Shitey Sunday Picture Post – Hair!

 

I’ve had enough of men and their hair (or lack of it). This week it’s the turn of the ladies and I’ve chosen some nice, easy styles for the busy, modern woman.

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DOG HAIR

To bring out your inner bitch

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DEER HAIR or GIRAFFE HAIR

At first it looked like a deer, now I think it’s a giraffe.

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BEAR HAIR

This is a bear made of hair

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ANOTHER BEAR HAIR

This is another bear made of hair

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BUNNY RABBIT HAIR

Bright eyes, burning like fire

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STAG HAIR

The Monarch of the Glen – on your head.

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HORSE HAIR

I know, I know – this is a man. A ginger man. But look at his horse!!

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BIRD’S NEST HAIR

WITH A MINI BEAR CLIMBING UP THE HAIR

Look at me, I’m like a tree!

A sweaty tree.

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GUITAR HAIR

Is it a guitar? It’s too big for a violin, too small for a double bass.

Yes, it’s a guitar. Strum that thing, hairdresser.

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HELICTOPER HAIR

What’s that thing on her nose?

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ANOTHER HELICOPTER HAIR

I love helicopter hair.

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AMERICAN HAIR

And finally, a little present for my Collected Americans -

The Statue of Liberty

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DOtty’s FavOurite Letter Of The Alphabet

 

My favOurite letter Of the alphabet is O.

O is a nice letter, rOund and lOOpy.

Where dOes O begin?

Where dOes it end?

NObOdy knOws.

It begins wherever yOu want it tO begin.

It ends wherever yOu want it tO end.

 

 

YOu can make pretty patterns with it –

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 

 

It lOOks like a dOt.

It lOOks dOtty.

And spOtty.

And blOtty.

 

 

It’s full Of expressiOn –

O - is an expressiOn Of a sudden surprise – bOO

Or a sOmewhat disappOinting surprise

Or a questiOn (if a questiOn mark immediately fOllOws it)

 

Or -

oooooo - is an expressiOn Of a cOmpassiOnate wince

Or a juicy tempation like a lOvelyCumberland sausage sandwich I’m abOut tO eat

Or a lOvely Cumberland sausage sandwich I’ve just eaten

 

 

 

Because it’s a gOOd letter, O dOesn’t appear in the impOrtant basic swear wOrds I like tO use -

FUCK

SHITE

BASTARD

ARSE

TWAT

 

 

O is the neatest letter Of the alphabet. Even the scruffiest, sprawliest handwriting can’t fuck it up.

O has nO sharp cOrners.

O is perfect.

 

 

O is the shape Of a ring.

O is the shape Of a circle.

O is the shape Of Our planet when yOu lOOk at a picture Of Our planet.

And all the Other planets. 

 O is the shape Of O.

O is the shape Of everything.

O is what we’re made Of.

 

 

 

Shitey Sunday Picture Post – Inspirational Wordy Posters

 

Today’s Shitey Sunday Picture Post doesn’t have many pictures because I’m too lazy to go looking for proper Shitey Sunday Picture Post pictures today so I thought I’d make a post out of some of the nice little wordy posters I’ve collected. I don’t even have to comment on them because THEY’RE MADE OF WORDS!

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Shitey Sunday Picture Post – Weirdy Beardies And Mental Moustaches

 

Did you know there’s such a thing as FACIAL HAIR ART? Nope, neither did I until I saw

CHRIS’S MOUSTACHE POST  (go and look at it)

and thought ‘AHA! I bet there’s some FUCKING STUPID moustaches out there and I bet if I find some I can steal Chris’s idea for a moustache post and turn it into my Shitey Sunday Picture Post because originally I was going to do something about the Olympickles again but I couldn’t be bothered because I’M BORED OUT OF MY TINY SKULL WITH THE OLYMPICKLES.’

So I did a search. And A WHOLE NEW WORLD WAS OPENED UP TO ME. A world of WEIRDY BEARDIES and MENTAL MOUSTACHES, and even though I feel just a TEENSY bit guilty about nicking Chris’s idea, I don’t feel guilty enough NOT TO USE IT.

