Lots of parts, lots of methods, lots of mediums, lots of time. I dunno…I get jazzed when anyone talks about time. Keep it contextual, and everything else becomes possible.

Grains of sand, to eyes of needles.
^Gary Wright – Love Is Alive^

Where was I?

^Raspberries Go All The Way Mike Douglas Show 1974^

Prolly gonna go find some ice for my balls.

Fuckin’ Limeys.

^Climax Blues Band ~ Couldn’t Get It Right 1977 Disco Purrfection Version^

FBI Misses THIRD Deadline to Hand Over Subpoenaed Documents On Trump Dossier

What does this mean? I dunno. Go arrest the FBI. I guess they could just handcuff themselves and turn themselves in…but I wouldn’t count on that. Maybe pull their funding? Stop printing their paychecks and turn the electricity off in The J.Edgar Building…that might get someone’s attention. Or how about make the FBI go without toilet paper until they produce this shit.

lolz That sounds funny.

PRODUCE THIS SHIT…OR YA’LL GETS NO TP UNTIL YOU DOO!!!

^The Three Degrees – When will I see you again (Ruud’s Extended Mix)^

It occurs to me, that with all of this secrecy, we’ve been operating in a “Minority Report” kind of “Thought Police” kind of mode for a long time. This isn’t about every American having an FBI file irrespective of whether or not they’ve ever committed a crime. That I can quasi-sorta understand on some levels. This is about accountability via secrecy.

With secrecy, there is no accountability. How can there be? We’re not talking about privacy. Government like ours deserves none. I should be able to go to FBI.gov, and look up my own name, and see if I’m being investigated for anything. See if I’ve ever been investigated for anything. See if it’s ever been recommended that I be investigated for anything, on who’s recommendation, and why.

I should be able to look up how much money The FBI spent on coffee last month. How much they spent on sugar. How much they spent on drink cups and coffee stirrers. Who is requisitioning government planes instead of flying commercial. Does that sound good? I can think of some more stuff if you need suggestions. Just let me know.

So yeah…it’s not about this or that, it’s about this and that, and everything else. I thought that’s what accountability was\is?

^The Association – Along Comes Mary^

I guess one could argue that my thoughts on particle and mass motion could be summed up to slight of hand. But…what about preservation of mass? Preservation of energy? Preservation of energy? If you don’t have the balls to countermand your own bullshit, it’s prolly why you aren’t getting anywhere. Hey asshat(s)…I’m on your team.

Ain't I?
^Orleans – Still The One (with lyrics)^

Ah HA!!! A question via The Whatever However Hotline!!!

Q: Cade, what is binding these particles?

Cade: Didn’t see this one coming. Are we talking local, less-local, or non-local? Because you have to consider them all. If we thing of a string as being the current method of binding of some particular particles…which part of the string are you seeing? How would you know? When the energy and energies run out…welp…what about less bound strings?

If you disconnect your machines, or turn them off, or stop the process that was further intermingled with the goings on…why wouldn’t shit stop? I mean…we are talking about operating within time and times here. Are you really willing to go the distance? What if you only get one chance to “tap” an infinite power source, but that source is more like Morse code, and there is a thousand years that will transpire until the next dah or dit?

Yes…I’m suggesting that “tapping” or “harnessing” ANYTHING…can, and will, have consequences. Why wouldn’t it? Just because something is local…you think it’s ours? What…are you drowning and there’s a life-ring nearby…hence…it’s yours? I don’t think things work like that. Certainly not always. We need more information.

Sound familiar? 

It should.

^Firefall – Strange Way^

Lactic Acidosis
Biguanide
Galega Officinalis
Coleophora
Coleophora Lusciniaepennella
Wingspan
Gridiron Football

Man…I went from Diabetes to Flowers to Moths to Football in like…nothing flat. Must be football season or some such. Yesterday was the first day of Fall… so…yeah…foosball!!!

Mama Boucher: Foos-ball? Buncha overgrown monsters man-handlin’ each other… ‘Member when dat man wanted you to play foos-ball, Bobby?

Movie = The Waterboy

^Waterboy-I like them too^

It don’t hurt none, to talk about whatever in the fuck I want, do it? I never would have considering yapping about anything at all till just a coupla years ago. Too much pride I guess. Too afraid to be wrong, and even more afraid of being right.

