Author Archives: leeduigon

About leeduigon

I have lived in Metuchen, NJ, all my life. I have been married to my wife Patricia since 1977. I am a former newspaper editor and reporter. I was also the owner-operator of my own small business for several years. I wrote various novels and short stories published during 1980s and 1990s. I am a long-time student of judo and Japanese swordsmanship (kenjutsu). I also play chess, basketball, and military and sports simulations.

Kitten and Guinea Pig at Play

The kitten really wants the guinea pig to play with him, and he finally gets his wish. If only the hammy humans would stay out of the way, we might learn something.

I’ve never had a guinea pig, but the ones in a certain pet store were always up for petting and tickling. I’ll bet I’d fall in love with it, if I had one.

Rain, Rain, Go Away!

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I can’t write fiction indoors anymore. I don’t know why, and I’d be interested to hear any theories on the subject; but the fact is that I just can’t get my mind into my fictional world of Obann if I’m sitting at a table, surrounded by walls, with the phone ringing (and it’s always a call I’d rather not receive–“Hi! This is Sheryl from Meshuggah Resorts, and our records show you had a wonderful time two years ago at our Sphagnum House Motel,” etc. All a load of ridiculous lies. So glad I got up to answer that!)

Just now the problem is that it’s been raining buckets for four days in a row, I haven’t been able to get back to work on my book, and I’m losing track of my hyenas. Now I hardly know where they’ll turn up next. And Jack and Martis have just had a very close call–I think that was last Wednesday. My momentum is not where I’d like it to be.

His Mercy Endureth Forever is, I reckon, nearly halfway finished. Oh, for a sunny day tomorrow!

Well, I’m writing this novel in the Lord’s service, and I’ll have to leave the weather up to Him.

Leftids Call for ‘Bullets for Fascists’

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Count the “journalists” covering this.

The big White Supremacist demonstration this weekend in the Washington, D.C., metro area drew some two dozen supporters–who were swamped by thousands of Far Left demonstrators who attacked them and attacked police, and generally went postal until a heavy rainstorm broke it up. Marina Medvin, writing for, was one of the very few journalists who reported on it (

The leftids carried a banner that read “It Takes a Bullet to Smash a Fash.” That’s short for “fascist,” and “fascist” means everyone and anyone who isn’t them.

There are many times more Far Left jidrools denouncing “white supremacy” than there are white supremacists.

So where were all the noozies? Probably getting ready for their “coordinated editorial attack” on the president of the United States, scheduled for Thursday, Aug. 16. Like they haven’t been attacking him all along, every day, since his election. They certainly weren’t going to cover their soul brothers running wild in the streets. They don’t think you need to know about that.

Newspaper Claims Its Anti-Trump Jihad is Growing

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Do we really care what noozies think?

Hold onto your hats! August 16: over 100 newspapers will join with The Boston Globe in a “coordinated” editorial attack on President Donald Trump ( Well, the Glob says “100+,” for what that’s worth.

Uh, you mean the nooze media haven’t been attacking him every single day and night since Election Night of 2016?

True, they did the same to George W. Bush. Bush just sucked it up, but Trump hits back. They can’t stand that. So they accuse him of making “war on the free press,” their so-called “free and independent press.”

Free and independent: don’t make me laugh. This weekend, Antifa thugs demo’ed in D.C. and threatened to kill “fascists” (translation: everyone to the right of Pol Pot). Not a word about it in the mainstream Far Left media.

My favorite media Big Lie is the whole transgender thing. Here, the noozies slavishly follow the party line, calling mutilated men “women” and using feminine pronouns, etc. They all toe the party line. Shameful.

And oh, yeah–Man-Made Climbit Change is really real, and we’re all gonna die unless we give government lots of fantastic new powers to screw up our lives, and lots more money. Another commercial from the free and independent press.

Well, we’ll see what happens Aug. 16. A lot of these leftid wing-dings have a wave of fizzling out. But I think this one will actually come off–because no normal person anymore cares what a bunch of noozies thinks.

‘Can I Wake Up Now, Please?’ (2013)

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Things haven’t gotten any better in the five years since this Australia kiddie TV show brought its audience “gender-bending fun.”

Still waiting for anyone to attempt a coherent explanation of why this is such a great idea and what we’re supposed to gain by it. A 10% discount off all the rides in Hell?

Prayer Request: Linda

I’m not here to deliver a medical report: but our friend and fellow-servant Linda is in serious danger, and she needs our prayers.

