De Njew Jær

De Njew Jær

Jœst as Lædy Chåtterlej ver appljikong the Sprøgblumensterne åpplicatør til hir brithdåg Kåke øn de kitchen-tåbler, the lichtens vent œt æs lik å Purrfukt Trøpikal Størm Strœk the dreamij shøres end kanali ov Ejsberg, citij møch-hymened in Vikkking løre øver the Icener-Åges & beck ågain. "Julius T Frickkenbottij!' she vas shouting, "hœw en ter ofkken er ve til icen de Kåke metœt Sprøgblumensterne??" ven sœden she vellt en kuriøso sensatiønio uff de legg pårten, lik de hunde laibraidourghoughough ver koughoughink øver de innerer thighgher-muscljen....  Hmmm, she thoughought, this es en vineland Kættlen de fijisch! -  fer josset et det mømento hir gemel-kjeipperer Flechie Fletcher appjeart ent dør-vej met de elektrikial-fœserer in ent handet end en bjig grijn en de øder!

"Sea hear!" escaloppatio'd Lædy Chåtterlej, "Kændly tak jour moustachio knuts œf of mej inneren-thighigher-muscljen, if jou vould be so kindleigh!"

Sjøme time låter relaxing to Bach's Wøll-Tempered Kutchener-Tåble, Flechie mentioned, "Found a curioso årtefact in the Vestern Flowerbæd yesterday, m'Lædy.  An Ancient Helmetto I feel søre."

            "Œ, that sounds v. interessant," she replied.

            "Wd U like to see ut?"

            "U bet!"

Flechie Fletcher the gemel-kjeipperer fetched the straunge oggetto, and together acting in partnersnips they washed the grimes of ages orff the bejewelled and glistening bronze helmetto in the ensuite sænk.

            "Amæzing!" gœsped Lædy Chåtterlej.  "It looks kind of Skåndinævian, dœsn't it?  Maybe Vikking.  Ør Vikkking."

With that, she tried it on for size.  It fitted purrfectly.  And immediately, her mind was filled with images; strange, ancient scenes appeared...  seething masses of people drinking, merrymaking and setting each other challenging prøblems of the interlectural pårts.....

More soon at http://ejsbergsaga.blogspot.com/?zx=b9cc03c5c1b88389

Meanwhile, Oncliach Dumnaillaigh and CoaghCoagh the Ur-Chioaghoaghlaiathaidh Laibraidhghoughr and Mythic Sun-Dog of the Vest sends you øl Vest Vishes for 2010!

 © Donnie Ross 2012

Congratulations

“It’s for you”, shouted The Lady Sanne, hurling the mighty ancient bronze Taighliaghphonnaigh Handenpucett made in China across the great bedroom she shared with the Hero Mogens, resplendent in his M&S Special Edition Pyjamas.  A dozen or so of Sanne’s young paramours fled the scene to afford her conversation some privacy, also for the avoidance of multiple injuries and lesser contusions.  Rubbing some docken leaf and other rare condiments ruefully into a mildly compound temporal fracture, Mogens picked up the Taighliaghphonnaigh and bellowed politely, “Vass you vant, fuck-face!!!”

“Congratulations,” said a voice, evidently originating in Vineland, “You have won a magnificent Trophy!”

In a slight temper, Mogens smashed the mighty bronze Taighliaghphonnaigh made in China device against a wall of the stout-built castle, dislodging tons of granitic basaltic igneous metamorphosenish rocky blocks, which cascaded down the hill crushing 82 villages, 37 peasants, a multitude of oxen, innumerable pottery works, three crates of Carlsberg Speziale and a small souvenir statue intended to resemble the Duke of Edinburgh.

“Bastard kalt kollers!” fumed Mogens unhappily, “Ik vill get them for disturbing my somniferous kipping opportunities, with secondary causation of cerebral kontra-coup injuries of the brains also.”

“Hmmm,” replied Sanne, “How about we mount a Hexpedizione til de Far Vest?  Then we can find that booger of the Congratulatory Kalt Kolling and stick his Taighliaghphonnaigh uppen hims Erse in an extended Ceremony, subsequently stringen along behind longenbooot met Taighliaghphonnaigh Vire.”