That's no way to live...is it?
^David Holmes – I Heard Wonders^

I’ve had to get a lot of shit out of my system over at my own blog lately. I guess mainly because I can freewheel a shade more in a single direction, and spend more time doing it. When I sit down to write these things here? The objective is to move as rapidly as possible, and cover as much ground as possible. Not really, but my objective is to spend as little time as possible between A and B, and I’ve no idea what that is going to be.

Like tonight/this morning? I really didn’t have much in my head at all. Nothing that I really wanted to write about. I’ve got some other writing that I want to do, but nothing is currently coming to mind. It’s difficult to write a story that you’ve already completed in your head. Not that I’ve ever tried to write like this before or anything…but God bless her…someone has prodded me along in a very clever way over the last coupla days, and I’m thankful for that. But I guess I gotta go the rest of the way now.

Now...what's that bit about announcing your plans and hearing/watching God laugh?
^Knife Party – ‘Sleaze’^

Christmas is just around the corner I guess. I wonder when everything will go on sale? And since when is everything on sale? There’s something vague booping around in this empty head of mine, and has been for a few days. Ever since I saw mention of slavery somewhere along the line, and these Anunnaki fucks keeps bopping in and out of my noggin’.

But yeah...

Being off-balance helps me think. But this shit ain’t like that. To say that it was this kind of thought or that kind of thought, meaning good or bad, would be…kinda…on track…but not really. It’s not really like that. I’m not sure that a judgement call could be made like that with respect to “aliens” or “extra-terrestrials”…mainly because of us.

We are SOOOOooo fucking convinced, that anyone who shows up, is just here to take shit away from us. Welp, who the FUCK owns the shit now? At best, I’ve apparently got a $1,500 stake in the country in which I live, and THAT’S assuming that the other 323.1 million fucks that live here are feeling generous, and willing to let me sell my 1oz stake of gold that is sitting somewhere where I can’t get to it. I didn’t dig that shit up. Where’d it come from?

^orleans-dance with me [lyrics]^

What’s it like to get old? Let’s see.

Fact Sheet: Aging in the United States

 

Who…in the fuck…is PRB?

Population Reference Bureau

Oh. Anyway…

“The number of Americans ages 65 and older is projected to more than double from 46 million today to over 98 million by 2060, and the 65-and-older age group’s share of the total population will rise to nearly 24 percent from 15 percent.”

So…there’s 46 million peeps over 65 in The USA.

$462,271,488,000 / 46,000,000 = $10,049.38.

Here’s your paycheck…go play golf.

^I’M NOT IN LOVE – 10cc^

Considering that the retirement age is now 70, and these PRB fucks say that the number of old farts is gonna almost double by 2060…wait…

WHAT?!?!?!?!? 20-fucking-60?!?!?!? 

I’ll be 92 fucking years old in 2060. You really think that anyone, who is 27 years old right now, will give a flying fuck about some 92 year-old asshole in 2060?

Yeah…someone who is 27 years old right now, will be eligible to retire in 2060. What about some young punk that was born today? Yeah…today…as in…September 23rd of 2017…they’ll be 43 in 2060. You think that they will give two fucks about two old fucks aged 92 and 70?

Nope. 

They’ll be driving flying sportscars, chasing skirts, and writing child-support/alimony checks in the midst of their mid-life crisis, all while battling Hepatitis L.

Meh…I’ll prolly be on Mars and/or The Moon/Luna by 2060. Maybe even Jupiter or Saturn. The mail is prolly slow getting out that way…so you can keep the Social Security checks.

^Todd Rundgren – Hello It’s Me (1972)^

Damn…it’s 03:05…I could use a hug.

<huggles>
^AL STEWART “Time Passages”^

Human Leukocyte Antigen

Lots of tics and tocs and dahs and dits and beeps and boops to be seen at these levels.

Christian Laying On Of Hands

Don’t need anyone? Good for you. What about those that do? What about those that don’t, and then they do? I dunno either.

Event driven time.

Event driven times.

What kinds?

All kinds.

What cha got in minds?

We got all kinds of fine finds for you to finds.

Hop on in on of the lines.

Sees what you can sees, and finds what you can finds.

Your answers are your own.
^Robbie Dupree: Steal away^

I just remembered that my driver’s license expires in two months.

