Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Caught, for a moment

The Old Bugger left some picture of a dweeby squirrel poking out of a pumpkin on the screen. I fiddled with the URL for a bit, till it took me to this.

I admit I am worried. I don't know who this is, and he is stuck in a shape very close to the original form of the Tnasik community, who carry the senility virus we all fear.

As far as I know, we had confined them to an island off the coast of southern Chile. Doesn't bother them - they just sit in caves and sing meaningless songs that we suspect are an ancestral memory of our far past.

That owner of that hand is about to get a terrible fright. The bite will be necrotic and the Tnasik are very, very agile.

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

too much truth

Somehow the Museum of Dust has found out about me.

I sent the curator a comment and I forgot to lie. I must be losing my marbles.

Saturday, May 20, 2006

you know how much work it takes to wash that linen?

Caught in
the act
! The Arthur Rackham artist person saw this very scene as he peaked out of the wardrobe with his knickers scrunched up in front of his very droopy wang. Snak the Truthtongue was telling this young lady that her muscley thewed husband was muscling a large pig in the fields.

She subsequently chased her pork-scented paramour round the whole South Wing with a knife slashing at his scrotum every time he slipped over. Arthur was so frightened by her magnificent rage he shrivelled into monogamy for the rest of his life.

He did get a good picture out of it though, and I get to remember Snak, who later got into the Louis Vuitton trunk and went on holiday to Switzerland with the outraged bride's family. On an outing to a glacier, he shapeshifted down into a minimal kind of semitransparent shadow and curled up inside the lid of a thermos flask, which kept him very cosey. Unfortunately she allowed the guide to undo her stays, became unduly excited and dropped the flask, which rolled into a crevasse.

Since then, goblins have led no less than fourteen expeditions to rescue him, now frozen solid inside a silver jug inside a crystalline blue-green mountain of ice. It is one of those times when immortality can be a real pain in the arse.

I admire Snak, because he had that expression of wet helpfulness down so well he was able to wreak havoc with inconvenient facts for centuries.

Tuesday, February 28, 2006

in which I accept some free transportation

Moliere characters

The Old Bugger has been out and about, going to a conference and a film festival. Rather than lurking here when he leaves, I have discovered that I can easily slip into his bike bag and go with him.

That is very good fun. We go into a cinema, I climb out and watch a film. If it gets boring, mostly when the humans decide to bond before chopping each other up again, I roam around the dark giving people little surprises.

Did you ever think your popcorn smelt of vomit?

The Old Bugger has been in a state of complete agitation about two screenings. He was all puffed up and self important because he was chairing filmmaker discussions. Unfortunately he is easy to flatter and can be a bit daft, so he falls for obvious traps. Like both of his films had disabled people in them and all the other smarties with the black St Kilda jackets smelt trouble and turned the opportunity down.

First film was about deaf kids, so the audience filled up with people who waved their arms at each other like a really excited football crowd, and could only talk with the light on. They had a signing interpreter, but His Highness kept getting very confused and trying to talk to people who just waved back, and waving at people who spoke to him very clearly because he was behaving like an idiot.

I knew the secret - the Old Bugger is deaf himself so he couldn't hear a word from the audience.

The next ego triumph for Ol Man Suckerbait was a documentry about Parkinson's disease starring a sick actor who got up on stage with the director. He has a gadget connected to his brain which stops him from thrashing around but means he can't talk. As a special treat for all of us he turned it off, so he could slur at the audience while his arms waved like a broken helicopter.

The Old Bugger was caught by that too, because he couldn't understand the slurring and didn't know if the audience could but I know they couldn't so they all thought it was just them and the chairman could understand and so it turned into some strange theatre where someone spoke gibberish and everyone nodded and agreed. Like Moliere.

Now there was a man with a goblin behind his dressing gown.

(Image from here.

Sunday, January 29, 2006

undone by a jar of nutella

The atmosphere around here has turned very weird. The Old Bugger has won some sort of contest, and drank champagne and ran around and tickled the dog's ribs.

