Saturday, November 22, 2008
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Monday, October 20, 2008
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Friday, October 3, 2008
Story Excerpt
Certain fashionable happenings kept on trucking in the Newer World, while others pulled a Bruce Willis and died hard. One habit that didn’t make the journey was Land Goblinin’. This involved two gentlemen staking their land (and pride) against each other in a classic battle of thespian wit. Let me explain…
Say that English-Dude #1 is strutting down the calle and falls head over his heels for the estate of English-Dude #2. The proper course of action is to then propose terms of engagement (i.e. “Do you want to get goblinin’, puto?”). If the challenger agrees, he (the exclusion of females from this age-old tango ignited England’s first women’s rights movement) sets the time and place. The event is ON.
With neither time limit nor impartial judge, the two square off and proceed to perform their best impersonation…of a goblin. Crowds of up to three thousand have been witness to these disputes between two grown men wielding septors, sporting rags upon chains and barking antiquated mouthplay like they were conducting an auction at the apocalypse. The match ends when one inferior goblin concedes to the other, forfeiting every acre of property in turn. The victor gobbles up his prize and moves on, sick with swagger, towards a much bigger & better future.
Thomas Jefferson, in his earliest recorded quote, weighed in on the green subject: “You know, I think it fortunate that the colonies did not inherit Land Goblinin’ from the British. I believe this for one reason and one reason all alone: if the art of outright land seizure were left up to the stale & silly whims of goblin-mimicry, we might not be able to carousel around this wooden continent. Can you imagine me dressing up like some mystical creature every time some random jackass grows jealous of my pad? Instead of a United States stretching from the Atlantic to the Pacific Oceans, there might be three or five or twenty small countries, each as weak as—say—Mexico or Peru. Who knows? And what’s more gay than pretending you’re a goblin?”
Wait a minute. That sounds familiar (all but that last part at least).
Monday, September 29, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Another Excerpt...
There was an ocean of difference between England and the rest of Europe.
Spain, for example, went near mad each year over the outcome of the “Best-Dressed Empire” award. The English, though sharply outfitted and wig wearing, were not so fickle. They had boycotted the annual ceremony for decades, ever since Sir Preston Balls IV made a drunken ass out of himself & England, crashing the acceptance speech of Portugal’s impeccable Joao Crustacean.
Slobbering over the podium, and waving his silver Tara Brooch around like a magic wand, Balls made his sizzling grievance known to the fashion world: “Portugalzzz no em…aaah!!…PIRE! My Nana, Maude BALLS, god ressss her soul, had more imperial swagger in her left tea finger than these…PORTugeese…haha!…have in that whole blasted COUNTRY. And another thing: the Water Dog ain’t shit!!!”
A fleet of Polish mercenary security guards rushed poor Balls and tackled him to the ground, like Troy Aikman caught naked in the pocket.
The English didn't save face, and never showed their faces again.
There was an ocean of difference between England and the rest of Europe.
Spain, for example, went near mad each year over the outcome of the “Best-Dressed Empire” award. The English, though sharply outfitted and wig wearing, were not so fickle. They had boycotted the annual ceremony for decades, ever since Sir Preston Balls IV made a drunken ass out of himself & England, crashing the acceptance speech of Portugal’s impeccable Joao Crustacean.
Slobbering over the podium, and waving his silver Tara Brooch around like a magic wand, Balls made his sizzling grievance known to the fashion world: “Portugalzzz no em…aaah!!…PIRE! My Nana, Maude BALLS, god ressss her soul, had more imperial swagger in her left tea finger than these…PORTugeese…haha!…have in that whole blasted COUNTRY. And another thing: the Water Dog ain’t shit!!!”
A fleet of Polish mercenary security guards rushed poor Balls and tackled him to the ground, like Troy Aikman caught naked in the pocket.
The English didn't save face, and never showed their faces again.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Excerpt From "A Country of Scorn (and Porn)"...
Lord Twigbury, governor of Delaware from 1708-1714, was your average asshole British gentleman. Born out of a cannon, dying to chew his way to the top of his own food chain, L.T. (as his friends knew him, an old-testament to his killer strength & snuff habit) knew what time it was in the colonies:
“The time has come, my fellow trapeze artists, to dangle cheese in front of these rats and then hit them upside the head with it. Pay no mind to the substance of these words. My point is that for too long now the colonies have been jiving to their own beat. They must synchronize their watches back to London. I mean, don’t these pricks understand the premise of a colony? Do they think I govern for fun? That there’s a “Lord” before my name because it sounds cute? What will happen to our Queen’s England if we permit Yankee Scum to start naming themselves? First comes “Mariah” and then BAM! You and yours truly are out of a goddamn job. Do you dig?”
