09/13/17 Missile Chase

17 Comments

    1. The Gorram Batguy

      Next page, a giant hand emerges from the central planet and swipes at the spot that was previously occupied by Aulton. The Keebrick is attempting to hit ‘snooze’. ‘Just 5 billion more minutes.’

  1. Weird. Before I read your short comments after the strip, I thought “The best laid plans of aliens and men oft go astray” (just a little different from what you wrote). Hm, wonder if Bikkie could’ve kicked that missile into another universe?

    I’m really curious to know what prank Krep pulled on his mom. I guess it’s funnier if we don’t know and leave it to our imagination.

    1. Allan MacDonald

      But the meaning is retained – I can see why our intrepid author and artist went with the Anglicised version for clarity! (I’m now wracking my brains for a gently teasing Scots epithet with which to sign off, but it’s a struggle! I think I’ll settle for an affectionate “ya tumshie!”;-)

    1. Peter Rogan

      Frankly, I’d be frightened to death of a space-based giant ship cannon that DIDN’T have a safety on it, as they do for contemporary battleships. All it takes is one loose-fingered idiot: “What does THIS button do?”

    1. Muzhik

      Oh, I don’t know. It used to be that nuclear missiles required that a pair of keys be inserted into switches on the opposite sides of the room, turned, and removed simultaneously.

      I don’t know if that would really count as a SAFETY, though…. does it?

  2. Meran

    The complete poem, original language (because it sounds so much better!) and not that difficult to understand, for all that. Apparently the poet had plowed right over the nest of the wee beasties, making me think of The Secret of NIMH, honestly:

    Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,
    O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
    Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
    Wi’ bickering brattle!
    I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
    Wi’ murd’ring pattle!

    I’m truly sorry man’s dominion,
    Has broken nature’s social union,
    An’ justifies that ill opinion,
    Which makes thee startle
    At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
    An’ fellow-mortal!

    I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
    What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
    A daimen icker in a thrave
    ‘S a sma’ request;
    I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
    An’ never miss’t!

    Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
    It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
    An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
    O’ foggage green!
    An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
    Baith snell an’ keen!

    Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
    An’ weary winter comin fast,
    An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
    Thou thought to dwell-
    Till crash! the cruel coulter past
    Out thro’ thy cell.

    Thy wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
    Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
    Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
    But house or hald,
    To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,
    An’ cranreuch cauld!

    But, Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,
    In proving foresight may be vain;
    The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
    Gang aft agley,
    An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
    For promis’d joy!

    Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me
    The present only toucheth thee:
    But, Och! I backward cast my e’e.
    On prospects drear!
    An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
    I guess an’ fear!

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