Apple © Brand-y

“Yes, folks, this baby can make large numbers of dollar bills disappear from your wallet at speeds darn near the speed of light!”

Know who this guy is? You don’t? Seriously? Well, for the six people out in the world who don’t know, the man in the picture above is none other than Steve Jobs, founder of Apple Computers, all around nice guy, and the free will-sucking Dark Lord of Branding Vampires. Steverino has posed in a similar position to the one above at countless media-blitz new product launches and annual general meetings for Apple shareholders, exuberantly extolling the virtues of the newest must-have Apple product. He’s been there for the launch of the iPod, iPod Nano, the Macintosh, the Macbook, the iPhone, and others. He’ll probably be there for the launch of the iPod Nano-Nano (sorry Mork) and the iPerfectSpouse as well. It isn’t Steve’s ebullient personality and deep commitment to the Apple product line that sets him apart from other pocket-lining corporate head honchos. No, the thing that sets him apart has been his ability to brand the Apple products in a fashion not seen since Coke became an all around word for a cola soft drink. Mmm. A nice fresh Coke would taste great about now. I think I’ll go get one…I’m back, and boy was that Coke refreshing! What!? I’ve got to pay the bills too, you know. Anyway, back to Steve. When was the last time you saw a movie in which an actor opened a laptop that wasn’t a Macbook? Yeah, yeah, I saw 2012 too. That must have cost Sony one pretty penny to outbid Jobs. How about the last time you heard some moron call any kind of MP3 player an “iPod?” Hell, after all those Lame PC Guy vs. Cool Mac Dude commercials, I sometimes feel like committing suicide when I switch on my PC to check my email or write a blog post. At the very least, I feel like I should try to be a little more like Justin Long or maybe get the same haircut. That way people could just assume I was a cool Mac user as long as I never let them enter my home.

Steve has certainly gotten the Apple brand out there, that’s for sure. His latest endeavour, however, might raise a few eyebrows. After a generous donation to Stanford University and a rumoured tidying up of the remaining relatives of Alfred Binet, Jobs has acquired the rights to the Stanford-Binet IQ Test. Through deep subterfuge and fabrication, in an operation that cost the lives of several undercover operatives and a half-dozen jelly doughnuts, Oh, For ****’s Sake! has managed to obtain a copy of the first page of the new IQ test, renamed, innocently enough the iQ Test. Although the questions seem vaguely familiar to anyone who has previously taken a standardized intelligence test, there are subtle differences, which are apparent to the trained eye:

iQ Test

Question 1:

If all Windows users are losers, and all losers are Windows users, how many loser Windows users are actually loser users?

A. All of them.

B. Every one of them.

C. The whole sorry goddamn lot.

D. Especially that Lame PC Guy from the commercial.

Question 2:

Rearrange the following words and letters to make a phrase:

YUB NA DOPi

When you have rearranged the phrase to the correct form, what does the phrase say?

A. The best darn thing I’ve heard all day.

B. A truly great idea.

C. Something wonderful.

D. The solution to blissful happiness.

Question 3:

STEVE JOBS is to GOD as GOD is to:

A. STEVE JOBS

B. STEVE JOBS

C. STEVE JOBS

D. The guy who runs Apple. Yep. STEVE JOBS

Question 4:

What number logically comes next in this sequence of new Apple product price points?:

$199, $299, $399, $499, …

A. All numbers above $499 in $100 multiples.

B. Whatever the market will bear.

C. I have to have it! Who gives a shit what it costs!?

D. The sky’s the limit, and even that isn’t a given.

Question 5:

What human emotion is the equivalent of the following symbol?:

A. Joyous happiness and joy.

B. Loving loveness.

C. Joyful Loving

D. All consuming envy and greed, much like the apple in the Garden of Eden.

As you can see folks, Steve has once again done a great job of insinuating the Apple brand into another facet of our daily lives. Heck, I only ever take one bite out of an apple before I throw it away now, it just seems so aesthetically pleasing at that point that it would be a shame to keep eating it. Even though I have blown the whistle on Jobs’ latest branding project, I still hope to one day be cool enough to own an Apple product. I’ve been practicing my disaffected, hands-in-pocket poser stance and air of repugnant superiority, so I’m at least half way there.

Nazis in Our Midst, No Really, RIGHT in Our Midst!

