Not Even George Is This Stupid

SYRACUSE, N.Y. - A couple who bared themselves during a boat parade for charity last month have been charged with public lewdness.

Troopers used video footage shot by a spectator who attended the Christmas Parade of Boats on the Seneca River to identify Ricky E. Setzer, 34, and Cindy M. Cramer, 29.

Police claim the video shows Cramer topless and wearing a strand of Christmas lights as she spanks Setzer's bare butt.

I should just like to mention that the charity in question was the Special Olympics. What a doody-flop, very bad form.

There is a place and a time for naked spanking hijinks, generally after hours in the racier sorts of adult sporting clubs in Town. But not on a boat, on a crisp fall September evening. Pity she didn't fall in - now THAT would have been a show-stopper.

She's Got A Loverly Pair Of Coconuts

She's got a loverly pair of coconuts, doesn't she? I expect chafing is a problem, however. Men never think of this when they picture a beautiful wahine clad only in ti leaves and a coconut bra. It's actually MUCH more comfortable - indeed, quite pleasant and fragrant - to wear dozens of fresh flower lei and omit the coconuts entirely. Ah, the Islands.

The image is from Gus' backup journal - the one where whales don't get killed, but puzzles are occasionally posted for the bedevilment of the whale-saga community.

For She's A Jolly Good Barmaid

Taking a page from the playbook of Gus, I should like to announce the Grog Shoppe "Employee of the Quarter." Though it was a difficult decision, the very first honours go to my dear snuggs, for service above and beyond the call of duty (not to mention above the call of "time, gentlemen, please").

She leaps into action arranging, re-arranging, and organizing, and I simply could not do it without her. Not only that, but she runs interference with the McFinsters; I shan't go into much detail but what she as to deal with puts untold levels of meaning into the phrase "damage control."

She has been working extra hard as of late keeping things running smoothly and making sure hopelessly drunk patrons are smartly dragged out to the street in the morning escorted to the curb to await transportation. What with the extremely high number of major and minor debauches lately, it has been a rather exhausting few weeks, and snuggsie (if I may be so bold) has done much of the heavy lifting (that second McFinster is very solidly built).

snuggs is therefore awarded EOQ, along with a n'increase in pay AND paid time for educational, cultural, and spiritooal pursuits (otherwise known as "me time for snuggses"). Also unlimited free massages from Hankules and whatever other personal services Chad the cabana boy may offer (I maintain a strict "don't ask, don't tell" policy there).

In other words, I think the world of you, dear snuggs, but you mustn't be like those Japanese sararimen working themselves to death. You must think of yourself sometime instead of always taking care of everybody else's needs. Though you are certainly indispensible, we can muddle along now and then if you choose to take some yoga classes, visit health spas, and indulge in the pleasanter aspects of New-Agey what-nottery.

Joust: The Facts, Man

For the first time I’d seen, Thesaurus was flustered. “This whale ain’t like no other on the Earth,” he said. I suspected he was thinking Bulbus was pulling the strings from on high.

The second boat pulled up alongside us. Flarq too was puzzled. “Whale-Killing 101 ain’t gonna cut it, Captain,” he said. “It don’t cover whales that do the things this one do.”

“Well then let’s have a crash course in 102,” I said, turning the wheel so that we were positioned for another go at Dickhead.

That was unnecessary though. The bastard had slammed on his whale brakes and was turning round for another run at us. I looked to Thesaurus for advice.

“Pray,” he said.

Gus is calling for a radical re-shaping of the Rule of Engagement (Whales, For The Killing Of). He and the others are going at it a bit old-school (traditionalists, all of them. Rather charming and very manly). He has taken care to describe how the harpoons are set up with a mile of hempen line and wrapped around the boat, so that it can be used as a drag but the line can be released easily if the beast dives.

However, the whale is quite the aggressor in this little conflict. It's time for Gus to turn into the fire and charge him, with harpoons lashed to the bow of one of his boats. In order to keep the more fundamentalist of his crew happy, they could perhaps beat time on the side of the boat while Gus hits the throttle and hollers "Ramming speed!"

And then perhaps they should all be ready to leap into the other boat and speed away after ramming the whale with 4 or 5 wickedly sharp harpoons, since the whale will certainly smash the first boat to splinters.

Perhaps the second boat could launch harpoons (ie., deploy conventional whale-killing weapons) before picking them up. Or...

Don't mind me, I'm just an armchair whale-killing jousting match quarterbackess.

Meanwhile, it appears we'd best be ready to host a bash of some sort. But whether it will be a celebration or a consolatory wake remains to be seen.

Mrs. B, Agony Auntie

If you have an interesting and not necessarily real problem, please send me an electronic mail thingy and I shall endeavour to reply succinctly and with relative prompitude.

I shan't make any promises about actually giving good advice, mind you. It shall be rather tart and probably hopelessly outmoded, however.

Also it shall probably be rather deeply confused and scatty, but I can't help that.