Brace yourself, bloggy people. Prepare to be ASTONISHED. I’m not going to make any sarcastic quips today because I don’t NEED to – THE PICTURES SPEAK FOR THEMSELVES.

 

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THE APPRENTICE

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THE EXPERT

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THE LEMON HOLDER

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THE BEER HOLDER

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THE CLOCK

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THE WINDMILL

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THE BRIDGE

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THE SEA CREATURE

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THE COLLECTION

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THE BIG GINGER BEARD OF SHAME

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The Big Blog Collection – Dotty’s Choice

 

I’ve just done a new Dotty’s Choice post on the Big Blog. It gives links to my three favourite Humour/Satire blogs. :-)

 

DOTTY’S CHOICE POST

The World According To Dotty (An Illuminating View Of EVERYTHING)

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I’m Going On My Summer Holiday With Escher And Engleby

 

I’m taking a break for a while – I’m going on holiday to my spare bedroom. On the wall facing the bed I’ve put up a massive poster advertising the Escher exhibition that took place at one of our local big houses a few years ago. I nicked the poster and kept it rolled up until I needed it – which is NOW. It’s one of his stairs pictures, Relativity. It’s fucking HUGE, there almost isn’t enough wall for it to go on. I could look at it for hours – and I will be looking at it for hours because that’s what you do on holiday, isn’t it -except everyone else looks at the sea and I’ll be looking at Escher’s stairs where my bedroom wall used to be.

This is the picture. You can’t get the full impact of it unless you can look at one as big as the one I’ll be looking at.

I’m taking Engleby with me – Sebastian Faulks is sick of him, he said he’s too mental and whiney for his own good. I think Sebastian’s trying to play Cupid, but Engleby isn’t my type. Unless he brings me absinthe and laudanum cocktails with little multi-coloured umbrellas and a bit of fruit in them, if he does that without drinking them en route to ME I might have a rethink about his suitability as one of my suitors.

See that little cafe on the right of the picture? It said in the brochure it has internet access so if I get the chance I’ll come online to read some blogs, but I think my holiday will be so action-packed I won’t have time to write. But you never know.

Adieu, auf wiedersehen, au revoir, bon voyage, toodle pip, tatty-bye.

 

Shitey Sunday Picture Post – Help Me Choose A New Pair Of Shoes

 

I need some new shoes. I haven’t bought any for over three years (what’s the point?) but I’m sick of the ones I’ve got so I’ve decided to get some more. My problem is I didn’t realise how the fashions have changed since I contracted Hermititis and People Phobia – there are some FUCKING BEAUTIFUL shoes around and I WANT THEM ALL. But I can’t afford them all so I’ve narrowed the selection down to my absolute favourites, sensible shoes for walking the moors (when I get out of this house again), for shopping, and for general everyday wear.

Help me choose which to buy, please – trying to make a decision for myself only results in multiple panic attacks.

 

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WHEELIE SHOES

I LOVE the wheelie shoes so much I couldn’t make up my mind between these

and these.

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WHIRLY SHOES

On second thoughts I could probably make a pair of

these for myself by melting and remoulding a section

of my washing machine.

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APOCALYPSE SHOES

Since humans began to wear shoes we’ve lost  the ability to run vast distances in our bare feet.

Our feet have become SOFT and WUSSIFIED, pampered plates of tenderised meat that will be

an EXCRUTIATINGLY PAINFUL HINDRANCE to us when the APOCALYPSE comes and shoes

no longer exist. I like these because they’ll prepare us for that time.

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SHOES WITHOUT HEELS SHOES

Hmm, perhaps not. I have enough trouble staying upright as it is.

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BALLOONY SPORTS SHOES

 Now I do like these, very much. I could BOUNCE

my way round 24 hour Tesco!!

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KILLER HEELS

A good file would sharpen the ends of these heels to a fine point

and I’d have SHOE WEAPONS.

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PLASTICINE SHOES

Nah, I can make these as long as I don’t get the strips of plasticine

mixed up in a brown lump (why does it always go BROWN?)

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MANGLED FOOT SHOES

??????

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and some more MANGLED FOOT SHOES

Would I have to have my toes chopped off to be

able to walk in these? I NEED my toes.

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SATYR SHOES

My favourites. I don’t need to explain why, they’re

FUCKING LOVELY.

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MAGGOTY SHOES

 Comfortable and cushiony.

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FOOD SHOES

No, you can’t eat it, silly. Not that you’d want to,

they’ve been a bit mean with the gravy.

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Mmm, tasty.

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Where’s the custard?

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So now you see my problem – they’re all so GORGEOUS.

And they’d all suit me.

Which ones should I get?

 

 

No Post Today Because I Can’t Be Arsed. I Can’t Do A One Word Post Because I’ve Already Done One, I Can’t Do A Picture Because It Isn’t Sunday, So You’ll Have To Make Do With NOTHING

Dotty Days

 

SATURDAY

Sat on my saturnine arse reading The Rings Of Saturn.

Sat-nav — why the fuck have I got one? O, TomTom, Lord of the Wrong Turn, guide me out of this fucking house.

 

SUNDAY

Sun? There is no sun. It’s trapped behind the big, brown melancholy clouds. O, TomTom, Lord of the Turn Right In 300 Yards, guide the sun from behind the big, brown melancholy clouds.

 

MONDAY

Moon day.

Moan day.

I Don’t Like Mondays. BOOM. Shoot the moon. Fuck off, TomTom, you’re doing my skull in.

 

TUESDAY

Chew chew chew a Cumberland sausage in a sugary Mars Bar sandwich.

Choo-choo! Do trains have sat-navs? O, TomTom, Lord of the Straight Ahead, guide the trains along their tracks, up the coast roads and back – please don’t make them fall off again.

 

WEDNESDAY

Woe day? Wedding day? No, I got married on a Friday. I got married at Halloween and I married in silken black (this is a TRUE FACT), but I couldn’t help looking back. Ring o’ ring 0′ rosies, a pocket full of posies. O, TomTom, Lord of At The Roundabout Take The First Exit, guide dead ex-Simon to a nice place of cleanliness and peace and an abundance of stamps for his collection.

 

THURSDAY

I LOVE THOR, HEAR ME ROOOOOAAAAAARRRRR. (Months ago I roared in a post. It made me feel better at the time so now I have a little roar every Thursday morning before I make my Cumberland sausage sandwiches for my breakfast). O, TomTom, Lord of Leave The Motorway, guide the big Cumberland sausage lorries safely to my Tesco.

 

FRIDAY

Friday is now the only day I fry (burn) my Cumberland sausages.

Empty-headed no brain, fried brain, sizzle-pop. Skullduggery?

Freya, Freya, lend me your cloak so I can fly above the bald sea to see what I can see. O, TomTom, Lord of You Have Reached Your Destination, guide us not into temptation, or negation, or consternation. Forever and ever, amen.

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Albrecht Dürer, self-portrait, 1500

look at the eyes

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A Song Sung To Dotty On Her Mammy’s Knee, Ally Bally Bee

I’m posting this because I don’t have a post for today – I’ve been doing something else. And I’m behind with visiting blogs again, so I’M VERY VERY SORRY.

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A Boring Dotty Update On Boring Dotty

 

Here I am, boring old me on my boring old lonesome in my boring old house doing boring fuck all. Why am I even writing this boring blog? To see how many people I can bore on a daily basis?

 

This is what’s been happening in my boring life.

1.  I didn’t see Venus, I saw clouds.

2.  Little Emily and Kumblant are revolting, they’re plotting against me, I don’t know what they’re up to. When Branwell brought my laudanum he told me they’ve been talking to each other and KUMBLANT HAS BEEN TO THEIR HOUSE FOR TEA. Fucking traitors. Off with their heads. Good job I’ve got Branwell to spy on them.

3.  The gas men ARE laying a fucking great big pipe up the street, the bendy yellow one must have been something else, and the noise they’ve been making digging up THE WHOLE PAVEMENT is driving me MENTAL. I called the boss of the gas men a dickwad the other day. He didn’t like it but so fucking what, I don’t like his NOISE.

