So, tis time to reveal - the Legend of the No8Do!

For those of you just tuning in, 2log's intrepid foreign correspondant was in Spain, and was being trailed by strange signs all around the city of Sevilla - No8Do! But what does it all mean? 

Whatever it is, don't do it on this pole (left)!

And really, don't do it while riding a bike (or so the bike-racks (right) seem to say).

Heck, they even created this spaceship (below) to chase you to space to make sure you don't do it there!

But what's behind the mysterious signs? The Illuminati? Dan Brown? Worse, Nicholas Cage (below, looking confused) and his tenth movie on the wonders of the US Constitution?

 

Well, turns out its much, much cooler than that. After much personal research, here are the fruits of my labor.

The Legend of No8Do!

Turns out the history of this strange symbol is quite long and storied. For as you can see, it is even engraved into the stone of city hall (below). The history of No8Do is long and deep (that's what Shay said!) For in fact, No8Do is the official motto and symbol of Sevilla. But why would they have a symbol that seems to be, well, in English? 

The plot thickens. For those with good eyesight, you might notice that what's in the middle of No8Do is not in fact a number eight, nor even an infinity sign, but rather, a skein of rope. Now we go deep into the mysterious fogs of time . . .

In 1245, before Spain was united by Fergie and Isabella (and the other Spice Girls), Sevilla was its own Kingdom. Ruled by the everwise Alfredo III (wise ruler, maker of great sauces, depicted below), the land was a happy one, until yes, the damn English got involved.

At this time the English sent as an their Ambassador one Sir Henry, Duke of Wallsingham. Now, turns out that Wallsingham was a kinky little sod, and he quickly set about work introducing what was at that time and ever after referred to in Spain as 'the English Vice'. Turns out that Sir Henry enjoyed nothing more than being stripped down to his bollocks, and being given a damn good spanking.

Before long, Sir Henry had established a house of ill-repute specializing in said vices, where anyone who wanted could be whipped by wenches and mensches till red in the fanny. Now, the randy Spaniards, not being anywhere near as repressed as the English knigits, had not trouble with houses of ill repute (heck, they just called them houses!), but this whole spanking thing was something quite new.

This being quite long ago, before the Twitters made universal literacy a must, most people found their way to the butchers, bakers, and candlestickmakers by means of the pictures that were posted outside the door. A butcher would hang a picture of a cow's head outside the door, a baker a loaf of bread, and well, a house of ill-repute that specialized in spankings, well, made use of what made the most sense - a skein of rope. What better to tell people that inside they could have their culo whipped till it shined like the top of (yet to be built) Chrysler building?

The English vice, however, took off. Soon Sir Henry's house of ill-repute was the tops in town, and the reputable townspeople couldn't keep their wenches or mensches at home. Riots started to break out in the streets around Sir Henry's establishment, and finally, to stop the growing chaos, a group of the cities nobles went to complain to the King.

Well, when the King found out what Sir Henry had been up to, he was enraged. He had the kinky knigit brought to his court, and before all the assembled ladies and lords, he pronounced his sentence. Sir Henry was henceforth to be banished back to England. but not before being properly humiliated - he would be spanked by the King himself, before the assembled ladies and lords!

As the King prepared to give a whacking, he pantsed Sir Henry, and then a gasp went up around the crowd. Now, it was common in those days for a man to bind his penis to his preferred leg, so that it wouldn't get in the way when he put on his codpiece. But when they pulled down Sir Henry's pants, everyone noticed that not only had he tied his penis down, but he'd bound his balls as well! At first the reaction was gasps of horror, but then the tide turned to laughter. 'Why on earth,' the King asked, 'have you bound your balls?' Sir Henry (below, right) was quite surprised by all the commotion, and he answered the King with great haste, 'But sire, it is the English way, we all bind our balls under our codpieces!' And a roar of laughter went up round the hall - the English like to bind their balls!

Well, this was too much, and the King decided that before giving Sir Henry a thorough spanking, he'd humiliate him a bit more, so he called for a skein of rope, the symbol of Sir Henry's pursuits, and had it tied around Sir Henry's already tightly bound balls. And then the King began to dance around the room, pulling poor Sir Henry behind him, knees knocking and his pants round his ankles, led around by the balls! And as the King danced and pranced, he called out the words, "No me dejado, No me dejado!," which translates into "I don't tie mine up!" And everyone got a good laugh.

