Vargr í Véum

i just bought a lovely thoth deck from the local game shop and see now how much prettier they are than the waite ryder deck. /wizard geek

also, i made a special blend of tobacco with a cheap rough shag, earl gray tea and a quart of blood - then i took out my pipe filter and had a lovely weird smoke and blew some gandalfish smoke rings

looks like i didnt get either of the librarian jobs i was after, but luckily i have lots of citalopram and a nice new straight razor that came in the post today

that is all

Waiting for the Man a retrospective of Elkin L. Rimbaulzz’s Burroughs for breakfast (with his balls out) – originally published in My Children were Fair, they have Coke in their Tasches.

The man sits in a dusty tweed jacket, looking for all the world like a history teacher who is totally at peace with time and chronology. Except that the man has his cock and balls out, sitting casually and taking in the sun of a small Hampshire café while non-descript, elderly ladies take violent offence to his unkempt and sweaty scrotum. This is the cover art which graces one of the most influential novels of this century (the twentieth) and a source of great controversy in and of itself. The artwork - commissioned by the author himself and created by his long standing friend Half Thatcher – soon found itself at the centre of a heated and unfair obscenity trial when it was noted that a small child in the background was mouthing the word “zounds” through the café window. The case was thrown out almost immediately for being a rubbish joke, and a secondary “reserve” law suit was drawn up against the book, this one brought forward by Rt. Hon. Lord Harold McMacmuc when he glimpsed the book in a chance encounter with a porn-seller. His claim centred on the fact that the exposed gentleman on the cover was an exact likeness of himself, and was able to produce a lavish portrait which very clearly resembled the so called “Burroughs character”. Under harsh interrogation, Thatcher admitted that he didn’t know what William Burroughs looked like and couldn’t be bothered to find out, and so he just found a random picture of “some old cunt” and used it instead. Interestingly, it seems that the book’s author Elkin L. Rimbaulzz didn’t see fit to inform Thatcher that Burroughs - unlike McMacmuc – was in fact tall, thin and white.

But my mother once told me never to judge a book by its cover (although it must be said that she was in fact referring to a Jew who had just given us a surprisingly expensive gift), and so of course we move onto the mind blowing, soul invigorating, orgone accumulating, opium smoking, catamite buggering madness that is the life and times of Elkin L. Rimbaulzz, the self professed “Missed Beat”.

The novel in fact consists of three separate sections, The Naked Gap Year – which deals with Rimbaulzz’s attempts to connect with the ‘higher sound frequencies of experimental word reinvention’ by tracking down William Burroughs and getting famous off of him. The second section The Bears of Scunthorpe is a wild and emotive poem which details in exquisite non-linear expressive verse something about bears. Rimbaulzz claimed in a later interview that he wrote the entire poem under the influence of mescaline, however in an even later interview, he admitted that he’d never taken mescaline, and in fact wrote the poem in bed one night “to make that cunt Ginsberg shut the fuck up for once”. The third, and perhaps most influential section is untitled, and often referred to eponymously as Burroughs for Breakfast (with his balls out) despite the fact that Burroughs appears only briefly in the form of the effeminate ‘Billy B’ – some sort of space martian who likes little boys.

Detailing Rimbaulzz’s literary coming of age and gradual disillusionment with both ‘the repressive systems of thought inherent through western society’ and ‘the general twattiness of a bunch of smack heads writing shitty little poems’ – the final section of the novel is perhaps most famous for chronicling the first meeting of Rimbaulzz and lifelong FriendEnemy Archibald Gilb (the thinly disguised Argey Gills). The enduring imagery and emotive power of a young friendship developed through adversity and casual knife fights has led to Rimbaulzz being dubbed ‘The Racist Kerouac’ and even on occasion ‘The Embarrassingly Untalented Son Of Beat’.

Beautiful metaphorical set pieces throughout the text can touch almost every reader, and will undoubtedly haunt most for years to come – Maria and her child dancing frantically for pepsi caps (a drug?) which they then use to barter with a local jazz band for bread (a drug?) – and even the grotesque sequence where the friends buy a burrito from a ‘swarthy chap at a bus stop’ and end up shitting themselves silly for seven pages.

Little can be said about the book which has not already been better articulated by better men than I, so I’ll leave you with a quote from the book itself.

“Argey put on his black suit and big straw hat. ‘back in five’ he said ‘gonna lay this horse on that Reed fella’, ‘I like Lou Reed’ I said, sticking my tongue in his ear. ‘The fuck?’ said Argey recoiling in disgust. His ear tasted of grit and hard work. Poor bastard.”

WIN! - Finding most of your long lost family on facebook
LOSE! - Being weirdly attracted to most of them

LOSE! - Massively homophobic father
WIN! - Find out his brother is gay!