“Ent meanwhiles,” mused Mogens, “An astonishing Kurse & Fatt-Waugh vill ve hurle at him and alle his Kuntly Kind.  Yess, may he be stricken doon with the heeby-jeebies, telephonist’s wrist, the White Skoor. Leprosy of the Eyeballs, may that severely attack his vision hypermetropically ASAP, & may all his personal fluiddes be either dried up or excessively secreted, whichever is the more embarrassing in polite Kompanie at the Earliest Opportunity.”

“I’ll juist phone the Shamanistic Practitioner Practice, Massive Kursen en Spezialtie” sez the Lady Sanne.  “Hev dju seen the Taighliaghphonnaigh?”

Copyright © Donnie Ross 2011

Payback Time

The four o’clock revenge-wave from Cimbria rolled in on the cost of Scotland. The canal crossing was influenced by some anxiety in the ranks. The Midgaard worm was annoyed about Ragnar Lodbrog called him ‘Big fat snake’ and as usually it turned into a fistfight that spread like fire among the Godly crowd. When the raven-brothers Hugin and Munin carpet bombed the combatants with guano, escalated the disput and raised a minor hurricane and thunderstorm.
An old shepherd herding his sheep’s was watching the rumbling and lightning in the horizon and mumbled to himself “Oh no… not again – hope they haven’t got that freekin Fenris wolf whit this time…brrr”.
Odin who took the shape of, he always travels incognito, the brave and bold Mogens Blood-axe, and talked to the annoyed shepherd “Hvor finder æ him dersens Onkel Donkel vho vover a pis’ å Valhalla”. The shepherd scratched his fleabites and said “Vaaath”. Loke pushed Odin by side and said “lad mig”. “Oncliach Dumnaillaigh - got a hen to pick with him”. More fleabites-scratching. The lack of language skills and general awareness of the missing sense of direction lead Odin to send out the unpopular ravens to look for Oncliach Dumnaillaigh.
The ravens found OD’s shed (by coincident) and the Revenge battalion marched in turmoil and disarray to the unfinished cross shaped shed that were an inspiration for later church-architects (in some cases their works were completed and the cross shape were more defined)
Elde, Ask og Urd, Fenja and Menja, Læ with wifie Ran, who brought a couple of dead sailors she recently had drowned. Thor and Sif, with the kids - it was almost full strength. Only those who still vomit after the last mjød-party stayed at home. The God-bunch was standing around the unfinished cross shaped shed were OD was hiding under a dog (he didn’t have a finished table to hide under) who slept peaceful despite the noise from the festive crowd, and the freezing cold from the Fenris wolf, outside.
“Onkel Dunkel Dummergøj….kom ut a e bræddeskur….mæ det vons” thunders Odin, ”do har pisset å Valhalla, å nu må do ta’ æe næsestyver å æ kindhest for å vær’ en kæltring”. CoaghCoagh the Ur-Chioaghoaghlaiathaidh Laibraidhghoughr and Mythic Sun-Dog of the Vest wakes up and OD tried to hide under a half finished guitar instead. CoaghCoagh greets Odin with dignity “Whozup Odin-man – OD peed in your pie again”. “Jep” Odin replies “He has to take back that cobbert-fagget thing he said about some friend of mine” Odin looks friendly at the handsome and intelligent CC who says with a sigh. “OD, you must finish your half finished shed and paint it black before springtime to honor our neighbor Gods” CC thinks with a wrinkle between his eyes “ …..and give Susanne The-by-Gods-protected that iron sculpture she likes …or the hole menagerie kicks your ass” . Odin nods his head and says “Bad time ass kicking”. Side by side Odin and CC sits on the unfinished doorstep and enjoy the sundown together in silence. Everybody else except OD, he was fiddling with a half finished fiddle, had a blast of a party.
To be continued some time….God knows when.
Writher’s thoughts: Normally it’s said that you shall not throw stones if you live in a glasshouse, but I think that’s tasteless. It’s friendlier to throw stones IF you live in a glasshouse.
Susanne Dyrholm11. februar 2011 kl. 23:42

Vat??? Did you say Dr Flugelpik???

“Well noughgh noughgh,” said Oncliach Dumnaillaigh until CoaghCoagh the Ur-Chioaghoaghlaiathaidh Laibraidhghoughr and Mythic Sun-Dog of the Vest, “Eigh am chust wondering how the Laedy Sanne and hir GuidJarl, the Estimable but moderately dangerous Mogens the MonoUlnar’d are getting on with the Shed-Klasse LooongenBooote they ordered frae wirsels via the Splinter-Net?”  For, said Oncliach Dumnaillaigh the Wise, the Monosyllabic and Sparing in Conversazione, utilising at this point a figure of speech known to severall as Reported, he was expecting the said persons of the Vikkking persuasion to approach via the Sea of North and make themselves known such that a considerable Bevvy might be taken the one with the other, possibly involving Strong Drinking Practices.

