Guest Blogger: The Yummy, Scrummy RUFUS

Looks like Shit-for-Brains is stuck for ideas.

I can always tell. He comes over all mawkish and mopish, drinks way too much of that weird brown milk.

His latest ruse (can you believe it) is trawling the internet for GUEST BLOGGERS. Ha! More fool him! Wily puss cat that I am, I managed to intercept the correspondence using my fish-enhanced feline cunning, and somewhere along the way discovered a great new cat dating site called Mog4Mog.

You heard it first here: CYBER ROMANCE BLOSSOMS.

So, here’s what I got from the delightful RUFUS...

To Geoff

I am in love with your elegant fur.
Let me lick you all over and seize you in carnal embrace
Forgetting that my wretched human has emasculated me
But at least you won’t get pregnant.
What do you say?

Baby, when you flaunt your gonads in that provocative way, what is there to say?

Okay, maybe “Bejesus! Watch what you’re doing with that thing! You’ll have a poor girl’s eye out!” Corny, I know — but as chat-up lines go, that one never fails me.

You requested an answer, O tommish ginger one. And here it is...

To Rufus

I wandered lonely as a cat,
all promise of love, a dim hope.
Then you dangled your tackle before me.
O Rufus! Come on! Let’s elope!

Shit-for-Brains is away for a couple of days, so let’s talk about fish and mice and soft cushions in the comments trail, all you cats. And be warned, pesky humans — should you be foolish enough to intrude on our catly business, your words will be treated with scorn. Unless you’re Rufus’ Special Mummy. She’s allowed (but only just).

VHS vs Betamax, Paper vs eStuff

A chance discovery of this forgotten nursery rhyme should serve as a warning to us all.

Not every Thing That Becomes What Is is necessarily The Best Idea.


Hroobli Wroobli
gymnastically exfoliated.
Hroobli Wroobli
fantastically invaginated.
All the King's horses
and all the King's men






procrastinated






then went home.

Doodlebuggery Juan

Now here’s a funny thing.

Actually, not so much funny as not particularly funny at all.

It’s just weird, I suppose. And even then, not.

Last night, I found myself doodling in a bar. I should have been drinking, I know, but a gang of lads had been in and sucked every last drop of lager from the taps with their boisterous knockabout nostrils. Under such circumstances, what’s a boy to do?

Anyhow, this is what I drew.

If you’re desperate for the sort of thrills and spills normally reserved for riding a bucking bronco bareback, you can enlarge the picture by clicking on it.

At the time, I wondered if I ought to post it, seeing as I’ve run a few similar items before, but then I thought, “no, that’s perfectly ridiculous — people will think me such a fool, and I’ll probably end up in the internet equivalent of the stocks being pounded by virtual rotten fruit. Don’t be so bloody stupid, Whirl. Grow up. And pack dancing on the table, you spectacularly showy twerp. It’s U2, not the Bee Gees.”

What changed my mind (about posting, not continuing to dance on the table — which I now regret bitterly, btw) is this post from the delightful Fairy The Wonderhog.

If I’d stuck to my original plan (insofar as sitting in a bar constitutes any kind of strategy), the Onion of Light would have been lost forever.

Now, thank heaven, she’s saved.

And Juan is just the first of many.

A Rare Day Of Uncertainty

Some days, you wake up with the sun in your heart, a smile on your face, and an expectation that nothing but good will come of everyone’s hearty endeavours in this glorious world of ours.

Other days, it's as if the mood swings of a thousand grizzly bears subjected to a regime of alternating honey treats and electric shocks have been beamed into your brain with the aid of a device normally reserved for enema clinics while Demis Roussos dances naked on your stomach, belting out a medley of his classics.

What's odd about this morning is that it seems to be neither of these, and I'm confused.

Do I kiss everyone I meet — or rip their heads off?

A Nice Cheese Sandwich

Great.

Now that I’ve frightened everyone away with the previous post, there’s only one thing to do: decommission my errant soul by encasing all manifestations of its reckless mortal romp inside a selection of robustly secured underground cryogenic bunkers.

Nope.

Sounds too complicated.

A cheese sandwich, then — but not anything with cranberries in it.

