SPOT THE REAL SADDAM

Most people would say the gent on the right is Saddam but actually it is me, Lyin' Brian. It was taken in 1981 just after Prince Charles had me released from Brixton Prison on condition I have a face transplant and leave London immediately for Saudi Arabia.

I agreed since I always wanted to visit the Desert Kingdom and travel there first class in the Prince's Royal Jet. My only regret was that Princes Di and I couldn't consummate our mutual passion, but that's life! (The tragic story of how Diana was denied the royal screwing of her life by a jealous Charles is told in the post Diana was (almost) My Lover (Click on previous post in left-hand column).

The gent in the middle is a maker of bathtub gin and cheap wine in Pata de Gallina. He goes under the name, Lord Asshole.

The guy on the left is a Freedom Fighter and great good friend, Osama bin Laden, whom I met while working in King Faud's employ as the official supplier of fat boys to the Royal Household. He's got a great sense of humour and breaks me up with his stories.

NO NEW FORMAT

NEW FORMAT NOT FOR US
We have been receiving complaints from a blooger (Lord Asshole) who says, falsely, that this blog is a parody of his and makes totally false statements about him under his name. In order to not "interfere" with my blog, he has changed his format and now accepts advertisements.

We have decided to NOT follow suit, Our blog is perfect the way it is, and we will continue to post true tales about Lyin' Brian and the Ducksplatt del Pantherpiss wines and alcoholic concoctions. WHAT DO YOU THINK?

NEW FRANCHISE AVAILABLE
We have decided to franchise our winery/distillery operation around the Caribbean. The first fully licensed franchise is available now. It is our hugely popular Ducksplat del Pantherpiss winery in Pata de Gallina on the North Coast of The Dominican Republic. We will get you up and running and producing revenue before you realize whether your asshole is punched, bored, or eaten out by the greedy tax people at Direcion General de Impuestos Internos.

What's more, we'll be on hand to provide ongoing assistance in the way of advice on ways to smuggle in supplies without paying import tax, getting the most out of native staff at the lowest possible wage, how to properly discipline them when they get uppity demanding back pay, and surefire ways to avoid paying bills, wages, and taxes that can eat into your profits.

Apply now - You may just have what it takes. Other areas available: Santiago and surrounding area, Santo Domingo and the South Coast.

contact: lyinbrian@blogspot.com

Drink Ducksplat del Pantherpiss
Drink responsibly
Drink only ours

The Hanging Bridge of Pata de Gallina

This is the famous Hanging Bridge of Pata de Gallina, a few minutes drive from my winery/distillery. In the picture can be seen the body of an executed criminal shown dangling from the world-renowned gibbet.

I don't know who the criminal was but likely someone who attempted to flee Coyotes Bar and Grill without paying for his shot of Ducksplatt del Pantherpiss!
(Just kidding, Ha Ha)

lyinbrian@blogspot.com

Ducksplatt del Pantherpiss
Drink Responsibly
Drink Only Ours

A SCROLL OF HONOUR

While I worked and lived in Saudi Arabia I received a special certificate that I treasure. As you all know I’m known, affectionately, just about everywhere as ‘Brian, the utter asshole.’

Tomorrow, or one day soon, I’ll begin posting excerpts from my journal that you will find utterly dumbfounding, because they show in a frank way how I earned the appellation. But let me start at the beginning.

In Saudi Arabia during the sixties and seventies, I set up the communication system that allowed the Royal Palace to have instant communication with the prison for pederasts and the supply train of young boys and concubines. Among my many accomplishments while dealing with the royal household, I met and became fast friends with Osama bin Laden who was also trying to give them the business. This has nothing to do with this story but it illustrates how I quickly I make new friends when I move on to new career opportunities.

In Riyadh, the people I had business dealings wi­th, Bell Telephone executives, Royal Princes, mullahs running the administration of King Faud, etc., quickly slipped into the habit of referring to me as ‘half-assed Wales’. They were speaking Arabic, of course, but I was picking up the language quickly, and whenever the sobriquet was uttered, I would reply in a jesting tone, suggesting they were the spawn of an Egyptian whore and a rabid dog. It was all in good fun, of course, and it never got beyond playful slaps on the buttocks with the flat side of the blade, and kicks and punches in the groin area with a tassellated foot.

But one day in my Buzhkazi Court, my life changed completely. On a Buzhkazi court, usually the size of football field, teams of horsemen with polo sticks kick around the headless body of an executed criminal that has usually been soaked in water all night to make the hide tough. But owing to size restrictions, my gym had to serve as my Buzhkazi court and players (usually just two of us playing on foot) knocked around just the head of an executed criminal.

On this day my opponent was Prince Abdul Abubal Amir, one of the Desert Kingdom’s five thousand princes, and our game consisted of kicking around the head of a communications equipment supplier who had foolishly insisted one being paid. (You just DON’T do that here when you are supplying the Royal Kingdom with equipment or services of any kind!)

After our game (I won by playing a tight game), we relaxed in my gym’s reception area. Arabs don’t drink, at least not in public, but this night, Prince Abdul, got roaring drunk on an experimental home-brew I was developing at the time (an early version of Ducksplatt del Pantherpiss). I kept my consumption moderate, as usual, but in his inebriated state Abdul became quite funny and gave voluble expression to his suggestion that I had graduated from half-assed to FULL ASSHOLE status! I had been hoping for such a change in status ever since arriving, because elsewhere before and after working in Saudi Arabia, my appellation had always been in more fulsome terms.

I knew he was serious and not just buttering me up, when he pulled out from within his robes, a folded scroll tied with a yellow ribbon. Beaming, he unrolled it for me. The elaborate scroll was in gold-embossed Arabic, but as noted above, I had been studying the language and could read and understand much of it. Everything I had hoped for was on the scroll! Not only was my status as FULL asshole acknowledged but, in addition, I was henceforth to be known as Wales, LORD Asshole!

