Gorgs Graphic Souk

Woodland Metchik. Here is where we go when things get ghastly beyond endurance. Here are to be found, always, suns and moons and whispering trees and chubby hybrid bunny rabbits and drunken stars. Balm for aching souls.

Another Fine Mess. Indeed utter destruction, unutterable grief and mentally retarded madness have become the norm. States of affairs totally insane prevail and the New Subnormal reigns supreme. May Bumba have mercy upon our poxy souls.
I hear hurricanes a-blowing
I know the end is coming soon
I fear rivers overflowing
I hear the voice of rage and ruin
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wkqfPuQhW9I

Alien Romance. This is sort of a sympathetic exorcism, for to banish some of the bile that has been accumulating for the past 12 months. There’s only so much bitterness a poor Gorgon can take before she blows a fuse…or worse, dontyouknow. See how easy can be to win the heart of an alien flowerette? A little ice cream, a small well-read captive balloon and a large dose of sheep’s eyes. Piece of cake! Would that the psychotic imbeciles that rule the world would take a leaf of the wraith-like alien’s tactics… As the old Jamaica proverb says: you catch no flies with vinegar.

Sunny Piggy. Palestinian Mass Extermination, 1 Year On. I repeat: things are so unspeakably awful that words fail to describe just how abominable they have become and the kind of nightmare into which they are likely to degenerate. So here’s Marisol, the Educated Piggy, a defector from Dr. Moreau’s Island, with her assessment of the whole disgraceful shenanigans. Please note that she also is at a loss for words and she has had to resort to a single, sharp, short and to the point utterance. Her latest piglet, Federico, keeps his own counsel. Have a sponditious week…if you dare.

Confused Tadpoles. Poor wee thing, faced with choices that who knows where they may lead. Ah, evolution… Such a tricky thing, innit. One may evolve into, say, a beautiful, fierce polecat ferret like Sredni Vashatar or, heaven forfend!, Yoav Galant. Yikes! 🙁

Angry Young Things. aka Repulsive Revenants. Just when you thought that things couldn’t get any worse they go and fucking do. There you are, pacing the room, feeling your piss boil and wondering how much lower in the gradient of moral degeneration, sadistic inhumanity and demented arrogance could the Ziofascists possibly sink into, when they go and surpass themselves by plunging into what looks a point of no return. (As BoomBoom says, if you page the Abyss, the flaming thing will page you back; nothing to do with Karma or divine retribution or any of that mystical poop, just pure and simple causality.)
And does anybody say boo? Do they bollocks! Not those who could make a difference, anyway. Perhaps the current Zionazi regime, aided and abated by that other deranged heap-a-caca, the Christian Zionists, really intend to bring about Armageddon, who knows… At this junction on this insane narrative nothing would surprise me any more.
Marx was right when he said that “the tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living”. See here a hideous living example of what comes from absorbing, and thus preserving, the political theory, strategy and tactics of an ideology that should have been strangled at birth or killed soon after and promptly buried for ever and for good under several prophylactic stacks of ethical concrete.
Ze’ev Jabotinsky, may you forever burn in a custom-made Gehenna after an aeon-long, despair-inducing spell in Sheol.
PS. For the benefit of them who don’t know what the two furious chappies in the pic are talking about, here’s two useful info-links, that, since they are from the Holy Encyclopedia Britannica, simply must be unimpeachable. (And they are. If you don’t believe me ask any reputable, historian.)
https://www.britannica.com/topic/Irgun-Zvai-Leumi
https://www.britannica.com/topic/Stern-Gang
PPS. Actually, I am surprised that nobody, as yet, has tried to blame Vladimir Putin for this latest Mossad&Friends outrage. The PR Industrial Complex and its minions, the Media Cathouse, must be having a very bad hair day. Grateful for small mercies?
Have a spiffing weekend and don’t worry too much; there’s precious little you and I can do, other than, as don Manolito (Vázquez Montalbán) said:
No hay verdades únicas, ni luchas finales, pero aún es posible orientarnos mediante las verdades posibles contra las no verdades evidentes y luchar contra ellas.
(There are no unique truths, nor final struggles, but it is still possible to orient ourselves through possible truths against obvious non-truths and fight against them.)

Floaters & Things. aka Leviticus 19.14. The Bible is a funny old thing. Sometimes it makes me think of it as the YouTube of olden days (as well as current times, of course): you can find just about anything and everything in it, from the deepest, most clear-sighted wisdom to the most flagrant lot of crappy excuses to discriminate, oppress, enslave and even exterminate (or smite as the KJV so euphemistically puts it) your enemies, whether real, perceived or merely designated. You’ll find exquisite poetry and crushingly boring lists of dos and don’ts (a good deal of them arbitrary beyond reason or imagination), soul-stirring subtlety and mind-stifling banality. Not to mention utterly deranged visions. Personally I’m pretty much an Ecclesiastes girl. I love that book. (I wish I could go back in time and have tea and a nice long rambling chat with the bloke that wrote it.) Recently, though, I’ve been having a go at Leviticus. It is mostly an unreadable bore wrapped around true gems, like the one quoted by DandyBat. Milton extrapolated beautifully from it when he said They who have put out the people’s eyes reproach them of their blindness. DandyBat is very fond of this most epigrammatic reflection, too. DandyBat may be an obsessive sharp dresser and an opinionated so-and-so but he does know his philosophical onions, he does. We like DandyBat and we always invite him to the best parties and salons and celebratory whathaveyous, in part because of his mordant wit and in part because he always shows up with a retinue of chubby, fluffy and totally cuddly beasties.

Old Iberian & Mates. It is a fact well known to those who take an interest in such matters, that gods -when not downright insane- are a fickle and therefore unpredictable bunch of chancers. Often they seem to behave like spoilt children and now and again like sadistic prats. Occasionally, though, they come out with good ideas that translate into moderately corking events. Here we can see the Mother-Father of all Iberians giving birth to a race that whatever its faults might have been, produced some of the grooviest art in history (see links). The Attendants, midwives of sorts, have mixed feelings about this act of creation: Does S/He really know what S/He’s doing? Will the newly minted race live up to expectations? Will they end up evolving into a gang that votes Se acabó la fiesta? Is there life before death? Should there be at all?

Portrait. What is this all about? Don’t ask us. We were just rolling past a particularly dense spot of the Converging Lines Wilderness when we caught a glimpse of this little scene. We have our theories and conjectures and speculations, of course, but whatever the truth, it was blurred and made fuzzy by the light of the three silvery moons that were also trundling along right before us. However, we strongly suspect that the wee spider is closely related to the spider that taught Robert the Bruce patience, persistence and industrious perversity.

Well Met 2. aka Absent Friends. This is a generic, all-purpose memorial for all the people I’ve lost in the past few years. Life goes on, indeed, but in a somewhat diminished way. Here’s to you all, me old chinas.