WIN! - Might be able to move out due to government/welfare scheme
LOSE! - getting a house means the authorities consider me tragic enough to help out

LOSE! - Best friend in a foreign land fighting the Germans
WIN! - Possibility of living with him in squallor and glory

WIN! - Possible opportunity to work in a bookshop or a school
LOSE! - Don't like people and just want to die in my sleep

LOSE! - Abject lonliness turns sex life into a bitter circus of self abuse and misery
WIN! - www.dancingbear.com

WIN! - L4D2 out in just over a week
LOSE! - Fucking joking right?

this picture troubled me for obvious reasons

i dunno if you guys have heard of a recent game called "scribblenauts" but i heartily recommend it!

it's basically a kid's game where you have to solve problems and puzzles, the twist being that you do so by summoning items into the game world - say an axe to cut down a tree. the possibilities are endless, and you can just as easily summon a beaver to do the same thing, or a jetpack to fly over it.

it's all good fun, but the real impressive part is the sheer size of the database. last night i typed in "cthulhu" and summoned his slimy majesty in person. he attacked me instantly of course, and would have killed my had i not summoned god to defend me.

very cool toy guys :P

Elkin Le Rimbaulzz Is Down With The Kids.
Brynhillde McAvago [originally published in the All Men Are Rapists Weekly annual anthology] 

I can’t say that I was entirely comfortable with the idea when my pastor recommended I read Elkin Le Rimbaulzz’s Birds and Bees and Regret with my daughter when the time came for her to learn the facts of life, and yet the text was almost universally recognised as an uncompromising foray into the world of sexual reproduction, as well as a clear headed look at why one shouldn’t do it. And so, I worked up the courage to broach the subject with my little girl, sat on her bed with the book on my lap, and waited patiently for five o’clock when she gets home from work. 

I was surprised by the style of the book more than the content. Rimbaulzz is known for his flippant and disinterested approach to writing, but here he combines apparent crassness with gentle imagery, creating a literary atmosphere almost guaranteed to confuse and frighten any child away from the world of S.E.X. 

‘When a mommy[sic] and doddy[also sic] love each other very much, sometimes that love builds up and up and becomes something physical. Then mommy and doddy take their clothes off and doddy injects jissom up mommy’s twat and sometimes a baby gets made.”

The beautifully simple text is accompanied by strange and jarring pen and ink sketches apparently inspired by Dore’s treatment of Dante, depicting writhing lovers forming the beast with two backs. Cut-away diagrams like some hellish reimagining of Gray’s Anatomy show monstrous and misshapen penises violating strange non-Euclidian vaginas, each framed by wild masses of pubic hair. The final page depicts a shrieking monster-child and two withered, tormented parents clearly wishing they were dead.

Shortly after recommending this introduction to The Facts Of Life, my pastor was arrested in connection with a series of child buggerings in and around the locality, and so I was unable to thank him for the profound effect of his advice. From that point on, however – I was a keen advocate of Mister Rimbaulzz’s fantastic educational works, introducing my daughter to the alphabet with the no holds barred T is for Twatflaps and other Letters of the same Standard, and the multiplication tables with the uncompromising Along we Travel the Mindless Standards of Multiplied Flesh.

In 1995 we were blessed with another child, my first daughter (now 32 and still enormously retarded) had a minor psychotic breakdown as she realised the sexual implications of her new sibling – but overall it was considered a joyous occasion. The ‘Litlun’ was raised on Uncle Elkin’s Colouring Books, collections of beautiful and enigmatic pictures and instructions to decorate them with the crayons provided. Sadly, many of the instructions include colours which do not actually exist, and so little baby P was left bamboozled by demands such as ‘trim the outside edges of the tesseract with either flentange or red, but be certain to fill the foreground in with grult’. I was forced to throw the book away when my daughter finished a dot-to-dot picture on the last page and began screaming frantically. I examined the book to discover that the final picture was – somehow – an illustration depicting my daughter grinning insanely at a dot-to-dot puzzle in the back of a colouring book.

Perhaps the most controversial of Rimbaulzz’s Clever Books For Average Children (except of course for the blasphemous and satanic Julian Westerly series) were the What James and Beautrice Did in their Holidays books. Beginning innocuously enough with Beautrice and Mummy do the Shopping – the books depict a highly traditional nuclear family, Beautrice and Mummy shop, cook and clean while James and Daddy go out to work and smoke pipes. Each book is filled with the beautiful illustrations of retired school teacher Annie Applemunt, and a true delight to read. Sadly, after seven lovely books, Rimbaulzz gives into his naturally anarchic muse and delivers Beautrice and Mummy take back the Power. In ten pages, Rimbaulzz describes a story of dissatisfaction and malcontent, as Beautrice and Mummy walk around the grocers discussing the undemocratic distribution of power among the patriarchal rulers of the household. The final page has no words whatsoever, making do with a pastel drawing of a rosy cheeked and angelic Beautrice smiling serenely as she hangs James from a lamppost, while in the background Mummy roars triumphantly and holds Daddy’s severed genitals in the air as a gory trophy of their revolution.

The Stupid Dancing Space Ranger Project (Block of Woog Publishing House)
A review by Hyperbowl Twatling (First Published in The Far Out Literary Review 1969)

Gadzooks! So this is what happens when two unstoppable forces team up and beat an immovable object to death with its own metaphors!
Anticipated for what seems like an aeon ever since a gaunt, moustachioed figure suggested a collaborative project on The Enoch Powell Show, The Stupid Dancing Space Ranger Project has courted more controversy than Ibn Al-Muhab’s infamous Mohammed, Paedo? and for a time was more eagerly anticipated than the fourth book in the Lord Of The Rings series.
Both contributors are notoriously tight lipped – Gilb through an innate enigmatic stoicism and Rimbaulzz because his moustache is a kind of natural velcro – and so fans are well accustomed to lingering in the inky abyss that it is ignorance. Scraps of information and rumour float in the ether and are greedily snatched up by hungry ears – ‘I hear they’re going to kill off Ashley Buckshunt’, ‘Who the fuck is Ashley Buckshunt?’, ‘The book may have something to do with either space rangers or dancing, or possibly both’.
Rimbaulzz, author of fantasy epic The Crystalline Diamond and existential melon bender The Broken Ring has a long and potted relationship with Gilb, author of social drama Anton Jauntichops, Gentleman Rapist and iconoclastic atheistic children’s book He’s got your Pathetic Little Existence, in His Hands – and both men have pseudo cultish followings which would make the average religious leader proud, and yet the idea of a team-up has long been dismissed as wishful thinking.
Rarely seeing eye-to-eye, the duo regularly argue violently over such matters as facial hair, syntax, the meaning of the term ‘classical art’ and how shitty it is that Gilb now lives with Rimbaulzz’s ex-wife. Nevertheless, I hold the anticipated tome in my hand now – proof that antipathy is a mere molehill compared to the towering Everest of two indomitable creative forces.

 A tale of two intergalactic enemies, one a ‘Space Ranger’ (a sort of space policeman with psychic powers) the other master thief gathering together a ‘retarded fortune’ while on the run - the pair dance through the galaxy like a pair of ‘unbonded free radicals, churning in a sea of possibility’. Nothing can prepare the reader for the shocking final showdown and jarring twist finale.

 Sadly, the book is a poorly written and uninspiring story.

Elkin Le Rimbaulzz; The Man Who Invented Everything
By Aragant Peruse BA MA TA LA Hons PHD
[First published in Fantastic Tales From The Retarded Legal World - 1991]

Last week we looked at the hypothetical implications of Lutz vs Gomme 1983 and the possibility that the precedent will see an increase in the number of attempted murderers successfully suing their victims for loss of satisfaction. This week we will investigate a less violent (but perhaps no less exciting) peculiarity from legal history – the now infamous retro-plagiarism cases brought before the bench by Elkin Le Rimbaulzz in 1972 and ’73.

Rimbaulzz himself has stated that mental illness played a part in the radical conclusions he jumped to during the early seventies, and has suggested that his success in the courtroom was due to the entire publishing industry being on acid and the legal profession taking regular heroic doses of cocaine during the same period. Rimbaulzz stated in a subsequent interview:

“They were crazy, halcyon days. I achieved the perfect state of being and totally eradicated my ego. Annoyingly, this also eradicated my ability to create and I was forced to steal from that c***faced monkeyf***ing w***er A***** G*** (expletives and direct reference to another living author removed – Ed BA MA TA LA Hons PHD). This was far from ideal.”

The thefts in question rarely amounted to more than the occasional quote – an attempt at imitating the manner and form of his long-term friend Archibald Gilb’s writing style. In his short yet monumentally pretentious manuscript Thus Spake Rimbaulzz (1972), Rimbaulzz set out his various disparate philosophies and witticisms in a series of seemingly profound and yet utterly inane quips:

Rimbaulzz on Women:
I like my women like I like my drinks. I don’t.

Rimbaulzz on Politics:
I like to make horny ducks f*** a tramp for his bread.

The one interesting chapter in the book is entitled The Collective Unconscious and the Long-Term Development of the Idea, in which he suggests that the longer an idea has been contemplated, the more complete that idea becomes and thus the more valid the claims of ownership presented by he who contemplates. While this was perhaps a dubious philosophy, it did capture the imagination of the contemporary reader to such an extent that Rimbaulzz was able to successfully sue J.R.R Tolkien for stealing his ideas in October of the same year. Somewhat surprised that he hadn’t been laughed out of the courtroom to have his head jumped on by uneducated ape-men in suits – Rimbaulzz was inspired to push his newfound anachronistic authorship to its very limits. Within months he was recognised as the author of The Diary of a Young Girl, Dante’s Inferno and several sections of The Bible.

Apparently bored with actually doing anything at all, Rimbaulzz went on to start posting random books with the covers torn off to his publisher – Block Of Woog Publishing House’s infamous Eric Balp! who automatically published them with random hand-drawn covers featuring mutant space bats. Most authors caught in Rimbaulzz’s furious and shameless torrent of plagiarism were too afraid to make themselves known in case he hit them with a reverse plagiarism law-suit, and so he was tolerated well into 1973.

