Greets.
Saw a man today, ambling airily down Marchmain Avenue. He was an upright cat with looks to suit his posture: Mancunian brow, herbivorous elbows, stern buttocks protruding loftily from the usual area. His gaze swept in an arc from side to side following a long cylindrical tool as it thrashed about in a subdued manner.
You might say here, 'Stop!' or 'Wait!' or 'Shut the hell up you absolute lunatic!' as one man did to me quite recently, shortly before suffering a massive heart attack by my hands. You might then continue, "this object was both thrashing and subdued?"
"Why yes, you cock and balls, it was," I would reply "and when you see a fellow of this man's ilk you'll understand precisely what I'm on about!"
I approached him, trying to look uninterested by his swishing-wand and engaged him a fairly nonchalant manner
"Get your lips off my metal-detector, sir." He belched violently at me very nearly removing my false moustache. "That is my very expensive property, you shit, and if you don't start removing your body parts from it I shall have them removed (by court order)!"
I returned to face him eyeball to eyeball. Then, when it became obvious that there was no way to hold a conversation in this stance I took a step back leaving a 2'3" gap (69.5cm) between us.
"A metal detector!" I swooned (away from him, and slightly to the right) "of all the majestic devices to be held by you sir, that one takes the jelly!" I was clearly over-awed by this device, having not seen one since its first invention in the 1930s. A mélange of bodily fluids swelled in me at its sight.
"Indeed." he replied, continuing to swoosh his steel magneto-baton.
"Then that, by Henry, makes you a metal detective, does it not?" I asked with rhetoric, in the knowledge that I was lexically correct.
"YOU WHAT?" His tonsils nearly quit his head with the shout he levelled at me. "I am a 'Metal Detectorist', you heaving imbecile! A 'METAL DETECTORIST'!"
I kept my composure.
"Indeed. And do you, then, 'detector' metal for a living?"
"It is not a living, it is a hobby and I detect it, you...you..." His chest heaved. I could smell the yell brewing in his veins. I decided I must take action and immediately popped my larger cork between his rosy mouth-flaps.
He, of course, burst and Doggo had quite a feast that night!
I believe it was fine come-uppance for such wild and deluded use of the English language.
Doggo, by the way, is my new puppy. Kalim Gerald Barkleton Twing sadly passed away. The coroner's report mentioned something about dogs not being able to survive in the vacuum of space, but I say where else can you go to take a dog for a walk when you live in a space shuttle?
Anyway, the hearing's on Friday so I'll let you know how that goes. You never know, it might be back to lovely prison for me!
S-S-S-Sarlog
Saturday 28 November 2009
Tuesday 17 November 2009
The further pontifications of Buffo Cribbins
Good Garland!
How fares your fine collection of asps?
What, me? No, no asps to speak of! not since that time in Leningrad. Those were the days, eh? Those nights we spent in jail. The food was top notch! Or should I say 'Top Nosh'?! Ho-ho, just my little joke, no need to point your pistols at me!
How I do love jail...
You know next year I fancy spending a few days in pokey down in Kuala Lumpur. I hear the service is impeccable and if you're very fortunate, you might get shivved! I love a good shivving, don't you?
What?
Then why do you keep a fragment from that one in Lenny in your kidneys.
Damn it all, sometimes I just can't figure you out...
Well, I'm glad you love a good shivving because...All right, now, put the pistols away, I said.
The man can't take a joke, it seems.
Well there are no rubber shivs in Koala Jumpur!
I should coco!
Now, I gave my word to the fellow who told me this little gem that I would never mention his name to another soul, but as you have no soul I'll gladly furnish you with this little factule.
His name was Buffo Cribbins, the famous cannonball giant and confidant of none other than Lady Stewardess Queen Victoria of Danelaw and Parts Beyond, and as I happened on him in the street we got talking, sharing stories, you know. We pepped and bazzed and flew the chute for what seemed like seven minutes (though it was actually six minutes and fourteen seconds) and in that time I grew to fancy Mr Cribbins something rotten. I shared with him my exploits and my adventures. My triumphs and my failures. My jam AND my marmalade!
And by and by Mr Cribbins (Buffo) told me of a land where bizarre things are made as real as my love for tambourines. A land where stinging nettles are used to make a drink, a land where man keeps bees, a land where gloves are worn on soles of the feet!
I vomited in stark horror at these tales and asked him where this place of madness lay and he said, "You bladdy idiot, yous got mad or sumfin'? You's a-standin' in it! Horf horf horf!" His accent modulated to suit his moods, you see.
The land he spoke of, of course, was England and he reprimanded me for being an imbecile as I now reprimand you.
It was all true!
Even the whole gloves on feet business!
What a world we live in!
He died shortly after.
I'll gladly take some more tea, but maybe not today...The pain is still too near for me.
Sarlog (BA Homs)
P.S. You totally owe me £17. I'm on to you...
How fares your fine collection of asps?
What, me? No, no asps to speak of! not since that time in Leningrad. Those were the days, eh? Those nights we spent in jail. The food was top notch! Or should I say 'Top Nosh'?! Ho-ho, just my little joke, no need to point your pistols at me!
How I do love jail...
You know next year I fancy spending a few days in pokey down in Kuala Lumpur. I hear the service is impeccable and if you're very fortunate, you might get shivved! I love a good shivving, don't you?
What?
Then why do you keep a fragment from that one in Lenny in your kidneys.
Damn it all, sometimes I just can't figure you out...
Well, I'm glad you love a good shivving because...All right, now, put the pistols away, I said.
The man can't take a joke, it seems.
Well there are no rubber shivs in Koala Jumpur!
I should coco!
Now, I gave my word to the fellow who told me this little gem that I would never mention his name to another soul, but as you have no soul I'll gladly furnish you with this little factule.