Yeesh…I’ll have no “valid I.D.” while cruising the motherland. Or fatherland. Or homeland. Or whatever in the fuck it my comrades call it.

A paranoid bunch we are.

We prolly need some secret organizations to keep us safe.

Let’s form some.

We need a manifesto first tho.

I quit.
^Earth, Wind & Fire – September^

I don’t have anything against beliefs and traditions and shit like that. Cept the ones that tell me what a piece of shit I am. Or the ones that tell me how fucking great I am.

Too confusing. 

I dunno…I’ll figure it out. But I did address some pomp and circumstance kinds of things over at my own blog earlier this evening. If I need a pound of Wolfsbane, a goats right testicle, and a pure copper talisman in the shape of two figure 8’s bound by three stars and a zero? Where in the fuck am I supposed to get that shit? I gots no monies, and this shit don’t grow on trees ya know.

I don’t mind going without. I appreciate the suggestion, but I’d bet that goat needs his balls more than I need protection from whatever it is that’s hounding me. You think they’ll bargain? Maybe say…two used golf-balls in place of the goat’s ball? Time and a place for everything? Just being nice and trying to do the right thing(s) in my own life isn’t enough? What about over time? Over times?

Yeah…I forgot…works count for nothing. Everyone take 5. Smoke em’ if ya got em’.

😛
^Stevie Wonder: Superstition (Live)^

For Bubba.

^Van Morrison – Moondance^

cYacFa

<Earth Wind & Fire – Let’s Groove>

*******

*/daydreaming… Hmm… I hope so too, Clicky…*

*What?*

*Alright! I’m dooing it… /rolls eyes…*

Time After Time

On Monday 21st August at noon, the bongs of Big Ben will sound for the last time for a four-year conservation programme.

I was telling Red Frank about it in the ‘sew below’ on MEROVEE yesterday…

Roob tells Frank about Big Ben Falling Silent

Sew it seamed… 😉

Merovee Time

*Oh brilliant, Clicky! I haven’t heard that in ages… /lights up… Did you know, Culture Club considered calling themselves The News?*

tenor1

*Yeah, I saw it on an interview years ago. Apparently the four band members were living in north, east, west and sarf London when they got together… /taps fag… N, E, W, S… /deep drag… Hence, The News…*

*/exhales… Talk about poisoned minds… /sigh…*

*Not so much a culture clash there, Clicky, as a culture mash…*

*/sucks dog end… Yep… /stubs out… Butt knot so upbeat though, eh? /looks confused… What was this post gonna be about again? …/looks up… Oh yeah…*

Big Ben, the clock’s bell, weighs 13.7 tonnes… That’s 137 (see Pointless Exercise), and there was another clock associated with that number… The ‘World Clock’ Wolfgang Pauli dreamed after striking up a great friendship with Carl Jung…

*Hmm…*

Leg_Iron_Books

*/cough… Leggy put up another great post last night, Clicky…*

*/looks at clock… Yikes! It’s getting late… Do you think Dear Reader will mind if I snuck off, Clicky?*

*Okay, just leave a Song… /lights up… make it a good one…*

In The Mood…

I’ve been working up to penning some short stories for the next Underdog Anthology, Dear Reader, due out for Halloween. Writing horror doesn’t come easy for me, so today I dipped into The Articles of Dume (written by my good friend the Doctor), during my lunch break, for instruction and inspiration…

*Fuck! I hope it doesn’t take forever, Clicky, the submission deadline is the end of September…*

Anyhoo… I thought I’d post the last of my three stories, but the first that I wrote, for Volume 1. The other two can be found here and here

*Not yet, Clicky, but I’m trying…*

*******

Succulent Sardines

by Roo B. Doo

During daylight the faded grandeur was all too apparent but in the evening the flickering lamplight transformed the interior of Crossgate House into a Gothic nightmare.

‘Well, this is spooky as hell,’ Helena whispered to herself as she lightly skipped up the stairs toward the darkness of the top floor.

Paul was up there, waiting. All she had to do was find his champagne glass and then they would have a few precious minutes to indulge in the most dangerous aspect of their relationship – risky sex. Helena shivered at the prospect and wondered at the audacity of the man the financial media blithely referred to as ‘Golden Sacks’. Getting your rocks off during a game of Sardines at the company’s weekend retreat, was the epitome of risk-taking.

