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?”


ZZ Big Top.

May 16, 2008

Farewell to the flesh. *Burp*

“The Carnival’s back in town”, said Mother, casually,

“you aren’t still upset about the thing with the bear, are you?”.

“Of course not” snapped father, “but I do hope your sister’s

brought her own beard trimmer this time”.


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.