Wednesday, December 06, 2006

In The News: Technology

Crowds have been gathering in the streets of our fair city over the last fortnight in anticipation of the latest technical marvel from the great mind of Dr. Thurliss Le Clerk (pictured). The good Doctor, recently discharged from St Unctuous of The Seven Enfeeblements Sanitarium after undergoing treatment for angry blood and syphilis, addressed the sturdy souls who have lined up for days in the hopes of purchasing his latest invention. The crowd outside Harrod's were excited but well behaved. Detective Dimitri Smith of the local Constabulary reported that floggings were kept to the working class sections of the line and only six hundred orphan pick pockets we rounded up and sold to heavy industrial concerns. One incident only slightly marred the event when two Irishmen began fighting over a discarded haddock that had been tossed from a third floor window. The men were subdued by a dozen heavily armoured lawmen and put aboard a spice boat bound for Sri Lanka. Police suspect alcohol may have been involved. The event went on without further embuggerance and it is with great pleasure that we bare witness to:

The Babbage Automated Recreation Platform: mark III

The magnificent device, named after Dr.Le Clerk's cat Babbage, is the latest and greatest entry into the heavily crowded field of entertainment technology. The machine stands sixteen feet tall and weights a mere thirty two tons. It is constructed of the finest buffed brass, hand polished spruce with teak embellishments, and finished with hand stitched green velvet.
The heart of the machine is a magnificent coal fired, steam pump which is reported to produce enough torque to strip the meat of a dead horse in under six hours, but we will get to the game software in a moment. The coal furnace is ventilated buy twin processor aerators. In non-technical terms this is a fast, highly efficient set of two seal skin bellows, each of which are alternately pumped by three orphans or one monkey and a boxing kangaroo. For those on a budget, the orphans can be purchased at a discount from most coal mines when large quantities of coal are purchased in bulk.
Speaking of budget, this hansom contrivance will cost you a pretty sum. The base model, which includes a 12 stone bag of coal and one orphan, retails for six pounds four shillings sixpence hapenny. The deluxe model retails for nine pounds three guineas sixteen shillings four crowns tuppence. The deluxe model includes the following:
It looks like many children will be waking up to more than just a whipping this St. Steven's day. They may, if they have been obedient, chaste, duly shamed, and penitent, find more that just a rat in their stockings after a long day in the garment district sweat shops. Yes, the entertainment revolution is upon us. Perhaps the toys of old are becoming sadly obsolete, but I must admit that I will still find nostalgic pleasure in my old barrel hoops, wooden army men, walnut on a bit of twine, bag of marbles, rag doll, taxidermy kit, and my old outdated Tesla Boiler Plate Auto-Resulter GameBox 720p with mustache comb. Ah......good times.

Sunday, November 26, 2006

Product Placement

Hello folks, my name is Latimer "Hot Karl" Peterson. I am the Head R&D Facilitator for New Hebrides Offshore Accounting Ltd. What, you may ask, am I doing here? Well I'll tell you. I'm here to offer you a product that will change your lives forever. I will deliver to your homes a fantastic device that will be more welcome than a hot lunch and more breathtaking than a glass bottom boat. But folks I'm getting ahead of myself. Why, you may ask, do I need another device in home? Am I not already over burdened with techno mumbo jibber jabbery. Have I not already been sufficiently alienated from the natural world by the plastic fantastic silicone gods of mass consumption and flashing lights? I need another computerized doodad like a wild game cock needs a rusty trombone. We here at HNOA Ltd. could not agree more. That is why we, in collaboration with the Antiguan Chamber of Commerce, have developed a device that will not only take care of all the household chores that keep you from enjoying life, but will replace every other appliance that is cluttering up your home. I take great pride in introducing to you:

The Electroflax 3600

Take all your DVD players, food processors, seat warmers, mobile phones, cordless drills, pigeon traps, rat shavers, Arabian goggles, coffee grinders, baby changers, leg stretchers, egg rollers, chastity patches, panty looseners, and Blu-Ray devices, and load them into the large fleece lined hopper. Turn the hand crafted imitation spruce handle and crush the ever loving bejaysus out of all of the overpriced, poorly made, shite that has been cluttering up the family room for far too long. The lady of the house will be glad to know that the fleece lined hopper also holds up to six moderately sized children for up to twelve hours. Just remember to secure the hand crafted imitation spruce handle to prevent accidental deployment of the crusher while the little ones are expressing their youthful exuberance against the heavily sound proofed reinforced steel doors. You ladies will also be happy to know that there are hand stitched leather restraints for the man in your life that will allow you to go about your daily business while he vainly fights for freedom. All you have to do is send me an international money order for $997.99 to Latimer "Hot Karl" Peterson c/o The Armenian Consulate, and in 15 to 18 months you will have your very own Electroflax 3600. Don't wait! Supplies are limited!

