Make yourself, er, scarce

It started out…

…as any number of conversations do, reasonably. It meandered away into the funny, bizarre, off-the-wall, odd and macabre. As any number of conversations do.

BLISS: Can we have a sign that says something like, if the dogs eat your face, that’s your tough luck you didn’t have to come here? [That’s a very poor misrepresentation of what she said, but it was along those lines.]

ME: I’m sure we can do better than that.

We went off on some predictable tangents, although she does seem to have parked, if not abandoned the landmine idea. These included boiling oil (BLISS) and those heads on spike things that tend to focus unwanted guests’ attention (Me, probably one episode of Game of Thrones too many).

So I did what anyone else would do. Right. Google images.

This is nice:

 

Although I prefer this:

But this is the best, from an ex-Marine tired of the lack of respect he was being shown:

 

The Hurricane

The Incredible Randomness of Being (a recurring theme).

Mr BO’S arrived at nets yesterday, music playing.

“What’s that?” asked Rich. “Bob Dylan. Hurricane.”

From there we talked about the case, the shocking waste of life and talent that is banging the wrong man up for twenty years, on the basis of little other than vindictiveness, spite, and race.

Today I’ve listened to the Desire album, been reminded of how good it is, and what a stand-out song it has in Hurricane. Later I may watch The Hurricane again. I watched the film some time ago, but only realised that it was based on the true, appalling story when the final credits made that clear.

“Hate got me in here. Love set me free.”