On Fisticuffs

Dear B---------------,

Having been a member of Her Majesty's service (as you well know), may it be known that during my travels to the ends of the Earth and back I have been a part of quite a few 'knuckle-a-does', or skiddlythrawlups as they have been called. Scuzzykunduits are quite the rush and do bring forth the adrenaline in a way that one may not know friend from foe. Due to this, you see, many allies are downed and sometimes killed during skirmyblankgoslits and I am writing to better help my fellow Englishman in his future dealings with such things.

As a man of pedigree and sophistication, of course with my high status and careful upbringing under a father who is currently seated in the House of Lords, I was taught by much trashing and horrible (but sound) beatings whenever I had erred. This, my friend, is the way of high society and quasi-royal blood. I was not to fight back until I had proved my worth by capturing, with my bare teeth mind you, one specimen of the most base, vile and feared wild predator in our fair land: the dreaded hamster.

I will not regale you with my most daring and unpusillanimous retrieval of the stark predator as I am certain it will bore you greatly.

The night I returned with the animal clenched between my teeth like a man, an English man, my father allow'd the most honourable of trashings to be had on his body. I beat him thoroughly, my friend. Yes I did. A colour his pasty white exterior had never to that day exuded.

But I feel I have, in my punch-drunk stupor (you see, I have just thoroughly endured a terrible and unforgettable beating myself. The other chap is clearly dead -he lies before me in my study; bloodied, red and smelling of death before me as I have just racked his body with so many flitterpomps and tern-o-blix in life that he keeled over, quite dead and seething of the very gin I had poured him only twenty-five minutes ago, before he called my last-century painting of the King a forgery) I have diverged from the point. And again.

The point, dear B--------------- is, don't take any guff from anyone, be they the Prince (as I have so thoroughly shattered (and presumably killed) or any Chinese dock-worker (as I have so thoroughly shattered and killed many).

Yours, as always,

Percival Chesterfield-Kensigton IV

[That is all]

ON THE SUMMER OF '83

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.

Despicable.

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]

AHEM~

GREETINGS.

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]™

ON THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF HOBOKEN, NEW JERSEY

HELLO.

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...

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ON THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF HOBOKEN, NEW JERSEY

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.]

A MYTERIOUS NOTE (PART II)

I apologise to you for my absence, Reader. I do, however, have for you the thrilling conclusion to the letter which I found in a nether-world.

"Nether-world?" you may ask.

Yes, nether-world.

While searching for the second half of the torn letter, I came upon the very same trinket our subject Lord Chesterfield-Kensington happened upon before writing said note. After reading his account, I will let his writing on the event explain what happened to me nearly two months ago as it seems he went through the very same ordeal.

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large leather-bound book with enormous hasps. It took me nearly three days to unlock only the first! I finally was able to open the book (which was hand-written in a strange dialect of Latin). At first I thought it to be an odd attempt at humour, yet it commanded that whoever read from the book first speak aloud three words printed on the first page. I did so and was transported to another world. The experience was quite interesting.

There I saw ghastly people about. Skeletal and dead, yet walking about as alive as you or I, were the inhabitants. They seemed hostile and I was thankful to be rescued by a large-chinned man whose name I seem to have forgotten. I couldn't have been there for more than an hour (as the maid said she had seen me not long before when I returned), yet that hour felt as though it were months.

I do not wish to bore you, my friend, and you'll most likely think me a drunkard after reading this. However heed me: Do not enter this house. If I invite you here, do not come. It is most likely Evil Percy, as he is called.

Your dearest friend,

Lord Percival Roderick Ignatius Chesterfield-Kensington IV

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Disturbing.

[That is all]

A MYSTERIOUS NOTE

As you may know, I, Jacob Karnas, have been cataloging stories and other bits of information originally penned by an Englishman which I am compiling into my Mediocre and Macabre section of this blog. I realise that I have given very little information as to who this man was while giving you a great deal of information as to what he had done during his long life.

The man was Percy Chesterfield-Kensington, born 1 June, 1860 in London to Lord and Mrs. Percival Chesterfield-Kensington III. At the moment, that is all that is necessary.

In the stacks of papers I have collected, I found a note written on a torn leaf of paper. It is only the first half, however, and after some thought I decided to include it, although it gives very little information about this great man's life. Here, below, is that note.

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FROM THE DESK of Percival Roderick Ignatius Chesterfield-Kensington IV, Esq.

My dear Mr. D------,

It is of greatest importance that I share this with you.

On my last holiday to the south of France, I was informed that a dear friend of mine, Charles B-----------, had passed on and his Summer home near Nice had been left to me. I journeyed there by cab and proceeded to excavate the items left on the premises as had also been requested in the will.

