Bitch on the Blog

February 27, 2018

The Alternative Comment Box – Adjournment 1

The reckoning will resume shortly.

Alas, Ms Misery, Demented Sculptor and Man of No Name have provided so much material (evidence) to sort through, and quote from, I find myself spoilt for choice as to how best to paint them in the colours that will do their respective shadow sides the justice they so clamour and richly deserve.

U

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February 26, 2018

The Alternative Comment Box, Interval 1 – Know your onions

Filed under: Amusement,Food,Fortune,Happiness,Joy,Kitchen — bitchontheblog @ 19:15
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Whilst giving forces who think they are [forces] a chance to regroup let me shed a tear over onions.

One of these days I will calculate how many onions I have chopped over a life lived so far. What is remarkable about chopping onions: Unlike when, say, playing the guitar you grow callouses to render your fingertips without feeling (one of the reasons I don’t play the guitar), your eyes will never ever grow used to an onion’s onslaught. You cried over your first onion you’ll cry over your last onion. That’s about it. Scant comfort, unlike with many other deals in life, you know where you stand. And smell.

Secondly, short of the rather irritating, coming at you unasked,  cakes in the motherland and trifles in the fatherland, virtually any dish worth its salt will start with an onion. Onions are ritual. One of these days, when I am about one hundred and twenty and Ms Misery will have died a not so miserable death (I hope) and in order to keep me occupied in her absence, I shall ponder what would actually happen to our palate’s concern, sensibilities and sensitivities if the onion was shown the door and never grown again.

I can see it now: My first memoir and self help book, titled “Life without an onion”. If that won’t make you cry little else will.

U

The Alternative Comment Box, 3 – Making Hay

Call me naive. If you call me “stupid”, several attempts of which have been made, I won’t take you seriously. If there is one thing I KNOW I am not it’s stupid. If you insist I suggest that you are too lazy to counter anything of mine you don’t agree with in well reasoned argument. Taking shortcuts with me rarely pays. Unless I think you beyond redemption.

You may remember my recent piece “Crash Landing” which, despite being lauded as “excellent”, I decided to take down, albeit briefly. It will be reinstalled; I need to edit the bit on the Samaritan quite heavily as he does deserve better. It’s not his fault that he has fallen for the lure of both the charmless Demented Sculptor and the even less charming Ms Misery. Blessed be those (the Samaritan) who know no better. As I said the other day, in the motherland’s forests of old “it’s mitgefangen, mitgehangen” – roughly translated as “if you are caught among thieves you’ll hang too”. Such are the realities of the world. Which is why, see above, you may call me naive. Naive is a good starting point in blogland; plenty of scope for my eyes to pop wide open in wonderment.

Far be it from me to elicit pity for either Demented Sculptor and Ms Misery who have no compunction to share their respective, though small, miseries with the world. Ms Misery’s misery rarely stretches beyond her local weather report, amply if not ably, supported by one of her photos taken in the middle of nowhere in Outer Siberia or equally miserable places. If all else fails she will tell you what she had or is going to have “for tea” (no foreign muck for her). That’s in between advocating hanging, deriding the EU, stroking Trump’s ego’s bald and bold spots and spouting off on conflict in lands far and beyond [her comprehension]. If you want to know where the world is at go to the Oracle aka Ms Misery. Leaving aside that the Bible’s Rachel was one of two wives and a mother (the latter surely a source of joy) neither of which applies to our Rachel, let’s consider the meaning of her name: “Ewe” – a female sheep. I like Feta, very much so – my most recent revelation the delights of frying it.

Where were we? The assorted miseries of Demented Sculptor and Ms Misery. Now, Demented Sculptor (who would make a most entertaining friend of mine if only he let himself) is more subtle than Ms Misery when displaying his miseries. He makes attempts, with varying results, to send himself up with a smidgen of what he prides himself on, namely “humoUr”. I do find that people who harp on about the abundance of their OWN humoUr, and lament lack of same in others, tend to be bores. To put it another way, if you need to point out props for others to appreciate you you may be better off without them [props that is].

The above will suffice for the moment. Gently does it. More instalments about my misadventures with Ms Misery and Demented Sculptor to look forward to. I hope Demented Sculptor will forgive me if I concentrate mostly, though not exclusively, on Ms Misery as her fountain of absent charm and attempts to bulldoze her readers into submission give me a lot of bone with plenty of meat to put my fangs into.

In the meantime let me drizzle a little sunshine on the miserable and a lot of sunshine on the less than miserable,

U

February 25, 2018

The Alternative Comment Box, 2

Before I proceed to address the incomparable Rachel once more, note to myself: Why am I spending time  on someone who is so full of the disposable? Never mind, we all make our own amusement.

Sunday, 25 Feb 2018 – 0505 hrs GMT – not sent, to spare her deleting me.

“Dearest Rachel, following your recent and most admirable call to “compromise” on the political stage, my reply to which you, naturally (what a predictable creature you are), deleted, I note with interest that you are now calling for hanging.

