Ruminatia and Roald

I hate the bourgeoisie. They laugh at poor people. I like the petite bourgeoisie. They laugh at the proletariat. And that's ok. What's not ok is carelessness with communication. Deals fall apart because of wrongly timed jokes, or improperly placed commas. The spoken word is a particular bitch. My training in not fucking up began at home when mother would glare at us, in a state of shock, if we would ever commit verbal gaffery (sic). I'm not talking about Spoonerisms. She looked at those as a mild irritant. I'm talking about things like when you're a toddler at the park and you run up to your primary care-giver and say "I footed (kicked) the ball mama". Her reaction was similar to the way staunch catholics cross themselves when they're at an exorcism.

With this background, i would now like to reveal that there are times when i lose my composure. Blamelessness is a quality least desired:
"Actually, if you are taken the back road via flora bakery you can able to reached there more faster"
"Yesterday i saw a small utility vehicle of Nano"
"My wife is having shooger" (sugar::diabetes)
"da, plees dileete that picture of me da, my face is looking fat".

Yes man, that's why i captured your visage at that exact moment. I'm not gonna delete it. I hate people telling me what to do. Don't tell me what to do. In fact, help me out with whatever it is i'm doing and i'll be ever grateful:



It was the same when I was a swineling. People always asking me to do this and not do that. Come on bits stop eating your boogers, come on bits don't pick your scabs, come on bits don't beat your brothers, come on bits try not to crack your skull open, come on bits get up for school and learn to start hating your life, come on bits get out of that bathroom even though you're not done yet, come on bits try to eat this bowl of boiled ridge gourd for dinner and hate its texture forever after, come on bits polish your knives later and go buy the groceries, come on bits say your poem for uncle which you said so nicely in school. After "saying" a poem 50 times for practice it gets old. Even for the above-average attention whore such as myself, reciting a poem for a fawning elder is akin to swimming in prostate juice. Baa baa black sheep, have you any wool? Yes sir, yes sir, go fuck yourself. Have I any wool? I'm 5, so no bastard i don't have any wool. One time i actually did have some wool from granny's sewing kit, but i was saving it to see if i could tie it around a magnet and fetch coins from the floor. Ok, I didn't say all those things at the age of 5, but i did think them in different words. I also miss granny's hand knitted sweaters. I had a bitchin' blood red one. Those things kept me warm like hellboy. i hope mother's saved them somewhere. i lack the estrogen levels needed to remember these things. doesn't mean i don't care. effyewh. Granny always took care of us kids. she never let any of us feel left out. damn, that kind of unconditional love and caring i have never received ever again. Every Saturday from 1984 to '87, after lunch she'd sit me down next to her and she would translate for me in English from little comic strips that would be published in her weekly vernacular. This was a great lady, who learnt English simply by interacting with newspapers, her kids and her kids' kids. Hanging with Granny was akin to visiting Erana's peace in the PC game 'Quest for Glory I' (Hero's Quest) by Sierra. The same peace and calm would prevail when Granny was in the room. Here's a fantastic rendition of Erana's peace by OnewithTheClaws (Fredd Marshall) from deviantart.com. Reproduced without permission:



On the subject of books, my 2 favourite authors are Roald Dahl and Spike Milligan. Salinger, J.D. is of course very cool but i only ever read 2 of his books. Carl Sagan was a fantastic sage but his genre is limited. Nevertheless these are great men. What is a complete waste of time, however, is the Daniel Steele, Jeffrey Archer, fucking Sidney Sheldon sewagery, and the super fuckwaste epics by Ayn Rand. Long and winding books that involve a hundred characters and make you feel like you've just wasted a month of your life. These pillock-smacks require a strategy to be read. Otherwise you end up leaving it unfinished, unless you're a really, really boring person and actually read books cover to cover. Every time i picture someone reading the last sentence of a book and shutting it with a smile when they're done, i also picture myself walking over to them and throwing a cup of warm rape into their mouth. in reality, what i do is, i read the last 2 chapters first. they make very little sense, and it's almost impossible to remember them. But it helps because u know you don't have to worry about reading it till the end.

Which brings me to, perhaps, the only fictional author worth reading. I speak of none other than Dahl. This man is the reason i believe in good writing. I'm too old for Shakespeare now but i'll admit it, that Victorian bitch was quite the wordsmith. However, Dahl is the ubermensch because he weaves his stories like a ruthless mage specializing in orgasmic mind-rape. Don't compare Dahl to the epic greatness of Tolkien because they're not in the same genre. Just don't do it.

I'll end today with a tribute to Spike Milligan, the man whose World War II autobiographies taught me the meaning of funny. The seven volumes are:

- Adolf Hitler: My Part In His Downfall
- 'Rommel?' 'Gunner Who?'
- Monty: His Part In My Victory
- Mussolini: His Part In My Downfall
- Where Have All The Bullets Gone?
- Goodbye Soldier
- Peace Work

The humour within the writing can only be Milligan - the same can be said for the style of war reporting and commentary, the accounts of friendship, suffering, kindness and vulnerability, and the underlying despair at man's tireless pursuit of self-destruction.

When Spike Milligan died the world lost its greatest genius. This picture is from "Rommel? Gunner Who?".



Spike Milligan, the late. He told you he was ill: