"C.B.A."

"C.B.A." is not a reference to the "Criminal Bar Association", the "Council for British Archaeology", the "Center for Backyard Astrophysics", nope, none of those. "C.B.A." stands for, "Can't Be Arsed."

I'd tell you why I didn't participate in the "A to Z", but I can't be arsed.  However, perhaps ironically, I've done my best to support those involved.  So I guess I was slightly arsed.

"C" is for "Cheese."  I love cheese.  The stronger, the stinkier, the better.  Cheese so smelly, so ripe, that just the aroma wafting up, heading directly for your nose, is enough to singe your nostril hairs.    

Dogs love cheese.  Well, every dog I've offered cheese to has gone into a frenetic fun-filled frenzy.  Note Penny the Jack Russell dog and modest internet superstar's enthusiasm over the pack of cheese.

I love cottage cheese.  I have noted that folks here in England are not that keen on cottage cheese.  That's very good.  This means, at the "reduced price" section in the supermarket, the army of 'old rage pensioners', who clear out everything else, by the trolley load, leave me the tubs of cottage cheese. 

At this point, I would probably attempt a few predictable cheese puns.  I know, you Gouda be kidding.  Instead, I offer you a series of films, and no, not the film on really stinky cheese, but movie type films that were dedicated to cheese.  'The Big Cheesy', 'Cheesy Rider', 'Five Cheesy Pieces', 'Cheesy Come, Cheesy Go' and of course, who could forget this classic British cheesy movie,  'Cheese Sir!'.

Now, I have no idea what kind of cheese you like.  Maybe you hate cheese.  Perhaps the idea of being overwhelmed by the fumes of really strong cheese, makes you think of these lyrics, 'cheese release me, let me go...'    Then again, to kinda', sorta' quote John Lennon, '..all we are saying is give cheese a chance...'

"B" is for "Blog Air."  Oh yes, the blogger's favourite airline. Wonder where I'd sit on Blog Air?  Would I be sitting with the self-obsessed bloggers?  Nope.  Will I be amongst the self-promoting bloggers?  Definitely not.  Will I be in the section of the plane where the 'hey let's have yet another competition on my site, because I love y'all and it has nothing whatsoever to do with me trying to get more bloggers to follow my blog, bloggers'?  Of course not.  Will I be sitting beside a blogger who links into every blogging site they see and has like a thousand 'followers' after a week, because other bloggers notice their icon and thus link into their blog?  Umm, no way.  Will I be sitting amongst the blogger 'sheep' or as I call them 'Bleeps', who go to sites and heap praise and worship the self-obsessed blogger?  No chance. 

I suppose, based on the above paragraph, you might assume that I would be sitting in the cynical bloggers section of Blog Air.  Me cynical?  Never!  Me sarcastic?  Never been sarcastic in my life, ever! 

No, this shy and humble blogger on this unassuming site, will be down in the cargo hold.  Down there with the exotic animals, an iguana named Fred, a kiwi named Marvin and a couple of bloggers who do nothing but blog about cats.  Help me!   

"A" is for "Anarchic Alphabet Alternative."  So to you, my friend, at the "A to Z", thank you for visiting the "Z to A."

Doughnuts, Donuts, Doh Nuts!

Okay, the posting below is a posting I've done before.  So, if by chance, you've read it before, perhaps doughnut or donut bother reading it again.

I remember my first year of high school.  I got to meet new students and become familiar with their special talents. Do I mean the guy in P.E. who won the one mile race, with the exception of that one time I, your typical geeky dude, decided to win the one mile race and really piss him off?  Ummm..no.   Do I mean the star of the grade eight basketball team?  No, again.  Maybe the guy who never lost a game in the after school chess club?  Wrong.  Or, perhaps the special talents of Nancy?  Well perhaps, "ah Nancy..'"  but nope, wrong again.

No, we're talking real talent.  Like those kids who could place their hand under their armpit and proceed to make this super exciting "farting" sound.  Or the guy who could pick his nose and flick the snot onto the blackboard, with amazing accuracy.  Did I have a special talent?  Glad you asked.  Well some might have thought that I was a very good class president and public speaker.  Yet my obvious gift was the fact I could place my index finger and middle finger together, blow through the crack and make a noise that sounded very much like a really juicy fart.  That's real talent and I know my English teacher was most impressed.

All these special talents, pale by comparison, to the fantastic gift this one guy had.  Ken had natural abilities that left me in awe and admiration.  Oh yeah, Ken could do the lesser accomplishments such as tooting a mean tune and leaving a vaporous, stench-filled cloud, wafting down the aisles.  However, his greatest and most cherished gift was his skill of "puking on demand."

Now a lot of us didn't like French class.  French class occurred right after lunch.  So during lunch we would collect enough money to purchase a dozen chocolate doughnuts for Ken.  Ken would gulp them down in rapid succession.  At the start of French class, a ghastly, curdling, vomiting noise, emanated from Ken's mouth.  Then it happened.  From the mouth of Ken spewed forth a great brown cascade of slimy, chocolatey goo, slithering and flowing down the aisle towards the front of the classroom and the shoes of the teacher.  "Je me sans malade!",  screamed the French teacher.  What she said, translated into English, is apparently, 'I feel sick!' 

Some screamed and some laughed.  Yes me, and those in the know, laughed with hysterics.  The janitor was summoned and he proceeded to throw great lumps of sand on the offending heaving mass of puked-out chocolate doughnuts.  Due to the overwhelming, nostril hair burning stench, the classroom was evacuated.   Ooh la la! and magnifique!  We all headed back to the cafeteria and celebrated with some chocolate doughnuts.

