Ah, Dorothy Parker, how right she was.

I'm not usually much of a one for poetry. I know it's supposed to speak to the muse within us from accross the ages, but random jumbles of lines (often not rhyming) really get up my nose.
And then I stumble upon an exception. Considering that Dorothy Parker wrote this almost a century ago, her feelings speak directly to me and might well be applied to the world we live in now.


"Slackers"
A Hate Song

I hate Slackers;
They get on my nerves.

There are the Conscientious Objectors.
They are the real atrocities.
They go around saying, "War is a terrible thing,"
As if it were an original line.
They take the war as a personal affront;
They didn't start it---and that lets them out.
They point out how much harder it is
To stay home and take care of their consciences
Than to go and have some good, clean fun in a nice, comfortable trench.
They explain that it isn't a matter of mere bravery;
They only wish they had the chance to suffer for their convictions---
I hope to God they get their wish!

Then there are the Socialists;
The Professional Bad Sports.
They don't want anybody to have any fun.
If anybody has more than two dollars,
They consider it a criminal offense.
They look as if the chambermaid forgot to dust them.
There is something about their political views
That makes them wear soiled décolleté shirts,
And they are too full of the spirit of brotherhood
To ask any fellow creature to cut their hair.
They are always telling their troubles to the New Republic;
And are forever blocking the traffic with parades.
If anyone disagrees with them
They immediately go on strike.
They will prove---with a street corner and a soap box---
That the whole darned war was Morgan's fault----
Boy, page an alienist.

There are the Pacifists;
They have chronic stiff necks
From turning the other cheek,
They say they don't believe in war---
As if it were Santa Clause or the Stork.
They will do anything on earth to have peace
Except go out and win it.
Of course they are the only people
Who disapprove of war;
Everybody else things it's perfectly great---
The Allies are only fighting
Because it keeps them out in the open air
They know that if we'd all go around wearing lilies,
And simply refusing to fight,
The Kaiser would take his army and go right back home.
It's all wrong, Pershing, it's all wrong.

A big day out.

I seem to have contracted a cold on my day out...I suppose, considering the company I keep, I should be glad it wasn't nits or the pox.

So on Saturday, barty, civi, cryx, zenmeisterin and I donned our respective pith helmets and crinolines and headed for the distant wilds of Brighton to examine the local fauna and flora, and to claim the benighted place for Empire.
Sadly, ukmonty was unable to join us as he’d been presented with the possibility of a girl talking to him, and jessworld didn’t join us because of…well, she just didn’t.*
We arrived in town where I adopted the role of native guide (none of the others having been to Brighton before) and led the crocodile through streets of brightly attired natives selling various gewgaws and knickknacks, whilst occasionally the more pierced members of our party would squeal like excited piglets and dash to the latest in a succession of emporia stocking oddly shaped bits of metal designed to be stuck through their living flesh.
Arriving at the beach and pier, we ate chips, drank liquidized Americans (well, that’s what it was being marketed as, and I’ll be very disappointed if it were not true. The shop had a Dalek in the window and everything), threw stones in the sea, waited for Isi and Civi to get served, played a succession of video games (Area 51, Daytona, Dance Dance Revolution, Vampire Night, Warzaid, and Fist of the North Star, for those of you interested in such things) watched the rubbish roller coasters and then Linette and Barty became the first people I have ever seen, in my entire life, to win a prize from one of those grabby claw seaside games.** Hippo!
The day pressing on and the sky darkening with rain the expedition followed the native guide to the pub for booze*** and then, well oiled, off to the Mongolian Barbeque for food. Most of us experimented with recipes and chatted about the complex piquancy of the sauces and spices, but from Linettes end of the table there was nothing more than an awful gobbling noise as she shovelled food down her throat like photons falling into a black hole****, leaving only a faint blue radiation.
And then it was time for home. Stomachs distended, trousers groaning we made our way back up the hill to the station, secure in the knowledge that Brighton had been secured for her Majesty.
I’m sure that other members of the party will give quite different views of the day, but I’d like to reassure you all that any stories about me lactating rohypnol, and my suggestions of an electric trombone digeridildo, are completely apocryphal.


<sup>*Q: What is the difference between ukmonty and the crumbliest, flakiest milk chocolate in the world? A: One is a flake, and the other is a piece of confectionary.

** And it cost them less than £15! Money well spent, in my opinion.

***Hey, Monty, I got my round in and you missed it.

****The girl can eat more food than me. I remain deeply impressed. She has a tummy like the Tardis in that not only is it larger inside than out, but also more of it appears with a loud groaning noise.</sup>