Silk

After smashing a snifter of brandy into the skull of my servant, the liquor splashed back and soiled my favorite smoking jacket. Not only was the silk stained, but the rather pungent brandy overpowered the scent of the Thai whore who had last worn my treasured garment, during my sojourn in Malaysia. My eyes crinkle with mirth when I recall how after a nice bath in coconut milk she would wrap herself in my silk jacket so as to entrap the milk from "balls of the tree" in her skin. What a little minx she was! Her subsequent trampling by an elephant in Jakarta was most unfortunate.

I digress, with my servant unconscious I had no recourse but to obtain a new silk jacket myself, but, having no faith in the charlatans on Saville Row, or the degraded Chinaman who toiled in London's slums for a fistful of rice, I resolved to travel to the Orient in person in order to obtain a proper measure of the finest silk.

After the usual trials going round Cape Horn, and my standard bout of debauchery in Polynesia, my ship took port in Yokohama, where I met a deliciously ripe concubine of tightness rare, who also spoke no English. What a spectacular find indeed!

Our love was deep and pure, but I was forced to depart, for Japan simply did not have the technology to make a proper wheat biscuit, and my teas were suffering greatly. As we said our goodbyes, or should I say grunted, as she spoke not a word of any language I could remotely understand, she passed me a note, which was in Japanese, which I could not read. I wiped my mouth with it as some fish oil had dribbled on my jowl during our last repast.

It was then I realized that a strong chance existed that I would never see her again, and a mere note was not a sufficient memento. "My dear, whatever that note said, I'm sure it was lovely, but I dare say it won't last the trip...the Horn is a vicious beast, and the danger that my ship and all it carries will be lost forever is great. I must insist you give me something to remember you that will stay with always. Even if I find my ship wrecked and my body dashed naked onto some lonely desert isle."

She looked at me without comprehension, and merely burped, which caused her to chortle and made her breasts jiggle merrily. I turned to her master who had sat silently by during our entire tryst, making tea for us and changing the sheets. How a few gold pieces do placate even the sternest samurai!

"I say Tiger!" He looked up from his soup as I addressed him. "I am having trouble communicating with your girl. I wish to take with me an everlasting memento of our love. One that will survive whatever tempest or brigand I shall encounter on my journey home. Could you instruct her to give me a venereal disease good fellow? I'm assuming a ripe tramp such as her has several."

He nodded, and immediately threw the sheepskin prophylactics he had assembled for our trysts into the fire.

I turned back to Nariko..."My sweet. Each morning as the sun alights on my face and warms my skin I want to feel the warmth of your remembrance as I void. When my member burns like fire, my heart too will leap with the flames of love. Come give me your..." I turned to her master..."syphilis? I am rather pressed for time...is there a possibility of acquiring all of her venereal maladies in one go?"

It was then that she passed out, having gorged herself on coconut milk and come down with a rather terrible bout of indigestion. Her master suggested I take advantage of her while unconscious, as she was less likely to scratch, but her vomit did reek so, and I was impelled to venture outdoors where the air was fresher.

Democracy doesn't work

Drat and egad! Sometimes I don't know what the devil my plutocrats are doing, and why they tarry and fail to take prompt action and properly drug the food supply of the masses once and for all! Now I know some will always call for the elimination of the pauper once and for all, but I dare say until the servant robot has been perfected we must keep an ample supply of unwashed little people around so my tennis togs can be properly scrubbed and the impoverished harlot will bear no qualms about cleaning my nether regions with various orifice.

Latin is a lovely language is it not? Even on dark days a wry smile will cross my face sometimes when I think of those swarthy Romans and the lofty lingua they perfected oh so many centuries ago. But then of course I am overwhelmed with sadness when I think of how we better people, we rich few, let slip the reigns of untrammeled power and gave a sop to the filthy mass of idiots that make up the bulk of humanity. You see what happens when you spend each and every day cavorting on your yacht with a bronzed trollop, eating sweet grapes from her navel while shooting endangered fowl with a spear gun amidships.