  • this device will catch fire as soon as it is plugged in
  • this device does nothing that is claimed
  • this device contains weapons grade depleted uranium
  • this device may never be sent to you
  • Mr. Peterson has been arrested for bribery, sexual deviance, treason, armed robbery, practicing dentistry without a licence, impersonating a Rabbi, bigamy, arson, mail fraud, poisoning, attempted food tampering, malicious fondling, kidnapping, and regicide.

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

I'm Sorry, But I'm A Lazy Bastard

Hello my little fishies. I am in the midst of a glorious and much deserved week off work. We usually go away when the occasion presents itself, but this is a relaxin' and keepin' it real vacation. I have not cleaned the apartment. I have not done my laundry. I have not shaved. I have barely worn pants. And to my undying shame my friends, I have not posted. I have listened to music. I have ridden the arse off my new bike. I have played video games. I have cooked dinner for the girl. All in all it has been a pleasant experience. It is strange to be neither at work nor sitting in an airport. The not posting thing is bugging though, so I thought, in the spirit of keepin' it real, I would step out of The Ocean for a moment and introduce myself. Hi. My name is Mike and I have writer's block. I have a boring job, an exciting girlfriend and a pretty full and interesting life. I have been blogging for about four months and I have met some very interesting people. I have learned that the creative potential of your average person is far greater than popular culture would have me believe. Thank you. Anyway, I'm going to see Billy Connolly tonight and that should get the creative juices flowing. I've also decided to share some of my favorite music in the form of Green Fish's Podcast. It's just over there on your right. You can listen on the website, or subscribe via iTunes. It's like a little three song, commercial free radio station. Enjoy, and tell me what you think...............Thanks folks......A proper post is coming soon. I promise.

Special One Time Only Bonus
5 Interesting Facts About
The Endless Ocean Of Gravy

  1. Mostly written without the restrictive influence of clothing. Just like W.B. Yeats.
  2. Without a spell checker, Green Fish would come across as retarded.
  3. I never know what point I am trying to make until the post is 75% finished.
  4. The title was originally a metaphor for the internet. It's now a metaphor for daily life.
  5. You are the reason I do it.....thank you for your time.

Thursday, October 19, 2006

Fan Mail

Dear Mr. Fish,

My name is Kenneth L. Boggflange. I am 37 years old and 765 lbs. I am a huge fan of your blog. As a shut-in, I spend a great deal of time on my own, stewing in my fetid cocktail of generic corn alcohol and self loathing. Each day is spent in my single room flat, with nothing but my own overpowering stink to keep me alert. Naturally, I have no friends outside those whom I meet online who, for some reason, believe me to be a twenty year old female pre-law student. As I vainly attempt to shift my mammoth, gastropodic girth around the abhorrent, noxious filth of my Ikea sofa, my thoughts turn to the subtle, tastefully coy humour of your cheeky little blog. Only last week, while I was watching the latest episode of Survivor and enjoying the exploits of a bunch of unrecostructed, attention deprived, post modern fuckwits, I could not help but wonder at the age of enlightenment in which I live. I sat in sheer wonder at the grand variety of experiences available to a soul such as I. I sat and ruminated while imbibing handfuls of Betty Crocker icing washed down with lashings of ice cold Coca Cola and Wild Turkey, slowly and peacefully shitting into the folds in my thighs. It was during this glorious repass that I came to wonder about the famous Mr. Green Fish and his Endless Ocean Of Gravy. Your timidly tasteful journal of the reluctant Hero is a tale of woe and triumph that is both devastatingly evocative and uncommonly soothing. In this vast and ever changing world, I can be sure of two things: Artistic endeavor is the noblest of pursuits, and a man of my carriage should not attempt to mount a unicycle.......the doctors tell me it can never be removed. And Sir, may I say that your pursuit of the muse is a staggering testament to the infinitely delicate beauty of the human spirit. You are a singing, dancing, magic making, triple threat on the level of Paris Hilton. You are a jive talking, banjo playing, sheep shagging, lady lovin', mountain of a man who's like has not been witnessed since a young Larry King impregnated Tiny Tim during a marathon broadcast of This Is Your Life, during the dying stages of Richard Nixon's first presidential campaign. You Sir, are quite simply, the cat's ass. It is now, with great humility, that I can admit that I have been moved to invoke The Muse myself. So, Mr. Fish, for your consideration, I present, my own poem. Unworthy as it may be, it is my soul, and I humbly offer it up you. Thank you.