His name was Buffo Cribbins, the famous cannonball giant and confidant of none other than Lady Stewardess Queen Victoria of Danelaw and Parts Beyond, and as I happened on him in the street we got talking, sharing stories, you know. We pepped and bazzed and flew the chute for what seemed like seven minutes (though it was actually six minutes and fourteen seconds) and in that time I grew to fancy Mr Cribbins something rotten. I shared with him my exploits and my adventures. My triumphs and my failures. My jam AND my marmalade!
And by and by Mr Cribbins (Buffo) told me of a land where bizarre things are made as real as my love for tambourines. A land where stinging nettles are used to make a drink, a land where man keeps bees, a land where gloves are worn on soles of the feet!
I vomited in stark horror at these tales and asked him where this place of madness lay and he said, "You bladdy idiot, yous got mad or sumfin'? You's a-standin' in it! Horf horf horf!" His accent modulated to suit his moods, you see.
The land he spoke of, of course, was England and he reprimanded me for being an imbecile as I now reprimand you.
It was all true!
Even the whole gloves on feet business!
What a world we live in!
He died shortly after.
I'll gladly take some more tea, but maybe not today...The pain is still too near for me.
Sarlog (BA Homs)
P.S. You totally owe me £17. I'm on to you...
Sunday 2 August 2009
Crustacean Delights
Hello.
Yesterday I stopped being a crab, as I had promised myself I would. Was it the right decision? Well, only time will tell. And as they say, time is money and money talks! So maybe money will tell. I'll make sure to keep a close eye on the pictures of Issac Newton I keep in my pockets.
I had been in a crably shape for quite some time, detecting various crab/lobster related anomalies which I won't go into here. Suffice it to say it was a completely great time and not at all a waste of my not inconsiderable detecting abilities.
During my time as a crab I managed to befriend various and sundry sea and land animals and plants and their combined knowledge and experience taught me a great many things. Here is a list of those things:
1, "Lost" is completely over/underrated.
2, A change is as good as a rest.
3, A bird in the hand is worth eating quickly before it escapes.
4, You couldn't do that in real life, it must be photoshopped.
5, Red sky at night, shepherd's alright. Red sky at morning, shepherd's a-yawning.
6, You're not allowed to say 'Eskimo' any more.
As you can see, these are pieces of advice previously unknown to mankind and for presenting them to the internet thus I believe I will be sat on the Nobel Prize for catering in no time.
One of my fondest memories of my time as a crab was when my whale friend, Boris-Martin Fantashelle, came up on to the sand for a bit of an old conversation. We talked for a good seven hours before he finally exploded. Those were the days.
Now all there is left to me is to readjust to my less crustacial appearance and to try and avoid holding my hand like a pincer and jabbing people who annoy me. But that, I know, is a problem we all face.
Sarlog Claws
You might have thought, prior to reading this, "Why, it has been many moons since Sarlog Homs last pumped the blogosphere full of his hot salty ideas" and, in a way, you would right in thinking so. However, moving fluidly between dimensions, as is my wont, I often experience time on a different scale to smaller animals and therefore what may seem like a matter of months to you is closer to a matter of many years to me. Also I've had a lot on, alright? Jeez, get off my back. No one pays me for this you know.
What?
Nothing!
I wasn't doing anything!
I've just been busy in general, okay?
Yesterday I stopped being a crab, as I had promised myself I would. Was it the right decision? Well, only time will tell. And as they say, time is money and money talks! So maybe money will tell. I'll make sure to keep a close eye on the pictures of Issac Newton I keep in my pockets.
I had been in a crably shape for quite some time, detecting various crab/lobster related anomalies which I won't go into here. Suffice it to say it was a completely great time and not at all a waste of my not inconsiderable detecting abilities.
During my time as a crab I managed to befriend various and sundry sea and land animals and plants and their combined knowledge and experience taught me a great many things. Here is a list of those things:
1, "Lost" is completely over/underrated.
2, A change is as good as a rest.
3, A bird in the hand is worth eating quickly before it escapes.
4, You couldn't do that in real life, it must be photoshopped.
5, Red sky at night, shepherd's alright. Red sky at morning, shepherd's a-yawning.
6, You're not allowed to say 'Eskimo' any more.
As you can see, these are pieces of advice previously unknown to mankind and for presenting them to the internet thus I believe I will be sat on the Nobel Prize for catering in no time.
One of my fondest memories of my time as a crab was when my whale friend, Boris-Martin Fantashelle, came up on to the sand for a bit of an old conversation. We talked for a good seven hours before he finally exploded. Those were the days.
Now all there is left to me is to readjust to my less crustacial appearance and to try and avoid holding my hand like a pincer and jabbing people who annoy me. But that, I know, is a problem we all face.
Sarlog Claws
You might have thought, prior to reading this, "Why, it has been many moons since Sarlog Homs last pumped the blogosphere full of his hot salty ideas" and, in a way, you would right in thinking so. However, moving fluidly between dimensions, as is my wont, I often experience time on a different scale to smaller animals and therefore what may seem like a matter of months to you is closer to a matter of many years to me. Also I've had a lot on, alright? Jeez, get off my back. No one pays me for this you know.
What?
Nothing!
I wasn't doing anything!
I've just been busy in general, okay?
Saturday 23 May 2009
Kittens
A man recently said to me:
'Why are there no Kittens in Saxon literature?'
A fine question, though actually it was asked by a woman.
I changed the sex of the asker to make the question more credible.
Did it work?
I feel it did!
Well, as my profession is DETECTIVE I decided to find out a little about this confusing and yet somehow perplexing conundrum.