4.  When I can concentrate on anything at all I’ve been playing with Photoshop, trying to make a nice picture.

5.  I hate the word CREVICE. If I hear anyone say it I want to punch them in the throat. It’s a vile word spoken slowly on a sea of spittle by smelly, toothless old men in raincoats – CRRREVISSSSS. And they rub their hands together when they say it. And they leer. STEPTOE, YOU DIRTY, DIRTY MAN, DON’T SAY THAT NASTY WORD EVER AGAIN.

6.  I’ve spent a lot of quality time with my brick.

7.  When the NOISE from outside is too much I’ve been taking the opportunity to practice screaming.

8.  My screaming practice sessions have resulted in me being back on good terms with Dibble. They’ve been to see me twice and both times, like the good, law-abiding citizen I am, I’ve pointed out the gas vehicles illegally parked up and down the street, and also pointed out the fact that Dibble had to WALK a long way from where they had to park their car to my house. I also asked after my ex-boyfriend, Sergeant Sherlock the Druggy (Piggy-Wig), who somehow scoffed a HUGE pile of my Cumberlaudanum sausage sandwiches the last time I saw him, and they told me he’s still on suspension. Good. No one fucks with Dotty and gets away with it.

 

That’s it. Boring. Well, I did warn you.

 

Shitey Sunday Sausage Picture Post

Cumberland Sausages. Did you know I love them?

I can spell my favourite words with them.

I can watch them live free in the wild fields of Cumberland.

and seeing as it’s Sunday, I can appreciate their spiritual beliefs.

I love my Cumberland sausages. I want them to be perfect

so I applied for this job and got it -

Hip hip hooray

A Cumberland sausage a day

Will keep the mentals away

Oh happy happy day

Dotty In A Bloggy Dither – Help!

 

I need to catch up with reading blogs but I’ve followed so many good blogs I’m becoming overwhelmed by it all. I’ve got a big pile of emails of posts to go through, and I’ve got my favourites that I love to go and read two or three posts at a time, and I’ve got the blogs I look at on the WordPress Reader, and I’ve got the new blogs I’ve followed and want to read more of because I like the look of them, and I’ve got the blogs of people who’ve followed me to check out.

I FEEL SO FUCKING GUILTY that I’m not being a good bloggy friend when you’re all so nice to me and keep coming back. And I feel guilty because I might miss you out and then you’ll think I don’t like your blog, or you’ll think I’m being an ignorant cow when I’m not deliberately ignoring you I’m just finding it really, really hard to keep up – to the point where I didn’t want to come online this morning because I knew all the posts I missed on my day off yesterday were waiting for me, and those from the day before that I hadn’t got round to, and the day before that, and the day before that. And I know myself too well, if something I love doing starts to become a chore I jack it in, drop it, bye bye hard thing to do, and that’s it, I never go back to it – but I don’t want to stop doing this, I love everything about blogging (except WordPress giving me a new personality).

How do you manage to keep up without spending every minute of every day online? And without feeling guilty and horrible for not visiting everyone’s blogs?

 

The Artist (A Real Short Story)

 

The Artist

At his usual parking spot by the far entrance to the woods, he turns the front of his car away from the low morning sun and switches off the engine. He sits for a while, sucking a mint, studying the bare trees as he waits, memorising their various winter hues, determining how best to aesthetically represent their sleep.

After five minutes or so he sees her. She has a dog on an extendable lead, a struggling pup too small to climb the high stile leading into the woods. She lifts the pup with one arm, uses the other to hoist herself up and over to the other side. He gets out of the car, locks the door, and swings his rucksack over his shoulder.

He carries a set of pencils and a hardback sketchbook inside the bag. The first eighteen pages have been neatly sliced out of the book, projects complete, but the cut-lines barely show. His paints are in his studio with a bed, a kettle, a wardrobe, a bookcase, and, lined up against the walls, his paintings. A canvas, primed brilliant white, stands blank on the easel ready for his return.