It was at this moment of high emotion, I asked the Prince to accompany me to my wife’s quarters so that he might in person relay to her the good news. After introductions, I excused myself for a moment as I felt a bit tired after the game of Buzhkazi and felt a few minutes lying down was in order. I left the Prince with my darling wife, feeling she was safe and in good hands.

Well, an hour later I returned and I understood what the word betrayal means. The Prince and my wife were on a settee and he had a hand over hers while they were deep in conversation. In Arab countries and especially in Saudi Arabia, an Arab speaking privately with a married woman, not his wife whether veiled or not, in such a setting is as much as asking her to commit adultery with him.

I have a placid disposition but when I surveyed the scene, I confess my normal, calm demeanour deserted me for a moment. I drew myself to my full 6’ 2” height, threw down my glove, and facing Prince Abdul, said, “Sir! I suspect your intentions are not honourable! I demand you meet me in the jousting pit at 6.00 AM, tomorrow, for a fight to the death, which contest will decide who is the better man!!!!”

Of course, I have a Buzhkazi Court (a house-sized one) but a jousting pit is not something I can conjure up, overnight. And my wife, jabbing and blabbering away as usual, interjected,

“But Brian, we don’t have a jousting pit!” Furious, I turned to her and cut her off with a thunderous look. I said, “ENOUGH Woman! Go to your room!” I would deal with this in my own manner.

When I turned again to Prince Abdul, to my astonishment he had disappeared! Despite his flowing robes and inebriated state he had managed to escape my presence in the second or two I had turned away from him to reprimand my wife. Arabs can sure move fast when caught in a compromising situation by a real man!

But it was clear I could no longer remain in Saudi Arabia. I had challenged a royal prince to a duel, but he had cowardly run away without accepting. In such a situation, the only honourable thing for the Arab to do, royal blood or not, is to have his opponent’s neck slit within 24 hours by a denizen of Riyadh’s underworld.

As it happened, that night my friend Osama bin Laden was in charge of a camel train departing for Afghanistan. My wife and I hitched a ride as far as Riyadh’s International Airport where we caught a plane for Spain. In our hasty departure, we had time enough to pick up only our papers, passports, and the day’s cash receipts of the communication company I worked for. But I also had the embossed scroll that Prince Abdul had presented me! I will treasure it as long as I live. It now hangs in the place of honour over my desk in my Pata de Gallina office.

FABULOUS WINE TASTING EVENT
Yesterday, I told you about my fabulous wine tasting event in Sosua where my special offerings, etc., got rave reviews from the sophisticated locals.

There was only one disagreeable incident during the otherwise fabulous event, when one man after taking a sip of my famous Ducksplatt del Pantherpiss, refused to smile as I took his picture! Indeed, he had the nerve to spit it out, right onto the plate of hors d’oeuvres, an assortment of choice animal sphincters, which cost me a staggering 100,000 pesos, and that was just for the sphincters alone! It did NOT include the Christie crackers on which the sphincters were tastefully arranged!!!!!

Well, immediately I called 911, and the police soon arrived and dragged the screaming man away. I couldn’t believe that anyone could be so crass as to shout: “That swill was flavoured with rat’s assholes, NOT skunk assholes!” When he appears in court next year to face charges of making insane accusations at a prime social gathering, and using foul language to boot, I will ensure that the full force of the law is brought down upon his head!

Now, to more agreeable matters. You will remember in a previous post how I told of how I almost slept with the late, Diana, Princess of Wales. I did not tell you then, that the name ‘Wales’ in both our names is not an accident. I, in fact, am also of royal blood as my ancestors were fierce Welsh warriors in the Middle Ages. I am a direct descendant of one of the wildest, most uncontrollable, and fiercest of all the rulers of the feudal lands that now constitute modern Wales.

His name was Cadwallon ap Ieuaf. The modern English translation of this name is, “Brian, lord asshole of all the Wales”. Interestingly, Cadwallon, my ancestor, had a short reign, from 985 to 986 AD, when history tells us he was murdered by irate relatives of his wife’s for forcing her to sign over to him her inheritance. (That inheritance, by the way, was all the lands east of Wales that now constitute modern England.)

Anyway, that’s how Charles and I are related.

Now you can see why I’m glad that through the criminal actions of London’s Metropolitan Police, I was unable to sleep with Diana, as told in my post: “How I (almost) slept with Diana, Princess of Wales. "

It was perhaps lucky that we could not consummate our mutual passion, as sleeping with her would have been an act of incest, punishable by death, or banishment to Saudi Arabia, the course I would have chosen, anyway.

I haven’t time to write any more today, as a large shipment of pre-used colostomy bags has just been released from Customs and I must inspect them to ensure they were thoroughly rinsed before being re-cycled. Tomorrow, I’ll tell you how they will be used, and also, I’ll relate a fabulous encounter I had with Princess Diana, during a trip back to England shortly before her tragic death.

Ta Ta for now.
Contact me, Lyin Brian Wales, at lyinbrianwales@blogspot.com

Drink Ducksplatt del Pantherpiss
Drink responsibly
Drink only mine

OSAMA bin LADEN CRACKS ME UP!
As you all know, years ago I lived and worked in Saudi Arabia. There, I met Osama bin Laden when I arranged the wild festivities surrounding his wedding to fifty of his half-brothers' favourite concubines.

Osama and me became fast friends, and though I never saw him again after Joan and I left the desert Kingdom, we continue to exchange friendly greetings via email. I tell him of my successful winery/distillery in the Dominican Republic, and he tells warm, funny tales about what he has been up to in his Afghanistan cave.