What I have discovered is this short entry on Wikipedia:
Kittens -
Invented in 1604 by Sir Alfred Kitten as an alternative to puppies. If a man were to ask for a dog for Christmas, a good hunting dog with an excellent nose and proud aspect, this dog would initially be in the form of a trial-dog, or puppy. This, of course, was to save space and food and to act as a dog 'cooling off' period in which the new owner could decide whether they could truly allocate the correct amount of time required in caring for a dog. After this short period you could then decide to upgrade the 'puppy' to a dog or you could bung him in the furnace.
Sir Alfred Kitten had noticed, however, that there was no cat alternative. His good lady-wife has asked for one (for Christmas) and he had been reluctant to get one. He had heard stories from all his good friends at the man-house that there were wont to shit everywhere and didn't give a toss about their supposed owners. This didn't seem like the type of animal he would want to have or that he would want his wife to have.
Of course, men being men, they were biased and stupid - particularly in the olden days, I mean, really, they were some thick idiots back then, eh? With this in mind he resolved to find a way in which to create a puppy-cat in order that he and his wife could find out for themselves whether this animal was right for them. It would be a cat, much smaller than you would normally see dragging a rat carcass around in the street, and it would have heightened fluffiness and cuteness, so as to make the shitting/arrogance more tolerable. If, by chance, the experiment amounted to nought, well he could always chuck it on the fire.
So he locked himself in his "silver jubilee" workshop with little but a hammer and a cup and a half of brandy and he set to work. Over the coming days and nights his wife was disturbed on no less than seventeen occaisions by the eerie noises coming from her husbands hideaway, but not once did she enter, for that, she knew, would incur her genius husband's wrath.
After many days of toil in his workshop Sir Alfred Kitten emerged with his cat-puppy. it was everything he had hoped for. Cute, small...the woiks. And in his pride he named it after himself...
The Kitten.
So you see, the reason Saxons never wrote about kittens was because they hadn't been invented yet....
Alright?
Laters potaters!
Sarlie-H
'Why are there no Kittens in Saxon literature?'
A fine question, though actually it was asked by a woman.
I changed the sex of the asker to make the question more credible.
Did it work?
I feel it did!
Well, as my profession is DETECTIVE I decided to find out a little about this confusing and yet somehow perplexing conundrum.
What I have discovered is this short entry on Wikipedia:
Kittens -
Invented in 1604 by Sir Alfred Kitten as an alternative to puppies. If a man were to ask for a dog for Christmas, a good hunting dog with an excellent nose and proud aspect, this dog would initially be in the form of a trial-dog, or puppy. This, of course, was to save space and food and to act as a dog 'cooling off' period in which the new owner could decide whether they could truly allocate the correct amount of time required in caring for a dog. After this short period you could then decide to upgrade the 'puppy' to a dog or you could bung him in the furnace.
Sir Alfred Kitten had noticed, however, that there was no cat alternative. His good lady-wife has asked for one (for Christmas) and he had been reluctant to get one. He had heard stories from all his good friends at the man-house that there were wont to shit everywhere and didn't give a toss about their supposed owners. This didn't seem like the type of animal he would want to have or that he would want his wife to have.
Of course, men being men, they were biased and stupid - particularly in the olden days, I mean, really, they were some thick idiots back then, eh? With this in mind he resolved to find a way in which to create a puppy-cat in order that he and his wife could find out for themselves whether this animal was right for them. It would be a cat, much smaller than you would normally see dragging a rat carcass around in the street, and it would have heightened fluffiness and cuteness, so as to make the shitting/arrogance more tolerable. If, by chance, the experiment amounted to nought, well he could always chuck it on the fire.
So he locked himself in his "silver jubilee" workshop with little but a hammer and a cup and a half of brandy and he set to work. Over the coming days and nights his wife was disturbed on no less than seventeen occaisions by the eerie noises coming from her husbands hideaway, but not once did she enter, for that, she knew, would incur her genius husband's wrath.
After many days of toil in his workshop Sir Alfred Kitten emerged with his cat-puppy. it was everything he had hoped for. Cute, small...the woiks. And in his pride he named it after himself...
The Kitten.
So you see, the reason Saxons never wrote about kittens was because they hadn't been invented yet....
Alright?
Laters potaters!
Sarlie-H
Tuesday 14 April 2009
A Very Fine Film Indeed
Dearest reader,
As a detective (of sorts) I often feel the need to detect.
Indeed, there is very little I will not attempt to detect in one manner or another. Maybe you will see me, of an afternoon, swinging a metal detector wildly around a local park, trying to discover which trees have gold in (very few) or if dogs are made of aluminium (they are!). Mayhap I could be spied asking an unusually large builder why his head is so big or asking a doctor of medicine why an eye goes black when one is hit by a builder.
You see, I will detect anything.
One recent and truly top-hole detection I have made is that of a curious film based on the much loved series of books by writer and mentalist Arthur Conan Doyle, "Sherlock Bones The Motion Picture."
The books, as you might have guessed, are about a crime solving dog with a Scottish accent and a penchant for leading fat, ugly children around in the name of detection, a dog after my own heart (as I am a man after a dog's heart!). It concerns smugglers, smuggling and attaching manquins to boats.
The film is an authentic representation of "Bones" in so far as he is a dog with a Scottish accent solving crimes, fat children, men in lycra shorts etc. etc. However, it commits that frequent and most heinous of crimes: transporting the stories to America, home of the brave, land of the fee, house of the Whopper, the big meg, the chilli on cheese, the cheese on toast, where's my beef, helicopter's folly, Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Any realism that the original books may or may not have contained is completely wiped away by this incongruity and after mere minutes of listening to the talk-boxes of some of these yankee doodles one, as always, becomes nauseous.
Another unfathomable detail is the glaringly obvious omission of "Watson", Bones' flying nursemaid with a brain capacity the size of a super-computer and "Moriarty: The Horse With The Force."
Despite these little snafus Sherlock Bones The Motion Picture is quite the rollercoaster ride of emotions. The main one being the need to punch fat, ugly children square in the jaw.