In my mind’s eye I have no difficulty to imagine you right there, in the front line of the lynch mob. Think old, think film, think black and white, think law and own hands. How romantic. Trees come to mind. And you, being a farmer’s daughter, will have some rope (to take the cows up to the alm) always at the ready. That’s the props in place.

No one on a mission is without their supporters. Which you have found, so ably and so articulate, in the Anonymous Deb,xx. Your exchange so exhilarating, so intellectually stimulating – and I quote in Italics to put some mileage between you and me:

“Anonyomous 24 February 2018 at 20:29

Oh I so agree with you Rachel and I also think that bringing back hanging would cure alot of it instead of them spending chushy time in jail.There is no cure for these evil bastards so just get rid and dispose of them.The streets would be alot safer then for all of us,Debi,xx

Rachel 24 February 2018 at 21:12
It would do this country a favour if we hanged Levi Bellfield and Ian Huntley that’s for sure. What good are they to anybody. Murderers, liars, scum of the earth.

Anonymous24 February 2018 at 22:12
I could add a load more to that list as well Rachel!,Why keep them in prison…Just get rid..Oh,do we have to worry about their human rights??.As far as Im concerned,they dont have any.Debi,xx”

I particularly like those kisses. Signs of affection.

Yes, Debi,xx, ” … bringing back hanging would cure a lot of it instead of them spending chushy time in jail”. Your innocence is touching. It would “cure”? “A lot”? We are not talking ham. “Chushy time in jail”? I think you mean “cushy”. Sure, very cushy. Particularly child molesters/murderers. They have one hell of a “cushy” number among their inmates. Honour among thieves and all that. If they are young, pert in bottom, they might have an even cushier time by being given a taster straight up the arse.

Anyway, Rachel, let me not disturb your and the adorable Debixx’s reveries. Don’t count on winning Clint Eastwood’s favour. I can see the look of disgust and utter disdain for you two harpies in his, oh so squinting in the sun, blue eyes now.

U”

February 24, 2018

The Alternative Comment Box, 1

Filed under: Amusement,blogging,Communication,Pretentious Shit,Roadkill — bitchontheblog @ 12:48
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Saturday, 24 Feb 2018 – 1223 hrs GMT – not sent, to spare her deleting me.

“Rachel, as is your trigger happy wont, keep shooting the messenger. I am the bearer of bad news: You appear to have lost the plot.

I do stand in awe, nay, my mouth wide open, at how you make the leap from some Oxford educated scientist and family man grooming young girls and now condemned to many years in jail  – to  England not being such a bad country, your hatred of Corbyn notwithstanding. As non sequiturs go you have excelled yourself.

Try again. What is it that excites your all over the place wrath today?

U”

 

 

February 22, 2018

Audible sigh

Is there anything worse (outside that which is far worse) than being afflicted by a sense of “disenchantment”? There isn’t. Disenchantment has potential (if you let it) to suck the oxygen out of your blood.

To understand why disenchantment is the pits for me, do look no further than Ramana’s last comment: “If I remember right, many moons ago, I called you an effervescent person during one of our very intense exchanges. I still think of you as one.” That’s me. Effervescent. It comes natural. Until I come across some fuckers whose mission in life to dampen ardour, to extinguish fire, to stamp out passion, to trample over rhyme, to spit on reason, to prove themselves the arseholes my father taught me, and my son implores me, to avoid.

Since when do I learn but the hard way? Thousands of years and their history  may have gone before my mother didn’t abort me yet here I am trusting in the good of the world. And quite justifiably so. To pull a figure out of my magic hat I’d say 91 % of people are good (defined by their own demographic). And then there are the bigots. The know it all. The ones pointing fingers. Go and chop some wood instead. You might lose a finger for the greater good.

I am warming to the theme. No greater arsehole will you meet than the one who advocates chopping someone’s hand off for stealing a pot of fois gras (not because of the stealing, but because it’s the last jar that he himself had set his eyes on) .

Mustn’t lose my thread. Disenchantment. Yes, it’s mine. In the blogging world. Never mind. May the self righteous gorge on their blandness, their blinkers, their shutting down shutters before closing time. Tragedy being that despite their excesses they are unlikely to be sick.

I am not talking about my blog and its readers. My readers’ comments, intelligent, challenging, willing, open, thoughtful, witty, wistful, make my blog disenchantment free. If you can be judged by the company you keep I’d say I am most fortunate.

Venturing out in the big wide world of some bloggers so closed off they don’t know when they lock horns with their own horizon? I do so, joyfully, at both my peril and enjoyment. On my head disenchantment be.

U

February 12, 2018

Easy does it

Filed under: Amusement,language — bitchontheblog @ 16:55
Tags:

To latch onto one of many subjects on my mind, an uncontroversial one: How can I shoehorn, nay weave, the word “effervescence” into my musings? Inconspicuously.

There are words so rarely used as there are nuggets of gold in a sieve of grit.

Effervescent greetings,

U

Range

Filed under: Culture — bitchontheblog @ 07:00
Tags: , , , , ,

One of many, and fascinating me, protestations by others goes like this:

“But, but, but,  I have never … (heard/seen/don’t know anyone who …)”. And that’s the end of it. Because they don’t know something, haven’t seen, heard or eaten it or indeed, and weighing in heavily, don’t know anyone who does and has, it can’t be possible. It doesn’t exist.

