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And Then Things Got Weird….

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The Origins of the Sawney Beane Clan: The Family that Preys Together

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The Family that preys together

(The Sawney Beane family lived on the Scottish coast of Galloway in the fourteenth century. For over twenty-five years the fiendish clan robbed and ate wayward visitors while living in a coastal cave hidden by the rough surf of the untamed northern Atlantic.)

In the jolly bonnie merry auld 17th century, where the jolly green hills of bonny auld Scotland meet the Jolly auld *Southern Sea, there once lived a very large, jolly, close — very close — family called the Beanes. They lived together at the furthest edge of the southern coast of bonnie Galloway. It was here, beneath the craggy cliffs, beside that cold, gray dreary windswept sea, that the happy Beane clan snuggled every night deep within their warm and fuzzy cave.

And it was in the close proximity of that same warm, fuzzy, snuggly, cuddly, boodgey-woodgey cave, that the Beanes kidnapped, robbed and ate perhaps thousands of “wayfaring human meals on the hoof” for over twenty-five years.

The father and leader of the clan was a big, brawny, toothy, red bearded charmer of Viking descent. His “loving” parents had named him Sawney Eric Beane. The soon-to-be-dreaded Sawney was born within a few miles of Edinburgh during reign of King James the 6th.

Sawney’s own father, Haas, who had married a winsome lass named Naier, was a poor, broken vegetable farmer with a terrible scarred face. Haas, who had raised potatoes on his farm by the “doon” near the “burn” near the meadow’s of heather had become literally afraid of all meat.

Legend says, that Ol…I mean … Auld Haas had been kicked in the head by a bull that he had been cooking, alive, in an open pit barbecue. Sawney and his dear old mum witnessed the incident when Haas, who “just couldn’t wait for the animal to die before he stuck his big stupid head into the pit for a bite,” thus setting his tar-coated beard aflame. Even the lice, living in the tangled coarse mat were smart enough to get away from the heat and bailed. Other assorted and providential vermin were sent sailing from Haas’s beard and into the air when the slightly peeved bovine kicked Haas” literally across his nearly vacant bean.

Haas and Naier Beane became strict vegetarians for the rest of their lives.

At a very early age, Haas’ only son, Sawney, quickly began to tire of his family’s vegetable fare of fungi and potatoes, potatoes and weeds, bark and potatoes and pebbles, bark, roots and potato with fried twigs, sand and mold. When all of the other families were dreaming of sugar plums all snug in their beds, the wee lad would sneak out of his bedroom, clutching his favorite stuffed potato, to hungrily search for rats within the families modest home. During the day, Sawney would hunt bunnies from Updock Bog, insects, and any other available protein.

The young boy began to show subtle traits of viciousness and cunning while still a shiny faced lad. Once, while in a mischievous mood, he ate the neighbors daughter,, and then when asked by local magistrates about her sudden disappearance, “blamed the savage attack on his pet dog Feedo, the pooch already famous for eating Sawney’s tedious homework. Since the excuse seemed plausible enough, the ten pound Scotch terrier puppy, was humanely put to sleep, by Sawney’s uncle Howya Beane, with 150 decibel bagpipe blasts in both of it’s ultra-sensitive fwoppy wittew doggy ears.

* The Southern Sea is historically the same sea that untrustworthy Bonnie lied over. Could never trust her.

The Further Adventures of the Cannibalistic Sawney Beane Clan.

its-whats-for-ikhojy

(An excerpt from Shark Fin Soup — A tale of sharks, cannibals, gods and true love.) 

The Beane Stalkers

Once Magistrate Wallass had been given the description of the two trampled Beane children with their unicorn pony, everything suddenly came together in his mind…. Missing people, pickled parts near the beaches where the mysterious Beanes were sometimes spotted. Wallass quickly dispatched a Guaranteed-Over-Month-Delivery message to King James to request reinforcements. 

Wallass needed at least a hundred men to deal with the large Beane family. The outraged King himself joined his best officers plus 400 of his personal guard to deal with this threat to decency and local tourism.

Two months later, The King’s men “immediately” began to sweep the Galloway area.  While patrolling the rocky shore near the cave, search dogs began to howl. The scent of death hovered in the approaching thick fog. Some of the hounds began to dig through the wet sand near the water covered entrance of the cave. As the soldiers rode along the shoreline the tide started to recede. Within an hour the saturated blood-soaked sandstone arch of the cave entrance, and a terrible stench was revealed (Would you like flies with that?).

