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Continuing with near-death scrapes of Swedish kings: After the Battle of Narva, when king Karl XII went to change into something presumably less blood and gunpowder smelling, it was discovered that a bullet had hit him during the battle, but had been stopped by his cravatte.
Why are there no stats for armoured cravats?!
Don Juan de Doodlebug wrote:
Then the solution is clear - read more Gor books! Grunt, grunt, ugh, ugh, male hormones forever.
Limey has come into the office early to open up as he thought people needed to work from eight. Nobody else is here! Truly, the devil makes work for idle hands, uahahaha!
Bird fanciers songbook:
The Most Beautiful Gull in the World
I read 'First King of Shannara' by Terry Brooks over the weekend, which I didn't like much.
I am also, after a break of several years, trying to finish off the 'Anatomy of Melancholy' by Robert Burton, in between (since one Burton is never enough) having a go at vol. 1 of 'The Land of Midian' by Richard F. Burton.
Male Elf Rogue (pirate) 8/ Gunslinger 3
AC 21,T 17, FF 16; HP 43/43; Fort +6, Ref +14, Will +4
Sekathral walks past the window with a small phanaton wearing a bandana and an obviously fake eyepatch perched on his shoulder.
"Say hello, Mescal", commands the elf, and the phanaton trills, "Bene lightmans, damber mort. Bene lightmans, autem cackler. Bene lightmans, sparking mort"
"Good lad. Have a cricket" says Sekathral, handing Mescal a dried insect. "And don't sh*t down my back this time or I'll scrag you"
I saw a cheap bag of 'small peppers' at the greengrocers, which I bought, assuming 'small peppers' meant 'small bell peppers'. Took them home, unpacked them, then thought 'Aha! One of these would make a perfect healthy snack for me!', so I picked one up and bit it in half.
I expect you can guess what sort of peppers they actually were.
Very interesting article about the influence of Murray Bookchin on free Kurdistan, whose militias, of course, are doing the bulk of the fighting against Daesh/IS at present.
Most of Judy Thornton's dialogue in 'Slave Girls of Gor' only really makes sense/can be rendered even more disturbing if you read it in Snarf's voice.
...He laughed and cried out with pleasure in his triumph over the slave girl. "Yes, master!" I cried. "I am Dina! I am Dina! I clutched him, joyously his. "Dina loves Master!" I wept. "Dina loves Master!"
Usual Suspect wrote:
I have at least one character doing the kilt with no skivvies underneath. Proper kilt wear is important. Getting caught with skivvies on under a kilt is a punishable offense you know.
Old joke time:
Inquisitive lady: "Tell me, Hamish, what's worn under the kilt?"
Hamish: "Nothing - it's all in perfect working orderrrr!"
OK, Longears, I've done as you asked and it's cost me sore. Now, you creepy demi-human bastard, give me gin! GIN! GIN!! GIIIIIINNNNN!!!!
Rose of the Revolution, for DA, as requested:
Colonel Von Guffenberg smacked his riding crop against one flabby thigh and leered at his prisoner, bound tightly to a artwheel in the burnt-out, roofless barn in which he and his men were bivouacked. Her dark hair, released from the steel helmet under which it had been confined, flowed in a cascade of inky velvet around her slender shoulders and her brown eyes flashed defiance at the porcine Baltic German, an officer in the White armies fighting the revolutionary forces in post WW1 Russia. The Colonel continued. "You are not so saucy now, eh? Of all things - a woman coming up against a German officer and expecting to come out victorious! Well, my little minx, my Freikorps and I will soon show you who's master!"
"Pig!" Spat Commander Principiva Principovich. "You would never have captured me if it wasn't for that fake surrender! So much for the honour of the Von Guffenbergs!"
Her full, sensuous lips curled in contempt, and the colonel's tiny, watery blue eyes narrowed. He grunted furiously:
"Bolshevik harpy! I shall enjoy taming you!"
He reached out, tearing away Principovich's battledress to reveal the soft, womanly curves beneath. She spat in his eye, and howling with rage, he bent back his arms to lash her across the face with his riding crop - then CRASH!
The door burst open, and sillhouetted in the cold, steppe morning light stood a burly, shaggy figure, the crimson star of the Red Army blazing from his breast! "Drop that whip or it will be the worse for you, counter-revolutionary dungbeetle!" he roared, and Von Guffenberg, fear-spawned sweat bedewing his pasty jowls, screamed "Guards - seize him!"
