by Lord Edmund Bryll, inventor of Brylcreem.

In straightened economic circumstances, not unlike those which have recently manifested themselves owing to some extraordinarily poor planning on behalf of some of my lesser colleagues in the banking industry, and shamefully exacerbated by their inability to remain excessively wealthy, one must occassionally turn to the lighter side, not to say humour, in an effort to distance one’s thoughts from the aforementioned economic maladies, though I pause here to reassure you, knowing full well that said reassurance should be unnecessary, that I remain laudably rich. Right, yes, hmm.

So, not to say therefore, I shall present to you, my multitudinous readers, a simple but, as you shall no doubt agree upon its completion, effective story of humourous intent and effect. “Tragedy is easy. Comedy is hard,” once opined a distinguished thespian acquaintance of mine, whom I shall refrain from naming here out of a sense of modesty, not to say a reluctance to raise the spectre of the sordid circumstances of his death, which I assure you involved significantly less transvestism than is generally believed. Quite so.

The joke, which I am confident you will find to be of sufficient quality, begins with the death of an unnamed man, whom one should assume had lived his life with some degree of virtue, since he did in fact go to heaven upon shuffling off this mortal coil, not to say shitting the bed. Upon reaching the aforementioned divine afterlife, and here I trust one can employ one’s imagination to conjure the suitable Christian imagery required to properly visualize heaven, particularly as regards clouds and angels and the like, including naked cherubs, the man, who we have established had recently expired, espied a surfeit of timekeeping devices, not to say clocks, adorning a wall behind the Pearly Gates. The particular clock brand is unimportant to the present humourous tale, though one assumes that, owing to the heavenly location of said wall, the clocks are of sufficient quality as befits the home of Our Saviour, as I certainly cannot conceive of Him permitting any excreble third-world craftsmanship.

The man, expressing an admirable curiosity given his situation of having only recently died, asked St. Peter, who I neglected to mention in the previous paragraph was also present, owing to his customary position as the gatekeeper of Heaven, “What are all these clocks?” St. Peter, demonstrating the saintly quality of resisting a biting, sarcastic response to a question he had no doubt heard many thousands of times, replied, “Those are Lie Clocks. Every time you lie, the hands on your corresponding clock move.”

The aforementioned gentleman, if indeed we may presume his gentlemanly bona fides, if not in reality then for the purpose of this altogether amusing tale, pointed to a particularly shabby clock, owing no doubt to its place of origin and not, I trust you will understand, the person to whom said clock is attributed. “That clock belongs to Mother Theresa,” exposited St. Peter. “As you can see, the hands have barely moved, indicating that she never told a lie.”

“Zounds!” exclaimed the recently expired gentleman in an expression of both frank incredulity and measured admiration, and one may safely assume that the gentleman in question proceeded to elevate his eyebrows appropriately, not to say like two caterpillars scrambling away from a glowing red bedwarmer wielded by one’s more vigorous manservants. “And whose clock is that?”

“That is Abraham Lincoln’s clock,” St. Peter replied earnestly, which, indeed, we may safely assume is his customary mode of communication, owing as it is to his saintly comportment and proximity to the divine Creator, not to say his employer of record. “It has moved two minutes, which rather implies that Abe told exactly two lies in his entire life.”

The deceased man, being of a rather curious, not to say precocious character, asked “And where is Lord Beaverbrook’s clock?”

St. Peter responded, “It is in God’s office. He uses it as a ceiling fan.”

Ha! My old rival and thorough-going applicator of feminine hygiene fluids certainly receives his comeuppance in the preceding tale, which I trust has brought a small ray of sunshine into your otherwise grey and insufficiently wealthy lives. Naturally, owing to my lengthy history with the aforementioned, but certainly not esteemed, Lord Beaverbrook, I have numerous tales of his baser character and peculiar romantical inclinations, not to say dray animals, but it is beneath me to engage in such gossip and ill-speaking of the deceased, despicable, reprobate that he undoubtedly was. Also, I once had it off with his wife at a charity function. Ceiling fan, indeed!

LordEdmundBryll I share this information knowing that the semi-literate troglodytes who comprise the Empire Club’s membership will be none the wiser.

LordEdmundBryll I fully acknowledge the fact of Prince Phillip’s membership in the Empire Club, but I contend this rather makes my point for me.

