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Gaius Octavius

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  1. Gaius Octavius
    It pleases me to be the presenter of pleasant tidings pertaining to the present perigrinations of the pertinacious and puissant Lord Pertinax of Putney :notworthy: . His Grace, :notworthy: in his perpetual pursuit of pastoral provender, is perambulating through the pastures of the provinces of the Picts; picking parsley, purslane, pansies and peppermint, and imbibing potent porter. These powerful precious pearls of paradise will provide his porridge with potent palatable provisions. Paroxysms of pleasure will permeate his person :notworthy: and perpetuate his pleasure at all prandial proceedings.
     
    His :notworthy: peculiar pastime proceeds from a penchant for perpetuating the practice of polyphristic psyonics.
     
    This ponderous, peripatetic periphrasis should not be perplexing to the polloi.
     

  2. Gaius Octavius

    Letters & Words

    By Gaius Octavius,

    Sundry criminals have been at work on the English language for ages. It is high time these miscreants were brought to book.
     
    Let us examine the letter "H".
     
    Not pronounced in 'eight' where it lives; prounced in Sean where it is on vacation.
    Not pronounced in 'ghost' (yes, yes, I know, it tells us how to pronounce the 'g'). OK, so, gho ghet ghum. Lets be consistent. The Irish don't bother pronouncing it in 'thanks', but they do in 'Sean'. Koo-koo, no?
    Thought, bought, caught! Pronounce that last 'h'? No way Jose!
    I know! What about the likes of how, hero, help and hello? Just drop the 'h'. Would anyone call the spelling cops if we wrote ow, ero, elp and ello? Of course not. No one rats on 'herb'! Saves ink, time and wear and tear on the eyes. Some Brits say it this way anyway. And they invented the confounding confounded language. Mite just as well use ghoti. Nothing but a trouble maker.
    Tear is another beaut that needs work.
     
    Let us proceed to the criminal "K".
     
    Knock; two k's - wats de point ere? Ghet rid of dem and you wind up wit 'noc'. Just as ghood!
    Knight? nite! Knew? new! Kale? cale! Knave? nave! Kind? cind! Keen? ceen! Ghood enuf for the Romans; ghood enuf for me.
     
    On to some useless words.
    Moot. Once debatable now undebatable. Or do I ave it bacwards? Ghet wat I mean?
    Good. Bad! Wats de point of being ghood anyow? Dere is no suce ding as a ghood proto-neo-con. Dats an oxyignoranus!
    Foul, fowl? Run de to togeder in speece and you ave no idea of wats ghoing on.
     
    Put dis one on your tounge. De bride, nee Neigh, said nay at de altar. So it ghoes in speece: De bride nay nay, said nay at de altar? Lovely!
     
    Look, dis confuses little vagabonds and de prezident, so lets elp em. Ghet rid of all dis twaddle and little cids will danc uz. Den we can be proud of gheeorgy-poo.
    De nicompoop is constantly adding words suce as 'fascistististists' and 'conservatistismist' along wit de required nucUlar.
    Now, ere is were I need your elp. De following words need plurals and possessives.
     
    Ignorattus
     
    Illiteratus
     
    Ignoranus
     
    And so I propose dat we :giljotiini: 'H' & 'K'. Ghet rid of some words and add de above tree too de lexicon. Dey are interesting words and sound nise. Very appropriate wen describing certain proto-neo ominid kriminals.
  3. Gaius Octavius

    Bumbler!

    By Gaius Octavius,

    I didn't know that I was supposed to 'PUBLISH' my blog! So it's in a fouled up order. Maybe you can make something of it. Cretan!, Idiot!, that I am! And possibly find it in your hearts to forgive me - some day.
     
    My sainted mother used to tell me: "You'll learn - some day."
  4. Gaius Octavius

    Pantagathus

    By Gaius Octavius,

    My Dearest Romans:
     
    It has fallen to my saddened lamentable lot to have to inform you of the recent savaging of His Greekness, Don Giovanni :notworthy:, by a squardron of savage squirrels (Arboratus Rodentus Ratus).
     
    Whilst he was gargling a brew, and taking in the visions of lightly clad maidens, the lately reported cowardly Red Coated vulture, cruelly interrupted his sanguine reverie and swooped down and fowlly snuffed another innocent chipmunk. This action could no longer stand. His Greekness :notworthy: , sprang to the Browning, (which he constantly keeps to hand in the event of a Yankee raid), and blew the plumed fowl murderer to kingdom come. Feathers all over the homestead. The racket caused a great alarm in the resident squirrel community and fearing that they were next in line for a judicious reckoning, they presumed it best that they attack first. Armed with acorn onagers and specially sharpened teeth, they had at the startled unprepared and besotted Pantagathus :notworthy:,(Peace be with him.). He did not give in easily. Fur, flesh and other sorts of gore ornamented the estate. His Domina put in a cameo appearance and laden with sundry armaments, made short work of the varmints. RIP
     
    Thenceforth, His Greekness :notworthy: , was given another brew and carted off in a most casual fashion to Greate Basil's Memorial Hospital. He is lying in state, in a full body cast, in total traction, in the ICU unit. Tubes are coming out of him like a spaghetti dinner. Fortunately, one is connected to a keg of ale which is recharged daily. He shall be amongst the missing until recovery or a miracle.
     
    His Greekness :notworthy: has requested that in lieu of flowers, candy, fruit and such waste, that you send to me, (Whoever I am at this moment and at where ever I reside at same moment) such gold, currency, coupons, stamps or anything of great value that you intend for him :notworthy:
     
    Whoever, whatever and where ever I am now,

  5. Gaius Octavius
    It was my pleasure to have met His Greekness, Don Giovanni (aka Pantagathus) :notworthy: , about a week ago. He and his Domina trod up from one of the the outlying provinces to America. I picked him up with the Imperial Chariot somewhere in an exurb of NYC. We somehow knew each other immediately. At first, I must tell you that he is the handsome ideal of a Southern Gentleman. We yakked about many things, (strangling Ramses; putting a hex on Pertinax :notworthy: ) on our way to Brookfordshiresexingham for lunch at Fairway. He never once 'showed me up' on my lack of knowledge of things Roman.
     
    I made the mistake of taking a side trip over the Brooklyn Bridge (which I tried to sell to him) to lower Manhattan to show him what was left of the World Trade Center and a bit of Wall St. Sat in traffic for quite a while, as Broadway funneled down to one lane and we could not get down Wall Street for the destruction taking place. So the NYSE, the Sub-Treasury Building and the shrapnel marks on the Morgan Guaranty Trust Co. wall were off the menu. Got to the WTC area. All we could see was a fence. Off to Brooketc. Showed him the site where I spent my first day in jail when I was about 7 or 8 years old. Finally hit Fairway.
     
    Picked up some fruit, soda, a baguette and semolina bread, olives and sweet & sour red peppers and - Ta Da - some pecorino, Scottish Mull, Prestige de Boulogne and Blue Gouda cheeses. All to die for!!! Death by Cheese! (Eat your liver out Pertinax! :notworthy: ) Had to wash it down with Pepsi (no booze allowed). We nibbled for a long time on the enclosed patio facing the harbor. One can see from north of the Statue of Liberty south to Staten Island as one chomps away. Although the weather started out miserable, by now the old gods were shining on us.
     
    His Greekness :notworthy: caught site of two dusky swans paddling their little innocent hearts out in the harbour a few feet from us. It was all I could do to stop P from making a meal of them. Amongst the rubble there were Civil War era buildings all over the place. A couple of trolley cars graced the patio. We then bopped along some cobble stone streets (in worse shape than the Via Appia Antiga) to a mole with a view of Lower Manhattan and Gouvenour's Island - site of the old First Army and later Coast Guard Headquarters. Think that he has pics of all. Time to head off for dinner.
     