She walks slowly. He finds this strange for such a cold morning; normally the dog walkers are brisk, they want to be home and warm. She wears jeans and boots; there is a twist to her step, an unbalancing so slight it needs a sharp eye to notice the way her left leg compensates. No eye is sharper than his… he observes she has stronger thigh muscles in that left leg, maybe a touch of cellulite on the right. Narrow shoulders, small waist above the width of her hips. Her jacket is short, fitted; the long fur trim of its hood forms a halo of white that half-circles the back of her slim neck. So far, so good. Multi-shaded hair, blonde, gold, copper; short and dyed, arranged in a careful disarray he guesses took a long time to style. She is promising but he needs a front view to be certain she is exactly what he wants; experience dictates plain Janes and wilting Violets transfer badly. Two of his early canvasses had to be shredded, slashed – the insipid blandness of his subjects showed through in his work, spoiling the whole. As he overtakes her, slowing down to keep in step, he looks, meets her eyes… emerald green, long lashes. Oval face; plump cheeks; nose with slightly too much of an upturn; neat mouth with well-defined lips. The cold makes her eyes bright and brings red to her cheeks. Although she is older than he thought, late twenties, the life-spark he wanted to see in her is vivid, lending her features a lustrous, striking radiance. But she is not beautiful, yet.

She nods a reserved greeting. He says, ‘Freezing, isn’t it?’ and she nods again. He smiles his trust-me smile, wide enough to allow the mint of his breath to drift out. They strike up a conversation centred on the pup. Her voice is light, airy, and his heart leaps when she tells him the animal’s name is Wilde, after the author – she reads, she has a brain. He favours his intelligent subjects, they inspire their own subtleties of tints and tones; he will limn this one in pure bronze, the colour he keeps specifically for the clever.

He maintains an assuring distance as he talks her towards his quiet spot, a small clearing surrounded by sycamores and oaks. The main path is far, far behind them, the wet leaf-bed underfoot too thick for sound. His practised manner is polite, interested – it invites her to speak the trivialities he needs to illuminate and colour her. She obliges. He anticipates she will shine on canvas.

He tells her he is an artist, a recorder of nature. She confirms her intelligence by asking knowledgeable questions about technique, texture, line and perspective. He answers leisurely, with long looks that hold her gaze; she does not look away. He mentions Rossetti, Holman Hunt, Millais, and a nearby gallery in which some of their paintings hang. ‘We could go together. Tomorrow?’ Her eyelids lower and she says, ‘I’d like that.’ He can smell, almost taste, the tartness of her need, her loneliness. They discuss addresses, times, transportation. Soon afterwards they reach his quiet spot where they stand for a minute or two watching Wilde scrabble down into a pile of black leaves as he digs for the source of some compelling odour.

He asks her to sit for him one day. She stiffens. He smiles (trust me) and says he merely wants to sketch her. He reaches into his rucksack and shows her his book and pencils. A few seconds pass before she nods, ‘Maybe. We’ll see.’ He asks if she means yes. ‘All right,’ she laughs, ‘yes, you can sketch me. One day.’

Her consent given, he takes the knife from his pocket. She freezes, her eyes widen and he has to blink rapidly to stop her life-light from blinding him. He stabs, one precise tidy thrust under the left breast – in, up, and twist. In less than half a minute she is ready to be posed.

The dog lead remains gripped in her hand; a slice to the twine and the pup runs free. He works quickly to remove her clothing, sees he was right about the cellulite. It distorts the line of her right thigh so he lays her on that side, in the root-hollow of an old sycamore, to hide the ugly puckering from view. He arranges her limbs, rests her head gently on the root. A thin channel of blood runs down past her right breast, seeps into and through her bed of leaves. He thinks he will emphasise this line of blood heavily with his darkest mix of carmines.

He crouches on one knee, rests his sketchbook on the other as he prepares to stroke her every detail onto the page. The sun is at his back, higher now. Her outline forms an exquisite horizon of contours as it dips and rises. The green of her eyes complements the intensity of the copper undertones in her hair, picturesque against the darker shades of the tree bark. Her delicate veins thread blue across her skin, stilled streams of life, and he knows with absolute certainty she will transfer perfectly from life to page to canvas.