And in that way is it not 100% accurate to the book? I say 'yes'!
Any self respecting or self loathing fan of the mad druid Arthur Conan Doyle should immediately beg borrow or steal this moving photogram on Video Laser Disc or beta-max wax cylinder.
It's fun for all the family (although second-cousins may feel sexually uncomfortable during some scenes).
Watch it and report back to me.
HOMS
As a detective (of sorts) I often feel the need to detect.
Indeed, there is very little I will not attempt to detect in one manner or another. Maybe you will see me, of an afternoon, swinging a metal detector wildly around a local park, trying to discover which trees have gold in (very few) or if dogs are made of aluminium (they are!). Mayhap I could be spied asking an unusually large builder why his head is so big or asking a doctor of medicine why an eye goes black when one is hit by a builder.
You see, I will detect anything.
One recent and truly top-hole detection I have made is that of a curious film based on the much loved series of books by writer and mentalist Arthur Conan Doyle, "Sherlock Bones The Motion Picture."
The books, as you might have guessed, are about a crime solving dog with a Scottish accent and a penchant for leading fat, ugly children around in the name of detection, a dog after my own heart (as I am a man after a dog's heart!). It concerns smugglers, smuggling and attaching manquins to boats.
The film is an authentic representation of "Bones" in so far as he is a dog with a Scottish accent solving crimes, fat children, men in lycra shorts etc. etc. However, it commits that frequent and most heinous of crimes: transporting the stories to America, home of the brave, land of the fee, house of the Whopper, the big meg, the chilli on cheese, the cheese on toast, where's my beef, helicopter's folly, Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Any realism that the original books may or may not have contained is completely wiped away by this incongruity and after mere minutes of listening to the talk-boxes of some of these yankee doodles one, as always, becomes nauseous.
Another unfathomable detail is the glaringly obvious omission of "Watson", Bones' flying nursemaid with a brain capacity the size of a super-computer and "Moriarty: The Horse With The Force."
Despite these little snafus Sherlock Bones The Motion Picture is quite the rollercoaster ride of emotions. The main one being the need to punch fat, ugly children square in the jaw.
And in that way is it not 100% accurate to the book? I say 'yes'!
Any self respecting or self loathing fan of the mad druid Arthur Conan Doyle should immediately beg borrow or steal this moving photogram on Video Laser Disc or beta-max wax cylinder.
It's fun for all the family (although second-cousins may feel sexually uncomfortable during some scenes).
Watch it and report back to me.
HOMS
Tuesday 17 March 2009
Sarlog Homs: InterTIMEnsional Detective
I'm here!
Typing at your blue eyes with this, my keyboard of truth, and these, my fingers of facts.
I've recently been training Kalim Gerald Barkleton Twing to do sit ups. Something no other dog has achieved in the history of mankind. Or so I'm assuming, I haven't actually taken any time to look it up.
He nearly got it today when I held his front paws between my teeth while rooting his hind quarters to the floor with my mitts. There was blood drawn on both sides of course, but it was all in good humour and we were all but there. Another couple of days and I'm sure he'll have cracked it. Maybe I could invent some sort of dog rowing machine, it might improve the correct muscles for sit ups (I'm guessing, I've not looked into it).
One thing I have been looking into is time travel. I was quite the student of time travel, once upon a year, and recently my passion for it has been rekindled. It was through a documentary on television about the loss of the old ways, the iPod generation, death of the druids and so forth and it got me thinking. Why don't I just go back in time and get them back and put them in this time which I am now in.
I made up my mind, there and then, to buy a time machine.
There seem to be no working examples of time machines in England today. All the models I could lay my crumbling hands on were aged relics, the most recent dating from yesteryear, the oldest going all the way back to days of yore. One or two from a bygone age too but nothing really to speak of.
Besides, none of those marvelous men and their time machines were to be bought or sold, even when I offered them in excess of £17, so I took a few notes, one or two photograms and decided to build my own. With my superintelligence and my good looks and my supposed drink problem how hard could it be?
Needless to say I used the generic formulas, "Tigh's Thighs", Kindlemix, "The Constorum Pollantiar Therfour", you know, the basics, nothing too flashy. Besides, my intention was to get this chap up and gyrating betimes. That and the fact that Wells' Bells are particularly difficult to get hold of in these backwards modern times, limiting any time travel made in the obvious way.
It was one week later when the machine was finished.
It didn't look like much admittedly. (picture provided)
It's quite a simple cross section but I believe all the important things have been included.
I immediately took the thing for a test run, deciding to go back in time FOURTEEN MINUTES. With this in mind I typed in the appropriate time and date and in no time at all (literally) I was 'back in time'.
I actually arrived back just in time to see myself feed Kalim Gerald Barkleton Twing.
"Stop!" I cried, and my previous body turned with astonishment towards my being, "That food will make him sick all over the wall!"
But it was too late. As the words came galloping out of my larynx a stream of dog tummy juice frothed against the new paintwork.
"Ah," I said, as the present me, not the old me "if only I'd made it fifteen minutes."
"Don't fret," I said, the old me this time,"when I do a test run I'll make it fifteen minutes!"
Sure enough, fourteen minutes later, the old me stepped into the time machine and typed in FIFTEEN MINUTES. Before he pressed the button, we shared a poignant look. A tear fell from his eye, and by definition mine, although it wasn't actually my body, although really it was.
"What's the future like?" he asked.
"Sorry," I said, "I only got this far."
And with a final sob he activated the machine.
I never saw him again.
All I can assume is that the machine didn't work and the test run failed. He might be seven hundred years in the past by now, or fifty thousand years in the future.
"What's the future like?" he asked.
Such poignance.
Such poingance.
Typing at your blue eyes with this, my keyboard of truth, and these, my fingers of facts.