    Dropped off the remnants of lunch along with some Dogfish Head Ale (which he recommended - delish) and some Trappistee Ale (which he kindly got for me - haven't tried it yet) at the wigwam and picked up my Consort. His Lady was otherwise enterprised with some of her pals. Off to Coney Island and Gargulio's Restaurant. The maitre d' kissed my hand in greeting. This astounded P. Went into the church first and had a few pops. Bride had beer; he vino; me dirty extra dry vodka martinis on the rocks. Noted that he wasn't drinking vino. Told him that I would pour it into his pocket if he didn't commence. Never occurred to me that it might have tasted like battery acid! Oh, well! P entertained and charmed my Bride throughout the evening.
     
    Off to table. They split a bottle of vino. And all had things to eat. (Hope it all was at least passable.) To the of all, I poured a bit of their wine into my now languishing martini and ate my calamari with my fingers. Of a sudden a fusillade of shots was heard from outside. P hit the deck like a dive bomber going at Yamato. Not a big deal. Happens all the time in Brooketc. Just a few of the lads probably settling a Cicero-Caesar thing. Had sfogliatelle for desert - saved one for his Lady.
     
    At this place, when it comes time to settle up, you get a chance to leave scot free - if you pick the right number on a tile that falls out of a container. Told P to pick the number. P's luck was out to lunch. Off to pick up P's Lady in Manhattan.
     
    She is the epitome of a Southern Belle. A soft drawl that sends electricity down to ones heels and up to the ears. I paid no attention whatsoever to P during the drive back to exurbia for listening to Her and my Bride babbling. As I am irresistible, She slipped an arm around me as we parted and as I tried to teach her how to say 'sfogliatelle'. :wub: Sounds better Her way.
     

  6. Gaius Octavius

    Grumbles

    By Gaius Octavius,

    Fellow Sufferers:
     
    Seems that the Canadian Moslems want to assimilate, i.e., on their terms. They will determine what 'sin' is. My sometimes faulty logic tells me that means Canadians will have to do the assimilating. I'll pass and turn in my honorary Prince Edward Island citizenship. Then, there is a group of these ruffians who want to hack off the premier's head. I'm sure that that is a go for some Canadians.
     
    For a prize, let's see who can use the word 'that' in a row, (without any intervening words), the most times and still make sense.
     
    The mail brought in some very good news. My Brides Health Maintainence Org. just upped
    the monthly rate by $100. That makes it $7,344/annum. Considering that a stay in a hospital costs two grand a day, that's a bargain! IF one uses it, otherwise it goes into the deep pockets of top management.
    I often wonder why the neopath trash talkers prefer to pay their taxes to an HMO with an average 18% overhead per premium dollar vs Medicare's less than 2%. Iupiter forbid that one has to go to a hospital or doctor when one is traveling out of their area of coverage. A nurse (!) located in Tanu Tuva will have to OK it, IF your shade doesn't cross the River Styx first. The CENSORED .
     
    Now the beer has run out! I thank Minerva for paper plates.
     
    I think that I have been banned from the Racist topic of Ramses! Banned, I said! Where is Mr. Roberts? :2guns:
     
    And the Yankees lost - again
     
    Dear Lord,
    Gaius
    SPQR
  7. Gaius Octavius
    Sunday last, as I sat sad and dreary at my computer contemplating posts at UNRV, there came a banging, a gentle banging, from the streets below. Twas the garbage men alerting sleeping citizens of the approaching Midnight Hour. This I thought, and nothing more. Then there came a peace shattering tingle from the phone. Me thought a lost and lonely soul seeking solace at the Plutonian shore. This me thought, and nothing more. Twas a fellow dweller in one of the stacked apartments, seeking my omniscient knowledge. "What's going on?", quoth she. "What are you talking about?" quoth me. "Don't you know?, look out of your window below", babbled she. And this I did as she did implore. Behold, there appeared to me squadrons of fire trucks, ambulances, cop cars, and first responders of all sorts all over the the road ways and walk ways. Their lights all flashing; quite a sight. Some building has gone alight, or some cop has been given a fright. This the god-Consul thought. This he thought, and nothing more. Then in the Stygian depths below, the Consul saw that the corps of cops and sundry were at my building's door. Then me thought that there was something more. Me dressed and flew through the apartment door seeking transportation to the lobby floor as me thought it an arson by my ancient enemies of yore. Twas not thus, the doorman did me implore. Twas some facing of the building falling on the unfortunate heads of unwary citizens wandering about in the the Gloom of Night. Thus twas it, and nothing more.
  8. Gaius Octavius
    Komrades:
     
    The Imperial Roman Intelligence Service (IRIS) - get it?, has intercepted a letter from busche to president chinney. For your edification, it is reproduced here. Keep in mind that this is Top Secret and for your eyes only, else it is off to Poland with you.
     
     
    Deer mista prezaden?
    Look, yu *CENSORED*, iv been frontin 4 yu 4 5 yeers now and everythin has gone Right. nothin iz correk. i trid to *CENSORED* up soshul sekurity n faled. then i did *GRRR!* up medakar. now th old fokz are oilin up ther gresse gunz 2 git me. yu got me in2 2 warz in plasez that i nevr herd ov. yu sadeld me wit browny n chirpoff n thay *CENSORED* up katrina n nobody tole me notin. if i waz to tak a wauk in noo yok sombodee id jump a lite n leve tire tredz up my body. ur boy snojob puled a fast 1 on me wit this port *BRR!*. waytll thay find out about th chineez runnnin som portz. nobody telz me notin. now som *Uh Oh!* hedz r tryin to git sharia law 4 themselvz in ontario. then ther ar a passel of pulpit poundin preechers tryin to set up Cristian govment in sout karolina. some exodus *BRR!*. ther tryin to git fokz to com therr n kik out demokratz, liberlz n even republixz n neo conz who dont coton 2 them. Jus *CENSORED* grate. this *OH DEAR*! sadam runz hiz own trial. wanna bet thay cut im loosz. iv got thoz guyz in bowlivea n venizzwala so *OHHH!* off that thay wil probablee put a contrak out on me. wear th *COOO!* r thoz plases. wat th *BRR!* r stem celz. th partee is afta me bout theez wetbakxz n th border. thoz minitmen lik az plugg me az a wetbak. haf th partee iz on th take n r goin 2 alkatraz. th rest r bangin therr hedz on th florz n walz. wil u pleez git that guy deelay to take the merkury treetment. th ol man n ol ladee lik thet guy klinten betr than me. thay cut me out ov ther wil and put him in. nise. thoz *MY GOD!* at fox r turnin on me. u go off huntin n drinkinn n allmost put down a shister. he haz grate earz. then u dont tel enybody. wat wer u watin 4. did u wanna see if u snuffed him. hoo pade th bilz. thenn u git him to tak a div 4 u. nex time ur out shootin tak mkklellen n rover wit u. doo th job rite thiz time. wot th *OUCH!* wer u doin. praktisin to git osama. u shudna takin 5 defurmentz.
    im gittin tiered of thisz fony texaz axsent n waukin round lik a puppit n telin liz. now ur pakin me off to indeeya. wherr th *MY WORD!* iz that. wot kind ov *OH NO!* r thay. how manee dizeezez wil i git. do thay speek inglissh. o god it jest hit th wirez. thay hav a tape showin brownie tellin me all about katrina. u *GOOD GRIEF!*. Tak brownie huntin. git judg starr 2 be4 he gits me. wot else r u puttin on mi plate. dont i hav enuff u *LORDY, LORDY!*. giv bugs buny that shot gun nex tim ur out.
     
    hav a nise day
    georgee dubya
    _____________________________________________________________________________
    ADVERTISEMENT
    Today's Journal brought to you through the good offices of the Chinney Hunting, Lying, Fishing & Cursing School. We will educate you on how to whack your best friend on private propety. Lie about it and get away with it, so long as it's in Dixie. The proper curses to use when speaking at a liberal. Fish stories for every occasion. As a free gift, we will show you how to fix your election and get a government pension when you go to jail. Anyone is well qualified, so long as you are a whacko or a red neck. All this for the low low price of 10 grand in tuition. Fully laundered cash on the barrel head only. Call your local Radio Trash Talker or Fox for further details and limitations. Fully warranteed.
    _____________________________________________________________________________
     
    IRIS
    SPQR
  9. Gaius Octavius
    Gaius Octavius:
     
    QUOTE(Moonlapse @ Sep 22 2007, 01:26 PM)
    Fiat money...
     