One must take care to divert at least half a day a year to ensure the poor and powerless remain so, otherwise the catastrophe of an Obama election becomes a reality! I dare say it seems like only yesterday the ignorant inbred reprobate morons that composed most of the southern and western states of the USA could be counted on to carry the country for the elite, who could spend a moment or two appealing to their racism and general idiocy in order to garner the votes necessary to win the crown!

Of course that is the problem is it not? The President wears not a crown, why he seems never to don a chapeau at all! The loss of the haberdasher's influence was the death knell for power in the hands of the elite. A laurel never looked right on a pauper, and no impoverished scum would ever dare don a bowler hat and make a bid for the presidency when things were right with the world.

I can hear the squeals of idiot joy through my crystal windows now. Though I argued against nominating a cadaver and a bimbo my counsel went unheeded, and now the Bush years will end ignominiously! Who could have ever thought that possible?

With this calamity fresh in my mind I will divert a small portion of the fortune I amassed investing in oil 8 years ago to genetic research, and we shall see if those scientists I pay can alter the DNA so we can finally stamp out democracy, or at the very least the French, once and for all.

I dare say this century has gone far too long without a proper genocide. It will take two vials of phosphates and the full harem of my favorite whores to get me to rest tonight!

Ode to banishing the ugly, huzzah for the pretty chinese girl

I'm in Beijing for the Olympiad and I must say I'm greatly impressed with the Chinese! So rare to find a state that will go to such lengths to impress, and have the fortitude to use their nation's little girls to serve the needs of the country at large. Jehovah knows the failure to do so is what cost Britain its empire. Those buffoons in parliament and charlatans in Windsor Castle always lacked the mettle to use little British girls in order to win medals and impress foreigners. Of course we always did lead the way in oppressing people in distant lands, and China will need to rack up quite a few more Tibets before they can match our peerless record of international rape, pillage and murder!

I digress. The opening ceremony was such a splendid affair, and that was before I found out that members of the Chinese politburo, and the undoubtedly homosexual head of music for the ceremony, decided that the 9 year old slated to sing "Ode to the Motherland" at the ceremony was too hideous to be seen. Kudos to you Chinee! I can imagine their fear. Thinking of that little girl singing while hundreds of millions watched around the world...wondering if there was a family in Guatemala thinking, "Gross, look at that ugly Chinese girl singing. I'm turning off the Olympics and I hate China."

Or perhaps an old man in Oslo tuning in for a moment, "I say! Is that what passes for attractive among singing Chinese 9 year olds? She is repulsive. I will no longer watch the Olympics and I hate China."

Understandably they could not allow such worldwide disdain to take place, and so they found a delightful looking little girl who they pressured to lip sync. Of course pressure may be too strong a word, though everyone knows just how temperamental young imps can be! I trust they had a big boxful of sweets for her when they told her she would have to pretend to sing in front of millions, and don't you go telling everyone our little state secret precious!

I dare say I'm most glad I'm not the bureaucrat who had to break the news to the unappealing little girl. "You're too ugly to be seen. We'll be using your voice on a prettier girls face. Never tell anyone. Be thankful you can help the state."

I'm sure the little tyke will bear with such news well, and as for the bureaucrats who concocted the brilliant scheme, let's hope they all get an extra bonus this Christmas, though I don't think those heathens even celebrate the birth of Christ, the rascals.

Just when I was finished basking in the glow of the cynical use of little girls for the greater glory of the government I happened to notice this little sprite of a Chinese gymnast! She was cute enough to sing but this little pixie could also tumble! Surely she was destined to be my favorite athlete of the games and I looked forward to her post gold medal winning popular recording album and cinematic career. Then the screen flashed her age, 16, and I let out a hearty guffaw, for clearly this was some sort of jest as she was no more 16 than I was French.

I was tickled to find out later that it was not a mere error but in fact another concerted effort on the part of the Chinese to perpetrate fraud! How fantastic. I do so admire the Chinese for trammeling all over such outdated and puerile notions of "morality" and "good taste". They are becoming more American by the day are they not? It seems as though there is some ridiculous rule that bars children under the age of 16 from competing. What does a state do if their best gymnasts have just only turned 14? Meekly acquiesce and wait for the next Olympics?