In November 1973, Rimbaulzz was reunited to some extent with his muse, and began writing again, although not to the extent of actually publishing anything. Instead, he would scrawl down any ideas that occurred to him during the languid, uneventful days and send them directly to Balp! to check if they had already been used. If not, he would store them in a special box for later development. If however the idea had already been explored, Balp! would begin legal proceedings to fleece the original author. 

Such half-arsed ideas as ‘Policeman looks for serial killer. Is one.’ and ‘Woman doesn’t have sex. Meets gardener. Has sex.’ seem almost sane compared to the surreal minimalism which J.D Sallinger fell foul of when Rimbaulzz theorised: “A boy”. Luckily for the history of literature, best-selling novelist Stephen King turned the tables on Rimbaulzz by proclaiming that he had contemplated all of his ideas and thus was the true owner. Stephen King is hugely successful as a result of this unclosed legal loophole.

Perhaps with the perfect vision granted by experience, Rimbaulzz would have been better served to have heeded his own words before embarking on such a turbulent voyage across the seas of tort:

“Neither a borrower nor a lender be.” (Hamlet, 1973)

Man, rooting around photobucket and i found this old picture:



man i miss those days, when did life get so damn dull?

we live in a world where thigh lubricant is a viable product, and where the mating process has been refined to the stage where:

1. If you upload a picture of yourself you tend to get 10 times the number of responses.
2. If you message people without pictures they are more likely to respond to you.
3. Use the advanced search to search for users based on height, ethnicity etc.
4. Use the mail settings to block groups of people you aren't interested in from messaging you.

is deemed logical.

seriously, "2. If you message people without pictures they are more likely to respond to you."

i just want a hippy goth girl who loves reading and writing and has some sort of fetish for unemployed mentally ill people who live with their parents. but alas.

Here's what i hoped for with salvia:



Here's what i got with salvia:

These are my representations of the demiurge:

This is a bad photo of the cross with the broken mirror at its heart:

and this is the gnostic cosmographic representation as it stands so far (further additions undoubtedly to follow) the quality isnt great as i used my phone camera, and you can't see the cool ring of futhark runes at the bottom, but it still looks ok i think:

Elkin Le Rimbaulzz and His Struggle.

[First Published in The Wealthiwite Mail - 1987]

The journey to righteousness – as Theovolt Rammsturg famously stated – is pitted with many hard bits. Elkin Le Rimbaulzz is by no means a stranger to the many and varied difficulties which a world built on weakness and sentiment can throw at a strong backed rugged individualist. And yet, as befitting a character of strong will and unflinching mind he overcame.
A young and naïve novelist in the late forties and early fifties, Rimbaulzz fell into the same seductive honey trap as so many of his peers. Just as Lugait and Orton utilised the changes to an already lax and under-regulated liberal medium to pursue their own perversions and identity politics; Rimbaulzz along with a motley crew of ignorant and pretentious wordsmiths cobbled together pamphlets and left-wing propaganda in a youthful assault on the moral fibre of our country. Along with Enrico Delsavlia, William Anarg, Patricia Bentlich (later to become famous television personality Patricia Bendlich), Archie Gilb and Maximillion Windthrope – Rimbaulzz formed the core of the now infamous Radical Anarcho-Prolatariate Empowerment Committee Utilising Neo-Trotskyist Stratagems. The group were whole heartedly devoted to destroying the established ‘fascistic vestiges of neo-fascist fascism in the post Nazi decline into international Fascism’ by ‘any means deemed necessary by the body real-politik’. They were the self proclaimed ‘people’s army’, willing to kill or die for the cause and each seeking the so called ‘freedom’ of the working classes from the ‘opportunistic capitalist government’ who they saw as inevitable and parasitic remnants of the war’s end. Despite in-depth knowledge of bomb production and basic training in small arms – the Committee never had cause to elevate their struggle beyond writing angry poems and on one occasion ‘weeing on a posh looking car’. William Anarg is said to have once defaced a green-grocer’s window with the words ‘Your time at the trough is over. The pigs have had their day.” Fortunately, the shop belonged to his father, who made him clean the letters off and subsequently banned him from being an anarchist.
The only criminal charge ever brought against the group was in regard to Archie Gilb’s decision to disseminate far-left propaganda among the wealthy, yet conscientious women of Chelmsley-on-the-rag. The message was typical radical communist tripe – but the content was inoffensive, the criminal charge brought against Gilb was due to his ill-considered decision to abbreviate the organisation’s name into a catchy acronym before handing the leaflets out. One woman is said to have been so appalled that she immediately menstruated everywhere.
Rimbaulzz’s final attempt at winning the love of the degenerate left was a ‘novel’ entitled The Death of Capitalism. Unsurprisingly, the book was never published as no doubt the Leftist press found the blatant hate mongering and suggestions of righteous murder too distasteful. The book itself is an over-long, poorly written indictment of ‘the system’ which Rimbaulzz at the time believed was corrupting the hearts and minds of the masses.