Kenneth L. Boggflange

Don't look at me or I kill your dog
You dirty lousy hippy
I'll smash your face with a hollow log
You dirty lousy hippy
Ya'll think your better than me
I'll kill you all and then you'll see
Fuck off, quit lookin' at me
You dirty lousy hippy.


Monday, October 02, 2006

One More Angus!!!

Well folks, it's me again, Angus Thripshaw. Old Green Arse is coming back from vacation today so I thought I would return for one more post and see if there is anything else worth stealing around his place that would lend a touch of class my filth encrusted tar paper shack. No such luck. He was apparently invited to a wedding by a sad friendless couple who either felt sorry for him or decided that the presence of a six foot drunk Irishman with a mohawk would lend some tone to the proceedings. Again, no such luck. For those bleary eyed sentimentalists out there, Mr. Fish Finger has posted his photos of the event on the interwebs. Nice. I guess he forgot to take any pictures of the guys.
Anyway, down to the business at hand. I seem to remember requesting entries some time ago for The 2007 Guild Award For The Years Worst Poem. I could be mistaken because I had been partaking heavily of Jim Beam, Banana Liqueur, Scrub 'n' Flush, and industrial varnish. I have a faint memory of sipping my pint, gently raising my left front buttock (I have four buttocks as a result of a batch of tainted botox) in an attempt to release a small fart, and someone asking for a light. My next memory is me waking up on a Grey Hound bus bound for Tulsa, clad in a pink taffeta evening own, hip waders, the right side of my body totally hairless, clutching a bottle of Drambuie and a picture of Sammy Davis Junior. You know how it is when your having fun.
As you are all well aware the response has been overwhelming. Through endless debates, several heated arguments, a few fist fights, and a mysterious smothering, I have managed to draw three nominees from the 47 million entries. The final three are as follows:


My Poem, entitled 'In 60 seconds written.'

Sex with Jesus makes me pee
And pooping with Hoff brings me glee
Tomkat, Arses, Willies, Boobs
I rub these on me with no clothes
Life & death, a disease that's demented
Winning this award I have cemented!

Now hand it over you crazy Hibernian bastard!!

This vulgar little entry dripped from the pen of The Writer. He is famous for his biting pop culture satire and lengthy treatises on arse wiping. The poem's strengths lie in it's brevity and sheer volume of disconnected vile imagery. It's only weakness it the fact the the author is more than capable of far, far worse.


Ode to the Greenfish


Oh, Greenfish. You are green. You are a fish.
You swim in the water. Your tail makes a 'swish'.

When a worm takes a dip, you eat him all up.
Then you go to the pub and you order a cup. (of soup)

Oh greenfish. So green. So fishy. So stinky.
Let me introduce you to a swanky octopus named inky.

Nice to meet you)

Good with lemon and spice. Pan fried or grilled.
Oh Greenfish, dear Greenfish... do you feel fulfilled?


This mad little ditty sprung from the fevered mind of Elizabeth. This young lady is well known for presenting foul, profane, blasphemous, obscene, and profoundly demented flotsom and jetsom of human expression, served up with a sweet smile and a touch of whimsy. It's strengths lie in the hints of foul odors, erotic cannibalism, and a subtle wind breaking, happy ending, bodily excreting sort of motif. It's weakness lies in the bold similarities with the early works of Walt Whitman.


The Chicken Fucker's Fable

I am the Chicken Fucker
born to a feather plucker
aka Ms. Chicken Tucker;
see, Mama had a fetish for
a chicken up her pinafore.

Around the barn I'd gravitate
to woo the hens out for a date
on which my firey loins could sate;
all this against Ms. Tucker's warn "hen dates'll bring your pecker harm!"

A silly, horny lad was I
for rubbing chickens up my thigh
all to the shock of passers-by
(I did, I forgot to mention,
enjoy a crowd for cuckold sessions).