I guess if I had to be totally honest, I would say that I have been accused of suffering from the odd delusion here and there throughout my lifetime. Like there was that one time, when I thought I actually had a shot at asking one of the popular girls in high school to go to a school dance with me. Delusional? Yep. Thank God for handwritten notes. That conversation would have really, really sucked face to face. Or that other time I thought I had been abducted by aliens and taken in a spaceship to a far off galaxy and then mercilessly anal probed for no apparent reason. Another delusion? You got it, homey. Turns out it was just a homeless guy wearing one of those Ronald Reagan masks from the movie Point Break, and the spaceship was just the back alley at Patty O’Drunkigan’s neighbourhood pub and adult video rental store where I had apparently passed out after closing time. I think it’s fair to say my imagination has gotten the best of me at times, but in my own defence, it was probably for the best given the bleak nature of the real situations.

Over time these random delusionary personality sniglets have led to a fair amount of amusement for my friends and family and myself. “University Degree?” laughter erupts! “Going to be anything other than a wage slave the rest of my life?” Hilarity ensues! “Goals?” “Dreams?” Oh, the snickering we would enjoy. There goes that Brent again, head in the clouds and ass in the gutter! This time, though, I really believe that I am on to something that others don’t seem to be aware of, even though the evidence is all around them, practically goose-stepping them right in their stupid, disbelieving faces. Sorry, that last part was a little bitter. I am going to present the evidence to you and let you be the judge. I can’t be the only one who sees it. It seems like everywhere I look, I see Nazis! That’s right, those guys they don’t teach you about in Canadian schools so maybe you could grow up to become one. Sorry, that part was a little bitter too. Can you explain the following pictures?

This woman is apparently someone named Sarah Palin and she is supposedly a politician of some sort. I don’t believe it for a minute. I saw her performance during the last election in the U.S., and I am convinced that she is actually a clone of Eva Braun that has been created by some nefarious Shadow-Reich conspiracy group that didn’t do a good job splicing the genes responsible for brains. Inflammatory hand gestures aside, only someone cloned into present day from the 1940’s could have fucked that campaign up as badly as she did. Case closed.

Okay, can someone tell me what the hell is going on here? I thought the goose-stepping crowd was limited to Stalinist throwbacks and Little Communist Dictatorships That Could, like Cuba. These people are plainly putting on some sort of goose-stepping clinic, with none other than “USA” emblazoned across their backs. The website said something about some martial art called Tae Kwon Do, whatever the screw that is. Sounds like something a Nazi would make up. I’ve only heard of Kung Fu before, I don’t know about you.

As if these public displays of blatant Naziism weren’t enough, I was out on a day parole walk in the park the other day and I witnessed this disturbing sight, which I was lucky to be able to capture in time with my Kodak Instamatic before the little bugger saw me looking and went back to walking normally:

It’s all around us, people, it’s all around us. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when your child comes home with a permission slip to join his school’s “After School Aryan Club” or gets picked up in a school bus with a swastika on the side. The time to act is now, before it’s too late. Let me know how the battle is going, I’ve got a date tonight on a spaceship in a galaxy far, far away. Ready to go Ron?

Undeserved? I Think not, Sir!

I’ve spent the last few days thinking about the recent awarding of the Nobel Peace Prize to Best African American American President Ever and Don’t Even Think About Saying He’s Not, You Racist, Barack Obama. The flurry of criticism, eye-rolling, and unabashed outrage after the announcement made me nostalgic about the similar reactions I faced after an ill-fated grade school audition for the lead role in our little school’s production of “The Flying Nun.” Good times. I can’t recall another time in my life when my direction seemed so clear cut and obvious: “Exit stage left, MORON!” But I digress. When all of the doubters and naysayers started to come out of the woodwork to question B.A.A.A.President Ever Obama’s Nobel salute, I thought to myself: “Self, why is everyone so upset? Surely this isn’t the first award of distinction given to a man as great as B.A.A.A.P.E. Obama?” I decided to use my awesome skills of investigative research and outright fabrication to get to the bottom of and uncover, or invent, the real, or not so real story of his past achievements and awards. Let’s face it, the man deserves the Nobel Peace Prize for showing enough restraint to not round up all the Universal Health Care protesting oldsters and put them out to sea on a goddamned ice floe. Get your head out of your ass, people!