“Banshizvic relaxed into the role, the completion of a perfect act. In one smooth movement he threw the flaming bottle into the factory owner’s house and watched in solemn satisfaction as the windows shattered and smoke poured from the cracks in the walls.”

This is a perfect example of the delusional and confused young man’s attempts at a class-based rallying cry. 
Rimbaulzz was disheartened by the poor reception of what he considered to be his opus, and slipped into mental ill-health – during which time he produced almost no political material whatsoever. When he resurfaced in the late seventies, it was with renewed vigour and with a refreshing repentance which led him to more traditional and respectable opinions. In 1978 he penned his famous masterpiece The Death of Communism, a weighty and regal novel of almost 3000 pages detailing the rise and fall of a paradigm. The book remains timeless, even to this day invoking the spirit of freedom and moral righteousness in readers.

“McAllister relaxed into the role, the completion of a perfect act. In one smooth movement he threw the brick into the brothel owner’s house and watched in solemn satisfaction as the windows shattered and smoke poured from the cracks in the walls.”

After a shaky start with experimental works such as 1976’s You’re Just Being Silly Now and 1979’s What was that all about then?, Rimbaulzz decided to start inventing his own titles rather than just using his agent’s first thoughts on each submission. In 1982, Rimbaulzz travelled to meet with aging icon of prosperity Ayn Rand, who is said to have been overjoyed at the opportunity to meet with such a promising rising star. Little is known about the conversation, but Rand is said to have commented shortly before her death later that year “Keep an eye on that Rimbaulzz, he’s the coldest bastard I’ve ever met.”
Clearly inspired by his meeting with a legend, he penned 1983’s Let’s Eat The Poor, a pamphlet urging ‘social cleansing’ and tighter restrictions on breeding within less fortunate areas, before producing the long awaited sequel to The Death of Communism in 1984. Third Trumpet follows McAllister’s subsequent victories following his imprisonment at the end of the previous book, and sees him use masterful rhetoric and oratorical prowess to gain control of a desperate and broken country. The book runs to a mighty 5000 pages of genius, and is often cited as having one of the most inspirational and oft quoted speeches in modern literature. John McAllister’s delivers an astounding 300 page polemic on the poisonous bile which the novel’s antagonist - Herschell Goldenstein - fills the popular press with.

Many students of tradition and morality find great comfort in knowing that such a voice remains in the world, even after Rimbaulzz’s death earlier this year. (erm, what? – ed)

A Fist Full Of Baulzz – Stop it now Elkin
First published as Proverbs of The Unabashed Elitist in So You Want Some Knowledge, Cunt?]

Deep down we all suspect that before 1927, humanity communicated with hand gestures.
(FACT – 1982)

Lord Thollag spat thick saliva in disgust and Cadet Tiffany’s fear, his protoplasmid tendrils quivering as they fed on her emotions. Journeyman Santanio hesitated, hand on LasPistol, before crawling away very slowly.
(Not Worth Dying Over – 1963)
 
Always jump straight into the action, forget about establishing character or setting, you can do the later. If you begin with action and drama then the reader will think that the book is actually longer than it really is and feel they’ve gotten their money’s worth.
(Uncle Elkin's Guide to Righting - 1982)

After the DoP, Michael St. Andrews had his second breakdown of the shoot – Archie promised that if we finished filming without another significant mental breakdown in the crew, he would enter a fist-fighting competition with a group of angry gypos in the local caravan park. He upheld his promise and the short film Gilb gets Raped by Travellers (1978) can still be found in a highly censored form.
(Memoirs of a Gitshow - 1980) 

Wake up one morning. Am dog. Sad?
(Unwritten Works: The Complete Collection of E.L. Rimbaulzz’s Half-Arsed Ideas - 1992) 

Although credited with creating the far left slogan ‘No matter who you vote for, the Conservatives are still shit’ and penning numerous gritty novels about life as a working class miner – I was never granted the accolade of being dubbed an ‘Angry Young Man’ by the papers. The closest I got was an article in the Guardian which called me a ‘Whiny Little Shit’, which is significantly inferior.
(My Demons and Me: How Elkin Le Rimbaulzz went from Strength to Strength and Still Ended up getting Pissed on by The Man - 1972)

I’m just a little lonely Signifier
Looking for my sign
Baby, baby, wont you sli-eee-ide with me?
(Mama, Stop Stealin' My Signifiers [from Fugitive Cake] – 1974) 

Faust: You sick son of a bitch, you admire it!
Rob: I admire its massive cock. Perfect…organ.
(Terror – 1983)
 
He threw the thing into some fire and went home. The nothing else happened.
(Valley of the – 1977)
 
Burning up the freeway. Argey Gills roaring. Sweet lady S mounting in my peripheral vision – I’m a wheel, spinning like Ixion in hades. Pass by a gas pump, two guys wave cautiously. We keep on driving. We keep on driving.
(Burroughs for Breakfast (with his balls out) – 1954)
 