I should have heard my dear old Ma
who's a scar on her vagina
from just this sort of whoopala
(which, by the way, I do no more
my pecker still is mighty sore).

T'was a sunny day the air was warm
the same as most on our chicken farm
when my favourite hen did bring me harm;
She mistook my long and pinkish nob
for an ear of corn still on the cob.

So if you want to fuck a hen
you might want to stop and think again
of what could happen to you then.
For a penis that's been pecked by hens
a penis that has seen the end.


This relentless, cathartic, brutal experiment in the mockery of decent mores and deeply held taboos was presented by a very odd force called Kat. This young lady is the final word in pee, poop, weird shit, David Hasselhoff, and cooking. It's strengths are manyfold. Vulgarity, perverse sexual acts, cruelty, the sheer length for Christ's sake. This is an early favorite hampered only by the fact that it is quite good.

Alright sickos. I have to get my but out of here before Fishymon gets home and starts asking pointed questions about the smell in here. The winner will be announced in the new year at The Foul Arts Academy Social Club And Terror Suspect Holding Area. I will be presenting the award if I am still alive and the entire event will have a special guest celebrity host . So good bye and good luck from your old pal Angus, and say hi to Green Fish for me when he gets back. Piss off.

Thursday, September 21, 2006

On Vacation

Hello there folks. I'm Angus Thripshaw. Those among you who are not retarded will have surmised from the title that Mr. Green Fish is on vacation. You may be asking yourselves at this very moment how this idiot has a job, and I have wondered the same thing. Never the less, he has given me eighteen dollars and a bottle of paint thinner to look after this blog for a couple of weeks. Needless to say, I'm not going to. I'm just going to leave this post, piss off, and you all will have to do without stupid letters, oceanic claptrap, lists of diseases, and the general pissing and moaning of a 32 year old malcontent with a stupid haircut. Ya sure, look at him trying to be all cool in that picture. Notice how you can't see the gut. Anyhoo, Fish Face aside, I do want to give you all at least one quality post. As sad as it seems, some of you read this twaddle on a regular basis, and you may remember me from this. For my glorious efforts that night I won a prostitute, a dose of the clap, fifty bucks, and a bottle of smelling salts. I also got the honour of compiling the entrees for next year's awards. So here it is; you submit your entry for worst poem by way of the comments section, and when old Fish Ass goes away for New Year's, I'll award The 2007 Guild Award for the year's worst poem on this blog. It's open to all, bloggers and non-blogger and anons. Enter as many times as you want, I really don't give a sweet flapping shit. Topics are wide open and can include sex, Jesus, pee, poop, David Haselhoff, TomKat, arses, willies, boobs, life, death, disease and anything your demented minds can cook up. Prizes are not finalized yet so I could use suggestions in that area. Safe to say that I am not adverse to offering a good rough shag from myself, Angus Thripshaw, to the lucky winner, or anyone else for that matter. Now bugger off.

Sunday, September 17, 2006

Mail Bag Again

Dear Sirs:

My name is Sir Regis Frottage, Chief Footman's Assistant (second class) to The Duke of Argyle . It is in this capacity that I have found myself as not only an advisor to royalty, but also a world renowned critic of popular culture and commentator on broad social trends. I have been at the vanguard of letter writing campaigns geared toward exposing and banning the following moral, spiritual, and societal abominations: colour television, chinese food, sex before marriage, bananas, sex after marriage, making out, making in and out, birth control, women's health education, children making a ruckus, cheese rolling, group sex, making a show of yourself, mixed friendships, racial tolerance, co-ed teenage dating, milfs, ferret legging, lawn darts, chemical hair removal, sexy underwear, spanking for the purpose of carnal gratification, black satin corsets barely able to contain plump heaving bosoms............I digress. The latest ill to befall the moral fabric of our society is the proliferation of these so called "blogs". When it was first made clear to me that anyone could now spread filth, unrest, and holiday photos all across the world, well lets just say I very nearly shit my pants. And when I say nearly, I mean actually. And since I had already shit my pants an hour earlier when my wife hit me with a leg of lamb, the smell in my den was starting to get a little loud. I am not entirely sure how computers got into the homes of the unwashed masses in the first place, but now they seem to have gotten into the hands of teenagers, unmarried women, artists, musicians, soccer moms, students, mimes, single dads, poets, nudists, never-nudes, cat lovers, dog groomers, wine tasters, vegetarians, humanists, and other nefarious modern types. I initially supported the limited availability of a world wide network while unfortunately laboring under the misapprehension that this availability would be limited to selected members of the aristocracy and the clergy. As is now apparent, no such limitations are in place. It has also become apparent that blogging is joining video games and popular music as the main reasons that young people scare the shit out of me. I ask you; where is the government control in this? If a law can be in place to prevent me from removing my trousers in the fruit aisle of my local super market, should the same law not prevent me from expressing this desire publicly? Surely the masses can not be counted on to police the traffic of the blog community. Surely they can not flag and report exploitation, illegal activity, sickos, hate and thinly veiled cries for help and attention. We need to be monitored by our benefactors for our own good, as sure as we need small colourful newspapers and loud, shiny, semi-literate journalists telling us how to feel about things. I know I do.

