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

Mailbag

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.