Hefting the mighty CurseBlade BelShamHamNick, Migglemass cut the tyrannical warlord down to size, weeping chunks of hateful flesh blasting under the unhallowed power of the CurseBlades fel energies.
“I guess he’s not going to be summoning any more demons for a while.” Migglemass chortled casually.
(Migglemass the Barbarian - 1963)
 
I foresee another such paradigm shift occurring within this decade, a recognisable divergence from industrialisation toward a more intangible source of revenue. Vast systems of communication will be put in place to allow (in theory) anything from books to musical records to be transferred from one end of the country to the other in less than a day.
(The Electric Dollar – 2001)
 
Uwe Jumped overboard cackling like a cunt as he swung his gibbet left and right, knocking the sea dogs flying. He laughed, but inside he was afraid, if he didn’t get to the island before the Jolly Candlestick then he would be unable to launch the rocket and get home to Mars.
(Adventures Galore - 1974)

Has anyone ever actually seen a dinosaur? Or god? Or the holocaust? I’m just saying.
(You’re Just Being Silly Now - 1976)

Martyr To Myself

 Elkin Le Rimbaulzz may not be a name immediately associated with fundamentalist Christianity, and yet some of his most fascinating observations derive from his uneasy and turbulent connections with The Church.
On his sixth birthday (the age at which the Sethtardian Evangelical Crucifixionists believe a child acquires sentience enough to be punished eternally should they reject the teachings of The Church) Elkin underwent a strange sort of initiation ceremony.
“I think it was intended to help the recipient understand the horrors of Hell, and set an image in his mind long-lasting enough to ensure devotion to The Church.” He wrote in My Demons and Me: How Elkin Le Rimbaulzz went from Strength to Strength and Still Ended up getting Pissed on by The Man, “I only heard about it being done to two other people, Brother Gregary was arrested soon after my eighth birthday, and he was the one who usually did it.”
The ceremony involved thirteen hooded figures charging screaming into the six year old’s bedroom on the morning of their birthday, chanting at the top of their voices and waving a burning rag around “carelessly”. The child is bound to his bed and his parents bought in with their hands bound, weeping and begging for mercy.
 
When his father and mother both died of brain cancer within weeks of each other, Elkin was taken in by his draconian aunt who taught him that if he thought about naked women, he would catch cancer too. This idea is clearly reflected in Mind-Flesh, a novel in which the protagonist begins to grow a breast inside his brain which grows exponentially until he transforms into a woman.

 The direct influence of his upbringing are reflected in much of his early work; the controversial Under The Burning Cross an excellent example of not only Rimbaulzz fluctuating religious beliefs, but also his ability to change his mind last minute and write an entirely different story “by mistake”      . According to My Demons, the novel was originally intended to be an investigation of hate-cults in Southern America, as two travellers journey through racist and intolerant towns in search for the American dream.
“I realised after three pages that the novel would never be finished, it was a cocktail of Dante, Kerouac and Twain, but with lynchings in. I liked the title so much I kept it, but totally rewrote the story.”
Under The Burning Cross tells the story of a time travelling Christian who journeys back to the first century BC to witness the birth of his religion. However, due to an unfortunate navigation error – the temporal pod lands on the inn and squashes the manger saviour-and-all. Overcome with regret, Gregory Zus decides to take his place and live out the thirty-three years flawlessly. The novel reads more or less as an exact replica of the gospel, with the inclusion of the occasional brooding monologue, dramatic irony and an eventual lasbeam fight with the Servitors Of Chronos who come to collect the wayward traveller.

By far Rimbaulzz’s most famous foray into the world of religion is found in the Julian Westerly series of the late seventies and early eighties. Massively popular, the last book was anticipated for almost an entire year, with young fans regularly crying and sending Rimbaulzz letters begging him for clues as to the next instalment. One avid fan was said to have waited so long for a copy that he actually grew up and lost interest.
The series begins with Julian Westerly and the Homoerotic Fumbling, narrating the strange tale of Julian’s education after being snatched from the claws of his diabolist left-hand-path satanic relatives. Taken under the wing of Vladishmalgar Omicrux – a mysterious and enigmatic figure eventually revealed to be a huge monolithinc pyramid with a pulsing, sentient eye in the centre. Omicrux at first appears to be a Zionist Gnostic who has transcended to a state of “pure knowledge”. He teaches Julian that a powerful demon lord named Azazathuul seeks to crush The One True Faith by destroying the faith of the “pure and innocent” children under Omicrux’s tutelage. The book is littered with strange and jarring references to biblical dogma, and direct quotations from the New Testament.
The final chapter of the book sees Azazathuul slay Julian’s friend Sally Whimperton and apparently send her soul into Hell. Julian and Omicrux form some sort of spiritual pathway and help Sally’s soul reach purgatory, from where she can work her way to heaven. Sadly, the spell fails and her essence is dissipated. Omicrux states,
“Better not to have been born than to be delivered unto he who destroys both body and soul in Hell.”
Julian seems to accept this, and the pair go down for a magical feast in the dinner hall.

