WHERE DO YOU SEE YOURSELF IN FIFTY MOONS TIME?

I knew life in those days was hard, but not that hard ...

THE BEATLES - A THOUSAND YEARS FROM NOW

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ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS ...

Christmas is closing in, and it is time for those familiar sounds that create that very special Christmassy feeling:

Bing Crosby singing White Christmas, Eartha Kitt moaning Santa Baby, a bunch of adorable little boys singing carols in some English church. And of course this tender classic from the Australian folkie Kevin “Bloody” Wilson:



For some reason The Dodologist seems to be the only one who finds this funny …
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BAD CHRISTMAS JOKES – THE RERUN

Last December, on a now extinct Norwegian blog, His Grumpiness ran a string of posts with Christmas jokes; all of them funny, though maybe not all of them in the best of taste.

To avoid the temptation to be too lazy and once again post them in bits and pieces, here are the ones worth repeating:


















If that did not make you laugh, you are on the wrong blog.
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IN MR. HILL'S GARDEN (OF LOVE)

Deep thoughts ought to be thought, but in the dodological corner no great thinking is being done at the moment.

As both love and horticulture are important to civilizations continued existence, The Dodologist instead presents the everfunny Benny Hill’s ode to both: My Garden of Love:



Great song, isn’t it? And in the tradition of the last days on this blog, there is of course a veryfunnuy fungus-joke.
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LOVECRAFTIAN JOKES

All this talk of Lovecraft and fungi, drove me to dig out some favourite lovecraftian jokes from my archives:


“You Goth?”

“No, I’m just a Fun Guy”


So Nyarlahotep pops across to the library where Cthulhu’s actually a bit more rugose and squamous then usual. And he says, what’s up?

And Cthulhu says “Rl’yeh fthagn, ahem! Blimey! Sorry, phlegm. Bit ill, actually.”

So Nyarlahotep rubs three of his pseudopods together and says, “I have just the thing!”

And he leads the mighty Elder One across the non-Euclidean town sqaure, down a dodgy back alley, where an eldritch couple of debt collectors are lurking.

And Nyarlahotep says:

“Here’s that sick squid I owe you.


“Waiter! Waiter! There’s a dead squid in my soup!”

“It’s not dead, Sir. It’s just dreaming.”


HP Lovecraft and August Derleth are sitting at an al fresco cafe on the abominable plateau of Leng. Sipping absinthe, as you do. It’d be a nice place if it wasn’t for the maddening cyclopean architecture with the obviously alien non-Euclidean geometry, but it’s the only spot for unthinkably vast distances and it’s got a lovely view, so you make do.

As they sit there, the ground before becomes disturbed by the passing of a great Dhole, burrowing beneath the earth, space rippling around it as it goes.

They sip their absinthe as the Dhole is followed by a Mi-Go, flapping and screeching – the noise driving several nearby patrons mad.

A shoggoth comes after, shambling along. It takes some time to pass, so they order another round of absinthe.

Then a long train of the spawn of Shub-Niggurath, the Black Goat of the Woods, ooze, crawl and tilt their way past – the locomotive systems reminiscent of slime running down a rock… but sideways… unthinkably sideways.

Then for a moment, there’s quiet and the plateau is empty… and Derleth turns to Lovecraft and says…

“Good Lord, Howard. Today it’s just one damned thing after another.”


Necrotelecomnicon: the book of dead phone numbers.
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ZE GERMAN PROFESSOR

Man, this is annoying. The Dodologist was writing this great post on one of his favourite recording artists, and then he figured out it was even better suited for this blog magazine of which he is the editor. It’s called Knokkelklang, which in English means something like Bone Song. Though, being a word play on the Norwegian title of a rather famous Christmas tune, it’s better translated as Jingle Bones.

As the post has been in progress for a few days, it has effectively eaten up all the time The Extinct One had for meaningful posting, leaving only time for YouTubeing and junk blogging. Something has to be done. It has to be done right now.

What is one to do?

Oh, bugger it, another Benny Hill video will carry us over to a new shiny day of blogish geniusness. Meet Ze German Professor:




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POETRY, HILL-STYLE

Due to popular demand, more Benny Hill. This time in a poetic mode ...


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THE HILLS ARE ALIVE WITH THE SOUND OF BENNY

As the news arrive that the Royal Mail have found Benny Hill unfit for a stamp, because "... concerns were raised by our public relations team as it was in direct opposition to company's policies on harassment in the workplace", it is as good a time as any to remind oneself of the greatness of one of the funniest men in television.

Here is the wonderful avant garde cinema sketch:



What is of course really funny about it, is that it is not making fun of French movies, but of the pretentious drivel fans of such movies come up with to "analyze" them. It is not the director, but the journalist that is the laughing-stock of the sketch.

And just notice, at 1 minute and 37 seconds, how he ...

True genius!
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THE BIRD SEX SONG

The Dodologist presents an old favourite, by the veryveryfunny Garfunkel & Oates.

It is hardly strange that it is a favourite: Beautiful women singing about sex with birds (even if they’re not dodos). What’s not to like?


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