As I moved on through the rooms, I found the most incredible trinkets. One of which was a

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Unfortunately, that is where the page was torn. I assure you, Reader, when I find the second half it will surely be posted promptly, as I (and hopefully you, Reader) am very intrigued to find out what was found by our subject.

[That is all]

On France

Let me just say this: I despise France.

ALL of it.

Almost as much as I despise Ireland. I will detail that later. To great length.

As for France, the reasons for my hate are as follows:

1. The language is condescending. Not so much the people (cretins) who use it, but the entire tone in which it is spoken is of such that the listener feels stupider with every word. This is mainly due to the fact that each word is elongated and sounds much like a camel urinating. If you've never experienced a camel urinating, repeat this phrase: "Bonjour, comment alez-vous?" That is what a camel urinating sounds like. Dreadful.

2. The Notre Dame Cathedral. The fact that a Frenchman wrote a story about the plight of a deaf and dumb misshapen creature living in the bell tower of one of France's greatest landmark goes to show you what these people (cretins) think of religion. ALSO: The name was taken by an American college who dubbed themselves the "Fighting Irish". Did I mention that I hate Ireland?

3. They are undoubtedly fudge-packers. With their love of chocolate, was this any surprise? They love it almost as much as those horrible Germans, only French chocolate tastes like some type of rubber dropped into a pile of sewage. How do I know what that tastes like, you may ask? I've eaten Turkish food.

4. They are swarthy. With their black and white striped skin-tight shirts and beanie-caps, puffing on cigarettes and prancing around on docks, these people most definitely know every kind of sexual disease first-hand. And they take pride in this (note: the French disease).

5. Their Eiffel Tower is nothing more than a giant penis.

These are the reasons I despise France.

[That is all]

On Arthur Conan Doyle

I am not going to say that I was the extreme basis for the character Sherlock Holmes, but I will say this: I was the basis for Sherlock Holmes.

While in my final year at the University of Edinburgh in 1880, I met a man by the name of Arthur Conan Doyle. He was an interesting man, fascinated with writing short stories with dreams of sailing a flying ship lifted by balloons across the Atlantic. I was quick to ridicule him for his Verne-ian thoughts and brought his attention to crime stories, stating that "if man were meant to fly, he would have been born with twin Pratt & Whitney J58 engines complete with afterburner and wings". I do not regret this.

During my free time at the university, I enjoyed playing the violin. I also had an incredible knack for being able to tell you bits of obscure information about yourself merely by seeing your clothing. I left the university after graduating in 1881. I met Doyle again in 1886 while traveling through Southsea in Portsmouth. I was in dire need of morphine and stopped into a small physicians office only to find that the physician was none other than Doyle!

He had been writing a short story entitled "A Tangled Skein". It was then that I learned that I was the basis for his main character, Sherlock Holmes. He told me that he had read Poe's "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" and had become quite fond of crime stories. This may be true, however the bastard always credited that hack Dr. Joseph Bell as his inspiration for Holmes. What a prick.

A great friendship grew from that day on. I accompanied Doyle to Brattleboro, Vermont in the United States in 1893. He was visiting his acquaintance Rudyard Kipling and proceeded to instruct him in the game of golf. It was a jolly good time, all except for the time when Kipling called Doyle a "filthy tea cozy", resulting in Arthur knocking him unconcsious during a bout of fisticuffs.

Doyle and I kept in close contact over the years until his death in 1930. In his will, he left me a pipe and magnifying glass, which I took to mean his quiet apology for the Bell/Holmes connection. In return, I added the unbelievably un-Victorian deerstalker hat to the character's appearance. See you in hell, Doyle.

[That is all]

ON OCTAVE MIRBEAU

IN 1884, when Octave Mirbeau began writing Le Calvaire, I visited him in his cottage (for he had sent out for a typist as he was badly scarred from a gunpowder accident [prank] while he was in the army). Leo Tolstoy was there, too.

Now Mr. Mirbeau was an odd fellow. I recall hearing him sing to himself to the tune of Liszt's "Hungarian Rhapsody #2", mainly the finale that you hear in those Tom and Jerry cartoons. The lyrics were his own, of course. I do not wish to relate them now, as they were so grotesque and sexually explicit, they would give even the Marquis de Sade nightmares. The oddest thing, though, is the fact that he DID delight in chasing mice about with hammers and mallets. Odd fellow indeed.

Perhaps this was but a prelude to his "Torture Garden" and Diary of a Chambermaid".