[At this point, there is an interlude of some minutes. For you, too, there could be an interlude before you read on, if you choose. That way we’d be interlude buddies — albeit asynchronously. So, yes, while I’m away preparing my sandwich, why not take a moment or two to snack on a chocolate bar, make yourself a cup of tea, or fill in a couple of crossword clues? Anything, anything will do. You have my permission. Go crazy]

Back now, avec sarn.

Mmmmmm. Very nice.

Nice cheese.

Soft — but not so soft you wonder if you’re eating soup, some kind of weird sandwich-form soup, complete with croutons.

It’s very tasty bread too, with nuts and seeds and none of the slivers of millers’ fingernails you normally find in a wholemeal bouldeure rustique.

And the second mouthful is as wholesome and yummy as the first!

I’d recommend this to anyone in NATO employed as a potential meeter and greeter of alien hordes from beyond. One look at this baby, and all manner of intergalactic conflicts could be nipped in the bud. Plus, it would make great business for the thousands of cheese blokes worldwide* — and safeguard the future of cattle as a species too. The way things are going, by 2050 all the poor mookes will have been slaughtered to cut down on methane emissions, but if we can hook up with a bunch of aliens, their milk can be farmed off-world with no harm done to the polar bears. They could even power the furnaces of entire galaxies where methane is in short supply — assuming, of course, that the whole alien/off-world Stilton thing comes about before equality-enhancing brain implants for cattle, and therefore, the bovine equivalent of suffragettes. The last thing we want is a pressure group consisting of synaptically superior cattle whose democratic rights fuel an unstoppable bum gas apocalypse. So we’ve got to get the timing of all this exactly right. And of course, those aliens have got to invade when we’re ready for them. Anyhow, nice cheese...

I’m on to the second sandwich now (by which I mean the second triangle of a straight two slice composition, and not anything fancy like you see at dinner parties, typically with eggs or pureed rhino heart) — and this is going down like a synchronised high diving squad bombing into a pool of virgin olive oil. While I was adjusting my stance for the slice de resistance during the making of this sarn, it occurred to me that I might have made a mistake by omitting pickle, but something of the warm glow of Complete Sandwich Competence now ripples from my flesh, igniting sticky notes and exposed body hairs with equal gusto. It doesn't need it.

Very, very nice.

This is the sort of cheese sandwich that could win medals.

Several medals.

If I wasn’t chomping the last mouthful right now, I’d enter it in one of those high falutin’ sandwich contests. Correction: if I hadn’t eaten any of it, that’s what I’d have done. No-one ever won a high falutin’ sandwich contest with something chomped down to the last bite. It’s the cheese, see? Making me go silly.

And do you know what? I’d wear them. The medals, I mean. To the shops, to work, to everywhere — dangled from my lapel with hand-embroidered braids, and possibly photos of the sandwich itself.

All done now.

Goodness, that was a treat.

I could’ve gone with the nachos, or a classic Whirl Rice Krispies straight from the Packet, but I made the right decision — about the absence of pickle, the method of slicing, everything.

I feel a sated man.

And yes, I put that in for innuendo value, folks. Plus, people rarely consider the sated men of the world when making plans for the future. That’s why there’s no Sated Men Lane on the motorway. So hurry up with this one, all you politicians, it’s a powder keg out there.

Mmmmmm. Very nice.

And such a decorative napkin.

Mmmmm.

Just right.





* or whatever the technical term is for the people who grow all the cheese

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Thanks to the delightful Fairy the Wonderhog, I am reminded that today is Down The Rabbit Hole Day — traditionally the day in the year when every married man is booted out of the doghouse and forced to dig his own grave by an unrepentant missus.

Sadly, lack of time precludes me from posting something in a style alien to this blog, so as a copout, here's something I dug out from one of those wacky Tubey whatsit sites...

Guest Blogger Me On Up/Down, Baby

To satisfy their whimsiest of whims, some people cultivate buboes, others grow strange beards that prompt small children to hurl stones and abuse — but I (my friends) am having a Guest Blogger, yes I am.

And YOU (my friends) could be it.

So, the curtains are open, the sash window drawn back, the door held ajar, the trapdoor released, the pit of snakes disabled, and the kung fu gimp-cum-janitor primed with popcorn and dispatched to the nearest cinema on a mule.

Submissions on any subject related to the content of this blog are welcome. Email me at whirlochre@gmail.com by Wednesday 27th, 11.55pm GMT and I’ll pick out and post my favourite. Or my least favourite. Maybe even all of them — hey, it’s my blog.