You may reach me at mrsblubridge AT ruddyamericansonline dot com (otherwise known as AOL). I may also occasionally be reachable by their Instantaneous Messageing service under the same nom de blog.

A Very Palpable Hit

Revised Wanted Poster: The Blubbery B. Whale Takes A Palpable Hit From Gus' Harpoon 


Action! Harpoons! Actual whaling! Oh, this is so thrilling, I can't tell you, my dears. If this keeps up, the blubbery bass Tod will start to look like an old-school punk rocker from Soho, what with all the scars, piercings, and even tatoos he'll acquire in his long-drawn out battle with Gus.

You can see the harpoon flung so heroically by Gus, sticking out like an old lady's whisker on the far side of his ugly mug. My word, he's got a face like the back end of a London cab, that one. Not one of the new style ones with the ads plastered all over and painted bright un-British colours, I mean the old-school cabs with a big old boot and a rattler of an engine.

Anyway, good job Flarq is there to advise on the next step, meaning to lower away the boats and get the harpooners set and ready to fling. Very exciting, very manly, ripping good yarn and so on.

I think we gels will stay "in" tonight and have a darts competition with the picture of the B. whale, in fact. I believe it might be a kind of sympathetic magick.

Gus Finally Lets Fly

The harpoon felt good rushing out of my hand though, and true, and as it arched toward the bastard, it shone in the sun as if destiny was smiling on it—and as you all would agree, if there is any sort of providential scorekeeping, I was due for a miracle strike. My only hope was Bulbus wouldn't have a say.

Huzzah!! Harpoons away at last!

If there is such a thing as a Hail Mary harpoon toss competition, Gus is ready to compete, kitted out in rather natty plaid shorts. His form is quite good in spite of the balance problem presented by the unfortunate loss of his arm (which as we've all been reminded, was et by the whale, along with his wife and kid).

If Gus were ever to lay aside the harpoons and his hatred of all things Cetacean, he might have a decent career as a Paralympian in javelin (Master's Circuit, that is).

And now, may cooler heads prevail, and the next few harpoons be strongly lashed to the brig.

I must say, these exciting "snapshaws" really add oomph to the tail of the whale, Gus, and his crew.

Corporate tax bill would aid Alaskan whaling captains

"An obscure measure in the corporate tax bill that the House Ways and Means Committee marked up this week would allow Alaskan whaling captains to deduct up to $10,000 in expenses accrued from hunting."

Actually, my dears, it appears to have passed as of Monday.

However, I don't think Gus qualifies for it.

Duq Gets Underhanded

If you look closely, you'll see that Duq is getting ready to bowl his harpoon in Stupid George's direction underhanded, rather like a cricketer.

Interesting technique. I'd have thought overhand (thumb pointing up, fingers curled over the harpoon from the other side) would be a more efficient throwing position.

But what do I know? I am a humble Publicanatrix (not Tory!).

Gus Openshaw�s Whale-Killing Journal

Sunday, 10 October 2004 - 3:30 AM ADT

Name: Lifeboat- Little Solace...Somewhere

Captains Log: Weather temperature 70%.10 MPH Winds out of the southeast. Two foot seas...It has only been two days since Capt. Openshaw set me adrift. Seems like 400...I miss the beach of Conch, miss my Bananas,miss the Orangetans...No water,No cheese. My only comapanion is a wayward seagull.fortunately for me, the gull caught a striper and brought it back to the boat to eat. I shood it away, ate half of the fish and then threw it back to the deck, the seagull returned and finished it. I have a short-wave radio thet is barely picking up some radio station called Radio Free Cuba. and the only songs they play are the new Jimmy Buffett Album: License To Chill... Got to go now, They are playing my favorite song from the album- Coastal Confessions... On a personal note... Dear Diary,Fu@#ed again... By the way- Did YOU call me a rat?

Oh, dear little Bob! Since the sinkings were all a ruse, I assume this one is a ruse also.

Very arusing, Bob. Er, "amusing."

And now, time to start cleaning this place up. Fortunately, the foam machine is fully charged.

Wag The Tail Of The Dog

Sorry for any unnecessarily expended hankies, shipmates, but the fake entries about our preparation and battle were a necessity. We didn't want Tortolan Admiral Verman, who was reading along with you, to know that we were really weighing anchor and escaping from the other side of Conch.

AUGH!! I mean, HURRAH!!!! In the sense of "Curses, skunked again, but actually I'm quite delighted about it."

If loose lips sink ships, then blabby blogs sink cogs. I should really, really have seen that coming, but when feeling runs high, the oddest rumours can take hold. Viz., any recent news story coming out of the Colonies during this very silly season.

And now, I really must go refill my ice bag, I've got a snorter of a headache after last night's revels. Howsomeever, that's nothing compared to dear smart Ken. I'm afraid he and Senor Gusano Rojo Caballero are not on speaking terms just at the moment.

Right, there's now a pool started, I've got a fiver on Duq.