The series continues for three more books, and it is revealed that Omicrux is actually an emanation Yaldaboath, the ancient evil demiurge which even legend has forgotten, and the fourth book ends with the ominous suggestion that Samael, beast of the earth is come again to bring about the eschaton.

Rimbaulzz lost interest in the series and never finished it. Whether or not Omicrux succeeded in destroying reality is unknown, but Rimbaulzz later alluded to Julian’s death by AIDS.

A Fist Full Of Baulzz – Intriguing  Musings of Elkin Le Rimbaulzz
[First published as Proverbs of The Unabashed Elitist in So You Want Some Knowledge, Cunt?]

Lord Azazathuul waved his wand counter-clockwise and a light green ray shot from the tip, Julian cast his Magicus Protecticus charm and the green light blasted into something Julian had never seen before. Sally Whimperton’s body lay on the grass, blasted by Lord Azazathuul’s Izzywizzy blast, her soul no doubt burning in infernal agony at this very moment.
(Julian Westerly and the Homoerotic Fumbling - 1978) 

You lift the heavy latch on the oaken door and peer through at a room filled with questions, inside is a cascade of swirling possibilities that penetrate and flood through each fibre of the potentials which tie your very being together.
If you enter the vortex of perpetual self examination, turn to 343
If you drink a health potion, turn to 21
(Metaphysical Labyrinth -1985) 

The pulsing signal cut out suddenly, and Journeyman Santanio froze, his hand hovering over the weapon system. The derelict had powered down, what did it mean? Santanio reinitiated the navigation system and flew away very slowly.
(Not Worth Dying Over - 1963)

 A quest. Farmboy? Affable Small person? Pirate? Need to travel to ??? and collect a ??? kill demon?
(Unwritten Works: The Complete Collection of E.L. Rimbaulzz’s Half-Arsed Ideas - 1992)

It’s a hard thing indeed to side with either the Saxons or the Normans when battling for the future of the British Isles. Luckily, Ben was a Jew.
(The Prime Minister at Hastings: Book Two of the Time Travelling Prime Minister series - 1960) 

He shot some arrows and one of the monsters fell over, then he ran over and took some gold off of the monster’s body. Maybe now he could buy a new sword that would help him kill bigger monsters and get even more gold. One day, he would complete his quest and become King.
(Valley of the – 1977)

But if Thad Quizzon wasn’t the simulacra, then surely… Joseph Krane fired a hair-thin lasbeam through the spaceport security glass and pierced Sammy Cuzens’ frontal lobe. She fell to her knees twitching violently before smoke began to pour from her nostrils. All along, ever since childhood. But she felt so real! Maybe she was real, who’s to say anymore?
(Oh come! Oh come! Starry angels of Betelgeuse – 1972)

I paused at the threshold, barely able to consider what lay beyond. Vast alien energies swirled and perplexed uncaring about our insect schemes, what was I to them? A mere Nobel Prize winner who had invented intergalactic teleportation. I was as much an insect as the lowest Negro dancing in the jungle deeps around swollen fetishes of Chol’kawa. Jom Kim Baa! Jom Kim Baa! El Chol’kawa Nignag!(The Mark of the Eldritch Thing – 1962)

ELR: Did you order the coverup?
RN: I did not ord…
ELR: Did you order the coverup?
RN: I have never ever…
ELR: Did you order the coverup?
RN: I did not…
ELR: Did you order the coverup?
RN: Shut the fuck up.
(Rimbaulzz Versus Nixon – 1973)

Moving his head closer to the mirror, Esquiir De La Flambe noticed that mirror did not reflect his image, but instead a series of coloured dots. Holding his reading lens to the mirror, Esquiir squinted and strained to make out the fine detail of the dots, letters? Could it be? Was the mirror reflecting the countless strands of text which pour through his internal narrative and create the threads of his creativity? Was this mirror the truest art, reflecting the very reality of the artist’s mind? No. It was just a mirror.
(The Mirror of Babylon – 1956)

Angelheaded bears burning for the ancient heavenly honey and the starry dynamo in the machinery of Scunthorpe.
(The Bears of Scunthorpe – 1954)

Not long for this world am I Quelstaff. See to it that my Wizened Folk are cared for as though they twere your own. I ride to the Mount of Gorag’thal tomorrow morn and the oracles of Time have foretold that I shall not see my land again.
(The Crystalline Diamond – 1954)

Space, waves blasted into my mind like spatters of Moonpower. Argey Gills and I parked in Le Tiere south Mexico and sold apples to the locals. He got the girls, I got the cash. He was pretty wild. Sad eyed Hebrews stumble in the street, heat and dust clogging their pores. I gotta get out of this place. Maria and her child are dancing for pepsi caps to barter with the Jazz Negroes in the bar, hoping to score some sweet sweet bread.(Burroughs for Breakfast (with his balls out) – 1954)

The Kunts milled aimlessly in the streets, awaiting the call to prayer. High in the vaulted ceiling a Kunt Templar watched over his people, his charges. Kunt would not be taken without a fight. Kunt was mighty, Kunt was beautiful. The infidel would never get into Kunt again, not while Ludvig Von Kunt was watching over its dusty streets.
(Saviours of Kunt – 1958)

Trans-gender representation and interracial homosexual identity in Elkin Le Rimbaulzz’s The Broken Ring (1956)

Up My Arse, Darky.