Helena paused as she reached the landing to duck under the heavy, velvet rope barrier and sign firmly stating, ‘STRICTLY OUT OF BOUNDS’. Big bucks can buy use of historical dumps with disturbing histories, but some areas remained firmly off limits. Especially to drunken financiers with little understanding of the meaning of priceless.

She risked a look over the handrail, Helena but couldn’t detect anybody else on stairs; the sound of muffled laughter in the distance below confirmed that only she and Paul were in his part of the house. The rest of the party were searching for him elsewhere. Only she knew where he’d be hiding in a ‘fuck ugly, black wardrobe’ that he’d discovered whilst snooping about earlier.

Slipping her phone from pocket, Helena shone its bluish white light down either side of a corridor until she spotted a fluted glass on a side table beside a heavy, wooden door. The champagne bubbles inside danced and popped as she approached. Helena downed it in one and gripping the cold brass door handle. Part of her hoped it was locked – they had been told these doors were locked – but it swung open effortlessly under her touch. With a final quick glance back the way she’d come, Helena quietly slipped inside the room beyond.

“Paul?” she hissed as she scoured the room for a glimpse of him. “Paul? Where are you? This must be the most stupidest idea you’ve had yet.”

Helena put down the glass and lifted her phone again to take in the dust sheet covered contents of the room. Along the back wall she spotted a large, black wardrobe. Creeping forward, she could make out grotesque figures carved ornately into the pitch coloured wood. Helena grimaced; the wardrobe was indeed very ugly.

“Paul, let me in,” Helena whispered urgently. She flinched from touching the door knob, a carved fist clutching a human heart. Closer still, the carvings appeared to cavort in the cold blue light streaming from her phone.

“We don’t have long. Fuck! It’s doesn’t take a brain surgeon to know you’ll be hiding exactly where you not allowed to. It won’t take those drongos long to figure it out. Let me in.”

There was a metallic click and the wardrobe door noiselessly and smoothly swung open. Helena sharply stepped inside and her lover closed the door behind her.

“You’re a bloody nightmare, this place is creepy.” Helena lent up and pressed her lips against Paul’s neck as he ran his hands down her back. She felt his fingers dig into her arse cheeks pulling closer toward him. “But, I can feel that you’re already hard. That should save some time.”

Helena slid to her knees and swiftly unbuckled his belt. Within moments she’d freed his throbbing cock from it’s rich trappings and greedily began to suck. After a while Paul sighed.

“You’re a wicked child. So, you liked my game suggestion? No, don’t stop.”

Helena redoubled her efforts. In the oppressive darkness, the sound of her slurping suddenly filled her with disgust. This felt like a risk too far, she decided. She wanted to get it over and she didn’t want her attentions reciprocated.

“You really are very good. He’s hopelessly wrong about the most important things, but he’s quite right about you.”

Helena paused and looked up into the blackness. “Who’s quite right?” Her stomach made a queasy roll. “Paul, I’m not feeling too good. Can we stop?”

“Him. Your banker boss.”

Helena stopped and leant back, putting distance between herself and Paul’s engorged penis. The curve of an expensive leather shoe press into her inner thigh as she sat back. Reaching between her legs, Helena groped the familiar texture of Paul’s exquisitely tailored trousers. Shoe and fabric where linked by a cold, bony ankle encased in a silk sock.

“No, don’t scream. Not yet. And no stopping. Please continue.”

With a cruel yank of her hair, Paul pulled Helena back into a pleasing position. He pumped her head back and forth, pinioning her head in his hands.

“They won’t be able to hear you scream in any event. None of you heard his shrieks earlier,” he grunted and sped up. “Two hundred hungry years of solitude. You know, I was beginning to think nobody was left alive out there.”

Helena gagged at the forced pressure in her mouth. Bewildered tears ran from her bulging eyes. Please let someone come quickly, she thought as she succumbed to the darkness.

“As. You. Wish.”

Paul groaned long and loud as Helena’s body slumped onto him. He cocked his head at the sound of someone smashing the champagne glass in the outer room. Heaving Helena’s unconscious body away from him, Paul licked his lips and grinned.