Meaghanwhiles, backck at the LongenBooote, a thousand leagueues away contrary to expectations, Mogens the Many-Armed & Polypedal to booote threoughgh backck the esoteric covers of his four-legged Afternoon Nap Contrivance, the fine felted material falling off his manly body in a cadence of centripedal curves not unlike Snachter affen Van en Dyke.  This the same material handed down for centuries in the splendid family of the Mogens, embroidered as it was with olde-worlde patternes of stitchinge in golden and silvern threadde as well as best Binderer Twine, and tastefully stained with the traditional body fluiddes of many lustyy ancestrallian personauges on all sides of the Blankett.

Mogens the Many-Armed & Polypedal to booote as previously mentioned stretched his persona luxiouriously in the fo’c’sle, banging his head against the stout oaken and chip-board decking, for had he not spent that same morning raiding Dr. Flugelpik’s Prosthetic Klinik amidships, beating off the irate medik with severall of his own technical feats, usually attached to severall of his technical shins?

“Herrimph, Sirre Mogens,” then quothh the Splendid Laedy Sanne, her Beauteous Countenance lighting up the Kabinn, “Whiles you have been kippinger snoeremorgen, Ej hev ben shjarpeninger up de Bottle Ox til it be SkarySchjarp!”

“You mean, ‘Battle Axe’!” replied Mogens the Barely-Dressed.

“Vat!  Are you kollinnk me en mean battle axe?” roared Laedy Sanne the Not at all Pleased, hurling a Mizzen-Mast Mogens-ward but Missingk by Miles and geplunginger de Massive Missile into the Middle of a School of whales disporting themselves nearby.  “That vill learn you to pay attenzione!” sez the Teacher, svimmink off.

General Paralysis of Seafarers

Maenwhiles oever en de lant uff det Vikkkings, werk ver goeingen onne apaece.  Mogens the Hatchetet-Armed assjaembled a mighghty crew of stalled warts, inklueding Rufus the Boeld, starr of maeny a ruff-hoose, Rufus the Redd, Rufus the Off-Koelour, Karlo Uppenhaemmer, Bembo Frjikkenbotty the Gay, Justin Kaiserjarl the Cjentre-Fjorward, Utterlej Maddening Hakkenovski the teenage telephone-pole jumper whose cardigans were ljegendjary, Shagger O’Murphy met his Entourage of Shaggees, these fjormed but a small sjelection of whoresmen and oarsons mjaking up the krew of Mogens the Mighty-Armed.

And so it vas that the daring band bjegan to assjemble the Longen-Boote sjent oever bi ParcellenPostit vrom Skottlant’s misty magical shores in smallish pieces for serf-assjembly, instruktionios non inclusivo and in Chinese languages ONO. Sjeverall smallish skrews ver missink, in order to drive the Vikkkings yet more berserker than ever, speziale vith eau de vie, eau de toiletto njetvithztandinger.

Fjinally the Langenbooete vas raeady.  Out of Ejsberg sailed the proud galley, to shouts of “Hooray!”,  “Awa ya Raj!” and “Funny shaepe fer en booote?”, turned to the West, turned to the North-by- Nor-Nor East, turned to the South…..?????

All oever Europe, there were no lights to go out.

Some months ljater, as the Vikkkings left the smoking ruins of Madagascar behind and the smell of burning cinammon sank sloewly into the horizon, where Mogens the UniBrachial had dumped his cigar, the Laedy Sanne murmurred in a hussxky voice….”Errr, Mogens, oeld chaeppie, doe you think that GPS thingie is werking properly?”