When word got out that the King had thoroughly humiliated Sir Henry and sent him packing back to England, the townsfolk were highly amused. Now, the word for a skein of rope in Spanish is a madeja. Some witty souls decided to poke yet more fun at Sir Henry, and they hung in front of a tavern in the center of town not Sir Henry's famed skein of rope, but rather, a witty rebus making fun of it - our famed No8Do!! For if you pronounce the skein of rope in No8Do as madeja, the whole phrase is no-madeja-do, which is almost exactly what the King said,  'No me dejado!' But in the language of the hated Sir Henry, it also means the same thing - don't do it, don't use rope to bind your balls!

Well, what was hung outside one tavern took off, and in a fit of nationalistic, anti-English sentiment, soon the whole city was hanging signs oustide their doors with the now famous symbol, No8Do! And its not hard to understand the sentiment, I mean, we have today the saying, 'don't get your panties all in a bunch' - and if there were ever a society that's a bit too uptight, its the English. Go commando, let em hang long and low (like some puggles I know!). Seriously, have a good time, live a little. And as the original story began to fade in the mists of time, that's what the symbol has largely come to mean - enjoy life, live a little, fly free! And that's what it means to this day. And to no-one's surprise, when Sir Henry got back to England, he was much mocked as, you guessed it, Sir Henry Ball-singham.

Of course, if you look in official histories, you generally don't get the story quite like this, because its a little too randy to tell directly. But spend some time in Sevilla, and the locals will open up on the real meaning of their symbol. Don't bind your balls! No me dejado! Don't bind your balls on a boat, don't do it ever with a goat, don't do it in the sewer or in a drawer, or with a friend or four! No Doo! And they tell you this everywhere and all the time, just so you don't forget the joys of letting it all hang out.

Of course, even symbols have to change with the times. When the sexual revolution arrived in the 60's, some thought the symbols was a little bit on the masculinist side, and some women (depicted below, right, with their No8Do t-shirts!) called for a more inclusive message. But that's when women remade the meaning of the symbol, and proudly said, 'we don't tie ours either!' - and they ripped off their bras and burned them in the streets. And a new tradition was born. As the gay rights movement took off at about the same time, the symbol took on yet more meanings, as SM clubs began to hang the skein of rope outside the door, surrounded by new letters We8Do, after which you usually see the motto, 'si tu quieres . . . ', basically, 'if you ask nicely'.

Now, some may say this sounds like a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury but signifying nothing but a brain addled by too much cerveza.  You might even wonder, did someone spend time typing this up? Did I spend time reading it?! But sometimes you find yourself wandering round Spain, wondering what the silly symbols mean, and in a fit of cerveza inspired glee, it all suddenly makes sense.

So what did I learn on my trip to Spain? Stay by the beer table, don't eat fish ovaries, don't go shopping, stay on the shady side of the street - all good lessons. But the best lesson, the most important one, is don't bind your balls (well, unless someone asks you nicely)! Live a little, let them fly fast and free! Women, let your boobies dangle in the breeze! Enjoy life like the Sevillianos do!

And that's what I learned in Spain.

You've Read it, You Can't Unread it! Tales of Interest!!

                                            ****

Aight y'all, time to rest on my laurels (below) a bit, because that's alls I gots in the way of dispatches from Spain. Travelling was a hoot, and with any luck, you didn't lose too many brain cells from reading my  highly accurate, occsionally metaphysical, and always slightly beer addled reporting. And don't forget, when in doubt - no doooooo!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No, seriously, don't do it. Of all the things I learned in Sevilla, this was by far the most important, and they made sure, wherever you go, they remind you not to do (it).

Not only do they have special policy mobiles all over Sevilla to make sure you don't do it, they have signs - everywhere.

Don't do it here in front of this building! We are a 'No Do' -type establishment!

And if you were thinking of doing it, here's a map on the right highlighting all the places you're not supposed to (all in green, purple, pink, and stuff), and all the No Do stations where No Do people are specifically watching to make sure that whatever you do, you don't not not do it!