One time in French class, I was given the great privilege of being "designated puker." I stuffed myself with chocolate doughnuts, willingly donated by my fellow, well-meaning classmates.  Sadly, although I gave a noble effort, my end result in chucking up, was nowhere near as profound and inspirational as Ken's mighty effort.  Ken is one of my true heroes.  I believe the guy should have received an award for actions, above and beyond the call of duty.   

Egged On.

Have you ever watched an "egg and spoon", race?  Well, I've observed a few egg and spoon races and the outcome has always been the same.  Agonisingly close, the egg ends up winning, because the, "dish ran away with the spoon."

Do you think that spoons like "spoonerisms"?  If a spoon could talk, would it get its 'metters lixed'?  Well, frankly, I don't 'shive a git'.  'Swoving miftly on....'

"Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle."  So what's that all about?  "The cow jumped over the moon. The little dog laughed to see such fun and the dish ran away with the spoon."  So, just what is it all about?  It's about illuminating the minds of children of all ages.  Creativity and wonderment knows no boundaries.

Our friend, the spoon, despite losing the race, never gives up.  For, our friend, the spoon, knows that one day soon, it will win the race.  Does this happy spoon stir your imagination?

In the face of adversity, do you find that inner resolve and determination to never give up, very much like the spoon?  

You are egged on with encouragement.

What The "F"?

I could think of a lot of words starting with "F".  And some of them are in no way connected to Anglo Saxon expletives!

I observed that somebody residing in France made note that they'd finished their postings for the duration of the challenge that I would never participate in.  You might of heard of the alternative to my anarchic alphabet challenge. They are going from A to Z.  Fancy that.

Anyway, after noting their profile update on a certain social network site, I thought perfect, "F" is for "France!"  So thank you for the inspiration, Elise Fallson   And yes, France is awesome!

So, "F" is for "France."  Or should I say the bizarre conversations I've had with a few English people about France. Conversations such as, "Those bloody French!  How ignorant are they?  I went to France and they didn't even have the decency to speak in English!  And don't get me started on the public toilets I noted in Carcassonne!"  At which point the same person asks me, "Would you like a baguette?  Perhaps some gateau?"  What the "F"?

Speaking of social networks, or is that social 'notworks', "F" is for 'Farcebook', everyone's favourite social 'notworking' site.  Yes, a site where you can read my vitally important to your life, profile updates.  Updates such as, "Hi there, I was contemplating doing a blog about apathy but couldn't be bothered.  Somebody asked me if I was always indecisive.  Well yes and no."  Yep, "F" is for 'Farcebook.'

"F" is for "Fidelina", the beautiful fairy princess.  Here she is heavily pregnant with a child that would be symbolic of her love for her husband, Geoffrey the garden gnome.

Here is Fidelina posing proudly with her husband, Geoffrey and their boy child, Einahalk.

"F" is for "Fellatio."  Which is an obscure Italian opera from the eighteenth century.  Unfortunately, the name of the composer of "Fellatio", is a mystery, subject to oral conjecture.  Now that really sucks.

I Haven't Gone.

Yes, you can breathe a sigh of relief. I know how much you eagerly anticipate my um .must-read postings.  In other words, I haven't gone.  Nope, still being a rebel, an anarchist of the alphabet!  So much so, not only doing the Z to A, but have even been known to type some words, ǝpısdn uʍop.

I!... I!...I!  Why is "Eye" spelt with an "E"?  Perhaps a 'pupil' named 'Iris' might let me know.

And without batting an 'Ilid', I continue one.  

"I" is for "Inner Space."  You may have read the following before.  If so, I hope you don't mind reading it again.  

And man reached out to the heavens.  Outer space, a wondrous place of countless stars, countless galaxies and countless questions.

And man, gazed deeply into outer space and forgot about his inner space.  For man's heart beat with a brutal savagery.   He shed the blood of his brother's and sister's in the name of greed, of hatred, of betrayal, of deception. He invaded the space, the personal space of the scared, the innocent, the vulnerable.  Yes, in his pursuit to progress, to advance, mankind lost touch with that precious gift.  The gift of the inner child.

And man's lust to conquer, to destroy, to steal from his fellow man, lived on.   Then one day, one momentous day, it happened.  One man looked around, saw the rivers of blood and heard a gentle whisper.  The whisper was the voice of his inner child and it said, "This has to stop.  I want to play, to sing, to dance, to smile, to laugh and love.  Please, we must make this stop."  The man looked over at his blood-soaked enemy and asked, "Can you hear it?  Listen carefully, for your inner child has a message for you, for all of us.'" And his blood-soaked enemy listened and he smiled.  The word spread.  The voice of the inner child, the inner space, spread far and wide.  The bells rang out with the chimes of peace.  Enemies embraced and enemies became friends.

That was a long, long time ago, on that blue and fragile planet.  Mankind reached out and explored the beauty of outer space.  And the message he brought was of acceptance, understanding, hope and peace.  And it all began that day when that one man realised that inner space was the final frontier.

"H" is for "Hope."  The above photo is Mount Hope, near Hope, British Columbia, Canada.  

"G" is for "Garbage Gobbler."  The one with the bigger mouth is the Garbage Gobbler.  Garbage Gobbler meet Gary the "Garbage Bloggler."