O Lord our God, have mercy on your servant, Linda, our friend and sister in Christ, and bring her out from under the shadow of death. Because we know you hear our prayers, because we know you love us. Because we pray in Jesus’ name, Amen.

By Request, ‘Fairest Lord Jesus’

It doesn’t take this hymn very long to bring me close to tears. How about you?

Fairest Lord Jesus (or Beautiful Savior, depending on whose hymnal you’re using): requested by Susan, sung by the Oasis Chorale. Sets by God the Father, maker of heaven and earth.

Sing Along with Kitty

How come Mitch Miller never thought of this?

My cat Henry used to answer me word for word–he was arguing with me, in fact–when I’d tell him to leave my Strat-O-Matic game alone and stop trying to run off with the baserunner tokens. Betcha I could’ve gotten him to sing. But I never thought of that, either.

Tuatara: the Sole Survivor

Hi, Mr. Nature here, introducing you to New Zealand’s tuatara–the sole surviving member of a whole group of reptiles that died out while there were still dinosaurs around. Today it lives only on a few offshore islands around New Zealand; and the zoos have started captive breeding programs to make sure the species doesn’t go extinct.

It looks like a lizard, but it’s not. Internally, everything is different. Back in the Jurassic world, the tuatara would have had many close relatives, some of them as large as hogs. Tuataras like cool weather, and a healthy one can live more than 100 years.

I’ve heard that tuataras sort of “sing,” when in the mood, and that if you sing to them, they’ll answer. I couldn’t find any video of that: it’s something that I’ve always wanted to hear. Something that brontosaurs heard when they were here.

At Last, Black Rodney! (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Finally! In Chapter CCII of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney, we are vouchsafed a glimpse of the infamous sorcerer and necromancer, Black Rodney. “Vouchsafed” is Ms. Crepuscular’s word, not mine. I have no idea what it means.

It turns out that Coldsore Hall is full of cunningly concealed cuss bags: no wonder Lord Jeremy’s troubles seem to have no end. The mysterious stranger who looks like a famous game show host, but won’t reveal his name, has teamed up with the American adventurer, Willis Twombley, to find and get rid of all the cuss bags.

“I had a problem like this with some Sumerians,” recalls Twombley, who thinks he is Sargon of Akkad, “but they stopped doin’ it when I sicked the Elamites on ’em.”

Lord Jeremy cannot take part in the search. In his efforts to follow Dr. Fanabla’s regime of one-legged jumping jacks, he has injured his other foot. Lady Margo pays a comforting visit, complete with inedible toothpaste muffins baked by her aunt in Bedlam. “We’ll have our wedding yet, dear,” she consoles him.

But that night, as he makes his rounds of the hall in search of cuss bags, Twombley has a shattering experience. He staggers into Lord Jeremy’s bedroom. Startled, Lady Margo jumps up more suddenly than is good for her and her newly-upholstered wooden leg falls off.

“I seen him, I seen him!” Twombley gasps. “Black Rodney, as large as life! Hidin’ a cuss bag on top of that painting in the billiard room–the one of Queen Victoria on her pogo stick!” He then faints before he can say anymore. Unable to re-attach her leg, Lady Margo can only leave him sprawled on the floor.

“I wish he’d told us what Black Rodney looks like!” she complains.

The mysterious stranger bursts into the room, startling Lady Margo so badly that her wig falls off and her false teeth clatter to the floor.

“I can tell you what he looks like!” cries the stranger. “He wears a black sheet over his entire head and body, without eye-holes, and slinks about at night, avoiding light of any kind. That’s what Mr. Twombley saw in the billiard room.”

“Well, he couldn’t have seen much, then, could he?” snaps Jeremy, who has begun to feel annoyed. “How are we to identify someone who hides himself under a black sheet in the dead of night?”

The stranger tiptoes closer to the bed, looks all around for eavesdroppers, lowers his voice two full octaves, and whispers, “You will know him by his reaction to the words ‘polla-wolla-bing-bang’! Speak them in his presence, and he cannot help but have a tantrum! Anyone else would just look at you quizzically.”

The chapter concludes with a lengthy complaint about the customer service department at Scurveyshire’s Bureau of Unusual Hats–and Ms. Crepuscular’s apology for not including Constable Chumley in this chapter.

We suspect the constable says “polla-wolla-bing-bang” fairly often.

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