I don’t normally tell jokes, because I often don’t get the point of them, and I will NOT tolerate them if the joke contains bad words. After all, as you all know, I am a cultured, educated Englishman. But, yesterday, Osama sent me the FUNNIEST joke, that had me in stitches, and I must tell it to you!

“On a beach in Israel, a rich Jew is strutting around displaying himself to the female sun-worshippers, but they’re not paying him the slightest attention. He approaches a lifeguard and complains that the girls are ignoring him.

The lifeguard looks him over and says, “Oych a bashefenish, Sammy! you’ve got to exchange those baggy skivvies with real tight trunks, then slip in a REALLY big avocado. The gals will go crazy over ya!”

Sammy does so, but instead of swooning over him as he struts around, the gals are retching and puking on the sand. Puzzled, he seeks out the lifeguard for an explanation.

Again, the lifeguard checks him over, and exclaims, “Oy vey, Sammy, you’re supposed to drop the avocado in the front!”

But before Sammy can exchange the avococado’s location, a Khaibar-1 rocket fired from a Hizbullah site in Lebanon lands on the beach and everyone is blown to bits.”

Oh, Osama, you’re cracking me up! But now, I have an IMPORTANT announcement!

YES, WE”RE HAVING A BIG PARTY!!!!
Yes, Yes, and YES! In the second weekend of August for each of the following ten years, we are closing down all the railway stations, airfields, etc., in Sosua, so we can hold a Taste and Buy street market, so that our fabulous wines, distillations, etc., can be sampled and bought by tourists, locals, and others with well-developed taste buds.

Sorry about the inconvenience, but you have to realize, including all you losers and native Dominicans, until I sell off 5,000 cases of Ducksplatt del Pantherpiss, I cannot continue with my noble animal sphincter experiments (adding flavoring to my collection of fine wines).

If you find this inconvenient, well, all I can ask is, PLEASE, have consideration for my position. I know all of you are determined as I that I continue to sell copious amounts of my fabulous collection of wines and distillations to keep me - the DR's finest English gentleman - in a lifestyle that serves as a model and inspiration to the world and, especially, to un-sophisticated and ignorant native Dominicans.

BTW, (and that’s not code for “Bite Tony’s Wigwam”), you can come back every Sunday at 11.00 am for the next 76 weekends, when we’ll l be selling our wines by the glass - at special prices – or by the ten gallon squeeze bottle size. REMEMBER, only US$100/litre, by the squeeze bottle, and SOON -- wait till you read this -- from re-cycled colostomy bags! Saludas!!

posted by LYIN’ BRIAN, after midnight (see next item) HOW TIME FLIES !!!!!!

HOW TIME FLIES!
I cannot believe it is Saturday morning and my last post was Monday. Doesn't time fly, as you get older? As a child, a week was an eon; now it is seven days. Anyway, we had the Quality Control Department from an exclusive resort come to our unique Ducksplatz del Pantherpiss Winery today, to make sure our process meets with their stringent health and safety requirements.

Well (no surprise), we passed with flying colors, and would get a gold certificate, when we added a certificate to our wines that the skunk assholes we used to flavor them, contained the warning,

“Over-indulgence in wine flavoured with skunk assholes could lead to cancer of your own asshole, unless you keep your consumption of wines flavoured with skunk assholes to less than twenty litres a week.”

Of course, we agreed, and when I slipped the Quality Control Team twenty pesos each for their help, all complimented me on the care and attention we take to ensure that our product is ABSOLUTELY superb!

The Manager of the Department even asked if she could come here to learn how to make real wine from rotten potato peelings, with or without skunk asshole flavoring, and I agreed, provided that she came after midnight, after everyone had gone to bed (wink, wink).

She marveled that we could make wine with refuse from the garbage dump, something she had never seen before, and to make it in a bathtub also retrieved from the dump!

She had only ever seen grape jelly and vodka wine and did not realize that the innumerable racking, degassing and filtering processes, were totally unnecessary. Live and learn, she said, as she left, but not before I gave her a gentle pat on her generous bum, and her promise to meet me at midnight.

DIANA WAS (ALMOST) MY LOVER

Yes, it true, and it came out of an exciting experience when I was a young croupier in a London casino, an experience that when I re-live it now, was just magical! But first, allow me to get a bit sentimental by showing you an early picture of me

Yes, I know, you are finding it hard to believe that this is a picture of me, Lyin’ Brian Wales, but it’s one of my favourites. It's a picture I took of myself in one of those Soho photo kiosks when I was just a kid of 17. Whenever I see it, my eyes invariably mist over, but I know you will forgive me, as you know what a sentimental fool I am.You see, it takes me back to those wonderful days when my character was developing and I was learning the basic skills of surviving in a world where nothing comes for free (unless you manage to con a heiress into marrying you and get her to sign it all over to you).

Obviously, I was a handsome dog even then, when I was a carefree hustler-in-training working for a pimp in London's East End. To me, it's a wonderful picture taken when my character was developing, one that Joan (my future and now late wife) always carried in her change purse, and I in my wallet (that is, until police searchung my person during a later arraignment, noticed that it bore a remarkable resemblance to a certain middle-Eastern terrorist, and I thought it prudent, thereafter, to not carry it around with me).Well, now to get on with the story:

It begins with the arraignment referred to above. That day, April One 1982, also happened to be my birthday, and it was a day of police INFAMY. It was the day I was arrested by the police on the utterly FALSE charge of attempting to violate the cleavage of a Member of the Royal Family. I hang my head in shame, not for myself, but for the London Metropolitan Police , the rascals of which, tried to bring down a true English gentleman, a lover of truth and beauty, one who never knowingly spoke a profanity in his WHOLE life, and has dedicated his life, as God is my witness, to bringing truth and justice to the English-speaking world. But, again, I digress.

HOW I (ALMOST) SLEPT WITH DIANA, PRINCESS OF WALES!

