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Karnas TickroBlog

Thursday, 7 July 2011

Recovered Picasso A Fake, Leads To Forger's Capture

SCANDAL As Preschooler Proves To Be Pursued Art Forger

Art collectors and museum curators are baffled today as the recovered Picasso drawing Tete de Femme, stolen on Tuesday from its home in a San Francisco art gallery, has turned out to be a forgery.

What's more is the fact that the suspected forger is four-year-old Rohan Kerrigan, a local Napa, California preschooler.
The suspect, 30 year old Mark Lugo told police that he had already given the $275,000 drawing to his employer before swallowing a dose of cyanide. Detectives have concluded that Lugo planned to replace the artwork with a forgery for which he had commissioned Kerrigan.

A warrant was issued providing legal search of the Kerrigan household which proved to uncover many more apparent forgeries, all of them Picasso-esque. Art critic for the San Francisco Observer Jessyka Yancy stated, "[the] forgeries are not very good. I can't even tell what she's trying to copy."

"On second thought, the forgery could very well look completely different than the original," Yancy added. "It's a Picasso

- they ALL look like a little kid drew them!"

Kerrigan has been represented by her father, recently retired Air Force Col. Joseph Kerrigan, who states that the supposed 'forgeries' found within the home were merely the scribbles of a child and mostly schoolwork. FBI spokesman Phillip Gallagher countered this claim: "Similar thefts and uncovered forgeries have been reported within a 30 mile radius of each of Kerrigan's duty-stations over the last three years."

"We move to oust Rohan Kerrigan as the international art forger and thief," he added.

On further investigation, it appears that supervillain Allen Stanford is responsible for the art theft, having thanked the San Francisco FBI branch for the drawing via a huge two-way screen - it looks great above his toilet.

[That is all]


It was in the Summer of 1883 that I signed on to study with the American scientist Ignatius Donnelly. He had chartered a vessel out of Karachi, which I boarded after completing my work in establishing the University of the Punjab. We were to reach Cape Horn in Early October.

I began my studies with Mr. Donnelly, a stout man with the face of a fat woman. He was a learned man and a politician (for which I must make note that the two are not commonly associated - Ha!), though it was his work on the lost civilization Atlantis that had grasped my keen eye for adventure and led me to become his pupil.

I use that word 'pupil' very loosely, however, as Mr. Donnelly (an IRISH American, might I add) regularly took to the bottle in excess. This made it difficult -nay- IMPOSSIBLE to understand his lectures on the fabled continent. I failed to mention that he was coordinated enough (in the least) to hold regular lectures. Always sauced, sometimes even in the nude.

How I came to know so many naturists is beyond my knowledge*.

Not long after the voyage began, the ship journeyed in the Sundra Straits of the West Indies. One of the most harrowing experiences of my entire life.

It was the seventeenth day of August when we came near an island that had been experiencing an interesting volcanic pattern as of late. Donnelly supposed that he could perhaps learn more on the demise of Atlantis by observing these occurrences - or at least that's what I gather he was planning. As I've stated before, he was a slovenly drunk. When the captain refused to make port on the island (or so I believe - the captain, too, was an awful drunk), Donnelly stole a lifeboat and made for Krakatoa island.

Fearing that my tutelage had come to an abrupt end before even reaching the halfway point to our destination, I pleaded with the captain. But he did nothing but fall asleep next to a bulkhead and belch and flatulate a lot.


I retired to my cabin below deck to write mother that I would soon be returning home, noting the time (shortly after ten o'clock am) when the loudest sound I had ever heard forced me to jump across the room - the sound AND the fact that the ship had been lurched nearly a furlong in distance. The subsequent explosions were no less grand. Looking back, the entire island shuddered and looked as though it would crumble before my eyes. I ventured to top deck to find that the captain and half the crew had been killed instantly by the thunderous clap and for Donnelly I feared the worst.

I commandeered the vessel and made full steam for South America.

After finally returning to civilization after the Guerra del Pacífico, it was in the next year that I learned that Ignatius Donnelly was in fact STILL ALIVE. He had been blown into the future by the eruption and effectively lost his Congressional campaign when he landed on and subsequently killed his future candidate self.

What a strange man, indeed.

[That is all]



While it is true, Reader, that I have 'slacked off' in the department of updating this BEAUTIFULLY CRAFTED and WILDLY INFORMATIVE Blogstation, I will counter this claim by stating that you do not visit regularly. Why should I continue regaling you with the autobiographical tales of a man who rivals the Most Interesting Man In The World* in most respects if you simply DO NOT WANT THEM?