     
    I doubt if a modern economy could exist without fiat money. The transaction amounts are much too great.
    When the Spanish introduced New World gold to Europe, there was a great inflation!
    ---------------------------------
    Moonlapse:
     
    QUOTE(Gaius Octavius @ Sep 23 2007, 12:24 PM)
    QUOTE(Moonlapse @ Sep 22 2007, 01:26 PM)
    Fiat money...
     
    I doubt if a modern economy could exist without fiat money.
     
    You are absolutely right, and that is the THE problem. Actually, I should say modern war-driven economies.
     
    QUOTE
    The transaction amounts are much too great.
     
    If a nation has a fixed currency standard and a certain amount of wealth, then all other amounts are relative to that... until you want to force a debt based monetary system in order to sped more money than is available.
     
    QUOTE
    When the Spanish introduced New World gold to Europe, there was a great inflation!
     
    Of course. The supply of the actual commodity which has intrinsic value had increased. Paper money has no intrinsic value, whoever controls the supply has the ability to do what the Spanish did, but all that is involved is the allocation of credit, WITH INTEREST. The only limit they have is the point at which they have sucked out all the value that the original gold currency contained.
    -----------------------------------------------
    G.O.:
     
    Moonlapse, are you advocating a commodity based monetary system?
    -----------------------------------------------
    Moon.:
     
    Absolutely.
     
    "Bankers own the earth; take it away from them but leave them with the power to create credit, and, with a flick of the pen, they will create enough money to buy it all back again. Take this power away from them and all great fortunes like mine will disappear, and they ought to disappear, for then this world would be a happier and better world to live in. But if you want to be slaves of bankers and pay the cost of your own slavery, then let the bankers control money and control credit."
    Josiah Stamp
     
    "I believe that banking institutions are more dangerous to our liberties than standing armies. If the American people ever allow private banks to control the issue of their currency, first by inflation, then by deflation, the banks and corporations that will grow up around [the banks] will deprive the people of all property until their children wake-up homeless on the continent their fathers conquered. The issuing power should be taken from the banks and restored to the people, to whom it properly belongs."
    Thomas Jefferson
     
    "A great industrial nation is controlled by it's system of credit. Our system of credit is concentrated in the hands of a few men. We have come to be one of the worst ruled, one of the most completely controlled and dominated governments in the world--no longer a government of free opinion, no longer a government by conviction and vote of the majority, but a government by the opinion and duress of small groups of dominant men."
    Woodrow Wilson
     
    "In the absence of the gold standard, there is no way to protect savings from confiscation through inflation. ... This is the shabby secret of the welfare statists' tirades against gold. Deficit spending is simply a scheme for the confiscation of wealth. Gold stands in the way of this insidious process. It stands as a protector of property rights. If one grasps this, one has no difficulty in understanding the statists' antagonism toward the gold standard."
    Alan Greenspan
     
    I would never advocate a fiat monetary system, because it will always be used for its capability to extract wealth and control. Why do you think the system was implemented right before the first World War? Why do you think the dollar is dropping against other currencies? What do you think is happening in the Middle East? We are trying to prop up the dollar with the commodity of oil, because the dollar is becoming worthless. If the dollar becomes worthless, then what happens?
    -------------------------------------------
    M. Porcious Cato:
     
    In his new book, Greenspan repeats his views about the overwhelming benefits of the gold standard for a stable money supply. I'll see if I can find the original quote because it's quite revealing.
     
    I should add that a gold standard doesn't mean that people would have to actually carry out transactions in gold. All that matters is that bank notes are redeemable in gold.
    ------------------------------------------
    Moon.:
     
    I would love to see a return to the gold standard, with the control of money given back to Congress and the selection of Senators given back to the states, as prescribed in the Constitution.
     
    Basically, repeal all the screw-ups made in 1913.
    -----------------------------------------
    MPC:
     
    If bank notes are redeemable in gold, there is no need for a national currency.
    -----------------------------------------
    MPC:
     
    From Greenspan's new book:
     
    pp. 480-481: "I have always harbored a nostalgia for the gold standard's inherent price stability--a stable currency was its primary goal. But I've long since acquiesced in the fact that the gold standard does not readily accommodate the widely accepted current view of the appropriate functions of government--in particular the need for government to provide a social safety net. The propensity of Congress to create benefits for constituents without specifying the means by which they are to be funded has led to deficit spending in every fiscal year since 1970, with the exception of the surpluses of 1998 to 2001 generated by the stock market boom. The shifting of real resources required to perform such functions has imparted a bias toward inflation. In the political arena, the pressure to make low-interest-rate credit generally available and to use fiscal measures to boost employment and avoid the unpleasantness of downward adjustments in nominal wages and prices has become nearly impossible to resist. For the most part, the American people have tolerated the inflation bias as an acceptable cost of the modern welfare state. There is no support for the gold standard today, and I see no likelihood of its return. [...]
     
    We know that the average inflation rate under the gold and earlier commodity standards was essentially zero. At the height of the gold standard between 1870 and 1913, just prior to World War I, the cost of living in the United States, as calculated by the Federal Reserve Bank of New York, rose by a scant 0.2 percent per annum on average. From 1939 to 1989, the year of the fall of the Berlin Wall and before the onset of the post-cold war wage-price disinflation, the CPI rose nine-fold, or 4.5 percent per year. The reflects the fact that there is no inherent anchor in a fiat money regime. What constitutes its "normal" inflation rate is a function solely of a country's culture and history. In the United States, modest amounts of inflation are politically tolerated, but inflation rates close to double digits create a political storm. Indeed, Richard Nixon felt the political need to impose wage and price controls in 1971 even though the inflation rate was below 5 percent. Thus, while political considerations mean that the gold standard can be ruled out as a way to suppress a forthcoming rise in inflationary pressures, ironically, politics driven by an irate populace just might accomplish the same purpose."
     
    What follows is a very scary scenario regarding the combination of the collapse of social security and currently high inflation, requiring a rise in the interest rate in the double digits and a "return of populist, anti-Fed rhetoric, which was lain dormant since 1991."
     
    Greenspan's book is definitely worth a read.
    --------------------------------------------
    GO:
     
    How would a gold standard work? Assume that a bank has 100 ounces of gold (capital and depositor's gold). How would it go about making loans (and protect itself against 'runs')? Would it be a gyro bank?
    --------------------------------------------
    MPC:
     
    QUOTE(Gaius Octavius @ Oct 1 2007, 06:44 AM)
    How would a gold standard work? Assume that a bank has 100 ounces of gold (capital and depositor's gold). How would it go about making loans (and protect itself against 'runs')? Would it be a gyro bank?
     
     
    Typically, banks made loans and conducted business via bank notes that were redeemable in gold, which were kept in deposit. This is really no different from the fiat currency that we all expect banks to disburse on demand. Then, as now, there was a short-term risk of runs on the banks, which banks dealt with then, as now, by borrowing from other banks. Of course, the cost of a panic isn't trivial, but the benefits of stable currency are well worth it.
    --------------------------------------------
    GO:
     
    Is there any limit to this expansion? Do you think that one could conduct Wall Street's business today and how?
     
    Once there were Gold Certificates issued by the Treasury or Fed (no longer remember) prior to the great Depression. They were in circulation. Didn't stop the Great Deflation.
     
    The Federal Reserve used (?) to balance check clearance balances with special Gold Certificates. Oddly enough, those districts losing Certificates would find themselves in economic trouble.
    ---------------------------------------------
    MPC:
     
    QUOTE(Gaius Octavius @ Oct 1 2007, 11:58 AM)
    Is there any limit to this expansion? Do you think that one could conduct Wall Street's business today and how?
     