 

 

And as you can see from this sign on the left, displayed in a public park, they're really specific about how they don't want you to do it there. Please don't do it while running with a dog, while on a desert island with a palm tree and a duck, after having stepped in dog doo and now it trails on your foot, in a little one-wheeled cart, don't broadcast your intent to do it over loudspeakers, and don't do it in a cup. And especially not on a scooter, car, or bike. Or the Ayuntamiento will come get you - No Do!

 

And if you were thinking of doing it in Plaza San Sebastian, in front of this nifty church and trampoline (below), you'll see that there's a banner flying proudly above proclaiming some essential message from atop a pole in the center of the square:

 

But take a careful look at what it says on that banner (below):

 Don't do it here, or that crazy looking white thing will come to get you!

 

And just in case you were thinking of doing it in the sewers (right), yeah, don't do it there too.

 

 

And if you want, you can even take it up a notch, get a t-shit (below) to make sure people know not to do it by you, or even get a tattoo (below) to show your allegiance to the cult of no do!!!

  This means you.    Whatever it is, make sure not to do!!!! For infinity, no do!!

 

 

 

 

 

This guy (below) tried to do it, and they shrank his wife down to miniature size, and made a statue to remind you all of this horrible fate!! So, whatever you do - no do!

 And this means you!!

So, today, we cover the mysterious. I saw signs like this all over Sevilla, Spain. Not signs prohibiting Puggles- no, that would make sense. But it seems to me, there is something, something terrible, that people in Spain really, super duper really, don't want you to do. Ever. Never ever never. Ever. Really. In fact, they spend all sorts of money to make sure it never ever happens in Andalucia.

Not here nor there, not ever in a rocking chair, or with a persn who's kinda square, or on a double or even triple dare.

They have policy-type mobiles that make sure you don't do it. Just to make sure you don't kinda blew it.

 

They have all sorts of signs all over, all to make sure you don't do it. But what, pray tell, what the heck, is IT?!

What ever it is, my god, DON'T DO IT! NO 8 DO!!!!!!!!!!!

But the mysterious number 8. It must have a meaning. Do youuuuuu know what the 8 is? And why you shouldn't do it?

I bet you don't.

Oh, just you wait . . . .

wuahhahahahahaha! oh yeah. really. oh yeah. serious. oh yeah. number 8, number 8, isn't it great? but don't do, what you wanna do, no no, its not new, but don't do, what you flew, or grew, or poo, oh boo!, don't do, noooooooo doooooooooo!!!!!!!!!! For infinity, double triple serious super dooper pooper dare, don't do it! Forever more! I don't snore! Forumple dore! But don't dooooooooo!

Yeah, for real, don't do. Yeah. For reals . . . no do . . .

I saw these signs all over Spain.

Translation: No Puggling Please. But why are they so adamant? 

Now it all makes sense. In Spain, Puggles fly. Ewwwww.

Luckily, in their infinite wisdom, the Spaniards have come up with the solution to the Puggle problem. If you get crapped on by a flying puggle, you see the antidote below:

Its a little hard to see here, but yes, that is a circular table with its own set of beer taps. Yes, four of them, one for each seat. And the entire bar was like this. Heck, you could even take a shower in the beer! An antidote for, well, just about everything - The Beer Table. Sweet, sweet nectar.

That said, in their less than infinite wisdom, it was almost impossible to get sangria nearly anywhere in southern Spain. Now, this is Spain, right? I mean, sangria was invented here! Turns out that its too hot to keep fresh fruit in the summer, it goes bad. I don't know if refrigeration has visited southern Spain yet, but I digress. Then again, it is reeaaaallly hot there - while I was there, many days were over 100 degrees, 105 wasn't unusual, and the hottest recorded temperature in Europe is in Sevilla - 122 degrees. Translation: if you don't walk on the shady side of the street, street fries you (thanks, Yakoff!). And I wasn't even there in August.  

For what's its worth, however, the Spanish have come up with a solution to their sangria problem - one which is, sadly, still short of using refrigeration.  Instead of sangria, you get a mixture of red wine and lemon soda - gloriously known as tinto de verano - which (loosely) translates to something like 'summer's taint'. In a land where all you do is sweat, that's kinda nasty.