He continued (No one else, for the record, was present) ...
“Look at all you graceless excuses for noblemen! You let them do this to us, right under our powdered wigs!! Just this past fortnight, I was shining my boots with what I thought was the finest of turtle wax, manufactured nowhere else but in the mother of all motherlands: England! Imagine the feeling of death in my stomach when I read the bottom of the jar:
Not only was this wax made from turtles roving the Massachusetts Bay, it was assembled & profited on by crackers not loyal to the Queen of England.
Are you hearing this?! What’s next? American Muffins?!!”
You better believe that Twigbury would have raged on for hours, alone in his 4th tearoom. But after computing the horrific notion of a world without English Muffins, L.T. choked on the most titanic case of heart failure in the history of the world (All this before the advent of the McMuffin!). The Dover medical examiner claimed that the insides of Twigbury’s chest looked like a “gaggle of real-life toy soldiers had danced their best Patrick Swayze all over them and then left a ticking cluster bomb behind for good measure.”
Yikes.
Lord Twigbury, governor of Delaware from 1708-1714, was your average asshole British gentleman. Born out of a cannon, dying to chew his way to the top of his own food chain, L.T. (as his friends knew him, an old-testament to his killer strength & snuff habit) knew what time it was in the colonies:
“The time has come, my fellow trapeze artists, to dangle cheese in front of these rats and then hit them upside the head with it. Pay no mind to the substance of these words. My point is that for too long now the colonies have been jiving to their own beat. They must synchronize their watches back to London. I mean, don’t these pricks understand the premise of a colony? Do they think I govern for fun? That there’s a “Lord” before my name because it sounds cute? What will happen to our Queen’s England if we permit Yankee Scum to start naming themselves? First comes “Mariah” and then BAM! You and yours truly are out of a goddamn job. Do you dig?”
He continued (No one else, for the record, was present) ...
“Look at all you graceless excuses for noblemen! You let them do this to us, right under our powdered wigs!! Just this past fortnight, I was shining my boots with what I thought was the finest of turtle wax, manufactured nowhere else but in the mother of all motherlands: England! Imagine the feeling of death in my stomach when I read the bottom of the jar:
Not only was this wax made from turtles roving the Massachusetts Bay, it was assembled & profited on by crackers not loyal to the Queen of England.
Are you hearing this?! What’s next? American Muffins?!!”
You better believe that Twigbury would have raged on for hours, alone in his 4th tearoom. But after computing the horrific notion of a world without English Muffins, L.T. choked on the most titanic case of heart failure in the history of the world (All this before the advent of the McMuffin!). The Dover medical examiner claimed that the insides of Twigbury’s chest looked like a “gaggle of real-life toy soldiers had danced their best Patrick Swayze all over them and then left a ticking cluster bomb behind for good measure.”
Yikes.
Excerpt from "A Nation of Scorn (And Porn)"...
And the French. What about the French? Well, first, their King was addicted to sex. This might not sound extraordinary, but this dude had a serious problem. The baguette, one of France’s most beloved staples, was in reality first “used” in the Royal Bedroom rather than the Royal Dining Hall. It was only after the god-awful, marathon fact that the King discovered the joy of inserting the baked bread into the mouth.
There’s more.
The Napoleonic Wars were a direct result of this…addiction.
According to sources close to the source, the story goes that the King, having binged for 80 straight hours on a monster cocktail of wine, ephedra, ibogaine and chocolate, went through 443 women and 279 men like a modern-day Raging Bull. After hallucinating that his penis was a Japanese Samurai, destined to sepaku, the King became the first & last person ever to bite his own head off. Rumor has it that one of these 443 women gave birth to Napoleon Bonaparte.
And the French. What about the French? Well, first, their King was addicted to sex. This might not sound extraordinary, but this dude had a serious problem. The baguette, one of France’s most beloved staples, was in reality first “used” in the Royal Bedroom rather than the Royal Dining Hall. It was only after the god-awful, marathon fact that the King discovered the joy of inserting the baked bread into the mouth.
There’s more.
The Napoleonic Wars were a direct result of this…addiction.
According to sources close to the source, the story goes that the King, having binged for 80 straight hours on a monster cocktail of wine, ephedra, ibogaine and chocolate, went through 443 women and 279 men like a modern-day Raging Bull. After hallucinating that his penis was a Japanese Samurai, destined to sepaku, the King became the first & last person ever to bite his own head off. Rumor has it that one of these 443 women gave birth to Napoleon Bonaparte.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
Sunday, September 14, 2008
My Place!
Living
Dining
Kitchen
Batroom (the sink blocks the door from opening more)
Bedroom #1
Bedroom #2 (Part 1)
Bedroom #2 (Part 2)
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