    Absolutely there is a limit to the expansion of gold and thus to the expansion of prices. If we were to go back to the gold standard (at $733 = 1 gold dollar), there would certainly have to be a change in denomination, but there's no reason that one couldn't trade any number (or denominations) of proxies for gold reserves.
     
     
    QUOTE
    Once there were Gold Certificates issued by the Treasury or Fed (no longer remember) prior to the great Depression. They were in circulation. Didn't stop the Great Deflation.
     
    The gold standard doesn't protect against every deflationary pressure known to man. Obviously, if the sum total of goods triples overnight, the gold value of each of those goods will decline.
     
     
    QUOTE
    -----------------------------------------
    Moon:
     
    Gaius, here's some related reading on the Depression from a gold standard perspective, if you are curious:
     
    http://www.mises.org/rothbard/agd/contents.asp
     
    There's a link to a full PDF text beneath the title.
    -----------------------------------------
  10. Gaius Octavius

    Woe Am I!

    By Gaius Octavius,

    Monday last, the Domina Claudia :wub: :wub: took off for some place in the boondocks, namely, knoxberg, 10AC. The Imperial Pro-Crastinator was supposed to be left well supplied. Well, the Old Moor Hen Shredded Sporran is almost at an end. The stompings don't look as if they will last the week. Down to the last half dozen beers. I have no idea what the things left in the fridge are.
     
    This is the status quo:
     
    Bride in the boondocks. :wub: :wub:
    Nurse Mary in Basra. :wub:
    Private Bohp on maneuvers in Wales. :wub:
    Lady Farrow is missing. :wub:
     
    The position of 'Lady in Servicing' :wub: is presently open. Please address your applications to: Gaius Octavius.
     
    N.B. - The Earl of Doncaster's application was forwarded to the Duke of Beaufort.
     
    The Pro-Praetor

  11. Gaius Octavius

    Grrrrrr!

    By Gaius Octavius,

    Fellow Travelers:
     
    If it weren't for Pentagathus, this blog would be locked and deader than a dumb bell. For the which, I humbly thank him publically. I hope he doesn't come to regret it. The gods bless those who speak Latin and know computerese. :angel:
    Pertinax chipped in also :notworthy:
    If any are as ignorant as I am of this stuff, as old as I am, and want to open a blog, pay no attention to the instructions. Do the opposite of what you think you are being asked to do. :bag:
     
    ENGLISH! ENGLISH! BROKEN NEAPOLITAN IF NECESSARY!
     
    Courage Komrades, courage,
    Gaius the Dumb
  12. Gaius Octavius

    Ode on UNRV.

    By Gaius Octavius,

    February is the dreariest month of the year.
    Pantagathus and Perinax aren't here.
    La Donna Sophia will seldom appear.
    Nephele wears combat boots this time of year.
    And Ursus can be a pain in the rear.
     
    Faustus needs a good tax man.
    Coldrail is locked in the porta can.
    The Klingon is a frozen man.
    Kosmic eats frogs out of a tin can.
    And Ramses can be a pain in the can.
     
    Moon has a corner on gold.
    L W has a nasty cold.
    MPC will never fold.
    The G-Man is very bold.
    And a swift kick to GO's butt is foretold.
     
    GPM is lost in lovely Warwick.
    DoLl eats sushi from a stick.
    Viggen was robbed by a Serbian hick.
    P.P. endures this motley clique.
    And we'll all be blessed by his Holeyness, Pope Mal(icious)adict.
     
     

  13. Gaius Octavius

    Options.

    By Gaius Octavius,

    I hope that I have the names right, but here goes anyway:
     
    Once upon some good hundred plus years ago, Commodore Vanderbuilt was collecting railroads. He decided the Erie Railroad would be nice to have, so he started buying up its stock. Now, there was a chap called Jay Gould, who really owned the RR. JG thought that it would be a very good idea to print up stock certificates as fast as the good Comm. could buy them. For some unearthly reason, the Comm. got the idea that he had bought the RR a couple of times. Sent his henchmen to JG's headquarters at the Erie station in Hoboken, N.J., and behold, stacks of certificates being printed up. Matters were settled by a gunfight at the station. Personally, I don't see why the good Comm. should have become so exercised. It was a free market after all.
     
    I would like to know if you think this type of peccadillo could happen again???
     

  14. Gaius Octavius

    School.

    By Gaius Octavius,

    I was sitting cross legged in front of the radio. My elbows on my knees and my chin perched on my palms. I was listening to the Lone Ranger. I was galloping on Silver and plugging owlhoots. My reverie was rudely interrupted when I heard the two most odious words in the English language - Thamiss and school - all in the same sentence! Thamiss has plagued me all my life. Somehow it comes natural to humans. I think that it is the first word my grand-niece ever uttered. It follows me like a curse. It has always meant that I was in big trouble.
     
    I made enquiry of my loved ones as to the meaning of this evil omen. Thamiss, you're going to kindergarten. Oh, yeah!, when did this come about? Did you consult me? Do I get a vote? Yes, Thamiss, you are going to Catholic school. What? Have you lost all sense of propriety? Those nuns feed little tykes to the devil. This is not for me. Look, you keep saying to me that I'll never amount to anything but the guy who rinses off the dishes - not even the dish washer. So what's the point of school? I know everything I need to know for a life of crime. Leave things as they are and stop interrupting my programs. The Green Hornet is next.
     
    A few days later I went to sleep dreaming of a glorious day to come. Came morning, the evil word Thamiss was shouted. Get up; take a shower. Why, was I working in the mines? Go away. I need my rest. I'm only a kid. Get out of bed or the hand of doom strikes. Performed the required ablutions and then was confronted with the silliest set of clothing I ever saw. Knickers! Long socks! Eton collar! Tie! Jacket! White shirt! Brown and white saddle shoes! Do we have a visitor? Is this garb for my brother? Am I going to kindergarten or Yale? It's for you Thamiss. You're kidding. I'll never live this down. I'll be a laughing stock. How can I steal comics from Epstein? The cops will nail me 1,2,3. Thaaaamissss, get moving. This is a conspiracy. You know that this stuff is coming back shredded. Then you are going to practice karate on me.
     
    Now, I am decked out in his silly uniform; my Mother has a firm grasp on my hand and we are off to hell. Ma, there's a bug, I'm going to step on it. That's what you think. Look, a nickel. I can use it. Tomorrow. Can I play on the monkey bars one last time? You can, but you may not! Rats!
     
    We had a small park to walk through before we hit hell. One minor point before we continue. I had wild flaxen hair, surrounding a cowlick, that always looked as if it had exploded. This made it easy for adults to grab a hand full and yank my head around. This was not a secret to my Mother. She experimented as we ambled. Got to hell and was duly enrolled by Mother Superior and ceremoniously introduced at the dungeon. The girls were situate at the window. Oh!, so cute. Ribbons and bows in their hair. Played so nice with the blocks. The little monsters. To my right were my buddies. To my left some kids that we didn't know. Each gang glowered at the other. Experience taught that this did not bode well for any concerned. I gave my Mother a head start and then bolted. I beat her home by a long shot. But there was no one to play with. Only some cocooned urchins who could only dribble. Mother soon put in an appearance. I'll leave the rest to your informed imagination. After a good night's recuperation, the previous days exercise was repeated - with a pork pie hat! This time I sat with my pals. As usual, the girls were cackling. The two gangs sat in absolute silence, glowering at each other, mayhem bent. Sister took a hike. A few moments passed and the gangs were at each others throats. Collars flying. Shirts shredded. Jackets torn to rags. Who was strangling who with the ties. Somebody was trying to rip my knickers off while I was biting some guy's nose. Of a sudden, silence commenced to reign. Mother Superior had put in a cameo appearance. All four feet nothing of a woman dressed in black with starched head dress and bib. She wielded a short pointer. The boys were ordered to line up and to put their palms up. She worked that pointer like a woman possessed! Ouch! Ouch! Owww! Our hands were of no assistance for some good time. Our names were collected for further proceedings in the near future.
     
    Ah, the joy of ones first school days.
  15. Gaius Octavius

    Alert!