With flaming torches and swords drawn, the Kings men began to experience the living quarters of “a really unique group of individuals.”

Within the glimmering light of their torches, the damp walls of the cave revealed human body parts-not hung like the spoiled sides of beef on rusty old hooks as in Connor’s Meat Shop-but tastefully displayed, in glorious tableaus, much like one would find painted on the side of an ancient erotic Greek vase. The ghostly glow of the soldier’s torches, divulged bundles of fine clothes and piles of jewelry in many side rooms.

Then little Sprout’s own treasure room was discovered. “Sprout’s Mountain of Bones” the crude sign on the draped door proudly announced (Sprout had learned to read while wandering through victim’s belongings). Inside the cavernous room an amazing sculpture, resembling “a terrible fearsome fish” was displayed as if in a modern natural history museum. It was a grotesque 90 foot monstrosity that had been growing and growing, bone by human bone, for over 8 years.

The terrible Fish Goddess Urtha, also known as Egad.

Count your Beanes

Since they were a very “close” family, the authorities found all 48 Beanes (Yes, there were many new Beaney babies), together in the Great Dining Hall. They had prepared themselves a great “Stew”-Lord Stewart of Gahoolie, and were busy eating him at the Great Round Dinner Table. They did not notice the intrusion of the 400 party crashers.

The quiet family dinner suddenly erupted into chaos when one of the hidden King’s men accidentally passed gas and other soldiers started to groan and chuckle within the shadows.

The Thriller Driller

ManSurfing

Sylvia Benedict was discovered crying inside of the Sea Lion Beach Geezer World Van by local lifeguard, Brad Stokely, as he was headed home. “I found the woman sitting inside the van, crying over Mr. Noway Sr. The motor was still running. The van’s motor, not the old fart’s. Noway had suffered a heart attack.”

Way.

Sylvia , the spouse of beloved Bolsa Chico Surf Patrol Chief, Bernie Benedict, confessed to the ambulance staff concerning the death of her eighty-eight-year-old lover:

“We’d just had a friendly dinner, celebrating Wayne’s new Thriller Driller Penile Implant. He suggested that we to go out and replace all of the steel fasteners on the Long Beach bridge with his new… Oh, poopsieeeeeeeee!” (Crying.) “Wayne seemed fine! He really did. Then, after his little nap time, he wouldn’t respond.”

“That’s quite enough, Mrs. Benedict,” said the nauseous  ambulance driver.

The truth was el vomitosio. Somehow, the video of her story ended up on the local news.

Wayne Noway III’s (the grandkid) surfer buddies said that the sixteen-year-old surfer had been “blowing major chunkage,” “praying to the porcelain” and “hurling with a mighty chunder” after reading about what his grandpa and his ex-teacher had been doing. Los barfos, mesdames e messieurs.

#

My Sylvia! Bernie thought. And…and Wayne’s grandpa?! Noooooooooo!

He had to get out and get some fresh air, now.

#

After the broadcast, it seemed that the entire town of Bolsa Chico wanted to line the pier and join local hero  Bernie, in his major heave fest. It was if they’d all been hit with the dreaded Nosoi flu.

For days afterward, Bernie felt as though he were wearing a big red ‘D’—for Dumbass — on his forehead. Time had come for him to leave his longtime friends, his beloved job and his hometown of Balsa Chico.

####

Donette’s

Donette’s Cafe, formerly Rosie’s, was built upon the end of the Bolsa Chico Pier, in Orange County, California, in 1956. Recently, it had been purchased by a dark, sultry, dirty-talking  shark goddess, Dauna Robinson, who bought the cafe to promote her native Fijian coffee products: the high-octane Getthefuckouttamyway and Outtamywayasshole coffees, grown on her private  island of Kupaio. Dauna was the one and only waitress at Donette’s.

Bernie rarely drank the coffee, but loved the food. It was the following Sunday, Bernie’s birthday, when he ordered his final breakfast at Donette’s.

The TV was on and…

“Oh, Fuck! No! Not……. on…….. my………goddamned birthday!” Bernie said. The other customers were wondering if the patrolman had caught Tourette’s from Dauna.

Nope. The news was on CNN — and Bernie was pissed. His tragic ‘train wreck’ had gone both bacterial and viral. Millions, perhaps gazillions, were following Bernie’s sad story.