He smiles.

She is beautiful now.

 

An Unpoetic Woman Unpoetically Scorned

 

Up your arse stick your flowery words

and thorny red roses

in a bunch, up your bum.

I’m no longer your wife, your wench,

your skivvy, your drudge;

twenty three years thrown aside,

cast away – for what?

Some dirty young slut.

 

Your ego, your death-fear,

it’s all about you

YOU YOU YOU

you middle-aged twat;

mourning the grey, the droop, the sag,

and those fucking great bags round your eyes –

they cannot lie.

 

Plead a little more, bastard.

Listening? Me? Not a chance,

not a hope in the belly of Hell.

Crawl, you creep,

beg, whimper, whine,

weep me your vows, your promises -

I’ve heard it all before, remember.

 

Why are you here again,

howling your sorrys?

Didn’t you hear me the first fifteen times?

Get it through your head -

you left me, you lost me, 

you shagged us stone dead.

 

Now – now I am ME, free, 

I’ll do as I please,

stay in, stay out, shag about if I choose.

AHA! That look on your face!

I see it, I do!

Ownership.

Jealousy wants me under you, (lying bored),

but acting isn’t my job any more.

 

Leave me alone, now. 

Fuck off.

Go away and rot.

Stick up your arse all your lies and deceits,

up up up

right the way up through your shrivelled old colon,

all the way up through your gutless old guts,

up up up

till they choke you, you cheat -

as one day they assuredly must.

 

 

The Three Red Bins Of Blogging Award (The Best Award I’ve Made Today)

 

I’ve been bored out of my skull today waiting for the universe to die so I’ve made a new award AND IT’S A NICE AWARD because I thought I’d better be nice for a change in case there IS a god.

This is my new award

 

See how nice I’ve been? I think I’ve been EXCEPTIONALLY NICE, nice enough to get me into HEAVEN if there IS a god.

There are two requirements to having this award -

1 — You have to CLICK ON THIS LINK AND THEN PRESS LIKE

2 — You have to CLICK ON THIS LINK AND ADD YOUR BLOG

 

If you’ve already done these two things you are BRILLIANT and I award you my new award which is a very, very classy award, if I do say so myself. If you haven’t already done these two things GO AND DO THEM.

When (notice I’m not saying ‘if’) you put it on your own site, you can set your own conditions to manipulate your readers into doing what you want them to do.  

Go forth, my acolytes, and continue being brilliant.

 

Help! Why Has The Like Button Suddenly Appeared On My Pages?

 

I’ve never had a Like button on my pages and no one else has either and I probably wouldn’t have noticed WordPress have added one if I hadn’t seen in my notifications that someone pressed Like on my title page which is called

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A Like button on my pages is fine, it doesn’t bother me, EXCEPT on my title page – I disabled comments and shares on that page to keep it as a clean title page so does anyone know how to disable Likes on just the ONE page without disabling them altogether, please? I can’t find an option for it in the editing thingy.

 

Make Your Own Funny Award And I’ll Have It, I’m An Award Slut Now

 

I’ve made a new page for funny awards that people HAVE MADE BY THEMSELVES.

Why not have a go at making one? If I can do it, anyone can.

DOTTY AWARDS

 

A Dotty Picture Puzzle

 

What’s the answer to the picture puzzle?

Robert de Niro's waiting

It’s easy.

 

 

talking Italian...

 

 

 

First one to get it right can have the pictures if they want.

I’m only doing a picture puzzle to practice doing pictures and making them stick where I put them.

Fingers crossed!

 

Little Emily Has Almost Stopped Being A Morky Bitch!!

 

Branwell sorted it all out for me, he told her she’d better get down here to see me or he’ll use the pages of her novel to make his roll-ups with. He’s been trying to get her to come here for days, he said he’s sick of her slouching round the house spouting moody poems and shite, even Charlotte became fed up of her miserable face and that’s saying something because Charlotte’s face is EVEN MORE MISERABLE than little Emily’s so she’s got no room to talk.