Here it is:You all know that I met Osama bin Laden when Joan, my late wife and I lived in Saudi Arabia , and that Osama and I became fast friends. (We still exchange jokes over the internet and he has me almost dying laughing over some of his stories. Speaking of dying, it wasn't a laughing matter, peculiar perhaps, that when Joan died suddenly in bed while we were visiting our daughter who lived in Spain. She died, evidently, of asthma, or maybe it was a bad cup of tea, no one seems to know.)

I’ll bet you didn’t know that before that, Joan and I were working in Napoleon’s Casino and Restaurant in London, England, Joan as a waitress, and I as a croupier. It was at Napoleon's where I honed all the skills necessary for my continuing career as a con-artist, hustler, card shark, double-dealer, cheater, philanderer, swindler, etc.

It was there, too, after my croupier shift ended, I learned all the skills of quality cooking, where in the vast kitchens of Napoleon’s, my critical eye observed how the cooks made fabulous meals from the carcasses of road kill brought in by London bus and lorry drivers. (It was also where I learned how to use small animal sphincters as flavouring, years later in my fabulous Ducksplatz del Pantherpiss wines in the Dominican Republic).

But, again, I’m getting ahead of my story. Now, I want to tell you of how I met the late Diana, Princess of Wales, and HOW, almost, but not quite, I slept with her! When Charles was out making speeches about some silly cause or other, Diana would be a frequent guest in the Casino, ‘sowing her wild oats’, as it were.

One night, she was at my table playing wild-card poker, when her ever-roving eye caught a glimpse of the massive bulge in my pants. As she gave me a sly ‘come-hither’ look, I leaned over the table and had a deep look at her fabulous cleavage. I leaned over so far, in fact, one of the marked cards in the deck I was holding (an ace of hearts as it happened) accidentally fell into the deep exposed valley between Diana's creamy boobs, and in my desperation, made the mistake of trying to fish it out!

Well, ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE as two of Diana's bodyguards frog-marched me out of the casino and into a waiting police car! Before the night was over I had been charged with, “Indecently Fondling the Exposed Mammaries of a Royal Princess Without Express Permission”. Before I could even say, “Holy Cupcake, Miranda!” I found myself in a dank cell of the ‘Croupier Compound’ in Brixton prison.

Of course, the incident made its way into the tabloids and those sleazy bastards of the press cruelly mocked me and tried to make theatre of my innocent fishing game in Diana’s cleavage. But I had the last laugh, as the incident led to Diana and I (almost) becoming lovers, and WHAT’S MORE I HAVE HER LETTERS TO PROVE IT!

Any doubting Thomases, thinking this is all made up, here’s the story that appeared in the London Daily Star, 15 October 1991, written by the famous Marjorie Proops, the Star's Social Correspondent.

DIANA'S SHOCKING AFFAIR WITH JAILED CROUPIER

London, 10 December, AP. Fleet Street and Royals watchers are in frenzy over the latest in a series of scandals to emerge out of the Royal Household and those who were close to Diana, Princess of Wales. Still reeling from the sordid details of previous royal peccadilloes, this latest bombshell is certain to cause a sensation and provide more ammunition for those parasites of the press and others who make their dirty living sensationalizing the latest 'folie de jour' by members of the Royal Family.

I had the extreme good fortune to have an exclusive interview with Lyin’ Brian Wales when I was able to slip into Brixton prison last Wednesday evening. On a pretext, I told the gatekeeper that I was on a service call to change the sperm oil in the lamps that continually burn at 50-foot intervals along the perimeter of the forbidding walls that enclose Brixton prison. This ploy has always stood me on good stead whenever I need immediate access to any of Her Majesty's prisons to interview inmates for an exclusive story such as this one.

Lyin Brian, though now in drab prison garb rather than the spiffy tight pants of a croupier in a London Casino, is a ruggedly handsome, masculine man, who I could well imagine might easily turn the head of the headstrong and lonely princess, especially one like her who had a penchant for liaisons with any male who could "turn her on," so to speak.

I must admit he had my ‘thingy’ tingling as I slipped into his cell, my sperm oil lamp burning low and casting seductive shadows over the rugged stones of his tiny cell in the ‘croupier-isolation’ section of Brixton prison. I established my bone fides and Lyin’ Brian agreed to answer honestly and completely my questions after I had given him my assurances that I wasn't using him to make cheap journalism. Then we got down to business (not "monkey business", though' I blush to confess I wouldn't have minded had he made the suggestion).

From a box under his bunk, he pulled out a large sheaf of letters. These were tied with a pink ribbon and with a look of tender regard he loosed the strings and handed me the top one. "Look at this," he said.

I quickly read through. Written on a plain, white notepad, it had no royal emblem or anything to suggest it was from a royal princess. And it was in pencil and written clumsily in block letters. 'Lyin’ Brian’ (he insisted I call him by his first name) then explained that in later conversations with the princess before she died, she didn't want forensic experts to connect any of the letters with her.

I readily acquiesced with his understandable concern that evil persons would take advantage of her naiveté. But I reeled while reading the words in the letter! This is an exclusive as I type and I blush that a Royal Princess would write such un-royal trash! Behold:

"Dear Lyin’ Brian Wales (the first letter said), How about you an me gettin' our thingys together some Sat Eve after a few beers in the in the Royal Casino’s bistro, Whaddaya say, you hot, fuckin' croupier, YOU!" I was shocked, but I knew it was genuine because I recognized the signature, "Diana, Princess of Wales."

Stunned, I looked quickly through several other letters handed to me by Lyin’ Brian, one by one. All of Diana's notes were written in the same earthy language that, I suppose, Diana felt appropriate to use in her love letters to her randy croupier paramour. They were sensational and I knew he had Fleet Street, not to mention Wall Street, by the short and curlies with them!