Sir Regis Frottage (pictured) Professor Emeritus of Political Science at The Uri Gellar Mail Order College and Delicatessen (and also, Chief Footman's Assistant (second class) to The Duke of Argyle)

Sunday, September 10, 2006


Dear Mr. Green Fish,
My name is Dr. Edmond Dewlapp (pictured) and I am writing to complain about the distressing trend toward cheap laughs and toilet humour in your blog. A lengthy descriptive list of dubious medical conditions is not the sort of thing one wants to stumble upon during an instructive tour around the web. As an octogenarian with a pre-WWII colostomy bag, I can not tell you how often I am presented with the opportunities for the sort of "organic" laughs that you and your audience seem to find so jocular. There is no more humour to be found in a bad case of Plowman's Thorax than there is in an extended bout of Cobbler's Trotts. I could easily go into a lengthy dissertation about the perils of Swollen Shanks, Digery Plops, Extended Percussive Clam Diggers Blight, or Beard Failure, but I fail to see the value in not only exposing but also finding joy in the private acute suffering of the poor fuckers felled by these indispositions. I know what these enfeeblements can do to the body and I am intimately aware of the smells and fluids they produce with alarming regularity. A good dose of Cataclysmic Ingrown Toupee combined with the lingering after affects of Cheese Mongers Scourge will produce a terrifying bouquet and leave one in need of the services of a good carpet cleaning firm. The noxious fumes and constant streams of purulent confection that make their spirited exodus from my own body on an hourly basis are enough to keep me occupied without your constant reminders about the frailty of the human form. Now Mr. Fish, I don't want you to think that this missive is merely the sputtering indignation of a mad shut-in, or the disconnected prattle of an afflicted roustabout. This blog of yours is not entirely the bog standard, pseudo literate, sophomoric lavatory musings of a lonely, confused, directionless man-boy. It is in fact slightly amusing on rare occasions. I am sure that the circles in which you move, the thugs, hoors, and halfwits who tolerate your mental diarrhea, are a fine breeding ground for your diseased mind, but it is time to rise above. You have a minimally acceptable intellect and the power of the internet at your disposal Mr. Fish: Let's see some naked ladies!!!

Thank you and keep up the good work

Dr. Edmond Dewlap, Director of Ballistic Fertility at The University of Western Luxembourg (Defrocked)

Monday, September 04, 2006

Endless Was Never So Small

Big fish, little fish, and fish of every stripe and hue. It was not so long ago that I cut the waves of The Endless Ocean as a lonely little fish without a hope. Now I see there are other little fish everywhere and everywhen who swim and swum and swam among the beefy currents. Some swim by unheard and unseen leaving only tiny motes and swirls as they pass. Others stay and chat for a little while and share their thoughts and hopes and screams. Some come back again and again and some disappear in search of other little fish, never to be heard from again. I have learned that the vastness of The Ocean is not a thing to fear. Your reach is as endless as The Ocean if you want it to be. You can be a tiny cocoon of warmth and security and protection or you can be a vast universe of of knowledge. The limits of your heart and mind are yours to set whenever and however you wish. Be small, be big, be good, be bad, be spicy, be sweet, be hairy, be smooth, be creative, be destructive, be kind, be cruel, be loud, be soft, be a Beatle, be The King, be a pillow, be a blanket, be Bo, be Luke, be a beard, be a mustache, be stellar, be terra firma. The choice is all yours my friends. Don't let anyone make it for you because one day you could be zipping along your eccentric orbit minding your own business, basking in the faint light of your tiny sun, and all of a sudden you are not a planet any more. Bastards.

