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Checklist of the Parasites of Fishes of Latvia

Not really about Latvian fishes

Category Archives: History

Our logo is the dithering Blue Jay

DITHERING…announce to the world in what you are partaking! From Siam to the Mosquito Coast, there are acquaintences to be had!

BASIC RULE OF DITHERING. A “Dither” must be no longer than 270 words; a mere Gettysburg Address. That number should suffice. If you feel that 270 words is insufficient, then by all means compose a multitude of Dithers.

YOU MUST SHOW ALL DITHERERS REPECT AND BONHOMIE. Assuming they are white property-holders, that is. If an errant woman finds her way onto Dither, then kindly focus her attention onto other, more feminine pursuits.

DITHERS WILL BE REMOVED FROM THE WOOD-BOARD EVERY SECOND DAY. All Dithers and Re-dithers will be affected.

YOU MUST SIGN-ON WHENEVER YOU POST. Not everybody can sign with an “X”. If you are illiterate, you may ask someone else to compose a dither in your place.

SAMPLE DITHERS from Ness Creek, Nebr. ditherboard to arouse your interest:

@SheriffSamMacGuffin: To residents of Ness Creek, please do not leave horse-piles at the entrance to Ned’s Apothecary. There be valuable medicaments within, and horse-piles tend to contaminate the vials. If yer horse needs to defacate, then use the gutter next to Coleman’s General Store.

@ChiefThunderFeather: In the name of the Sky-Spirit, respect my claim in Henderson’s Gorge. It was willed by me by the U.S. Government in 1859, the deed signed by Governor Bullard Talcolmblatt of Nebraska Territory himself. If I see another White Man prospecting in my Gorge, I will send an arrow into his penis.

@SheriffSamMacGuffin: If anybody knows the identity of the horse-rapist bring it to my attention. The horse-rapist has been spooking various other beasts of burden as well.

@KnickerbockerWHPennywhipple: Dear Sirs, if you intend to impune my honor then I shall be waiting in the Main Thoroughfare at 7 sharp in the A.M., accompanied by my pistol and manservant.

@SheriffSamMacGuffin: There will be a Whisky and Poker Social held at Larson’s Tavern this Tuesday evening, to welcome our new residents, Kraut homesteaders headed by Mr. Adolf Horscht.

@X: I don’t like seeing no niggers, chinks, wops, and hebrews round here

@PastorMichaelMallory: Blessed be the prospectors. For salvation, visit my Church on East Dirt Street.

@LarsonsTavern: Fer the best Whores and Whisky and Poker, visit Larson’s Tavern. E.G. Larson, Proprietor.

@TheTownDrunk: Done pissed myself agin. Anyone know a pants-merchant here or in Bellows Ridge? Aint got no spare trousers. I wont do no business with no Chinaman either.

@X: I fucked Sheriff MacGuffin’s pig, real good like, and got a hankerin’ to do it again.

@LadyChatterley: Hello boys, I got the feminine touch you crave. Lice-free since 1878. I take two baths a month. No lesions or unwelcome odors. Will satisfy any fantasy you have, except ones involving mules. No Chinamen please.

@TheOldGeneral: Been having night terrors again. Did the South lose the War? I don’t even know anymore. Can’t sleep worth a damn. Been trying to extract a rosin ball from my rectum. It got there by accident.

@SheriffSamMacGuffin: Someone has been stealing ladies’ undergarments from the General Store. Now, we don’t have many women in this town, but the few who reside here need fresh undergarments from time to time. The General Store is now out of undergarments, and we won’t get a shipment for 3 months. So will the crook(s) return the undergarments, after scrubbing off any personal material. I pledge that I will not prosecute the undergarment-thieves at this time.

@KwokTheChinaman: Anybody need ride to Jerricho Springs? My carriage real nice and clean. Friendly and safe drivers. We are all certified safe coachmen. We not look at you either, especially white ladies. You may spit on us if you please, just pay us fairly.

@Huxley_Exslave: Im no dermint loaffer Im good wukker yessir been fum Alabam yessir can drive piles lift impements fish driftwood cure sciatica Im easy to find just holler Huxley I be Huxley

@XTheSouthLivesOnX: Hello y’all I done moved into Ness Creek or whatnot  looking for an escaped negro named Hussey or Huxby. I don’t care about the Emancipation whatnot never heard of it. I catch negros; it’s my job or whatnot. Hussey will come up to you and says he can lift impediments this is a LIE. If this occurs holler for Fungo Huckabee. Huckabee, the Name You Trust in Negrocatchin’.

