{WTF?

Some kinda error occurring ...

I'm tinkering. Sorry.

(If anyone's wondering why the Unread count feature has disappeared, the server couldn't handle regenrating the page for so many people, so it's been suspended until it's made more efficient. Apologies)

I might sing sea shanties in remembrance of the sacrfice of Derrida to the Gods of Apostacy or build a house of cards on the lines of St. Michael and St. Mary to the height of Mountbatten's lower lip and cultivate a sect of montanists under it's looming shadow, feeding them on thanatonic prophecies of the pontiff's demise in order that they might raise up the alter of the Dragon and in the hour of Arthur's greatest need return the land to the sword as one, as Lancelot rides into the last battle for the last time on the last Pegasus with the Grail under one arm and the Argus tucked under the other as I dance, dance, dance to the radio and get dragged from my pale steed by hundreds of tiny hands, all belonging to Earnie, you know old Earnie, the chap who eats pomegranates because he says they remind him of well, you can guess - actually, just the other day I sold him a rare Ibis that I had chanced upon in a chance game of chance - I rolled a six you see, and although my opponent, Lord Gorlois of Tintagel had rolled the requisite 1, I had slugged him with my tactical 12-gauge before he could yell "Guards!" I made good my escape, crawling through 5 miles of shit and filth I can't even begin to imagine, Andy DeFrain as I was called back then, in the days when I liked to quaff on tall drinks of water with a silver spoon stuck in them, sitting boltthrower-upright at the round table as my most glorific leige set us on our fateful quest, but those days are but dull memories to us all now; most of us were hung from Morgana's tree or lost like last Thursday's temporal flux, when time became a loop, when time became a loop, when time became a loop, when time became a loop, but don't cry for me Argentina, instead weep rather for thy overlord: Hic iacet sepultus inclytus rex arthurius in insula avallonia cum uxore sua secunda wenneveria, and find thy redemption at the bottom of the bottle, yet ask the Lake Lady, for I know not wither they went, like those few ancestors of the family of Shalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalamalan who are now all but perished; scattered in the mists of time, so it is with my brethren, what is that infernal tick, tick ticking by the way? Ah, 'tis the wristwatch of time - I need to get it replaced, the mist from Dozmary keeps getting in the workings and the bugger keeps stopping: the result? The dead somewhat inconveniently are repeatedly transmorphed to the Fields of the Grey instead of going straight to Heaven or Hades or even beloved and thrice blessed Avalon to receive warm welcome from the Once and Future King, and there they would go if it wasn't for you pesky Joseph of Arimethea and your bloody resurrectionists!