Sheep go to heaven...goats go to hell...

And donkeys? Where do donkeys go when they, um, kick the bucket? Has anyone ever given this existential question a smidgen of thought? (McCrea…DiFiore…any ideas, boys?)

I mean, they’re very obviously committing suicide in Sudan by jumping into the Nile! Sudan is a predominantly Islamic country; and since Islam forbids suicide, slitting your wrists is a sure-fire way of ensuring a one-way ticket to Hell. So, Sudanese donkeys that kill themselves go for a dinner date with Satan. Q.E.D. [and for that certain fellow blogger, TotallyVampire, who seems to be unsure of this – it’s Quod ERAT Demonstrandum :-)].

Do Sudanese donkeys, therefore, need psychotherapy? Or will they continue to make, well, asses of themselves by aimlessly jumping into the nearest fishpond? And will the Indian Army be able to help them get over their woes? Tune in next week for the next episode of "Bray’s’ Anatomy"!!!

Braying…er...Straying (*@#! donkey puns) away from the psychological maladies of Equus Asinus, Crowley turned 26 on Valentine’s Day. Crowley knows little of the day he was born on (and remembers not a bit of it. But then, that’s expected); but what he does know is that February 14, 1982, was:
(i) overcast;
(ii) windy; and
(iii) extremely chilly (perfect Omen-type setting, eh?).

Crowley rolled out on or around 2030 hours and (according to eyewitness accounts) opened his eyelids approximately an hour later. He would not shut them for a considerable period of time…a portent of the insomnia that continues to plague him (a fact that his family bemoaned at the time, and continues to do so vociferously).

Also, an Urdu poet of some repute, who was enjoying some R&R a few rooms down the corridor from Crowley’s first-ever bedroom (in the hospital i.e.), went all batty a few hours after Crowley was born, and proceeded to the Great Opera in the Sky a couple of days thereafter.

This is SO Damien, no?

Unfortunately, the story ends about there. Crowley, to the best of his knowledge, based on records maintained in the regular course of business, has not caused any other deaths (not of humans, at any rate). He has caused severe hair-loss due to excessive tearing-out of aforementioned hair. He keeps track of these things, yes. Makers of wigs have offered him large amounts of money for his services, yes.

Crowley’s not acquainted with a lot of people born on February 14; but we all agree that it’s a miserable day to be born on. Imagine going through life celebrating your birthday on a day when (a) you’re the only schmuck who gets birthday cards instead of Valentine’s Day cards; (b) you can’t really throw a party because everyone else has ‘plans’; (c) you’re perennially single; and (d) you’re the butt of many jokes because, well, let’s face it, it IS Valentine’s-fucking-Day.

So, Crowley didn’t have a rocking birthday this year, but he supposes it could’ve been worse. He could’ve been sitting in a loud club wearing a red shirt that goes “Prince Loves Pinky", and listening to Bryan Gay-dams croon "Everything I Do…”!!!! I mean, what’s wrong with “The Unforgiven-II”? That qualifies as a love song too!!

Oh, my kingdom for a wine-sipping, curling-up-on-a-rug-before-the-fireplace type female! (Um. Ok. So I don’t have a fireplace. I got space heaters here!) (Crosses fingers and toes).