Please steal a moment from your soul-deadening “careers,” random sex hook-ups, and abject self-loathing to join me in wishing our publisher, VirusWithShoes, a tremendously happy birthday. Besides providing us this space where we can meet, greet, and occasionally create things of value, Virus has been a good friend to so many of us.

Never expected, always welcome, Virus wanders amongst us like a spectral presence who leaves crumbs in the bed so you know he’s around.

For a fortnight I’ve been anticipating this glorious day.  It has been hardly a year since I was let go from Mr. Shoes’ employ.  Imagine my surprise, my heart beating like the wings of an excited, yet gentle bird.  Mr. Shoes has penned a missive to me and on this day, his birthday, he will arrive for a late tea.

All day I have been dusting the knick-knacks and polishing the wood.  I shook the rugs mid-m0rning and baked a nice sheet cake that I frosted with flourish.  I’ve finished my toilette and must admit, I am shining like a copper penny newly minted. 

You know, Virus, we twa hae run about the braes and pu’d the gowans fine. But we’ve wander’d mony a weary foot, sin …sin …

Oh hell, I can’t do these lines justice. Why not let the master himself do the honors?

Take it way, Robbie!

We’re in the middle of a heat wave, but my studio apartment is nice and cool in the morning after running the fan all night, and the comforter isn’t too heavy  when you sleep naked. I check the clock then snuggle deeper into the pillows, my bed linens freshly laundered and smelling faintly of the lavender sachets I toss in the dryer.

I can’t believe this is one of the first things in a Google search on bacon. It’s been real. I’m off to have a seizure now.

Build your own Blingee

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Awrite!  Hou’s it gaun?  Whit’s this, ye speir at us? The maist o ye ken that this is whaur ah gie ye a haund wit things ye dinna kin an’ aw that.  It’s like feeding jujubes tae an elephant mind, but dinna fash yersel an’ haud yer wheesht, it’s nae borra.  Ma heid’s birlin with all this information, frae blootert blethering tae haggis-fueled havering.  In past columns ah’ve telt aboot aliens and cover-ups and killings an’ aw ither thing. The day it’s gony be all aboot Alba.

The following is attributed to that bawbag and alleged Scotsman Dennis Miller, who kens hee haw aboot hee haw:

“The biggest conspiracy has always been the fact that there is no conspiracy. Nobody’s out to get you.   Nobody gives a shit whether you live or die.  There, you feel better now?”

Bishop of Motherwell Joseph Devine started a barnie during a 2008 lecture in Glasgow by saying that the bufties have launched a “huge and well-orchestrated conspiracy against Christian values,” and that they’ve aligned themselves with minority groups and holocaust survivors in a desperate bid for sympathy. Not taking any fucking shite from those poofs.  In response to a question about what to do when confronted with a child’s “mission to become homosexual,” the bishop said not on yir nellie, advising parents not to “tolerate that behaviour.”

Alan, Alan, Alan!

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Not Scotch.

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2008 – Istanbul, Turkey

He sat patiently on a dusty pillow while he studied the crowd through the shaded lens covering his one good eye. He drew smoke from the long flexible tube that extended toward the center of a table where he was the sole occupant. Swarthy in complexion and dressed in traditional linen garb, Suleiman would have fit in just as well half a century ago in a country where the fashions changed very little over time.

The slowly spinning ceiling fans did very little to clear the smoke from the room. When he removed his fez at the end of the night, a gray ring appeared around the top of his head. Suleiman poured himself a cup of tea, but decided against pouring a cup for his guest until he arrived.

If he showed up right now, the new client would only be on time. He could expect no more than five minutes grace period before Suleiman would move on to his next appointment. Buyers were not so scarce that he had to expose himself in this manner, no matter how precious the payment. However, the Turk finally saw the mark making his way towards him. Suleiman’s expression didn’t change even as his new associate sat at the table.

“Are you Suleiman the Turk?”

The world is still reeling from the news that haggis is not, in fact, a Scottish dish. But the revelations don’t end there—oh, no, my friends. The following is a short list of shams perpetrated on the world by the devious people of Scotland.

There’s really no reason Virus and I should be such good internet pals.

After all, I don’t speak Old Norse COBOL Belgian, and Virus’ practice of urinating into his bagpipes is, well, frankly not the way I was raised to deal with the frustration of repeatedly mispronouncing “Massachusetts” through an inexpertly-masticated bolus of shortbread haggis thistles. Ordinarily, he would hate me because of my freedom, and I would hate him because of his Sheena Easton. We’d be the original odd couple!

Shape icosahedral,

a face of 20 equilateral triangular faces.

He approximates a sphere,

yet his helical shape is cylindrical.

Honor Blackman – Yum!

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