The Hole She Bangs!

Is Not How It Looks. She is Just My Assistant

The appalling latest news in the world of celebrity "entertainment," which was come out of the blue only this week, is the confession from Latin heart-thrub and all-round croner Randy Martin that he has been leading a double-life all this time. In secret, and behind everyone's backs, he has also been an 82-year-old homosexual magician. Si! He is not just a singer. He is also a trickster jiggerer pokerer and an atheist, to boot, who have all these years been sawing ladies in half, disappearing the Eiffel Tower, and hiding the sausage.

This kind of misdirection is known in the trade as a beard, which you can see Martin wearing in the picture below during his live show at the Copacabana.

She's into superstitions black cats and voodoo dolls.
I feel a premonition that girl's gonna make me fall.
She's into new sensations new kicks in the candle light.
She's got a new addiction for every day and night.

She'll make you take your clothes off and go dancing in the rain.
She'll make you live her crazy life but she'll take away your pain
like a bullet to your brain. Come On!

[CHORUS:]
Upside, inside out she's livin la vida loca etc.

Nobody would have thought to put the two and two together and realize Martin's other identity, and seeing he has come out of the cabinet of curiosities, everyone is wondering why on earth he thought that now would be a good time to espose himself. After all, it is not like it is any more acceptable to be a magician today than it was in the 19th or 20th centuries, when members of the Magic Circle were social outcasts, lepers, misfits who were hunted down, humiliated, scorned, and then tied up in a strait jacket, suspended upside down, and lowered into a tank of water behind a curtain so that nobody could see. And then afterwards he was punched in the stomach.

I suspect the reason is that Martin has seen the success that peoples like David Blaine, Uri Geller, Derren Brown and David Koresh was having with their prestidigitation, magnetic hypnotisms, and sleights of hand and thought that perhaps society was becoming increasingly tolerant if it was able to make heroes out of such social inadequates. What he was fail to realize is that these men are successful only on sufferance. The Atheistic Masonic Illuminati who allow them their popularity do so only on condition that they devote their time to debunking religion, casting aspersions on the miracles of Our Lord and Saviour Jesus, and generally being septical of Christianity and bringing it into disrepute such as by claiming to be the Messiah (as in the case of Koresh and Blaine). Foolishly, in his magician guise, Martin himself have also offered $1 million dollar if anyone can show, under proper observing conditions, evidence of any paranormal, supernatural, or occult power or event. While this may curry favour with his evil overlords and masters, it is not making him any more loveable to decent ordinary fascist Christians such as alright-thinking people like me and you, dear both my reader. Thus it is a real conandrumm as to why Martin have made this admission now.

Unless of course he is about to plead for our forgiveness. Si. That could be it. He wants to apologize and make up for everything that he have inflicted on us up til now. For A Medio Vivir, for Almas del Silencio, for Sound Loaded, and most of all, for not being Gloria Estefan.

Maybe in another life, Randy!

Have You Seen This Dog?

He is not easy to miss!!

I am think I was mention last week in my post that my next-door neighbours, the Mengeles, have been in a state of self-impose quarantine for the last six weeks. But I was not specify the reasons, which is that they were carrying out very important secret domestic science esperiments. You see, while the Mengeles are, like most inhabitants of Las Canarias, misanthropic loners who are fervently hoping that the climate change is real and the rest of the entire planet is engulfed by water/fire/snow/snot/ketchup, they are neverthenonetheless estremely fond of animals, in particular their pet dogs. Germans love their dogs, as you will have seen in a hole range of top-shelf magazines. However, the Germans are in a habit of breeding big dogs, such as the Doberman Pinschers, the German Shepherds, and the Rhodesian Ridgeback, and there is several problems that accompany the ownership of big dogs: (1) Having to replace all the dead gardeners; (2) Having to replace all the big dogs; (3) Having to replace all the small dogs; (4) Cleaning up after them.

The first problem is easy to solve. There are, after all, thousands of cheap illegal Africans washed up on the shore of the Canarias looking for a better life, and for the three or four weeks that they survive in the employ of the Mengeles, they are able to enjoy that better life. The second problem is more tiresome, because the Mengeles are the kinds of people who quickly become attached to their animals; they have so much love to give, having kept it to themselves for most of their life, particularly during the 20th century, when Germans was not having any outlet for espressing their caring side. Besides, there are no dog breeders on the Canarias to buy new dogs from, which is ironic, because the islands' name comes from the Latin word for dog, Canis (which is originally come from the Spanish word, el perro). So every time the Mengeles are lose a dog, they have to fly back to Germany to get a new one, with all the concomitant risk of being identified, arrested, and flown to The Hague for crimes against humanity trials. Or worse, Israel, for a holiday.

