Mark A. Rayner's Blog: Mark A. Rayner's Goodreads Blog, page 151

Thag not want get tattoo!

Thag was the leader of the main hunting party, of that there was no doubt.

This wasn't entirely due to his acumen as a hunter. Part of it was because his predecessors had been idiots and extreme risk takers. Under Thag's leadership, the hunters of the Thunka Grunka clan would have continuing success, but there was a problem.

For once, it wasn't because of the f*&king shaman –Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother– and his continuing quest to bed Thag's mate, Onga. No, it was a more invidious problem, to w

Tragedy plus time equals comedy, or why you shouldn't trust Wikiquote

Warning: while this post may be about comedy, don't expect it to be comic.

I would consider the quote "comedy is tragedy plus time" an old saw, but it's still an interesting idea. Could every tragedy become funny, given enough time? The British comedian David Mitchell seems to think so. (I'll link to his video rant, which tries to explain why Vikings raping and pillaging in the Dark Ages is funny, but the Soviet takeover of Berlin in 1945 isn't yet, below.)

The quote should really be, tragedy

Thag not like cut his toenails!

Onga was always asking him to cut his toenails, and it made Thag crazy.

If he cut them too close, then he had nothing to protect the end of his toes. Good nails were especially important when you jumped on the back of an auroch during a hunt. If you didn't have long enough nails, you might not be able to hold on.

Then again, he had to admit it was not auroch hunting season.

She could get really insistent, making veiled references to how well-groomed Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother's toenails were. (

It was a dark and stormy blog…

There is a new Storyblogging Carnival available at Back of the Envelope, and one of the stories there is a real gem: The Terrible Day I Met Bruce Campbell (as told by the World's Strongest Librarian).

And it's a bit behind the times, but the Annual Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest recently announced the winners and dishonorable mentions here.

Some of the latter:

Detective Fiction:

The dame sauntered silently into Rocco's office, but she didn't need to speak; the blood-soaked gown hugging her ample cur

Thag want be millionaire!

It had been an unlucky hunting season.

First of all, their big man, Grunk, got himself gored by a woolly rhinoceros in the first week of the expedition.

Grunk — always the big swinging dick that Grunk — had tried to stab it in the eye instead of dodging to the side. Still, if he'd been successful, that would have been sweet. They could have ended the trip right there. The jackpot. Instead they had to chase the rhino until Grunk's massive bulk finally fell off the horn.

After Grunk's wipe out, m

A video tale that will inspire

This story is really quite uplifting in a way, to see someone overcome a serious neurological condition as motor-neural denylazation. You can find the video here if the embedded thingy doesn't work.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Alltop and humor-blogs.com are still trying to figure out Tetris.

Thag brain not hear, honey

"Thag, don't forget to bring home that chunk of mammoth meat you left to hang in the forest."

No response from Thag, who is knapping flint with his whacker. He is making more flint arrowheads to replace all of those he lost on the last hunt.

"Thag?"

Thag is absorbed by his work, and does not respond to his fetching mate, Onga, despite her proximity, and his deep love for her. He is not ignoring her, his brain is simply not hearing her.

"Thag!"

The whacker slips and several hours of work are wasted

Thag make sex toy!

Thag was preparing himself for a long hunting trip.

He'd already sharpened his fire-hardened spear, and collected fresh grasses for insulating his clothes and moccasins. The last thing he needed to do was cut himself a fresh set of knives for skinning the many mammoth that he would no doubt catch. (Well, him and the other guys.)

But he was worried. As he knapped a piece of shalli — the name they gave to their local flint — slowly breaking off flakes to create a sharp knife, he thought about the

Gut-busting complaint letter

I'm not sure how I found this complaint letter to Richard Branson, the owner of Virgin Airlines, but I'm sure glad I did. The food on the Mumbai to Heathrow run was not up to snuff, apparently, and judging by the pictorial evidence and narration, I'd have to agree. This reads like a combination of Don't Eat It Ross! and a Chesleyan Letter of Annoyance. Here's a quote to give you a taste of the note (sorry):

Look at this Richard. Just look at it: [see image 1, above:].

I imagine the same question

Pygmy

I'll state from the outset that I greatly admire Chuck Palahniuk for his inventive storytelling, muscular language, and his ability to talk about really nasty stuff in a funny way. So, my reading of his latest novel, PYGMY, is definitely colored by that bias.

I'd say this is a worthy addition to his canon. But like his other work, PYGMY isn't without its challenges. It's dark, visceral, and dripping with various bodily fluids.

PYGMY follows the misadventures of Agent Number 67, sent to the Amer