“You aren’t going to lie around and moan all day,

are you, dear?”, enquired Mother, solicitously side-stepping

an incisor and a small tangle of intestine. Edgar nodded weakly

and tied off another tourniquet with his teeth.


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.


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.

Having A Bad Hare Day.

March 21, 2008

Throwing up into a bucket at regular intervals is hardly one of my favourite activities – especially not on my day off. So, no tale today, dears – I’m resting my delicate constitution so I can gorge myself with chocolate and hot cross buns on Sunday.

Also, I couldn’t think of anything funny to say about rabbits.

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”.



February 20, 2008

Midweek Bonus Feature!

Over here!**



** And, no. I couldn’t embed the damn thing.

It's true. All that butter will kill you.

“Are those finger biscuits ready yet?”,

enquired Virgil in muted anticipation.

Digestives“, corrected Edna, brushing

flour from a haemostat,

“topped with nuts!”