    By Gaius Octavius,

    Dear Friends:
     
    Little Sen. ricky santorum, that mendacious murine mountebank, has announced that WMD's have been found in Eyewreck. A miracle is delivered unto us (once again)!
     
    ann couter, that sallow, scoriaceous, sulphovinic, specious specimen, feels that if Rep.Murtha was fragged now, he will have earned one of his two Purple Hearts. I'd give her one for that condyloid face.
     
    hiraldo the hirsute, has vomited that he has seen more 'action' than John Kerry did! Yeah! He got punched around on one of his TV shows. It was a Liberal before fox gave It a salary. Went packing in Afganistan, just in case osama strolled by. Now, It would have shown osama how to run.
     
    Moonlapse scared the carp out of me! Then he relented! :wub:
     
    A mocking bird is serenading us. Now, that's a pleasure.
     
    Domina Claudia put together a melange of chicken, veggies and rice with the balance of Pantagathus' chimineychurra. Pretty d_mn_d tasty.
     
    The pre-hominoid Dept. of Environmental Protection beings eschewed playing with the water valves today. Didn't have to use alcohol to cleanse the countenance.
     
    flush rimflour, the pill popping, pot smoking, draft dodging, serial polygynist, will turn himself in to the magistrates for drug posession. Obfuscation and prevarication are his forte.
     
    Share in my joy,
    Major Black Adder
  16. Gaius Octavius

    Latest News

    By Gaius Octavius,

    Me Buckos:
     
    National Women's Football Assoc. Super Bowl will take place next month. Hope it is as good as the Aussie midget tossing.
     
    Some witch put a curse on some woman so that she would fall in love with some chap. The contra party didn't appreciate it, so she brought the matter up before the magistrates. Probably in wierdo Kali4kneeya. :1eye:
     
    A creepy crawly and a flying bug couldn't take the weather outside any longer. Got into the estate for the A/C. So I crushed the bloody innards out of them with my little hand!
     
    A devoted clod, and alleged poet, wants to deshabilier Emily Dickenson and have sex with her! The Censored necrophile! Personally, my supreme object of carnal lust is still Sophia Loren - alive! :wub:
    The voyaging Domina returns tomorrow. I expect to be in the hospital for a while. When I get out of the body cast, I may be able to return to the ivories.
     

  17. Gaius Octavius
    It gives me great pleasure to announce to you that I, Don Tomasso of Brooklyn, am world famous!
    If you would be so kind as to click on the below site, which is the product of one of our most eminent Forum contributors, :notworthy: you will see the reason. In addition, you will be treated to a most excellent education.
     
    http://www.thenectarofgods.com/index.asp
     
    I can't say that I am particularly whelmed with this eminent pertinacious personage's :notworthy: site as he has not touted my glory, but if you would also be so kind as to click below, you may be entertained and informed.
     
    http://triclinium.spaces.live.com/
     
     

  18. Gaius Octavius

    Obituary.

    By Gaius Octavius,

    Since I make fun of everyone, here's one on me:
     
    PORCOFACIO UNSCRUPULATO
     
     
    San Francisco contractor, Porcofacio Unscrupulato, 68, of Canale Capone, North Beach, died yesterday from injuries he received in the collapse of a building he was inspecting, prior to sale to Roosevelt Moses of Oakland.
     
    Born in Molto Pubisco, Italy, Unscrupulato was brought to this country at age 11 by his parents, Regurgito and Nauseata Unscrupulato.
     
    Active for many years in community affairs, Unscrupulato took time from his early employment with the Strangulata Cesspool Cleaning and Catering Co. to appear in local nightclubs, performing a knife-throwing act with the late Inadverto Castrato. Prior to his death, Unscrupulato was president of the Insubstante Construction Co., which he operated with his brother, Devio.
     
    Unscrupulato was a member of the Federated Sons of Sicily, Luciano Chapter, The Putrido Chianti and Marching Society, Crococitto's Fine Arts and Bocci Club, Insanitario's Pizzeria Bowling Team, and past president of the North Beach Enforcer Protection Benevolent Society and Garden Club.
     
    He is survived by his wife, Inconsolata; sons Retardo, Cretino, Imbecilico and Faggotini: daughters Ovaria, Fallopia and Orgasma; sisters Mrs, Mammaria Penduloso, Mrs. Prolifica Fornicata and Mrs. Conspicua Testiculata; and 17 grandchildren, all of the Canale Capone address.
     
    The Rev. Celibato Infortunato of Santo Buffone R.C. Church will offer a solemn requiem Mass Wednesday, following services at the Rigorio-Mortisco Funeral Home and Excavating Co. Internment will be in Addio Basta Cemetery.
     
