Sunday, June 23, 2013

The End

Update: My new page is and is under construction

Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

I have many fond memories of awkward formatting, awkward templates and I will very much miss my spam traffic. Vampire Stat,, Zombie Stat, Adsense Watchdog, Top Blog Stories and Traffic Faker - we hardly knew ye.

I will also miss the dreamers, the deviants and the damned who clicked on my blog over the years through various Google search terms including but not limited to “mongoloid dwarf”, “shrunken head bowling”, “squaw cactus torture”, “racoon cock”, “green pus in toe pictures”, and my personal favorite, “topless afrikaners”.

I am finally opting for the 4 dollars a month legitimacy granted by a .com. In honor of the end of Blog de Borgia, a selection of my first blog entries from those innocent, halcyon summer days of 2009.


Le Cafard

The heat is oppressive, even in the early morning. I've lost all concept of time.

I'm currently drunk and hallucinating from a local variety of wine, fermented from the urinary discharge of a dromedary.

We were searching for the albino variant of the Mongolian death worm in the Bayan-Ölgii aimag of far western Mongolia. Our expedition may or might not have passed an international border into the People's Republic of China.

We've been flogged and interrogated by local police. They've confiscated both my salacious fan fiction literature as well as our complicated night vision video equipment.

We have been collectively charged as imperial spies aiding and abetting the Uighurs in the Xinjiang region.

My team consists of three Brits, a Kiwi, two Swedes and a local 79 year old shaman that has been separated from our party and presumably murdered.

The entheogenic effects of the wine are beginning and I'm experiencing a panicky and feverish sort of conscious state. I'm sweating prodigiously and descending into a sort of malaise similar to le cafard - that raging cockroach madness first noted by the absinthe sipping wing of the Foreign Legion.

The others whisper of our impending execution, and I frequently hear the guttural drop of the damned from the primitive bamboo hangman's scaffolding outside the charred mud walls of this Hell.

I have been granted a satellite phone call - my initial pleas to the nearest Western embassy (several hundred miles away) were met with ambivalence, but I was again allowed to call an associate in the United States.

May God give me the strength to endure this trial.


Excerpt from as yet unpublished book; Excess is Good: The Drink and Cocaine Filled Romp That Was The Tory Years in Great Britain- 1979 to 1997 
I was researching the Yeti of far western Bangladesh, but these were very dark days indeed. My misspent afternoons mostly consisted of drinking Mezcal and chasing the dragon in the dingy ex-patriate hell that was the red light district of Dhaka.

I had secured transit papers after shanghai'ing a Cambodian pimp and former Viet Cong officer, and enjoyed a relatively mundane passage via freight ship to Great Britain.

I had received a reasonable offer from a local rag to cover the Beast of Exmoor phenomena in the highlands and lowlands of Albion. I submitted my report, and though cryptozoology had been a hobby of sorts, I established myself as a premier voice upon this subject in the UK and beyond.

My sullied and questionable relations with the members of the Conservative and Unionist Party (circa 1984) continued shortly after my arrival.

I had received a nonchalant and coldly indifferent hand job from Margaret Thatcher at a formal dinner party in the autumn of '77. I had the gross fortune of being seated next to her at a pre-formal and unofficial but official gathering at a theatre putting on a revisionist version of Shakespeare's MacBeth. She avoided all eye contact and conversation for the rest of the evening.

I later learned from a disgraced member of SAS that this was a standard of sorts, and that any complaints or braggadocio would be met with an immediate and unapologetic assassination from MI5.

During my Exmoor holiday in late '84, I had found myself in a sticky cottage in Exeter. I was quite literally engulfed in a Swedish sex scalene triangle between the Iron Lady and Sir John Major (both fifth cousins removed). The single "Easy Lover" from Phil Collins and Philip Bailey had been looped on a cassette tape. To this day, that particular song brings back a kind of uncomfortable but unsuppressable anticipation.

I can't quite say that this experience was enjoyable or pleasant in the slightest, but I still have recurring dreams that are mostly satisfying, even in this hell of Xinjiang.

Whenever caught between the Draconian thigh clench of the Prime Minister and the thick glasses of Sir Major, do as the Romans.

This hateful and violent sex act also led to my immediate and inevitable expulsion from the British Isles.

Not due to my acts of deviance, but due to the disclosure of my previous involvement aiding the Argentinians in the 74 day Falklands War...

Fatalism, Goat Tails and Discrete Handjobs - Notes from a Traveler

At the end of days, or at least the end my days, I fully anticipate either being judged harshly by a kangaroo court comprised entirely of elderly white eunuchs, or simply rotting in the grave. As such my life has held some manner of fatalism rarely found outside of the brothels of the Barbary Coast...

I have repeatedly and joyously run up fantastic credit card bills only to habitually file Chapter 7. My credit, admittedly, is quite dreadful, but several aliases as well as a three year sojourn to a region of the Carpathians in which goats’ tails are considered legal tender put me back on the road to financial recovery...

The discrete hand job and a pack of Imperials – a valuable trick long known to international drug mules and assorted misfits and miscreants given to mischief, miscegenation and mayhem overseas...

Thursday, June 20, 2013

In the Shadows of the Grinning Corpses

My latest experiment in existential anxiety, In the Shadows of the Grinning Corpses, will be included in the June 23rd, 2013 edition of Schlock!.

Saturday, June 1, 2013

Of Manic Kiwis and Masturbation

The privilege of punishment or thrill of flagellation accompanied my visceral hallucination of multiple venereal vaccinations, and yet I was accosted by that manner of feverish Afrikaner erotic night terror inflicted upon all sons of those isles most wretched in their reticence, Great Britain.

A dreary screamscape in which I was flogged repeatedly with a sjambok whip by sequined sadists savoring the sanguine discomfort of sedentary circus seals; echoes of the Boer Wars languidly lapsed through moth-eaten drapes verified by bootleg VHS tapes or remnants of Satanic midwife scrapes.

I had run afoul of a cannibalistic cabal that calculated currency in corneas, a devious denomination fed to the fetid phylums of insane asylums. I found myself the victim of various conspiracies of Canadian confections and ebola infections, and had begun receiving rent from the depressed louses now benefiting from the plague upon my houses.

I suffered an abject isolation unheard of outside the dank dungeons encountered during the annual spring-time Ukrainian insect torture exposition, and yet still fancied myself a conquistador in the conquest of conniving concubines. I had not anticipated the ancillary anxieties involving the extracurricular particulars or mundane curriculars of white slavery. This a dark era indeed… 

I had received a contract to locate and potentially assassinate Die Kakkerlak, an antagonistic animal hoarding Afrikaner who regularly fed stray kaffirs to the maligned monsters in his mangy menagerie of the macabre. The misunderstandings of miscreants or the minutiae of deviants had somehow led a manic Kiwi, one S. Schomberg, to seek to hire me to murder the Cockroach.

Before this ill-advised excursion to the Dark Continent I recall I had found myself adrift in the remote South Atlantic to investigate the impish implications of lactating crustaceans.  

This barren uncharted island a fixture of phobia and fascination due to legends of weary sailors surviving by milking giant albino arthropods sunning themselves under a godless sun, a horrific hallucination of dehydration or an accusation of cryptic inclinations. Quaffing the bubbling fluorescent ichor led these lost souls to awaken temporarily in some manner of mosaic mandala.

I had searched for this damned dystopia on a previous expedition to Antarctica to no avail. A fortnight of frog wine and pickled swine, brackish brine and spoiled lime had led me to anticipate this forbidden nectar, and yet it was not to be...