He That Pays The Piper Calls The Tune

Yes, yes, thank you all for coming to the Mother Of All Celebratory Wakes for Gus Openshaw, Presumed Dead, Whose Wife, Kid, and Arm were Et by a Whale. And also for his crew, and possibly also for a brave little rat named Bob, last seen floating around the Caribbean in a breadfruit crate, nibbling on cheese.

In honor of Senor Smart Ken and his nearly limitless supply of Gusano Rojo Caballero, a little dance tune. I shall hitch up me skirts so that you all may admire my fast and fancy footwork.

Gus has led us a merry dance,
with many a twist and surprising reverse;
We who remain must hope for the chance.
that he and the others all live, none the worse.

(The song is actually about a man who is Mexican to his mama, but is fated to be an American. Sorry, Ken, no Canadian-Mexican party music to be found, though I do know of a nice Filipino-Canadian young man that plays a mean accordion).

Ay, que dolor! Ayyyyyyyy!

Last Letter Home

And now we'll have a tune from the Irish group. It's about the War Between the States, but it's got cannons in and a last letter home, so bung it in and let's hear it. It's in rather quick waltz time, so we'd best clear chairs out of the way for the dancers (those that aren't under the table already).

By the same group, Olaim Punch/The Pigtown Fling. Rather happier.

Let It Go

I'm not sure if this player thingy will work for all, some of us do not do Windows, some do not eat of the Apple. But if you have some form of the Quicktime whatchmagoozle, and you wait for the download, it's time to let it go to the sounds of Bakra Bata.

That'll do to go on with.

Still No Word, We Had Best Prepare For The Worst

For what it's worth, I solved the ruddy puzzle, what with all the waiting and worrying.  

And the spy satellite shows nothing, either.

I don't expect the Tortolans to mount a very effective rescue operation - ruddy down-at-heel Naval imposters the lot of them - and I doubt the Conchan Shore Rescue have the manpower, since I suspect many of their most senior volunteers are busy drowning in the wreckage of the Anti-Bulbus Counter-Cetationist Task Force.

It's very quiet in the Grog Shoppe, my dears... TOO quiet. So I took the liberty of booking a very nice Celtic group to come in and play. I've asked them to start off with a few suitable laments and sad sea shanties. After a dinner break, they'll come back this evening and play reels and jigs, and we must all try to foot it featly and dance our sorrows into the floorboards.

Those Are Pearls That Were His Eyes

No, it can't be... naow, it can't! I won't believe it...  


Alas! Just when it seemed Gus and his makeshift fleet might prevail over the Tortolans, and he might have a chance to return to Sybil and the fair shores of Conch after his revenger's tale was done, we're left adrift.

Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands:
Curtsied when you have, and kiss'd
The wild waves whist,
Foot it featly here and there;
And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.
Hark, hark!
Bow-wow.
The watch-dogs bark.
Bow-wow.
Hark, hark! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow.

Will there really be no early-morning walks on the beach hand in hand? *quavers*

It seems that fate has something else in store for Gus, and we shipmates ashore are helpless to do anything about it. There may be nothing left but the singing of dirges and the telling of sad tales from long ago.

Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Ding-dong.
Hark! now I hear them—Ding-dong, bell.

I shall require a very large whiskey, and hot tea. I feel a chill coming on.

Snuggs! my dear old snuggsie! Surely not all are lost.

For one thing, I still hadn't solved that BLOODY puzzle.

Them Bloomers Is Hot, Hot, Hot!

"KINGS MOUNTAIN, N.C. - Two former Sara Lee employees have been charged with embezzling $128,000 worth of bras and panties from the company after merchandise showed up at flea markets, authorities said."

'Ere, wot? Could this mean that the Fleet is running under hot sail? Because surely there were other sources for their motley canvas than the Grog Shoppe's old clothes bin.

Gus had best inspect all the new weapons systems, I'm sure those "double-barrelled catapults for BB-DD shot" are based on cross-your-heart technology.

They'd Best Not Get Their Knickers In A Twist

Fortunately, Sybil enacted a draft of all men who’d ever served in the Conch navy. She also commandeered all the island’s battle-worthy brigs. Conch last fought at sea nearly a century ago though. Her efforts netted us five sailors (none younger than eighty, only three of whom could see) plus three rotting schooners, one rotting barquentine, and one frigate where the rot is the strongest part of her hull. Their sails hung limply when at all. With no time to obtain proper canvas, we had to rig them with whatever was laying around: bed sheets, fat ladies’ dresses, whatever.

Egad! That shipment of old clothes and bedding we sent off for hurricane relief to the Islands! It included... *deep blush*

Never mind. Never let it be said that we don't lend every support to the cause... cross my heart and so on.

Truth be told, the old bedsheets went out in that lot: I don't feel so bad about me faded cabbage roses getting shot through and through in a thrilling sea battle. But I am rather at sixes and sevens over me old bloomers going boomers, and that's no mistake.