The Verbal Fist of Herbert

Hello, dear reader. I must apologize. It has been a long hard road to get to the crossroads for which I now stand. But here I stand again - at the end of a long and heated legal battle that would rival the witch burnings led by the profanest of all theologian/dictators, John Calvin. (Good Lord, just seeing the name chills me to my stupendous bones.)



Alas, I am bound by the chains of modern law to disclose anymore of my accounts, due to the handsome settlement that was... ahem... deposited into an account of a patrician Clydesdale stud-of-a-man with the initials, H.S.C. (Wink, wink) Let's just say... "Good days are ahead for that handsome aristocrat with the initials, H.C.S.

So, instead of leaving this blog, heretofore "high and dry," as, I believe, the common folk of Oklahoma say, I have decided to partake in a bitterly wonderful commentary upon society as we know it.

Warning: I will be telling things like they are, or "like they is" as the jive-talking comedians say. In other words, I will be speaking things the way "normal" people want to hear them spoken. People need to stop telling lies. Everyone knows that fat and ugly people populate the isles of Wal-mart, but why does no one say so?

Everyone knows that caucasian voters are scared to death that something will happen to Obama whether or not he is elected. God lord, am I the only one who saw that white woman get her head bashed in with a brick over the Rodney King incident?

Everyone knows that most freshly immigrated Chinese people are horrible drivers. Everyone knows that white men are all insecure about the size of their "manliness." Everyone knows that most white protestants in America act like faux-oppressed baffoons! Everyone knows that most Athiests are a bunch of crybabies who, in their adolescence, got their feelings hurt by some backwoods church-youth-pastor, because of their interest in chemistry or biology or butterflies and how they got so pretty.

Everyone knows that we (the tried-and-true Star Wars fans) all wanted Jar Jar Binks to roast under the fire of a Sith Light-saber, and that George Lucas only grows a beard to cover the absence of a chin, and that Hayden pretty-boy was as fit to be Darth Vader as George W. Bush is to play Hamlet.

See, see! You have already be roused! It is your conscience speaking through your layers of denial and your denial is fighting back, viscously! Not to fear, O hidden conscience of my gentle reader, over time, I shall liberate you.

From henceforth, I will wail the Anthem of the poor, oppressed, the marvelous and mighty. It won't be pretty at times, but it will be the truth. Oh truth, oh neglected muse, oh desperately needed medicine our our age... I, Herbert, do serve thee faithfully.

Yes, YES! I will become your commentator on life, film, politics, the church (little "c," meaning protestant) and whatever else makes my raucous buttocks pucker.

So, hear ye, hear ye, this blog shall not be genteel to those who live in doubt, for those who live in fear, for those who live in denial. This blog shall be a flaming finger of truth, carving out what others won't say, upon the immeasurable wall of the cyber expanse.

Maybe someday, if things change legally, (and I am working towards that) I will tell the tale of the brave Sherpa who risk his brown little life to ratify me down the dangerous mountain from where I had been worshiped as a trapped deity. I'll tell of my thunderous return, of Loki and his lawyer-friend-cronies and how they tried to lure me with prostitutes-posing-as-Wagnerian-opera-Valkyries, (my one true sexual weakness, besides my beloved Esmarelda, and, dare I say it, my Elizabeth.) Someday I'll tell you of how I crushed the opposition with my iron, noble and kingly paw... but for now, the law is, as they say, "the law."

Stay tuned. The social lashing shall commence shortly...

I Have Returned... Barely

My word, where to begin?

I feel war-weary. I feel as though someone has brandished a particularly rabid plague in a syringe, and injected it into the artery left of my handsome and manly Adam's apple. But I will try to convey the treachery that has come via excreta incarnate, Loki...

First, I must know that you are still there my beloved Anthemites. I shant cast my woes into the blogging void and weep bitter tears of loneliness over my dilapidated keyboard. I shant. I mustn’t.

Urgent Telegram from Her Herbert

The following telegram was sent to blogger and we have posted it at the Bloggers request.
Sincerely,
Blogspot tech support.

