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:
lineman's crank (a tool, not a disease)
facial nerve paralysis
dutch elm disease
beard of bees
the rucks (but not the ruckuses)
the conks with complications
green legs with diarrhea
a pox on your house
the toggs with complications
the frogs with a white wine sauce
foot and mouth
fist and mouth
fist and bum
ditch digger's bum
bee keeper's sweats
blackberries with complications
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 26, 2006
Saturday, August 19, 2006
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)
Maj. K Cuthbert-Jones (unemployed) and Norma (bikini)
Sunday, August 13, 2006
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
"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.