Saturday, August 26, 2006

A Word From Our Sponsor

How are you feeling friend? In this society of mass communication, international conflict, and uncertain spiritual discharge, it is becoming more and more common to fall victim to the perils of physical illness, intellectual fatigue, and deep ungrounded feelings of emotional isolation and the runs. There is a pervasive and seemingly irrevocable destabilization of the centre of the human spirit and so forth. It is time to take your well being into your own trembling hands and choose to be well. But how? Unfortunately there is no help to be found in the "medical establishment". Their so-called "scientific research" has for years eluded the oversight and understanding of hard working folk like yourselves. Is there a solution that will not leave you isolated and confused by the fear mongering "accredited physicians", who's only goal is to keep you from exploring the age old wisdom of natural, wholesome, triple distilled, smooth barley warmth of alternative medicine? It has been proven by independent testers that Black Bush Irish Whiskey is a bracing tonic, a biologic ointment, an excitive balm, a purifying cream, a restorative lotion, an alleviative salve, a counteractive tincture, an analeptic preparation, an invigorating unguent, a salubrious curative, an exhilarating laxative, a corrective elixir, a therapeutic sanative, and the most trusted recuperative catholicon known to man. Black Bush Irish Whiskey has been personally proven, by me, to alleviate the following:

brewer's droop
lumber lung
cooper's stoop
fletcher's elbow
lineman's crank (a tool, not a disease)
facial nerve paralysis
feline epilepsy
dutch elm disease
whittler's blight
beard of bees
the rusts
the rucks (but not the ruckuses)
banker's cankers
the conks
the conks with complications
itchy legs
ham legs
green legs with diarrhea
fiddler's green
fiddler's leg
a pox on your house
sore bum
flammable discharge
reverse fainting
morning sickness
morning drunkenness
sticky wickets
slippery slopes
the toggs
the toggs with complications
the frogs
the frogs with a white wine sauce
foot and mouth
fist and mouth
fist and bum
ditch digger's bum
bee keeper's sweats
busman's tremors
businessman's trousers
blackberries with complications
unintentional sobriety

Three fingers of Black Bush Irish Whiskey poured over two cubes of ice is all you need to leave the aches and pains of life behind you. No "qualified doctor of medicine with years of dedicated study" would give you that invaluable piece of information, those black-balling sons of whores......

The Rev.(defrocked) Dr.(discredited) Elija Tungsten--Professor of Scientelogical Lecturing and Homeopathic Animal Husbandry

Saturday, August 19, 2006

Intermission-Letter To The Blog

Dear Sir or Madam....My name is Major Karl Cuthbert-Jones (pictured). In my opinion the 2 liter bottle of RC Cola is a very good value. I have been a loyal reader of your blog for many weeks now and I am proud to say that I was one of the leaders of the vast Oprah exodus that now turn to you for semi-weekly fashion and literary advice as well as cleverly coded cypto-anarchist manifesto. I am very tall. A few evenings ago my wife (pictured) Norma returned home from work after a grueling day in the pit mine. I was on my computer at the time enjoying a glass of North Korean sherry (which I spilled all over my Shroud of Turin boxer shorts as I quickly tried to close the page I was viewing before the wife entered the room) and I found myself looking at your latest post. As I was reading your post a very disturbing thought occurred to me........thank you very much and keep it up.

Maj. K Cuthbert-Jones (unemployed) and Norma (bikini)