The first example I found of President Obama’s award worthiness was when he was awarded the White Crane/James White Poetry Prize which is a biennial manuscript prize for “excellence in Gay men’s poetry.” The award consists of a $1000.00 cash prize and publication of the winning manuscript. Obama won the award after submitting a manuscript of love poems written to Bill Clinton during a rocky period in the Obama’s fake marriage. The poetry collection was entitled “You Complete Me, Bubba,” and featured such notable poems as “Redneck Soliloquy” and “The Forbidden Highway Less Traveled.” Sure, at the time there were also criticisms leveled at Obama’s win. Complaints of “He’s not gay!” and “He never wrote that!” were heard, but history has looked fondly on his winning of the prize since to this day he is still the only Future B.A.A.A.P.E. to have ever won the award.

The second example I found or made up to convince you of President Obama’s award worthiness was his deserving win of the Employee of the Month Award at Chase Bank. As a measure of how valuable an employee Obama is to the bank, they have made him Employee of the Month for not only the last half of 2008, but for all the months of 2009, and into the foreseeable future, as long as in the words of Chase Bank CEO Jamie “Diamond Jim” Dimon “He keeps the revenue flowing.” He must be one heck of a valuable employee to be keeping the business afloat all by himself. Obviously he is very deserving of this award!

Lastly, but certainly not leastliest, it took some deep investigative research and fabrication to unearth what is possibly Obama’s most impressive award win of all. That’s right folks, the Holy Grail of awards, the coveted Penthouse Forum “Letter of the Month.” As if we needed any more evidence of the man’s award-worthy abilities than his cure of world peace or whatever, his melting of Gay men’s poetry hearts, or his ability to cure a bank’s stupidity-driven insolvency with a simple 25 Billion dollar injection of taxpayer cash. As it so happens, he can also write a mean piece of (semi)erotic fiction. Since this is a family friendly blog (assuming all members of your family over the age of four routinely use the word “fuck”), I will only provide a brief excerpt of his award-winning prose here, but be forewarned, it might get a little tepid steamy!:

Dear Penthouse Forum,

I am a duly elected President of a semi-large country located in the Midwest to Mid North-South Region of a continent somewhere North of South America, but West of Asia and East of Europe. I never thought I would ever have a reason to be writing to Penthouse Forum until today. I have been going through a rough patch lately as I am pretty sure that my wife has been seeing some white guy behind my back (just because I pointed out he was a white guy does not mean you should assume that I am a person of colour, why don’t we just say I am a white person of colour). Apparently this white guy writes some awesome blog that nobody reads, and has a massive johnson, but that is beside my point. I decided today that I was going to fight to get her back. I spent the afternoon tidying up my sock drawer and put on my sexiest pair of Dockers and, impulsively, a v-neck sweater (I know! I’m such a slut!). When my wife, let’s call her Mochelle, walked through the door, I had my plan of seduction waiting for her. I had our living room decked out with all of her favourite things: a case of Diet Pepsi, the new issue of Better Hos and Gardens, and a fresh tube of Lanacane foot cream…

Whoa Nelly! We’d better stop it right there folks! Things are getting a lit-tle bit racy! I don’t think you need to see anymore to realize that the man truly deserved this accolade as well. I guess the point I am trying to get at is that he is a very talented fella, and we should look forward to him receiving many awards, merited and otherwise, in the years to come.

Has Anyone Told Them Yet?

I think we can all agree that it has happened to us a time or two. You know what I’m talking about. Those times when you were blissfully going through life completely unaware that there was some disastrous wardrobe malfunction happening to you or that you had a stain of some kind on your shirt. I think we have all experienced these things, and wondered why the hell no one had taken the opportunity to warn us or bring the problem to our attention so we could correct it.

What’s that? It’s never happened to you? Come on. You mean to tell me that you have never, and I mean never, not even once, given a speech at a Toastmasters meeting with a gigantic booger stuck to the side of your face? Or perhaps put on a seminar on personal motivation or life improvement in front of thousands of people without realizing you had sprung an enormous boner the whole time (fucking Cialis)? Seriously? How about teaching an entire Sunday School class with one testicle wafting in the breeze out the leghole of your Jimmy Connors Special Edition Tennis Shorts? No? Well then turn the page, my friend, this post is not for you.

Now, back to my point, now that the “real world stuff has never happened to me” losers have left the room. There are people out there today who are living the whole life equivalent of the “booger stuck to the side of the face” scenario, and they may not even be aware of it. I feel it is my mission to help point out that nasty ol’ booger on these people’s faces so that they may have some chance of regaining some of their dignity:

Miley Cyrus in human form, taking a break from her true existence as a ginormous pile of money.

