That’s the joy of these hallucinations (I mean dreams). @Mick do you ride a crotch rocket? If so, do you have one of those loud-assed exhausts? If so or if not so, we welcome you to rant about those tools who annoy us with their loud midnight jaunts.
Bring it on, please!
Booriing! Flann O Brien Mon frère, that’s the good stuff. You have the magic, but look at this…there are levels to the insanity
️There’s nothing wrong with being (jeez I crack myself up)
But you’re right. That geajvop guy has issues. Balmy as batshit, he is.
Just like that other weirdo ahdohgah posting rants
At first you might think he was just saying he had a pet mole and he let it grow its hair out. Perfectly normal. But DRAGON ring? He let his mole’s hair grow LONG? LONG get it?! (please someone laugh at my hilarious pun) Read between the lines, baby. That’s some freaky sex magik he was performing on the mole there, trying to turn all its hairs into dragons and he’s in the Taiwanese mafia and everything so you’d better watch out just saying
I want to hear the happy hookers story! Or the strip club! As long as it’s got something to do with sex and it’s weird it’ll suit my palate. On a related note, as a grown man who gets bullied and hazed by children I wouldn’t like to stick the label NAMBY-PAMBY on other people recklessly… but you say you got taken to a strip club accidentally?! And you’ve already told us you didn’t join a gang cos your MUMMY wouldn’t let you. And you visited a brothel completely innocent like… just accompanying an “Indian friend” lol Unless of course you crossed the street to the brothel and made arrangements for your “Indian friend” who’d be visiting later then went home and rub your skin with curry paste and put on a kaftan and go back as Rashi from Mumbai
“Thanks, although your posts are funnier”-geajvop
What d’ya mean, “funnier”? I didn’t expect to get laughed at when I shared these difficult experiences L
“A man who has turned partly into a bicycle may not look like a bicycle.” Lol
I’ve been longing for someone to make some punny jokes. I just (戒指) didn’t realize the ring would inspire you.
The strip club and pseudo-brothel (小吃部) experiences were surprises (the latter more so than the former, since, at that point, I’ve figured out that “clubs” were not so legit). The brothels entailed me driving my (half drunk) Indian friend to find a lady of the night that would offer him the services he required. It was a favor. These joints are usually quite obvious, but as you will learn from the story, usually involve a wink and a nudge from a dirty local to find the honey hole .
As an aside, I am a kind of feminist. I’m also generally against prostitution, but my views have evolved as I’ve read more feminist literature on prostitution as a form of empowerment, livelihood, and even personal satisfaction. That being said, I’m not totally convinced, due to the role of negative male influence, coercion, sexual abuse, and the patriarchy in terms of the prevalence of sex workers.
Ok. Mini rant over. Wait for my lurid tales in the next couple of days
Dear Abdohgah, we await with bated breath your story, “A Feminist’s Guide to Honey Holes and How to Find Them: Taiwan Edition” J
Drawing inspiration from geajvop’s “therapeutic” profusions I thought I might perhaps presume to describe Taiwan not as I have experienced it but as it has been given me to perceive in VISIONS of the coming END TIMES and so without further ado and in medias res of full florid psychosis I stood in the 7-11 downstairs and it was boarded up and barricaded and the garbage trucks outside sang so strangely as the bombs rained down and Vladimir Putin was there in a tight white T-shirt and retro red Adidas shorts and his legs were hairier than I expected just saying and Gerald Depardieu was there too and he was wearing a fat suit but he wasn’t and he held me by the elbow as he introduced me to a heavyset gentleman d’un certain âge with rugged masculine features and sparkling eyes and silvery shoulder length locks who looked so distingué and dapper in his tailored grey suit and Depardieu held me by the right elbow with his left hand as he slapped the shorter man on the back with his right hand while saying with affectionate wine-humid eyes oui il est Néandertal mais c’est le Néandertal le plus sympa que je connaisse and the man’s name was not mentioned but it was given me to know that it was THAG and Thag beamed at me and seemed to drink me in but perhaps he was merely basking in the reflected warmth of his own copious charisma and he took out a long-stemmed red rose and held it out saying in impeccable though non-native French veuillez bien