So little Emily has been and gone this afternoon and she’s coming back again tomorrow. I told her about my migraine and how nice Branwell had been about giving me more laudanum to replace the extra I needed to take that day and all she said was she doesn’t like The Fucking Migraine Poem, it doesn’t scan properly, it has too many verses and I should be highly ashamed of it. Well, yes, I am now.

She wanted all the gossip. She asked if I’d had any comeback from dibble after I dosed Sergeant Sherlock’s Cumberland sausages with laudanum that day, but no I haven’t, I haven’t heard dicky-boo from them and that’s fine by me.

We’re not quite as easy with each other as we were but I suppose it’ll take time for her to come out of her strop completely, she doesn’t half know how to hold a grudge. As a gesture of friendship I said she can have a whole blog post of her own to do what she likes with – and she cheered up then, of course she did, she’s been dying to have a blog post – I asked why she doesn’t just do her own blog and she looked at me like I was stupid and asked ‘In which century was the internet invented, Dotty?’ Oh, yeah.

But don’t expect her blog post any time soon, she always makes a right meal of her writing – she has to have everything perfect and JUST SO, she’d edit edit edit until the cows came home if Charlotte let her. Write it straight into the blog post box thingy like I do, I said and she shuddered and called me a slap-dash heathen and I called her a fucking luddite and by the time she left we were almost back to normal. 

I’m off to make some more Cumberland sausages for tomorrow – she puts away a fair amount of scran for someone so little, I don’t know where it all goes.

 

I Made A New Page For You While I’m Waiting For The Boilerman

 

It’s for you all (y’all) to add your links to your blogs and so you can find other good blogs to read.

SPREAD THE LOVE, MY CHICKADEES, far across the wide, wide, WordPress.

Add your own blog to DOTTY’S PET BLOGS.

And go and visit each other.

But always come back to me.

Because I love you.

You are ALL beautiful.

And sparkly.

No exceptions.

Except one.

 

Dotty Has A Date With Her Pet Policeman

 

Eeeeeeeeekkkkk! Eeeeeeeeeeekkkk! Eeeeeeeeeekkkkk!

I have an OFFICIAL NEW BOYFRIEND who is an OFFICIAL OFFICER OF THE OFFICIAL POLICE WHO UPHOLD THE OFFICIAL BRITISH LAW.

It’s MY PET POLICEMAN, SERGEANT SHERLOCK.

He told me his real name again but it’s something boring so I don’t want to remember it, but he let me give him a sweetheart’s nickname because he’s a big softie. I call him PIGGY-WIG and he calls me MADAME HEADBANGER because I’m not some old slapper of a tart who lets men call her by her first name on THE FIRST DATE.

Yes, we had a DATE. A real one. This afternoon. He came round with PC Plod (his psychic police twin) and Sniffy, their little sniffy dog, on the pretext of giving me a Caution for wasting police time. He came in and pretended to give me the Caution, then he sent PC Plod and Sniffy off on a fake drug hunt round my house so he could get me alone.

‘I know you’ve manipulated the situation to get me alone to tell me nice things, but stand back or I’ll kick your bollocks up through your brain,’ I said. ‘Don’t you know I have Hermititis and People Phobia? That means I’m scared of PEOPLE which also means YOU. Nothing personal though, I still want to be your girlfriend. Piggy-Wig.’

‘Madame Headbanger, I assure you I have no intention of coming near you,’ he said.

I gave him a wink, then another few winks to make sure he noticed the winks because my eye’s still a bit swollen. I winked to let him know I was IN ON IT - our love had to be kept secret from PC Plod who wouldn’t think twice about grassing up Piggy-Wig to the Chief Inspector for romancing when he should have been at work.

‘Do you want a Cumberland sausage sandwich?’

‘I really shouldn’t … ah, go on then.’

I whipped the plate out of the keep-it-warm bit of the oven. ‘Here’s one I prepared earlier. Six I prepared earlier.’