No! The courageous state gets to work forging passports! I dare say some weaker, effete states like Switzerland might simply say, "Let's put our best athletes forward in the spirit of fair competition."

It is no wonder that such loser nations have never put forth a great head of state like Mao, and never known the joy of crushing millions and being hated. Praise to the Chinese for forging forward and ignoring such simplistic and pathetic notions! If a little girl has to be sacrificed for the good of the state than so be it! They may shed a tear or two, but those crystalline drops on their cheeks will capture the reflection of the gold medals around their necks so nicely no?

I do admit I shed a tear or two myself when I think of the Olympiad, and how pathetic the British are. And when I think of our little girls, and our women, and how absolutely unappealing they are at any age...Posh Spice?? That is what passes for an attractive but untalented songstress in Britain these days?? I think that cute little Chinese 9 year old weighs more than Posh, and is no doubt better educated. I dare say it is no wonder that I pretend to be Canadian sometimes.

Jaunt with scum

Greetings lesser people...recently I was called upon to attend one of those most somber and disastrous affairs, a wedding. How in this day and age any two people could feel the need to stand before a minister and exchange such cliched drivel so that they may be forever bound in matrimony baffles me. Do you really believe the day won't come where you shall rise with the dawn, look across your bedchamber at your spouse, and not summon your servant at once to bring the retching bowl? Ejecting your former beloved is always such a tawdry affair, usually accompanied with hysterics and broken furniture. Hence in my younger years, when I made the mistake of entering into "relationships", I would take care to end matters in hotels, so that any destruction would cost me little, and in fact provide some amusement.

My usual driver had come down with a rather vicious strain of heartburn, the result of my pouring motor oil down his throat, (prank gone awry), and so I was forced to hire a "taxi", one of those fanciful cars for hire that commoners use so often. My did it have a pungent odor! "I say then," I said to the driver upon entering, "there is a fantastic odor emanating from the confines of this automobile!"

He turned to me with a smile, "How are you my friend?"

What a friendly chap! "I'm well thank you for asking! I must say I didn't expect you to be so polite. Now then about the stench...were you driving your grandmother earlier by any chance?"

He ignored my query and began to motor along, and soon I was distracted by the rather fetching form of a tall slim lady crossing a bridge with her tot in tow. I pinched my nose and licked my lips.

The driver spoiled my reverie of maternal buggery with a query of his own. "Did you see that woman?"

I suspected he was going to make some crude common remark about her attractiveness and how he longed to defile her. "Yes."

"She lost a lot of weight my friend. She used to be quite fat."

What an interesting bit of intelligence! Perhaps all commoners were not scum after all, and could be counted on to provide useful facts for when I wanted to debauch low women. "Is that so?"

"Yeah, I think she has Aids."

I was somewhat taken aback by his logical leap. "Could she not simply be exercising, or perhaps she is so poor she cannot afford sustenance?"

"No, I think she has Aids."

"Do you know the woman?"

"No."

Fascinating. I began to wonder if this strange fellow was capable of driving me to my destination at all, or whether he planned to annihilate us both by driving into a tree. He then spotted a woman with a bag full of golf clubs. "Hey look! She must golf."

This observation seemed more grounded in fact, but I had my doubts, as I don't trust any woman who engages in sport. "I dare say she has the air of an assassin to me. Is that a 3 iron or a high powered sniper rifle?"

He turned around with eyebrow askew. "Are you fucking crazy man? Maybe she's a caddy or somethin."

I eyed his mouth and longed for a canister of motor oil and a scalding hot funnel. "Listen my good man, what say you keep your filthy mouth shut for the remainder of this trip."

"Whatever you say...you still gotta tip me though."

"Your tip is contingent on the quality of brothel you bring me to after I make my escape from this ceremony. Just know that all this talk of disease has me in the mood for an emaciated lady or two, with vacant eyes."

"I know just the place my friend!"