That attitude is endearing. In a child.

U

February 11, 2018

Edit

Filed under: Accuracy,Communication,Fortune — bitchontheblog @ 17:57
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For years and years and years I haven’t read my HORROR scope. Today one ambushed me: “Learn from observation, REVIEW what and who you regard as essential. An edit is long overdue.”  How timely.

U

 

 

February 6, 2018

Crash landing

Filed under: Amusement,Communication,Roadkill — bitchontheblog @ 16:08
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Note to Readers – 1 March 2018

Amended version of the post I published originally on 6 Feb and decided to remove briefly from the public eye as I felt I was too harsh on the Samaritan. Remember this whole current exercise of mine serves, among other purposes, one of promoting fairness and justice among correspondents communicating within the medium of blogging; a fairness and justice peculiarly absent in the morass of some of blogland’s back water comment boxes.

My (slight) edit is entirely on account of the Samaritan who, at his request, I shall not any longer refer to as the “Samaritan”. As John is as good a name as any, and as common as Ms Misery’s preference over “foreign muck”, I’d like to call him Hans. As I don’t wish to confuse either him or my readers, I’ll stick with John. That way he’ll recognize himself, as will Demented Sculptor and Ms Misery (sometimes I wonder whether I shouldn’t have named her better Ms Miserable or “Joy” for short).

6 February – “Crash Landing” (amended 1 March)

Apropos of nothing, just to take my mind of some weirdos in blogland, not least the demented Sculptor and Ms Misery who currently, for all the world to know, is waiting for an engineer to fix her dishwasher. Ms Misery, may I congratulate you on your ability to spell bind your readers, riveting in your often lamented (by yourself) absence of any original thought worth publishing.

Demented Sculptor, John and Ms Misery feed off each other. Occasional fall outs and strong reprimands among themselves not withstanding, language that even soap would do battle with, never mind any Rorschach test screwing up its face, they are as thick as thieves.

“Thick as thieves”. My previous version elaborates on being “thick” but I overdid it, being quite unfair on John’s account. So this section has been shortened. Thick – Each in their own way. In absence of any other evidence I blame the demented Sculptor’s mother for the many hang-ups her son wrestles with. Being dense let’s put at his father’s door. John? Well, pound for pound he probably matches the demented Sculptor in terms of chips on shoulders.  However, not slow on the uptake, he did marry a Professor.  I too occasionally mkae up for my own shortcomings by purchasing stilts.

Ms Misery keeps four cats. Which may explain why she has insatiable need to be top god, sorry dog, to stabilize her fragile ego. Her ego, you may call it spine, is so frail that John has often felt need to remind me that Ms Misery is of a tender disposition. Never mind that she is the same Ms Misery who gives short shrift to anyone who displeases her, telling hem to fuck off – that is how far her reasoning stretches. A dog will bark. Not Ms Misery. To her credit she recently shared with her readership the tribulations of her “bad teeth” (her words, not my assessment – how could I assess her teeth considering that she never smiles in any selfie she publishes?), so, take heart anyone who has the misfortune of crossing Ms Misery’s path: Her bite won’t make a dent.

Back to John. His downfall (which he shares with demented Sculptor and Ms Misery) that he needs to be liked. At all costs. He counts his blog’s followers. He records any who may fall by the wayside. Followers possibly disgusted at yet another streak mark or worse. Ms Misery does the same. Obsessively following her blog’s “stats”. That’s how I learnt how often I actually annoy her. “Annoy her”? She hates me. John has confirmed this to me – more than once. John is perfectly capable of imploring me to treat Ms Misery with kid gloves whilst standing by, aiding and abetting my not so fragile self being water boarded on all three respective blogs and in their comment boxes. My comments often deleted (that’s blog lingo for “buried”), letting theirs stand, tearing my reputation, in the eyes of other readers, apart.  If you want “skewed” look no further than, mainly, demented Sculptor’s comment box – he does have it down to a fine art; Ms Misery is more devious in laying cow pats before they are dried out.

Before you nod in agreement that I deserve everything I get, please may I remind you of one fact, and it’s an important fact: Even if I haven’t said a word, nada, for days, because I am bored with the lot of them, they will bring up my name. No doubt to see whether I am still willing to give them some bait they can get their blunt teeth into.

To give him a free standing paragraph all to himself, the reason being that early on in our conversation I called him “vain”, a throw away remark he has not forgiven me for despite repeated, if half hearted, apologies of mine: Demented Sculptor so demented, his reasoning so scrambled he wouldn’t amount to an omelette. In his despair at some sort of recognition, he has now sculpted me as his very own desirable fashion accessory: Namely, the stalker.

I am warming to the theme but, him being an artist, even the demented Sculptor, the master of deleting even the friendliest and most reasoned comment of mine, will agree: Sometimes you need to know when to let your work fly the nest and find its own way in the world.

U

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