The small dogs which they are always have to replace are the small dogs which belong to local Spanish owners. The Spanish are prefer small dogs rather than big dogs, which might bully them. However, the Mengeles' big dogs are as affectionate as the Mengeles themselves, which usually results in couplings that are detrimental to the health of the small dogs. Or else they are eat them. Sometimes both.

The final problem is so obvious you cannot miss them. German dogs do not do poos. They do pies. "That is not just a pie! Is a cake!" said Frau Mengele the last time she was accidentally place her cup of tea on top of one, thinking it was a garden table her husband had bought without telling her. "Si. Is a cack cake!" I said, laughing internally and rupturing something. "Where is your glasses, Frau Mengele? Was you not realize?" In truth, the poo was not just clearly identifiable, squatting by the pool like a malevolent pouffe, it could also be smelled while we was still inside the house, and with the sliding doors shut too. But Frau Mengele is getting very old, and both her eyes and her nose are not what they used to be. What they used to be was someone else's eyes and nose, but thanks to the Chinese government and private transplant facilities, they are now Frau Mengele's.

After we had had our afternoon tea and scones and Frau Mengele had hired a new African to clear away the mess, she make a call to her husband, who was I think out windsurfing, and was tell him now that they are get rid finally of the big dogs and that they were going native, buying a small dog, which, as you can see in my photo above, is what they did, escept, to spare themselves the embarrassment of the small dog, they have disguise him up as a big dog, in case any of their German friends come round and point and laugh. They are also training the dog to attack strangers, so he is more like a German dog. So far, the training is not going well, mainly because the dog is keep trying to escape. But of course, as I was point out to the Mengeles, this is what always happen when you bestow skills on someone. Teach people to read, and they start questioning your interpretation of the Bible. Teach them to use weapons to defend you, and they can turn those weapons against you. Teach your dog the elementary principles of disguise, and soon he is impersonating the postman and making a break for it. Which was not all so bad, since the post have improved since he take over.

But however now the Mengeles are both frustrate and sad that he is try to escape, because they have already grow to love him and his small poos. So I make tripwiring for all the hedges and fences for them around their property so that Rudolf does not get out (all of the Mengeles' dogs have always been call Rudolf. I have no idea why. None of them ever have red noses!) But Rudolf is so quick that, as soon as someone open the front gate, he is down the garden path, leap up the small step, and is out onto the esplanade to worry the topless ladies. It is then take all day for Herr Mengele to track him down, usually in a bar or nightclub, sometimes the 24-hour supermarket, where Rudolf has found himself a job on the tills. They will employ anyone there.

So yes, the six-weeks' quarantine that I mention. Is this. Herr Mengele was have a brilliant idea to stop Rudolf's running aways. He was see on the Internet or in one of his regular magazines an advertisement for the Bathmate Goliath, which is a very useful machinery for making big the male penis. Geniusly, he send off for it, using his lateral thinking, after reading about its money-back guarantee. If you use it for six weeks and there is no massive improvement, you can sent it back, unused, at no loss.

I think you are probly ahead of me already. For the past six weeks, they have been using the Bathmate Goliath three times a day on Rudolf, with such amazing success that now his male member drag along under him on the floor. Is hilarious to watch. Rudolf is like a dog with two tails! And so now, whenever someone is come through the gate and Rudolf make a sprint for it, whenever he get to the small step and try to jump up it, his monstrous manbit is act like an anchor and catch on the step. Rudolf is give a big yelp and curl into an agony ball on the grass, which give time—usually 20 minutes or so—for Frau Mengele to walk the 18 feet to the end of the garden and shut the gate. It work like a charm.

Well. It have work like a charm for a week. Having learn that he can no longer escape through the gate, Rudolf spent all last Thursday night watching Herr Mengele's collection of animal porn, then while everyone else was still in bed, he ran the length of the garden and pole-vaulted over the gate, and nobody has seen him since. Herr Mengele has try all the exotic dance bars and strip joints in Corralejo and Puerto del Carmen. He is also think of maybe trying Gran Canaria, where they are much more keen on that sort of thing. He is only interest in bringing Rudolf home and looking after him, you understand. He is not intending to hire Rudolf out.

So, please, if you are see Rudolf anywhere (he may not be answering to the name Rudolf; he may already be using a pseudonym), please let me know as soon as you can, for me that I can inform the Mengeles. They are missing their Rudolf terribly, and is not nice to see a grown man cry.

Also, would anyone like to buy a second-hand Bathmate Goliath. One very careful pervious owner. Contact address as above.



Besos


Manuel

Look! Is My Mate!