     
    Love the local weekly newspapers.
  19. Gaius Octavius
    Fellow Citizens!
    Some of you, having not heard from me, thought I had become a member of the recently departed, and thus called to confirm that that was the case. Unfortunately, they were greatly disappointed. Some even had the temerity to ask for a return of their Golden Roman Asses - the ones they stiffed me on for the Journal. Some just could care less. No matter, I still love all y'all. Noblesse oblige, you know. Now, I shall relate what happened to me at the Saturnalia.
    During this joyous period, I was so foolish as to buy some four score books at Barnes & Noble. The NSA got wind of this and without so much as a FISA warrant, searched for the titles. They were beside themselves at what they found. While my Bride and I were upstate, making merry, for your Christmas, they inserted a midget under our bed and a dwarf in a cabinet to spy on me. They reported all the treason that they had collected on me to their masters. It was decided to abduct and render me to one of their foriegn donjons.
    And so it happened. One night whilst I was communing with the shade of Aristotle, the midget blasted me silly with his megatron gun. My limbs were tied and a bag put over my head. I was carried off to an old WWII Army Air Corps field. (Floyd Bennet Field, for those of you on the que vivre.) Into an ancient B17 bomber the corpus was unceremoniously tossed and the bag removed. I was surrounded by a squad of Brown Shirted men in shorts along with the midget. The pilot had a dueling scar on his cheek and an Iron Cross around his neck. They gagged me. I knew that I was doomed.
    The bomber shook and chattered, but we made it into the air. I knew that we were flying north as the bleak ocean was on my right and the lights of the land of my birth on the left. We stopped at Goose Bay, Thule, Rejkjavik and then Prestwick. The haughty stewardess, armed with a whip offered to sell me a schnitzel. I had no money and thus no food. Then we went off across Europe. The Alps, the Carpathians then the Mare Exume. We landed at an old secret Soviet airfield in Kishiniev. I had been rendered to Wild Moldavia!
    Immediately, I was handed off to three former KGB agents, Ivan, Nikita and Leonid. Along with the midget, I was bundled into an aged Soviet armoured personnel carrier. We drove westward for hours over what might have passed for a road in neolithic times. At last we arrived at a boyar's wrecked castle. There was one standing edifice - the donjon. It had two rooms - my tormentors' office and my cell which was dark, dank and dreary.
    As soon as my tormentors had refreshed themselves with vodka, caviar and black bread, my torture commenced. I was strapped into a chair in front of a TV. Then it began. I was forced to watch and listen to a certain party's speeches. The mangled English grated on my ears. The close set beady eyes; the ears; the insipid body movements. Then flush rimflour, bil o'ryelly, shorn insanity and yes, curtis sleewa as he mangled two languages while wearing that silly beret. All this mayhem over and over. I warned this lot that I needed my medications, else I should die. They told me that the U.S. Treasury couldn't afford them, so I had better confess all and be done with it. They had set the midget up on a chair. He laughed at and ridiculed me. He clapped his miniscule hands which were attached to balloon-like arms. As he jumped up and down on the chair, he stuck his tongue out at me.
    This went on for days. At last I could take no more of it. Twisted facts; unproven conclusions used as premises, circular logic - in two words - no sense. I cracked! Yes!, Yes! I bought and read such authors as Dickens, Paine, Hugo and Marx & Engels. And, my God, The U.S.Constitution! Yes!, I watched PBS, listened to NPR, the BBC, the CBC and Air America! The churls smiled and hurled me into my dungeon. They graciously provided me with a bucket of water, a bowl of cabbage soup and white bread - all rancid. I ate it like a wild ferret and then fell asleep on a bit of straw.
    The next morning I was kicked awake. Sitting at the table in the other room was a sneering man with a Death's Head on each of his lapels. He was flanked by two Black Shirted men wearing lederhosen and lugers slung at their sides. It was him! It was president chinney! His sneer turned into a scowl and then he snarled two words: "Garrotte him!" Cruel Fate! Would they at least put a silver coin on my tongue to pay the Ferryman? They all left and had a party outside. They knocked themselves out with vodka. As the night came on, the president and his guards were taken away on stretchers in an ambulance. Their rubber legs being of no help.
    While I pondered weak and weary in my dark and dreary cell, there came a tapping, a gentle rapping at my dungeon's window's bars. Startled, I saw an ancient hand at my window's bars. It was Maria! Maria Uspenskya!, with a raven perched on her head. She said: "My son, tonight you will be visited by three old friends at the full of the moon, and you shall live in this cell nevermore!" The raven spake:"Nevermore!" She returned to her fly which was drawn by a dappled mule and had two lanterns giving off yellow light. As she disappeared into the night, I contemplated her words. My tormentors returned to their room, three sheets to the wind and plopped their heads on the table.
    As the night drew on and the ashen clouds disappeared, a full moon rose. A mournful thrilling howl filled the leaden air. As the howl turned into a growl, my nefarious tormentors were startled awake. Their hair stood on end like spaghetti. The three KGB types knew! They took to their heels. The midget was at a loss. He scrambled out of the door as the wolf got to his bottom and bit off his pants. I could see three sixes - 666 - branded on his rump. There was screaming and yelling and one hell of a rout. Suddenly, two titanic hands grasped my chamber's window's bars. They easily pulled out the bars along with a good portion of the building as if all were cotton candy. It was the Monster! He carried me to the berline where Maria was waiting and got in himself. I noted the crest on the berline's door. I recognized it. Yes!, He was here! Soon the wolf jumped into the carriage, rested his head on my leg and licked the dead spot on my arm. Maria said: "My son, I have laid a curse on your president's head." The table was set and a bottle of French Cognac was produced to warm our spirits. The deathly screaming soon came to an end and what seemed like a condor flew towards our carriage.
    The berline was drawn by eight black percherons with four postillions. A coachman and four footmen, liveried in gold and red uniforms, attended us. These men seemed to stare into eternity. Four phosphoric lanterns lit the outside of the coach. The condor melded into a giant bat and led the way for our berline. Yes!, it was the Count! The old Count in person. We traveled on an ancient Roman road over the steppe. As Dawn raised her rosy fingers, we approached the Wallachia-Romania border. The border guards of both sides were deep into a high stakes craps game. Upon seeing our berline approach with the old Count leading the way, they Crossed themselves and took to the hills. They knew! We soon came to an inn where we repaired for the day. The wolf had transmorgrified by now. He was the jolly Lyle Talbot. Our hosts at the inn seemed in a stupor and obeyed the Count's every request with what seemed like a ghostly obiesance. I glanced at a copy of the Kishiniev Post - Bugle. Its lead story was about an all too often episode in those parts. It seems that a travelling troupe of Gypsies had found the dessicated bodies of three men and a midget on the high road. Their throats had been gnawed open and there were two little punctures on their carotid arteries.
    When the Plutonian night drew on, we continued our trek. Soon we were in a leafless forest with gnarled, ghastly trees. The road's sides were delineated by hob-goblins whose heads were on fire. An ice laden wind pelted our berline. Water soaked black clouds hid every star. And the Count led the way. Night transformed into a grey dawn. As we exited the ghostly forest I could see the Carpathian Mountains. We were in Transylvania. We stopped and refreshed ourselves at an inn, very like the one we stayed at earlier. At noon we continued into the mountains. The road was soon bounded by grey-black jagged granite. Antique wooden bridges crossed steep ravines. Peasants tending their flocks made the Sign of the Cross in the Orthodox fashion and flipped the Horns at us as we passed by. They knew! The peasants always know.
    We stopped one last time to munch on some goodies and quaff some ale before we commenced our final climb. When we exited the inn, a semi-circle of peasants, villiens and churls armed with spears, halbreds and scimitars greeted us in an unfriendly fashion. They Crossed themselves, flipped us the Horns and covered their eyes. We would have met a very nasty end had the Count not exhaled a sulphorous vapour onto those ruffians. The louts scattered in all directions laying curses of the most virulent nature on our heads. Dr. Frankenstein's Monster and Lyle laughed and lit Cuban cigars. Maria said to me: "My son, those peasants will never learn."
    As dusk came on, we climbed higher and higher into those craggy gothic mountains. We reached a plateau and the road was now lit with torches held aloft by the Count's serfs. They were zombie-like creatures. Onward we travelled when an ancient Byzantine castle came into sight. Castle Dracula! We traversed the draw bridge over the keep. The bridge was drawn up as the portcullis yawned. The Count's personal standard arose atop the highest tower. It was a blood red flag with two golden fangs in its center. His Lordship was so gracious as to have my personal standard raised alongside his. Mine is purple with gold edging. A Roman eagle surmounts the legend "SPQR". Beneath it a red pennant flew with my motto: "Nemo Me Impune Lacesit".
    His seneschal, a hunch backed gorilla of a man greeted us. We passed through an ante chamber where a man in a black cloak and a white mask was playing an organ fit for a cathedral. As he reached the crescendo, he broke into a maniacal laugh and disappeared into a cavern beneath him. Soulless footmen took us to our warm elegantly appointed apartments. All dressed for supper and met in the dinning hall. The Count greeted and introduced us to another gentleman. A certain Mr. Hyde. He was quite a gregarious person. The table was of a ponderous carved mahogany. Above the fire place was a frieze of the Count's ancestor, Vlad. Vlad the Impaler. It was a scene of Vlad supervising the nailing of the Turkish ambassadors' turbans to their heads and then being impaled.
    The Count sat at the head of the table facing Maria. I to his right; the Monster to his left and Lyle and Mr. Hyde faced each other. The Chef du Table was a Sophia Loren look alike amazon. She was draped in a diaphanous peach, pink and puce pastel colored peek-a-boo peignoir. We each were served by likewise dressed sirens. Except for Maria, who was served by a bloodless handsome boy. My favorite Neapolitan goodies were served. We all picked at a sheep's head. The eyes were reserved for me, the guest of horror. Cold urchins. Scungilli. Pig skin braciola. My current favorite wine, a burgundy, imported from Naples - Naples, New York. 9 bucks a gallon. Lambrusco from California for the dessert, which was a sfoliatelle. We retired to cards with cognac or port with Cuban cigars.
    We feasted in this fashion for several days and toured the Count's domains with their undead serfs. All good things must come to an end. One morning I was greeted by a delegation of Cuban spies. They sped me off in a helicopter to a decrepit Warsaw Pact airfield. Before I left, Maria said unto me: "My son, beware of the Sign of the Pentagon!" An Antonov 19 flew us to Mexico City where I was inserted into a Venezuelan safe house. Next, a team of Bolivian smugglers got me across the border into Texas where I was passed off to a passel of Quakers running an underground railroad.
    When I got home, I embraced my Bride and told her the story. Then I sealed our apartment and threw in a canister of Zyclon-B gas. When the air cleared, I entered the apartment and there was the dwarf on his knees with his Right arm in a salute. Before I kicked him in the face, his last words were: "Mein Leader, I served!" His tongue hung from his mouth with a tattoo on it: "700 Club". Where his nose once existed there was a cave. His eyes looked at each other and his ears formed blinders for them. I had the porter throw him out with the other refuse. He now resides in the garbage dump on Staten Island.
    That's the truth; the whole truth; and nothing but the truth.
     