Poor Miley. I mean, she is really living the good life on the surface of it. In fact, I heard they might be considering changing the saying “Life of Riley” to “Life of Miley.” Let’s face it, she has more money than God, millions of adoring fans, and two of the two teenage boys living in my house would sell both kidneys to go on a date with her. Unfortunately, no one appears to have ever told her that the Billy Ray Cyrus that claims to be her father (pending conclusion of the orphanage baby-snatching investigation), is also the same Billy Ray Cyrus that stained our psyches and lowered the collective IQ of the world with the super awesome country ditty “Achy Breaky Heart." Does this poor child realize the suffering her so-called father’s past has wreaked upon the world? And the mullet, don’t get me started on the fucking mullet. I swear to God, there was an episode of Dr. Phil the other day in which “survivors” detailed how they had managed to keep from committing suicide after realizing they had been deflowered in the rusty box of an old Ford pickup truck to Billy’s caterwauling of “Achy Breaky Heart.” Somebody help this child.

“Hey, I know you. I’m gonna kiiilll youuu!”

Well Hillary, you’ve done pretty well for yourself. From First Lady to Secretary of State. Not bad. I just feel like right now would be a good time to point out a little booger on the side of your face. Your husband is a philandering dickhead! And a liar! Believe it or not, even in Washington, you don’t have to put up with that bullshit. You could kick his ass to the curb tomorrow and no one would give a shit. Hell, your approval rating would probably even rise from like one, to three or four percent. Just a little suggestion to help you out should you choose to decide to not live the life of the spurned wife. Please tell me you haven’t gotten back at him in kind though. It bothers me to think of some skinny Latino pool boy rocking on a toilet in your ensuite, reciting the Rosary to himself, waiting for you to call him into your boudoir.

“Hey, hoser! Have you seen our careers?”

Finally, we have the plucky little nation of Canada. It’s about time somebody let you know that your balls are hanging out. Long story short, the world does not give a shit what you think. Americans don’t want to hear about your awesome healthcare system and it’s ever shortening list of people who have died waiting for life saving surgeries. Europeans don’t give a flying fart that your ridiculously insulated, money grubbing, overcharging, fat and lazy chartered banks weathered the world recession on the back of increasing ATM usage fees. People in Iran don’t care that you walked out on their Supreme Leader’s speech at the UN. They don’t care because they are making nukes to bomb your smug ass. Oddly enough, the opinions of a nation of thirty some million overprivileged crackers just don’t matter to most of the world with problems a little more important than what to do about that darn Quebec thing. I am afraid, Canada, that your inflated self-importance has become the on-stage boner shame of a nation.

A Short Guide to Politics, North American Style

Wow, it’s hard to believe it has been three whole weeks since I last posted! Time flies when you are confined to a mental institution against your will busy! It’s so nice to finally sit down after escaping zipped into a body bag with your suicidal roommate’s corpse a long day’s work and jot down whatever flight of fancy is on my mind these days. Lately, during my long days of confinement work, I have found myself thinking a lot about politics, and North American style politics in particular. It saddens me that our children don’t seem to much care for the exciting world of politics anymore, in fact they hardly know anything about our political system at all! When I start talking politics, the kid’s eyes glaze over like a Wannabe Rastafarian Hophead at a Snoop Dogg concert. With another national election possibly looming here in CanadIsrael (only the third in five years! Cool!), it seems like the perfect time to put a nice, easy to understand guide to the world of politics out there for my three.5 readers to show to any young people who might be interested in this exciting, dynamic world of corruption, scandal, and greed dedicated and tireless civil service.

Let’s say a young person has decided to vote. Let’s also say that same young person might one day be sitting around playing XBox and puffing on the sticky-icky waiting for their welfare cheque to arrive in the mail, when a (rare to be sure) thought strikes them: “Like, yeah, dude, I would like to vote, but who would I vote for? What do I believe in, totally?” Well, I’m glad you asked, stoner. In a nutshell, the political system in North America is divided along differing ideologies and belief systems, but there are two main ideologies that capture the hearts and minds of the majority of North American voters. The two main ideologies are the conservative ideology and the liberal ideology (no more ideologies, I swear). In Canada, they are called the Conservatives and the Liberals (smart!), while in the United States, the conservative politicians call themselves the Repukelicans or something, and the liberal gang is known as the Dumb-ocrats. Just gotta be different eh Americans? There are also occasional third-party anomalies in each system which we will discuss later. For the purposes of this commentary, we will briefly acknowledge the one-party political system of Mexico, that is to say the party of death, corruption, and roadside hits performed by a Colombian kid being doubled on a moped.