I've recently been training Kalim Gerald Barkleton Twing to do sit ups. Something no other dog has achieved in the history of mankind. Or so I'm assuming, I haven't actually taken any time to look it up.
He nearly got it today when I held his front paws between my teeth while rooting his hind quarters to the floor with my mitts. There was blood drawn on both sides of course, but it was all in good humour and we were all but there. Another couple of days and I'm sure he'll have cracked it. Maybe I could invent some sort of dog rowing machine, it might improve the correct muscles for sit ups (I'm guessing, I've not looked into it).
One thing I have been looking into is time travel. I was quite the student of time travel, once upon a year, and recently my passion for it has been rekindled. It was through a documentary on television about the loss of the old ways, the iPod generation, death of the druids and so forth and it got me thinking. Why don't I just go back in time and get them back and put them in this time which I am now in.
I made up my mind, there and then, to buy a time machine.
There seem to be no working examples of time machines in England today. All the models I could lay my crumbling hands on were aged relics, the most recent dating from yesteryear, the oldest going all the way back to days of yore. One or two from a bygone age too but nothing really to speak of.
Besides, none of those marvelous men and their time machines were to be bought or sold, even when I offered them in excess of £17, so I took a few notes, one or two photograms and decided to build my own. With my superintelligence and my good looks and my supposed drink problem how hard could it be?
Needless to say I used the generic formulas, "Tigh's Thighs", Kindlemix, "The Constorum Pollantiar Therfour", you know, the basics, nothing too flashy. Besides, my intention was to get this chap up and gyrating betimes. That and the fact that Wells' Bells are particularly difficult to get hold of in these backwards modern times, limiting any time travel made in the obvious way.
It was one week later when the machine was finished.
It didn't look like much admittedly. (picture provided)
It's quite a simple cross section but I believe all the important things have been included.I immediately took the thing for a test run, deciding to go back in time FOURTEEN MINUTES. With this in mind I typed in the appropriate time and date and in no time at all (literally) I was 'back in time'.
I actually arrived back just in time to see myself feed Kalim Gerald Barkleton Twing.
"Stop!" I cried, and my previous body turned with astonishment towards my being, "That food will make him sick all over the wall!"
But it was too late. As the words came galloping out of my larynx a stream of dog tummy juice frothed against the new paintwork.
"Ah," I said, as the present me, not the old me "if only I'd made it fifteen minutes."
"Don't fret," I said, the old me this time,"when I do a test run I'll make it fifteen minutes!"
Sure enough, fourteen minutes later, the old me stepped into the time machine and typed in FIFTEEN MINUTES. Before he pressed the button, we shared a poignant look. A tear fell from his eye, and by definition mine, although it wasn't actually my body, although really it was.
"What's the future like?" he asked.
"Sorry," I said, "I only got this far."
And with a final sob he activated the machine.
I never saw him again.
All I can assume is that the machine didn't work and the test run failed. He might be seven hundred years in the past by now, or fifty thousand years in the future.
"What's the future like?" he asked.
Such poignance.
Such poingance.
Sunday 1 March 2009
A Week of Homs
Feb 23rd
Dear Diary,
why do you never write back? Why is it always me who must constantly be jotting down his exotic scrawlings without you ever putting your pen to my willing paper. For years I have longed to feel your ink gushing through my pages as my eyes thrash back and forth, back and forth across the line. I want to read you!
Feb 24th
Dear Diary,
sorry about yesterday. Feel I might have stepped over the line somewhat. I assure you I am quite happy with our current arrangement and have no desire to change the situation. Maybe I had been drinking. Of course I am more than happy for us to remain in this platonic relationship. Perhaps, in future, we should talk about other things. like what's been happening in my day of life.
For example, today I saw a group of deer. One of the little idiots was called Giacomo. What a stupid name for a deer. What's wrong with Custard or Quackles or Crispin or other sensible names like that? He thinks a lot of himself, I thought, and I'll be quite surprised if he isn't dead by the end of the day.
Sure enough he was.
See, that was pretty good, huh? More of the same tomorrow!
Feb 25th
Dear Diary,
A woman telephoned my residence to ask for my help in a little detection work. I said I had no idea what she was talking about (you never know) and insisted that she was a forty seven year old man. Of course I knew she was nothing of the sort but it's all part of the game.
After two or three hours I phoned her back and offered my services to her. She said she needed help finding out just where her husband was. Apparently he said he was going to the Karakum desert to look for some sort of mythical giraffe who breathes murcury and possibly is made of tungsten.
I set off for Turkmenistan tomorrow!
Feb 26th
Dear Diary,
started out on my journey to Turkmenistan. Commandeered plane enroute to Peru. Passengers not happy. Arrived at 17:46 (local) by which time it was rather too late to walk out into the desert, so instead I started a fight with a local man about his dog.
Feb 27th
Dear Diary,
went out into the desert with my new dog - his name is Kalim Gerald Barkleton Twing. He is a faithful companion and forgot about his dead former master in no time at all. We walked for some time, enjoying the scorching heat and deadly lack of water, before spotting a man lying not too far away. As we approached it was clear the man was dead, died of thirst or starvation or trampling from a Giraffe made of tungsten (possibly). So when we finally arrived at the place where he was it was quite a surprise to see him alive and well. He said his good-days and we said ours and I asked him if he had a wife who might want him looked for. He said no and that the man I was looking for was dead. At which pont he motioned to a man lying on the ground next to him who was dead.
The man explained that recently he had been dressing up as a titanium giraffe and had accidentally breathed murcury all over the fellow. I asked the fellow if he owed me £17.
He said he didn't.
Feb 28th
Dear Diary,
flew home. Brought Kalim Gerald Barkleton Twing back with me. He doesn't get on too well with my old dog, Isambard. Phoned woman. Informed her of dead husband. Asked for fourteen thousand pounds.