@SherriffSamMacGuffin: This so-called ‘Negrocatcher’ in town, goes by the name Huckabee, fancies himself a lawman. Well, I hate to break it to him, but there is only one Lawman in Ness Creek, and his name is MACGUFFIN. If there are any loose slaves, or single ladies, or Buddhists that need catchin’, MacGuffin is the one to call on. Please re-dither this if you care about the LAW.

Here at Dithering we are tasked with CHANGING THE WORLD. Powered by Andemann’s Internal Combustion Engines of York Grove, Iowa.

Good Sirs, I promise whiskey for all!

By J. Dwyer McGillicuddy, popular affairs & common pursuits reporter

Last night this reporter witnessed Democracy in action. Seven fellows of the Reflex Party vied for the ears and minds of the populace. They were asked a series of questions and given the task of answering them.

This reportage is a compendium of highlights and lowlights from last night’s events at Harken’s Barn on the outskirts of Pickaninny Pond.

On the question of Southern perfidy and the nullification crisis:

Mr. Lazarus Artemus Scipio Cain: “I am a Negro, yes, but what dem southerners wanna do I ain’t stoppin’ them no sir. I juss do the gov’mint’s business, heyap.”

Mr. Bartholomew H. Gingrich: “I am a man of History, and as I nightly involve myself with the exploits of our Founding Fathers, I garner a greater and greater appreciation of their wisdom and see that wisdom among our brothers in South Carolina. I do smile upon their great crusade, God be with you, dear countrymen.”

Mr. Brigham W. Romney: “As long as the government leaves Utah Territory alone, I’m as happy as a kitten in molasses.”

Mr. Fire-and-Brimstone Paul: “Why do we have a constarnakin’ President and his rotund potentates flaccifinadin’ in his ear-hole, dagnabbit, I’d have drug his weasel ass into the River.”

Mr. Samuel Shenandoah “Chinese” Huntsman: “I repeat the comment of the esteemed Mr. Romney.”

Mr. Aw-Shucks Perry: “Hoohaw, dem Dixie-butts done got thermselves in a right keddoofle, but they juss some good ol boys doin’ right by me.”

On the question of Chinese rail-workers and their immoral influence on the Western districts:

Mr. L.A.S. Cain: “The whoosits now? I ain’t never seen no Chinaman. Heyap.”

Mr. B.H. Gingrich: “As I draw from a wealth of knowledge aquired by many a night by the fire, I agree with those who think the Chinaman is an inferior and rather repulsive Race. Though their presence shames me considerably, I do realize their value in building our Great White Ironlines across our blessed Continent.”

Mr. B.W. Romney: “I have first-hand knowledge of these Races from my home Territory of Utah. They are indeed a scourge but as long as they are confined to their quarters and kept occupied, and sent back to Foo-Chow upon completion, I am satisfied.”

Mr. F. Paul: “You know these ching-chong varmints got these collective minds? They even shit together. I want nothin’ to do with these Orientals and their rice-sticks.”

Mr. S.S. “Chinese” Huntsman: “I spent some time in Farthest Cathay. They are indeed a queer and quizzical Species. They eat with sticks and drink leaf-water. I think their babies are born out of hillsides. They certainly need Christian guidance. Mormon guidance.”

Mr. A. Perry: “Now this Huntsman feller is scarin’ me. Mormons? Why in a dog’s anus are we carin’ about them Orientals when Mormons are crawling all over our dear Middle-West? If I were President, I’d send the Cavalry out to take care of ’em. And those Orientals too. Never cared much for those slipper-wearing catnabbers.”

On the question of photographic contraptions and other inventive mechanisms that seem to be profligating.

Mr. L.A.S. Cain: “I done seen that one thing, whatsit now…it ain’t comin’ to me. But I done saw one of those iron chariots that bellow out dat smoke, heyap, it was all up in dat shack. Dang near spooked the pigs. Heyap.”

Mr. B.H. Gingrich: “As a man of history, I do not believe that books will ever be replaced by mechanisms nor powered by something other than a gentleman’s wrist and forefinger. I do welcome the sciences, however, provided that they do not interfere with our Republic and its hallowed institutions.”