LordEdmundBryll Should this evening’s sortie follow the lead set by previous excursions, we shall stand in front of the Empire Club’s entrance and mock it.

LordEdmundBryll I harbour particularly fine memories of standing before the Empire Club, hurling abuse relating to the poor quality of its cigars and whores.

LordEdmundBryll On one occasion Prince Phillip himself emerged to excoriate the throng, whereupon he was met with catcalls and balloons filled with urine.

UPDATED:

LordEdmundBryll Judging by his reaction to said bombardment, Prince Phillip was disappointed but not unaccustomed to the unaromatic ordnance in use.

LordEdmundBryll Cocktail hour has now come to a close, and all assembled have begun preparing balloons for the rest of this evening’s planned revelries.

LordEdmundBryll Empire Club called the police. Details after bail hearing.

Anyway, I was just doing some housecleaning on this here bloglike device, and noticed dozens of abortive posts. Many of them exist solely as enigmatic titles, and whose prospective contents I no longer remember. Here are some of the more promising sounding ones:

• The Krankor Level of Excellence: The Reachatariat
• Bashing Leno is so easy…
• Dick
• Do Not Press This Button
• O, Lincoln, O Chariot of My Nocturnal Reveries!
• What makes you think you’re so damn special?
• INGVAR YOU ARE MINE!
• It’s fun to be evil
• I broke the Internet
• <THIS SPACE LEFT INTENTIONALLY BLANK>
• Federal bailout cheque in hand, I retire to the study to raise a glass of Night Train in celebration
• Thoughts on my experiences with the profligate, not to say fishmongering, wastrels of the reindeer infested nations of Scandanavia
• Men want to be me, and women want to have sex with me
• Iran brings the funny

Naturally, some of those are from Lord Bryll, the Captain, Daniella, etc. Speaking of Lord Bryll, there are numerous half-finished posts sentences of his floating around in the Drafts folder. For example:

Now, if you will allow me a modicum of artistic license in service to the argument I am about to make, by which allowance I hope to convey the particular strength of feeling I harbour toward the subject at hand, I wish to begin by using terminology which may be altogether too strong, not to say shocking, to those among you of more a more sensitive, or, more particularly, feminine nature, in which case I must forcefully suggest you cease reading this missive before I reach the point where I employ the word “fuck”, I offer my most considered and, as I shall explained, well informed opinion that Scandanavians, and in particular those of a Norwegianic persuasion, are fishmongering shit-arses. Yes, quite, hmm.

Now, my assertion, shocking though it may be, particularly if you are unaccustomed to such frank discourse, is of course based upon a wealth of personal experience and, naturally, rather exuberant predjudice.

And this near-classic:

As I quickly approach the anniversary of my birth, which those among you with some unwarranted but nevertheless flattering curiosity should note is sufficiently advanced to claim a degree of wisdom and dignity but not of a vintage which would indicate a loss of understanding of the cultural mores of the day, leaving aside the rather horrible music the kids listen to these days, I am reminded of a time in my younger years, specifically here referring to my frolicking boyhood, whence I would dream of the clever wooden toys and carefully wrapped parcels of tobacco and rock salt that would inevitably be gifted upon your humble servant at the break of dawn on said anniversary. Hm, yes, hmm. Quite.

And finally, this little slice of fried gold:

An altogether admirable man, whom I had the distinct privilege of knowing as an amicable acquaintance, not to say friend, once observed that money cannot buy happiness, but being wealthy is in all circumstances preferable to being destitute and poor. Ha! Ha! He also said some rather controversial things about the Chinaman, as well, upon which I am disinclined to elaborate or dwell here out of respect for our esteemed Oriental friends, given the altogether unflattering, not to say slanderous, nature of said comments. But I digress…

If you ever get a friend invite from him on Facebook, my advice is to just ignore him.

By popular demand, I’m introducing a new feature that will make Krankor 27.43% more interactive and also bring us into compliance with DoD 5015.02-STD (our auditors tell us we need this to get ISO 9000 certification).

So, in the comments below, I invite you to ask any question you like of any of the Krankor stable of unstable personalities. No topic is off limits, though I strongly suggest you don’t get into Daniella’s sex life.

