Soup of Sum Yun Guy
“There’s a thumb in my gazpacho!” shrieked Edgar delightedly,

spattering the maître d’ with cold peas and chloroform.

“And so you win the doubloon and the Party Sombrero,”

cheered Father, magnanimously attempting

to conceal his disappointment.


You will nip over to The Cactus Patch and wish Parenthesis a Splendid Birthday today, won’t you? And while you’re there, apologise for being two days late – because, you know, time-keeping is not my strong suit. Olé! (Seriously, dear – I hope it was wonderful.)

But I’m not late for everything. No. Kyknoord will, in fact, be knocking back the cupcakes and birthday canapés with his nearest and dearest tomorrow – here’s to an action-packed, fun-filled, and smoking-hot year ahead for you too, dear.


Happily Ever Afterlife.

June 20, 2008

Till death...

“What is it this time,” tut-tutted Edna as the clash of steel

echoed from the parapet, “the choirmistress in Utah?”

“Fresh bloodstains on your Mother’s collar,” whispered Nanny Swedbourg,

distractedly ladling more starch into her tea.



The raid on São Paulo Charlie’s Drive-thru Sanatorium®

was a bit of a disaster. Father almost lost a frontal lobe

in a duel with an orderly, and Edna flat-out refused

to eat any of the vegetables.


Gone, but not forgotten: It’s true: I haven’t visited your sites in ages, I haven’t written, I haven’t called, I haven’t thanked you for your lovely write-ups… I’ve even missed a couple of birthdays. And dangitalltoHades if I don’t feel a wee bit guilty about it all.

I’ll get back to Teh Internet eventually. I swear. I’ve only got 3 gargantuan epics left to midwife, and 8914… 8913 heads to pickle.

Update: The incomparable Ms. Vita ages disgracefully on Sunday – do join me in a rousing chorus of Happy Birthday.

Quick, while she’s still got that hangover…

Updated Update: Aaaand… let’s belt out another verse (I know it’s Monday, but with feeling, okay?) for Dolce’s Evil Twin and Trailer Park Temptress: daisyfaaaae!

Happy Birthday(s), dears – long may the liquor flow, and the cakes continue to… crumble.

Class Acts.

May 30, 2008

“Three Ds and a C”, Edgar mumbled, reluctantly

surrendering the Report Card. “Three Disinterments and a Cremation!”

exclaimed Father, dabbing his cheeks with a blindfold,

“Son, we may just get you that new bicycle after all!”.


Our Man in Valhalla.

May 23, 2008

I'm too tired and whiny to come up with a snappy comment this week. You do it.

“There’s a snekke blocking the driveway again,”

said Virgil, peeved, “Great Aunt Freygerd?”

“Third cousin Yngvar,” Edna grimaced, tossing him a helmet

and a hammer, “what – for the love of Stan – have you

done with my drinking skull?”


Pit Stop.

May 9, 2008

Edgar asked to be buried between Augie Podgórny

and the Feuerbachs. “You’ve got your snorkel and

a peppermint”, said Virgil, swatting a clod with his shovel,

“we’ll be back for you on Thursday”.



May 2, 2008

It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.

“Ain’tcha getting a little warm in that coat, Ma’am?”,

stammered the cowhand, pompadour glistening in the moonlight.

“I’m not going to bite, dear”, I whispered, flashing an incisor,

then drowned out his moans with a howl.


Darn It.

April 25, 2008

Pay no mind to what they say, It doesn't matter anyway (hey, hey, hey), Our lips are sealed...Our lips are seeeeeeeal-duh!

“Someone’s moved my sewing casket”, grumbled

Mother, descending into the parlour with a hisss.

“Mmmmph… mmmphmmm…mmmph” suggested Edgar

from behind the ornamental rhododendron.



March 28, 2008

Oh, no. Not *another* hat.

Edna’s tenure as Head Girl was spectacular,

but short-lived. She dropped one from a float

during the Bastille Day Parade and mislaid another two

on a football pitch outside Arles.


Bonus Featurette: Oh, Crumbs! When Good Cakes Go Bad: A cakespy crime scene.

See Spot Run.

March 14, 2008

 Why the long face, dear? / My dog died of flu. / That's *terrible*. Wait a minute... dogs don't get flu! / Mine flew under a bus. *Boom, boom!*
“Perhaps we should get Edgar another Schipperke

for his birthday”, mused Father, shortly before lights-out.

“Don’t be asinine”, reproved Mother, slipping into her hauberk,

“you know they give him indigestion”.