Lyin’ Brian wants at least one million pounds for each letter and I had to assure him, they're worth every penny if he can verify that they are genuine, as I know they are. My pulse was racing as he gave me a gentle pat on my behind as we parted, our fortune soon to be realized. My thingy was wet with desire, but I knew we could not indulge our passion until we had at least sold the first letter. The News of the World first, then with Lord Black, The Canadian Crossover, in the Telegraph.”

The above column, splashed over page 1 of the London Daily Star was signed, Marjorie Proops, Chief Social Correspondent. After this story appeared, not surprisingly, I was soon released from Brixton prison on a Royal Warrant, signed by Prince Charles, himself. The only condition was that I had to endure an immediate, overnight face transplant, and relocate “quickly” to Saudi Arabia.

I had little choice but to agree to the terms of my release, though I demanded, and got, 200,000 pounds in compensation for the inconvenience of having to leave England within twenty-four hours. Well, there you have it. What else could I have done!

Voice your opinions in Comments or email me at: avocadolyin@blogspot.com

Drink Ducksplatz del Pantherpiss
Drink responsibly
Drink Only Ours

Do Dominican Waiters Always Have To Swear So Much? (after, and apologies to, the Onion)

By Lyin' Brian
15 August, 2006 |

Is it I, Lord Asshole, or has the restaurant industry really started to slide in professionalism? I go out to a high-class restaurant like Quixote's to see if they’re selling any of my Ducksplatz fine wines, give the waitress a couple of slaps on the ass to get her moving, and all of a sudden I'm an English f–ing a–hole and a motherf–ing jerk who should go to hell. Is this what I'm paying good money for?

Has our Dominican culture sunk so low that profanity has replaced common courtesy in dining out?

I'd like to shrug it off, but it's so prevalent these days I just can't ignore it.

I'm an excellent cook but because my wife can rarely get my meals ready precisely when I want them, I have to eat out, and I must say I love to eat out. It relaxes me to look over the menu for an hour, hour and a half, asking specific, pointed questions about every ingredient of every dish. I feel discerning when sending back bottle after bottle of wine that’s not MY wine, spitting out my merlot in disgust, only to settle on the first one they brought to the table and ask why they bothered with that other swill instead of serving my Ducksplatz, which they should have done in the first place. It's all part of the fine-dining experience.

What I don't like is the trend of waitresses talking like longshoremen, usually about a half hour into my meal. I snap my fingers, whistle as loud as I can, or, if that doesn't work, shout "Yo!" a dozen or so times just to get a properly folded napkin, and, once again, the cursing begins.

The thing that gets me is that they always start off sweet as pie, like you knew them your whole life. Greeting me warmly, asking if I would like a drink, what have you. But soon enough they stop chuckling at my witty remarks about their cleavage and, if they’re pregnant, “do you have a bun in the oven and maybe you’d like me to warm it up?” They no longer smile when I keep asking them if they think it's funny that a “thumbs up” doesn’t mean approval as in the DR, but “Up Yours!” in France. And if they're black, forget about it! It's as if those people never heard a joke in their life.

Look, I can expect a little foul language maybe in a bar in Pata de Gallina, but I hold a restaurant with real plants such as those in Sosua to a higher standard. When I express my displeasure with a dish by slowly letting it all fall out of my mouth into a large chewed-up mass on the table, I expect a little understanding and humility, not huffing and puffing and remarks about my questionable British parentage.

I understand they're only human, and humans, especially pregnant Dominican native women, make mistakes. But you know what? They have no right to take their personal hang-ups out on me. As professionals, and more important, in the name of common courtesy, they should leave their anger behind those swinging doors—and I tell them that.

You'd think a little reality check would put things in perspective for them, but no: When the main course arrives, they slam the plates down on my table and hotfoot it back to the kitchen. Then I have to go back to the kitchen myself to point out the five things I already found wrong with my entrée.

Then, invariably, their managers, the ones who are supposed to be setting an example, threaten to ban me with a profanity or two thrown in for good measure. It's unbelievable! I didn't make the mistake! I try to break the ice with a light-hearted quip, such as "Maybe a butter knife up your ass would change your mind. You're probably used to having things up there anyway."

But even these efforts at communication on my part are rarely successful. Apparently, in today's world, a civil tongue has gone the same way as respect for the customer.

Ducksplatz del Pantherpiss
Drink responsibly
Drink only ours

avocadolyin@blogspot.com

THOROUGHLY PISSED OFF IN PARADISE

WHAT A WEEK!!!
Last Thursday, I was busy in my backyard distillery/winery inspecting a rack of skunk ass****s to add flavoring to a batch of Oaken Whiskey to be delivered on Friday to one of the Top All-Inclusive Hotels in Sosua. Suddenly, in the midst of my disciplining and knocking down a pregnant Dominican employee for letting a weasel’s ass**** get into the mixture (I fired her on Friday), a squad of the IMPUESTOS INTERNOS arrived, unannounced! Normally, these crooked shakedown artists just take a case of my finest wine, Ducksplatz del Pantherpiss, but on this day, these Dominican bandits wanted more. Yes, it’s hard to believe, but it was soon apparent they wanted more! MUCH, MUCH MORE! …

Ramos, the chief shakedown thug, then said something unbelievable: "We want a sample bottle of all your products including RON (RUM) etc. that you produce." We do not make rum but I said, “Here is a bottle of every product we do produce, but since your order was below my minimum requirement, we would have to charge a higher price.” Well, you should have heard his unbelievable reply! All of a sudden I'm a slimy-limey English f–ing a–hole and a motherf–ing jerk who should go to hell because he’ll never pay for anything I have to supply free! As you all know, I don’t use profanity, and I have not the teeniest idea what his presumably foul words meant. But to avoid further trouble, I gave him two cases of my finest. Oh dear! I know I’ll never collect and I wonder where the barbecue will be this weekend? (wink, wink)

Now here's the funny part: They also wanted to confiscate the flavouring part of the wine (sphincters of selected small animals) and check the process we use! These idiots have no concept of how real wines, like ours, are made. Their utter ignorance was displayed a couple of months ago when they asked, "where do you buy the alcohol to put into your wine”. When I report to them on Monday, maybe I’ll include a couple of cases of bread yeast, “levadura” in Spanish. With that stuff you can even turn Panther Piss into alcohol. (No, that’s not what I use in my own special brand of Pantherpiss). Anyway, my licence says nothing about providing these bandits with freebies every month, or how I get the alcohol into the wine.

