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.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

changes in the home territory

The Old Bugger came home from hospital early. I thought I had a whole week of telling the truth about his wonderful world of squalor, but instead there was a lot of tears and hugging and then I had to hide in the filing cabinet while he ran his rotten blog and yok yokked at his own jokes.

The Dog went craven and mad eyed and ran around its own stupid tail with delight because it meant regular food and walks not with the woman down the back who marches for miles and miles to fill her own empty life.

That cat keeps blogging on without getting caught. Dogs are easy to manage with a small box of pepper and a chatter of my vicious toxic teeth, but cats are more of a problem. They are indolent and patient both, corruptible with salmon, lacking a strategic sense.

Don't they realise that if the humans die they will leave several centuries of tinned food, packets and slowly rotting chocolate? While we can breed undisturbed and read all those science books and work out how to evolve the true master species?

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

welcome to the undernest


The owner of this computer has a perfectly good blog elsewhere, but he has no idea that I sneak in late at night and use his system. Why do all that ranting and roaring and crap with content management, when I can push the work room door softly shut - kerlick - and log onto Blogger? Easy peasy.

They think the dog is guarding them, but she is really my friend, not theirs.

Image comes from 'Mankind Beset by Devils' by Hieronymus Bosch, here. From the length of the snout, I think he had found one of the Stickybeak mob, who knew my uncle when he was living with lepers in Germany. They are a handsome clan, though our armour is better.

Now that I am started, I can't stop telling you that Snorri was actually Snorri Sturluson, a thirteenth century Icelandic historian and political leader who wrote the Heimskringla. After falling into an ethical mess in violent times, he was murdered in his home.

Us goblins are allowed to choose our own names when our fangs first run with the legendary 'itchyslime', which makes fighting us such an unpleasant experience for months afterwards. You can probably see why the name was attractive to a young goblin who sees both the grandeur in life, but also the pleasures of sneakiness and mean minded revenge.

Yummy trouble to the lot of you!