A Better Class Of Dork

Over Here, ComiCon UK has just come to an end, and I have to say, the Brit cosplayers(?) seem to have a better handle on the whole costume thing. I know, that statement is no good without pitchurs, so:






They are kinda goofy (when not showing skin, of course), but sometimes our Murkin dorks seem just sad by comparison:






…but then again, we often get it right:





But just wait. There’s more below.

Fantasies

Apparently, one’s choice of Halloween costume is seldom a random one because people tend to choose costumes which fulfill some kind of subconscious fantasy about themselves. I can sort of buy that, because at various costume / fancy dress parties in my life, I’ve been variously: a Viking, an outlaw cowboy, a Roman emperor, a 50s rocker and an Elizabethan executioner (complete with axe).

So I get these costumes:

I am, however, having a little trouble with this one:

As Mr. Free Market (who sent me this picture) commented: “Just when you think you’ve seen the ultimate in weirdness, the Asians always seem to be able to take it just one step further.”

Quote Of The Day

Seen somewhere:

I was banging a Persian girl for a while. When we would get sweaty from sexing I swore she smelled like lawnmower exhaust. It had that oil burning with gas mixture kind of smell. I think it may have been from her diet. Now whenever the neighbors are mowing the lawn I get a massive erection. I wish that last part weren’t true. F*** you Pavlov.

Priceless.

I don’t know what gets me more: the tangential reference to Pavlov, the body odor of lawnmower exhaust, or the word “sexing”…

Pulling

This was going to be a rant about Old Farts becoming fathers at an advanced age — I couldn’t imagine going through all that parenting nonsense again, at this stage of my life.

Then I looked at some pictures of a couple of our most recent old-fart daddies. Can you think what it was that struck me the hardest? Maybe these pics of Billy Joel and Ronnie Wood might help:

Yep… even if you look like a gargoyle, you’ll still be able to play on some prime real estate — if you’re a famous rock star.

Back In Britishland

Back to my digs in Hardy Country, this time for only a brief-ish period (more on that later). Free Market Towers looked its usual splendid self:

…and to show you what fine hosts I have, Mrs. FM delayed the Friday Flogging until my arrival so that I, whisky in hand, could watch.

Nothing like the moans of the working classes to put one in a good mood… and tomorrow, it’s Range Time:

But first, I have to get through a little “Welcome Back” party tonight.

It’s a hard life, but what can one do?