Sunday, August 13, 2006

A Land Shark's Tale--part the second

The heat (told Land Shark) of late summer is a heavy and oppressive thing. It does not hold the promise of freedom and adventure of those first few warm days in early June. The city holds the heat like a vile tea cosy and brews a stinking broth of acrid humanity trapped in the close confines of despair and petty aggression. I leave the relative safety of my office and head west along 49th toward The Bishop's Taint, a seedy bar on the outskirts of the garment district frequented by old haberdashers and disgraced lawmen. The Bishop has the two things most cherished by a private detective; a foul blended scotch and information. I needed them both and it didn't matter which I got first. Why? Murder, that's why. Three fish in as many days in various states of decay found floating in the east bay. An old trout found belly up after a domestic spat. Two young cods decide to head to the lower east side looking for some of the hard stuff and end up getting fried...signs of assault and battery. It never changes in the city, life is cheaper than laughs. I enter The Bishop through the tradesman's entrance so as not to cause undue arousal. To my surprise the main bar is almost empty. Harold Sham, the daytime bartender, has his back to me as he cleans his glassware with a filth encrusted rag. An old drunk slouches in his stupor, taking long sips through rotted teeth from a stained glass of slow suicide. He doesn't know I'm there. Well, in fairness, he doesn't know what day it is or what planet he is on. He doesn't know he's alive, and well, maybe he's not. Not any kind of alive that you or I could understand, or recognize, or want. I hate and fear him more than you could know. How tenuous is my grip. How much more heat and dirt and murder and whisky can I take before I am there beside him, or instead of him. Maybe all he is waiting for is me to take his place. I need to shake these thoughts from my mind and remember that I am here for a reason, two actually. I try to smile and call to Sham's still turned back, "A double Old Sheep Shagger on the rocks my good man." Sham turns and looks into my forced grin. "Christing Fuck a shark!!!!!" he screams as his glass shatters on the hardwood. "Oh my shitting Jesus run for your lives!!!!!!!" he continues as he bolts through the front door and out into the late summer heat. I turn and see the old drunk wink as he takes a sip from his filthy glass.

Monday, August 07, 2006

A Land Shark's Tale

"Let me tell you a story my little green friend," said Land Shark......and he did. My office (told Land Shark) was on the fifth floor of a turn of the century brownstone walkup. The lettering on the door said Private Investigator but those in the know could have told you that a shark with a gun is so much more. The lower east side is known for many things, some of them less than palatable for your average lawman. What it was known for in those days was the Land Shark Detective Agency. We took the cases that the cops wouldn't touch from the people that you moved to the suburbs to get away from. By "we" I mean me and my partner Simon. He was the meanest Halibut that ever strapped on a pistol. His temper was chronicled by the dents in the office plaster and his love of the single malt resulted in more property damage than an Irish wedding. But he had my back in situations that would soil a gorgon's trousers and had that unique perspective that only a fish with both eyes on the right side of his head could have. He was a trash talking, sideways walking, six hundred pound flatfish, and he was my friend. Together we chased the scum from the lower east side, and chased the ladies up the bedroom stairs. On that particular summer day the heat was like a leaden weight. The local crime boss, Jimmy "The Criminal" O'Halall, was stealing nothing but iced cappuccinos and frozen peas. Simon The Halibut was sleeping one off on the front steps of Our Sacred Lady of The Assumption Catholic Girls School after a difficult night on the piss. Two seagulls, and a expatriate Londoner circled him hungrily. I sat in my black leather swivel detective chair reading the Ikea catalogue as the heat of the day cut deep grooves in my cool, laid back demeanor. That's when She walked into my office. Tall, curvy, and dangerous. Jet black hair tied back. Cheap red lipstick. Expensive black heels. Her eyes were lowered as she stepped through the doorway. The swish of silk filled the room and I found myself lost for words as her green eyes rose to meet my gaze. "Jesus Christ on a bike!!!!"she screamed. "There's a fucking shark in there!!!" she continued as she turned on elegant black heels and buggered off down the stairs, into the street, and out of my life forever."AAeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiii, fucking dirty big shark with a gun!!!!" and so on, fading into the distance with the distinctive click of stilettos on hot pavement. I sighed deeply and returned to my catalogue.

Thursday, July 27, 2006

Intermission-The 2006 Guild Award For Year's Worst Poem


A Poem By Angus Thripshaw (pictured)

Oh unto thy wretched wings mine weary eyeholes flit.
You crunch beneath my booted heel along your thorax split.
Your tempest flapping haunts me still.
I flirt with madness shrieking shrill.
Drinking varnish makes me ill.
How I hate you all.


Mr. Thripshaw (pictured) took first place for poetry, at this year's Guild Awards for the Foul Arts. His prize was awarded behind a local 7-11 by Mrs. Drumlondson-Jones, the venue's event co-ordinator and local dominatrix.