    ^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
     
    OPTION B
     
    Please avert your eyes if your constitution forbids anatomical medical descriptions.
    At about New Year, I came down with a dose of perianal cysts. Six of them! Count 'em:
    s-i-c-k-x-z. Seven now! They were what Claudia would call a disgusting affair. The quack laughed at me and prescribed some pills that cost 10 bucks apiece. 15 without insurance. I had to take sitz baths. So I popped into the tub and warmed my coolie. But then I couldn't get out of the tub because I could not get safe purchase on the wall side of the tub. The grab bars were of no assistance. Claudia hired a crane which yanked me out. So much for sitz baths. My personal gynecologist told me to sit on a heating pad. I thank Iupiter for his aide - and at no cost. For the past two months I have avoided chairs as much as possible. And have forgotten how to charge up the computer. So, there. That's a story!
    You can believe this lollapalooza if you are credulous.
    Suit yourself.
     
    -----------------------------------------------------------000---------------------------------------------------------------------
    Dixie,
    Gaius
    SPQR
  20. Gaius Octavius

    Being A Kid.

    By Gaius Octavius,

    Put me down! Let me go!, you wild, weird, wicked woemens! Stop petting me! I'm not a doggie! Quit kissing me! You're embarrassing me. My pals are laughing at me.
     
    This is how that scene came about. During WWII, the traffic on our street was like an unending snake. Men had to get to the docks. The cross street had practically no traffic. In the event of a crash, the men simply got out of their jalopies and punched each other out. Case closed. Some politico decided that a traffic light would be to some advantage. It would also take away our entertainment.
     
    So that you will understand, there are two more items to reveal. We were good little ragamuffins. We were always helpful. One day we relieved a parky of the odious duty of caring for a basketball. We hid it in the bushes, as bringing it home would have resulted in some searching questions and the attendant thrashing. In those days, Mothers used to take their precious cares out for an airing in the morning. They would take to the benches and commence babbling.
     
    And so it was the day after our good deed. We suddenly discovered the basketball in the bushes and proclaimed to all that it was an act of God. Naturally, we commenced to play with it. Kicking it at each other seemed like a good idea. One of the guys sent the ball flying over my head and into the mudgutter. Not at all concerned about the 'snake', I went charging after it. There came about a screeching of brakes; the fetid burning of rubber; and the noisy locking of bumpers. These drivers became highly agitated. They exited their piles and started to jump up and down on the bumpers to disengage their buggies. They also were intent on providing some entertainment. Then they saw me. The entertainment was off. Some of the ugliest words - in all sorts of languages. I was appalled! Suggested that they go to confession. And also flipped them a Neapolitan salute. (No, not the bird - much too vulgar. This is an open palm flung into the air.) They understood and were besides themselves. They charged. By now the Mothers were alerted and alarmed. One of theirs in peril! They in turn counter charged. The behemoths were not about to tackle a gaggle of nasty woemens. They retreated.
     
    Then the scene first related came about. When it was ascertained that no damage had been done, the fun began."How many times have I told you not to run into the street?" (I don't know - I didn't count.) "Wait till your Father gets you." (I'd rather face him than you.) Like a school of fish, all the Mothers had at me at once. Hair pulling, kicks, punches. They finally wore themselves out and let me go. Needless to say I was somewhat groggy. My buddies were in hysterics.
     
    Oh, well, tomorrow will bring another adventure and a trip into the world of communal thrashing. Hope it's not me this time.
  21. Gaius Octavius
    It has devolved to the PRESENCE to relate the sad intelligence that His Grace, The Lord of the Herbs, Pertinax, :notworthy: is presently situate in the donjon of the Highland Laird, Peter of Perth. It came about in this fashion:
     
    Whilst presiding at a Perfect Patented Pertimaxus party in a popular porter pleasure parlour in the Port of Perth in Perthshire, a Pictish piper was playing some moaning and groaning on his pipes in the pronaos. When His Grace :notworthy: had had his fill of the noise, he politely put a request to the Pictish piper: "Please play something resembling an English air or a pleasant polonaise." The polluted Pictish piper paid no attention to the humble prayer of the Patron of the Party :notworthy: and went about his now parlous piping. Upon Pertinax :notworthy: repeating his petition, the plastered piping pultroon continued his skirling at his palpable peril. Pertinax' :notworthy: next entry in the book of account, was to plant a punch on the piper's puker. The potted pultroon plunged to the portico pavement comatose. The now petrified and perplexed pub proprietor summoned the Perthshire constabulary. In all the confusion, His Grace :notworthy: plucked the purse of the Pictish piper.
     
    The Perth police dragooned our Hero :notworthy: off to the precincts of the Perthshire Provincial Peregrine Propraetor. This magistrate held a prolusion at which a proces-verbal was conducted. No consideration whatsoever was given to P's :notworthy: procere in the Brigantine Boondocks. Pertinax :notworthy: was denied bail and ordered to be held in the Pokey of Peter of Perth.
     
    There Our Hero :notworthy: languishes as your indubitable, indomitable, inebriated intelligencer scribbles.
  22. Gaius Octavius
    Komrades:
     
    Little Liar Libby takes the fall for prez chinney and the jolly roger. 30 years? Nah, bet a groat or a stoat that The Shame of America pardons the twerp like his alleged old man did for his fellow co-conspirators in the Iran-Contra imbroglio.
     
    How come the bailiffs haven't hauled liver lips noback before the magistrates? Ain't he the one who spilled the beans in the liberal press?
     
    What was that, that the Sham Prez told the polloi about his administration going to be the most ethical ever? WMD's. Democracy for Eyewreck. What's next? You can always tell when his shamship is lieing - he opens his trap. Walks like john wayne. Looks like he is going to draw his six-shooters and drill some beggar. Ever notice that when he is digging the dung hole he is in deeper, that that phony drawl gets thicker?
     
    The smarmy, yellow belly prez chinney (dead-eye dick) has sent his puppet off to South America. There goes a whole continent! Wanna bet a farthing or a feather that we will have to send the 82nd Airborne in to extract him? Shades of tricky dick!
     
    "Go home gringo! You barfing more toro caca - again."
     
    So, now gnewt dingrich owns up to an extra-marital affair whilst he was torturing the last elected president. He was rowing in the same boat as rolley poley, the loozana lecher and the babe from idaho. Not to worry, the always wrong rev dobbin, S.H.I.T. (Society of Holey Immaculate Telereverendos), has forgiven him since he didn't lie about it. I wonder if dobo gave him 10,000 Hail Marys on his knees? It doesn't depend on what the meaning of 'is', is; it depends on whether you want to run for prez or not, and if you are a neo-con-job artist, i.e., dissimulator.
     
    Just to be fair, here in Noo Yawk, some brigand was elected state controller. But, it seems that he had been dipping his sticky, greedy paws in the aerarium. Unfortunately, he had to cop a plea to stay out of the slammer and also give up the job. Another one who lost his moral compass. Probably redeem himself by becoming a S.H.I.T. - just like colson. Should also give dishonorable mention to the ward healer selling judgeships.
     
    And so it comes to pass that there are four committees of out of work and needy politicians investigating the V.A. pig stys and their fellow bureaucrats. Wanna bet a shilling or a slug that the politicos will pocket more gold than it would take to fix things up? Support Our Troops! Yeah, but not the wounded ones. Wear a yellow ribbon.
    -------------------------
    Today's Journal brought to you through the good offices of god's own party and the twits of the republik national committee, flush rimflour (pill popper, serial polygynist, draft dodger, pot smoker and all around felon), president.
    -------------------------
    Gaius Octavius, Cos.
  23. Gaius Octavius
    IRIS has tendered to the god-Consul the intelligence that celebrations have been afoot hereabouts with regard to my recent absence. It does not displease me to inform all y'all that I am still here. Tough!
     
    I have been tending to taxes , the felonies of my brokerage house and other baloney.
     
    Easter went well. We had a little rain here in America. Nothing to really talk about.
     