Okay, kids! Here’s a brief outline of the main political parties in North America (excluding Mexico for obvious reasons: we’re scared shitless of their political system):

The Conservatives (US: Repulsicans):

Here we see two typical Conservative commentators, Bill O’Reilly and his son, Andrew Coulter (post-op).

Believe In: The death penalty for shoplifting; guns; ammo; knives; shooting first and asking questions later; invading (countries); evading (taxes); berating (anyone with the temerity to question their point of view); big business is the kind, caring, older brother that will always be there for you (and your wallet)

Predominant Ethnic Makeup: White; Vanilla; cream-coloured; taupe; beige; cracker; honky; Soccer Moms (homely); greedy capitalists; half-retarded rednecks; Colin Powell

Fun Facts You Didn’t Know About Conservative Types: They like sweater vests (I could not make this shit up); they did it with the lights on once after having two MaiTais with dinner on a Carnival GunShip cruise (like a FunShip cruise, but for conservative gun-nuts).

The Liberals (US: Dimbulb-crats):

Just think, long before alternate-fuel hybrid vehicles, this bus was powered by peace, love, and bullshit.

Believe In: A fetus’s right to run a marathon if it darn well wants to; that Patchouli should be exempt from workplace anti-fragrance regulations; acting like they aren’t just frustrated conservatives that didn’t get into Yale and missed out on all that great networking; getting bombed first and asking “What the hell happened?” later; spending like drunken sailors with a terminal case of the clap and only six hours to live; raising taxes to pay for high priced hookers and dry cleaning bills

Predominant Ethnic Makeup: Hippies; Soccer Moms (hot); Actors, Actresses, Musicians, and other stoner types; Stoners; people who like people who are of the same gender as that people; people of colour who have actually experienced discrimination and understand the need to get along; white people from Beverly Hills who think they know what it is like to be a person of colour that has experienced discrimination and understands the need to get along

Fun Facts You Didn’t Know About Liberal Types: They don’t inhale when they smoke their pot (?!); they believe in equality, social justice for the oppressed, and Birkenstocks made in Chinese factories populated by tween workers

And Last but not Least (Well actually yes, the least), The Third-Party Anomalies (Also known as vote-splitters/wasters and novelty tickets):

Here in Canada, we have third-party options like the New Democrat Party (the self-proclaimed conscience of the nation), and the Green Party (the self-proclaimed conscience of the little animals and trees of the forest who can’t speak for themselves and also the voice of crustaceans and mollusks). In the US, the third-party option usually consists of a wacky also-ran independent candidate like Ross Perot or Ralph Nader. The independent candidate in the US is generally someone who is so rich that hunting humans on the weekend has lost all appeal and there is nothing left to do but run for President. In Nader’s case, the never-ending run for President has actually been used to make him rich enough to hunt humans on the weekend.

So there you have it kids! Where do you fit in the spectrum of political viewpoints? Are you a flag-waving conservative, a flag-burning liberal, or a making-a-sham-of-everything-the-flag-stands-for campaign money-wasting also-ran? I should point out that laying there smoking pot and playing the XBox is not an option, so get the hell off my couch and get out there and vote, dammit! Oops! I better get going, I think I hear sirens my wife calling me to bed!

Exclusive: Dear Leader to Model Jacket in Fall L.L. Bean Catalog!

We’ve just received some exciting news from across the pond, over a couple of islands, past a demilitarized zone, under some razor wire and on the other side of a Bouncing Betty filled mine field! Our North Korean correspondent Dim Sum-Cok has filed a report from the country’s capital of Poontang that none other than Despot Dear Leader Kim Jong-Il himself is going to be appearing in the Fall L.L. Bean catalog. As a model! In an apparent effort to reach out to the underserviced market for drab yuppie clothing in brutal communist dictator-run countries, L.L. Bean managed to retain the modeling services of perhaps the best loved, best respected, and most desired man in North Korea, if not the whole New Millenium Axis of Evil ©. *Did I say that last part right? I did? Good. Do you think maybe you could put the gun down now? Oh, you can’t? Alrighty, let’s just go with that then.*

Despite a rumoured battle with cancer and an impromptu visit from globetrotting horndog and admitted aficionado of the Asian Persuasion Bill Clinton, Dear Leader still found the time to work it for the camera. In this exclusive first peek, we are treated to a glimpse of the charisma that until now only members of his inner circle and Facebook friends had ever seen. Soon after the shoot, K-Jill (his username on Facebook) posted on his wall: “Quite a day! I make the money poraroids, bitches! Horraback! ROR!” I think that little wall post tells the whole story folks, the man is such a praya.