My wine is made from grape-flavoured jelly (or equivalent) to which water and then alcohol, produced by fermenting potato peelings, and flavoured with animal sphincters, is added. If you are drinking my wine, at least at most of the ALL INCLUSIVE hotels, you can be sure it’s genuine because it’s served from a plastic bag, using air to force it out. This only adds to its indescribable taste! The cost of my wine served from a plastic bag is only about US$100 a litre. Those who insist it be served from a 755 ml bottle are using the same great ingredients but, of course, are paying a little more.

NEXT
One day earlier this last week - I think it was Wednesday - I was delivering some wine to my best private customer in Sosua (the POLICE CHIEF), when I was approached by a rep. from the Department of Health in Puerto Plata. He showed me a new certificate, that they want me to display, to whit: STAFF AND PREMISES HAVE BEEN INSPECTED AND ALL ASSHOLES MEET DOMINICAN STANDARDS. Can you believe it?? The head honchos in Santo Domingo would sign this so-called ‘certificate’.

Now, I was warned by Santo Domingo, earlier, to beware the people from Puerto Plata - they will try to shake you down. Anyway, this so-called rep. was quite prepared to come to my premises there and then and give me the new paper. I said I was too busy and said he should come on Friday at 11:27:47 precisely. Surprise! Surprise! He turned up at 11.29.38, apologizing for being late. THEN, by God, after filling out a few forms, he told me we have to go to Puerto Plata, to a different Laboratory to do all the tests again! Whilst we are ‘Nationally’ approved - we are not 'Provincially’ approved - The cost is 1500 pesos for the piece of paper, plus the test costs. However, if I pay him for his work - HE WILL DO THE TESTS ON OUR BEHALF - I chose the latter. Let's wait for the 'NEW DOCUMENT' - Hope he passes the tests.

If you do not believe this stuff - come here and try to run a business - BRIBARY is what makes this economy - NOT run. Imagine a Government employee driving a 2007 LEXUS 4WD - and he's only a tax inspector - or maybe that is why!!

If only Leonel started to run his Country like a normal business, they would be way ahead of the World. Just my 2 pesos worth.

TWTWTW

avocadolyin@blogspot.com

Drink Ducksplatz del Pantherpiss
Drink responsibly
Drink Only Ours

BEING PISSED OFF IN PARADISE
Today, I received another piece of HATE MAIL from a certain ‘Sister Phyllida Foxworthy’, but this time I know who this new IMPOSTER is!!!! She is really Marjorie Proops, the deceased wife of Bush-baby, AKA GWB, who is mostly dead too after sleeping with all the native sluts in this Caribbean Retirement Paradise. Marjorie will soon hear a knock on the door and it will be the POLICE coming to take her away. Ha Ha!

Anyway, here is Marjorie’s laughable ‘prayer’:

Brothers and sisters let us pray for Brother Brian and Sister Linda. For Sister Linda, that she be strong in the face of adversity, resolute in the face of disappointment and unyielding in her grasp of her own inheritance at all times.

For Brother Brian, that he repent of his evil wiles. 'Tis not his fault, O Lord, 'tis the demon drink. Forgive him for this Lord and show Thy mercy as he seeks his salvation. (1 Corinthians 6:9,10). But, sayeth the Lord, Brother Brian has mocked me! How so, O Lord?

Turning water into wine is MY job, thundered the Lord!

Forgive him, Lord, he knoweth not what he does on this occasion and indeed most of the time. Forgive him his many transgressions, his false pride, his arrogance, his boastfulness, his unwavering assumption that he knows more about all things than anyone else. Forgive him, Lord, his inability to admit ever being wrong. Forgive him his temper, which leadeth him into the path of unforeseen consequences and into the valley of the shadow of upset realtors, builders, inverter sales personnel, lawyers, sales reps. not to mention truck drivers and the public at large.

Thou knowest, Lord, how the demon drink can derange the finest of minds as well as Brother Brian's. Thou knowest, Lord, how the most elite of educations can be severely dented once its benefits have been pickled; and the run of the mill education provides scant foundation to fight the demon drink. Thou knowest, Lord, that thy servant Brother Brian is doubly misguided. Yea, not only does he imbibe Satan's temptation he now conspires to make it, or something which may loosely resemble it, himself. Forgive him, Lord, his contamination of others; his wish to see others committed to a life of everlasting damnation. And, Lord, while we are talking about being committed...

Save him, we beseech thee. Set him on the path of Thy ways, and Thy teachings. Return him to the road to righteousness, to Thy flock and preferably to Ulan Bator.

Hallelujah! Amen.

Sister Phyllida,

Temperance Temple.

GREAT NEWS!!!!!!!

Through my tracing software, I have found out who Keith, IMPOSTER #2, is!!!!! Keith you will recall is the the scurrilous poster, who made some horrible accusations that my wines, whiskeys, and brews were dangerous concoctions and tasted like the south end of a skunk sashaying north.