Speaking of kinda nasty, funny story. So one day, I went into a tapas bar with some friends for lunch, and saw what looked like a wonderful seafoody salad. I asked the guy what it was, just because I know the Spaniards eat some funky shite, and in his strong Andalusian accent (kinda the Brooklyn accent of Spain), he said something that sounded like heuvos de vaca - basically, eggs of cow. Now, I looked at the appealing looking bits of what looked like seafood, and I was like, those don't look like cow's testicles. So I asked him, is it meat? And he replied back, es peh-cado - 'no, its fish.' After which I thought that 'eggs of the cow' must've been some sort of nickname for the seafood, like sea cucumber, or whatever. But knowing that the Spaniards eat a few interesting types of seafood, like barnacles, I figured, its fish, how bad can it be?

Upon digging in, it was certainly a form of seafood, slightly chewy, like most seafood, but otherwise pretty good. The next day, I asked Juanma, one of the teachers at the school, what exactly are huevos de vaca? After some confusion, he said, no, no es huevos, pero hue-VAS. What are those?, I asked. Fish ovaries. After feeling my stomach turn, I started to wonder, what type of ovaries had I eaten? Not exactly a question you ask yourself everyday.

After some further inquiry at the internets and supermercados, I figured it out. The man who served me the seafood hadn't said huevos de vaca, but rather, huevas de choco. Chocos are slang for calamares. Basically, I'd eaten squid ovaries. I love calamari, but squid ovaries? I'm still pretty ickied out over this, despite the fact that they tasted pretty good.

So, what have we learned today about Spain? In a land with tinto, incredible heat, flying crapping puggles, and squid ovaries masquerading as innocent seafood salad, my recommendation: if you don't want any trouble, just stay planted at the beer table.

Sweet, sweet nectar.

So, the time is nearing for me to rest on my laurels a bit and wrap up my gig here as foreign correspondant at ye olde 2logger. But before I sit back and enjoy the wonderful pay and benefits which have accrued from the fruits of my labor, a few final dispatches from the land of Rafael Nadal, Pedro Almodovar, Penelope Cruz, and this guy:

You go, rockin' that uneven chest hair and, um, fish!

On a related note (for those with brains like linguini), food in Spain is kinda wierd. Don't get me wrong, the whole tapas-thing is great, and I really got to love calamari for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And the octopus! Pulpo alinado - a salad made with grilled octopus tentacles, green peppers, onions, oil, vineagar, and seasonings - did me quite well on many a time while I was there. No complaints at all.

But these Spaniards have to learn a thing or two about, well, Spanish. Everybody knows, for example, that when you order a tortilla, you're supposed to get one of those flat pancake like thingies that you wrap your burrito in. Not a big egg omellette, thick as a cake, that you cut into slices. What's more, in Spain a bodega isn't a small magical store, in which you can buy just about anything (that store most certainly doesn't exist anywhere in Spain!), but rather, a place where they make wine. So, while asking where corner bodega is would seem like a logical thing to do in Latin America, or even New York, in Spain it will only get you drunk, but not also lightbulbs, dog food, soda, a hammer, shaving cream, and relish, like a bodega in a normal barrio. Additional ridiculousness comes with shrimp. Everywhere else in Latin America, shrimp are called camarones, but they're gambas in Spain, so that when you get sunburned, people don't say your skin is 'like a lobster', but rather, como una gamba. 

But there's one foodish confusion that I think eats the big enchilada (which also don't exist in Spain). In nearly every other country that speaks Spanish, beans are called frijoles. But the Spainiards manage to mess this up too. I mean, how do you mess up beans, one of the fundamental food groups and stuff?! Not ones to make anything easy, the Spaniards have decided that beans aren't frijoles, but, you guessed it, judias:

Now, I'm thinkin' they might be a wee bit confused here, because they use the exact same word, judia, to describe someone such as, say, recent 2log person of note Sarah Silverman, seen here attempting to make tortillas out of her lips:

What's more, it seems they are convinced that judias have magical powers, as evidenced in the Tale of Interest presented below, 'Mickey y las Judias Magicas':

But who knows, maybe there's something to this, I recently saw a documentary by an esteemed Kazakstani filmmaker that reputedly displayed the magic ability of some judias to transform into a wide variety of things. Luckily I don't believe everything I see.