Myxening Their Toeses

Syne saeth Oncliach Dumnaillaigh until CoaghCoagh the Ur-Chioaghoaghlaiathaidh Laibraidhghoughr and Mythic Sun-Dog of the West, “Nowe that alle have dronken thir fill and gorged until naemair may doon gullet be stappit for feare of stamakruptcy, nowe say I lat us turn our thoughoughts  til the Ould Enemy quhat lik untae en Great Meganser flicths abbeen us aa just a-waitin fer ane oppertunioty furti poonce ons whiles sheighaghtain frequent doon skooriform upon wir heids like Brylcreigchm from Heaven. “

“Pass the pigeonios en croute,” sez CoaghCoagh,  “a wedge or twain of widgeon, tranche-du-roi de fromage sauvage de France well-warmed in a sote wench’s cleavauge and she from Noermaendy hersel and y-cleped Kyleagh, a butcher’s brace of saucissons atween hir lilywhite ski-thick thighs for good measure”.  Such were the wise words iambically integrated into articulate strophic speech by the practiced mou of CoaghCoagh the wise, the Ur- Chioaghoaghlaiathaidh Laibraidhghoughr and Mythic Sun-Dog of the West.

“Ahimm, achhimmm,”  then spake up Oncliach Dumnaillaigh, reclining on his great chaise longeur, the famous Chaise de Spleen, marvellously worked by a thousand artisans over centuries of cultured uber-carpentry, carved and re-carved in fanciful designs from the storied past and embroidered with complicated tales very like unto a rabbit’s knitting, inlaid with gold and precious things scavenged from the Sea of Baltic’s wide and icy shores and dribbled on by generations of learned scholars, batchelors-at-armes, rent-a-quines and such like.  (And indeed they do say and aver that the great Chaise was every bit as well patina’d as Oncliach Dumnaillaigh).  Such, then, was the thoughtful utterance of Oncliach Dumnaillaigh at this juncture.

Chioghlaiathaidh Laibraidhghoughr

CoaghCoagh the Ur-Chioaghoaghlaiathaidh Laibraidhghoughr, the mythic Sun-Dog of the West, only the golden fleece of the mighty Western Ram, seven times spun by virgins and conveyed in the Bronze-wheeled chariot of the Volks will he wear next to his sacred pelt that has been three-and-twenty times combed and brushed betwixt sunrise and sunset by Oncliach Dumnaillaigh and that before a supper consisting of sixty-seven new lambs, three oxen and an irritating horse-and-wifie-rider, all eaten to the sound of the ancient songs in iambic pentameter accompanied on the Iron-Framed Moothie of Ould in B Flat Minor.

Academischmischen Report No. 43: The Vikkkings

It is a dark and stormy day, the storm blows her around the corner to the entrance of the University of New Hebrides. She slides along the wall in the darkness without being noticed, and sits on the edge of a decrepit chair made of beautiful gray driftwood. A peculiar appearance - a combination of a Bavarian sausage maker and a bad doctored amateur actor is standing infront of a just as peculiar audience and he says whit a lisping voice "Ich bin Dr. dr. dr. Donald Von Rossen und ich wil sprechen abouttt tche Weiking Cultur und tche importenz of tche great heubling Mogenz und sein frau Sanne die hübche inthe invaaasion unt pillagering of the Scottish east cost.. " He turns away from the audience and try to get the toupe straight on the head, when he hear a sonorous voice " You are an imposter Dr. dr. dr. Donald Von Rossen aka Dr. Delerius aka Dr. Dx aka ....fuck we dont have time for this". The bavarian saugage-actor lifts a shaking finger and point at the owner of the sonorus voice and shout "And you are Billy Bob Karpeth from Mather University in Alabama ....a black porn manuscript writher disguised
as a Argentinian fisherman...aharrrr!". He pulls a gun out from his toupé and shuts madly around in the room and back out of a hidden dor. She follows the trail of disguise rekvisits, toupe, hair, moustache, woodenleg, sausages and an annoying carpet pisser called Chanel. She finds him resting on a rock by the shore gasphing after air. She grabs him from behind around the neck. He screams and try to get her hands of. "I recognize the smell of cat- horseshit and wipped cream -Diabolic Dianna- the most feared assassin in the underworld....ohhh no...I´m a dead man". The wawes breaks on the rocky cost and drown his hysterical screams.

Idyll aff det Chieftains

A hideous noise invades the smoky bedroom of the Chieftain and Chieftainess, Mogens & Susanne. 

"Vetdefeck??"  enquires Mogens.

"Och it's just a Heavy Metal Waltz Band", sez the Laedy Sanne.  "They are the latest thing."

"Ho hum", says Mogens, turning over in their smoky bed, disturbing an entire family of rats who until that point had been snuggling and snoering about his feet.  And with that he rolled a great rock down on the musicians, horribly dispatching several French Horn players and forty accordianistas, so leaving just a couple of guitarists, a drummer and a bass-player.