accepter cher monsieur ce petit témoignage de mes sentiments chaleureux and I understood très to mean trop and was flattered and somewhat curious and he winked at me and blew me a kiss with his thick sensual Mousterian lips and in that pregnant pause suddenly out of nowhere appeared a pallid wild-eyed man who looked vaguely like J. Robert Oppenheimer but with a Himmler hairdo who wore a black turtle-neck skivvy (TURTLE-neck coincidence don’t think so) and he snatched the proffered rose out of Thag’s hand and gobbled it up stem and all in a few seconds sword swallower style and he licked his lips clockwise three sixty degrees anticlockwise three sixty degrees painting himself red clown lips with the blood from the thorn wounds before announcing in a screech Die Rose der Liebe ist jetzt VERNICHTET!!! Muahahaha!!! and ran away to the storeroom after flexing the bodybuilder’s crab pose and magnanimous Thag smiled indulgently and when he turned back to me his tender eyes seemed to chuckle softly que voulez-vous que voulez-vous but we were again interrupted by Vlad who called out Blin! Rebyata, posmotrite! pointing to the 80s colour-TV Set on the 7-11 counter which although the electricity was cut and the store was illuminated by hundreds of red wedding candles and the TV wasn’t even plugged in it had turned itself on and the screen showed incredible and rousing scenes as Cai Ying Wen stood on a tank in the midst of a seething crowd and Taiwanese fluttering and Cai holding a pike aloft and she was wearing a white leotard from the side of which her three testicles (the STIGMATA the STIGMATA) dangled down long and pink and someone held a loudspeaker in front of her and then things got weird but perhaps that’s enough for tonight I’ve gotta get into my galoshes now and go and romance me some eels
Thou shalt not be (too) disappointed. I’ll likely leave out the feminist theory and focus on my perverse and persistent Indian friend (I’ve at least three other stories about him). I knew you’d appreciate my use of “honey holes.”
Your own hallucinatory story is truly engaging. While I swear I’ve never taken illicit drugs, I have had such dreams before. Perhaps, if my booze+sleeping pill addled mind can recall, I’ll share a dream here.
I take this as an adjunct “stab” at 蔡英文，if so, cleverly played. If not, here it is.
What an astute audience my rants have! Even my cryptic allusions to surnames and plastromancy dont go unnoticed 佩服佩服
I am but your disciple，師父。
Holy shit, the ante has been upped!
Might take me some time to brew up a reply to that!
I’ve pretty much given up on my hopes of winning a hand, but am glad to throw in my chips and keep playing in the hope of enjoying a good game
Hear hear, same situation here.
take your time, trying to outbreed a lunatic is a mug’s game…meanwhile, my mangy muse against mounted my fevered brain and I whelped some shaggy-haired doggerel… gomenasai…
My Kinda Cai
No gimp girl to the Scarlet Dom I’ll be:
I’d rather drag my titties through the mud;*
To keep Formosa stagnating and free
I’ll call my ̶e̶i̶g̶h̶t̶e̶e̶n̶ ̶s̶e̶v̶e̶n̶t̶e̶e̶n̶ sixteen friends, I’ll shed my blood
To the last green lurid Yoda drop, and Xi*
Who is a he shall taste of Taiwan’s wroth!
To blue show ponies once he played the stud,
But now at last he’s met his match, by troth!
Once more a Virgin Queen defends her isle!
I’ll take my foreign teacher friend’s machete,
And swishing left and right (thanks, Oz!) with style,
Chop all them commie pigs into spaghetti!
For they have hurt the Taiwan people FEELING,
And shall get war instead of cross-strait healing.
*xtra points if u get the turtle allusion
*cos she looks like Yoda. Sorry, she just does.
Disclaimer: this sonnet is a work of idiotic humour and no identification with an actual political standpoint is intended or should be inferred
The mind that comes up with this, you would not want as your enemy. A new friend, albeit, a dweller of the night and avoider of most society (with misanthropic undertones, which I don’t mind).
Ok well reelling the wierdness back in a little with this one. Sorry Jinyu just gone too bizzarre even for the likes of me. Back to the basic cookery then: Lets have some French Onion Soup!
You might wonder why a man born and reared in Calabria would self identify as Irish-Parisian-African-Chinese. And indeed it is a confused and complicated interweaving of stories, much like the spaghetti of my native village of Gaurdia-Piedmontese. So long and complicated is the spaghetti of my native Gaurdia that it could not be unraveled in a single sitting. And so today I will trace but an antipasto. Hear ye then the tale of the French Onion soup.