Our panel consists of:

• Krankor, your gracious host
• Lord Edmund Bryll
• Daniella A. Apple
• Lady Edwina Bryll
• Ingvar Jævel
• Ales Hemsky
• The Captain

Ask away. No question will go unanswered.

by Lord Edmund Bryll, inventor of Brylcreem

Shortly after the yuletide season, which one may rest assured passed in luxurious splendour and with generous helpings of good cheer, not to say rum, I was moved to pen an important and altogether timely treatise on the so-called crisis that is gripping the woefully unprepared economies of the world. My intent in scribing said missive was, and indeed shall be should I ever rouse myself to the task, particularly focused on the horseless carriage industry and its imprecations to government in order to secure substantial amounts, not to say scads, of taxpayer dollars for the wholly righteous and just purpose of keeping the barons of said industry provisioned with luxuries and the finest practitioners of the prostitutive arts. I have, owing to my spectacular curriculum vitae and all its attendant experiences and contacts, both personal and professional, much to offer on the subject and, in particular, insights into how some of the original captains of the automobile industry may have responded. Henry Ford, with whom I shared a special bond on account of having deflowered two of his sisters, would have been especially appalled at the site of his corporate descendants, cap in hand, begging the state for charity, when it would be apparent, at least in dear Henry’s eyes, that somehow international Jewry was to blame. Come to think of it, Henry blamed international Jewry for everything from hangnails to gelatin desserts of an insufficiently wobbly consistency, so perhaps his views on the current situation would not be particularly probative. Right, yes, hmm.

Lamentably, I did not find sufficient time to put pen to paper, nor was my delectable, not to say dickable, personal assistant available to take dictation, owing to some familial crisis or the vapours or some other mysterious feminine megrim. But! I hear you cry, how is it possible that the vaunted Lord Edmund Bryll, inventor of Brylcreem and former plenipotentiary for the King, publishes his concise words of wisdom and, if I allow myself a small modicum of vanity, wit, on this electronic network called the Internet? As is my understanding, once I have committed my words to paper, be it via my deft penmanship or else through my personal assistant’s expertise with the type writing machine, said paper is then sent via post to the estimable Mr. Krankor, who, and here I am making some assumptions since I am not altogether up to speed on the way of doing these things, ships them to India where low-cost sweatshop workers in their hundreds or even thousands convert my words into electrons. One can safely assume, if you hadn’t already, that any mistakes, grammatical or otherwise, are the result of inattentive labourers, possibly owing to indigestion caused by the spicy but otherwise inedible local cuisine. Yes, are there any questions no then let’s move on.

Until very recently, I maintained very limited contact with computing devices of all kinds, largely due to the fact that their operation tends to achieve things which I believe are best left to my dedicated servants, but also because an Aborigine fellow I once knew swore that all electronic devices could capture one’s soul. Guffaw if you must, but evidently some of us care more about the disposition of our eternal souls than the scofflaws among us. However, not to say but, I fear I may have surrendered my immortal non-corporeal existence owing to an accidental, but satisfyingly diverting, discovery that the Internet appears to be a singularly rich source of photography of women in the altogether. Indeed, at this very moment I am instantly presented with countless pictures of a most provocative, not to say erotic, not to say erectionogenic, nature. I cannot overemphasise the impact this revelation has had on both my attitude toward computers and my ability to concentrate on what I am, that is to say, perhaps altogether, not to say… Yes. Well, hmm. I must go for now.

• Inspired by those clowns who decided to send Joe the Plumber to Israel to “report” on the conflict there, I’ve been in touch with Ingvar and he has agreed to be our correspondent at Obama’s inauguration, representing Krankor Media. Assuming it all goes well — and you’d be a drooling moron to assume otherwise, I think –  he may end up being sent on assignment to more dangerous locales. Like Detroit.
• Lord Edmund Bryll sent me a text message the other day. Well, it was too long for a single SMS, so it was split up a bit: fucker cost me $800 in message surcharges from Telus. Anyway, the gist of it is that he’s putting the finishing touches on his scholarly exploration of the proposed bailout of the auto industry, from the point of view of what his old chum Henry Ford would have said about it (something anti-Semitic, is my guess).
• Iggy casts his critical eye upon Obama’s prospective cabinet nominees and finds them lacking, to which I ask rhetorically: short of filling the spots with former Nixon cronies, who on earth could a liberal President propose that Iggy wouldn’t find wanting? (Hint: nobody) In any case, I think it’s time I had a careful look at the nominees to evaluate their credentials vis a vis the only issue that matters: zombies.
• Daniella A. Apple’s side of the story.