"Dear Bloggers. Stop. I am in exile somewhere in Tibet. Stop. Will relay adventure as soon as I can coerce a group of Sherpa to bear me down mountain. Stop. Cannot risk a mob from village at foot of mountain. Stop. It seems my fame has grown too much for their feeble souls. Stop. I may be torn from limb to limb in the fury. Stop. The monks have been kind. Stop. Minister's ploy thwarted. Stop. Vengeance will be swift. Stop. Have become a bit of a deity to monks as well. Stop. Temptations have been horrendous. Stop. Must stay pure. Stop. Very hard when being bathed thrice daily by local maidens. Stop. I am not dead. Stop. Hope your are the same. Stop."

From Heaven's Heart I Stab at Thee;

Call me Herbert. Weeks ago I harpooned and usurped the wild and terrifying beast “The Music Minister Who Succumbs To the Worldly Pleasures of Praise and Worship Music” (It is a long name, so I gave him that nickname “Loki.”)

With a few intercepted emails I have flung my faithful spear into the heart of the wild and fiery beastly Loki Dick. He now flounders in the waves of incompetence and Herbert servitude. From the bloody waves a gurgly cry emerged from his lips: “Nay valiant Herbert, you shant take my trip for two to Jamaica! Unsheathe thy piercing dagger and let me bask on the beaches of the Dark Men with my Mims.”

“Avast” said I. “I will not. Besides Loki Dick, though you may be a lower life form, you are supposed to mate for life, and your wife, though a strange oversized fishly beast herself, should be the only one worthy of your wandering eye!”

Part II

Loki entered the stage where Blonde Bimbo was limping. “What the hell is going on in here Herbert? What did you do?”

I remained silent.

“He’s blackmailing me with some email he stole.” Blurted Bimbo.

“What do you mean by, emails he stole.”

“I mean he’s got a copy covered in plastic or something of one of my private email!”

Loki looked pale. The fear was sitting in nicely.

“Herbert… do you mean you got into our email accounts?”

“I did no such thing. As I was telling Blondie here, these emails simply turned up on the floor one day and I saved them from further viewing. Not to worry though, they are safe and sound, copied and in three locations, Mims… I mean, Maestro.”

When I said the name “Mims,” Loki looked as though he would faint. He was speechless with fear and rage.

The whale had reared his blubbery smooth scalp and I had thrust my weapon, striking true and clean.

The Lord of The Emails

The story of my Jamaican vacation must be told in three parts, for it is a fun tale, and fun tales are simply meant to be in a trilogy.

It all started when the young baboon pianist decided to accuse your H. C. of being the previous Sunday’s saboteur...

As I strode to my place of high honor, the wooden throne of Elizabeth, I heard these words come from the shadows:

“Hey, Herb, I know that was you who tore out that page. I just know it. And let me tell you, if you screw this gig up for me, I am gonna take your fat butt down in a big way.”

It was Loki's Blonde Bimbo Pianist. I replied swiftly, being well prepared for such an occasion, “Dearest imbecile. I don’t know what hair supply has polluted your reasoning capacity, but any attempt at physical or vocational harm on your part will be met with swift and terrible retribution. In fact, I have a copy of something that you might be interested in reading. I sort of floated out of the sky into my lap today and I decided to keep it handy for such a time as this. I can read it for you if you are not do intoxicated by the smell of your styling products to discern a preposition.” At this comment I swiftly pulled out a few laminated pages that just happened to be in the format of his email. He silently read his document, sealing the fate of his future in Herbert servitude.

“Dudes! I have a sweeeeet gig. I get a whopping 400 bucks a week to show up and dazzle the ladies and soccer moms with my piano stylings. This job will totally due until I get my big CCM break. The music minister thinks I am going to move into something more permanent but I got news. Nah uh. I’m out and on the road as soon as I get picked up, which should be any day. My new album “Get Spirit Baby” is gonna be HUGE.

The organist is a total goober. He has been calling me names lately and it is really starting to piss me off. He reminds me of the kind of kid that everyone crapped on in the locker room, except fatter.

I feel a throw-down coming soon. Plus I got this feeling that he did something to screw the service up last week on my first day. I’m gonna start keeping an eye on him. He is NOT going to ruin this SWEET gig.”