The White guards surged forward, only to realise that this was no academy-spawned paper soldier, but a Titan of the revolution, who picked them up and tossed them about as if they were the parcels of mail he had dealt with while working on the Norvyrograd to Smelepilkhi railway! Von Guffenberg pulled out his pistol with a shaky hand and fired wildly, but to no avail - his decadent, enervated physique could not stand up to the rigours of a real battle and the bullets went wide.
The guards were down - the Colonel, cursing foully in his native tongue, futilely pulled the trigger on an empty chamber, his riding britches growing damp and warm. With an exclamation of disgust and contempt, the newcomer drew his arm back and rocketed a hefty proletarian fist into the Teuton's jaw, sending him spiralling to the ground.
Principiva surveyed the figure in front of her, sweat glazed, unkempt and covered with the scars of battle. Her pulse began to race and she started breathing faster, her mind whirling. With an effort, she controlled the mad rush of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her and spoke.
"Dudel Dudelovitch", she stammered. "Comrade", he replied. She flushed, heat creeping over her despite the chill as his gaze swept over her statuesque form, its lambent eroticism heightened by the ripped battledress and the tight bonds that constrained her. Anger and resentment flared up within her at his untamed, unreconstructed, goatish maleness - what are we fighting for, if not to realise our entire selves as opposed to merely being playthings, drudges and lust puppets? - but
He started to walk towards her; she could not repress a gasp of... wanting... as that familiar face grew closer, his eyes hot with the fires of lust and his scent, his shape, his aura of pure masculinity sending an irresistable message to her loins - come! He reached out a hand, grasping her shoulder in a grip that was simultaneously rough and tender, then tore away the remaining shreds of clothing that adorned her body. He seized her around the waist with and crushed her lips to his, and she could not - would not - resist.
The revolution could wait - for the moment, the world outside their two entwined bodies did not exist. He was his, he was hers, and that was all that mattered! Lust had made a bonfire of the universe, and all they could do was watch it burn!
'The Power of Silent Command' turned out to be a compendium of cheesy mid '70s sales agents' tips and is not a path to Ultimate Cosmic Power at all. Bah.
I'm reading 'Daggers in the Forum - a history of the Gracchi' at the moment, in between nibbles of Gor and Illuminati. Not bad. Also got a book about the Chartist revolt in Bradford out of the library.
Formed by a man who, when dumped by his girlfriend, found solace in the Communist Manifesto
End the blood-soaked conspiracy of Valentine's Day, driven by the chocolate capitalists!
There is a great deal about naughty German Freemasons in John Robison's Proofs of a Conspiracy..., as one might expect.
However, these are no ordinary Freemasons - they're *Cosmo-Political* Freemasons, which means that it's all TRUE and there REALLY IS A CONSPRIRACEY AND TEXE MARRS WAS RIGHT AND THEY'RE TAKING OVER THE WORLD! AI! AI! AI! WAKE UP, SHEEPLE!
Non-fiction, more or less:
'Lord Byron's Jackal - A Life of Edward John Trelawney' by David Crane. Mainly consists of gruesome accounts of massacre, starvation and Romantic bad behaviour during the Greek War of Independence and all the more interesting for it.
'Proofs of a Conspiracy' consists mainly of salacious tittle-tattle about the private lives of Weishaupt and co., who have spent an awful lot of time trying to lure the Fairer Sex into a life of Atheistical Libertinage and done little or no actual conspiring so far.
I also have 'Unapologetic: Why, Despite Everything, Christianity Can Still Make Surprising Emotional Sense' by Francis Stufford to read, along with 'Kinesics: The Power of Silent Command' by Merlyn Gundiff ("What seems to be the trouble, Madam?" "Oooh, it's me Merlyn Gundiff again, doctor!").
* Learn to project unspoken orders that must be obeyed!
Standard text on Gor, I bet!
Hmm... Drejk and the Slaad sounds like a rock group or kids' show from the 70:s. Bet they'd be pretty darn good too.
I liked the Drejk, Slaad and Treppa album better.
It was a treppa LP! Ha ha ha!
[sings]"All in all, you're just another Drejk in the Fawtl"[/sings]
No more puns. Promise.
The trouble with a citizen's income is that it will, inevitably a) be used to reduce wages still further and/or b) get set at a level lower than that of any existing benefits it replaces. Personally, I'd prefer people to get much, much more value back from their own labour (or even all of it!) than to have an insufficient sum doled out by the state to augment their crappy paycheck, but I don't doubt that a decent argument to the contrary exists. I've only read one Zizek book - In Defence of Lost Causes - which I liked, even the bits about Lacanian psychoanalysis, or whatever it's called.
In other news, here are some of Karl Marx's dreadful love poems (in English)
If loving Stilton is a crime, then SHOOT ME AT DAWN WHY DON'T YOU.