Archive for the Dr. Dippie Category

Trump is a modern Scrooge

Posted in Cartoon Comics, Short Faerie's Tails, Uncategorized on December 26, 2016 by Drogo

Trump is a modern Scrooge (from Dicken’s story ‘Christmas Carol’); however he seems not to have learned the lessons that Scrooge learned by the end of the story. Some people do not learn to be more generous and loving as they age, even when confronted by ‘spirits’. Pain and suffering are not only natural parts of life, but very mysterious the more we study them with science and psychology.

trump-carol

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Princess and Her Pets

Posted in Book Reports, Dr. Dippie, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on January 15, 2016 by Drogo

princess pets

Princess and Her Pets – a book for pet lovers

Princess loves her pets. They can do no wrong. Her pets only know peace, love, and fear; unlike bad people. Princess keeps her pets well groomed. She loves to pet them, comb them, and bathe them. She gives them treats when they are good, and they are always good. Her pets cause sneaky mischief, stinky stink-stink, and have a silly habit of killing people; but Princess loves them one and all!

Bat Country 6

Posted in Dr. Dippie with tags , , , , , , , , on October 8, 2011 by Drogo

After the red time-shift, I should have known the angel would show up. I was hearing glimmers of music and my pounding heart beats, the whole way across campus, but I was too preoccupied with feeding the hog and getting brewage. Pig-phouka Nosey hankers for B(-LT) sandwiches, and there ain’t no stoppin’ him. Nosey only has to point his nose or a trotter, and suddenly I feel like a side-kick to ‘pixie-kins’.

I still am not sure what happened before the last time I woke up, but then again that is the story of my life. Testy sport jocks should be added to the menu here. Fuckwits go tasty down the chowhole. I chose not to eat the yo boy white-caps because I’d be pissing pink pasties for days, and shitting stacks of Fakerrand bricks with bone shards.

As for the angel waitroid, whose sea-green soul wells brim over freckle-dusted cheekbones, and whose downy fresh hair rings with an ineffable glow; she will either get me my pitcher or start a kick-shitting hoe-down, glamour style. Again, I notice the burgundy stripe dyed into her bangs as an incandescent war-banner.

“Oh fucken muck-rucker,” I muttered trying to ignore the angel’s stare.

“Guano?” the angel asked. “Is that you?”

Bat Country 5

Posted in Dr. Dippie on July 20, 2011 by Gary M

Nosey and I wandered across campus, through the stink-cloud of an all-night laundromat, across a street humming with traffic to where the meat-markets were.  We made genial conversation on the way, pausing only to let me smash the windshield of an unattended BMW convertible that was parked rakishly in a handicapped space.  I felt pretty good about that, sort of Robbing-Hoodish, and pride surged in my breast as screams sounded from the enraged owner as we ambled off.  Two good deeds with one stone, so to speak.  The pride was competing with appetite, I don’t mind saying – though after talking to the demon the thought of elf-distilled liquors was not setting my belly to growling in the normal fashion.  “Let’s get some beers,” I suggested.  The redshift snapback had propelled us through the whole day at hyperspeed, and now that time was flowing properly again I was ready for a drink.  “And maybe some barbecue.”

You might think that as a pig-phouka Nosey would turn up his cavernous nostrils at the thought of hogflesh slathered in spice rub and slow-roasted, but in fact pigs are fucking cannibals.  My comrade and coconspirator was a devotee of the bacon-lettuce-and-tomato sandwich (hold the bread, lettuce, and tomato), the porkchop, the greasy rack of ribs.  And he was a horny bastard, let’s not deny it; so I’ll not even begin to relate his stories about tender loins or pulled pork.  He pointed a trotter at an overhanging shingle advising of nearby eats and drinks (“Hot & Wet,” and I looked twice in vain hope for stripper poles) and squealed.  “Here, here!”  He’d dried out, mostly, still a little fishy in the armpits but I didn’t think anyone would notice.