Still, if I were Sarah Silverman, walking into a non-bodega trying to do my grocery shopping while in Spain, and I were suddenly to be chased by that scary guy with the fish shown above, well, it would be kinda nifty if I could just transform myself into a jar of beans and hide on the shelf with all the others for a bit, no?

One can dream. Still, as my dear roommate Shay always said, its not the magic judias that are the best, but the Orange ones. Out of all the things I learned from my former roomie, perhaps this is the most, um, special. 

So now you know a little more of what I learned while in Spain - and now, only one (or two) more Spain dispatches to go - can you dig it?!  

You've read it, you can't unread it! Tales of Interest!!  

According to Plantzafrica.com, Tetradenia Riparia, a plant from the mint family, is native to Africa. Its scientific name, derived from Latin, literally means 'four glands' (tetra-denia), and 'grows on the river bank' (riparia).

This fascinating plant, generally known as Ginger Bush (though occasionally also referred to as 'Misty Plume Bush'), is described by PlantzAfrica as follows:

"An encounter with this plant in flower in the wintry, dry bush is most surprising. There is the impression of soft lilac mist on bare grey branches, quite incongruous with the dryness of the surrounding vegetation. It is cultivated for this spectacular show which occurs when there is not much else in flower . . . The type of display which you will get depends on whether you have a male or female plant! Male and female flowers are borne on separate plants in spikes which differ in size and shape. The male flower spikes in profusion create more of the "mist" effect than the female flowers which tend to be more compact. The flowers usually appear when the plants are bare and are carried in the top section of the branches . . . It is slightly succulent and has an irregular branch pattern. The stems are brown and smooth, except for the younger portions which are covered with glandular hairs and have a ruby tinge. The glandular hairs also cover both surfaces of the leaves and make them slightly sticky to the touch. The leaves are a bright green and are slightly heart shaped with the margin irregularly and bluntly toothed . . . This plant was previously classified under the genus Iboza, which was derived from its Zulu name and apparently this refers to the aromatic qualities of the plant. The Zulu people have many uses for the plant including the relief of chest complaints, stomach ache and malaria. Inhaling the scent of the crushed leaves apparently also relieves headaches . . . This is a rewarding garden plant which is fast growing . . . It should be pruned back hard after flowering to keep it neat and promote flowering. Plant in full sun, except in very hot areas where midday shade or light shade will be beneficial. The ginger bush is best propagated from cuttings . . . Seed may be difficult to obtain if your garden has only male or female plants in it . . . The ginger bush is associated with a moth (Trichoplusia molybdina) of the predominately night-flying Noctuid family, but the flowers also attract other insects which are necessary to bring insect-feeding birds into your garden."

A little more research turns up these additional facts. According to Windowboxherbs,

 "Medicinal Uses of Ginger Bush: Use leaf infusions for influenza coughs, colds & sore throats and other respiratory  ailments. Inhale crushed leaves of the Ginger Bush as a treatment for headaches. Ginger Bush is also good to treat stomach ache and diarrhea. Ginger Bush has been used to treat fever and malaria. It can also be used for treating swollen legs." 

Well now, seems like Ginger Bush is good for what ails 'ya! Besides these meanings, however, it seems the term 'ginger bush' has others. My virgin ears were a little surprised to find this definition at Urbandictionary.com. What will the kids think up next? 

Also turns out there is a singer and multimedia artist named 'Smash Hitley' who has recently come out with an a record album called 'Ginger Bush', including such hits as 'Bill Bixby', 'Hey Record Man', and 'I Don't Love You.'

Who knew?

Over a bottle of wine the other nite,  Mark began to hold forth on his undying love for that classic chestnut by Edgar Allen Poe, "The Raven" (which was of course obviously based on the creature depicted below):

 

Of course, I brought up the Simpsons version, as well as a parody done by none other than me and Shay, long before either of us had heard of the 2 and its log. 