Feb 29th
Dear Diary,
mmmmmmmm! Sunday lunch today! Isambard was delicious.
Dear Diary,
why do you never write back? Why is it always me who must constantly be jotting down his exotic scrawlings without you ever putting your pen to my willing paper. For years I have longed to feel your ink gushing through my pages as my eyes thrash back and forth, back and forth across the line. I want to read you!
Feb 24th
Dear Diary,
sorry about yesterday. Feel I might have stepped over the line somewhat. I assure you I am quite happy with our current arrangement and have no desire to change the situation. Maybe I had been drinking. Of course I am more than happy for us to remain in this platonic relationship. Perhaps, in future, we should talk about other things. like what's been happening in my day of life.
For example, today I saw a group of deer. One of the little idiots was called Giacomo. What a stupid name for a deer. What's wrong with Custard or Quackles or Crispin or other sensible names like that? He thinks a lot of himself, I thought, and I'll be quite surprised if he isn't dead by the end of the day.
Sure enough he was.
See, that was pretty good, huh? More of the same tomorrow!
Feb 25th
Dear Diary,
A woman telephoned my residence to ask for my help in a little detection work. I said I had no idea what she was talking about (you never know) and insisted that she was a forty seven year old man. Of course I knew she was nothing of the sort but it's all part of the game.
After two or three hours I phoned her back and offered my services to her. She said she needed help finding out just where her husband was. Apparently he said he was going to the Karakum desert to look for some sort of mythical giraffe who breathes murcury and possibly is made of tungsten.
I set off for Turkmenistan tomorrow!
Feb 26th
Dear Diary,
started out on my journey to Turkmenistan. Commandeered plane enroute to Peru. Passengers not happy. Arrived at 17:46 (local) by which time it was rather too late to walk out into the desert, so instead I started a fight with a local man about his dog.
Feb 27th
Dear Diary,
went out into the desert with my new dog - his name is Kalim Gerald Barkleton Twing. He is a faithful companion and forgot about his dead former master in no time at all. We walked for some time, enjoying the scorching heat and deadly lack of water, before spotting a man lying not too far away. As we approached it was clear the man was dead, died of thirst or starvation or trampling from a Giraffe made of tungsten (possibly). So when we finally arrived at the place where he was it was quite a surprise to see him alive and well. He said his good-days and we said ours and I asked him if he had a wife who might want him looked for. He said no and that the man I was looking for was dead. At which pont he motioned to a man lying on the ground next to him who was dead.
The man explained that recently he had been dressing up as a titanium giraffe and had accidentally breathed murcury all over the fellow. I asked the fellow if he owed me £17.
He said he didn't.
Feb 28th
Dear Diary,
flew home. Brought Kalim Gerald Barkleton Twing back with me. He doesn't get on too well with my old dog, Isambard. Phoned woman. Informed her of dead husband. Asked for fourteen thousand pounds.
Feb 29th
Dear Diary,
mmmmmmmm! Sunday lunch today! Isambard was delicious.
Sunday 22 February 2009
Egad, Homs! A Dinosaurus!
Hello.
I am Sarlog Homs.
My reputation precedes me, as always.
You know who I am.
I'm that fellow who put a slug on that child's face. Great Caesar's ghost, that was a good time. That woman was there. She threatened to put a child on my slug's face!
I said "Madam, if you do that," and here I looked her square in the eye, "I will gut you."
How we laughed and laughed.
And then I gutted her.
No one laughs at Homs.
The title of this short but sweet post, for those curious sputes among you, refers to a short exclamation made by my good friend Mistletoe Jack. We were just discussing how the ipod generation needed a good looking at, morally speaking, when all of a moment an enormous Dinosaurus began to chow down on his fleshy thighs! The exclamation was made at the point between spotting the beast and it beginning its chowing down.
Sadly, Misty J (as we friends called him) did not survive though I did keep his pelt for posterity. It's as I always say: If you can't do something for posterity, what can you do?
I told this to a person just before accessing the internet to preserve the information (for posterity) and he said to me, "A dinosaurus? I see two main problems with this story. Number one:" he said, "A dinosaurus is not a thing. Dinosaurs were a large group of lizards that died out 65 million years ago, which brings me nicely on to number two:" he was a smug young horse-assaulter, "they are now extinct!"
Needless to say, I gutted him on the spot but before I did I gave him this reply:
"A Dinosaurus is a particular species of Dinosaur which survived by hiding in a small wigwam when the meteor smashed ten bells out of this god forsaken ball of toss-pots we call a planet," I was implying, of course, that he was a toss-pot himself, "and survived for many millions of years initially by eating bugs and rodents and what-not and living on an island that NO-ONE DARETH ENTER! More recently he has made a living from Hollywood movies and special effects. He is particularly good at puppetry. He is considered a genius in the industry so when he ups and bites a soft and fleshy portion out of a good friend of yours and makes a wet crunching noise as he chews it thoughtfully and the sloppy gore drips from his gigantic mouth, splattering passers by, perhaps getting in their mouths by accident, YOU DO NOT PULL HIM UP ON IT!"
Now I believe I will eat an apple.
I will miss Mistletoe Jack. He always gave me money.
Well, I took it from his wallet, but he never minded.
Well, I'll be honest, he never knew.
But if he had known I'm sure he wouldn't have minded.
Well, he would have probably gutted me.
But that's what made him such a great man.
Awful taste in music though.
Simply awful.
On reflection I'm probably glad he's dead.
Write to me more, my postman keeps mentioning that he doesn't see me often enough.
Lots of Love
Sarlog
P.S. Do you owe me £17? Someone owes me £17 and I can't remember who it is. If you owe me £17 I'll get it back, you know!
I am Sarlog Homs.
