The following wee clip could be considered as not quite to everyone’s taste …

… but it seems to work as a defensive mechanism sometimes, and that’s no bull~!

Boom boom! (Parp parp?)

It came in this morning sent by a lady I always hold in the highest regard as a model of decorum, couth, culture and genteel gentility. She also loves bull terriers (so yes, we can be perfect).


—if you do go there it finishes at 1:39 … and beyond there be (I don’t really know, I found the guy a bit a lot intrusive) (we dogs are sensitive creatures sometimes, and clicked him away) monsters.


I pressed further on into the webosphere and came up with this—

to see source: CLICK HERE 

—ye gods, is nothing sacred?

Possibly not: I saw a photo in an archaeology magazine a few years back of an archaeologist holding a genuine (fossilised) Viking poop and peering benignly at it.

O temporoa, o mores … as our plumber said not long ago on a house call:

“It’s poop to you, Argie … bread and butter to me!”

And long may it last.

Strange, to add flavour to the topic (scented car) I looked around for the shot I remember so clearly but didn’t find it.

However, the fartifact in question may well have been from this lot—



—make of it what we will. But one thing that always strikes me is the singular difference between the scent-free Hollywood notions of (some of) the ancients and the more plausible reality.

And getting back to that car—yes please, pass the beans … and don’t anyone strike a match …


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