Monday, July 24, 2006

Tears, Guinness, and Gravy

Gently bobbing in my gravy embrace I realize that it offers scant protection from the wounds that are so often inflicted upon the hearts of living creatures. Do you denizens of the real "not gravy" world also have your protections, your shields, your thick armor that you wrap around your gentle souls, your fragile spirits, your vulnerable hearts? Some sort of hat maybe? Struck silent by the crying shark I slowly raise a fin and place it upon its quivering spongy snout. "Look at me", he says. "A dirty great shark crying his eyes out to a tiny green fish like yourself." "It is alright", I assure him, "I am The Green Fish and I am seeking, among other things, adventure. And you my large friend, are it." He grins broadly and, through a colossal effort of will, I manage not to befoul the gravy around me. My fear subsides quickly in the light of that enormous smile. A smile or a grin in all its forms is a window into the hardest heart. I smile back. "For as long as I have been here I thought I was alone in this vast and pitiless broth," I tell him. "I hear distant voices which only highlight my own sense of alienation. I am glad to have met you Land Shark, for now I am a little less afraid of being alone in this vast place." "I am also glad to have met you Green Fish, but truth be told I was not seeking friends. I was seeking solitude. I was seeking escape. I had given up on the real world and its pettiness, its cruelty, its prejudices. I came here to The Endless Ocean Of Gravy to swim forever alone." I can hardly believe my green fishy ears. "Why?" I ask "Why would you choose such a fate. You, a grand and gregarious piscine fellow who loves the birds (and who doesn't ), who loves a laugh and a pint of a Saturday evening?" "It's true my boy", he answers. "I love nothing more than a night out with a few lads, a few perfect pints of the Black Stuff, a few tender embraces with a lass of virtue true at the corner table of The Horse And Buggery while the band murders of few bars of the songs we used to remember. That being said lad, let my tell you truthfully that sadness and loneliness are often my closest companions." I can hardly believe what I am hearing and he can sense this. "Let me tell you a story my little green friend"....

Thursday, July 20, 2006

Everyone......out of the gravy!!!

Frozen in fear I wait for the gleaming embrace. My short life in The Endless Ocean Of Gravy passed before my eyes. What have I done with the time I have been given? Have I used my time wisely in my search for life, activity, and adventure or have I spent it pissing about, daydreaming, and drinking gravy like some Oscar Wilde bachelor paradise? "You alright?" I am suddenly shocked out of my savory repose. "Excuse me." I respond, still off put by the unexpected derailing of my dramatic death scene. "Don't worry lad, it may never 'appen." "What?" I scintillate. "What?" I try again. "Look lad, you got a face like a kid who got a sock full of arseholes for your birthday." "I thought you were going to eat me." I say pleadingly. At this he suddenly turns away and I swear I see below the black and soulless eye an single tear. My fear has melted into confusion and pity and mild stomach upset. Like my mother always said, "Nothing cuts the gravy like the tears of a be-suited shark", as they took her away. Any words are caught in my throat before I can utter them as racking sobs send currents through the gravy like the aftermath of an undersea landslide. But this is no natural disaster. This is the release of pent up sadness and frustration the like of which is rarely witnessed by living souls. In an attempt to shield my own self from the wounds so often inflicted by the capriciousness of a cruel and unpredictable world, I have in turn wounded another. He finally turns to me and speaks. "I have loved, and I have lost. I have lied to those I cared about, and I have lied to myself. I have made amends where I was able, and I have come to terms with my own conscience. The only 'arm I 'ave ever done was to a kidney pie and a pint of Olde Peculiar Dark Ale. I love the birds, and who does'nt? No harm no foul. I am The Land Shark, and I am not an animal."

Sunday, July 16, 2006

Hello...........can you see me?

I just got here and I don't really know what I'm doing. I ask aloud, "What is going on?", but there is no one to hear me. I must go it alone. I am The Green Fish. I swim in The Endless Ocean Of Gravy. "The what!?!" You would ask if you were here. But you are not. So you won't. Yet I am the Green Fish, and I provide an answer if I can. The Endless Ocean of Gravy is a vast body of savory beef gravy in which I swim. I don't know if is truly endless, I only know that I can't fathom its limits if indeed it has any limits. For me at least, it has no limits. It is full of life and activity and adventure but not around me. At least not yet. "How do you know about the life and activity and adventure if it is not around you?" You would ask if you were here. But you are not. So you won't. I have been told about the Ocean by those whom I have met in the real world...your world. Now I am here alone and I can't see and I can't hear but I take great comfort in the soothing warm embrace of savory beef gravy. I will find life and activity and adventure. "How will you do that?" You would ask if you were here. But you are not. So you won't.
At least not yet...........