I am afraid that my possession of this email was too much for the young mongoloid to handle. He then made the made the fateful mistake those others before have made making a mad dash for the stage and then for my groin with his foot.

“OOOOOOOWWWWWE. Are you wearing a cup???!!! He said, the little vulgar puke.

“Either that or you are like a big Fat Jumbo Ken doll.” He said now limping. I then took a leather-driving glove out of my pocket that I keep for such occasions and I smacked him right across his rosy cheek. “Take that vermin!”

He cried out again.

He then said other curse words and tried to stumble pathetically towards me. I prepared for another strike. Loki, hearing the racket, came rushing into the sanctuary. I concealed my intercepted email and my glove of self defense to listen to the Blonde bimbo describe what had just happened...

(To be continued...)

I Live! JA MAN!

Greetings dear Anthemites from the great World Capital of "the art of rolling doobies and being unemployed yet deliciously happy." A.K.A. Jamaica. I finally made it to a computer located under the shade of a certain "laid-back" Native in this beach resort who happens to own a computer that is as old and large as my mother who has accompanied me here. Each typed letter takes a grand total of 4 seconds to appear after typed. I've seen gas pumps process more expeditiously. Torture! But any trial is worth it for my dear readers. (Especially when the torture is accompanied by the sound of gentle waves and the savage tinklings of faint steel drums.)

We move to our second resort location shortly and I am sure there will be a computer there that isn't overloaded with obscene pictures of native women and lewd videos taxing the already fatigued peewee hard drive. No pun intended. HA! Oh dear me the delight of these dark and exotic natives has gone and made Herbert quite jovial. HA! Wonderful! I do believe in another life I would be a missionary here in this sunny land of delightful unemployment. I can only imagine what it must have been like to live in the medieval era here. Superstition must have been as rampant and wild as a Voodoo orgy under a blazing comet.

I fear my greed would have got the best of me and I might have made a killing on selling trinkets and relics. My riches would then set me up as a local monarch, feared as a god. The history books would have then been filled with stories of the powerful ruler of the province of "Jamacbert,” the great conqueror of the new world! Down lustful pride! Down I say! Whatever is wrong with me?

Oh dear me, it looks like I've been down wind of the bartender here who has been smoking something NOT of the tobacco family. I do believe everything looks a little more interesting. Look there! A crab! What a delightful creature! It is casting a small crab shadow on the sand! The shadow faintly resembles my dear old mother... I must investigate closer.

In a few days, you will here the story of how I managed to get a free vacation for my mother and I via the generosity of Loki, but until then, sit tight dear Anthemites and know that your dear Herbert is in good hands! ""JA WHOL MAN!"

Operation: Enigma Intercept

Dear Anthemites,

I have ascertained an email. I cannot disclose how or who privies me this valuable information and I will not kick a gift horse in the mouth. Here is the email that was sent by Loki to a certain Married woman "Mims" who used to sing in the Choir.

Minister Loki: "The service was a disaster today Mims. I don’t know what happened in “Trading My Sorrows” but one of the pages was totally missing. Dammit! I looked like a complete fool. And that Herbert… that filthy, fat, bloated, self-absorbed, CROTCH. To make matters worse he pulled out all the stops on that stupid organ and drowned-out the entire band. I have no clue what in the HELL he was playing but it wasn’t the Praise song. He then totally ignored my cut off attempts, which made me look even more stupid. I could have kicked his fat ass right then and there. If it weren’t for his mother’s LARGE gifts to the music program in the past 20 years, he’d bee a gonner already. I knew when I accepted those recent gifts I might has well have tattooed she and Herbert's name on my chest with a header that read "Property of: Herbert and Momma Crotch"

"After the set, the pastor came to the podium and gave me a very dirty look. Well, he can go ta’ Hell! I am tired of tiptoeing around him. It was an honest mistake. Although my secretary is totally convinced she put every page in its place. Austin seems to think Herbert did it. I wouldn't doubt it one bit. Time to keep an eye on that fat preening turd."

I will keep you updated on what will be done with this information. Until then, know that the upper hand has been seized!