dolores666's photos with the keyword: Rants

Life is freedom. Or it ought to be. But mostly it’s not because life is also full of pretentious autocrats with a God or Guru complex that are forever telling us what is what, and what we should do, and think, and believe, and worship, and respect, and how we should speak, and dress, and behave, and have sex, and use the cutlery. And, if said pompous prats are Guardian sinecurists, they’ll instruct us (or try to, anyway) in the correct way to eat beans on toast. May they all get shingles! www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2017/nov/24/how-to-eat-beans-on-toast

Fierce Fish. aka The Fish, the Plodder and the PR Chappie. Nothing much I can add that you can’t see for yourselves. The Fish’s name is Bellona, the Plodder’s is Diletta and her new baby is called Tarquin. The little PR gent’s name changes from client to client, according to necessity and his own very elastic ethics gradient. (This is, of course, for darling dead Iain Banks and his funky Minds. We still miss you, baby.)

In these dreams, I would always be in what I can only describe as a multi-level bazaar, a marketplace without borders that was filled with what seemed an infinite number of crumbling structures of all shapes, many of them with odd, unnamable objects arranged behind warped windowpanes—contorted blobs and twisted figurines contrived and aligned to forbidding effect. And everywhere there were carts with grotesque merchandise dangling from canopies with a leathery appearance, a dried and cracked material that I knew to be human flesh. Both above and below me were dark expanses of jagged stairways and corridors, fragile walkways between tilting towers, and undulating ramps that spiraled down into shadowy depths and upwards into shadowy heights. Thomas Ligotti. The Spectral Link

Voila, two fiery lasses for the price of one. A special après-Pâques offer. To be used, as usual, as an All-Purpose Gripe Indicator. State your beef(s) and the girls will make the most of it. They’ll go to town, in fact. Here are some of my own: -Ms Patel’s latest mind abortion, the Police, Crime, Sentencing and Courts Bill 2021 -Ms Patel’s mug. -American psychosis latest incubus, the Quadrilateral Security Dialogue. (Dialogue indeed!!!) -Joe Biden’s mug. -The Happiness Industrial Complex in its godawful entirety, from Norman Vincent Peel to the Morality Pill. -Dominic Raab’s mug There. Stay angry, stay sane and have a sponditious week.

Meet Beatrix Baldovina Ermengarde Benicia Leonora Endorina de Stroopp Dampmantel-Grouchevsky, Betty Boo! to her friends and Batty Betty to her foes. She's a peer of the realm of Grumpinghastia and seventy-third in line to the Most Exalted Cranky Seat. Her chances of ever ascending the Eleven Razor Steps leading to the highest office in the land are, consequently, well beyond slim. And that's fine with her; her comparatively low position leaves her with all the time in the world to devote to her favourite pastime, namely ranting, railing and haranguing. Her best friend and current monarch, queen Manuelita Theodora II the Unexpected, never tires of telling her how flipping lucky she is not to have to be queen and having to go to formal zombie parties and meet doddering ambassadors and attend public inaugurations of state-funded orphanages and give interviews to brainless society columnists from Hello! Magazine and the utterly insufferable life-style gurus of The Guardian. Betty believes every word Manu has to say on the subject of augmented responsibility. She and Manu grew up together as children and together they survived school, uni, polishing seminary and boot camp. As unattached, wild, bright young things they used to have heaps of fun, getting up to no end of no good and into many and varied scrapes, not to mention all sorts of soups. Nowadays they’re lucky if they can meet once a month for a sneak greasy kebab and a cuppa. Betty has suggested once or twice that Manu should abdicate in favour of her idiot cousin, Clarence Elmer Duffy Hefty-Plankett and Manu is seriously tempted by the notion. After all, she muses, it'd be high time Grumpinghastia had a king. Just because the female of the Grumpinghastian political species is cleverer and more capable than the male, it should not follow that the girls have to carry the burden of administration most of the time. Then...she thinks of her cousin, she sighs deeply, shakes her crowned bonce slowly and says: "I can't. I simply haven't the heart to inflict Clarence on the wretched country…" and she soldiers on with her tarsome royal duties. And so it’s left to Betty to carp for the both of them. There, that’s a true friend for you. The whole point of this quasi-shaggy-dog story is that Betty-the-Raver is so skilful and so keen that she’s willing to do anybody and everybody else’s ranting for them. So, if you’re too tired, or despondent, or lazy to do your own a-bitching and a- bickering, just ask her and she will produce the goods, tailor made, satisfaction guaranteed or your money back. Stay well, stay groovy, stay sane.

Leviathan. aka KingClownWatch. (Unnumbered.) aka The Perfect Solution 2.0 There. Just follow the instructions and everything will be fluffy.

aka They Dynamited Y’ha-Nthlei, They Did, The Bastards… Nothing to add to his little harangue, really. I couldn’t have put it better myself. And thank Bumba for the comforting Sneak. Our savage breasts would all be lost without her soothing sympathy. 'ere, 'ave a little music to go with the pic. (Really, I've been waiting for ages for an excuse to sneak in this link) www.youtube.com/watch?v=3tTHn2tHhcI