Monday, April 13, 2015

AbyssWinksBack II — Demons - It Seems - Are Biddable


    Seems I’ve mutated.


    I’m still me; I still look weird.

    But my internal squirmings and squirrelings have rent this Blogger carapace asunder like Tony Stark having rumpily pumpy adventures with Thor inside his iron suit.

    And I don’t want to remain anywhere near any misplaced Asgardian deity metaphors.


    So here’s my new hangout as of now:

    https://abysswinksback.wordpress.com/


    It’s exactly the same, exactly the different.



https://abysswinksback.wordpress.com/

    Demons — it seems — are biddable.


But Wait! Hold On A Second!


    No, wait!

    This isn’t the end at all!

    All this amissness, this weirdness, this whoopsterpoopsterishness — it’s simply one of these
...


    Ha!  That explains things!

    What a chump I am for mistaking my rebirth for my demise!


     9.59am, Monday, it is, then...



Sunday, April 12, 2015

Or Is This...The END...???

this is it.
it's all over.
this is what this is.

it's the end.
the end of this.

it's the end.












aaaaaaaaaarrrrggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!


Saturday, April 11, 2015

Is This...The Abyss...?



amiss amiss amiss







all


wrong





feeling


 weird


like




a Patrick Swayze milkshake

 



up a cat's arse




amiss

amiss

amiss

amiss

amiss

Friday, April 10, 2015

Confusion Gallops All Around Like Princess Anne Riding A Buffalo


    Something is definitely amiss.

    I said so yesterday.











    Urgh.

    My life is passing before me.





        Most









    strange.






    I said something was amiss






    And I was right.





    I said so yesterday...




Thursday, April 9, 2015

Gripped By The Wriggleworthiness Of A Confirmed Whoopsterpoopster


    I am gripped by the wriggleworthiness of a confirmed whoopsterpoopster.


    Confused?

    Ok, let’s analyse that baybay.

   
    ‘I’, I hope you all get, because that’s basics, and ‘am’ follows on from there unless you think too hard about it — so what are we all to do with ‘wriggleworthiness’?

    That’s where the problems begin.


 

    According to Mirriam Webster, wriggleworthiness is a word that ought to feature prominently in the final furlong of the Oxford English Dictionary — only it doesn’t.

    Seems it slipped out through the appendix like an weirdsy escapologist who ducked out of the whole escape from the bowels of an elephant deal by creeping back up the pipe and taking a wrong turning somewhere close to the navel.

    Whichever way you look at it, this wriggliworthiness signifies escape.

    Only the wriggleworthy can wriggle free of anything.

    They are eels amongst men, oiled kickboxers amongst eels.


    So, where are we up to?

    My desire to escape?

    Because I’m so gripped by my own wriggleworthiness that I’ve passed over ‘gripped’ like it wasn’t even there?


    Something is amiss.

    Something is surely amiss.

    And that’s before we get anywhere near figuring out what a whoopsterpoopster is, confirmed or no...



Monday, April 6, 2015

The Door


    I have my election strategy sorted.
                                           
    This time round, I’m playing my doorstep canvassers like it’s Hallowe’en.


    Remember the deal from October?

    You pudda da pumpkin in da window, you loada da sweeties in da basket — then you waida for da costoomed kiddies to show up.

    It’s fun, it’s necessary — it’s life.


    That said, the stakes are higher for a UK general election.

    Not everyone can win treats — nor even deserves to.

    Yet there will be no picking favourites by virtue of a proudly displayed pumpkin-turned-poster on my watch.

    May my front window declare that I am open to all comers, like the maw of an indiscriminately horrid demon.

    As for sweeties, hmmm
some.


    I know who’s getting my vote already, so for them,  let there be marshmallows.

    Which leaves the Also-rans and the Noes-because-Woes...



    For the Also-rans, I shall fake a series of smiles and nod my head like a bored nurse blowing breadcrumbs from a snoozing octogenarian.


    This is the UK, after all.  We’re polite.


    For the Noes, I shall reserve my pickaxe.


    When my Dad was still alive, he destroyed a brick garage with it, and when my Grandad was still alive, he would invite visiting political canvassers into his shed to chew the fat while he strangled a chicken.



    My pickaxe stands in the hallway.


    And it will be shown to those whose time has come to be shown the door.




Thursday, April 2, 2015

Strapline Bootcamp #2



"If Ogilvy had landed before Shakespeare, Twelfth Night would be condoms." P. George