Spread it on your Bread of Heaven!

Did you see the story on the communist liberal BBC about the family in Wales that are find the image of Our Lord on the lid of something call Marmite? No? Neither did I. But thanks to Daphne's sharp eyes, we can all now see what can only be further proof that the end of civilization is upon us. Oh yes indeed. Anyone with half a brain can see what is happening here. So let me tell you. First we was having the Jesus toast. Then later we was having, in my very own home, the sign of the dolphin under the coffee cup. After that, we was having the miracle of the Padre Pio butter. And now we have the Our Lord in Marmite. Anytime soon, mark my word, we can espect to see the following: Passionfruit jam, Pain au Chocolat, and Crossants. That is right. Prepare yourselves for The Last Breakfast.

The table have already been prepare by George W. Bush and his nutters, who have made sure the global economy is descend into chaos, the Antichrist is in charge of the White House, and the False Pope is leading the One True Faith into a miasmi of doubt and despair as all the revelations about false priests being tempted by Satan drip into the public conscienceness like so many beads of diseased sperm on the tongue of an innocent child.

At least, that is what I am think this means. Because when I look again at the Marmite, I am think I also possibly see not Our Lord but maybe the rubbish symbol of the forthcoming London Olympics, the one with Lisa Simpson giving a man a blow job. Or possibly the man on the left is tossing off a bloke in a wheelchair, which would be more appropriate, I think, as the symbol of the Paralympics, not the Proper Olympics. I am only suggest this because, as pictures of Jesus go, he is having particularly beady eyes, which even though they follow you around the kitchen like real Jesus eyes, they are also make you wonder if this Jesus is an alien. And that is raise also a significant question: Why don't aliens have beards? Are their spaceships so advance that they have the Gillette Mach Three Turbo technology? Or is it that they fly so fast that they are not get time to even develop a five-the-clock shadow? I think we should be told.

But never mind that, Manuel, you are already saying. What the fuck is Marmite? This is a difficult question, particularly to someone as unsophist as me who have gone out of their way to cultivate ignorance of worldly matters all these years. Well, out of a sense of obligation to both my reader, I was undertake some research, but guess what: It is not mentioned nowhere in the Bible at all. Not even in Leviticus! So I was phone up my next-door neighbours the Mengeles (I could not go round because their house is in quarantine at the moment), and they were put me on to a pharmacist friend of theirs who have spent some time among the natives of Britain doing missionary work and trying to show the idiot British how to dress and behave properly—basic hygience, politeness, stop invading other people's countries, and so on—and according to him, although you are probly not going to believe this, Marmite is a yeast that tastes like beef and which the English are put in their mouths! Si! Drink some water, quick! How fowl and disgusting.

Of course, they are only do this, apparently, because they are run out of cows, thanks to the BSE and the stockpiles they had to burn:

Apparently NOT How They Make Bovril

Once their Twiglet supplies had run out, British people was having nowhere to turn for their dietary yeast—well, nowhere that tasted very nice—and so they were reduce to the consumption of this savoury breakfast spread which you can use on bread, toast, ryvitas, crackers, and water biscuits. But also, if you are already fed up with lamb chops and gammon steak, you can spread it on your meat and pretend that it is sirloin. Especially if you close your eyes. And hold your nose.

Of course, we in civilize Spain have never had this problem. Be cause we know how to treat our cattle.

It could never happen here!

Give Ireland Back to the English!

Welcome to Sunny Crete. Don't Not Forget Your Beach Towels!!

Did my title get your attention? Si! Are you like it? Of course! Is my entry suggestion for the new competition Your Lovely Pissing Country, Your Call, which have been set up by the husband of the president of lovely pissing Ireland, Michael MacIntyre, in the hope that the country's devout, downtrodden peasants can come up with free ideas to get the place out of another fine mess they've gotten us into, all because the government just haven't got a clue what to do. They are like a man who have sat in a bucket and lowered himself down a well and then when he get to the bottom remembers he cannot swim, and also is allergic to water and buckets. He is at the bottom shouting up, "Hello!! Is there anybody out there? Peasants! Little help!" And the peasants are say, "We'd be very glad to help you, escept you are have our only bucket. And you have also cut our turning-the-winch wages, which means we are not have much energy or enthusiasm for pulling you back up. Our wages are already suppose to be use to bail you out. Where did they go?" But he cannot tell them that they have gone because his bucket have a hole in, dear Liza with a zed, and because they will go bonkers and put a lid on the well and maybe even estend the metaphor still further yet.