There was a missed call on the phone
The missus had a missed call too
She said they asked for you
I said what did they say?
She said they said your name and a strange language
I called the number back
A voice answered
Tá nouvelles doloroso againn
The voice said
es tu seduto?
Yes, yes I am sitting, I replied. Although in fact I was not sitting
“Monsieur dodo”he said peering into the blackness of the cellar. The onions hung from the rafters under the floor. I feared the mister lurking sleepily in the darkness and hurried out of the makeshift basement as quickly as I could; half expecting a grasp around my ankle as I exited the space, worried slightly for my fingers should he emerge as I placed the floor boards over the hole. Once I had the carpet rolled back over the boards I felt safe and back in the day and the light. The urgency disappeared, whatever lurked below with the onions, who cares now? “Monsieur dodo” he said again. I chided him: 没有Monsieur, 只有des oignons你真的是一个’n awful little man! Monsieur dodo ddans he insisted. A loud car roared past outside and he turned and pointed towards the noise: Monsieur brrrrrrr!
He blew bubbles in his milk. Something which broke my heart. She had blown bubbles in her milk too. With the exact same joy. I would make the onion soup again. It was the only meal his mother ever liked that I made, and it was the recipe of my own Mamie. Mamie taught me many things. For example how to fall asleep. She perfected the method. First toss and turn purposely: keep moving until you are snug. Confirm the snugness. Now close your eyes. Think about how snug you are, floating amidst all the snug. Now you are asleep. She taught me how to make Crostata di mele like you have never known. In fact I am half kicking myself for not choosing to write about that instead. And how she would pass me un morceau de pomme à cuire covered in brown sugar from the table. Oh the pure joy of that! And how I would stick my finger in the pastry mix, once allowed, and then a second secret swipe when her back was turned. I would watch the dough turn brown and rise in the oven.
My family had carried the onions from a town in France They were fleeing the papists: fleeing the papists to Italy? Well that hardly makes sense, but that is what they did. They carried the onions many miles and many generations and always ate the signature soup. It was a very good soup. We forgot the name of the town that we had come from. It was an Occitan town, but which one? Who knows? Maybe Carcassonne, or maybe not. It was forgotten. With the name of the town forgotten we had no choice but to reply Paris and identify as Parisian. We would on occasion even curse Paname and its concrete jungle, even though we had never been there. But to be a real Parisian one must celebrate and curse the city. Tout le monde le sait.
I fried the butter first with the red onions. Then I added water and more onions and let it boil, adding stock – oxo cubes – shhhhh no one must know that I never got to the recepie for the onion soup.
Mamie please forgive me
Surely you mean Canadian people?
Thank you for your bowl of French onion soup (even though you didnt tell us the recipe)! I had absolutely no idea what it was supposed to mean, which was after all the point!
At least in Canada people get mortally offended/pretend to get mortally offended/are expected to get mortally offended/are expected to pretend to get mortally offended at perceived slights made against themselves (or against someone else, on whose behalf they get offended) on the basis of their identity as a member of particular group within society. In China and Taiwan, it’s the entire nation or people whose feelings are hurt. Every time I hear the stock phrase “傷害中國/台灣人民的感情” I start mumbling something like “you Chinameanies/Taiwaninnies wouldn’t know a ganqing if one bit ya in the bum!”
Yea the point is kind of that the protagonist does not actually know the recipe, which is a great problem as it is his only remaining connection to his Occitan culture, of which he is fiercely proud.
As a protestant Irish man of Calabria I have a soft spot for autumnal fish of the Atlantic, freshly caught and fried, alongside yesterdays flowery spuds just out of the garden. Hear ye then the tale of the fried mackerel.
The waves lapped against the side of the boat, Giovanni paddled through the moonlight semi darkness on a lightly undulating sea, conditions could not be more perfect. Mount Brandan rose almost directly from the sea reminding Giovanni of his Calabrian homeland, although the lights of houses were far fewer, and the deep unpredictability of the Atlantic Ocean made him less easy. Here and there a seagull above or a shoal of fish below made their presence known. Now and then a current or a passing cloud made him pause for thought as he charted his course towards An Clochan, the fabled Italian town of west Kerry. There his rendez vous a man by the name of Denis – pronounced ‘Donny’ or on occasion ‘Dinny’ awaited him. Denis was third generation Irish Italian and a man like himself taken to the profession of espionage.