We rolled in, Nosey preceding, snout all a-wriggle at the delectable odors rising from a grimy steam-table at the back of the place.  It was dimly-lit, fairly full, bursting with jabbered conversation, braying laughter and the clink of bottles.  I ducked the lintel, and, seeing a table that interested me, pushed past the pigsy and made straight for it.  A couple of jocks were already seated there, satiny basketball shorts on their plump buttocks sliding on grimy vinyl while engaged in the opening maneuvers of date-rape with their respectively-cleavaged partners.  There was enough giggling and hurhur-ing and antics to satisfy a family of fucking baboons: all that remained was for the lads to start picking lice off one another’s nutsacks.  I leaned over, put my palms flat on the table and said “Fuck off, you.”  One frat rat opened his chowhole to protest, his soulpatch waggling in righteous outrage, and I let the fuckwits see, I mean really see the size of the cock they were about to engage in a pissing contest.  We ogres have been around for-fucking-ever, long enough to establish a solid terror of hulking things with metal teeth in the human racial memory.  The chaps skedaddled so fast that hat-sideways-boy climbed over his evening’s prospective cum recipient without even pausing to squeeze her cupcake-like tit.  All four vanished with an audible clatter to reappear at a table unfashionably close to the door, where they slouched in defeat, beaming scattery eye-lasers of rage in my direction.  No offense, Jake, but there’s only one of you pink-and-nipplies a generation that can drop an ogre and you ain’t him.

I threw myself down in the booth, still warm from collegiate ass, and Nosey scooted in across from me.  “Get anything you like, I’m a fucking millionaire tonight,” he grinned and dropped a handful of change on the table – penny-and-nickel stuff, plus a couple washers and a grey-painted knockout from an electrical box.  “Spit!” he commanded, so I spat – working up a real good snot-gob, rumbling and cruffing much to the consternation of our booth-neighbors – right in the center of the clinking coin-pile.  A wave of Nosey’s split hooves later and a jarl’s ransom of fool’s-gold gleamed in the stained light shed by the dust-furred lamp above.

My porcine companion plucked a laminated menu crusted with suspicious sauce from behind a greezy napkin-holder and buried his prodigious nose in it.  I followed his example, and was just beginning to feel annoyed that every fucking thing on it was cooked when I felt a presence, doubtless drawn by the slippery stack of Fakerrands spilling off the table.  “Gimme a pitcher,” I said, not looking up at the waitroid.

Someone’s mouth snapped a skeptical bubble of gum, and I rose up with intent to bring thunder – met eyes like sea-green wells over freckle-dusted cheekbones, each downy hair on her face ringing with an ineffable glow, the burgundy stripe dyed into her bangs as incandescent as a war-banner.

Oh fuck, I realized.  It’s the angel.

Bat Country 4

Posted in Dr. Dippie on July 2, 2011 by Drogo

And so we left. Demons have a way of pissing me off.

Part of me was still in the dormitory, my body seemed to float down the hall, past the foyer, and outside into the night. Later I recalled having done such things, but at the moment I was living life in reverse. It was like one big transcendental chess game, and I was playing it while red-shifting in reverse.

GROK-DAM!

Pieces of broken red glass seemed to pick themselves off the ground, and complete themselves into a window. Did I ever tell you ogres hate windows? I hate glass, because it is so breakable and pointless. Don’t get me wrong, I love breakable things, and pointless things, just not as weak and fragile as glass. It makes me want to break it.

FUCK-ZAM!

Time was really fucking with me. All movement was not only in reverse, but had trailers that would not stop. Space around me became filled with the ethereal after-mess of motion, and I’m not just talking vomit here. Fairy trails.

Suddenly I was transported for a few moments in time and place 5 years ago. That never happens to you? Well frack the frick-up, its my story. Anyway I began reliving the events after I had eaten my neighbors’ dog, Piss-bog. They were yelling at me, and I was yelling at them. They said “That was the nicest dog that ever lived!”