Mr. B.W. Romney: “If one ironsided-horse or lightning-powered steamboat can get Mormons that much faster to the Promised Land, then I as President am not wont to interfere with such a creation.”

Mr. F. Paul: “Gales and filarney! I knew them Sciencers were up to somethin’ when I saw them flusherin’ that indoor commode, their consarned ‘toy-let’ which sounds dagnam French to me. I ain’t seen no hole that wan’t worth my fecal issue.”

Mr. S.S. “Chinese” Huntsman: “I agree with the esteemed gentleman from Massachusetts.”

Mr. A. Perry: “Aw shucks, I once took a looksee to one of them, howsits, puffer-stacks that look like Osage horse-cocks but it didn’t move me no way. Once they find a way to refriggerate my hooch then they can call me.”

What book or tome do you consult when guidance is your desire.

Mr. L.A.S. Cain: “Hell I ain’t read no book but I like them splotches on pine trees.”

Mr. B.H. Gingrich: “I do enjoy the ruminations of Seneca and Cicero. When in a festive or hysterical mood I consult the base woodcuttings of certain European artists bearing nude images of the female form. I then whip my genitals until bloodied.”

Mr. B.W. Romney: “All wisdom and certainty begins and ends with the Book of Mormon, no matter what the esteemed Mr. Perry says. Just before retiring I like to imagine myself in the bosom of Brigham Young while he strokes my hair.”

Mr. F. Paul: “Heesh, lemme think now, I do like that Adam Smith a great deal. Them Scotchmen are enterprissin’ folk. When I’m lumberin’ I like to take off my britches and read a few chapters of Captain Stevens and his Negro Attendant.”

Mr. S.S. “Chinese” Huntsman: “I also like the Book of Mormon and, on certain nights, a golden book appears which gives me advice on male orgasm.”

Mr. A. Perry: “Woohaw I do have intercourse with my Bible, word of God and all. Also like me some ghost stories and pictures of Conquistadors. “

The unmolested Mr. Hartwell

DEAR READERS. – I am pleased to report my body and spirit have not been torn asunder by Mother Nature’s fury. Mighty Hermione has passed, and our – my – City has been no worse for wear.

Now that the Tempest has made its way up the Puritan Coast and onto the endless peninsulae of the Dominion of Canada, I must report that certain news-gathering corporations have, shall I say, over-estimated the impact of Hermione’s wrath. My fair tenement has had nary a mortar-brick displaced, nor have any vanity mirrors been tossed to the streets. This morning I ran into Mr. Charles Reekes Darrow, who was whistling as is his wont on a Sabbath, and we commented upon the apparent timidity of Hermione. Mr. Darrow blamed the whole episode on the Austro-Hungarians, who had a vested interest in the export of concrete horse-hitchers. I listened politely but I do not put the blame squarely on the oft-perfidious Habsbergs. I am inclined to blame the New York Harbinger, the Estimable Dispatch‘s main competitor.

It is the Harbinger that sent many a cub reporter to the nooks and corners of our City to report on the most mundane of wind-gusts and ferry-capsizes. On Friday evening, the offices of the Harbinger could barely keep their dispassionate composure as Shirt-Sleeve Factory No. 6 went up in flames; as it happened, not by Hermione but by an Irishman’s cigar placed carelessly upon a pile of Polish child workers. Of course, the debased Harbinger failed to correct their asumption. By Saturday morning, it was clear that the 116 regrettable deaths at the Factory were the product of a drunken Celt. I wish I could report even one death attributed to Hermione; alas I cannot.

My esteemed Dispatch made some reference to Hermione’s torrent, but our great editor Mr. Milton Flaffbabbler led with stories of the Phillipine and Iberian races who deign to thwart our American Empire. Mr. Flaffbabbler has a canny sense of the real issues of the day.

I am most gay to report that the City’s minority and immigrant species held their base instincts in check. My tenement abuts a Russian thoroughfare and none of those half-Mongoloids took advantage of nature’s caprice. My dearest friend Mr. Ronald Symington Moose, who lives near the Galician district, also relates that his local swarthies did not go beyond their station in life. Perhaps Anglo-German-Protestant civilizing has not been in vain.