He was getting close to the shore now and could see the lights of the town. He was alarmed however at the size of the waves and the ferocity with which they broke. It was high tide, and there was seemingly no way in other than to ride a breaker and chart a course to the rocky beach, avoiding the boulders. He had two choices, to catch a wave of one of the larger sets of breakers and ride it all the way to the shore. Or alternatively to sneak inside during a lull in the sets, and catch a smaller wave. He opted for the second option. He waited for a lull and then paddled in as hard as he could but the ocean seemed to die under him and then a rip began pulling him out again. He began to move in circles, struggling for 30 minutes, all the while cursing his lack of attention during the debriefing regarding the surfing conditions in Brandon bay. Eventually an over sized set rolled in. He capsized into the darkness turned upside down and around, he struggled up for air and just as he breathed in another wave crashed on top of him. He was like a rat caught in a storm drain. Finally he felt a strong set of arms clasp him from behind and a voice speaking in some tongue and then six sets of beady piercing eyes and two torches.
It was the time of WWII. Giovanni Geajvop my paternal grandfather - who both was and was not actually my paternal grandfather - found himself like many others embroiled in the general goings on. Giovanni was a dinger at math. He could solve a math based brain teaser faster than you could present it to him. And on top of that he put his family’s diverse linguistic heritage to good use in the creation of secret codes. It was for this reason that Giovanni was sought out specifically by the Servizio Informazioni Militare. The Germans had already sent spies to Ireland but had difficulty regarding the ease with which the native Irish identified their thick German accents and military uniforms. They turned then to the Italians for a solution. Why an Italian in Ireland could perhaps pass as a papal missionary, and even if uncovered as a facist spy would probably be forgiven readily. The voices quizzed him in some strange language. He did not understand a word, but replied “Dinny”. The voices seemed to understand this and the arms dragged him to his feet and supported him on a walk of some twenty minutes. Finally he was deposited in a fire place and dry but worse for wear and handmade clothes were thrown down beside him. He was frozen. A pint of black stuff and a bowl of steaming soup appeared and the voices quizzed him again in their strange indecipherable code. The following day a priest appeared and directly addressed Giovanni.
unde venistis? Quid hic agis?
I am looking for Dinny he replied.
There are many men by the name of Donny in this town the priest clarified. That information will not be specific enough for us to identify the man whom you seek. Why my own name is “Dinny the priest”, and the man so kind as to drag you from the sea is “Dinny the fiserman” and the man who offers you that drink infront of you is “Dinny the publican”. Which Dinny in particular is it that you do be wanting? And what exactly is it that you do be seeking from him, quizzed Dinny the priest, with one eyebrow raised. At this moment a tall and handsome black man walked into the room and the Priest turned to greet him: “Dinny the Sphy!” perhaps you can help us with this foreign mans confounding problems?!
Giovanni took like a fish to water in the little Italian village of west Kerry and became fast friends with Dinny the Spy. He converted the townfolk to pastafarianism, and in return the locals fed him snippets of meaningless intelligence for his superiors. He took to conversing only in Gaelic and began to feign incomprehension of other langauges. After several years he ceased to radio out to this superiors at the end of the week, and in fitting with local custom took to the name of Denis, or Donnachadha in the local langauge.
As the war drew to a close Dinny became ever more anxious about his potential identification and deportation to Italy. A fear that was not missplaced as on one summer evening as he rested on the pier with the other Donnies, one Donny by the name of Donny the Policeman declared to him. Donny the cook: the sadness of the world is upon me now to have to tell you that you are to be shipped to Italy as a token of some bollocks regarding the Queen. I myself would rather die than have you shipped out for I have grown to love your onion soup. However may I now add that this man here – Dinny the Spy – has become sick of the racist Irish, and he himself has heard that there are greener fields in Italy. Would you at all mind swapping names with him so that he could be deported in your place?
And with that, Donny Geajvop was now a black Irish man with no word of Italian on a steamer to the continent. This is the Geajvop from whom I descend, and from there is the Irish connection and the obsession with Mackrel and potatoes, which I must admit when fried fresh of a late Summers or early Autum evening do represent the most glorious feed that any man of this earth could wish for.
Okay what app produces this stuff?