72

Of course as you know I have achieved astounding feats in a variety of fields, from biology, to geography, to sport and of course my great advances in the carnal arts. Therefore it was with a measure of shame that I realized one day that there are some who could say they have surpassed Somerset in excellence in a certain field, the field of martyrdom.

Yes it's true I have always been fascinated with the martyr, his dedication, fanaticism, and the way he is revered. Should not such veneration be given to me as well? How to get the glory and esteem that comes with a successful act of martyrdom, without the pesky and unfortunate side effect of death?

Now make no mistake I had no intention in becoming one of those namby pamby submissive lay down and be eaten by a lion or burned at the stake kind of martyr. No I always felt a kindred link to the strap a bomb to your body and assassinate as many as possible kind of chap. After all, though they say the pen is mightier than the sword, does any ink dispenser compare to 500 pounds of TNT?

How I do chortle at the thought of fighting against some tyrant or oppressor through the use of the printing press. Courtrooms and pamphlets? Pshaw! Why whenever my tenants dared to air their grievances with me through form or subpoena I had the paper burned and their houses too. The pen is not mightier than fire either I have discovered.

Where was I? Oh yes, the efficacy of blowing thine enemies to tiny bits. Longing to exalt myself to the status of martyr extraordinaire, I began to look into the matter further, with the goal of going down in the annals as the greatest martyr of all time by St. Crispin's Day.

Fear not, there was never a question of my dying of course. Naturally I would have one of my lesser servants serve as the body of martyrdom by proxy, while I would serve as the spiritual martyr and attain the glory, while living when I could appreciate it mind you.

Still I was reluctant to allow my servant to enjoy the pleasures my martyrdom would earn in the afterlife, and so I instructed him to merely hold my place in paradise until I died of natural causes and would then take over.

Lastly I wished to clear up some questions I had about the exact nature of paradise, and so I took my zeppelin, Der Albatross, to Islamabad, where I hoped to consult with some experts on the subject, and pick their minds on just what I was entitled to in paradise.

My attorney Sniveswell accompanied me and we joined a mullah in some ghastly cafe where the waitresses were covered head to foot. Nothing to whet the old appetite!

"So then mullah! Were I,"...Sniveswell tapped my arm..."pardon me, or my proxy I should say, to commit to blowing himself and the infidel to bits for the greater glory of Allah, I understand that 72 virgins await my fevered loins in paradise. Is that correct?"

The mullah scratched his beard and nodded.

"I say, this is a bit of an aside, but you know you and the Orthodox Jew, although perhaps not the best of comrades, do have much in common you know."

His eyebrow raised a touch.

"You both seem rather fond of beards and averse to soap. Those scraggly things teem with vermin you know."

He reached for a knife but Sniveswell placated him with some well placed gold coins. I continued.

"Now then, a point or two if I may. These 72 virgins sound well and good, but I dare say I am entitled to specifics am I not? Do I have your personal guarantee that these are good looking virgins? A virgin is fine and dandy at first thought, but perhaps they are virgins for a reason! Do you have a gaggle of amputees awaiting me in paradise? Old spinster women? Fatty boombalatties by any chance?"

The mullah seemed to grimace. I was undaunted.

"A hard bargainer I see! Well I'll have you know I was weaned in the bazaars of Morocco! And just what are these virgins doing when not fucking martyrs? Do they sit around paradise knitting or cooking or something? They must be rather bored no? And I dare say why 72? Why not 10 or 114? It seems a capricious number do you not agree?"

His gaze was of steel.

"You are a tough negotiator my good man. The Belgian technique! Abject silence! Well I shall continue...were these virgins living girls, who died while still virgins, and are now held in virgin pens in paradise? Or are they ghosts of some sort?"

Sniveswell was writing many things down and I paused to look around for a waitress as my lime drink had grown warm. I spied a glimpse of her ankle and my privates stirred. "Ah yes, Sniveswell this is an important point so have that pen ready."

I turned to the mullah. "As you know from my obvious vigor I shall have no problem defiling 72 virgins, or 720 for that matter, assuming of course that no matter how I die my body will be reanimated intact in paradise...though that seems nonsensical...what age would I be reincarnated as anyhow?...I'm getting away from the central point aren't I!"