Anyway, even if you are think my suggestion is crazy—and after the hames the Irish have made of Ireland, it is not—I am only make the suggestion after stealing it from the Germans, who was last week in the papers suggesting to the Greeks that they should sell off some off their islands to save their economy. The Germans are resenting having to loan back to Greece the money they stole at the end of the war and are thinking themselves up the clever ways to solve the problem, in an ad hoc competition called "Someone Else's Country, Your Insults." There have been a big kerfuffle in the media over this suggestion, but in fact I think that it can kill one bird with two stones if done correctly. For esample, why not just give the Germans Crete back? The Germans have shown themselves inordinately fond of visiting the island and did their best to get rid of any Greeks they found there the last time they were there en masse. The Germans do not have any sunny bits in their own country, and eschanging Crete for writing off the Greek debt would have the benefits of (1) being a simple solution, (2) cheering the Germans up, and (3) providing some much-desired lebensraum that would make Poland, the Czech Republic, and Russia breathe much more easy at last. There are already thousands of Germans in Crete, most of them dead, so it would not take long for the new arrivals to make themself at home. As you are know already, my dear reader, we Spanish made this same esperiment after the war when El Generalísimo Francisco Franco was give the southern part of the island of Fuerteventura, the province of Jandía, to the Third Reichs in gratitude for all the help that it had given in the Spanish Civil War for Golf. And everyone have been happy ever after.

Also in the news this week was the disgraceful news about the Vatican conspiracy to undermine efforts to make the Real Pope John Paul Mark 2 into a saint, although of course he is not dead but held prisoner in Castelgandolfo. As you may have read, the nun who was cure of Michael Parkinson Disease by praying to the real pope have fallen sick again. The only possible esplanation of this is that she have been gotten to by the evil forces of the Usurper Pope Bendedict, who have clearly re-Parkinsoned her to prevent the Real Pope's canonisation. They cannot come out upfront and say, "He cannot be a saint because he is not dead yet," because this would make a real giveaway, so instead they are have to deliberately undercut all the other planks of the campaign, by discrediting the evidence for his saintliness. Is only a matter of time before the Swiss Guard locate the smoking gun, however, or the smoking syringe, or whatever it is they give to people to re-Parkinson them. Not that you will hear about it in the papers. For which I blame Rupert Murdoct.

One story that was make me laugh heartily and I espect you will laugh too, dear reader, was this one in the Communist atheist Guardian about how the Israel embassy in Madrid is receive letters from schoolchildren in Valencia saying things like "Why are you killing Palestinian children?" and "Get off my land." Of course, the weak-kneed Guardian feels obliged to get an opinion from the Jews, who are say: "the Spanish government is allowing state schools to be used to promote hatred of both Jews and Israel in a country that already ranks as one of the most antisemitic in Europe." As if that is a bad thing!!

I will be frank about the Middle East conundrum. I am not really understand, as a follower of the One True Faith, what the fuss is about when Jews and Muslims are killing one another. Is not like we Catholics are have a horse in this race. The Middle East should belong to Christians, of that there is no dispute, and the best thing we can do is let them batter one another to a sweetmeat so that when they are both eshausted we can step back in again a regain the territory so tragically lost after the crusade. For which I blame Saladin. And Rupert Murdoct. And also the fundamentalist Protestants who for some reason believe Israel's victory will precipitate the Second Coming, as if it is something for them to look forward to. Ha ha ha! I cannot wait to see the looks on their faces!

I shall be spend the nest two weeks on the beach of an unnameable Greek island myself on a busman's holiday; the view from my terrace here in the Islas Canarias can be a little tiresome when there is no topless beach volleyball happening, and so I am parting my legs and seeing new horizons, escept it is the same one as last year, where I will watch tanned foreing ladies doing naked wrestling and possibly also drinking raki and ouzo and eating figs. Can you tell where it is yet?

While I am there, I shall be listening to my newly bought iGod, which have the entire Bible, both the true bit and the old bit, translated into English and also in the original Spanish. Naturally, I can already recite it from memory, but I am figure you can't get enough of a good thing, and also it would help me improve my English—not that it is need improving!—if I get borded of listening to the Sermol on the Mount for the 3,000th time. There is no better way of drowning out the sound of children laughing, birds singing, sweet music playing, the sea gently waving at the Laps, and all those other annoying distractions that can ruin a holiday. I shall even wear it while I sleep in the knowledge that I can thereby become subconsciously more pious and repress all those sadistic erotic fantasies about my mother that so frequently are inhabit my dreams.

If you are have any ideas, incidentally, about how we can improve lovely pissing Ireland, don't tell me about them. Go direct to the horse's arse and tell them. I am sure they will be greatful for any imaginary suggestions. Is what the hole economy was based on!