He gobbled them down. And he had good eating manners – he kept his mouth closed and he didn’t make ANY disgusting noises. ‘Great sausages,’ he said when he’d finished. ‘Very nice. Thanks.’

“My dear friend Dotty makes wonderful Cumberland sausage sandwiches.” At the first syllable I turned round, whoosh, and there was little Emily smiling at me, holding out her arms for a big cuddle.

‘Little Emily!’ I ran over to her, and while we were having our big cuddle I heard Sergeant Sherlock’s chair move back from the table.

‘Madame Headbanger! Are you all right?’

‘Yes, yes. I am now. This is my best friend in the world, Miss Brontë. Emily, this is my new boyfriend, Sergeant Sherlock.’

Piggy-Wig looked at me, then at little Emily, then at me again. ‘Madame Headbanger, come and sit down.’

‘No. You’re not one of those controlling men who won’t let me have friends, are you? I won’t put up with that, my dead husband would tell you I won’t. If he wasn’t dead.’

Little Emily tugged my cardigan sleeve and whispered, “Beware! He has the look of a sly fox! He is plotting against you!”

I whispered back, ‘Don’t worry, little Emily, I can handle him.’

Piggy-Wig took his phone out of his pocket. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to make a quick phone call.’

‘Okay.’

He went towards the back door. Then he stopped. He stood still for 48 seconds (I counted), and then he started swaying. I went over and guided him back to the chair, singing a little song for him -

♬♪ When Marimba rhythms start to play, dance with me, make me sway.

Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore, hold me close, sway me more. ♬♪♬

Little Emily said, ‘Oh Dotty! Dean Martin! Do you own a recording?’

‘Yep. I’ll dig it out for you later.’

She clapped her hands. ‘Wonderful!’

‘Will you help me with Piggy-Wig, please? He’s slumping and he weighs a ton.’

‘Move to the side. I know just the way to manouevre a man in a fugue. I have plenty of experience.’

In two shakes she had him sitting up straight at the table, then she did something with his head to stop it lolling. His chin was on his chest and he had a stupid grin on his face.

We left him at the table and went into the living room so I could look for my Dean Martin cd. While I was looking we had a little discussion about which Dean Martin song was best, SWAY or MEMORIES ARE MADE OF THIS. We’d just decided that we couldn’t decide between them when we heard stomping across the ceiling.

‘Goodness, Dotty, why did you refrain from mentioning another policeman in the house?’

‘I forgot. There’s a sniffy dog as well. It’s called Sniffy.’

‘What shall we do?’

‘I don’t know. I thought it would just be Piggy-Wig who came to see me. I didn’t know he was going to bring his psychic police twin with him.’

Next minute there was a massive clatter of noise as Sniffy started barking and came galloping down the stairs dragging the shouting PC Plod behind him. They ran right past us and into the kitchen and by the time we got there Sniffy had started going mental, barking his head off at Piggy-Wig and pulling so hard on his lead in his attempts to get to him that PC Plod had to brace himself on the kitchen worktop to stay upright. He got his radio out and told the other end that he needed assistance. Within five minutes there were more policemen in my kitchen than EVER before (and a young policewoman who had her hair scraped back in an unflattering way – she would have looked nicer with a fringe), then two paramedics (I think they were both paramedics, but one might have been just a normal ambulanceman), then just me and little Emily again. We sat for hours listening to Dean Martin, then there was a knock at the door.

The Big Chief Inspector! I hadn’t seen him since the night I killed Simon.

Come to apologise to me for me having to witness ‘…the dastardly doings of a drug-addled police officer.’ – his words, not mine. And who says ‘dastardly’ these days anyway? Well, obviously he does. But who else?

So there it is. I always pick the bad ones. I don’t know why I even thought it would be different this time.

Never mind though, I made myself some Cumberland sausage while I was making Piggy-Wig’s (naturally), and me and little Emily are going to spend the evening with Dean Martin, who looks even better in real life than he does in those old films on the telly.

 

LOOK!! I’m A Cartoon!!!

 

Look what Alan made. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

I LOVE IT!

I’m A Cartoon!

 

 

 

 

 

 

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