When he finally flaked out, snoring drunkenly with gin and gelati in his beard, I found this open to the sections about the Australian Blog Awards.

I think he might have rumbled me too, because I put that bloody link up to tease him. Last night he left a jar of Nutella on the desk. That is very worrying because he never eats the stuff so he is being kind to me. But how did he know about my love of Nutella?

He can't have any secret knowledge about goblins, because we kill anyone who learns about us. Maybe he just guessed that these images suggest the Dutch have an eye for goblins, so we might have an affection for the place.

That is true, actually. My favourite foods are all Dutch. I can withstand any temptation except Nutella, for which I would sell my grandmother, if I ever had a grandmother. I'll tell you more about that later.

I have thought about killing him just to make sure, but then I've been telling you about me, and I don't know who you are, and you could be anywhere in the world.

I console myself with the thought that no-one will believe this blog anyway. I bet you don't.

Sunday, January 22, 2006

idle history on a hot day

The Old Bugger tried to do a bit of blogging, but fell asleep on the bed with a bottle of vodka, after throwing the dog into a cold bath. So I have pinched the chance to post in daylight. It is bloody hot here, even for an ancient armoured creature with fabulous homeostatic control like myself.

We can actually breathe through our finger ends, which is very extremely convenient on a day like this. Back behind the toilet is a siphon chamber, which is always cool. I can slide in there and just leave a single finger exposed, which looks exactly like a tiny residual turd in the gloom of the bowl.

The dog hates me for this, says I smell of shit for days, but I just point out that he eats different things. Then I push my tongue into his ears, and suck out some wax and he is very very grateful.

This image is not actually a goblin, but a genuine Japanese ghost called Kohada Koheiji. Ghosts lack corporeal existence, but they are wonderfully frightening, so we are natural allies. There is many a horror show we have started with a dead baby in the bed, which they have finished with a floating skull in the mirror after the funeral.

Many ghosts and goblins share a great respect for art, or at least the art which allows the human world to see what we look like without us being around to endure the exorcisms and nest hunts that can ruin a good infestation. We know the value of brand management.

Hokusai did this picture, but the setup has become a goblin legend. We needed him alone on a particular tatami mat in the right haunted inn in a place called Senju in Musashi Province, since ghosts can't curl up in the luggage like we can. Bugger kept roaming all over the country, took different roads, and finally decided not to stay in the inn because he saw a fox on the road. A quick bite on the arse sent his horse off up the valley, while we stole his wallet at the same time and farted on his assistant, who fled screaming of goblins. Little did he know that's exactly what we wanted.

So Hokusai arrived in Senju alone, on foot, and penniless. Only the inn would take him in, only the innkeeper's son would go after the horse. The small children of the house took him to his bed, and gave him the inn's special saki to put him to sleep. How was he to know the family only had a single child?

He awoke paralysed. The Ghost Kohada Koheiji was waiting. In the morning, the inn was empty, the fires unlit, the hearth unswept for years. He tried to draw the place again and again, but failed every time. At last he drew the ghost, and his horse whinnied in the courtyard as he finished. He had earnt his freedom.

Like i said, brand management.

Sunday, January 15, 2006

such simple pleasures

Us goblins come in many shapes and sizes.

We are able to squeeze and push and scrunch our bodies up in all sorts of ways. Lengthen arms and legs, shape bum on the run, bristle the scales on our toes and fingers. All sorts of surprising, mingy ways of getting under the skin of bigger critters in pursuit of pleasure.

But you will never find a fat goblin, unlike the people who officially inhabit this wonderfully rank office. To other goblins, a fat goblin is a food supply that tags along of its own accord.

These two, for instance, have just puffed themselves up for a spot of scaring in some medieval tenement. It works well on a cold Sunday night after the hell-fire preachers have scared the old ladies into fits and put the juices of defiance into the young ones.

The trick is to get onto the ends of the sleigh bed and just sit there, nodding rhythmically, with expressions of vague interest. It works best with a moonbeam reflected off snow on a freezing night.

Occasionally someone dies of fright. Best if they're in the wrong bed. Humans like to burn each other.