“THE MAN WITH ONE DEAD SHOE”

New Shark Fin Titled

“THE MAN WITH ONE DEAD SHOE”

Thursday 13 November, 2003, 04:34 GMT, The Lunch Times of Fiji posted this headline:

“A 136 year apology becomes just another ‘roast’ for the descendants of Thomas Baker”

The local inhabitant’s of Nabutautau have been suffering more than indigestion after eating Thomas —the English muffin — Baker over 136 years ago. So a tribal ceremony included a Baker’s Dozen — I meant to say — a dozen of the reverend Baker’s descendants.

Prime Minister Laisenia Qarase and 600 people, attended the tribal ceremony.

The Prime-cut minister said: “The Reverend was good and good for you and we’re honored that his great-great-grandson Geoffrey could attend. And though Geoffrey’s a Baker by name, he appears to be a roaster.” (He paused for laughs.) None came. The audience was getting restless. Bibs were being tied.

The local inhabitants believe their village has been suffering bad luck ever since the cannibalism incident in 1867, and hope that saying sorry will help their fortunes.“We believe we must have been cursed. When we have made the apology we will be clean again.”

Back In 1867, The Dinner Times Published this article: July 21, Nabutautau, Fiji

The Reverend Thomas Baker, from Playden in East Sussex has passed away. Baker was killed on Monday, in Nabutautau.

The Reverend spent many years in the interior highlands of Viti Levu trying to convert the Natives who were reluctant to give up their God, Bau, who is said to be ‘really cool.’ It is possible that the Reverend Baker may have offended some villagers with his holier than Swiss cheese attitude.

Only Reverend Baker’s right shoe remains today. The Hotat tribe ate the rest, including his hat, the left shoe and his spectacles.

The reverend’s cause of death is unknown, though it may have had something to with him getting his brains bashed out by chief Mbunji’s men.
One report says that the revered and untouchable chief, Mbunji, ‘borrowed’ the reverend’s comb while the missionary was out savoring…er, uh, saving the nearby Huk Huks.

When Baker returned that evening to his adopted village during that evening, he recognized his beloved comb still stuck in Chief Mbunji’s fancy hairdo. The reverends last words were, ”I hope that you don’t have cooties, “ when he pulled the comb from Chief’s sacred  ‘do. ‘

The villagers, enjoying their Bloody Mary and Venous Victor cocktails were astounded when they saw the Reverend touching Chief Mbunji. The chief’s should never be touched by a commoner. When a Fijian chief uses a cannibal fork, he will not let the ‘meat’ of his lowly prey touch his esteemed lips.

Then one of the local’s lowered his cup of Kava and  spoke to Reverend Baker: “O.K. Baker, pick your favorite sauce.”

“We ate everything,” one environmentally conscious 10 year old boy said. “If it weren’t for his horrible   stink foot we would have eaten both shoes!“

Services will be held at 5 p.m. on July 29, at the Jesus Shall Tender-Rise Chapel. In honor of the Reverend, guests are requested to wear only one shoe. The celebratory dance afterward will be a hopping good time.

There will be an open casket, a size-10 tissue lined box.

#

It was a ‘repentant consumer’ that lead a mission teacher to the tree limb where Baker’s shoe was perched.

The Reverend’s one leftover shoe is now on exhibit in Fiji’s Culinary Arts Exhibition through January.

A final ‘Foot’ note:

In 1926, Andrew Merrit, a young Mormon from Utah became the last known ‘missionary’ victim of Fijian cannibals. Only his Sunday-go-to-meetin’ suit remained after the attack.

The wealthy Merrit family tried to sue the British Government who controlled Fiji during the 1920s.  A justice of the Supreme Court spurned the litigation by proclaiming:

“This suit holds no Merrit.”

Note:

The Reverend’s humerus bone, attached to his leftover shodden foot was recovered twenty years later from fork of large shaddock tree.

No. The humerus bone is NOT the funny bone. Nor is it even attached to the foot. The humerus is connected to the shoulder bones on top. The lower humerus is connected to the wrist bones. The wrist bones are connected to the hand bones, which in modern man is connected to the iPhone.

They were given the traditional drink of kava, and attended ceremonies on Thursday, at which they were to take part in a “symbolic cutting of the chain of curse and bondage over the village.” The chain happened to be adorning the neck of a church elder.

A Methodist pastor, Iumeleki Susu, a descendant of the only surviving member of Thomas Baker’s doomed group, was also present.