But, first, I have to show you a portrait of me by a famous English artist, Abdul Abubal Amir-Peckersniff, and now on display in my portrait gallery in my fabulous Pata de Gallina home/distillery. I do not know who commissioned the work but I accepted it graciously acceding to the gifter's insistence that I not black out the "Lord A*****" bit. I don't care. What a laugh!!! Anyone who knows me, is well aware that I'm no A****** anymore than my friend Osama bin Laden is a terrorist or that GWB (and I don't mean the President) and his wife, Marjorie Proops, are good in bed!!!!

Now, I have to go. and I apologise for not having the time to reveal 'Keith's' identity, but that will have to wait until my next posting. It is now 16:28 and in two minutes my wife will be announcing that dinner is served. (She'd better, or I'll have to discipline her AGAIN, and post a picture of her 'sleeping' form in the next edition of my blog.)

Ta Ta, for now. Lyin' Brian
lyinbrianwales@blogspot. com

Drink responsibly
Drink Only Ours
Drink Ducksplatz del Pantherpiss

Sorry, no picture today because I just have to get the following off my chest!!!!

I have received another scurrilous e-mail from someone who calls himself “Keith”. As with Fidel, the IMPOSTER, I have put tracing software on his letter and will soon know who this new IMPOSTER is (or are). But before I demolish his pitiful LIES with the TRUTH, let me show readers his defamatory e-mail (lies and distortions exactly as written. So much for those idiots who say that I, Super Moderator, delete posts I do not like!!!!!):

“Be aware that there is a producer of extremely dangerous home-made alcohol on the north coast of the Dominican Republic. He says that the products are scotch, whiskey, etc., but in reality he is adding dangerous flavourings to distilled alcohol and deceiving people that it is a pure product. As informed people know, such products, when genuine, result from laborious distilling procedures. This person distils the alcohol from rotten fruits and vegetables, and then adds flavourings to create his "liquors". The flavourings and the poor quality of alcohol combine to form a deadly toxic substance for the liver. He does NOT put on the bottle the ingredients of the flavourings, as they are very likely carcinogenic.

He also uses concentrated mixes to make a grape-juice type of alcoholic wine.

He is redefining the term "bath-tub gin" with all of its inherent dangers times 10.

In a land of cheap quality produced liquors, do not risk your life with these terrible products.”

MY COMMENT

Readers must be rolling in the aisles over the stupidities and lies in this new IMPOSTER’S letter!!!!! They’re obvious, but let me debunk them point-by-point:

1. My wines and liquors are distilled from quality rotting vegetables including potato skins shipped in from Halifax’s compost site in Nova Scotia, where in the early nineties, in the Halifax residential suburb of Spryfield, I was owner and driving force behind a thriving, always-in-the-news, potato chip factory called Provincial Foods. (I was eventually forced to close the noxious plant after whining neighbours complained of its foul odours stinking up the neighbourhood. Well, I did, but not before I scammed a healthy $250,000 compensation package from the idiots running Municipal Affairs in Halifax. Ha Ha!!!!!) Note: I DO NOT use road kill in any of my products although one customer in a local bistro, where my Oaken whiskey is sold, complained that it tasted like a skunk’s a******. Question: how would he know what a skunk’s a***** tastes like, unless he’s customarily on his knees like a dog smelling the behinds of a variety of animals? Anyway, that idiot, thanks to my Police Chief friend (see next item), is currently in the local lock up awaiting trial for making defamatory statements about my whiskey.

2. If my wines and liquors were dangerous, my good friend, the Police Chief of Sabaneta, would be dead by now because he drinks GALLONS of my product every week and FOR FREE!!!!. I even supplied the booze for his wedding earlier this year (at his suggestion) and NOT ONE DEATH was reported (well, maybe one or two, but that was likely because they were already high on dope or speed).

3. My wife, whom you all know I’m going to divorce as soon as I can find an honest Dominican lawyer who can speak English good, drinks my wine and whiskey all day long because she can’t get enough of the stuff!!! She likes it, and she likes it a lot!!!!! If it was poisonous, do you think she’d still be alive?

Drink responsibly
Drink only Ours
Drink Ducksplatz del Pantherpiss

Contact me at: lyinbrianwales@yahoo.com

This is the latest wine of my secret process for making quality wines for discriminating palates. Watch for it at the better roadside cafes and lounges within a donkey's journey of Plata del Gallina. Now, I have some really exciting news!!!!!!

FIDEL, THE IMPOSTER REVEALED !!!!!

Readers will remember in an earlier post that the Police Chief and I had put a tracer on Fidel Mendoza's scurrilous e-mail to people in my stolen address book that had derided my measured response to my wife's drunken behavior.

These, you will recall, were her habit of peeing all over the house, ruining my meals by letting them cook unattended for hours, and then having the audacity to announce with a slurred (ie drunken) tongue that the charred, thoroughly blackened ox or suckling pig that had been turning endlessly on my hotel-sized barbecue was ready to be served!! This after I'd been out ALL DAY working hard drumming up business for my new Ducado del Pantherpiss fine wine!!! Moreover, to add to my understandable fury, her announcement of the ruined meal was often minutes late!!!!!! Like all well-organized Englishmen, I had strict orders that my evening meal was always to be served at a precise time, in my case, 5:47:38 local time!!! Can you believe it!!!!! and can you still wonder why I'm going to DIVORCE her!!!!!!!!!

