"Elias Nebula is practicing Japanese but no one knows."

Sunday, December 3, 2017

"Leonardo Was Overrated."


Talk about hataz. I was idling in Sainsbury's –– by the way, why is everybody suddenly calling Sainsbury's "Sainsbury"? –– and when I was finished looking at the Lego and the crisps multi-packs I wandered to the magazine racks. Why are there about twenty magazines about "coarse" carp fishing?

A real impulse buy –– don't you want
to read about "perch on worms"?

When we were moving our stuff into my current residence, I was talking to the workers. I had boxes marked "statuary" and "brickettes" –– and I sheepishly admitted that they actually contained Star wars figures and Lego kits. One of the movers was just eighteen and had only started tentatively watching the Star Wars films. I was counseling him about navigating the prequels ("the one with the long scene in the library is good") without going into slagging off Jar Jar Binks too harshly. Why bother after all. And the "gaffer" of the bunch said, "I hate Star Wars." Then unprompted, and defiantly, he added, "I also hate football."
"Whaddaya like then," I asked. I willed him to say "Silver age Phantom Stranger comics."
He said, "Angling."
I guess there is an underground of this –– like Trump voters and neo-Nazis. You never meet them maybe, except in Didcot car parks, but they are out there and they are multiplying. 

Is this already a joke?
Should I even be commenting?

That is not my subject. My subject ––  as I started to say –– is those hataz who do everybody down out of bitterness and self-disgust at their own awful failure at the game of life. Like the readers of All About History magazine, who take some solace in the suggestion that Leonardo was "not all that":




Fuck Leonardo, his flawed inventions and his abandoned art! 

So what if he invented helicopters in the sixteenth century.

I wonder what appetite this cover article serves: "There's a real demand out there to see the Western canon dragged down and beaten up by mediocrities and hacks."

"Next issue: Was Shakespeare a total dunce."



Tuesday, January 24, 2017

"I Am Not Curious, Orange." Or, "Trump L'Oeil."

I get the feeling Trump has been stung more than a leetle by the harsh words of the "Press" –– the "Media" –– that amorphous awful hydra that of one mind crawls across the Republic like a many–armed leech.

Poor guy! I say this because he was on TV yesterday and I said to my wife, "Is there something wrong with the TV? Or am I dreaming? Trump isn't orange."

I started thumping the TV in time–honored fashion, even though it is a flatscreen. I sort of batted at it.

Trump was pink with almost white hair. He was the colour of a heart attack waiting to happen.



He looked like the brother in Trading Places that is not Don Ameche.


Yeah –– Randolph Duke.
Remember how he ended up?

"I don't think Hillary's fit for office!"

Trump looked like a classic old Republican!

He'd had a do–over.

"He must have really been stung by those Cheetos placards on the marches," I mused. "Trump is no longer the new orange."

Poor guy's awfully thin–skinned. Unlike an orange!

He's more like a nectarine.

His hair remains a foul four-dimensional enigma.
His hair is an M.C. Escher trompe l'oeil, pun intended.
Has this pun been used yet? Can I copyright it?





All the criticisms leveled at him, all the awful things they have said about him, all true, and the worst one for him was that he looks like a Cheeto. "They can call me a steaming turd and a Nazi, but when they say I look like a Cheeto it's too much."

MELANIA: Donaldt, dolink, come on back to der sunbed Gott in Himmel vey ist meir.