But then I remember that I do not care. The next entry will be up shortly whether you like it or not.

[That is all]

Monday, 4 July 2011


And what a truly excellent 4TH OF JULY it is.

235 years ago today, General George Washington and the Continental Army were steps away from the fleet of Admiral Lord Richard Howe and the King's Army controlled by his brother General William Howe during this extremely tricky bit of the New York Campaign:

Watch it - I'll wait.


Terrible. It just makes you sad. There's such a thick layer of grief and depression hanging over the entire video it almost feels as though Philip Seymour Hoffman is there.

Meanwhile the Continental Congress, led by John Hancock of Massachusetts, was in Philadelphia debating over Thomas Jefferson's draft of the Declaration of Independence - slavery being the particular topic. The signing didn't take place until August 2, some say.

The best representation is found on the back of the $2 banknote. Go ahead, check your wallet. If you DO NOT have a $2 bill, you can see it here, commemorated by this little gem:

I will again wait while you watch it.



And that is EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENED that day in Philadelphia, 1776.

You have a few questions, I gather. One such, being - "Is that Mr. Feeny from ABC's Boy Meets World/KITT from Knight Rider?"

I answer with Jefferson's (Ken Howard) impeccable timing: Yes. And the generic Ben Franklin is Howard Da Silva, but you probably don't even know what that means.

And I'm sure they sang at one another just like that.

THAT, however, is the history of why we celebrate TODAY, July 4, every year. It's nowhere near as awesome and glamourous as you may think all of that looked. But it does prove that, apparently, we gained independence with only a few thousand poorly-trained soldiers carrying muskets and a refined singing Congressman from Massachusetts.



Tuesday, 21 June 2011


Greetings, Reader.

You, as I am, are most likely currently residing on the spherical shit-storm known as EARTH. If you are not, please give me your galactic coordinates so I may review this claim because I do not believe you.

I have been a citizen of Earth for just over twenty-six Earth Years (EY). Overall, it's been pretty dismal. If, indeed, you ARE a citizen of Earth, you know exactly what I'm talking about and should need no further explanation. If you are not, I simply say: BULLSHIT.

[That is all.]

Saturday, 4 June 2011



Again, that is. Reader, I have not seen or heard from you in more than a year. Where have you been? What have you been doing while I toil away, day after day writing for YOUR AMUSEMENT?

"Where are the Posts?" you ask? I will tell you.

While you were away, I compiled all the stories, articles, papers and essays together in a compendium for YOU. Since you've decided to return (finally), I've decided to post a new one each week. So you don't miss anything.

HAPPY? I bet you are.

And now...



You're probably thinking (or screaming into your monitor), "MR.KARNAS, Hoboken, New Jersey is clearly labeled on all standard maps of the United States AND EVEN on many standard maps of New Jersey itself (or herself, as I am sure you are a chauvinist)."

I say to you, "That is true."

I also say to you, however, "Who gives a shit?"

Names are everywhere. Names for people, places and things. Some people even share a name with a place or a thing. Take for instance Dakota Fanning, Tennessee Williams, Dave England, Indiana Jones and even Hannah Montana. Not to mention celebrated Mexican squash player Juan Carlos Djibouti. Have you ever met a 'Hoboken Joe' or a 'Stephen P. McHoboken'?

Neither have I.

Now I'm not saying that just because there aren't any 'Yemen Waleds' out there Yemen doesn't really exist (it really doesn't, though), but WHAT I AM SAYING is that I have presented my first case.

Have you BEEN to Hoboken? If you answered yes or nodded your head, I really hate to disappoint you but that was the West Upper West Side of Manhattan, cut off from the rest of the city by Donald Trump in 1984 when he installed the 'Hudson River' so he could drive his yacht to his secret home in Albany. Sorry to burst your bubble.

The West Upper West Side was the cat's pajamas back in its day. The first baseball game took place at the WUWS Elysian Pavilion between the Knickerbocker Club and the New York Nine (the NY Yankees won that game). Frank Sinatra was born blocks away in a secret government laboratory sanctioned by Woodrow Wilson where the 'Entertainment and Variety Company' for the Department of Future War was being painstakingly manifested from scratch.

SUCH A RICH HISTORY. 'The history of Hobken, New Jersey', as it is known these days.

I must ask you, Reader. If it were some city in New Jersey, do you think ANY OF THAT would have been possible? I confirm your reasoning. You are correct: No. None of that would have happened if it were some awful little city in New Jersey. HOBOKEN, NEW JERSEY.

But I assure you: There is no such place as Hoboken, New Jersey.

[That is all.]