The facts: on some night in which he was trying to put off doing real stuff, Shay engaged in his favorite diversionary tactic - literary parody - and sent me an email containing his version of the first stanza of "The Raven," adapted to our lovely abode:

Once upon a midnight session, while I pondered, with discretion,
Over many a quaint and curious website of gay hardcore,
While I googled, nearly napping, suddenly there came a lapping
As of some one gently crapping, crapping on my chamber door.
"'Tis some patient," then I muttered, "looking for the doctor’s door —
            Only this, and nothing more."

Of course, after this I had to engage in some witty reparte (and yeah, the puggle does actually like to crap on doors and other vertical surfaces - go figure ). Unfortunately, I ended up spending half the night sending him yet ever more stanzas, getting sucked into the game. Shay's final response was something like, "you're crazy." When I told Mark, gamely sipping his wine, that Shay thought I went a bit overboard in writing another ten stanzas, his response was: "Shay's hardly one to talk about going overboard on literary parody!" Hrmph, Mr. Azoulay!

Anyway, here's the rest of the poem - if the puggle doesn't haunt your dreams after this, I'm not to blame. But I warn you - it stinks!:

And the poo it sat there stinking, while in my chair I labored, thinking,
of how that day the rain was sprinkling, when he left with word so curt.
Thus set I to porn unkind, hoping to relieve my mind,
but dreaming oneday I'd re-find -  the lost Ernie for my Bert -
For not Grover, nor Bruce, nor even Snufflupagus,
      Could mend this heart which had then gone a-bust.

But suddenly I heard a lurkin', rustling amongst the purple curtains,
stealthily he advanced uncertain, desiring to crap some more;
and then he came without announcing, with his balls a'sprightly bouncing,
pr'aps to give some toy a pouncing, as it lay upon the floor.
And wondering I turned to see if there was someone at my door.
     Or the smell of crap and little more.

Presently my soul grew stronger, to sit within that stink no longer,
"Sir, or madam, or creature," said I, "Your forgiveness I implore
But the fact is I was napping, and on my rod perhaps a-tapping,
But then I smelt a subtle whiff of crapping, on my chamber door.
That scarce thought I heard you"- and then I opened wide my door;-
     Only a smear of poo, and nothing more.

Then into the darkness peeping, with my knees a-knocking, creeping,
pants around my ankles leaping from my chair again once more,
for the smell it was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
of the anus that might 'gain be opened again upon my household floor

worried was I it might return and smear my house once more,
            What left its poo, and little more.

Back into my chamber turning, suddenly! between my toes, a squirming,
"I stepped in shit!," I was learning, a sad lesson yet once more.
But my disgust it turned to fear, as I once more a sound did hear,
"Perhaps a horrid beast draws near!" - so decided I to explore.
Well first clean between my toes a bit and then perhaps explore.
     Lest I turn again, and step within a pile of crap once more.

So open then I flung my shutters, when startled then, I gagged and shuddered,
and op'ed my eyes in ghastly horror at what there lay in store-
Not a bit obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with mein uncluttered lay he, without thinking much or more,
perched he upon the couch and lay he, not even upon the floor, 
     perched and scratched, and little more.  

Much I marveled at this creature, to have such ungainly features,
and such a reek to scare the bejeepers, out of those in front my door.
What suitors could come remains uncertain, with this creature here a lurkin,'
it smells much worse than a gherkin, left in the sun for an hour or four!
Could it be he'd poop again, and stain my carpet once more?
     My carpet and door, and whatever more?

Then the knave he winked his eyes, and feigning friendship I then smiled,
as I put away the porn and pretended I was reading or some such chore.
"Though thy face be sad and ugly, full of wrinkles- yet not lovely,
what thinketh thou, tell me," I asked him, "as you wander from door to door?
And tell me if you left that crap upon my chamber floor!"
     Quoth the puggle, "Pugglemore!"

Then I shuddered all a wonder, at how this ugly rumpled blunder,
could speak and rend the heavens asunder, and crap like that what's more!
Perhaps I'm mad, then I querried, perhaps my sanity he's levied
with the scent of his diahrrea festering, upon my carpet poor,
and even worse the color of the night's plutonian shore!,
     Then quoth the puggle, "Pugglemore!"