[A chapter taken from Post-war sexuality and post-modern representations of the Penis the thesis of Lemule Queer]

Elkin Le Rimbaulzz was a literary figure of no small significance as early as 1954, he had already published one novel and a volume of experimental poetry entitled The Bears Of Scunthorpe. It wasn’t until late 1956 and the publication of The Broken Ring that Rimbaulzz’s career can be truly spoken of in terms of literary merit.
The volume is a collection of existential short fiction and is deceptively slim, masking the wealth of ontological experimentation within. Almost unanimously heralded as a masterpiece in its field and a staple text of most comparative philosophy courses, The Broken Ring prompted Michel Gogahi to famously state:
“Rimbaulzz swallows classical literature and shits out allegorical metaphor.”
The piece for which the collection is named revolves around an obscure Nordic tradition relating to fealty and tribal warrior culture. This apparent interest in Germanic eddic prose is however, somewhat at odds with the firmly held opinions of Rimbaulzz who was once quoted as saying:
“The entirety of Germany’s contribution to world literature consists of Goethe and the umlaut.”
Here, we will investigate the possibility that the mythological content prevalent in the collection is to be interpreted as a complex system of metaphorical coding, masking the underlying homoerotic subtext.
“Often the king would with supple fingers spread the soft gold ring, splitting it into two equal halves, tossing them out to his thanes. Many rings were broken for the pleasure of his household.”
The broken ring of the title is a conundrum which defines both the story and the collection as a whole. Whether a representation of the ‘Primal Anus’ of Freud or of the complex interplay of quotation and intertexuality within canonical literature, there can be no doubt that Rimbaulzz intends the reader to note the metaphor as significant:
“Haethelwaith then took his mighty hammer to the thickest part of the heaviest ring (remember that later) and broke it into halves.”
Much like Jonathon Swift’s comparisons between the giants of Brobdignag and the little people of Lilliput (see Penis Envy and the Seventeenth Century Preoccupation with Giants) and Archie Gilb’s Matriarchal Science Fiction parable Twatopia; Rimbaulzz seems concerned chiefly with an examination of penetration and comparative genitalia as an assertion of ideological dominance.
 
From here we examine the sixth story in the collection, The Spurning of Fiaso Del Somberero which investigates the solipsistic contemplations of a prisoner who seems uncertain as to why he is confined. The story borrows heavily from Poe’s The Pit and the Pendulum, with its moody brooding protagonist dwelling on the obscure and unknown horrors of his situation.
“A grinding sensation ran through the marrow of my bones, the shuddering darkness punctuated by the red flares of fire worming through the cracks or my cell. I felt an innate dread that perhaps my surroundings were shifting and altering irreversibly and lethally. I went back to sleep for a bit and then had a wander around.”
The motif of ‘wandering around’ seems significant to the overall interpretation of the piece, as Rimbaulzz returns to it regularly, at one point using the phrase like a refrain in eight consecutive sentences.
Upon escaping his cell, the unnamed protagonist finds himself in a larger, yet otherwise identical cell, which he sleeps and wanders around for a while before realising that as an identical cell, the solution to his escape would be identical to that of the last. Escaping this cell he finds himself in a still larger cell, and at this point Rimbaulzz appears to freak himself out and start panicking that he doesn’t know how to end the story:
“Easing back the loose panel of this new prison, I found myself faced with the profound emptiness of another, larger cell. Like the last, this was an exact replica of its predecessor. Like, totally the same. Same floor, same furniture, same stained stonework – what the fuck? Exactly the same, what the fuck? I mean, how does that work? Man what if that’s like – the world? It’s all just rooms inside rooms. Fuck man. Fuck.”
Here we will examine the idea that ‘wandering about’ refers to sexual ambiguity and the exploration of covert homoeroticism. Whether the cell is taken as a pejorative representation of culture attitudes toward homosexuality, or the sense of amplified perversion inherent to Sadistic liberty – one thing is certain, the story represents an inclination toward sexual obsession and phobic interactions.
The twelfth story in the collection and perhaps the most significant in terms of gender definition and homocultural intersexual anachrolinguistics is entitled Arbeit Macht Three, and includes two paragraphs detailing explicit buggery. The eloquent poetic style of the prose has been compared to Christina Rossetti’s My Sister Tastes so damn Good. Her line:
“I gobbled and gobbled, dribbly cleft filled with wonder tied up in questions of betrayal.”
Is clearly reflected in Rimbaulzz’s:
“He drew deep into the crevices of his symbolic self and embraced the questions of self betrayal.”
 
All in all, this book is a great read. I give it 8 out of 10.

i know we're all angry because politicians are out of touch, but i think vickers and hogg are gloriously quixotic in their retarded expensese claims :P