I said “Your dog tried to bite me, repeatedly acted like it was on rabies, and was about to jump on me. I tried to ignore it, but it would not stop being a little bitch. I thought it was going to fucking rip my throat out, the way it was barking. It seemed to me it was saying ‘I want to fucking kill you!’ over and over in dog bark.”

So the neighbors said “It didn’t even touch you! How dare you use bad words around my family?! You nasty Ogre, you have a negative aura and dogs can sense that sort of thing.” Now true dogs can sense auras, but so can I, and I swear to you that dog had a worse aura than I did, well before it antagonized me every day, every inch of my walk past that house. I could not believe that Mormons were able to be so un-sympathetic to me, a neighbor that had welcomed Mormons into my house time-after-time when they were strangers imposing their beliefs, and did not eat them.

I was going to get them a new dog, but after they acted like that to me, after I had been threatened by their dog, I just threw up on their lawn. There, you can have your dog back. True the dog could not have seriously wounded me, but it should not have acted like it could. In poker that is called a bluff, and in life that is called stupid, annoying, and worthy of violence.

SCHNAP-CRACK!!!

Then I was back in the present. Who was it that we had left in the dorm-room? Did I have some obligation to that girl, if it was a girl? Well my heart had not exploded yet, and I felt the freedom of the night.

Bat Country 3

Posted in Dr. Dippie on July 2, 2011 by Gary M

Nope, it wasn’t just me.  The pewter slipped through my fingers and fell, gonging off the floor and spraying the last of my Old Gil-galad Artisanal #7 across a pair of filthy bowling shoes.  The air thickened with screams and the scent of brimstone boiled up as the demon materialized before me, striking a theatrical pose in the reddish light.   “Nice place ya got here.”  The demon’s voice was smooth and smoky, like a long drag on a fine cigar with a chaser of Precambrian scotch.  “Can I have a minute of your time?”

That fucking elf rotgut sat in my belly like a seaslug, weeping neurotoxic slime.  “Uh, actually no.  Gotta split before noon– geas and all that.  You know how it is.”  Which was the wrong thing to say to a demon, of course.  They rebelled and got consigned to Hell, while the fair folk – well, they didn’t drink the Lucifer kool-aid but you didn’t hear ‘em singing hosannas, if you know what I mean.  So they fell too, just not as far.

The demon’s eyes, already livid yellow and more helter-skelter than a bucket of Charlie Manson’s brains spiked with sweet chili sauce, writhed with rebel-angel wrath for a split second but its ruddy face remained smooth.  “Actually, I’ve slowed down time for you and I – the red light, you understand.  Redshifting and that.”  The hell-dweller waved it all off, like changing universal constants was something it learned to do about the time it learned to stop shitting in its pants, didn’t everyone?  “So at this rate we can talk for an hour before pushing the limits on your little oath-problem.”

I looked around and it was true, Enemy Mine was pushing his face into the fishbowl, bobbing for guppies or some shit, a furious bubble-cascade frozen in place, shooting up from his glorious nostrils.  Man, that nose of his.  I returned my attention to the demon, who covered up a mock-yawn with a taloned simulacrum of a gentleman’s hand.  “Okay, so.  Whaddaya want?”

The demon smiled, exposing a triple-row of gleaming enamel shark-teeth.  An indivdual of lesser fortitude might have quailed at the sight of all that serrated, meat-slashing dentition.  Not I.  Because I am a fucking ogre, and I’m not scared of anything except having my heart explode.  And I have a pretty respectable set of chompers myself, each bronze tooth cast an aeon and a day ago by Nin-Agal in Sippar-Amnanum to microcubit specifications.  How I came to inherit them is another story entirely.  “Just to talk for a bit, my not-so-fallen friend.  Can’t we brother bastard-children of God exchange civilites once in a while?”