I chortled heartily and slapped the mullah's shoulder, delighted to have finally shared a light moment with him, though his expression remained grim and his lip actually began to bleed he was biting it so hard.

"In any event, I just hope Allah allows me to be wearing a linen suit, for I do look rather grand in them if I do say so. I'm sure he will, he seems a generous chap. As to the virgins...now there is the delicate matter of my, well I don't want there to be any confusion..."

Sniveswell nodded knowingly.

"After I go through these virgins, roger them I mean, or, I dare say I don't know the vernacular in these parts...copulate? Well after martyrdom I do plan on buggering these girls well and often is what I'm getting at!"

Sniveswell scribbled at a fast pace and the blood poured from the mullah's lips to his beard.

"It is just that, once I have made the rounds through these maidens, they will no longer be so virginal no? Are you to tell me that after a few weeks of unbridled debauchery in paradise with my, and I'm assuming this, young and nubile virgins, I'll be reduced to fornicating with women whose vagina become increasingly loose and sloppy?"

Sniveswell took a heavy pinch of snuff and the mullah squeezed his knife til his hands turned white.

"One more thing, these virgins aren't the emotional sort are they? Won't be much of a paradise if I have 72 clingy girls following me around all the time. I wish to defile them and relax with a minimum of chit chat you savvy?"

It was then that the mullah rose with a grunt and seemed to want to push his knife into my chest. I shot him of course, long ago having made a habit of bringing a pistol to every negotiation. The stench of his body did rather spoil my repast and I was left with questions unanswered as well. Does Islamabad ever satisfy?

As Sniveswell and I took flight in my zeppelin sometime later he wondered aloud, "I say, did that angry fellow even speak English?"

I threw some limes at children chasing us below. "Don't interrupt me Sniveswell."

Uncle Wiggly

Greetings all! I must say I do feel invigorated of late, what with it being at least a fortnight since I have been stabbed, shot, or contracted a venereal disease. When I feel so uplifted I long to take flight, literally, and so I hop aboard my zeppelin, Der Albatross, and sail through the skies destined for wherever wind and whimsy see fit to put me down! I dare say it is a most congenial mode of travelling, and I highly recommend it to all those wealthy enough to indulge.

Of course that rules out about 6 billion of my planet's fellow inhabitants, but of course I have never given those putrid masses much thought in any event, save for the young and nubile. I will admit however a smidgen of admiration for a pilot who lowered himself, figuratively and literally, to the level of the pauper, and deigned to give them sweets. He flew a plane during the Berlin Airlift, that massive undertaking that brought food and fuel to those German bastards trapped behind the mighty iron curtain of those communist rogues, the Soviets. When this fine fellow, who went by the name of Gail, which I dare say is a rather feminine name for a pilot, but I digress, saw the little German urchins barefoot, starving and wearing only tattered rags, he was moved to give them gum and chocolate.

Soon people the world over were willing to overlook his flagrant disregard for their dental health, and applauded his humanity, and the cuteness of the little parachutes he fashioned, which he would throw out of his plane, and the children would jump about and watch the candy laden chutes fall to the bombed out earth. What a jolly good show!

Did you know those little German imps dubbed him the Schokoladen Flieger, (chocolate flyer), or Onkel Wackelflugel, (Uncle Wiggly Wings)? They did! What? Do you think I would lie to you dear reader? Do you think I would concoct falsehoods? You should be ashamed to even entertain such nefarious thoughts!

In fact, I was so inspired by his generous works, that I decided to undertake a similar...undertaking, for lack of a better word, through the use of my zeppelin. Of course, as a Somerset is never unoriginal, I couldn't sail my blimp over impoverished or war torn lands and toss candy, and so I needed to conjure up some other way in which to deliver joy and happiness to the downtrodden and hopeless.