 

Bats ^^Ö^^ The Dinner Hall Scene

“No one tells my Gibor children what to do, Gretel Van Helsing!”roared the twenty-foot tall Saturn who had burst through the door and took a place in front of Vlad’s crew. He squatted and opened his arms to the stupid trusting Gibors. “Come to Daddy, kids!”

“This doesn’t look good, brother!”said Gretel. “We should make like lightning, and bolt!”

Always obedient, the repulsive Gibors ran into the arms of their daddy, who had created their miserable but delectable race long ago in ancient Mesopotamia. Daddy Saturn began to bite their heads off in quick succession. The entire room, already sick to their stomachs, was startled to see a continuous splattering loop of Francisco Goya’s Saturn Eating His Son. Drooling, the giant smiled with his mouth full, burped and asked, “Who’s got the Sriracha?”― from “Bats”

^^Ö^^

https://read.amazon.com/kp/kshare?asin=B00T2XBVYU&id=Uu0mDM37T0ytYenmK4-pdg&reshareId=1V1PQ9PGQSKVH69GKF7J&reshareChannel=system

By the Sea (from Shark Fin Soup)

 

The warm morning sun shimmered upon the rippling sea. A nice sized coconut bobbed up and down just past the surging shoreline and a few yards past the black skinned, golden haired, fifteen-year-old Mmbop Handsun, the prince of his own itsy-bitsy teenie-weenie Micronesian kingdom.

It was going to be another hot one, and Mmbop had forgotten his newest pair of certified-previously-owned Ray-Ban sun glasses given to him, in trade, by a rich tourist woman for one of his prized wood carvings — carvings that he ordered, weekly, from what he thought were poor dumb hard-working saps over in Malaysia. He did not realize that the Malaysians had been outsourcing the genuine Fijian carvings to a sweaty warehouse in Alabama, USA, that employed the children of ex auto workers. Mmbop only paid twenty-five cents apiece for the crude art. Yesterday he’d sold ten oversized one-hundred dollar wooden cannibal forks that his father, the Chief, Papaumaumau, had ordered from Taiwan at 50 cents apiece. It had been a good week, now that he’d also helped his parents decimate and sell off most of the island’s remaining palm trees to the Chinese.

As if any drunken tourist would even notice, there was hardly a substantial palm tree left on any of the High Society Islands within three hundred miles. Coconuts were scarce on both Little Hubba, and Big Hubba-Hubba, the two islands comprising the kingdom of Hubba Hubba Hubba.

“Shouldn’t waste perfectly good food!” Mmbop said, as he pushed his thick blonde dreadlocks back. The golden hair and clear blue eyes were a throwback to his Scandinavian sailor ancestors who’d visited, mated and had been munched on, in Micronesia over seven hundred years ago.

Mmbop lifted himself up, stretching his long thin shadow across the beach.

After eating the sweet coconut meat he would clean off the husk and carve a bearded monkey head for the dwindling tourists that have been disappearing along with the trees. Maybe he’d add a human finger bone through the nose.

Tourists always assumed that the “nose-bone” came from a chicken. Chickens were revered as Gods in Hubba-Hubba. They were only used for their eggs, by order of Queen Erica, after the island’s omelet loving priests had convinced her that the chicken fruit were a gift from Lomalagi (Heaven) and that ‘the sacred chickens, DID, in fact, come before the eggs.’

He watched the coconut bobbing in the water. After the carving was finished, he would add some shell teeth and toy glasses.

Tourists love that stuff, Mmbop thought as he bent forward, and tried to grab onto the bobbing nut that persisted on floating away in the slow current and morning glare. He hit at the coconut with a stick and it turned over. It appeared to have already been carved with a funny beard and a big schnozolla with a human bone through it!

It, of course, was a real human head.

Mmbop scooped it out of the surf and carried it to shore.

Granola grinding, hemp wearing, coral hugging tourists don’t want a real human head, he thought. Not even a fresh one like this. Maybe I should toss it back? He shook his head ‘no.’ I shouldn’t waste a perfectly good head. He decided to ‘fix it up’ with a few artful cuts. He reached into the pocket of his Izod swimsuit, which yet another rich tourist had traded him for a necklace of genuine plastic whale teeth, and grabbed his Swiss Army Cannibal Fork, that came complete with a saw blade, a grater, a marital aid, assorted knives, an Egyptian nose hook (for removing brains), a Phillips screwdriver, and a waterproof universal remote.

At home, waiting for him, was his main squeeze, Mmbopalula.

“Maybe I’ll take it to her as a gift.…Besides, nothing turns a woman on like a full head of hair.”

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