My reputation precedes me, as always.
You know who I am.
I'm that fellow who put a slug on that child's face. Great Caesar's ghost, that was a good time. That woman was there. She threatened to put a child on my slug's face!
I said "Madam, if you do that," and here I looked her square in the eye, "I will gut you."
How we laughed and laughed.
And then I gutted her.
No one laughs at Homs.
The title of this short but sweet post, for those curious sputes among you, refers to a short exclamation made by my good friend Mistletoe Jack. We were just discussing how the ipod generation needed a good looking at, morally speaking, when all of a moment an enormous Dinosaurus began to chow down on his fleshy thighs! The exclamation was made at the point between spotting the beast and it beginning its chowing down.
Sadly, Misty J (as we friends called him) did not survive though I did keep his pelt for posterity. It's as I always say: If you can't do something for posterity, what can you do?
I told this to a person just before accessing the internet to preserve the information (for posterity) and he said to me, "A dinosaurus? I see two main problems with this story. Number one:" he said, "A dinosaurus is not a thing. Dinosaurs were a large group of lizards that died out 65 million years ago, which brings me nicely on to number two:" he was a smug young horse-assaulter, "they are now extinct!"
Needless to say, I gutted him on the spot but before I did I gave him this reply:
"A Dinosaurus is a particular species of Dinosaur which survived by hiding in a small wigwam when the meteor smashed ten bells out of this god forsaken ball of toss-pots we call a planet," I was implying, of course, that he was a toss-pot himself, "and survived for many millions of years initially by eating bugs and rodents and what-not and living on an island that NO-ONE DARETH ENTER! More recently he has made a living from Hollywood movies and special effects. He is particularly good at puppetry. He is considered a genius in the industry so when he ups and bites a soft and fleshy portion out of a good friend of yours and makes a wet crunching noise as he chews it thoughtfully and the sloppy gore drips from his gigantic mouth, splattering passers by, perhaps getting in their mouths by accident, YOU DO NOT PULL HIM UP ON IT!"
Now I believe I will eat an apple.
I will miss Mistletoe Jack. He always gave me money.
Well, I took it from his wallet, but he never minded.
Well, I'll be honest, he never knew.
But if he had known I'm sure he wouldn't have minded.
Well, he would have probably gutted me.
But that's what made him such a great man.
Awful taste in music though.
Simply awful.
On reflection I'm probably glad he's dead.
Write to me more, my postman keeps mentioning that he doesn't see me often enough.
Lots of Love
Sarlog
P.S. Do you owe me £17? Someone owes me £17 and I can't remember who it is. If you owe me £17 I'll get it back, you know!
Wednesday 18 February 2009
Breathtaking: The gravitational pull of pepsi
Dear Lord Half-and-half,
It seems that rather than ask me to investigate what would make a good new logo for their drinking company, the Pepsi Cola Company seem to have consulted a magic druid from beyond insanity.
This secret document must reach no one but you and the rest of the internet.
Can I trust you with that?
You're too blasted right I can't.
That's why you're not allowed to look at it.
I've changed my mind.
This sort of absolute bleating nonsense is just the sort of thing that could put one off design, drinks and the concept of fizzing.
What is possibly more absurd is that the design alone cost Pepsi around a million dollars. I could have had that money! That's a lifetime of peanut brittle or crispy M&Ms!
It make you wonder what else they're spending their American coins on.
I'm looking at some of these men now through my spying eyes. Pepsi men. You are not looking at them so you must trust that what I relate to you is what is actually going on NO MATTER HOW INVENTED IT MAY SOUND.
They have remote controlled helicopters instead of ties and a selection of meats where one might expect to see a coffee cup. The meats are cold like their cold meaty hearts and their dead chilled meat eyes from the meat counter at Morrisons (Tesco is a bit cheaper but Morrison's is just down the road and they can't be bothered to walk the extra five minutes. LAZY FAT CAT MEN!).
Their office is tiled in what can only be described as tiles. Red tiles...possibly from beyond the stars. I think I saw some similar in B&Q but these may be different. A new technology perhaps where actually it is lino on the walls of the office but the lino looks like convincing tiles that one might find in B&Q. It is a new science invention that the Pepsi men have spent their American dollars discovering.
They are laughing. They are pointing at a picture of a pig and laughing.
Look closer, dear reader.
You are not there though, remember?
I will look closer dear reader.
The pig is dressed...
AS A DRINKER OF PEPSI MIGHT BE DRESSED!!!
Also the pig is saying "Duh..."
It's a visual metaphor!
They think they can hide their delicate tooting from the prying eyes of Johnny Detecterson (I, Sarlog Homs). But I am such a rambatulatory fellow that never will I quit until the full answers are in front of my eye sockets and, by definition, eyes.
I mostly hope this does not give you nightmares.
Yours in "brotherhood"
S. Homs (Det.)
It seems that rather than ask me to investigate what would make a good new logo for their drinking company, the Pepsi Cola Company seem to have consulted a magic druid from beyond insanity.
This secret document must reach no one but you and the rest of the internet.
Can I trust you with that?
You're too blasted right I can't.
That's why you're not allowed to look at it.
I've changed my mind.
This sort of absolute bleating nonsense is just the sort of thing that could put one off design, drinks and the concept of fizzing.
What is possibly more absurd is that the design alone cost Pepsi around a million dollars. I could have had that money! That's a lifetime of peanut brittle or crispy M&Ms!
It make you wonder what else they're spending their American coins on.
I'm looking at some of these men now through my spying eyes. Pepsi men. You are not looking at them so you must trust that what I relate to you is what is actually going on NO MATTER HOW INVENTED IT MAY SOUND.