Don’t miss it!

I make no apologies for the esoteric, not to say peculiar, nature of the posts on this site. To the extent that it’s funny to anyone at all, I expect that my old friends get the most out of it, though even they probably think I’m a few nerds short of a sci-fi convention, so to speak. To everyone else (especially the lurkers, who number in the millions I tell you!), I can only wish you a speedy recovery from whatever fugue state has induced you to return here.

Over the last little while, a variety of “guest posters” have infiltrated the site. Again, I don’t expect that readers get much of it; I write this stuff because it strikes me as funny, which is more of an indictment of my character than anything else. I’ve also introduced these characters without a word of explanation, and tend to cross-reference posts and go meta with wild abandon, which must be utterly befuddling to anyone who doesn’t read every post carefully (approximately 0 readers).

So, as a kind of ex post facto explanation, below the fold is a brief blurb on each of the guest posters and where they come. Read on if you dare care.

Lord Edmund Bryll, inventor of Brylcreem
Date of Birth: Circa 1991

Inspired by a history professor I had once and his oddly circumloquatious and distinctly British mannerisms. He had a tendency to ramble on about nothing in particular, and then the important information (the stuff that was going to be on the exam) would spill forth in a hasty, incomprehensible mumble at the end kindoflikethisyouseeandthiswillbeontheexamofcourserightarethereanyquestionsnolet’smoveon. He spent half a semester expounding on the British Lords of Trade, many of whom had particularly comical names like Earl Millicent Chesterfield Penisworth Farquhar or Sir Jonathon Venerealdiseasington (or at least, that’s what I wrote on the exam). Given the professor’s blustery demeanor, coupled with his apparent affection for applying hair jelly by the handful, Lord Edmund Bryll, inventor of Brylcreem, as born. Yes, well, hmm.

Oh yes, and the gentleman whose picture I chose to represent Lord Edmund is a British industrialist, Sir William George Armstrong, 1st Baron Armstrong. The real Lord Edmund, or rather the professor who inspired him, had a great shaggy white mustache to go with the extravagant sideburns, but I couldn’t find anyone better than the Baron.

Lady Edwina Bryll, wife of Lord Edmund Bryll
Date of Birth: 2008

Pretty simple, really: Lord Edmund Bryll frequently mentioned his spouse, so here she is. Now, as it happens, the real Lord Edmund Bryll was married to (and at the time, estranged from) another history professor who was, shall we say, slightly dippy. Charming, but just a bit kooky.

She is represented by a self-portrait of photographer Frances Benjamin Johnston.

Daniella A. Apple
Date of Birth: 2008

Inspired by the revelation that a passing acquaintance of mine, whom I consider to be crazier than a bagfull of rabid squirrels, was running in the Federal Election. No, I’m not going to provide any hints as to who it actually is, since this person is highly litigious and I have no desire to stick my hand back in the crazy. She’s also partly inspired by the crazy meth lady who wanders up and down 99th Street shouting at cars, and she is also reminiscent of a variety of Internet kooks, anti-capitalist weirdos, and conspiracy theorists out there.

She’s obsessed with Norwegians the way some nutjobs fixate on Jews or Arabs or whatever. Norwegians seemed pretty harmless and a more peculiar fixation.

Deershit Hills-Landfill Gultch is an both an obvious lowbrow joke and a more arcane satirization of some of the bizarre hybrid names used for ridings in Federal and Provincial elections.

Her picture is actually a random mugshot I found using Google Image Search.

Ingvar Jævel, foreign exchange student from Kongsvinger, Norway
Date of Birth: 2008

Proof that Daniella A. Apple isn’t just imagining the vast Norwegian conspiracy! He was pretty much supposed to be a throwaway character, to bolster Daniella’s paranoia. The reaction among readers was so harsh, however, that I had to bring him back and dial up the obnoxiousness even further. In broad strokes, he’s the arrogant European who looks down his nose on American (and Canadian) society, but who has absorbed much more of it than he realizes.