Then the puggle much beguiling, sat there with his soul just smiling,
licking his balls all while eyeing, the sandwhich I had before
just made for my poor hungry stomach, and not even had enough of it,
when trying I was to bust a nut off, but a few minutes before.
Made with cheese and tomatoes and relish, what a treat had I in store!
      But then quoth the puggle, 'Pugglemore!'

Then I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing,
whether he hoped to be amassing, more poo in his hidden store.
Inside his bowls all afowled, my sandwhich he desired!, and so I howled,
"Begone, you shall not eat, don't scowl!, this sandwich I made before!"
But he merely yawned and started to rub his ass upon my floor.
     And my carpet stained he a little more.

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from some unseen censer,
Swung by Seraphim whose feet had stepped in crap in days of yore,
'Wretch!,' I cried, 'though hast just farted, and now I bet you've barely started,
to destroy my house whole-hearted, as you've done to others before!
You want your poo on all I own, you dirty besotted bore!
And I bet its you who also pees upon upon my bathroom floor!

And then gloatingly he cried: "Pugglemore!"

Not originally intended for mass publication, and perhaps in need of some editing, but figured it deserved some dredging up when I was reminded it existed. And to quote Futurama's "Tales of Interest" - 'You've read it, you can't unread it! Tales of Interest!'

For all you 'Home Movies' fans, or fans of Morocco, . . .

just sayin' . . .

I always knew he existed.

"I will eat your soul!!!! (ok, and this frozen treat, and all future national healthcare, and lots of puggle poo, and shay's week-old undies, and a few microuniverses scrunched up in extra dimensions, and that stuff that collects at the bottom of your bathtub, and all the garbanzo beans, and that andy dick guy, and most of the annoying morning show hosts, and a toyota prius (with sunroof, please), and a chihuahua, and some bauxite (whatever that is), and some city subs, and city sub, and the city, and some subs, any tuna experts and tuna lovers you have on hand, any extra yarn you might have on hand, your hand, and you, but first I'll have me some lunch, thanks)."

So, while in Spain, the guy in charge of the 'cultural activities' at our school, Juanma Casas, took us on a tour of the Museo de Belles Artes, one of the most famous museums in Spain, known for its baroque painting and sculpture - basically, more saints and virgins than you can shake a stick at.

How they got a picture of known ascetic and bearded 2-logger Shay (to the right, with maiden), however, is beyond me . . .

This buff guy (left) was definitely one that got stuck in my mind. Unfortunately, he's a crusader, brandishing his cross as a weapon/nunchuk. He also has what looks like a slingshot in his other hand, shirtlessly reveals his manly pecs and washboard abs, looks ready to shoot fire out of his eyes, and seems all-around ready to rumble. Everytime I see this guy, all that goes through my head is, "They were singin' Kung-Fu Fightin' - those kids were fast as lightnin'!" I mean, this badass looks like he's gonna go medieval on somebody, right? Lets hope it ain't on us pagans and heathens.

I also liked this woodie (left) of a monk with a little bell attached to his lips. I'm guessing it was there to remind him to eat, no?

Juanma was a great tour guide, but one thing he told us about had me in stiches. Supposedly, there was a movement in Baroque art which was called Feaismo - basically, 'Ugly-ism.' Supposedly, the faces were supposed to show religious passion, but ever since, people thought they just looked contorted and, well, ugly. As Juanma said of this painting of a passionate woman (far right), well, just look at her face! Passion, or the uglies? To me, its just a hoot they had the guts to call it what it is.

Then again, I'm not sure why they didn't  include many of the other paintings I saw while  in Spain. They've got some Feaismo goin' on there for sure! This lady and her friends haunted my dreams for weeks - are they vampires (left)?!

 But its the royalty that really wins the ugly race. I mean, if you can afford to have someone paint your pic, can't you tell them to fix you up a bit?

 

This lady in yellow (right) could use some work, ya know? 

 

 

 

 

 

But the royal (ugly) dude (left) depicted here takes the cake. Not only is he seriously fugly - I mean, triple chin and underbite - but he's sportin' more 'toe than the camel toes (right) I saw in Morocco!