Dr. Dume ~ The Doctor is In

The few who have commented here will notice it takes a while for them to come up. Appy-polly-logies, my droogies, for delaying your horrorshow comments (I believe that's how the young speak nowadays. I read it in a book. The village children still use 'gadzooks' and call each other 'poltroon'. We're a little behind the times here, and they have not the dook of an idea how to comport themselves in public, O my brothers. I, however, am more in tune with modern parlance, as you see).

For every real comment there are at least fifty nonsense ones. If you have commented and it never appeared, it might have gone into the 'junk' folder and been deleted. I can't read them all because whenever I go there I see a few hundred built up and delete them en masse.

So if you commented and it didn't appear, feel free to try again.

Except you spammers. For you, feel free to drive nails into your own heads and then heat the ends with a blowtorch.

If you're unsure quite how to do that, come and visit. I give lessons at reasonable rates. First session free.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 11:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

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Father's Day happened a few days ago. I forgot about it. Father will be furious. Just because he's dead is no reason to miss out, he says. 

I haven't seen him lately. He's probably sulking. He'll materialise next time I go to take a few pennies from the dungeon hoard. That always gets his attention. It is true that 'you can't take your money with you when you die', so Father has adopted the alternative approach. If he can't take it with him, he's staying here with it.

Senga claims I have no right to expect any kind of Father's Day treatment until the Dumelet emerges. This is unfair. I've done my part. What more can I do? On the other hand, considering that Father's Day presents include home-made explosives, poisons, deadly insects and swords on frayed threads hung delicately over sleeping heads, perhaps I shouldn't be in too much of a hurry. I can sleep easily at the moment. It won't last.

All this is severely curtailing my writing. What with Senga's constant requirements for attention, her unreasonable demands for money to buy food (we haven't had a visitor in ages), the agitation of the Ferals at the light nights, the Slimy Swamp Thing calling for a mate all night (it's Swamp Thing breeding season. No matter what's on the ground - diamonds, gold, anything - don't bend over), and the villagers having practise marches with pitchforks and torches, there's no time to think of anything to write about.

Ah well. Best go and apologise to Father again. He can't seem to grasp that the reason I've stopped trying to kill him for Father's Day is that he's already dead. It does seem futile to go to all the trouble for a present he already has. Perhaps I should just give him a card.

With a scorpion inside. That might cheer him up.

I wonder... would the ghost of a scorpion sting the ghost of a human? It has to be worth a try. He'd really love that.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 01:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

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Now that we're married, it seems rude to refer to Senga as Senga. Perhaps I should refer to her as 'Wife'. That seems much more polite.

It is difficult to come to terms with having a wife around the place. They are even more unpredictable than single wenches and much more likely to explode with no provocation at all. Wife said to me, when trying on one of those dresses she found in Mother's cabinet (the one with the bustle, a sort of backside enhancement device):

"Does my bum look big in this?"

I tried a conciliatory tone. "My dear, your bum looks big in everything, but it looks especially huge in that dress."

She became violent. I have no idea why. I thought I was being complimentary but women's ears are evidently tuned to other words than those that come out of men's mouths.

So I have a choice. Develop a translation device so that whatever I say, she hears what she wants to hear, or plug her ears with wax while she sleeps. Or I could take the really cheap option and just mumble incoherently. When she says "what did you say?" I can respond with "what should I have said?"

Nobody told me marriage was going to be so difficult. I should have just built an heir instead.

Ah well, I'll figure it out eventually.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 02:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

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The new Alienskin mag has been up for a while, and I have been remiss in not mentioning this before. I blame the weather. There really hasn't been much of it lately. At this time of year, the skies over Dume Swamp are light-grey all night, and the rain has been sparse, lightning nonexistent. It is a most mediocre time of year. It never gets properly dark and my eyes are starting to hurt from overuse.

I rubbed them with liniment so I could read the second part of Sergeant Shelsky's UFO article and... argh! There's a part three! Part two is complete in itself but I want it all in one piece. Part two is very interesting indeed though. Well worth a read.

Lady Blade has an article about fantasy women. If your wife asks what you're reading, never, ever say 'a website about fantasy women' unless you're the type who enjoys being pinned down, having a funnel stuck in your ear and your head filled with bleach. It smarts for hours. The mind bleach never works but it's best to pretend it does, or she might move on to the wire brush and power drill. Oh, and best not get caught looking at Lady Blade's picture either. That can be painful too.

My own efforts concern the zombies, a subject I return to once in a while because, well, I like zombies. They never speak and they never attempt to fill your head with anything. Quite the reverse, in fact.

Now, I intend to darken the room as best I can against the terrible glow of the night sky, and read some of the stories.

Perhaps I should wear dark glasses too, in case of accidental brightness.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 01:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

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I have promised Sergeant Shelsky a photograph of myself. He tried to take one when he visited but his camera melted. I have also broken several in the attempt but I will continue to try. Fortunately he doesn't want one of Senga. Last time anyone tried that, the orbit of Pluto was deflected and an entire entourage of photographers crashed into Jupiter. The whole Shoemaker-Levy Photographic Company was wiped out in that incident.

Photography is not made any easier by the removal of street lighting from the village. I knew it couldn't last. The giant swamp snails were everywhere and the lights attracted other things too. There was a plague of bagpipes for a few nights. Their noisy mating rituals and territorial calls kept everyone awake. It was good news for Hamish McSkirt and his kilt business because he soon built up a whole pile of bagpipe-skins in a range of tartans, but for everyone else it was terrible. I'm not bothered by bagpipes out at Dume Towers because the trapweed gets them. My problem, lately, has been a population explosion of giant carnivorous haggis. Very nasty things, but very tasty if you get them before they get you. They are currently inflating the bank account of Angus McFlatulent, the local haggis-trapper. Every cloud does indeed have a silver lining.

Except the ones over Dume Swamp. They have dark grey linings.

Nobody has yet found a way to profit from the giant swamp snails. I am in talks with some French restaurants so I may yet make something out of all this myself. Enough, perhaps, to buy a camera with a specially reinforced lens.

Or, as a cheaper option, a mask.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 12:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

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The article for AlienSkin is submitted by the skin of the teeth I still have, so I took Senga to the Throat and Razor for tonight's live music event. She enjoyed it but then she's easily pleased. For example, I bought her a new frying pan the other day and she expressed her delight by forming an impression of my face in the base of it. All the fried food now looks like me. What greater flattery can a husband ask? When the bruising subsides, I'll buy her a new iron.

I was less impressed with the Throat and Razor's entertainment. There was a mouth-organ player who sounded like someone on far too many cigarettes and one with a thing called an 'accordion' which looked like a bellows and sounded like a box of angry cats. The guitar player had more fingers than strings but that's not too unusual for twelve-string guitar players in these parts. In his case, I had the impression that his mind was thinking one song but his fingers were playing another.

When Hamish McSquall got up to sing, I hastened Senga to the door. The survival rate for Hamish's singing is not as good as that from Ebola. Those who do survive recount a continuous screech in their ears which never stops but changes tone in the opposite direction to any real music they might hear.

And so we have had a night out as a married couple. I can check that particular chore from my list.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 01:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

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