Sir Reginald Continues His Adventures into Realms Unknown

    Sir Reginald sipped a ripe old port and puffed at
his cigar. His belly was full of steak slathered in mushrooms and
onions, a large portion of mashed potatoes, and a slab of
coconut cream pie he’d had for dessert.

    One must never, he decided years ago, approach new
experiences without a stomach full of good food, lungs full of
delicious tobacco smoke, and a liver having the shit kicked out of it
by a good spirit.

    Speaking of good spirits, Sir Reginald swore he saw
the face of his mother in the bottom of his port glass before his hand
melted and dropped to the ground. He tried to pick it up, but
the floor was receding from his grasp with a not
insignificant amount of speed. He could no longer see his legs, instead
finding sycamore trunks where they had been. His posterior was
still in existence somewhere, he discovered, as a loud roar of
flatulence tore through it.

    The onions were kicking in, it seemed, in perfect time with the mushrooms…



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Current Music: "Polichinelle, Op.3, No.4" - Sergei Rachmaninoff

In Which Sir Reginald Escapes Both the Devil and the IRS

            Sir Reginald had endured an exhausting Friday. Indeed, the entirety of his week had been less than pleasant, spent mostly voyaging to—and then leaving just as quickly—the cold desert Plateau of Leng, on a steamship which had seen better days, which is saying rather a lot for a ship called the Please, God, Don’t Let Me Sink and Kill Everybody on Board…Oh, And Enough With the Giant Squid, Already.
            It appeared that it would be in his best interests to at least attempt to determine what the weekend would bring, so as to avoid any more unpleasant surprises. He went to his library and fetched a number of dusty tomes on Numerology, intending to crunch some numbers. Upon opening his desk, however, he found that where his personal charts and calculations were normally kept, there was only a stack of W-2’s and 1099 forms.</>
            In the morning he received a polite, if somewhat maddeningly scrawled, note from his accountant, Herschel Levi al-Hazred, informing him that the federal government was very severely in his karmic debt.           
           Sir Reginald intends to collect…with interest.

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With thanks to S.M.

(no subject)

I fear that I'm getting addicted to making userpics.
People are even stealing some of them now.

I really like Sir Reginald.
I will keep writing his occult tales.
But I need to work on something BIGGER.

Like AN ELEPHANT. A GIANT FUCKING ELEPHANT.

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