Land of Diskgrinder

Now I do allow comments. That's my bipolar prerogative.

I know this makes no sense, but it's a nice juxtaposition of wordy-happenstance. biff |bif| informal verb [ trans. ] strike (someone) roughly or sharply, usually with the fist : he biffed me on the nose. Plantagenet |planˈtajənit| adjective of or relating to the English royal dynasty that held the throne from the accession of Henry II in 1154 until the death of Richard III in 1485.

... of opening the comment stream, if I don't get comments? Eh? answer me that then. Surely I have been controversial enough to elicit some kind of feedfront? No? Fuck off then. Instead, I will rely on my imaginary friend, who always (invisible and anonymous) pulls me up short, and makes me think in generous ways.

This is where, on occasion, I get to wax lyrical, and floors, where the pine scented, spine dented, back of my troubles are, Where, because I have an audience measured in inches and newtons, I can say the thing I like to say, where words tip up and trip up and make no sense, And I get to have that irritating poet cadence: the falling off of sentences, like Cantonese (listen to Jackie Chan with subtitles on), where the smelly curly haired twat invests his piss-poor scansion with import and meaning just by trailing off, Am I making any sense? (no, don't think so) Boo bollocks.

Eggcorns are mismatched wordy phrase bones that make a kind of warped sense. I have an acquaintance who is a a passed master at these, see: It's not rocket salad It's like treading on eggboxes It's like a ghost train in here He's like a bulldog in a Chinese shop Don't shoot the massager Rake hay while the sun shines Many a twix between cup and lip But his piece of resistance was a speech he gave at a friend's wedding. I can only remember bits (I was a nearly full glass of water at the time: slightly drunk), but it went something like this: Stood leavening, rabies and Bethlehem, Unaccustomed as my ham, it is with straight measure that I strand beer too gay. I have blown the pride and broom mince I was a tall coy, and I chav to pray I clever snort I stood me branding steer, sneeking to hutch a fig blathering of all their trends and camel pee... and so on until he rounded off with... So, trends, lotions and monkey men, I seive you a boast: to th...

Well, more spam goodness for you. This is a particularly poetic and resonant image - lucky pickled herrings setting a trap for unwary cod. See below for cod philosophy . or don't fish are not known (how can they be? They have nothing to say, that isn't bubble-wrapped and reliant on gills) to be philosophers. so where's this idea that cod have philosophy come from? What next: Bream Scientology ? Chubb Macrobiotics ? Tuna Musicologists ? (Arf!)

Got a comment from this Plasmo chap - looked at his profile and saw a load of dead links. Methinks this is some spamish fly- but I can't see the point. Here's the comment (which I rejected, because it is both pompous and embarassing): this is your first comment. positive feedback is approaching fast.