The product that was chosen specifically for Dear Leader to model was the Virgin Duck Down Hooded Early Fall Chilly Morning Parkette. The colour of the jacket as modeled by the chosen saviour of the North Korean people was Chernobyl Myst Grey with Purple Asphyxia accents on the pockets:

There is no way the guy in the second row was allowed to have bullets in that gun. The guy with the binoculars? Probably soft foam rubber just in case there was an impromptu bludgeoning attempt.

Ever want to feel like you stand out from the crowd? Ever feel like everyone around you is wearing the same old thing? With the Virgin Duck Down Hooded Early Fall Chilly Morning Parkette from L.L. Bean, you can let your individuality shine through. Here we see Dear Leader setting the tone for cool in his Chernobyl Myst Parkette. You can clearly see the envy on the faces of the fashion slaves surrounding him. As if they needed another reason to look up to Dear Leader. Aren’t his looks and easygoing charm enough?

What are we waiting for? Everyone in North Korea is 189 years old. Steamrolling in should consist of a $1.99 Denny’s Blue Plate Special diversion and cutting off the Metamucil train supply routes and we’ll be running the place by Tuesday.

Here we see Dear Leader making what is obviously a very important point! The point is, when you and your posse roll up in matching Chernobyl Myst Parkettes, accented here with a Mongolian Prairie Dog Fur Campfire Hat, you make a statement. That statement is that you are no slave to trends! No way, sir! Sure, the rest of the world might have decided to feed their populations, and allow free speech and human rights, but you and your Parkette won’t be following the trendies anytime soon. You march to the beat of your own drummer, whether you’re making a choice of a chilly morning parkette, or deciding how many political dissidents to execute on any given day.

“And then I said ‘Lick my boots, Western Pig!’ and sure enough, Clinton did it. Oh, why am I telling you all this, you already read all about it in our one State controlled newspaper or saw the story on our one State controlled television news program.”

As if Dear Leader needed any help on the charisma front, his Parkette is the fashion talk of any get together with sycophantic, execution-wary military minions. One can be sure that it’s not only the snipers on the other side of the camera making these fellows grin in appreciation of Chosen Saviour’s loquacious self deprecating humour. He’s probably regaling them with the story of how he got his jacket by shooting a Capitalist Pig or how Madonna once offered to move to Poontang and be his personal concubine but he rejected her because she was too “used.” My goodness! That hair! Those glasses! That jacket! Truly, men want to be him and women want to be with him.

The Virgin Duck Down Hooded Early Fall Chilly Morning Parkette from L.L. Bean is the perfect complement to the wardrobe of any cubicle-dwelling worker drone with dreams of world domination and little fashion sense. Heck, if real dictators can wear it, you sure can while you’re planning how to depose your boss and move into the totalitarian top spot at your Kinko’s branch.

The Royals: A Lot Like Us, Really.

This post will have the most relevance to my two readers who happen to be from the colonies. There is much debate in this country over whether or not we should sever all ties with the British Monarchy once and for all. Any Americans (also, Albertans and Quebecers and other quasi-Americans) who might happen to read this will understand all too well the desire to distance themselves from the oppressive British and their Crusades, Viral Exports (see Simon Cowell and the BeckHams), and Fish and Chips (they’re called fries, for Christ’s sake!). Why, the Americans already rode those bloody British out once when they all threw their tampons into the bay and had something called the Boston Vampire Tea Party or whatever the hell it was. I can sort of see why the British left, if someone threw their tampon at me I would probably take the hint too. It would also officially make it my sixth worst date ever (don’t ask).

