Rudy - A Message To You

Revised Edition: Includes added bitterness.

Hail fellow heritage truffle hunters!! Are we not all poets? Do we not record the steady metre of the soil, measure the rhythms of the past and after all that is done, write the report in rhyming couplets?

Okay, maybe YOU don't - but bear with me while I try and shoehorn this posting into a legible position . . . Ahem.

Correspondence between Rudyard Kipling and Emily Dickinson has proved beyond reasonable doubt that they were both archaeologists!! It seems Rudyard set up the first private archaeological company and Emily on completing her BA wrote to him looking for a job . . .

Dear Mr.Kipling,

Because I sadly have no work
Will you give work to me?

I have dug a flower bed
And done some C.P.D.

With wiry limbs - and all my teeth

My friends say I'm quite plucky,

And I will gladly trade my youth

To get my clothing mucky.

Your company is to heritage,
(I've heard declaration,)
Like the kamikaze is
To prudent aviation.

Yours Faithfully
Emily D.

P.S. - I adore your French Fancies!

 - - - - - - - -

Dearest Emily,

If you can work in a trade with wages like a hobby,
If you can toil in places swine would christen slobby,

If you can go myopic when bulldozers penetrate,
And after that doff your cap to shallow men of state;
If you can spend a fortnight in a stinking, sinking hole
And follow those two weeks with a six-month on the dole;
If you can cross thy shapely legs bereft of vital crapper,
You can use the ditch you know! (And wipe with sandwich wrapper.)

If you have not a care for those who share your labour,

And through dumbest silence show your employer favour

When he picks upon those workmates and rubs them on his bottom

And only mutter in your head -I wish someone had shot him;

If you desire to see yourself ignored and in a pit,

Your years of education valued less than shit,

Then I shall give you work - the sort that makes you hurl,

But we don't pay for sick bags - because it's P.P.E. my girl!

     (and therefore your own responsibility)

Yours in Anticipation
Mr. Rudyard Kipling (a.k.a. Mr. Backyard Fondling.)

THE SACK OF SHIT.

Oh Jaysus let's have a ould tune to cheer us up. Press HERE please!

Until we meet again Mein Mucky Meisters.

THREE STEPS TO A HAPPIER YOU

Time is short my little pickled chumions - so I will make this brief - we are busy people - tempus fugit and all that. Every second that passes is in need of our attention, slap a feature number on it, plan it, photograph it and take a sample from it. Tick, tick ,tick. We are busy folk and if we are to be happy - it must happen quickly!! The following 3 step method holds no guarantee. Keep your hands on the railing at all time and no feeding the crocodiles.

STEP 1: GROW A BEARD

A long one. Tuck it under your nether regions and out the back of your roomy leisure pants. This method of beard deportment was advocated by Karl Barth (while he was taking a break from dialectical theology.) Barth was from Basel, hence the name of this beard style. (See below.)

BOOM BOOM!

STEP 2: DANCE - JUST GODDAMN DANCE

Dance to the outside

Dance to the middle

Set the floor a blazing

While Nero jigs the fiddle

Hula by your lonesome

And boogie in the herd

Gambol in the tulips

Pogo in the turds

And dance because they say you can't

And dance because you can

Hand-jive out to Charleston

Shuffle with your shanks

Shimmy waltz and whip it

Hoedown with a skank

Do the mashed potato

Or perhaps the quiche lorraine

Rhumba with Nijinsky

Slam Margot Fontaine

And dance because they say you can't

And dance because you can

God's moves are mysterious

The dancer gets the spoils

So swing it in the bell tower

And waltz right up the aisle

Fleet-footed as Mercury

(Galileo Galileo)

We'll disco to the heavens

In excelsis Deo

And dance because they say you can't

And dance because you can

STEP 3: GET RICH QUICK

Print the image below a million-billion times (do it on someone else's printer - the cost of ink cartridges is crippling.)

The worst picture of Childe ever drawn. Even if I do say so myself.

You are now rich with raw Heritage (notice the capital 'H') to the tune of one million billion arckydollahs. The arckydollah is legal tender absolutely nowhere, therefore, by the time you stick your head in the gas oven, the gas will have been disconnected.

Afterwards file for bankruptcy, on the forms in the space marked 'occupation' write bank director. You will be handed a bonus, a pension and the right to shit on anybody you like.

Well done.

Thank God that didn't last long - 'til next time mein heritage MacGuffins . .