    I am illegitimate uncle to a 16 year old nymph. She's a junior Rockette or something like that. So I attended her Sweet Sixteen party. The girls were gorgeous. The guys looked like ragamuffins. Naturally, a gaggle of these Chicks fell hopelessly in love with me. Kisses of all sorts galore. Since I can't stand the boom-boom-boom of their noise, I settled in with my Scotch friend at the bar. The to-do was held at an Elk's club. My gregarious nature produced an invitation to join up with the herds of Elks - naturally.
     
    Capt. Blackadder, Ret'd

  24. Gaius Octavius
    You might remember the 'Mac' of an earlier Journal who was commander of the failed raid on the Coast Guard bank.
     
    Mac was graduated from school as a 2nd Lieutenant in the U.S. Army. He became a reconnaissance pilot and was sent off to Viet Nam. I was supposed to follow as a combat engineer, but lucked out.
     
    The following is a letter Capt. Mac [b.] sent to me in 1963.
     
     
    "13 Jan. 63
     
    Howdy Tom,
     
    Greetings from a hospital bed in worn torn Viet Nam. Nope. No bullet holes. No V.D., no rare tropical disease, but chicken pox!! Yep - 17 KIAs last month, 42 WIAs, 5 MIAs & I come down with chicken pox. Kind of embarassing but nonetheless restful. Also gives me a chance to catch up on my mail. This is the first time that I've had two days off in a row since coming to Viet Nam. It's also the first time I've been able to go to sleep at night and know I'll sleep safely. Son, if you own any stocks having anything to do with property in Viet Nam, sell them. I don't think the commies will honor your stock receipts. I'm not saying that we are losing the war; (that would be sedition), I 'm just saying that we're winning it slower than the other side. The Viet Cong (V.C.) are going to be tough to beat.
     
    When I first came to V.N. I was stationed with Special Forces at a town called Pleiku in the central highlands. At that time the V.C. would shoot at me with home made rifles or even throw rocks but we've made improvements since then. Now they use 40 mm so we're certainly developing and civilizing a portion of the country anyhow. It's my humble opinion and I certainly can't prove it but I believe Special Forces are the only bastards fighting this war. In earnest that is.
     
    Anyhow, I got orders to leave beautiful Pleiku and go to a coastal town (Tuy Hoa) where I managed to unpack one morning, flew 5 1/2 hours for MAAG there and then received orders the same night to move down here to the Delta. For one reason or another, the powers to be saw fit to move the 9th Rep. of V.N. (ARNV) Div.to a town called Saolea[?] and I was to command an L-19 section in support of them. The nearest airfield being at Vinh Long, that is where my trusty section abodes, consisting of 3 L-19's, each equipped with one crew chief and one pilot, one radio operator, and myself.
     
    Military red tape being what it is, I find I belong to the 73rd Aviation Co. at Nha Trang, under the operational control of the Delta Avn Bn at Can Tho; attached to the 114th Air Mobile Co. at Vinh Long; in Direct Support of the American Advisors with the 9th, but I live MAAG Tm 52, who are advisors to the civil guard and Special Defense Corps of the Vinh Long Province Chief (a political appointee) with rank of Lt/Col. This gives you an idea of how the war is being won.
     
    Anyhow, the mighty 9th[ARVN] has been bloodied several times in the Delta and the papers say they are winning battles. So who am I to disagree, never getting closer than 200 feet to the battle lines.. Generally speaking, the ARVN ground pounder is a gutty little hell bent for leather scrapper who can whip his weight in wildcats, but he appears leaderless. In almost every operation I've witnessed, the V.C. are contacted, the ARVN (whether superior or not) call for artillery and fall back and wait until enough units come up to surround the V.C. But this may take anywhere from 6 hrs to 3 days. And always, always, there is a hole left for the V.C. to escape. It's damn frustrating to call the American advisor. Let me give you a dialogue:
     
     
    Me> 9 Bonus throw charlie, this is Advance Guard 86, over.
     
    Ground> 86, this is Charlie, go.
     
    Me> 86 here, approximately 76 V.C. leaving tree line and moving south along the beach toward the swamp. Request fire from LCVP's (boats) offshore, over.
     
    Gd> Roger 86, this is Charlie, eh, how do you know they're V.C. over.
     
    Me> 86 here. Because they're running away from you, and shooting at me over.
     
    Gd> Roger 86, request you make a low pass for confirmation, over.
     
    Me> 86- Stand by...Charlie, I got low enough to hear them shooting, made four of them duck. They're dressed in black and shooting at me. Request Arty or Naval fire, over.
     
    Gd> Eh 86 - Are you sure they're not our advance party, over.
     
    Me> Charlie, 86 here. Would your advance party shoot at me, over.
     
    Gd> (after some delay) Roger 86, stand by to have your observer adjust Arty, over. (I roger)
     
    Me> (Time passes) Charlie, 86 - They're almost in the swamp, better get them while we can. (No answer)
     
    Me> (Much time has passed) Charlie, 86 - the lead elements are in the swamp, over.
     
    Gd> Roger 86, stand by, we've called for an air strike that'll be here in 4 hours, out.
     
     
    All this time I've been circling perhaps 2 VC companies which were supposed to be surrounded and was just about out of gas. Imagine it - almost 4 hours over the enemy and didn't get a single round near them. Oh, well, maybe the VC will give up.
     
    I've just reread this and there's a lot in here that could hang me, so don't spread it around.
     
    Just once, I wish I could be flying over an American unit so that when fired upon, I could get hits on target within five minutes. It would make me feel so good.
     
    Well this is getting long winded so I'd better ring off. Pardon the writing but it "taint" up to snuff lying in bed with a fever. Be sure to give my warmest regards to your parents and don't be afraid to write, I'll answer it.
     
    Your Friend,
    B."
     
    -----------------------------------
     
    I used to laugh when I read this letter, now I am crying like a baby.
     
    Lt. Col. Mac, USA, passed to Glory on 30 April 2007 at about 2 PM, MDST of bone cancer. Dormit in Pace. We'll knock back a couple of shots together - soon.
     
    -----------------------------------
     
    Sound familiar?
  25. Gaius Octavius

    2008!

    By Gaius Octavius,

    For the New Year, GO RESOLVES to:
     
    Stop bugging the Lost Soul, My Lady Sophia, Doll, My Lords Pantagathus & Pertinax, The G-Man, MPC, and of course, the most highly esteemed and honourable "Fair is fair, young man,....".
     
    Start bugging Domina Nomina, Kosmo, Viggen, The Klingon, GPM, JR, Faustus, and Moonlapse.
     
    Stop imbibing of wine, whisky, and beer - while posting to UNRV.
     
    Stop posting in enigmas so as not to confuse great minds.
     
    Not to use talking smilies!
     
    Stop lying.
     
     
     
    For 2008, GO PREDICTS:
     
    Maladict will be elected pope - of the Pastafarians.
     
    Basil Fawlty and Hyacinth Bouquet will take over the management of The Ritz.
     
    Now that Tony Blair has made the Leap, Prince Charles will convert to Catholicism, thus driving the Royal Family, and Parliament into apoplexy, to say nothing about giving the now plurality Catholiics untolled great belly guffaws!
    Guy Fawkes will be declared a Saint!
     
    My Lord Pantagathus will be found skulking around some Grecian village - plotzed.
     
    God will stop having chin wags with georgius Secundus, Osama, and the Telereverendos.
     
    My Lords Pertinax & Pantagathus will open 'Smoke & Beer Cafes' in San Francisco and Amsterdam.
     
    "Fair is fair, young man,...." will be deported to Russia and/or shot for a trophy.
     
    PP will write up the history of Pope Gaius (really!).
     
    N.N. will make a 1:1 model of the Colosseum.
     
    Domina Nomina will be thrown off of the dole!
     
    Cicero, Brutus, and Cato will be declared saints - in the Cult of the Flying Pizza.
     
    Faustus & Ursus will have their pants sued off for copyright infringement!
     
    Caldrail will win a Certified Pre-Owned 50 year old jalopy.
     
    GO will suffer eternal 'Damnatio' - smashed!
     
     
    HAPPY NEW YEAR ALL Y'ALL!
     
     
     

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