He’s also an almagam of several sources: an old friend from Germany who was an exchange student at our high school (great guy, and not at all like Ingvar, but nevertheless was often puzzled at our Canuck weirdness); Patrick Thoresen, former Oilers player and one of only a handful of Norwegians who ever played in the NHL; and, completely unintentionally, Borat. Seriously, I didn’t realize how Borat-like Ingvar was becoming until I re-read the Megachurch post, and any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

Kongsvinger is a real small city in Norway, which I know absolutely nothing about. “Jævel” may or may not mean “bastard” in Norwegian, depending on the accuracy of the Internet translation I used.

Ingvar hasn’t shown his face yet, but he does like to use exclamation marks! It’s more obnoxious that way!

See if you can guess which four. Here are some hints: two I only know because their videos went viral, one I know because of a minor controversy, and the other is just so ubiquitous that even I couldn’t avoid it (as much as I wish I could). The first person to correctly guess which four gets a condescending photocopied letter of appreciation from some charity I got roped into donating to.

As regards this time of year, which you should not fail to note is of a festive nature, owing to the impending occurance of the Christmas holiday celebrating the birth of our Lord and Saviour, those of us of higher, not to say superior, breeding turn our thoughts to sheltering portions of personal income through the judicious application of particular charitable donations. Said donations not only confer financial benefits upon ourselves, but may indeed provide some incidental degree of relief to the purported recipients of charity, though one must acknowledge that it hardly matters as the lower classes will almost certainly use the aforementioned largesse for the purposes of injecting recreational pharmaceuticals into their circulatory systems and, if we should be so lucky, expiring of their own accord. Right, yes, hmm. Thus wise, we should feel altogether good, not to say altruistic, about tax-deductible donations to our inferiors, as is the spirit of the season don’t you know. There’s a good fellow.

Now, it is with this purpose in mind, and also in service of a strategy to avoid the taint of the Madoff imbruglio, that I herein announce the commencement of operations of the Lord Edmund Bryll Charitable Foundation to Benefit Those of Lower Breeding and Lesser Value to Society, which agency shall be administered by my lovely and intelligent wife, Lady Edwina Bryll, and which will, I sincerely hope, provide significant societal benefit by sheltering particularly troublesome portions of my income. Should any of the funds raised by the Lord Edmund Bryll Charitable Foundation to Benefit Those of Lower Breeding and Lesser Value to Society reach their nominal beneficiaries, as unlikely as that circumstance may in fact be assuming that Lady Edwina is suitably meticulous in the execution of her duties, you may rest assured that the undeserving wretches will be sufficiently burdened with caveats and qualifying activies that they shall not reapply for relief.

As the largest donor and, naturally, beneficiary of the Lord Edmund Bryll Charitable Foundation to Benefit Those of Lower Breeding and Lesser Value to Society, I have already done my part for society, and yet I shall not rest on my laurels nor permit anyone else to abdicate their duty to their fellow man. Consequently, not to say therefore, I am imploring my vast and altogether generous readership to donate liberally to the Lord Edmund Bryll Charitable Foundation to Benefit Those of Lower Breeding and Lesser Value to Society, for only your generosity can truly ensure an altogether merry Christmas to all of the recipients of the Lord Edmund Bryll Charitable Foundation to Benefit Those of Lower Breeding and Lesser Value to Society. Should the circumstance arise that you fail to give generously, said failure manifesting itself in the circumstance of not donating in excess of $1,000 before December 25th, you will almost certainly cause the infant incarnation of Jesus to weep at your heartless, not to say skinflint, nature. Also, Santa Claus will turn your children toward communism.

So at this time of celebration and joy, please reach deep inside your pocketbooks, or, as the case may be, purses, and give to the Lord Edmund Bryll Charitable Foundation to Benefit Those of Lower Breeding and Lesser Value to Society, which donation will elicit a note of remarkable resemblance to an authentic tax-deductible receipt, and a beautiful photostatic facsimile of a hand-written notice of appreciation from the eponymous founder of the organization, carefully folded and inserted into an envelope of the finest paper stock available in bulk. For is that not what the Christmas season is all about? Yes, right, quite so.