Bogus Heraldry aka Shoggy Apotheosis II. To call this a coat of arms would be inaccurate, not to say pretentious. But it amuses the Shoggies to play with specific terminologies and so they have cooked a mock-heraldic description for my modest (and inadequate, to be sure) attempt to capture their wondrous essence.
Argent and sable with a touch of gules in a fur of bedlam on an inverted chief ordinary of Mountains of Madness and Mother Chaos. Two lazy semi-rampant Argentinian jaguars (La Aguada culture) frame the motto: One Is All and All Are One.
Linguistic appeal. Any Latinists willing to correct the motto welcome. It’s straight out of some online translator or other (I forget which one) and I don’t trust online translators. Thank you kindly.

Merman. He fights his own battles but if he likes you and if he likes your battle he’ll chip in with his fishy minions and his trusty double-headed double-edged ! whatever. I’ve asked him what on earth-and-ocean is the terminal-looking contraption he wields so skilfully; who made it?, did he make it himself?, can I get one on e-Bay?, and so on. He just smiled sweetly, gave me a slightly commiserative look and said that some things are better kept where they are: in the dark. Oh, well! I recommend him as an ally, however. He’s very good and he tells glorious fish jokes.

Rat Pack. They are big, bold and beautiful. They travel fast and they travel light. But they always have time and space for bona fide chubby orphaned blobs and their companion ghosts. Their names are Minnie “the Moocher”, Vinnie “the Don” and Bongo.

Ugly 3. Goodbye and good riddance, mister full-of-hot-air blob! Your mere presence spreads foul miasmas and the wrong sort of chaos. And folks, do remember the Uglies’ (1, 2 and 3) injunction: be of good cheer! No matter how ill-favoured you may be you’ll never be quite as hideous as this clown, who thinks he can intimidate the world into submission. Or the sad fuckers who let him bully them into complying, of course.
Stay stubborn. Be difficult. Have a lovely week.

Rumbeta de l’entropia. Per mi, per tu, per als meus, per als nostres, per als de casa i els de fora de casa. Per el Peret i per l’Espriu. Per tots els pobres malaurats que no tenen res, literalment, ni tan sols una terra on caure morts i que acaben morint ofegats al Mediterrani perquí¨ els que si tenen un paí­s no els volen a casa, capficats com estan dissenyant nous canals per desviar el patrimoni comú a llurs butxaques eternament famí¨liques, o embrancats en elucubracions fútils i bizantines sobre el futur improbable de fronteres imaginí ries mentre el paí­s s’en va a la merda. Per als malastrucs desheretats, per als escanyats, per als tristos i per qui plora per ells.
En una platja llevantina qualsevol, en una nit sense gens d’importí ncia, l’í€ziz de cals Egipcis, que és molt bon músic i millor amfitrió, ha organitzat un gaudeamus satí­ric, una mena de xirigota autí²ctona d’estar per casa, per presentar al respectable la seva darrera parida, la Rumbeta de l’Entropia. Les Santes Llagostes Il·luminades estan tan encisades amb l’espectacle que han fet la dansa ritual per fer baixar la lluna. I í dhuc la pruna, fixeu-vos! Les Llagostes Xiquetes, que són totes de Calella i Palafrugell, com les havaneres, ballen la rumbeta com si ballessin la conga perquí¨ si, perquí¨ són molt seves. La Daina Hipercrí­tica, amiga de tota la vida del Aziz, no podria estar més d’acord amb I’mpecable i concí­s aní lisi del seu compadrito sobre la situació regional. Les famoses partí­cules subatí²miques Smith i Jones, que no es perden una festa ni per casualitat, ponderen el valor intoxicant del Valdepeñas, que irriga la juerga a dojo com un bé de Bumba baixat del cel. Els Shoggoths fan guí rdia, que no se sap mai…
Si poseu molta atenció, podreu fins i tot sentir l’oloret de l’escalivada que es cou a poc a poc fora de la imatge. I l’única “estelada” que veureu aquí­, és la Via Lí ctia, que cobreix un cel tan negre i tan lluent com els ulls d’un cavall en un poema de Lorca.
Now, put this lot through Google Translate and have a giggle. Or, alternatively, learn Catalan. 🙂

Siamese Fan Birds. One is naí¯ve. Her twin is shrewd and knows what’s what. And a good thing, too, otherwise the naí¯ve one would have poisoned herself long ago. Today I dedicate this here doodle to the latest wave of Russophobe opportunist paranoia. Oh, this convenient bundle of nervous gas/hot air! ! It will run, and run, and run, I can tell. And here’s a little po’m for to gladden your heart on this hot summer day.
In Praise of Crookedness
Novichok, Novichok
How I love you Novichok.
So elusive
All-inclusive
Massive panic at a stroke!
I went down
To Porton Down
To have a little shufti
But they wouldn’t let me in
Nerves were frayed and patience thin
And the labs a little fusty.
Go away from here, young Gorgon,
Grinn’d the sicario with glee.
There’s really nothing for to see
Unless you want to see my gun.
So I promptly did take off
With a discreet little cough
And in a bit of mild shock.
May you prosper, Mr Spock,
Let us all go for pot luck.
Oh, I love you Novichok!
Novichok, Novichok, Novichok.