"Wait a minute," shouted the lead guitarist,  "Fecking rock, and roll it down on us, that gives me an idea!"

..... " Laedy Sanne, would you mind going down on us?"

"Sanne," said the Great One-Armed Magnificent Chieftain, contemplatively picking his nose, " Vat day is it?"

"Vy," she replied, "It's Thorsday.  It's ALWAYS Thorsday, that's why life is so Fucking confusing in the North Lands of the Vikings, and why ve never get the Veekend off!"

The Vikings Prepare to Launch their Attack on Unsuspecting Skottland!

Det Laedy Sannes haire ver longue an tvisty lik de hauvser affen michty boote ven it iss kommen tir harvor throw mist en magicall vapoors, ent it had alzo bits aff zeeveed stikken twit.  Seven times seven virgens vir in attendance to the Laedy, mind severall hadde medikal leave fur to be at det STD Klinik.

Suetti hir handes vir from net vashin ent bjiffy der legges frim boote-vearink alle dag en nichty.  Nae spjit leaft she apon de glasse ven trinken, zeein der glessen var schmachen in fjierd-plasse direkt.

Vjan sangeren she, luk-vas vinders brakken an dougs van madde howlen doon straaten!  Vitte vandrivvers var knowen tir ringeren de djor-beltt en runnar aaavag leften nejet paercellen.

Aff souch var de Laedy vet leaften Ejsberg det dag met de Magus Chiftian Mogens de van-Harmpit furtig brunk maihemp tjo de Vest!

The EJSBERG Saga

The Ejsberg Saga

En dag ven de worl war round, en Ejsberg faire civitas livvetet en Viking fierze Laedy Sanne, whoe sey to hir hoosbend, “Viking Mogens, vy net ve gofer en bitte oef pillagering etk, it bin en langen timvat ve net doe enni pillagering?”

“Jesus”, rispondant Mogens (vat ver chewink lumpen oet aff en Bibble atte de tempos, fuggit) – “Kent doe zee am Viking bussi? Ent ennivag, vir haes ti bilt en langerboot et vil takken vikks.”

Viking Sanne replietet tir Mogens, “Verrily tho ijk kenns en vierdo persoena en laedle islant noet faer til de Vest vat ken maekoos en boet. He haes van raeady, tho ets en foenni shaep – ijk sodden et in Fassboek”.

Susanne Dyrholm 20 January at 14:19

Hoevding Mogens Helgrim denken groendig and said to den fair and weldressed, fierze and at f...lot more, skjoenmoe Sanne. "I do not ride the wawes in a billig copy longboat from skotland ...a freekin skotda boat - mad woman!".

"Den you swim ut and pillage" She said and throw the hatchet at him.

One arm Mogens and his skjoenmoe Hatchet Sanne token en ferry longboat to the skotland in the far west and after a little detour to a green isle becourse of a storm, where they kjoebte a toende wisky for the boatman Donnie Halfgrim. Half drunk with a half toende wisky they sat foot on the misty and rocky coast of skotland and celebrated the good boattour with a quik fistfight.

Susanne Dyrholm 20 January 16:17

It is a dark and stormful night, it allways is, when 'dass geschtalt' from the horrible creatur materialize its self in me and forces me to admit, as she says, my sins. Shaking I put the ink pen on the paper, close my eyes and will loose let 'her' lead my hand. In the beginning words come hesitant and searching. Her english is rodden as usual, but then it goes, more or less floating in broken Denglish, over stock and stone. When she is finish I will be dead tired, even I'm barely conscious during the séance. Now the words stumble to get on the paper and I se the little light there is in the dark room fade out.

THE BEGINNING. Its in the beginning everything goes wrong. She just dont understand how much the fact that a little mistake like 'underestimating the female attraction' could lead to such a disaster. But it did, and now she stands, bloody from head to toe, chubbing up The postman. "Why dident I buy a red dress". Bad habbit talking to myself - gotta stop it, she thinks. The dress and the Prada shoes was ment for Dr. Dx but it was probaly overdone since The postman, when he delivered the message from Frida, wanted tips even Frida payed him big cash, and jumped her like a duck in spring. Delayed by the accident she runs to the shower to get rid of the blood and ten minutes after she is cleaned, dressed and ready to continue. "Dr. Dx - I'll get the showel under you any minute now" She whispers trough the teeths when she drives to the airport.