“Sure.  ‘Hi.’  Now get to the fucking point.”  A new bubble was inching its way out of Enemy Mine’s cavernous nose, and this timeshifting shit was playing merry hell with my perceptions: all around I was witnessing things that happen too quickly for normal people to notice.  Flashes in the upper atmosphere, sudden detonations of cosmic rays smacking into rogue atoms, quanta of insanity whirling in lazy outbound spirals before the mean-ass bitch of a teacher at the front of the room notices and WHACK down comes the ruler on those naughty knuckles.  Either that, or the blotter that Nose-Boy put in the juice was still fucking with me.

“Right,” the demon sneered and straightened its tie.  “I’m looking for a contract killer – id est, an ogre – to take out one of the opposition.  All I need you to—“

“Fuck no,” I interjected, the nectar of the Tuatha de Damn’d making me ballsy.  “I don’t sign contracts with demons.  What do you think I am, a fucking moron?”

The demon forebore to answer directly, merely venting a small quantity of exasperated hellfire from its nostrils.  “Kill the angel, and I’ll break your geas.  I’ll be in touch.”  And with that, it disappeared in a puff of Drakkar Noir and dead hopes.  The timesponge, having soaked up all it could of my attention, shot back to full-speed-ahead; Nosey making burbling noises in the depths of his fishbowl, something small and scaly flailing at the water in a mad, doomed effort to escape.

“Nosey!  You fucking freak, leave off tormenting that finny bastard and let’s get out of here, there’s a demon lurking in our spacetime.”

“Lemme grab a shower first,” replied my comrade, and inverted the fishbowl over his pink triangular ears.  Fishwater cascaded over his pork-pie hat, soaked the zooty shoulders of his cheap gangrenous-green polyester suit.  A piece of fake algae caught in his lank hair.  “Ahhh, refreshing.  Ready when you are!”

Bat Country 2

Posted in Dr. Dippie on July 1, 2011 by Drogo

I didn’t know it at the time, but it was me pounding on the door.

Enemy Mine had begun doing pounder-flasks and was meat-fisting in a fish bowl. At least I think it was a fish bowl. It could have been a spider tank, because Spider Cramps was doing a mean tango in my walla-walla.

I answered the door and looked down the hall. There was no one there, except me. I went back inside and closed the door. Safe, for now, but not safe because of my Geas. Shit. Fuck shit piss god-damn muther-frucker son-of-a-bitch pisser. Blotter.

If I spend a full day with a girl my fucking heart will explode! Is that a curse or what? Damn, I think I did something wrong, somewhere in time, back there. I think. I am with my ex-girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend and on some kind of bender I may not come back from, if I ever started. Fuck there is puke everywhere!

Elvish booze.

More Elvish booze down the gullet. Ah. Now I am waking up, although my gut is not. This may be a case where my whole insides ache all day, and feel like they are never going to be better. Again. I am proud of my big lug-soled vibram-cleated shitkicking motorcycle boots, so I wipe the puke off of the toes.

Dana-knows-what ‘shabby dorm’ I am in. Kappa-cappa-cum-latte?! Shit, I am not sure. I don’t remember coming here. I know I wanted to spend time with Enemy Mine, in theory, because we are comrades. No not in theory, for realz. We are comrades for reals and no hoe gets in the way of bros. In theory, in living theory.

Bronze teeth, are really feeling it today. Damn. People ask me why I am so angry all the time. It’s days like this that I just want to fucking kill them. Unless they have some better idea, then I’m willing to negotiate. I am not always merciless, it’s the do unto others thing inside me.

I was half way through a glass of Elvish booze on the rocks (literally on rocks) in a pewter tankard, when I realized the lights were different. Or was it me? Not that it mattered much, but seriously I wanted to know. Who the fuck put that there and why was I not able to come back the … ok I can’t think straight. I know there is a demon in here, and it could just be me.

So as I was saying, before the lights turned red, I was half way through a glass of Elvish booze…