Well, I'm pleased to announce that I have found out who Fidel Mendoza, the IMPOSTER is, or rather I should say, are. It turns out that "Fidel" are two charter members of a Dominican Secret Society, EX DOLO SPHINCTER, whose mission is to rid the Dominican Republic of pond-scum prevaricators, scofflaws, cheats, liars, deadbeats, cruel slumlords, bathtub ginners, demeanors, too-clever-by-half 'super moderators' who delete innocent posts they don't like on www.lifeinthedr.com, and a host of other undesirable characteristics. In addition we learned that these two gentlemen, who call themselves, respectively, Fidel and Felix, are twin black Haitian brothers recently released from a crowded prison in the city of La Vega where they are alleged to have started a severe prison riot last March. The riot killed many inmates serving time for cheating, lying, fraud, etc., including three ex-pat Englishmen in prison for illegally selling moonshine, bathtub gin, etc., in bottles with fancy labels that concealed the deadly nature of their content. Anyway, Fidel and Felix, (both are 6', 8" tall, wear a #5 hat size, and drive a cream-colored Mercedes-Benz SL 65 AMG convertible) were released unconditionally, but will face trial for the prison riot allegations in the Fall of 2008.

Well, Ha Ha !! Do they think I'm intimidated by that information???

Lyin' Brian never dodged a problem in his 64 years (though I must admit getting out of Saudi Arabia just ahead of the Saudi Police with my cojones intact was a bit too close for comfort. I had 'exploded' after catching one of the Kingdoms' five-thousand princes related to King Faud in a compromising situation with my late wife. But, after an apology from Osama bin Laden, the brother of the offending prince, I accepted his offer of $250,000 after I threatened to sue him and his clan for $ 1.75 million).

Anyway, as soon as I can find an honest, English-speaking lawyer who can speak English good (they're very scarce in the DR), I will sue these two Fidel's for defamation. Readers could help in my search for justice by contributing to my defense fund, SLBFP*, as Dominican lawyers (if I can find an honest one) charge a lot and will transfer money from my pocket to their pocket and any money they find lying about my home or workplace. Please be generous: even US$100 bills would help.

*Save Lyin' Brian From Penury

Drink Responsibly
Drink Only Ours
Drink Ducksplatz del Pantherpiss

GREEDY LAWYER

After my first production run earlier this year this is the label I planned to put on my premium bottles of moonshine and bathtub gin.

But then, my Domenican ex-lawyer (fired for greed and refusing to remove her hand from my pocket) advised that the picture might invite a lawsuit from United Fruit on the grounds that it demeaned their main fruit export! Can you imagine any advice more silly than that!!!!! Another reason why I tossed her!!!!

Why, for Heaven's Sake, would a picture of me dressed up in an avocado suit make people lose their appetite for avocados??????? I'm kicking myself for trusting the bad advice of an expensive Dominican lawyer who doesn't even speak English good!

Well, I'm living and learning how to be very careful about doing business in the DR, especially taking advice from native Dominicans and certain ex-pats; it's just another example of how I'm entirely too trusting.

I'm now looking for a new lawyer who's not greedy, speaks English good, and won't be demanding payment everytime I speak with him/her. But that's another story.

For now, what do viewers think of my AVOCADOMAN label? Do you think it demeans Avocados? All comments are welcome and will be printed though, be warned, any bad language and comments that begin, "Dear M*****F***** will be removed (i.e. use of code words). I regret no compensation will offered for any suggestions whether accepted or ignored.

Living the Misadventure

Hi, my Name is Lyin' Brian. No, that's not my real name but it's close enough, for now. When I get going under full steam after several shots of my bathtub gin, viewers will soon know who I really am. And I'll show my picture.

First, I'm an Englishman, semi-retired, living in the Dominican Republic. To make ends meet, I'm into making various alcoholic concoctions that are aged by a secret process on the conveyor belt from the distilling vat to the bottling shed. These, I sell to discriminating ex-pats and native Dominicans with discerning palates (not including lawyers who don't speak good English and can't keep their hands out of my pockets).

Fidel, the Imposter

Now, you must be wondering why I bother. Well, a certain cretin who calls itself Fidel Mendoza has been sending scurrilous e-mails about me to names it stole out of my address book. This was after I had written an e-mail to several people in my address book with a balanced and detailed list of the defects of my wife who I said I was going to divorce because she was peeing all over the house and never had my meals cooked on time. Furthermore, I threatened to throw her out of the house even though she claims to own it!

Following this letter, I proved what a sodden drunk she is by publishing a picture of her passed out at mid-day on our bedroom floor. Now, wasn't that a reasonable thing to do after all the stress she had put me under and, what's more, had refused to sign over her father's inheritance to me??????????????

Well, Fidel seemed to think they were entitled to make nasty comments about me in an email to the same people whose addresses they stole. Could you believe that anybody could be that vicious!!!!!!! Well, I'll have the last laugh. What Fidel, the idiot, doesn't know is that with the help of Police I put tracing software into my computer and now I know everything about them (yes they're several people) including their hat size, their nationality, where they live, the color and make of their car, and even to how tall (or short) they are. In my next post, I'll reveal their identities. Meanwhile, they should tremble while awaiting a knock on their door - it may be the Police coming to take them away. Ha Ha.

avocadolying@yahoo.com

Ducado Del Pantherpiss

Drink responsibly

Drink only MY pantherpiss

Here's the picture I promised of me, Lyin' Brian, after a very successful afternoon in my backyard, behind the outhouse, distillery. Did you know, I'm also a very good cook and all-round swell fellow, super-moderator, and one who has never, knowingly, uttered a foul expletive in his whole 64 years? (But ... can someone please explain to me what those mysterious e-mails I continue to get that begin, "F******A******" and then relapse into incomprehensible misspellings that are terribly confusing?)

Anyway, I invite you to keep returning to this blog for more fascinating details about my former life, especially in Saudi Arabia and Spain, where I showed the locals how a proper, well-educated and -spoken English gentleman behaves (yes, I met Osama bin Laden in Saudi Arabia, but when I tried to explain to him the finer points of dealing with superior infidels such as I, he dismissed me with a mere grunt and toss of his head scarf. Talk about ungrateful A-rabs!!!!!!!).

More details of my fascinating life and personality tomorrow. avocadolyin@blogspot.com