It is true that Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth the Second (or HRH Lizzy Deuce as I like to call her) has visited Canada on 23 occasions, and that’s pretty friggin’ annoying considering all the schoolchildren that have been forever scarred by cyborg nightmares after witnessing her robotic rotating wave-like hand gesture. We are also burdened with the expense and hassle of having something called a Governor General, an appointed person who is supposedly the Queen’s representative in Canada. The Governor General’s main duties appear to consist of ribbon cutting, medal hanging (draping?), Throne Speech reading, hobnobbing with visiting dignitaries (or in Obama’s case, drooling), and wasting vast sums of government money even existing. Thank goodness she is saving the Queen the trouble of having to do all that stuff here!

After all is said and done, however, I don’t think we ever take much time to think about what we all have in common with our Royal Family, and for that matter, other royal families around the world. Let’s look at a few examples of some of the day to day activities and situations Royals find themselves in that might strike a familiar chord with us, the little people:

“Do you ‘ear a rustlin’? I swear I can ‘ear an eerie kind of rustlin’, and it sounds like it’s comin’ from right near me ‘ead.”

Here we see Princess Beatrice of York, daughter of Fergie, Douchess of York, and Randy Andy, Pimp Daddy of York battling an all-too-common childhood problem. Let’s face it, you had head lice in school, your friends had head lice in school, and lots of people you knew had head lice in school. Hell, you probably have lice a little further south these days for all I know.I didn’t have head lice in school mind you, but I never was much of a follower. The only difference between us and the Royals is that they occasionally suffer from an attack of neon butterflies that have escaped from Her Royal Majesty’s Personal Genetic Engineericist. Sadly, in their frantic effort to copulate before dying, they often accidentally lobotomize their Royal Host, explaining the look on Beatrice’s face in the above photo.

“No, really, if the rice looks dry in the buffet, I can totally hook you up. Psst. FYI, it’s in my hat.”

If you had a nickel for all the times you wore that worn out backwards baseball cap on a first date or to meet your future wife’s parents, you would probably be rich. Royals make headwear gaffes, too. Here we can see Queen Beatrix of the Netherworldlands making the poor choice of a rice steamer as a hat at a function that is obviously more suited to a wok or George Foreman grill. Okay, I have to confess. Not even the most retarded peasant would wear a bamboo steamer to a gala ball. That’s nastay, Beeyatchtrix!

“Hello out there in peasant land! Would you like to come for a ride? Of course I’m joking, you filthy serf! Get away from my carriage before I have my Royal Stallions trample you to death. Guards, remove that insolent miscreant’s right hand for my personal collection. A strong message is needed here.”

Royals are also concerned about the environment, and issues such as Climate Change © and Global Warming (tm), just like you. Queen Beatrix hopes to have a Prius one day, but for now she is making do with her jewel and gold encrusted horse drawn carriage, much as you are making do with your doorless ‘76 Impala until your credit improves enough to lease a Prius too. There’s that hat again! In platinum! How trendy! I guess it’s better than the fucking napkin holders the two portly doormen are forced to wear on their noggins. Every time I see that hat I picture Wile E. Coyote smashing her right over the top of the head with a giant cartoon mallet. How else could you make a hat like that?

“Look, Lizzy, that stupid Git crashed ‘is ‘orse, and now they’ll ‘ave to shoot it!” “Oh, goody goody, Phillip. You know how much I love to be startled by the sharp crack of a rifle! Delightful!”

Just like you enjoy watching the UFC on pay-per-view so you can be in awe of the athletes’ abilities and skills as well as their willingness to kick the living shit out of one another for your amusement, the Royals enjoy a lovely morning of carnage at the racetrack. Why the Queen even has a race named after her, the Queen’s Plate, held every year at West Amblyshire Dunston-on-the-Mews By Wembleyford Royal Racetrack and ‘Ouse of Bettin’. It is said that when the Queen’s Plate race was initially proposed, the Queen herself insisted that at each running of the race “No less than one (1) thoroughbred filly or mare, or the other one that isn’t the filly or the mare shall suffer an injury so unsightly and disturbing as to require immediate dispatching upon the mews with the nearest sidearm or long gun at hand and in a fashion that is most pleasing to the gathered throngs of loyal Royal Subjects, including, but not limited to: the British, the Scots, visiting dirty colonial immigrants and the (sigh) Irish.”

As you can plainly see, we have more in common with the Royals than maybe we thought at first blush. Maybe that’s why they call us commoners! Ha Ha. Ha Ha….umm, actually I think it’s a term of disdain. Oh, well, we still love them!