Inspiration was not far, for I recalled that I had named my zeppelin after the albatross, a bird which can fly and glide thousands of miles across the globe without landing! Sometimes, after spanning oceans and continents it will only touch ground in order to copulate. I was thus doubly inspired. Could I bring joy to the world with my zeppelin and the example of the albatross?

Indonesia would find out! As I brought my vessel low over the jungles the natives jumped and danced about, just as those German brats undoubtedly did when they got a whiff of chocolate and other sweets. Could these natives girls smell the Somerset musk coming at them from the heavens?

Many fled into the trees, no doubt frightened witless by this strange floating monstrosity, but the curious stayed, or at least the one young lady who was tied to a post in the center of the village apparently as some sort of sacrifice to the floating god descending from the sky.

Thankfully these unwashed heathen had left a rather tasty young morsel for me, and had I spoken their language I would have thanked them profusely. Here I thought I would be the one dispensing the treat of my manhood, and these kindly savages were returning my kindness with...zounds! I have scalded myself with my tea! I shall relay the rest of my tale at another time. Know now that Priva was only too happy to learn that I did not land to murder and devour her, but merely to copulate and whisk her aboard my zeppelin, where I must admit she became a most energetic first mate.

Where have all the assassins gone?

These are mad times, when heroic leaders like George Bush are forced to forgo golf as a sop to the masses who don't appreciate being given the opportunity to send their sons and daughters off to far flung lands in order to be blown to bits for the greater glory of the empire. Why, do you think my Queenie Poo, Victoria, would ever deign to give up her afternoon tea, or her morning tea, or any of her hourly respites and leisure beverages out of solidarity with some wench from Wentworth whose child had the honor of getting speared to death for the good of England? Of course not.

To think that George gave up golf because he didn't want mothers who had lost sons in Iraq to see him, the Commander-in-Chief, playing a game, while the country was at war. Is that not what commander's do? Why, when I led my regiment of fusiliers against the backward tribesmen of Burma, I made sure to set a shining example of leadership by commanding them from hundreds of miles away, engaging my favorite Calcutta prostitute in a private game of cricket, while they sallied forth into the jungle to face their frenzied foe. That is supreme leadership mind you! What a display of confidence! One can only imagine the fright running through the little heads of the enemy as they pondered the forces coming at them. Surely the British must be mighty, for if, on the morning of battle, their commander can comfortably idle away the hours as the fight rages, gently paddling the brown bottom of his favorite Indian harlot with a cricket bat, what hope could we have?

Of course my fusiliers soundly routed the Burmese brigands, with casualties of only 90%, and victory was achieved. Sadly today it appears as if my wonderful precedent goes ignored! George should be leading the men he sent to war with a 3 wood in hand, patrolling the greens with stern gaze and wielding his putter like a strong sword. Would that not send shudders through the bones of the Mohammedan? I am quite certain that when the ignorant masses who make up the bulk of the dispensable armed forces drive through the streets of Baghdad hoping not to get blown apart, maimed and killed, they think of their fearless leader scooting around the manicured greens of the golf course, and it comforts them. And when an infidel bomb crashes through their Humvee and sends them flying to their deaths, no doubt they spend their last moments with breath smiling in the knowledge that their commander is safe, and himself blasting his ball out of the rough, sending it flying skyward on his way to a birdie!

Ho ho! It is no wonder the American armed forces are so adept at conquest. My only fear is that the leadership of this great land one day succumbs to the unwashed wishes of the idiot populace and makes further sacrifices. I dare say I have even heard rumblings that the President should not have time for golf at all, or hunting, or fishing, or clearing brush from his ranch, or attending parties, and so on, ...their list of complaints is truly endless and goes on for an interminable length. In short these fools think Mr Bush should be working! Imagine! What a crock of poppycock! One does not become Commander-in-Chief in order to sully his delicate hands with labor. Let some drone figure out a way to provide the troops with armor, the great leaders must set an example of leisure for the world to admire and aspire to. I say let George golf, and when a trooper has the glory of having his body torn apart by shrapnel, let his mother find consolation in seeing the intact torso of the tanned and rested leader, unaffected by the turmoil in that far away place, putting his stamp on history with his putter.