They have remote controlled helicopters instead of ties and a selection of meats where one might expect to see a coffee cup. The meats are cold like their cold meaty hearts and their dead chilled meat eyes from the meat counter at Morrisons (Tesco is a bit cheaper but Morrison's is just down the road and they can't be bothered to walk the extra five minutes. LAZY FAT CAT MEN!).
Their office is tiled in what can only be described as tiles. Red tiles...possibly from beyond the stars. I think I saw some similar in B&Q but these may be different. A new technology perhaps where actually it is lino on the walls of the office but the lino looks like convincing tiles that one might find in B&Q. It is a new science invention that the Pepsi men have spent their American dollars discovering.
They are laughing. They are pointing at a picture of a pig and laughing.
Look closer, dear reader.
You are not there though, remember?
I will look closer dear reader.
The pig is dressed...
AS A DRINKER OF PEPSI MIGHT BE DRESSED!!!
Also the pig is saying "Duh..."
It's a visual metaphor!
They think they can hide their delicate tooting from the prying eyes of Johnny Detecterson (I, Sarlog Homs). But I am such a rambatulatory fellow that never will I quit until the full answers are in front of my eye sockets and, by definition, eyes.
I mostly hope this does not give you nightmares.
Yours in "brotherhood"
S. Homs (Det.)
Tuesday 17 February 2009
Sarlog Homs and the case of the web log
Hello!
Guten tag!
Konnichiwa!
Rounda-the-flago!
Pork pork!
Just some examples of the many languages I know, there.
Welcome to a web-log written by a man who has the intelligence of a duck.
"A duck?", you might say, "That's not much to boast about."
Well shut your stupid mouth and listen to this more detailed explaination.
Imagine, if you will (and you will), a duck kidnapped by some kind of space alien. Maybe the alien has more than two eyes!!! The duck is subjected to 'mind tests' and 'injections'. The alien technology makes this duck the superior of all it's peers. The most intelligent duck who ever lived! The size of his brain! IT IS LARGE!
Large for a duck, anyway.
It doesn't make him Einstein or anything, but he can certainly hold his own in a pub quiz. Especially if that pub quiz is particularly duck-oriented.
Now you are starting to get a picture of this duck, with his Superintelligence and his human friends. Perhaps he gets a date with a human lady after wooing her with knowledge of nineteenth century industry, but she cancels the day before because she doesn't know if she could ever be comfortable in a relationship with a duck. He becomes dejected and bitter. What kind of life is that for a duck?
He finds living in an apartment difficult. He can't cultivate the algae and pond weeds he needs to keep himself sustained.
"Curse those aliens for making me Superintelligent!" he shouts at no one in particular.
The man below bangs on the floor of the aparment (his ceiling) "I've had enough of you cursing aliens all night!" he shouts, "It's four before breakfast!"
He will jump, he decides, from the window of his apartment into the street below.
What choice does the duck have but to end his own life?
There, you see! Now you feel less inclined to mock someone who claims to have the intelligence of a duck (as long as the claim is qualified with the word 'Superintelligent').
Now since I've started 'web-logging' (little more than a few nano-hours ago) I've had literally one request for an answer to the question, "Who the sh*t is Sarlog Homs?"
Well the easy answer is 'Me'!
I've adopted the mantle of the world's greatest interdimensional (and possibly fictional) detective because I felt that too long had the world been drifting askew without a Sarlog Homs for the ipod generation. Too long has this fantastical bombastical person been a void in the consciousness of the young people.
No more, I say, no more! I say it twice for emphasis and in case people weren't listening the first time. Also the second time is louder.
Here I return and here I shall stay.
Your most humble &c. &c
Det. Sarlog Homs
Guten tag!
Konnichiwa!
Rounda-the-flago!
Pork pork!
Just some examples of the many languages I know, there.
Welcome to a web-log written by a man who has the intelligence of a duck.
"A duck?", you might say, "That's not much to boast about."
Well shut your stupid mouth and listen to this more detailed explaination.
Imagine, if you will (and you will), a duck kidnapped by some kind of space alien. Maybe the alien has more than two eyes!!! The duck is subjected to 'mind tests' and 'injections'. The alien technology makes this duck the superior of all it's peers. The most intelligent duck who ever lived! The size of his brain! IT IS LARGE!
Large for a duck, anyway.
It doesn't make him Einstein or anything, but he can certainly hold his own in a pub quiz. Especially if that pub quiz is particularly duck-oriented.
Now you are starting to get a picture of this duck, with his Superintelligence and his human friends. Perhaps he gets a date with a human lady after wooing her with knowledge of nineteenth century industry, but she cancels the day before because she doesn't know if she could ever be comfortable in a relationship with a duck. He becomes dejected and bitter. What kind of life is that for a duck?
He finds living in an apartment difficult. He can't cultivate the algae and pond weeds he needs to keep himself sustained.
"Curse those aliens for making me Superintelligent!" he shouts at no one in particular.
The man below bangs on the floor of the aparment (his ceiling) "I've had enough of you cursing aliens all night!" he shouts, "It's four before breakfast!"
He will jump, he decides, from the window of his apartment into the street below.
What choice does the duck have but to end his own life?
There, you see! Now you feel less inclined to mock someone who claims to have the intelligence of a duck (as long as the claim is qualified with the word 'Superintelligent').
Now since I've started 'web-logging' (little more than a few nano-hours ago) I've had literally one request for an answer to the question, "Who the sh*t is Sarlog Homs?"
Well the easy answer is 'Me'!
I've adopted the mantle of the world's greatest interdimensional (and possibly fictional) detective because I felt that too long had the world been drifting askew without a Sarlog Homs for the ipod generation. Too long has this fantastical bombastical person been a void in the consciousness of the young people.
No more, I say, no more! I say it twice for emphasis and in case people weren't listening the first time. Also the second time is louder.
Here I return and here I shall stay.
Your most humble &c. &c
Det. Sarlog Homs
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