Anyways, one Summer morning I awakened to find Mr. Mirbeau hovering above my bed holding a typewriter. Also, he was nude. This did not bother me so much as he was holding the machine so it covered his genitals. I did, unfortunately, have quite a difficult time typing on it and thus sent for a replacement. Tolstoy was not amused.

In time, a fond friendship grew between Mr. Mirbeau, Mr. Tolstoy and myself. On many occasions, I accidentally called Mr. Tolstoy "Mr. Dostoevsky". He would laugh and laugh and then hold me captive in the icebox. He said it was like Russia in Winter. I told him he had never been to Siberia. He said "Dostoevsky has!" then laughed heartily. We then joked about "Crime and Punishment", until I realised that I was really talking aboiut "War and Peace". He would then lock me in the icebox again.

After shadow-writing for Mirbeau, I left. I do not know what happened to them after that year and a half I spent in his cottage. Nor do I know who his typist was for his later works. I can only assume that a parcel I received three years later from an "Otto and Leo" was really from them. I could not tell. It was an envelope addressed to me: no letter, nothing inside.

Odd fellows indeed.

[That is all]

AN INQUEST (PART II)

AS A BONUS, dear Readers, here is the sequel to the previous poem. But first, here is the story of why I wrote them:

When I was a lieutenant in Her Majesty's Royal Army, I was stationed in India. This land promised an extension of our great Empire and brought many opportunities, especially to our more seasoned officers. All day, they would laze about in the shade of an umbrella, their wide, bushy white moustaches quivering from the humidity, eating their sweets and sipping West Bengalese Darjeeling. This was the rest they deserved after long, tedious careers of attending royal parties thrown by influential aristocrats and marching up and down the square.

Anyways, once, I had the honour of shaking hands and having a cup of tea with none other than royal adviser and former Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli. I have, alas, forgotten most of the details (for what we spoke of was droll and of little interest to me). I can tell you this, however: I was thinking of my wife back in England, and it was for her that these two poems were written. My pretty little Eleanor, with eyes like daffodills and hair like the Summer sun. Whose skin was soft and radiant like the sky above. Either her or the beautiful native courtesan girl I had buggered when we crossed through Badnur.

An Inquest (Part II)

Depression. Gloom. Dust. Blood.
Tears; Streaming from a picture,
Smeared. Ruined voices in a bowl

Devestation. Things aren't as they seem.
Words flowing through the air.
Restitution of oneself. Retribution in of oneself,
In fear

Revolt. The overthrow.
Wonderous battles in your mind,
For the greater good; to realise

Volume. Louder, by the second. A noise,
The sound of your voice, softly.
Utter what is, what is not. Somewhere.
Someday. Sometime

Venomous. Sharp and painless.
Elastic looks; craving. The expressions burn,
An unyielding desire

Carnal. Urge. Lust.
Senses lead to nervous actions,
For tonight. Why not always?
They are ours to share

Sickness. Love. Care.
Think. This may go on beyond.
What's next? Has the good come?
I've said it before, dear.
It has already come

[That is all]

THE RETURN OF THE MEDIOCRE AND THE MACABRE

PREPARE!

...for the return of the MEDIOCRE and the MACABRE!

You, Reader, will now find such interesting facts as:

1. The Polish were once a race of half-bird, half-human cave-dwellers who were forced from their homeland situated in what is now Australia by their demigod as punishment for creating common work tools.

2. Prince Charles wears a common toupee... made from the hide of the last sabretoothed tiger!

3. Most Tanzanians worship a three-legged stool they have cleverly named "Fido".

...and other amazing facts in time. They will be available to you at the Jacob Karnas BlogStation found at this very blog!

Read and be AMAZED.

But first: A poem I wrote.

Soulular Catechism

Happiness. Joy. Merriment. Rain.
Words; tumble out of your mouth,
Unrecognisable. They mean nothing

Beauty. Words cannot describe
Glowing radiantly through.
You try to hide. Hide away from the world,
To blend in

Verification. You understand.
You are who you are,
that will never change; you see

Compassion. Caressing skin. An angel,
Your skin is like velvet, soft.
Tenderness in your tone, your eyes. Dreaming.
Staring. Forcing.

Unconditional. Yet Loving and longing.
A wind blows; knowing. The air smooths,
Together for once

Wonder. Amazement. Testing.
Peering into my soul,
your eyes. What do they see?
A lonely boy

Touching. Leading. Following.
Saved. Sadness falls away.
Can I be? What will happen?
The future is fickle, love.
I do not know.

Is that not the BEST poem ever written? Do you not HUNGER for more just like it? Stay-tuned, Reader, for there will be.

[That is all]