“Yes, you’re very good and we will do that again. But for now, best to make space for the others. Now, I think it’s my time to gobble.”

*******

Right then. I’d better get on with it and get down to writing…

*/puffs out cheeks and blows… Got a suitable Song to finish with Clicky?*

 

 

Flying Blind…

Twitter is down for me at the moment, Dear Reader. I wanted to get hold of Leggy to ask if I could publish a paragraph of Cultish

Cultish by Hugo Stone Leg Iron Books Start of Chapter 5

*Clicky, NO! I don’t have permission… And neither do YOU!*

*I know you both worked for Dumey, Clicky… Butt I could get in to trouble!*

rut roh

*/cough…*

The paragraph, Dear Reader was to add some context to a comet I left on Red Frank’s latest last night, Where East meets West

guest_76116183253_1341949420

*Oh yeah…/lights up…*

… Whereas Leggy posted on Left and Right

*/sings… Any fin goes…*

Meanwhile in the mindlines, The Prez of US is waxing on about East and West… And shifting Pols

*Wise words, dolphin assistant o’ mine… Also knot a good idea to abuse the pilot… /smacks lips… Fancy a swift ‘alf, Clicky?*

parched-rate-chart699x466-gif

*Blue Frank’s place, then… /picks up cigs… Oh and don’t forget to leave Dear Reader a Song…*

 

 

All’s Fae in Love and War…

Mother had a few ‘truths’ she would impart to me and my sister when we were growing up. Dad, too, although his favourites included:

“Honesty is the best policy,”

“Ignorance is no defense before the law,”

and,

“Always be nice to the PAs – they’re the gatekeepers.”

The two that Mother used most often were,

“Faint heart never won fair lady,”

She mentioned that one to me several times one raining Sunday afternoon, as she made me pore over the telephone directory, looking for the phone number of a boy I’d met in the pub the night before. I was 16.

The other one was,

“All’s fair in love and war.”

Leggy wrote a post about The War last night. This would be the War on Tobacco, declared by Anti-Smokers in their bid to…

fp3134

forge a tobacco-free world. Smokers are but collateral damage in the mighty offensive, waged upon a plant that inhabited this planet long before humans ever did.

If reality, and by that I mean real life lived and experienced, is ruled by laws based on lies… science fiction… does that not bring science fiction into play? Seems fair to me…

What is the greatest mystery in science?

There is a most profound and beautiful question associated with the observed coupling constant, e – the amplitude for a real electron to emit or absorb a real photon. It is a simple number that has been experimentally determined to be close to 0.08542455. (My physicist friends won’t recognize this number, because they like to remember it as the inverse of its square: about 137.03597 with about an uncertainty of about 2 in the last decimal place. It has been a mystery ever since it was discovered more than fifty years ago, and all good theoretical physicists put this number up on their wall and worry about it.) Immediately you would like to know where this number for a coupling comes from: is it related to pi or perhaps to the base of natural logarithms? Nobody knows. It’s one of the greatest damn mysteries of physics: a magic number that comes to us with no understanding by man. You might say the “hand of God” wrote that number, and “we don’t know how He pushed his pencil.” We know what kind of a dance to do experimentally to measure this number very accurately, but we don’t know what kind of dance to do on the computer to make this number come out, without putting it in secretly!

Dear Reader, if you’re a frequent visitor to the LoL, I have made no secret of my fascination of 137 and synchronicity. Nor my love for the greatest science fiction character of all time… Who?

Doctor Smoking

*Damn! Wouldn’t it be hilarious if the mystery were solved by someone enjoying tobacco, Clicky?*

Fun Fact! Peter Capaldi, the current and 13th (if you include the Hurt War Doctor) played a doctor from the W.H.O. in ‘World War Z‘ before entering the Tardis…

*Ooo I’m looking forward to Christmas this year, Clicky! I wonder who the 14th will be… /thinks… 14 is 7+7… 77… Z…*

Interesting comment of Cade’s on Leggy’s post…

C.F. Apollyon comment at UBU

Sew… I did a search and he was absolutely correct…

Nature's Whispers The Fair Family 13.7

… All’s fae in love and war… I guess it depends on your angle, see 😉

Dear Reader… have a drink

gi3qze8x

*Cheers, Clicky! Yore very good ‘elf…*

… And a Song…