It is on this note, dear readers, that I bid adieu and board a ship to the Congo to report on the hardships suffered by Belgian colonists.

Mr. Hartwell is a celebrated columnist of the Manhattan Estimable Dispatch, and we wish him well in darkest Africa. 

The award-winning scribe

By Archimedes J. Hartwell, urban crime & pestilence reporter of The Manhattan Estimable Dispatch

GOOD DAY. – Here I sit upon the docks and marvel at nature’s wrath. For within 48 hours, a great tempest will set upon this fair City. Her given name is Hermione; in general We are wont to call her a hurricane, typhoon, or feminine whirlwind. But no personal vibrating message-stick will calm this Hermione, no, we must wait her out, let her berate this City with all her might, and allow her to go not-so-quietly up the rest of the eastern seaboard: to old Boston, thence to the less-civilized realms of Nova Scotia and New-Found-Land.

What are New York’s gallant citizenry doing about this meteorological menace? Hwell. The fine gentlemen of the upper classes are heading inland. As I write there is an impressive line of horse-n-buggies and other assorted pack-mules and Negro and Irish help staff. Their fine housing will be shuttered for the duration of the Storm. There is no need to worry about the esteemed Mr. and Mrs. Thendyke nor should you harass yourself with dreadful visions involving Mr. George Abbott Puke, who is currently on his way to Pennsylvania. These paragons of society will carry on. After Hermione is safely away, these Men of Industry shall return.

As for the lower orders, anarchy reigns. One would hope these miscreants and ethnic leeches will control themselves, but life’s wisdom has taught me this is not the case. The Italians will no doubt start many a street battle; the pesky Irish will soak themselves in whisky; the Jews will scamper round the shadows like common rats; and I dare not entertain thoughts of the Negroes’ activities! With God’s grace they will not leave the City too much at a loss.

As for your humble reporter, I shall obtain a parasol and ride out this fusillade in my sturdy tenement. My neighbor Mr. George Emmett Lache is the foremost pinochle savant and I will do well to join him for a round or two. Pray for myself and this most hallowed of daily newspapers, my beloved Dispatch. Until next week, then. –

A hap encounter

Whilst walking amid the horse-dung and vomit strewn about the city walk, two old lovers converge for the first time in years. 

M: Lady Gwendolyn, is that you I see?

L: Mister Forthwind, dear lorde, I cannot believe my eyen!

M: It is so good to see you after all this time! [bows and lifts his cap]

L: Likewise, my dear sir. How hath thou been?

M: My second-born son just died of dropsy, and I have a nasty parasite that is feeding on my rectum. Otherwise I have been well. And thou, my lady?

L: Oh, thou know, constant pain and injustice that is a woman’s lot in life. I just left the menstruation shack yesterday and I have been walking off a case of the St. Anthony’s fire this morrow. You look quite the gentilesse, have you come into wealthe?

M: Oh no, my lady, I am the same humble cobbler I have always been. Though I have increased my clientele twofold since the last harvest; my rival died of the bloody flux and I have taken most of his business. Thou lookest most lusty, are you with child?

L: Unfortunately I have not been able to conceive due to being impaled through the womb by a rusty carriage wheel spoke. You remember that? It has not fully healed, and I must drain the wound most evenings. And I do change my wedes constantly. However I have found quite a man-friend; we shall wed this coming plague-break.

M: Congratulations, my lief!

L: It will be a most solempne ceremony. Why don’t thou come? Certainly thou hath a mistress?

M: No, I am single these tymes. A cobbler’s work is a busy one; I have no time for copulatory pursuits. Also I have been fighting off a bad case of the ague.

L: I hasten to believe thou. Thou art such a comely segge!

M: Thank thou, my lady. Thou art too kinde.

L: I shall always remember our love. ‘Twas like a Northumbrian ram mounting a Welsh lamb. I get light-headed just thinking about it. Or perhaps I have too caught the ague. I must go to visit the leech-keeper presently. It was very nice seeing thou again!

M: The pleasure was all mine. I hope you survive long enough to thee wedding day, and best wishes to your new lord!

Lady Gwendolyn shuffles off down a muddy alleyway. As she walks, clumps of crust fall out of her dress. What a woman, Mr. Forthwind thinks! He proceeds to masturbate in the horse stalls.